Title: Second Generation
Rating: T (violence and references)
Full Summary: Haunted by nightmares of his mother's sudden suicide, Finnick Odair Jr. (Fin) now lives in the Capitol earning his living as an actor. Oblivious to the world around him, Fin is surprised to find his new PA a second generation immigrant from Tribe 3. However, Britney – with her odd accent and love for tea – isn't everything she appears to be and Fin soon finds himself being dragged into the world of politics. Panem is now being seen as a safe haven to the rest of the world – something the government cannot deal with. They want Fin to be the face of their terrifying yet familiar solution to their latest problem; immigration.
Disclaimer: The Hunger Games and its characters are all property of Suzanne Collins. No profit is being made from this piece of work. No copyright infringement is intended.
PART 1
THE PUPPET
1
The sun glints off the calm sea. From my position on the beach I can see all the way across to the horizon, a semicircle of sun casts our shadows back behind us. I grasp my mother's hand so tightly I can feel the bump of the scar she got after slicing her hand open on a fish hook when I was three. I remember that day all too well, how Nurse Everdeen had ushered me out of the room as blood oozed from the cut, how my stomach churned as I watched the red river travel down her arm. It was an accident, Nurse Everdeen said. It probably had been too. Even from an early age I knew my mother sometimes lost her way with things.
Now we both stand at the sea's edge, watching as the clear blue waters reach out towards us and grace our toes before retreating to the sea. I giggle, unsure why. The sea has always made me happy. My mother said that it was in my blood. Nobody could live at District 4 without loving the sea and all its creatures. That was the first time my mother had voiced her doubts over the new family down the road. They'd never seen the sea before – Jorge and Dana – and couldn't seem to get the hang of fishing.
"Can you see past the sea, Fin?" my mother asks, loosening her grip on my hand ever so slightly. I look to where she tells me to, squinting my eyes against the blare of evening sun. I shake my head; there's nothing past the sea but the sun from where I'm stood. "That's where your father is," she tells me.
I look up at her, watching as her wistful features take on the mourning expression they always do when she mentions my father. "Do you think I'll see him?" she says, taking a step forward so the next wave flows over her bare feet, "If I carry on walking?"
She sounds like she always does when she goes away from me. I bury my head in her hip – the farthest up I can reach – and breathe in her warm smell from the cloth dress she wears. It's my way of silently communicating to her. Don't go, Mother, stay with me.
She takes another step forward. My arm is shorter than hers and she pulls me with her until I'm ankle deep in the ocean.
"I'll see you soon, Fin," she tells me, brushing her hand through my bronze hair. She always likes to do that. She says my hair reminds her of my father.
I don't speak as she lets go of my hand, save for a whimper. I remember what Nurse Everdeen told me; to leave her until she comes back to me. Only this time it's not just her mind that is leaving.
Silently, I watch as she walks slowly away. First her ankles are submerged, then her calves. When the water gets to her waist, she hesitates. I wait to see if she will turn around. She doesn't, and I'm aware of hot tears falling thick and fast down my face. And then she disappears fully under the water, leaving me alone on the beach outside our home.
She doesn't resurface.
Gasping, I awake from the dream. Dream. I wouldn't use that word at all. Last time I checked dreams were supposed to be happy and random thoughts not repressed memories that now haunt me every night.
Rolling over onto my back, I rub a hand over my face in an attempt to rub sleep from my eyes. I've been crying again, in my sleep. Pathetic. This is why I don't bring girls home. I flick the television on as I pass on my way to the bathroom. The Capitol is already buzzing with activity even at seven in the morning. Far below me, outside my apartment windows which dominate all of one side, I can see cars already backed up on the main streets, tiny beetles of florescent oranges and greens.
It had taken me a long time to get used to my apartment in the city after coming from my house in District 4. Part of me still expects to wake and be greeted by the sound of swooshing waves – not the horns and other noises found in this bizarre city. If I look out of my window and only concentrate on the sky, I can imagine that far below me is the beach that makes up for my back garden back home.
But I can't call it mine anymore. I haven't lived there in three years; it's Nurse Everdeen's now.
The news is already broadcasting. Hunter Jemwire's rough voice carries through the apartment and into the bathroom as I scrub at my teeth.
"Reports are just coming in from District 4's correspondent. More Tribe's people are attempting to breach the borders of Panem. The news is that shortly before midnight last night, more boats arrived carrying the distressed people onto the shores of District 4. Anya Lenton has the details."
At the mention of my home District's name, I had shot out of the bathroom and now stand in front of the wide screen as Anya comes into view. She wears a blue suit as usual, the color of the District. She's on the beach and my breath catches in my throat as I realize she's near my mother's house, by the same spot where she had left me to walk out into the sea. The beach behind her is not peacefully empty as it usually is though. I can make out Guardians – the newer and 'kinder' word for Peacekeepers – in their District blue uniforms, holding onto the arms of people who have no doubt come from one of the Tribes. Their skin is dark and they wear nothing but colorful cloths tied around their waists.
Well, that's unusual. Normally it's women and children who arrive here, having been sent by desperate men unable to provide for their families. Maybe word finally got out that there is no help for them here and the men have come to plead for it.
Sighing, I turn the television off before Anya even begins to speak. I'm tired of hearing about the immigration situation. As far as I see it, President Paylor has it coming. She is the one who ordered her people to go out and select people from the different Tribes to make up for the numbers lost during the Revolutionary War. She can't honestly expect the remaining Tribe's people to get on with their poverty-riddled lives after telling them of the better world of Panem. Most of the Tribes don't even use the same words as us, leaving them to try and decipher for themselves what our government had been telling them. No doubt they made Panem out to be a Heaven on Earth.
I think about Jorge and Dana – the couple in District 4 who were recruited from Tribe 4. When I was younger, I used to listen to them tell me stories using both my words and their own Tribe's – they were still learning the words of Panem. Even after they had learned most of Panem's words, they still kept that unique accent. I had listened to them talk of their fields, how they thought of themselves as experts when it came to bread and pastries. After they had settled in to the District, they opened a bakery and I would sit with them at their shop after school in the years that followed my mother's death.
They never told me why there was no sea in Tribe 4. Whenever I asked, they turned away or changed the subject. Most of the time they distracted me with their bread with chocolate bits in.
My mouth waters now, just thinking about their food. The memory reminds me of home and I make a mental note to check back there soon. I need to check on Nurse Everdeen, ever since my mother died she has become my main parent. She's always been there for me; a second parent when my mother was alive and now the only family I have left.
Once I'm ready, I leave my apartment and head for the studio, stopping by a stall on my way. The stall is run by Juppy Kit, originally a resident from District 7. He moved here round about the same time as me to try life in the Capitol. Still, he chose the Districts way of selling newspapers on a stall rather than owning a concrete shop. The wooden carriage reminds me of the fish stalls back home in the Market Square.
"Morning, Fin," he greets, nodding at me, "Early start then?"
"Not as early as you," I reply, and nod to the half-empty cart. "I take it business is doing well then?"
Juppy pulls a face, picks up the nearest newspaper and points to the headline with a stumpy finger. I see on the colored print what I had seen on the news this morning; Tribe's people struggling in the hands of District 4 Guardians as they leave their boats.
"Everybody's interested," Juppy huffs, "I can't see the big deal really. What harm can it do to let a few more in?"
"It's more to feed," I reply, using a reason I find while scanning the text briefly.
"Of course!" Juppy slaps his forehead with a hairy hand as if the idea has just come to him. "Now that they're feeding all the Districts properly then of course they'll have a lot less food to spare." I can tell he is being sarcastic and roll my eyes at him. Still, it can't be help. He suffered life before and during the War. Who am I to judge?
He turns away from me, muttering to himself angrily as he serves another customer. This customer looks over to me, hair tied up in a polka-dot ribbon. You can tell just by looking at her that she is from District 8. It's weird how even I – somebody who was born after the war and after the walls around the Districts were taken down – can see the difference in the people.
I look at Juppy with his fading grey hair and wrinkled face. He's been around for a long time; probably longer than Nurse Everdeen. Despite being friends with him since I moved here I'd never really questioned him about life before or during the Revolutionary War. It is a topic that was out-of-bounds whilst I was growing up.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a few coins and hand them to Juppy for the newspaper. As usual, he refuses.
"Take it, Fin," he says. "I don't need money from a friend." I wonder if this was what the attitude was like before the war; people helping people out whenever they could afford it. Well, there's no need for that now.
"Take it, Juppy," I say, slamming the coins hard onto the table so they won't roll off. "I don't steal from a friend." I grin, "Besides, I probably owe you a lot more than this after what you've done for me for the last three years."
"A free newspaper every day isn't much," Juppy says gruffly, waving a hand to dismiss the matter. It means a lot to him; this simple act. It's like he's still living in the pre-revolution era.
"I was eighteen when I came here," I say. "You took me under you wing in a way and besides," I continue so as not to let the conversation get too deep, "I don't need favors now I'm successful." I grin as he gives me a playful punch to the arm.
"Get out of here, you cheek," he says. I laugh and continue on my way to work.
The Television Building is a skyscraper that stretches high above the rest of the Capitol. It's in the centre of the city; from afar you can see it as a tall building surrounded by mini buildings. In reality the 'mini' buildings are still quite tall by themselves. The Television Building is just a lot bigger. It really shows everybody the Capitol's priorities; broadcasting first, hospitals second.
As soon as I enter the building, Plutarch rushes to greet me.
"There he is! There's the star!" he gushes. "Now come on, get a move on, we've got costumes to change and scenes to shoot!"
I'm used to this; being dragged around as soon as I arrive. Plutarch has been passionate about his work since he got his job twenty years ago and the passion hasn't faded. I admire him for that.
"I've got a surprise for you, Fin," he says excitedly as we stop outside my dressing room door. I wait for him to say something more but he just pushes open the door and extends his arms as if he is proudly presenting something.
Inside my room is a small young woman with blonde hair in ringlets down to her shoulders. Her skin is pale and her eyes are wide and blue as though she has a permanently startled expression.
"Meet your new PA," Plutarch announces, "Britney McCormus."