Trials and Tribulations

Chapter Seventeen

A capitol jet picks her up from the arena, picking up the only figure that's still breathing. Medics descend upon her as soon as she comes aboard, grabbing her shoulder, and laying her down on her stomach so that they can reach the slashes on her back first. They tear apart the bandages that Phoebe had wrapped, stripping Juniper of her clothes, peeling away the bloody evidence of her crimes. They remove her sheath of scimitars, only three blades remaining in the belt. They leave only the two ribbons she has tied around each ankle. They murmur under their breaths, talking about how best to clear the injuries in time for the victory ceremony later that day. All the while, Juniper doesn't move. She barely even blinks.

When they're done with her back slashes, they check out the damage at the base of her skull, where Tetra had slammed her into the ice. They deem it not worthy enough to take care of on the jet and turn her over so they can tackle the mark that Barrett's axe blade had sunk into Juniper's chest. Then they re-dislocate her left shoulder so that they can properly pop it back in. It hurts less the second time, less when Tetra's not the one behind it. Juniper barely feels the second time. Juniper barely feels anything. They dribble water down her throat and feed her some kind of nutrient-filled granola bar as if that would make up for the complete lack of food in her stomach. They're looking at her left palm now. The nerve damage is severe, she hears them say. She needs surgery to fix it.

The doctors on the jet do what they can, but the real work is completed like a well-oiled machine in the sublevels of the training center, where her stitched-up wounds are slathered in ointment, intending to make them disappear but not to make them heal. The medics in the designated center hop her up on drugs and knock her out so that they can fix her hand. They stitch her up and cover her from bruised neck to slit back in the special lotion, trying to clean up as much as they can to make her picture perfect. Only thin white lines remain, slithering across her back, across her chest, across the back of her head.

They won't give her a sling yet even though she needs one for her shoulder. They say the crowds won't like it. They say they need to see her unscathed.

But the crowds know she's damaged. The crowds have seen her bleeding, the crowds have seen her begging, the crowds have seen her killing. Nothing is a secret anymore. Juniper is bare. She is exposed.

She is a circus animal.

Juniper sits on the couch of a prep room. There's a floor-to-ceiling mirror and a connecting bathroom. She's dressed in a fluffy white robe, her feet firmly planted on the floor, her body stiff. She cradles her left palm like a wounded creature.

The door creaks open. Juniper doesn't look up.

"Juniper."

Her eyes stay planted right ahead, glassy as if she's not truly seeing anything before her.

The leather next to her sags. A person joins her on the couch.

A hand touches her left cheek, turning her face. Juniper tenses at the touch, fighting instincts nearly setting her off. But then her eyes focus on Finnick.

Finnick doesn't look at her with pity, or with expectance or frustration. He simply looks... shattered. His eyes are sorrowful, and his lips are pursued. He quickly removes his palm from her cheek, setting his hand in his lap.

He doesn't tell her it's all going to be okay, because nothing is. He doesn't tell her he understands, because it feels as if nobody ever can. He doesn't tell her he's sorry, because it means nothing.

Instead, Finnick takes a shaky breath. "One day, we'll make them pay."

Juniper's lip quivers. Her body goes slack and limp, losing the tension and the fear. Juniper is just... exhausted. Completely and utterly exhausted.