One
Splash.
The trident enters the water at breathtaking speed and lands right next to me. Startled, I spring free from the ocean ground and into the open air.
Whoosh.
The second trident goes whizzing above my head. Now as frightened as a sea cucumber, I kick back my legs and swim for shore as fast as I can.
I'm startled. Of course I am! Who would be aiming at me? Me, an innocent child of District Four? I'm just a fisherman, taking after the job of my father.
My fingers reach the deck and I haul myself up, using fourteen years of knowledge and power to help me. I sit there, panting, trying to register what had just happened.
Alright. Calm. I had been enjoying my break and decided to take a swim in the ocean. I was just underwater, testing the new goggles District Three made, when the first trident hit. That's when I acted like scared prey, springing for the shore. Now, trying to catch my breath, I scan the horizon for my attacker.
No one. Not a person, much less a boat. But where did that trident come from? Surely, not from above?
"Hey, sorry," says a voice behind me. I jump, startled. I'm about to dive in the water, my territory, when I remember my assassin.
Instead, I turn my head around and see whom it is. Trying to calm my beating heart, I glare at my new best friend. It takes a while to make everything sink in.
A girl. Brown hair, hazel eyes. A splash of freckles across the nose. Petite. She's dripping wet, and in her hands are three tridents.
I jump back, startled again. My eyes widen at the sight of the tridents. My assassin has come back…
"Hey, look!" the girl cries. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to kill you! I thought you were a fish!"
My furious attempt to dive back into the water is disrupted by her confession. "You mean, you thought I was a fish."
"Yeah," she says lamely.
"Do fish have two legs? Two arms? Blonde hair?"
"I couldn't see very well!" the girl protests. "The sun was in my eye! Besides, I had to get fish for supper."
"Right," I say. "Just… don't do that again, okay?"
Too shaken up to talk, I try to stand up before figuring out that I can't.
"Hey, are you all right?" she asks. Why does everyone ask me this question? Of course I'm not all right!
"No," I mumble. "A near-death experience can do this to people. If that trident was one inch closer…"
"Let's start with something different," the girl says wearily. "How about, what's your name?"
I stare at her, sure that she's joking. But she's not.
"Finnick Odair Junior," I answer. Her eyebrows rise.
"The Finnick Odair Junior?" she asks. "Son of Finnick Odair Senior?"
"How many Finnick Odair Juniors do you know?" I ask.
"One," she says. "So… my name is Angel. Most people call me Angie."
"Um… hi," I say awkwardly. "So, where do you come from? I don't think I've seen anyone like you around."
"Oh, I came from Two," she says after a moment's hesitation. District Two. Huh. Well, that explains it at least. Immigration has been really popular among the districts. Even though it's been only seven years since the rebellion, an immigration system has already been set up. Angie averts the subject and asks me, "How old are you?"
"Seven," I say.
She grins. "Nine. Ha! I'm older than you!"
Is she becoming my new best friend?
"So… what are you doing in Four?" I ask.
"Oh, just exploring the districts," she says, her hazel eyes glazing off into the distance unknown. "Traveling. We arrived in Four two weeks ago and plan to spend about a month here."
"Then you move on to Five?" I ask.
"Yeah," she says. "I'll be back to visit, though. So don't worry if you miss me."
Miss her? Creep.
"Yeah… nice to meet you," I say quickly, and back off.
I run away at that moment, never planning on seeing her again. But oh boy, seeing her again is exactly what happened next.
Four Years Later
"Finnick!"
My mother's voice calls me from downstairs. I jump, because I haven't heard her voice for two days. Annie Odair, formerly Annie Cresta, hardly even speaks anymore. Losing her husband can add to the madness she had since her Hunger Games years ago.
"Finnick!"
There it is again. Her soft, musical voice that can actually mean something… if only my father were here.
"I'm coming!" I shout. Today's a normal day… or is it?
It's not reaping day, which is now substituted for a lecture instead. Not anyone's birthday, not harvesting days… Oh, right. Today is the anniversary of my father's death…
"Dad…" The words escape with no permission. I automatically look at the photo of my father. Well, actually, the house is covered in them. Restarting Peeta Mellark's heart, his ally in the second arena. Spearing monkey mutts with a trident. Tangling opponents in a net. Shooting a gun in the rebellion. But the one I have on my nightstand is special. A photo of my parents standing in front of a gigantic wedding cake, adorned with icing flowers and a boat tossed about on the sea waves. My father was handsome, they told me. They're right. At age twenty-four, Finnick Odair Senior had girls falling to their knees before him. But out of all of them… he picked Annie Cresta, a poor mad girl, but a victor of the 70th Hunger Games. Two years his junior, too.
"Miss you," I whisper to the framed photo. I throw on a sweater over my pajamas and head downstairs.
My mother frowns at me when she sees the clothes. "Shouldn't you wear something nicer?"
"That's what my father would wear," I remind her. She goes into that zone when no one exists but her and the ghost image of Finnick Odair Senior.
So I calmly ease her out of the stupor and sit her down. She's as mute as an Avox now. Not that they exist, apart from those who escaped the Capitol's bombing in the rebellion.
Wolfing down my breakfast, I head back upstairs, staring outside the window. I have my father's bedroom, in his house he gained as a victor. I glance outside for one single second… and that's when I see her.
The girl.
There's no mistaking her. Brown hair, hazel eyes. What is she doing here? She's supposed to be back in District Two!
Calm down, I think to myself. She's probably just a girl. Plenty of people look like that nowadays…
But when she turns around, as if she knows that I'm watching her, it makes me feel uneasy. Shoving myself away from the window, I get dressed properly and try to shove her from my mind.
She's just a random girl, I remind myself. Just a random girl…
The rest of the day flies by in silence. At night, we will be lighting candles and doing mourning and all, but in the morning… it's free-for-all.
The weather even matches my moods. Damp, with clouds brewing up in the sky. No shadows exist in this world; the dark clouds have blotted out the sun. With the threat of a thunderstorm above my heads and the chilly wind in the air, I stick my hands in my pocket and walk down the street, eyes on the gravel beneath me.
Where am I going, exactly? I'm unsure, but my feet take me to the place I've gone to for the past four years of my life. The harbor, the dock where I first met the girl. What was her name again?
Huh. Must've forgotten.
I sit there, hunched together, my chin drawn to the chest, and watch the waves tossing the foam back and forth. The fish dance in the rough waves, darting this way and that. Everybody is indoors. Everybody is escaping the rain. Everybody but me.
Why?
Because at this moment, fifteen years ago, Finnick Odair Senior would've stood right here, fishing. He was a victor, all right, but he still fished. For the sake of being sane, having his old life, and I guess for my mother.
The rain has begun to fall, lightly tapping the already wet dock with its soft platters. Tip-tap. Tip-tap. Somehow, my mind flashes back to the tape of the 75th Hunger Games. Tick-tock, tick-tock. The rain is my clock, ticking away the time I have in life. Time until I meet my father's fate.
I am so absorbed in my thoughts I don't notice her creeping onto me. But she comes, all right. And when she speaks, I jump. Her voice hoarse with exhaustion of travel and possibly the flu, her hair dripping wet, just like the day I met her. But her hazel eyes were wide with desperation and she literally crawls upon me.
Angel.
Her name flashes back to me once. Yes. It's her.
What is she doing here?
I'm about to ask that question myself when her muddy hands fall onto my lap. I jump, disgusted, and nearly fall into the angry waves.
"Wha–" I stutter, but she cuts me off.
"Help me," she whispers. "Please. They're going to kill me."