The Hunger Games fic: Trap, Crackle, Pop (4/?)
Story Title: Trap, Crackle, Pop
Chapter Title: Four
Fandom(s): The Hunger Games
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,414
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 IVIn the morning, Annie and Marin get scarcely more than a bite of toast and a swill of juice before they’re whisked back into their rooms by their prep teams. Quite unconsciously, Finnick leans agains the doorjamb to Annie’s suite, getting a single glimpse of the rush of activity inside before Lucinda catches his presence and swiftly shoves him outside with a sharp, “No peeking.” To him, the dolling-up of tributes isn’t so much helpful as it is reminiscent of trussing a fish for sale. Then again, tributes essentially are for sale, and if whatever guise is being slathered on Annie would attract more sponsors, he’ll suck up the distaste.
At that, he’d seen what they’d done for her during the parade, and that had certainly made an impression. He supposes Lucinda and her acrylics shouldn’t be underestimated. After their session last night, Finnick has faith Annie will breeze through her interview, but having her be glitzy to look at certainly couldn’t hurt. Potential sponsors usually care more about how well the tributes fill out evening wear than the words they speak.
His own stylist is a mauve-tinted man who never seems to run out of things to criticize about Finnick’s appearance. A replacement for the one he’d had prior to his Games, Reis has, for all his other shortcomings, kept his hands to himself. (Mostly.) Which, in a city obsessed with Finnick’s beauty, makes him a rare sort indeed. Finnick doesn’t know the specifics behind the appointment-how Snow had allowed this one concession or how someone-he hasn’t yet deduced who-had managed to find seemingly the one Capitolite who doesn’t give Finnick any special dues-but he is eternally grateful.
Even if it does mean he has to put up with unparalleled snobbery.
“Ugh, you are a mess,” Reis gawps, walking a circle around Finnick to broaden his scope. “You look worse than Sharice Vaughn on one of her benders.”
While Finnick doesn’t much like being used in the same sentence as the Capitol’s most prolific adult entertainment actress, at least Reis has him coming out on the slightly more favorable end. He’s worked with Sharice once before, and though she’s good at her job, she’s also embodied it. Johanna’s prickly nature took the Capitol by storm, but when every other week has Sharice’s latest exploits on tabloid covers, their crazy-celebrity threshold is high.
(Finnick should know.)
Of course, Sharice’s scandals aren’t anything that’ll get her family killed, not like Finnick and the rest of the victors. No, the worst she’s done is break up a few marriages; the heaviest blowback she’s gotten was a slow spell of a few months while she dried out. Sharice Vaughn doesn’t have to fear that the wrong tone of voice will earn her one fewer place setting at the dinner table without so much as a body to bury. Finnick never thought he’d grow up to be jealous of a porn star, but there you go.
“You’ve given me even less to work with than usual,” Reis continues to lament, heaving a sigh. “Strip, shower, dry. Maybe I can make you into something presentable.”
Despite himself, Finnick smiles. “You sure do know how to flatter a guy, Reis.”
“When there’s something to flatter, I will.”
Finnick chuckles and retreats into the bathroom, doing as ordered. Without the aid of a mirror, Finnick can’t exactly defend himself for certain, but he’d also be willing to bet no Capitol citizen-probably not even Reis, if it came down to it-would turn him away, “mess” or no.
He waylays the scents this time, since Reis has an affinity of spritzing him with some top-of-the-line Capitol product. Usually something with a label along the lines of “Dragon Spice” or “Black Chill.” The names are secondary to the product itself, which stays on his skin for days no matter how many showers he takes.
“So what is my straitjacket tonight?” Finnick asks, reemerging into his room.
Reis has laid an outfit on the bed, all crisp lines and expert tailoring. What the ensemble is missing is a shirt. Not that Finnick expected anything more, not really. One of his most popular looks is a tux with his golden chest painfully visible beneath the suit jacket. At least it’s a uniform black, none of the Capitol’s bright colors and adornments in sight.
It’s a pointless effort to complain, so Finnick dresses without a word, only stopping when Reis prevents him from pulling on the jacket. “One thing first,” Reis states, withdrawing from his bag of tricks a canister.
“Oh, come on,” Finnick groans. “Again?”
“It’s in this season, Finnick.”
“It’s always in,” he says, but lets Reis mist him with gold shimmer. When Reis finishes, Finnick glances down and presses a finger to his stomach, disdainful when it comes away coated in the stuff. He doesn’t know what its ingredients are, only that it’s even more impossible to get rid of than the body spray. “Congratulations,” he snarks. “I can now be spotted from space.”
“You know,” Reis comments, “that sarcasm is going to get you in trouble someday.”
Finnick sobers, Reis’s words extinguishing any further witticisms. Though he doubts Reis has much of an idea what really goes on, he’s right. Finnick’s in no position to be toeing the line of mockery. His mental lapses already have him in constant hot water, the last thing he needs is someone to tell Snow he’s ridiculing the populace.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says wearily. “Am I done yet?”
“Almost,” says Reis. He mists Finnick again with a sealant so the glitter doesn’t rub off on the expensive suit lining-Snow forbid-then declares him fit for public consumption.
Finnick gladly leaves Reis behind, welcoming the fragrance-free air of the living room. Mags is waiting for him; she’s been lacquered as well, albeit more tastefully. She hadn’t escaped the glitter spray, but it’s less visible than Finnick’s. A dash of silver in her hair so it catches the light is all she’d suffered.
Graciously, she doesn’t offer any input on Finnick’s appearance. Probably it doesn’t rank very high on the list of appalling things she’s seen in her lifetime. Finnick holds out his arm, which elicits a chortle from her. She takes it, and he lets himself enjoy this moment of levity before they must participate in the pre-interview party in a yuppie lounge two blocks down the street. Technically, mentors aren’t supposed to troll for sponsors there, but then, technically Districts 1, 2, and 4 don’t mass-produce Careers, either.
Finnick’s step stutters when the building comes into view, Mags’s hand tightening around his forearm. The Snakepit, as it had been coined amongst the victors long ago, isn’t in the same realm as Finnick’s clients, insofar as he’s not required to service anyone, but it also generates a large, pulsing, chattering, groping crowd. And of that, Finnick isn’t a fan. All the “accidental” brushes against his ass, the way the patrons unabashedly undress him with their bizarrely-colored eyes, the sickening sight of Gloss and Cashmere and Cecelia and so many others putting on their strongest veneers.
He steels himself from the misgivings. This is all for Annie, anyway, not for anyone else. His performance here could pay for a crucial medical kit or jug of water or weapon, the difference between life and death. The difference between a winner and the kid who slowly turns rabid from starvation and hypothermia. The vision of Annie like that, mouth foaming and extremities purpled, pushes him through the front doors.
Even prepared as he is for the interior of the lounge, the brightness still makes a spike shoot through his head. He restrains a wince and instead plasters a grin to his face. The lights, he’s sure, are meant to give off a shade that makes everyone’s best features stand out, but between its intensity and the way it makes the glitter on his chest constantly twinkle in his peripheral, he’d just as soon have the room in pitch darkness.
He doesn’t, however, have much opportunity to dwell on this, given that in scant seconds people zoom up to him, their lust in full view. They pretend it’s just happenstance, them running into him here, and he laughs appropriately, as though their moves weren’t precisely calculated, as though he could walk a few yards and not find someone who’s bought him.
Somehow, he manages to wind his way to the open bar, ordering for himself their most expensive whiskey. Mags opts for a club soda, but at least she doesn’t judge him for day drinking. Finnick notices Gloss standing nearby, entrenched in what is most certainly not a scintillating conversation. Knowing he and Mags would need to split up anyway, she gives him a commiserating smile and disappears into the crowd.
“Gloss!” Finnick exclaims, sidling up to the Capitol’s third-most sought-after victor. His sister holds the silver medal, although they’re often sold as a set, so Finnick supposes they should probably share a rank. “Fancy meeting you here, eh?”
Having already assessed Gloss’s current company, who are of the anything-goes variety, Finnick pecks him on the cheek. “Yeah, imagine that,” Gloss replies, his tone dually sarcastic for Finnick’s ears and genuine for the Capitol’s. “I think you know these three?”
He exchanges pleasantries with the two women and the man, who paw at him, seemingly unable to believe their luck that they’re in the presence of such beauty. Their touches, slick from oils and perfumes, have his body turning rigid from the effort of not shoving them off him. Inconspicuously, Gloss digs the heel of his shoe into Finnick’s foot, simultaneously a warning and an anchor.
He singles out one of the women, who has a shockingly pink wig and appears young enough to be relatively new to the sponsorship scene. “I wouldn’t dream of poaching you from Gloss here,” Finnick says conspiratorially, “but have you seen my tribute this year?”
Gloss puts on an air of indignity. “That’s exactly what you’re doing, Odair.”
“Boys, boys,” the woman giggles, blobs of color rising underneath her makeup. She pets Gloss’s face, then turns back to Finnick. “I was very impressed by that girl’s score, but I’ve actually just pledged District 1!”
Finnick exaggerates his disappointment-while it would have been convenient to nail a sponsor (so to speak) right off the bat, he’s not especially worried about lacking for pledges. And, depending on when and what gifts she would send to Gloss’s boy, the parachute could help the Career pack as a whole, Annie included. The citizens of the outer districts may openly despise Careers, but there’s no questioning the benefit of such an alliance.
“Oh!” the woman gasps, pointing out someone a few yards away. “I have a dear friend who I don’t think has made her decision yet, I’m sure she would love to meet you.”
I’m sure she would.
“You’re a treasure,” Finnick coos, glancing down at her cleavage to make her blush again. “Maybe next year, hmm?”
The woman doesn’t say anything-doesn’t trust herself to speak, probably-which Finnick counts as a blessing. Parting from Gloss, he approaches the suggested woman, whose long black hair is in stark contrast to the vermillion of her dress. She’s in conversation with some other Capitolite, a conversation that instantly ceases when Finnick steps into their space.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Finnick says, sparing the man only a cursory glance-loose thread on his blazer, one scuffed shoe, obviously not a high-roller-before fixing his gaze on the woman, “but your friend over there said I should come over and talk to you. What’s your name, darling?”
Not the most suave of introductions, but at least at this, Finnick doesn’t have to work very hard. “Londra Kravis,” she says, holding out a hand tipped with long red nails.
He takes it in both of his, a brief caress. “Pleased to meet you. May I interest you in a drink, Mrs. Kravis?”
“It’s Miss, actually,” Londra corrects. “For now, that is.”
Finnick disguises his shudder with motioning for a server. An Avox hurries over, jotting down a refill for Finnick’s whiskey and a wine spritzer for Londra. “So, Miss Kravis, may I interest you in sponsoring District 4 this year?”
“Well, don’t you just get right to the point?” Londra asks. There’s enough lightness in her voice, however, to tell Finnick he hadn’t overstepped. “Luckily for you, I like my men straightforward.”
“Very lucky for me,” Finnick agrees. “I should mention, then, that Annie comes well-trained with throwing knives, setting traps, and spears. We in District 4 take our fishing very seriously.”
We’re Careers, Annie’s a Career, is what his words project onto Londra, and she doesn’t miss the implication. “Naturally,” says Londra. “Refresh my memory-didn’t you use traps yourself?”
Finnick tries not to show his gritted teeth. He’d expected this, to have his Games mentioned, yet each year he hopes otherwise. The fact that Londra is professing to not remember adds insult to injury. “I did,” he says, because it’s true after all. One Girl threatens to burst out of his net and spear him right back. “They’re very underrated, but I think they worked to my advantage.”
“You know, many circles still talk about your Games,” she mentions conspiratorially. “You were a sight, carrying that trident.”
Ah, there it is. The coup de main that cemented his three weeks of trauma in everyone’s minds. And yet, despite his eight kills, a record for Four, there had still been pundits who lamented Finnick’s madness, not because of his troubles, but because it meant he could have added more lives to his tally. Supposedly, people were placing bets that Finnick Odair, the young dark horse, would surpass the all-time record of ten, held by Lyme.
And, Finnick’s thought more than once, he probably would have. He’d never wanted for food or water or shelter, strong and mostly healthy where the other tributes had struggled mightily. Had he not seen Nerissa’s remains, the rest of the tributes would have been no match for him. The Capitol considers it one of life’s greatest tragedies. While the trident he’d gotten has him in the record books for most expensive gift, he’s thankful that he’d fallen short of Lyme’s feat.
“It was…helpful,” Finnick says. And now I’m paying for it. “But we’re not here to reminisce, are we, Londra?”
“Maybe just a little,” she says. “I’m not sure Anna-”
“Annie.”
“-right, Annie-would quite be strong enough of a tribute,” Londra hedges. “Her training score was very impressive, but she’s just so skinny.”
She’s not, really. Maybe she’s not as well-off as the richest of Four’s folk, but it’s not like she’s a Twelve, all poking ribs and hacking cough. “Strength doesn’t automatically make you a winner,” Finnick argues gently. “Remember Cecelia? She never killed anyone in hand-to-hand, and she won, fair and square.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Londra allows. Cecelia hadn’t been an especially entertaining victor, since she stuck to poison traps instead of combat, but her ingenuity had prevented her from being shunned. She quirks her head and asks, “Would you bet on her, Finnick?”
“We aren’t permitted to bet, Miss Kravis,” Finnick reminds her.
She waves him off. “Yes, yes, I know, but if you could…would you?”
Finnick considers, for her benefit. It’s ostensibly a foolish thing to ask a mentor-obviously, they want their tributes to win-but then again, plenty of mentors could theoretically be accused of not trying their hardest. For good reason, though the Capitol doesn’t see it that way.
“I would,” Finnick answers. Carefully, he adds, “I would bet my life on her.”
He doesn’t mention that he thinks very little of his life, that if it weren’t for the ever-present threat of Snow’s finger on the proverbial big red button that would blow his family to smithereens, he probably would have ended it years ago. Betting his life, to him, is nothing more than a throwaway wager.
But Londra Kravis doesn’t know that. “You make a compelling case,” she simpers. “Of course, I’ll have to think about it.”
“Think about it,” in Capitol speak, translates to, “I’ll go write my pledge down immediately.” The outlying districts have to work a bit harder for their sponsors; Finnick doesn’t. He’d have sizable coffers even if he didn’t show his face at this party. Snow’s requirement that he be here is the sole reason he’d gotten out of bed.
“Absolutely, I understand,” Finnick replies, running a finger along her jaw. An extra enticement for her to follow through. “You won’t be disappointed, Miss Kravis.”
“I should hope not.”
One sponsor in the bag, Finnick leaves her to the handful of people who instantly flock into her vicinity. Finnick’s fine with it. Maybe her recounting of their repartee will inspire some of the others to pledge Annie as well.
Spying some of the victors standing around a table, he beelines towards them, passing by the half-spoken sentences of people who want to stop and talk to him. He doesn’t have as much stamina for this kind of thing as Cashmere and Gloss. Playing the doting, gracious fool is taxing, and in no way, shape, or form, does he want to risk an episode, not here, not now. The Capitol is fickle-if he displays weakness, there’s every chance they’ll project that onto Annie, sending her into the arena at a disadvantage, and forcing Finnick to log overtime hours.
He pulls up a chair beside Telluria, who stares too-intently at her drink, which fizzes and glimmers iridescent. No one else is commenting on it, as per usual; maybe a couple decades ago they would’ve busted her chops, but rare is a victor that doesn’t turn to some kind of supplement to get them through the day. Giving Telluria shit for being a morphling would label them hypocrites.
“Nice of you to join us, Odair,” Johanna remarks from across the table. “Getting cozy with the clientele?”
“Well, I want my tribute to win,” he says. “Don’t you?”
Johanna spits a laugh. “If that girl wins, she’ll be on her back in-”
Haymitch dumps his drink on her lap, effectively cutting off her crude remark. “Can it, Mason.”
Johanna huffs, removing herself from the group to dry off her outfit. Unable to resist a parting shot, she says to Finnick, “You know, I do like your strategy, Odair. Making her win so Four’ll have a pretty young thing who’s not fucking insane. Good one.”
Finnick clenches his hands into fists to prevent himself from retaliating. He has sympathy for Johanna, he does-losing her family the way she did is unimaginable. But there’s only so much vitriol and below-the-belt tactics he can stomach from her. Snow, the Capitol, he can handle them. A fellow victor, someone who’s been there, he has very little tolerance for. Where does she get off?
(The truly sick thing is, Johanna’s insinuation is something that has crossed his thoughts. Annie’s beautiful, and strong, and vibrant, and of-age, and not a basket case, and maybe the Capitol would forget about him, just for a moment, just for a little while, if she got the crown.)
Aiming to keep the irritation out of his voice, to let Johanna’s snipe fall to the wayside, he looks at Brandon, the mentor from Ten. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, “what with your kid’s score.”
By nature soft-spoken, Brandon shrugs, swirling the straw in his glass to unsettle grenadine from the bottom. “Hastin’s daddy owns a ranch,” he says. Finnick has to strain to hear him. Brandon had grown up learning how to break colts; the calming susurrus in his voice had never left. “Haulin’ hay bales and roundin’ up five hundred head’a cattle sunup to sundown’ll do that to you.”
“Maybe he’ll get lucky and there’ll be a whole herd in the arena he can send into a stampede or something,” Finnick suggests.
“He didn’t do nothin’ special in there,” Brandon says. “Think the Gamemakers just didn’t expect one of us to show ’em up. Guess your kids’ll do him slow because he beat ’em.”
“Don’t look at me,” Finnick says, holding his hands up and gesturing towards the mentors from One and Two who still mill about the crowd. “Hastin would crush Marin, and Annie’s not the torturing type. Not much faith in your boy?”
Brandon doesn’t look particularly upset, just resigned. “Ain’t been a Ten who won since me.”
He has a point. Brandon’s Games were three after Haymitch’s, making District 10’s drought the second-longest running. Often, Tens will survive a ways into the Games, owing to most of the populace involved in some kind of cattle raising or horse rearing and all the physical benefits that come with it, but they hadn’t quite scaled the hump. Although, none of Ten’s kids since had been as patiently ruthless as Brandon, who’d ultimately earned his title by searing off the faces of his opponents with a type of homemade branding iron. The Capitol marketing teams had had a field day with that coincidence, Brandon’s name and his method of killing a perfect match. Supposedly in the gift shops at the 53rd Hunger Games Historical Site, they sell plastic toys that light up red when pressed.
“No Ten’s ever gotten an eleven before, either,” Beetee points out.
Never one to avoid dumping salt in a wound, Haymitch offers his opinion. “Last time a kid got an eleven, he got himself blown up.”
Brandon’s nearly as muscular as Brutus, but tends to hunch in on himself to distract from his mass. His propensity to lose his temper is entirely disproportionate from the bulk. In fact, Finnick’s not sure he’s ever seen him get angry, at anyone. It makes for an uninteresting argument opponent, so people generally don’t engage. Johanna’s tried a few times, receiving only unimpressed silence for her efforts.
“It’d be a blessin’,” Brandon says, quiet in case the table itself is bugged.
“You’re no fun,” Haymitch grouses, “and you’re ruining my buzz.”
“Sorry,” Brandon replies, sounding just that. For kicks, Finnick wonders who would win between them in a drinking competition. While Haymitch has tolerance on his side, he’s also about half Brandon’s size. That, Finnick would have a great time betting on.
“I’m gonna refill,” Haymitch announces. “Anyone else?”
Finnick takes him up on the offer, the level of his amber liquid dangerously low. He hadn’t yet had a chance to take one of Haymitch’s pills yet, and he’s erred before by dry swallowing and suffering the immensely bitter aftertaste. Haymitch almost gets away with just the one extra glass; the mentors from Two then break from their schmoozing and put in their respective drink requests. Haymitch scowls, but complies, easily clearing a path through the socialites. Victors have an odd sort of bartering system they’ve created: no one ever owes anyone anything, technically, but there’s an invisible, ongoing tally that determines whose turn it is to grab coffee or clean one of them up from puddle of vomit or, in this case, who gets bar duty.
“What’d we miss, boys?” Lyme asks lightly, clapping both Finnick and Brandon on the back.
“Jo being Jo,” Finnick says. “And Brandon complaining.”
“So nothing new, then,” she summarizes. “What’s the deal this time, Brando?”
Beetee answers for him, perhaps anticipating some sarcastic response from Finnick-he wouldn’t be wrong-or melancholic silence from Brandon-also probable. “He doesn’t think Hastin’s going to last.”
“Oh. Well, buck up, cowboy. You’re getting to be a drag.” It’s Lyme’s succinct, matter-of-fact tone that finally coaxes a smile out of Brandon. “Now where did Abernathy get off to with my damn drink?”By the time the victors are permitted to leave to give their tributes some last pieces of advice before being subjected to Caesar’s interview, Finnick has a more than respectable pool of sponsors backing Annie. He’s got a massive headache that’s both helped and exacerbated by the alcohol he’s consumed, and his nerves are hyper-sensitized from all the people who clambered at him. By virtue of the very composition, his chest is still lustrous in all its gold glitter.
Mags finds him by the exit, and her reassuring touch, at least, he can handle. They’re delayed somewhat by the slightly less-wealthy stragglers who hadn’t had the opportunity to chat him up during the revelry, by which time Finnick’s smile is about at its shattering point. After a few of these, Mags speaks up, telling Finnick with a voice raised enough for the surrounding folk to hear her that she’s tired and would like a quick nap before the interviews.
They reluctantly allow her this, and it’s all Finnick can do to temper his pace so he doesn’t look like he wants to full-out sprint. They share an elevator with Seeder-she’s alone, which leads him to believe Chaff and Haymitch had already begun a party of their own. She gives him a warm smile and makes easy, if superfluous, conversation. He’s always liked Seeder; though there is perpetual pain behind those storm gray eyes, he’s never heard her complain. Probably she had, back in the day, and been summarily punished for it. No victor is ever safe from the Capitol’s wrath.
There are cameras and microphones in the elevators, because of course there are, so Seeder merely reaches up and makes a production of dusting off his jacket, the action sending gold shimmer to the floor. “You and my grandbabies are peas in a pod,” she says with a strained laugh. “Wearing nice clothes has them attracting dirt, too.”
Finnick tries not to stare, to find a second meaning in her words, to recognize that she’s referring to the Capitol citizens as nothing more than filth. Except Seeder never says anything she doesn’t mean, never picks her words carelessly. He can’t instantly come up with an equally veiled response, so he merely smiles, feigning sheepishness and pretending to be appropriately chagrined.
When they reach the fourth floor, Finnick glances back, seeing in Seeder’s face a pained expression that she doesn’t bother to hide. He takes a deep breath, flashes a smile at Mags, and prepares his best mask of confidence for Annie.
Next
Chapter Title: Four
Fandom(s): The Hunger Games
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,414
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 IVIn the morning, Annie and Marin get scarcely more than a bite of toast and a swill of juice before they’re whisked back into their rooms by their prep teams. Quite unconsciously, Finnick leans agains the doorjamb to Annie’s suite, getting a single glimpse of the rush of activity inside before Lucinda catches his presence and swiftly shoves him outside with a sharp, “No peeking.” To him, the dolling-up of tributes isn’t so much helpful as it is reminiscent of trussing a fish for sale. Then again, tributes essentially are for sale, and if whatever guise is being slathered on Annie would attract more sponsors, he’ll suck up the distaste.
At that, he’d seen what they’d done for her during the parade, and that had certainly made an impression. He supposes Lucinda and her acrylics shouldn’t be underestimated. After their session last night, Finnick has faith Annie will breeze through her interview, but having her be glitzy to look at certainly couldn’t hurt. Potential sponsors usually care more about how well the tributes fill out evening wear than the words they speak.
His own stylist is a mauve-tinted man who never seems to run out of things to criticize about Finnick’s appearance. A replacement for the one he’d had prior to his Games, Reis has, for all his other shortcomings, kept his hands to himself. (Mostly.) Which, in a city obsessed with Finnick’s beauty, makes him a rare sort indeed. Finnick doesn’t know the specifics behind the appointment-how Snow had allowed this one concession or how someone-he hasn’t yet deduced who-had managed to find seemingly the one Capitolite who doesn’t give Finnick any special dues-but he is eternally grateful.
Even if it does mean he has to put up with unparalleled snobbery.
“Ugh, you are a mess,” Reis gawps, walking a circle around Finnick to broaden his scope. “You look worse than Sharice Vaughn on one of her benders.”
While Finnick doesn’t much like being used in the same sentence as the Capitol’s most prolific adult entertainment actress, at least Reis has him coming out on the slightly more favorable end. He’s worked with Sharice once before, and though she’s good at her job, she’s also embodied it. Johanna’s prickly nature took the Capitol by storm, but when every other week has Sharice’s latest exploits on tabloid covers, their crazy-celebrity threshold is high.
(Finnick should know.)
Of course, Sharice’s scandals aren’t anything that’ll get her family killed, not like Finnick and the rest of the victors. No, the worst she’s done is break up a few marriages; the heaviest blowback she’s gotten was a slow spell of a few months while she dried out. Sharice Vaughn doesn’t have to fear that the wrong tone of voice will earn her one fewer place setting at the dinner table without so much as a body to bury. Finnick never thought he’d grow up to be jealous of a porn star, but there you go.
“You’ve given me even less to work with than usual,” Reis continues to lament, heaving a sigh. “Strip, shower, dry. Maybe I can make you into something presentable.”
Despite himself, Finnick smiles. “You sure do know how to flatter a guy, Reis.”
“When there’s something to flatter, I will.”
Finnick chuckles and retreats into the bathroom, doing as ordered. Without the aid of a mirror, Finnick can’t exactly defend himself for certain, but he’d also be willing to bet no Capitol citizen-probably not even Reis, if it came down to it-would turn him away, “mess” or no.
He waylays the scents this time, since Reis has an affinity of spritzing him with some top-of-the-line Capitol product. Usually something with a label along the lines of “Dragon Spice” or “Black Chill.” The names are secondary to the product itself, which stays on his skin for days no matter how many showers he takes.
“So what is my straitjacket tonight?” Finnick asks, reemerging into his room.
Reis has laid an outfit on the bed, all crisp lines and expert tailoring. What the ensemble is missing is a shirt. Not that Finnick expected anything more, not really. One of his most popular looks is a tux with his golden chest painfully visible beneath the suit jacket. At least it’s a uniform black, none of the Capitol’s bright colors and adornments in sight.
It’s a pointless effort to complain, so Finnick dresses without a word, only stopping when Reis prevents him from pulling on the jacket. “One thing first,” Reis states, withdrawing from his bag of tricks a canister.
“Oh, come on,” Finnick groans. “Again?”
“It’s in this season, Finnick.”
“It’s always in,” he says, but lets Reis mist him with gold shimmer. When Reis finishes, Finnick glances down and presses a finger to his stomach, disdainful when it comes away coated in the stuff. He doesn’t know what its ingredients are, only that it’s even more impossible to get rid of than the body spray. “Congratulations,” he snarks. “I can now be spotted from space.”
“You know,” Reis comments, “that sarcasm is going to get you in trouble someday.”
Finnick sobers, Reis’s words extinguishing any further witticisms. Though he doubts Reis has much of an idea what really goes on, he’s right. Finnick’s in no position to be toeing the line of mockery. His mental lapses already have him in constant hot water, the last thing he needs is someone to tell Snow he’s ridiculing the populace.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says wearily. “Am I done yet?”
“Almost,” says Reis. He mists Finnick again with a sealant so the glitter doesn’t rub off on the expensive suit lining-Snow forbid-then declares him fit for public consumption.
Finnick gladly leaves Reis behind, welcoming the fragrance-free air of the living room. Mags is waiting for him; she’s been lacquered as well, albeit more tastefully. She hadn’t escaped the glitter spray, but it’s less visible than Finnick’s. A dash of silver in her hair so it catches the light is all she’d suffered.
Graciously, she doesn’t offer any input on Finnick’s appearance. Probably it doesn’t rank very high on the list of appalling things she’s seen in her lifetime. Finnick holds out his arm, which elicits a chortle from her. She takes it, and he lets himself enjoy this moment of levity before they must participate in the pre-interview party in a yuppie lounge two blocks down the street. Technically, mentors aren’t supposed to troll for sponsors there, but then, technically Districts 1, 2, and 4 don’t mass-produce Careers, either.
Finnick’s step stutters when the building comes into view, Mags’s hand tightening around his forearm. The Snakepit, as it had been coined amongst the victors long ago, isn’t in the same realm as Finnick’s clients, insofar as he’s not required to service anyone, but it also generates a large, pulsing, chattering, groping crowd. And of that, Finnick isn’t a fan. All the “accidental” brushes against his ass, the way the patrons unabashedly undress him with their bizarrely-colored eyes, the sickening sight of Gloss and Cashmere and Cecelia and so many others putting on their strongest veneers.
He steels himself from the misgivings. This is all for Annie, anyway, not for anyone else. His performance here could pay for a crucial medical kit or jug of water or weapon, the difference between life and death. The difference between a winner and the kid who slowly turns rabid from starvation and hypothermia. The vision of Annie like that, mouth foaming and extremities purpled, pushes him through the front doors.
Even prepared as he is for the interior of the lounge, the brightness still makes a spike shoot through his head. He restrains a wince and instead plasters a grin to his face. The lights, he’s sure, are meant to give off a shade that makes everyone’s best features stand out, but between its intensity and the way it makes the glitter on his chest constantly twinkle in his peripheral, he’d just as soon have the room in pitch darkness.
He doesn’t, however, have much opportunity to dwell on this, given that in scant seconds people zoom up to him, their lust in full view. They pretend it’s just happenstance, them running into him here, and he laughs appropriately, as though their moves weren’t precisely calculated, as though he could walk a few yards and not find someone who’s bought him.
Somehow, he manages to wind his way to the open bar, ordering for himself their most expensive whiskey. Mags opts for a club soda, but at least she doesn’t judge him for day drinking. Finnick notices Gloss standing nearby, entrenched in what is most certainly not a scintillating conversation. Knowing he and Mags would need to split up anyway, she gives him a commiserating smile and disappears into the crowd.
“Gloss!” Finnick exclaims, sidling up to the Capitol’s third-most sought-after victor. His sister holds the silver medal, although they’re often sold as a set, so Finnick supposes they should probably share a rank. “Fancy meeting you here, eh?”
Having already assessed Gloss’s current company, who are of the anything-goes variety, Finnick pecks him on the cheek. “Yeah, imagine that,” Gloss replies, his tone dually sarcastic for Finnick’s ears and genuine for the Capitol’s. “I think you know these three?”
He exchanges pleasantries with the two women and the man, who paw at him, seemingly unable to believe their luck that they’re in the presence of such beauty. Their touches, slick from oils and perfumes, have his body turning rigid from the effort of not shoving them off him. Inconspicuously, Gloss digs the heel of his shoe into Finnick’s foot, simultaneously a warning and an anchor.
He singles out one of the women, who has a shockingly pink wig and appears young enough to be relatively new to the sponsorship scene. “I wouldn’t dream of poaching you from Gloss here,” Finnick says conspiratorially, “but have you seen my tribute this year?”
Gloss puts on an air of indignity. “That’s exactly what you’re doing, Odair.”
“Boys, boys,” the woman giggles, blobs of color rising underneath her makeup. She pets Gloss’s face, then turns back to Finnick. “I was very impressed by that girl’s score, but I’ve actually just pledged District 1!”
Finnick exaggerates his disappointment-while it would have been convenient to nail a sponsor (so to speak) right off the bat, he’s not especially worried about lacking for pledges. And, depending on when and what gifts she would send to Gloss’s boy, the parachute could help the Career pack as a whole, Annie included. The citizens of the outer districts may openly despise Careers, but there’s no questioning the benefit of such an alliance.
“Oh!” the woman gasps, pointing out someone a few yards away. “I have a dear friend who I don’t think has made her decision yet, I’m sure she would love to meet you.”
I’m sure she would.
“You’re a treasure,” Finnick coos, glancing down at her cleavage to make her blush again. “Maybe next year, hmm?”
The woman doesn’t say anything-doesn’t trust herself to speak, probably-which Finnick counts as a blessing. Parting from Gloss, he approaches the suggested woman, whose long black hair is in stark contrast to the vermillion of her dress. She’s in conversation with some other Capitolite, a conversation that instantly ceases when Finnick steps into their space.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Finnick says, sparing the man only a cursory glance-loose thread on his blazer, one scuffed shoe, obviously not a high-roller-before fixing his gaze on the woman, “but your friend over there said I should come over and talk to you. What’s your name, darling?”
Not the most suave of introductions, but at least at this, Finnick doesn’t have to work very hard. “Londra Kravis,” she says, holding out a hand tipped with long red nails.
He takes it in both of his, a brief caress. “Pleased to meet you. May I interest you in a drink, Mrs. Kravis?”
“It’s Miss, actually,” Londra corrects. “For now, that is.”
Finnick disguises his shudder with motioning for a server. An Avox hurries over, jotting down a refill for Finnick’s whiskey and a wine spritzer for Londra. “So, Miss Kravis, may I interest you in sponsoring District 4 this year?”
“Well, don’t you just get right to the point?” Londra asks. There’s enough lightness in her voice, however, to tell Finnick he hadn’t overstepped. “Luckily for you, I like my men straightforward.”
“Very lucky for me,” Finnick agrees. “I should mention, then, that Annie comes well-trained with throwing knives, setting traps, and spears. We in District 4 take our fishing very seriously.”
We’re Careers, Annie’s a Career, is what his words project onto Londra, and she doesn’t miss the implication. “Naturally,” says Londra. “Refresh my memory-didn’t you use traps yourself?”
Finnick tries not to show his gritted teeth. He’d expected this, to have his Games mentioned, yet each year he hopes otherwise. The fact that Londra is professing to not remember adds insult to injury. “I did,” he says, because it’s true after all. One Girl threatens to burst out of his net and spear him right back. “They’re very underrated, but I think they worked to my advantage.”
“You know, many circles still talk about your Games,” she mentions conspiratorially. “You were a sight, carrying that trident.”
Ah, there it is. The coup de main that cemented his three weeks of trauma in everyone’s minds. And yet, despite his eight kills, a record for Four, there had still been pundits who lamented Finnick’s madness, not because of his troubles, but because it meant he could have added more lives to his tally. Supposedly, people were placing bets that Finnick Odair, the young dark horse, would surpass the all-time record of ten, held by Lyme.
And, Finnick’s thought more than once, he probably would have. He’d never wanted for food or water or shelter, strong and mostly healthy where the other tributes had struggled mightily. Had he not seen Nerissa’s remains, the rest of the tributes would have been no match for him. The Capitol considers it one of life’s greatest tragedies. While the trident he’d gotten has him in the record books for most expensive gift, he’s thankful that he’d fallen short of Lyme’s feat.
“It was…helpful,” Finnick says. And now I’m paying for it. “But we’re not here to reminisce, are we, Londra?”
“Maybe just a little,” she says. “I’m not sure Anna-”
“Annie.”
“-right, Annie-would quite be strong enough of a tribute,” Londra hedges. “Her training score was very impressive, but she’s just so skinny.”
She’s not, really. Maybe she’s not as well-off as the richest of Four’s folk, but it’s not like she’s a Twelve, all poking ribs and hacking cough. “Strength doesn’t automatically make you a winner,” Finnick argues gently. “Remember Cecelia? She never killed anyone in hand-to-hand, and she won, fair and square.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Londra allows. Cecelia hadn’t been an especially entertaining victor, since she stuck to poison traps instead of combat, but her ingenuity had prevented her from being shunned. She quirks her head and asks, “Would you bet on her, Finnick?”
“We aren’t permitted to bet, Miss Kravis,” Finnick reminds her.
She waves him off. “Yes, yes, I know, but if you could…would you?”
Finnick considers, for her benefit. It’s ostensibly a foolish thing to ask a mentor-obviously, they want their tributes to win-but then again, plenty of mentors could theoretically be accused of not trying their hardest. For good reason, though the Capitol doesn’t see it that way.
“I would,” Finnick answers. Carefully, he adds, “I would bet my life on her.”
He doesn’t mention that he thinks very little of his life, that if it weren’t for the ever-present threat of Snow’s finger on the proverbial big red button that would blow his family to smithereens, he probably would have ended it years ago. Betting his life, to him, is nothing more than a throwaway wager.
But Londra Kravis doesn’t know that. “You make a compelling case,” she simpers. “Of course, I’ll have to think about it.”
“Think about it,” in Capitol speak, translates to, “I’ll go write my pledge down immediately.” The outlying districts have to work a bit harder for their sponsors; Finnick doesn’t. He’d have sizable coffers even if he didn’t show his face at this party. Snow’s requirement that he be here is the sole reason he’d gotten out of bed.
“Absolutely, I understand,” Finnick replies, running a finger along her jaw. An extra enticement for her to follow through. “You won’t be disappointed, Miss Kravis.”
“I should hope not.”
One sponsor in the bag, Finnick leaves her to the handful of people who instantly flock into her vicinity. Finnick’s fine with it. Maybe her recounting of their repartee will inspire some of the others to pledge Annie as well.
Spying some of the victors standing around a table, he beelines towards them, passing by the half-spoken sentences of people who want to stop and talk to him. He doesn’t have as much stamina for this kind of thing as Cashmere and Gloss. Playing the doting, gracious fool is taxing, and in no way, shape, or form, does he want to risk an episode, not here, not now. The Capitol is fickle-if he displays weakness, there’s every chance they’ll project that onto Annie, sending her into the arena at a disadvantage, and forcing Finnick to log overtime hours.
He pulls up a chair beside Telluria, who stares too-intently at her drink, which fizzes and glimmers iridescent. No one else is commenting on it, as per usual; maybe a couple decades ago they would’ve busted her chops, but rare is a victor that doesn’t turn to some kind of supplement to get them through the day. Giving Telluria shit for being a morphling would label them hypocrites.
“Nice of you to join us, Odair,” Johanna remarks from across the table. “Getting cozy with the clientele?”
“Well, I want my tribute to win,” he says. “Don’t you?”
Johanna spits a laugh. “If that girl wins, she’ll be on her back in-”
Haymitch dumps his drink on her lap, effectively cutting off her crude remark. “Can it, Mason.”
Johanna huffs, removing herself from the group to dry off her outfit. Unable to resist a parting shot, she says to Finnick, “You know, I do like your strategy, Odair. Making her win so Four’ll have a pretty young thing who’s not fucking insane. Good one.”
Finnick clenches his hands into fists to prevent himself from retaliating. He has sympathy for Johanna, he does-losing her family the way she did is unimaginable. But there’s only so much vitriol and below-the-belt tactics he can stomach from her. Snow, the Capitol, he can handle them. A fellow victor, someone who’s been there, he has very little tolerance for. Where does she get off?
(The truly sick thing is, Johanna’s insinuation is something that has crossed his thoughts. Annie’s beautiful, and strong, and vibrant, and of-age, and not a basket case, and maybe the Capitol would forget about him, just for a moment, just for a little while, if she got the crown.)
Aiming to keep the irritation out of his voice, to let Johanna’s snipe fall to the wayside, he looks at Brandon, the mentor from Ten. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, “what with your kid’s score.”
By nature soft-spoken, Brandon shrugs, swirling the straw in his glass to unsettle grenadine from the bottom. “Hastin’s daddy owns a ranch,” he says. Finnick has to strain to hear him. Brandon had grown up learning how to break colts; the calming susurrus in his voice had never left. “Haulin’ hay bales and roundin’ up five hundred head’a cattle sunup to sundown’ll do that to you.”
“Maybe he’ll get lucky and there’ll be a whole herd in the arena he can send into a stampede or something,” Finnick suggests.
“He didn’t do nothin’ special in there,” Brandon says. “Think the Gamemakers just didn’t expect one of us to show ’em up. Guess your kids’ll do him slow because he beat ’em.”
“Don’t look at me,” Finnick says, holding his hands up and gesturing towards the mentors from One and Two who still mill about the crowd. “Hastin would crush Marin, and Annie’s not the torturing type. Not much faith in your boy?”
Brandon doesn’t look particularly upset, just resigned. “Ain’t been a Ten who won since me.”
He has a point. Brandon’s Games were three after Haymitch’s, making District 10’s drought the second-longest running. Often, Tens will survive a ways into the Games, owing to most of the populace involved in some kind of cattle raising or horse rearing and all the physical benefits that come with it, but they hadn’t quite scaled the hump. Although, none of Ten’s kids since had been as patiently ruthless as Brandon, who’d ultimately earned his title by searing off the faces of his opponents with a type of homemade branding iron. The Capitol marketing teams had had a field day with that coincidence, Brandon’s name and his method of killing a perfect match. Supposedly in the gift shops at the 53rd Hunger Games Historical Site, they sell plastic toys that light up red when pressed.
“No Ten’s ever gotten an eleven before, either,” Beetee points out.
Never one to avoid dumping salt in a wound, Haymitch offers his opinion. “Last time a kid got an eleven, he got himself blown up.”
Brandon’s nearly as muscular as Brutus, but tends to hunch in on himself to distract from his mass. His propensity to lose his temper is entirely disproportionate from the bulk. In fact, Finnick’s not sure he’s ever seen him get angry, at anyone. It makes for an uninteresting argument opponent, so people generally don’t engage. Johanna’s tried a few times, receiving only unimpressed silence for her efforts.
“It’d be a blessin’,” Brandon says, quiet in case the table itself is bugged.
“You’re no fun,” Haymitch grouses, “and you’re ruining my buzz.”
“Sorry,” Brandon replies, sounding just that. For kicks, Finnick wonders who would win between them in a drinking competition. While Haymitch has tolerance on his side, he’s also about half Brandon’s size. That, Finnick would have a great time betting on.
“I’m gonna refill,” Haymitch announces. “Anyone else?”
Finnick takes him up on the offer, the level of his amber liquid dangerously low. He hadn’t yet had a chance to take one of Haymitch’s pills yet, and he’s erred before by dry swallowing and suffering the immensely bitter aftertaste. Haymitch almost gets away with just the one extra glass; the mentors from Two then break from their schmoozing and put in their respective drink requests. Haymitch scowls, but complies, easily clearing a path through the socialites. Victors have an odd sort of bartering system they’ve created: no one ever owes anyone anything, technically, but there’s an invisible, ongoing tally that determines whose turn it is to grab coffee or clean one of them up from puddle of vomit or, in this case, who gets bar duty.
“What’d we miss, boys?” Lyme asks lightly, clapping both Finnick and Brandon on the back.
“Jo being Jo,” Finnick says. “And Brandon complaining.”
“So nothing new, then,” she summarizes. “What’s the deal this time, Brando?”
Beetee answers for him, perhaps anticipating some sarcastic response from Finnick-he wouldn’t be wrong-or melancholic silence from Brandon-also probable. “He doesn’t think Hastin’s going to last.”
“Oh. Well, buck up, cowboy. You’re getting to be a drag.” It’s Lyme’s succinct, matter-of-fact tone that finally coaxes a smile out of Brandon. “Now where did Abernathy get off to with my damn drink?”By the time the victors are permitted to leave to give their tributes some last pieces of advice before being subjected to Caesar’s interview, Finnick has a more than respectable pool of sponsors backing Annie. He’s got a massive headache that’s both helped and exacerbated by the alcohol he’s consumed, and his nerves are hyper-sensitized from all the people who clambered at him. By virtue of the very composition, his chest is still lustrous in all its gold glitter.
Mags finds him by the exit, and her reassuring touch, at least, he can handle. They’re delayed somewhat by the slightly less-wealthy stragglers who hadn’t had the opportunity to chat him up during the revelry, by which time Finnick’s smile is about at its shattering point. After a few of these, Mags speaks up, telling Finnick with a voice raised enough for the surrounding folk to hear her that she’s tired and would like a quick nap before the interviews.
They reluctantly allow her this, and it’s all Finnick can do to temper his pace so he doesn’t look like he wants to full-out sprint. They share an elevator with Seeder-she’s alone, which leads him to believe Chaff and Haymitch had already begun a party of their own. She gives him a warm smile and makes easy, if superfluous, conversation. He’s always liked Seeder; though there is perpetual pain behind those storm gray eyes, he’s never heard her complain. Probably she had, back in the day, and been summarily punished for it. No victor is ever safe from the Capitol’s wrath.
There are cameras and microphones in the elevators, because of course there are, so Seeder merely reaches up and makes a production of dusting off his jacket, the action sending gold shimmer to the floor. “You and my grandbabies are peas in a pod,” she says with a strained laugh. “Wearing nice clothes has them attracting dirt, too.”
Finnick tries not to stare, to find a second meaning in her words, to recognize that she’s referring to the Capitol citizens as nothing more than filth. Except Seeder never says anything she doesn’t mean, never picks her words carelessly. He can’t instantly come up with an equally veiled response, so he merely smiles, feigning sheepishness and pretending to be appropriately chagrined.
When they reach the fourth floor, Finnick glances back, seeing in Seeder’s face a pained expression that she doesn’t bother to hide. He takes a deep breath, flashes a smile at Mags, and prepares his best mask of confidence for Annie.
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