Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Year Zero: The House

‘The thing about a haunted house,

is that it doesn’t start out haunted’.

The carcass of the tree lies before me like a fallen giant. 

The arms of the giant are the gnarled, twisted, wrinkled branches. They spread out, mapping the underbrush like veins, snagging on shrubbery and rocks and moss. The torso is the thick, dark, scarred trunk of the tree, split open by the elements. And the hollowed-out stump, filled with rainwater, muddy and inky-black under the winter gloom is the giant’s head. Tilted backwards, peering up at the overcast sky, like it’s watching something fly very distantly overhead.

There’s a jagged line at the neck, splintered wood and moss, as if someone has taken a very sharp knife and slit its throat.

I stop and stare at it all for a very long time. 

“Johanna.”

There’s a gentle wind in my ears, and the voice that calls across the clearing seems as though it’s coming from far, far away.

I turn. Standing a few metres down the shrouded path is my father. Tall and clean-shaven, he squints through the fog. He carries two steaming thermoses, and in the hazy light I can see that he has a cane strapped to his back. Compared to the collapsed giant, he looks incredibly small. 

“How did you find me?” I ask him. My voice is rough and scratchy from the cold and wind and my lungs feel tight, shuddering in my chest. 

“Your friend told me you were going for a walk,” he says, stepping over a felled branch and coming to stand beside me, looking out at the great carcass. “The blonde one.”

“Snitch,” I say, and take one of the cups from his outstretched hand. My palms are gloved, but I’m still grateful for the rush of warmth that radiates out from the thermos. It’s nearing the coldest part of the year and even my new expensive gear doesn’t stop me from feeling the bitter chill. It’s always freezing in District 7. “I told Lynn not to tell.”

“Lynn,” he nods. “That’s her name.”

I look at my father. Sometimes I still can’t believe that he’s really here. Sometimes it still feels like this is all just some very faraway dream, and I’m going to wake up to find that I’m thirteen years old and he’s gone again. But it never happens. The medication from the Capitol has been nothing short of a miracle. Even in the past six months, he’s transformed from a withdrawn, scattered and absent shell of a man to a very close copy of the father from my childhood memories. 

He does still have a ways to go, of course. His memory is often spotty, and the medication has given him side-effects, bouts of shakes, weakness and nausea. But it’s worth it, and he’s still getting better. He works hard at it. 

“Did you make it out here alright?” I ask.

“Had to stop once,” he says. “But Sylvia says I should make it a habit to keep going when I get tired.”

Sylvia. If the medicine has done a lot, I can attribute the rest of my father’s recovery to her. It’s taken some time to get used to the sort of relationship she and my father have formed, but I think that I like her. She won her Games a good few years back and despite the fact that I know next to nothing about her time in the arena, she was Ashley’s mentor, and he’s always spoken highly of her. She makes my father happy. And besides, she welcomed me with open arms. Whenever she’s around, she treats me as if I’ve been a part of her family for years.

It’s nice. I’ll warm up to her properly at one point, I’m sure. It’s only that sometimes I don’t feel as though I do want to belong.

I take a sip of the tea. Pinebark, sweetened with syrup. It tastes the exact same as the stuff I used to have when I was a child. My father must have made this himself. Despite all of our new money, he seems desperate to cling to old habits. I suppose it makes sense. He’s missed out on nearly five years of life, and the least I can do is entertain him while he plays catchup. 

“She’s a beauty, that one, isn’t she?” he says, pointing out towards the giant. 

“Yeah,” I say. It’s marked most of the path and there’s no going forward from here, but it really is a sight to behold. “Why would anyone cut it down?” 

It’s been playing at me. There really would be no reason to go through all the effort. Victor’s Village is located north of District 7’s main town, far away from any lumber camps, and though I’m sure one day they’ll come here when the rest of the district is bled dry, the forest around our home remains relatively untouched. But besides, what would anyone have wanted with a tree like this? It’s too withered to be much good for anything at all. 

“I don’t think anyone did,” he tells me. “I think it just got old.”

I look at it, surprised. “You mean it just fell?”

He surveys it. “Probably. A month ago, maybe. Maybe two. It would have been a storm that knocked it down. ”

“Really?”

“Well, it was likely time.”

I don’t know why this surprises me so much. I’m so used to trees being cut down before the end of their life cycle, I’ve never actually encountered one that’s died naturally before. It got to grow up. Fully. For a while I just stare down at it and for some inexplicable reason I start to feel something small and lonely burrow in my chest. 

Or perhaps it’s not inexplicable at all. There’s a metaphor here, or something, I’m not stupid. But I don’t really want to think about the Hunger Games today.

Of course, I’m going to have to. Even if today wasn’t the first day of the Victory Tour, I’d probably end up thinking about the Games. It always comes back to the Games. I think there’s a part of me that’s always thinking about the Games. 

“Did you come to take me back home, then?” I ask my father. “Have the preps gotten here early?”

He shakes his head. “No sign of them. Still scheduled for after lunch, as far as I can tell.”

I stretch out my limbs and shrug. “Well, there’s no going forward from here. Let’s head back.”

The trek backwards through the woods towards Victor’s Village isn’t desperately long, but by the time we can see the lights in the distance it’s already started to rain and my father is obviously starting to flag. I pull my hood up and duck my head, but the wind is strong and by the time we’ve reached the front steps of my house, I’m already drenched. 

There are five of us in Victor’s Village. My home is at the edge of the semi-circle, enclosed by trees on one side and an empty lot on the other. When I asked why I wasn’t moving next door to an already inhabited house, the attendant who was showing me around simply shrugged and told me that all the homes are randomly allocated so that nobody fights over petty differences like who has the better view. Having visited three houses in Victor’s Village – Sylvia’s, Ashley’s, and my own – I can say with absolute certainty that there is no difference in the quality of views. It’s all the same trees.

The next inhabited house down the row belongs to Blight Jordan, who won the 54th Games. Last year, Blight mentored my district partner, Caraway. He’s a nice man, and I suppose that I like him enough, but the truth is that I don’t really know anything about him at all. He spends most of his time either hidden away in his home or taking long trips away on his quad bike through the woods – which is his talent, apparently. Each victor is supposed to have one, a skill that we hone to pass the time now that we’re fortunate enough not to have to toil in our district’s industry. The only reason I know about Blight's talent is because Ashley told me about it. In the past six months since I’ve been home I’ve never exchanged more than a few short words with him. 

Next to Blight’s house is Ashley’s, and next to Ashley’s are four more empty houses. Then there’s Sylvia’s, and then finally Pliny’s.

If I know little about Blight, I know absolutely nothing about Pliny. I don’t know when he won, or how he won, and I only just learnt what his voice sounds like a couple weeks ago when he came knocking on Ashley’s door thinking that he was Blight, asking him if he could drive on his bike to the town centre and pick up some liquor. 

Ashley tells me he thinks Pliny might die soon. I hope that if he does it doesn’t happen during summer, because I don’t think any of us would notice anything until his corpse starts to rot.

There’s a rush of warmth that greets us as we step through into the foyer of my own home. From the kitchen, I hear a voice call.

“Johanna, is that you?”

I turn to my father. “Sylvia’s here?”

He sits down on the stairs. Despite the temperature outside, he’s sweating. “She insisted we throw you a going-away lunch.”

“So that’s why you came to get me,” I raise my eyebrows and bend down to undo the laces on my boots. “I don’t know why it’s a big deal. I’m only going to be gone for two weeks.”

“I know this isn’t going to be fun for you, Johanna,” he says. “We want to give you something nice before you go.”

I should find this kind. I should be grateful. But instead, it just makes me feel awkward and uneasy. “Where’s Lynn?”

“I sent her out to the bakery to get us some bread,” comes a voice from the end of the corridor. Sylvia stands, holding an oven mitt in her hands. Her long dark hair has been tied back and she wears a simple green dress. “I hope I’m not interrupting?”

I shrug. “It’s Dad’s house too.”

“And it might as well be Lynn’s house, considering how often she’s around,” my father remarks, using his cane to stand up. “She’s a nice girl, Johanna, but -”

“She likes to do her homework here,” I shrug. “We have plenty of rooms, and nobody ever uses the study.”

“You could,” he says. “You need to pick a talent, before the cameras come.”

“My talent is sleeping,” I tell him. 

He rolls his eyes. “Another talent.”

“Fine,” I say, brushing past Sylvia and stepping into the kitchen. The whole place is filled with sweet-smelling smoke and the distant aroma of apples. “My talent is eating.”

From down the hall he rolls his eyes at Sylvia. “She’s impossible.”

Sylvia gives me a smile and follows me in. “He’s right, Johanna. You’ll need to come up with something to show them.”

“I’ll think of one later,” I shrug, sitting at the countertop. We have a dining room, but we eat most of our meals here. It feels too formal to make the trek across the house. “I don’t get what the big deal is.”

“They’ll expect things from you, love,” Sylvia says. “We just want this to go smoothly.”

“It won’t, though,” I say. “I know that. I’m fine with it.”

My father and Sylvia exchange glances. I know that I’m not being easy, and I know that they just want what’s best for me, but I really don’t see much point in their attempts to make things better. I’ve long since accepted that the coming weeks are going to go over like absolute shit. The faster everyone else can acknowledge it and I can get it over and done with, the better.

I know that it could be a lot worse. I could still be living in our old hovel round the other end of the district, past the train tracks. Working in the woods all day and coming home to a father who doesn’t remember how to be a person. Waiting for my assignment to a logging camp, where I’ll be worked to the breaking point, day in and out. I could be starving. Or I could be dead. Killed in the arena, buried up the hill by the Justice Building with Caraway. The only thing left of Johanna Mason could be a name on a stone placard and a corpse six feet underground, trapped with no chance of ever seeing light or breathing fresh air again. 

I went to see Caraway’s body on the train home. I know I shouldn’t have, but I felt like I needed to. I never got to say goodbye to him in the arena. I was too injured, too distracted, and I hadn’t even looked properly when the hovercraft had come to take him away. 

They had him in a plain, unmarked wooden coffin. It seemed as though it shouldn’t’ve fit him, but when I looked inside his body was far smaller than I remember it being. They’d cleaned him up, combed out his hair, wiped his skin spotless, but nothing could be done to remove the line where the girl from District 2 had lacerated his throat. I’d stared at it for what felt like hours and hours, trying to commit it to memory, up until the train stopped to refuel and an attendant found me. 

I don’t have nightmares, but I do think of his face from time to time. I find that I can’t remember what he looked like before he was dead. Even in my memories, he has the jagged red line marring his features – as if someone has scrambled up time and everything is happening at once. He was already dead when I met him. 

I will need to visit the burial sites of all the tributes on my tour. I will need to address all of their families. Twenty-two other bodies. Love, and Twine, and Pierre, and Cassius…

Chess. My stomach tightens. I try not to think about Chess anymore. I’ve learnt that it doesn’t do me any good. 

The sound of the front door opening breaks me out of my thoughts, and I realise I’ve been playing with my nails. I’ve picked them bloody, and I know that I’m in for a field day when my prep team gets here. But there’s a bit of satisfaction that comes with that – the same sort of satisfaction I felt when I saw how horrified they’d all been after I’d cut my hair in the arena. If I can make their lives just a little bit more difficult for them, then I’ll consider it a job well done.  

“Lynn, is that you?” Sylvia calls. The answer comes in the form of a blonde figure stepping through the entrance to the kitchen, carrying a woven bag. She looks like a ghost in the smoke of the kitchen, pale and lithe. 

“The baker just finished a batch,” she says, dropping the bag on the table. “Hi, Johanna.”

“Hey,” I say plainly. Lynn is my friend. She’s a year younger than me, the daughter of the school principal, and we honestly have nothing in common. But we shared a lunch period when I was still in education, and somehow we fell into one another’s company. I’m not quite sure why I still spend my time with her. She’s immature, and chatty, and upbeat. Everything I’m not. But I like her. “Still set for that internship?”

She comes up to hug me. Lynn’s been spending a lot of time at the baker’s recently. Since the older woman lost her only son to the Games three years ago, she’s been looking for a protegee. Somehow, Lynn’s fallen into consideration. I think the job would suit her. I don’t think she’d make a good teacher, and I don’t think she wants to go on to work at the school anyways. But she likes the bakery. It’s warm, and the baker is a kind woman. I don’t mind all that much what she ends up as, but I’m glad she’s not in the woods. Lynn doesn’t belong there.

“I should be,” she says. “I’m supposed to go over every day after school to train.”

“Maybe you should learn to bake bread, Johanna,” my father says, cracking open the fresh loaf Lynn has just brought home. “That’s a talent, isn’t it?”

I give him a long look. “Can you leave it? I told you, I’ll come up with something.”

Sylvia opens the oven, filling the whole kitchen with the smell of shortcrust. Lynn goes up to help her.

“And how are you feeling about going away, Johanna?” Lynn asks me, tying back her fair, stringy hair. 

I shrug. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yeah,” I say, and then roll my eyes. “What do you expect me to say, Lynn? Oh, no, I’m practically crying my eyes out at the prospect!”

“Nah,” she says. “I was just wonderin’. Must be nice, to get away from the cold. You’ll get to see so many of the other districts.”

Only what’s allowed, I think, glumly, although I don’t say it. But maybe Lynn does have a point. I have always been curious about what goes on around the other ends of Panem. We see so little of the other districts on television, and the little that we do see is almost always limited to narrow shots of the city centres. It might be nice to see some unfamiliar sights. 

“And,” Sylvia says, opening the window a crack to let the smoke out. “You’ll meet the other victors.”

Oh. I blink. I’d completely forgotten about that. It won’t just be politicians and journalists I’ll be interacting with. It will be other people who have won the Games.

“Seriously?” Lynn’s eyes go wide. “Like, Finnick Odair and Gloss Cormorant and stuff?”

I pull a face. “You could have named two better victors.”

“Will you tell me if Finnick seems that tall in person, or if the cameras make him look bigger?”

“I’ll make Finnick Odair’s height my priority,” I say, dryly. “Noted. Maybe I’ll bring a tape measure.”

Sylvia claps her hand before Lynn can respond. “Well, that should all be done. We should get started on lunch before the camera crew gets here.”

Lynn frowns. “I thought you told Ashley to come?”

“He is,” Sylvia says. “But he’s wrapping up at rehearsal first.”

I roll my eyes at that. Ashley’s talent is directing theatre. He usually works with volunteers – young children and teenagers, mostly, since they’re the ones that can spare the time – and he puts on about two shows a year. Before I met him, I used to think it was a waste of time. Now that I’m a victor and I know how boring life is without something to do, I respect it a lot more. But Ashley is a bonafide workaholic at the best of times, and this year, for some reason, the Capitol wants to put his production on the main broadcast, so he’s been scrambling. When he’s not actually running the rehearsals, he’s pouring over his script. He wants to actually write a play next. I think he needs to calm down. 

Lynn looks crestfallen, which manages to cheer me up a little. She used to be in his shows, and she’s got a huge crush on Ashley. It’s honestly funny how obviously she pines after him, especially considering he’s never–not once–given her the proper time of day. I can’t tell which possibility is more amusing; the fact that he knows about her crush and he’s deliberately ignoring her, or the possibility that he genuinely has no clue. My bets are probably on the latter, but I’ve never bothered asking him, because I like the continued mystery.

Sylvia ushers us into the dining room, where she’s set up a massive, proper meal. There’s diced potatoes, sausages, bread, and cheese, and a homemade apple pie too. It looks almost as good as the spread of food that they offer in the Capitol. Maybe even better, knowing that it’s not been served by the hands of the Avoxes–Panem’s glorified slaves.

Sometimes I feel guilty about how much we have, and this is certainly one of these times. But we’re not allowed to give away any food. In fact, I’m not sure Lynn is technically even allowed to eat any of this. There are very strict rules on who can benefit from a victor’s earnings. My father is fine, because he’s family, but I have no direct relation to Lynn. It’s just luck that nobody knows she’s here. If the wrong person were to find out, I’m not sure it would go off well. Wouldn’t want the rest of the district to benefit too much from my success. They have package day. That’s enough.

“So,” Sylvia says, once we’ve started eating. My stomach feels like lead, but I shovel as much food in my mouth as I can, so as to not be rude. “Have you heard anything about our new escort?”

I shake my head. Our old escort, Ambrosia Selene, has been promoted to District 4 after a series of successful years in Seven. I never knew her well, but I’m not exactly saddened by the news. She never seemed to bother getting particularly involved in our lives. Apparently, there’s going to be some sort of shakeup with the designers too – with my own stylist, Pompey, gunning for an opening in District 8. Why he’d want to move down to a lower rank is beside me, but maybe there’s some sort of appeal in designing for the fabrics district. 

Either way, what it means is that we’re due a new escort. Apparently, we’ll be meeting them today, but I haven’t heard anything about it. Not their name, their personality, or if they’ve been working with another district, nothing.

“District Seven must be doing well for itself,” my father comments. “Two victors in five years.”

“Well, we tend to produce one every ten years or so,” Sylvia explains. “We’ve never done too terribly.”

That’s true too. When compared to the inner districts – One, Two and Four – we don’t make a mark, but District 7 has never done too poorly when it comes to the Hunger Games. Every two years at least one of our tributes makes the top ten. I suppose we just have an advantage. We don’t train, but we’re taught how to use axes and saws, and we know how to survive in the woods. Compared to some of the more urban districts, we’re practically gold.

We used to do a lot better, but early on some of the other districts caught wind of our skills, and we ended up being targeted near the start of the Games quite often. Now our luck tends to be higher when we’re not placed in woods – where we’re not seen as threats. I think I’m the only one living in Victor’s Village who won in a forested arena. I don’t know about Sylvia’s arena, nor Pliny’s, but Blight was underground, and Ashley - 

I’m just about finished with my plate of food when the door opens and District 7’s second most recent victor enters the room. Ashley looks cold and bedraggled as he takes off his beanie and blinks in the bright light. He cut his hair when we came home from the Capitol, and it’s grown out a bit since then, dark auburn tresses now long enough to fall into his eyes. Lynn smiles and sits a little bit straighter in her seat.

“Hi, Ashley,” she says, eagerly.

“Hey,” he says, barely giving her a proper look. He rubs his temples and surveys the food. “You do know that you’re not feeding a family of twelve, right Sylvia?”

She gives him an amused glare. “I wanted to make sure Johanna felt appreciated before her Victory Tour.”

He raises his eyebrows at me and comes to sit down. “And do you feel appreciated, Johanna?”

“I feel absolutely smothered.”

He grins.

“How was the rehearsal?”

“A slog,” he says, reaching over for a slice of pie. “I had to cram two weeks of rehearsal plans into a single sitting because someone is dragging me all across Panem with her.”

I cross my arms. “Sorry. I should have died in the arena. Would that have been more convenient for you?”

“Oh, yes, Johanna,” he says, pulling a face at me. “I would have much preferred that.”

Sylvia and my father exchange a glance, but I’m smiling. This is why Ashley is my best friend. I can joke about this kind of thing with him, and he won’t treat me like I’m damaged goods. He’ll just treat me like I’m a person.

Lunch continues on. I stay mostly silent. Lynn talks about school, and Sylvia’s really the only person who listens. My father makes us all cups of bitter pinebark tea. Ashley rolls his eyes at me from the table. And I hate to admit it, but I do find that I like my house like this. Quite a lot, actually.

And so, of course, they come just at the right time to ruin it.

High pitched laughter, the sound of trucks. Loud greetings. The front door blares, and my father’s face tightens. I stand.

“They’ll want me to get ready,” I say. “I’ll deal with them.”

He looks a little sad. “Don’t let them change you too much. You look good the way you are.”

I pull a face. “I’ll put up a good fight.”

I do try.

But they’re persistent. My prep team are horrified by the sight of me. My overgrown eyebrows and leg hair, my chewed nails and the fact that I haven’t been properly flossing my teeth. I’m encircled in the upstairs bathroom for what feels like hours while they poke and prod at every flaw, every ingrown hair and blemish on my skin, as if it’s a personal insult to their very art. One of them – I’ve made it a point not to know any of their names, out of principle – actually whips out a notebook and starts to scribble down every single problem with my body in an itemised list. They form what must be a plan of action between them, and then I’m unceremoniously dumped in the bathtub.

It all happens so suddenly, it’s only when I’m left alone to stew in a concoction of strong smelling chemicals that my brain catches up with the fact that they’re all actually here. I can hear them prodding around my house, commenting on the decor loudly between one another, and outside the noise of cameras being set up blares through the walls. Our new escort will apparently be meeting us on the train, and so Ashley agreed to take on some of their duties in the meantime. If I listen carefully, I think I can hear him talking to some producer. He already sounds exhausted. 

I’m glad he’s coming with me. The mentor always accompanies their victor on their tour, but I think I would have asked him to come, even if he didn’t have to. The idea of doing this completely alone makes me feel a little sick. And besides, Ashley knows most of the other victors. He’ll be able to introduce me, and if I’m not in the mood for conversation, I know that he’ll be willing to cover for me. He’s been doing this sort of thing for five years, and even though he refuses to admit it, he’s good at it. The Capitol likes Ashley. 

I hope he comes with me to the Capitol this summer too, when the Games pick up again. I’m going to have to be a mentor this year. When our yet-unknown escort picks out the name of the female tribute, it will become my responsibility to guide her through the process and try to keep her alive. I’ve been trying hard not to think about it, because the concept makes me feel a bit sick, but I know that once the Victory Tour is over, it will be the next thing on people’s minds. 

I don’t really want to go with Sylvia, or Blight, or Pliny. I don’t know them. Sylvia is nice, but it’s very obvious that she doesn’t know who I am at all, and her attempts to connect with me haven’t done anything except make both of us uncomfortable. Blight honestly doesn’t seem like much, and Pliny makes my skin crawl. The only person who would make the whole experience bearable is Ashley, and I feel horrible for wanting that. He did his dues last year, and he should be allowed a break. But I know they’ll ask him back anyways, and I also know that he’d probably offer anyways, because he knows that I don’t want to be left alone.

I really wish he was a worse person. 

They come to fetch me once my skin has started to sting and my eyes are watering. My hair is trimmed, my nails re-shaped, and I’m dressed in a dark jacket and knee-high boots. They do something to my eyes – scrub and smother them with makeup – and then I’m led downstairs and told that I have five minutes to say goodbye before I’m on air.

Lynn, my father, and Sylvia are all waiting in the living room. Even without the Capitol around, it’s awkward. I hug Lynn first, promising her that I’ll get as many details about Finnick Odair for her as possible. Then Sylvia. I try to make this one quick. Then I turn to my father. 

“Be smart,” he says, tapping the side of his nose. “Come up with a talent that’s not too much trouble. We’ll cover for you here. Stay safe.”

I pull a face. “Aw man. And I was planning on getting into so much trouble.”

“Johanna -”

“Kidding,” I say. “I’m kidding.”

He pats my shoulders. “I’ll sort out that tree. Clear that path by the time you get back.”

“Don’t bother,” I say. “I like it there.”

And then I’m whisked out into the cold. It’s still raining, but they’ve set up a tarp above the cameras so that we’re shielded from the rain. There’s a handful of crew around, trying to sort out the live feed. Apparently, this will be shown to the Capitol in real-time.

“Johanna,” Ashley calls, waving me over. Next to him in his casual flannel and a beanie, I feel remarkably overdressed. He stands next to a young woman from the Capitol. She has long, mint green hair done up in two buns, and bright, hazel eyes. “This is Kepler.”

She smiles and holds out her hand. She must be around Ashley’s age, maybe twenty or so. “I’ll be travelling with you for the next two weeks as part of your assigned crew.”

“My own personal paparazzi,” I say, dryly. Ashley gives me a look that says ‘ don’t be a dick’ but Kepler smiles. “Make sure to get my left side.”

“I’ve heard you’re going to be trouble.”

“Who told you that?”

“Your friend here may have alluded to it,” she gestures and grins. “Mind if I mic you up?”

“Buy me dinner first,” I say. 

She snorts. “I can offer you a breath mint?”

I decide that I like her. 

The shoot is quick. There’s actually nothing about my talent. A couple questions about my life since the Games, what I’m looking forward to seeing on my tour, a handful of questions about pop culture–(I told the cameras last time that I enjoyed movies)-- but the rain is getting heavier, and so they cut it short. Most of the crew is in just for today, and so they’re left to pack up the equipment as I’m ushered into a plain, unmarked black car that will take me to the station. Ashley, who’s been casually conversing with Kepler as I record, bids his new friend goodbye and slips in up front, next to the driver. I hear him asking after our new escort. I don’t catch all of it –something about the train–before we’re setting off, and the sound of tires against gravel blows everything else away.

There’s a paved road through the woods that leads from Victor’s Village to the centre of the town. It’s strange to see the district like this. I’m so used to it being so large and sprawling, travelling through it always feels as though it takes place at a snail’s pace. But we’re whirring by, past the woods and into the town, bypassing old wooden huts and crowds of sodden workers in hoards of brown and grey cloth.

For a moment, I actually feel a sort of pang. I haven’t really been present in District 7 over the past six-ish months. Barely left Victor’s Village. And now I’m going away. I should make more of an effort here. It’s my home. I like it here. I barely see it.

We stop outside the train station. It’s a tiny thing, barely ever used except to ship off lumber and paper, and occasionally, tributes. There’s only one turnstile, which doesn’t work properly, and the whole place is overrun and sodden. As I step out, water laps around my boots and I feel a chill. 

“Where’s the train?” Ashley frowns, bending back into the car to ask the driver. He’s told something and pulls his head out, eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. The driver rolls down the window and the car pulls away.

“What’s that about?”

“It’s late,” he says, dryly. “And apparently the others are sticking around to do a television spot around the district, so we’re waiting by ourselves for it to arrive.”

“We’re being left alone?”

“I know,” he says. “That’s shocking.”

“Peace at last,” I grin, emptily. “C’mon. It’ll be drier in the station.”

It isn’t, really, but at least we’re sheltered from the wind. There’s a bench to wait on, but it’s soaked, and so we make do with leaning against the far wall, watching as the rain falls on the empty train tracks. They’ve become overgrown since I’ve been here last, and now the ground springs up with weeds. There’s a single daffodil that sprouts from between the metal bars, battered by the wind. I have no clue how it could have survived the weather, but it looks as though it’s about to blow away at any moment.

I hear the click of a lighter. Next to me, Ashley holds a cigarette between his teeth.

“When’d you start smoking?” I ask.

“Blight put me onto it,” he says, blowing out a cloud of smoke. It disappears up into the air, blending in with the overcast sky. “Want one?”

I shake my head. “You talk to Blight?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes.”

“You might be the only one who’s friends with all us victors.”

He pulls a face. “Not Pliny.”

“Yeah, but Pliny’s not a victor, he’s a walking corpse.”

He snorts. 

I used to be awkward around Ashley. We used to have a dynamic about us. Tribute-mentor. I liked him ever since I met him properly, and even in the arena I thought about him a lot, but I never quite knew where I stood with him. Since I’ve come home, that’s changed. It was incredibly natural for us to fall into an easy friendship – even though he’s chronically busy, and I’m chronically bad at making connections with other people. I don’t think I’ve ever had a proper friendship before. At least, not like the one I have with Ashley. 

“Blight and I aren’t friends,” he says. “I’m only really close to you and Sylvia.”

“But he does like you.”

“Maybe, yeah,” he shrugs.

The rain picks up. “Is it weird to you that Sylvia and my dad are seeing each other?”

“Why would it be weird?”

“I dunno,” I say. “Just, like, she’s basically your mom, right?”

He turns to look at me. The cigarette he holds in his left hand smokes into the air silently. It smells like a warm fireplace. Maybe I do want one after all. “No she’s not.”

“Oh,” I frown. “I thought that’s how you saw her.”

“I have a mom,” he says.

That actually does surprise me. I’ve never heard Ashley talk much about his family before. I know he has an older sister, but she’s been put on assignment somewhere far away and he hadn’t had the chance to see her since we got back from the Capitol last summer. As far as I was aware, neither of his parents were alive.

“I didn’t know that,” I say. 

“Do you find it weird?” he asks.

I shrug. “A bit, I guess.”

“They seem happy.”

“That’s what’s weird,” I say. “I dunno why. It just feels weird.”

There’s the sound of something in the distance. The train must be approaching. 

“Are you nervous?” Ashley asks me. 

“About what?”

“The tour.”

I frown. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, but what are you feeling?” He raises his eyebrows. “You can’t be feeling nothing about it.”

I can see lights now, in the distance, parting through the rain and smog. “I dunno. I guess maybe I am nervous.”

“About what?”

“About it getting bad again.”

He looks at me. “It might get bad again, yeah.”

I blink. I don’t know why, but I expected him to say something different. “Wow. Encouraging,” I say. “You’re a great mentor, Ashley.”

He rolls his eyes. “No, but you’re right. It might. It probably will.”

I know he’s right too. I can feel it all coming. Like the train, about to roll into the station at any moment. I’ve been feeling it coming for a while now. “Any tips?”

He flicks away ash. “Keep the mask on tight.”

The mask. I’m going to have to find it within me to put it back on. I’ve had six months to myself, to collect myself and figure out exactly who I am, now that the Games are over. Now I’m going to have to go back to pretending to be the exact same person I was in the arena. “Noted.”

“But the food will be good, at least,” Ashley says, unhelpfully. I glare at him, and he laughs. “No, but it’ll be over before you know it. You’ll be fine.”

“And then I’ll be back again this summer.”

“And the summer after,” he says. The train arrives at the station, letting out a screech as it slows down. Wind and steam blow into our faces. “And the summer after that.”

“Forever.”

He sighs. “Feel like forever, yeah.”

“How do you deal with it?” 

He gives me a look, and then drops his cigarette. “With a whole load of cheer,” he says sarcastically, crushing it with his foot.

“Good thing I’m full of that.”

The door slides open. I’m expecting our new escort, so I’m surprised to see a Peacekeeper. She’s young, maybe early thirties, with a shock of white-blonde hair and lean, toned arms. 

Ashley frowns. “We’re waiting for -”

“That can wait,” the woman says. Her voice is low and sharp. “You two need to get onboard. There’s someone on the train waiting for Miss Mason.”

I feel something like dread climb up the back of my neck. Ashley and I exchange a glance. 

“Our new escort?” I say, hopefully. The woman looks confused. 

“Please get on the train,” she says. “I’ve been told it’s an important meeting.”

I feel cold, and I don’t think it’s from the rain. 

Whoever’s waiting for me, I don’t think I’ll like what they have to say.

Chapter Text

The inside of the train is exactly the same as I remember it. Sleek, brutalist metal walls and huge, floor-to-ceiling windows which give way to the foggy view outside the carriage. The whole place smells distantly perfumed–sandalwood and bergamot, with maybe a touch of vanilla–but there’s a distinct undertone of something harsh and clinical that lingers in the periphery, as though someone has rinsed the place with a powerful disinfectant and not let the room air out. Sharp, stagnant air chills my wet skin, but that’s not why I feel uneasy.

The Peacekeeper gives me no time to reacquaintance myself with my surroundings. She’s already brushed past the entrance hallway, down in the opposite direction from the main car, and the look that she gives me isn’t one that suggests she’d be particularly kind to stragglers. I hurry onwards, and Ashley tries to follow before she cuts him off with a sharp push to the centre of his chest.

“Miss Mason only, I’m afraid,” she tells him. 

He gives her a cold look, brows furrowed. Instinctively, he stands up a bit taller–even though he’s not very tall at all, and barely reaches this Peacekeeper’s chin. “I’m her mentor.”

“I know who you are,” she says. “You’re not her mentor anymore . I have specific orders to escort Miss Mason, and Miss Mason only.”

He seems unconvinced, but relents. I give him a look. “It’s fine, Ashley. I won’t be long. Right, ma'am?”

“You’ll be as long as it takes,” she says, quickly. “Come.”

Ashley raises his eyebrows at me. I shrug and follow her. I can tell he’s concerned–honestly, so am I –but I also know that no harm will come to me on this train if the Capitol can help it. Fortunately for me, I’m much too valuable an asset, (at the very least financially), to get into too much trouble.

Perhaps I’m just supposed to get acquainted with our new escort, and for whatever reason they’ve requested to meet me alone first. I don’t really know why that would be the case, since they’ll be working with Ashley too, but I can’t imagine who else would require such an urgent meeting. I’m just about to open my mouth to ask the Peacekeeper exactly who it is I’m supposed to be speaking to when she holds out a hand to stop me and slides open the door to the next compartment. It occurs to me that I have no idea where she’s taken me. 

It takes me a moment to realise that we must be right at the front of the train, near the control centre, because I’ve never been here before. It’s a narrow and cramped space, populated by mostly large, humming machines and clumps of electrical wire. Postering the front walls are an array of monitors showing all sorts of numbers, graphs and little diagrams. On one screen I recognize what must be a map of Panem, lit up by a number of flashing red dots moving about. Those must be the other active trains running around nearby.

 I’ve never seen a proper map of the country before. There’s the one that they show us in school, but it heavily obscures where each district’s true boundaries lie, turning each one into large, misshapen blobs. Even on Capitol TV, the maps that we’re shown aren’t much different. I doubt most people really know what Panem truly looks like. It makes sense, in a way. Hard to unify if we don’t even know where our allies are. But this map is alive with railroads and detailed lines–each lumber camp in District 7 marked out until it gives way to the wilderness of unclaimed Panem, and then further east and south what looks like the border of another District. District 9, maybe? 

I’m about to take a closer look when a firm hand clasps around my shoulder and the Peacekeeper pulls my attention away from the screen and towards a room off to the side from the monitors and equipment. It’s a small, cramped space—more of a closet than anything—with only a single crackling screen and a pair of what look like headphones attached somewhere under the desk. The walls are padded, as if to be soundproof, and it only looks big enough for a single person to sit with their legs curled up underneath the chair.

The Peacekeeper lets out a huff of frustration at the screen. Crossing her arms, she peers around the control space, which is completely empty. To the other end of the carriage, I can see what appears to be a wide walkway and an open door leading out onto the train tracks. Over the sound of the rain and the hum of the machinery, there’s the distinct sound of footsteps and chatter. 

“I thought someone was waiting for me?” I ask her.

The Peacekeeper points towards the screen, which has been consumed by thick static. “There should be.”

“I thought this was supposed to be urgent.”

She gives me an unkind look. “It was. Must be the weather. You wait here. I’ll -” she clicks her tongue and gestures out towards the end of the car. “- just don’t go anywhere.”

“Don’t know where I would go,” I tell her. “This place is a maze.”

Apparently satisfied, she lumbers off into the rain. From somewhere below me, I can feel the distant crackle of electricity, the low hum of an engine. I can’t imagine what it must be like to work on one of these things. The rest of the train feels as though it cuts through air with ease, but here, even stationary, I get the feeling that the whole thing might blow at any moment. There’s no perfume or even disinfectant. It smells like fuel and smoke.

So, whoever wants to speak to me isn’t actually on the train. For a moment I’m worried that I’m about to get in trouble. Whoever wants to talk to me, they must be from the Capitol. Is it Snow? The idea that the President has requested a private audience with me leaves an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I know that he’s often seen talking to other victors, and I know that I’m going to have to interact with him properly at some point during this tour, but I assumed I’d have at least a few days to prepare. And besides, what would he even have to say? I haven’t done anything wrong at all in these past few months. I’ve barely done anything. I haven’t gone into town more than a handful of times. I’ve kept to myself to the point of near isolation. 

Unless–could this be about Lynn? The idea slowly starts to play at me. Plenty of people know that she comes to visit often, and I’m sure they could work out that we’re feeding her occasionally. They won’t be able to harm me with the knowledge, but what if she gets in trouble? I’m not sure Lynn could handle it–certainly not without me around. I’ll need to think of a solution, some sort of excuse, before -

“Johanna?”

I turn around. Standing in the doorway to the carriage, drenched in rain and flecks of soot is a young man. At first I don’t recognise him, but then he pulls his dark hair from his eyes and I recognise the dark eyes and thick brows. Herb Dubie, an old classmate of mine. He wears a bright smile, a dark jumpsuit, and thick leather gloves.

“Hi, Herb,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

He grins wider, even though he’s absolutely drenched from head to toe. Herb’s always been chipper to a fault. He’s pleasant to everyone, which means that almost everyone likes him, and simply by virtue of his extraversion, he’s one of the few people from school that I ever had regular conversations with. 

“There was some sort of staff shortage from Six,” he says. “So they sent out a missive this morning to see who’d be willing to help refuel the train when it got into the district. We got on by the log loading site.”

I blink. A staff shortage isn’t unusual–illness spreads quickly, especially around this time of year–but to have to rely on district locals, and for the Victory Tour train, no less? My eyes dart to the map, but I can’t make out more than the very edge of our own district. “Oh. Are they paying you well?”

“Double what I make in the camp,” he says, brightly. “What are you doing here?”

“Tour starts today,” I say.

“No, I know that,” he says. “Bessie was complaining about it all morning, since your victor friend had to cancel rehearsal today. But Mum’s glad you’ll be off with him, because it means she can be an extra hand with the housework on weekends.”

Bessie is Herb’s younger sister. I think she’s a staple in most of Ashley’s shows. But something about his words play at me. “I thought there was a rehearsal today?”

Herb shakes his head. “Certainly wasn’t. Would have saved this morning’s whingin’.” Huh. Ashley had certainly said that he’d been at rehearsal. “Anyways, I was asking what you’re doing here ? Aren’t you supposed to be in your fancy little rooms?”

Something like guilt plays at me, and beneath it, a thread of anger. I know he’s not making fun of me, but it’s a sharp reminder that I don’t quite fit in anymore. “I’m supposed to be on a call.”

“Oh yeah, that’d explain the Peacekeeper,” Herb says. “Someone budged the antenna, and she’s not happy.”

I’m about to open my mouth to ask Herb about the rehearsal again when the Peacekeeper in question huffs back into the train. Her uniform gleams with water, and her lips are thin and pursed. At the sight of Herb, she rolls her eyes.

“Get out of here,” she tells him, coldly. “Get back to work.”

To his credit, Herb just smiles at her. “Yes ma’am! See you around, Johanna!”

The Peacekeeper sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “Monitor should be working. Close the door behind you.”

I blink and turn around. Sure enough, in the entryway to the tiny room, the screen has blared to life. On the other side, I can make out the figure of a skinny, middle-aged man sitting in front of a desk, with the skyline of the Capitol hanging behind him. He wears a dark suit and his eyes are sharp and narrow. Even without the flowing Gamemaker robes, I’d recognise him. Seneca Crane. Head Gamemaker.

For some reason, this unsettles me even more than the idea that I might be talking to Snow. I frown at the Peacekeeper. “What is -”

“For goodness sake, Miss Mason, I don’t want to be here all day.”

I grit my teeth and turn away again. At some point in the past few seconds, my heart seems to have decided to skip every other beat. I swallow away a growing acrid taste in my mouth, sweep past her, and close the door to the room behind me.

The claustrophobia of the room only succeeds in adding fuel to my nerves, but I try to keep my face even and bored as I slip on the headphones. Seneca Crane’s eyes draw to attention, and I figure that on the other end of the screen, I must have also appeared.

“Johanna,” he says, warmly. Even through the headphones, his voice is so clear, he might as well be in the room with me. I curl my toes in my heeled boots. “Hope it wasn’t too much trouble getting in contact?”

“Just weather issues,” I say, darting my eyes to the door. I doubt it actually is an issue with the weather that’s caused the holdup with the train. Bringing in locals has surely been why things have slowed down. I wonder if Seneca Crane knows anything about that, or about the shortage in Six. 

“Either way, I hope you’re doing well,” he says. “Exciting tour ahead of you!”

“I’m sure,” I say.

“We’ve been working very hard in the Capitol to make sure it all goes smoothly,” he tells me. “Personally, I’m very much looking forward to showing you all around the Gamemaker offices when you arrive in the city.”

The idea of visiting the Gamemaker offices actually makes me feel slightly ill, but I try to give him a smile. “That would be nice.”
“Of course, you’ll have plenty of other districts to visit first,” he says. “It’s quite a trek to the other coast, but I’m sure you’ll enjoy the sights before you arrive in Twelve.”

That’s right. The Victory Tour travels through the districts in backwards order, skipping the victor’s home district until the last stop, meaning that our first destination will be District 12. I’m sure I was told at one point how long it would take to get there, but I can’t remember anything except Ashley telling us on the way to the Capitol during the Games that the tour train ran a lot slower than the tribute one. The idea that I could be stuck on this metal contraption for days with no fresh air makes my blood run cold. 

I must pull a face, because Seneca Crane laughs. “Oh, it won’t be long. You’ll be back home in Seven in no time.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing what Panem has to offer,” I say. Internally, I’m starting to flag. I’m not sure why I’m here. Did he start a call just to make small talk? It doesn’t sound like something a Head Gamemaker would do, but then again, I know next to nothing about Seneca Crane. 

Outside, I can hear clanging. Why haven’t we left yet?

Seneca must, once again, sense my thoughts, because he shakes his head and leans in towards the screen. “Don’t worry. I didn’t ask you here just to chat. We’ll have plenty of time for that in the Capitol.”

“Why did you ask me here, then?” 

“I just wanted to inform you, a good friend of mine–a young man by the name of Julius Waxwick–is unfortunately filming a movie around the outskirts of District 1 at the time of your party at the President’s mansion. He asked me to extend a request for your company upon your arrival in the district.”

The name rings a bell. Julius Waxwick is one of the Capitol’s up-and-coming film stars. Another cookie-cutter-copy of their ideal man of the month, tall and bronze, with close-cropped hair and a frankly painful looking jawline. I’ve seen his face all over Capitol TV for the past few months. In my opinion, he’s the pinnacle of everything I find unattractive, but most people seem to think he’s gorgeous. 

“He wants to meet me ?”

“Oh, yes,” Seneca says. “He donated a sizeable chunk of your sponsor money in the Games. It would be good form to return the favour.”
Return the favour. 

Suddenly my blood goes all the way from cold to frozen. Because I know what this is. I know what Seneca is telling me. It’s the same thing Ashley told me, on the rooftop, before I even stepped foot in the arena. At one point, they’re going to come calling, and you’re going to be powerless to stop them. 

But this—this feels wrong. It’s barely half a year since the Games have ended. I was expecting a conversation about this–a proper conversation, with someone proper, like Snow. I almost wanted it to be Snow. I expected that, when this conversation did come, my loved ones would be used as immediate leverage, so I’d have no choice but to say yes. I expected this conversation in the Capitol, and I expected there to be a good few months back home where I could prepare myself for what was to come. 

I didn’t expect this. A halfhearted chat on a screen, and a casual, veiled proposition. 

I open my mouth to respond, but my tongue has gone dry, and so Seneca continues.

“Of course, once he’s back in the Capitol this summer for the Games, I’m sure he’d love to get to know you better, but he was worried you’d be too busy in your first year as mentor to introduce himself properly.”

I find my words. “I thought I’d be busy in District One?”

“Oh, I’m sure you will be,” Seneca waves his hand. “But I’m sure you can spare a hello. As a favour.”

“What if I say no?”

Seneca blinks, and then smiles as if he was expecting this. “I’m sure Julius will be quite upset. But no mind. I’m sure someone will find the time to have a conversation with you once you arrive in the Capitol on what exactly is expected of you as a victor in the future.”

I frown. I can’t work out what he’s playing at. “So, I don’t have to?”

“No, of course not,” he says. “But I imagine that Julius might not be as kind the next time you meet as he could have been.”
I freeze. Is that a recommendation? If what Ashley told me about my future as victor was correct, then I’m going to have to meet this man at one point, whether I like it or not. Why would I rather meet him now when I have the choice to deny?

Is Seneca implying that - no, he mustn’t be. There’s no way that anyone would be allowed to harm a victor in relation for rejecting them. And even if they could, I’m a victor for a reason. I’d wager that, even by the look of Julius Waxwick, I could take him in a fight.

But he’s Capitol, and I’m District. Even on the off-chance that he faces consequences for hurting me, whatever punishment I’d face for harming him would almost certainly be more severe. I bite the inside of my lip, hard. On the other side of the screen, I’m sure my face has gone completely pale.

“Up to you,” Seneca tells me, calmly.

I blink, once. Twice. “I’m sure saying hello can’t do too much harm.” My words taste wooden.

“Lovely,” the Gamemaker says, clapping his hands. “I’ll let him know! And I think that will be all from me, Johanna. I’ll let you settle in. Long trip ahead of you, after all!”

“Sure,” I say. My voice feels low and gravelly.

“See you soon, Johanna,” he says, and then the video cuts off.

Alone in the room, I feel a lurch. Even despite the cold, my palms are sweaty, and I realise when I try to wipe them on my trousers that my hands have started to shake. Somehow, the fact that this has come so unexpectedly makes the news feel all the more real. I knew that this was eventually coming, though I perhaps wilfully ignored it. It always felt just too far in the future to really be something for my mind to contend with, and besides, next to the idea of returning to the Games, it felt so insignificant. But faced with it now, I feel frozen. My nerves have turned my stomach to acid, and the corners of my vision start to blur. 

I need to get out of this room. I need to move, or I’m going to be sick, and if I’m sick, I’m going to have to come up with something to tell the Peacekeeper, and the rest of the train, and - 

I stand up and open the door.

The sound of rain and machinery hits me, somehow even louder then when I left it. The room is still devoid of life, sans the Peacekeeper, who sits with her back to me, peering up curiously at the very same map I’d been observing. I suppose even she must be interested in what it has to show. 

I could take this time to follow her eyes, maybe learn more about our surroundings, but I can’t bring myself to stand still for a moment longer. I cough, drawing her attention away from the map.

“Done,” I say. I try to keep my voice flat, but it cracks slightly at the end as if I’m about to cry. In my pockets, I ball up my fists. I refuse to cry in front of anyone ever again. I did enough of that in the Games to last me a lifetime.

If the Peacekeeper notices, she doesn’t say anything. She gives me a sharp nod and turns around to face me properly. “We should be setting off soon. I’ll escort you back to the main car.”

She does. It occurs to me that maybe I should pay attention to the way back so that I can replicate the walk later–mostly out of curiosity–but I can’t seem to focus. Even though the train is stagnant, I feel as though the scenery is running past me at a million miles an hour. It’s only when we’ve emerged back into the main car that I suddenly feel as though the veil has lifted and I’ve finally woken up from some horrible nightmare. 

Ashley sits a little ways down the hall on a plush green sofa, cross-legged and facing a young woman. At first I think that it might be our new escort, but then I recognise the green hair as belonging to the assistant I met earlier today. I frown. What is she doing here? Why isn't he looking for me? I've certainly been longer than he would have expected. As I approach, the young woman -– for the life of me, I can’t remember her name -- says something to him, and he laughs. I don’t know why, but I feel a flash of rage flush across my face. I cough once, loudly, to draw their attention.

To Ashley's credit, his face falls quickly when he catches sight of me. I'm not making much of an effort to look cheery, and I think my hands might be shaking a little. I ball them up and shove them in my pockets. "Jo -"

The young woman follows his gaze, folding her eyebrows into a tightly knitted frown. Up close and without the distraction of the film set, I can tell that she’s not particularly lavishly decorated -- at least, not for someone from the Capitol. She has a fresh, youthful face dotted with a bit of makeup, a nose ring, but apart from that, she looks almost ordinary. Standing across from her in the outfit and makeup that my preps have put me in, I feel like someone's terrible art project.

Is this what the Capitol wants? To make me up like a clown and parade me to the highest bidder? The ground under my feet feels unsteady, and my head begins to throb. 

I turn to look at Ashley, trying to zone out the rest of the carriage. “Can we talk alone?” My voice is strained and low, but at least I don’t sound like I’m going to cry anymore. 

Ashley's eyes dart to the door. “Uh. Yeah. Kep - Kepler, if we could just -”

To her credit, the girl, Kepler, stands up without any protest. She gives me a tight smile pulled over an expression I can’t quite make out. “That’s alright. Hope you settle in alright, Johanna."

I think I might mumble something in return, but if I do, nobody acknowledges it. The train isn't even moving, but I feel travel sick. The sound of the rain pattering against the window suddenly feels as though it takes up the whole room, harsh and grating, like the sound of a buzz saw or an engine running too loud. Everything seems to be growing, noises swelling into screams -- my heartbeat, the sound of the door, the Peacekeeper walking away on the other side of the room, Ashley's voice -

Ashley's voice.

I blink at him. At one point, he's started to talk to me. "What?"

He looks really concerned now. Somehow, it feels demeaning. "I asked you, what happened?"

Something rotten churns at the bottom of my stomach. I don't want to talk about what just happened. My gaze fixes on the door ahead, trying to find something to latch on to. "I didn't know you were friends with her?"

"Who, Kepler?" Ashley turns to follow my gaze. "Yeah, she was - we've met, in the Capitol. Look, Johanna -"

"You never told me that."

"Why would I have told you that?" Ashley asks me. I wish he didn't sound worried. I wish he'd be mad at me instead. "Johanna, are you alright?"

"Of course I'm not!" I snap. 

"What happened?" 

I bite my lip. "I don't want to -"

"Johanna," he says. There. At least now he sounds exasperated. "Come on."

My eyes flicker upwards, with the sudden realisation that maybe I'm not allowed to tell him anyways. I don't know what the rules are. Seneca didn't say anything, but I wouldn't put it past anyone to catch me saying something in the wrong way and getting caught out for it. An unfamiliar terror grips at my stomach like a vice grip, and I clench my fists again, trying to pry it away. Is this who I am now? Is this what they'll do to me? Scare me into submission? 

Ashley must notice, because his mouth tightens into a thin line and he nods, almost imperatively. A shred of my fear shifts into irritation. I wish he wouldn't just assume, even if he's right. He stands up and goes to one of the windows. The walls are made of glass, but there's little latches above the main pane of glass that can be released to let in a breeze. He has to stand up on one of the plush loveseats to reach. Cold air bursts through the cabin, carrying with it the sound of pounding rain and wind. 

"Fresh air might do you some good," he says, by measure of explanation, but his eyes say something else. You can tell me without them hearing.

I bite my lip so hard I'm worried I'll draw blood. "You didn't tell me, Ashley," I say. I hate how betrayed my voice sounds. 

He tilts his head to the side, more confused than offended. "Pardon?"

"Why didn't you tell me that, that it would - I'd - " I fumble for my words. Yanking my hands from my pockets, I start to pick at the edges of my nails. "You didn't tell me it would start on this tour."

"Johanna, you're going to need to be clearer than that."

"I'm supposed to start making - making friends now, Ashley." It's getting increasingly hard to keep my voice even.

"Johanna, seriously, I don't know what -"

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!" I drop my hands in my lap. "I’m talking about what they do with victors, Ashley! The shit you told me they’d do to me!"

His face goes pale. "What?"

"Yeah! You told me it would only start when the Games started!"

"It does only start when the Games start!" To his credit, Ashley does seem genuinely surprised. His eyes dart to the window, and I know that we're both hoping the sound of the storm is loud enough. 

“Well, if you have another explanation for why Seneca Crane just told me to go give a Capitol movie star a good time when we get to District 1, go ahead.”

"Seneca Crane?" 

“Yes.”

“Seneca Crane talked to you? The Head Gamemaker?”

“No, the lumberjack,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Seriously, Ashley, I’m not lying. ”

“I don't think you're lying!” He shakes his head. “But this doesn't make -"

“You couldn’t have warned me? I was going in to this tour expecting someone to talk to me about this once we got to the Capitol, like you said they would. I thought this would start in the summer. Not now!" 

"Well, so did I!" Ashley rubs his eyes. For a moment, we both sit in silence, neither of us quite knowing what to say. Then his skin grows even paler. I didn't know that was possible. “Oh, shit."

“What?” I blink. "What is it?"

"You're eighteen, Johanna."

I shake my head. "So?"

“Look - um - I won when I was barely sixteen, Jo. So, I mean, they couldn’t - y’know - they couldn't do anything to me. Not right away, not until I was slightly older."

It dawns on me what he means. "But I'm free game. Right from the start."

"For lack of a better word." Ashley breathes out a heavy sigh. "But it's not just that."

The vice clenches again. "What?"

He looks up at the window again, and then lowers his voice. "I talked to Seneca after you won. Nothing too bad, I don't think. But he did say that the Capitol was a bit worried about you."

"Worried? About me? Why?"

Ashley starts to pick at a loose thread on his jacket. "In the arena - you showed, I mean, you showed you could manipulate others. That could be a problem. I think that they were worried that you'd be -"

"They thought I'd be a threat?"

"I don't know, Johanna. But this might be a test to see how easy you are to control."

"Control?" I feel another sudden burst of anger and humiliation. It takes everything in me to keep my voice low. "I have to let them control me? Like a good little puppet? A good little whore?"

"Yes," Ashley says. He looks worried, but his voice is firm. "And you have to let them."

Everything looks as though it's tinged in red. He's right. I know he's right. Crane said it himself - if I don't comply, the people I care about could be hurt. Any threat, any risk, any toe out of line - it'll be on my head. But I can't help the anger that courses through me. I want to slap Ashley across the face, break the glass into shards, be locked up for life. 

It occurs to me that Ashley is still talking. " - don’t understand why Crane would be the one to talk to you.” He's looking at me and frowning. “That’s Snow’s job - that’s always been Snow’s job. He considers it too important to ever let anyone else do it.”

“Well, congratulations,” I say, dryly. I can't yell at him, but at least I can be sarcastic. “Apparently you’re lucky enough to get off without being a threat to the nation, and important enough that Snow considers you worth the conversation.”

Ashley bites his lip. “I wouldn’t say I’m lucky, Johanna." His voice is flat.

“Well, I would,” I tell him. I hate the way he's always so pitying. Everyone always seems to either pity me. My father, Sylvia, Lynn, Ashley. My eyes dart around the train. I want to stop talking about this. I want a fight. “And why did you lie to me earlier?”

“I’m sorry?” Ashley sounds actually irritated now. Good. 

“I ran into Herb Dubie on the train. Apparently, his sister told him you cancelled rehearsal today.”

He narrows his eyes. “Johanna, can we seriously -"

"Why'd you lie?"

He lets out a huff. "He told you that?"

“Yeah.” I cross my arms. My hands are shaking again. “Why’d you lie to me?”

“I was telling the truth,” he says. “I was rehearsing this morning.”

It's almost pleasing, the vindication that spreads through me when I realise that he's not telling the truth.

The thing about Ashley and I is that neither of us are particularly bad actors. I was able to convince an entire nation that I was useless, and he’s always been very good at keeping his cards very close to his chest. It's part of the reason why his actions in his arena hit it off so well with audiences. We know how to hide the truth, and we both know how to play other people like a fiddle.

But we’re also both absolutely terrible at lying to one another. He picked up on my tells the second he started mentoring me–he even called me out on it, at first–and in the past few months since we’ve gotten to know one another, I’ve been able to work out his tells in kind. Once you know them, as it turns out, it’s almost painfully easy to read him. He’s like an open book.

Ashley doesn’t know that I can work out when he’s lying. I’ve never told him. I always thought it might come in handy, so I just let him believe that he could play me just as well as anyone else. As far as he’s concerned, he’s as closed-off to me as he is with anyone else he knows.

I try not to smile, but I don't think I could, even if I wanted to. I could tell him now. It would be a good gotcha, a nice way to displace the frustration I currently feel. I could do with a good verbal fight, and I imagine Ashley will be as good of an opponent as any.

But then it occurs to me that if he is lying about this, if there is actually something he doesn’t want me to know, Ashley isn’t the kind of person to admit it and open up. He’ll just come up with some half-hearted excuse and keep a close eye on his words when this comes up in the future. If I ever want to work out what this is about – and I do, because as far as I can tell, Ashley’s never had cause to lie to me about anything serious before –I ’m going to have to act like I’m oblivious.

“Herb seemed sure, but you were there, I guess,” I say, rolling my eyes as if I’m annoyed to relent. And I am a bit annoyed that I can't start shouting. But I'd rather find out the reason why he's lying than lash it out. Curiosity killed the cat, and all that.

“I didn’t invite his sister,” Ashley says. “But don’t tell him that. She’s over eager enough as is. Would have drawn the whole thing on for ages if she’d come.”

It’s a good lie. I wouldn’t think anything of it if I were anyone else. I try not to bite the inside of my lip, or show that I’m suspicious at all. 

But I am suspicious, and honestly, my irritation isn't all that displaced anymore -- I am actually pissed off at him too. About the fact that he’s keeping secrets, that he didn’t bother to think about how our experiences might be different, that he’s somehow best friends with some random Capitol girl. Suddenly I don’t want to be on this train with him at all. 

“What was Herb doing on the train in the first place, anyways?” Ashley asks me.

“There’s a staff shortage is Six,” I say, flatly. 

“Oh,” Ashley frowns. “I suppose that’s why we’re only meeting our escort once we get to Twelve.”

“We are?”

He nods. “That’s what Kepler was coming to tell me. Apparently they couldn’t get here in time, but there’s a faster coal line from the Capitol to Twelve, so they’ll be heading there to join us.”

“Oh,” I say, plainly. “OK. Well, I’m going to head to my room, then.”

“Are you alright, Johanna?”

I scowl at him. “Of course I’m not.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but I choose to ignore it. I’ll talk to him later, at dinner. Right now, I’m barely in the mood to look to anyone.

Luckily, the train is the exact same model–if not the exact same train–as the tribute one, so at least I know my way to the bedrooms easily. For a moment I’m confused when my thumbprint doesn’t let me into my old room, until I remember that I’m trying to get into the tribute’s quarters. I’ll be assigned a mentor room from here on out. Frustrated, I roam around the corridors until I eventually give up and ask an attendant to escort me to my new home. 

It’s not far from my old quarters, hidden in the next carriage over. There are three bedrooms lined up in a row, presumably for the two mentors and the escort, and I’m assigned to the one at the end of the corridor, by the dining cart. The space inside is nearly identical to the one I found myself in six months ago, with the only difference coming in the size of the desk that sits opposite the bed and the higher ceilings. The air is cold and clinical, the windows welded shut, and the wardrobe piled high with designer clothes. 

My hands skim over cotton. These will probably be what I’ll have to wear for my address to each district. For the galas in the evening, I’m sure there’s an entire cart full of outfits. Although he’s supposed to be with me on the tour, my old designer, Pompey, has remained in the Capitol, and so he’s sent his designs and my prep team in his stead. Apparently, he'll be doing a runner to a better district soon too.

The train feels oddly empty. It should be full of life. My escort, my designer, they all seem to have raced away from me at the first chance they could get. While I’ve never had great love for them, I can’t help but feel as though it stings a little. With my success comes their chance to move up to bigger and better things. 

And yet, here I am, on the same train, again.

I’m cold, and my clothes cling to me. I catch a sight of myself in the mirror as I pull them off and start to rifle around in the closet for something casual to wear. I lost a lot of weight in the arena, and I’ve struggled to put it on again since I've been back. It definitely shows. My father and Lynn had been worried about me at first, despite how much I was eating, but the truth is that I can’t seem to be anything but skin and bone. I’m not sure why. Ashley lost a lot of weight because of the stress of mentoring me, and he’s put it all back on just fine --(although, as it turns out, that's a touchy subject). My appetite has never been small, and I’ve even made an effort to stuff myself on occasion, but to no end. It’s as if, even though they’ve scrubbed every scar from me, my body refuses to move past the arena.

Deathly thin has been a trend in the Capitol as of late, too. I cringe at the thought. The idea that a body like mine – or worse, the body of some starving district worker – could be seen as couture, as attractive, makes my skin crawl. 

Then my skin starts to crawl for a complete other reason, as I remember who has already booked in their interest. 

I can imagine what my mysterious benefactor looks like. White blonde hair, sneering lips. Maybe I can put him off. I’ll be nice and polite, because I have to be, but maybe I can find a way to make sure he doesn’t want to visit me again. Do something crazy. I can’t imagine it’ll be hard. I don’t think I’m great company at the best of times, and being bad company is something I’m good at. Even if I can’t keep it up forever, and even if I can’t ensure that it’ll work with everyone, I can certainly try to be as unappealing to as many suitors as I can. Seems like an easy task, if I put my mind to it.

I’ve always been good at succeeding at what I put my mind to.

I catch another glimpse at my reflection, and the stupid makeup, and I find some boring, unremarkable outfit to hide in. 

By the time I’m dressed, the train has set off. We move quickly, but I can tell by the sights of the trees flying past that we’re not quite at pace with the usual tribute train. I think of the map I saw in the control centre and try to picture our route. Eastwards, surely, but how far? Will we travel straight across, or veer to the south? Not to the north, surely. To the north are more forests, and then I don’t know what lies outside that. An ocean? Mountains? A sheer drop at the end of the world?

It occurs to me that I don’t actually know where our nation ends, or how. Most of the old maps I see have nations bordered by coastline, or other nations, but there’s nothing left except for Panem. I don't even know what the rest of the world looks like. 

Either way, it probably makes more sense for us to travel slightly south. I decide to keep my eye out for any change of scenery, though, just in case. All I’ve ever seen in my life are cities and forest. It would be nice to rest my eyes on something new for a change. 

I know there’s nothing left for me to do but relax, but I find myself completely on edge. Even without my call with Seneca, being back on the train has sent my mind into some strange sort of loop to six months ago. Calloway could be on this train. Twine on the next. Chess, somewhere down the line. Alive.

Alive.

The train shudders.

And then, even beyond that, there’s Ashley to contend with too. I clench my jaw. Because why would he lie to me – to all of us, really – about something so insignificant? I’m not sure why it plays at me so much. I've lied plenty times before. He probably was just doing something weird. Maybe he was seeing someone? I frown. Is Ashley seeing someone? I assumed that he'd tell me, but I've never asked him either.

I think about him sitting with Kepler. I don't know why the idea annoys me, only that it does, and I’m determined to work out exactly what he was doing, if it wasn’t rehearsal.

I’m annoyed at everything. Crane, Ashley. The Capitol. Myself. I let out a huff and sit down on the bed, deciding that while I’m on this train, I’m going to enjoy being as lazy as I like. No point feeling bad about luxury. I killed people for this. I reach over and turn on the television, hoping to find some sort of mindless Capitol movie to tide me over until dinnertime.

Instead, what I’m met with is what looks like a recap of an emergency broadcast from Capitol news. It’s short and sweet, explaining that there will be a nationwide address from President Snow tonight. At that, my eyes grow wide, and I find myself sitting up a bit straighter. There’s no hint as to what it could be about, nothing at all, but it occurs to me that this must be a big deal. It’s not often that the President will address the nation, especially unprompted. I scan the channels, trying to find some sort of clue, but all I stumble upon is some rerun of a film starring up-and-coming star Julius Waxwick.

I turn off the television. 

I decide to entertain myself until dinner by exploring every button in the bathroom. When I leave my room, I smell like a cocktail of perfume strong enough to kill a large rodent. 

Dinner isn’t as lavish an affair as it was back before the Games, but the selection is still strong. I'm late, and I keep my head down. We dine with some of the camera team that will be accompanying us throughout the tour, and I decide to specifically ignore Ashley and introduce myself to the head of photography, a sharply dressed middle-aged man called Iggy. He’s pleasant enough company, but I can’t help but be a bit bored, especially seeing as Ashley and Kepler both seem completely content to chat to themselves down the other end of the table. Ashley does meet my eyes once, as if to check in on me, but I’m still mad at him, and so I look away.

He comes up to me after dessert, however, once everyone else has cleared off to go to bed or check up on whatever they need to check up on. The sky has grown dark, and I can’t tell where we are. Already, I’m starting to miss the feeling of fresh air, and it hasn’t even been a day.

“Have you seen the news about Snow’s address?” he asks me.

I shrug. “Sure.”

“Do you want to watch it?”

I roll my eyes. “No.”

“Bad question, I suppose, considering we have to watch it,” he says. “I meant to ask, do you want to watch it with me?”

“If we have to watch it, so do the others,” I tell him. “Why don’t you just go watch it with them?”

“Because I want to watch it with you.”

I bite my lip. “Well, maybe I want to be left alone.”

“Do you actually, Johanna?” He raises an eyebrow. “Or are you just saying that because you’re mad?”

I am just saying it because I’m mad, but I don’t like that he’s brought it up. “Oh, whatever!” I say, with a huff. “Just get it over and done with.” Ashley rolls his eyes and smiles. I turn to him. “Are you laughing at me?”

“No!” He holds his hands up in protest. “Look, I’m sorry - you’ve had some shit news. I shouldn’t be -”

“No, you shouldn’t be-”

“You’re just funny when you’re angry.”

I blink at him. “I’m not mad.”

“You sound mad.”

“Oh, whatever!” I say, standing up. “Let’s hear what Snow has to say. Bet it’s absolutely nothing important.”

“You’ll regret saying that.”

“Bet I won’t.”

We turn on the television, and at the sight of President Snow, I freeze.

I don't know why.

I suddenly feel as though I'm going to be sick.

"Johanna -"

"Shut up," I say. "Turn it up."

He does.

Turns out, he’s right. I do regret saying that. 

Chapter Text

The kind of fear that grips me at the sight of President Snow leaning over his podium is a kind of fear that I’ve experienced few times before. It’s white-hot. Electric. Everything else around me seems to narrow into a point, as if my pupils have constricted into tiny holes and all I can see is his face reflected in the television screen. Bloated, misshapen lips, thick white hair, red, splotchy skin. He looks like some kind of predator, some sort of muttation that they were supposed to release into the arena last-minute, before deciding he’d be a better fit as president. 

It’s not the first time I’ve seen him. Obviously. President Snow has haunted the television screens of Panem for years and years and years. Ever since I was a child, he’s always been some distant, looming figure, nestled in the back of camera shots sipping from thin flutes, or addressing the nation, just like he does now. I’ve even met him in person twice, if briefly. The first time was when he spoke to the crowd at the chariot rides the first day I’d arrived in the Capitol. Back then, he’d been so far away and I’d been so focused on keeping up an act of frailty, it had almost felt like viewing him on a screen at home. The second time I’d seen him had been far more personal. It was after my Games, when they’d arranged a recap of my time in the arena. He’d come up to me and handed me a crown to commemorate my victory. Up close he looked thin and frail, like a gust of wind could have sent him scattering to ash across the paved streets of the Capitol. He’d avoided eye contact, and I’d been so distracted by watching my friends die on camera that I hadn’t given him a second glance. I’d always assumed he didn’t care much for the tributes, and had always thought that the reverse was also true — that I didn’t care a bit about him.

Now I know that it isn’t. If it was, I wouldn’t be feeling this terrible fear at the mere sight of his shrivelled figure. The tension that grabs me reminds me of the dull nerves that would spark at my chest in the days before the Games, the looming feeling that something terrible was about to happen. Snow’s appearance feels like an omen. 

Ashley isn’t looking at the screen, even as the President starts to drawl on with his usual opening speech addressing the nation. He’s turned to face me with his entire body, legs crossed up onto the sofa, his arms pulled across them so he’s leaning towards me. “Johanna -”

“I’m fine,” I say, quickly, before he can ask me if I’m alright. I’m honestly sick of Ashley asking if I’m alright, and I’m sick of not being alright too, for that matter. I take another glance at the screen, and try to slow my breathing in an attempt to get my heart to calm down. I don’t know why I’m reacting like this. It can’t just be because of my conversation with Seneca Crane. Can it? “He’s just ugly, isn’t he? Shocks me every time.”

Ashley doesn’t look convinced. He doesn’t laugh either, which I expected him to do, but I suppose it’s probably bad form to make fun of the president in a carriage monitored by the Capitol. Not that I think they’ll care. They probably have far more important things to worry about. 

On the screen, the President brings his opening nonsense to a close. A trickle of sweat runs down my spine, despite the fact that it’s freezing in the carriage. I pull my arms closer to my chest and bite my lip.

“Unfortunately, tonight I bring you some bad news from District Six,” the President tells us, in a low and even voice. I feel myself leaning closer to the screen and think of the shortages that Herb mentioned to me earlier. This seems to pique Ashley’s attention too. He swivels his body around to face away from me, and I hear him let out a low ‘ hmm ’ in surprise. “Due to a series of terrible and unforeseen events leading to a  gas leak,” Snow continues. “One of the District’s major stations has been the victim of a chemical explosion.”

The camera cuts to footage from District 6. It shows a low, flat building that has been completely demolished. The left side of the space is so caved in, it looks like a meteor has hit the earth, leaving the surrounding metal crater molten and smoking. A heavy storm rages over the city, but it does nothing to quell the angry red of the flames which eat and tear at the rest of the structure. The surrounding area bears the brunt of the explosion. Glass shards are scattered across the streets, pipes and road signs are bent and dented. The cameras show us the remains of what must be the front panel of a train dragged out from the wreckage, crushed and ripped into a jagged grin. 

“Shit,” Ashley breathes, next to me, as the screen shows us footage of the moments after the accident occurs. 

I don’t know what to think. It barely looks real. If I didn’t know any better, I’d imagine that this was some terrible arena concocted by a particularly sadistic Gamemaker. But this can’t be an arena. There are no people on screen. No station workers, no worried citizens trying to help pull bodies from the wreckage. At school, we learn that District 6 is a small and compact place. Even outside of the majority who work in the stations, manning and manufacturing the train lines and building hovercrafts, the rest of District 6’s industry, the factories (which box and organise the goods transported across Panem), are barely a stone's throw away. Surely, surely someone would have come.

If anyone does, they don’t show it. President Snow tells us that the explosion has killed at least forty people since this morning, with the death count slowly rising. He then goes on to tell us about all the shortages we can expect due to the toll this will put on travel across the nation. Holidays will have to be cancelled. Fish will not arrive on time for New Year’s day celebrations. As he speaks, we learn that two other people have died. 

“That’s why he didn’t talk to me,” I breathe, as the President’s voice drones on and on over shots of the wreckage. “And that’s why everything’s been delayed.”

Ashley looks pale. “Yeah.”

The streets on the screen are still bare. “Why aren’t there any people?”

“Sorry?”

“On the screen,” I point ahead, where they’ve now cut to an expert talking about what caused the explosion. Apparently President Snow’s time on camera is done. “They didn’t show any people helping. Why?”

Ashley frowns. “I don’t know.”

“They must have had a reason. I can’t imagine that nobody would have come to help.”

“Well, they probably did have a reason, Johanna,” he says.

“What?” My hands feel electric. It’s like all the nerves in my body have dialled up to eleven. “What possible reason could they have?”

Ashley shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“Please, don’t question things like that, Johanna,” Ashley says. His eyes dart up again, like they did when I told him about my meeting with Seneca Crane earlier. “It doesn’t do anyone any good.”

“OK, so you think it’s right, then? It’s right that they’re not showing any of the people who -”

“Johanna, I’m serious,” Ashley’s voice is measured. “Stop it.”

Maybe he’s right. Maybe I should stop talking. Maybe there’s someone listening, and maybe there’s always someone listening. But I’m scared, and I’m mad, and I can’t help picturing myself in the wreckage, all alone, with nobody coming to help. I can’t deal with the idea that nobody would come. It feels like the Games all over again. Everything feels like the Games. And Ashley doesn’t seem to understand. “Don’t you care about those people?”

“Seriously, don’t -”

“Don’t you?”

“Jo, shut up!”

I blink at him.

At some point I realise I’ve stood up, and he’s muted the television. My heart seems to be beating at a million miles an hour, and my breath comes out fast and hitched. I want to reach out and push him over. Where did all this anger come from? I was fine when I boarded this train, wasn’t I? Or was I? Surely, I’ve been fine for months, haven’t I?

Ashley’s looking at me very firmly. 

I could say something horrible. 

But instead, all I tell him is; “I’m going to bed.”

To his credit, he says nothing as I storm back to my cabin. The train around me feels like a whirlwind. We’ve picked up pace as we’ve run into the night. I can see the way that the rain whips past the window, occasionally illuminated by the flash of emergency lights. It was raining in District 6 too, on television, wasn’t it? How far away must we be? I suddenly feel so guilty for being on this train in the first place, even if it wasn’t my choice. Even with the shortages, there must be people from Six working on this train now, trying to deal with the fact that back home some of their friends and family might be dead. 

They all must hate me.

It’s all just the Games again.

I strip off my clothes and sit on the floor of my room for a moment. After what must be ten minutes of this, I hear the sound of Ashley retreating for the night. I think of pounding my fists against the wall just to let him know how pissed off I am, but think better of it. Instead, I curl up naked in bed and spend a couple of hours trying not to think about dying in District 6 while a Capitol movie star watches me and does nothing. 

At some point, I fall asleep.

It takes us another day and a half to reach District 12. I try to avoid as many people as I can in the meantime. I still have to eat, of course, but I choose to rise early and show up as late as I can to dinner. For the most part, it works. I do have to make the occasional conversation with people, but the camera team learns quite quickly that I don’t want to be bothered, and Ashley keeps his mouth shut after the rude gestures I give him.

None of them have done anything wrong. I know that. And I know that my behaviour isn’t exactly fair. But I think that, for what it’s worth, I’m allowed to act out. Especially when all I’m being presented with is inane small talk and patronising pity. It makes my blood want to curdle. Surely, people should know I can’t stand to be pitied. Everyone just looks at me so sadly, and everyone keeps telling me what to do. Find a talent, whore yourself out, shut the fuck up . I’m so sick of it, I want to scream.

Instead, I spend the next day and a half curled up in my bed, watching mindless Capitol movies and trying to lull my brain into oblivion. It works. The films all start to blend into one, after a while. The upcoming model with something to prove ends up in space, fighting some great, galactic war against time travellers from the future. By the end of it all, my thoughts feel like jelly and I’ve decided I hate all movies, but I’ve managed to avoid the worst of my bad thoughts. 

The worst of them. 

Our arrival in District 12 the next day isn’t anything spectacular. I’ve barely paid any attention to the view out the window, but in the morning I realise we must be getting close. The trees become sparser, bonier, and thick patches of snow clump along the darker earth. Mountains and hills loom in the distance. The train has just slowed down when there’s a sharp knock at the door.

I brace myself, expecting Ashley to greet me, but instead I’m faced with the figure of the girl on the camera team - the production assistant, Kepler. She’s dressed for the cold, and her long green hair has been pulled up into two buns. I feel an immediate surge of irritation and cross my arms tight over my chest. I’m still in my pyjamas, my hair messy and loose, and I can feel the bags hanging under my eyes. My bare toes curl into the carpet, and I try to give her a look of sheer boredom. “What?”

“The team wanted to say, we’re nearly in Twelve,” she tells me.

I glance behind me. “Yeah, obviously.”

Kepler blinks. “I thought I might let you know before your preps come in.”

Is she supposed to be minding me now? “Where’s Ashley?” I ask.

Kepler twists her mouth in a faux smile. She’s obviously gotten the hint that I don’t want her here. “Oh, I don’t know. On the phone with your new escort, maybe.”

Oh, right. Our new escort will be meeting us in Twelve. Internally, I grimace. I don’t want to have to deal with a new drugged-up clown any more than I want to have to deal with the rest of this train. Still, at least their presence will probably bring some semblance of order to the whole ordeal. Maybe they’ll even want to be here for me.

“Fine,” I say. “Tell my preps they can come in whenever.” 

Before Kepler can reply, I close the door in her face.

My preps show up shortly after. I manage to tune them out as they dress me  and do my makeup. I’m placed in a deep green outfit lined with furs. I can’t help but wonder if they’re going to keep putting me in greens. It feels almost mockingly stereotypical. District 7. Forests. Green.

On the platform in District 12, everyone is waiting for me. It really isn’t much of a showing. The camera teams. Ashley. A thin, cold-looking man who must be District 12’s Mayor, and a brilliantly dressed individual who is all but buzzing as I approach. This must be our new escort.

Up close, they look young. I’m almost surprised, because I can’t imagine this person to be much more than a handful of years older than me, and certainly not much older than Ashley. Their hair is a bright magenta, spiralling down in perfect ringlets. Their eyes are done up in neon green, and they have strange, prism-like tattoos dancing across their wrists, but they seem remarkably untouched by plastic surgery. It’s a relief, because I always feel an uncanny dread that borders on sickness whenever I see someone too touched by a scalpel. Ashley likens it to a concept known as the ‘uncanny valley’. It’s the same feeling I get when looking at a mutt that’s just a little too detached from the real animal. I always want to run/

“Johanna!” My new mentor calls, waving their hand as if I’m miles away, even though I’m just about to approach the group. Their accent is thick and like with most of the younger Capitol generation, there’s a touch of vocal fry to their chords. “Oh, how lovely it is to finally meet you! I am so, so sorry about all the holdup.”

“This is Minnie,” says Ashley, by way of explanation.

“Minnie,” I echo. “Cool. Nice to meet you.”

“The honour is all mine,” Minnie says, reaching over to shake my hand. Their grip is warm, and their palms seem to tremble a little. “You don’t know how excited I am to get to know you!”

Normally I’d look at Ashley and pull a face, but I’m still mad at him, and so instead I look down at my shoes. Already, I’m tracking coal dust. The air here feels thick and dirty, humid despite the cold. I want a shower.

“ But I’m sure there’ll be time for all that later!” Minnie continues. “Um. What next? Oh! Yes! This is Mayor Undersee. He’ll be showing us around today!”

The Mayor dips his head in greeting. He seems like a plain man. Tired. “We’ll drive you to the town square for your address, and then you can get a tour of the district before this evening’s dinner.”

“Sounds great!” Minnie beams at me. I resist the urge to scowl. “Doesn’t it?”

“Sure.”

As it turns out, District 12 is a very small district, so it doesn’t take long to make it to the town square at all. Looking out the window, the only word I can muster up to describe the place is ‘depressing’. Hunched, cold, wet miners coughing up coal dust infest the streets, thin, starving-looking children watch us with eyes the size of dinner plates. No wonder District 12 always does so poorly in the Games. Looking at them now, I’m surprised that they even make it to the arena in the first place.

But their girl last year – Mazzy – she made it far, didn’t she? Yes. She ended up in fifth. I killed her, didn’t I? I frown and curl my hands into a fist in my lap. I’ll have to look her family in the eyes when I step up onto the podium and give my pre-approved speech. 

I wonder if they hate me. 

I would. 

The crowd in front of the Justice Building looks small, sickly, and waterlogged. Before I can even think about it, I’ve been dragged up on stage. On camera, they always show people cheering and smiling when the victor arrives. Here, nobody seems to look very pleased at all. It looks more like they’ve been forced to attend, (which, most likely they have). Probably the Capitol manipulates the footage afterwards to seem more positive. 

I catch sight of Minnie’s face before the cameras get in place. This was obviously not mentioned in the mentor’s handbook. 

There are two raised platforms set up a little ways down from the stage. Above each, a picture of both tributes from Twelve has been hung, with the seal of Panem looming over them, like a halo. On the boy’s side – a face that, for the life of me, I do not recognise – there’s a frail older woman and a young child that looks about six.

There is nobody on Mazzy’s side. Her picture hangs alone, fluttering in the wind and sleet.

She had nobody? An orphan? For a moment, my eyes scan the crowd, expecting a Peacekeeper to bring someone up. But nobody moves. I feel a horrible, cold pang of guilt. I killed her, and she had nobody to mourn her. 

Someone says something to me, warns me that the cameras are about to switch on. I am told the plan. The mayor is expected to give a speech, I will receive flowers, some sort of plaque, and then I will address the families of the fallen tributes. This will be the same for all eleven districts I visit.

On the other end of the stage, towards the back, stand the rest of my team. The cameras will not be on them, but eyes in the crowd keep fluttering back to Minnie. In the field of grey, the neon stands out like a sore thumb.

I turn back towards them all, just for a moment, to get confirmation that everything is good to go. One of the camera men gives me a thumbs up. Minnie beams at me. Ashley is standing next to an older man who seems strangely familiar, saying something under his breath. His companion has shaggy dark hair and narrow grey eyes. It takes me a moment to place him. Haymitch Abernathy, Victor of the 50th Hunger Games.

He’s District 12’s only living victor. They had another, I think, a few years back, but whoever they are, they’re long dead. As far as the Capitol is concerned, he’s the only one. District 12’s poster child. And what a poster child he is. A sloppy drunk, crass and dry. I see him every few years on television, making a fool of himself. 

He doesn’t seem drunk now, though. In fact, he seems strangely alert as he mumbles something under his breath, eyes trained solely on me.

I don’t know why, but it makes me feel uneasy.

Then there’s a flash, and the cameras start to roll. 

–

It all rolls past in an instant. I feel grateful to be away from the leering, hungry eyes of the miners. The inside of the Justice Building is cold and weary, but at least there’s privacy. Someone takes my flowers and my plaque away from me, and I’m dumped on some empty seat while the cameras whirl around, checking mics and footage. The mayor mumbles something about a tour, but he’s pulled aside by Peacekeepers before he can actually tell me what’s going on. They start a quiet conversation under their breaths, and I’m left biting my lip and playing with a loose bit of fur. 

“Well done, Johanna!” I look up to see Minnie standing over me. They don’t seem very tall, but sitting down underneath them, their figure looks almost imposing. It’s probably the hair. “That went wonderfully. Did you memorise that speech all by yourself?”

I frown at them. I’m not used to people like this. Overeager, bordering on chipper. Most people from the Capitol I’ve met seem to have absolutely no interest in me. Ambrosia didn’t. Pompey didn’t. Even President Snow didn’t seem to bother giving me the time of day. Something about Minnie should annoy me, but it doesn’t. In fact, they almost remind me of Lynn. “Well, yeah. How else would I have memorised it?”

“Oh, I guess!” Minnie comes to sit down next to me. “District Twelve’s awfully quaint, don’t you think?”

I look up at the mouldy, peeling wallpaper. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I do wish I could have seen Seven first. It looked absolutely lush, ” Minnie says. “Though, of course, after what happened in Six, it makes sense I couldn’t. It’s just horrible, don’t you think?”

I look at them, surprised. “Um. Yeah.”

“I felt so awful, taking the train, after seeing that,” they tell me. “You know, my mother called me after the news broke. She was oh-so upset that the food she ordered for her birthday wouldn’t arrive. But what about all those poor people? They’ve got to get better security in place for that sort of thing.”

I resist the urge to frown. The fact that they’re saying all these things so openly shocks me. Is this a common sentiment in the Capitol? Pity for the districts? I always thought they didn’t care. “I guess. Yeah.”

“Well, anyways, seeing that sort of thing is what made me want to get into this job,” Minnie tells me. “After that horrible flu in Seven, and that explosion here last year, it just seems like such awful things keep happening in the districts.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What explosion?”

“Didn’t you hear?” Minnie looks shocked. “It would have been around a year ago. There was a massive explosion in one of the mines. Many died.”

The mention does spark a sort of memory of a blurry television broadcast. Haggard, mangled miners being pulled out of a smoking elevator. 

Minnie is right. Disaster after disaster has plagued the districts for years. There was the flu back home, and an explosion here, and wasn’t there a landslide near District 3 a couple years before? And now what’s happened in District 6. 

Something about it all feels important, but I’m not sure why.

Before I can think about it any further, another figure approaches. Haymitch Abernathy. Ashley trails behind him, uneasy. Up close, District 12’s victor looks far less imposing than he does on camera. Scruffy, stained, and exhausted. 

“So, you’re the latest edition to the club,” he says, by way of greeting. His voice is low and tinged with an accent. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks for the warm welcome.”

“Well, District 12 isn’t known for our hospitality,” he says. “The mayor’ll want to drag you around in his truck for an hour or so. I won’t be coming. Cars make me travel sick. But I’ll join you for a drink tonight, if you want.”

I blink at him. “Sure.” Behind Haymitch, Ashley crosses his arms. “I’m sorry I killed your girl, by the way.”

“Eh,” he shrugs. “It happens. You’ll see soon enough. They die.”

He says it so casually, it almost takes me aback. “It didn’t seem like she had any family.”

“I guess not.”

“You don’t know?”

He gives me a funny look. Or maybe he just has a headache. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

As he walks away, Minnie blinks. “Wow.” They say. “He smells a bit, doesn’t he?”

I laugh, and decide that I like them. 

Haymitch is right. The mayor takes us for a tour in his car. It’s horrible and cramped, and by the end of it, I’m feeling travel sick myself. But more than that, I’m also feeling uneasy. The hollow eyes of the miners seem to bear into me, burrowing into my chest and weighing me down. Even at home, nobody looks like this anymore.

But they did, after the flu. I remember in the few months after the sickness had spread, how hollow the streets had seemed. Things had perked up a bit after Ashley’s victory, but even that hadn’t managed to take away from the empty loss that filled the air. It had taken a few years for that to end, and even now, though life has gone back to normal, there’s always been the lingering fear that it could happen again.

I turn to Ashley, when we step out of the car. Ahead of us, Minnie is talking to the mayor, asking him something at a lightning pace. It’s just us. “Did you hear about the cave-in here, a few years ago?”

Ashley blinks, surprised that I’m actually talking to him. “I did, yes.”

“Isn’t it odd?” I say, keeping my voice low under the sound of the car engine and the rain, “that this sort of thing keeps happening? The flu in Seven, the landslide in Three, a cave-in in Twelve, a gas explosion in Six? Seems like a lot, doesn’t it?”

Ashley’s eyes narrow. “It’s unlucky odds.”

“There’s no such thing as real odds in Panem, Ashley. You taught me that.”

Ashley shakes his head and steps forwards. “You need to get ready for tonight.”

“Ashley -”

“Johanna,” he says, echoing my tone. “Let’s go.”

Wow. Even Minnie seems to care more than you, I think. But I roll my eyes and do what he says, because that’s my job.

Dinner is a sordid affair. I’m shoved into a stuffy high-neck number and placed at the head of a table in what must be the Grand Hall of the Justice Building. I decide that the Mediocre Hall might be a better name for it – with the cracked glass and dusty tiling. Still, it’s more lively than anything else I’ve seen since arriving in District 12. There’s a radio playing fiddle music and they’ve managed to wrangle a crowd of the most well-to-do the district has to offer. There are dim fairy lights and a carpet hiding the worst of the cracked floor. It’s almost twee.

I’m shuffled around the crowd. I meet the Mayor’s family, the Head Peacekeeper, and make the world’s most boring small talk with the mine foreman. Cameras are dotted around, and the crew seem to be desperate to make anything seem interesting. I manage to sic them on Minnie, who, as it turns out, loves to talk, but it means I’m left without much of a companion for the evening. 

Ashley’s here, obviously, but I avoid him as much as I can without making it obvious to the cameras. He busies himself by chatting to Kepler and a few of the other film teams, which only succeed in annoying me even more. When the first meal is served and we’ve all sat down, the conversation around the table is dry and painful. I’m just about ready to drown myself in my soup when Haymitch Abernathy shows up.

To his credit, he cleans up. Not well , but at least he looks clean. He ducks his head in greeting and slides into the empty seat next to me - the one they’ve obviously laid out for him. As he does, he raises an eyebrow at my expression.

“Bored?”

“Deathly.”

He reaches out towards a passing server and plucks out two thin flutes of wine. Handing me one, he downs the other in a single gulp. “Here. This’ll help.”

I take a tentative sip. It tastes acidic and bitter, but there’s a kick to it. Whatever it is, it’s not pleasant. I’m about to put it down when Ashley speaks from across the table.

“I wouldn’t, Jo.”

Haymitch groans. “Oh, let her do what she wants, Firth,” he says. “Besides, they only serve the good shit once a year in the districts. Might as well enjoy it while you can.”

I look down at the flute, and then back across the table. Then I take another sip, because Ashley told me not to. It doesn’t taste as bad as the first. 

“See!” Haymitch says, loudly. Then he drops his voice. “I find it’s the only shit that makes this all bearable.”

I know he’s being trite, and I know I probably shouldn’t. Sylvia and Ashley warned me about this. Other victors can be a bit intense when greeting new members of the team. Sylvia says it’s like a rite of passage to be teased in your first year as mentor. Most likely, Haymitch is probably just trying to rile me up. But I’m already riled up enough as-is, and besides, drinking seems to work for him. No use knocking something until you try it . 

So, I down the glass in one, and reach out for another. 

Haymitch grins and gives Ashley a knowing glance. 

I do what I want, I think. 

Chapter Text

The headache I wake up with on the train the next day is enough of a hint that I’ve made a bad decision. 

At some point in the night we’ve set off again, leaving the dregs of District 12 far behind us in favour of flatter land and browner earth. The rhythmic swaying of the cabin from side to side makes my stomach churn and my head scream. Everything in my body feels like it’s shrivelled up and died, and despite the sun in the sky telling me I’ve slept long past midday, I feel exhausted. 

Is this what Haymitch feels like all the time? I try to remember much of last night past my third drink, but it all comes through in a blurry haze, as though I’d been so deep underwater no light could reach me. How many drinks did I have? I was keeping up with Haymitch at first – I definitely remember that, because I’d felt some vindication in the achievement. But past the point where the memories fade to black, I have no clue. I don’t remember making it back onto the train, and I certainly don’t remember stripping naked in my cabin, but I’m shivering and last night’s dress is peeled off and discarded on the floor, so I must have done so at one point. 

Did someone have to help me back? I look down at my hands, which are angry and scratched. It looks like I fell over at some point last night – on gravel, based on the cuts and marks – but the rest of my body seems relatively unscathed. 

A sudden unease grips me. Surely nobody undressed me, did they? If they had, they would have put the dress away instead of leaving it on the floor, wouldn’t they? Even though I’m almost certain I’ve been left alone, the first emotion that surfaces after the pounding headache and the confusion is a growing sense of worry and unease. I can’t help but picture cold, phantom hands grabbing me.

You’re fine, Johanna, I tell myself strictly, and focus on groaning as I drag myself out of bed and towards the bathroom. My limbs feel like rubber as I wrestle on underwear and a dressing gown. You’re just paranoid because of Crane. Nobody would have touched you. Especially not in Twelve.

My worry slowly ebbs, transforming into a horrid sickness as the train slows down. The shift in momentum twists in my stomach, and I find myself lucky to be so close to the toilet, because last night’s dinner comes up the hatch with a certain vigour. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I find myself grateful that we won’t be reaching District 11 until tomorrow morning. I can have a day to wallow in feeling miserable. Small miracles. 

And wallow I do. I spend the next half an hour on the floor of my bathroom. Once I’m done with emptying the contents of my stomach, I drink as much water as I can hold down straight from the tap, and then place my pounding head against the cool tiled floor. When the worst of the pain has passed, I pull my hair up into a tangled mess, slide on the first pair of slippers I can see, and go hunting for something to eat.

It’s around two in the afternoon, and so the dining car is mercifully devoid of people. There’s still food laid out from lunch, and an attendant eyes me nervously as I grab a roll and a conservative amount of mashed potatoes from the nearest tray. I’m starving and my appetite begs me for more, but my stomach is still swirling and I don’t want to start hurling chunks again.

I take my food into the lounge to eat. The smell of the dining cart is too strong, but I don’t want to stink up my room either. They’ll have aired the segment of my tour in District 12 by now. I might as well gauge the damage while I have nothing else to do.

I turn on the remote and am immediately met with a clip of myself, uneasy and stumbling, grabbing onto Haymitch Abernathy’s arm as though my life depends on it. My hair is loose, one of my shoes is missing, and I look absolutely pathetic. 

On the screen, one commentator – (I’ve found the post-broadcast talk show, apparently) – thinks that Haymitch might have found a protegee after all.

Owch. 

I pick together bits and pieces as I flick between the live feed and the pre-recorded segment. As far as it goes, the start of the tour is always dull in District 12, but they cobble together enough footage to make it seem like a cheerful affair, if a bit lacking for a grand affair.

I look bored on stage, and so does the crowd. They don’t bother showing the tour, and even the beginning of the dinner party seems dull, despite the decor looking good on camera. No editing tricks can make me seem engaged. The proper entertainment only starts after my memory ends. I’m just thankful that most of the time my speech is too slurred for anyone to understand what I’m saying. If my mood last night was anything to go by, I probably said a few things I’d regret.

“Feeling any better?” 

I turn around. Ashley is standing in the doorway, holding a cup of tea. He looks as tired as I feel. Based on the way he was trying to wrangle me home on screen, I’m not surprised. He has a brilliant bruise blooming under his chin from where I apparently elbowed him in frustration, and his expression is a combination of amusement and wryness. 

“Come to gloat?” I ask. My voice is rough, and I wince as the sound of it vibrates in my skull.

He shakes his head and reaches over, turning off the television. He hands me the tea. It smells sharp and earthy, and when I take a sip, it tastes like dirt. 

“It’ll help with the headache,” he tells me. 

“Yeah, yeah, thanks,” I say, but take another sip anyway. He doesn’t move. “Are you going to sit down, or are you going to watch me like I’m a child?”

“You were acting like a child yesterday,” he says, but sits down anyway. 

“Don’t bother with a lecture. I feel bad enough as-is.”

“I wasn’t planning on lecturing you,” Ashley says. He takes my discarded plate and puts it on the coffee table. Even the noise of china on glass makes my head throb. “All I was just going to say is that I’m sorry. I get it. I’ve been there.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You got blackout drunk on television? I can’t imagine that happening.”

“I didn’t get blackout drunk, no,” Ashley laughs. Or at least, it might be a laugh. A huff of breath is more accurate, maybe. At least he’s smiling. “At least not in District Twelve. But I went through it on my Victory Tour too.” He pulls a face. “Did you know that I completely refused to learn the speech that they prepared for me? I went up on stage in Twelve and made a complete fool of myself.”

“Really?” I frown. “I don’t remember seeing that on TV.”

“Yeah, well, they hid that part well.”

“Did you get in trouble for it?”

“Oh, yeah,” he nods. “They all tried to warn me. I even ignored Sylvia.”

I snort. “Bet. You worship the ground Sylvia walks on.”

Ashley rolls his eyes in amusement. “I don’t worship her, Johanna,” he says. “I just trust her. But even then, she couldn’t do anything to get through to me. What it took was realising that it was the families of the tributes I was letting down before I sat down and learnt the scripts.”

“Hypocrite,” I say, half-amused. I try to picture him. Sixteen years old. Angry. Refusing to memorise a few works on a card. I can visualise what he looked like perfectly; skinnier, shorter, even more freckled than he is now. There’s a poster of him after his Games somewhere in the Justice Building, addressing our district. It’s a simple thing to picture.

But I can’t see him as defiant. I can’t imagine Ashley doing anything rebellious at all.

“Look, what I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry that I forgot what it’s like when you start out. I suppose that after a while you just get used to it, and you get - oh, I don’t know - I suppose you get desensitised to it all.”

“Right.”

“And I suppose it’s hard to acknowledge what you’re going through because it reminds me I’m also still -” he pauses, and looks up. “- well, you know what I mean.” 

I turn my attention to him fully. He’s doesn’t want to admit that - what? That he’s also struggling? Why would that be something he couldn’t say? “Yeah, I do.”

“And it was really stupid of me to tell you not to drink. I should have known. You’re Johanna Mason. You’ll do exactly what people tell you not to do.”

I laugh. “Well, I won’t be doing it again, that’s for sure.”

I take another sip of the tea. Now that I’m used to the taste, it reminds me a little of the brew we make at home when someone is ill. I wonder where he got the ingredients. “Sorry for hitting you in the face.”

“What, this old thing?” Ashley grins, sticking his chin out and showing me the bruise. “Don’t worry. My popularity’s been going down in the Capitol as of late. Maybe a couple of cuts and punches will remind them why they liked me to begin with.”

“That’s not true,” I say. “They love you.”

“Not as much as you.”

“Well, they like you better, anyway,” I say. The train hits a bend, and my stomach does a flip. I take a deep breath to steady myself. “I’m sorry about avoiding you yesterday, too.”

“It’s OK, Johanna,” he says. I frown at him. “Really, it’s OK.”

Suddenly, I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. I don’t like apologising, and I particularly don’t like the fact that Ashley’s always around when I’m showing the most vulnerable parts of myself. So instead, I take a large gulp of my tea. My mouth burns. “So! What do you think of the new escort, then?”

“Minnie?” He blinks, catching up with the change in conversation. “Yeah! No, Minnie seems; she - he - oh, I’m not actually sure what …”

“They, I think.”

“That makes sense,” he says. “Well, either way, they seem - I don’t know - nice ? I don’t quite know how else to describe them.”

I laugh. “My thoughts exactly.”

“They’re really young, aren’t they?”

“And thank god for that,” I say. “I’d hate to be parented.”

“I know, Johanna,” Ashley says, dryly. “That’s why you can’t stand Sylvia.”

“I don’t hate Sylvia,” I say. 

“Well, you don’t like her.”

“I don’t get her,” I tell him. “No offence.”

“None taken,” he says. “I don’t think she gets you either.”

“Do you think the other victors won’t get me?” I ask. Suddenly, I’m terrified that they’ll all hate me. Reasonably, I know I shouldn’t care. None of us are on the same team anyway, and once we’re managing our tributes, I probably won’t be able to trust them any further than I could throw them. But the idea that the few people who understand what I’ve been through might shun me makes my stomach twist, and not from the hangover.

“No way,” Ashley shakes his head. “Haymitch loves you already.”

“Does he?” I raise my eyebrow. “He didn’t seem like he did.”

“That’s Haymitch,” Ashley says. “I can tell, because Haymitch doesn’t like me. ”

I bite my lip. “Well, that’s just one victor.”

“They’ll like you, Jo,” Ashley says. “And even if they don’t - I like you. So that’s two.”

“Oh yeah, you adore me,” I say, dryly. “I’m your best friend .”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Who’s your real best friend, then?”

“Blight.”

I snort. “Yeah right.”

“You are my friend, Johanna,” he says. “And I do like you. Even if you’ve really got to work on your communication when you’re mad.”

“We’ve all got our flaws,” I say. He rolls his eyes, and then I’m suddenly reminded that Ashley has his own too. He’s lying to me about something.

But the idea doesn’t fill me with rage anymore. Maybe a bit of annoyance, but not anger. More curiosity. Whatever he has to hide, I’ll work it out, eventually. Everyone has secrets. 

“Just make sure alcoholism doesn’t end up one of your flaws,” Ashley says.

I pick up the remote. “I think I’ve learnt my lesson.”

He eyes my hand. “Don’t watch any more of that, Jo. It’s not worth it.”

“Don’t worry. I was actually planning on rotting the rest of the day away watching a terrible Capitol movie. If you wanted to join me?”

Ashley grins at me. “I’d like nothing better.”

We spent the rest of our evening weaning out my hangover. Minnie approaches us around dinnertime and we spend our first evening as a team running through the itinerary for the rest of the tour. We’ll arrive in District 11 early tomorrow morning, and after a whistle-top tour of the fields and meadows, it’ll be off to District 10 the following evening. Without a grand cross-country trip to contend with the major travel delays should be over, but we might find ourselves set back a little in District 6, depending on the recovery situation. For a moment it surprises me we’d stop off there at all, but I suppose that the show must go on, no matter what. 

Then it’s the rest of the districts in descending order, until we reach the Capitol. The mention of District 1 sends a brief shock of shooting nerves running down my body, but if Minnie notices, they say nothing about it. I find myself grateful that they don’t mention my hangover either. I can’t tell if it’s because they’re awkward, or if they’re just too polite, but either way, it makes me like them even more than I ever did Ambrosia. 

By the time I’ve retired for bed, I’m feeling better, both physically and emotionally. The worst of the hangover is leeching away, and while I’m going to have to be careful around the cameras for a little while, I feel better having a small team around to talk to. As much as I’m loath to admit it. I’m not entirely alone in this. 

For a moment, my mind dwells on the idea of Julius Waxwick. 

Not entirely alone. 

And so, the next few days become a blur of speeches, flowers, plaques, and dinners. In District 11, an older victor named Seeder takes us on a tour on an open-aired van through fruit fields. The season isn’t right and nobody works in the orchids at this time of year, but I can imagine the sea of bodies toiling in the blistering sun. My stomach twists when we return and Seeder waves at a group of children sitting in the dirt road, playing a game of cards. Any of them could be chosen for the Games next year, or the year after, it occurs to me, And I’ll have to consider them my enemies in order to keep my tribute alive. 

At dinner, we meet the other victors from District 11; a middle-aged man with a missing arm called Chaff and an older duo who won their Games in the 20s, Tilly and Dock. On the train the next day, a member of our camera crew, Yves – who fancies himself somewhat of a Games historian – tells us that District 11 used to win far more regularly when the Games were first invented because of their experience with physical labour. But then the other districts keyed in on that fact quickly, and it became a common strategy to take them down as early as they could. Apparently, a famine a few years later dealt the final blow, and they never picked up their winning streak again.

I try not to look at Ashley at the mention of the famine, but I take a mental note of another disaster in the districts. 

We continue onwards. In District 10 we visit a genetic modification lab. In District 9, our train skims past endless wheat fields. There are more people to meet. More hands to shake, and more speeches to give. I stop needing to think of what to do at dinner parties, and every interaction feels as though I’m following a script. Ashley and I spend the evenings after we get back to the train debriefing each other on everyone we meet and every conversation we have. After a night or two of this, Minnie joins in, and Ashley eventually drags Kepler along for the ride. 

A few days into our trip, I make the decision that I really enjoy Minnie’s company. Maybe it’s the fact that the presence of someone from the Capitol no longer spells my imminent death, but maybe it’s also the fact that they’re really quite likeable. They assume the automatic best about nearly everyone they meet (‘don’t be so mean!’ is a constant phrase they parrot around the dinner table). They talk at a million miles an hour about Capitol counterculture, which I find endlessly amusing. But most of all, they seem to actually like spending time with us, which is far more than could be said for either Ambrosia or Pompey. Besides, they’re not as complicit in the Games as they could be. I get the sense my feelings about them might change once they’re on stage this summer with a slip of paper in their hand.

I warm up to Kepler too, though perhaps not as much. There's still something about her that rubs me the wrong way. Maybe it’s the fact that every so often I’ll catch her and Ashley mumbling under their breaths, as if they’re trying to hide something from me. Whenever they see me looking, there’ll always be a convenient excuse for what they were talking about, but something in my gut tells me they’re lying.

Even though I don’t believe it, I decide to tell myself that they’re just sleeping together and trying to hide it. It’s easier to come up with an answer so I don’t have to worry about it. I don’t have the time to worry about it right now. I don’t really have any space in my brain at all on this tour.

Still, the idea that they are sleeping together makes me mad enough that I promise myself I’ll work it out when I’m no longer so preoccupied. It’ll be something to entertain myself with when I get home - like those shitty Capitol detective movies that they keep showing on television. I’m almost certain I’ll be able to crack Ashley open, given the time. Detective Mason, on the case. 

The first proper hurdle on the tour comes with District 8. As we approach the grimy, low, smoke-covered warehouses, the looming presence of Twine’s family grows larger and larger. Suddenly, the families standing on the pedestals become real people again, instead of statues I recite to. They are alive, and their children aren’t. And I will have to stand on a stage and watch them as I deliver a speech commemorating their daughter’s death.

It’s customary for a victor to write something special if addressing the family of a former ally. But the truth is I never liked Twine all that much. She was always more of a thorn in my side than an actual friend. I wouldn’t know what to say.

Still, the idea of looking her family in the eyes makes me feel sick all over again, and even though I avoid making any additions to my speech, I spend the night before we arrive in District 8 tossing and turning, picturing the girl’s death.

I never saw Twine die in the arena, but they showed it to me after the Games when I was presented with the last cut. Cassius, my other ally – my real ally – was the one that killed her. It was mercifully quick. A slice to the leg to stop her from running, and then a snap of the neck. It didn’t make it any better. I wish I could have closed my eyes, so that in the future, when I pictured Twine in my memories, she wouldn’t always be dead. But I was on camera, and so I had to watch.

I haven’t thought about Twine in months. I haven’t let myself. But it’s like the second we step foot in District 8, the floodgates open, and everything from the arena comes rushing back in a hot wave. 

The day itself comes and goes. I tell her family she was a wonderful ally. I don’t look them in the eyes. I don’t look her mentor Cecelia in the eye either, even when she thanks me for keeping her tribute company. I don’t eat at dinner, and I don’t sleep that night. I lie on my back, looking up at the ceiling and imagining what Twine must have felt when she realised that there was no escape. 

By the time we’ve arrived in District 6, it’s all got worse. I don’t dream, but I have waking nightmares. I keep imagining that Caraway’s body is still in a coffin at the back of the train, slowly rotting away. When Ashley talks to me across the table at breakfast, I imagine that he’s Chess, and that I’ve speared him through the neck. When my preps help me get dressed, I picture them all gutted at the Cornucopia. 

So this is what the Tour is for, I realise, while they check me one last time before handing me over to Minnie. To make sure you never forget.

In District 6, they try to hide the damage of the accident, but it’s pointless. We don’t even stay for dinner, and we meet no victors. I’m kept confined strictly to their Justice Building, and I notice their crowd is a lot smaller than any of the other districts. Their mayor is missing, and a Peacekeeper gives a speech instead. Nobody says anything about it. 

It’s early afternoon when we’re departing for District 5, and the mood in the train is decidedly dour. 

“It perks up in the sunnier districts,” Ashley tells me. I think he knows that I’m thinking about my Games again, but he says nothing about it. I appreciate him for that. I think talking about it would probably make me feel even worse. “Besides, I have it on good authority that Finnick Odair is looking forward to meeting you.”

At least about the weather, he’s right. By the time we’ve arrived in District 4, I’m not feeling great, but I am feeling better about it all. The smell of the sea is a breath of fresh air after all the grime and smoke of all the factories we’ve had to visit, and the crowd actually seems to like me. That comes as a bit of a surprise, considering I did technically contribute to the deaths of both their tributes, but their smiles are not wholly unwelcome. There’s even a modicum of respect from the families of the tributes. 

By the time I’ve finished another speech and stepped back into District 4’s marble Justice Building, it surprises me that I’m feeling relatively alright about everything. 

Ashley’s right about Finnick Odair too. I meet the Capitol’s golden child that evening, at an open-air dinner party overlooking a stunning view of the ocean. They have me dressed in a backless deep blue gown. Apparently Pompey didn’t get the memo that it was winter, because I’m freezing. I don’t even recognise my new friend as he approaches. I’m too busy trying to warm my hands next to a brazier they’ve erected. In the darkness, under the dim light of the fire, he looks just like any other well-to-do member of District 4. 

“Cold?” he asks. “You’ll get used to it. Any excuse to get you to show skin, they’ll take it.”

It’s the sound of his voice that cues me in on who I’m talking to. I’ve heard that voice over and over on television for years. Up close, he’s not as handsome as he looks on camera. He’s good looking all the same, though; messy bronze hair and bright green eyes. “I hate my stylist,” I say.

“Welcome to the club,” Finnick grins. Pearly white. “For what it’s worth, it suits you.”

“Do you tell that line to all the young killers you meet?”

“Only the ones I like,” he says. He leans against a table, surveying me. “How are you finding the party?”

I look around. There’s music playing. Live music. A man dances around with a fiddle and somewhere in the crowd, I can hear Minnie laughing. “If I’m honest, it’s probably one of the better ones so far.”

“They always say that,” Finnick tells me. “Nobody knows how to do it like Four.”

“Oh, I’d disagree,” I say. “Seven’s up there.”

“What do you do - show them trees?” 

“Oh, yeah,” I say. Honestly, I’m not sure what we show the victors in Seven, but he’s probably on the right track. “Sometimes we’ll even show them some real tall ones.”

“I mustn’t have been one of the lucky ones,” Finnick tells me. “All the trees they showed me were pretty average height.”

“You would have had to make a big splash,” I say. 

“Mm, right,” Finnick grins. “Well, you surely have. Even in Four loves you. My sister was so mad she couldn’t get an invitation tonight.”

“Me?” I blink. “I thought that, looking at the audience. But I don’t get it. It was my fault that both of your tributes -”

Finnick waves his hand. “Don’t give yourself that much credit. They killed themselves, both of them. Besides, you’ve got spunk. We like that, in Four.”

Huh. “Well, maybe I like District Four too.”

Finnick Odair returns my smile. Then he lowers his voice. “Oh, by the way, there are cameras on us right now. Six o’clock. There’ll be a dating rumour by tomorrow morning.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Seriously?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says. “Sorry about that. I’ve been telling them to stop for years – you know, that I’m perfectly happy and in love with Mags – but they never listen.”

“Mags?”

“You don’t know Mags ?” Finnick raises his eyebrows. “Oh, you’re in for a treat.”

“Am I?”

“She’s another victor. C’mon. She’ll be hiding where the cameras aren’t.”

I don’t have much of an option but to follow him. As I do, I can’t help but feel like there’s been a slight weight lifted off my chest. Finnick Odair is funny. 

I decide not to tell Lynn this.

Mags, as it turns out, is a stroke victim in her late seventies. I don’t understand a word she says, but she seems nice enough, and the cameras seem to avoid us while we’re around her, which is something I’ll take in a heartbeat.

“You know, I’ve actually been looking forward to meeting you,” Finnick tells me, about an hour later. The party has quietened down, and he’s been telling me a story about a film set he stumbled on in the Capitol the year before the last. Next to him, Mags is braiding something from bright yellow yarn. “I always figured you might win.”

“Oh, yeah?” I raise my eyebrows. “How come?”

“We speak the same language,” he says.

I don’t get to ask him what he means. Just as I’m about to, someone runs by to ask him to give an interview. He rolls his eyes good-naturedly, but stands up anyway and smiles. 

“I’ll see you in the Capitol, Johanna,” he tells me. “I think we’re going to be friends.”
I’m left alone with Mags. She seems nice enough, but I don’t really know what to say to her, so I peel myself off and spend the rest of the evening circling the other victors and eating as much seafood as I can. By the time we’re back on the train, I’m feeling more like myself again, and I actually enjoy the factory tour in District 3 the next day.

Then we get to District 2. 

Immediately upon arriving, I swear I can see him everywhere. Hidden in amongst the cameras that line the station, walking along the dirt-paved road that takes us from the train to the town centre. It almost hurts to realise how natural it is to imagine Chess in this environment. This makes sense for him. This is his home.

Everyone takes care to be kind to me as we approach the Justice Building. The editors cut out a lot of our friendship on the screen, but it was evident that Chess and I had grown fond of one another the longer our alliance went on. 

Ashley was around for all of it as my mentor, and while we’ve never really talked about what happened in the arena, I know there are conversations he’s seen that others haven’t. He sits next to me in the car, and when we hear the unmistakable sound of a growing crowd, he reaches over and squeezes my hand. I take the opportunity to close my eyes and remind myself to breathe. 

Pompey has dressed me in black today. I doubt it was intentional, but I know that traditionally in some districts, they wear black to mourn their dead. I don’t know if District 2 is one of those districts, but I find myself hoping that it is.

They don’t tell us anything about the other districts in school. I know nothing about what it’s like to live in District 2. Suddenly, a feeling of terrible regret washes over me. I wish that I’d asked Chess more about his life while I still had the chance. There’s so much I want to know. I want to know what he ate for breakfast and what job he would have had if he’d never gone into the Academy. I want to know what District 2 does for weddings, and how they mourn their dead. I want to know if they’re really all that different from us, or if we would have been natural friends, anyway.

I think about my conversation with Finnick. Chess said on the last night of the Games that he wished we could have won in different years. That maybe we could have been friends. At the time, I’d thought it was a nice idea, but it was never something I would have ever allowed myself to consider if I wanted to make it out alive. I knew he’d have to die.

But I consider it now. Chess has won the year before, and he was never in the arena. I still won. I’m still here. I address my speech today to a different boy who died in the arena by someone else’s hand, and then I meet him at dinner tonight. He wears a suit like the one he wore at the interviews. We make brief conversation and later on, when we’re on the train, I tell Ashley that he seems interesting. Ashley tells me that as far as Careers go, Chess is one of the better ones. I decide I like him enough to seek him out as a friend when I arrive at the Capitol later this year. 

Our car turns the corner, and I imagine a glimpse of his face in the crowd. 

I stop considering.

The trip continues. I’m on stage, and I’m handed a bouquet. This one feels fuller than usual. The speeches feel more solemn this time around, too. First, I address the girl. I killed her, though I don’t really remember it. Everything about the day Twine and Caraway died feels like such a blur. Even now, with hindsight, I can’t really reckon that it was me in my body that day. It feels like a stranger killed her.

She has a large family. They all stare at me like they hate me, and I’m sure that they do, but I can’t bring myself to feel anything about it.

On Chess’ podium are two people. I’m so far away, they almost look like pinpricks. The first of the two is a woman who, when they show her on screen, is clearly his mother. She’s beautiful. She looks almost just like him, with dark skin and clear, upturned eyes. She’s got an even look on her face, and she holds herself steady – hands behind her back, chin upright. The other person must be his boyfriend. Short, shorn hair and deep brown eyes. I remember that Chess really sounded like he loved him, when he told me about him. 

They both look at me like they’re expecting something from me. 

But I can’t give it. I finish my speech, and I’m about to open my mouth - say something else, something about Chess which is real, not some memorised lines on a page, but the words don’t come out. It feels like time has stopped. I don’t know how long I wait, falling in the air, before the mayor comes to my rescue and by the time the world has caught up and I feel real, someone has already ushered me back behind the stage. 

It’s only when it’s too late that regret hits me. It hits me hard. I take a deep breath in and I want to say something, to run back out and put a halt on the whole ceremony. But there’s no going back on the stage. There’s no going back at all. I can only turn and look at his picture, hanging limply over the crowd. He looks so solemn. 

I liked it better when he was smiling.

The rest of the evening feels like sleepwalking. We visit a quarry. I get changed into a deep red dress for the evening, but I want to keep wearing the black one. Something about it feels right. 

I let myself get washed, changed, and dolled up. I try to imagine that it was Chess in my place. He would have said something about me, wouldn’t he? I try to imagine him delivering a speech, looking at my father standing alone on the podium. My father, who would still be ill. Who might not understand where I’ve gone. 

I imagine Lynn in the crowd. Would she have hated Chess? Or would she have forgiven him? I can’t work it out.

Ashley would have forgiven him, I think. I try to imagine the pair of them meeting at the dinner in District 7. I think he’d forgive Chess, but I don’t think he could ever bring himself to like him. 

But Chess probably would have understood that, I think. Chess was very smart. He understood a lot of things.

Or did he? It occurs to me that I didn’t really know him all that well at all.

But I know Ashley. And I know Lynn, and my father. I know how my death would have hurt them. Picturing their grief hurts just as much as it hurts me to remember that Chess is dead. It’s a kind of hurt that I don’t have a lot of experience in; something deep and weighty. Heavy. It makes me feel like a stone, stinking to the bottom of a very dark lake, somewhere so far down that I’ll never come up for air again.

It’s how it goes, Johanna, I try to tell myself. It doesn’t matter if he’s dead or you are. Someone still dies, and people still hurt. 

At dinner tonight, I am quiet. I’m polite. I don’t look for Chess in corners I won’t find him in. I meet as many other victors as I can, and I try not to resent them for being alive when he’s not. I eat my food, and try to taste it. And when Ashley asks me under his breath if I’d like to talk to Chess’ aunt, I bite my lip, quell the fear in my chest, and nod.

He lets me go by myself. Septima Cybele looks just like Chess’ mother, and so, by definition, just like him. She wears a plain black dress and sits alone with an older man who must be another victor. District 2 has almost too many victors to count. When she spots me, she bids him farewell. Up close, I can see how her hands shake, and somehow, it puts me at ease. She’s nervous too.

“Hi,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.

“Hello.” Her voice is low and quiet, but not because she’s upset. 

“I’m sorry I said nothing in front of the cameras,” I say, after a long pause. I’ve been apologising a lot lately. It doesn’t quite feel like me, but I know that if I say nothing, I’ll regret it forever. “I didn’t know where to start, and when I opened my mouth -”

“I know,” Septima says. “I understand.”

It occurs to me that, yes , she must. At some point, I’ve forgotten that Chess’ family is a family of victors. They know the arena intimately – more intimately than me. They know what playing the Game is like. 

“I thought I hated you,” Septima tells me, when I don’t know what else to say.

I blink. “Oh. Um. That’s OK. I -”

“But I don’t.”

I can’t help myself from frowning. “Oh.” 

We’re both silent for a moment.

“Why?”

We’re both silent for a moment. “Why?”

“I watched the Games again,” she explains. “I watched them without the eyes of a mentor. I just watched for my nephew. And watching it like that, I understood it better. You were just trying to live.”

“I was, yeah,” I say. Suddenly I can’t meet her eyes. “But so was he.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Septima says. She says it gently, but the words feel forceful. “He was trying to survive.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Oh, yes,” Septima nods. “There’s a big difference.” 

Suddenly, she takes a deep breath and clasps her hands in front of her. “Johanna, I’d like you to keep living. For him.”

I look at her again. Properly, this time. “You want me to do that? I thought you wanted me dead.” 

“No. No, I thought so too. But I need you to live. I need you to live, to make sure that whatever happened to him, it wasn’t for nothing. He died, so that you could live.”

Chess is dead, because I’m alive. The air in my lungs feels like water. No. I’m alive because of Chess. 

She’s right. It feels better that way. 

“OK,” I say. My voice feels small. “I’ll try.”

She smiles. It looks relieved. “And the rest will go with God.”

Later in the evening, I’ll think about what she meant when she said that. I decide it must be some District 2 custom that I don’t understand. I decide I won’t try to understand it either. Whatever it means, it belongs to her and Chess. I’ll let it stay that way.

Somehow, even though I know where I’m going, and where I’ll end up tomorrow, I feel lighter as the train departs from the station. I’m not too sure why. There’s still an ache in my chest and dread in my pockets. But there’s also a small piece of hope. Septima is right. I’m alive. I’m alive, and twenty-three tributes are dead, but I’m alive.

I could feel guilty about it. And I do. But I think I’ll try to be grateful too. 

And so, when Ashley comes up to me as the blinking lights of District 2 disappear into the distance and asks me if I’m ready for tomorrow, I tell him I am. 

Chapter Text

Julius Waxwick is, for all intents and purposes, not at all like what I imagined he’d be like.

He does, however, look like how I expected he would, even though he’s adjusted his appearance since he was last on television. Platinum blonde hair, almost certainly dyed, with long dark eyelashes and skin so pale he looks unwell. He’s tall, broad, and his muscles would rival even the most dedicated Peacekeeper’s. His voice is slow and rumbling, but it’s so put-on that I actually have to strain to understand what he says. That's not even considering his obnoxious Capitol accent, which I think might be stronger than anyone I've met before.

He’s dressed up exactly how I expect he would be too, and the way that the people I meet in District 1 react when I tell them who I’m visiting is exactly how I expected they’d would. Open-mouthed jealousy, with a fair dose of surprise and a smidge of awe. Julius Waxwick is Capitolite Finnick Odair, and, apparently, he's far more attainable than the District 4 victor.

I don’t like him even an inch as much.

I encounter him just like the missive I received before arriving in District 1 tells me I would. In the morning I complete my usual victor duties—give speeches, shake hands, smile at crowds. Gloss Cormorant shows us around the inner-district factories, and my lungs ache from the fumes—burning plastic and bitter chemicals. Then, in the evening I get dressed in a sleek green number. I am told it's made by one of Julius’ favourite designers. I spend the first half of dinner showing my face to as many people as possible, before I’m finally whisked away in an unmarked car sometime around eleven, towards a townhouse up in the hills outside the district proper—a villa erected just for the filming of Julius’ movie. 

He waits for me up on a balcony overlooking the sights of District 1. There really isn’t much to see except for more factories, but I suppose next to the Capitol, it’s a quaint sight. He lounges in the open air on a velvet sofa, sipping from a half-empty glass of red wine. His shirt is mostly unbuttoned, and his eyes are already half-lidded.

Drunk already? I almost have to smile. Maybe I can get him so wasted he just falls asleep, and then I can go home.

“Jo Mason!” Julius calls out when he sees me, holding out his arms wide as I approach.

The ghost of my smile curdles at the nickname. At the sound of his voice, the Avox who has been escorting me shrinks away into the shadows, leaving me alone with my new benefactor. 

He gestures me over. “Wow. You are, like, literally the hottest victor in the past ten years.”

I’ve been practising how I’m going to play this in my head all day. I’m not allowing this person to see a shred of my true self if I can help it. So, even though Julius doesn’t start the night the way I expect, I know how exactly how I'm going to respond.

I give him the impression of a twisted, coy grin and snatch the wine glass right out of his hand. 

“ Me? ” I say, taking a long sip of the stuff. I’ve made sure I’m sober and I’ve eaten a big meal, so thankfully the drink shouldn’t mess with my head, but it sits in my stomach like acid. “Why, thank you!”

“ So hot,” he says. “Literally.”

I turn the snarl I feel growing into a smile. “And, out of curiosity, how do you prefer me? Dressed up like this, or covered in blood and guts?”

His glance goes to the wineglass in my hand, and I can see the way his pupils expand at the thought of me in the arena. “Uh. Both? Yeah, both.”

He’s really drunk. I almost have to roll my eyes. I don’t know how much he paid for my company, but the fact he’s blown it all on being half-conscious almost irks me more than the fact that I have to be here at all.

At the very least if I do anything wrong, he'll have forgotten it by tomorrow morning. Silver lining.

I blink my eyelids slowly and tilt my chin down. “I’m really your favourite?”

“Yeah, you’re the - the hottest, yeah -”

“Hotter than -” I try to think of the most recent victors. Might as well seed some competition. “Hotter than Bluejay Gee?”

He nods. “Yeah. Way hotter! She’s like -” he gestures out. His movements are all uncoordinated. How much has he had? “ - she's too normal. ”

This does actually surprise me. From what I’ve seen of Bluejay tonight, she’s so high, she's almost intolerable. That's anything but normal. 

I take another sip of his wine before passing the glass back to him. It’s strong stuff. On the floor next to the loveseat, I can see the almost empty bottle he’s poured it from. “So, you think I’m unusual?”

He nods.

“And you like that?”

“You’re cool. Uh. Pretty. You were, like, in the arena - like an actor - like me.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve seen your movies!” I lie to him. “You are so talented.”

He gives me a sloppy grin. “Mm?”

“Oh, yeah!” I say. I think my tone is bordering on sarcastic, but I can’t help it. There’s something so pathetic about this man. He's messy drunk on his balcony, waiting to pry compliments from the girl who he paid to be here. “I watched one of them on the train, actually! I loved it .”

“Which one?”

Shit. I try to keep my grin from warbling. “The one where you play a handsome hero, obviously!”

He nods very seriously. “I’m always good at that.”

There’s a pause. He’s staring at me, somewhat open mouthed, and it occurs to me I should probably continue the conversation. But I have no clue what to say. I have no clue what’s expected of me, and I certainly wasn’t expecting this semi-coherent mess of a man. I thought he’d be the one who would make the effort, not me. I'm supposed to do what I'm told.

I look behind me, back at the building. “Would you - um - like me to get you some more wine?”

Julius shakes his head, and then puts his head in his hands, suddenly dramatic. “You’re not doing the thing .”

My eyebrows furrow. I can’t hide the surprise in my voice. “I'm sorry? What thing?”

“You’re supposed to be mean .”

I actually stare at him, dumbfounded. I don’t think I even process his words properly. “What?”

“On TV - you were, like, you were mean! You were, like, feisty. You’re supposed to be -” he gestures something haphazardly with his hands, some grand, dramatic gesture, and it takes a moment to realise what he’s doing. He’s miming stabbing someone through the neck.

Something in my chest twists. I see red. It takes great effort for my voice to stay even. “You want me to be mean to you?”

“Yeah!” Julius nods emphatically. “That’s what you - you’re supposed to do. That’s what you do. ”

I feel a sudden, strange combination of what must be anger and pure, cold satisfaction. I almost can't comprehend it. Here is this man - no, this child - who pays for my company, who enjoyed watching me kill and suffer, and wants me to give him a falsified, sanitised version of the real rage—the real annoyance and injustice I feel every day—in order to … what? Get his rocks off? 

I actually laugh. I can't help it. Julius’ eyelids flicker. “You have to - you have to do it," he says. "It’s your job. I’m asking you.”

“I have to be mean to you?” I know I told myself I wouldn’t, but I drop my pretence for a moment and look at him genuinely. “You’re serious? You want to sit here while I - what? Insult you?”

Julius closes his eyes. “Mm.”

You’re a freak, I think. Then I realise that I can actually say it to him. “You’re a freak.” 

“That’s nice,” he says, slowly leaning back.

I don’t like my anger being co-opted like this. But I can’t deny that there’s a certain sort of amusement that rushes through me as I look Julius in the eyes and start unleashing a tirade of every bad thing I’ve ever thought about someone like him. It's not hard to come up with them. And it's almost cathartic to tell him how he’s not even that good looking. How it’s pathetic that he had to get drunk to face me in the first place, how it’s humiliating that he’s asked me to do this, and how I could ruin his reputation in an instant if I wanted to, now that he's shown me this side of himself.

It’s not that bad if I keep looking at his face, and not what he’s doing with his hands. 

I'm just thinking about how I might get away with an easy night when the kiss happens. I don’t expect it, and it comes quick, aggressive and sloppy. My first instinct is one of fear—to push him off me and grab a weapon, any weapon, anything I can find. But, of course, there is no weapon, and I can’t remove him, because I have to do exactly what he wants. I just have to let him go at me until he’s done. 

The wine swirls in my stomach. I knew this was coming, but I don’t think I’ve felt sick like this before. 

“This was nice,” he says, when he finally pulls away. My mouth feels like it’s on fire. 

“Mm,” I say, slowly. My throat hurts from talking and my chest hurts from something else.

“Maybe next time we do this, I can be mean to you, too?”

Everything goes cold. It feels as though I’m in an empty room and someone has unexpectedly turned off the lights. My voice is hollow, and it doesn't feel like me when I speak. “Uh. Yeah. Maybe.”

Julius Waxwick gives me another pathetic smile, but I don’t feel amused anymore. I don’t feel like he’s powerless anymore. “Cool. Looking forward to it.”

The Avox is still waiting for me when Julius lets me go. I barely pay attention to my surroundings, and I’m not sure how I manage to get back downstairs. My head is swimming. Everything in this house looks as though it’s underwater, and for one brief, terrible moment, the possibility that Julius might have spiked the wine sends a flare of anxiety running up my chest. 

But no, that’s not true. He wouldn’t have. And I’ve felt this way before–at the Cornucopia, when Chess died, haven't I? Yes. This is panic, this is dissociation. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I recall the terms the Capitol doctor assigned me when I was in recovery after the Games. The ways he told me to cope. I need to breathe.

The Avox waits for me in silence as I collect myself. Humiliation hits me hard when my pulse steadies and my vision clears. I hate the fact that I can go back and forth between such extreme emotions so rapidly. Furious one second, accepting another, and terrified the next. It makes me feel as though I’m spinning out of control, as though I’m veering off the tracks and everyone is waiting for the eventual collision, but nobody has the guts to admit to my face that I need to get it together. 

“I’d like to go back to the train,” I tell the Avox. 

For a moment, I feel grateful that she says nothing, and then I remember she can’t. That makes rage flare up in me all over again, but it’s not really like I can talk to her about it. 

The party in District 1 must be over, because the others are already on the train getting ready for bed when I arrive. We’ll reach the Capitol sometime early tomorrow. Then, it’ll be a weekend of public appearances, culminating in a catch-up interview on Caesar Flickerman’s stage and a party at President Snow’s own mansion. I’m practically jumping for joy at the thought. 

Minnie is the one who finds me first. As I step onto the train, a part of me wants to ignore everyone and go straight to bed, and another part of me so desperately wants to find someone and be told that everything is okay. The resulting decision is standing motionless in the corridor leading to my quarters, unable to make up my mind on what to do next.

I don’t know how long I’m waiting before they peer out from behind their door. They’re dressed for bed, magenta curls poking out from under a bright yellow headscarf. Without makeup, they look fresh and almost youthful. Their eyes are creased with concern. They know about my meeting with Julius-–they were the one who had to call the Avox, after all–-and while I haven’t talked to them much about it, I wouldn’t be surprised if they picked up on the fact that I was nervous to begin with.

“Are you alright?” they ask me. Their voice is hesitant, as if they don’t want to overstep. I wonder if they’re trained in escort school on how to react if their victors have an emotional breakdowns. I can’t imagine it’s an uncommon occurrence.

I shrug, because there’s really no energy left in me. Minnie almost certainly believes I accepted Julius’ invitation of my own accord, but that doesn’t mean I need to pretend I liked it. “The movie star was a prick.”

“Oh,” they say, plainly. They look down the hall. “Would you like me to get Ashley?”

I open my mouth for a second, about to say ‘ yes’, before I catch myself. If Ashley comes, I’ll just spend our whole conversation feeling guilty. I’ve bogged him down this entire week, and I know that once we get to the Capitol, he’ll likely have his own duties to attend to. Talking to him would just make me feel better in one way, and bad in a wholly different way. 

I shake my head. “He’s probably had enough of me. I’ll just -”

“I was going to ask for a hot chocolate,” they interrupt. “It’s a guilty pleasure. I can never sleep without it. Would you like one?”

I try not to frown. I’ve had hot chocolate a few times before, but it’s never sat well with me. It’s always been far too sweet. Cloying. But Minnie is looking at me with such genuine concern in their eyes. The way they stand is awkward, nervous, with a hand still clasped around the doorframe to their room. But they’re eager. I bite my lip. Something, something, make the most of the people you have. 

I let out a sigh. “Yeah. Sure.”

In what feels like a daze, I follow them down the corridor and into the dining cart. An attendant whips us up two steaming cups of the stuff, and I let Minnie lead me through the dining area, through the sitting room, and down towards a small, enclosed room to the south end of the train–opposite the side that the Peacekeeper ushered me towards on the first day of my tour.

Already, that day feels like it was longer than two weeks ago. It feels like months and months. Hasn’t this tour been going on for years?

The room Minnie brings me into is about half the size of my room on the train, with a small desk and a little sitting area overlooking a window. At one point since I've returned to the train, we set off, leaving behind the unmarked white warehouses of District 1 behind for dark woodland. The trees outside look nothing like the ones from back home; sparser, thinner, and almost eerie in the blinking lights of the train. A thick fog envelops the woods, and I watch ghostly wisps of smoke reach out to grab at the side of the train as we race past.

“I use this as my study,” Minnie explains, setting their china down onto the desk. I take a sip of my own cup. It’s scalding and sickly, but it succeeds at washing down the horrible, bitter taste of the wine in my mouth. "I shouldn't bring you in here, but - well, who's looking?"

Behind them, I can see a notebook, filled to the brim with thin, looping handwriting. Papers are scattered all about, and a small portable telephone blinks bright red. “Right. Must be busy.”

“Oh, yes!” Minnie says. They say it cheerfully, but I don’t miss the frayed nerves hidden under their words. “But I’m very glad to be working with you, Johanna. You really are a lot nicer than they make you seem on television.”

“I’ll be honest, I don’t really pay attention to what they say about me on television,” I tell them. “Well, apart from that time in District 12.”

“You shouldn’t worry too much about it,” they say. “It’s all nonsense, anyway.”

I’ve already decided that I don’t really care what the Capitol thinks of me, but my curiosity is piqued. “What do they say?”

“Oh, it’s really nothing,” Minnie says, nervously. 

“Well, now I want to know.”

They give me a warbling smile. “It’s really all just publicity nonsense.”

“C’mon,” I say, taking another sip of hot chocolate. “I don’t care.”

They start to play with the end of their bandana. “Oh, you see, it’s a lot of - well, they’ve been pushing the femme fatale angle quite strongly, as of late. But there are other things too. There are a lot of people who are saying that you’re crass - that you’re rude. You’re dangerous. But not, not in a bad way! I think they seem to like it! Or, most of them do, anyway.”

I snort. “Well, Julius Waxwick seemed to like it, alright.”

Minnie blinks. “Oh?”

I pretend to find the concept funny. Might as well. If I don’t laugh, I think I might cry. “It was dumb. He just wasn’t a very nice person. But he let me tell him so, so there was that. Honestly, he was really into it.”

“Right,” Minnie says. They seem to think for a moment. “Well, that's strange. But I never liked him very much to begin with.”

“Really?” I raise my eyebrows. “I thought everyone in the Capitol loved him.”

“Not everybody ,” they say. “It’s a popular sentiment, but -”

“But?”

“Well, I’ve always thought he was a bit full of himself,” Minnie says. “Honestly, I think that most celebrities are full of themselves.”

I actually do laugh. “I think that comes with the territory.” I pause. “But you’re technically a celebrity now too, aren’t you?”

They frown. “Oh, well, yes, I suppose. That’s what everyone told me, when I got the call.”

“Call?”

“Mm!” Minnie nods. “Oh - the call for the job, I mean. I’ve been on hold to be an escort for years . I was an apprentice for a few stylists before all this. There was an opening after the woman from Four left, and so when your old escort transferred over to them, they gave me the call.”

“Years?” I frown. “You’ve wanted to do this for years?”

“Oh, yes! Since I was fifteen,” Minnie says. “The year Finnick Odair won. You see, I was collecting fabrics for the stylist I was working for at the time–that would have been District Nine–and I came across that year’s tribute waiting to be measured. She was the same age as me, and she was just so nice. I always thought it would be good to get to know the tributes better.”

My grip around my mug of hot chocolate gets tighter. They chose this job for the tributes ? I can’t help but feel a sort of cold judgement. Surely they know the children attached to the names they pull will die. That doing this isn’t a nice way to make friends–-that the tributes they meet are going to be real people, have been real people, still are real people.

But looking at them now, so earnest, it also occurs to me that maybe they do know that. Maybe that’s not the reason they’re doing this. Maybe they do actually want to make a difference in the lives of a handful of children before they die.

If it’s true, it’s as nice of a reason as any to do this. But I can’t seem to feel anything but apathy. To the Capitol, the Games is an industry, and Minnie benefits from it, whether they mean to or not. 

“I nearly got the job earlier on,” they continue. “But my name was just too similar to another escort, and they didn’t want things to get confusing, so they kept me on hold.”

“That was an issue?”

“Oh, yes!” Minnie says. Then they blink. “Goodness, look at me - babbling on about myself when you're the one who's had a rough night! Are you sure you’re alright, Johanna?”

I frown, and find that, surprisingly, I am actually feeling better. Not great , but better. Even if I haven’t liked everything Minnie has had to say, it’s been a welcome distraction from the crawling dirtiness I feel creeping up my spine. My heart rate has settled, and while I still feel queasy, I don’t feel completely sick anymore. 

The same thought that's occurred to me occasionally throughout this trip occurs to me again now. This is how to make it all better. I can’t fix things, but I can distract myself with better things. 

“Yeah,” I say. “I'm fine! How about you tell me more about being an escort? I’m interested.”

Minnie seems genuinely surprised, but after a bit of prying, they're happy to talk. I let them go on until the night grows late and I can’t keep my eyes open anymore. When I return to my room, the impossible happens, and I fall asleep without thinking about phantom hands and leering eyes.

If I’d known how intense my first day in the Capitol would be, I would have savoured the long travel days more. I’m woken before dawn for the first time since the trip started, when my preps descend to get me ready for a long day of outings in the city. After two weeks of constant pampering, there’s really not much that needs to be done, but by the time they’re finished with me, we’ve already rolled out into the train station. I’m all but shoved on the platform to greet crowds and crowds of adoring fans, and I’ve got a horrible feeling that this is just the start.

The day passes in a whirlwind of handshakes, photographs, smiles, and kisses on the cheek. I barely have time to breathe, let alone have a single, coherent thought.

I’m invited to open a new section in the Games History Museum. Photographers snap dozens of images of me as I’m shown the artefacts of my Games; the axe I used in the arena, a tooth from the mutt I fought on my first night, a bit of debris from the explosion I survived. People seem particularly excited to show me the shard of ice I used to spear Chess through the neck, which has been perfectly preserved in a temperature-controlled box.

I don’t let them take any pictures of me next to his memorial photograph.

Lunch and dinner are quick pit stops in the car on the way to the next event. I don’t see Ashley or Minnie at all. Minnie has apparently been called in to do several interviews. As a new escort, they’re in demand. While I have no clue where Ashley’s gone, I think I can guess what sort of business he’s been called on.

I do meet Pompey briefly in his studio in the northern quarter of the city. We’re both interviewed about his outfits. We answer the questions politely and succinctly, but it’s clear neither of us care much for the other. There’s not much love lost between us when he tells me that he won’t be District 7’s stylist next year, finalising what was already certain.

Apparently, we’ll have to discuss finding a replacement closer to the Games, but for now, it’s almost the very last thing on my mind.

It’s late evening when I return to the Tribute Centre alone. This is where I’ll be spending the next two days before returning home on the train to District 7. As I enter my old haunt, my footsteps seem to echo too loudly on the tiled floor. It feels strange to be back here. I feel as though I could turn a corner and see my old district partner, Caraway, looking for me, sleepy-eyed and nervous, waiting for the Games to begin.

His presence feels unusually strong as I pad in silence towards my old quarters. It’s only when I notice that the door handle won’t turn that I remember I won’t be sleeping here anymore. This room belongs to the female tribute from District 7, not me. I’ll be sleeping upstairs in the mentor’s quarters from now on. I take a long look at the door to the room, and bid it goodbye, and good riddance.

The walk up the spiral staircase that leads to the mentor’s wing of the apartment feels strangely familiar too. I’ve only made the trip up once or twice before (when Ashley and I wanted to discuss something in private before the Games), but I can picture the landing perfectly in my mind before I even see it. A long wooden desk, a row of bookshelves, white, hanging lights, and the smell of roses. 

The smell of -

It occurs to me that there’s someone on the landing.

At first, I think that the man waiting at the desk is a servant or attendant of some sort. After all, he doesn’t seem all that remarkable. He’s slim and small, with very pale skin and stark white hair. He could be anyone’s grandfather, anyone you’d see on the street of the Capitol. It’s only when I look at him properly and notice the narrow eyes, the puffy lips, the neatly pressed suit, that I finally recognise him as Coriolanus Snow, President of Panem.

He glances up and gives me a polite smile.

All I can think to say is; “What are you doing on my landing?”

His smile breaks out into a full grin, showing a wide mouth of too-white, too-even teeth. “Goodness. What a way to greet your President, Miss Mason.”

I blink. Suddenly, I feel cold. The same fear I felt seeing him on the television back on the train seems to creep up between my shoulder blades. I get the horrible urge to run away. My voice is flat. “Sorry.”

“It's no matter.” He waves his hand. My eyes dart around the room, expecting more company—a Peacekeeper, maybe—but we seem to be entirely alone. “Don’t worry. I’ll forgive it. You’ve had a long and tiring day.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I ask. I think it might sound sarcastic, and honestly, the reason why he’s here is the last thing on my mind—(not because I don’t care, but because the only thing on my mind is how uneasy I feel)—but I really don’t know what else to say.

“I just wanted to congratulate you on a successful tour,” he says, gesturing to the chair across from him for me to sit. My feet seem to carry themselves before I register that I’ve moved. “I heard you enjoyed the company of Julius Waxwick last night?”

I nod, strained. I haven’t had the chance to think about last night since it happened, but the mention makes me feel dirty all over again.

“It seems you made quite the impression,” the president continues. “He’s requested your exclusive company this summer.”

Nausea rolls over me. “Is that something I can agree to?”

“Oh, no,” Snow tells me. “But it’s something I can agree to. I presume your conversation with Seneca Crane covered all the details of our deal well enough?”

“He was clear enough,” I say. Up-close, Snow smells almost sickly sweet. I want to throw up.

“Good,” he says. “Of course, you’ll understand why I wasn’t available to talk to you. I know you had your theories.”

I bite my lip. “Sorry?”

“I did overhea what you had to say, after your conversation with Seneca. Oh, not that I mind, of course. Not at all. You can think whatever you want to think. But I want to be clear. Even if you try to prevent it, I’m awfully adept at knowing what goes on with my victors.”

He heard my conversations on the train? I think of Ashley, trying to open the window so that nobody would hear. How he looked so nervous when I raised my voice a little too loudly. “I didn’t know that -”

President Snow waves his hand, cutting me off. “No, no, of course you didn’t. And I’ll forgive that, just this once. But it would befit you to know that if you are going to discuss and question my motives in the future, it might end up being a discussion point between the two of us again.”

My eyes feel as though they’re burning holes in the desk in front of me. “Ashley’s not going to get in trouble for this, is he?”

“Oh, Firth?” President Snow seems amused. “No, no. He’s always been good at listening to what he’s told. Good victor, in that way. Maybe a tad unremarkable, but that's good too. I’d suggest following in his footsteps.”

For some reason, the fact that he calls Ashley unremarkable annoys me even more than the fact that he’s obviously playing with me. I curl my tongue and keep my mouth shut.

“Oh, and, for the record,” the president goes on, “the reason I haven’t acknowledged you yet is because I know you’d take it as a test.”

I look up at him. “Sorry?”

“I heard that too, of course. I know you were curious about why. The thing is, you’re techy, Miss Mason,” he tells me. “I thought it’d be better to let you learn your lessons on your own. If I showed up at your home and told you to do something, I knew you’d do the exact opposite. You consider me a valid opponent to defy. And don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered. But I’d much rather have you comply, which is why I asked Seneca to do it in my stead.”

As he talks, a flush of rage runs through me. Because he’s right. I hate that he's right. He’s beat me at my own game. If Snow had told me to meet Julius and give him a good time, I would have refused straight away, no matter what he threatened me with. But by having Seneca Crane do it—an underling, someone without half the power the president holds—I was so caught up in the perceived injustice, in the idea that there was something much bigger and more serious behind it, it didn’t even occur to me to defy. It scared me more than Snow ever could have.

“And, well, now you know enough to realise that there’s no point in refusing to comply,” Snow continues. “But you’re doing well. I’m honestly pleased. I don’t say that very often to my victors.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe you.”

“Believe whatever you'd like. But if you want to keep going without any problems, I'd behoove you to keep doing what you’re doing.”

I take a deep breath. “And what if I don’t?”

He gives me a smile. “I think you can imagine what I’ll do.”

I don’t want to imagine it. I shake my head. “You couldn't. It would be too obvious. If you hurt anyone that I -”

“Oh, I have my ways, Miss Mason,” he tells me. “I can make whatever I want to happen, happen. Seamlessly.” He stands up. “Just ask Haymitch Abernathy.”

“Haymitch?” I frown. “What does that have to do with this?”

He ignores me. “Either way, Julius Waxwick seems like he's quite your type, doesn’t he? I’m sure you had a lot of fun playing with him last night.”

I stare at him. “You know what happened?”

“Oh, yes,” he says. “Why do you think I gave you to him?” He tilts his head knowingly. “I know you’re never going to roll over and show me your belly, Miss Mason. I'm not stupid. So you’re more than free to be angry, and you’re more than free to act out. Just be sure to act out within the lines. Understood?”

I feel like I’m dreaming. “Right.”

"Understood?"

"Understood."

“Good,” the president says. “Remember. Whatever you do, I’ll know about it.” He smiles again. He barely looks human. “I hope the rest of your stay in the Capitol goes well.”

Then he’s gone, and I’m sitting at the table, dumbstruck. Everything moves in slow motion. I don’t know what to think, what to do. I want to call after him, say something, anything, but my lips won’t move. The entire room smells like roses. It’s making my head spin.

I know nobody’s in. The president will have made sure of that. He wouldn’t have met me while others could overhear. Still, I knock on all the bedroom doors before I return to my new quarters. I don’t know why. I don’t even know what I’d say to them. I'm not sure what sort of company I'm looking for.

My room is identical to the ones downstairs, except for a drawer for personal effects. There’s nothing to place in it now. It feels unsafe. I make sure that door is locked three times over before I crawl under my blankets. I close my eyes and try my very best not to think of President Snow killing everyone I love.

I don’t do a very good job of it.

I’ve just got to do what he wants, I tell myself. It sounds so simple, when I put it like that. I’ve impressed him so far. He says that’s good.

But I know that it’s going to be easier said than done. Somehow, I’ve got a feeling that what seems like a manageable task is going to get a lot harder, all at once. Why else would he come and talk to me, if it wasn’t to warn me?

Act out within the lines.

I don’t sleep very much.

Our second day in the Capitol proves to be as busy as the first. Today, my itinerary dictates I will be meeting with some high-bidding sponsors before my interview with Caesar Flickerman, and the subsequent party thrown in my honour. Then we’ll be back on the train tonight, heading home to District 7 for the last day of the tour.

I catch up with Minnie and Ashley briefly at breakfast. Minnie will be escorting me around all day today, but I barely get to exchange more than a brief good morning with Ashley before I’m whisked off again.

He looks exhausted. I don’t know when he returned to the Training Centre. Because I never heard his door, it might be possible that he didn’t sleep here at all last night. I want to ask him where he was, and I want to tell him about Snow, but right now, I’m not allowed to do anything I want.

The day passes in the blink of an eye. Caesar Flickerman greets me backstage as I get ready for our interview. He wears the same dazzling suit he wore for the Games, but up-close his voice is softer and calmer than the one he uses on stage, and his smile is smaller.

“They’re all really looking forward to this,” he tells me. “Is there anything I can do to make it go smoothly for you?”

He seems nice, but after my interaction with Snow, I’m too on-edge to trust anyone I don’t know. I tell him I’ll be just fine.

I arrive fashionably late to the party at President Snow’s mansion. It seems everyone has been expecting my arrival. When I step out of the car, I’m met with a chorus of cheers, and I’m so pried with greetings and requests for photographs that it takes a good fifteen minutes to worm my way up the stairs and into the banquet hall proper.

I’ve never seen such extravagance before. When I talked to Finnick a few days ago, he told me they design each of the victor’s parties to resemble their home district. I can see now that he was right. The space is sprawling, but there’s no missing the vibrant, dazzling accents that hang from the ceiling; spinning, twisting vines embroidered with hundreds of blooming flowers, curling around white marble pillars and draping over the back of loveseats and overstuffed couches. Green is the colour of the evening, and almost every patron I meet is dressed in
different shades of brilliant emerald.

The food is almost overwhelming. Dish after dish that I can’t even begin to name, flavours I’d never think to combine in a million. When I ask Minnie what they’d recommend to eat, they have no clue. Even they can’t keep up with the amount of spinning plates.

We decide to travel between tables, picking out the most outrageous food to taste. By the time we’ve reached our fourth table and they’ve started gagging at an incomprehensible mix of onion bread and raspberry jam, I’m feeling almost giddy. I don’t know what it is about today. Maybe it’s the noise, or the crowd, or maybe it’s just the stress that I’m under. It’s almost stupid. I can’t stop laughing, and I'm not even having any fun.

It’s a relief when I finally catch sight of Ashley. I almost don’t recognise him in the crowd, because I’ve been so used to seeing him dressed casually over the past six months. He wears a red velvet jacket over a sheer lacy black shirt. His hair is slicked back, and he’s shaved since I’ve seen him last. He speaks to a tall woman who I don’t recognise. She’s got very long dark hair rippling down her back in intricate waves, and she wears an amber dress with a long slit running up her leg. She must be in her early thirties, and she looks almost ordinary. If it wasn’t for her outfit, I might even mistake her as someone from the districts.

Ashley spots me and beckons me over. Minnie excuses themself to talk to someone they recognise from their days working in fashion. I meander over to Ashley and his mysterious friend on my own. It takes a moment to reach them, because everyone who notices me on my way wants to say hello.

“Johanna,” he says, once I’m eventually in earshot. It might be the first proper thing he’s said to me in two days. “The star of the show finally graces us with her presence!”

I give him a look. “Shut up.”

He gestures to his friend. “This is Faustina Sisko. She does all the catering for the Games.”

I look behind me at all the endless tables of food. This could feed all of District 7 for a year. “Wow. Did you do all the catering for this too?”

“Oh, I’m afraid not,” Faustina tells me. Her voice is low and calm, and up close, I can tell she’s very pretty. Beautiful, even. “Only the food at the Training Centre. This is far beyond me.”

“Right,” I say. I’ve got the hang of small talk over the past few days. It comes like second nature now, but I still can’t help but feel stupid every time I do it. “Well, I like the food back there very much. Probably more than this.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” she tells me. “And I’m very glad to finally meet you.”

“Faustina sponsored you during the Games,” Ashley explains. “That’s how she and I met.”

“It was my first time sponsoring,” she says. “I never thought I would, but I liked you a lot.”

“Thank you,” I smile. It feels so rote to thank people. But I try to be genuine. If Ashley’s talking to this lady, it means one of two things; either someone’s forced him to, or he genuinely likes her. Considering how relaxed he looks, I can confidently guess that it’s the latter.

Around us, the music changes. The air shifts. Faustina looks at her watch. “Well, I’d better get going. I’ve got to drive my niece to school tomorrow. But it was nice to meet you, Johanna. Maybe we can chat this summer.”

I bid her farewell. Around us, I can sense the crowd peering in, eager for the next opportunity to jump into the empty space in our conversation. I turn to Ashley quickly. “Do you want to dance?”

He laughs. “Seriously? Do you even know how to dance?”

“No,” I say. “But if I’m otherwise occupied, people won't bother me.”

“Smart,” he says. “Let’s dance.”

I let him lead me off towards the centre of the hall. I wouldn’t know my way around, anyway. This place is so big, and everything looks the same.

Once we find a space, Ashley raises his eyebrows jokingly, daring me to make the first move. I roll my eyes and place my hands on his shoulders. I may have never danced before, but I’ve seen people do it on television a million times before. He relents, and grabs my waist. As we start to shuffle into a dance of a few, easy steps, I realise he's actually surprisingly sturdy. I don’t know why I don't expect it. It shouldn't confuse me. Just because he doesn’t have the typical District 7 lumberjack physique, but it doesn’t mean he’s frail. Even if it was a few years ago, Ashley did win the Games.

I keep forgetting that.

“How was the meeting with Julius?” he asks me. He keeps his voice low, but with how loud the party is, I doubt anyone could hear us. Even if President Snow personally bugged my outfit, we'd be safe to say anything we wanted to.

I pull a face. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Ashley doesn’t push it. “Alright.”

“What about you? Where were you last night?”

Ashley grimaces. “I don’t want to talk about that either.”

Look at the pair of us, I think. I nudge him. “You’ll never guess what.”

“What?”

“President Snow came to give me a personal visit last night,” I tell him.

Around us, the music changes again, speeds up. Someone in the crowd brushes up against me. For a moment I turn to see who it is, but they’re already gone.

Ashley’s eyes grow wide. “You’re serious?”

I explain to him what happened. Snow’s appearance. What he told me. By the end of my story, Ashley’s expression has grown more serious, but he doesn’t sound too worried when he speaks. “I wouldn’t think about it too much. If Snow wanted to threaten you, he would have done it. He’s just trying to get under your skin.”

I’ve come to the same conclusion, but it doesn’t mean I feel good about it. “Why did he mention Haymitch?” I ask him. “He didn’t explain that at all.”

Ashley pulls a face. “Oh. You wouldn’t have heard, would you?"

"About what?"

"It's just a rumour - I don't even know if it's true, but -" Ashley pauses. "Well, apparently he killed Haymitch’s family as punishment for something he did in the arena.”

“Seriously?” I say. My mind goes back to District 12. I think about Haymitch, stuck alone in an empty house, drinking himself into oblivion. I’d never considered why he was all alone before. Why he had no family or friends to bring him company. “What did he do?”

“I don’t know,” Ashley tells me. “He doesn’t talk about it. I wouldn't bring it up if I were you.”

I probably wouldn’t want to talk about either, it if I were him, I think. I nod, and we silently agree to move on to a lighter conversation topic.

Next to us, a couple starts to kiss. It’s violent, sloppy, and impossible to avoid. I feel my stomach do a flip as I think about Julius Waxwick, and the horrible smell of wine on his breath.

Ashley follows my gaze. He shakes his head, somewhat amused. “People are weird.”

“It's gross," I say. Then my mouth opens again to keep talking. I don't know why. "I had my first kiss with Julius Waxwick the other night. What a waste."

He turns back to look at me. “Oh.” We slowly start weaving through the crowd, trailing away from the couple. “I’m sorry, Johanna.”

I shrug. “It’s fine. Wasn’t really a big deal. It was just a kiss.”

“Yeah, but -” he looks behind him. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m just sorry.”

“I’m sure there’ll be worse to come,” I say, dryly. His expression tells me I’m not wrong.

“If it makes you feel better, my first kiss was pretty shit too,” he tells me.

I think of him and Kepler. “Really? How come?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I mean, it was at this party.” At my expression, he rolls his eyes. “No, not tonight , Johanna, don’t be dumb. I mean - it was on my victory tour.”

I narrow my eyes. “I thought you said you didn’t go crazy on your tour.”

“No,” he laughs. “No, I didn’t. It wasn't like that."

"What was it like?"

"It was silly. Like you, I realised I’d probably have to start kissing people I didn’t want to pretty soon after I got back to the Capitol. I didn’t want my first time to be forced. So I found - man, I think he was a member of the wait staff, and I just -”

“What, went at it?” Despite myself, I laugh. Then I pause. “Wait - he ?”

Ashley rolls his eyes again. “Yeah? What about it?”

“No - I’m just,” I frown. “I’m surprised.”

“That’s not exclusive, by the way,” he says. “I find women attractive too.”

“Oh,” I say. Suddenly, I feel embarrassed at this conversation topic. I’m not really sure why. Ashley’s my friend; why wouldn’t we talk about stuff like this? But I can’t help it. I look down at the floor.

I think he must notice my discomfort, because he grins teasingly and leans in. “What about you?” he asks. “What kind of person do you like, Jo?”

“Who the fuck are you, Caesar Flickerman?”

“I’m just asking!”

“I don’t - oh, I don’t know,” I say, suddenly annoyed. “I guess I’ve never really thought about stuff like that before.”

“Fair enough,” he says.

It’s true that I haven’t, but I suddenly feel embarrassed about that fact too. Truth be told, it’s not that romance has never interested me. It’s more that I’ve barely spent time with enough people for it ever to be a possibility. There’s never been much choice to be interested in. Before the Games, the only friend I had was Lynn, and the idea of seeing her as anything other than a friendly nuisance makes my stomach squirm.

Around us, the music slows down. “I can’t wait to go home,” I tell Ashley.

He sighs. “Tell me about it.”

“This trip has lasted for a million years.”

“I feel like we haven't really talked about it all,” he says. “Are you okay? Like - really?”

I bite my lip. I want to tell him I am. I want to tell myself that I am, But I know that I’d be lying. Instead, I sigh. “I’ll be fine.”

“It’s fine if you’re not, you know,” he says. “Plenty of people wouldn’t be, if they were in your shoes.”

“Not true. You seem fine all the time,” I tell him.

“I’m not,” Ashley says. “Not always.” As we dance, I step on his toe by accident. He pulls a face at me. Despite myself, I laugh. “I just get by.”

“Oh, yeah?” I shake my head. “Is that all life's going to be from now on? Just getting by?”

He frowns. “Sylvia taught me a few tricks, when things feel like total shit.”

“What, and they help?”

He nods. “Sometimes.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Go on, then. Name one.”

He ducks his head. “You won't like them."

"Bet."

"Fine. Sometimes - when I feel like shit, I'll name three things I’m grateful for.”

“Seriously?” I scoff. “That’s stupid.”

“See, I knew you’d say that!” Ashley says. “I wasn’t going to suggest you do it.”

“Wouldn't work anyways. Too twee. "

“Works for me."

"You're twee, Ashley."

He looks so insulted, I laugh. " Would it better if it was less positive? Like, naming three things that you don’t hate, or something.”

“Three things I don’t hate,” I say. “Really?”

“Come on,” he pries. “Give it a go.”

“Fine.” My eyes scan the crowd, trying to think of something, anything. “I don’t … I don’t hate the food here.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t hate Minnie, even though I thought I would.”

“And?”

I step on his foot again, on purpose this time. “I don’t hate that you know how to dance. Because it means I don’t have to make a fool of myself.”

He laughs. “Half this crowd probably hates me. I bet they’re all dying for a dance with you.”

“And the other half probably hates me,” I reply.

“Oh, I wish,” he says. Then he thinks. “Or maybe I don’t wish. Maybe it’s good that people are forgetting who I am.”

“Well, I’m sure some people are jealous.” A thought occurs to me. “Lynn certainly is.”

“Lynn?” He frowns. “What do you mean?”

I think of how oblivious he always seemed and laugh. “You don’t know, do you?”

“What?”

“I knew you had no clue she was into you!”

Ashley actually stops dancing. “What?”

“She has a massive crush on you, Ashley,” I tell him. “You seriously never noticed?”

His face goes bright red. “What? No! That’s - Lynn ?” I nod. He grimaces. “Holy shit, I’m going to kill myself.”

“She’s not that bad!”

“She’s a kid!”

“She’s two years younger than me.”

“Yes, two whole years! And I’m already older than you!”

“She doesn’t shut up about you! You never noticed?”

Ashley shakes his head. “Oh, fuck, maybe I don’t want to go home after all.”

“You’ll stay here?” I ask him. “You’d do that, just to avoid her?”

“No,” he says. “No, I probably wouldn’t. I’d miss all the fresh air too much.”

“And the peace and quiet,” I add.

“And the rain,” he says. “I’d even miss the rain.”

I close my eyes. If I try hard enough, I can imagine that I’m there now. Imagine that the sound of the crowd is just the sound of rain, and the wind, and the trees. Imagine that I’m sitting in the woods, and Ashley is with me. Minnie too. Lynn, and my father. Even Sylvia.

“I really want to go home,” I tell him.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “Then it’ll all be over.”

Not really. Just for now, I think. But I nod. It won’t be over forever. But it will be for now.

Chapter Text

We reach home before the sun sets. I spend most of the day sitting in the glass viewing carriage at the end of the train, watching as the landscape begins to blur. On the brief occasions when we slow down or stop to refuel, I can just about make out bits and pieces of the scenery we pass. Sandy earth and arid, bare mountains slowly begin to give way to outcrops of greenery, sparse at first, then blooming out into the sort of dense forest I’m more familiar with. About halfway through our journey, the train bursts out over a valley. At the basin sits a deep, evergreen forest encircling a lake. For a moment, I swear I can see the briefest flash of my arena; the Cornucopia, sculpted in ice, the brilliant blue of a hot spring, a mountain lion running down a hill. Something heavy skims over my chest, drifting in on a breeze. How possible is it that they might have built arenas out here, in a place just like this? I crane my head and squint in the sunlight to see if I can make out some sort of dome in the distance, but there’s nothing but forest for as far as my eyes can see.

Once or twice we snake beside what looks like abandoned towns – wooden houses and dusty roads that wouldn’t look out-of-sorts in a place like District 2, if it weren’t for the fact that nobody seems to have set foot in them for decades. I remember how on the tribute train travelling to the Capitol, Ashley told Caraway and I about the remnants of the old world that lay dormant in the lines between districts. At the time, I’d wanted nothing more than to map them all out. Now, on my way home, I realise that my chance is probably gone. I most likely won’t ever make this trip again. Regret curls my toes, and I rub my eyes. It doesn’t matter. Even between the districts, there’s nowhere to escape.

I barely notice we’ve arrived back until the train begins to shudder to a crawl. The scenery has long since gotten monotonous. A slow drizzle has set over the treetops, coating the wispy branches in dew. A low fog skims over the ground. It all seems cold and unpleasant. It couldn’t look more like home. I couldn’t be more grateful.

Minnie comes to fetch me once the train finally halts. I’m not allowed off-board yet, though. We’re on a tight schedule. There won’t be any chance to stop off at home or say hello to my family. I’m to be whisked straight off to dinner, a grand celebration to close out the tour. I return to my cabin, where my prep team makes me up in my final outfit for the fortnight. 

Last evening was supposed to be the showstopper, but the dress they put me in for tonight is by far my favourite of the tour. It’s a meshed black thing with a red silk under-layer, which gives the impression of glistening scales rippling over my skin. My hair is done up in a high ponytail, letting my bangs fan over my eyes, which my prep team have covered in a glittering black smoke. I look much older, much less demure and fragile than I did six months ago. Here, I’m miles away from the girl in the arena. I’m someone to be respected, to be feared. I decide I want to be dressed like this all the time. It makes me feel untouched. 

Minnie, Ashley and I take a car from the station to the Justice Building. The camera crews take photos of me stepping off the train, then proceed to tail us in a second car. I haven’t gotten to know the team particularly well, but it occurs to me that I might even miss some of them when they return back to the Capital. I will certainly miss Minnie. I didn’t expect to find myself fond of any of the people on this tour. While I’m not sure I’d consider any of them my friends quite yet, they’re not quite my acquaintances anymore. As I stand, they toe that fine, dangerous line between the two. 

‘And what’s wrong with that, Johanna?’ a small voice in the back of my mind asks me. ‘What’s so dangerous about that?’

My father greets me in the foyer of the Justice Building. He’s cleaned up nicely, in a deep brown suit that actually seems to fit him, instead of the baggy overalls he usually slings on for a day of woodworking. He pulls me in for a hug the second he sees me, and I don’t have time to protest that the cameras might catch us. Up close, he smells of smoke and pine.

“Good job, Jo,” he murmurs in my ear. I melt into his grip before I realise it. It’s not often that my father and I hug. We certainly didn’t before the Games. It feels odd, but not unwelcome. I let him hold me for just a second too long before I pull away.

“It’s nice to be home,” I say. Outside, the wind howls at the window. “Even if the weather’s as shit as always.”

“It’s been terribly boring without you,” he tells me. “It’s good to have you back.” He gives a polite smile directed behind me. “Good to see you, Ashley. And you must be …”

Minnie gives him a wobbly sort of smile. They’ve always seemed nervous around family, I’ve noticed. “I’m Johanna’s escort. It’s lovely to meet you, Mr Mason.”

“I should be thanking you. It seems like you kept her on her best behaviour. Well, of course, if we ignore that stint in District 12, that is,” he says, tapping the corner of his nose. “Oh, don’t think I’ve forgotten about that, Johanna. We will be talking about it later.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s no heart in it at all. “Can’t wait.”

District 7’s mayor, Mayor Lefroy, comes down to greet us before we’re whisked upstairs for the main celebrations. I’ve interacted with her a few times since the Reaping last year, and she’s always been a welcome presence. I learnt the hard way that she always comes to see the tributes who have empty visiting slots after they’ve been reaped. While she keeps to herself, I can tell she has genuine fondness for our district. Having met most of the other mayors around Panem, I know that her diligence is a rare quality.

“It’s good to have you back, Johanna,” she tells me. “And it’ll just be a celebration tonight. You can relax.”

Normally, I’d have to address the families of the fallen tributes before dinner, but we already had the public funeral for Caraway the week after the Games ended. I don’t remember much about it at all. Back then, my head was still swimming from the confusion and shock of winning the Games, and the pain medication I’d been put on hadn’t helped things. Since it wasn’t required of me to say anything at the funeral, all I did was stand and watch. I’m glad that they don’t expect anything of me now. I can’t even begin to dream of what I’d say to Caraway. 

Mayor Lefroy leads us upstairs. They’ve redone the hall space for the evening. The Capitol always sends a bit of money to the victor’s district to close out the tour, but even with the help, whoever was in charge of the design had their work cut out for them. They’ve done a spectacular job . The stained, rotting wooden floor has been polished to an inch of its life, and they’ve got new portraits up to line the empty walls – lush, detailed pieces depicting the vibrant woodland around the heart of the district. Small round tables covered in dark green cloths and glittering candles lead out into an open patio, where a barbecue has been lit. The smell of sweet smoke and fresh charred meat and vegetables is more appealing than anything I’ve eaten in the past two weeks.

It’s a sizeable crowd, much larger than most I’m used to in District 7. They applaud loudly when I push through the door, a chorus of whoops and cheers. This throws me for a loop, because no other district has done this for me before. I find that it’s not a bad surprise, even though I don’t quite understand why they seem so happy. Then, before I have a second to breathe, I’m thrown into a whirlpool of conversations. 

Lynn finds me immediately, eager to hear every detail of the tour in my own words. But I’m torn away from her before I can get a single word in, as everyone in the crowd rushes to me to make conversation. 

With a certain level of surprise, I realise that most of the guests are people I recognise. There’s a handful I don’t, of course – (the Head Peacekeeper and a couple of the factory managers who work down by the paper mills seem very keen to introduce themselves) – but, for the most part, it seems like every other person who comes over is someone I’ve met at one point in my life. The baker who has taken Lynn on as an apprentice  – Mrs Rooke, she tells me – is very glad that I’m home. A few of my classmates from school who I was always friendly with, but I never really considered friends, talk at length about how wonderful my outfits looked on television. My childhood history teacher, someone I barely remember existed, gives me a hug and tells me he’s proud of me.

I don’t think I ever expected that any of these people would want to talk to me. I don’t think I ever expected that they’d still like me. I feel like I’m miles away from the girl they knew, the version of me that existed before I stepped into the arena. But here they are, smiling and actually happy to see me, to talk to me, to ask me how I’ve been. I feel the same warm surprise I felt when talking to Minnie, or to any of the camera crews. Their presence settles in my chest, heavy, but not wholly unwelcome. 

When dinner is finally served, I find a way to return to Lynn. I end up sitting at a table with her, Sylvia, Minnie, and Mrs Rooke. Lynn and Mrs Rooke want to know all about the food I ate in the other districts, and I find that I’m actually enjoying myself as I describe the trip to them in detail. Lynn seems absolutely elated at my return. Once I sit beside her, she loops her arm around mine and refuses to let it go until I excuse myself to the bathroom.

On my return, I notice a young woman hanging around by the doors to the balcony. She wears a plain, stained white dress that seems wholly inappropriate for the event, and she looks to be about my age, or maybe a bit older. Curly brown hair and wide eyes. I don’t recognise her from school or any of the local camps, and as I’m trying to place her, I realise that she’s staring right at me. Usually, that wouldn’t be too much of an oddity. I’m hardly covert, after all, and this whole event has been planned in my honour. But the way that she looks at me strikes me as very strange. It’s too pointed to be anything like mild curiosity. It’s as if she’s trying to tell me something with her gaze alone. 

Against what might be my better judgement, I decide to go up to her. We’re too far away from most of the party from anyone to notice, but I’ve spent the past fortnight socialising with strangers. I know how to handle myself without supervision. Up close, the girl is a lot taller than I expected. I feel a spark of insecurity catch light when I have to tilt my head up to look at her properly, but I quieten it. I’m the victor here – not this girl, whoever she is. 

She watches me as I approach, but says nothing. When I hold out my hand, she doesn’t take it. “Enjoying the party?”

“I’m Caraway’s friend,” she tells me.

Then I’m the one staring at her like she’s grown two heads. Around us, the party rages on. My hand grows cold, and I pull it away, almost reflexively. “Oh.”

“We should be mourning him,” she says. “Not celebrating.”

I blink. I don’t know what to say to her. Miles away, the band strikes up an upbeat tune. A peal of laughter which sounds like Minnie rings in my ears. “I know. I’m sorry.”

She looks me up and down. “Are you?”

“I am,” I say. “I liked Caraway. He was -” I hesitate, struggling for words. What was Caraway? “He was nice.”

“He should be alive,” she tells me. 

“I know.” 

“I wanted you to say something at his funeral,” she tells me. She doesn’t look angry or accusing. Worse, she just seems disappointed. “I really thought you would say something.” 

We look at each other for a moment. I don’t know what else to tell her. She’s  said her piece. The girl looks me up and down again, and then turns and walks away, weaving through the party until she’s gone.

I stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do. Part of me wants to go after her and apologise properly, or at the very least tell her something meaningful. But I have no idea where to begin. I don’t have the words. 

On what feels like autopilot, I return to our table. Across the hall, next to the band, I can see that Ashley is trapped in a conversation with the papermill manager that I met earlier tonight. Lynn and Minnie have split off to examine the new artwork together. They both appear to be in high spirits, and I’m not wholly surprised. They’re both similar people, and it makes sense that they would get on. The baker must have gone off somewhere too, leaving only Sylvia sitting at our table. For a moment I consider turning back again, finding my father or rescuing Ashley from his conversation, but by the time I’ve set my mind on it, Sylvia sees me approach and beckons me over. 

I try not to show any disappointment on my face and shuffle through the crowd. At this point in the night, people are more interested in the food and music than me, and so I’m left undisturbed. I smooth my dress down as I sit, trying to keep from tapping my nails nervously on my legs. 

“You look a little pale, Johanna,” Sylvia tells me. “Are you quite alright?”

I nod. Caraway’s friend has probably left the building by now, but her presence weighs down heavy on me. “I’m fucking exhausted.”

“Who was that girl you were talking to?”

I frown. Was she watching me? “Oh. Just Caraway’s friend, apparently.”

Sylvia nods sagely. “Right. I’d forgotten about that. Sometimes they’ll extend an invitation to family and friends of the fallen tribute from the winning district. Usually they don’t come.”

“Why would they?” I say, glumly.

“What did she want?”

I look back at the closed door leading out of the room. “Nothing much.”

The others return to our table when dessert is served. There’s a round of dancing, but I’m not much in the mood for it. I must seem tired, because a quick word from the mayor disperses the party early. Minnie comes over to bid me farewell. They’ll be back on the train tonight, returning to the Capitol. The next time I see them will be at the reaping.

“But we can call, if you like!” they tell me. “You can catch me up on everything that’s going on in District 7.”

I don’t think there’ll be much to report, but I tell them that I will. Lynn gives me a hug before she walks home. Then we’re all in a car heading back to Victor’s Village. As we approach, I can tell that lights are on in Blight and Pliny’s homes. Neither of them bothered to make the trip to the Justice Building, though they were certainly invited. I don’t know if I feel insulted, or relieved. 

It’s late, so we exchange quick goodnights. The inside of my house is warm and familiar, but I can’t help but feel uneasy. ‘I make it a point to keep track of my victors’, Snow had told me. Has this building been bugged? Is someone listening in right now?

I decide not to think about it too much. I go upstairs to my room, peel off my dress and shove it at the bottom drawer of an empty wardrobe. In my old pyjamas, nestled in my own bed, I should be able to drift off easily. After all, this is what I’ve been looking forward to for the past two weeks. But when I shut my eyes, sleep doesn’t come.

I toss and turn for what feels like hours. I don’t know what incites me to sit up and slip on my shoes and jacket. All I know is that the moon is high in the sky when I tiptoe down the stairs and unlock the front door, stepping out into the still night.

The tribute monument isn’t far from Victor’s Village. They erected it up on a bit of flat grassy earth beside the main road leading to town – a tall stone pillar visible from every angle of the Village. They don’t really bury anyone out here, of course. The real tributes are with the rest of District 7’s dead, up a hill behind the town centre. Nobody’s ever explained to me why the monument is here instead of beside the graveyard, but I think it’s probably so that we don’t forget about them. They don’t want us to be too comfortable. We should remember what it took for us to get here. 

At the bottom of the list of names, embedded in neat letters, is the name CARAWAY ROYD. Pencilled next to it is the number seventy-one. I run my hands along the stone, feeling the dips and grooves under my fingers. Above me, the moon disappears behind a cloud. It’s almost too dark to see.

“Hi,” I say, quietly. I know it’s stupid to talk to him now, not when he can’t hear me. It won’t mean anything to anyone but myself. But the girl at the party’s disappointment weighs heavy on my shoulders. “I met your friend today.”

Caraway isn’t here, obviously, and he isn’t going to reply. But I wait a moment anyways before continuing. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything back at your funeral. I didn’t really know what to say. Honestly, I have no clue if you’d have said anything for me, if you were in my shoes. I guess I didn’t know you very well.”

I feel something cold on my skin. I look up, thinking it might have started to rain again. But no - it’s snowing. Slow, soft flecks, dusting down like icing sugar.

“I know you said you liked winter. This year’s been a bit of a dreary one, but I’m sorry you missed it all the same. And I’m …” I bite my lip. “I’m sorry that I didn’t kill you like you asked me to.”

Around me, the wind picks up a little. The slow drift of snow turns into a flurry.

I look up at the list of names. They’re listed in order of Games. 70th - Alice Forster and Dutch Gall. 69th - Park Ettrick and Diplodia Wilt. 68th - Cannock Cailly and Kauri Howard. On, and on they go. Seventy-one years of names. “I’m going to try to do right by all of you, when it comes down to it. I know that probably doesn’t mean much, but I’m really going to try. Okay?”

Nobody replies. I take a deep breath and stand up to go back to bed.

Spring comes early this year. By the end of February, the days have started to grow longer, and sunshine is slowly beginning to peek through the gloom. I try my best to stay as busy as possible in the coming months. Like I promised, I call Minnie on my landline once every two weeks to update them on the going-ons in District 7. Most of the time I just listen to them talk about the latest news from home. Quickly, I become a bonafide expert of the ins and outs of the fashion scene in the Capitol. 

Minnie reminds me that later this year, we’re going to have to bid for a stylist. They assure me that they’re already networking as hard as they can to make sure that we don’t end up with someone subpar. I decide to entrust them with the job completely. I’d rather avoid visiting the Capitol until summer.

I spend most of my days flittering around, aimless, but busy. I visit Lynn at the bakery quite often. Since she’s younger than me, she’s still in school, but we spend the occasional weekend together. Usually, this consists of watching mindless Capitol television shows in my living room. I don’t like the material, but Lynn’s commentary is amusing enough that I put up with it. Apparently, she’s started seeing a boy from her class. She seems absolutely smitten. Ashley is particularly relieved to learn this, much to my amusement. 

We try to avoid the topic of the reaping completely. Lynn, at sixteen, nearly seventeen, will still be eligible for another two years. I don’t want to think about her entering the arena. Even worse, having to guide her through it. I feel incredibly guilty for hoping it will be somebody else.

I spend time with Ashley too. Once the weather improves, we start taking long hikes up in the woods behind Victor’s Village. Most of the district’s woodland is cordoned off for the lumber camps, but there’s a patch to the north of the town centre that’s untouched. We slowly start to explore it bit-by-bit over the course of the next few months. It really is beautiful. We find a stream that leads to a small lake, and on a particularly sunny day in early March we drag out my father and Sylvia for a picnic. The flowers have just started to bloom along the riverbed, and Sylvia spends all afternoon picking buds to grow in her garden. 

We fall into an easy rhythm, but since returning home, I haven’t forgotten about the fact that Ashley lied to me about rehearsals for his show. At first, I begin to think that it might not be as big of a deal as I initially made it out to be. His daily routine seems ordinary, and when I come across the occasional member of the cast in town, their stories seem to add up. But as time goes on, I begin to notice the occasional discrepancy. He starts to leave a little too early, or stay out a little too late. Sometimes he seems stressed out over nothing in particular, and more than once I catch him pouring over notes that don’t look anything like his usual work. When I ask him, he tells me that he’s just editing the scripts for the actors, but I never manage to get my eyes on what it is he’s actually reading.

I don’t ask him outright if he has anything else going on. I know he probably won’t tell me. But one day, after a few days of usually late returns, I ask him if I can sit in on one of his rehearsals.

“Oh, I don’t know, Johanna,” he tells me. The tone he uses is familiar. It’s the same one he always uses when there’s a conversation he doesn’t want to broach. I wonder if he’s even aware that he does this. “It might distract me.”

“Well, I’m bored,” I tell him. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“It’s not finished,” he says. “You’ll think it’s bad. I want you to watch the final product. I want to make sure you’ll actually like it.”

I roll my eyes. “As if you actually care what I think.”

“I do care what you think, Johanna,” he tells me.

I can’t really press him after that. And besides, it is quite nice to know that he cares about my opinion. But I can’t help but feel convinced that he’s hiding something from me. It drives me up the wall. We’re supposed to be a team. He’s supposed to trust me.

Boredom hits with a vengeance a few months after the tour ends. Everyone keeps telling me that I need to find a talent, and after much protesting, I finally agree. I managed to avoid the questions about it on my tour, but once I’m back in the Capitol someone will surely ask. I spend a few days pouring over the list that Minnie sends over for me, and eventually I decide that I want to learn how to wrestle. Hiking has been good for me, but I have so much energy I need to get out of my body. I’m starting to feel weak and lethargic. I need something to ground me.

Twice a week, I start video classes with a trainer from the Capitol. She’s good, but it isn’t quite what I need. Once I’ve got the basics down, I begin to ask around town to see if anyone will partner with me. Most people are too busy (or too scared of fighting with a victor) to agree, but I find a junior Peacekeeper called Shay who agrees to the task. I spend a week or two sparing with her, before the Head Peacekeeper finds out and forbids her from spending any more time with me. I mope around for the next few days, until Ashley suggests I talk to Blight. 

At first, I’m not sure if Ashley was in his right mind when suggesting it. But eventually one evening I give in out of boredom, and knock on Blight’s door. He stands in his doorway in complete silence as I explain my situation; that I need a partner to train with, and nobody will give. For a moment, I’m certain he’ll say no. But he just looks behind him and tells me to give him five minutes. Within the hour we’re in his garden, gearing up to fight.

He’s bigger than me, and stronger. It’s not an easy task, and I get my ass beat plenty of times before we’re even close to being on the same playing field. Blight doesn’t go easy on me either. There’s a good few days where I go to bed with a black eye or a split lip. We spend most of our time together in silence, and I think we both prefer it that way. But it’s gratifying. 

My father starts making furniture again. We can afford good tools now, and with the extra material, I finally begin to like his designs. Most of what he makes ends up sold to the Capitol – people bid high for Mason originals – but he’ll just as often give away the ones with defects to people in the district for free. I notice that they never seem to be real defects. A bad polish job on a crib, a new door frame that’s slightly chipped. If anyone notices, nobody says anything, and he keeps giving. 

He’s spending a lot more time with Sylvia, too. At first I don’t notice it, but as the days go on, I realise that he’s at her house far more often than he used to be. He seems in higher spirits than usual, and one day, I catch them kissing as he walks her home.

“Are you happy?” I ask him, that evening. We’re sitting around dinner in the kitchen. Lynn has brought us fresh bread from the bakery, and the butcher saved us a good chunk of meat, so we’ve made stew. My father’s taken up cooking recently too. He’s not half bad. “Are you happy with Sylvia - I mean?”

“Yes,” he tells me. “Is that alright?”

I shrug. “I’m just surprised. I thought you missed mom too much.”

My father looks at me a bit sadly. It occurs to me that we haven’t actually spoken about my mother’s death properly. After she died, he was too ill. I just dealt with it on my own. “I do miss her a lot, Johanna. Of course I do.”

“I do want you to be happy,” I tell him. “It’s just weird for me. You get that, right?”

“Yes,” he says. “But I’m not expecting Sylvia to fill that gap for you. She doesn’t expect to either.”

“Good,” I say. “Because she wouldn’t be able to, anyway.”

“She does like you a lot.”

“I barely know her,” I shrug. “I am happy for you. But she’s not my friend.”

“Maybe you could get to know her?” he says. “I think she’d like that.”

“Maybe,” I say, though I don’t really mean it.

“I think that I’d like that too, Johanna,” my father tells me. 

The next day, Sylvia invites me to join her working in her garden. She tells me that she’s been planting flowers every spring since she won her Games. I agree, if just to please my father. I want to refuse him, but I feel too guilty. I’ve just gotten him back. I don’t want to push him away again. 

Sylvia spends most of the morning showing me the ropes. It’s simple work, but by the time midday rolls around, I’m already sweating. Sylvia retrieves us both tall glasses of lemonade, and we sit on her back porch. From here, we have a clear view of town from up the hill. It’s transfer day, which means that the trucks are rolling in from the camps. In the distance, I can see small figures running out, embracing loved ones, spinning them around and around. The sun sits high in the sky, and the sound of birdsong flitters through the air. Robins, and blackbirds, and even Mockingjays - mirroring the notes of the other birds. It’s a peaceful day. Quiet.

“What was she like?” Sylvia asks me.

I frown. “Sorry?”

“Your mother,” she says. “What was she like?”

I place the lemonade down. “What does it matter?”

“I just want to know.”

“So you can be more like her?” I don’t intend the words to come across so sharp. I can tell that by Sylvia’s expression that I’ve struck a nerve. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” she tells me. “No - I don’t want to be more like her. But I’d like to get to know you a bit better, Johanna.”

“You can get to know me fine without knowing about my mother,” I tell her. But then I sigh. “Honestly, I don’t remember her all that much.”

“You were young.”

“I was twelve,” I say. “I should remember more.”

“It was a hard year.”

“She liked tea,” I say, the thought suddenly coming to me. “And music. She used to stop by the home of the old fiddler who lived by the train tracks and listen to him play. And she had brown eyes, like me.” I pause. “Or, at least, I think she did.”

Sylvia hums. “She sounds like she was nice.”

“She was nice.”

“I don’t want to be your friend because of your father, Johanna.” Sylvia tells me. “I just want to be your friend.” Then, she stands up. “Come on. Let’s get this finished, shall we?”

From then on, every so often I’ll help Sylvia with her gardening. My days begin to follow some sort of routine. Visit Lynn at the bakery, help my father with his woodworking, spar with Blight, go on hikes with Ashley, garden with Sylvia. It’s more people than I know what to do with, but it’s a distraction. On a good day, I might even admit that I like it.

April comes, and with it, Ashley’s show draws near. It becomes the talk of the town. After my victory, District 7 has been put back on the map, and a Capitol camera crew will be coming down to film the production for national television. Most likely, the majority of the Capitol audience won’t see it as much more than a triviality, but everyone at home seems beside themselves with excitement. I’m just dreading the attention it’ll bring me. Ashley seems to grow increasingly on-edge too as the date approaches. I begin to see him less and less as preparations ramp up and he closes himself off. 

The crew come down from the Capitol a few days before the show opens. The full production will run for a week – with tickets free for anyone in the district who’s interested – but the day of the first show is invite-only, since it’ll be the one filmed for the broadcast. I don’t recognise most of the team involved, though with a certain irritation, I realise that Kepler has come down again to help with the preparations. As I suspected, once she arrives, Ashley seems wholly distracted. I barely manage to spend more than a few seconds in his presence without him running off, usually to talk to Kepler. It puts me in a bad mood for the rest of the week, and on the day of our planned hike the day before the show, after he blows me off again, I decide to go by myself.

I’m not in the mood to travel far, however, so I decide to take a walk back around my old haunt on the other side of town. I have to travel through most of the district centre, but I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone either. I only stop marching out when I’m far out enough from the noises of town that all I can hear is birdsong and the sound of leaves rustling gently in the breeze. I continue on a bit further until I reach the old treetop platforms that I used to sit on when I wanted to get away from things. 

The last time I was here was the day I was reaped. As I climb up the ladder to the lowest platform, I think about how different my life is. Not just because of the Games, but because of who I have in my life now. If I hadn’t entered the arena, where would I be now? Working in the woods, with no friends. No father. More lonely than I’ve ever been. Still eligible for the reaping in the summer. Imagine that, I think to myself. 

I’ve just started to calm down, irritation weaning away, when I catch the briefest note of conversation below me. Normally I wouldn’t be able to hear clearly from up here, but the weather is calm, and I’m low down enough that I can just make out the words. I’ve just turned to peer over the side to work out who’s nearby when I catch a glimpse of green hair.

Immediately, I pull myself back so that I’m unseen from the ground below. Is that Kepler? Another voice comes on the wind. Could that be … yes! It’s Ashley. Calmness turns back to annoyance. What are they doing together, all the way out in the woods? I thought that they were busy today. Ashley was certainly too busy to give me the time of day. Frustration bubbling in my gut, I crane to hear what they’re saying.

“ - you’re sure?” Ashley is saying. He sounds worried, far more worried than he usually sounds. I want to see the expression on his face, but I know that if I peer down to catch a glimpse, they might see me. I desperately want to know what’s going on between these two, since nobody seems willing to talk to me. 

“Yes, Ashley, I’m sure,” Kepler tells him. “It will be fine.”

“And nobody knows about -”

“Nobody,” she says. I frown. Knows about what? “I swear. I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“Yes, I know that,” he says. “I’m not - I’m not accusing you. Sorry. This is just stressful.”

“It’s your first time,” she says. “I get it.”

His first time for what? He says something else, but at that point, the breeze picks up and I can’t make out his words. I pull a face. Come on.

“Have you mentioned it to Johanna?” At the sound of my name, my heart skips a beat. I have to make a concentrated effort to stay still and not to start yelling at them from the treetops.

“No,” Ashley’s voice comes quick and firm. 

“Are you going to?”

“I don’t want her to know,” he says. 

“She might be -”

“Kepler,” he says. “I don’t want her to know, OK? Drop it.”

“Alright,” she says. Then they continue onwards, until they’re out of earshot.

I wait until I’m certain they’re gone before I sit up. I’m actually mad now. So there has been something going on, and this confirms it! Something that Ashley doesn’t want to tell me! For a moment, I consider running after the pair and confronting them here and now. But I know that wouldn’t do much good. For one, he’ll probably just deny it and come up with some excuse. No, I’ll have to wait until he’s got his guard down. Sometime after the show, probably. I’ll find a way to confront him then. Next time we go on a hike. I’ll bother him so much, he’ll have to relent.

I decide to hurry back before the others return. I spend the entire walk home grumbling quietly to myself. What on earth could they have to hide? I can’t seem to work it out. Whatever it is, it seems like Ashley trusts Kepler far more than he trusts me. The thought drives me insane. I’m supposed to be his friend. Why should some random sound operator from the Capitol be more important to him than I am? 

By the time I’m home, the sun has begun to set, and I’ve worked myself up into an even fouler mood. I’m just about ready to throw myself into bed and scowl throughout the whole show tomorrow when Sylvia catches me on my way through the Village. 

“Johanna!” she calls. “Would you fancy a cup of tea?”

I’m in a bad enough mood that I’d fancy throwing a cup of tea in her face, but my father is out, and the idea of returning to an empty home is far less appealing than whatever this will be. I let her drag me inside and fuss over me, sitting me down in her kitchen and pouring us both steaming mugs of the tea. She seems to sense I’m annoyed and on-edge, because she tries to distract me by talking at length about an interview she was forced into by a cameraman today. I don’t listen much to what she has to say while I cool down, instead zoning out and looking at the clock on the wall. What doesn’t Ashley want me to know about? What could possibly be that important?

“Johanna,” Sylvia says eventually, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Is something on your mind?”

I frown at her. “It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t seem like nothing.”

I don’t really want to tell her what I heard. For one, it’s obvious that whatever Ashley and Kepler are doing, they don’t want anyone to know. It occurs to me again that they might be seeing one another. Maybe they’re just embarrassed. The thought makes me mad. And besides, if I tell her, Sylvia will probably try to get involved in an attempt to be helpful, and then that will just make everything worse. 

At the same time, I don’t want to lie to her completely. I shrug. “Ashley and Kepler are spending a lot of time together.”

Sylvia frowns. “Kepler? Oh! You mean that girl with the green hair?”

I nod. “Apparently they’re friends.”

“Well, if they’re friends -”

“Yeah, but he’s ignoring me,” I tell her. Saying it out loud makes me sound childish and petty, and I feel my face flush with annoyance. Sylvia actually laughs, and I glare at her. “ What? ”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Johanna,” she says, still smiling. “He’s probably just very busy. Once this is over, I’m sure it’ll all go back to normal.”

“Yeah, I know that,” I tell her. “It’s just annoying. I’m bored. ”

“And I’m not good enough company?” Sylvia raises an eyebrow. Before I can reply, she continues, “I know it’s different. But I know Ashley considers you a very close friend. He values you a lot.”

Not enough, considering he’s keeping secrets from me, I think. I shake my head. “It’s not a big deal. Forget it.”

Sylvia smiles again. “Alright. But just so you know, you don’t just have him for company. You have all of us. We’re a family.”

“That’s cheesy,” I say.

“Oh, maybe it is,” she says, “but I wouldn’t be so quick to discount it. I know you lost a friend in the arena, Johanna. That makes it hard to let people in. But that’s not going to happen to us. None of us are going anywhere. We have each other’s backs. And you’re stuck with us now.”

“ Great ,” I say, sarcastically. But I don’t really mean it. The truth is that sitting here with Sylvia has helped. Sparring with Blight has helped. Even being around Ashley – annoyed as I might be with him right now – has made the world of difference. “Can’t wait.”

Chapter Text

As I expected, they come and interview me first thing on the day of the show. 

I’m prepared for it. They sent no preps this time, although it’s heavily implied that I should be dressed properly for the cameras. I hunt around in my closet for what feels like hours until I find something appropriate to wear. Nobody has told me what the theme of the day should be, and so eventually I decide on something middle-of-the-pack, not too ostentatious to be distracting, but not so casual as to be rude. I don’t have the faintest idea where to begin with makeup, so I choose not to bother. When they gather the rest of the victors to interview beside the Tribute Monument in the centre of Victor’s Village, I’m glad that I seem to have made the right aesthetic choice, although it haunts me a little that I’ve gotten used to this. 

Sylvia is obviously present, but I’m surprised that Blight is too. Ashley has been interviewed already, they tell us. By now he’s probably waist high in preparations for the broadcast. They attempt to coax Pliny away from the confines of his home to round out the victors, but his front door goes unanswered and eventually the PA assigned to him gives up when it’s clear that we’re running out of time.

I sit and wait, playing with the tag on my jacket as Sylvia and Blight are put on camera. When it’s time for my interview, I don’t miss the fact that the host seems far more interested in me than he is in the other two. I’m up for about double the time as they are combined, although they do drag Blight back up when I mention that he’s been helping me with my wrestling talent. I offer a demonstration, but nobody wants us to ruin our outfits.

The production is being performed in the field behind the secondary school, with a special stage erected just for the occasion. I learn that normally they just take up space in the gymnasium, but the open-air stage was a special request for the broadcast. Apparently, one of the Gamemakers who insisted this year’s show be put on camera is a big fan of theatre, and historically productions like these were often performed in great, outdoor amphitheatres. If he wanted something a bit more genuine, I imagine he’d have to turn back to the Capitol, but as we approach the space, I can’t help but admit that they haven’t done a half-bad job. 

The whole thing has been raised up onto stilts, wooden and polished. It smells new and almost cloying with sawdust, but on television, it will certainly seem neat enough to be presentable. The audience itself has been split into two rings on either side of the platform, looping around the oval-shaped stage, with space for entrances towards each tip that drop off to staircases – presumably where the cast reconvenes under the stage. The set itself is simple and mostly bare, adorned with vines and roses. Camera crews rush around in a mad panic, snagging close-ups of the dressing and sound systems. 

“They’re making an awfully big deal out of this,” my father tells me. He came with us in the car once they’d finished filming. I was worried they’d force us victors into some sort of seat of honour away from everybody else, but apparently they’ve relaxed the rules for today. Besides, his recovery story has been toiled as some sort of miracle in the Capitol, and I’m sure they’re just as keen to get him on camera as they are the rest of us. “It really is just a show.”

“They’re probably just starving for entertainment,” I tell him. “I’ve seen what they put on television. It’s the same garbage, over and over again.”

“Yes, well, how lucky that we benefit from it,” he says. It’s not hard to catch that sarcasm in his voice, or what he’s actually trying to say. And I agree. It isn’t fair that the Capitol can spend all the money in the world on a single televised event when there are far better things it could be going towards. Of course, it would never do much good to say it out loud, but it’s not something I haven’t considered. It’s almost better, sometimes, not seeing the finer things that the Capitol can offer. At least then it’s easier to pretend that things are just the way they are, and there’s nothing anyone can do to change them. 

We’re shuffled to our seats. As we sit and the audience begins to file in, I catch a glimpse of Ashley rushing out to talk to one of the cameramen. I feel the briefest flicker of annoyance when I remember the conversation I overheard yesterday, but he looks so nervous that I almost feel guilty about it. The cameraman points over to a seat on the other side of the stage, just below the audience, where a handful of the production crew sit – checking what must be important television business on their portable equipment. Ashley nods and rushes over. As he does, he catches sight of us sitting in a row and gives a half smile and wave in our direction. I sit on my hands as Sylvia waves back. 

Lynn arrives with most of the rest of the audience. Normally she’d be involved in the annual productions – after all, it’s through her that I learnt anything about Ashley before the Games – but with her apprenticeship at the bakery, she hasn’t had the time. She’s brought her boyfriend, Bran, who seems nice enough, although I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a bit slow. He doesn’t really talk to anyone but her, and she ignores the rest of us to hold his hand and whisper in his ear. I find it amusing that she’s so besotted with someone so dull, but I’m happy for her all the same.

I’ve never actually seen a piece of theatre before, so I don’t know what to expect when one of the production team announces that the show is about to begin. There’s a bit of a holdup on the tech side, as they struggle to get a clean broadcast to the Capitol, and as we wait, I wonder how the children acting in the show must be feeling. Overwhelmed, I can only imagine. After all, being shown on television to all of Panem usually comes with a death sentence. It must be strange to sidestep all of that for once.

The story of the play itself is something I already knew bits and pieces about through Ashley. He’s allowed access to the Capitol’s vaults to choose one historical piece of fiction a year, and this year’s choice is a play called ‘Cyrano de Bergerac’ by some man named Rostand. It wasn’t actually his first choice, apparently. The selection came from whatever Gamemaker masterminded this whole ordeal. I’m not sure Ashley’s a big fan of the script — in fact, I’m almost certain he’s not — but rules and rules, and when a Gamemaker tells you to do something, you listen.

The core plot of the play revolves around a man called Cyrano, who is hopelessly in love with a woman, but thinks himself too hideous to ever confess. He makes friends with a man who loves the same woman, but who also cannot begin to speak to her. He asks Cyrano to help him write letters to her, and eventually the woman falls in love with Cyrano’s letters, believing them to come from the other man. It’s a classical story – the kind of thing the Capitol loves. Mistaken identity, melodrama, and lots of miscommunication. After my Games, the irony isn’t lost on me. Someone who pretends to be somebody they’re not. Apparently, it’s a popular storyline right now.

It’s not something I’d ever genuinely enjoy, but as the show starts, I have to admit that Ashley has actually made something of this. The actors – all students at the school – are good. Good in the way that, while they aren’t all fabulously talented, they’ve been specifically directed to show their strengths. The staging is dynamic and the script is, while a little dense, very obviously edited in places to have maximum impact on the audience. And it works.

By the time the interval hits, I find that I’m actually having a good time. As far as my first theatre experience goes, it’s probably a hit. I might even consider returning. The actors leave the stage and the audience applauds. As they do, I find myself meeting eyes with Ashley from across the stage. He seems less tense, now that things have gotten started, but I can tell he’s not eased up completely. As our gazes meet, he raises his eyebrow at me. 'How are you liking it?'

In response, I jokingly roll my eyes, and then nod. 

He smiles, and then is immediately swept away by a producer.

Sylvia and my father excuse themselves to go to the restroom. Blight doesn’t want to talk, and I don’t want to be left alone with Lynn and her boyfriend, so I offer to get the rest of us drinks from a stall set up in the field behind the stage. As I approach, there’s not much of a queue. Looking at the prices, I can’t exactly wonder why. A flush of rage runs through me. Nobody would ever be able to afford this - not for some lousy lemonade. It’s almost so out-of-touch, it’s comical. A price like this would be enough to feed a family for a weekend, if they scraped by. The Capitol must know this. If I didn’t know any better, I’d guess that they’re rubbing it in our faces. Knowing better, I know that’s true.

The Capitol runner attending the stand gives me a wide smile when she sees me standing by the sign, and I have to resist the urge to tip over her bucket in her face. “I’m sorry to ask, but are you really Johanna Mason?” she asks me.

“Yeah,” I say. I can’t really be bothered to give her some witty retort like I usually would. I’m not in the mood. Her presence, the presence of the stand, the presence of the stage, it all feels intentional. It’s like the Capitol has us perfectly in the palm of its hand, holding today’s event in front of us like a carrot on a stick, only to snatch it away at the last minute. This is what you will never truly have, and you only have yourself to blame for it. “That’s me.”

“That’s crazy,” the girl says. She must be about my age, maybe a bit older. “I hoped I might see you here. Would you like some lemonade?”

I make a big show of patting my pockets. “Oh, shit, mate,” I say. “It looks like I left my wallet by the stall.”

“Oh no,” she says, sympathetically. “Maybe if you run…”

“I wouldn’t want to miss the rest of the show,” I tell her, turning up the sweetness in my voice so that it’s almost mocking. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, of course!” she says. “Enjoy the show! It's awfully fun, isn’t it? It might be that one of those actors might even be in next year’s Games. How crazy would that be?”

I stare at her. Something in my heart grows cold, but it takes me a second to process her words before I can even work out why. 

These children. Some as young as fourteen. Of course they’d be of reaping age. How stupid I am to forget! To me they were just children - actors, doing something they’re passionate about. But I’m not thinking like the Capitol. To this girl, these are not people. They’re prized farm animals, lined up to be picked for slaughter. 

It feels horrible, to be so complicit. Because if I were anyone else, I could brush off this girl’s comments as another disgusting quirk of the Capitol and move on with my life. But I’m not anyone else. I’m going to be a mentor. And she’s right. Any of these children’s lives could be my responsibility in a few short months. They could be dead, and it will – in some small way – be my fault.

“How crazy is that?” she repeats, as if I haven’t heard her. I give her the tightest smile I can manage.

“That’s crazy,” I say, and hurry back to the audience as quickly as I can.

I barely pay attention to the rest of the play. I can’t. My mind swims with the idea that any of the children in front of me could be in the arena come July. I begin to analyse them as they stand on stage – their height, their build, how fast they might be able to run to the Cornucopia, how well they might be able to do in hand to hand combat. I start placing them on a list, like I’m building my own set of odds. In fact, I barely notice when the show is over. It’s only when the audience starts to applaud that I realise that everything is finished. 

It’s a blur of cameras and goodbyes. A reporter wants to know what I think, and I hope that I sound engaged enough to pass by unnoticed. Ashley is caught up behind another camera, but he pulls away quickly when he catches sight of me. I’m still in the same spot when he makes his way over, ignoring the rest of the crowd. He looks exhausted, but he’s beaming from ear to ear. 

“So,” he says, “what did you think?”

I want to tell him it was good. That he did a good job. But I can’t. Suddenly, the theatre feels cold. It’s like someone’s pinned me down and knocked all the air out of me. “Ashley,” I tell him. “They might die. Some of these children might die.”

His face doesn’t quite fall. Instead, his smile turns into something sadder, and before I can recognise what’s happening, he’s pulled me in for a hug. 

I don’t think I’ve hugged Ashley since the first time I saw him after I made it out of the arena. It comes as enough of a surprise to bring me down to earth, if just an inch. “I know,” he says. “That’s why I do it.”

He pulls away. Behind him, some of the children are chattering amongst each other with sheer excitement. They look happy. Actually happy. 

“We can get out of here if you like,” he tells me.

I shake my head. “Don’t be dumb,” I say. “I’m fine. I just wish it didn’t have to fucking ruin everything.” It feels stupid not to say what ‘it’ is. But he knows. It hangs over everything. It’s like a never ending war. The Games are everywhere.

“I know, Johanna.”

“It was actually a good show, though,” I tell him.

“Really?” he grins. He seems so pleased by my response, I’d almost laugh, if I weren’t feeling so shitty. “You’re not kidding?”

“I’d tell you if I didn’t like it.”

“Cheers, Jo,” he says. “Really.” Behind him, someone draws his attention. “I’ve got to go. Talk to you in a bit?”

I nod and watch as he rushes away. As I do, I lock eyes with one of the children I was looking at earlier. She blinks, and then nudges her friend. They both wave at me. For a moment I hesitate, before waving back. They giggle, and then hurry away.

I never dream, but that night, I toss and turn awake for hours, trying not to picture their faces projected into the arena sky. 

The week passes. The day after the broadcast, the press leaves back on a train for the Capitol - our last break before the pandemonium of the Games this summer. Kepler makes it a point to seek me out, and it takes a lot of work to stay polite with her as I say goodbye. I know she hasn’t done anything objectively wrong, but it’s easier to dislike someone I don’t know that well. 

The Monday after the show is over, I ask Ashley if he wants to go on a hike with me up the hill behind Victor’s Village. By now spring is in full bloom, and the forest is exploding with life. The days have gotten longer and the air smells fresh and rich, like earth and sunlight. We prepare ourselves for a long walk, all the way up to the crest of the hill, where we’ll have a view of the town centre from the valley below.

The morning before we leave, I receive a clean, wax-sealed letter under my door. I don’t have to guess where it comes from. I have officially been enrolled as District 7’s mentor for the upcoming Hunger Games. It’s not anything I didn’t expect, but having it in writing makes it all feel more real. I ball the letter up and throw it in the bin on my way out the door.

The first part of our hike starts off relatively casual. We’ve made this same trip out of Victor’s Village dozens of times before, and I think I could trace our path with my eyes closed. As we walk, we talk about everything and nothing. The show, the production teams, the way Blight never seems to know what to do when he’s on camera. Ashley tells me that he received the same missive as I did. It isn’t much of a surprise, and he tells me that the incoming victor always has their old mentor accompany them to the Capitol anyways. Apart from that, we try to avoid talking about the Games. It’s a little easier out here. Being in nature hasn’t fixed all of my problems, but it has put me at-ease, like soothing a burn with cold water.

“Did any of your family come to the show?” I ask Ashley, once we’ve reached a fork in the path up the hill. Usually we’d turn left down towards the valley, but today we continue to the right. It’s been weeks since we planned this particular hike, but the weather has never been good enough for us to complete it before today. 

He shakes his head. “My sister couldn’t get leave from the camps,” he tells me. 

I frown. “Why does she work there? Surely you could support her with your allowance?”

“They won’t let me,” he says. “Because she’s only my half sister, she doesn’t actually count as family.”

“They’re really that strict?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says. 

“I didn’t know she was your half sister,” I say. Of course, I knew Ashley had a sister, but he doesn’t tend to talk about his family very much, unless prompted. “On your mother or father’s side?”

“Mother’s,” he says. “I don’t know who my dad is.”

“Oh,” I say. 

For a while we continue uphill in silence. The foliage is sparser here, and the sky is so clear, it feels like I could reach out and pluck out a cloud with my fingertips. “I’m not really close with my mom anymore,” Ashley says, eventually. “So it really is just Olly who would have come.”

“I sort of guessed,” I tell him. “Are you sad she didn’t come anyways?”

He shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t really know her anymore.”

“I wish I knew my mother better,” I say.

“She died, right?”

“Mm,” I stop for a moment to catch my breath. “It wasn’t that long ago, but I feel like I was too young to get to know her properly.”

“Sometimes I feel that way about the Games,” he says. “Like, I was too young to get to know myself before I went in.”

The hike continues. About halfway up the hill, we spot a buck in the distance. We stop to watch it trot by and disappear under the cover of the forest. It’s rare to get much wildlife out near District 7. Most animals are scared off by the loud noises that the trucks and saws make, and the smell of the papermill wards off the rest from roaming too close to town. But out here, far enough away from the camps and the factories, life continues untouched. 

We begin to spot more and more wildlife as we reach the top of the hill. Birds and squirrels and rabbits. We spot a set of tracks leading off the path that Ashley swears must belong to a bear. Once we’ve reached the peak of the hill, it really feels as though we’re a million miles away from civilization. 

We find a place to sit for lunch. From here, we have a perfect view all the way across our half of District 7. Below us is the town centre, the houses and buildings shrunk down into tiny replicas, and further on, I can see smoke rising into the air from the papermill. There’s the train tracks snaking through the dense forest, and in the distance, almost imperceptible on the horizon, the edge of the forest, leading out towards the coast, and then into nothingness beyond.

It’s a lovely day. Sylvia has packed us both lunches, and the food is fresh and warm. The weather is clear. It feels like there hasn’t been another day like this all year. I look at Ashley. I don’t want to ruin this, not on our first nice trip out in weeks. But I won’t be able to enjoy my time with him unless I ask him what’s going on. It’s really now or never.

“Ashley,” I say. “What were you talking about the other day, with Kepler?”

He turns to me. “Sorry?”

“The other day, the day before the show started. You were in the woods. I heard you. I went for a walk - I wanted to climb up on those platforms. You were saying, you mentioned me. You mentioned that you didn’t want to tell me something.”

His face falls. “Oh. You were there?”

I nod. “And before that, on the train, when I said that Herb Dubie told me you weren’t at rehearsal,” I continue. “I knew you were lying to me then, too.”

For a moment, Ashley is silent. “Fuck. You’re really persistent, Johanna.”

“I know.”

He shakes his head. “What did you actually hear us talking about?”

I tell him about the bits and pieces I overheard when he was with Kepler. “I don’t really give a shit what you get up to, Ashley. You can do whatever you like in your free time. But I don’t get what I have to do with it.”

He looks out towards the valley. “Are you mad at me?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Are you avoiding the conversation?”

“No,” he says. Then he sighs. “Maybe.”

“I want to know what you were talking about.”

He sighs, and then leans back on the palm of his hands. “It’s complicated -”

“Obviously.”

“ - it’s not that I don’t trust you.”

“It feels like you don’t trust me.”

He looks at me. “Look. Do you remember when I told you about what happens to victors, after they win the Games?” I nod. “I told you then, because I thought it was the right time for you to know. Because I thought it was only fair for you to know.”

“If this concerns me, I think it’s fair that I know.”

“I wish it didn’t concern you,” he says. Then he pulls a face. “Fuck, I sound so hypocritical. What I’m doing to you is the same thing Sylvia did to me, and -”

“Ashley.”

“Okay, Johanna. It’s just that - I’m working with some people,” he says. “Me, and Sylvia, and Blight, and some of the other victors. And some people from the Capitol, too. Like Kepler.”

I blink. “Right.”

“And I’m working with them, because -” he pauses. “ - I mean, because nobody wants to do this anymore, do they?”

“Do what?”

He shakes his head. “You know what, Johanna.”

I pause. And then I do know. I do know exactly what they’re doing. Of course that’s what they’re doing. All at once it’s like a million emotions catch up with me. Surprise, and excitement, and anger, and worry. Before I know it, I’ve stood up. “Then I want in.”

“Jo -”

“No, I do,” I continue, because I know exactly what he’s going to say, and maybe if I don’t let him talk, he won’t say it. “Are you kidding me? Of course I want fucking in! You’re telling me Sylvia is involved? Sylvia? And Blight ? And Kepler?”

“Yeah, but -”

“Who else?”

“I can’t tell you that, Johanna,” he says. “It’s complicated. This year especially, it’s really complicated. It’s dangerous -”

“Oh, who cares if it’s dangerous?” I say. “I want in!”

“It’s not up to me,” he says. “I don’t make that choice. You have to be useful to them. Right now, just wanting to be involved isn’t enough. They need to need you.”

“Will they?” I ask. “Will they need me?”

“I don’t - ” he pauses, debating something. Then he gives up. “Yeah. Probably.”

I don’t think I’ve actually processed the specifics of what we’re talking about properly yet. There’s some sort of a – a what? An underground rebellion? In the Capitol? “Ashley, you’re serious?”

“Yeah,” he says, unhappily. “I am.”

“You don’t seem very excited about it.”

“It’s not that - I mean, I wouldn’t be excited anyways , but -” he takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. It’s not that I wasn’t allowed to tell you. They wanted me to tell you. I just - I don’t know.”

“You told Kepler you didn’t want to tell me.”

“Man, Jo, I just -” Ashley puts his face in his palms. “I feel weird. It’s dangerous, and I feel like I should be looking out for you.”

“I’m not your tribute anymore.”

“No, I know that,” he says. “It’s different. It’s like - you’re my friend. I don’t have a lot of friends. I know I haven’t known you that long. And I know that we met under strange circumstances. But you are my friend, and you’re my friend in a way that feels different. I don’t think I have that with anyone else. Sometimes I think that you might be one of the only people I actually care about.”

He’s never told me this. I bite my lip. I’d always assumed that Ashley had plenty of people to care about. Why wouldn’t he? I never imagined I’d be as important to him as he’s describing I am. Not as important as he is to me, at least – not important enough to be mad at. Because I’m only ever really mad at the people I love. 

“I think I just wanted to make sure you weren’t in a position where someone could take that away,” he continues. “I know that’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” I say. “But it’s not your choice to make.”

“I know.”

Neither of us says anything for a while. I mull it over in my head for a moment. The idea of going back to the Capitol every year, and the idea of trying to keep children alive that most likely won’t stay alive. The idea of doing something about it. “Ashley, do you ever get angry?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

“So you get it?”

“Yeah, of course I get it.” 

Above us, the shadow of a bird flies high over the sun, casting a shadow over our picnic spot. The rest of our lunch goes untouched. “I was wondering. Why don’t they build lumber camps out here?”

“Forest fires,” Ashley tells me. “They get them every couple years. Must just be too risky to build any camps out here. They’ll just get burnt down.”

“I always forget about forest fires,” I say. “Then summer comes rolling around and there’s another one and I remember all over again.”

“Always the fucking way, isn’t it?”

“Mm,” I say. “I want it all to end.”

“I know.”

“I’m glad you told me.”

“You know what, if there’s one thing I’ll give you, it’s that you’re fucking persistent, Johanna Mason,” Ashley says. 

“Obviously,” I tell him. “I always get what I want.”

“They’re going to love you,” he rolls his eyes. “But we can’t talk about this anymore. Okay? It’s not safe anywhere close to the district, and it’s especially not safe in the Capitol. This conversation didn’t happen - not until someone contacts you. You’ve got to be careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

“Oh, that’s a lie.”

I snort. “Maybe.” 

For a moment, we're quiet. Then he pipes up again. "I mean it. You've got to stay safe, Jo."

I look at him. Does he really care about me that much? 

It feels a little corny. A little dramatic, maybe. But I’m suddenly happy here, amongst the golden leaves and the setting sun. 

“You be careful too,” I say. “Because I don’t know what I’d do if you were to …” I trail off. I don’t how how to continue. I don’t know how to tell him this.

It doesn’t matter. Ashley already knows. He laughs, as if I’m just being silly. Neither of us acknowledges what the other is secretly thinking, and neither of us has any clue that I’ll think about his next few words a lot over the coming years. “Oh, Johanna. I’m not going anywhere.”

We finish our lunch in silence. This conversation is over. But I can’t stop thinking about it. A rebellion. There’s a rebellion, and I could be a part of it. For the first time in my life, when I think about returning to the Capitol this year, I feel a strange twinge of hope. 

“You know,” I tell Ashley, once we’ve descended the hill and we’re on our way back to Victor’s Village. “I really thought you and Kepler might be dating.”

Ashley looks at me like I’m insane, and then starts laughing. “Kepler? Are you serious? There’s no way that girl likes men.”

I roll my eyes at him, but I’m glad he’s laughing. At least, now that we’ve talked, things can go back to normal. “I don’t know. I couldn’t be sure.”

“What, were you jealous?”

"Of Kepler?" I blink at him.

“No, of me, Johanna,” he laughs. “Although if you were jealous of Kepler, I’d honestly be flattered.” He jokingly winks at me. “Come on. I need a fucking shower.”

I don’t know why, but those words sit with me for a few days. 

The months roll by. Summer starts to peer around the corner. The days start to grow hotter and longer. There are no forest fires behind Victor’s Village this year, though we hear of one starting in the south of the district. Emergency aid has to be sent, and when the wind blows in, carrying with it all the smoke, we all have to stay in our homes for a few days. 

Games coverage starts to pick up again. On the phone, Minnie tells me that they’ve picked out a good stylist team. Apparently, the senior of the pair – a woman named Odette – was gunning for District 7, and is incredibly excited to be dressing our upcoming tributes in brand new leafy couture. They’ve been showcasing a few of her outfits around the Capitol, and apparently, her recent fashion show was a roaring success. It’s as good as any of us could possibly ask for. If I didn’t feel so bad for the children about to be reaped, I’d probably be jealous. The team that we’ve formed is a lot stronger than the one I had going into the Games last year.

Lynn gets nervous about the Reaping. I have to talk her down about it, but the truth is that I’m nervous too. I know her odds are low. She’s never taken tesserae, and nobody would want her in the arena in the first place. I promise her that if she ends up in the Games, I won’t rest until she makes it out. It seems to help her a bit, but it doesn’t stop my mind from adding her to the ever-growing list of faces I imagine in the sky before I go to sleep. 

I think of the rebellion often too. It starts to become a mantra I tell myself in my head, when I start to spiral. I can do something about this. I can do something. I don’t know what it will even entail, or really anything about it at all, and Ashley doesn’t speak any more about it, so I find myself starting to daydream about what it will be like. Sometimes, when I’m alone with Sylvia and Blight I imagine that they might be thinking about it too. On a handful of days, the idea feels like it might be the only thing that’s keeping me going.

Well, there’s that, and then there’s Ashley.

I’m not sure when it actually clicks. I think it happens sometime between the hike and his twenty-second birthday, a few days before the reaping. I find that I don’t like the idea of Ashley being twenty-two. At first, I’m not sure why. Sitting with it for longer, I think it’s probably the fear that he’ll suddenly become more adult, that he’ll no longer be interested in having me around anymore. I reason with myself that this is stupid. Ashley’s closest friend before he met me was a fifty-four-year-old woman. He’s told me that he cares about me. If making friends in his exact age range mattered to him, he would have done it already. 

But there’s something else too. I like the two of us being closer in age. In fact, I find that I feel almost defensive about it. It’s not even that I don’t want to be seen as a child — I don’t think anyone really does see me as one anyways, at least not anymore. It’s more than that. I don’t want us to be on different levels. I don’t want our closeness to become weird. 

Still, his birthday approaches, and there’s nothing I can really do to stop it. I meet with Lynn and Sylvia to plan something for the day. Lynn wants to bake a cake. She’s incredibly excited about it. She convinces me to buy her ingredients — proper ingredients, straight from the Capitol — and commanders my kitchen two days in advance to make it all. It’s huge, when it’s done, and it’s hideous. Three layers, all iced, decorated with green and gold garnish. I think we probably should have gone to the baker — she could probably do with the money — but Lynn seems happy, so I settle with hauling the leftover ingredients to the bakery that afternoon for them to use.

Sylvia — and my father, by default, because she wrangles him into it — want to decorate a little grove outside the woods by Victor’s Village to surprise him. A good handful of other victors from across the districts have sent gifts. That’s nice, because I genuinely don’t think Ashley would ever expect anything from them, even though he sends presents to nearly every victor he knows every year. Finnick’s gift, surprisingly, comes with a letter for me. He tells me that he’s looking forward to seeing me in the Capitol. Apparently, he has plenty of sights he wants to show me.

I’m assigned the job of distracting Ashley during the few days before. He’s not stupid. He absolutely knows something is going on, and he makes a game of driving me insane and intentionally attempting to stumble upon every bit of party-planning he can. With every hint he comes across, he rolls his eyes and acts embarrassed, but I can tell that he’s actually secretly pleased at the attention. 

We try to invite his sister, but the camp she’s at is too far out, and she can’t get permission to come back. I hear him on the phone with her when I’m at his house one evening. He sounds exhausted. The next morning, he puts in a petition to go visit her, but it’s rejected.

I think I should probably realise it quicker. But the hints all come in small bits and pieces that almost completely pass me by. All I know is that I want to spend my time with him. I think about him more than I’d dare admit. And then, the day before his birthday, when we’re in his garden and he’s laughing at how badly Sylvia is hiding her decorating, I look at him and I realise that I think that I might have actually been jealous of Kepler all along.

Not even in the way that I realise he’s attractive. I think I’ve always thought that, though perhaps wilfully ignored it. Even before I knew him properly, I’ve thought that. It’s not even a particularly uncommon opinion, even though Ashley seems shocked at the idea that anyone could find him good looking. He’s attractive in a bit of a strange sort of way. Unique. A bit intense. He’s got a nice face, and a nice body shape — he’s shorter, but surprisingly sturdy. Cat-eyed. And even besides that, I like that he can look a bit dorky at times too — scruffy, in need of a shave, a little slouchy. I’ve always found Ashley easy on the eyes. That’s not anything new.

But now, looking at him properly, it all clicks for me. The way he’s smiling, the way his hair is falling in his eyes, the way his eyebrows are furrowed and he turns to look at me, half-embarrassed, half-amused. It all condenses into this huge, tight feeling in my chest, and I get the horrible feeling of; Oh no, I think this might be a bigger deal than I thought it was. 

I go home that evening and feel sick. I don’t like it. I think about Lynn, and her old crush, and how embarrassed I felt for her, and how embarrassed I feel for myself, now. I don’t like feeling this strongly about anyone. It feels too revealing. And Ashley, of all people? Ashley, who is -

Who is, what? I try to think of all the reasons why I thought it was embarrassing for Lynn to be infatuated with him, but I can’t remember any of them.

I don’t know how to feel when I wake up on his birthday, and I hate that all I want to do is talk to him about this feeling, but I think I’d rather kill myself.

It doesn’t matter anyways. I don’t have long to dwell on it. Because right after his birthday is July, and before I know it, the Reaping is on our doorstep. 

Chapter Text

YEAR ONE - THE KNIFE

‘You are a better knife,

than you are a person’

The night before the 72nd Annual Reaping Ceremony, I don’t sleep.

I try to. I toss and turn for hours, driving myself almost nauseous, but no matter how hard I try, sleep seems to evade me. The sweet moments where I’m able to drift off are brief, and I find myself shaken awake over and over again, not by nightmares, but simply by the furious beating of my heart. Attempts to quieten it are pointless, and by the time the sun has started to rise on a day that will certainly bring nothing but pain, I’ve driven myself to anger. 

It’ll be a warm week. On last year’s reaping day, there was a storm brewing. I’d been caught in it right as they called my name, the heavens breaking apart above me in a pathetic grand opening for the rest of my life. But I can tell there will be no storm on the horizon for this year’s celebrations. There will be nothing except for the sticky, cloying heat sucking out the life from the world. Light has only just begun to break out on the horizon, and I already get the sense that the day will last forever. 

I don’t bother getting dressed properly. We still have hours left before the ceremony. Since District 7 is one of the districts bordering the west coastline – only District 4 is further west than us – our reaping will be one of the last ones of the day. In a normal year, that means that eyes won’t be on us. By the time we’re on screen, the ordeal will have turned dull, with the Capitol’s attention far more likely placed on tributes from the more interesting surrounding districts. But this year is not an ordinary year. This year, we’re the outgoing winning district, and everyone will be looking at us and our new team to see how we perform.

I find myself sitting on the grand balcony overlooking the woods behind Victor’s Village as the sun finishes rising. I’ve never quite gotten used to our new house and how extravagant it is, but I like it here. We have two balconies, each bookending the second floor hallway. Even though I can see out into the gardens of each of the neighbouring houses, this one feels more private. I feel more comfortable here than I do in my living room. My mother always used to tell people that when I was a child I used to give her heart attacks by climbing on top of everything I could find. Looking back, I find it easy to believe. I never feel safe unless I’m high up away somewhere. 

“Sulking?” a voice from behind me asks.

My father comes to sit beside me on the hanging chair that overlooks our garden. He looks like he’s just fallen out of bed, still in his nightgown, his hair tousled and his eyes tired. 

“No,” I say, although maybe I have been, a little. “Did I wake you up?”

He shakes his head. “I couldn’t sleep either.”

“Why?” I say. “You don’t have anything to worry about anymore.”

“Of course I have something to worry about,” he tells me. “You’re going to be gone a long time, Johanna.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt you’ll hold your own,” he says. “But I still worry. That’s my job.”

I look at him. “Last year, you didn’t seem to be worried. You didn’t even know what day it was.”

A strange expression crosses my father’s face. “I know. Maybe I’m just making up for lost time.”

“I tried to tell you goodbye back then too, you know?” I say, picking at my nails. “For a second I thought you understood me.” 

My father swallows. I don’t think I’ve told him this before. “I wish I could tell you that I did. But the truth is that, honestly, I don’t really remember. It felt like I was sleepwalking. It was just all grey.” He sighs. “One second, you were twelve years old, and the next, you were an adult. I wish I could have been around while that all happened.”

I frown. “It’s fine, dad. You were sick.”

“I know. And I’ve been trying to blame myself for that, but I know that I can’t,” he says. “I just wish I’d been there.”

“You’re here now.”

“And I’m worried. Like a father should be,” he says. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “You take care out there, okay? You have Ashley with you. He’s a good boy. Use him.”

I nod, and think of my father and Sylvia. I’m grateful he won’t be alone while I’m gone either. Then I’m thinking of Ashley. Something terribly embarrassing crosses my mind, the image of the four of us sitting around a table, having a meal like a family. I push it away. “Thanks, dad.”

The morning crawls by at a snail’s pace. After we eat lunch, I start to prepare myself for the reaping. Any status I used to have as the outgoing victor is well and truly gone. I have no more stylist, no more prep team to dress me. Those all belong to the female tribute now. I’m free.

There are still rules to abide by, however, and so I dress according to the packet Minnie sent me in the mail; a cream sleeveless shirt and long brown skirt. I hope it’s enough. Minnie will have arrived in the district by now, getting everything ready for the event. On our tour, I learnt that the escort is in charge of a lot more than just the pulling of the names. It’s their responsibility to organise everything from the train schedule, to the decorations on the stage, to the script the mayor reads to open the event. Right now, they’re likely in a mad panic trying to make sure everything goes off without a hitch. 

In the town, the Peacekeepers will be going door to door to make sure anyone unwell enough to be exempt from the reaping has the proper paperwork in order. In less than two hours, nearly the entire populace of District 7 will have begun to cram into the stuffy square surrounding the Justice Building, packed so tight that you could practically wring the air out from between them. 

They offer to send a car to take us over, but my father and I choose to walk the distance instead. I have too much energy to let out. I don’t know where the other victors are, but I don’t look for them either. I’ll see them before the event begins anyways. 

We walk in silence most of the way, occasionally breaking it to talk about something irrelevant, like the weather, or my father’s woodworking business. I stop by Lynn’s house before arriving at the Justice Building. She bursts from the door the second I knock, her pale skin bloodless. She wears the same dress as last year, and doesn’t seem like she slept any more than I did.

“You’ll be fine,” I tell her, “and I’ll see you next month.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” she whispers. “I still have two years to go. It could be me.”

“It won’t be,” I say, firmly. “Don’t even worry about it.”

She doesn’t seem convinced, but I can’t stay any longer to make her believe me. I give her a quick hug, and then I’m off again.

I bid my father farewell outside the Justice Building. It’s a strange sight. Everything has been set up for the event — the sign up stations line the edges of the square, the sections where the eligible youth will wait have been roped off, even the glass balls holding the potential names have been placed at the centre of the stage — but nobody is around to see it. It looks like a ghost town. 

The same cannot be said for inside the Justice Building. The second I step inside, I can tell it’s chaos. Cameramen and women run around, nervously checking ambient sound and testing connectivity to the live Capitol broadcast. On someone’s handheld screen, I can see that the reaping in District 2 is already in full swing. I’ve never been able to watch the day’s events live, but I know that the volunteering process in the inner districts is very complicated. Their actual tributes most likely haven’t been decided yet. But in other districts across the country right now at least a dozen children are already saying goodbye to their loved ones. For most – if not all – of them, it will be final. 

It takes me a few minutes to find Minnie amongst all the chaos. When they see me, they rush over, smothering me with a massive hug that knocks almost all the wind out of my sails. They don’t seem to have changed much since I saw them last. Their hair is still bright pink, and they’ve paired it with a leather ensemble in shades of lavender and green. It’s a far cry from our old escort’s terrible attempt at foliage couture.

"Johanna!" they say, holding me at arm’s length and examining me. "You look well. You look strong! The wrestling has done you wonders!"

I look down at myself. It’s true that I’ve gained some muscle from practising, but I suppose to Minnie, who hasn’t seen me in over six months, the change must look sudden. “Just something to pass the time.”

“You’re the first to arrive,” they tell me. “Go wait in the back room. I’ll come talk through the schedule when Ashley and Mayor Lefroy get here.”

I go, but it doesn’t take either of them long to arrive. Minnie is just as pleased to see Ashley, fawning over his hair and how healthy he looks. They seem high on life, a far cry from how I feel, but I can’t help but wonder how much of it is put-on.

Ashley looks nervous too, though I can tell he’s trying to hide it. He’s dressed up for the occasion in a green silk button-down and loose trousers. His hair has grown long enough to tie it up again, and he crosses his arms self-consciously around his stomach after Minnie’s ‘healthy’ comment. I don’t think he looks bad at all, and I wonder if telling him that would be weird. But before I can, the mayor arrives, at which point Minnie breaks out into a rapid explanation of the day. 

It’s nothing I didn’t expect, but I suppose it’s good to get the rundown anyways. Ashley and I, along with the other victors, will wait under the stage while the events begin. After the mayor gives her speech about the history of Panem and the Dark Days, she will name each of District 7’s victors. Then, when she announces Ashley and I as mentors for this year’s Games, we will come up on stage for the reaping. Once the names are pulled and the tributes are escorted to the Justice Building, we’ll take a car to the train station and await their arrival onboard. The reason we set off early – Minnie explains – is because traditionally, the mentors will begin strategising and perhaps assigning tributes before they even meet the pair. There have also been cases where, at the last minute, another victor has stepped in to replace the assigned mentor – say, if the reaped tribute is a relative, or they believe their skills to be best suited to a tribute. However, this needs Capitol approval, and it is rarely given. I ignore this, because I can’t see a circumstance in the world where I would be allowed to step down this year. 

Once they’re done, we’re sent to wait out by the back entrance to the building. After being given the all-clear, Ashley and I are escorted by a Peacekeeper down towards the stage, where a row of metal chairs have been lined up for us. The other three living victors, Sylvia, Blight, and Pliny already wait. The first of the eligible are beginning to trickle in, slowly filling up the empty spaces between the cordoned-off rows. I try not to look at them as I slip into my chair. 

Sylvia says nothing, but gives Ashley and I a small thumbs up. Both Blight and Pliny don’t acknowledge our arrival. They might be here physically, but mentally they’re far away, and I can’t help but wish I could follow them. 

“Hey,” Ashley says to me under his breath as more people file in. Some of them, the older ones, are close enough that I could reach out and shake their hands. “Guess what?”

“What?”

“It’s been a year since we met each other.”

“Oh,” I say. “What a lovely anniversary.”

He laughs, humourlessly. “Could’ve been in better circumstances, yeah. Funny how things shake up.”

I look at him. “I genuinely didn’t like you back then. Did you know that?”

“Really?” He blinks. “No. Why?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I couldn’t read you. I guess that made me think you were untrustworthy. Like you were lying about something.”

He tilts his head to the side. “I thought you were going to die. When Blight asked me to mentor you, I thought it was because you’d be less scared of me than him.”

“Blight asked you to take me?” I ask, surprised. If Blight hears us say his name, he doesn’t acknowledge it. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah,” Ashley says. “Imagine my shock when you told me you were planning on killing everyone in a heartbeat.”

Despite myself, I laugh. “I think I was just as surprised as you were. I actually liked you.”

“Aw, Johanna,” he says, half sarcastic, placing his hand on my knee. I stare at it and feel my stomach twist unpleasantly. “That’s twee.”

“Yeah, and now that I know you properly, I don’t like you again,” I say quickly, pulling my knee away. I meant it to be sarcastic too, but it comes out way harsher than I mean it to.

Ashley probably chalks it up to nerves. He sighs. “Man. This is the worst part.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I don’t know,” he says. 

Suddenly, despite the heat, I feel cold. I feel completely isolated, even in this crowd. I want to reach out, hold his hand, squeeze the nerves out of me. But I don’t. I place my palms in my lap and close my eyes until the mayor starts speaking.

It starts off the same every year. Normally I’m too nervous to actually pay attention, but this year my senses are heightened. I take in every word the Mayor says as if she’s speaking in slow motion. The droughts, the earthquakes, the pandemics. I remember the abandoned towns I saw on the train during my Victory Tour and imagine them bustling and full of life. What would the people who lived there say if they saw what would become of their homes? What would they think if they knew what would become of their country?

Then, Mayor Lefroy is listing District 7’s victors. There have been seven of us in total, with only five still alive. The two deceased are both men; Ridley Rennick, who won the 3rd Games, and Hap Holloway, who won the 26th. I’ve heard about them both. Ridley died a couple years after he returned home from injuries he sustained in the arena. Back then, they treated the tributes even worse than they do now, and he received no medical attention after he won. Hap died the year that Ashley went into the arena. Apparently, he just got sick. 

Once the list is over, I’m being called up onto the stage. I get the strangest sense of deja-vu as I step out onto the marble platform and look out at the crowd, sprawling all the way back to the adjourning streets, where they’ve set up massive screens for latecomers to watch the events play out live. Cameras are dotted amongst the rooftops and Peacekeepers guard the square, hands firmly resting on weapons in case anyone resists. A swarm of children look up at me, grey-faced and unrecognisable. All I can hear is the sound of feet shuffling and the breeze whistling in the cracks between bodies. 

I can barely stand to look out for more than a second. Once I’m allowed, I rush to the back of the stage. I keep my eyes on the floor. I don’t look at Ashley, even though I want to. I barely breathe.

Then Minnie takes the microphone. The familiarity of their voice does nothing to put me at ease. The words that they’re saying feel foreign, and the tone of their voices doesn’t sound like it belongs to them. I want to tell myself that I’m not here and that this isn’t real, but I know that I am, and it is. 

“Happy Hunger Games,” they say, and it sounds like everything is coming from underwater. “And may the odds be ever in your favour.”

This year’s female tribute is not Lynn. That, at the very least, is a small mercy. Her name is Foley Elsier. When Minnie speaks out into the microphone, the words echo out into the square, and nobody moves. 

“Foley Elsier?” Minnie calls again, their words now tinged with confusion. Again, for a moment, nobody steps forward. The crowd murmurs amongst itself, confused, and from behind the girl’s section, I see a Peacekeeper beginning to move, gun at the ready. 

After a beat that feels as though it lasts forever, a figure steps out from the thirteen-year-old section. The girl is skinny and dirty, with pin-straight black hair and huge, dark eyes. Her knees are scraped and bruised under her skirt and she clutches a ragged stuffed owl close to her chest, her fingers clawing into the soft fabric, holding on for dear life. 

Oh, I think, my heart sinking as I look at her approach. This girl stands no chance. In fact, I’m just hoping that she might be spared a quick death when Minnie says something to her as they help her up on the stage. They’re away from the microphone, so I can’t hear what they say, but I can see Foley shake her head and make a gesture with her hands. She points up at her ears, trying to signal something. 

She’s deaf, I realise. Suddenly, I have to look away. The crowd realises this at the same time as I do, and they murmur again, this time in displeasure. It’s an injustice for anyone to go into the arena, but especially a girl as young and disadvantaged as this. Nobody is happy to see it at all. 

But when Minnie asks for volunteers, you could hear a pin drop. 

The male tribute is Chipper Kilkenny. There’s less commotion as he steps on stage. He’s sixteen years old, with curly dark hair and brilliant green eyes framed by long lashes. He wears a suit two sizes too big for him, and when he approaches the stage I can see his hands curl around the extra fabric, forming fists to keep himself steady. I’m only a handful of years older than him, but he looks so young on stage, swathed by the cameras and the crowd. He accepts Minnie’s congratulations with a wavering smile that I can tell is an attempt to be polite, but it quickly dissipates once the mayor starts reading the Treaty of Treason. Foley is openly crying. 

I don’t know whose hand finds whose first, but I realise I’m gripping onto Ashley for dear life by the time it’s all over and the tributes are being led back into the Justice Building. My fingers are locked into a vice grip, and I’m feeling shaky and feverish, as if there’s something terribly wrong with me. 

We bid a quick farewell to the other victors before we take the car to the train. I try to listen to Sylvia as she wishes us luck, but all I can picture is the stuffed owl toy gripped in the girl’s hands. Ashley lets go of my own as we get into the car, and I want to tell him not to, but my lips won’t move. Neither of us say anything the entire ride to the station, and when we stop for the press to capture us boarding the train, I silently let him go first. 

“We have an hour until they get here,” he tells me, once the doors have closed. “What do you want to do?”

“What can we do?” I say, hopelessly. I’ve picked my fingers raw, and I can feel blood drying around the corners of my nails. 

“There’ll be a mentor packet in your room,” Ashley says. “I’ll show you.”

I let him lead me down the train. The air inside the carriage is conditioned, but I can feel the oppressive heat from outside craning to get in. In my bedroom, at the desk, is a leather-bound folder with the words ‘DISTRICT SEVEN MENTOR’ printed neatly on the cover. Next to it is a plain white slip of paper with my name on top and a sleek black card that looks like it’s made of some sort of metal.

I pick up the card first, running my thumb down the side. It feels smooth and cold to the touch. I flip it over, and it’s the same. “It’s your mentor ID,” Ashley tells me. “Everything in the Games Centre is biometric, but if you ever want to get access anywhere else around the Capitol, you can use that.”

I pocket it and pick up the paper. Unlike the card, it’s not hard to tell what it is. A schedule. Today’s date, the 4th of July, is printed on one side, and on the other, the words ‘Reaping Assignment’ have been labelled. According to this paper, I will need to be present for a mentor’s meeting with Head Gamemaker Seneca Crane tomorrow when the tributes are in prep. There are a handful of other appearances scattered down the list, all the way until the day that the Games begin, at which point the schedule goes blank. What draws my attention is the morning of the 6th of July, where, written in a different print, the words; ‘Meeting - Julius Waxwick’ lie waiting for me. Underneath, an address has been penned.

My eyes feel like they’re bearing holes into the paper. “I have to meet with him already?”

Ashley looks unhappy. “Usually they’ll make you do one or two before the Games start,” he says. “Then they leave you alone for as long as your tribute is still alive.”

“And if they die?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. 

“You’re allowed to freely enjoy the Capitol and its pleasures,” he says. “And the Capitol gets to enjoy you.”

I put the paper down and look at the floor. “Neither of them are going to make it, are they Ashley?”
“We don’t know that.”

“Yes, we do.” 

We don’t get to discuss this any more. An attendant finds us and tells us that our new stylist team are on the line and want to talk to us about our tribute’s outfits. We’re led down into an office similar to the one Minnie showed me back during the Victory Tour, where a screen is waiting for us. On the other end is a duo who can’t be anyone but stylists. One is a woman with closely-cropped hair dyed a shade of deep green, and the other is a man with red makeup streaks running down his eyes, giving the impression that he’s crying blood.

The woman introduces herself as Odette and her partner as Agrippa. As is tradition, she explains, the lead stylist of the pair – in this case, Odette – will take on the female tribute, while Agrippa will be in charge of the male tribute. 

“I was expecting someone slightly older,” Odette says. “But I can easily make adjustments to the chariot outfits before you arrive tomorrow. Do we have any sort of angle for Foley yet?”

Ashley looks at me, and it suddenly occurs to me that Foley is my tribute. I frown and bite my lip. “I don’t know. I haven’t even met her yet.”

“Well, it will do no good to try to make her look strong or intimidating,” Odette says, waving her hand in the air. I don’t think she means to sound as dismissive as she does, but it rubs me the wrong way. “How about we try to make her look innocent? Ethereal? I can send over some sketches.”

“Sounds good,” I say, hollowly. 

Agrippa seems pleased with what he’s seen from Chipper so far. After a brief conversation which feels more like pleasantries than anything actually useful, they hang up. In a few minutes, our new tributes will be on the train. 

We wait in the parlour car for them to arrive. I can tell they’re here, because the train sets off almost immediately after we hear the tell-tale sound of Minnie’s voice. Through the windows, District 7 fades into the distance. It occurs to me that when the train returns, it will probably be with both tributes in identical coffins. 

It takes about ten minutes for them to find us. We sit in silence as we wait. My fingers have bled onto my skirt, and I stare at it in disgust. 

Foley is still crying when Minnie shepherds the pair in, but at least her sobs seem to have quietened down somewhat. Chipper looks around in a daze. I try to remember what I was thinking right after I was reaped, but I can’t remember at all. It feels like it all happened to a completely different person.

“This is the main parlour car,” Minnie tells them. With a start, I realise that they’re holding Foley’s hand. The tribute’s other is still gripped onto the ratty owl toy, which dangles limply next to her stained skirt. “And, here are your mentors!”

“Hello,” Chipper says. He sounds uncertain, and his eyes keep fluttering between Minnie and Foley to the window outside. 

“Hi,” Ashley says first, standing up to greet them. I know I should follow him, but my legs won’t work. “Fast, huh?”

“I’ve taken a ride in the lumber trucks before,” Chipper says. “But they’ve never gone as fast as this.”

“You’ve worked in the woods before?” I ask. My voice feels croaky and uneven.

“The lumberyard,” he says. “Sometimes I help my dad haul stuff onto the trucks to take to the station or the mill.”

I lock eyes with Ashley. This, at least, is something. If he’s strong enough, he might do well in training. But we can’t bank on that. In his suit, two sizes too big, he looks small enough to snap in two.

Ashley turns his attention to Foley. “Hello, Foley,” he says, gently. “Can you lip read?” She looks at him with watery eyes for a moment, before giving a short, curt nod. “Okay, good. That’s a start.”

Pulling her hand away from Minnie’s, she does a few gestures with her fingers. Minnie looks at us helplessly. “I don’t sign,” they say. 

“Someone in the Capitol will,” Ashley replies. “In the meantime, do you think you could write down for us? Do you know how to write?” Foley nods again. “Minnie, could you get her some paper?”

Minnie leaves. The carriage feels awfully empty without them. “What will Foley do in the arena, if she can’t hear the cannons?” Chipper asks us. “Or if they announce something that she needs to know about?”

At this, Foley starts crying harder. I look at Ashley helplessly. “We’ll work it out,” he says, in a voice that very much tells me that he has no clue.

“Maybe I could stick with her?” Chipper suggests. “If we’re together, I can let her know when there’s something she can’t hear.”

It’s a nice idea, but if Chipper’s the one out of the pair that could make it longer, having Foley around might slow him down. Neither of us tell him this. Ashley just tells him we’ll discuss it once we get to the Capitol. Today is for us to get to know the tributes, and for them to recover from the day. Business will start tomorrow.

Minnie returns with a few pieces of paper and a pen. By this point, Foley has found a corner of the room to curl up into, and I go up to her. Ashley takes Chipper down into the next car to talk more privately.

When I approach, Foley shrinks back as if I’m about to attack her. I pause, not quite sure what to do. Eventually I settle for sitting on the floor a few feet back, as if I’m trying to coax a scared cat out from under someone’s porch. “Um,” I blink, not sure how to proceed. “What’s the owl’s name?”

Foley doesn’t reply. She pulls the toy closer to her chest, as if I’m going to take it from her. A part of me feels frustrated. I’m here to help you, I think. Just fucking let me!

“You can bring it into the arena,” I tell her, gesturing to the owl, because I don’t really know what to say. “They let you bring one thing from home.”

At that, she blinks slowly, eyes wide. I point at the paper. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m Johanna. I’m your mentor.”

She reaches out a shaky hand and takes the pen. In wobbly handwriting, she scrawls down the words, I know who you are.

I manage to get a few more things out of her. I learn that she just turned thirteen, and she lives in the community home. Her parents both died of the flu six years ago. She doesn’t want to die. After her last statement, she curls back in on herself again, and all attempts to bring her back out of her shell fail. Minnie offers to take her back to her room, and suggests that we try to reset at dinner.

There’s no sign of Ashley and Chipper in the sitting room, so I return to my own quarters and have a shower. The hot water stings my fingers, but I stay under long enough that my skin goes bright red and I’m gasping for breath. I get changed into something that feels less corrupted than my reaping outfit and read through my mentor’s packet until someone comes to fetch me for dinner.

Chipper is the first one waiting. He sits at the edge of the table, tapping his hands on the wood in tandem to the churning of the train on the tracks. He’s gotten changed too, but since he hasn’t been through prep, the new clean clothes make the layer of grime on his skin obvious. He stares at the fancy china laid in front of him in awe, but looks up when I approach.

“I think you’re really cool,” he tells me. “On the television, I mean.”

I blink. “Oh. Um. Thanks.”

“We got candy this year, in the packets, because of you,” he says. “So, thank you.”

Ashley arrives next, sliding in next to me. Minnie shows up late with Foley, who is crying again. We only make it to the second course of the meal before she’s sobbing so hysterically that we have to stop completely. I try to approach her to take her back to her compartment, but she shrinks away and wails in fear. It’s only when Minnie pats her hair to soothe her that she calms down enough to be drawn away. As they go, I can see that their face is pale and their mouth is knitted into a thin tight line in concentration. You don’t see this side of the tributes on television.

We finish the meal in silence. Nobody suggests watching the reapings tonight. We’ll have time before we arrive in the Capitol tomorrow anyways. Chipper looks a bit sick after the big meal, and he excuses himself to go to bed early. 

“Ashley,” I say, once we’ve been left alone. “I don’t know what to do.”

He bites his lip. “Let’s not talk here.”

We go back to my room. He leans on the desk while I sit on the foot of the bed. Outside, the sun has just begun to set, bathing us in a strange flickering orange light as we race past slowly dimming forest. 

“Here’s what I think,” he says. “You should take Chipper. I’ll take Foley.”

I frown at him. “Why?”

He shakes his head. “I mean, you’ve seen her, Johanna.”

“So, you think I can’t handle her?”

Ashley sighs. “I think she’s terrified of you.”

“And she’s not scared of you? ” I look at him angrily. “You think I’m going to be a bad mentor, and you don’t trust me with her.”

“I didn’t say that, Jo.”

“Yeah, but you were thinking it.”

“I think you’re thinking it,” he says. “Look. I think it’s your first year, and Foley is an extremely difficult tribute, and I’m happy to -”

I cross my arms. “Don’t martyr yourself, Ashley.”

He gives me a look. “Fine. I think Foley would be better off with me. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

I roll my eyes, but nod. I know he’s probably right. Worst of all, I might have even considered asking him to swap myself, if it came down to it. But I don’t like that he’s stepped up for me again. It makes me feel weak and useless. “Sure.”

The train careens to the left, and for a moment, my stomach does a backflip. “Maybe we should watch the reaping now anyway, just to prepare?” Ashley suggests. 

The idea of sitting through twenty-two more tributes doesn’t sound appealing, and so I shake my head. “We can do it tomorrow.”

“Alright,” Ashley says, uneasily. The air feels awkward. I don’t like it. I want to be back home, where conversation is easy. “Well, I might get to bed, then. It’ll be a long day tomorrow. You should get some rest.”

I nod, but I know I won’t sleep. Alone in this room, rocking against the train tracks, I will lie awake for hours. For a moment, I almost want to ask Ashley to stay with me until I fall asleep. Maybe if I’m not alone with my thoughts to take up the room, I might be able to drift off. But again, that feels like giving up. And worse, it feels desperate. It feels too close. It feels too much like admitting something that I don’t really want to admit.

I don’t have the time to think about this. I let him go, and ignore the emptiness that fills my chest when the door closes.

As expected, I spend the night tossing and turning. I don’t sleep, and I don’t have nightmares, but the thoughts that drift through my head are just as bad. I picture the worst arena possible, and put Foley and Chipper through the worst deaths imaginable. I imagine myself back in the arena again, this time with Ashley. He’s on the other side of the Cornucopia, and I’m looking for him, but someone kills him before I can reach the middle. I imagine that the dried blood on his skin would look an awful lot like his freckles. 

I don’t know what I would do if that happened, and so I just tell myself it won’t, ever.

In the morning, after breakfast, I find Chipper and tell him that I’ll be mentoring him instead from here on out. He seems to take it in stride, although as we’re alone walking down the narrow shaking hallway towards the sitting room, he tells me he’s certain he won’t win, because I won last year.

“That’s not how that works,” I tell him. “District 1 has won four times in the past ten years, and all four wins were in back-to-back pairs.”

“Yeah, but that’s different,” he shrugs. “We’re different.”

“We don’t have to be.”

He considers this for a moment. “I guess it would be pretty cool.”

Foley seems calmer today, and actually joins us to watch a recap of the reapings. Minnie manages to get subtitles on the television. When they come to sit down next to me, I can sense something has changed in them. Their body is tense and their beaming smile is nowhere to be seen. 

This year’s tributes are as classic as they come. There’s a dangerous-looking pair from District 1, a grinning girl from District 2, a pair of seventeen-year-olds from District 3, two volunteers from District 4. On it goes. Chipper tells us that the suit he wore on stage was his father’s, and he doesn’t like how young it made him look. District 9 produces, of all things, a volunteer in the form of a stony-faced girl. I look on, hopelessly. Nobody seems like a potential ally, and everyone seems like a threat. I can’t imagine either Chipper or Foley making it further than a few feet from the Cornucopia. I can tell everyone in the room is thinking the same thing, although nobody can bring themselves to say it out loud. 

Once the recap is over, we all go to wait in the parlour. It doesn’t take long for the train to go dark as we enter the mountains surrounding the Capitol. 

It barely feels like I left.

Chapter Text

Chipper runs to the window as we break out from the darkness of the mountain tunnel into the hazy light of the Capitol. It’s an impressive sight, but to me, it all looks hollow and empty. I decide there’s no harm in letting him get excited. At the very least, his interest in the city might get some sponsors out of it. 

Foley shrinks back as we approach, and Ashley decides that it’s probably better to let her gather herself away from where cameras might see her. He whispers something to Minnie and they both stand up, leading the girl out of the parlour and into the relative safety of the next carriage.

Chipper has his palms against the glass of the window, his eyes squinting at the rays of sunlight reflecting off buildings. "Is it always so colourful here?"

"Yeah," I say, peering at where he’s pointing. "They do decorate it for the Games, though."

"Really?" Chipper frowns. "That’s weird."

"Not really. They take any excuse to dress up."

"They’re going to put me in a costume too, aren’t they? Once we get there, I mean. I remember that from TV. Is that supposed to be tonight?"

"Yeah," I nod. "You’ll meet your prep team today, and then later this evening you’ll go around the Capitol in a chariot."

"It’ll take a whole afternoon to get me ready?" Chipper wrinkles his nose. "What are they going to do to me that’ll take that long?"

I’d laugh, if we weren’t approaching the worst place in the world. Man, what I wouldn't do to be back home. “Wait and see." At his bewildered expression, I roll my eyes. “It’s nothing bad, I promise. But you have to do everything they tell you. You can't put up a fight.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” I hesitate. “Because these guys know best what the audience wants to see. We have a new stylist team this year, and they're going to want to come out of the gate with all guns blazing. You’re just going to have to trust them.”

The truth is that I have no clue what Odette and Agrippa have planned, but Chipper doesn’t need to know that. Maybe Odette did send me some sketches after all. I’ll have to check. “Do you want me to do anything special on the chariots?”

“What?”

“Like what you did last year,” Chipper says. “Pretending to be weak and stuff.”

I look at him and realise that I haven’t thought about that at all. I have no strategy for him, no angle, nothing. The only advice I could possibly give him is so basic, it feels laughable. “No,” I say. “Just be yourself. Maybe a more exaggerated version. We can come up with a more specific angle for the interviews later, but for now, just make it seem like you're happy to be there.”

“So, not like myself at all,” he says.

Despite myself, I manage to crack a smile.

“What about Foley?” he asks. “She seems really scared. Should I try to help her?”

I bite my lip. “I wouldn’t,” I admit. “Look, let’s both be honest here, Chipper. She’s not going to make it.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, but I probably won’t either.”

“You definitely won’t if you keep telling yourself that,” I say. “You stand a better chance than she does. If you stick by her, you’ll be shooting yourself in the foot. That might sound shitty, but it’s the truth.”

“You mean like what happened with the boy from our district last year?” Chipper says, frowning. “Was that why you didn’t want to ally with him in the first place? Because he was sick?”

I'm surprised that he mentions Caraway, but it makes sense. Of course Chipper would have watched last year’s Games. “Yeah. It’s like that.”

“Right. But is it alright if I look for other allies?” Chipper looks down at his feet. “I don’t really want to do it alone.”

I try not to show any emotion on my face. “As long as you’re careful,” I tell him. “You use your judgement. I’ll ask around the other mentors to see if anyone's interested.”

He nods. “Thanks, Johanna. You’re really cool.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“I’m secretly glad you’re my mentor now,” he says. “Don’t tell Ashley.”

I can’t help it. I laugh. “I’ll keep my lips sealed,” I tell him. 

It’s Minnie’s job to take the tributes up to prep. We wait in the train as they’re shuffled out. The station itself is mercifully empty, though we can hear the cheers from a distance. I remember that fans used to be allowed to watch the tributes disembark, but that changed a few years ago when someone nearly pulled Cashmere – who was already a celebrity after her brother had won the year before – onto the train tracks. The only people waiting at the platform now are a handful of Peacekeepers, who keep their eyes firmly trained on the tributes in case anyone tries to make a run for it.

Nobody does. Minnie and the tributes disappear off into the depths of the station, and I wait for a Peacekeeper to come and fetch us. I take the opportunity to check if Odette has sent any sketches over, but she hasn’t. I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway. Whatever the stylists want to put our tributes in, good or bad, there’s nothing I can do about it now. 

Once we get to the car, Ashley tells me a little bit more about being a mentor. It isn’t really anything I haven’t already read in my handbook – about the two underground levels in the Games Centre, the Click, the sponsor network – but I let him talk. He seems uncharacteristically nervous. 

“Are you okay?” I ask him, as we pull into a parking lot that I assume is part of the Games Centre. Above our heads, shining, jagged metal forms some kind of arc. It’s imposing, and I get the distinct feeling that I might have just entered hell.

“Foley’s difficult,” he admits, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m worried the other tributes are going to eat her alive.”

I grimace. “Maybe they’ll just leave her alone.”

“Maybe,” he says, unconvinced.

We take the elevator underground. Unlike the one back in the Tribute Centre, which is made of glass, this one is entirely enclosed. My stomach sinks and my ears start to ache as we descend, and I get a strange feeling of deja-vu as I’m reminded of the tubes they use to send the tributes up into the arena.

We’re let out into a floor made up almost entirely of corridors. The smell in the air has the same antiseptic quality I’ve come to associate with the hospital room I stayed in for a few days after the Games. Cold white strip lighting beams down on tiled floors, bathing the place in a strange, liminal glow.

“You’ll learn your way around,” Ashley tells me, as he brushes past doorways and down into an adjourning corridor. He stops at a door. “In here.”

Inside appears to be some sort of meeting room. It’s smaller than I expected, and I’m immediately hit with the strong scent of coffee and the heat of a space packed with bodies. About a dozen victors mill around an angular ‘U’ shaped table, which overlooks a projector that is currently switched off. The ceiling is low and the sound of chatter seems to bounce around the space in strange ways, wrapping around the hallway behind me. 

A few faces turn to observe me as I step into the room properly. I recognise a handful. There’s Haymitch from District 12, obviously, and the woman I met in District 11, Seeder. A tall, broad-shouldered blonde man that I recognise as Augustus Braun, (who won a few years back), gives me a nod, and Enobaria from District 2 looks like she’s trying to drown herself in coffee. 

Ashley’s attention seems drawn to the far end of the room. I follow his gaze, where Finnick Odair sits with a young woman who looks to be around my age. She has long dark hair tied up with a yellow bow, and her eyes are closed in concentration. She looks familiar, and I swear I must know her from somewhere.

“Annie Cresta,” Ashley tells me under his breath, as if he already knows what I’m thinking. 

Annie Cresta. Of course. The girl who won the year before me. I frown. “I thought they said she was too unstable to mentor?”

“That’s what I assumed.”

Finnick notices our arrival and beacons us over. He smiles, but as we approach I can tell his expression looks slightly forced. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Ashley says first. Annie blinks her eyes and looks at the pair of us curiously. “Annie, right?”

She smiles. I’d thought — based on what they said on the television — that she’d be a complete loony. Up close she seems normal, if a bit nervous. “Hello.”

“Annie, this is Johanna and Ashley,” he says. “District 7. They’re our friends.”

She holds her hand out to me. “I like your hair.”

“Thanks,” I say, sitting down on her other side. “I guess I’m not the only newcomer this year. That’s sort of a relief.”

“Yes,” she says. “We can learn together.”

Ashley looks at Finnick quizzically. Finnick lets out a breath between his teeth. “Mags is still sick, and Peggy’s too pregnant to come. We thought it’d be me and one of the other guys, but the Capitol asked for Annie.” He shakes his head. “I’m not very happy about it.”

“It’s alright, Finnick,” Annie says. “At least we’ll have the summer together.”

“Mm,” he says, placing his hand on top of hers. His expression is fond, but he still sounds unconvinced.

I meet eyes with Ashley. Do these two have something going on? I try to ask him. The idea seems at first surprising, and then less so, the more I think about it. Of course Finnick isn’t the playboy they show him on television as. No more than I’m a bitch — which is to say, I am a little, but not a lot. In my brief interactions with him on my Victory Tour and over the phone, he’s always seemed more down to earth. His trysts in the Capitol aren’t anything real. Why wouldn’t he have someone he loves? 

Even if that someone is an unstable girl, who the Capitol seems to despise.

Ashley gives me an almost imperceptible look and nudges my leg as he sits down. We’ll talk later.

More victors file in. A few actually come up to us to introduce themselves to Annie and I. Cecelia – the female victor from District 8 – tells me she’s glad I seem to be doing alright. Curie Compton from District 5 compliments my choice of shoes. Emmer Hyde from District 9 gives us a thumbs up.

“Everyone loves fresh blood,” Finnick explains. “Especially if you’re not part of the dogpack.”

“Dogpack?” 

“It’s a derogatory term for the trained tributes who form an alliance in the arena,” Ashley explains. At the mention of the arena, a funny expression crosses Annie’s face and she closes her eyes again. “You know, like how Love and the others did in your Games.”

I think of Love’s head, hanging by a thread from her body and want to close my eyes like Annie. “Oh, right.”

“It’s not like they’ve had a good run of it recently, anyway,” Finnick says, patting Annie’s hair. “I think if District 2 doesn’t win this year, it’ll be a decade since they’ve last had a victor.”

“Seriously?” I say. I haven’t actually been keeping track, but then I think about it and it makes sense. Out of the inner districts, it’s District 1 that’s been steamrolling the competition. District 4 has had Finnick and Annie in the past few years, but all the other wins have been scattered throughout the outer districts.

“Oh yeah,” he says. “Seven’s actually beating them out right now, with the two of you on bat.”

“Maybe we’ll replace them in the pack,” Ashley says sarcastically. “I bet they’ll love that.”

“So they have something to prove,” I say.

“Oh yeah,” Finnick says. “I’d keep my eye on them this year, if I were you.”

Conversation in the room dies down. I realise that a handful of Gamemakers have entered and now stand by the projector, which has come to life with a slow hum. Lingering near the front is someone with the familiar sweeping fur-lined robes and decorated badge of the Head Gamemaker. Seneca Crane. Immediately, I feel a chill run through me. Just looking at him reminds me of our unfortunate conversation on the train six months ago.

Tomorrow, I will have to meet with Julius Waxwick again. I doubt Seneca Crane knows that. I doubt that he’s anything more than Snow’s errand boy. But to me, his face now stands for something more than just the Games.

“Welcome,” he says, once the room is silent. I take a cursory look around the space. Most victors look bored already, and I can’t exactly blame them. Who knows how many times they’ve had to hear this speech? I’m a newcomer, and I’m certain that I already know exactly what he’s going to say. It was all in the booklet anyways. “I hope you’ve had a good year away.”

The presentation he gives us is fairly simple. Like I guessed, it’s just a verbal recap of the mentor booklet. According to the team, there are no updates to the sponsor system this year, and we receive no hints about what the arena will be – not that I thought there’d be any to begin with, anyway. We’re given our mentor bracelets, which will show us a live feed of our tributes when we’re away from the Games Centre. When Seneca Crane offers to show Annie and I around the space, Finnick quickly speaks up and says that he’s happy to do it. The Gamemakers, who seem to have enough on their plates already, are happy to oblige. 

The meeting adjourns and we’re left to our own devices for the few hours leading up to the chariot rides. Some victors retreat back to their rooms upstairs in the Tribute Centre, and some head to the bar on the ground floor to get a drink in before they have to deal with their tributes again, but most people hang around to catch up. Finnick, true to his word, leads Annie and I on a tour around the two levels assigned to the mentors. Ashley stays back to chat with a few faces I don’t recognise.

“You don’t get any natural light down here,” Finnick tells us as he leads us around. I don’t think his tour is going to help me much. I’m already lost. Every meeting room looks the exact same, and even the small area cordoned off on the second floor for the sleep capsules feels immaterial.  “I like to get as much fresh air as I can when I take my breaks. There’s a small garden between the buildings for that. Usually they leave it empty for us mentors to use.”

Annie nods sagely. She was quiet and closed-off during Seneca’s presentation, but she seems to have perked up ever since Finnick started talking again. I eye them again for a moment. There’s almost certainly something going on here, but I can’t tell what. “Mags always says sunlight is good for the soul.”

I frown. “Who’s Mags?”

“She won the Eleventh Games,” Finnick tells me. “She mentored me, and half-mentored Annie.”

“And she’s still kicking about?” I raise an eyebrow. “That’s impressive.”

“Oh, yeah,” Finnick says. “She had a stroke last year, but she’s a fighter. I doubt anyone – not even the Capitol – could take her down if they tried.”

We finish the tour in the Click - the grand room where the mentors will monitor the tributes in the arena. For the next half-hour, we learn the ropes of the sponsor system. I get the hang of it quickly, but Annie seems confused, and so I find myself twiddling my thumbs as Finnick gently explains the basics to her. It seems like they’ve done this song and dance plenty of times before. As he leans in to point out something next to her monitor, his hand falls down to rest at her waist. 

“So,” I say, when my curiosity can’t stand any more. “Are you two, like…” I trail off. “Y’know?”

Finnick raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, suddenly annoyed. “Are you, like, seeing one another, or…”

They exchange a glance. Annie giggles. “Well, not officially, no,” Finnick says. “But I’ll do what I please while I’m in this building and away from the cameras. They might not let me hold her hand in public, but if they’re forcing her here, I’m not hiding anything behind closed doors.”

I blink. “Right.”

“You won’t tell,” Finnick tells me. It feels more like a statement than a question. “I don’t think my fans would be very happy if they found out.”

What he’s actually saying is clear. Snow wouldn’t be happy if anyone found out. 

I can’t help but pity them slightly. Of course Finnick will never be able to settle down with anyone. Not while he’s still of use to the President. I don’t know what sort of deal they’ve made, but it’s clear that whatever it is, it hasn’t worked out in their favour.

Finnick is looking at intensely, and so I shrug. “None of my business, anyways.”

He relaxes. “I told you she’d be nice,” Annie tells him. “I always thought you were nice on TV, Johanna.”

I can’t help but frown. Me? Nice? Maybe she is as insane as everyone says she is. “Right. Uh. Thanks.”

She gives me a pleasant smile and rests her head on Finnick’s shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

As the other mentors begin filling the room, I realise that Ashley is nowhere to be seen. I try to ask one of the attendants if they know where he is, but nobody seems to have any clue. For a while I distract myself by making small talk with a few of the other victors, but by the time an hour has passed, I’m considering going to check if he’s gone back to the apartment. In fact, I’ve just made up my mind to leave when he appears at the front doors to the Click. His shoulders are slumped and he looks exhausted.

“Where were you?” I ask him as he approaches. 

“Damage control,” he says, unhappily. “Foley refuses to go anywhere without her stuffed owl, but Odette doesn’t want it on the chariot. I had to convince both of them to compromise and let her put it at her feet.”

“Shit,” I say. 

“Minnie says she’s not sleeping either,” he tells me. “Last night, they had to stay up in her room with her on the train.”

“Your escort did that?” Finnick says, surprised. “That’s good of them.”

“Yeah, but nobody thought to tell me,” Ashley says, frustrated. “Besides, they can’t keep doing that. They have a job to do, and they’re already dead on their feet. We might have to get Foley something to knock her out for the night.”

“Is that allowed?” I ask.

He shrugs, collapsing down on one of the chairs. “Minnie’s chasing it up.”

“Right.”

“In lighter news, I caught Chipper on the way down. He actually seems excited.”

“That’s good, at least.” 

I want to ask Ashley about the plan for the next few days, but he seems so stressed that I decide it can wait. Instead, we sit and listen to Finnick complain about a television spot that aired about him last month, which posited that he was secretly having a love affair with both Cashmere and Gloss from District 1. Annie finds this particularly amusing.

“It said that I slept with them both at once,” he tells us. “That’s disgusting ! They’re related! ”

About ten minutes before the chariot rides begin, a large screen that takes up most of the far wall of the room lights up. On the streets, crowds of Capitol citizens are being interviewed about their favourites from the reaping. Neither of our tribute’s names are brought up. Most people seem enamoured with the boy from District 1, who I learn is called Calico. He’s a handsome young man of eighteen, and more than a handful of audiences directly compare him directly to Finnick, much to his annoyance. Attention is also on the volunteer from District 9. Nobody seems to know why she might have volunteered, and the theories are wild. 

The mentors from District 2 – Enobaria and a man I don’t recognise – seem unhappy with the lack of attention their tributes appear to be receiving. They whisper to one another and glare at Augustus and Emmer from across the hall.

“Our tributes are both volunteers this year,” Finnick tells us. “Which is good for us.”

“Do they not usually volunteer in Four?” I ask.

“It’s about half and half,” he says. “I didn’t, and neither did Annie. But most of our tributes join the dogpack anyways, because we know how to use spears and tridents.” Annie makes a small noise and covers her ears. He winces. “Sorry, love.”

I lean back in my seat as the trumpets sound and the live broadcast begins. It’s the same every year, but this time I’m paying proper attention. As the first few districts roll out, the crowd goes wild. By the time our tributes have been sent into the fray, the noise is cacophonous. Foley is already sobbing, holding the side of the chariot for dear life. Chipper just stands there, stunned. They’re both wearing garments of what looks like deconstructed paper, with tendrils hanging from their arms and waists, making them look an awful lot like the jellyfish costumes they’ve got District 4 in. Still, it’s better than what I was put in last year.

 Nobody seems to pay them much mind.

We watch until President Snow’s address, at which point everyone decides it’s probably time to make it back to the Training Centre to await the tributes’ return. I don’t ask why we’re not allowed to wait for them by the chariots, or even see them before they set off. It’s just another thing in a long list of rules that make no sense.

Minnie arrives with the pair about half an hour after we return. They barely have time to shoot us a wobbly smile before they’re ushering a crying Foley to her room to get changed. Chipper still seems shell shocked. 

“It was loud,” he tells Ashley and I. “I didn’t know crowds could be that loud.”

He excuses himself to take a shower. Minnie returns a few minutes later. Ashley was right. They’re exhausted. Their hair is frazzled, and their eye bags are so bad, I can see them under even a thick layer of concealer. 

“Good news is, we can get Foley something to help her sleep,” they tell us. “An Avox will bring it downstairs from Games Command later.”

“OK. You go to bed, Minnie,” Ashley says. “We’ll take care of her.”

They look concerned. “No, no.”

“You need to sleep.”

“What if she needs me?”

“She can’t have you forever,” Ashley says. 

Eventually they relent, although they don’t seem pleased about it. Ashley and I wait alone in the sitting area. Odette and Agrippa will be joining us for dinner after their post-chariot interviews, but for now, the space is mercifully quiet. 

“Finnick and Annie are weird,” I tell him. “Were they always like that?”

“He knew her before the Games,” he explains. “They met after he won. I think he was falling in love with her, and he didn’t even realise it. That’s probably why she got reaped.”

I frown at him. “They’d do that?”

“Oh, yeah,” Ashley nods. “Of course they would. He was desperate that year. Tried everything he could to get her out.”

“Well, it worked,” I say. “Only now he has to pretend he doesn’t love her.”

“He’s got it far worse than most of us,” Ashley admits. “Poor guy. I can’t imagine what kind of people he must meet.”

“I have to meet Julius again tomorrow morning,” I tell him, remembering again.

Ashley frowns. “Yeah, I’ve got an appointment too.” He runs his hands through his hair. “Man, I don’t know how I’m going to get any sponsors for Foley.”

“Is it even worth it?” I ask him. “Considering…”

He shakes his head. “I have to try.”

Dinner is a muted affair. Odette talks most of the way through it, steamrolling the conversation. I decide that I hate her. Agrippa might not be all that bad. I spot him offering Chipper a second helping of dessert when he thinks nobody is looking. He winks, and Chipper laughs. 

Foley doesn’t seem to have the appetite for anything, and keeps pointing at the note she’s written asking where Minnie has gone. 

Ashley takes her to bed. Once the room is empty, I pull Chipper aside. 

“You know how to use an axe, don’t you?” I ask him.

He nods. “Yeah. I’m pretty strong too. My dad says that one day, I’ll be even stronger than he is.” He pauses. “Or, at least, I would be, if -”

“I told you, stop thinking negatively,” I say sharply. “Look, you need to stay away from Districts 1,2 and 4. They’re no good, and all they’ll do is turn on you. Find someone else to train with if you like, but stay wary. Learn some survival skills and how to make a makeshift weapon, if you have to. There’s no guarantee there’ll be axes, and I don’t want you running to the Cornucopia.”

Chipper nods. “I was talking to the pair from District Three down by the chariots. They seem nice.”

I resist the urge to facepalm. District 3? He’s practically begging to be cannon fodder. “Right. Well, stick with them if you like, but stay smart. Don’t trust them as far as you can throw them. I’m going to try to get you some sponsors in the meantime.”

“The audience didn’t seem to like me very much when I was on the chariot,” Chipper says. “I tried to seem happy to be there, but it was so loud, and I got dizzy.”

“We’ll work it out. There’s still the interviews,” I tell him. “Just do your best in training and try to get a good score. Okay?”

He nods. “Okay.”

I return to my room. On my mentor bracelet, I can see a few sponsor requests have come in. It seems like Chipper was wrong - at least a handful of people have liked him enough to send some money. Whether that’s because they like him, or they like District 7, it doesn’t really matter. I’ll have to accept them tomorrow, once I’m downstairs in the Click again. 

In the meantime, I run through the list of previous sponsors in my mentor booklet and schedule to meet with a few after my lunch with Julius. I reason that maybe if I stay busy enough throughout the day, whatever happens with him won’t feel as bad. 

It’s late. I know I should sleep, but I can’t. There’s so much running through my mind, I feel dizzy. I get up to knock on Ashley’s door to see if he’s free for a chat, but he doesn’t reply. He must be preoccupied with Foley. Downstairs, Minnie is almost certainly asleep, and I know I shouldn’t bother them, so instead I find myself pacing back and forth on the upstairs landing, trying to walk out any residual energy. It’s useless. I return to my room and resist the urge to scream into my pillow. 

I don’t like this. I feel completely alone. Last year, even though I was a tribute, I felt as though I had a team behind me. I assumed I’d feel like I was a part of that team this year, but that can’t be further from the truth. Ashley has his own tribute to deal with. Minnie is preoccupied. And the other victors are mentoring the enemy. The brief shimmer of hope I felt back on the hike at home, when I learnt about the group of rebel victors is gone. We’re all on different teams, and nobody wants me on theirs.

There’s so much to do, and I feel like I’m balancing Chipper’s life on my shoulders, as well as my own. That’s not where his life should be.

He’s a good kid. I wish he wasn’t. I wish he were horrible, so I didn’t have to feel so bad about the fact that he’s almost certainly going to die. I lie in my bed and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to think about anything else except for the horrible few days to come. 

The next morning is when I really start to feel the effects of barely sleeping for three nights in a row. My vision feels foggy around the edges, and it’s like someone has stuffed my brain full of cotton wool. Still, I force myself up and downstairs to see the tributes off at breakfast. 

It’s just Chipper at the table, though Minnie joins us a little while later. I barely recognise them. Their face is bare of makeup and their eyes are bleary. 

“I’m going to focus on survival today,” Chipper tells us. “Then I can have at least a few days to memorise everything before the arena.”

Minnie smiles at him fondly. “That sounds like a lovely idea.”

Ashley descends a little bit before ten. It’s very obvious where he’ll be heading after the tributes have gone down to training. He wears a soft, feathered jumper and tight dark leather trousers in the style of what’s fashionable in the Capitol right now. His hair is up, and his expression is glum. I waggle my eyebrows at him, and he rolls his eyes at me self-consciously. “Don’t, Jo.”

I’ll also have to get changed to meet Julius Waxwick soon, but I don’t want to think about that. I wait until the clock strikes quarter to the hour. Minnie and Ashley go to coax out Foley, who is cowering in her room. She comes to sit in the living room, her owl nestled in her arms. The inner-district tributes are going to have a field day with her. 

“Remember, be careful who you trust,” I tell Chipper, as he steps into the elevator. He nods, and then he’s gone.

Ashley and I tell Minnie to take the morning off. To our surprise, they actually agree - though they offer to process all of the existing sponsor offers for us this afternoon. 

I tell Ashley I’ll probably be back late. He already has to head out. “Who are you meeting?” I ask him. “Will you tell me?”

“Calpurnia Jasper,” he says. “She’s old money. I’ve met her a few times before.”

“Any fun?” 

He grimaces. “Not any more fun than Julius seems to be.” 

“Right,” I say. "Well, I hope it goes quickly" I don’t really know what else to tell him.

“Yeah,” Ashley agrees. “Hope yours does too.”

I go upstairs and get dressed in one of the formal outfits Odette has left for me in my closet. I’m going to have to start wearing designs around in public. It won’t do well if I’m not seen endorsing my stylist’s work. People might talk, and if word gets out that I’m ungrateful, that could be sponsorships lost.

I decide to pick the most revealing thing that’s still appropriate for my afternoon meetings. If everyone sees me like this, maybe the money people spend on special time with me will feel like it’s less worth it. It’s spiteful, but it makes me feel a tiny bit better. 

Julius Waxwick holds me hostage for about two hours. Most of that time is spent kissing. He’s not drunk, and neither am I, but I wish that I were. Kissing him feels like kissing a muttation. His lips are bloated with filler, and his skin is sickeningly smooth. He keeps telling me how attractive I am, pulling my hair and running his claws down the side of my leg. In the car on the way to my next appointment, I feel motion sick.

He doesn’t even offer any money for Chipper.

I try to put myself together, but I’m in a bad mood for the rest of the day. The exhaustion doesn’t help. Luckily, most people seem to expect me to be short with them, and to my relief, nobody comments on how tired I seem.

By late afternoon, I actually have a handful of takers for Chipper. As it turns out, some people – mostly older women with no families to call their own – find him charming. And besides, next to Foley, he’s built like a brick house. I suppose he’s exactly what people wanted from Caraway last year, if he hadn’t been ill, and I hadn’t stolen the limelight.

I don’t know how much the money I make will actually do, but I hope it’s enough to make even a tiny difference. 

By the time I’m finished, the tributes are nearly done with training. I decide to head down to the Click to process today’s requests. To my surprise, the place is bustling. Most of the mentors are casually lounging around, chatting to one another. I suppose that once you have a solid sponsor foundation, there’s not much else to do but wait until the tributes get into the arena. 

I hear a wolf whistle coming from my left. “Nice getup, Johanna!” Finnick calls. He beckons me over. Annie sits on the floor, weaving together some sort of half-made tapestry. “Busy day?”

I sigh. “You could say that.”

“Want to blow off some steam tonight?” he asks. “I was going to take Annie somewhere special after the tributes go to bed. You want to come?”

I frown at him. “Where?”

He winks. “That’s a secret,” he says. “Meet us at the bar at ten. Ask Ashley if he wants to come. I caught him earlier. Calpurnia Jasper’s a terror. Besides, us young’uns have to stick together.”

“It’ll be fun,” Annie says, pleasantly. 

I consider it. The idea of doing anything that must be considered ‘fun’ immediately makes me feel guilty, but I suppose I’ve had a bad enough day as-is. Besides, if the tributes are asleep, then what’s the harm? “Fine,” I say. Finnick grins widely. 

It doesn’t take me long to enter all my new sponsor codes into the system. Since these are pledges and not actual money, I’ll need to confirm them again before I actually order anything for the arena. But that’s a problem for later.

By the time I’m back in the tribute apartment, Chipper and Foley are already done with training. Chipper sits excitedly in the living room, watching some kind of flashy television programme. When he catches sight of me, he waves me over. I don't know where Foley is.

“I’m going to ally with Mode and Seth from Three,” he tells me. “They’re nice, and I think we’ll make a good team.”

“Right,” I say, unconvinced. “Why?”

He shrugs. “I like them.”

I want to argue with him that this isn’t a good enough reason, but I decide to give him another day of training before trying to change his mind. Maybe I can talk to the mentors from District 3 and work out something in the meantime. At the very least, it's put Chipper in good spirits. He tells us all about how he learnt to make fish hooks at training, but Minnie seems to be the only one listening. Foley hasn't shown up. According to Chipper, she sat in the corner and went to sleep. 

Ashley is in a worse mood than this morning. He slouches uncomfortably and ignores eye contact. He's gotten changed into a baggy shirt and jeans, which seem to drown him. After we’ve finished eating and the tributes have gone to bed, I tell him about Finnick’s offer. 

“Finnick’s always doing stuff like this,” he says. “Normally I’d be terrified we’ll be skydiving or something, but if Annie’s with him…”

“I think we’ve all had a shit day,” I tell him. “They said it’ll be nice. I trust them.”

“Fine,” Ashley says, eventually. He doesn't sound happy about it. “Lead the way.”

Downstairs, Finnick directs us to a car. I can’t hear what he says to the driver, but he explains what we’re doing on the way. “One of my favourite sponsors has a second home with a penthouse pool. She says I can use it whenever I want, and I thought - why not today?”

“We didn’t bring anything to swim in,” Ashley says. 

Finnick shrugs. “Who cares?”

We arrive at an apartment complex further into the heart of the city. There’s a private car park and lift, which leads out straight onto the roof. A massive pool, easily the size of my room back at the Tribute Centre, awaits us. Warm orange light spills from the cracks in the stone tiling, making the water look like molten gold. There’s a glass railing overlooking the north side of the Capitol, and I swear I can see the great lake in the distance, hidden behind the neon glow of the city.

Finnick wastes no time in jumping in. He’s fully clothed as he goes under, but as he surfaces, he takes off his shirt and throws it in a messy ball beside a deck chair. Watching him swim is almost mesmerising. It looks like he’s melted into the water, dipping and diving like a fish.

“Come on!” he calls. Annie, giggling, jumps in after him. She hums happily and starts to float on her back, her dark hair forming a halo around her face. 

I go in from the shallow end. I know how to swim – there are plenty of rivers in the woods back home that I’ve dived into on hot summer days – but I haven’t practised in a while. The water is shockingly cold and my clothes cling to me, but it feels invigorating, tearing away some of the lingering exhaustion I’ve been feeling. Ashley stands at the edge of the pool, uncertain.

“Scared?” I ask him, teasingly. 

He rolls his eyes at me. “I’ll just sit on the steps,” he says. “I’m fine here.”

I leave him for the moment. Finnick and Annie teach me how to roll around underwater. By the time I’ve mastered it, my head is spinning, but I’m laughing.

Annie tells me that she’s memorised all the constellations in the sky. She points out the few stars we can see above the light pollution of the Capitol, and then tells me exactly where all the other constellations would be. Apparently, the north star is very important in District 4. When there are power outages or there's a storm, it’s how they navigate home. 

Ashley engages with us, but he doesn’t actually get in the pool. I have to physically drag him out, dunking his head underwater as I do. He seems annoyed at first, but by the end of it he gives up on being moody and actually looks like he's half-enjoying himself. 

We haven’t brought towels, so we’re shivering when we get out of the pool. We run back barefoot to the elevator, and by the time we’re in the car, I’m feeling almost delirious. 

“It’s better not to martyr yourself,” Finnick says, once we’ve approached the Tribute Centre again. I get the sense he’s mostly talking to Annie. “I felt so guilty my first year every time I did something that wasn’t for my tribute. But actually, letting off steam is good. It means you can actually focus on the kids when you’re on the clock.”

This makes sense. I imagine Chipper wouldn’t want me to have a miserable time when I don’t have to - and there’s no way I could have spent tonight doing anything of use to him. Still, by the time we’ve tiptoed back onto the seventh floor, I can’t help but feel bad again. Chipper’s not going to experience anything like what I just have ever again. 

“At least that wasn't skydiving,” Ashley sighs, once we’re standing outside our bedrooms. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jo.”

My eyes fall on the door. A jolt of electric panic runs through me at the idea of another night alone. “Hey,” I say, before I can stop myself. “Ashley?”

He frowns. “What?”

He look up to meet his gaze, and suddenly I feel stupid all over again. “Oh, actually, fuck it. Doesn’t matter. Night.”

“No, what is it?” he asks, his hand resting on his door handle. 

“No, it’s literally nothing.” I say, perhaps a little too forcefully.

“Jo,” Ashley says, raising his eyebrows. “If you don’t tell me, it’s going to annoy me all night. What?”

“I haven’t been able to sleep at all,” I admit, quickly. “Not since the night before the reaping.”

“Oh.”

“And I -” I’m glad that it’s dark, because I think my face must be bright red. I also think I might hate myself. “ - I dunno, I was going to ask if maybe I could sleep on your sofa or something, to to see if it, like, helps me get to bed? But that’s dumb. So I’m not going to.”

“Of course you can,” Ashley says, shaking his head. “That’s fine. You should have told me earlier.”

“It’s sort of a last resort thing," I tell him. "It's stupid. I should be fine. I shouldn't need company to get to sleep."

"It's not stupid, Jo," he says. "You're allowed to ask for help."

I frown at him.

He continues. "Grab your blankets and stuff. I’m going to have a shower.”

"You're sure?”

"I promise. It's fine."

I let him go. He leaves his door open and I get changed into my pyjamas. His room is identical to mine, except for the fact that the furniture is mirrored. His bed is made neatly, and I can hear the shower running faintly as I enter. 

I try to settle on the sofa. I feel embarrassed, but also relieved. Relieved that I might have a chance at catching a few hours of sleep tonight, and relieved that Ashley didn’t think I was stupid for asking. I sit cross-legged as I wait for him. For some reason, I’m thinking of Finnick and Annie. Are they allowed to sleep in the same bed, or is Snow too worried the wrong person will see them together? Do they even care?

Ashley comes out a few minutes later. He’s dressed in an oversized pyjama set with long sleeves and trousers, and he has his hair tied back. I blink at him for a moment.  

“That’s not going to work,” he says, pointing at the sofa. “You’re never going to fit.”

“I’ll be fine,” I tell him.

“Johanna,” he says. “Don’t be stupid. You can sleep in the bed. I don’t mind.”

For a moment, I think my brain short circuits. I grab my pillow. “You’re sure?”

“Long as you don’t snore.”

I pull a face. I hope I don’t look as embarrassed as I feel. What is wrong with me? “I don’t fucking snore.”

“Good,” he says, pulling back the sheets. “Because if you do, I don’t care how badly you’ve been sleeping, you’re out of here.”

I laugh, and awkwardly slip under the covers on the other side of the bed, as far away from him as I possibly can be. “It feels weird going out and doing something. But tonight was fun.”

A strange look crosses Ashley’s face. “Yeah, I guess.” 

“Are you still mad at me for dunking you?”

Ashley shakes his head. “No, it’s not that.”

“What is it, then?”

He grimaces. “Man. It’s just, going swimming with Finnick Odair doesn’t do wonders for your self esteem, you know?”

I frown at him. “What do you mean?”

“It’s whatever, Johanna. Doesn’t matter.”

“You know, I don’t actually see what people mean when they say he’s hot,” I admit. “He’s too, like, perfect. Do you know what I mean?”

“I think you might be the only person in Panem that thinks that.”

“No, seriously!” I can’t help but laugh. “I think he’s weird looking. Good for Annie and all, but -”

Ashley snorts. “Sure.” He sounds unconvinced. 

“You’re really in a shitty mood today,” I say. “Was your meeting today that bad?”

“Something like that,” he says.

I raise my eyebrows. “Something like what?”

For a moment he’s silent. Then he eventually relents. “Oh, fine. It’s dumb. It's just, obviously Foley's difficult, and on top of that, people keep commenting on my appearance. It's gotten me stuck in my own head. That's all.”

“What do you mean?” I can’t say I’ve noticed anyone saying anything.

“It's small things. Doesn't even matter. Just, like, Minnie calling me ‘healthy’ in that patronising voice and stuff. Like, did you know that Odette pulled me aside yesterday and told me she was going to size up some of my clothes if I didn’t start ‘taking care of myself'?” He shakes his head. “Then today, Calpurnia actually refused to sleep with me because she told me I was getting, quote-unquote, ‘chubby’. And I know that’s probably a good thing, because god knows I didn’t want her to touch me anyways, but…” he trails off.

I frown. “But that’s just the Capitol. They’re rude like that.”

“Maybe,” he says. “I’m just worried everyone else is thinking it, but won’t admit it to my face.”

I look at him. The truth is, I have actually noticed that Ashley has changed since the Games last year. But back then, he looked obviously stressed and unhealthy. Now, his look suits him. He looks better with some weight to him. Not even a lot, just enough to fill him out. It makes him look more like himself.

I should probably tell him that. I should tell him that, honestly, I think he looks really good. Much better than Finnick Odair. But for some stupid reason, I can’t bring myself to. “You don’t look that bad,” I tell him, instead. 

He tries to hide it, but I see him slump down. I immediately feel guilty. Ashley does a lot for me. He’s giving up his sleep to help me get some rest. He’s been nothing but kind to me, even when I’ve disagreed with him, or gotten angry at something he’s done. He even told me about -- and suddenly I realise that in the chaos of the Games, I've completely forgotten -- their rebellion, when he didn't want to. The least I can do is make him feel better, especially when I do actually mean what I want to say.

But I can’t. For some stupid reason, it feels as though if I tell him that I like the way he looks, it’s taking one step too far across the line. 

And being here, sleeping in his bed, feels like I’m already far enough across the line that it’s dangerous.

“Anyways,” he says, his voice a little bit too upbeat. “We should probably get to bed. It’s late.”

“Yeah,” I say. Maybe tomorrow I’ll find a way to tell him the truth. “Night, Ashley.”

“Night,” he says, and turns off the light.

I actually do sleep when my head hits the pillow. When morning arrives, for the first time in what feels like years, I’m fully rested. Sunlight is streaming through the windows, and the clock on the bedside table reads that it’s nearly ten. 

“Shit,” I say, prodding Ashley. He groans and sits up, groggy. His hair is messy, and I almost laugh at his expression. “We should get up.”

He notices the clock and nods. “Did you sleep okay?”

“All through the night,” I say. “Thanks, Ashley.”

He shrugs. “No problem.”

I wonder if it’s just my imagination, or if he’s acting a bit cold towards me. 

I’m about to slip off to my room to get dressed for the day when there’s a frantic knock at the door. We exchange a glance, and Ashley tentatively opens it.

Minnie stands on the other side, their eyebrows creased with worry. “Ashley, I think that -” they begin, cutting off when they notice me behind him. “Oh!”

I decide that I’m going to kill myself. “Hi, Minnie. Not what it looks like.”

“Is everything okay?” Ashley asks.

Minnie’s gaze returns to him. “Yes. Um. No. It’s Foley.”

“What about her?”

Minnie glances nervously at the stairs. “It’s not - I mean, I’m not sure, but…”

“Minnie.”

“I thought I might be able to handle it myself, but…”

“Minnie, what is it?”

They let out a shaky breath. “I think it might be better if you come down and see for yourself.”

Chapter Text

Foley has locked herself in her room. When we get downstairs, Chipper is standing awkwardly at the end of the corridor, already dressed in his training outfit. He blinks at Ashley and I, still in our pyjamas. 

Minnie bends down to talk between the gap in the doorframe. Ashley rubs his forehead and pushes past. “Minnie, let me handle this,” he says. “You go and find someone who can get the door open.”

“You don’t think she might have -” Minnie hesitates, eyes wide. “- oh, you don’t think she could have hurt herself, do you?”

Ashley shakes his head. “I’m certain they have cameras in there. We’d know.”

His words twist my stomach. It makes sense that they’d watch the tributes — after all, they need precautions to prevent them from offing themselves — but it’s never really occurred to me before that they could be under that level of scrutiny. 

Do they watch the mentor's quarters too? The idea that someone might be sitting behind a desk and observing me silently as I toss and turn every night makes me feel dirty. It occurs to me that even if they aren’t watching that closely, someone certainly knows about where I slept last night. Even if there are no cameras, they’ll be keeping tabs on that, at least. 

I resist the urge to pull a face. Will either of us get in trouble for it? Could they possibly use it against us?

Minnie rushes past me to call one of the attendants. Ashley begins talking through the crack in the door. I can’t hear what he’s saying.

“Is she going to be alright?” Chipper asks me. He’s come up to my side, watching the scene unfold. With his training boots on, he’s taller than I expected.

“I don’t know,” I say, honestly. “Let’s just give them some space.”

The air in the apartment is awkward as we shuffle out towards the sitting room. It’s nearly ten, and he’s going to have to go downstairs soon, but it feels too early to force him away. Tributes have, in the past, gotten flack for being overeager.

“I don’t want you to worry about Foley,” I tell him. “I know that sounds harsh, but -”

“I know,” he frowns. “I’m not, really. At least, not anymore. I wanted to help her, initially, but yesterday I saw all of the other tributes, and then I just …” he trails off.

“And then you realised what sort of competition this was,” I finish his sentence for him. 

He nods. “It’ll be alright, I think. As long as I don’t have to kill her. That’s all I’m worried about.”

I look over my shoulder, towards the bedrooms. “I don’t think that will be a problem, Chipper.”

We spend the last few minutes before the hour discussing training. He seems dead set on allying with District 3, and I suppose I can’t exactly change his mind, but do I make a plan to see what the public response to the pair has been once I have the time. I doubt the audience will be in love with either of them – they rarely pay attention to District 3 anyways – but a potential alliance might help us scrape some more coins. 

Chipper seems pleased to hear he has a few takers already. “I thought everyone might hate me,” he admits. “I keep trying to impress them, but every time I remember I’m on camera, I just shut down.”

“We’ll work on it before the interviews,” I tell him. I don’t mention that once he’s in the arena, he’ll always be on camera. If he shuts down at that point, he’ll be dead. 

There’s no sign of Foley or any of the others by the time the clock strikes ten, so I send Chipper down on his own. I know I should eat, but I’m not hungry. I ignore most of the food that’s been laid out and pour myself a cup of coffee. The balcony door is open, and I stand out on it for a few minutes, letting my skin soak in the sunlight.

At home, most of the morning will have already passed. I picture Lynn at school, my father walking in the woods. These few days of training are the only break from the Games people in the Districts will get before the constant coverage begins. I imagine life might even seem normal, if nobody thinks too hard about it. 

Below me, I can see crowds swarming the streets. It feels so different. They don’t want to forget here. 

I go upstairs to my own room to get changed. The bed is unmade and looking at it, I feel strange and guilty again. Maybe I should have slept here after all. 

Somehow, I can’t help but feel like I’m manipulating Ashley. Deep down, I know that’s stupid, but guilt settles unwelcome in my chest anyways. I try to rationalise it by imagining whether I would have asked to stay with him a few months ago, before I started feeling strange about everything. I decide that I would have, but it doesn’t help much. 

It doesn’t matter. I’ll almost certainly get over whatever this is in a few weeks or so, and then I’ll look back on it and feel embarrassed. I decide I won’t ever tell him about it. He probably wouldn’t like me much if I did. 

When I come back downstairs, Minnie tells me that they managed to wrangle Foley downstairs. Apparently, the Gamemakers have pulled Ashley into a meeting about her behaviour. I have no clue what they’d say to him. Personally, I don’t think they really have the right to be upset about her. If they’re going to draw the names of children, sometimes they’re going to end up with children. End of story. 

If they don’t like it, then maybe they should stop killing them.

“Is it always as bad as this?” Minnie asks me. They look exhausted. 

I shrug. “I don’t know. This is my first time doing this too.”

“But is it always like this - in the districts? So - so sad ?”

“I guess,” I say. “I mean, yeah, people cry and stuff. Obviously they do. And sometimes they have to send Peacekeepers over to force the families of the tributes to go to work. Sometimes their siblings don’t show up at school. That sort of stuff happens all the time. It’s normal.”

“Oh,” Minnie says, hollowly. They look down at the floor. “I didn’t know that.”

I almost roll my eyes. Of course the Capitol doesn’t know that. They don’t see it. Why would they? I bite my lip and look at Minnie. I expect to feel disgusted, but instead, I feel something nagging at me.

 Maybe they’re not special. Maybe if other people in the Capitol did see what Minnie is seeing now, raw and awful, instead of whatever sanitised propaganda their television chooses to show them, they’d also feel the same. Maybe they’d see people — children – instead of just tributes.

It’s a pretty obvious thought, I guess. Plenty of people have probably thought about it before. Ashley’s mysterious rebellion is likely a million steps ahead of me on this particular front. 

But it does feel somewhat important to me that I’ve connected these dots by myself. 

“What’s that?” I ask, gesturing at the paper in Minnie’s hands. They’ve been clutching it so tight in their fingers that the edges are starting to tear.

“Oh,” they blink. “Foley was talking to us.”

They hold out the paper. On it, in wobbly handwriting, I see half of a conversation; ‘ I don’t want to’ and ‘I don’t care’ and ‘They can’t hurt my family because I don’t have a family’. 

My throat tightens. Because of course. Foley doesn’t have the one thing that Snow holds over the head of every tribute — and then every victor — that steps foot in the Capitol. She doesn’t have loved ones. She doesn’t have a family. She doesn’t have anything to fight for, anything to return home for. Before she was reaped, most people probably didn’t even know her name. The only thing that she loves might just be the stuffed owl toy she carries around everywhere.

I think it might be my worst nightmare, to end up like her. Without anyone to love, or to keep me fighting. The idea makes me feel sick to my stomach. 

I put down the paper quickly and turn to Minnie, my voice rough. “I’m going to go down to the Click.”

They nod almost imperceptibly, and then, almost like they’re sleepwalking, they shuffle over to the table and sit down, staring at the wall. 

Downstairs, it’s busy. Day two of training is apparently a dead zone, and most mentors mill about aimlessly, catching up. I try to find District 3, but to my annoyance, they seem to be the only district not present.

Finnick and Annie seem caught up in a conversation with District 2, and I’m still feeling strange about Chess, so I avoid them. Instead, I find myself roped into a conversation with some of the mentors from the outer districts. They’re all older, obviously good friends, and I find their conversation a bit boring, but it’s better than standing by myself and looking stupid.

“She’s a firecracker,” Emmer from District 9 tells us when someone asks about the female tribute from his district. He’s the youngest of the group — late thirties, maybe — and I think the Capitol considered him a bit of a looker back in the day. He’s still handsome now, though he’s definitely fallen out of popularity since his hair started going grey. 

I wonder if that’s what Ashley is most worried about when it comes to his weight. Less popularity means less sponsors, I suppose.

“Do you know why she volunteered?” Seeder from District 11 asks him.

He shrugs. “She won’t say. We’re trying to get her to announce it at the interviews, but I guess the mystery incentivises them to keep her alive.”

Haymitch from 12 snorts. “Smart.”

I don’t like tribute talk, and there’s not much for me to add, so I just stand there bored as they drone on. Seeder tries to drag me into the conversation, but I’m not in the mood. She seems nice and all, but Foley’s words have put a damper on things, and I don’t really care about making friends right now.

District 3 comes down around midday. Ashley is still meeting with the Gamemakers, and I’ve filed all my sponsor requests in, so I’m dead bored. I take a few phone appointments and sign a couple small amounts, but nothing much comes of it.

Finnick and Annie seem busy with their own work. He leaves at twelve for what I presume is a meeting with a benefactor — quote unquote. Annie sits uneasily and I consider going up to her, but before I can, she disappears upstairs.

The pair from Three are an older man called Beetee and a woman a few years his junior called Wiress. They know all about their tributes’ alliance with Chipper, and seem happy to talk shop. Or rather, Beetee does most of the talking. Wiress just fiddles with her desktop behind her glasses and shoots half-finished sentences in my direction, which I have no way of deciphering.

“Mode is a very smart girl,” Beetee tells me. “I teach at the school sometimes. She’s at the top of her class.”

I doubt being good at mathematics is going to save her life when she’s running from a jumped-up seventeen year old with a knife, I think. I don’t say that though. I just shrug. “Chipper seems strong, so I suppose he covers that end of things.”

“Mode said he picked up building shelters quickly,” Beetee says. Wiress nods enthusiastically. “If he’s bright, I can’t see why he wouldn’t be good enough for an alliance.”

At first it seems like an alright group, but as time goes on, I find that District 3 is starting to drive me insane. They keep turning to each other and discussing things about the room’s technology I don’t understand. They talk to me like I’m stupid, and when their bad jokes don’t land with me, they exchange unintelligible glances. I tell myself I’m doing this for Chipper, and decide that as soon as my time here is over, I’m never placing myself in a situation with just these two again.

Ashley descends at around three. I approach him as soon as I can. He’s slumped down at his desk, glasses askew and a glum expression on his face.

“I can’t believe your meeting was that long,” I tell him.

“It wasn’t,” he says. “I had an appointment afterward.”

“Oh. Who?”

“Johanna, does it matter?” he says, sharply. “Nobody pleasant.”

I blink. “Sorry. Whatever. How was the meeting?”

“Nothing you wouldn’t expect,” Ashley says. “They’re worried that she might do something to hurt herself. They’ve assigned her a guardian during training and we’re not allowed knives at dinner anymore. They’re going to give her a low dose of some sort of calming medication.”

“Lovely,” I say. “That’s going to make her loads of friends with the other tributes.”

Ashley gives me a look. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Obviously I know, Ash,” I say. “Hey, at least you don’t have to be all buddy buddy with District 3 this week.” I point over my shoulder. “They’re a fucking nightmare.”

He shrugs. “They’re not that bad.”

“They’re incomprehensible.”

“Mm,” he says. “Do you mind, Jo? I have a lot to catch up on.”

I frown at him, feeling at once both angry and upset at his tone of voice. I don’t say anything else, though. I just let him get to his work, finish my own, and then go back upstairs without him.

I can’t imagine I’d fare much better in his position. It makes me feel guilty, because Foley was originally my tribute, but he was the one who suggested we swap in the first place. He knows what he’s doing far more than I do.

Still, I get the feeling that he’s not just in a bad mood about Foley. I think he might be mad at me about last night. I guess I don’t blame him completely, because I know I didn’t word things the best, but I wish he’d just talk to me about it instead of being snappy.

I guess I’m not one to talk.

Foley goes straight to bed after training. I sit with Chipper for a while after dinner, half watching television, half discussing training. “I picked up spears really quickly,” he tells me. “Mode and Seth say I’m really good at learning stuff fast.”

“That’s good,” I tell him. I’m glad he’s optimistic — even if I can’t let myself be. “Do you think you’ll show that at private training tomorrow?”

He shrugs. “Maybe. I was thinking of swinging an axe, but they probably get bored of tributes from Seven doing that.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I say. “There’s no harm in doing both, I suppose.”

He nods. “I’ll do both, then.”

We watch the rest of the movie without much talk of the Games. Chipper laughs at the jokes and tells me about the pranks he used to pull on his father back home. I think about how it might go off if he mentions this at the interviews, and then feel weird about it, because we’re just supposed to be talking.

We go to bed late. Ashley’s already in his room, and as I walk by, the door is open.

“Night,” I call, somewhat hoping he’ll take it as a chance to actually talk.

He’s sitting at the desk, reading some papers. I think it might be another script. I almost smile. It’s exactly like him to still be working, even now. “Are you going back to yours?”

“I guess.”

“You can sleep here again, if you like,” he says. His voice is still flat. He gestures behind him to his bed lamely.

“I’m not going to bother you every fucking night, Ashley,” I say.

He shrugs. “If you sleep better I don’t really care.”

I feel odd, but I take him up on the offer. Maybe that’s selfish, but I need to be awake and aware for Chipper’s sake, and right now, I feel like his feelings are more important than mine.

It feels a lot more awkward tonight than it did yesterday. Ashley doesn’t talk much at all. He looks exhausted, and turns over quickly. I lie there for a while, staring at the ceiling. It’s warmer in the room with the two of us, and I’m acutely aware of his breathing. 

“Hey Ashley?” I say, after a few minutes of silence. “Are you actually OK?”

He doesn’t reply. By his breathing, I can tell he’s already asleep. I don’t wake him up. I turn over and decide that it’s a matter for another time.

CHIPPER panics the next morning before training. I find him sitting in front of a full plate of food, his eyes burning holes into the table in front of him.

“You should eat,” I tell him. “It’s good to put on a bit of -”

“What if I fail?” he asks, interrupting me. “I keep imagining that I get to my private training and I miss every target, and then they laugh at me.”

“Okay, well first, don’t be stupid. They won’t laugh at you,” I say. “They don’t care enough about you to laugh at you.”

He slumps his shoulders. “That makes me feel better…”

“No,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Seriously, they don’t give a shit about you, and that’s a good thing. They don’t actually care what score you get. They’re more interested in the food.”

“So, what? I just go up there and let them ignore me?”

“No,” I say. “You go up there and do your thing, and you let the numbers speak for themselves.”

“What if the numbers are bad?”

“Then they’re bad. It doesn’t really matter that much anyways, not unless you score really high or really low – which, let’s be honest, you won’t.”

“So none of it matters?”

“Not really,” I say. “Just treat it like a final practice before the arena.” I push his plate closer to him. “Now eat, before I force it down your throat myself.”

Chipper takes a large bite of his toast and looks up at me. “Thanks, Johanna.”

Probably because of the drugs they’ve put her on, Foley actually cooperates today. She stands swaying in the elevator as the doors close, and Chipper gives me an awkward glance. I shake my head at him. You’ll be fine.

After they go downstairs, I make a few appointments to meet some sponsors around the city. None are high bidders, but they seem like nice company. One offers to go on a hike around the mountains. I almost ask Ashley if he wants to come – he might get some money for Foley out of it – but when I go looking for him, he’s nowhere to be found. 

By mid afternoon, I feel like I’m sleepwalking, but I do have more money in the bank. After looking at the past few years of prices I feel confident that I could probably afford to send Chipper some water, maybe even a blanket if I’m lucky. Pooling together with District 3, we might actually be able to keep them afloat. 

Of course, this is under the assumption that Chipper makes it through the first day, but I don’t really want to think about the possibility that he doesn’t.

As I wait for the tributes to finish training, I sit in the courtyard and play a game of cards with District 1. They’re not as bad as I made them out to be. Augustus is actually a bit of an awkward conversationalist, despite what the cameras make him out to be, and the female mentor – an older woman named Epoxy – is crass in a funny way. They’re not anything like the intimidating Careers that they show on television. It makes me wonder how much of the behaviour their tributes exhibit is real, and how much is just for show.

I learn that Calico – the boy from One – is a genius with traps. Augustus thinks that he might be the smartest boy that their district has produced in years. Their girl, Rosarie, seems to have a problem with authority figures. Epoxy worries that she’ll do something stupid in her private session. 

I don’t say anything about Chipper, but they don’t ask either, so it works out pretty well.

When I return upstairs, the others have all already arrived. To my surprise, Foley is actually in the living room, instead of locked away in her quarters. She’s curled up quietly on the sofa, patting her stuffed owl’s fur and avoiding eye contact. It doesn’t look like much, but I know it’s miles above what we’ve seen this week. Minnie sits with her, and Chipper nervously watches coverage of some sports game on the other armchair. Ashley is nowhere to be found.

“How did it go?” I ask Chipper. 

He shrugs. “I did what you said, and tried to forget they were there.”

“Did it work?”

“I hit the targets, I guess,” he says, quietly. “So there’s that.”

“Guess we’ll see, then,” I say. “I’m sure you’ll score fine.”

As it turns out, he scores more than.

After dinner, they play the broadcast. Ashley does actually join us, coming up from downstairs about ten minutes before dinner. I have no clue where he’s been. He watches carefully and makes sure Foley eats as much as possible, but doesn’t eat much himself. 

A few minutes before eight o’clock, an Avox pours us all hot chocolates and we draw the windows shut, even though nobody would be able to look inside from our height. 

Calico from District 1 starts us off the broadcast strong with a ten, which I already know will be one of the top spots of the night. I think of Augustus telling me about the traps and try not to imagine Chipper stuck in one, crying out for help as the pack descends. 

His district partner, Rosarie, receives a nine, as do both tributes from District 2. Seth from District 3 receives a six, and Mode receives a five.

“They thought they might score something like that,” Chipper tells me. “They said being about the middle would probably be good - because then people won’t pay too much attention to them.

Neither will sponsors, I think, but I just nod. At least this proves they’re not entirely useless.

District 4 scrounges up two nines again. Calico is still holding the lead. 

Chipper scores an eight.

“Wow,” he says, blinking at the screen in disbelief. “Seriously?”

“They must have liked your swinging,” I say. I have the strange urge to ruffle his hair. I resist it. Despite myself, I’m smiling. “Good job.”

“I thought I might get a six, maybe a seven if I’m lucky,” he says, eyes bright. “They really liked me that much?”

“Guess they did, kid,” I say. Minnie pats him on the arm, and even Ashley gives him a small smile.

Foley receives a score of one. 

It doesn’t really surprise any of us, and nobody says anything when the number pops up. Even the announcers brush past it. Chipper’s smile drops awkwardly, as if he’s guilty about his own score. 

She doesn’t really respond, apart from to hide her eyes in her palms and rock back and forth in her corner of the sofa.

The rest of the scores aren’t much to contend with, apart from the girl from District 9, Pepper, who also receives a ten.

I stare at the screen and frown. “I wonder what she did to manage that?”

“She must be really cool,” Chipper says.

“You stay away from her,” I warn him.

We let the tributes go to bed early. Tomorrow morning they can sleep in. It will be their last day of relative freedom before the Games, since they’ll spend the day before getting ready for the interviews. We’re supposed to prep them over the course of tomorrow, but I don’t really think I’ll really have my work cut out for me with Chipper. Once I help him get over his stagefright, they’ll love him.

It occurs to me that, once again, I’ve found myself getting fond of him. It’s infuriating. This always seems to happen. I meet someone and tell myself that I’m not allowed to get attached, and then before I know it, I’m considering them a friend. It’s dangerous. I need to stop.

As I make my way up the stairs for bed, I try to remind myself that Chipper is a dead boy walking. If I don’t get that in my head, it’ll be like Chess all over again. 

I wish they knew him, I find myself thinking. I wish they knew him like I’ve gotten to. Maybe then they wouldn’t want him dead.

It’s the same thought I had with Minnie – the same thought that I’m sure whatever rebellion exists has already discussed for all its worth. It feels so simple, it’s stupid. 

Man, I think to myself. If Chipper dies, I don’t give a shit whether this rebellion wants me or not. I’m finding them and forcing my way in.

I try to ignore the fact that my brain automatically lingers on the if, instead of when. 

Ashley and I don’t discuss sleeping arrangements tonight. I take a shower in my bathroom and then join him. He’s lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. I have no clue what he’s thinking.

“Rough day?” I ask.

“Something like that,” he replies. “Goodnight, Johanna.”

I was right about Chipper and training for the interviews, of course. He barely needs any preparation. There’s no way to rehearse his way out of stage fright, but I do make him stand on the balcony overlooking the Capitol and direct all his answers to the city below. For some reason, he finds this extremely funny. 

“Why do they all look like that?” he asks me. “With their silly wigs and stuff?”

“I’ve never thought about it,” I say. “I guess they think it looks nice.”
“Yeah, but why?” he pries. Then he blanches. “Oh no, do you think they’ll make me wear one for the interviews tomorrow too?”

I laugh. “No, Chipper, they won’t do that. They want you recognizable in the arena.”

There’s a moment of silence as his face drops. We both remember that he’ll be in the arena in two days. Less than. “Do you think it will be bad?”

“What, the arena?”

“Yeah.”

I frown. “Honestly, Chipper - probably.”

“I thought it would be, yeah,” he says, frowning at the streets below. “Hey, Johanna, can I ask you something?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you go visit my dad, if I don’t make it out?”

I look at him. “I told you, you’re not allowed to talk like that.”

“I know, and I won’t. Not after this. I just want to know. Will you go visit him and make sure he’s alright? And will you tell him that I didn’t have such a horrible time, after all? That I made a few friends and stuff?” He looks down at his shoes. “I don’t have a lot of friends back home.”

My throat tightens, and I remind myself that this is why I shouldn’t let so many people in. I nod. “Yeah, of course I will, Chipper.”

“Okay,” he nods. Then he straightens up and turns back out to the city. “Okay, ask me another question.”

In the afternoon, I leave him to prepare etiquette with Minnie. I don’t want to, but I have a meeting with his stylist to attend to. Luckily, Agrippa has agreed to meet me downstairs in the lobby, at a little coffee-shop area, to discuss the plans.

“He’s stronger than he looks,” Agrippa tells me, laying out a few pictures of the design he’s picked out on the table in front of us. “I thought it might be a good idea to show his arms.”

The suit in the images is neatly made, all straight lines and angles. The shirt underneath has a high collar, paired well with clunky jewellery. At the shoulder, in a distressed fashion, the arms appear to have been torn off - leaving the mannequin wearing the outfit half-exposed. 

I think of the audience. If he wins, they’re going to eat him alive. 

“What do you think?” Agrippa asks me.

I look up and try to smile. “Looks great.”

Before I return, I pop down to the Click to see if I’ve gotten a few more sponsor requests since last night. As it turns out, the training scores have done wonders. Chipper is doing well for himself. Apparently the night before the Games is the biggest time for sponsor submissions, but if this is anything to go by, I’m feeling optimistic. As long as he doesn’t sink the interview, I think his popularity is going to remain steady. 

Chipper is feeling good at dinner. He eats a lot. I think he knows that tomorrow at dinner he’s probably going to be too nervous to enjoy the meal. I decide to follow in his footsteps and actually try to taste the food for once. It actually fucking delicious. Poor Lynn and her bakery have nothing on this. 

Maybe it’s because of the amount of food I’ve consumed, but I struggle getting to sleep at night. Everything is too warm, the darkness is giving me a headache, and Ashley is tossing and turning too much. At one point I actually consider returning to my room, but then the idea of being alone with my thoughts feels like hell, so I settle for being uncomfortable. 

It’s just past midnight when Ashley wakes up. He sits up all at once, gasping. I’m still only half-asleep, so I turn over quickly. In the dim light I can see he’s sweaty, auburn hair plastered to his forehead. He blinks for a moment, confused.

“Shit,” he says, turning to me. “Sorry.”

“Nightmare?”

He grimaces. “Something like that.” He rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands. “That’s embarrassing.”

“Not really,” I say. “What were you dreaming about?”

“Nothing pleasant,” he sighs. “Go back to bed, Jo.”

I reach over and turn on the bedside light. Warm orange fills the room. Ashley looks absolutely terrible. His skin is pale and there are heavy bags under his eyes. “You’ve been acting really weird, dude.”

“Have I?” he says, dryly. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Don’t be such a dick.”

“ I’m the dick?” He looks at me. Then he pauses. “Well, I suppose I did wake you up, so that’s sort of fair, but -”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” I tell him. “Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

He pulls a face. “In case you haven’t been able to tell, Johanna, my tribute is going to die terribly, and she’s absolutely miserable.”

“Yeah.” I pull my knees up. “I know that. You do know I’m willing to help you, right?”

“It’s your first year, Jo. I’m not going to put you through that. Besides, you’re doing great with Chipper.”

“He’s easy,” I say.

“And he likes you,” Ashley replies. He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t be bitter. It’s fine.”

I look at him. “Are you mad about the other day?”

“Pardon?”

“The first night I, um, slept here. When we were talking. And you told me about the comments people made about your-”

He goes red and crosses his arms. “It’s whatever, Jo.”

“No, like…” I pause. “I didn’t exactly mean what I said. It came out wrong. I’m sorry. I think they’re all stupid. I think you look great.”

Ashley frowns at me for a moment, surprised. Then he shakes his head. “Oh, it’s so dumb. I shouldn’t be worked up about something like that, especially with the Games. It’s vain .”

“Nah,” I shrug. “It’s human. They’re always trying to take that from us, but it’s like Finnick said, right? We’re not just the Games.”

He blinks. “You are deceptively smart, Johanna Mason.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you apologise before, either.” He narrows his eyes, and then, for the first time in a couple of days, he smiles. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, don’t expect many more of those,” I say, haughtily. “I’m only apologising because you’re in a shit spot.”

He snorts. “Of course.”

I stretch my hands up above my head. “What was the dream about, then?”

“My mother,” he says, after a pause. “I was dreaming I’d been forced back into the Games, and she was the announcer.”

“That sounds shitty,” I say. 

“Nah, it wasn’t too bad. It was just me in the Games. Nobody else. I remember thinking that I was lucky that I wasn’t in there with anyone I cared about. That would have been a real nightmare.”

I consider this. It’s something I’ve thought of before. “Dreams are weird.”

“Mm,” he echoes. “Sorry for waking you up.”

I shrug. “You can make it up to me by moping around less tomorrow. And actually talk to me. I miss my friend.”

He gives me the smallest grin. “Fine. Deal.”

I turn the light off. The air is very still. 

I wonder, if I ever dreamed, what sort of nightmares I’d have. Would they be like Ashley's? Would I picture myself in hellish situation after hellish situation, with no escape, or would they be different sort of liminal nightmares? If my imagination is anything to go by, I’m lucky I don’t.

Either way, it’s better being here, I think, as I finally drift off to sleep. 

Chapter Text

Nobody sets an alarm, because there’s no real reason to get up early. By the time I’m properly awake, the tributes are already in prep. I groan and rub my eyes. The other side of the bed is empty, the cover folded neatly over. For some reason I feel oddly cold. There’s no noise from the bathroom, and the front door is shut.

Stretching out my legs, I press a button on the nightstand which releases the curtains. Warm, buttery light fills the room. It’s a rare pleasant day in the Capitol, and the sky is a bright summer blue instead of the usual polluted white. From this side of the building I can even catch a brief glimpse of the lake bordering the edge of the city, and beyond that, the mountains. The environment here is so different to back home — arid and dusty. I wonder what the Capitol must look like from the tops of the nearby peaks.

I stand up and pad around the room. There’s nothing for me to do today except show up for the interviews. I won’t be able to speak to Chipper until tonight, and it’s Minnie’s job to coordinate with the stage crews for later, so I have no responsibilities at all until the Games begin tomorrow. It feels like the calm before the storm. Though the air is still, I can sense the hurricane coming in on the horizon. There’s nothing I can do to stop it, and no matter how hard I try, I know I can’t get out of its path.

It’s also the first time all week that things have felt silent. I take the moment to investigate the room. It’s not really that different to mine, but curiosity wins out anyways. Ashley’s closet is full of fancy clothes. I run my hand over a knitted jumper and wonder how much money must be spent on each victor’s wardrobe. I like these outfits. They’re nicer than what I’ve been given. Less Capitol, at the very least, which is funny, because one of the first things I thought when I saw Ashley was how Capitol he seemed.

I suppose that’s the thing about being a victor, though. You’re not quite Capitol, but you’re not quite District anymore either. You’re something neither wants. 

Ashley has no messages on his answering machine. No sponsors. The drawers next to his bedside table are empty, except for a thin book he’s reading, and a plain wooden band that I figure might be a ring. The only thing of interest is the notebook he used the other day, still lying open on his desk, spine up to the ceiling.

I take a quick peek. The page he left it on is mostly empty, with just a few words scrawled at the top. It takes me a moment to decipher his handwriting, but I make out the words ‘ forest fire’ and ‘hill’ jotted down. 

“If I knew you’d be snooping around, I wouldn’t have brought this as an olive branch.”

I turn around. Ashley stands in the doorway, holding two ceramic mugs. He walks in and sets one down on the table, closing the book with a sharp thud.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Oh, I don’t even know anymore,” he says. “I thought it might be a play, but I can’t come up with any good ideas.”

I pick up the mug and take a sip. Coffee. Cream, no sugar. The heat leeches away some of the fog crowding my mind.

“Did you sleep alright?”

I shrug.  “Pretty well, yeah. Better than before. I don’t know why having company helps.”

 Ashley sits on the edge of his bed, cross-legged. He’s still dressed in his pyjamas, his hair half-up and tangled.

“We all have our own ways of dealing with things, I guess.” He frowns. “I’m sorry about last night, though.”

I shrug and take another sip. “It’s fine. I expected it at one point.”

“Mm,” Ashley grimaces. “The tributes are in prep, by the way.”

“I figured.”

“Minnie’s sorting an interpreter for Foley,” he tells me. “Do you think Chipper will be alright?”

“Oh, yeah,” I nod. I don’t know why I feel so confident about that, but my talk with him yesterday has solidified that he has something to him. “He’s a good kid. He’ll be fine.”

“I wish I could say the same thing about Foley,” Ashley says, unhappily.

“No sponsor appointments today?”

“No.”

“No other appointments?”

He pulls a face. “Nothing like that.” He pauses. “I might go out with some of the others today, though. Like Finnick and stuff. There’s that drinking club.”

I look at him. “Oh, yeah? Am I invited?”

“Nah, I don’t think it would interest you,” he says, casual, but deliberate. I know what he’s talking about, and I feel something in my chest deflate, but I don’t press the issue. Obviously.

“Guess I’m just sitting ducks, then,” I tell him, trying and failing to hide my disappointment. I decide to change the subject. “Why do you want to write about forest fires, anyways?” I ask, gesturing to his notebook.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “It’s been bouncing around in my head ever since we went on that walk.”

I think of sitting at the top of that hill. What I wouldn’t give to be there now . “Do you think you’d want to, like, put it on, if you wrote it, or -”

He shakes his head. “Nah. This one’s just for me.”

“Huh,” I stand up. “I’m going to take a shower. Thanks for the olive branch.”

He snorts. “Thought you said I wouldn’t catch you saying ‘thanks’ again.”

I give him a look, and then head back to my bedroom, trying not to think about how jealous I am that he actually gets to be part of something.

WE go downstairs around midday, because there’s not really anything else to do. I don’t ask Ashley what time his appointment is, because I don’t want to draw any attention to it, and there’s always someone listening. 

Most of the victors are milling around in the Click. It seems like the de-facto hangout spot, which is strange, because there’s a cafeteria the next floor up, and I can’t imagine this place is associated with particularly good memories. 

Beetee and Wiress find me immediately when I arrive.

“We wanted to get your opinion on the plan,” Beetee asks, once they’ve ushered me into a corner. I try to give Ashley a helpless look, but he just shrugs.

“What plan?” I frown.

He and Wiress exchange glances. “The strategy for the Cornucopia,” he says. “Seth and Mode have been talking about it all since yesterday.”

“I don’t know about any strategy.”

“Oh,” he says, plainly confused.

“Did her boy - did he not say?” Wiress asks, half directed towards me, half towards Beetee. I hate how she never looks me in the eye.

“Chipper hasn’t told me about anything.”

“Well, that certainly is odd,” Beetee says. “He’s quite involved.”

I cross my arms. “Okay, so don’t talk in circles. What’s going on?”

“They’ve agreed that the likelihood of surviving as a trio is low without supplies from the Cornucopia. Analysis of the past few Games shows that the tributes have been in environs conducive to survival. Statistically, it would make sense that this year’s arena would be a tougher sell.”

“Wait, they’re planning on going in?”

“Somewhat,” Beete says, waving his hand from side to side. “The plan is simple, on paper. On the last day of training, the tributes staged some sort of disagreement. As far as the other tributes are concerned, Chipper is no longer part of their alliance.”

“Why would they do that? That’ll just draw attention to them.”

Beetee gives me a look that says wait and see. “Once they rise into the arena, Seth and Mode will likely be across the circle from one another. The plan will depend on whoever is closest to Chipper. That person will follow his lead, and the remaining tribute will skirt around the outside of the Cornucopia, using a signal to tell the others which direction they’re planning on running towards. Chipper will run for a bag — of course, this depends on if there are bags, otherwise the whole plan is void  — and the person closest to him will run for the same one. They will stage a fight amongst one another. Most likely, with easier pickings, the other tributes will aim to avoid them and attack others who aren’t involved in a brawl, hopefully letting them get out unscathed and with a bag, once the attention shifts away.”

I blink. “That’s fucking stupid. Doesn’t matter if they fake a fight. The inner district kids don’t give a shit. They take down whoever, whether they’re already scrapping or not.”

“Normally, yes, that would be correct,” Beetee says. “But this year, they’re being extra careful. They don’t want to risk another loss, and I have it on good authority that One and Two have told their tributes to not lose any numbers at the Cornucopia, even if that means letting weaker tributes get away. Seth and Mode already knew this. Did your boy not tell you?”

I feel a flush of anger. “No,” I say. “Because he knows I’d tell him it was dumb.”

Beetee shrugs. “It might seem like a far-fetched plan, but nothing in the arena is risk free.”

“And you’re sure your kids can stand up to scrap?” I say. “You don’t think the other tributes will notice they’re baulking?”

Beetee smiles at Wiress. “Oh, you haven’t been doing this long, have you?”

I feel my face go hot. “No, obviously not,” I say, sharply. 

“The children seem certain it’s a solid plan,” Beetee says. “I’m happy to trust them. Besides, I think we can expect a hot arena this year. Likely hard dirt, quite arid. I doubt there will be much in the way of a complicated Cornucopia. Nothing like last year.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh yeah. I’m sure it will be piss easy.”

I’m in a bad mood, but they still keep me trapped for another half-hour, running over the plans for sponsors. Since I’ve made the most money so far, they’ll transfer things into my account, and if Chipper dies, I can send it all back to them. 

I don’t like the way they speak so casually about Chipper dying. It seems as though they’ve dismissed him already, which is ironic, because their tributes seem like twigs next to him. The girl in particular, Mode, looks like a particularly strong breeze could knock her over. 

She seems to be the pair's obvious favourite, from the way they talk about her. They barely mention the boy, except in the context of the whole team.

At around one in the afternoon they shuffle off, excusing themselves to go to some sort of scheduled appointment. When I turn around, I realise a handful of the mentors have already fled the room. Ashley, Finnick, Haymitch, the pair from Eleven, the woman from Eight. The Click suddenly feels devoid of life. I watch Beetee and Wiress go, and wonder if they’re involved in this rebellion too.

If they are, and I’m not, I decide that I’m pissed off. 

I eat a late lunch with a couple of the remaining mentors. I seem to have made a good enough impression on Augustus that he drags me into a conversation with the larger group. When I bring up my frustrations working with District 3, they all laugh.

“Oh, that’s just Nuts and Volts,” Emmer tells me. “I had to sit with them for two weeks during the Sixty-Eight Games. What a nightmare .”

“Nuts and Volts?”

“She’s called Nuts, because, well, she’s nuts,” Enobaria explains. “And he’s Volts because he shocked half the pack to death in his Games. Highest kill count for a non-volunteer. We teach kids about him back in Two.”

I think about Beetee. He seems mild, at best. I can’t imagine him being able to kill a fly, let alone a sizable group of people. “Right.”

The interviews are scheduled to start at eight, so I go upstairs at around six. An Avox has laid out an outfit on my bed, with a written instruction from Odette telling me this is what I’m supposed to wear tonight. It’s a tight, shimmery black thing, with broad, sharp shoulder pads. Folded up underneath the dress is a pair of knee-length leather boots. My shins sweat at the sight of them. 

I clomp around my room for an hour. I have no team to help me, and I have no clue how to do my hair and makeup. I settle for smudging black around my eyes in an attempt to look intentionally messy, and I find that I actually quite like the look. My hair goes up in a choppy ponytail. It’s grown out quite a bit since last year, and now it falls just past my shoulders. 

I consider getting it trimmed soon, because having it so long just reminds me of the arena.

Downstairs, the others are waiting. I already know what Chipper’s suit will look like, but I wince seeing it on his body. He looks too young, and he keeps patting his arms self-consciously. 

I have the urge to pull him aside and start shaking him for not telling me about his plan, but he already looks like he’s going to throw up. I don’t want to throw him off for his interview, so I settle for having a go at him later.

Foley floats into the room in a long, sunshine yellow gown. Odette has her long hair done up in little braids, and her eyes are coated in silver. They already look like teardrops, which is ironic. She still clutches her owl, her other hand gripped ahold of Minnie’s — who is in a simple purple smock, of all things. 

Ashley’s already ready. I notice we’re matching in black. He has his hair down, and a long leather coat draped casually over his shoulders. He looks nervous. 

“Well, I think that means we’re all ready to go!” Minnie says when they see me, their voice falsely bright. “Your stylists are already warming up the crowds, I’m sure. Let’s go give them a show!”

Foley squeezes their hand as they usher the tributes into the elevator. Chipper looks at me uncertainly.

“So, I think they might hate me,” he says.

“Oh, stop being so negative,” I tell him. “You’re a charming young man. Act like it.”

He blinks. “Is that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?”

“Both.”

Nobody says anything else as the elevator takes us all the way down to the stage.

THE mentors file in before the tributes, since we’re technically not the stars of the show. The audience doesn’t seem to think so. They holler non-stop as we sit down. They seem to have been waiting for hours, and I can smell the alcohol on their breaths from a mile away.

We’re seated in victory order, meaning I’m at the end of the row, next to Annie Cresta. She’s dressed in a pretty green flock that looks like sea foam, and she gives me a slightly absent smile once we’re sat. Some loud mic feedback from the stage sends her reeling before we can chat, though. She places her hands over her ears and starts humming to herself. I see Finnick peer anxiously down at her from the row, but he’s not able to get up to comfort her. I settle for awkwardly playing with my nail polish until she appears to calm down.

“You alright?” I ask, when her hands are back in her lap. I’m not sure I’d say anything normally, especially not on camera, but Finnick keeps looking in our direction, and I think he might have an aneurism if he doesn’t think anyone is taking care of her.

She blinks and says plainly, “I don’t like loud noises.” 

“You’d hate it in Seven, then,” I tell her. “Usually you can hear the chainsaws and trucks from town.”

“I went to Seven once,” she says. “On a train. It was pretty.”

I frown. Does she mean her Victory Tour? Did Annie even have a Victory Tour? “Yeah, it’s nice. It’s better in summer, though. Winter’s pretty shit, all things considered. I bet it’s never cold in Four.”

“Not usually, but it does get stormy, sometimes,” she says. “I love home in the summer. It’s like dessert.”

I’m not quite sure what she means, but before I can ask, Caesar Flickerman appears on stage to warm us up, and the crowd goes insane. Annie has her fingers in her ears again. 

The tributes find their places on stage. Sandwiched between Foley and the girl from Eight, I can only be grateful that Chipper looks as strong as he does. He seems nervous, and he keeps wiping his palms on his trousers — which I told him not to do — but he slowly settles as Caesar calls the girl from One up on stage. 

The angles are obvious, like they are every year. Calico from District 1 flirts with the women in the audience and jokes that they need another man to win, because the recent victors are getting stale. I think that’s supposed to be a dig at Finnick, which amuses me, because I don’t think he’ll ever go out of date in the Capitol, not even when he’s eighty. 

The tributes from Two are pushing the angle that it’s been a decade since they’ve won. They suggest that they’re here to return the Games to form. Mode from Three is sharp and quick in her responses, and Seth seems to surprise himself by actually landing a few jokes. Every time he does, he blinks in confusion. This makes Caesar laugh even more, and when Caesar laughs, the audience follows. 

When it’s Foley’s turn, Caesar explains that they’re inviting a guest on stage to help out. “This special girl isn’t able to hear very well,” he explains. “So when I talk to her, she’ll read my lips, and respond by gesturing with her hands. We have a lovely woman here to explain to us what Foley is trying to say.”

I frown as a middle-aged woman with a beehive hairdo saunters onto the stage to mass applause. Do deaf people not exist in the Capitol? Do they have the technology to fix that? The way he describes sign language, he makes it sound primitive, but deafness is common in Seven. 

Foley has to be informed it’s her turn. She keeps her head down, dazzled by the lights, and nervously claws her way to the back of the chair after shaking Caesar’s hand. Her owl sits perked up in her lap.

“So, Miss Foley, what have you thought of your extra special visit to the Capitol?”

Foley blinks at him, and then with shaking hands, begins to sign, very slowly.

“She says it is very big, Mister Flickerman.”

Caesar laughs. “Well, I’ll say! Especially for someone as small as you. Tell me, Foley, are you the smallest in your family?”

Ouch. I wince. Didn’t someone tell Caesar she was an orphan? I watch, uncomfortable, as Foley’s eyes water. She sniffs as she continues to sign.

“Foley’s family died of an illness a few years ago, but she says her mother was also very small.”

“Oh, my poor dear,” Caesar says. There are some sympathetic hums from the audience. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “And who is this special friend you have in your lap? Is he part of your family too?”

“His name is Big,” the woman explains, after Foley. “He’s her best friend.”

“Big and Little,” Caesar says. “I like that quite a lot.”

There’s a strange sort of atmosphere in the air as the interview continues, as if nobody is quite sure how to respond. The tributes in the back look uncomfortable – even the ones from Districts 1 and 2. I feel a sense of relief when her bell rings, because I don’t think anyone wants to see any more of a little girl waiting for death. Not even this audience. 

People seem happy when Chipper comes up on stage. When Caesar asks him how he’s feeling, he lets out a nervous, almost unhinged, laugh.

“Sorry,” he says, awkwardly. “I’ve kept that in the entire time! I felt like I might explode.”

The audience laughs. Chipper perks up. “Oh, are you one of those excitable sorts? Bad at sitting still, Chipper?”

“Yeah,” he admits. “Terrible. I always used to get in trouble for it in class. My dad always said it was a crime to force me into a desk.”

“And you’re close with your father?”

“Mm-hmm!” Chipper blinks, and then looks out towards the crowd, as if his father might be sitting there. “He used to take me on trips to the logyards and stuff. I used to help him carry stuff.”

“Well, you must be strong. Especially with a score like yours!” Caesar says. “Tell me, Chipper, do you think you have what it takes?”

For a moment, I see his smile falter. He yanks it right back. “Oh, I sure hope so! I think I’ve definitely got some fight in me.”

“Well,” Caesar says. “I can’t wait to see that tomorrow.”

It’s not a bad interview, all-in-all. I spent the allotted time for District 8 relieved, until I realise that Chipper’s ‘fight’ might just get him killed.

Pepper from District 9 surprises the audience by telling us that she volunteered simply because she wants to win. “My family’s poor,” she explains. “I want the money.”

The audience doesn’t say anything, but I know they won’t like this. You’re supposed to say you want it for the glory, not the prize. Caesar takes it in his stride. “A sacrifice for your family is most honourable.”

I wonder if that’s actually why she’s volunteered, or if her mentors just forced her to come up with something to say. 

Once everything is over, the tributes, stylists and mentors are ushered back to the Training Centre. The show will keep going on for a couple more hours. There'll be an interview with some of the Gamemakers, and then they’ll bring some experts to predict the timeline of the Games. They do this every year, and sometimes they’ll get a few things right, but they’re usually short on the money. I learnt later that last year they thought I’d die second. 

In the elevator up, everyone seems relieved. Minnie pats Foley’s hair and tells her she’s a star. Chipper is exhausted, but he’s no longer shaking.

“Good job,” I tell him. 

Dinner is an interesting affair. Chipper tries to consume as much food as he can, but I can tell the prospect of tomorrow is looming in his mind. Foley, on the other hand, actually eats properly for once. She seems strangely calm. When dessert is served, she places her arms on the table, and falls asleep. 

Minnie, who is sitting next to her, looks at her and starts crying. 

“I’m sorry,” they say, excusing themselves. “I can’t do this.”

We watch them go. After a few moments, Ashley picks up a sleeping Foley and carries her to her bedroom. I look at them go, knowing that the next time I see her, she’ll be in a coffin. 

I hope that she looks as peaceful then as she does now. 

Then it’s just Chipper, the stylists, and I. Nobody’s hungry, and Odette and Agrippa just seem uncomfortable. I ask Chipper if he wants to head to bed, and he says that’s probably a good idea. Since he’ll see Agrippa tomorrow, it’s not a final farewell. He gives them a polite smile and allows me to escort him to his bedroom. 

“Chipper,” I say, when we’re at his doorway. “I know about the plan for tomorrow.”

He swallows. “You do?”

“I talk to the other mentors,” I say. “I’m not stupid.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just knew you’d say no, and I -”

“Chipper, it’s dangerous.”

“I know,” he shrugs. “But isn’t everything dangerous anyways? Like, if I die, I die. Isn’t it better to die trying to do something?”

I look at him, and then sigh. “Okay. Fine. Okay.”

He rocks back on his feet, hesitating. “You sure?”

“I can’t stop you now,” I say.

There’s a moment where both of us are silent. Chipper coughs.

“Um. Thanks for, y’know…”

“Don’t mention it,” I say, quickly. God - I want to say more, but I have no clue what. 

“Goodnight, I guess.”

I reach out, holding the door. “Hey, um. Look. You’re a good kid, Chipper.”

He smiles. “Thank you, Johanna,” he says. Then he slips into his bedroom, closes the door, and he’s gone. 

I go back into the living room. The stylists are gone. I knock on Minnie’s door, but they don’t respond, and so I pace around for what feels like hours, though I know is only minutes. Finally, Ashley shows up again.

“Now what?” I ask him.

He shrugs. “It depends. Sometimes the night before the mentors will go sit on the roof and chat.”

“Chat?”

“I mean, nobody ever really sleeps much, and it’s something to do to pass the time. Keeps your mind busy. People usually peel off one by one whenever they’re ready.”

“You didn’t last year,” I say. “You stayed with me.”

“Yeah, well, you were special,” he says. 

I hate the way that strikes a chord with me. I roll my eyes, falsely. “That’s embarrassing, Ashley. Were you that smitten?”

A funny look crosses his face, and I don’t like that either. “Oh, zip it.”

We get changed and go upstairs. There’s already a large group about - at least thirteen of us. Below, on the streets, a party rages on. Someone is setting off fireworks. With the chatter, and the wind, and the crowds below, it’s loud. I wonder if the tributes from Twelve can hear us.

It’s loud.

As we approach the group, I nudge Ashley and ask under my breath, “How was the meeting?”

He frowns, as if dreading the question. “Um. Complicated.”

“And update on an invitation?”

“I said, it’s complicated. I’ll explain when we get home.”

“That long?” My heart sinks. “They don’t want me yet? I thought they were desperate. ”

“Jo, I’ll explain when I can,” he says, his voice low. “I promise.” 

My disappointment comes to join the rest of the emotions swirling in my gut. Thankfully, nobody seems to be in a particularly upbeat mood, so it goes unnoticed. 

Most of the victors present seem to be from the outer districts — though do I spot Finnick, Annie, and Enobaria from Two hanging about. 

“It’s despicable,” Finnick says, looking at the fireworks. It must really be too loud for anyone to hear anything, because I doubt even he would dare saying it otherwise. 

“I heard they used to scatter ashes in with a special sort of firework, a long time ago,” Cecelia from District 8 says. “I wonder if they do that in the Capitol.”

“That’s morbid,” I grimace. 

Someone orders drinks, but most of us don’t touch them. Nobody wants to be hungover tomorrow. An Avox brings up cups of coffee, tea, and hot chocolate. I find myself sitting on the floor against the railing with a few of the others, a hot thermos in my lap. Ashley and I make an unspoken agreement to stick together tonight, and he sits at my side.

“I felt so horrible for your girl,” Annie says to him. 

Ashley shrugs. “She was doing alright tonight. That’s a win, in my books. At least she’ll get a good night’s sleep.”

“It’s always hard when it’s the young ones,” says Cecelia.

“I don’t know,” Finnick says “When it’s the older ones, you end up with false hope that they’re actually going to make it out alive.”

I think about Chipper. Try as I might, I can’t picture him ever seeing his father again. “This is a special form of torture,” I say.

Finnick sighs. “Oh, yeah. That’s the point.”

People start trickling away around midnight. We play card games until my eyelids start to droop. I nudge Ashley. When we stand up to leave, I take one last look at the group. Tonight, we’re friends. Tomorrow, we’re working against each other.

I feel strangely sad about that.

Ashley and I don’t need to talk about where I’m sleeping anymore, though it occurs to me that depending on what happens tomorrow, I might have to sleep alone again. The idea makes me nervous, and also a little embarrassed. 

I don’t bring it up with him. 

“Do you ever get any sleep the night before?”

Ashley shrugs. “Sometimes. More than I did before my Games, at least. Didn’t sleep a wink, back then.”

“How old were you when you won, Ashley?”

“Sixteen,” he says. “Well, barely. I turned sixteen the week before the reaping. The first year I was eligible, I was the youngest person in the entire pool.”

“That’s crazy,” I say. “What were you like as a kid?”

Ashley pulls a face. “I cried a lot.”

I laugh. “Oh, I can picture that.”

He shoves me.

“It’s true!”

“Why’d you ask?”

“I dunno,” I say. “Everyone just looks so young. Last year, they felt like my equals. Now they look like children.”

“Yeah, well. Winning the Games will do that.”

“I kinda miss being a kid.”

Ashley looks at me. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Mm. Me too.”

We don’t say anything after that. There’s not really a point. I turn over to go to sleep, and find myself wishing that I was eleven years old and back in my childhood bed, with no dead mother, no sick tributes, no rebellion, no Victors, no Capitol, and no Hunger Games. 

Chapter Text

When I wake up on the morning of the Seventy-Second Annual Hunger Games, I’m alone. I sit up and for a moment I wonder if this past year has all been just a dream; if everyone who died is still alive, if it’s my turn all over again. Then I see the blink of light coming from the closed bathroom door and I breathe. 

When Ashley comes back and sees me upright, he sighs and flicks on the bedroom light. The clock tells me it’s half seven, but it feels earlier than that. It feels like I’ve woken up before the crack of dawn, when the whole world is frozen and everything is holding its breath.

“They’ll be long gone,” Ashley says. “We’ll be allowed down on the hour.”

I picture Chipper curled up in his seat on the hovercraft, biting his nails to nubs as he flies over unknown soil, blind to where he’ll end up. I wonder what thoughts must be racing through his mind. He must be so scared. 

I realise that I didn’t tell him Beetee’s theory about the arena. Likely his allies from Three already passed on the information, and so I can only hope with all my heart that they’re right, and that nothing throws him off.

When I go to get dressed, I realise the front door is locked from the outside. Ashley tells me they do it every night before the Games to ensure we don’t do anything stupid, like try to talk to the tributes on their way out. I have nothing to wear, so he offers me some of his clothes.

“It doesn’t really matter what you wear,” he says. “But if Chipper dies today, they’ll probably try to interview you, so just bear that in mind.”

I wince at how casually he says it, but I guess that’s how we have to go about things. 

It feels strange to rifle around in Ashley’s wardrobe. I pick out a grey sweater and some black shorts, and get changed in his bathroom. They’re slightly big on me. I need a belt and I keep having to roll up the sleeves. When I look in the mirror, especially with my hair down, I don’t look like a victor at all. I just look like a person.

Good, I think. I don’t want a victor to be the one to watch Chipper die.

As we wait for the hour to hit, I explain the tributes’ plan for the Cornucopia to Ashley. He looks pensive as I speak.

“I just know something’s going to go wrong,” I say. “I'm certain.”

“The only thing that’s for certain in the arena is that you can never predict how things are going to go,” he shrugs. “The only thing you can do is wait and see.”

“I hate fucking waiting,” I say.

Ashley gives me the ghost of a smile. “I know, Johanna.”

Like clockwork, the door clicks open on the hour. Downstairs, Minnie sits on the sofa. Their face is devoid of makeup, their legs curled up, nestling their body. They look up with hollow eyes as we approach.

“There’ll be breakfast for you downstairs,” they say. “I could always call up an Avox, if you -”

“We’ll be fine, Minnie,” Ashley says.

“I’m supposed to handle the press,” they continue. It sounds like someone is piloting them as they speak. “There’s a special room for all of us to work in.” They blink. “Oh, but I don’t want to go. I don’t want to see it all happen in front of the others. And when people call, I won’t know what to say.”

“It’ll be easier once today’s over,” Ashley says awkwardly. I don’t think Ashley knows how to handle this any better than I do, but at least he can bring himself to speak to them.

 Just like the other day, I expect to feel vindicated seeing Minnie like this - but I’m not. I just feel uncomfortable.

“Those poor children,” Minnie says and then slips into silence again.

When we take the elevator down, we stop on the first floor to let District 1 in. Augustus and Epoxy don’t carry any of the bravado I’ve come to expect from the inner districts, just weariness. I suppose someone could chalk it up to the fact that it’s early and they must be tired, but I know it’s more than that. Something, something, we’re all on the same sinking ship. Sure, some of us might know how to swim, but it’s not any fun watching people drown.

The Click has the same atmosphere as the main square in District 7 does on reaping day; full of people, with very little noise. My stomach does a summersault when I catch sight of the great screen on the far end of the hall projecting a countdown timer to the start of the Games. There are two hours to go. 

Beetee and Wiress are already sat waiting and preparing. They beckon me over. I look over at Ashley. Last year, he told me that Blight and Cecelia let him sit with them, even though they weren’t formally allied. Glancing around the room, it seems like even unallied district pairs tend to sit together. District 3 are the only ones who haven’t considered the memo. There are only three seats at their table. 

Ashley gives me a wry grin and shrugs. I grit my teeth. It’s embarrassing.  I don’t want to do this alone. Certainly not with Nuts and Volts. But I also can’t possibly ask for us to move. I don’t want Beetee to look down on me any more than he already does, and most damningly, I can’t admit that I might want someone — especially Ashley — with me. It feels far too much like admitting weakness for my own liking. 

So I walk over to my new allies alone. Locking myself into my seat feels like sending myself into a pod for launch. I think I might be ill.

The programme recognises my thumbprint with a friendly chirp, and I slide the glasses up my nose, watching as the screens glows alive. Beetee – who already has glasses and appears to have modified his own – points over at the timer on the big screen.

“They’ll start the pre-Games programme at nine,” he says. “And then they’ll drop the sponsor catalogue at half-hour to launch.”

“Beetee is very good at analysing the catalogue,” Wiress tells me. 

“Right,” I say, blankly. It’s hard to squeeze any emotion out of my voice. I feel suffocated up in a blanket of apprehension, like if I make one wrong move, I might drown in it. 

The screens on my monitors are blank, just like I expected. The only thing that works is Chipper’s tracker - which shows me his vitals. I’m not a medic, and I can’t understand most of what it says, but his elevated heart rate comes as no surprise. 

Finnick and Annie come down after about half an hour, shortly before one of the apprentice Gamemakers arrives to give us the final talk and check attendance. Annie looks ghostly. Her eyes are trailed hard on the floor and her hands are clamped over her ears. Finnick rests his palm on the small of her back, and gives the other mentors around the inner-district table a hard glare, daring anyone to say anything to her. 

Looking around at the room, I can tell alliances are scarce this year. Apart from mine and Finnick’s groups, it looks like most tributes are going it alone. I catch Ashley’s eye and when all the talks are done and the screen flickers on, giving us a proper look at the Capitol’s countdown broadcast, we wander over to the water station. 

They’re showing final odds. Scanning down the list, Chipper is at a respectable ninth place – likely due to his score. Foley is dead last. I watch Ashley’s expression carefully as his eyes find the number.

“It just feels so unfair,” he says, taking off his assigned glasses and rubbing his face. “I don’t want to see it happen.”

I don’t reply, because I don’t know what to say. I gesture behind us. “I’m always down to swap again last minute. I’d prefer not to listen to Beetee talk about surveillance cameras all morning.”

He scoffs. “They’ll shut up when there’s something to do.”

“If Foley goes first and Chipper’s still alive, will you come help me?” I ask. I try to keep it casual, as if I’m asking out of interest, not because I actually want him there. 

Of course, it’s pointless with Ashley. It always is. He gives me a look, and I wonder if he takes some sort of amusement in letting me know that he sees right through me. “Yeah, of course I will, Jo. I want that kid alive as much as you do.”

We don’t talk about what we’ll do if it’s the other way around, because we both know it won’t happen. 

The half-hour wait until the catalogue drop feels like it crawls by at a snail’s pace. I watch as Finnick holds Annie’s hand and I have the stupid urge to grab Ashley’s, but of course, I don’t. At thirty-five to the hour, while the crowds on the street of the Capitol are buzzing with excitement and the roads in the Districts are sticky with apprehension, I steel myself.

“We should go get ready.”

Ashley gives me a nervous look. “See you on the other side.”

“Yeah.”

I return to my seat. When the catalogue arrives, it proves Beetee’s theory correct immediately. Water is expensive, and so is sun protection. It’ll be somewhere hot, either dry or humid. Scrolling down, I can see that anti-venom is somewhere on the list too. We can probably expect snakes, or perhaps some sort of stinging insect. I picture endless sand dunes slithering with creatures, a leering rainforest, a dry, flat basin. My skin crawls. 

Around the room, nobody seems to react particularly strongly to the information. Whatever this arena, it doesn’t appear to be rigged towards a particular district, which, at least, is something I can be thankful for. 

“There’ll be plenty of weapons at the Cornucopia,” Beetee decides, his face almost inches from his screen. “Food won’t be scarce, but I doubt they’ll know how to find it.”

“Let’s see them get through the morning first,” I mumble. 

As the countdown draws to a close, I picture Chipper waiting in his cage below the arena. I imagine the blinking red timer reflecting off the white tiles, the sterilised air, the distant sound of ticking. I see him sat, his back against the wall, waiting in his arena uniform as precious seconds of his life slip away. Is Agrippa comforting him, or has he left him alone? Is he trying to calm himself, or is he giving into his nerves? Is he thinking about death, or is he thinking about nothing at all?

I picture him stepping into his tube, just as the lights in the room dim, the screen fades to black, and Panem’s coat of arms rises from the darkness.

Nobody in the room even dares to breathe as the anthem sounds, like the opening march to a funeral, and the Seventy-Second Games begin.

The first thing we see is blue. A brilliant sapphire sky, deep and endless, patched with soft, hazy clouds. The Cornucopia gleams in the bright sun, reflecting the light like molten gold. Crawling out from the dusty orange earth are brilliant red stone structures; lumbering and looping, jagged and imposing, like sandstone pyramids rising from the desert, spreading out to the horizon. Sporadic tufts of grass patch the ground, and strange, spiny, caucus-like trees dot the terrain like alien creatures. 

The Cornucopia is located at the centre of a flat expanse, the land around it forming a slight basin. Twenty-four podiums ring the horn, their mouths open as the tributes – still underground – slowly start to rise. Snaking in a curve to the east of the Cornucopia, just visible as a distant splash of blue, is a river, cutting through the sand and dust. 

That’s all we get. 

The tributes slowly rise from their platforms. Their uniforms match the shades of the arena, reddish brown and dusty orange. Thin jackets hang over vest shirts, rubber boots tucked into loose trousers.

My eyes whip around the circle, trying to locate Chipper. He’s towards the north-east, a few tributes down from Mode. Seth is on the opposite side of the circle. Foley is right beside him, eyes as large as saucepans, her owl toy held tight to her chest.

I try not to care about her. She’s not my priority.

It must be hot in the arena. A few tributes even take off their jackets and tie them around their waists as the countdown begins. Chipper’s hands are jittery, his breath hitching as he makes eye contact with Mode. He wipes his palms on his trousers and positions himself to run towards a medium-sized black backpack a few feet in.

Two tributes down from him is the girl from District 1. 

On the other side of the horn, Seth nervously looks around to find somewhere for them to run to. 

There are twenty seconds left.

In the arena, the numbers feel like they pass in an instant. Waiting here, it seems to take years for the countdown to hit zero. I hold my eyes and refuse to even blink until the horn sounds. 

Chipper runs for the bag.

Mode does too. 

With trembling feet, Foley hobbles off her podium and waits.

It’s obvious that the tousle between Chipper and Mode is fake. Neither tribute has ever fought before, and they don’t know how to actually harm one another, let alone pretend to. Chipper wins out with the bag quickly and while nobody else has gone for their spoil, they’ve wasted precious time. Tributes have already reached the centre of the Cornucopia, their eyes picking the surroundings apart for easy prey. 

Seth runs about a third of the way around the circle, frantically looking for the pair, but through the chaos and his adrenaline, he can’t see them.

Foley sways slightly. A boy – the boy from District 6, maybe – runs towards her at full tilt, dagger in hand, but an arrow in his back sends him tumbling at her tiny feet. Thick, sticky, dark blood splatters her from forehead to navel.

Foley clutches her crimson owl and runs, and runs, and runs. 

The inner-district alliance are staying close to the horn, securing supplies and shooting off at strays, but other tributes are taking their chances. Pepper from District 9 sets her sights on Mode and Chipper and, with some sort of studded rake in hand, begins to sprint towards them.

At the same time, Seth – on the outskirts of the ring – spots them. He hollers and, as all the luck in the world would have it, Chipper spots him. He grabs Mode’s hand and begins to drag her out. 

Pepper takes a swing, slamming her weapon against Mode’s left shin and knocking her to her feet. Before she can land another blow, an arrow from the Cornucopia goes shooting past and she dives out of the way.

Chipper wastes no time in slinging the bag over his shoulder, picking up Mode in his arms and sprinting as fast as he can towards Seth, who has already reached the top of the basin and is wildly gesturing for the pair to follow. 

The camera on my screen shifts as they get further out. Beetee turns urgently to Wiress.

“How bad is it?”

She begins to scan through Mode’s vital signs. The wound is leaving a trail of bright red in the sand, and Seth nervously rips off his jacket and wraps it around her leg as they half run, half hobble out westward, away from the river and towards a distant outcrop of the strange red rocks. 

“Surface wound,” Wiress eventually decides. “But they’ll need to clean it.”

“They’re running away from the water,” I say.

Beetee shakes his head. “We have the money for an antiseptic. If you send me the amount, I’ll drop it when they’re safely away.”

I look at him. Does he really want to waste precious donations so early when his other tribute is in perfect health? Looking at the numbers, it’s not cheap. I’m about to protest when Mode lets out a scream of pain. Seth clamps his hand down on her mouth. 

“Fine,” I say, and process the transaction. At the very least, the tub is large enough that the tributes could probably use it again, if it came down to it.

Once I’m certain that the trio are far enough away to be safe, I turn my attention to the main screen. Multiple casualties already litter the scene. Against all of the inner-district’s hopes, the girl from District Two has already gone down, but most of the other bodies are outer-district. I notice both tributes from Twelve and Six, the boy from Nine - (his district partner must have made her way out, then) - the girl from Eight. An overhead camera tells us that most of the tributes, including Foley, have escaped to the east of the Cornucopia, towards the river.

Foley. She’s deceptively fast and further out than most of the tributes already. When she finally finds herself alone with not a ghost of a living soul on any horizon, she curls into a ball and sobs.

Across the room, I look at Ashley. His face is pale, and I realise he was probably hoping she’d die quickly.

Chipper, Mode and Seth reach the beginning of the rock formations. She’s awake and lets out a slight moan of pain as Chipper sets her down. They’ve been smart enough to apply pressure to the wound, and Seth’s jacket is bloodsoaked. When they pull the fabric away, her leg is sticky. Three pronged gashes dig deep into the flesh. 

“I think - I think it’s only got the fat of your shin, not a muscle or tendon, so you’ll be okay to walk when the pain dies down,” Seth tells her. His voice is shaky, and I wonder if he’s ever seen a wound like this up close. “Um. We’ll need something to clean and wrap the, uh, holes, though.”

“I’m sorry,” Chipper says. “I should have noticed her coming. I would have, if it wasn’t so hot, and so loud. I couldn’t think.”

Mode shakes her head. She looks woozy. “It’s okay. If we use your jacket to soak up the blood, Seth, you can share mine. It will probably get cold at night.”

Chipper looks at her dumbly. “It’ll get cold?”

“The weather in the desert is deceptive,” she says, tentatively holding out her leg. Her breathing goes sharp for a moment, but she pushes through. “Staying in the shade during the day is probably the best bet, though.”

“Won’t animals want to be in the shade too, though?” Seth says nervously. “Like, there’s bound to be loads of mutts and stuff, right?”

“Oh, man,” Chipper says. “We’re fucked.”

“We’re not fucked, stupid, we just have to be careful,” Mode tells him. “We’ll stay on hard earth so we don’t accidentally step on anything, and we’ll avoid any caves. Those will probably be mutt lairs.”

I hate to admit it, but Beetee and Wiress are right. This girl is smart. 

On my screen, I flick between camera angles to try to get a better view of our tributes’ surroundings. The rock formations they find themselves in are part of a greater labyrinth of spires, phasing in and out of the dust to make up what looks to be about a third of the arena. The rest of the terrain appears to be desert, though I can make out a few flat mountains in the distance. 

“They’ll want to stay on the borders if they want water,” Beetee says. “Where there are plants, there’ll be underground pools.”

Chipper unzips his backpack just as the cannons begin to fire. There are ten deaths, all-in-all. I can’t remember who, just the bodies I saw when I briefly glimpsed at the main screen. They’re being lifted away now, leaving deep red imprints in the earth around the Cornucopia. 

Already, a good handful of mentors have left the room. I notice Finnick and Annie aren’t here, though both their tributes are still alive on the main screen. Haymitch pours himself a shot at the breakfast bar, and then storms out of the room. I find myself locking eyes with Emmer from Nine, who gives our group an embarrassed shrug. I doubt that most of the outer lot are used to our tributes going at one another.

As luck would have it, Chipper picked a good bag. There’s a two-litre bottle of water full to the brim – though with three of them, it won’t last long. He fishes out a box of matches, some rope and a carabiner, two extra pairs of socks, a packet of dried fruit, and a small army knife, complete with a torch and – of all things – a bottle opener. 

“We could probably find a use for that,” Seth says.

“What, to pop open champagne?” Chipper raises his eyebrows. “Oh man, I want a drink so bad.”

“Booze?”

“I could do with booze,” he says, wistfully. “But I’m mostly just thirsty.”

“Drink, then,” Mode says. “There’s no point wasting our water.”

“Did you guys see the river? It’s on the complete other side of the Cornucopia.”

“If there are animals and plants, there’ll be water,” she says. “You should drink. In Three, sometimes we get droughts and the taps don’t work. People die because they conserve their water and don’t drink when they need to.”

Chipper looks at her sceptically, but takes a sip anyway. He passes the bottle around. “You think most people will have run for the river anyway?”

“Oh, yeah,” Seth says. “I saw them.”

“Hope we’re alone, then,” Mode says, grimacing as he wraps the jacket tight around her leg. “Fucking District Nine.”

The cameras tell us that she’s right, and nobody is close. Beetee orders the ointment, and the group decides to keep the parachute to catch water. My heart leaps when I look at the clock and realise it’s already afternoon. The day seems to have flown by in a blink.

Wiress offers to get us all coffees from upstairs, but I take the charge instead. On my way out, I nudge Ashley. Foley isn’t on the main screen anymore, so I can’t see what she’s doing. 

“Chipper’s fine,” I tell him. I explain where he and the alliance are, and what happened at the Cornucopia. 

“Okay,” he says, his voice strained. “That’s good. Foley hasn’t moved. She’s going to lose water if she keeps crying.”

I wince. “I thought she’d be -”

“Yeah,” he says, quickly. “Me too.”

I go upstairs. As I do, I catch sight of a group of escorts. Minnie is with them. 

“They’re both alive,” I tell them, trying (and probably failing) to be encouraging. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

They don’t seem to even recognise me. Their entourage glance at one another, obviously concerned. “Yes, I suppose it is.” 

“We’ll look after them,” one of the group – I think I recognise him as the escort for Eight – tells me. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about anything.”

I scowl at him, because my ‘pretty little head’ will worry about whatever I please, but I guess I appreciate the intention. 

Back downstairs, I see that Chipper has scaled to the top of one of the rocks to get a better view. He notices an outcrop of the strange, furry trees that seems thicker than the rest, and the tributes decide that there’ll likely be a water source around there.

They decide to stay put for today, however, making sure that Mode’s leg improves before doing anything too strenuous. One of them could go alone, but they’re all too spooked. 

Around sunset, they split open their packet of dried fruit for dinner. Like the water, they decide not to ration it, deciding that there’ll definitely be food somewhere in the arena for them to find. I sincerely hope that they’re right.

Around the same time, I notice that across the room, Ashley’s looking tense. He stares at his screen intently, his hands gripped around the corners of his monitor. I’m about to go over and ask him what’s wrong when the main screen flickers, and we finally get a view of Foley.

Apparently, she’s been on the move. I have no clue how she managed to find the river, considering she can’t hear it, but she approaches the bank slowly. She appears to have cried herself out completely. Tear streaks run down her puffy face, cutting creases in the blood and dirt. Her breath hitches as she nears the waterfront. I’m grateful that our view of the Games isn’t interrupted by any announcers, because I don’t imagine they’d be saying anything kind. 

The water runs fast - fast enough that anyone could get swept away in an instant. Even Foley would know that. She looks down as it reflects the golden light of the setting sun. She pulls her owl close to her with her arms, its head tucked in under her chin, and signs something with her fingers. I have no clue what she’s trying to say.

Then, as if she’s just taking another step forwards, she drops herself into the water.

Everyone in the room who has been paying attention shifts in panic. Beetee and Wiress follow my gaze, eyes locked on the screen. Someone murmurs unhappily. I watch with bated breath, expecting her to break through the water at any second, but she doesn’t. Thirty seconds pass. Then a minute. Then two. 

A cannon fires.

Beetee and Wiress turn back to me. This isn't normal. Tributes don’t kill themselves. That’s one of the only unspoken rules of the Games. I open my mouth, but I have no answer for them. I just look at Ashley, who lets out a deep breath and squares his shoulder. His mouth is in a thin, tight line, and I can see he’s trying his best to hide all emotion from his face.

The hovercraft arrives quickly. It takes a moment to locate Foley’s waterlogged body. When it does pick her up, her hands are empty, her arms limp at her side. My chest squeezes in a strange panic as I watch the dark brown form of her stuffed owl toy bob down the river at speed, away from her slowly rising corpse.

No, I think. You can’t do that. That’s not right. They’re supposed to be together. It’s all she has. You can’t take that from her.

But they can’t hear me, and they probably wouldn’t listen if they could. Foley disappears into the sky to join all the people who used to love her. 

Ashley nods once, and then, without looking at anyone, leaves the room. 

“Did you know, that she might -” Wiress says haltingly. 

I look at her. “No. I thought she’d already be dead, but I didn’t think she’d do that.”

“Why would she?”

I shrug. I could give her an answer. Because she didn't have a family. Because she had nothing to live for. Because it was easier. But the truth is that even while I know why she did it, I can’t even begin to understand it. 

Across the arena, tributes baulk at the first cannon since the bloodbath, indicating that the Games have really begun. 

After the anthem, Mode suggests she take the first watch, since the pain will keep her awake anyways. The boys agree. They don’t move from their spot, but it’s a good enough location anyways. They’re sheltered in a way that shades them during the day but traps in the heat at night, and they have a good view of the surrounding desert in case anything – or anyone – shows up. Even Wiress and Beetee seem to approve. 

My stomach stings. I realise I haven’t eaten all day. Beetee gives me a look. “You go up to bed first. Go talk to your friend.”

I frown. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, we hardly sleep anyway,” Wiress says. “We’re night owls, us.”

I shrug. “What time should I come down, then?”

“Check in at around one or two. If there’s nothing to worry about, stay upstairs, and we’ll see you tomorrow,” Beetee tells me.

I’m surprised, but I don’t argue. I bid them farewell and take the solo trip down the Click, through the hallways, and up the elevator to the ground floor, all the while painfully aware that nearly half of us won’t need to make this trip again.

In the lobby of the Tribute Centre, I order two sandwiches. Everything is oddly silent. It feels like a ghost town. Even the seventh floor is still. The lights are off and there are no Avoxes, no attendants, no Minnie. I wonder if Ashley might have gone somewhere too, until I notice the light under his bedroom door.

I knock. “You okay?”

He opens the door. His eyes are red. “Peachy.” His voice is hoarse. 

I don’t acknowledge it. I just hold up the sandwiches and give him a wobbly grin. “Hungry?”

“Starving, actually,” he says, letting me in. 

We sit on the floor and eat in silence. Just like in the arena, the sun has also set in the Capitol. It looks just like this morning, only so much has already changed.

“I think you spoiled me,” Ashley says, after a while. “Got one year without my tribute dying, and now I’m a mess.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t the way we thought it would go either, was it?” I say.

He lets out a humourless laugh. “No. It wasn’t.” He shakes his head. “I’m worried about Minnie.”

“I saw them early afternoon,” I say. “They seemed…” 

“Bad?”

“I guess that’s one way to put it.” I pull a face. “I just don’t understand why they’d sign up for this in the first place if they couldn’t handle it.”

“They didn’t know.”

“Yeah, but, I mean, c’mon.”

“It happens more often than you’d think,” he says. “Finnick’s escort quit last year. It all got too much for her.”

“Imagine that,” I say, taking a bite out of my sandwich. I barely taste it. “Chipper’s good, though.”

“That’s good.”

“I think he assumes Foley died in the bloodbath.”

“That’s good too.”

“I don’t -” I pause. “I don’t understand why she did it. I mean, I know the reasons, obviously. But I can’t wrap my head around it. I can’t wrap my head around the idea that someone could bring themselves to do that.”

Ashley is silent for a moment. “I could.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, I did. Or, I mean, I tried.”

I look at him. “What do you mean?”

“I haven’t told you this, have I?”

I shake my head. 

Ashley holds out his left palm. “Two weeks after I got home from the Games, I tried to kill myself.”

Tentatively, I grab hold of his hand. Thin, jagged white scars I’ve never noticed before run down from his palm all the way down to his wrist.

“Oh, I did a pretty shit job of it,” he says. “Wouldn’t have done the job anyways, but -”

“Why?” I ask, before he can continue. 

He sighs. “I mean, there were a lot of reasons why. If you want the actual story -”

“Yeah,” I say, tracing the scars gently with my fingertips. “I do.”

“Okay,” he sighs. “Um, well, basically, when I got back home after the Games, they gave Olly – that’s my sister – a two week grace period to stay with me until I settled in. Afterwards, she had to go back to work in the woods. And on the day she had to leave, I just sort of - I don’t know, I guess I snapped? I didn’t want to be alone, y’know? I wanted my mother really bad, and nobody would explain to me why she wouldn’t come.”

“Oh.”

“It’s embarrassing now,” he says. “I was just really scared of the dark. I kept crying, and asking for Mom, but there was nobody there. And then I went to the kitchen and saw the leftovers from the dinner Olly had cooked, and it occurred to me that I’d never be able to cook anything that good for myself. I mean - Olly and Mom, they used to baby me a little. I think I felt a lot younger than I actually was. 

“Don’t know why that’s what made me snap. It just was. I broke down and started throwing plates, and when I looked at the shards, this, like, really weird, hollow feeling came over me and it occurred to me that I was lonely enough that it didn’t really matter if I was alive or not.”

“Ashley -”

“So, I mean, I get it,” he says, quickly. “I get why she - I mean, I really get why she ended up doing what she did. It’s like - it’s loneliness, right? It’s feeling like you’re separate from the rest of the world. As though it’s just passing you by, and you don’t belong in it anymore.”

“Right,” I say. I shake my head. “Did someone find you?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Sylvia did. She was great. I was rough. I lived with her, like, all that year. I got really close to her. Didn’t think I’d be able to do that. For a while, I thought she might be the exception. But then there was you.”

I look at him.

“I have people now. I have people who matter to me. Like, who matter a lot. I have reasons to keep going. But I do understand Foley.”

I keep hold of his hand. I feel cold and warm at the same time, and I don’t quite understand why. “I guess it’s a good thing that I don’t.”

“Oh yeah,” he says. “You don’t know how relieved I am that you don’t, Jo. I hope you never have to feel that lonely in your life. Not once, not ever. I hope your life is full of people that you love.”

I look at him. Something twists in my gut and a small voice in my head asks me, ‘Are you really going to say this, Johanna?’ 

I decide to ignore it. 

“Yeah, well, not if I have you.”

Ashley gives me a funny look. I wonder if he expected that at all. Then he blinks, and it’s gone. He just smiles. “It’s a good thing I’m not planning on going anywhere, then.”

I smile back, and then give him back his hand. I believe him.

Chapter Text

I set an alarm for two in the morning to check on Chipper, but when I call down, Beetee tells me not to worry. The tributes are fast asleep, with Seth taking the next watch. There’s been enough excitement for the day, and the inner-district dogpack are on the complete other end of the arena, closely tailing after the girl from District 10. He tells me that he and Wiress will sleep in the little rooms beside the Click tonight, though he doubts there’ll be any need for any of us to chaperone the tributes until morning.

I go back to bed and back to a dreamless sleep, thinking about how exactly a year ago I was up a tree in an arena far, far away.

When I wake again at sunrise, another cursory check tells me that Beetee was correct. Nothing has happened. Chipper takes the last watch, his knees tucked into his chest as he peers over a brilliant orange sky. 

I don’t wake Ashley. I slip into my bedroom, get dressed, and plod downstairs. This early, the Capitol is almost dead. It’s rare to see it so silent. I pour myself a coffee and watch the empty streets with a sort of detached interest before I go to knock on Minnie’s bedroom door to see if they’re doing alright. 

There’s no response. The door is ajar, so I press my way in. The lights are off and the curtains are drawn, but nobody is inside the room. The bed is neatly made, and the only indication that they were ever here is the distant smell of perfume hanging in the air; apricot and cedarwood. 

Perhaps they’ve gone home for the night, or perhaps they’re staying with a friend. The escort from District 8 did say that he’d keep an eye on them. It makes sense that they wouldn’t be here anyways – after all, the escorts really don’t have much to do in the limbo between the bloodbath and the final eight. Mentors don’t tend to make appearances in the early days of the Games unless absolutely needed, so there’s nothing to schedule. If they’re not here, they’re likely recovering from yesterday.

I decide not to hold it against them, but I really wish that I was allowed to go home for a few days, too. 

On my way back out, I notice that Foley’s bedroom door is also cracked open. Of course, it’s not actually her bedroom, just the female tribute’s. It’s the same one I used last year. But right now, even though she’s dead, it still feels like hers. It feels like she might be inside, tiny hands curled around the doorframe, watching me with round, unblinking eyes.

I hurry away.

Ashley catches me just as I’m about to head downstairs for the day, placing my mug on the kitchen countertop for an attendant to tidy away. He’s still in his pyjamas, bedraggled and hazy. His hair is messy and he forgot to shave yesterday, so his face is scruffy. He yawns and rubs his eyes. My gaze catches on the silver scars on his palm, and I can’t help the relief that washes over me. Man, am I happy you’re alive.

“I can come down and help you,” he offers.

“I think that I can handle myself, Firth.”

“Hey, you’re the one who asked me yesterday,” he says. “But by all means, check with District 3 first.”

“My best friends. ” I roll my eyes. “Maybe you can come this afternoon. You can show me how I’m supposed to switch camera angles on the monitor. I can’t work it out, and I’d rather die than ask the nerd brigade.” 

Ashley snorts. I think he’s probably putting on some false bravado after yesterday. “I’ll be there. My schedule only starts tomorrow.”

“Schedule?”

“My long list of dates,” he says, trying to keep his voice light. “Apparently a couple extra pounds and a dead tribute isn’t enough to stop my endless admirers from reaching out their grubby little hands.”

“Oh,” I say. 

“Of course, my girlfriend’s also visiting for lunch today.”

I turn sharply towards him, my back against the kitchen counter. “Girlfriend?”

Ashley rolls his eyes. “Joking. I mean Kepler, Johanna,” he says. “She’s got a day off, and she knows a few of the other victors from their tours, so she’s stopping by for lunch in the Games Centre. You’re welcome to come, if you want.”

I curl my toes, feeling stupid. “Right. Sure.”

“Can’t believe you ever thought we were dating ,” he laughs. “I should tell her. She’ll get a kick out of that.”

“Don’t,” I warn, and then shove past him to the elevator. “I’ll kill you.”

“Yeah, and you’d probably manage it, too,” he grins as the door closes and I drift back downstairs to the worst place in the world. 

The Click is relatively empty this early, and so I have a few precious hours of peace as I slide into my chair and slip on my glasses and headphones. I wonder if the Capitol does it on purpose to weigh us down with items that glue us to our desks, to make us feel chained and tethered, nothing like ourselves. Probably I’m thinking too much about it. Most likely, they just take Games security very seriously. 

In the arena, the tributes are awake. They discuss their plans for the day. Water is their priority, and they seem convinced that the outcrop of strange, cactus-like trees – which are not actually trees, I learn, when I accidentally tune into the public broadcast and am unwillingly confronted with the grating voice of Claudius Templesmith – will carry an underground treasure trove. It’s the same theory Beetee and Wiress had, and I can’t exactly discount it, although I do feel nervous about the trio vacating the relative safety of their rocky valley. 

Mode’s leg has vastly improved overnight with the help of the medicine, though she still winces as she rises, and her movements are still stiff and uncoordinated. They’ve fashioned makeshift bandages out of Seth’s jacket. The night was cooler, though not cold, so he didn’t need it, but it makes me think that they might be planning on adjusting the temperature as the days go on. As far as the Games go, it’s a classic trope. 

“They’ll be on her soon, won’t they?” Chipper asks, as they peer out from their camp and across the sunswept desert. Even this early in the morning, they’re sweating.

“Who?” asks Seth. 

“The girl from District 9,” he says. “The other tributes, like the ones from One and Two and stuff, they’ll be chasing after her, right? She scored so high. She’s obviously a threat.”

“Probably,” Mode says. 

“Do you think she’s the one who killed the girl from Two?”

“Hopefully her and not anyone else,” Mode tells him. “I don’t want more enemies running around than we already have.”

“Everyone’s an enemy,” Chipper shrugs.

She looks at him. “Not us. Not for now.”

“Not for now,” he echoes.

Seth groans, trudging ahead, his feet sending sand scattering out in an arc. “Oh guys, this is going to be a much longer walk than we thought it was.”

I turn my attention to the main screen. The dogpack has returned from their hunt, satisfied with their spoils. They spent most of the morning finding – and then killing – the girl from District 10, only to come across another tribute’s tracks on their way back to camp at sunrise. They agree to spend the morning resting before hunting them down in the afternoon. It’s good enough news, because it means that they’ll keep far enough away from Chipper. Our alliance’s hunt for water will remain, at least from other tributes, safe. Whether they’ll avoid Gamemaker tricks, it’s too early to tell. I can hope. An alliance puts a target on anyone’s back, but there’s a chance there’ll be enough to contend with right now. Post-bloodbath betting is always high. Maybe they’ll give the audience a day to relax.

Fingers crossed, or whatever. 

Beetee and Wiress come down at ten on the dot. I fill them in on what they missed while they were asleep, and they seem pretty content to take the morning easy. I spend a while trying to decipher Pepper from District 9 and her motivations – right now, she’s parked right by the edge of the river, cleaning a wound she received at the Cornucopia – and then take up Epoxy and Augustus’ offer to play a round of cards. It’s easy enough to think of them as friends if I forget that their kids are trying to kill mine.

Chipper, Seth and Mode hit the trees at around midday. They’re about nine feet tall and look almost like cacti - thick branches forming forks before blossoming out into tufts of sharp, grass-like spikes. Large clumps of white flowers and strange, palm-sized fruit droop from the bushes. 

“Any clue what that is?” Seth asks, nudging Chipper. “You’re the expert.”

Chipper squints in the sun and shakes his head. “I have no idea. We don’t have anything like this back in Seven.”

“Think we can eat the fruit?”

“It doesn’t look like it would be dangerous,” Mode cocks her head to the side. “But they didn’t show this in training.”

“Man, what’s the point in training if they don’t actually teach us anything useful,” Seth groans. “I’m starving.”

“If you want to poison yourself, by all means…”

He shoots her a look. “Shuddup. I’m just whining.” 

“Whine in your head, then,” she tells him.

Chipper kneels down towards the base of the tree. “If we dig here, maybe a couple of feet down, there’ll probably be an underground pool. If we’re lucky, we might find some water.”

“Dig with what?” Seth asks him. 

Chipper gives him a wry grin and holds up his hands. “What do you think, genius?”

 Seth pulls a face. “Aw, man, I fucking hate sand.”

They find their water, eventually, digging until they hit wet soil and letting it lap up in the hole. Since they have nothing to purify it with they don’t drink it yet, but they have enough in their bottle to last them the morning anyway. They get to work forming baskets to carry it in from the thick leaves hanging off the trees, and Mode suggests boiling it in a couple hours when the sun is at its peak and nobody will see the smoke. 

As I watch them weave, I remember Ashley’s offer. I turn to Beetee and Wiress. “Is it cool if I pop up for a bite to eat?”

He shrugs, head down, working some sort of problem. She peers up from the book she’s reading. 

“Fine with me.”

“Also, Ashley’s probably going to join us,” I say. I phrase it like a statement, because even though I told him I’d ask, I really have no intention of letting them keep him away. “So we should find a table of four.”

Beetee’s eyes flicker up. “Alright,” he says. “We’ll get on moving.”

When I make it to the cafeteria, a good few of my fellow mentors are already milling about. Finnick catches my eye and waves. It’s an eclectic group of people. Ashley and Kepler are there, like I expected, and Finnick (obviously), but also Cecelia from District 8 and a frail-looking pair who take me a moment to place. It’s only when I get closer that I recognise the young man as Ransom Kegg from District 6, who won a few years back. He’s always seemed strange, skittish, but now he looks even stranger - thin, with wide dark eyes and skin that looks a little too stretched out. The woman next to him must be Vega Paolo, then, the female mentor from his district. If he looks like a corpse, she’s been decaying for years.

I shoot Ashley a curious glance as I approach, but he stays tight lipped.

“Hey! How’s your first year treating you, Johanna?” Finnick asks me, wrapping his arm around my shoulder and dragging me into the seat next to him. 

“Computers suck,” I grumble. I shoot Kepler a smile from across the table. She smiles back. Maybe I’ve been too standoffish around her. She’s always been nice to me. 

“Well, you’ve got two tech wizards to keep you company,” Finnick grins. 

“Precisely the problem,” I say. “You all catching up?”

“Mm,” Kepler says. “I’ve been working on the tours since Ransom’s year - so I know District 6 and Finnick quite well, and I’ve spoken a couple times to Cecelia at events and such. It’s nice to stop by.”

I blink, remembering that Kepler is in their little hot group of firebrands. Is she implying that Cecelia is too, or am I making things up? I resist the urge to kick Ashley under the table, because I want to know what’s going on terribly, but I know I can’t ask until we get home. 

“Where’s Annie, Finnick?” I ask, shifting to the other question on my mind.

His face darkens. “Upstairs. She’s asleep. Yesterday wasn’t the best for her.”

I try to think about how District 4 fared, but I can’t really remember much about them, apart from the fact that they’re both definitely still alive. Most likely, Annie’s response to the opening events had nothing to do with how her own tribute fared. Or maybe seeing her kill was too much to contend with. 

“I can’t believe they made her come,” Cecelia says. “It really isn’t alright.”

Finnick shrugs. “It’s not like I can do anything about it. I’ll just have to look after both tributes for now. Luckily Enobaria’s girl’s out. She’s offered to give me a hand.”

Across the table, Vega nudges Ransom. He blinks at her, wide-eyed and they both shuffle off downstairs.

“What’s that about?” I ask. “What’s wrong with them?”

“Morphling,” Finnick says.

“Bless you?”

“It’s a drug,” Kepler explains. “Pain medication. Terribly addictive. There’s been somewhat of an epidemic in Six. When I went there for Ransom’s victory tour…” she shudders. “Man, I don’t even want to think about that.”

I think about my district partner last year, Caraway, and how sick he was. He was hooked on something too. There was a flareup of drug trafficking in Seven a couple years ago too, just after the pox flooded the district, though it never seemed to travel far. It was only ever contained to older teenagers - boys, mostly. It occurs to me now that the uptick seemed to happen the year that a group of kids planned to storm a logging camp up north and take some Peacekeepers hostage. 

“Seems like Vega put Ransom onto it after all,” Cecelia says, unhappily. “Oh, and she was holding out so well. The factory explosion must have pushed them off the edge.”

I think about the accident in Six last winter. Could the two be linked, or is this just a symptom of a much larger problem? I can’t imagine the Capitol could ever manufacture a drug epidemic, but I really have no clue how far their reach goes.

“You couldn’t catch me dead on the stuff,” Ashley says. “I’d like to keep my wits about me, thanks.”

“They didn’t put you on it after you got out of the Games?” Finnick frowns. “I was dosed up to my ears.”

“They stopped a few years ago,” Cecelia explains. “Besides, Ashley had that head injury, remember? You can’t take morphling on an injury like that.”

Finnick shivers. “Maybe that’s a good thing. I hated the way it made me feel.”

The mood is decidedly dour, but by the time I come back with my food, the conversation seems to have lightened slightly. The group is gossiping about prominent figures in the Capitol they all know. I listen with detached curiosity, swirling around my potatoes with my fork.

“Horatia is the worst ,” Finnick is saying. “I have to visit her next Tuesday.”

“You still have to visit people, even when your tribute is alive, Finnick?” I ask. “I thought they let you get away with it while you’re still mentoring?”

Finnick shakes his head. “What would my fans do, knowing I was so close and so unreachable?” He sounds mocking. “It would be cruel.”

“Lovely.”

“I heard Julius Waxwick’s taken a liking to you?”

I wince, because I’d forgotten about him. “So it would seem.”

Kepler sniffs. “Oh, Waxwick’s a prick.” She pauses. “Hah. Rumour has it, he has a small one too.”

I snort. “I can definitely confirm that.”

Finnick nudges me and Ashley coughs into his drink. Kepler looks delighted, and I decide that I like her after all.

We head back downstairs once she has to run off. As promised, Beetee and Wiress have moved to a larger table, though it takes a while to transfer Ashley the clearance for Chipper’s tracker information and live feed. I’m the only one with access to the sponsor phone and account, though he assures me that, as a new victor, I’m the best one for the job.

In the arena, they’ve managed to boil the water under the shade of the trees. They trek back to their camp between the rocks. A wind has started to pick up, scattering sand into their eyes, and I can tell they’re flagging. There’s been no food in sight, but none of us feel confident sending them anything yet. They’re just slightly too close to the inner-district camp. If someone was paying close enough attention in the right direction, they might see something drop. 

They’ll have to do with the rest of their dried fruit for the night, and we’ll reassess tomorrow. Secretly, I hope they’ll run as far as they can. It would put my mind at ease. 

I watch Chipper as they walk. Visually, he’s certainly the strongest of the three. He carries the pack and two woven baskets full of water in both hands, checking nervously over his shoulder every few minutes to see if his companions are still doing alright. He looks mature, but all I can picture is seeing him on stage at the reaping - drowning in his suit. He's a kid. Just a kid. He can’t fight. He shouldn’t have to bear this. He should be allowed to live.

And selfishly, if he dies, my conversation today has reminded me that Julius Waxwick will come knocking.

I take the first watch, since Wiress and Beetee spent most of last night downstairs. Ashley stays with me until I force him back to bed. Wiress comes to take the mantle at around two in the morning - just after the dogpack successfully finds and kills the boy they’ve been hunting down. Their strategy is clear, and it seems to be working. Calico leads the team with ease. 

But for now, our kids are safe.

Before I sleep, I go to check if Minnie is in their room. No dice. Ashley’s fast asleep by the time I’m upstairs, and for a minute I consider just popping to my room to not disturb him, but the idea of facing my bed alone makes my stomach churn unpleasantly. 

He’s gone in the morning. I remember him telling me about his dates, and wince. The room feels awfully cold. 

When I step out of bed, I find that I have a headache. I haven’t been eating regularly, and I know that a muddled sleep schedule isn’t doing much to help, but I’ll just have to grit my teeth through it, because I can’t see things changing much soon.

Heading downstairs, my mood only worsens. The Gamemakers have whipped up a sandstorm, forcing the tributes to stay in place. They’re bunkered down under their jackets, shielding their eyes from the frenzied winds. The storm seems to have swept throughout the whole arena. The cameras are blurry with sand. I’m confused about why they’d do this until I notice the glum faces at the inner-district table. Apparently, the dogpack’s trailing strategy has been found and noted, and the Gamemakers seem to think they’re moving too fast. They don’t want all their tributes dying too soon, and they should at least try to uphold the illusion that things are fair.

The storm eases around early afternoon. Any tracks in the sand have long since swept away. The tributes without tents or caves to hide in emerge from the haze, whipped raw by the fine sand. Across the Click, Emmer hums unhappily and picks up the sponsor phone, chattering away about the same antiseptic lotion we sent Mode the other day. 

I eye him warily. He definitely has enough money. I have no clue what he’s playing at.

Our trio are relatively untouched. The rocks managed to shelter them enough that they only have minor scrapes. They quickly decide that there’s no point in sitting ducks. As the sun peaks in the sky, they pack up their supplies and start to hunt. 

An hour in, Chipper notices faint divots in the sand. They must be recent, considering the storm - small enough to belong to some animal. After a bit of trailing, they crest a hill. Peering down, they’re met with a flat patch of earth in the middle of a small basin, not unlike the Cornucopia. The space is dotted with occasional bushes and tufts of grass. Red flowers patch the shrubbery, breaking up the endless expanse of brown and orange with splashes of colour.

Another hill rises on the other side. Faint tracks lead to a burrow, nestled in an outcrop of dusty red rocks. From a distance, it almost looks like a sculpture - delicate and odd. 

“We could smoke it out?” Seth suggests.

“And risk being spotted?” Mode says.

“We’re miles out now. If they didn’t see us yesterday, they won’t today.”

“We have no idea who’s around,” she tells him. “We should be careful. We can just wait.”

He rolls his eyes. “We’re going to need to light a fire to cook whatever it is anyway, but sure, go ahead.”

She shrugs, and Seth goes to sit a little bit away, annoyed. He’s been rubbing shoulders with the others all day. Mode instructs Chipper to wait above the burrow with a heavy rock they find in the bushes. When she gives the signal, he’ll bring it down on whatever comes out. 

Brute, weaponless hunting. That’s what they’ve been reduced to.

Seth, eyeing them with trepidation, says he’s going to check out what’s on the other side of the hill. 

He departs. I don’t get a clear sight of him once he does. My camera is still trailed on Chipper, and the main screen shows the dogpack debating their next moves.

After about ten minutes of silence, a small pink nose peeks its way out of the burrow. Chipper brings down the rock.

I look away as the thing starts twitching. 

They have a healthy-sized jackrabbit for dinner. A bit pulverised. Not very appetising. But it’s food.

“There’ll be more,” Mode tells Chipper as he wipes his hands on the grass and prepares to skin the rabbit with their pocket knife. It’s messy work, and I’m acutely aware he has nothing to clean himself up with. “We should keep our eyes out for when another one crops up. We can see what it eats. That way, we’ll be able to forage.”

Across the table, Beetee’s eyes go wide. 

“What is - is it -” Wiress begins. She’s cut off by a shout of panic that rings through our headphones. Mode and Chipper’s heads snap up in the direction of the sound, up the hill Seth just climbed.

The main coverage shifts, and so does my attention. For a moment the vision of my monitor is doubled - a view of Mode and Chipper, bewildered. Then, we finally get a view of the source.

Seth stands at the very top of a steep slope, trembling hands held up in surrender. Growing closer, practically nipping at his heels, is a coyote, teeth bared in a dangerous smile.

“Stupid boy,” Beetee says. “You should have been paying attention.”

Chipper doesn’t hesitate. Recognising his ally’s voice, he sprints up the hill, dropping their dinner in the dust. Mode follows at a slower pace. Her injury makes her limp, dragging her foot behind her as she runs. 

“Seth?” Chipper calls.

Up the hill, Seth panics. He stumbles back, feet clumsy in the dirt. The coyote circles him, eyes narrowed, sneering, spittle flying. It lets out a ragged growl and leaps.

I watch with bated breath as razor sharp claws slice into Seth’s side. Teeth miss his abdomen by inches, saved only by the boy falling backwards into the hard dirt with a heavy thud. The coyote raises its hackles and steps back, preparing for another attack.

This isn’t a real animal. I can tell by the stiff, artificial movements. In a room upstairs somewhere, there is a Gamemaker puppeteering the thing, preparing for what will very likely be the blow that kills Seth from District 3.

Chipper reaches the top of the hill just as it lurches forward. He shouts and flashes the light attached to his pocket knife, attempting to disorient. His hands are shaking, pupils dilated.

The coyote stops dead in its tracks, movements stagnated and sharp. It narrows its amber eyes at Chipper. For a moment, I think he might be a goner. So does he. But he stands his own - bold, tall, and unrelenting. 

The coyote sniffs the air. It gives him a once-over, a twice-over, still hauntingly artificial, one paw held in the air like someone pressed the ‘hold’ button. It observes the blood coating Chipper, the conviction with which he stands. I can almost see the decision happening in the operating room through its eyes.

Then it turns and scampers down the hill.

I gasp in a breath of relief. Perhaps two opponents was too much. Perhaps the Gamemakers just decided that this is enough action for the moment. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that my tribute is alive.

As it slinks away into the horizon, Chipper goes to support Seth, who is hyperventilating into the sand.

“Shit,” he moans, hands cupping the skin, squeezing out thick, dark red between the cracks of his fingertips. “How deep is it? Am I a goner? Am I fucked?”

Chipper, looking a little queasy, peers at his injuries. “I can’t tell. Does it hurt?”

“Does it hurt?” Seth looks at him, incredulously. “No, it feels like a papercut, Chipper!”

Mode reaches the top. She pants. “What  happened? What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” he protests, breathing heavily. “Ow, ow, ow. I’m dead. Oh, I’m fucking dead.”

“You’re not dead,” Chipper says, firmly. “You’re not allowed to say that. C’mon. Let’s fix you up.”

They get to work cleaning the wound with the rest of the antiseptic we sent them. The gashes are deep, but if they avoid infection, he’ll make it through the next few days fine. Ironically, its not all that dissimilar to Mode’s injury.

“I can send you more money for bandages,” I say to the others. “Or maybe some painkillers. I think we have enough.”

“Mm,” Beetee taps the corner of his mouth. He has a strange expression on his face. “Maybe not.”

“Why? They’re cheap, and his jacket was torn to shreds keeping Mode’s wound from bleeding. He can’t exactly use it again.”

“We’re low on resources,” he says, giving Wiress a look. She nervously fiddles with her glasses. “I don’t want to waste anything when things will just get more expensive.”

I shake my head. “Dunno if I’d consider that wasting. They know how to hunt now, so food’s no longer a problem. Do you really want him to bleed out?”

“Respectfully, Johanna, this is a matter of my tribute, and it doesn’t concern you.”

“He’s Chipper’s ally, and I don’t want him lugging around two deadweights,” I parry. “Don’t tell me you want him to die.”

I meant it as a joke, but the look Beetee gives me is strict. “Of course not,” he says.

“Then why not send him some fucking help?”

He lets out a breath. After a moment of deliberation, he says, “Sometimes, with limited funds, you have to prioritise which one of your tributes gets the support.”

I glare at him, dumbfounded. “So you do want him to die.”

“One of them will have to,” he tells me, then turns his attention back to the screen, where they’re wrapping Seth’s wound with his own shirt, leaving his blistering skin exposed to the burning sun.

At least Mode has the decency to give him her jacket. 

I’m in a mood the rest of the day. I can’t stop staring daggers at Beetee. I just can’t comprehend it. How can he be so callous? I know it’s the name of the game, but Seth is his tribute. I could understand Wiress prioritising the girl, but Beetee? I bite my lip. Seth is someone he must have gotten to know, at least a little, in the past few days. Does he really care so little? Is that what years of mentoring makes someone? Is giving up like that so easy?

When Ashley comes down, I take up his offer to watch the kids for a bit. He seems bemused by the atmosphere, but I’m not in the headspace to explain. I go upstairs, run myself a hot shower and stew for what feels like years. When I try to find something on the television that doesn’t have anything to do with the Games, it’s impossible. 

My bad mood extends to the next day, and my headache doesn’t get much better either. It must have something to do with the lights of the screens and the darkness of the Click.

In the arena, Mode and Chipper decide to spend the day hunting and foraging. They leave Seth to rest in their makeshift camp amongst the bushes. He’s in agony. His teeth chatter loudly, despite the heat. Around midday, he starts to sob. 

I give Beetee a sharp look. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. ‘I told you so’, maybe. Or maybe ‘fuck you’. 

Apparently, the audience is getting bored too, because they present a television spot on last year’s Games to fill the runtime. It airs mid-afternoon. I’m hit with a barrage of calls on my sponsor phone, but nobody seems to actually want to send me money. By the sixth conversation, I’m getting sick of it. I try to phone up Minnie to get them to deal with the influx so that I don’t have to, but they don’t pick up.

By the time Ashley comes back from another one of his dates, I think I’ve genuinely worked my way up to anger. It doesn’t help when I catch the hazy look in his eyes as he slumps into his seat.  He shoves a travel-sized mug in my hands, his movements just noticeably clumsy.

“Haven’t touched it,” he says, his voice a little scratchy. “You look like you could use a pick-me-up.”

“Do I?” I say dryly, but take a sip anyways. “Ew. What is this?”

He tilts his head to the side. On my screen, Chipper and Mode fail to hide from the jackrabbit they’re trailing down. He jumps, but misses. They laugh. 

“Coffee? I guess it’s a bit sweet. I like sweet stuff.”

“I can tell.” I say, giving him a sharp once-over. 

He crosses his arms self-consciously and pouts at me. “Is that supposed to be a jab?”

“Are you drunk?”

“Hah. Maybe. Buzzed,” he says. “Laertes offered, and I mean, it was the lay of the land, so -”

“Go fuck off upstairs, then,” I say. “Don’t bother me.”

“I’m only so-so,” he waves his hand side to side. “Is everything OK? You look mad.”

“I’m fine,” I say, pushing his coffee back towards him. “Who’s Laertes? Another meeting?”

“Mm,” he nods, fiddling with the lid of his cup. “Oh, you’ll never guess, Johanna, but you know what, I actually think I like this one.”

I look at him, and another flicker of irritation runs through me. “Oh, yeah?”

“He’s actually nice. Just wanted to go for a drink, and nothing else. No strings attached, quote-unquote.” Ashley runs his hands through his hair. “Though, I mean, all things considered, he’s actually very attractive, so I wouldn’t mind if he wanted to -”

I grit my teeth. “Don’t fuck with me again, Firth. Kepler was enough.”

Ashley blinks. “No, no, I’m actually not this time. He was nice. And,” he lowers his voice, “he told me I look good. Guess I’m not a lost cause after all.”

He’s not lying. I can see it in his expression. He actually looks quite pleased. Ashley, with someone from the Capitol. My irritation increases twofold, because I also can’t believe he actually buys this, and I can’t believe I couldn’t fucking tell him what I meant to tell him when I had the chance.

He peers at me. “Are you really alright?”

“Why? Is there something on my face?” I turn back to my monitor. 

Across from us, Wiress peers up, obviously listening in, but trying not to seem like she is. I give her a death glare, and she shrinks back to her book.

“Where’d this mood come from?” Ashley asks. 

“Mind your business. I’m fine.”

“Johanna.” He swivels my chair around to face him and leans forward. “I say this all the time. You’re a great actress, and a terrible liar.”

“Fuck you.”

His eyes narrow. “What’s up with-”

I only mean to push him away, but I overshoot. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve been practising wrestling with Blight, or maybe I’m more annoyed than I think I am. Instead of brushing him off, I completely shove him off his chair. He hits the floor and, since he’s not exactly the most balanced – (slightly buzzed my ass) – he doesn’t manage to catch himself in time. His head hits the back of the next desk over with a sharp clang.

About half the heads in the room turn towards us. I feel my face flush bright red, and I rise up as quickly as I can. Ashley frowns at me, rubbing the back of his head, eyes teary from the pain. I see Finnick peer over, confused. He starts to walk in our direction. The fucking saint that he is.

My chest burns with frustration and embarrassment and maybe a bit of guilt. I shove my headphones off, drop my glasses on the desk, stare at Wiress – who is outright gaping – and tell her, “Keep an eye on Chipper,” before storming out of the room. 

I don’t look back. I’m going to go upstairs and throw some plates, or something. Maybe I’ll dive under my covers and drown in them. Certainly I won’t show my face around until I absolutely have to. I think I hate everyone in that room.

 I hear footsteps behind me and roll my eyes. “Oh, fuck off Odair. I’m not in the mood.”

“I’m not Finnick, and I’m not either.”

I turn. Ashley stands in the hallway, still rubbing his head, a pained expression on his face. I bite the inside of my cheek. 

“Do you want to explain to me why you just threw a hissy fit in front of the entire Click, Johanna?” he asks. 

I want to growl at him. I’ve been irritated at Ashley before, but now I’m actually angry at him. Mostly. Mostly I’m mad at myself for feeling the way I do, but it’s easier to misdirect it towards him, considering he’s the source of it all. Stupid fucking Ashley. Stupid fucking dates with stupid fucking idiots from the Capitol.

“Hello?”

I show him a rude gesture. “Not really. Leave me alone.”

He crosses his arms. “No.”

I turn around. “Seriously, Ashley. Not now.” 

I don’t get far before he catches up and grabs my shoulder. I try to shove him off, but he’s stronger than he looks, and forces me to look at him. 

I struggle. “Let it go.”

“I was going to, until you tossed me like a ragdoll,” he says. “Seriously. You know, two years ago, something like that would have sent me into a really really bad spiral, Johanna.”

I tense up, confused, until I remember that he suffered a pretty awful head injury in his Games. A bit of my anger leeches away. “Shit. Sorry.”

“Yeah, ‘sorry’ usually cuts it, but not today,” he says, and drags me into one of the adjourning meeting rooms. I don’t fight back. “Seriously. What’s wrong?”

I look at him for a moment, and then decide to give up at least half of it. Maybe then he’ll leave me alone and I can go wallow upstairs for the rest of my life, or something.

“Beetee’s a dick and won’t help his own tribute.”

Ashley frowns. This was obviously not the answer he was expecting. “Right. Um. Why -”

“Oh, I don’t know why that pisses me off,” I say. “It just does.”

“Alright. And?”

“And what?”

He raises his eyebrows. “You can’t expect me to just take that as the only reason, Jo.”

Fuck you. “I’m just pissed off. Do I need a reason?”

“Johanna.”

I hate the way he’s looking at me. He’s concerned. He’s actually worried about me. I just slammed him into a desk, and he’s looking at me with his stupid, puppy-dog eyes. What is wrong with him?

I want to stare him down until he gives up, but I know he’s not going to leave. I also know that I can’t lie to him. As much as it annoys me, he’s right. I’m a terrible liar. 

“What if I don’t want to tell you?”

“Then I’d ask you why?” he says. “We don’t keep secrets from each other, Jo. You know that.”

There’s a code hidden in his tone of voice. Ashley means to remind me about when he told me about the rebellion. Probably about how he opened up to me the other day, too. I take a deep breath. This is a really shitty card to play, but it’s also the only one that would possibly work on me.

“You’re going to regret asking.” I say.

“Try me.” 

I sniff and shove my hands into my pockets, knowing that he’s not going to like this, and neither am I. My mind races, trying to come up with a way to describe this that won’t completely humiliate me. 

“I don’t like when you talk about your dates.”

“Sorry?” Ashley frowns. “I mean, obviously. Of course you don’t. I don’t like it when you talk about yours, or when Finnick talks about his. It’s not exactly a nice thing to talk about.”

“No, not like that.” My whole body feels tense. Maybe if I just run out of the room fast enough, he won’t be able to catch up. Maybe, I can keep running forever. “I don’t like you talking about those kinds of dates.”

His frown loosens, and for a moment, I think he might have gotten what I’ve put down. “Oh,” he says, softly. Then he ruins it. “Shit, man, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to boast. That’s really dumb of me. I did get very lucky. And Julius sounds horrible. I wasn’t trying to rub it in, I promise.”

I actually gawk at him. “Ashley, can you stop being obtuse for a fucking second?”

He blinks. “What?”

“You’re really going to make me spell it out, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes, Johanna, that’s what I’ve been asking you to do.”

I think my face must be bright red. Something awful crawls around in my chest. Ashley peers at me so intensely that I think I’m about to give up. When I actually open my mouth and talk, it takes me by surprise.

“Maybe I don’t like you talking about your dates because I’m jealous.”

Ashley narrows his gaze, still painfully unaware. “Jealous?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe I don’t like the idea of you going on dates with people, or whatever, because I’m like - jealous.”

“I don’t -”

“Ashley.” 

He looks at me carefully. Then it must finally catch up to him. His eyes slowly widen, his eyebrows shoot up. A twist of pink colours his cheeks.

“Oh!” he shakes his head. “Right!”

“So now that we’ve gotten that over with, if you could just let me go upstairs so I can kill myself or something, that’d be great.”

He stands in the door. “Look, Jo -”

“Please, just don’t tell me you’re flattered,” I growl at him.

“No! Um. I’m not - not really,” he stammers. “Honestly I’m more surprised about why I’m the sort of person who you’d -”

“Oh come on, Ashley, it’s mortifying enough to have to tell my best friend I think he’s hot shit, please don’t make me justify it.”

He looks at me. He’s the one who looks mortified now. I think this is one of the worst decisions I’ve made in my life. “Okay. Cool. Cool. Um -”

“Let me out.” I brush past him. “I hate you.”

“Wait,” he says, grabbing my arm. “No. If I do that, then you’re going to start avoiding me, and we already established the other day that we’re not going to do that anymore.”

“You sure look like you want to avoid me.”

“I’m just surprised, Jo!” he says. “I mean, give me a second to -”

“You’re reacting like when I told you Lynn was into you.”

“This is nothing like Lynn,” he says, and I don’t quite miss the insult in his voice. “Seriously. I’m not, like, mad at you or anything. I just need a second. I promise you, this is not a big deal!” He tries to give me a grin, but it just comes off wobbly and unsure. 

“Real convincing,” I grumble.

He rubs his face. “Um. Not to pry, but -”

“What?”

“Since when did you start - erm - considering that you might…” he trails off. “Y’know.”

“Why do you care?”

“I just -” he shakes his head. “When?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ashley, I don’t know! Your birthday, maybe?”

“Right,” he nods. “Okay. Yeah, that makes - sense. I was worried it would have been before. Like when I was mentoring…”

”Absolutely not,” I shake my head. “Ew, no, Ashley. I didn’t even know you.”

He gives me an embarrassed smile, and I feel guilty all over again.

“Look, I know I’ve been manipulating you,” I say, shuffling uncomfortably. “It’s shitty of me. And I know you’ll probably feel weird about it all. So I’ll just go to sleep back in my bedroom, and we don’t have to hang out if you don’t want to. You go do what you want to do.”

He looks at me, and then, to my surprise, he starts laughing. At first it’s a snicker, but it quickly turns into full-blown giggles. I stare at him, bemused. 

“Only you , Johanna,” he says, between laughs, “would assume you manipulated me into caring about you.”

“Oh, fuck off,” I say, but the bite in my voice is gone. “You know what I mean.”

“I do, and it doesn’t matter,” he says. “You’re my best friend. This barely touches that.”

I shrug and duck my head.

“And - alright, I’ll be honest. I’ll probably need a day or two to mull this over,” Ashley says. “But in the meantime, let’s just forget this conversation happened. Okay? We have way too much to deal with. When things die down, when we’re both feeling up to it, then we can actually talk about this properly. Okay?”

I’m still embarrassed, but it’s simmering now. “Sure.”

He nudges me. “Sorry for pushing.”

“It would have come out sooner or later,” I tell him, and the second I say the words, I know it’s true. “You’re right. I can’t lie to you.”

Ashley looks pleased with himself. “C’mon. Let’s go back. If your ego isn’t too wounded.”

“I’ll live. How’s your head?”

“Terrible, you bastard,” he says. “Huh. Bet the others are gossiping.”

“Entertainment for the evening.”

He rolls his eyes, and I’m suddenly reminded about what I felt this way in the first place. Prick , I think, but against my will, I’m actually smiling. Only Ashley Firth could make this shitshow marginally better.

I try to ignore the disappointment in my gut as he opens the door. It was stupid, but maybe a part of me was hoping he’d say something I wanted to hear.

I’m about to properly apologise and move on when an attendant is on us, grabbing Ashley’s arm and speaking with an urgency I haven’t ever heard in a Capitol accent before. Seneca Crane wants to see us, right now. No, they won’t tell us why. It’s an emergency. A real emergency.

And, as it turns out, our planned conversation will take a long while to happen, because this is the moment where all hell breaks loose. 

Chapter Text

THE AIR is electric as we take the elevator up and up and up, past the underground levels – the Click and the Mutt labs and the endless meeting rooms – all the way to the peak of the Games Centre, where the Gamemaker offices look over a stunning panoramic view of the city. My ears pop and crackle, my heart simmers in my chest. I’m dizzied by my recent rush of emotions, all condensing and congealing into a thick lump that feels something like dread.

Chipper’s alright. It’s the first thing I check. There’s a screen in the corner of the elevator, showing an uninhibited view of his failed hunt for dinner. He remains scratched, hungry, tired, but alive. We’ve been called to discuss a different matter altogether.

I hold Ashley’s gaze with unease as the attendant hammers the button to open the lift. His expression is entirely readable; he has as little of a clue about this as I do.

We’re shoved into a room at the very end of a wide, amber-panelled hallway. My eyes burn from the light as we step inside. 

Seneca Crane in the flesh is not a particularly imposing man. In fact, he seems smaller than I remember; just about my height, with peppery hair that washes out his pale features. His jawbone cuts a severe shape, but there’s something about his appearance that refuses to intimidate - despite the way he clearly styles himself to do just that. 

His office makes up for it. All cruel angles, brutalist and cold. There are no straight lines in nature, but this room has them in abundance. He waits for us behind an unnecessarily long desk in his sweeping Head Gamemaker robes, silhouetted by a slowly darkening Capitol skyline. When he gestures for us to sit, my hand pricks on the back of the strange, jagged chairs. They seem to swallow me whole.

He cuts right to the chase. No ‘hello's' or ‘how are you?'s'. It’s almost respectful, in a sense. He simply looks the both of us in the eye, slowly and purposefully, before asking, “Do either of you have any information on the location of Minnilee Lazarus?”

I can’t help it. I look straight at Ashley. I don’t know why I do. Perhaps because I’m so used to him having the answers when I don’t, or perhaps I just want to share a moment of surprise; this was absolutely not what I expected from our meeting.

I wonder if Crane takes it as bait. Ashley narrows his eyes in confusion and shakes his head. “No.”

“Miss Mason?” Crane pries. 

“I have no clue,” I say. “They haven’t been in the apartment. The last time I saw them was, I dunno - maybe the first day of the Games? They were with a bunch of other escorts. They haven’t been around.”

“You don’t think it’s strange that you haven’t heard from them since?”

I cross my arms. “It’s my first year. I have no clue what’s strange and what’s normal.”

“Mr Firth?” 

Ashley shakes his head. “I worked with Ambrosia Selene before she transferred, and she liked to make herself scarce. As far as I’m concerned, their absence isn’t unusual. Besides - I’ve had no need to keep in contact with Minnie. My tribute is dead.”

Seneca Crane purses his lips into a thin, tight line. It makes him look unusual, dried out, like a walking corpse. “Did Minnilee exhibit any strange behaviour before your last encounters with them?”

“Depends what you’d consider unusual,” I say. 

“Were they upset? About the death of Foley Elsier, in particular?”

I blink. A slow, sinking feeling pulls at my chest and I try to shrug it away. “Sure.”

“So, when I say unusual -”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think being upset with the death of children is completely usual, but -”

“Johanna.” Ashley looks at me. He tries to make his voice sound sharp, but I can tell his tone for what it truly is; concern. He shifts his gaze back to Crane. “Yes. They seemed - affected by the Games. But, again, it’s their first year. Maybe some upset is usual. Like I said, I’ve only worked with one other escort before, and she’d done this for years.”

“What’s this about?” I ask Crane. “Aren’t you supposed to be busy? Are they, like, missing or something?”

Crane’s lips curl into the mockery of a smile. “Oh, no. I know perfectly well where Minnilee Lazarus is.”

Something in his tone of voice makes me want to squirm. “So? What does this have to do with us?”

He presses his hands against the desk, clawed fingers curling around the razor-thin glass. “It might interest you to know that they were found unconscious this morning in their apartment after an attempt on their own life.”

You could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows his words. I find myself leaning forward in my chair, a strange combination of horror and anger swelling in the pit of my stomach. “What?”

“Are they alright?” Ashley interjects, echoing my tone.

Crane waves his hand. “They’ll be fine. It wasn’t a successful attempt. They’re in hospital being treated as we speak. It’s a fortunate thing that one of their fellow escorts came to check on them when he did. A few more minutes, and they might not have been so lucky.”

Ashley’s eyes go wide. “Shit. Can we go see them?”

“No, I don’t think that would be wise,” Crane says. “This sort of mishap is rather rare in the Capitol, you see. They’ll need immediate psychological treatment once they’ve physically recovered. We’ll assign your district a replacement mentor for the remainder of the Games. Provided Minnilee will be up for returning to work in the new year, they’ll be right as rain.”

“But they -”

“Besides,” Crane continues, “I didn’t call you in here to simply inform you about their attempt.”

I realise my nails have been digging sharp imprints on the palm of my hands. “What did you call us in to talk about?”

“Minnilee left a note. It is rather unusual for an escort to experience such severe distress when it comes to the death of a tribute,” Crane says. “Our vetting process is quite strict, for this very reason. It is the opinion of the Games Committee that Minnilee was likely coerced into taking such a drastic action.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“It has come to our attention that, on your Victory Tour, our surveillance system experienced a significant amount of interference, particularly during a number of conversations between the two of you and Minnilee Lazarus.”

“You’re watching us?” I ask. Of course, I already knew that, but it feels like another thing altogether for them to openly admit it. My nerves rush to my fingertips, twitching, desperate to burst free.

Crane’s mouth twists unpleasantly. “Of course. We want to make sure our victors remain safe.”

“What are you implying?” Ashley pushes. 

“I just want to make sure there weren’t any missed conversations between the two of you and Minnilee that would - say - move them in a certain direction.”

It takes a lot to dumbfound me, but this honestly does it. “You think we told them to try to kill themselves?”

“Oh, no, I don’t believe you would ever be so outright,” Crane says. “But I’m aware that victors can often hold quite, hm, seditionist thoughts. It’s the nature of the Game. How am I to know that the responsibility of Minnilee’s decision can’t be found in your hands? After all, it would make quite the statement, wouldn’t it?”

Make a statement. I shake my head. “Did you ever think that maybe they just realised that all this shit is just fucked up and wanted to do something about it?”

Crane looks at me curiously. “So, you agree. Their attempt says something.”

“Look,” Ashley cuts in, quickly. He seems stiff, nervous. “We had nothing to do with this. It was only after the reaping that Minnie started acting strangely. And maybe you’re right. Maybe we could have done something. Paid more attention - warned someone - kept them safe. But we had tributes to worry about. We thought they’d be fine. After all, it’s like you said. You train your escorts well. Why wouldn’t we trust you?”

I frown at him. Why is he brown-nosing? Surely he can see that Crane’s ideas are preposterous? I want to open my mouth, tell him off, but something stops me. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at Crane; forced, pointed, or maybe it’s the way that a thought is nagging at me too - the distinct idea that something is wrong with this conversation.

I look at Crane again, in his smug uniform, with his smug smile. There’s strain there too. He’s taut, like a wire about to snap if the right pressure is applied. The dots click, all at once. He knows we have nothing to do with this, I realise. He’s just waiting for a moment where we give him ammunition so he can shelve the blame. Because if we’re not responsible for this, it means he is. 

“Hm,” Crane says. “Well. You’re not to breathe a word of this to anyone. As far as you’re concerned, Minnilee Lazarus simply came down with an awful sickness and is out of commission for the rest of the Games. Any word to the contrary will result in the pair of you being severely disciplined.”

“Noted,” Ashley says. “Can we get back to our tribute, please?”

“Certainly,” Crane says, but as we stand up – my legs shakier than I want them to be – he holds out his hand. “Oh. Another thing.”

I almost roll my eyes. “What?”

“I’ve heard that the two of you have been growing close. There’s even been talk of sharing a bedroom,” he says, smirking. “Let’s not continue that behaviour. We want our mentors well-rested and safe from distractions. Besides,” he looks me dead in the eye, “We wouldn’t want anyone in the Capitol getting jealous. ”

Something in my vision flares white. My hands clench into fists. Humiliation flushes through me, and it takes nearly all my willpower not to leap over his stupidly large desk and start peeling his face off with my bare hands. How dare you? How dare you fucking listen to what was supposed to be a private conversation, you - 

Ashley puts his hand on my shoulder, tight and nervous. “Come on, Jo,” he says, his voice strained. He looks at Crane with thinly veiled contempt. “Let’s get back to Chipper.”

We’re silent on the elevator back down. When we step out into the foyer leading to the Click, adrenaline and instinct takes over. Without thinking, I kick the wall. A sharp, stabbing pain runs all the way up to my knee, electric hot. I grit my teeth.

“Piece of shit .”

“I didn’t think I could hate him anymore after what he did to you in the arena last year,” Ashley says darkly. 

“I could kill him.”

“Don’t even threaten that,” he warns. “Just don’t give him more ammunition.”

“Apparently he’ll find whatever he can take,” I spit. I think of Minnie, in a hospital bed. “Ashley, I can’t believe he thought we would-”

He shakes his head. “Yeah, I know. But it doesn’t matter. You need to focus on Chipper.”

“What about Minnie?”

“Minnie will be OK. I’ll go see them.”

“If they let you.”

He shrugs. “There’s no point thinking of that. Right now there’s a boy alive in the arena that needs your help. Leave the rest to me.”

I look at him, and there’s a silent warning in his gaze. You don’t know what the Game is, yet. I do. Trust me. Keep to yourself.

I want to tell him he’s wrong, but instead, I say, “Okay”. I just feel defeated. There’s still fight in me, but what’s the point in it? My leg hurts and my hands hurt and I want nothing more than to curl up and go to sleep.

But there’s Chipper.

“I’m going to go make a call,” Ashley says. “Stay careful, Jo.”

I watch him go, and wonder when I was so stupid to think things could be alright, even if just for a minute. 

THE NEXT few days are nothing short of hell. I don’t sleep. How can I - when I’m forced to be on my own? I find myself frequenting the cubicles on the floor up from the Click instead of the seventh floor, catching a few hours of shuteye here and there when I can. It’s better than being alone in my room because at least I have the knowledge that my fellow mentors are working just beneath my feet, but most of the time I find myself wide awake, sweating into the sheets and imagining Minnie strung up from the ceiling, limp, hanging to and fro. 

It’s at times like that where I start wondering if it might be my fault after all. I try to force myself to stop, but sleep deprivation digs its gnarled claws into my thoughts. The Capitol will find their own twisted way to punish Minnie for what they’ve done, and I can’t help but obsess over the idea that I could have done something to stop it.

I barely see Ashley. The day after our meeting with Seneca Crane he’s inundated with meetings and requests to visit dear old friends. It makes me angry and - as much as I’m loath to admit it - jealous, still. The waiting becomes a nightmare. I don’t hear from him at all, and it’s only through Finnick (who sees him briefly on the way to one of his own appointments) that I know he’s even alive. It doesn’t help much. My mind latches onto the idea that one day he’ll be sent to someone who does a little bit too much harm, and then he’ll never come back. 

The only relief comes with the knowledge that my father and Lynn - and honestly, even Sylvia and Blight - are safe at home, where nobody can touch them. 

The Games crawl by at a snail’s pace. Food is scarce in the arena, and while Chipper’s alliance has found an easy method to get water, other tributes aren’t so lucky. Two of the younger kids keel over from dehydration by the fourth day - both straying far from the river, which seems more and more like an omen of death as the days draw on. This is not popular with the audience. It’s a short turnaround once the Gamemakers get the hint. That evening, the heavens open up, and a vicious thunderstorm rips through the arena.

Our alliance has the good fortune to have already hauled up in a cave system. It took a lot of convincing on Chipper’s part to get Mode to agree, but Seth isn’t in any state to travel much. Despite their best efforts, a lack of proper bandages has meant his wound has gotten infected. As the days go by, it gets worse. By the time the storm hits, he’s shivering at the back of the cave, feverish and half-asleep.

Lightning crackles throughout the sky. I’m reminded of the day that Chess and I were hauled up, back in my Games. That had been my birthday - if I remember correctly. My time in the arena often blurs into a singular dizzy grey spiral, but I can distinctly recall receiving a cake as a special request from a sponsor. A few months after the Games, Ashley would tell me that it wasn’t a gift I needed to repay. Apparently, the sponsor in question wasn’t interested.

I always got the sense that wasn’t the full story, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s the one repaying it now.

The memory’s given me a thought, though. I nudge Beetee, who is scrawling notes for a project in his workbook, and point at the screen.

“I’m going to send them food,” I say. “Nobody’ll see with the storm.”

He peers up, seemingly unaware of the state of the arena. “Oh, yes. That would be a good idea.”

I’m careful with the fare - a loaf of bread and some soup will go a long way. I don’t want to make them sick with the richness. The pot clangs down at the mouth of the cave at the very same time as a bolt of lightning strikes a tree in the distance, exploding it into a burst of flames. The blaze seems to war against the torrential downpour. Chipper and Mode stare at it in awe for a moment, before their eyes drift down to the parachute and hunger wins out over curiosity.

They make a feast of it. Seth hoists himself up against the cave wall, and the three joke that it’s just like the meals they were served back in the Capitol. “Just in a more humble environment,” Chipper says. “With more humble company.”

“Hey!” Mode jabs him with her elbow.

They finish the soup, but ration the bread carefully. Seth doesn’t eat much. About halfway through the meal he grows green and fights to keep the fare down. By the time the sky is starting to darken, he goes to retreat back to his slump at the back of the cave. Chipper and Mode go to collect more rainwater.

“He’s not going to last long,” Mode says under her breath as they dry off. 

Chipper’s face is pale. He looks exhausted. “I know.”

“Sometimes I think we should…” she hesitates. “Y’know.”

“I know. But I don’t want to,” Chipper says.

“I don’t want to either, Chipper. But what’s the alternative? We leave him alone? We can’t keep dragging him along with us. It’s going to get us both killed.”

He looks at her with sad eyes. “I don’t even know how we would do it. We have no weapons.”

“We have the little knife.”

His expression switches over to horror. “How would we -”

“His throat,” she says, mimicking the action. “There are ways to make sure it’s not painful. Maybe while he’s sleeping. He’s just had a good meal. It might be better if we -”

“I can hear you.”

The pair turn towards the back of the cave. Mode’s face is stony, Chipper’s lined with guilt. Seth looks up at them, eyes half-lidded.

Chipper starts. “Seth, we don’t -”

“Nah. I gettit,” he says. His voice is blurry from pain. “I would too, if I were you.”

“I don’t want to -”

“Thing is, you can’t. Not yet.”

“Why?” 

“Cuz,” he tries to haul himself up. “I got’a plan. To take them out. ‘nd you need me for that, cuz it’s mine.”

“Who? Take who out? District 1 and 2?”

He nods. “Mm. I’ve been thinkin’. Not much else to do but lie here and think. Been mullin’ it over for ages. Always used to do that, y’know? Think about what I’d do if I were in the Games. Always felt like I was missing a piece of the puzzle. Storm made it all click.”

“Well?” Mode presses. “What?”

Seth shakes his head. “No, cuz if I tell you all of it, you’ll probably just kill me now and do it yourselves, won’t you?”

Mode twists her lips. “I don’t -”

“Don’t lie. I would, if I were you,” Seth says. 

“Maybe,” she admits.

“I’m not mad at you. Not very nice to watch someone die slowly. ‘nd I am dying. I know that.” He fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “Probably stupid to ask. But I think this is a good plan. And I want a win before I go. Wanna do something. Up your chances. I know that’s selfish, but -”

“No,” Chipper says. “It’s not selfish.”

“I think it’ll work. I really do.”

“We’re supposed to trust you when you can’t trust us?” Mode asks. “Fuck, Seth, I mean, who’s to say you’re not leading us to our deaths on purpose?”

Seth shakes his head. “I just wanna make sure one of the two of you makes it out. Then you can let nature do its thing. But I don’t want you to kill me.”

“Mode,” Chipper says. “I trust him.”

She looks at Chipper intensely. “Fuck, Chipper -”

“Let’s hear him out.”

“Please,” Seth says.

“Fine,” she glares. “But I need more information than just ‘I have a plan’ if I’m going to go along with it.”

Seth looks at Chipper. “I’m not -”

“She’s got a point,” he says.

Seth looks down at his shirt again. “It’s the fire,” he mumbles. “The fire gave me an idea.”

I STAY with the tributes as long as I possibly can, after that. It’s a funny sensation, feeling hope and dread all at once. Hope over the fact that they’re taking action, dread over the fact that it might get them killed. My gut tells me to err towards the latter, but I try to stop myself. I need to have faith in my tribute.

Beetee is the opposite. He doesn’t seem to think the plan has any legs. The longer Seth goes without explaining, the more frustrated he grows. The tributes decide that they’ll scope out the inner-district camp at sunrise if the storm clears. As luck would have it, the dogpack have parked themselves not far out from the Cornucopia – the first place our alliance thinks to look. It’ll be at least a day’s trek through the desert, and they gear themselves up for it. Seth looks queasy at the idea, but emboldened enough to stay up and talk.

At the very least, more money piles in from interested audience members. The tributes are pretty spread out across the arena now, and events have slowed down considerably. Even a hint of excitement is enough to draw them in. By midday the next day, we have more than enough money to send down something to help Seth’s recovery, but still, Beetee stubbornly refuses it. It’s obvious now that he has his horse in the race, and he’s not changing teams for anything.

It makes me mad, but I keep my lips firmly sealed. My conversation with Seneca Crane has me nervous that anything I say will be taken in the worst faith, and I can’t afford to get into more trouble with my tribute in such a precarious situation. 

Their walk through the desert is slow and agonising. Seth trudges behind, and nobody talks. My thoughts whir, and always end up back on Minnie. I picture them, over and over. Minnie, alone in a hospital bed, Minnie in the arena, Minnie holding Foley’s tiny hand and leading her to sleep. 

Minnie, whose actions were certainly selfish, and yet who has somehow done more against the Games than I could ever hope to. 

Ashley finally comes down at the very end of the fifth day in the arena - at a point where Seth has collapsed and they’re forced to set up camp. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in what feels like ages, though it’s really only been a few days. He’s been spending his nights all over the Capitol. There are heavy bags under his eyes and bruises on his neck. He winces when he catches my eye and shakes his head – ( don’t ask ) – before sliding down into his seat and asking me to recap the past few days in the arena. 

It’s like clockwork, really. If it weren’t so typical of the Games, I might think it was intentional, just to ruin one last thing. Once I’ve explained and we finally have a chance to talk - actually talk - as friends, the main coverage shifts. Eyes rush to the screen. The boy from District 10, all alone, curled up in his jacket, shivering in the darkening air, comes across a rattlesnake. 

Then, just like that, the field is down to ten. 

When I turn back, Ashley looks pale. Sick. For a moment I’m confused, until I remember his Games. Of course. I open my mouth to say something - honestly, I’m not sure what - but before I can, he’s up, telling me it’s probably better if he just goes to bed.

I want to go after him, but I’m the only one left at the table, and so instead I sit and fiddle with my mouse as Chipper and his allies murmur about how much closer they are to the final eight. 

“Crane’s evil,” Finnick tells me, when he meets me for dinner in the canteen. My plate is piled high, but I taste none of it. I haven’t actually told anyone about our meeting, but word got around that District 7 was summoned up for whatever reason. “He’ll find a new target next year. He always does.”

I bite my lip. “No comment.”

“He’ll be busy in a few days, anyway. According to one of my sources, they’re releasing some proper mutts soon,” he says, unhappily. “Apparently the Games are getting a bit too boring for the audience’s liking.”

“Not enough mentors free to shove around,” I grumble, trying to quell the swirling in my gut as I realise Chipper could very easily be a target.

“That too.”

THE END of the first week in the Games is always important for betting. When I rise from my bed and stumble to the Click on day six, they’re showing updated odds on the screen. I try to ignore them, but curiosity eventually wins out. 

Chipper is at a respectable seventh place. Everyone seems to think this is good news, but all I can think is that it doesn’t matter where he places if he’s dead. 

Our alliance reaches the Cornucopia in the early afternoon. Seth collapses into the dust - still stained reddish from the bloodbath, even despite the rain - and rests his head on the inside of the horn, groaning. 

“They’ll be nearby, I’m sure of it,” Chipper says. “They won’t be too far from the river, and they’ll want to stay central so they get the best sight of the arena. Probably somewhere with higher ground.”

“Well, let’s find where they are and get out of here,” Mode says. “I don’t want to spend another minute in this place. Feels haunted.”

They don’t get the chance. It seems the Gamemakers have decided that their break is the perfect time to deploy their new toys. The wind slowly starts to pick up, and by the time they’re ready to brave the desert again, they can barely see their hands in front of their faces. On the main screen, I can see the real targets for the sandstorm. A swirling dust devil has begun racing towards the inner-district camp - only a short distance away, wreaking havoc as it goes. 

Across the Click, I hear someone swear as supplies are blown sky-high. 

“Should’ve stayed back,” Mode grumbles as the three hunker down towards the crook of the horn. 

When night falls, the damage to the inner-district camp has been done. They’ve lost about a third of their supplies to the river. Standing on the bank, they begin to argue about where to go next. Surface injuries are abound, but nothing for us to feel good about. They’ll be back to form come tomorrow morning.

The storm quells around the Cornucopia, but it’s late enough that there’s no point hunting around. The camp that they’re looking for is in shambles. Brief panic settles in when the dogpack suggests returning to the horn for the night, but it’s quickly vetoed by Calico, who wants them to stick to high ground. 

Inside the Cornucopia, Seth apologises. He seems to think the turn of events is his fault, and the other day’s brief bravado has been washed away in a tidal wave of pain and sickness. Mode snubs him, but Chipper takes it gracefully. 

“It’s the Games,” he says. “Plans aren’t foolproof. We’ll scout tomorrow. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

Since the other two have dampened spirits, he offers to take full watch. It isn’t too late and I can’t sleep anyways, so I stay down with Beetee. I’ve taken to doodling on my hands in boredom. I’ve got ink all the way up to my elbows. 

It’s around midnight when my attention is brought back to my screen by a strange noise. At first, it just sounds like the wind brushing against the horn, a pattering of sand. I hear it alongside Chipper through my headphones. He perks up from where he’s been sitting, fiddling with the little corkscrew attached to his pen knife. He blinks once, twice, slow - like a cat waking up from a nap.

Probably nothing, I think, though the hammering of my heart betrays me.

When Chipper’s nervous face pops up on the big screen, I know it’s a real problem.

They don’t show what it is that makes the noise, but it’s not a tribute. It sounds an awful lot like footsteps. Paws, padding around the horn in a circular pattern. Chipper’s eyes go wide and his attention darts to his sleeping teammates. For a moment, it looks like he’s about to prod Mode awake, but thinks better of it. He stands up, and inches closer to the mouth.

In the glow of the moonlight, basking half over his face, he seems just like a child. Bright hazel eyes and thick, choppy hair. I stare at him. The camera holds too tight, too close. He whips around, trying to spot the source of the noise, and I get the distinct, sudden feeling that I should remember what he looks like now - capture the image in my mind and keep it there, because I’m about to be faced with a horrible alternative.

Everyone in the room seems to be aware of it too. I think I hear Finnick call my name from across the Click in warning, but it’s like it comes from underwater - too slow and too distant. Seconds grow into hours as the feed slowly zooms out. Finally, I see what’s been stalking my tribute.

The figure of a hulking beast - a sort of great cat, or a bear, or perhaps just a monster - grows closer and closer to Chipper’s tiny frame. 

His eyes squint, trying to adjust in the dark. Run, I think. Run, just please run.

Then he sees it.

I wish I didn’t have to look at the terror on his face, because I know I’ll remember that forever.

It’s not a fair match. It’s brutally uneven, and it’s over in a moment. I watch in horror as Chipper is torn to shreds, ripped apart like he’s made of thin, wet cloth. He doesn’t even get to shout or cry - it’s that sudden. One second he’s there, whole, and then there’s pieces of him everywhere. 

Mode hears the noise and, in a panic, runs out, crying, “Chipper? Chipper ?” 

It’s a blink for her too. Deliriousness spreads as I glance up at the clock and realise it’s barely been a minute. In a minute - less than a minute - they’re both gone, and the field is down to eight, when just a day ago they were talking about how they were so close.

Inside the Cornucopia, Seth stuffs his knuckles in his mouth to suppress a scream. The sound of tearing flesh ricochets against cold metal. 

Then it’s over, and the cannons are firing and the beast is gone - having done exactly what it set out to do, padding home to its metal cage somewhere underground where it will be plied with Gamemaker treats.

And for a moment, I actually understand why the Capitol can watch the Games. Because this doesn’t feel real. It feels like a movie. My mind can’t seem to fathom the fact that Chipper is really dead. Wasn’t that an actor on a screen? Isn’t the real boy still safe guarding over his friends - or better yet, at home, with his father? Surely that’s what makes the most sense. Surely it’s fathomable. Much more fathomable than this.

But you’ve seen it, I remind myself. You’ve been there. This is real. He’s gone. 

I shove off my glasses, tear off my headphones. I don’t want to look at Chipper. Don’t want to picture how they’ll patch him together before they lock him in his coffin. He didn’t even get a chance to fight. He didn’t even do anything. That isn’t fucking fair.

Beetee gawks across from me, his own eyes black holes under his thick lenses. 

“Give Seth all my money,” I tell him. My voice is shaking. If only he’d listened to me. Maybe then, Seth wouldn’t have been ill, and maybe then they’d have acted sooner. Maybe people wouldn’t have gotten bored, and Chipper wouldn’t have had to die. “And fucking use it this time.”

I stand up. As if on cue, my phone rings.

“Johanna Mason,” says Julius Waxwick, on the other line. “Now that’s all over, I assume you’re free?”

Chapter Text

I sit on an elegant wicker loveseat in a garden on a hill, watching as the girl from District 9 prepares to fight to the death.

There are much better sights to see. This house overlooks the great lake capping the very tip of the city. It’s a beautiful day. An azure sky patched with clouds hangs over a morning brimming with life. The lake ripples in warm swirls. In the distance, I can see boats - children paddling out in brilliant yellow jackets, shouting and running across the buoyed obstacle course they’ve built up just for the weekend. There’s a light wind brushing against the thin satin dress I wear, catching the smell of salt and peonies from the neighbour’s garden. Heat beats down against my skin, buttery, golden light. Summer incarnate. 

But in the arena, the pair from District 4 jostle forward, red sand scatters, and I can’t bring myself to tear my eyes away.

I hear Julius approach before I see him. The sound of his footsteps are distinctive; his heeled boots are of the custom variety. Height is an insecurity he can’t fix, and he wears them everywhere. When he goes to sleep, he tucks them neatly at the foot of the bed, and he slips them on first thing in the morning before he brushes his teeth.

The sound of them, the sharp click-clack , is a noise I’ve grown to associate with a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Julius reaches for the remote. The projector screen flickers off, singing goodbye with a pleasant chime. The loveseat jolts with the weight of another body. “You really are obsessed, aren’t you, Johanna?”

I turn to him. Julius places two thin flutes of alcohol on the crystal table adorning the porch, fizzy orange sparkling in the mid-morning light. Half-naked, shrouded in a lazy kimono, he smirks at me. 

I’m not sure how it’s possible, but he’s got even less attractive as time goes on.

“I’m interested,” I tell him, nudging my chin up at the screen.

“Oh, why? You don’t have a horse in the race anymore. Why does it matter who wins and who doesn’t?”

I wonder if Julius’ parents know they’ve raised a monster. I can’t imagine it was an easy thing to overlook. He’s a vain creature; snobbish, cruel, hooked on power. Even in his bedroom, where he likes my bite, he’s always the centre of attention. Self-flagellation is, after all, just another form of self-obsession. 

“Well, I’ll have to spend time with whoever the victor is next year,” I say. “You can’t fault me for being interested. Maybe they’ll be my next best friend.”

Julius laughs. The sound is high-pitched and grating. “I can’t imagine you have many friends, Johanna.”

I try not to glower. “I have a few.”

“Well,” Julius says, picking up a glass. “You can find out who it will be at the finale. I’d rather have fun in the meantime. Come on. Drink with me.”

My eyes drift over to the lake, avoiding his gaze. “Maybe later.”

“Drink,” he says, with the same forceful glee he loves to use - a reminder that I really don’t have a choice in the matter.

I roll my eyes and reach for the flute. A quick swig finishes most of it. I swirl the rest of the liquid, watching the dregs settle at the bottom of the glass. At least the flavour isn’t too bad. If I’m honest, I’d probably drink more if it wasn’t for the taste. There’s a comforting numbness to it. But it’s vile. I don’t know how someone like Haymitch can stomach the stuff. 

“I thought you loved the Games,” I say. “Why not watch?”

Julius gives a sluggish shrug. “Sure. They’re fine. But I only really care when I’m particularly interested in a tribute.” 

He reaches over to place a hand on my thigh, and I resist every urge in my body to smash his head into the pretty little glass sitting table. 

“Does nobody this year strike your fancy?”

“Oh, maybe that girl from One,” he says. “But honestly, I much prefer them once they’re out of the arena. It’s awful in there. Far too dirty.”

I look at him and think, you’re a parody of what people in the Districts believe the Capitol is like. 

“She’s got a nice body,” he continues. “So I wouldn’t be mad if she won. If I’m honest, it’s nearly as nice as yours.”

I snort to hide my disgust. “Well, what can I say? I’m perfection. Aren’t I - darling? ” I lay the last word on thick. Julius loves using darling as a pet name. He uses it over and over. The word will probably make me feel sick forever.

He pulls a face. “Oh, no, don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” I ask. “Isn’t this what you want? My attention?”

“Yes, but not like that .” His nails grip into the side of my leg like a vice. “There isn’t any point pretending, I know you hate my guts.”

I glare at him. “I figured after four days of my company you might want something new.”

“No. I know what I want,” he says. “Mm. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate gratitude. But I’m not expecting you to act like you’re thrilled to be here.”

“I’m plenty grateful,” I say, exaggeratedly dry.

“Of course you are,” he sneers. “Finish your drink. Oh! And would you like some leftover birthday cake?”

That’s a jab. I know it. We’ve exchanged silent strikes like this over and over since I arrived. He’s better at it than I expected. And somehow, spending my birthday yesterday in Julius’ grip has beaten out the time I spent in the arena last year for the worst celebratory experience. 

I’m sure it was intentional to have me all to himself. In Julius’ house, I’m not allowed any contact with the outside world. No calls home to family - not even to my fellow victors. Nobody to wish me well. Nobody to talk to at all. I have no idea what anyone is up to. The only way I know they haven’t bombed District 7 to bits is through access to the television. 

“I’m not hungry,” I say, downing the rest of my glass with a wince. Already, I can feel the unwelcome haze of alcohol clouding my thoughts. 

Julius lets go of my leg, his palm sweaty.

“Suit yourself,” he says. “Oh, but you’ll have to go home tonight. I’ve got a shoot over the next few days.”

I look at him carefully to make sure he’s not joking. It would be just like him to lie to me about something like this - get my hopes up, only to rip them away. “Alright. Well, maybe I’ll stay and trash the place for you while you’re gone.”

He snorts. “Suit yourself.”

“It might be the last time you see me,” I say. “The Games might end soon - and then I’ll be called away to interviews. I’m the outgoing victor. I’ll be in-demand.”

Julius shrugs. “I’ll survive. You’re not my only toy, Johanna.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’ll have a brand new plaything next year.”

“Maybe I will,” he says. “And maybe you’ll end up with someone far worse than me and you’ll come crawling back. Neither of us can tell the future, can we?”

I place my empty glass down on the table with a bit too much force. “No, we can’t,” I sniff. 

“I’ll have my pick of the litter either way.”

“I’ve actually been curious about that.”

“About what?”

I peer into his eyes. Naturally, they’re a murky green-brown, like swamp water. He likes to cover them with contacts. “I’ve heard rumours through the grapevine that most of the people the victors spend time with think they come of their own free will.”

Julius shrugs. “That might be true.”

“But you know,” I say. “You know I would never come here willingly. How come?”
Julius gives me an awful grin. “Nosy, are we?”

“Maybe,” I say.

He bites. Of course he does. Julius loves proving that he knows things others don’t. “Well, most people who come to enjoy the company of victors are in the President’s inner circle. It’s like a favour on his part, but disguised as an open invitation. It’s good to keep them in his good graces - better if they don’t think it’s a transaction at all. Politics and stuff. But some of us,” he says, flicking a bit of dirt from the underside of his fingernail, “have the money to ask. Of course, President Snow will never turn down more funding.”

“I thought he was already rich.”

“You know what they say about the rich,” Julius says. “Stingy bastards.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You don’t like Snow?”

“I’m ambivalent,” he says. “He’s just an old man. I’m looking forward to when he finally kicks the bucket. Someone young as president would be nice.”

“And so, you spent money on me?” I ask. “I should be flattered. I can’t imagine many people would.”

“Oh, Johanna,” he says. “So, so many people would. I’m just one of the few who can afford you. Now,” he clears his throat and stands up, “if you’re not hungry and you’re not asking any more questions - let’s go make the most of our last few hours together, shall we?”

My stomach churns, and not from the alcohol, but I stand up and follow him back inside, anyway. 

I’M GIVEN back my things once I step into the car hired to take me home to the Tribute Centre. My Games watch is no longer functional, but there are screens dotted all around the city, playing a highlight reel of today’s adventures in the arena. Against all odds - or perhaps not - Pepper has taken down both tributes from District 4, bringing the playing field down to six. It’s the first kill in nearly a week.

That’s Finnick out for the count, I think to myself as the car stagnates in traffic. There are only three inner-district tributes left now; the pair from District 1 and the girl from District 2. Then there’s Pepper, and finally, Seth - who, with the help of the medicine Beetee finally caved for, has made a full physical recovery. 

His mental state is another beast. It’s obvious he’s deeply traumatised by the death of his allies, and he spends most of his time staring blankly at the horizon and muttering to himself. Whatever plan he had will probably remain a Games mystery forever, because there’s no way he’s winning. Aside from the fact he’s the only one left without significant weapons training, the Capitol simply wouldn’t risk allowing another unstable tribute to win. I might have broken the trend, but nobody’s keen on adding another tally to the victor’s loony bin. 

I shudder. Thinking of Seth makes me think of Chipper, and thinking of Chipper makes me think of what happened five days ago. I can't seem to get the sound of tearing flesh out of my head. When I close my eyes at night, I picture him standing at the end of my bed, patchwork and peeling. 

When we approach the Tribute Centre, I begin to wonder where they’ve put his body. Will he be under my feet? Have they started stitching him up? What about the parts of him that are missing - that they couldn’t retrieve from the arena? How will they replace them?

What am I supposed to tell his father if he doesn’t come back whole?

Despite the heat, I’m shivering as I stumble out of the car. As always, there are paparazzi outside - predators lying in wait. They jostle at the sight of me. Voices bite at the air; “Johanna, where have you been?”, “Is it true Julius Waxwick invited you to his personal residence?”, “Can we get a statement on the death of your tribute?”

I ignore them, pushing forward. The doors to the lobby slide open at the touch of my thumbprint and I breathe out a shaky huff. My fingers feel electric, my heart hammers stubbornly. I’m halfway to the elevators before I notice the girl wandering aimlessly back and forth across the smooth tiled floor, her bare feet making a soft pattering sound as she stumbles.

“Annie?” I call.

She doesn’t look at me. Her hair is loose and I think she might be wearing her pyjamas. There’s distress in her eyes, pupils wide, darting around the lobby without really seeing anything. Her fingers play at her necklace, her sleeves, her hair, her cheeks. 

Behind the main desk, a pair of attendants peer out at her. The place is otherwise bare.

“Annie?” I repeat, striding over to her. “Where’s Finnick?”

Her attention snaps in my direction, eyes watery and bleary. She looks as though she’s just waking up from a dream. 

I turn my attention to one attendant. “How long has she been here?”

She gives me a nervous look. “Oh, I don’t - maybe fifteen minutes?”

“And you didn’t bring her back upstairs?” I snap. I grab hold of Annie’s arm, keeping my grip tight. “Come on. Let’s go.”

I expect her to struggle, but she doesn’t. She’s wilfully led by hand up the elevator without so much as a word. And she’s so light. It almost feels like she’s floating.

When I punch in the fourth floor, I anticipate I’ll be barred entry, but the door slides open with ease. Apparently it’s not a problem for victors to visit one another’s’ apartments. 

The space is a perfect replica of ours, only mirrored. I call out as we arrive, but nobody answers.

“Hey,” I say to Annie, who has her hands over her ears again. “Where’s everyone? Where’s Finnick?”

She blinks at me.

“Annie. Where’s Finnick?”

“Interview,” she mumbles. “He warned me not to watch. I wanted to see him. I didn’t think they’d show - they showed them, when she -” 

She lets out a small noise and closes her hands over her ears again.

“Right,” I echo. “Um. Look. Why don’t you go - do you want to go back to bed?”

“Alright,” she breathes, and then shuffles off towards the mentor's bedroom.

I don’t know what else to do, so I just follow her. Annie seems to have flicked on a switch and forgotten I’m here at all. She stumbles around her room for a moment, clicking lights on and off. For a moment she stands, swaying, before she gets to work remaking the bed. Finally, she curls under the covers and starts humming to herself.

“Do you want me to call anyone?” I ask, but she doesn’t respond.

I wander back out into the hallway. My feet are just stepping onto the elevator when an icy feeling strikes me. I think about Minnie. About leaving them alone, and what happened next. I might not know Annie well – know little to nothing about what kind of person she is, or what sort of thing she might do – I also know that I won’t be able to bear myself if I go back home now.

So instead, I find myself curled up on the District 4 apartment sofa, watching as the cars on the street below roll by, trying not to think about anything at all.

The elevator door slides open about an hour later. Finnick looks exhausted as he steps in - a rare moment where he’s all alone with no one to perform to. He’s obviously been through it. His suit jacket sits crumpled, his hair mussed. Paparazzi mobbing, most likely. I’ve seen it happen to him dozens of times on camera.

When he sees me, green eyes widen. 

“Johanna? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, standing. “Yeah! Um. I just - I was on my way back and found Annie in the lobby. I think she saw what happened to the tributes on TV. I brought her back up here.”

The urgency is his gaze is nothing fake. He really loves her. “Shit. Okay. How is she? Is she alright?”

“She’s asleep,” I say. “I just - I thought I should probably stay up here until you came back. In case. Y’know.”

“You waited?”

I shrug. “Yeah.”

“How long?”

“About an hour.”

A funny look crosses Finnick’s face. He walks right over and envelops me in a hug. 

I tense instinctively, because I’m not used to hugging people. Not used to touching them. He holds me for quite a while before he pulls away. 

“Thank you, Johanna,” he tells me. 

I shrug again, embarrassed. “It’s fine. Plenty of people would have done it.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” he says. “Look. I’m going to check on Annie. Would you like to stay for dinner?”

I glance at the elevator. “Thanks, but I’ll probably go back. I’m fucking exhausted.”

“Had a long few days?”

“Something like that.”

He gives me a rueful grin. “I’m sorry about your boy.”

“Sorry about yours,” I say. 

Finnick nudges me. “Maybe next year.”

“Maybe,” I say. “Go take care of Annie.”

He gives me a pat on the back - another silent thanks - and then hurries down the hall. I take the elevator up to an empty seventh floor and go straight to bed. 

MORNING in the Tribute Centre crawls by. When I wake, I feel a sudden rush of urgency - my gut tells me I need to race to the Click at breakneck speed, plug myself into my desk, force myself back into the habit that kept me occupied for the first week of the Games. But there’s no cause for it. There’s nobody to look after. Nobody to save.

I take a shower and sit on the floor. My fingers run through the gaps in the tiles, watching as water streams down my arms, sticking my hair to my face. My body is unblemished, but I feel like there’s something dirty stuck to my skin - something humid and heavy. I scrub at my legs until they itch and burn, lather myself in a thick layer of soap that smells of chemicals and aniseed. Something desperate cloys at me, a sharp desire to fix things.

But when I step out into the cool air of the bathroom, eyes stinging, I don’t feel any cleaner than I did when stepping in.

I could phone someone to send up breakfast, but I don’t. I just wander around the apartment in a towel, my wet hair dripping onto my shoulders. The kitchen is spotless, untouched for over a week. When I try to make myself a cup of tea, my hands betray me. Scalding water spills over my knuckles, and I find myself crouched on the floor, air whistling between my teeth.

Maybe there’s someone watching me now, in a room somewhere. There probably is. A tiny part of me wonders if they’ll send someone up to make sure I’m alright, but of course, nobody comes.

I try to phone home, but calls to the districts are a luxury only afforded to the active mentors; a casual conversation isn’t deemed necessary. When I dial up the hospital where Minnie recovers, the woman on the other line informs me contact with the outside world is strictly forbidden until their programme is complete.

It occurs to me that I could go see Finnick. He might be around. At the very least, I can check on Annie after yesterday. It might be good to have some company that isn’t a movie star. 

Despite myself, I like them. Particularly Finnick. I might even consider him a friend - another name in an unfortunately long list of people who have found a way to worm right under my skin.

I’ll go.

But when I stand, the ground is unsteady under my feet. The elevator feels locked a million miles away. The idea of getting dressed is dizzying, the concept of seeing people brings bile up in my throat. 

I just sit.

Mid-afternoon, the phone in my bedroom rings.

It takes me a moment to stumble towards it, crawling in from the living room. The receiver is cold to the touch. There’s no identification - no number to tell me who wants to talk to me. It could be anyone. It could be Julius, come to force me back to his mansion. Could be Seneca Crane, ready to punish me for something I didn’t do. Or it could be the hospital, phoning to let me know that Minnie has gotten worse and won’t make it out after all.

I bite my lip hard, but my hands grip onto the phone, because curiosity always gets the better of me.

“Hey,” crackles a familiar voice on the other line.

A small flicker of relief - the first I’ve felt in days - warms the pit of my stomach. “Ashley?” 

“Yeah. I, uh - I heard you were back in the Tribute Centre,” he says. His voice carries; he’s outside. Cars honk in the background, wind rushes past, muffling his voice. “How are you doing?”

“Been better,” I murmur. 

“Jo, I’m really sorry about Chipper. I don’t -” His voice cuts off. Someone says something to him. “ - I wish I could have been there.”

“I know,” I say. 

“I have to go,” he says. He sounds annoyed. “Couldn’t even spare a fucking - okay, look, I don’t know when I’ll be back, but we’ll be home soon, okay?”

“I’m fine, Ashley,” I lie. 

He sighs. “Talk to you soon?”

“Mm. Bye,” I say, but I keep the phone up to my ear for just a moment longer after the line cuts, hoping that he’ll stay.

He doesn’t, and I don’t sleep much better that night.

OVER THE next few days, I pick myself up, inch by inch. I don’t feel any less dirty, but I don’t hear anything from Julius either. He stops existing at the back of my mind, just out of sight, and starts existing across the Capitol, on a film shoot and away from me - where he belongs. 

I don’t want to see people, but Finnick does call. He seems to understand what’s going on, because he never talks about the Games, or even the Capitol. He plies me with stupid questions, talks at length about books, movies. Much to my chagrin, I do start feeling better.

No wonder half the Capitol is obsessed with him. He could charm all the birds off the trees. 

I watch the Games too. Julius seemed surprised that I wanted to, but I know it’s a morbid curiosity that all of us victors share. Just a building over, a handful of our own still fight to keep their tributes alive. It feels like I owe it to them, to the kids in the arena, to make sure I don’t forget what they’re going through.

The days tick on and the numbers of tributes left tick down. Seth ends up making it to fourth place after the same mutt that killed Chipper and Mode takes down the girl from District 1. 

I don’t watch when it happens. I avert my gaze down into my lap and try to tune out the sounds. I know what her death looks like without seeing it. I know that she won’t look anything like the pretty girl Julius waxed about when she’s in her coffin on her way home. 

Her remaining allies manage to kill the beast. There’s only two of them left. They light it on fire - a beacon, Calico says. He wants to be found. 

It burns for hours.

Seth sees the flames. He turns away. Pepper turns towards it. They find each other on a patch of sun-withered dirt. They’re skin-and-bone, eyes wild, hair knotted. The smile that tears through her face is hollow and exhausted. She knows she needs to play for the cameras, and I know that she doesn’t want to do it anymore. 

He doesn’t last very long. His body is retrieved without much fanfare, and just like that, the Games are down to three.

The arena seems massive, with so few of them left in it.

THE PENULTIMATE day of the Games, I’m roused, not of my own volition, but by a light shake of the shoulder. When I crack my eyes open, a bleary shadow peers over me. It takes a moment to recognise the figure’s familiar shock of dark red hair and freckles. 

“Mornin’, sleepyhead,” Ashley says.

I pull myself up, blankets shifting off my sweaty skin. “What are you doing here?”

He tilts his head to the side. “Not happy to see me?”

“No, of course I am,” I say, shaking off surprise and nerves at being woken so suddenly. “I just thought - I thought you’d be gone for way longer.”

“Well, it’s all about the Games today,” he says. “Who cares about the existing victors when there’s a new one on the way? I’m free.”

“For good?”

He shrugs. “For now.”

For now. I think about it. Depending how long it takes the new victor to recover, I might have a lot more meetings to attend. A lot more people to see - or maybe just one more person, again, and again, and again.

My expression must change, because Ashley frowns at me. “Are you alright?”

I have the horrible urge to cry. “Mm. Fine.”

“Bad week?”

My skin prickles. “Sure.”

“Hey, we don’t need to talk about it,” he says. “Honestly, I think I’d just like to pretend like the past few days didn’t happen.”

I look at him. He must have gotten back this morning. His clothes are casual, but perfume still lingers in the air, and I can see the bags under his eyes. I have no idea where Ashley's been. Who he's seen, what he's been made to do. Just like me and Finnick, we're in the same boat.

“What few days?” I say in response. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

His lips curl up. “Exactly.”

I pull myself up and he comes to sit on the edge of the mattress. For a moment I’m reminded of the last conversation we had before everything went topside. I try very hard to stop my face from flushing.

“Have you heard from Minnie?”

He shakes his head. “They wouldn’t let me through. I tried. Called every day.”

“I wish I could have tried more,” I say. “But Julius wouldn’t let me talk to anyone.”

“I figured.” Ashley sighs. “Look, I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

“You don’t think they’re doing something to them?”

He winces. “Oh, Jo, let’s not think about that.”

The air is heavy. I play with the edges of the duvet, the soft material rubbing against my raw skin. My fingers have been picked bloody. “Missed you, or whatever.”

“Yeah?” Ashley smiles. “Go on. Say that again.”

I glare at him. “No.”

He snorts, and then gestures to the door. “You should get up, by the way. We’re leaving in an hour.”

My eyes narrow. “Sorry?”

“It’s your birthday today, isn’t it?” he says.

And at first I’m confused - (he can’t have gotten the dates that wrong, can he?) - until I realise that he’s being deliberate. Ashley raises his eyebrows, a play on the mood, encouraging me to act along.

“We’ve planned something. Can’t have you sleeping the whole day away. Besides, everyone’s off today. Pre-finale fervour has the whole Capitol in a tizz.”

I stare at him.

“But, if you want to stay here, we can,” he says, noticing my expression.

“You’re stupid,” I tell him.

“Is that a yes?”

I pull myself up. “You got the others involved?”

“What, are you surprised?”

I bite my lip. I hate how vulnerable I've been feeling over the past few days. “No. I just didn’t think anyone else would have wanted to come.”

“Course they would’ve. I mean, don’t be insulted by this, Johanna, but people do actually like you.”

“Yeah, and that’s why I’m surprised,” I say.

Ashley shoves me. “Oh, come on. Get over yourself. And get dressed. We leave in an hour.”

Chapter Text

In the car, riding up the hill, someone switches on the radio. 

I’ve never been much of a music fan, but I can appreciate a tune when I hear it. Capitol music is the exception. The song that explodes through the speakers is a perfect example - a sharp, peppy pop tune with a grating beat. The singer’s voice is high-pitched and nasal, waxing poetic about her unmentionable sexual escapades.

“Oh, turn that shit off,” I groan, kicking the back of the passenger seat, where Ashley sits, mortified by the lyrics.

“Don’t you dare!” Finnick shouts back, jabbing me in the side with his elbow. He’s stuck in the middle seat, and I’m a punching bag. “I love this song.”

I look him dead in the eyes. “You’re kidding.”

“According to the papers, she wrote it about me,” he says, waggling his eyebrows in a suggestive manner.

Next to him, Cecelia - normally perfectly prim and proper - bites down a laugh. In the rear view mirror, the driver - a young man in a black uniform - looks like he wants to curve our car off the road and down the steep mountainside drop. 

Ashley, much to Finnick’s chagrin, turns the volume down to zero. He swivels around to look at us. “Are you drunk, Finnick?”

“Only drunk on life,” he retorts. “I’m just excited to celebrate the birthday of my very good friend, Johanna Mason, on this lovely, sunny day.”

“Yes, my birthday ,” I say dryly. “Today - the actual, real day of my birth.”

“Don’t be a pain,” Finnick moans. “Live a little. And turn that song back on!”

The car eventually arrives at a secluded spot on the lakeshore, dotted by picnic tables and tufts of lavender. The midday sun beats down on the waterfront. A dozen figures turn, their hands waving up in greeting as we pull to a stop.

“How many people did you rope into this?” I ask Ashley as we step out of the car. There must be at least a third of the inactive mentors here. There are both from Districts 11 and 8, Curie from Five, Haymitch from Twelve. Even Enobaria from District 2 has made a rare, shark-toothed appearance. 

He shrugs, a wisp of a grin on his face. “Finnick did most of the wrangling. It wasn’t too hard. Everyone’s been dying to get out of those stuffy buildings.”

“So I’m just a good excuse for a day out?”

Ashley glares at me.

I turn to Finnick. “Oh, and I’d say thanks, but I don’t like doing that.”

He snorts. I’m surprised he’d come without Annie, but apparently she’s taken to sleeping during the daytime. He has her on speed-dial, just in case.

“Is she always this difficult?” he asks Ashley.

Ashley pulls a face. “That’s not even half of it.”

The air is warm and stagnant, even right on the lakeshore. From our perch we can see all the way to the opposite side of the water; pearly white-and-blue waves give away to a resort overlooking arid mountaintops. The Capitol commandeers the entire circumference of the lake. I think that District 3 must be somewhere to the east, but I have no idea where the boundaries of the city truly begin or end.

We have this small wedge of shore all to ourselves. It’s an hour’s drive out of the city, but peering across the water, even the heart of the Capitol seems particularly still today.

“How come we’re alone?” I ask, hunkering down on one of the picnic tables and accepting a hug from Seeder. My shoes kick up dust, playing with a patch of weeds sprouting from the dirt. “The paps didn’t follow us?”

“Games fervour,” Chaff says with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “They’re all glued to their television screens.”

“Oh, they won’t end it today,” Seeder tells him. “We would have never gotten the all-clear from the Gamemakers to leave the city if they were planning on having the tributes meet before tomorrow. They have to leave time for the betting. Tomorrow will be the day.”

Chaff raises his eyebrows. “I’ve been doing this for over twenty-five years, of course I know that.”

“Besides,” Finnick says, jostling me before coming to perch on the very top of the table, “nobody ever wants to come here. It’s haunted .”

Chaff groans. “Not this again.”

“Haunted?” I ask.

Finnick looks at me with glee. “Rumour has it that a man killed his girlfriend just before the Dark Days and buried her body all the way out here. When the war started, the investigation into her death stopped - but apparently when he died he left a note confessing to his crime, along with the exact coordinates of her grave.” He points up the hill towards a patch of wildflowers. “Nobody ever excavated it because neither one had any family left, but the rumour is, her ghost doesn’t like it when she has visitors. If you disturb her, she might get vengeful. A bunch of people have supposedly drowned here because of her.”

“And you chose to come?”

Finnick shrugs. “It’s all nonsense anyway. Besides, we’re victors. We’re not scared of the dead.”

My fingers play with a divot in the corner of the table, brushing against splinters. “Honestly, I forgot people from the Capitol could die.”

Seeder and Chaff exchange a look. Seeder peers back up at the hill. “Maybe she was buried up there after all,” she says. “In Eleven, we have a saying. Wherever someone with a good heart dies, flowers bloom.”

“Well, she must have been a fucking saint,” I say.

Conversation shifts. I can’t get away without a celebration, and Seeder and Chaff have gotten me a cake. It’s decorated with candied fruits, which is apparently a delicacy from Eleven. 

“It preserves them for longer,” Seeder explains. “They’re handed around on special holidays, like New Year’s or at Harvest Festival. Sometimes they’ll keep for months.”

It’s a delicious thing - sweet and tart. Finnick bemoans his autumn birthday and asks Seeder if she’ll ship him his own cake when he turns twenty-two. She smiles and ruffles his hair like he’s a child. 

Gifts are handed around. Finnick has brought me new wrestling gloves. Haymitch gets me a puzzle box. “To keep you occupied during the winter months,” he says. “Sometimes they take weeks to complete.”

He makes it sound like he doesn’t care, which means I can thank him in a way that makes it sound like I don’t give a shit either. It’s a good arrangement for the both of us. 

Most of the other victors - who I don’t know very well - come without gifts, but they each supply food and items of interest for the day. Soon one of the tables is absolutely loaded with a full picnic; baskets of grapes, sweet wine, bread, strawberries. Cards are handed out, towels laid down on the beachfront. Finnick tries to ply me into the lakewater.

“You know how to swim, Johanna,” he says. “I saw you do it.”

I eye the water warily. There’s a difference between a swimming pool and this. As much as I don’t want to, I can’t help but remember the lake from my own Games. But he’s persistent, and eventually I give in. 

I suppose there’s nothing like a bit of exposure therapy.

I pull a face at Ashley as I’m dragged into the waves. He rolls his eyes at me from the shore, with an expression that firmly says, ‘not this time.’

The water is cool, but the sun is hot. The morning seems to laze by, crawling at a dreamlike pace. Enobaria introduces us all to a game of suspicion using cards, where two players are chosen to be ‘hunters’ and the rest of the team is tasked with tracking them down. Haymitch storms every round, but it’s good fun. Curie does an impression of a number of celebrities – Julius Waxwick included – that has us all in stitches. Finnick tells us all about the gossip he’s picked up from his visits the past few weeks.

We don’t talk about the Games. 

I’ve just wandered away to get myself a drink from the table when Ashley catches up to me. He’s been quiet most of the morning - engaging when prompted, but mostly just listening. Up close, he does look very tired. I doubt he’s had an easy week. But he seems relaxed. 

His hands are behind his back, and he eyes the group down by the shore.

“I wanted to check that it's not all too much?” he asks.

I glare at him. “You’re really pushing for me to admit I wanted this, aren’t you?”

Ashley shakes his head. “No, really. I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” I say, glancing back at the group too. “This makes it easier to forget the past week.”

“That’s what I wanted. I’m glad.” Ashley shifts around. “And look, I’m really sorry we couldn’t be there for the actual day. Me especially. I feel - I dunno. I feel responsible. I promised everyone back home that I’d make sure you were alright.”

I frown. “You did?”

“Yeah. Your dad in particular. They were all really worried. They, uh -” he holds out his arms. “They wanted me to give these to you.”

I look down. In his hands are cards. Cards from home - from my father, and Lynn, and Sylvia, and even Blight. I take them and fan out the coloured paper. For a moment, I actually feel choked up. “Oh.”

“They’ll probably want to do something proper when we get back, but -”

“No,” I shake my head. “No. This is enough.”

“And I - uh,” he ducks his head and fishes in his back pocket. “I know this isn’t a lot, but I had no idea what to get you, and I remember you said you missed that piece of amber you lost it in the Games, so I thought I’d give you something to remind you of home when we’re away.”

Nestled in the palm of his hand is a bracelet. At first I’m confused, because I don’t ever wear jewellery, until I notice the charm. Smooth, polished wood, whittled into the shape of a pine tree, about the size of a marble.

“I’m shit with my hands,” Ashley says. “But you like pine tea, and I thought -”

I shake my head and take the gift, examining it close. It’s a bit lumpy, but the scent of fresh, earthy wood shavings hits my senses like a landslide. I close my eyes. “Mm. It smells like home.”

“Yeah, well, that’s sort of the point,” he says awkwardly, tilting his head to the side, giving me a crooked grin.

“Thank you, Ashley,” I say, and I think I want to give him a hug, but there are people around, and they’ll probably see, so instead I just give him a look I think only he will understand. 

He looks relieved. “Yeah! Of course!” He blinks. “I - uh - I think Finnick’s going to play that awful song for everyone again. I should go rescue them.”

I let him go. For a moment I sit on the bench, reading my cards. A breeze catches on the air, rustling the papers. One of the notes - the one from Lynn - goes flying up the hill and I have to run to pick it up. I find it nestled right in the middle of the patch of flowers Finnick pointed out earlier. They’re wildflowers, just like the ones we get back home in District 7; a field of forget-me-nots. 

Things like ghost stories have never frightened me, but up here, I feel oddly calm. Maybe Finnick is right. Maybe victors are impervious to the dead. 

Or maybe there was no girl buried here to begin with. 

I race down the hill and join the others. 

The sun is just beginning to curve down the horizon in a smooth, golden arc when we decide to pack away. Someone calls the cars to retrieve us. I know that once we get back to the city, the Games will rear their ugly head again, and along with them everything else; our dead tributes, our unwelcome arrangements, our own ghosts which we carry with us to sleep each night. But for now, out here, amongst one another, it really does feel like none of that can touch us.

I decide to savour it.

“We should do this every year,” Finnick declares. “We should come back here. All of us.”

“I could get behind that,” I say. “Provided Seeder brings that cake every year.”

“That’s not up for discussion,” he says. “Right Seeder?”

Seeder, who is dusting off her towel, looks at him, feigning disinterest and doing a terrible job at hiding her smile. “If you say so.”

I laugh, then turn to head back up to the cars. As I do, I notice Ashley is looking at me funny.

“What is it?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“No, what?”

“It really is nothing,” he says. He looks fond. “It’s just, I think I get it now.”

I frown. “What do you mean? Get what?”

“You look really happy,” he says.

Then he picks up the bag carrying the rest of my gifts and continues up the hill. For a minute I consider calling after him and making him tell me exactly what he means, but I decide to leave him in peace. 

SUNLIGHT fades away with the laughter and music as we wind through the city. The shadow of the towers cast down across City Circle - home of the Hunger Games, an inescapable beast. When we pull out into the underground parking lot, we regard one another, sunburnt and sweaty, and silently acknowledge that there probably won’t be another day like this in a very long time. 

Then we all take the elevator up to our respective apartments.

Ashley phones down for dinner as I do a cursory check on the arena. Just as Seeder predicted, there’s been very little action throughout the day. The tributes have been walking circles around one another. Whenever they get too close, the Gamemakers send some sort of distraction to shoo them away; dust devils, lightning strikes, hazy wolf-like silhouettes with glowing eyes in the distance. The tributes know the rules, and they listen. Pepper hunkers down for the night in a cave, mouth sewn into a thin, emaciated, line. About a half-hour’s trek away, the last shreds of the inner-district alliance - Calico from One and Dominitus from Two - prepare for tomorrow’s brutal fight.

“Who do you think will win?” I ask Ashley when he returns with plates of steaming stew for the both of us. There’s soft, fluffy bread, golden and buttered. He sets the food down on the living room table. We avoid the dining area. It always feels too empty with so few of us.

He frowns. There’s been a distant, almost pensive look in his eyes since the end of the picnic. But maybe he’s just exhausted. “I have no clue.”

“Who do you want to win?”

He turns to the television screen. “Oh, I don’t know. Whoever’s a friend.”

I consider that. One of the three remaining tributes will be someone I’ll probably have to form a relationship with in the future. But - despite what I told Julius - I don’t think I could ever be friends with any of them.

Unless by ‘friend’, he doesn’t mean in the literal sense.

“Pepper?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Emmer’s a good guy. It would be nice for him to finally bring someone home.”

That’s confirmation enough for me, then.

The Capitol apparently doesn’t share our opinion. Pepper ranks third in the polls, with Calico absolutely dominating the charts. I doubt District 2 will be pleased, but in the grand scheme of things, it makes sense. Their volunteer this year isn’t quite the classic, attractive favourite; he’s lanky, with a narrow, flat face and a broad nose. Since the bloodbath he’s scored no kills, and while he has taken out a few mutts, it seems to have gained him few favours.

Comparatively, Calico has the perfect look to him. He’s been the alliance’s de-facto leader from the start, and hoisted up the death count considerably. Like most tributes from District 1, he’s shown an adept awareness of the cameras. “If he makes it out,” one excited fangirl tells us, “he might be our new golden boy!”

I roll my eyes. Odds are, when next year rolls along, everyone will have forgotten about him, win or lose.

Pepper goes unmentioned. I suppose after a few years of the outer-districts scoring a win, the Capitol has gotten bored. A volunteer from the fringes of Panem isn’t enough anymore. They’re going to need a better storyline than that.

I thought that today’s events would be enough to get the arena out of my head, but even when I head up to bed, it glues to me. Ideas crowd my mind; I picture myself in the tribute’s shoes, I picture the winner shoved off to auction in front of all the Capitol’s worst buyers. I grit my teeth, shoving my jaw into the body of my pillow and clench my fists. 

I’m fucking sick of these Games. 

WE’RE OFFICIALLY called down at around midday, but most of us congregate in the Games Centre as soon as we wake up. They’ve set up a separate room for us to watch the finale in, away from the Click. They want to film us, and rules dictate that there must be no cameras where the mentors work. Apparently a couple of years ago some super fan managed to capture someone’s sponsor list written down on a notebook in the background of a shot. It is - as I learnt the day of my induction - expressly forbidden to reveal sponsor deals to the public. Some people prefer to keep their donations private. The press had a field day with the story. 

News must be slow when they’re waiting for the victor to recover, I guess. 

I’m pulled away for a closing interview in the morning, where I tell the cameras I want Pepper to win. When they ask why, I tell them it’s about time to show the inner districts who’s boss. They don’t seem to understand why I wouldn’t be a fan of Districts 1 or 2, and I don’t bother explaining it to them.

The showdown happens when the sun is high in the sky. The atmosphere in the room reminds me of the first day of the Games; quiet, tense, like a string pulled taut, ready to snap at any wrong movement. Everyone is here - even poor Annie Cresta, who sits at the back of the room and obsessively braids her hair over and over and over. 

In my opinion, it all goes down with relatively little fanfare. Calico and Dominitus have the high ground. And Pepper is very good, and very strong, but when it comes down to it, she’s a girl fighting without the backbone of years of martial training. The notches on her killcount have taken their toll. She’s skinny, and worn, and mentally exhausted. I know from the moment the fight starts that she’s not going to make it out alive.

When her cannon fires, the boys regard one another with a silent sense of mutual respect. They catch their breaths, drink water from their canteens, and Calico draws two lines in the sand - equidistant. They exchange handshakes, and then march to their respective starting positions.

It’s a Glory Fight; the way tributes from dogpack classically close out the Games. The Capitol loves them, and it’s been years since they’ve had one. Their obsession borders on erotic. I’m certain every single person in this city has their eyes glued inches from their television screens. 

Calico initiates the count. “Alright. Victor takes it.”

“Victor takes it,” Dominitus echoes, hoisting up his knives.

“Three, and two, and -”

Each has been watching the other fight for weeks. It might be a good final showdown, but I can’t really tell, and I really couldn’t care less. It doesn't really matter which boy wins. 

So, when Calico emerges, blood-soaked and panting, I feel absolutely nothing. 

It ONLY takes two days of recovery before they schedule the crowning. I’m actually fairly busy in the meantime. There are plenty of people who want to interview me about my thoughts, now that the Games are over. Not a single person asks about Chipper, and I notice that my mentions of him get cut out of the final edit.

I schedule a brief meeting with Agrippa and Odette to talk about next year’s designs. Ashley deals with our temporary escort. Odette tells me that she thinks glitter will be in fashion, and asks me if there are any trees in Seven that sparkle. I tell her to read a book.

I have one more meeting with Julius on the day before the Seventy-Second festivities finally come to a close. He takes me out to a cafe near his film set. I think he probably wants us to be seen by the public; to show off that I’ve been his all summer. It’s actually a relief, because it means he can’t do anything to me that’s unacceptable in front of closed doors.

“Will you miss me?” he asks, at the very end of it.

I bear down into his eyes and actually laugh. “Are you actually expecting me to say yes?”

Julius shrugs lazily. Lazy . Everything that he does is lazy. “I had a good time, you know. I don’t know when I’ll find someone as fun as you again.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” I tell him, and when I walk away, it feels like the weight of the universe has been lifted off my shoulders.

Calico is perfectly proper at his crowning. The crowd adores him. I find myself in a group of mentors who watch on, unimpressed. Someone makes a comment about all of District 1 being the same, but when I find myself under the stage, bidding farewell to Augustus - who will certainly be replaced next year - I find myself disagreeing. 

Finnick finds me before our train departs. They stagger the districts randomly so the crowds don’t know who leaves when. The only ones who will stay the night are District 1, who need to prepare Calico for his interview tomorrow. Only then will the Games be done for good. 

“Same time next year?” he says.

I roll my eyes at him. “I’m looking forward to it.”

He clasps his hand on my shoulder, a brotherly gesture. “Take care, Jo. Don’t get into any trouble. I like you.”

“Oh, you don’t need to worry,” I tell him. “There isn’t any trouble worth getting into in Seven.”

Finnick gives me a knowing smile. “We’ll see about that.”

I hold up my hand in one final wave goodbye, but before I can shuffle through the crowd of victors and make it up to the apartment to pick up the rest of my effects, he stops me. 

“Hey, Johanna?”

I turn. “What?”

“A piece of advice. Don’t look.”

“Don’t look at what?”

“The bodies,” he says. “On the train. I think we’ve all made that mistake. But trust me. Don’t look at them. It’s not worth it.”

I find my gaze falling down to my shoes. “Oh, don’t be such a downer, Finnick. I wasn’t thinking about it,” I lie.

“I’m serious,” he says, not buying it for a second. “Your tribute - he looked like a good kid. He wouldn’t have wanted you to do something that would cause you harm, would he?”

I twist my lips. “I mean, who fucking knows what he would have wanted. He’s dead.”

“Exactly,” Finnick says. “Look - I get it. There’s that stupid hope, right? Maybe if you bring enough kids home, you can make up for the people you killed in the arena. But that’s not how it works.”

I narrow my eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. The blood on my conscience won’t ever go away, eccerta.” 

Finnick rolls his eyes and then gives me a one-armed hug. When he’s close enough to whisper in my ear, he says, “I’ll be seeing you a lot sooner than you think.”

We pull apart. He straightens up and gives me his winning grin. “And with that, I have imparted my wisdom, Miss Mason. Have a banner year!”

I bink, smile, give him a little salute, and leave.

I suppose there’ll be time on the ride home to think about all that .

Chapter Text

“That’s him, in there?” asks Corrin Kilkenny. 

I nod at the coffin lying bare in the main hall of the Justice Building. It’s a simple thing. The wooden frame is polished to shine under the flickering lights, welded with golden clasps and stamped with a small placard at the helm. A wreath of red-and-white roses has been placed on top of the casket, a parting gift from the Capitol. The name ‘Chipper Kilkenny’ looks small and insignificant in the grand scheme of it all. 

Tomorrow, his body will be lowered down into the ground on the hill at the very edge of town, joining the other tributes from District 7 in their secluded monument. He won’t be laid to rest near the graves of his family. Even in death, Chipper no longer belongs to his father.

“It looks too big for him,” Mr Kilkenny says, regarding the coffin. “He’s much smaller than that.”

This is a part of the job I was dreading. Customarily, the mentors greet the families of the deceased tributes upon arrival back home in their districts. It’s supposed to be a metaphorical ‘handing over’ of sorts, but I’ve always imagined it was more like facing a jury. It certainly feels that way now. To make matters worse, I’m alone for the job. Ashley is next door, meeting with the matron of the Community Home. She’s the only person who would come for Foley. 

Mr Kilkenny looks just like his son. They have the same wild dark curls and long lashes, sharp jaws and pointed noses that flush red at the tips. Much like his son in his last few days, it’s obvious he’s had a rough go of it. His face is gaunt, the skin around his cheeks sags, weeks of stress melting off the extra weight. He looks ancient and just like a child at the same time. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot, his shoulders stiff from tension; fragile hands holding onto the final shreds of dignity he still has left. 

“I think they make all the coffins the same size,” I say, because I don’t know what else to tell him.

“For the little girl too?” Mr Kilkenny asks. “That tiny one in a casket like that? Oh, but she’s too small. They couldn’t find one that fit her better? She’ll be lost in it.”

I bite my lip, trying not to think of Foley drowning in a veritable sea of darkness. “I don’t know what the procedure is.”

Mr Kilkenny walks over to Chipper’s coffin and places a hand on the wood. For a moment I think he’s going to swing it open. Instinctively, I step away. I don’t want to be faced with the corpse of my patched-up tribute. But he doesn’t. He just brushes his hand back and forth over the top of the casket as though he’s stroking back his son’s hair. 

“He was a good boy,” he says. “A very, very good boy.”

I blink and realise that my throat feels tight. I curl my toes in my shoes and avert my gaze. “Yeah. He was a good kid.”

Mr Kilkenny turns to me. For a moment I’m terrified he’s going to thank me, but he doesn’t. His hand keeps brushing against the wood. “How was he, in the Capitol? Did he eat well?”

It’s not the question I expected. Something at the very bottom of my chest pulls tight. “Um. Yeah. Yeah, he did.”

“That’s good,” Mr Kilkenny nods. “Very good.”

Silence fills the room. My shoes make an uncomfortable squeaking sound against the polished floor. “He, uh, wanted me to tell you that he didn’t have such a bad time after all,” I say. “He said he wanted you to know that he’d made some friends, and he liked them, and that he didn’t spend all those last few weeks wallowing in self-pity. He didn’t hate it, really. Not all of it.”

The ghost of a smile briefly flickers over Chipper’s father’s lips. “Oh, that’s just like him, isn’t it? To try to see the good in the worst possible situation.”

I have to put my hands in my pockets to stop them from fidgeting. “I don’t think he was trying to. I think he just genuinely did see the good in it.”

Mr Kilkenny shakes his head and regards Chipper’s coffin for a moment.

“You’ll have family to get back to, I assume?”

I think of my house back in the Victor’s Village and feel an awful pang of guilt. “Yeah.”

“Go home, then,” he says. “I’ll take care of him from now on.”

I swallow and nod. For a moment I want to say something to him; to warn him not to open the coffin, to tell him it wasn’t his fault, to apologise because it feels like it was mine. But I don’t do any of that. I just take one last look at Chipper and his father, and then take the stairs down and out into the fresh summer air. 

MY HOME is the exact same state I left in it; perfectly still, like a dog waiting by the door for my safe return. A thin layer of dust covers the shoe rack by the door. I wonder if my father has been home at all, or if he’s been staying at Sylvia’s in the search to escape an empty house. 

He’s here now, though, arms stretched out wide for a hug that I didn’t ask for. I let him wrap himself around me, breathing in the familiar scent of wood polish and smoke. Steadily, he’s been gaining weight in the months since my victory. If I ignore the new lines around his eyes, the salt-and-pepper of his hair, he looks almost identical to the memories I have of him as a child.

A year ago, if you’d told me that was possible, I’d have laughed at you. Looking at him now, the gratitude I feel threatens to overflow. Last summer, he might have been meeting with Ashley over a too-large coffin.

He wrangles away the tension in my shoulders without having to say a word. For a moment I want to fully melt into his grip, let myself be swallowed just this once by the comfort I so desperately crave. But before I can allow myself to admit it, he’s pulled away.

“Bad trip?” he asks, as though I’ve just been to the shops in a particularly strong storm.

I feel my smile stop just before my eyes. “I’ll be alright,” I say. “I’m just glad to be home.”

“I’m glad you’re home too, sweetheart,” he says. “This place isn’t the same without you.”

I kick my shoes off on the dusty rack. “It doesn’t seem like you’ve been around this place at all.”

Maybe I imagine it, but it looks like the shadow of a flush creeps up my father’s neck. “Oh, but it’s not my house, Johanna, really. It’s all too big for me. I worry I’ll get lost in one of these rooms one day if there isn’t anyone else around to come find me.”

There’s probably an element of truth to that. My father’s medicine has been doing wonders for him, but he still has his bad days, and the Capitol doctor said it will take at least another year for the treatment to finish its course. There must be times where he worries it’s all temporary; where he’ll wake up again to a mind that doesn’t quite understand how to patch the world together. 

“Oh!” he says, and I can tell he’s keen to change the topic. He’s never been the type to dwell on personal issues, and I suppose I’ve inherited the trait. “Your escort called on the landline.”

I blink. “Minnie?”

“Yes, that was the name, I think.”

I try to keep my voice even, because I don’t want to worry him, and besides, I don’t even know if I’m allowed to explain what happened. Still, my heart starts beating a little too fast. “What did they say?” 

“I’m not quite sure. The Capitol accent is always difficult to decipher,” my father says. “Something about an apology. They must have been sick, because they wanted you to know they’re fully recovered. I think they said they’d try calling again when you were back home. They sounded very cheerful.”

The corners of my mouth want to curl downwards, but I don’t let them. “Oh. They seemed happy?”

“Very happy,” he says. “They were giggling down the phone. I don’t envy you for having to deal with someone like that. It must take an awful lot of work.”

I pretend to roll my eyes at him, but inside, my mind is racing. They’ve done something to Minnie. They wouldn’t act like that otherwise. No question about it. They’ve done something really, really bad.

I resolve to speak to Ashley about it as soon as I possibly can. Then I feel a funny little jolt, because I’m reminded there’s an awful lot I need to speak to Ashley about.

I let my feet carry me around the house as my father potters about, telling me about every shred of news he can scrounge up from the month or so I’ve been gone. It’s obvious that I’m tense, and I think he’s trying to diffuse it by settling my mind on a distant topic. It might not be successful, but I appreciate it all the same.

He tells me that Sylvia has invited us to dinner at hers’ tonight. I feel like declining at first – (I’m exhausted, and my bed feels like the best place in the world to be) – until I realise, with equal degrees of surprise and horror, that I’ve actually missed Sylvia too.

So instead I tell him yes, and spend the rest of the afternoon wondering when exactly it was that I picked up some semblance of a family.

Come evening, it’s still light outside. The ring of houses that make up Victor’s Village are shrouded in warmth. I don’t know why that surprises me. I suppose I thought that, when I got home, summer would be over. That I’d blink, the Games would be done, and I’d be forced back into the bleak, rainy sludge of winter for the rest of the year. 

But that’s not the case. In the grand scheme of things, it’s only been a month. The sun is still there, the sky is still blue, and summer still has a long way to go before it bids us farewell again. 

Sylvia has set up a picnic in her garden; seats of woven straw, blankets and pillows strewn out over the grass. Amber light cuts a warm shadow over the yard, and with a realisation that feels strangely fuzzy and warm, I realise that the flowers we planted before I left have started to bloom. 

I get a hug from her too, one that smells like herbs and spices. She runs her fingers through my hair, a motion that feels oddly maternal. Normally I’d pull away, but I don’t. I reason with myself that I must be very tired.

“The first year is the very worst,” she whispers in my ear. “Well done.”

It occurs to me, properly for the first time, that Sylvia is a victor too. She’s won the Games, been through the shredder, mentored for years, and come out the other side; but at one point, she would have been just like me. She would have had her first tribute too, her first death.

It’s funny, but the thought actually makes me respect her more. Out of all the victors I’ve met, she feels the least like one. 

“Let’s hope it’s only uphill from here,” I tell her.

She shakes her head and regards me with something that looks like affection. “Let’s not worry about that now.”

My father smiles at the pair of us. No, it’s more than a smile. He’s beaming. It’s a funny look to see on his face. I don’t think I’ve seen him do it in years, not since my mother died. I realise all at once that I’ve missed seeing it.

Maybe this is alright, then, I think to myself, as we settle down in the grass and Sylvia starts telling us all about the lavender syrup she’s made from the bushes that grow in her front garden. Maybe I’ll allow it.

To my surprise, our evening comes packed with guests. First is Lynn, who stops off to say hello and make sure I’ve arrived home alright. Her clear eyes are bright, and one look at my face cuts relief through her own. We make plans for her to visit me in a few days, after she’s done with the bakery for the weekend. Since school has let out, she’s taken extra shifts. To my surprise, I actually find myself missing her when she goes.

Then there’s Blight, who shows up with wild strawberries he found in the woods behind the Village. He tells us that he’s not fond of the stuff and so offers them up to Sylvia, but I get the sense that isn’t the whole truth. Perhaps he just wanted to come and say hello, it’s just that he couldn’t quite admit it. 

I ask him if our training sessions are back on, and he tells me that he’s free at any time. 

It occurs to me that the pair of us might actually be quite similar, in the grand scheme of everything.

Ashley finally shows up when the sun is just starting to blow the sky up into a field of orange fire. He looks about as tired as I feel, but the relief on his face is palpable. Sylvia hugs him for a very long time and kisses him on the forehead, fussing over his hair. He pretends to be embarrassed and swipes her away, but I can tell he secretly doesn’t mind one bit.

Conversation around dinner is light. Ashley’s sister has been posted closer to the district centre and they can visit one another a lot more often now. He wants me to meet her. My father talks at length about how he’s taken up a job fixing up the primary school for free, and now the little ones won’t stop following him around everywhere. Sylvia laughs and puts her hand on his arm.

It looks an awful lot like an image I pictured at one point. It feels like a million years ago.

I close my eyes and let myself feel the sun warm my face.

When my father and I return home, the last shreds of daylight are still hanging in the sky. Sylvia bids me farewell with another hug. Ashley follows us out onto the green.

“Do you want to go for a walk tomorrow, Johanna?” he asks me. “Up the hill again, like we did in the springtime? I’ve missed the woods.”

I nod, and it’s funny, because even though this is what I wanted – to finally talk about the rebellion, about the Games, about a million other things – I feel a pang anyway. I’m not sure why. Perhaps some part of me was hoping he’d follow me home without having to ask. 

“Okay,” I say, and watch him walk away, swallowed up by the glow of the settling sun until there’s nothing that’s left.

Tonight I’ll sleep better than I have in the past few nights, but not as well as I did when I wasn’t alone.

I RISE at midday. Go downstairs. Make myself breakfast. There’s homemade jam in the fridge from Sylvia, fresh bread from the bakery. It’s funny because it’s so simple, but no food in the Capitol could ever compare to this. No fancy drink, delicate dessert, or extravagant seafood dish. This tastes like actual breakfast; like morning.

Ashley knocks at the door when the sun is high in the sky. The backpack slung over his shoulder is heavy, but I don’t ask what’s in it. We bid my father farewell and loop around the Village towards the main road, until the path splits into a fork and we can fully disappear into the trees.

Under the shade, flicking under the great towering shapes of the forest, it’s easier to feel like I'm alive. There’s birdsong in the air, the distant hum of insects droning over our footsteps. Even though it’s summer, there’s a slight haze, humidity clogging up my hair. By the time we’re a third of the way up the hill, sweat clings to my forehead like a second skin.

I let Ashley lead the way. We don’t really talk about anything special at first. Conversation is still easy – it always is – but there’s a distant undertone to it, bitter at the back of my mouth. There’s a million things that we probably need to discuss, to recap, to explain. But it seems clear that we’re still too close to civilization to talk. 

I realise Ashley has a plan when he leads us off course towards the sound of a river. It’s not very deep. The water goes up to my mid-shins; cool and light to the touch, running through my fingers like silk. Ashley hops right in, only bothering to kick off his shoes and socks. He doesn’t even roll up his trouser legs, he just sits down on the riverbed, submerging most of his body in the cold stream.

“Come on in,” he says to me. “It’s too hot out here.”

I gawk at him, because if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from the past few weeks in the Capitol, it’s that Ashley doesn’t seem to really like swimming. Certainly he despises exposing himself in any capacity, and I doubt he’d willingly want to do this, considering how his wet shirt clings to his chest.

He gives me a little look that says ‘ please’. I twist up my lips, and then join him in the water.

When we emerge, he reaches into his bag and fishes out fresh clothes. His voice is casual as he explains that he thought we might want to take a dip, so he packed extra in case. If I didn’t know any better, I would probably take this at face value. But the clothes he gives me aren’t his, and they aren’t mine, and I sincerely doubt Ashley would think to pack me fresh underwear too.

He points a little ways out into the trees, hair dripping down onto his shoulders. “I’m going to - uh, yeah. Call me when you’re done.”

The clothes are rough and a little bit too big. Certainly not Capitol made. When Ashley emerges, it seems he has the opposite problem. His arms are crossed a little self-consciously over his midriff, freckles hidden under a slight flush. 

“Where to next?” I ask, and I don’t ignore how he leaves the backpack with our old bundled-up wet clothes down by the riverbed. 

“Up we go,” he says.

We continue all the way to the top of the hill, passing the spot we stopped last time we completed this walk. I let him lead me without questions. When we finally reach an old abandoned structure, a tower built up on wooden stilts, I know it’s time to stop.

“Fire-watch outpost,” Ashley explains, kicking away foliage as we climb the creaky staircase that leads us up. “Nobody’s used it in years.”

Inside, it smells of dust. The door gets stuck, and Ashley almost has to break the hinges trying to force his way in. It’s a tiny place; half the size of my old home, with a single bed, a kitchen table, and a balcony overlooking a spectacular view of the woods around the district centre. It’s almost panoramic, and from our vantage point, I can even see the circle of houses that makes up Victor’s Village. 

Ashley sits down on the old wood outpost, legs dangling off the side of the balcony, arms hanging over the railing. I tentatively follow his instruction. For a moment, we just wait side-by-side in silence, the only conversation between us snatched up by the sound of the wind. 

“So,” I begin. “What’s with the clothes?”

He gnaws at his lip, tugging down his shirt again. “Beetee thought they might have bugged all of our usual ones. These belong to his younger sister.”

I have a million questions already. “Beetee? So, he’s involved?”

Ashley nods. “All of District 3 is. And Districts 11, and 12. Some of District 4, 6 and 8. Maybe District 9. And then us, of course.”

I try to count them all on my fingers, but it’s all dizzying. “All of us?”

“All of us except Pliny,” he says. “But that’s a given.”

“Finnick?” I ask, even though I already know. He nods. “Annie?” He shakes his head. “Right. Okay.”

“It’s complicated,” Ashley says. “There’s not really a stable team at the moment. Some people used to be involved, and now they’re not. I don’t really know the full story very well. I’ve only been around a year.”

“Why did nobody contact me this summer?” I ask him. It’s been the most pressing question on my mind. “I thought you said they wanted me. I thought you were worried about that.”

Ashley half-grimaces. “That’s what Finnick told me. That’s what was implied to me on your Victory Tour, too. But that’s before Plutarch went off-grid.”

I blink at him, confused.

“Plutarch Heavensbee?” he asks. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. “He’s a Gamemaker. He’s also the ringleader of our operations.”
“Hold on. A Gamemaker is in charge of the rebellion?” 

“Sounds counterproductive, I know,” Ashley says. “But it’s not, really. He has so many contacts, and since Gamemaker business is confidential anyways, he can get away with a lot. Besides, he’s the grandson of Snow’s old mentor - from his mother’s side. He can get away with a lot more than you’d imagine.”

“You’re painting a great picture of him,” I say. 

Ashley laughs humourlessly. “I won’t say I like the man. But he’s good at the job.”

“And now he’s abandoned you all?”

He shakes his head. “Not at all. Or, I mean, not exactly. I don’t really know the full story. Some of the other victors could probably explain it to you better.”

I cross my arms. “Well, which is it?” 

“This is secondhand information,” Ashley says. “All I know is that last winter, he managed to make contact with some party who might be able to help.”

I flick away dust from the railing, trying to settle my mind. “Someone else in the Capitol?”

“No, that’s just the thing,” Ashley says. “I don’t think this party is in Panem at all.”

Confusion turns to surprise. I stare at him. “There are people outside of Panem?”

He shrugs. “It’s possible. Finnick thinks so too. He says that every so often, he’ll see a military ship sail past the beach by Victor’s Village in District 4. He says they’re always too far out to be patrol ships. Which got him thinking; why would we need a navy, if there wasn’t anyone out there to defend ourselves from?”

I sit with his words for a moment, swirling them around in my mind. “So he’s talking to - what? Another country? Another group of people who survived? Someone who wants to help?”

Ashley sighs. “I guess. I don’t know. I really don’t know anything. All I know is that he left all his spinning plates abandoned. That includes you.”

“ Me …” I echo. 

“Normally, we need his approval to invite another victor into the circle,” he says. “He’s very specific about it. That’s why I couldn’t bring you along to anything this summer. But I’ve been talking to the other victors in the meantime. They all agree we need the numbers. After what happened in District Six -”

I cut him off. “What happened in District Six? Is this about the explosion? The drug epidemic?”

Ashley nods. “It’s Capitol’s doing, probably,” he says. “The same as the mine explosion in District Twelve and the flu here. Whenever a spark of dissent flares up, they find a way to shut it down.”
The satisfaction that I was correct isn’t half as strong as the dread I feel at the confirmation that it will take a whole lot to even think about a proper rebellion.

“We’ve lost District Six, at least for now,” he explains. “We need the numbers. The others all agreed to let you in, and honestly, once you’re there, there’s not much Plutarch can do.” He shakes his head. “At first, I was really hesitant. It’s not safe. But I know you want this, Jo.”

“I do,” I say. “I really fucking want this.”

He clicks his tongue. Above us, clouds roll away with the wind. “Beetee’s found a way for us to communicate over the phone - a way to interfere with the airwaves. When we were in the Capitol, we pre-recorded conversations with him to play, so that if anyone listens in, that’s all they’ll hear. We’ll use Sylvia’s landline. They don’t suspect her at all.”

“Finnick said I’d see him a lot sooner than I thought,” I say. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ashley leans his head against the railing. Damp hair falls in his eyes. He points out to the distance, where I can just make out train tracks weaving through the trees. “Sometimes, they find a way for the group to meet over the year. Smuggle us throughout the country. It’s somewhere we can openly discuss, without the threat of being spied on. It won’t be easy, and it really could be at any moment - whenever there’s a distraction, basically. But the hope is, if we do meet, we might find out more about who Plutarch’s been talking to, and find out if that’s a proper path for us to go down, or if it isn’t.”

I think about it, and then nod. The idea of sneaking away to a secret rebellion meeting makes my heart swell and shrink at the same time. But mostly, I just feel overwhelmed. “That’s it, then?”

“That’s all I know,” he confirms. 

I look at him. It’s strange. Here are all my answers about the rebellion. It exists. I’m wanted, at least by the other victors. There’s hope. A shred of it, sure, but hope all the same. 

So why don’t I feel good about it?

“My dad talked to Minnie?” I tell Ashley.

He turns to me, eyes wide. “Seriously?”

I explain what my father told me about their behaviour. Ashley’s face grows cold as I speak.

“I figured it would be something like that,” he says. “I was warned about it. They’ll have gone through the Capitol’s re-education programme.”

“What can we do?” I ask.

“I don’t think we can do anything about it, Jo,” he says, a little sadly.

For a moment we’re silent. A slight breeze picks up. It’s still sunny outside, but for some reason, I’m not feeling great at all. Sure, there might be a rebellion out there, but there’s also something wrong with Minnie, and somewhere below us, Chipper and Foley are still dead.

Ashley kicks my foot with the heel of his shoe. “Hey. Did you sleep alright last night?”

My attention shifts back to him. It’s a simple question, but for a moment, my vision goes fuzzy. I think of Mr Kilkenny asking me if his son ate well. About how much he cared, even though it was such a small, silly thing. 

Ashley frowns when I don’t answer. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” I blink. “Sorry. I slept alright.” 

He traces his fingers down the wooden panels we sit on and hums. “That’s good.”

This is probably the point in the day where we should start heading back down the hill. It’s also the point in the conversation where I should probably bring up the last thing we need to talk about; the thing Ashley promised me we would. It’s only, I don’t even know if I want to do it anymore. I feel embarrassed and - perhaps worst of all - I’m worried about what he’ll have to say. 

Still, I also know I won’t be able to relax until we settle this. I probably won’t be able to look at him the same either, and I value our friendship too much to let something so stupid ruin it. How could I, when he’s the kind of person who cares to ask about how I slept? 

So I bite the bullet, chew the inside of my cheek, inhale sharply between my teeth, and open my mouth to say something.

What comes out is, “Have you ever been in love with anyone, Ashley?”

His forehead scrunches up. This was obviously not a question he was expecting. Still, he takes it in stride. For a moment he stares out at the sea of trees below us, dark eyes contemplating. Then he tilts his head to the side. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Maybe once.”

“Who?”

His fingers keep playing at the wood. “Oh, it was a long time ago.”

“Who?” I pry again. Stupidly, even though both of us know the truth, I try to pretend as though I don’t care.

“A friend,” he says. “I had a friend, once. There were three of us. We were inseparable. They were really good kids. I was head over heels for one of them. It was just a stupid crush, looking back. But at the time, I think I would have told you that I was in love with her.”

I frown. “What happened to her?”

He shakes his head. “Oh, she’s fine. I just decided after the Games that it was probably better that we stopped being friends.” He doesn’t look at me. “I wasn’t very good company back then, y’know? But I still wonder how they’re doing.”

I think about the idea. Of not seeing Lynn for years. I’d probably think about her every day. “Did you ever tell her?”

“Oh, no,” he says. “Probably for the better.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think it would have gone very well, Johanna.” He laughs nervously and gestures to himself. “I mean, look at me.”

I frown. “I am.”

He pauses, and then he must realise what I’m trying to get at. He swivels around slowly, so that he’s completely facing me, cross-legged. His hands sit in his lap, playing at his laces. “Hey. Look. Jo -”

“We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to,” I say, quickly, dropping my gaze.

“No. I want to,” he says. “I actually do.”

I shrug and throw up my hands, as if to say, ‘go on then’. Again, it’s an attempt to seem as though I don’t care. And again, we both know that’s not the truth.

“I have been thinking,” he says, carefully, “and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way -”

“Great,” I say, through gritted teeth. “ Great start.”

“Oh, Johanna, please just listen.”

“I’m listening,” I snap, and then hear myself. I sigh, rub my face with the back of my hands. “Sorry. No. I actually am.”

He grins. “You’re awful at this.”

“Keep talking .”

“Johanna.” He says my name with familiar exasperation. “All I was going to say is that I’ve been thinking, and the conclusion I’ve come to about my feelings on the whole matter is that I really have no clue how I feel about the whole matter.”

I blink at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “Well, just that.”

“You must have some sort of opinion.”

He pauses for a moment, looking just beyond me. The ends of his hair are starting to curl in the humid air, and I have the urge to brush them out of his eyes, but I don’t. “I guess. But, I mean, absolutely nothing about it changes the way I think of you.”

“What do you think of me?” I ask. My voice sounds very small.

Ashley smiles. “Well, I think that you’re probably my favourite person. And I think that I understand you, and I think that you understand me. I think that I like spending time with you. I think that I sleep a lot better when you’re around. And that’s about it. I don’t really know what that means. I don’t know what that’s classified as. I don’t think I really care to know, either. You know?”

I frown, because that wasn’t really what I expected him to say. “I’m your favourite person?”

“Johanna.” He rolls his eyes. “Of course you are.”

I look down at my hands, because his gaze feels too intense all of a sudden. “I sleep better with you around too,” I say. 

He shrugs. “Problem solved, then.”

“Is it really that simple?”

“I don’t see why it can’t be,” he says. “People can think what they think. We don’t need to work it all out now. We don’t need to work it out, like, ever. But we should do what makes us happy. Shouldn’t we?”

I think about Chipper, and every other tribute I’ve known and will ever know. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I owe it to them to do what makes me happy. “I guess.”

He nudges me. “Hey, you do know that I love you, right?”

Without meaning to, I find myself meeting his eyes. He looks a little concerned, but mostly just fond.

“No.” 

“Well, I do,” he says, simply.

My fingers fiddle with the frayed edges of my too-big shirt. “Love you too.”

He smiles. Then he swivels back to look out at the view, as though we’ve both just said the most casual thing in the world. “So, your house or mine tonight?”

I can’t help it. I laugh. It’s all so stupid - to have worked myself up for all of this, only for the answer to be the easiest one possible. Ashley loves me. There’s nothing to be done. We’re alright.

He snorts too, the last shreds of tension finally diffused. “C’mon. Pick.”

I roll my eyes. “Yours, then.”

He wraps his hand around mine. It’s all very simple. “Sounds like a plan.”

We sit there for a moment in silence. In the distance I can see a puff of smoke; a train, or maybe a fire. “Ashley?” I ask.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think this will be a good year?”

He pauses for a moment, thinking. “Mm. You know what?”

“What?”

“I actually think it will be.”