Part Two

The Watcher

" The public will stand, nay even enjoy,

a good deal of poetry. "


2.1 : Johanna

I close my eyes as the water washes over me.

They call it the stockyards for a reason. I'm meat, washed and readied for the slaughter. I run my hands over my skin, and I wonder if this is the last time I'll ever shower. I try to savour it. I've always liked to be clean, and right now I want nothing more than to rinse the very last traces of the Capitol from my body forever. The water is tepid. Not too hot, not too cold. Depending on the arena, this might be the warmest I'll be for some time. Or maybe it might be the coldest.

I keep my eyes down on the drain, and try to keep focusing on the water lapping at my feet.

There's a blinking red light over the door that tells me how long I have to shower. One minute to go. There's no sunlight down here. There's nothing but cramped, grey ceilings and the sound of piping. I don't know where I am. The windows to the hovercraft that I was flown in on darkened as we approached the arena, and time seemed to stretch out indefinitely. I could be an hour out, or I could be on the other side of the continent.

I step out of the shower and get dressed into my underclothes. Pompey is waiting outside with my arena uniform in a crisp brown packet. Even he doesn't know what will be inside. As I change, I tug at the skin on my forearm, around where they inserted the tracker. There's still the occasional shooting pains that run down my arm and through the ends of my fingers. I try to ignore it, but nobody prepared me for this. I didn't know it would hurt so much.

I brush my teeth, and I look at myself in the mirror. I look tired. I slept last night, but lightly. A lack of dreams didn't do much to quell the twisting knot of nerves in my stomach when I woke, and I think if I ate anything, I'd be sick. At the very least, I still look like myself. I hold my own gaze for a moment. Maybe it's the last time I'll see it.

I tell myself not to think like this.

Out in the other room, Pompey is sitting on a bench. There aren't any plush velvet seats anymore. Any pretence of luxury is gone. Next to him is my uniform. He stands up.

"I don't think it will be very warm in there," he says.

A flood of relief washes through me. Seven is up north, so we're suited to a colder climate. The heat never does us any good.

Pompey holds out the uniform, and I slowly start to dress. Dark trousers, long, fleece shirt over a thinner undershirt. Thick-soled boots, suited for rocky terrain. A dark, fur-capped jacket.

It's obvious Pompey doesn't know what to say, and I don't really want to talk, so we don't. We sit in silence as the red light slowly blinks down the time left. I drink some water. I hope I don't piss myself. That happened to a boy, a couple years ago, on the platforms. He died quickly, and all that the Capitol did was make fun of him.

I really, really hope that if I die, it's not embarrassing.

There are two minutes to go. I close my eyes and try to quiet the pounding in my chest. My heart has never beat this fast before. I think it might be trying to rip its way out of me. Everything seems like it's running in slow motion. I can feel the blood thudding through my veins, and every inch of my skin is alive with electricity.

Pompey doesn't tell me to, but I stand up on time.

"You go up the chute," he says, pointing over to the metal tube on the other side of the room. One side is open, but I can see the metal that will close me in. "But you can't step off the platform until the time is up."

"I know," I say. I want to roll my eyes, and I might, if I wasn't so terrified. It's Games rule number one. I'm not stupid.

"So, don't fall," Pompey tells me. I don't think he's intending to be cruel. He might even be trying to help. He's so awkward, it comes across cruel anyways. "And - do try to do your best."

I shrug. I don't think I can really bother to pretend. "I'll try."

"Good luck," he says, flatly, as I step into the chute. There's thirty seconds left now. A cool, female voice over the speaker tells me to prepare for launch.

"Sure," I say, and then, just because I don't want those to be my last words, I say: "Thank you."

He watches me, as the walls close in and the platform starts to rise.

I'm not sure why my hands go to my pockets. I think I'm just looking for something to do, But they do, and, on my left side, my fingers brush over something small and smooth.

My amber.

I had forgotten - completely forgotten - that it had been put in as my token. It must have come in with the uniform when the Gamemakers gave the all clear. I close my eyes and trace it with the palm of my thumb, feeling the lines and the ridges, but I don't take it out. It's too dark in here to look properly, and I can see it perfectly in my mind, anyways. I just hold it. And breathe.

For some reason, it's enough to make something click. I'm not sure what. My heart is still beating furiously, and blood still rushes through my ears, but there's a strange sort of calm that fills me all at once. I'm isolated here, in the darkness, as I rise. Finally, I feel as though I can think.

And so, I think.

I think about my father, and how much I miss him, and how much I have missed him, ever since I was twelve. I think about my mother, and for the first time, I think about her death as something that she must have experienced too. I think about Lynn, and I hope that, even if I die, she has a good life. I think about Ashley, and how I'd really like for us to be neighbours.

There's sunlight peeking through the top of the tube. I can feel the air now - fresh, cold. The sound of water. The smell of stone, and mud, and pine. Pine. I breathe in, deeply. I'll rise through the top, any second now. I tilt my head up, so my eyes can adjust to the brightness.

Then, everything around me explodes open wide, and I am in the arena.

"Ladies and Gentlemen. Let the Seventy-First Annual Hunger Games begin!"

Sixty

seconds.

My head whips around, taking in my surroundings. The cornucopia sits in the centre of an island. About ten feet behind me is the shoreline, and beyond it, dark green water. It will be cold. We're situated in the middle of a lake. Across the shore, on the other side of the water - a 150 metre swim, maybe - ringing around the arena in the shape of a circle is a rough, stony beach. To my left and behind me, climbing up in elevation, is a forest. From where I stand, I can see at first pine and fir trees, making way to hemlock the higher up my eyes go, until there's a scattering of what must be whitebark pine at the timberline. Circling all the way around about three quarters of the arena is a ring of peaks, like small mountains, bearing down on the cornucopia. To the other side, on my right, on the shoreline, is sparse, rockier terrain in strange, brownish reddish hues. I'm certain these will be littered with cave systems. A river runs from the mouth of the lake down towards this side of the arena, twisting around behind foreign moss-covered rocks.

Fifty seconds.

The island we're on isn't small, and I can tell it will be a run to make it to even the first few bags, let alone the centre of the cornucopia. I can barely make out what the weapons at the heart of the horn are. Knives, surely. I think I can discern a spear, and maybe a sword, glistening in the cold light of the sun. It occurs to me that there might even be an axe somewhere. If there is, I can't make it out.

I can't make it there, either.

Forty seconds.

I don't see Caraway. He must be on the other side of the cornucopia. I am next to the boy from Six and the girl from Three. Three tributes down to my right - the closest career - is the girl from One. She's poised to run. In her interview, she said she prefers ranged weapons, and so at the very least, proximity won't put me in any more danger than anyone else. This is good. I'm lucky.

Twine is about a quarter of the way around the circle. She's whipping her head back and forth in panic, presumably looking for Caraway. The allied pair of Hatch from Eight and the girl from Twelve are next to one another.

Thirty seconds.

There are two thin strips of land that connect the island with the mainland. They're both about six feet wide, a quarter of the way across the circle from me, opposite one another, one towards the rocklands, the other towards the woods. This is the only way off the island.

My heart sinks. Anyone running down either strip is a perfect target. We'll all spill out onto the same patch of land. Nobody can scatter. It's a trap.

Twenty seconds.

But I could swim it, maybe.

It's only about two hundred metres, and I know how to swim. There are plenty of rivers in Seven, and we have training drills every year on what to do if you fall into one. I know how to swim against a current, and I have experience in handling very cold water, which I'm not sure even the tributes from District Four have. This water looks very, very cold. I could make it, and anyone would be hard pressed to catch me if I dove underwater.

But what if there's something inside the lake?

I consider it for a second - honestly, a second is all I have - but I conclude that Gamemakers wouldn't kill anyone off so soon. Maybe they'll lull us into a false sense of security by having the lake appear safe during the bloodbath, and then releasing something into it later.

Swimming sounds like it could be my best shot.

Sounds

like.

Fifteen seconds.

The thing is, though, the thing is that there's a bag, and it's really not that far in at all. Most of the other tributes won't know how to swim. I could go for it. Ashley told me not to,

but I could.

Still, a bag would weigh me down in the water, and it's not a short swim. Four minutes to the shore, probably, and I know that the biggest risk of drowning is being weighed down. Suddenly, the concept of my jacket worries me. It's fur-lined, and fur gets waterlogged quickly. I don't want to risk drowning on the chance that I could get out of here easier.

Ten se-con-ds.

But.

But if I run for the strip of land, I'll have to cut through the circle, and I might as well pick up a bag if I'm going in.

I look to the woods.

If I do cut through to my left, towards the land strip, I'll be running between both tributes from Four. My right side has the girl from One, but I'm not going to the rocky side - no chance in hell, even if there is a certain water source.

If there's trees, there's water up there too.

Five seconds.

Swim. Run.

Swim.

Run.

If I swim, I could freeze to death. Wet kills faster than cold does.

If I run, I double my chances of being attacked.

If I swim, I'll have nothing to show for it.

If I run, I might just die with a bag in hand.

Food and shelter only matters so long as you're alive to need it.

Three seconds.

I look towards the trees.

Two

seconds.

I pull my coat off.

The gong sounds.

I dive for the water.

I certainly didn't underestimate how cold it would be. It sends a shock through my system, and on instinct, I gasp as I submerge. Freezing water fills my lungs, and I struggle for air, limbs tangling around themselves, clothes heavy. I cough and splutter as I break the surface, heaving for air, but I don't dare to stop swimming for a second. I might hear what might be the sound of another tribute diving into the lake, but I can't be sure.

By now, some of the faster tributes might have reached the horn. I'll be safe from the ones with close-ranged weapons, or those that don't have anything to use except for their hands, but I'm still close enough to the shore of the island that a well aimed shot with an arrow or even a throwing knife could do some serious harm. I pull myself forwards, and dive deeper under the water. It won't be hard to spot me - I'm kicking and flailing so much I must be alerting everyone to my location - but at the very least, the further down I go, the harder it will be to hurt me.

I can barely see anything. The lake is murky green, and it seems to go down forever. But, at the very least, if I can't see, it means the others might not see me well either. The water is fresh, I note, which means it's probably a drinking source - though, by the taste of it, I wouldn't risk it without purification.

What frightens me is the fact that I have no idea what's in here. I get the sinking feeling that there might even be something below me. Some mutt, or curiosity of some kind, observing me before it swims up to toss me about like a ragdoll in the water. But that's stupid - I remind myself - because the Gamemakers would never take away from the thrill of watching children kill other children during the start of the Games. My priority is whoever is back at the cornucopia, and getting far, far away from them.

I've been swimming for about two minutes when I start getting really tired. My clothes are starting to make me sink, and the light of the surface seems to be dwindling further and further away. The problem isn't so much the trousers or shirt, which are form-fitted and water repellent (so the Gamemakers must have had some idea that a few of us might swim for it). It's the coat and my boots that are weighing me down. There's a brief moment where I consider losing the coat. I can't make it without shoes, and honestly, I probably wouldn't be able to get them off if I tried, but maybe with enough sponsors, Ashley could get me a replacement for the coat. It's only that - I suddenly remember - he didn't seem particularly comforted by the amount of money we had. Our game was always to get sponsors later, not earlier.

I steel myself, and push forwards.

I only break the surface when I absolutely need to. When I do, I can see that the shoreline is only a few feet away. I've swum at a slight diagonal, meaning that I can make for the woods quickly without being intercepted if I need to. Only a few tributes have made it off the island so far. I can't see what's happening on the strip of land leading to the other side of the arena, but to my left, there are at least three bodies collapsed on the ground. I tread water, turning around to face the cornucopia, but nobody's spotted me - or if they have, I'm not deemed a worthy enough target. The boy from One is trying to fend off the alliance from Eight and Twelve - the girl, a scrappy young thing, has somehow armed herself - and his allies are too busy picking off strays or guarding the supplies to be much help.

I'm about to turn around and - satisfied that I'm not a target for now - make it to the shore, when I notice a commotion to my left. Some boy - the boy from Three, or Five, or Nine, I don't even know - is screaming out in pain. He's been running down the strip of land leading towards the forest, holding a bag, which he must have gotten at the Cornucopia, in front of him, bundled in his arms. He's been slashed in the back of the leg, and I can see the trail of blood leading all the way down towards the island. It's thick and dark, and it looks a bit like tree sap. He's just reached the shoreline when he falls, stumbling over the rocky shore. The bag goes flying and there's an unpleasant crunch sound as his body hits the floor, but he's still alive. He'll stay alive for a while. He might bleed out from the wound, but not before someone else finishes the job, I'd wager. He tries to stand up, but he must have done something to his ankle in the fall, because he's gasping in pain and he can't quite get to his feet, and then suddenly he's openly sobbing, and screaming, and clasping his hands in the gash behind his knee, soaking his hands in blood.

My eyes trail on the bag, which has skidded a few feet away, to the right, closer to me.

I'm not even guilty about the idea.

I swim, faster now, and once I'm close enough, I pull myself out of the water with all my strength. There's no slant in the shoreline so that I can stand out of the water, there's just the shore, and then a sharp, steep drop downwards. The air is frigid as I rise, but there's no wind, and it's not as cold as the water, so I can bear it for now. I run as fast as I can towards the bag, tripping slightly over my wet clothes, and my hand has just wrapped around the strap when I hear the boy cry out in my direction.

Shut up, I think. If he keeps crying out, he'll alert the tributes preoccupied at the cornucopia to our direction. You're going to die anyway. Who cares if I take your bag?

I don't even turn to face him before I take off into the woods.

The woods.

Almost instinctively, I feel calmer once I've disappeared into the trees. Pine and fir - not dense enough for real cover, but enough to settle me into an uneasy peace. I will need to continue uphill. Near the centre of the forest is where I'll find the right sort of trees for the shelter I'm looking for. Until then, I climb steadily upwards. I can't quite run, not uphill like this, but I try to move as quickly as I can - keeping my ears and eyes out for any signs of unusual woodland activity. I stop for a moment to wring out my coat and tie it around my waist, but only for a second.

It's been about an hour when I start feeling very cold. My clothes cling to me, and my muscles are tense and tired from the weight. I must be heading eastwards, because the hill is hiding the sun. At the very least, I'll get some warmth come evening time, but that's not for a good few hours, and my teeth are starting to chatter. I need a way to warm up, and quickly. My eyes dart around. They've not fired the cannons yet, which means the fighting on the island must still - in some manner - be going on.

There's a tree a little ways up, with sturdy enough branches to climb. I curse as it shakes - hoping that nobody's nearby - and climb as quickly and as high as I can. It takes me a while to reach high enough to see the island, and I have to pause for a second to make out the sights when I do, but with enough focus, I can work out what I need to.

The Career tributes are centred around the horn. At least, what I assume are the Career tributes. I spot four of them, but that doesn't mean any of them have died. In fact, I'm just hoping when I spot a figure - it's too small to tell who - round the other side of the Cornucopia and yell to the others. Something must be happening on the other side of the horn, because three of the four run over, leaving only one person to guard the supplies at the centre. Around the other side of the lake - I can see better now - there's a strange, rocky, mossy terrain that seems to be covered in a low fog. On the island, the ground is littered with bodies. I don't even stay to count. I can't waste a second.

I climb down the tree, find as much dry wood as I can, and I start a fire.

There will be smoke, but I know how to start a good fire, even without matches, and in the morning light, with the shade of the hill and, distracted by the Cornucopia, I wager I'll be safe. Still, to be certain, once I've removed most of my layers - (I keep my underclothes on, as well as my shoes, obviously) - and strung them up close enough to the fire to dry, I walk a little bit away and climb another tree.

The Capitol will probably enjoy this. Half-naked in the first hour and a half of the Games. I wonder what they'll think. I actually almost smile as I think about Ashley last night, and how horrified he seemed at me changing in front of him. Last night. God, was that only last night?

But then I think about the bodies back on the island, and the boy, and his leg, and it doesn't actually seem all that funny anymore.

I take the time to look in the bag. It's medium sized, and packed tightly. A padded blanket, big enough to wrap around me at least twice, unfolded, good. Sodium tablets, iodine, dried fruit, nuts, a half-full water bottle, and a flip knife, about the width of my hand. Good to cut rope - rope I don't have - or branches, but not strong enough to kill anything.

It's better than nothing. I pack my bag, silently thank the boy from Three - or Five, or Nine, or whatever - and wait for ten more minutes up the tree before I go retrieve my clothes by the fire.

They're not desperately warm, but they're drier, at least. I put out the fire as quickly as I can, dress myself properly, and continue uphill.

Eventually, the ground starts to even out. There's still a forwards slope, but it's not so much of a trek anymore, and I can start to speed up and gather more ground. I'm unfamiliar with the terrain here. The dirt is darker and more acrid than I'm used to, and there are strange rock formations that crop up here and there amongst the trees. I'd be willing to bet that there's some sort of cave system circling the arena, based on my brief view of the west side, and I wouldn't be surprised if they lead all the way around to my part of the arena. I make a mental note to keep my eyes on any openings in the rock, and start to travel at a diagonal.

It must be about mid-afternoon when the cannons start to fire. I pause, looking up at the sky, and start to count. Nine. Nine cannons. Nine tributes, dead. I think about who I can remember seeing on the island, but I have no recollection of who any of the bodies belonged to. The boy whose backpack I took - he's almost certainly dead. What about Caraway? I don't want to think about Caraway being dead. I suppose it's probably a good thing if he is, because he's almost guaranteed a slow death otherwise, but the idea that he's alive brings me some strange comfort. He was never cruel to me. If I ran into him in the arena, he told me he'd want to ally. It's a stupid decision, because he has no reason to want me as an ally - and neither do I him - but I can understand where he's coming from. It's much nicer to think you're not alone.

Of course, he isn't alone, if Twine is still alive. I doubt it, but the Games always surprise. Last year, I'd thought the girl from Four was a goner, but she ended up making it out alive. So did the boy from Six the year before. I think about what Ashley told me - about how the Capitol was itching for a more entertaining victor this year. I certainly have something to prove.

By early evening, two more cannons have fired. I find a thick, sturdy looking branch that I can whittle with my knife into a sharp point. The cameras will probably be on me, at some point. Games coverage is always messy on the first day, and I'm sure there will be plenty of filler material covering analysts going over the day's deaths, and what it means for the remaining tributes. I'll be shown, every once in a while, and if I am, I want to seem proactive. I want them to be impressed that I've lived, and that I'm thinking of the future. Baby steps. I'll do the rest all at once.

Not to mention, I'm starting to feel a bit empty-handed with only a switchblade to keep me safe. At the very least, a spear should keep any animals at bay. The woods are louder than the ones back home, but the logging camps tend to keep fauna away. There are mostly birds here, though I spot a couple squirrels and a strange, rabbit-mouse creature which pokes its head out of one of the rock formations. The terrain might not be entirely similar to home, but I'm certain there will be bears somewhere in the arena. Normal bears, I know how to deal with. Gamemaker bears, I'm not sure. I proceed with caution.

The sky starts to darken, and I'm getting hungry. All I really want to do is dig into my pack and pace out the food I've been given, but I know it will make me look dependent, and so I take the time to forage for a few herbs and berries I recognise and eat a quick meal. By the time I'm done, I know I only have a few precious minutes of daylight left. The trees around here are safe to climb, but nowhere near as sturdy as what I'm looking for. I'm not sure they could bear my weight for the entire night. I know the hemlock I saw wasn't far out, so I must have accidentally travelled too far north. I decide to hazard up a tree to see if I can spot somewhere to sleep, or if I'll have to brave it another way.

Climbing puts me at ease. I can see from here that I've travelled a lot further north than I intended, and while my desired location isn't too far off, it's not safe to travel in the dark - not when I'm certain other tributes will start hunting. I consider staying in this tree, but years of being up trees has told me that this isn't a good idea, and I'm about to start climbing down when the anthem plays.

I stop, as they start to project the faces of the dead in the sky. The boy from One. God. They don't show me what did him in, but I remember seeing him take on the alliance from Eight and Twelve. There were two of them against one, sure, but I make a mental note not to count them out. The boy from Three - that's not the boy I saw. Both from Five - that is the boy. Both from Six. The girl from Nine - so Caraway and Twine made it. That surprises me. Both from Ten. The girl from Eleven. The boy from Twelve.

Eleven dead. That's - what - thirteen left? Me, Caraway. Twine. Love from One, and Cassius from Two. The girl from Two, and both from Four. Hatch and the girl from Twelve. Three others. A lot of them are contenders. I think about the boy from Five, digging his fingers into his leg and screaming into the sky. I feel a little sick.

I need to get to bed, though, and so I climb down as quickly as I can. It's dark and disorienting on the ground, and my eyes aren't quite adjusted to the din. I need to trek slowly, and I need to find somewhere to sleep - quick.

I've just decided to head back south when I hear a noise behind me.