Chapter Text
Everything’s been strangely normal this year, if “normal” even exists in this place. No twisted arena reveals or monstrous mutations—at least not yet. But District Twelve gave us something new. Something no one saw coming.
A volunteer.
Katniss Everdeen.
Even now, I can’t quite believe it. I remember standing in front of the screen during the reaping, frowning as she shoved her way forward. She wasn’t reaped. She chose this. For her sister. And now everyone is watching her like she’s already rewritten the rules.
And then the outfits. The fire. Real flames stitched into silk and coal-black fabric. It should’ve looked ridiculous, but it didn’t. It looked dangerous. Regal. The Capitol lost their minds. Then the training score. An eleven. And Haymitch—he’s been sober ever since.
That might be the strangest part of all.
I’ve never seen him like this. Alert. Focused. Like he remembers how to be a Victor again instead of just the aftermath. He’s proud of her. He won’t say it, but I see it in the way he’s been staying up late, jaw clenched, a hand wrapped around a water glass like he doesn’t trust himself with anything stronger.
My tribute this year is Arnav. He’s twelve. Just twelve.
I was young when I went into the arena, but not like this. Not this small. He still stutters when he’s nervous and curls in on himself when people look at him too long. He didn’t stand a chance the second his name was called, and no one did anything. No older boy stepped forward. No girl tried to save him. Not even the ones with nothing to lose. Just silence. And then the walk to the stage.
He shouldn’t be there. And I hate that there’s nothing I can do about it.
Mags has Kaia this year. She’s smart, quiet, calculated. The kind of girl who knows how to listen before she speaks and move before she’s seen. She reminds me of Deyra a bit—soft on the outside, but there’s a spine in her. I’d bet she’ll find her way into the Careers’ circle by the end of the day. Maybe not as their leader, but close enough to be protected. Mags thinks so too. She hasn't said it aloud, but I can see it in the way her hands rest calmly in her lap, the way she watches Kaia with the same knowing look she used to give me.
I wish I could talk to Johanna about it.
This time last year, we were sitting beside each other, betting on bloodbath survivors and mocking Caesar Flickerman’s suits. But now… nothing.
Not since she tried to go behind my back. She tried to tell Mags what that Capitol woman did to me. She thought she was helping, and maybe she was, but she didn’t ask. She didn’t give me the chance to tell it my way. I haven’t spoken to her since.
I keep telling myself I’m fine with that. That I don’t care. But as the room grows quieter and the clock ticks closer to the start, the empty space beside me feels bigger than it should. It feels wrong not to have her here, tossing popcorn or grapes they give us at my face and calling out kill predictions like a sportscaster.
I miss her.
But I don’t know how to say that—not after everything.
“Finn?”
I snap back into reality, the chattering of Capitol citizens filling the room.
“District Four is up next.”
“Right,” I mumble.
Kaia walks onto the stage to a swell of cheers, the sound washing over her in a way that almost lifts her off her feet. She pauses for just half a second at the top of the steps—long enough for the cameras to catch her profile, the way the lights catch in her hair—then she smiles, wide and practiced, and the Capitol eats it up.
“So, Kaia,” Caesar begins, all charm and sparkle, his grin stretched so wide it looks like it might crack. “How are you liking your stay so far?”
Kaia sits perfectly straight in the chair beside him, back aligned, shoulders relaxed, hands folded neatly in her lap like she’s rehearsed this moment a hundred times in front of a mirror. And maybe she has. But I know better. Mags mentioned it—how Kaia gets when she’s nervous. Quiet. Controlled.
“Oh, I love it,” she says brightly. “Everything is so glamorous here.”
Her voice holds, almost all the way through. It only wavers on the last word, just enough for someone who’s been on that stage before to hear it. The Capitol audience doesn’t notice. They never do. They’re too busy clapping, smiling, believing what they’re told.
But I notice.
I remember that feeling. The lights. The noise. The lie you tell because it’s safer than the truth.
Caesar throws his head back and laughs, that famous, booming sound that echoes through the studio like it’s been polished and perfected over decades. “That’s certainly one word for it! I bet District Four is beautiful as well!”
Kaia nods eagerly, the nerves melting into something softer as she talks about home. “Yeah, I mean, it’s amazing to look out your window and see all the bright flowers and waves. There’s a lot of beautiful things in Four.”
She’s right.
There’s no place like home. The salt in the air. The sound of the tide. The way the sun hits the water just right at dawn.
Annie, for example.
The thought sneaks in uninvited, sharp and tender all at once. I push it down before it can show on my face.
Caesar turns toward the audience with a knowing smile, eyes gleaming. “You’re certainly right—a lot of beautiful things come out of District Four. Take Finnick Odair, for example!”
I have exactly one second to brace myself before my face replaces Kaia’s on the massive screen above the stage.
The crowd explodes.
I don’t miss a beat. I straighten, flash the smile I’ve worn a thousand times before. Easy. Charming. Untouchable. I lift a hand in a lazy wave, then add a wink for good measure. The cheers swell, laughter rippling through the audience like a wave breaking against shore.
Inside, I feel… nothing. Or too much. It’s hard to tell anymore.
Right as the cameras finally pan away, the noise receding like a tide pulling back, I feel Mags’ hand settle on my shoulder. Solid. Warm. Real.
I glance at her. She gives me a small, steady smile. “It’s okay,” she murmurs, like she knows exactly what it costs me to wear that grin.
I nod, grateful. I don’t trust my voice.
The lights shift. The applause fades into something expectant.
Arnav is up next.
“Welcome, Arnav!” Caesar exclaims, clapping his hands together with delight. “How charming you look!”
Arnav steps onto the stage like he’s walking into a storm, shoulders drawn in, hands clasped tight at his sides. His suit is too big, sleeves swallowing his wrists, and the bright lights make him squint.
He glances out at the crowd, then—just for a second—his eyes flick to the camera. To me.
I straighten in my seat, offering him a nod, a silent I’m here. It’s not much. It’s nowhere near enough.
But it’s all I have.
Arnav’s smile wobbles, just barely, before he schools it into something steadier. He sits when Caesar gestures for him to, feet not quite reaching the floor, legs swinging once before he stills them with visible effort.
“So, Arnav,” Caesar says, leaning forward with exaggerated interest, voice warm and coaxing. “Tell us—how are you feeling tonight?”
Arnav swallows. I can see it from here, the way his throat bobs, the way his hands curl into the fabric of his pants like he’s anchoring himself. “I—I’m excited,” he says. His voice cracks on the first word, then evens out, like he’s gripping it with both hands. “It’s… it’s all very new.”
The audience chuckles fondly, like this is charming. Like fear is endearing when it belongs to someone small.
“New is good!” Caesar beams. “A fresh adventure!”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
“And what are you most looking forward to?” Caesar continues. “The arena? The challenge? The chance to prove yourself?”
“My… my family,” Arnav says finally. “I want them to see me. To know I tried.”
The room goes quiet in that peculiar Capitol way—silence edged with fascination. Then a few murmurs ripple through the audience.
Caesar’s grin falters for half a second before snapping back into place. “How sweet! And I’m sure they’re very proud.”
I’m not sure that’s true. Proud isn’t the word I’d use. Terrified. Heartbroken. Helpless.
“And tell me,” Caesar adds lightly, waving a hand as if this is all just conversation over tea, “do you have a strategy going into the Games?”
Arnav’s shoulders draw in. “I’m… I’m going to try to stay alive,” he says. Honest. Too honest.
Laughter bubbles up in the audience—not cruel, not kind. Just entertained.
I feel something hot and sharp flare in my chest.
“That’s a solid plan!” Caesar laughs. “Spoken like a true survivor!”
Arnav nods, relief flickering across his face at the approval, even though it’s hollow. Even though it means nothing.
The lights shift again. Applause swells. Caesar thanks him with a flourish, ushering him off the stage like he’s finished a performance instead of signed his own death warrant.
As Arnav stands, he stumbles slightly on the step. My heart jumps into my throat. He catches himself quickly, cheeks flushing, and hurries offstage as the crowd cheers him on.
I exhale slowly, realizing I’ve been holding my breath the entire time.
Mags leans closer, her voice barely audible over the applause. “He did well.”
“He told the truth,” I murmur.
She nods. “Sometimes that’s all you can do.”
The applause fades into a dull roar, like it’s underwater. Caesar’s voice keeps going—bright, relentless—but the words stop meaning anything. Faces blur on the screen. Colors smear together. I know time is passing because the lights keep shifting, because the audience keeps clapping on cue, but I’m not really here anymore.
I’m somewhere else.
Back in the apartment. The taste of something bitter and wrong on my tongue. My limbs heavy, sluggish, like they didn’t belong to me. The way the room tilted when I tried to stand. The way my skin crawled when I realized I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten there.
Johanna leaned over me, trying to get me to come back to reality.
Don’t tell Mags, I’d said. Or maybe begged. I don’t remember which. I just remember the panic—the sharp, animal terror that clawed up my throat at the thought of Mags knowing. Of her looking at me with that quiet, knowing sadness. Of seeing the truth laid bare.
Johanna had stared at me for a long moment. Then she nodded.
“I won’t,” she’d said. Flat. Tight. Angry.
I believed her.
The memory fractures when something nudges my arm.
Not hard. Just enough.
“Finnick,” Mags says softly.
I blink, the room snapping back into focus too fast. The screen in front of us shows a new tributes walking onto the stage. Different colors. Different silhouettes.
“District Eleven is up next,” Mags continues, her voice gentle but observant. “You’ve been gone a while.”
I straighten automatically, forcing my shoulders back, my expression into something neutral. “Sorry,” I mutter. “Just… thinking.”
Mags hums quietly, unconvinced.
She watches the screen for a moment longer, then adds, almost casually, “You didn’t even move when District Seven went up.”
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
“I noticed,” I say, a little too quickly. “Just didn’t feel like making a show of it.”
Mags turns her head then, really looks at me. The way she used to when I was younger and thought I was getting away with something.
“You haven’t spoken to Johanna once,” she says.
The words land clean. Precise. No accusation. Just fact.
“I have,” I start, then stop. Shake my head. “I mean—I will. It’s just… not now.”
“You haven’t looked at her,” Mags continues gently. “You didn’t make her sit with you. You always make her sit with you.”
I swallow.
Across the room, Johanna laughs sharply at something Caesar says, the sound cutting and bright. She doesn’t look at me. Not even by accident.
“I didn’t want to start anything,” I say. It sounds thin, even to me.
Mags’s hand rests over mine, warm and steady. “You already are,” she says quietly.
My chest tightens.
I see it again—coming home, still shaking, head pounding, every nerve raw. Seeing Mags with a phone in hand. Hearing Johanna’s voice on the other end before I even knew what was happening.
The betrayal hadn’t been loud.
It had been devastating.
“She promised,” I say before I can stop myself. My voice is low, rough. “She promised she wouldn’t tell you.”
Mags doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t defend herself. Just squeezes my hand once. “She was scared for you,” she says. “So was I.”
“That doesn’t make it okay,” I mutter.
“No,” Mags agrees. “But neither is shutting her out.”
On the screen, the District Eleven girl smiles bravely into the lights. The boy beside her blinks like he’s overwhelmed by the sound.
I barely see them.
I can feel Johanna’s absence like a missing limb. Like something vital I’ve refused to acknowledge because it hurts too much to touch.
I still remember telling Mags. The way my voice cracked before I could stop it. The way her face fell, hands flying to her mouth as if she could physically hold the truth back. The way she cried—not loudly, not dramatically, just quiet tears that cut deeper than any anger ever could. There was no hiding it after that. Not when my voice had been shaking over the phone with Johanna, not when the walls had heard everything even if I hadn’t meant them to.
That moment lives in me now. Heavy. Permanent.
No amount of distance will erase it. And no amount of silence will make it hurt less.
“I didn’t know how to look at her after that,” I admit, staring straight ahead. “Every time I do, I remember… that room. That feeling. And the fact that she told you anyway.”
Mags is quiet for a long moment.
“She didn’t do it to hurt you,” she says at last. “And she didn’t do it to betray you.”
I don’t answer.
Because part of me knows that. And part of me is still furious.
The applause swells again. Caesar’s voice rings out, ushering the next tribute forward. The Games keep moving, whether I’m ready or not.
Mags’s hand stays on mine.
“You don’t have to forgive her today,” she says softly. “But you don’t have to punish yourself either.”
I nod once, stiffly.
Across the room, Johanna shifts in her seat, wedges between Chaff and Haymitch.
I still don’t look.
But for the first time, I wonder how much longer I can keep pretending I don’t want to.
Katniss Everdeen walks onto the stage, and for the first time in a while, my attention snaps fully back into the room.
I straighten slightly in my seat, eyes narrowing—not because she’s flashy, or polished, or beautiful in the Capitol way, but because she volunteered.
From Twelve.
That alone makes her an anomaly.
Volunteering isn’t something Twelve does. They send their kids like lambs, quiet and resigned, heads bowed as if that might make the cameras forget them. But Katniss steps into the light like she chose this. Like she made a decision and is still standing by it.
For her sister, I remember distantly. The commentators had been very clear about that.
She doesn’t smile much. Doesn’t charm Caesar the way some tributes do. But there’s something steady in her posture, something sharp in the way her eyes scan the crowd—as if she’s cataloging exits, threats, angles.
A contender, then.
Which is unsettling.
I still don’t know how.
That’s the thing that bothers me. We don’t know her skill. Not really. An eleven in training is nothing to ignore, especially not from Twelve, but scores don’t tell the whole story. They never do. She could be deadly, or she could be lucky, or she could be a disaster waiting to happen.
Kaia had leaned over earlier, whispering too quickly, too nervously. “Do you know what she did? Do you know what her thing is?”
Mags had only shaken her head, calm as ever. “No way of knowing, dear.”
And I hadn’t known either.
That alone makes Katniss dangerous.
Caesar chatters easily with her, filling the silence she leaves behind. She answers when she has to. Deflects when she can. The audience seems torn between wanting to adore her and wanting to shake something brighter out of her.
I don’t look away until she leaves the stage.
Then Peeta Mellark takes her place.
Immediately, I feel it—that shift in the room. The way people lean forward just a little. He smiles, and it’s not forced. Not sharp. It’s open, almost disarming, like he doesn’t realize he’s on display.
He’s a good option, I think. Too good.
He banters with Caesar easily, self-deprecating, warm. The crowd eats it up. And there’s something about it that makes my chest tighten—not envy, exactly, but recognition.
Charm like that is a double-edged blade.
It keeps you alive longer than you should be. It makes people root for you. It makes the Capitol care.
And if you win… it doesn’t protect you.
Caesar’s grin turns sly. “There must be a lucky girl back home for you, Peeta.”
Peeta shakes his head, almost embarrassed. “Not really.”
Caesar laughs. “Oh, I don’t believe that for a second!”
Peeta hesitates. Actually hesitates.
“I… I’ve had a crush on a girl for forever,” he says slowly, carefully. “But I don’t think she even recognized me. Not until the reaping.”
Caesar claps his hands together, delighted, the audience already buzzing. “Then here’s what you do! You go out and win the Games, Peeta! And when you come back, that girl will have no choice but to go out with you!”
Peeta swallows.
“I don’t think that’ll be much help,” he says. His voice doesn’t waver, but there’s something braced in it now. “She… she came here with me.”
The reaction is instantaneous.
Gasps ripple through the crowd like a wave. Cheers break out. Hands fly to mouths. People laugh in disbelief, in awe, in glee. The Capitol loves nothing more than a story handed to them on a silver platter.
Even I’m caught off guard.
Beside me, Mags’s hand rises to her chest, fingers brushing her mouth, eyes wide—not shocked so much as worried.
My first instinct is immediate, reflexive.
“Jo, can you—”
The words die in my throat.
Because Johanna isn’t beside me.
She isn’t leaning back in her chair with her boots crossed, smirk ready, already forming some sharp comment about how this is either brilliant or suicidal. She isn’t there shaking my shoulders, incredulous with the events that just unfolded.
Instead, Wiress sits at my side, staring at the stage with unsettling intensity, murmuring something under her breath about patterns and echoes.
I turn to her too fast. “Sorry,” I say quickly, quietly. “Sorry—I thought—”
She doesn’t seem offended. Just tilts her head, eyes unfocused, already somewhere else.
I sit back, hands clasped tightly together.
On stage, Peeta stands in the center of it all, smiling softly, oblivious or pretending to be. Katniss is no longer visible, but I can feel the Capitol locking them together already, weaving a narrative that will not let go.
That’s dangerous, I think.
Not because of what it means for the arena.
But because of what it means if they survive.
And as the applause roars on, I can’t help but wonder—briefly, unwillingly—whether the Capitol has just found something it can love a little too much.
The applause is still ringing when Mags lowers her hand from her chest and turns her head toward me.
She doesn’t speak right away. She just looks at me—really looks at me—with that quiet, unnervingly perceptive calm she’s always had. Like she’s watching tides shift under the surface.
“You reached for Johanna,” she says softly.
I stiffen. “I—”
“You always do,” Mags continues, gentle but unyielding. “When something like that happens. Something unexpected. You look for her first.”
I glance back toward the rows behind us without meaning to, half-expecting to see her slouched there, boots up, expression sharp and unreadable. But she’s nowhere near me. Not today.
I stare at the stage, at Caesar’s too-bright smile, at the tributes waiting in the wings, and try to shrug it off. “It’s nothing. We just—haven’t talked.”
Mags’s hand settles over mine, warm and steady. “That’s the problem.”
I finally look at her.
“The silence between you,” she continues, voice low so no one else can hear, “isn’t helping either of you. And I can see it, Finnick. You want to talk to her. You’re holding yourself back like it’s a punishment.”
I swallow. “She went behind my back.”
“Yes,” Mags says simply. “And you went quiet.”
I flinch at that—not because she’s wrong, but because she’s right in a way I don’t want to admit.
“You didn’t stop caring,” she goes on. “You didn’t stop trusting her. You just got hurt.”
Images flash unbidden—too fast, too sharp. A Capitol room that smells wrong. A woman’s smile. My head spinning, body heavy, useless. Johanna in the doorway, eyes going dangerous in an instant. My voice shaking as I made her promise. Don’t tell Mags. Please.
Then coming home to hear Mags’s voice through the phone. Calm. Concerned. Johanna’s low and furious on the other end.
Betrayal isn’t the right word.
But it’s close.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen like that,” I say quietly.
“I know,” Mags replies. “And she didn’t mean to hurt you.”
I shake my head, frustrated. “She should’ve let me decide. It was my—” My voice falters. My story. My shame. “She took that from me.”
Mags squeezes my hand. “And you’re taking something from both of you now.”
I look at her again, really look at her.
“You miss her,” she says, not accusing. Just stating a fact. “And she misses you.”
I scoff weakly. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” Mags says. “Because I see the way she watches you when she thinks you aren’t paying attention. And I see the way you keep checking for her even when you pretend you don’t care.”
I let out a slow breath, shoulders slumping.
“She’s stubborn,” Mags adds, a faint smile touching her lips. “And so are you. But neither of you is made for this kind of distance.”
The cheers from the crowd swell again, drowning out whatever Caesar is saying now. Somewhere beneath it all, the countdown ticks closer to zero.
“You should talk to her,” Mags says. “Not later. Not when it’s easier. Soon.”
I nod, even though my chest feels tight.
“I don’t know what I’d say.”
Mags’s thumb brushes over my knuckles. “Start with the truth.”
God. What has my life come to that I actually care about my friendship with Johanna Mason of all people?
I lean back in my chair, eyes drifting once more to the sea of faces, the stage, the spectacle. And despite everything—the noise, the tension, the coming bloodshed—the only thing I can think about is the empty seat where Johanna should be.
And how quiet it feels without her.
===
I press my hands together and wait. For the gong. For the chaos. For the moment when Arnav runs—and I pray he runs fast enough.
The mentor room feels quieter than usual. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe it’s the weight of it all, the Games pressing in on every wall like a storm rolling in. But I can feel it.
Johanna stands in the corner, arms crossed, her shoulder against the wall like she’s trying to disappear into it. She hasn’t said a word since we walked in. She keeps glancing over—just little looks, like she wants to say something but keeps deciding against it. Her foot taps softly against the floor. Nervous. Restless. Guilty, maybe.
She looks up again. Meets my eyes for half a second before looking away.
The silence stretches between us like a taut line. Just under three minutes now.
Then, finally, she pushes off the wall and crosses the room.
“Hey,” she says, voice low, careful.
I don’t look at her. Not at first.
“I owe you an apology,” she says. “I shouldn’t have told Mags. I—I thought I was helping.”
That gets my attention. I glance over at her.
“I just—” she sighs and tucks a strand of her short hair behind her ear. “I care, Finnick. I really care about you. That’s why I did it. Not to step over you or take your choices away. I just didn’t want you to carry that alone.”
Her voice cracks a little near the end, just a tremor, but it’s enough to catch me off guard. Johanna Mason doesn’t do cracks. She’s all bark and bite and sarcasm. Not… this.
I blink. “You care about me?”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a twitch of a smile at the edge of her mouth. “Unfortunately. Yeah.”
I let out a breath. It’s not much, but it lifts something in my chest that’s been sitting there too long. My hand reaches out, slow, and I pat the spot on the couch beside me.
She scoffs but she smiles anyway, the real kind, the kind that makes her eyes crinkle a little at the edges. She sinks down beside me, close but not too close. Just enough that I can feel the warmth of her shoulder near mine.
Neither of us says anything else. We don’t have to.
The countdown blinks on the screen—less than a minute now.
The tributes are all frozen on their platforms, the arena stretching out behind them like a lie. Grass. Trees. Sunlight. Wide open spaces that look like peace, but I know better. It’s too quiet out there. No cover at the Cornucopia, barely a shadow in sight.
The kind of arena that turns kids into ghosts before the first cannon.
I press my hands together. Interlace my fingers. Bow my head for a second—not a prayer, not really. Just a silent hope.
Arnav stands so small on that plate. His chest rising and falling too fast.
Please run, I think. Run and don’t look back.
The final seconds tick down.
Three.
Two.
One.
The gong sounds. The Games begin.
The first cannon goes off a couple seconds in.
Then another. And another.
Fast—merciless.
A chain of sound that rattles the floor beneath us.
I don’t move. I can’t. My eyes are locked on the screen as the Cornucopia becomes a slaughterhouse.
Lucia’s hand covers her mouth. Gage swears under his breath and turns away.
Wiress has already left the room.
Blight’s gone. Johanna’s tribute too. Both from Seven—gone in the opening seconds. District Six? Slaughtered. Nine? Dead. I can see Woof’s tribute go down in a tangle of limbs, trying to crawl away with blood slicking the grass.
The cannons keep coming.
Eight. Nine. Ten.
And then—
There’s Arnav.
He’s darting between bodies, too small to be seen unless you’re looking for him. Which I am. God, I am.
He makes it past the girl from Ten’s body, ducks under a boy swinging a mace, his face pale with blood and fear. He’s headed for the Cornucopia. Great.
He’s fast. So fast.
But not fast enough.
The boy from District Two, Cato, I think, is a monster in motion—fluid, terrifying, born for this. His sword gleams as he spots Arnav ravinging in the Cornucopia.
“No,” I breathe, stepping forward like I could somehow reach through the screen.
He doesn’t even see Cato. Doesn’t hear him.
The sword comes down—one clean arc.
And Arnav collapses mid-stride.
A tiny body hitting the ground with a weightless finality. Like a dropped leaf. Like nothing at all.
The eleventh cannon roars.
I flinch.
The camera lingers, just for a second, on the smallest tribute bleeding into the dirt.
The Games have barely started, and it’s already over for him.
My lungs tighten. My mouth won’t open.
Mags is beside me before I can lose it, her hand gently pressing against the back of my shoulder.
Johanna doesn’t say anything. She watches too, jaw tense, arms crossed.
I swallow hard. He just never stood a chance.
“My girl didn’t even make it ten steps,” Johanna mutters finally. Her voice is rough, like she’s been chewing glass. “Slipped and some Career didn’t even hesitate.”
I turn slightly toward her, but her eyes stay glued to the screen. She’s not really watching anymore. Just… holding herself together.
“She was fast,” I say quietly. “If she hadn’t slipped—”
“She would’ve made it to the trees,” Johanna finishes, then scoffs under her breath. “And maybe lasted another ten minutes.”
Silence. It stretches between us like the arena itself—wide, empty, filled with things we don’t say out loud.
Her arms drop to her sides, and she exhales, sharp and bitter. “I told her to wait. To run after the first wave. Not into it.”
“I told Arnav the same thing.”
We sit there, side by side now, both staring at the screen as the camera drifts from blood-slicked ground to the golden Cornucopia glinting under the Capitol sun. Somewhere far away, the anthem plays faintly, the Capitol already weaving the bloodbath into spectacle.
“I liked the kid,” Johanna says after a pause. “She was weird. Kept asking if there’d be birds in the arena. Wanted to learn their calls. Said she wanted to try and sing with them.”
My lips twitch. “He asked me if the forcefield would shock him if he danced too close to it.”
She scoffs. “And you didn’t tell me this sooner?”
“Didn’t think you wanted to hear it.”
She’s quiet for a second, then says, “I always want to hear it, idiot.”
I glance at her again, and this time, she’s already looking at me. There’s something softer in her eyes. Not vulnerable exactly—Johanna doesn’t do that—but open enough.
“Even when I piss you off,” she adds, voice quieter.
“Especially then,” I say with a small smile.
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t pull away when I bump my shoulder lightly against hers.
The atmosphere is lighter now, though still thick with the tension of the Games, and Johanna’s voice cuts through the silence, her tone mocking. “Oh, look, there’s Caesar again,” she says, her eyes narrowing as he’s on screen giving his usual Capitol flair. “Does he always look like he just walked out of a weird circus? I’m starting to think he actually lives on a cloud made of cotton candy.”
I snicker, leaning back in my chair. “And that makeup—don’t get me started. Like, is he the poster child for ‘how much gold can we fit on a person?’”
Johanna raises an eyebrow, her lips twisting into a grin as she mimics the over-the-top Capitol accent with a high-pitched, dramatic flair. “Oh, darling, don’t you just love the Games? It’s all about the excitement! The drama! You’re going to be amazed, I promise!”
I shake my head, fighting back a laugh. “Honestly, if I had to hear him say ‘excitement’ like that one more time, I might just throw something at the screen.”
Johanna smirks, her eyes sparkling. “I’d pay good money to see him try to survive one day out there. You think he’d last more than an hour in the arena before someone stabs him in the back?”
“Not a chance,” I agree, the tension easing slightly as we slip into our mockery of the Capitol's ridiculousness.
Just as I’m about to make another sarcastic comment, the screen shifts and a new scene fills the room. The camera zooms in on the tributes—District Twelve’s Peeta Mellark and the Career pack. My heart stops, just for a moment, as the shock hits me. Peeta is in the middle of the group, walking alongside Cato, Glimmer, and the other Careers.
“What the hell?” Johanna’s voice is incredulous, her eyes wide as she stares at the screen. “Did I just see that right? Is Peeta… in with the Careers?"
I squint at the screen, as if trying to make sense of the scene. “No way,” I mutter under my breath. “District Twelve? With the Careers? What kind of joke is this?”
Johanna lets out a loud laugh, clearly not expecting to be amused by the spectacle unfolding in front of us, but there’s a sharp edge to it. “This is insane. Twelve doesn’t get to play with the big kids. They’re not in the Career alliance. Not unless they're asking for a quick, bloody end.”
I shake my head, still processing it. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Peeta with them? What’s he thinking?”
“I don’t know, but I think I’m gonna need a drink after this,” Johanna says, still staring at the screen, her voice tinged with amusement. “This is probably the most messed-up alliance I’ve ever seen. District Twelve’s tribute, just casually hanging out with the people who’ve been killing the rest of them off since day one.”
My lips twitch, trying to suppress the laugh that’s bubbling up. “It’s like he’s trying to be the token ‘good guy’ in a pack of mostly psychos. You know, the one who’s secretly a hero. Doesn’t really fit, does it?”
Although District Four is technically part of the Career alliance, Districts One and Two are a completely different breed. Ruthless.
Johanna raises an eyebrow. “I mean, if he's playing the long con, it’s a pretty bold move. But… I can’t tell if I’m impressed or just thoroughly confused.”
We both chuckle, still shaken by the absurdity of what we’re witnessing. But the humor quickly fades, replaced by a sudden tension in the room, as the screen shifts again.
Now, the Careers are all gathered, and Peeta is in the thick of it. The camera zooms in as Cato growls, his voice low and dangerous. “We need to find her. Everdeen’s out there somewhere, and we’re taking her down. We’ll find her, and we’ll finish this.”
Peeta, calm and collected, nods. “She won’t be easy to track, but we’ll do it. We’ve got the upper hand.”
Johanna’s eyes widen in shock as the gravity of the situation hits. “Wait—hold up,” she says, her tone sharp. “He’s helping them hunt down Katniss?”
I sit back, a little stunned. “No way… he’s leading them. He’s part of their plan to take her out.”
Johanna stares at the screen, incredulous. “That’s… that’s insane! What happened to all that crap he said in the interview? The whole ‘I have a crush on Katniss’ thing?”
I run a hand through my hair, unable to wrap my head around it. “He says he has feelings for her, and then he’s helping the Careers track her down like she’s the target?”
“Well, I don’t know what’s more twisted,” Johanna mutters, her voice laced with amusement mixed with disbelief. “The fact that he’s with them now or the fact that he just straight-up dropped that love bomb on national television and thought it would somehow make him look better.”
I shake my head, still too stunned to fully process it. “This kid’s got guts, I’ll give him that… but I’m starting to think they’re not the kind of guts you want.”
“It’s smart on the Careers’ part. Katniss, a sixteen-year-old from the poorest District, first volunteers, has an eye-catching outfit, and scores an eleven without showing any of her skills—apparently. Shit, I would target her too.” Johanna leans back in her chair, her arms folding across her chest as she watches the screen, her eyes glittering with amusement. A smirk tugs at her lips, but there’s something colder beneath it. “I’m almost impressed, though. He’s playing the Capitol’s game like a pro. If it weren’t so ridiculous, I might actually give him credit for being a genius.”
I nod slowly, unable to fully disagree. Peeta’s decision to align with the Careers might be as twisted as it is strategic. Katniss has practically been painted as a target by the Capitol, her volunteer status making her a symbol, her scoring an eleven almost like an invitation. The Career tributes will see her as a serious threat, but they’ll underestimate her, just like they underestimate everything that comes out of District Twelve. It’s not the moral thing to do, but it’s smart. Too smart.
From across the room, Cashmere snorts, her voice cutting through the air with her usual sharp tone. “Looks like just your girl tribute is smart, Haymitch.”
Haymitch doesn’t even flinch. His eyes are still glued to the screen, his face as unreadable as ever. There’s something different in the way he watches, though—something more present, as if he’s seeing the pieces of a bigger game start to unfold. It’s not the usual drunken haze that keeps him distant; it’s focus. And it’s disorienting to see.
I glance at him, noticing the change. “Haymitch looks more entuned than usual,” I remark, still watching him out of the corner of my eye.
Johanna raises an eyebrow. “The tides are turning for him,” she shrugs with a smirk, like she’s always a step ahead. “I’m up to date on my ocean metaphors.”
I chuckle softly, not bothering to point out that she probably has more metaphors in her arsenal than most people have words. But there’s no mistaking the underlying tension in the room, in her voice. We’re all waiting for something. Something bigger than we can even see yet.
“Yeah, I think you’re right,” I say, still watching Haymitch. His eyes flicker for a brief moment, a deeper awareness settling in. It’s like he’s seeing the pieces of the game starting to fall into place, and I wonder if he’s finally realizing just how high the stakes really are. “I think he might actually care about this one.”
Johanna snorts, though there’s no real bitterness behind it. “About time. Too bad he can’t seem to care about anything else, or anyone else. But this game? It’s personal. That’s the one thing that keeps him interested.”
“Don’t give him too much credit,” I warn, but even I know Haymitch is better at this game than anyone gives him credit for. Even if he’s not saying much right now, he’s watching every move, every word, every shift in the Careers’ plan. The fact that he’s still staying silent means he’s calculating something.
Just then, the camera shifts back to the screen, and it’s like everything else fades out. Peeta, standing among the Careers, now talking about finding Katniss, the tension in his voice undeniable. The alliance—an unholy mix of ambition, strategy, and deadly intention—seems to solidify in that one moment.
I feel my stomach twist. Everything about this situation is wrong. And yet… it feels inevitable.
“Do you think he’s really on their side?” Johanna asks softly, not taking her eyes off the screen, her voice low but filled with something close to worry. I don’t think she’s worried about Peeta, but about what it means for Katniss. What it means for the Games.
I think for a moment before answering. “I think he’s in too deep now. They’ve got him where they want him. He can’t back out. Not without losing everything. And I’m not sure he’s willing to do that.”
“Seems like a hell of a thing to do for someone you’re supposed to be ‘in love with,’” Johanna says, her voice biting but tinged with something else. Almost like regret. Or maybe just the weight of all of it.
“I wouldn’t call it love,” I say, “Not in the traditional sense. Maybe it’s something else. Maybe it’s just survival. But love? They're not in love. Or at least, Katniss isn’t.”
===
It’s a couple of days into the Games and we’re all starting to get tired.
Johanna’s breathing slows beside me, her body heavy where it’s slouched against my side. Her head rests on my shoulder, my cheek resting on her hair, and for a moment everything is still—quiet except for the soft buzz of the screen and the Capitol commentators drawling in that syrupy, oblivious tone they all have.
Johanna mumbles, half-asleep, “Well, I do declare! It seems we have yet another tribute in peril! How thrilling! What do you think, my dear Finnick?” She stretches the word like taffy, making me snort against her hair.
“I simply adore it when they fight for their lives,” I reply in the same awful accent, slurring like I’m drunk on luxury and cluelessness. “It’s all so entertaining!”
Johanna lets out a groggy chuckle, eyes nearly shut. “Oh, it’s to die for!”
We’re half-limp, heads heavy, bodies soft with sleep. Haymitch hasn’t said a word in ages. He’s in the armchair closest to the screen, one hand gripping a glass of water, the other resting on his knee.
Then—
BOOM.
The cannon doesn’t sound, but the explosion that rocks the arena might as well be one.
The screen lights up like the sun, and in an instant, we’re both upright.
“What the hell—” I start.
Katniss is on screen. The camera catches the panic as the air around her ignites. She’s sprinting through a clearing as a fireball tears past her. Another erupts from the treetops behind her.
“Move!” A couple of the victors beside us yell. “Don’t stop, don’t stop—!”
The flames catch her—just barely—but enough. Her leg crumples beneath her as she hits the dirt, tumbling down a hill.
My stomach turns.
And that’s when Haymitch is moving. His glass crashes to the floor—water splashing across the wood—as he lunges for the console in the corner. His fingers fumble, trembling from pure panic.
“Come on, come on…” he mutters. He jabs a button, holds a receiver to his mouth. “I need a burn salve. I need it now. Highest grade you’ve got, I don’t care the cost.”
He’s pacing now, barefoot, hair sticking up at wild angles, the calm from earlier completely shattered. His hand slams the wall beside the screen when the signal doesn’t go through fast enough.
Johanna and I exchange a glance. No more jokes. No Capitol accents. No snide remarks.
“She’s gonna die if they don’t get that to her fast enough,” Johanna says, voice low. “That wasn’t just for show.”
I nod silently, eyes locked on the screen. Katniss stops falling, trying to find shelter. Her breathing’s ragged, limbs shaking.
“Maybe she'll find some water” I mutter.
Haymitch doesn’t say anything. He’s back at the console, talking fast, furious.
He’s calling in every favor he has left.
“Girl on fire,” Johanna mutters, not amused anymore. “Guess they meant it literally this time.”
The screen cuts to her dragging herself through the underbrush, face pale and jaw tight. Her leg is a mess—blistered and angry red—but she’s moving. Barely.
“Where’s she going?” Johanna murmurs.
I lean forward a little, trying to make out the terrain. “Looks like… a lake?”
Sure enough, Katniss stumbles into the shallows of a still, murky pool, half-collapsing as she sinks into it. The relief on her face is subtle, but real. She submerges her leg, her whole body trembling. She’s not crying, not making any noise. Just breathing hard, jaw clenched tight.
“Lucky break,” I say. “That water’ll buy her some time.”
“Wow, you can read minds.” Johanna mutters, squinting. I smile.
Because then—just over the ridge—movement. Shadows. Too fast to be animals.
“Careers,” I say as the camera zooms. Glimmer. Marvel. Cato. Clove. And Peeta trailing behind them, noticeably quieter than the rest.
He’s still with them.
“Oh, Twelve,” Johanna sighs, almost bored. “Still playing the Capitol’s little love story like it’s gonna save his life.”
“Maybe it will,” I say. “If he can keep the act up long enough.”
They reach the lake’s edge within seconds. Katniss hears them. Her whole body jolts with panic, and before any of them spot her, she’s scrambling out of the water, every movement stiff and painful. Her leg gives a little, but she pushes through it.
The camera pans fast as she darts into the trees. Clove sees it first, points.
And they’re after her.
“Shit,” I mutter. “She’s not gonna outrun them with that leg.”
“Tree,” Johanna says, sitting up straighter.
Katniss reaches it just in time. One of the taller ones, trunk thick and branches high. She throws her backpack over her shoulder, slings her burned leg up, and climbs.
Cato climbs the tree but quickly falls back down.
“She’s fast for someone who just got torched,” Johanna murmurs.
“She’s desperate.”
The Careers surround the base of the tree. Glimmer snarls something, gesturing upward with her bow.
And then Peeta says it, loud enough the mic catches: “She can’t stay up there forever.”
Johanna groans, dragging a hand down her face. “That’s your big line, Romeo? Really?”
“He’s committed to the role,” I mutter, eyebrows raised. “I’ll give him that.”
We glance sideways at Haymitch. His knuckles are white around the edge of the desk, but he’s silent, jaw tight.
“They’re not lovers,” Johanna says again, firmer this time. “He might be, but her? She doesn’t even like him.”
I nod once. “Not even a little.”
Everything is always a game.