Chapter 3

I bite down on my lip, hard. I force myself to remember my mother and her plan, and concentrate on the plan rather the inane babblings of a couple of Capitol freaks.

Don't get angry, don't get angry, don't get angry.

This is easier said than done, however, when these multicoloured strangers are flapping around me; fiddling about with my hair and poking at my skin. But the worst bit? The worst bit is definitely the waxing. It hurts – I mean, proper agonising pain that makes me want to thrash and scream, and hit as many members of my prep team as I can get my hands on.

It's probably ridiculous to be obsessing over the pain of getting my leg hairs ripped brutally from my skin when I'll be in the arena in a couple of days, but that's not really all that much comfort for me right now.

On the plus side, tears are prickling at the back of my eyes because of the stinging sensation on my legs, so my prep team are under the impression that I'm a worthless sop – I can see it in their sympathetic glances as they look at me. Based on the gossip currently spilling from their lips, it won't be long before this latest piece of information is spread across the city.

Johanna Mason – the tribute who cried even in prep.

Finally a women with silver skin beams, "we're finally done," she informs me. I blame my parents for this – couldn't they have had the good grace to have blonde rather than dark hair? I'm sure this process wouldn't have taken half as long had that been the case.

I realise the whole prep team is watching me, so I sniffle and whisper, "thank you," before ducking my head to save myself from glaring at them all. This is a lot harder than I had even begun to imagine – every time I see that ridiculous pitying look on their faces it makes me want to shriek with frustration.

No one has ever felt sorry for me; I've never let them. I hid Ma's illness from the people at school for as long as I was able – not that it was particularly difficult seeing as I don't like talking to any of them at the best of times. I remember when my teacher had found out and tried to keep me behind after class. I don't need your help – I don't need anyone's help. So I earned my own money to help Ma, because if there's one thing that I've learned growing up in a slowly disintegrating forest-dweller's shack, it's that you can't rely on anyone else to do anything for you.

That's why it's so hard for me to play this part, but all I have to do is think of Ma and it gets easier. Well, maybe not much, but it does help.

I'm dunked into a bath full of sickly smelling liquid and I wrinkle my nose. I suppose it should upset me somewhat that I'm naked in front of three strangers watching me with scrutinising eyes, but nakedness has never particularly bothered me. After all – we were born in our skin, not just with clothes on, so surely that's the way that we're supposed to be?

Not that I've ever put that theory to the test by walking around District 7 naked, but all I'm saying is that if I was forced to do it, I don't imagine that I would feel embarrassed. You grow up sharing a two bedroom house between six people, and nothing can embarrass you much anymore.

Eventually they decided that I've soaked for long enough and I stumble back across to the chair in the middle of the room, and perch myself delicately on the edge. "It's alright sweetheart, just relax," the silver skinned women tells me in a soft voice. I just duck my head and push myself back onto the chair.

Don't ever call me sweetheart.

I hate it – I hate having to sit there and let them do whatever they want with me. They sweep brushes across my cheeks, clip things into my hair and draw with what feels like pencil underneath my eyes. Possibly I'm supposed to be waiting in anticipation to see what I look like when they're finished with me, but strangely enough I can't seem to work up any excitement... It's almost as though I don't particularly care what the Capitol is going to think of me. Shocking, I know.

I try to disconnect myself from my body and I choose to picture Silas, considering for a moment what I will do to him the moment I come across him in the arena. I sincerely hope that no one kills him before I get the chance as I remember his arrogance last night. I would never have called myself a brutal person before this, but I have absolutely no qualms about killing him.

But in my mind, while I can picture a terrified expression on his face, and the axe which I will hold up before him, I can't imagine the moment of his death. I can't bring myself to conjure up an image of me swinging the axe into his neck.

I shake myself slightly – forcing myself to get a grip. If I see him in the arena, I'll kill him. I wonder if it's easy? It must be for some of the tributes, because I've seen victors watching the re-caps of their games, pumping their fists and grinning at the screen.

But then again, I suppose that I wouldn't want the whole of Panem to know my true feelings about what I'd done in the arena. Maybe, if I win, I'll be one of those arrogant, celebrating victors, revelling in my success. But I've never been comfortable around death, so why would it change in the arena?

I jerk my eyes open again, forcing myself out of these thoughts. Because, honestly, what's the point? I can't predict what will happen in the arena, or how I'll react to it, so it's best that I don't even try. So I just sit there, as still as I possibly can and wait for them to finish with whatever it is that they're doing.

Finally they hold a mirror in front of me, and my reflection flickers into view. I barely even recognise myself; my dark hair is clipped back from my face and falls in waves around my shoulders and my skin glitters slightly as I move my head. My lips are stained a bronze colour and there's a swathe of green covering each eyelid. It doesn't make much of an impression on me – I know some of the girls at school are constantly jabbering on about make-up, and their jealousy of the people in the Capitol who have it at such easy access, but that kind of talk has always bored me senseless. The only thing I consider is that my now dark lips make me look dangerous, and it will be a lot harder to convince people that I'm no threat if they see me like this – I don't look young enough.

But then again, people tend to see exactly what they want to see and the other tributes will all have watched my reaping and no doubt marked me out as useless. I doubt a thin layer of make-up is going to change their already formed perceptions of me. Good.

I mutter vaguely under my breath, hoping that passes for thanks, I'm so grateful but too terrified to speak.

I hate it. I hate her. Stupid, prissy, stuck-up Lulu with her stupid prissy stuck-up hair and stupid- I stop these thoughts and force a neutral expression onto my face, which is pretty damn hard to do when you're dressed as a fucking tree.

Every single year for as long as I can remember our tributes get forced into this ridiculous get-up. I've never been able to understand how any of them could move wearing a tree trunk around their torso, and I understand no better now that I'm actually wearing it. My legs are free from the knees down, but I still feel as though every single step I take is going to send me flying flat onto my own face. Then I would just have to roll to the chariot, which might help further this front that I'm putting on, but I have limits and my pride won't let me sink that far.

Lulu smiles proudly across at her handiwork as I shuffle along the corridors towards the stadium for the opening ceremony. How she can possibly look proud about this is completely and utterly beyond me. Her job is hardly a difficult one, is it?

Hmm, so what should I dress the tributes as this year? Trees? Yes, what a novel idea. Lets dress the tributes from the lumber district as great big hulking trees. Thumbs up for originality there Lulu. I'm shocked that they haven't moved you up to one of the more interesting districts, given your talent for creativity.

We arrive at the door to the stadium and I shift myself awkwardly to allow Lulu to open the door for me, seeing as my arms are sticking out uncomfortably at my sides and I can't really move them all that well. She gives me a glance that clearly says she feels herself above opening the door for a mere district girl and I grit my teeth against the anger that surges within my body.

What gives them the right to consider themselves so much better than we are?

But that's not what I'm supposed to be thinking. I should be nervous, overwhelmed by the bright lights of the crowd as we move out towards the chariot standing waiting for me. I bite my lip and try to adopt an expression of terror. I think it works when Lulu pats me absently on the shoulder and then manoeuvres me towards the chariot, decorated in vines and bark.

I can't help but feel a pang of satisfaction as I spot Silas in an identical costume, looking thoroughly disgruntled. Ha, at least it isn't just me. It makes me feel somewhat better to know that this is probably more of a knock to his pride than it is to mine, seeing as mine has already taken a pretty serious beating since the reaping.

He smirks patronisingly down at me, "poor little Johanna. Already terrified and you're not even in the arena yet." He climbs up onto the chariot, and I have to suppress a grin as he wobbles and almost lurches back onto the floor

I glance around for a moment, trying to take in the sight of the other tributes. I see a group of about four huddled together besides a chariot sparkling with silver gems, and I recognised the blonde girl from the only reaping that I had actually paid attention to when we had watched the re-caps. A-ha; the tributes from the highest districts must be planning on forming the traditional alliance. Not that that comes as much of a surprise.

Careers is what we call them back home, and indeed in most of the other poorer districts I believe, and I always despise watching them on screen, because they're so powerful and the other tributes don't stand a chance against them. This is the group who I desperately need to convince that I'm not a threat – if they have other targets then it will give me a chance.

I pull my eyes away from them, trying not to notice the muscles straining their costumes because then I'll only ending up comparing myself with them, and that can't lead to anything good. I'm been working in the forests with an axe since I was little, but what chance does that give me against these trained killing machines?

Lulu sighs impatiently behind me, "you need to get onto the chariot now, Johanna." Despite the fact that pretty much every other tribute is still on the ground? Well, I guess moving anywhere does take longer when you're a tree.

I clamber up, determined not to stumble like Silas, and I want to shoot him a triumph glance when I manage it, but somehow manage to keep it off my face.

I feel more exposed, sitting up here amidst the vines, as though I can feel every eye in the crowd watching, though in reality I doubt many of them are paying attention to pathetic little Johanna.

"Remember to keep your head up," Lulu says briskly before she vanishes behind me. This is one thing that I can guarantee I will not do. I cannot raise my head to survey the other tributes or even the crowd – I have to make it seem as though I have already given up. Not that this is particularly difficult to act, because I just have to think back to the moment that I mounted the stage at the reaping, because wasn't that exactly what I was thinking then? That I couldn't win this thing.

So I bite down on my lower lip hard enough to cause tears to sting the backs of my eyes, and I ignore Silas' scathing glance as he notices the liquid in my eyes. I'm a character – just a character, I remind myself, and I let my head drop to stare at my hands, clenching tightly in my lap.

Slowly, the chariots begin rolling into place and I chew on my lip even harder as I hear a cheer go up, meaning that the District 1 tributes must just have been revealed to the crowd.

Don't raise your head, don't glare at Silas. I chant it over and over again in my head, until finally something rumbles underneath me, sending shudders through my body, and the chariot begins moving forward. I blink rapidly as a sudden blast of light hits me in the face, sending some of the moisture in my eyes running down my cheeks.

People around me are chanting Silas' name. Of course they are; a great big hulking tribute from a district apart from one, two or four, he's a novelty in their eyes, particularly when compared with his weak little district partner.

The noise of the crowd reverberates up through my chest, and for moment I'm almost reminded of the audience at the end of a play. Except for the fact that I'm usually proud when I stand before a crowd like that. Here, I am only ashamed. Ashamed of how they see me, and what they think of me. But more than that, I'm ashamed of the fact that this might offer me my only shot at winning – as though I'm not good enough to win without duplicity. And the fact that I'm so willing to abandon my pride and dignity in order to give myself the slightest chance of making it back home? What does that say about me?

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

Thank you so much to Daydreaming Viking Girl, deschanel10 and GrossGirl18 for reviewing the last chapter, and I'm sorry for being a useless updater! If it's any consolation; the fact that it's summer means I'm going to be updating a lot more regularly now. :D