“You miss me because the world’s better now,” Enobaria says, head rolling easily on her neck, expression bored as it always is these days.
“Well, I don’t miss you for the conversation,” Johanna snips back, contemplates baring her teeth but Enobaria still wins that one.
They have peace, or what passes for it, and nobody sends their children to die at each other’s hands, and Johanna has lost the people who mattered and the people who didn’t and unlike certain Mockingjays she could mention, she can’t bow her head and pretend her world can be held in cupped hands.
They’ll never understand each other, but Enobaria’s lost her purpose too. A career tribute left living in a world with no careers or tributes for anyone.
This isn’t group commiserating, hugging and tears: it’s fucking, unyielding and uncompromising, fighting a fight that was never won and never completed. Johanna remembers that Enobaria tore out another child’s throat whenever those sharpened teeth scrape her own jugular, not a kiss, not a bite, but it feels more like surviving every time she makes it out of Enobaria’s grip unscathed, and she misses that: surviving, not living.
The number of dead Victors rises by the month, but Johanna would rather take Enobaria’s angry fist in her cunt and a half-dozen mouthed bruises on her breasts than give up now. It might be fighting, it might be compromising, fury and misery spilling out of her mouth in every snarl, but it’s hers, at long last.