There was a soft tap on the door of his compartment on the train. "Finnick?" Mags' voice registered in his ears. "Finnick, donncha want dinneh?"
"I'm not hungry." In a way, it was true. His stomach was rumbling as he sat on his bed, looking at nothing, but he couldn't eat. The thought of food was repulsive.
"Finnick, ya have t' eat." Mags' voice was soft, persuasive, motherly. Finnick ignored it. "There's no good starvin' yourself…"
He did not respond. After a while, when Mags had still said nothing, Finnick assumed she had left. He didn't spend much thought on her.
Instead, he thought about Patrick Daily.
Patrick was a previous victor, who had won his games some ten years before Finnick was born. During his games, he had lost an eye. The Capitol had replaced it for him, of course – gave him a new, working eye. But a couple of days after his games, Patrick had called everyone to the district square. He had stood on the stage and, right in front of everyone, gouged out the eye the Capitol had given him and trodden on it. It had been a supreme gesture of defiance.
No one had seen him since then.
There was a switch in Finnick's brain. It helped him differentiate between the real him and the façade he put on while at the Capitol. When the switch was on, he was smooth, sarcastic, nonchalant. When it was off, he was friendly, happy, passionate. Capitol Finnick. Real Finnick. On. Off. On. Off. On off on off –
ON.
Finnick strolled into the Remake Center, eyeing the other victors, casting critical eyes over their costumes. The usual ridiculous getups, of course. Was that Johanna Mason in the tree outfit? Hah.
Although, thought Finnick ruefully, looking down at his own "costume," he hardly had the right to criticize. But then, he'd been too much in shock to protest it. As any one would be. Expecting to be greeted by his stylist Caius and being greeted instead by his stylist Caia had been interesting, to say the least.
And, hell, Finnick didn't really mind being almost naked. Even if practically the entire country was watching him.
He held a handful of sugar cubes for the horses. Still casual, he walked over to his chariot, raising a hand in greeting when Brutus hailed him. Mags was sitting in the chariot, apparently lost in thought. Thankfully, her stylist hadn't mimicked Finnick's outfit for her. Mags wore some sort of wrap dress of a shimmery gold fabric, with pearls looped through her thinning hair.
"Thinking, Mags?" said Finnick. He offered some of the sugar to the near horse, who lipped it up.
Mags smiled ruefully. "Ah've seen all of these," she said. "All these victors. Ah've seen every one of their games."
"Huh." Finnick absentmindedly stroked the soft gray neck of the horse. He'd never considered that. Mags was by far the oldest victor here. Hell, she was older than the games themselves…
"Mags," said Finnick slowly, "what was life like before the Hunger Games? Before the rebellion?"
Her chin propped on her hands, Mags stared out in front of her. "Ah doon't remembeh," she said at last.
Finnick stared at her, suddenly full of pity. Then he turned his gaze back to the other victors, sizing them up. The majority of them were in their thirties to early sixties and looked comparatively fit. The youngest would easily be Katniss and Peeta.
Katniss was interesting. She was a b-tch, like practically every other female victor, but in the I'm-just-looking-out-for-myself way, as opposed to the I-want-to-inflict-pain-and-misery way.
Speak of the devil.
A young female victor had just walked in, and Finnick was pretty damn sure it was Katniss. It was hard to tell, though, underneath all that warpaint. Then again, who but Cinna would come up with an outfit like that? Something so deceptively simple now, it had to be absolutely showstopping at some point.
Popping a sugar cube in his mouth, he strolled over to where Katniss stood petting one of the jet-black horses. He managed to get right behind her before she realized he was there and turned around, her eyes widening in surprise. Tossing in another sugar cube, he leaned against the horse.
"Hello, Katniss," he said. Casually.
"Hello, Finnick," she returned. Finnick saw her eyes flick up and down his body, and he suppressed a smirk.
"Want a sugar cube?" he said, extending his hand. "They're supposed to be for the horses, but who cares? They've got years to eat sugar, whereas you and I…well, if we see something sweet, we better grab it quick."
"No, thanks," said Katniss. Apparently it made her uncomfortable to look him in the eyes, because she was speaking to the sugar cubes. "I'd love to borrow your outfit sometime, though."
Maybe the reason she was having a hard time looking at his face was because the rest of him was so distracting. Finnick decided to tease her in turn.
"You're absolutely terrifying me in that getup. What happened to the pretty little-girl dresses?"
"I outgrew them," she said.
No sh-t. "It's too bad about this Quell thing," he said, fingering her collar. What was this? Cinna must be a freakin' genius. "You could have made out like a bandit in the Capitol. Jewels, money, anything you wanted."
"I don't like jewels, and I have more money than I need." Good, that had pissed her off like he thought it would. "What do you spend all yours on, anyway, Finnick?"
Presents for Annie. "Oh, I haven't dealt in anything as common as money for years."
"Then how do they pay you for the pleasure of your company?"
Sudden anger and disgust burst into life in Finnick's stomach. Who the hell was Katniss to judge? She as good as called him a whore! Didn't she realize the Capitol had f—ked up his life just like they f—ked up hers?
"With secrets," he said in a low voice, hiding his anger. Then, to further discomfort Katniss, he brought his face close to hers. "What about you, girl on fire? Do you have any secrets worth my time?"
Katniss blushed underneath her makeup. So she did have secrets. "No, I'm an open book," she whispered. "Everybody seems to know my secrets before I know them myself."
Yeah, right. Unless…Finnick's mind went to the Victory Tour, to the Capitol. Could she be talking about Snow? The sonofab-tch certainly knew enough of Finnick's secrets.
"Unfortunately, I think that's true." Behind Katniss, the doors opened again and Finnick saw Peeta march in in a matching unitard. "Peeta is coming. Sorry you have to cancel your wedding. I know how devastating that must be for you." He ate another sugar cube and left before Katniss could work out the sarcasm in his comment.
Katniss wasn't in love with Peeta. Finnick could tell. Were they close? Yes. Did she depend on him? Yes. But Finnick figured she loved Peeta about as much as Finnick loved, say, Aurelia.
Finnick returned to his chariot, aware that Katniss and Peeta were talking with their heads together. Were they discussing him? Probably.
"You'd better get ready," he said to Mags. "We should be starting any minute now." He helped her into the chariot before swinging himself in.
As the music began and the procession of chariots rolled out, Finnick put on his charade, grinning and waving to the crowd. It was…surprisingly easy. And Finnick realized – or perhaps remembered – that he liked attention. Being a celebrity was natural for him. Maybe that was why the crowds loved him. During President Snow's speech, though, he had to work hard to keep the corrosive hatred in his guts from spilling over onto his face. To distract himself, he looked at Katniss and Peeta's costumes for the first time.
Holy sh-t.
Cinna had outdone himself.
Their unitards and crowns were glowing with an ever-changing play of colours – orange, red, and deep gold – that looked so realistic Finnick found it hard to believe the outfit itself wasn't smoldering. Forget last year's flames. This was incredible.
Then the anthem played – God, Finnick was sick of that song – and they did one more lap before returning to the Training Center.
Mags sighed as Finnick helped her off the chariot. "Ah feel ridiculous."
"Why?"
"Everyone's so much youngeh than me. Can ya imagine me wearin' one o' those fiery suits? It'd be horrible…"
"Ah, Mags, don't say that…" They started walking back, Mags's arm linked through his. Up ahead, Finnick saw an older male victor – from Eleven by the look of it – grab Katniss and kiss her. Finnick's snort of laughter made Mags look up at him questioningly, but he shrugged and she let it go.
As they stood, waiting for an elevator, Brutus strolled over to them. "Hey, Finnick."
"Brutus." Finnick greeted him with a firm handshake and a nod. "How've you been?"
"Not bad." Brutus looked around with obvious satisfaction, stretching his arms. "Man, it feels good to be back here."
On seeing Finnick's incredulous look, he laughed. "I mean it. I'm excited."
"You must be pretty sure of winning, then," said Finnick.
Brutus shrugged and grinned. "You only die once." Then his tone changed to one of friendly inquiry. "Hey, who's your mentor this year?"
"Connor Burns."
"Connor…" Brutus bent his head, musing. "Connor…which games was he?"
"57th, I think." Up ahead of them, Johanna, who was talking to Katniss and Peeta, had stripped off her costume. Finnick laughed at Katniss's obvious embarrassment.
"What is it?" Puzzled, Brutus craned his head to see what Finnick was laughing at.
"Mason's giving the District 12 victors a little show."
Brutus snickered. But as his eyes found Katniss, his forehead drew together. "Look, Finnick," he said, lowering his voice, "what do you think? About them and all the – you know."
"Yeah, I know," said Finnick quietly. "I think – "
What did he think?
"I think something is about to change," he said. "And it better be soon."
Go to Training – check.
Chat to Brutus, Cashmere, and Gloss and start sketching out a possible alliance – check.
Mess with Katniss – check.
Except while tying knots with her, he somehow ended up making a noose. To cover how much that unsettled him, he playfully pretended to hang himself, wondering what her reaction would be. She simply rolled her eyes and left. Finnick dropped the noose, troubled. Was he really that morbid?
Morose now, he wandered over to where Mags stood at the archery station. Aimlessly, he strung a bow and began firing at one of the targets. Most of his shots went wide, but he didn't really care. Archery had never been his strong point, anyway.
"So what's the plan?" he said to Mags. "You going to stick with me, or what?"
"Ah doon't know." She looked troubled. "How much would Ah hindeh ya?"
"What? No, Mags, don't think about that…"
"Finnick, Ah'm not gonna get outta this alive," she said. "Ah know that. Mah priority is keepin' ya safe. And if tha' means getting' outta your way, so be it."
"Mags…" Finnick stared at her, pity welling up inside him again. "You don't have to…"
"Ah've already resigned meself to die," she said firmly. "Don't try t' change mah mind." And she sent an arrow speeding straight to the center of the farthest target.
"Nice shot."
It was all Finnick could think to say.
Late in the second day of training, when Finnick and Mags were heading back to their rooms, they were waylaid by Connor and Katniss and Peeta's mentor, whose name Finnick couldn't remember for the life of him. In fact, the only thing he could remember about him was that he was a steady boozer.
"Hey," said Connor. He was a stocky man of medium height, whose black hair was already graying at the temples. Right now he looked like the boozer had given him something hard to think about.
"Hey," said Finnick, slowing to a stop. "What's up?"
Connor glanced at the boozer, who gave a nod. It was a very odd gesture. Like he was giving Connor permission.
"Finnick – Mags," said Connor. "Could you come with us?"
Nonplussed, Finnick nodded. He and Mags followed Connor and the boozer down one of the hallways until they reached a large closet, into which he was unceremoniously stuffed.
"Hey! What the – "
"Shut up," growled the boozer, pulling Mags in with only slightly more courtesy. Connor squeezed in and shut the door. Only a chink of light illuminated the four of them.
"What the hell?" demanded Finnick.
"It's not bugged in here," snapped the boozer. "Or do you want the Capitol listening in on our plans?"
"Ah doon't understand," said Mags. "What are ya plannin'?"
The boozer frowned at her. Apparently her accent, already thick in Finnick's ears, was undecipherable to him. "What's she saying?"
"Mags wants to know what you're planning."
"All right then." The boozer shrugged. "Anyway, Connor says I can trust you two, which I find hard to believe, especially since Four is a traditional career district. And even if I do decide to trust you – which is unlikely – it doesn't mean I'll like working with you."
"Believe me, the feeling is mutual," said Finnick. "What do you want? Why should any of us – including Connor – trust you?"
"Because that's the only way we'll bring down the Capitol."
Five seconds' ringing silence followed this. Then Mags drew in a long, hissing breath.
"What?" said Finnick. "Bring down the Capitol? Are you out of your f—king mind?"
"You're not the first to say that," said the boozer dryly. "But no, I don't think I am. The time is perfect. We've got districts full of pent-up anger, people desperate enough to do anything, and the perfect young couple to lead them. It couldn't be better."
"Tell me this honestly," said Mags. "Do ya think ya have a chance o' winnin'?"
"What?"
"Do we have a snowball's chance in hell of winning?" snapped Finnick. "And I don't mean in your idealistic, revolutionary dreams. In real, practical terms, can you guys get out of this without getting your heads blown off?"
The boozer looked oddly smug. "Yes," he said. "We do. I won't explain why, but we can."
Finnick started to laugh. "You're crazy," he said. "You're batsh-t crazy! You seriously think…" He stopped, shook his head, and laughed again. "You guys can go ahead and get yourselves blown up if you want. I'll stay on the sidelines and watch."
"You know," said the boozer – carefully, but with a hint of sarcasm – "for a guy who was forced into prostitution by the Capitol and is in love with a girl who's gone crazy because of the Hunger Games, you'd think you'd be a bit more proactive."
Finnick went very, very still. Mags laid a restraining hand on his arm, and Connor muttered, "Haymitch, that wasn't wise…"
The boozer smirked.
Closing his eyes, Finnick took a deep breath through his nose. "Look," he said through clenched teeth, "that same girl is the reason I'm not taking part in this rebellion of yours. If the Capitol catches me, what do you think they'll do to her?"
"You're assuming they'll win," said the boozer.
"I'm trying to protect Annie!" shouted Finnick, glaring at him. "And yes, I'm assuming they'll win, because if you haven't noticed, they're the ones with the damn nuclear weapons!"
"Fine," snapped the boozer. "I'm done trying to persuade you." He opened the closet door with a jerk and strode down the hallway. Soon they could no longer hear the clumping of his boots.
"He's mad," muttered Finnick, stepping out after him. "He's completely out of his mind."
"I don't think so," said Connor quietly. "I think there's more to this…and I think it started long before the Quell."
Finnick and Mags both stared at him. "Are ya sayin' ya believe him?" asked Mags.
Connor hesitated. "I think I do."
"Would ya side with him? Rebel?"
He looked torn. "I don't know…I have children, and more than anything I want to keep them safe…but how safe can they be in a world where the Hunger Games exists?"
"Damned if you do, damned if you don't," muttered Finnick. He started walking down the hallway, his shoes making angry slapping noises against the tiled floor. Like everything else, it was spotlessly clean. Damn the Capitol. Damn everyone.
But the idea of revolution had taken hold of Finnick like a poisonous weed. He couldn't sleep that night for constantly thinking it over; the next day, he was abstracted during all of training. It wasn't until lunch that he put the matter out of his mind and started paying attention to the other tributes.
It wasn't that Finnick wanted the Capitol in power; far from it. But he valued his and Annie's safety far too much to upset the precarious balance of their lives.
"Private sessions today, eh?" said Brutus jovially as they all sat down at the communal table. "What are you gonna do, Finnick?"
Finnick, who was getting food from one of the carts, shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "To be honest, I never really thought about."
"Now might be a good time to start," suggested Cashmere mildly. The other tributes laughed.
"Hey, girl on fire." Finnick picked up an apple from the cart and lobbed it at her. Though startled, Katniss managed to catch it, sitting down with a murmured word of thanks. Peeta sat next to her, of course, but Finnick slid smoothly into the seat on her other side.
"The problem this year," Johanna was saying, "is coming up with something new. We have to give the Gamemakers something they've never seen before."
"What do you suggest?" said Cecilia. "Strip? I'll bet they haven't seen that one." A ripple of laughter at her comment went around the table.
"True." Finnick looked up from his plate, eyes flashing with humor as he saw a chance to tease Johanna. "But in Johanna's case, it would hardly be exposing anything any of us hadn't seen before. In fact, if you wanted to shock the Gamemakers, you'd probably be better off keeping your clothes on."
The other tributes roared with laughter, but Johanna's lips tightened and spots of angry color appeared on her cheeks. "How is that different from you?" she snapped. "At least I'm not the one prancing around on national television wearing nothing but a golden fishnet."
Finnick could have been needled at her comment, but he chose to stay smooth and sarcastic. "Come, come, Johanna. That was hardly my decision. I think Caia designs those costumes as much for her own gratification as the audience's."
"Ah think Ah'll just take a nap," said Mags, trying to alleviate the hostility that still radiated from Johanna. "Not much point in me doin' anythin' else."
Finnick doubted if half the tributes could understand her, but they chuckled appreciatively as much at her breaking the tension as the actual humor in her statement.
"What about you, girl on fire?" said Chaff. "What do you plan to do?"
She looked startled at the comment. "Oh – I don't know," she said. "Shoot some arrows, I guess. Haymitch said to surprise the Gamemakers if we could, but I'm fresh out of ideas."
"Want some of mine?" said Enobaria. The light gleamed on her golden teeth as she grinned. "I've got plenty."
"No, thanks," said Katniss. Her shudder was so slight Finnick doubted even Katniss realized it.
The other tributes resumed their conversation, joking about the upcoming private sessions, but Finnick watched Katniss and Peeta with their mentor's words running through his head. There was no doubt the public was absolutely in love with them. But would it be enough to fuel a rebellion? Finnick doubted it. The affections of the Capitol people were fickle things.
The Districts were another matter. Finnick didn't need the boozer to tell him of the huge store of pent-up anger and grief in them. Fear kept those feelings under lock, but given a purpose and a figurehead to rally under, who knew? The Districts could very well have it in them to bring down the Capitol.
Except…Finnick realized that all his visions of the rebellion, victorious or not, ended in destruction and death, bombs and bloodshed. Either the Districts rebelled and the Capitol razed them to the ground, or the Districts and the Capitol blew each other to pieces.
"Gloss Scipio?" called an aide. "The Gamemakers are ready for you."
Grinning, Gloss stood, brushing his golden hair out of his eyes. "Wish me luck," he said, and added, "I'm not sure my singing voice will hold up."
In Finnick's mind, it was a poor attempt at humor, and he ignored it. What do I want? he thought, chin propped on his hand. I want…He sighed, closing his eyes, and began logically order his thoughts. I want a world where Annie and I can live together safely. That is…all I care about, really. I don't give a sh-t about which group's in power as I know that they won't bother us.
But the Capitol was bothering them. It wouldn't let him be with Annie, forcing him to take these extended trips, keeping them apart. It wouldn't let them marry. And if they did marry and had children, those children would live under the Hunger Games's shadow.
And yet…the risk of rebellion was certain. The benefits were unclear and certainly less likely.
I don't want to kill people, Finnick realized. I don't. That's what really bothers me about this. It's that win or lose, hundreds, thousands of people will die. And that's not something I want to be a part of.
He didn't come out of his brown study until the aide called his name to appear before the Gamemakers. Sighing, Finnick walked into the room. The Gamemakers were all seated at a table, chatting with each other, but as he entered their attention shifted to him.
"Well, well, Mr. Odair," trilled a female Gamemaker, whose long corkscrew curls were a vibrant shade of candy-floss pink. "So nice to see you!"
Finnick replied with a bland nod and smile, walking over to the rack of weapons. There was a splendid trident there – possibly especially for him – but the balance felt wrong when he hefted it in his hands. He picked up a spear instead.
"How goes your training?" asked a man. Finnick turned and saw the speaker was Plutarch Heavensbee, the Head Gamemaker.
"Well enough," answered Finnick politely. The spear felt more natural. He tossed it from one hand to the other, testing its weight.
"Have you had a chance to talk to Haymitch?"
Haymitch? Who's –
"The mentor of last year's victors," said Heavensbee, in response to Finnick's blank look. He folded his hands on the table and leaned forward slightly, like he wanted to convey an important point. "I find he has some very sage advice."
The boozer? Advice? What the –
And it clicked.
So Heavensbee was in on this rebellion thing too, eh? Finnick carefully kept his face blank as he fingered the shaft of the spear. "I've heard his advice, sir," he said. "Though I'm not sure I'll follow it."
"Of course." Was Finnick imagining it, or did Heavensbee look disappointed? He leaned back in his chair, and Finnick understood the double conversation was over. "He is, after all, the mentor of two of your opponents."
"Precisely." Finnick stepped into the center of the room.
"Well, Mr. Odair?" sang Candy-Floss. "What do you have to show us?"
Deliberating, Finnick shifted his grip on the spear. Then, with a sudden movement, he flung it straight up so it drove into the ceiling and hung there, quivering. The Gamemakers gasped.
"Not sure," said Finnick. "Something new."
Finnick left the shower, clad only in jeans and toweling his hair dry, to find everyone else watching the television for the results of their private sessions. Mags was seated on the couch, hands folded; Connor stood behind her, leaning on its back; and Dalia Burns, their publicity director, stood next to Connor, her dark hair smoothed into a professional twist.
"Any scores yet?" Finnick plopped down next to Mags.
"No, they're just starting," said Dalia. "Look."
Finnick focused his attention on the TV. Anthem again. Gloss – ten. Cashmere – nine. Brutus – ten. Etc., etc. Finnick's score came up as an eleven. Connor high-fived him and Mags squeezed his knee affectionately. Her own score was a three.
"Ah well," said Mags good-naturedly, with a rueful smile. "Didn't expect much else."
None of the other scores were any higher than a seven, and Finnick was feeling reasonably confident about his chances. And then – Peeta came up.
Twelve.
"Twelve?" said Finnick. "What the bloody – ?"
Katniss – twelve.
Astounded, Finnick looked at the faces of his companions. Mags was shocked. Connor looked slightly dazed. Dalia had her eyes narrowed at the screen.
"What did they do?" whispered Connor.
"Whatever it was, it sure pissed off the Gamemakers," said Finnick.
Three pair of eyes turned to him in confusion.
"Oh, come on," said Finnick. "You can't honestly believe they earned those scores!"
"It's possible…"
"No, Connor, it isn't. No one gets a twelve, no one, not even Julius from the 43rd Games, and he was arguably the greatest tribute there ever was. The Gamemakers aren't rewarding them for their skills." He paused to let his words sink in. "They're painting a target on their foreheads."
Mags buried her face in her hands. Dalia tapped her polished nails on her clipboard, creating a sharp staccato rhythm. "That could be," she said. "But I still don't see the motive. Why target them?"
"Think, Dalia," said Finnick. "Think about what they did last year. Think about what's been happening since then."
Her brow furrowed. Then she laughed. "Finnick, you can't be serious! Those children, leaders of a – "
"I am serious," said Finnick quietly. He met Connor's eyes and they understood each other.
"No," said Dalia. "No, that's ridiculous! You can hardly expect me to believe – "
"But you've got to," said Connor. He stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her. "Dalia, darling, you must – "
Finnick quickly looked away from them, eyes smarting. God, he missed Annie. He missed her so much it hurt.
"But then what can we do?" Dalia's professional façade was cracking a little under this information, and she sounded almost frightened. Connor leaned his head on her shoulder.
"Do?" said Finnick. "Hell if I know. It's not our problem."
Connor flashed him a startled look, but Finnick silently mouthed, The rooms are bugged. Both Connor and Dalia got the message.
"Of course," said Dalia, with a brave attempt to hide the tremor in her voice. "District Four doesn't have anything to do with this." She slipped out of her husband's arms and turned the television off. Taking a deep breath, she turned to the others, but Mags had already gotten to her feet and hobbled out of the room, while Finnick and Connor were deep in silent conversation.
What are you going to do? said Connor's eyes.
Finnick shrugged.
Decide, mouthed Connor. Soon.
Nodding, Finnick looked away. Make a decision! his mind clamored at him. You must choose! Can you allow the Capitol to rule, to kill innocent children every year?
And somehow, that was when Finnick realized. Realized that the rebellion was about more than him, more than Annie, more than District Four or the Capitol or the Hunger Games. It was about humanity, about the future, and if he wasn't going to risk his life to for a better future then he was a pretty selfish bastard.
As Connor read the new determination in Finnick's eyes, his face whitened.
Help me, mouthed Finnick. Help us.
Connor drew back, his eyes flicking to Dalia. Then he swallowed, and nodded.
Thanks.
"Evening, Finnick," said Caesar Flickerman. "As good looking as ever, I see."
"You too, Caesar," returned Finnick, his voice hitting just the right note of familiarity. Half the girls in the audience were screaming; he turned his head and casually winked. Playing the crowd.
The outfit certainly helped, too. All Finnick was wearing was metallic bluish-silver pants of some fabric that fit so snugly it barely left anything to the imagination. His arms and shoulders were temporarily tattooed with a swirling pattern in silver, his eyes lined with bright silver, and his bronze hair streaked with various shades of gold and copper that gleamed with a fiery intensity under the lights. It felt a little ridiculous, but one look at the crowd told Finnick the costume was doing a damn good job.
"And you're just as popular, if not more so!" said Flickerman jovially.
"Yes," answered Finnick, letting a little feeling creep into his voice. "There are so many in this Capitol – "
"I love you, Finnick!" a girl hysterically screamed over the noise of the crowd. Unable to pick her out, he waved in her general direction and saw a girl of about fourteen faint, apparently overcome with emotion.
Flickerman opened his mouth to speak, but Finnick forestalled him, saying, "If you don't mind, Caesar, I have something I'd like to say?"
Though he looked a little startled, Flickerman recovered his equanimity almost instantly. "Of course, Finnick," he said indulgently. "Anything you want."
"I wrote a poem," said Finnick, half to the audience and with the perfect tone of hesitancy that foretold the revealing of something intimate. From the waistband of his pants, he pulled a folded sheet of paper.
Yesterday, Finnick had met with Haymitch and Plutarch Heavensbee in a deserted storeroom. There, he had mostly listened and memorized as Haymitch told him of a plan, a fantastic plan that involved lightning and wires and a giant tree. And Katniss.
"We need Katniss," Haymitch had said. "She is the heart of this revolution, even if she doesn't know it. But she's sworn to keep Peeta alive, even at the cost of her own life. So your priority in the arena needs to be the both of them."
"Now hold on," said Finnick. "Before we go any further, I need to make something clear. You said Peeta is Katniss's priority. Well, Annie is my priority. You know that the minute we blow the forcefield, all hell is going to break loose. And I'm betting the first thing the Capitol is going to do is go to all the districts and get as many hostages as possible. So if I'm going to go through with this, I'm going to need some sort of guarantee that the Capitol won't get its filthy hands on Annie."
Haymitch and Heavensbee looked at each other. "All right," said Haymitch. "I swear that we will do everyth – "
"No," said Finnick flatly, cutting him off. "I don't trust you." And he turned very deliberately to Heavensbee.
"Me?" said the overweight Gamemaker. "Why me?"
"Because he drinks and you don't," said Finnick. "Because he's desperate and you're not. Because Haymitch is a sorry son-of-a-b-tch who came out of the Hunger Games trusting no one and hating everyone, while you're just a big soft Capitol guy with a secret romantic streak." Both men looked surprised at these characterizations of themselves, though Haymitch also looked slightly smug.
"All right," said Heavensbee. "I promise I will keep Annie safe." Finnick searched his face until he was sure he meant it. Satisfied, he nodded.
Then the talk had turned to the more recent future – notably, the upcoming interviews. The plan was to get the crowd as much on the victors' side as possible.
"Shouldn't be hard for you," said Haymitch wryly. "Half the Capitol's in love with you anyway."
"So then, what should I do?" asked Finnick. He didn't feel like coming up with ideas.
Haymitch shrugged. "Be romantic. Spew a lot of mushy stuff about how your one true love is some woman in the Capitol of extraordinary beauty."
"A poem," said Finnick in a burst of inspiration. "Nothing's mushier than a poem."
"Exactly." Heavensbee clapped him on the shoulder. "Now, if you'll excuse us, Mr. Odair, you're not the only person we have to talk to."
"Sure." Finnick hesitated, then tipped them both salutes before leaving. As he was walking down the hallway, he passed Johanna Mason.
"So you're in on it too, then?" he said.
Johanna turned those big cow eyes of hers on him in a blank stare. "In on what?"
"Never mind." Either she was playing dumb for the sake of the mics, or she really didn't know. Either way, Finnick didn't care much.
He had spent most of the afternoon and some of the night writing the poem. He'd thought it would be easy: jot down some romantic phrases, add a few compliments of beauty to some unidentified Capitol women and he'd have the audience swooning. But when he actually tried to write it, he'd found that his pride wouldn't let him read some half-assed poem on national television. The problem was, he'd never been much of a literary type. The most he'd done was those little stories he told to Annie, and they were all myths passed down in their culture anyway.
So he'd spent a lot more time on it than he'd thought he would. But he was reasonably happy with the results.
Which was good, because now he had to read it in front of what was practically the entire country.
"A poem," he said, clearing his throat slightly. Then he looked up and said the five words that made the whole poem true.
"This is for you, mermaid."
And it didn't matter, didn't matter that probably half the women in the audience thought he was speaking to them. Because Finnick knew Annie was watching, and she knew that when he said these things – when he talked about beauty and grace and undying love – he was saying them to her, and to her alone.
When he finished, he was surprised to find that there were tears in his eyes. He tried to hide them as he sat back down, but he supposed he didn't do a very good job, because Mags patted his knee and the girl from District Five, who was seated on his other side, gave him a glowing look. Then again, maybe they would have done that anyway.
The other victors continued as according to plan. Playing on the crowd, like he had. Not until Katniss got up, in that ridiculous wedding dress, did he feel any real stirrings of interest. She didn't know about the plan. Neither she nor Peeta. He wondered how much Haymitch had told them.
Of course, by this time, the crowd was a mess. Flickerman had to wait a while before he could get a word in. "So, Katniss, obviously this is a very emotional night for everyone. Is there anything you'd like to say?"
Her voice shook. Acting or real emotion? "Only that I'm so sorry you won't get to be at my wedding…but I'm glad you at least get to see me in my dress. Isn't it just…the most beautiful thing?" And, like last year, she twirled in the dress.
Only this time, something happened. Instead of the last Games' flickering jewelled flames, smoke and soot rose up around her. Finnick started in his seat, sure that Cinna had pushed himself too far and something had gone wrong. But Katniss kept spinning. For one moment she was hidden by the fire. Then the flames disappeared revealing…
Feathers.
Feathers of a bird Finnick didn't recognize, though a bird it definitely was, soot black with great flowing wings and two white spots.
Cinna, what are you playing at? he thought.
Flickerman hesitantly touched Katniss's crown. "Feathers," he said. "You're like a bird."
"A mockingjay, I think," Katniss answered. "It's the bird on the pin I wear as a token."
Oh.
A mockingjay.
As he realized all that signified, Finnick couldn't help but admire Cinna's bravery. He'd never done anything this dangerous as Annie's stylist. But then, he'd only been an apprentice at the time, and certainly hadn't had the reason. Now…
Flickerman was saying something, probably along similar lines, because Finnick saw Cinna stand in the audience and bow slightly. Did he realize the dangerous position he'd just put himself in? There was a tightness in his jaw that made Finnick think, yes.
Katniss sat down and Peeta took her place. The first few lines he exchanged with Flickerman were pointless – stupid jokes about cooking and feathers. Then followed a nauseating dose of sentimental drabble. Something about them being already married. Finnick didn't doubt Peeta would have done it in a flash, but Katniss was the last person he thought would get married.
More drivel. Bleghh.
Finnick tuned it out. There wasn't anything he was saying worth listening to, except –
"Maybe I'd think that, too, Caesar," said Peeta, with uncharacteristic angst. "If it weren't for the baby."
Baby? What the f—k? Finnick slewed around in his seat to stare at Katniss. She looked as stunned as the rest of them. Clearly Peeta was flying solo on this. Katniss wasn't pregnant any more than he was.
The audience was in an absolute uproar, screaming and crying. If this didn't do them for sure, Finnick didn't know what would. They were sure making a hell of a noise. The anthem had to be played at eardrum-splitting volume for anyone to hear it.
The victors all stood. As the music played, Finnick was conscious of a movement along the line. Then the girl from Five grasped his hand with tears sparkling in her eyes. Looking down the line, Finnick saw the others were holding hands, and he quickly grasped Mags's hand in his.
This was it, then. As they all stood in a line, it was as good as a declaration of war. F—k you, Capitol they were saying. We won't put up with your sh-t anymore.
There was no going back.