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]

Johanna had been mostly left alone to prepare for her Games. And that was fine; that had suited her fine. She had trained alone, but she hadn't needed much. She'd been throwing axes in the camps since she was four years old. This is not a memory that she likes to think about. But she had worked, in secret. She had watched old videos, footage, like that was going to help prepare her. Every Game was different. Everyone knew that. That was part of the thrill and sport of them.

Kate had killed, and she had killed well. Johanna does not like her, but even she can admit to that. But this: hand-to-hand, eye-to-eye--their bodies pressed so close, nearly flush--if this were another setting, without the threat of death, this closeness might mean something else entirely, and the chill of fear nearly feels like a chill of something more, desire and hatred, arousal and death, all twisted up together.

But Kate's arm is strong, pressed against Johanna's throat, and her eyes are narrow and dark, and Johanna knows that look, she knows it because she has worn it herself, felt it twisting her face. She stares up at Kate, her mouth twisted--open, a little, as she tries to draw in breath, but Kate's weight is bearing down on her, she can't.

Angry, she heaves herself up--just her hips, pushing up against Kate's--once, and she flops back but then, again, surging up with everything she's got--and again, with an angry noise that she makes from between her teeth, and she gets one hand up to claw at Kate's arm, her blunt fingernails scudding against her skin as she heaves herself up again, slamming all of her lower weight up just as hard as she can to try and unseat Kate, or at least make her strength waver.

[alsohawkeye]

Kate's barely aware of their position, her attention narrowed down to the throat beneath her arm, the breath she's crushing out of it. She barely sees Johanna's face above it, another's features blended into hers, into the twist of her mouth and the jut of her jaw. This is too easy and too difficult all at once.

But then Johanna throws herself upwards and she snaps back to awareness - that she's just sparring, that it's Johanna, that they're pressed together at a dozen not entirely unpleasant places, all made more noticeable with Johanna pushing up against her like that. It's a weird moment, that and the nails scraping at her arm, conflicting input as if she needs more of that. She shuts her eyes for a second, ducks her head and squeezes them closed until all she sees is black, gives her head a shake that does nothing to clear it.

She hauls back and punches Johanna in the face twice, fast and hard and without releasing the pressure on her windpipe. Until the second blow is struck and then suddenly she's on her knees and on her feet and moving away, stepping back quickly out of range, hands lifted to her head.

[axeyou]

The punches strike hard and quick--Johanna feels something in her nose give a little, and the spill of hot blood confirms it--but that only spurs her on, as the taste of her own blood fills her mouth. She chokes, trying to get in a breath--

And then Kate is gone, all of the pressure lifted from her. One second, two; Johanna sucks in a breath, her throat already sore--three, and then she hauls herself up with another noise through her red-stained teeth.

She could care less about a reason for Kate's retreat; she isn't thinking that way. She only thinks to go for her, and she does, claws her way to her feet and dives after her. Kate's hands are in her hair, and she's hunched, a little--all the better to grab her, and Johanna does, fingers seizing a grip in her hair and twisting her head back in one sharp wrench. Not ideal, but it will hurt, and that's what she wants, as she hauls back and punches her in the face--once, and then again--and with a little shriek, lets go of her hair, shoves into her with her shoulder, to knock her back onto the mat. The blows will have been enough to dizzy her, at least.

[alsohawkeye]

Kate knows she's coming. Even without the sounds - the noise of her breathing, the shuffle of cloth and feet on the mat as she rises - Kate would know. Of course Johanna isn't going to leave it there. Why would she? They're not the ones left alive because they let opponents just walk away.

But when the pull twists her head Kate resists only as much as reflex requires, just enough to not seriously wrench her neck. It still hurts, and so do the punches, so does the mat striking her spine, jarring shoulder blades, thumping against the back of her skull. It all hurts, but that's the point, isn't it? She lifts her arms up to shield her face, a classic guard and a passive one. Behind them she stares at the ceiling, watching the beams and piping weave unsteadily.

Winning was confusing: too many instincts, too many memories, too many faces in her head, too many thoughts that only meet in the middle at I'm a killer. This is simple.

[axeyou]

Blood on her face, blood on her side, in her teeth--she throws herself onto Kate when she goes down, grabs her by the front of her shirt and hauls her up so she can punch her across the face again. She's silent now but for her sharp intake of breath, a sound punctuated by the heavy meat sound of her fist hitting Kate's face--and then again--

But Kate is not fighting back--she is still conscious, obvious by the dull flash of her eyes--but limp, and Johanna loosens her grasp to let her fall back onto the mat. She's straddling Kate again, just as she had been when she first got her down--but now there's blood smeared on both of their faces, and Johanna sucks in a ragged breath, her fingers still twisted in her shirtfront.

"That's it?" she spits out, disgusted. "Get up. Get up, this isn't over."

[alsohawkeye]

Kate's head snapped to the side for the first few punches, now it rolls and flops when Johanna hauls her up and drops her again. There's blood in her mouth and dripping down her cheeks, even in her eyebrow where Johanna's fist sent it spraying. Her nose is a sharp ache, her cheek already a dull throbbing one, and she can feel a tooth coming loose on that side. She worries at it with her tongue and it comes out with little provocation, to be spat onto the mat with a wad of bloody saliva.

She really is dazed, vision narrowed and focusing a strenuous activity. But she's conscious, unfortunately, enough to watch Johanna get even angrier than before. Her shirt stretches but the back of the neck cuts into her nape when Johanna pulls.

"Why not?" She smiles, crooked and crimson and not as crazy as it should be given the circumstance, "Do you feel like you've lost?"

[axeyou]

"If you're giving up, then I didn't lose."

But it feels like a loss. Johanna lets go of her, all at once, lets her fall back against the mat entirely. If she wants to put on this fucking rag doll act, she's welcome to it. Johanna is done with it. There's a wary part of her that hangs back--this could be some act--oldest trick in the book, one she's used herself, to perfection.

But Kate doesn't rise. Johanna stares down at her, flatly, her chest rising and falling sharply, her face sticky with her own blood. Kate's blood is drying on her hands, stiffening her fingers. Her legs are still gripped at her sides, holding tightly to her, holding her down--but it hardly seems necessary now. Kate's listlessness, her small smile--Johanna wants to rip it right off of her face. Instead, she sneers down at her, defiant.

"Come on. Where's the famous Kate Bishop now."

[alsohawkeye]

Johanna lets go and Kate hits the mat with a boneless slap. She gets the feeling she isn't going to get hit again, at least not right away. She'd expected more, but her head already aches like a three day hangover so maybe Johanna's just more efficient than anticipated. She stays there, flat on her back with her eyes almost closed, and the only move she makes to wipe blood from her mouth. Her hand comes away with a thick smear of red and more is already dripping heavy from her nose, from the splits in her thickening lip, but it lets her breath.

Where's the famous Kate Bishop now?

Breathing lets her laugh. Just a little, a thick, choking chuckle that doesn't last long enough to suggest actual hysteria. When she pushes herself up on a hand it leaves a smear of red on the mat but doesn't shift Johanna from her seat. She makes no move at all to attack, nothing in her posture that suggests she's even considering it. Her stare is flat, her words rough, deadpan.

"Do you want me to kill you?"

[axeyou]

They're curled more closely together, with that movement, Kate's face somewhere around Johanna's chest--but the moment is more tense than anything else. The outright question and the awkward closeness--that might suggest that Kate isn't planning anything, but Johanna knows better. It can all change in a second, in only the time that it takes for Kate to shift her weight forward and throw Johanna back against the mat instead.

"Think you could?"

There is no challenge in it. Just a question, one Victor to another. The idea of pitting them against one another, in an Arena--in real and honest competition--it's not something anyone would really suggest. Victors are Victors because they've won. The game they get to play after, that isn't like the Hunger Games. It's something more complex, still riddled with death.

But Johanna has never thought about giving up and dying. She wouldn't fight the way that she does--and has--if that was any kind of option for her. Blood drips from her nose, onto her chin and falls onto Kate--her hands, sticky, too--but she only stares back at Kate, hard-eyed and silent. Waiting.

i actually have a bloody face icon but p sure she's also dead in it

[alsohawkeye]

Kate could do a lot of things from this position and as the immediate blaze of pain fades she runs through them in her mind, quick little visualizations, pros and cons, ways to free herself, attacks, other (surge and flip, bend knee and twist and pull, lock around the neck and roll, jab to the throat, hook to the kidney, headbutt to jaw, wipe blood on her shirt, lick that drop off her chin, find nipple with teeth...). Sometimes the categories blur.

She does nothing, just looks up and meets Johanna's eyes at the question. The lack of challenge is strange, surprising, enough to perversely raise her hackles. That it takes her a moment to reply shouldn't be misinterpreted to suggest she needs to think about it. There's no hesitation, no debate going on behind her eyes. She just gives the moment the weight it feels like it deserves, and doesn't look away.

"Yes."

She could point out that she nearly did just a few minutes ago, but it feels unnecessary and she isn't looking to pick a fight (not another one). So it's a simple answer, just plain certainty and nothing else in her tone, no arrogance, not a hint of pride. One nostril is clotting closed but the other is still dripping so half her mouth and chin are drying dark, already crusting around the edges while the other side is fresh and wet and bright. She just sits there and waits.

just wait. jk.

[axeyou]

Johanna holds that gaze for just a second longer, her eyes playing over Kate's face. Under their twin masks of blood, they must look almost similar, like they've dressed to match. Like the fucking Arena all over again.

She doesn't laugh, when Kate answers. Yes. She keeps studying her, at all the precise little tells that hint toward what her injuries will be. Blood has started to dry on Johanna's face, too, stiffening, hardening the mask over. Their stylists will fix all of this. It will be like it never happened. But right now, with Kate's blood on her hands and her own blood on her face--

Johanna smiles. Just a lift of her lips, that shows the slightest hint of teeth, stained in red. And then she reaches out and shoves at Kate's shoulder, a final blow that carries no weight--maybe just enough to push her down, if she's weak enough from the fight. If not, who cares: Johanna swings herself off, climbs to her feet with her hands first braced against the mat and then up, a single smooth motion no matter how dizzy it leaves her.

"Later," she suggests, and turns to stride back toward her axe, turning her back on Kate--not so much as a gesture of trust, but more of disregard. This part of the fight is over. For now.

[alsohawkeye]

The shove doesn't budge Kate, perhaps surprisingly. She holds her ground here, with her broken nose and busted lip and throbbing behind her eyes; she'd probably take another punch but she's not going to be pushed around. She doesn't follow when Johanna gets to her feet, watching her rise, hunting for some hint of unsteadiness. She's a little impressed to find none. Next time she'll have to hit harder.

"Later." She watches Johanna all the way out the door before easing back to lie down.

It's amazing how quickly a video can be prepped to air, even when "prepping" involves drastically reshaping the whole encounter, reordering sequences, looping others, fabricating some entirely to smooth the transitions, trimming dialogue. It's packaged as a special exclusive, with a sneak peek to follow the Tribute interviews, unprecedented footage of two of your favorite Victors facing off in a stunning inter-district showdown that til now was only the stuff of a fan's dreams and might -- dare he say it? -- might be the stuff of a few more dreams tonight. Ha ha ha!

Kate throws the remote across the room when she sees it, and then remembers she's still in that same stupid building and makes a rude gesture at the ceiling just in case someone's still watching.

[axeyou]

In the short time that she's been a Victor, Johanna has managed to avoid a great deal of media attention. Everyone suffers a little--she's been forced to take her time in the sun, just as everyone has, and it's worse, just before the Games--but Johanna had almost tricked herself into believing that her own unwillingness to participate had absolved her of the worst of it.

Which was stupid. Because of course the Capitol was only saving up, really. She's reminded of that as she stares at her video screen, alone in her spacious room in the District 7 suite.

She throws her remote right at the screen. It sparks, and then flickers out completely in another shower of sparks. Johanna doesn't look twice at it. Nor does she look toward the cameras that are undoubtedly recording her outburst. She has no axe--weapons aren't permitted in the suites--but she strides to the door with her hands clenched and her jaw set, and walks just like that all the way to Kate's suites, where she pounds on the door.

[alsohawkeye]

The District 1 suite is as densely populated as they get and she isn't expecting visitors, so Kate doesn't answer the door. An unfortunate assistant escort has that somewhat dubious privilege, but despite Johanna's attitude he doesn't seem to mind, and the moment he's finished directing her to Kate's door he's tittering behind his long, curly-nailed hand with a friend.

Kate's door requires more of a pounding than the first, and Johanna will no doubt hear the moment Kate spends stepping up and checking to see who is outside before she releases the token locks and opens the door.

"I had nothing to do with that," she says, wasting no time at all, "So if you just came to accuse me, you can go. If there's anything more, come in." That there are cameras everywhere doesn't make her more keen on carrying on conversations arguments in the hallway for anyone to watch live, and she steps back to let Johanna pass if she wants to. Beyond her, the room is brightly lit and the dull fuzz of voices from the screen can be heard still going.

[axeyou]

Of course Johanna wants in the room, and if Kate hadn't stepped aside, she'd have shoved her way in regardless. In some situations--life-or-death situations--Johanna is able to think beyond her anger, hit some clear plain of high-efficiency action. Smaller things are more difficult to think through, like maybe they're not worth the effort that it takes to navigate them with any subtlety.

So maybe it's a mistake, going publicly to Kate and going right into her room, feeding the fire of any implications they want to make. Johanna is in the room anyways, and she glares at the screen, where the news broadcast is ongoing.

"So," she says, rounding on Kate with a glare, "you had nothing to do with it. That doesn't make me any happier. So what. What are you going to do about it now that it's happened."

[alsohawkeye]

Kate shuts the door behind her and follows less quickly, letting Johanna storm ahead and maybe work off some tiny scrap of her furious energy before engaging. She's been more in the news over the last six years, has had more chances to become familiar with how the Capitol operates, how they think. So she has a pretty good idea of what's going to happen next, but unfortunately she's guessing rivalry, not romance, so letting Johanna in and letting the gossip-mongers outside see her come and go feels like a good choice, something that's going to neutralize the situation, if only slightly.

The remote is in pieces in a corner and Kate crosses to pick it up, pressing some buttons that of course do nothing before tossing it back down. On the screen the broadcasters are recapping the night's news, memorable Tribute quotes, fashion highlights. The room is all shiny surfaces and hard angles, as sleek and garish as everything in the building and for once totally at odds with Kate, who takes a seat on the square-cushioned couch and draws a bare foot up beneath her. In soft pants and a loose sweater, neutral tones, hair down, she doesn't look so much like the Victor from the party the other night or the one laughing through her own blood this morning, but she's just as irritatingly calm.

"What would you like me to do about it?" she asks, the question so dry it's nearly rhetorical. "They're going to have us on to do interviews. Probably we'll have to shake hands and say nice things about each other's districts, which I'm sure even you can manage because someone will write the words for you. It's not a big deal."

[axeyou]

Johanna paces over to the screen, glaring at it again. The palm of her hand itches when she thinks about driving her axe through the screen, splitering the picture. She's dressed in a similar-but-clean version of what she'd worn to the gym, though she's pulled on a spiderwebby green sweater for some reference toward modesty or warmth. Neither of those things really apply: Johanna has outgrown modesty, and the Capitol keeps the suites at the perfect temperature, with sensory panels to read and factor in all kinds of variables.

She whips around to glare at Kate again when she speaks. The composed regality of her posture is irritating. On another day, maybe it wouldn't matter, but today, everything is working its way under Johanna's skin. And she knows that she needs to check herself, that she's showing too much--but what does it matter? It's only Kate. The other Victors are safe to befriend because they're all targets. That makes them safe as targets for her, too.

"I don't want to say nice things about your district." Her feet are planted firmly, her fingers are balled into fists. Where Kate is cool, she's still burning hot. "Everyone already says such nice things about District 1. I don't like your district, and I don't like you. Whatever they tell me to say, I'm not saying it. I guess that makes this your warning."

[alsohawkeye]

Kate remains totally unruffled by Johanna's temper, just observing. It's laughable and enviable at the same time but she elects to show neither, expression shading unimpressed as she lets her head tick a few degrees to the right. "You've been here two years," she says, "Have you really learned nothing about how to play this part of the game?"

She rolls her eyes briefly up and a little off-center, a momentary give me patience though there's no Lord to append to the beginning (and she wouldn't believe if there were).

"If you go out there and you say what you actually think, the audience will eat it up. It will be surprising and entertaining and they will want more. And then it won't just be one interview, it'll be two and five and rematches and commentary and this will go on." She rolls a hand in a steady circle in the air. On and on and on, get it? "You go out there and you say a few boring lines some producer wrote and show there's no drama here and everyone will have forgotten about it in a few days."

[axeyou]

"And that's what you do?"

She doesn't like feeling dismissed. She doesn't like feeling like the rookie, like Kate--so world-weary and experienced already--is somehow allowed to write her off, treat her like a child. Kate's got the experience, the work of navigating the demands of the Capitol--but Johanna isn't stupid. She's even clever enough to know that Kate is right about this, that if she plays her part, they let her go, release her of this stupid media blitz.

But she doesn't like that. She doesn't like needing permission, going along just to remain compliant. Johanna isn't a rebel for any great cause. She's a rebel only for herself. She's the Capitol's pawn, but she's not going to let that be easy for them. What's the worst they can do?

Someone else might submit to the wisdom of Kate's words, but Johanna never will. No advice ever did her any good.

"Sorry. But no one ever taught me how to just roll over and take it." She folds her arms over her chest, her jaw tight, her eyes narrowed. Go ahead and eyeroll this one off, Katie.

[alsohawkeye]

Just roll over and take it. Kate's not sure if she'd rather laugh or punch Johanna in her stubborn face. The sudden roil of anger is reminiscent of the night before, the way the dig about her Tributes dying had gotten under her skin, just for a second. It's nothing, she reminds herself, it's not really personal, it's not like Johanna actually knows about all the times she's done just that, metaphorically and otherwise. Except maybe it is. She could know, if not firsthand at least from Finnick, from the times they've crossed paths. But whatever, so what if she does. Johanna just flings attacks left and right until inevitably something finds a crack somewhere. She can't let her win that easily.

She lets the moment pass, nails dug into her palm beneath the cuff of her sweater.Another set of crescent shaped scars in the making for her stylists to scrub out. She smiles, long-suffering, but doesn't quite bother to hide the faint threat of an edge creeping into her tone.

"Fine, let's do it your way. I can slag you and your backwoods hovel of a district off for ten minutes, or ten hours, or however many times we have to do this. The spotlight is where I live anyway, I'm not the one who's going to be inconvenienced here. We'll see who wears it better."

[axeyou]

Whatever pride that isn't personal, whatever sentimentality is left in Johanna--she keeps both for District 7. This isn't like some kid at school swaggering around saying his team is better. The superiority of District 7 is something that Johanna proved herself. Really, it was Johanna that won the 71st Games. She is a product of her District; she grew up throwing axes, climbing trees, living outdoors. Careers might train so they can volunteer, so they can get some glory, but Johanna never trained with an eye toward anything. She just took what she had and she used it, and she killed them all. No matter what else she feels, she is still proud of her win. No one can take that feeling away from her. No one can hollow that victory, not completely.

And all of that means one thing: this stuck-up bitch from District 1 has no idea of what she's talking about. She's a Victor, too, but so what. The spotlight; Johanna's lip curls.

"I know about you and the spotlight, Katie. Don't worry." She nods toward the screen, where the news report carries on. "I've gotten to watch you all of these years, all your interviews, the exclusive news spots. Remember when you were getting ready for your Games, watching all those training videos, all those replays of your fellow Tributes? You were planning out how you'd kill them."

She can say that with confidence, because that's what they all do. Watching footage of the past Games, counting the different ways to achieve a victory. Johanna's method had shaded similar to Kate's, but it wasn't inspired by her. That's not how this story goes.

"I've had all this time to watch you. I'm not anyone get the better of me, especially not you."

[alsohawkeye]

"You say that like you think I haven't done it since." Kate's smile is slender, just the faintest curve at the corners of her mouth, and doesn't reach her eyes at all. "Do you look at anyone without planning how you'd kill them?" The faint note of incredulity isn't put-on; maybe some victors manage to break that habit somehow but she has no doubt Johanna isn't one.

She twists at the waist, collecting a tumbler from a side table, an inch of liquor in the bottom. She sips and swirls the remainder with a turn of her wrist, making no offer to her guest. "If you're not going to agree to play then I don't think we have anything to talk about. I'll see you tomorrow."

[axeyou]

The answer is: no. Johanna can't be in a room with someone without planning out just how she'd kill them. It's in part a paranoid impulse and in part a constant mode of extreme preparation. She stares back at Kate, flat and dark and angry, always angry--her hands tight on nothing, on the invisible haft of some axe that she does not have right now.

And then she turns and she just leaves, without preamble or retort. The door slides shut behind her. The first escort that steps in to meet her, Johanna shoves him, hard, against the wall, and does not look around at his noise of pain and protest.

But later, Kate proves to be right yet again. Remarks are prepared and delivered to Johanna in her suite. She stares at the words, and she throws the tablet across the room with an angry shriek. The shatter of the glass does not satisfy her. She wants this to be so much worse, because what they've prepared for her is so much worse.

A romance. A fucking romance with Kate Bishop. Whose idea was this, what Gamemaker--or stylist--who, who the fuck can she blame, and who can she kill? She will not do this, she vows that to herself. She strides over to the shattered tablet and picks up the biggest piece, and throws that across the room again, heedless of the way the glass cuts at her palm. She will not fucking do this.

See you tomorrow Kate had said. The Mentors meeting, when the first alliances are made. There's always a press-conference afterwards.

"No," Johanna says aloud, glaring up at the ceiling. She'd look crazy if it wasn't a known fact that there are cameras in here.

[alsohawkeye]

Kate considers going and pounding on Johanna's door. She gets all the way down the hall, even, before she turns around and goes back. It's too much like what Johanna did, it puts them too much on the same level and the last thing she wants right now is to be on the same level as Johanna fucking Mason.

So she waits. She goes back to her suite and she beats the shit out of some decor, and then she sits in the mess and she memorizes her lines and she drinks on her balcony and she lets her stylists work their magic and she stalks the hall outside the lounge where the Mentors' meeting is going to be and she waits.

And when Johanna comes by she'll find herself grabbed by the arm out of nowhere and jerked into an alcove, pushed into the wall. Kate's voice is low and hard and clipped off by sharp teeth, the severity of tone and expression a match for the hard lines and angles of her dress, the tightly slicked pull of her hair.

"I hope you're planning to go out there and play along, since this whole debacle is your fault."

[axeyou]

She was angry before she set foot in the room, angry before she even got in the elevator--went to bed angry last night and woke up angry this morning--but being wrenched off to the side by Kate Bishop just makes Johanna even angrier.

She yanks her arm out of Kate's grasp, though she doesn't any anywhere to go after she's free. Kate has pushed her back quite literally to the wall and is mostly blocking the way out of their tense little tête-à-tête in the alcove.

If anyone says anything about a lover's quarrel, later, Johanna will personally scalp them and leave them for dead. Overzealous Capitol fan or fellow Victor who wants a laugh, she doesn't care.

Right now, she settles for leveling her glare on Kate, as if the force of it is enough to scalp and kill her. Her dress is evergreen, the skirt in soft folds of a plush velvet, the bodice of tight-fitted satin. Her shoulders are bare, but the intricate spiderwebbed gold-and-green necklace makes it look a little like she's wearing a shawl that clasps at her neck. Or a collar, maybe.

"You can't blame me if I wasn't allowed to blame you," she spits at Kate. "I'm not going to do it. And fuck you for thinking you can force me into it."