Johanna is backstage with her narrowed eyes aflame when Caesar and Finnick wander back.
“What’s he doing here?” she snaps to Finnick when her eyes connect with Caesar, travel up and down his form in barely-concealed revulsion.
Finnick laughs -- “He works here, Jo. Remember?” She glowers.
“Lovely to see you again, Miss Mason,” Caesar leers. “And what a gorgeous dress you’re wearing.”
“Yeah,” she answers, “and it’s sharp enough to poke your fucking eyes out.”
Caesar tuts. “Now, now,” he reprimands. “What will the Capitol audience think of language like that?”
“Who gives a fuck?” she snarls, the collar of her dress brushing against her jutting chin, sharp, sinister, and tall. “What matters is what they think in the Districts.” She steps toward him, can’t help a savage smirk. “I hear they’re just dying for material in Six.”
Caesar stiffens, and Johanna grins. “That’s right,” she whispers, face barred in close to his now, dark eyes like knives and porcelain skin, pale scars barely visible. “Finnick told me.” She watches him, eyes darting. “He tells me just everything, Flickerman.”
“Drop it, Jo,” says Finnick, blankly, warningly, a few feet off. “Just let it go.”
Johanna glares into his eyes a moment longer, doesn’t pull back. Ceasar smiles.
“She can’t, Mr. Odair,” he explains. “She’s never done such a thing in her whole life.” He looks at Finnick, tearing from Johanna’s glare. “You’d know that if you watched her Games.”
He remembers Johanna Mason vividly, her very first interview, stilted and shy, her absence in the Games, her sudden and insatiable vengeance. He remembers the first time anyone but him paid her any attention. It was when she flung an axe into the Career from Two’s stomach from eight feet off and approached his writhing body with even steps. Tore the axe from his abdomen and raised it above her head, bore it down like a vendetta against the tendons of his neck, one last whimper and the cannon’s roar. Sponsors flooded in like flies.
She was vastly different after the Games, surly and acerbic and dark. A few years in and she was angry, too, fearless beyond the point of return.
“How’s it feel?” she asked him once in the clean white corners of his kitchen. “Always telling secrets and never getting any in return.” She sneered, her wolf teeth bared, and swirled the wine in her glass. “Do you love him, Caesar?” she asked, derisive. “Do you love him oh so much?”
“If I did,” he answered, “I see I’d have to get in line.”
Johanna gripped her wineglass tighter and scowled. “There’s no one left I love,” she said, not for the first time, not for the last.
Caesar laughed again. “Darling,” he said, “you really think you’re the only one?”
She was from Six. Her name was Marla Neer, and Caesar had loved her since he was eight years old. In the fifty-seventh Hunger Games her name was dragged from the rolls in Six, and she strode up to the podium with a dazed look in her hazel eyes and knees so shaky they could crumble.
“I’m not going to do it,” Caesar said to Snow. “I don’t care if it’s for just this year or if it’s for forever, I’m not going to do it.”
Snow folded his hands over his desk. “Caesar,” he began. “What do you think the chances were that Marla Neer’s name would be pulled from the ranks in District Six?”
Caesar went still at once. He did not respond.
“And what do you think the chances are that she will win?” Snow asked him. “How good do you think her odds are?”
Caesar’s mouth was closed, his lips unmoving. Every bone in his body felt brittle and cold.
“Tell me something, Caesar,” Snow implored. “How good are yours?”
“I had to watch her die,” Caesar told Finnick once, the stolen sharp-toothed kisses he whored along golden collarbones at President Snow’s high, high price, at Finnick’s, too.
“That’s not so bad,” Finnick answered. “I’ve had to watch plenty of people die.”
“Finnick,” Caesar whispered, and he closed his eyes. “I had to announce it.”
The boy with the bread from District 12 has a politician’s smile and a real way with words. Caesar recognizes him at once.
“I, uh,” Peeta says in the interview, a perfect construction of crestfallen eyes. “I don’t think winning’s gonna help me at all.”
Caesar raises his eyebrows and he plays the game. If anything, he’s learned enough to do that. “And why’s that?” he asks.
“Because . . . she came here with me,” says Peeta, and Caesar smiles.
Later, Snow will say, “She may be the girl on fire, but he is the boy with the words, more dangerous than ever.”
Caesar laughs -- it’s the only thing he remembers how to do anymore.
If he didn’t know better, he’d say Peeta reminds him of someone.
Johanna is backstage with her narrowed eyes aflame when Caesar and Finnick wander back.
“What’s he doing here?” she snaps to Finnick when her eyes connect with Caesar, travel up and down his form in barely-concealed revulsion.
Finnick laughs -- “He works here, Jo. Remember?” She glowers.
“Lovely to see you again, Miss Mason,” Caesar leers. “And what a gorgeous dress you’re wearing.”
“Yeah,” she answers, “and it’s sharp enough to poke your fucking eyes out.”
Caesar tuts. “Now, now,” he reprimands. “What will the Capitol audience think of language like that?”
“Who gives a fuck?” she snarls, the collar of her dress brushing against her jutting chin, sharp, sinister, and tall. “What matters is what they think in the Districts.” She steps toward him, can’t help a savage smirk. “I hear they’re just dying for material in Six.”
Caesar stiffens, and Johanna grins. “That’s right,” she whispers, face barred in close to his now, dark eyes like knives and porcelain skin, pale scars barely visible. “Finnick told me.” She watches him, eyes darting. “He tells me just everything, Flickerman.”
“Drop it, Jo,” says Finnick, blankly, warningly, a few feet off. “Just let it go.”
Johanna glares into his eyes a moment longer, doesn’t pull back. Ceasar smiles.
“She can’t, Mr. Odair,” he explains. “She’s never done such a thing in her whole life.” He looks at Finnick, tearing from Johanna’s glare. “You’d know that if you watched her Games.”
He remembers Johanna Mason vividly, her very first interview, stilted and shy, her absence in the Games, her sudden and insatiable vengeance. He remembers the first time anyone but him paid her any attention. It was when she flung an axe into the Career from Two’s stomach from eight feet off and approached his writhing body with even steps. Tore the axe from his abdomen and raised it above her head, bore it down like a vendetta against the tendons of his neck, one last whimper and the cannon’s roar. Sponsors flooded in like flies.
She was vastly different after the Games, surly and acerbic and dark. A few years in and she was angry, too, fearless beyond the point of return.
“How’s it feel?” she asked him once in the clean white corners of his kitchen. “Always telling secrets and never getting any in return.” She sneered, her wolf teeth bared, and swirled the wine in her glass. “Do you love him, Caesar?” she asked, derisive. “Do you love him oh so much?”
“If I did,” he answered, “I see I’d have to get in line.”
Johanna gripped her wineglass tighter and scowled. “There’s no one left I love,” she said, not for the first time, not for the last.
Caesar laughed again. “Darling,” he said, “you really think you’re the only one?”
( c o n ’ t )
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Once, there was a girl.
She was from Six. Her name was Marla Neer, and Caesar had loved her since he was eight years old. In the fifty-seventh Hunger Games her name was dragged from the rolls in Six, and she strode up to the podium with a dazed look in her hazel eyes and knees so shaky they could crumble.
“I’m not going to do it,” Caesar said to Snow. “I don’t care if it’s for just this year or if it’s for forever, I’m not going to do it.”
Snow folded his hands over his desk. “Caesar,” he began. “What do you think the chances were that Marla Neer’s name would be pulled from the ranks in District Six?”
Caesar went still at once. He did not respond.
“And what do you think the chances are that she will win?” Snow asked him. “How good do you think her odds are?”
Caesar’s mouth was closed, his lips unmoving. Every bone in his body felt brittle and cold.
“Tell me something, Caesar,” Snow implored. “How good are yours?”
“I had to watch her die,” Caesar told Finnick once, the stolen sharp-toothed kisses he whored along golden collarbones at President Snow’s high, high price, at Finnick’s, too.
“That’s not so bad,” Finnick answered. “I’ve had to watch plenty of people die.”
“Finnick,” Caesar whispered, and he closed his eyes. “I had to announce it.”
The boy with the bread from District 12 has a politician’s smile and a real way with words. Caesar recognizes him at once.
“I, uh,” Peeta says in the interview, a perfect construction of crestfallen eyes. “I don’t think winning’s gonna help me at all.”
Caesar raises his eyebrows and he plays the game. If anything, he’s learned enough to do that. “And why’s that?” he asks.
“Because . . . she came here with me,” says Peeta, and Caesar smiles.
Later, Snow will say, “She may be the girl on fire, but he is the boy with the words, more dangerous than ever.”
Caesar laughs -- it’s the only thing he remembers how to do anymore.
If he didn’t know better, he’d say Peeta reminds him of someone.
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