PART I: The Tribute
I'm gonna hide my heart behind the peacock's fan
And keep my friends real close; yeah, this is how it's gonna go.
I'm gonna find my knife and run it through those stitches
Throw my friends down in the ditches before they even know what I've come here for…
-Glen Hansard, "Take the Heartland"
Johanna Mason knows axes. More specifically, she knows her favorite ax: the subtle grain of the handle, the exquisite curve of the blade.
The ax in the arena was different, but that didn't stop her from using it (and using it well). She still remembers the weight of it as it cracked the skull of her last opponent, a particularly troublesome girl from District Four.
Despite her ruthless public image, she never really enjoyed it. She took no pleasure in the hunt, no joy in the kill. In fact, she nearly vomited after her first murder.
It was the boy from District Ten. He made the fatal mistake of wandering past her campsite and…
The blood was awful. It poured from his mouth and nose, drenching Johanna in the process. A Career would've considered this a badge of honor, but she just couldn't muster any enthusiasm. As soon as the cannon sounded, she made her way to the nearest stream; it wasn't much, but it would have to do. She scrubbed herself as best she could, working the blood out of various creases and crevices.
At the crowing ceremony, this replay was the most difficult to watch. She averted her eyes, frozen, as the crowd whooped and cheered.
"Nice work, there. Nice, nice work!" Ceaser Flickerman said, his eyes wide with glee. "He didn't see that one coming!"
Johanna mustered a smile. "No, I guess he didn't."
PART II: THE VICTOR
A week later, a Capitol camera crew arrived in the District Seven Victor's Village. They had plans for a photo spread entitled "Ax Crazy", in which Johanna would pose with a series of prop axes. This being the Capitol, there would also be a fair amount of skin involved.
"How much skin?" Mrs. Mason's features twisted in disapproval.
"Don't worry, ma'am; your daughter is in good hands," the principal photographer purred. "It's just a little cleavage-nothing to be concerned about. President Snow wants all of Panem to see Johanna's true beauty!"
Against her better judgment, Johanna grinned; she wasn't too used to compliments. Whenever her mother caught her looking in the mirror, the consequences were swift and brutal: "Johanna, what have I tld you about vanity?" "Johanna, you're losing brain cells as we speak." "Johanna, stop mooning and go bring in some wood." (District Seven was not a place for self-indulgence.) She didn't consider herself ugly, but no one had ever insinuated that she was beautiful.
The crew set up shop in Johanna's bedroom, piling every available surface with rainbow-bright costumes and ridiculously unpractical shoes.
"Try these." The order came from the purple-skinned leader, a thirtysomething woman trying desperately to look like a twentysomething. She proffered a pair of boots before turning back to her assistant.
Johanna stared at the spiky-heeled monstrosities, wondering if they would allow for any kind of movement.
"They're great, aren't they? So woodsy- chic!" squealed a passing makeup artist, apparently mistaking Johanna's horror for admiration.
"Yeah. Gorgeous." Johanna laced the boots without further comment.
III.)
Three days later, Johanna's phone rang.
She still wasn't used to the sound; her family hadn't owned a phone before the Games. (Who could afford one?) She approached the phone gingerly, wondering who could be on the other end. Who could possibly have the number?
"Hello?"
"Hello, Miss Mason."
At the sound of President Snow's voice, Johanna's guts clenched.
"H-hello, sir," she finally managed to stammer. What the fuck do you want? Haven't I done enough for you already? Can't you leave me in peace?
"I just wanted to tell you that your ax photos have been an enormous hit here in the Capitol. You're quite in demand, my dear!"
"Thank you. The photo shoot was… fun."
"I'm so glad you enjoyed it. Now, onto business. I'll be holding a banquet in your honor this coming Friday. I do hope you'll join the festivities."
Johanna's voice caught in her throat.
"I-of course. I wouldn't miss it."
"Excellent. I'll send an escort on Wednesday," Snow demurred. "Oh, Miss Mason, I'm so thrilled with your behavior thus far. You're the very model of a gracious victor. It's funny- a few of my advisors were concerned that you would be… troublesome."
Johanna swallowed hard, fighting the rising tide of bile.
"Troublesome? I wouldn't dream of it," she assured the president.
"Mind that you don't, Miss Mason. I'll see you on Friday."
IV.)
At noon on Friday, five Peacekeepers appeared at Johanna's front door.
"Can… can my mother come with us?" She didn't mean to sound so pitiful, but she couldn't control the quiver in her voice.
"No," said the lone female officer, sounding almost regretful.
"President Snow's orders," added one of her companions.
Without replying, Johanna turned to embrace her mother.
"Be careful, sweetheart."
"I will," Johanna promised.
A moment later, the female Peacekeeper tapped Johanna on the shoulder.
"Time to go."
Johanna blinked back tears, swallowing the massive lump that had just risen in her throat. She would not cry in front of these people.
She would never cry again.
V.)
You can laugh
It's kinda funny
The things you think
Times like these
Like, "I haven't seen Barbados, so I must get out of this…"
-Tori Amos
"NO!"
Johanna was trapped underneath Marcus Laveran, struggling to breathe.
"Just hold still!"
Laveran grabbed hold of Johanna's wrists and pinned her arms above her head.
"There!" He gave a satisfied smirk. "I'm certainly getting my money's worth, aren't I?"
By way of response, Johanna sunk her teeth into Laveran's powder-blue forearm.
"Stupid bitch!"
The words ricocheted around the room, bouncing from wall to wall like so many rubber balls.
"I knew you were a fighter, but I didn't think you were a complete idiot," Laveran continued in an almost conversational tone. "I suggest you quit while you're ahead. This could still be fun for you, you know. "
The loogie landed directly between his eyes.
Bull's-eye.
VI.)
The next day, Johanna refused to leave her suite. At best, walking was uncomfortable; at worst, it was utterly excruciating.
Shortly before one o'clock, an Avox delivered her lunch tray. It smelled amazing, but she couldn't bring herself to lift the cover.
VII.)
Well, I won't back down
No, I won't back down
You can stand me up at the gates of hell
But I won't back down…
-Tom Petty
At some point, Johanna managed to drift off. When she woke, the room was awash in the pink and orange patchwork of twilight.
No sooner had she opened her eyes than the telephone rang. She stared at it suspiciously for a moment, wondering who it might be.
Finally, she forced herself to lift the receiver.
"I'll give you one more chance, Miss Mason." President Snow did not wait for her greeting. "Tomorrow evening. I'd advise you to show a bit more humility this time."
The words leapt out of her throat before she could stop them.
"Go to hell."
VIII.)
After hanging up on President Snow, Johanna called for a bottle of liquor.
"What kind, miss?" The front-desk attendant could barely contain his impatience.
"Whatever will get me completely fucked up."
She was halfway through a bottle of disgusting brown booze when Finnick Odair appeared at the door.
She'd never actually spoken to Finnick, so she wasn't quite sure where to start.
"What do you want?" she finally muttered.
"I heard about your little date with Marcus Laveran. Thought I'd see if you were okay."
"You didn't have to do that." Johanna took another swig before offering the bottle to Finnick.
He waved her off, reaching for his own flask.
"Think I did. You don't look too good."
"I'm fine."
They sat in silence for a few moments, each waiting for the other to break the silence. Finally, Johanna spoke.
"I spat in his face. You know, right before…"
Finnick reached over to pat her knee.
"Good girl."
"And I told President Snow to go to hell."
Finnick nearly choked on his mouthful of vodka.
"What the fuck, Johanna? How stupid can you be?"
"I know, I know. I wasn't thinking-"
"Well, obviously not!" Finnick paused to drain his flask. (Hey, he had his priorities.) Once it was empty, he turned to face his unfortunate companion.
"Look. This is bad. Really bad. Do you remember what happened to Haymitch Abernathy?"
She didn't remember it firsthand, of course—it was so long ago—but she'd heard about it.
Haymitch, District Twelve's only living victor, had turned the arena itself into a weapon. More specifically, he'd used the arena's force field to launch an ax at his final enemy.
Game over.
Maybe President Snow just didn't like axes (or the victors who used them).
Two weeks later, the entire Abernathy family was dead, along with Haymitch's young fiancée. Snow hadn't even spared Haymitch's five-year-old brother—but then again, why would he?
Yes, Johanna knew what happened to "troublesome" victors. Everyone did.
"Oh, Finnick." She downed the last of the nameless brown sludge. "What have I done?"
Finnick didn't answer. He just planted himself on the bed, wrapped his arms around her, and held her while she cried for her family. For her parents and her brother. For her aunt and uncle, who were probably too close to be safe. For their children, her sweet little cousins. Would Snow take them, too, or would he be content to leave them orphans?
Finnick couldn't answer any of those questions, and she didn't want him to. She just wanted him to stay with her until it was over.