Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to Suzanne Collins or other copyright holders of the Hunger Games.

So, every time I've tried to work on Wiress (or my PhD thesis) in the last 2 weeks I've had Finnick-in-my-head jumping up and down yelling "Write me instead!" As such, I have given in for now, and present:

Riding the Storm

Part I: Tribute

I watch the sun rise from the roof of our house. I always liked sunrises as a kid, the rippling reds and oranges in the clouds as the sky and sea slowly turn from fiery golden orange to perfect blue. Until that day, nearly five years ago when the day-long storm broke and the glorious sunrise, reflected in the suddenly calm waters, rippled around the broken pieces of my family's boat. Around the battered and beaten bodies floating amongst the debris while I shivered on the wooden crate I managed to climb onto to ride out the nightmare.

The rescue boats came soon enough, got me and the three others from our boat who survived out first, then even managed most of the bodies, though we returned those to the sea again with proper rites the next night. Ours was one of nine boats that went down in the violent and sudden storm. But I was the only one who lost my entire family.

My Mom had the helm when the skies opened, and I saw her desperately trying to steer us towards the sheltered bay only to get turned back again and again. Dad and my cousin Marni were madly tossing safety ropes to everyone on deck, to tie down so that no-one got swept away. When the first wave crashed across the bow and everyone stayed on board there was a ragged cheer. The second wave snapped three of the ropes, including Marni's and I saw her neck break as she hit the railing.

I shiver at the memory despite the warmth of the day, then nearly jump out of my skin as something moves behind me. I turn to grab whatever it is and find my fists balled in blue-and-white checked shirt and long light brown hair.

"Oris. Don't sneak up on me man."

Oris blinks those wide hazel eyes, then grins and pushes free of my grip, settling himself on the roof beside me.

"You'll have to be more aware than that if you ever plan on volunteering," he says smugly.

I swat him over the head, but can't help smiling back since he's right.

"I don't plan on volunteering until I'm big and old enough to win," I say with forced confidence. Honestly I'm not sure if I'll ever volunteer at all, for all I've been training. The fight training helps me drown out the memories and wears me out so that I can sleep without nightmares. It's the main reason I go. The main reason Oris has started coming along is that his Grandma was our district's first victor, and he knows that there's a good chance he might someday be reaped. It's not so bad in our district where there's usually a volunteer, but some years no-one puts their hand up and whoever's name gets called gets stuck fighting.

The fact that Oris' Grandma is a victor is probably the only reason I was allowed to move in with his family rather than going to the Community Home, so there are some advantages. Oris' Mom Greta and my Mom were best friends all through school, and our old house was only a few doors down the street. Of course someone else lives there now. All our old stuff is either here or got sold to pay the death taxes. Oris and I grew up practically like brothers, even though he's nearly two years younger so it wasn't all that strange to move in for good.

I see the flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye and grab his arm before he can shove me sideways. I twist suddenly, pinning it behind his back, hooking a foot around his legs to stop him from kicking free, and also to stop him falling off the roof. It doesn't take him long to call uncle, and I let him go with a grin. "See, I'm plenty aware."

He rubs his shoulder with a false pout. "Bully. You're much better than me. Taller, stronger."

"Older," I remind him pointedly, then smile. "Prettier too, apparently."

We both laugh at that. Oris is well enough for looks I guess, but people have always called me beautiful. When they were taking pictures of the survivors of the storm I kept getting dragged to the front even though there were others with far worse injuries. There's always been girls in school to giggle when I walk past, and I've been asked out by nearly half my class at some point or another. I've always been able to charm people into helping me with just a flutter of eyelashes and a quick smile, but the last year or so it's become ridiculous. Even one of my teachers started getting embarrassed around me so much that I had to change classes.

On the upside if I ever do volunteer for the Hunger Games, I'm pretty much guaranteed the captain's share of the sponsors. At fourteen and ten months, I'm only a few inches short of six feet tall and the years of fishing, sailing, swimming and training have given me plenty of muscle. In a year or two I could well be unstoppable. If I wanted.

A voice from inside the house makes us both turn. Greta is just like her mother in some ways: You don't argue with her and you don't ever want to make her angry, but if she likes you she will help you and protect you with everything she has. Right now she's yelling my name, most likely having found my reaping clothes on the floor.

"You're in trouble," Oris taunts as we both climb down through the window into our room. Sure enough Greta is standing there in the doorway, fists on hips. She has the same wavy brown hair and hazel eyes as her son, though he can never look as fierce as she does.

She raises an eyebrow as I scoop up my father's old dress shirt and trousers off the floor and shake them out, hanging them over the bed post. I flash her my most winning smile and she rolls her eyes hugely before turning on Oris. "If you tear that climbing about, I'll stick you in one of my dresses for the reaping."

He grins as well, knowing as we all do that she would do no such thing. Relatives of victors almost always end up on camera at some point. I wonder for a minute why Oris has already changed into his good clothes, since the reaping isn't for another five hours. Then I realize he's scared and trying to hide it by being over-prepared.

I tousle his hair, messing up where he's already undoubtedly combed it and say, "Don't worry so much. If you get reaped I'm sure someone will volunteer to replace your scrawny ass. Hell, I'd volunteer for you just so I wouldn't have to watch you squirming in front of the cameras."

Oris has always hated his bit of celebrity. In a district where people count worth by ability, being known just for being related to someone famous tends to get you a sort of derisive respect. People acknowledge that you are known while constantly reminding you that you don't really deserve it. Last year they made a bit of a deal about it being his first reaping, as it was also Wenna Anderson, our most recent victor's sister's last. The commentators loved the thought of two mentors facing off with tribute relatives, even though Oris wasn't called and Wenna didn't volunteer.

Another yell from downstairs tells us that breakfast is ready, and that Oris should at least put on something over his good shirt so he doesn't have to worry about spills. That Greta doesn't argue about him already being dressed tells me she knows exactly why he's doing it too. Greta was on the stage once as well when she was eligible for reaping. We've heard the story from Mags, who after losing her son to sickness, glared at the crowd until someone volunteered for her daughter. Honestly I think Greta would have been a terrifying competitor. So would Mags, back in the old days when she won her Games.

I manage to keep Oris distracted for the rest of the morning helping me with my maths homework. I'm terrible at numbers once they start including letters and even though he's behind me in school he still knows more than I ever will about it. By the time we're done I have to change in a rush, foregoing a proper comb and using my fingers to ruffle my hair into its usual windswept look. Technically not as neat as we're supposed to be, but everyone loves it so I'm sure I can get away with it. The shirt is a little tight on me too; my last growth spurt left me as tall as my dad was, but I'm a little broader across the chest. Rather than risk the shirt tearing I pop the top button open.

Greta raises an eyebrow when she sees it and my hair, but doesn't comment. She pointedly confiscates Oris' comb, where he's brushing out his shoulder-length hair for the tenth time and waves us both out the door. Ricard, Oris' dad slings an arm around both our shoulders as we step out into the street.

"Come on boys, the faster we get to the reaping the sooner we can celebrate tonight."

Greta rolls her eyes again, but is smiling when she locks the door and we join the flow of people heading into town.

~xXx~

The reaping areas are separated by roped areas, with the oldest kids in the front so they can run forward to volunteer easily. It means me and Oris can still talk over the ropes as he's just turned thirteen and I'm still in the fourteens section. I'm glad since it gives me an excuse not to talk to the inevitable hovering crowd of girls. Brant, one of the guys in my class who I'm friendly enough with joins us to talk about who might be volunteering this year. No-one our age of course, unless they're crazy, but Brant's sister trains with some of the older girls, and apparently there's two or three talking about it.

From what I've seen there's always plenty of people talking, but rarely more than one person actually puts up their hand. When two people do both call at once, it's up to the mentors to decide who goes. Usually they pick well. In fact our last victor Wade was one of three people who called that year, and Gabriela and Morstan chose him even though he was smaller and younger because they knew that size isn't everything. Of course it helped that the arena was a collection of small islands connected by sandy bridges that disappeared at high tide. Since he could swim just fine he didn't have to wait until the tide went out to travel.

He's one of this year's mentors, I notice as he takes one of the seats closest to the mayor. Gabriela takes the other. She was smart as well as talented, from what I remember watching the replay of her Games in school. She hasn't mentored a victor yet, but has had a lot of top-three finishes and she does the rounds of the four training schools quite regularly so she knows what her volunteers are capable of. I remember seeing Wade at one training session, but he didn't actually teach anything or speak to the students. Just came and watched and sneered a bit. I feel sorry for whichever of our boys gets stuck with him.

Someone rings the harbor bell to call the reaping started and it doesn't take long for the crowd to quiet. Mayor Byron waits for the last whispers and the sea breeze to die down before she starts speaking. She's pretty well liked by most people, though she won't hesitate to punish anyone actually caught smuggling or fishing outside the boundaries. It doesn't stop some people doing it of course, even though a first offence is a whipping followed by a dunk in salt water and a second offence is hanging.

Poor families whose fishing or seller licenses have been taken tend to do what they have to to survive. I'm just glad I never had to make that choice, though at least here in Four we don't have to fear so much about taking out tesserae.

Mayor Byron hands over to our Escort Acanthus Bloom. He's been the escort for District Four since before I was born, and from what I've heard Mags saying is a pretty decent guy. For a Capitol citizen, anyway. He gets through the preliminaries quickly and heads for the girl's reaping bowl first, as usual.

"Jana Peress."

I recognize her as she takes the stage as an older girl I've passed in the corridor at school. One of the gigglers, though the last time I saw her she was bawling about something. She's not crying now as she walks up the stairs and turns to face the crowd, though she is shaking a bit.

"And for the gentlemen," Acanthus says as he sweeps to the other bowl, and even though I know logically it won't be me and if it is there will be a volunteer, my breath still catches.

"Oris Martin."

I stop myself reaching forward and grabbing his arm, but it's a near thing. He turns and throws me what is supposed to be a cocky grin before he starts making his way to the stage, but I can see the fear in his eyes. I make myself grin back and clap his shoulder on the way past. He'll be fine. Being a victor's relative, we all knew it would probably happen someday. Better now when he's still young enough that someone will definitely volunteer. They always do when it's just a kid. Always. Then he and I can cheer them on back home tonight. It will be fine.

Once both tributes are on stage, Acanthus murmurs to both of them then gestures them towards the front of the stage. Very occasionally the person reaped doesn't want to be replaced and they can say so now. Both of them take the step forward and I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Very well, we shall now ask for volunteers for the lovely Miss Peress. Ladies?"

Two cries of "I volunteer!" echo from near the front. I recognize the dark-haired girl as Anita Salter, an eighteen-year-old from the same training school I go to. She's pretty good from what I've seen.

The other girl is lighter-haired and less muscled, though definitely better looking. Gabriella and Wade confer for a minute before gesturing Anita up. She goes with a cheerful whoop and the crowd applauds as she high-fives Jana on the way past.

"And now, volunteers for Mister Martin. Gentlemen?"

There's no cry straight away. A few people start muttering and they show the first roped area on the big screen, where the eighteen-year-olds shuffle restlessly. I recognize two of them near the front who were talking themselves up just last week at training about how they really were going to do it this year. One is staring resolutely at the ground, the other takes a half step forward and begins to raise his hand, then shakes his head and stays quiet.

The screen cuts back to the reaping stage, where Oris' eyes have gone wide and his fists are clenched tight. Mags, off to the side with the other non-mentor victors is shaking her head and muttering to one of the other victors, Nimia Arran. Another rattle of wind through the pennant flags strung about the square makes me realize there isn't going to be a volunteer. I am going to go home tonight with his parents, who took me in and raised me like their own son, while their real child fights to the death on screen.

No, I won't let that happen. I can't. I'm not ready for the Games, but I'm way more prepared than Oris and I owe him and them this. They gave me a life when I thought I'd lost everything. Now I can pay them back.

"I volunteer," I yell just as Acanthus opens his mouth to declare the reaping done. I'm tall enough that he sees my arm above the crowd of people in the pens. He waves me to come up, and I brush aside several reaching arms on the way out. Girls, I realize when I hear someone say, "Not Finnick, he's too pretty to die!"

I'm tempted to turn back and tell her that I'm not planning on dying, but I see Oris on stage. He's recognized me and is shaking his head and arguing with our Escort. Probably asking him not to let me replace him. I hurry up the stairs and sling an arm around his shoulders as I give my name. As the crowd applauds, I use my grip to steer the boy who is my brother in all but blood off to the side where he can't argue any more. Mags grabs him and covers his mouth with one hand as the Mayor starts the reading of the Treaty. She gives me a sad smile as I take my place facing the sea of people below. For the second time in my life I will be facing death, only this time I have to do it with a smile.