Hello all :) this is my first attempt at a Hunger Games fic... whether I fly or fall is up to you guys, really!
First off, nothing is mine. Except a few characters I shoved in, everything is the creation of Suzanne Collins. To save me the trouble of having to insert this at every chapter, because I always forget, I'm going to leave you with the sense you were born with to remember that I did it here.

Now that's out of the way, let me start with my inspiration (if you don't care, or ae so anxious to read- well, anything's possible-, feel free to skip this part.)
First off, Johanna Mason was my favourite character in the books. Maybe it was her charming personality (sarcasm, in case you couldn't tell). I don't know why, but I was drawn to Johanna, Haymitch, and Gale, until Mockingjay, where I wanted to stab him in the gut (wow... I scared myself a bit, there. But seriously, he was a horrible character in the latter part of Mockingjay). I was also curious about life in District Seven... we know Johanna is good with an axe, and yet most other seven tributes die pretty early on in the games. Suspicious. So, I wrote it trying to explain that.

For now, I'm calling this the "Johanna Trilogy". It probably won't be a trilogy. I'll finish this, and if you guys want a continuation, then you shall have one.

Review, Favourite, Alert. If you dislike it, at least let me know why, so I can grow as a writer.

Thank you!


I stand at The Cornucopia, axe clutched in my hand. Blood gushes from a wound on my forehead, mingling with the sweat pouring from me.

"Where are you?" I growl. All that's left now is me and him, the District 2 tribute. My heart hammers against my ribcage, playing tunes I've never before heard. Surely he could hear me? I slow my breathing, close my eyes, and bring my axe up, sensing out my enemy. I release the axe, blindly, hear it swish through the air. A scream of anguish informs me I've met my target. I open my eyes, and he's stood before me, his arm attached only by sinew, the axe still embedded in his shoulder. He lunges at me with his sword. I dodge, and, in one movement, remove the arm and retrieve my axe. He looks in disbelief at the severed limb on the ground, and I take advantage of this by swirling my axe around again and bringing it down on his other shoulder, removing that arm too. He sinks to his knees.
"Please," he gasps "please..." his words are choked by his pain.
"Sorry," I bury the axe in his face; feel the crunch of metal on skull. "There can only be one winner."

The canons blast as his heart stops, drowning out my last words, then, Caesar Flickerman's voice:
"Johanna Mason is the winner of the annual 70th Hunger Games"

"Johanna?" I'm roused from my slumber by Slam, my older brother. "C'mon, Johanna. Time to wake up." I roll over, shaking my long hair over my shoulder. Wow. Funny what an impending reaping day can do to your head.
"Is it time yet?" I ask, quietly, yawning.
"You wish, lazy," he sniggers.
"I'm not lazy," I protest.
"yeah, yeah" Slam rolls his eyes. "If you get reaped today, you better hope nobody sneaks up on you in the morning, you'd be a goner for sure."

There is a heavy pause. "Sorry," Slam grunted. "That wasn't funny. We need to go out to work a bit, before. Get dressed."
I nod, slide out of bed, and begin to undress. Slam saunters off. As the age gap is so small between us, we've grown up close. We're all we have, after all. We're one and the same, Slam and I.
After our father ran off with the mayor's daughter when I was three, and mom remarried, we were left to our own devices, being put to work planting saplings at the age of four to keep us out of the way of our mother, who focussed all her energies into the reproduction of four more children. In District Seven, the only excuse for not working is pregnancy, infancy, or being in your deathbed, something my mother has used to her advantage. It's why many in our district breed young. Many of the girls in my class are pregnant or already mothers and do anything to avoid the mandatory labour that comes with being born in our district. But I'm not like other girls. I'm very much involved with the man's work around here, swinging the axes to bring down even the mightiest of trees. Women here typically work in less strenuous areas, planting, and cultivating the growth of new trees, something I was bored of at the age of nine. Perhaps that's why we've only ever had one female victor. I'm sure more would have survived if they'd been taught to wield an actual weapon.

"Are you coming, half-wit?" Slam yells from outside the one-room log cabin we share. I hurry to exit, slamming the door behind me.
"Seriously, do you have to be so impatient?" I say.
"Do you have to be so ugly?" he hits back, and we both break into peals of laughter. That's how Slam and I work. We can bicker until the cows come home, but we both know it's all in jest. Nothing comes between us.

After a few hours hacking at branches, I find myself sitting high in a tree-top. Leaning back to wipe sweat from my brow, my keen eyes see a hare crouched in the grass. I nudge Slam, stood on the ground waiting to catch the branch I'm working on, with my toes and nod in its direction. He raises an eyebrow in approval. I aim my hatchet, the small and light one I was using to cut through the branch, which is one of the thinnest in the tree. I release it and it flies, almost noiselessly, through the air, slicing the hare's head clean off before he even sees it coming.
"Nice," Slam said, going to retrieve the hare carcass, and my hatchet. He cleans the blood from the shiny blade, and looks up at me. I slide out of the tree, and take the carcass and hatchet out of his hands, getting blood on my tunic. "C'mon, let's get this to Mom."

Our mother, Jocelyn, lives in the town, on the outskirts of the forest. Slam and I have lived alone in our log cabin since he was fourteen. It suits us better, that way. Being around screaming, puking, dirty infants sets my teeth on edge, and Slam hated it, too. Our four half-siblings range in age between twelve and two, but my mother still doesn't "work" as such. She runs a sort of babysitting service, where all the parents of Seven can leave children too young to be put at work. I suppose it's better. When I was younger, before she fell pregnant with Lawrence, the child after me, she hated working, it made her so surly and miserable. Maybe that's why I've always been such a disappointment. If I was a boy, she would have been allowed more time off to nurse me. Boys traditionally gain you more maternity leave, as the Powers That Be in Seven want a strong, healthy population.

We arrive at her hut, and Slam knocks on the door. It swings open immediately, and a small, dark-haired child, our six-year-old sister, Amelia, looks at me.
"Hey," Slam smiles at her. She grins tentatively back, before screaming over her shoulder in the shrill, deafening tones that small children love: "MOM! Slam and Johanna are here".
Our mother appears at the doorway. We look a lot alike: Long, chestnut hair, small frame, and wide, brown eyes, hers half-closed and red-looking. She's been at the Corsand seed again. Corsand seed is unique to Seven, and, in small doses, send you in to a peaceful night's sleep. Large amounts, however, slow your heartbeat right down, so it's undetectable, and put you into a deep, deep trance. It's easy to get hooked on it, a prime example being our mother.
She ignores me, and goes straight to fussing over Slam.
"Darling, it's your last reaping, if you can get through this…"
"I know, I know, I'll never have to do it again." He says, trying to play down the fuss. He glances at me, and I roll my eyes.
"Look what I brought," I say, thrusting the hare carcass unceremoniously in her face. She wrinkles her button nose, but takes the hare from me, and carries it outside. When she leaves, Slam shoots me a reproachful look.
"You don't help yourself, you know."
"Easy for you to say, she likes you." I say, quietly. Slam just shakes his head, as if he knows better, and turns away.

After an uncomfortable hour of being not acknowledged, it was decided by Slam that we should start making our way towards the town centre, where the reaping would be taking place. Our half-brother, Lawrence, accompanied us. It was his first reaping. I mean, Slam and I have been taking tesserae for years now, so his name is only in there once, but still, it's nerve racking. He won't be picked, I turn from him. I doubt I'll even be picked, and my name is in there… 36 times now. Slam is even worse off then I am, with 47 to his name. Anyway, we all assemble in the city square, and I say my goodbyes to Slam, even nod and pat Lawrence on the shoulder, before flitting off on my own. I take my place in line next to a girl who's name I can't recall, who I used to sit by in school when I bothered going, clutching her pregnant belly. One thing I forgot to mention: in Seven, they like to keep the population as high as they can, so they encourage you to have children young. As well as giving you time off for each child, they also give you a year's worth of household supplies, and, if you aren't married and reproducing by your last reaping, they arrange a marriage for you. That's why Slam is so nervous about today. If he's not taken, he will be married to someone he barely knows. That's what awaits him, for the rest of his life.
"Settle down, quiet!" barks the formidable-looking man, Julius Skylark, who reaps the tributes and takes them to the capital every year. He is the epitome of capital expenditure. The man has wings implanted into his back, for god's sake.
"Welcome to the 70th Hunger Games annual reaping, may the odds be ever in your favour," he frowns, as though he would rather not be here. You and me both, Julius. I think back to my forest, a tactic I have employed over the years. If my mind is there, the reaping goes that little bit faster.

I'm barely listening when Julius pulls out a crumpled bit of paper, and begins to read.
"The female tribute for district Seven is… Johanna Mason."

I'm only conscious of it when every eye in the town centre turns to me.