Archive of Our Own

BY YOUR RESPONSE TO DANGER IT IS

EASY TO TELL HOW YOU HAVE LIVED

AND WHAT HAS BEEN DONE TO YOU.

YOU SHOW WHETHER YOU WANT TO STAY ALIVE,

WHETHER YOU THINK YOU DESERVE TO

AND WHETHER YOU BELIEVE

IT'S ANY GOOD TO ACT.

-Jenny Holzer

Johanna stands with Henrik and Ila and Blight on the stage, watches two strong kids from the lumber camps square their shoulders and glare over the crowd. Blight glances at her, catches her eye and raises his eyebrows in excitement. She can hear what he’s not saying, loud and clear. They have a shot.

Johanna feels sick.

It doesn’t change when they get on the train. She can’t, she can’t, she can’t do this. Can’t invest in these kids, can’t hope, can’t actually believe they might make it, can’t fight for them and with them and—she can’t.

But she has to.

She goes to the train early, leaves Blight and Ila to bring the kids. She’s dressed and prepped for public consumption, as much skin showing as they can get away with and there’s nothing sharp in sight.

Her bags are in her room, and she paws through the haphazard collection of stuff she’s bringing along until she finds her pocketknife in the bottom of the bag, the enamel that burned off in the fire leaving odd smears on the metal. Flips the blade open and tugs the waistband of her skirt down past her hip. The knife is sharp, and she scores three fine lines into her skin before the blood welling up and the sharp clean pain lets the pressure in her chest let go just a little bit. She slides the knife into her bra and presses her fingers over the cuts, closes her eyes. Listens to her own shaky breaths, racing heart, walks over to lean against the wall, slide down to sit.

She’s still there when she hears the others come in. Ila calls out her name, trying to be casual for the kids but of course he’ll be worried.

“Coming,” she calls, stands up. There are scabs starting to form over the lines, dried blood smeared on her skin, her hands. Fucking hell.

Johanna pulls her skirt up to cover the mess, hides her hands as she slips out and into the bathroom to wash the blood down the drain, heads out to the common room where the kids are sitting, looking shocked and furious and scared.

Her heart pounds and she wants to run but all of that’s distant enough that she can force herself to smile, act natural, get a drink and sit down across from the kids.

They’re not stupid, more’s the pity. The girl screws up her face into a sardonic smile and says “I know it’s a long shot, but no way I’m going down without a fight.” Her arms are crossed tight across her chest, defensive, but Johanna can see the lines of muscle standing out. The boy grunts an affirmative. “Anyway if we stick together we can probably take out a few.” His eyes flick to one side when he finishes, but then he looks up at Blight, serious and solemn, and well. He’s not wrong. It’s just that Johanna wants to laugh.

She lets herself smile, razor-sharp and mean, instead. “Good,” she says, “Take down as many as you can, that’s the spirit.”

Blight glances at her and frowns. “Just so long as you aren’t reckless,” he adds, and Johanna rolls her eyes. It’s not like she was serious, they aren’t actually talking serious strategy before they’ve even reached the Capitol, are they? But from the look on Blight’s face, yeah, yeah they are. Great.

She bites the inside of her lip till she tastes blood, nods. Blight keeps going, talking about image and training and Johanna stops paying attention because she has to, wanders to the table at the end of the car and refills her glass because she’s about to lose her goddamn mind if she has to take this seriously. She’s just about figured out how to mentor kids with no chance—how to pretend like they’ll be fine, send them to the Cornucopia so it’ll be fast, tell them they’ll be just like her, and every time it physically hurts to tear the words out of her throat but it’s for the best. Only time since her they’ve had a kid last past the first week was 67, her first year out, and the Capitol made her come, sent her out to fuck strangers, told her she was mentor to a 12-year-old in a crazy year. She barely remembers that year, flashes and echoes and nothing more, and that’s when she learned she could etch a tally into her skin, feel the blood leak past her fingers and finally fucking breathe. And all that would happen is Remake would cluck at her and erase everything and send her out again, beautiful and perfect, while more kids died.

“Right Johanna?” Blight’s voice cuts through and Johanna realizes she’s got her fingers pressed into her hip and the blood’s leaking through the thin fabric of her skirt and fuck.

“Yeah,” she says, automatic, swallows and digs out her Capitol self, or one of them, cocks an eyebrow lazily. “Or, I dunno, I wasn’t paying attention.”

The girl laughs, the boy glares, and Blight rolls his eyes. “Never mind,” he says. Looks Johanna up and down and his mouth tightens.

“Look, it’s gonna be a long trip,” he says, “Why don’t you guys get some rest, we’ll talk more when we get in.”

The kids nod, get up hesitantly and head for their rooms. Blight stays still, watching Johanna until their doors click shut.

“The fuck’s going on?” he asks then, walking over.

Johanna finishes her drink, the sting feeling good on her throat. “Nothing,” she says. Blight’s mouth curls up at one corner and he huffs out one breath-worth of laugh.

“Sure,” he says, pours himself a glass of wine, sits down sprawled on one of the too-small chairs.

And after all this she really can’t handle Blight being nice to her, so Johanna stands up. “I need a cigarette,” she snaps, and heads to the back of the train.

She tries to stay away from the kids, honestly. It’s not nice, it’s not what she should do, but she can’t coach them. She won on a lot of luck and a trick these kids won't be playing and no skills they don't have already. Let Blight tell them how to look like they're worth betting on. Let Ila teach them how to be district rustic charming for the cameras. Johanna works the sponsor pit, because she's well used to lying, and she knows how to smirk and hint and laugh and remind them Seven sometimes comes through when you wouldn't expect it.

She doesn't see Finnick much. He's always hellishly busy right at the beginning, playing the field for Four and Snow both, at all the pre-Games parties even if just to put in an appearance to flirt with someone who might send a kid something in a couple weeks when they need it.

Johanna is far, far from jealous, but she almost wishes she was that busy. Hard as she tries she still has a few hours to herself most days, up on the Seven floor, and she can’t shut her brain off with drugs or booze all the time, more’s the pity.

So she ends up thinking, and sometimes talking with Blight over card games and whiskey, and despite her best efforts she's coming up with fucking strategy and letting herself imagine a future. Lets Blight talk her into sitting in Mentor Central with the other hopeless fucks when the countdown starts, so Ila can go play the responsible hardworking mentor who just might pull it out while the bloodbath is making bettors extra reckless.

She sits there, frozen in place, while the kids escape into the shattered desert, choking down bile the whole time. Watches them find a place to hide, then leaves Blight on his own to slip down to the sponsor pit.

She watches, first, getting the feel for the room, the ebb and flow and the different currents. She wants a cigarette anyway, so she grabs a beer to go with it and heads for the men out looking at the boards and smoking fancy cigars.

“Got a light?” It’s the easiest pick up line in the world, that one, and Johanna pairs it with a toothy grin.

The guy looks her up and down, assessing, hands her a lighter. “Your kids look pretty interesting this year,” he offers.

Jackpot.

“Don’t have to cheat, those two,” Johanna says, smirking. Not like me, she doesn’t add, lets it float in the air unsaid and more convincing for it.

He chuckles. “Nothing wrong with cheating,” he says, leaning in close like it’s a secret.

“No there is not,” Johanna says, taking a swig of her beer, watching his eyes track her hands. “And those kids’ll cheat any which way, just as soon as they get in a tight spot.”

She lets the bottle dangle between her fingers. “Y’know sponsorship’s a better deal the earlier you get in,” she says, moving in closer, talking low, conspiratorial.

His cheeks are just a little bit flushed. “Get more bang for your buck,” he says, careful. “I think I could stand to take a flier on a long shot this year,” he says, “Seems like outlier girls have the odds in their favor lately.”

He pulls out his odds book, opens to the sponsorship pages, signs the form. Johanna politely doesn’t watch as he inks the number and hands it to a passing Avox. He turns back to Johanna, puts an arm loosely around her waist and squeezes once. “We’re in business,” he says, “You really must come by my house later, we’ll be celebrating.” He hands her his drink, pulls a card out of his pocket, hands it to her, all without moving his other hand from where it’s hooked at her hip.

Johanna smiles as she takes it, hands him back his glass. “Of course,” she says, stretches up to kiss his cheek. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

He doesn’t protest when she walks away. The advantage to the pro types—they know how the Games are played.

Johanna manages to pick up two other donations, and two more calling cards, before she gets so disgusted with the whole thing she has to go upstairs for a serious drink and a very hot shower. Then it’s back to the consoles.

Blight’s managed to get the kids some water, which they’re rationing. Smart. The show’s about the Careers right now, always is the first few days barring any really impressive outliers. And their kids are promising but not outstanding.

Not yet, Johanna adds, to herself.

She checks the sponsorship numbers. All three guys she got were respectable, cautious rather than generous but it’s true the money goes farther now than it will later.

But if properly handled, there might be follow-up. She goes to the parties in chronological order, flirts and drinks and nibbles at food, smiles and shakes hands and kisses cheeks and none of these guys are crazy enough to want to fuck her, but they sure do like flirting.

By the time she’s done she feels like she’s peeled off her goddamn skin, she’s been drinking enough to look polite and enough to keep all of her sharp edges from stabbing anyone, and everyone in the Capitol looks like an enemy.

She goes back to Mentor Central. Ila’s there, looking tired.

“Get some sleep,” Johanna says, and it comes out sharp even though she was trying to be nice for once. “I’ll watch.”

The kids are sleeping anyway, they ought to be taking turns but from the looks of it the girl fell asleep on watch. First night, and nobody sleeps much the night before the Arena, so Johanna won’t count it too much against her. Hopefully the sponsors feel the same way.

There’s no outside light in the room, and the Arena daylight always seems fake and isn’t always timed with the rest of Panem, so Johanna doesn’t know when Blight comes in. Only that her eyes feel dry and scratchy but her body’s wound up like a spring. She’s sitting with her knees up, coffee she doesn’t really need in her hands for something to do.

Blight sits down next to her. “Anything happen?” he asks, pulling on his headset.

Johanna shrugs. “Not really. Kids spent the morning on camouflage.” The ledge they’ve found to hide on has a few more rocks shielding it from view, the spindly tree has been bent to cover them a little more. Rope and water’s what they’ve sent so far, and the kids have put it to good use. They’ll need food though, eventually, not much chance of finding any out here.

Which means she ought to hit up the sponsors again.

Blight’s watching her. “Go get some sleep, Jo,” he says. “I’ll keep an eye on them for now, Ila’s gonna be up soon to go schmooze.”

“I can go,” Johanna says, dropping her feet to the ground. “I’ve got more pull anyway.”

Blight raises an eyebrow, looks her up and down. She’s been pulling at her hair, biting her nails, but c’mon, this is the Capitol, she just has to walk into Remake and ask for touchups.

“You don’t have to,” he says, cautious, a little confused.

Johanna glares. “What?” Blight says, hands out open-palmed. “You’re not usually this…” he considers, “enthusiastic. I didn’t even think you knew those kids’ names!”

“Gretchen and Jens,” Johanna snaps. “And there wasn’t anything I could do before.”

Blight sighs. “Look, just…don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

Johanna rolls her eyes and leaves. Comment like that doesn’t deserve a response.

Remake isn’t too busy this time of day, one of the Ones is getting touchups too, Theo from Four chattering to his team about the talk show circuit he’s headed for.

Johanna shudders. It won’t take too much longer for them to start wanting commentary from Seven.

But for now it’s just flirting. She gets the prep team to give her a stim pill, just so she can sip drinks without getting too sloppy, tells them to leave her looking a little rough so she looks like she’s been working hard.

There’s probably a strategy to this, Johanna thinks as she watches the room again. Who to hit up when and how, all the trade secrets the Career mentors pass down and the rest of them get haphazard from each other. She should ask Finnick, maybe he’d share something. Probably not though, not about the Games. He takes them too seriously for that. Too seriously altogether, and Johanna is starting to see why, if every year they just might have a shot.

She sees a group of girls, near about her age, standing in a corner looking tentative. So Johanna walks over and says hello.

“You girls just learning the ropes?” she asks, playing at friendly.

One girl giggles. “My dad wouldn’t let me come till I finished school,” she says. “It’s so exciting!”

Johanna shows them around, smiling and pointing out the odds boards and the bookies and joking about the whole thing. “You got your odds books?” she asks, and one girl hands hers over. “Sponsor forms are at the back,” she flips through, hands the book back. “For when you find a tribute you like.”

The girls giggle, trade looks. “Can we sponsor yours?”

Johanna laughs. “Of course. You just put Seven here, male or female or discretionary, and the amount, and then you sign it.”

A couple of the girls fill theirs out, carefully, heads bent, and Johanna waves over an Avox. “Just give the sheets to him,” she says, “And then we can toast to a business partnership.”

Wide eyes all around, and Johanna feels a little like a mother hen leading the kids to the bar. “Mimosas,” Johanna says. Winks at the girls. “Because it’s still early, after all.”

The girls scatter after that, finding their favorite Victors to trade flirting and autographs. Johanna sighs. She feels about 80 years old.

“Hey there,” says a male voice at her elbow.

Johanna forces herself to turn slowly. “Didn’t know you were in charge of the teenybopper brigade,” he continues.

Johanna’ll blame 24-plus hours straight of absolute bullshit for not having a ready comeback. She laughs instead. “Hey, anything for the kids,” she says, because when all else fails try honesty.

He chuckles, low and appreciative, and sticks out a hand to shake. “Cassius,” he says.

“Johanna,” she responds, because she’s never figured out how to deal with everyone knowing who she is before she even meets them. He looks amused.

“Yes,” he says. “I’ve been wondering how a man can get your attention any more, guess it has to be via your tributes.”

Johanna’s stomach clenches and she swallows hard. He’s watching her with a faint smile and hard eyes, and his suit is more expensive than anything Julius owns, which is saying something. Real money, is what it’s saying.

“Well,” Johanna says, forcing her jaw to unclench. “Mentor’s job, you know, the tributes come first.”

“Hmmm,” he looks her up and down. “Your tributes could really do something, with the proper resources.”

“And you have those resources?”

“I do.”

Johanna refuses to beg. She feels cold and faraway. “Well, I’m open to negotiation,” she settles on. “Maybe I can convince you to part with some of them.”

He looks pleased. “Oh, my dear,” he says, a low purr, “I’m sure you can.”

He hands her a business card. “Why don’t you come by after the recaps, and we’ll see what can be arranged.”

Johanna feels herself smile. “Of course,” she says, and he turns on his heel and leaves.

The noise of the room sounds faraway as she makes her way out towards the Games complex. As soon as she’s in the Victors-only areas she runs, runs to the seldom-used stairway and up three flights before she’s breathing so hard she has to stop, hands on her knees, bent over and gasping. She gags, throws up, and there’s not much in her stomach, just coffee and her drink from this morning, but she spits yellow bile onto the floor, feels her way half-blind to the stairs and sits, head in her hands.

“What the fuck?” It jolts Johanna back to reality. She looks up, forces her eyes to focus on Dexter, from One. He rolls his eyes at her, impatient. “Seven, go call a fucking Avox, sulk on your own floor.” Johanna’s glad of the anger that rushes into the vast echoing hollow in her chest.

“Fuck you,” she snaps, without thinking. Slams through the door onto the landing, hits the button for the elevator, goes up to the Seven floor.

“There’s puke on the third floor in the stairs,” she says to the Avox washing the floor on the landing, sweeps past him and into the suite.

There’s nobody there. Well, of course, Blight will be at the console and Ila will be working sponsors, and usually that would be good but Johanna needs…backup. An ally.

Barring that…she calls down to Blight on the console. “I need you to remind me of a meeting tonight,” she says. “Find me before the recaps.”

“Where are you going?” Blight asks. He sounds annoyed, which is fair.

“Upstairs,” Johanna says, deciding as she says it. “Then maybe sleep for a bit,” she adds, as a gesture towards responsibility. She doubts it’ll happen, but it’d be nice.

“Got it,” Blight says, and Johanna hangs up.

No more presentable-looking drinks. Johanna goes up to the bar and orders vodka, because she’s probably going to have to get Remake to sober her up for later and they claim it’s easier with something simple.

It’s the Games, so of course she’s not the only one up here drinking, but Johanna doesn’t want to talk to anybody. The TV is blaring some loud action movie, and Johanna curls up in a corner and industriously gets drunk.

True to his word, Blight finds her. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Johanna,” he says, reaching down a hand to help her up. She’s unsteady on her feet, her head swimming, and she has to work not to throw up. Blight herds her into the elevator, punches the button for Remake, in the basement. “What’d you plan that requires this much pre-gaming?” he asks, sarcastic. “Think you overdid it a little.”

“I’m’a puke on your shoes, Blight,” Johanna grits out. “I’m not even kidding.”

He doesn’t push after that, just lets his whole Not Asking fill the elevator until they get to Remake, but Johanna’s used to that, ignores it until they get to the door. Blight sighs and heads back to the elevator, Johanna walks in, a little unsteady, and tells them to get her ready for someplace classy.

Remake sobers her up but doesn’t get rid of the sick feeling in her gut. That’s just as bad as ever when she climbs out of the car. She watched the recaps while they prepped her, in case he wants to talk Games, but—Johanna’s never been that good at reading people but she’s pretty sure that’s not why she’s here. Cassius opens the door in a different expensive suit and beckons her in. Shows her through to a dim sitting room, red velvet curtains on the walls, the Games playing muted on a screen, leather couches, expensive rugs on a stone tile floor. She walks in, turns around as he closes the door behind him.

And then he drops the mask, his lip curls up into a sneer and he grabs her wrist, spins her around and shoves her back into the door.

“You think you can save those kids,” he sneers, “you think you’re so tough but you’re nothing, just a sentimental little girl who doesn’t know what’s good for her.”

Johanna’s off-balance in more ways than one, but he’s pinning her and that’s what’s screaming loudest in her head. She shoves at him, slips sideways out into the middle of the room in the half-second that buys her. He smiles, a predator’s grin. “See, I never thought you were worth my time,” he says, conversationally, crossing towards Johanna while she backs up, searching anywhere for an escape she knows she won’t find. “Then I paid a friend for some surveillance tapes.” He pauses, takes off his jacket and tosses it onto one of the couches. “Victory Tour, 68 I think it was.” He’s advancing on her again, rolling up his sleeves and loosening his tie. “Now, I’m not stupid enough to keep weapons around when I’m entertaining Victors,” he says, “but I find I don’t really need them.”

He steps forward, deceptively fast, and Johanna’s too stunned to move until his fist hits her cheek, snapping her head back, hard, drawing blood. She stumbles backwards.

“Come on,” he says, mocking. “You just gonna take it?”

Johanna’s paralyzed, her breath sounding unnaturally loud in her own ears, but then he steps forward again and she dodges, and she hasn’t fought since the Arena, not really, but desperation makes her reckless, and she lunges for his knees. He wasn’t expecting that, falls heavily to the ground, and she scrambles up and away.

He’s not fast, but he’s relentless, and anyway Johanna knows the ending’s already determined. He’s fighting her because he wants the fight, not because there’s any doubt about the outcome. There’d been some clients like this, back when, but usually it was—more staged, less brutal, more refined. Whips and handcuffs and batons and games, ridiculous enough she could think of them as something other than violence.

This is different.

This is finally being pinned to the ground, head pounding, blood in her mouth, her nose, choking for breath and only noticing the rest when he realized she wasn’t and made her notice. No pretense of pleasure from her, just blood and pain.

When he’s finished, he pulls his trousers back around his hips and walks out without a second glance.

Johanna curls on her side, gasping, blood from her nose dripping down onto the tiles. It takes a while for her to realize nobody’s coming. The place must have plenty of servants, but if Johanna’s going to make it out—and she’s going to make it out—it’s going to be on her own power.

She’d been wearing a short black dress, and she still is, just shoved up around her waist and smeared with filth. But there’s nothing else. She stands up, leaning on the back of the couch until her head stops spinning enough for her to balance. Tugs the skirt down and stumbles out, through the deserted house to the door.

The car’s still there. Privilege of a Victor, a driver to sit and wait through whatever. He sucks in a breath when she gets in, purses his lips. Johanna doesn’t say anything. Can’t. Sits gingerly in the back seat until they get to the Games Complex. They go in the underground entrance, the one they’re not supposed to use without authorization, the only place there won’t be cameras. Johanna would be grateful if she could. Instead she focuses on walking from the car to the door, through the empty basement to Remake.

“What in the—“ she hears the voice as though it’s a long way off. “Johanna, what the fuck happened to you? Where were you?”

It’s Finnick, wide-eyed, horrified, coming out of the elevator. Johanna starts laughing, loses her balance, and he catches her before she falls. “Who—“ Finnick stops himself when they get to the doors, and the Remake people take over, gasping and fluttering, and Johanna wants to tell Finnick to stay, but she can’t. He’s whisked off to a different chair, looking over his shoulder at her, and she’s sent through an x-ray and then someone puts an IV in her arm and she could swear she can feel the morphling running into her veins, dulling the pain, making her sleepy and apathetic and numb. The medical folks come over, rub ointment into her arms and legs, fuss over her face and slather on something deliciously cold. Johanna watches the bruises around her wrist fade, the swelling subside, and it’s a surprisingly short time before they pronounce her “good enough for now.”

And unhook the IV, more’s the pity. They give her a few pills and tell her to get some rest.

Finnick’s gone already. The clock says it’s just past midnight, and Johanna isn’t sure how all of that could possibly have happened in the four hours since she left here last. She’s still a little sore, stiff and aching, but it’s a world of difference from before.

She takes the elevator to the Seven floor. Nobody’s there, unsurprisingly. Blight’s probably sleeping, Ila’s probably watching the kids, so she goes into her room. No more drugs tonight, the Remake people had scolded, and Johanna wouldn’t usually obey except she can tell there’s a lot in her system. She actually feels sleepy, for one thing, which never happens in the Capitol.

So Johanna sighs, slips out of the robe she wore in Remake, and climbs under the covers.

She sleeps restlessly: strange dreams, fire and blood and the hot sand of the Arena, standing on the platform at the Cornucopia, sitting in a cell with her hands covered in blood, the President smiling, Cassius smiling, a fist hitting her face.

When it hurts less to get up than to stay asleep, she does. Struggles up to sit, looks around, taking in the room, reminding herself she might be in the Capitol but nobody’s coming in here, not into this room, not unless she lets them.

She pulls on a t-shirt, sleep pants, a too-big sweater, and goes out to the common room. Ila’s sitting on the couch, Games-commentary on the TV but fast asleep. Johanna sighs, heads for the elevator.

She’s on her way down when she realizes she’s not actually properly dressed. It takes about half a second to decide she doesn’t give a fuck, though, and when the elevator deposits her on the ground floor she heads for Mentor Central in her bare feet and pajamas.

She drops heavily into her chair, and Blight looks over. He raises an eyebrow, and Johanna shrugs. Then he purses his lips, pulls off his headset, gets up and comes back with some kind of egg thing, toast and fruit juice.

“You look like shit,” he says, dropping it onto the table.

“Fuck you,” Johanna replies. She’s hesitant, her stomach isn’t feeling great, but as soon as she takes a sip of juice she’s starving. She wolfs down the food and then swallows hard to keep it from coming right back up.

“D’I miss anything?” she asks, once the nausea subsides a bit.

Blight shakes his head. “Nah. We need to get them some food today, but everything’s already expensive.”

Johanna sighs, spins her glass and tries not to feel like worthless shit for sitting here eating breakfast while her tributes starve. She pulls up the supplies list and pages through it. Blight wasn’t kidding. Anything portable is gonna wipe out their funds completely, and better to spend it now than to lose the kids with money in the bank but—well, it’s not a good position.

She’s still doing the math, talking with Blight in low voices, when the phone rings. Blight picks it up, hands it to her. “Johanna,” Cassius’ voice sends ice though her guts even over the phone. “I wanted to show you personally my appreciation for last night. I’ve just called in the donation, it should appear in your account shortly.”

As if on cue, the numbers they’ve been trying to massage triple, and suddenly the things that seemed impossible are well within reach. Blight stares at her, eyes wide.

“Thank you,” Johanna manages, and she hates how small and scared she sounds but there’s nothing she can do.

He chuckles, warm and low, but Johanna knows better now, hears the edge in it. “We’ll have to do it again sometime,” he says, and the line goes dead.

Blight’s still staring at her. “What did you do?” he asks.

“Don’t ask,” Johanna says, and it would be sarcastic usually but not today.

Blight’s face goes thunderous. “Johanna—“

“Don’t.”

“Johanna,” he repeats, stern. “You don’t have to—“

“Fuck you, Blight,” Johanna interrupts. “We need the money, the kids need the food, we do what we gotta do to get it.”

He gives her a long look, sighs, shakes his head and goes back to the supply lists.

They send the kids a hot meal, enough dried meat and fruit and portable shit to last a few more days, and Blight doesn’t say another word about where the money came from.

The parachutes go out quickly—not much needed by way of approval, not for food. The boy snatches the first canister, opens it and goes slack with relief before they even see what’s inside. It must smell amazing, because the girl looks over and grins, is on her way over when the second parachute appears. She snags it and they sit against the rock wall. They glance through the portable stuff, and then tear into the hot chicken stew.

“Slow down,” Johanna whispers at the screen, and as if he heard her the boy leans back and groans, taking deep breaths and then digging back in, more carefully this time. They finish it all too quickly though, sit back, leaning against each other a little. The girl looks up at the sky.

“Our thanks,” she says, stretching a hand up.

Blight punches her in the shoulder. Johanna flinches—the bruises might not show but they’re still healing underneath—turns it into a joke by glaring and rubbing her arm theatrically.

“Well done,” he says, raising his coffee cup in a toast.

Johanna smiles. Looks back at the kids on the screen while Blight gets up for a refill. “You’re welcome,” she whispers.

Finnick comes in a little later. Johanna doesn’t notice until he comes over, stands in her peripheral vision and calls her name. Doesn’t touch her, when usually it’d be a hand on her shoulder as hello.

“What?” she says, ungracefully, turning to face him.

“C’mere,” he says, half-turning towards the door. “I wanna talk to you.”

Johanna looks over at Blight. He shrugs. So she climbs to her feet and follows Finnick out.

He heads for the elevator, punches the button for the roof, stands a good foot away from her silent, arms crossed over his chest, looking uncomfortable. Johanna isn’t sure she’s seen Finnick look this uncomfortable, not in years at least.

They get to the roof and Finnick strides out, spins to face her. “What the fuck happened last night, Johanna?”

“None of your goddamn business,” she spits. She’s not 16 anymore, doesn’t need him to tell her she’ll get used to it all, give her tips like he was a lot more than 3 months older than she is.

He doesn’t react to that. “Who was it?” He uncrosses his arms, hooks his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. Stands so she can see every inch and every pound he has on her and every muscle in his body, tensed and ready for—for what?

“It doesn’t matter,” Johanna says, “We fed our tributes.”

“He beat the shit out of you,” Finnick hisses, like he wants to yell but can’t forget the bugs. “And for all I fucking know I have him on my call sheet.”

That gives her pause. Finnick puts up with enough, he shouldn’t have do deal with…that.

“Cassius…” she doesn’t remember the last name.

Finnick lets out a long breath. “Oh, Jo,” he says, sympathetic now. “You should have asked me, he’s—“

“Fuck you, Odair,” Johanna turns, walk to the edge of the roof and stops because there’s no point jumping off.

Finnick comes up behind her—still being fucking careful to let her see him before he gets too close. “You’re not fucking…vetting…my sponsor deals,” Johanna growls. “I can handle myself.”

“Yeah but it’s not worth—“

Johanna spins around, stares at him. “Apparently you’ve done it,” she says, “so don’t fucking lecture me.”

Finnick sighs, drops some of the posturing. Looks at her more normally. “He’s—“ Finnick pauses, considers. “It’s never been that bad,” is where he leaves it.

Johanna looks at him. “Nobody cares if he fucks me up,” Johanna says blunt and mean. “I’m not worth what you are.”

Finnick just shrugs one shoulder, the words rolling off. Then looks at her carefully, steps forward and wraps her in a hug. “I’m sorry,” he says, and Johanna swallows hard and nods as she pulls away. She heads for the elevator, not trusting herself to talk just yet, and Finnick follows.

“There’s a…thing, tonight,” Finnick says. “Ones’re throwing a party, chance to meet people, snag sponsor money from folks who might not come to the pit.”

“Pretty sure if they wanted me they’d’ve invited me,” Johanna says. She hates all the Ones she’s met and the feeling seems to be mutual.

Finnick laughed. “I’m without a plus-one for the evening,” he says, “And Dexter is a dick. Wanna help me with a little petty revenge?”

“Absolutely,” Johanna says, and when they get out of the elevator she’s feeling better.

She can’t bring herself to deal with sponsors today. So she volunteers to keep an eye on the kids while Blight goes to Remake to get turned into a rugged outdoorsman instead of a terrifying mountain man.

He stops by again on his way back out, to a selection of catcalls from the Victors at the consoles. Johanna raises an eyebrow. “You clean up nice,” she says.

He gives her a flat look. “Can’t let you get all the sponsorship deals,” he says blandly. “Time was I could turn some heads myself.”

Johanna can’t quite keep herself from shuddering. “Have fun,” she says, sardonic.

Blight laughs. “Oh, you betcha,” he says, “Call if you need anything, Ila says he’ll be down soon.”

Johanna has never been more glad of Remake’s magic than when Ila sits down next to her. If her face was still black and blue she’d never hear the end of it, but this way it’s easy to lie.

He gives her an uneasy look. “Didn’t hear you leave this morning,” he says.

“You were sleeping,” Johanna tries not to snap.

Ila nods. He looks tired, still. “I wanted to see what they were saying,” he sighs. “But I guess I drifted off.”

Johanna shrugs. “Early yet,” she says. “Probably still fully occupied with those crazy-ass girls.” She waves up at the main screen, which is in fact showing Brutus’s girl making out with the girl from One.

Brutus, across the room, is staring stone-faced at his own monitor, making notes on scrap paper. It’s a pretty funny contrast, the tiny firecracker girl on the screen and the gruff giant mentor. No doubt that’s on purpose.

Ila sighs. “Blight says you snagged some serious money,” he says, offhand, pulling up the financials and flipping through.

Johanna’s waiting for a compliment, a “nice job” or “well done,” because she is an idiot. But it doesn’t come. Ila’s looking hurt, mostly. “Yeah,” she says. “Who knew I was such a good negotiator?” She gives him a flirty look and he shakes his head.

“Just…be careful, okay?” Ila won’t look her in the eye, keeps his focus on the screens.

Johanna rolls her eyes. “Blight’s taking his turn,” she says. “I’m going to some thing tonight.”

Ila nods. “I’ve met with a few old friends,” he says, reluctant, “but most of them are too smart to bet on long shots just yet.”

Johanna just nods. Of course, Ila is too…honest? Serious?…too something, anyway, to con people into throwing money around. But he’s way better at the strategy, so far as she can tell. So maybe it all balances out.

When Johanna goes up to the Seven floor to get ready for Finnick’s “thing”, Blight is already there. Sitting at the table with a bottle of whisky and a glass and watching Games commentary on TV.

Johanna is sober, and grins at the role reversal. “What’s up?” she asks, sauntering over. She steals his glass and downs it. It’s harsh and strong, not Capitol-smooth.

Blight glares at her, gestures for the glass. She hands it to him and he pours a refill. “Nothing’s up,” Blight growls finally, “I got some invites for later, so I’m preparing.”

He’s not as drunk as she thought he was. Stupid responsible Blight. “Taking lessons from me,” she says anyway, goes to get a glass of her own.

He snorts. “You think I ain’t played this game before?” he asks. “How d’you think we pulled you?”

Johanna freezes, glass in hand.

Shit.

She didn’t get much by way of sponsor gifts, but there’d been a few things. Mostly toward the end, when she’d shown she wasn’t a sniveling weakling—and also when everything is most expensive. She’d never really thought about it, really doesn’t want to.

So she swipes the bottle from Blight and dumps some into her glass. “Thanks,” she says, sardonic, toasting him.

Blight’s face twists, but he raises his glass to meet hers. “Don’t mention it,” he says.

They watch together, silent for a bit while Blight flips between twittering hairdos talking about nothing much and sharp-looking men discussing betting odds. Their kids are getting decent odds, better than any other outliers, but not much commentary. Yet.

Blight sighs, finishes his drink and stands up. “Early still,” he says, and it sounds like he’s reminding himself as much as telling Johanna.

“Yeah,” Johanna responds. She should get ready, too. “We’ll see.”

Finnick is already in Remake when she gets there. He grins at her, calls a stylist over and gives her instructions, complete with gestures that’re wild enough Johanna figures he’s also been pre-gaming.

They wax her everywhere, do truly abominable things with her hair and makeup, and put her in a dark green dress that stays just this side of indecent, the highest heels she’s ever tried to walk in, copper and emerald jewelry at her neck, pounds of it up her wrists.

Finnick is just as decked out, tight pants deep sea blue, woven net pretending to be a shirt, gold thread and gemstones strung through it. With her ridiculous heels and his flat, soft shoes she’s almost as tall as he is—at least if you count the crown of her hair.

Finnick grins, offers her his arm. “You look stunning,” he says, mischief sparking in his eyes. “Let’s go crash a party.”

Finnick pours them champagne in the car, and they have to wait in a line at the venue so they’ve got time to enjoy it. “They’re going to kill you,” Johanna says. There’s a TV screen in the car, showing arrivals: The One Victors, a couple of Twos and Fours, a lot of Capitol celebrities. No outliers, no gaudy Games hangers-on, this is money and class and power.

Finnick grins. “They can try,” he says, serenely.

“They’re not going to let me in,” Johanna adds, as Cashmere and Gloss glide past lines of fans and into the building.

“Turn you away, dressed like that?” Finnick says, mock-horrified. “And in front of all these adoring fans?” He rolls his eyes. “They’ll let you in, they have to.”

And then finally it’s their turn, and someone opens the car door. Finnick climbs out, all toothy smiles, waves, then leans back down to give Johanna a hand out of the car.

And Johanna’s heart is beating hard and she feels acutely embarrassed and out of place, but there’s no way she’s going to let them see it. So she lets Finnick lace their fingers together, giggles playfully, and concentrates on not stumbling as they walk through the constellation of camera flashes to the door. There’s someone outside checking names, and he glances at Johanna without recognizing her, turns to Finnick.

“Mr. Odair, welcome,” he says. “And who might your companion be this evening?”

Finnick laughs for the cameras. “You don’t recognize Johanna Mason?” he says, teasing.

The man looks at her up and down, one eyebrow raised. “I suppose I do,” he says, pinched. “Please come in.”

He nods, and the doors open.

Inside, it takes a minute for Johanna to sort out the chaos. Crowds of people are mingling, dancing sedately, drinking and nibbling at food. Finnick steers her towards the sweets table, snags glasses as they go. It’s been a long time since Johanna’s been at this kind of party—and even when she had clients they weren’t usually hiring her for their fancy events, so she’s not quite sure how to act. But Finnick is right at home, and Johanna finds a role as his sidekick, smiling and making jokes and pithy comments about inter-district cooperation and competition.

Even gets a few cards, no promises but some suggestions that maybe, if she stops by, they could work something out.

She almost doesn’t notice that all the Ones are glaring at her, and at Finnick. Finally Gloss comes up to them, steps directly in front of Finnick and way too close for comfort.

“What the fuck, Four,” Gloss growls. “You fuck outlier trash on your own time, don’t bring that shit where people have to see it.”

Johanna’s shocked, frozen. Finnick’s smile just widens, and he steps even closer, so that he and Gloss are chest to chest, almost touching. Finnick’s got an inch or two on the One boy and he’s using all of it. “Johanna,” Finnick says, serene, holds out his glass. Johanna takes it, steps back out of the way.

Neither man moves. It reminds Johanna of two cats, sizing each other up but not quite ready to commit to claws and teeth.

And then Cashmere comes over, shoots Johanna a truly poisonous glare, and grabs her brother’s arm. Gloss spins to snarl at her. “Come on,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Not worth causing a scene.”

Finnick gestures for his glass without taking his eyes off Gloss. Downs the rest of his drink and scowls. “Asshole,” he mutters, turning to look at Johanna. “Come on, I’ve got the night off and I’m not wasting all of it with these fuckers.”

They get back in the car. Johanna doesn’t recognize the name of the place Finnick gives the driver, but it turns out to be a club, all strobing lights and music so loud they have to yell in each others’ ears to communicate.

They start off at the bar, where Finnick just has to wave and drinks appear. They’re way, way overdressed. Finnick laughs, pulls off the ridiculous net contraption, and Johanna perches on a bar stool and kicks off her shoes. “The floor’s gonna be sticky, isn’t it,” she says, making a face. Finnick grins. Pulls out his phone, taps something out, settles back.

“Wait,” he says, mouthing the word carefully so she can read his lips over the din.

A few minutes later someone shows up with a goddamn shoebox, because Finnick Odair, in the Capitol, during the Games, is apparently magic, and can get green suede boots delivered to a club in the middle of the night. Finnick takes her shoes and his not-actually-shirt, hands them to the guy, gives him a kiss on the cheek, and problem solved.

Once she’s got shoes on that she can actually move in, he pulls her up and out onto the dance floor. Finnick’s a good dancer, because of course he is, and Johanna’s feeling…loose, relaxed, better than alcohol can account for. She stretches up on her toes to yell in Finnick’s ear. “You could’ve told me,” she says, and he laughs. His pupils are wide, iris a thin rim.

“Sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t stop laughing. Johanna rolls her eyes, punches him, and he pulls back, mock-hurt. Then shrugs and spins her against him.

People try to separate them, to dance with Finnick mostly, but every time he pulls her closer, takes her hand, puts a possessive arm around her shoulders. With anyone else that’d bother her, but it’s Finnick. Everything is an act, and a carefully calculated one even when he’s as high as they both are right now, and the easiest thing is just to go along with it.

The place starts emptying out eventually, and the high starts to fade, and Finnick looks at her and sighs. “We could find more,” Johanna says, “I know some people.”

Finnick shakes his head, sighs again. “I should get back,” he says, reluctant. Johanna nods, and they make their way out. Their stuff’s in the car. Finnick sits on the far side, digs in a drawer and comes back with a bottle of pills. He dry-swallows one, hands her the bottle. “If you want to sleep, that’ll knock you out for a couple hours,” he says. “Otherwise…y’know.” He shrugs. Johanna takes one, finds a bottle of water. Downs the whole thing, suddenly parched. She opens another bottle, throws one at Finnick.

“What’re you, the responsible one now?” Finnick teases, but he drinks. Gives her the first honest look she’s seen from him all night, a tired, crooked half-smile. “Thanks,” he says.

Johanna shrugs. “No problem.” She considers. “Hell, probably got me some sponsors, I should thank you.”

The sleeping pills are starting to kick in by the time they make it back, and the sun’s coming up, so the Games-damned photographers get shots of them leaning on each other, stumbling into the elevator. They don’t know he gets off at Four and she gets off at Seven, but they probably wouldn’t care either way.

Midway through the second week the kids start building a trap. Blight is impressed, Ila thinks it’s too early, and Johanna can’t think past the screaming static in her head. Could go either way really.

Except of course not, because the odds are never in Johanna’s favor and everything she touches turns to ash. She’s sitting with Ila at the consoles while Blight works sponsors, in ripped faded jeans from home and a too-big sweatshirt, her hands fisted in the sleeves and her knees drawn up to her chest. Jens goes down close enough to where the Careers are camped to make sure they’ll hear when he kicks some rocks down the hill. They see him and he takes off running, and they’re all chasing behind and Ila swears under his breath.

Johanna can’t seem to take a full breath, her vision swims and she has to put her head down, can’t watch but then can’t look away. And D4F falls down to where Gretchen is waiting with a stash of fist-sized rocks and the girl doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t stop until D4F’s head is misshapen red and white.

But it took too long. It took way too long and the others have split, two following Jens and three for Gretchen, and they’ve been doing their best but still their kids are underfed and exhausted and scared and the Career kids are none of those things, and in split-screen on the main feed for all Panem to see, they both go down.

D4M tackles Gretchen, rolls with her and comes up straddling her hips, hands pinning her arms. He growls something the microphones pretend is too garbled to hear, waits while D1F and D2M take up positions around them.

It’s D1M who tackles Jens, but it’s D2F who gets the first hit in, a solid kick to the ribs, the snap amplified for maximum excitement.

The Careers call to each other, brazen, because who’s gonna challenge them? D4M hauls Gretchen up to her feet and slaps her across the face while D1F and D2M take an arm each. D1M knocks Jens out with a punch to the temple, slings him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and they meet up in a clearing where the cliffs open out.

They don’t bother tying the kids up. They start on Gretchen, taunting slaps and pulled punches, mostly from the boys, while the two remaining girls sit with their shoulders touching, watching the show.

It isn’t until Jens wakes up that they start on her in earnest. Jens tries to get up to stop them, gets a solid kick to the chest that sends him sprawling. Tries again, and D4M takes out a knee. The girls get lazily to their feet and walk over to him, grinning at each other in anticipation.

Johanna watches until the screaming in her head is unbearable. Pulls her hands out of her sleeves and jams them into her pockets for the knife she keeps there. For emergencies.

Ila glances over when she runs it down her forearm once, twice, and the blood pools and the sharp pain cuts through the static so she can breathe again. He scowls at her, reaches to take the knife and she growls at him, feral, until he pulls back.

It goes on for hours. For a while it’s enough to dig her fingers against the cuts in her arm, but eventually that fades into the pounding of her head and the ache in her back from sitting here too long and the tightness in her chest. Ila sighs when she makes new cuts along the waistband of her pants, bites at her fingernails till they bleed.

Blight comes back—there’s no point working sponsors anymore, only a matter of time. Johanna gives him her seat at the console and he collapses into it, while she paces behind. Sees Ila’s hand come up to Blight’s shoulder, sees Blight take a deep breath, sigh and put his head in his hands.

She’s still pacing when the canons finally fire, which makes it easy to just keep walking, out of the room and out of the Games Complex and out to the edge of the Capitol, to the rough brick wall surrounding the city, up the fire escape on a nearby building until she can see out to the scruffy desert pines, foothills and mountains beyond.

She wonders how far she’d get if she ran. Not far enough, and Snow would punish Seven, and Henrik would come stalk her afterlife for that, and she’s gotten enough people killed already.

The last light of sunset was fading when she left the Games Complex, and she sits on the cold metal of the fire escape until the first light of sunrise appears in the east.

It’s like a signal, somehow, dragging her to her tired feet and heading back toward the center of town. There’s a few crumpled bills in her pockets, so she stops for cigarettes at a corner store, where they don’t recognize her because they don’t expect Victors out here, especially not ragged worn-out ones in ill-fitting clothes.

She wants a drink, but she doesn’t deserve it. Drinking would dull the pain, and she should hurt.

That lasts until she walks into the Seven floor and Ila’s sitting on the couch with his arm around Blight and there’s a bottle and glasses on the table.

Two glasses, and Ila shifts like he’s going to get up but Johanna shakes her head, pulls a third out of a cabinet, and pours a drink.

They both look like they’ve been crying. Blight sits up a little straighter when Johanna flings herself down on the other end of the couch with her glass.

“Where’ve you been?” Ila asks, “We were worried.”

Johanna shrugs. “Went for a walk.”

She kicks off her shoes. There’s blisters on her heels, because this is the Capitol and even supposedly-comfortable shoes have to hurt, apparently.

There’s no way she’ll sleep. Too many nightmares jockeying for place, to start with. But the alcohol helps. Feels like betrayal still but she can’t say no, not anymore.

They all jump when the phone rings. Ila gets up, slowly, picks it up. His voice is hoarse when he answers.

Johanna isn’t paying attention until he comes back, sits down and sighs. “They want you for interviews,” he says. “Since the two of you were the official mentors.”

Blight looks Johanna up and down and laughs, raw and scraping.

“Hey,” she says, struggling to sit up straight. “Not like you look much better.”

Ila shakes his head. “They want you in Remake.”

The interviewer is a flighty woman with butterflies in her hair. Johanna says rote bullshit about how “maybe next year” and “the kids fought well,” and “with a few more resources,” because who the fuck knows, maybe some year it’ll matter. When they finish she walks out into the city again. She’s just sober enough to want very much not to be. Wants anger and dim lighting and needs to be fucked up in a nasty, searing way. Half an hour later she's in a basement where the music's raw and loud and screaming, cutting lines on a beer-sticky table and looking around for someone who'll fuck her in the alley against the rough brick walls. And she's a Victor in a short skirt with a wicked smirk so it doesn't take long. Not nearly long enough, so she laughs and shoves him away and twists when he grabs her hands and tries to pin her against the wall.

"Nice try," she says, over her shoulder as she heads back in.

Eventually the exhaustion overpowers everything else, and Johanna leaves, takes a taxi to her usual hotel—where they know her so well by now they tell her her room’s ready and waiting.

She doesn’t have anything with her, but it doesn’t matter. She’ll deal with it in the morning.

She’s working on room-service breakfast and coffee when there’s a knock on the door. Johanna swears, climbs out of bed and looks out at Finnick, leaning against the doorframe.

She opens the door and he stumbles in. Johanna raises an eyebrow.

“Hi Finnick,” she says, cautiously.

He goes past her to sit on the bed, raises an eyebrow in question. She shrugs, and he kicks off his shoes, sits back against the headboard. She climbs up next to him and he leans against her. “What’s going on?” she asks, and he groans.

“Four’s out,” he says, and ah, that explains it. “I need a drink.”

“You sure?” Johanna asks, and Finnick sits up straight just so he can glare down at her. She laughs. “Okay, lemme order something,” she says. “What d’you want?”

He shrugs. She considers, settles on vodka and orange juice. Because it’s breakfast.

Once he’s got a drink in his hand Finnick gets a little more talkative. “Don went out this morning,” he says, “Brutus’s girl’s cleaning up.” He drinks, long gulps, before he says anything else. “Still paying for it,” he says, as if that makes sense, “Me ’n’ Annie.”

“What the fuck, Finnick,” Johanna says, and it’s annoying to be this sober while he’s that drunk, so she splashes some more vodka into her glass.

He swallows. This time when he talks the words come out unnaturally crisp. “Girls won’t win because people think they’ll end up like Annie.” He glances over at Johanna, back at the drink in his hands. “Boys can’t win unless they’re like me.”

Johanna doesn’t really get it, but maybe she understands the outlines. It’s the kind of thing you’d only worry about in a Career district. “You think your boy didn’t make it because he wasn’t gonna be the next Finnick Odair?” she asks, and Finnick tosses back the rest of his drink before he nods.

“That sounds like three or four different levels of bullshit,” Johanna says, filling his glass with mostly juice, because whatever he thinks, Finnick’s drunk enough already.

“’S all bullshit,” he says, letting his head thunk against the wall. “Whole thing.”

“Yeah,” Johanna laughs a little. Twenty-four hours ago her tribute killed one of his, the boy he’s talking about was torturing her kids for the entertainment value, but who cares when they all end up the same, dead if they’re lucky and Victors if they aren’t. She pours herself another drink, much stronger than Finnick’s.

He doesn’t seem to have much else to say, so she flips on the TV, finds a channel showing dumbass movies, Peacekeeper spies chasing rebels through the borderlands somewhere. Finnick watches for a while, then shifts, curls against her, trying to make himself smaller than she is. Johanna rubs his back, until he tugs her down to lie next to him.

And then he hooks a leg over hers, and leans over to kiss her. It’s sloppy and sweet but Johanna knows he doesn’t really mean it. His hand moves between her legs, and he’s drunk, and tired, and trying to be nice, but she’s not drunk enough to let him do it this way.

She reaches down, laces her fingers into his and pulls his hand to rest on her thigh. He looks hurt, pulls away from where he’d been mouthing at her jawline, and part of her wants to let him, but—no, that’s not what they do. But he looks sad, and confused, and Johanna doesn’t want that either.

“C’mon, Finn,” she says, shifting to let him put his head on her chest. “I don’t need that from you.” He makes an inarticulate noise against her, presses closer, but when he extracts his hand he just flings it across her and clings.

And Johanna didn’t have anything better to do today, so she drifts in and out of sleep while he snores softly.

And then his phone buzzes, and he groans, rolls onto his back and fishes it out of his pocket.

“What?” he says, and then “Shit. Fine, I’m at Johanna’s hotel, be down in five.”

And he crawls out of bed and into the bathroom. Johanna hears the water running, and the toilet flushes, and then Finnick comes back out, face and hair damp. She’s so used to his game face that this one’s a surprise, tired and vulnerable and unsmiling. “Thanks Jo,” he says, not meeting her eyes.

“Anytime, Finn,” she replies, waits till he looks at her to know she means it. He nods, turns, and walks out the door.

“Fuck,” Johanna says, to the ceiling, and pours another drink.

She’s alone. And awake, and there’s nothing to do. Nobody’s going to want her until the end, which’ll be soon but not soon enough, because her head feels stuffed full of bees, swarming and buzzing and stinging and everything hurts.

She tries to count the days since the Games started, since she got here, and can’t—none of it adds up, times she’s slept, times she’s eaten, sunrises and sunsets just arbitrary markers in between hours at the consoles and hours whoring herself out to sponsors and hours she’s just…lost, somehow, not sure quite what filled them anymore. Tries to remember how many tributes are left, gives that up because if Four went out last night, or this morning, or whenever, well, there’s probably more she hasn’t seen. She could get answers to all of it by turning on the TV but she doesn’t want to. Wants to pretend the Games aren’t happening, except she can’t, because everything in this room is Capitol Games-time bullshit and she can’t escape.

And there’s two more dead kids in the morgue waiting to go home, and Johanna counts on her fingers: 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, six Games, twelve kids, enough to bury one in each district. And okay, she isn’t Finnick, she knows they aren’t dying because of her or the way she won or what she’s done since. Outliers don’t have that kind of control. But she couldn’t save them. Of fucking course she couldn’t, she never really expected anything else, it’s not like she’s ever had luck on her side. Not even when she won, because the world would be better off if she hadn’t. The odds are never in anyone’s favor.

She finds her knife by the side of the bed, flips it open. There’s blood dried in the scratches on the blade and she picks at it with a fingernail, flips the knife open and closed a few times. If she jammed it into her leg she could cut the artery—she’s seen it done enough times on the Games she knows about where to stab. She’d bleed out before anyone found her, because nobody’s gonna come looking, anyway. The hotel people’d find her, eventually, but it’d be too late. Even the Capitol doesn’t know how to re-animate a corpse.

She can’t, of course. She knows what happens when Victors off themselves, did her own research after Henrik told her. Seven would pay, especially their Victors, and who knows what other over the top crazy shit Snow would pull. He’d find something, that’s the one certainty. And she’d be dead, so it wouldn’t matter really, but… dammit.

She closes the knife. Doesn’t trust herself with it, tosses it onto a pile of dirty clothes in a corner of the room. She goes to the bathroom, digs through her things. She’s out of sleeping pills, out of everything, and the last thing she wants to do is go outside.

So she calls down for booze and cigarettes and goes out to the balcony. The sun’s hot and bright and harsh against her eyes and the whiskey goes down easy and it’s not enough. Her head’s spinning and she’s dizzy when she stands up but it’s not enough to drown out twelve dead kids and two dead parents and just year after year of this stretching out until she dies.

Finnick thinks they can stop it, but how are a bunch of fuckup Victors going to stop this? Stop 72 years of this is how the world works, of the Capitol spinning on death and celebration, of the districts existing only to satisfy their bullshit crazy needs? Finnick’s delusional, and so’s anyone else who believes him.

And her brain still won’t shut up. She pulls on clothes, shoves her feet into boots, refuses to look at herself in a mirror.

She doesn’t know what she wants, but she needs to not be here.

She’s stumbling through another back alley in a part of town she doesn’t recognize when it happens, someone comes up from behind and grabs her arm, shoves her against the wall and holds her in a vise grip.

Johanna laughs. The guy’s tall, but he’s got a scrawny, junkie look to him, hollow eyes and sallow skin. Deceptively strong though, pinning her back against rough concrete. She doesn’t struggle. What’s the point? She just laughs, a little hysterical, and the guy looks confused. He spins her so her face is against the wall, twists her arms behind her back, holds both her wrists in one hand while the other searches her pockets. He snarls in her ear when he’s done. “That’s all you got?” he says, crumpling the handful of bills. “You’re pathetic.”

And that makes her laugh harder, until she can barely breathe.

“Crazy bitch,” he sneers, lets her go, and walks off.

Johanna slides down to sit on the filthy street, leaning against the wall. It’s a while before she can catch her breath. She can’t be scared, or angry, or anything, just has to laugh at the utter absurdity of everything.

She digs in her bra and yeah, she did stick some money there, and she’s in the right neighborhood and the right mood for dirty street drugs. So she gets up. Wanders around until she finds someone suspicious-looking, loitering at the mouth of an alley, ready to disappear from PK patrols.

He raises an eyebrow, and at first Johanna is worried that he recognized her. Then she realizes what she must look like—arms scraped up from the rough concrete, filthy and drunk and exhausted, and she has to force herself not to start laughing again.

“I need something that’ll knock me on my ass,” she says, “none of this playtime bullshit.”

She walks away with a plastic bag of white powder and a warning she’ll take as a promise. Takes the back way into the hotel, up the stairs, into her room, uses her knife to cut neat lines, the last of her cash to snort them, and feels the euphoria hit, some kind of morphling straight into her brain. And fuck, there it is, the slow slide into half-sleep without dreams she’s been chasing all day.

She takes all of it, spread out in time she doesn’t bother trying to track, just takes another line when her brain feels like coming back online. When it’s gone she slips into fitful sleep.

Someone’s pounding on the door.

Fuck.

“What?” Johanna snaps.

“Let me in.”

Blight.

“Fuck you.”

“Johanna, it’s over, they want you for interviews.”

Johanna drags herself out of bed, opens the door and glares. Blight just raises an eyebrow.

“Fine,” she says, “let’s go.”

“Pants, Jo,” Blight says, annoyed.

He follows her into the room, kicks at the pile of clothes till he finds something he apparently approves of, shoves a shirt and pants into her arms and steers her toward the bathroom.

“Take a shower, put those on, then we’ll go.”

Johanna glares at him again. “We’re just going to Remake,” she says.

“Yeah,” Blight drawls, “but if you go in there looking like that I think those poor stylists are gonna have heart attacks.”

He probably has a point. Johanna avoids the mirror, turns the water on hot to just the point of pain, and scrubs mechanically. Her hair’s a hopeless mess so she just leaves it, twists it up behind her head into a knot. Still doesn’t look at herself on the way out.

Blight’s sitting on the bed, looking tired. “That’s better,” he says, gets up and gets the door.

Remake still flips their shit when she walks in. They spend forever on her fucking hair, soaking it and working through the tangled mess. Johanna tunes it out, all the chatter and noise, and finally they finish and send her out to meet Blight.

“Who won?” Johanna asks, because she ought to know.

Blight looks at her, startled. “Two girl,” he says. “Got hurt pretty bad doing it though, ’s gonna be a while before she’s ready for postgame.”

Johanna nods, tries to kick her brain into gear, tries to find a way to give a fuck. “That’s why they want mentor interviews,” she says.

Blight nods. “I need coffee,” Johanna decides, “And a cigarette.” What she wants is a drink, what she won’t let herself want is another bag of morphling, but what she needs to do her job is coffee and a cigarette.

They go up to the lobby for the coffee, and out to the supposedly-private-but-not-really patio so Johanna can smoke while she drinks it. Blight fills her in on the final days so she doesn’t sound like a complete idiot, and Johanna tries to keep it all straight. The coffee’s strong, and between that and the cigarettes her brain’s moving a little better, even if it’s slow and stupid and dragging along like a sawmill donkey hauling a too-heavy load.

She and Blight go together, which is good, Johanna can defer to him on the details, can stick to nonsense bullshit that doesn’t require her to think.

When it’s finished they go back to the Games Complex and Johanna’s not paying enough attention to realize she should’ve had them drop her at the hotel on the way. She stays in the car when Blight gets out, it’s backtracking but not that far, but then he reaches a hand down to help her out.

“I’m going back to my place.”

“The fuck you are, Jo,” Blight says. “You’re a mess, come upstairs.”

She stays put. “I want to be alone.”

“No,” Blight says, “You’re just gonna hurt yourself worse.”

Johanna crosses her arms and stares straight ahead. She realizes she’s acting like a petulant teenager, but she doesn’t really give a fuck.

“Look,” Blight says, exasperated, “You can go in your room and drink till you pass out and I’ll tell Ila not to bug you, if that’s what you want. But you’re gonna be here for a bit, because I’m not going to leave you on your own.”

Johanna sighs, climbs out of the car, ignoring his hand. Follows him up to the Seven floor, silent, disappears into her room and since Blight always has such great ideas, she orders drinks from the machine until she can’t see straight, and passes out next to the toilet.

She wakes up in bed, a glass of water next to her, and her things from the hotel over in one corner. She groans. There’s hangover pills next to the water, and she takes them, stands up, climbs in the shower to wash off the smeared makeup she slept in.

And then goes out to the common room because she wants real fucking eggs, dammit.

Blight’s sitting on the couch with a pile of paperwork, and he looks up when she comes out. “G’morning, Jo,” he says.

She grumbles something at him and goes into the kitchen. Real eggs, cooked on the stove, but toast and hash browns from the machine, strong coffee likewise. She eats it standing at the counter. Goes out to the balcony for a cigarette, comes back in and looks at Blight. Who’s ignoring her.

“Where’s Ila?” she asks, because if he were here he’d be fussing.

“Left this morning,” Blight says, glancing up. “He’s not an official mentor, so they don’t need him for closing ceremonies. Said Henrik could use some company.”

Johanna nods. Walks over to the couch and sprawls on it. She’s sober and her first instinct is to try not to be, but the Games are over and she needs to—something, be less pathetic, get her shit together some way. She’s restless, though, antsy and exhausted all at once, her head aches and her back is sore and her eyes are dry and burning and someday, maybe, she won’t feel like absolute run-over shit, but not today. She turns on the TV, tries to doze, gets up, sits down, paces. She’s not even—she’s not upset really, not thinking about dead kids or her fucked up life or anything, she’s just tired, and sad, and angry at Blight for sitting there going through sponsor paperwork and at the TV for being full of inane celebrity garbage and at the leather couch for being too slippery, and at the world for being too bright, too loud, too fucking much.

She makes it four hours by the clock before she gives up, gets dressed, and goes up to the bar.

It’s pretty full, and she surveys her options before dropping onto a bar stool next to Haymitch. He raises his glass in greeting, settles back onto his elbows.

They don’t talk, while she finishes her first drink, and her second. Then the seal flashes for a Games update and it’s Two Girl in the hospital, smiling for the cameras and saying she’s sure she’ll be up and about and ready to meet them soon.

Haymitch snorts. “Like hell,” he says. “That girl ain’t gonna be up and about anytime before 11 freezes over.”

Johanna shrugs. “Twos, though,” she says. There’s a follow-up to that, but she’s not quite sure what it is so she leaves it.

“Two ain’t magic,” Haymitch says. “No way that girl walks normal after those hits.”

“Didn’t see,” Johanna says, suddenly glad for it.

Haymitch looks her up and down, like he’s studying her. “Huh,” he says. “Took a mace to the knee, one to the pelvis, and those things do some serious damage.”

Johanna shrugs.

“You really didn’t see?” Haymitch sounds curious. “Where’ve you been?”

Johanna bares her teeth. “None of your business.”

“Must’a been a hell of a bender,” Haymitch says, saluting her with his glass. “Well played.”

“See,” Johanna says, “Least someone appreciates it. Blight dragged me back here.”

Haymitch chuckles. “Such a good little mentor,” he sneers.

“I think technically Ila was my mentor,” Johanna says. “So it’s even more ridiculous.”

“Well, suits me,” Haymitch says. “Good to have a drinking partner.”

Johanna rolls her eyes. “Seems like you’re holding up the fort okay,” she says, downing the rest of her glass and sliding it across the bar towards the bartender.

Haymitch sips at his drink, shrugs. “Sure,” he says, “but allies are always good.”

Johanna finishes her next drink in silence, then as she starts the next it slips out: “Least yours went out early,” she says. Digs in her pocket for cigarettes, lights up so she doesn’t say anything else.

Haymitch snorts. “Lucky me,” he says, dripping sarcasm.

Johanna shoves his shoulder, and he almost falls off the stool. When he’s got his balance back a bit he looks at her. Serious look, dammit. And he’s been sipping while she’s been downing her drinks fast, so despite the slip she’s drunker than he is. She looks away.

“Nothin’ lucky about the Games,” he says, soft.

“Nope,” Johanna says, chirpy and smiling, downs her drink, and leaves.

Haymitch is an asshole, Blight is a mother hen, Finnick is busy, and everyone else hates her, so Johanna leaves the Games Complex and wanders for a while while some of the alcohol burns off. And then she sighs and calls Julius. She avoids him during the Games because—well, she doesn’t hate him, and if she saw him at Games-time she would, probably, and she doesn’t have enough friends to be throwing any away.

But the Games are over, and she’s so bored she’s willing to try just about anything.

He answers on the third ring. “Johanna!” he says, “I was about to decide you’d got too responsible for me, with those tributes of yours.”

Johanna forces herself to laugh. “Lot of good it did,” she says, and can’t quite keep the bitterness out of her voice. “Anyway, I’m free now and I’m fucking bored. Anything interesting I should know about?”

“Hmmm,” Julius pauses. “Why don’t you come over here and we’ll see?” he asks, teasing.

“Sure,” Johanna says, relief flooding through her. “Be right over.”

The cab drops her at his house and she walks in, well aware she’s underdressed and a hell of a lot rougher than she usually is around him.

“Jo!” he grins, then looks her up and down and gasps in mock-horror. “Oh, girl, you must’ve been working hard, you look worn the fuck out. Come in and we’ll see what we can do about that.”

Julius hates being on his own, so as usual there’s a handful of people sprawled in the living room. He hands her a glass of something sweet, and when she reaches for her cigarettes he snatches them away and replaces them with his special blend.

“You need to relax,” he declares. “Come on, come sit.”

He pulls her down onto a couch that’s just barely big enough to fit both of them, lights his own cigarette, then hers, then toasts. “To a fucking amazing Games,” he says, and he sounds so sincere Johanna wants to punch him. She drinks instead, takes a long pull on the cigarette and tries to relax. Julius puts an arm around her and pulls her close, kisses her hair. He’s always handsy, always appreciative, and today’s no exception, he teases and teases while she gets high, until she’s ready to slam him against a wall and make him beg just to switch it up.

She straddles his waist right there in front of everyone because he’s a show-off asshole who deserves it, and he laughs and kisses her and shifts her off long enough to stand up and pull her against him, guide her into the bedroom, and then she really does shove him into the wall, kissing him hard and rising on her toes so he can pull her hips against his.

“Fuck, Jo,” he gasps, hisses “Shit,” and grinds closer, and then they’re tearing at each other’s clothes and rolling onto the floor. It’s fast and rough and needy and she gets herself off first, his eyes and hands all over her as she comes, and then he’s thrusting hard and it’s right on the screaming edge of way too much and when he’s done she collapses, gasping, rolling onto her back and shuddering still.

A hell of a drug, this. He can’t keep his hands off her, even now, even flaccid and sticky and spent, and Johanna isn’t about to complain, kisses greedily, pulls his hair while he licks at her. And before too long he’s hard again, and she feels so damn good she lets him fuck her, mind spinning deliciously blank.

When they’re both spent, exhausted, smoking stretched flat on the floor, not touching because one more touch would make her scream, Johanna laughs. “You are way too good at that,” she says. “Fuck, why didn’t I come over sooner.”

Julius looks over at her. “Dunno,” he says, still breathing fast, “If you had maybe I wouldn’t’ve had to settle for that new girl.”

“What new girl?” Johanna asks, drowsy—fuck, she can’t remember the last time she slept that wasn’t more like passing out, but she could sleep now.

“The Victor girl, from last year. Rokia,” he says, exaggerated patience.

Johanna’s mind goes blank. “I thought you didn’t go for Victors,” she says, trying to keep it light and teasing.

“Yeah, well, y’know,” he says, lighting another cigarette and blowing smoke towards the ceiling. “Mostly I don’t, they’re too…professional.” He gives her a mischievous grin. “This new one though…” he pauses while all the good feeling drains away leaving Johanna hollow. “I think you’d like her,” he says, “D’you know her at all?”

Johanna shakes her head. First year Victors are always hellishly busy, and Johanna hadn’t even considered making an effort.

“Maybe I’ll invite her to something,” he muses, “You two can get to know each other.” He rolls onto his side, lays a hand over Johanna’s stomach, teases his fingertips over her skin to raise goosebumps. “We could all three get to know each other,” he adds, smirking.

Johanna rolls away, sits up. He looks wounded. “Hey, c’mon, I didn’t mean anything,” he says, sitting up himself.

She wants to scream at him. If she was drunker she would, but she’s not, and she’s clear-headed enough to remember: she’s supposed to be getting information from him. She needs him to get her into Capitol circles she couldn’t manage herself.

And she likes him. And likes fucking him. And it’s just what people do, here in the Capitol, and there’s no way to be alive in Panem and not be an asshole to someone. So she sends an imagined apology to the girl, sighs, and reaches for the smokes.

“It’s fine,” she says, casting around for an explanation. “I just…Victors, y’know, people talk shit, play games. I dunno.”

Julius nods, trying to look serious—which, Johanna thinks, ludicrously, is really hard to do when you’re naked. “It’s okay,” he says, shifting to sit next to her. She has to force herself to lean against him, knocking their shoulders together. “I don’t like mixing business and pleasure either, too hard to keep everything straight.”

Guilt and relief combine to shove her off-balance, as if she wasn’t already. “Yeah,” she says, glancing around. “I could use a drink,” she adds.

Julius climbs to his feet, holds out a hand for her. “C’mon,” he says, sorting out clothes, “Let’s go make sure my friends haven’t made off with the entire liquor cabinet.”

She follows him out, all the good feeling gone numb. He pours them drinks, pulls her back down onto the couch. She lets him, because protesting is harder, tries to convince herself she’s enjoying it. It almost works.

Finally, they decide the new Victor is stable enough for closing ceremonies. All Johanna has to do is sit in the Victors’ section and not call attention to herself—nobody cares about any of the other tributes now, much less their mentors. She left Julius’ place the other day with enough of his special-blend cigarettes to tide her over, as he put it, so she spends the day getting high and drinking, does her own hair and makeup so Remake won’t try and sober her up.

Blight rolls his eyes when she comes out, closing the lid on her flask and slipping it into her purse. It’s funny, because everything is, because nothing in this unreal city is ever really real.

Finnick laughs at her when they get there, from up with the rest of the Fours. Phillips and his girl are backstage somewhere for some passing-the-torch bullshit, so that’s one less pair of judgmental eyes on her. She sits next to Cecilia, who just gives her a faint smile and goes back to crocheting something tiny and intricate. Johanna leans back, lets her eyes slide back to comfortable half-closed, takes a swig from the flask and offers it to Blight.

Hell, she doesn’t even have to be able to stand up, she doesn’t want to remember this, she’s this close to getting to leave and even the gossip shows have to be sick of her by now. She’s high enough she won’t turn angry and sneering, just lethargic and silly. By the time the recap rolls she’s halfway through the flask and starting to lean on Blight a little because she really just wants to sleep.

Their kids are on the recap, a bit. The trap mostly. Not the aftermath, not the drawn-out hours of torture because that might make the girl look bad. The final fight’s more brutal than she’d even imagined, mud and blood and Johanna wonders, muzzily, how the girl’s even sitting, much less walking.

When the thing’s over, Blight wraps an arm around her shoulders, herds her towards the door. She’d complain more but she’s not entirely sure she could stand up by herself right now.

He doesn’t take her to the Games Complex. They get in a car, and she looks up at him blearily. “Where’re we going?” she asks.

“Train,” Blight says. “Getting the fuck out of here.”

“Good,” Johanna mumbles, and somehow she’s ended up curled against him in the car, and somehow he’s letting her, and somehow she’s crying into his shirt.

He doesn’t say anything, puts his arm over her shoulders and rubs her back, and that just makes it worse. She’s still crying in shuddering, horrible sobs when they get to the station, and shit, fuck, damn it all there will be people here and they will see her and she’ll look weak and stupid and fuck.

“Come on,” Blight says, soft. He helps her sit up. Waits while she takes deep gulping breaths and then long slow deliberate ones and digs the heels of her hands into her eye sockets until she sees sparks.

“Okay,” she says, “okay,” swipes the tears away, gets as much control of herself as she can.

Blight nods, gets out of the car and reaches down to help her out. There’s a few reporters there, but they’re not too interested, and with any luck the pictures of Johanna’s tear-streaked face won’t rate more than a passing mention.

She sleeps the whole way home. Blight wakes her up when they get in, and it’s from profound sleep, so deep she has to blink at him for awhile before she can shake free of it.

It’s early morning, the sun just shining over the forest, turning green to gold. Ila’s there with his car, and it’s no distance really from the station to the Village but Johanna’s not sure she’d have made it.

They drop her off first. “You sure you don’t—“ Ila starts

“No,” Johanna says, voice still sleep-rough. “I wanna sleep.”

The stairs up to her room are way too hard. Changing clothes is out of the question. Johanna grabs the blanket off the back of the couch, curls up in it, and sleeps.

She wakes up mid-day, still groggy but ravenously hungry and thirsty. Drags her ass up to the kitchen and stops, stares around in confusion. It’s spotless. She’d done a haphazard job of cleaning up before they left just so nothing would rot, but this is…the metal cupboard handles shine.

She opens the fridge out of curiosity. She’d pitched everything in it before leaving, knows because she was blaring loud angry music and drinking beer and throwing shit into trash bags and Henrik had come over to tell her he could hear her music from the next house over and maybe he didn’t actually need to hear the word “fuck” quite that often.

“Fuck you,” she’d told him, but she’d turned the music down.

There are eggs in the fridge. She pulls them out, opens the cupboard. Bread. Fresh, homemade bread. Coffee in its spot. Huh.

She makes herself breakfast, because she hasn’t eaten yet today so whatever the fuck time it is, it’s breakfast to her. Even the coffee doesn’t really make her feel awake. She takes it back to the couch with her. She could turn on the TV. Dumping hot coffee in her lap seems like a less-bad idea. She could stare at the wall some more. Not the worst. She could, she considers, sleep more. That sounds like the best of all possible plans.

She wakes up again in the middle of the night and this time she’s awake, for real, no going back to sleep even though it’s pitch dark outside.

It’s pitch dark outside.

It’s actually dark.

Johanna goes to the window and looks out. Someone’s taken care of her lawn while she’s been gone. She opens the window. It’s summer-cool. The cicadas are buzzing. There’s an owl somewhere, out hunting mice.

Johanna almost climbs out the window, but that’d be stupid. There’s a door.

She doesn’t bother with the fact she’s still in slept-in bullshit Capitol clothes, pulls a flannel shirt on and ignores her bare legs and bare feet.

She slips out into the woods, finds a tall pine tree, and hauls herself up. Her arms protest. Hardest work they’ve done in a month is lift a drink to her face, they’ll get over it.

She perches in the high branches. She’s awake, and the rest of the world is asleep, and there’s a train whistle in the distance.

She’s home.