Count to Five

I've lost weight since my last dress fitting. It's probably not noticeable, but I can feel the additional fabric around my waist. My stylist, Thom, would be furious, as my sister had fallen in love with the dress and embroidered a design all over it for me. By some standards, it is still very plain and doesn't show much skin which I know will be disappointing for some.

I don't allow myself to tug at it, I am on camera, my every move and reaction broadcast live in the Capitol. I have a reputation that I have built up, this reputation has kept me alive. There's only a matter of time until it won't. But a smile now, a confident smirk and strut may earn me a new fan in the cityscape. More fans meant more sponsors, a greater chance of a gift in the arena. I had received a gift in my last games which had saved my life. I would not allow myself to lose that chance. I'd picked my most ostentatious shoes, to make up for the dress. That ought to be some olive branch for Thom.

The reaping ceremony drags, and even though there are only two of us on stage waiting, we go through the whole charade of pulling a name from each of the magnificently crafted crystal bowls. Berg steps into his place first, and a few moments later I follow. We shake hands, as is customary, and the Mayor reads our thanks to the Capitol, to President Snow who allows his people to remain so comfortably in poverty. I feel my jaw tighten, swallow it down. Poisonous thoughts will make no difference, I cannot allow anything to show on my face.

Finally, we're done and it's a whirlwind until we are sat on the train with Opa, our escort waddling to the alcohol bar. I tried not to allow myself to think of my family, they would be safe. I had done everything in my power over the last five years to keep them safe. Again, there's the temptation to sink into dangerous thoughts and memories.

When Opa offers wine Berg accepts it eagerly, swallowing it in one gulp. I do not follow, I dislike alcohol and only ever sip at it to be polite. I don't feel like this is a time I must be and place it straight down on the side, moving to help myself to water instead. The ice clinks against my teeth but I drain the glass, mouth horrendously dry.

As ever, the view from the train window is close to a blur. Wide fields pass in minutes, the cattle a mass of brown. I stop myself from sighing, and my eyes scan the lush compartment. Opa is scrawling something in her notebook now. It was probably doodles of a new outfit or hairdo she wanted. I was surprised she could even sit down in her skirt, stretched tightly over the inflated thighs and buttocks she’d paid so much for. It wouldn’t be too long until the trend was to be stick thin and she’d have all of the plastic in her pulled out.

She catches me staring, misinterprets and smiles. The jewel on her tooth glints in the prosthetic lighting. She goes to start a conversation and I stand, completely unable to manage it, worried about controlling myself. I am not angry at Opa, not directly. Opa has been a comfort, her first year as our District escort was for the games I entered. She is doing what is expected, she holds the mindset drilled into the children of the Capitol. Even so, I cannot stand her in this moment and leave the main compartment, the Capitol attendants move out of my way like well-oiled machinery. There are too many of them, Opa had made a comment about this year being especially luxurious. I didn't want luxury, I wanted a moment alone to catch myself before I fell.

I find that at the end of the train, the glass compartment. Not the official name but it is as it sounds, you can see out on all sides. It's my favourite but is just as painful now as any other. I can catch my home pass, knowing I will not be returning in a few weeks as usual.

Well, that's not true. I will be returning in a box. I wonder what my Father would make of that, where he would choose as my final resting place. We should have discussed this. There are plenty of things we should have spoken about, some of them may have changed the way he looked at me.

All for nothing, all of my thoughts are doing nothing but upsetting me. I had promised myself I would leave home where it was. That's proving to be much easier said than done. I sit finally, folding into a plush armchair. We pass a patch of apple trees, another memory. The tears are starting to form now, stinging and scratching.

I will not be coming home alive. I could be dead in eight days, do the maths. Between the reaping ceremony and the first day of the games. I will be caged in just over a week. Then tears come, but only a few. I will only allow a few. I can't afford to look weak and scared.

You could never forget that the Games were exactly that. Some tributes did, they forgot about the cameras once the instinct to survive took over. That was always a mistake, the sponsors were often the difference between life and death in the arena, they had to spend money on you, they had to want to keep you alive. That could be for many different reasons; you were attractive, you were vicious and they were excited about deaths you could bring about. But they never felt sorry for you, they didn’t want to watch someone snivelling, giving up or begging to come home.

I was doing exactly that now and wipe my eyes as the door slides open, revealing my District partner and in a few days, another enemy. It hurts to think of Berg as a rival. As usual, he holds a bottle of alcohol; not even the wine from before. He’d promised me he would take it easy now we were on the way. My attempts to get him to give it up in the months since the initial Quell announcement had fallen on deaf ears. Berg knew he was going to die, he had told me several times he didn’t doubt it. Besides, the thought may scare him but it was inevitable, even if he tried, so what was the point?

Some days I had struggled past the same feelings. But there had to be more, I could not let the people I cared about most watch me give up, I had to try. Even if my chances of success were slim to null. “Opa said we can watch the other reapings once we’re at the training centre.” He states, contorting his long limbs into another seat, “Not before dinner of course,” He scoffs a little to himself, running his thumb over the condensation growing on the glass, “it’s fashionable to be fat.” This managed to raise the pained smile from me I felt I’d shown a lot over the previous weeks.

“They’ll all want to be skinny within a few months.”

“It’s disgusting.” Any sense of jest in his words has vanished. “As people starve.” I almost shush him, try to warn him of where we are. He doesn’t care. I'm searching for some way to turn his frustration into a joke, always worried we're listened to on the train journeys. Instead, he takes up his own defence, “You make it; you should give it a try.”

“Getting fat?” I lift a brow, catch myself rolling my eyes. “I’ll stuff myself next time I’m in District Ten, how about that?”

“Sounds good to me.” He drains this bottle, probably his second, and places it down delicately. We sit in silence, light vanishes for a few seconds as we pass through one of the thick tunnels that separate the twelve Districts of Panem. We travel this route each year, and it is unnecessary when he feels the need to announce “Five.” I shuffle, where our District is rolling fields with occasional factories that blemish the land, District Five is all grey. Huge buildings that generate power from the sunlight, smog and clouds which turn everything dull. It isn't a long train journey for us, eight hours typically so there is no need to sleep on the train. We will arrive at the Capitol just in time for dinner.

“Who do you reckon?” Berg asks, standing to lean against the glass. I don't want to play the betting game so I just shake him off. Whoever it is will be horrible and I had spent enough time trying to remember previous Victors, who may be trying to kill me soon, who may be someone to trust, in the short term at least. In poorer Districts like our home, like District Five, there are fewer Victors, more chance to get to know the others who had mentored. If it was someone like that it would be even harder, and already it was going to be devastating. There are certain names I have been praying will not be called for a mixture of reasons.

There have been five Victors in District Ten since the games started. Only Berg and I remain. Andressa had, by all official records, suffered a heart attack shortly after the revelation of the Quarter Quell, this oh so special version of the games which would pin previous winners against each other. Andressa was fit as a horse, even in her late sixties. They couldn't announce the truth, not formally although we all knew. It was Berg who had found her, placed the chair back upright and unknotted the rope. She would rather die by her own hands than risk returning to the arena. Her death had secured my place there but I could never hate her. She had kept me alive five years ago, had done far more for me than Berg.

He didn't speak about her. I could only imagine how he felt. Berg had known Andressa for twenty years, she had been his mentor. She'd been the only person he trusted for such a long period of time, at least, that was how she felt. Yet he wouldn't bring her up. I'm sure it's to protect himself, to try and lock down that hurt in the same way I must. I wonder if he finds his escape at the bottom of each bottle, does it block her out?

I missed her, I couldn't pretend otherwise. She'd been hard to me, as a mentor. But without her I would be dead, it was that simple.

We don't speak again for what feels like a very long time. I remove my shoes which are squashing my toes and he unbuttons the top of his shirt. I go back into the other compartment and bring us both some water, this he sips with far less enthusiasm. Finally one of the attendants appear, we will be at the Capitol in just under an hour and need to ensure we are ready. Berg all but snarls at this. He will stay in what he is wearing thank you very much. I don't, I play this game, I know how important appearances are. I follow the man through, his shoulders perfectly straight.

Opa appears. Capitol citizens have no sense of privacy so she just barges her way in as I am dressing and picks out a top. My outfit is garish and skimpy. Exactly what is suitable for this moment. She mumbles some comment about my ribs and runs her finger along one, making me squirm. I hadn't intentionally lost weight. After the announcement for the Quell, I'd felt nauseous practically non-stop and did everything I could to distract myself. Riding formed a part of that, riding, running, helping on the ranch where my brothers worked after school. I had done everything I could think of to keep busy and not sink. None of it had worked, not even the week I had spent at the beach with Rosa. I'd promised myself I wouldn't think about Rosa at all. I'm thankful when Opa starts prattling on about shoes and picks some for me. She fiddles with my hair, puts it in a high ponytail, watches me redo my lipstick and then spends the remaining time complaining about her every physical aspect in the large mirror.

I have a new stylist. She introduces herself once the prep team has scrubbed me raw. “Ari,” She doesn't dart in to kiss both of my cheeks which I had expected but lets her eyes drag over me. I am numb to being naked in front of these people. When I ask why Thom is no longer working with me she lifts a brow, a liars sign and tells me some rubbish about him wanting to commit himself more to his family.

Thom has no family, he is not married with a brood of children. He slept with any man who would have him. I suppose that was why he seemed to know how exactly to dress me.

“You're my first tribute.” She beams afterwards, “And I am so excited. I've seen a lot of looks on you over the last few years...not liked all of them admittedly but what an opportunity. You're going to look amazing and then it will really help me...” She trails off, perhaps realising just how much she is relishing in the idea of playing dolly until I die. She doesn't apologise, Capitol citizens rarely do even if it is clear they are in the wrong. She speaks more about her vision for me, she wants to rely less on nudity and exposing skin, claiming I don't need it. I like that and tell her

It almost looks like her dark skin flushes and I take it down a notch. “We're not going cowboy.” She promises as well, pulling her large trolley of kit through to my room. Unlike normal games, we have the prep teams coming to the apartment. This isn't as much of a treat as Ari seems to think. Before each grand event I was invited too, party or dinner, the prep team would come and dress me up. I know more about the three of them then I would wish, each senseless extravagance, each tiny issue which to them was a tragedy. I put up with them, as I must. They were upset this morning, all three of them. I'm not sure how sincere it was but I'm thankful they're finished with me for the day.

Luckily, Ari is far less talkative as she does my make-up. She allows me to look afterwards. She has kept the bold lipstick which has become synonymous with me, it is a dark brown with hints of what feels like glitter. The rest of my face is highlighted in shades of gold and there's a ring in my nose. I like it, my eyes pop and my cheekbones are defined. She doesn't ask my opinion but giggles and vanishes for a moment.

“Marc and myself aren't exactly on the best terms,” she huffs when she comes back in, arms covered in what looks like suede and leather. “He wants the usual, I think it's cra-.” She stops herself from swearing and I let myself grin at her. I am beginning to like her. I dress with her help, although as she said I am far from nude, the dress is skin tight, the heels perilously high. It is manageable, I've worn far more uncomfortable outfits and she seems happy. She has made me the cattle rather than the rancher. It's a ridiculous concept, definitely, not one Thom would have attempted but she has done it tastefully. My hair is in large curls, catching the additional blonde she has mixed in. I have golden rings all done one arm and over my fingers. She fiddles again and then declares it is time to go.

Berg is waiting by the doors, he's dressed well, smartly, although he holds the familiar stetson in his hands. “Took your time,” he mumbles, shooting me little more than a glance. “Have you met Ari?” I simper instead, “She's my new stylist, Thom has stepped down.” I advise as he goes to speak. I cannot guess what Thom has done to lose favour, for all we know he could be dead already. Berg shoots me a pointed look and allows Ari to introduce herself yet again as his own stylist Marc scowls in the background.

We head to the elevator and seamlessly they zoom down to underground level, this is where the tributes typically meet each other for the first time. I'm starting to feel sick again. We had watched the reapings as promised yesterday evening and it hadn't been easy. I spot the person I am perhaps most worried about seeing as soon as we step out. He is all but naked, a golden rope knotted to barely cover his crotch. I become a coward and purposefully avoid his gaze when I think he is looking at us.

Berg mutters more to me, but a loud voice calls his name, Chaff, and he vanishes to his friend. Ari continues to pat at me for another minute but then declares she needs to leave to get her seat. That suits me, but I do offer her a nice smile as she leaves, heading around to another elevator.

“Are you a cow?” A sharp voice appears behind me, skulking between two carriages, “That may be even worse than being a tree.” Johanna, dressed in a jumpsuit hand painted to look like leaves.

“You make a lovely tree,” I assure her, resisting the urge to shrug away as she stops far too close to me. I tug at the top of my dress which feels as it if may slip down. The last thing I want is for my breasts to fall out during the ceremony. “I'd leave it,” She breathes, “Get you more sponsors.”

“Hilarious.” I allow, pretending her comment hasn't set me on edge. She laughs, so obviously false I want to cringe again. I never know where I stand with Johanna, she had won the year after me, been a mentor since then as she was the only living female victor from District Seven. She was also hard, crass and not particularly likeable. At least, not from where I was standing. “Anyone taken your fancy yet?” I'm expecting another cruel dig but she continues, “in terms of an alliance.”

“Not thought much about it.” I lie, I had been up half the night doing nothing else. Odds and chances are all I've managed to cling on to, in-between those suffocating thoughts of what is to come. Johanna will know, most likely she spent last night the same way. “A smart person would go for Katniss, get her and her little fiance onside.”

“She didn't have any allies last year, at least not by choice.” I remind her, watching Berg and Chaff laughing with Alit from District Five. I spot Mags now as well, standing awkwardly by her carriage. Mags will be dead first, unless Finnick steps in, which I am afraid he will do. Saving her may get him killed and that wouldn't have been Mag's intention. She volunteered for one of the others, that Annie girl who had stayed alive by chance and broken down in her interviews.

“She's the reason we're here.” Johanna's teeth are a little sharp and she breaks through my line of thinking, “But she's strong, adored. She'd get gifts, tokens...”

“And Peeta.” I remind her, the two will be together and he'll be nothing but a liability. Other than camouflaging himself I don't recall him doing anything impressive last year. I keep that last bit to myself, plaster my smile back on and fidget, indicating an end to our conversation, “You'd be better off speaking to Enobaria, perhaps play Career. Might be your best shot.” The look on her face gives me all the answer I need and I laugh again before she speaks. “I won't be with the Careers, Brutus makes me want to vomit every time I look at him.” She sneers, it almost suits her more than a smile. “But I'm smart enough to know this isn't something I can go at alone. It won't be that sort of games.”

She is offering herself to me. Hinting in a way that I could choose to ignore. Would Berg want to ally with Johanna? She's ferocious, I'd seen that. Not trustworthy, but then who here is? The difference is would there be a point where the split was discussed, or would she butcher me in my sleep?

“I'm flattered.” I allow. She tells me to consider it, let her know and then stalks off, her heels clicking loudly. I search for her District Partner but cannot see him. I've lost Berg as well and swallow hard, feeling my throat is thick and forcing the edge of my lips upwards. I start a slow walk to our carriage, making small talk with several people, tributes and mentors. Gloss and Cashmere are the most friendly, as they typically are. Cashmere hugs me, which I let, but don't return with much enthusiasm. The two are brother and sister, and soon, if they make it long enough, they will try to murder one another. I wonder how alien that thought is to them, I could never imagine doing anything to put any of my siblings in harm, let alone do that harm myself.

A shiver darts over my arms and they say goodbye as Brutus swaggers over. I agree with Johanna, everything about him makes me uncomfortable. He had volunteered for his first games and for this one. He had been savage, exactly what the Capitol wants. He looks at me and winks, I do it back, pretending my insides haven't turned upside down.

The warning claxon rings, five minutes until the start of the ceremony. I decide to hide out by our carriage until we need to go. I'm struggling more than I thought, my mouth dry whilst my palms are slick with sweat.

Finnick all but corners me by the horse I had been petting. “You look especially nice.” He compliments, popping something in his mouth. I hate that he's here, he doesn't deserve to be here. “You look especially naked.” He laughs, loudly enough to draw a few sets of eyes our way which was no doubt his intention. Finnick is a show bird, but there's a good chance he will be the person walking away from all of this. He must know that.

“Well,” He shrugs playfully, a smirk on his pouting lips. I don't know Finnick that well, at least not what I assume is the real Finnick. He does what I do, he is sold to Capitol citizens in the same way I am. They love him, still, ten years after his initial victory. He is better at this, a better actor no doubt. I've never heard of a slip-up, even a suggestion of one.

I used to think, whenever we saw each other at the events and parties we were invited to, that he must genuinely be okay with it all, enjoy it even. He is that convincing. Maturity and experience broke that dream. He is as trapped as I am.

He's looking around and then suddenly draws me to him. The breach of space makes me gasp and I am overly aware of his fingers on either arm. “Sorry,” He's speaking lowly, that smirk and purr of voice gone. “Come see me after this.” I am nearly flush against the horse who whinnies and flings her head in irritation. The look on his face is enough to keep me silent and he moves closer to my ear. “Please?” I nod quickly, more of a jerk than a movement, and he's back to normal again.

To anyone else, it must look like we're embracing, that I am willingly up against the most handsome man in Panem. He pulls away, thumbs rubbing quickly on my skin before he removes them, pushing a curl back from where it had fallen over my collarbone. We must have a bit of an audience, I can see no other reason for him doing this.

The claxon rings again, making me jump a little. As I turn I see Berg and Chaff. The former staring hard in a way that almost makes me feel as if I have done something wrong. Finnick was performing for Berg's benefit. I instantly decide to keep my mouth shut about what he has said until later. I will go and see him, he knows that. It's an odd way to speak about alliances though, maybe he would prefer to do it face to face rather than through Opa, who will have to assist with it as Berg and I have no mentor. “Enjoy the parade,” He drawls, putting something from his pocket to his mouth. He says the same to the two men and Chaff rolls his eyes, limping a little as he moves to his own spot.

“What was that?” Berg's words are short and harsh. I play dumb, “Thought you had better taste.” He spits. He isn't too mad as he offers me a hand and helps me into the carriage, letting go as soon as I'm upright and shoving the stupid looking cowboy hat on his head. “You need to look happy.” I warn, nudging into his side by some way of apology.

“Sponsors, yes I know.” He cuts me off, shoots me a manic looking false smile and starts fiddling with his belt.

Everyone is where they should be now and I look up and down the line but the majority of people are blocked from my view. I stick on the end carriage, District Twelve. Katniss looks like she could be anywhere, although there’s a tension in her jaw and Peeta is muttering to her. I try to keep myself from glaring when he catches me looking but I can’t quite manage it.

It’s not fair, not really. To some degree, I have always been certain that Snow would kill me. I’d play my part wrong or be made of a show of like others. I can’t control how much I blame Katniss for this. I am Johanna with the sudden flush of venom I feel.

Other carriages start to vanish out into the large arena and the cheers roar loud and clear. I fidget with myself again, tugging my eyes from the teenage couple and back to Berg. He flicks a button on his belt and the same fake-looking flames that coated District Twelve last year leap upwards. He smirks, inviting me to laugh.

I can’t. It looks so ridiculous, pathetic even. Half away around our first loop, I reach over and turn it off. We can’t look like a joke, that won’t get us anywhere. “Come on, smile.” I hiss, keeping my lips stretched although my cheeks are starting to ache and the moment the final carriage emerges I can feel we are far from the centre of attention. Berg shoots me a confused look and looks so miserable and hateful that it’s all I can do from stopping myself stomping hard on his foot.

During the speech I split the time looking like I am listening intently but also inspecting again. Now, in person, it’s easy to see who definitely isn’t a threat, who may surprisingly be so. Cecelia smiles at me softly and I lose my own. I can barely remember how she won her own games but she’s long lost any sense of fierceness, she’s a caring, loving mother and that will be her downfall. She has three children, her youngest must only be a few months old. She had written to me to let me know. My heart stammers.

Most of the others are keeping their gaze on the president, afraid to look uninterested. I’m sure the reason for us being here has to be clear in at least half the groups' minds but then so many are so deeply damaged I can see they are just going through the necessary motions.

My eyes drift, catch on Finnick again who beams at me. I smile, act a little embarrassed. It will give the gossips something to talk about. I have an appearance to uphold, and that appearance may well help keep me alive.