The next day and a half of training passes about the same as it did the first day. Me and Trapper would arrive together before he would scuttle off to the girl from Three. The boy from 11 would follow them from a short distance, casting suspicious looks at the rest of us.

I would travel around with the Twelves from station to station. I found myself actually liking the Twelves; Daisy turned out to have an affinity for starting fires and before long could do it in under a minute. Clyde was a skilled hider; in the small obstacle course it took me and Daisy over an hour to find him. Despite being terrified, they still found it within themselves to laugh just a little, their eyes a mishmash of melancholy and almost wistfulness.

I, meanwhile, make a big show of being helpless at everything. I always fell from the climbing walls, and I misidentified several poisonous bugs on accident. I'm sure Daisy and Clyde must have noticed how much of a dead weight I was appearing to be, but they didn't say anything. I also eye the few axes lined up at the aiming area, and I almost itch to go over to them, but I refrain.

"Wait until evaluation," Blight intoned every time I left or arrived in the Seven apartment. "Be just good enough to have motivate to put it in, but not enough to give you a high score."

When lunch on the third day arrives, I'm almost excited that I get to throw an axe. Then I see Daisy and Clyde's terrified looks and I sober. The Games are getting closer, and this was our last chance to impress the Gamemakers. Evaluations are simple – each Tribute gets to enter one by one to present a chosen skill. We get judged on a scale of 1 to 12, 1 being the worst and 12 the best. And it's 12, because we always have to be right on the nose.

We won't know our scores until tonight, when they present a recap. Our scores will tell sponsors if it's worth it to sponsor us, or if we're most likely going to be cannon fodder. A good or bad score does not guarantee any certain outcome, but the pressure to get sponsors is almost as oppressive as the need to survive.

Evaluations take place in the afternoon of the third day of training, and we are left in the room we eat in. Each of us will be called in by District, boy first and girl second. This is one time they have us separate by District, and I sit next to Trapper at a white linen table. He's biting his nails and sharing scared looks with the girl from Three.

The girl from Three was definitely going to be a problem.

When the call the boy from 1 in, I sneak a look at Daisy and Clyde. They're sitting in the very back, almost shoved into the corner. Both of them are looking at their laps, and I bite my lip. I hope they score well, if only so they can die with a fighting chance.

The Districts fly by much quicker than I would have liked, and before I know Trapper is standing to go. Reflexively, I reach for his hand and look at him, and as he looks back at me, I realize I don't know what I want to say. I swallow once and pull back my hand.

"Good luck," I whisper. Trapper seems surprised for a moment, but then a bit of warmth floods his eyes.

"Thanks, you too," he says, and then he is gone. I shake my head and look down at my hands. How am I going to possibly be able to come home without Trapper? Look into the eyes of his family upon my return, and be a living reminder of what they lost?

Again, I wonder if the toll for winning is so great, that it may be worse to win than to lose.

The minutes pass both languidly slow and also in a flash. I don't remember them calling my name, but the must have because I find myself standing in the middle of the training room, looking up at the Gamemakers. A few have wondered off to look over the buffet in the back of their terrace, but must are staring down at me, bored.

"Begin when you're ready," one of them says, a tall, slender man with a short, intricately shaved beard.

I stand, frozen, for a moment, but then I feel the itching in my fingers. I smile to myself and finally go to the weapons I have wanted in my hands for the past three days. I twirl the axe in my had once, just relishing the feeling of having one again, and notice how different this one is from the ones at home. No feel of rough wood against my palm, instead it's a smooth metal, cold to the touch.

I aim it for just to the side of the bullseye, and it meets it's mark like I expected it would. I aim this time for the center, and the thud as it hits resonates in my soul. I smirk to myself and look up at the Gamemakers, and I can make out just a few brows raised in interest, but most are unmoved. Though Blight had told me this was what I was hoping for, I'm still offended.

I take a deep breath and keep throwing, missing a few targets but hitting just as many. After five minutes, I'm halted by the same man who told me to begin.

"That'll be all," he says. "Thank you, Miss Mason."

I nod and leave, dropping the axe back in place.

When I return to the apartment, Trapper is in his room, and I find Flynnigan and Blight waiting for me. Flynnigan is talking to someone, a small, dark box held to his ear – a cell phone, I realize. Most of us in District 7 are lucky if we have a phone at all nearby. We used to have a phone booth at the end of our street but it broke years ago. Cell phones are only used in the Capitol, and I don't really see the need. If something's so important you need to talk immedailty, why can't you just go and find them?

"…Yes, sir. Johanna and Trapper are real winners…..Any amount would be appreciated…." Flynnigan notices me and nods his head in my direction, but he just keeps talking in the phone and he walks down the hall to the room. I blink. Flynnigan seemed so hands off. I knew theoretically Flynnigan was here to help us, but something in my brain did not compute that fact.

Blight motions for me to join him on the couch. He sits cross legged, his standard blue socks peeking out from under his knees.

"I don't like phone calls," Blight says simply. "Flynnigan is very professional, and most of the time I'm just a stuttering mess on the phone. Helps convince the sponsors."

Blight doesn't say anything else, and I am unsure what to say. I had followed all his directions for the evaluation, and Blight is about as personable as a beaver, so I do not know how to actively start a conversation with him.

'How's Trapper?" I ask eventually. I twirl a strand of hair around my finger nervously. Blight shrugs.

"He's okay," Blight says. "He just wants this all to be over with. Get on with the Games."

I can't help but agree. All this petty stuff just made the scared and anxious twist in my stomach feel even tighter. Waiting is the worst part of this whole ordeal. Waiting for the gong to sound already, so that way we can stop dragging out what is to happen.

Flynnigan comes scuttling back into the room, looking very red and almost, dare I say, angry.

"They refuse to commit until after the scores," Flynnigan grumbled to Blight, and he sits down on the couch, his painted lips pulled into a harsh line. "Really? At this point, you should know who you're pulling for. The betting odds have been out for days."

The betting odds. My stomach turns. In addition to the scores attracting sponsors, they also help finalize who people want to bet on. Their bets on everything – who will die first, who will win, who will kill who and how. I know there has to be a bet on when I'll die, but I ponder if anyone had put money on my pulling through. I doubt it. Betting odds are configured from the moment the name is pulled out of the bowl, and they fluctuate all the way until the end of the Games. By this point, however, there are unlikely to be any major upsetting changes to the odds.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur. Flynnigan keeps coming in and out of rooms, talking on their phone, alternating between frustration and the voice of a salesmen. Blight moves only once from the couch to retrieve a bowl of cereal, which he hits cross-legged on the couch. Trapper never leaves his room.

I sit by the window, watching the cars and people down below, and keeping an ear out for the sound of Trapper's door opening. As the hours pass, I start to think about home. Jonathon and Paw Paw will see the scores tonight, it's mandatory viewing after all. When my predictably low score comes, I wonder if they will be frightened, or if they know me well enough to see what I'm trying to do. Jonathon should be able to, at least.

For a brief moment, my thoughts flash to Minnie. She'll be watching too, and I know she will be frightened by my score. I shake my head. Minnie will be fine. She's a tough girl.

The sun lowers behind the buildings, and then Flynnigan is calling Trapper in to the living room. Lydia arrives, as does Trapper's stylist; they will need to know our scores to know what they're working with for the interviews tomorrow and brainstorm with Blight and us how best to handle what our angle will be.

We settle into the couch, and I am squished between Trapper and the arm rest. Trapper does not look at me, only at the screen as the Games' master of ceremonies, Caesar Flickerman, starts a speech to review the rules of scores once again as if we didn't already know.

The scores start, and I find no real surprises. All the Career tributes manage an eight or higher. Marlin manages to pull a ten, the highest of the Careers for the night. The rest of us manage to pull out alright scores. We hold our breath as the arrive at District Seven.

"For Trapper Counselman," Caesar says, pausing for dramatic effect, "a score of five."

Trapper lets out a soft breath. I can see in his eyes he hoped for higher.

"For Johanna Mason," Caesar says, "a score of six."

I feel a pressure fall off my shoulders. Not high enough to raise suspicion, to all the other Tributes I will be lost in the shuffle of lower District tributes.

Lydia says nothing, merely purses her lips and looks between the screen and me. Flynnigan seems to be near fuming, whispering under his breath something about having to spin low scores again. Trapper is saying nothing, staring past the screen as the scores continue.

The boy from 11 pulls out a nine, which is the highest a non-Career manages to snag. I hold my breath as Caesar finally comes to Daisy and Clyde.

"For Clyde Harrod," Caesar drawls, "a score of five." Not too bad for someone as little as him, I had known that their score would not be high.

Caesar flashes another winning smile.

"And for Daisy Grayson," Caesar says, "a score of eight."

Eight?

Sorry I've been gone for awhile, classes have started up again and I've had to take up a third witness part for my mock trial team, so I've been on a little bit of a goose chase trying to find time.

Chapter Bible Verse:
"For where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I among them." - Matthew 18:20

Review Replies: I love writing review replies because I love interacting with readers, as I like to see what all of you think and where I can make changes. And Johanna was always described as a "vicious" killer in the books, so I always had this headcanon that Johanna might have killed someone outside of the Games to explain may be why she was less emotional (openly) about it. And Clyde and Daisy are such sweethearts, really, and I love them to pieces. I feel so sad about what I know has to happen. And Trapper and the girl from Three...that's going to be something to watch out for. ;) Have a blessed day!

I hope all y'all are all okay, and I love all y'all! Have a blessed day!
-PrincessChess