Haymitch huffs, everything about his demear tells me he wasn’t impressed. But I didn’t need to impress him, I just needed to survive.

“You’re about to go into this arena and face down 23 other tributes that are lusting for your blood, but apparently what worries you the most is the mosquitoes. You’re taking in a mosquito repellent device.” His voice becomes extremely flat at the end of his sentence. Wow I really had pissed him off.

“I don’t really need to explain my reasoning to y-“

“Well you sort of do, that’s the whole point of this arrangement. You train to die, I coach you to not do that. It’s a fairly simple situation to understand.”

Haymitch turns his back on me to wander over to the bar cart in the corner of the room. He waves his hand around the top of it, as though weighing up the options, before plucking a tall decanter filled with a lavender liquid and pouring it into his glass.

He turns back to me with a flourish. “Just you and a bug zapper against the tributes huh? Seems like a solid plan.”

“I got this Haymitch, why don’t you trust me?” I look up at him from where I’m perched on the end of a very brightly cushioned sofa. The rug under my feet keeps changing colour to red when the fibres heat up to warm my feet. Just imagine if we had something like this in District 12, we wouldn’t need to use any coal for our fires in our homes. We could simply lay on the floor in the winter and not have to worry about losing toes to the frostbite.

I’d thought that over the last week of speaking with Haymitch, and glaring at Vion, at the dinner table he would’ve seen that I wasn’t some naive girl. That I could do this, but clearly those sentiments weren’t reciprocated.

I squeeze the small rectangular device out of frustration. It fits easily in the palm of my hand, so small I could place it into my boot and nobody would even notice where it sat. On one end a small antenna collapses into the base, with one side a grid mesh and the other with three tiny buttons on it. Buttons that Haymitch hasn’t even tried to take notice of, he’s just too concerned with the fact that he THINKS this is a mosquito repellent device.

I’m undecided at this point about whether to explain to my drunken mentor that it’s not a bug zapper. But instead a portable sonic repeller, capable of disorienting someone, or something, in close proximity or can creating a fairly decent distraction.

Or if I just let him see it in action when I’m in the arena.

“You’re a fourteen year old girl who until a week ago lived in the attic of the Hob and couldn’t read her own name. Sorry if I’m a little pessimistic when it comes to the likely survival rate of you and your bug toy,” he takes another large gulp of the purple liquor.

“Just because I can’t read doesn’t mean I can’t survive. I think I’ve proven that well enough over the last seven years considering Ma decided trying to find District 13 was easier than raising me, and that Papa died in the Hunger Games before I was born. I’m a survivor, I can win this,” I stand up and walk to my room, craving my last bit of quiet before entering the games tomorrow.

“Nobody wins the games.” Is the answer I hear as I clicked my door closed. I lean my head against the smooth mahogany and think of all the ways I’m going to show the capital I can win this. Show them that there can be more than just one District 12 tribute. Show them that I’m my fathers daughter and I deserve this more than anyone else.