There is a lighthouse at the westernmost end of the bay.
Every day in District 4 starts the same. The sun creeps over the mountains to the east as the fog rolls in from the western sea, blanketing the hilly, rocky district in a blanket so think and dense that one couldn't be blamed for thinking the ocean had risen forth to conquer the land. It's a nightmare for the trawlers and fishing skiffs that pace the open waters every day. Every now and then a ship will collide with another in the fog, a slip of the hand or miscalculation by an inexperienced captain that takes two dozen lives to the bottom.
It'd be much worse save for the lighthouse. Children tire of the bright yellow beam that lights up the fog like a second sun. The baritone drone of the tower's horn sounds as if it could have come from one of the many monsters that call the deep home.
But even in the darkest mornings, when the sun refuses to rise and the fog threatens to choke the district in its grip, the lighthouse is there – chanting, shining, saving.
Many years ago, I knew nothing but that darkness myself. Circumstance, fate, and misfortune had swelled into a giant wave that had drowned me in the shadows of others' whims. The Hunger Games. Snow's lust for power. The rich and the powerful who sought to frolic with things they didn't understand or value. These things preyed upon me like I was a minnow caught in an octopus's lair.
Yet there was a lighthouse in the midnight hour. It took me years of venturing down dead-end paths and sailing roiling seas to find it, but I did, even in the fog. I heard it, I saw it, and when I finally reached its doors, I never stepped away.
I'm still there today.
-FO
Venus had run out of road.
I'd run down my last challenger in the arena. She'd gotten the jump at me back at the stone ruins near the rocky hills a hundred meters downhill of the Cornucopia. It didn't matter. It was her choice of weapon that damned Venus: She'd picked a short sword to square off against my trident and net, and her lack of reach had nearly killed her.
Maybe it had. The drops of blood on the dusty ground of this barren arena told me that she was clinging on to fading hope.
"Let's finish it, Vee," I said under my breath, panting as I choked out the words. I might have had the upper hand, but the long chase had winded me.
The girl from District 1 had made short work of nearly a half-dozen tributes from the outlying districts since the gong rang at the Cornucopia, but the breakup of our alliance had sent her scurrying for cover. When Ares and I had drawn weapons and had it out, she'd run for higher ground, determined to face the winner of our fight only when he'd exhausted himself in combat.
That plan wasn't working too well.
I planted my hand on a boulder and vaulted the rock. The arena's river snaked through the dust and dirt fifty meters ahead of me. A huddled yellow mound sidled up to the riverbank – Venus, who by now must have figured out that she didn't have the strength to ford the river with a stab wound to her shoulder. Two centimeters lower and I would have ended this a half-kilometer ago.
"Vee!" I shouted. "Get up."
I hoisted my trident and strolled down towards the riverbank. I didn't need to rush. Nature would take care of this if I didn't. Venus fell onto all fours, gazing up at me with wide hazel eyes and scurrying like a crab towards the water. Blood matted her long blonde hair and golden jacket.
She picked up her sword from the ground and said, "Stay back, Finnick! Go away."
"Can't do that," I said.
"I won't let you kill me!"
"I already did. I'll do you a favor and make it a lot faster. Less pain. C'mon."
She was a fighter, and I didn't expect her to roll over and let me skewer her like a rat. Venus clambered onto shaky legs and dragged her sword up to her waist. Her chest heaved with exhaustion.
The girl shook her head and said, "I'm gonna live. You don't deserve it."
"Not happening, Vee."
"Fuck you, Finn! You murdered Bacchus when he had his back turned!"
"You woulda done the same. That girl from 9? You think she'd root for you if you hadn't spilled her guts?"
I spun the trident in my hand, raised an eyebrow, and added, "We both know this has to end. So if you want it on your terms, come at me."
Venus scowled, cupped her left hand over her shoulder wound while clutching her sword in her right, and charged at me with the last burst of energy she had left. I didn't hesitate. I kicked a cloud of dust in her eyes as soon as she closed. She coughed and stumbled back, swiping at the dust with her blade.
I wouldn't give her a chance to fight. As she swatted at her eye to dig the dirt out, I circled to her left and stabbed.
The girl shrieked. My weapon dug into her armpit and I drove my arm forward, cutting off her howl of pain as I pierced her heart and released a geyser of blood. There was no rule in the Hunger Games about fighting fair.
That was it. I pitched my net to the side and dropped my trident. The hovercraft would be there any second as Claudius Templesmith's voice boomed over the windy plains of the stone desert. Finnick Odair, victor of the 65th Hunger Games. I should have felt remorse for my carnage in the arena, but that title had a ring to it. Thanks for the trident, sponsors. In the back of my mind, I'd worried in the first few days of the Games. I'd worried over the state of the alliance with the kids from District 1 and District 2, along with my partner. I'd worried about an unknown from the outlying districts killing us all. I'd worried about doing something stupid that would cost me everything, and I'd worried about doing something smart – something that achieved victory – that would cost me everything down the road.
Yet once I'd gotten my hand on this weapon and gone to work, all the worries evaporated. I felt powerful. I felt strong. I was in control – exactly how a victor should be. The Games had flooded my veins, and now I was ready to step atop the podium as champion.
But when I turned around to embrace victory, I met only a pair of sad gray eyes and billowing, curly brown hair. A blood-soaked hand reached out to me from under the ripped sleeve of a jacket in tatters.
She spoke, but her lips didn't move when the words bounced around the inside of my head. It was as if I'd forgotten how her lips worked.
"I can't wake up with you, Finnick," she said. "But I can't leave here, either."
Thump, thump, thump.
The sound of knocking on a door boomed over the arena as a gale welled up on the wasteland flats. The girl blew away in the wind as the mountains crumbled and the river flash boiled. The gale tore through the arena, turning everything into nothing until only I was left – and then even that had escaped me.
Thump, thump, thump!
"Gah!"
My eyes opened with a snap. Dust hung in the air, suspended against the backdrop of the omnipresent fog outside my bedroom window. A giant beast roared in the distance. The foghorn wouldn't let me slip back into the darkness of my mind.
I reached over to my end table beside my bed and picked up a knife. Once I'd used this sharp little blade to gut fish, but now I only wanted to cut something far worse out of my dreams.
"Get outta there," I said, raising the blade to my head and pressing the tip against my temple until it hurt. "Get out."
One would have thought that five months would have been enough to purge the memories, but one would've been wrong. Now I didn't know if they'd ever leave me in peace.
Finnick Odair, victor. It still had a ring to it, but it was the hollow kind.
Thump, thump, thump.
Someone was knocking on my door. Who was barging into the Victor's Village at way-too-early o'clock? Mags was probably up, but she knew well enough to leave me alone, and I doubt any of the other victors would bother me until the Victory Tour in a week.
I set the knife back down on my table and rolled off my bed. The air was chilly in my room. Winter never approached freezing in District 4 with the winds blowing off of the bay, but it never really warmed up here, either. Even in the hottest part of summer the temperatures never approached unbearable levels.
Thump, thump, th-
I yanked open my door and shouted, "Gimme a damn second!"
Hopefully that wasn't my mother. Then again, if she was knocking on my door at this hour, she deserved my vitriol.
As I walked over to my closet to put on some pants, I stubbed my toe on another table and swore. The damn house had too much stuff. My father worked nets on a trawler, and I'd gotten used to our modest house as a kid. Now I was a fifteen year-old with an entire two-story building full of crap I didn't need to call my own. Superb.
I rubbed my foot and glanced at the table. A white, shiny rope lying on it caught my eye. Just a little thing, really – I'd gotten lost in thought for an hour the previous night, knotting and untying the rope in my hand over and over again through sheer muscle memory. I hadn't even noticed I'd been doing it until I'd gone to bed. Dumb thing to do.
Come to think of it, that would at least keep my knot-tying skills sharp in case the Capitol ever made me go back to work on a boat. Admittedly, it had felt…familiar, as well, having something I knew in my hands as I thought. I'd have to keep that thing around.
Not now, however. Now I needed to tell some unwelcome guest to let me sleep at this hour.
I yanked on the first pair of pants I found and pulled on a shirt, leaving it unbuttoned as the fabric flapped after me while I tromped down my house's creaky wooden stairs. This victor's life wasn't conducive to being responsible with getting dressed, I suppose. Mumbling under my breath about privacy, I ran a hand through my oily hair, shoved a chair out of my way in my dining room, and pulled open the front door.
"Hey. You okay?"
Whoops. A thin girl in an ill-fitting white shirt stood out on my porch, wringing her hands together and glancing up at me with cautious blue eyes. Her short black hair was a mess, but it probably looked better than mine. Come to think of it, Brook Cassidy looked pretty good all over, and her bright face stood out like a star against the fog that covered the street.
I waved a hand in the air at nothing and ran my fingers through my hair. "Yeah, I'm just uh…y'know, practicing my vocal range. To sound intimidating in case someone's trying to hurry me up on the Tour, right?"
Brook narrowed one of her pencil-thin eyebrows and leaned against the porch wall. "Maybe you should button up your shirt," she said, her eyes running over my chest.
"I could just take these pants off instead."
"I already take care of my brother. I don't need to see some other boy's privates," she said, rolling her eyes.
Ah, it was too early for witticisms. I shoved my hands in my pockets and moved aside to let her in. Brook and I had been friends for years since we'd met in school when I was only eight and she was nine. It'd been a lucky day for me, I guess. From her biting jokes to her dedication in caring for her older brother after he'd been paralyzed from the waist down in a boating accident, Brook had only grown more beautiful the more I'd known her – on the inside and outside. Even after I'd gone to train in the Victor Institute, I'd made sure to keep up with her on a regular basis.
"Finnick? You sure you're okay?"
I blinked and stepped back. She was staring at me, her expression concerned and her mouth ajar.
"Well I'm hungry as hell, but besides that –"
"You're bleeding."
"What?"
"Your head."
I reached up to my temple and felt something wet. When I pulled it away, a stripe of blood stained my fingers.
"It's uh…" I said, stalling for a moment to think. "Wrestling. I gotta diversify my skills, after all."
"You were wrestling with yourself?"
"Yeah. Bet you've never heard of better practice."
Brook clenched her jaw and sat down on one of the chairs in my kitchen. "Finnick," she said, raising her palm to her forehead and shutting her eyes. "Look. People say they've seen you just running around the edge of the district and the beach. I barely see you. I don't even see you in the marketplace or down by the docks. Can you tell me what's wrong?"
"C'mon, it's way too early for that kinda talk."
"It's eleven."
Guess it wasn't early. I really needed to get my sleep cycle back on track. In all seriousness, I was hiding from her. I'd always tried to look tough and masculine around Brook, and I didn't want to dump my mind's baggage on her if I could help it.
I sat down in a chair across from her, picking up a half-empty glass of water from the night before and draining it in one swig. "You're not gonna get it, Brook," I said, staring down at the glass as I swished around the few drops of water left in it.
She leaned forward and placed her elbows on the table. "It's not like I didn't watch the Games. I saw everything. We all did. I'm not gonna make fun of you or anything, you're Finnick Odair. You won. And you're my friend."
I stood up and set the glass down on the table. Hell.
"I don't, uh," I mumbled, walking around into my kitchen and leaning against the counter. "I got too much time to think on my hands. I need to do stuff, but I got nothin' to do."
She looked as if she was waiting for more, so I went on: "You know when you dwell on something a lot and you start to overanalyze everything you could do or did do? It's like that."
Brook pursed her lips and frowned. "You don't have to feel guilty for the arena," she said. "I mean, you got picked to volunteer because people believed in what you could do, and you proved them right. Don't you even think that you shouldn't have won. Screw that thought."
"It sure isn't that," I scoffed, gripping the counter with my hands behind my back. "Those guys I teamed up with? They were dicks. Ares was as dumb as a rock. Bacchus was a sadistic little twerp. I don't care that I offed them. I'd do that again in a second if I was back there. Probably did the world a favor. But, it's just…"
"The girl from 7?"
"God, we should've never teamed up with her," I said, looking off into dead space as I spoke. Sad gray eyes and curly brown hair floated through my head. "Holly knew her stuff, though, but man, she's just hanging around up in there. Won't go away, much as I try."
"I know you were…friends…with her," Brook said, playing with her thumb and looking down at the table. "You made her time in the arena better. She could've just been a statistic."
"Yeah, now she is. And the even worse truth? Better her than me. I feel dirty saying that, but it's the truth."
"Finnick, don't start with this stuff. I'd have been crushed if she'd won over you."
I glanced at her. "You would, huh?"
She looked away, still wrapping her hands over one another.
"It's just stupid," I said. "Now I wish I hadn't stuck her, but then? When everything was going to hell? It felt right. Heck, it felt good. I was in control of everything."
"Look, let's just stop. I didn't mean to pry. Let me get you out of this house –"
"No, it feels good to talk now," I said with a wispy laugh. "Y'know, she coulda whacked me if she wanted to. She was amazing with that axe, but she wouldn't do it. She thought I really cared about her, and for a few days, I did. Then I remembered what I was doing, and yoink, she's dead, I win. Easy-peasy."
"Finnick, stop. Please."
"Just won't get out of there," I said, ignoring Brook and tapping my forehead. "I got all this time on my hands to dwell, and whole helluva lot of good it does me."
I stared around the kitchen. All this wood paneling, all this newfound wealth – was it really worth it? I'd gained victory in a fight to the death, but I'd stepped right into another fight with my own mind.
Brook was right. I did need to get out more.
"You know what?" I said. "Victory Tour's in two weeks, and I need to get this crap outta my head before then. Let's get outta here. Even for a day."
She nodded, but Brook wouldn't look my way. When she got up from her chair, her right hand was clenched in a fist.
The foghorn boomed.
Author's Note: Thanks for reading! I've wanted to do a "complete telling" so to speak of Finnick's life after his Hunger Games victory, so here goes – taking a break from my OC stories for the moment. Some details have been changed and/or adjusted from the original Hunger Games material for thematic and/or plot purposes. But never fear, plenty of Odesta, haha. Down the road a bit.
I always love to hear feedback, so if you have comments, concerns, critiques, suggestions, etc., let me know!
Rated T for coarse language, graphic violence, mature themes and references, and potentially unsettling imagery. The Hunger Games, Finnick, Annie, District 4, Mags, Katniss, Peeta, and all adapted fictional materials from the Hunger Game series within this story are the property of Suzanne Collins.
