CHAPTER 13 - Double Dealing

HAZEL

Faustus Cohen is a short man in his mid-forties, with dyed silver hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. He gives me the impression of a slightly disgruntled owl; wide eyed behind his circle-rimmed glasses, fluffed up by the brown fur coat that hangs behind his chair. He sits at the end of a long table, the skyline of the Capitol hanging behind him as he watches me step into our pre-designated meeting room. Next to him and his crisp Gamemaker uniform, my simple black dress feels like rags.

"Hazel," he says, his voice high and clear. "It's lovely to finally meet you."

He doesn't make the effort to meet me halfway, so I have to walk the length of the inordinately large meeting room to shake his hand. Cohen wasn't the Head Gamemaker for my games, which puts me slightly at ease, but he's already not off to a great start. I bite the inside of my cheek. Don't let anything show, Hazel. The life of your tribute is in his hands.

It seems Cohen knows exactly what I'm thinking, because once he's gestured for me to sit, he gets right into it. "Johanna Mason."

"That's the name of my tribute, yes," I say, when he doesn't elaborate. Part of me hopes I'm not coming across as too rude, but another part of me could care less. I'm tired, stressed, and the slower this man talks, the longer it takes me to get back to the Donum Room and to Johanna's aid.

"She's an interesting one. Certainly, feistier than we were first lead to believe."

"Thankfully," I press my hands down to stop fidgeting. "She's a fighter."

"And an actress," Cohen continues. "A talented one, at that. She had me fooled from the start. Didn't quite believe it until she started swearing at those birds."

"That's our Jo. Foulmouthed to a fault."

"Did you know about her little stunt?" Cohen asks, almost innocently. There's a subtle change in his body language, however; the way he leans forward and lowers his voice. Something that almost seems threatening.

"Yes," I say. There's no point lying, not when everything in the Capitol is bugged. I'm sure they've already gone through all of the footage from the train and the flower garden. The only reason Cohen's asking is because he wants to gauge my reaction.

"Makes sense, of course. Wouldn't want anyone finding out; it'd put a target on her back. Whose plan was it, yours or hers?"

"Hers. Seemed like she'd thought of it before her name was even called."

"Smart girl," Cohen ponders. "Well, I thought you should know, President Snow isn't very fond of the deception."

Ah. There comes the chink in the armour. It'd crossed my mind, briefly, but I'd decided to ignore it in place of the more pressing matter of keeping Johanna alive past the first day. But now, the repercussions of the lie are rearing their ugly heads. And what hideous heads they are. Fooling the other tributes is one thing, but fooling the Capitol is another. It makes them seem oblivious. Manipulatable. All of those things, Snow would very much despise.

Cohen continues. "All things considered, in a normal year, Johanna would never be allowed to survive."

"But this year isn't a normal year." I echo.

"No." He folds his hands more firmly on the table. "The inner district alliance is unstable; we have an absolute psychopath in the arena, and the audience is in shreds deciding who to support. Not to mention the issue of last year's victor. I'd very much like to avoid my predecessor's mistake and crown someone who's not completely off their rocker."

"And you think Johanna's a contender for that spot?"

"One of them. Of course, we could crown one of the inner district tributes, or even the girl from Ten, if we wanted to appease the outer districts. But support for Johanna has risen exponentially in the past few days."

"It sounds like you already have your top eight mapped out."

"Us Gamemakers always have our preferences," Cohen says, tapping his fingers on the table. "We don't control everything, of course. Too much interference would make for a very dull game. But, if we want to keep someone alive, we try our best."

"So, what does that have to do with me?"

"I have a request," Cohen leans in. "Follow it through, and President Snow and I will be keener to make sure your tribute doesn't get caught in the crossfire."

My heart skips a beat, and I have to bite the inside of my lip again to suppress a physical reaction.

Cohen repeats. "Hazel?"

"What is it? The request?" I ask. I don't know if it's nerves, or the strong chemical scent in the air that's making me feel woozy.

"I've gotten wind that there's been talk of an anti-Capitol alliance between some of the victors this year. I want you to find out as much as you can and report back to me."

"Anti-Capitol alliance," I repeat. The real word goes unsaid. Rebellion. He means there's a rebellion. I'm not all-too surprised; nobody talks about their hatred for the Capitol, but words go unsaid amongst the victors, and I know that there are those who would act, if give the chance. Part of me feels thrilled. Part of me feels terrified. And a third, tiny, part feels upset that – if it exists – I haven't been approached yet. There's a rebellion, and Cohen wants me to betray it.

"Only murmurs, of course," he continues. "But treasonous speech must be punished accordingly. Do your part, and I'll make sure Johanna stays alive."

They must have something planned, then – like the dam burst last year, or the earthquake half a decade ago. Cohen's offering to make sure Johanna lives through it. If I play my part. If I betray the districts.

I think of Johanna, drowning, or being crushed by rocks. I think of my fellow victors; Zircon, Blight, Finnick, Cecilia – all strung up on a tree.

"Fine. I'll do it."

Cohen smiles. "Good. I'll give you the number of one of my apprentices; Plutarch Heavensbee. He's the one you contact if you've learnt anything."

"You promise Johanna lives?"

"Johanna lives." He leans back, finally, away from the table. "If you play your part. Good luck, Hazel. Now, if you'll excuse me. I have a game to run."

I sit there, stone-still, as he gives me a firm nod, smile tight-lipped and cold, and exits. Thoughts run through my mind like flashes of dizzying light. Does he truly think I'll be useful as a mole, or is he doing this to scare me away from joining the rebellion myself? He can't kill Johanna now; the Capitol will be in riots. Or can he? Surely, they'd be just as happy with a Career victor. Would I really be ready to betray the people I call friends to keep my tribute alive? Would I be ready to sacrifice Johanna to protect a rebellion I didn't know existed until moments ago?

Finally, I understand what Blight means when he says he needs a drink.

JOHANNA

Twine is officially the stupidest tribute in the history of the Games.

It's not very difficult to keep watch. In fact, I'd argue it's one of the easiest possible things you could do. We do it all the time in Seven; on a long trip into the woods, when it's too cold and dark to turn back, and we bed down for the night. Someone keeps an eye out for dangerous animals while everyone else sleeps. It's the typical symbiotic relationship. You have someone's back, and you expect them to do the same.

And yet, when I wake up, bleary eyed and drowsy, Twine is curled up on her end of the tree, fast asleep.

Part of me wants to slap her awake immediately and yell that she could have gotten us killed, but I suppress the urge. I have a feeling that petty arguments could go down badly with the Capitol audience.

Instead, I sit up and stretch, my joints frozen stiff. My arm still hurts something rotten, but at least it's clean, and with the jacket, I'm warmer than I have been since the attack. I feel a lingering flicker of glee at my first sponsorship gift and the knowledge that I have people rooting for me.

Needless to say, I probably have a lot more to do if I want to climb up in the rankings. Almost instinctively, I look down at my knives, and back at the sleeping form of Twine.

Not now, I think. Not yet, at least. She's more useful to me alive than dead.

I'm still mad, however, and with the grumbling of my stomach getting louder, I decide to blow off some steam. If Twine wakes up and I'm not there – good, she deserves a fright. Besides, she'll be stuck up the tree until I come back to help her. It's good enough revenge as anything.

Light is only beginning to streak through the sky, meaning it's not the best environment for hunting, but as luck would have it, I'm able to spear an injured bird. It's small and won't provide too much meat, but I get a sense of sweet vindication at taking the life of another avian creature. Fuck those birds from yesterday. Fuck 'em.

I'm perhaps too involved in my bitter reminiscing of yesterday's events to hear the crunching of snow-covered footsteps in time. I'm fast enough, however, to whir around and back closer to the clump of rocks I travelled over yesterday, just as the figure emerges.

It takes me a moment to place her; dark, close-cropped hair and pale skin. The girl from Two. She stands tall and straight, almost towering over me, axe in hand. Her eyes gleam with masochistic glee.

"Looks like it's my lucky day," she says, hoisting the axe up. "It won't be an interesting kill, but at least you'll make it easy."

Her feet go flying, and the axe goes slamming down, but I know axes like the back of my hand and make it out of the way just before it slices my arm off. It gets embedded in the snow, and she grunts loudly, hoisting it back up. I take the opportunity to quite literally stab her in the back.

"Fuck!" Two groans, blood splattering across the snow. "You little bitch, where'd you get that from?"

"Oh, please don't hurt me," I hold out my hands, praying to everything out there that she doesn't notice the other knife at my belt. I don't even have to try to get my voice to shake. "I was just trying to save myself."

"Since you asked so nicely." She rolls her eyes. "I wonder, how does decapitation feel? You'll have to let me know."

"I promise I'm not a threat," I start, but she's already begun to make her move.

I'm lucky she's not expecting it, because the second knife in her gut sends her reeling. She swings wide and the grip on the axe loosens, letting it go skittering across the snow. She shrieks, both in anger and in agony, but I know it's not enough to kill her; maybe if she bleeds out, but I didn't hit any vital organs. She'll be back at the camp and I'll be dead before then. I need to think fast.

I hear the tell-tale hissing sound by the rocks.

We make eye contact for a moment, and both of our gazes drift towards the axe. She makes for it first, but I run forwards. She's heavy – far heavier than I anticipated – so it's sheer luck that she's weak enough to be taken by my blow and is knocked far to the ground. She coughs up, thick dark blood, as the knives in both her back and front dig into her flesh. I step back.

"What-" she begins, but she's cut off by the furious jet of hot air.

It's painful to watch, as she's blasted into the air and slammed back down to the ground, with a terrible crunching sound. Whatever geyser I was using to cook the rabbit, it's not even half as strong as this one, because her skin is blistered, bloody red. Her left eye seems to be liquefied, her body's bent at all the wrong angles, and she lets out the most horrible, gurgling scream.

I fight to keep down last night's dinner.

She lies there – and I know she's not going to be moving for a long time, if ever – as I stare at her, catching my breath in heavy gulps. I did that. I did that to her. I'm no stranger to gore; viewing the Games is mandatory, after all, but seeing it right in front of me, at my own hand, is enough to feel myself phasing out. Suddenly I understand Annie Cresta.

No, Johanna, focus. She might live. She might live and she won't win, but if the other Careers find her, she'll tell them about you. Think. Think.

The axe lies a few feet away.

It takes me a long time to gather the courage to walk up to it. Two's moans in the background nearly send me running for the hills multiple times, but something about holding the axe steels me. It's a sturdy thing, shiny-clean and deathly sharp. It reminds me of being back home, in the woods. If I close my eyes, I can almost picture being back home in Seven.

Except I'm not in Seven. I'm in the Hunger Games, and I've just cost a girl her life.

It's merciful, I think, as I step over her twisted body, raising the axe. She attacked you. She'll be in less pain this way. It's what's best.

Somehow, that doesn't make the sound of the canon feel any better.

I must be on autopilot, because the next thought I have, and I'm far away from the clearing, and on my way back to our camp. The axe is still in my hands, and I must have taken back my knives, because they both hang, bloody, from my belt. I'm just about in eyeline of my tree when I have a thought. Finding another clump of those rocks, I pick out one that's shaped almost like a heart and place the axe under it. It takes a moment to hide, and another moment to clear the knives, but it's worth it as I make it back to camp and see Twine's face.

"Johanna," she gasps. She's up in the tree, face ashen, staring down at me in shock. "What happened? I heard the canon and you were gone. I thought you were dead."

"I went hunting," I say, trying my best to keep my voice even. "Heard the canon. I thought it was you."

"The hovercraft came from nearby. Did you see anything?"

"No," I take a deep breath. "Nothing at all."