A/N: Guess what, guys! I finally finished my script - all 102 pages of it! I could not be happier. By the time the next chapter is up, I will have the link to read it on my profile.

Here's the chapter!


Chapter 28: Brainless

"Training Center," I snap at the driver of a lone taxi, who has his hat pulled down low. He nods and accelerates out onto the deserted streets.

I am such a mess. A deep vortex of hurt and fear and who knows what else whirls around inside me. I shut my eyes and lean my head back, trying to sort through my tangled emotions.

I am so angry with Katniss. How dare she suggest that I'm not morally strong enough to lead this rebellion? I can't believe it. After all I've done, after all I've been through, she still thinks I can't handle it. Of course, she doesn't exactly have an unbiased point of view towards me. I killed her sister, after all.

I'm hurt, though, that she doesn't see how much I regret it, how much remorse I feel at the thought of my knife in Prim's chest. Does she really see me that way? So cold and unfeeling? I know she does now, but before the Games, when the only barrier between us was where we lived – I wonder if she thought better of me then.

And then I'm afraid, of so many things. What was that thing in the lake? Has Madge really gone deaf? What is going to happen tonight, whatever it is that starts at midnight? Of course there's also the constant bother of Katniss hiding right under the President's nose, always on the verge of discovery.

I want to scream, but I settle for hissing a choice word and pinching my finger so hard that I bleed. The pain has a strangely calming effect, like cool water. I'm too tense to actually relax, but I'm not about to punch anyone now.

The driver interrupts my thoughts by stopping the car. We've pulled up near a huge, sprawling building that looks suspiciously like a hangar, with what I think is a launching pad for hovercrafts. Strangely, I get the feeling that we can see the building, but no one inside can see us.

"This isn't the Training Center," I object, and the man in the front seat turns around.

"No kidding, brainless."

I let out a choked little cough, mostly to keep from squeaking something stupid. This isn't a taxi driver. In fact, it's not even a man. This happens to be a woman with wide-spaced eyes and brown hair that looks as though it's been chopped with a dull knife in the dark. On a full-speed train that's come off of its tracks.

"W-who are you?" I demand after I've recovered somewhat.

"I've sat in the same room with you for the past three days," she says. "I thought you might retain a little bit of information. But I guess your skull's too thick for anything to seep through." Her tone is acidic and challenging, like she wants me to strike out so she'll have an excuse to hit me back. "Johanna Mason, District 7," she reminds me.

Now I remember. Not that I recall anything spectacular – just a bunch of drinking and making obscene jokes at the top of her lungs. Some pretty rude hand gestures, too, though I don't think any of them were directed at me.

"And you've brought me here…why?" I say, letting all of my annoyance show in my voice.

"Because Plutarch said to," Johanna says, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I must admit, I thought you'd be a little faster on the uptake."

"Well." I wrack my brain for anything to say, anything at all. "Where are we?"

"The hovercraft hangars," she says.

"Oh." Lucky guess. "What for?"

"They don't tell you anything, do they?" Johanna shakes her head and laughs scratchily. "We're hijacking one of 'em."

"I see." Johanna sighs and, rolling her eyes, gets out of the car. I hurry to follow suit and we do a little duck-and-weave thing until we're in the shadows of an alley.

"Here's the plan," says Johanna in the sharp, quick locutions of District 7. "We get in there and find the right one – the pattern is 'first floor, second division, third unit, fourth row, fifth machine.' Then we wait for Plutarch and the rest of the team; they're coming at midnight, and then we're out of here."

"Won't they notice one of the hovercrafts launching without authorization?" I ask, surprised that everything can be summed up so quickly.

"Plutarch has it all worked out," she tells me condescendingly. "No need to bother yourself about it." I step away when she moves to pat my head, which isn't difficult to do seeing as I'm half a foot taller than her.

"One more question," I say. "How do we get to the hovercraft without being discovered? They'll have security cameras in every corner."

"Of course they will," says Johanna, sounding bored. "That's why I've got this." She takes a small black gadget out of her shirt – I try not to think of where she pulls it from – and waves it in my face. "All the workers' schedules and a 3-D map of the route we need to take, one without cameras. Used by the people who Snow trusts not to do anything against the law. This baby's the latest in Capitol technology," she says, and there's something in the way she says it that gives me pause. Up until now I've thought of Johanna as brusque and a little insane, but her tone as she tells me that she's got "the latest" bit of machinery isn't gloating or even proud. It's sarcastic. And this is what clues me in to the fact that she hates the Capitol every bit as much as I do, if not more.

"Only it's not made for us, is it?" I guess, knowing full well that the answer is no.

"C'mon," she says. "Time's a-wasting."

Once inside, Johanna consults her gadget – she tells me it's called a Holo – and we creep along the white, nondescript corridors until she halts so abruptly that I nearly walk into her. She waits a few minutes and then keeps going. I'd ask what she stopped for, but isn't the whole point of this to avoid being seen or heard? I hold my tongue.

First Division says a marker next to a branching hallway. Not too much later, we see another marker telling us that we've come to the second division. After checking to make sure that the coast is clear, we dart across the intersection. Here, open space means a greater risk.

Once we're in the relative safety of a two-way passage, Johanna turns to me and issues a whispered command.

"You're wearing shoes? Take 'em off."

I obey without question as Johanna does the same. There isn't time to ask for explanations right now. But when we get to the third unit, a door marked by a chrome plaque, I understand.

Behind the door is a vast, high-ceilinged space reminiscent of the gymnasium in the Training Center. Row upon row of hovercrafts sits waiting for use. And the floor is polished metal, pristine and cold. Anything but bare feet would echo on it like shattering glass.

I count off silently, one, two, three, and Johanna leads me silently down the fourth row until we come to the fifth craft. Like all the others, it's huge, silver, and has the Capitol seal painted on the mechanical doors. There's nothing I notice to make it stand out.

"What now?" I whisper, and cringe as the sound echoes, even though I barely make a sound.

If looks could kill, Johanna's now responsible for my murder. And then chopping my body up into little tiny pieces. She doesn't answer, but draws a key from a skintight pocket on the inside of her sleeve and carefully inserts it into a lock on the door. A little compartment flips open and, after consulting the Holo, Johanna enters a sequence of numbers on the keypad that it reveals.

With an uncomfortably loud whooshing noise, the door slides away. The interior of Hovercraft #451 is much like the outside. Polished chrome surfaces, all gleaming like new.

We climb in, and the door shuts behind us with a definitive click.

Johanna promptly sits down on the floor, leaning against the wall. I see what she's doing – staying out of view of the windows – and take a seat on the opposite side of the room.

"So. Breadboy," she says, and I can tell I'm headed for an insult. I try to head her off.

"What time is it?"

"Ten o'clock. How's this last year been?" asks Johanna, undeterred. "Lots of fun, isn't it, being a Victor?"

I sigh, so tired. "Why do you care?"

"Just answer the question."

I ignore her, putting my shoes back on. There's a knot in the laces that doesn't want to come out. I double-tied them this morning, just like always, but nerves made me yank pretty hard. I'm paying for that now.

"Enjoying the food and money?" Pause. "How about the girls? I hear those District 12 wisps love a rich boy. And you've got your pick of them all, don't you?"

Sneaking a peek at Johanna out of the corner of my eye, I see that she's smirking at me. Ugh. She's enjoying this. I pick at the knot.

"What's the matter? If you're worried about choosing between those two, don't bother. I don't care." I'll admit that I told the whole country about my love for Katniss. How she knows about Madge, though, I've got no clue. "Or maybe you're afraid to give away your little sweetheart under the Capitol. I've heard that—"

"Shut up!" I explode, throwing my shoe at her. She catches it with lightning-fast reflexes. "Shut up!" I glare at Johanna, just about ready to throw open the hovercraft door and let everyone know we're in here, if my yelling hasn't blown our cover already.

Johanna cackles, picking up my shoe and grabbing a little tiny knife from an ankle sheath. She pulls the laces to the side, holding them taut. In one quick slice, she severs them.

"What are you—?"

Johanna tosses my shoe back at me and darts out, into some other area of the hovercraft. I roll my eyes, but she's already back, holding one of those little dolls that pilots like to use on their dashboards. There was one in the car before the Victory Tour. She does something with the piece of shoelace, too fast for me to pick up on. Then she places it on a little hook in the wall.

I look closely. It's a little miniature noose, perfect down to the last twist of "rope." Johanna blocks my view again. When she moves away, my blood chills.

The doll, still grinning happily, is hanging.

"Hilarious," I say. I realize that I truly detest this girl.

"It wasn't meant to be funny," Johanna says.

"What was it meant to be?" I ask.

"You decide."

"I think you should stick to drinking," I tell her. "Philosophy really doesn't seem to be your strong point." I try to change the subject, not because I'm curious. "Where'd you learn the knots?" I know Johanna might have visited the knot-tying station in training for her Games, but that was years ago. Nobody tries to remember what they learned in the Games.

"Finnick Odair. The Victor from District 4." Johanna notices my raised eyebrows. "It's a nice thing to know."

"Right. If you want to die," I say.

"Hark who's talking," Johanna says, with an expression that I might think is almost sympathetic, if she cared about anyone but herself. "It's not like you haven't considered it. I watched last year's Games."

This is very bad. Johanna's words dredge up memories buried behind only weak barriers. I've tried to forget what happened in the arena, pretend none of it ever existed. That it was a nightmare. And the months after that, too, when I have to admit that I truly did not want to live. If there was ever a time that I hated life more than the last day in the arena, that interminable stretch of winter was definitely it.

Of course, I could never really have given up. Or could I? I think of how weak I was, how little I ate and slept. The bags under my eyes. The tremors in my hands. The nightmares that kept me up every night, screaming at the walls of my bedroom.

"You don't know anything about me," I say, more harshly than I intend. I need to block out these thoughts. They will literally kill me if I don't.

"Sure I don't." Johanna stretches out on the floor, still holding her miniature knife. "Get some sleep if you can. You'll want it later."

This sudden change from antagonize to leader only confuses me more. I don't sleep, but try to re-tie my shoe on my foot. I'm only working with half the proper amount of lace at this point, so, needless to say, it's not easy. In fact, I'm unable to get even a working knot. After a few minutes, I discard the useless thing and hope that I don't come across any sharp rocks.

I lean against the wall, realizing that I am, in fact, exhausted. The stress of the past few days – worrying about Madge, Fritz, Katniss, Rosey Snow, and Prim all at once – has done nothing for my health.

With a flicker of frustration, I give in to sleep.

A/N: Also - if you want to be my favorite and get a free (virtual) cookie, head on over to the Starvation website and nominate one of my stories for their Quarter Quell! It can only be a complete story, though, so this one won't work. But "My Dreams Smell of Roses" would!

The link to the site is on my profile, up near the top with the other links.