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They get into the Capitol on her 16th birthday. It took a little adjusting to make that work out, but the people at Victors Affairs insisted, so here they are. Johanna’s exhausted to the point where leaving her room just about brings her to tears, but it’s almost over.
As soon as she’s done with Remake, she and Ila are summoned to the President’s Mansion. Johanna goes in first.
“Miss Mason,” the President says, and Johanna’s knees want to buckle but she pulls herself tall.
“Yes, sir,” she says.
“Welcome back to the Capitol,” he says. “There has been quite a bit of anticipation of your arrival, and of course of your birthday.”
Johanna can’t keep the confusion out of her voice, says “Yes, sir,” because it seems like her best bet.
The President smiles. “I suppose it’s not well known in the Districts, but 16 is considered the age of majority. And for Victors this is a much anticipated event.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There are certain duties that are expected of Victors, Miss Mason. The Games are expensive, and we cannot expect their costs to come out of money that should be spent to the benefit of the nation.” He pauses, as though he expects Johanna to say something, but she’s too confused to do more than nod. “There are a number of well-placed people who will pay very highly for the pleasure of your company,” he continues. “You are rather a novelty, Miss Mason, there has been a great deal of interest.”
“I don’t understand,” she says again, because she doesn’t. There’s something dangerous buried in the words, she can tell that much, but the meaning escapes her.
“Your friend Finnick could explain, I think,” Snow says, sounding—amused? “Or perhaps a demonstration?”
He pushes a button and a projection emerges from the desk. Finnick, at the party from a couple months ago, leaving with a woman. Going into her house, going into her bedroom, her hands on him, his laughter, breathy and strange, as he helps her out of her clothes, steps out of his, and…
Johanna closes her eyes. Snow chuckles, and the sound stops. The projection, when she opens her eyes, is frozen, obscene. She looks down at the carpet, her ridiculous shoes. Looks back up at Snow, who’s chuckling at her discomfort. Anger sparks under all the confusion and fear.
“I can’t do that. I won’t.” She looks him straight in the eye, but his smile just widens.
“Ah, well,” he says, “I think you will.”
The projection changes. It’s an Arena—not hers. “This is the last Quarter Quell,” Snow says. Johanna looks carefully, sees Haymitch Abernathy fighting with the One girl. She hasn’t seen the end of these Games. Only clips from earlier on, and she’s never much paid attention. And then Haymitch flings his ax into the forcefield, and it comes back, killing the One girl who’d opened his stomach for him a moment earlier. A force field, Johanna realizes, impressed. The Arenas must have a force field to keep everyone in, and it works like the one on the roof of the Games Complex, sending back anything that hits it. Clever. The image shifts, to the post-Games interview and Haymitch, cocky, talking about tricking the Gamemakers as well as the One girl, about how he’s a Victor because he beat the Games.
Johanna bites her lip. She doesn’t know much, but that seems dangerous.
And she’s right, because the next shot is in District 12, a house on fire, three figures kneeling in front of it, three Peacekeepers behind them, guns drawn. Three shots, three flashes from the muzzles, the bodies flung onto the flames.
The projection disappears, and Johanna’s looking at President Snow again.
“You see?” Snow asks, the faint smile still in place. “I think you will do as you’re told, Miss Mason.
It feels unreal, just another projected scene, but Johanna manages to say “Yes, sir,” and turns to leave.
She storms out, furious, tears threatening, jerks her head to tell Ila it’s his turn. She storms out to the car and gets the driver to take her back to the Games Center.
Takes the stairs up to the fourth floor and bangs on the door.
Of course Finnick doesn’t answer, it’s one of the old men. “Where’s Finnick?” she snaps. He’ll be here, the party’s in a couple hours and boys don’t take as long in prep.
The door closes partway and someone calls Finnick’s name. He comes out, takes one look at her and says “Roof, c’mon.”
It takes all her very limited self-control not to scream at him all the way up. When she slams the door open onto the roof, she turns on him and shoves him, hard enough that he stumbles back a step.
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” she asks. “You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you? And you didn’t say anything!”
Finnick looks up, runs his hands through his hair, walks past her to the edge of the roof.
She follows him, hands clenched into fists. “How am I supposed to—“ she starts, can’t finish the sentence. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
And now Finnick turns to face her. “What the fuck good would that have done?” he spits it, leaning toward her. “You think it’d be better? You think there aren’t consequences if I tell you before he wants you to know? Fuck off, Johanna, you’re not even pissed at me.”
She goes to yell at him again, snaps her mouth closed. Because it’s true. She’s pissed at him because she can be pissed at him. There’s no point being angry at Snow. It’d be like being mad at a thunderstorm.
And if it comes down to it, she’s not—well, she’s angry because it beats all the other options crowding in. She walks over to put her hands on the low wall, looks down at the Capitol. Finnick turns back around so they’re standing shoulder to shoulder, not looking at each other. And the fury drains away enough for the rest of her feelings to show up.
“You do it too.” She wants him to say it, so she doesn’t have to tell him what Snow showed her.
“Yeah,” Finnick says. “More now I’m 16.”
Johanna shudders. “He show you that video? With Haymitch Abernathy?”
Finnick shakes his head. “Didn’t have to. Showed me pictures of my family. Told me it’d be a shame if there was an accident, fishing can be so dangerous.”
Johanna swallows. “You think it’s true? He’d really do that?”
Finnick laughs. “Oh, sure he would,” he says. “That’s why there’s video.”
“I don’t know if I can,” she says, “I’ve never—“ She doesn’t know why she’s telling Finnick. It’s not like she knows him, not really, a day’s worth of hanging out and some shit on the Tour doesn’t count. It’s just—she can’t talk about this with Ila or Blight or anybody or fuck, her parents.
Finnick keeps his gaze on the road below them. “You’ll find a way,” he says. Shivers a little. “They like teaching you, at first.”
Johanna bites down hard on her lip. There’s nothing to say that will help. Nothing at all.
Something in Finnick’s pocket buzzes, and he pulls it out, looks at the screen. “I gotta go, and you gotta get ready,” he says. “They’ll give you one of these,” he adds, pointing the thing at her before sticking it back in his pocket. “Phone, so they always know they can find you. C’mon,” he jerks his head towards the door. “You have a birthday party to get to.”
Johanna downs three of the bubbly sweet drinks, fast enough the room spins a little when she moves too fast, enough that everything seems more silly than it is terrible, and she’s working on a fourth when Ila finds her, takes the glass out of her hand and hauls her into a bathroom.
“Johanna, you can’t do this,” he says, urgent, scared. Makes her drink something that makes her throw up, then a glass of water, then a pill that makes her feel edgy, alert, sharpens all the edges the alcohol was making nicely blurred.
“Dammit, Ila,” Johanna says, feeling the tension in her spine, her shoulders ratchet back up. She doesn’t know what else to say.
“I’m sorry, Johanna,” Ila says, and he looks genuinely apologetic. “But you have to play your part.”
Johanna takes three shaky breaths, walks to the door. “Fine,” she snaps, and walks out.
So she can’t get drunk. Fine. She picks up something sweet to nibble on instead, and if she has to do this, she’ll have to do it her way. Finnick, at his party, had been…enthusiastic. Friendly. She can’t do that, but she tries aloof, as mean as she thinks she can get away with, toothy grins that she knows come off wild, half-feral.
Finnick finds her, and he’s been drinking, he’s relaxed, face flushed, gives her a hug and a sloppy kiss on the cheek.
“Dammit Finnick,” Johanna says. “How come you’re allowed to get drunk and I’m not.”
Finnick pulls himself up to his full height. “I’m not drunk,” he says, serious, then cracks a smile. “Well, only a little bit. Gotta learn moderation, Jo,” he says. It occurs to her that actually, he’s only a couple months older than she is, so she tells him that.
“Where do you get off acting so damn superior?” she demands. He just laughs, slings an arm around her shoulders.
And then the damn photographers show up. Johanna mimes taking a bite out of his ear when he’s not paying attention, when she can’t manage to smile anymore, and the cameras flash wild around them.
The party’s winding down when he finds her. A guy who looks Blight’s age, which means he’s probably closer to Ila’s since this is the Capitol. “Happy birthday, my dear,” he says, his voice a deep rumble. “My name is Augustine, you’ll be accompanying me tonight.”
Johanna’s heart thuds hard in her chest when he takes her arm. She’s struck speechless.
“Come now,” he says, reproachful. “You had plenty to say to Finnick, why so quiet now?”
“I don’t know you,” Johanna blurts out. “What am I supposed to say?”
He chuckles. “Oh,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Is that how it’s going to be?”
It makes Johanna cringe inside, she doesn’t know why. But hey, if bitchy comebacks are allowed, she can do bitchy comebacks. “Guess so,” she says, tries smiling. It seems to work.
He takes her out to a waiting car, helps her in, then slides in after her. It’s a big car, but he sits close, sweeps her hair to the side with one hand, strokes down her neck. Johanna wants to scream, to pull away, to run, but in the back of her mind she sees flames, hears shots. She bites the inside of her lip until she tastes blood.
He helps her out of the car again in a garage, takes her hand and leads her inside, up a huge hardwood staircase to a bedroom.
“You got quiet again,” he says, taking off his jacket and hanging it on a hook beside the door.
“What am I supposed to say?” Johanna asks, and this time it comes out a little shaky.
“Are you frightened of me?” Augustine asks.
“Fuck no,” Johanna lies, and this time her voice doesn’t shake.
He smiles, slow and thin. “Ah, well,” he says. “That’s just fine.”
Johanna doesn’t know how long it lasts, only that it’s too long, that he strips her out of her clothes and fucks her, makes her kneel on the floor and suck his cock, tells her she’s doing it wrong, shoves her back onto the bed and climbs on top of her again.
“Not so mouthy anymore,” he says, later. “Not so tough after all.”
He looks around the floor at the clothes strewn around. Shrugs, opens a door into a bathroom. When he comes out he’s wrapped in a bathrobe. Looks her up and down where she’s lying, still naked, on the bed. “Not bad, for an outlier,” he says, nodding. “There’s something charming about naiveté, there really is.”
Johanna can’t say anything. “Oh, come on, we’re done, get out,” he says, after a pause. “The driver will take you back.”
He walks out the door without a backwards glance.
Johanna finds her dress, pulls it on, but she can’t zip it by herself, the zipper is behind her and it’s too tight to reach.
And it’s that that finally makes her cry, furious frustrated tears as she tries to reach and can’t and finally gives up, grabs her shoes in one hand and hurries to the car.
She goes straight to her room, straight to the shower, hot as she can stand and then ice cold until she’s shivering and then the hot air dryer to warm her back up. She puts on baggy sleep pants, sweatshirt, sits on the bed wrapped in a blanket and doesn’t know what to do. Sleep is impossible, a ridiculous idea. Sitting here isn’t much better. She gets up, goes out to the common room. Ila’s on the couch, asleep. Johanna rolls her eyes, walks out, on a whim takes the elevator to the Four floor. This time she knocks quietly instead of pounding, and this time Finnick is the one that answers.
“Roof’s nice,” he says, bland, and they ride up together in awkward silence.
Finnick’s got a bottle of something with him, walks over to sit in a corner, uncorks it and takes a swig, then passes it to Johanna.
It tastes horrible, burns all the way down her throat and she likes it that way.
They sit next to each other, the smallest space between them, until Johanna’s taken a few swigs of Finnick’s booze and she leans over to rest her head on his shoulder. He shifts, puts his arm around her, pulls her close. She’s crying a little. Leaking, it feels like, slow tears with no sound.
Finnick sets the bottle aside. Sighs, Johanna can feel his chest rise and fall. She should sit up, move away, but…she doesn’t. “Is it always like this?” she asks, quiet.
Finnick sighs again. “Yeah,” he says, shrugs the shoulder she’s not leaning against. “But you get used to it.”
Johanna shudders. The idea of getting used to this is terrifying. She doesn’t know how that’s possible, doesn’t want to know. Can’t think about it, so she gestures for the bottle, drinks again.
“You should sleep,” Finnick says after a bit.
“You’re not my mentor,” Johanna mumbles, but she is getting sleepy. The booze helps. Finnick chuckles, and she sits up. “Fine,” she says. Finnick stands up first, reaches down a hand. Johanna raises an eyebrow.
“Mags taught me to be polite,” he says, all exaggerated innocence. Just for that Johanna takes his hand and yanks, jerking him forward a step and off balance.
“Hey!” he says, letting go of her hand. “Teach me to be nice, jeez.”
Johanna grins. “Serves you right,” she says, getting up, and she knocks into him, fake-accidental, on the way to the stairs.
Ila wakes her up way too soon. The prep team’s there, flutters around getting her ready for an interview, then Ila’s hustling her to the car, to the interview, to a photo op with a furniture store, with the guy who runs logging in Seven, with a bunch of people who’re apparently sponsors, back to prep, out to a party. She sips at a drink, glares at Ila, but fuck, she can figure this out: how to let the alcohol calm her down and wear down the sharp edges of everything without getting sloppy.
She’s still never going to be able to pull off Finnick’s relaxed, flirtatious, whatever it is he does. Best she can do is the cocky kid who came out of the Arena. So she remembers feeling powerful, unstoppable, vicious, even if now she has to do what she’s told. Imagines a hatchet in her hand, imagines chopping into the legs of the men who come too close, put their hands on her waist, her shoulders, bend down to kiss her cheeks in greeting.
Imagines shoving her thumbs into the eye sockets of the man who pins her down later. He’s trapping her, she can’t move, and she can’t help but struggle, tearing one hand free and scratching at him with the nails the prep team glued over hers.
He laughs, even though the scratches on his face are bleeding, lets her up, lets her scramble back and bare her teeth, and she’s terrified even as she does it because gunshots and fire but she can’t stop herself. The man just follows, though, when she scrambles to her feet, backs against the wall. Pins her hands above her head, bends down to bite the sweep of her neck where it meets her shoulder, yanks her around so her face is pressed hard against the wall, pinned by the weight of his body against hers, and—it hurts. The first time hurt, but—not like this. He’s digging bruises into her hips, her body jerking and all she can do to keep her head from slamming against the wall.
He steps away when he’s done and she falls, ends up on her hands and knees, head hanging, crying the way she swore she’d never do in front of Capitol people ever again. And the door opens, closes, opens again, and there’s a woman, somber, pulling Johanna to her feet, wrapping her in something soft, hushing her and guiding her out to the waiting car.
It’s still early when Johanna gets back, only just after midnight when she’s finished showering, and Finnick won’t be back yet and nobody else understands and she wants to scream.
The machine in the room makes drinks as well as food, she discovers. But it doesn’t help. She drinks, and the images in her head just get stronger, drinks more and she’s bent over the toilet, coughing and retching and crying, her head spinning.
She wakes up there, later, huddled in on herself on the tile floor, head pounding. Retches again, even though there’s nothing in her stomach, thinks about going to bed but the bed’s too far and the cold tile feels good against her cheek and so she stays there until Ila and the prep team find her and shriek.
They put a needle in her arm while they erase bruises and do whatever else they need to do, and by the time they’re done Johanna feels a little .less like shit. When they leave Ila comes over. “I told you not to do that,” he says, looking confused. “You have to take care of yourself, Johanna.”
Johanna looks at him. “Really,” she says. “That's fucking hilarious, Ila.” She stands up and walks past him out the door.
He's awake when she gets home, this time, sitting on the couch with the TV on and a cup of coffee in his hands. “Don't.” Johanna says, when he starts to get up. She showers, comes back into her room wrapped in a towel, and it's early still and she doesn't want to talk to Ila and doesn't want Finnick to think she's clingy and definitely doesn't want to be on her own. But there were people down in the lounge, she heard them as she snuck in the back way, and maybe distraction is a good thing.
Her hair’s dried sleek, silky smooth from whatever Capitol shit the blowers added, and she's watched the prep team enough to imitate something with the makeup in the cabinet. The closets in her room have more clothes than she could wear in a month, and if most of them are terrible there's at least some things that don't make her look like, no point ducking it, a high class whore. She settles on a short black skirt and one of the soft, sheer sweaters and thick-soled boots. When she looks in the mirror it's somewhere in between the Johanna she's always been and Victor Johanna’s edgy dangerous look the stylists like.
She doesn't say anything to Ila on her way out, just strides into the elevator and goes down. She was right: there are people here, Victors and folks from the Capitol, drinking and chatting over the music. She heads for the bar, even though after last night she doesn't really want to drink anything alcoholic for a good long time. She needs something to do, some way to look like she belongs. So when the bartender comes over and asks what she wants, she shrugs. “Surprise me,” she says, grinning, and he nods, comes back with something clear and fizzy.
She takes it, turns to look out at the crowd. Pretty much everyone is older than her, and they notice her but don't seem that interested. It's novel, after weeks of being the center of attention. But she feels out of place, small and silly and out of her depth. And then someone comes up beside her, perches on a bar stool, and says, “What's a kid like you doing hanging out here?”
Johanna glares, just on instinct. She's not a kid, not after everything that's happened, and when she looks more carefully, this guy doesn't seem that old either. “Got bored,” Johanna says, offhand. Smirks. “Not like I know my way around here to find something better.”
“Well,” the guy says, winks. “I can help you fix that, if you want.”
Johanna studies him, suspicious. “Oh yeah?”
“Sure,” he says. “C’mon, nothing here’s worth your time, I know a place we could go. I'm Adrian, by the way.”
There really isn't a good reason to stay here, so Johanna shrugs. “Okay, Adrian, show me what you've got.”
He beams, hooks an arm through hers, leads her outside. “It's not far,” he says, turning down a side street, away from the photographers at the front. “You shouldn't be stuck inside, this'll be way more interesting.”
He leads her toward a building decked out in lurid colors, flashing lights and music she can hear from the street. There's a line of people waiting to get in, but Adrian walks right up to the door.
“Adrian Trillam” he announces to the guard, “and Johanna Mason.”
The guard looks her up and down, raises an eyebrow, and opens the door.
Inside it’s…overwhelming. Dark except for lights that pulse with the pounding music, people dancing, bodies pressed together, all but actually fucking with clothes on. She's suddenly acutely aware of Adrian's hand on her back, turns to look at him, one eyebrow raised.
He laughs. “Oh, honey, don’t look so shocked,” he says, “you're not in the backwoods anymore.”
And that just pisses her off, so she jerks away to glare at him. He raises his hands, surrendering. “Hey, I just want you to have a good time,” he says, “I know better than to try anything with a Victor.”
Johanna shrugs. That's not really what she was worried about. Mostly the strobing lights and pounding music are giving her a headache, the sheer number of people packed into the space is overwhelming, and she doesn't really know what to do.
“It's a bit much, don't you think?” She tries making it sarcastic, and he laughs.
“You're just too sober,” he says. Johanna’s stomach roils at the idea of drinking enough to make this seem manageable. But he pulls a paper wrapped packet from his pocket and hands her a pill.
“What's this?” Johanna asks, skeptical.
Adrian smiles. “It'll make you feel good,” he says, simply. “Stick it under your tongue.” He demonstrates with his own.
Johanna hesitates. But if he did it it can't be that bad. And she doesn't want to go home and doesn't want to stay here and maybe this will make things better. So she copies him, feels the thing dissolve, leaving her tongue tingly and half numb.
The first thing she notices is that her headache dissipates, then that the music seems to be somehow alive, that the dancing that seemed ridiculous before now just looks right. Adrian smiles at her, and his eyes are dark, pupils wide. He pulls her into the throng of people, and Johanna’s body moves on its own, slipping into the rhythm. She loses track of Adrian after a while, dances with people she’s never met but are suddenly best friends, boys and girls both, and their hands on her feel electric. She ends up in a corner with a boy who seems familiar, curled against each other on a cushion, and she's lost and faraway and still more alive than she's felt in ages. His hands slide under her skirt and she gasps, because she hadn't realized this could feel good, instead of sick and scary. She can barely breathe, presses closer, hungry, his teeth dragging against her lip a trail of sparks, his hands on her like flame.
“Fuck, Johanna,” he whispers, breathy, drags her on top of him. It's dark, here, they're hidden just enough by curtains and cushions that maybe nobody sees when he slides his pants down and her skirt up, tears her flimsy lace underwear and presses inside her. And even that, even that feels good, feels like life, and his hands never stop moving and his mouth is on hers and he moves slowly, at first, and she wants more, wants everything, presses herself against him. His hips rock faster, and she presses hard against him, and the music fills her up from her toes and then fades into blank white overwhelming sensation and she goes rigid against him, her hands fisting in his hair, shuddering and panting as she feels him come, breathless, reaching, and oh, but it's good.
He shudders quiet as she does, pulling away reluctantly. Slides his pants back up while she adjusts her skirt, smiles at her, reaches to stroke along her jaw. He gets up, reaches for her. “C’mon,” he says, leads her into a bathroom where they clean up as best they can, giggling and distracting each other with fingers and kisses.
They keep their fingers tangled as they walk out, and then another boy comes careening through the crowd. “Fuck, Julius, where'd you—” he stops, looks between the two of them, punches Julius in the arm. And now Johanna remembers meeting him, at Finnick's party, what seems like a lifetime ago.
“Hey there, Johanna,” the new guy says, kisses her cheek, and it doesn't feel like electricity anymore, but it still feels good.
“Uh oh,” Julius says, studying her. “Let's go find you another hit, I don't think you're ready to be done yet.”
She's really, really not, isn't even hours later when the second pill starts wearing off, when Julius leads her outside into shocking sunlight and even more shocking camera flashes.
“Fuck,” he says, yanking her through the crowd to the closest cab. “See you around, Johanna,” he adds, with a rueful smile, and tells the driver to take her back to the Games Complex.
Ila is furious when she gets in, and waiting for her, which is confusing until she hears the TV commentators talking about her, from behind him.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” he asks, more angry than she's ever seen him. “They always watch, Johanna, you can't pretend you have any privacy here, you can't pull that kind of shit.”
Johanna goes past him to look at the TV. There's footage from inside the club, of her dancing, kissing Adrian and Julius and his friend Cassius and dancing with people who's names she doesn't even think she ever knew. There’s even grainy, blurred video of her and Julius off in the corner, and it's too dark to see much but the commentators are drawing the right conclusions anyway.
There's still enough of whatever the pills were in her system that she can't feel more than distantly concerned about any of this. But Ila is furious, and that probably means it's bad.
She sighs. “Okay, fine, I'm sorry,” she says. “But what now?”
“The President wants to see you,” Ila says, and no amount of anything can keep that from feeling like a knife to her chest. She's cold. Exposed.
“When?”
“Now.”
“Okay, let me just—”
“No. Right now.”
Ila sits next to her in the car, silent and disapproving. In the close air Johanna smells her own body, sweat and sex and traces of other people’s perfumes, runs her hands ineffectually through her hair and just makes it tangle worse. Her heart’s racing way too fast. She can't breathe.
The Peacekeepers at the door stop Ila. “Just her,” says a voice behind a mask. Johanna feels like she's in a dream. A nightmare, but she can't wake up.
A servant opens the door to the president’s study, closes it behind her, and there she is, alone in the somber office that smells, sickeningly, of roses.
“Ah, Miss Mason,” he says, unsmiling. “It seems we have a problem.”
Johanna’s mouth is too dry to say anything.
He goes on. “Your appointment for this evening has cancelled. Seems he found your little display distasteful.”
He pauses, but she still can't speak.
“Victors Affairs will find a replacement,” he says, smiling, “but this sort of thing will not happen again, do you understand?”
Johanna nods.
“Hm?”
She swallows. “Yes sir” she grits out.
“Good.” He pauses, looks her up and down, purses his lips. “Now get out, you're befouling the room.”
Johanna leaves as fast as her shaky legs will take her.
Her schedule’s been cleared for the day. No interviews, nothing until the event this evening, where there'll be photographers but no questions. The Seven floor is thick with Ila's disapproval and worry, so Johanna escapes up to the roof. There's no question of sleeping. She can barely sit still for more than a couple minutes, paces and worries and bites her fingernails until they bleed.
And she’s leaned against the wall, watching the city, when the door opens and Finnick comes up. She turns around, leans back, hands on the wall, and waits for him. He hops up to sit, heels kicking against the brick. And like that he’s way too tall, so Johanna climbs up to sit next to him.
“So,” he drawls, “sounds like you had a fun night.”
Johanna laughs. “Fuck,” she says, shoving her hands through her hair. “It was actually pretty great, right up till the part where it ended.”
Finnick chuckles. “Yeah,” he says, drawing out the word. Looks over at her with a crooked smile. “You can't get away with that while everyone's watching.”
Dammit, why does everyone have so much to say about this now, when it's over and she can't do anything about it? She hops down, walks across the roof. Finnick follows her, a little hesitant. Stops when she spins around.
“What?” she demands, and he shrugs.
“I heard your schedule got rearranged, thought you might be bored.”
Johanna glares at him. “The last time I let someone suggest something to keep me from being bored, I got on TV and the President yelled at me personally.”
Finnick winces. “I was gonna suggest ice cream and shitty movies,” he says, “I don't think that's too objectionable.”
Johanna glares at him. But it's better than going quietly crazy up here by herself. “Fine,” she says. “Your floor though, Ila’s still pissed at me.”
“Okay,” Finnick says, easygoing, holds the door for her and follows her into the elevator.
The prep team calls for Finnick late in the afternoon. Finnick’s half asleep when the phone rings, and he groans audibly before answering. “She's here, yeah,” he says, turns to Johanna. “You gotta go up to Seven,” he says. Johanna hasn't really managed to relax, even with Finnick making fun of dumb Capitol romances, her jaw is locked tight and her shoulders ache. She gets up, mechanically, heads towards the door.
“See you later,” Finnick calls, and she just waves.
Johanna goes to the party, can't bring herself to do more than scowl when people tease her about her busy night, which they do, over and over again. As she's starting to wonder whether maybe Snow didn't find her a date for the evening after all, a woman comes over. “Miss Mason, please come with me,” she says, turns and walks toward the door quick enough Johanna has to rush to keep up.
She's shepherded into a car, alone, driven through dark streets to stop in front of a brick building that looks like any other.
“This is it,” the driver says. “I'll wait.”
She gets out, walks up to the door, rings the bell. The man who answers is tall and broad-shouldered and imposing. He doesn't say anything, just stands aside, waits for her to come in, walks into the house without waiting to see if she'll follow. They go down a flight of stairs into a room with bare cement walls and floor, a drain in the center. Johanna doesn't have time to think about what the fuck is going on before the man’s shoved her hard, sent her sprawling. When she turns around he's standing over her, smiling a little, still silent. She gets to her feet, he knocks her down again, she stays down, he grabs her arm and hauls her to her feet. Shoves her hard against one wall, pins her with a hand on her throat, pressure increasing until her vision starts to tunnel in, then releasing so abruptly she falls to her knees.
And still, he's silent. Puts a finger under her chin, tips her face up to look at him. She can't read anything on his face, can't tell if he's pleased or disgusted or angry or anything. Just sees bland, careful interest. He hooks his finger under her jaw and pulls, and she has to get up just to make the pressure bearable. He shoves her against the wall again, this time with a hand on her chest. Reaches toward his belt and comes back with a short coil of rope. There are hooks in the wall, above her head. He ties her wrists together, loops the rope over the hooks, pulls until she can just keep her toes on the ground. Then steps back, and smiles. Walks out of the room.
When he comes back he's stripped out of his shirt, and is carrying a whip, the kind Peacekeepers use to keep the loggers in line.
Loggers get lashed across the back, but he doesn't turn her around, lets the whip cut across her chest, her stomach, her thighs, shredding her dress as he goes. Only after that does he spin her roughly to face the wall and start on her back.
It stops, eventually, and she's still waiting for the next lash when she feels his hands instead, ripping off the shreds of clothing still clinging to her skin. He steps close, his breath warm on her neck. And then closer, and his sweat stings in her broken skin, and his hands run bloody up her arms and his teeth scrape against her jaw.
And there's pain everywhere, as he shoves her against the wall, as he forces himself into her, the only sound his breath harsh in her ear and the gasps and whimpers she can't stop herself from making, the rough slap of skin against skin against concrete.
Sometime later, it stops. Sometime after that—and Johanna isn't sure, but it seems like a long time and she's shivering with the cold, someone else comes in, unties her, lowers her carefully to the ground.
The grey-haired woman who put her in the car helps Johanna to her feet, wraps her in what's probably soft cotton but feels like sandpaper, guides her stumbling through the house and into the car.
They go into the Games Complex underground, stopping somewhere quiet and freezing cold, and the woman helps Johanna out of the car and walks her straight to Remake.
There's a lot of noise after that, but Johanna doesn't manage to sort any of it into sense before they put a needle into her arm and she slips gratefully into unconsciousness.
She wakes up in her bed, on the Seven floor, aching all over, her skin pink and tender but whole. Ila is asleep in a chair next to the bed, head tipped back and mouth open. He's snoring.
Johanna just feels numb. But the silence is oppressive and terrifying and the longer she stays still the more she starts to wonder if she can move at all, until she kicks off the blankets and sits up, breathing fast.
Ila startles awake and looks at her, then looks quickly away.
Right. She's naked.
“You’ll be okay,” he says, looking down at his hands. His voice sounds dull and flat. “They say your skin will heal completely in another couple days.”
Johanna looks down at the shiny pink lines that however many hours ago were raw and bleeding. Capitol magic, she thinks, and it sticks in her throat.
“What—” she croaks, swallows, tries again. “What are they going to do until then?”
Ila’s mouth is a flat line. “Makeup. And there's just the final farewell interview, today. Then we’re going home.”
Oh, fuck. Home, where her parents will want to know what happened, and not just because she's tiger striped, they'll want to know about all of it and she can't tell them. It's the worst kept secret in the Capitol, apparently, if you're in the right circles, but it's still a secret, what she does, and Finnick, and Cashmere and Gloss and the rest.
She wants out of the Capitol like she wants to keep breathing, but she doesn't want to go back there.
Ila might guess at a little of that, because he sighs, closes his eyes hard for a second, shrugs. Then looks away. “Finnick Odair would like you to call him, when you're ready.”
Johanna nods, and he gets up and walks out. Pauses at the door. “You have to be back at Remake in two hours. Please don't go anywhere.”
Then he's gone.
Johanna gets out of bed and wraps herself in the soft robe that's draped over the foot of the bed. Then she calls Finnick.
“Oh thank the—thank fuck,” Finnick says, when she says hello. Then he pauses. “Can you meet me on the roof?” he asks, hesitant.
Johanna shrugs, which of course he can't see, then says “Sure, I have a couple hours to kill.”
“I meant…” Finnick starts, trails off.
“Yes, Finnick, I can meet you on the roof,” Johanna says, exasperated. “See you there.”
Ila is keeping an eye out, apparently. “Where are you going?” He asks, when she heads for the door.
“None of your business,” Johanna snaps.
“Johanna,” Ila starts, but she cuts him off.
“Fuck, Ila, I'm going to the roof to meet Finnick, okay?”
She doesn't wait for his response this time before she leaves.
Finnick is already there when she comes out, blinking in the sun.
“Shit, Johanna,” he says, “you scared me to death.”
Johanna looks at him, confused. He shakes his head. “I was there when they brought you in, got told to go to Remake right after my appointment, which is weird but I figured maybe there was going to be something scheduled in the morning so…” he pauses, takes a deep breath. “They wanted me there,” he says.
Johanna shrugs. It hurts, tender skin scraping against fabric every time she moves. “Guess I wasn't the only one who needed a lesson,” she says. Her voice sounds dull and flat even to her.
“Fuck, Jo, I'm so sorry,” he says, and that's just annoying, the way he's looking at her like she's a baby bird with a broken wing.
“It's fine,” she snaps. “They got me practically fixed up already.”
“Yeah but—”
“Finnick, don't.” Johanna closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. Looks back at him. “He wanted to teach me a lesson, and he did, and I'm going to be fine. That's it.”
Finnick looks like he wants to say something more, but he stops, sighs, scrubs his hands down his face. “You're going home today?”
Johanna nods. “One more interview and then the train.” She pauses. “You're not?”
Finnick shakes his head. “They want me a few more days.”
Johanna feels a surge of something like guilt. “Probably wanted to keep me too, but Snow went and got his toy damaged,” she says,
Finnick winces, looks away over her shoulder.
“Look,” Johanna says, when he doesn't respond. “I gotta go back, Ila is about to tie me to something.”
Finnick scowls at her. “He wouldn't do that,” he says.
Johanna rolls her eyes, the one movement that doesn't fucking hurt, so hey, that's something. “No, he wouldn't. But he's tempted, I can tell.”
Finnick shrugs, granting that much. Then sighs. “Take care of yourself, Jo,” he says, stepping forward, hesitant.
Johanna gives him the hug he clearly wants but doesn't think he can ask for. It hurts, but who cares. “You too, Finn,” she says, steps away.
He nods, gets the door, follows her to the elevator.
The interview is a bunch of prepackaged fucking nonsense. Ila has some kind of special pain pills he’s doling out and they keep everything at arms length—the pain, sure, but also any feelings she might otherwise have. Which is what lets her get through the interview with snarky bullshit rather than snarling at the poor man they have talking to her.
When she walks out Ila nods. “Good,” he says, still wound tight with anger or worry or maybe both. He reaches as if to touch her shoulder, pulls away before she has time to flinch. The makeup is perfect, but she still hurts.
They go straight to the train. “I had someone pack up your room,” Ila says. “Stuff’s in cargo, someone’ll drop it at your house.”
Johanna shrugs, then winces. “Nothing much important there anyway,” she says.
They lapse into silence the rest of the way. Johanna goes straight to her room when she gets to the train. Lies down on the bed willing herself to fall asleep, but no such luck.
No, instead her brain spins out memories, parties in the Capitol and sunken-eyed filthy kids in Twelve, Peacekeepers standing careful watch, the whistle of the whip before it bit into her skin, kissing Julius, getting fucked in opulent bedrooms, Snow’s snake smile, stepping out into a clearing with two well-balanced hatchets and not caring if she lived or died as long as she did something.
She snarls and gets up. Showers, carefully, lukewarm water sluicing away the makeup and leaving fading lines across her skin. Pulls on sweats even though it isn’t cold, the hood up. Goes out to the common room to find Ila and see if he has pain pills or sleeping pills or fucking something to stop the shitshow in her head.
He’s sitting on one of the couches going over some kind of paperwork, but looks up when Johanna comes in.
“I can’t sleep,” she says.
“It’s only six o’clock,” he replies, bland. “I’m not surprised.”
“Can I have another pain pill?”
“Not for two more hours.”
Johanna glares, arms crossed over her chest. Goes to the table in the back, picks up a bottle at random and dumps something into a glass.
“You drink that I can’t give you your pain pills,” Ila says, still expressionless.
Johanna spins around. “Who put you in charge of me?” she snaps. “Why are you suddenly my own personal Peacekeeper?”
Ila’s face goes, if anything, even blanker, but he’s clenching his jaw. “Really, Johanna?” he asks, looking her up and down.
He can’t see anything, she’s covered everything but her fucking face and nobody seems to touch that. “It’s my fucking life,” she spits. “What do you care?”
“Well among other reasons, because I had my own meeting with the President, Johanna.” She freezes. “He made it very clear that this kind of behavior would lead to consequences for all of the Victors in Seven, should it continue.” The words come out clipped, precise. “Seeing as you seem to be unable to exercise self-control, I am taking matters into my own hands.”
Johanna stares at him. She fucked up, she paid for it, it’s done. Or so she thought. Apparently there’s more to it than that. “Shit,” she hisses, turning and walking toward the windows. The landscape streaking by makes her dizzy. She hears Ila sigh, shift papers and stand up. He comes to stand next to her, moving carefully so she can see him before he’s close enough to touch.
“You’ve got to learn to take care of yourself, Johanna,” he says, in a softer voice. “I know it’s hard but—“
“You don’t know shit,” Johanna says, goes back into her room and wishes she could slam the door instead of it hissing quietly closed on its own.
She paces back and forth a couple of times, settles finally in the corner, her knees pulled up. Wishes she could cry, but instead she’s just…twisted up, metal sheared into sharp edges like the hovercraft that wrecked when she was a kid, spilled a load of timber and twisted into the side of a hill.
She apparently comes with a blast radius, too.
What a fucking mess.
Ila comes in later, gives her the pain pills, and says “Johanna—“
“Don’t,” she snarls. “Leave me alone.”
He hesitates, but then he leaves.
She doesn’t move. The pills dull everything a little, but not enough. Johanna wonders what exactly Snow threatened Ila and them with. Sees the video images again, gunshots and fire, shudders hard enough to send pain sparking from her shoulders. Tries to think what to say to her parents, how the fuck she can look at them after everything.
It’s dark, and they’re flying over the terrifying vastness of Nine or Ten or something, she can’t see a damn thing but the horizon out the window, and that only because the stars stop. She gets up, stiff joints protesting, walks back out to the common room. It’s empty, Ila must be asleep in his room. Johanna eyes the bottles at the back, skeptically. She wants to sleep. Alcohol is good for that. But she fucked up, she drank too much and took drugs from someone she didn’t even know and broke rules she didn’t know existed and she’s ruined everything for all of them. She should try to be good. Which means no alcohol. Means going to bed, because it’s late and she’ll want to be fresh in the morning to see her parents. Just that thought makes her want to drink enough to pass out on the floor again. At least then they wouldn’t ask her about the rest of it.
But no. No, Johanna is going to follow the rules.
Even if it means sitting on her bed, back against the wall, staring at nothing until the sun comes up.
Until Ila comes in and gives her more pills, tells her to come eat breakfast.
Which she can’t actually eat, it sticks in her throat and makes her gag, but she drinks coffee, and juice, and keeps her mouth shut, and Ila gives her worried looks but he doesn’t yell at her again.
The prep team comes in after that and Johanna looks at Ila, confused.
“Last stop on the Tour,” he says. “Welcome home party.” He gives her a crooked smile. “Gotta look your best for the home crowd.”
Johanna wants to cry. She’s exhausted, she wants to go home, curl up in her bed and not leave for a week—or ever. She blinks fast, looks up at the ceiling and gets up. “May as well get it over with,” she says, and goes into prep.
The prep team mutters to themselves while they cover the nearly-healed marks. “I don’t know why—“ someone starts, before being hushed. Johanna tunes them out, like usual, lets herself be stripped down and manhandled and dressed like a fucking doll, and she’s used to it, really, except today she can’t stop wanting to cry and the hands on her make it worse.
At least in Seven it’s too cold for anything provocative. They’ve done their best, but given they don’t want her to get frostbite, there’s not much to be done for it. Fur-lined coat and tight wool dress to the floor, warm underclothes, gloves. She looks almost elegant, instead of the product on display she’s been since the Tour started. Nobody to sell her to in Seven, and the anticipation’s over for the Capitol, so they don’t need to advertise.
She bites her tongue hard, pain stopping the train of thought before it gets any farther, into how many years she’ll have to do this before they leave her alone.
Finally she’s ready and they let her out. The air stings. Even what they’ve put her in isn’t warm enough for the north wind not to chill her to the bone.
But it doesn’t matter. She aches everywhere anyway, the harsh wind on her cheeks just gives her an excuse for any tears that manage to escape.
The Mayor greets her first, a handshake and a kiss on the cheek, and then Blight and Henrik, and then her parents come up on stage and hug her stiffly, for the cameras. Mom’s fingers linger as she pulls away, her eyes worried, mouth pinched before Dad nudges her and she forces a smile.
There’s a meal, and dancing in the Justice Building, and Johanna wonders if the cold air really did freeze her solid, she feels that numb. It seems like half of Seven’s here, congratulating her and shaking her hand as she tries to come up with what to say.
And then finally, Ila’s pulling her to her feet, her parents following behind, out into the early dark of Seven winter, into his truck for the short ride to the Village. “Go get some sleep, Johanna,” Ila says when he drops them off, more gentle than she’s heard him in a long time. “You’ll have some time to yourself now.” It doesn’t make sense, but Johanna doesn’t bother trying to decipher it, because Mom’s got an arm around her shoulders, guiding her inside.
Johanna leans into Mom’s side, because it’s warm and comforting, lets Mom guide her upstairs and to her bedroom—then remembers what’s underneath all those layers and pulls away.
“I’m okay,” she says, and Mom frowns, but lets go. “I’ll see you in the morning.”