Chapter 2

There's a knock on my door, and my head immediately jerks up. I sigh; I don't want to have to go to dinner and turn on the water works again. It's surprisingly difficult to keep up the pathetic act, possibly because I detest anyone seeing me as weak.

I roll my eyes – I suppose I'll have to get used to it because I do think Ma has a point. If I can actually convince the other tributes that I'm not worth any effort on fighting then I could just survive this thing. I clench my jaw, thinking of Ma's skinny arms and waxy skin. The image of giving her the medicine is all that is keeping me determined to carry on with this plan, even though it goes so completely against my nature.

I rise to my feet, and cross over to the door. As I heave it open I see Phineas standing in front of the doorway, an annoyed expression on his face. You knocked about five seconds ago, I think bitterly as he begins complaining as he leads me towards the dining room. These Capitol people are so damn impatient.

I quickly drop my head as we step into the dining cart and I spot Silas already lounging in one of the chairs and Blight leaning on the table next to him. I need to make it seem as though I'm deathly afraid of my opponent, even if he's clearly a complete imbecile.

"Recovered from your breakdown at the reaping yet Johanna?" are the first words he says as I enter the room. I resist the urge to clench my fists and punch him in the stomach.

Instead I just murmur disjointedly under my breath and scurry to sit in the chair which is the first away from his. I don't miss the look that Dara exchanges with Blight, who is Silas' mentor. They clearly think I stand no chance whatsoever.

Good, that means that my plan in working.

"After dinner we'll watch the recap the reaping and then have a chat with both of you about your abilities," Blight mutters, his head trained on his meal.

I raise my head just in time to catch the scathing look which Silas flashes in my direction. My resolve almost breaks, and my hands actually start to curl into fists at the expression on his face, but I quickly smooth them out and reach across the table for a bowl of vegetables.

I ladle them carefully onto my plate, ignoring the others as they start up a conversation about the chicken. I don't really give a damn about the chicken so I concentrate on my food.

Dinner flickers by quickly, with me neglecting to say a word the entire meal. I can't bring myself to make inane conversation like the rest of them do – how can I pretend that this isn't happening? It's not in my nature to just sit around and ignore problems – if I'm not looking for a solution then I feel horribly unproductive, so right now I feel as though I should be doing everything in my power to ensure that they don't put me in that arena.

Of course, I have absolutely no choice whatsoever but to simply sit here and nod occasionally along to whatever the latest pointless comment from someone seated around the table was.

Finally the torturous meal is over, though I'm not all that sure that what is coming next will be any better; I have to watch the recap of the reapings and examine my fellow tributes. Normally I would be sitting home and making snide remarks about the tributes, trying to make Will laugh by commenting on their hair or their expression as they mount the stage. Today I will only have my own ridiculous breakdown to mock.

We traipse through into the other room – Dara offers me a hand as I force myself to pretend to stumble as I cross through the doorway. It's pretty damn humiliating to be helped by some decrepit old woman who is so wrinkled and spindly that I'm surprised that she hasn't already begun to rot.

Silas just smirks at me as I sit down on the sofa, curling myself up in the corner, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. It doesn't work because he simply comes and throws himself down right next to me, pushing out his feet and lounging across the cushion. I know what he's trying to do – intimidate me. I bite my lip and try to pretend as though his attempt has worked. There are plenty of guys just like him in my class at school – give boys the chance to wield axes all day and build up their muscles and they all turn out just as arrogant as he clearly has.

I can't help but wonder if it's the same in the school for the kids who work in the sawmills, rather than in the forest. I cast Silas a brief glance – hoping that he doesn't notice me – and wonder whether he's a forest dweller or a mill-kid. His muscles would hint that he's a forest dweller, like me, but I can't say I particularly remember him from school.

I guess I tend not to focus too much on the arrogant kids. Or any of the other kids at all, if I'm being perfectly honest. Most people are stupid, and I find it's much easier if I just keep to myself.

Phineas presses a button, and the screen stuck against the wall suddenly blurs into life, the anthem of Panem blaring loudly from the speakers. I jump reflexively at the sudden burst of noise, and force myself to make it more pronounced as I spot Silas watching me out of the corner of his eye.

Blight starts slightly as well but Dara just blinks and looks mildly confused at our reaction. Fan-flipping-tastic; I've ended up with a deaf mentor. I throw an impatient glance in her direction before I remember myself and quickly smooth out my features, forcing myself to focus on the television and practice my 'scared little girl' expression.

Ma's lucky I enjoy acting, or I would have just laughed in her face when she had suggested her plan. Luckily I had to play a scared little sap a couple of years ago, so I can draw on experience to play this pathetic character. I know that I'm technically playing myself, but it makes me feel a damn sight better to imagine that I'm acting as someone else; it's less embarrassing that way.

The scathing glances aren't directed at me, but at my character.

Ok, so it doesn't work that well, but at least it's one slightly effective way of ensuring that I don't start screaming and hitting people whenever I catch those looks on their faces.

Two gaudy presenters suddenly appear on the screen, a backdrop of the Capitol buildings behind them. They grin at us broadly, and one of them shakes his lime green hair out of his eyes. How is it possible that we feel intimidated by these people? They seem like such ridiculous, bumbling fools to me that it makes me feel sick that a rebellion against them ever could have failed. It's shocking to think that however useless they may be, the people in the districts surpass them in this respect by miles.

"Are you excited to watch a recap of the reapings?" the one with the green hair asks, practically hopping up and down in excitement, "Because I know I am."

Just get on with it.

Finally District 1, possibly the most hated of all districts, flickers onto the screen, and the camera pans out across a sea of irritatingly perfect people. I catch glimpses of soft skin and thick manes of hair. I run my fingers through my own straggly locks, my fingertips catching on split ends as I do.

I lose interest as a girl with short blonde hair pushes her way to the front of the crowd and saunters up the stairs with a triumphant grin pasted across her face. I will never understand the mentality of those people who long to be in the Hunger Games. Any one of them can feel free to take my place if they wish...

The tributes reaped from the first two districts are predictably huge and utterly terrifying. Just as the pair from district three are pale and wearing thick rimmed glasses. My eyes flicker over to examine the wall paper as I see a tanned girl reaped from District 4. There's never any variety to these Games; I would say that I was surprised that the Capitol citizens don't get bored after all these years of identical tributes, but based on the few of them I've seen, I wouldn't have thought that they would have the brains to recognise the similarities.

My eyes are suddenly drawn back to the screen as I hear a familiar name being called. The camera immediately locates me in the crowd, and I'm gratified to see that I do, indeed, look absolutely pathetic. The colour has faded out of my cheeks and my eyes are beginning to swim with water.

The two presenters immediately begin making comments about the tears that start streaming down my cheeks as I clamber up the steps onto the stage. "Something tells me that this one might not be much of a fighter."

The other one bursts into laughter, "yeah, I think you might be right about that one; you usually are."

"Don't worry Johanna," Silas suddenly says from beside me. I glance over at him, "maybe you can drown the other tributes with your tears."

Anger flares in my stomach, and for about the fourth time since we got onto the train I get the strongest urge to punch him right in the face to remove that stupid smirk from his lips.

No- no punching, and no yelling. I press my lips together tightly, hoping profusely that it makes me look scared rather than incredibly pissed off. I think it works because he shoots me a nasty smile and then turns his attention back to the screen to watch himself walk onto the stage. "The contrast between our two District 7 tributes this year really is fascinating," one of the presenters comments idly, while the other raves about how thick Silas' arm muscles are.

You have to love the shallow attitude of the Capitol folk. It really is something else.

The recaps continue, showing shot after shot of horrified looking kids mounting the stage in their various districts. Finally a skinny little boy almost trips up the steps in District 12 and the reapings are over. I heave a sigh of relief as the camera flashes back to the two presenters. They immediately start making comments about who their favourites are, and which ones they would suggest putting money on.

I feel like screaming at the television when, after a long analysis discussing the pros and cons of various tributes, they both come to the conclusion that the tributes from the first two districts would be the safest bet. No shit – a blind squirrel could have figured that one out, and I once saw one run headfirst into a tree trunk. And I'm fairly sure that one actually did have eyes.

"I'm assuming you want to be trained separately?" Blight asks, climbing wearily to his feet and glancing between us.

No, actually, I think Silas is exactly the sort of person I would want to form an alliance with. It's not as though he'd drive me to the point of insanity or anything.

I just mumble, nodding my head slightly.

"I do actually want a chance of winning this thing," he points out to Blight, casting me a dismissive look.

I hope you end up stumbling across the careers and they use their knives to wipe that stupid expression right off your face.

Huh; I'm not usually quite so violent. All the suppressed anger of the last few hours is clearly messing with my head. I need to be alone for a bit so I can scream and get all my rage out.

Instead I have to sit in the dining room with Dara for an hour, while I very calmly have to repeat every single damn thing I tell her at least five times before she can hear me. What really takes the piss is that I'm not even telling her anything remotely interesting. Just about how scared I am, and I how I have absolutely no skills.

"What was that?" she asks in confusion.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes at her, and instead say, for the sixth time, "I said, I've never used any weapons before." I think back to my axe at home, and wonder how likely it will be that one will end up the arena. They normally have axes I'm sure – it's one of the weapons that even the unskilled tributes can get to grips with. Of course, I doubt many of them are able to fling an axe quite as far as I can. Not that I'm planning on owning up to that particular skill during training.

"That's right," Dara says in response to my words, "I think it is time that we both get some sleep."

I grit my teeth and clench my fists underneath the table before rising to my feet, "ok then, goodnight. You daft old bat."

"What was that?" she says after me, but I'm already halfway out of the door and simply stop to wave jerkily at her before I dart back to my room.

I've almost made there without being spotted by anyone when Silas suddenly swaggers out from around the corner. "Look who it is," he says as he pushes past me to get to his room. I let myself be shoved against the wall, though it takes a lot of restraint not to shove him back.

He's just pushed his door open when he suddenly turns back around to look at me. "Don't you want even the slightest chance of winning, or have you just given up completely already?"

Think of the frightened girl – it's not you, it's just an act. "I don't have a chance," I mutter softly, "I'm so-" I raise my hands to my face and press them against my eyes, "I'm so sca- scared." I force my voice to catch on the last word and then I dart across to my bedroom door, practically throwing myself against the panel and then I slam it shut behind me.

The moment it clicks into place I lower my hands and glare at Silas through the door. He had really better hope that he doesn't run into me once we get into the arena, because I promise that I will make him pay for every scathing word that he has said to me, every scathing look he has thrown in my direction. Because I really can't stand being insulted. Even when I'm in character. It's the reason I kicked the lead in the shins once, during a performance. Apparently it had been a perfect example of improvisation. I had planned it ever since she had gotten the part instead of me.

I do not own The Hunger Games, otherwise Johanna probably would have played a much bigger role.

Thank you to deschanel10, The Golden Kneazle and Where The Story Ends for reviewing the last chapter :) Sorry that this chapter is a little bit shorter, but I've barely had any time recently and I wanted to get something written!

Also, if anyone would be interested in beta'ing this fic for me then I would really appreciate it, because I'm useless at editing my own work! If you are then just let me know :)