Gosh, I am awful! AWFUL. I started a fic back in the spring that I thought I'd be able to finish if I wrote it all in one go so I told myself to stop everything else (and guess what, I haven't finished that either!). School has been interfering in my writing world, unfortunately. But anyway, I was weirdly disappointed in Mockingjay Part 2. It seemed like they cut some things and rushed others. Whatever it was, I thought it was the weakest of the four movies. What did you guys think of it, if you've seen it? Moving on, here is the new chapter. I felt like I needed a break between this one and the next one. Thank you for all of your kind words! I am sorry for the wait! As usual, I only own Rowan.
I drum my fingers on my knee and think about what I should show the Gamemakers. For my Games, I had thrown spears at staggered targets and managed to receive a ten. This time, I would necessarily have to try something more challenging. For some, like Johanna, the strategy of appearing weak worked. But if I look like I can't pull my own weight, Katniss and Peeta will drop me and others will assume that I'm dragging Finnick down. For everyone involved, I need to at least look like I know what I'm doing.
"If you keep fidgeting like that, you're going to make me nervous," Finnick says, disturbing my train of thought. All of the tributes are sitting close together in a room outside of the Training Center, waiting for our district numbers to be called.
"I'm sorry," I apologize, forcing my hands to still. "I'm just debating what I should do."
"You're not going to make a political statement? Show them just how mad you are?" He arches a perfect eyebrow and I tilt my head in response. "I'm assuming that's what more than a few people will be doing." He nods in the direction of Peeta and Katniss. "And Snow will expect it of you."
"But not of you," I murmur.
"No," he replies with a dejected sigh. "I'm experienced at my role and you're very good at yours." I ignore the underlying message to his words but return to tapping my fingers on my knee.
"If I do something like that, it could get you killed," I whisper. "Allying with me has already endangered you, pretending that this-"
"This," he points at me and then himself, "is natural. Your not being angry with the Capitol about the Quarter Quell wouldn't be." Finnick is right, of course. From the moment that they lifted my body out of my poisoned arena, I had been angry. As they sedated me to stop my screaming, my incoherent mumbling about killing a boy no older than I was, and congratulated me on it, wrath had built up. Since then, I've shown it in increasingly dangerous ways. I imagine the only thing that has saved me from the death of a radical has been my often fragile mental state. Punching a Gamemaker at the president's mansion and refusing toasts from President Snow are easily tempered by bouts of crying or simple immobility. A girl like me can mean no real harm. Show that my views are just those perpetuated by some damaged, insane victor and by extent, make them unappealing to others.
"As usual, you're right," I begrudgingly admit. Normal tributes, those who aren't expecting to be airlifted out of the arena, are livid about the Quarter Quell. This could help keep the Capitol unaware of the plan.
He laughs and says, "Don't sound so disappointed."
I want to ask Finnick what he plans on doing once he enters the Training Center but he's called before I get the chance. When he gets up, he covers my jittering hand with his own and gives me a stunning smile.
I pull up my tawny hair and look over my shoulder at Katniss and Peeta, total opposites in coloring and build. Unsurprisingly, they are whispering heatedly. Peeta sees me and lifts his hand in a slight wave. I weakly smile, afraid that if I do more than that, that my lunch may come back up.
"Rowan Tamsin, District Four," the speakers blare. I rub my sweaty palms on my training uniform and make myself get up. The other tributes look my way, some in sympathy and some in outright pity. I decide that I have to show off if they're to see me as anything more than a mercy kill. I'll have to enter one of the simulation rooms.
I pass Finnick on my way into the Training Center and the back of his hand brushes mine. I think of burying my face in the nape of his neck, of running my fingers along his spine, of deceitful kisses in the dark of night. Not two days from now, I will enter the arena with a sham lover and a pair of rebels who are to be protected at all costs, and the only thing I can claim to understand is that I like pretending with Finnick. In private, it doesn't seem like make-believe at all.
The doors close behind me and, dry-mouthed, I announce myself. None of the Gamemakers seem particularly interested in my presence, except one; Plutarch Heavensbee, the head Gamemaker. He nods.
Once more, I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants and I walk to the simulation room. I've practiced in one a couple of times, enough so that the holograms don't alarm me. Though I'm not overly confident in taking them on, I am at least familiar with the way they work. Before picking my weapons of choice, my eyes lock on a tin of black paint. A political statement, I think. I take the paint and grab a middling-sized sword and a spear before setting the dial to medium difficulty. I then enter the room, attempting to look put together. The Gamemakers stare, some of them clearly eager to see what I'll do even against fake assailants.
Orange lights convalesce in the center of room before me and form an easily 6-foot tall opponent. For a brief moment, all I know is panic, fear that I'll be finished before I can even begin. Then I drop the spear and paint and bring up the sword in time to block a killing blow. I wrench the false blade from it, watch as it fades against the floor, and slice through its middle. Orange blocks fall about my feet.
I scramble back to the spear and throw it to hit my next attacker, running across the room to me. It clatters to the floor after the hologram disappears.
I attempt to duck a hologram arrow and narrowly miss it. My sword blocks the next one and then the hologram is bearing down on me. Sweat beads on my forehead but I eventually throw it off, my arms fortunately muscular from all my time in the water.
Another appears behind me when I am running towards the spear I brought in and nicks my waist with its sword. The tiny blow administers a shock that makes me yell and buckles my knees. I feel for the spear and bring it up to skewer my last hologram. Its orange cubes rain over me but I feel nothing from them. I bend over, shaky hands against my stomach, taking heaving breaths. I am in entire disbelief that I managed to make it through the simulation mostly unscathed.
The Gamemakers, standing around their elevated table and behind their forcefield, are still watching. This is good. I force myself to my feet and toss the sword and spear to the floor with a metallic clang. Grabbing the tin of paint, I approach the glass doors. Though they open, I am able to calculate what I want to do with a degree of accuracy. I pull the top off of the black paint and dip a slender finger in. I take a haggard and nervous breath, wonder if this is the most foolish thing I could do under the circumstances, then I paint.
When I'm done, I leave the simulation room. The doors slide closed behind me and the Mockingjay symbol becomes clear. In places, the paint is rolling down the glass and in others, my lines are stark and crisp. My heart is in my throat but the Gamemakers do not openly respond. Only Plutarch Heavensbee looks me in the eye and I grimace. He smiles, perhaps grateful that the Quarter Quell will kill me and the person who popularized the Mockingjay, Katniss. I put up the paint and walk to the exit. My legs want to give out from underneath me. I put my hand to my chest, feel my racing pulse, and tell myself to calm down before I fall unconscious in front of a group of people judging my ability to survive.
I enter the hallway back to the Tribute Center and Finnick is still there, waiting. We are alone so I pull him to me, let my paint-stained fingers dig into his strong shoulders. "Are you all right?" he whispers, his lips perilously close to my ear.
"Yes," I murmur, though I am never quite sure how to answer that question. I make myself let him go, even if I don't want to. "I'm sorry, it was just… nerve-wracking."
He shrugs and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. It is terribly attractive, so much so that my heart jumps. No, I tell myself. You've done this before and what makes you think it will turn out any differently? Of course, it had been my fault for reading into things and then overreacting. That Finnick is still willing to put up with me is a miracle in and of itself.
Since our time in the Training Center is over, we're given permission to relax for the rest of the day. For me, relaxing encompasses worrying about the scores we'll be given and thinking about the Games. Once back on our floor, I scrub the remaining paint from my hands and shed my training uniform. I feel a pang when I see it crumpled on the floor because the next uniform I put on will be the one I'll wear into the arena.
I pull on a sea-green chiffon dress, take a deep breath, and sit on the edge of my bed. I'll be competing in the Hunger Games in under two days. Two days. I take another ragged breath. Two days. My fingers grip the bedspread. Two days. Suddenly, the boy from District One is before me, blood running from the slit along his throat, his head hitting the floor with a sickening thump. I utter a gasp that verges on a shriek and scramble back onto the bed. I duck under the blankets, cover my head, and pull my knees up to my chest. "Not real," I mutter. "It's not real." Still, my hands are clenched into fists and my knuckles are turning white. I might even be crying.
Soon after, I feel pressure on the mattress and my blankets are pulled off of me. I freeze, shut my eyes and pull my knees closer to my chest, until I feel a hand against my skin and realize that it is Finnick. "Come here," he says. I force myself to open my eyes and look at him. He's sitting close to me, his fingers against the bare skin of my leg, his golden brow rumpled. "You're all right," he promises. "You're not there. You're here with me, okay? You're here with me."
I nod and he lays down beside me. When he wraps his arms around my waist, I am able to relax. I unfurl my fingers to place them over Finnick's. "You're okay," he tells me again.
"Why are you so good at this?" I whisper.
"I don't know that I am," he replies and buries his face in my swath of ocher hair. It makes a chill roll down my spine.
"Well," I start but find that I cannot finish the thought with his chest pressed against my back. I want to thank him for yet again being here for me in the absence of Annie and my mother. But he seems far more adept at helping me relax than either of them. With Annie, that is to be expected, I suppose. Still, it is strange that after all these years Finnick is the best one for me. I tell myself, as he brushes hair away from my throat and presses his lips to my neck, that he is the only one who can possibly understand what I've been through. But when I finally turn into him and he kisses me in response, I know that I react to Finnick because I still harbor feelings for him. I shudder at this realization and hope that he doesn't notice. I understand that I know better than this but perhaps, it is too late.
It isn't long after that, Agrippina throws open the door to my room. I pull away from Finnick and sit up to look at her, dressed up in blue and green to show her connection to District Four. "Do you ever knock?" I ask in disbelief. Finnick laughs.
Agrippina's feathers do not ruffle easily when it comes to me. She spreads her blue-painted lips into an eerie smile. "Well, I just thought you might want to know your scores!" she exclaims in that horrific Capitol accent. "Caesar Flickerman will be announcing them in a matter of minutes!" I wonder how much time has passed, how long I had actually laid in bed.
"Great," Finnick replies, lithely standing up and running a hand through his hair. I make myself do the same. "We'll be right down."
Agrippina glances between us and grins again, as if she knows something we don't. "All right then!" She exits my bedroom in a flurry of melodrama, beckoning at us with her fingers. I consider rolling my eyes.
There is no option but to follow her. The four of us, including Mags, cluster in front of the screen above the fireplace. I nervously smooth out my skirt before sitting with Finnick. My fingers ball into fists when I remember that I painted the Mockingjay symbol as part of my skill set and no doubt, that it will set my score. It could be so low as to be insignificant, thus making Katniss and Peeta reconsider their alliance with me. In fact, I could have garnered the lowest score of all the victors, including the Morphling addicts.
The show begins, starting with District One. I consider the chances of receiving a middling to low score until Caesar Flickerman says, "From District Four, Finnick Odair, with a score of 11." I look at Finnick in time to see Agrippina fawning over him. Mags gives a nod of approval.
"Always a showoff," I say to him and Finnick only smiles. On a scale of 1-12, an 11 is excellent and is rarely given out by the Gamemakers. In recent memory, the only other tribute I can remember receiving an 11 is Katniss from last year. Finnick must have done something to really impress Plutarch Heavensbee and his group. Of course, the Gamemakers hail from the Capitol and everyone here adores Finnick.
"From District Four, Rowan Tamsin, with a score of," Caesar hesitates, as if the number is a surprise to him, "11."
"What?!" I exclaim. There is no way anything I showed them should have garnered an 11, especially considering what the other tributes must have done. I may have made it through the simulation room but that doesn't put me on the same level as Finnick.
"Rowan, that is fantastic!" Agrippina says, coming and placing her hands on my shoulders. I tense up. "You are really beginning to impress me!"
"That's great, Rowan!" Finnick says. "What did you show them?" They all look expectant because they know I don't deserve that high a score, not given my myriad issues. Only Finnick appears to know what I might say.
"I just went into a simulation room," I tell them, omitting painting the Mockingjay. Finnick may have encouraged me to do something and Mags certainly wouldn't mind if she is in on the rebel plan but Agrippina doesn't need to know anything that incriminating. She may have her suspicions but there is no need for me to confirm them.
The only victors who score above us are Peeta and Katniss, both with 12s. While 11s are rare, 12s are all but unheard of. I exchange a look with Finnick. They'd done something to get a target on their backs. By receiving the best scores, the Gamemakers had ensured that the other victors would want to take out Katniss and Peeta first. Belatedly, it occurs to me that that was surely the reason I'd been given an 11. Maybe it was even the reason Finnick received one as well. Though Finnick and I both received 10s in our first Games, I'd been doubtful that either of us would get them again, let alone exceed them. I glance at Finnick, charming and kind, and I wonder if I've done something that could get him killed.
"Tomorrow will be your interviews!" Agrippina says at dinner. "So you need to be thinking about what you want to say!"
"Won't that depend on the questions?" I ask, fishing the meat out of a deviled crab.
"Well, yes but obviously, we know what the people would like to hear about! They'd like to know what's going on with you two!" Agrippina slyly points between me and Finnick, who is sitting to my left.
"I'm sure the 'people' couldn't care less," I mutter.
"You're wrong!" she interjects. "You are very wrong! You have stirred up quite the talk this year."
"Well, that was the goal, wasn't it?" Finnick retorts. I'm curious as to how we've garnered any talk at all when so much has happened behind closed doors. But I recall how quickly Johanna jumped on us the other day in the Training Center and how Katniss asked just what exactly was between Finnick and I. The other victors are certainly curious. Perhaps, Agrippina was onto something, though I am loathe to admit it.
"Yes! I just want you to be prepared for whatever Caesar throws your way. And by 'you,' I mean Rowan." I groan and Finnick holds back a laugh. Even Mags smiles.
That night, after fitfully trying to sleep, I finally give in and sneak into Finnick's room. I'm not sure what I hope to achieve by this but part of me knows that this is one of the final nights before we enter the arena. I should be sleeping, trying to rest up before I'm thrown into a den of killers, but I just can't. If I'm with Finnick I'll relax, even if we're talking strategy or the plan for protecting Katniss.
When I enter his bedroom, I see that Finnick is asleep. I don't want to disturb him, as I'm sure sleep is as hard to come by for him as it is for me, but I decide to stay anyway. If I'm careful, he won't even know I'm here.
I crawl onto the empty side of his bed and he moves a little but doesn't wake. His back is turned to me, which I consider a blessing. I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them. I ponder just how little I truly know about the supposed rebellion and what my role in it is supposed to be. For the arena, I'll focus on Peeta but I still haven't managed to make him and Katniss want Finnick. After Katniss's show in the Training Center, every victor wants her as an ally and supposedly, she has still only chosen me. The problem continues to be how to present Finnick as desirable to her, which is difficult to comprehend because Finnick is desirable to everyone. He told me that he tried to help her with knots and that she'd acted as if he had some kind of communicable disease. Katniss is simply immune to Finnick's charms. Unfortunately, I am not.
I glance at Finnick beside me, at his tan skin and his soft hair, and I recognize that I have walked into the same trap that I fell into years ago. The thing that pulled me out of it wasn't that I'm unstable or that Finnick can't work with that. It was learning about the Capitol selling him and now, with a supposed revolution in the mix, that issue doesn't seem like a big deal. Early on, I'll admit, I worried that he supported the Capitol despite what it was doing to him or worse, that he enjoyed it. But I know better than that. I've always known better than that.
Still, I never outright told Finnick how I felt and it's possible that he still doesn't know. When I finally built up the nerve, he told me he worked for the Capitol and I fell apart. But Finnick was so good, even at the time, that I would find it hard to believe that he never figured it out. Maybe that was why he told me at all; because he wanted me to stop pursuing him. I was a girl people were beginning to think was mad and Finnick was valuable. Just like I am now, I would have weighed him down and hindered his popularity.
I sigh and Finnick shifts. Now we are in some kind of fake relationship, which is probably what started this back up for me, and I have no way of deciphering what's real and what isn't. Finnick does this for a living. He makes others believe he wants them, he lets them feel attractive to him, as if he's the one with the power and in this case, that is true. I have no way of knowing whether this is just another game and he is an excellent player. I could ask him, I suppose, but he could just tell me that he's doing what he was told, that being friends with me is fine but he would never be interested in more than that. "I don't want to hurt you, Rowan," he'd say in his kind voice, with a pitiful expression and it would make me feel guilty for even approaching him. Still, I could tell him what I'm thinking and he would be nice about it. Of course he would understand that I care for him. Everyone he meets does.
I sigh again, this time maybe too noisily, and make myself admit it aloud. Once in the arena, it won't matter. This way, I'll know I've said it to Finnick, with no anxiety over his response.
"I've loved you once before," I whisper, so lowly that I can barely hear myself, "so I'm afraid I know the signs." I reach over, slowly wind a lock of his golden hair around one of my fingers. "You are kind and generous with me and… so many other things." I pause and drop his hair. "I'm sure you know all this because you are incredibly intuitive and it is not much of an admission but I needed to say it to you before we were in the arena. I also didn't really want to know your response. You already know I love you as family… but this is different and the way you feel about it could ruin everything. So… you should continue sleeping and I should feel better."
Finnick still doesn't stir and I am grateful for it. I slide down and lay beside him, hoping he'll think nothing of it.