Cause We Belong To the Hurricane (27/?)
Title: Cause We Belong To the Hurricane
Chapter: 27
Rating: High T/low M (language, char death, references to war/Games related violence, drug/alcohol abuse, and sexual slavery)
Chars (Story): Johanna Mason, Haymitch Abernathy as primaries, with Peeta Mellark, Finnick Odair, Annie Cresta, Chaff, Cecelia, Brutus, Lyme, Cashmere, Gloss, President Snow, President Coin, OMC, OFC, etc.
Chars (Chapter): Johanna Mason, Haymitch Abernathy, OMC, OFC
Summary: The rebellion doesn't belong to one person--it belongs to us all. When disaster strikes in the arena, the rebels are left scrambling to recover, and turn to an unlikely inspiration: Johanna Mason.
Chapter Summary: Many meetings, awkward reunions, and one thing is certain: everything changes in the end.
'Are you bothering me about all this color-representation crap because we both know my lovely bride doesn’t give a shit, Plutarch, and you somehow imagine I do? I still don’t care,' there came a lazy drawl from within, deliberately loud enough to be heard through the door, 'though if you decorate the whole place with Twelve black, people might look at you a bit funny and ask who died. Now, nobody’s dead yet today, and I’d just as soon keep it that way.'
Chapter: 27
Rating: High T/low M (language, char death, references to war/Games related violence, drug/alcohol abuse, and sexual slavery)
Chars (Story): Johanna Mason, Haymitch Abernathy as primaries, with Peeta Mellark, Finnick Odair, Annie Cresta, Chaff, Cecelia, Brutus, Lyme, Cashmere, Gloss, President Snow, President Coin, OMC, OFC, etc.
Chars (Chapter): Johanna Mason, Haymitch Abernathy, OMC, OFC
Summary: The rebellion doesn't belong to one person--it belongs to us all. When disaster strikes in the arena, the rebels are left scrambling to recover, and turn to an unlikely inspiration: Johanna Mason.
Chapter Summary: Many meetings, awkward reunions, and one thing is certain: everything changes in the end.
'Are you bothering me about all this color-representation crap because we both know my lovely bride doesn’t give a shit, Plutarch, and you somehow imagine I do? I still don’t care,' there came a lazy drawl from within, deliberately loud enough to be heard through the door, 'though if you decorate the whole place with Twelve black, people might look at you a bit funny and ask who died. Now, nobody’s dead yet today, and I’d just as soon keep it that way.'