The Hunger Games fic: Trap, Crackle, Pop (2/?)
Story Title: Trap, Crackle, Pop
Chapter Title: Two
Fandom(s): The Hunger Games
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 5,491
Summary: They say not all of Finnick Odair came back from his Games five years ago. How fortunate that the Capitol loves him so much they ask him to mentor and entertain anyway.
Trap, Crackle, Pop
Chapter IIThe four of them reconvene a more reasonable hour in the dining room of their floor, ladened with a truly impressive array of food and drink. For all the years he’s spent in the Capitol, he never ceases to be amazed by its excess. Their breakfast alone could feed an entire block of District 4 for a week. He picks at his share, finishing only two-thirds of his lamb stew and half a roll each of Four’s and Nine’s bread. He’s never much cared for the tastelessness of the Capitol’s.
Mags surveys him through the whole thing, scrutinizing, which he supposes might contribute to his lack of appetite. Both Annie and Marin finish their plates and go for seconds, a strategy Finnick approves of, given that food never lasts long in the arena, assuming you get any at all. He, on the other hand, wants for nothing, or so Snow keeps telling him. The Capitol prides itself on representing all the districts in food, only Finnick has yet to see any legitimate Four dishes besides the seaweed bread.
“…is your first day of training,” Mags is informing the two tributes. “You’ll have three of them, so be sure to get a taste of everything. You’ll want to show off your strengths a little to the other tributes, show them you’re a contender, but under no circumstances are you to spend all of your time at stations you already know well. Save that for the Gamemakers. Marin, what are your talents?”
Marin gulps down the large bite of pancake he’d just taken. “I dunno,” he mumbles. “I mean, my dad says I’m the best in my neighborhood at gigging.”
“Okay, good,” she says. “There’s usually spears at the Cornucopia, and sometimes tridents. Aim for those if you can. In training, emphasize edible plants and close combat weapons.”
Taking his cue from Mags, Finnick asks, “What about you, Annie?”
“Knives,” she supplies easily. Marin goggles at her. Finnick hasn’t found the need to broach the topic, but he hazards a guess that Marin hadn’t spent much time in the program, if at all. “What? My gran wanted me to be prepared. In case…”
“There will be plenty of those,” Mags says. “Try some snares or camouflage. Archery might be good for you to practice as well.”
Finnick sips his coffee, black with a side of cream, and adds, “You’ll also want to consider alliances. Obviously the traditional one is between One, Two, and Four, so that’s gonna be your best choice.”
“What if we don’t want to ally with them?” Marin argues.
“Ultimately it’s up to you,” Finnick says slowly. “Just keep in mind that One and Two will be hoarding what’s in Cornucopia, and whatever you don’t get right off the jump, you’ll have to fight for. And, Marin, I’ve seen the other Career tributes. Pound-for-pound, you’re no match for them.”
Marin flushes, ducking his head. He appeals Mags to see if she’d offer an alternative, but she shakes her head. “Finnick’s right,” she says. Then, softer, she adds, “But you two are smarter. Use that to your advantage. The arena is not all about brute force.”
The rest of breakfast is concluded in relative quietude. An orange- and white-themed Calliope struts in with twenty minutes to spare, accompanied by the stylists, Lucinda and Quixote. In Finnick’s opinion, she resembles a clownfish, not only in appearance but behavior: she, too, swims among danger and doesn’t get stung. Not like Finnick, anyhow. No, he’s the unsuspecting butterflyfish paralyzed in the barbs of the anemone. Brightly-colored, quick, and not quick enough.
The stylists present Annie and Marin with their Training Center uniforms: form-fitting and breathable, violet for Annie and navy for Marin, each with a block-lettered “4” pinned to the back. They change expeditiously, and disappear with Calliope to the elevator bay. Finnick remembers well where it goes: down six floors, past the lobby, past the stables, shuddering to a stop in the gymnasium. The gym will be drab and gray, nothing special, but it also never changes. And in a city run on what fashion is most up to date, it’s kind of nice. There are no surprises down there, just more of the same.
Finnick waits until the elevator car is out of sight, then walks over to the couch, settling on its cushions. Mags picks the lounge chair opposite him, and the suspicion radiates off her in tidal waves.
“What?” he asks after about a minute of this.
“Be careful with that girl, Finnick,” Mags warns. At this, he twitches a little, alarmed at her insinuation.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he retorts, taking umbrage despite the fact that this is Mags, who has never had anything but his greatest interests in mind. “I’m just mentoring her, that’s all.”
Mags raises an eyebrow. “You’re mentoring her, are you? Was I there for that discussion?”
“I don’t know what you want from me, Mags,” Finnick sighs. “I’m doing as well as I can here. I picked Annie because she’s easier. You know it, too. Marin isn’t going to win this thing. At least not with me behind the curtain. I’ve got a better shot with the girl.”
It feels wrong to diminish Annie as no more than a playing card, but it’s the most logical explanation he can give. Mags’s expression is unreadable, providing Finnick with no indication as to whether she trusts his response or not. Personally, he doesn’t fully understand her hesitance. It’s not like he’s falling for her or anything so trite. Anything else notwithstanding, he wouldn’t be able to. Not with Snow breathing down his neck, and not with his bed shared by a different suitor every week. On top of all that, although she’s just two years younger than he, there’s a certain power imbalance between a mentor and tribute, and Finnick’s not interested in exploiting that.
“If that’s all there is,” Mags says finally. “I’ll take Marin, see what I can do with him.”
Finnick uses the day to plan, brainstorming ideas for Annie’s interview, for various outcomes of her training score-what to do if it’s low, what to do if it’s high. Some degree of guilt plagues him that he’s essentially abandoning Marin entirely, which is pointless, considering the kid has Mags. He also considers the possibility that, like Johanna a year ago, maybe Marin has more of a fighting chance than he appears at first blush. Probably not, but stranger things have happened.
Training wraps up a few hours before dark, and Annie and Marin step off the elevator, displaying no immediate indication of how the day went. The Avoxes quickly prepare the table for dinner, and Finnick takes to asking the obvious.
“How did it go?”
Marin shrugs. “One and Two look solid again this year,” he reports. “The boy from Five is pretty big and threw one of the hundred-pound weights like it was nothing. Annie said the girl from Ten aced all the survival stations.”
“There are usually a few outliers you’ll need to watch out for,” Finnick says. “If you play your hand right, though, they shouldn’t be a serious threat.”
The elevator dings on their floor, within it a Capitol runner. Finnick largely disregards the whole thing, expecting the messenger to bring a redundant reminder. He also couldn’t be more wrong. As Finnick is about to take a bite of the chicken on his plate, the Avox wordlessly approaches him and places a white envelope on the table. Even without noticing the symbol of Panem embossed on the front and Snow’s personal wax seal holding it closed, Finnick knows precisely what it is.
His fork clatters on the plate as he stares at the unopened letter, hoping it might self-destruct before he has to read it. He vaguely hears Annie ask what it is, but he doesn’t answer. Can’t answer. Doing his best to prevent his hands from shaking, he breaks the wax and skims the swirling script handwritten there.
Finnick,
Mr. Hadrien Gris, one of our Gamemakers this year, was duly impressed with your tributes during today’s session, particularly the girl, Miss Annie Cresta. He would like to speak with you in person at his home, in three-quarter-hour’s time. Do be punctual.
The Capitol thanks you for your services.
Yours,
President Coriolanus Snow
Finnick crumples the note in his fist and throws it against the far wall with a strangled growl of frustration. Too strung to care about the twin expressions of alarm on Annie and Marin’s faces, he pushes away from the table and strides to his room, slamming the door behind him. His breath comes in short bursts as he paces the floor, incensed and doing his damnedest not to unravel. This is not nearly his first client, but Finnick had been naive enough to believe that Snow wouldn’t force him into appointments while he’s already being made to mentor.
Of course, in this case, he wouldn’t be whoring senselessly. He’d be doing it to earn favors for Annie in the arena, potentially Marin as well. And isn’t that exactly what mentors are supposed to do? Help their tributes? Even a tiny bit of pull is better than none. Finnick clings to this frail idea like a lifeline. He’s got no intricate designs painted on his arms this time, nothing else to keep him grounded but this one notion. He hopes it’ll be enough.
He crosses the room to a small, padlocked bureau and opens the top drawer. Without much caring what he grabs, he drops his shoes and pants to the floor and steps into a pair of skin-tight jeans, matching it with a set of boots. Losing his shirt, he shrugs on a sheer, poor excuse of a top. He reluctantly forgoes a jacket, under no illusions that it’d be on him for very long anyway. His hair he leaves however it may look now, because who the fuck cares. Certainly not Finnick.
Steeling himself, he throws open his door and heads straight for the elevators, not bothering to check who remains at the table or what they’re thinking. If it’s judgment, he really doesn’t want to see that, and if it’s pity, well. He doesn’t much want to see that either.
There’s a car already waiting for him outside the Training Center, and he slides into the backseat, resting his head on the cool window. He realizes once the car drives off that in his anger and haste, he’d forgotten to pop one of Haymitch’s pills, the ones that dull his senses enough to make what he has to do bearable, to make his memories of the night hazy. He has half a mind to tell the driver to turn around, but decides it’s not worth it. He can deal with one night. Depending on how the arena goes, after all, he’s got worse ones ahead.Hadrien Gris, like many Gamemakers before him, lives on the topmost floor of the tallest apartment building in the Capitol. Gaudy, chrome, and reeking of money, Finnick would have expected nothing less. When he stops outside Gris’s door, Finnick’s lids fall closed for a moment as he tries to glue himself together enough to get through this. He’s never had this particular Gamemaker before, but on the whole they’ve not been his worst clients. The young up-and-comer, Seneca Crane, is a different story, and Finnick’s just glad it hadn’t been Crane’s name on the letter tonight.
Exhaling, Finnick raps on the door, schooling himself into the sham he knows so well. Sultry and ready for anything, that’s the ticket. Gris has the ego to not receive him for a full three minutes, making Finnick wait for his punishment. Eventually, answer he does, and he gives Finnick an appreciable once-over before stepping aside to let him across the threshold.
“Ah, Finnick,” he greets, as though they’ve been friends for ages. “I was hoping you’d show.”
His mask already in place, the smile, too many teeth and just enough mystery, forms easily. “Anything for the Capitol,” he replies.
Gris hums and gestures for Finnick to sit on the couch. He obliges, and further accepts the tumbler of bourbon handed to him. He downs it in one gulp, deciding that if he can’t have the pills, he can at least be buzzed. If Gris were anyone normal, he might feel bad about burning through the liquor, which tastes at least a ten-year vintage.
(As it stands, he really doesn’t feel bad at all, and tells Gris to continue pouring until his tumbler is full.)
“You should pace yourself,” suggests Gris blandly. “We haven’t even gotten the chance to talk yet!”
Finnick blinks at him. “Is that what I’m here for? Talking?”
Gris wouldn’t be the first to pretend it’s some kind of actual date between the two of them, that Finnick’s here because he wants to be. He supposes it has something to do with the upmost of upper echelon Capitol citizens wanting to think they’re better than their peers, that they’re so magnanimous that the legendary Finnick Odair visits their apartment late at night just for a chat.
Gris’s appropriately-colored silver eyes study Finnick. “Well, maybe not,” he admits with a low giggle. “But I do so want to hear about that tribute of yours.”
Finnick abandons Gris’s steely gaze to drown in the amber of his glass, briefly pondering the logistics of if he decided to slit Gris’s throat with the letter opener next to the decanter of cognac. It wouldn’t be difficult. It would probably even be satisfying. Of course, there are also the cameras and microphones that litter every square inch of the city, so Finnick doubts his deed would be kept quiet for long. No, murder isn’t the answer, here. There’s too much at stake. Too many people at stake.
He laughs, instead. “You know I can’t reveal too much to you, Hadrien,” he coos. “We both know how upstanding the Capitol is in its rules.”
He tosses a wink in for good measure, and watches disinterestedly as Gris falls prey to his machinations. Finnick almost feels offended. He’s not even putting in remotely his full effort tonight, and yet Gris is playing into his hands like putty. It occurs to him then that that is not the sort of thing at which he should take offense.
“You are a tease,” Gris replies. “Well, as her mentor, you should know that my colleagues and I were very impressed with her skills. She laid some excellent trap work today, which I would bet is not even her area of expertise!”
Finnick smacks him with another rubbery smile. “Annie, yes,” he simpers, “She and Marin will represent District 4 well this year.”
“And, I hope,” Gris adds lasciviously, “she will represent District 4 for quite some time after that. Perhaps Marin as well, if he grows out of that unfortunate lank.”
Finnick doesn’t hear Gris’s last sentence. Finnick hears the first and his vision pixelates. The glass in his hand shatters, cutting up his skin and inundating the gashes with alcohol. Blood and liquor stain the white carpet, of which Finnick feels none. He pictures Annie, naked on a bed of black satin, shrieking as Gris bears down upon her with a grin on his face. He pictures her scream being heard all through the country, to her district and beyond, broadcasting to the country just what happens to victors with the right genes.
He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees stars, trying to get the images out of his head. Which only increases them in intensity and quantity, a veritable film reel playing out behind his lids. Gris puts a hand on Finnick’s shoulder and, like an encaged tiger finally released, Finnick lashes out and sinks his fist into the Gamemaker’s face. The fragile cartilage of his nose splinters with the force, and spiderweb fractures radiate into his orbital sockets. Gris howls in pain, clutching his destroyed nose and futilely attempting to staunch the flow of blood.
His brain awash with the buzzing of a thousand wasps, Finnick watches as though a third party as he holds the remnants of his tumbler to Gris’s neck. “That won’t happen,” he snarls, voice guttural and detached. Outsider-Finnick tells his other self to stop, that this will just make things exponentially worse. Other-Finnick doesn’t listen. “Mark my words, you will not touch her.”
Gris whimpers, tears and snot joining blood, but he manages to nod blearily.
Outsider-Finnick slumps against a wall, dreading the fallout.
Other-Finnick smashes the rest of the glass into Gris’s head and storms out of the apartment. His thumb jams the elevator button, leaving a wide smear of crimson. His right hand is a shredded mess, torn flesh accompanied by skinned, split knuckles. He catches a glimpse of himself in the burnished walls of the elevator, and doesn’t recognize the visage there. His pupils are blown such that only a thin ring of green shows, and his golden skin is flecked with blood, Gris’s or his own, he has no clue.
Outsider-Finnick has the presence of mind to pull out his cell phone and dial the number of one of the few victors he knows will neither judge nor make a scene.Other-Finnick is surprised to see Brutus waiting for him when he gets off the elevator, the man hulking in on himself as he stands in the balmy night air clad simply in a black tee-shirt and dark jeans. He takes one look at Panem’s youngest-ever victor and sighs. Other-Finnick readies for a face-off, identifying Brutus as nothing more than a combatant; inferring this, Brutus promptly hefts Finnick over his shoulder in one fluid move. He pays no attention to Finnick’s repeated, vicious attempts to get free-Brutus wears his name aptly-and similarly brushes off the appalled outbursts of the Capitol citizens they pass on the street.
Fortunately, it’s not far back to the Training Center, brisk as Brutus’s pace is. At this hour, no one is milling about the complex, but Brutus takes the stairs anyway, stomping up two flights to his district’s designated floor. Enobaria and Lyme pause from a game of chess when he enters, immediately assessing the spectacle in solemnity.
(Strictly speaking, it’s not Enobaria’s turn to mentor, but Two’s tributes aren’t quite the shoo-ins as they’ve been in years past and their sponsors need encouragement. Enobaria has always appealed to a certain niche market in the Capitol: wealthy, kinky, and happy to do a services exchange.)
Enobaria hastens to retrieve a coil of rope from the supply closet as Brutus drops Finnick into one of the dining chairs, and tightly, efficiently, binds his wrists, ankles, and chest. It’s not the first time she’s done this.
Lyme crouches down in front of Finnick, heedful not to touch him. “Finnick,” she says softly. “Finnick, you’re safe, okay? You’re with friends now.”
Finnick’s eyes remain glassy and laser-focused on something miles away from the three victors in his vicinity, and his skin chafes an angry red where he struggles against the ropes. It’s fruitless on his part, of course: while nobody can claim to best him in knots, Enobaria’s are plenty good enough to hold him indefinitely.
“Kid,” Brutus says, his muscles spasming in the desire to do something. “Whatever happened, we can deal with it, all right? You’ll be okay.”
“Not okay,” Finnick grunts. “It’s not okay.”
Pursing her lips, Lyme turns to Enobaria. She gives no request aloud, and yet it’s implicitly understood. Enobaria treads to the closet again and pulls out the medical kit, drawing sedative into a syringe. Beyond the point of gentleness, she jams the needle into Finnick’s arm and depresses the plunger. In a matter of seconds, his body goes limp.
Brutus makes quick work of undoing Finnick’s binds, hauls him out of the chair, and lays him down on the bed in Brutus’s quarters. Lyme and Enobaria double-team the medical kit, Enobaria taking Finnick’s newly-inflicted rope burns, while Lyme systematically douses his hand in antiseptic then slathers it in ointment. The wounds aren’t deep enough to require stitches, so she simply wraps everything in gauze. The Remake Center would be able to render it invisible, but Lyme knows how useful anchors are to Finnick. Physical pain is one of the strongest.
“I haven’t seen him this bad in a long time,” Brutus observes, placing the rope back into the closet. “Wonder what set him off.”
Enobaria scoffs and replies darkly, “I can take a guess.”
“Well, somewhere, he knew he needed help. That’s something at least,” says Lyme. Troubled, she continues, “I don’t know how much longer this can go on, not with him so edgy.”
“I thought Abernathy was dealing,” Brutus says.
Lyme stares at him in disbelief. “You think those actually help, Brutus?” she asks rhetorically. “They’re a distraction, that’s all.”
District 2 falls collectively silent, monitoring the steady rise and fall of Finnick’s chest and individually remarking on how young he looks in sleep, like the nineteen-year-old he is and not the seasoned womanizer the rest of Panem seems to believe. Lyme covers him with a knitted throw while Brutus volunteers to venture upstairs and relay the evening to Mags.
Enobaria grinds her fangs together until her mouth fills with metal.When Finnick wakes, it’s to sunlight streaming in through his bedroom window and a full-body ache he can’t instantly find a cause for. He heavily contemplates falling back asleep again to put off dealing with the discomfort until later, but now that he’s up, his thoughts begin working overtime. Blearily he opens his eyes and sits up in bed, patently ignoring the pulsing behind his eyes.
It takes a minute to register that this is decidedly not his room. The walls are shale gray, not the blue-green like they are on the fourth floor, the furniture is in the wrong places, and there’s a mirror on the back of the door. He wracks his memory to figure out how he got here, wherever here is, but comes up blank. He remembers receiving the letter from Snow, and then it’s all just a blur. He’s clothed, at least, an oversized sweatshirt covering his torso and the same jeans he’d left in yesterday.
He catches sight of his right hand, then, tightly encased in pristine gauze and feeling twice as large as it should be. He cautiously unwraps the bandage, letting the strip of cloth pool on the bed. He also immediately wishes he hadn’t done that. Dozens of cuts, some deep some superficial, litter his skin, and his knuckles are a bright shade of blue-purple. Experimentally, he starts to flex his hand, which doesn’t get him very far. Definitely cracked, then. Whoever he’d hit, he hopes the punch was good enough to merit that person’s inevitable trip to the Remake Center.
Groaning, Finnick rolls off the bed and, not at all wanting to see how terrible he looks like right now, opens the door and steps out into the common area. Above the elevator is a massive, stylized “2,” which at least tells him where he is. Someone clears their throat to his left, and he turns to see Brutus, Lyme, and Enobaria observing him from the dining table. They don’t seem surprised that he’s there, yet there’s also a significant degree of apprehension.
Biting the bullet, Finnick walks over and rests his arms on the back of one of the chairs. “Um…good morning.”
“‘Good morning’? Try good one-thirty,” Enobaria comments, sipping from some neon-green drink.
“One-thirty?” Finnick asks, beginning to panic. “Fuck, I need to go.”
Brutus leans over to gently grab Finnick’s arm. “Settle down, trigger. Mags is already handling everything,” he says. “Besides, you look like shit. Not even Twelve would want you as a mentor.”
Finnick thinks that’s a rather low blow, given who Twelve’s current mentor is, but without his memory he also can’t dispute it. “Okay, well, can someone tell me why I’m here and dressed in Brutus’s sweatshirt?”
Enobaria glances at Lyme, who dutifully rises to the occasion. “We only know the end,” she says. “You called Brutus late last night to pick you up. You were…pretty out of it. We had to tie you up, hence the rope burns.”
Finnick glances at his wrists, both ringed in an angry shade of eggplant. He’s uneasy at even the thought of it: he doesn’t much like being restrained, no matter the circumstances. “I don’t understand,” he says. “Who the hell-?”
“Hadrien Gris,” Enobaria answers. “I’ve had him before, he’s pretty tame. I don’t know what he said to you, but…”
Any attempt to access his memories of the last fourteen hours, Finnick finds, just sends an icepick through his temples. There are flashes of colors, bytes of sound, vague sensations, but nothing concrete. Presumably, he should be more concerned about having a chunk of time missing, only he’s pretty used to it by now. Except…
“Hang on, Gamemaker Hadrien Gris?” he asks. “Shit.”
“Finnick, listen,” says Brutus. His voice drops, too low for any surveillance equipment around the room. “For all we know, Gris’ll be too damn humiliated to mention anything. You’ve got appearances to maintain, and a tribute to mentor. Focus on that.”
The placating isn’t helping; on the contrary, it just exacerbates the whole thing. “I got my brother-in-law killed because I laughed at a client,” he says, matching Brutus’s tone. “What’s he going to do now that I-”
Enobaria slaps him clear across the face. “Stop fucking panicking, Odair,” she snaps, grabbing his chin sharply. “What’s done is done and there’s no use whining about it. The best thing you can do for your family is give Snow a hell of a show.”
Strangely, it’s the sincerity in her normally hateful, dark eyes that steadily slows Finnick’s heart rate. His cheek stinging, he nods. “Okay. Yeah, you’re right.”
“Go take a shower,” Lyme says, “brush your hair, put on something respectable. Anything less than tributes having the utmost faith in their mentor is unacceptable.”
At that, Finnick stands, peeling off Brutus’s sweatshirt and tossing it to him. “Thanks,” he says to each of them. “I mean it.”
“Oh, man up,” Enobaria retorts, all posturing and no malice. “Whores look after whores, right?”
Finnick flinches, missing Brutus’s withering glare at her. “Hang in there, Finnick,” Lyme says.
He doesn’t reply. Leaving the three of them to their afternoon-and realizing belatedly that they must have shooed away not only their tributes, but all of their Capitol affiliates, because of him-he ascends the elevator to the fourth floor. Midday has Annie and Marin in the throes of their second day of training, for which Finnick is glad. He needs some time to organize what excuse he’s going to give. Provided Mags hasn’t already invented one.
He chuckles to himself-of course, she’ll have already invented one.
She, too, is absent, probably with one of the other victors, so the floor is empty but for the omnipresent Avoxes. The blonde, he’s pretty sure he recognizes from last year, and if he’s not mistaken, there’s a dollop of pity in her blue eyes. He bristles; if anyone’s to be pitied, it’s her. Pity doesn’t stop the letters from coming. Pity doesn’t fix his brain. Pity doesn’t do jack shit.
Storming directly into his bathroom, he puts the shower on its coldest setting, fully aware losing his temper now won’t be of use to anyone, least of all him. He sheds his dirtied clothes eagerly and steps under the spray, droplets like needles against his body. The cold does lessen his headache, though, which is progress. He stares in idle fascination as the water hits the flaps of skin on his hand, simultaneously irrigating and numbing. It’s pure relief against his knuckles as well, hushing the pain.
One-handed, he lathers his hair in shampoo and conditioner, watching the colored soap swirl down the drain. Washing himself is a contortionist act but he figures it out, ungracefully. He stays in the shower a while longer, not quite ready to face reality again. A half-hour later, he sucks it up and shuts off the spray, letting the drying mat wick away all traces of water.
Wryly, he combs his hair as Lyme demanded, and a quick change of clothes later, he judges his appearance to be presentable. Inside, he’s still an unmanageable mess, but Annie and Marin don’t have to know that. He just has to keep it together for their sakes, and all will be fine. Granted, that strategy hasn’t exactly panned out so far, but a guy can dream.
There’s a note taped to the inside of his door-plain white paper this time, no sign of Snow whatsoever-requesting that he meet for lunch at a restaurant a block down the street from the Training Center. He’s leery until he reaches the end, where it reads, From Mags. The writing is too neat to be hers, some Capitol attendant’s no doubt.
He balls up the note and chucks it in the trash can in a perfect arc, grabs a coat, and heads back down the elevator. It’s a nice day outside, warm with a slight breeze, the sky devoid of a single cloud. He soaks in the sunshine for a couple minutes before arriving at the restaurant-more of a café, really-and perusing the tables for Mags. She winds up tucked away in the back corner of the establishment. It’s not an exceptionally popular joint, but popular enough to want to avoid much interaction.
“Hey,” Finnick greets, chastened.
Mags tracks him as he slides into the booth opposite her. She sets down her cup of tea and looks at him so forlornly that, for the first time, Finnick sees her age. “Brutus told me what happened last night,” she says. “You scared him.”
Despite himself, Finnick snorts a laugh. “I scared Brutus? You’re kidding.”
She’s not. “Finnick,” she sighs wearily, “we need to do something about this.”
“I can’t stop it sometimes, Mags, you know that,” he replies. Mostly, he’s got a handle on his…issues. Occasionally, drastically, they drag him under like a hidden riptide. “It’s not like I want to be this way. If there were a cure, I’d take it right here.”
She stares at him with such intensity the restaurant fades out of his peripheral. “Haymitch’s family, and Eleanor. Johanna’s parents and baby brother. Woof’s sister. Chaff’s daughter. Cashmere’s fiancé,” she lists. “Seventy years of collateral. All because the Capitol was embarrassed, one way or another.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Finnick snaps. He’d shuttered himself away for a full day when he’d found out how far Snow’s net actually stretches, and he finds it no easier to hear now either. “They murdered Mara’s husband, too, because of me. I know what they’re capable of.”
Mags shakes her head violently. “You don’t,” she says, rage simmering beneath the surface. “Finnick, they won’t stop. If you don’t lock this down, you’re going to have no one but me to go home to. They take and take and take and take until there’s nothing left but memories.”
Finnick leans back, thoroughly floored by this side of his former mentor. Since he’s known her, she’s never spoken so brazenly, so passionately. He’s not sure what to do with it all. “What is there that I haven’t already tried?”
She finishes half her tea, and then continues, “You make a goal and you don’t let go of it,” she says. “I don’t care who does what, what appointments you have, I don’t care. Pick something that’ll kill you if you fail.”
He doesn’t have much trust in this new theory of hers, but his throbbing hand and aching muscles pester him into agreement. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, I’ll try.”
“Annie,” Mags suggests. “You’ve got an attachment to her, use that. You make her win, that’s your goal. If you slip again, she’s as good as dead.”
It seems a rather callous strategy; yet, what’s he got to lose? At this point, he’ll try anything. And she’s right, he’s felt tethered to Annie since the start. He doesn’t care to examine it, can’t afford to, but it’s worth a shot. While he’s inclined to believe someone would offer to at least keep an eye out for her, he can also easily see no one stepping forward when they’ve got their own tributes to worry about.
It’s enough. “I understand.”
Flipping a switch, Mags pushes a menu over to him. “You’re too skinny, boy. Eat,” she commands gently.
He grins. “Yes, ma’am.”
Next
Chapter Title: Two
Fandom(s): The Hunger Games
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 5,491
Summary: They say not all of Finnick Odair came back from his Games five years ago. How fortunate that the Capitol loves him so much they ask him to mentor and entertain anyway.
Trap, Crackle, Pop
Chapter IIThe four of them reconvene a more reasonable hour in the dining room of their floor, ladened with a truly impressive array of food and drink. For all the years he’s spent in the Capitol, he never ceases to be amazed by its excess. Their breakfast alone could feed an entire block of District 4 for a week. He picks at his share, finishing only two-thirds of his lamb stew and half a roll each of Four’s and Nine’s bread. He’s never much cared for the tastelessness of the Capitol’s.
Mags surveys him through the whole thing, scrutinizing, which he supposes might contribute to his lack of appetite. Both Annie and Marin finish their plates and go for seconds, a strategy Finnick approves of, given that food never lasts long in the arena, assuming you get any at all. He, on the other hand, wants for nothing, or so Snow keeps telling him. The Capitol prides itself on representing all the districts in food, only Finnick has yet to see any legitimate Four dishes besides the seaweed bread.
“…is your first day of training,” Mags is informing the two tributes. “You’ll have three of them, so be sure to get a taste of everything. You’ll want to show off your strengths a little to the other tributes, show them you’re a contender, but under no circumstances are you to spend all of your time at stations you already know well. Save that for the Gamemakers. Marin, what are your talents?”
Marin gulps down the large bite of pancake he’d just taken. “I dunno,” he mumbles. “I mean, my dad says I’m the best in my neighborhood at gigging.”
“Okay, good,” she says. “There’s usually spears at the Cornucopia, and sometimes tridents. Aim for those if you can. In training, emphasize edible plants and close combat weapons.”
Taking his cue from Mags, Finnick asks, “What about you, Annie?”
“Knives,” she supplies easily. Marin goggles at her. Finnick hasn’t found the need to broach the topic, but he hazards a guess that Marin hadn’t spent much time in the program, if at all. “What? My gran wanted me to be prepared. In case…”
“There will be plenty of those,” Mags says. “Try some snares or camouflage. Archery might be good for you to practice as well.”
Finnick sips his coffee, black with a side of cream, and adds, “You’ll also want to consider alliances. Obviously the traditional one is between One, Two, and Four, so that’s gonna be your best choice.”
“What if we don’t want to ally with them?” Marin argues.
“Ultimately it’s up to you,” Finnick says slowly. “Just keep in mind that One and Two will be hoarding what’s in Cornucopia, and whatever you don’t get right off the jump, you’ll have to fight for. And, Marin, I’ve seen the other Career tributes. Pound-for-pound, you’re no match for them.”
Marin flushes, ducking his head. He appeals Mags to see if she’d offer an alternative, but she shakes her head. “Finnick’s right,” she says. Then, softer, she adds, “But you two are smarter. Use that to your advantage. The arena is not all about brute force.”
The rest of breakfast is concluded in relative quietude. An orange- and white-themed Calliope struts in with twenty minutes to spare, accompanied by the stylists, Lucinda and Quixote. In Finnick’s opinion, she resembles a clownfish, not only in appearance but behavior: she, too, swims among danger and doesn’t get stung. Not like Finnick, anyhow. No, he’s the unsuspecting butterflyfish paralyzed in the barbs of the anemone. Brightly-colored, quick, and not quick enough.
The stylists present Annie and Marin with their Training Center uniforms: form-fitting and breathable, violet for Annie and navy for Marin, each with a block-lettered “4” pinned to the back. They change expeditiously, and disappear with Calliope to the elevator bay. Finnick remembers well where it goes: down six floors, past the lobby, past the stables, shuddering to a stop in the gymnasium. The gym will be drab and gray, nothing special, but it also never changes. And in a city run on what fashion is most up to date, it’s kind of nice. There are no surprises down there, just more of the same.
Finnick waits until the elevator car is out of sight, then walks over to the couch, settling on its cushions. Mags picks the lounge chair opposite him, and the suspicion radiates off her in tidal waves.
“What?” he asks after about a minute of this.
“Be careful with that girl, Finnick,” Mags warns. At this, he twitches a little, alarmed at her insinuation.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he retorts, taking umbrage despite the fact that this is Mags, who has never had anything but his greatest interests in mind. “I’m just mentoring her, that’s all.”
Mags raises an eyebrow. “You’re mentoring her, are you? Was I there for that discussion?”
“I don’t know what you want from me, Mags,” Finnick sighs. “I’m doing as well as I can here. I picked Annie because she’s easier. You know it, too. Marin isn’t going to win this thing. At least not with me behind the curtain. I’ve got a better shot with the girl.”
It feels wrong to diminish Annie as no more than a playing card, but it’s the most logical explanation he can give. Mags’s expression is unreadable, providing Finnick with no indication as to whether she trusts his response or not. Personally, he doesn’t fully understand her hesitance. It’s not like he’s falling for her or anything so trite. Anything else notwithstanding, he wouldn’t be able to. Not with Snow breathing down his neck, and not with his bed shared by a different suitor every week. On top of all that, although she’s just two years younger than he, there’s a certain power imbalance between a mentor and tribute, and Finnick’s not interested in exploiting that.
“If that’s all there is,” Mags says finally. “I’ll take Marin, see what I can do with him.”
Finnick uses the day to plan, brainstorming ideas for Annie’s interview, for various outcomes of her training score-what to do if it’s low, what to do if it’s high. Some degree of guilt plagues him that he’s essentially abandoning Marin entirely, which is pointless, considering the kid has Mags. He also considers the possibility that, like Johanna a year ago, maybe Marin has more of a fighting chance than he appears at first blush. Probably not, but stranger things have happened.
Training wraps up a few hours before dark, and Annie and Marin step off the elevator, displaying no immediate indication of how the day went. The Avoxes quickly prepare the table for dinner, and Finnick takes to asking the obvious.
“How did it go?”
Marin shrugs. “One and Two look solid again this year,” he reports. “The boy from Five is pretty big and threw one of the hundred-pound weights like it was nothing. Annie said the girl from Ten aced all the survival stations.”
“There are usually a few outliers you’ll need to watch out for,” Finnick says. “If you play your hand right, though, they shouldn’t be a serious threat.”
The elevator dings on their floor, within it a Capitol runner. Finnick largely disregards the whole thing, expecting the messenger to bring a redundant reminder. He also couldn’t be more wrong. As Finnick is about to take a bite of the chicken on his plate, the Avox wordlessly approaches him and places a white envelope on the table. Even without noticing the symbol of Panem embossed on the front and Snow’s personal wax seal holding it closed, Finnick knows precisely what it is.
His fork clatters on the plate as he stares at the unopened letter, hoping it might self-destruct before he has to read it. He vaguely hears Annie ask what it is, but he doesn’t answer. Can’t answer. Doing his best to prevent his hands from shaking, he breaks the wax and skims the swirling script handwritten there.
Finnick,
Mr. Hadrien Gris, one of our Gamemakers this year, was duly impressed with your tributes during today’s session, particularly the girl, Miss Annie Cresta. He would like to speak with you in person at his home, in three-quarter-hour’s time. Do be punctual.
The Capitol thanks you for your services.
Yours,
President Coriolanus Snow
Finnick crumples the note in his fist and throws it against the far wall with a strangled growl of frustration. Too strung to care about the twin expressions of alarm on Annie and Marin’s faces, he pushes away from the table and strides to his room, slamming the door behind him. His breath comes in short bursts as he paces the floor, incensed and doing his damnedest not to unravel. This is not nearly his first client, but Finnick had been naive enough to believe that Snow wouldn’t force him into appointments while he’s already being made to mentor.
Of course, in this case, he wouldn’t be whoring senselessly. He’d be doing it to earn favors for Annie in the arena, potentially Marin as well. And isn’t that exactly what mentors are supposed to do? Help their tributes? Even a tiny bit of pull is better than none. Finnick clings to this frail idea like a lifeline. He’s got no intricate designs painted on his arms this time, nothing else to keep him grounded but this one notion. He hopes it’ll be enough.
He crosses the room to a small, padlocked bureau and opens the top drawer. Without much caring what he grabs, he drops his shoes and pants to the floor and steps into a pair of skin-tight jeans, matching it with a set of boots. Losing his shirt, he shrugs on a sheer, poor excuse of a top. He reluctantly forgoes a jacket, under no illusions that it’d be on him for very long anyway. His hair he leaves however it may look now, because who the fuck cares. Certainly not Finnick.
Steeling himself, he throws open his door and heads straight for the elevators, not bothering to check who remains at the table or what they’re thinking. If it’s judgment, he really doesn’t want to see that, and if it’s pity, well. He doesn’t much want to see that either.
There’s a car already waiting for him outside the Training Center, and he slides into the backseat, resting his head on the cool window. He realizes once the car drives off that in his anger and haste, he’d forgotten to pop one of Haymitch’s pills, the ones that dull his senses enough to make what he has to do bearable, to make his memories of the night hazy. He has half a mind to tell the driver to turn around, but decides it’s not worth it. He can deal with one night. Depending on how the arena goes, after all, he’s got worse ones ahead.Hadrien Gris, like many Gamemakers before him, lives on the topmost floor of the tallest apartment building in the Capitol. Gaudy, chrome, and reeking of money, Finnick would have expected nothing less. When he stops outside Gris’s door, Finnick’s lids fall closed for a moment as he tries to glue himself together enough to get through this. He’s never had this particular Gamemaker before, but on the whole they’ve not been his worst clients. The young up-and-comer, Seneca Crane, is a different story, and Finnick’s just glad it hadn’t been Crane’s name on the letter tonight.
Exhaling, Finnick raps on the door, schooling himself into the sham he knows so well. Sultry and ready for anything, that’s the ticket. Gris has the ego to not receive him for a full three minutes, making Finnick wait for his punishment. Eventually, answer he does, and he gives Finnick an appreciable once-over before stepping aside to let him across the threshold.
“Ah, Finnick,” he greets, as though they’ve been friends for ages. “I was hoping you’d show.”
His mask already in place, the smile, too many teeth and just enough mystery, forms easily. “Anything for the Capitol,” he replies.
Gris hums and gestures for Finnick to sit on the couch. He obliges, and further accepts the tumbler of bourbon handed to him. He downs it in one gulp, deciding that if he can’t have the pills, he can at least be buzzed. If Gris were anyone normal, he might feel bad about burning through the liquor, which tastes at least a ten-year vintage.
(As it stands, he really doesn’t feel bad at all, and tells Gris to continue pouring until his tumbler is full.)
“You should pace yourself,” suggests Gris blandly. “We haven’t even gotten the chance to talk yet!”
Finnick blinks at him. “Is that what I’m here for? Talking?”
Gris wouldn’t be the first to pretend it’s some kind of actual date between the two of them, that Finnick’s here because he wants to be. He supposes it has something to do with the upmost of upper echelon Capitol citizens wanting to think they’re better than their peers, that they’re so magnanimous that the legendary Finnick Odair visits their apartment late at night just for a chat.
Gris’s appropriately-colored silver eyes study Finnick. “Well, maybe not,” he admits with a low giggle. “But I do so want to hear about that tribute of yours.”
Finnick abandons Gris’s steely gaze to drown in the amber of his glass, briefly pondering the logistics of if he decided to slit Gris’s throat with the letter opener next to the decanter of cognac. It wouldn’t be difficult. It would probably even be satisfying. Of course, there are also the cameras and microphones that litter every square inch of the city, so Finnick doubts his deed would be kept quiet for long. No, murder isn’t the answer, here. There’s too much at stake. Too many people at stake.
He laughs, instead. “You know I can’t reveal too much to you, Hadrien,” he coos. “We both know how upstanding the Capitol is in its rules.”
He tosses a wink in for good measure, and watches disinterestedly as Gris falls prey to his machinations. Finnick almost feels offended. He’s not even putting in remotely his full effort tonight, and yet Gris is playing into his hands like putty. It occurs to him then that that is not the sort of thing at which he should take offense.
“You are a tease,” Gris replies. “Well, as her mentor, you should know that my colleagues and I were very impressed with her skills. She laid some excellent trap work today, which I would bet is not even her area of expertise!”
Finnick smacks him with another rubbery smile. “Annie, yes,” he simpers, “She and Marin will represent District 4 well this year.”
“And, I hope,” Gris adds lasciviously, “she will represent District 4 for quite some time after that. Perhaps Marin as well, if he grows out of that unfortunate lank.”
Finnick doesn’t hear Gris’s last sentence. Finnick hears the first and his vision pixelates. The glass in his hand shatters, cutting up his skin and inundating the gashes with alcohol. Blood and liquor stain the white carpet, of which Finnick feels none. He pictures Annie, naked on a bed of black satin, shrieking as Gris bears down upon her with a grin on his face. He pictures her scream being heard all through the country, to her district and beyond, broadcasting to the country just what happens to victors with the right genes.
He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees stars, trying to get the images out of his head. Which only increases them in intensity and quantity, a veritable film reel playing out behind his lids. Gris puts a hand on Finnick’s shoulder and, like an encaged tiger finally released, Finnick lashes out and sinks his fist into the Gamemaker’s face. The fragile cartilage of his nose splinters with the force, and spiderweb fractures radiate into his orbital sockets. Gris howls in pain, clutching his destroyed nose and futilely attempting to staunch the flow of blood.
His brain awash with the buzzing of a thousand wasps, Finnick watches as though a third party as he holds the remnants of his tumbler to Gris’s neck. “That won’t happen,” he snarls, voice guttural and detached. Outsider-Finnick tells his other self to stop, that this will just make things exponentially worse. Other-Finnick doesn’t listen. “Mark my words, you will not touch her.”
Gris whimpers, tears and snot joining blood, but he manages to nod blearily.
Outsider-Finnick slumps against a wall, dreading the fallout.
Other-Finnick smashes the rest of the glass into Gris’s head and storms out of the apartment. His thumb jams the elevator button, leaving a wide smear of crimson. His right hand is a shredded mess, torn flesh accompanied by skinned, split knuckles. He catches a glimpse of himself in the burnished walls of the elevator, and doesn’t recognize the visage there. His pupils are blown such that only a thin ring of green shows, and his golden skin is flecked with blood, Gris’s or his own, he has no clue.
Outsider-Finnick has the presence of mind to pull out his cell phone and dial the number of one of the few victors he knows will neither judge nor make a scene.Other-Finnick is surprised to see Brutus waiting for him when he gets off the elevator, the man hulking in on himself as he stands in the balmy night air clad simply in a black tee-shirt and dark jeans. He takes one look at Panem’s youngest-ever victor and sighs. Other-Finnick readies for a face-off, identifying Brutus as nothing more than a combatant; inferring this, Brutus promptly hefts Finnick over his shoulder in one fluid move. He pays no attention to Finnick’s repeated, vicious attempts to get free-Brutus wears his name aptly-and similarly brushes off the appalled outbursts of the Capitol citizens they pass on the street.
Fortunately, it’s not far back to the Training Center, brisk as Brutus’s pace is. At this hour, no one is milling about the complex, but Brutus takes the stairs anyway, stomping up two flights to his district’s designated floor. Enobaria and Lyme pause from a game of chess when he enters, immediately assessing the spectacle in solemnity.
(Strictly speaking, it’s not Enobaria’s turn to mentor, but Two’s tributes aren’t quite the shoo-ins as they’ve been in years past and their sponsors need encouragement. Enobaria has always appealed to a certain niche market in the Capitol: wealthy, kinky, and happy to do a services exchange.)
Enobaria hastens to retrieve a coil of rope from the supply closet as Brutus drops Finnick into one of the dining chairs, and tightly, efficiently, binds his wrists, ankles, and chest. It’s not the first time she’s done this.
Lyme crouches down in front of Finnick, heedful not to touch him. “Finnick,” she says softly. “Finnick, you’re safe, okay? You’re with friends now.”
Finnick’s eyes remain glassy and laser-focused on something miles away from the three victors in his vicinity, and his skin chafes an angry red where he struggles against the ropes. It’s fruitless on his part, of course: while nobody can claim to best him in knots, Enobaria’s are plenty good enough to hold him indefinitely.
“Kid,” Brutus says, his muscles spasming in the desire to do something. “Whatever happened, we can deal with it, all right? You’ll be okay.”
“Not okay,” Finnick grunts. “It’s not okay.”
Pursing her lips, Lyme turns to Enobaria. She gives no request aloud, and yet it’s implicitly understood. Enobaria treads to the closet again and pulls out the medical kit, drawing sedative into a syringe. Beyond the point of gentleness, she jams the needle into Finnick’s arm and depresses the plunger. In a matter of seconds, his body goes limp.
Brutus makes quick work of undoing Finnick’s binds, hauls him out of the chair, and lays him down on the bed in Brutus’s quarters. Lyme and Enobaria double-team the medical kit, Enobaria taking Finnick’s newly-inflicted rope burns, while Lyme systematically douses his hand in antiseptic then slathers it in ointment. The wounds aren’t deep enough to require stitches, so she simply wraps everything in gauze. The Remake Center would be able to render it invisible, but Lyme knows how useful anchors are to Finnick. Physical pain is one of the strongest.
“I haven’t seen him this bad in a long time,” Brutus observes, placing the rope back into the closet. “Wonder what set him off.”
Enobaria scoffs and replies darkly, “I can take a guess.”
“Well, somewhere, he knew he needed help. That’s something at least,” says Lyme. Troubled, she continues, “I don’t know how much longer this can go on, not with him so edgy.”
“I thought Abernathy was dealing,” Brutus says.
Lyme stares at him in disbelief. “You think those actually help, Brutus?” she asks rhetorically. “They’re a distraction, that’s all.”
District 2 falls collectively silent, monitoring the steady rise and fall of Finnick’s chest and individually remarking on how young he looks in sleep, like the nineteen-year-old he is and not the seasoned womanizer the rest of Panem seems to believe. Lyme covers him with a knitted throw while Brutus volunteers to venture upstairs and relay the evening to Mags.
Enobaria grinds her fangs together until her mouth fills with metal.When Finnick wakes, it’s to sunlight streaming in through his bedroom window and a full-body ache he can’t instantly find a cause for. He heavily contemplates falling back asleep again to put off dealing with the discomfort until later, but now that he’s up, his thoughts begin working overtime. Blearily he opens his eyes and sits up in bed, patently ignoring the pulsing behind his eyes.
It takes a minute to register that this is decidedly not his room. The walls are shale gray, not the blue-green like they are on the fourth floor, the furniture is in the wrong places, and there’s a mirror on the back of the door. He wracks his memory to figure out how he got here, wherever here is, but comes up blank. He remembers receiving the letter from Snow, and then it’s all just a blur. He’s clothed, at least, an oversized sweatshirt covering his torso and the same jeans he’d left in yesterday.
He catches sight of his right hand, then, tightly encased in pristine gauze and feeling twice as large as it should be. He cautiously unwraps the bandage, letting the strip of cloth pool on the bed. He also immediately wishes he hadn’t done that. Dozens of cuts, some deep some superficial, litter his skin, and his knuckles are a bright shade of blue-purple. Experimentally, he starts to flex his hand, which doesn’t get him very far. Definitely cracked, then. Whoever he’d hit, he hopes the punch was good enough to merit that person’s inevitable trip to the Remake Center.
Groaning, Finnick rolls off the bed and, not at all wanting to see how terrible he looks like right now, opens the door and steps out into the common area. Above the elevator is a massive, stylized “2,” which at least tells him where he is. Someone clears their throat to his left, and he turns to see Brutus, Lyme, and Enobaria observing him from the dining table. They don’t seem surprised that he’s there, yet there’s also a significant degree of apprehension.
Biting the bullet, Finnick walks over and rests his arms on the back of one of the chairs. “Um…good morning.”
“‘Good morning’? Try good one-thirty,” Enobaria comments, sipping from some neon-green drink.
“One-thirty?” Finnick asks, beginning to panic. “Fuck, I need to go.”
Brutus leans over to gently grab Finnick’s arm. “Settle down, trigger. Mags is already handling everything,” he says. “Besides, you look like shit. Not even Twelve would want you as a mentor.”
Finnick thinks that’s a rather low blow, given who Twelve’s current mentor is, but without his memory he also can’t dispute it. “Okay, well, can someone tell me why I’m here and dressed in Brutus’s sweatshirt?”
Enobaria glances at Lyme, who dutifully rises to the occasion. “We only know the end,” she says. “You called Brutus late last night to pick you up. You were…pretty out of it. We had to tie you up, hence the rope burns.”
Finnick glances at his wrists, both ringed in an angry shade of eggplant. He’s uneasy at even the thought of it: he doesn’t much like being restrained, no matter the circumstances. “I don’t understand,” he says. “Who the hell-?”
“Hadrien Gris,” Enobaria answers. “I’ve had him before, he’s pretty tame. I don’t know what he said to you, but…”
Any attempt to access his memories of the last fourteen hours, Finnick finds, just sends an icepick through his temples. There are flashes of colors, bytes of sound, vague sensations, but nothing concrete. Presumably, he should be more concerned about having a chunk of time missing, only he’s pretty used to it by now. Except…
“Hang on, Gamemaker Hadrien Gris?” he asks. “Shit.”
“Finnick, listen,” says Brutus. His voice drops, too low for any surveillance equipment around the room. “For all we know, Gris’ll be too damn humiliated to mention anything. You’ve got appearances to maintain, and a tribute to mentor. Focus on that.”
The placating isn’t helping; on the contrary, it just exacerbates the whole thing. “I got my brother-in-law killed because I laughed at a client,” he says, matching Brutus’s tone. “What’s he going to do now that I-”
Enobaria slaps him clear across the face. “Stop fucking panicking, Odair,” she snaps, grabbing his chin sharply. “What’s done is done and there’s no use whining about it. The best thing you can do for your family is give Snow a hell of a show.”
Strangely, it’s the sincerity in her normally hateful, dark eyes that steadily slows Finnick’s heart rate. His cheek stinging, he nods. “Okay. Yeah, you’re right.”
“Go take a shower,” Lyme says, “brush your hair, put on something respectable. Anything less than tributes having the utmost faith in their mentor is unacceptable.”
At that, Finnick stands, peeling off Brutus’s sweatshirt and tossing it to him. “Thanks,” he says to each of them. “I mean it.”
“Oh, man up,” Enobaria retorts, all posturing and no malice. “Whores look after whores, right?”
Finnick flinches, missing Brutus’s withering glare at her. “Hang in there, Finnick,” Lyme says.
He doesn’t reply. Leaving the three of them to their afternoon-and realizing belatedly that they must have shooed away not only their tributes, but all of their Capitol affiliates, because of him-he ascends the elevator to the fourth floor. Midday has Annie and Marin in the throes of their second day of training, for which Finnick is glad. He needs some time to organize what excuse he’s going to give. Provided Mags hasn’t already invented one.
He chuckles to himself-of course, she’ll have already invented one.
She, too, is absent, probably with one of the other victors, so the floor is empty but for the omnipresent Avoxes. The blonde, he’s pretty sure he recognizes from last year, and if he’s not mistaken, there’s a dollop of pity in her blue eyes. He bristles; if anyone’s to be pitied, it’s her. Pity doesn’t stop the letters from coming. Pity doesn’t fix his brain. Pity doesn’t do jack shit.
Storming directly into his bathroom, he puts the shower on its coldest setting, fully aware losing his temper now won’t be of use to anyone, least of all him. He sheds his dirtied clothes eagerly and steps under the spray, droplets like needles against his body. The cold does lessen his headache, though, which is progress. He stares in idle fascination as the water hits the flaps of skin on his hand, simultaneously irrigating and numbing. It’s pure relief against his knuckles as well, hushing the pain.
One-handed, he lathers his hair in shampoo and conditioner, watching the colored soap swirl down the drain. Washing himself is a contortionist act but he figures it out, ungracefully. He stays in the shower a while longer, not quite ready to face reality again. A half-hour later, he sucks it up and shuts off the spray, letting the drying mat wick away all traces of water.
Wryly, he combs his hair as Lyme demanded, and a quick change of clothes later, he judges his appearance to be presentable. Inside, he’s still an unmanageable mess, but Annie and Marin don’t have to know that. He just has to keep it together for their sakes, and all will be fine. Granted, that strategy hasn’t exactly panned out so far, but a guy can dream.
There’s a note taped to the inside of his door-plain white paper this time, no sign of Snow whatsoever-requesting that he meet for lunch at a restaurant a block down the street from the Training Center. He’s leery until he reaches the end, where it reads, From Mags. The writing is too neat to be hers, some Capitol attendant’s no doubt.
He balls up the note and chucks it in the trash can in a perfect arc, grabs a coat, and heads back down the elevator. It’s a nice day outside, warm with a slight breeze, the sky devoid of a single cloud. He soaks in the sunshine for a couple minutes before arriving at the restaurant-more of a café, really-and perusing the tables for Mags. She winds up tucked away in the back corner of the establishment. It’s not an exceptionally popular joint, but popular enough to want to avoid much interaction.
“Hey,” Finnick greets, chastened.
Mags tracks him as he slides into the booth opposite her. She sets down her cup of tea and looks at him so forlornly that, for the first time, Finnick sees her age. “Brutus told me what happened last night,” she says. “You scared him.”
Despite himself, Finnick snorts a laugh. “I scared Brutus? You’re kidding.”
She’s not. “Finnick,” she sighs wearily, “we need to do something about this.”
“I can’t stop it sometimes, Mags, you know that,” he replies. Mostly, he’s got a handle on his…issues. Occasionally, drastically, they drag him under like a hidden riptide. “It’s not like I want to be this way. If there were a cure, I’d take it right here.”
She stares at him with such intensity the restaurant fades out of his peripheral. “Haymitch’s family, and Eleanor. Johanna’s parents and baby brother. Woof’s sister. Chaff’s daughter. Cashmere’s fiancé,” she lists. “Seventy years of collateral. All because the Capitol was embarrassed, one way or another.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Finnick snaps. He’d shuttered himself away for a full day when he’d found out how far Snow’s net actually stretches, and he finds it no easier to hear now either. “They murdered Mara’s husband, too, because of me. I know what they’re capable of.”
Mags shakes her head violently. “You don’t,” she says, rage simmering beneath the surface. “Finnick, they won’t stop. If you don’t lock this down, you’re going to have no one but me to go home to. They take and take and take and take until there’s nothing left but memories.”
Finnick leans back, thoroughly floored by this side of his former mentor. Since he’s known her, she’s never spoken so brazenly, so passionately. He’s not sure what to do with it all. “What is there that I haven’t already tried?”
She finishes half her tea, and then continues, “You make a goal and you don’t let go of it,” she says. “I don’t care who does what, what appointments you have, I don’t care. Pick something that’ll kill you if you fail.”
He doesn’t have much trust in this new theory of hers, but his throbbing hand and aching muscles pester him into agreement. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, I’ll try.”
“Annie,” Mags suggests. “You’ve got an attachment to her, use that. You make her win, that’s your goal. If you slip again, she’s as good as dead.”
It seems a rather callous strategy; yet, what’s he got to lose? At this point, he’ll try anything. And she’s right, he’s felt tethered to Annie since the start. He doesn’t care to examine it, can’t afford to, but it’s worth a shot. While he’s inclined to believe someone would offer to at least keep an eye out for her, he can also easily see no one stepping forward when they’ve got their own tributes to worry about.
It’s enough. “I understand.”
Flipping a switch, Mags pushes a menu over to him. “You’re too skinny, boy. Eat,” she commands gently.
He grins. “Yes, ma’am.”
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