Chapter Two – The Enemy

Johanna

I have to resist the urge to slam the door behind me as I storm back into my room on the train. In the only stroke of pathetic luck I'm able to manage today, nobody seems to be close enough to hear me go off on Hazel, so my secret is safe for now. That stupid, redheaded bitch and her moral superiority, thinking she has any of our best interests at heart. With how everything's been going, I wouldn't be surprised if she'd lied to me about my strategy too, as if it would save me the 'peace of mind'.

I spend a couple of minutes sitting on the bed, silently fuming. The dress I wore for the reaping lies on a heap on the ground and it takes all of my willpower to not stand up and rip it into ribbons. But no, I can't do that. What would they say if they found the remains of it in my room the next morning? Besides, it was my mother's, and there's a reason why father insists that I wear it every year, no matter how hideous it is. I feel a jolt in the pit of my stomach; my poor father. His only daughter's gone off to the slaughter and taken one of the only remaining memories of his wife with her.

The bed's comfortable, at least. Too comfortable. It's been filled to the brim with blankets and pillows, piled higher and higher until it looks as like someone could drown in them. What utter bullshit that is, surely nobody needs that many blankets. Not when some of them could be given to those children who sit, freezing on the street. But I suppose that's just the Capitol way, isn't it? Take and take until there's nothing left to give, and then turn back to the Districts with open palms and a look that says 'you did this to yourself'. Fucking bastards, the lot of them.

Outside the train slows back to a halt, and I pause, glancing out the window. We must be going through some kind of checkpoint or refuelling. Based on the thick growth of cedar and fir trees outside the window, we must still be in Seven. That doesn't surprise me, we're the second largest district in all of Panem after Nine, and it brings me some comfort to know that somewhere through the dense thicket there are men and women who continue to work, their lives unchanged. That would have been me, if I'd had any luck. Sentenced to a life of hard labour somewhere in those misty forests. Not sentenced to death.

Maybe sentenced to death, Johanna, I tell myself. Not yet.

When the train starts again, I take some time to explore the room. It's huge, naturally. Next to the bed there's a table, and next to that is a fluffy carpet that feels like heaven under my bare feet, and a plush leather sofa. The wardrobe door hangs open from when I rummaged through it, desperate to get out of the dress, and next to it is the door to the bathroom, which is just as lush and lavish as the rest of the room. I spend the next half-hour or so exploring the suite, jumping from the bed to the sofa and feeling like a child. And then, there's the lingering thought that this room is not exclusive to me; last year it must have been given to the female tribute before me. She died in the bloodbath. Suddenly, I feel my blood run cold, and the room feels haunted.

Cosima knocks on the door exactly two hours after I stormed off. Her silly Capitol accent pierces through the steady hum of the train gliding along the tracks, and I freely roll my eyes, knowing she cannot see me.

"Johanna, darling, it's dinnertime. Would you be joining us?"

My stomach twinges dully, but I can't bear the thought of going out there and seeing them. Cosima with her lipstick, Ainsley with his dulled eyes, Blight with his pointed silence. And at the thought of Hazel, my hands form into shaking fists. No, not today.

"I'm sorry, Miss Cosima." I try to make my voice sound as vulnerable as I can muster. "I'm feeling awfully unwell."

"Oh," she says, sounding disappointed. "But my dear, this will be your first time tasting actual food!"

I almost gag but attempt to keep up the ruse. "I know, I feel so terrible. Perhaps, if it's alright with you, could you perhaps save some for me to eat after?"

"Of course, my poor dear," she says, and I grin, knowing I've struck her just where I want her. Of course Cosima wants to be useful. "I'll let the others know, and you rest up."

She comes back after a half-hour and leaves a plate at my door. Once I know the coast is clear and the distinct clicking of her high heels has disappeared, I lean out and snatch the food. It's good, hearty stuff, and I inhale about half of it before I remember to take a break. I finish the rest as I sit of the sofa, looking outside the window and watching as the trees grow sparser until they're almost completely gone, and I'm sure we've escaped the District. The sky is already dark, and perhaps there's a clock somewhere in the room, but I'm not bothered to look. I only wait to make my escape when I hear the sliding of the door next to mine, signifying that Ainsley has retreated back to his room. I rummage around in the drawers until I find a pair of slippers, and then head out into the empty train.

Thankfully there's nobody left in the living room car, and I slip onto one of the armchairs. They'll have rerun the reaping a few times, just in case anybody missed it. There's no doubt in my mind that Ainsley has already seen it, along with our mentors, and though I couldn't bear to see them just now, their significance cannot be overlooked. This will be my first impression of the people who will be out for my blood.

It's easy to find the channel, and I turn the volume up as loudly as I dare. They run in chronological order, so District One is up first. There isn't any need to focus on who is reaped, because volunteers are commonplace. The first person up on stage is a tall boy with buzzed bleach-blonde hair, who introduces himself stoically as Paris. His district partner is a girl with red hair tied into two braids and a shark-like smile named Love. Love. I want to scoff. Who named their child something so stupid? They show a shot of her family, a group of four redheads in identical white clothing. I find it creepy.

I don't catch the names of the pair from Two, but they're both box-standard Careers, dark-haired and intimidating. The boy from Three wears glasses, which will not work in his favour if he loses them. The pair from Four catch my eye, however. The boy is called Fox, which is another ridiculous name. He has long hair and tattoos that snake all the way up one arm, and when he gets called up, he whoops and winks at the audience. The girl is his polar opposite, stone-faced and aloof. She introduces herself as Circe, and something about the way she talks gives me chills.

And all too soon, it's District Seven. I cringe the second I see myself walk on stage, half-dazed, but I force myself to focus. It's not as bad as I expected, I surely look like a terrified little girl, but I know there's work to be done to convince the Capitol and the rest of the districts that I'm harmless. No wonder Father was so set on me pushing the act further in the Justice Building, he must have seen the cracks in my performance. Ainsley staggers on and one of the commentators makes a joke about placing bets. I feel my blood boil.

It's when we get to District Eight that I really begin to feel angry. The girl who gets reaped is called Twine, she's fourteen, and the second her name gets called she bursts into a flood of extreme, ugly tears. It takes everything I can do to resist screaming. Really? A pathetic girl like this is going to outshine me? Surely I looked weepy, but next to her I may as well have been smiling and waving. I'm going to need to push the act ten times further than I imagined standing out as a pitiful whelp next to her.

The rest of the tributes don't stand out much; there's the girl from Ten with cold eyes and half buzzed hair and the boy from Twelve, who gives the camera a half-hearted wave, but apart from that there isn't really anyone of note. I'm still fuming over Twine when I hear a voice from behind me.

"I guessed I would find you here."

I whirl around, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust from the bright of the television to the dark of the train car, but even from the voice I can tell its Hazel. She stands, looking at me, her arms crossed and a peculiar look in her brown eyes.

"What do you want?" I ask, sighing. I thought I'd be able to avoid her until tomorrow at the very least.

"I thought you might want to talk about the other tributes," she says, coming down to sit next to me uninvited. "They're your enemy, after all."

"I have thoughts," I say. "That doesn't mean I want to share them with you."

There's a moment of silence, where she seems unsure of what to say. And then she sighs.

"Alright. You're right. That's your prerogative. But you need my help."

"I wish I didn't. I don't want it," I spit.

She laughs, dryly. "If only that was the case. It would make things ten times easier, wouldn't it? I wish I wasn't here either."

"Why do you come here, then?" I ask. "This is your third year in a row, you could easily have swapped out with someone else." There aren't that many victors in Seven, but we're the fifth most Victor-heavy district, after the Careers and Ten.

"I'm needed in the Capitol," she says, and something about the look in her eyes tells me not to press the issue. "I don't need to be your friend, Johanna, if that's not what you want. I'm just here to do my job."

I look at Hazel. I remember her vaguely from when I was younger, she was three years older than me and fairly popular. She was always the fastest girl at sports events, and I used to catch her and her friends hanging around in the corridors in-between lessons, laughing hysterically at jokes. She won her games at seventeen by poisoning the Career's food supply and outrunning the remaining tributes as they were chased by Mutts. Hazel's strengths were that she was smart and fast, two things that I am not.

"I remember you from school," I say.

She gets a distant look in her eyes. "Maybe you're right. That feels like so long ago."

"You were fast," I say. "I can run, but I'm nowhere near a sprinter."

"Fast isn't everything," she comments. "Two wins in four years have been accounted to outliving the rest of the tributes. The Capitol will be looking for good old-fashioned murder this go-around."

She's referring to herself and Annie Cresta, of course, the winner of last year's games. I only paid as much attention as I had to, but I remember the girl going bezerk and only winning because she could swim better than the other tributes when the arena flooded. There was some backlash to the way those Games were handled, and from what I know, that was why this year we have a brand new Gamemaker. Maybe Hazel is right. Maybe they are looking forwards to bloodshed.

"How good are you with an axe?" She asks.

"Good," I say. "Very good."

She nods. "You might not get one, but you'll be able to handle a mace alright if it comes to it. They're gunning for a winner from One – we haven't had one in a while, so expect woods in the arena. That will benefit you."

I nod, and then yawn. Hazel notices and stops.

"Go to bed, Johanna."

"Later," I say. I'm exhausted, but sleep seems impossible today.

She gives me a curious look. "You are not going to be easy to work with, are you?"

"Absolutely not." I give her a grin.

To my own surprise, she smiles back. "Good. Things were starting to get boring." And then, without another word, she heads back in the direction she came, and I'm left alone again in the darkness.