1.2 : Ashley
"Some years it's worse than others."
This is what Sylvia says, as we watch the crowd of children shuffle silently into the district square. It's a warning, and I can tell by her tone and the way her eyes stay steadily fixed on the slow haze of bodies that pack into neat, roped-off sections.
"I know," I say, but I don't know how it could possibly get any worse. These past few years have been nothing short of hell. I trust Sylvia, though. I have always trusted Sylvia, right from the moment that she reached out and gripped my hand on the train as we neared the Capitol and said, ' I chose you.'
"You'll live through it, even if they don't," she says.
We sit on sturdy metal chairs right underneath the freshly built stage, just out of the eye-line of the camera crew. In a moment, when Ambrosia calls my name, I will have to rise, join her on stage, and try to keep my face as expressionless as I can while she picks the slips for the male and female tributes.
"I wish you could come," I say. I am careful to keep my voice low, but if Blight notices, he says nothing. He sits next to Sylvia, as still as stone. His back is stiff and his eyes are locked on the stage, hands crossed in his lap. I can tell by the dark circles under his eyes that he has not slept. I wonder if I look just as ill as he does.
Sylvia looks at me sadly. "I'm glad I'm not."
Sylvia is maybe one of my closest friends. She is sixty-three, and won her games nearly forty years ago. You wouldn't be able to tell by looking at her. She's a delicate woman. A victor at sixteen, her allowance ensured she no longer needed to labour in the forests and so she possesses the slight arms and soft posture so rarely seen in District Seven. She has long grey hair and sharp, bright eyes, and I think she's absolutely brilliant.
"Mm," I say, and leave it there, because I don't want to tell her that I hope she joins me next year. It might not be fair to her, but Sylvia and I are a team. We have been ever since she got me through my own games four years ago. I barely know Blight. And, I'll be honest, I do not trust him either. Once the Games start, we will be working against one another to ensure the survival of our individual tribute. We are only a team once we're down to one.
Or none, I think, grimly. This has been the case for the past two years.
I hear a cough, and realise that Pliny has finally sat down next to me. Pliny is the fourth and final victor from Seven still standing. He's a weedy-looking man in his late forties, with thinning grey hair and loose, yellowing skin. I've never said it out loud, but I think Pliny will die soon. Whatever illness has taken him, whatever rot has spread - most likely due to years of alcohol misuse - will win out sooner rather than later. I resist the urge to scootch away and give him a polite nod, which he doesn't return.
This must have been what Ambrosia was waiting for, because once she sees that we're all in position, she heads towards the back of the stage to talk to our mayor. I like Mayor Lefroy. Like so many in Seven, she's a woman of little words, but she has kind eyes. I learnt during my own games that she makes it a point to visit every tribute who has been reaped before they leave for the Capitol, just in case they have nobody else to keep them company. I wonder how many children she has met in her run as mayor, and how many of those children have died.
Whatever Ambrosia says, it must not be worth much, because Mayor Lefroy just as quickly brushes her off and strides briskly to the podium. If I like the mayor, I tolerate Ambrosia. Working with her for the past three years, I have learnt her merits, though they are few and far between. She is very good at reading people, and, despite the constant smile on her face, she can whip from perfectly pleasant to frosty cold in a heartbeat. This has, in particular, been useful when it comes to sponsors.
Right now, she is all big smiles and laughs as the mayor begins to read from the Treaty. I can tell by her quick glances upwards, however, that she is nervous about the weather. Anyone with eyes can tell that we are due a storm. I wonder what crosses her mind. Her makeup? The camera quality? Whatever it is, it cannot be the tributes.
Suddenly Mayor Lefroy is reading out Blight's name. He stands up, slowly, as though he has been rehearsing the movement since he reached his seat, and makes his way up towards the stage. There is a polite smattering of applause. Blight is well liked by the district, old enough to be a staple in most people's minds, but distant enough to not be any trouble. I don't remember anything about his Games, and I reckon I must have been a very young child when he won. Perhaps this is why he's so well liked. Whatever happened in his arena, it has long faded from people's minds.
The applause dies down, and then Ambrosia is calling my name, Like on autopilot, I stand. There is perhaps more of a showing for me, but I reckon that it's only because some of the Capitol camera crew has joined in.
"Don't trip," Sylvia whispers to me, and despite myself, I have to mask a smile. On the day of my reaping, out of shock, I had stumbled my way onto stage, missing the last step and nearly tripping into Ambrosia's petticoat. I think I'd made a joke about it - honestly I was so numb from shock that I can't remember what I'd said. Couldn't now, even if you had a gun to my head. I learnt later this was what had made Sylvia decide she wanted me as her tribute. Quick witted, is what she'd called me. I just didn't want to make a fool of myself, but I went along with it.
I bite the inside of my lip and make my way on stage with steady feet. Next to Blight, I feel embarrassingly small. I remember when I met him for the first time on the train on our way to the Capitol. He was my district partner's mentor, tall and imposing, barely speaking to her, let alone acknowledging the rest of us. I had felt a chill the minute I'd seen him. I pictured all the other tributes in the arena looking like him; taller than me, stronger than me, more impressive than me.
It occurs to me only now that once my district partner died, Blight must have helped Sylvia keep me alive. I had always assumed it was Sylvia on her own. After all, she was the only one that had greeted me after my victory in the Capitol. Since my return, Blight has never said more than a few words to me. But I have seen how the games work behind the scenes now, and I know, in some way or another, I owe my survival to him.
Maybe this is the year that I will finally get to know him. I have never mentored with Blight before. My first two years were with Sylvia - a safety net I couldn't be more grateful for - and my most recent with Pliny.
How many years will I have to go on? I wonder. Every year, the Capitol will send their invitations for who they want to mentor. This will be my fourth year in a row. Will I have to bring a victor home first? I know I won't. The Capitol will eventually grow tired of me and I will be allowed a few years of reprise if I'm lucky, no matter my success. But I am painfully aware that it will be a good few years until that day comes.
I realise now that Ambrosia has stepped forward, and my heart drops, as it always does when the names are about to be called. My eyes scan the crowd. I know some of these children. I work with some of these children. I have to stop my fingers from crossing automatically behind my back. It is not befitting of a victor to be afraid of the Reaping. It is not befitting for a victor to be afraid of anything at all.
"Johanna Mason," Ambrosia calls out, and I cannot help the way my chest loosens in relief. I do not know Johanna Mason.
There is the usual moment of hesitation from the crowd. I scan the space below the stage, praying that whoever Johanna Mason is, she is not young. But no - there's some movement by the seventeen-year-old section. And then, all at once, it starts to rain.
I almost have to laugh at the timing. If I didn't know better, I'd say it's almost cosmic; some divine being deciding to make this poor girl's life more of a living hell than she could ever imagine it being. I see her figure step out now. She appears slight, with long dark hair and brown skin. She wears a long flowing yellow dress which has already started to cling to her skin. Her arms are pulled tight to her side and her doe eyes are wide. I have seen this look before in almost every tribute. She is in shock.
Luckily for Johanna Mason, she does not have to walk far to make it to the canopy of the stage, where she is sheltered by the meagre tarp that is keeping us, Ambrosia, and the camera crews safe. The crowd is getting drenched and the rain is so loud that if there is anyone crying for Johanna Mason, they cannot be heard over the downpour.
"Congratulations!" Ambrosia has to yell over the din, even with her microphone. Congratulations. My eyes flicker over to Blight, and I see he is staring at Ambrosia with contempt. She says this every year, to every tribute. It's humiliating. This poor girl has been sent to her likely death, and she is expected to celebrate it like she would a birthday or an engagement. "Johanna Mason, how are we feeling?"
The girl, to her merit, doesn't even look at Ambrosia. Her eyes stay fixed out towards the crowd. I cannot see the expression on her face from where I stand. A brief flicker of curiosity runs through me, and I wonder what must be going on in her head. Even to this day, I can't remember a single thing that flashed through my brain while I stood by that podium four years ago.
The weather is worsening, and Ambrosia seems to realise that we need to wrap up soon, because she babbles on something about shock, or nerves, and then walks over to the bowl holding the name of the male tribute. Again, I feel the familiar twinge of anxiety that I have come to associate only with the reaping. And again, I feel the welcome flash of guilt as my shoulders relax. I do not know the boy either.
Caraway Royd is eighteen years old and tall. Muscular, though not as muscular as Blight. He has long, curly dark hair and piercing green eyes. For a moment, I feel a flash of hope. Caraway is holding himself steady. His gaze is focused, and he seems to understand that from this moment on, he is on camera. These are all good signs. But then he raises his hand to shield away from the downpour for a moment, and I noticed the bruises on the bend of his arm.
Oh no. I do not look at Blight, but I can feel him relax in disappointment. It doesn't matter how strong Caraway is. We can't do anything for him.
Next to Johanna, though, he looks like a fighter, and that's all we can bank on. Ambrosia makes them shake hands, and Caraway has to try for Johanna's attention twice before she stiffly sticks her hand out for him to grab. He turns the inside of his arm away from the cameras, at least, towards the back of the stage where I can clearly make out the blossoming bruises; green, yellow, purple. I do not know what drug he uses, but the brightness of the marks makes it clear to me that whatever it is, it is not just recreational.
For a moment, I think he's stupid. Absolutely stupid. But then I think about what faces him in the arena, what faces Johanna in the arena, and any anger I have towards him washes away in a flood of pity.
Pity. Is this what years of mentorship does? Is pity the only thing I can feel? I think of Sylvia, and Blight, and Pliny. There is some secret here that I have yet to learn, and I wonder how many years of this it will take until I discover it.
Johanna and Caraway are escorted into the building behind them. Neither one fights back, but still, the Peacekeepers are firm in their grips. Once they are gone, the crowd slowly begins to disperse. Tonight, some of them - the ones without televisions at home - will return to watch the mandatory recap of the reapings. But this afternoon they are expected to celebrate. And celebrate they will, most of them, safe in the knowledge that they or their loved ones will live for another year. But for a handful, the same handful that, right now, are lining up beside the stage to say goodbye, tonight's recap will only bring a grim reminder of the weeks to come.
It takes me a moment to realise Blight is looking at me. Neither one of us has moved - we have not been collected by Ambrosia, or any Capitol attendant yet - and I find that my muscles ache from tension I didn't realise I had been holding. I return his gaze.
"I think you should take the girl," he says.
This takes me by surprise. Why? Surely Blight has seen Caraway's arms? Or does he think the boy stands more of a chance? I suppose he is stronger, older, more handsome. Does the Capitol have some medicine I don't know about? Some method of starving away the signs of withdrawal that will hit him the second he reaches the arena, if not before?
Blight must have some reason. It's not very common to request a tribute. The mentors are usually allocated by gender; the female victor for the female tribute and vice versa, but it's not fair to ask Sylvia to come back to the Capitol every year. Last year, Pliny and I drew lots.
Eventually, I decide there's no harm in asking. "Why should I?"
Blight's eyes have moved on to the line of people slowly moving into the building. I realise I recognise one. Lynn, a tall girl with paper-white skin and pale hair. She's one of the ones I work with. One of the ones I so hoped would not be reaped. She gives me a sad smile as she enters the Justice Building, and I realise that she must know one of the tributes.
"Because you're kinder than I am," Blight says, plainly.
I look at him again. I do not consider myself unkind by any means, but I know that kindness is not the virtue by which I won my games. Kindness is not something I pride myself on, nor something I value particularly highly in myself. I know enough kind people to know that I am not one of them. And most damningly, Blight does not know me. I think of myself in interviews, the ones broadcasted to the public by the Capitol. Forward facing, I am almost un kind. Smart tongued, quick witted, dry. This is the only thing Blight has ever seen of me.
"Oh," I say, because I'm not sure what else to say.
"I've seen you with the kids," he says, by way of explanation. This makes a bit more sense. Has Blight been paying attention? I always assumed my talent was beneath him. I know plenty do. Something from the Capitol; foreign, flashy. A farce.
But then I suddenly realise what Blight means. Because sometimes - very occasionally - a younger child will join the ranks. Usually I will turn away those who are not talented enough. Even with my victor's stipend, I have limited energy and limited resources. But occasionally there will be a child so young, or so lonely, or rarely, so passionate, that I have to let them in. Maybe this is the kindness Blight is thinking about.
It occurs to me now what Blight's reasoning must be. He knows Johanna will die, and in her last few days, he wants to give her kindness. It gives me pause, for a moment, and I stare at him until he must think I'm stupid.
"OK," I say, eventually.
"Good," he replies.
Now we are being whisked away by a Capitol attendant, polite but firm in their sleek red uniform. We have already said our goodbyes before the reaping, and I know my mother and sister will be long gone, but I shoot a look at Sylvia, who is still sitting, partially covered from the rain by the stage. I mean it as a final glance, a casual goodbye, but instead of returning it, she gives me a very sharp look and a nod.
What could this mean? I rack my brain, trying to think. What could Sylvia mean? She must know how I would interpret it - she must be trying to tell me something. At first I think about calling her on the precious Capitol telephone once I get on the train. But then what she's saying hits me. This one's a fighter.
Which one? Surely Sylvia is sharp enough to notice Caraway's arms, quick enough to know that he's a goner, no matter what we do. So does she mean Johanna? I think for a moment. She looked weak, frail, even, in the long dress. Her blank glare suggests someone in shock, which could mean anything, but usually nothing good. Really, I have barely seen anything of her. Could it be that Sylvia noticed something, something I didn't? I frown as I step out from the canopy and into the icy rain. I suppose only time will tell.
It is funny how familiar I am with my quarters on the train. On my first night here I had been so sickened by the thought of the previous year's tribute that I had barely gotten a wink. But ever since my Victory Tour, where I spent over a week parading from district to district, shuttled around in this very same train car, I have gotten over the thought. Now I am practically comfortable. It's hard to stay preoccupied with someone who has already died when you are preoccupied with the currently dying.
Dying. I roll the word around in my mind for a minute. Johanna and Caraway. One of them will certainly die. Most likely both will.
Do not get attached.
Those were the first words Sylvia had told me, the morning of my first reaping as mentor. That year, the male tribute had been older than me, twice my height, and I found it impossible not to feel inferior next to him. And yet, at the same time, I couldn't help but think about how I would kill him.
I thought about that a lot those first two years. Walking down the street to the market, watching a mandatory recap of some old games footage. If I were caught in the arena with you, how would I kill you? I felt like a monster, imagining the deaths of everyone I knew in my head. Sylvia said it was a trauma response from my time in the games, said that it was because my brain was still running in survival mode. There must be at least some truth to it, at least, because it has gotten better over time. But sometimes, sometimes, when I feel the edges of panic creep into my vision, my brain flashes back to it. How would I kill you?
At the time, I reckoned I would have used my tribute's weight against him. Lured him someplace high, unstable. Near water, maybe. Pushed him from a tree, or off a muddy bank. It's precisely how he died, four days into the Games - lured off the side of a cliff by the sly girl from Two.
I had not gotten attached. It didn't help much.
The sound of Ambrosia chattering outside tells me the tributes have arrived. I stay in my room and watch as the train lurches forward. There's the flash of cameras getting one last shot of us, and then suddenly we are racing through trees and the train station is far behind us.
There were cameras at the station. There always are. I think about Blight, and how he managed to make his way onto the train with only a few questions hurled his way. I was trapped for nearly half an hour. Ashley, how do you feel about returning to the Capitol? Ashley, did you know that berry perfume is still all the rage thanks to you? Ashley, how do you feel about this year's tributes? My answers were so wooden that I wonder why they even like me.
After enough time has passed for the tributes to find their way around their rooms, I make my way to the main car. Blight is already there, sitting in the still-wet clothes he wore to the reaping. Blight is painfully District Seven. I look down at myself; my dark Capitol trousers and my loose Capitol shirt that I changed into almost immediately after getting on the train. I would never have worn something like this four years ago. This makes me frown.
Before I can think too much about it, Caraway enters, Ambrosia in tow. Dinner will be soon, she announces. Johanna is nowhere to be seen, and so I reason, with some disappointment, that she must still be in her room. We wait, in relative silence, as Ambrosia shows Caraway around the car. He says nothing until she is done, at which point he asks, in an even voice, if he could be left alone with Blight and I.
To her credit, Ambrosia gives him a quick, respectable nod and leaves just as quickly as she came. For a moment we seize each other up. Up close, Caraway is less sturdy than he seems. His skin is pale and there are dark bags that hang under his eyes. Still, he is tall and strong, and he holds himself defensively, one foot behind him in a stance that could see him run towards, or away from us.
"Better not to beat around the bush," he says, once Ambrosia is surely gone. "You've seen the bruises?"
"Yes." Blight speaks first. I let him take charge. After all, this is his tribute. "What caused them?"
"Finch," he says.
Surprisingly, this is good. Finch is not considered a drug in the Capitol - nothing more than a party substance that keeps you going until the early hours of the morning. It will not be hard to get our hands on it, at least before the arena.
Blight follows my train of thought. "We'll be able to get you some in the Capitol. How often do you normally use it?"
"Twice a week."
Twice a week. He may last the first few days of the Games, then. Maybe more, if by some miracle we can scrounge up enough sponsors. But once he has run out, the withdrawal will kick in, and he will almost certainly be a knows this. I can see it on his face.
"Well, then. Let's hope this year's Games are short," Blight says, and Caraway nods. "I'll mentor you. Ashley'll take the girl."
Caraway turns to me, now. "I've seen some of the shows. They're good."
This surprises me. I know people come to watch them - they even had camera crews come around the first year. But the first year was horrible. I was a mess, and there were only a handful of actors for me to work with. I don't think I had a single coherent thought the entire time, and later my sister would tell me that I would spend great swaths of rehearsal time staring blankly into space, or waving my hands and giving contradictory thoughts. Still, the first show must have been a success, because my pool of actors tripled in the first year.
"Why?" My sister had asked, when I'd told her I was going to do it. I hadn't really known what to say. She had her thoughts, which she wasn't afraid to voice out loud. Thoughts saying I shouldn't surround myself with those young enough to still be reaped, not in my mental state. But, of course, I hadn't chosen that - only, these were the only ones who wanted in.
"Don't you understand?" I'd said, eventually. " I need a project. To keep my mind off it, I need a project."
"Thanks," I say to Caraway, and nothing else, because he is not my tribute. He doesn't say anything back, and so we sit in silence and listen to the train roll onwards.
Eventually it is time for dinner. We're ushered into a separate car, where our cutlery has already been laid out for us. Caraway's eyes go wide at the sight, and we haven't even been served any food yet. I think about last year when the boy - Pliny's tribute - ate so quickly he had to run off to be sick, and I worry we're about to have a repeat.
We sit, Ambrosia at the head, Blight and Caraway across from me. The first course is served - creamy pea soup with fluffy bread and warm, buttery spread. I glance at the seat next to me. Where is Johanna?
"Well! No use letting this get cold," Ambrosia says, though she follows my gaze. Taking her cue, Caraway scoops up a spoonful of the green stuff, and I see his eyes go wide at the taste.
"Eat it slowly," Blight says, and Caraway nods, looking a touch sheepish. He seems so young like this. I think of Johanna, and about how young she seemed too, standing on stage in her drenched outfit. I don't touch my plate. Will I have to get her?
No. Johanna Mason arrives just as Caraway has mopped up the last bits of soup with his bread. She has changed from her yellow dress into a flowing blue one, with long, dainty sleeves. Here, she looks even younger. As she enters, she ducks her head, avoiding our eyes and slips in quietly into the seat next to me. Be kind, Ashley, I think. Be kind.
"Don't worry, you're not too late," I say to her. "Caraway just inhaled in a matter of minutes."
"I didn't -" Caraway protests, but the train lurches forwards again, and suddenly he looks as green as the soup. Blight pours him a glass of water, and he starts to take slow sips as Johanna and I dig in. Every so often I take the occasional glance at her, noticing how particular her movements are. Sip. Pause. She knows she is being observed.
"So Johanna," Ambrosia starts. "How are you finding the train?"
"It's hard to find my feet," Johanna says, after a pause. She doesn't look at Ambrosia as she speaks, and her voice is lower than I expect, flatter.
"You get used to it," Ambrosia says. "Do you two know each other?"
There's a pause. I wonder how common it is for tributes to know one another. I didn't know the girl my year, and neither have any of the tributes I've mentored since. I've never seen anyone play it up as a strategy, but surely there must be a good few acquaintances, maybe even a few friends, in the history of the Games.
"Johanna and I?" Caraway answers, eventually. Ambrosia nods, and he turns to Johanna. "No. You're from the year below, right?"
"Yes," she says, quietly. It occurs to me that Johanna might be afraid of him. Hasn't she noticed the bruises on his arm? Or if she has, does she know what they mean? If I didn't know, perhaps I would be intimidated too, by his height, his stature.
But Johanna stands more of a chance, I realise, suddenly. Blight must know this, because he is looking at her curiously too. Perhaps the attention is too much, and so Johanna retreats into her soup and doesn't say anything else for the rest of the meal.
Since this is all Ambrosia can get out of the pair, she moves on to describing the week's itinerary. The tribute parade, training, the interviews. Johanna and Caraway eat as much as they can, but I can tell they are listening, occasionally nodding or making a noise of agreement when it calls for it. I remember how overwhelming it had all seemed. Will I even get a moment to reckon with my death? I remember thinking. Just one second to breathe?
Once Ambrosia and the meal are done, it is dark out, and we are led back to the main sitting room for a recap of the reapings. Johanna and I sit on one sofa with Ambrosia, Caraway and Blight making up the other. Nobody has said anything, but Johanna must have worked out that I am her mentor.
I hate this part, I think, as we settle in and the anthem begins to play. Quickly, we rush by the faces of this year's tributes. The first few are always the worst, but at least we get them over and done with quickly. The Inner District tributes from One, Two and Four, or Careers, as they are nicknamed, are all eighteen; raising their hands to volunteer.
I used to hate them, but having gotten to know some of them, I find that I hate them less. They often train for the Games, which is technically illegal, and while they do find glory in the violent deaths of their fellow tributes, I have learnt that - at least in One and occasionally Four - there is honour involved in this. Send the strongest in to protect the weak. A twelve year old from District One will never be reaped.
This year the pair from One are steady and golden. The girl is a sharp thing, with bright red hair and strong, toned arms. The boy is her equal, close cropped yellow hair and a million dollar smile. District Two are their darker counterparts, both in tone and disposition. The boy gives a wave to the crowd, but his smirk is closed-off. Three gives us a quick, sharp-eyed boy from the sixteen-year-old section. The twelve year old girl from Six looks tiny compared to her tall district partner.
And suddenly we are in District Seven. I realise with a sinking feeling that, with the rain, it looks as though Johanna is crying. Caraway makes more of an impression, at least, and I am thankful that the long shot they have chosen does not show his sunken features. The commenters do not have much to say, though they do note that I will be mentoring for the fourth year in a row. I do not like this. Don't mention me. Do not waste any of their precious screen time on me. But the screen has already flashed over to the depressing warehouses of Eight.
"Not too shabby!" Ambrosia says, though I can tell by the tone of her voice that she knows this is not great. "Shame about the rain, though."
We quickly flash by the other tributes. There is not too much of note, but both the girls from Ten and Eleven make an impression; both eighteen, but one tall and sullen faced and the other almost a ghost on the stage. Then the screen goes black, and we are left in a silent compartment.
It is time for the tributes to go to bed. It will be a long, exhausting day tomorrow and they need all the rest they can get before the Games. But, as we all stand up, I remember my first night on the train, and how alone I had felt.
I want to go to bed and pretend I am alone now. But a thought rings in my head. Be kind.
"Do you want to see something?" I say to Johanna. She turns to look at me for the first time. We are nearly the same height, I realise. Something about her disposition had given me the impression that she was much smaller. "It's just down that way."
I'm not sure if she gets the cue that I want to talk to her alone or not, but either way she gives me a quick, jerky nod. I bid the others farewell, meeting Blight's eyes for just a moment before I begin to lead her down the train in silence. Johanna stays a few steps behind me, cautiously observing. Eventually we arrive in a room near the back of the train, with round, curved glass windows that extend upwards to the ceiling. I walk towards the back, press a button near the door, and suddenly the glass walls are sliding down and we are in open air. Johanna can't help but let an exhale slip through her lips.
"You don't get a chance for much fresh air before the Games," I say. "Capitol air has a smell to it. I thought you might want another breath of home before next week." Johanna says nothing, and so we stand there. I'm not sure how much time passes, only that suddenly, all at once I can't bear the silence, the wind and the cold night air. I need to fill it with something. "What are you thinking?" I ask.
She doesn't even look at me as she replies. "I'm thinking about how I'm going to kill them."
