1.7 : Johanna

I don't dream.

That's a rule. No matter how sick I get, how tired I feel, how many thoughts are plaguing my mind at any given moment, I never dream. Have never dreamt. Not once, not even as a child.

Lynn never believed me. Whenever I'd tell her, she'd insist that I did, in fact, dream, I just never remembered them once I'd woken up. But I know myself. And I also know my father, who never dreamt either.

" Our minds are too busy in the moment, " he used to tell me, back when I was very young and he was still entirely my father. "We've got other things to focus on, you and I. Better things. There's no room for dreams up here."

That's why, when I wake, I find myself oddly calm. There's no room for dreams, and so no room for nightmares to plague my thoughts. No strange, liminal images that toe the line between the dream world and the real one. There is only the feeling of soft sheets under my skin, and the bright, white glow of the Capitol sun peeking through the half-closed curtains.

I lie for a moment, tucked under the canopy of blankets. It's summer outside, but inside I've cranked up the air conditioning so high that it might as well resemble a cool autumn morning somewhere in the woods outside of Seven's town centre. I close my eyes and try to picture myself, lying on a platform high up in the trees. But I can't. The light is too bright, the room too still, the air too artificial. I crack open my eyes, and all I'm met with is white plaster ceiling.

For some reason, this is what incites the feeling of dread. I've been getting flickers of it in ever-increasing quantities over the past few days, shooting down my body in an electric current. In exactly forty eight hours from now - (maybe even less, depending on the time) - the Games will have begun. I will be in the arena. I might even be dead. In lieu of any dreams, my mind begins to flood with images, obstructing any other thoughts. I picture an endless arid desert without any weapons — just like the one ten years ago —where I have to bludgeon the other tributes to death with heavy stones. A frozen plateau in constant twilight, where all the days blur into one and I start to go insane from hunger and isolation. I see the other tributes too. Love, from One, laughing at me from behind a tree as I stink into a pit of quicksand. Twine, from Eight, trapping me in a circle of fire. My breath begins to hitch.

I sit up and run myself such a cold shower that all I can focus on is the chattering of my teeth.

When Ambrosia comes to fetch me for breakfast, I'm still shivering. To my surprise, she actually seems genuinely concerned for my well being, though she also decides to take it upon herself - (condescending, as always) - to sit me down for ten minutes and show me how the shower works.

She's explaining the importance of conditioning my hair twice — something to do with follicles, or whatever — when it occurs to me how pointless this must seem to her. There's no need to teach me about how a Capitol shower works, when, come next week, I'll be dead in an arena somewhere, and I'll never need to shower again. She must be certain of the fact. It takes me a moment to realise that I'm not entirely un certain of the fact, either.

This frightens me more than anything else so far, and so I decide to accidentally burn myself with the hot water from the shower, and that manages to distract the both of us until we're sat down for breakfast.

We're all here today, except for the stylists. Ambrosia and I are the last two to the table. We slot into our usual seats, and, as I pass him, Ashley gives me a quick, wide-eyed glance. He mouths something to me that looks an awful lot like he's saying 'are you okay'? I'm not entirely sure it's for show. I shrug and sit down.

Ambrosia - who has finally decided that she's actually going to do her job as an escort - takes mealtime as the best time to explain the general plan for the next two days. I'm barely paying attention. My heart is beating at a million miles an hour, and my hand hurts, and the edges of my vision are beginning to blur and spin and burst into dozens of tiny little lights. The food I'm eating tastes like sawdust, and my mouth is suddenly dry. I reach over to the closest jug of water at the same time as Caraway. He seceeds to me, and, as I raise my eyes to thank him, I catch a proper look at him. My heart sinks. I didn't think he could look even worse than he did yesterday.

After our private training sessions yesterday, I'd caught up with him in the apartment. My training had gone exactly the way I wanted it to - (though it had taken everything in me not to climb to the very top of the ropes and start throwing hatchets down at the dummies) - and I was feeling pretty proud of myself, so I suppose I was in the mood for some sort of conversation, and Ashley obviously wasn't back yet. Caraway was sitting on one of the sofas, facing away from me. His face was pale and it was obvious he'd been crying. But even beyond that, he looked haunted. Dark circles hung under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept in days.

"How'd it go?" I'd asked.

"Shit, obviously," he'd said. His voice came out bitter and croaky from tears. He didn't even look at me. His eyes shot straight out to the view of the Capitol skyline out the window. I think he was swaying slightly.

"You don't know that," I'd said, though I was certain that he was right.

"Yes I do," Caraway had seemed so far away. "Blight told me what to do. Ashley too, when I asked him. And I ignored them. I'm as good as dead."

After that, he'd turned and walked away to his room, without even meeting my eyes once.

Meeting his eyes now, I can tell that sleep hasn't improved him much. It might have even made things worse. He seems almost ghostly, and his long dark curls seem stringy, the colour washing him out. There's a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his cheeks seem sunken-in. He pulls his hands away from the water jug, and I think they might be shaking.

He's right. He's as good as dead. Even if they shoot him up with enough of what his body's craving to last him the whole Games, he's as good as dead, because he's already anticipating it.

I hope he goes quickly.

I feel ill.

" - Johanna?"

My eyes snap back across the table, and I realise that I've been staring at Caraway. Ambrosia frowns at me, looking about as concerned as her face can muster. Now that I think about it, her face almost never moves. "Did you hear me?"

"Um. No," I shake my head. "Sorry. What?"

"I asked if you would like me to train you on etiquette for tomorrow? I've been talking to the escort from Twelve, and she says - on account of Twelve only having one mentor - she's been taking on some of the duties, including training her tributes on etiquette. I thought it was a good idea, so I wondering if you might like -"

"No," I say, quickly. "Thank you, but I'd rather stick with Ashley today, if that's alright?"

Ambrosia gives me a thin lipped smile. "Of course. Caraway, I'll extend the invitation to you, though obviously, since Johanna is a girl -"

"I'm good," Caraway says, and stands up quickly. He looks like he's swaying again. "Sorry - can you give me a second?"

His eyes dart across the room, and he stumbles back to his quarters. I don't think he closes the door to his room, since it's very clear from the sound that he's throwing up. Everyone stops eating, and Blight's face looks stony.

Once breakfast is over, Ashley takes me back to my room. We're silent for a moment. My heart is still betraying me, but I try to seem as casual as I possibly can. I don't want to admit any sort of fear to him. Nor do I want to betray what's been hanging on my mind like fog; that the idea of Caraway dying makes me feel sick.

Which is a bad thing. It means I've - somehow, without ever even noticing - gotten attached.

"Well," Ashley says, eventually. "At the very least we don't have to struggle for an angle."

He gives me a halfhearted smile, but his heart doesn't seem to be in it. He looks tired. I think Caraway might be getting to him too. Or even if he's not, the Games are closing in, and I can't imagine it must be a particularly enjoyable experience to be a mentor.

It occurs to me that, if I do win, this is exactly what will be in store for me. Seven only has a handful of victors, and though they all tag-team in and out depending on the year, the more recent victors are almost always the ones who are specifically invited back. If I win, the odds are that it will be Ashley and I from here on out.

The idea of the two of us on one team actually seems quite nice, though I suppose that's what this is, at any rate.

But he's looking at me funny, and I realise I haven't said anything at all. I shake my head, as if I've just been lost in some casual daydream and I'm coming back down to earth. "Sure! Yeah, that's good! You think the angle will keep landing?"

Ashley's eyes narrow, as if he's noticed my bluff. If he has, he thankfully doesn't bring it up. "Yeah, I think so. They like you. They won't see it coming. All we need to do today is to fine-tune a bit."

And so, for the next few hours, this is what we do.

First, Ashley instructs me on how to walk properly. It's not exactly difficult, though my brain can't quite wrap around the idea that there is a specific way to walk. Next is teaching me how to sit. It's not hard either, though it's a bit funny to see Ashley stumble over the specificities of being a woman, especially in the Capitol. We muddle through, and eventually agree to hope for the best, because neither of us want to bring Ambrosia in to take control. It takes the better part of an hour before we're finally ready to move onto the questions.

It's at this point that I really see Ashley in his element. He's eagle eyed in his observations as we practise every sort of question imaginable. His instructions are quick and very specific, telling me exactly when to pause at certain questions, when to stumble over my words, and when to seem completely assured. He thinks about the audience in a way I never would imagine; about the perfect way to set up casual comments earlier in the interview and then twist them later for emotional value, about playing to the Capitol's exact sense of humour, about different avenues to take my answers in, depending on the interviews of the tributes before me.

It occurs to me that maybe Ashley's talent as a director is really just secret training for being a mentor. Officially, it's not allowed - just like how training for the Games isn't allowed. But, just like with anything to do with the Games, if it makes for good entertainment, the Capitol probably lets it slide. I don't think I'd be entirely shocked if it were the case, whether he's aware of it or not.

Eventually, lunch rolls around. We're pretty much done with the interview side of things, and Ashley seems pleased with my progress. There's the promise to talk Games strategy later, which pleases me, because I keep being hit with sharp stabs of anxiety every so often at the thought of the arena. Maybe a more solid game plan will help settle my nerves.

Ashley leaves to talk to Blight, and so I eat lunch in my room alone. I don't know what to order, so I select a random array of small plates, which arrive steaming from a hatch by my door. As it turns out, I'm not a fan of what the Capitol considers gourmet food, though I do have a taste for crab. I decide that, if I win, I'm going to order as much seafood from Four as I can afford, and gorge myself until I'm ill.

If I win.

Somehow, the possibility seems more and more nebulous with the more time that passes.

When Ashley returns an hour later, he's dressed strangely. He's wearing a dark silk button-down that seems uncomfortably low-cut, and a jacket with strange, dancing geometric patterns. I can smell some sort of perfume, and I swear there might be makeup under his eyes.

"What's all this?" I ask, sitting back on the bed and observing him. He seems tense. "I thought the interviews weren't until tomorrow?"

"They're not," he says. "Don't worry about it. Did you eat?"

I frown. I'm certainly going to worry about it, if I've been told not to. I gesture to the small plates. "Most of it was bad. You can have some of the leftovers, if you want?"

"Not hungry," he says, and sits down on one of the plush seats across from my bed. If I thought Ashley seemed Capitol before, it's nothing compared to this getup. He both seems to suit it, and also seems wildly out of place in it."Are you ready for us to talk about strategy?"

Strategy. Games. My stomach twists into knots. I shrug casually. "Sure."

"Okay," he says. "I'll start with the Cornucopia. There's not much to say about that. Don't bother."

This is the first point of contention. "But I'll starve," I say. "Or I'll freeze to death. And I need weapons."

"Don't care," Ashley says, pointedly. "Almost half of all deaths in the Games happen in the first few hours. If you get away from there, you double your odds. Food and shelter are only a priority if you live long enough to need them."

"What about skirting the perimeter?" I ask. The idea of getting in there and not having anything to show for it makes me feel slightly ill. "There's usually something out there, right?"

"Don't risk it."

"But -"

"Johanna," Ashley cuts me off with such a sharpness to his voice, I'm taken aback. "Don't. Risk. It."

I know he's right. I know he's got a point. But I don't like being wrong, and I really don't like the idea of being seen as weak, which is what the Capitol will certainly think, if I make it out with nothing to show for it. "Okay, well, did you?"

"What?"

"Did you go in there?"

There's a pause. Ashley frowns. "We're not talking about me."

"So you did?"

He stands up. His eyes are narrowed, and suddenly I'm getting a flash of the Ashley I saw at the viewing platform back on the tribute train. "Alright, Johanna. How fast are you?"

"What?"

"How fast are you? Do you know?"

I think. "I'm - I don't know exactly, but I'm - I'm fast. I'm not -"

"You're not good enough," he cuts me off. "Here's why I went in. I was the fastest in my year. Fastest out of anyone for the past three years. I broke two records at school and I was on the opposite end of the circle from most of the Career tributes. Sylvia told me to go in, because she knew that I could make it a fair way in and out again before anyone had grabbed a weapon. I don't know how fast you are. Neither do you. So I am instructing you not to go in."

I hold up my hands. I'm still annoyed, but Ashley is so intense, I know I have to secede. "Fine. I won't. Whatever. What else?"

He gives me a firm look, and then sits back down again. "I don't know what the arena will be. Hopefully there are trees. You'll have an advantage if there are. You've worked in the woods, so you know survival protocol. Only difference is, in this case, don't stay in one place. Keep moving. Stay high, if you can. Anyone trying to reach you from below will have a disadvantage. And stay entertaining for the cameras. You'll want to prove yourself quickly, but not too soon, so wait until the rest of their excitement has probably passed, and then act on whatever comes to you. Second day, I reckon."

I nod. And so, he continues on. We talk about specific strategies for different environments and what to do in different survival situations. Ashley tells me about sponsors, and what they like to see. He'll be in direct control of my sponsor gifts, and he assures me he'll be very specific about what he sends, and when.

This in particular catches my attention, if only because Ashley's win, in very large part, came from the way he used the sponsor system to manipulate other tributes. He's got a particularly sharp look in his eye when he says this, and I find myself trying to make sure he knows I understand.

It's only been a few hours - not even dinner time yet - when he stands. "That's about as much as I can give you. I need to go."

"Hold on, you need to go ?" I stand too. "Where the fuck are you going?"

"I've got commitments, Johanna," he says, plainly.

" I'm your commitment. I'm your tribute," I say. I know we've used up most of our resources - honestly, I don't even know what else we're supposed to talk about - but the idea that he could be flaking on me to go somewhere else fills me with rage. And not only that. I don't like the way he's been so sharp with me. I know he's just trying to help, but I want to feel as though we're on the same level. "Is this to do with your stupid outfit?"

"Johanna -" he starts, warning. "I'll be back this evening. If you want to pick it up then, we can -"

"So I'm just supposed to sit here? I'm going into the fucking arena in two days, and you're going to leave me alone?" I'm furious at the way my voice breaks at the end of the sentence. I'm trying not to sound as scared as I feel, but I'm coming off as pathetic.

Ashley looks at me for a moment, as if he's contemplating something. He sighs. "Fine. Fine. Twenty minutes."

"What's twenty minutes going to do?" I say. I'm getting more frustrated by the second, and if Ashley keeps being obscure, I think I might slap him.

"Would you like to see the roof?" Ashley says. That's enough to give me serious pause. The words are casual, but his tone is measured. He looks at me carefully and raises his eyebrows.

"What?"

"The roof. Would you like to see it? I think it might do you some good to get some fresh air up there. It isn't healthy to be cooped up here. I was going to wait until tomorrow, but I think you need it now."

I bite my lip, hard. Hard enough to draw blood. "I don't think that's going to do anything."

"Johanna," Ashley says. Something about his tone tells me this is serious.

"Fine. Okay. Whatever. Sure."

"Good. I'm going to page a quick call to Twelve."

"What do you -"

" Johanna ," he warns, again. I sit back down on the bed and roll my eyes, but let him do what he wants. He holds out his finger, gesturing 'one second', before stepping out of the room and calling for Ambrosia. I don't hear much - apart from her distant, 'oh, you look lovely' - because of the rush of blood in my ears. I want to reach out and hit something.

I don't like this. I don't like the way Ashley talks as if he's hiding something from me. I don't like feeling this anxious, and I hate feeling this powerless. I feel trapped in this room - (luxurious as it is) - and everything feels irritating. The sound of the air conditioning is grating, and my lip feels chapped and sore from where I bit it, and the light is too bright, and I think I can hear Caraway mumbling in his room, and -

"Come on," Ashley says, from the doorway. "I don't have long."

I stand up, and ball my hands into fists so that I don't start shaking. Thankfully, Ambrosia must have gotten the hint, because the apartment is empty as Ashley leads me to the elevator. I notice he's wearing some kind of heeled boots, because his steps make loud clunking sounds on the stone tiled floor, and while we're normally about the same height, he's just a bit taller than me now.

"What's that about?" I say, gesturing downwards.

His face twists. The elevator door opens. "Sponsor gift."

"They're ugly."

"Moving on, Johanna. What I was going to say is that the roof is almost always empty, but Twelve has direct access. I just wanted to call ahead to make sure we'd be alone."

"Who cares?" I say. "They can be up there. I don't know why I have to be."

"It's nice there. You'll see."

It's a short ride up, which we spend in silence. Ashley keeps tapping his foot nervously, and the sound rings out hollow across the elevator. There's a gush of warmth as the doors slide open, and for a moment I want to yell at him, because what I don't need right now is a reminder of the Capitol's oppressive heat, but then I get a whiff of fresh air, and I want to cry.

The roof is huge, with a small, dome shaped room in the centre that leads out into open air. On one side is a large viewing platform, with deck chairs and picnic tables, and an impressive view of the Capitol skyline. There are cars, and buildings, and in the distance, I can see a lake glistening in the afternoon sun. I want to stand for a moment against the railing and take the sights in, but Ashley seems insistent that we don't have much time, and so I let him lead me around the other side of the roof.

When I catch a glimpse of green, I start running.

A garden. They've built a garden, right here on the roof. Flowers and bushes and trees and vines and even weeds . Some of them are unfamiliar - some strange plants from the other side of Panem, or maybe even beyond - but others are exact copies of what I'd find at home. I run my hand down the spine of a tree, and feel a strange sense of comfort wash over me.

I'm lost in relief for a moment, and I've just closed my eyes when I hear the sound of music. I look up to see Ashley standing by the branch of a tree, observing a wind chime. Suddenly I notice that the garden is full of wind chimes - made of glass and wood and seashells and strange, glistening metal - swaying and singing in the wind.

"These weren't here last year," he says, curiously. "I wonder if Haymitch -"

"Thank you," I say, quickly, because I'm worried if I don't say it now, I'll feel too embarrassed to tell him later. "Thank you, Ashley. For taking me here."

"I told you," he says. "Fresh air. Does you a world of good."

I nod. "I didn't expect it to feel so clean. I always imagined the Capitol air to be smoggy."

"There aren't too many pollutants here," he says, peering into the sky. "And they have purifying systems. You should see Five. Or Six. You can barely see your hand in front of your face."

"I hate that you're always right," I say. "I hate that you knew this would make me feel better."

There's a ghost of a smile on Ashley's lips. "Don't take it personally. I'm good at people," he says. "But that's not the only reason I brought you up here."

"Why else?" I look up, expecting some other surprise to be hidden around the corner. But there's only a few more deck chairs, and the sound of ringing bells dancing in the wind.

"Look. Pretend we're having a conversation about the plants. The wind is loud, and with the chimes, they won't be able to hear us," Ashley says, and immediately bends down to point out some kind of flower I've never seen before.

My heart drops. Has something happened? I try not to let my confusion show on my face, and follow his instruction. "What? What is it?"

"I need to tell you this before you go into the Games. You need to know before, so that you have a choice when you're in the arena. It might seem unimportant to you right now, but I -" Ashley pauses for a moment, choosing his words. "It wouldn't feel right to lie to you."

"Tell me," I whisper. I suddenly feel like I'm floating in heavy water. What could he possibly have to say that he wants to hide this badly.

"It's about what happens after the Games. Look. Johanna. When you become a victor, they give you the illusion of freedom," he says. His voice is flat, and his face is expressionless, but his eyes are tense. "But it's a lie. The truth is, they own you. More than they ever did back when you lived in the districts, and maybe even more than they did while you're a tribute. As a victor, you have a certain power, and a certain influence. So you're a liability to them."

"Okay," I echo. It'd never occurred to me, but suddenly this makes sense. Of course they'd think this.

"What that means is that they need control. And they have a few ways to keep that control. They monitor you. They track your family. Your friends. And there are - most importantly - there are certain things that you need to do for them, when you're a victor."

"Like what?"

"It depends on who you are," he says. "Sometimes you have to give them intel on what's going on in your district. Sometimes you have to spy on people. Most of the time, after you win, you acquire fans in the Capitol. And these fans, they - well, they want to spend more time with you."

"Right."

"And so you're expected to meet those fans. And sometimes, you have to do things that you don't want to do. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

My blood runs cold. "I think so."

"Sometimes you don't get a choice," Ashley looks at me firmly. "It isn't fair. But it's how it is."

"But surely they can't - they can't force you," I say.

Ashley looks at me, a bit sadly. "They can."

I pause, and my eyes flit downwards, examining the rose I've unthinkingly plucked from a flower bed. "So you're saying, if I will - I'll also have to -"

"I don't know," he says. "It depends on how your Games play out. But I wanted you to know, before."

I look at him. I look at him, in his stupid Capitol outfit, with his half done-up eyes and slumped shoulders, and I understand why he needs to leave. "Thank you."

"I'll be back late tonight," he says. "And tomorrow will be busy. But we'll talk, you and I, after the interviews. I promise."

"Okay," I put down the rose. I've picked myself, and there's a sharp stab of pain running up my hand. "Do you tell all your tributes this?"

Ashley shakes his head. "No. I've never been able to before."

"So you're really on my side?" I ask. I don't know why I do. It's obvious he is. He's taken me up here, he's told me something that he could obviously get in a lot of trouble for telling me. But I need to hear it.

"Unequivocally," he says.

We stand in silence for a moment, and then he leaves.

Once he's gone, I take a moment to observe the skyline. The sun's started to set, and there's a chill that's crept in through the wind. Across the lake, the water is starting to ripple out in amber hues, catching the setting sun. My skin feels cold and clammy. How many people out there, in these buildings, have called upon victors for 'company'? I think of Ashley in some Capitol car, being driven to a cold, empty house, and expected to do - to do what ? I think of Finnick Odair from Four. He's certainly been expected to perform some sort of duty. What about Cashmere, from One, who's famed for her string of Capitol lovers? Enobaria, from Two? My mind begins to jump. Blight? Sylvia Yaw, who is at home in Seven, taking care of my father?

Looking out at the streets, at the tiny cars and trams and multicoloured figures, I think. And I think. And eventually, a conclusion comes to me, rolling over like a cloud creeping in from the horizon. This is OK. If this is how it is - (and it is how it is) - then, sure. It's horrible but it's a better fate than death, I decide. But I'm glad Ashley told me. Because all the knowledge has done for me is fuel my absolute contempt for this fucking place, and light a fire in me to ruin their plans for these Games as best I can.

I wait until the sun sets, and then go back down to my room for dinner. I don't talk to anyone, and nobody talks to me. Our floor is deathly silent. Upon my return, my room has been aired out. The bed has been done up neatly and the remainder of my lunch has been wiped away. I order a simple meal of bread, meats and cheese, and run myself a shower while I wait for it to arrive. I hate to admit it, but I have actually learnt something from Ambrosia's instructions this morning, and I feel the cleanest I've ever felt when I step out. I dress in nothing but a robe, sit cross legged on the floor in front of the window, eat my dinner, and crawl into bed.

The next morning, I'm awoken by my prep team. I don't know their names, and I've willfully decided to ignore anything they tell me about themselves, but their faces are hard to forget. There's three of them. The twins - two girls who can't be much older than I am, who have made up their skin, hair and clothing in matching holographic pink and blue - and a young man who looks to be about Ashley's age, with long, braided green hair and thin, pursed lips.

I'm instructed to shower again, and then they get to work undoing all the flaws the past few days have done. They trim my nails, tidy my eyebrows, and beat my skin with strange shaped rocks that they describe as 'sea sponges'. As they get to work on me, my mind starts to drift towards the interviews. I'm surprisingly calm as-is, and I'm almost entirely confident. Somehow, Ashley's information has had the complete opposite effect on me than it should have. I imagine he'd be glad, but I doubt he intended to do anything but warn me. Now, sitting here, being preened and plucked, there's a fire growing in my chest. I'm certain half the audience tonight will be the exact sort of people Ashley was talking about. And I'm going to put on such a show, that come Gamestime, they're going to feel stupid. I want them to be embarrassed. I want them to be upset. I want them to lose a whole lot of money by betting on the wrong tribute.

I smile to myself, and let one of the twins start exfoliating my face.

Pompey arrives sometime around mid-afternoon. The prep team has done me up completely. My hair has been braided into two rings, framing my face, and adorned with little green and white gems and pearls. The makeup on my face seems to be fairly minimal, at least compared to most other tributes I've seen across the years, though green eyeshadow smokes up from my lids and towards my temple in small puffs, like clouds, decorated with the same gems as my hair. My nails have been done in green and white, and they've added some kind of shimmery sheen to my skin, apparently to make me stand out on camera.

Pompey observes me for a second. "Exactly like a doll," he says, eventually.

"Is that a good thing?" I ask. It's a great thing for me, but - as always - I don't mention this.

"It's what the instructions were," he says, a bit glumly. I really hope Pompey gets bunged up to a higher district next year. He's practically miserable. He fishes out a black bag, which I assume holds my costume. "Do try not to ruin this one."

"I promise," I say.

I don't like that he sticks around to dress me, but I guess it can't be helped. My costume is a light thing, bunched at the top, with light, puffy sleeves that fall off my shoulders, and a hem that cuts off just above my knees. Draped over the bodice of the dress and falling past the end, ending in a delicate droop just over my heels, is a curtain of pearls, catching in the light in strange, holographic ways. It's a lovely dress, and I genuinely think for a moment that I might like it, but then I catch how low cut the front is, and how, when I bend down - like I will when I sit - I can catch an uncomfortable amount of cleavage. It's nothing I would have caught if not for Ashley's prior information, but with it, I can tell exactly who this is for.

"Thank you," I say, quickly, and excuse myself to the restroom.

Dinner will be later tonight, by virtue of the interviews, but they've laid out a sort of snack table for us to keep us going until the evening. I'm the first out - which is surprising, by any rate - and there are only a handful of Avoxes around to stare at me while I fill my plate. I'm starving, and I haven't touched any food since breakfast, so I'm up for seconds when Caraway appears.

His stylist must be some kind of miracle worker, because he looks alright. Good, even. His curly hair has been slicked back, and he's wearing a dark green suit. There are no bags under his eyes, and even more remarkably, he seems to be standing up straight.

I must look surprised, because he shrugs a little. "Tulia, um, managed to get me some medicine. For my - headaches."

Ah. So she managed to sneak him some Finch. Something that the Gamemakers will not allow in the arena. I wonder if she'll be punished. Part of me feels relieved for him, but another part of me dreads something. If Caraway is alright for the start of the Games, who's to say he couldn't kill me straight off? I don't think I could bring myself to kill him, unless it was down to the two of us, but I don't know what he thinks. Maybe he thinks I'm easy prey.

"That's good," I manage, and remind myself that he won't last long without further hits.

For a while we both sit, side by side, at the dining table, eating in silence while a line of Avoxes stare at us. I don't think I'm hungry anymore. And where are the others? Pompey, and Tulia, and Blight and Ambrosia and Ashley? Ashley told me he'd be here for the interviews.

"Johanna," Caraway says. "I wanted to tell you, I've decided to ally with Twine."

"Oh," I say, and I don't bother hiding my surprise. "When did you work that out?"

"Her mentor sent the request up. You didn't get one?"

I shake my head. Twine didn't want to ally with me? For some reason, this fills me with anger. Is she stupid? I know I've been playing down, but Caraway's obviously not in a good state either. Is it just the training scores?

"Well," Caraway says. "What I wanted to say was that you're welcome, if you'll have me. You're smarter than you let on."

You're smarter than you let on. Is he on to me? "I think I'd rather go it alone," I say. "But thanks."

Caraway nods, as if he was expecting it. "Well, the invitation's open. Even in the arena. As long as it's not down to just us, it's open."

I say nothing and finish my soup in silence, because I don't know what else to say.

Luckily, it's at this moment that the others arrive. Ambrosia is, as to be expected, dressed to the nines in some kind of leafy garb. Our stylists are, for the most part, fairly demure, though I notice that Caraway's stylist, Tulia, has shocking pink highlights in her hair. Blight is in perhaps the most boring suit imaginable, and Ashley - while an improvement from whatever yesterday was - seems uncomfortable in some sort of black one-piece jumpsuit. He's clean shaven now, and his hair is slicked back, and he just looks a bit silly.

"They're on time!" Ambrosia seems shocked. "Look at that."

Caraway and I exchange a glance, before I remember that he's my enemy, and we're whisked away towards the elevator. Ambrosia babbles nervously the whole time we wait, about how all of us have cleaned up nicely. She spends an extra amount of time talking about how much she loves Ashley's hair, and how nice it is that he's taking care of himself properly. It's a bit weird, and I think she might even be into him a little, which is even weirder, considering she's almost certainly a decade older than him, maybe more.

"For what it's worth, I don't like the new look," I whisper to him, as we step into the elevator. "You should shave less."

It's an assurance that whatever we talked about yesterday hasn't fazed me too much, and he takes it. He laughs, genuinely. I notice that Blight is staring at us, and I look away.

The elevator spills us out of the Training Centre and into the bowels of the stage, behind the City Circle. We're not the first ones there, and as we line up, ready to be paraded on stage, I catch sight of the other tributes. The pair from One are joking with one another, Cassius from Two is talking in a low voice to his mentor, and the girl from Six appears to be rehearsing lines. I catch a sight of Twine from Eight and feel anger boil up in my chest.

I'm going to have to pay close attention to the other interviews, in order to stand out. Seven is just after the middle, meaning we're easily forgettable. And not only that. I've seen enough Games to know that tributes can't resist dropping hints in their interviews about themselves. Favoured weapons, secret skills, all sorts of things. I'm going to need a database of information about my competitors, and this is the best way to get it.

Backstage, it starts to get crowded, as the rest of the tributes fill in and attendants start barking orders. From outside, a countdown starts. Five minutes.

Suddenly, my palms feel clammy. I'm not even afraid, but stage fright must be just as physiological as it is psychological.

"I've got to get to my place," Ashley says. I hadn't even noticed he was standing next to me. "You know what to do. You're good at this, Jo."

Jo. Only Lynn calls me that. It's something I'd usually hate, but from him, it doesn't drive me up the wall. "You promised we'd talk later?"

"We will. Good luck."

He leaves. The clock ticks down. Three minutes. Two minutes.

I remember exactly who will be in that audience, and my resolve strengthens.

One minute. Attendants are running around now. There's a problem with the sound system. One of them trips over the dress of the girl from Four, and it tears. There's no time to replace it. I hide a smile.

Ten seconds. I stand up straight.

The crowd starts to scream, and we file out into the sunlight.