AN: Most of you seem to be followers of Redux, so you should understand the reference to Peeta and Annie's rescue team. If not, I refer you to And So We Run Redux Part II, chapter 5. This scene takes place the day after Madge and Gale finally meet up. And you'll have to forgive me. While I have used a handgun, my memory is rusty. Bear with me.

Chapter Six

Oh You Pretty Things

What are we coming to
No room for me, no fun for you
I think about a world to come
Where the books were found by the golden ones
Written in pain, written in awe
By a puzzled man who questioned
What we were here for
All the strangers came today
And it looks as though they're here to stay – David Bowie

Finnick's POV

Marina sets her hand down to still my wrist. I hadn't realized that I've been twisting the fire-emblazoned gold bangle on my wrist again. I don't know why I still wear the trinket. Maybe to disguise the red welt I've worn into my skin from playing with it. As effective as a hairshirt, reminding me of my sins. Sins with names. The lost ones: Mags. Johanna. Peeta. Annie.

"Annie appears healthy, Finnick," Seward assures me as he turns and tilts the photo this way and that for a better look.

"You think so?" My eyes burn into the image when he sets it before me, checking and rechecking to see if he's right. I pass it to Marina for inspection.

"I don't need to see the photo again, dear," she says gently. "Annie looks fine. That's the Training Center there." She points. "She's with Lavinia and Abel. They aren't taking her to some torture chamber."

I curl over the bar where the photo lays until the wood digs into my stomach. I can't seem to stop looking at her image in the glossy.

"I'm sorry," I whisper to them.

Seward claps me on the back. "We understand, lad. We'll leave you alone."

My friends slip away from the bar quietly, their absence barely noticed. I'm not much of a companion these days. All my finesse that carried me through ten years of manipulation and spying deserted me after the Quell. The Quell. Another knot forms above my shoulder blade and I dig my fingers into it. Mags used to say that someone kept tying figure eights with her back muscles when she felt particularly stressed out. Mine feels like a sheet bends. Snug sheet bends.

The angle of the photo shows Annie's profile. She's saying something to Lavinia. Maybe asking a question. She's talking. That's good. And she's not being dragged by those Peacekeeper thugs like Abel. Also good.

Whether Abel let this happen or he couldn't stop it doesn't signify. How hard could it be to protect one woman in an overrun district? Nobody notices Annie. Abel could have protected her. Absolutely.

Annie collapses when Mags hobbles onto the stage. She's on the ground and a Peacekeeer, inconspicuous to the camera, stops me from rushing to her. I don't hear Lavinia introduce the District Four victor tributes for all Panem. All I see is Annie's crumpled form, alone in the cordoned off box. The mayor dismisses the crowd and I try again to get to her, but the Peacekeeper shoves me.

I shove back and receive a cudgel blow to my jaw. Pain shoots through me like so many stars.

"Come along, Mr. Odair. New policy. No visitations this year." Against my will, I'm forced down the back of the scaffold. I twist as far as I can to see if anyone's noticed Annie, just in time to find Abel ducking beneath the cordons. The last thing I see before I'm taken around the other side of the Justice Building, where the cars wait to hurry us to the train, is Annie's lifeless body in Abel's arms.

Bile burns a line up my throat and fills my mouth with a rancid flavor.

I knew Abel wasn't reliable. I knew…that he was one of us. Out for himself. A true victor. A weasel.

But I needed someone. Who else would look after Annie? The people in the district, they look at her like she's a freak. Not even her maid treats her with any respect.

You were desperate, Finnick. When was the last time you felt that? Five damn years. You believed she was safe. In the blink of an eye, you had no control over what happens to her. You barely saved yourself. No one else could help her. You needed him, a worthless toady who didn't hold out twenty-four hours.

You didn't protect Annie, either.

And maybe that's eating me up inside more than Abel's failure. I believed I'd die in the Quell. I knew the odds. According to the plan, Katniss would survive to rally in the rebellion and then Annie'd have the life she deserves. Instead, I'm alive; Mags isn't; Katniss lies strapped to a table; and Annie's just been escorted back to her own personal hell. And I'm safe in District 13, drinking and staring at a photo.

I lift a finger when Bartel, the bartender, walks past.

His pug face is full of concern. "Another one? You've had four glasses already."

I slide the empty tumbler toward him. "Just one more. Warm it up this time"

"All right, but only skim. It's time to cut you off, Odair." Bartel shrugs and fills my tumbler with warm milk. I down it in one long pull. The liquid sloshes in my stomach. I start to feel queasy and groggy. I slip a couple ration stamps at Bartel, pocket my photo, and mumble a goodnight.

I stumble back to my quarters and into bed.

…

Shrrrk of tearing fabric. Jabberjays. Building a nest with white silk. Peeking out between some twigs, a tag with a gold embroidered C. One of the black birds lands on a branch and sings in Annie's voice, "Was it worth it, Finnick?"

"Wake up, Odair." A woman's voice punctures the darkness, not Annie's, a strange accent that scatters the jabberjays back into the recesses of my mind. I'm instantly alert and reaching for my trident. Damn. How did I have nothing but a pillow in the arena?

Nevermind. I push up and off the sheets and grab the assailant in a headlock. In less than a second I can snap the neck with only a twist of my arms.

"Finnick, stop!"

It's not the first time I've listened to a tribute beg for her life. My blood races as her fear grows and I prolong the moment before I end her life, savoring her fear. Savoring the feel of being in control for once. Her fingers scrabble over my arm as she chokes out a, "Please…augh…H-Haymitch…"

Haymitch?

"You're not in the arena anymore, son." That's what he said when I woke up in the hovercraft and grabbed his neck…hovercraft…I'm in Thirteen now. I'm not supposed to kill anyone here. They're not supposed to kill me.

My breath comes out in gasps. Blood pumps like a swollen river through my battle-tense body and a cold sweat breaks over my skin at the memory of my bloodlust.

"Who are you?" I choke, not loosening my hold. As Chaff would say, brute strength now, trust later.

"N-Nevada," the woman replies in a small voice.

Nevada from the meeting. The rescue team.

I drop her and she falls off the bed. I hear her scuffle on the floor and then a lamp switches on. I flinch in the light that reveals the small, cave-like chamber I've been assigned. There's precious little room for the bed and nightstand, let alone the dresser I don't have the clothes to fill.

When my eyes adjust I see Nevada staring up at me with hard brown eyes. Her neck is a band of red, irritated skin from me grabbing her. A mud-colored braid pulls her hair back so tight over her skull that it nearly slants her eyes. If I hadn't heard the fear in her voiced earlier, I'd doubt she was ever capable of that particular weakness.

"Bloody hell,"I groan into my hands. "You can't just come in here, Nevada. I almost killed you."

The sergeant crosses her arms. "It's six o'clock in the morning already. The day's wasting," she scoffs, but her bravado is shaken.

Six o'clock? I need to get to Haymitch's office on Level One, find out if there's any more news on Annie. I lose the sheets, not concerned that I'm only in my drawers. I've worn less in front of larger crowds. I grab the canvas pants provided by the Underground and pull them on. That'll do.

A hand flattens on my bare chest as I round the bed on my way to the door – Nev's. "Hold on, Odair. Where do you think you're going?"

I force her hand away. "I need to see Haymitch."

"You're supposed to be on Level 2 right now," she calls after me. "Getting ready for your shooting lesson, remember?"

Oh hell. I swallow a lump in my throat and rake frustrated fingers through my hair. "Yes."

Nev treads past me to the door. "Annie's probably still asleep, Finnick. Nothing interesting to report yet and no spy's going to risk himself over another photo, so a few more hours of waiting won't hurt." She opens the door, but turns to face me before she leaves. "Practice your rescue speech while you work on your aim."

"My aim's fine," I mutter. Rescue speech, my ass.

She frowns. "I've seen your file, Odair. Your work with a trident impressed me, but it's a kid's toy compared to what we're going to play with. You should know that. You've got thirty minutes to eat and clean up, then get your butt up to Level Two."

"Yes, ma'am."

…

District 13 shares one trait with the Capitol: they insist on trussing up their fighters before they let the action begin. Maybe not in ridiculous and revealing costumes, but they love their jumpsuits. We begin our team training with a brand new Mockingjay uniform. Nevada throws it at me when I enter the training center and points me in the direction of the men's locker room.

Only the surly Hawthorne kid is in the locker room when I show up to change. I nod in his general direction, neither of us keen on talking at the moment.

I strip down my pants, throwing them aside to pull the black jumpsuit on. I zip it up and inspect myself in the small mirror over the sink. If I want a better view, I'll have to sneak into the ladies' room across the way.

Hawthorne's got his equally form-fitting suit on as well. He reminds me of a Grim Reaper with his sober eyes and deep frown. He has three inches on my six feet and the boots don't help.

"Black suits you," I say conversationally, not sure what else to do.

The lad grimaces and he eyes me suspiciously.

"Don't worry, Mr. Brightside," I mutter bitterly. "I don't roll that way."

He snorts and eyes the bangle around my wrist.

"Nonsense, it's a gift from Haymitch."

Gale's eyes widen like his fears have been confirmed. "He gave you a flaming bracelet?"

"A token that Katniss could trust me," I say, stressing Katniss's name. "So we could bust her out of the arena."

Whether that puts Hawthorne's suspicions to rest or simply deflates him, I don't know. A real Mockingjay soldier enters and puts an end to the matter.

"Uh, hi," he says, sounding about ten year younger than he looks. "My name is Leo. You're members of Operation Pennie, right?"

"Is that what they're calling it?" Gale scoffs.

Leo ignores the jibe. "Hey, you're one of the kids we found in the woods a couple days ago."

"Yeah, that's me."

"Anyway, I'm supposed to tell you both that Sprocket's here and we're ready to begin training." He leaves without another word.

"He's part of the mission now?"

I shrug. "I guess."

We exit the locker room and meet with Nev and Leo, the former in the middle of a rant on the side of the shooting range. It's a long, narrow room with a high ceiling. Locked gun cases line the walls and at the end of the floor, bullet proof glass with windows in front of dummies and targets. Two members of our team are noticeably missing. Haymitch and Quintus.

"Something wrong?" I ask as the arguing continues.

"Nev's upset about the uniforms," Leo says apologetically from where he's reclining back in a folding chair. I have the feeling that he enjoys his a little too much.

We head over to the shooting range and inspect the guns while a trainer named Sprocket gives instructions and hands out some ugly looking earmuffs.

Leo and Nev continue their debate while the rest of us line up.

"But this is what we wear," he stammers, floored by her inability to grasp the simple concept of military dress.

"Yeah, moron, I know. And we should stick to the dress code because all-black uniforms won't make us stand out in the Capitol," Nev mutters sarcastically as she loads her gun. "They dress like parrots up there."

"I know. Ridiculous." Quintus voice echoes across the room as he saunters in through the double doors, looking like something Agrippina dragged in. The doors seem to swing in slow motion behind him as the rest of our crew gapes at him. Or rather, at the green and gold shimmering uniform he's wearing that fits snuggly, nay, suggestively to his toned body. I suppose I'm the only one desensitized to outlandish displays of fashion. The pilot smirks at us like a cat who got the cream and a chocolate covered mouse beside.

"Hello, you pretty things," he greets, refusing a set of the soundproof gear from Sprocket. He gestures to a rhinestone-encrusted set already around his neck.

"Whoa." Leo drops his earmuffs and shies away from the glare of Quintus's outfit. "You look…"

"Has District 13 learned nothing from the last rebellion?" Quintus asks jovially. Nev shoots him a dirty look, which he disregards. "Nothing could be more absurd than these starched black uniforms." Quintus points down at himself. "Which is why I added sequins."

"And a codpiece?"Leo cries. "Is that supposed to be a goblin face?"

The pilot smirks. "The goblin is a mischievous creature, and as we intend to wreak havoc in the Capitol, I thought it appropriate."

"Now we know who'll mind the hovercraft while everyone else is doing the dirty work," Nev grumbles, her eyes conspicuously averted. "There is no way you're coming dressed like that."

However, I can't help but feel that we've just upped our chance for survival. Quintus is the man I pretended to be, the persona. He understands the Capitol. Hell, he is the Capitol. It doesn't sound as though the rest of the team agrees. Hawthorne's locked jaw must be killing him. Fortunately, Sprocket hasn't handed out the guns yet.

"Don't be cross, Nev. It causes wrinkles," quips Quintus. He notices the raw skin around her neck, and stepping very close to her, takes her chin in his hand for a better look. She scowls when he runs his thumb down the length of it. "Who did this to you?"

She tries to step backward away from him, purposefully not glancing in my direction. "Why do you want to know?" She swallows. "So you can hunt him down like some doof jacked up on testosterone?"

Quintus's jeweled eyebrow arches and his hand drops away. For the first time his composure slips just for a fleeting second. "So I can shake his hand." He grabs a gun from the open wrack and inspects it. "I missed you the other night. I think."

Her scowl deepens. I don't know much about her, but I think that's a blush. "I had work to do."

"Oh, Nev. All pleasure and no fun," Quintus quips while the rest of us begin to feel that we're intruding on something.

She scowls, stepping next to him to grab a gun for herself. "Sounds like the same thing."

"Well, you see," he says as he leans over her. "I've noticed that pleasure takes an awful lot of work. Haven't you?"

"Quintus, go screw yourself."

He backs off and she pushes past him. "Unfortunately, that does seem to be my only option for the present."

The trainer, Sprocket, gives us a shpeal about the guns and introduces each weapon by name. Literally.

Betsy. Tacy. Missy. Bessie. Franny…and so on. All girls. I wonder how they can tell.

I grab a .45 caliber Glock. It's a black piece of deadweight in my hand. Cold. Certainly not ergonomic. I swap it between hands until I'm ready at one of the armoured glass booths, trying to break it in.

Sprocket comes around, showing us how to use the rear and front sight, as well as reload the magazine well. There's an automatic safety on these pistols, but that gives me little sense of assurance. Finally, Sprocket gives us the clear and I raise my weapon and aim.

Well. If I had a trident, that dummy'd be dead. I try imagining that it's Abel. My hands shake.

My hands are pretty steady normally, but this little bugger's sensitive to the slightest movement. I lift old Bessie again, focus on the dummy's chest and fire. It's antithetical to the body, as far as weapons are concerned. You hold it. Shoot. It kicks back. Not like a trident, that requires the whole body's cooperation in a seamless stream of energy, forcing the shaft forward. A trident truly is a physiological work of art. It becomes an extension of one's self. Old Bessie doesn't need me for speed or power. I'm just there to pull the trigger and make sure it's pointed in the right direction. She does all the rest.

I don't like it. My interest deteriorates, so I observe the person next to me. Gale Hawthorne.

He's completely absorbed in what he's doing.

"Your aim's good," I conclude after watching him demolish his imagined foes.

He fires again. "Yeah."

"Shoot often?" It doesn't hurt to know more about my teammate's experience.

"Archery."

"Ah." I put the gun on the counter. "Like Katniss. She's a good shot, too."

Gale's leaden mien takes on more animation than I've seen yet. The lad actually half-grins. "She's an incredible shot. She taught me."

"You and Katniss…you're not…" I flourish my hand suggestively, though I already know the answer to that. I saw the way she went catatonic after Peeta "died" after hitting the force field. I wouldn't have bothered giving him CPR if she hadn't made me believe her feelings for Peeta weren't just an act. You can't pretend to have that kind of grief, Katniss least of all. She's a rubbish actress. Despite this, I want to know where Gale, Panem's most famous cousin, fits into the picture. Triangles make my butt twitch. And if this Hawthorne fellow has some sort of ulterior motive for getting to Peeta for the sake of cutting off a corner of this triangle, then I want to know before we leave and the mission is sabotaged.

"I have a girlfriend," Gale mutters. He adjusts his safety glasses and gets ready to aim.

"Interesting," I simper. She must love him for his enthusiastic outlook on life.

Gale drops his ready position and shoots me a scowl that probably means he doesn't find anything remotely interesting in sharing this topic with me.

"You see," I say, leaning against the counter. "I get that we're protecting the Mockingjay, so Katniss logically can't go on this mission. I get why Haymitch is going and why I'm going. And the ones from Thirteen are a give-in. But you've already had your fair share of action from the Capitol and you've got everything here. Your family, friends, and your girl."

Gale fires off another round before he answers. The dummy never stood a chance. "Like I said, I'm doing this for Katniss because she can't do it herself. Somebody needs to make sure Mellark gets out."

His bravado staggers me. "And we can't handle it? A bunch of victors and trained personnel?"

"You've done a bang-up job so far," he grouses, never once looking at me. I watch him pull out the magazine from his gun and reload again.

I shrug. "We did what we could." But in my own head I'm thinking the exact same thing as he is. We've failed so far.

I follow Gale's example and fire another round. I'm concentrating on the target and the way the bang of the pistol pounds through the air. I don't notice at first that Gale is speaking to me.

"Say what?" I ask, when my weapon's empty.

"So why is Haymitch coming?"

Do I spoil Gale's appetite or not? The two didn't come across as a cuddly pair, and well, finding out about this side of Haymitch made me feel a little squeamish myself, and I consider him a friend.

"Kid, you don't want to know."

Serendipitously, the old codger himself appears through the training center doors looking like the bright ray of radioactive poison that he often is. My stomach drops into my pants. Gun forgotten, I meet him halfway through the room.

"News?" I demand. That one word sums up the majority of our conversations since I woke up after the Quell.

He nods once curtly then waves to the others to assemble around him.

"Don't start crying like babies, but we're cutting training short. The Capitol's all but handing our targets to us on gilded platters."

"Tch. Gilded platters in the Capitol? Never," Quintus scoffs. He smirks when Haymitch glares at him.

"What did you find out?" Gale demands.

"Snow wants a televised denouncement of the rebellion. One of our sources managed to score a copy of the script and deliver it to a contact scheduled to slip out of the Capitol. According to this script, Peeta will denounce the rebellion."

"When will it air?" I ask, knowing this will be our deadline.

"At the end of the week," he answers.

"Who is this source?" Nevada asks skeptically. "How do we know the script is legit?"

"Our source wrote it," he growls.

Oh.

"And the one who brought it?" someone asks.

Haymitch's eyes scan the crowd and seem to linger on Gale Hawthorne.

"See for yourself." We turn to the doors. A man steps through wearing a tattered uniform I recognize instantly as an Avox's.

I ask, turning to Gale, "You're a miner. Would you call that hair color copper or ginger?"

Judging by Hawthorne's heightened color and slack jaw, he's not paying attention to me.

"Everyone," says Haymitch. "Meet one of our contacts, newly arrived. Darius."

I've never heard of him.

TBC

Thanks for reading and special thanks to Ceylon205 for beta!

AN: I don't know if I'll be getting back to this before Mockingjay comes out. We'll see.