"Me?" The words come out without me even realising, and the shock hits me like a tree just fell on my head. I cry. For the first time in years warm salty water drips down my face and onto my outstretched fingers, still trying to do the math of the chance of me getting picked. 100%.
When I don't move for a moment, the peacekeepers come and drag me up on stage. I let them drag me, because now I've opened the floodgates I can't stop them. The thoughts come to me, I'm going to die, my mother and brother dying and their bodies so burnt to a crisp they were only recognisable by the axes they were holding, the community home, dad getting drunk so often he could barely remember his own name.
They shove me on a chair and I bawl uncontrollably, gripping my knees and digging my nails in to try and stop the mental pain with a physical one.
"Let's have a big hand for Johanna Mason everybody!"
Above my raking sobs I hear the awkward, scared clapping, and a couple of people going 'aww' and tutting. Then it hits me, and my mind thinks clear again, but I don't allow myself to stop crying. I keep the image of pain at the forefront of my mind, but my thinking brain starts working again. I'm strong, and I know I'm strong. I can throw an axe from fifty feet and hit the target straight dead. I can climb a tree faster than anyone in this dump. But remember all the other years Jo. The tributes leave the weaklings until last, and they watch these reapings. You can be a weakling, for now, until you get your hand on an axe and show them what weak really is. You can win, but you have to be smart, you have to play this right. No one can know, only you. You can do this Jo just keep on crying. Make everyone pity you, just like they're doing now.
I'm rocking back and forth by the time the boy tribute has been called, really laying it on thick, thinking all sorts of horrible things I haven't thought about since five minutes after they happened, calling on every terrible memory I have. Juno starts to look uncomfortable when my sobs get louder than his microphone, he closes the ceremony quickly, and I have to be carried by a peacekeepers into the justice building, where I'm put in a room that looks like a study. I'm finally left alone, and melt into the chez lounge, smiling slightly. Everyone thinks I'm pathetic. Even my opponent, Jame something, thinks I'm weak and he can't be older than fourteen. But I'll kill him, if needs must, and everyone else in these god forsaken games if I have to.
This is the time when family come and comfort the lambs sent to the slaughter. I wait and wait, expecting nothing and getting exactly that. I'm there for an hour in silence, occasionally making sobbing sounds by the door so the peacekeepers can hear me. I need everyone to fall for this. Make everyone think I'm some pathetic loner who has no one to love her. Better off in the games, better off dead. The door clicks and for some strange second I think it's dad, waiting and sober to give me a hug and tell me it's all going to be ok. But I see a starch white sleeve and take a big snotty sniff, and rub my eyes.
"Time to go Mason." The peacekeeper says solemnly, pointing the way out with his gun. When I reach him he places a hand on my back, to play along I resist, and he sighs and carries on pushing until I'm at the train station. Idiots, I think, and have to stifle a smirk. They're falling for it.
There's a camera crew waiting to film our departure, and the boy smiles to the camera softly, and they trail him until he's boarded, then focus on me. I resist more on the peacekeeper, and he has to shove me onto the train. Before I've even steadied myself, the doors slam close, and to add to the snivelling weakling act I push my body against the glass and let the tears run down my cheeks. And we're off, but the cameras have already left me, obviously feeling uncomfortable. Good, little pricks, go film someone who gives a shit.
I spend the majority of the train ride in my carriage, which is so overly lavish I think I might break something, or dirty it by just touching it. I hate it all, the silk sheets seem to slide off me, I bounce along on the thickness of the carpet, everything is too soft and neat. I miss home a bit, wanting to feel the fresh autumn pine needles beneath my feet, smell the woody scent that everything in District 7 has. But I have a job to do, and I will see home soon. Those career bastards have no idea what's coming.