Hazel

Johanna gets a three in training, which is a feat in of itself. She does a good job at hiding her glee in her performance, wringing her hands tightly together under a yellow knit blanket and avoiding eye contact with anyone who dares glance her way. Ainsley doesn't do much better with a four, but it's at least on par with three other tributes; the girl from Eight, and both from Twelve. Johanna's placement is dead last, and her televised odds are the lowest I've seen in years.

"What on earth did she do?" Blight complains to me, after Cosima sends the tributes to bed. "Sit there and cry into the Gamemaker's laps?"

"Blight," I warn, but I can see the pang of frustration in his eyes. If I didn't know any better, I'd be feeling the same way. "She's only a girl."

"Those other tributes are only children too, and look at them! Did you see the girl from Ten, Hazel? She got an eleven! Remember what happened when I faced someone who got an eleven?"

I don't need to say the words, only look at the glass replacement of what used to be his left eye. I click my tounge in frustration and open my mouth to speak when he starts up again.

"I know they don't stand a chance, and I know having you as a victor is probably the only stroke of luck I'll ever get in this blasted career, but you don't understand, Hazel – you haven't seen what it's like when it's bad. They'll go for her and Ainsley like they're toys and pull them apart just to show the audience that they can put on a good show, because they know they can't fight back."

He's right. In my brief stint as mentor, I've had about as much luck as you can get without your tributes winning; quick, merciful deaths. Bloodbath tributes whose sufferings don't need to be prolonged for entertainment, snapped necks, and quick falls. The death is still enough to make me sick to my stomach; but I think about all the gruesome demises in the past few years of the Games and imagine actually knowing those tributes. Immediately, I feel queasy.

"It's not always good entertainment for a weak tribute's death to be exploited," I say. "Think of Brutus – he still gets hell for what he did to that little girl from Six. Maybe if we get the Capitol to feel bad for them, they'll make it something quick, and focus on killing the stronger competitors."

"A pity angle won't work on both," Blight sighs, but I can tell I've at least managed to perk him up a little. "Not all tributes are as easy to work on as you were."

I think of sitting in this very same room with Blight four years ago, answering question after question in the smartest way possible. He'd make me re-do my answers when they didn't sound smart enough, made me read a dictionary for new words to add when I needed to seem particularly impressive. I look at him now; bags under his eyes, crumpled shirt and shoulders sagged. He must have seen something promising in me, if he put the effort in. I think of my other tributes, and then Johanna. Perhaps the promise I see in her was what he saw in me – and if so, maybe the outlook is more promising than it feels.

And then, I think of Johanna in the arena. At the mercy of the Gamemakers; beaten to a pulp by spiked maces, skin burning off by acid rain, or falling down a pit of venomous vipers. Suddenly the outlook isn't as promising as it was a moment ago.

"Be nice to Ainsley tomorrow," I remind him. "Don't go distant again."

Blight sighs, and I can smell the fumes of alcohol on his breath. Perhaps Ainsley and he aren't so different after all; both turning to some kind of substance to deal with the pain in their lives. Perhaps that's why he's so worried about a gruesome death – maybe he'll see himself in Ainsley's. I wonder what Blight was like, before his Games. Was he the bright-eyed carpenter the Capitol makes him out to be, or did he always have the tendency towards jaded addiction like he does now?

I suppose I'll never know. Whoever that boy was, he died with all the other twenty-three tributes in his Games. Just like the old, short-haired, keen-minded Hazel did. I wonder, if Johanna wins; who will she become?

Whatever it is – by the time we're halfway done with our individual training, I hope it's nicer.

It's been over half an hour since she's finished practicing etiquette with Cosima, and Johanna is still ranting about how ridiculous it is that she's expected to walk in high heels. It's infuriating, because I get it, I had to go through the same thing – but my eyes are still keen on the clock and we don't have much time left before dinner.

"Listen, Johanna," I say, when there's a break in her tirade. "I don't think it matters much, if you trip in your heels it won't do anything except solidify the idea that you're hopeless."

She considers this. "I'd rather not be a laughingstock."

"You will be, if you don't stop complaining and start listening," I say, dryly. "We need to get this routine drilled into you, because if you fuck up even one time, you'll be in front of all the tributes and the Capitol, and you'll be the first person they go for in the arena."

"I won't fuck up," she snaps. "I've been doing great so far – I've convinced everyone, haven't I?"

"This is your first extended, solo stint in front of the Capitol," I say. "Whatever you think you're doing; it's not going to be enough. Double it."

"What, you want me to start crying in front of them again?"

"No," I cross my arms. "I want you to play the role of a little girl who's trying her very best to be brave in front of an audience, in order to scrounge up pity points. I want you to be the girl who knows this might very well be her last night alive, who loves her pretty dress and who wants to let her parents know she loves them."

Johanna pulls a face, and then leans back. "God, I can't wait until this shit is over and done with."

"Do you think you can do it?"

She frowns, and then the corners of her mouth split into a determined line.

"I know I can."

There's nothing I hate more than getting ready for the interviews. Because the mentors are going to be on camera; lined up in the prestigious first row along with the escorts and stylists, I don't get to skip out of the priming and grooming that I loathed so much back in my own Games. I'm fortunate to have a separate prep team than my old ones – who have been gifted to Johanna – and instead am stuck with a trio of silver haired triplets who gossip about the handsome boy from Two.

Foglia is still in charge of designing my clothes, so I'm spared from her more outlandish choices, but the dark green dress with a decorative feathered plumage at the neckline is still slightly too much than I would have liked. Feathers are the next big thing in the Capitol, and as the most recent female victor; not considering poor Annie Cresta, I have to keep on top of the trends.

I sigh as I look at myself in the mirror, hoisting up the bosom so that it hides some of the cleavage that the Capitol so loves to see. I'm sure some of my benefactors will be in the audience, ogling the newest dress. Perhaps some new bidders, watching the eye candy and deciding who they want to taste-test next. I think of last night, and how I had to spend hours waiting for Balbina Catullus to finally fall asleep before I made my quick escape back to the Training Centre. Balbina is one of the rare female sponsors who I actually despise – usually that kind of distaste is reserved only for the men with leering eyes, and less so the women, who tend to only request conversation – but she did help keep me alive when my burn risked infection, and President Snow loves to make sure that I repay her for my debt. Balbina will likely be in the audience tonight, but at least I can relish in the knowledge that green is her least favourite colour. Checking for the okay from my prep team, I make my way to my seat near the stage.

They've sat us in order of victory. Since the victor for the 66th Games has decided to sit this year out – he's from One, so he gets that choice – I'm wedged next to Finnick and Niké from Two, who are engaged in some polite chatter.

"Hazel," Finnick says, when he catches sight of me. "I see you've got the girls out!"

"I could say the same thing about you," I say, pointing at his half-unbuttoned shirt. "Why do they bother making you wear shirts anyways, when they're never proving their purpose?"

"Simply decorative," he says. "How're sponsors going?"

"Miserably," I reply. "And tonight won't be much help either. Why, what about you?"

"Plenty for the boy, barely any for the girl. God, you'd think they'd learn by now that you need more than just looks to win this thing."

"Look who's speaking." I say, pulling in my feet to let Haymitch Abernathy stumble past us, reeking of spirits. He staggers into his seat, next to Blight, who looks slightly perturbed by his apparent lack of effort to look anywhere close to presentable. Next to him, Blight's drinking problem looks like child's play.

"Don't you think it'd be easy, to tune it out like that?" Finnick says. "Sometimes I think I should turn to the bottle, or to drugs or something to zone it all out. But then I look at the pair from Six, or Haymitch, and I think – do I really want to fade away like that?"

"I suppose you have Annie to look after, too."

"Yeah," Finnick rubs his cheek with his palm. "I spoke to her on the phone last night, she's not doing any better without me around. I wish I could be home to help her."

"Perhaps you should bring her with you, next year," I suggest. At his look, I quickly backtrack. "Not as a mentor, obviously."

"Snow wouldn't allow it," he says. "She'd distract me from my duties. Plus, I don't think being back in the Capitol would do her any good. But thanks, for the suggestion."

At that moment, the lights dim, and the crowd begins to rumble. Caesar Flickerman appears, in crimson red, all waves and toothy smiles. I like Caesar; he's one of the few Capitol citizens I can tolerate. In his own special way, he tries to help the tributes, and he makes it a point to meet with each mentor to talk strategy. I did my best to warn him about Johanna's 'shy disposition' and he told me he'd do his best to make sure she'd feel comfortable on stage.

There's a bit of pre-show banter, and then he brings on the tributes. One by one, they're paraded on the stage, and lined up to sit at the back while each one gets three minutes to say their piece with Caesar. I spot Johanna shuffling in, sliding her feet a little under the high heels like I told her to. With her dark hair cascading down her back and a fluffy, demure yellow dress hanging around her, she looks every bit the deer in headlights I hope she'll appear.

The girl from One is very clearly a Capitol favourite, from the cheer that rises as she steps onto the stage. The angle's unique, because usually Saffron will push either the flirty seductress or the hardened killer. This time, Love giggles and flirts and pulls up the slit of her dress but launches straight into her favoured weapon; a bow and poison-tipped arrow.

"Another redhead with a thing for poison," Finnick leans into me. "Watch out, she's coming for your gig."

"She wishes," I say, but I feel a pang of fear for Johanna. She could outlast an injury, I'm sure of it, but I know first-hand what poison can do to a person. I wonder if Saffron chose her as a tribute to get back at me. I won't put it past her.

Both the boys from One and Two play the stoic, cold-hearted killer angle, but the latter does it better. At first glance he doesn't seem like much more than your standard career, but so close under the stage, I can see his toned arms and the clever glint in his eyes. Circe from Four is another standout, but the real award goes to her District partner, who badmouths her in front of all of Panem and practically invites Circe for a one-to-one the second they reach the arena. Finnick groans and holds his head in his hands, and while I feel a pang of sympathy for him, it gives me a spark of hope. If they're duking it out, that's two less Careers focused on killing Johanna.

And then it's her turn, slowly shuffling to the stage, blinking wildly under the stage lights. Caesar guides her to her seat and whispers something to her; words of encouragement, likely. There's a smattering of applause, but much less than the usual, and it dies down far quicker than it did for any of tribute.

"Johanna Mason," Caesar starts. "What a lovely name. Is there a story behind it?"

"It was my Auntie's name," she says, softly. "She died just before I was born, so my Mummy named me after her."

And so it goes, Caesar helping Johanna weave a story of woe. The little girl whose aunt died of some mysterious disease, and then her mother – her fear that perhaps it will come for her next. Her love for the songbirds that sing in the trees, how her favourite colour is blue like her favourite bluebirds. I wonder, by the end of it, how much is true. Johanna mentioned only having a father, but never a hereditary disease that took away her mother. She doesn't strike me as the type to like songbirds, but neither does she the type to like flowers. All the interview succeeds in doing is throwing more pieces into the puzzle of her that I'm trying to sort out.

And, of course, get everyone to pity the poor little girl in the yellow dress.

The rest of the interviews goes uneventfully; Ainsley tries to throw out a few jokes, but none land. Twine from Eight is sweet, the girl from Ten – Beckett – is confident and goes around insulting the other tributes. Yael from Twelve forgets to speak for a moment. By the end of it, once the lights have dimmed, Finnick and I are agreeing to buy each other drinks at the bar when our tributes die. I hope he won't be too mad when he sees what Johanna is capable of, but I doubt it. We say our goodbyes; we'll see each other tomorrow morning in the Donum Room, and I head back to our floor.

Dinner is a sombre affair, eaten in silence. It feels almost like a wake, even though both the tributes are alive in front of us. Nobody eats much, and Ainsley hurries away a few minutes in, followed by Blight. Eventually it's just Johanna and me, sat in silence at the table.

"I'll walk you out tomorrow," I say. "But if you want to say anything now, before -"

"What is there to say?" She cuts me off. "I'm winning, it's no big deal."

"Johanna…"

"What?" There's a look of ferocity in her eyes, something I haven't seen before. She looks like a caged animal. "Don't you believe me? I'm going to win!"

"I know," I say. "You are, you are. Just, be smart."

"I am smart! I know what I'm doing! I'll kill every last one of them." Her voice catches at the end, and then finally, it breaks. "Fuck, I'm scared."