CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Word in Wonderland

Hazel

Tonight. That's what it says on the tiny slip of white paper. The Avox shrinks back away into the crowd, taking with her the only remaining shreds of possible information I could gauge. I frown, driving my eyes into the looping font, willing it to give me something, anything else. I don't think this is the same handwriting as my previous contact, so this must be Cohen's Gamemaker friend. Plutarch Heavensbee. I feel my blood run icy. 'Tonight' better not mean what I thinks it does.

Blight's voice comes in greeting before the hand on my shoulder, but I still jump, batting it away with a fist holding the now-crumpled paper. We get a few looks from the others, but not many. Most people evacuated the Donum Room at the first sight of Titus' gory display. Those of us with either less sense , or in my case, responsibility to stay, are worse for wear. Even Blight's face looks a slight shade of green, and it's been hours.

"Sorry," I lower my hand, feeling my face flush. It's not uncommon for most victors to jump at a pinprick, but I've always felt embarrassed whenever it happens publicly.

"Thought you might want a coffee," he holds out a cup. I take it, graciously. I can't stand the taste, but anything strong enough to get rid of the acrid taste in my mouth from watching Twine get cannibalised on-screen is gift enough. The warm cup seems to scald my hands, and it's only now that I realise how cold and numb they are.

"What's the word like in Wonderland?" I ask, taking a big sip of the stuff.

"Nobody's happy. Not the Districts, or the Capitol, or the Gamemakers. Hell, I think even Snow's ready to throw a fit over this one."

"Wonderful. Finally, something to unite us all."

"Opinions are mixed on Johanna, though. Some people think she should have killed them. Other people thing she was smart, running away. One things for sure, it humanised her."

I look at her now, on screen. Once she'd had the wits about her to bolt, it'd been a mad scramble through the snow-packed undergrowth. It reminded me of my days in the forest after Felicis had died; the frenzy of frantic movement with no purpose or rhyme to it. Only, Johanna did seem to have a purpose, because hours later she'd returned at the spot where she'd hidden the axe. She sits now, grasping onto it like her life depends on it, murmuring words so soft they're barely audible to the camera. He'll die. He'll die.

"Are you sure humanising her is a good thing? She doesn't seem weak."

"In a normal year, maybe. But all of Panem is horrified. If she wasn't in a state, I think they'd all be disgusted," Blight says. Raising an eyebrow at my bewildered expression, he continues. "You can check out the gossip columns yourself, if you want."

"So, she's fucked up. What next?"

"Depends what they're doing with Titus."

My attention gathers back to the crumpled-up paper, and I click my tongue. It hadn't been mere moments after Twine's death that the mentors from Six were gathered up by a disgruntled-looking attendant and whisked away to some meeting. Nobody's said it out loud, but we all know what they're in for. "Do you really think they'll kill him?"

"Oh, they'll never let him live," Blight says, casually, slipping into the chair next to me and leaning back. His back cracks painfully and I give him a worried look. State-of-the-art capitol technology can do anything, but not when he won't admit his body is deteriorating. "I'm sure they're in talks about it now. City's in an uproar. Now they're finally pissed about the unnecessary murder of minors. "

I give him another look, this time hesitant. It always worries me when Blight talks like this. "What about Johanna?"

"We wait, I guess. Give her time."

I think about the letter. Tomorrow. And then about my own experience, back in my Games - scrambling through the wood, dizzied by pain and visions of my blood-soaked friend. It felt like time had ceased to have all meaning. Only after the Games did I realise it had been three whole days lost. Three. Johanna might not even have one.

"She's on the same mountain as Titus, Blight," I nearly whisper.

"They won't kill her," he replies. "She's a fan favourite."

I think of Cohen and his owl eyes, palms pressed up against the table in an earnest need to lap up all the information I had. I'm not so sure.

We sit there for a while, drinking our coffee in silence, until Cecilia re-enters. I know all of us try not to stare, but it's hard not to. She's fighting to hold it together, but between her crumpled clothes, tear-reddened eyes and frazzled hair, I'm not sure she's succeeding. I resist the urge to give her a hug. It's not good showmanship when my own tribute is still alive, and I can't risk getting anything leaked to a gossip page now.

"She was a good girl," Cecilia mutters, picking up random items from her desk. Nothing seems to be of use - blank pages, hair ties and clips - but none of us have the heart to mention it. "A good girl. She didn't deserve that."

Blight speaks up first. "At least she's not suffering any more."

It's the wrong answer. "She shouldn't have been suffering at all," Cecilia looks up, eyes frenzied. It's the first time since her Games that I see the same gaze in them that I did when she won; the shaking girl, burnt bloody from the scorching sun, holding the gut-covered mace that won her victory. "She didn't have to die - why did they pick her."

"Cecelia -" Blight tries again.

"Don't tell me what I can and cannot feel," she spits, and turns on her heel out of the room, leaving behind her the remains of the few things she came to pick up. We sit in silence for a moment. Blight pulls his head into his hands.

"Fuck!"

"Blight," I reach out to hold his forearm. "It's okay. You're both upset."

"No, it's not okay!" Blight reaches up, his hands twitchy. "This is the third time I've had an argument this week. First you, then Haymitch, and now Cecilia. What the fuck is wrong with me?"

"You know I was being a dick too," I pause, and process his words. "Wait, Haymitch? What would you want with Twelve?"

"Nothing," he says, quickly, but I don't buy it. I've never seen him and Haymitch interact, not even once - despite winning consecutive years. Why would they be talking, let alone arguing. Something nags at the back of my brain, and the slip of calls to my attention yet again.

"Blight, come on."

"Leave it, Hazel. It's none of your business. Why do you care so much?"

It's risky to test it, but I decide to risk it. If Blight has no reaction, case closed. But if he does, maybe it's something I can use. "I just heard there were a group of victors involved in certain talks. That's all."

His eyes widen. "Who told you?"

Bingo. I hesitate for a moment. Who reasonably would know, and tell me. "Zircon."

"Hazel," Blight's voice is barely above a whisper. "You don't talk about this here, do you hear me? You don't talk about this anywhere."

"I just -"

"No 'justs'," he shakes his head. "Fuck, you're too young for this, Hazel."

"Fine," I raise my hands. But I know I've won. "Fine."

We remain there for a while, until I think it's time. Not much happens - Johanna hauls herself up a tree once it's too dark to see, and hides her head under her sleeping bag when Twine's face is shown in the sky. The Careers, angered at their inability to get a kill, attempt to track down the boy from Twelve. The girl from Eleven catches a hare.

I leave the Donum Room - giving Blight an excuse about rest - just as the attendant enters. She's a young girl, maybe around my age, with curly hair and bushy eyebrows that give me the expression of a frazzled squirrel. She jumps as she sees me, letting out a little squeak, her mouth forming a perfect 'O' shape.

"Miss Yew," she says - deliberately not pronouncing the 'E' at the end. The Capitol had me change it in 'honour' of my poison stunt. "I was just looking for you."

"Good timing, I suppose," I shrug. "I'm assuming you'll take me to Mr Heave

nsbee?"

"Oh yes," she nods, already ushering me toward the elevator. "He's very excited to talk to you."

The ride up to the Gamemaker's floor doesn't take long, but it feels like hours with the attendant's constant blabber. I feel like I know her whole life story already - her name is Cheri, her favourite tribute this year is Johanna, and she has three cats back home. She's just about finished a story about how one of the three - very originally named Paws - stole her neighbours pet goldfish when we arrive at the door. I breathe a sigh of relief. I've never been more uncomfortable.

"When Johanna wins, tell her I'm a big fan," Cheri pipes up, as my hand grasps the handle. I give her a forced smile.

"Will do."

The inside of the room is the antithesis to my meeting with Cohen. While that room had been long, cold and imposingly interpersonal, this one feels all-too intimate. The walls are painted a light blue, and there's barely enough space for two sofas, let alone the small table between them. Sat on one of them is a man, a strikingly ordinary man for Capitol standards. He must just be approaching middle age, with a receding hairline and a sightly too-tight suit. As he sees me, he stands up.

"Miss Yewe," he says. "What a pleasure to meet you."

"As is mine, Gamemaker Heavensbee." h

"Plutarch is fine," he gestures towards the seat. "Please, take a seat."

I feel a chill rush over me as I do, suddenly very aware of the position I've been placed in. I risk a quick glance above me. What kind of cameras have they placed in here?

"Now, Miss Yew," he begins. His voice is soft, almost friendly; and for the first time in a long while, I miss my father. "I'm sure you're well aware of why you're here."

"I am," I echo.

"And I'm sure I don't have to remind you of how important this meeting is?"

"You don't."

"Good," he smiles. Warmly. "Now then. Do you have anything to tell me?"

For a moment, I freeze. Seize up. It's easy to say the words; both Blight and Caesar have had conversations that deem enough conviction from the Capitol. But can I really do it? Even for Johanna? I think of Blight and his tired eyes, and how hard he tries. I think of Cecilia's rage. She didn't deserve to die. Is it really worth sparing Johanna if it will be worth so many more deaths?

Don't I want this to stop.

"No," I say. "I'm afraid not."

Plutarch looks at me, carefully. "Are you sure?"

"I am."

And then, he does something strange. Instead of stand up and walk out, he reaches into his briefcase and brings out a small disk. Examines it for a moment, and presses something on it. Smiles, and places it back into his bag.

"Hazel, while we talk, I would like you to smile. Act as though we're engaged in some small talk, or as if we're making a positive deal."

"What?" Curiosity briefly flickers across my face, and I try to disguise it with a smile.

"We don't have long. I'm very grateful you didn't betray Blight, Hazel. That's a very good mark on your record."

"Blight? You know?"

"Of course. Our members are everywhere. Don't worry, nobody in the Capitol will hear this. I'll tell Cohen and Snow that you really do know nothing."

"You're one of them?" This silly man in his ill-fitting suit is a rebel?

"I am. And you just passed the test. Congratulations, Hazel. We'll be in contact."

"Wait! What about Caesar?"

Plutarch frowns. "Caesar?"

"He said some things, the other day. Could have sounded rebellious."

"I don't know anything about that," he rubs his hand across his chin, as if in deep thought. "Perhaps Snow did plant a red herring."

"I don't understand," I say. It's hard to keep a smile plastered on my face when my mind is racing with a million different thoughts. "So, you're a rebel? And so is Blight? And why did you pick me? What test?"

"So many questions," Plutarch shakes his head, amused. "Blight said you'd be curious. This is how we gauge victors, Hazel. I'm afraid I can't stay long."

"What about Johanna?"

"I'll bring Caesar up. Whether it's a red herring or not, it might be enough for them to keep their end of the bargain up. If it wasn't planted, our good talk show host will be in need of some re-education. Now, I really must go, Hazel. Needs must."

It feels like it just a second for the whole thing to be over, and then Plutarch is gone, and I'm alone in the room. What was that? Plutarch Heavensbee is a rebel? I passed? It feels like a million thoughts swim through my head at once; shock at the outcome, glee at passing whatever trial they gave me, fear for Johanna's safety. I sit in that room for what feels like hours, until I realise how drooping my eyelids have become and how late it is.

It takes a long time to fall asleep, and longer to stay asleep, with all the thoughts running through my mind, but eventually I succeed in getting few hours of shuteye. And in the morning, just as I expected, a small letter has been slipped under my door.

We'll wait. Cohen.

And they do. For days. Five days, while the Capitol gets bored, the Careers kill the boy from Twelve and Titus terrorises his hunting ground. Five days, until Johanna suddenly has the brightness returned to her eyes, and decides to climb down the mountain.

And then, I know they're ready to act.

A/N: Sorry it took so long to update! I'd pitched to write a show for a performance society at my uni, and got the role! I've been working hard on that, but now that the script is done, I can put my full attention on this! Hope you like this chapter!