[ ʜᴀʟʟ ] Her Arena outfit is slick against her skin, and it smells. She doesn't know it, but at a glance, anyone would think that she's already been in the shit--because she has. Just not this particular shit.
Still: it isn't sentimental, but the Arena outfit is the clothes that Johanna woke up in, and she's not going to leave behind anything that could prove to be useful. That's why she ransacked her crappy little cell of a room. That's how she ended up with her axe strapped to her back. This is survival, whatever the fuck else it is.
It's also the Capitol. Not this, dim lights and grimy walls. But it is their style, like another Arena, or something worse. The last thing she remembers? The hum of the hovercraft, the crash of Enobaria in the underbrush behind her. It's Katniss Everdeen's blood that's smeared on her hands and forearms, from cutting the tracker out of the Mockingjay's stupid arm. And it's thanks to Katniss that she's here, right now--wherever here is. But it doesn't matter. She knows the rules. Survive. A prisoner, but a prisoner with a chance.
When she whips around the corner at the end of the hall, she nearly crashes into someone. Peacekeeper, Victor, Tribute--the possibilities reel through her head, but her reaction is instantaneous.
She shrinks back, throws her arms up. "Please!" A sob, impassioned, and totally believable. Inside, she's pissed, but outwardly, Johanna jumps back. "Please, don't--"
The angle of her body keeps her axe hidden behind her shoulder. All it takes is one easy grab, and then one easy chop. She wouldn't even flinch. In a moment.
[ ᴀʟᴏɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʟʟ ] Maybe it's in her nature to climb, seeking higher ground, like the limbs of a tree could ever have offered her some comfort. Bullshit. But Johanna does like climbing, which is how she ended up here, on top of the wall. It's got its advantages. For one, she can see everything: the compound behind her, the clusters of people moving around. That weapons shed is getting some attention.
More important, she can see beyond the wall, beyond the fence and the gate.
Exploration hasn't dulled her wariness, or her conviction that this is some work of the Capitol's. A new and better Arena. A newer and more creative punishment. Just because they gave her an axe doesn't mean any kind of benevolence. It just adds to the game.
Movement out over the wall sharpens her and she stops pacing the perimeter, eyes narrowed, hand already gripped at her axe. She's not bothering to pretend right now. If something or someone is going to fuck with her, then she's going to be ready to fuck back. Out there, or in here--but whatever she saw, she's lost sight of it, and Johanna moves to try a new angle, her axe gripped in her hands. Anyone in her way, she's going to dismiss with a curt and snarled, "Move."
johanna mason || Hunger Games || OTA - prose or brackets, whatever!!
Her Arena outfit is slick against her skin, and it smells. She doesn't know it, but at a glance, anyone would think that she's already been in the shit--because she has. Just not this particular shit.
Still: it isn't sentimental, but the Arena outfit is the clothes that Johanna woke up in, and she's not going to leave behind anything that could prove to be useful. That's why she ransacked her crappy little cell of a room. That's how she ended up with her axe strapped to her back. This is survival, whatever the fuck else it is.
It's also the Capitol. Not this, dim lights and grimy walls. But it is their style, like another Arena, or something worse. The last thing she remembers? The hum of the hovercraft, the crash of Enobaria in the underbrush behind her. It's Katniss Everdeen's blood that's smeared on her hands and forearms, from cutting the tracker out of the Mockingjay's stupid arm. And it's thanks to Katniss that she's here, right now--wherever here is. But it doesn't matter. She knows the rules. Survive. A prisoner, but a prisoner with a chance.
When she whips around the corner at the end of the hall, she nearly crashes into someone. Peacekeeper, Victor, Tribute--the possibilities reel through her head, but her reaction is instantaneous.
She shrinks back, throws her arms up. "Please!" A sob, impassioned, and totally believable. Inside, she's pissed, but outwardly, Johanna jumps back. "Please, don't--"
The angle of her body keeps her axe hidden behind her shoulder. All it takes is one easy grab, and then one easy chop. She wouldn't even flinch. In a moment.
[ ᴀʟᴏɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʟʟ ]
Maybe it's in her nature to climb, seeking higher ground, like the limbs of a tree could ever have offered her some comfort. Bullshit. But Johanna does like climbing, which is how she ended up here, on top of the wall. It's got its advantages. For one, she can see everything: the compound behind her, the clusters of people moving around. That weapons shed is getting some attention.
More important, she can see beyond the wall, beyond the fence and the gate.
Exploration hasn't dulled her wariness, or her conviction that this is some work of the Capitol's. A new and better Arena. A newer and more creative punishment. Just because they gave her an axe doesn't mean any kind of benevolence. It just adds to the game.
Movement out over the wall sharpens her and she stops pacing the perimeter, eyes narrowed, hand already gripped at her axe. She's not bothering to pretend right now. If something or someone is going to fuck with her, then she's going to be ready to fuck back. Out there, or in here--but whatever she saw, she's lost sight of it, and Johanna moves to try a new angle, her axe gripped in her hands. Anyone in her way, she's going to dismiss with a curt and snarled, "Move."
And she looks like she means it.