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Johanna thinks she's going to die. Or rather, she is almost certainly going to die, she just gets to know in advance. She's backstage getting ready for her nightly taping of Capitol Gains, but she's only half-dressed, her makeup not yet applied because the entire world had stopped.
They knew there was a Presidential broadcast that afternoon, they had purposely started getting ready early so they would have time to pause and watch it. What they didn't expect is for Snow to announce the conceit of the Quarter Quell. "On the 75th anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from the existing pool of victors."
It felt like the floor had dropped out from beneath Johanna's feet. "Everyone out! Get out, right now!" she had screamed, perhaps the only time she had ever yelled at her staff. And they listened, clearing from the dressing room in record time, until it was just her alone, the television on behind her as Caesar jabbers on about the implications of such a premise. She knows the implications. She's the only female Victor from 7. She's going back into the arena.
She wants Enobaria. She wants to scream and cry and hold onto Enobaria, but she's in the stupid Capitol television studio, and she'd sent everyone away so it's just her alone. She grabs the remote, shutting off the television. Nothing they say now will change the fact that in July, she will have to go back into the arena. That all these years she spent trying to make her life as a Victor somewhat alright is for naught because statistically, she was going to die. She sinks down onto the floor, tucking herself under the counter. She doesn't want to be seen, she doesn't want to even exist right now. She can feel her breathing getting faster, but how can she calm down? Snow just announced her execution on national television.
There's a knock on the door, or maybe there has been for a while and she's been so lost in her thoughts that she's only heard it now. "Johanna, it's Sep, I'm coming in."
She doesn't want to see him. She doesn't want to see anyone with the show right now, but she's backed against the wall, so she's not going to stop him. He opens the door and comes in, closing it again behind himself. He doesn't see her at first, but then he spots her and crouches down, keeping his distance. She realizes she's never seen him like this, in an unflattering position. "Hey, I need you to take a deep breath."
She shakes her head. Her hand opens and closes, and then she holds it out to him. She hasn't had morphling since the 73rd Games, since she almost died, but what she wouldn't give to kill this pain right now. He bites his lips, obviously torn, and sits down fully. "Jo, if I give you some morphling, you're going to knock yourself out. I need you to go out there and do a show."
She presses herself further against the wall, aware at some level that this was ridiculous behavior for a fully grown adult, but she is past propriety now, she feels primal. "I can't," she says. "I can't I can't I can't." The full sentence won't form, but she knows he'll understand. How could she face the world right now? How could she be asked to stand up and perform the stupid Capitol game show as if this was just another regular day? She doesn't know when she started crying, but she can feel the hot tear tracks on her face.
Sep sighs, inching closer. She's aware of the line that divides the man that cares about her and the man that is in charge of getting her to perform her job, and how they may cross over sometimes, but ultimately, he answers to people that answer to Snow. He reaches into his pocket and hands her a baggie with a green pill. "It's a Trank," he says, as if she's lived in the Capitol for 8 years and wouldn't recognize one.
She takes it and shakes it out of the bag into a shaking palm, then dry swallows it.
"I know this is awful, Jo, but I need you to hold it together for another two hours to do this show."
"Fuck you." She's not mad at him, in particular, but he's there. He's part of this insane machine that has her performing hours after receiving news that she's doomed, and so he can take some of her ire. They all can, for all she cares. She'll be dead in a few months, anyways.
"Jo, I am trying to help you," he says, calmly and slowly. "You know we need to do the show."
She does. She knows a lot of things she doesn't like, really. "No makeup," she says. She'll just cry it off anyways. The pill isn't working fast enough, and she can feel herself slipping over the edge of panic again.
He nods, acquiescing, because 'no makeup' means 'I'll do the show, just with a caveat' and he'll accept this. "Let's stand up," he says, standing first, then pulling her up. "I'll just get hair and wardrobe."
And the pill works, not as well as morphling, but by the time her hair has its usual flowing waves and she is helped into her outfit for the night, a sense of calm has overtaken her. Not acceptance, exactly, but it's as if there's a bubble between herself and everything else. Her heartrate and her breathing have slowed, and the stylist has cleaned up her tear tracks, even as she frets with not being able to color correct Johanna's painfully un-Capitol features.
And then it's showtime. She puts the Quarter Quell out of her mind, telling herself this is any other night. She smiles for the camera, perhaps not as wide as usual, and goes to stand at her podium. "Welcome to Capitol Gains!" she calls, the normal greeting, and picks up the cards to see who her guests are. District 1, excellent. No pitying stares from the outer Districts, or worse yet, fielding incendiary rebel undertones. "Let's welcome our guests for tonight, three factory workers from District 1!"
There's a smattering of applause, and she almost chokes to hear it - these people cheering for her. It pushes through the bubble, enough that she has to bite her lip, and then the back of her hand, just to hold in the emotion that threatens to pour forth. The Trank was not doing enough, even though she could feel it in her bloodstream, like a warm blanket.
And her rare show of emotion only seems to egg the crowd on. The applause gets louder, and some of them even get to their feet. "We love you, Johanna!" one yells. "We're rooting for you!" cries another.
She knows it's illogical. She doesn't want the support of the Capitolites in the Games, she wants the entire Hunger Games dismantled. But still, to have anyone say something kind to her after being told she's going back in the arena is overwhelming, and a tear escapes. She wipes it away and uses every bit of composure she's gained in the last three and a half years of running the show to pull herself together. "Thank you," she says, gesturing for them to settle. "I appreciate your support." She manages a smile, somehow. "But the Games aren't for months yet, so let's play something a little lighter tonight? Our guests came all this way, after all."
Once she's back to the Training Center, she goes to the 2 apartment. She almost never goes to Enobaria - Enobaria comes to see her. But she can't be alone right now, and she'd only gotten through the program with the thought of seeing Enobaria after, so she stands outside her door, knocking on it well past midnight, and when Enobaria answers, the tears come back.
The Trank made her feel boneless, and exhausted, and she practically collapses onto Enobaria's couch. "I don't want to die," she says, a sob, a prayer. "I don't want you to die, or Cashmere, or Finnick, or Haymitch, or Blight, I don't want-"
"Shhh, I know," Enobaria says, pulling her onto her lap, scratching her nails along her back.
Technically, Johanna knew the others had a chance. That there was a chance just about everyone else didn't get selected, because there was another male or female Victor in their District. But not everyone would be kept out of the arena. The odds were never in their favor. And there's a second, worse thought that's been burgeoning, one that she thinks the pill has made worse, or amplified as her panic has quieted down. "Maybe I should just die," Johanna says quietly, against Enobaria's thigh.
Enobaria's hand stills, in fact, it seems as if she stops breathing. "Why would you say that?"
Her tears fall silently now, but she knows Enobaria can feel them against her leg. She feels pathetic, but it doesn't matter. If there's anyone in the world she can be completely vulnerable with, it's Enobaria. "I know I'm making things harder for the rebels, Blight's said as much, and Haymitch implied it. But I can't stop, Snow would kill me. But then I wonder if it would be worth it - to do one good thing for the rebels, even if it meant my life."
"No."
"What?"
"I said no. I forbid it."
It takes Johanna a moment to realize what Enobaria is saying - she's so unused to having someone care for her so deeply. "I don't want to die."
Enobaria pulls her up and Johanna leans against her, Enobaria's arms coming around to hold her. "Please don't. Even if things are bleak. Think of the end of the last Games - hopelessness and then Victory, moments later."
Johanna nods, wishing she could believe Enobaria. That something like that would happen for her, too.
Enobaria knows she's going back into the arena. No one's told her this, and Lyme is still alive, another potential female Victor from District 2, but somehow, she knows it will be her. Somehow, Snow will set things up that she will be reaped, or perhaps her luck is just terrible.
There are so many things to be concerned about in the Quarter Quell that it makes her almost paralyzed with fear. A field entirely made of Victors means that the competition will be much fiercer than a normal Games. Although some Victors won 'easier' victories than others, she would take her chances against a Career tribute who's never seen action in a real Games than a Victor from an outer District any day. Even an older Victor like Cecelia will be a threat since they all had something to protect, and she had three children.
And then there was motivation. Enobaria doesn't want to die. She didn't want to die in her first Games, and she doesn't want to die now. Blinded, weaponless, in those first Games she bit that boy's throat open for her own survival, she killed as she needed to in order to guarantee her Victory. But now, there are other factors at play.
She thinks she'll be expected to help Katniss Everdeen, but would she die for Katniss? And Johanna was guaranteed to be going back into the arena. Could she kill Jo, if it came down to it? She wants to live and she wants Johanna to live, and they feel like opposite desires, like she cannot want one without dooming the other.
She's leaving the news studio one evening in May when Plutarch Heavensbee stops her. It's raining rather hard, and he's in a long trenchcoat and a black umbrella. "Heading back to the central district?" he asks. "Want to share a taxi?"
She agrees, sitting in the backseat beside him. She doesn't trust him, exactly, but Haymitch had vouched for him as a rebel, and he was now promoted to Head Gamemaker, so who was she to decline a conversation with the person who might be locking her in the arena in a couple months time?
She thinks of Seneca Crane, killed not long after the 74th Games, or so she heard, and sighs, looking out at the rainy streets of the Capitol. The fact that she was alive meant he hadn't given up any names at the end, at least.
"I'm trying to develop a plan," Plutarch says, without any greeting or introduction. The car meanders, taking a few unnecessary turns, and Enobaria figures it will probably take them here and there until the conversation is over. This driver must be highly trusted by Plutarch. "There are people waiting to intercede, in District 13."
District 13 was a lie. District 13 was bombed into oblivion, the natural punishment for secession. "There's nothing there," she says. "No one to come." It's a natural response, a defense mechanism against something that would change her entire worldview. There are 12 Districts and the Capitol. There was District 13, but it was destroyed, gone. It could not just be sitting there, waiting, populated, while the rest of Panem lived on, unaware.
"They've moved underground," Plutarch says, "Literally. Bunkers and all that. But where do you think the military was before the Nut? You're from 2, did you ever think about it? They've got soldiers there, weapons, they know war."
"Why now?" she asks. She has a hundred questions, each fighting to be asked. She feels overwhelmed, and is glad it's dim and quiet in the car. "Why only now?"
"Because they're not that many. We only have enough for a quick strike. It has to be precise, and then hopefully, we can recruit some rebel forces as well. But most importantly, we need sentiment to change. We need the people's opinion of the Mockingjay to be at all all time high."
The Mockingjay. Yes, Katniss Everdeen. They had to wait for the Games, because that's when she would be on every television again. "So what? Strike right before the Games?" she asks.
He shakes his head. "I don't know if you've ever watched the start, but there's insane security. Peacekeepers everywhere. Snipers on the roofs. Plus it would be bad optics. 'Rebels disrupt event' and all that. No, we need to strike in the middle."
"What are you saying?"
"We need a rebel alliance, to keep as many people alive as possible, and most importantly, to keep the Mockingjay alive. And hopefully by the second day of the Games, we can end them."
She feels dizzy. The Head Gamemaker is telling her that the Games are going to be interrupted by the rebels, partially by his design. It's insane, the revelation of District 13, the way the whole plan hinges on so many things going right. But for the first time, she allows herself to have hope. She just has to survive for two days? Johanna just has to survive for two days? That was a lot more manageable than her first impression.
"Ok." She chooses to accept this, for now.
"I know this all depends on who gets reaped, but do you think you can recruit anyone else from 1 or 2?"
She considers. Brutus would refuse. She can't even imagine explaining the concept of District 13 to him, which would require her explaining her involvement with the rebels, which would probably get herself punched in the face. Cashmere was surprisingly pragmatic, and she would want to survive. Gloss also would maybe buy in, if she approached it the right way. "I could try talking to the twins," she says.
Plutarch nods. "Oh. And Johanna Mason?"
"What about her?"
"It's risky, with her being a Capitol darling, but we were hoping we could prioritize her for extraction at the end, along with Katniss. We want to show her in propos on the rebel side, move sentiment to our cause."
Something irks Enobaria about Plutarch only seeing Katniss and Johanna as tools to advance his goals, but she doesn't say anything. Because truthfully, if Johanna's usefulness is what gets her rescued, Enobaria will have time to complain about it later. "I think Johanna will be pleased with any chance to get out of the Games alive," she says.