Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games trilogy; Suzanne Collins does.
The newest Victor is greeted by dead silence.
People, as they did in the other districts she visited, are uneasily accessing the seemingly harmless sixteen-year-old who easily killed without hesitation. They remember how she first appeared, a sniveling, helpless weakling. How she sobbed and was terrified of the smallest sound. How they all laughed and sneered when she received a pathetic training score of one, one of the few ever awarded since the start of the Games. They remember how she held that heavy, heavy, heavy axe with frightening ease and killed with a single swing. They remember that wild, deranged look of triumph she wore after she fully comprehended her victory. They know how easily fooled they were. They won't ever underestimate her again.
She doesn't smile. She doesn't frown. She doesn't scowl. No, Johanna Mason knows better than to try to please the crowds in any way at all (because if she were happy, then they would be angry; if she were upset, then they'd pretend sympathy but would secretly despise her; if she were angry, then they would be either furious or terrified) so she paints herself as beautifully indifferent and cold. Except for those untamed sparkling browns of hers that consistently give away her true emotions. They shouldn't be able to see them from a distance, anyway. She moves confidently, and since the 69th Games trained her to become a great actress, the uneasiness and guilt in her forced steady gaze are interpreted as hate-filled and furious. Her facial features, no longer sweet and childlike, are slightly screwed up in contempt but her hands are shakily clenched into fists. She almost stomps her foot in frustration; this is the ninth district she visited and her reception was the same in all - it'll be the same for the remaining five.
The crowd is still silent.
Despite his hatred of her method - she deceived them all, which he partially understands, and slaughtered the innocent just as brutally - he feels...sorry for her. He respects her in a strange, different way but hates her all the same. He reminds himself how he killed his, with a trident and nets, but knows for a fact that he didn't dismember any of them. A swift stab to the heart or a quick slash at a neck were his only methods. The Games, he knows, is a hopeless battle to survive. He barely survived his.
She clears her throat, glaring at the families of Four's tributes who started glaring at her first, from the moment she stepped out of the train. She almost feels guilty but remembers that she only killed one, the thirteen-year-old boy. She quickly hacked off his head, making sure he felt the briefest possible pain. She did watch the girl die but that was during the initial bloodbath when she couldn't afford to blow her cover.
Johanna stares evenly into the crowd and curtly describes what she felt about them: nothing. She talks about their skills, glances over their weaknesses, and suddenly stops. Unexpectedly, she raises an eyebrow at her mentor, releasing her hold on her mask for a quick second. It reappears immediately after she knows he understands. He and the mayor exchange an anxious look; she impatiently dismisses herself without a single word.
He feels another surge of sympathy because of her speech. Johanna certainly doesn't have a way with words, judging by her exhausted, nonchalant tone. The last syllable she spoke was cracked with guilt. He saw the realization dawn on her face and suddenly, she resembled his innocent Annie. She was quick to force back on another bored expression but he saw the panic beginning to rise in her eyes. Even though she is just two years younger than him, he feels an irrational urge to protect her, shield her from the rest of the world. He wants her safe and silently promises to care for her like he does for his Annie. He wants to take that vulnerability and force her to keep it.
"Wait!" The word flies out of his mouth without any forethought. "I -" He pauses, taking in her defiant glare and enraged stance. "- um, never mind. I'll tell you later."
"You're Finnick Odair!" she croons in mock-adoration, even going as far as squishing his cheeks. "I don't care." She tosses her head, ruffling her short, self-cut black hair.
He scowls at her halfheartedly. "I'll find you at your party."
"Mhmm," Johanna murmurs disinterestedly, studying her perfectly manicured fingernails with a sudden burst of irrational anger. "I'm leaving now," she informs the whole district abruptly.
He watches her with undisguised interest and can tell she feels his gaze piercing her back.
She doesn't spare the Fishing District a single other glance.