"We were the people who were not in the papers. We lived in the blank white spaced at the edges of print. It gave us more freedom. We lived in the gaps between the stories"

~Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid's Tale

I'm awake before the tributes; the first time I've ever beaten them to the table. I slept for about two hours before I woke up to throat ripping screams. My whole body shook as I laid in bed, telling myself that it was just a dream. Even when I managed to calm down, I knew I wouldn't go back to sleep, so instead I sat at the dining table with my head held in my hands and a cup of coffee steaming against my face.

Oliver and Marta come out to eat at the same time, both dressed in the black training outfits. Marta's eyes are puffy and bags circle her eyes. "Your face is still red" I murmur. Her eyes widen and a hand goes to her face. "Don't let them see you cry" I say with a dry laugh as I pick up my coffee.

"Why do you have a hickey?" Oliver asks, looking surprisingly defiant.

The question takes me by surprise. Tributes usually aren't so direct. "I think you can guess" I spit back. Of fucking course he gave me a hickey. I couldn't just leave and pretend it never happened, no, he had to go ahead to leave the evidence.

"Derek said you were talking to sponsors" Oliver says.

"Did he?" I ask, setting my coffee down with a slight tremble in my hand.

"Yeah" Oliver nods, Marta agrees silently, still wiping at her eyes. "But why help us when you can go out and get laid, right?" he asks, his voice matching mine in acidity.

I slam my hand against the table, rising to my feet so I loom over the both of them. Marta lets out a gasp at my sudden movement. "You little shit" I growl "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Johanna" Derek says harshly, walking in long strides from the hall towards the table.

I hold my hand up at him. "No, he doesn't get to say that. You think I was out having fun? Having sex and drinking for the fun of it?" I half shriek at Oliver, who is shrinking down in his chair. "Let me break it down for you, kiddo. I survived my Games but that does not mean I won. There's a certain amount of work invested in me, and I'm expected to pay that back. If that means I get sold off to a Capitol snob for the night to be his personal whore, then that's what happens. I don't get the luxury of sitting my room and crying" I glare at Marta. "No, I have to live with what I did and spend every night getting fucked whether I like it or not." I pause looking between the two of them, feeling my hands tremble with rage. "Most nights I wish I were dead. If you have the audacity to question me, then I hope you win. I hope you get to feel that loathing of yourself and you get to realize that all those people you killed meant nothing. I hope you live – long enough to get passed through the Capitol and long enough to see everyone you love die before your eyes."

"Johanna!" Derek yells. He grabs me by my arm, pulling me away from the table. "That is enough" he hisses, shoving me roughly towards the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

I turn to face him, my hands trembling with fury. They don't get to do that, none of them. Karina emerges, ushering the tributes away and into the elevator. No one says anything. Even with the tributes gone, Derek stares at me with his own anger.

I turn and stalk down the hall, slamming my door behind me. Rage courses through me, giving me more energy than I've had in weeks. Somehow I end up in the bathroom, exactly where I've stood a hundred times. I stare at the black pits in my eyes. Against my pale skin the bright red hickey stands out, glaring at me. I grab the metal toothbrush holder and throw it with all my force into the mirror. Cracks spread immediately, but it doesn't break. I grab everything, hurling it at the mirror until it's nothing but shards spread over the counter.

It isn't fair.

I fall to the ground; the sobs I've been holding back finally breaking free. I don't have any control over it, the tears fall of their own accord. I hate myself. I'm so weak. My head falls between my knees, desperately sucking in breaths between heart shattering sobs.

This time when I want to scream, I don't swallow it down. The sound pierces my ears, sending me further into oblivion than I've ever gone. I don't want anyone, but when Derek kneels beside me, his arms pulling me to him, I fall against his shoulder and let him hold me.

It isn't fair, treating the tributes like that. I know I shouldn't do it, but I can't control it. Seeing their faces, the hope and fear just makes me feel so disheartened. It makes me so… angry.

I wish I had known. I wish Derek had been able to tell me, to really make me understand what winning would do to me.

It wasn't even the truth that I told them. I went to that house willingly last night. I consented. But I don't feel any better about it than all the times I didn't have a choice. Even now I'm still nothing more than an item to be passed around. I'm hardly even human.

I clench my jaw tightly, trying to quell the sobs. Derek sits with me until I've calmed down enough to stand up and brush the broken glass from my clothes. He calls for someone to come clean up the mess and fix the mirror. It won't be the first time I've had it repaired.

After a shower, another cup of coffee, and a real breakfast, I finally feel relatively normal. Derek watches me cautiously and tries to protest when I go to leave, but I don't listen. I take the elevator down to the Control room, where, like planned, Nut and Volts are sitting, talking about something unimportant.

I approach them directly, still shaky from before. "You'll get your damn money" I say, pulling the bracelet from my wrist and dropping it into Nut's lap. I cross my arms firmly over my chest, "anything else I can do for you?" I ask sarcastically.

"Thank you, Johanna" he nods at me, tucking the silver piece into his pocket. "You're very generous."

I look at him. "No, I'm not. I don't give a damn about you or your tributes. I did this for me."

"Believe what you'd like" he calls after me as I return to the elevator.

I want to say something in retort but frankly I don't have the energy.

My head swims warmly with the influence of the drinks Finnick and I have downed over the last hour. The voice talking on the T.V. seems far away and alien. The pounding in my head has since ceased, replaced by the numbness of alcohol.

Finnick didn't have to ask when he saw the bags under my eyes. I lean my head back on the crimson couch, my eyes heavy with exhaustion. "Is he actually coming?" I ask to no one in particular.

Aside from me and Finnick, Brenda, Nuts, Woof and Cecilia from 8, Warren from 10, Chaff and Seeder from 11, and, most uncomfortably, Derek, sit on the circular couch. We were all surprised to get a request from Haymitch to meet. I'd been to a handful of these meetings – mostly other Victors trying to create alliances for their tributes. I'd never paid much attention. We're all curious to see what he has to say. We're even more curious about his tributes.

Haymitch comes in a minute later, still surprisingly sober. He looks at each of us in turn, seemingly irritated at the whole thing. I would expect nothing less.

I lean forward, downing the last of the whisky and setting the glass on the table. I'm ready to say something when Haymitch sits across from me, but Finnick beats me to it. "So what's this about? I don't think I've ever seen you looking this serious."

"What do you need from us?" Cecilia asks gently.

Haymitch's eyes stare longingly at the drinks scattered throughout the room. He runs his hand over his scruffy face and I notice how bloodshot his eyes are. "Wish I didn't," he growls "but I need your help. The girl needs to win."

"Sure" I let out a breath "and you expect us to abandon our own tributes to make that happen?"

Haymitch sucks on his lips, giving me a dirty look. "She's famous. She's already created quite a stir. We could use someone like her" he says slowly. The implication hangs in the air. I glance at Finnick, letting my gaze trail from him around the room, finally ending on Derek. So all of these people know about the rebellion. Why didn't Derek ever say anything? He doesn't look the least bit surprised.

"What about the boy?" Finnick asks.

Haymitch sighs, resting his face in his hands for a few breaths before looking back up. "We can use him. He doesn't expect to win – he doesn't want to. In some sick twist of fate, he's in love with the girl. He'll die for her."

"That's bullshit" I snap. "Love or not, he won't just lie down and die for her."

"He would. He's a true kid. Better than you or me, sweetheart" he smiles cruelly at me.

I lean against the cushions once again, letting the others do the talking for a while. So the boy's in love with her. What are the odds of that? Even better, how convenient for us. There's nothing the Capitol loves more than a tragic love story. If a figurehead is what we need, she'd be a damn good image. "You're sure she can do it?" I ask after a while of talking.

"She can" Haymitch nods.

Finnick finishes the rest of his drink, setting the empty glass down beside mine "if she can get past the others."

I nod. It's all good and dandy for the mentors to have an agreement, but in the arena there's precious little we can do. She might be able to get past the majority of them, but the Careers are no easy feat. And there's no telling how she'll react once there's blood on her hands.

Haymitch takes a thoughtful breath. "She's been a rebel her whole life. Getting out of the arena shouldn't be much more of a hurdle than anything else she's faced. I know it's not a simple thing to ask, but if at least your tributes stay out of the way… the better off she is." His eyes glance around the room, eventually landing on me. "Appearances can be deceiving."

"Alright then" Finnick nods.

"She doesn't know about any of this," Woof waves his hands, "does she?"

Haymitch shakes his head "Not a clue."

Finnick laughs, shaking his head. "He could be quite a martyr" he says, his eyes light up with excitement. "Do you think she would make a good Victor?"

Clearly he doesn't actually mean Victor. He's asking if she would be willing to be a part of the rebellion, potentially a very crucial part. "Oh, not on purpose. That girl can't act for shit. It's her intentions though that make her good."

"That's a risk" I snap, picking at the edge of a fingernail.

"Isn't everything?" Derek asks, speaking for the first time. He looks me straight in the eye, suddenly more youthful and strong than I've ever seen him. I get the point and nod at him. Technically, I was a risk. Kane was a much better tribute. By all intents and purposes, he should be the one here instead of me.

I shrug, "alright" I turn to Haymitch, "our tributes don't have a chance anyway."

The others agree without much hesitation. It's a long shot anyway, but no one thinks it's a bad idea. Haymitch is gone almost as soon as he gets his consensus and the others follow close behind. In the end it's just me and Finnick sitting there, not speaking but taking in the comfort of each other's presence. He gets us more booze and instead of going to his or my floor, we stay in the private room and drink ourselves silly.

He leans back into the cushions, his bare feet propped up on the glass table. Even with my head swimming, I notice the fresh, barley healed red cut up the side of his hand. I down the rest of my glass, leaning forward to clamp my fingers around his wrist.

"What happened?" I ask.

It takes him a minute, looking down at him arm before he smiles. "Lures. Nasty little boogers. Annie cleaned it up for me."

That would explain why it's ragged and probably slightly infected. "Well she did a shit job at it" I mutter, dropping his hand.

He laughs but nods his head. At least he doesn't have any illusions. "She did her best" he jokes, examining the scar. It'll probably be there forever. A chink in the marble.

"You really love her, don't you?" I ask quietly. I don't know why I asked it, but it just slipped out. Finnick looks just about as surprised as I feel by the sudden change in tone.

"I do" he nods.

"When did you know?" my voice is quiet. That's the thing with liquor; as much as it takes the pain away, it brings it all crashing back down.

"I'm not sure…" he says slowly "it just… kind of happened."

I nod, chewing on the edge of my thumbnail. "Do you hide it from her?"

He knows what I mean even without explanation. The fear, the nightmares, the sex, the alcohol, the death. All of it. "Sometimes."

Finnick leans forward, refilling his drink before leaning back. We're close enough that our arms touch. With the sudden throbbing of a headache, I lean my head against his shoulder and sigh.

"Must be nice" I murmur.

With Vinny, I did nothing other than hide and lie. He couldn't know. It was a burden I couldn't put on him. And it would likely have gotten him killed. Annie might be unstable, but she knows, to an extent, what it's like. There's things they wouldn't have to explain like I did with Vinny. They could just… understand.

When Finnick falls asleep on my shoulder hours later, I shake him awake, telling him to go back upstairs. The night is still young and he has places to be. He's drunk enough that he doesn't argue but stumbles to the elevator. I wave him on without me. I'm not ready to go up to my floor yet. Instead I lie down on the couch, wrapping my arms around my torso as I stare at the muted T.V.

The next thing I know I'm waking up. I jerk to attention, my head protesting the sudden movement. The warmth in my limbs and sensation of cotton in my ears tells me that I'm still freshly drunk, not yet hungover. A clock on the wall tells me its four in the morning. I sigh, starring up at the ceiling before deciding to finally head upstairs. I have to catch my balance at first, but I make it to the elevator without a problem.

I lean against the wall, holding onto the metal railings around the sides for support. I have my eyes closed but when the doors slide open, I pull them open. The meeting rooms are two stories beneath the lobby, which I'm now staring into.

Of all the people to be on the other side, it's Brenda, Finnick's young, new partner. She has tears in her eyes and sways so wildly on her feet that I know she's twice as drunk as I am. Probably more. We look at each other for a long moment before I push away from the wall. I take her by the arm and gently pull her into the elevator. Almost immediately she bursts into sobs. There's the beginnings of a bruise on her cheek and she reeks with the stench of alcohol. Whoever she was with, they treated her roughly.

I push my fist into the number 4. I don't know if Finnick will be back yet, he had to go out tonight too. I consider leaving her on her floor, but the dark silence makes me reconsider. Just last night this was me. I had Derek to take care of me, but Brenda, at least for the moment, is alone. I don't know any of the other Victors up here and I don't feel like knocking on doors until I find someone.

With my arm around her shoulders I pull her into the apartment and lead her to her room, the same as mine only three floors down. I sit her down on her bed. Her eyes are fuzzy and distant, but she doesn't stop crying.

I rummage through the closet, finding some gray sweats and a loose black shirt. She flinches when I touch her, but eventually lets me help her change her clothes. I bite my tongue to keep from gawking at the bruises decorating her abdomen. Her bra is torn but I don't make her take it off.

She hugs herself tightly as I walk into her bathroom. I fill up a glass with cold water and bring it her, pressing it to her lips for her. Her eyes look at me through the tears. "Thank you" she whispers, her voice seeming to break as she uses it.

"Don't worry about it" I say, pressing the glass to her lips once more. She takes a sip but pushes the rest of it away. I sigh, pulling back the blankets for her to curl under. Her eyes seem clearer once she's tucked in, but she's still far beyond drunk. If I had to make a guess, whoever it was drugged her.

"Why?" she asks, the crackle in her voice making my own throat constrict. I sit down on the edge of the bed, facing her just enough that I can see how she stares at me. Even when drunk, there's caution there, but there's also confusion and pain. "You hate me" she murmurs into the pillow.

From how she's lying, her arm rests against my leg under the blankets. She doesn't seem bothered by the contact if she's even aware of it. Another wave of tears makes her shudder. I grab her hand, squeezing it tightly, "we have to depend on someone" I say.

She makes a noncommittal sound, shifting under the blankets. The movement makes her groan in pain.

She holds onto my hand until she's fast asleep, breathing softly in the dark. I look down at her, the red splotches over her cheeks and bruise under her eye, it makes me mad, but more than anything, it makes me sad. "I don't hate you" I whisper.