Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games nor do I make any profit from writing THG fanfiction.

Yes. I'm back to writing. Why? Because I am almost done with college and I plan to take time off which means I'll have time to write again :) Please forgive me for the inconsistencies in my writing. I hope I haven't put you all off permanently. FYI I've already written 6 chapters and my posting them depends entirely on how the first chapter is received. It's been a while since I've written anything but articles or resumes so I would appreciate some constructive criticism. Be aware that I have no beta so there might be some (but not many) minor grammatical errors.

Btw, this is a Katniss/Johanna story. I am aware that there are a lot people who don't agree with this couple or with female/female male/male relationships in general. You are entitled to your opinion. However, I must insist that if this is not your cup of tea, that you desist from making any derogatory/hateful comments. The keys words here are "CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM." I also ask that you extend this courtesy to my fellow writers.

Cheers!

Is there ever a right moment to long for death? If so, when does that moment take place? Is it when you've volunteered to take someone's death sentence upon yourself, well aware of all the horrors that await you? Is it when you realize your life is no longer yours, but has become a freakshow- a source of entertainment for the masses? Is it when you realize you're responsible for the decimation of your home and people, and will be held liable for the death of thousands more?

I've reached a critical point in what I can loosely call my life. I've reached the point where I realize with a cold, unfailing certainty that there is a worse fate than dying, and that I am a prisoner to that fate...

When I finally begin to surface into the sterile hospital room in district 13, I'm quite frankly shocked that I'm not dead. Once again, I should be dead. But I'm not. I'm beginning to think that death is too good for me, that I deserve to rot in this nightmarish world for all the things I've done. For all the people that I've hurt, and for all the people that I've killed. The last thing I remember is the sound of a gun as loud as a cannon. As loud as the missles that bombed 13 and just as destructive. Then there's pain. Not like the piercing pain I expected from a bullet, but a blunt, bone crushing kind of pain.

There's shouting and screaming. The sound of dozens of feet scrambling. Gun fire. Then nothing. Then there's Peeta's voice. The old Peeta- the one who can paint a perfect picture of a sunset with his words and throws bread to starving girls at his expense. There's another voice. Distorted and unfamiliar, but familiar all the same. It's not right. It doesn't belong here.

Brainless. The only word I can make out is brainless, and the voice keeps saying it over and over again.

I open my eyes. I react badly to the bright lights. They send a stab of pain to my head, make me nauseaous. And all of these things I'm feeling, though terribly bothersome, are a sign that I'm alive. So here I am. Still breathing. Still trapped with no way out...

I lay there, mulling over my morbid thoughts when the white curtain that divides my bed from the next patient's whips back, and Johanna Mason stares down at me. At first I feel threatened. And with good reason. From the moment we first met, Johanna has shown nothing but contempt for me. She attacked me long before we ever set foot in that arena. First in the elevator when she felt the need to get naked in front of me, Peeta, and Haymitch. Then off stage before I was called to do my interview with Caesar Flickerman.

I have to remind myself that it's nothing personal. Johanna is crass and callous with everyone as far as I can tell.

"You're alive." I croak and wince. My throat feels like someone shoved a handful of sand down it. I don't know why I felt the need to state the obvious. For confirmation?

"Apparently you are, too. You're like a cockroach or something." She comes over and drops down on my bed, jarring me. A sharp, stabbing pain shoots through my chest. It's so intense I'm momentarily paralyzed, vocal cords and all. Johanna grins at my obvious discomfort. "Still a little sore?" She asks caustically. With an expert hand, she reaches over and quickly detaches the morphling drip from my arm and plugs it into a socket taped into the crook of her own. Moments later she sighs in relief, as if a large burden has been lifted from her shoulders. When she speaks again her voice has lost some of its sharpness. Sounds more wistful. "Maybe they were onto something in 6. Drug yourself up and paint flowers on your body. It's not such a bad life," She says with a shrug. "They seemed happier than the rest of us, anyway."

I try to imagine what it would be like living under the constant influence of these drugs. Mind so muddled you can't tell which way is up or down. No worries because nothing else matters as long as there's a constant drip of synthetic happiness. My mind conjures up an image of the emaciated, half dead Morphlings from district 6 and I decide I don't quite share Johanna's opinion.

I find myself wondering about Johanna. There were times in that arena when I swore she was going to bury her axe in the back of my head. There were also times when she showed such kindness to me even if it didn't seem like it at the time.

...It's over. The jabberjays are gone.

My eyes stay squeezed shut, hands over my ears, muscles too rigid to release. Are my ears bleeding? I feel as if they are. It takes a long time before I begin to relax the iron grip on my body. And when I do, the trembling begins. What have they done to Prim? To Gale and my mother? I look at Finnick, dulled eyed and slack jawed. What have they done to Annie?

Peeta remains on his knees beside me, trying to soothe me, but I find no comfort in his words. "You didn't hear them." I whisper, haunted by the experience.

"I heard Prim. Right in the beginning. But it wasn't her, Katniss. It was just a jabberjay."

It's so easy for him to say that, to disregard what just happened. It wasn't his sister and mother screaming, wailing for help.

"They were torturing her," I mumble. "She's probably dead. She-"

Someone grabs me roughly by the shoulders, hauling me up to my feet. I come face to face with a very stern faced Johanna. I faintly register the urge to punch her but my arms hang limply at my sides.

"Why don't you shut up for a second and think, brainless?" She growls. "The whole country adores your little sister. If the Capitol killed her like this, they'd probably have an uprising on their hands. As much as Snow hates your guts, and trust me he's not the only one, he doesn't want an uprising, does he?" She says flatly. She shoves herself away from me, glares at the sky. "The whole country in rebellion? Wouldn't want anything like that!"

My mouth drop opens in shock. No one, ever, says anything like this in the Games. The game makers are certainly cutting away from her, are editing out whatever managed to get on camera. But I heard her, and despite my almost instinctual dislike for her, I can never think about her in the same way again. She'll never win any awards for kindness, but she's gutsy. Or crazy.

Her attention turns back to me. There's something in her expression that puts me on edge. I don't have the enegry to figure out why. "I'll get you some water." She says.

I can't help catching her hand as she passes me by. "Don't go in there. The birds-"

She frees her hand with an impatient shake. "They can't hurt me. I'm not like the rest of you. There's no one left that I love." When she returns with the water I take it with a grateful nod of my head, knowing how much she'll despise the pity I know will be in my voice if I speak.

No. I'll never look at Johanna Mason the same. She just did what even Peeta, with his reassuring voice and strong, protective arms, couldn't do. She broke though to me. She made me feel safe. If not from the physical word then at the very least from my own thoughts.

I come back to the present. Johanna shoots me a look that says pay attention.

"They've got this head doctor who comes around every day. Supposed to be helping me recover. Like some guy whose spent his life in this rabbit warren's going to fix me up." She scoffs with a roll of her eyes. That's more like the Johanna I remember. Honestly, I don't know what to think of her sitting here making small talk. "At least twenty times a session he reminds me that I'm safe." I manage a wry smile. It's a very stupid thing to say to someone who's been promised safety before only to be hauled off to be killed. Twice. Three times if you count the time spent as a prisoner of the Capitol. "How about you, Mockingjay? Do you feel safe?"

"Oh, yeah. Right up until I got shot."

"Please," She says flippantly, "That bullet never touched you. Cinna saw to that."

Cinna. Another name to add to the ever growing list of people I got killed. My final memory is of his limp body getting dragged off by the Peacemakers who beat him unconscious. His crime was knowing me.

A lump forms in my throat. It feels like I'm going to choke until I feel an unsteady, sweaty hand cradle my clenched fist. A fist I wasn't even aware I was making. I find myself staring into a pair of troubled hazel eyes. How come I never noticed how much pain is in those eyes?

"Whatever you're thinking, stop it. There's nothing you could have done." She commands in a tone I believed her incapable of using. It's comforting. Sympathetic. Understanding. It's all there. In the way the hard lines of her face smooth over as she looks at me. In the way she tries so hard to be seem unbreakable. Untouchable.

She knows what it's like.

All of this time I felt so alone. Like no one could possibly share the burden of my faults and sins. But all this time the people who experienced what I have and more were right in front of me. The lump returns. It's for an entirely different reason. How many deaths is Johanna responsible for? Does she see the blood of the deceased on her hands even when there's nothing there? Does she dream about them at night? Hear their screams? Feel their accusing eyes on her? I was so quick to judge. So quick to assume she really was this vain, vapid tribute. Just another puppet forged for the Capitol. Another pretty thing to distract every one from the truth. Rich or poor, Capitol or not, they're are all just pawns playing in a losing game.

Even I'm a pawn. I'm the biggest one of them all.

I see Johanna Mason in a new light. She is no longer that narsisstic, arrogant tribute from 7 with no care or concern for anyone but herself. Hell, I don't even see her as an ally anymore. In this private, intimate moment with Johanna revealing her true self to me however indirectly it may be, I see her for what she really is. A scared young girl forced to take on the world. Just like me.

With everything that has happened between us, I can no longer trust Gale. He's so focused on the revolution, so consumed by grief and hate that I hardly recognize him anymore. He's not the boy from 12 that used to hunt with me and give me pieces of his hard earned bread so I could feed my family when I turned up short. He's not the boy who promised to look after my mother and Prim when I was dragged away to the Capitol. He's not the friend I've come to love and cherish.

He's a war hardened soldier who's seen too much blood and death to be affected by it any longer. When he suggested we kill those workers in the Nut, I knew without a doubt that Gale and I could never be what we used to be.

Who does that leave in my corner? Haymitch? I can't trust him as far as I can throw him. All of this is his fault in the first place. He played us until the very end. How can I trust someone like him? And Peeta? Peeta hates me. Truly hates me. He's convinced I'm a mutt and the sole reason for all of this. Give him just a seond, and he'd have my head hand delivered to Snow on a silver platter. Finnick is too busy with Annie, and I wouldn't want to drag him any further into this mess than I already have. He deserves to be happy, to live out the rest of his life content with the woman of his dreams. Prim is out of the question. I know she's more mature than I give her credit for, but if I can keep just a little of this taint from reaching her, I will.

That leaves Johanna Mason. Johanna's the closest thing to an ally I have left. The irony of all this is not lost on me. When she stumbled out of the jungle in that arena and Finnick ran to her, I though, Even if I had a list of allies, Johanna Mason would certainly not be on it. We sit in silence for a few minutes. When it gets to be too much, I ask the one question no one seems to have a straight answer for.

"How do you live with it?" No explanation is required. She knows. I know by the haggard look on her face that she knows.

Johanna sighs. It sounds tired. Defeated. She rakes her shaky fingers across her scalp, revealing a quarter sized bald spot near her hairline. A token to remember her time with Snow.

"Who says I do?"

I frown. I want to ask her what she means but before I can pry, Gale appears in the doorway, and Johanna quickly unhooks herself and reattaches me to the morphling drip. She scoots off my bed and crosses to the door, nudging Gale's leg with her hip. "Hey gorgeous." She purrs, then disappears down the hall.

Just like that the Johanna Mason from the arena is back. I have to pinch my arm in order to convince myself I'm awake, and that the last twenty minutes really happened. It's almost like there's two people inside of her battling for dominance. Every now and then the more appealing side wins out.

"Is she bothering you?" Gale asks, his eyes on the IV connected to my arm. I glance down and spot a drop of blood rolling down the crook of my elbow. Johanna wasn't exactly gentle when she yanked it out.

"No."

Gale looks at me suspiciously, but he doesn't push it. He lingers around for an hour before he's called out to Command. When he leaves I realize I didn't pay attention to a single word he said. The reason behind my distraction bothers me. It's a certain dark haired victor with a penchant for trouble.

What are you up to, Johanna? She's still playing a part, but there's no audience here. No cameras...

The answer evades me then comes to me so effortlessly. As if it's always been there in the back of my mind and I just had to call it forth. Johanna is doing what I have been doing for the past year. She is playing a part, but it's not for an audience. It's not for Snow or the Capitol or the districts. It's for herself. Disconnecting is all she can do to keep herself from falling apart...

I guess we aren't all that different after all.

Oddly enough, the thought comforts me.