In which the Victors receive assignments (and reminders).
Blood. Blood drips onto the wooden interior of the little rowboat. Finnick's nose crinkles as he cringes. Hands still continue their work, rough texture grating away at the shredded, wounded skin. But the casted rope line, creaking now against its tether to the self-made pulley system, reminds him of today's goal. He chuckles as he sees its weight tugging the boat down portside. Bronzed hands retrieve the spear, and the boy stands, feet balancing carefully as he peers over the side. Dark blue dorsally, silvery white ventrals with deep yellow and light yellow fins, white-edged caudal fin. An albacore tuna. Big one, too. Father will be proud.
The practiced spear pierces clear through, pools of red altering the water around it. The fish still struggles, and hands rush to pull it from the water before the sharks come out to play.
Mare had beaten him at sparring today. Mother had been furious, asked what the point is, of sending Finnick to training since he was five years old. Mother had gotten out the belt, the one she kept next to her liquor cabinet.
"Up against the post."
Father had intervened, said to leave the boy alone.
"He's only nine, Nika," father had said. "Mare's got five years on him."
(Five years, the nine-year-old huffs to himself.)
He holds the catch in the air. Blood and water fly off as the tail flails wildly. I'll show them.
"Well, he better be ready three years from now." mother had glared, heading inside for another drink. "I'm not burying my children."
Finnick falls back, and the flapping fish writhes on top of him. He grabs the slimy thing, pounds its head against the rocking boat's hull. It finally stills, and Finnick begins to laugh. Mare has never been very good at spears, or nets. She excels at hand-to-hand. But the son can prove himself, in his own way.
And what's the difference between spearing a fish and spearing a person?
(I could win, the boy thinks. I could win, and it could be amazing.
Finnick Odair could be the greatest Victor there ever was.)
"She doesn't mean it, Finn."
Father had taken his shoulders, leaning down so he was eye-level with his son. Blue eyes had been light-lidded, crinkling at the edges as father smiles. Finnick inherited his father's smile. Everyone says so. Everything else Finnick has gotten from mother. Father's family never let the boy forget that.
Mrs. Odair is not one of the most popular people in Waterside. But she is one of the most beautiful.
The oars strain the nine-year-old's strength, and he is startled, to an extent, to see the sun setting off to the west. Dread fills his mind as he recalls it had taken him about an hour just to get this far out from the marina. He tries to row faster, tries to force himself to be more than human. Forward, up, back, ignore the distant glow of the sun dipping below the water; forward, up, back, pretend the coast is closer; forward, up, back-
"Halt!" the voice follows a spotlight which blinds the boy. "Hands up!"
No, no, no-
Finnick flinches himself awake now, eyes burning with mid-sleep resistance. And his stomach churns because he has forgotten the redhead in his bed. He has forgotten that he had his arms wrapped around her. He swallows over a lump in his throat, and she mumbles something in her sleep, before her body shifts, pressing against him.
It is not a rare thing, for Finnick to wake up with company. But this is different; this is not an assignment. And Annie is not expecting his attentive touches or for him to-
His hands reach up, fingers running through her hair again. He finds comfort in the texture, letting himself settle back against the pillow, pressing his shoulder into the mattress. The weight shifts the balance, now, and Annie is jostled, ever-so slightly.
"Sorry," he whispers. Her lashes are still shut firmly. He still feels that rush of something, that something he felt when he saw Mags and Annie together, Annie resting her head against the old woman's shoulder.
He is having trouble sleeping, and he lets himself disentangle, just enough to get his arms off of the girl's body.
Finnick, what are you doing?
(No renmen li.
Remember?)
Cheek rests against the crisp sheets, only somewhat softened by body heat and nights of finicky slumber. Knots stop his fiddling and he smiles. No one in the Capitol ever has those. Preened and slick and shining. It is all as much of a joke as Finnick Odair's monogamy.
But we aren't in the Capitol. Not yet.
(He thinks, I don't want to let them have you, Annie.
Some wicked voice wants to know,
why he thinks he'd have any right to stop them.
She isn't yours, Finnick.
She belongs to Snow, now, just like you.)
He watches her. He sees that relaxed expression, which even drugs do not bring in her waking hours. Her face is washed clean, eyes and lips natural. She actually looks like herself; like she is sixteen. Finnick wonders, hardly for the first time, if he could get that time back, if he could just have the youthful hope and innocence he had at fourteen years old. What would he give?
What wouldn't I give?
He could do it. He knows, physically, that he could. She is sleeping soundly, small and vulnerable, even on a good day. He could do it easy. Wrap hands around her throat, or force the pillow over her face. Ignore flailing wrists and muffled screams that try to protest-
"Finn…"
Finnick's hand jerks back, and he recoils, but then he checks her face; and with further mumbling, he realizes she is asleep.
"Se zanmi m 'yo... liked griddlecakes..."
He begins to pull away, but then she rolls to the left, closer to him. Her fingers rest, ghosting the skin of his arm. He stills, watching her intently.
Don't wake up, Annie. Don't wake up. Stay asleep. It'll be better.
She might become like him. The thought makes him sick. Valuable for what is in between her legs; become old and used inside, rotted away into some stinking thing, whilst the outside is spun and scrubbed to perfection every day. Auctioned off, like fish by the pound in the market.
Finnick closes his eyes.
Count to ten, Finnick.
He remembers the mentor at Four's Career Center, giving him this advice.
Count to ten, and begin again.
He does. It almost helps. Finnick swallows over a lump in his throat when he finishes his counting. Annie mumbles again, and his eyes open, slowly. Still asleep. The relief is overwhelming. He hesitates now, before hands reach out, begin to touch her hair again.
Twist, twirl, untwist, braid.
Guilt blooms at the back of his mind, because what if she wakes up? Will this frighten her?
Twist, twirl, untwist, untwirl, loop, braid.
Eyes flicker down. Freckles are splattered across her nose, paler now from days in the sun blocked out by thick layers of makeup. Her lips are mumbling, nose wrinkling before she turns her face into the pillow and she sighs against the fabric.
(I'll help you, Annie, he thinks.
Liar, that wicked voice provides. You can't help anyone.
I'll try.)
Hot breath comes out, puffs up some of her hair before some strands slide across her face. Finnick smiles again, and it feels strange. He settles, after a moment; stares at the ceiling and counts up to ten, again.
One, two, three…
"Just what is going on?!"
The high-pitched exclamation of District Four's escort bleeds through Finnick's half-awakened sleep. Eyelids peel opened, one at a time, to find the cream-skinned man with his hands on his hips, glaring. The bird-boned stylist, lingering in the doorway, appear just as disappointed. Daran, at the stylist's side, is fuming.
('She's not a toy, Finnick.'
'No renmen li.')
"What does it look like?" Finnick manages with a wink. Sitting up, he kicks the blanket off his legs, ruffling his hair. Next to him, Annie whimpers as her own lashes flutter opened. He tries not to let that feeling in his gut tell him she looks pretty, right now. Instead, he musses her hair, and she pushes his hand away lazily. "Morning, sleepyhead."
"Morning?" the reply is hazy, as hands rub at her eyes. She shifts, propping herself up by her elbows. Sea-green eyes rove, still sleepy, about the room, as if forgetting where she is. Awareness slowly dawns and her eyes widen, looking to Finnick. "Hello."
"Hello," Finnick gives her a crooked grin. The girl sits up, arms curling around herself. "Dunno about you, but I slept like a baby."
"That doesn't make sense." Annie tilts her head, a bemused smile on her lips. "Babies are awfully fitful-"
"Enough! This won't do, Finnick!" the escort interjects, fretting. "This simply won't do, what with her condition!"
"Seems fine to me," Finnick quips, flashing a toothy grin. "Right, Ann?"
Annie's shoulders hunch upwards when she is addressed, her knees curling to her chest. She stares at the blankets that tent around her legs.
"Annie, get up." Daran's countenance is stern. She does not seem to hear him, and his face scowls, whether intentional or not. "Annie, se pou yo ale!"
The contained hatred licking at his voice is redirected from Finnick. It is not meant for the girl who is under the Golden Boy's sheets. Annie still flinches and obeys immediately, scrambling out of bed, abashed and blushing. Daran puts an arm around her shoulders, leading her out of the compartment.
"Don't do this again, Finnick!" the escort chastises. "We've enough to work on, don't confuse the girl by-"
"By doing what, exactly?" the words cut off his tongue like glass, and narrowed eyes glance between the escort and stylist.
Only he knows what they are thinking. That he is the one about to corrupt the poor little Mad Girl from District Four, seduce and then abandon her.
A bitter laugh chokes out from between his lips and Finnick finds his eyes looking towards the windows of his compartment.
'The key, Finnick, is to make them believe you.'
Finnick tries to ignore the expression on the District One Victor's face.
'Every, single, one.'
He always has to make them believe; friends, family, patrons, acquaintances. That is the problem. Stylists and escorts are included, though in reality, if their heads were not so far up their asses, they rightfully should have figured it all out years ago.
Finnick never has had that sort of luck, though. Perhaps it is for the best, for them, that they think he really just cannot keep it in his pants. Letting them see weakness, letting them know that the affairs are forced, and one-sided, well… there is no room for a shameless playboy and slut to be self-pitying, now is there? There are consequences if he lets the mask fall in front of the wrong person.
Two down: two to go;
Mare and Mr. Odair: Mags and Mrs. Odair.
"Don't worry, darlings." Finnick stretches as he rises, pulling off his shirt before smirking at the Capitolites. He purposely flexes the muscles in his arms as hands go to his hips. The muscles in his stomach flex, as well, and he lets them; watches the way the two practically drool. "I'll try not to be too distracting to the poor thing."
"You had better, Finnick." the escort clears his throat, before wagging a finger in Finnick's direction. He turns back towards the hallway. "She's already quite a mess as it is. Set a good example, and stay on your best behavior!"
(A good example of what? Finnick wonders;
What President Snow wants?)
"No promises." Finnick keeps the smirk on his lips, but it feels more like a sneer.
The blue-tinged stylist, lingers in the room. With her lips tightly pursed, her mouth appears so near to resembling a beak that Finnick always has trouble retaining a laugh. To his surprise, a frown furrows her otherwise perfectly sculpted brow. She steps in the room, tilting her head to one side.
"Are you feeling quite all right?" she asks.
"Never been better."
Of anyone on their District 'team,' the woman is one of the few in who Finnick can tolerate- tolerate, if not necessarily enjoy- the company of. She is all right with silence, even the awkward, pregnant kind; and where the prep teams and escorts never seem to understand District reticence when it comes to gossip and fashion, she has smiled, and not mocked their 'simple-mindedness.' There is a moment, now, when he sees something in her eyes, something flickering. Not concern, no; but it is definitely enough to make her think, to make her wonder…
"Good. You've an appointment as soon as we get in."
The moment is gone as quick as it arrive. She claps her hands together, tells him to get showered before the prep team arrives in an hour.
Finnick programs icy, unscented waters to drench himself.
It (almost) helps clear his mind.
The car from the Train Station does not go to the Training Center. Finnick realizes they are taking an alternative route from the moment the automobile turns left, rather than heading straight. As they wind and wheel their way, Finnick begins to recognize the route. They are headed to the Presidential Mansion.
Annie is calm, with a familiar drowsy appearance to her eyes and limp smile. Physician Hanratty has given her two injections already, just this morning. She is up to about six shots per day. It could be more, but Daran will not even look at Finnick when he asks; and Mags merely shrugs.
Her absent smile lingers, probably stuck on Annie's lips from earlier, as per Daran's instructions at the station. Finnick tries to ignore the churning he feels in his stomach. The President's favored main secretary, Honorius, greets them. He is accompanied by a masked Peacekeeper, fully armed and at attention.
The androgynous-looking male secretary takes Annie's hand in both of his, kissing it, before he smiles brightly.
"Lovely to finally have the pleasure, dear."
Annie smiles back, but it is distant and confused, and she stares at Honorius's fingers as though they are foreign objects.
"Just as adorable in person, I see."
The middle-aged man tweaks Annie's cheek before turning to the others. She flinches, ever so slightly but visibly unsettled. Finnick resists intervening.
"President Snow will see you in the garden, Miss Cresta." Honorius nods Annie in the direction of the exterior exit; clear doors showing a brilliantly sunny garden. The Peacekeeper moves towards the door, opening it. "Right through there, go on. Your mentor will join you."
Daran moves to follow the girl, but is stopped by a motion of Honorius's hand.
"Oh, how silly of me." Honorius laughs, but it does not carry to his eyes. "The President only requested Mags."
They watch as Mags limps her way over, gentle hand setting on Annie's shoulder. The two slip through the doorway, the Peacekeeper escorting them.
Mags and Annie. Finnick hopes the President chokes on his own blood. What good would Mags do if Annie has a fit? Who is going to look after them, when the snake has them both cornered?
Who is going to protect either of them?
The Golden Boy feels a tightness in his throat, knowing that, in all ten years he has come here, he has never had an escort who is armed with a gun. Bodyguards, certainly, are one thing, but an armed Peacekeeper to accompany the Mad Girl from District Four, well, it speaks volumes.
What if Snow decides that Annie isn't worth the trouble-
"Mr. Odair?" Honorius prompts. Finnick looks to him, realizing he has slipped out and missed part of a conversation he is obviously meant to have heard. "Did you miss that?"
(This must be how Annie feels, he thinks.)
"'Fraid so," Finnick forces his smile to go crooked, nodding at the Capitol Crest, gilded and menacing, behind the President's desk. "Just admiring the view."
"Of course." the tone is curt, as the secretary hands Daran a cream-colored envelope. One is also offered to the Golden Boy. Finnick feels a chill ripple down his spine as he tucks his own request away into his suit's jacket pocket. A forced smile now matches Honorius's dismissive gestures towards the way through which they had only just entered. "The car is waiting for you both downstairs."
Finnick hesitates, and Daran clears his throat. Finnick nods, obeys (always so obedient, that Finnick Odair), following Daran out the door.
Neither man speaks, even as they enter the Training Center; Finnick's throat is still too tight, mind filled with images of Annie, now, in the many positions his nightmares place him in.
And Mags, Mags with a gun to her head, braiding Annie's hair even as she screams-
The elevator opens and they board. Daran taps the button for the rooftop, rather than Floor Four.
Finnick glances at his companion in confusion, but says nothing. The wind that greets them as they disembark is a relief, and eyes slip shut for a moment. He likes to pretend, at times, that it is a salt air breeze, fresh off the water. It is not, of course. This is mountain air, polluted by sounds and smells that reek of the Capitol; but Finnick Odair is nothing if not an excellent storyteller.
"Over here." Daran's voice is more gruff than it is wont to be towards Annie, but Finnick can hardly say that is a surprise. They step to the edge, the older Victor leaning his back against the handrail, meeting Finnick's eyes with a narrowed gaze. Daran has his envelope in his hands, swats it against his other, opened palm. "You want to go first?"
Finnick shakes his head. It apparently is what Daran had expected. He is already pulling the card out from within, reading carefully before handing it over to Odair, impassive. It has gold print on both sides, each with a different set of instructions, and dates.
"Caro Wedenmer," Finnick reads off.
He recognizes the name. Caro is the eldest son of the current Head Gamemaker. Wedenmer, Senior, had screwed up majorly: he allowed a crazy girl to come out of the arena. This could be punishment, though, it seems more of a reward.
Does it ever count as a punishment, for anyone except us?
Add insult to our pulsing injuries?
"It's not until Friday."
"Turns eighteen this year." Daran is staring at the elevator, his voice flat.
Finnick stares. Daran had been a teenager, of course, when he won, but that had been twenty years ago. For the older man to have sex with an eighteen-year-old, while not the most scandalous of secrets Finnick is privy to, is still surprising. It is not the Victor's typical pairing. Daran had been popular, on his day, but the clients who do still call on Daran are typically older. It lends some suspicion to the matter, to say the least.
"Doubt I'm his first choice," Daran's voice sounds choked, but he looks away. Finnick does not try to meet his gaze, anyway.
He focuses on the card as if it is the most interesting thing in the world. There are details, specifics of color, appearance and activities to be done with Caro. Daran clears his throat, motions for Finnick to flip to the other side of the card. Finnick does, and freezes at the name he finds there.
"Eugenie Ossa." the name is a whisper, because Eugenie Ossa is the only surviving descendant of Lord Ossa.
"Lord Ossa was the only threat Snow ever really had." Finnick can hear the words in his mind now, whispered as they had been, not too long ago. Secrets, that is his payment. And Finnick has many ways of sneaking out a collection. "Eugenie is just a child, of course, but she is still important. There's value in her, after all. She is the only link to the Ossa fortunes."
Value in her, like she had been a fancy toy, set on a shelf to look at, judged from afar. Just like the Victors.
Only no one ever sees Eugenie Ossa. Finnick has only heard the name whispered that one time. She makes no social calls, no public appearances. She is a name, a birthdate, a Capitol Personal Identification Number, from what he has been able to dig up; but no face, no personality. She is the only surviving member of a family that once apparently threatened Snow's power, a family who mysteriously disappeared within the span of a few years. For all intensive purposes, Eugenie Ossa is a ghost. She is a sixteen-year-old girl, from what Finnick could find out, who has been hidden away in the Capitol. Who knows what Snow has done to her over the years, what she believes or who she thinks Snow is; what she thinks the Capitol is. And thirty-five-year-old Daran from District Four is supposed to, 'provide her with her first sexual encounter for her seventeenth birthday,' according to the card. It resonates, now, because Finnick understands this is Daran's punishment for failing to get Annie to cooperate on the Tour:
Daran views Annie from a paternal perspective, has tried to protect her, help her; and now he is to have sex with a girl the same age. She is twenty years his junior. The girl may not even know about this 'birthday' present. Not just this girl, though. Caro Wedenmer may be turning eighteen, but he is still a child; he may not know about it, either.
Either Victors are rewards, punishments, or payment. There is no other in-between. No Victor screws around on their free time: their sex lives belong to the Capitol. (More specifically, to Snow.)
The timestamp for Eugenie Ossa demands '12:00:00 a.m.' Midnight, tonight, after Annie's Victory Banquet.
Finnick looks up to see that Daran is shaking.
"It's tonight," the man's voice breaks in the middle. He tries to compose himself. "That's the point. I'm sure hers is tonight, too. It's our own damn fault, but I thought…"
I thought I was doing what he wanted.
The words break off, and Finnick stares, because he understands. Daran thought he was helping Annie get better, as per Snow's instructions. In reality, he was just helping the girl together enough for the President to auction her off. President Snow will separate them, now, his Victors from District Four, and watch them play their parts. It is an effective torture, especially for Daran; even when it has not occurred yet.
'He only wants her so long as she dances for him.' Snow did not intend to fix Annie, not really. He needed her well enough to complete the Tour, well enough to distract the Capitol and entertain the wealthy enough to invest. The President needs the Capitol to invest in Annie Cresta. And, in that respect, both Finnick and Daran had failed. Finnick, in fact, had been a saboteur. He can only imagine what his own punishment will be. And Annie…
Finnick's throat tightens.
(What is he going to make you do?)
But the President still has two other Victors he can exploit.
Daran takes his card back, face impassive again, lips a tight line. He tucks the envelope back in his pocket. Finnick opens his own, freezing and staring at the names. There are six appointments, a different one for each night that they are here. Finnick feels sick at the name slated for their last evening: Lykos Alexander. Lykos requests leather everything.
He further will have a Plus One female present, apparently. A threesome, with one of the most wealthy men in the Capitol. A personal friend of President Coriolanus Snow.
"Bad?" Daran asks, taking the card once Finnick offers it.
"Define bad."
Finnick's grip tightens around the handrail.
It's going to be a long week.