Author's Note: The main point of this fan-fiction (other than entertainment for you, Dear Reader) is to help me work on character development. This fan-fiction is supposed to stay extremely canonical, so let me know if I veer off that. I'd like her story to be as interesting as Katniss', and gel well with it when/if I write up until that point. I hope you'll subscribe now, because I have several chapters already written, but be aware that as soon as the fighting starts I'll be changing the rating to M for mature. If you anticipate not being able to take the heat… don't enter the kitchen? Or something?
When I wake up my first thought is not of the national holiday and this afternoon's "festivities". I don't have a feeling of nervousness deep in my stomach like I'm sure many of my neighbors do. I have no desire to hide safely under my heap of cozy, flannel blankets. Thoughts about the Reaping can wait; I've got bigger things to deal with this morning.
I step out of bed, pillowcase in hand, and quietly hiss as my bare feet adjust to the cold wooden floor. It's late spring, so it seems that no one bothered waking up to rekindle the fire. Last night I fell asleep in an oversized, brown woolen sweater and some plaid boxer shorts, so goosebumps erupt on my bare legs. I don't let them hinder my journey. I ease out of the small room that I share with my sister and slither across the den, careful not to step on certain notoriously creaky boards. The fire is indeed out, and whoever neglected it also forgot to shut the flue. So that's where the draft is coming from...
Sliding open the heavy door, I slip out into the dawn. From my front porch I can see one of District 7's huge crystalline lakes, peeking out from behind other log cabins. I realize that I must be the first person awake, since most of the lumberjacks won't be going to work today. It's so incredibly quiet and serene that I imagine I can hear the faint sounds of the mass exodus of the wild tulip sprouts, somehow thriving in the hard earth that is so unwilling to host them. Ground here isn't fertile, unlike the soil used at the tree nurseries, so our house is surrounded only by thousands of sturdy, enduring pine trees. Who knows when our plot of land will be razed for lumber? And what then? I remember a story from a few years ago about a eastern neighborhood which at one point was independently wealthy from the sale of apple-products. It perished when the Capitol experienced a trend in kitschy folk products made from applewood, and their un-domesticated trees were thus chopped down and sent off to District One for refinement. D1 isn't— and has never been— a folk district, and that story raises my blood pressure every time I hear it.
I soundlessly pat across the twig-strewn lawn to the edge of the forest, crouching next to a patch of pine trees. I scoop their fallen needles into the pillowcase, handful by handful until I need to crawl a few feet for more. When my knees can't stand the prickling of the forest floor beneath them, I decide I have enough. Only just last week the snow finished melting, so they're moist and perfectly aromatic. I stifle a yawn as I tread back to the house, pausing only for a moment as I clean my feet on the doormat.
I enter my room for the final stage of my mission. Eve, my sister, is passed out on her bed, facedown with a pillow on top of her head. I don't bother being quiet because she's an incredibly sound sleeper. I carefully remove her pillow and replace it with the stuffed pillowcase, the ends tucked neatly together to prevent it coming apart prematurely. I set her pillow on the end of her bed and crawl into my own, which is thankfully still toasty. Although I know I should fall back asleep, the anticipation has me wired and I lay wide-eyed, waiting for her to turn over.
And not two minutes later she does, sending an avalanche of pine needles into her black, wavy hair and onto her tan shoulders. Like lightning she's tripping her way out of bed, causing the pillowcase to violently expel the rest of its contents, and suddenly she understands what has happened to her. Almost too silently to hear, she whispers, "You... bitch..." Needles float through the air, making little snaps as they hit the ground. I smile widely and, predicting her attack, escape my bed as her muscles tense and she lunges forward. We grapple silently, me trying to tickle her into not being as mad as she is. One of us slips on the pine needles and we both hit the floor, laughing loudly now. I pin her down as I tickle her.
"You... were... asking... for... it!" I ignore her pleads for air as I continue my attack. "Don't be mad!" One of her hands comes free to whack me in the face and I willingly roll off, letting her take some deep breaths. We both lean up against her bed-frame as Dad busts open the door. His perpetually chapped red face is redder than ever, almost the same color as his curly auburn hair.
"Eve! Johanna!" His eyes narrow as he surveys the room. Eve scoots toward me on the floor and we brace ourselves. "Enough! No more pranks! No more noise! The sun isn't even up yet! In case you've forgotten-" he pauses, then lowers his voice to a whisper, "in case you've forgotten, your three younger siblings need all the sleep they can get."
"Relax, they're fast asleep." Just as Eve says this, a loud cry echoes from upstairs. Dad points a finger at us, then upward. Eve groans and flops over onto the ground. "Oh, come oooon."
After we've got our siblings up and dressed, we enlist them in cleaning up the pine needles. The room Eve and I share is pretty small, especially since we just separated the bunk-beds, so we're all in each other's space. We're used to it, though, being from a family of nine children. A few years ago, when the last of our older siblings moved out, Eve and I got a room of our own on the first floor. Leaving the loft was a blessing; not only were we closer to the central fireplace, but we were able to have our own cots. But still, on the coldest of winter nights, she sometimes crawls into bed next to me, and we sleep side-by-side as we did in childhood. Eve isn't even a year younger than me, and perhaps because of this we are very close. Will that stop, after today? When both of us enter our names for the Reaping for the very last time, and officially come home as adults?
"Mmmm... do you smell that?" Eve, who is closest to the door, sticks her head out into the living room. "I think Mom is baking us a pie for later. Smells like apple." She smiles and inhales again. "When we get back, do you suppose the brothers from next door will come over to celebrate with us? Do you think it will be like Cypress' Reaping? Do you think one of us will be proposed to?" She wiggles her eyebrows.
"Ha! I'm pretty sure Cypress was dating Mac for more than a year. But don't lose hope!" Cypress is our older sister, only 25 but already married and with two children. I can't tell if Eve is actually jealous, or just making a joke. She's always been the more sensitive and gentile sister, so it wouldn't surprise me if she were actually fantasizing about running away with the one of the boys from next door.
"You'd all better be ready to head out!" Mom hollers from the kitchen. I help Robin, my youngest sister, scoop her pile of needles into the waste-bin before carrying her into the hall. She'll be here with my parents while we're out, since the rest of us are old enough to attend. I scoot everyone else out into the hallway so I can throw on my clothes. I take a quick look in the mirror as I pull my long, brown hair through the neck of my forest green sweater. The thick tights, brown linen skirt and chunky turtleneck aren't my best clothes, but the chances of me being on camera are pretty slim so I don't sweat it. I try and pat the static out of my hair to no avail, making a mental note to get it trimmed soon.
"You're up," I say to Eve, who rushes into the room to change clothes. Pax, my fourteen-year-old brother, is just climbing down out of the loft, and we head to the door together. We sit on the wooden bench by the hearth, the one that our older brother Alder made out of logs when he was still a youngster, and I put on my mud-caked boots. I let myself get lost in a fantasy of life after the Reaping: of a property of my own, a husband, maybe even the luxury of unemployment as a housewife.
Suddenly the rest of the family is converging on us, Maple with her small arms full of food packages, my mother with her comically pregnant belly trying to fold a wool blanket while dodging Robin as she darts around the room, and my father with his good-natured smile. He helps Maple dump the food into a wicker backpack, and straps the wool blanket to the top. I swing it over my shoulders.
"You should be back by dinner, and I think this food should last through the day. Have a safe trip!" We all line up to give her a kiss and receive a pat on the head from Dad, and file out the door. Eve is still tripping her way into her boots as she pulls the door shut behind us. She matches my stride as we begin the hike towards the school. In other districts, the Reaping happens in one location, such as a play-field or community hall, but District 7 is too large for that. The thousands of D7 children are sent to four locations around the district, but even getting there is hard. Our journey begins by walking to school, where open-back trucks are stationed to pick us up at 8 am sharp. Then we'll drive for about an hour, get dropped at the north-western Reaping Stadium (because, honestly, what else is it used for these days?) and await instructions. The Reaping usually takes awhile since as often as not the kid is in the bleachers and they have to wrangle him or her up to the stage. Then we gather again at the trucks and are driven home. Some find it to be a stressful exercise, but for me it's just a day off school with a congratulatory pie after dinner.
As we hike out of the valley we are accompanied by the children of several other families from our little house-cluster. We make the trek in silence, exhaling puffs of moist breath into the crisp air. More and more children join us as we near the school, and we are late enough that our truck leaves right as we climb into the back. I let Maple sit on my lap even though she's big for a thirteen-year-old.
"Can we have some snacks?" she says, holding me tighter as the truck lurches over a swollen tree root.
"Well, I guess here is better than at the Reaping. Just don't give any away, okay?" I set the backpack on the floor and rummage through it until I find a paper bag with potato pancakes in it. "Mmmm, still warm." I place one in her hand and grab one for myself before passing them down to Pax and Eve. With somber faces the other kids watch us munch away but I don't let it bother me; these children probably ate before they left home. District 7 is not a traditionally poor district, such as 12 or even 3 (which is said to be almost entirely a ghetto these days). Wild animals from our forests are fair-game for the lumberjacks, as is maple syrup and uncultivated fruit. We're not a wealthy district by any means, but our people are well-fed, strong and spirited.
This, however, does not make us a "Career" district. Our tributes are always competent but almost never violent, which makes them early targets for those who are both. Last year's winner, a girl from District 4, had one of the best strategies I've seen in all my years watching the Games. Meek and unresisting she entered the Arena, and hid almost to the very end when a dam broke and drowned her remaining opponents. For her victory party the broadcasting people had to completely re-edit the footage of the games to include more of her, and what they found was that she spent most of her time running away and crying. Once, during a particularly comical scene, she scared an opponent away by sobbing violently. Her victory tour was marked by a string of party absences and strange, detached interviews. Her muted, weary voice haunted me then as it suddenly does now, as the Reaping grows ever closer.
"What would you do," says Pax suddenly, his mouth full of pancake, "if you were chosen for the games?" His question isn't directed at anyone specifically, but suddenly the clamor ceases and we all peer around to see who will be brave enough to answer first.
"I suppose I'd fight." Eve's voice is clear and conversational, but I know I'm not the only one in the truck who feels chills. "I use tools in the workshop everyday." She's referring to her part-time job at a place that makes luxury wood products for the Capitol.
"Ah, don't make me laugh," says one of our neighbors, an only-child who has been relegated to sitting cross-legged on the floor. "What would you do, craft a beautiful carved wood mantelpiece? Make the other contestants keel over in delight?"
"No, I think I'd be pretty handy with a weapon." Eve flinches as the boy wiggles his eyebrows at her, causing the older kids to snicker. "That's not what I meant!"
"Cut that out; you think you're being funny?" I snap at him. "Was that back-handed compliment your attempt at flirting? That's pathetic. She doesn't even know your name."
The kid narrows his eyes at me, but keeps his sarcastic smile in place. "Well, I suppose I'd rather be a fly on the wall than have a reputation like the notorious Johanna Mason. You know, I'd like to see you fight in the arena; it'd be a real show." If anyone had been making noise before, they certainly aren't now. I'm sure this isn't just in District 7, but hypothesizing about someone's chances of getting reaped— or worse, their supposed abilities and weaknesses inside the arena— is tantamount to cursing it to happen. The kid, aware of this but not quite repentant, tries to backtrack. "All I'm saying is, you'd be a better fighter. Aren't you the captain of the tomahawk-throwing team or something?"
"Or something," another kid snickers. I try not to smile, but it's good to know that my talents haven't been overlooked by my younger classmates. The tension has dissipated, and it looks like we'll be at the stadium in a few minutes. The truck slows as we reach a main road crowded with other Reaping vehicles, full of children I've probably never even laid eyes on. A few kids hop out and jog the rest of the way, including the boy from earlier, who utters an abject apology as he does.
When our truck finally arrives at the gate, we are ushered into the stands. I lay out the blanket on the cold metal and we sit down while district executives rush about on stage completing last minute administrative work. I pour my siblings each a cup of hot apple cider and scoot closer to Eve for warmth.
"Do you think I'd die, if I were chosen to compete?" Eve says quietly, her voice almost drowned out by the din of the crowd.
"Don't ask that. Don't even think about that." I squeeze her mittened hand. An official taps the microphone a few times, and signals for us to stand for the district's Reaping anthem. Maple gets ready to sing the first verse with the other 12- and 13-year-olds.
The Seventh District, strong and tall,
The best that there can be,
Listen close to the lumberjack call,
As he chops down a tree!
"I know what that means, Jo. That kid was right. When we get back I want you to teach me how to throw axes."
"They're tomahawks and what does it matter? In a couple hours this will all be over." I roll my eyes at her to get her to stop talking, but I can tell she isn't finished. Pax, as per usual, screams out his lines instead of singing along with the fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds.
The Seventh District, lush and green,
Four quarters represent,
A girl and a boy, twelve to eighteen,
Will now make their descent!
"But he was right; I wouldn't make it. And he was right about you, too. I want to be fierce like you." Pax elbows me in the ribs and points at the stage and then his mouth. Eve and I face forward, but I scold her in between the lines of the last verse.
The Seventh District, far up north,
"You know, there are benefits to being subtle, to not appearing strong. If you got into that arena, all you'd have to do is hide out and act weak—"
The symbol of the axe,
"They don't know you like I do, Eve. Deep inside, you're one of the fiercest people I know." I squeeze her hand again, and she nods solemnly.
Today two warriors will go forth,
Neglecting the final line, I turn her by her shoulders. "Stop it; that's not what I meant. The chances of you getting picked are almost zero." But my last sentence is cut off by the cacophony of everyone joining in to finish the macabre song:
As the Capitol's only tax!
We take our seats as an extremely petit Capitol woman steps up to the microphone, yanking it down to her level. "Welcome, children of the north-western quarter, to the Reaping. Before we begin, I would like to introduce myself as Miss Prima Australis— I will be filling in for one of your beloved victors who could not make it today. Now, if you will, let us all look toward the screen— I know you are excited to see which lucky munchkins will get to represent this fine district in the Hunger Games!" Rather than applaud, we all sort of look around at each other. Miss Australis motions to some tech people— brought in from District 3 by the looks of them— and a huge monitor behind the stage lights up. On it is a countdown, presently at the number 14.
Miss Australis squeals into the microphone "Lucky! We caught it just in time!" I will the numbers to drop quickly and they do. To me, to Eve and to hundreds of others they symbolize the flight of danger, the loss of risk, and the hopeful future.
Suddenly information arrives on the screen and in the milliseconds it takes to understand, the world becomes very still, very quiet and very bright. I feel an ache in my eyes and throat as Eve plows into me, holding me tight. "Jo… that's… that's your name… that's you…"
Female Tribute: Johanna Mason, 18, north-western quarter
Author's Note: So when the kid from the truck confronts Johanna, I wanted him to use some stupid childhood rhyme-nickname. I came up with a bunch of them, but decided they didn't quite work. I had "Johanna Fata-Morgana" (a type of superior mirage named after Morgan Le Fey, the Arthurian sorceress), "Johanna Vox Humana" (the part of a pipe-organ that produces human-like chords), and… "Johanna Top-Banana", which almost worked. Almost.