When he woke up, it was dark, with only a faint glow illuminating his Spartan surroundings. The young man lay still save for the sharp rise and fall of his chest and the quick flickering of his eyes as he tried to decipher his surroundings. But they were alien, cold and unfamiliar, and panic rapidly began to rise within him as he found no place in his memory for this strange dark room –
A scrap of white on the bedside table caught his eye and he reached for it automatically. In doing so, he found the light switch and flicked it. The light that filled the room was soft but not warm. It chilled the young man.
Fear swirled at the edges of his consciousness. He didn't know where he was, who he was… It felt like all he had known was locked in some secret part of his mind that he couldn't access. Panic shook his hands and dried his throat.
He remembered the scrap of white and found it was a piece of paper, tossed carelessly on the utilitarian table. Desperate now for a clue, anything, he snagged the torn piece. There was writing on it, scribbled in cheap ink with a painful attempt at legibility:
My name is Finnick Odair. I am 24 years old. Write Right now I am in District Thirteen. They are rebeling against the Capi
My name is Finnick Odair. I am 24 years old. Las night I wrote this down so that when I read it in the morning I will remember. I have been doing this for a month ever since I came to District Thirteen which is rebei rebl rebelling agaisnt the Ca
My name is Finnick Odair. I am 24 years old. I write this down so that I can read it and not forget. I am in love with Annie Cresta. I love her with all my heart and soul and mind and body. But right now she is not here. Right now she is
oh GOD! HELP ME!
Finnick stared at the words he had written last night before going to bed. As the steady trickle of nightmarish memory surfaced within him he dropped his head into his hands. Drawing in a shaky breath, he wiped his hand across his eyes and leaned on his drawn-up knees.
"Finnick?" The door to his room opened, revealing an unfamiliar, red-headed woman. Finnick automatically tensed.
"Who're you?" he demanded.
"Evans, your nurse," said the woman quietly. There were circles under her dark blue eyes. "Remember me, Finnick?"
He shook his head violently. His hair, ragged and longer now, brushed against the scattered stubble on his jaw.
With a quiet sigh, the woman Evans shut the door and walked over to sit on a white plastic chair next to Finnick's bed. "I've been your nurse for a month, Finnick," she said. "Remember?"
Her voice was soft, with an accent that reminded Finnick of mist and the sea. Swallowing, Finnick looked away from her common, pleasant face, thinking instead of a face with fine bones and sea-green eyes.
"Finnick? Don't you remember me?"
The bit of paper caught his eye again and Finnick looked down at it, considering. "Do – do I forget you often?" he asked, voice hoarse.
Evans caught her lip and nodded. "Almost every day."
"I'm sorry," said Finnick, and he reached over and took her hand. The pressure of her fingers was solid, comforting. "I don't mean to forget."
"I know," she said, with a small smile. "No one is blaming you, Finnick. You've been through a lot."
His mind shied away from her last sentence. To distract himself, he looked at her face, studying it, searching for anything familiar.
"You know…I think I do remember you."
"Good." Evans smiled warmly, but her eyes were concerned. "What woke you? It's almost three."
Finnick shrugged, wrapping his arms around his legs. "I don't know."
"Did you remember anything when you woke up?"
Hunching his shoulders, Finnick shook his head and drew it down. Evans patted his knee comfortingly. "What do you remember now?"
"I remember this," said Finnick roughly, gesturing towards the piece of paper. "Most of it. Some of the details escape me."
"Do you remember people?"
Finnick rested his chin on his knees, eyes slightly screwed up as if he were trying to see far into the distance. "I remember Katniss. And Haymitch. Beetee. Peeta. Johanna. Connor, of course. There's a woman here, with…gray hair? She's important…"
"President Coin."
"Right, her. And – and – a fat man, older…his name started with a 'P', I think…"
"Plutarch Heavensbee."
"Yeah."
There was a pause, and then Evans said softly, "And what about Annie?"
Finnick's heart constricted and tears came to his eyes. "I will never forget Annie," he managed to say. Drawing in a deep, shuddering breath, he buried his face in his blanket-covered knees.
Evans stood and stroked his hair lightly. "Try to go to sleep now."
"Yeah." Finnick let out a long exhale but did not raise his head. Evans ran her fingers once more over the tangled bronze head before walking quietly out. As she shut the door, the lights went out.
Annie…
Finnick's hands clenched into hard fists, the tendons standing out on his arms. It both hurt and eased him to think of her. It eased him to think of her as she had been when he was with her, her skin, her hair, her smile…but it hurt him, more than he could bear, to think of her as a prisoner of …of them.
"Ah, Annie," he groaned. Wiping his eyes, he lay back down, hoping he would be able to sleep more before he had to get up. He hated the rigid schedules of this place. It choked him.
Finnick hoped for sleep, but not for dreams. Because his dreams were invariably times of torment and despair.
Finnick hated the other hospitable patients. He did. He really, really hated them.
He hated them because they scared him.
It had gotten so bad they'd had to keep him in a private room when he was admitted to the hospital – which was often. But it had been unbearable for Finnick, the ward. Shut in there all day with strange people he didn't know, people who watched him and whispered to each other about him.
So one of the doctor's offices had been converted into a sleeping room, and Evans' sleeping quarters had been moved to a room just around the corner from his in the residential level. Finnick now enjoyed an ambiguous status. He wore the gray uniform of a civilian but the little plastic bracelet on his wrist marked him as a patient; he was free from both the restrictions of the ward and the duties of a citizen of District Thirteen.
This, coupled with his paranoia, meant he had spent quite a lot of time in his room in the hospital or his assigned quarters, more often than not in a kind of suspended animation. That woman – the president – whatever the hell her name was – wasn't happy with that. She'd visited him a couple times, trying to get him to become some sort of mascot or spokesperson. But when it became clear that she was not going to mention news of Annie – which was all Finnick cared about – he'd found it easier and safer to retreat to a place deep within himself.
He'd woken up once to the sound of voices. Instinct had told him to stay very still, they were talking about him, and so he'd kept his eyes closed and listened.
The voices were very close, and above where he lay on his bed. Finnick pictured two people standing over him before focusing on their words.
"What's wrong with him?" It was a female voice, commanding, slightly arrogant. Finnick thought of gray hair and eyes hard as flint, looking down a snub nose.
"Post-traumatic stress disorder, President," said a softer voice that went with curly, dark red hair. "Deep psychological upheaval. He's lost everything – home, family, lover – all in a few days. Give him time."
Finnick did not want to think about what was implied by the second woman's sentence. He pushed her words away with his mind, trying to keep his breathing even.
"So?" The gray-haired woman was speaking again. "Katniss lost even more, but you don't see her lying around in a coma. Granted, she's still confused about things, but at least she's up and about. All he does is lie in his room."
"Give him time," repeated the soft-voiced woman. "If you press him, you will only hurt him irreparably."
Finnick heard a sharp, impatient sigh. "Fine. Alert me if he gets…better." Then there was the retreating clack of heels and the sound of a shutting door.
"Finnick?" There was the rustle of cloth, a pressure on the mattress next to him…the red-haired woman must have sat down. "Finnick, she's gone. You can wake up now."
His eyes flew open in panic. "She – she knew I was listening?"
The woman lightly patted his shoulder. "No, no," she soothed. "President Coin doesn't know."
Finnick sighed, relaxing as best he could into the thin mattress. "I don't want her to find me."
"I know, Finnick."
Her voice held the lilt of District Four. Frowning, Finnick turned his head and looked over at her. "Who are you?"
"Nurse Evans. Don't you – you don't remember?" Her blue eyes widened slightly.
Finnick shook his head. "Should I?"
Evans attempted a smile, her eyebrows pulled up worriedly. "Finnick, I've been your nurse for almost a week."
"Oh." He stared up at the blank white ceiling, considering. "I do forget things. I know that." He looked over at Evans again. "Why?"
She let out a slow, measured breath. "Your mind has been through a great deal of stress lately. So it copes by forgetting things."
"Important things?" His voice cracked.
Evans shrugged. "Sometimes."
Panicking, Finnick tried to remember everything, but it all was so confused that he only succeeded in making himself more and more afraid. "I can't – I can't remember!" he burst out, pushing himself up. "I can't – can't"
"Shh," soothed Evans, trying to push him back onto the pillows. "Don't think too hard."
Finnick stared at her, chest heaving. "Help me," he begged. "Help me remember."
Evans settled cross-legged on the bed, expression sympathetic. "I can't do that," she said. "You have to help yourself."
Swallowing hard, Finnick stared at the far wall. "I don't remember coming here," he said in a low voice. "But I remember before that…I remember the Hu – " His tongue stuck on the word and he choked slightly before continuing. "There was an ocean, and a jungle…" Memory hit him like a lightning bolt and he twisted to look directly at Evans, gripping her wrist. "Katniss! The arrow! And the tree!"
She nodded, looking wary. "Is that it?"
Running his hands through his hair, Finnick shook his head. "No…I remember everything now…"
"Everything?"
And that one soft question brought the most important person of all to Finnick's mind.
"Annie," he breathed. Her memory caressed him like silk, soothing as the scent of wildflowers. But that was before, something told him…the world had ended since then…
"ANNIE!" he screamed, jumping up, and before Evans could stop him he had rushed out of the room and was running down the alien hallway, for he had just remembered that Annie was in the hands of those people who wanted to suck her lifeblood out, and he had to find her, to save her –
He rounded a corner and nearly collided with a woman in a dark gray suit, her silver hair as straight as a ruler. As she turned with a startled exclamation, he fell back against the wall, wide-eyed and afraid.
"What's this?" she snapped. "Finnick?"
He couldn't answer. He could only stand petrified, waiting for her to leave…
Evans came running up, worry etched on her round face. The other woman's expression hardened.
"What is going on, Evans?" she demanded.
"Nothing, President," said Evans, and Finnick suddenly admired her for her bravery in standing up to the gray-haired woman. "Come on, Finnick."
She took his elbow and he obeyed, willing to do anything to get away from the other woman. But as they returned to his room, his earlier panic returned.
"Annie!" he gasped as soon as the door was shut. "She's a prisoner – hurt – we have to do something – "
Evans grasped his hands, looking at him steadily. "There's nothing we can do, Finnick."
It felt like the floor beneath his feet had vanished. "But – but then – but then she's lost," he whispered. "She'll die…"
"No, she won't," said Evans firmly. "We can't do anything, but people are already trying to rescue her – "
"And she'll be safe then?" Finnick demanded.
Evans nodded. "As safe as she can be."
Reassured, Finnick released her hands and wandered over to the bed, collapsing on it and curling up. "I just want her back," he murmured into the pillow. A tear ran out of his eye and down his nose.
He felt a slight pressure on his head. Evans was lightly stroking his hair. "It'll be all right, Finnick," she said.
Swallowing, Finnick nodded. Evans turned to go, but as she opened the door he jerked upright again, calling her name.
"Yes?" She whirled around, braid swinging, eyes wide.
Finnick stared at her. "Riley's dead," he choked.
Evans' lips worked like she wanted to cry. "Yes, he is," she whispered back. "I'm sorry, Finnick."
He nodded, eyes tight with tears. As Evans left, shutting the door behind her, he curled up in a ball and began to silently weep.
"Finnick?" Evans entered as he was eating breakfast, sitting cross-legged on the bed. "Finnick, there's an assembly today. You're required to go."
The spoon fell with a clunk into the bowl of cereal. Finnick stared at Evans, pulse pounding in his dry throat.
"I can't," he whispered, eyes wide. "I can't, Evans, there's too many people watching…"
"You don't have a choice," she said, sitting on the foot of the bed. "President Coin specifically asked – "
"I don't give a damn what that woman thinks!" Finnick burst out, nearly spilling the cold cereal. "I'm not going out there – I can't – "
"Shh – shh – " Evans put a white hand on one of Finnick's, which he realized was trembling. "Finnick, it'll be all right."
"No, it won't," said Finnick. But he put the bowl and spoon down and tried to steady his breathing.
"Finnick, no one here is going to harm you," said Evans earnestly, looking straight into his eyes. "You're safe here. You have to believe that."
"I'm not safe anywhere," muttered Finnick.
Evans shook her head and pursed her lips. "We talked about that, remember? None of this paranoia is real. It's all in your head."
"And the Ca – the – are they in my head too?" burst out Finnick. "Did I imagine Riley dying? Is it not real that they have Annie?"
"No, unfortunately that's real," said Evans softly. "But there is no one in District Thirteen who wishes you harm. No one. You don't need to be afraid of people."
"I know," murmured Finnick, bowing his head. "But I can't help it."
"Here." Evans reached inside the pocket of her white tunic and drew out a length of rope. "This is for you."
Finnick made no move to take it, but stared at it with one eyebrow raised. "What the hell?"
Evans sighed. "It's to keep your mind occupied while you're outside. Focus on tying knots with this, not who's watching. Consider it part of your therapy."
"Oh." Hesitantly, Finnick reached out to take the rope. Almost of their own accord, his fingers began shaping knots – half-hitch, hitch, reefer – until with a twist of his fingers and a snap of his wrist the rope straightened out again.
"There." Evans looked pleased. "Concentrate on the rope while you're out with people, and it'll be easier to bear."
Nodding, Finnick coiled the rope around his hand. The rough touch of twisted fibers on his skin brought back memories of District Four, of working on the fishing ships and sailing in the bay. In fact, if he listened hard enough, he could hear the crash of waves and the clear cries of seagulls…
"Finnick?" Evans' voice intruded on his thoughts. "Finnick, finish your breakfast."
"I'm not hungry," he replied distantly.
"Finnick, yah have t' eat."
"I told you, Mags, I'm not hungry."
There was silence. Finnick looked up to find Evans staring at him. "What?" he asked.
A tiny, worried frown creased the skin of her forehead. "You just called me Mags," she said.
"I did? I'm sorry," said Finnick. He meant it, he really was. "I told you, I forget things."
"Like eating, apparently," said Evans wryly, picking up the half-full bowl of now-soggy cereal. "It's a good thing the kitchens don't know how much of their food you waste."
"Give it to someone else," said Finnick. An idea struck him and he added brightly, "Hey, I don't need to eat every day. Someone else can share my rations."
Evans sighed, standing up with the bowl and spoon in her hand. "Finnick, it's hard enough keeping you alive without you starving yourself as well." She walked to the door, saying, "The assembly's at 18:00, at the Collective. Do you need me to go with you?"
"No, I'll be fine."
Though skeptical, Evans consented. "Don't forget your rope. And stay near Valena Everdeen. I'll tell her to keep an eye on you."
Finnick thought she was talking about Katniss, but the name Valena confused him. "Who?"
"Your friend Katniss' mother. She's a nurse. She doesn't look much like Katniss, though – she has blonde hair and blue eyes."
"Oh." Finnick tried to imagine her, and ended up with a ridiculous picture in his head of Katniss with laugh lines and a platinum-blond bob cut. "So…"
"Stay with Nurse Everdeen, don't go wandering off, use the rope, and try not to freak out. Coin doesn't call assemblies often, so whatever she's saying must be important. You might want to pay attention."
Square knot. Hitch. Reefer. Granny.
Untie. Fold into loop, fold again. Draw the end through, pull tight…
All around Finnick were strange people whom he was sure were whispering and glancing at him. But he didn't pay attention to them, just focused on the knots he was tying over and over again. The only person he was really aware of was Valena Everdeen, who would have been beautiful if she hadn't looked so tired…
Someone said his name. He ignored it. The others were talking about him but he wouldn't acknowledge them, oh no…
"Finnick!" Something nudged him in the arm and he blinked. Katniss' face came into focus in front of him. "How are you doing?"
He seized her hand, making sure she was real. "Katniss. Why are we meeting here?" She was the Mockingjay, right? She'd be sure to know.
"I told Coin I'd be her Mockingjay," said Katniss. She looked tired, but not haunted. "But I made her promise to give the other tributes immunity if the rebels won. In public, so there are plenty of witnesses."
That was smart, and something Finnick would never have thought to ask. "Oh. Good. Because I worry about that with Annie," he said. "That she'll say something that could be construed as traitorous without knowing it." Oh, his sweet girl, she'd say anything if she thought it would save him, and then everyone else would tear her to pieces for it…
"Don't worry, I took care of it," said Katniss, squeezing his hand. She left to weave her way through the crowd to the woman standing behind the podium. Finnick ducked his head, afraid the woman would see him. When her attention was on Katniss, he began retreating through the crowd until his back was to a wall. Once there, he could close his eyes and block out everything except the feel of the rope in his fingers. Only a few minutes, and soon he could go back to his blessedly empty room…
Someone came to stand by him. Finnick opened his eyes briefly, saw it was Katniss, and tried to concentrate on his rope again. Except now the woman was speaking, and her voice bored inside Finnick's head like a drill –
"Attention!" she said, brisk and commanding like a drill sergeant. "May I have everyone's attention!" When the audience was quiet, she continued, "Soldier Everdeen has agreed to represent our cause as the Mockingjay, provided victors Peeta Mellark, Johanna Mason, Enobaria Case, and Annie Cresta are granted full pardon for any damage they do to the rebel cause."
The crowd muttered restlessly. Finnick shut them out, fingers moving in an endless pattern – hitch, square knot, overhand…
"But in return for this unprecedented request," continued the woman, "Soldier Everdeen has promised to devote herself to our cause. It follows that any deviation from her mission, in either motive or deed, will be viewed as a break in this agreement. The immunity would be terminated and the fate of the four victors determined by the law of District Thirteen. As would her own. Thank you."
Finnick wasn't worried by that. He knew Katniss would do whatever the part of the Mockingjay required. It was the only way she could get Peeta back.
Today was a good day. Finnick woke up remembering who and where he was. Since he hadn't been hungry, he'd skipped breakfast and had spent most of the morning wandering around in the upper levels, where there was hardly anyone around. He'd been too hungry to avoid lunch, but he'd gotten to the cafeteria so late that there was only a handful of people there anyway. One of them was an older man, heavyset, with silvery-gray hair and that indefinable air of being used to getting his way. When he saw Finnick, he headed straight for him.
"Plutarch," said Finnick, proud he remembered his name.
"Finnick!" Plutarch made as if to seize his hand before stopping, his arm swinging awkwardly. "Are you all right then? I heard some unsettling rumors…"
So people were talking about him! Finnick made a mental note to tell Evans that. "I'm all right," he said.
"Uh-huh," grunted Plutarch, scrutinizing his face. "Listen, we're going to be doing some propo shooting of Katniss down at the soundstage. Want to come watch? It'll be like old times."
Finnick didn't know what he meant by "old times," but he would like to see Katniss again and it would be a change from the routine. The only thing was… "How many people will be there?" he asked.
Plutarch shrugged. "I don't know. Probably about a dozen," he said. "Why?"
A dozen was okay. Finnick could handle that, if they were all busy with Katniss. "Just wondering."
Chuckling, Plutarch bumped him in the arm with his fist. "Missing your audience, are you?"
Finnick stared at him blankly. Audience…what was Plutarch talking about? Belatedly, he realized he was making the older man uneasy and dropped his gaze. "I'm sorry."
"No, no, don't apologize," said Plutarch. He swung his arms, unsure of what to say. "Well, why don't you come with me to the soundstage then?"
"Sure," said Finnick. He would have liked to go back to his room, to get the rope, but thought it rude to leave Plutarch. So he followed him through hallways and down the elevator. Plutarch had been speaking the truth; there weren't more than fifteen or fourteen people there. He pulled up a folding chair in the back of the room and watch them scurry around like ants.
First they prepped the stage itself, setting up smoke machines and testing the different lights. After about half an hour of this, they sat around under the direction of Plutarch's assistant Fulvia and brainstormed various ideas. Finnick sat half-in, half-out of their circle and doodled his way through a pad of paper.
Most of his drawings were nonsense, one-eyed imps and bat-winged toadstools and fat little frogs in tuxedos. But by his sixth page, he'd started sketching something else with broad strokes of the pencil – a face, sweet and gentle, with large eyes and slightly curved lips. A few more lines brought the eyes into sharper definition. He began adding hair, dark and billowing. But to his frustration the pencil strokes only got darker and wilder until they seemed to be taking over the page, obscuring the gentle feminine face with the frantic lines of harsh charcoal –
With a gasp, Finnick straightened, breaking his attention away from the drawing. Breathing hard, he tore the page out and crumpled it up. No one else had noticed. They were all busy discussing Katniss.
Finnick stuck to simple doodles after that.
After what had been at least an hour Katniss walked in, wearing a sleek black jumpsuit and made up like a dark princess. Finnick ambled around as the various people worked, sometimes sticking his nose in and asking questions but generally just getting used to the idea of being around people. By the time Plutarch pronounced himself satisfied, Finnick felt more at ease than he had for a long time – well, ever since he had gotten to Thirteen. He came up behind Katniss, who was watching a playback of herself with a slightly awestruck expression, and said, "They'll either want to kill you, kiss you, or be you."
Katniss couldn't hide her pleased little smile. Finnick grinned and left the soundstage – Evans had told him not to push it when it came to mixing with people. And, truth be told, he was a little tired.
Apparently, as amazing as Katniss had looked, she was a horrible actress. That was Surprise Number One. Finnick had thought she'd done a pretty good job during the Hung – while they were in the arena. Apparently it was different when her life wasn't in danger.
Surprise Number Two was that Haymitch was still alive.
Finnick hadn't seen or heard anything of him since coming to Thirteen. For some reason, he'd assumed he was dead. But when he pushed in a wheelchair-bound Beetee into Command, there was the grizzled District Twelve victor standing at the head of the table.
"Morning, ladies and gents," he said. There was quite a few of them – the woman and her assistants, Plutarch, Fulvia, Katniss' prep team, a handful of people from Twelve, including Katniss, and a man from Ten that Finnick didn't know.
"Well, we're all here," said Haymitch. "And I think anyone who's seen yesterday's footage would agree that we have a real problem on our hands."
He proceeded to play the offending clip. Finnick had a hard time looking at it, it was so horribly awkward. The girl could not act.
At last it was over. "All right," said Haymitch. "Would anyone like to argue that this is of use to us in winning this war?"
No one did, of course. Haymitch continued, "That saves time. So, let's all be quiet for a minute. I want everyone to think of one incident where Katniss Everdeen genuinely moved you. Not where you were jealous of her hairstyle, or…"
Finnick's attention was wandering. He started absentmindedly picking at his cuticles. To think of when Katniss Everdeen had moved him was to think of certain events in his past that he would rather forget. He continued to examine his nails.
People sitting around the table were offering up various anecdotes. And suddenly, Finnick felt like speaking.
He raised his hand. The orange-haired man who had been speaking broke off mid-sentence to stare at him.
Haymitch cleared his throat. "Mr. Odair?"
Finnick stared at him. He wanted to talk about when they were together in the arena, when he had realized she was a good person, but the words stuck in his throat. He continued to gaze blankly at Haymitch for a moment more before shaking his head and looking down.
"Moving on, then." More people began giving examples as if nothing had happened; a couple looked quickly at Finnick. Only Plutarch met his eyes. I understand, his gaze seemed to say. I know what you are going through.
At last the flow of examples stopped. "So, the question is," said Haymitch, "what do all of these have in common?"
"They were Katniss's," said the District Twelve boy who was her cousin. "No one told her what to do or say."
"Uncsripted, yes!" said Beetee, taking Katniss' hand. "So we should just leave you alone, right?"
There was a ripple of laughter around the table. Finnick noticed that the woman did not join in.
"Well, that's all very nice but not very helpful," said Fulvia, pissed that her plan for turning Katniss into a mascot hadn't worked. "Unfortunately, her opportunities for being wonderful are rather limited here in Thirteen. So unless you're suggesting we toss her into the middle of combat – "
Finnick did not hear the rest. At the word combat he'd frozen, his mind no longer in District Thirteen. It seemed to him he was back in the arena – not the false paradise of saltwater and jungle but a nightmare landscape of snowy mountains and razor-sharp rocks, and it seemed to him that Jarex was bearing down on him, bloody war ax raised high over his head –
Eyes closed, Finnick gripped the arms of his chair. He must not, he must not have another relapse.
"Take her into Eight this afternoon," the woman was saying. "There was heavy bombing this morning – "
"Finnick? Finnick, can you hear me?"
Blearily, he cracked his eyes open, fighting through the haze of medication. He was lying on an uncomfortable bed, a thin sheet pulled over his sweaty torso. A woman he didn't know was sitting next to him, her dark red curls pulled back and braided.
"Where am I?" he asked, voice cracking all over the place.
"In District Thirteen," said the woman. Her voice – quiet, evenly modulated – held the accent of District Four.
Finnick studied her closely. She had a round, pleasant face, freckled on the forehead and across the cheeks and rounded nose. Her dark blue eyes were wide, with little crow's feet at their sides. She was probably around thirty.
"Who're you?" said Finnick.
The woman reached forward, smoothing his bedsheet. "My name is Evans," she said. "I'm your nurse."
"Evans?" Finnick managed a weak smile. "Is that your first or last name?"
Evans smiled back. "Last name," she said.
"Wait…" Finnick's foggy brain was beginning to work. "You're a nurse?"
"Yes," she said.
"Does that…am I sick?"
Evans nodded. "You've been very ill, Finnick," she said softly.
He frowned at her. "Why?"
"Don't you remember?"
"I – " Finnick cast his mind back, trying to figure out. All there was was blackness, or inconsequential memories of home. "No, no, I don't remember."
"Do you remember the Hunger Games?"
Ohhh…
"Yeah, I remember," he said hoarsely. "The forcefield blew up, and…" He stopped, swallowed. "They've got Annie, haven't they?"
"Yes, Finnick."
"And Riley…" Finnick's voice trailed off and he closed his eyes, a tear running down the side of his face.
After a while he opened his eyes, looking at Evans. "This is District Thirteen?"
She nodded. "You arrived only a couple of days ago, but we've had to keep you drugged for a while. You were in a terrible state."
Finnick wasn't listening. "They're going to rebel against the Capitol," he said. "Isn't that strange?" The idea tickled him and he began to giggle. "Imagine that! They think they can win…"
"Finnick." Evans was frowning worriedly at him, but he ignored her.
"They're trying to win!" Finnick laughed. "They think just because they've got a painted mascot and a handful of nuclear weapons they can beat them! They're actually going to try – " A helpless paroxysm of laughter shook him and he nearly doubled over, paralyzed by insane mirth. "They'll all be blown to bits!"
His laughter, if that was what you could call the horrible cackling sounds he was making, rang through the room. Evans' hands fluttered uselessly over his face, trying to calm him as she called frantically for help. But Finnick laughed until his stomach hurt and the hot tears ran down his face, blinding him to everything but his searing pain…
No, no, that wasn't right…that had already happened…over a month ago…
"Finnick?"
Everything was so messed up in his head…
"Finnick, wake up…"
Death…combat…bombing the districts…
"Katniss is going to District Eight!" yelped Finnick, jerking upright in bed so quickly it made his head swim.
"Shh," soothed Evans. "Shh, Finnick, it's all right."
Groaning, Finnick lay back down. He was in his room at the hospital, he realized. "She can't go," he muttered. "She'll die."
"No one's dying, Finnick," said Evans.
"I have to go!" he shouted, sitting up again. "I need to be there!"
"Finnick, you can't. You're not strong enough."
"Please!" begged Finnick. "At least let me ride on the hovercraft!"
"No – no, Finnick – " But he had already leapt out of bed and was running through the hospital, stopping only to yank his slippers on and grab his rope. He was a faster runner than plump Evans and was soon out of the hospital altogether. His frantic breaths scraped in his dry throat and his heart pounded in his chest.
He saw Katniss and an older man standing by one of the elevator chutes. "Katniss!" he cried, skidding to a halt. "They won't let me go! I told them I'm fine, but they won't even let me ride in the hovercraft!" He stared desperately at her, sure she would understand how much he needed to go with them…
But she did something very odd instead. She hit herself on the forehead. "Oh, I forgot," she said. "It's this stupid concussion. I was supposed to tell you to report to Beetee in Special Weaponry. He's designed a new trident for you."
Finnick's train of thought derailed with the speed of a crashing hovercraft. "Really? What's it do?" Tridents were cool.
"I don't know. But if it's anything like my bow and arrows, you're going to love it. You'll need to train with it, though."
At some point while Katniss was talking, Finnick's feverish brain began to cool and he realized that maybe Evans had been right about him not going, if he was going to freak out like this. He wasn't sure if his shattered nerves could handle dealing with weaponry, but it was better than visiting bombed-out District Eight. And who knew, a couple hours with his old toy might prove relaxing.
"Right," he said. "Of course. I guess I better get down there."
"Finnick?" said Katniss, eyebrows raised. "Maybe some pants?"
Finnick realized he was clad in nothing but his underwear and one of those dreadful paper hospital gowns. Well, if he was going to run around half-naked anyway…
With a flourish, he divested himself of his outer garments. "Why?" he asked Katniss, putting his hands on his hips, leaning on one leg and lifting his shoulder seductively. "Do you find this distracting?"
Katniss laughed, either at him or the expression on her security guard's face. Finnick joined in, willing to share in a moment of levity. "I'm only human, Odair," she said as the elevator doors closed in front of her.
Still chuckling, Finnick wrapped his rope around his wrist and began folding the gown up. Evans finally caught up to him, cheeks flushed and hair frizzled. "Finnick?" she panted. As she took in his barely-clothed state, her face turned an even deeper shade of pink.
"No worries, Evans," said Finnick, clapping her on the shoulder. "Where's my clothes? I want to get down to Special Weaponry."
The look of confusion on her face was beautiful to see.
"Well, they're back," said Fulvia, both exasperated and relieved, plopping into the seat next to Finnick in the cafeteria.
"Who?" He wasn't eating, just trying to see how many knots he could tie in his rope at once. Four, five…damn. Not enough rope.
Fulvia shot him an odd look. "Katniss and company, of course," she said. Blowing on her stew to cool it, she swallowed a spoonful and added, "Apparently, Cressida got some gorgeous footage." She made no attempt to conceal the rancor in her voice.
"Mm." Finnick untied the knots and started over. Maybe if he tied them as close together as possible…
"I mean, it's not like she did anything. All she did was follow Katniss around with a camera. Forget the hours of preparation that Plutarch and I put into this…" She glared at him. "Finnick, are you even listening to me?"
He wasn't. There was just enough rope left for a sixth knot, possibly. He stuck his tongue between his teeth and tried to knot it.
"But no, it's Cressida this and Messalla that," continued Fulvia. Apparently she did not need an audience to continue talking. "And no one pays any attention to the rest of us."
Finnick's fingers slipped and the sixth knot unraveled. "Seems to me," he said, face tight with concentration as he swiftly unknotted the rest, "that there's a lot of people who aren't being paid attention to. Like the other tributes. All anyone thinks about is Katniss, but the rest of us suffered too."
"I know," said Fulvia. "I always liked Brutus, but you don't see anyone doing a tribute to him…"
Suddenly her lavender-dyed eyes grew as big as saucers and she gasped, pink mouth forming an O. "That's it!" she said. "If we did a series of propos, each one commemorating a different tribute… one for each District! It would be so personal, everyone would love it! Don't you think so?"
Finnick shrugged. "I guess." He had four knots tied and could barely squeeze in a fifth…
"It's perfect! And…how would you like to narrate it?"
Narrate? What the hell. "Sure, why not," said Finnick. He thought of the piece they would have on Annie, showing how sweet and beautiful she was, and warmth blossomed in his stomach. "Yeah, I'll do it."
"Thank you!" Fulvia seized his face in her hands and planted a kiss on the top of his head. Before Finnick could blink she had dashed off to go tell her brilliant idea to Plutarch.
Finnick sat there blankly for a few moments. Then he turned back to his rope with a shrug. If only he could fit that sixth knot in…
"Soldier Odair?"
Finnick looked up at the sound of his name and saw a gray-clad soldier standing in front of him, a folded piece of paper in his hand. "Yeah?" Finnick asked.
The soldier held out the paper. "Letter for you from District Four."
Finnick reached out slowly and took the paper. "Thanks," he said, swallowing.
"No problem, Soldier."
Finnick waited until the sound of the man's bootsteps had faded away. Glancing around to make sure no one in the room was watching, Finnick unfolded the letter under the table.
Written in Connor's neat printing, it read:
Finnick,
I hope you're well. Dalia and the kids are all right. We're doing okay here. I can't say much about the war in case this falls into the wrong hands but I don't think you need to worry much about District Four. President Coin has been good to us, making sure we get the medical supplies and food we need.
We miss you, Finnick, but it is more important that you are safe. Everyone at home grieves for both you and Annie, and hope that you can be reunited soon. Ciara blames you for her daughter's capture, but once Annie is rescued I do not think she will hold it against you.
Also, Riley was buried on the cliff top, facing the ocean. I thought you would want to know.
Until we meet again,
Connor Burns
Sighing, Finnick folded the letter into thirds and tucked it inside his shirt. God, he missed home. He missed it so much it hurt.
"Hey, Katniss." Finnick stuck his head into her hospital room where she sat in bed, propped up by a couple of pillows. "Mind if I join you?"
"Sure." She smiled quickly at him and shifted her dinner tray so there was more room on the bed. Finnick sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, balancing his own tray on his knees. He actually felt hungry today.
"Hey, want to see the new propo?" he asked her. Finnick hadn't seen the first one, but from what he heard it had been pretty effective.
Katniss, her mouth full of bread, nodded. She tossed him the remote to the little TV on the wall and he clicked it on. "Which channel?"
Swallowing, Katniss said, "Any major one. Beetee's hacked through to pretty much all of them."
Finnick picked the channel that would be broadcast to District Four, hoping to see some glimpse of cliffs and crashing waves, but there was nothing but static. With a sigh, he switched back to District Thirteen's own channel, just in time to see the propo.
He didn't watch it, though. He couldn't. After the first shot of bombed-out District Eight and the nightmarish hospital, he closed his eyes and concentrated hard on keeping himself under control, taking deep, slow breaths like Evans had taught him. He wished he had his rope.
At last, after the screams and explosions and disembodied narrations were over, he opened his eyes. There was a shot of a bloodied and dirtied Katniss, standing in the midst of rubble, that slowly faded to black.
The real Katniss lifted her face out of her pillow, looking to him. No longer hungry, Finnick pushed a chunk of cabbage around on his tray. "People should know what happened," he said, looking down. "And now they do." But he couldn't get rid of the sick feeling in his stomach.
"Let's turn it off, Finnick," said Katniss, "before they run it again." She looked pale as well. It must have been twice as hard for her to watch, having seen it all in person. Finnick was obediently reaching for the remote when she shouted "Wait!"
Finnick looked back to the TV. All he saw was Caesar Flickerman, gaudy in sparkling magenta. And then Peeta walked onstage.
He looked…bad. Really bad. Even on the screen, all dolled up under the set's lights, he was thin and shaky. And there was a horribly haunted, familiar look in his eyes…
"Hey, Peeta," said Flickerman, as airily as if Peeta were just some Ca – city celebrity. "How've you been?"
"Not too bad," said Peeta dully. "Worried about Katniss."
Flickerman's eyebrows formed a line of false sympathy. "Missing her?"
Peeta nodded and reached up as if to cover his face before he remembered the makeup he had on and jerked his hand down.
"What do you think about those rumors that she's taping propos for the districts?" asked Flickerman.
"They're using her, obviously. To whip up the rebels. I doubt she even really knows what's going on in the war. What's at stake."
Was he right? Finnick barely had time to wonder before Peeta was speaking again.
"Don't be a fool, Katniss," he said, looking right into the camera as if he could speak to her directly. "Think for yourself. They've turned you into a weapon that could be instrumental in the destruction of humanity. If you've got any real influence, use it to put the brakes on this thing. Use it to stop the war before it's too late. Ask yourself, do you really trust the people you're working with? Do you really know what's going on? And if you don't…find out."
Finnick mechanically pressed the power button, turning the TV off, but his mind was racing. Lover Boy…Lover Boy was right! Katniss was a pawn, and he probably was too, only he was too sick and disoriented to really do anything anyway…
Footsteps sounded outside the door, and Finnick had a bloody good idea what they were coming for. Seizing Katniss' arms, he said, "We didn't see it."
"What?" she asked.
"We didn't see Peeta. Only the propos on Eight. Then we turned the set off because the images upset you. Got it?" She nodded. He hoped he understood that this was maybe the only way they could see what mattered more to those on high – Katniss being well-informed, or Katniss being kept happy and safe. "Finish your dinner," he said.
Plutarch and Fulvia came in, trying to hide their anxious expressions. Finnick headed them off with some empty compliments about Katniss' cousin Gale's on-screen talent. They beamed, and added their own endorsements to the drivel he and Katniss were spouting out.
Not once did they say Peeta's name. And that settled it in Finnick's mind. Katniss, and he, and probably Gale and Beetee and anyone else in their little circle, were just toys in the woman's masterful hands.
