CHAPTER NINE
GENESIS
JOHANNA
It's dawn when Cosima wakes me.
Somehow, I've fallen asleep in the armchair; legs curled under me like a cat, television remote dug into my back. My limbs are tight and tense, and I let out a hiss of pain as I stretch, mind temporarily distracted by my discomfort. Through the door, Cosima takes this as a whimper.
"Oh, my dear," she says, her voice muffled by the wood. "It'll be better if you try your best to stay calm."
Her words bring me back down to reality; to what today means, and how screwed I really am. Despite the terror that sinks into my chest, like an anchor dropped into water, I roll my eyes instinctively at her comment. Awfully presumptuous, for someone who's never been through it.
Though neither have I. Yet.
She tells me to be dressed and out as soon as possible. Ainsley has already left. That strikes me; I barely talked to the boy, and he's already gone. The closest thing I could have had to a friend in the arena, and I didn't say goodbye. I shake my head. There is no need for sentimentality, especially not now. I must leave the few empathetic parts of me here in this room, if I want to survive.
Cosima said to be out in ten, but I'm there in five, shivering in the living room. It doesn't take her long to grab me, brush me down and tell me all about how yellow is now all the rage in the Capitol because of me. She doesn't tell me she hopes I do well, or that she'll see me soon. Cosima is a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of them. When she's done, she gives me a satisfied nod, tells me Hazel is waiting outside, and walks away.
What, no hug, nothing? I want to say, but I bite my lip. Perhaps Cosima would have been a bit more doting if I'd made an effort. Besides, it's not like I particularly care. The only reason I hope to see her again is because it'll mean I lived.
Hazel is sat exactly where Cosima told me, across the corridor, by the elevators. I feel a pang of fear as I see her, and for a second I picture the earnest smile of a girl watching her enemies suffocate to death, but it's replaced with a hurried, worried glance.
"Did you sleep alright? You don't look as pale as Ainsley did."
"A few hours, I think. Where's Blight?"
"Working out sponsors – he'll be busy, so I'm taking you alone."
"We have sponsors?" A flicker of hope sparks in my chest – nobody good, of course, but maybe someone who took pity.
"None that I know of, but if all goes to plan, we'll be getting calls by sundown," Hazel doesn't sound convinced. "Johanna, you've got to be careful. No badmouthing the Capitol or anything, they'll never let you win if you do.
"What do you mean," I try my best faux grin. "I love it here."
"Better to be peppy than to be dead," she sighs. "You ready?"
"No. But it's not like I get much of a choice, do I."
"Unfortunately."
The trip down the elevator is in silence, and though it must take a few short seconds, I feel like it takes hours. Trapped in the small room, my mind spins; visions of my gory demise flash by me in high-quality display, I see Hazel poison me and Ainsley stab me through the chest, and Blight look at me sadly. Instinctively I move away from her, but if Hazel notices, she says nothing. We stop, and when the doors open, we open up on the roof, where a hovercraft hangs in the air.
"Do they stagger the tributes, so we miss one another?"
Hazel nods. "You're all in there, of course, but you won't see anyone until you're in the arena. Most people come up with their mentors; except Twelve, of course, since they only have one. Foglia will help you get dressed, she'll be waiting in the hovercraft."
I roll my eyes. Great. So, the last person I might ever see is the person who I hate the most in this fucking place.
"And listen," Hazel continues. "You'll probably get lucky; you're perceived as an easy kill, so they won't put you near any of the high-scoring tributes. As long as you don't go running in, they'll leave you be."
"Not even a bag?"
"If you think there's even a risk, don't do it," she says. "My job is to keep you alive; I don't need you making it any harder than it already is."
"I'll try," I say, and pause. The hovercraft keeps getting closer and closer and as it looms, the more ill I feel. Eventually, as we're right under the ladder, I turn back. "Hazel, can I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"It's not like Ainsley, is it?"
"What?" Hazel frowns. "Elaborate."
"Rooting for me. Thinking I have a chance. It's not like how you gave those drugs to Ainsley – to make it easier for him while he was here. You actually think I can do it, right?"
"Johanna, when I say that I'm looking forwards to you being my neighbour, I mean it."
I'm not the kind of person to give hugs, but nothing stops me from wrapping my arms around Hazel. Murderer or not, she's the only person in the world that's really on my side right now. Besides, it might be my last chance.
"Thank you," I whisper.
She nods. "Give them a show they'll never forget."
And then, I'm on the ladder, locked into place and being lifted up into the air. Hazel waves, but I can only stare back as her frame becomes smaller, until it disappears from view completely. Eventually I'm pulled up completely and have a tracker inserted into my forearm. Delicately placed, so that cutting it out would risk cutting a vital vein and bleeding to death. Of course. Anyone who would evade the Gamemakers deserves to die.
I'm led to a room where food has been laid out, but I touch nothing until Foglia arrives. It takes her about half an hour, which is about the time when the hovercraft lifts, and when I assume all tributes are on board. She says nothing and takes the seat furthest from me. Suddenly, being in the same room as her is far too disconcerting, and I find myself needing to be distracted. I focus my attention instead on some porridge.
It takes us a while to land, suggesting that whatever arena I'm about to be placed in, it's not the kind of environment that encircles the Capitol. Suddenly my mind races; will it be scorching hot or freezing cold? Will there be trees? Water? Any cover at all?
Foglia notices my expression and rolls her eyes. "Onwards."
I bite back a retort. Though there's no risk in offending her now, I'm afraid another tribute will hear and target me once the gong sounds. I'm led down, far underground, until I'm in the small, metallic room that we call the Stockyard. I'm directed to shower and clean my teeth, though I'm trembling so hard that the work seems futile, and eventually Foglia hands me my outfit to be dressed in.
Boots and a grey coat-like jacket made of rubbery material – waterproof, if I had to guess, though the inside of the jacket is fur-lined. Long sleeved black shirt, form fitting trousers and insulating socks. It doesn't say much, but I've got a feeling that it will be cold in the arena. Foglia says nothing, so her theories remain unheard, and it's only a few minutes before I'm directed to my pod, where I'll have to stand until the gong sounds.
"It's a shame," Foglia says, as the doors close in around me and I'm lifted up. "Perhaps next year's tribute will appreciate my clothes more."
Just as I'm about to be enveloped in darkness, I flip her the bird.
The darkness lasts longer than I anticipated, and I'm reaching the point of claustrophobia where I feel like screaming, when I begin to smell fresh air, and a glint of white. My feet shuffle as I'm blinded by the light, but I keep them still – knowing if I move too far, I might get blasted sky-high. Slowly, the light fades, I hear the voice of Claudius Templesmith echo through the air.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, let the Seventy-First Hunger Games begin!"
Snow. The first thing I see is snow; a thin layer on the ground, spread out all towards the cornucopia. We're placed in a semi-circle, equidistant from the mouth, which lies on the bank of a lake. Despite the snow-covered ground, the water doesn't appear to be frozen over, and the lake goes on for miles, encircled by a stone-covered beach. Around the shore, about a mile or outwards is what appears to be a forest. My heart leaps at the sight, and whipping my head behind me, I can see the same lush greenery. The forest seems to ring around the lake, and squinting, I can see high, rocky terrain in the distance, in a similar ring around the forest.
A crater, I think. They've put us in a crater.
I know that there's more to my realisation, but this was more than I could hope for, and I decide to not focus on it too much. Instead I drive my attention to what's in front of me – a timer with fourty-five seconds left. I'm at the very end of the semi-circle, meaning that I only have one other tribute next to me, the boy from Six. Three spots down is the boy from Four, my biggest threat, but he looks distracted and I'd wager he probably would be wasting his energy taking up the bet he made with his district partner.
The bounty isn't as plentiful as I'd have hoped, but there's a small black bag not too far in. I'm weighing the risk in my head when there's a commotion halfway across the circle; the girl from Three has thrown up. It happens every couple years or so, the combination of extreme fear, anxiety and gorging yourself is a recipe for disaster for some tributes. I feel bad for the girl, who's wiping at her mouth. She managed to miss most of her clothes, but Love from One looks at her in disgust from the next pedestal.
Luckily, I'm far enough away that it isn't too distracting, and I'm able to get an eye count of everyone else – Ainsley is next to the girl from Two, unlucky – as well as press my feet into position just as the countdown hits ten.
Nine, eight, seven – the boy from Six eyes the bag, but I'll get there first – six, five, four – if I make it to the trees in time, I'll avoid any fights – three, two, one. I look up to where I assume the camera is and give them the best cocky smile as I can muster.
The gong sounds.