OPEN POST pt III

[wunderkind]

-1-
pick a character

-2-
leave me a comment. maybe a scenario, maybe an AU scenario, maybe a picture, maybe a word,
maybe a request to resume old game canon, maybe just a comment.
i don't care. do your worst.

-2a-
helpful note: i am currently obsessed with the Walking Dead, coffee, summertime, AUs, and vampires. can you combine those into one tag?

-3-
let's get it on, like we did last summer



disclaimer: we probably won't get it on
+ there are no promises i will take this seriously

Comments

[axeyou]

And Johanna laughs. It isn't nice, but she has never been a nice girl. When she won the Games, she won on her own, of her own volition--but she won because she was nasty, and heartless, and willing to do what she had to do to come out on top. What's one cruel laugh in the face of her fellow Mentor? It doesn't escape her that they're talking about kids--but two killers, two girls, talking about kids that will fight to the death in just a matter of time--they can be all smiles, but there's no dressing it up. Putting ribbons on a corpse doesn't make it any more alive.

"Better ends," she repeats, with a sneer. "Is that really something to brag about? You can pretend like it is, if you have to. I won't tell a soul."

Like Johanna has anyone to tell--except Finnick, who probably already knows. Johanna cocks her right hip and plants a hand on it, a deliberately casual stance.

"And when I do let you know, what are you going to do, exactly? Are you going to show me how to be a better mentor? Give me some tips? Just what," and she leans in a little, drops her tone, to a murmur, "do you have to teach me, Kate?"

The velocity of that mood swing is enough to give anyone whiplash--from mocking to flirting in under twenty seconds. Always keep them guessing. Johanna thinks, for a moment, of the rumors about Kate Bishop. All those whispered little secrets. She doesn't have time for that kind of thing, but she still knows.

[alsohawkeye]

When death is all you have left, of course how it comes makes a difference. But Kate's not going to explain that, not here, not now, not to Johanna fucking Mason. Staying alive and choosing the manner of your death aren't really the same thing and she's still got that half-feral air that says she isn't ready to think past survival as the sole and ultimate goal. It makes Kate feel old.

So she leans in closer still, far enough into Johanna's space that skin prickles with that sense of imminent contact, palpable anticipation. But not so close that she can't very obviously drag her gaze down Johanna from eyes to breasts and back. She matches Johanna's volume, and lets her voice drift low and rich and full of suggestion. "Teach you?"

Her lips curve, just at one corner, the most minute suggestion of a smirk. One cost/benefit of playing at being made of ice: the slightest hint of reaction is like a full on show from anyone else. Her head cants, almost close enough to bring them cheek to cheek but not quite. To anyone else it will look like they're whispering secrets, probably trading information, plotting an alliance. But Johanna can feel Kate's breath curling warm and soft around her ear, down her neck.

"Where do I even start?"

The angle of head and shoulders naturally becomes a turn, and she slides smoothly past Johanna and back into the crowd.

[axeyou]

She doesn't shiver at the light touch of Kate's breath. Gooseflesh breaks out on her skin, and the close contact makes everything in her prickle, braced for contact--and in her head, there is still Johanna Mason of two years ago, her face streaked with blood and her fingers tight on the shaft of her axe, where close contact meant only that she's going to kill you. That complicated set of instincts will never die, will always be her first reaction.

But it's two years later, and Johanna can bite back the urge to bury an axe in Kate's head. She can feel, mixed in with the brutality and paranoia, the little thrill of anticipation that comes of being stood so close to Kate, to have her eyes on her just like that, and the murmur of her voice tickling in her ear. It's all caught up in the impulse to hurt Kate before she does the hurting, a tangle of violence and sex. Johanna's fingers tighten on her glass, and her breath catches, just a little--not in any noticeable way; if Kate is made of ice, then she is carved of wood, has taught herself to be immovable. It's the same sort of catch that she feels before she throws an axe, the same dizzying swoop, the anticipation of action.

But Kate turns away before there's any action, and the grip of that feeling releases Johanna all at once. Standing there so suddenly alone, she feels only the tingle of irritation--and that quickly changes to anger, as she watches Kate Bishop saunter away through the crowd. Who the fuck does she think she is, with that smug act? They're the same. All of them here are the same, and there is no one that Johanna needs to teach her anything.

She doesn't give chase. She refuses. She stands planted, her drink still clutched in her hand. She's more likely to snap the slender stem of the glass and drive it into someone's throat, but instead, she calls out:

"Hey. Kate."

It's not a shout, but Kate will be able to hear it, even over the low murmur of the crowd.

[alsohawkeye]

The threat, the uncertainty, the anticipation: that complicated frisson is exactly what Kate was going for. If Johanna's stock-still beside her that's a tell all its own, or she's at least going to read one into it. If Johanna were unaffected it wouldn't take her so long to form a deliberate reaction; the only reason not to move, not to retort, is if she doesn't trust herself to. Exactly what urge might be moving her Kate doesn't really care. It'd be funnier if Johanna were actually turned on but needling her to violence would be alright, too. The Capitol's trained her well for both.

She doesn't really expect either as she glides away, noting that she sort of misses the click of heels that would accompany her exit if the floor were still tiled. She still doesn't expect either sort of attack as she hears her name, but she sets a thumb on the clasp of her bracelet anyway, in case the blade disguised inside becomes necessary. She takes her time stopping, like she almost doesn't hear (untrue) or doesn't care (half-true). The look she turns over her shoulder is bored, and she parrots back the tone.

"Johanna."

[axeyou]

Johanna has metaphorically bitten off heads for tones less bitchy than Kate's. She does not appreciate the mimicry, or the look that Kate gives her--or the fact that it took Kate so long to give her either of those things. Disrespect does not sit well with Johanna and she thinks, again: who the fuck does she think she is.

She is not going to lose. She is not going to let Kate just walk away from her like her parting comments were enough to get her a win, like she can get away with teasing Johanna. She meets Kate's look directly, her arms tense at her sides.

And then she smiles, a quick, spare lift of her lips. This is no interview simper or studied smile worn at parades. It's very small, and a little dark.

"How about tomorrow," she suggests, almost conversational. "I think I can be free to be taught a thing or two. That is, if you actually have something to teach."

[alsohawkeye]

She's Kate Bishop, that's who.

Johanna's all tension and Kate's as at ease as any of them get at one of these things sober. If she tensed Johanna could probably see it - Kate's dress is essentially backless, the better to show off the nebula-spray of stars when the lights change later in the night. Right now it's all flawless pale skin and sculpted muscle, slack except where she twists to look.

For a moment she just looks at Johanna, and there's a sense that she might refuse. She looks bored and derisive and this time most definitely down her nose. This little bitch thinks because she's been here a year that she knows anything at all. That she knows who Kate is or what she's capable of. The desire to write her off wars with the urge to teach her that lesson, and when the teaching wins it's less about Johanna and more about the Games; she always needs an extra outlet for the weeks she's stuck in that building.

"Six AM, the second basement training area. Don't drink too much tonight. If you vomit on me you'll regret it." She smiles, and it's hard to say whether it's real or fake but it certainly isn't kind. Bye.

[axeyou]

Tomorrow is probably a bad idea. Not because Johanna will be so hungover--she won't be, she gave herself a strict limit after her first year; being that out of control was fucking terrifying, she hated it, she hated what she saw when she shut her eyes--the same as always, but in lurid detail, like being drunk carried over into dreams--and she'd hated having an escort, she really hated being touched that first year, and she'd practically torn off the arm of the Capitol man they'd sent her home with, crazy with her own fear and drunkenness and paranoia. What a fucking scene she'd made, behind closed doors.

But tomorrow is a bad idea because they're meant to be focused on their Tributes. The thought occurs to Johanna, distantly, and then she shuts it away, because whatever. She could talk to those two kids for a year and could never actually prepare them for anything--especially not for what they'll find in the Arena.

She doesn't return that smile, beyond the one she's already wearing, and she doesn't answer Kate. Silence is answer enough in this case. Instead, she watches her walk off, watches the lines of her back and the marks of her tattoos. Oh, they love to talk about those tattoos, when they talk about Kate Bishop. Johanna thinks of the needles that they must have used to mark out those designs, like a thousand tiny knives.

She throws her glass onto the nearest table and stalks out of the party entirely.

But at 6 AM the next day, she's there. Second basement, training area. This is a familiar venue. When she's forced to be in the Capitol, Johanna's caginess can sometimes threaten to get the better of her. She's found that to be truest when she's here for the newest Games. Her Tributes she's left back in their suite of rooms. Probably neither of them are asleep. But they'll have time with the stylists today, time to plan another disappointing showing. Whatever. Better them than Johanna, who is happy to stride off of the elevator with her axe strapped to her back. She's dressed in light comfortable clothing--tightly fitted, of course, the better for the ease of movement. Her short hair is spiky around her ears, just barely brushing at her shoulders--too short to be tied back. Without her costumes, she looks a little smaller, but simple dress shows off the sinewy muscles of her short frame.

She strides into the training area like she owns the place, not gaping around to see if Kate's beat her here. She probably has. Johanna feels the prickle of wariness, but does not show it. She drops her bag onto the mat floor instead, with a loud thud.

[alsohawkeye]

Kate stays and makes the rounds, puts in the hours saying the right things to the right people, touching the right elbows, hinting at the right smiles, and occasionally even getting a chance to catch up with people she actually likes. She stays until the music gets loud and the black lights come on, spends a couple hours dancing with Garnet and Finnick and Cashmere and the rest so the guests can admire the way the galaxy picked out across her skin moves in the dark. It's not exactly onerous, but sometimes Kate thinks this is the worst part, the way it starts to feel normal, the way just for a moment here and there she's almost lulled into enjoying herself. They're not all bad company, the other Victors, and after three carefully-measured drinks, she's just light enough that in the dark, in the crowd, pressed between people she'd almost call friends with the thump of the music in her bones--.

But she never really forgets they're there to help children kill each other and one too many sponsors tries to cop a feel and she leaves before she breaks someone's hand and hurts someone's chances. It's still a late night, but who sleeps at the Hunger Games besides President Snow?

She's at the training area by five, time for a comprehensive warm-up before Johanna arrives. Kate's Tributes can handle themselves for a couple hours. There are stylists to meet with and news to watch this morning: previews for Flickerman's show that night, a hastily-prepared news story about a high-ranking official from Five in town for the games who died during the night. A sudden heart attack, they say. (Caused by an arrow in the throat, whisper others.)

The pair from 1 have had longer than Johanna's, longer to prepare, longer to learn what Kate has to teach. For whatever it's worth. Careers start training so early that most of those Kate's worked with have been hand-picked, hand-groomed by other Victors from birth. Half the time she's hated them, as much as it's possible to hate a stupid kid who doesn't really understand what they're getting into, who's only doing what they've been taught. She molds where she can, mostly in subtle ways, teaching then cleaner ways to kill, pushing for alliances. It's funny, she's probably more famous and influential outside of 1 than in it, where champions are thick on the ground. Nobody's going to miss her for the time it takes to kick Johanna's ass.

Dressed in similar gear they look more alike than the night before, both of them pale and dark and angular, leanly muscled. But Kate's hair is tightly braided, a coil woven back onto itself at the back of her head, leaving no tail to pull. She has a bow in her hands when her competition arrives but she sets it down, walking away from a target bristling with arrows in a half-dozen tight groupings. She stretches shoulders with hands linked behind her back, and crosses the room toward Johanna.

"What's in the bag?" She directs her chin at it, not wary but skeptical.

[axeyou]

Johanna takes in the sight of that target and the bow in Kate's hand with just one quick glance. It's all she needs. It's not like Kate Bishop filling a target with arrows is something new and exciting and different. Bows are her thing. And she's well-known for being a killer shot, they still use that image of her, standing on the edge of the ruined skyscraper, an arrow notched on the string and the wind in her hair, her eyes narrowed in deadly focus.

"A surprise," she answers, dryly, her mouth hitched in a little smirk. She pulls the axe off and drops it, too, with more deadly aim. One side of the blade bites into the mat with a shorter, sharper thud.

Really, it's nothing. More weapons, if the clank of the settling bag is anything to go off of. But a little mystery is always good. And, shed of her carry-ons, Johanna mirrors Kate in her stretch, knits her fingers together behind her back and lets her arm stretch out behind her.

"You should have said you were going to be here earlier. It's not everyone that gets the chance to see Kate Bishop practicing archery. You look like you had a good time. I hope you saved some room for more fun."

[alsohawkeye]

"I'll have my people send you a copy of my highlight reel," is Kate's dry response, "Last year's retrospective had a whole hour of behind the scenes footage."

She doesn't like surprises very much anymore, but acting like she might be concerned about anything that could be in the bag is a weak move and getting near enough to bend and open it herself is a stupid one. They may not be in the arena but they're here to fight and she's not going to make the mistake of expecting Johanna to follow anything like rules or common decency. She cracks her neck, sinuous curve at odds with the harsh pop. She smiles, thin and false.

"Plenty of room. Preferences?" She gestures at the mats, the various arrangements, the racks of weapons and gear. She doesn't care, see? Pick anything you want, Johanna. Such is Kate's confidence. Arrogance, maybe. Part of her pre-Games persona was idiotic boasting about apparently non-existent skills, an empty certainty in victory. It hasn't come up much since. She'd say it isn't now, she'd say she's watched enough of Johanna, read enough, learned enough that she's making an informed assessment of their relative abilities. But Tributes with high aptitude scores die every Games and anyone can lose one fight. At least this one isn't life or death.

[axeyou]

But it isn't the highlight reel that Johanna is thinking of. She's seen the footage of Kate's games, just like everyone else has. But every other Tribute featured in that highlight reel is dead. Of course they are, they have to be, so Kate can stand here today, a Victor. That's the way that it works.

It's just funny sometimes. The people you killed, they're the only ones who really know how lethal you are, and that goes for Kate and Johanna both. Those people, the dead ones, you got to see them in those last seconds. You end up knowing them pretty well, even if you only see them for a few short days. And then you see them all the time. No matter who Kate is, or what cool expression she wears, it's true for her, too.

But Johanna leaves it unsaid. She smirks, instead, and grabs hold of the shaft of her axe, jerks it out of its spot in the floor.

"Axes," she suggests, as she hefts hers. The head catches in the light of the training room, winks and gleams.

[alsohawkeye]

"Predictable," Kate replies. She sounds a little disappointed. She sounds like she'd sound more disappointed except she can't be bothered to care. It's partly true - she doesn't like surprises but sort of hoped for one anyway, hoped she'd get shown something she couldn't see on a highlight reel herself. Victors aren't really exempt from the monotony of life in Panem. Partly it's just calculated to piss Johanna off. Angry people fight more viciously, but that's Johanna all the time anyway. Pushing her over that edge from seething discontent to actual rage has a better chance of making her sloppy, making her overreach. Control isn't Johanna Mason's strongest suit, or so Kate's analysis has determined.

She doesn't wait to see how that assessment plays out once Johanna's picked up her axe, heading across the room to a rack of chopping weapons. Her shoes are thin and light but the soles are rubberized and tacky for traction, they make an odd sticky noise on the metal flooring as she goes. She bypasses the axe that's almost twin to Johanna's and takes up something more like a machete, single-edged with a curve. She turns it over in her hand, tossing and catching it once, getting a feel for the weight before she holds it up, dark brows inched upwards. "Any objection?"

[axeyou]

"None whatsoever."

It's true that there is a certain lack of control to Johanna. Part of her strength lies in that crazy edge that she's got, an unpredictability that makes her an unknown in a fight. But she's holding pretty still right now, her sweet little smile at odds with the wicked gleam of the axe in her hand. She has more confidence when she's armed; she stands a little taller, stares a little steadier. The choice was predictable, Kate is right about that, too. So what.

"I hope you're not expecting to use guards." She throws her axe up and lets it flip over, fall back into her hand--an easy, natural movement. "I only like real edges when I fight, even if it's for fun."

Another flip of her axe, and she glances at Kate, still wearing that little smile. "What are you going to teach me?"

Having an axe in her hand doesn't make Johanna forgetful. She hasn't forgotten Kate's look from last night, that heft of that superiority. But with an axe in her hand, Johanna can make them even. Cut her down to size.

[alsohawkeye]

Kate's strength is control and always has been. From maintaining that insipid exterior for the better part of a year to every shot she's taken with a bow before or since, the ability to hold herself in check and make deliberate choices has been an invaluable asset. Mental discipline is coupled with relentless training, until muscle memory and reflex can take over even on the rare (but not unprecedented) occasion that she struggles with focus.

Which isn't to say she doesn't still make impulsive choices, she's not actually perfect no matter how well she plays the part. Johanna got under her skin if only for a moment and here she is, shrugging as the other girl flips her axe, lifting the blade of her weapon to the light so she can test the edge against her thumb. It bleeds, and she smiles. "That's fine with me."

As for what she's going to teach, she just keeps smiling. Her teeth are perfect, canines sharp without need for filing. She sucks the pad of her thumb against them, lips closing around it until the worst of the blood is gone. She lets it go with a little pop, and flips the machete in her hand so the blade sends reflected light flashing around the room like a strobe. She's ready. "Come find out."

[axeyou]

Johanna watches Kate lift her hand, watches the flash of her teeth and the tuck of her thumb between her lips--and the pressure, then, of sucking at that digit. There's a pinch to her mouth, her lips gathered at the end of her thumb, concentrated. Blood and fighting and sex, all mixed together. Fine with me.

She keeps up her smile, sickly sweet. Her fingers are tight on the axe handle, her palms dry, her legs planted, steady. She stares at Kate for another few beats, and in her head, Johanna hears the echo of a countdown: Three. Two. One. Happy fucking Hunger Games.

Her launch forward is immediate. She takes Kate at a run, silent at first, and her other hand goes to grip at the axe, too, picking up a grip at the handle as she swings it back behind her--momentum doubled by the half -turn that she does, and just before she reaches Kate, she jumps, so when she swings down, the strength of that arc with be even greater. The blade of the axe bound right for Kate, and all that strength behind it--too much at once, maybe; maybe she should have feinted. Too late now.

[alsohawkeye]

Fighting and sex, all mixed together. It's not the thrill that links them for Kate, it's that they're both skills, tools, weapons to deploy against others. She learned the one before the Games and the other after but now they're both arrows in her more metaphorical quiver. (All the terrible jokes there have already been made by the press, you can be sure.) She knows how her lips around her thumb look from Johanna's perspective and she caught just enough of a hint of a something off her last night to make it worth a try. Maybe it distracts, maybe it annoys or otherwise unbalances, maybe it does nothing at all. Whatever.

When Johanna comes at her, she's ready to move on to the fighting. With the twist and the jump that strike has too much power behind it for Kate to catch it on her blade and push it aside like she'd planned, so instead she pivots and steps of of the way, lets all Johanna's force go slamming into the mat and strikes out with a foot where her head should be ending up.

[axeyou]

The blow doesn't land home, but Johanna hadn't expected it to, not the first one. It was too broad a gesture, telegraphed too directly--but Kate doesn't get a strike in against her, either. And the brutality of the move has a second meaning, like opening remarks: this isn't going to be a fun lighthearted thing between friends. It's not even really sparring for show.

The axe head bites into the mat with a deep thunk. It's wedged in pretty well, leaving Johanna sort of bent forward, her grip still on its shaft. But Kate is already moving, and she twists away--keeps her grip on the axe but leans back, uses that grip to swing herself toward Kate, a pivot into her pivot. Kate is still standing, so Johanna's shoulder ends up somewhere around her knee, but she drives into her all the same, trying to knock her off-balance--buy enough time to pull the axe out of the mat and go for her again--

[alsohawkeye]

Kate hears the axe sink in, sees it stick, and when Johanna doesn't immediately pull it free again she anticipates that need to buy time. So she's ready to get rushed, but Johanna comes lower than she'd counted on and she stumbles back some steps, on her heels and unbalanced, struggling to keep her feet. She strikes down with the butt of her weapon, the angle better and faster than trying to swing the blade (safer than trying to take off her arm - she could do it but would risk getting her own leg too), handle punched at Johanna's back, jabbed at her ribs.

She brings a knee up at the same time. It sacrifices balance, almost ensuring that she'll go down, but if she can drive it up into Johanna's chin it will be worth it.

[axeyou]

Both strikes hit home--first to her back, winding her, driving her forward--and then to her chin, a dizzying crack that sends her back again. It puts her briefly out of Kate's reach, only by a little--she'll close that distance soon enough, she's too good to leave a chance like this--but Johanna can't gather her wits for a second. She lays, dizzy from the force, no breath in her lungs--

Move, she orders herself, move move move, and with an angry exhale she rolls, sharply, to the side, shoves herself to her feet and goes for Kate again. This is with more intent than her first go--either a punch or a lock, depending on where Kate is and what she's doing--and she will have to stay clear of her weapon, she will have to disarm her if she can--but her primary intent is to get Kate by the hair, drive the heel of her hand into her eye, or up, sharp, at her nose, break it--

[alsohawkeye]

Kate lands on her ass as Johanna tumbles back, but she's quicker to return to her feet, springing upright, weapon still in hand. As expected, she advances, looking to take advantage of the stunning her blows have dealt while she can. But Johanna's tough and she gets up quicker than Kate had hoped (it's a moment of disappointment, but no surprise. She's seen all the footage, she watched those games live. She knows better than to expect Johanna to stay down long.).

She comes swinging and Kate dodges it, taking the blow on her cheek instead of her nose. It still rocks her head back and will leave a pretty bruise but there's no crunch of bone. She leans into the grip on her hair instead of trying to pull away, letting it keep Johanna close and lashing out with her weapon, slashing at her side and ribs in a hooked strike.

[axeyou]

Getting a hit on her is a success, no matter that it's off-target. She twists the grip in Kate's hair, ready to wrench her back, to hit her again--better this time, it will be better--but that twists her into Kate's strike, too, makes her an easy open target. Johanna rethinks as she sees the movement telegraphed--in the bunch of muscles and the heft of the weapon--but the realization comes too late for her to get away properly. At best she has time to try and twist aside, her fingers unknitting from their grip--

The blade catches at her side, bites in, slices--enough that Johanna's breath lets out in a hiss--but she turns so the full brunt of it skims off of her, pulls loose of Kate and steps away without a stumble. The cut is shallow but there is still blood; already her side feels a little sticky. She doesn't let it slow her--her turn has put her a little closer to her axe and she throws herself for it, rocks her weight against it to yank it out of its place in the mat.

[alsohawkeye]

The blade catches on Johanna's top as much as her flesh and it tears so when blood wells there's a flash of red against pale skin before it turns to just a dark stain adhering cloth to side. For a moment Kate's reminded of a different set of ribs, a fall of blood as slow as this one, slower than she'd expected when she'd stuck the blade in, after the sick pop she felt against her hand as it punched through. She shakes it off before she starts seeing his eyes instead of Johanna's, his stumble back instead of her race for her axe.

It's a struggle to divorce this from all the fights for her life, to find some middle ground between the blunt-bladed sparring she does with her trainers and fighting to kill. This isn't either - she doesn't want to kill Johanna no matter how annoying she is - but it's easy to forget that.

So here they are back where they started, on their feet, blades in hand. Kate is patient, poised, none the worse for wear than when they started except her hair come a bit loose. She makes a little gesture, a little waggle of her machete at Johanna. It should come with a smirk but there's none of it in her face. Bring it.

[axeyou]

The dampness seeps slowly into the fabric of Johanna's suit, but she ignores it. She stares, fixedly, at Kate, every muscle tensed and all her senses tuned forward. She isn't short of breath, and she isn't sweaty--they've barely grappled--but she is ready. Kate got first blood, but Johanna won't let that stand. Her eyes track the muscles of Kate's arms and legs, a quick hard glance, watching for any hint toward movement.

One second. Two, three. On four, that's when Kate makes that smirk, and Johanna's anger crashes up in her chest, hard, twisting her grip on her axe.

The fact that she reacts is predictable. Pride and anger are too much for her. But Johanna is still capable of being surprising, predictability and all, and she twists forward, abruptly, swings her axe around and throws it, right at Kate's face. No holds barred, not in this moment--though she's confident that Kate will twist away, that she'll be able to step aside--maybe she'll get an ear off at worst--but Johanna is determined to catch her, and jumps forward after her axe, with the intent to strike out and knock the machete from Kate's hand. If she gets the drop on her, her grip will be loose enough--and if they're bare-handed, Johanna will wrestle her down.

[alsohawkeye]

Kate has a split-second to recalculate when Johanna throws, but it's not enough. It's enough for her to avoid getting hit, for her to spring aside out of the way and let the axe fly past her face with the weird whump of it spinning through the air. It's enough to realize that Johanna must know that won't work, that it must be a distraction. But it's not enough to move and to realize and to compensate, and so when Johanna strikes Kate's hand is loose, her focus elsewhere. The machete tumbles to the floor, flipping end to end across the mat before falling a few feet away.

At least they're equally empty-handed, Kate thinks as Johanna attempts to get her to the ground. She resists, of course, trying to keep her feet beneath her. She lashes out to jab knuckles into the wound in Johanna's side - shallow doesn't mean it can't be tender. It's mean and kind of cheap, maybe unexpected given that she doesn't fight with the sort of raw nerve anger Johanna does. She's still calm and breathing even, every move she makes precise, well-chosen and well-practiced. She makes it look like chess. (She's always hated chess.) Her other hand fights off Johanna's grip, twisting and pulling while a foot lifts to stomp at the side of her knee.

[axeyou]

Leave it to Kate to pick the tender spot, to use the wound to her advantage. That's what you do to survive. Everyone who's won the Games knows that. A weakness is an opportunity, and you take whatever opportunities you're given. She can't even be mad at Kate, even if the pain, in the moment, makes her angry. She makes a single sharp noise, an exhalation with only the slightest tint of pain to it--

But when Kate goes to knock her leg out from under her, Johanna is ready. That quick recovery that helped to buy her victory in the Games, that comes in handy here. She lets Kate fight off her grip and instead goes low, bent like the pain of the jab has doubled her up--but instead she grabs hold of Kate's foot, her ankle, leg, tugs it close to her chest and throws herself down--one quick, sharp movement, dropping them both to the mat. She has to slap her palm against it to manage her own impact, but it's worth it. Even one-armed, if she gets Kate's leg in the right place, she could snap it. If not, they're both down, and she twists to try and lock her leg, hold it painfully twisted--