CHAPTER FIVE – Poppies

Johanna

Dinner is an unpleasant affair. We sit there – in the dining room of the seventh floor – surrounded by silence, the gallery of food in front of us remaining untouched. Awkwardness hangs in the air like humidity, and it takes all my willpower not to snatch up one of the neatly lined-up knives and stick it in the wall behind me. Prove to them that I'm not the whining, snotty brat that they see me as. But Ainsley is sat next to me, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves, and while I don't think he'd betray me to the other tributes, he remains my enemy. Not to mention Cosima, who can't keep her mouth shut to save her life. She's barely torn her eyes away from her strange, rectangular, light-up box since we've arrived in the Capitol; and judging from how she presses it to her ear and chatters away about gossip after gossip, she needs not even see someone to spill secrets.

Blight's the only other person at the table, sat on Ainsley's other side, but he's busy murmuring something to an avox and doesn't seem to pay much attention to either of us. Nobody's talking to me, and I'm not surprised. After my little stunt on the chariots, I'm sure they're all at a loss. No matter, I shake my head and try to ignore the lingering embarrassment. It was necessary. Instead, I draw my attention to the food. I've barely eaten all day – Foglia spent far too much time talking and not enough time paying attention to the grumbling of my stomach – and I have to sit on my hands to resist reaching out and grabbing fistfuls of rice and meat. I can see Ainsley bite his lip and I know he's thinking the same thing as me. Where are they?

It takes another ten minutes for them to arrive. First is Ainsley's stylist, a man whose name I cannot remember for the life of me, but who has the appearance of someone in their middle age trying desperately to grapple the little youth he has left. Following him is Foglia, mouth pulled into a thin, tight line. Her neatly-slicked back hair has been ruined by little fly-aways and if looks could kill, based on the way she's glaring at me, I'd be struck dead. Hazel is last, looking a little flustered and irate, but keeping it together. Blight raises an eyebrow.

"Were the elevators not working?"

"They were working just fine," replies Hazel, evenly. Her eyes flick from Foglia back to Blight, and then to the rest of us at the table. "Sorry to keep you waiting."

"I'm not at all sorry," Foglia says with a huff, her fury still glued on me. "If my work is going to be treated with such disrespect by a tribute, don't expect me to offer them any respect in turn."

"She's just a kid. She was upset," Blight sighs. "And you left the rest of us waiting too. Next time we'll just eat without you."

Foglia huffs and crosses her arms, but luckily, Hazel comes to my rescue and sits down between us, blocking us from seeing each other. Luckily for her, if I had to spend another second looking at that face, I'd have clawed her eyes out with my own hands. Instead, I sit and twiddle with my fork. And then Cosima coughs and begins to talk.

Oh boy, I think. This is going to be a long meal, isn't it?

I think I've finally escaped when dinner is over, and I'm escorted to my room. If I thought my train compartment was lavish, it's nothing compared to this; easily twice the size, with a window entirely covering one of the walls and a walk-in closet. I take a note of my own personal dining area and make sure to remember that for later; there is no need to relive the social hellscape that is the dining room ever again. I've just tested out one of the three armchairs when there's the infuriating sound of knocking at the door. In a rage, I throw the notebook I've been examining across the room, and it falls to the floor with a pathetic clatter.

"Johanna," Hazel's voice comes from the other side of the door. "Will you come for a walk with me? I have something to show you."

If it were anyone else, I would have let out the most pathetic whimper I could to draw them away and spent the rest of the night exploring the room, but instead I walk to the door. If it's Hazel, she probably has something important to tell me. When she sees the fallen book, she gives me a dry look, but says nothing, only gesturing for me to follow. I'm surprised when she walks, not to some unseen part of the floor, but to the door leading towards the elevator. Noticing my curious expression, she smiles.

"There's a garden on the ground floor," she says. "It's not quite like home, but I thought you might feel comfortable around the greenery."

I want to retort with something biting, but the awareness that anyone could be listening looms over me like a shadow, so instead I take a deep breath.

"That sounds very nice, thank you."

We ride in silence down the elevator and continue to down the hallway once we exit onto the first floor. Hazel must know this place well, because she leads me down twists and turns in the corridors without second thought, until push through a set of inconspicuous glass doors.

The air is warm and humid but refreshing. She was right, it's not quite like what we have at home; but it's designed for beauty, not realism. Flowers of all different shades bloom – ones that I recognise and ones that are unfamiliar – the air is thick with the scent of pollen and herbs, and I can hear the buzzing of hummingbirds, like insects around us. Above us is a thick net that's held to the sky with unseen wires, keeping the birds trapped inside. I watch one of the hummingbirds dart from a blue flower to a yellow one, drinking in sweet nectar, and I feel a jolt in my chest. It and I are the same – trapped inside a net created by the capitol, fed sweet things and told kind words, but ultimately only there for entertainment. A bird in a birdcage.

"How do you feel?" Hazel asks, and it's only now that I realise she's been watching me. I sigh and shrug, because I don't feel much like talking. "The other mentors were very interested in your performance today."

That catches my attention. "How do you mean?"

"Don't worry, they're mostly fooled. Got a couple bits of sympathy thrown my way, but I know that they're all secretly pleased that Seven's been stuck with a pair of weaklings this year. One'll have their eyes set on you at the bloodbath, though. You'd better get out of there quick."

"One?" I pause to think of the tributes. Oh, the redhead girl and the angry blonde boy. "Why them?"

"I'm afraid that'll be my fault," Hazel winces. "Their mentors have a bit of a vendetta against me. You're an easy kill in their book, and it'll give them the satisfaction they crave to see another one of my tributes gunned down."

I frown. I suppose I never thought of it that way; it's as much of a game behind the screens as it is on them. "So, I should stay away from them?"

"Oh, kill them once you have the chance." She gives me a wry smile. "But give them a wide birth until you get that chance."

"Alright," I say. "What else?"

"Finnick's told me his male tribute's got his head up his arse, so don't discount him as a threat, but there's no way he'll win. The girl is the one to look out for. As for Two, I'm not sure. The Career pack might be looking to recruit one of the girls from the outlying districts; Ten, maybe. She looks strong."

"Surprised Finnick Odair is judging somebody with their head up their arse," I say, wryly. I remember watching his games when I was younger, and I was not a fan. Hazel only half-smiles.

"Ha-ha, funny. Oh, and there's something else."

"What?"

"Sponsors. You're dead last – that's not a surprise, but there's been some unusual action this year. You're the only one with zero interest so far; even Ainsley has one or two."

"Ainsley?" I have to scoff. "What the fuck do they think he has to offer?"

Hazel shrugs. "I'm not sure. Suppose Blight is popular."

"What does Blight have to do with it?" She stays silent, her mouth pulled into a thin line. "Well, what am I supposed to do about it?"

"I'll get word out on your strategy to clients I've worked with before once the Games start," she says. "Hopefully that'll be enough to keep you going until you've proven yourself a killer. Pray the arena's in your favour. Until then, keep at it. Only test weapons you know you'll be bad at in training, otherwise work on survival skills."

I nod. It hadn't occurred to me that I'd be face to face with my fellow tributes in training until now. Even though I know I could take them, the thought sends a sinking feeling down my stomach.

Hazel walks forward and bends down, observing a light blue flower. It's one we don't see at home, small and drooping, like a tiny teardrop. "These are my favourites."

It occurs to me I don't know much about Hazel. What kind of person is she to like such sad flowers? I look around, and my eyes fix on some red poppies across the way.

"I prefer those," I say.

"Poppies?" She looks at them, and there's a strange look in her eyes. "They're pretty. They used to be a remembrance of war, back in the old days. Stupid concept, of course. They were just used to glorify the deaths of people who didn't want to die."

It's brazen; first of all, the mention of the old days, and secondly the allusion of my own situation. Hazel always struck me as a calm sort of person, but I wonder how she felt when she was in my position. Was she furious, too?

"I just like them because they're bright," I say. "And angry. I relate to that."

"Better to be angry than mellow," she says, and it answers my question. "I don't like them as flowers, anyways. And, we should head back. I have an appointment tonight."

"With who?" I ask, but she doesn't answer my question. She walks me back to the elevator and to my door. I'm sure she's not going to say anything else, but just before I shut it, she gestures to the book on the floor.

"If you're going to throw things, do it on the carpet. It'll make less noise and if you make too much of a mess, Cosima'll have a fit."

I spend the rest of the night tossing and turning. The bed is too comfortable, and I've eaten too much, my belly is too tight and full. I try having a shower, but all it succeeds in doing is tangling my hair and giving me the urge to find a knife in the kitchen and hack it all off. Finally, I end up sitting on one of the armchairs and fiddling with the remote to the television. It's only then that curiosity hits me, and a few searches on the high-tech machine give me the answers that I want.

The 67th Hunger Games. Hazel's year. Part of me hesitates before I click the play button; I've seen them before, but now it somehow feels invasive. I know her now – barely, but better than anyone here. Still, if I have an eye on her strategy, perhaps it will help me understand how she approaches things now. I look towards the door, as if afraid she'll appear, but when she doesn't, I steel myself and hit play.

It begins, as usual, with the reapings. The Career pack is usual; the girl from Four is younger than the rest, and the boy from Six is large and hulking. It's not Cosima on stage, but another mentor – a man, with long, purple braided hair. I remember his face from a few years ago, but not his name. There's a shot of the crowd and I catch a few familiar faces from the thirteen-year-old section. I know I must be there somewhere, but it's too quick, and the camera's back on the man, reading from a slip of paper.

"Hazel Yew," he says, and the camera tracks immediately on Hazel. I'm surprised at her appearance, her now-long hair is cut short to her mid-neck and she wears a long white skirt and blue blouse. She's terrified, that much is clear, but she holds her own. That is; until the boy is called. He's another one from the seventeen-year-old section, tall, with long brown hair tied into a ponytail – named Felicis Oake. Hazel's eyes widen slightly at the mention of his name, and while it's only noticeable because I'm paying attention, I assume they must know each other.

We rush through the rest of the reapings, and then there's a hard cut to the chariot rides. Both Hazel and Felicis are dressed almost as ridiculously as Ainsley and I were; a wreath of leaves and berries in their hair, going for some woodland pixie kind of look, I assume. It doesn't suit either of them, but they still smile and wave. Hazel's fairly pretty, and so gets all sorts of cheers from the crowd and she smiles and waves. She's doing better than me on the charisma angle, but that is to be expected.

And then, to the training scores. The careers get high numbers; to be expected, but the little girl from Four shocks me with an eleven. That's the highest I've seen anyone achieve in recent years, and it definitely puts a lot of attention on her back. Hazel gets a seven, which is fairly impressive, and Felicis gets a six – rounding out Seven fairly well compared to the averages of fives and fours from the other districts.

The interviews are what really pique my interest, however. The boy from Two does a handstand live on stage, which gets a whooping round of applause, and the girl from Four only answers with one or two words at most. And then, Hazel is on stage, in a sleek, deep blue gown with flowing sleeves and glitter in her hair. She smiles at Caesar, whose lips and hair are a garish yellow, and waves at the crowd.

"Now, Hazel," he says. "You've certainly been quite popular in the Capitol so far, particularly considering your District. What do you think about that?"

"It's wonderful, Caesar," she beams, though I can imagine her rage at the comment. "I feel so loved. Hello everybody!" The audience responds in a chorus of greetings. "You see, they replied to me! How I'd love to talk to people for hours."

"Well, perhaps you will, if you win the Games," Caesar says. "What strategies do you have up your sleeve, if you don't mind asking? A seven as a training score is fairly impressive!"

"Oh, I don't think I'll spill the beans just yet," Hazel says. "But I'll let you in on a little secret – it's something I don't think anyone has thought of yet."

"Thought of? So, you're a thinker, then?"

"Oh yes," she says. "Anyone can kill somebody. Only a victor can outsmart them."

I wonder if she was truly that confident, or if she was laying it on thick. A little like how I'm performing, but in reverse. It brings me some form of comfort, knowing I'm not the only one lying to the Capitol. And if she did it and won, perhaps I can too.

Felicis is on stage next, and he's clearly playing the part of the joking trickster. He banters with Caesar backwards and forwards for a while, and I tune most of it out, until a particular question catches my attention.

"It's a wonderful outfit, Felicis," Caesar is saying, gesturing to his dark blue velvet suit. "I can't help but notice the flower on your lapel there. What was the choice behind it?"

"Oh," Felicis says, grinning. I squint at the little red thing, it's too small to make out on the wide shot of the two talking. The camera cuts to Hazel every now and again, to show us her reaction, and it's hard to focus on anything in particular. "It's a poppy. I specifically asked my stylist to add it to my outfit, they're my favourite flowers."

"Is there any reason for that in particular?" Caesar asks.

"In the old days, they were a symbol of war," he says. "Of victory. They're my lucky charm. I'm going to be victor, with them on my side."

The camera cuts to Hazel. Her eyes are hardened, but unreadable, just like they were in the flower garden. I feel a jolt and turn the television off.

No poppies, I think. Not for me. I don't care what anyone says, flowers or no flowers, I'm going to be a victor. Felicis and Hazel and Caesar Flickerman be dammed.