Chapter Ten – Strike a Pose
"Whatever did you do to your hand, Mr. Odair?" The woman's purple eyes are wide and her voice squeaky. She's not one of the usual techs Finnick sees when he needs the services available in the Remake Center, but then there are always extra staff on hand just before the Games and right through the first day.
"I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name…?"
"Oh! I'm Star." This time her voice is both squeaky and breathy, an impressive feat. Finnick smiles at her.
"Well, Star, I punched a wall," he tells her and her eyes somehow open even wider. He always thought it was just an expression, but now he wonders if it's possible they might truly pop out of her head.
She has him move his chair closer to her and then pushes his hand down flat on the table, spreading his fingers out as far as they'll go, just short of discomfort. She covers his hand with a cloth made of a fine wire mesh, warm to the touch, almost hot. "Why would you do something like that?" she squeaks at him.
He shrugs as she switches on a hand-held device and holds it over his knuckles, careful not to touch the mesh. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."
"Well, I don't think that could ever be a good idea, Mr. Odair." She shudders as she checks the readout on the device and then adjusts the settings, running it over his hand again. "Nothing's broken, so that's good. It'll just be another minute and your hand will be as good as new."
"You know, Star, you can call me Finnick." She blinks. And then she blinks again and he watches, fascinated, as her unnaturally purple eyes fill with iridescent tears. "Star? Did I say something wrong?" he asks, wondering what set her off.
She strokes his newly repaired knuckles and a warm tear drips down onto the back of his hand. "Oh, no, Mr. Odair…" She bites her lip and then squeaks out, "I mean Finnick." She bites her lip again. "It's just… Oh!" She whirls away from him and pulls open a drawer behind her, rummages through it until she finds a tube of gel. Just when he thinks she's not going to say anything more, she bursts out, "I am so upset! I can't believe they're sending you into the arena again!" They? he thinks. 'They're sending,' not 'you're going…' Her voice is at least an octave higher than before.
Busying herself, Star smoothes gel over his cheek and jaw. "Close your left eye, please," she orders in a very business-like, if somewhat eye-wateringly high, tone. She sprinkles powder over the gel-coated treatment area, then holds her device over the cut. There's a whining sound when she switches it on that enters his bones and settles there, vibrating away until he grits his teeth in an attempt to make them stop chattering. The gel and powder combination on his skin heats up and he can practically feel the edges of the cut knitting together.
"They shouldn't send you back," Star blurts out as she switches off the device, her voice rough. "It's not fair!" The whining vibration stops and the left side of his face tingles, not unpleasantly, as she wipes away the film left behind by the gel.
"I don't know what to tell you, Star. Broken promises are nothing new." Star seems to be typical of the Capitol's citizens, and if she, a complete stranger, is this upset about him going back into the arena, then others may be upset about the victors having to return as well. Since it's not likely he'll have any good access to Heavensbee, Finnick makes a mental note to mention this conversation to Haymitch, talk to him about how they might be able to use it.
Star doesn't say much after that, other than to issue orders when she needs him to turn this way or that or lift his arms or strip so she can repair any damage covered by his clothes. An hour or so later Finnick's skin is shiny and gleaming and his face and body are blemish-free. Outside the room's main door, Marjora, the senior member of Finnick's prep team, waits in the hallway; Star sees her through the window set into the door and rushes to put her equipment away, cleaning up the area before turning him over to his prep team.
Before she leaves, Star turns back toward Finnick, who stands off to the side, trying to stay out of the way. For a moment, it looks like she's going to throw herself into his arms, but then she seems to think better of it – possibly because he's still naked – and instead grabs his hand again as Marjora and the others set up their things, ignoring the remake tech.
"Oh, Mr. O– Finnick," she starts and he almost laughs at the hybridization, but he doesn't want to hurt her feelings, so he chokes back on it. "I wish none of you had to go back in, but I hope you win." And then she's gone, running for the door so fast he swears her body blurs with her speed. He had asked Star's name because that's the sort of thing that helps him to keep information straight in his head in case of later need, but now he wonders if maybe that simple act – showing just the slightest interest in her as a person – might have pushed her toward her current state of distress.
"I don't even know what that was about," he remarks to Marjora.
Pushing Finnick into the chair, she spins it around until he faces her. She studies his face and hair critically. "No one's happy about the victors being tributes in these Games, Finnick."
He snorts. "You can't possibly be more unhappy about it than we are." He settles back into the chair and closes his eyes. He's been through prep with this team so many times over the years that it's familiar and comfortable, that it doesn't matter that it's happening in the Remake Center, rather than in his rooms at the Training Center. As the other two join Marjora to work on him, talking about his hair and makeup interspersed with the latest Capitol gossip, Finnick relaxes and just lets it all wash over him. It's easy to make his mind a blank and simply absorb everything. Some of it might even become relevant later, after he has time to process it.
"All done, Finnick," Marjora announces and Finnick wakes with a start. "You're ready for Raphael." He wonders how long he was asleep, but it's not important enough for him to ask.
He stares at his image in the mirror that comprises the wall opposite his chair. Makeup covers any lingering traces of bruising. They arranged his hair into a loose tail and when he moves his head, it pulls tight. He reaches up to tug free the ends of the leather thong they used to tie it back.
Behind him, Rafe enters the room and shoos the rest of the prep team away, their work complete. He gestures for Finnick to stand and step away from the prep area into the clear space between the chair and the door. Rafe walks around Finnick, surveying his team's work, a bundle of gold with flashes of green draped over his arm. "You really are a beautiful man, Finnick," Rafe remarks.
Finnick rolls his eyes. What good has it ever done me? he thinks, but aloud he asks, "Can we just get this over with?" He eyes the bundle Rafe holds, which is far too small to be considered an actual costume, and hopes Mags' team isn't trying to make her up to match him.
With a put-upon sigh, Rafe tells Finnick to raise his arms and then he drapes the gold net with its varying shades and textures of green ribbon – not at all evocative of seaweed, but no one asked Finnick's opinion – over his right shoulder, fastening it at his left hip. The remaining netting drapes down below the knot and he pulls it around Finnick's hips, working the end of that into the original knot and securing it with a gold pin. When he's finished, he stands back and has Finnick turn around for him one more time.
"Where's the rest of it?" Finnick asks, knowing full well there is no "rest of it." Rafe ignores him. "Please tell me Mags' costume is more substantial." Again Rafe says nothing and it's Finnick's turn to sigh as his unusually taciturn stylist crouches in front of him to fiddle with the netting and ribbons over Finnick's groin, attempting to gain him a little more coverage.
Rafe stands when Marjora knocks at the door and pops her head in. "The tributes are gathering." Finnick's stomach rumbles, reminding him that he hasn't eaten anything since the apple that morning, and if the rest of the tributes are already gathering, he's not going to get a chance to rectify that.
Stepping away from Finnick, Rafe walks over to the pack he dropped by the door, pulls out a pair of sandals, and hands them to Finnick, who stands up again once he has them laced on. Rafe surveys his and his team's work one last time before he silently hands Finnick an energy bar.
"You know me too well." Finnick grins and takes a bite of the bar.
Rafe raises one brow. "You're always hungry."
"Not always." There's another knock, this one more insistent, and both men move toward the door.
"I'm sorry, Finnick," Rafe says, opening the door and allowing Finnick to walk through ahead of him. He clearly means to say more, but doesn't get the chance as Peacekeepers move into place to escort Finnick to the ground floor of the Remake Center.
xXx
The trip from the train station to the Hunger Games complex doesn't take long. Phineas LaSalle, nominally in charge of Annie due to his position as the Capitol representative to District 4, decided before they ever left the train station that she should be treated in the Remake Center, rather than in one of the Capitol's hospitals. When they arrive, there are people everywhere, both coming and going, and Cinna takes his leave. Annie almost asks him to stay, but stops herself. He has his own duties to see to and it isn't fair of her to take up more of his time. She watches him walk away as LaSalle speaks to a woman holding a clipboard and pen like they're a sword and shield.
After a few minutes, LaSalle leaves as well, and the woman with the clipboard leads Annie to a room that looks like a doctor's office. "Please sit, Miss Cresta," she directs Annie. "I'll have a technician in to take care of you as soon as one is available." Annie starts to ask her how long that might be, but the woman is already gone. Slumping back into her chair, Annie looks around the room, which is all purely functional monochrome. There's nothing at all interesting to look at. The artwork on the walls is made up of shades of gray, there are no windows and only the one door. There's not even a telephone or an intercom; the techs must carry any means of communication with them wherever they go.
"Please sit, Miss Cresta," Annie mocks. "Let me get you a magazine, Miss Cresta. Would you like something to eat or drink, Miss Cresta? Oh, that's right, no one really cares that you're here." Annie sighs, forgotten again. She slides down even further in the chair, resting her head on the back of it and stretching her legs out in front. With a glance at the clock above the door – 11:23 – she closes her eyes and does her best to ignore the way the room spins.
Nearly two hours later, a man enters, waking Annie from a restless sleep filled with odd images and a vague sense of dread. She straightens up in the chair as he reads through the information the medic gathered at the train station, flips through the pages on the clipboard the woman left behind, then repeats nearly every action the original medic took.
When he's finished, he gestures toward a cloth-covered metal table and tells Annie to lie down. Wiring leads from underneath the table to a console at the near end and there are heavy canvas bands on the sides of it, so she expects it when the man straps her down, but she doesn't like it. Her trepidation only increases when padded bumpers rise to either side of her head, narrowing her view and further curtailing her movements.
Taking the clipboard with him, the man settles in at the control console at the end of the table and consults his notes, making adjustments to the controls. Unable to do anything else, Annie stares up at the bright white light over her head. If she squints just right, the fixture surrounding the light breaks up into all sorts of pastel colors, which is better than the red shot through with lightning that she sees when she closes her eyes. The colors remind her of the linings of some of the shells back home, mother of pearl with her eyes open, the reddish hues of conch shells with them closed.
Apparently finished with his adjustments, the technician replaces the light fixture above Annie's head with another device that gives off a high-pitched whine. The man grasps a pair of handles on either side of the device and pulls it down to cover the left half of her face. It fits snugly against her nose, a portion of it brushing against her lashes, and Annie closes her eyes.
"This will hurt a bit," the tech warns her and Annie clutches tightly at the edges of the table. The whine grows louder, accompanied by a whirring sound. A vibration starts in the bones of her head where the device covers her and warms her skin, almost but not quite burning. Then a bright lance of pain, right where the Peacekeeper struck her, slices through her head and Annie clutches the table harder, clenches her teeth to bite back a cry. Her whole body is rigid with the effort not to scream, and just when she thinks she can't hold back any more, the vibration and heat stop.
Annie is afraid to open her eyes. It was more than just a little bit of pain. The lying technician flicks a couple of switches and pressure grows in Annie's face beneath the device; it feels as though it's pulling her skin away from her muscle and bone, except that it doesn't hurt, not like before. It's more like the pull from holding her hand against a vacuum, slightly unpleasant, but no worse than that. And then it's gone and the man lifts the thing away from Annie's face and the bumpers that hold her head steady retreat into the table.
"All done, Miss Cresta," the man informs her gruffly as he releases the straps around Annie's arms and legs. Retrieving the clipboard he left sitting on the console, the man leaves without another word.
Annie sits up and swings her legs over the side of the table, raising a hand to her forehead. Her face where the device rested feels a little tingly, but there's no more pain and Annie's skin is smooth beneath her fingers. The light in the room no longer hurts her eyes and there's no more colorful refraction. Yet again, she is alone.
"What am I supposed to do now?" she asks aloud, but of course there's no response. She stands up from the table, half expecting the room to spin, pleasantly surprised when it remains steady. She walks resolutely to the door and twists the knob, but the door doesn't open. She looks around the room for something she can use to pry the pins from the hinges, but there's nothing. Just like the train car, she is a prisoner here.
"Dammit." She turns her back on the door and leans her shoulders against it, nothing left to do but wait.
xXx
The Peacekeepers leave Finnick beneath the Remake Center in the doorway to the enormous room that houses the garage and stables. He doesn't think he's the last one to arrive, but it's hard to tell, since almost everyone in sight is a victor. Moving about in swirls and eddies, twenty four tributes, more or less, wearing colorful district-themed costumes, mingle with as many mentors, drab and sober in comparison. Finnick has met most of them during his annual visits to the Capitol for the Games, and some of them he considers friends.
Based solely on the costumes, he doesn't see either of the tributes from 12, who he expects will be as spectacular this year as last, nor does he see 3, unless 3's stylist has done something truly creative, and what are the odds of that? He spots Johanna on the far side of the room talking to Blight and Enobaria. Where Enobaria glitters, even from this distance, with thousands of gemstones, Johanna and Blight are dressed in skintight bodysuits covered in fake bark and leaves. Jo holds the headdress under one arm, an ungainly thing with twisted branches and yet more fake leaves. He doesn't see Blight's headdress, but he's sure it's around somewhere.
"Ah, Jo, you've got to be loving life about as much as I am right now," Finnick says aloud, grinning, but its lost in the buzz of dozens of individual conversations. He steps further into the room and heads toward Johanna, but before he makes it even halfway, he hears Rafe's voice calling his name. He turns to see his stylist running toward him.
"Forget something?" he asks as Rafe comes to a stop in front of him.
"Yes." Rafe presses a gold pin into Finnick's hand. "Rialla reminded me that I have both pins. Would you please give this to Mags when she gets here?" Finnick turns the bit of jewelry over in his hand; the pin, a gold circle about an inch in diameter and, he realizes, the twin of the one fastening his net in place, is a mockingjay.
Finnick looks sharply at Rafe. Can they possibly know the significance of this? he wonders. Aloud he says, "Sure. Why a mockingjay? It's not like we get a lot of them in Four…"
Rafe shrugs. "We had to have something to fasten the nets and Rialla found these. Besides, I think they look good with the overall motif." A growing silence spreading out from the main doorway causes Finnick to glance over Rafe's shoulder and Rafe turns around to see what's happening behind him. Finnick's mouth goes dry at the sight of Coriolanus Snow standing in that doorway, surveying his room full of victors.
The President's gaze lights on Finnick as the remaining conversations grind to a halt. He gestures for Finnick to stay where he is, then steps fully into the room, stopping to say something to Cecelia and Gloss before continuing to Finnick.
With barely a glance at Rafe, Snow's eyes track deliberately down Finnick's body to his sandaled feet and back up again to his artfully arranged hair before stopping at his eyes. He smiles at Finnick and reaches into an inner pocket for a handkerchief, dabs at a spot of blood at the corner of his mouth and returns the handkerchief to his pocket. He nods at someone over Finnick's right shoulder and then locks his gaze on Finnick.
Snow smiles when he says, "There is a couple who would like to meet you following the ceremonies, Finnick, so when you return to the Training Center, don't go to your floor right away." In the silence of the room, his voice carries. Finnick feels the blood rush to his face as sudden anger fills him, crowding out the embarrassment.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me." Tact is beyond him at the moment and he doesn't even try to keep the anger from his voice.
"I do not 'kid,' Finnick. You should know that by now," he adds with a raised brow. "You have a good deal to make up for, given they were supposed to make your acquaintance a few days ago, before you decided to alter your schedule." Snow's voice is as icy as his name. He and Finnick are not at the center of the room, but they are the center of attention; Finnick feels the gaze of nearly everyone present as a growing pressure on his skin. "You'll meet them in the Training Center lobby."
Finnick glances at Rafe for half a second before returning his attention to Snow. The desire to smash his fist into Snow's face is nearly overwhelming as he asks, "Is this supposed to humiliate me? Because everyone here knows what I am." He manages to keep his fists at his sides even as he pictures Snow's nose gushing blood.
The President smiles, the expression not reaching his eyes, very much aware of what Finnick would like to do to him. He pats Finnick on the cheek, flicks an imaginary speck of dust or smudge of makeup from Finnick's bare shoulder. "You are so very good at what you do, my dear boy. Should you not survive these Games, you will be missed." Snow steps past him then and Finnick closes his eyes, willing himself not to react any further to Snow's provocation. He was a fool to think that, because he's officially within the jurisdiction of the Games now, Snow would leave him alone, not if there is still money to be made. Who's going to tell the President no?
Finnick takes a deep breath and opens his eyes as conversations slowly resume around the room. Cecelia gives him a sympathetic look. Gloss' expression is unreadable, but then that's nothing new – he and Finnick have always been rivals in one way or another, never friends. Rafe's eyes are wide and he looks a little nervous. Snow is gone and no one says a word to Finnick about what just happened.
Finnick tells Rafe, his voice as steady as he can make it, "I'll give this to Mags." Rafe looks down at Finnick's hand, at the pin clutched so tightly Finnick is surprised it doesn't cut through his skin; he forces himself to loosen his grip. Rafe opens then closes his mouth, leaving whatever he meant to say unsaid. Instead he nods and turns, all but running to the door.
Determined to act as though nothing happened, Finnick searches the crowd of victors until he finds Johanna again, but before he can head toward her a light touch on his shoulder stops him. "Are you okay, Finnick?" Cecelia asks. He turns to face her, sees nothing but concern in her brown eyes.
"What? Snow?" She nods and he waves a hand dismissively. "Yeah, Cecelia. I'm fine. He staged that whole thing just to rattle me, but I'm not going to let it." They both know that's a lie, but Cecelia doesn't call him on it. "What about you?" He doesn't want to mention her family, but he can't stop seeing those three kids clinging to her at her reaping.
"I'm as okay as I can be," she tells him, her eyes full of shadows.
"They didn't let you say goodbye, either, did they?"
She shakes her head. "No. They hustled us off to the train station as soon as we were reaped."
"It was the same in Four."
"We saw what happened at your reaping. Is Annie okay?"
"You didn't see all of it," he tells her, hearing again the sound of the rifle butt impacting on Annie's head, even though he knows half of it is his imagination.
Cecelia frowns. "What happened?"
"She wouldn't stop screaming, so a Peacekeeper hit her. The last time I saw her, she was on the ground, unconscious and bleeding." Cecelia takes one of his hands in hers. "I have no idea if she's okay. No one will tell me anything."
"Oh, Finnick, I'm so sorry." She looks away. "We're all just so powerless against them."
Deciding to take a chance on her, Finnick glances around to see who might be close enough to overhear them. When he's satisfied no one is listening in, he asks her, "What if we could change that?"
She hears it in his voice that his question isn't rhetorical. "Meaning?"
"Alliance?"
"It sounds to me like you're thinking of more than just a simple alliance for the Games."
"You always were quick on the uptake." Finnick grins, but it fades quickly. Cecelia has never shown herself to be anything but trustworthy, even in the way she fought and won her Games, and he thinks he can trust her now. "I'm proposing an alliance between Four, Seven, Eight, and Twelve. More if we can manage it."
"Not the other Careers?"
He shrugs. "Maybe, but maybe not. I haven't spoken to any of them yet." Enobaria might be open to it, but Brutus? Cashmere? He doubts either of them would go for it, and if Cashmere isn't on board, then neither is Gloss.
"Why Seven and Twelve?" Cecelia asks. "For that matter, why Eight?" Traditionally, 8 doesn't participate in alliances with any of the Career districts.
He steps a little closer to her, smiles flirtatiously for anyone who might be watching, whispers in her ear, "Mostly to protect the girl from Twelve. We need for her to survive."
Cecelia pulls back to look him in the eye. "Rebellion?" she whispers, the word barely audible, her lips barely moving. Finnick meets her gaze, nods. They stand that way for an eternity that lasts maybe three seconds, then Cecelia pulls him into an embrace.
"We're in," she whispers fiercely into his ear. "If my kids have to lose their mother, I want it to be for a reason." She releases him and spins, walking away without another word to join Woof, her district partner.
"So do I, Cecelia," Finnick whispers toward her retreating back. "So do I." He locates Johanna yet again and heads that way.
"Did that son of a bitch really pimp you out again?" Johanna asks, incredulous, as Finnick approaches.
"He did," Finnick confirms. Blight holds out his hand and he and Finnick shake.
Enobaria shakes her head, causing the gemstones woven into her midnight hair to glitter like stars. "Better you than me." She bares her shark teeth in a grin; next to Finnick, she's probably the most popular victor in the Capitol.
"Better none of us," Johanna says and Enobaria arches one eyebrow, looks from her to Blight to Finnick.
"I told you, Johanna, you can count me out of your rebel crap." Her voice is pitched low to not be overheard, but she's firm in her denial. "I won't stand in your way, so long as it doesn't cause me grief, but I will not help you."
"Rebel 'crap?' You said you were sympathetic."
"I am, but I'm not risking my family on something that's doomed from the start." She glances at the door through which Snow left a few minutes before. Johanna opens her mouth to say something else, but Enobaria holds up a hand. "No. No alliance." She turns and stalks away, headed toward the District 2 chariot where the victors from 1 stand beside Brutus and Lyme, another victor from 2.
"Bitch," Johanna says, her gaze still pinned on Enobaria. Finnick looks at Jo and laughs.
xXx
"Annie?" Cinna stands just inside the door; she didn't hear it open. "I stopped by to check on you and they told me you're finished. To be honest, I didn't expect you'd still be here." He smiles at her.
Annie blinks. Her eyes don't want to focus, but it's not like it was before. She rubs at them and blinks again rapidly, forcing the dryness away. "How long was I asleep?" she asks him before she remembers that he won't know, he wasn't here. "Never mind. It doesn't matter." She swings her legs down from the chair, rests her bare feet flat on the carpeted floor, digging her toes into the pile. If Cinna is here, then she's no longer locked in.
Cinna steps further into the room and holds out a hand to her. "Well, I thought, since we're both expected to be at the opening ceremonies, if only for the moral support of our tributes, we might as well go together."
At the words "opening ceremonies," Annie bends over in her chair, lifts her hands to cover her ears. She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, but then opens them again and forces herself to straighten up, pushes her hands back down to grip the arms of the chair as she stands. My name is Annie Cresta. I am twenty-two years old. I am the victor of the 70th Hunger Games.
"All right," Annie whispers. Cinna's friendly smile fades, replaced by a look of concern that's already becoming familiar to Annie. She walks over to Cinna and takes his proffered hand, clutching it tightly, thinking that the gesture is something Finnick would do, if he were here. And he must be here somewhere within the Remake Center, if the opening ceremonies are about to begin.
Annie looks down at her blouse and skirt, the same ones she wore to the reaping only yesterday. "There's blood all over me," she says. There must be blood dried in her hair, too. She shudders, desperately wanting a shower, but she has nothing to change into.
"Why don't we go to your quarters, then?" Cinna suggests. "You can get cleaned up and change before we go down."
She frowns. Her quarters? He must mean District 4's floor of the Training Center. "Yes. I'd like to do that, but don't you have to be with your…" She swallows, reluctant to say the word for all the memories it raises. "… your tributes?"
She'd hated being with her stylist in preparation for the opening ceremonies of her Games, hated all that he'd done to her in the name of "making a splash" with the citizens of the Capitol, not just that night but also for the interview with Caesar Flickerman the night before they sent her and the other tributes into the arena. It had been a different stylist for her victory tour, but he might as well have been the same person, the designs were so similar, so wrong for her, pandering as they did to the wants and whims of the Capitol.
Looking into Cinna's gold-flecked eyes, she thinks she might not have hated it so much with him, that she might have believed him if he told her he wanted her to look her best so she'd have a better chance at netting sponsors. He would never have used the word "netting," though.
Cinna reaches with his free hand to tuck a stray strand of Annie's hair behind her ear. "Are you alright, Annie?"
She shakes her head. "Not really." Looking down again at her dirty clothes and skin, she continues, "But I think a shower will help. How long do we have?"
He turns his head to glance at the clock above the door. "Just a shade over an hour. Plenty of time." She squeezes his hand and he doesn't let go as they leave the room, something else that reminds her of Finnick. She knows Cinna has to join the others from 12, but she's grateful for his help and selfish enough that she doesn't tell him she'll be fine on her own.
xXx
From a table at the end of the room nearest the stables, Finnick snags a couple of apples and as many sugar cubes as he can carry. They're meant for the horses, but he doesn't think they'll mind sharing. He quickly eats one of the apples and tosses the core to a dapple gray mare watching him curiously from the District 9 chariot, which looks a little different this year, then heads off into the thick of the crowd, munching on sugar cubes.
Weaving between groups of victors and chariots, his eyes light on Chaff, dressed in gold with some sort of plume on his head that Finnick supposes is meant to evoke wheat. He's talking to Haymitch, who wears a pair of black trousers and a shirt that shades from deep blue at the hem to orange and bright yellow at the collar and which appears to be misbuttoned. And possibly stained. Finnick grins. So much for sober. He heads over to join them in their corner by the District 11 chariot.
About halfway there, he realizes that it isn't just the District 9 chariot that looks different this year. The chariot for 11 is shaped like a basket, the kind the people of that district use to gather the harvest.
When Finnick stops beside him, Chaff punches Finnick in the shoulder by way of greeting and says, "Don't they ever let you wear clothes, boy?"
"Not for the last ten years, old man. I guess they figured why start now?" He offers Chaff his as yet untouched apple and receives an almost horrified look in return. "What?" he asks, studying the apple, which looks to him to be perfectly edible, if a little small.
"Apples are outta season. That thing must be nearly a year old and it's gotta be mushy as hell."
Finnick shrugs and takes a bite. "Tastes good to me. We don't get many apples in Four." The apple is small but very sweet; it doesn't take long to finish it and he feeds the core to one of the horses harnessed to the chariot; the horse takes it delicately from his hand. Since Chaff turned down the apple, Finnick offers him a sugar cube, but the older man declines that, too.
Haymitch stares at Finnick, a speculative look in his eyes. Finnick looks at Chaff and then back to Haymitch. "If I'd known you cared so much, Haymitch, I'd've offered you some sugar, too," he purrs. Haymitch's expression goes from speculative to disgusted in less than a blink and Finnick laughs.
"You're not my type, Odair. Too pretty. Why don't you go talk to my girl instead?" Haymitch nods his head back in the direction Finnick came from. An attractive dark-haired girl dressed in skintight black stands by herself, stroking the cheek of one of the coal black horses harnessed to the District 12 chariot, also coal black.
"So that's our Mockingjay…" Finnick whispers, low enough that no one but Haymitch and Chaff can hear. "Kind of a tiny thing, isn't she?"
"Only on the outside," Haymitch responds and Finnick looks at him sharply.
"Careful, Haymitch. I might start thinking you're as infatuated as your Peeta."
Haymitch snorts. "Ain't nobody that far gone." But then he sobers again. "Are you still on board?" he asks. Finnick glances at Chaff, but reads nothing off him. He looks back at Haymitch.
"It's not like I'm going to walk out of that arena a second time," Finnick says, thinking about his conversation with Cecelia earlier. "I might as well die for a reason."
Chaff cuffs him with his stump. "Good man."
Haymitch visibly relaxes. "I told Katniss to make some allies, but she's stubborn. Thinks she and Peeta can make it alone." He spears Finnick with a look. "Convince her otherwise."
As Beetee, Wiress, and one of the District 3 mentors approach, Finnick pops another sugar cube into his mouth and winks at Haymitch, then strolls toward Katniss Everdeen, their unwitting symbol of rebellion.