“Her?” Finnick asks, “Seriously?”
Plutarch gives them what Johanna thinks of as his snake-smile, the one that’s only funny if you’re in on the joke. “She may not seem like much...”
“Ha,” Johanna says, not quite under her breath.
“But she’s got the whole country talking,” he goes on, with barely a glance in Johanna’s direction. “We can capitalize on that.”
“Snow’s got her pretty well neutralized already,” Finnick says, thoughtfully. “Couple years and she’ll be too Capitol for the districts to care about.” His voice is calm, impersonal, but his hand tightens on the back of his neck like he’s working out a knot.
Plutarch’s smile just gets wider. “Then we can’t wait a couple years,” he says. “I’ve got a plan.”
Johanna raises an eyebrow. She doesn’t trust him, he’s Capitol for all he stands out in plain black suits, no frills or feathers for the new Head Gamemaker. More than that, he’s been pushing levers to control the Games for long enough he sometimes acts like people are just the same. Like he can hit a button on a fancy console and have a revolution instead of an avalanche.
They’re all tributes in Plutarch’s Games, really, and Johanna won’t pretend to like it, but as long as there’s the smallest chance she’ll get to put an ax in the President’s fucking head, she’ll play.
(inspired by the pic on trovia's tumblr)