Easy Tiger

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at [Link]

Rating: Mature
Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Category: Gen
Fandoms: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Hunger Games Series - All
Media Types
Relationships: Johanna Mason & Original Character(s), Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair
Characters: Johanna Mason, Blight (Hunger Games), Finnick Odair, Annie Cresta,
Haymitch Abernathy, Plutarch Heavensbee, Cashmere (Hunger Games),
Gloss (Hunger Games), Beetee Latier, Wiress (Hunger Games), Cecelia
(Hunger Games), Caesar Flickerman, Chaff (Hunger Games), Seeder
(Hunger Games), Seneca Crane
Additional Tags: Original Character(s), 71st Hunger Games, POV Johanna Mason
Language: English
Series: Part 1 of This Is Really Going To Hurt
Stats: Published: 2023-04-01 Completed: 2023-09-25 Words: 130,143
Chapters: 22/22
 Easy Tiger
by voidshade

Summary

“I was always the one to beat,” I tell him. “I’m sorry that you forgot.”

Eighteen-year-old Johanna Mason has what it takes to survive the Hunger Games, but she’s
not going to let anyone know it. Least of all the audience, who she eyes with thinly veiled
hatred. But to make it out of the arena in once piece, she’s going to have to put on the show
of a lifetime.

Notes
See the end of the work for notes
 Chapter 1

PART ONE:

The Actor

“And the player, behind all his playing,

He ought to be great as his art.”

1) JOHANNA

ONCE WHEN I was very young, my father showed me a piece of amber he’d found in the
woods and told me that it contained the entire world petrified in a single moment.

“Johanna,” he’d whispered. “Hold this close to your ear. You can hear the sound of trees
older than we can even imagine. In this little stone is the beginning of everything.”

I think that it begins exactly like this;

I am lying at the very top of the world.

The day is overcast. The sun is barely a smudge hidden behind a haze of clouds, a fuzzy
watercolour thing. All around me is music; the slow, rhythmic creaking of trees, the sound of
wind dancing between leaves, of birdsong. I’m jostled back and forth to the beat of the forest.
From all the way up here, I might even be the only person in existence.

Eyes open, a shifting grey sky greets me. I’m easily thirty feet up, just in eyeline with the tips
of the trees that make up this part of the forest. While I know that the watchtower platforms
are perfectly safe — made from thick, study wood strong enough to withstand years of
storms — I still feel the dizzying drop of vertigo as I catch sight of the ground below.

It’s not uncommon to fall from a great height in District 7. We learn all about the risks at
school; bad weather, bad judgement calls, bad luck, a bad time to glance down. You’d be
lucky to die on impact. More likely your body would be mangled beyond recognition. I’ve
seen plenty of shattered spines in my time. Limbs torn off from the saw-mill, the lumberyard,
burns from the kiln.

Even the pulp factories and paper-mills aren’t safe. Fibre-cough spreads through the district
just like how wildfires ravage the woods in the summer. No matter where you are in District
7, risk hangs over like a thick, sticky omen.
Shit. My thoughts are grisly. But then again, what else am I expected to think about on a day
like today — when another omen hangs so closely over my head? In two hours I will be lined
up in the district square with all the other youth, partitioned off like cattle to be auctioned for
slaughter.

July sucks .

And as I do every year, I find myself wishing that they wouldn’t hold the reaping in the
summer. The long hours, the suffocating heat, the liminality of endless, unmarked days; it
makes the Games feel as though they stretch on forever.

This is likely intentional. In the summer there’s hope for change. People wake up and start
seeing the world in colour again. Hope is a dangerous weapon. It cannot be allowed. Only in
the Capitol is life permitted to survive with excitement for the future. And for them, the
promise of the Games likely only serves to make their summer all the more enjoyable.

Wrinkling my nose at the thought, another gust of wind reminds me that this season promises
to be colder than last year. At school they tell us this is a good thing — this is proof the series
of calamities that led to the destruction of the known world and the formation of our nation
are slowly reversing. But to me, all it means is that the Games will certainly feel all the
colder.

It also means that I will need to scrounge up money to buy a new coat sooner rather than
later.

Spare change isn’t something that comes easy and I had hoped I could take up extra logging
shifts when school let up, but that’s easily a month away. Craftiness will have to make up for
what I lack. My mother’s old dresses might sell at the marketplace. I’m sure there’s one or
two that aren’t flea-bitten, (though, that being said, neither my father or I are the type to care
much for sentimentality, and I can’t imagine anything has remained in particularly good
shape in the five years she’s been gone).

I’m picking absently at the frayed laces of my boots, lamenting, when a call from the ground
carries upward. It comes soft on the wind. I wait a second time to make sure it isn’t some
trick of the woods. Alone in the trees, sometimes your mind can play tricks on you. When it
rises again I sit up, cross my legs, peer down, and catch a glimpse of Lynn’s pinprick
silhouette.

Lynn is my best friend. I’ve never counted, but she might even be my only friend. I’m not
sure when or how we became close, because she’s my complete opposite in every way
imaginable. She’s tall and deathly pale, with stringy white-blonde hair and massive glassy
things in place of her eyes. She looks on the verge of shattering wherever she goes.

I’d never say it to her face, but I think she looks creepy. There’s something about Lynn that
feels almost translucent; like those jellyfish muttations that they released into the Games a
few years back.

Fragile is a rarity in Seven, but then again, so is Lynn. As the daughter of the school
principal, she will never have a life in the woods. In a few years her father will give her a job
as a teacher, and maybe when he retires she’ll take over his charge. No matter what, Lynn
will always have enough to eat.

She calls for the third time. “Johanna!”

“What?”

I have to shout to be heard over the wind. I hadn’t noticed how much it had picked up until
now. There must be a storm on the way.

“I came to see you!” Lynn has to cup her hands to her mouth to be heard.

“Obviously,” I say, shaking my head. “Why?”

“What?”

“Fuckkit,” I say. “Coming down!”

It barely takes a moment for my feet to hit the piney woodland floor. I find myself grateful
that Lynn showed up when she did. It’s never good to be caught so high up in a storm, and
now that I’m on the ground I can see exactly how roughly the trees shake.

Lynn watches me, arms crossed tightly around her chest. “I never understand how you can do
that,” she says.

“What? Climb?” I frown. In District 7 most of us start climbing before we’ve even mastered
walking.

“Don’t you feel sick?” Lynn peers up the watchtower. “It’s so high up.”

I shrug. “You just get used to it.”

“I don’t think I could, not ever.”

This annoys me a bit because if you're not Lynn, you do get used to it. You have to. “I
thought you were at rehearsal?”

“It got cancelled,” Lynn says.

I feel another separate twinge of irritation at this for whatever reason. My eyes beg me to roll
them, but I resist the urge. “Ah, right. Because of your beloved director.”

“Johanna,” Lynn says, with the tone that she only ever reserves for telling me off. Often I
wonder if Lynn and I are really even friends. Most of our time together seems to consist of
her doing something to mildly irritate me, or me doing something to warrant telling off. “He’s
not that bad.”

“Sure he’s not,” I say. “I just think it’s weird.”

“It’s not weird,” Lynn retorts. “It’s art .”

It’s not the part I actually find weird, but of course, I find the whole ‘art’ off-putting too.
Theatre. Actors. There’s something about dressing up in silly costumes and prancing around
on stage that rubs me the wrong way. It feels almost Capitol in nature, but I guess I wouldn’t
know. I’ve never seen any of Lynn’s shows.

“He’s killed people,” I say. “Do you forget that when he’s telling you that you’ve missed a
line? That he’s killed, like, five people? That he’s on those top kill lists on TV? Five, Lynn.”

“Of course I know that,” Lynn gives me a funny look. “We just don’t talk about it. It’s
polite.”

“It’s polite .” Rolling my eyes with no hesitation this time, I reach over to tuck back my
flyaway strands of hair the wind has blown out of place. “Do you ever get scared you’ll do
something wrong and he’ll snap? Start going at you with an axe? Poison your water, or
whatever it was he did? Because I would.”

“Jo,” she says, again with that tone. “Ashley’s nice."

This is an argument we’ve had before, and I decide I’m not really in the mood to rehash it
again. Not today at least. Above me, the sky grumbles. “It’s getting late.”

Lynn follows my gaze upwards. “Do you think it’ll rain?”

“Probably,” I say. “Ill fucking omen.”

We start the uphill trek towards the district proper. District 7 is large — (probably one of the
largest districts, if you don’t count Eleven, and maybe Ten) — but it’s only a half-hour walk
back. Since Lynn and I are both still in school and aren’t allowed to work full-time, we’ve
never gone far from the district centre.

The rest of the district is made up of small encampments to the north and south, where the
forest is denser and different trees grow; redwoods, golden larch, a dozen others I can’t be
bothered to name. Once I graduate I’ll probably end up at one of them. I’d much rather bear
something like that than working in one of the mills. I might be miles from home, but the
idea of ending up in a furnace for eleven hours a day sounds even less like a life worth
living.

Normally the town is empty this time of year, save for the children and the factory workers.
Today is the exception. Today, all camp workers must return to their homes in the hub — (if
they have one, which most don’t) — and watch as the names of two unfortunate children are
called out by a woman who sees us as little more than livestock.

I hate the town centre for this reason. It’s a nice place at any other time, if a bit twee for my
taste. There’s a fountain that will occasionally spit out a stream of tepid water on a good day,
and during the warmer months the younger schoolchildren – the ones not strong enough yet
to work — will flock to the tiled streets to laze about. It’s only that, every time I walk past it,
I cannot help but think of today. It’s like the whole square is stained with invisible blood.
As if sensing my thoughts, Lynn pipes up again. We’ve fallen into a steady silence as we
make our way uphill, and I’m happy for it. The air is cool and sharp but my lungs burn from
the steep incline. I do not want to sound weak, especially not in front of her.

“Are you nervous?”

“What?” I say. “About the reaping?”

“What else, Johanna?”

I shrug. “I guess. A bit.”

“A bit?” Lynn blinks. She must think I’m lying, but I’m not. I don’t think it has really
registered yet that I am also eligible for the lottery. Of course, I’m sure that it will hit me
eventually – probably when we’re gathered in front of the Justice Building and staring at the
blinking cameras that always line the square. But for now, I find myself only feeling pity for
some abstract stranger. “I feel like I might be sick.”

“Don’t do that,” I say, though I do feel a slight pang for Lynn. She would fare horribly in the
Hunger Games. Even more horribly than the poor, starving children from District 12. I doubt
she’d even make it two steps off her plate before she was killed. ”You’ll be fine. You don’t
even take tesserae.”

“I know,” she says, and I know by the way that she looks at me that she feels a similar kind of
pity.

Normally a look like that would twist my stomach into anger, but I find I have a tolerance for
Lynn that I do not hold for most other people.

I don’t want to talk about this any longer, though, because I worry that if I do, I will actually
start to get nervous.

We chat for a few moments longer about nothing at all before I leave Lynn outside her house
with the promise that I will find her at the reaping.

My father and I live on the opposite outskirts of the district — away by the train tracks —
and so I have to weave through the town centre for another ten minutes. The streets are busier
than I ever remember, but people part as I make my way through. Some avoid my eyes, but
others give me looks; brief nods, short, tight smiles. It’s their own silent form of respect for
someone of my age.

I smell my house before I see it. Sawdust and wood smoke. My father must be in the old field
behind the property, fixing up a table or a chair or some other ugly piece of furniture for the
Capitol. Though he can’t work anymore, the monthly allowance we receive from his
disability pay and my tesserae is barely enough to scrounge by. When he’s well enough, he
takes to fixing up local pieces for a fee.

I suppose it’s good luck, either way. In the poorer districts, they don’t even have pennies to
spare for those crippled by workplace accidents. They just starve.
We’re also lucky our house was already paid off by the time he got sick. It’s a shoddy thing at
the best of times — dark and mouldy, the kitchen barely usable since the wall half came
down in a storm — but it’s better than what some of the kids at school have. At the very least
I have somewhere dry to sleep, even if electricity is hard to come by.

Like I do so often, I wish that the Hunger Games could take place during the winter, when we
so desperately need the heat. But that’s probably done purposefully. How meticulous the
Capitol is, to have thought of it all down to the very last detail. I picture a host of people,
looking somewhat like Gamemakers, all sitting down and discussing just how efficiently they
can make our lives hell.

This is why I don’t like to think of the Capitol. Mostly, I like to pretend they don’t exist.

My father’s voice floats in from outside, drawing my attention away from the current item of
my frustration and onto a new one. “Johanna!”

Sighing and glancing at the weather-worn boots I have just kicked off, I relent. On any other
day I might ignore him and go to the back of the house where I can block thoughts of him out
too, but today is a special day. I should make at least half of an effort to be a good daughter.

The sun is high in the sky, but it does nothing to brighten the gloom that the afternoon brings.
My father kneels on the heat-scorched grass in front of what must be the base for a loveseat,
wearing nothing but a white tank top and trousers stained with paint.

Everyone says we look exactly alike. I hate to hear it, but they do have a point. We share the
same warm brown skin and thick, dark hair that curls at the ends. My father is a sturdy man,
with broad shoulders and powerful arms from years working at the axe and a few more
carving and bending wood to perfection. People tell me that I look strong, but I don’t think
I’m any tougher than most girls my age. Us Masons are just angular.

“You’re not going to wear that to the reaping, are you?” I ask. It’d be a joke to anyone else,
but you can never be sure what goes on in my father’s head.

He turns around and frowns, wiping his forehead and smudging a bit of dark wood polish
above his eyebrow.

“Hm. How long do we have?” My father speaks haltingly, with a slight slur. Most people
can’t understand when he talks, but I think I’ve managed to piece him together in the past
few years.

Shuffling my boots in the dirt, I heave a long-suffering sigh. “An hour. Same time as every
year, dad.”

“An hour!” He jumps to his feet. “I thought surely — longer than that!”

“Yeah, well. You should get a clock. I’m going to get dressed,” I say, and turn back to the
house without waiting for a reply.
Perhaps this is still cruel, but I find that I don’t really care. I’m tired of taking care of him as
if he’s a child. Reminding him to eat, to bathe, to sleep. Like so many times before, I wonder
how he’d fare without me. If I were not here, would my father have missed the reaping
completely? And if he had, what would have happened when the Peacekeepers arrived at his
door?

Of course, he hasn’t always been like this. A few years ago he was razor-witted. Quiet
maybe, and introverted almost certainly, but also brilliant. Even a few short weeks before
everything went wrong, he was an ideal father.

But five years ago feels like an eternity. The man who’d sat me down on the front step of our
house and showed me a piece of amber is nothing more than a ghost.

But, looking back at the doorway, I do remember that day fondly. My father. The amber.
Even cupped in the palm of my twelve-year-old hand, it was small. It shone like a strange
ember under the sun.

“The beginning of everything ,” he said. He’d repeated it twice to make sure I understood.
“Oh, I know you’re afraid, Johanna. But no matter what — even if you are chosen —
remember that this is only the beginning. You control the world. It does not control you.”

Fear had been non-negotiable, but in that moment, he’d looked at me with such intensity I
had felt like the piece of amber myself. It was as though he could see right through me. He
always had a way of piercing right into somebody with a gaze as though he were the smartest
man in the world.

But that year came the flu, and with it came the death of my mother. I used to think it was the
grief of her death that ruined him. Childish, wishful thinking on my part. That implied, at the
very least, the possibility he could get better. Now I’m certain that the fever that burnt
through him did something to his brain. Even if there was miracle medicine from the Capitol,
we’ll never be able to afford it.

I do not miss my mother too much these days. I wonder if that makes me a bad person.

I get dressed alone in my room. I wear the same dress as I’ve worn for the past three
reapings. It’s yellow, faded from years of disuse, with long, flowing sleeves and a skirt that
goes all the way down to my knees. Normally I’d never wear dresses — (I think I look stupid
in them) — but I don’t own anything else nice. For a moment I consider doing my hair up,
but I’d have no idea where to start. My small dusty mirror is cracked, and I have nothing but
an old comb and a few wayward pins.

Maybe if I had asked Lynn, she could have given me one of her dresses, braided my hair with
ribbons, maybe even made me look nice.

I don’t think I’ve ever looked nice in my life, though, and the idea that I’d have to start is an
idea that is too close to the possibility of me entering the Games, so I swallow it down and
move on.
By-rote, I have to wait for my father. He comes out in a simple button up, but seems to have
forgotten to find a new pair of trousers. I wonder what someone from the Capitol would think
if they looked at the pair of us. Disgust. Pity, maybe. Superiority, certainly.

I hate you, hypothetical Capitol straw-man , I think.

We walk in silence to the Justice Building. Bit-by-bit, we find ourselves as part of a crowd,
shuffling in tandem like a fluid. Nobody speaks, and nobody exchanges more than a glance.
The air is heavy and thick, and above our heads the grey sky rumbles with a certain threat to
its voice.

Thankfully it’s not a long way to the district centre, and not much longer before I am standing
with my father at the end of a long queue.

“Um. You should have — good luck,” he says, after a long pause.

It’s clear he doesn’t know what else to say, and neither do I. Suddenly, I find myself fiercely
jealous of my twelve-year-old self. At the very least, she had the assurance that someone
hoped she wouldn’t die.

“Sure,” I say, voice tight. “See you later.”

He nods, and goes to join the growing crowd of onlookers.

The line moves quickly. I’m almost immediately signed in and shuttled over to one of the
roped-off areas towards the front of the crowd. From here I have a perfect view of the stage.
Capitol camera crews swarm about, buzzing in polished uniforms and holding neon cameras.
Towards the back — impossible to miss — is Ambrosia Selene.

Ambrosia is our escort. Each district has one. They’re representatives from the Capitol whose
job it is to shuttle the tributes around to each pit stop on their jam-packed itinerary towards
slaughter. Ambrosia has been the escort for Seven since before I was eligible to be reaped and
I’ve hated her from the moment I caught sight of her stupid grin.

Ambrosia Selene is never caught dead without a smile. Even when our kids die, she’s
beaming.

Her smile wavers now, however, as the sky continues to churn. Her hair is fashioned into
long green vines, perhaps in an attempt to be on-theme for the event. I wonder if anyone has
told her that vines aren’t a particular feature of District 7.

I feel a nudge at my side and realise Lynn has made it into the crowd. We’re in different years
— she’s younger — but nobody seems to care much if we stand near one another. The
Peacekeepers in town aren’t the most attentive. They send all the strict ones out to the camps
anyway.

It feels impossible, but Lynn looks even more fragile than usual. Her dainty white dress and
matching bow look like porcelain. Next to her I feel positively filthy, though I know I’m not
the one sticking out from the crowd like a sore thumb.
Suddenly, and with a jolt, I find myself really hoping that Lynn does not get reaped.

“Vine would be more sorted to District Four, don’t you think?” Lynn whispers, echoing my
own thoughts. I suppress a smile and watch our escort potter to the back of the stage. For a
moment she seems to walk in circles, but then she catches our mayor’s ear and starts talking
with such speed that I’m certain she might burst into flames.

“At least she’s not a tree again,” I say. For the past few years, Ambrosia Selene has been
decked out in such stupid foliage that it has taken everything in me not to walk onstage and
rip the costume straight off of her. “Man, I actually hate trees.”

“Sure you do,” Lynn says, just as the mayor starts to walk up to the podium.

A hush grows across the crowd, and I realise that everyone must have filed in. In the silence,
I can hear the grumble of the sky as if it were a participant in the reaping itself.

The events begin just as they always do, with a history of the Dark Days. It’s the same song
and dance every year; describing how Panem came to be, how much the Districts suck, and
how the Capitol is our benevolent shining sibling, loving to all.

Normally this is boring, but I am suddenly filled with such a sudden electric shock of nerves
that I find myself hanging on to every word. My heart starts to shudder. Time almost seems to
slow down to a halt. Suddenly frantic, I am trying to wipe my sweaty palms on the sides of
my dress when I feel a lump in one of the pockets.

The amber . The one my father had given me. Three years ago, I must have taken it from my
old reaping outfit and placed it in the pocket of my new one as some good luck charm.
Shoving my hands through clammy cotton, my fingers brush against cool smooth stone.
Something about it is oddly soothing, and my heart calms down, if only a tiny bit.

Come on, twenty minutes to go. Twenty minutes.

Next, our mayor announces which of District 7’s victors will mentor this year’s tributes. We
have six in total, though two have already kicked the bucket, leaving us with just four to pick
from.

First our mayor calls out Blight Jordan. This is not much of a surprise. Blight is the second
youngest victor that our district has to offer, and while he’s getting on in years, the Capitol
has always preferred to keep the younger victors in its company.

He’s a tall man who reminds me a bit of my father, with a scruffy beard and a left hand that
occasionally twitches from nerve damage. I do not remember why he has this injury — nor
do I remember much about his Games at all — but I do know he is well respected, both in the
Capitol and in our district.

The second name is even less of a surprise. When Ashley Firth steps onto the stage, I feel
Lynn tense up beside me. Ashley is District Seven’s most recent victor, five years recent,
even. He’s about twenty and I think he’s quite popular in the Capitol; short but sturdy, with a
shock of dark red hair, freckles, and upturned brown eyes. I might even think he’s handsome
in an odd looking way if I didn’t get such a bad feeling about him.

I couldn’t tell you why. Maybe it’s the amount of people he killed in the Games. Maybe it’s
the aloof, slightly holier-than-thou impression I get from him. Or maybe it's just that there’s
something in his gaze that tells me that associating with him will somehow end up with
someone getting really hurt.

Doesn’t matter. He’s not my friend anyway.

My attention quickly shifts from Ashley back to the centre of the stage as a pair of Capitol
attendants roll in two separate glass stands. Each stand holds a ball — also made of glass —
filled to the very top with crisp, white, neatly folded over slips of paper. These are the names
of every single girl and boy in the crowd.

It occurs to me that the paper that these slips are made from must have come from our very
own trees. Maybe someone in this crowd has even cut down the piece of lumber that has
ended up with their own name on it, tucked away into these intricate glass bowls.

Ambrosia Selene steps forward, her cheshire sneer plastered on her face. I wonder how she
gets her lips to be so large, so curled. The idea of her practising in front of a mirror makes me
want to laugh, and in any other situation I might, but right now, I think I might either throw
up or shit myself.

The sky makes another noise of protest.

“Thank you so much for hosting me in your humble district,” she says. The lines feel clipped
and rehearsed. I hate everyone on that stage . “Now. Happy Hunger Games. And may the
odds be ever in your favour!”

I breathe in, sharp. If time slowed down earlier, it now feels as though it draws to a complete
stop.

Ambrosia walks towards the bowl. The female tribute is first like always. The Games are, if
nothing else, routine.

I know this is a natural response; fight or flight, and my body instinctively tenses up, ready to
pick one of the two. Next to me, Lynn grips my hand. Normally I would pull it away, but I
find that my arm isn’t working the way I want it to.

“Johanna Mason,” Ambrosia Selene calls out to the crowd.

And I think what is funny — and this is funny, really — is that she butchers the
pronunciation of my name so badly that, for a moment, I don’t even realise what she’s said.
There’s only relief. Warm, flooding relief, until my brain catches up with the words and I
realise what name has been called.

Lynn lets go of my hand like a hot coal and turns to look at me.

There must be another Johanna Mason , I think. Surely there must be .

But nobody steps forward, and I am left for a moment with the horrible, sinking knowledge
that Ambrosia Selene has just picked up my slip.

Then, the heavens completely open up.

 Chapter 2
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

2) Ashley

“Some years it’s worse than others.”

This is what Sylvia says as we watch the crowd of children shuffle silently into the district
square. It’s a warning, and I can tell by her tone and the way her eyes stay steadily fixed on
the slow haze of bodies that pack into neat, roped-off sections. It's a funeral march. An
epicedium.

Epicedium . Shit. I’ve been spending too much time in the Capitol.

“Yeah, I know,” I respond, but I honestly don’t know how it could possibly get any worse
than this. These past few years have been nothing short of hell. Death after death, tribute after
tribute. Interviews and outfits and stupid fucking dates with stupid fucking idiots who haven’t
learnt to keep their hands and eyes to themselves.

I trust Sylvia, though. I have always trusted Sylvia. Ever since the moment I met her; just
coming off fifteen, shaky and wide-eyed on the train to the Capitol. I was certain I was going
to die. She told me there were no certainties in the world, except for whatever was happening
in the moment.

It’d helped at the time, but right now I can be certain of two more things; that I need a smoke,
and this summer is going to be absolutely awful.

We sit on sturdy metal chairs right underneath the freshly built stage, just out of the eye-line
of the camera crew. In a moment, when Ambrosia calls my name, I will have to rise, join her
on stage, and try to keep my face as expressionless as I can while she picks the slips for the
male and female tributes.

“I wish you could come,” I say.

I am careful to keep my voice low, but if Blight notices he says nothing. He sits next to
Sylvia, as still as stone. His back is stiff and his eyes are locked on the stage, fingers crossed
in what looks like a twisted attempt at hope. I can tell by the dark circles under his eyes that
he has not slept.

I wonder if I seem just as ill as he does.

Sylvia looks at me sadly. “I’m glad I’m home this year.”

This might sound a little depressing, but since I won I think Sylvia is my closest friend. She
is forty-three, and won her games about twenty-five years ago. You wouldn’t be able to tell
by looking at her. She’s a delicate woman. A victor at sixteen, her allowance ensured she no
longer needed to join the labour force, and so she now possesses the slight arms and soft
posture so rarely seen in District 7. She has long hair sprinkled with grey, sharp, bright eyes,
and I think she’s absolutely brilliant.

“I know,” I say, and I leave it there, because I don’t want to tell her that I hope she joins me
next year.

It might not be fair, but I don’t think I want to do this alone anymore. I don’t really like any
of the others. Blight hasn’t spoken to me more than a handful of times in the years since my
victory. I don’t know him, and I’ll be honest, I don’t really trust him either. Once the Games
start, we will be working against one another to ensure the survival of our individual tribute.
We are only a team once we’re down to one.

Or none , I think, slumping down in my seat. That has been the case for the past two years.

I hear a cough, and realise that Pliny has finally sat down next to me. Pliny is the fourth and
final victor from our district still standing. He’s a weedy-looking man in his early fifties,
though he looks much older, with thinning grey hair and loose, yellowing skin. I’ve never
said it out loud, but I think Pliny will die soon. Whatever illness has taken him, whatever rot
has spread — most likely due to years of alcohol abuse — I am certain will win out sooner
rather than later.

I give him a polite nod which he doesn't return and resist the urge to wrinkle my nose. As
much as he looks like death, he smells like it more.

His arrival must have been what Ambrosia was waiting for, because once she sees that we’re
all in position, she heads towards the back of the stage to talk to our mayor. I like Mayor
Lefroy. Like so many in District 7 she’s a woman of little words, but she has kind eyes. I
learnt during my own Games that she makes it a point to visit every tribute who has been
reaped before they leave for the Capitol, just in case they have nobody else to keep them
company.

It must be an awful lot of children to meet, knowing that they'll die. We might as well crown
her an honorary mentor.

I’d probably like working with her more.

Whatever Ambrosia says, it must not be worth much, because Mayor Lefroy just as quickly
brushes her off and strides briskly to the podium. If I like the mayor, I tolerate Ambrosia.
Working with her for the past four years, I have learnt that she has her merits, few and far
between as they come. She is very good at making connections and, despite the constant
smile on her face, she can whip from perfectly pleasant to frosty cold in a heartbeat.

This has in particular been useful when it comes to sponsors.

The same compliments, however, can’t be given for her moral backbone. Once the Games
start, she’d much rather be enjoying our tribute’s deaths in a club than helping us keep them
alive. Her smile is famous.
I think her teeth might be fake.

And then suddenly Mayor Lefroy is reading out Blight’s name. He stands up with all the
vigour of a corpse. There is a polite smattering of applause. Blight is well liked by the
district, old enough to be a staple in most people’s minds and young enough to be seen as
worthwhile, but always distant enough to not be any trouble. I know enough about his Games
to know why he is the way he is, but nobody else ever seems to remember them much.

Perhaps this is why he’s so well liked. Whatever happened in his arena and whatever he's
done, it has long faded from people’s minds.

The applause dies down, and then Ambrosia is calling my name. On autopilot, I stand. There
is perhaps more of a showing for me, but I reckon that it’s only because some of the Capitol
camera crew has joined in.

“Don’t trip,” Sylvia whispers to me. Despite myself, I have to mask a smile, and maybe a bit
of a flush.

On the day of my reaping, out of pure shock, I had stumbled my way onto stage, missed the
last step and nearly tripped into Ambrosia’s petticoat. I think I’d made a joke about it —
honestly, I was so numb from shock that I couldn't recognise what I’d said. Couldn’t now,
even if you had a gun to my head.

I learnt later this was what had made Sylvia decide she wanted me as her tribute, insteading
of giving me to Blight who I was supposed to end up with. At the time, she said I’d seemed
‘quick-witted’ and willing to play up to the cameras. In the year after a slew of popular
victors — Cashmere and Gloss Cormorant from One, Finnick Odair from Four — it was a
valuable asset to have.

I just didn’t want to make a fool of myself, and that’s not why I won anyways, but I suppose I
appreciate the sentiment. My hands flitter over my palms. Having her around saved my life in
a dozen other ways.

Biting the inside of my lip, I make my way on stage with steady feet. Next to Blight, I feel
embarrassingly small. I remember when I met him for the first time on the train on our way
to the Capitol. He was my district partner’s mentor, huge and imposing, barely speaking to
her let alone acknowledging the rest of us. I had felt a chill the minute I’d seen him. I
pictured all the other tributes in the arena looking just like that; taller than me, stronger than
me, more impressive than me.

It occurs to me only now that once my district partner died, Blight must have helped Sylvia
keep me alive. I had always assumed it was Sylvia on her own. After all, she was the only
one that had greeted me after my victory in the Capitol. Since my return, Blight has never
said more than a few words to me. But I have seen how the Games work behind the scenes
now, and I know that in some way or another, I owe my survival to him.

Maybe this is the year that I will finally find a second friend in Seven’s victor circle. I have
never mentored with Blight before. My first three years were with Sylvia - a safety net I
couldn’t be more grateful for - and my most recent with Pliny.
How many years will I have to go on? Every year, the Capitol will send their invitations for
who they want to mentor. This will be my fifth year in a row. Will I have to bring a victor
home first? Deep down, I know I won’t. The Capitol will eventually grow tired of me and I
will be allowed a few summers of reprise if I’m lucky, no matter my success. But I am
painfully aware that it will be a good few years until that day comes.

I realise now that Ambrosia has stepped forward. My heart drops as it always does when the
names are about to be called. The crowd seems smaller this year. And I know some of these
children. I work with some of these children.

I have to stop my fingers from crossing automatically behind my back. It is not befitting of a
victor to be afraid of the reaping. It is not befitting for a victor to be afraid of anything at all.

“Johanna Mason,” Ambrosia calls out, and I cannot help the way my chest loosens in relief. I
do not know Johanna Mason.

There is the usual moment of hesitation from the crowd. I scan the space below the stage,
praying that whoever Johanna Mason is, she is not young. But no, there’s some movement by
the seventeen-year-old section.

And then, all at once, it starts to rain.

I almost have to laugh at the timing. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s almost cosmic; some
divine being deciding to make this poor girl’s life more of a living hell than she could ever
imagine it. I see her figure step out from the haze. She’s slight, with long dark hair and brown
skin. Her flowing yellow dress has already started to cling to her skin and arms are pulled
tight to her side, her doe eyes wide.

I have seen this look before in almost every tribute. She is in shock.

Luckily for Johanna Mason, she does not have to walk far to make it to the canopy of the
stage, where she is sheltered by the meagre tarp that is keeping us, Ambrosia, and the camera
crews safe. The crowd is drenched and the rain is so loud that if there is anyone crying for
Johanna Mason, they cannot be heard over the downpour.

“Congratulations!” Ambrosia has to yell over the din, even with her microphone. My eyes
flicker over to Blight, and I see he is staring at Ambrosia with contempt. She says this every
year, to every tribute. It’s humiliating. This poor girl has been sent to her likely death, and she
is expected to celebrate it like she would a birthday or an engagement. “Johanna Mason, how
are we feeling?”

To the girl’s merit, she doesn’t even look at Ambrosia. Her eyes stay fixed out towards the
crowd. I cannot see the expression on her face from where I stand. A brief flicker of curiosity
runs through me, and I wonder what must be going on in her head. Even to this day, I can’t
remember a single thing that flashed through my brain while I stood by that podium five
years ago.

The weather is worsening and Ambrosia seems to realise that we need to wrap up soon,
because she babbles on something about shock or nerves and then walks over to the bowl
holding the name of the male tribute.

Again, I feel the familiar twinge of anxiety that I have come to associate only with the
reaping. And again, I feel the welcome flash of guilt as my shoulders relax. I do not know the
boy either.

Caraway Royd is eighteen years old and tall. Muscular, though not as muscular as Blight. He
has long curly dark hair and piercing green eyes. For a moment, I feel a flash of hope.
Caraway is holding himself steady. His gaze is focused, and he seems to understand that from
this moment on, he is on camera. These are all good signs.

But then he raises his hand to shield away from the downpour for a moment, and I noticed
the bruises on the bend of his arm.

I do not look at Blight, but I can feel him relax in disappointment. It doesn’t matter how
strong Caraway is. If he’s on drugs, we can’t do anything for him.

Next to Johanna, though, he looks like a fighter, and that’s all we can bank on. Ambrosia
makes them shake to signal the end of the proceedings, and Caraway has to try for Johanna’s
attention twice before she stiffly sticks her hand out for him to grab. He turns the inside of his
arm away from the cameras, at least, towards the back of the stage where I can clearly make
out the blossoming bruises; green, yellow, purple.

Yeah, shit.

For a moment, I think he’s stupid. Absolutely stupid. But then I think about what faces him in
the arena, what faces Johanna, and any anger I have towards him washes away in a flood of
pity.

Pity . Is this what years of mentorship does? Is pity the only thing I can feel? I think of the
other victors. Sylvia didn’t seem to pity me when we met, but I don’t know what went
through her head when she saw me and my own district partner for the first time. Most likely
the same thing I think now; that these poor, skinny kids are in for a horrible death.

Johanna and Caraway are escorted into the building behind us. Neither one fights back, but
the Peacekeepers are firm in their grips. Once they are gone, the crowd slowly begins to
disperse. Tonight, some of them — the ones without televisions at home — will return to
watch the mandatory recap of the reapings. But this afternoon they are expected to celebrate.

It takes me a moment to realise Blight is looking at me. Neither one of us has moved since
we have not been collected by Ambrosia or any Capitol attendant yet. I find that my muscles
ache from tension I’ve been holding for days.

“I think you should take the girl,” he says.

This takes me by surprise. Why? Surely Blight has seen Caraway’s arms? Or does he think
the boy stands more of a chance? I suppose he is stronger, older. Handsome. Certainly I’m
not the mentor for him, based on all the criteria. Besides, maybe the Capitol has some
medicine I don’t know about, some method of starving away the signs of withdrawal that will
hit him the second he reaches the arena, if not certainly before.

Blight must have some reason. It’s not very common to request a tribute. The mentors are
usually allocated by gender; the female victor for the female tribute and vice versa, but as the
only woman, it’s not fair to ask Sylvia to come back to the Capitol every year. Last year,
Pliny and I drew lots.

I decide there’s no harm in asking. “Why should I?”

Blight’s eyes have moved on to the meagre group of people slowly moving into the building
to say their goodbyes. I realise I recognise one; Lynn, a tall girl with paper-white skin and
pale hair. She’s one of the ones I work with. One of the ones I so hoped would not be reaped.

She gives me a sad smile as she enters the Justice Building, and I realise that she must know
one of the tributes.

“Because you’re kinder than I am,” Blight says, plainly.

I look at him again. I do not consider myself unkind by any means, but I know that kindness
is not the virtue by which I won my Games. Kindness is not something I pride myself on, nor
something I value particularly highly in myself. I know enough kind people to know that I
am not one of them; not like Sylvia or the people I used to know before I won. Maybe before
the arena — some long, long time ago — he may have been right. But I don’t think kindness
is a place I should ever be allowed to revisit anymore.

“Oh,” I say, because I’m not sure what else to.

“I’ve seen you with the kids,” he says, by way of explanation.

I blink. That is a surprise. Has Blight been paying attention to me? I always assumed my
talent was beneath him. I know plenty do. Something from the Capitol; foreign, flashy. A
farce.

“The kids?”

“Sometimes you let a really young one, or a poor one in,” he says, hefting his shoulders up in
a heavy shrug. “Give them a good time, even if you know they won’t make a hit.”

He’s right, of course, but it doesn’t make sense to me. Normally I just do that because I’m
awkward, or I feel bad for them. I’m not as benevolent as he makes it sound.

Then it smacks me what Blight’s reasoning must be. He knows Johanna will die, and in her
last few days, he wants me to make her feel just a little bit more valued than he can manage.

I grit my teeth, because selfishly, I don’t want another tribute like that to die on my watch.
Still, I doubt Caraway is the long shot he looks to be.

“Okay,” I agree.
Now we are being whisked away by a Capitol attendant, polite but firm in their sleek red
uniform. We were told to say goodbye to our family and friends before the reaping began, so
by the time we reach the car, the crowd is mostly gone. My sister will be long gone by now,
and I doubt my mother would want to say a word to me, even if I did try.

I do shoot a look at Sylvia, though, who is still sitting, partially covered from the rain by the
stage. I mean it as a final glance, a casual goodbye, but instead of returning it, she gives me a
very sharp look and a nod.

I find myself frowning back. Sylvia wouldn’t give me this look for no reason. She must have
something to say – something she wants to tell me that she deems important enough to throw
me off now. But what? Something about Blight? Something she noticed about the tributes?

I don’t have a chance to ask, because the wall of rain hits me, and when I look back, she’s
gone.

IT’S FUNNY how familiar I am with my quarters on the train. The night after my reaping I
had been so sickened by the thought of the previous year’s tribute sleeping in the same bed
that I had barely gotten a wink. The same was true the first few nights of my Victory Tour.
But then it had gone on too long, weeks of being paraded from district to district in the same
train car. Now I hate to admit how comfortable I am. It’s hard to stay preoccupied with
someone who has already died when you are preoccupied with the currently dying.

Dying . I roll the word around in my mind for a minute. Johanna and Caraway. One of them
will certainly die. Most likely both. The odds are, unfortunately, not going to be in their
favour.

They never are, though. Not even with the ones that look like fighters. That was something
I’d learnt quickly after my first tribute. He’d been eighteen and twice my height. He died
horribly in a way that was awfully similar to how I pictured killing himself if I were in the
arena again.

I did that a lot, those first few months. Panicked strategizing about how I would kill the
people I met. I’d do it walking down the street to the market, watching a mandatory recap of
some old Games footage. I felt like a monster, imagining the deaths of everyone I knew in
my head. Sylvia said it was a trauma response from my time in the arena, that my brain was
still running in survival mode. There must be at least some truth to it because it has gotten
better over time. But sometimes when I feel the edges of panic creep into my vision, I do get
that brief, horrible thought.

It doesn’t take long for the train to depart once the tributes are onboard. I avoid them on their
tour, sticking to my room and checking my mentor manual, which doesn’t have anything
new. My sponsor list is the same, my list of appointments has no unfamiliar names. It’s all set
up to be a perfectly usual summer in the Capitol.

When enough time has passed for the tributes to find their way around their rooms, I wander
over to the main car. Blight is already there, sitting in the still-wet clothes he wore to the
reaping. I look down at myself in my dark Capitol trousers and my loose Capitol shirt that I
changed into almost immediately after getting on the train. I would never have worn
something like this four years ago.

This makes me frown.

Before I can think too much about it, Caraway enters with Ambrosia in tow. Dinner will be
soon, she announces. Johanna is nowhere to be seen, and so I reason with some
disappointment that she must still be in her room. We wait in relative silence as Ambrosia
shows Caraway around the car. He says nothing until she is done, at which point he asks in an
even voice if he could be left alone with Blight and I.

To her credit, Ambrosia gives him a quick nod and leaves just as quickly as she came. For a
moment we seize each other up. Up close, Caraway is less sturdy than he seemed on stage.
His skin is pale and there are dark bags that hang under his eyes. Still, he is tall and strong,
and he holds himself defensively, one foot behind him in a stance that could see him run
towards or away from us.

“Better not to beat around the bush,” he says, once Ambrosia is surely gone. “You’ve seen
the bruises?”

“Yes.” Blight speaks first. I let him take charge. After all, this is his tribute. “What’s the
drug?”

“Moss,” he says.

Surprisingly, this is good. Moss is not even considered a drug in the Capitol - though
injectable, it’s nothing more than a party substance that keeps you going until the early hours
of the morning. It went around the camps a few years back when hours were extended. We
might even be able to get our hands on it before the arena.

Blight follows my train of thought. “The Capitol might concede to a dose or two. How often
do you take it?”

Caraway shrugs. “Depends on supply. Daily, if I can. I’ve made it on less.”

“And withdrawal?”

“I‘ll start feeling it day-of,” he says. “I’ve done a week, but it didn’t go well. Couldn’t take a
hit today, either. Too many Peacekeepers.”

He may last the first few days of the Games, then. Maybe more, if by some miracle we can
scrounge up enough sponsors and the Gamemakers allow concessions (which I know they
won’t). But it won’t be good. Once withdrawal kicks in, he’s a goner.

Caraway knows this. I can see it on his face.

“Well, then. Let’s hope this year’s Games are short,” Blight says, and Caraway nods. “I’ll
mentor you. Ashley’ll take the girl.”
”Okay.” Caraway turns to me. “I’ve seen some of the shows, by the way. They’re good.”

This surprises me. I know people come to watch them - they even had camera crews hang
around the first year. But the first year was horrible. I was a mess and there were only a
handful of actors for me to work with. I don’t think I had a single coherent thought the entire
year, certainly not after the head injury I sustained at the very end of my Games. Why anyone
would watch that disaster and then willingly come back the next year for more is beyond me.

Later Ollie — my sister — would tell me that I would spend great swaths of rehearsal time
staring blankly into space, or waving my hands and giving contradictory thoughts. Any
sudden noise would terrify me, and I think I remember hysterically crying on my way home
at one point.

It’s embarrassing. I was barely sixteen . Head injuries are no joke, but then again, I suppose
neither is trauma.

“Thanks,” I mumble to Caraway. I don't have anything else to say because he is not my
tribute, and he doesn’t say anything back, so we sit in silence and listen to the train roll
onwards.

Eventually it is time for dinner. We’re ushered into a separate car, where our cutlery has
already been laid out for us. Caraway’s eyes go wide at the sight, and we haven’t even been
served any food yet. I think about last year when the boy — Pliny’s tribute — ate so quickly
he had to run off to be sick.

This is common, apparently, but as far as I remember, I never had any issue with the fare. My
appetite has always had the legs to outgrow me.

We sit, Ambrosia at the head, Blight and Caraway across the table. The first course is served
- creamy pea soup with fluffy bread and warm, buttery spread. I glance at the seat next to me.
Where is Johanna ?

“Well! No use letting this get cold,” Ambrosia says, although she follows my gaze. Taking
her cue, Caraway scoops up a spoonful of the green stuff. His eyes go as wide as the dishes.

“Eat it slowly,” Blight says. Caraway nods, looking a touch sheepish. He seems so young like
this. I think of Johanna, and about how young she seemed too, standing on stage in her
drenched outfit.

I don’t touch my plate. Will I have to get her?

No. Johanna Mason arrives just as Caraway has mopped up the last bits of soup with his
bread. She has changed from her yellow dress into a flowing blue one with long and dainty
sleeves. Here, she looks even younger. As she enters she ducks her head and avoids our eyes,
slipping in quietly into the seat next to me.

I try to remind myself to be kind and hope my smile doesn’t look manic.
“Don’t worry, you’re not too late,” I say to her. “Caraway just inhaled his in a matter of
minutes.”

“I didn’t…” Caraway protests, but the train lurches forwards again and suddenly he looks as
green as the soup. Blight pours him a glass of water, and he starts to take slow sips as
Johanna and I dig in.

Every so often I take the occasional glance at her, noticing how particular her movements are.
Sip. Pause. She knows she is being observed.

“So Johanna,” Ambrosia starts. “How are you finding the train?”

“It’s hard to find my feet,” Johanna says, after a pause. She doesn’t look at Ambrosia as she
speaks. Her voice is lower than I expected. She suddenly sounds her age; only a handful of
years younger than I am.

“You get used to it,” Ambrosia says, then claps her hands. “So! Do you two know each
other?”

There’s a pause. I wonder how common it is for tributes to know one another. I didn’t know
the girl my year, and neither have any of the tributes I’ve mentored since. I’ve never seen
anyone play it up as a strategy, but surely there must be a good few acquaintances, maybe
even a few friends, in the history of the Games.

“Johanna and I?” Caraway replies eventually, after Johanna refuses to. Ambrosia nods. “No.
You’re from the year below me, right?”

“Yes,” she says, quietly. “I’m eighteen in a week.”

It occurs to me that Johanna might be afraid of Caraway. Hasn’t she noticed the bruises on
his arm? Or if she has, does she know what they mean? If I didn’t, perhaps I would be
intimidated too; by his height, his stature.

But now I know she also stands more of a chance. Blight must realise this too because he is
looking at her curiously.

Perhaps the attention is too much, and so Johanna retreats into her soup and doesn’t say
anything else for the rest of the meal.

It’s dark out by the time we head back to the main sitting room for a recap of the reapings.
Johanna and I sit on one sofa with Ambrosia, Caraway and Blight making up the other.
Nobody has said anything, but Johanna must have worked out that I am her mentor.

I hate this part , I think as we settle in and the anthem begins to play. Quickly, we rush by the
faces of this year’s tributes. The first few are always the worst, but at least we get them over
and done with quickly. The inner-district tributes from One, Two and sometimes Four – the
Dogpack, or Careers, as they are sometimes nicknamed — are all about eighteen; raising
their hands to volunteer.
I used to despise them, but having gotten to know some of them, I find that I hate them less.
They often train for the Games, which is technically illegal, and while they do find glory in
the violent deaths of their fellow tributes, I have learnt that - at least in Two and occasionally
Four - there is honour involved in this. They send the strongest in to protect the weak. A
twelve year old from District Two will never be reaped.

I don’t know where ‘D ogpack ’ arose from, but the ‘ Career’ nickname started as a moniker
for the school that they send children to in District 2, the Career Centre. It's not so much an
official training centre for volunteers as it is a centre to train the youth into becoming
Peacekeepers, but the unspoken underbelly still remains; normally, there’d be no need to train
Peacekeepers in weapons like swords and knives when guns will do just fine.

I don't know if any similar Career Centres exist in One or Four, (though, considering it would
be difficult to justify, I doubt it). I'm not sure who popularised the term, or when, nor how the
others train. I simply know it’s made the rounds in the past few years. Officially, they're still
known as the inner-district alliance.

This year the pair from One are steady and golden. The girl is a sharp thing, with bright red
hair and strong, toned arms. The boy is her equal, close cropped yellow hair and a million
dollar smile. District 2 are their darker counterparts, both in looks and disposition. The boy
gives a wave to the crowd, but his smile is closed-off. 3 gives us a quick and sharp-eyed boy
from the sixteen-year-old section. The fifteen year old girl from 6 looks tiny compared to her
hulking district partner.

And suddenly we are in District 7. I realise with a sinking feeling that with the rain, it looks
as though Johanna is crying. Caraway makes more of an impression, at least, and I am
thankful that the long shot they have chosen does not show his sunken features.

The commenters do not have much to say, though they do note that I will be mentoring for
the fifth year in a row.

“Not too shabby!” Ambrosia says. Her smile is classic, but I can tell by the flat tone of her
voice that she knows this is not great. “Though what a shame about that rain.”

We quickly flash by the other tributes. There is not too much of note, but the girls from 10
and 12 make an impression; both eighteen, one tall and sullen faced, the other almost a ghost
on the stage. Then the screen goes black, and we are left in a silent compartment.

It is time for the tributes to go to bed. It will be a long, exhausting day tomorrow and they
need all the rest they can get before the Games. But, as we all stand up, all I can remember is
my first night on the train and how alone I had felt.

Be kind. Shit. Do I even remember how to do that?

There’s no harm in trying, at the very least. I ball my hands and force myself through it. “Do
you want to see something?” I say to Johanna.

She turns to look at me for the first time. With a sense of surprise, I realise we are nearly the
same height. Something about her disposition had given me the impression that she would be
 much smaller.

She blinks. “What?”

“I have something to show you,” I gesture. “It’s just down that way.”

I’m not sure if she gets the cue that I want to talk to her alone or not, but either way she gives
me a quick, jerky nod. I bid the others farewell, meeting Blight’s eyes for just a moment
before I begin to lead her down the train in silence.

Johanna stays a few steps behind me, cautiously observing. Eventually we arrive in a room
near the back of the train with round, curved glass windows that extend upwards to the
ceiling. Walking towards the back, I press a button near the door. Then the glass walls are
sliding down and we are in open air.

Johanna can’t help but let an exhale slip through her lips.

“You don’t get a chance for much fresh air before the Games,” I explain. “Capitol air has a
smell to it. I thought you might want another breath of home before next week.”

Johanna says nothing, and so we stand there. I’m not sure how much time passes, only that
suddenly I can’t bear the silence, the wind and the cold night air. I need to fill it with
something.

“What are you thinking?” I ask.

She doesn’t even look at me as she replies. “I’m thinking about how I’m going to kill them.”

Chapter End Notes

currently reediting, so bear with if there are any discrepancies while chapters are
updated <3
 Chapter 3

3) Johanna

Lynn is crying.

I don’t know why this makes me angry, only that it does. We sit across from each other in a
dilapidated room somewhere near the top of the Justice Building. The wooden floorboards
are rotting, and there’s the distant scent of dust that echoes throughout the space. The only
hint of any faded luxury are the matching plush velvet loveseats, but even these are
uncomfortable. The fabric feels sticky and grating under my wet skin, and I find that I’ve
developed a nervous tic; smoothing my dress out from under me, back and forth, so that I
don’t have to touch the base of the chair.

“It shouldn’t be you,” Lynn is saying. “It should have been me. It’s not fair. It isn’t. ”

My thoughts catch in my throat, unnecessarily sharp and pointed. You should have
volunteered for me, then.

Of course, I don’t actually mean it. There’s no way in a million years that Lynn would ever
volunteer for the Games, even in my place. But I find myself losing my patience for the
steady flow of tears coming from the other sofa. It seems almost like a parody of grief, an
exaggerated show that can’t possibly be real. It almost borders on the ironic, considering that
I am the one about to be sent to the death and not Lynn.

“It’s happened,” I say, trying to keep my irritation from showing. “Lynn, it’s fine.”

“Oh, and you shouldn't be the one comforting me,” Lynn paws at her tears. “I’m so sorry,
Johanna. I’m a terrible friend.”

Maybe , I think. But you’re my only one .

Her attempt to gather herself is weak-willed, but after a few moments her sobs die down to
sniffles, and it seems she can speak properly again. “Sorry. Go on. You must have lots to
say.”

I don’t really, but I don’t want to tell her that. My thoughts are coming too fast and too slow
all at once — panic mixing with a heavy fog of dissociation. I tell Lynn the only thing I can
think of. “Will you keep an eye on my father? Drop by every so often? Make sure he eats?”

Lynn nods. Above her head, the clock warns that our time is nearly up. I have been given
three fifteen minute slots for visitors to say goodbye. Somehow, ten of Lynn's have already
passed. Now we should start saying our goodbyes — real, proper goodbyes, final goodbyes.
It’s only, neither of us quite knows how to begin.

“The Capitol will be nice,” Lynn's voice comes out as barely a whisper.
“Mm.” How nice the Capitol will be is potentially the last thing that’s on my mind. I wonder,
sometimes, if Lynn might not be another species. I don't think I will ever fully understand
how her brain works.

I suppose I won’t have long left to, anyway.

“The food will be nice too,” she continues. “They always say that, don’t they? On the
television? They always talk about — you know? — they always say how nice the food is,
and how nicely they're treated. So maybe, maybe you could try to enjoy it? You know?
Before…”

Emotion clouds her voice, cutting it off. All of a sudden, I realise that there is not a single
doubt in Lynn’s mind that I will die. Not a fraction of her believes I stand a chance. In Lynn’s
mind, when she pictures my homecoming, I am cold and silent in a plain, wooden coffin.

The idea fills me with immediate rage. I want to stand up, scream, throw this stupid velvet
chair at her, maybe even tear at the walls for good measure. I should call for a Peacekeeper to
take her away. My hands have already started to clench, and I’m just thinking about how
horrible it will feel after I slap her, when a second, almost instinctive, thought fills my mind.

No. This is good.

It’s enough to give me pause. This is good ? What is good? The fact that Lynn believes I’m
going to die? I frown and my hands relax. The thought has snagged my attention, and I want
to dissect it, but I can't. At least not while Lynn is staring at me. She looks even more delicate
now than I have ever seen her. And after all, isn’t she right? I probably am going to die. She’s
just being realistic.

“I’ll try,” I tell her. I’m not mad at Lynn, not really. Annoyed? Maybe. But, then again, aren’t
I always? Why should our final meeting be any different?

The rest of our conversation seems to pass us by almost uneventfully. Lynn promises she will
try to gather funds for me in the arena. It’s a nice thought, and I thank her for it, but I know it
will be pointless. Even if I did have people who cared about me in Seven — which I don’t —
the prices for sponsor gifts begin astronomically high, and they only get more expensive as
the Games draw on.

Now the Peacekeeper has come to take her away. I don’t know what else to say to her, so I
tell her to stay safe. She gives me one last hug, and then she is gone.

The clock ticks onwards. My second slot begins.

My father hasn’t come in yet. Surely he must be waiting outside. Has something happened?
Has he forgotten where to meet me? Or — worse — has he forgotten to say goodbye at all?
For the first time since Ambrosia called my name, I find that tears are threatening to spring
from my eyes. I blink hard, forcing them away. If anyone else comes, I don't want them to see
my crying.
Smoothing my dress out from under me again, I find that my hand rests over my pocket, over
the piece of amber. I go to hold it out, studying it under the dim light of the room. It really is
as small as I remember. Barely the size of a pebble; freckled with dust and lined with a strip
of darker gold around the centre. Fossilised tree resin. How old must this thing be? How old
is the tree it came from? Hundreds of years, certainly. This tiny stone surely predates the
Games, perhaps even Panem as a whole.

For some reason, I find this calms me. Perhaps it’s a reminder that there’s more to this; more
than the crowds and the crews and the cameras.

The cameras! Shit. In an instant, the shuddering in my chest returns. Just a moment ago, I’d
been broadcast to the whole nation. It hadn’t even occurred to me how significant the
moment had been; this was my first introduction to the audience, and I hadn’t even been
thinking!

Hadn’t Ambrosia shoved a microphone in my face? Did I even respond? The past few
minutes are a blur in my mind. Who is my district partner? Why am I wet? Was it raining?

Fuck. I feel so stupid. What a fat lot of luck this will do me. I know immediately how the
audience will read this; as another, boring district with two more boring tributes. I picture a
crowd of people somewhere in the Capitol, dressed in billowing feathers and sipping from
tiny crystal flutes, laughing at my face on screen. One or two will take pity I'm sure, and most
will just ignore me, but there are the others — the late night talk show hosts, public figures,
comedians — who will laugh at my stupid, empty face and speculate about all the ways I will
die.

I’m cannon fodder. They don’t even want to watch me go. They’re just expecting it.

My hands have just clenched back into fists when the door opens. My attention shifts,
expecting my father to walk through, but no. It’s a woman. Tall, with dark skin and close-
cropped hair that has begun to go grey. This is District 7’s mayor.

A cold sense of dread seeps over me. What is she doing here? Has something happened to my
father?

She must recognise the worry in my expression, because she speaks before she even sits
down. “Don’t worry. There’s nothing wrong. I come to see every tribute.”

Relief is quickly replaced by confusion. “You do? Why?”

“To say goodbye.” The mayor comes to sit across from me. “Not everyone has someone to
say goodbye to.”

Oh. So it’s personal responsibility, then. For some reason, this annoys me. I don’t care if the
mayor feels guilty about the part she plays in the reaping. I’d rather be left alone than have to
put on a face in front of someone I don't care about.

I cross my arms and let her sit down across from me. “You must have met a lot of tributes,
then.”
“Two a year for the past twenty,” she says. “Forty in total.”

I frown. In the past twenty years, Seven has had, what, maybe two victors? Ashley certainly,
but I can’t remember if Blight won before or after the 51st Games. That’s only one, maybe
two, victors in twenty years. Mayor Lefroy has spoken to at least thirty-eight ghosts.

“I know,” she says, as if she can sense what I’m thinking. “I remember all of their names.”

Silence settles between us. It makes my skin itch, but I don’t have anything else to say.
Outside, the rain has died down to a light drizzle. It was only two hours ago that I was in the
woods, but now it all feels so far away. It’s as if it all happened years ago.

I feel a pang. It might have been the last time I ever stepped foot in those woods, and I didn’t
even know it.

We don’t talk much. Once our time is up, the mayor gets to her feet. She’s by the door when
she turns around again. “I wanted to say, Johanna. It has been a pleasure to have you in
Seven. And I want you to know that all of the district has your back in return.”

I stare at her, dumbfounded for a minute. It registers to me once again that Mayor Lefroy also
believes I will die. For some reason this hits harder than before, because unlike Lynn — who
cannot imagine a single person committing a bad deed — this woman does not even know
me. What have I done? What have I done to suggest that I am not a fighter?

And then it hits me. I have done nothing at all.

“Thank you,” I say. The mayor nods, and walks away. I will probably never see her again,
and so she becomes just another face in the ever increasing list of faces who pity me.

The clock ticks on. I try not to think of my father, because the idea makes me too upset.
Instead, I try to remember my district partner. I can’t remember his name, but his face seems
familiar. He must be in the year above me at school; part of the group that hangs out at the
south end of the district, past the mills and the train station, down by the shack houses and
run-down buildings. I’ve seen them before all, ducking around wet, dark alleyways. It's not
hard to tell what goes on down there. I see it in his face, in the faces of his friends, with their
sunken eyes and pale skin and raspy voices.

This is good, I try to tell myself. At least he won’t be a threat.

The others probably won’t know that yet, though. Looking at the pair of us, nobody would
ever think I was a contender. And why would they? After all, he’s everything the Capitol
would want. Taller. Stronger. Older.

Older.

Suddenly, it occurs to me that it is nearly my eighteenth birthday. Shit. I might not even live
to eighteen! Or perhaps I might, and I will spend the day in the arena, bloody and bruised,
warding off other tributes.
Somehow this is the first thing since being reaped that actually, that really, really hurts. I
should be spending my birthday at home with my father, not fighting for my life against the
Capitol.

The clock above the door begs my attention. There are ten minutes left, and the only guest I
want to see is still not here.

My time is almost up, and I’m certain I will never see my father again when the door bursts
open. I barely have time to open my mouth before he is on me, pulling me into a hug that is
so tight I can barely breathe. He is soaked in rain, smelling of wood smoke and dirt. For a
moment we stand there, clenched in a vice grip. And then, all at once, he pulls us apart.

“Johanna,” he says, breathless. “You need to look at me.”

I do, and to my surprise, I find that I’m staring into focused eyes. I blink once, twice, even
three times, trying desperately to make sure that I’m not dreaming. But no. No, there he is.
Steady. Grounded.

“I’m here,” I say. I don’t even want to acknowledge his sudden clarity, for fear that it could
drive him away. “What is it?”

His hands clasp at my shoulders like they’re some sort of lifeline. “Good,” he says. “Good,
good. You’re good. You’re a fighter, love. I believe in you. I believe you know what to do.”

I shake my head, suddenly frantic. In the fraction of a second that it’s taken to get my father
back, I suddenly feel like a child all over again. “But I’ve already ruined it. You saw me up
there. Everyone thinks I’m a goner. Everyone!”

My father shakes his head. “ Use it.”

I blink. Then it occurs to me what he means. Use it to my advantage. If they think I’m weak,
let them .

It’s a hopeful thought at first, but then worry takes over. “But what if that doesn’t work? They
might not believe me. And even if they do, how am I supposed to win? How am I supposed
to kill somebody?”

“Don’t think about that now,” he says. “Focus on getting through the first few days. The other
tributes won’t target you while they think they have bigger problems to deal with. You need
to turn the audience on your side. And you’re brilliant with an axe, kid. I’ve seen you. You’re
a deadeye.”

I look at him. Maybe he’s right. Maybe there is something to this — some kind of merit. It’s a
strategy I’ve not seen before, but then again, maybe it just hasn’t ever worked well enough to
produce a winner before. But he’s got a point. I have something most others don’t; the ability
to use a weapon.

“Okay,” I say, because he’s here and I can’t tell him no. “I’ll try.”

“Good,” he says, and his grip loosens. He steps backwards. “Good girl.”
Looking down, I realise that his arms are scraped and bruised. It looks as though he’s fallen
over or gotten in a fight. “What happened?”

He follows my gaze and frowns. Suddenly the clarity in his eyes starts to fade, and so I grab
him again. “No! No, Dad, look at me.”

He looks up. “Love?”

“Don’t go!” I feel a jolt of fear. “Fuck off , you're not allowed to do that, okay? You can't just
— you can't just come back and then go again, that’s not fair ."

His eyes narrow. “I’m here.”

“Not like that." My hands run down his arms and I see him wince in pain. “Shit, Dad, you’re
not supposed to…”

But that’s it. My brief few minutes with him are gone. His brow furrows and the sharp look in
his expression dulls until I’m left with the same empty face I’ve looked at for the past five
years.

“They wouldn’t let me in. They said I had to wait.”

“Dad,” I start, only to realise that hot tears have begun to crawl down my cheeks. I swallow
them down, furious with myself. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

The truth is that we have no time, because as I say this, the door opens and a Peacekeeper
nods to gesture him out. My father looks confused.

“I waited, though,” he mumbles. The Peacekeeper comes to put a firm arm on his shoulder. I
see that his uniform is tousled, and I wonder what must have happened while my father was
outside. “I waited.”

“I know,” I say. “Dad. Look. I love you.”

He looks at me strangely. “Yes.”

I feel a lurch in my chest. “You aren’t going to say it back?”

“No,” he frowns. “No, of course I am.”

But the door closes, and he doesn’t.

IT ISN’T hard to cry at the train station. In fact the tears come easily, hot and fast. I find
some vindication in it. This show of weakness will put me exactly where I want to be on the
Capitol’s radar; a laughing stock, a pathetic child. Let them laugh. We’ll see who is when the
Games begin.

Of course, it might still be them. For all my attempts, my death is still far more likely than it
is not.
Even Caraway — (that’s his name, I remember now) — and Ambrosia must feel some pity
for me, because they give me a wide berth as we are shown around the train. Though it’s only
late afternoon, the train journey will take the better part of a full day to reach the Capitol.
Ambrosia tells us that there will be a crowd waiting to catch sight of us when we arrive
tomorrow. We must make sure we are camera ready.

The thought makes me feel sick, so I decide to gag a little.

There’s a sense of satisfaction as Ambrosia steps a little further away from me. Perhaps I can
even have some fun with this.

I am relieved when I am left alone to wander around my room. Immediately, I shed out of my
sodden dress and wander half-naked to the closet. My first instinct is to avoid the delicate
Capitol clothing and pick out something simple, but then I catch sight of myself in the full-
length mirror and realise that anyone would be able to see how toned my arms are from years
of working an axe. Making a mental note to tell my stylist I do not like to expose skin, I pick
out a flowing blue dress instead. It’s an awful thing that makes me look about half my age,
but at the very least I am dry.

For the next hour or so I wander around my room, talking in the sight outside the window as
the district floods past. Every so often I catch the flickering of lights though the trees and
know we’ve passed another logging camp. They must all be deserted today. Everyone else
has returned home.

The pang I feel isn’t pretend. I miss my tiny shoebox room, and the smell of wood, and
smoke. This train smells awful; like metal and recycled air.

By the time the sun has started to set, I’m successfully late for dinner. Good. Let them think I
have been crying my eyes out in my room alone. Facing the team can be a test of the rest of
them. If I can fool these few, it will simply be another step towards fooling the others.

The air in the dining cart is awkward. They all turn to stare as I tiptoe in, easily about an hour
late at this point. The room is thick with the smell of food and my stomach flips at the sight
of the warm, creamy soup that has been laid out for us.

I don’t have much of an appetite, but I vow to eat everything I can. The extra weight will do
me good in the arena.

Blight and Caraway sit on one side of the table, with Ambrosia at the head. On the other, next
to Ashley, is an empty seat. I dip my head in an attempt to be meek and keep my eyes on the
floor.

Ashley speaks first. “Don’t worry.” His voice is quiet. I think he’s making an attempt to
sound gentle, but it doesn’t land. He just sounds tired. “You’re not too late. Caraway just
inhaled his.”

“I didn’t!” Caraway retorts. For someone only just older than me, he sounds an awful lot like
a child.
Eyes on my plate, I sit. I’m not sure what to make of all this. I am used to scarce meals alone,
or very rarely with my father. The presence of these people — not to mention the Capitol
attendants that encircle us — feels almost oppressive.

I eat instead of thinking. Conversation is stagnant. Blight avoids me completely, and Caraway
seems too engrossed in the food to care about anything else. It’s Ashley's gaze that keeps
flickering to mine.

The dots connect quickly. Ah. So Ashley Firth must be my mentor, then.

Immediately, my stomach feels heavy. Shit. This isn’t good. Even aside from the fact that I’m
certainly not his biggest fan, I really have no clue how Ashley could help me. He was
averagely popular before his Games even began, and out of all the tributes he killed — (how
many was it again, five or six?) — only one of them was with an actual weapon. The rest
were taken down with sheer innovation; a skill I certainly do not have.

What could he possibly do for me? I’m no great genius. How can he possibly help convince
all of Panem that I’m not a threat, only to then convince them that I am again.

Convince them …

Then it hits me all at once that I’m completely wrong. That this is the best stroke of luck I've
gotten so far, because Ashley is a director ! Suddenly, his frivolous excuse for a talent
becomes the only thing that endears me to him. Perhaps he might be of some help after all, if
I can manipulate him in the right way. I just need to find a moment in private to talk to him.

I wonder, if I pretend to be sick, will he follow me out? Just as I’m about to try to force some
of the soup up — (which is difficult, because it’s so good, and maybe I was actually hungry
all along) — Ambrosia speaks up.

“So, Johanna! How are you finding the train?”

Small talk . I pause for a moment. “It’s hard to find my feet,” I say. It’s a lie, of course. The
movement is barely a thorn in my side, but I need to seem as pathetic as I can muster.

Ambrosia’s face creases in pity. “You get used to it,” she says, and then claps her hands in an
attempt to brighten the mood. “So! Do you two know each other?”

Caraway. I eye him with caution. We might be from the same district, but Caraway is just as
much my enemy as the Careers from One, Two and Four. I don’t want him knowing a single
thing about me.

“Me 'nd Johanna?” He seems slow on the uptake. “No. You’re from the year below, right?”

“Yes,” I say.

I wonder how hard he will be to kill. Not too difficult once the symptoms of withdrawal kick
in, surely, but what about before that? How good is he with an axe? I have no way of
knowing. Is he better than I am? I know I am an asset to the logging teams; that I am accurate
and powerful, that I’m quick to get the job done. But I have never seen Caraway in the field. I
have no idea what he’s like at his strongest.

I’ll have to wait to kill you , I think. Then I feel a flicker of guilt. Caraway seems nice. A bit
dumb. Harmless.

This is how it goes, though. If I want to win, he needs to die.

We finish the meal in silence and Ambrosia leads us back to the sitting room, which has been
turned down for the evening. On the wall facing the front of the train is a massive flat screen
television. I imagine watching the Games on something similar and immediately start to feel
queasy. At home we're lucky that our own grainy television has such a bad signal. Most of
the time the Games are just a blurry mess of jagged pixels. On a screen like this you would be
able to see every scratch, every bruise, every splatter of blood in perfect definition.

It’s vile , I think as I settle in next to Ashley, and Ambrosia leans forward to switch the
display on. Fucking vile .

My competitors flash by. District 1 starts us off strong with a girl called Love, which nearly
makes me laugh because the name is so stupid. I recognise her district partner, though I can’t
place him until Ambrosia comments that he must be related to the boy tribute from last year
— the one who slowly bled out in the water when the arena flooded.

There is vengeance in his eyes, and I wonder what his family must be thinking in order to
send another child off to the Capitol.

District 2 flashes by. The girl is of the typical fare, if more stocky than usual, but there's
something about the boy that draws my attention. He smiles and waves at the camera and
nothing seems awry, but I find myself wanting to examine him more closely. Something in
my gut tells me he's hiding something. But before I can narrow in on it, the screen moves on
to Three, and then Four, and then Five, and then Six, and then -

I am on stage, and I look tiny. The rain pours down hard and I am completely swamped in my
dress. Ambrosia shoves the microphone in my face, and I don’t give her a second glance.
Caraway makes his way on stage, and I look even smaller in comparison.

Not bad , I think. But I can do better .

We move on. The girl from Ten has to be dragged onstage, and her family’s sobs ring around
the silent square. More of the same from Eleven and Twelve. The screen goes dark and we sit
there for a moment. Then Caraway, sobered from the sight, stands up and says that he's going
to go to bed.

“Do you want to see something?”

It takes a moment before I realise that Ashley is speaking to me. I’m about to decline —
wanting a moment to mull over my competition — but then I remember that I need to speak
to him alone, and so I nod.
“It’s just down that way,” he says.

Caraway and Blight are still nearby, so I say nothing. Ashley leads the way down towards the
back of the train. He seems so at home in a Capitol environment, in his clean-pressed clothes,
weaving his way through doors and doors and doors. I wonder if this is why he was a good
choice to win. I know he was a Capitol favourite prior to the start of the Games. In the same
way that some tributes are too District for the Capitol, I think Ashley is far too Capitol for
District 7. I can't ever imagine him finding a home in the woods, even before he was reaped.
Ashley Firth does not belong up a tree, or in a sawmill, or anywhere else besides on the other
end of a camera lens.

‘ Ashley’s nice, ’ Lynn’d said. I don't know what she sees in him, but I suppose Lynn is not
desperately District 7 either. Perhaps this is why she likes him so much.

I wonder how much of Ashley is an act. Most of it, probably. He played a particular angle
prior to his Games; aloof, dry, analytical — acting as though he were above all the other
tributes. It went off well. Watching it in real-time, I assumed he would be seen as haughty, or
arrogant and unlikable, but the Capitol ate it up. After a slew of charismatic killers, I suppose
they were looking for a change of pace.

Ashley back home is similar to Ashley on camera in the way that he’s certainly still aloof,
though I imagine the rest was probably concocted for the cameras.

Then, to complicate it even further, there was the arena, where he killed with apparently no
remorse. He took down three of the inner-district alliance in about five minutes with his
poison stunt. I think of the final showdown, of that shot — the one that they showed
everywhere all year. Ashley standing at the edge of a beach; wide eyed, sprayed with blood
from forehead to navel, sticky gore at his temple — (I can still hear the crunch of his skull
against the rocks) — staring up at the sky with wild rage.

Where is that look now? Ashley seems to be three people at once. Perhaps he’s acting almost
as much as I am.

Considering my strategy, I don't trust anyone who can change their faces so quickly. As far as
I am concerned, Ashley Firth is not to be taken lightly.

But he’s all I have.

We eventually come across a room towards the back of the train. It looks like some sort of
viewing platform, with plush velvet seats like the ones in the Justice Building lining the
space. It’s made of glass — three walls and the ceiling — and I’m wondering why he's
brought me here, because it's dark and I can't see anything outside the windows. But then
Ashley presses a button, and with a hiss, the ceiling and walls split open. I’m hit with a wall
of wind, and the sharp smell of pine fills my lungs.

“You don’t get a chance for much fresh air before the Games,” Ashley explains. “Capitol air
has a smell to it. I thought you might want another breath of home before next week.”
I raise my chin and take in big gulps of the stuff. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right.
This invigorates me. I imagine that if the arena is like this — full of woodland air — the
others don’t stand a chance. I will take them all out before they have any idea what hit them.

I notice Ashley is looking at me again. “What are you thinking?”

I decide to tell him the truth. Might as well bite the bullet now. “I’m thinking about how I’m
going to kill them.”

To Ashley’s credit, if he’s surprised, he hides it well. It's dark and I can barely see his face,
but I can tell the only thing that changes in his expression is the smile he has been trying to
maintain relaxes.

"Alright," he speaks plainly. "And how will you kill them?

“With an axe, if there is one,” I say. “Any weapon will do, really. But first, I’ll make them all
think I’m so weak that they'll never see it coming.”

“Okay.” Ashley slowly comes to sit down on one of the seats, and gestures for me to follow. I
stand my ground. “And how will you do that?”

I raise my eyebrows. “By acting weak, obviously,” I say. “I fooled you just now, didn’t I?”

“Not quite. I don’t know you,” Ashley shrugs. “Barely had enough time to make a judgement
call. I assumed you were in shock.”

“But I’m not in shock,” I say. “So I did fool you.”

His eyebrows raise. “Okay,” he says. “Sure. Maybe you did. And maybe you are good. But
I’ll be frank with you — it’s not going to be that easy.” The train makes a sharp turn left, and
for a moment we are illuminated by the red lights from the tracks. "The Capitol analyses
everything. It's an entire industry. Every gesture you make will be scrutinised to the last inch.
People spend their whole lives picking apart these Games."

The idea that there are people who do this pricks at me, but not as much as Ashley's lack of
conviction. Surely he should be grateful. I cannot be the worst bet he's had since he's started
mentoring. "Direct me, then. Isn't that what you do?"

“It depends,” Ashley's eyes narrow, and he sounds almost lofty as he speaks. “Are you any
good?”

I blink. “What do you mean?”

“I only work with people who are good,” Ashley says. “How can I tell if you are?”

The answer is honestly that I don’t know, but I can’t tell him that. “I’ll prove it to you.”

“Okay,” he says. “Do that. And are you any good with an axe?”

“I said I’d kill them with it.”

“Yes, but are you any good ?”

“I’ve been told I am,” I say. I almost wish I hadn’t trusted Ashley with this. Suddenly I feel
small; smaller than I did when he thought I was just a pathetic, snivelling girl. "But that’s
only part of it, right? Like, anyone can kill. They don’t want any old murder. They want a
show .”

“If you understand that, that’s a good sign.” Ashley cocks his head to the side. “All the
world's a stage and all that shit.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Old quote,” he says, standing up. “Maybe that’s a bit on the nose. But it’s good if you can
use an axe. There’s a new Gamemaker this year. He’ll be looking for something bloody.”

“New Gamemaker?” I frown, though it doesn't surprise me. Last year’s games were dull by
Capitol standards, and the victor was a far cry from the usual favourite. “Who?”

“His name is Seneca Crane. Last year’s vice. I don’t know much about him, only that he's
from a very influential family, and apparently he's something of a visionary. You should
expect a difficult arena. First-time Gamemakers always love to make a mark.”

Great . “You don’t sound very happy.”

“About Crane? Of course I’m not.”

“No,” I say. “About me.”

Ashley finally turns to meet my gaze. He's got strange eyes. They’re really dark. Almost too
dark, especially in the dim light of the cabin. “I’m reserving judgement. Tomorrow’s your
audition. Impress me, and then we’ll get to work.”

Impress Ashley Firth . It’s not exactly what I had in mind, but I find that the challenge strikes
new energy into me. Tomorrow I’ll arrive in the Capitol and I’ll be presented live for the first
time to a crowd of thousands. The thought could be daunting, but really, if there’s only one
person I need to impress, that’s all that matters.

“Okay,” I say. “I will.”

 Chapter 4
Chapter Summary

District Seven arrives in the Capitol, and Ashley meets with his fellow victors.

4) Ashley

My first sleep of Games season is restless, filled with strange, liminal images. I am kneeling
on the ground, digging in the dirt. I think I must be at one of the logging camps because
above me, pacing around on narrow bridges strung up between trees, are Peacekeepers.
Heavy rifles sink in their grip. My nails are caked in dirt, and I find that I am frantically
pulling apart chunk after chunk of soft earth.

Buried in the ground is Tess Tallowfield, my old district partner. There is a great open wound
gaping at her chest, the place she was skewered at the Cornucopia. From it, bugs spill out;
worms, beetles, centipedes, huge ants with flame-red bodies and pincers that look like they
could slice my fingers off in a single clean sweep.

They swarm and I try to move, but dream logic sinks its teeth into my thoughts and my
movements are slow and sluggish. Somehow I am aware that if I move, the Peacekeepers will
shoot. Frozen in place, I watch as the bugs lurch; crawl up my arms, burrow into my skin,
tangle my hair. The urge to scream is like a searing pain, but I’m afraid that if I open my
mouth, something might crawl down my throat.

In the real world the train must hit a patch of bad weather, because I hear the sound of rain on
a metal roof. In my dream, I am drenched. The insects continue to consume; wet now, slimy.
I look down again and watch with horror as Tess Tallowfield’s body is replaced with Johanna
Mason in her yellow reaping dress. She sits cross legged in the dirt pit, long dark hair matted
and tangled. Her eyes are glassy and there’s something wrong with them that I can’t quite
place.

“I can kill them,” she says, and a hundred ants spill from her mouth. “I can kill all of them.
Even you.”

For hours, my dreams continue. When I wake, it is all at once. Sunlight has just begun to
stream through the curtains. Though the train travels too fast to be able to tell, I’m certain
that it has not rained wherever we are.

I’m shivering but I am drenched in sweat. At some point during the night I must have pulled
the blanket off the bed, because I’ve become tangled up in the sheets. Silently, I begin to
pluck myself free. I don’t think I have screamed in the night — as far as nightmares go, this
was pretty tame — but I worry that the tributes might have heard me thrashing about. The
train cars are not as soundproof as the rooms in the Tribute Centre are, and I don’t think it
would be particularly encouraging for Johanna to hear her mentor terrified of a nightmare.

Johanna.

This is the first time I have ever had a tribute appear in my dreams before they died.

I frown as thoughts of last night’s conversation replace ones of my dream. I’m not really sure
what to make of it all. I’ve never had a tribute corner me with a strategy before. Usually I’ve
usually been the one pulling teeth. It usually takes a few days of shock for the truth of the
tributes’ situation to sink in — and even then, there’s hours and hours of grilling involved
before we can come to a passable conclusion for an angle.

I suppose this should be a good sign. Johanna is right, she has done a fair job with her acting
so far. Perhaps even fooled me a little, even if I don’t want to admit it. But just because she’s
right, it doesn’t mean I’m not. Everything about her will be scrutinised; every breath, every
word, every gesture, every twitch of her lips and flicker of her eyelids.

There’s an entire industry for Games theorists out there. Money to be made for those who can
most accurately predict the deaths; their order, the manner, the how and who and why.
Johanna will need to be flawless to fool them, and who’s to say it will even do her any good?
One false step at the Cornucopia, a run-in with the wrong tribute, or even a lack of sponsors
to keep her warm on a frigid night; these could all kill her far before her double bluff shoots
her into stardom.

No. No matter what, the odds will absolutely never be in Johanna Mason’s favour.

I wish I could talk to someone about this. Blight’s not an option. He might obfuscate the
news if he thinks Johanna stands a chance, but I’m not quite sure how he operates just yet.
Maybe he would tell Caraway out of loyalty no matter what, whether or not he thinks he
stands a chance. Even with his addiction, I can’t risk the possibility that the boy might take
Johanna down near the start of the Games before she becomes a threat.

The same goes for any of the other victors. We all know how it goes. We’re friendly, but
we’re smart enough to know not to talk strategy with one another. The only person I can
possibly think to trust is Sylvia, but she’s all the way back home. The only way to reach her
would be through the telephone, which has surely been bugged. I don’t want some gossipy
Capitol eavesdropper sharing the news before it’s due.

I’m going to have to keep this to myself.

Frustrated with the outcome, I pull myself out of bed and get dressed. I’m the first one to
arrive at the breakfast car, but fortunately the attendants don’t bother me too much. I think
they’ve learnt by now that I’m not very keen on conversation with people I don’t know, and
besides, based on the way they’re whispering to one another, there’s much more interesting
things to discuss.

I manage to piece together some of the gossip as I get up to refill my plate — (nightmares
always have me starving). Apparently, the male tribute from District 2 is Cassius Cybele, a
relation of sorts to Septima Cybele, the victor of the Fifty-Ninth Games.

I clench my teeth at the news. District 2 must have sponsors already lined up around the
block.

Johanna appears before any of the others do. She’s dressed carefully. Long, loose fitting
clothes to hide what must be strong, lean muscles from long days working in the woods.

I make a mental note to alter her backstory and say that she works part-time at the paper-mill
instead of the woods. Hopefully the other tributes will buy it without question and the people
back home will know for certain that it’s an act, because the paper-mill doesn’t take anyone
until they’re out of the reaping. That way, provided they take the hint when the interview
crews come, the ruse won’t be ruined before the Games begin.

She avoids my eyes as she slides down into her seat, but I take a moment to seize her up.
Sponsors this early will be an issue, but depending on how good of an actress she is, we
might be able to scrounge up a few pity points before the Games start. Every year there are a
few people — usually the rich old guard with nobody left to dote on — who donate pocket
change to the smallest, weakest, and most pathetic tributes out of some misguided desire for
nobility, even though all they’re really doing is funding the Games for another year. Provided
Johanna makes it through the first day unscathed, their pennies might be enough to go on.

Besides, she’s really quite pretty. Not in the way the Capitol likes from its tributes, but
enough to make an impression, I’m sure. There’ll be a market for her out there — most likely
men who want a scared girl to protect. She probably won’t like it, but maybe we can get
Pompey and his stylist team to work towards that angle.

There’s a lot of us to discuss, but this train is simply too exposed.

Despite myself, I can feel hope bubbling up. I may have told Johanna quite firmly that my
mind hasn’t been made up yet — (truth be told, I was mostly trying to remind myself ) — but
she’s right about one thing; she did fool me. I’ve never had a tribute show this promise
before. Already I can feel my nails digging in. I know myself. I know I have a tendency to
focus on projects like they’re my life’s work, and I cannot let myself cling onto Johanna
Mason’s survival. The odds are still not in our favour.

“Where are we?” she asks. Her gaze is trailed outside, her voice softer than her natural tone
from last night. It’s subtle, but it does a lot to make her seem much younger than she actually
is.

“Pardon?”

She raises a hand to point towards the window. Through the glass, I can see quick flashes of
sprawling greenery. In the near distance, jagged mountaintops leer over us. There’s a brief
glimpse of something else too; a set of old wooden houses that aren’t too unlike our own
logging cabins back in Seven, caved in with rot. With a blink, they’re gone again.

I frown. “Well, we’re not far out from the Capitol,” I say. “If I remember correctly, this was a
national park.”
“National park?” Johanna leans closer to the window. “What’s that?”

“You know how the people in the Capitol go to visit the old arenas?” She nods. “It’s like that,
I guess. Maybe people used to holiday there.”

I don’t mention why the park hasn’t been built over now. We must be in the no-man's land
between District 1 and the Capitol; the sprawling space that the Capitol ensures stays
deserted as a buffer between itself and the districts. The division has its strategic benefits in
the same way that the mountains surrounding the Capitol did during the Dark Days, but
there’s certainly symbolism there too. Look at us. Look how different we are from you all. We
barely even touch you.

There are probably arenas built out here too. None of them are natural, obviously. My own
arena was located in the desert outside of District 10, despite the fact that it was mostly made
up of frigid islands. There could be anything out here. Maybe even this year’s death trap.

“How do you know all this?” Johanna asks.

I shrug. “The Victory Tour takes a long time. The train wasn’t as fast as this one, and we went
all over Panem. I saw a lot of stuff like this out the window. Abandoned cities and stuff from
before all the calamities. Guess I got curious about what they were and read up on it.” I
probably shouldn’t be telling Johanna this, because you’re not really supposed to talk about
other districts. “The Capitol has good history books.”

I hear a voice from behind us, and realise Caraway has joined us. “I wish I could see the rest
of the country,” he says. The train takes a turn and he staggers in the doorway, half-asleep
and looking worse-for-wear. “Where’s Blight?”

“He usually sleeps in late.”

What I don’t mention is that Blight is unable to sleep before dawn at all. The year of his
Games, the arena was made up of a series of pitch-black underground caves. Cameras were
able to pick up everything, but the tributes were left in darkness with only the light of their
headlamps to help them squeeze through the narrow, rocky tunnels.

Everyone expected District 12 to do well that year, but apparently they only send people
down into the mines when they turn eighteen. By all accounts, Blight shouldn’t have won.
I’m not even sure how he did. I’ve never asked, and I don’t really want to know either. Most
victors make it a point not to discuss one another’s time in the arena.

He does finally arrive once Caraway and Johanna have finished breakfast. Their appetites
have improved since last night, which is good. Neither of them are as skinny as some of the
tributes I’ve seen before, but some padding in the arena wouldn’t hurt their chances.

Ambrosia is nowhere to be found, and Blight tells me she’s on the phone with Caraway’s
stylist. It’s an emergency, apparently. Someone has given them the wrong shoe size.

“I don’t mind if they’re too big,” Caraway mumbles. Nobody really listens to him. I wonder
if I can get word ahead to Pompey about giving Johanna a cape or some fabric to cover her
arms, but mentors aren’t supposed to ask the stylists to change their costumes.

Blight tells Caraway not to worry about it, and we finish breakfast in silence.

Since we’re nearly in the Capitol, there’s not much point in retreating to our rooms. Instead,
for the last next half-hour, Blight and I describe what will happen when we arrive. Both
tributes seem confused as we explain the prep process. I doubt the horrified face Johanna
pulls is an act.

“Just don’t complain too much,” Blight says. “Nobody likes an ungrateful tribute, and these
people are helping you out.”

It’s funny how present he seems now, compared to my Games. Back then I don’t remember
him uttering a single world to me — only barely a handful to Tess. There must have been
some cause for his silence, though I have absolutely no clue what. Perhaps he was just so
worn down from years of mentoring, he didn’t care anymore.

“Oh, but I don’t want a bunch of Capitol peacocks to see my dick,” Caraway whines. “Why
does it matter? It’s not going to be on show, anyway.”

“You’d better hope not,” I say. “You come to us if they try it.”

Twelve’s tributes were naked in some avant garde attempt at being provocative a few years
back. That was before I won so I don’t remember much, but Gloss from District 1 told me
that it lost them a bunch of sponsors. Apparently seeing a nude fourteen-year-old girl was too
much, even for the Capitol.

The tributes pepper us with questions about the parade until the train goes dark. In a moment
we’ll be spat out onto the streets of the Capitol. Johanna and Caraway stumble towards the
window as we turn in towards the city. I can tell based on their faces that they’re unsure what
to think. It’s impressive, and nobody can deny that, but the city is almost hard to look at. The
entire place — candy-coloured pavements, glittering skyscrapers, flashy, neon billboards —
feels as though it’s covered in a dreamlike haze. Even though I’ve been here before, I can
never tell if I’m asleep or awake.

Surreptitiously, I check the dining cart for any crawling insects.

Once we close in on the central bloc, the train slows down. The shape of a crowd slowly
comes into form. This year, the fashion fad in the Capitol is sheer lace. I see at least a dozen
in hues of sea foam green; perhaps attempting some sort of homage to last year’s dismal
Games.

The faces pass by in the hundreds; yelling, waving, reaching out hands to wave at us as we
speed along. There are cameras too, fighting with another to get the perfect shot of the
tributes’ faces as they see the Capitol for the first time.

I trail my eyes on Johanna. She’s aware she’s being perceived now, and I’m amazed at how
quickly her body language changes. She may have appeared timid before, but now everything
about her reads as meek. Her shoulders are low and pulled back, lips terse. She looks like an
animal cornered in a cage.

I’m already impressed, but she’s not done. As the train shudders on, she turns for a fraction of
a second. Her eyes meet mine, and then she bursts into a flood of very realistic tears.

Johanna doesn’t stop crying until she’s pulled off the train by Ambrosia and ushered into a
car that will drive her and Caraway to the Training Centre. Blight and I wait until a second
car comes to pick us up. We’ll be driven straight to the Games Centre, which is only just an
offshoot of the Training Centre, though everyone is very particular about calling them two
separate things. We’re needed for a meeting with the other mentors and our new Head
Gamemaker, Seneca Crane.

Once we’re in our car, Blight leans over to me. “If they see her crying…”

“I know,” I say. I have to try everything I can to hide the satisfaction in my voice. Thank you
Johanna Mason. “I don’t think she could help it.”

“Well, as long as she doesn’t see them make fun,” Blight sighs.

I think Johanna would be quite pleased if she saw they were making fun of her crocodile
tears, but I say nothing.

We make our way from the car into the parking level of the Games Centre and then down the
elevator, far enough that my ears start to pop.

Here is the Donum Level.

Anything above ground belongs to the Gamemakers. For obvious reasons, the mentors are
not allowed. Then, the next few floors underground are kept for storage; sponsor items that
will be flown into the arena, muttation labs, copious amounts of paperwork. The Donum
Level takes up the rest of the space. It’s a maze of meeting rooms, all centred around the
largest — a hall called the Click.

I’m not sure why it’s called that, though Sylvia thinks it might have to do with the sound of
twenty-odd mentors furiously clicking away at their own separate screens. Normally, I would
head right there, but our meeting takes place in a separate conference room just around the
corner.

We’re not the first to arrive, but far from the last. As we step through, the sharp smell of
coffee makes me gag. By rote, an attendant presses a mug of the hot stuff into my hand.
Once I claim a seat, I place it as far away as I can without seeming rude.

“Still not a fan?”

I look up to see Cecelia from District 8 has taken the seat next to me. I like Cecelia. Three
years ago our tributes made allies and we had a nice few days working together before the
dogpack hunted them down. Sawyer — my boy — died, but her tribute made it away. She got
all the sponsor money and made it to the final five. It’s the closest anyone from District 8 has
gotten since Cecelia won about ten years ago.

“Tastes like shit,” I mumble, rubbing my eyes. “Makes me think of this place.”

“I can’t stand the smell either,” she says. She looks as tired as I feel. I’m surprised she’s here
in the first place. There’s plenty at home that should keep her attention.

“How are the kids?”

Cecelia has three children. Hatch, Rosie, and a little baby boy called Otto. It’s rare for a
victor, and often I’ve wondered if she hasn’t struck up some kind of deal with Snow to make
sure they’ll never be touched.

It wouldn’t surprise me. Cecelia is quite popular in the Capitol.

“Oh, they’re alright,” she tells me. “It’s hard to leave them behind, especially at this age, but I
can’t expect Woof to mentor anymore.”

I’m not sure what’s wrong with Woof apart from the fact that he’s old, but I don’t bother
asking.

We continue catching up for a while as the other victors mill in. Ransom Kegg from District
6 — who won the Games two years ago — avoids everyone and goes to sit, spaced-out in a
corner. Septima Cybele from Two boasts loudly about her nephew, but everyone can tell she
is terrified for him. Chaff from District 11 gives a good-natured shout as he enters the room
before going to bother Haymitch from District 12, who is half-asleep on the table.

“Annie Cresta isn’t coming this year,” Cecelia whispers. Apparently, she heard from her
escort that Annie has been deemed as too mentally unstable to be a mentor. That doesn’t
surprise me. I’d almost be envious of her if I hadn’t seen what she went through last year. I
think if my little cousin got beheaded in front of me, I’d probably start talking to the walls as
well.

Annie’s replacement – arriving alongside Finnick a few minutes before the meeting is
supposed to start — is a young woman named Cordelia who won a handful of years before
me. I don’t know much about her, and she doesn’t give me much to go off of either; sliding
into her seat in silence and waiting with her hands crossed tightly over one another, lips
pressed into a thin grey line.

Cecelia tells me that it would have been Mags again this year, but she’s suffered another
stroke. It’s a blow for them because Mags is somewhat of a visionary when it comes to
producing victors, but I suppose the District 4 victors have had a rough go of it lately.

Finnick gives me a wave as he enters and I return it. I suppose we’re friends, because we’re
about the same age and we won consecutive games, but I haven’t spoken to him much in the
past year. I suppose he’s been busy with Annie. Everyone saw what happened last summer —
how much he cared for her. Apparently they were close before she was reaped.
As coincidence would have it, nobody was willing to volunteer that year.

It sounds a little bit too suspicious to be true, but I don’t know why they’d possibly want to
hurt Finnick like that. Besides, she made it out in the end — even if it was in a few more
pieces than she entered in.

Finnick goes to sit with the other inner-district mentors, and Blight comes to sit down next to
me. I think he’s been making cosy with Jude from District 10. Sylvia mentioned that they
have some kind of history, but I can’t remember exactly how it ended.

Things settle down fairly quickly when Seneca Crane is wheeled out. As victors, we’re all
well accustomed to knowing when to shut up. Crane is a weedy-looking man in his mid-
thirties, with powder-white hair and a strong, sharp chin. I think I might recognise him from
the past few years of Games footage, but I’m not quite sure.

“Thank you so much for coming,” he says. His voice comes out thin and piping. “It is an
honour to assume the position of your new Head Gamemaker, and I hope this is the
beginning of a long and fortuitous relationship between us all.”

“ Great relationship” Haymitch from Twelve slurs from across the room. “Best of friends.”

He’s drunk. Ish. Obviously.

Seneca ignores him. “The Games will continue on as designed,” he says, as though this is in
any way relevant. “Now, let me explain this year’s model - ”

He goes on to describe how the next few weeks will work. There aren’t any newcomers in the
crowd this time so nobody really needs to hear this, but it’s always good to have a refresher.
Besides, sometimes there’ll be a new rule dropped, or some hint towards what the arena
might entail. Everyone is on their best behaviour — (even Haymitch, whom Chaff has
nudged to attention) — as Seneca speaks.

In a few hours, he tells us, the tributes will be paraded around the Capitol in paired chariots.
From tomorrow morning onwards, the sponsor lines will open up. Until tomorrow, we are
confined to the Tribute and Games Centres. Once the tributes go down to start training, we
will be given free reign to travel anywhere within the central blocs of the Capitol.

As far as I can tell, the idea is to ensure that sponsors base their decisions entirely on the
presentation of the tributes themselves instead of batting for favours from their preferred
victors. It’s a valiant effort, I guess, but it almost never works. The majority of all sponsors
back the same districts every year, and a few days of extra waiting won’t sway them to
another tribute unless they’re particularly dazzling, which they almost never are.

Our district has a small but loyal fanbase, so I know exactly who Blight and I will be visiting
come tomorrow. We have our own fanclubs too, though we tend to avoid them unless we hit
dire straits. Normally I’d avoid them like the plague until we’re past the bloodbath, but I get
the sense I’m going to need to work hard to put Johanna on the same playing field as the
others before she starts killing.
Sponsoring works the same as every year. On the morning of the Games, we’re given a
catalogue of items we can bid for. It’s very common for mentors to scour the list in order to
gather some kind of intel on what the arena might be. We’re even allowed to order items
before the Games start, if we’re certain enough they will be needed.

Sometimes this can be like striking gold. A couple years back, Beetee from District 3
managed to buy suncream for his tribute for pennies. Everyone else was distracted by the
thick fur blankets and parkas on the catalogue. By the time that half the tributes were bloody
and peeling from the arctic sun, the price had hiked up so high that nobody — not even the
most popular districts —could afford it.

In the time between training and the onset of the Games, we can make as many sponsor deals
as we like. Every mentor has a unique ID code accessed via our fingerprints into which funds
can be deposited. If we make an alliance contract with another mentor, we can pool our
funds. Sponsors deals can be made by meeting with individuals directly, or more commonly
by using a network of telephones and digital interfacing systems known as the Link. Once the
Games start, we’ll have access to the general live feed, a constant view of our own tributes,
and the vital signs from their trackers. While we’re not allowed to have any maps of the
arena, there are plenty of fans who spend hours scouring over camera footage. We tend to use
whatever they publish. It’s almost always reliable.

There doesn’t seem to be any rule changes this year and Seneca Crane appears tight-lipped
about the arena, so we’re left to mill about until tomorrow. Some mentors head back to the
Training Centre, but most of us stick around to watch the Tribute Parade.

As I stand up to follow some of the others back through to the Click, I notice that Ransom
Kegg is silently crying in the corner.

Ransom’s a bit of a strange one, even in the victor's circles. He scored a three in training and
spent most of his Games hiding. When the dogpack lost their food and their alliance broke
apart, it became clear that the other tributes might stand a chance. At the final five, Ransom
was cornered by the remaining shreds of their alliance. He went crazy. Killed them both with
one of their spears, then ran screaming through the arena until he came across the girl from
Ten and killed her too.

The only other tribute who was left was the boy from District 5, who died that evening from
some bug he’d contracted on the second day. Apparently, Ransom didn’t speak for six months
after he left the arena.

Ransom Kegg. Annie Cresta. The Capitol’s not been too happy with the victors as of late.
Nobody ever thought Ransom’s low training score had been intentional; it was obvious he’d
snapped in the arena. But maybe it’s given them an appetite for something. Something that I
can use…

“Leave it,” Blight tells me. I realise that while I’ve been staring at Ransom, almost everyone
else has gone. “Vega will come get him.”

I follow Blight into the Click, where most people have already set up. There’s no assigned
seating, so everyone sort of just congregates near the middle. Towards the far end of the hall,
a massive screen sits. Usually it’s used to show the same live feed of the Games that the
Capitol uses all around Panem, though it’s dark now.

Situated all around are different kinds of tables; all with individual monitors. There must be
about sixty, all-in-all. Some are solo desks, and some are round circular ones. One holds at
least twelve seats. I’ve never seen an alliance that big before, but they must have planned for
any possibility.

We can access any monitor. All we need to do is scan our thumbprint to log us in. Because
viewing another mentor’s screen is forbidden, we’re also given glasses which are queued into
the feed on the monitors, making sure that we’re the only one who can see what our tributes
are doing at all times. I will find my pair in my room back in the Training Centre.

But there’s no point in doing any of that now. I wheel a chair over to the centre to join the
group. We have at least an hour or two to kill, so we spend most of the time catching up. We
only get to see one another once a year, outside of the victory tour — but even then, that’s
only the winning district. This year, due to Annie Cresta’s fragile mental state, victors were
not invited to take part in the festivities.

I spend the better part of half an hour talking to Cecelia and the female mentor from Eleven,
Seeder, when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

“Sorry, ladies,” Finnick Odair says. “I hate to pull Ashley away from you, but I’d love a
private conversation with my friend.”

I’ve barely thrown them a quick farewell before Finnick has dragged me halfway across the
Click. Blight — who is almost certainly going to be spending the night with Jude — gives me
a questioning look. I shake my head. I like Finnick. Whatever he has to say, I’ll want to hear
it.

As it turns out, I do.

“Listen,” he begins. His voice is low, but there’s a bright smile on his face. He looks as
though he’s telling a joke. I follow his instructions, loosening my brow and trying to look as
easygoing as I can. “You’ve got to tell the girl to stop crying.”

My grin immediately falters. Blinking, I try to see if he knows anything. But this is Finnick.
He’s a master at lying. “Johanna?”

He nods. “Look, just trust me. They don’t want another accidental victor. Not after the past
two years. Seneca Crane’s very strict on it. If she doesn’t toughen up, they’ll target her the
second she gets in the arena.”

I don’t question how Finnick knows this. He just knows things. Finnick Odair is a steady
source of gossip in the Capitol, and it’s almost always reliable.

“Okay” I nod. It’s a relief to know he’s not suspicious, though this is something I’m going to
have to consider. But this news is strange. Finnick has his own tributes to worry about. Surely
he would want Johanna dead as soon as possible. “Why are you telling me this?”
His eyes flicker back to the main group of victors. “I don’t want Annie to see it,” he says,
plainly.

I frown. “Oh.”

“She’s not stupid. If that girl gets targeted for her behaviour, she’ll know that the Capitol is
sending a message.”

This makes sense. Shit. Poor girl. “How is she doing?”

The light in his false smile dims. “About as well as you can expect. She was improving over
the past few months, but with the anniversary coming around, and me in the Capitol…” He
shakes his head. “They could have given me one year. We have more than enough victors to
choose from.”

“I heard about Mags. Give her my love.”

“Oh, she’ll be happy to hear that. She adores you.”

I’ve heard this before, though it’s hard to believe. I can’t ever be sure that the other victors
don’t do much more than tolerate me. “Any bets on this year?”

“Don’t know,” Finnick says. “The boy from Two’s a favourite, of course.”

I grimace. “I bet One and Two are up in arms for a win again.”

Finnick nods. “They always are.” He pats me on the shoulder. “I’m going to go call Annie
and tell her we made it here alright. Are you free for a drink later this week? Once the
sponsor stuff has been sorted? Some of the others were talking about it.”

I narrow my eyes. While I’m not exactly keen on getting shitfaced with Chaff and Haymitch,
I should take all the socialisation I can get. I tell him I’ll see him there and let him go off.

Around an hour before the parade, the escorts show up. Ambrosia seems to be in high spirits,
telling us that Pompey and Tulia have outdone themselves this year. As always, she offers us
a list of the usual sponsors for us to schedule meetings with. To my surprise, there are a few
new ones since my cursory look last night. Ambrosia explains that there’s been a resurgence
in popularity of some of the old Games, and Hap Holloway — one of our two deceased
victors — has returned as a Capitol favourite.

“Did you know him?” I ask Blight, when she goes off to gossip with a few of the other
escorts.

Something in his face goes cold. “Yeah,” he says. “I knew him well.”

I want to ask more, but I get the sense that maybe that’s not the best idea. Instead we just
silently pour over the list until the Tribute Parade begins.

The live stream emits a strange sort of glow over the Click. District 1 is dressed in long,
flowing silks. The girl’s red hair and pale skin looks particularly striking under the soft,
golden sheen. There’s a deafening roar as the chariot for District 2 rolls along, but it’s clear
most of the attention is on the boy. Septima gives a loud cheer too, and it echoes through the
room, feeling oddly out of place amongst the flashing monitors. There’s not much room for
victory cries in the Click — not unless you’re Brutus, from Two, but he’s not here this year.
Normally when a tribute kills, it also means another tribute dies, and we’re mostly respectful
about that kind of stuff.

District 3 are dressed in something green and flashing. When Four rolls in, I pay close
attention to Finnick’s tribute. He’s sixteen, with ruddy skin and a mop of long, dark hair.

Then it’s a blur of costumes and horses until our chariot is finally in sight.

I’m immediately glad that Pompey and Tulia aren’t absolute idiots, even though they’ve gone
and done trees again. Johanna’s long hair has been intricately braided and lifted upwards with
some sort of wire. She wears a long, flowing garment that billows out at the end, flapping
behind her in the breeze. Next to her, Caraway is dressed in a similar sort of getup. His hair
isn’t as long as Johanna’s, though there’s a similar effect, and instead of a dress, he wears a
vest and similar billowing trousers.

I’m grateful at the loose fit, but between the hair and the obfuscating green makeup, nobody
will be able to recognise them in the arena. We don’t get enough of a closeup to see their
faces, but I’m sure Johanna is doing her best to seem terrified.

Somewhere on the livestream, Claudius Templesmith — the asshole who announces the
Games — says that this year, the stylists from District 7 have decided to deconstruct a tree.
By this, I assume he means that they’ve made upside-down trees.

At least they didn’t do palm trees like last year. That had been so stupid that even Pliny
cracked a smile.

For the textile district, District 8’s costumes are entirely unremarkable. I do notice their
female tribute, however. She’s thirteen and so skinny you can see all of her ribs through her
outfit. 9 and 10 are more of the same, but 11 makes an impression with clothes made from
real, dried fruit. District 12 are in miners uniforms.

They circle around, and then stop in front of President Snow’s mansion.

Everyone starts to make conversation as the President begins to speak. Nobody ever tries to
hide the fact that we hate his guts. It's moments like these that make me thankful for the other
victors, even if we aren’t ever really on the same team.

Nighttime falls and the chariots roll back down the bloc towards the Tribute Centre. This is
our cue to head back. The escorts have already left to bring the tributes to their individual
floors, and Blight and I are expected to show up for dinner.

I’ve just stood up when I notice a commotion on screen, some of the cameras having
followed the tributes back into the stables to watch them disembark.
Johanna has been teetering on the edge of the chariot, as if she’s afraid to step off. Caraway is
saying something to her, but I can’t quite hear it over the music. She looks horrified. Shaking,
weak, sick. He offers out a hand, but she refuses it and tries to jump off the edge by herself
instead.

She offshoots and lands straight in a pile of manure that the horses from Six have kindly left
in front of their chariot, absolutely destroying the costume. There’s a closeup, and she’s
bawling like a child — red-faced, gasping for tears.

“Oh, shit,” Blight says.

I have to cover my mouth with my hand so that they can’t see me grinning from ear to ear.

Point proven, Johanna Mason .

 Chapter 5

5) Johanna

Covered in shit and live in front of the entirety of Panem?

For the first time since the miserable downpour at the reaping, I am trying incredibly hard not
to laugh.

Some of the other tributes don’t bother trying to hide their mirth. District 1 is particularly
amused. The girl — (Love, if I can remember correctly) — has to duck behind her district
chariot to contain her laughter, which rises up in high, squeaky hiccups whenever she catches
sight of me. The pair from Four are looking at me like I’m shark food, and the girl from Two
is giving me a lopsided smirk which I’m sure she intends to appear intimidating.

Even some of the outer districts seem relieved at the shitshow. Literally. The boy tribute from
District 10 looks to his partner, raising his eyebrows as if to say ‘I told you so’.

I can sense what they’re all thinking. It’s what would be running through my mind too, if I
were anyone else. One less contender to deal with .

To my suprise, only the boy from District 2 seems to regard me seriously. I try to avoid his
direct gaze and instead I mark my eyes on a cameraman standing just behind his left
shoulder.

I can’t remember much about him, only that his name is Cassius and that there was
something about him that stood out to me at the reaping. It stands out to me now too. He’s
not joining his fellow Careers in their intimidation play and there’s something about the way
he stands — alert, straight, poised to run — that sets him apart from the others in a way that
feels important.

His gaze is unreadable. Eyes narrowed, jaw ticking back and forth. Is he mad at the others?
No. Something else. Could he possibly be suspicious?

I’ve just about decided that this boy is certainly the real competition when a voice comes
from my left. “Are you okay?”

I actually jump at the sound of a voice so nearby. Turning around, I see Caraway leaning over
me, holding out his hand. Almost by rote, I take it. I’m not really that deep in the stuff —
only my shoes and the hem of the dress, really — but it is actually a struggle to escape the
clutches of the sticky pile.

“I’m fine,” I breathe. Everyone’s staring at the both of us now. I wonder if Caraway knows
how helping me will come across. To the other tributes it will cement us as a duo. He’s
associated with me now, and I sincerely doubt he’ll have any luck finding allies when
associated with the girl covered in horse manure. But to the cameras, it’s an incredibly good
play. He’ll look like the stronger tribute, and I’m sure his initiative will come across well.
The Capitol is all about manners. He might even get a sponsor out of it.

For a moment, I consider that Caraway might actually be smarter than I’m giving him credit
for. Who’s to say that he can’t play up to the cameras too? I try not to frown. I’m going to
have to keep my eye on him from now on. While he’s still alive, Seven’s sponsors will be
split. I can’t risk them favouring him, even when I show my true colours in the arena.

Pompey comes running towards us the second I’m up and away, gawking with dismay. It’s
really quite disgusting. I’m caked all the way up towards my ankles, and he wrinkles his nose
at the sight and probably the smell.

Pompey is my stylist. He’s a little man in his mid-forties, maybe — though it’s impossible to
tell in the Capitol — with white-blonde curls and a small moustache dusted with golden
powder.

Since I’ve already decided that I don’t like him, it’s incredibly amusing to watch as he hops
around me, surveying the damage I’ve done to his beautiful outfit. Surely his reputation will
be tarnished somewhat. It’d be hard to come back from such a shitty — hah — situation.

“I’m sorry!” I burst out, because I have to say something. My eyes grow watery and I don’t
make an effort to swallow anything down. It’s incredibly easy to cry, mostly because I do
actually already feel horrible about the Games, and I’m still thinking of Lynn and my father.
At least my tears will have some use, I tell myself.

“It’s alright,” Pompey says thinly, though his tone tells me it certainly isn’t. “We’ll get you
cleaned up.”

“Those horses should be trained better,” comes another voice. Ambrosia has joined us. She’s
smiling, though forced. A cameraman comes closer to us and she gives him a look I can only
describe as scathing. It’s impressive how she can manage it while still bearing a grin. “Can
you please leave my tribute alone? She’s had a trying enough time as-is.”

Now my escort is coming to my defence. I seem so pathetic that it’s laughable. This is
certainly going to be all over Capitol television. The joke of the century. I’m sure comedians
are already coming up with sketches mocking me. Predictions for the Games, where I end up
falling headfirst into a pile of shit and suffocating in it. Surely, I’ll have a nickname by the
end of the week.

I look down at myself, almost proud. I don’t mind getting a bit dirty for the job, and
hopefully Ashley will get the message that I’m not to be messed with.

“Are your ankles sore?” Caraway asks me as we’re being shuffled away from the stables and
down a clean, white hallway. I’m smearing brown over all the perfect tiling. “I jumped down
from a too-high platform while logging once. Hurt like nothing else.”

“I’m fine,” I mumble. The cameras aren’t on us now, so I’m not quite sure why Caraway is
speaking to me. Still, I can’t just ignore him. That would be rude, which is something my
public persona is decidedly not. “My ego hurts more than anything.”
“They’ll forget about it by the time of the interviews,” he says. “And if they ask you, just act
all self-aware and you’ll be fine.”

I’m certain he’s wrong, but I say nothing. Because of the holdup, we’re the last ones to get
into the elevator. We end up crammed in with the team from Five. It’s a tight fit between us
all, and I can tell the escort for Five — a man with gem-studded hair and a pinstripe suit —
looks a bit queasy.

The elevator drops them off, and then we’re speeding up two more floors until we reach our
own.

Ambrosia makes me take off my shoes and leave them in the elevator. Inside our apartment,
the space is huge. It’s easily bigger than the main hall of the Justice Building and then some.
The far side of the wall is made entirely of clear glass, showing a spectacular view of the
Capitol bathed in sunset colours. There’s a sofa in the centre of the room, spanning a space
larger than my entire living room at home. Another television screen like the one on the train
frames the wall closest to us. On a slightly raised bit of flooring by the window is a massive
dining table, and behind that, hidden behind all the pomp and decor, is a door which I assume
leads to the servant’s quarters.

Splitting off to the right is a corridor which leads to our bedrooms. There are three on this
floor — one for Ambrosia, Caraway, and myself — and another two hidden up a spiral
staircase which I assume belong to Blight and Ashley. The stylists and their prep teams must
sleep somewhere else.

Apparently there’s also a separate seating area upstairs which Ambrosia calls the study,
which we’re welcome to use but seems more mostly a space for the mentors to conduct
business.

It’s almost dizzying, and I’m left mentally drained by the time the tour is done.

“Where are Blight and Ashley?” Caraway asks once Ambrosia has shown us how to order
food from the tablets in our rooms. “I haven’t seen them since they arrived in the Capitol.”

“They’ve been called to a meeting with the Gamemakers,” says Ambrosia. “They’ll be
running around getting you sponsors all this week, so don’t worry if you don’t see them too
much during the daytime. They’ll join us for dinner.”

I find myself feeling strangely nervous as I’m left alone in my room, all but instructed to
clean myself off. It occurs to me that maybe I’ve overdone it and Ashley won’t be too happy.
The conversation with Ambrosia has reminded me that he’s the only one that has full power
over my sponsors. It doesn’t matter how much money the Capitol gives me, because they will
have zero real effect on what happens in the arena. If Ashley doesn’t want me to receive a
sponsor gift, I’ll be left empty.

I can’t think of a reason why he’d do that — if anything, my problem is going to be finding
sponsors, not losing out on existing ones — but I can’t just dismiss the idea. Once again, I’m
reminded that I don’t know Ashley at all.
He wouldn’t ever do that, though , I tell myself. He wants you alive .

My room is huge. I spend a few minutes pattering about before I hop into the shower. There’s
a chute to send down dirty laundry, and so I discard my parade outfit. It really isn’t that dirty,
just a ring of brown around the hem of the dress. I really don’t know why the Capitol makes
such a big deal out of cleanliness. What does it matter, anyways? It’s not like they’re all that
special, when it comes down to it. They all shit like the rest of us. If you were to cut them
open, they’d bleed like the rest of us too.

It takes a long time to detangle my hair from its intricate braids. By the time I’ve showered
and washed the green paint from my face, I’m almost definitely late to dinner. I make an
effort to scrub myself down with some rose-scented lotion, if only to appease Ambrosia, and
then dress myself in a soft green smock that hangs to my knees. Pompey must have been
informed or inferred that I prefer looser outfits, because my wardrobe is full of them.

I take one last, deep breath, check my face in the mirror to make sure that I don’t look too
harsh, and step out to join the others for dinner.

Just like yesterday, I’m the last one to arrive. By the time I slip in next to Caraway, the first
course has already been laid out.

If I thought the food on the train was lavish, it’s nothing compared to this. Dishes upon dishes
are piled onto the table; spiced flatbread, honey-glazed chicken, golden squash soup, fish
cooked in a deep red sauce. I’ve never tried fish before, and I find I have quite the taste for
it.

Pompey, who sits across from me, sticks his nose up at most of the food. Apparently he’s
something called a vegetarian, which means he refuses to eat meat. I almost roll my eyes at
this. Not a single person at home would turn down meat if it meant the difference between a
night with a full belly, no matter where it came from.

Blight and Ashley sit towards the head of the table. They must be discussing sponsors or
something, because they spend the first two courses murmuring to one another in lowered
voices. Every so often, one of them will stop to join in the conversation that Ambrosia is
desperately trying to keep up, but most of the time they seem lost in their own little world.
Ashley deliberately avoids my gaze, and Ambrosia deliberately doesn’t bring up what
happened after the chariot rides.

“I’ve already heard from a few people that they greatly enjoyed your costumes,” she says,
around the time dessert arrives. “Tulia, Pompey, you should be proud of yourselves.”

Tulia, Caraway’s stylist, takes this graciously, but Pompey still seems a bit put-off by the
manure incident.

“It doesn’t matter,” Caraway says a bit glumly. “All they’re talking about is the boy from
District 2. They’re obsessed with him.”

I don’t bother hiding my surprise. “You were watching the news?” There are televisions in
our rooms, yes, but I’d rather do anything other than rot my mind with Capitol
programming.

Caraway shrugs. “It kills the time. We don’t have a television back home.”

“Don’t bother yourself with the Careers,” Blight says. “It’s better to ignore them. If they
think you care, they’ll try to get a rise out of you.”

I think about the girl from District 1, whose laughter, in hindsight, seemed incredibly forced.
The pair from 4 with their fake, lopsided grins. He’s right. They weren’t really amused with
me. They were trying to get me to believe I was beneath them.

“It’s not fair, though,” Caraway says. “Just because he’s related to someone famous, that
doesn’t mean he’s any more important than the rest of us.”

I want to tell him that this is just the way things work. But it’s obvious that Caraway doesn’t
understand this simple fact. Aside from everything else — his addiction, his lacklustre
critical thinking skills, the fact that I’d kill him if I had to — this might be the sole reason
why he won’t make it out of the arena.

“You’re right. It isn’t fair,” Ashley chimes in, voicing exactly what I’m thinking. “That’s the
way it is. Don’t let them get to you. And especially don’t let them get to you enough that you
try to do something about it. You leave those guys alone in the arena.”

Caraway frowns. “Why?” I wonder if he’s forgotten about his drug dependance or if he’s
willfully ignoring the topic while so many people are around. “If I’m going to make it out,
I’m going to have to kill some of them.”

“Sure. Some . Ideally as few as possible. Yes, that might seem unfair, but the odds aren’t
stacked in your favour. Until you absolutely need to, you should leave them alone.”

“Didn’t you attack them?” Caraway asks. Ashley’s gaze snaps up, suddenly alert. “That’s
how you won, right?”

“We’re not talking about me,” he says quickly.

“Ashley didn’t attack them directly. That’s what he’s warning you against. And he’s right. It’s
not relevant. Finish your dinner,” Blight tells him. With that, the conversation moves on.

Nobody else seems very hungry by the time the final course comes, but I gorge myself on
cake. I never considered myself much of an eater, but I’m starting to work up a bit of an
appetite. Lynn was right. The food here is brilliant.

Lynn. It must nearly be time for mandatory viewing. I wonder what she must be thinking,
seeing me on television. Surely she’ll know that all of this is an act and surely she’ll be smart
enough not to bring it up if she’s interviewed, but what about my father? I picture him
huddled in front of our tiny, blurry television screen at home. Does he have his head on
straight again, or is he confused? Has he eaten? Slept? Has Lynn gone to visit him? Has
anyone?

I put my fork down. Suddenly, my newfound appetite is gone.

Dinner is cleared away and Ambrosia offers to watch the recap with us, but neither Caraway
or I are keen. Instead we shuffle off to our individual rooms with instructions to be up and
ready for training by ten tomorrow.

I’m just bidding Ambrosia goodnight when I catch Ashley down the hall. He gives me a
quick look, and I fiddle with my doorknob just long enough to make sure that everyone else
is gone.

When I open my door and step through, Ashley follows me.

He pauses as he closes the door behind him. He’s facing away from me, and for a second I’m
confused about what’s wrong. His head is resting against the wood, and suddenly it occurs to
me that perhaps he’s so angry he needs a second to contain himself.

Then I realise he’s laughing.

It strikes me because at the sound of it, I realise exactly how young he is. Truthly, Ashley is
just a handful of years older than I am. We were in the same reaping pool. If he hadn’t won
when he did we would have seen one another at school. If I ignore his Capitol clothes, he
looks just like any other boy from back home. Short, with slightly unkempt stubble, bags
under his eyes, laughing at a joke.

A person, not a victor.

“What, ” he says, once he’s turned around, showing me a bewildered smile, “could have
possibly possessed you to do that ?”

I can’t help it. I’m laughing too. It’s all caught up with me now, how stupid this all is. “I don’t
know,” I admit. “You just asked me to impress you.

“ Impress ?” Ashley shakes his head. His lightness is such a far cry from our conversation on
the train yesterday that I’m taken aback. “You didn’t need to do that! You’ve had me on
board since we reached the Capitol.”

“I didn’t go too far, did I?” I ask. I try to say it like I don’t care either way, but I don’t think it
comes out convincing enough. It’s almost annoying. Now that I know the Capitol believes
my act, it’s perfectly easy to keep it up, but with the knowledge that Ashley knows my secret,
I’m suddenly faltering.

“Maybe a bit,” he says. “But that’s a good thing. Nobody would ever imagine you’d go this
far on purpose. You might even get some sponsors out of it.”

“Really?” My eyes widen. “How?”

“Some people like to bid on joke tributes,” he says. “Horrible, in concept, but money’s
money.”

“I guess.” Thinking about Caraway and his complaints about the boy from District 2, a
sudden thought crosses my mind. Lowering my voice, I make my way up to him. “Nobody
can hear us, can they?”

Ashley shakes his head. “No. They make the walls soundproof. Far too many victors having
nightmares.”

Nightmares. I think about Ashley or Blight waking up in a cold sweat. Somehow, it seems
unlikely. The pair seem to have a tight grip on their public emotions. But then I think about
Ashley’s face at Caraway’s comment. “Sorry Caraway commenting on your Games. That was
shitty.”

“Thank you. But it’s really alright.” Ashley sounds brisk. “Everyone’s seen my Games.
Doesn’t matter if he listens to me or not. He isn’t my tribute. You’re the priority.”

“So you’ll agree, then?” I ask. “I’ve impressed you? You’ll direct me?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh, absolutely. Consider your audition passed.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes at this, but my heart isn’t really in it. Somehow, without my
knowledge, any animosity I felt towards Ashley has faded away in the course of a single day.
Now he’s what ties me to survival. And, more surprisingly of all, I actually find that I quite
like him.

I suppose if there was anyone to like, at least it’s not someone I need to kill.

I try to keep my pleasure at bay, however. “Right. Good. So, what now?”

Ashley comes and sits at the edge of my bed. Furrowing his brow for a moment, he looks out
at the window, where flares are being lit up against the summer sky. “Your problem won’t be
surprising the audience. If you keep this up, they’re guaranteed a surprise. The problem is
making sure they want the surprise.”

I blink. “What do you mean?”

“Okay. Let’s say that the crowds like you,” Ashley explains, “they’ll wish you could survive,
but assume you won’t. That’s a good thing. If that’s the case, in the arena, if you turn around
and show them that you do have what it takes, you’ll be giving them exactly what they want.
They’ll be delighted.”

“Okay?” I say.

“But on the other side of it,” he continues, “if they decide they don’t care about you at all, if
they’re looking forward to the moment your cannon fires, then the twist won’t be received
particularly well. They’ll be annoyed, and they’ll still call for your death. We don’t want that.
I have it on good authority that the Capitol is looking for a fan-favourite to win this year.”

“Right.” I’m not sure I understand, but I trust Ashley to know the audience. He’s very
popular in the Capitol. Ever since Finnick Odair won the year before him there’s been a rise
in hero worship towards the victors. He’s been familiar with the crowds for years. “So I’m
supposed to get them to like me, even if they think I’m going to die?”

“Yes. So I would suggest no more big feats like today,” Ashley tells me. “From here on out
you’re playing someone who’s scared, but trying to be brave. That’s very important. They
want to see you try. Nobody likes self-pity. You’re going to work incredibly hard to seem
personable — to try to redeem yourself in the eyes of the audience. I’m going to see if I can
get the press to catch some covert footage of you before your training score, to endear them
to you before the number comes out. Every year, there’s leaked footage from training. So
you’re going to need to work hard, and ideally make some friends.”

“I don’t want allies,” I say.

“I’m not saying you need to make any. But the Capitol likes seeing tributes interact. Make
some friends, or stick with Caraway if you want, but don’t hide away. Learn new skills. You
know how to survive in a forest, so focus on other terrain. Find something you’re good at in
survival and show it off. Don’t avoid the weapons, but if you think you’ll be good at
something, stop before any of the other tributes notice.”

“What about axes?” I say. “Should I avoid them too?”

“No,” Ashley says firmly. “Everyone knows District 7 is good with axes. Our cover for you is
that you work in town, but you’ll look suspicious if you stay away. Try it, and intentionally
fail, but more importantly, like you’re trying hard.”

It’s a double bluff that seems confusing, but Ashley sounds certain. I nod. “And my training
score? What about that?”

He pauses again. “That’s difficult. We need to make sure that you fly under the radar of all
the other tributes, while still making an impression on the Capitol. So don't even think about
scoring under a three. We’ve had too many low-ranking victors recently. The Gamemakers
will see you as fodder and try hard to get rid of you early. You might be good, but nobody can
survive against them.”

“How about a four or a five?”

“That would be ideal,” he says. “If the other tributes think you’re weak, but not an immediate
death risk, they’ll probably keep their sights on other, stronger contenders. Just make sure
that you get out of the bloodbath early. Don’t go looking for a fight, but try to prove yourself
early.”

I nod. “If I don’t run into anyone, what do I do?”

“Count yourself lucky,” Ashley says. “There will be Gamemaker tricks. It won’t take you
long to face something. As long as you’ve not put a target on your back, there’ll always be a
chance to make it out alive.”

I swallow. I’d been so focused on the other tributes that I hadn’t considered that the
Gamemakers would be trying to kill me too. “What else?”
Ashley shakes his head. “That’s all for now,” he says. “We’ve still got time. Don’t want to
overwhelm you.”

I want to tell him I can take it, but suddenly it occurs to me that I don’t have that much time
at all. There are three days for training, one for interview prep, and another for the interviews
themselves. Five days in all. Despite myself, I feel a shudder in my chest. The Games are
approaching far quicker than I’d like them to.

Instead, I find myself picking at my nail polish. “And this advice works every year?”

Ashley raises an eyebrow. Of course, I know it doesn’t. We haven’t had a victor since he won
five years ago. “No,” he says. “But you’re the first tribute who’s actually listened.”

Somehow, this makes me pleased. “I’m a first?”

He snorts. “The first to step in shit, at least.”

“Gotta get your hands dirty,” I shrug. “Or feet.”

“I suppose you do,” he says, and stands up. “I’ll let you get some rest.”

“Thank you, Ashley,” I say. I don’t know why I say it. After all, he’s my mentor. It’s his job
to keep me alive.

I suppose I could do a lot worse.

“No. Thank you,” he says quietly. “Well done, Johanna.”

I sleep surprisingly well. While the bed is too soft to be comfortable, by the time I’m awoken
by Ambrosia, my eyelids are no longer heavy. Since I showered last night, I only wash my
face before getting dressed in an outfit that has been laid out for me and making my way to
breakfast.

Surprisingly I’m the first one there, so I load up my plate and go to sit by the window alone.
Since we’re on the seventh floor, (shocker), there’s a pretty good view of the Capitol skyline.
Looking at it now, I decide that I hate it. The buildings are too uniform, the sky too hazy, the
streets too wide. I close my eyes and try to picture the view from the top of the forest back
home, but I can’t. Even with my eyes closed, the light is too bright and the hum of air
conditioning is too loud. District 7 is a million miles away.

Ambrosia and Caraway join me a bit before ten. Blight and Ashley aren’t around anywhere
and so I assume they’ve gone to meet with sponsors. We don’t talk much, and Ambrosia
doesn’t bother. I imagine she’s sick to death of quiet tributes, but I’m not sure what else she
expects from us. Probably that we’ll all be like the rowdy bunch from District 1.

Five minutes before we're due at training she instructs us to the elevator. Apparently it will
take us directly to the gymnasium located under the building. The door slides shut, and
Caraway and I are left alone.

“Do you want to train together, then?” I say, remembering Ashley’s instructions.
Caraway looks at me. I can tell he’s seizing up whether this will benefit him or not. He looks
a lot more tired and subdued than yesterday, and I wonder whether the reality of our situation
has finally hit him.

“I suppose,” he says, eventually. “Blight says I should focus on survival skills.”

I wonder if Blight pulled him aside for a conversation last night too. It wouldn’t surprise me.

“So did Ashley,” I say. “He said — ” I’m about to say that I know how to survive in the
woods so we should look at other terrain, but then I remember that my cover story is that I
work in town, “ — he said there’s no use learning how to throw a spear if I’ll die from
exposure first.”

“Sounds smart,” Caraway says. “Survival it is.”

The elevator dings open, and we step out. Most of the tributes are already here, and I can’t
help but feel a slight chill run down my spine as I sense eyes on us. There’s a low snicker
from the inner-district bunch and I’m sure that Love is probably having the time of her life
remembering the chariots.

I keep my eyes down, but my jaw set. Afraid, but trying. Afraid, but trying .

Once things start, there’s no trying to be afraid. It comes easily. The instant the Head Trainer
allows us to roam free, the tributes from District 1 dash for the swords. Before I have time to
blink, the boy has managed to disarm a trainer twice his size.

He could kill me. It doesn’t matter how well I fool him, or anyone, for that matter. One swing
of that sword, a cut in the wrong place, and I’ll be —

“Johanna,” Caraway says, bringing me back to my senses. “Come on. Why don’t we start
with snares?”

I’m so embarrassed that I barely look at Caraway as we make our way over to the station.
The trainer seems quite fond of me from the get-go, which surprises me, though it isn't
unwelcome. We spend an hour or two learning different traps. While I’m hopeless, Caraway
gets the hang of it quite quickly. By the time we’re done, he already knows how to set a trap
to catch a wild rabbit.

As we move around the space, I begin to notice a pattern. Compared to Caraway — and
honestly, most of the other tributes — there’s a gentleness in the way the trainers treat me. I
think of Ashley’s words, and try to swallow my fear, instead focusing on coming across as
sweet and determined as I possibly can.

It works. I spend an hour making friends with the man at the fire starting station, and
Caraway and I excel at the rope climbing course. By mid-afternoon, I’ve moved around about
a quarter of the stations and most of the trainers know me by name.

We’re at the last station of the day — (camouflage, which seems stupid to me, but whatever,
Caraway wanted to come) — when we’re approached by the girl from District 8. She’s a
skinny thing with brown hair tied into curly buns and huge, round eyes.

At first she stays silent, watching as Caraway tries to mimic the pattern of swirling desert
sand with mud — (isn’t that ironic?). I’m just thinking she might be slow when she finally
slides in next to me.

“Hello,” she says. Her voice is high and breathless. “I’m Twine.”

A flash of irritation runs through me. What could this child possibly want? Everything part of
me is desperate to tell her to fuck off and leave me alone, but frustratingly, I still have a role
to play. Gritting my teeth, I look up at her and try for the most innocent look I can muster.
“Hi.”

“You’re from District 7, right?” When I nod, she smiles. “My mentor said she’s friends with
you guys.”

“Who’s your mentor?”

“Cecelia,” Twine says. She stares in awe at Caraway’s brushwork. I think it looks stupid.
“She won the 62nd.”

“Oh,” I say. I remember those Games “Were those the ones in the desert?”

Twine nods. “Our Districts allied a few years ago. Cecelia said we made a good team."

Subtle, I think. Keeping my mouth shut, I turn to focus on some berries that the trainer has
mushed into a pulp. I might have a role to play, but I’m not going to offer anything I don’t
want to. While I can’t be sure this girl isn’t a threat, I have a sincere doubt she’ll do anything
except slow me down.

Caraway has stopped painting and has turned his attention to the pair of us. Twine, noticing
his gaze, drops her own. It’s almost funny. She’s exactly what I’m trying to emulate.

“I saw you two climbing,” Twine continues. “You’re very good.”

“Well, we’re District 7,” Caraway says plainly. He regards her suspiciously. I wonder if he
thinks she’s playing some sort of game. “Lumber.”

Twine swallows. “I liked your outfits at the chariots.”

I give Caraway a look that says let’s get out of here. To my relief, he seems to take the hint,
but before either of us can make a move, Twine speaks up again.

“Would you mind,” she says, very quietly, “if I tagged along with you both? I know that
doesn’t mean anything when it comes to allies, but I can’t bear to be alone.”

My irritation can’t help but slip out. “How about your district partner?”

“Um.” Twine’s eyes dart to someone across the gymnasium. “He’s from the factories. He
doesn’t like me. It’s complicated.”
Frustration is bubbling up. Looking at Caraway, I beg him to make the right decision. I want
to work with this girl far less than I do with him — (which says something) — but I can't be
the one to turn her away.

“Fine,” he says, slowly. “But Johanna and I might not ally anyway. And if your presence
draws any attention, you’re out.”

Ugh. I suppose it’s not too much of a surprise, considering Caraway is hanging around with
me, but I can’t help boiling up. I don’t want to spend any time with this girl. She’s only going
to die, and the longer I spend in a group, the more eyes will be on me.

But I have a strategy that I need to stick to, and so, for the next day and a half I train with
Twine and Caraway. We go to the axe station, and I pretend they’re too heavy for me to lift.
Caraway has a knack for spears. Twine doesn’t seem to be much good for anything at all, and
while her silent presence drags on my mood, I can’t help but think of Lynn. Her reverence of
her mentor, Cecelia, reminds me a bit of how Lynn talks about Ashley, and as it turns out,
Twine’s family also works for the school in District 8

In the evenings Ashley and I find a routine of meeting in the study on the second floor by the
mentor’s quarters. He updates me on everything he’s managed to pick up from the other
mentors. The Career alliance seems to be going ahead as usual, and they don’t seem
interested in inviting any other tributes this year. The pair from District 5 are considering
going it together and the boy from 8 — the one who hates Twine, apparently — has taken a
liking to the girl from District 12.

Unsurprisingly, the word on the street is that Cassius from District 1 and Love from District 1
are favourites to win.

Ashley also brings me news from home. Apparently my father has been taken in by one of
our homebound victors, a woman called Sylvia Yaw. I don’t know much about her, but
Ashley speaks of her highly, and assures me that he’ll be well taken care of for the duration
of the Games.

I’m not sure who told her to do it, but I can’t help but feel relieved. His wellbeing has been a
looming omen at the back of my mind. Absently, I add thanking this strange woman to the
list of things that drive me to win.

Ashley also gets a thanks when he tells me he’s submitted the piece of amber from my dress
as my district token. On the first night, on the train, I’d left it on my bedside table. An
attendant must have found it.

“Back in my Games, I had nothing,” he says. “I wished so badly that I’d found something
from home to take with me. You should take good care of it.”

I keep a close eye on the other tributes. Caraway seems to worsen with time. There’s a thin
sheen of sweat on his forehead as we descend the elevator on the second day, and halfway
through a session at the weightlifting station, he rushes to the bathrooms. When he comes
back, I’m sure he’s been ill. In the evening he's quiet at the dinner table. It seems like he
might keel over at any point.
We keep the word withdrawal off our lips, but everyone knows.

Where the other districts are concerned, Ashley’s intel seems to be wholly correct. The pair
from District 5 focus entirely on survival skills, and the boy from District 8 — (Harley,
according to Twine) — has accompanied the girl from District 12 to every station for the past
day. The alliance between 1, 2 and 4 seems strong as ever, though I notice with some
curiosity that Cassius from District 2 hangs back from the rowdy laughter and loud
conversation at lunchtime.

I swear on multiple occasions I catch him staring at me, but I can’t be sure it’s not my
imagination, so I keep it to myself.

The evening before my individual training, I’m antsy. Both mentors are busy and I don’t want
to talk to Caraway or Ambrosia, so I find myself pacing backwards and forwards around my
room. I’m desperate for fresh air, but the balcony in the living area is too exposed, and I can’t
bear to listen to the sounds of the Capitol revelling in our upcoming slaughter. Eventually, I
turn to the television, hoping to find some channel that might show me a slight glimpse of
home.

Instead, I’m shown the predictive odds.

It’s not good — which is, in of itself, quite good. I’m right near the bottom of the pack,
hanging around Twine and some of the other tributes from Districts 3 and 6. With detached
curiosity, I relax my grip on the remote and regard the screen as the list climbs higher.
Caraway is around the middle. District 4. District 1. Cassius steals the number one spot, his
headshot framed by a band of gold light, looking dreadfully bored.

I’m about to switch it off when the screen cuts and the announcer — a woman I don’t
recognise, some gossip mogul who we have no reason to care about in the districts — tells us
in a faux-hushed voice that stills have come in from training. Someone has hacked the
security cameras, and they are the first to get hold of the images.

It’s just like Ashley told me. I suppose some things will never change.

The majority are grainy pictures of the careers training with weapons. Guests are invited on
to discuss what each tribute’s specialities might be. The panel swoons when Cassius is shown
brandishing a mace, the same chosen weapon as his victor aunt’s. Most of the rest of us are
ignored, though near the very end, they do show a very distant shot of Caraway and I sitting
on the mats at the rock-climbing station.

In the image, I am laughing at a joke he made. Truth be told, it was all for show. At the time I
was just thinking about how desperately I wanted to be alone. But on screen, I look so happy,
it’s sickening.

The panel oohs and awws. Someone remarks how sweet I seem. They talk about what a
gentleman Caraway is. Someone says that I must be a very kind young lady. The hostess —
who frankly wears too many feathers to be appropriate — looks almost teary when she
remarks that I’m at the bottom of the odds.
“Oh, what a shame,” she says. “She really does look so delicate.”

Hook, line and sinker, I think, my mouth splitting into a shit-eating grin. My hands reach for
the remote again, and the television switches off with a satisfying click.

Sleep isn’t so hard to come by after all.

 Chapter 6
Chapter Summary

Ashley meets with sponsors, and has a strange encounter with his fellow victors.

6) ASHLEY

Teeth gritted, I watch as Blight holds out his hand and scans his thumb over Valeria
Dayflight’s credit pad.

The amount on the sponsor bid isn’t enough to buy him anything substantial, but this is
Blight’s third sponsor deal since breakfast. On top of what he’s already secured over the past
few days, there’s no doubt in my mind that Caraway won’t want for anything until the tribute
number dwindles down into the early teens — provided he actually makes it that far.
Audiences have taken a shining to the boy since he helped Johanna over the incident with the
chariots. Yesterday’s training leaks have only helped boost his numbers.

Of course, there’s a lot they don’t know. I doubt Valeria Dayflight — or any other clueless
witness — has any idea that Blight isn’t saving up for food or weapons. I’m one of the few
people who know that once we’re done here, he’s marching straight up to the very top floor
of the Games Centre to bargain with the powers-that-be. Whether or not he can get the
Gamemakers to agree to his proposition of sending Caraway fixes in the arena remains to be
seen.

Thankfully, we’re under no obligation to tell sponsors what we do with their money. Once
everything is in the Games pool, it’s gone. On the off-chance their donation is not used by the
tribute, it will either transfer to another contestant’s funds at the mentor’s and sponsor’s
discretion or it will go towards paying for next year’s Games. Once she presses that beautiful
little green tick box, Valeria is giving her cash up for good.

But she hasn’t done it yet, and Blight’s keeping his lips sealed. If she finds out Caraway’s an
addict she might pull her donation. I don’t know if he’s got some sort of plan on the off-
chance he can pull one over the Gamemakers. Perhaps he’ll lie to the audience and say that
the boy has some illness that needs regular medicine. Perhaps he’ll stay silent and let
Caraway play it himself. All that’s certain is that, if a syringe does arrive for him in the arena,
it will be unmarked.

Personally, I’m not optimistic.

A chime lets us know the money has gone through. It’s barely audible over the sound of the
music that fills the bar we sit in, garish and grating. Below me the sticky leather seat vibrates
to the hum of the bass and across the space a young couple laughs, practically on top of one
another. I wince. Gross .

Valeria’s attention turns to me. “I truly am sorry.” She must think my reaction is to her
sponsorship. “I’d love to donate to your poor sweet girl, but I really doubt she’ll make it past
the first few hours.”

Internally, I raise my eyebrows. That poor sweet girl is certainly more likely to make it
further than Caraway, but there’s no use telling her that. At least this means the ruse is
working. And besides, even if it wasn’t, I don’t think she’d sponsor Johanna anyway. Though
Valeria has been a staunch supporter of District 7 for years, she opted out of supporting me
back when I was a tribute. Apparently I’d seemed too ‘cunning’. Certainly I was not noble
enough for a woman who seems to picture her ideal tribute coming out of a fantasy novel,
and I sincerely doubt Johanna is either.

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, I shake my head. “It’s fine,” I say. Back in the Capitol they
always expect me to be a bit sharper than I usually am. After all, Valeria’s opinion lines up
well with my most common characterisation. Aloof and cunning. It’s not always easy, but at
least I don’t have to pretend to love everything like some of the other victors do. “Though I’d
wager she’ll make it longer than you expect.”

“If she makes it longer than Caraway, you have my permission to transfer,” Valeria says.

This is what I’d been hoping for — why I’d tagged along in the first place, to be honest.
Blight seems amenable, jotting this down in his little notebook. We do have our own tablets
to keep track of things, but Blight has always preferred keeping things simple. To the Capitol,
it’s just part of his rustic charm.

The music looming down on us, we finish our drinks; or rather, wait for Valeria to finish hers.
I doubt I’ll see her again until next year, though by the way she’s making eyes at Blight, I
think he’ll be in for a visit quite soon. Counting my lucky stars that I’m too young for her
tastes, I watch as her hand lingers on his shoulder before she bids us farewell.

Finnick told me once that she likes her men just like the statues in her garden; sculpted,
strong, and silent. Apparently she quite likes to enjoy them in her garden, too.

I like women like her far, far away from me.

“I’m sorry,” Blight says, when she’s finally gone. “I really thought she’d be open to Johanna.
I’ll try to talk to some of the others. See if they’ll split the pool.”

I shake my head. “No point. They pledged for Caraway.”

“I’ll bring it up with the ones I see later, anyways.” He huffs and downs the dregs of his
glass. “Snow’s got a busy schedule set up for me.”

“What luck,” I say, my tone dry. Of course, Blight isn’t the only victor invited to meetings
around the city. I’ve got a good few myself, including one I’m particularly dreading
tomorrow. But thankfully, most of my charges have agreed to meet once my mentor duties
are over. “I suppose once the Games kick off, you’ll be allowed a break?”

Blight shrugs. “Who knows. Haven’t been to the Capitol since you won. Snow wants me to
make up for my absence.”

That’s rich, considering that it’s Snow who chooses the absences in the first place. Blight and
I both know this, but neither of us says anything. Even in a loud bar like this, there may be
someone listening.

Once we’ve paid for our drinks, we’re up and out onto the streets of the Capitol. The brilliant
light of early afternoon is stark after being trapped in such a dim space for so long. Heat bears
down on my neck, and I’m feeling a bit woozy. Even a half-pint is enough to fog the edges of
my vision. Lucky me, that I’m such a ridiculous lightweight. Blight could probably drink the
whole bar down and not feel a thing.

“Well, I’m off to meet with the Gamemakers,” he says. “It’s private sessions, so the ones left
are all the juniors. Hopefully they’re amenable.”

I think it’s probably more likely that they’ll check in with their superiors before making a
judgement call, but I don’t want to dampen Blight’s optimism. I wave him off as he grabs a
car to the Games Centre. The driver looks baffled. I suppose it isn’t often that you pick up
such a famous figure on the streets of the Capitol.

Left alone in the sun, I decide to take a seat on a nearby bench for a moment. My head isn’t
swimming but I don’t feel all that steady and I don’t want to look like a drunk on the job.
Fortunately, I don’t think that anyone would recognise me without looking closely. I’ve had
the foresight to tuck my hair under a cap, and while I can feel beads of sweat prickling at my
temple, I know it’s also the only thing keeping the cameras at bay.

My hair was famous in the Capitol. There were dozens of copycats in the year after I won —
an ocean of red all over the city. I remember how a few months after I’d returned home, a
brand had called me up on the phone to ask if I’d be the spokesperson for their new line of
hair dye. They’d called it ‘Viola’ after the name of the tribute I’d killed on my final day in the
Games. Apparently, the design had been inspired by the colour of her gore coating my locks.

It’s safe to say I’d declined, but sometimes, I’ll look in the mirror and still think about it. I’ll
picture her blood seeping into my scalp, staining my skin a deep, dark red. On more than one
occasion I’ve nearly decided to cave and dye my hair a dark brown like my mother and
sister’s. But then I think about looking anything like my mother and decide that looking like a
murderer is a much better sin.

Once I think I’m steady enough to stand, I rise from the bench and make my way down the
promenade towards the street of bars, clubs and restaurants that curves towards the Tribute
and Games Centres. There’s still at least an hour or two before Johanna is done with her
private session and Finnick did extend an invitation to join him this afternoon. Considering
my sponsor prospects are null and void, it’s as good a time as any.
The address he gave me shows me to a much nicer bar on a more upscale street. Even with
my cap the hostess clocks me instantly, most likely because of the number of victors already
at her establishment. I’m informed there’s a private room booked upstairs, I just need to
climb up the glass staircase that rises from the centre of the lobby.

A lobby in a bar. The Capitol never ceases to amaze me. Back home, the only bar is in an old,
rotting building near the outskirts of town. The wizened lady who runs it is blind in one eye
and the drinks are an unpleasant brown slop. Honestly, Pliny’s the only thing keeping it
afloat.

These stairs have been programmed so that whenever I take a step a pleasant chime rings up
from hidden speakers. Despite myself, I can’t help but smile. Distant music plays from
downstairs — the actual bar, I’d wager — but apart from that, the place is near empty. I’m
just thinking how strange this is during Games season when I hear a descending chime.

A woman meets my eyes from the top of the stairs. She looks surprisingly strange for Capitol
standards. Her hair is pin-straight, cheeks round. The only thing that alludes to her standing is
the flower tattoo adorning her face and her Gamemaker’s apprentice robes.

A Gamemaker? What could she be doing here, on today of all days? She’s certainly
recognised me and I’m almost inclined to ask why she isn’t at the Games Centre, but before I
can open my mouth she breezes past me. In an instant she’s out of the building and
disappearing into the haze of the sun.

How strange. Shaking my head, I continue onwards. The room in question is the third down
the corridor. When I try the handle, it’s locked. This in itself isn’t too suspicious — victors
are vigilant by nature — but it all does register to me as peculiar when I knock and don’t hear
an answer.

“It’s Ashley,” I try after waiting for just a bit too long. “Ashley Firth? District 7? Finnick
invited me.”

It’s another moment before the door clicks open. I’m immediately met with the towering
shape of Chaff from District 11. He regards me with an odd sense of detachment. Now this
really is strange, because Chaff is personable at the worst of times, even with people he
doesn’t really know. Peering behind him — (I have to crane my neck up) — shows me an
unexpected sight. Some of the people in the room are the usual fare for an event like this, like
Finnick and Haymitch. Chaff’s co-mentor, Seeder, smiles at me, and I’m not too surprised to
see Vega, the female mentor from 6, considering she likes to bar-hop. But what could
possibly have possessed both mentors from District 3 — Beetee and Wiress — to tag along?
Or Cecelia, who I know for certain is not fond of drinking?

“Firth,” Chaff says in acknowledgment. He must notice my confusion, because he turns to

Finnick and raises his eyebrows. “You invited him?”

Finnick gives me a half-wave and shrugs. “I thought he might fit in.”

“Is Blight with you?” Chaff asks me.

“No,” I say slowly. I get the sense I’m missing something, though I have no clue what it
could be. Chaff still guards the door like I’m some kind of threat. Confused and slightly
offended, I cross my arms. “If I’m intruding on something –”

“Oh, not at all!” calls Seeder. She gives Chaff a sharp look and pats her hand down on the
seat next to her. “We’re happy to have you, Ashley.”

Chaff shrugs and steps aside. More than slightly perturbed, I slink in and he locks the door
behind me. Trying to ignore the anxiety humming through my body, I blink. I’m safe, and
besides, I like Cecelia and Finnick. I trust them enough to not willingly go anywhere
unpleasant.

“I didn’t know we were inviting new friends,” Chaff says carefully, eyes on Finnick as he
finds his seat.

“Oh, but I like Ashley,” he says from my other side, nudging me with his elbow. “Besides,
Haymitch asked me last year.”

“Haymitch discussed it with the group, ” Chaff tells him. “And Sylvia said —”

“Oh, it’s just a drinking club,” Cecelia says quickly. “Ashley won’t snitch to the press.
Besides, he’s shy.”

Sylvia? What was that about Sylvia? I open my mouth to ask, but my words get jumbled up
in my brain. Everyone’s looking at me now. I don’t know what to say, so I just mumble
something along the lines of, “I’m not shy.”

“Chaff’s just precious,” Cecelia tells me. “This really isn’t anything special. It’s just nice,
sometimes, to be able to meet outside the Games Centre without cameras watching. It takes
the load off.”

I blink. Something about this certainly seems off but I get the sense that if I show I’m alert,
they’ll all close themselves off. Besides, I suppose her excuse does make sense. A large
group of victors is bound to draw attention anywhere, and the Tribute and Games Centres are
so chock-full with employees that there’s barely a moment to breathe, let alone have a chat.
Besides, everyone always thinks we’re talking strategy. They’re almost begging to eavesdrop.

“Your secret is safe with me,” I say, raising my hands in an attempt at surrender.

Beetee — who has remained silent through this whole ordeal — gives me a look. “Apt.
Thank you.”

Seeder, mercifully aware of my discomfort, quickly draws the conversation to something

new; a television spot that a few of the victors have been invited to. While nobody actively
brings up the Games, it’s a topic we all dance around. Mostly, people just catch up.

I’m silent for until we leave, only speaking up when properly addressed. Something about
this all has put me on edge. The others seem painfully aware. Every so often I’ll catch Chaff
looking at me strangely or leaning over to murmur something to Haymitch. When he notices
my eye, he leans back into easy conversation. Vega is equally as silent, but she also seems
more nervous than usual; her leg bouncing up and down under the booth we’re all settled
around.

“What was that about?” I ask Finnick once we’ve departed back towards the Tribute Centre.
Beetee is leading us down a strange route, winding behind the backs of some older apartment
buildings. He tells us he’s mapped a grid of the Capitol to find the most inconspicuous route
home in order to avoid the press. In the window of one of the apartments, I spot a maid stare
open-mouthed as she hands up laundry.

“Oh, that’s just Chaff,” Finnick shrugs. “They invited Brutus to drink with them once and he
ended up getting them mobbed. Now he gets really surly when he doesn’t get to vet people.
Sorry, I should have given them the heads up you were coming.”

Finnick says it like it’s the most obvious thing, but my eyes still narrow. “Funny group, don’t
you think? I mean, Wiress and Beetee?”

Finnick points ahead, to where Beetee is leading us. “Convenient, though.”

“Do you do this often?”

“Oh, sometimes.”

“Someone said Blight joins you? And Sylvia? They never mentioned that to me.”

“Like I said,” Finnick tells me, “it’s supposed to be covert. Mags was in on it for years, and I
didn’t know until last summer.”

Mags. Suddenly I’m thinking about what Cecelia told me the other day. “How is she?”

Finnick’s face darkens. “I think they want to bring her up to the Capitol soon,” he says.
“They have better doctors up here.”

I look at him. That doesn’t sound good. I may not know the woman particularly well, but I
know she is beloved in our group of mentors. You couldn’t find a soul that dislikes her — not
even the worst of the career victors. “At least you’ll be able to keep an eye on her.”

He slumps his shoulders. “I suppose. I don’t know. I get the sense that I’ll probably be quite
busy this year.”

I want to ask him more — about Mags, about his tribute — but the time for that has passed.
He seems lost in his own thoughts. I decide not to bother him and instead trail behind the
group silently biting my lip, trying and failing not to feel like a complete fish out of water.

When we arrive at the Tribute Centre we’ve remained mercifully unhounded. Slowly we split
off back to our own individual floors — or in Chaff and Haymitch’s case, the bar. I end up in
an elevator with Cecelia and Vega.

“I quite liked your company today, Ashley,” Cecelia says once Vega has been dropped off.
“I’ll put in a good word for you.”
I look at her, puzzled. The way she phrases it makes me feel, once again, like something else
is going on. Suddenly, I remember the Gamemaker’s assistant who passed me on the stairs
and wonder if she might have anything to do with the group. “Yeah.”

The doors slide open to the seventh floor. “Good luck for this evening,” Cecelia tells me.

The training scores. I’d almost forgotten “Thanks. You too.”

Padding into the apartment, everything is mercifully empty. Usually there are a score of
avoxes who line the walls, but they must be assigned elsewhere for tonight. Alone, the place
seems almost eerie. It reminds me of what the apartment looks like once the Games begin.
Quiet and haunted with the absence of tributes.

It’s odd because while Blight is likely still with the Gamemakers, Johanna and Caraway
should have completed their individual sessions by now. Confused, I call out as I approach
the corridor that leads to the tributes’ rooms, but there’s no reply. Trying Ambrosia’s door is
pointless, but I do so anyway. Nothing greets me but silence.

I hate it down here. Since they rebuilt the Training Centre thirteen years ago, there have been
twenty-four tributes that have resided in these rooms — if I don’t count Johanna and
Caraway. That’s an entire Games’ worth of tributes. An ironic thought, if I count myself,
because I know for certainty that I am the only one of all those names who has made it out.

I don’t know them all, obviously, but I can picture the faces of the ones I do. They’re as clear
as day. Tess, who slept in Johanna’s room the same year I was reaped. Mersey Aran, the male
tribute from the Sixty-Seventh Games — my very first. Dead on day four. Cannock Cailley,
Sixty-Eighth. Killed by the girl from District 1, that year’s victor. Park Ettrick, Sixty-Ninth.
Cornucopia. Alice Forster, Seventieth. Cornucopia.

It feels endless. I don’t want to picture the faces of the future tributes who will wander these
halls, and I certainly don’t want to picture saying goodbye to Johanna here and not getting
her back.

Speaking of the girl, she gives me an absolute fright as I climb the stairs to my room, eyes
trailed on the floor. When I hear her call out in greeting, instinct kicks in. I grab the nearest
heavy thing I can — a paperweight sitting on a nearby desk. I’m about two inches from
pummeling her face in before I catch myself.

She looks up at me with alarmed eyes, quickly moving out of the way.

“Don’t,” I say, voice wispy, “do that.”

There’s pride in her expression. She doesn’t want to admit she was caught by surprise. Stiffly,
she smooths back her hair. She’s still in her training uniform, loose green shirt sitting
unflatteringly across her shoulders, arms slouchy.

“Where were you?” she retorts.

“Out.” I swallow thickly. “I called for you.”

“I thought I’d talk to you up here,” she says, and shakes her hair out of its ponytail.
“Caraway’s in his room. I don’t know what he did, but I don’t think his training went well.”

Ah. Right. “I see,” I nod. Guilt rushes through me and I place the paperweight back down
with a light thunk. “And yours? Did it go alright?”

Cocking her head to the side, her eyes trail on my hands as they return to my pockets. “Sort
of an irrelevant question. I didn’t want it to go alright.”

“You know what I mean,” I say, looking at her obviously.

Her eyes narrow. “Yeah, it went according to plan. Doesn’t matter. Where were you?”

I look back down the stairs, confused. “Out. I was sorting sponsors.”

“Liar.”

Turning back to her, I shake my head. “Excuse me?”

“I saw you, just now. When I was going up the elevator, I saw you come back with a bunch
of the other victors,” she says. “And besides. You stink of booze.”

Self-consciously, I raise my eyebrows. “Who’s to say I wasn’t returning from a sponsor party
with them all?” It’s a lie, but she’s put me on the back foot, and I feel uneasy enough after
this afternoon’s events. “You don’t know how these things work.”

Johanna doesn’t seem convinced. “Yeah? Alright. Well how much money have I got, then?”

“It’s like I said,” I tell her, careful with my words, “it won’t be easy to get you sponsors
before the arena. This is a difficult angle we’re playing. If you –”

“So I have nothing, then?”

“I didn’t say that,” I snap. Normally I wouldn’t be so sharp, but it hasn’t been a very good
day. “What’s gotten into you?”

She pauses. For a moment I can see a perfect flash of guilt in her eyes, though she quickly
tries to mask it with defiance. What a lucky thing that I’m her mentor and not anyone else’s.
Once you catch her tells, she’s clear as crystal.

Gaze darting up and down, she sniffs and crosses her arms. “You gave Caraway advice
yesterday.”

I can’t help but slump my shoulders in relief. I don’t know what she’d been thinking, but this
is nothing. “That’s it?” I shake my head. “He just caught me in the corridor when he couldn’t
find Blight. Wanted to ask about private training.”

“Yeah, but you’re my mentor,” she says coldly. “Do you think he has a better shot? Have you
told him about me?”
Despite her expression, I can’t help but smile slightly. Her scowl grows bigger at the sight.
“Johanna. I told him a sentence. All he wanted to know was how much time he had. That’s
all.”

Her face relaxes slightly, mulling this over. “Oh. When he told me, he made it sound like
you’d given him this massive secret.”

“Maybe he’s psyching you out,” I say. “It’s a tactic. Blight might have put him up to it. Don’t
fall for it.”

She shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.” Then she twists her face again. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I say, running my hand over my own face. I feel foggy and exhausted. Distantly, I
realise that I haven’t shaved in a few days. No wonder sponsors have been difficult. I must
look like a mess. “It’s stressful. I understand. But I’m on your side. You can trust me.
Unequivocally.”

Johanna hums. “Yeah.”

“So, what did you do in private training?”

She’s just begin to tell me about her tactic at the firestarting station when heavy footsteps
begin to climb the stairs. I turn to give her a look, but she’s already jumped into her role
again; softening her features and widening her eyes.

Blight emerges, looking as tired as I feel. He frowns at the sight of Johanna. “Oh. Is training
over?”

She nods. He turns to look back down the stairs, obviously thinking of Caraway. “Ashley,
could you —” Gesturing to his room, I can tell by the look on his face that Blight doesn’t
bring good news.

I nod. “Johanna?”

On rote, she turns. She’s just about halfway down the stairs when she pauses and then says
something completely unexpected. “Did they say no to the moss?”

Blight looks at her, suddenly at-attention. Behind his shoulder I try to give her a warning
glance but she avoids me. “How do you know about that?” he asks.

She tilts her head to the side. “Oh, I didn’t want to say. It’s just that I saw the marks on his
arms at the reaping. I know plenty of kids like him. There are a few in my year.”

It’s remarkable how convincingly childlike she can sound. She really is a brilliant actor. I’m
not quite sure what her reasoning for this all is, but one thing is for certain; Blight has bought
this completely.

“Do you think the other tributes know?” he asks her.

She shrugs. “I don’t think they’re really paying much attention. There’s a girl who’s been
tagging along with us at training, but I doubt she suspects anything.”

“Right,” he says. “Well, I suppose that’s to be expected. And to answer your question; yes.
They rejected it.”

I knew as much, but it’s still a shame to hear it out loud. I’m surprised he’d admit this in front
of Johanna, but it seems like today is full of surprises.

Johanna hums. “Oh.”

“Get out of your training outfit and get ready for dinner,” I tell her. “We’ll talk later.”

We’re silent until she’s gone. My heart is beating just a little too fast, though I know that
there’s no way Blight can suspect her game yet. When the sound of her door shutting echoes
up the hall, he turns to me. “She’s smarter than she lets on.”

“I know,” I say, somewhat distantly.

“She’ll likely beat him.”

“Probably,” I murmur.

“Anyway,” he collapses into a chair, fingers pawing over the paperweight I picked up early.
Guilt flickers through me again. “It’s rigged. Clear as day. Gamemakers are gunning hard for
a win from 1 or 2. They haven’t had a victory since the sixty-eighth. I haven’t seen more
obvious bias from the Gamemakers since I became a mentor.”

“They can’t rig the Games,” I say. “If they were caught, it’d whip the Capitol into a frenzy.”

Twelve years ago, seven years before my Games, the Gamemakers were accused of rigging
the arena to favour the female tribute from District 1. Mutts hounded the other tributes left
right and centre while she remained mysteriously unaffected. As it turned out, the Head
Gamemaker was secretly bidding for her under a false identity. It turned the whole media
circuit into a shitshow. Eventually in some form of penance – though they’d never admit it —
they ended up taking her out. All things considered, it made the whole situation worse. She
certainly had the chops to win the thing, even without the meddling.

Ever since then, the Capitol’s eyes have been sharply pointed towards any perceived form of
rigging or favouritism. Finnick was accused of it a few times during his Games, but nothing
came of it — though they did hike up the sponsor prices the next year during my time in the
arena. Sylvia told me that it was a very unpopular choice.

Sometimes I wonder how rich my own sponsors must have been in order to send me the
medicine that saved my life, but I’ve never asked because I get the feeling I don’t actually
want to know.

“They always have their tricks,” Blight says. Then he shudders. “I’m going to take a shower.”
He’s just at his door when I remember my conversation with the others back at the bar.
“Blight?”

“Hm?”

“Do you happen to go drinking with a few other victors? Chaff and Seeder and some others?”

A peculiar expression crosses his face. “What do you mean?”

“It’s only, Finnick invited me today, and Chaff mentioned that sometimes you joined them.”

Blight’s hands palm the doorframe. His slight tremor has returned, barely noticeable even
under the stark light of the Training Centre. The only reason I know to look for it is because
Johanna has me thinking about tells again, and I want to know if this really is anything worth
suspicion.

“Oh, yes,” he says, his voice even. “Yes, sometimes.” Then he pauses. “You’re really too
young for that sort of stuff, Ashley.”

“For drinking?” I frown, thinking about how he saw me at the bar with Valeria only just
earlier today. “Blight, I’m twenty-one.”

He pauses. “Just not during the Games, Ashley.” Then he closes the door, and I’m left even
more confused than I was before this conversation began.

DINNER is, as always, an awkward affair. Ambrosia is late, frazzled, and certainly hungover,
so she makes a poor effort at keeping up the conversion. The job falls to Blight and I, which
is unfortunate. We end up mostly eating in silence, only pausing to briefly comment on the
food or on the day’s events. Caraway, usually the most talkative of the bunch, looks half-
alive. His face is pale and sickly, and Blight has to nudge him to attention multiple times.

I feel a bit guilty eating while looking at him, but I’m starving. Johanna seems to be too,
though I’m certain she’s trying to pack on the pounds before the arena. It’s a relief to know
my tribute has the wherewithal to think so far in advance, though I pity Blight. His odds with
tributes have not been good.

There’s no reprieve once the food has disappeared — (or grown cold). Tonight are the
training scores. Ambrosia seems disconcerted as we move to the sitting room. She keeps her
distance from Caraway and even makes a snide comment at me as she passes by, mumbling
under her breath that I’m looking far more District 7 than usual. I take this to mean that I
must look positively scruffy by Capitol standards.

Johanna, who overhears this, shoots me an amused smile which I can’t help but return.

The scores are sobering. Both tributes from District 1 score a nine, matched by the girl from
2, though Cassius manages a ten. District 4 scores in a similar range, and the numbers slowly
trickle down from there — with a set of fives and sixes from Districts 5 and 6 respectively.

Caraway’s face flashes on screen, showing a five. For his state, this is far better than
expected. Then Johanna is being shown, and the four under her name should be a blow, but
all I can feel is relief.

She also does a brilliant job of seeming incredibly disappointed.

The rest of the pack doesn’t do much better. The female tribute from District 8 who has been
tagging around with Johanna and Caraway in training scores a three, though her district
partner manages a seven. There’s an eight for the girl from District 12. Next we’re moving on
to the post-show, where the announcer promises that the official odds will be released
tomorrow between the gap in scheduling while the tributes prepare for the pre-Games
interviews.

The room is already silent, but a certain heaviness hangs over us all as we realise that the
Games will start in two days’ time.

I can’t tell if she’s acting, but I think Johanna might actually be afraid.
 Chapter 7
Chapter Summary

Johanna trains for the interviews, and learns something she didn't expect.

7) JOHANNA

I very rarely, if ever, dream.

Most people don’t believe me when I tell them this. Lynn used to insist that I must do so,
only that I must simply forget when I awake. But I know this isn’t the case. No matter how
sick I get or how tired I feel, how many thoughts plague my mind, one thing is always
certain; when I am asleep, nothing can touch me.

That’s why when I wake two days before the Games begin, I am calm. No nightmares plague
my thoughts. I find myself solely in the land of the living, feeling only the soft sheets under
my skin and the bright, sickly-white light of the Capitol sun peeking through half-closed
curtains.

For a moment I simply lie here, tucked in under my canopy of blankets. While it may be
summer outside, I’ve turned the temperature down so the room resembles a cool autumn
morning somewhere in the woods outside my home. I could nearly picture myself there if not
for the stillness of the space, the sharpness of the air and the plaster-white ceiling I stare up
at.

A white ceiling . This is what incites a feeling of dread in me. This anxiety has come in ever-
increasing waves over the past few days. In about forty-eight hours, give or take, I will be in
the arena.

In lieu of dreams, my mind makes up for lost time. A host of images flash through my
imagination; an endless arid desert like the arena ten years ago where I have to bludgeon
other tributes to death with heavy stones, a frozen plateau in an endless twilight, an ocean
that stretches on and on until the horizon. Love from District 1 laughs at me from behind a
tree as I sink into a pit of quicksand. Twine from 8 burns alive, burns me alive. And Cassius
Cybele, District 2’s golden boy, watches me from an impossible distance with nothing but
stark curiosity in his eyes.

With a start, I lurch up and run myself the coldest shower I can bear, trying to distract myself
from images of horror with the chattering of my teeth.
When Ambrosia comes to fetch me for breakfast, I’m still shivering. She takes it upon herself
to teach me the functions of the shower, which is a bit pointless, since I won’t be here to
experience it for much longer.

Then I realise what I’ve just thought to myself and what it means. Silently, I’ve just assumed
I’ll die. That, above anything else, is the most dangerous thing that has crossed my mind yet.
I can’t get caught up in my own act. If I do, there’s no way I’ll make it out.

I shut up until breakfast. We’re all present today, save for the stylists who must be working
on our outfits for tomorrow. As usual, I’m the last to arrive. Ashley catches my eye as I slink
into my usual seat, and it might be my imagination, but he seems genuinely worried. We
hadn’t got a chance to talk after I cornered him in his office yesterday. Has something
happened? Have I ruined everything by saying the wrong thing to Blight?

Blight doesn’t seem to think anything is amiss. In fact, he barely pays me any mind. He has
his attention fixed on Caraway. Absent-mindedly, my gaze follows his across the table, and
that’s when my heart sinks.

Caraway is a ghost walking. I didn’t think it could have gotten worse after yesterday, but I’m
wrong. His hair is stringy and his forehead is damp, cheeks pale and washed out. His eyes
look like gorged-out pits and if I didn’t know any better, I’d wager he was already in the
arena, already starving away to nothing.

Last night, before we’d gone to bed, he’d told me he was as good as dead. And he’s right. It’d
be a mercy to kill him quickly.

“Johanna?”

My head whips to the side where Ambrosia is staring at me. I realise that I’ve been holding
my cup of tea too long, and my hands are starting to burn.

“Uh,” I say gracelessly. “Sorry?”

“I asked if you wanted to train on etiquette with me today?” she asks. “I’ve been speaking
with the mentor from District 12. She’s taken on some of the duties since her team only has
the one mentor. I thought it might be a good idea, considering I know what the —”

“No, thank you,” I tell her quickly. “I’d rather stick with Ashley for today.”

Ambrosia gives me a thin smile. “Of course. Caraway, I’ll extend the invitation to you,
though obviously, since Johanna is a girl -”

“I’m good,” Caraway croaks. Oh, he sounds awful. Like death itself. Suddenly he’s baulking,
and his eyes are darting across the room. “Um. Could you give me a moment?”

None of us have time to blink before he stumbles back to his quarters. He must not close the
door to his bedroom properly, because we can all clearly hear the sound of him throwing up.

The table is silent.

When breakfast is finally over — not that anyone has much of an appetite anymore —
Ashley follows me back to my room. For a moment, we’re silent. My heart-rate still betrays
me and I don’t want him to know how afraid I am. Nor do I want to show any sign of worry
at Caraway’s condition. His state should not bother me. If anything, it should be a relief.

“Well,” Ashley begins, “at the very least, we don’t have to come up with an angle for you.”

The smile he gives me is half-hearted. Suddenly it occurs to me how tired Ashley seems. I’d
seen a glimpse of it yesterday, but at that point I’d been more preoccupied with my imminent
training score and the fact that he’d briefly tried to bludgeon my head in.

I don’t really blame him. While nobody talks about it, we all know what the victors go
through. With one foot in the Games every year, it’s impossible to really escape the arena.

That will be me if I win, I realise. District 7 has a handful of victors who tag-team in and out
depending on the year, but recent victors are almost always invited back consistently. On the
chance I do make it out, I will certainly be replacing Blight as mentor. Ashley won’t be in
charge of my wellbeing anymore, he’ll be my partner.

The idea of the two of us on one team actually does seem quite nice, though at any rate I
suppose that’s what this is.

Realising that I haven’t said anything in a second and Ashley is looking at me curiously, I
clear my throat. “Yeah. That’s right. That’s good.”

His eyes narrow but if he’s guessing where my thoughts have landed, he doesn’t say.
“Alright. So now, all we need to do is fine-tune a little.”

It takes the better part of an hour or so to narrow down my presentation. Ashley, apparently,
has been in the Capitol long enough to know that there are particular ways of doing things.
Walking is one. Sitting is another. He muddles through a little since we’re both aware that the
girls are held to a higher standard than the boys, but neither of us knows what’s appropriate
and neither of us want to call Ambrosia. Eventually we agree that even if I’m not perfect, I’ll
likely be forgiven. District 7 is always seen as backwater anyway.

Then we move onto the actual interview content.

This is Ashley in his element. He’s eagle eyed in his observations as we practise every sort of
question imaginable. His instructions are quick and extremely specific, telling me exactly
when to pause at certain questions, when to stumble over my words, and even when to seem
completely assured. The way he considers the mind of the audience is something that I
wouldn’t have ever thought of, weaving a narrative like a story. He shows me how to set up
comments earlier on and hit them near the end of the interview, how to play against the
answers of the tributes who have come before me.

No wonder you won, I think to myself. This is certainly how he got the sponsorships to
survive. Not by being so charismatic that they couldn’t help but to love him, but by setting
himself and his storyline up so they couldn’t bear to let him die without seeing it through.
When lunch rolls around, we’re pretty much done with the interview side of things. Ashley
seems quite pleased with my progress. He promises to talk strategy for the arena later, which
does put me at ease a bit, though the sharp stab of anxiety in my gut refuses to go away
entirely.

I’m left alone to eat lunch in my room, since Blight wants a word with Ashley. Since I’m still
antsy I just key in a random array of small plates, which arrive in an instant from a hatch by
my door. Most of the food isn’t to my taste, though I do find that crab — a delicacy I could
never even imagine affording back home — does spark my tastebuds. If I win, I’m going to
order as much seafood from Four as I can afford and gorge myself until I’m ill.

When I win, I remind myself. When.

An hour or so later, Ashley returns. However, now he’s dressed strangely. He dons a silk-
button down that buttons unreasonably low under a jacket covered in dancing geometric
patterns. The scent of cologne wafts through the air, and his under eyes have been lined with
smudgy dark pencil.

“What’s all this?” I ask, sitting back on the bed and observing him. He seems tense. “I
thought the interviews weren’t until tomorrow?”

“They’re not,” he says. “Don’t worry about it. Did you eat?”

I frown. If I’m told not to worry about something, I’m going to do the opposite. Gesturing to
the plates I’ve left behind, I raise my eyebrows. “Yeah. Most of it was shit, but if you want
leftovers –”

“Not much of an appetite,” he says and comes to sit on one of the plush seats that overlooks
the window. This is a surprise, because as far as I’ve observed him so far, Ashley has seemed
to have a healthy appreciation for food. “Are you ready to talk about the Games?”

Strategy. Shit . While my stomach twists into knots, I shrug. “Sure.”

“We’ll start with the Cornucopia,” he says. “Though there’s not much to discuss. Don’t
bother.”

This is the first point of contention. “But I’ll starve,” I say. “Or I’ll freeze to death. Besides, I
need weapons.”

“And I don’t care,” Ashley replies, his voice strict. “Statistically, about half the deaths
happen in the first few hours of the opening gong. The faster you get away from the other
tributes, the more likely you are to double your odds. Weapons and food are only a priority if
you live long enough to need them.”

“What if I skirted the perimeter?” I ask. The idea of getting in there and not having anything
to show for it makes me feel slightly ill and anyways, it’s not like I’m planning on running
straight to the centre. “There’s usually something out there, right?”

“Don’t risk it.”

“I just think —”

“ Johanna. ” Ashley’s voice is strict enough that he actually sounds angry. “No cornucopia.
That’s final.”

I know he’s right. He’s got a point. But I hate being wrong and I despise the idea of my actual
actions being weak. “Did you?”

He blinks. “What?”

“Did you go in there?”

There’s a pause. Ashley’s face twists. “We’re not talking about me.”

So he did, then. His answer is as close to confirmation as I’ll get. “That’s hypocritical.”

He stands up in a flash. Suddenly I’m getting a vision of the Ashley I saw at the viewing
platform back on the tribute train, the one I frightened in the study. The fifteen-year-old with
blood in his hair. “Fine. I’m a hypocrite. And you’ll be dead. Do you want that, Johanna?”

I blink at him.

“No,” he continues. “No, you don’t. What I did in the arena was by all accounts an incredibly
stupid decision. The riskiest one I made, and I’m including the shit I pulled with the
Careers.”

“That doesn’t even count,” I argue, purely because I’m cornered all of a sudden and if I can
take one thing away from him, it’s what made him famous. “That wasn’t your decision, you
were delirious.”

He narrows his eyes. “The only reason I made it out of the arena was because I was lucky at
the cornucopia. I was overconfident because I knew I could run quickly, but you know what?
I’ve lost two tributes to that bloodbath in the past two years, both of which were fucking fast
kids. It doesn’t have anything to do with how good you are, it has to do with how lucky you
are. So if you want to chance your own death and throw away this past week, go ahead. But
I’m telling you not to go in.”

I stare at him.

“Understood.”

Holding my hands up in mock surrender, I avoid how intensely he’s looking at me and draw
my attention to the floor. “Fine. Whatever. What next?”

Stiffly, he sits back down. “I don’t know what the arena will be. Hopefully there are trees, but
even if there aren’t, you know survival protocol. The only difference here is that you should
keep moving. Stay high, if you can. Anyone trying to reach you from below will have a
disadvantage. And most importantly, don’t forget for a second that there will be cameras on
you. You want to be a good player. Your job is to entertain.”

“Like a toy,” I mumble.

“Exactly like a toy,” he says.

And so, he continues. The peak of the tension in the room is gone, but it doesn’t quite
dissipate. Instead it hangs in the air as we discuss strategies for different environments and
what to do in different survival situations. Ashley tells me about sponsors and what they like
to see. He’ll be in direct control of my sponsor gifts and assures me he’ll be very specific
about what he sends and when.

This catches my attention, if only because Ashley’s win in a very large part came from the
way he used the sponsor system to manipulate other tributes. If anyone knows the dangers of
the game mechanics, it’s him.

It’s barely grazing evening-time when our conversation seems to screech to a halt. When the
clock hits the hour, Ashley’s eyes dart upwards. “I need to go.”

The simmering frustration I’ve been feeling bubbles up. “Where?”

“I have a commitment,” he says plainly. “I’m sorry.”

“What possible thing could need your attention more than me?” I ask. “I’m your
commitment. I’m your tribute .”

Truth be told, I know we’ve used up most of our resources. There’s not much else to speak
about. But the idea that he’s abandoning me this close to reaching the area, while I’m the
most terrified I’ve ever been in my life, fills me with hot, sticky rage. I don’t like how sharp
he’s being. It reminds me of what I thought of him before I met him; someone tainted by the
Capitol.

Ashley lets out a whistle between his teeth. “Of course you’re my priority, Johanna. But I
can’t avoid this. We can pick up where we left off this evening.”

“I don’t want that,” I say, and I’m furious at how afraid I do actually sound. “I don’t want to
be alone. ”

I know he feels guilty. I can see it in his face. His lips twist and he glances upwards, as
though he’s worried someone is listening to us. “Twenty minutes.”

“What?”

“I can spare twenty minutes,” he says. “But not here.”

Fear and frustration turns to confusion. “Where?”

“Nobody’s told you about the roof, have they?” he asks. I shake my head. “We can take the
elevator up. Twelve has direct access, but I’ll doubt anyone will be there at this time of day.”
He blinks. “It’s like the train, remember?”

Staring at him, I swallow. Like where he brought me on the train, allowing me a moment of
fresh air. He knows I’m terrified and he’s trying to calm me down.

I don’t like this much, because it makes me feel powerless, but I know he probably has a
point. Besides, I hate it here. The hum of the air conditioning is grating, the lighting too
bright, my lips chapped from the recycled air.

“Johanna?” he asks, too gently. Don’t force yourself, I think.

“Yeah,” I say. “Whatever.”

Thankfully the apartment is empty as Ashley leads me to the elevator. He must be wearing
some kind of heeled boots because his steps make loud clicking sounds on the stone tiled
floor, and while we’re normally about the same height, he’s just a bit taller than me now.

“What’s that about?” I say, gesturing at the shoes.

His face twists. The elevator door opens. “Just a gift from a friend in the city.”

“They’re ugly.”

He raises his eyebrow, but doesn’t comment back. We spend the short ride up in silence.
Ashley keeps tapping his foot nervously and the sound rings out hollow across the elevator.
When the doors slide open, a gush of warm air hits me. For a moment I want to yell at him
because what I absolutely don’t need right now is a reminder of the Capitol’s oppressive heat.
But then I feel a breeze, smell cleaner air than what’s inside the apartment, and I want to cry.

The roof is huge, with a small, dome shaped room in the centre that leads out into open air.
On one side is a large viewing platform complete with deck chairs, picnic tables, and an
impressive view of the Capitol skyline. Below us I can see the pinprick silhouettes of cars
and buildings. In the distance a lake glistens in the arid afternoon sun.

I want to stand for a moment against the railing and take in the sights, but Ashley seems
insistent that we don’t have much time so I let him lead me around the other side of the roof.

When I catch a glimpse of green, I nearly start running.

A garden. They’ve built a garden, right here on the roof. Flowers and bushes and trees and
vines and even weeds. A few are unfamiliar — some strange plants from the other side of
Panem or maybe even beyond — but others are exact replicas of what I’d find at home. I run
my hand down the spine of a sapling they’ve erected in the centre of a patch of grass and feel
a strange sense of comfort wash over me.

I’m so lost in relief that I don’t even register the distant sound of music until it’s already been
a few seconds. Looking up, I see Ashley standing by the base of an artificial canopy
decorated in vines, observing a wind chime. Suddenly I realise that the garden is full of the
things, made of glass and wood, seashells and strange, glistening metal.

“These weren’t here last year,” he says curiously. “I wonder if Haymitch -”

“Thank you,” I tell him suddenly, because the relief is too much and I’m worried that if I
don’t say it now, I won’t be able to later. “You were right.”

He gives me a distant, knowing smile. “I usually am.”

“I didn’t expect it to feel so clean. I always imagined Capitol air to be smoggy.”

“There aren’t too many pollutants here,” he says, peering into the sky. “They have purifying
systems all around. But you should see Districts 5 or 6. You can barely see your hand in front
of your face.”

The urge to be honest pricks at my skin. “I’d love to,” I tell him. “But I’m terrified I won’t
live long enough to see them.”

Ashley hums, somewhat knowingly. He walks over to the railing and nods his head to join
me. With careful footsteps, I follow. “I’d never take a tribute up here,” he says, “or tell them
what I’m about to tell them if I didn’t think they really had a chance of making it out.”

I blink. This was not what I expected. “Sorry? What are you going to tell me?”

“Nobody told me, before,” he continues. “I wish they had. Probably wouldn’t have changed
anything, but –”

“Ashley.”

“I think you have it, Johanna,” he says, turning to me. “I don’t know why I do. It’s just a
feeling. Maybe it’s stupid to listen to my gut. I’ve hardly been doing this long enough to trust
it. But you could win this. So you should know where I’m going.”

Ashley really thinks I could make it out. For a moment the thought sits happy in my stomach.
Then I catch up with the rest of his words. “Where you’re going?”

I look at him, in his new fancy outfit, and suddenly I know the answer before he even tells
me. I understand why he’s brought me out here, where the wind is loud. Amongst the
windchimes, it would be hard to overhear our conversation.

“I’m going to visit someone in the city who bid on my company for the afternoon,” he says
flatly. “Which means I’m going to have to do something I desperately don’t want to do. Do
you understand what I’m saying?”

Heart sinking, I nod. “Yeah.”

“That’s just the way it is.” The way Ashley talks, it seems very forced. “I don’t like it, but
that’s what being a victor is. They own you. So it’s up to you if you want that.”
“But they can’t force you, can they? I mean, they can’t hurt you anymore.” My hands have
gripped the railing so tight I can feel my blood rushing through my fingers. “People would
know.”

Ashley looks at me a bit sadly. “They have their ways.”

I pause and my eyes flit downwards, examining a rose petal that has blown away in the
breeze. “So if I win, I’ll also —”

“Yes,” he says. “You will.”

I look at him. I look at him, in his stupid Capitol outfit, with his hair half and his slumped
shoulders. Suddenly, my respect grows for him twofold. “Thank you for telling me.”

He shrugs. “It’s like I said. I would have wanted to know.” Then, in an instant, he’s
straightened up again. “I’ll be back late tonight. Tomorrow will be busy. But I promise you,
we’ll chat. You can make your choice. But I’m on your side.”

“I know,” I say, and then before I can help myself, I call out again. “Good luck!”

Ashley’s smile is half-exhausted, but looks very real. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll need it.”

Then he’s gone.

Alone, I take a moment to observe the skyline. The sun’s started to set and there’s a chill
that’s crept in through the wind. Across the lake the water is starting to ripple out in amber
hues, catching the setting sun.

My skin feels clammy. I start to look at the buildings, the numerous high-rises, wondering
how many people out there have called upon victors for company. A picture of Ashley in
some Capitol car flashes through my mind, being driven to a cold empty house and expected
to do the worst thing. What about the other victors? I think of Finnick Odair from District 4,
who has certainly been expected to perform the same sort of duty. Rumours from the past few
years float back, now tainted. How about Cashmere from District 1 who’s famed for her
string of Capitol lovers? My mind begins to jump. Blight? Sylvia Yaw, the woman who is at
home taking care of my father? How many dozens of people are out there right now, bidding
on the mentors in this very building?

It sounds awful. The idea of it happening to me is sickening. But while this is new
information, I always figured the Capitol would own me if I won. Compared to the
responsibility of keeping someone else alive every year — something I already knew was
inescapable — being harmed myself doesn’t seem so bad.

At any rate, I’m glad Ashley told me, if only because I can channel my rage at the Capitol
into something more productive — like fucking over the Gamemaker’s plans when I enter the
arena.

I wait until the sun sets, and then go back down to my room for dinner. I don’t talk to anyone,
and nobody talks to me. Our floor is deathly silent. Upon my return, my room has been aired
out. The bed has been done up neatly and the remainder of my lunch has been wiped away.

I order a simple meal of bread, meats and cheese, and run myself a shower while I wait for it
to arrive. When I’m clean, I dress in nothing but a robe and sit cross legged on the floor in
front of the window, eating my dinner and finally crawling into bed early.

My prep team wakes me the next morning. While their names have long since evaded me,
their faces are much harder to forget. There’s three of them. There are the twins — two girls
who can’t be much older than I am, matching in pink-and-blue holographic outfits — and a
young man who looks to be about Ashley’s age, with braided green hair and thin, pursed
lips.

I’m instructed to shower again, and then they get to work undoing all the flaws the past few
days have done. They trim my nails, tidy my eyebrows, and beat my skin with pulpy, rough
sponges.

As they get to work, my mind starts to drift towards the interviews. I’m surprisingly calm and
almost entirely confident. Somehow, Ashley’s information last night has had the complete
opposite effect than expected. Now, sitting here, being preened and plucked, there’s a fire
growing in my chest. I’m certain half the audience tonight will be the exact sort of people he
was talking about. With the knowledge in mind, I’m incited to put on such an act that, come
showtime, they’re going to feel stupid. I want them to be embarrassed. I want them to be
upset. I want them to lose a whole lot of money by betting on the wrong tribute.

Mostly, I want to be the only one who comes out on top.

Pompey arrives sometime around mid-afternoon. By then, the prep team have done their
magic. My hair has been braided into two rings framing my face, adorned with little green
and white pearls. My makeup is fairly minimal compared to the popular standard, though
green eyeshadow smokes up from my lids and towards my temple in small cloud-like puffs,
decorated with the same gems as my hair. My nails have been done in green and white and
they’ve added some kind of shimmery sheen to my skin to make me stand out on camera.

Pompey observes me for a second. “Just like a doll,” he says.

“Is that a good thing?” I ask, innocently.

“It’s what the instructions were,” he says a bit glumly. I really hope Pompey gets bunged up
to a higher district next year. He’s practically miserable. When he’s done observing he fishes
out a black bag which I assume holds my costume. “Do try not to ruin this one.”

“Promise,” I tell him.

I don’t like that he sticks around to dress me but I guess it can’t be helped. My costume is a
light thing, bunched at the top with light, puffy sleeves that fall off my shoulders and a skirt
that cuts off just above my knees. Draped over the bodice of the dress and falling past the
hem, ending in a delicate droop just over my heels, is a curtain of pearls that catch the light in
a strange, holographic dance.
It’s a lovely dress and I genuinely think for a moment that I might like it, but then I catch
how low cut the front is and how, whenever I bend down, I can catch an uncomfortable
amount of cleavage. It’s nothing I would have caught if not for what Ashley told me
yesterday, but now I can only think of prying eyes.

“Thank you,” I say quickly and excuse myself to the restroom.

Dinner will be later tonight by virtue of the interviews, but they’ve laid out a sort of snack
table for us to keep us going until the evening. I’m the first out, which is surprising at any
rate, and there are only a handful of Avoxes around to stare at me while I fill my plate. I’m
starving. I’m up for seconds when Caraway appears.

His stylist must be some kind of miracle worker because he actually looks alright. Good ,
even. His curly hair has been slicked back and he’s wearing a dark green suit. There are no
bags under his eyes and, even more remarkably, he seems to be standing up straight.

I must look surprised, because he shrugs a little. “Tulia, um. Well, she managed to find me
medicine. For my headaches.”

Ah. So she managed to sneak him some moss, then. I wonder if she’ll be punished,
considering the Gamemakers will certainly know. But that’s not my problem to worry about.
My problem is the fact that, if Caraway is alright for the start of the Games, he’s once again a
threat.

I don’t think I could bring myself to kill him unless it was necessary, but I don’t know what
goes on in his mind. He might be invigorated by his new fighting chance.

“That’s good,” I manage, reminding myself that he won’t last long without further hits
anyway. It only took him a handful of days to get unwell, and that was with a constant supply
leading up to the reaping.

We’re silent as we eat. Now with someone else, I’m uncomfortable. Where are Blight and
Ambrosia. Where is Ashley? I haven’t seen him since the roof, and he swore to me he’d be
here.

“Johanna,” Caraway says after a few minutes of awkward chewing. “I’ve decided to ally with
Twine.”

I blink. “Oh. When did that happen?”

“Her mentor sent the request up. You didn’t get one?”

I shake my head. “She didn’t send it to me.”

He frowns. “Right.”

For some reason, this fills me with anger. Is the girl stupid? I know I’ve been playing myself
down, but Caraway’s obviously not in a good state either. Has her opinion purely been
swayed by our training scores?
“Well,” Caraway continues, “what I wanted to say was that you’re welcome, if you’ll have
me. You’re smarter than you let on.”

I’d take the latter comment as a threat if I wasn’t certain he was being kind. “I’ll consider it.”

Caraway nods as if he was expecting my response. “Well, the invitation’s open. Even in the
arena. As long as it’s not down to just us, it’s open.”

I don’t know what else to say, so I finish my soup in silence.

Luckily it doesn’t take the others too long to arrive. Ambrosia is — as to be expected —
dressed to the nines in some kind of leafy garb. Our stylists are fairly demure for the most
part, though Caraway’s stylist has shocking pink highlights in her hair. Blight is in perhaps
the most boring suit imaginable, and Ashley — while an improvement from whatever
yesterday was — seems uncomfortable in some sort of black one-piece jumpsuit. He’s clean
shaven now, his hair slicked back. It makes him look just a bit silly.

“They’re on time!” Ambrosia seems shocked. “Look at that!”

Caraway and I exchange a glance before I remember that he’s my enemy again. We’re
whisked away towards the elevator in a frenzy of nerves. Ambrosia babbles about how nice
we all look. She spends an extra amount of time talking about how much she loves Ashley’s
hair and how lovely it is that he’s taking care of himself properly. It’s a bit weird because she
almost sounds into him, which makes my skin crawl. She’s at least two decades older and
yesterday still plays on my mind.

“For what it’s worth,” I whisper to him as the elevator stops to pick up the tributes from
District 5, “I don’t like the new look. You should shave less.”

It’s an assurance that whatever we talked about yesterday hasn’t fazed me too much, and he
takes it. The laugh he gives me is genuine.

Eventually the elevator spits us out of the Training Centre and into the bowels of the stage,
behind the City Circle. We’re not the first ones to arrive. As we line up, ready to be paraded
on stage, I catch sight of the other tributes. The pair from District 1 are joking with one
another. Cassius is talking in a low voice to his mentor. The girl from 6 appears to be
rehearsing lines. I catch a sight of Twine from District 8 and, despite myself, feel a twinge of
rejection.

I’m going to have to pay close attention to the other interviews in order to stand out. Since
we’re just after the middle, District 7 is easily forgettable. And it’s not only that. I’ve seen
enough Games to know that certain tributes can’t resist dropping hints in their interviews
about themselves. Favoured weapons, secret skills, all sorts of things. If I’m going to get a
database of information about my competitors, it’s here.

Backstage, it starts to get crowded as the rest of the tributes fill in and attendants start barking
orders. From outside, a countdown starts. Five minutes.
Suddenly, my palms feel clammy. I’m not even all that afraid, but stage fright must be just as
physiological as it is psychological.

“I’ve got to get to my place,” Ashley says. I hadn’t even noticed he was standing next to me.
“You know what to do. You’re good at this, Jo.”

Jo . Only Lynn calls me that. It’s something I’d usually hate, but somehow, hearing it come
from Ashley doesn’t drive me up the wall. “Talk later?”

“We will. Good luck.”

He leaves. The clock ticks down. Three minutes. Two minutes.

I remember exactly who will be in that audience and my resolve strengthens.

One minute. People are running all around now. There’s a problem with the sound system.
One of the PAs trips over the girl from District 4’s dress and it tears. There’s no time to
replace it. I hide a smile.

Ten seconds. Straightening my back, I package myself into my role.

The crowd starts to scream and we file out into the dimming sunlight.
 Chapter 8
Chapter Summary

Ashley walks Johanna through the night before the Games, and finds himself facing an
uncomfortable truth.

Ashley

City Circle glows at the heart of the Capitol like a lighthouse. Crowds swarm for miles back,
moths to a flame, and there’s a buzz in the air as their eyes spot the victors filing in to take
our seats. We’re sat near the front of the stage, on a raised platform one row behind the
stylists, shuffled on in order of victory. I’m slotted between Finnick and the winner of the
Sixty-Seventh Games, a burly young man called Augustus from One. Despite winning the
year after me, I know almost nothing about him, apart from the fact that the Capitol loves
him almost as much as they love Finnick. In any other case I might be jealous, but I find
some comfort in being an acquired taste. Victors from Seven usually are.

Next to Augustus is Bluejay, also from One, who I am more familiar with. She was a peppy
young thing before her Games, and ever since she’s won, they’ve pumped her so full of mood
stabilisers that she’s almost always as high as a kite. I don’t think she’s mentoring this year --
that’s probably Cashmere again, and for good reason, because I don’t think Bluejay’s in much
of a state to do anything but smile and wave. But she has been invited back, and it’s probably
for other reasons that best suit her talents. Sat on her other side is Ransom, who also seems to
be high on some other substance, and finally, there’s an empty seat at the end of the row,
presumably where Annie Cresa would be sat if she were here.

I’m not sure why they’d do that, since they know she’s not coming, but maybe they’re trying
to prove some kind of point.

I turn to Finnick, who is dressed in a nearly entirely sheer ensemble. It mercifully spares his
crotch, which I’m certain means that the Capitol would describe it as ‘modest’. Save some to
buy some. He seems strangely relaxed, but I assume that’s probably just because there’s
cameras on us.

“How’s your boy faring?” I ask. Johanna didn’t have much to say about Four, so all I really
know is that Finnick’s not certain about his tribute’s odds.

He shrugs. “About as well as you can hope for. The interviews are blocking some of the
nerves about the Games out, which is good, but he’s convinced that he’s not frightened.”

“Of course he’s frightened,” I say. “Everyone’s frightened. Johanna’s been very vocal that
she’s terrified.”
“Your girl?” He asks. “I noticed that she’s been holding herself together since the chariots.”

“She’s a hard worker,” I say. “Who knows how much that will help her. But she’s trying her
hardest.”

Finnick nods, and we sit in silence for a moment as they test the sound system. Once I’m
certain the cameras aren’t on us, I lower my voice.

“Mags?”

Finnick nods his head. “She’ll live. They think her speech will be permanently affected.”

“Oh,” I say. “God. I’m really sorry.”

“It is what it is,” he says. “She’ll live. We’ll teach her sign language, if we need to. She’s
seventy-six. She’s been through worse.”

“She’s been through the Games.”

Finnick laughs. “Yeah. Hers were the first Games with an actual arena too. Did you know
that?”

“No,” I frown. “I didn’t. I always thought that was the Tenth. It makes sense for it to be the
Tenth.”

“I guess,” Finnick says. “You know, come to think of it, I know nothing about the Tenth
Games.”

I realise that he’s right. I know a lot about the Games, both from what they teach at school,
and from my own experiences as a victor, but I don’t think I’ve heard anything about the
Tenth. The victor, whoever they were, certainly didn’t come from Seven. They must be long
dead. That’s not a surprise, because most of the early winners were hardly treated as well as
we are, and many didn’t receive any medical attention post victory. I’m pretty sure that Mags
might just be the oldest living victor.

But apart from the victor of the Tenth, I do know things about most of the other earlier
winners. Whoever they are, they’ve been wiped from history. I’m just about to ask Finnick
why he thinks that might be, but suddenly the crowd has started to cheer so loud I can’t hear
my own thoughts, and so I know that the interviews have started.

One by one, the tributes enter the stage and take their seats. There’s the usual gasps and coos
from the crowd as they admire the stylists handiwork, and cameras spin around to catch the
faces behind the art. There’s a brief pan to a section of the crowd reserved for notable fashion
designers, and on the screen I look out for my old stylist, Andromache. She’s nowhere to be
seen. I haven’t spoken to her since she retired after the Sixty-Seventh Games to start her own
designer mentorship scheme. I should probably reach out. She wasn’t a half bad person.

Johanna enters about halfway through, and I’m glad to see that she’s got her character down
to an art. She tries an awkward smile, but mostly she seems to be focusing on getting to her
seat without issue. For the first time in my life, I’m grateful for Pompey’s lack of originality.
He’s stellar at executing instructions, which is exactly what’s happened here, and Johanna
looks just as angelic and small as she should. At any rate, it’s nothing like what she actually
looks like, but that just makes it even better.

There’s barely room to breathe, because once the tributes are in place, Caesar bounces onto
the stage. He’s done up in marigold yellow this year, and the colour doesn’t look half-bad on
him, though he does look a bit like a dressed-up buttercup. He warms up the crowd with
some jokes, riffing off back and forth some of the stylists in the audience, and he even does
an extended bit based on this year’s new Head Gamemaker, Seneca Crane. This particularly
gets some laughs from the crowd, and I imagine that the Capitol is desperate to see what he
brings to the table, especially because of the disgraceful past two years of Games.

But Caesar is good at his job, and he knows why he’s here, so it doesn’t take him long to start
the interviews rolling. I’ve always liked Caesar. He’s exactly what both the Games and the
tributes need -- someone to toe the line between entertainment and sincerity. He’s been
hosting for about forty years, but he still manages to keep things new and entertaining, and
he’s brilliant at asking the exact sort of questions needed to create a storyline for the arena. I
especially respect him for that, because this, outside of everything, is the strongest asset a
tribute can have in the Games.

Love from One is up first, and it’s very obvious she’s going for a sort of preppy psychopath
angle. It’s almost reminiscent of Bluejay, and I find myself wondering if Love knows what
happened to her after the Games. There’s something about her angle that isn’t entirely
insincere, though, and I find myself eying her carefully as she talks. She admits that her
strength is with a bow and arrow -- which isn’t terrible news, so long as Johanna’s smart
enough to not let her get any range -- but mostly talks and talks and talks about how excited
she is to get her blood pumping.

The next two Career tributes are box-standard. Confident, a bit showboaty, with just enough
hooks to leave the audience interested, but probably having given a bit too much away. The
three minutes allocated for the girl tribute from Two come and go, and I realise that I’m
already getting bored. How does Caesar do this every year?

There’s a shift in energy from the crowd as Cassius Cybele from Two is called up. He’s
cleaned up very nicely, in a deep, forest green suit. His stylist has decided to weave thin strips
of gold around his dark locs, and it’s accented nicely with the gold liner under his eyes. I can
see why he’s the favourite.

“Cassius,” Caesar says. “Are you aware of the excitement surrounding your appearance in
these Games?”

“Yeah,” Cassius says. His tone is low and measured, and I find myself paying closer attention
than I usually would. “I’m aware. I don’t want to sound egotistical, but it didn’t come as too
much of a surprise.”

“Well, of course it didn’t! Who wouldn’t expect such a warm welcome with such a beloved
victor as an aunt!” Caesar says, and the camera pans over to Septima, who gives a good-
natured wave. “Tell me, Cassius, do you think that victory runs in the family?”
“Probably not, no,” Cassius replies. His words are crisp and sharp, and it’s crazy how much
of a shake-up in interview tropes can make a difference. A Career tribute is supposed to
showboat, and if anything, Cassius is underselling. He seems almost clinical. Sharp. “I’m not
going to win because Septima did. That would discredit her win, and my potential one. I’m
going to win because I deserve it.”

“Well said,” Caesar nods to the audience approvingly. “Very well said. Don’t you think,
ladies and gentlemen?”

We zoom by the rest of the interviews. Three is unremarkable. Four is just as Finnick
described it -- the boy is entertaining and charming, but it’s clear he doesn’t have the
wherewithal to pull through. The girl has a bit more to her, it seems, but not in the way of
social skills. The pair from Five talk about their alliance. Both from Six seem dull.

And then Johanna is stepping up to the front of the stage. I’m relieved as I sense the energy
from the crowd around me shift. There’s soft gasps at the sight of her delicate costume, and I
could be mistaken, but there might even be an air of reverence. Whether it’s from pity, she’s
captured their attention. She sits down, and I’m stuck with a feeling of certainty that this
interview will be played again and again in the coming weeks.

“Johanna,” Caesar says. There’s a flash of shock on her face, and I know she’s just been hit
with a view of the crowd. “Goodness, what a lovely outfit.”

“Thank you so much,” she says, politely. Watching her now, I think she’s brilliant. I’m almost
convinced of her innocence myself. “It’s so soft. I promised Pompey I wouldn’t ruin this
one.”

That gets a laugh, particularly from Caesar. The camera pans, and Pompey gives a wobbly,
embarrassed smile.

“Ah, the chariots,”Caesar laughs. “I’m glad you brought that up, because I wasn’t sure how
to.”

“It smelt really bad,” she admits. “I felt terrible.”

“Well, you’re all cleaned up now, and looking absolutely whimsical. Tell me - have you
found your feet yet, Johanna?”

“Yes,” she says. “I think so. We don’t have much excuse to wear heels in District Seven, so it
took me a while, but I think I’ve mastered them.”

“You’re a natural. And, have you mastered much else this week, Johanna?” Caesar asks.

She thinks for a minute. “I’m not quite sure,” she decides. “I think I’ve learnt all I can. I’m
not certain it will be enough. But I’ve tried very hard. And I’ll keep trying.”

Ah. So that’s the avenue she’s chosen to go down. I couldn’t have picked a better one myself.
Every tribute so far, whether intentionally or not, has boasted some sort of ability to try to
prove themselves to the audience. Johanna is the first tribute that has -- in the audience's eyes,
at least -- been entirely honest about her skillset. Whether it helps or not, it will certainly
make her stand out. She will not be forgettable.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t discount that,” Caesar says. “Hard work and drive is pivotal to
winning these games.”

“I guess,” she says.

“Speaking of work, what do you do back home, Johanna?”

“I take jobs at the paper mill. My mother died from the pox when I was twelve, and so it’s
just me and my father. He gets quite ill, sometimes. And it’s like I said -- I’m not sure I
always do the best for him, but I certainly do try.”

There’s a ripple of pity that runs through the crowd. The paper mill story is fabricated,
obviously, but I imagine that the rest must have an ounce of truth to it. I don’t think Johanna
has ever mentioned her family before.

“Are you close to your father?”

“Yes,” she says. “I love him. Him and my friend, Lynn. They’re my family.”

There. So she mustn’t be lying, because I know Lynn, and I remember seeing her lining up to
say goodbye to the tributes. Of course, there’s definitely a large amount of exaggeration,
because the pair are as polar as can be, and I can’t imagine Johanna ever describing anyone
as her family -- even her own father -- but the truth rings out in the story. This line seems to
have the desired impact on the audience, and I think some rich old women are about to eat
this up.

For the rest of the interview, Johanna shines in her role. She’s sweet, demure, but not a
wallflower. She talks more about her outfit, about District Seven, and finally -- to my surprise
-- about me.

“And Ashley’s been such help,” she says. “I don’t think I could do it without him. I always
thought, back in Seven, he was a bit strange. I didn’t like him very much. But he’s a very
good man. And a very good mentor.”

I know I’m on the screen right now, but I don’t look anywhere but the stage. I wonder how
much of this is true. I think some of it might be. I give her a look that might say ‘thank you’,
but I hope she interprets as ‘well done’.

I think she knows she’s done well, though, because the crowd is noticeably kinder to her
when they applaud, and she returns to her seat.

The rest of the interviews run by. Caraway is more solid than I’ve seen him in days, and if it
wasn’t for my conversations with Blight, I’d assume that the Gamemakers agreed to maintain
a dose of finch for him. I don’t know what he’s gotten his hands on, or who gave it to him,
but I decide not to ask around, for fear of drawing attention to it. He’s witty with Caesar,
though it’s obvious it’s forced, and all-in-all, exhibits a fairly middling -- though not
disastrous -- interview.

The girl from Eight tries to be as peppy as Love, but fails. Nine and Ten are never great in
conversation, and this is no exception. The girl from Eleven sings a song in a low, melodic
voice, but the crowd is growing tired. Twelve looks like they’ve given up.

And then we’re done. There’s a sombre atmosphere that falls over the mentors' seats as
Caesar reminds us that the Games start tomorrow, and I can’t imagine what the tributes must
be feeling. Or, actually, I can. I remember exactly how it felt. I bid goodbye to my
neighbours, and rush backstage to find Johanna.

“Spot on,” I say, under my breath, once I’ve caught her. She’s leaning against a wall, paper
cup of water in one hand, eyes faraway. “You must be hungry.”

“Starving,” she says, and then she frowns. Her eyes focus on something behind my shoulder,
and as I turn, I see the boy from Two -- Cassius -- looking at us. He averts his gaze at my
glance, and goes up to his district partner, who’s already in conversation with the pair from
Four.

“What was that about?” I ask.

“I’m not sure,” Johanna says. “He’s been looking at me like that every so often.”

“Well, avoid him as best as possible,” I said. “Two’s salivating for a win. I wouldn’t trust him
as far as I could throw him.”

“Probably not far,” Johanna says, under her breath. I let out a half-laugh, half-scoff. At the
very least, she’s still got her sense of humour. “Get me out of here.”

We line up to take the elevator back to the Seventh floor. By the time we’ve arrived,
Caraway, Blight and Ambrosia are all already there. Dinner’s been set out in our absence, and
the smell is intoxicating. They always make sure to prepare a feast before the Games. I
suppose it is, in its own way, a nice gesture, though it always reminds me of old stories -- evil
witches fattening up children before eating them, enchantresses luring men in with promises
of food and comfort, only to turn them into pigs. There’s almost surely intentional symbolism
here, I’m just not sure what.

The stylists arrive late, presumably caught up in the crowd of admirers. In the meantime,
Ambrosia talks all about her individual thoughts on the tributes, running through them one by
one like they’re numbers on an itemised list. Thankfully, she only gets to Nine before we sit
down to eat.

Dinner is half in silence. There’s a cloud that’s slowly settling over the room. I can tell
Johanna and Caraway are slowly realising that this might be their last meal in the Capitol,
and potentially their last meal at all. Blight’s got a strange look on his face too, and his eyes
are hard and distant. The day we have all been trying to put out of our minds is fast
approaching, and with it is a feeling of helplessness. The meal slowly starts to tick by, like
the hands of a clock. Starter. Second starter. Entree. Palate cleanser. Dessert.
We all sit -- all of us, even Ambrosia and the stylists -- for a bit longer than we need to before
standing up.

Now is time to bid one another goodbye. The tributes will see their stylists tomorrow
morning, but we won’t need either of them around anymore, not unless either Johanna or
Caraway wins, and so I wave them off first. Then there’s Ambrosia, who is welcome to hang
around and aid us, but will probably make herself scarce once the Games start. Somehow, I
find myself in front of Caraway.

“I don’t know how much this will mean to you,” I say. “But good luck.”

“Thanks,” he nods. “You’re alright. And thank you, for being so kind to Johanna.”

This surprises me, but I take it. Johanna seems to be waiting to speak to Caraway, and so I
give a nod to Blight. He and I begin to walk back to our rooms.

“I promised I’d talk to Johanna,” I say. “She wants me to wait up with her until she falls
asleep, I think.”

I think some sort of look crosses his face, but I’m not sure what. “Make sure to get some
sleep too. You’ll need it.”

“I know,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Neither of us mentions the obvious, that neither of us will sleep well tonight. Nobody will.
There’s a special form of torture that comes with being a victor, which involves reliving our
own Games every year in the most vivid ways. I expect that, if we do sleep, our dreams for
the next week will be haunted.

Blight must have already said his goodbyes to Caraway, because he climbs up the stairs to the
mentor’s floor. I slip quietly into Johanna’s room.

It takes her longer than I expect to appear. Her face is exhausted, and I can tell that the
adrenaline of the day has worn her out. She must have started undoing her braids on the way
back to her room, because her hair is tousled and tangled.

“I almost went up to your room,” she says. “Does anyone know you’re here?”

“Blight. But he thinks -” I pause. “- actually, I don’t know what he thinks. Doesn’t matter,
either way. Were you chatting to Caraway?”

“He wants me to join his alliance with Twine,” she says, sitting down on the bed and yanking
off her shoes.

“And are you going to?”

“I don’t know,” Johanna shrugs. “I could. But Twine didn’t want me. And I wouldn’t be able
to drop my act without making them mistrust me. I don’t think I could focus on the arena and
keep pretending.”

“There you go,” I say. “Looks like you’ve answered your own question>”

She stands up and rips off her pearl bodice. She’s just about to start undressing properly when
I jump and avert my gaze.

“Jesus! There’s a bathroom for a reason, Johanna.”

“What?” She says. “You’re a prude. I didn’t think a victor would be scared of a bit of nudity.”

“Not when you’re seventeen! ” I say. Even though she’s not actually removed the dress, I’m
staring directly into my lap.

“I’ll be eighteen in a few days,” she says. At this, I look up again. She’s got a sudden faraway
look in her eyes, and I realise she’s telling the truth. “It’s my birthday on the nineteenth.”

“God,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

She laughs, dryly. “I wouldn’t have been doing much anyways. I’ll get in the shower.”

She’s just started to march towards the bathroom when I speak up.

“Johanna.”

She pauses.

“It’s okay if you’re scared,” I say.

She shrugs. “Sure.”

“I’m serious.”

“It feels dumb,” she admits, after a moment. “It feels like I shouldn’t be.”

“You’d be dumb if you weren’t scared,” I say. “Scared keeps you alive.”

“If you say so, Ashley,” she says. She sounds exhausted. But there’s something in the tone of
her voice that tells me she believes me. She closes the door, and after a moment, I hear the
shower running.

Suddenly, it hits me too that tomorrow, Johanna will be going into the arena. Tomorrow,
Johanna might be dead. And it also hits me that I have never -- not once -- felt this way about
anyone entering the Games before. Not any of my previous tributes, nor anyone before. It
stabs at me, because it’s not only that I want her to live, and it’s not that I think she could
live, but it’s the fact that I don’t want her to die.

I like Johanna. I like her a lot, and not even as a mentor. As a friend. I’ve known that, of
course, deep down. But it’s only now that it hits me what that means.
I busy myself with tidying her room as she showers. I remake her bed and scoop up the
bodice of pearls neatly. I close the curtains, and drown out the noise of the parties down
below. And I wait.

“It’s like having my own personal maid,” she jokes, when she steps out. Her hair is wet and
there are still specks of green over her eyes, but she looks fresh. She looks tired.

“Busying myself,” I say.

“You can get changed too, if you want,” Johanna says, and goes straight to her bed. She
slides under the covers and curls up her legs next to her. It’s surprisingly intimate. I always
thought she was more closed off than this.

I realise she’s right, and I’m still in my clothes from the interviews. I shake my head. “I’ll get
changed later. Do you think you’ll be able to sleep?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I should sleep.”

"If you're scared about nightmares-"

"I'm not. I don't dream."

“You don’t dream,” I echo. “That’ll come in handy.”

“Mm,” she says. “What, do you?”

“Sometimes,” I come to sit next to her on the bed. Maybe I’m too close, but it feels like the
right thing to do. “It comes and goes. Sometimes I'll go weeks with nothing. Other times, I'm
not so lucky. But I’m good at compartmentalising.”

“I noticed,” Johanna says. She scoots over to give me room. “I used to think you were really
weird for that. I mean, I didn’t actually know you, but it always seemed like you dealt with
your Games really well. It gave me the impression that you were, like -”

“A psychopath?” I give a wry smile. “No. But I don’t know why I’m good at that. I don’t
know why it’s easier for me to box that away than it is for other people.”

“Survival tactic, I guess,” Johanna says.

“Maybe. I’m not sure. I think I’ve always been like that. I like to think of things as projects,”
I say. “It’s easier that way. When I got reaped, the idea of winning the Hunger Games felt
impossible. But the idea of making it out of the arena, of it being some sort of project, where
there was a goal that I could complete, that felt more manageable. Something to put my
everything into, you know?”

Johanna frowns. “I guess that makes sense.”

“I don’t know. Everything else that came with it -- it wasn’t quite part of the project, but it
made it easier to detach myself from it. It’s just a job,” I say. I don’t know why I’m telling her
this. It’s only that I’ve started, and now I can’t stop. “It’s tiring, though. I’ve got to constantly
keep going with new projects. If I stop, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll fall apart.”

“What about me, then?” Johanna asks. “Am I a project?”

“No,” I say. “Or, maybe. But not quite. You’re different.”

‘Right,” she says.

We’re silent, for a moment. The Tribute Centre is eerily quiet, and there’s only the sound of
the air conditioning and the very faint noises of cars outside that faintly run past our ears. It
might be five minutes we sit here, it might be ten, or it might be longer. It doesn’t matter.
Eventually, Johanna speaks up again.

“What’s it like, after?”

I know she doesn’t mean what I told her yesterday. She’s smart enough to know that there are
people listening. And while they won’t divulge a strategy, they’ll certainly find a way to
punish us if we speak about information that I should never have mentioned.

“It’s strange,” I say. “You’re different. You don’t even know what’s different. You just are.
And sometimes, people -” I hesitate. “ - sometimes, people back home see you differently.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I had a lot of friends, back home, before. It’s mostly just my sister, Ollie, now.”

“Sister?”

“Older. Two years,” I say. “She’s a pain in my ass.”

“I’ve just got my dad,” Johanna says. “And Lynn.”

“I direct Lynn,” I say.

“I know,” Johanna replies, and then rolls her eyes. “She used to talk about you all the time.
Drove me insane.”

I laugh. “Sounds like Lynn.”

“Is she any good?” Johanna asks.

“Not really,” I say, honestly. This makes her laugh, a real, genuine laugh. It’s nice.

“I’m not surprised,” Johanna says. “I always figured.”

We sit in silence for a while longer.

I don’t know why, but I think this might have been a bad idea. This is too close -- this is too
friendly. If she dies, this might even become grief. And sure, I’d wager some attachment is
needed to give me the drive to keep her alive, I think this might have gone too far. I think
about Finnick last year; the desperate look in his eyes, the lengths he went to keep Annie
afloat. It’s not that far -- not in the slightest -- but even if I tried, I’m not sure how I could
have detached myself. I really like Johanna. I really, really like Johanna.

“Look,” I say, because I need to say it. “This might be unfair of me to say. But I think if you
died, I wouldn’t be able to compartmentalise that.”

She looks at me. “Really?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I don’t know. You’re my tribute. It’s my job to keep you alive. But I also like
you, Johanna. And I think we’d probably be good friends, if you made it out of this.”

She takes this for a moment. “No. I think I needed to hear that.”

“Yeah?"

“Yeah,” she says. “It’s easier that way. I’m not fighting to get out for myself. I’m fighting to
get out for my dad, and for Lynn, and for you.”

I can’t help but smile. “You’re getting it.”

She looks exhausted, all at once. “You said yesterday that you wanted to talk to me tonight.
What about?”

“I think I’ve said it all, Johanna,” I say.

We wait, again.

“You can go, if you like,” she says. “I’ll be okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I need to sleep. And, no offence, but I won’t be able to, with you sitting
there.”

“Fair enough,” I stand. “I won’t see you tomorrow morning.”

“I know,” she echoes. “But it’s not goodbye.”

She’s not entirely assured. I know that. She knows I’m not, either. But still, we pretend. “No,
it’s not.”

I’m nearly at the door, when she calls out. “Ashley?”

“Yeah?”

“I meant what I said. At the interviews. You’re a good person.”

That hurts.

I turn around.
“Thank you, Johanna.”

“See you soon,” she says, firmly.

“See you soon,” I say, and I close the door.

Sleep comes surprisingly easily, but my dreams are swampy. I’m back in the arena -- my
arena. I stand on the shore of a beach. The shore is black -- volcanic, which was a hint,
though I didn’t know it at the time -- and the wind is sharp, whipping sea water and flecks of
dark sand into my face. I’m staring out at the horizon, at the ocean that goes on and on and on
forever, and I’m wondering when it ends, or if it ends. I wonder, if I swim far enough, will I
escape the arena forever?

I should get away from the beach. I’m too exposed, and there are ten of us left.

In my dream, events start to blur into one. I climb up rough cliffs, where the grass grows as
tall as my mid-waist. I’ve got a stick to ward off snakes, and a heavy stone in the other.
Larkspur from Eleven has already died at this point in my dream -- my brief ally for a day
and a half -- though I was never at the cliffs around this side of the arena alone. I catch the
familiar flash of red and white that predated her death, and I bring the rock down, hard.

It’s when Sylvia sends me a parachute for the gash I received after avoiding the boy from Ten
that the idea comes, in the very simple, plain, and ordinary way that all horrible ideas do.

Three at the Careers camp. I find the boy from Ten again, once I have the axe, but he’s half
dead from starvation and a festering wound, anyways, so it doesn’t feel like murder. Viola,
from Two, on the shore.

I’m not sure what I dream about, after that.

My alarm wakes me at seven. The Games Centre is open in half an hour, and so I waste no
time getting dressed. Walking downstairs, the apartment is already filled with the haunting
emptiness that follows the absence of tributes. Johanna and Caraway are already gone.

Blight is already at the dining table. There are no more elaborate spreads, and no more
Avoxes. Any idea of presentation is gone. I butter a slice of toast, but I feel too sick to eat.
Neither of us talk.

The ride down to the Click is tense. We’re both locked in our own heads, and all I can think
about is Johanna, on a hovercraft somewhere. I have no clue how far away the arena will be.
The Games start at ten, which means she’ll be in the stockyard at nine. If they picked her up
at six -- which they presumably did, as they usually do, unless an arena is particularly far
away -- and they spent about an hour loading the tributes onto the hovercraft, that’s about a
two hour flight. She could be anywhere in Panem -- or maybe even a bit beyond. It really
doesn’t tell me much, apart from the fact that the arena likely isn’t a historic landmark. The
Gamemakers can build any type of arena anywhere.

The Click is abuzz when we arrive. There’s the usual crowd of inner-direct Career mentors,
all crowded around one table. There’s movement, and energy, but no excitement. Even they
are nervous. Septima looks sick. Most mentors stick to their district pairs -- often taking seats
across from one another -- but one of the male victors from Eight, (Angus, maybe?) and
Haymitch sit together, probably on account of a predetermined alliance. Blight nods over to
Cecelia.

“I should sit with her,” he says. “Caraway and Twine confirmed their alliance last night.”

“Alright,” I say, and start to walk over to one of the solo desks.

Blight stops me. “Come sit near us. Johanna’s not technically in the alliance, but they won’t
care.”

I hesitate for a moment. But it’s never good to be alone on a day like this. “Alright.”

We sit down, and log in. I slip my glasses on -- the ones that make sure only I can see my
screen -- and the monitors buzz to life almost immediately. There’s only one screen that’s
live, which is Johanna’s vitals. I can see now that she’s doing alright. Elevated heart rate, but
that’s to be expected. The other two screens -- the monitor of the live Games feed, which the
Gamemakers control, and a second feed monitoring Johanna exclusively -- are dark. On the
big screen in the centre of the room, there’s a large countdown. Two and a half hours to go.

Some mentors are on the phone with sponsors. Some are furiously refreshing, waiting for the
catalogue of sponsor items to drop, but it’s pointless. They only release it an hour before the
Games.

I minimise Johanna’s vital tracker -- not much point for that now -- and check the Link for
any new sponsor deals. I’m happy to see there’s a handful more since the interviews. I might
have enough to get her some water, or maybe even a blanket, if I’m careful.

“Any theories on the arena?” Blight asks Cecelia, as she sets up.

She shakes her head. “Urban, I hope, but that’s probably a fool’s dream. You’re lucky that
trees are so easy to come by.”

“You’d think we’d have more victors,” Blight says. “Ashley and I are the last two winners,
and neither of us had forests in our arenas.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Cecelia says. “Maybe you should hope for no trees, then.”

“I hope whatever it is, it’s not a complete death trap,” says Blight. “Though that’s probably a
fool's dream too.”

“Here’s hoping,” Cecelia says.

I close the Link, and open Johanna’s vitals again. Her heart has started to settle. Her breathing
is regular. She’s in control.

Here’s hoping.
 Chapter 9
Chapter Summary

Johanna enters the Games.

Part Two

The Watcher

“ The public will stand, nay even enjoy,

a good deal of poetry. ”

Johanna

I close my eyes as the water washes over me.

They call it the stockyards for a reason. I’m meat, washed and readied for the slaughter. I run
my hands over my skin, and I wonder if this is the last time I’ll ever shower. I try to savour it.
I’ve always liked to be clean, and right now I want nothing more than to rinse the very last
traces of the Capitol from my body forever. The water is tepid. Not too hot, not too cold.
Depending on the arena, this might be the warmest I’ll be for some time. Or maybe it might
be the coldest.

I keep my eyes down on the drain, and try to keep focusing on the water lapping at my feet.

There’s a blinking red light over the door that tells me how long I have to shower. One
minute to go. There’s no sunlight down here. There’s nothing but cramped, grey ceilings and
the sound of piping. I don’t know where I am. The windows to the hovercraft that I was
flown in on darkened as we approached the arena, and time seemed to stretch out indefinitely.
I could be an hour out, or I could be on the other side of the continent.

I step out of the shower and get dressed into my underclothes. Pompey is waiting outside
with my arena uniform in a crisp brown packet. Even he doesn’t know what will be inside.
As I change, I tug at the skin on my forearm, around where they inserted the tracker. There’s
still the occasional shooting pains that run down my arm and through the ends of my fingers.
I try to ignore it, but nobody prepared me for this. I didn’t know it would hurt so much.

I brush my teeth, and I look at myself in the mirror. I look tired. I slept last night, but lightly.
A lack of dreams didn’t do much to quell the twisting knot of nerves in my stomach when I
woke, and I think if I ate anything, I’d be sick. At the very least, I still look like myself. I
hold my own gaze for a moment. Maybe it’s the last time I’ll see it.
I tell myself not to think like this.

Out in the other room, Pompey is sitting on a bench. There aren’t any plush velvet seats
anymore. Any pretence of luxury is gone. Next to him is my uniform. He stands up.

“I don’t think it will be very warm in there,” he says.

A flood of relief washes through me. Seven is up north, so we’re suited to a colder climate.
The heat never does us any good.

Pompey holds out the uniform, and I slowly start to dress. Dark trousers, long, fleece shirt
over a thinner undershirt. Thick-soled boots, suited for rocky terrain. A dark, fur-capped
jacket.

It’s obvious Pompey doesn’t know what to say, and I don’t really want to talk, so we don’t.
We sit in silence as the red light slowly blinks down the time left. I drink some water. I hope I
don’t piss myself. That happened to a boy, a couple years ago, on the platforms. He died
quickly, and all that the Capitol did was make fun of him.

I really, really hope that if I die, it’s not embarrassing.

There are two minutes to go. I close my eyes and try to quiet the pounding in my chest. My
heart has never beat this fast before. I think it might be trying to rip its way out of me.
Everything seems like it’s running in slow motion. I can feel the blood thudding through my
veins, and every inch of my skin is alive with electricity.

Pompey doesn’t tell me to, but I stand up on time.

“You go up the chute,” he says, pointing over to the metal tube on the other side of the room.
One side is open, but I can see the metal that will close me in. “But you can’t step off the
platform until the time is up.”

“I know,” I say. I want to roll my eyes, and I might, if I wasn’t so terrified. It’s Games rule
number one. I’m not stupid.

“So, don’t fall,” Pompey tells me. I don’t think he’s intending to be cruel. He might even be
trying to help. He’s so awkward, it comes across cruel anyways. “And - do try to do your
best.”

I shrug. I don’t think I can really bother to pretend. “I’ll try.”

“Good luck,” he says, flatly, as I step into the chute. There’s thirty seconds left now. A cool,
female voice over the speaker tells me to prepare for launch.

“Sure,” I say, and then, just because I don’t want those to be my last words, I say: “Thank
you.”

He watches me, as the walls close in and the platform starts to rise.
I’m not sure why my hands go to my pockets. I think I’m just looking for something to do,
But they do, and, on my left side, my fingers brush over something small and smooth.

My amber.

I had forgotten -- completely forgotten -- that it had been put in as my token. It must have
come in with the uniform when the Gamemakers gave the all clear. I close my eyes and trace
it with the palm of my thumb, feeling the lines and the ridges, but I don’t take it out. It’s too
dark in here to look properly, and I can see it perfectly in my mind, anyways. I just hold it.
And breathe.

For some reason, it’s enough to make something click. I’m not sure what. My heart is still
beating furiously, and blood still rushes through my ears, but there’s a strange sort of calm
that fills me all at once. I’m isolated here, in the darkness, as I rise. Finally, I feel as though I
can think.

And so, I think.

I think about my father, and how much I miss him, and how much I have missed him, ever
since I was twelve. I think about my mother, and for the first time, I think about her death as
something that she must have experienced too. I think about Lynn, and I hope that, even if I
die, she has a good life. I think about Ashley, and how I’d really like for us to be neighbours.

There’s sunlight peeking through the top of the tube. I can feel the air now -- fresh, cold. The
sound of water. The smell of stone, and mud, and pine. Pine. I breathe in, deeply. I’ll rise
through the top, any second now. I tilt my head up, so my eyes can adjust to the brightness.

Then, everything around me explodes open wide, and I am in the arena.

"Ladies and Gentlemen. Let the Seventy-First Annual Hunger Games begin!"

Sixty

seconds.

My head whips around, taking in my surroundings. The cornucopia sits in the centre of an
island. About ten feet behind me is the shoreline, and beyond it, dark green water. It will be
cold. We’re situated in the middle of a lake. Across the shore, on the other side of the water -
- a 150 metre swim, maybe -- ringing around the arena in the shape of a circle is a rough,
stony beach. To my left and behind me, climbing up in elevation, is a forest. From where I
stand, I can see at first pine and fir trees, making way to hemlock the higher up my eyes go,
until there’s a scattering of what must be whitebark pine at the timberline. Circling all the
way around about three quarters of the arena is a ring of peaks, like small mountains, bearing
down on the cornucopia. To the other side, on my right, on the shoreline, is sparse, rockier
terrain in strange, brownish reddish hues. I’m certain these will be littered with cave systems.
A river runs from the mouth of the lake down towards this side of the arena, twisting around
behind foreign moss-covered rocks.
Fifty seconds.

The island we’re on isn’t small, and I can tell it will be a run to make it to even the first few
bags, let alone the centre of the cornucopia. I can barely make out what the weapons at the
heart of the horn are. Knives, surely. I think I can discern a spear, and maybe a sword,
glistening in the cold light of the sun. It occurs to me that there might even be an axe
somewhere. If there is, I can’t make it out.

I can’t make it there, either.

Forty seconds.

I don’t see Caraway. He must be on the other side of the cornucopia. I am next to the boy
from Six and the girl from Three. Three tributes down to my right -- the closest career -- is
the girl from One. She’s poised to run. In her interview, she said she prefers ranged weapons,
and so at the very least, proximity won’t put me in any more danger than anyone else. This is
good. I’m lucky.

Twine is about a quarter of the way around the circle. She’s whipping her head back and forth
in panic, presumably looking for Caraway. The allied pair of Hatch from Eight and the girl
from Twelve are next to one another.

Thirty seconds.

There are two thin strips of land that connect the island with the mainland. They’re both
about six feet wide, a quarter of the way across the circle from me, opposite one another, one
towards the rocklands, the other towards the woods. This is the only way off the island.

My heart sinks. Anyone running down either strip is a perfect target. We’ll all spill out onto
the same patch of land. Nobody can scatter. It’s a trap.

Twenty seconds.

But I could swim it, maybe.

It’s only about two hundred metres, and I know how to swim. There are plenty of rivers in
Seven, and we have training drills every year on what to do if you fall into one. I know how
to swim against a current, and I have experience in handling very cold water, which I’m not
sure even the tributes from District Four have. This water looks very, very cold. I could make
it, and anyone would be hard pressed to catch me if I dove underwater.

But what if there’s something inside the lake?

I consider it for a second -- honestly, a second is all I have -- but I conclude that Gamemakers
wouldn’t kill anyone off so soon. Maybe they'll lull us into a false sense of security by having
the lake appear safe during the bloodbath, and then releasing something into it later.

Swimming sounds like it could be my best shot.

Sounds
like.

Fifteen seconds.

The thing is, though, the thing is that there’s a bag, and it’s really not that far in at all. Most of
the other tributes won’t know how to swim. I could go for it. Ashley told me not to,

but I could.

Still, a bag would weigh me down in the water, and it’s not a short swim. Four minutes to the
shore, probably, and I know that the biggest risk of drowning is being weighed down.
Suddenly, the concept of my jacket worries me. It’s fur-lined, and fur gets waterlogged
quickly. I don’t want to risk drowning on the chance that I could get out of here easier.

Ten se-con-ds.

But.

But if I run for the strip of land, I’ll have to cut through the circle, and I might as well pick up
a bag if I’m going in.

I look to the woods.

If I do cut through to my left, towards the land strip, I’ll be running between both tributes
from Four. My right side has the girl from One, but I’m not going to the rocky side -- no
chance in hell, even if there is a certain water source.

If there’s trees, there’s water up there too.

Five seconds.

Swim. Run.

Swim.

Run.

If I swim, I could freeze to death. Wet kills faster than cold does.

If I run, I double my chances of being attacked.

If I swim, I’ll have nothing to show for it.

If I run, I might just die with a bag in hand.

Food and shelter only matters so long as you’re alive to need it.

Three seconds.

I look towards the trees.

Two

seconds.

I pull my coat off.

The gong sounds.

I dive for the water.

I certainly didn’t underestimate how cold it would be. It sends a shock through my system,
and on instinct, I gasp as I submerge. Freezing water fills my lungs, and I struggle for air,
limbs tangling around themselves, clothes heavy. I cough and splutter as I break the surface,
heaving for air, but I don’t dare to stop swimming for a second. I might hear what might be
the sound of another tribute diving into the lake, but I can’t be sure.

By now, some of the faster tributes might have reached the horn. I’ll be safe from the ones
with close-ranged weapons, or those that don’t have anything to use except for their hands,
but I’m still close enough to the shore of the island that a well aimed shot with an arrow or
even a throwing knife could do some serious harm. I pull myself forwards, and dive deeper
under the water. It won’t be hard to spot me -- I’m kicking and flailing so much I must be
alerting everyone to my location -- but at the very least, the further down I go, the harder it
will be to hurt me.

I can barely see anything. The lake is murky green, and it seems to go down forever. But, at
the very least, if I can’t see, it means the others might not see me well either. The water is
fresh, I note, which means it’s probably a drinking source -- though, by the taste of it, I
wouldn’t risk it without purification.

What frightens me is the fact that I have no idea what’s in here. I get the sinking feeling that
there might even be something below me. Some mutt, or curiosity of some kind, observing
me before it swims up to toss me about like a ragdoll in the water. But that’s stupid -- I
remind myself -- because the Gamemakers would never take away from the thrill of watching
children kill other children during the start of the Games. My priority is whoever is back at
the cornucopia, and getting far, far away from them.

I’ve been swimming for about two minutes when I start getting really tired. My clothes are
starting to make me sink, and the light of the surface seems to be dwindling further and
further away. The problem isn’t so much the trousers or shirt, which are form-fitted and water
repellent (so the Gamemakers must have had some idea that a few of us might swim for it).
It’s the coat and my boots that are weighing me down. There’s a brief moment where I
consider losing the coat. I can’t make it without shoes, and honestly, I probably wouldn’t be
able to get them off if I tried, but maybe with enough sponsors, Ashley could get me a
replacement for the coat. It’s only that -- I suddenly remember -- he didn’t seem particularly
comforted by the amount of money we had. Our game was always to get sponsors later, not
earlier.

I steel myself, and push forwards.

I only break the surface when I absolutely need to. When I do, I can see that the shoreline is
only a few feet away. I’ve swum at a slight diagonal, meaning that I can make for the woods
quickly without being intercepted if I need to. Only a few tributes have made it off the island
so far. I can’t see what’s happening on the strip of land leading to the other side of the arena,
but to my left, there are at least three bodies collapsed on the ground. I tread water, turning
around to face the cornucopia, but nobody’s spotted me -- or if they have, I’m not deemed a
worthy enough target. The boy from One is trying to fend off the alliance from Eight and
Twelve -- the girl, a scrappy young thing, has somehow armed herself -- and his allies are too
busy picking off strays or guarding the supplies to be much help.

I’m about to turn around and -- satisfied that I’m not a target for now -- make it to the shore,
when I notice a commotion to my left. Some boy -- the boy from Three, or Five, or Nine, I
don’t even know -- is screaming out in pain. He’s been running down the strip of land leading
towards the forest, holding a bag, which he must have gotten at the Cornucopia, in front of
him, bundled in his arms. He’s been slashed in the back of the leg, and I can see the trail of
blood leading all the way down towards the island. It’s thick and dark, and it looks a bit like
tree sap. He’s just reached the shoreline when he falls, stumbling over the rocky shore. The
bag goes flying and there’s an unpleasant crunch sound as his body hits the floor, but he’s
still alive. He’ll stay alive for a while. He might bleed out from the wound, but not before
someone else finishes the job, I’d wager. He tries to stand up, but he must have done
something to his ankle in the fall, because he’s gasping in pain and he can’t quite get to his
feet, and then suddenly he’s openly sobbing, and screaming, and clasping his hands in the
gash behind his knee, soaking his hands in blood.

My eyes trail on the bag, which has skidded a few feet away, to the right, closer to me.

I’m not even guilty about the idea.

I swim, faster now, and once I’m close enough, I pull myself out of the water with all my
strength. There’s no slant in the shoreline so that I can stand out of the water, there’s just the
shore, and then a sharp, steep drop downwards. The air is frigid as I rise, but there’s no wind,
and it’s not as cold as the water, so I can bear it for now. I run as fast as I can towards the bag,
tripping slightly over my wet clothes, and my hand has just wrapped around the strap when I
hear the boy cry out in my direction.

Shut up, I think. If he keeps crying out, he’ll alert the tributes preoccupied at the cornucopia
to our direction. You’re going to die anyway. Who cares if I take your bag?

I don’t even turn to face him before I take off into the woods.

The woods.

Almost instinctively, I feel calmer once I’ve disappeared into the trees. Pine and fir -- not
dense enough for real cover, but enough to settle me into an uneasy peace. I will need to
continue uphill. Near the centre of the forest is where I’ll find the right sort of trees for the
shelter I’m looking for. Until then, I climb steadily upwards. I can’t quite run, not uphill like
this, but I try to move as quickly as I can -- keeping my ears and eyes out for any signs of
unusual woodland activity. I stop for a moment to wring out my coat and tie it around my
waist, but only for a second.

It’s been about an hour when I start feeling very cold. My clothes cling to me, and my
muscles are tense and tired from the weight. I must be heading eastwards, because the hill is
hiding the sun. At the very least, I’ll get some warmth come evening time, but that’s not for a
good few hours, and my teeth are starting to chatter. I need a way to warm up, and quickly.
My eyes dart around. They’ve not fired the cannons yet, which means the fighting on the
island must still -- in some manner -- be going on.

There’s a tree a little ways up, with sturdy enough branches to climb. I curse as it shakes --
hoping that nobody’s nearby -- and climb as quickly and as high as I can. It takes me a while
to reach high enough to see the island, and I have to pause for a second to make out the sights
when I do, but with enough focus, I can work out what I need to.

The Career tributes are centred around the horn. At least, what I assume are the Career
tributes. I spot four of them, but that doesn’t mean any of them have died. In fact, I’m just
hoping when I spot a figure -- it’s too small to tell who -- round the other side of the
Cornucopia and yell to the others. Something must be happening on the other side of the
horn, because three of the four run over, leaving only one person to guard the supplies at the
centre. Around the other side of the lake -- I can see better now -- there’s a strange, rocky,
mossy terrain that seems to be covered in a low fog. On the island, the ground is littered with
bodies. I don’t even stay to count. I can’t waste a second.

I climb down the tree, find as much dry wood as I can, and I start a fire.

There will be smoke, but I know how to start a good fire, even without matches, and in the
morning light, with the shade of the hill and, distracted by the Cornucopia, I wager I’ll be
safe. Still, to be certain, once I’ve removed most of my layers -- (I keep my underclothes on,
as well as my shoes, obviously) -- and strung them up close enough to the fire to dry, I walk a
little bit away and climb another tree.

The Capitol will probably enjoy this. Half-naked in the first hour and a half of the Games. I
wonder what they’ll think. I actually almost smile as I think about Ashley last night, and how
horrified he seemed at me changing in front of him. Last night. God, was that only last night?

But then I think about the bodies back on the island, and the boy, and his leg, and it doesn’t
actually seem all that funny anymore.

I take the time to look in the bag. It’s medium sized, and packed tightly. A padded blanket,
big enough to wrap around me at least twice, unfolded, good. Sodium tablets, iodine, dried
fruit, nuts, a half-full water bottle, and a flip knife, about the width of my hand. Good to cut
rope -- rope I don’t have -- or branches, but not strong enough to kill anything.

It’s better than nothing. I pack my bag, silently thank the boy from Three -- or Five, or Nine,
or whatever -- and wait for ten more minutes up the tree before I go retrieve my clothes by
the fire.

They’re not desperately warm, but they’re drier, at least. I put out the fire as quickly as I can,
dress myself properly, and continue uphill.

Eventually, the ground starts to even out. There’s still a forwards slope, but it’s not so much
of a trek anymore, and I can start to speed up and gather more ground. I’m unfamiliar with
the terrain here. The dirt is darker and more acrid than I’m used to, and there are strange rock
formations that crop up here and there amongst the trees. I’d be willing to bet that there’s
some sort of cave system circling the arena, based on my brief view of the west side, and I
wouldn’t be surprised if they lead all the way around to my part of the arena. I make a mental
note to keep my eyes on any openings in the rock, and start to travel at a diagonal.

It must be about mid-afternoon when the cannons start to fire. I pause, looking up at the sky,
and start to count. Nine. Nine cannons. Nine tributes, dead. I think about who I can remember
seeing on the island, but I have no recollection of who any of the bodies belonged to. The boy
whose backpack I took -- he’s almost certainly dead. What about Caraway? I don’t want to
think about Caraway being dead. I suppose it’s probably a good thing if he is, because he’s
almost guaranteed a slow death otherwise, but the idea that he’s alive brings me some strange
comfort. He was never cruel to me. If I ran into him in the arena, he told me he’d want to ally.
It’s a stupid decision, because he has no reason to want me as an ally -- and neither do I him -
- but I can understand where he’s coming from. It’s much nicer to think you’re not alone.

Of course, he isn’t alone, if Twine is still alive. I doubt it, but the Games always surprise.
Last year, I’d thought the girl from Four was a goner, but she ended up making it out alive.
So did the boy from Six the year before. I think about what Ashley told me -- about how the
Capitol was itching for a more entertaining victor this year. I certainly have something to
prove.

By early evening, two more cannons have fired. I find a thick, sturdy looking branch that I
can whittle with my knife into a sharp point. The cameras will probably be on me, at some
point. Games coverage is always messy on the first day, and I’m sure there will be plenty of
filler material covering analysts going over the day’s deaths, and what it means for the
remaining tributes. I’ll be shown, every once in a while, and if I am, I want to seem proactive.
I want them to be impressed that I've lived, and that I’m thinking of the future. Baby steps.
I’ll do the rest all at once.
Not to mention, I’m starting to feel a bit empty-handed with only a switchblade to keep me
safe. At the very least, a spear should keep any animals at bay. The woods are louder than the
ones back home, but the logging camps tend to keep fauna away. There are mostly birds here,
though I spot a couple squirrels and a strange, rabbit-mouse creature which pokes its head out
of one of the rock formations. The terrain might not be entirely similar to home, but I’m
certain there will be bears somewhere in the arena. Normal bears, I know how to deal with.
Gamemaker bears, I’m not sure. I proceed with caution.

The sky starts to darken, and I’m getting hungry. All I really want to do is dig into my pack
and pace out the food I’ve been given, but I know it will make me look dependent, and so I
take the time to forage for a few herbs and berries I recognise and eat a quick meal. By the
time I’m done, I know I only have a few precious minutes of daylight left. The trees around
here are safe to climb, but nowhere near as sturdy as what I’m looking for. I’m not sure they
could bear my weight for the entire night. I know the hemlock I saw wasn’t far out, so I must
have accidentally travelled too far north. I decide to hazard up a tree to see if I can spot
somewhere to sleep, or if I’ll have to brave it another way.

Climbing puts me at ease. I can see from here that I’ve travelled a lot further north than I
intended, and while my desired location isn’t too far off, it’s not safe to travel in the dark --
not when I’m certain other tributes will start hunting. I consider staying in this tree, but years
of being up trees has told me that this isn’t a good idea, and I’m about to start climbing down
when the anthem plays.

I stop, as they start to project the faces of the dead in the sky. The boy from One. God. They
don’t show me what did him in, but I remember seeing him take on the alliance from Eight
and Twelve. There were two of them against one, sure, but I make a mental note not to count
them out. The boy from Three -- that’s not the boy I saw. Both from Five -- that is the boy.
Both from Six. The girl from Nine -- so Caraway and Twine made it. That surprises me. Both
from Ten. The girl from Eleven. The boy from Twelve.

Eleven dead. That’s -- what -- thirteen left? Me, Caraway. Twine. Love from One, and
Cassius from Two. The girl from Two, and both from Four. Hatch and the girl from Twelve.
Three others. A lot of them are contenders. I think about the boy from Five, digging his
fingers into his leg and screaming into the sky. I feel a little sick.

I need to get to bed, though, and so I climb down as quickly as I can. It’s dark and
disorienting on the ground, and my eyes aren’t quite adjusted to the din. I need to trek slowly,
and I need to find somewhere to sleep -- quick.

I’ve just decided to head back south when I hear a noise behind me.
 Chapter 10
Chapter Summary

Ashley tries to support Johanna through the start of her Games.

Chapter Notes

Hello! CW for sexual content/dubious content in this chapter! Not explicitly shown, but
still there. Also, I'm working on a separate fic told from Finnick's perspective on his first
year mentoring and his introduction to the rebellion, which you can find on my account!
It also means you get to see Ashley's Games in full :)))

Ashley

Blight notices it first.

He doesn’t have much to worry about. Twine and Caraway are safe -- tucked up a little tree
halfway across the forest from Johanna. They didn’t manage to grab anything from the
Cornucopia, but Caraway has given Twine his coat to warm up with while he takes the first
watch. I don’t know how he doesn’t feel the cold. Based on the temperature readings, he
should be shivering. Maybe leftover adrenaline is keeping his blood pumping. Anyways,
she’s out cold half an hour before they even show the faces in the sky. Cecelia says this isn’t
much of a surprise. Apparently, Twine hasn’t slept at all in about two days.

Either way, I’m busy looking at the supply list when it happens. There’s a lot of random,
abstract items on the catalogue this year. Most likely, they’re there to throw us out for a loop.
Last year, the mentors were able to work out that there was some sort of flood on the way
based on the items that ended up on the list. It didn’t do much for the tributes in the long run -
- what’s a plastic cover going to do for a drowning tribute? -- but I imagine the Gamemakers
are trying to pull the wool over our eyes this time. Seneca Crane certainly seems like the
type.

Despite it, I’ve found something that might help. It’s a sort of spile. It probably has some use
as an actual spile in the arena, though I doubt Johanna will be prioritising finding tree sap
unless she’s dying of thirst. But it’s not too expensive to order, and if she affixes it to the end
of her makeshift spear, the pointed side might make for a better end than the one she’s
whittled for herself. She’ll need to find some rope, but if she’s smart -

“Ashley,” I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Look.”

I whirl around to switch screens, but Blight’s already pointing at the main broadcast. I
recognise Johanna’s figure almost immediately. She’s started to climb down the tree she
scaled earlier in the evening. At first I don’t notice anything wrong with the shot, because it’s
so dark, and I’m about to berate Blight for scaring me over nothing. But then the screen shifts
to another camera angle just a little bit away, over a small thicket, and I get the horrible sense
that something bad is about to happen.

My first instinct is that it’s the career pack. But no, the screen showed them earlier all the
way on the other side of the arena, starting their hunt in the lower, flatter, and more navigable
rock-lands. Normally, there’d be far fewer tributes around that side of the arena -- tributes
tend to flee for the woods, where there’s somewhere to hide, at least -- but this year, because
of the cornucopia layout, the arena’s split pretty much fifty-fifty between where the
remaining cohort have ended up.

It’s not another tribute in the bushes either, because if it were, the broadcast would have
shown them hiding in wait. We don’t get to see what’s stalking Johanna, because the
Gamemakers want to keep us guessing. The realisation occurs to me in a slow, sinking, sticky
feeling.

“Mutt,” I breathe, just as the cameras pan to show two blinking yellow eyes in the trees.

“Shit.” Blight removes his glasses to get a better look at the big screen. “What do you think it
could be?”

My first thought goes to a bear, but bears don’t have eyes like that, even Gamemaker bears.
So - what? It could be anything. The room feels as though it’s swimming. “I don’t know.” I
stand. “Get back up that tree!” I know she can’t hear me.

Some of the other mentors are looking at me. The room has considerably thinned out since
this morning, but most districts have at least one tribute remaining, and a handful of victors
have stayed around to help their partners. A lot of them are looking at me with pity. The first
mutt attack is never good. The Gamemakers always like to use it as an excuse to show off. I
feel sick.

Johanna doesn’t notice it. She reaches the ground and peers into the gloom. I think she’s
trying to get her bearings north. She tightens her backpack, and turns away from whatever’s
stalking her.

It pounces.

The moment it does, Claudius Templesmith’s voice blasts through the Click. What we see on
the big screen is exactly what the rest of Panem sees, including all the extra commentary and
information that they don’t get in the arena. I can turn to my private screen if I want to see
this uninterrupted, but right now, I can’t seem to get my feet to move.

“The mountain lion, or puma concolor , ” Claudius says. “Is a nocturnal predator belonging
to the felidae family, found in habitats with dense brush and rocky formations. As an ambush
predator, it stalks its prey - as we can see here, with Johanna Mason, from District Seven.
“In the wild, mountain lions have been known to kill grizzly bears, and even wolf packs, on
occasion. They’ve often been called the apex predator of their environment. Let’s see if
Johanna Mason can take on such a formidable opponent.”

Johanna is quick, and dives to the left when she hears the nose from the underbrush. We can
see the creature properly now that it’s left the shadows. It’s huge. It’s about as tall as
Johanna’s mid-waist, with short, reddish fur and a heavily muscled frame. It whirls around at
her and snarls, baring razor-sharp front teeth. Johanna grabs her handmade spear in front of
her with two hands, and starts to yell.

She would attract other tributes to her direction, but there’s nobody nearby apart from the girl
from Three, who is huddled in a cave and very obviously terrified. Johanna pushes forwards,
looking the mutt straight in the eyes and yelling all sorts of obscenities in a very loud voice. I
can tell what she’s doing -- she’s trying to scare it off. This usually works in Seven, where the
animals are more likely to flee and find easier prey. But this is a Gamemaker creation. It’s not
going to stop until they call it away.

I think Johanna realises this, because she stops all at once and takes a step back, trying to find
surer footing. The mutt pounces at her again. It must weigh a ton, and it flings her back into
the brush. I avert my eyes, feeling bile rise up in my throat. I don’t want to see Johanna’s
neck ripped out. But then I notice that she’s got it pinned back with her spear at half-arms
length. The mutt is partially on top of her, its hind claws digging into her leg. She’s losing
strength, and the spear is starting to slip.

I feel Cecelia’s hand on my shoulder.

What happens next is very quick.

Even with the night vision cameras, it’s hard to see what’s going on properly, and I’ve
completely tuned out Claudius’ voice giving the audience a play-by-play. Johanna rolls away
to the left, quickly, using the last bit of her strength to kick the creature off of her. While it’s
momentarily disoriented, she leaps onto its back, pinning it down, and dives her spear into
the back of its neck. The mutt lets out a gurgling snarl, trying to paw her off it, and then, after
a moment, it goes limp.

There’s a brief silence. Johanna looks up at the sky, as if expecting a canon, but, of course,
the arena is silent. She stumbles back away from it, limping slightly -- (she must have rolled
her ankle in the fall) -- and waits for a moment to see if it gets back up. When it doesn’t, she
moves forwards, pulls the blood-coated spear out of its neck, retrieves her backpack, and runs
away into the brush.

The camera cuts to the career pack, who are tracking the boy from Eleven.

I breathe.

“Where did that come from?” Blight says. He’s still standing next to me, looking at the
screen, slightly slack-mouthed.

“Fight or flight,” Cecelia says. “You see it every year.”

“No. No, not that. I’m talking about those curse words. Who taught her those? Ashley?”

“What?” I turn. “Sorry, what?”

“Did you teach her those?”

I look up from my screen. Johanna’s making her way north, slowly and carefully, but steadily.
Her breathing is haggard, and she’s whipping her head back and forwards, expecting
pursuers, but she’s almost entirely alone. “What?”

“The swear words. Are you okay?”

“Fine. Um. No.”

“You’re not fine, or you didn’t teach her the swear words?”

“Blight,” Cecelia says, gently. “His tribute nearly died. Give him a second.”

I shake my head. “No, it’s fine. I didn’t teach her that.”

“Well, it feels a bit out-of-character. She could barely looking at me in the eye, and now she's
on screen saying words that my own mother would have a heart attack over,” Blight says, and
then looks at me pointedly. “You didn’t know she was like that?”

“What?”

“You didn't know that she was capable of that?”

I pause. I suppose there’s no harm letting him know now. “I guessed.”

“You guessed?”

“We worked out a sort of -” I pause, unsure how to word this. “ - she came in, wanting to
look weaker than she was. I helped her out.”

“So what, it was a strategy?” Blight’s looking at me quite firmly. He has the right to be upset
that I didn’t tell him, I suppose, though it doesn’t seem quite fair.

“Yes,” I say.

“Smart,” Cecelia says, from the other side of the table, where she’s sat down again. She’s got
her glasses on, and seems to be scanning the sponsor list. Blight frowns at her. “Well, it was. I
certainly believed it.”

“He could have told me about it.”

“I could have,” I say. “I didn’t.”

Blight sighs and runs his hands through his hair. “Alright. Glad she ended up with you and
not me, then. I’m not tricky like you two.”
Tricky? I frown. I’ve heard the word used about me before, but never from another victor.
Certainly never from Blight. I don’t think I would have ever described Johanna as ‘tricky’. To
me, she’s as clear as air. Though, I suppose, in a sense, he’s right. She did trick him.

I try not to feel too bad about it.

I sink back into my seat. Johanna’s just found a tree that’s sturdy enough to sleep in. She
climbs it effortlessly, but I can see by the way that her eyes are darting around that she’s
spooked. She’s remarkably unbloodied, though there’s a smattering of it on the sleeve of her
jacket that she furiously tries to scrub away with her hand. I bite my lip. When you kill
something for the first time, it’s hard. Even if it’s not a person. When I killed the snake, back
in my arena, I kept thinking about it. I had to keep telling myself it was a mutt, over and over
again. It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real.

Johanna looks a bit sick.

“Ashley,” Cecelia says. “You might want to check that out.”

I turn. There’s a blinking red light flashing by my monitor. For the first time this year, my
sponsor phone is ringing.

I pick up.

Within the next two hours, I’m in the lobby of a foreign apartment halfway across the
Capitol. The collar of my shirt is digging uncomfortably into my neck, and I’m feeling hot
and shivery all at the same time. The outfit, specially sent over by my mysterious benefactor,
is a tight-fitting black ensemble. I wiggle a bit, trying to give myself a bit more room - uh -
down there. It's mortifying. I had practically run from the Training Centre to get to the car that
had been called for me before I was spotted. The other victors would have understood, I'm
sure, but I don’t think I could ever live down the sight.

By any measure, based on the outfit, I know very well what I’m getting into.

I could have turned it down. The request on the phone was worded very much like a business
deal, quid-pro-quo. It wasn’t an official demand, though it very well might have become one,
if I had declined. In a normal year, I might have risked my chances. But the sum is too high,
and I’m determined to keep Johanna alive, no matter the cost. The longer the Games go on
for, the more expensive things become, and I’m looking to get her to the end with as little
problems as I can manage.

The apartment I’ve been carted to is in the more upscale part of the Capitol. I’m waiting in a
foyer done up with entirely gold decor, black marble floors and ceiling, and golden leather
loveseats. On the wall facing me is a long mirror, where I can see my reflection under the
dim, slightly gaudy, lighting. I think I look embarrassing. Even ignoring the trousers -- I’m
going to have no blood circulation there ever again, christ -- everything else looks stupid.
With how tight the outfit is, you can absolutely tell that I haven’t kept up with working in the
woods anymore, and though I’m still on the thinner side, I can see that my stomach has
gained some unfortunate definition since I’ve won my Games. I was requested to come with
my hair down, and while that usually looks fine, the length of it with this outfit makes me
look like I’m trying really hard to attain this strange, feminine, svelte look that absolutely
doesn’t work for me.

I shake my head and check my official Games watch, which projects the time -- ten in the
evening -- and a small image of Johanna in the arena, now asleep in a tree. I think she’d
probably laugh if she saw me like this. That makes me feel better about it, at least.

“Checking on your tribute? I never imagined you’d have made a particularly attentive
mentor.”

I look up to see a man standing at the end of the foyer. He looks to be in his late thirties, and
seems fairly ordinary-looking, if a bit ostentatious. Tall, with slicked-back dark hair and skin
so pale, it looks as if he’s glowing in the dim light of the hallway. He’s dressed in nothing but
an ornate gold-and-black robe and loose, velvet shorts. I frown.

“Atticus Nero,” he says. “We spoke on the phone.”

“You didn’t give me your name,” I say.

“Well, I like to keep up some air of mystery. Funner, that way. Would you like to follow me?”

I pause, and then stand, making a point to avoid my reflection in the mirror. Up close, Atticus
Nero is very tall. I actually have to crane my head up to look at him properly. He’s got a
fairly youthful face, with wide green eyes that I’m not sure are his natural colour.

“You don’t need to worry,” he says, sweeping forwards and opening a door down the
corridor. “I have it on good authority that your girl won’t face any more trouble tonight.”

The room he leads me into seems to be a living room. It’s massive. Nearly double the size of
our own back at the Training Centre. There’s a huge glass wall that overlooks a view of
downtown, where parties are raging on. Children are running around in the streets, chasing
each other with coloured sticks and riding in toy cars. In Seven, right now, everyone is
probably asleep. Atticus sits down on a sofa overlooking the sights, and pats the seat down
next to him.

“Authority?” I ask.

“I have Gamemaker friends,” he shrugs. He gestures again, and I come sit. He observes me
for a moment. “You are very good looking. The cameras don’t do it justice. Such dark eyes. I
could lose myself in them.”

It’s not something I haven’t heard before, but the way he says it feels curiously intense. I tilt
my head and try for a smile. “You’re a fan?”

“Of sorts,” he leans back. “Oh, I loved your games. You caught me by such surprise. I was
sitting right here, when you did that thing with the parachutes. How smart.”

Games talk. I knew it was coming. I force a wider smile. “Well, thank you.”
“Oh, no, no, don’t do that,” Atticus waves his hand. “If I wanted you to come play house with
me, I would have asked Snow for you years ago.”

My smile drops. “Snow?”

“Yes,” he casually scoots closer. “But I don’t like that sort of thing. I much prefer it when my
interactions with victors are honest. I know you probably don’t want to be here -- which is
why I want to pay you properly for it. What's the fun in forcing you against your will? So you
can be honest with me too.”

It’s not usual, by any rate, but some of my pretence drops. Still, there’s something I don’t like
about Atticus. Even aside from the obvious. He’s looking at me too closely. “Honest? I
thought the Capitol didn’t like honesty.”

“Oh no, we hate it. But you're not Capitol. You're District. And I'm doing this to get closer to
you," he leans in. “So, tell me. How much of what we see on television is an act, and how
much of it is real?”

I blink. It's not a surprise that he's aware that I've put on a persona. A lot of people are. But
that's what most of them pay for. A character. They want to see what they get on the
television. This isn't usual -- in fact, it's very unusual. He shouldn't be asking. I shouldn't let
him know. Not just for myself, but also because I've been told to. Snow benefits from
keeping the victors in their own little personality boxes. It's not a threat if we're not seen as
people.

Atticus asking this, is, by nature, seditionist. He probably knows it, if he knows Snow. He
probably knows I'm thinking this too. His lips curl up into a smile.

He’s paying me a lot of money.

“My mentor and I thought up most of the pre-Games angle on the train,” I say.

“So, most of it, then?” He asks.

It's a lie. The truth is that, at least before the Games, it was none of it. Sylvia just told me to
be myself -- a more exaggerated, entertaining version of myself, but myself nonetheless. And
the Games were entirely me. It was only after they were over that I really had to put on a
mask. Casual, dry, calculating. I couldn’t rationally be seen as anything else. Not when my
win banked on the idea that I was some sort of uncaring mastermind. It’s a market. It sells.
It’s alluring. It’s almost certainly not me, which makes it so easy to adopt.

But I need to tell him something, and I can't bear for it to be the truth, so instead I decide for
a half-truth.

“I guess,” I say.

“I figured as much,” he says. “I mean, the Ashley Firth they show on television certainly
wouldn’t care about his tribute enough to come visit me to help her."
"Probably not, no," I say. It occurs to me that the rest of the Capitol probably thinks the same
thing. What will I have to spin, once I'm on television? I think about Blight. Tricky. Trick
them again. I think about Snow. No more tricky business, Firth.

Tricky. I don't even think I am.

"So, tell me, was all her pre-Games shtick an act too?”

My heart drops.

If someone like this is interested in Johanna, there will certainly be others. And while Atticus
hasn’t forced me to come here, it isn’t like he's not holding something over my head. I don’t
want her to fall into a trap like this. I know it’s inevitable if she wins -- she knows it’s
inevitable, but there’s something about choosing to do this that feels worse, that makes me
feel a bit sick, that -

Atticus notices my expression and laughs. “Oh, no, I’m not interested in her, don’t worry. Not
really my type. I was just curious.”

I try to read him. I can’t. “Yes. Johanna's was an act.”

“And the other tributes don’t even know. How smart! I suppose I should have expected that,
with you behind her," he says. "You know, I’ve always hoped you’d end up with a tribute I’d
wanted to sponsor. I’ve been wanting your company for quite a while."

"Have you?" I say.

Atticus smiles and leans up so close he's nearly in my lap. I can smell his cologne now. Sharp
and musty, with some sort of undertone. He notices my expression. "It's pine. I wore it
especially for you."

"Oh," I say.

He wraps his arms around me, and puts his lips to my ear. "How about a drink?"

I don’t want to drink, but I nod.

At the very least, it doesn’t take too long to get in his bed.

As I stare at the ceiling, I find that it looks a bit like the ceiling from the gymnasium back in
Seven. When I was a child, sometimes Ollie and I would have to wait for hours after school
before our mother would pick us up. We lived around the south side of the district proper,
near all the hotspots for gang activity, and it was never safe for us to walk home without her,
and so we were allowed to stay behind as long as it took for all the staff to pack up.
Sometimes we’d go into the gymnasium and lie down, looking at the ceiling, and tell each
other about our days.

“You think too much for your own good, Ash,” Ollie would always say, whenever I’d tell her
about any particular encounter. “I don’t think it’s as deep as you’re making it out to be.”
“But I’m not even trying to think,” I’d complain. “That’s just the way I am.”

She’d laugh. “That’s your problem, then. Be someone else.”

It was the most time we ever spent together.

I miss it. By the time she turned eighteen, they'd cracked down on the gangs, and we didn't
have to wait for our mother anymore. That summer, I was reaped.

Ollie stuck around, afterwards. Of course she did. But I can't pretend things haven't changed
with her. She's never said. But I can tell. She's one of the few people who knows the truth,
after all. What happened in the Games, whoever did those things in the arena, it wasn’t
someone else.

It was me.

I just try to think of the gymnasium and imagine she’s telling me about her day.

I return to the Tribute Centre. I feel dirty. I go straight up to the seventh floor to get changed
and run myself a shower that's so hot that my skin goes red and I lose all feeling in my hands
and toes. Based on the livestream, Johanna is still asleep in her tree, and I know I could
probably go to bed if I need to, but I can’t be in this apartment anymore. I need to do
something.

I tie my hair up, put on the loosest outfit I can find, and take the elevator down.

Finnick Odair is standing in the lobby when I get out. He’s in the same outfit I saw him in
this morning, and he looks frankly exhausted. I don’t blame him. Tuning in and out of the
livestream, I’ve been able to piece together that his tribute hasn’t had an easy go of it with the
rest of the career pack. He’s butted heads with the girl from One frequently already, and I
wouldn’t be surprised if they turned on him early. I doubt Finnick will be getting much sleep
in the next few days.

“Hey,” he says. “I noticed you left. Catching some z’s?”

“Something like that,” I say, and breeze past him.

He calls out. “Your girl’s still asleep. You don’t need to go back down.”

“I know,” I say. My skin feels as though it’s on fire. “I’m just - I’ll go check on Blight.”

“Blight’s asleep. Cecelia’s watching them. Ashley, are you okay?”

I turn. “Fine."

"You sure?"

I look at him. I don't know if I really want to talk about this. But this is Finnick, in any case.
He's the one who warned me about -
"Have you ever met an Atticus Nero?”

His face goes pale. “Unfortunately.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Well. I hadn't, until today."

"Right."

"So, I’m going to go across and - I don’t know - look at the sponsor list for a few hours, or
something and try to clear my head.”

Finnick looks as though he wants to say something. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, I could say the same thing to you.”

“Do you want to come to the roof?”

I pause.

“It’s past midnight.”

“Fresh air’s always good,” he says. “It’s not sea air, but then again, I don’t imagine the
Capitol smells much like the woods. Still better than being cooped up indoors.”

It’s a classic excuse. Sylvia used it with me. I used it with Johanna. I nod.

We ride up and, in silent agreement, walk over towards the garden on the other side of the
roof. It’s late, but the streetlights and lights from the building keep the space bathed in warm
light. Finnick goes to sit on a bench and observes one of the wind chimes, which is humming
in the evening breeze.

“Haymitch got these put in last summer.”

“I noticed," I say. "Makes it loud here."

He smiles. "Mm."

"Why'd he do it?"

“I suppose he just likes music,” he says, and looks at me funny for a moment. His expression
changes. “Atticus Nero. I didn’t think you’d be his type.”

“Apparently he’s been desperate to meet me.”

“Didn’t think you’d bite, either,” Finnick says. “You must really want to keep that girl alive.”

I shrug. “I like her.”

“Bad idea,” he says. “You shouldn't like your tributes. Of course, who am I to say that. I
made worse deals for Annie last year.”
“Anyone worse than Atticus Nero?”

“Plenty,” he shudders. “That’s what makes him so bad. I almost like him.”

“Almost," I say. "If I could get over the gaudy decor."

Finnick laughs. “It's the worst." He pauses for a moment, thinking. "It’s easier when it's men,
though. At the very least, I can separate the situation completely, considering I’m not even
the tiniest bit attracted to them.”

“Wish I could say the same.”

“What? You found Atticus Nero attractive?”

“No!” I laugh, despite myself. “I just can’t manage the separation.”

"Oh," Finnick blinks. "What about the women, then?"

"No luck there either."

"That's a shame."

"Yeah," I say. "I guess I just have to settle with the idea that I find the Capitol wholly
unattractive."

We sit in silence for a while. Finnick thumbs one of the wind-chimes. “I hate them.”

“Yeah."

“Do you ever wish you could do something about it?”

I turn to look at him. “Sorry?”

“I said - don’t you wish you could do something about it. Y’know. Stop them. Stop this.”

I pause. “Of course I do. But -”

“ - but?”

“What are we supposed to do about it?” I say. “We're just people.”

He frowns at me. "So are they."

So are they. "People with a whole lot more power than we have."

“Yeah. But if you could -”

“If I could -” I start, and then pause. There’s something about the way he’s looking at me
now. So carefully. He’s looking for something. I choose my words carefully. “ - I mean, I’d
do it, if I could. Of course I would. I don't have a single doubt about that. But right now, my
priority is keeping Johanna alive.”
He nods. “Yeah. I know.”

“Would you?”

There’s a pause.

“I’d burn myself and this whole place down if I could. Just need a match.”

“A match,” I echo.

“Mm.”
 Chapter 11
Chapter Summary

Johanna spends the next four days in the arena, trying to survive alone.

Chapter Notes

hello!!! apologies for a bit of a worse chapter. i'm very sick lol! i still wanted to get this
out though, so bear with! i'll probably edit this and make it better later :))

Johanna

When I awake, it’s still dark, and the air is stagnant and quiet. My eyes shoot open all at
once, taking in the dim grey canopy of leaves above my head. For a moment, I don’t even
dare to move. I stay deathly still, listening out for any noise, any hint that anyone or anything
could be nearby. There’s not much. A slight breeze. The sound of distant birdsong, breaking
the peace of the evening. And if I pay really, really close attention, the sound of a river,
somewhere in the distance.

I don’t move, even though I’m certain that I’m alone. I can’t. I cannot will my body to move,
even though my limbs are stiff and sore from sleeping up a tree, in the cold, all night, and I
want nothing more than to get up and get my blood pumping. My breathing is even, but I
don’t feel steady. I feel horrible. I feel sick.

I was worried that I would get into the arena and, once I fell asleep, I’d start being plagued
with nightmares. Now I know that isn’t the case. Fear won’t break my sleep, but it will visit
me when I’m awake. Lying here, perfectly still, I cannot stop the rush of images that speed
through my head. One after another, like the pages of a flip-book, like the one my father drew
for me, when I was a child. The mutt from yesterday, inches from my face, its breath coming
in hot and furious. The way it had flung itself at me -- how sharp its claws were, how heavy
its frame was against my body. How it had shuddered before it died. The smell of its blood.
And the boy from Five, grabbing at the gaping black wound behind his knee. Raw, flapping
skin. Had it been his tendon I’d seen? I open my eyes, but it does nothing to quell the panic I
feel, or the images that keep flowing in.

It’s stupid. I’m safe, or as safe as I can be right now. Nobody’s nearby. I’d hear them. I had an
encounter with one of the Gamemaker’s tricks last night, so they won’t play with me for a
while -- certainly not when there are other, untested tributes left to toy with. Apart from the
fact that I’m in the Games, there’s not really any difference between here and home, when I
think about it. But no matter what, no matter how many times I tell myself, I can’t seem to
calm down enough to move.

It takes about half an hour to coax myself up into a sitting position. By this point, the sun has
begun to rise, and the sky above me is streaked with orange. The woods in the early morning
always have a strange, liminal feeling to them. It must be something about the way the light
hits the leaves -- some part of it just doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t feel as though I’m entirely
awake.

The woods have come to life, though. In the light, I can see that the path I took last night is
almost certainly the direction I was aiming for — north. Thankfully it doesn’t look like I
created much of a trail in my panic, though a skilled hunter would probably be able to tell
that someone was here at some point. The tree I picked is in a sparser area of the woods. Not
exactly the most covert of locations, but at the very least, my tree has dense brush, and I
would be able to see anyone approach long before they spotted me. Right now, I can tell my
surroundings are devoid of much life -- apart from a squirrel, climbing up the trunk of a
nearby tree. Good. So there’s something to hunt.

But I don’t hunt. I don’t know how to. And even if I did, back home, there’s practically no
way to. The woods surrounding the populated areas of Seven are so loud, there’s no game for
miles. Hunting is very strictly forbidden. I’ve heard rumours that they’re more lax about it at
the logging camps, but those are miles out from anywhere I’ve been. And there are
checkpoints, if you’re given permission to go to the areas where there might be something to
catch. But even if there weren’t, there’d be no possible way for anyone to sneak away long
enough to hunt. There’s at least two armed Peacekeepers patrolling every excursion.
Obviously. Wouldn’t want an army of district workers all armed with axes to think of doing
anything.

There was talk of it, about three years ago. I didn’t catch much of it. I was fourteen, and as
far as I could tell, it was mostly between the oldest kids at school -- the seventeen and
eighteen-year-olds, the ones who were about to enter the workforce full-time, instead of just
hauling logs in the summer and on the odd afternoon. I think a handful of them had been
planning to storm one of the northern camps that they’d been assigned to and hold the
Peacekeepers up there hostage. I’m not sure what for. I’m not sure what they would have
even achieved.

Apparently, they got caught out planning by school administration, and were issued
detentions every evening for the next two months. Nobody got turned in, and by the end of it,
whatever thoughts of rebellion they held had been squashed out of their heads entirely. It was
Lynn’s father that dealt with most of it. I remember at the time, I’d been desperate to know
anything about the situation, but she’d sworn to me that he wouldn’t speak a word about it.
At the time, I hadn’t believed her. Now, I think that's probably true. If anyone had officially
caught wind of what they had been planning, those kids would have probably been hung.

That would have been Ashley’s year, I realise. If he hadn’t won when he did. I wonder if he
knew those people. If he was friends with them. If he hadn’t won, would he have joined
them?

I doubt it.
By any rate, the squirrel’s long gone, and my stomach is starting to protest. I have two slices
of dried fruit for breakfast, as well as a precious few sips from my water bottle, and swear to
myself that I have to find a way to hunt, or at the very least forage, today.

But, staring down at the forest floor, I can’t. I can’t move. I can’t get down, because
suddenly, all I’m thinking about is the boy from Five, and the yellow eyes of the mutt. My
breath hitches again, and, somewhat angrily, I will myself to stop this, because there’s no way
I’m going to survive if I start panicking at the idea of climbing down a tree.

It also occurs to me that, if I’m not already, I’ll be on camera soon. I can’t bear the idea that
someone might see me and assume I’m afraid over nothing. My fight with the mutt last night
-- it was just after mandatory viewing, so not everyone will have caught it, but surely this
morning, they’ll be showing a replay. If they cut it with me, looking as though I’m scared of
heights, they’ll see my kill as nothing more than a fluke. I need to act now, because if I don’t,
I could lose any small level of credence I’ve gained with the audience so far.

It still takes ten more minutes until I feel steady enough to get up. It takes me fishing out my
piece of amber from my pocket. I sit, cross-legged at the bend of the branch, back leant up
against the trunk of the tree and observe it, rolling it back and forwards between my fingers. I
think of my father. I wonder how he’s doing. I wonder what he’s thinking. Is he at home, or is
he still being taken care of by that victor -- Sylvia? I hope he’s alright. I wonder what he
would be thinking about me now, if he had the clarity to think about me properly. Would he
be proud of the fact that I’ve made it this far? I close my eyes. I think he would.

The second I feel like I’m able to, I let my feet hit the forest floor. The ground is damp with
dew, which muffles the sound of my jump, and the air is fresh. I let myself look up, and
breathe. Pack my bag. Take a moment to sharpen my spear. And then, I start to move.

I decide to follow the sound of running water. I must not have recognised it last night, but
somehow, in my trek up north, I must have travelled parallel to a river. It takes me a while to
find it. There’s something about these woods that seems strangely unnavigable. I’m not sure
if it’s the constant slope upwards, or the identical trees, or the rock formations that crop up
every once in a while, but I get the sense that I’m walking in circles.

Eventually, I stumble upon it. It’s obviously a Gamemaker creation. Instead of running
downhill, like a normal river would, it snakes around northward, staying in-line with the
forest elevation. I have no idea where it leads. The only river leading out from the lake that I
recognised back at the Cornucopia ran off from the other side of the arena. Is it possible that
this river leads all the way around there? I’m not sure. There’s almost certainly a reason it’s
here.

Despite the lack of slope, the water runs rapidly. Eyeing it, I assume it must be about waist-
deep, and obviously freezing cold. I need to be careful not to fall in. Even with my
experience back home, I’m not sure I’d make it out. There are probably some very sharp
rocks in there.

I do observe it for a moment. It looks clear enough, and it’s either coming from the lake, or
from further uphill, via some sort of glacial source. Either way, it’s drinkable with
purification -- which I have. I walk a bit until I find a flat stone overhanging the water, and
once I can tell that it’s sturdy enough to bear my weight, I fill up the rest of my water bottle
and wait.

As I do, I watch the water run past. I wonder what the Gamemakers have planned for the
lake. It must be something. There’s no way that they would create such a large fixture in the
arena and not do anything with it. It’s probably in my best interests to stay as far away from it
as possible. I frown, peering into the river. Could they possibly send something upstream?
Some kind of water-virus. They did that, in one of the older games. Invited everyone for a
feast, and then sent in a sort of gas that made everyone completely paranoid and unaware of
their surroundings. My mind is just running through the possibility when I see the tell-tale
sign of a fish swimming downstream.

I pause. I wait. A minute passes, and then, yes! Another one. So there’s another source of
food here. I look around. My makeshift spear won’t be good for much when hunting on foot,
but maybe, I’ll be able to catch something in the water. I look up. It would do some good for
the audience to see me hunting, I think. They’ll see I’m self-sufficient. I’m a survivor.

I walk a little bit upstream, until the water gets shallower, and peel off my shoes and socks.
The river is ice-cold, like I suspected. The bottom is made up of rocks, like the lakeshore, and
I let them roll under my bare feet. Something about the cold water on my bare skin
invigorates me, and I find the world around me pull into sharp focus. I take my spear, place
myself into position, and wait.

It takes about an hour and a dozen failed tries, but I eventually catch what I think is probably
a salmon. The sun has fully risen, and is beating down on my back in full-force, but the water
is refreshing. I’m aware that if there’s fish nearby, there will probably also be bears.
Normally, I wouldn’t be on alert, because my rare experience with bears has told me that they
will avoid noise at all costs, but after my run in with the mutt last night, I’m keeping my eyes
peeled. I pull myself out of the water and sit on the shore, sipping water and eyeing my
surroundings.

Daytime is when to light a fire, but I wait until I’ve found a sheltered, thick grove before I
even think of touching firewood. I need to rest anyways. The end of my makeshift spear has
splintered with the exertion of fishing, and I don’t feel confident going about with only my
flip knife to keep me defended. I use the old spear to form a sort of spit, which I roast the fish
on, and go about sharpening the end of a new stick.

It’s not going particularly well. I’m not very happy with it. I haven’t been able to find a
branch as easy to whittle in this part of the woods, but I don’t want to risk travelling that far
down. I shake my head, check the fish is done cooking, put out the fire, and set off again. I
walk another hour or so north -- keeping the sound of the river to my left -- before settling
down to eat lunch. I’m just thinking about seeing if it’s worth it to try to head further
downhill when the parachute comes.

It’s gentle on the wind, and I leap up to my feet. I see it fall, but I examine the branches of the
trees above me before I run to open it. Tied to the end of smooth, silver silk, is a pointed
spile. I frown at it for a second. What does this mean? I had assumed it would be more food.
Certainly I’m not able to afford anything else yet. I have a source of water. Why would
Ashley send this to me? I pause, and try to think. It’s made of metal, cold to the touch. Is he
sending me a message? I don’t know what he’d be trying to say. I roll it around in my hands,
and the sharp end runs against my palm. It’s sharper than I expected. It almost hurt.

I pause. I take the sharp end and press it against my palm with my other hand. Yes. It’s sharp.
I look at the end of my spear, and then up at the sky.

“Thank you, Ashley,” I say.

Using the string of the parachute, I manage to find a way to tie the spile to the end of a
branch, like a spearhead. It takes a bit of fine-tuning, but eventually I manage to get
something far better than my original weapon. It won’t get damaged over time, at least. Once
I’m done, I find a rock formation, climb to the top and sit, looking out at my little part of the
woods.

Where do I go from here? I frown. I can probably bide my time for a day or two, but what
then? I’ll need to act. And what about the other tributes? Is anyone nearby? I run through the
remaining names in my head. There are thirteen of us. Five in the Career pack, so that’s eight
of us. Based on the way the Cornucopia was set up, odds are that means there’s four in the
woods and four in the rock-lands. So, three others in the woods, maybe, at least. This isn’t a
particularly large arena. Discounting elevation, I could probably ring around three quarters of
it in a day.

But my sponsor gift. I pause. Why would Ashley have sent it to me while I was eating lunch,
instead of when I was actively working on the spear. That doesn’t make sense. I probably
would have gotten its purpose immediately. And it’s not like he only just got the money in.
Anyone who sent me sponsor money would have done so after my fight with the mutt
yesterday. Unless. He told me he’d be very specific about when he sends gifts. So maybe,
maybe, he didn’t send it, because someone was nearby.

Not the careers, that’s for sure. My fire wasn’t easy to spot from far away, but anyone nearby
would have noticed smoke. Someone hiding nearby -- too afraid, or weaponless to approach.
But still, someone . I think for a moment. Or am I making this up? I wish Ashley could send
me notes, but of course, that’s not allowed. I put my head in my hands. Okay. No going back.
I pack up again, and continue north.

It’s a good idea. By nightfall, there’s a cannon, and the hovercraft that comes to pick up the
body is in the exact place that I’d stopped to light the fire.

The next two days pass relatively uneventfully. On the third day of the games, the boy from
Eleven dies, leaving just eleven of us in the arena. I’ve narrowed everyone down now. Love
from One. Cassius and the girl from Two. Both from Four. Me. Caraway. Twine, and Hatch.
The boy from Nine. The girl from Twelve. Eleven of us left by the fourth day, and as far as I
can tell, the boy from Nine and I are the only two not in an alliance. Everyone else has been
hunted down.

I wonder how Caraway is doing. Is he still with Twine, or did they get separated at the
Cornucopia? I can’t imagine either of them making it far without the other. Is he healthy? Is
he going through withdrawal? Somehow, the idea that he’s sick, somewhere in the arena,
makes me feel unsettled.
The fourth day passes on without a death, and I know something will happen soon. It’s why I
start moving downhill again. I’ve spent the past two days travelling up the mountain,
following the river. The spearhead has been useful in catching fish, and I’ve not been needing
for much over the past few days. I’ve almost settled into a feeling of calm. Every so often I’ll
jump at something behind me, or remember the look in the boy from Five’s eyes, but mostly
I’m at peace. It’s almost peaceful here. If I close my eyes, I can imagine I’m home.

That’s why, when I find the tracks on the fifth day, I don’t panic. They’re manmade -- easily.
One person. A boy, by the look of it. Someone with a heavy tread, who isn’t used to
travelling through the woods without disturbing the brush. The boy from Nine, likely.

I don’t know why I follow them. I just get the feeling I have to. I’m not sure what I’m going
to do. Attack him, maybe? Ask for an alliance, maybe. I don’t like the idea that I’m one of
the only unallied tributes in the arena. It’s something remarkable, for sure. They’ll be
commenting on it. The audience might even like it, if I offer. I know nothing about this boy.
Maybe he’ll try to kill me. If he does, I’m ready.

I think.

I think I’m not going to think about it too much.

It’s crazy, how easy he is to track. He leads me straight to a cave, a handful of hours’ travel
from the lakeshore. I’m uneasy, being this close, but I’m confident enough in my ability to
stay silent. It’s about mid-afternoon when I find it. It’s located in a grove of other caves, and
is almost entirely unremarkable. Certainly not a terrible place to stay, all things considered. I
hesitate before I approach it, holding my spear at the ready.

But as I get close, it becomes obvious that the cave is devoid of life. Not empty , per-se.
There’s a blanket rolled up in the corner, and the balled-up remnants of a parachute. I eye it,
carefully. So he has sponsors. This could work for or against me. If he agrees to ally, we can
pool funds. If he doesn’t, he might have a weapon too. Maybe a better one than mine. I try to
remember anything about him at all, but I come up empty.

The cave mouth is small. Near the back, it narrows into a dark point, curving to the left. From
the entrance, it doesn’t seem as though there’s anything, but as I get closer, I realise there’s
actually a bit more space than I expected, around a bend. It’s tiny, and I’m not sure I could fit
in there -- at least, not if I wanted to jump out to surprise him. I’m not sure if I want to
surprise him. I’m not sure what I want at all. I don’t know why I’m here.

I decide to wait for him to come back.

And he does. Around sunset, I hear his footsteps coming. My heart shoots into action and I
grip my spear tighter. I’m around the front of the cave, back against the wall, so I won’t be
caught unaware. I’ve just got a plan formulated -- talk first, attack second -- when I hear the
sound of running feet in the distance.

The boy sees what I don’t. He tries to run, but they’re on him in an instant. I can tell who
they are by their voices. Love’s voice comes high and nasal.
“Oi! You been hiding in one of these caves?”

“Yes - yes,” the boy stammers. He’s gasping in pain. I can’t tell what they’ve done to him.
There’s only two of them, I think, but I can’t tell who the other is. “Please, just leave me
alone, and I’ll -”

“You’ll what? ” she says.

“I’ll help you?” he tries.

Love laughs even louder. “With what? With you around, everyone in the whole arena will be
able to follow us anywhere. You’re piss easy to track.”

“Please!”

“Which cave’s yours?” she asks.

“Sorry?”

“Which cave is yours? If you tell me, maybe we’ll let you go.”

“Really?” The boy sounds woozy with pain.

“Yeah. We’ll just take your shit.”

“The third one,” he says. “Just, please -”

There’s a horrible noise, and he’s cut off. Love scoffs again. “Stupid.”

I’m so caught up listening to the situation that I completely forget where I am, up until the
canon fires. Then the conversation catches up to me. His cave. The cave I’m in. My heart
does a sort of dance, and in a panic, I scramble back. I can’t take these two unprepared. Not
with my shoddy spear. Love and the other one -- whoever they are -- will have real weapons,
from the Cornucopia. I’m no match for that.

I don’t even realise I’m squeezing myself round the back -- to the hidden curve -- until I’m
already there. It’s a good thing too. I’ve just pushed myself flat against the stone wall when
the footsteps grow close, and then stop.

“Bit of a shithole,” Love remarks. “Look, he even got a sponsor gift!”

Footsteps pace around. I’m not sure I remember how to breathe. If they find me, I’m fucked.
There’s no way I can fight like this. There’s rummaging.

“Leave it, Love,” a voice says. Male. I try to place it. It must be the boy from Two, Cassius.
He sounds tired.

“What? I’m trying to work out what they gave him!”

“Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. We have enough.”

“I’m curious,” Love says. She sounds annoyed with him. “Where’s your sense of fun,
seriously!”

“They need to take the body,” Cassius replies. “Come on.”

I can almost hear Love roll her eyes. “Fine.”

I swear I hear them walk away. I swear. I swear I wait long enough. But when I feel like I can
finally breathe -- when I feel like they’re gone -- and I move an inch, enough to peer out from
behind the bend in the wall, Cassius Cybele is standing at the mouth of the cave, staring at
me.

I don’t move. He doesn’t. He looks at me. Curiously. Jerks his head to the side.

“Cassius, come on !” I hear Love call. “I thought you wanted to get out of here!”

He narrows his eyes at me, and smiles.

And then he walks away.

I must wait for another ten minutes. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to think.
What was that about? Why didn’t he just kill me? My heart beats at a million miles an hour,
and I think I might be sick again. But I’m certainly on television now. There’s no chance I’m
not. I close my eyes, and try to steady myself. I’m okay. I’m alive. I’m okay.

I need to get out of here, because if the hovercraft doesn’t come, Love will certainly get
suspicious. I hold my breath and leave the cave. The body of the boy from Nine lies a few
feet away. His throat has been slit, and he has an arrow piercing his lower leg. I look. I can’t
stop looking.

My hand finds the piece of amber in my pocket, and I keep moving.

It’s only after about five minutes that I realise I’m travelling in the same direction as Love
and Cassius. At first I panic, before I realise that this might be a good idea. To the audience, it
will look like I’m tracking them. And if I’m quiet, I can work out exactly where they’re
based, so I know where to avoid.

But not only that. I want to know. I want to know what Cassius was trying to do. Why didn’t
he kill me? Why did he smile at me? It was almost as if he knew something I didn’t. As if he
was trying to tell me something. But what? I frown. I can’t think straight. There’s still
adrenaline in my system. Everything around me is swimming. I can hear the sound of the boy
from Nine having his throat slit. I want to run, but I’m standing still again. I can’t move. Why
can’t I move? I need to move.

A hand closes around my shoulder.

I whirl around, spear at the ready.

“Johanna!” Twine whispers. “Hi!”

 Chapter 12
Chapter Summary

Ashley solidifies his tribute's new alliance, and makes two of his own.

Ashley

We spot Twine before Johanna does. She’s stumbled on a spot not far from their camp, but
Twine is already on high alert. Barely ten minutes ago, Cassius and Love crossed by the exact
same location. Thankfully, even though she was nearby, Twine was already high up in a tree,
and they didn’t seem particularly alert -- likely satiated from their previous hunt. At least,
Love seemed satisfied. Cassius remained — (and still remains) — quiet. Based on the past
few days of footage, that doesn’t seem particularly out-of-character for him, but now I can
only dream of guessing what’s going on in his head. Mentally I’m already halfway out of my
chair, cornering Septima Cybele about what exactly her nephew intended when he let
Johanna go. Physically, I’m glued to my screen.

It appears as though Johanna’s a step ahead of me. She’s tracking him, or, at the very least,
she’s giving the appearance of tracking him. She’s about ten minutes behind the pair,
considering her pace, and I stay close to my monitor in case anything else goes wrong —
which, based on recent events, it probably will. She’s confused, and I can tell. Her eyes are
wide, flickering back and forwards across the forest floor almost erratically, and her breathing
is fluttery and uneven. She’s likely trying to rationalise Cassius’ actions, and I don’t blame
her. I don’t think I could even begin to try, if I were in her position. Certainly, the audience is
probably going to have a field day with this. Perhaps selfishly, I’m glad. Whatever his
motivations were, it’s probably going to end up with a heftier sum in my sponsor account,
and an increased chance at getting Johanna the throwing knives I’ve had my eye on.

Either way, her preoccupation is probably why she doesn’t spot Twine right away. Normally,
I’m certain that she would have noticed Twine before Twine even caught wind of her.
Working in the woods teaches you a certain level of alertness, and any difference in ambient
sound would usually ring out to her as suspicious immediately. But she’s confused, and she’s
just seen the dead body of a boy, and she’s certain that the enemy is ahead of her, so when
Twine slips down from the branches above her, she doesn’t even register that anything is
wrong.

Twine has picked up climbing remarkably quickly. Caraway taught her the first day of the
Games, and by the fifth, she’s scrambling up and down trees like a natural. Cecelia says that
this isn’t unusual -- workers in Eight get shuffled around between factories like a conveyor
belt, and picking up new skills of the trade quickly is par for the course. She’s lucky. If she
hadn’t been taught, she’d almost certainly be dead by now. Caraway too.
Caraway. I almost grimace at the thought of him. My eyes flicker over to the next table,
where Blight is sat, head in hands. His tremor has picked up again, and he looks ashen under
the harsh lighting of the Click. None of us have slept much over the past few days, but Blight
in particular looks poorly rested.

It’s no wonder. There’s really nothing he can do for the boy. Caraway’s condition has steadily
deteriorated over the past few days. There’d been some hope that whoever slipped him an
extra dose of whatever he’d been taking -- Finch, apparently, though now I’m not sure that’s
wholly true -- would have bought him a few days in the arena, but it’s becoming increasingly
clear that the dosage wasn’t high enough to do anything but give him one peaceful night
before the Games began. He’s very ill, and there’s not really anything that Blight, or anyone,
can do about it.

“I hope he dies in his sleep.” I’d heard him say to Cecelia one night, under his breath. “At
least it would be painless.”

There’s no luck. Twine has been trying to keep him alive, but it’s starting to look like he’s
holding her back, and Blight and Cecelia are in agreement that she should probably leave him
soon. They’ve been confined to one part of the arena, and with the Careers moving their base
nearby after the acid attack by the rock pond, they have nowhere to go.

Twine reaches Johanna, who has stopped for a moment. Her hand curls around Johanna’s
shoulder, and the other girl whirls around frantically, makeshift spear outstretched, inches
from Twine’s face. She doesn’t even seem to register who she’s looking at until Twine
speaks.

“Johanna!” She whispers. “Hi!”

Johanna blinks, once, twice. She doesn’t lower her spear. “Twine?”

“Yeah!” Twine steps back, holding her hands out. “Yeah! Look, look — I’m not going to hurt
you! I promise.”

“What are you doing here?” Johanna’s eyes are still intense, and while she doesn’t drop her
weapon, her arms relax slowly. “Where’s Caraway?”

Twine’s face flutters. “He’s back at our camp. It’s only a few minutes away. I was just getting
food.” She points to a pouch around her waist, where there’s a handful of smushed red
berries. It’s practically the only thing they’ve been able to eat. Twine clearly doesn’t
remember any other plants from training, and they’ve certainly not been able to scrounge up
many sponsors in the past few days. Not that it matters much. Caraway doesn’t seem to be
able to stomach much food anyways.

“Did you see the others pass through here?” Johanna asks. “Love and Cassius?”

“Who?”

Johanna rolls her eyes. “The girl from One and boy from Two. Did you see them?”
Twine nods. “Yes. I was lucky I was up in that tree.” She blinks in confusion. “How did you
know they were coming?”

“I was following them.”

“You were following them?”

“Yeah,” Johanna shrugs. She seems casual, but I can tell that at least part of it is forced.
“They killed the boy from Nine, back by the caves over there. You’ll see it in the sky
tonight.”

“Were you with him? Did you get away?” Twine’s eyes are wide.

“No, I didn’t -” Johanna’s voice seems suddenly frustrated. “Look, I’m trying to find out
where their camp is. I won’t hurt you or anything, but if you could let me go -”

“I know where their camp is.”

Johanna turns. “What?”

“I saw them set up. Yesterday. They’re by the lakeshore, about a half-hour walk from here. I
don’t know why they moved, but some of them didn’t look very good when they got there.
Most of their clothes were singed, and some of them had burns on their arms and faces.”

“Oh,” Johanna frowns. “That’s strange. Neither Love or Cassius looked bad.”

“They’re the only ones who seemed unharmed, when I saw them,” Twine says. “That’s
probably why they were the ones hunting, I think.”

“And you were tracking them? Down by the lake?”

Twine shakes her head. “No! No, I was just trying to get water. When I saw them, I ran
away.”

Johanna narrows her eyes. I can tell what she’s thinking. The river up the mountain is only an
hour's walk away. Twine certainly hasn’t explored much, if she’s depending on the lake as a
source for water. “Why haven’t you moved camps, then, if you’re so close?”

Twine’s mouth goes tight. “We didn’t want to risk being spotted.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Johanna,” Twine frowns. “You’re acting strange. Is everything OK?”

“Peachy,” Johanna says, dryly. “Can I go, please?”

“Hold on!” Twine grabs her shoulder again. Johanna raises the spear. “Why don’t you join
us?”

Johanna actually laughs. “ You ? Yeah, no thanks.”

“I’m serious!”

“You didn’t even want me in the first place, Twine,” she says. “And honestly, what can you
offer me? Weapons? Sponsors?” Her eyes fall on Twine’s half-empty pouch. “A handful of
berries?”

Twine blinks. “I can show you to their camp! And we sleep in shifts. You’ll get a better rest
that way!”

“So, you can offer me nothing, then?” Johanna raises an eyebrow.

“Just come and talk to Caraway. Please.” Twine says. “He told me if I ever ran into you, he
wanted you in our alliance.”

There’s a pause. Eventually, Johanna sighs. “Fine. But this isn’t an agreement. Okay?”

“Okay.”

She lowers her spear. “Lead the way.”

“Ashley?”

I turn. Cecelia is smiling at me. “What?”

“Want to come sit with us?”

It’s not an alliance yet, but we all know it probably will be. Johanna’s hesitant, but she’s been
on her own for the past four days. Whether or not she considers it advantageous, her need for
human connection will win out, and, as the only unallied tribute in the arena, she stands a
better shot with Twine and Caraway around. I don’t really hesitate before unplugging from
my monitor and sliding in next to Cecelia. Blight looks at me.

“She’s not going to like what she sees,” he says.

“I know,” I reply.

Twine and Johanna are catching each other up on what’s been going on with them in the past
few days. Johanna explains what happened in the cave with the boy from Nine, but avoids
mentioning the fact that Cassius spotted her. She also avoids talking about her encounter with
the mutts, and deflects when Twine asks her how she got her spearhead, lying that she found
it in the pack she took from the boy from Five. She’s still trying to underplay herself. She’s
still playing the game.

Twine explains what she and Caraway have been up to. Johanna seems surprised that they
haven’t been caught by any Gamemaker tricks. To her, it seems like nothing has really
happened in the past few days. Of course, she doesn’t know what we do. There’s been a
steady trickle of deaths across the Games so far, and the inner-district alliance has had their
fair share of adventure with a handful of Gamemaker traps. The audience seems fairly
entertained, and there are enough interesting tributes to bet on this year that Caraway and
Twine have been left in relative solitude. It makes sense. They want to keep enough fodder
alive -- in the first week, at least -- so that the deaths stay padded out.

On the main screen, footage cuts from Love and Cassius making it back to camp -- (they’ve
already shown Twine and Johanna’s interaction, and recaps aren’t particularly interesting to
the audience, so they’ve been left alone for now) -- to the alliance between Eight and Twelve,
who are trying to speculate on who’s just been killed. They run through the tributes, and I
feel a twinge of satisfaction when I realise they’ve forgotten Johanna entirely. Haymitch --
who is alone at the table, since the other mentor from Eight, Angus, is taking a nap -- rubs his
eyes in frustration, but says nothing. His girl, Mazzy, is a sharp, scrappy thing. It’s the
furthest any of his tributes have made it in a long time. Apparently, she’s gotten into a
number of fights back home in Twelve, and it’s not a surprise. She almost single handedly
took down the boy from One at the Cornucopia. She wasn’t playing fair -- and there’s a
contingent of the Capitol who certainly aren’t pleased with it -- but she’s alive, and wide-
eyed. If I were in the arena, I think she’d be who I would keep my eyes on.

My attention turns back to my own screen. Johanna and Twine have arrived at the camp. It’s
poorly hidden, and it’s a miracle that nobody’s come across them yet. There’s a makeshift fire
pit in the centre of a clearing -- apparently, setting fires in abandoned warehouses is a
common way to stay warm in Eight -- and the ground is obviously tousled and marked from
days of use. Caraway lies on his back, partially obscured by a grove, wrapped in a blanket.
His skin is pale and covered in a sheen of oily sweat, and his dark hair is knotted. He breathes
in and out, unevenly, as if he’s trying hard not to throw up. Johanna stops in her tracks when
she sees him.

“Caraway,” Twine says, gently. “Johanna’s here.”

“Johanna?” he croaks, and tries to sit up. His eyes un-focus, and it looks like the world swims
before him.

“Hey,” she says. Her voice is measured and flat.

“You look -” he pauses. “You look good. I didn’t think you’d look that good.”

It’s true, Johanna is certainly one of the cleaner tributes in the arena. She’s stayed close to the
river, and even though the temperature has slowly been dropping over the past few days,
she’s made an effort to wash up as much as she can. There’s still the thin layer of grime that’s
unavoidable from living outdoors for an extended period of time, but compared to Caraway
and Twine, she’s almost spotless.

“You look like shit,” she replies.

He laughs, weakly. “Yeah.”

“Do you think she’ll kill him?”

I look up. Blight has turned away from his monitor, and his gaze is fixed on me. “Sorry?”

“Do you think she’ll kill Caraway?”

I look down at my screen again. It’s obvious Johanna is wrestling with the same thoughts.
There’s no way he’ll survive, unless everyone else in the arena drops dead. It would probably
be merciful. But Johanna hasn’t killed anyone yet, and killing someone she knows -- let alone
her district partner -- is probably something she can’t even reconcile with. “I don’t know.”

Blight looks exhausted. “I hope she does.”

I spend the next hour or so setting up with Cecelia and Blight. There’s no official word from
Johanna, but the second she drops her spear, we know she’s there to stay. We compare
sponsor amounts. Between the two of them, they barely have enough for a bottle of water. I
feel guilty showing them my funds, and Cecelia goes wide-eyed when she sees the money in
my account.

“How on earth did you get that?” she asks.

The truth is that, after Atticus, I haven’t had the phone ringing much lately. A handful here
and there who have enjoyed Johanna’s resourcefulness, but nothing to compare. Atticus Nero
seems to have been the only one to pick up on Johanna Mason as a real contender.

“A very kind benefactor,” I say, and leave it at that. They don’t ask. They know what I mean.

I get a few more potential pledges from the Link -- mostly small-money fans who are
interested in Cassius’ interaction with Johanna, and want her to live long enough to find out
more -- but no phone calls, which means no more large sums. I wait until Johanna and Twine
agree to visit the inner-district camp the next morning -- it’s getting dark in the arena -- and
then I stand up.

“I want a word with Two,” I say. “Can you keep an eye on them?”

Cecelia nods. Blight shrugs. “Knock yourself out.”

The inner-district mentors sit on the other side of the Link, at a medium-sized round table.
There’s Cashmere from One -- Gloss, her brother, must be out entertaining his fans,
considering his duties are over -- on the phone with a sponsor. Septima and the male victor
from Two, Antony, are pouring over the item catalogue, and Peggy, from Four, looks like
she’s falling asleep at the table. Finnick waves at me.

“Hey Ashley.”

The others turn. Eyes pan over towards Septima. “I think we know who he’s here for,”
Cashmere says. She sounds annoyed, but not at me. Mentors don’t begrudge each other for
what their tributes do in the arena, usually, but Cassius’ actions don’t bode well for the
alliance. Septima stands up.

“Figured you’d come over,” she says. “Saw that you were sat with Blight and Cecelia. Your
girl in with their alliance?”

“For now,” I say.

She looks behind at the other mentors. “Let’s go for a walk.”

I don’t really want to leave Johanna for too long, but I decide to go along with her. Whatever
she has to say, she doesn’t seem to want to say it in front of the others. I follow her out of the
Link and down the main corridor, past the meeting rooms, and towards the elevator.

“We might as well go outside,” she says. “Get some sunlight while we can.”

I frown at her. I’m not sure what she wants to tell me. Certainly something that she doesn’t
want to be interrupted for. I blink, and then nod. “Sure.”

We ride up in silence. Septima holds herself firmly. She’s in her mid thirties, with dark skin
and upturned eyes. I don’t know much about her Games at all, expect for the fact that she
won a handful of years after Blight did, and that I think her arena might have been some sort
of desert. She won in the “Golden Age” for Two -- which is to say, a period of three years
when Two managed to produce three victors in a row. Their luck has steadily dried out since
then. If neither Cassius or his district partner win this year, it will have been ten years since
Two has had a victor. It’s almost unprecedented.

We step out of the elevator and into the small courtyard that connects the Games Centre to
the Tribute Centre. It’s a nice place on any day, with a small garden and a couple of park
benches and tables. It’s not dissimilar to the roof of the Training Centre, except it’s entirely
enclosed, and therefore entirely bugged.

It’s just rained, so the ground and seats are wet, but we sit down anyway. Septima rubs her
eyes. “I told him not to do it.”

“Do what?” I frown.

“He was interested in your girl from the start,” she says. “Cassius isn’t like the others. He’s
smart. He -” she shakes her head. “- he didn’t want to ally with the others, but I told him that
he had to. They would have targeted him if he did. But he told me that he would have talked
to your girl, if he hadn’t.”

“Johanna? Why?”

“Because he knew there was more to her than she was letting on,” Septima says, and shakes
her head. “I don’t know what he saw in her. Whatever it was, I certainly didn’t see it. I told
him he was stupid. But he was convinced. And then I saw her take on that mutt, and I realised
that he might have been right.”

I bite my lip. “He wasn’t entirely wrong. She’s been covering her tracks.”

“Of course, I know that now, ” she says. “But I don’t know what he’s playing at. Or maybe
he’s just trying to drum up interest for the cameras. To him, it must look like things are
getting boring.”

“Why would he want to help Jo, though?” I ask. “I mean, I’m not complaining, but -”

“I don’t know,” she says. She pauses for a minute. “But he and Dione are going to split.”

“They are?” I frown. Dione. That must be the girl from Two. “When did they show that?”
“Last night. They decided after what happened at the rock pool. You must have been asleep.
Nobody told you?” I shake my head. “He never mentioned any interest in Johanna to Dione,
though. That’s what’s odd.”

“Maybe it is just a play for the cameras, then,” I say.

“I wish I could just talk to him,” she says. “I told him not to volunteer, but he wouldn’t listen
to me. My sister, she’ll never forgive me if he doesn’t come back alive. And I don’t have any
kids of my own. I’ve helped raise him. I tried to make him swear. But he said that -- even if
they didn’t call his name, which he was certain they would, he’d -” she trails off.
“Nevermind. We should head back.”

I blink at her. She didn’t quite say it, but I know what she’s talking about. Relations of victors
-- particularly popular ones -- tend to get reaped at a much higher percentage than should be
natural. Cassius probably knew he was going to end up in the Games, no matter what. And
Septima blames herself. She probably wants him back more than I want Johanna back.

My stomach twists at the idea, so I decide to ignore it.

“Sure,” I say. “I guess we’ll just have to keep an eye on one another until whatever happens
reveals itself.”

If it does.

She nods.

We’re nearly back at the elevator when we’re cornered by one of the attendants, rushing up to
look for us. Apparently we’ve been invited to make a statement on the interaction between
Johanna and Cassius. There’s a camera set outside, and we can be mic'd up and on broadcast
within half an hour.

We meet eyes and silently agree to play up to the cameras.

Afterwards, I go back downstairs. On the livestream, Johanna has settled up a tree, and is
whittling Twine a spear with a spare branch. She refuses to hand over her knife, and she’s
placed herself a little ways away from the other two, but close enough that they’re able to
have a conversation. They’re interrupted by the sound of the anthem, and their attention turns
to the sky above their heads.

The face of the boy from Nine is projected. On the main screen they show a recap of his
death. There’s a particularly gory close up of his neck, and it cuts to Love’s lips curling in
satisfaction. She doesn’t seem particularly affected by his death -- or really, any of the other
tributes she’s killed. It’s unusual, even for a tribute from One. Usually, even inner district
tributes do struggle with the reality of murder, even if the cameras don’t show how they deal
with the deaths. Love is either an amazing actor, or she’s stone cold.

On my screen, Johanna’s heart rate jumps up slightly at the sight. I can tell she’s thinking
about his body.
“How did he die?” Twine asks. Her voice is small. Caraway is already asleep. He looks dead
already, even though there’s no cannon.

Johanna turns. “They slit his throat.”

Twine’s expression becomes haunted. “Why would they do that? Why wouldn’t they do it in
a way that wouldn’t hurt?”

Johanna shakes her head and turns her attention back to the spear. “I don’t know.”

The tributes wind down for the evening. They show my interview with Septima. I grimace at
my appearance. I’m still wearing the glasses from the Link, and my hair is messy. Usually,
my appearance in the Capitol relies on being sleek and collected. I wonder if my popularity is
going to take a hit from this. Watching myself, at the very least, I’m toeing the line between
being coy and promoting Johanna. I guess you’ll have to watch and find out. It’s almost word
for word what I said in my original tribute interview. Maybe someone will pick up on that.
Maybe they’ll get the hint. I bite my lip. I’ve spent so long focusing on keeping Johanna
alive, I’ve forgotten to play the game myself.

The interview itself isn’t disastrous, at least, and I actually get a good few sponsor pledges
from it -- mostly from audience members who have bought into the intrigue. Looking, I can
see Septima is the same, though neither of us receives a phone call.

I nearly have enough money for the throwing knives, but I don’t put in my intent to buy just
yet. “Do you have your eyes on anything?” I ask the other two. “Sleeping bags, maybe?”

Blight shakes his head. “Keep it, Ashley.”

“Are you sure?” I frown. “I can -”

“Ashley,” he looks at me. “She stands a chance. Keep the money for her.”

She stands a chance. If Blight believes it, it must mean something. He’s been mentoring for
nearly twenty years. I blink at him, and swallow. “Okay.”

I take the first shift. Cecelia and Blight go to bed. There’s not much to do. Most of the
tributes are asleep, and those that aren’t are on watch. Even the inner district pack isn’t
hunting tonight. I split my time between watching the woods, flicking through a puzzle book,
and contemplating Cassius Cybele’s actions, before Cecelia comes to take over from me.

The tribute apartment is silent. Blight must be in bed, and I have no clue where Ambrosia is.
If Johanna doesn’t win, I’m not sure I’ll even see her before next year. Odds are, she’s
probably at a club somewhere right now, high as a kite on some party substance. The image
makes me think of Caraway, and I shudder. Blight’s right. He’s better off dead.

I take a shower and slide into bed. The sheets have been replaced since I’ve been gone, and
the air is brisk and cold. They must know that folk from Seven can’t stand the heat and
programmed the air conditioning to match. It doesn’t take me long to fall asleep. My thoughts
have been swimming for hours, and I’m grateful for the break, knowing that someone else is
looking over Johanna for me.

My dreams are muddled. I dream I’m back in the arena again. I always dream I’m in the
arena. I’m sixteen. Skinnier, with choppy hair and scrappier knees. I’m sat on the beach.
There’s black sand scattering all around me, and the wind is strong and painful. My back is
against the sandstone wall of one of the cliffs, and my legs are crossed. I’m battered and
bruised, and I can taste blood inside my mouth. There’s a gash, from where the boy from Ten
knocked one of my teeth out. My tongue runs across the gap at the back of my mouth,
obsessed with the unfamiliar emptiness. After I win, they replace it. I can’t even tell there’s a
difference, most of the time.

In my hands is a small vial -- about the size of my fist, balled-up. It’s empty. Liquid
medicine, to heal internal bleeding. Already, I can feel a fire in my stomach as it heals
whatever ruptured deep in my abdomen. I breathe heavily. There’s blood running down my
nose.

Looking at the bottle, the label is misleading. One dose to heal cuts, burns, and internal
wounds. I’d assumed a dose would mean a single bottle cap -- like medicine usually does,
when the district doctor cones around to distribute antibiotics before winter. It was only when
I’d read the instructional leaflet it had come with that I understood I had to take the whole
thing. I’m glad I did. I’d probably be slowly bleeding out otherwise.

The parachute the bottle is wrapped in sits in my lap. I’ve made sure to keep it pristine --
unmarked and unbloodied. I stare at it for a while.

“It’ll work.”

I look up. Johanna is standing in front of me. She’s in her arena uniform, not mine, and I
realise that she’s older than me here. She’s taller than me too, at this age. Honestly, we’re just
about the same height now. I cock my head to the side. “Sorry?”

“If you do what you’re thinking, it’ll work,” she says. She comes to sit down cross-legged
opposite me. “They’ll fall for it.”

“Will they?” I frown.

“I saw it, on the TV. You win, you know.”

I win. I know it, even now, but somehow, the idea feels like it’s a million years away. “Do I?”

”Yeah. You kill four tributes, in total. It’s not bad.”

Four. “They don’t find this suspicious? Why would you drink something to heal burns?
They’ve always sent cream, in the past.”

“They’re stupid, though,” she says. “They’ll take it.”

I look down. “But I’ll kill them.”

“Yeah,” she shrugs. “That’s the Game, though. Isn’t it?”

I look at her. “No,” I say, and then, suddenly, I feel twenty-one again. I look down. I’m still
sixteen. “The Game comes after.”

I wake to the sound of an alarm. At first I’m groggy and disoriented. Then, panic settles in.
Someone is trying to phone me. Has something happened to Johanna? I roll over, reaching
out to the monitor beside my bed, which I’ve set to a constant feed tracking my tribute. But
no, she’s still asleep, up her tree. I sit up, world swimming, and fumble for the telephone.

It’s a Gamemaker number. Unmarked. Wearily, I put the handle to my ear. “Hello?”

“Hi, Ashley. This is Fulvia Cardew. I’m the assistant for Plutarch Heavensbee -- senior
Gamemaker. Would you be available for a meeting in the next half-hour?”

A meeting with a Gamemaker? I’ve never been invited to one before. Come to think of it,
most mentors don’t get to meet with them unless they request it themselves. Plutarch
Heavensbee? I try to rack my brain for a face, but I can’t bring one to mine. The name rings a
bell, maybe, though I’m not sure. I look at the clock. “Now?”

“If that’s possible?”

“It’s six in the morning.”

“And he apologises for that,” the woman on the other end -- Fulvia -- says. “Unfortunately,
Mr Heavensbee has a very busy schedule. Can I confirm with him that you’ll be on your
way?”

I don’t think I get much of a say. I doubt a meeting with a senior Gamemaker is really
something you refuse. “Yeah,” I say. “I’ll be there.”

“Wonderful,” Fulvia says. “I’ll have someone waiting for you at the elevators to let you up.”

Barely twenty minutes later, I’m standing in front of an unmarked door somewhere in the
bowels of the Gamemaker offices. If I thought the Donum Level was a maze of doors and
corridors, it’s nothing compared to this. They must make it confusing so that nobody who
breaks in can find their way around -- or out, for that matter. I feel uneasy. Somewhere
around me, maybe, is a room where I could press a button and send a landslide down to kill
any of the tributes in the arena. I ball my hands into fists, and tap my feet impatiently.

What could he possibly want with me? A cold feeling of dread settles on me as a thought
occurs to me. Have the Gamemakers caught on to the fact that Septima and I were playing
the audience with our interview, and they’re going to punish our tributes somehow?
Rationally, I doubt it -- mentors embellish the truth to the audience all the time -- but I can’t
help but feel anxious. I wouldn’t get called here for nothing.

Eventually, the door opens. The room inside is airy and bright. One of the walls is made up
entirely of glass, and there’s a spectacular view of the Capitol skyline. The sun has just begun
to rise, and I can see the mountains in the distance, streaked with golden light.
In front of the glass is a desk, and behind the desk is a man. He’s in red Gamemaker robes,
and he has a round, friendly face. He stands up as I enter, and gives me a smile, reaching out
his hand.

“Ashley Firth!” he says. “Oh, it’s been too long!”

I step in and take his hand. “We’ve met before?”

He laughs. “Your victory tour. You don’t remember?”

“Um. Afraid not,” I say. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t remember much from that tour at all.”

“Well, that’s to be expected,” he says. “Big year for you. Lots of Gamemakers interested in
you. Of course. You used one of our tricks against us.”

I feel a jolt. “I really didn’t mean to.”

“No, no, we know that,” Plutarch says. “You’ll have to forgive my colleagues, they lost
interest rather quickly. But I always liked you. I watched that show you directed, the year
after, as well. Real untapped potential, showing a production from the districts. Of course, it
would never fly to keep it running for too long. Still, many people did like it. Myself
included. I’m a big fan of Marlowe. Where did you find the scripts?”

This is certainly not what I expected from a Gamemaker. “The Capitol archives,” I say. “They
let me choose one play a year.”

“Good choice, choosing a classic,” he says. “Have you done any Shakespeare?”

“I’ve done two,” I say.

“Comedy, tragedy, or history?”

“Both comedies,” I say. “The kids like them.”

“You should have a look at the tragedies,” he says. “He wrote a play called Coriolanus, you
know? Shakespeare. Named after a real man. The President’s namesake.”

“I’ve heard.”

“Shakespeare wrote it based on another book of records,” he says. “An old text from a very
old place. Parallel Lives. Or Plutarch’s Lives.” He smiles. “Written by my own namesake.
You’ll find, once you get to the Capitol, everyone’s named after someone-or-another who
knew someone-or-another. It’s very incestious. Sorry! Would you like to sit down?”

“Um. Sure.”

“Did you know, in the original script, Coriolanus is killed by his allies?” Plutarch says. “Of
course, they cut that out afterwards. Wouldn’t want to give anyone any ideas.”
My stomach does a funny little dance. “That’s very interesting. It’s just - sorry. I’m just a
little bit -”

Plutarch interrupts me. “You’re wondering why I asked you here?”

“Well. Yeah.”

He smiles. “I have to admire your work, Ashley. You’re very in-tune to the audience. As a
Gamemaker, it’s something I like to see in others.” He leans in. “Your tribute isn’t in trouble.
You don’t need to worry.”

Johanna’s fine. I breathe a sigh of relief. “Right. Okay. Good.”

”I suppose I shouldn’t beat around the bush. We’re both very busy men. Both got Games of
our own to play.”

Games’ of our own to play. I curl my toes in my shoes, and try to smile. “You could say that.”

“I called you here, Ashley,” he says, quite casually. “Because you have some skills I think
could be very useful.”

There’s a beat. He waits for my reply, but I’m not sure what to say. I’m not even sure what he
means. “I’m sorry?”

“You see,” he looks up briefly. “You might not know this, but there’s a small contingent of
people in the Capitol who aren’t very happy with the Games. Not at all.”

”Right,” I say. I’m trying not to fidget in my seat. I’m trying to look collected. Coy. Smart.
Trying to play my own Game again.

”Unhappy enough,” he says. “To want to stop them.”

Stop the Games.

It’s a thought I’ve had before. Of course I’ve had it before. I’m sure every single person in
the districts has had it. Every single victor. I think of Finnick on the rooftop. Blight, staring at
his monitor, with cold, hard eyes. Myself, the year after the arena, standing, staring at the
group of children I’d just directed, rushing to get changed into makeshift costumes before the
camera crews arrived. I find that the idea doesn’t settle properly in my mind. It’s like a
dream. You can’t just stop the Games. It’s impossible. Panem is the Games.

And why is he telling me this, anyways? I look up at him. His face is steady. There’s barely
any emotion on it. A pen hangs lazily between two fingers. I don’t know what to do. My
blood feels like it’s twisting in my veins.

“Oh.” I say.

“Which, obviously -” he looks down. “ - is a problem.”

He’s waiting for my response. Right now, I don’t even know what to think. This is entirely
unexpected. I decide to be honest. “Right. Um. I’m not quite sure what to -”

“Now, obviously, this must come as a shock to you,” he says. “I have it on good authority
that you’re not involved in this — well, I can’t even call it a plot. More of an ideal. You don’t
need to worry, Ashley.”

“Right.”

“And of course, not everyone is going to be a fan. We can’t expect that. But you’ve got the
eye of a director. You know why these Games are important,” he says. “Which is why I can
trust you.”

“Trust me?” The room feels like it’s suddenly filled up with fog. I think I might be dreaming.

“There are a handful of victors involved in this movement,” he says. “I’m not asking you to
find out who they are. Of course, I would never ask that of you. Besides, I already have a
good idea. But -” he clicks his pen. “- there’s someone who’s interested in sponsoring your
tribute, who I think might be involved.”

I blink at him. “Sponsoring Johanna? ”

“Mm.” Plutarch writes a name down and slides it across the table to me. “Go talk to her. See
if you can get any information out of her. And if you do, and you tell me -” he smiles. “- I’ll
make sure your girl makes it to the top four.”
 Chapter 13
Chapter Summary

Johanna struggles to deal with her new allies.

Johanna

When I wake, I’m up an unfamiliar tree. The air is cold. It’s been getting colder these past
few days. I don’t know what the Gamemakers are planning. There’s nowhere for us to go.
Nowhere to lure us to. It’s just cold. Cold for the sake of cold.

I look up at the sky. It’s grey. Bright, deep grey -- winter grey. Mid-morning. I’ve overslept. I
close my eyes. At home, it’s summertime. I want it to be summertime here too. Summer
means warm, cloudless skies. It means forest floors, cracked with shafts of amber light,
hanging between trees. This arena is heading towards the decay of early winter. Colourless
and unmarked, like a thin layer of dust has settled itself on the forest. The trees pierce from
the ground like sombre pillars. In Seven, there’s a graveyard north of the main town, where
small spire monuments creep up the hill, scattered like a forest of stone. They bury the
tributes up there, after they’re shipped back from the arena. There’s a special section just for
them. In seventy-one years of games, there have been one-hundred-and-forty-seven pillars
placed up that hill. Lying here, I can almost imagine that I’m surrounded by them.

I breathe.

There’s a noise from across the clearing, and my body jolts up before my brain can catch up
with rationalisations. Yesterday’s events swim back through my vision. I am in an alliance
with Twine and Caraway. The boy from District Nine is dead. Cassius from Two saved my
life.

I sit, blinking away sun and sleep. Cassius saved my life. The thought lingers in the pit of my
stomach. I cannot -- not for the life of me -- work it out. It’s making me angry. It makes me
feel stupid. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s being out-of-the-loop, and this is the most out-of-
the-loop I’ve ever been.

He had a reason. Of course he had a reason. But what? The possibility that makes the most
sense is that he’s toying with me -- but then, why? Surely it would have just been easier to kill
me then and there. I wouldn’t have been able to defend myself. There were two of them, and
I didn’t have a proper weapon. I was dead where I stood. But he did nothing. There must be a
reason for it. I tap my hand impatiently against the hard bark of the tree, willing my brain to
come up with another idea.

It comes to me all at once, cold and sharp. He was using me for something.
I’m about ready to scream with frustration -- and I’ve barely parsed the idea -- when Twine
notices me. She’s up a tree of her own, a little bit away from me across the clearing. She’s got
her own spear -- quote, unquote -- that I whittled for her lying across her lap, and she’s
leaning unsteadily against the fork of a branch. Below her, lying in a grove of their own
making, is Caraway. He’s still asleep, though from this angle, I wouldn’t be remiss for
mistaking him for a corpse. I don’t really want to look at him more than I have to. I can’t
quite reconcile with the knowledge that this is the same boy that stood up on the stage at the
Justice Building with me nearly two weeks ago.

“Morning, Johanna,” Twine says, cheerfully. She practically yells it, and I wince. If she’s
right about our location, we’re a half-hours trek to the Career camp. Sound travels far in the
woods -- especially echoing off rock formations -- and it’s a miracle that they’ve not been
caught yet.

“Hey,” I say, lowering my voice to a reasonable volume, and hoping she takes my cue. I
finish rolling up my blanket into my pack, and swing myself down onto the ground. “What
time is it?”

“I’m not sure,” Twine says, stumbling out of her own tree. “Nine, maybe?”

“Fucking hell. That was one hell of a lie in.”

“I told you,” she grins. “If you allied with us, you’d sleep better.”

I shrug. “I’m here temporarily. And I’ll sleep better once we get out of this grove. There’s a
river about an hour's walk north. The current will hide the sound of anyone approaching, but
they won’t hear us, either, so it’s not a bad shot for a base, as long as whoever’s on watch is
careful.”

Twine’s smile cuts short. She glances over her shoulder. “Oh. Um. I’m not sure we should
go.”

“Why?” I frown. “The Careers are, like, a stone’s throw away. They’ll find this place sooner
or later. I don’t particularly want to deal with an ambush. Especially since none of us have
any weapons.”

Twine holds up her spear. “What about -”

I actually laugh. “You think that’ll stand a chance against a Career? Good luck.”

“Why do you keep calling them Careers?”

I pause. Is she trying to change the conversation? “Uh. I’m not sure. I think someone called
them that on television a few years ago, and it stuck. Everyone under the age of, like,
nineteen uses it in Seven, now.”

“Oh,” Twine blinks. “Is that because they make it a career to -”

“Are we moving, or not?” I cross my arms.

Twine bites her lip. “I - um. I don’t think Caraway can. ”

I look at him. He’s still asleep. Our conversation has done nothing to wake him. His
breathing is jagged and uneven, and he’s so pale, it looks like he’s made of brittle stone. He
doesn’t even look like Caraway. “Twine, I think we might have to -”

“We’re not leaving him,” she says, forcefully. “We’re not. ”

“He’s going to die.”

“Well, you can leave, if you want,” she says. “But I’m staying here, with him.”

Anger heats my vision. Is she stupid? She’d rather risk her own life then leave the side of
someone who’s almost certainly already dead? I swallow back bile. I’m not sure if she
understood the context of my words or not. I wasn’t suggesting we left him alone alive .

“Okay. Whatever,” I say. “When can you show me to their camp?”

“You want us to leave him alone for that long?”

“You’ve done it before, right?” I say. “You left him yesterday.”

“Yeah, but -” Twine wraps her hands around themselves. “ - fine. But I’m going to go look
for some more berries, so he has something to eat when he wakes up. We’ll go after that?”

I shrug. “Sure.”

She holds her wide-eyed gaze on me for an extra second, before nodding and disappearing
into the brush.

I sit down, my back to a tree, and sigh. She’s stupid. I’ve allied myself with the stupidest
tribute in the entire arena. For the first time, I actually regret not saying anything to Cassius.
At the very least, I would have had some certainty. It’s become clear that everything around
here revolves around Twine’s whims, and they’re not exactly consistent. I rub my eyes, and
take some breakfast out of my pack. At the very least, nobody’s around -- or awake -- to
share my food with. I might share their company, but they’re not touching my resources.

Caraway shuffles in his sleep, and I curl my tongue. If he was awake, if he was healthy,
would I be so hesitant to properly ally with him? I’m not sure what the answer is, and I don’t
really want to consider it, because that means thinking about the fact that I actually didn’t
hate Caraway to begin with. I might have actually liked him. He was kind, and funny, at first.
Would he have stood a chance in the arena, if he wasn’t going through withdrawal? Maybe
it’s better that he's like this. At least, he’s not a threat to my survival anymore. It means I can
actually allow myself to like him.

I don’t like him much, right now. I think I just pity him.

I should probably kill him.

Twine returns about half an hour later. She brushes past me and kneels beside Caraway,
putting her hand to his forehead and coaxing him awake. It takes him a moment, and when he
does rise, it’s with a jolt. His eyes flicker back and forwards, phasing through her. He’s
coated in sweat, and he seems disoriented -- as if he doesn’t know where he is.

“I brought you breakfast,” she says, in a small voice. “Johanna and I are going to go to the
lake. Okay?”

“Johanna?” Caraway asks. His voice is croaky and confused. “What do you mean?”

“Johanna, your district partner? She’s here.”

“You saw me yesterday,” I say. He turns to me. His eyes don’t focus straight on me. They
dance around the forest, as if he can’t quite work out where I am. “Remember?”

“Oh,” he says. “Maybe? I don’t remember.”

“Eat,” says Twine. “And if you throw it up, eat more. We’ll be back.”

He just stares at us while Twine leans us downhill.

“He’s been seeing things, I think,” she says.

The ground beneath my feet feels unsteady. I’ve seen this before. I’ve seen it in both of my
parents, when the flu went around the district, five years ago. The disorientation, the
hallucinations, the unfocused eyes. I can smell the sour smell of sweat and vomit, mixed with
sawdust and mould. Dim, dingy lighting, and my mother, breathing heavily on stained sheets,
clutching my small hand in hers. The fever burnt right through her. So hot she couldn’t even
recognise most of us, by the end of it. I used to lie awake at night, imagining that it burnt a
hole right through her chest, ripping out through her soaked pyjamas and onto the mattress,
setting the whole house ablaze.

They did burn her too, eventually. They burnt all the bodies. They said it was to prevent
further infection, but I think it’s probably because there were too many people to bury and
not enough space for them. I went to watch them do it alone. I wasn’t friends with Lynn until
the next year, and most of the other children in my class avoided me -- the scrappy girl who
laughed too loud at the wrong jokes and spoke back to the teacher when she shouldn’t have.
And my father hadn’t been there either, obviously. He was sick, both with fever and grief. It
took him three days to even recognise that my mother was dead. It took another year before
he remembered it most of the time.

My father. Caraway’s disjointed speech and patchwork memory. That’s who he reminds me
of. It’s not the first time I’ve thought about him since I’ve been in the arena, but it’s the first
time I’ve let myself be worried. Ashley’s friend, the other victor, she was taking care of him,
last I heard. But what if she gave up? Or the wrong person found out, and she’s not allowed
anymore? I bite the inside of my mouth. I don’t know who he’d be, if there wasn’t someone
to look over him.

I look at Twine, and I recognise what this is.

“Twine,” I say. “We have to kill him.”

She stops. “No.”

“Twine -”

“ No, ” she says. “He’ll get better in a week. He’ll be fine.”

Maybe she has a point. Withdrawal has to end somewhere, and it very rarely kills. But this is
the arena. “A week? Twine, you know that’s not plausible. And even if he does get better,
he’s barely eaten. He won’t be strong enough.”

“We’ll get him strong.”

“He’s your enemy, ” I say. I’m so mad at her, and I’m not even sure why. “If he lives, you die.
You get that, right?”

She shakes his head. “He won’t kill me. I won’t kill him.”

“Then someone else will come along and kill you both,” I say. “Twine, it’s not merciful to
keep him alive.”

“It’s good,” she says. “I’m a good person.”

“Good people don’t win these Games.”

“But I don’t - I don’t want to win,” Twine says. Her voice wavers, and I wince, and look up at
the sky. Shut up. Shut up. “I don’t want to. I want to take care of him, and not be alone, and
live, and go home! I don’t want to be in these Games!”

I look at her for a moment. “Well. You are.”

She breathes in, deeply. Her breath is ragged, and I can tell she’s trying to hold it together. I
don’t think I have much pity for her. What she’s doing is selfish. She’s going to get Caraway
killed in a horrible way, and probably herself, too. They could punish her family for saying
something like that. You don’t ever -- not once -- say you don’t want to be in the Games. It’s
supposed to be an honour. It’s decrying the Capitol, for all that’s worth. Most people will pick
up the context that most tributes don’t want to be in the arena anyways. But you need to be
smart about showing these things publicly. Anyone who’s this open about how they feel
about something like that is stupid. And stupid people can be very, very dangerous.

“Let’s just get to their camp,” I say.

We spend the next twenty minutes walking in silence. The woods are more alive the further
downhill we tread. There’s a slight fog rolling in, around ankle-height, and the air is dewey
and thick, but there’s the sound of birdsong, and the chirping of insects, filling the air with
the signs of life that I’ve been so sorely lacking. The soil becomes darker the further down
we go, richer and more loosely packed. Once I notice that Twine’s boots are making heavy
imprints in the dirt, I stop her, and suggest we go around a longer way, where there’s thicker
brush. She seems nervous, but defers quickly. I wonder for the millionth time how she’s
survived this long.

By the time I catch sight of water, I’m glad we’ve looped further down the shore. The lake is
calm and a brilliant blue-green, but while our view is clear, there's a thick line of bushes in
the way, hiding us from view.

I stare at the water, expecting something to rip through the surface at any moment, but all I
can see are a few ripples in the wind. From here, I can tell that we’re somewhere around the
north of the arena. The Cornucopia island has been left empty, and the two thin strips of land
leading out are bare, with just a few streaks of deep brown marring their sandy shores. I think
of the body of the boy from Five, in a coffin somewhere under the Training Centre. They
send the bodies back on the tribute trains when the Games are over. If I win, I’ll be returning
with Caraway’s corpse rattling under my feet.

I can tell now that the west side of the arena, the one with the sparse, rocky landscape, is
closer than I anticipated. From where we lie, I can tell we must be roughly up the north end
of the arena, erring towards the west. If I wanted to, within a day, I could make it out of the
forest and slowly creep down towards the other side of the arena. I’m not certain why I
would, but I don’t take the idea completely out-of-mind. It wouldn’t surprise me if the
Gamemakers pulled some kind of trick to lure us all into the same space. Where I am right
now is a good location, if I need to make a break for it.

The Careers seem to have the same idea. From where we are, I can see most of their base
perfectly. They’re camped about a five minute’s walk down the beach, set up in a ring of
three tents. They haven’t bothered to hide themselves in the foliage, and it almost makes me
laugh. They’re so cocky. They’re practically screaming out their location to the rest of us. Of
course, nobody in their right mind would storm them -- not when they’re such a big, well-
equipped group. But there’s been numerous times in previous Games that their lack of
subtlety has come back to bite them in the ass. Tracking. Trapping. Poisoning. Stealing. I’m
not sure how they haven’t learnt that by now, but all of them seem pretty oblivious to the
threat an outer-district tribute could pose.

Three of them are sat in the centre of the camp. There’s Love, tying her hair into a low braid
and talking animatedly to the boy from Four. He points to the woods, and she shakes her
head, laughing. His district partner sits next to him, peeling some sort of nut and feeding the
shell to a small fire they have dancing in the middle of their camp. Both of the tributes from
Four have burns on their hands and faces. The boy has a long one running down his neck,
which is covered in some sort of greasy, shimmery substance -- a sponsor gift, probably. The
burns themselves are harsh and raw, with grey, peeling skin. They don’t look like any sort of
burns I’ve seen before. There’s redness, but there’s no scorched skin, or signs of heat damage.
I frown and peer closer to get a better look.

“Chemical burns,” Twine says. “We get them in the factories, sometimes.”

Chemical burns? What could have possibly caused that ? Whatever it was, it certainly incited
them to move here, away from where they were camped before. I squint over to the other side
of the arena, where the ground dips behind uneven, lumpy, jagged rocks. Could it have come
from over there? It’s certainly the natural place for the Careers to set their camp. They’d be
able to see most of the woods, and any sort of smoke from a fire anywhere in the arena would
be easy to notice, once twilight fell. I decide to be careful if I ever have to venture around that
side of the arena. I don’t want to fall prey to whatever hurt them.

Sat a little bit away from the others is Cassius. He kneels, closer to the shoreline, sorting
through their supplies. Looking at him, I feel a bit uneasy. I’m expecting him to suddenly turn
and look in my direction -- even though I’m certain Twine and I are as well hid as we
possibly could be. His face is expressionless, but he’s turned a bit away from the others, as if
he’s apprehensive about something.

“That’s it,” Twine says. “Can we go now?”

I hold up a hand. “One minute. I want to take in as much as I can about this place.”

“Why?"

“So that, when it comes to it, I can take these guys down.”

Twine’s eyes go wide. “You’re serious? When ?”

“Not now, obviously,” I roll my eyes. “I don’t know when. I need to get a weapon first -”
(sponsors, please take the hint) “ - but I’m not going to sit around and do nothing.”

Someone else comes out of one of the tents. It’s a girl -- the one from Two. She’s got
shoulder-length curly hair, and a long burn down her cheek. She walks up to Cassius and says
something under her breath. He looks at her, and then at the rest of the group -- who are not
paying attention. They have a hushed conversation, and then he nods, and stands up. She
calls to the main group, and says something, pointing towards the opposite shore. Love calls
something back, and they both go to grab packs. They both ponder over weapons for a
moment, and then start to jog down the beach.

As they approach, I resist the urge to cover Twine’s mouth. I don’t want her to do something
stupid, like scream. Whatever Cassius’ motivations are, I’m not sure his district partner
shares them, and she’d draw the attention of all the others, anyways.

Fortunately, she stays quiet, and they pass us unseen. They continue down the beach, until
they reach the tree-line near the strip of land leading to the Cornucopia, and disappear into
the forest. I wait for a moment, until I’m sure they’re gone.

“It’s also good to see how they operate,” I say. So they think someone’s camping around
there. Wonder who. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

It’s early-afternoon by the time we make it back to their camp. Caraway and Twine running
out of water, and Twine’s too afraid to go back to the lake, so I offer to head uphill to the
river to fill up a few bottles. It will give me room to think, and I’m desperate to escape back
into the woods without Twine snipping at my heels. Caraway is asleep again when we arrive,
and she doesn’t seem to bother paying much attention to me at all anyways -- fussing over
him like he’s an infant. I bid her a quick goodbye and escape back into the trees.
As I walk, I think. What am I going to do with all this? I know where the Careers are now.
Some of them are injured, and they’re only going to get better with time. If I want to act, I
should probably do it soon. But how? I can’t just attack them -- I have nothing to use, and
there are so many, anyways. I can’t take their food either. Their camp is set up in a way that
they’ll see me coming, no matter what. I bite my lip. And what about the others? Twine and
Caraway? There’s no point staying with them -- none at all. They’re just holding me back.
But staying gives me more screen time, which I’m going to need, if I want sponsors to send
me a weapon. Besides, I can’t very well just leave without killing them. The audience won’t
like that either. I have to commit to either fully betraying them, or staying loyal. I’ve watched
enough Games coverage to know that the Capitol can’t stand indecisiveness.

I try to look calm and focused, but inside, I’m starting to boil. I hate not having an immediate
solution to things, and there really is no solution to this. I roll my options around in my head.
Killing Twine and Caraway is probably the best way to go -- but then, what? The Careers will
know that they’re dead, and they might even suspect me, considering I was hanging around
with them in training. That would blow my entire strategy out of the water, because right
now, my advantage is that they still see me as useless. The other two tributes -- Eight and
Twelve -- might blame the Careers, but maybe they’ll follow the same train of thought. And
even if nobody else does suspect me, can I really do that? Can I really kill my district partner,
sick as he is, in cold blood? Could I face returning home to Seven after I’ve done it?

He needs to be dead for you to win, I remind myself. He and Twine need to die.

By the time I return, I’m nearly shivering. The weather has dropped considerably in a short
period of time. Back home in Seven, we refer to this sort of drop as a snap. Usually it refers
to a brief, intense cold spell, but it’s used for any rapid change in weather. One summer, when
I was seven, our class went out to visit one of the closest logging camps. We got caught out in
a snap. We were half a day’s trip out, and returning on foot. The bright, summer day tripped
right into a hailstorm, and we spent the better part of half an hour hiding from pelts of ice.
The largest was about the size of my seven-year-old fist. By the time I returned home, I was
covered in welts and bruises. My mother was horrified, but I was excited. I thought it made
me look cool.

I wonder how I look now. Twine and Caraway are filthy, and the Careers look worse for
wear, but at least they’re clean. Clean tributes tend to gather more sponsors. I look down at
my uniform. A bit mud-stained and crumpled, but not too bad. How bruised and scraped am
I? Have I lost any sponsors already? I wince. Ashley’s going to have to try twice as hard to
gather any interest in me. I’m not exactly a looker to begin with.

Ashley. I wonder what he’s doing now. I don’t doubt he’s trying his best to help me, but I
have no idea what he’s working with. I can’t imagine what it’s like, watching the Games from
the other side. Having just a modicum of power -- just enough to feel completely responsible
when he can’t do anything to help. He told me, before the Games started, that he was going to
try to keep me alive. He told me that he wanted me to live, because he thought we could be
friends when I got out. I briefly considered that it was a lie to push me to try harder, but
somehow, I don’t think so.
I miss him, I realise. Surprisingly, I actually miss him. Him, and my father, and Lynn. I think
that’s why being around Twine and Caraway has felt so wrong. It’s not just people I want. It’s
my people.

Twine told me she wanted to go home. Some of that rings true. I think that’s why it made me
so mad.

My mind is everywhere when I arrive back at the camp, and I realise that I’m exhausted. A
single good night’s sleep has reminded me of exactly what I’m lacking, and now my body
craves the memory of being lulled into oblivion. I shake my head and try to keep myself as
alert as possible. Twine seems relieved at my return.

“I was thinking, I might try to practise with this -” she says, holding up her spear. “I spotted a
few rabbits up that way. Would you mind keeping an eye on Caraway when I go?”

The idea that Twine would be able to catch and spear a rabbit with no experience and a spear
about as sharp as my thumb nearly makes me laugh, but I hold myself back. I shrug. “Sure.”

She nods, and then pauses, looking nervous. “Okay. Cool. Good!”

“Cool,” I echo. She stands. My stomach turns. “Now, or?”

Twine jumps. “Um, yeah! Yeah! Sorry, yeah, now! It’s - well, it’s just -”

“Yeah?”

“Um, Johanna -”

“ Yeah ?”

“Could I have your spear?”

I blink. “What?”

“Could I bring your spear with me?”

“No,” I say, bewildered. “You have your own.”

“Yeah, I know,” she starts, looking down. “It’s just -”

I wait for her to continue. When she doesn’t, I sigh. “What?”

“Caraway.”

“ Caraway. What about Caraway? ”

“I don’t want you to hurt him.”

Fog clouds my vision. “What? You think I would -”

“I don’t -”
“ - in cold blood? Fucking hell, Twine!”

“ - I was just - I don’t know, I was worried, and -”

“He’s my district partner. I’d talk to him first. I’m not a psychopath.”

“Right,” she says. There’s a pause. “But could I have the spear?”

I want to reach out and hit her. “No. I need something to defend me, you idiot.”

She blinks. “Um. Okay. Well, I’ll just -” she points behind her.

“Yeah. Cool. Good. Go.”

I have to sit down, once she’s hurried off. How have I found myself allied with the most
pathetic creature ever reaped for the Games? I don’t know what annoys me more, her lack of
skills and a backbone, or her complete and unfounded obsession with Caraway’s life. Did she
really think I’d just give her my weapon? Did she really think that, if I wanted to find a way
to kill him, I wouldn’t be able to do it without my spear? Has she forgotten about my flip
knife? God. How has she stayed alive, when the boy from One died on the first day? She’s
got to genuinely be an idiot. The audience must despise her guts.

Wonder if that makes me look like the good guy.

Well, she can die on her doomed hunt, for all I care. I breathe in deeply and lean my back
against the trunk of a tree. The air burns my lungs. I wonder what the Gamemakers are
planning to do with this weather. Maybe it’s just a trick to make us think that they’re planning
something, when in reality, all they’re doing is making us cold. It’s a plain arena, by all
accounts. I can’t remember when was the last time they put the tributes in a normal, natural
arena without any big tricks and left it all down to the players. It might have been Finnick
Odair’s year, actually. After all, Ashley had the volcano, and then there was the acid rain, and
the avalanche, and the sinkholes, and then last year, how Annie Cresta won, with the
earthquake and the dam break. I close my eyes. I hope they just leave us alone to kill one
another. I can handle that. I hate tricks. I hate games.

I’m tired. I want to sleep. I want to get some satisfaction from Twine returning to see that I
wasn’t on guard at all. Besides, who cares? The only Careers that are on hunt are from Two,
and Cassius wants to keep me alive, for some fucking reason. I hope he dies before I find out.
I’m not sure I can deal with more tricks.

“Johanna?”

I crack my eyes open. Caraway is sitting up, blinking slowly at me. He sways slightly, but he
seems to be making an effort to keep himself steady. He’s lost so much weight already. He
looks like I could snap him in half with no effort.

“Hey,” I say.

“Is Twine here?”

I roll my eyes. “No. She’s gone to hunt. ”

“Oh. Thank god,” Caraway says. I look at him in surprise. “No, no, I’m grateful! I’d probably
be dead if she didn’t help. But -”

“ But .”

“But, I’m just glad,” he says simply. “I’m sorry about this morning.”

“You look better,” I say. He does. He’s talking like a person, but I almost wish he wasn’t.
“Did you take anything to help?”

“No,” he says. “It just comes and goes. Most of the time I just feel like shit. Sometimes I feel
good enough to sit up and talk. And sometimes,” he ducks his head. “I don’t even know who
I am.”

I think of my mother again. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “It’s not the first time. It’s happened to me before. Supply lines from -” he
hesitates. “Well, supply lines were cut off, anyways.”

I know what he’s doing. We might not be live on air, but someone’s almost certainly
watching us right now. Drug trafficking is illegal in the districts, and if he names anyone
involved, they’ll probably get into a lot of trouble back home. The audience knows what he’s
going through -- honestly, in the Capitol, it’s probably so normal that they have a pill for it --
but he’s not going to get punished more than he already has. He’s already in the Games. It’s
his friends he doesn’t want to implicate. “Oh. Right.”

“It was around the time that the flu went around,” he says. “About five years ago. They
thought that I had it too, but I didn’t. They wanted to keep me away from everyone else, just
in case, and I couldn’t like - tell them, so I just went along with it.” He laughs. “They were so
shocked when I got better, all of a sudden. Couldn’t tell them that I found my own miracle
cure either.”

He was young , I realise. Caraway was in the year above me at school, and I was twelve when
my mother died. He must have been thirteen at most. Thirteen, and already hooked.

He notices my face and smiles, a bit distantly. “I didn’t make very good decisions. I know
that.”

I shrug. “Everyone makes bad decisions.”

“Not you,” he says. “You’re perfect. The audience loved you.”

“Yeah, but that wasn’t really me,” I say. I feel confident acknowledging that now. Most of
them have probably been able to tell there’s a stark contrast in how I’m acting now compared
to the pre-Games. Besides, who cares? They all still underestimate me. Especially those who
matter. And I can be honest with Caraway. Maybe he’s the only person I can be honest with --
considering he’s the only person who isn’t a threat, who I like.
“Well, yeah, apparently it wasn’t,” he says. “I heard you yelling at Twine.”

“You did?” I look down. “Sorry.”

He shrugs. “It’s fine. Besides, they still like you. Wouldn’t have sent you that spearhead
otherwise.” He notices my expression. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Twine.”

“Thanks.”

“Is that your game, then? Fooling everyone?”

“I guess,” I shrug. I want to tell him about Cassius. I don’t. “Don’t know how good I’ve
been.”

“You fooled me, before all this,” he says. “Thought you were the same as Twine.”

I actually laugh. “ God. She drives me insane.”

He smiles. “I don’t know what she’s thinking. She’s nice, but -” he pauses.

“But -”

“I don’t know why she hasn’t killed me yet.”

A chill runs through me, and not just from the weather. I look at him. He looks sick, and
unsteady, but his eyes are present and clear. “Caraway -”

“I’m not stupid, Johanna,” he says. “I know that I’ll get better, with time, but I don’t have
time. I’m not going to win this.”

“You might,” I say. I don’t know why I say it. He won’t.

“Yeah, right,” he says. “I’m going to die. I’ve accepted that. I put myself in this position.
Besides, I always thought it would kill me, one day.” He looks up at the trees.

“You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“No point lying to myself. I’m dead where I sit. And I know she won’t do it. But I don’t want
them to do it either. Maybe that’s selfish. Maybe I just don’t want it to hurt. But maybe I
don’t want them to win, either.”

I don’t know who he’s talking about. I hope it’s the Careers. “I know,” I say.

He takes a deep breath. “I know it’s wrong of me to ask. But -”

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah. When it comes down to it, I will.”

He’s still looking up. “Thanks, Johanna.” The wind sends the leaves above us spinning in a
whirlpool. He smiles. “You know what this weather reminds me of?”

“What?”
“Early winter, back home,” he closes his eyes. “I loved it, then.”

“Really?” I shake my head. “I hate it.”

“No,” he says. “I always felt like, in wintertime, you could see things for what they really
are.”

We sit in silence. At one point, he lies back down again, and keeps his eyes shut. I keep mine
on the forest. When Twine returns, he’s asleep. She’s empty handed.

“Sorry about earlier,” she says.

“Sure,” I say.

She takes first watch. Sleep comes easy. By the time I’m shaken awake, I feel fresh. The
weather is even colder than yesterday, and even in the dim night air, I can see that the thick
fog from the lake has crept up to our campsite. I wait, and I watch, and I don’t think about
much at all. I don’t think about Caraway, or the woods from back home, in early winter. I
don’t know what I think about.

When morning comes, I tell Twine I’ll find us some actual food by the river. She seems
happy to let me go, and Caraway seems to have fallen into another fit of withdrawal-induced
delirium. Looking at him now, it doesn’t even seem like the boy I spoke to last night is real. I
grab my spear, and head north.

It’s only about two minutes later -

Nearly three, maybe -

That I hear the scream.

And the thing is, the thing is, that I should probably just keep going, because I have my pack,
and my weapon, and it’d be stupid to go back now, when I’m already halfway gone, when I
can avoid this, when I can be certain I’ll make it away from this alive.

But I don’t even think, I just turn around and run.

 Chapter 14
Chapter Summary

Ashley learns what a rebellion might mean.

Ashley

“Worried about your tribute?”

I look up from my watch. I’m sat cross-legged on the floor opposite Faustina Sisko in a high-
rise apartment somewhere on the outskirts of the Capitol, while, an unknown distance away,
Johanna Mason is trekking uphill in an arena towards a river.

It’s not somewhere I’d have imagined I’d end up today, but it’s a nice apartment. Small by
local standards, but very obviously upscale. We sit in a near-empty room, draped with
hanging vines and glass-blown wind chimes strung up from the ceiling by the open balcony
door. There’s a large jade-chipped bookcase that adorns the wall by the entrance -- stuffed
with work; paperbacks, notebooks, journals -- but, other than that, there is almost no other
furniture. We sit on the floor, on plush, padded mats, facing one another over a low wooden
table. Faustina uses this as her study room, she tells me. She explained that the design was
influenced by a country from a very long time ago -- somewhere to the far east, which has
long been sunk by rising seas and earthquakes. Her mother hailed from there, originally, she
says.

I can’t tell if it’s a red flag, or if I’m simply thinking too much about it. In the districts, we’re
strictly forbidden from seeking out any information about our heritage. We learn the broad
strokes of history at school, of course, but it’s always been made very clear to us that there is
Panem, and Panem only, and that seeking out any other sense of identity is irrelevant and
seditionist. Most media that makes it to the Seven -- books, mostly, since we print the
majority of them -- have no reference to anything outside of Panem either. Even the plays that
I direct -- which come straight from the archives -- have been scrubbed of any historical
significance and replaced with pseudonyms, or often changed to be set in the Capitol. The
only other country I have ever seen mentioned regularly in the media is a very old place
called Rome, which, apparently, served as a point of influence for the architects who built
Panem.

Either way, Faustina’s interest in her heritage is — even if more common in the Capitol —
likely frowned upon here. My mind flashes. It’s like I’ve spread luminol all over the room
and turned off all the lights, and any hint of abnormality I’m presented with glows like a
beacon in the dark. I barely know what to do with myself. I didn’t think I would be here. I
didn’t think I would do this.
I certainly would have never dreamt that there’d be a rebellion. But somehow, the more I
think about it, the more it starts to make sense. Especially if it’s a rebellion involving the
victors. Because which victor doesn't hate the Games? Or even if they don’t, I’d be hard
pressed to find one who doesn’t hate what the Games have done to them.

It’s not like there hadn’t been hints along the way. My meeting with the others -- the way the
energy had shifted the second I was in the room, as if they were hiding something that I
wasn’t privy to. Finnick, on the roof, telling me that he wanted to burn it all down. He was
the one who invited me to the meeting. He must have been testing me, in some way, the other
day. He must have wanted me in. Me, in a rebellion. And the Capitol -- or, at the very least,
Plutarch Heavensbee -- has caught wind, and grabbed me before the rebellion could.

It’s an impossible situation, because I can’t very well join them now, even if they did want
me. The Capitol will have their eyes on me from here on out, certainly, and even if they
suspect that victors are involved, I don’t know how much information they have. I would be a
liability.

But my alternative is -- what? To betray them? Betray who? Finnick? Finnick is involved,
certainly. Chaff and Seeder, too. Haymitch — which makes sense — and Cecelia. Who else?
District Three? Six? Sylvia was mentioned. Sylvia! Could she really be involved in
something like that? She would have told me, surely. So am I wrong? And what about
Blight? He knew of the group -- that’s for sure. I count them all in my head. If I had to create
a list of victors that could be part of some sort of covert movement, it would certainly be
them.

But these are my friends. Or, at least, some of them are. Aside from my own personal
feelings about a rebellion, which right now, I’m not sure I even have , I can’t betray them.

But Plutarch knows this. Which is why he brought in Johanna.

“Mr Firth?”

I blink. Faustina is still looking at me. She’s a pretty lady in her early thirties, with long dark
natural hair and amber eyes. It’s hard to imagine she might be part of any sort of rebellion, let
alone one with the victors.

“Sorry!” I say, shaking my head and blinking my eyes. “No - no, um. Johanna’s good! I’m
just -”

“Don’t worry,” she smiles. “I fully understand. I’m happy to finish the deal quickly if you
need to get back to your job.”

She’s nice, I think. It somewhat irritates me. Why does she have to be the first one to be nice,
when I’m not supposed to trust her? “Don’t worry,” I say. “She’ll be fine. It’s just a force of
habit.”

“You haven’t had a tribute make it this far before, have you?”
“Not mine, no,” I shake my head. I’m trying to keep smiling. I don’t want her to think
anything is amiss, and I’m really not in the mood to put on my usual victor’s facade, so I opt
for just being polite. “Do you follow the Games closely? I thought you hadn’t sponsored
before.”

“I haven’t,” she says. “And I watch what I have to watch. But I like Johanna. She’s got a
spirit to her.”

Despite myself, I actually do let out an airy laugh. “She certainly does.”

“She reminds me of my niece. She’s very headstrong too. She likes her. She’s fifteen.”

“Fifteen, ” I echo. “Well, it’s a very generous donation. Thank you.”

“She needs a weapon, doesn’t she?” Faustina says. “If you wouldn’t mind, I think I’d like it if
my money went to that. She needs to protect herself.”

I agree with her. We spend another few moments discussing the Games and Faustina’s job.
She’s in charge of catering for high-end events, including the tributes’ meals before the
Games begin. After a few minutes of idle, stagnant chatter, she stands up.

“I’ll go get those papers for you,” she says. “And then you can get on your way.”

I watch her as she goes. The room is awfully silent, even with the balcony door wide open.
Looking down at my watch, I can see that Johanna is kneeling by the river, checking the
current to make sure she’s going in the right direction, away from where she saw the pair
from Two disappear down by the lake. Her mind must be as preoccupied as mine is. Her
alliance with Twine and Caraway, her encounter with Cassius -- it all must play at her, just as
my own situation plays at me.

It really does feel like the Games all over again. Alliances made in secret, a Gamemaker
holding something over my head. What will I do, if I find nothing here? If I return with no
information, will Plutarch think I’m lying and find a way to kill Johanna to punish me? I
can’t imagine he’d do something so overt, but then again, the Gamemakers have their tricks.
I’m certain he could find a way to do it and make it look like an accident, even to me.

But what if this is all a trick?

It’s a thought my mind keeps coming back to. Because, why else would Plutarch be so certain
that I would learn some information from a random woman I’ve never met before? If she was
part of a rebellion, what would possess her to tell me anything? And so, what if Faustina is in
on it, and Plutarch knows she’ll give me information, and it’s all to catch me out if I lie to
him? Or maybe she’s still in on it, but she won’t give me anything to use, and all this is
supposed to do is make me suspicious of the other victors -- so that I’ll turn on them instead,
if he puts Johanna’s life at stake.

After all, I can’t quite imagine the Capitol would let a handful of very influential victors get
away with plotting a secret rebellion, if they knew anything about it. Maybe all they are is
suspicious, and I’m supposed to be what confirms their involvement.
My head swims. I’m confused, and I’m finding that I’m honestly a bit mad, too. Mad at
Plutarch Heavensbee, for dragging me into a position where I might have to betray my
friends. Mad at my friends -- or some of them, at least -- for potentially being involved in a
rebellion without involving me. They’re not more special than I am. They’ve not been hurt
by the Games more than I have. Why would they think I shouldn’t be involved? Don’t I have
just as much of a right to be involved?

‘Do you even want to be involved, Ashley?’ a small voice in the back of my head asks me.

By any rate, it seemed like Finnick wanted to get me in. So maybe it’s not even that I’m mad
about. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve been lied to for the past five years. By the other victors.
By Blight. By Sylvia. Sylvia , my friend. All things considered, after the Games, maybe my
only friend. Sylvia has been lying to me. My only real friend has been lying to me. And if
she's been involved, she’s certainly been involved since I met her.

Her long trips away, visiting her sister at a logging camp in the south of the district -- was
that the truth, or just a cover-up for something else? I’ve always thought it was strange that
she was allowed to go, when all my petitions to visit Ollie have always gotten rejected. I
frown. Is this real?

A rebellion. I’m not even sure what a rebellion means.

Faustina returns with an envelope and a plate of tea. She sets it down on the low wooden
table between us, and smiles.

“I thought, if it wasn’t too much of a bother, you might want to stay for some tea? I checked
on the live feed. Johanna seems to be doing alright. And I don’t imagine you’ve had much
time for a break since the Games started.”

I look down. I should refuse. I shouldn’t stay. The longer I stay, the longer I stand a chance at
learning something about Faustina. And learning something means making a decision that
I’m not sure I want to make.

But I do want to know.

“Okay,” I say.

Faustina pours us each a cup. It’s cold tea. Bitter and earthy, but it has a sharp, refreshing
undertone. Apparently, it’s called green tea, and there’s a tiny contingent of Eleven that grow
the leaves.

“It’s quite rare,” she says. “And very expensive. But I get stock before anyone else.”

“It’s lovely,” I say. “Thank you.”

We talk a little bit more about Faustina’s job. I don’t know where I’d even begin leading the
conversation in order to get any information out of her, so I let her take charge. Usually I’d be
good at this -- usually, I have a knack for making someone tick -- but my mind is so filled up
with thoughts about the rebellion, and Johanna, and the Games, that it’s all I can do to keep
on track with where she leads the conversation.

Apparently, Faustina started working in catering about seven years ago. Her sister -- a famous
actress, though I’ve never heard of her -- fell into some money problems around then, and so
she changed her profession to something more lucrative in order to help draw in some extra
finances to support her and her niece.

“But I studied literature before all of this,” she says. “Which is why I liked your play so
much.”

My plays. Everyone seems to be thinking about them. Plutarch, Faustina, Blight. I really
didn’t imagine there would be much interest in them outside of the children. After all, they
really only exist to keep me occupied in the long months that I’m home between trips to the
Capitol. What other purpose do they serve, other than to entertain? There’s not much else to
them. So why does everyone seem to be paying such close attention?

‘ What purpose do the Games serve, other than to entertain ?’ the voice in my head says to
me, again.

I don’t dwell on it.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’m glad you like them.”

“What interested you about them?” she asks. “Out of curiosity.”

I blink. “My mother used to work in a printing press, for a while, when I was around seven.
She had a bad accident while logging and hurt her back, so she couldn’t stand up for long
periods of time. They transferred her over.” I don’t know why I start telling her this. I don’t
think I’ve really told anyone this. But the room is calming, and Faustina is nice, and fuck it, if
I open up, maybe she will too, and then I’ll get some answers. “She was in charge of printing
plays for schools in the Capitol. She’d see the same scripts, over and over, day in and day out,
and she’d come home and recite them to my sister and I.

I used to lie up at night and imagine them in my head, come to life. And then one day, I was
over at a friend’s house. He had a proper television. Far better than the one we had at home.
He even had access to some of the Capitol channels. They were playing a rerun of a
production of As You Like It. And it was that scene -- the very cliche one, you know? --
where Jaques gives that monologue. The very famous one.”

“All the world’s a stage ,” Faustina muses. “Mm. The seven ages of man. It is a very beautiful
piece of writing.”

“I guess ever since then,” I say. “I’ve just been interested.”

“Escapism?”

I look at her. “I suppose.”

“Well, that’s probably why you won,” she says, taking a sip of tea. “No one who’s ever won
the Games hasn’t at least somewhat dreamt of a different life.”

“You think?”

Even as I ask, I know there’s something about her words that ring true to me. I suppose I’d
never really thought about it like that. It had always seemed more like luck and instinct, and
sometimes skill that led to a victory. But there has always been something in common with
all the victors that I could never put my finger on.

“Well, it’s what draws an audience to you,” she says. “And it’s what makes the difference
between those who want to survive, and those who want to live. ”

Surviving. Living. I look at her. “You’re very smart. Are you sure you’re not more than just a
chef?”

She smiles. “Not any smarter than you are. I just happen to like stories too.”

We talk a while longer. I don’t really know what to say in order to get Faustina to divulge
anything seditionist. She doesn’t. I’m not sure whether or not I feel relieved when she signs
off on the sponsor deal, marking the end of our meeting. I’m empty handed. No information.
No rebellion.

“But before you go,” she says, as I stand up. “I’m curious. What play was it that your mother
recited to you?”

“It was Medea .”

“That’s dark, for a child,” she remarks. I smile. “And a bit ironic.”

“Maybe a bit.”

“Well -” Faustina walks towards her bookcase. “I do happen to have a copy. Most likely the
same edition from your mother’s printing press. Why don’t you take it?”

She searches for a moment, and then hands me a thin book. It’s beautiful. The manuscript is
embellished with an ornate, thick cover. The cover itself is adorned in black, with gold
embellishments swirling and dipping around the book like a river. Written in printed, fine
letters around the front and side are the title and the author’s name.

“Seneca,” I frown. “I assume not the Gamemaker?”

“No,” Faustina laughs. “Just a namesake. It’s a very old story.”

Namesakes. I think of Plutarch Heavensbee. “I couldn’t possibly take this.”

She smiles. “Well, you can return it once you’ve read it. If it wouldn’t be too rude to ask for
another visit? I’ve quite liked your company, Mr Firth.”

I try not to drop my own smile.

The frustrating thing is, if it weren’t for Plutarch, I would probably be thinking I’ve struck
gold. I like Faustina. A lot. She’s nice, and she likes art, and she seems to like me as a person
and not just as a victor. By all measures, she’d make a brilliant friend.

And even if she’s a rebel, would it be so wrong? To have a friend in the Capitol?

“Of course,” I say. I might as well be honest. But I also do want to push her just a bit further.
“I mean - I shouldn’t say this, but, as far as sponsors go, you’re certainly one of my
favourites.”

A distant look crosses over her face. “I don’t doubt it.” She masks it with another smile. “But,
thank you, Mr Firth. I look forward to it.”

“Faustina?”

“Mm?”

“You can call me Ashley.”

She brushes herself off. “Thank you, Ashley.”

She escorts me down the elevator of her apartment building. I ride down to the ground floor,
where a young woman has been called to drive me back to the Games Centre.

“I’m not supposed to talk to the victors,” she says, quietly, once we’ve turned down the main
road that leads to the City Circle. Outside the window, I can see a tram roll past. I’d love to
ride on a tram, one day. A small child waves out the window of one of the cars towards the
rest of the street. “But I really like Johanna.”

I look up. “I’m glad.”

“I do hope you manage to bring her back, Mr Firth,” she says.

I look at her properly in the rearview mirror. She looks young -- around my age, with a long
violet wig, and bright eyes. She’s not the kind of person I would ever expect to root for
Johanna. Neither is Faustina. And yet, they do.

There’s something about her, I realise, that’s drawing people in.

“I hope that I do too.”

I reach the Click around the same time that Johanna returns from her hike up the arena. It’s
only after having been away for so long that I realise how empty the room is getting. There
are only ten of us left. The inner-district mentors, gathered around their own little table.
Angus and Haymitch. Blight is alone at our table -- meaning Cecelia must be somewhere, a
sponsor meeting, maybe. I raise my eyes at him as I sit down.

“Nothing exciting,” he says. “She’s just gone to call her kids.”

“Oh.”
“You’ve been busy.”

It’s true -- I’ve barely been in the Click at all today. There was my meeting with Plutarch, and
then the hour drive to Faustina’s and back, plus the meeting itself. I haven’t caught Blight all
day.

“Well, I’ve got more money now,” I say. “We’ll see if it’s enough for an axe.”

We settle into silence as I key in Faustina’s sponsor code. On my tracking screen, Twine and
Johanna have just had an argument. She settles herself against the trunk of a tree, silently
fuming. My sponsor account loads. And loads.

I sneak a look up at Blight. Caraway is asleep, and he’s trying to distract himself with a book
of puzzles. His handwriting is scribbled, and from this angle, it almost looks like code. My
heart trips. Obviously I know it’s not code, but it’s enough to remind me that, if there is a
rebellion, Blight may very well be in on it. The room feels like it’s pressing in on me. A
handful of people in this very space are almost certainly involved. Suddenly, it feels like I’m
surrounded by enemies again. These people have been keeping secrets from me. I have been
told to betray these people.

“You OK?”

I blink. Blight has paused his puzzles, and is staring at me.

“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “Sorry - yeah.”

“Rough sponsor meeting?”

“No, surprisingly,” I say. “It actually wasn’t.”

“Who was it?”

I look at him carefully. If he is part of a rebellion, maybe he’ll know her. “Faustina Sisko?”

Blight’s face is imperceptible. “Oh. Never heard of her.”

Fuck. I don’t know what I expected. Once again, I wonder if Faustina was some sort of plant.
I really hope she’s not. “She does all the catering for the Games,” I say.

“Mm. Well, she’s good at her job.”

We sit in silence for a while. Faustina’s sponsor amount pops up on my screen. It’s a lot, and
I’m close -- so close -- to getting Johanna the axe I’ve been eyeing up, but it’s just not quite
enough. I close the tab, and draw my attention to the live-feed, which is showing her, still
leaning against the tree, eyes closed.

“Come on, Jo,” I say. “Do something.”

It’s Caraway that listens.

“Johanna?” he says.

He’s woken up, all of a sudden. Blight’s eyes go wide, because he actually seems coherent.
It’s happened once or twice over the course of the week -- he’ll have brief moments of clarity
in amongst his delirium -- but I think Blight had resigned himself to Caraway’s fate, and not
expected to hope it will happen again.

Her eyes crack open. She seizes him up for a moment, obviously trying to work out his
mental state. “Hey.”

“Is Twine here?”

The main feed shifts to their conversation. There’s not much else going on in the arena. The
pair from Two have been trying to hunt the tributes from Eight and Twelve for hours. The
latter have managed to evade them, skirting around the border of the forest and hiding by the
edge of the boulder landscape that makes up the west side of the arena. The remaining three
inner-district tributes remain back at their camp, still licking their wounds. Love seems
irritated that she’s stuck on guard duty, and even more irritated that the pair from Two haven’t
set off any cannons yet.

We watch in silence as Johanna and Caraway talk. Some of the other victors watch too. It
doesn’t start off as anything interesting, but we’ve all been in the arena, and we’ve seen what
Twine and Johanna have been discussing for the past day. We know where this conversation
will go.

At least when it gets to it, it goes as well as we could have hoped for. Caraway seems almost
peaceful with the idea.

We sit in silence for a long while. The feed changes to Twine, failing to spear a rabbit.

Cecelia returns. She seems to sense something has happened immediately. I’m thankful that
she doesn’t ask what it was. I think she can probably tell, anyway. She just sits down, checks
the Link, and then rubs her eyes.

“You two should go get some fresh air,” she says. “I’ll look after them.”

I look at Blight. He looks down at the floor. Cecelia looks at me. I think she’s trying to tell
me something.

“Okay,” I say.

Blight shuffles after me. We ride up the elevator to the ground floor in silence. He doesn’t
look at me the whole time. When we step out into the courtyard between both centres, we’re
caught with a brilliant shaft of light. The sun has just begun to set, and the shadow of the
building has bisected the garden, making one half of it look as though it’s been dipped in
gold. Blight takes a deep breath and looks up at the sky, squinting in the sunlight.

“Blight,” I say. “Would that be okay? If she did kill him?”

“It’s what he wants,” Blight says, plainly.

“Would you be okay, though?”

He shrugs. “I’ve lost tributes before.”

It’s true. He has. I don’t know how many he’s lost. He mentored my district partner, Tess, and
she died. And before that -- how many? Fifteen? Nearly twenty? I realise that he’s never
actually brought anybody home.

“But this one’s different,” I say.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know why .”

I frown. “Because -- maybe you had some hope he could get better?”

“Maybe,” Blight laughs bitterly. “That’s stupid, isn’t it?”

A flock of birds flies over our heads. I follow his gaze upwards. “I don’t think it’s stupid.”

“Well, maybe you’ve just not been doing this long enough.”

“Maybe.”

There’s silence. He looks at me. “But I’m glad I told you to take the girl.”

I smile, a bit wryly. “Me too.”

“You think she’s different,” he says.

“Yeah. I guess I do.”

“Me too,” he drops his gaze from the birds to something else in the distance. “She’s got that
something about her.”

I try to follow his gaze, but I can’t make out what he’s looking at. “I’m glad I’m not the only
one who sees it.”

“You did too, you know?” he says. “You had that something. Sylvia saw it straight away.” I
think about what Faustina said. No one who’s ever won the Games hasn’t at least somewhat
dreamt of a different life. “It took me a while to see it too,” he admits. “But I did, eventually.”

“What changed your mind?”

He shrugs. “Don’t know.” He drops his gaze to me. “You’ll fight to keep her alive, won’t
you? You promise?”

“I will,” I say. A thought occurs to me. “Why did you tell me to take her, at the reaping? Be
honest.”

Blight frowns. “I was honest. You’re kinder than me.”

“But you’re kind to Caraway too,” I say. “I saw you.”

“Okay, so maybe kind isn’t the right word,” he says. “But I meant what I said. Because I see
you, working with the kids. I know what you’re trying to do.”

What am I trying to do? I blink. I didn’t know I was trying to do anything.

At my expression, he laughs. “Do you really not know?”

“No,” I say, honestly. “I don’t.”

He shakes his head. “Well, we all do it, in some way or another. You’re just more obvious
about it.”

”Blight…”

”You’re trying to do right by them.”

“Who?”

“The kids,” he says. “You’re trying to do right by them, because you can’t stand the idea that
the only thing you could ever do for them is watch one of them die.”

I look at him.

The thing is.

I think he’s probably right.

“I’m going to do right by her too,” I say. “Johanna.”

“You know,” he says. He pauses for a moment. Looks up again. “I could tell that something
was going on with you two. I’m glad it was a strategy.”

I frown. “What did you think it was?”

“Honestly?” he says. I raise an eyebrow. “I thought you might have had a thing for her.”

I look at him, wide eyed. “ Johanna? She’s -” (What is Johanna?). “ - she’s mean .”

“But she likes you.”

I suppose maybe she does.

“She’s a tribute. I mean, she’s eighteen, or almost eighteen, anyways -”

“Three years younger than you,” he says. I blink. And I suppose he’s right. “It’s happened
before.”

I think of Finnick. “Well, you’re wrong,” I shake my head.

“Good,” he says. “No point getting attached.”

“I know,” I say.

“But do try.”

We sit.

“You know, Hap used to tell me - ” Blight says, after a long while. “ - that the blood wasn’t
on my hands. But it’s hard not to feel like it is.”

“Hap,” I echo. “Your mentor.”

“Mm,” Blight says. “The thing is, you really remind me of him. That’s probably why I’ve
avoided you, since you won. The more I talk to you -- the clearer it is.”

“I’m sorry.” I say. “I’ve never met him. I don’t even remember his Games.”

“Don’t watch his Games,” Blight tells me. “There’s no point in that. Just know that he was a
good guy. Wanted to do right by the kids too.”

“How did he die?”

Blight’s face goes cold. “Flu. Year you won.”

I remember the flu. I avoided it, by some miracle. So did Ollie and my mother. I’m really not
sure how we did. “Even as a victor?”

Blight shakes his head. “They wouldn’t let him get back to the Capitol for treatment,” he
says. “I never understood that. But they didn’t. They just let him die.”

There’s something about the way he says it. It’s laced with something. Contempt, maybe?
Guilt? Shame?

I look at him. “I’m really sorry, Blight.”

He shrugs. “You live. You die.” He stands. “I’m going to see if any of my sponsors will let
me give the money to your girl so that she can finish him off.”

I don’t have a chance to respond before he’s gone.

I give him space. I sit out in the courtyard until it gets dark. Nobody comes. It’s too late
anyways, and nothing particularly exciting has happened in the Games today, so nobody’s
looking for me either. I sit, cross legged on one of the benches, looking up at the sky and
trying to figure out what Blight was looking at, but there’s nothing at all in the sky.

I think. I think about the fact that Blight has had over a dozen tributes die on his watch. I
have had four. And it hits me -- of course it hits me, and I could name them all in my sleep, if
I had to -- but I can’t imagine doing this, year after year after year, with death after death after
death, all on my watch.

It almost makes me get it. I’d want to rebel too.

I go back inside. I sit behind my desk and watch Johanna settle in to sleep. I think some
more. I think about Finnick, on the roof, telling me he wants to burn it down. I look at him
now. He’s in love with Annie Cresta. I know that. I think most people know that. I think
about what Blight told me. It’s happened before. I look around. How many people have had
someone they love in the arena? Over a handful of the victors, certainly. Septima loves
Cassius. She loves him far more than any of the rest of us care about our tributes. She wants
him back far more than we want any of our own tributes back. Why shouldn’t she get him
back?

But there are people who love all of the other tributes too. All of them. Twine, and Caraway,
and Love, and all of the dead tributes too. There were people who loved Tess, and Larkspur,
and Viola, and there were people who loved the tributes before them, and the ones before
them, and it goes on like that, for seventy-one years.

People love Johanna too, certainly. But who? Blight thought it might have been me. It’s not, I
don’t think. I don’t love her. I want her back, but I don’t love her. My desperation to get her
out of the arena alive -- is that really just because of who she is as a person? I like Johanna a
lot, of course I do, but I only really knew her for a week. I’ll know plenty more tributes after
her. What sacrifice do I make, if I make a bid to keep her going for another few days? The
lives of a hundred more tributes after her? Is it for her sake that I want her back alive? Or is it
to prove to myself that I can do this, so that I’m not useless as a mentor, so that there isn’t
any more blood on my hands?

There’s too much blood on my hands. I don’t even know who put it there.

The room grows empty as other mentors trickle out to bed. I offer to keep first guard on the
tributes. It’s useless, probably, but it’s been a dull day. I don’t imagine the Gamemakers will
pull any tricks -- not when Plutarch Heavensbee still believes he’s holding Johanna’s life over
my head -- but I want to be around, just to be sure. There are worse things than being killed.

I sit. I pull out the play that Faustina gave me. It really is a lovely thing. It feels too delicate
and beautiful to be here, in the Link, surrounded by blinking lights and the hum of
computers. I flick through the pages. It starts out familiar. It’s the exact same story my
mother used to read to Ollie and I. The tale of a woman, exiled from her own land, taking
revenge against her betraying husband. She kills her own sons.

My mother always told us that she understood Medea. Not because she wanted to kill us -- of
course. But because she understood the need to take such drastic action to protect her
children from a world that wanted to change them for the worse.

I wonder if she would have killed me first, if she could, before I went into the Games. It’s
something I’ve never been able to work out.

Either way, she doesn’t talk to me anymore.

Faustina has circled a line, near the end. Poor woman, do you want to know where hatred
ends? Look to love. At the top of the page, she’s drawn a bird. It takes me a while to
recognise it.
It’s a mockingjay.

I pause. A mockingjay. A few years ago -- two years after I won -- some kids back in Seven
wanted to start a revolution. They thought the best way to do that would be to take over one
of the logging camps up north and broadcast it on television. I used to go to school with
them. They would pass around notes with a mockingjay drawn in the corner, so that they
knew who they were talking to. These kids had managed to get in contact with a similar
group in Six somehow -- probably through the cargo drops. The symbol had come from them,
who in turn had taken it from some other district, Eleven or Twelve, maybe. Apparently they
used a mockingjay, because it’s always been seen as a bit of a joke against the Capitol. A
reminder of some species or another they could never quite eradicate.

I always thought it was a bit silly. A fad, maybe. It happens every couple of years or so. A
few kids start getting up in arms about the way the districts are treated, and try to change
things. They usually get shut down before they manage to do anything, and everyone forgets
about it for a few years, until someone starts it up again. I always figured the mockingjay
symbol would have been forgotten, a handful of years down the line. At any rate, I had
forgotten it.

But here it is, in Faustina Sisko’s book.

I know what it means.

And I think I know what I’m going to do about it.

Cecelia comes down. I go to bed in one of the rooms upstairs. I can’t bear to return to the
Training Centre. I lie awake for a while and stare at the ceiling. I think about what Faustina
told me, and what Blight told me too. I think about Johanna, in the arena. I think about the
quote. Do you want to know where hatred ends? Look to love.

Look to love. Finnick loves Annie. Blight loved Hap. I love Sylvia. Septima loves Cassius.

It goes on like that. Like a circle.

When I wake up, I feel calm. Uncertainty fades away like snow in the spring, and I find
myself feeling, for the first time since the Games began, fresh and at peace when I sit down
in my seat at the Click.

Of course, it only lasts for about a moment, because just as Johanna’s going for a walk, they
find Twine and Caraway.

I don’t look at Blight when they slit his tribute’s throat.

 Chapter 15
Chapter Summary

Johanna finds out what the Careers are really made of.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Johanna

The cannon fires right before I reach the clearing.

I don’t see it happening, but I do see the aftermath. The girl from District 2, standing over
Caraway, holding a knife dripping with thick, dark tar. She’s turned away from me, but she
doesn’t hear me coming -- my footsteps have been covered by the sound of her kill and the
subsequent cannon. I stand impossibly still. My eyes rapidly scan the camp, but there’s
nobody else in sight. In the distance, downhill somewhere, I hear Twine scream again. It
rings through the forest so loudly that it sounds like she’s ripping open her own throat.

So there’s at least one more assailant, but they’re not here right now. My eyes tear through
the rest of the clearing. Everything feels as though it’s running in slow motion. Lying still on
the ground next to the girl -- who is wiping her knife on the edge of her jacket -- is Caraway.
He doesn’t seem any different than he did while he was sleeping, but I don’t look at him. I
don’t want to look at him. Less than a day ago, I had sat with him, right here, under this exact
same tree. He was my kill. I had promised him.

Anger clouds my judgement. I don’t even think it through before I charge at the girl.

I do have the advantage of a surprise attack, but that’s really all there is going for me. She
shouts in surprise as I run into her, full-force - and try to pin her down from behind. But she’s
bigger than me, and stronger, and it’s really not a fair fight when it comes down to it. But
that’s fine. I’m not trying to fight fair. She manages to throw me off her back, slamming my
body into the dirt. My face skids against uneven ground, rocks and roots, and I feel a sharp
slice of pain in my cheek, and the hot, sticky sensation of blood. Still, I manage to hoist
myself up and out of her way as she lunges at me with her knife.

“Seven?” her eyes widen, and her lips twist into a smile. “You’ve got guts.”

I stare at her, and in the fraction of a second before she charges back at me, I know how I’m
going to play this. I grip my spear tight between my hands, and manage to hoist it between
me and her -- the same move I used with the mutt -- at the exact moment that she pounces on
me. The stick takes most of the force, but I’m still knocked backwards. My head slams
against the ground, and for a second, my vision goes hazy and white, but I blink, hard, and
adrenaline kicks in.

I try to hoist myself up by my elbows, but this girl is strong. She pushes against my spear,
and I feel the wood splinter. It’s been good to me these past few days, but overuse and
exposure to the elements have caused it to weaken, and I know it’s just about useless for
anything except spearing fish. The girl looks at me and shakes her head in wonderment that
I’m not dead already. She leans forwards, hard, and the stick splinters into two.

As it does, I hear a cannon. Twine is dead. I decide not to let it distract me. My right hand
still holds the spearhead, and I try to lift it up to bring it down on my assailant’s side, but she
wrestles it out of my grip. I let her do it. She grunts, pleased that she’s successfully disarmed
me.

“Sorry about your district partner,” she says, and leans over me with her knife, pinning down
my right hand with her free one. “I always thought he’d outlive you.”

She doesn’t see my left hand reach into my pocket and grab the flip knife. She doesn’t notice
anything at all until I’ve sliced through her stomach.

It’s a shallow wound, but it’s enough. She jumps back in surprise, holding the hand that was
pinning down my right one to her abdomen. Her grip on the knife pulls back slightly, and I
take the opportunity to push myself up and away from her as far as I can. She’s quick, but so
am I. Before she can position herself back down, knees on my chest, I jam the knife right into
the side of her neck.

She doesn’t open her mouth. She makes a hum of surprise, but it comes out as a gurgle. She
falls back onto the floor and her hands reach for the knife, but it’s embedded too deep, and
somehow -- without even knowing how I did it -- I twisted the blade as I stuck it in. It’s
ribbed, so she can’t pull it out. And even if she could, it would be useless. The blade is small,
but I’ve stuck her at the very front of her neck, by her larynx. She’ll suffocate on her blood. I
was aiming for an artery, but this is worse. This is horrible. She keeps letting out these
horrible, wheezing noises, clawing at herself as if she’ll be able to get more oxygen into her
lungs if she manages to tear her throat open.

I might throw up.

But I think the audience might like this.

She tugs at the knife, and blood spurts across my vision. Instinctively, I pull back. I feel
lightheaded, and the pounding of an incoming concussion is blooming around the back of my
head, but I feel no blood, and when I stand up, my feet seem steady enough to run. I need to
go. Twine’s cannon has fired, and whoever killed her will no doubt be on their way back to
me. Right now, I really am defenceless. If I get a head start, I might be able to hide out before
they find me.

But I can’t move. I keep staring at this girl. She’s not paying attention to me anymore. She’s
curled up on the ground in a ball, wheezing and moaning lightly, her voice thick with blood.
Her eyelids keep fluttering between open and closed as she struggles to regain consciousness.
I don’t know why, but I feel like I owe it to her to watch her die.

I don’t get to. The footsteps are too close now. I step away, but somehow I find myself
backed up against the trunk of a tree. It’s a pair of them that are approaching, I can tell now.
Shit. I might be able to outrun one, but not two. My eyes dart around the clearing when I see
it. Yes! The girl from 2’s knife lies, abandoned, skidded across the clearing, just a few feet
away. If I can grab it, I might be able to defend myself. By any measure, it’s not great, but it
is something.

I’m about to run for it when the bodies break through the brush.

Two of them, yes. The girl from District 4 -- tall, holding a spear, covered in blood that is not
her own. Twine’s blood. And next to her, sword at the ready, is Cassius. My heart skips
several beats. He frowns as he sees me, but I don’t miss the way his eyes widen, just slightly,
before he does. He drops his gaze to his district partner lying at my feet.

“There was another one?” the girl from 4 breathes, looking down at her ally’s body, and then
back up at me. “How the fuck did you manage that?”

I keep my eyes on Cassius. He’s deliberately avoiding mine. He stares down at the girl from
2, a mixture of emotions swirling through his face. Anger. Shame. Disgust. Sadness. The
other girl steps forward towards me.

“She’s unarmed,” Cassius says, flatly. I bite my lip. Who are you? What are you trying to do?

“You don’t know that,” I say. I try to keep my voice steady, but my heart has never pounded
more in my life. I can’t step back any further, or I’ll end up cornered up against that tree
again. But if I make a run for it, this girl will throw her spear, and there’s really nowhere to
dive to make an escape. There’s nothing I can do except keep them talking for as long as I
can.

The girl from 4 laughs. “What did you score again? A four?” She shakes her head. “Dione
must have been weaker than she looked.”

“Or maybe I was better than her,” I say. I hazard a glance at Cassius, who is now behind her,
but he’s still just staring at his district partner.

“Oh, I sincerely doubt that.” The girl steps forward, readying her spear. She knows the exact
same thing that I do. I can’t move. I’m dead. A flood of anger courses through me. I don’t
want to die. Not here. Not like this. I don’t want to die without fighting. My hands twitch. I
want to scream. The unfairness of this all has finally caught up to me. “Don’t move. It will
make this a lot easier.”

She aims to throw, and then, something very strange happens.

Cassius looks up from the girl from 2 -- Dione, apparently. He steps forward and violently
shoves the girl from 4 into the dirt.
“Hey!” she gasps, scrambling to get up. “What was that -”

He raises his sword. “Johanna-” he says.

I don’t think. I run forwards, towards the knife, and go for her, trying to slice behind the
elbow of her throwing arm. Cassius aims for her abdomen, but she moves quickly, and both
of us miss. She ignores me and readies herself to defend against him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she spits.

Cassius looks at her and shrugs. She thrusts her weapon at him.

He dives, and it begins. But he’s brilliant. He moves like water, slipping and dodging each of
her attacks like they’re made of air. For half a second I just stand and watch, awed at what
must be years and years of careful training. He catches my eye. A nod. Go for it. I don’t even
stop to wonder why he’s not killed me yet. I just take a deep breath and tighten my grip on
the knife.

With the two of us, it’s a brutal, but quick fight. The girl is strong, but not strong enough to
take on the both of us. I would have never imagined myself fighting side by side with a
Career, and for a moment, the absurdity of my situation overwhelms me, but instinct kicks in
and before I know it, I’m taking cues from Cassius. Moving when he moves, attacking while
he parries. I’ve never fought like this before. I just swipe wildly, praying I won’t injure
myself too badly in the process.

I don’t strike the killing blow. He does. But it comes just as I’ve distracted her. She knows
just as well as I do that he’s the one to beat, because she realises her mistake as soon as she’s
turned around. Her eyes widen, but it’s too late. He cuts her with his sword, high up,
somewhere between her neck and her skull, a single, violence slice, like cutting through
snow. Her eyes roll backwards, and she crumples to the ground.

For a moment, we stand, staring face-to-face. Our breathing is heavy and we’re both winded,
catching our bearings. My eyes jump down. He still has his sword in his hand, and he’s just
skewered a girl my age. There’s no reason why he wouldn’t just kill me, here and now. And
maybe that was his plan all along. To get one of his competitors out of the way, kill me, and
then blame the death of his two allies on someone else, so he could return to the rest of the
Careers and betray them later. I swallow, thick and hard, and instinct kicks in. I run at him.

He’s quick. He grabs me before I have the chance to do anything and flips me over into the
dirt. I manage to shield my head from impact this time, but my back takes the brunt of the
fall. I feel an electric shock of pain run all the way down from my spine into my fingers, and
I gasp in agony. Cassius stares down at me, expressionlessly.

“Kill me, then,” I spit. There’s nothing else to say. There’s nothing else to do. But I’m not
going to let myself die without at least being angry about it. “Go on.”

“No,” he says, plainly.

The forest is still. I blink. “What?”

“No,” he says, again.

I try to get up, but my head is spinning and I think I might throw up. “Then, what -” I try to
find the right words to continue, but he doesn’t give me the chance. He walks right past me,
ignoring my gaze, and placing his sword down against a tree across from me. His footsteps
pad away, until he is out of sight.

For a moment I lie here, on the forest floor, breathing deeply and trying to get my bearings. It
takes a minute for the world to stop spinning, and when it does, I struggle to push myself up
by my elbows, ignoring the sharp stab of pain from my back and trying to turn around to see
where Cassius is.

I find him, across the clearing, next to his district partner. Carefully, he kneels down next to
her, both of his hands clutching her own. She’s conscious, only but barely. Under his breath,
he whispers something to her, gentle words hidden under the rush of wind and the rustling of
the forest.

Adrenaline is slowly fading from my system, and pain is starting to creep in. I’m covered in
blood. Both my own and others’. My head pounds and my body feels bruised. But I’m alive. I
tear my eyes away from Cassius. I’m alive.

I look around the clearing. Three bodies. Four, if I count Twine. Twine. Caraway. I try to
grieve them, but all I feel is numbness. Their deaths don’t feel real. Even with Caraway’s
body in sight, I can’t quite reconcile with the idea that it belongs to the boy I met on the train
on the way to the Capitol. I think a part of him will probably remain there forever in my
head, awaiting death. I bite my lip. The two of them, Twine and Caraway, had never felt like
they belonged in the arena. Their deaths were certainties, yes, but I never thought I would
have to deal with them. I always imagined myself long gone, by that point.

But here they are. Both dead. And two others -- two others who I never knew. In the span of
about five minutes, the playing field has shrunk down from ten to six. I try to remember if
there’s ever been such a dramatic loss so quickly at this point in the Games before, but I don’t
think there has. It’s certainly a first. Top eight is usually when the betting starts getting
intense. And now we’re down to six. The camera crews must be scrambling for material on
those of us that remain at this very moment.

On me. I have made it. I have made it to the final six.

I don’t know what else to do, and so I wait. A cannon fires, and at first I think it might be for
Cassius’ district partner, but no, she’s still moving -- twitching and moaning. It must be for
the girl from 4. I stay still. I’m not sure what to think. I did this. I feel dizzy and sick, and the
truth is that I still might die. But Cassius said he wouldn’t kill me. I don’t know what that
means. I don’t know why he wouldn’t. I stare at him, gripping his district partner’s hand
tightly, looking at her so intensely, it’s like he’s trying to sear this moment into his brain
forever. He breathes in and out steadily, but his face is hard, his jaw is set.

I really have no idea how to read this guy.

I could run for it, but I don’t. I wait for her cannon to fire. Cassius stands up slowly, takes a
deep breath, and looks at me.

“So,” he says, “there’s three options here.”

I try to ignore the taste of blood in my mouth as I speak. “Which are?”

“The first is that we fight, the two of us, if you want to, and only one of us makes it out of
this.”

I pause. “Okay.”

“And the second is that we both agree to walk out of here, in separate directions, and
whatever happens if we meet again happens.”

“And what’s the third?”

“The third,” he says, wiping a bloodsoaked hand on his trousers, “is that we team up.”

I stare at him, dumbfounded. This is not what I expected. “Why?”

“Because,” he says, “I think you and I would make a good team.”

“ Why ?” I pry, again. “Why would you think that? You make no sense, man. Why would you
want to team up with me? Why didn’t you try to kill me, the other day?”

He looks up. “They’ll want to collect the bodies. We should come to an agreement. Which
one will it be?”

I can feel my face flushing in frustration. “I don’t know,” I say. “I think I’m going to need a
bit more information here.”

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s get out. Find somewhere we can talk, before Love and Pierre find
us.”

My hands curl into fists. He’s right -- though I don’t want to admit it. Four cannons have just
fired in the past ten minutes. The Careers must be on the lookout for where the hovercrafts
end up. “There’s a river up the mountain,” I say. “It’s loud enough that it should hide most of
our conversation. And besides,” I look down at myself, “I’d like to get cleaned up.”

“Alright,” Cassius says. He points behind him. “Oh. By the way. I think that’s yours.”

I follow his gaze. On the floor of the forest, lying a bit away from all the carnage, is a silver
parachute. Attached to the end, using thin, wiry string, is a sleek, curved, metal axe, shining
in the morning sun.

“Oh my god.” I rush to it. Ashley must have sent it after the fight. Holding it in my hands, it’s
surprisingly light, but steady. This is nothing like the hatchets we use at home. This blade is
razor sharp, steel, almost dainty, with a thin, sharp point downwards. Made to kill. I look up
at the sky. “God, Ashley, you could have sent this sooner.”
I’m smiling as I say it, though, because I know what this gift says. If he had the means before
this, he would have sent me this as soon as he could. And sure, maybe he could have sent me
something better than the weapons I had before, something like the knife that the girl from 2
had. But he didn’t. Which means he was certain he’d be able to get it to me, given time. And
he did. Which also means I have sponsors. New sponsors. Which means people like me.
Which means -

Which means people like this.

“We should go,” Cassius says, bringing me back down to earth -- to the bodies that surround
me and the pounding of my head, and the metaphorical clock on the wall. “They might have
seen it fall.”

I nod, and pull the string away from the axe, balancing it in my hand. I retrieve my discarded
backpack from the clearing floor and shove the parachute into it. For a second I survey the
bodies and their own packs, but Cassius stops me.
“They don’t have anything you or I need,” he says. “They’ll take their stuff with the bodies.
Which way?”

I point in the direction. “There.”

“After you,” he says.

And so, we begin to trudge uphill. We keep pace, and it’s not long after we’ve disappeared
into thick shrubbery -- honestly, not far from where I heard Twine scream in the first place --
that the forest falls silent. From somewhere behind me, I hear the whir of metal, and I know
that the first body has been picked up.

I don’t look back.

We keep silent as we walk, and I’m ahead of Cassius, so I can’t keep my eye on him, but I
find that I’m not afraid. He’s had plenty of opportunities to kill me so far, and he hasn’t. If he
wanted to, he would have by now. And besides, even if he does change his mind, I’m armed
now. I’ve been throwing around axes ever since I was twelve. I’ve seen him fight with his
chosen weapon, but he hadn’t seen me with mine. If it came down to it -- battered and
bruised as I am -- I’m confident I could take him on.

But I’m not sure I want to. For as much as he confuses me, a part of me immediately likes
Cassius. Maybe it’s just that he saved my life -- in fact, most of it probably can be attributed
to that. Maybe it’s just that I’ve been stuck with Twine and Caraway for the past few days,
and the idea of working with someone I can rely on is certainly appealing. But there’s
something else as well. Something I can’t quite place my finger on yet.

I do think that, at least subconsciously, I know exactly which of his three options I’m going to
choose, but I won’t let myself admit it yet.

We reach the river in record time. We find a shallow bit and cross the current, so that if the
others manage to track us uphill, at the very least we’ll hear them coming. Just to be safe,
though, we walk about ten minutes upstream -- until we’re roughly parallel with where the
Career camp would be. Watching Cassius carefully, I sit down on the bank of the river --
cross-legged, so I can get up quickly if I need to. I drop my pack, but not my axe, and reach
down to cup a hand into the river. It’s so cold that I lose most sensation in my fingers
immediately, but I ignore it, slathering the water on my face to wash off the blood and dirt. It
stings, but I try to hide the pain in my expression.

Cassius follows my lead, but takes it one step further by setting down his sword. Not too far -
- if I or anyone else attacked, he’d be able to pick it up quickly -- but far enough to send me
the message that he’s not going to hurt me. It’s strange. I feel as though the two of us are
engaged in some odd dance around one another -- trying to gauge the others’ next movement
while telling a story of our own.

“So,” I say, after a moment. “Go on, then. Why do you want to ally with me?”

He runs his hands through the river, clearing away blood. “At the chariot,” he says. “Your
fall. I watched you do it. And you know what I thought? I thought to myself. If I wanted to
make people think I was very weak, that’s exactly what I would do. ”

“Okay?” I frown. “So?”

“So, then I started paying attention. To you. In training. At the interviews. Even at the
Cornucopia. And at that point, I was certain you were faking it.”

“Sure,” I shrug. “You caught on. So what? That didn’t tell you anything about how good I
am.”

“Maybe not,” he says. “But it does tell me that you have one thing that the others don’t.”

“Which is?”

Cassius smiles. “You’ve remembered that this is a Game.”

A Game. I look at him, and at the sky, and at the river. Everything about this -- the arena, his
uniform, the temperature, the hidden cameras -- isn’t real. Of course this is a Game. I roll my
eyes. “Yeah, but everyone knows that.”

“They know these are the Games, sure,” he says. “But all they’re doing is trying to live.
They’re not playing to win.”

I think of Twine and Caraway. There might actually be some truth to his words. I cross my
arms. At some point, I’ve put down my axe. “So what, you think I can play it when others
can’t?”

“I do,” he says. “The thing is, I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. How I was going
to play to win. I knew everyone would already have their eyes on me because of my aunt.
And I knew that meant I had to play to the other tributes, too. If I was too good, and I had too
much attention on me, I’d be seen as a target. So, I’ve let them put their guard down.” He
meets my eyes. “We’ve had the same strategy, you and I.”
I should be mad. He’s laying claim to my strategy -- my strategy. But I’m not. I lean
forwards. “You scored high, though,” I say.

“Yeah, well, the audience was expecting it from me,” he says. “I couldn’t coast. And if I did,
they others would kill me at the Cornucopia anyways. My plan was always to come across as
a bit haughty. Never quite join in, and try to seem like I thought I was better than them. They
were never going to like me that much, so I might as well give them a reason to. But -” he
gives me a half-smile. “ - make them think, at the same time, that I was just too big for my
boots. I’m useful, because I’m bringing in sponsors, so they don’t turn on me, and I’m not too
much of a threat that it’s a problem to keep me alive. Maybe they figured the Gamemakers
gave me my score because of nepotism or something. And then -- once we’re down to a few
of us, which will always end up happening anyways -- and I’ve got their guard down, I show
them all I’ve got.”

“Like with the girl from Four,” I say. Then I laugh. “Well, that’s blown up in your face. When
they see the sky tonight, they’ll know you’re not dead, and they’ll assume that you betrayed
them.”

“I didn’t say I’d stick,” he shrugs. “My plan was always to split. I was going to go with
Dione, at first.”

“Dione,” I echo. I look at him, clearing the blood from his hands. “Your district partner.”

“I don’t blame you,” he says, plainly. “You did what you had to.”

“I am sorry, though.”

“Thanks.” Cassius looks up. For a minute, we sit in silence. He fiddles with his hands, as if
he’s picturing something in his head. I watch. “Your plan worked, though. You managed to
trick her.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“So,” he separates his hands. “Here’s my proposition. You and I stick together. We’ll be
better as a team. Honestly, with two other alliances in the arena, we’d be fucked if we didn’t.
We work together to eliminate the others. If we die trying, we die trying. And if we don’t -”
he narrows his eyes. “ - then we agree to fight it out, the two of us.”

That’s it. Simple agreement. Take out our competitors together. Try to kill each other after.
Mutually beneficial. No moral dilemma near the end of it. Pure honestly. Quid pro quo.

“Alright,” I say. Allies with a Career. Who would have thought? “Shake on it?”

He holds out his hand. “By the time it happens, and they realise we’re the ones to beat, it’ll
be too late.”

“You have a lot of faith in me.” I raise my eyebrow.

“I have a lot of faith in myself,” he parries. “You had a chance to kill me, and you didn’t. I
don’t think we’re that unalike, Johanna.”
 I actually smile. “If you say so. Cassius.”

“Chess, actually,” he says. “I go by Chess.”

And so, that’s how it happens. My second alliance in the arena.

It’s funny, actually, I think to myself, as we pack up and head further upstream -- away from
the shoreline and the Careers. This is the first time since the Games begun that I’ve actually
felt secure. I fought. I won. The audience likes me, or at the very least, likes me enough to
send me what must very well be a very expensive weapon. And I have an ally. An ally who,
unlike Twine and Caraway, I can actually rely on.

They’re dead. I’m not sure when the extent of that will really hit me.

But for now, as I follow Chess through the forest, I smile. He’s good. And he’s right. With the
two of us, we’ll do better. We might even make it to the end of this.

And he did have a point, with what he said. They don’t know that we’re the ones to beat.

I wonder if he thinks the same about me.

Because, for the first time since the Games begun, I actually think that I stand a chance of
winning this.

Chapter End Notes

Hello! Sorry for the slightly slower update schedule recently, I've been soooo busy!
Hope you enjoyed!
 Chapter 16
Chapter Summary

Ashley learns just how well the Capitol has responded to Johanna Mason.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Part Three

The Game

“Life is a game.

You should enjoy it more.”

Ashley

Johanna walks with her head held high and her eyes narrowed in on the forest in front of her,
and I know exactly what she’s thinking.

But I hope she knows that she’s not out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot. Cassius tracks
behind her, keeping pace. He’s got his spear in his hand and his gaze on her back. Whether
she knows not to trust him or not, I can’t tell. For her sake, I hope that she holds on to at least
a bit of doubt. I don’t doubt myself that he’ll be loyal until the end, or at least until it’s down
to the two of them, but a certain level of distrust will probably do her some good. I don’t
want it to hurt when it comes down to the two of them and he doesn’t hesitate before raising
his spear.

At any rate, she looks good right now. She did well to clean the blood off of her so quickly,
and even though she’s almost certainly got a minor concussion, I can tell her head is clearer
for it. I wish I could get her something to help, but I’m bled dry from the axe. Even though
more pledges are certainly on the way -- and Blight has agreed to work them for me while
I’m busy -- it will take time to clear. Besides, a parachute right now would almost certainly
send someone in her direction. She’ll have to manage on her own.

She’s doing fine. She shivering from the cold, though, despite how hard she tries to hide it. I
don’t really understand what the Gamemakers are trying to do. Every night the temperature in
the arena has plummeted further and further, and at this rate, any rainfall is going to come
down as snow or sleet. But maybe they’re simply trying to slow the tributes down. Freeze
them out. The Games have been proceeding far quicker than they have any right to by Capitol
standards. Anything shorter than a week would be considered criminal, and Johanna and
Cassius have just proven that they’re on the hunt.
Johanna runs her hand down the spine of her axe as she walks. Don’t show him, I urge her,
silently. Don’t show him what you can do.

“- Ashley?” A voice comes from my left.

I look up from the small monitor at the corner of the room. I’m backstage at City Studios,
slotted in amongst five other victors. The space is large and well-decorated, but very
obviously made to host one or two individuals at most, not six of us. Haymitch and Angus
got here first, and so they take up most of the space on the sofa, playing some kind of card
game between them. Haymitch is kicking back what looks like diluted wine and the air in the
room smells of sickly fumes, but usually at this point in the Games he would be drinking
himself into incoherence at some bar in City Centre, so I decide he’s probably just taking an
edge off before the cameras. Angus doesn’t look much better off than his companion, and I
think he might be wearing the same clothes he came down to the Click in this morning,
although he’s shaved since I’ve seen him last.

The rest of us don’t have the luxury of showing up in scrubbed-up casual. I’m hardly the
worst off for it, though I would reckon that Septima’s outfit -- (a long, smock style dress with
black leather gloves) -- is more comfortable than the outfit Ambrosia picked out for me. I’m
dressed in a dark green velvet button up with triangular cut-outs. It isn’t anything I’d ever
dream of choosing to wear, but it feels fairly acceptable as far as Capitol fashion goes. It’s the
trousers that I can’t stand. They’re made of some thick, cardboard-like material, and I’m not
sure I could even call them trousers. The front material folds out into some sort of strange
skirt which extends into a mid-length train behind me, like the flap of a jacket, but the rest of
the material seems to make up regular cargo pants, criss-crossing over a thinner under layer. I
can’t remember how I got them on, and I dread to think about how I’m going to get them off.

The voice comes again. “Ashley?”

“Sorry.” I turn to Finnick, who is parked next to me. The rest of us latecomers have been
given a row of metal chairs to sit in, lined up against the far wall of the room. Behind it, if I
pay careful attention, I can hear the sound of Caesar Flickerman warming up his live studio
audience. “I was a bit -”

“Distracted?” He grins. “Don’t worry. They never pull any tricks while everyone’s away.”

He’s probably right. And besides that, the remaining tributes are miles away from Johanna
and Cassius. Hatch and Mazzy are still hiding away deep in the boulder fields, and Love and
Finnick’s tribute -- Pierre -- are tracking down the wrong end of the arena. Still, I can’t help
the anxiety gnawing at the pit of my stomach. Games nerves or stage fright — I can’t tell. I
haven’t been on camera like this in two years.

I shake my head, trying to rid myself of any last minute nerves and ease myself into a stage-
ready attitude. “I guess,” I say. “Nice outfit, by the way.”

Finnick gives me a sarcastic look. It really isn’t. On the rare occasions that his stylist
‘friends’ -- quote, unquote -- give him more than an inch of fabric to wear, he’s usually put in
the most ridiculous costumes. Today is no exception. A high neck, sparkling, head-to-toe
jumpsuit. It’s so tight, it leaves almost nothing to the imagination. Almost . Of course, they do
actually have to leave something to bid for, which is why, knotted around his waist, is some
kind of ugly, patterned scarf. It’s so obviously an afterthought, it’s funny.

“I’d almost rather be naked,” he says.

“Embarrassed?”

“Did you know I had nightmares about that, before my Games? That I’d go for my interview,
and I’d be naked. Naked, on Caesar’s stage.”

“The audience would have loved that,” I say.

This is the thing with Finnick. He’s good at distracting you. My eyes aren’t quite off the
livestream, but I don’t think I feel as much urgency as before. I don’t know how he does it. It
just comes naturally to him. Probably because he’s so good at distracting himself.

“I was fourteen, ” Finnick says, mocking horror. “They would never! ”

Of course, we both know better, but neither of us acknowledges it. “Well, it’s a good thing
that you’re of age now,” I say. “If you strip, maybe they’ll leave the rest of us alone and I can
go back to work in peace.”

He grins. “I’ll consider it.”

“Don’t,” says Cashmere dryly, next to him. “None of us want to see that.”

“I’d kill to get this thing, ” he holds out his arms in disgust, “ off me. It’s itchy. Neither of you
know how good you have it.”

Cashmere raises an eyebrow. “I’d rather wear that than Ashley’s trousers. What are those?”

I roll my eyes. “The one time my escort shows her face, and it’s to give me the world’s
ugliest outfit.”

“Could be worse,” Finnick says. “At least you’re used to it now. Do you remember when we
met and you were wearing that horrible crop top?”

I wince. I do remember it. It had been my first day in the Capitol, right before the chariot
rides. My stylist had put me in an awful, silken top that barely covered my midriff, and to my
sixteen-year-old self, showing all of Panem my belly button and a bit of stomach hair was the
most embarrassing thing in the whole world.

There had been some issue with my district partner’s outfit and so I’d taken the elevator
down to the stables alone, without anyone to help me. I had ended up completely lost, feeling
very naked and like every other tribute was staring at me. Finnick, who was waiting for his
own tribute, had taken it upon himself to point me in the right direction. It was his first year
mentoring, and he was a year younger than me. I had never quite understood why he had
helped me, not until he had told me, the year after I won, that he had seen himself reflected
back at me.
‘Lost in the Capitol, while everyone else knows what they’re doing. I had some of the other
mentors help me ‘- he’d told me. ‘ I thought I might as well return the favour to you.
Especially since my tribute didn’t seem to care much for my help.’

At the time, I’d been a bit awed at his presence. Now, all I can wonder is if he was part of the
rebellion already at that point or not.

Rebellion. I look him in the eye. You wanted me , Finnick. Why?

Before I can reply to him, a stagehand pokes her head from behind the door to the room.
She’s dressed in all black, and seems quite overwhelmed at the company of victors, blinking
slowly like she’s just glanced into a very bright light.

“You’ll be onstage in five minutes,” she says. “If you could follow me?”

We do. She leads us through a narrow hallway and lines us up behind the soundstage. We’re
each mic'd up and dusted off for the cameras. I think Caesar must have just finished with
whoever he was interviewing before us -- likely some mid-level Gamemaker -- because he’s
riling the audience up with his usual jokes. From here, I can tell the crowd is large, but
nowhere near the size of the tribute parade or interviews. Invite only. This will be broadcast
to the rest of Panem after mandatory viewing.

They do it every year. Once it hits the final eight -- though this year, considering how fast
things moved, it’s a final six -- they gather the mentors of all the remaining tributes and show
a recap of the Games so far, highlighting each tribute’s accomplishments and giving the
mentors a chance to comment on their individual charges. Once the Games narrow down,
betting and sponsorships tend to increase twofold, and the point of the programme is
supposed to get the audience familiar with the mentors they’ll be dealing with if they do
choose to send the tributes any money. I don’t think it really makes any difference. Most of
us have won recently enough that we’re often in the public eye, and even the old-timers like
Haymitch and Angus have been around long enough that people consider them a staple of the
Games.

It’s my first time here, but I’ve watched enough television to know how it works. The tiny
light above the stage wing blinks green and we shuffle in, single-file. There are four sofas set
around a semicircle, with Caesar occupying an individual armchair near the back of the stage,
up on a slightly raised platform. We’re directed to our seats -- sitting two-by-two, directed by
our tributes’ alliances, leaving one of the sofas empty. Out towards the crowd, I can make out
a haze of distant faces and cameras, and projected just above them, on a sloped ceiling, is a
screen showing the Games logo.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome welcome welcome,” Caesar says, waving us all to our seats.
He’s got a brilliant grin, and his eyes are manic and wide. Sometimes I wonder if he takes
something before he goes on stage. Having met him offscreen, he tends to be a nice man. Not
soft spoken, but certainly far more subdued than his onscreen persona. But maybe he’s just
like the rest of us, and he just knows exactly what to present to the public, and what to leave
at home. “So, so, so pleased to have you all here!”
The show begins as it always does, with Caesar running down the list of mentors and re-
introducing each of us to the audience. Accompanying our brief back-and-forth, the screen at
the back of the auditorium shows short, iconic clips from our respective Games, to kickstart
the memory of some of the more forgetful audience members. I watch Cashmere stab a girl in
the back. Septima wrestles someone off the side of a mountain. Finnick -- fourteen and
almost unrecognisable -- throws a trident at the boy from District 1.

“And Ashley Firth, Victor of the 66th Hunger Games!” Caesar says, brightly. The main set of
cameras pan to me, and on the screen I see myself at sixteen, blindly swiping out and striking
Viola Devins in the side, showering myself in blood, hot and sticky. “This is your first time
having a tribute reach the final six, correct?”

I blink and nod, trying to peel my gaze away from the screen and give the cameras a bit of an
aloof smile. I need to play this right. The Capitol thinks I’m some sort of droll perfectionist.
Self direction, Ashley. “Yeah. About time, too.”

“I’d say!” Caesar replies. “And what a tribute to have.” At this, the crowd actually goes wild.
Normally that’s a figure of speech, but I get it now. I turn, and I think I might even show a bit
of surprise on my face. “Ah, ah - not yet, folks! We’ll get to Johanna Mason in due time.”

I sit, trying to seem relaxed as Caesar patters back and forth with Angus and Haymitch. I
knew that the audience would be interested in Johanna after this morning, but I certainly
didn’t expect this much positivity. I resist the urge to turn to the other victors, and especially
to show any satisfaction on my face. I should not show that I care this much -- not in front of
this audience. After all, publicly, Ashley Firth does not care about much except himself. He is
dry and self-depreciating, yes, but it comes from a place of self-interest. Of course it does.

I’ve been warned about that more times than I can count. I cannot show that I care about
anything except myself. It’s a narrative perpetuated by my Games, and I’m not even sure how
it started, or why, but it’s become my responsibility to continue it. Besides, not caring sells.
Not caring means I’m not a threat -- to anyone, really, because it means I don’t care enough
to do anything problematic. Maybe that’s even why Plutarch Heavensbee thought I would
turn against my fellow victors. Even my talent feeds into the narrative. The self-gratifying
artist. Some people see right through it -- mostly of the other victors, obviously, because
we’re all in the same boat -- but plenty of others buy it, hook line and sinker.

Usually, it’s an easy pit to fall into, because I don’t actually care that much for the Capitol
anyways. Sometimes it’s even nice. I get to hide the people I love close to my chest, and
make sure the rest of the world can’t hurt them. And, of course, like most things, there is
some truth to it -- I do care about myself. Nobody who wins the Games doesn’t. But here, in
front of this audience, it occurs to me how difficult it will be to hide the fact that I also
desperately care for Johanna Mason’s wellbeing.

Thankfully, Caesar starts with Cashmere and Finnick. As mentors of the last remaining
tributes in the Career pack, he gets them talking about their strategy going forward. Situations
like this have come and gone a few times in recent years -- the inner district alliance has
broken down early, sometimes due to other tributes, sometimes due to Gamemaker meddling
-- and it’s always a hot point of speculation on how the remaining tributes will treat it.
Sometimes they’ll duke it out immediately, confident that they can beat the others in the
arena alone, and not wanting to be murdered in their sleep. Other times they’ll stick together
until the rest of the playing field has died out -- like what Johanna and Cassius have agreed to
do. Cashmere and Finnick assure the audience that their tributes’ responses will probably
depend on whose faces end up in the night sky.

“Remember, they don’t know who died,” Cashmere says. “As far as they know, it’s still
advantageous for them to stick together.”

Caesar nods. “And once they find out? What do you think they’ll do?”

Finnick looks at Cashmere. “I think they’ll probably stay together. Even if they suspect
Cassius from Two is working alone, that means he killed up to four tributes singlehanded.
They’ll want the extra security.”

The conversation moves on to their individual tributes’ strategies, and Caesar shows a few
clips of their most impressive moments in the past week for them to discuss. He moves on to
Haymitch and Angus, and I notice that, while the crowd is still loud, there’s a marked drop in
the enthusiasm of the cries as Caesar starts to talk about Hatch and Mazzy.

“Right now, they’re laying low,” Haymitch shrugs. “But you shouldn’t count them out.
Mazzy got that boy from One back at the Cornucopia.”

“She did indeed,” Caesar says. “But since then, she’s not done very much.”

“She’s not had anyone to prove herself with,” Haymitch says. “All of the rest of these kids
have practically been falling in each others’ laps. Don’t count her out just because she’s good
at staying unseen.”

“Smart words,” Caesar nods. “Very smart words.”

And then it’s us. There’s a buzz in the air as Caesar mentions our tributes’ names, which only
grows when he mentions the events of this morning, and their unlikely alliance.

I let Septima speak first. “I think it’s a long time coming,” she says. “Cassius has always been
smart. He picked up on the girl when nobody else did. He knows who his enemies are.”

“Of course,” Caesar says. “And I will say, he has done a fantastic job so far. Powerful.
Strategic. But speaking of power and strategy -- Ashley, could you please give us some
insight on Johanna Mason. Did you have any clue she had that in her?”

I pause for a moment, trying to look carefully contemplative, when really, I’m just struggling
for an answer. “I did.”

“You did ?” Caesar’s mouth stretches into an even wider grin. “Do tell.”

“She cornered me on the train,” I say. “Told me she could do it, she just needed a chance.”

“Well,” he turns to the audience. “Aren’t we glad she got that chance?”
The rest of the interview runs by in a blur of blinking lights and microphones. Within the
hour we’re underground, in some sort of garage, waiting for cars to come and take us back to
the Games Centre. We line up in district order -- for whatever reason, this is still how they do
most things -- and watch as the first car rolls up. Finnick nudges me before he’s ushered
away.

“I just wanted to say,” he tells me, under his breath. “I can’t in good conscious tell you that I
want Johanna to win -”

“But you want Johanna to win?” My eyes go wide.

“I didn’t say that,” Finnick says. “I do want my boy to win. But, on the chance that he
doesn’t, and she does, then I’m on her side. And I’ll look out for her.” He gives me a
knowing look.

My blood runs cold. He doesn’t need to say anything for me to understand the meaning
behind his gaze. He knows people, and the people he knows are interested. In Johanna. I bite
my lip so hard, I think it might draw blood. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Besides,” he blinks, and then smiles. “I do actually like her.”

And then he’s gone.

I’m silent on the car ride back. Haymitch and Angus aren’t the most talkative duo either, so I
phase my attention out on the streets. There’s a party going on. There’s always a party going
on. The sun is beginning to set, and someone is handing out sparklers. As the car hits a stop,
someone runs up to the windows and waves the dancing flames in our faces. They don’t
know it’s us, obviously, because the windows are tinted, but I see Haymitch roll his eyes.

Haymitch. I don’t know much about him at all, except that he’s friends with some of the other
victors in my circles, and he won the last Quarter Quell. He hasn’t brought a single tribute
home, not one, in the past twenty-one years of mentoring. I blink. He has been mentoring for
as many years as I have been alive. The thought doesn’t seem to click in my mind -- like I’m
trying to force a puzzle piece to slot in with its wrong match. How many tributes is that?
Forty two? My stomach feels like it’s bunched into a tight ball of yarn.

The more I think about these things, the more I understand. If Haymitch is a rebel, it certainly
makes sense. And it’s not just that. There are other things too. Rumours about his family, and
what happened to them after the Games. When I was told what I had to do once I won, I
didn't had to think twice about agreeing. Sylvia had already implied as much to me. But to
the others? I wonder if they’ve used him as some sort of warning, a cautionary tale about
what happens when you do something the Capitol doesn’t like.

If I’m right, whoever is involved in this rebellion, whatever it is, they must be risking a whole
lot. And I know what I’m going to do -- I know what I’m going to say -- and I know that it
would be too risky to ever get involved myself, after my meeting with Plutarch, but I can’t
help but admire them all. Haymitch especially. After all he’s been through -- after twenty-one
years of dead tributes -- he’s still fighting. He might look like a drunk, and he might not like
to act like he cares, but he’s here, defending Mazzy. He’s part of a rebellion, trying to defend
his potential tributes too. I think of Blight. He’s still trying to do right by them.

I think that one day, he will actually bring someone home, and when he does, it will be
spectacular.

But not this year. This year is my year.

When we arrive I debate going straight down to the Click, but Johanna seems to be doing
alright, so I get changed first. I regret it once I do arrive. Blight sits at his desk, looking
absolutely exhausted, and he doesn’t even notice me until I’m standing right in front of him.

“Jesus, Ashley,” he says, when he sees me. “I’ve been taking calls non stop since you left.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. His tribute has just died today. “Take a break.”

He nods and stands up. “Cecelia’s helping Angus, but she said if you need any -- well,
Johanna’s been getting a lot of interest, and -”

“I’ll get Ambrosia to do it,” I say. “She’s not being paid for nothing.”

He lets out a light breath, which might be a laugh. “She might as well be.”

“Go to bed,” I say. “Thanks for looking after her.”

He nods. “Cheers. Remember what I said yesterday.”

I wait until he leaves before I walk over to the other side of the room and sit myself down in
my new seat, across from Septima. My eyes widen when I see the pledges on my screen. I
quickly confirm them -- something Blight couldn’t do without my permission -- and scan
through the sponsor list. I could get her anything I wanted, but I’m not sure what she’d need.
This is good. This is the best position I could be in. They like her. They like her a lot.

They like her too much.

There’s only the six of us left in the room now -- plus a handful of others, who were, like
Blight, watching over their district partners’ screens while they were gone. We’ve all
collected somewhere near the middle. There’s a strange sense of camaraderie in the air, even
though we’re all technically on different teams. Everyone knows what the other is feeling.

The sun sets. Johanna and Cassius set up camp somewhere around the western bank of the
river. They’re about an hours’ travel out from the boulder fields, which puts them well within
the range of Mazzy and Hatch. Neither pair seems to notice one anothers’ campfire at sunset,
and by the time evening arrives, any smoke is obscured by a thick fog that has descended
over the arena. The faces are shown in the sky. Johanna doesn’t look away when Caraway’s
name appears. Love and Pierre debate for an hour on what to do when they realise that
they’ve been betrayed, but eventually decide to hunt down Cassius together. They have
forgotten about Johanna entirely. Mazzy and Hatch celebrate that two of the Careers are dead.
I get a call about two hours after mandatory viewing. It’s a virtual call, and so I step out into
one of the adjacent meeting rooms, with a promise from Septima to come get me if anything
happens. At first I’m worried that this is it -- Plutarch has come to talk to me, and I’ll have to
lie, and then who knows what will happen? The flood of relief that washes over me when I
see Sylvia’s face is unparalleled.

She’s at her home in Victor’s Village. I know it well, because I’m there often. She looks the
same -- long hair, soft eyes -- and all at once, I feel a pang, wishing for home. It’s easy to
forget how much I miss District 7 when I’m so busy, but now, all I want is to be surrounded
by fresh, open space and the smell of pine.

“Ashley,” she says, and smiles. “How are you?”

“I’m good!” I blink. My voice cracks. Stupid, I think. “No, I’m good!”

She raises an eyebrow. “Are you?”

“I’m stressed,” I admit.

“I’d bet,” she says. “But you’re doing a great job. I saw you, on TV. It’s good. You’re good.”

“ She’s good,” I say.

Sylvia laughs. “She is. You hit the jackpot. I’m jealous.”

“Why did you call?”

“They’re coming tomorrow,” she says. “The camera crews. They’ll want to interview her
friends and family. Is there anyone I can direct them towards? And any angles you’d like for
me to push them in, before they get here?”

I had forgotten about this. There always seems to be more and more. “She’s only ever
mentioned her father. And a girl called Lynn Lionett?”

Sylvia nods. “Her father is still staying with me.”

“How is he?” I ask.

Sylvia thinks for a moment. “He’s ill.”

“How bad?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “Not that kind of ill. But there are treatments. If she wins, maybe
he can -” Sylvia starts, and then pauses. “But he’s a very nice man. We’ve been getting along
well.”

“That’s good. Camera ready?”

“I’ll try to get him to be.”

“It might be good if,” I pause. “It might be good if you don’t shy away from it. Show that
Johanna has always been dependable. Taking care of her father.”

Sylvia nods. “I’ll try to. And Lynn?”

Lynn. I smile. “Just let her talk. She’ll gush about anyone for hours.”

Sylvia nods. “Well, that’s it. I’ll let you get back to -”

“Wait!” I say, suddenly. I don’t know why I say it, and I know I’ll probably regret what I say
next, but I can’t just not ask, not when it’s Sylvia. Someone whose judgement I trust, maybe
more than anyone’s. “I had a, um, a question.”

“Yes?”
“There’s a club -” I say, and then mentally smack myself, because there will certainly be
someone listening, and I should have thought this through before running with the lie I was
told. “ - um, a drinking club, or something. With some of the other victors?”

Sylvia’s expression doesn’t change, but something in her eyes goes hard. I wish I hadn’t seen
it, but I need to know -- I need to know to be sure of my decision. “Right.”

“It’s just - I was invited to join them, before the Games, or whatever, and I’m not too sure if I
understand the appeal just yet, but I heard that they told you not to invite me.”

Sylvia speaks very slowly. “You’re right. I didn’t.”

“I just -” I pause. “ - I just wanted to ask why?”

“Ashley,” Sylvia says. “Drinking doesn’t do you any good.”

I frown. “But plenty of people do it.”

“Plenty of people do. But it can ruin your life. You’ve seen Haymitch, haven’t you?”

Something about this metaphor is confusing me. “Yeah. I have, but -”

“It’s up to you,” she says. “I know what I think. But you’re an adult. Just make sure you’re
careful, and you’re moderate, if you do join them. I don’t want it affecting your life.”

“Yeah, but you don’t - you don’t drink that much,” I say. “At least, not enough to let it affect
your life.”

Sylvia gives me a half smile. “That you know of, Ashley.”

She changes the conversation after that. By the time we say goodbye, my mind is swimming.
I’m not quite sure what she was talking about. So she is in the rebellion, and she did tell them
not to invite me, because she was worried I’d get into trouble, because she did? But she’s still
involved? My head hurts. I want answers that I don’t think I’ll ever get.
 But it’s Sylvia, and beyond everything I think about a rebellion -- respect or not -- I will put
her first.

So, when I’m called to another meeting with Plutarch Heavensbee the next morning, and he
asks me if I learnt anything -- or was given anything -- seditionist, I say no.

Chapter End Notes

aaand we're at the final part, AND have a full chapter count! yipee!
 Chapter 17
Chapter Summary

Johanna and Cassius grow closer, and the Gamemakers make the arena much stranger.

Johanna

It seems like early morning when I’m shaken awake.

I jolt upright, a sharp, electric panic sending my body straight into action. I scan the woods
for anything, any assailants, or mutts, or Gamemaker traps, but it’s barely light out, and the
trees are dressed in such a thick blanket of fog that I can barely make out anything further
than a few feet away. Cassius -- or Chess, apparently -- leans over me. He’s holding
something in his hand.

“Easy,” he says. “I’ve gotten us breakfast.”

Immediately, I feel a rush of relief, which quickly turns to annoyance. I sit up, brushing away
the thin layer of condensation that has clung to my blanket overnight. It’s cold, and my back
hurts. I wanted to sleep up in a tree last night, but Cassius seemed to think we were better off
closer to the ground. I assume the truth was that he couldn’t climb a tree and he didn’t want
to embarrass himself, but I wish I hadn’t listened to him. The ground has swallowed my body
heat, and, (as well as my thick blanket has done for me the past few days), it’s started to get
too cold to be comfortable.

“You could have given me a little bit more sleep,” I grumble, looking up at the grey sky.

“I did,” he says. “I think that it’s nearly midday.”

At that, I sit up properly. It doesn’t look like it's more than five in the morning, maybe six.
The woods have that strange, liminal quality they always do so early on in the day, and I’m
about to call his bluff. But then I listen carefully, and I start to hear the signs of life that I
normally wouldn’t so early -- the sound of bird calls and rustling underbrush. I pull myself
out from under my blanket, and stand up, pacing around our surroundings for a moment. The
forest floor is wet and dewey, almost marshey, and the air is bitterly cold.

“ Midday?”

“The fog must be obscuring the sun,” Chess says.

“Why would they do that?”

He frowns. “I don’t know.”

I turn back to him. “Sorry, what did you say about breakfast?”

He holds up his hand. Now that I’m paying attention, I can see that he’s holding a basket,
wrapped up in a silver parachute. “Our good friends have sent us something to eat.”

I don’t think. I rush to it. Inside is a spread of different pastries. Crescent shaped rolls, iced
parcels, small, round, nutty bread. Even if we had nothing left to eat, this could easily sustain
the pair of us for at least two days. I look at Chess with wide eyes.

“I guess someone likes our alliance,” he says.

“Multiple people,” I say. “It must be multiple people, with this amount.”

“Multiple people,” Chess echoes. He picks up one of the pastries and holds it up to the sky,
for the cameras to see. “Thank you!”

He bites into it and grins.

I follow suit, closing my eyes as I taste the explosion of sweetness. I haven’t gone badly fed
since the Games began, but it’s only after tasting real, actual food that I realise how hungry
I’ve been. A diet of raw fish and berries hasn’t done much to fill my stomach, and the
constant mix of adrenaline and a poor diet has made me feel ill and unsettled over the past
few days. Eating this, I am reminded of home. Of the hearty, nutty, dark, brown bread that
they make in Seven fr leftover grain and scavenged chestnuts. I swallow, and I promise to
myself that I will come back home and taste it again.

We eat breakfast in silence, and pack up our camp.

It doesn’t take long for us to realise that we’re in trouble. Navigating the woods in the dark is
one thing, but it seems as though the closer to the lake we travel, the thicker the fog becomes,
until neither of us are able to make anything out farther than our own arm-span. The air has
turned bone-chilling, and the only way we know that the other is near is through the sound of
our teeth chattering.

“We won’t be able to fight anyone like this,” Chess says, after about an hour of walking in
circles. My shoes are slippery with mud, and I’m worried that one of us will accidentally fall
into the river, if we were to come across it. The air has become thick with a low hum, as if the
Gamemakers are trying to throw us off course, unsettle us, or maybe make us lose one
another. I keep getting the sense that something is following me, although I’m not sure how
anything could.

“Fight them?” I say. “We won’t be able to find them!”

“What do you think this is? Do you think that the Games are moving too fast and they’re
trying to slow us down?”

“Maybe,” I reply. “Or maybe they’re trying to lure us into one place.”

I can’t see Chess’ face, but from his voice, I can tell he’s deliberating it. “Yeah, but where?”
I click my tongue. “Well, the lake is an obvious bet, but it’d be a pretty obvious endgame if
they wanted us all there, since there’s nowhere to hide. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was
some kind of trap set for us around there.”

“What, then? The other side of the arena? The rock fields?”

I shrug. “I guess. I mean, it’d be far easier to navigate in these conditions. Maybe they’re
trying to smoke us out of the woods. You said you thought the pair from Eight and Twelve
were around there, right?”

“Right.”

“And Love and -” I struggle for the name of the boy from District 4, “ - and Whatshisname
didn’t find us yesterday. They’re probably just bored of watching us wander aimlessly around
the woods, missing one another. If we head there now, maybe we’ll get a head start.”

“I suppose,” Chess says. It sounds like he’s pulling a face. “But I wouldn’t recommend
camping there.”

“Why?”

“The whole place is completely trapped,” he says. “There’s a bunch of cave systems down
there -- full of toxic gas and mutts and stuff. We were camping over on that side when the
Games started. It was easier to see things from that side of the arena -- like, fires and stuff.
But one morning, our camp just started to sink into this pit. Just, like, from the ground -- and
there was this horrible, yellow, sulfuric liquid. A few of the others tried to recover our stuff,
but they got burnt pretty badly.”

“So, that’s why you moved?”

“You knew we moved?”

I shrug, even though he can’t see me. “I’ve been keeping my eyes on you too.”

“Well, anyways, it’s not safe.”

I look around -- or at least, I try to. “I don’t think this place is safe either. If we don’t move,
maybe they’ll find a way to force us out.”

Cassius hums. “Fine. But we have to be careful.”

“Careful,” I say. “When aren’t we?”

We start the trek back to the other side of the arena. We get lost more than a few times, and I
consider braving a tree to see if I can make out anything further, but the fog is so dense, I
don’t want to risk missing a branch and falling -- and besides, I don’t know much good it
would do us anyways.

We finally arrive sometime around mid-afternoon. When we break through the treeline, it’s
like staring into a bright light. Everything is hazy and distant, but I can finally see things
properly. We’ve managed to trek somewhat uphill, meaning we have a good view of the
whole arena.

And I was right. The fog covers the forest thickly, but it seems mostly condensed around the
lake. It almost looks as though it spills out from it, heavy tendrils creeping out from the water
and climbing up the stony lakeshore. I can’t even make out the Cornucopia from here, and
the island that it sits on is so obscured, if I didn’t know any better, I would imagine that there
was absolutely nothing there.

This side of the arena has been spared from the worst of it. Staring at it now, it really is a
strange landscape. Dusty red rocks, spilling out into curious, jagged formations. On some of
them, unfamiliar moss grows, blooming odd flowers in hues of red and purple. The air is
thick and humid, and my breath comes out in cold puffs.

Chess blinks up at the sky, trying to adjust to the sudden change in brightness. He turns to
look uphill, and I realise he’s staring up at the river, which has snaked out from the mouth of
the forest and now twists alongside the rock dunes, until it disappears between two boulders.
Suddenly, I notice that the overwhelming hum I heard in the forest has disappeared.

“Caves,” he says, following my gaze. “I told you. Shouldn't go down there. Shouldn’t drink
the water from anything that comes out of them too. Come on. Anyone could see us from
here. Let’s get further downhill.”

I don’t like giving up height as an advantage, but he has a point, and so I follow him. The
landscape is hard to trek. I’m not used to an environment like this, and I’m not sure-footed,
but Chess seems practically at home, scaling up and down rock formations with ease. I
suppose it makes sense. District 2 is in the mountains. He’s probably been climbing up and
down heights since I’ve been climbing trees.

Eventually, we find a spot that he deems acceptable. It’s wedged in between two large rocky
structures, meaning we won’t be seen, and the river has reappeared nearby, so we can talk
without worrying about our voices bouncing off the stone. I perch myself on top of a small,
dusty red outcrop, and balance my axe between crossed legs.

“So,what now?” I say. “Are we taking on the Careers, or are we dealing with Eight and
Twelve first?”

Chess frowns. “I guess whoever we come across first.”

“What, we don’t have a strategy then? I thought you said the whole point of us allying was to
trick your old friends.”

“They weren’t my friends,” he says. His tone is sharp. “I just meant that we find whoever
first, and then we track down wherever they’re camping, and then we formulate a plan. And
if they find us first, we just fight. But hopefully it won’t come down to that.”

“Okay,” I say. “Then, should we be targeting the Careers first?”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Chess says. “The others are contenders too. The girl from Twelve
killed Aussie.”

“Aussie?”

“The boy from One,” he explains. “At the Cornucopia. She managed to get her hands on
some knives. I don’t know how she did it. Came running at him. It looked like she’d probably
gotten in a few fights at home. I was busy defending the rest of the weapons, and everyone
else was involved with other tributes. I thought he’d deal with her easily. But she got him
right here -” he points to his navel, “ - and here -” his shoulder, “ - and here -” he points to his
left wrist, “ - in a perfect order, so that she could slit his wrist when he went to grab the knife
out of his shoulder.

“She left him to bleed out, and I would have helped him, except the girl from Ten came to
grab his weapon and finished him off. Though that wasn’t much of a feat.”

“Did you kill her?” I ask.

He looks at me. “What?”

“The girl from Ten. Did you kill her?”

He nods. His face is still. “Yeah, I did.”

“Right,” I say. “Okay.”

“Anyways, all I’m trying to say is don’t count them out.”

I nod. “Alright. And you said you thought that they were here?”

“I do think they’re here.”

“Well,” I stand up. “No point waiting for the Careers to arrive. Let’s go find those two.”

But by the time night falls, I’m not entirely sure he’s right in his theory. The rock formations
are easier to track than the forest, but the fog has still kept everything hazy, and everything
looks the same -- dreary, dusty red. There’s no signs of life at all, apart from a small grey hare
that I spot a few hours in, hopping down from the top of a small stone spire. I try to go after
it, but it disappears into a small hole in the rock wall.

“There must be a burrow down there,” I tell Chess. “Maybe if I smoke it out, we can get
some proper meat tonight.”

He shakes his head. “We would risk someone spotting us.”

“You couldn’t spot an inferno in all this haze,” I say. “It’ll be fine.”

“I don’t trust what’s down there.”

“What, because you’re an expert on the Games? Sometimes food is just food.”
“I’m just about as close to it as you can get,” he says, and crosses his arms. “Come on,
Johanna.”

I roll my eyes, but I follow him. We still have the pastries, I guess, and the longer I can go
without showing him what I can actually do with an axe, even if it is just chopping up a
rabbit, the better. I’ll let him think he’s in charge for now.

We walk around for another hour after dark until we find a suitable campsite. It’s similar to
the place we stopped earlier today, only the surrounding boulders make it easier to climb up
the walls of our stone valley, meaning someone can take watch from a height. The
temperature plummets drastically once the sky has darkened, and we both nearly get to the
point where we consider lighting a fire, though we eventually agree against it.

“I wish I still had my tent,” Chess says. “But I didn’t know I would be leaving yesterday. And
if I had packed it, they would have guessed that something was wrong.”

“A tent ,” I say, rolling my eyes. “God, you were spoiled.”

“Hey -” Chess holds up his dinner. “ - your sponsors like you too. Food and an axe? Who’s
the last tribute who got a weapon sent to them in the arena? Finnick Odair?”

I actually laugh. “Maybe.”

“Maybe I should just kill you now, since you’re so popular.”

I know he’s joking, but I look at him sharply. “Don’t joke about that.”

He raises his hands. “Sorry. Yeah. Not funny.”

“No, it’s not,” I say. “I’ll take the first watch.”

I do. Our conversation quickly killed, he builds his makeshift bed and I climb partially up the
stone structure. I can’t see much from here, in the dark and in the haze, but I can tell that in
the light, I would have the entire arena spread out in front of me. If there are any signs of life
-- any tributes worn in by the cold who decide to light a fire, I will be able to tell.

But I don’t. I notice absolutely nothing. The night draws on, and I become increasingly
bored. My thoughts are running, like they always do when I have nothing to focus on, and I
find myself staring at Chess. Cassius.

He’s strange. I don’t dislike him, but I also don’t understand him. He’s stubborn -- that’s for
certain, but he’s also nice, and yes, I’ll admit it, he can be funny, too. I bite my lip. And he’s a
good fighter. I’ve seen him. I try to remember yesterday, how he moved so swiftly away from
his attacker. I will need to fight him myself. I’ll need to kill him myself.

I wish, for the millionth time since I entered the arena, that I had someone who I could talk to
properly. Someone I could trust. Before the Games started, I had Ashley. He was on my side,
unequivocally, and he told me that. But he’s not here. Right now, he must be working hard to
get me sponsors.
I blink. Or is he? Maybe he’s done his job. Maybe the bread was a message. We didn’t need
any more food, but we got it anyway. So people like us. Sponsorship money must be high, if
he can dispose of it like that -- even if he is sharing with Chess’ mentor. Maybe it is like he’s
talking to me. Maybe he's trying to tell me something. Telling me to do what I want. The plan
has worked. I have people in my corner.

I wonder if Blight is helping him. After all, Caraway is dead. He has nobody else to worry
about.

Caraway is dead. I look up at the sky. They took his body away. Where is he now? Getting
cleaned up in a hovercraft somewhere? Already cold, in a box, on his way back to District 7?
I feel dizzy, and I force myself to forget about it. Somehow, the image of his body doesn’t
stick well in my mind, even though I know that, all things considered, it’s a good thing for
me that he’s dead.

I shake Cassius awake in the early morning. My mind is so numb and bored through
willpower that it doesn’t take me long to fall asleep.

It feels like I’ve just shut my eyes and faded away when the sound of the cannon shakes me
awake.

It’s light out, but barely. Thin streaks of orange are clouding the sky. Chess looks down at me
from his perch, confused. I sit up, and we wait for the second cannon, but it doesn’t come.

“What do you think that was?” I ask. The air feels just as cold as last night, but the fog has
thinned considerably.

“I don’t know,” he says. “A trap, maybe?”

“Or one of the alliances turned against the other?”

“That would be good for us,” he says. “I was about to wake you, anyways.”

I stand up, my limbs protesting me. The cold has frozen them still, and I have to stretch for a
few minutes to regain sensation. Chess hops down from his vantage point and we start to
pack up the camp. From here, I can tell that the fog has almost completely disappeared,
leaving us with a translucent film of early morning haze, which hangs low over the ground.
We wait for the sun to rise properly while we eat breakfast. A thin sheet of ice has crusted the
ground by our camp, and I watch as it melts in the growing light, but the temperature doesn’t
change. I’m still shivering.

“What’s the plan for today?” I say. “More of the same?”

“No hovercraft yet,” Chess says. “You didn’t notice?”

I shrug. I hadn’t, actually, but I don’t want to admit it. I’ve just stood up, brushing away
crumbs, and I take a moment to look at the sky. Maybe there’s a hovercraft up there now,
above our heads, invisible, waiting to collect the body of the dead tribute. I frown, looking
around, and Chess follows my gaze.
I spot it before he does.

“Or maybe they died there,” I say, pointing to the lake.

He frowns and starts up, turning in the direction of the water. Only that, there is no water.
There is nothing but a cloud of fog hanging in the centre of the arena, perfectly spherical, like
a bubble. It looks almost opaque, with smooth, rounded, unblemished sides, as though it has
been carved with a fine knife. The edges stop just at the line of the water, held in pace
perfectly by some unseen force.

Looking now, I can see that the fog has disappeared from the forest entirely too. The side
rounding the rest of the arena is as clear and evergreen as it was the day we arrived, marked
only by the greyer light and the small patches of snow that dot the very top of the
surrounding rocky peaks, just after the edge of the timberline.

“You think someone went in there?”

“Maybe,” I say. “If they thought that the Gamemakers were trying to lead us into the fog, and
not out.”

“Why would anyone do that?” Chess breathes. “And besides, what are the Gamemakers
trying to do? Why would they cover the centre of the arena?”

I think. “Maybe they’re building something,” I say.

“Building?” He turns to me. “What would they be building?”

“Dunno,” I shrug. “Something they don’t want us to see.”

He takes another look at the arena. “Well, the forest is up for grabs again.”

“Do you really think anyone will be there now?”

He shakes his head. “No. But we can be, if we need to retreat.”

“That is, if they haven’t done anything to the forest.”

Chess laughs. “Like what?”

“Unleashed a pack of mutts, maybe,” I say. “Did you know I got attacked on the first day?
Some huge light brown cat.”

“A lynx?” Chess asks.

“A what?”

“Big mountain cat. We get them, sometimes, at home. They’re usually scared away by the
drilling, but sometimes they’ll stray closer to some of the outside villages. You’re supposed
to be careful, if you’re travelling between towns, because they can stalk you. You came
across one?”
I nod. “Silent little freak. Pinned me down.”

Chess grimaces. “Sounds like hell.”

I laugh. “Sounds like the Games.” Chess smiles too. I feel a bit more settled. “You have
multiple towns in your district?”

“Yeah. You don’t? I always assumed you did.”

I shrug. “Guess you could call them towns. We have logging camps. But those are, like,
temporary homes. You get a bunk and you share a house with about ten other people. And
there’s no shops or anything, because everything gets delivered from the town centre by
truck.”

“Wow,” Chess says. “And people live there?”

“Only for part of the year,” I say. “It’s hard to keep people there for long. There’s a lot of
accidents, and it’s such hard work, anyways. Most of the loggers live in town for half the year
and take on other jobs -- you know, woodwork stuff.”

“Right,” Chess nods. “Most people back home just work in whichever Quarry is closest.”

I want to ask him about himself -- where he grew up, where he went to school, what life was
like in District 2 -- but I’m painfully aware the cameras will want us to move. “Should we get
going?”

He nods. “Find whoever first?”

I nod. “One step closer to home.”

The first half of our day proves just as wasteful as the previous one. We move slowly,
mapping out every nook and cranny of our surroundings, but there are just so many places to
hide -- cave systems and rock formations and holes in the ground -- that we’ve barely
scratched the surface of our surroundings by the time lunch rolls around. We break by the
bank of the river. I spot a hare drinking from it, and despite Chess’ protests, try to catch it. I
fail, but at the very least, we know the water is clean, and we’re running low anyways. We sit
for a while, sipping from our water bottles and looking up at the sky.

“You must have been right,” he says. “No hovercraft. Whoever died, it must have been by the
lake.”

I try not to shudder at the thought. Whatever befall that tribute, I don’t imagine it was a fight
with their ally, or any other tributes. I can’t begin to picture what would kill someone in
there, and I don’t want to. I’ve seen far too many Games to know that Gamemaker tricks can
be horrid and sadistic. Four years ago -- the year after Ashley won -- they actually melted a
girl alive. It was mandatory viewing, and we saw it live on screen, flesh sloughing off her
bones like it was the meat of a well-cooked chicken. I couldn’t stomach any meat myself for
weeks after that. I couldn’t imagine -- not once -- knowing the girl. Watching someone I love
be torn apart on screen for the entertainment of others’. Even as a stranger, it’d made me feel
sick.

I’ve been lucky, so far, that my encounters have stayed well on the side of nature. Other
tributes, mostly, and even the mutt -- or lynx, apparently -- seemed natural enough. I’m not
sure I could deal with that kind of torture. It’s just not how my brain works.

Chess could, though. I look at him. It’s obvious he’s smart. Very smart. Tactical, and very
clearly aware of the Games. He would have come to the same conclusions as I did -- about
the woods, and the island -- if I hadn’t come to them first. He came in here with a strategy to
win, and he knows exactly what he needs to do to get it. He’s already thinking like a
Gamemaker.

I think about it. Ashley too. He always seemed to be aware of what the Gamemakers were
doing, how to think his way out of a situation. He won his Games by out-thinking the others,
because he knew he couldn’t beat all of them physically.

And then there were others. The year before him, Finnick Odair won because he was smarter.
Everyone thought he was some dumb kid, but he knew the value of the audience, and the
value of appearance, and he ended things in record time by thinking like a Gamemaker. And
there was that girl, a few years ago -- Bluejay, maybe -- who was smart, and turned her allies
against each other first. My mind runs through the victors, one by one. One thing keeps
coming back to me.

There’s no way I’ll beat Chess though force alone.

I’ve got to be smart about this.

He turns to me. “Something on my face?”

I force a laugh. “No,” I say. “Just your face.”

We hunt until the evening, but it ends up just as fruitless as the rest of the day. The sky is
slowly darkening, and at first we think it must be because night is approaching, but it
becomes increasingly clear that there’s some sort of storm on the way. We look at each other
wordlessly. First the fog, and now a storm. The Gamemakers want us tucked away, for some
reason.

It takes a fight, but eventually I convince Chess that we need to haul up in a cave for the
night. We’ve only just found somewhere when it starts pouring it down. The sky has gone
from a leering grey to pitch black, and the water comes down, fast and icy cold. We’re
drenched to the bone and shivering by the time we’ve run for cover.

“Insane,” he breathes. His eyes dart around the cave, as if he expects the walls to come
crumbling in.

“They definitely want us out of the way for some reason,” I say, getting to work on making
the place as comfortable as I can. “Means something big must be coming soon.”
He gives me a look. “Great.”

We manage to make the space livable, and we agree that, between the cave and the storm, we
can manage a small fire to warm up. The wind is blowing inwards, but there are cracks in the
roof of the stone, which means we won’t be suffocated by the smoke, and Cassius has enough
kindling in his bag to keep it going for at least an hour. Neither of us are particularly tired, so
we sit around, trying to dry off and listen to the sound of the rain drum past.

“How come you know how to light a fire?” I ask, once he’s got it going.

He looks up and frowns at me. “I’m not stupid, Johanna.”

“No, I mean - did you ever have a reason to? In Two?”

He shrugs. “No. But I learnt on my own.”

His words are clear. He learnt in the Academies.

“I’m guessing you picked it up working in the woods?”

I nod. “Gets cold in Seven.”

“You’re north, right?”

“Yeah. Past One and Five. We’re pretty big.”

“Two’s not that small either,” he says. “Though I doubt we’d compare to you.”

“I’ve never seen much except the District Centre,” I say. “Everything else is just forest.”

“I’ve never really seen woods before,” Chess tells me. “Not until I got in the arena. Course,
I’ve seen them on TV, and there are some patches at home, but the big woodland is out of the
district, and we’re not allowed there.”

“Man,” I say. “I don’t even know where Seven ends .”

“They’re nice, though,” Chess says. He’s looking down at the fire. “The woods.”

I shrug. “Can’t imagine ever not knowing the woods.”

We sit in silence for a while. Outside, the rain grows stronger.

“How’d you ally with those two, by the way?” Chess asks, suddenly. “Your district partner
and that girl?”

I shrug. “Just came across them.”

“And you stuck?”

“I was alone,” I say.

“I get that.” Chess flicks something into the fire, and we sit in silence for a while longer.
“What was wrong with him?”

“Who?”

“The boy. Your district partner.”

“Drugs,” I say. “He was in withdrawal.”

“Oh,” Chess replies. He seems distant. “That doesn’t seem like a fair fight.”

“No,” I say. “It wasn’t.”

There’s a noise from the front of the cave. Both of us jump, and peer out into the dark, but it’s
so foggy with rain, we can barely make out anything. Chess stands up first, sword drawn.
He’s tall and he has to bend down to look out of the cave properly.

“What?” I call. “What is it?”

He turns around. In his hand is a thick wooden box, wrapped in a parachute.

“Again?”

“We haven’t done anything at all. Feels like a trick,” he says. He puts the box down carefully.
“But there was nobody around.”

I walk towards it. “The Gamemakers won’t send a mutt in a parachute. It’s fine.”

“You open it, then,” he says.

I shug, and do.

And I laugh.

Inside the box is a cake. It’s small -- more of a cupcake, really, with one single candle.
Written on it, in tiny, swirled icing, are the words - Happy Birthday.

Chess frowns. “What the -”

But I’m seriously laughing now. Today must be the nineteenth. I hadn’t even kept track of the
days. I feel hysterical. Somehow, I’ve made it over a week in the arena. Somehow, I’ve lived
to eighteen.

“It’s my birthday,” I tell him, when I’ve caught some air. He looks so bewildered that I start
laughing again.

“How old?”

“Eighteen.”

“That’s shit luck,” he says. Then he smiles. “Happy Birthday.”

“Happy fuckin’ birthday to me.” I look up. “How much must this have cost you, Ashley?”

“A lot, probably,” Chess says, on his behalf. “Your mentor’s some kind of jokester?”

“Nah,” I say. The icing on the cupcake is melting so close to the fire. I toss away the candle
and break the cake in half. “He’s just tongue-in-cheek. Here.”

“You’re serious?” I nod. He grins. “I knew it was a good idea to ally with you.”

We eat in silence. It’s delicious, objectively, but after nearly two weeks of ever-staling bread,
raw fish and berries, it’s so sweet it makes me feel sick. Chess looks a bit pale himself, and
we both start laughing again.

Eventually, the anthem plays. We dare to peek our heads out of the cave for a moment, just to
see a brief flash of the face of the boy from District 8.

”Damn,” Chess says. “Could have been any of the other three. He would have been easy.”

It’s a horrible way to out it. I shudder. But he’s right.

”Twelve will be alone,” I say. “Good for us.”

We eventually decide it’s time to go to bed again. We’ve fallen into a rhythm of me taking the
first watch, and so I let him take my blanket and go towards the back of the cave. I sit at the
mouth -- just far back enough to avoid getting hit by the torrential rain -- and watch the
darkness. It’s mind-numbing, but I’m getting used to it.

Happy Birthday Johanna, I think. Chess was right. Ashley must have money, and he’s not
afraid to use it. I must have fans. Lots of them. Some of them might have even requested he
send this to me. I can’t stop smiling, despite myself. I feel stupid.

The night draws on. I can’t tell how late it is -- the storm hides the moon, and I’m terrible at
reading time without a clock. Maybe I should wake Chess up, but I’m wide awake. These
past few days of pointless hunting are mind numbing, and I find that I’m slowly starting to
pray for something to happen, and soon.

I really, really should learn not to ask for that in the Games.
 Chapter 18
Chapter Summary

Things start to go wrong in the arena, and Ashley finds himself on the other end of a
very strange call.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Ashley

I only really consider them nightmares if I don’t dream about the arena.

This is one of those dreams.

I find myself on the roof of my childhood home. I lie on my back, my face tilted towards the
sky, the heat of the sun pressing down on me like a blanket made of summer. I do not feel
younger. I feel the age I am now, although I know that if I look down, I will see myself as I
was before the Games. I blink up at the light and raise one hand to shield myself from the
glow. There are no clouds in the sky. Just a brilliant, endless, perfect azure. It’s how I know
I’m dreaming. In the real District 7, you never get a spotless day.

My mother’s voice comes on the wind, soft and lilting. “Ashley!”

I sit up.

She stands by the entrance to the house, dressed in her ink-stained uniform from the printing
press. She’s got a trolley by her side — for tesserae grain, I remember — and she looks up at
me expectantly.

She’s a very beautiful woman, I realise. I can’t believe that I never noticed it until now. Dark,
curly hair -- like Ollie’s -- and huge, upturned eyes. She used to be popular with the men in
the district, and she would date around a lot before Ollie was born, I’m told.

But then there was Ollie’s father, and then the affair with mine, and she had ended up with
two children to raise and nobody to help her do it. She never had time for anyone else, after
that.

She could have gotten rid of me, but she didn’t. And even after I was born, there was the
Community Home. But she didn’t do that either. She stuck with me, even when my existence
had been what ruined her life. She might not be a perfect woman, but she does love us. She
loves us a lot.
I think about this, and then a slow sense of dread blooms up the back of my neck. But I’m not
allowed to think about what I know, because my dream self doesn’t know it yet.

I sit up. My mother shakes her head at me, peering up on the roof.

“You were supposed to fix that, Ashley,” she says. “Not daydream.”

“I know!” I call, but I don’t ever remember our roof being broken. A tree did come down
once in a storm when I was ten, but it was next door that had their ceiling caved in, not us.
The neighbours had to stay in our house for a week until they managed to patch it all up. It
was cramped and horrible, and the boy who lived next door had never been kind to me at
school, but at least it had been winter, and the extra body heat had warmed up the place. My
brain must be confusing the story with all the times that Ollie and I used to play out on the
roof.

I stand up on wobbly legs and hazard the few steps to the old oak that hangs by the side of
our house. It’s an easy climb down, after that. My mother comes over and ruffles my hair. It’s
a strange thing. She hadn’t done this since I was twelve. I look down at her. When did I get
taller than her? I can’t remember.

But then her grip is on me, and we’re in the Justice Building. She’s in her reaping clothes,
and I’m in my arena uniform -- brown shirt and jacket, black trousers, caked with dirt, and
mud, and blood, and sea salt. The room is humid, dripping with sweat and strange, sticky fog,
and she’s looking up at me with something in her eyes that I’ve only seen one time before.

“I should have killed you,” I hear her say. It comes double in my ears. Once from her lips and
twice from a memory, superimposed onto her body, from where she stood in the front yard of
my new house in Victor’s Village, carrying a cardboard box of my old belongings. “I should
have killed you before they could.”

She places a hand over my nose and mouth. I want to move. I want to run, but everything else
around me freezes, as if someone has pressed pause on a television in the background. Her
palm is hot and sweaty, and the salt stings against my mouth. At some point, I’ve bitten my
lip, and I feel blood drip down my chin and trickle between the cracks in her fingers, thick,
like tree sap. I try to breathe, but it’s like someone has stuffed cotton wool down my throat. I
look into her eyes -- huge, and dark, swallowing up all the light, black holes. She doesn’t
even seem to be looking at me. I don’t know what she sees.

But then the sound of a bell chimes, and I am awake in a cold, empty bedroom somewhere in
the dregs of the Donum Floor.

I sit up. My heart is racing, and I’m drenched in sweat, boiling, despite the freezing air. I put
a hand to my lips, and, yes, at some point in my sleep, I’ve bitten myself. I paw at the blood
and peer at the dim red clock beside the unmarked bed. It’s a little past two in the morning.
My brain, still sleep-logged, tries to catch up with this.

The bell chimes again. Someone knocks at the door. Fast, frantic.
Something pulls at the bottom of my stomach and I lurch forward, stumbling over the tangle
of sheets in the dark, and unlocking the door. The impact of the hallway light thunders
against my vision, and for a moment I stand, reeling in the doorway.

“Ashley,” says Septima. She’s out of breath, and I think she might have run here. “Get to the
Click. Now.”

I don’t even think. I don’t even put on any shoes. I follow her as quickly as I can, pushing
past the elevator and turning down to the staircase that leads to the floor below us. I don’t
know what has happened, and Septima doesn’t explain it, but I know it must have something
to do with Johanna. Immediately I’m glad that I chose to sleep in the unmarked row of
sleeping rooms that the Gamemakers have laid out for mentors on the floor above the Click.
If I had been back at our apartment in the Training Centre, I have no idea if it would have
been too late by the time someone had reached me.

My heart gives a funny little squeeze and we reach the lower floor and twist past the three
meeting rooms that guard the entrance to the Click. A terrible thought occurs to me as I catch
sight of the door. Do I really want to see what happens next?

But we’re moving now, and there’s no point stopping. Septima slams the door open, and I’m
met with the sight of the arena again.

I don’t know where my glasses are, but there’s no point looking at my monitor. It’s already on
the main screen. The arena is as waterlogged as it has been for the past day and a half, and at
first I don’t actually catch what’s going on because it’s so dark. But then the camera angles
change, and I spot Johanna, axe in hand, battling against the wind and rain somewhere
amongst the rocky plains.

There’s the intoxicating rush of relief, which quickly turns to confusion.

“What’s she doing?” I ask Septima.

She opens her mouth to answer, but Haymitch Abernathy beats her to it.

I didn’t notice him at first, but he stands close to the main screen, skin pale in the buzzing
light from the screen. Cashmere sits at her table, watching with mild curiosity. Finnick has
presumably gone to sleep, like I did. Nobody expected anything to happen tonight.

“Stupid girl lit a match,” he says. “Mazzy - not yours.”

I frown at the screen. “Where? It’s pouring it down.”

“In a cave,” Septima explains. “For a moment - to see if it was safe to enter. Johanna saw her
do it from where she was on guard.”

“They were that close?” I ask.

On the screen, Johanna stumbles in the rain, but manages to catch herself. At first I’m
confused by the look in her eyes, but then I recognise it. I’ve seen it before. In dozens of
tributes before her.
She’s on the hunt.

“She just left,” Septima says. “Without even waking Cassius, she just left.”

“To kill her?”

I don’t know why I ask. I know that’s the plan. From the outside, it seems insane to go
hunting alone in the middle of a storm when she could wait until morning with backup. But
I’ve been in the arena too. I know the desperation that’s been plaguing Johanna. Two days
trying to find the others, only to be caught out for another full day by rain. The clock isn’t
ticking down -- it’s obvious that, for whatever reason, the Gamemakers want to stall the
tributes -- but the longer you go in the arena, the more desperate you get. She’s spotted
someone. She wants them gone.

“I don’t know how she even expects to find her,” says Septima.

“She’s getting close,” Haymitch says. His voice is low and flat. He pulls his hands back from
where he has been wringing them tightly around one another, letting his arms drop loosely to
his sides.

He’s giving up.

Johanna spots the right cave before we do, but her eyes are better adjusted to the dark than
ours are. She takes a deep breath and steadies the axe. I don’t even need to look at her
properly to tell what she’s thinking. She’s killed before, yes, but that was circumstantial. This
is the first time that she’s choosing to do it.

I think of my mother.

Once she does this, she won’t be able to take it back.

Mazzy hears her coming, but she doesn’t run. There’s no point, anyways. It’s so dark, and
there’s nowhere to go, and she’s so drenched, she’d die from the cold without shelter
anyways. She’s been in poor shape these past few days, ever since her ally died by the lake,
and her breath hitches in ragged, wheezing gasps.

At the thought of the lake, a horrible, sticky bile rises up in my throat. I swallow it down and
remove the memory from my mind. There will be the same, or worse, in coming years.
Seneca Crane has shown us he’s not afraid of creating something horrific.

Johanna’s eyes go wide, and she nods to herself when she sees who it is in the cave. I assume
she already knew. Neither Love nor Pierre would have been stupid enough to light any sort of
fire so close to the cave entrance, and Johanna wouldn’t have dared track them down on her
own. But she’s seen Hatch’s face in the sky, and she knows that Mazzy is operating on her
own, likely injured and afraid. She’s certain she can win.

I am, too. Mazzy might be a fighter, but they lost their knife at the lake. Johanna has a
weapon, and she doesn’t. It’s a death sentence, even aside from anything else.
Mazzy has pressed herself towards the back of the cave in an attempt to hide. It’s an
unintentional parallel to when Johanna had hid away from Cassius and Love, which I’m sure
that the Capitol will adore, but unlike her contemporary, Johanna doesn’t walk away. She
turns towards the mouth. Somewhere in the distance, lightning crashes, illuminating her
silhouette and her axe against the darkness of the storm.

I can see the posters already.

The Gamemakers must love her.

“Seven?” Mazzy says. It’s probably the axe that cues her in, because Johanna is almost
unrecognisable from the girl before the Games. “How’d you -”

“You lit a match,” Johanna says. She has to yell to be heard against the storm. “I saw you.”

“How did you get the axe? You ran away from the Cornucopia.”

Johanna steps into the cave. She’s drenched, head to toe, and her eyes are wide, and maybe a
bit crazed. Stir crazy. She’s got an ally. She’s got a kill. She’s even gotten fucking cake. But
she’s no closer to getting out.

And besides, she knows she’s going to take someone’s life. Your mind takes you out of it, a
bit, when that happens. Preserves a little bit of you, so that, even if you can never go fully
back to normal, you don’t spend the rest of your life trapped in the exact moment you decide
to do it.

She holds it up. “Killed someone.”

Despite her terror, Mazzy is incredulous. “You?”

Haymitch swears under his breath. “Don’t talk to her! Get out of there!”

“Mm,” says Johanna. She comes a little closer. Mazzy has nowhere to go. “How’d the boy
die? Your ally, right?”

“You gonna kill me?” Mazzy asks. They show a close up of her face. Gaunt, and bruised, but
with a stiff jaw. Strong eyes. Forced, steady breathing. She doesn’t want them to show her
being afraid. She wants to go down defiantly, and she will. She knows that she will.

District 12 really is something.

“Yeah,” Johanna says.

“You?”

“Yeah.”

“Then kill me.”

Johanna holds up the axe. “How’d he die? I wanna know.”

“The lake,” Mazzy says, because there’s no point in not, and she’s been alone the past few
days. I imagine even talking to her killer is some form of relief. “There was something in
there. We couldn’t see. Too much fog. Something grabbed him from the water. Huge thing.
Arms were slimy, like a fish. Weird disks, all the way up it, like suction. I just managed to get
away. It tore him to pieces.”

“Tore him?”

“You gonna actually kill me?” Mazzy says. “Or you gonna keep me talking?”

“I’m gonna kill you,” Johanna says. “I just wanted to know. Was curious.”

“I hope you win, then,” Mazzy says. She knows that there’s no point fighting. She’s
exhausted, and starved, and she has no weapon, and no energy to run. “I’d rather whoever
killed me made it worth it.”

“Thanks,” Johanna says. “Sorry about this.”

Mazzy closes her eyes. Haymitch doesn’t. “Just make it quick.”

But she doesn’t, because Johanna is smart. She makes sure that it takes a while for the cannon
to fire, so that by the time it does, she’s already back at the camp with Cassius.

At the sound of it, he jumps up. Johanna is already there, looking around too, pretending to
be confused. It’s dark, and I can’t see the look on her face. I want to see the look on her face.
I want to know how she takes this.

“What was that?” he asks. His voice is rough from sleep. He looks at her properly. “Why are
you all wet?”

“I heard something, out there,” she points out into the dark. “I went to check it out, but it ran
away when it heard me. Some sort of animal, I think. Big.”

“You think it found someone else?” he asks. He just believes her. But why wouldn’t he?
She’s already in the cave, axe next to her, everything cleaned of blood by the rain.

Septima’s eyes go wide.

“She’s playing him,” she breathes.

“I know,” I say.

Johanna tells him that it must have been whatever she heard that did it. They look out for the
hovercraft, but it’s too dark to see anything. He tells her that he’ll go on watch next, and try
to find a way to board up the front of the cave more securely, in case whatever imaginary
mutt Johanna conjured up comes back. He even gives her his jacket to dry off in.

We catch a proper look at her on the screen as she walks towards the back of the cave. Her
footsteps are steady. She looks calm. Casual.
But over her eyes, there’s a thin sheen of something. Something distant. Like glass that hasn’t
been cleaned in a while, smudged and foggy, with small, hairline fractures running around the
edges. Something that barely seems to be holding it all together -- the casualness, the lies, the
unimportance of it all -- but holds it together all the same.

I don’t even know if she’s aware of how close she is to breaking. I certainly wasn’t when I
was in the arena. Finnick wasn't. Sylvia — on the rare occasion she ever speaks about her
Games — tells me that she wasn’t.

And for some people, like Annie Cresta or Ransom Kegg, it is too much, even in the arena,
and yet somehow they make it out anyway. But for most victors, the crash and the realisation
comes afterwards, once we’re out. It’s the denial in the arena that kept most of us alive.

Johanna wrings her hair out, replaces her jacket -- (she smartly took her undershirt off before
braving the storm) -- and lies down on the sleeping bag.

I tell myself that this is a good thing. She’ll be fine for now.

But at one point --

I look at Haymitch, packing up his desk.

At one point, this is really going to hurt.

The Click is silent for a long moment. Septima sighs and sits down. Cashmere turns around
to face her own screen again, and rests her head against her palm, already bored. Haymitch
shoves the rest of his items into a bag and gives the room one last courteous glance before
shuffling his way out towards the elevator.

He must have thought he was close. He must have thought that Mazzy had a chance. And she
did. She’s where Johanna would have been if circumstances hadn’t taken her in the direction
they did. For a moment, a flare of guilt begins to catch fire in my chest. But I try to dampen
it. It’s not my fault that Mazzy died. It’s not Johanna’s either, really.

Still, my relief comes at his loss.

I look up. The same could be true for either of the others in this room. Finnick too. For three
out of the four of us, this will end with our tributes dead. Tributes who have gotten this far,
tributes who, on some level, we all care about. Only one of us will make it out of here
without a significant loss. And yet, I cannot begin to believe that it might be Johanna who
loses.

Perhaps it’s defensive. Perhaps it’s the only thing keeping me going. Perhaps it’s because a
part of me knows that she has the guts to win this.

Or perhaps I’ve just fooled myself, and come tomorrow, it’ll be me instead of Haymitch
walking out of this room.

“Ashley,” says Septima. I realise I’m still standing by the screen. I don’t know how long I’ve
been here. “You’re bleeding.”
I put my hand to my lip. “Oh. Yeah. Nightmares.”

She doesn’t say anything about it, but the look that crosses her face is almost certainly
understanding. I imagine that even inner-district volunteers get nightmares about the Games.
“Want to get back to bed?”

I shake my head. “Would have been my turn anyway. I couldn’t get back to sleep if I tried.
And besides, I’ve probably got some sponsor calls to check after all that.”

“Hopefully,” Septima says. “I’ll take a turn, if you’re willing to watch them?”

I nod. “Thanks for waking me up.”

She leaves, and I slide into my seat, legs shaky and heart still racing. My glasses are
discarded somewhere in a pile of rapidly scribbled notes from yesterday -- theories on what
the Gamemakers are doing to the Cornucopia, based on media speculation -- and I put them
on, blinking as my screen explodes with light. Johanna lies on her back. She’s awake, her
eyes darting back and forwards, tracing the roof of the cave. I wish I could know what’s
going on in her head.

I’m right about the sponsors, at least. It’s not a lot more money, because it’s so early that even
most of the Capitol is asleep by now, but I’m grateful all the same. I might have money, but
prices are hiking up incredibly quickly, and I worry that if Johanna might end up needing
something, I’ll be stuck.

It’s not even that I’ve been spending irresponsibly. The pastries we sent the other day were
split between Septima and I’s amounts, and the intention was threefold. They would never
have been able to hunt in the conditions they were placed in, and bread lasts a long time,
which was most of the reason why we sent them the food in the first place. We wanted to let
them know that the public had responded well to their alliance, and also to hint to them that
they were miles away from any other tributes at that point by sending a gift. They might not
have gotten the latter -- considering how they proceeded to track their surroundings for the
next few hours -- but the bread has gotten them through the past few days, including the
storm, despite how stale it’s gotten.

The cake wasn’t my idea. It wasn’t even me. Atticus Nero had used his Gamemaker
connections to request the item be sent in. He was willing to pay for it, provided I approved,
but I wouldn’t have gotten the money otherwise. If it had been anyone else, it would have
hardly flown, but Atticus seems incredibly well-linked to the Capitol elite, and it wouldn’t
surprise me if he was holding something over the Gamemaker’s heads. Finnick didn’t seem
surprised when it happened. As it turns out, deals like this were made often during his Games
-- which is likely why he remained so well watered and fed during his time in the arena.

Either way, I wasn’t going to deprive Johanna of something nice, no matter how much I
would have liked to keep the money for an emergency. She might have thought it was me
who sent it -- and why wouldn’t she, after she told me when her birthday was — and I’ll let
her think it. I don’t know how Atticus worked out the day, and I can’t help but feel guilty
about it all. I’d been so busy, I’d completely forgotten.
It’s had the negative side effect of her thinking I have a lot more money to spare than I do,
but confidence in her sponsors is never going to hurt her. She knows that they like her, and
that’s a good thing. They sent her an axe, after all. More likely than not, it’s part of the reason
she felt so secure in going out into the rain at all. She has the audience on her side. Wrapped
right around her finger.

Eventually, she does fall asleep. Dawn comes. I’m starting to get tired again, and my mind is
slipping back into the land of my dreams -- of my mother and my arena, all twisting into one
horrible, icy, barren landscape -- when Blight comes downstairs. He’s obviously heard the
news, because he’s urgent as he walks.

“I’ll watch over Johanna,” he tells me, in a low voice. He’s already got his glasses on -- they
transferred him access to my screen after Caraway died, on my authority. “They want you for
an interview as soon as possible. Main coverage.”

My eyes go wide. “Really?”

Interviews during the Games do occasionally make the main broadcast -- the ones at top eight
always do, for example -- but usually we’re given ample notice if we’re expected to be
broadcast to all of Panem. If they want me on air tonight, the audience must be desperate to
hear more about Johanna.

“Ambrosia’s working it all out,” he says. “You should go get changed.”

I run my hands through my hair. “Bet she’s mad about that.”

He might crack a slight smile, but I can’t tell. “Go.”

I do. I take the elevator up to the ground floor, and cross through the courtyard to the
Training Centre. There are people milling about, and a few stop and stare at me as I go by,
whispering to one another in bright, airy voices. The sight surprises, (and at first confuses),
me. I haven’t been the object of this much attention since Augustus Braun won the 67th
Games and overshadowed me as the most exciting victor this side of the 65th Games. But it’s
not me they’re interested in. It’s Johanna. I can’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction as I
brush past them, even though I know the reason this has all happened is because a girl from
District 12 is dead.

The seventh floor is a ghost of its pre-Games self. My footsteps echo as I patter across the
living room and up the stairs. My eyes catch on Johanna’s room, and for a moment -- I’m not
even sure why -- I think about entering it. I reason with myself that this is stupid, and I really
don’t have the time. I continue up into my room and get changed into the suit that has already
been laid out for me.

Thankfully, this one is smart and doesn’t have any of the stupid embellishments I’m so used
to wearing. Looking at it, I imagine they’re angling for me to come across like more of a
responsible mentor. It’s something that, at the very least, I can do.

I take the elevator down, where Ambrosia is waiting for me. I haven’t seen her in a few days,
and she’s almost definitely hungover. The scent of last night’s perfume hangs thick in the air,
and she’s unsteady in her heels as she fusses over me, adjusting my hair and collar, applying
touches of makeup to my cheekbones.

“You look great, of course,” she says. “But I do wish you’d shave more, Ashley. And you
look so tired .”

I put my hand to my cheek. It’s really nothing more than a bit of stubble. I resist the urge to
roll my eyes, but I can’t really bring myself to smile at her. “I’ve been busy.”

“Of course you have,” she says, obviously. “We’re so proud of our Johanna.”

Our Johanna. Something about it tightens around my chest, defensively. I resist the urge to
say anything, and let her lead me across the ground floor of the Training Centre, where she
sets me down in a seat outside one of the office rooms, which they must have converted into
a makeshift recording studio. Through the frosted glass, I can catch a handful of men and
women with cameras milling about. One of them notices me, and gestures something to
Ambrosia.

“They’ll want about ten minutes to set up,” she says. “I’ll leave you here.”

She wobbles her way across the floor towards the elevators, presumably to take something
for her hangover.

There’s a screen showing the livestream of the Games across the hall. On it, Johanna has
woken up, and she and Cassius are discussing what to do. They’ve still got some food left,
but the rain is still just as strong as it was the night before, and they’re worried that if it goes
on any longer, they’re going to run out of things to eat.

I bite my lip at this, and feel another sharp stab of pain as last night’s wound presses open
again. We can send them more -- we have the money for that, at least -- but I don’t know how
long the Gamemakers plan to do this. I’m just running through the possibility that they’re
dragging the Games on to incentivise more betting in the audience when I spot Finnick
coming down from the elevators.

He sees me and walks over. “Looking sharp, Firth.”

“Interview,” I explain. “Main broadcast.”

“Is this about last night?” He blinks. “They must really like her. Guess I’ve got to make some
room in the spotlight.”

“Save it for your boy,” I say. Finnick pulls a face. “What?”

“Just called some sponsors. They’re pulling his money to give to Johanna.”

“What? They can do that?”

“Apparently,” he says. “Never had it happen to me before.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, even though a part of me really isn’t. “I can refuse them. Maybe they’ll go
back to you.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll just take the -” he pauses, and points towards the screen. “What’s that
about?”

I follow his arm. On the main broadcast, the rain has stopped. All at once. The silence rings
out, and the arena feels eerily still. Ironically, it seems as though it’s the calm before the
storm. Johanna and Cassius stand up in their cave, glancing at one another in confusion. In
their camp in the woods, Love and Pierre do the same.

“Why would they do that?” Johanna says.

Cassius frowns. “I don’t know.”

“Well, let’s take it,” she replies. “Let’s get out of here, and -”

“Hold on,” Cassius says, suddenly. He holds out his hand, and he seems to be looking at
something above him. “I don’t know if we -”

The ground beneath their feet starts to rumble. On the screen, we see Love and Pierre
reacting to the same noise. To them, it seems miles away.

Cassius turns to Johanna. “Jo. Run.”

On instinct, I stand.

He saves their lives.

The five second head-start they get out of the cave is enough to let them escape as the ground
beneath their feet erupts in a shower of red rock, and dirt, and dust, and smoke. The camera
switches, and I see the explosion of water that demolishes their cave spit out into the air,
white-hot and steaming. Next to me, Finnick swears under his breath.

The pair don’t think. They run. They grabbed their weapons when the rain stopped, but
everything else they own is long gone in the explosion, blown to bits and scattered all around
the surrounding area. As everything falls to the ground, they stumble back, watching with
wide, unbelieving eyes. But they’re uninjured, apart from a scratch on Johanna’s arm from
the falling debris, and they can move. They look at each other.

And then the ground rumbles again.

They dive. The ground beneath their feet parts again in a horrible, sulfuric explosion of water.
I can tell based on the way that the pair cover their mouths immediately, sweat-soaked
clothes pulled over their faces as they gasp for air and space. As they react, a piece of debris
falls, piercing Cassius in the lower leg as he scrambles out of the way. He cries out in agony,
a horrible, clawing sound, and reaches out to remove it immediately. He yelps again, pulling
his hands back in pain, and when the camera shows them, they’re furiously red.

“Geyser,” Finnick breathes to me. “Underground thermal activity. Boiling hot. Not good.”
“Why?” I frown. “Why, after last night -”

“To show them who’s in charge,” Finnick says. “Not them. The Gamemakers. Nobody was
supposed to die last night.”

I nod, but don’t say anything. I think he’s right.

It goes on like this. They catch their breaths, and then the ground explodes again. They
realise quickly that they need to get out of the area, but with every explosion, they’re getting
slower and more injured. Cassius is limping, trailing ribbons of hot red from his leg, and his
face is white with concentration. Johanna is pulling him along, eyes wide with terror. It’s the
first time I’ve seen her this afraid before -- raw, animal fear taking over. They stumble into a
corner, against a wall, breathing so heavily that it seems like they’re going to tear their lungs
open. For a moment -- a brief, horrible moment -- there’s silence, and they start to relax,
believing that the attack must be over.

But there’s one more explosion.

Cassius is slow. Johanna just manages to pull him out of the way. She’s got her axe clenched
between her teeth and it takes all her strength to drag him off the ground. He’s twice her
weight and she’s sweating like crazy. His sword tumbles to the floor, and as she flings him,
she looks at it. I know what she’s deliberating. Don’t. Don’t do it.

But she does.

And it takes her too long.

She’s caught in the edge of the blast. It flings her back, far. Fast. Her entire body goes flying
into the ground, skidding across the dust and dirt. There’s blood. A lot of blood. Her head hits
the ground, and there’s a horrible crunch. It sounds like wood splintering, and something
happens to my breath -- it gets lodged somewhere in my throat, and I can’t breathe either, and
I can’t blink either, and for the first time since I’ve been out of the arena, my mind goes
properly blank, skipping a beat, like I’m about to fall asleep and I’m in freefall.

And then it all rushes back, and all I can wonder is; is she dead?

Finnick grabs my shoulder “I’ll tell them. You go.”

I do. I don’t even think. I run. I race through the courtyard, to the elevators, and anyone
around who has seen the screen lets me push past them. My palms slam into the button, but it
doesn’t open. It won’t open. Fuck. Everything I’ve felt in this past month condenses into this
primal anger towards this elevator, and I pound the button again, and again, and again, not
caring if I break it.

I’m wrong. I’m wrong. It’s not just about me. I do care about her, and I don’t want her to die
because I do care about her.

The door opens. The ride down to the Donum Floor feels as though it takes a million years,
and the world around me has started to swim by the time that I’m out in the corridor. It feels
like I’m dreaming again -- like this is some horrible, liminal nightmare set outside of the
arena that I can’t escape from.

I try to shake my head, to focus. You need to get it together, Ashley.

Blight races up to me the second I’ve entered the room. On the big screen, I can see the
attacks have finally stopped. Cassius crouches next to her, holding her head and moving her
onto her side. She’s bloodied, scraped and her skin is already blooming in shades of multiple
bruises, but my eyes go straight to her head. Her hair is matted, and there’s blood - a lot of
blood. Sticky, dark red, almost black. I turn to Blight, eyes wild.

“She’s alive,” he says. “Head wounds bleed. But her stats, Ashley -”

I run past him, scrambling for my glasses. I know what it is immediately. They practically
highlight it for me. By some miracle, she has no broken bones, and most of her wounds are
surface-level, but that doesn’t matter.

She’s hit her head, and her brain has begun to swell.

It’s not as drastic as some of the other head injuries I’ve seen in the Games. She’s strong, but
without help, she’ll be dead within the hour.

I turn to Blight, urgent. On screen, Cassius is beginning to panic. “Anything on the sponsor
list?”

He shakes his head. He looks almost grey. “Yeah. But it’s - ”

“I’m getting on the line with the Gamemakers. They’ll fast-track it.”

“Ashley -”

I don’t listen. I pull out the sponsor phone from under my desk and dial the number. My
hands are shaking, and it takes me three tries. They pick up almost immediately.

“Mr Firth?”

I recognise the voice. Something white-hot -- not rage -- flows through me. Plutarch-fucking-
Heaveansbee. “Yeah. Listen. I need -”

“We can see here. Miss Mason is not in a good position right now. You’ll want the
medicine?”

“Yeah, I want medicine. Now.”

“Well, looking here, I’m afraid you don’t have the funds for it -”

Something starts to ring in my ears. “What do you mean I don’t -”

“You’re one percent short of the goal for Miss Mason’s medicine. Now, if you manage to find
the funds in time -”
“ One percent ?” I think I might be shouting, but I’m not sure. I open the tab. “But this
morning, I looked - we had enough, I swear, we had enough for this - I don’t know if she has
time!”

“I’m sorry, but those are the rules.”

”You spiked the prices after this happened? There must be some rule against that!”

Plutarch speaks evenly. “I see no evidence for that.”

I see red.

“You know they’ll lynch you for this, right?” I say. I don’t know why I say it. I just do. “They
love her. You’ve seen that! If they find out - I saw that medicine on the lists just this morning,
you raised the prices when this happened, you caused this! If they found out you refused to
save her - you stopped us from helping her, when we had the money, that you’ve rigged it,
you’re punishing her, because, because I didn’t - ”

“And if they find out, then what?” Plutarch’s voice on the other end sounds cool. “What can
they do?”

I can’t see. I can’t think. Johanna is dying.

I just say what I feel.

“You’ll have a very unhappy audience. Hard to keep control of people when they find out
they’re being manipulated. Isn’t that the point of the Games?”

There’s a long pause.

“Awful lot of power one person can have, can’t they?”

I blink.

He continues. “Well. It seems you’re correct. Someone must have increased the prices
accidentally. You do have the funds. We’ll authorise the drop. Do you want it now?”

“Yes, I want it fucking now,” I hiss.

He calls an order on the other end. The fog around my vision is ebbing. At some point, I
realise what I’ve just said. I look up, but Blight and Cashmere are the only two in the room,
and Cashmere is urgently trying to find something to direct Love and Pierre away from the
explosion site, worried the Gamemakers may attack them too.

Blight just looks at me.

“You’ll see it come through in a minute,” says Plutarch Heavensbee. “Oh! Ashley -- I did
want to say, earlier. I’ve gotten word that my friend Faustina Sisko would like another
meeting with you. Can that be arranged?”
“Whatever,” I say, and slam my hand down on the receiver.

I’ll be punished for this. No doubt about it. The meeting with Faustina is a ruse that I’ll be
forced to go to, and I’ll end up face-to-face with someone high-up, ready to discipline me for
what I’ve just said on the line. I’m sure that will all catch up to me later, but for now, I don’t
care. All I care about is that Johanna lives.

The parachute drops. Cassius doesn’t even think. He dives for it. It’s a syringe, fully-loaded,
and he plunges it into her arm. At first, on her tracker, the numbers do nothing, but the
swelling doesn’t go up. I sit and hold my hands to my face, feeling as though I’m about to set
on fire. On the main screen, they switch over to the main studio, where Claudius
Templesmith has gotten a doctor in to discuss the situation. Apparently, because it was
received so quickly there’s been no real brain damage yet. The severity of the injury was
likely made worse by her previous concussion, and so the medicine will easily take care of all
the swelling. All she’ll be left with is some lingering effects for a day or two.

A day or two. Finally, I feel as though I can breathe. I lean back in my chair.

And Blight is still looking at me.

“Ashley,” he says. His voice is low. Cautious.

“Sorry -” I say. “They brought up the price, and they can’t do that, because we had the funds,
and -”

“No, I know,” he says. He looks as though he wants to say something. He doesn’t. He just
comes to sit down. “She’ll live.”

“I’m fucked,” I say.

He shakes his head. “I’ve said plenty worse. Most of us have.”

“You? Really?”

“I went crazy when your district partner died,” he says. “Trashed my room. Said some
horrible things.”

“Yeah, but you were grieving.”

“You were too, just then,” he says. “In a way.”

I sigh, and rub my eyes. “We’re out of fucking money.”

“We’ll get some more.” He shakes his head in disbelief. On the main feed, they show a clip
of a crowd cheering at her survival. “You’re right. They do really love her.”

It takes an hour for Johanna to wake up. Septima arrives and sends Cassius bandages for his
leg. There’s nothing to disinfect it with, but the rubble was so hot that he’s probably not in
too much of a risk, as long as he he cleans the wound soon. Cassius takes the time to gather
himself and pick Johanna up. She’s lost weight in the arena and it seems as though she’s light
as a feather in his arms, even as he’s limping. He carries her away from the rubble, towards
the river, which has overflowed in the storm. He starts to clean her wounds.

It’s a kind act, but I know better. It’s not that he cares about her. It’s that, to win, he needs her
alive to beat the others.

It’s midday by the time her eyes flutter open. I breathe a sigh of relief as I see her pupils.
Undilated. She coughs, haggard and wheezing.

He goes to her. “Johanna. Are you okay?”

She laughs. Weakly. “You know, I always wondered what it would feel like to fall out of a
tree.”

He frowns at her. She’s concussed. Definitely. “Yeah?”

She tries to sit up, but it seems like the world spins around her. “Yeah. Turns out, it hurts like
a bitch.”

“You could have died,” he says. “They sent you -” he grasps for the parachute, “ - some sort
of medicine. You hit your head really bad.”

“It feels like it,” she says. Then she laughs. “Man. We’re fucked. They blew up all our shit.”

He looks up. “Yeah. But we’ll live.”

”I feel horrible.”

”You think?” He shakes his head. “You’re crazy. You should’ve run. It was a sword.”

“ Wasn’t even thinking,” she says. “Just didn’t want it to come down to that last fight with
nothing.”

He holds it up. “Good as new.”

She manages to pull herself up into a sitting position. “Thank you. For saving my life.”

“You saved me too.”

“Fine. Okay. We’re even, then.”

Cassius smiles. “Even.”

“I’m still gonna kick your ass, by the way. Once we kill the others. Even if I'm concussed.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t doubt it. But I’m glad you’re alive.”

The sun parts from the clouds and her bloody face is suddenly bathed in light. She smiles and
closes her eyes. “Yeah. Me too.”
Chapter End Notes

four chapters to go bitchessss. ive been feeling like these recent chapters have been a bit
of a flop, but i do like where the story is going from here on out!!
 Chapter 19
Chapter Summary

As the end of the Games dawn, Johanna begins to realise what victory will really mean.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Johanna

“I feel like shit.”

“You look like it.”

I scowl and look up at Chess. It’s barely dawn, and the light of our campfire has dimmed
down into a low hum, casting echoes of light to dance across his figure. In the cold morning
air, it almost looks like the reflection of water under sunlight. I sit up, flexing and urging the
tightness around my limbs to ease. Blooming around the back of my head is the shadow of
the concussion I received yesterday, dark and thick, like a deep pit in the centre of my brain.

But the medicine is still working. I can tell by the way that the dim, thick fog that obscures
my thoughts begins to clear as I rise properly. The pain has already improved significantly
since yesterday, and despite the fact that I feel more battered and bruised than I ever have in
my life, things are starting to feel actionable. I take a deep breath and fumble around for
water.

“That’s the last of that,” Chess tells me, as I spiral the dregs around the bottom of the bottle.
It had been one of the only things spared in the blast. “We’ll need to find more today.”

“We’ll need to find a lot today,” I tell him. “Because I’m not fighting them on an empty
stomach.”

He grins. “So, her appetite returns. You must be doing better today.”

I give him another scowl, but my heart really isn’t in it anymore. Somehow, something very
significant has changed in the past day. I have decided that I like Chess. I have decided that I
like him a lot.

It’s probably because he saved my life. And that’s not a statement to be taken lightly, either.
The sponsor gift that Ashley sent me would have meant nothing if Chess hadn’t been there to
administer it. Besides, it’s really not just a one way street. I almost certainly saved his life in
turn. By both nearly losing one other, we’ve come to a mutual appreciation for the other’s
company. It’s not just that we make a good team - it’s also that we make good friends.
It’s a nice thing, because it means that we’ve both found the right avenue to really appreciate
one another. And it’s a terrible thing, because both of us are dreading what’s coming next
even more than we would have otherwise.

But maybe that’s a good thing too, because at least we know what we’re getting into. It won’t
come as a shock when one of us dies and the other one realises what they’ve done. We can
make the choice, fully informed, without any shadow of regret hanging over us. Once again,
we’re on even footing.

But I still haven’t told him about Mazzy.

I blink, hard, and try to wipe that from my mind, because there’s no point dwelling on the
past when I’m fighting for the future. I move myself closer to the dying fire, closing my eyes
as warmth brushes against my stiff limbs, coaxing them back to life.

It hadn’t even taken an argument to get Chess to agree to light it last night. We’d travelled
close enough to the forest to gather firewood, and he knew there was no way we’d be able to
take on Love and Pierre if we spent the night half shivering to death. He’d even been brazen
about it.

‘ Let them come, ’ he’d said. I’d rolled my eyes and laughed, because, as bloody and injured
and exhausted as we were, we probably would have died if they’d come then and there. ‘Let
them take us.’

But they haven’t come. Even now, the arena remains just as lonely as it always has. Stagnant
air, a low hum, and a bubble of fog holding the Cornucopia hostage.

Mazzy said there was something in there. Something is in there. A hot, bubbling dread starts
to form at the bottom of my stomach at the thought, because I know that this is where the
Gamemakers will eventually lead us.

Chess follows my gaze, his expression suddenly sober. “The longer they keep it hidden, the
more worried I get about what’s inside.”

“Maybe it’s something good. Like food,” I say. “A full spread, just for us.”

“Hah. Or beds,” he suggests. “I could do with a nice, soft bed.”

“Like the ones back in the Training Centre?” I close my eyes. “I wish.”

“What else would they put in there? It’s the Capitol. Clothes, maybe?”

“Imagine fighting Love in a full ball gown,” I say.

“Would she be wearing the ball gown, or would I?” Chess grins. I can’t tell if it’s genuine,
and I’m not sure I mind either way. “Because I think I could pull it off.”

I snort. “Maybe. If you cleaned up more.”

“I’m perfectly clean,” he says. “Cleaner than you.”

I pull a face. I have wanted to keep clean in the arena. It’s something Ashley and I discussed
before the Games -- the fact that a Capitol audience will always prefer a tribute that keeps
themselves looking good as the days go on. But it’s not just that. The cleaner I am, the more
human I feel. The more like myself I feel, and the less I feel like all I am is a tribute. My eyes
go to my arms, streaked with red, muddy dirt, and my hands go to my hair, tangled and
matted with thick, dark, dried blood from my head wound. Chess has assured me that the
remaining damage seems purely aesthetic, now that I’ve washed the wound, and that scalp
injuries tend to bleed a lot, but I cannot help but feel dirty, and sick, and unwell, and nothing
like myself.

A thought occurs to me.

“Pass me your sword,” I say.

He looks at me. “What?”

“Pass me your sword.”

He does. He looks worried and confused. “Johanna, what are you -”

I ignore him. I grab my hair in one hand, bunched all together with dirt and blood, and pull it
to the side. It’s long enough that it nearly goes down to my chest. I take the sword in my
other hand, and begin to cut.

It takes longer than I thought it would, and by the end of it, I’m left with a short, jagged cut
ending somewhere just above my shoulders. But I feel clean, or at least, cleaner than I did
before. It feels like -- both figuratively and literally -- a weight of my shoulders. I hand Chess
back his sword.

“Huh. It doesn’t look bad,” he says.

“My preps are having a heart attack right now.”

“No, really,” he tells me. “You look good.”

“ Chess, ” I say, standing up and stretching. The sun has almost fully risen now, peeking
through the clouds and dotting the sky with little pockets of light. “Are you coming on to
me?”

He snorts. “You’re not my type, Johanna.”

“Oh yeah? And what’s your type, then?”

He shakes his head. “Come on. Let’s catch some breakfast.”

I try calling, but he doesn’t respond, and so I smile, and run after him.

We travel downhill for about ten minutes, and then move parallel to the shoreline of the lake,
keeping the cage of fog in our sights. The rain has flooded out the rabbit burrows, and we
struggle coming across anything for a little while, but eventually, Chess spots a small hare
sniffing the air near a pool of water, closer to the end of the woods. The air is so cold that the
top layer of the puddle has frosted over, and our breaths come out in small clouds of smoke. I
gesture to him, and he grasps the thing in his hands. It struggles, panting in the cold, and I
can swear that I see its breath puff out into the air for just a moment before Chess snaps its
neck.

“We can light another fire,” he tells me. “Let the others see it. This has gone on long
enough.”

We find the river, snaking out from the tree-line, and fill our container. We’ll boil the water
before we drink it too, since we lost our purification tablets in the explosion. A couple years
ago -- I can’t remember which Games -- a tribute caught a stomach parasite from drinking
un-purified water. He’d scored a nine in the pre-arena training, and he was a real contender in
the betting, up until he’d been reduced to a thin, frail shell of a boy. Nobody had come across
him, and he’d anguished for days until dehydration had done him in. Ever since then, they try
to keep purification tablets in most of the packs. Apparently, it hadn’t been much fun to
watch someone go out that way. I don’t think I could ever forget seeing it. I’ve never
witnessed anyone that ill before -- not even my own mother, before she died.

“So,” Chess says, once we’ve lit up a blaze and placed the rabbit on a spit. “What’s the plan,
then?”

“Sorry?”

“There’s four of us left. They’ve stopped the rain. And they attacked us yesterday. It must be
ending soon, right?”

“I guess,” I say. I look up. The fire is sending up twists of haze up into the air. Back home,
sometimes they’d use smoke signals to communicate across long distances. I very rarely find
things pretty, but I always thought that there was something pretty about that. I’m not sure
why. “I don’t know why they haven’t found us yet.”

He shrugs. “Maybe we’re so far apart that they can’t?”

“I thought the Gamemakers were trying to drive us away from the woods, and towards one
another,” I say. “But then it seemed like they were just trying to drive us into hiding. And
then, yesterday, they drove us out again. I don’t get it.”

“Maybe they’re just trying to drive us insane.”

I laugh. “Well, if they are, it’s working.”

Chess turns the rabbit over. We’ve skinned it, and the flesh is charred on one side. It looks
disgusting, half-cooked, but I’m starving. I can’t remember when I last ate proper meat.
“They’ll find us eventually. Maybe something was stopping them yesterday.”

“Yeah?” I raise an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“We got attacked,” he says. “It doesn’t seem fair that they wouldn’t.”
“You think something happened to them? Where? In the woods?”

“Maybe. They must be in the woods. They’d have found us, if they weren’t.”

“We didn’t hear anything. No cannon.”

“Doesn’t mean nothing happened.”

I roll my eyes. “Couldn’t it be unfair? I’d much rather it be two versus one.”

“Mm.” Chess pokes at the flames. A gust of ash picks up on the wind, skimming downhill
and scattering out amongst the rocks. “But it’s not. So. What’s the plan?”

I pause. “Well, we’re tricking them, obviously. That’s the basis of this, right?”

“What’s ‘ this ’?”

“Our alliance,” I say.

He grins. “I thought it was my irresistible charm upon first glance that made you agree.”

“You threw me into the dirt,” I say. Then I smile too. “You’re in a really good mood today.”

“I’m alive,” he says. “And so are you. That’s enough to be happy about.”

Something pulls at my chest. “Mm.”

“So,” he continues, “what’s the plan?”

The plan, as it turns out, will go like this:

We will wait for them to find us. However long it takes. If we’re lucky, the Gamemakers
might even draw them out to us. We will scout out the area by the woods until they do. In the
meantime, we’ll also be on the lookout for any cave formations that are able to easily hide
someone. Once we work out that they’re nearby, I’ll work as a decoy. They’ll find me, alone
and weaponless, and assume I’m easy prey -- wasting their energy on the chase. I’ll run,
leading them down towards our chosen cave, where Chess will be hiding. He’ll jump them,
and then I’ll turn on them too.

And then, whatever happens, happens.

“It feels too simple,” I say. I’m lying on my back now, looking up at the sky. The wind is
strong, and the clouds look as though they’re racing through the air. I wish it were summer. If
it were summer, I could even imagine that I was home. “I feel like we’re missing something.”

I don’t see Chess as he speaks. “I know. But it’s what we’ve got.”

“They could kill me before I get my axe back.”

“I won’t let that happen.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I told you. In the end, it’s going to be you and me.”

“Why? Because you want the pleasure of killing me all to yourself?”

Everything is silent for a moment.

“No. But you wouldn’t want them to kill you, would you?” Chess says.

“No,” I say. “No, you’re right. I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t either.”

The sun parts from the clouds, for just a second.

I close my eyes.

And then it comes.

Trumpets.

I sit up. Chess’ eyes meet mine, wide and confused, and my mind runs through about a
million possibilities before reaching the most obvious one.

Claudius Templesmith is inviting us to a feast at the Cornucopia, tomorrow at midday. He

tells us that there is something very special awaiting us, and that we shouldn’t miss it. He
tells us that, by missing the feast, we might find ourselves in some serious trouble. He repeats
it, making sure it really connects in our heads. I listen to him, and it suddenly feels as though
I am not in the arena at all, and I am watching this all unfold at home. This all feels too
familiar.

And then he is gone.

I lie back down. Between us, silence sits. The words hidden between Claudius’ statement
hang thick in the air.

Tomorrow, the Games will end.

“Well,” says Chess, after a long while. “There goes that plan.”

I laugh. I don’t know why. And then suddenly he’s laughing too, and the reality of it all hits
us, here, amongst the rocks, watching as the sun phases through the clouds in a brilliant
stream of light.

“Shit,” I say. “Tomorrow.”

“Is it bad that I was kind of hoping we could do it all ourselves?” he asks. “No intervention.”

“Wishful thinking.”
“You think we can still trick them, like that? Because if there’s a feast, and we have to go -”

“Wonder what they’ll do if we don’t.”

“ - then we’ll be fucked.”

I pause for a moment. “Maybe not fucked .”

“No?”

“I won’t be able to lead them to you,” I say. “But we can still trick them, maybe.”

He raises his eyebrows.

I continue. “Say - okay, let’s say I get there first, before everyone else, and I hide, or
something. You three get there, and they assume that I was too scared to show up, and that
you’re acting alone. They’ll respond based on that, and attack you, and then I’ll get the
jump.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? And who’s to say that you’ll be able to get in there before
midday tomorrow? It seems pretty clear that they’re trying to hide what’s inside there until
then.”

I think about Mazzy, and the look in her eyes as she described the death of her ally. I think of
how I felt at the Cornucopia, when I dived into the water and I could have sworn that there
was something below me, far, far down. That memory feels faded. The first day of the Games
seems as though it could have been years ago. “I doubt an hour will make a difference.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then, we’ve got to take our chances, I guess.”

Chess looks at me for a very long time. Once again, I can’t tell what goes on in his head.
Eventually, he nods. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s not great. But it’s -”

“- but it’s what we’ve got.”

We eat. The meat is charred, and it tastes more burnt than it does anything else, but it eases
the gnawing in my stomach. We pack up what meagre supplies we have left, and make for the
other side of the lake. Chess has been there before, back when he was still with the Career
pack, and so he knows exactly what landmarks lie by the strip of land that will lead us to the
Cornucopia, even if we can’t see it. He seems worried about returning, but I promise him that
the Gamemakers won’t pull any more tricks on us until tomorrow. Besides, it’s as good a
place to camp as any. If Love and Pierre come out from the other side -- which, if they’re in
the woods, like Chess thinks they are, they certainly will -- we’ll remain perfectly unseen.
We pass by the cave where we hid out from the rain. The entire place looks like a bomb site.
The ground is cracked and blistered, as if some great, giant creature had emerged from
underground, wreaking havoc on the world around it. As we walk, we track thick red mud on
the soles of our shoes, sticky with dust and dirt. I’d been far too out-of-it when we’d
scavenged the place yesterday, but now, in the light, I think I can make out the cave I’d
hunted Mazzy down in. A large, open structure, with a gaping mouth and a set of sharp rocks
lining the bottom, casting teeth-like shadows across the front.

I stare at it for a moment, and I think about her. I think about the other two girls -- the ones
from Districts 2 and 4 -- and the boy I saw at the Cornucopia, with the split-open leg. I think
about Twine, and Caraway. I don’t know when I stopped thinking about them..

“Johanna?” Chess says. “Are you okay?”

I nod, and we keep going.

It’s late afternoon by the time we reach a place that Chess recognises. It’s not a desperately
long walk when we’re not hunting for tributes, but while we’ve been recovering quickly from
our respective injuries, we’re still recovering, and so we take it easy. By the time we sit
down, my head has started to spin, and the fog from the lake looks as though it’s started to
spill out from the shore and up the sides of the arena again.

Chess walks around the area for a moment, before deciding that it’s safe to sit down. We rest
in silence for a moment, drinking our water and listening to the sound of the water lap against
the lakeshore. If I close my eyes, it seems as though this place could be perfectly ordinary.

“Do you ever get that feeling,” Chess says, after a while, “like you’re looking down from a
very high place, and even though you know it would be dangerous to jump, you want to
anyway?”

“No. Not really,” I say.

“Never?”

I pause. “I’ve never wanted to jump . But I guess I’ve always wondered what it would feel
like to fall.”

He holds out his hand. “It’s like that. I almost want to step in.”

I look at him. “Don’t. Not until tomorrow.”

He laughs, surprised. “I wasn’t actually going to.”

“It’s supposed to be you and me,” I say, forcefully.

“You and me,” he echoes. And then he stands up. “Well, I’m going to get us some food. Last
time I was here, we found some sort of nest - some kind of rodent. I can -”

I stand up. “Sure.”

He shakes his head. “Nah. I’ll go. You stay.”

“Why?”

There’s a funny look on his face. “I think I just need some time alone.”

“Okay,” I say. I gesture. “Okay, sure. But don’t you dare come back empty handed.”

He smiles, and then he climbs up the hill, and out of sight.

I could be mad at him, but I’m not. I think I get it. I think I need to be alone too.

The light is getting dimmer. It seems as though the sound of the water is getting louder.

I wonder what it must be like at home, so close to the end of the Games. I’ve only been alive
to see two victors from District 7 win, and while I was far too young to recall what it was like
when Blight won, I do remember Ashley’s.

I was twelve. It was the same year that my mother died and my father got sick, and while
most of that summer was a blur of colours and noise, I can recall the day he won very vividly.
They’d cancelled school, and almost everyone who was living in the town gathered in the
square that morning to watch the last day unfold. It was a rare cold summer’s morning, and
somebody -- the mayor’s husband, maybe -- had handed out paper cups of warm, bitter pine
tea. There was an icy hush in the air, and I had found myself trapped in the crowd. I’d been
wandering around the district, aimless, desperate to escape my home, and desperate to escape
my father, who rambled to the air about nothing and forgot that I’d ever existed.

District 7 has never been a particularly hopeful district, and that has never changed. But that
morning, there had been something that had danced through the crowd. I had felt it too, even
though I’d hardly been paying attention to the Games, and I barely knew who Ashley was at
all. It had all felt as though we were on the brink between winter and spring, as if the sun was
just about to part through the clouds, and we would finally be able to see whether the snow
had melted.

Everyone watched, very solemnly. There were Peacekeepers lining the streets, and as midday
approached, the crowd grew larger and more tightly-packed. I ended up somewhere near the
back, next to a young couple who I didn’t recognise. The woman strung her fingers tightly
between her partner’s, and nobody said anything.

And when he won, nobody clapped or cheered. The crowd just parted, and let him get back to
his life.

But the next morning, when I woke up for the last day of school, I could have sworn that I
heard someone singing on their way to work.

I wonder if tomorrow morning, they will do the same. I wonder if they will hand out tea, and
watch in silence up at the great, blurry screen, silent, and not hopeful -- but something . I
wonder what Lynn will be thinking, right now. I wonder if she has changed her mind about
whether I am strong enough. I wonder if my father is alright, and if he even knows that I’m in
the Games right now. I wonder if there’ll ever be any chance of getting him back -- really,
really getting him back, and if that’s even something worth hoping for. I wonder what Ashley
is doing, and if he’s let himself believe that he might get one back this time. I wonder if he
thinks that I can win this.

I wonder if I think that I can win this.

And as I sit and I think, I am struck with a sudden, great feeling. It arrives all at once, but I
get the sense that it’s always been there. It’s a strange feeling, the sort of distant, bittersweet,
huge aching feeling that you only get when you’re about to do something final. It feels as
though it hasn't quite reached me yet, but it’s getting closer. It’s racing through the air, and
I’m not quite sure that I’m ready for it yet.

But it comes.

And as I look out at the wall of fog, I suddenly understand what Chess meant, when he said
that he wanted to jump in. I suddenly understand what Caraway meant, when he looked up at
the trees and told me that, in winter, he could see things for what they really are. And I
suddenly understand what Ashley meant, too, when he told me on the roof before the Games,
looking up at the sun, that I had a choice to make.

It will be easier to die here, then it would be to make it out, I realise.

And somehow, the words seem almost comforting. Because it’s true. It will be easier to die
here, along with Twine, and Caraway, and Mazzy, and the boy from the Cornucopia, and all
the others too. Suddenly, I feel as though I’m made of tiny specks of dust. As though a single
gust of wind could blow right through me, and then I’d be gone forever, spread out across the
arena, without a trace of me left behind. It seems as though all of this has just been one, big,
endless dream, and that if I win, I am choosing to wake up from it. As if victory is just hidden
from view across the island, sheltered by fog, and I’d be safer here, far away from the
shoreline, oblivious and asleep, and never knowing what it’s like to step through.

The sun has begun to set. And through the haze, the light splits, like a prism. The air is quiet,
and dewy. It feels as though everything around me has been on fire for days, and it has only
just been put out. Still silently smoking, sending out signals up into the air, and then
evaporating out around me.

I hate that I find this place beautiful. I wish that I didn’t. I wish that I didn’t have the
capability to find anything beautiful.

I could stay here forever.

But, I think -

I want to find out what’s on the other side.

I stand up. I don’t know when I started shivering, but once I realise, it’s all I can think about.
With the fast disappearance of the sun, the arena has been cast into a cold shadow. I pick up
my axe and walk up the hill, away from the lakeshore, trying to make out if Chess is
anywhere in the distance.

He’s not. For a moment I stand, letting the dimming rays of light enfold around me, like a
soft halo. I breathe in. I know the cameras are on me now. I don’t know why. I just know. I
raise my chin, breathe in the air, and let them take me in. This might be the last time you see
me as a whole person. This might be the last time you see me, without thinking about what
I’m going to do.

I’m about to turn around again, sit down and wait for Chess to return, when something
catches at the corner of my vision. A plume of smoke in the distance, huffing out into the air,
low on the ground, coming from an outcrop of high, grey rocks. It’s silvery thin, and it
catches on the wind before I can make it out properly, disappearing into the air.

I wait. And then it comes again. As my eyes adjust to the low light, I begin to make out more
of them - small rays of haze, picking up and then blowing away.

It’s not a fire. No firewood would be that thin. I frown, and look around for Chess, but once
again, he’s nowhere to be seen.

It won’t kill me. Whatever it is, it won’t kill me.

The walk over is short. The ground has finally dried out from the rain, leaving light patches
of frost coating the red dirt. My boots make a soft crunching sound as I walk, and it almost
sounds like autumn in the woods back home, leaves underfoot.

Home.

As I approach, I begin to make out a strange, bubbling sound. At first my heart clenches, and
instinct takes in. I grip my axe tightly between two hands and turn around, expecting
something to emerge from the lakeshore, something long, and horrible, and wet. But nothing
does. Above my head, a twin pair of birds flitter out over the last remaining threads of light,
and disappear into the fog.

I inch closer. There’s definitely smoke now, and heat too, rising from the crop of rocks in the
distance. I loosen my grip on the axe, confused for a moment.

And then it hits me that this is not smoke, but steam.

As I make it to the edge of the outcrop, I nearly laugh. Because lying in the middle, nearly
perfectly circular, bubbling and glowing in the night, is a hot spring.

I’m careful. I remember what Chess told me, about the way the Career camp sank into a pit
of acid, and so I tear off the edge of my shirt with my axe -- (I won’t be needing it for much
longer, anyways) -- and dip it in the water. Nothing happens. I place my hand on the fabric,
and then, tentatively, a finger into the water.

It’s hot, but not boiling. I could even describe it as nice. I turn my face up towards the sky,
letting the growing moonlight reflect off of my expression.
“You’re full of surprises today,” I say.

I want to say more, but I’m jolted out of my thoughts by a shout coming from the distance.
“Johanna? Johanna!”

Chess. Shit. “I’m here!” I call, waving my arms wildly in the direction of his voice.

There’s a pause. I can make out his figure, back where he left me. He’s holding some sort of
game in one hand, and his sword in the other. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah!” I wave him over. “Come here! Come check this out!”

As he approaches, he doesn’t seem pleased. His forehead is creased, and his mouth is curled
into a thin, tight line. “Don’t run away like that. I thought you might be -”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I say. “Look.”

He follows my instruction, his eyes diving into the water. His expression loosens, and he
places his kill down on the floor. It looks like some small rodent, about the size of a squirrel,
with short, brown fur and a wet snout. “You’re kidding. Is it safe?”

“Seems like it,” I say. “Do you want to get in?”

“Get in?” his eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s our last night. Might as well enjoy it while we can.”

He rolls his eyes, but then nods. He knows there’s no risk.

We light the fire first. We’re hungry, anyway, and Chess assures me that the rodent is safe to
eat. It’s a bit chewy, but edible. We save half of it for breakfast tomorrow.

When we say it, the word tomorrow hangs thick in the air between us.

I take the initiative to step in first, standing up and stripping down to my underclothes. Chess’
eyes widen, and he looks down, his gaze suddenly tense.

“Don’t be stupid,” I laugh. “I’m not getting naked.”

“I wasn’t sure,” he replies. “You could have been!”

“What? Are you embarrassed?”

“No,” he says. He still isn’t looking up. I shove him lightly on the shoulder.

“I thought you said I wasn’t your type.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re not.”

I dip a leg into the water. It stings, but not in a bad way. It feels as though the water is burning
through each cut and scrape I’ve received since entering the aren, dissolving them down to
nothing. I step in, properly, letting the pain wash over me. “What is your type, then?”

He takes off his shoes. For a moment, he’s silent, and I think I might have hit a nerve, but
then he speaks again. “I’ve got someone back home, actually.”

There’s a sudden sharp stab of pain that runs up my body, climbing up my back until it hits
the base of my skull. It feels cold, and tight. I decide to attribute it to the water. “Yeah?
Who?”

“His name is Niklas,” he says.

Then, he’s silent again.

“Oh,” I reply, because I don’t really know what else to say.

He steps into the water. He winces as his leg goes in. We’ve been careful to wash and clean it
properly since he got hurt, but the wound is still in the early stages of healing, and he looks a
little pale in the moonlight. For a moment he stands, swaying slightly, gathering himself,
before he plunges in fully.

“Do you think they placed this here, just for us?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No. I think it’s just good luck.”

“My luck’s been shockingly bad as of late,” I laugh. “I guess I’ll take this.”

A cold breeze skims over the top of the water, but it’s so hot that I barely feel it. There’s a
small ledge at the end of the pool, and I cross over to it, sitting with my back against the
sloping stone wall that curves up to form the side of the pond. The fire that illuminates the
night around us dances in the wind, making the water look as though it’s made of molten
gold.

I look at it. “They won’t come for us if they see it, will they?”

Chess shakes his head. “No. They’ll know that they’re supposed to find us tomorrow.
They’ve trained for that.”

“ Trained.” I roll my eyes. Then something occurs to me. “But you did too, right?”

“What?”

“You trained for this too, right?”

He looks up at the sky. He’s silent, for a moment. “I shouldn’t -”

“Come on. You might as well say. Everyone knows.”

He bites his lip. “Yes,” he says, eventually. “Yes, I did train for this.”

“Why?”
Something falls across his face. Almost like a shadow, hazy, and distant. “It’s complicated.”

I cross my arms. “Well, we’ve got all night. Might as well tell me.”

Chess sighs, and then comes to sit next to me on the ledge. From here, we have a perfect
view of the rising landscape fading away up into the distance. In the darkness, the stone
structures look like trees, climbing out from the ground and twisting into strange, gnarled
shapes. “You know my aunt, right?”

I frown, trying to recall. “She was a victor?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Septima Cybele. Fifty-Ninth.”

“I don’t remember watching that one.”

“I do,” he says. “I was six. She was my mother’s younger sister. They loved her. They sent an
interview team down to my home, when it came down to the final eight. Ma tried to hide me
from them, when they came. She placed me in the bathroom and told me not to come out, but
she never told me why, and I was so curious about who these strange people were -- with
their strange hair and their huge cameras -- that I snuck out anyway. They caught me, peering
through a crack in the door.”

I try to imagine it. Chess, at six years old. Tiny, with huge brown eyes, small fingers curled
around the side of a doorframe. I can’t seem to picture it. “Right.”

“And they put me on camera, and they asked me all these questions, and I made them laugh a
lot. I thought I’d done something really great. But then, that evening, Ma took me to the side,
looking more worried than I’d ever seen her in my life, and she told me to never do that
again.”

“Why?”

He shakes his head. “I told you. It’s complicated.”

I frown. It seems straightforward to me, but now that he’s started talking, he seems intent on
it, and so I keep quiet.

He continues. “Anyways, my aunt won, and we were the only family she had left. And so
they came, and they kept coming, and they kept asking after me for interviews. Apparently,
the whole of the Capitol loved me. I thought it was wonderful. But then, at the end of that
summer, my Ma told me that she was going to enrol me in the Career Centre when I turned
ten.”

“The Career Centre?”

“It’s where they train you,” he says. “It’s usually the poor kids that do it. They give you food,
and a bed, if you need it. And if you don’t volunteer, you end up a Peacekeeper, so you’re
guaranteed a job that’s not in the quarries.”

Next to us, the fire ebbs. “But, your aunt was a victor. You didn’t need the help.”
He shakes his head. “No. I didn’t.”

“Then, why?”

Chess doesn’t look at me. His gaze is very far away. “Apparently, when I was out of the
room, one of the camera crew mentioned to my Ma and my aunt that it would be nice to see
me in the Games, when I was of age.”

I blink at him. “And so, what? She made you train and then volunteer?”

“No,” he says, plainly. “She made me train. I choose to volunteer.”

He chose to.

But Chess isn’t like the others. Why would he choose to?

I’m about to open my mouth to ask -

And then, I get it.

He can’t say it outright, but I know what he’s trying to tell me. Because I’ve seen the way
that relatives of victors end up in the Games, usually at far higher odds that should be normal.

Chess would have ended up in the arena, one way or another, whether he chose to or not.

It strikes me, because I always thought that he’d ended up here of his own free will. And
maybe he did, in some way. But it wasn’t the kind of choice I thought he’d made. It was a
different kind of choice.

“That’s brave,” I say.

He shakes his head. “Not really.”

Silence breaks our conversation. I feel as though silence is always breaking our conversation.

“And what’s she like, then?” I ask, eventually. “Septima. She’s your mentor, right?”

A brief smile crosses his face. “She’s great.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He stretches his arms out in the water. I can see the thin red lines of cuts and bruises,
scars from what must be years of training. “My dad isn’t really in the picture, so she half-
raised me. She’s a good person. And she’s smart. Really, really smart.”

“As smart as you?” I raise an eyebrow. “Mr Strategy?”

“She’s smarter,” he says. “We used to play games all the time. She always used to win.”

“What kind of games?”

“Cards. Strategy. Chess, sometimes,” he says. “That’s how I got my nickname. She gave it to
me. It’s the only thing I could ever beat her at.”

“Chess,” I echo. “It suits you.”

He smiles. “Have you ever played it?”

“No.”

“Probably for the best. You’d be terrible at it.”

I pull a face. “You serious?”

“Probably.”

“I bet you’re wrong. Bet you I could win.”

Chess shakes his head. “Well, maybe we can play a game, once we get out of here,” he says.
And then he realises what he’s said. “Or maybe not.”

I feel a strange sort of sadness I don’t think I’ve ever felt before.

The fire dims again, and I look up. It’s snowing. The water is so hot, I hadn’t even noticed.
Small flecks of ice spill out around us, caressed and whipped about by the wind. Chess
follows my gaze, and for a moment, we’re both sitting in silence, looking up at the sky.

“And what about your mentor?” he says, when the wind has died down. “You’ve got Firth,
right?”

“Ashley. Yeah.”

“How is he?”

“He’s good,” I say. Thinking about Ashley suddenly makes me very sad too, even though
I’ve been thinking about him a lot today. I don’t know why I feel as sad as I do. “I honestly
didn’t think he would be.”

“What do you mean by good?”

“He’s just a good person,” I shrug. “It’s hard to believe a victor can be a good person, you
know? But he is.”

Chess nods. “I know what you mean.”

“I think he’d probably be my friend,” I say. “If I got out.”

“You got many friends?”

“Not really.”
Chess holds out his palm to catch a drop of snow. It drifts down slowly and melts when it
touches his skin. “I watched his Games to prepare. I watched a lot of Games. But his was one
of the ones that I learned the most from.”

“Yeah?” I ask. “What did you learn?”

“I learned that I shouldn’t discount District Seven.” He looks at me and smiles. “And I
learned that, no matter how smart my competitors were, I probably needed to be smarter.”

I smile. I think Ashley would like to hear that. “And what about me?”

“Sorry?”

“If we won in different years, and you were watching my Games, what do you think you’d
have learned from me?”

He looks at me for a moment. There’s a funny look on his face. “I don’t know. Probably to
keep my eye on whoever seemed most inconspicuous. And -” he hesitates.

“And?”

He looks as though he wants to say something. “No - it’s nothing.”

“What?”

“It’s nothing. I just - ” he looks up into the snow, “ - I just wish we had won in different
years, you know?”

Something pulls at me, deep in my core. It occurs to me that he shouldn’t have said that. But
it also occurs to me that we’re likely not on camera now, anyways, so it really doesn’t matter,
and it doesn’t matter what I say next either.

“Yeah,” I say, following his gaze. “Me too.”

Around us, the snow grows faster and thicker. It swirls around the campfire, obscuring the
flames in a whirlpool of fuzzy white, but it doesn’t put it out. Nothing feels like it’s real. I
feel like I’m deep, deep in a dream, with no way to ever wake up.

“What do you think you’ll do, if you win?” Chess asks me.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’l live, I guess.”

“Mm,” he says. His voice sounds very far away.

“What about you?”

“Living sounds nice,” he says. “But I think first, I’ll just take a very long nap.”

I feel as though I have a very heavy hole right in the centre in my chest.
 I look at Chess, peering up at the sky. I look at him, and suddenly I get this sense. This
horrible, growing, clawing feeling. It starts in the pit of my stomach and it bubbles up, filling
my throat, acrid and sticky and thick. The world around me feels as though it has splintered,
as though something had changed irrevocably, and I am never going to be able to go back to
whoever I was before I felt this.

I look at him, and I know that I am going to win

And I also know that it’s going to be the worst decision I’ve ever made.

Chapter End Notes

three!! more!! chapters!! to!! go!! this fanfic is ending up one million words long, but
love me some heart-to-hearts! thank u to everyone who's commented so far, and f u to
the one person who spammed me this morning, u know who u are :((
 Chapter 20
Chapter Summary

The day before the Games end, Ashley meets with some unexpected friends.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Ashley

Not much comes as a surprise anymore.

So when they announce the feast, nobody really reacts. We’re all in the room together when it
happens. All four of us. We’ve all moved to sit at one table, gathered close to the screen and
marked under the harsh, metallic light. Finnick tells me that this is usual for the end of the
Games. Apparently, it happens almost every year. There isn’t much point in hiding strategy
from one another when everything that’s about to happen is out of our hands. There’s a
strange sense of camaraderie in the air as we sit together, watching our own individual
monitors, waiting as the clock ticks down. And when they make the announcement and it
shows up on the big screen, we all turn in unison to watch as the faces of our tributes are
magnified in front of us.

“Well, that’s to be expected,” says Septima quite plainly, once it’s all done. “They’ll want all
four of them to show off in style.”
She’s right. The end has been a few days coming, but the betting has only just plateaued in
the past twelve hours, so the timing is just right. I’ve never seen it so fervent before, and
neither have any of the others. As far as I can tell, these are the first Games where all four
remaining tributes have struck out as real, equal contenders in the eyes of the audience. Of
course, the usual dissolution of the Career pack near the end of the Games and the subsequent
big fight will usually make a splash, but normally the audience has the entire length of the
Games to place their bets, and besides, there’s always been one or two standouts who clean
the ballots. This year is unique. The existence of two distinct alliances -- something that’s
quite unheard of, this late into the Games -- has twisted the audience into a fervour. Betting
has been at an all-time high, with speculations on not only who will win, but how. Who will
die first, who will kill who, who will betray who. The recent injuries both packs have
sustained -- thanks to the Gamemakers, all four tributes are going in with their own handicaps
-- have only spiked the craze into a whirlpool of crackpot theories and screaming, chanting
crowds.

Honestly, they could probably keep it going for another day or so. The Games are, if nothing
else, the Capitol’s most prolific industry. But then they’d run the risk of the audience losing
interest, or the tributes eventually coming across one another and finishing the Games off on
their own. By setting a date and time for the grand finale, they’ll only feed the fever even
more.

It seems as though the whole of the Capitol is on fire.

“I wish they’d think ,” says Cashmere, through gritted teeth. She looks at Finnick, frustration
clouding her gaze, “I wish they’d think about why they’d announce this, instead of just
assuming -”

“I know,” he shrugs. He speaks quite plainly. I think Finnick assumes that Pierre is going to
die. He’s probably right. “But they’re overconfident. That's why they volunteered. They
wouldn’t ever believe that District Two and Seven would ally.”

“ I volunteered, and I won .” Cashmere crosses her arms. She’s getting nervous. “And I’m
smart.”

“Yeah, and you wouldn’t have thought that they’d have allied either, would you?”

She glares at him. “We don’t teach them to be overconfident.”

Finnick shrugs again. “Well, that’s what it’s like with volunteers in Four, anyways.”

“And it just doesn’t seem fair,” she continues, “that Love’s shooting arm got injured, while
nobody else has such a significant handicap.”

“That’s not true,” Septima says, slowly. She takes off her glasses and looks up across the
table at Cashmere. “Cassius’ leg will slow him down. And Johanna nearly died.”

“Yes, and now she’s fine ,” Cashmere says. “Thank you, miracle medicine.”

My head hurts. I close my eyes. “I used up all my sponsor money on that. You can send
something to help Love, if you think it’s so unfair.”

“Can’t,” she replies. “They’ve cut off all sponsor gifts.”

That grabs all of our attention.

“What?” Septima’s eyes go wide. “Since when?”

“This morning, I think,” she says. “I tried, after making some calls. Couldn’t send anything
last night. We lost a bunch of sponsors, thanks to you two. I had to meet with Balbinus
Anderson.” She shivers. “All for nothing.”

“So, they’re treating it like an actual feast, then?” Septima frowns. “Why? It’s not like they’ll
need anything after the fight. It’ll be over.”

She’s right. It does seem strange. Something about it nags at me, and I close my eyes again,
putting my head into my hands. My skull feels as though someone has wrung a rubber band
around it, and all my extremities feel sluggish and numb. I haven’t left this room since
Johanna got hurt yesterday. I haven’t slept. I don’t think I’ve even eaten anything.
“Are you alright?” Septima asks me.

“Thinking,” I mumble.

“About what?” Cashmere says, loftily. “There’s nothing to think about.”

But there is. I bite my lip, running my teeth over the raw skin. If I was a Gamemaker, why
would I do this?

Then it hits me. I open my eyes.

“How much food do your tributes have?” I ask Finnick and Cashmere. They both frown,
blinking at me. Cashmere shakes her head, as if I’m stupid, and so I press again. “How much
food?”

“Not that much,” Finnick says. “Not after the bear -”

“Right. Because Johanna and Cassius don’t have that much either,” I tell them.

“So, what, they want them to go hungry too?” Cashmere says.

“No.” I look up at the screen, where they’re showing an aerial shot of the arena. The fog
covering the lake looks like a blurry smudge in an otherwise beautiful painting. “But they’re
making them fight in an enclosed space, without food, or any supplies. I bet you a lot of
money that, once they get in there, there’s no getting out. They’ll be trapped. ”

There’s a pause.

“Yeah, and?” says Cashmere. “Why would they leave anyways? It’s the final fight.”

I sigh. She might not get it, but I can tell that the other two do. Finnick raises his eyebrows at
me, and then sighs and goes back to doodling aimlessly around the borders of his sponsor
book. Septima’s expression grows tight, and she follows my gaze up towards the big screen.
The blockade isn’t for Love and Pierre, who are most likely looking forward to killing one
another as swiftly as possible. It’s for Johanna and Cassius. They’ve saved each other’s lives
without thinking, and now the Gamemakers are making sure that, if they do end up as the last
two left, they’ll end each other's lives in the exact same way. No food. No shelter. Just each
other and their weapons. Entrapment with no possibility of escape -- even if they know that
the end is coming, either way -- will do funny things to your mind. They’ll probably want it
to be violent. And it probably will be.

It’s horrible, but part of me is glad, because it means that, at the very least, they’re gunning
for one of our two to win.

Septima and I don’t say anything to each other. We just watch as the broadcast shifts to a
series of interviews on the streets of the Capitol, showing reactions to the news. Most people
are beside themselves with excitement. A young man, who wears a shirt with a graphic of
two axes crossed in a ring of fire, tells the cameras that if Johanna wins, he’ll be giving away
haircuts in her new style at half price. I roll my eyes and lean back in my chair. If there’s one
industry that will always benefit from the Games, it’s the hair industry. Every year, with no
exceptions, there’ll be dozens of wigs synthesised to match the most popular tributes, tossed
all about the Capitol. It only gets worse after a victor has been announced. Recent fashions
have gone all around the colour wheel. There was the bleach-blonde fad when Cashmere and
Gloss won, which became a chorus of warm bronze when Finnick was at his peak of
popularity, and recently, Annie Cresta’s long brown tresses have become quite sought after in
certain circles. Even in my own year, there were copycats. Red hair dye will haunt my
dreams. My own prep team wanted to recolour my hair at the time of my victory tour, upset
that the colour was far less vibrant than they remembered it on camera.

Anyways, it doesn’t matter what clean, sleek look they’ll model of Johanna, it won’t be the
same. It’s the wildness that suits her.

They go about this for about twenty minutes, before the broadcast shifts to a more sombre
look at the Districts, playing their reactions as they’re shown the news. They show them in
numerical order, starting with the white, indistinct buildings of District 1. I remember it very
clearly from my Victory Tour. It was the last stop before we arrived at the Capitol, and I had
spent the entire night nervously trying to socialise with crowds of strangers and block out the
fact that, come the next evening, I would most likely be interacting with old sponsors who
would eventually expect me to return their kindness. The whole day, the district had smelt of
burnt plastic and fumes, and the pale, sickly faces of the crowd had struck me as quite
unusual and eerie, especially considering I was so used to the typical, well-groomed
appearance of their volunteers on television.

On the screen now, they must have placed the richer, more well-fed and well-trained
individuals near the front, because the view is nowhere near as unsettling as it was five years
ago. The screen focuses on a couple who must be Love’s parents. They both have paper-
white skin and dull, washout blue eyes, and they smile forcefully to the camera. They must
know that Love is no longer the favourite to win, because it’s clear that they’re stressed.

District 2 is familiar too, although there’s a much tighter closeup of the town centre. The
camera lingers lovingly on a woman in her thirties, and for a moment, I think they must be
showing old footage of Septima, perhaps from a year where she wasn’t mentoring. But then I
realise that this must be her sister -- Cassius’ mother. She’s almost a carbon copy of Septima,
with the same cool, dark skin and braided hair. Next to her is a young man who can’t be
much older than Cassius himself. He’s stocky, with olive-toned skin and buzzed black hair,
and he looks down at his feet with sombre, flat eyes.

I frown at Septima. “Who’s that?”

She keeps her gaze at the screen and speaks almost forcefully. “His boy.”

“Oh.” I say.

The camera drifts to District 4. I see Finnick look up for a moment, wistfully staring as they
show a clip of warm, endless blue waters. My stomach seems to twist into knots as they pan
over a clifftop, but I manage it by reminding myself that District 4 is nothing like my arena,
which is miles away and miles away, somewhere far in the ocean, somewhere I will never see
again.
And then, they’re showing home. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen it so clearly on the main
broadcast. We’ve never made it this far into the Games since I’ve been mentoring. They open
with an aerial shot of the woods just outside the town centre, and I can almost smell the scent
of pine and sawdust. For a moment, just a moment, it feels as though, if I reached out, I could
step through the screen, and then I would be home.

They show the main square and the fountain. They've managed to switch it on for the
cameras, although the water that pours out from it is an unappealing brown sludge, so they
don’t linger long. The crowd is a lot larger than I’ve ever seen before. They show a few
young people -- probably from Johanna’s circles -- and for a moment I swear I recognise
Johanna’s friend, the one who I’ve directed before, Lynn. It had surprised me at first to learn
they got along, but having come to know Johanna a bit better, I think I can understand it now.
She’s more protective than she lets on, and Lynn is someone that welcomes protection.
Besides, I think Lynn makes her feel better about herself. She almost certainly sees herself as
an outsider, and Lynn is proof that she doesn’t always have to be alone, even though she’d
swear she would never need the company.

And then they’re showing a man in his early forties on the screen, with tanned skin and
shaggy dark brown hair. At first I’m confused, and then I realise that this must be Johanna’s
father. They look alike. Same hazel eyes, the same strong jaw and thick eyebrows.

This man looks relatively well put-together, considering what I’ve heard about him. He wears
an old suit, which must have fit better when he was younger, because it hangs off his frame
slightly. He looks about as clean as you get in District 7. His eyes are wide -- and if I pay
attention, maybe a little clouded over -- but he stares at the screen with what I can only
describe as recognition. I try to search for Sylvia anywhere, but before I can spot her, the
camera goes right back to the arena, where Love and Pierre are formulating their own game
plan for the grand finale.

“And so, the countdown begins,” Finnick says to the table. “Good luck, ladies and
gentlemen.”

“Like Love will need it,” Cashmere replies curtly. She stands up, tossing her hair over her
shoulder and closing the large handbag she always carries with a sharp click. “I’m going to
see if anyone wants an interview. Maybe if the charts go up, they’ll reconsider sending her
some ointment.”

She leaves, and the three of us exchange a glance. We all go back to silently watching our
screens again.

As it turns out, Cashmere is, in fact, wanted for an interview. We all are. About two hours
after she disappears, an apprentice Gamemaker comes downstairs to tell us that there are
camera crews set up in the gymnasium under the Training Centre. Apparently, someone
forgot to tell us that we were scheduled for a shoot. We’re supposed to be answering fan-
submitted questions about our tributes within the next hour.

“I don’t see the point,” says Septima, once she’s done calling her escort to pick her out an
outfit. “We won’t get any sponsors out of this.”
Finnick, who has covered his entire notebook in scribbles from head to toe and is now
fiddling around with a short string of rope, shakes his head. “Ah, yes, Septima, but it’s not for
us, now is it?”

She rolls her eyes. “I can’t wait for this to be over and done with.”

Finnick gives me a look as he follows her out of the room.

I’m already in my suit from my planned interview yesterday, and it’s held up well enough, so
I don’t bother calling Ambrosia to send down anything new for me to wear. I do slip into one
of the adjacent bathrooms, however, because if I look as bad as I feel, they’ll probably refuse
to put me on camera.

Bathed in the fluorescent lights lining the mirror, I look pale, but acceptable. I think I might
have lost some weight in the past week, and there are heavy bags under my eyes, but I look
passable, and they’ll probably make me look better in post anyways. My hair is a bit of a
mess, though. It’s become tangled, and I have to force it out of its ponytail before combing
out the knots. I feel naked with it hanging loose. It occurs to me that I haven’t let it down
properly since I met with Atticus Nero. It occurs to me that I haven’t looked at myself in a
mirror since I met with Atticus Nero, either.

I don’t know when my hair got so long. It’s nearly down to my shoulders now. My mother
used to hate it when I let it grow out. She always said that it would get dirtier quickly, the
longer it was. The day before I was reaped, she threatened to go at it with scissors. I’d yelled
at her about it -- not because I cared about how long it was, but because I was sixteen and I
didn’t like being told what to do -- and then Ollie had come in, and she’d started laughing at
the two of us being so dramatic over nothing, which had then made me laugh, and finally, my
mother had joined in. I’d promised her that I’d cut it the next evening, and she’d told me that
I’d better not be lying. I hadn’t been.

But then I’d been reaped, and the preps had loved the look. Afterwards, once I’d won and my
mother had done what she did, it had felt better to keep it the way it was. At the time, I’d
thought it had been one big great ‘ fuck you’. Running my hands through it now, I think I
probably grew it out to create some distance between who I’d started out before the Games,
and who I’d ended up.

But, looking at myself in the mirror, I don’t feel like who I ended up as right after the Games
either.

And then I almost laugh at myself, because who am I to make fun of the Capitol fussing over
hair when here I am, doing the exact same thing. I just shake my head, wash my face, and try
to keep my eyes off the mirror until I leave the room.

Taking the elevator underground from the Training Centre feels strange, but being sent to
wait in the cafeteria as they call us in one by one to do our interviews is even stranger. I’m
the first to arrive, but they’ve scheduled us to be filmed in district order, so I have to wait for
the others to get here before they can invite me in. I pace around the room aimlessly, feeling
like an animal trapped in a cage. They’ve renovated the cafeteria since last time I was here,
but it still feels hauntingly familiar. I feel as though I could close my eyes, and if I opened
them again, I would be sitting at one of the tables at the far end of the room, fiddling with a
piece of bread and trying very hard not to explode.

The other three must feel the same way, based on their expressions as they enter the room.
Once Cashmere has been sent to interview, Finnick climbs up to sit on one of the tables and
looks up at the strip lighting on the ceiling.

“It’s strange, being back here,” he says. “I never thought I would be.”

I keep my eyes on the floor. “I feel like we’re waiting to be evaluated again.”

Finnick grins. “If they were evaluating us now, what score do you think they’d give us?” he
asks.

Septima frowns. “What would they be evaluating us on?”

“Same as the tributes, obviously,” Finnick rolls his eyes. “Raw skill. What did you score
again, Septima? Ten?”

“Nine,” she corrects. “But I need more details. Would we be compared to one another, or to
the children?”

He shrugs. “Why not each other? I think I’d score a ten.”

“Ten?” I raise my eyebrows. “Didn’t you score a seven in your Games?”

“I was fourteen,” he says. “And trying to downplay. I’d do better now.”

“I’d probably score a nine again,” Septima says. “I haven’t kept up training, but I wasn’t
showing everything I had back then either.”

“What about you, Ashley?”

I don’t think I want to think about this. “Probably a five or six.”

“Seriously?” Finnick raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t you score a seven in your training session?”

It always surprises me how vividly Finnick remembers my Games, but I suppose it was his
first year. “Yes, but I’d been using an axe for the past three years at that point,” I say. “I
haven’t touched one in ages.”

“I didn’t touch a trident for a whole two years after I won,” Finnick says. “When I picked it
up again, I was just as good with it. Muscle memory.”

“Well, I’m not intending to hack anything up anytime soon. Trees or otherwise.”

He wags his eyebrows. “You’re telling me that you’re not a serial killer in your free time,
Ashley?”

“I might be,” I say. “If you keep this bit up.”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not,” he grins.

It’s a joke, but I’m tired, and I really don’t want to continue this conversation. “Keep
guessing.”

Septima gets called in. I think Finnick gets the hint that I’m not in the mood to talk about
hypothetical training scores, because he changes the conversation to talk some nonsense
about a Capitol film he’s been watching recently, about a dog that gets lost when its owner
visits a resort in District 4, and how it makes its way back home through the help of some
talking woodland creatures who live out between the districts.

“And in the end, all the animals get adopted,” he says. “Because obviously, nobody can live
outside of the district borders, even animals.”

“Uh-huh,” I say. I haven’t really been listening. The edges of my vision are beginning to blur,
and I’m dead on my feet. “Sorry, Finnick. I’m just -”

Someone pokes their head through the door. “Ready for you, Mr Odair.”

He gestures to them. When they’re gone, he turns to me. “You good?”

“Peachy,” I say, dryly.

“Sorry about that talk earlier. I wasn’t -”

“It’s fine, Finnick.”

He looks at the door again. “No. I get it. It sucks. Especially when -” he hesitates. “ - when
you think they might make it. I felt the same, with Annie. It takes you back.”

I take a deep breath. “I’m fine. Nothing’s taking me back.” Finnick looks unconvinced.
“Seriously. I’m just tired. It’s just one more day.”

He twists his lips, and then straightens up. He shakes his head once, and then plasters on a
smile. “One more day. You should see the parties they’ll invite you to, if she wins. They’re
crazy, Ashley.”

“I’ll bet they are,” I say, with no intention of going to any party, whether or not Johanna wins.

It takes about twenty minutes for them to be done with Finnick. When I’m called in, they’re
resetting the charge on the cameras. They’ve set up the gymnasium so that most of the central
stations have been pushed to the side. They position me in a seat facing the axe throwing
section -- subtle -- and a young woman with floaty pink curls comes up to fix my hair and
dust my under-eyes with some light powder. I’m placed under a mic, and given a list of
questions I’ll have to answer. They’re all absolutely inane. Apparently, alongside some pretty
gory questions about her preferred methods to kill, I’m supposed to be answering what
Johanna’s favourite colour is, who her best friends are, what she likes to do in her free time.
It occurs to me, suddenly, that I don’t know the answers to these questions. It also occurs to
me that, if she dies, I will never know the answers to these questions.
“Sorry,” I say, to the man who apparently is in charge of the shoot. He’s short, with spiky
green hair and long, metallic nails. “I don’t know how to answer these.”

He shrugs. “Make it up.”

I do. I try to make them as inoffensive as possible, to make sure Johanna isn’t beholden to
anything specific if she does make it out. Once I’m done and the lights on the cameras have
been switched off, the crew swarms around one another, and I’m directed out of the room and
up the escalator.

I’m halfway up the Training Centre before I realise that I’ve accidentally hit the button to the
seventh floor, and not the ground one. But I’m already past it now, and the glass around me
breaks away from the metal of the building, exploding into a view of the Capitol skyline. It’s
early evening, and the clouds are streaked with dozens of colours, blurring into a watercolour
haze. The city is alive with lights, dancing all the way out into the distance, and, as I rise up
at increasing speed, I can see that the streets are swarming with tiny pinprick figures. For the
first time, I wonder what I would be like if I grew up here. I wonder if I would love all of this
just as much as they all seem to.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open on the seventh floor. I hesitate for a moment, but
decide that there’s no harm in stopping off, if just for a moment. Besides, Blight might be up
here -- if he’s not spending time with Jude, from District 10, which is likely — and I might as
well pop by and say hello. I wasn’t desperately chatty with him yesterday. Maybe I can even
have a shower, if I’m quick about it.

I pad into the apartment. My footsteps make a clicking noise as I enter, and I cannot help but
remember Johanna laughing at me and my outfit in the elevator before we went down for the
interviews. It’s strange to me how long ago that feels, even though it was really only three
weeks ago. Caraway had been in that elevator with us, and now he is dead. He’ll be on the
train with us as well, when we go back home. Tucked away at the end of a carriage, shoved
into some cold, empty wooden coffin. He might even be in it now. Someone in District 7
likely made that coffin, and I wonder if they knew who would use it when they made it. I
think that I should probably go visit him on the train, before they bury him up the hill. Once
he’s down there, then he will be really gone.

It always goes like this. It never feels like any of it is real until suddenly they are buried
underground and their names are engraved into the placard that they’ve built into the arch of
the burial site. And then, suddenly, it will feel as though I’ve awoken from a strange, horrible
dream, and it will hit me that this has really happened , and that a tribute is dead. This has
been the case for the past four years and four sets of tributes, and it will probably be the case
every year from now, until one day in the future, where the Capitol decides they don’t want
me anymore. But even then, it won’t matter, because I will still know, and every year I will
still feel the same -- as though I am waking up for the first time, and seeing the world for
what it truly is.

Even this year. Even if Johanna comes home, Caraway will still be dead. Nothing will change
that.

I rub my eyes. I’m exhausted.

“Ashley.”

At first, at the sound of her voice, I really do think that I’m dreaming. I turn, slowly, hazily.
And there she is, standing at the end of the hallway, dressed in the same flowing green dress
she always wears back home. I blink hard, once, twice, expecting her to disappear. But she
doesn’t.

“Sylvia?” I ask.

She smiles. “You look tired.”

I don’t think. I hug her. She smells like home, pine and cinnamon. Sylvia is one of the few
people I tower over, and I envelop her completely. Suddenly, a wash of emotion seems to hit
me. I’m very tired, and I want to be away from this place.

“Why are you here?” I ask, pulling away. Up close, she looks tired too. There’s something
that lines her face. She smiles, but her smile is tight. “Is everything OK?”

“Yes,” she says. “Everything is OK. They just asked me back here for the end of the Games.”

“Oh.” I blink. I think I remember that sometimes, when a tribute nears the end of the Games,
the victors from their district who aren’t mentoring are invited back to partake in the media
circus. “Are they going to interview you?”

“Maybe,” she says. Her eyes dart down the hallway. “I was going to call for you. Is
everything alright with Johanna?”

I nod. “She’s taken the medicine well. They’ve put an embargo on sponsor gifts.”

“I saw, on the train,” she says. “It’s a shame. They wanted to send her something from
home.”

“They did?”

“They did for you too, you know,” Sylvia tells me. “A couple of kids from the school started
a pool. It all ended before they were done collecting, but I was told afterward that they
wanted to get you something to eat.”

“Oh,” I say. This confuses me a little. Very few of my friends from school talked to me after I
won. Most of it was just the fact that we grew apart very quickly, but I know that I wasn’t
desperately popular with most of the people I knew after what I did in the arena. But if they
were trying to support me near the end, it must have been after my stunt with the parachute.
“I never knew. Nobody said.”

“Well, that’s District Seven for you,” says Sylvia. “I’m sorry I never told you.”

I give her a halfhearted smile. “It’s okay. I might just go for a shower. Is Blight -”

“Sorry, Ashley,” she says, quickly. “It’s just that there’s someone here for you.”
“Sorry?” I frown.

“There’s someone upstairs who wants to talk to you.” Her face is tense. I get a sudden, tight,
clenching feeling in my chest.

“Who?”

She shakes her head. “They’re in the study. I think you should go upstairs and talk to them.
I’ll wait.”

“Sylvia, is everything-”

“Everything is fine,” Sylvia says. “I promise. I was going to-” she blinks, for a moment. “ -
everything’s fine.”

I look at her. She gives me a smile. It’s her normal smile, sweet and warm. But there’s
something beneath it. I feel as though I’ve been caught in a current and I’m being swept out
to sea, and she’s watching me from the shore. I hug her again. “Okay. Well, I’ll see you in a
minute.”

I trust Sylvia, but I can’t help but feel uneasy as I make my way past the downstairs
bedrooms, towards the staircase. She seemed worried. Why? For a moment, just a moment,
my mind runs through the possibility that it’s my mother who is here. I don’t know why.
There’s no way she could be here, and there’s no way she would be here either. But for a
moment, the idea flickers through me, and I feel a strange, horrible combination of hope and
dread curl up in my throat.

I’ve been thinking about my mother a lot recently, and I’m not sure why. I miss her. I miss
her a lot. But that has never changed, no matter how angry I’ve been at her, and I don’t miss
her any more than I always do. I don’t know why, but something else about the past few days
has snagged on my memory of her, and now she seems to be everywhere I go.

But she’s not here, I realise, as I climb the stairs, and am instead met with the figure of
Plutarch Heavensbee, sitting behind one of the desks and smiling at me.

Immediately, the air around me grows cold. I feel a strange, electric tension crawling up
behind me, and everything in my surroundings phases away from attention, drawing my
focus to him. I had assumed, perhaps stupidly, that I wouldn’t get in any trouble for what I’d
said to him over the phone, (at least until after the Games), but now I know that this isn’t the
truth. Sylvia must have guessed why he was here -- maybe Blight even told her -- and she
must have known that she was helpless to stop it.

I won’t be harmed for this, but there are other things he can do -- other things he can get me
to do. For a brief, terrible moment, I wonder if he’s changed his mind, and if he will find a
way to hurt Johanna. I clench my jaw, and finish climbing the stairs to meet him.

“Mr Firth,” he says. He says it pleasantly. He’s not dressed in the usual purple uniform of a
high-ranking Gamemaker. Instead, he wears a neat brown-and-white patchwork suit jacket.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him outside of his robes, and he looks a lot more like a real
person. It does a little to settle my unease, but not much. “I’m sorry for intruding. Did Sylvia
tell you that I was looking for you?”

“I ran into her,” I say. I’m pleased that my voice stays steady, because I feel like shaking. “I
was just planning on taking a short break.”

“Well, of course. You must be working very hard.”

“Not any more than you, I assume,” I say.

Plutarch smiles. “You might very well be correct.” He gestures to the chair opposite him.
“Would you like to have a seat?”

I really wouldn’t, but I do anyway.

“I’ll cut to the chase,” he says. “I know that you lied to me about the rebellious material in
the book that Faustina Sisko lent you.”

I blink. And there it is. I was right. Faustina must have been working with him as some sort
of plant. I try to keep my face even, thinking about how I’m going to play this. I can certainly
claim that I had no idea what the symbol meant, and he’ll have no way of proving that I’m
lying, but there’s no saying that he won’t do anything about this anyway. Strangely enough, I
feel entirely calm about the whole thing now. The surprise at seeing Plutarch has worn off,
and I always knew that there was a chance I’d get in trouble for this when I lied in the first
place. As long as nobody I know gets in trouble for this, I can take it.

“Which is why,” he continues, very evenly, “we’d like you to invite you into the rebellion.”

This does manage to surprise me.

My heart does a funny little flip, and my brain races to catch up with his words. “Sorry? I’m
sorry?”

“We were trying to make sure you’d be loyal,” he says. “Even without personal stakes. You
passed. We’d like to invite you in.”

My first thought is that this is a trick. In fact, it’s an incredibly obvious one. Get me to
believe that Plutarch is on the rebellion’s side, get me to agree to join, and then brand me for
saying something seditionist once I do. President Snow has never paid much attention to me,
but, based on my conversations with the other victors, and my brief interactions with him, the
plan seems entirely like it has his name all over it. Why else would someone so high-ranking,
and a Gamemaker, no less, be involved in a rebellion?

I frown and open my mouth -- not sure what I’m even going to say -- when Plutarch
interrupts me. “And I know, you must be thinking that this is some sort of ruse. I can assure
you, it is not. Sylvia can confirm it.”

“Sylvia?” I can’t help the surprise in my voice. “What do you mean, she can confirm it?”
He shakes his head. “She told me you were naturally distrusting. It’s a good trait to have.
Would you like me to explain from the start?”

I don’t really know what else to do, and so I nod.

As it turns out, it goes like this;

There is a rebellion. Plenty of victors are in on it, including a wide network of individuals all
across the Capitol. As-is, there is no solid foundation in the districts, but according to
Plutarch, they’re working on it. This group has had its roots ever since the start of the 40th
Games, but has only recently come into its own, after Plutarch — who has been involved
since his youth — managed to secure a spot as a Chief Gamemaker and started conversations
with some of the victors. Right now, there have been no immediate plans to do anything
about the situation in the districts, or about the Games, but there have been talks of escalating
the effort in the next few years, when the opportunity strikes.

Invitations to this group are done on an extremely strict basis. Any of the core members can
suggest an individual, but it must be agreed upon unanimously before Plutarch and his
network of spies will even think about inviting them. Apparently, District 7 has had a strong
involvement in this group for quite some time, and the idea of inviting me was floated upon
my victory, but Sylvia put a sharp ban on the idea, which is why I’ve never been contacted
until now.

But, as Plutarch tells me, the Capitol has been suspicious for a long time that some sort of
rebel group was communicating between the districts through illicit means. Apparently, they
used to use the rail lines from District 6 to smuggle information to other rebels, but
unfortunately, the Capitol must have caught wind of the effort, because there’s been a strict
limitation on who can travel and when, and suspicious eyes have been far too close to the
operation for them to use the links safely anymore. Apparently, Plutarch thinks that the
drastically worsening drug problem in District 6 may also be manufactured by the Capitol to
ensure that no information gets out.

“Upon searching for a solution,” he says, quite plainly. “Finnick Odair suggested you.”

“Me?” I blink. It’s been a lot to take in, and my mind is racing at a million miles an hour.
“Finnick?”

“He’s been quite strong-willed about it. He seemed certain you’d want to join.”

I can’t help but — despite myself — feel pleased. I like Finnick, but I never knew he thought
highly of me. “Oh.” And then I pause. “But why me?”

“The year of your victory, you ran a production of Doctor Faustus with local youths from
District Seven,” Plutarch says. “It was broadcast to the whole of Panem. The ratings did well.
With the popularity of Johanna Mason this year, it seems possible that I could convince them
to bring back the cameras crews.”

The answer comes to me before he can finish explaining. “You want me to smuggle
information through the broadcast.”
Plutarch smiles. “You won’t have to do all that much. You’ll get the information through me -
- I can manage one victor, at least -- and then all you’ll have to do is find a way to get it onto
the broadcast. You needn’t worry. We have an incredibly sophisticated code. You’ll be taught
it, if you agree.”

If I agree.

“And if I don’t?”

He smiles again, although it’s tight. “Sylvia thought you might say that. I’m happy for you to
take some time to mull it over. You can talk to her about it, if you like. It might be more
enlightening to hear about it all from a fellow victor.”

“You didn’t tell me what would happen if I refused,” I say.

Plutarch looks up towards the ceiling. “I’ve shut the microphones off. Officially, we’re
having a conversation about what you said to me on the phone. I’m telling you off. You really
should be careful about saying those sorts of things.”

“What happens if I refuse?” I repeat.

“Nothing,” he says, very plainly. “But I know you won’t.”

“How come?” I frown. I don’t think I’ve really processed all of this, and somehow, I’m mad.
I’m mad that I’ve been manipulated, and I’m mad that Plutarch seems so certain.

“I’ve got to get back to HQ,” he says, standing up. “It’s going to be a very busy day
tomorrow.”

“Listen -”

“Go talk to Sylvia,” he says, and heads down the stairs without looking back. “And good luck
with Miss Mason.”

For a moment, I just sit. My head is spinning and I feel as though I’ve been thrown on an
amusement ride that I can’t get off from. Some part of my mind is desperately aware of the
time passing, and I know that I should do something, but I can’t.

I wonder if I am actually dreaming, and when I’ll wake up.

If I am, I don’t. I eventually force myself to stand up and walk down the stairs. Sylvia is
waiting for me in the living room. I catch sight of her before she catches sight of me. Her face
is hard, and her hazel eyes cling to the floor. It seems as though she is lost far away in
thought.

“Hey,” I say. She looks up at me. “Do you fancy a trip to the roof? I could do with some fresh
air.”

She gives me a wry smile, and nods.

The trip up the elevator is silent. I take the time to get out my tablet and check up on Johanna
in the arena. When it loads, we’ve already arrived at the roof. It’s gotten dark out -- both in
the arena, and in the Capitol -- and the air is surprisingly cold for a summer’s day. On my
screen, Johanna and Cassius have found some sort of hot spring, and they sit, silently
discussing something. Johanna is looking up at the snow falling down around her, and there’s
something in her eyes that tells me that she has realised something very important.

I think I know what it is.

I try to turn up the volume, but nothing plays.

“That’s strange,” I say to Sylvia. “I can’t hear what they’re saying.”

“That’s probably a good thing,” she calls. She’s walked over to the little garden, and has to
shout to be heard over the wind and the chimes. “Let them have that to themselves.”

I switch the tablet off and come to join her.

For a moment, we watch the skyline in silence. The wind is exceptionally loud tonight, and
Sylvia directs me over to a lookout just beyond the garden, where we can see the whole of
City Circle, emblazoned in a ring of light. Above our heads, distant lights blink -- the
headlights of leisure planes. Back home, we’d be able to see the stars in their place.

“Why’d you tell them not to let me in?” I say. It’s the only thing I can think of to ask her.

Sylvia smiles, a bit sadly. “I just wanted to protect you, Ashley. It’s more dangerous than you
think.”

“Why?”

“Sorry?”

“Why is it dangerous?”

It’s a stupid question, I know. It’s obvious that this isn’t a safe job — by definition, it’s
incredibly unsafe. But Sylvia has done it herself, and she must think there’s some merit to it,
because I know her. And I trust her. I trust her to give it to me straight.

She shakes her head. “Do you know how Hap Holloway died?”

I frown. “Yeah. He got sick.”

“Yes,” she says. “He got sick. But before that, he was involved. And he was meeting with
people. He thought that they might like to join us. And we’ll never know if they did betray us
or not, but what we do know is that they didn’t join us, and then he got very sick, all of a
sudden, and the orders came from the top to refuse him help.”

Something terrible sinks in. “They killed him?”

Sylvia frowns. “We don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe he did just get sick, and they were never
going to help a victor anyways.”

“How many people?” I ask. “How many people do you think have died because of this,
already?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “In the victor's circles, maybe one or two. Outside of that - dozens.
Maybe more. But Plutarch would never tell you that.”

“Do you trust him?”

She pauses. “Not with my life. But with the rebellion, yes. I do.”

I have questions. She answers them. She and Blight are involved, and have been for a while.
Eleven and Twelve are in on it too, and so are most of Three and Eight, and some of Four and
Six — though they’ve lost most of the latter through crackdowns and drug use. There are a
few rebels involved in the Games too -- Plutarch and his assistant, Fulvia, a handful of film
staff, one of the on-site doctors for the post-Games -- as well as a few others in the core
group, including Faustina Sisko.

“Do you believe in it?” I ask. I’m not sure why I ask it. Of course she would believe in it.
Why else would she join? “The rebellion, I mean.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Sylvia frowns, and looks out at the skyline. It’s getting dark, and her face is reflected in a
dozen colours from the billboards below. “Because this can’t go on forever.”

I follow her gaze. There are hundreds of people milling about in the streets. They all look
really happy. “I guess.”

“Do you think you’ll do it?” she asks.

The question rings in my ears. Because the truth is, I don’t know. Part of me wants to.
Desperately. I think about waking up every year and seeing another child being buried up that
hill, and I feel sick. But there’s another part of me that feels stuck. As if it will just be easier
to keep things this way, because this is the way it’s always been. As if it will be easier to keep
things this way, because then I don’t have to think about what things could be.

“I don’t think,” I say, honestly, “that I deserve to be part of it.”

Sylvia frowns at me. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” I shrug. “I guess I just - I mean, I see you and Blight, and plenty of the
others, and you’ve been hurt by this for years. I feel like - I don’t know - like I don’t have it
as bad as you all do. Like I’ve been coasting by on this, and it’s not even all that horrible for
me. I’m fine.”
She smiles, a little sadly. “That’s not true, Ashley.”

I shake my head. “I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I am going to do this. Of course I
am. But I don’t feel like I deserve to.”

Above us, a red blinking light flies by. “The human brain is very resilient,” Sylvia says. “It’s
very good at shutting terrible things down, and pushing through them to keep us alive. And
when something bad happens to us, it becomes easy to tell ourselves that it really isn’t all that
bad, until we end up believing it. But you know how I told you that some years, it would be
worse than others?”

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t mean that it would be bad because of how a tribute would die, or who they would
be, or even how the Games would turn out,” she says. “I meant that some years are worse
than others, because some years you end up really caring about them.”

“Oh,” I say.

“And,” she continues. “Sometimes, it takes seeing someone else you care about go through it
for you to realise how much it has affected you too.”

I blink.

“I think you know that you’ve been hurt by this, Ashley. I think that maybe you don’t want to
think about it. But you have. And you have just as much of a right to be angry about this than
anyone else.”

The thing is, I know she’s right. Sylvia has a horrible tendency to be right about this kind of
thing. I close my eyes, and feel the wind tousle my hair.

I have killed people. I have watched countless people be killed. I have to do horrible things
with horrible people to keep the people I can still hold on to alive. I don’t have a mother
anymore. I wish that I still had a mother. I wish that I still had friends, and I wish that I didn’t
have to constantly be searching for something to fill up this terrible, heavy, black hole that
has been tearing through my chest ever since I was sixteen.

Sometimes, I’ve felt so alone that it seems as though I’m being eaten up by the hole
completely. And sometimes -- more often than I’d like to admit -- I’ve relished in the idea
that it could envelop me, and nobody would ever be able to find me again.

I think I’ve always known that I felt like this, but once again, Sylvia is right. I didn’t want to
admit it.

“I don’t want Johanna to go through that,” I tell Sylvia.

She nods. “There you go, then.”

There’s a cheer that ripples through the crowd below. Somewhere, someone starts to play
music.
 “Do you think she’ll win?” I ask Sylvia.

“I don’t know, Ashley,” she says. “I really couldn’t tell you.”

“I have a horrible feeling she won’t,” I say.

“Maybe she won’t,” she tells me. “And then you’ll move on with your life, because you have
to. You’ll do what you need to.”

“I think if she does die, I’ll spend the rest of my life feeling as though I’ve been dreaming.”

“I know,” she says. “I think we all feel like we’re dreaming.”

We stay up for a while, until the music from below gets too loud to talk. I go down to collect
my things from the Donum Floor. I’m going to sleep in my bed tonight, and then tomorrow, I
will wake up, and whatever will happen will happen.

But Sylvia is right. Even if Johanna does die, I’m still going to do this. Probably in part for
her.

So when I pack up my desk and Finnick grins at me and invites me to go for post-Games
drinks with his drinking club, at his good friend Faustina Sisko’s apartment, I tell him yes.

And I mean it.

Chapter End Notes

bruh why are these chapters getting so long wtf. finally got that dream theme running
through these chapters, the next two fics are going to be GOATED when that shit comes
to light. also see if u can peep the forshadowing for the far future lmaoo :))

anyways two more chapters to go i am doing backflips

 Chapter 21
Chapter Summary

The final day of the Games.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Johanna

Sometimes, when something horrible is about to happen, a certain sense of peace will take
over. When I was younger, my father used to describe it as the calm before the storm. When
your body gives you a moment to steel your nerves, settle your stomach and sharpen your
mind before whatever comes next. A manner of survival. I’ve felt it before. Before my
mother died, sitting cross-legged at the end of her soaked, filthy bed, watching as she stared
with milky-white eyes up at the ceiling. As I stood on my pedestal, about to rise up into the
arena, blinking up at the sun. And I feel it now, too, as I wake up on what I already know is
the final day of the Games.

It’s daybreak when I rise. My surroundings are sodden, and the air is thick and humid.
Overnight, the Gamemakers have raised the temperature. Not so much to make anything
unbearably warm, but enough to melt the snow that has settled on the ground and make the
sky feel as though it has come alive again. I sit up, stretching out my muscles and packing up
my meagre belongings. I don’t know why I feel the need to do this, only that I do. As I roll
up the jacket I’ve been using as a makeshift sleeping mat, my eyes catch the sleeping form of
Chess’ body, caught between the rising light of the sky and the dying crackle of the fire.

It occurs to me that I could kill him now, while he sleeps. It would certainly be easier to do
when he looks dead already — not yet an awake, alive boy, fighting against me for his life.
But he has entrusted me, and he hasn't harmed me yet. Besides, I do need him alive. I would
not be able to take on two tributes at once. As much as it might be emotionally easier for me
to leave him here, I cannot do it. I promised him we would be the last two. And I intend to
keep that promise.

But, I also intend to be the one to make it home. I told Ashley that I would. And I’ll keep that
promise too.

So instead, I wait for him to wake. It takes a while. I eat my fill of last night’s dinner, flicking
away the bits of dirt and dust that have clung to my skin overnight. Even after bathing in the
pool last night, a thin layer of grime seems to have settled over me. It’s as if the dirt of the
arena has embedded itself into the cracks of my skin, becoming a part of me. The underneath
of my nails are filthy, and my lips are chapped and dry. If I do make it out of here, I imagine
that my preps are going to have a field day with me. I run my hand through my newly shorn
hair and grin as I imagine their horrified faces.

Chess must catch me doing it as he rises, because he laughs. It’s short and dry and croaky,
and when I turn to face him, I notice just how tired he looks. We’d agreed to both get as
much rest as possible, but it looks as though he’s only caught a few winks. “Someone’s happy
to get it over and done with.”

“Something like that,” I say, stretching out my legs. “You look like shit.”

He shrugs. “So do you.”

There’s something in the air now. I can sense it. The sense of peace and camaraderie we
found last night is gone, replaced with a thick blanket of tension. Yesterday, he had told me
that he wished that we could have won in different years, and I don’t doubt that he meant it.
But Chess isn’t stupid. He knows that only one of us is going to be making it out of this. And
he plans on it being him.

That’s fine. Makes for a fair fight.

I go to fill our water bottles while he eats his share of breakfast. I consider suggesting that we
spend the morning hunting for something, but I don’t want to deplete any of our energy. The
fight with One and Four will probably be long and brutal if the finales of other Games are
anything to go off of, and I imagine we’d want to conserve as much energy as we can. Still,
the pit of my stomach gnaws angrily. I want food. Proper, real food.

For a minute, I consider asking up at the sky to see if Ashley will send me anything, but I
decide against it. I’d most likely have to share with Chess, and besides, grovelling never
reflects positively on a tribute in the arena. I doubt a dip in whatever popularity I do have will
make much of a difference on the outcome of today, but I don’t want to make any more
enemies than the ones I already have to face. I doubt Ashley will even have the money,
anyways. Prices must be astronomical, and I’m certain he must have completely depleted his
bank on the medicine I received. The only thing that the Capitol will give me now is a
hovercraft out of the arena. Dead, or alive.

When I return to our camp, Chess is practising with his sword. I’m not the most light-footed,
but he has his back turned away from me, and he’s so focused on his practice that he doesn’t
hear my footsteps as I approach. For a moment, I just watch him. It’s simple exercises, testing
agility and speed more than technique, but it’s still incredibly impressive. This is the outcome
of years and years of careful training. For a brief moment — very brief— I feel a degree of
respect towards the Peacekeepers. If some of them have trained in the same place as Chess
has, then they’re certainly more formidable than I’ve ever given them credit for.

I’d honestly be forgiven for thinking that, with a show like this, Chess could best me easily.
And I don’t deny that there’s a certain anxiety that grips a hold of me when I watch him slice
through the air, imagining that it’s my body he’s piercing with ease. I don’t know how to use
a weapon like he does. But I’ve been working with axes for years now. They’re practically
extensions of my own arm. I know how to throw one, how to angle one, but I also know how
to manipulate one. Chess has never seen me properly at work before, which gives me an
advantage. And there’s a reason why the Careers make it a point to target any District 7
tribute who shows potential early on. Why, if we do make it to the end, our odds go up
significantly. Why, outside of the inner districts, we have a particularly high number of
victors compared to our contemporaries.

Chess has been taught to use his weapon to kill. I’ve been taught to use mine to live.

“Don’t tire yourself out,” I say. He jumps at the sound and whirls around, sword pointed high
up at my head. He lowers it almost instantly, but I don’t miss the way that his eyes gleam for
a moment. As if he was ready to do something.

“Just warming up,” he says.

I shrug, and start up the fire again so that we can boil the water. “Is that what they teach you
back at your Career Centre? How to warm up properly before a big fight?”

“I’d tell you,” he says, coming to sit down across from me. “But I wouldn’t want to give
anything away.”

I don’t miss how he sits a bit further away from me than I’m used to as well. The way that he
holds himself back, and the way his eyes narrow each time I move. Not threatened, per-se,
but analytical. He’s watching how I act. How I respond to things.

The trust we built up in the past few days isn’t completely gone yet. It can’t be. But his
priority isn’t keeping us both alive anymore. If Love and Pierre both do go down before the
two of us, he won’t hesitate to act.

But that’s alright. Two can play at that game.

“Fair enough,” I say, leaning back and craning up at the sky. “How long do we have?”

“I don’t know,” Chess replies. “They said midday.”

“Midday. Or else . What did they mean by that? You think they’d kill us if we didn’t show?”

“Probably,” he shrugs.

“Well, let’s hope that the other two are bad at keeping time,” I say. “Or that something else
holds them up, and they can’t make it there in time.”

He gives me a half smile. “Let’s hope.”

We keep our eyes on the sun for the rest of the morning. For the most part we don’t really do
all that much. We drink our water in slow sips, we warm up our muscles, we go over the plan
again, and again, and again. The cameras will certainly be on us today. And it will be
mandatory viewing for everyone in Panem. No exceptions. We will be on the mind of the
entire nation.

I can’t remember if I was ever nervous about being on camera before entering the Games. I
know I was pretending to be, but I can’t seem to recall whether or not there was an element
of truth to it or not. I know that I was pretending to be a lot of things before the Games. But
all of it feels like it happened a million miles away, to somebody else who happened to be
possessing my body. How many lies did I tell? What did I think about them? It seems like my
life must have started properly when the podium rose up into the arena, and everything that
happened before is some sort of farce. I remember what home looks like, but what does it
smell like? What does my father sound like? What did I tell Lynn before the Peacekeepers
pulled her away?

I blink. I need to get out of here, or else this is going to destroy me. One way or another.

When we estimate based on the sun that we’re about an hour out from midday, we make the
trek back to the lakeshore. Around me, everything seems to move in slow motion. My ears
seem to pick up sounds I’ve never heard before -- the sound of water dripping off of moss, of
the wind humming between the gaps in stone spires, of birds calling, high up above us,
hidden behind clouds. The tips of my fingers start to tingle, and an electric shiver runs up my
back.

Looking into the fog, I think about Mazzy’s story. Her ally, destroyed by some terrible
creature lurking in the water. What if that’s what waits for me, beyond the limit? The
Gamemakers have stopped us from going in until now, and I worry that if I arrive early,
perhaps they’ll turn the same thing against me. Or even worse, perhaps we were always
going to have to face off with their sick creation, and they’ve lured us all in there to play with
us -- pick us apart, destroy us themselves, so that finally the Capitol will have the bloodshed
they desire.

I can’t tell. I can’t tell what the Capitol wants anymore. I’ve spent my entire time in the arena
trying to work it out, and I thought I’d gotten it, but now, before I step in, I get a horrible
sense that I might be wrong.

“Ladies first,” Chess says, gesturing towards the fog.

Despite myself, I actually smile. “Chauvinist.”

“How are you feeling?”

I shrug. “I don’t know what I’ll find in there. There might not be anywhere to hide.”

“Just come out again, then,” he says. “And we’ll formulate another plan.”

“If I can get out,” I say. “It doesn’t seem like we’ll have much time, even if I do.”

“Well, it’s a very good thing that we’re smart, then,” he tells me.

We’re silent for a moment. Side by side, looking out onto nothing. I wonder if Love and
Pierre will be doing the same thing, on the other end of the lake. Looking out and wondering
what they might find inside.

“Johanna,” Chess says. He says it softly. There’s a twinge of the voice I recognise from last
night. Something soft. But we’ll be on camera now. We need to be careful about what we say,
and how we say it. I turn to him. “I just wanted to - I wanted to tell you that, no matter what
happens in there, I’m glad that you decided to stick with me.”

I nod. “So am I,” I say.

And I mean it.

“Final two,” he tells me. His voice is forceful. It’s a promise.

“Final two,” I echo. And then I smile. “I can’t wait to beat your ass.”

He grins. “Good luck.”

I don’t look back at him. I clear my mind and walk into the fog.

And as I step in, I miss the strip of land. Of course I do. But I don’t expect it. My foot steps
right through the air, and I go plunging into the lake. Instinctively, I yelp, but I find that I’m
already surrounded by cold, inky black water. My feet kick, trying to grab onto a surface, but
there is none. The lakeshore always gave away into a steep drop, and there is nothing below
me but more darkness, descending down until what may very well be forever.

But I manage to pull myself up. I’m glad I had the intelligence to strap my axe to my belt,
otherwise I would have lost it in the depths, and there would be no getting it back. When I
break the surface of the water, I gasp, trying to pull in as much oxygen as I can. I try to call
out to Chess, but my voice seems garbled in the fog, echoing back to me in a thin whisper. I
can’t hear the wind or the birdsong anymore, and suddenly, I’m certain that, no matter how
loud I shout, Chess will not be able to hear me. For a moment, I think that the Gamemakers
have made the entire centre of the arena impossible to navigate, but I realise I’m facing the
wall of fog again. I turn, treading water until my eyes catch land -- sandy, rocky dirt -- and
pull myself towards it.

Once I’m out of the water -- heaving heavy, gaping breaths -- I crane my head up, trying to
take in as much of my surroundings as I can. Everything is still covered in a thick layer of
fog, but I can make out most of the path in front of me. The Cornucopia and the island
remain too far away to be seen, and for a moment, a ripple of fear runs through me. But I
steel myself, tightening my jaw and trying to lock the feeling away.

And then, something deep in my gut stops me. At once, almost without thought, I recall one
of the first things Ashley said to me. Fear will keep you alive.

Alright, then, I tell myself, and decide to grasp onto the dwindling edges of panic for the
moment. I’ll stay scared. As long as it suits me.

I’m alert as I approach the island. But there is no noise except the sound of my heart beating,
the rushing of my blood, and the sound of waves, lapping against land. If I didn’t know any
better, I could even imagine that I’m completely alone. I walk slowly. It never occurred to me
that the distance between the shore and the Cornucopia was so long.
As I begin to make out the form of something in the distance, I take a deep breath, and
continue on.

The breath I take gets caught in my lungs when I make out what they’ve done to the island.

They’re frozen it over. Completely. From head to toe, the Cornucopia and its surroundings
have been replaced with some terrible, icy approximation of their former selves. Deep blue,
jagged and twisting, forming a grotesque sculpture in the centre of the arena. Spiny tendrils
of ice explode from the island, creating a labyrinth of thin, insectoid spikes, rising from the
ground like a forest of gnarled trees. Something about the place feels so wholly unnatural that
it grips me, deep in my chest. My bones freeze, and the pit of my stomach grows tight and
tense. I don’t know how we will be able to fight here. I don’t know how we’ll be able to fight
at all.

But the worst is the dome. That’s the only way I can accurately describe what they’ve done to
the sky. Because, above my head, hanging out from the sky like spiderwebs, are dozens of
icicles. Some small, some as thick as the trunk of a tree, spinning out, forming strange, thin,
spiked branches. I peer up with a sense of growing horror. It feels as though the place is
swarming with some sort of parasite, growing out from the air around me. I don’t know how
they have placed them there, and I don’t know why. But they must have some sort of plan.
They’re here for a reason, and I dread to find out what that reason is.

As I approach the island properly, I begin to make out just how sharp the points of ice are.
Razor sharp, clean, like the blade of my axe. I hover my hand over, hesitant to touch. I want
to stay, to try to figure them out, but I can almost hear the clock ticking. I need to find
somewhere to hide. I need to find somewhere to hide, soon.

The fear I hold starts to grow as I force my way between the spikes, careful not to cut myself.
I don’t know where to go. I don’t know where to be, in order for them not to see me. Because
if they see me, they will kill me. No doubt about it. I can’t hold my own against two people
who have trained their whole lives for this. I’ll be fucked.

But, I think, as I approach this new, twisted version of the Cornucopia, this is different than
before. The formation looks like the golden horn we’re used to seeing, but the Gamemakers
have made one, slight difference. Before the tip of the horn bows out, there’s a protrusion in
the ice - made to look a part of the strange, jagged ensemble they’ve created. It’s tiny. I’d
only be able to place one foot on it -- maybe two. But it’s so high up -- nobody would ever
think to look there, and I’d be hidden from view by the rest of the horn unless someone was
actively searching for me. Nobody would ever dream that someone would be able to climb up
that thing. Not in a million years.

But I’m from District 7, I think. I’ve been climbing all my life.

Time is probably running out. I steel myself, take out my axe, and start to make my way over
towards the structure.

The ice is so cold it numbs the palms of my hands. But if there’s one thing that the dust and
dirt have done, it’s give me grip. My clothes are soaked through, and I’m shivering, but I’m
strong. I’ve always been one of the best climbers I know, and while this is the most difficult
thing I’ve climbed, I can do it. My axe gives me somewhere to hold, and I slip a few times,
but always manage to catch myself before I go falling to the ground. If I fall now, I’m dead.
The height won’t kill me, but the spikes will. Somehow, this knowledge is enough to steel my
anxiety into determination to make it to the top.

There’s a stroke of luck when I reach the tip. The protrusion is bigger than it looks, and set
out at a straight angle. I hook my shaking arms around the tip of the horn and swing myself
over. It’s risky, but I’m experienced. My feet hit the ledge, and with one hand, I take my axe,
sticking it hard into the ice, giving myself somewhere to hang on to. For safe measure, I untie
my belt and loop it around the axe before fastening myself in again.

And then,

I wait.

My fear seems to become a part of me as the second pass by. I can feel it, running through
my blood, catching in my breath. But I let it. I let it take hold of me, and watch as it loosens,
clearing my gaze, sharpening my hearing, making the world around me feel as though it
comes into focus for the first time in my life. I can do this. I will do this.

Love and Pierre arrive first.

I hear their voices in the distance, calling out, almost mocking, melodic and cruel. “District
7? Cassius?” I can’t see them, but I know when they catch sight of the island, because their
voices catch and their taunts cut off all at once.

“What the fuck is that?” Love says. Her voice is high and rings through the space, bouncing
off the ice in a shrill echo.

“I don’t know,” Pierre says. “But it’s creepy.”

She snorts, obviously trying to hide her own confusion and worry. “Just some sculptures. We
make them all the time. You don’t have snow back in Four?”

“No,” he says. Their footsteps draw closer. “Look. There’s more up there too. See?”

“Huh,” she replies. I hear the sound of metal clinking, as if she hits one with a weapon.
“They’re strong. Think we could use one as a weapon, if it comes down to it?”

“Maybe.” I hear the sound of another clank. “Where are the other two? I thought someone
else would at least be here before us.”

“I don’t know,” Love says. “Cassius is probably trying to jump us. I don’t know about
District Seven.”

“I’m surprised she’s made it this long,” Pierre replies. “I thought that she’d be dead by now.”

“She probably hid away the entire time,” Love tells him. “Half-starved to death. Do you
remember how she fell into that pile of shit at the chariots? It’s humiliating. Can’t believe she
lived longer than half our pack. But she’ll be easy.”
My mouth splits into a grin, despite myself. The smile feels numb. Will I, now?

“Guess we’ll just take whoever comes first, right?” he asks. “And then deal with the other.”

“Mm,” she says. “But I want to take Cassius out before the girl. Make sure he doesn’t get any
sort of advantage. We can deal with her after.”

“You think she’ll come?”

“If she doesn’t, she’s dead. They said so.”

The pair pace around for a minute.

“You think Cassius is hurt from those explosions we heard?”

“Let’s hope,” Love says. It sounds as though she’s smiling. I can’t wait to wipe it off her face.
“That would make this very easy.”

I’m closer to the other side of the arena, so I hear Chess approach before they do. He’s
surefooted, and he doesn’t stop or hesitate. As he grows closer, a gong sounds through the air.
It’s sharp and high, piercing, and it seems to make the world around me fade and phase for a
moment.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Pierre asks.

Love’s voice is suddenly urgent. “It’s time.”

“But nobody’s here,” he says.

“He will be,” she tells him. “Seven might not come, but he’ll be here. He’s not stupid. Any
second now, he’ll be here.”

Any second does it. I hear Chess rush them.

And then everything explodes.

The sound of metal. Weapons. Someone -- maybe Pierre -- cries out. I hear what must be the
whistling of an arrow, ricocheting off of ice. Something cold splitering, and cracking. But
nobody has been hit yet. It’s so quick, my mind seems to freeze for a moment, confused -
trying to catch up with all the noises, but I can’t see anything. There’s the sound of an impact,
clothes torn, a grunt of pain.

“Flank me!” Love cries out. “Idiot!”

I need to move. I can wait for a moment -- let Chess get some hits in, let them sink into their
plan to beat him, so that when I arrive, the surprise will work in our favour -- but I can’t take
too long. I untie myself from my belt -- ready to hoist myself up to the top of the Cornucopia.
But my body doesn’t seem to be cooperating properly. A sudden dizziness takes hold. Flashes
dance through my vision. The boy from District 5, bleeding out on the ground. Caraway, his
face sunken and pale, a terrible, jagged, bloody line blooming across his neck. Mazzy, closing
her eyes, readying herself for the end. And worse. Images that haven’t even happened. Lynn,
exploding into a million little pieces. My father, set ablaze. Ashley -- (and when did Ashley
enter the list of people who are most important to me?) -- dissolving into dust. Cassius. Chess
-

There’s the sound of an impact. Chess yells out in pain. It’s a horrible, terrible noise, and it
rips through the space, sending the ice shivering and the ground shaking.

I catch my fear in my mouth and swallow it whole. I tell myself that I can worry about this
when I’m dead -- which I very well may be, soon enough -- and hoist myself up onto the top
of the Cornucopia.

Love has him pinned up against a curved, razor-sharp shelf of ice. He’s putting up a fight,
kicking and spitting, holding his sword up to shield himself, but she’ll gain the upper hand
any second. His back is pressed tightly against the ice, and I can see a thin red line bloom up
his side from the pressure. She’s got her bow strung over her shoulder and a knife in her
hands -- the blade serrated into a jagged grin. Pierre stands a few feet away, clasping at his
shoulder, which is stained a brilliant crimson, but at the ready, positioned to pounce if he
makes it out of her grip. The ringing in my ears grows louder and louder. I rush forwards,
hooking my axe into the side of the Cornucopia as I slide downwards. I manage to catch
myself before I fall, and my arm twists painfully, but I don’t loosen my grip. Pierre notices
me all at once, and he calls out hollowly, but before he can finish, something else happens -

The ringing in my ears, the shaking of the ground. None of it wasn’t in my imagination.
There’s a high, glassy chime that pierces the island, and one-by-one, like a crystal chandelier
crashing to the ground, the ice above our heads begins to fall.

The first one to land rocks the ground, and the force of it causes me to slip down the side of
the Cornucopia. My axe is still belted in to my side, and it rips out of the sheath of ice,
tumbling down with me. The breath goes out of me as I land, but I’ve angled myself to the
side of the horn surrounded with rock and dirt, not ice, so my body hits solid ground. My face
slams against the floor and my axe falls, inches from my face, embedding itself into the
surface in a cloud of rotten-smelling dirt.

My body acts before I can even realise how close I’ve come to death. I’m on my feet,
grabbing my axe and unclipping it from my belt. I feel no pain, only a white-hot adrenaline.
Around the other side of the Cornucopia, I hear a crackling sound, and another sheet of ice
goes crashing to the ground, making the whole island rattle and a frigid breeze rush through
the space.

I race around to the mouth of the Cornucopia, shielding myself from the debris. From here, I
can see that the blast has flung Love back, giving Chess a wide breadth to run. But he’s lost
his sword in the explosion, and he whips his head around wildly, trying to locate it. I can see
it, scattered just a few feet away, and I’m about to open my mouth to call to him when I feel
the knife whizz past my head.

Pierre runs at me. He’s got another knife in his hand and a spear slung across his back. The
first one misses, embedding itself in the ice behind me, and I barely miss the second. It clips
my ear and I feel a rush of sticky, hot blood run down the side of my neck. But I’m on the
move, diving around to the side of the Cornucopia, intentionally backing myself up. He’s
only got his spear now, and his throwing arm has been injured, and if he throws, I’ll have
nowhere to go. I’ll die.

But I can say the same for my axe. I think about how I killed Chess’ district partner, and I
hold it up, as if cowering behind it.

“Where’d you come from?” he asks. It’s not so much taunting as it is bewildered. “Where’d
you get that?”

“Stole it,” I say. The lie comes easily. I take the fear in my chest and push it to the forefront,
letting it crack my voice and cut my breathing into short, shallow gasps. “I stole it from
District Twelve.”

He shakes his head, inching closer. “I can’t believe you lived this long.”

And that’s the thing with these tributes. It’s their pride that gets them. Not their lack of skills.
It’s the fact that they can’t possibly believe that I could have made it so far. That I have a
weapon, that I could be a real, genuine competitor. They need to know why. For their pride.
They need to prove that they’re better than I am.

Pierre continues. He holds up the spear, ready to throw. “Was sure that you’d -”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, because I send the axe swinging.

It catches him in the abdomen. Slices him, nearly in two. His eyes bulge and his throat makes
a tight, squawking sound. His free hand goes towards his gut, where a blackness has begun to
spread. I swipe again, but he scampers back. Around us, the body of the horn begins to shake.
He nearly falls back, but catches himself. Something crashes above us, and the ice begins to
crack.

I dive out, just as the Cornucopia explodes.

The shards go everywhere. Instinctively, I turn around, pulling myself into a ball, holding out
my arms to protect my face. They whip through the air, slicing through my skin, my clothes,
my hair. But I still feel no pain. There’s only room for adrenaline in my body now, and it’s
pushing everything else out.

For a moment, I’m certain that Pierre is dead. As I turn to survey the damage, I don’t see how
he could have ever made it out alive. To the other side of the island, bordering the shore,
Love and Chess are sparring something fierce. She’s got her knife in her throwing hand and
her bow in her other, using the wood to parry his attacks. She kicks out under him, but he
holds, sure-footed. They’re both injured now. Chess has the slash to his back, and a jagged,
bloody gash running across his face, splitting the side of his nostril open. Blood openly pours
down his jaw, and his face is contorted in a mix of pain and determination. Love’s hands are
slick with gore, and the side of her arena uniform has been sliced open, showing a red, angry
wound. Neither look at me, and it occurs to me that Love might not even know I’m alive
right now.
I’m about to run to them when I notice the figure, limping out from the rubble. Dread shoots
through me. Pierre is alive. Cut to an inch of his life, but alive. He emerges from the haze,
eyes wild, hands shaking. He’s lost his weapon. He has nothing. He looks at me, a sudden
terror crossing his face. I’ve never seen that look on anyone’s face before. He turns, and
staggers away from the island.

He’s going to run out of here! I think about giving chase, but I know it’s pointless. Even if he
does make it out, he’ll bleed out in a few minutes, tops. There’s no way he’ll win now, and he
knows it. Let him go. Let him be a coward.

Behind me, someone cries out in pain. A sudden realisation hits me. Pierre is as good as
dead. Love and Cassius are fighting. I am alive. I could let them both destroy one another.
Out of everyone here, I’m the least injured. The longer I let them go on for, the higher my
odds will be when it comes to facing someone else. Around the back of the island, another
shard of ice goes cascading to the ground.

But I promised Chess.

I promised him we’d be the last two.

Fuck, I think. Fuck it.

I run as fast as my legs can carry me, into the fray.

Love laughs when she sees me. They’ve edged closer to the shoreline now, and I can tell now
that the fight is neck-and-neck. Both are tired, panting in pain, exhausted. It occurs to me that
it can’t have been more than a few minutes since this all started. She pushes back, giving me
a bloody smile. She’s missing a few teeth, and her whole face is swollen up.

“District 7,” she wheezes. “That’s fun. Three to play.”

Chess pulls back, panting loudly. His pupils are dilated, and he groans in pain. “Took you
long enough, Jo.”

Love’s eyes widen. “Jo?”

I throw the axe.

She dodges the killing blow, but it embeds in her side again. Her cry of pain rings in harmony
with the whistle of the ice above us as it falls. Chess pulls me aside before the thing can
impale me, but a shard breaks off, slicing up my calf. Everything goes numb, and for a
moment, I see white. But I pull myself up, breathing so hard I feel as though my lungs might
explode. The arena is stained with blood. The aftermath of the crash scatters throughout the
space, as dust and ice and smoke settles.

For a moment, I wonder if it will be just us.

But Love isn’t dead.

She pulls herself up from the ground. I think I can see her ribs through her side -- white bone
poking out through her torn clothes. She stumbles towards us, a manic scream of agony and
anger urging her forward.

Chess cuts her head off.

And everything around us stops.

It hit the ground with a soft thud, and the rest of her body crumples down in a dirty, bloody,
mangled heap. His sword slices her braid in two, and half of it lands at my feet. Brilliant red,
filthy, stained with dirt and blood. I look down at it, and then up at Chess. His breathing is
jagged and raw, and there’s something in his eyes I can’t quite place.

Love’s cannon fires.

“Chess -” I breathe.

“Where’s the other one?” he turns around, wiping blood from his nose. “Where’s the other
one? ”

“Dead,” I say. Pain is creeping in now. I try to avoid looking at Love’s severed head. I think I
may be sick. “Or he will be. I cut him.”

“ Where is he ?” Chess repeats.

“He ran,” I say. “Out. But he’s dead, Chess. He’ll be dead.”

Chess looks up at the sky. He breathes in heavily. Once. Twice. If I ran for my axe, I could
kill him now.

I don’t want to kill him now.

But I want to go home.

“I killed that girl,” he says, just as I’m considering it. “Your friend. From District 8. Twine. I
thought that you should know.”

I blink at him. “She wasn’t my friend.”

“I know,” he says. “But I thought I should tell you.”

I step back. I don’t tell him about Mazzy. I take a deep breath. “This is it, then?”

He blinks. “I guess.”

I take a deep breath. I’ve made it this far. No matter what, I’m grateful for that.

“Fair fight?” he suggests.

I nod. “Fair fight.”

We back up. I reach for my axe.

And then we hear a noise.

A scream, from the distance. The sound of something exploding from the water, growing,
creaking. Pierre. The scream gets louder, and higher, and more panicked.

And then, there is a ripping sound.

A cannon fires.

Chess’ eyes go cold.

And he strikes me right through the chest.

Just like that. No warning. No fair fight. No chance for me to get my weapon back. Just the
sound of metal, and a rush of blood, and something white-hot that runs through me. I see
sparks, and somehow, I find myself on the floor. He’s punctured a lung. I can’t breathe. I
can’t breathe. I gasp, and he just looks down at me.

“I’m sorry, Jo,” he says, pulling out his sword. His voice cracks. In his eyes, I think it looks
like he regrets it. “I lied.”

For a moment, as I gasp on the floor, watching as the world around me phases in and out of
sight, I feel nothing. Cold, hard, nothing. Absolute nothingness. No anger -- though I should
be angry. No fear -- though I should be afraid. I wonder if this is what it’s like to go. The sky
is clouded in fog. I wish I were home.

Dying doesn’t feel like how I imagine it. It doesn’t feel like darkness. It feels like light. In my
head, I can picture a million images. A campfire in the woods, and somebody laughing.
Music at a party -- an instrument I’ve never heard before, high and lilting, soft strings. The
feeling of rain against my skin. Hot, sticky heat, and a soft pink sky. The smell of pine. The
smell of the sea. They all blur together, like a tide against the shore, mixing and fading until
they form a bright, brilliant light. This isn’t so bad, I think. It’s quite nice here.

And then there’s a spark. Like a flame. A flicker. Something catches in my stomach and
blooms up, filling my body with a strange heat. Somewhere deep within me, I realise that,
once again, I have a choice. I can choose to lie here and die. I can wait as the life slowly
seeps out of me and I fade out into a deep, eternal dream.

Or, I can take whatever inch of strength that still lies within me, and make it count. Force
myself to move. Fight. Hurt. Live. And live. And live. And live.

I don’t know how long it takes this thought to occur to me. It could be a minute. An hour.
Maybe even days. All I know is that when it does, the pain that spreads through my chest
comes back with a vengeance. Seeping through my blood, setting me alight. I’m on fire.
Everything is on fire.

“Wake up, Johanna,” a voice says. I recognise it, but I don’t know who it belongs to. “Wake
up.”
 I do.

Chess is kneeling by the water. His head is held high up to the sky. I close my eyes, and I say
a silent apology to his aunt. His mother. His boy. Everyone who he has ever loved, and
everyone who could ever love him.

I don’t know where my axe is. I don’t know how the shard of ice finds itself in my hands.

“Chess,” I say. It barely sounds like words. More of a wheeze.

He turns around. Something runs through his expression. His hand goes to his sword.

But it’s too late.

“I was always the one to beat,” I tell him. “I’m sorry that you forgot.”

I hope he gets what I mean when I say it. I hope he can read my face. I hope he looks into my
eyes, and he knows why I can’t tell him that that’s not why I’m sorry. I’m just sorry.

I take a breath.

I do it.

It feels as though I’ve ripped a hole in the world.

And as I stagger towards the other side of the island and the trumpets sound, I wonder if this
is how I will feel forever.

Chapter End Notes

ONE MORE CHAPTER LEFT GIRLIES! apologies if this isn't great. i'm really not the
best at writing action sequences, esp in first person, but i hope that it comes across well
enough!!

im lowkey a bit sad we're getting to the end, even though theres loads more to come.
massive thank u to everyone whos read so far! i know i dont get a massive amount of
comments compared to other fics, but i appreciate each and every one of u :)) see u for
the last chapter soon :))
 Chapter 22
Chapter Summary

Ashley deals with the post-Games fallout, and learns something new about the rebellion.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Ashley

The day that Johanna Mason wins the Seventy-First Hunger Games is both terrible and
wonderful at the same time.

When she stands up, haggard beyond belief, cut to an inch of her life, wheezing in her last
few gasps of air, Septima lets out a cry. It’s small and sharp, and she covers her mouth as
soon as she does it. They have us on camera, preparing to show our reactions to the finale
once the whole thing is over. It’s the only time anyone is allowed to film on the Donum Floor.

I’ve stood up, and I think that I’ve forgotten how to breathe. On the screen, Johanna takes a
shaky step forward, her hands reaching out wildly for her axe. I don’t think she can see
anything properly. Her vision is clouded in a haze of blood, and her eyes are wide, pupils
expanding like black holes, devouring any light they come across. But there’s determination
stitched across her face as she stumbles down, reaching for a shard of ice. About the size of
her upper arm, sharpened to a deadly point. She stares at it, blood dripping down from her ear
onto the weapon, as if she’s wondering how it got there.

“Turn around, Chess,” Septima breathes. “Please.”

Cassius doesn’t. He’s knelt down by the water’s edge, eyes closed and his face turned up to
the sky, as if he’s waiting for the trumpets to sound. But it doesn’t make sense. Yes, the
wound to Johanna’s chest will be fatal if she’s not given any attention in the next few
minutes, but he missed her heart. He stabbed her on the wrong side. Surely he would know
that, with years of training. Surely he would know that she can’t be dead just yet.

He takes a deep breath in. His hands are trailing in the lakewater, sweat shining on his brow.
Blood seeps away from his skin, but his palms are stained red. He’s bruised. He’s bloody. His
sword lies across his side, splattered with the remains of the girl who he beheaded -- the girl
whose corpse lies, mangled and bisected, a few feet away.

I can’t imagine exactly what doing something like that to someone would do to you. I don’t
think that I want to, either.

Johanna inches closer. I don’t know how he can’t hear her.

Or maybe he can.

“Chess,” she manages. She says it softly, air wheezing out of her lungs, but it reverberates
around the island, bouncing off the ice and coming to rest at his feet. He blinks, sudden
clarity clearing his vision. He moves towards his weapon.

But he’s slow.

“Chess, please,” Septima says. “Chess, please, just do it.”

Johanna steps on his sword before his hands grasp it. He looks down at the weapon,
frowning, as if he doesn’t want to push her off it. He’s being too slow. Something is wrong.
They haven’t trained him all his life for this.

“I was always the one to beat,” Johanna says. She says it so quietly, I don’t know how the
cameras pick it up. “I’m sorry that you forgot.”

She really does look like she’s sorry.

She drives the shard of ice through the back of his neck, right at his spinal cord, and kills
him.

Septima staggers back from the screen, away from the cameras, and rushes to the other side
of the room to throw up.

I watch her, paling and exhausted, as she screams. I don’t look away. I can’t. Not until Chess’
cannon finally sounds and they play the trumpets -- at which point, it eventually occurs to me
that it’s all over.

But I don’t feel how I expect to. I don’t feel relief, or joy, or excitement. As Johanna finally
passes out and they lift her up into the hovercraft, all I can think about is how she looks as
though she belongs with the other bodies lying down below on the island.

Septima is crying. It’s so loud, it fills up the whole room. Heaving, screaming. I’ve never
heard anyone cry like that before -- not even when the flu rocked our district and there were
piles of bodies lined up to be burnt every day. I never knew that someone could sound like
that.

It’s not my fault. I shouldn’t feel responsible. But Septima Cybele’s nephew is dead, and he’s
dead because Johanna Mason is alive.

A hand finds its way to my shoulder. I don’t even jump when I feel it. I feel too distant to be
surprised about anything. Blight looks down at me. There’s a strange look on his face. I’m
not sure, but I think it might be the first time I’ve ever seen him without worry etched across
his expression.

“Well done,” he says, quietly.

I nod, but somehow, I don’t feel like I can accept it. It doesn’t feel like I did anything at all.
Johanna is the one who got herself out.
But there are cameras on us, and so I don’t tell him that. Instead I ask him; “When did you
get here?”

He points behind him. “They let me in. We’ve all been watching in the next room.”

There are Peacekeepers at the door. Behind the frosted glass, I can see Sylvia. She gives me a
thumbs up. “Oh,” I say, lamely.

“There’s a doctor on the phone,” he says. “He’s on the hovercraft with Johanna. He wants to
talk to you.”

That is enough to pull me together. My job is not over. I still have work to do. I cough and
clear my eyes. I don’t know when they started to get watery. “Right! Yeah! Lead the way.”

I step forward towards the door, but Blight holds his hand out. “She won, Ashley. You know
that, right?”

“Sorry?”

“She won ,” he says, very slowly, and then it finally does sink in that he’s right. Johanna won.
She won, and she’s coming home. I let out a breath, and it feels like every muscle in my body
finally relaxes for the first time in weeks. Johanna’s alive, and she’s going to stay that way.

I follow him out of the room. There’s no time to talk to anyone. I’m rushed into an
adjourning meeting room, where there’s a monitor waiting for me. On the other side of the
screen is a man in his mid-thirties, wearing a doctor’s uniform. He stands behind a window,
and in the distance, I can see a brilliant blue sky race past.

“Mr Firth,” he says. His voice is low and calm. “Thanks for taking the time to -”

“Is she OK?” I say, quickly, because it suddenly catches up to me that I’m talking to a doctor,
and that Johanna nearly died. I know that the post-Games medical team are some of the best
that the Capitol can offer, and that other victors have come out from far worse injuries
completely fine, but I can’t stop the sharp stab of anxiety that runs through me. “She’s
stable?”

“She will be,” he tells me. “We’re on-route to the Games Centre now. We’re about an hour
out.”

“Is she conscious?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No. We’re going to keep her under for a day or two. She lost a lot of
blood, and we need to keep her hooked up to replace it.”

“Okay. But she’s -”

“She’s fine, Mr Firth,” he says, calmly. “I wanted to talk to you about her neurological
recovery.”

I blink. “I’m sorry.”

“We don’t know what her mental state will be like when she wakes up. After last year -”

“You think she’ll end up like Annie Cresta?” I ask. I can’t help the admonishment that edges
my tone.

“We don’t know,” he says. “We want to be careful. We’ve set up a new recovery team for
post-Games trauma, and -”

I tune his words out. Trauma. He’s used the word trauma. The way he says it is so matter of
fact, it takes me aback. I’ve never heard anyone -- anyone at all, let alone someone from the
Capitol -- use the term trauma to describe what happens in the arena. Something at it pricks at
me, and I’m not quite sure why.

“ - avoid any mention of the Games until we’ve properly assessed her mental state.”

I shake my head. “Sorry?”

“I said, it’s been decided that, during her neurological assessment, we’re going to avoid any
mention of the Games until her mental state has been properly assessed. This means that,
most likely, upon waking, she will not be allowed to see you or any member of her team until
she’s been properly assessed.”

I frown, and then I nearly laugh, because it all feels so stupid. They can’t possibly expect
that, by simply ignoring the existence of the Games, they’ll erase any damage the arena has
done to her. It’s inane. They’re going to make it worse.

And besides, I want to see her. I want to see her as soon as I can — make sure she’s alright
because honestly, I don’t think I trust anyone but myself. She’s going to need people around
that have been through a similar thing to her, not doctors who are going to treat her like an
incredibly interesting case study.

For a moment, I’m about to open my mouth, ask him why, because this decision seems
incomprehensible, until I realise what this is actually about. Last year, Finnick kicked up an
insane fuss when it came to Annie’s recovery. He fought with them to keep her away from
the public for far longer than they wanted her to, and when they refused, he used his
connections in the Capitol to force them to. She ended up in the hospital for nearly a month,
and the loss of revenue for the Games was apparently disastrous. They’re not doing this for
Johanna’s benefit. They’re trying to make sure I don’t intervene.

I could fight back, but I know that if I do, they’ll just prolong the amount of time before I see
her. And from experience, she’s going to need all the help on the outside that she can get. I
put on a false smile. “If it’ll be better for her wellbeing.”

The doctor nods. “It will. In the meantime, there’s a few minor procedures we’d like to do on
her. Johanna is eighteen, but since she won’t be able to consent, we’ll need parental
permission. Am I correct in assuming her father is still alive?”

Johanna’s father. I wonder how he must be feeling. His daughter has made it out. “What kind
of procedures?”
“Nothing too invasive,” he says, waving his hands. “We’d like to repair her ear, get rid of a
few cuts and scrapes. She has lost a lot of weight. We might even be able to regrow her hair.”

I grit my teeth at his latter comments, but try to keep a straight face. “I’ll get in contact with
him.”

“Thank you, Mr Firth,” the doctor says. Behind him, the hovercraft dips, and the sky darkens
for a moment. “If you don’t mind, I should -”

“Go,” I say. “Just keep me posted.”

He cuts the link. I lean back in my chair and let out a shaky breath.

They’ve left me alone in the room. I know that, the second I step out, I’ll be stepping into a
whirlwind that will most likely rage on for days. I close my eyes and run my hands through
my hair. Somewhere in the pit of my stomach, I still feel sick. Three people are dead.
Horrible, terrible deaths. Beheaded. Torn to pieces. Sliced right through the neck. I have to
check the room around me to make sure that there’s no blood here, but the Capitol has always
been clean. Too clean. So clean that it’s always felt dirty, like they’re covering over
something horrible with a shiny, sleek, white veneer.

I think for Johanna’s sake, it would be better to forget what happened in the arena.

I’ll take on the next few days too. For her sake.

There’s an attendant waiting for me outside the room. I don’t see Blight, or Sylvia, or any of
the other victors, for that matter. The corridor is empty. I’m led towards the elevators, and
sent up towards the Gamemaker’s offices. Across the hall from the elevators, I can hear a
party going ahead. There’s music, men and women cheering. Out a window in the hallway,
down on the nearby streets, I can see a young couple dancing, spinning each other around and
around and around on the paved marble. In the distance, centred around City Circle, there are
lights flashing in a million shades, brilliant even in the warmth of the midday sun.

The door across the hall opens. I catch sight of what must be the central control room for the
Games. Rows and rows of white monitors, a large electric screen, and at least a dozen people
in purple robes, holding cups full of wine and laughing. I catch sight of Plutarch Heavensbee,
looking every bit the Gamemaker, bowing his head to a tall, blonde woman with clear, green
eyes. I recognize her as the daughter of Titania Bigelow, the Head Gamemaker during my
Games. Bigelow retired on a high the year after I won, with a successful string of seven
Games under her belt. I imagine her daughter must be gunning to follow in her mother’s
footsteps. She doesn’t seem to notice me, and if Plutarch does, he doesn’t show it.

Seneca Crane steps out of the room. I haven’t seen him at all since the meeting before the
Games began, and he looks just as tired as I feel. Still, his face is etched with a smile as he
holds out his hand.

“Ashley Firth,” he says. “I wanted to extend my congratulations. If there’s anything I can do

to make the post-Games process easier for you and Miss Mason, please don’t hesitate to let
me know.”
Everyone seems to be congratulating me. I’m not sure why. I take his hand. “Thank you. That
means a lot.”

“I’ll be visiting Miss Mason personally upon her arrival in the Capitol,” he says. “Of course,
you must have been informed on our new recovery programme.”

“I have.”

“You needn’t worry. You’ll be getting all updates through me. I’ve already fast-tracked a
request to get a video feed to Miss Mason’s father, so that you can get in contact with him
about all the necessary medical treatments. We don’t expect that Johanna will need more than
five days in recovery. Plans are already being set for her final interview to take place this
time next week.”

I hear the words he intends to say. Johanna had better pull her shit together, or else. No
delays. I smile. “I’m sure she’ll be positively ecstatic to hear that.”

“And on the topic of interviews -” Seneca continues, “Our audience is still not quite sure
what to expect from Miss Mason, now that she’s become a victor. It seems like the character
she formed in the arena, particularly in her final moments, make her seem awfully callous in
comparison to her previous actions.”

I feel worry bloom. I was certain that she’d made it clear what sort of game she was playing.
What else could he be talking about? Then it occurs to me. The conversation at the hot
springs -- the one Sylvia told me to leave alone. Johanna must have said something she
shouldn’t have. That must have been why I couldn’t hear the audio.

Seneca is asking me to justify it. But how? I never even heard what she said. I resist the urge
to bite my lip, because I know that whatever I say here will likely have a significant impact.

“It was an act,” I tell him. “We worked it out before the arena. Surely I thought you already
knew that?”

Seneca smiles at me. “All of it?”

“All of it,” I say, and I try to make it sound definitive.

“Good,” he replies. “And I think that it would be good to keep it that way.”

There it is, then. I wonder how I should tell Johanna this. Warn her that she’ll likely be
beholden to this series of events for the rest of her life.

But then it occurs to me that she’s very smart. She probably already knows.

“I’ll let you get back to your business,” Seneca says. “I assume it’ll be a busy couple of days.
Congratulations.”

“Congratulations yourself,” I tell him. “One hell of a first year as Head Gamemaker.”

“Thank you,” he says, shaking my hand again. “With hopefully many more to come.”
The same attendant who led me up the elevator has been waiting for me. The rest of my day
is spent in and out of interviews. Hundreds of people would like to know everything about
Johanna. How is she doing -- is she awake yet? Have I been to see her? What will her home
in Victor’s Village look like? What do the other victors think about her win? How am I
feeling about bringing my first tribute home?

For the most part, I’m not told very much about Johanna’s situation. When she arrives in the
Capitol, a dozen cameras catch the hovercraft landing, but there is no footage of her being
wheeled out to the hospital. I am informed that she is in a stable condition, and will remain
sedated for the next day or so while the medical teams work on her recovery. As expected, I
am not allowed to see her.

I only retire back to the seventh floor of the Tribute Centre late into the evening. Blight and
Sylvia are up waiting for me. Apparently, Pliny was also extended an invitation back to the
Capitol, but he refused. When she sees me, Sylvia gives me a big hug.

“We’ll have a new neighbour!” she tells me. “We’ll have to get her a housewarming gift.”

The idea of Johanna arriving at her new home with a bouquet of flowers and a box of
chocolates makes me feel somewhat hysterical. I’m not sure why. I just start laughing, and
Blight and Sylvia look between themselves, bemused.

“Are you alright?” Blight asks.

“I’m fucking tired,” I say, collapsing on the sofa. “Where’s Ambrosia?”

“On the television, making a name for herself,” Blight tells me, rolling his eyes. It occurs to
me that this is the most at-ease I’ve ever seen him. “I think we’ll be in the market for a new
escort next year, if she has anything to do with it.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Sylvia says. She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Fresh blood.”

“Double dose,” I say, and then I start laughing again. “Sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into
me.”

“You’re happy, Ashley,” Sylvia tells me. “You’re allowed to be.”

“Yeah,” I say, wiping at my face. “Man, is it usually this intense?”

She smiles. “Just about.”

“Can’t believe Firth brought home a tribute before I could,” Blight says, grumbling and
sitting down across from us. “Bloody kids.”

“I’m twenty-one,” I protest.

“Not the baby anymore.”

I scowl at him. “And besides, I didn’t bring Johanna home. She brought herself home.”
They look at each other. Blight rolls his eyes. “Fine, then. Luck of the draw.”

It occurs to me that we’re all laughing, but someone is still dead. Caraway is not here.
Something sober blooms under the relief and joy. It would have been very nice to have them
both come back.

But that’s not how this works.

“You should get some rest,” Sylvia says. “It’ll be a busy week.”

I know that it will. I’m booked up for more interviews tomorrow, and there’ll be events too. I
won’t be alone. Most other victors will remain in the Capitol until the post-Games festivities
are over with. For most, it’ll be a chance to socialise with one another before we all have to
leave for another year. But there’ll also be other obligations. Parties. Endorsements.
Meetings.

“I’m calling Johanna's father tomorrow, about some medical procedures,” I tell Sylvia. “Do
you think he’ll be able to give consent?”

She nods. “He goes through phases. I think having Johanna do so well in the Games has
strengthened his resolve, even if he’s still very sick. I’ve been talking to a Capitol doctor, and
she thinks there might be a way to get him the proper treatment.”

Blight looks confused. “Sorry?”

“Johanna’s dad is ill, I think,” I tell him. “Sylvia was taking care of him while she was gone.”

“He’s a good man,” she smiles. “I’m quite fond of him.”

I go to bed. I find myself dreaming some strange, half-conscious dream. In it, I find myself in
the woods. I’m sitting at the top of a very tall tree, and I can see the whole world down below
me. There’s District 7, and beyond it is the Capitol, and just across from the edge of the forest
is a beach. The sky is a warm pink, and Johanna stands on the white shore, craning her head
up into the sun.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she tells me. She’s so far away, but her words come to me
clearly.

“Sorry?” I call to her.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she repeats. “Where did you go?”

“I’m right here,” I say, but suddenly, a great wind picks up and sends the whole forest
spinning, and then I drift into dreams I do not remember.

The next day, I am roused early for more interviews. I don’t feel properly awake until around
midday, at which point I am informed that Johanna’s father is waiting to talk to me. I’m
escorted back to the same room where I spoke to the doctor yesterday, and given a list of
procedures to read out. Even giving the list a quick scan sends my blood boiling, but I keep
my mouth shut until I’m allowed into the room.
The man on the other end of the screen surprises me. He looks so much like Johanna. Same
warm brown skin, thick hair that fluffs up at the ends and hazel eyes. He seems to be in his
mid forties, and while he’s made an attempt to clean up, he looks out-of-place in what
appears to be the mayor’s office.

“You’re Firth?” he asks. He frowns at the camera, obviously very confused. His voice is low
and dry.

“You can call me Ashley,” I say. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr Mason.”

“I’ve seen you, on the TV,” he says. He opens his mouth, as if he’s about to say something
else, but then closes it again. He pauses. “Johanna -”

“She’s doing very well,” I tell him. “She’ll be home soon.”

“Seen her too,” he says. “On the TV. She - she fought good.”

“She did,” I say. “She fought very well. Do you know why they’ve asked you to talk to me?”

“They said. But I didn’t - I didn’t quite, I wasn’t quite sure -” he pauses, and runs his hands
through his hair. “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying. I know I’m sick -”

“I’ve been talking to Sylvia,” I say. “She thinks we can get you help.”

He shakes his head. “Johanna needs help,” he says. “She needs help more. That’s why you’re
calling me?”

I nod. “They’ve given me a list of procedures. If it’s alright with you, I’d like to run down the
list so I can confirm each one with you.”

“Oh,” he blinks. “But I might not - I don’t know if I’ll understand -”

“There’s an explanation here,” I say, pointing at the sheet. “We’ll run it through together.
OK?”

He looks at me. “Right. Yes. Okay.”

We do. The first few items are easy. Surgeries to replace the chunk of skin she lost by her ear,
fix some of the scarring she received in the arena. But that’s not what the problem is. As we
get further down the list, I find myself hesitating before each item.

“What is it?” Mr Mason asks. “What’s next?”

“They, um,” I clear my throat. “They’re worried she’s lost too much weight in the arena.
They’d like to - um. For her figure. They want to -”

He frowns, slowly. “They want to do what?”

I grit my teeth. “They’d like to give her implants. In her breasts. And her hips.”
Mr Mason just looks astonished. “Why would they do that?”

“It’s just what the paper says,” I tell him. “Look - I don’t think -”

“Will she get in trouble if I say no?”

I shake my head. “No. I wouldn’t assume -”

“Would I get in trouble if I say no?”

I look at him. Nervous. Glancing behind him. His leg is twitching, and he looks dizzy. This
man is too sick for all of this. And besides, there is a part of me that does worry that he might
be right. Maybe he will be in trouble for defying the Capitol if he says no.

“You know what,” I say, sighing and putting down the paper. “How about you let me deal
with this. Give them a statement saying you authorise me to make decisions for Johanna on
your behalf.”

His eyes seem to phase through the camera. “But, why would -”

“I won’t get in trouble for saying no, Mr Mason.” I tell him.

For a moment, he’s silent. Then he nods. “Yes, alright then. That sounds alright.”

“Good,” I say, and stand up. “I’ll go tell them.”

“Thank you,” he says. “You’re - you’re a good man, Firth.”

“Ashley,” I tell him. Then I sigh and bend down, so that he can see my face properly again.
“It really is nice to finally meet you, Mr Mason.”

I schedule a meeting with the doctors to inform them of Johanna’s father’s decision. They
seem irate, but begrudgingly accept after they get on the line with him, and he confirms it for
himself. I am promised that nothing will go ahead without my further consent, and I spend
the rest of the evening doing interviews, calm in the knowledge that she won’t be touched.

The next day, I am informed that Johanna is awake.

It becomes more hellish, going about my day and knowing that I could possibly talk to her,
but I’m not allowed to. I hope that she’s been informed that I’m not just ignoring her, and that
it’s all part of the procedure, although I wouldn’t put it past them to let her believe that she’s
been abandoned.

From then on out, the days get far worse. I receive a letter in neat, unmarked handwriting
telling me that, now that the Games are over, I am expected to meet with my good friends in
the Capitol. I suppose that I’ve been lucky to avoid the inevitable for so long, but all it does is
make it far worse when I do have to go back. I spend most of my mornings meeting with and
thanking sponsors, and my afternoons and evenings meeting with and thanking ‘friends’. I
am forced into outfit after outfit, my appearance is commented on ceaselessly -- (‘I love how
you’ve grown your hair out so long, Ashley’, ‘You’ve lost some weight, Ashley. I much
preferred it when you had some meat on you’) -- and I scramble to avoid any mention of
Johanna Mason in my conversations with my kind benefactors. I come home late, feeling as
if my skin is peeling off of me, and when I wake up the next morning, I do not remember my
dreams.

And yet, I am not entirely miserable. Because somewhere, always present in the back of my
mind, is the knowledge that Johanna is alive.

On the fifth day, I am finally invited to a post-Games party at Faustina Sisko’s apartment.
Apparently, many of my fellow victors have been invited. I arrive late, coming from another
meeting, and when Faustina opens the door to let me in, there’s a certain hush that falls
across the living room. A sudden sense of embarrassment flares up in my chest. There are not
many people here, maybe twenty, at a glance. Most are victors. Some are faces that I expect.
Sylvia, Finnick, Blight, Haymitch. Others are not. Jude, from District 10. A camerawoman
who I have seen on multiple occasions, filming behind-the-scenes at Caesar Flickerman’s
studio. The doctor I spoke to on the phone, when Johanna was lifted up into the hovercraft.

“Another one bites the dust,” says Chaff, who sits at the back of the room. There’s music
playing, and the space seems to be set up like a party -- balloons, streamers, food. But
everyone is centred around in a circle, obviously engaged in some kind of serious
conversation. It’s a funny juxtaposition. “Close the door behind you, Ashley.”

I blink. Ashley. Chaff has never referred to me by my first name before.

“Glad you could make it,” Faustina says, and takes my arm, leading me down to sit next to
her. “Did you like the play I lent you?”

I smile. “Maybe a bit obvious.”

“Well, it had to be,” she says. “You should keep it.”

The meeting continues. I stay silent for most of it, not really knowing what to do or say.
Apparently, it is very rare to have such a large gathering of rebels, but the Capitol is currently
distracted with issues in District 6, and Faustina has worked hard to make sure that the
cameras around the perimeter of her apartment are temporarily looping for the evening. Still,
there are plenty of people who can’t make it. Plutarch sends his regards.

Most of the conversation centres around things I don’t quite understand. Connections with
names I don’t recognise, ways to meet up that won’t arouse suspicion. A very long time is
dedicated to solving the rising issues in District 6, which are apparently growing worse and
worse. Nobody explains what the issues are, and so I decide that it might be worth paying
special attention when we visit on Johanna’s victory tour later this year to see if I can work
anything out.

Near the end of the meeting, however, I am finally brought into relevancy when Faustina
explains to the group that I have been brought in to breach the gap in communication that
District 6 has left. Most of the group seems to already know about this, and all seem in
favour, however, a few don’t seem quite as on-board as their contemporaries.
“How do we know we won’t be caught?” asks a woman who I don’t recognise. She sits down
by the end of the group, with silver ringlets in her hair. “He’s never had any experience in this
before.”

I bite my lip. Everyone in the room turns to look at me. But I can’t back down now. “I’m very
good at this,” I tell her, calmly. “I’ll do it.”

“It was a unanimous vote on Ashley’s involvement,” says Faustina. “We can trust him.”

When the meeting is over we’re instructed to mill about for a while while departures are
staggered. Faustina ushers me over to the young lady I recognise from the camera crews, who
she introduces as Kepler. She looks to be about my age, maybe a bit older, with long green
braided hair and a nose ring.

“Kepler will be part of the crew that’ll film your show in District Seven,” Faustina explains
to me. “Most likely, she’ll be around for Johanna’s victory tour. So you’ll have plenty of time
to get to know each other.”

Kepler smiles. Up close, she’s very pretty. “Looking forward to working with you more
closely,” she says.

I shake her hand. “Likewise,” I say, a bit stiffly.

She rolls her eyes. “Are you always this formal?”

I duck my head. “No. But right now, I feel like I’m way in over my head.”

“I was like that too, at my first meeting,” she grins. “You’ll take to it.”

Before I can say any more, I catch sight of Finnick. He’s standing by the door to Faustina’s
balcony, and he gives me a quick, easy wave. But there’s something in his expression that
seems a bit off. I frown, and turn to Kepler.

“Sorry, could I have a minute?”

She shrugs. “Sure. Nice to meet you, Ashley.”

I brush my way past the remaining people, and out onto the balcony. From here, I can see that
Faustina has installed a privacy screen -- letting us see all the way out onto the Capitol, but
keeping us hidden onlookers. Finnick leans against the railing, staring out at the lake in the
distance. Even late at night, the city is so illuminated that you can see the ripples of water,
scattering across the shore.

“Everything OK?” I ask him. In my brief encounters with him recently, Finnick has seemed a
bit distant. I suppose it’s not much of a surprise. His tribute was ripped to shreds. I can just
about forget the image, if I try hard enough, but he actually knew the boy.

“I’m fine,” he says, waving his hand lightly. “I’m glad you could finally join us.”

“Are these meetings always so bureaucratic?”

He laughs. “Oh, yeah. You should see them when Plutarch gets involved. It’s a snooze fest.”

“I can imagine.”

He turns his back away from the apartment, out towards the city skyline. I follow his cue. His
voice suddenly grows serious. “Look. Ashley. I just wanted to tell you, in case nobody has
already -”

“What?”

“No, it’s nothing bad, ” he says. “Or not, bad bad.”

“What is it?”

“Johanna,” he says. “Plutarch has his eye on Johanna.”

I turn to him. “What do you mean?”

“He’s looking for -” Finnick starts, and then hesitates, looking for the right choice of words. “
- I don’t know, some sort of figurehead. He thinks she might suit the role.”

“What, for the rebellion ?” I ask. A sudden chill runs through me, and it has nothing to do
with the cool night air.

“He did the same for me,” Finnick says. “And it ended up going nowhere. But I wanted to
warn you. He can be quite intense.”

“But Johanna’s not involved,” I say.

“Not yet she’s not,” Finnick says. “But he’ll fight for that too. Why do you think he was so
eager to let you in on all this?”

I blink. “He didn’t want me?”

Finnick shrugs. “Sure he did. But usually the process is a lot longer than that. He’s desperate
to get his hands on her. He thinks you might help him. I just wanted to warn you to keep your
eyes out.”

I think about Johanna in a hospital bed. How can he be thinking of something like that right
now, after he’s the one who did all that to her? “Thanks, Finnick. I’ll keep it in mind.”

He looks up at the sky. “When you see her, tell her I say hello.”

“Who? Johanna?”

“Yeah,” he says. Then he smiles again. It feels a lot more genuine than the one before. “I’ve
got a feeling we’ll end up good friends.”

We don’t get to chat anymore, because at that moment, someone comes to tell Finnick that
it’s his turn to leave. Returning to the group, I realise that Kepler is gone. So are Sylvia and
Blight. I spend my remaining time talking to Seeder from District 11, until I am called
downstairs, where a cab is waiting for me.

When I arrive back at the Tribute Centre, it must be nearly midnight. But in what appears to
be a never-ending list of obstacles in my path to bed, someone is waiting for me in the lobby.
I’m just preparing to tell them that whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow, until I realise
that it’s a nurse.

“I was just going to find you on your floor, and your fellow victors told me that you’d be
coming back from an appointment,” she explains, when I approach her. “I wanted to let you
know that you can see Miss Mason now.”

Something very tight wraps around my chest. “Sorry? Now?”

“I understand it’s late, and of course, it can wait until morning, but -”

“No!” I shake my head. “No, take me to her!”

As she leads me back into the Games Centre and takes the elevator underground -- far, far
underground -- to what must be the medical centre, I can’t help but find myself feeling a little
nervous. What if it doesn’t go well? What if Johanna doesn’t want to see me? What if she’s
mad at me, or worse, she’s a shell of her former self? Anxiety bubbles up in my stomach, and
I find myself compulsively running my hands through my hair.

The nurse leads me to a plain, unmarked door.

“She’s in there,” she tells me.

I nod silently, and hold my breath until she walks away.

Then, I open the door.

Johanna lies on a bed on the far end of the room. She’s sat up, playing with her nails. She
looks skinny, and exhausted, but alive. Her skin is pale, but unbloodied, and her hair -- short
and choppy now -- hangs clean and glossy over her shoulders. I don’t think she hears me as I
come in.

“Hey,” I say, softly.

She looks up, and then a strange expression crosses her face. It’s not anger, or fear, or
sadness, or even relief. Her brow, which has been knit tight across her forehead, relaxes, and
her eyes widen. “Hi.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, stepping forward. “They wouldn’t let me -”

And then suddenly she’s out of the bed, throwing her arms around me. I’m taken by surprise
and I stumble back a bit. She’s far lighter than I expected, and barefoot, quite a bit shorter
than I remember her being. As she steps back, she seems uneasy on her feet.

“It took you long enough,” she says. Her voice is dry and raspy, but it’s her voice.
 “Sorry,” I say.

“Still in stupid outfits,” she says, looking me up and down and rolling her eyes. “Some things
never change.”

“Are you okay?” I ask her.

Something crosses her expression. It’s distant, and brief, but I recognise it. It’s the same thing
I’ve seen in the mirror, ever since I was sixteen. “I’m okay. I’m bored.”

“Bored,” I echo. I lead her back to the bed. “I’d imagine you would have enough excitement
for one lifetime.”

She shrugs. “Maybe. I think I just want to go home.”

“You will,” I tell her. “I promise.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say. “We keep promises. You kept yours.”

She smiles. “I did, didn’t I?”

I look at her. It occurs to me that she has no idea what’s coming next. Not really. That this
might very well be the start of her life, and that everything from here on out will be so
different to what she remembers, her past might as well be a distant, hazy dream. For a
moment I feel a pang of sadness for her. For what she’s lost, and for the fact that she doesn’t
even really know it yet.

But she’s alive.

And, as far as I’m concerned, she’s going to stay that way.

Which I think is enough to make it all worth it.

Chapter End Notes

and, that's easy tiger DONE AND DUSTED! thank u thank u THANK U to everyone
who has read and commented so far, i appreciate it so insanely much. i hope you've
enjoyed it so far. there are some parts i'm not crazy happy with, and there'll probably be
a few edits on the way, but i'm grateful for everyone who stuck around.

honestly, i wasn't even going to start here. originally this series was going to be a
duology of the next two upcoming fics, but i decided that staring with jo's games was a
good way to get to know her and ashley better before the next instalment! so look
forward to that, because that's really when this shit picks up! you shouldn't be waiting
too long. in the meantime, i'll also be updating my spinoff, 'the finish line', so check that
out too!

massive tnx to u all :))

End Notes

Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and reviews are, as always, appreciated :))

The title of this work is inspired by the Flyte song of the same name. It's a banger! Go listen
hehe.

Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!