you can always bleed a little more.

The good girl is always a ghost /
the body is always a wound.

WISDOM OF OLD AGE / ANNE CHAMPION

﹙ chapter twenty one, act two ﹚

tribute tower, the capitol.
july, 72 att.

                    JOHANNA'S EYES ACHE FROM THE TEARS SHE'S SHED. Rubbed red, little blood vessels burst on the whites of her eyes. She looks horrendous, as the prep team so freely comments. She looks pathetic, with her mottled cheeks and unkempt hair falling in a tangle down her back. They've done their best to remould her into the image ─── foundation to cover the redness, her hair cut to her shoulders, nice and soft clothes on her for once. Johanna looks in the mirror of the bathroom and the girl in the reflection ─── Johanna is seventeen, not yet a woman, as her mother tells her ─── is one who almost looks angry.

                    Johanna is a hundred other things, too, but anger seems to resurface the most. It's also the most unacceptable to the Capitol; this is an honour. She is lucky to be here. Hence, she keeps her mouth in a firm, unyielding frown, clenches her fists but keeps them at her side, hidden under the sleeves. She splashes water over her face and tries to wipe any trace of it away, taking several deep breaths. The Capitol may never witness what lies beneath the mask. Not if she's to get home.

                    ( Johanna had always wanted to leave that hovel, and told her mother as much. Now look where she is. )

                    A surly expression crosses over her features as she thinks of the woodcutting cabin, of the smooth and comforting feel of axe handles, of the stove she and her brothers huddle around in winter. Her lips purse and her jaw tenses ─── not from the memories, which are innocent enough. Because she may never return there; all part of a penance for a crime she didn't commit. That her parents, and their parents, didn't commit either.

                    Johanna fights very real tears as she waits in that small room of the Justice Building. She doesn't expect her mother to come see her off ─── but there she is, first of the visitors, wrapping her arms around her in a bone-crushing hug. Every glimmer of resentment fades as she feels like a girl again, sweet and scared, with her mother holding her and keeping her safe. The rest of her family joins, too, but very soon they are ripped away from her as she's led to the train.

                    Johanna promises herself she will get back to them, no matter what it takes.

                    She resumes the defeated slump of her shoulders, bringing some softness back to her face. Relaxes her brows, slightly pouts her lip, and wills her eyes to become glassy. Her prep team may weep over how this ruins all the effort they put into her makeup, but that's merely another bonus.

                    Johanna eats as much as she can for dinner. Who knows when she'll be able to eat like this again? She and Romy, her district partner, sit side by side, but neither of them even looks at the other. He's too busy listening to Blight waffling on and she's preoccupied stewing in her own bitterness while not letting it translate to her face. The escort and stylists chatter amongst themselves, and since there are no other living victors from Seven ─── the others died a few years ago ─── she keeps silent. It's easier than lying, she supposes.

                    "Remember," Blight tells his tribute, and she can't help but think how ironic it is. He has a habit of forgetting things ─── like having two tributes, not just one. "They'll target you first. It's just the way things go."

                    Romy is in an alliance with the Careers. They extended the invite on the second day of training, and it highlighted him as a threat, hence he could hardly decline. But no matter how many trees he's cut, they will tear him apart. Blight cannot do much to steer him away from it, as he did on the first day, and now offers advice after years of observing. Neither bother to hide it from her; Johanna has always been the sort that people don't think to watch their tongues about.

                    Let them rue the day when she's no longer a meek, snivelling idiot. But until then, she keeps herself to herself and sets up a few things, seemingly by accident. The first is an alliance with Kaia.

                    Her tenth attempt starts to fall back into strands of string, but some nimble hands intervene. Johanna looks up, a shout on her lips, but the words die before they ever leave her. It's someone whose name she remembers ─── Kaia, tall and pretty, skin tanned from the sun and dry from the salt.

                    She works quickly and deftly, weaving the strands back into something usable. Kaia then holds the net up to her face and pulls at it sharply from both ends, proving how sturdy it is. Johanna resists the urge to glare at her. "Why'd you do that?"

                    "It was painful to watch you fail a child's job."

                    She breaks character instantly; the barest hint of an upwards curve plays at her lips. "You were watching me?"

                    Kaia stares at her ─── speaking weightily, as if not wanting to waste a single word. "You're flattered by something like that?" She shakes her head imperceptibly. "You're even stupider than I thought."

                    But it's done. The seed is planted, and Kaia comes back to talk again. Johanna proves that she can barely hold a blade, but she can light fires and identify poisonous from edible. She makes herself useful in all the pointless little ways ─── but it's enough to get Kaia to ask the question. Their mentors make it official, and then there is an alliance between the two.

                    With her shoulders slumped the way they are and her hair obscuring her face, she listens to Blight. "Don't be too blinding," he says, voice raspy from age and bones cracking as he shifts to reach for another plate of food. She's surprised he hasn't withered away yet, and he looks about ready to, with stark white hair and deep lines on his face. "Then you'd be a serious threat. And . . . they'd kill you."

                    Romy, a boy of about sixteen and yet a full head of curly black hair taller than her, nods seriously. He drinks in every word like he knows exactly how lucky he is to have Blight's help. Though she can't see it, his gaze flickers to her every so often ─── out of pity for her. But not enough to contest having the undivided attention.

                    "I'll pool whatever sponsors I get for you." He promises. "But I'll send them after you turn on them."

                    "Thank you." Romy says quietly, pained, glancing over to her. She's slumped over the table, face obscured by her arms, but he probably knows she's listening. Even the stylists wince to themselves. It really is like she doesn't exist to him.

                    Johanna excuses herself from the table, bidding them all good night, and departs for her room. She doesn't want to spend another minute with those idiots, not when she has so few remaining.

                    Sleep is elusive. Hours crawl by and still, her eyelids refuse to grow heavy. She wonders what the arena will be, what weapons the Cornucopia will be laden with. Twisting and turning restlessly, the thick duvet is pushed around until it winds its way to the button of the bed, at her feet. Soon enough, it gets to her ─── she slips out of bed, into the nearest clothes she finds, and out into the hallway.

                    The doors to the elevator are silent as they slide open, so unlike the unpleasant creaks and screeches back home whenever she opens anything on a hinge. She shoots up to the top floor, headed to the roof, careful not to bump into anything or knock it over. The rug hides her footsteps, but she's well aware they know she's here ─── unless the four cameras she's seen so far have a purpose other than surveillance. But, her longing for fresh air and clearing her head overpowers a few broken rules.

                    The elevator rushes up, and she gets an odd sort of childlike delight from the funny feeling in her stomach. She'd do it again, but something tells her that tributes don't simply go missing ─── and if they do, it's not for long.

                    The wind ruffles her hair as she steps outside, taking a deep breath. There are no cameras or people to pretend for here ─── except, there is. As she wanders around the rooftop garden, she becomes more aware of voices towards the south side. Almost hidden by the wind; one male and one female. They aren't hushed, since nobody is supposed to be here.

                    She gets closer, and sees two people sitting at the edge of the roof; Johanna crouches behind some potted plants as the two fall into silence. Perhaps they heard her, perhaps they didn't; they resume soon enough. She takes careful, measured steps. Her muscles burn from constantly crouching, but she doesn't dare stand or sit. The former would get her seen, and the other would take too long to run away. She's now close enough to hear the two over the rushing wind from how high up they are.

                    A few more cautious steps, and she can see them.

                    She easily recognises the sandy hair and bronze skin of Finnick Odair, though his back is turned to her. Her lip curls a little at the sight of him. Everybody and their mother has heard of him, and none of it's particularly pleasant. And it seems the Capitol's golden boy has yet another dirty secret.

                    The woman he's talking to doesn't strike a chord in Johanna, but she has that average Capitolite look ─── surgery scars, makeup, far too much time spent on clothes. She doesn't know what she's even doing here, on the tribute tower, so late at night. But Johanna sees what she's doing, and scoffs.

                    Finnick Odair is being given money by this woman.

                    "It was my pleasure," he says, voice carried by the gentle breeze. "You don't have to give me this, Lucretia."

                    "Oh, I know." The Capitolite, Lucretia, simpers happily, hand caressing his chest. "I'll send the main payment over in a few days. But this is extra. It needs to be rewarded."

                    Something about her words twists Johanna's gut.

                    He laughs lowly. "Pay me with a secret."

                    She looks so excited it's sickening, putting a painted nail to her chin and thinking. "There's so much to tell. I know everything, you see."

                    "I can wait." No, he can't, she thinks sourly. This is Kaia's mentor ─── any sponsors sent for her will probably help her in some way. He organised the entire alliance. He has a job to do, aside from being a whore.

                    "Crane." She says. "Lavinia Crane, she told me something. About the arena this year."

                    Johanna leans forward, devouring every word. This has proved to be more rewarding than she ever imagined. "There are plans for there to be snow. Snow and ice and a wasteland of desolation. That's what she knows."

                    Her breath shortens, almost like a gasp. They pick up on it, heads turning for the source. Panic that they might've been heard, and she sees Odair's expression for the first time, tense and wary. Very silently, she takes her token, a bracelet with wooden beads, and throws away part of her heart as far as she can. It clatters against the wall, and as the two inspect it, finding no one there, she thinks she has managed to remain unnoticed. As she leaves for the elevator, she sees Odair inspecting it with his ocean eyes and pocketing it.

                    A frozen desolation awaits her, it seems.

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

hovercraft, somewhere in panem.
july, 72 att.

                    JOHANNA TAPS HER KNEES WITH BITTEN NAILS. It's a habit her mother swore she'd weed out of her, but never found the time to give anything more than an empty threat. She's been doing that a lot, lately ─── thinking of her mother. Since she reached about twelve, all she'd ever done was try and escape from the Mason household, and now she finds herself wanting to go back. Wondering if she ever will.

                    She hates being trapped like this, knowing exactly what's to come yet unable to do anything about it. She's restless, though she didn't sleep at all last night, waking in cold sweats. She has known fear before, but never like this.

                    There is nothing else to do on this flight to the arena, nothing she hasn't already done. Entertaining a conversation with her stylist is a dead end, she's eaten all the food she can physically stomach, and watching the scenery only brings a motion sickness that threatens to bring it all back up to daylight. Nothing to do but run around the same circles of thought.

                    She waits. Johanna finds herself tugging at the ruefully short ends of her hair, and each time there is a moment where she expects it to continue; but no, it was cut away. Changed to please the Capitol. The prep team cut it short when they couldn't untangle the mess of knots and twigs, and she hasn't decided whether or not she likes it yet. It frames her face in a way that makes her look pretty, but cutting away the ends was almost like leaving the past version of herself behind. Johanna picks at her nails, drumming the floor with her fingers in a regular pattern; the seconds drag by.

                    This, all of this, is for their entertainment, for the penance of old crimes. She has been many things since . . . she was old enough to understand what the Hunger Games were and what they truly meant ─── ( that the districts will never be free. They are a mockery to whatever embers of hope still left ). Since she was reaped. Never before was she truly angry.

                    But she finds it is far easier to be filled with rage about her upcoming fight for survival than to be terrified. Anger, though, is a short and futile thing. Johanna may hold on to it, but it's merely another mask ─── she wonders if she is this way naturally, if she is afraid rather than prepared. This must be why her mother tells her she still isn't old enough to leave, because she is still that little child hiding among the trees while the gore plays out on the television.

                    Except now, she will be one of those bloodstained children on the screens ─── how much will it take to leave behind her old self? To grow up?

                    The minutes drag by, like ants under her skin. The arena nears ─── so does the best damn performance of her life. Her stylist, a man whose name she hasn't bothered to remember, sometimes asks if she is doing okay. If she wants more food, or some other meaningless question. Each time, she looks up at him with tear-filled eyes and says: "No."

                    He becomes distinctly uncomfortable, though she doesn't know what he expects to hear ─── she's not some trained weapon who volunteered for this. She's not the strongest or fastest, and there's truthfully very little hope for her at all. She wants to tell this man who thinks his pity is a gift.

                    Soon, the hovercraft lands smoothly, without a hitch or bump; Johanna and her stylist descend down a ladder into tunnels beneath the ground. Labyrinths carved from the rock, lit with a long strip of fluorescent beams, all part of the journey to the final preparation. The slaughterhouse ─── where the weak ones die before the games begin. Johanna becomes acutely aware that she is beneath the arena, that this room of hollowed-out rock and concrete is the last time she'll ever be just a tribute.

                    From now on, she is either dead or a victor. Neither appeals to her, and she buries her face in her hands. Predictably, her stylist awkwardly waits, then coaxes her into readying herself with the facilities. Her tribute uniform arrives through an unmarked chute a few minutes later, and he examines it ─── an insulating jacket, waterproof trousers, and fur-lined ankle boots. Hood and gloves and an extra pair of socks.

                   "Many layers of insulation," he murmurs, handing the garments over to her and then turns away for her privacy, "expect cold. Lots of it. How you'll survive with this alone, I don't know."

                    Because he is looking away, he is oblivious that she isn't feigning surprise. Besides, she could've pieced it together herself ─── but then she wouldn't have gone over specifically what she had learned at the stations that would help, in some way, with the cold. Then she would have suffered what a blow such an arena will undoubtedly be.

                    Then she would've been truly horrified and surprised at her first sight as she rose up into the snowstorm.

                    Snow and ice have always been a cause for celebration since the days Johanna was young. It arrived in her province of Seven only every few years, never settling for long, more like little white wisps in the air and flecks on her hair than the raw, cold onslaught of savagery from the moment she is enclosed in a glass cylinder. It used to be a cause for celebration among herself, her siblings, and cousins ─── it heralded warm tea and a snowball fight. Within a day or two, it melted, harmless and pretty, making the Justice Square look like a postcard picture for a few hours. This is the kind of snow, she realises as the metallic plate finishes rising and the arena makes itself known, that has compacted to ice; the kind that can kill ─── and will.

                    Knowing the arena would be snowy was helpful, but it couldn't prepare her for how her stomach drops as she wildly glances around in horror. There will be no tea, but there will certainly be fights; perhaps the only warmth will come from fresh, spilled blood.

                    Johanna half-stifles a shriek and covers her mouth with an already numb and yet aching hand. She keels forward out of shock, not enough to step off the plate ─── two years ago, somebody did that and got blown up ─── and she looks around. Johanna wishes that Lucretia was lying to Odair when she revealed this to him on the roof, that her wide-set brown gaze is deceiving her.

                    The Cornucopia is an expanse of ice. Perfectly flat until it breaks into snowy hills, marred by the charcoal of barren trees. At the centre, a pile of weapons and useful items ─── Johanna can see an axe that her fingers itch for, but she knows that running towards it would be a death sentence. An axe may be comforting, but it is the blankets and matches that will win this game. Light snow flurries through the air, settling on her hair and coat. Perhaps it'd be pretty if it weren't so cold, if it didn't attack every inch of exposed skin. She wraps her arms around herself as she begins to sob, tears making their way down her flushed cheeks. So cold that they seem to cut.

                    Thirty seconds, as the hovering timer in the centre shows, and Johanna looks at the boy next to her ─── his name is something like Solei, she thinks ─── and he is just close enough for her to see how fearful he is. The whites of his eyes are so large, hair dark like the woods further away; lips parted in horror, flushed red like blood. He is shaking his head, shivering, he is sobbing ─── much like Johanna, except his words are not incoherent. No, no!, he shrieks, and some part of her sobs for this boy as well as her own selfish desires to live.

                    It dawns on her that for her to live, twenty three must die. Johanna knows her life is not worth that much.

                    Fifteen seconds, and she glances to the tribute on her other side, already crouching and hugging her knees for warmth. Face obscured by her hood, a shivering little ball of limbs that haven't finished growing yet. Ten seconds. Three things happen very quickly, in sudden succession: the first is the scream. Short and desperate, it comes from her right. She hasn't even turned her head when the second thing happens: the light. There is a brief and sharp burst of fiery light, immediately followed by the third ─── the shockwave passes through Johanna like a sledgehammer. For a moment, she is almost warm.

                    She looks at the source of the explosion, and there is nothing more than the burnt, smouldering ruins of Solei. Perhaps he jumped, perhaps he fell ─── only the viewers know.

                    Five, four, three; more shrieks from around the Cornucopia as they realise what has happened, but the game continues; uncaring, unaffected. Johanna stares at the still-glowing embers as the timer reaches zero.

                    It takes a few moments for her to catch up with the sudden carnage; the deep baritone of the first ─── no, second ─── cannon jolting her back into the real world. She swallows down her fear in exchange for stumbling off her podium, heading towards the bloodbath. This is a decision that can only be measured by the outcome: Johanna cannot die or reveal her proficiency, but she knows that her chances of survival will be close to nothing without some kind of insulation. Still, though, there is always the fact that she may die, just like little Solei. That she'll be just as pitiful and meaningless.

                    This bloodbath seems quite unlike any she's watched on the television before: in the previous years, it was far more manic and desperate. That's not to say there isn't a ballad of cries and pain in the air, as she sees somebody cut down out of the corner of her eye, but it's more muted. Snow seems to silence all. She runs, legs and muscles burning, breath misting and hanging in the cold. Only to the outskirts, she reasons with herself and the fear clawing into her bloodstream, only to collect something of value.

                    She passes a sheet of waterproof tarpaulin in favour of a box of matches sitting innocently in the snow ─── only, she is not the only one who has suddenly realised the value of such a small item. From the opposite direction, Kaia, sun-highlighted hair flowing behind her in a braid. While watching her approach, Johanna realises that there is no sun in this arena. The sky is an eventide purple and pink, starkly contrasting the white of snow and black of forest. Kaia is fast.

                    The two exchange a look, and she veers off for a weapon. That was the agreement, after all.

                    There is another girl, Sommer, running for the box of matches, one who never thought Johanna could be faster, but there she is, snatching up the box. She shrieks, tomahawk in hand, and slashes viciously at her. She leaps to the side, barely dodging ─── the sharp steel passes a hair's width from her shoulder ─── and takes a hard fall onto the ice. Air knocked cleanly from her lungs, vision blurred, but not enough to be blind to the next strike. She brings the weapon down again, and Johanna rolls away. The tomahawk, missing its target, sinks deeply into the ice.

                    It cracks. Long, spidery lines; the only signs of such fragility within the arena. Johanna almost internally celebrates her mistake, starting to scramble away, when Sommer is far stronger than she let on, wrenching it out. With it, a chunk of ice about several inches wide and startlingly thin ─── she realises she must get off the ice. What's to say it won't fall away and let her plunge into whatever depths lay in wait? Beneath it is churning, icy water. Both have this epiphany at the same moment, two pairs of dark eyes widening as they pause. It allows her to start crawling away, tucking a leg towards her chest to get onto her feet, but harsh fingers claw at her ankle. She kicks, and gets back up onto her feet, and grabs the tomahawk from Sommer.

                    It's different from an axe, more like a club, but she's about to do it, about to end her life. "Don't!" Sommer shouts.

                    She hovers indecisively, a wild look on her face. She knows she should do this, and every nerve in her body is screaming to. It would be easy, she thinks, to beat Sommer's brains out. But can she really kill Sommer, and ruin her perceived image so early on? She labours several breaths, willing tears to her eyes, and in the end, Sommer scrambles away on the ice.

                    Her supposed kindness will mean little.

                    She meets with Kaia on the edge of the forest, and the brunette doesn't bring up the altercation ─── so neither does she. Even as they walk, she regrets it. The temperature quickly plummets and the two huddle around a campfire as night falls and the frost sets in. Johanna doesn't let herself sleep, though. No, this alliance ─── though she would barely call it that ─── is far too fragile for such a thing. She huddles into her jacket, watching the glowing flames. They reflect on the whites of her eyes, which she keeps thoroughly bloodshot.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 :

( 4,249 words ! )
we're really jumping around povs as the story
progresses so here is my attempt at johanna's
thoughts!! i've been waiting for this and i think
 it turned out as quite a good chapter, definitely
 enjoyed writing an arena again except this time
it's completely different?? in the book it's said
that there was an icy desolation and hey, it's a
good idea. it also makes the games quick, both
for logical reasons like hypothermia🥶and also
because there's a lot to reach

johanna is more complex, i think, than just the
 descriptions of her games that she "pretended
 to be a snivelling, cowardly fool" and only later
revealed her "wicked ability to murder"🤨 like
c'mon, that's just what the world saw. she was
 only 17 and it makes sense she'd still be scared.
 that she'd miss her family and wonder if she'll
 get back to them. to get an ally (but not to know
what's coming?? to see finnick and a lover───
except she paid him?? if she survives she'll know
more) & a few hints of viciousness, since this is
 johanna fucking mason we're talking about🪓

tysm for reading and have the nicest day <3