1.8 : Ashley

City Circle glows at the heart of the Capitol like a lighthouse. Crowds swarm for miles back, moths to a flame, and there's a buzz in the air as their eyes spot the victors filing in to take our seats. We're sat near the front of the stage, on a raised platform one row behind the stylists, shuffled on in order of victory. I'm slotted between Finnick and the winner of the Sixty-Seventh Games, a burly young man called Augustus from One. Despite winning the year after me, I know almost nothing about him, apart from the fact that the Capitol loves him almost as much as they love Finnick. In any other case I might be jealous, but I find some comfort in being an acquired taste. Victors from Seven usually are.

Next to Augustus is Bluejay, also from One, who I am more familiar with. She was a peppy young thing before her Games, and ever since she's won, they've pumped her so full of mood stabilisers that she's almost always as high as a kite. I don't think she's mentoring this year - that's probably Cashmere again, and for good reason, because I don't think Bluejay's in much of a state to do anything but smile and wave. But she has been invited back, and it's probably for other reasons that best suit her talents. Sat on her other side is Ransom, who also seems to be high on some other substance, and finally, there's an empty seat at the end of the row, presumably where Annie Cresa would be sat if she were here.

I'm not sure why they'd do that, since they know she's not coming, but maybe they're trying to prove some kind of point.

I turn to Finnick, who is dressed in a nearly entirely sheer ensemble. It mercifully spares his crotch, which I'm certain means that the Capitol would describe it as 'modest'. Save some to buy some. He seems strangely relaxed, but I assume that's probably just because there's cameras on us.

"How's your boy faring?" I ask. Johanna didn't have much to say about Four, so all I really know is that Finnick's not certain about his tribute's odds.

He shrugs. "About as well as you can hope for. The interviews are blocking some of the nerves about the Games out, which is good, but he's convinced that he's not frightened."

"Of course he's frightened," I say. "Everyone's frightened. Johanna's been very vocal that she's terrified."

"Your girl?" He asks. "I noticed that she's been holding herself together since the chariots."

"She's a hard worker," I say. "Who knows how much that will help her. But she's trying her hardest."

Finnick nods, and we sit in silence for a moment as they test the sound system. Once I'm certain the cameras aren't on us, I lower my voice.

"Mags?"

Finnick nods his head. "She'll live. They think her speech will be permanently affected."

"Oh," I say. "God. I'm really sorry."

"It is what it is," he says. "She'll live. We'll teach her sign language, if we need to. She's seventy-six. She's been through worse."

"She's been through the Games."

Finnick laughs. "Yeah. Hers were the first Games with an actual arena too. Did you know that?"

"No," I frown. "I didn't. I always thought that was the Tenth. It makes sense for it to be the Tenth."

"I guess," Finnick says. "You know, come to think of it, I know nothing about the Tenth Games."

I realise that he's right. I know a lot about the Games, both from what they teach at school, and from my own experiences as a victor, but I don't think I've heard anything about the Tenth. The victor, whoever they were, certainly didn't come from Seven. They must be long dead. That's not a surprise, because most of the early winners were hardly treated as well as we are, and many didn't receive any medical attention post victory. I'm pretty sure that Mags might just be the oldest living victor.

But apart from the victor of the Tenth, I do know things about most of the other earlier winners. Whoever they are, they've been wiped from history. I'm just about to ask Finnick why he thinks that might be, but suddenly the crowd has started to cheer so loud I can't hear my own thoughts, and so I know that the interviews have started.

One by one, the tributes enter the stage and take their seats. There's the usual gasps and coos from the crowd as they admire the stylists handiwork, and cameras spin around to catch the faces behind the art. There's a brief pan to a section of the crowd reserved for notable fashion designers, and on the screen I look out for my old stylist, Andromache. She's nowhere to be seen. I haven't spoken to her since she retired after the Sixty-Seventh Games to start her own designer mentorship scheme. I should probably reach out. She wasn't a half bad person.

Johanna enters about halfway through, and I'm glad to see that she's got her character down to an art. She tries an awkward smile, but mostly she seems to be focusing on getting to her seat without issue. For the first time in my life, I'm grateful for Pompey's lack of originality. He's stellar at executing instructions, which is exactly what's happened here, and Johanna looks just as angelic and small as she should. At any rate, it's nothing like what she actually looks like, but that just makes it even better.

There's barely room to breathe, because once the tributes are in place, Caesar bounces onto the stage. He's done up in marigold yellow this year, and the colour doesn't look half-bad on him, though he does look a bit like a dressed-up buttercup. He warms up the crowd with some jokes, riffing off back and forth some of the stylists in the audience, and he even does an extended bit based on this year's new Head Gamemaker, Seneca Crane. This particularly gets some laughs from the crowd, and I imagine that the Capitol is desperate to see what he brings to the table, especially because of the disgraceful past two years of Games.

But Caesar is good at his job, and he knows why he's here, so it doesn't take him long to start the interviews rolling. I've always liked Caesar. He's exactly what both the Games and the tributes need - someone to toe the line between entertainment and sincerity. He's been hosting for about forty years, but he still manages to keep things new and entertaining, and he's brilliant at asking the exact sort of questions needed to create a storyline for the arena. I especially respect him for that, because this, outside of everything, is the strongest asset a tribute can have in the Games.

Love from One is up first, and it's very obvious she's going for a sort of preppy psychopath angle. It's almost reminiscent of Bluejay, and I find myself wondering if Love knows what happened to her after the Games. There's something about her angle that isn't entirely insincere, though, and I find myself eying her carefully as she talks. She admits that her strength is with a bow and arrow - which isn't terrible news, so long as Johanna's smart enough to not let her get any range - but mostly talks and talks and talks about how excited she is to get her blood pumping.

The next two Career tributes are box-standard. Confident, a bit showboaty, with just enough hooks to leave the audience interested, but probably having given a bit too much away. The three minutes allocated for the girl tribute from Two come and go, and I realise that I'm already getting bored. How does Caesar do this every year?

There's a shift in energy from the crowd as Cassius Cybele from Two is called up. He's cleaned up very nicely, in a deep, forest green suit. His stylist has decided to weave thin strips of gold around his dark locs, and it's accented nicely with the gold liner under his eyes. I can see why he's the favourite.

"Cassius," Caesar says. "Are you aware of the excitement surrounding your appearance in these Games?"

"Yeah," Cassius says. His tone is low and measured, and I find myself paying closer attention than I usually would. "I'm aware. I don't want to sound egotistical, but it didn't come as too much of a surprise."

"Well, of course it didn't! Who wouldn't expect such a warm welcome with such a beloved victor as an aunt!" Caesar says, and the camera pans over to Septima, who gives a good-natured wave. "Tell me, Cassius, do you think that victory runs in the family?"

"Probably not, no," Cassius replies. His words are crisp and sharp, and it's crazy how much of a shake-up in interview tropes can make a difference. A Career tribute is supposed to showboat, and if anything, Cassius is underselling. He seems almost clinical. Sharp. "I'm not going to win because Septima did. That would discredit her win, and my potential one. I'm going to win because I deserve it."

"Well said," Caesar nods to the audience approvingly. "Very well said. Don't you think, ladies and gentlemen?"

We zoom by the rest of the interviews. Three is unremarkable. Four is just as Finnick described it - the boy is entertaining and charming, but it's clear he doesn't have the wherewithal to pull through. The girl has a bit more to her, it seems, but not in the way of social skills. The pair from Five talk about their alliance. Both from Six seem dull.

And then Johanna is stepping up to the front of the stage. I'm relieved as I sense the energy from the crowd around me shift. There's soft gasps at the sight of her delicate costume, and I could be mistaken, but there might even be an air of reverence. Whether it's from pity, she's captured their attention. She sits down, and I'm stuck with a feeling of certainty that this interview will be played again and again in the coming weeks.

"Johanna," Caesar says. There's a flash of shock on her face, and I know she's just been hit with a view of the crowd. "Goodness, what a lovely outfit."

"Thank you so much," she says, politely. Watching her now, I think she's brilliant. I'm almost convinced of her innocence myself. "It's so soft. I promised Pompey I wouldn't ruin this one."

That gets a laugh, particularly from Caesar. The camera pans, and Pompey gives a wobbly, embarrassed smile.

"Ah, the chariots,"Caesar laughs. "I'm glad you brought that up, because I wasn't sure how to."

"It smelt really bad," she admits. "I felt terrible."

"Well, you're all cleaned up now, and looking absolutely whimsical. Tell me - have you found your feet yet, Johanna?"

"Yes," she says. "I think so. We don't have much excuse to wear heels in District Seven, so it took me a while, but I think I've mastered them."

"You're a natural. And, have you mastered much else this week, Johanna?" Caesar asks.

She thinks for a minute. "I'm not quite sure," she decides. "I think I've learnt all I can. I'm not certain it will be enough. But I've tried very hard. And I'll keep trying."

Ah. So that's the avenue she's chosen to go down. I couldn't have picked a better one myself. Every tribute so far, whether intentionally or not, has boasted some sort of ability to try to prove themselves to the audience. Johanna is the first tribute that has - in the audience's eyes, at least - been entirely honest about her skillset. Whether it helps or not, it will certainly make her stand out. She will not be forgettable.

"Well, I certainly wouldn't discount that," Caesar says. "Hard work and drive is pivotal to winning these games."

"I guess," she says.

"Speaking of work, what do you do back home, Johanna?"

"I take jobs at the paper mill. My mother died from the pox when I was twelve, and so it's just me and my father. He gets quite ill, sometimes. And it's like I said - I'm not sure I always do the best for him, but I certainly do try."

There's a ripple of pity that runs through the crowd. The paper mill story is fabricated, obviously, but I imagine that the rest must have an ounce of truth to it. I don't think Johanna has ever mentioned her family before.

"Are you close to your father?"

"Yes," she says. "I love him. Him and my friend, Lynn. They're my family."

There. So she mustn't be lying, because I know Lynn, and I remember seeing her lining up to say goodbye to the tributes. Of course, there's definitely a large amount of exaggeration, because the pair are as polar as can be, and I can't imagine Johanna ever describing anyone as her family - even her own father - but the truth rings out in the story. This line seems to have the desired impact on the audience, and I think some rich old women are about to eat this up.

For the rest of the interview, Johanna shines in her role. She's sweet, demure, but not a wallflower. She talks more about her outfit, about District Seven, and finally - to my surprise - about me.

"And Ashley's been such help," she says. "I don't think I could do it without him. I always thought, back in Seven, he was a bit strange. I didn't like him very much. But he's a very good man. And a very good mentor."

I know I'm on the screen right now, but I don't look anywhere but the stage. I wonder how much of this is true. I think some of it might be. I give her a look that might say 'thank you', but I hope she interprets as 'well done'.

I think she knows she's done well, though, because the crowd is noticeably kinder to her when they applaud, and she returns to her seat.

The rest of the interviews run by. Caraway is more solid than I've seen him in days, and if it wasn't for my conversations with Blight, I'd assume that the Gamemakers agreed to maintain a dose of finch for him. I don't know what he's gotten his hands on, or who gave it to him, but I decide not to ask around, for fear of drawing attention to it. He's witty with Caesar, though it's obvious it's forced, and all-in-all, exhibits a fairly middling - though not disastrous - interview.

The girl from Eight tries to be as peppy as Love, but fails. Nine and Ten are never great in conversation, and this is no exception. The girl from Eleven sings a song in a low, melodic voice, but the crowd is growing tired. Twelve looks like they've given up.

And then we're done. There's a sombre atmosphere that falls over the mentors' seats as Caesar reminds us that the Games start tomorrow, and I can't imagine what the tributes must be feeling. Or, actually, I can. I remember exactly how it felt. I bid goodbye to my neighbours, and rush backstage to find Johanna.

"Spot on," I say, under my breath, once I've caught her. She's leaning against a wall, paper cup of water in one hand, eyes faraway. "You must be hungry."

"Starving," she says, and then she frowns. Her eyes focus on something behind my shoulder, and as I turn, I see the boy from Two - Cassius - looking at us. He averts his gaze at my glance, and goes up to his district partner, who's already in conversation with the pair from Four.

"What was that about?" I ask.

"I'm not sure," Johanna says. "He's been looking at me like that every so often."

"Well, avoid him as best as possible," I said. "Two's salivating for a win. I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him."

"Probably not far," Johanna says, under her breath. I let out a half-laugh, half-scoff. At the very least, she's still got her sense of humour. "Get me out of here."

We line up to take the elevator back to the Seventh floor. By the time we've arrived, Caraway, Blight and Ambrosia are all already there. Dinner's been set out in our absence, and the smell is intoxicating. They always make sure to prepare a feast before the Games. I suppose it is, in its own way, a nice gesture, though it always reminds me of old stories - evil witches fattening up children before eating them, enchantresses luring men in with promises of food and comfort, only to turn them into pigs. There's almost surely intentional symbolism here, I'm just not sure what.

The stylists arrive late, presumably caught up in the crowd of admirers. In the meantime, Ambrosia talks all about her individual thoughts on the tributes, running through them one by one like they're numbers on an itemised list. Thankfully, she only gets to Nine before we sit down to eat.

Dinner is half in silence. There's a cloud that's slowly settling over the room. I can tell Johanna and Caraway are slowly realising that this might be their last meal in the Capitol, and potentially their last meal at all. Blight's got a strange look on his face too, and his eyes are hard and distant. The day we have all been trying to put out of our minds is fast approaching, and with it is a feeling of helplessness. The meal slowly starts to tick by, like the hands of a clock. Starter. Second starter. Entree. Palate cleanser. Dessert.

We all sit - all of us, even Ambrosia and the stylists - for a bit longer than we need to before standing up.

Now is time to bid one another goodbye. The tributes will see their stylists tomorrow morning, but we won't need either of them around anymore, not unless either Johanna or Caraway wins, and so I wave them off first. Then there's Ambrosia, who is welcome to hang around and aid us, but will probably make herself scarce once the Games start. Somehow, I find myself in front of Caraway.

"I don't know how much this will mean to you," I say. "But good luck."

"Thanks," he nods. "You're alright. And thank you, for being so kind to Johanna."

This surprises me, but I take it. Johanna seems to be waiting to speak to Caraway, and so I give a nod to Blight. He and I begin to walk back to our rooms.

"I promised I'd talk to Johanna," I say. "She wants me to wait up with her until she falls asleep, I think."

I think some sort of look crosses his face, but I'm not sure what. "Make sure to get some sleep too. You'll need it."

"I know," I say. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow."

Neither of us mentions the obvious, that neither of us will sleep well tonight. Nobody will. There's a special form of torture that comes with being a victor, which involves reliving our own Games every year in the most vivid ways. I expect that, if we do sleep, our dreams for the next week will be haunted.

Blight must have already said his goodbyes to Caraway, because he climbs up the stairs to the mentor's floor. I slip quietly into Johanna's room.

It takes her longer than I expect to appear. Her face is exhausted, and I can tell that the adrenaline of the day has worn her out. She must have started undoing her braids on the way back to her room, because her hair is tousled and tangled.

"I almost went up to your room," she says. "Does anyone know you're here?"

"Blight. But he thinks -" I pause. "- actually, I don't know what he thinks. Doesn't matter, either way. Were you chatting to Caraway?"

"He wants me to join his alliance with Twine," she says, sitting down on the bed and yanking off her shoes.

"And are you going to?"

"I don't know," Johanna shrugs. "I could. But Twine didn't want me. And I wouldn't be able to drop my act without making them mistrust me. I don't think I could focus on the arena and keep pretending."

"There you go," I say. "Looks like you've answered your own question"

She stands up and rips off her pearl bodice. She's just about to start undressing properly when I jump and avert my gaze.

"Jesus! There's a bathroom for a reason, Johanna."

"What?" She says. "You're a prude. I didn't think a victor would be scared of a bit of nudity."

"Not when you're seventeen! " I say. Even though she's not actually removed the dress, I'm staring directly into my lap.

"I'll be eighteen in a few days," she says. At this, I look up again. She's got a sudden faraway look in her eyes, and I realise she's telling the truth. "It's my birthday on the nineteenth."

"God," I say. "I'm sorry."

She laughs, dryly. "I wouldn't have been doing much anyways. I'll get in the shower."

She's just started to march towards the bathroom when I speak up.

"Johanna."

She pauses.

"It's okay if you're scared," I say.

She shrugs. "Sure."

"I'm serious."

"It feels dumb," she admits, after a moment. "It feels like I shouldn't be."

"You'd be dumb if you weren't scared," I say. "Scared keeps you alive."

"If you say so, Ashley," she says. She sounds exhausted. But there's something in the tone of her voice that tells me she believes me. She closes the door, and after a moment, I hear the shower running.

Suddenly, it hits me too that tomorrow, Johanna will be going into the arena. Tomorrow, Johanna might be dead. And it also hits me that I have never - not once - felt this way about anyone entering the Games before. Not any of my previous tributes, nor anyone before. It stabs at me, because it's not only that I want her to live, and it's not that I think she could live, but it's the fact that I don't want her to die.

I like Johanna. I like her a lot, and not even as a mentor. As a friend. I've known that, of course, deep down. But it's only now that it hits me what that means.

I busy myself with tidying her room as she showers. I remake her bed and scoop up the bodice of pearls neatly. I close the curtains, and drown out the noise of the parties down below. And I wait.

"It's like having my own personal maid," she jokes, when she steps out. Her hair is wet and there are still specks of green over her eyes, but she looks fresh. She looks tired.

"Busying myself," I say.

"You can get changed too, if you want," Johanna says, and goes straight to her bed. She slides under the covers and curls up her legs next to her. It's surprisingly intimate. I always thought she was more closed off than this.

I realise she's right, and I'm still in my clothes from the interviews. I shake my head. "I'll get changed later. Do you think you'll be able to sleep?"

"I don't know," she admits. "I should sleep. The problem is getting to sleep. I don't dream, though, so there's one less thing to worry about."

"You don't dream," I echo. "That'll come in handy."

"Mm," she says. "Do you?"

"Sometimes," I come to sit next to her on the bed. Maybe I'm too close, but it feels like the right thing to do. "It comes and goes. I'm lucky, though. I'm good at compartmentalising."

"I noticed," Johanna says. She scoots over to give me room. "I used to think you were really weird for that. I mean, I didn't actually know you, but it always seemed like you dealt with your Games really well. It gave me the impression that you were, like -"

"A psychopath?" I give a wry smile. "No. But I don't know why I'm good at that. I don't know why it's easier for me to box that away than it is for other people."

"Survival tactic, I guess," Johanna says.

"Maybe. I'm not sure. I think I've always been like that. I like to think of things as projects," I say. "It's easier that way. When I got reaped, the idea of winning the Hunger Games felt impossible. But the idea of making it out of the arena, of it being some sort of project, where there was a goal that I could complete, that felt more manageable. Something to put my everything into, you know?"

Johanna frowns. "I guess that makes sense."

"I don't know. Everything else that came with it - it wasn't quite part of the project, but it made it easier to detach myself from it. It's just a job," I say. I don't know why I'm telling her this. It's only that I've started, and now I can't stop. "It's tiring, though. I've got to constantly keep going with new projects. If I stop, I don't know. Maybe I'll fall apart."

"What about me, then?" Johanna asks. "Am I a project?"

"No," I say. "Or, maybe. But not quite. You're different."

'Right," she says.

We're silent, for a moment. The Tribute Centre is eerily quiet, and there's only the sound of the air conditioning and the very faint noises of cars outside that faintly run past our ears. It might be five minutes we sit here, it might be ten, or it might be longer. It doesn't matter. Eventually, Johanna speaks up again.

"What's it like, after?"

I know she doesn't mean what I told her yesterday. She's smart enough to know that there are people listening. And while they won't divulge a strategy, they'll certainly find a way to punish us if we speak about information that I should never have mentioned.

"It's strange," I say. "You're different. You don't even know what's different. You just are. And sometimes, people -" I hesitate. " - sometimes, people back home see you differently."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I had a lot of friends, back home, before. It's mostly just my sister, Ollie, now."

"Sister?"

"Older. Two years," I say. "She's a pain in my ass."

"I've just got my dad," Johanna says. "And Lynn."

"I direct Lynn," I say.

"I know," Johanna replies, and then rolls her eyes. "She used to talk about you all the time. Drove me insane."

I laugh. "Sounds like Lynn."

"Is she any good?" Johanna asks.

"Not really," I say, honestly. This makes her laugh, a real, genuine laugh. It's nice.

"I'm not surprised," Johanna says. "I always figured."

We sit in silence for a while longer.

I don't know why, but I think this might have been a bad idea. This is too close - this is too friendly. If she dies, this might even become grief. And sure, I'd wager some attachment is needed to give me the drive to keep her alive, I think this might have gone too far. I think about Finnick last year; the desperate look in his eyes, the lengths he went to keep Annie afloat. It's not that far - not in the slightest - but even if I tried, I'm not sure how I could have detached myself. I really like Johanna. I really, really like Johanna.

"Look," I say, because I need to say it. "This might be unfair of me to say. But I think if you died, I wouldn't be able to compartmentalise that."

She looks at me. "Really?"

"Yeah," I say. "I don't know. You're my tribute. It's my job to keep you alive. But I also like you, Johanna. And I think we'd probably be good friends, if you made it out of this."

She takes this for a moment. "No. I think I needed to hear that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," she says. "It's easier that way. I'm not fighting to get out for myself. I'm fighting to get out for my dad, and for Lynn, and for you."

I can't help but smile. "You're getting it."

She looks exhausted, all at once. "You said yesterday that you wanted to talk to me tonight. What about?"

"I think I've said it all, Johanna," I say.

We wait, again.

"You can go, if you like," she says. "I'll be okay."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," she says. "I need to sleep. And, no offence, but I won't be able to, with you sitting there."

"Fair enough," I stand. "I won't see you tomorrow morning."

"I know," she echoes. "But it's not goodbye."

She's not entirely assured. I know that. She knows I'm not, either. But still, we pretend. "No, it's not."

I'm nearly at the door, when she calls out. "Ashley?"

"Yeah?"

"I meant what I said. At the interviews. You're a good person."

That hurts.

I turn around.

"Thank you, Johanna."

"See you soon," she says, firmly.

"See you soon," I say, and I close the door.

Sleep comes surprisingly easily, but my dreams are swampy. I'm back in the arena - my arena. I stand on the shore of a beach. The shore is black - volcanic, which was a hint, though I didn't know it at the time - and the wind is sharp, whipping sea water and flecks of dark sand into my face. I'm staring out at the horizon, at the ocean that goes on and on and on forever, and I'm wondering when it ends, or if it ends. I wonder, if I swim far enough, will I escape the arena forever?

I should get away from the beach. I'm too exposed, and there are ten of us left.

In my dream, events start to blur into one. I climb up rough cliffs, where the grass grows as tall as my mid-waist. I've got a stick to ward off snakes, and a heavy stone in the other. Larkspur from Eleven has already died at this point in my dream - my brief ally for a day and a half - though I was never at the cliffs around this side of the arena alone. I catch the familiar flash of red and white that predated her death, and I bring the rock down, hard.

It's when Sylvia sends me a parachute for the gash I received after avoiding the boy from Ten that the idea comes, in the very simple, plain, and ordinary way that all horrible ideas do.

Three at the Careers camp. I find the boy from Ten again, once I have the axe, but he's half dead from starvation and a festering wound, anyways, so it doesn't feel like murder. Viola, from Two, on the shore.

I'm not sure what I dream about, after that.

My alarm wakes me at seven. The Games Centre is open in half an hour, and so I waste no time getting dressed. Walking downstairs, the apartment is already filled with the haunting emptiness that follows the absence of tributes. Johanna and Caraway are already gone.

Blight is already at the dining table. There are no more elaborate spreads, and no more Avoxes. Any idea of presentation is gone. I butter a slice of toast, but I feel too sick to eat. Neither of us talk.

The ride down to the Click is tense. We're both locked in our own heads, and all I can think about is Johanna, on a hovercraft somewhere. I have no clue how far away the arena will be. The Games start at ten, which means she'll be in the stockyard at nine. If they picked her up at six - which they presumably did, as they usually do, unless an arena is particularly far away - and they spent about an hour loading the tributes onto the hovercraft, that's about a two hour flight. She could be anywhere in Panem - or maybe even a bit beyond. It really doesn't tell me much, apart from the fact that the arena likely isn't a historic landmark. The Gamemakers can build any type of arena anywhere.

The Click is abuzz when we arrive. There's the usual crowd of inner-direct Career mentors, all crowded around one table. There's movement, and energy, but no excitement. Even they are nervous. Septima looks sick. Most mentors stick to their district pairs - often taking seats across from one another - but one of the male victors from Eight, (Angus, maybe?) and Haymitch sit together, probably on account of a predetermined alliance. Blight nods over to Cecelia.

"I should sit with her," he says. "Caraway and Twine confirmed their alliance last night."

"Alright," I say, and start to walk over to one of the solo desks.

Blight stops me. "Come sit near us. Johanna's not technically in the alliance, but they won't care."

I hesitate for a moment. But it's never good to be alone on a day like this. "Alright."

We sit down, and log in. I slip my glasses on - the ones that make sure only I can see my screen - and the monitors buzz to life almost immediately. There's only one screen that's live, which is Johanna's vitals. I can see now that she's doing alright. Elevated heart rate, but that's to be expected. The other two screens - the monitor of the live Games feed, which the Gamemakers control, and a second feed monitoring Johanna exclusively - are dark. On the big screen in the centre of the room, there's a large countdown. Two and a half hours to go.

Some mentors are on the phone with sponsors. Some are furiously refreshing, waiting for the catalogue of sponsor items to drop, but it's pointless. They only release it an hour before the Games.

I minimise Johanna's vital tracker - not much point for that now - and check the Link for any new sponsor deals. I'm happy to see there's a handful more since the interviews. I might have enough to get her some water, or maybe even a blanket, if I'm careful.

"Any theories on the arena?" Blight asks Cecelia, as she sets up.

She shakes her head. "Urban, I hope, but that's probably a fool's dream. You're lucky that trees are so easy to come by."

"You'd think we'd have more victors," Blight says. "Ashley and I are the last two winners, and neither of us had forests in our arenas."

"I suppose that's true," Cecelia says. "Maybe you should hope for no trees, then."

"I hope whatever it is, it's not a complete death trap," says Blight. "Though that's probably a fool's dream too."

"Here's hoping," Cecelia says.

I close the Link, and open Johanna's vitals again. Her heart has started to settle. Her breathing is regular. She's in control.

Here's hoping.