PART THREE: The Quarter Quell


The Capitol - Opening Ceremonies


We arrive at the Capitol shortly after dawn. I don't get a wink of sleep, and it shows. I can only think about how the opening ceremonies are today. I hope I don't fall asleep on stage.

Nath is hung over, but that's not any different than usual. Ore doesn't need to take any initiative. Mags and I have mentored plenty of times; we know what to do. Ophelia is the only one inclined to remind us that after breakfast we need to see our prep teams and stylists.

Laverna is my stylist this year. This is only her second year as a stylist, but I recall that she was on Annie's prep team five years ago. She hasn't changed any: her translucent blue skin and shimmering white hair give her the appearance of being made of water. It's quite pleasant, actually, one of the nicer extreme cosmetic surgeries I've seen. Agrippa, Junius, and Marcus make up my prep team. They don't do much in the way of theatrics; they're actually fairly focused and calm as they polish me up, which is a welcome reprieve.

"All done," Agrippa says with her thick accent. She reminds me of a giant grape: large, round, and purple. She doesn't fret over me like most women do. I noticed a while ago that she has a wedding ring on her finger. Not that wedding rings usually mean anything where I'm concerned. I've slept with plenty of married women.

"Madame Laverna will be with you momentarily," Marcus adds. He is a young man around my age who would be almost normal if his curly cap of hair weren't so vibrantly yellow and his eyes not so profusely green.

They must have an enormous amount of respect for this woman, I think to myself as Junius closes the door behind them, to actually call her Madame Laverna. I might die of laughter if I had to address someone as Madame.

Laverna strides in, all business. This entire prep team has been strangely cold and distant. I wonder if Laverna simply likes her subordinates this way, since she is so obviously the same. I can't help but compare her to another blossoming stylist I once knew, a girl with caramel eyes. The first girl I ever kissed.

Then I remember where Aurora ended up, and I push the thoughts from my mind.

She says barely two words to me as she perfects the minute details that my prep team has neglected. A snip of the hair here, a file of the nail there. "These bags under your eyes are going to be hard to hide if you keep rubbing them," she snaps at me. I stop immediately. Perhaps her prep team isn't devoted out of respect as much as fear. Laverna is harsh.

"Now," she says as she reveals my outfit, "don't freak out when you see it. We want to show as much skin as possible, since you are Finnick Odair, but I think that being flat-out naked is tacky." Draped across her arms is a fishing net. My outfit.

"You're kidding," I say flatly.

"I wish I was," Laverna shoots back. "Trust me, if it was anyone else I wouldn't dare risk it. But it's you. It will work."

A disturbing thought suddenly hits me. "Mags doesn't have to wear this, does she?"

"Of course not!" Laverna seems disgusted by the idea. "We have a much more suitable, age-appropriate outfit for her. Didn't I just say if it was anyone else but you I wouldn't risk it?"

She dresses me deftly, without further chit-chat. I'm basically naked but for the knots around my groin area. "Believe it or not, nudity is frowned upon in the Hunger Games," Laverna remarks, which I do find hard to believe considering the absurd amount of nude tributes I've seen. I recall District One covered in body glitter one year, and District Twelve covered in coal dust the year after.

There is only once in which I see Laverna soften as she is straightening out my outfit. "How is Annie?" she asks, looking up at me with startling blue eyes. I'm mildly surprised that she remembers a tribute she prepped five years ago; but then again, Annie is pretty unforgettable.

"She's doing better, probably, than the last time you saw her. Although she isn't taking the Quarter Quell very well. I don't know - " I cut myself off there. I'm sharing too much.

But Laverna doesn't seem treacherous. She nods. "Out of all the tributes I've ever done up, I liked her the best. She was so nice. Very pretty too. It's a shame what happened to her. She had amazing potential."

She still does, I think. She's clinically insane, not dead. But I don't say anything, because Laverna means well. I think she's being sincere. After she finishes with my outfit she tells me to go entertain myself somewhere. I go down to the Remake Center, where I'm sure to find company.

There are only a few victors chatting in small groups. Enobaria, Brutus, Cashmere, and Gloss are all talking in a collected manner; they certainly wasted no time forming a little Career pack. Wiress and Beetee are in a corner, standing beside each other but not talking. Seeder and Cecelia, and a few others that I can't distinguish from here are gathered in a big group near the center.

It seems strange, somehow, how casually they gather together. But it's also a tad immature. It reminds me of the cliques in school, the cliques that I was never included in.

Then I notice another isolated someone, stroking the neck of the horse to her chariot. I almost don't recognize her, what with all the dramatic makeup on her face. Her eyebrows are arched, her cheekbones sharp and defined, her lips a theatrical violet hue. Her outfit is bland by contrast, but still very different than those innocent pastels she sports for the cameras. A simple black suit and a half-crown of black metal - a crown, if I remember correctly, she split with Peeta Mellark.

Katniss Everdeen.

Immediately, I'm intrigued. I've never met Katniss, but if Haymitch is right then she is the key to the rebellion that seems to be happening. As I'm standing across the room staring at her, I think the same thing I thought when I caught a glimpse of her outside the window in District Four: she doesn't look like much. She looks like a lonely girl caked in makeup.

Which, I have to remind myself, is exactly what she is.

But there has to be more to her story, more than she's telling. She has to be something special to give someone as pessimistic and cynical as Haymitch Abernathy hope.

So, let's just see what our tragic heroine is made of.

I stride over there, pulling on my bedroom mask. I grab some sugar cubes that an Avox is feeding to some of the horses along the way. Katniss turns to face me just as I come to a stop right in front of her. I lean against her horse and stoop down so our faces are close, popping a sugar cube into my mouth. It dissolves on my tongue, sweet and powdery.

We take a moment to assess each other. Katniss's eyes are the cloudy gray of a thunderstorm, but as hard and impenetrable as steel. She's pretty in a cold sort of way, with her thick dark hair and angular face that says, I'm tolerating your presence now, but I could do just fine without you. I wonder if she gives Peeta Mellark this look, and if it kills him inside. I know it would kill me if Annie looked at me this way.

"Hello, Katniss," I greet cordially.

"Hello, Finnick," she replies in an attempt to be casual. She does remarkably well, keeping her voice steady and light, but I can't help notice how as soon as I spoke she backed away almost imperceptibly. My presence makes her uncomfortable.

I offer her my hand, which is piled high with little white boxes. "What a sugar cube? They're supposed to be for the horses, but who cares? They've got years to eat sugar, whereas you and I...well, if we see something sweet, we better grab it quick."

Katniss quirks an eyebrow, as though she cannot believe that I actually said something so flirtatious to her. "No thanks," she says, giving me a once-over. "I'd love to borrow your outfit sometime though."

I have to resist the urge to laugh, because it's a pretty witty comeback. Perhaps Katniss isn't as stone cold as she seems.

"You're absolutely terrifying me in that get up," I remark. "What happened to all the pretty little-girl dresses?"

"I outgrew them," she says simply, turning back to the horse. For some reason, this comment makes me sad. Katniss is what, sixteen? Seventeen? She shouldn't have to exchange dresses for suits of stylish armor.

I take the high collar of her outfit and run it between my fingers. There's more than just fabric here; some kind of electrical wiring. This isn't the simple black suit it appears to be. "It's too bad about this Quell thing," I sigh. And it is, because 'this Quell thing' is most likely her fault. The twist is just too perfect, to advantageous for the President considering the circumstances. Ever since the announcement I've found myself wondering if the card for the seventy-fifth would be the same if Katniss hadn't thought of the nightlock double-suicide. "You could have made out like a bandit in the Capitol. Jewels, money, anything you wanted."

"I don't like jewels, and I have more money than I need. What do you spend all yours on anyway, Finnick?"

The question takes me a bit off guard. I spend my money on typical things: food, clothing, occasionally something for Annie or Mags. I bought a boat with my money once. But of course, I can't say that to Katniss Everdeen. She's expecting a much different answer.

"Oh, I haven't dealt with anything as common as money for years," I answer instead.

"Then how do they pay you for the pleasure of your company?"

Another unexpected, blunt question. Blunt like the receiving end of a club. This time, I'm telling her the truth before I even realize it. "With secrets," I whisper, almost to myself. Then I snap back into attention, angry at myself. Why is Katniss Everdeen interrogating me? And why am I answering her? It should be the other way around. I came over here, I'm asking the questions.

I lean forward until I can feel her breath on my face, until our lips are almost brushing. "What about you, girl on fire? Do you have any secrets worth my time?"

Momentarily Katniss looks appalled and a crimson blush blossoms across her cheeks. But she quickly rearranges her features into a scowl. "No, I'm an open book. Everybody seems to know my secrets before I even know them myself."

"Unfortunately, I think that's true." I wonder if she knows that she is the figurehead of this rebellion. I wonder if she knows that Haymitch is planning to take advantage of her fame. I wonder if she knows that Peeta actually seems to love her, and that she makes it too obvious she does not love him back.

Peeta, who is heading this way looking very irritated.

I wrap it up before I get punched in the face or something. Who knows what these District Twelve people are like with their women? Johanna is often telling me the brawls that occur in her district because of one love triangle or another. I don't want to get caught up in one.

"Peeta is coming." She doesn't look away. Maybe she thinks I'm going to molest her if she does. I highly doubt that she is captivated by my eyes. For some reason, flirting with Katniss feels a little like flirting with a girl too young to understand what I'm talking about. Although she's aloof, there is something naive about her. And I hate it, because I don't want her to be vulnerable. I want her to be a cold-blooded stone so I don't have to feel bad about resenting her for her marriage, or killing her in order to get back home.

I want to cut her. Deep. I want to make her hate me so I can have an excuse to hate her. "Sorry you have to cancel your wedding," I say with a smile, backing away. "I know how devastating that must be for you." I eat another sugar cube to keep from saying anything else, to keep the bitter sarcasm out of my voice.

As I leave, Peeta comes by her side. "What did Finnick Odair want?"

I don't hear her explanation. When I look back at them, Peeta is smiling down at her. Then the music blares from the speakers, and it's time to get onto the chariots. I don't want to hate Katniss anymore. Suddenly I am just very, very tired.

Mags is in the chariot already. Her outfit is also fish net, but there are so many layers that you can't see any of her skin except her arms and ankles. Her hair is done up in a simple bun. She touches my arm when I get into the chariot, looks at me with concern. I give her a smile and offer her the last of my sugar cubes.

"Might as well," she snorts, and pops it into her mouth.


The carriage ride back to our quarters is heavy. Heavy and silent.

Opening ceremonies belong to the young and healthy. The old, the wasted, they do not belong in scandalous costumes, in the flashing of cameras and hours of standing on stage. These ceremonies were disgusting. This whole Quarter Quell is a despicable, just an empty shell, a hollow echo of the Hunger Games before it. It's worse, so much worse, than any other method of annihilation President Snow has managed to concoct. No poison, no mutilation, could ever top this undignified mockery.

Yet, some bitter part of me is pleased with the results of the opening ceremonies. This Quell, meant to dispose of the head of the rebellion, may just completely backfire on the President. The ones who looked the most radiant tonight were the star-crossed lovers from District Twelve; their suits were not just plain black fabric, but a glowing, shifting furnace of smoldering coal and hatred; their half-crowns were an outrage against the false promises made to them, a reminder of the blossoming love they are now so cruelly denied; they did not smile, they did not wave, they were unforgiving and vengeful embers hurled from their flickering, hopeful fire. Everyone was mesmerized. Even the President himself seemed unsettled.

The carriage stops abruptly. I hop out and assist Mags, and together we walk toward our rooms. I can hear Haymitch lumbering our way before I see him, a gargantuan drunken mass of flesh and rumpled clothing. I brace myself before he nearly collapses on top of me, laughing hysterically. "Look at that!" he chortles, tugging at my outfit. "Looks like I caught a Finnick! Hey, it's a Finn-fish!"

"Go dunk your head in some ice, Haymitch," I sneer, shoving him off me. Despite my temporary pact with Nath, I still have no tolerance for drunkards. He makes a show of stumbling backward and just manages to catch himself on the side of a carriage, tipping it haphazardly. I catch a quick gleam in his eyes, like the sharp flash of a blade. Eyes that are not fogged with alcohol. Haymitch is as sober as I am.

I roll my eyes exasperatedly as his knees "give out" and he falls to the ground. I turn to Mags and instruct her to go on to her room, assuring her I'll be there after I scrape this blob out of the mud. She nods her head and hobbles away.

"Come on, you," I groan, hauling him off of the ground. Haymitch makes no move to help me, staying limp and intoxicated as I drag him to his room.

"I think I'm going to be sick," moans Haymitch. I guide him to the bathroom. As soon as the door shuts behind us, he perks up and brushes himself off. "Sorry about that, Finnick, but you know how it is. Don't worry, already got this room swept for bugs. We can talk safely here."

"What the hell do you want?" I ask, sparing no time on pleasantries. "This hasn't got to do with Katniss again, does it? I already told you I'm not joining this silly rebellion, it's not going to work. You're only going to make a bad situation worse. Look what her actions have already gotten us into." I gesture wildly around us, my fierce whisper growing steadily louder. "Because of her, because of you, I may never see Annie again. Mags - "

"Stop." The order is so authoritative that I have to. I was choking off the words anyway, because I don't think I can dare say them aloud. Haymitch looks at me with a mixture of firmness and pity. "Look, don't think I don't understand. I do. This whole thing just sucks. And I know you already made up your mind about the rebellion but - listen to me, okay? It's different this time. It's not just an idea, not just some faint hope of contacting District Thirteen. It's done. We've found them."

I'm shocked into silence. District Thirteen? Haymitch had said they were trying to see if there were any survivors, but I'd just scoffed. No one survived the nuclear bombing of District Thirteen. That fact has been drilled into my head since I was born. "What are you talking about?"

"I can't tell you everything," says Haymitch apologetically. "No one knows everything, except maybe the leaders of Thirteen. But I can tell you that these Games aren't what you think and they aren't what the President thinks either. It's rigged."

"Rigged? As in the victor is already decided?" A huge guess on who that is.

"No. But we have a plan. A plan that is going to get as many people as we can out alive." Haymitch sighs, rubs his hands through his hair. "I'm sorry, I've got to be vague. All I can tell you is that you need to befriend Katniss. She is the key to making all of this happen. I know it may be...difficult, but you have to try. In the arena, keep her alive at all costs."

I give him a look. "Haymitch, do you really think I'm that stupid?"

"You've got to believe me, Finnick." This is the closest to pleading I've ever heard Haymitch come to. "It's everything we've been hoping for. Think of your district. Think of all the possibilities if we get this right."

"Sooner than you think," I murmur. Haymitch doesn't say anything. He knows I'm considering everything he's said. I glance up at him, waiting impatiently for my verdict. For the first time I force myself realize that there is one thing I've never seen Haymitch do before, and it is hope. I sigh, knowing exactly what Annie would say if she were here. "Fine. I'll go along with it."

Haymitch exhales. Did he really think I wouldn't say yes? "Thank you. For now, just try and gain some of Katniss's trust. Peeta's too. He is just as important; she is dead set on making him the victor of these Games. She won't do anything without him. If he goes, she will too. And don't tell her anything. She knows nothing about this, and in order for this to work it needs to stay that way."

"What?" I'm genuinely shocked.

"Let's just say that when it comes to Katniss, ignorance is bliss," Haymitch grumbles.

"Who else is in on this?"

"You can trust Beetee, Johanna, Blight, Vivienne, and Corrick for now - "

"Vivienne? Corrick?"

Haymitch raises his eyebrows. "District Six."

That explains why I don't know their names. I blink, see the barrel of a gun, see the ordinary eyes of a boy as I spear him with my trident. "Oh. What about Mags?"

"If you trust her," Haymitch shrugs. "Seeder and Chaff know about it too, but Chaff didn't want in. He promised not to tell anyone. Go to him as a last resort if you need anything."

"Got it."

"Tell only Mags if you have to, though," Haymitch adds. "And do it safely. I swear, if this gets out and it's your fault, you'll have bigger problems than the Capitol to worry about."

I know it's not an empty threat. "Relax, Haymitch. I won't let you down. If you're really going to give this a shot, I'm in."

"Glad to hear it." Haymitch flushes the toilet and turns on the shower water. He strips until he's in his underwear and flops into the shower with a thunderous thud. "Now, we've got to make this convincing."

"Don't worry," I say wryly. "I've got a lot of practice."

Haymitch smirks and shakes his head, spraying water everywhere. I'm not sure if he thinks I'm talking about my steamy wet escapades during my visits to the Capitol, or if he deciphered my true meaning: forcing my drunk father to get a cold shower. Probably the first.

I haul him out of the shower after a while and open the bathroom door, dragging him across the room - he's pretending to be unconscious at this point - and dumping him, soaking wet, onto the bed. "Don't even got the decen'y to dry me off," he grumbles.

"Sweet dreams, Haymitch," I say saracastically, before walking out into the hallway and shutting the door behind me.


A long, detailed chapter! Yay...!

And so, the rebellion is setting in motion. I made it so that Finnick doesn't know anything about it until now, just because I think it's unrealistic that the victors could communicate with each other beforehand. He's going to be pretty much as oblivious as Katniss at this point, but he'll slowly learn more information as the Games progress.