AN: So this is inside the mind of Johanna Mason. There's a little bit of background that I completely made up myself, so don't get mad or anything. I put her age as around 20, because the books never actually say. Other than that, I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: Duh

You know no one likes you. Prickly, they call you. And that's only when they're being nice. You've heard them talking about you, and sometimes you show them just how prickly you can be, but most of the time, you just don't bother. These privileged people, these underground rebels, they don't know shit about suffering, about tragedy. They're beneath your notice, just like all the empty-headed Capitol fools. District 13.

How you hate them. They who have been living in comfort for the past decades, while their brothers and sister starved and fought for the right to survive. Who had to stand by and watch their children suffer, wild-eyed and hysterical, but unable to save anyone. Who had grown to believe that kindness meant killing a man so he wouldn't have to die of starvation. You know that if you didn't need Thirteen and their stupid nukes so badly, you wouldn't hesitate to kill them all.

They think they're so powerful and so prepared for this war. You know better. You've always been older than you are, ancient and bitter enough at 20 to be 85, and you can see them for what they are. Children. Naïve. Innocent, like you were at fourteen when you were thrust into the arena and told to survive. You'd spent years watching, observing, forming plans. You knew exactly what you would do if you were chosen.

(You didn't want to be. You definitely didn't want to be. But by twelve you were already signing up for enough tessarae to support three, so you knew it was a possibility).

You thought you were prepared.

Then the canon sounded and the games began and you knew you weren't prepared for shit. You ran from the Cornucopia, because you weren't stupid and you knew what happened to scrawny fourteen years old girls who froze up in the middle of a bloodbath. But no matter how fast you flew, you couldn't not see the ax embed itself in a District 4's skull just inches in front of you.

So you sat in a tree and you wept, and you were just glad it helped you play your part, because you knew you wouldn't have been able to stop, even if it got you killed.

So that's how you know that these District 13 people? They're in for a rude awakening. They think they have strength, strength of mind, of body, and of character. None of them are strong. Not Coin, the leader, not Plutarch, who gave up a charmed life in the Capitol, not any of their goddamned soldiers.

And they all want to call you strong, for your triumph, and your ability to keep on going. They think they have that right, because you're all together, fighting for the same side now. You're used to it. Over the years, you've listened to a lot of people who really know nothing at all try to tell you who you are.

Johanna Mason, victor.

Johanna Mason, underdog.

Johanna Mason, 'the strongest person to play the games.'

You know it's all a lie. You've seen true strength in your lifetime, once or twice, and you know this isn't it.

True strength is not the thin barrier you put around your heart when you decided to win the Hunger Games, because Luka, your little brother, was slow and Jarenth, you mother, was fragile. No, that was survival, and maybe a little love, because you knew if you won you could take care of them and if you didn't, they'd be better off because your village would pity them.

And when you came home, triumphant, and found that Luka had drowned one day when your mother wasn't watching, and then your mother, your stupid, delicate, perfect mother had killed herself out of grief?

Your heart was crushed. It was pulverized, smashed, beaten, and maimed. Ground into a thin powder that you couldn't care enough to pick up and mend. But if you were strong , you would have stood up, shook yourself off, and done it anyway. Instead, you swept what used to be your heart into a pile and built an iron wall around it. Sturdy, yes, but no impenetrable. Iron rusts and erodes, and, with enough heat, snaps. Inside is a girl so mutilated a strong wind could knock her down.

You know that and so you vowed never to care again. It wasn't hard—your father never loved you and you never loved him and that was that; the village was terrified of you, wouldn't even come near you, even though you were a victor, alone with your spoils.

So you didn't even have to pretend for a few years, until you went back to the Capitol for mentoring, and met Haymitch and Finnick and Mags. They wanted you, they truly did, because they were victors too, and they understood, more than anyone ever had. They were so damaged, like you, but they were also desperate to latch on to anyone they wouldn't have to watch die. Surrounded by so much murder, sending children off to be slaughtered, you either befriend your fellow mentors or went insane. You were a constant for them, because you were guaranteed to survive the games, and they needed you as much as you needed them. So you, accepted, because you were hard, but not hard enough to say no.

You let them burrow through your wall, let them have a glimpse of your mangled heart, but you never let them touch it. You always kept them at arms' length, because the smallest misstep would kill you. It's not fair and you know it. They let you in, fully and unreserved. You tried. You tried so hard to puncture that last filmy of protection. You told yourself that they were all too far gone and too desperate to ever decide you weren't enough. You told yourself you were too desperate to decide they weren't enough. But, in the end, you couldn't do it, so all you've got left is:

-The ghost of a little autistic boy who liked to chase butterflies and ask questions and thought you were just the best person on earth, but who ran a little too close to heaven one day and couldn't get back,

(You tried to protect him, but it wasn't enough).

-The memory of a mother who loved you, but not enough to live for you. Who you would like to hate for leaving you alone, but can't because you remember her too well, and she was one of those people who was too good to be hated,

(You tried to be perfect for her; in the end you were just Johanna, but that was good enough for her, so you decided it was good enough for anybody.)

-A lot of hollow, empty space.

And you will never be strong.

Sorry if this goes against things suggested about Johanna's past in any of the books, but I felt that since there was so little information given, it was ok to take some liberties

Anyway, if anyone actually likes this, I do have some other chapters I could throw on, with more made up background, where Johanna talks about her friends and strength (Haymitch, Finnick, etc). Tell me what you think!

P.S. I can't figure out how to indent on this website! Can someone help me out?