1.3 : Johanna
Lynn is crying.
I don't know why this makes me angry, only that it does. We sit across from each other in a dilapidated room somewhere near the top of the Justice Building. The wooden floorboards are rotting, and there's the distinct scent of dust that echoes throughout the space. The only hint of any luxury are the matching plush velvet loveseats, but even these are uncomfortable, feeling sticky and grating under my wet skin. I find that I've developed a nervous tic; smoothing my dress out from under me back and forth, so that I don't have to touch the fabric of the chair.
"It shouldn't be you," Lynn is saying. "It should have been me. It's not fair . It isn't . "
You should have volunteered for me, then, I think. Of course, I don't actually mean it. There's no way in a million years that Lynn would ever volunteer for the Games, nor would I ever expect her to. But I find myself becoming increasingly irate at the steady flow of tears. Go away, if you have nothing to say. This is bordering on self-pity, and I am the one about to be sent to my death, not Lynn.
"It's happened," I say, plainly. "Lynn, it's fine."
"It's not fine! Oh, god, look at you comforting me," Lynn paws at her tears. "I'm sorry, Johanna. I'm a shit friend."
Maybe , I think. But you're my only one.
"Will you keep an eye on my father?" I ask, once she has gathered herself and her sobbing has turned into the occasional sniff. "Drop by every so often? Make sure he eats?"
Lynn nods. We sit in silence for a moment. Neither of us quite know what to say. Neither of us has been in this position before. Outside, I hear the distant crack of thunder.
"The Capitol will be nice," Lynn says, after a while.
"Mm," I say. How nice the Capitol will be is the last thing that's on my mind. I don't think I will ever - not once - understand how Lynn's brain works.
"The food too," she continues. "They always say that - how nice the food is. Maybe, maybe you could try to enjoy it? Please? You know, before -"
Her voice cuts off with emotion, and all of a sudden I realise that there is not a single doubt in Lynn's mind that I will die. Not a fraction of her believes I stand a chance. In Lynn's mind, she is already talking to a ghost.
Immediately, I'm filled with rage at the idea. I want to stand up, scream, throw this stupid velvet chair at her, maybe even tear at the walls for good measure. In fact, my hands have already started to ball into fists and I'm just thinking about how horrible it will feel after I slap her, when a second, almost instinctive, thought fills my mind.
This is good.
It's enough to give me pause. This is good? What is good? The fact that Lynn believes I'm going to die? I frown and relax my hands. The thought nags at me, and I want to dissect it, but I find that I can't quite place why it is good . At least, right now I can't. Not while Lynn is staring at me, eyes filled with tears, face scrunched up with worry. I sigh, and relent.
"I'll try," I say. I am not mad at Lynn, not really. Annoyed, maybe. But, then again, aren't I always? Why should our final meeting be any different?
Final meeting. How can I be mad at Lynn when I agree with her?
The rest of our conversation seems to pass us by almost uneventfully. Lynn promises she will try to gather funds for me in the arena.
"Maybe someone will be willing to help!" She tells me. It's a nice thought, and I thank her for it, but I know it will be pointless. Even if I did have people who cared about me in Seven - which I don't - the prices for sponsor gifts start off astronomical, and they only get more expensive as the Games draw on.
I don't know what else to say, so I tell her to stay safe. She gives me one last hug, and then she is gone.
The clock ticks onwards. I wonder why my father hasn't come in yet. Surely he is waiting outside. Has something happened? Has he forgotten where to meet me? Or worse, even forgotten that he is allowed to say goodbye at all? For the first time since my name was called, I find that tears are threatening to spring from my eyes. I blink hard, forcing them away. Don't cry, Johanna. Don't.
Smoothing my dress out from under me again, I find that my hand rests over my pocket - the one holding the piece of amber. I go to fish it out, studying it under the dim light of the room. It really is as small as I remember, barely the size of a pebble; freckled with dust and lined with a strip of darker gold around the centre. I remember that amber is made from fossilised tree resin. How old must this piece be? How old is the tree it came from? Hundreds of years, certainly. This tiny stone surely predates the Games, perhaps even Panem as a whole.
For some reason, I find this calms me. There is more to this, I remember. In this stone is the beginning of everything.
For a moment, my father's words echo in my mind, and then I remember something else. 'It begins here'. Suddenly, the shuddering in my chest returns. I had been on camera! How could I be so stupid as to forget? I grip the rock tightly, trying hard to remember anything from the past hour. The escort - Ambrosia - she had tried to speak to me, hadn't she? And I had done - what? - nothing? I had ignored her and kept staring out through the crowd, praying that another Johanna Mason would step forwards. What a fat lot of luck that will do me! I imagine I must have appeared lame, simple minded. An image fills my mind of a crowd of people somewhere in the Capitol, dressed in billowing feathers and sipping from tiny glasses, laughing at the image of me on screen. Cannon fodder, I think. That's what I am to them.
My hands have just clenched back into fists when the door opens. Immediately I turn towards it, expecting my father. But no, it's not my father. The woman that steps in is tall, with dark skin and long braided hair. District Seven's Mayor, I realise. I feel a jolt. What is she doing here? Has something happened to my father?
"Don't worry," she says, and I wonder if my fear is reflected in my gaze. "I come to visit every tribute."
"You do?" I can't help the words spilling out of my mouth. "Why?"
"Because," the Mayor comes to sit across from me. "Not everyone has someone to say goodbye to."
So it's personal responsibility, then. For some reason, this annoys me. I don't care if the Mayor feels guilty about her part in the Reaping - I don't really want her here. I'd rather be left alone.
"You must have met a lot of tributes, then," I say, because I hate silences, and it seems the Mayor is full of them.
She nods. "All forty. Two a year, for the past twenty years."
I frown. In the past twenty years, Seven has had - what? - maybe two victors? Ashley, certainly, but I can't remember if Blight won before or after the 51st Games. One, or maybe two victors in twenty years. Mayor Lefroy has spoken to at least thirty-eight ghosts.
"Yes," she says, as if she knows what I'm thinking. "Most of them are dead."
We sit for a moment, and though the silence makes my skin itch, I don't have anything else to say. Outside, the rain has died down to a light drizzle. A mere two hours ago, I was in the woods. Now it all feels so far away now, as if it all happened years ago. I feel a pang. It might have been the last time I ever stepped foot in those woods, and I didn't even know it.
Once our time is up, the Mayor gets to her feet. "I wanted to say, Johanna. It has been a pleasure to have you in Seven. And know that all of Seven has your back in return."
I stare at her, dumbfounded for a minute. It registers, once again, that Mayor Lefroy agrees with Lynn. I will die. For some reason this hits harder than before, because unlike Lynn, the Mayor does not even know me. What have I done? What have I done to suggest that I am not a fighter?
And then it hits me. I have done nothing at all.
"Thank you," I say. The Mayor nods, and walks away.
I sit again in silence. They all think I'm going to die. Every single one of them. I think of my district partner, Caraway. I've never talked to him, but I recognise his face. I've seen him every so often, ducking around the back alleys not far from our school. I know exactly what sort of deals go on down there. Even been myself, once. I had been twelve, terrified, clutching my father's gold wedding band to my chest. The man waiting at the end of the alley had been tall and sickly looking, with skin that looked like it was about to peel away from his face, and deep, sunken eyes. He seemed surprised to see me, more surprised at my demand. But his raspy voice was kind as he pressed the bag into my hand.
"Clean the needle. Put it in her forearm. The pain will go away."
I am not afraid of Caraway, because I know what he is. But everyone else thinks he stands a chance. They think he might live. He's going to die and they think he might live.
I remember, off to the side of the stage, Blight had turned to whisper something to Ashley. Surely one of them had been claiming dibs. And why wouldn't they? On appearances alone, Caraway is a safe bet. Strong, and tall, and older than me -
Older than me.
It occurs to me for the first time that it is nearly my eighteenth birthday. I might not live to eighteen . Or perhaps I will, and I will spend the day in the arena, bloody and bruised, warding off other tributes. Somehow this is the first thing since being Reaped that hurts, that really, really hurts. I should be spending my birthday at home, with my father, not fighting for my life against the Capitol.
I look at the door again. My father is still not here. Where are you? I wonder. Have you forgotten me?
My time is almost up and I'm certain I will never see him again when the door bursts open. I barely have time to open my mouth before he is on me, pulling me into a hug that is so tight I can barely breathe. He is soaked in rain, smelling of wood smoke and dirt. For a moment we stand there, clenched in a vice grip. And then, all at once, he pulls us apart.
"Johanna," he says, breathless. "Look at me."
I do, and to my surprise, I find that I'm staring into focused eyes. I blink once, twice, even three times, trying desperately to make sure that I'm not dreaming. But no, there he is. Steady. Grounded. My old father is back. First time today, I feel warmth spreading in my chest.
"What is it?" I ask. I don't even want to acknowledge his sudden clarity for fear that it could drive it away. " What? "
"It starts today," he says. "Johanna, you're good. You're a fighter. You know exactly what to do."
It starts today. I shake my head. "No. No, I've ruined it! I wasn't even thinking up there! Everyone thinks I'm a goner, everyone!"
My father pulls me close. His arms cling to me like I'm a lifeline. "Exactly. So use it."
Use it! Yes! That had been what the nagging thought was trying to tell me. For a moment I think he's a genius - I'm a genius - but then another thought hits me. "It might not work," I say. "If they think I'm an easy kill, they could target me first. And even then, what about the sponsors?"
"Get out of there quickly," he says. "The other tributes won't target you while they think they have bigger problems to worry about. Once you're in the arena, all you have to do is prove to the sponsors that you're worth it. You're brilliant with that axe, Johanna. If you succeed in the ruse, they'll all be so impressed you'll have grabbed their attention no matter what."
He might be right. I nod my head. "Okay. Okay, I'll do it."
"Good," he says, and his grip loosens. He steps backwards. "Good girl."
Looking down, I realise that his arms are scraped and bruised. It's as if he's fallen over, or gotten in a fight. "What happened?" I ask. He follows my gaze and frowns. Suddenly the clarity in his eyes starts to fade, and so I grab him again. "No! No, Dad, look at me."
He looks up. "Johanna?"
"Don't go!" I say. "You're not allowed to go!"
"I'm right here?" He seems confused.
"Where were you?" My hands run down his arms, and I see him wince in pain. "Where did you go, all those years? After Mom - you just -"
I've fucked it now, I realise, because at the mention of my mother, he pulls away and glances downwards. His gaze dulls, and he's gone again. He's gone again. He's gone again, and I want to scream. Tears begin to well in my eyes, and I have to bite my lip hard, to force them down.
He looks backwards, towards the door. "They wouldn't let me in. They said I had to wait."
"Look, Dad," I say. "We don't have a lot of time." The truth is that we have no time, because as I say this, the door opens and a Peacekeeper steps in.
"I waited, though," he frowns, and the Peacekeeper puts an arm on his shoulder. "I waited."
"I know," I say. "Dad, I love you."
He looks at me strangely. "Yes."
I feel a lurch in my chest. "You aren't going to say it back?"
"No," he frowns. "No, of course I am."
But the door closes, and he doesn't.
It isn't hard to cry at the train station. In fact, the tears come easily, hot and fast. I'm not pathetic, I think, as the cameras snap shot, after shot, after shot of my puffy face. Of course, it's exactly what I want them to think, but I almost can't bear the humiliation that comes with it, and so I make a vow to live long enough to make each and every one of them feel stupid.
Even Caraway and Ambrosia must feel some form of pity for me, because they give me a wide berth as we are shown around the train. It is late afternoon now, but the train journey will take the better part of a full day to reach the Capitol. Ambrosia tells us that there will be a crowd waiting to catch sight of us when we arrive tomorrow, and that we must make sure we are camera ready. The thought makes me feel sick, so I gag a little. There's a sense of satisfaction as Ambrosia steps a little further away from me. Maybe I can even have some fun with this.
I am relieved when I am left alone to wander around my room. Immediately, I shed out of my sodden dress and wander, half-naked, to the closet. At first, I avoid the delicate Capitol clothing and pick out something simple, a white shirt and linen shorts. But then I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirror and realise that anyone would be able to see how toned my arms are from years of working an axe. I make a mental note to tell my stylist I do not like to expose skin, and instead pick out a flowing blue dress. I feel stupid wearing the thing, because it makes me look at least four years younger than I am, but at the very least, I am dry.
I spend the next hour or so wandering around my room, talking in the sight outside the window as the district floods past. Every so often I catch the flickering of lights though the trees, and I wonder whether we have passed one of the logging camps. Surely they must all be deserted today. Everyone else has returned home. I feel a pang. I miss my tiny shoebox room, and the smell of wood, and smoke. This train smells like metal and recycled air.
It's only when I notice that the sun is slowly starting to descend that I realise I must be late for dinner. Good. Let them think I have been crying my eyes out in my room alone. I'm going to have to face the whole team now, and I decide to use the experience as a warmup for later. If I can fool them, it's just another step towards fooling the Capitol.
As I enter the dining cart, they all turn to greet me. The air is thick with the smell of food, and I cannot help but salivate at the sight of the warm, creamy soup that has been laid out for us. Blight and Caraway sit on one side of the table, and on the other, next to Ashley, is an empty seat. I dip my head in an attempt to be meek and keep my eyes on the floor.
"Don't worry," Ashley speaks first. His voice is quiet, and I think he's making an attempt to sound gentle, but it doesn't quite land. "You're not too late. Caraway just inhaled his."
"I didn't!" Caraway says, and with a wooden, jerky movement, I grab a spoon. At first I'm not sure what to make of all this, but then I notice that Blight is avoiding my gaze as well. He points out a pitcher of water to Caraway, who looks a bit ill, and I realise with a sinking feeling that Ashley is my mentor.
Shit, I think. Even sitting next to him, I feel a mild twinge of irritation. But even despite that, despite the fact that I find Ashley Firth incredibly hard to swallow, I have no idea how he's supposed to help me. Ashley won his games by virtue of two things; his intellect, and his speed. I get alright grades at school, but I'm no great genius. Certainly not innovative like Ashley was - stealing from the Careers, using the sponsor system to his advantage. Nor am I particularly fast. What can you do for me, Ashley Firth? He keeps glancing at me, looking me up and down, as if he's seizing me up. There's nothing you can do, unless you can help me convince all of Panem that I'm not a threat, and then once that's done, convince them that I am.
Convince them. It hits me all at once. Of course! Ashley is a director! Suddenly, his frivolous excuse for a talent becomes the only thing that endears me to him. Perhaps Ashley might be of some help after all. I just need to find a moment in private to talk to him. I wonder, if I pretend to be sick, will he follow me out? Just as I'm about to try to force some of the soup up - which is difficult, because it's so good - Ambrosia speaks up.
"So, Johanna! How are you finding the train?"
Small talk. I pause for a moment. "It's hard to find my feet," I say. It's a lie, of course. The train's rocking is barely a thorn in my side, but I need to seem as pathetic as I can muster.
Ambrosia's face creases in pity. "You get used to it," she says, and then claps her hands. "So! Do you two know each other?"
Caraway and I? I know who he is, but I can tell he has no idea who I am. Good. We might be from the same district, but Caraway is just as much my enemy as the Careers from One, Two and Four, and I don't want him knowing a single thing about me.
"Johanna and I?" Caraway seems slow on the uptake. "No. You're from the year below, right?"
"Yes," I say. I wonder how hard Caraway will be to kill. Not too difficult once the symptoms of withdrawal kick in, surely, but what about before that? He might be good with an axe as well. I have no way of knowing. Is he better than me? I know I am an asset to the logging teams - that I am accurate, and powerful, and I know exactly where's weakest to hit. But I have never seen Caraway in the field. Maybe, if it came down to it, in the Bloodbath, when we're both at our strongest, he could take me down easily.
I'll have to wait to kill you, I think. But then I feel a flicker of guilt. Caraway seems nice. Or I'll have to wait for someone else to do the job.
Both Caraway and Ambrosia look at me expectantly, but I decide to restrain myself to one word answers. We finish the meal in silence and Ambrosia leads us back to the sitting room, which has been turned down for the evening. On one wall, facing the front, is a massive, flat screen television. I imagine watching the Games on something like this, and immediately I start to feel queasy. We're lucky that our own grainy television has such a bad signal that most of the time, the Games are just a blurry mess of jagged pixels. But on a screen like this, you would be able to see every scratch, every bruise, every splatter of blood in perfect definition. It's vile, I think, as I settle in next to Ashley and Ambrosia leans forward to switch the display on. Fucking vile.
One by one, I am introduced to my competitors. First there is the girl from One. She is called Love, which nearly makes me laugh because the name is so stupid, and she appears prim and proper in her sharp, white uniform. I recognise her district partner, which throws me off, until I realise he must be related to the boy from last year, the one who bled out when the arena flooded. There is vengeance in his eyes, and I wonder what his family must be thinking at sending another child off to the Capitol.
District Two flashes by, and there's something about the boy that draws my attention. He smiles and waves at the camera, but something else gives me pause. Before I can narrow in on it, the screen moves on to District Three, and then Four, and then Five, and then Six, and then -
I am on stage, and I look tiny. The rain pours down hard and I am completely swamped in my dress. Ambrosia shoves the microphone in my face, and I don't give her a second glance. Caraway makes his way on stage, and I look even smaller in comparison. Not bad, I think. But I can do better.
We move on. The girl from Ten has to be dragged onstage, and her sobs ring around the silent square. The screen goes dark.
"Do you want to see something?" It takes a moment before I realise that Ashley is speaking to me. At first, I'm about to decline, because I want a moment alone to mull over my competition, but then I remember that I need to speak to him alone. "It's just down that way."
I stay silent and nod, because Caraway and Blight are still in the car. Ashley leads the way down towards the back of the train. I try to imagine him and Lynn in a room together, perhaps somewhere in the Justice Building. Her, holding a script and reading words in a warbling, thin voice. The idea makes me want to laugh.
' Ashley's nice,' Lynn had said. I picture him as he was on screen a few years ago, coated from head to toe in blood, on the shoreline of a grey beach, water lapping at his heels. They showed that shot over and over all year. The Capitol must have been obsessed with it. I think he looked feral. Long hair matted with dirt and gore, eyes wide, breath hitched. I look at his hair now. It's naturally dark red, but I can't help but imagine that it's been stained by blood. Where's that look now? Ashley seems almost mild-mannered. He's acting almost just as much as I am.
We eventually come across a room towards the back of the train. It's made of glass, and for a moment my eyes narrow in confusion. But then Ashley presses a button, and with a hiss, the walls slide down to the floor. I'm hit with a wall of wind, and the sharp smell of pine fills my lungs. Oh.
"You don't get a chance for much fresh air before the Games," Ashley says. "Capitol air has a smell to it. I thought you might want another breath of home before next week."
I raise my chin and take in big gulps of the stuff. The air invigorates me. I imagine that if my arena is like this, then the others don't stand a chance. I will take them out, one by one, before they have any idea what hit them.
I notice Ashley is looking at me. "What are you thinking?" He asks.
I decide to tell him the truth. "I'm thinking about how I'm going to kill them."
To Ashley's credit, if he's surprised, he hides it well. He comes to sit down on one of the plush seats that line the room, and observes me for a moment longer. And then, he speaks in a very plain voice. "How will you kill them?"
"With an axe, probably," I say. "If there is one. Any weapon will do, really. But first I'll make them think I'm weak."
"Right," he says. "And how will you do that?"
How will I do that? What a stupid question. "By acting weak, obviously," I say. "I mean, I fooled you just now, didn't I?"
"I don't know you," Ashley shrugs. "Barely had enough time to make a judgement call. I assumed you were in shock."
"I'm not in shock," I say. "I know what I'm doing."
"It takes a lot more than that to fool the Capitol," he replies. "It's not that easy."
"Okay. Then direct me," I say. His lack of conviction pricks at me. Surely I am the best bet he's had since he's started mentoring. "That's what you do, right? You direct people?"
"It depends," Ashley sounds almost lofty. "Are you any good?"
Am I any good? His comment surprises me enough that some of my anger ebbs away. "What do you mean?"
"I only work with people who are good," Ashley says. "How do I know you are?"
Honestly, I don't even know if I am good, but I decide not to tell him that, because I don't think it will land well. "I'll prove it to you."
"Okay," he says. "Good. Do that. And are you any good with an axe?"
"I said I'd kill them with it."
"Yes, but are you any good ?"
"I've been told I am," I say. I almost wish I hadn't told Ashley about this. He was far nicer when he thought I was just a pathetic whelp. But at the very least, he's acting like a Victor now. "But that's only part of it, right? Like, anyone can kill. They don't want any old killer, they want a show ."
"Mm," Ashley cocks his head to the side. " All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It's an old quote," he says, and stands up. "Maybe a bit on the nose. But it's good if you can use an axe. There's a new Gamemaker this year. He'll be looking for something bloody."
"New Gamemaker?" It doesn't surprise me. Last year's games were dull by Capitol standards. "Who?"
"Seneca Crane," Ashley says. "I don't know much about him, but you should expect a difficult arena. First-time Gamemakers always love to make a mark."
Great, I think. "You don't sound very happy."
"About the arena? No, of course I'm not."
"No," I say. "About me."
Ashley looks at me curiously. "I'm reserving judgement. Tomorrow's your audition. Impress me, and then we'll get to work."
Impress Ashley Firth. It's not exactly what I had in mind, but I find that the challenge strikes new energy into me. Tomorrow, I'll arrive in the Capitol, and I'll be presented live for the first time to a crowd of thousands. The thought could be daunting, but really, if there's only one person I need to impress, I could do it in my sleep.
"Okay," I say. "I will."
