(a/n): Sooooo...ya'll are getting a special treat. Here's a chapter from the perspective of our one and only Finnick! I'm a little nervous about this chapter, as it is wholly from his view and I hope I portray him well! Finnick is an enormously complicated character for a hundred different reasons, but I hope that this chapter is enjoyable, that he's in character, and that you guys enjoy the behind-the-scenes Mentor view of things! And since this is from Finnick's perspective, expect some appearances by more canon characters. ;)
Also, just a mild warning, this chapter is going to have broader references to Finnick's prostitution, as well as going into his father's "suicide," so if these are triggering themes, please tread carefully! Nothing is written directly or really descriptively, but it will be referenced and thought about. Be careful if these are triggering subjects! That being said, here is the chapter!
CHAPTER EIGHT
from his view
Finnick
I keep having that dream.
I'm sitting in my dad's boat, fiddling with a piece of bait, and he's across from me holding his old, rusted trident. His dark green eyes scan the ocean, which we are in the center of it with no land in sight. Neither of us are panicking. It's peaceful. The water is bizarrely still, perfectly reflecting the clouds above us like a mirror, and the horizons on all sides of us are endless and blue. I keep fiddling with my bait, but when I look down I find that my rod isn't at my feet. I look up at my father, my eyes wide. It's not there, dad. It's not there, I say. My dad just looks at me and smiles. It's fine, he says, and he grips his trident before diving into the water. It ripples far across the glass like surface, beyond my view. Hours seem to pass before the water turns red.
I scream for him, but I'm too afraid to dive into the sea of blood after him. It doesn't matter, because not long after my boat is capsized and I'm thrown into the thick and warmth hell surrounding me, its rusty taste filling my mouth and lungs. I choke violently and try desperately to swim out, but it only pulls me down. When I hit the bottom, I open my eyes and see myself back in that Arena, but my house is where the Cornucopia should be. I run to my door, yelling madly. I know every time what I'm going to see, but I never stop screaming when I see my father's decomposing corpse, seemingly aged ten years, hung from the chandelier in the entryway. Before I can reach him to pull him down, a new voice screams behind me. I look back and see no one, but all I hear are screaming and cannons and my father's scolding's and Mags' songs when I couldn't sleep. I run from that house, staggering into the fields until the grass fade to sand and I'm on the beach in 4 again. I collapse to my knees. I look up and I see Ceres standing on the water, out of my reach. She's saying something, but she's too far away. An arrow flies through the air and lodges itself in her eye, and she sinks into a blue abyss. I try to swim after her, but it swallows me, too. All I hear is her sobbing and screaming, even as the water tries to drown me.
And at the end of it, I feel Snow's whiskers against my ear, and his voice ever so soft, reminding me, Obey, Mr. Odair.
This where my dream usually ends, but lately there's been a new addition. When I turn around to face Snow, he's holding Ceres in front of him, with his hand around her throat. Every time I try to reach to pull her away from him, I kill her. Sometimes I stab her with a dagger I didn't know I had, or I'm plunging my trident through her, or I break her neck in the process. And Snow is just laughing, blood spewing out of his mouth and onto my face.
Every night I've woken up screaming or gasping for air. On this particular night, I had lurched out of bed, my hands gripping the blankets so tightly they ripped.
This has always been a reoccurring nightmare for some time now, though it's seemingly intensified in the last few days since the Tribute Parade. Sleeping was never an option, so I had forfeited my rights to my bed and had sought out the balcony (enclosed by a force field, of course) where fresh air could encompass me instead of blood and sweat.
Ceres was never supposed to be here.
I lean against the rails of the balcony, breathing heavily. My hand rakes over my face and through my hair and behind my neck, where it clings as my mind viciously takes me back to hours before. My Tributes needed Sponsors, and my all-too pleased client was more than willing to hear my case. It's a necessary evil, not just for the sake of my Tributes, but also everyone unlucky enough to be in my life. As it happens, it just becomes more beneficial during this time of year, when I have two lives gripped in each of my hands, and I'm looking to my fellow Mentors with the same determination, and looking at the hungry eyes of the Capitol looking for fresh meat. Sometimes I think it's easier to let them die, but I try not to stoop that low.
I fight for my Tributes, always. I do things for them.
Those necessary evils are easier nowadays, as I've gotten better about detaching myself during the acts themselves. It's easy to let my body take control and let my tongue spew out those fake words engrained into me. Falling into my Capitol persona is easy, even without the incentive of lives hanging over my head. But it wasn't always like that.
It's not something I have pride in, but I've tried putting Ceres into my thoughts during those acts. When I was adjusting to the Capitolian way, before I could fully disconnect from what was happening and let my darling persona speak for itself, I would try to fixate on something else. Cashmere had suggested counting imaginary stars or thinking about home, but counting stars came too close to counting thrusts, and it was hard to picture home as richly smelling women clung to me. So I had tried something else. When my eyes would close, I would imagine Ceres beneath me, holding me, and whispering my name. It had worked, but that was the problem. It worked too well, I fell too deep into those thoughts, because when I opened my eyes it wouldn't be her there with me. I was brought back down to reality.
Besides, how could I justify pulling her into this? My thoughts are dangerous on their own, much less without dragging her into it. That type of want that I give to those women should not be placed in her, either; that superficial fakeness I've adopted. Somedays I wonder if those thoughts I have, when alone or coping in the act, are out of something sincere or a learned behavior. It scares me that I don't know and it scares me more that I've let her stay in my life. When Snow dismissed me from his office after I had rethought his offer, I should have returned to 4 and turned her away. She could have blamed it on my victory, that I was too above her now. It would have been easy. But when have I ever let things be easy for myself?
It's been a few days since the Tribute Parade. In an unspoken agreement, Rheon has opted to stay out of the training process with Ceres and Liber, and can usually be found in his room or hunkering with Haymitch Abernathy. While he doesn't get piss drunk, I do notice how distant and gone he's looked in the instances we've crossed paths. Meanwhile, myself and the other Mentors have taken to overviewing Ceres and Liber as they train with the other Tributes, and taking them aside one-on-one to work with them individually. Also unspoken was the agreement that I would stay out of Ceres' training. Tilda and Mags have gravitated towards her, whilst myself and Ren have taken to Liber. Truthfully, Ren had wanted to train Ceres, as he saw her as the highest opportunity for success, but Liber is the one who needs higher assistance. Begrudging as he might be, Ren's been helpful in his own right. But Liber still lacks the backbone for a proper victory, and his clumsiness surpasses his determination.
With a sigh, I decide to retreat from the quiet solace of the cool dawn air to the dining hall. If I'd expected to find it empty, I'd be an idiot. None of us can usually sleep, so when I arrive into the dining halls I find that Ren is sitting at the glass table drinking coffee, wearing a purple velvet robe. He doesn't look at me until I pour a cup for myself, and even then his eyes are glazed.
Ren makes a smacking sound. "We should be considering Allies at this point," he says. "I'm thinking the Tributes from 1. We could negotiate something with Cashmere and Gloss - they like us well enough, I think."
I put two sugar cubes into my mug. "I'm seeing Cashmere later. I could discuss it," I offer, sipping my coffee. Concluding that the taste is still too bitter, I pluck five more sugar cubes and drop them in, watching as they dissolve before I try again. More so satisfied, I sit on the table's edge.
"Seeing Cashmere why?"
"A client has an appointment with both of us after breakfast," I say, coolly. Ren glances away, clearing his throat. A bit dismissively, I add, "I'll talk to her after. I think she'd be open to an Alliance. Who are her Tributes?"
"Lamia and Jason. She's fifteen and he's eighteen, both Volunteers," he says. "I've been watching the Careers and they seem the most welcoming towards the other Districts. Tributes from 2 and 3 seem indifferent to anyone who isn't a Career."
As I slowly sip my coffee, I mull over the Tributes from District 1. They'd both done well during the chariots, I suppose; both smiling and waving the appropriate amount. They had both had worn skin tight body suits that were adorned with an outrageous mount of jewels that glittered painfully in the sunlight. They also wore long glittering silk cloaks and equally outrageous headdresses that mirrored a bastardized halo. They were memorable and the crowd had cheered for them. I haven't paid particular attention to the other Tributes yet, as that is usually Ren's expertise, but I have noticed Jason's brute strength and Lamia's speed; a deadly match between them.
"Careers usually Volunteer at eighteen," I say.
"She must be ambitious. Remind you of anyone?" Ren avoids my glare. Rather, he splays his hands out and keeps his tone reasonably mellow. "I think they're good candidates and we both know Cashmere and Gloss enough to trust them to not pull fast ones. Alliances are short-lived but Liber needs all the help he can get. Besides, imagine the Sponsors on a group like that. It'd be eye-catching. Three Volunteers from Career Districts and one, well, underdog from a Career District. But two are siblings and have a Victor father. Eye-catching, Finnick."
I grunt. "Maybe."
A frustrated gleam reflects in Ren's light green eyes, which narrow at me. "Unless you'd prefer that thirteen year old from 12 or the girl with the limp from 10. How about I ring up their Mentors and arrange a pity party?" The way he so callously addresses these kids not only heats my glare, but also my actions, as I shove him hard enough for his coffee to spill across his front. He sputters, coughing, and rises quickly. He lets go of the mug and it hits the ground, shattering. "I'm being realistic here, Finnick! I seem the only one trying to keep them alive! Why not tell them to step off the podiums before the Games start? Might as well blow them sky high so they don't have to see shit! You'd prefer it that way, wouldn't you? By all means, get them killed! Between you and Rheon, they'll probably be the first ones during the bloodbath-"
I see red.
With a snarl, I lunge forward, grabbing hold of the front of Ren's velvet and now stained robe, and slam him firmly against the wall. My arm slides under his neck to keep him firmly placed, as a personal favorite attack of his is head-butting. But Ren must've predicted this move, because he lifts his right leg up and, with alarming accuracy and flexibility, reels it back and swings it so his knee collides with my stomach. I grunt, my grip loosening, and he seizes the opportunity to grab ahold of my arm. But I'm faster. With a low growl, my free hand outstretches and grabs ahold of his neck, holding it in place as I slam my forehead to his. It surprises him enough that I'm able to throw him down to the ground. He lets out a pained sound as his palms land on some broken pieces of his mug. When his light green eyes lift to me, they are angry. I brace for his next impact, but there's a scuttling of feet behind me and Ren's face turns red, his nerve lost.
"Finnick! Finnick!" Mags is tugging desperately at the back of my shirt. I reluctantly look at her, finding her eyes wide and pained. "Stop it, both of you!"
I narrow my eyes, feeling my breath coming out ragged. My fists are still curled and I'd love to land one more blow to Ren's face, but the longer Mags stares at me the more my vice-like knuckles ease up. When my breaths steady, I look down at the shattered remnants of Ren's mug, and Ren himself. His gaze is alternating between my face and Mags, obviously waiting for that finishing blow or for me to come to my senses. Lucky for him, it's the latter. I nod mutely and I can hear that deep exhale part out of Ren.
"Wash off, dear, wash off," Mags tells me gently, holding my face in her soft and wrinkled hands. Her thumb strokes under my eye. "Wash it all away. We can discuss this later." When I nod, she turns away and goes to help Ren to his feet, and is quick to examine his bleeding palms.
I don't look at either of them as I storm back to my room and promptly to the attached bathroom. I shed my clothes and step into the marble shower, letting the water run over me while I stand there. I'll be showering again after my encounter with Cashmere, of course; it's mandatory practice for cleanliness for the escort Victors, but it's for myself, too. I don't scrub at my skin like I usually would in this moment, until I'm patchy and red. Instead I just stand there and let the water envelop me, doing what Mags ordered. I try to wash it away, whatever it is.
I guess that it is Ren's words. He's actively seeking out Sponsors, actively planning...he's keeping our Tributes alive. Tilda and I are doing the same, but she's realistic, and I'm...what the hell am I?
A part of me wants to admit that it would be easier if they died right away, before even the bloodbath. Wouldn't it be merciful if they were blown to bits immediately? More than once, I've imagined my Games ending differently. If it had been me who had been killed first instead of Harpee, or in the bloodbath, or simply in my sleep, then what else could have been spared? Dad would still be alive. While not a loving father, he wasn't unkind, either. He was passive even before my mom died when I was four, and he never treated me unkindly, even when I was being a little shit. If I'd died in that Arena, my father could have gone on fishing. From his words to me before I was taken away on that train, he had suggested taking Liber on as an apprentice while I was gone, to teach the boy some things, and so he could keep on with his business. I had agreed, because it was the reasonable thing to do. But I wasn't blind. I knew that my father was preparing for the worst. If I died, he still had to keep living. He wouldn't stop just because of me.
I applauded him for it, even if my chest had ached the whole way to the Capitol.
Still alive, though, I think. If I had gone into Snow's office with more knowledge and more confidence, I would have met his offer more willingly. But I had been so flustered and confused, my face as red as my hair. I'd spewed out that I was just fourteen and Snow had consoled me that I didn't have to do anything fully intimate until I was a year or so older, though other things would be expected of me; kisses, touches. A tease, so to speak. An example of what is to come, Snow explained to me with a slow smile. I'd felt sick, nearly choking on the iced tea that he had offered me. I'd been quick to say no. At the time, I felt strong enough to do so. Despite the odds, I'd won the Games, and I was aware that the Capitol liked me, given how many parachutes I received. I think I felt powerful - not invincible, but certainly in charge of myself. And Snow had opened his hands and claimed he understood. He encouraged me to think about it on my way home.
But on that train, I didn't think about it for a second. All I could think about was collapsing into my bed, even though it would be in Victors Village now. My dad might even embrace me, and I could cry in front of him. I wanted to tell him the things I did, why I did them. I needed him to understand that I wasn't proud of what I was doing, despite what I said in my interview, and how apologetic I was that I had bastardized his trident somehow. The trident I used in the Arena wasn't his, of course, but I felt like him in those moments. How could I look at him as he fished again? How could he look at me? When my father didn't welcome me at the train station, I assumed he thought I was a monster and couldn't bear to look at me. I didn't blame him. Frankly, it took all the courage I had left to open our front door to face him.
Somehow, somehow, my father's eyes were fixated on me as I entered, hollow as they were. He had been dead for hours, but he was still watching me.
He couldn't bear to have a monster as a son. As the Peacekeepers removed his body, I'd convinced myself of that truth, and I'd blindly walked to Ceres' house to find comfort in her. But Rheon had turned me away.
It wasn't until three months later that I started to receive word about my Victory Tour, and about another month after that that I received a letter from Snow encouraging me to reconsider his offer. After all, I'm was so lonely, and would surely enjoy the company. I'd crumpled that letter and torn it to shreds, my tears relentless as it finally hit me. My father didn't think I was a monster, at least not enough to hang himself in perfect view of my inevitable arrival home.
I thought about refuting Snow again after that, but all I had to do was watch Ceres leave her house with her spear and a fishing net from my window, and that musing withered away to dust.
With a deep sigh, I press my palm to the shower wall. I squeeze my eyes shut as I'm coated in scalding hot water. My skin tries to protest, but my mind is too faraway to care.
I've always hated Ceres Rythe, ever since she had thrown a starfish at my face when we were children - maybe four, before mom died. She had stuck out her tongue at me and accused me of being a seaweed brain, to which I had replied by smothering sand in her face. The teasing had been ruthless when we were little, but it had evolved when we aged. I hated her because she always tried to best me, and I loved how frustrated she would become when I proved that I was, in fact, better than her. The years had softened us since my sand assault to her face, and our company had shifted to more banter. We fished together, we played together...she had changed when I returned from the Games. She was kinder, and our banter became more filtered.
Rightfully so, I guess. The way we teased each other before would be nonsense now. She can't puff her chest and tell me her expectations about the Games now, because she's seen parts of the inevitable outcome. On days where my mind wants to be someplace else, when I'd sit alone on the beach, she'd come and hold my hand in that unforgiving silence. It was a small act, but it was enough to slowly bring me back. In those moments, I know she sees through the façade she used to covet after, though she's never admitted it out loud. I don't think her pride could take it, but that quiet acceptance was enough. When the Reapings were commenced, I felt more at ease that she knew me before and after the Games, and that, even without her father's promise over her head, she wouldn't Volunteer out of blind stupidity. She was seventeen, so all I had was this year and the next and then I could truly rest knowing that she was safe. She'd be out of the reach of the Capitol.
When Liber's name was called, I'd been surprised. But it wasn't until my eyes found Ceres' horrified face in the crowd that my fear rekindled itself. I would have screamed at her if I could have. Ivoree called a name from the second bowl but it didn't matter who she was, because Ceres' hand had flown high above her head, and those two words had echoed across the square. They didn't sound confident, they sounded desperate.
It'd be a lie if I said I didn't understand why, but that almost makes it worse.
Maybe it would be easier if I hadn't let myself stay close to her after I won the Games, with our fishing ventures and my asking her for that kiss.
I just wish she wouldn't ask about the kiss I asked her for before my Victory Tour, or pressing about what I said during my first Interview when I mentioned a girl back home, or looking at me with pity when I touched her hands or face. She knows what I do, though we haven't talked about it since that day on the beach when we were both fourteen and shared an awkward kiss (not my first by any means, but certainly the first that mattered). It would be significantly easier if she was just my Tribute, if even that. If she had left her brother alone to us, then I could focus on him; bring him home to her, somehow, or try to. Liber is not built for the Games, mentally or physically. He's proven that during his training. Ceres, meanwhile, is ideal. She's focused, she's sharp, and she's charming.
I hate to admit it, but she naturally falls into the pattern of training, even when she stops to help Liber.
With a deep sigh, I lean my forehead against the wall.
I think about her standing on the rock formations that lead out into the ocean, carefully balanced on the ball of her feet, with one leg stretched out, as she holds a spear over her head to strike down into the water. She was focused when it came to fishing, even though I have gripes with how she knots her nets. Her smile when she would catch something always caught my eye, even when it was purely smug. In moments like that, my mind betrays me sometimes. When I see her wet clothes cling to her figure or how the fire between us on a moonlit beach dances across her sapphire blue eyes, I feel that heat someplace in my chest. The worst part is wondering if that's a sincere want or a learned want, so I usually dismiss it. She had looked particularly beautiful in that dress her Stylist had made for her, but even my mind couldn't betray me enough to appreciate her in it; she was decorated for entertainment, for inevitable slaughter. She had looked natural, too. Being a Tribute did become her. I hate admitting it. I hate that it's the truth.
Breath deepening, my knuckle clenches and I slam it into the wall, and I hiss as my knuckle cracks in response.
I think about that silence that passed between us when I asked her about Harpee, how Ceres hadn't asked her father to protect her. The silence was telling. When I was in the Arena with Harpee, it hadn't necessarily been my pure goal to keep her alive till the end, as I knew she was not the survival type - the same as Liber - but I had valued her company and I couldn't leave her alone out there. When we'd found a cave to hide in for two days, eating some fish I'd caught and bread provided by Sponsors, we'd shared stories of home and our aspirations. The Gamemakers didn't include this into the Games, because our topics treaded into dangerous territory. Harpee brought up how thin the Tributes from the lower Districts were and I mentioned my repulsion in Capitolians who threw their food up to eat more - a detail that had been shared with me by Ren, when he'd returned from a client. Most memorably, Harpee had asked me about Ceres, and I'd been stupid enough to admit that she was my best friend, with a smug smile, too.
If I were to force myself to be honest, I would admit that I don't know if I love Ceres. I care about her...that sick, bastardized part of my brain wants her...and I know that I can't afford to let her die in the Arena. I can't afford to think about her now. I reach for a bottle of sweet smelling shampoo, and force myself to smile. I'll be meeting Cashmere in a few hours to go to our client. I have to look the part.
Capitol fucking darling.
Suffice to say, the circumstances could have been worse. The client who had requested Cashmere and I's presence had been a rich and lavish socialite, dressed in frilly silks and his unnatural purple contacted eyes having watched us all too excitedly. Felix Albina had been his name, though he'd scarcely managed to introduce himself in his fit of giggles. The awe in his eyes as he shook our hands was undeniable. He'd offered us wine and treated us as well as could be expected, I suppose. Before we undressed, I managed my charming smile and asked him why he was requesting both of us and not involving himself, and he had simply giggled again, claiming something or other about deciding which of us would be better suited for a surprise anniversary present for himself and his wife to share for their special night. I'd kept smiling, and so did Cashmere. There was no way to act the way we actually felt without consequences, so we'd both performed to the best of our abilities. He giggled and twittered when it was said and done and insisted on tipping us with rubies.
Politely, we'd declined. Even as we were leaving his quarters and departing into the elevator, we could still hear him laughing. With my back against the elevator's rail, I can still hear that laughter in my ears. My body still tingles from the aftermath of what just transpired, and I'm still wondering if this was better or worse than the usual of demanding Capitolian women. At least I know Cashmere. I can talk to her after. We can get coffee or drink if our schedules allow, sit and lament about our circumstances or derail the conversation entirely to something else. At least with her there's no pretending after. As soon as the elevator door had closed on us, her sweet smile had fallen into a bored frown, so it's needless to say that she feels the same.
In that awkward silence that follows, I consider my next words carefully. While the Mentors are friends, there is a continuous understanding that only one out of the twenty-four can come out, and more often than not the option of Alliances are accepted. Cashmere and Gloss tend to be picky who they pair their Tributes to, but given the long hours Cashmere and I have spent talking, venting, and sometimes ruing in silence, I decide that this is a fair request. I rake my hand through my hair, wincing. A bite she left on my neck still stings, so I rub it idly. "I wanted to talk to you about something," I say conversationally.
Cashmere makes a humming noise. "By all means."
"We'd like to make an Alliance between our Tributes and yours for the Games."
Cashmere glances off, pretty pink lips pursing. "Your Tributes? The Rythe children?" she starts to laugh. I'm waiting for the punchline. "That's a pretty risky set, don't you think? Your boy isn't exactly up to par with the others. I think the boy from Twelve could kill him first. The girl, however, does have potential, but I doubt she'll abandon her brother to join with my Tributes. If I were in her shoes, I wouldn't." She reaches into her clutch and pulls out a diamond studded compact, opening it to examine herself. She dabs at her smudged lipstick, then to a false eyelash almost out of place. "It's a risky Alliance, Finnick."
I hadn't doubted that the other Mentors were critically eyeing Liber or Rheon's behavior, so I'm not surprised or particularly defensive to Cashmere's response. Rather I shrug, because I can't dispute her claims. This is a risky affair. "I would think you'd be sympathetic. Like you said, if you were in her shoes, you wouldn't abandon Gloss," I say. Cashmere had Mentored Gloss when he was Reaped, and he'd won because of it - as well as a bounty of Sponsors and his own effective prowess. She'd been loyal to her brother and had done countless things to aid in securing his victory, just like what I'm doing now. "We've instructed Liber and Ceres to withhold their skills, so you're not seeing all of his potential."
The compact less so clicks shut so much as it snaps. "He must be a real prize. Look, I like you, Finnick, and I usually like your Tributes. If things were different, I would consider an Alliance, but, as is, it's not reliable," she says, pointedly.
"So you'll Ally with 2 or 3?"
"Who's to say? Besides, even if I'd already arranged those Alliances, or to any other District, I couldn't tell you," she says. "Do yourself a favor and calm down. Your Tributes will probably be fine without mine, so long as your girl keeps her brother out of harm's way. If they both make it through the bloodbath, they may stand a chance."
"I don't like what-if's." I lean away from the wall and closer to her, my voice falling deeper. "She's protecting her brother the way you'd protect Gloss. He's a smart kid. He'd be useful for-"
"You're awfully desperate, Finnick. How come it's you coming to me and not Rheon? Shouldn't a father be more concerned with his kids?"
"We both know why he isn't here. He's...emancipated himself from the whole affair. It's easier that way. Besides, I grew up with Ceres and Liber, so I can vouch for both of them. If I didn't think they had any use, I wouldn't be trying-"
"Failing."
"-to convince you to consider this Alliance."
Cashmere sighs, exasperated. "I don't doubt that your Tributes are competent, Finnick, but it looks like this year is going to be a shit show for your District. Last I saw Rheon he was elbow deep in rum bottles with Haymitch and Ren's been out more than usual looking for Sponsors, and we're still only a few days in. It's looking almost desperate on your end," she says. When I try to remind her how we've Allied before, she lifts her hand to silence me. "It's always been a pleasure to Ally with you, but this year is a bigger risk than usual, and I have my own Tributes to think about. Jason and Lamia both stand a chance. At best, I think your girl could probably survive the final countdown, but her brother will be dead before the first hour if left to his own devices. You need my Tributes as bodyguards."
She doesn't sound angry or accusatory. What she's said comes off as factual and as simple as addressing a sunny day or a chill in the air. Still, my jaw clenches. Words fumble through my mouth, desperate to be freed, but I keep them in for now. She's right again, we are desperate. I could approach the other Mentors, so if Cashmere truly does deny us, then we aren't completely out of options. The context of this particular circumstance is still vastly different from the circumstances of last year, though, or the year before. I'm gambling with Liber and Ceres' lives now. I need them paired off securely with others who are capable.
Forcing a smile, I try laughing her off. "For Liber, sure..." I rub my jaw. "But I grew up with Ceres. She knows how to fish, how to start fires, and how to survive. It's not all about the killing for her, at least for skill - she can survive damning things. I've seen her sleep for a week straight on a fishing boat with only a handful of resources. Can you say that your Tributes know how to hunt and rely on the elements?"
"They can easily kill other Tributes and claim their resources, or go back to the Cornucopia," Cashmere replies easily, though she does appear more interested. "And what about Liber, huh? What's so special about him?"
When I don't reply, she tuts.
"Finnick, Finnick, Finnick," she croons.
"I need you to think about it, please," I say. "Ren thinks it'll be-"
"Ren thinks so? Well, why didn't you lead with that..."
With a sharp breath, I reach out and clasp her arm. My eyes are intent and my body hovers over her, but she regards me with casual indifference. She still looks bored, although her blue eyes are somewhat ignited; like a predator on guard. "At least think about it," I urge.
"Fine. I said fine, Finnick." Cashmere yanks her arm away. "I'll talk to Gloss about it and I'll reach out to you soon, one way or another. Just do yourself a favor and work on the boy. As of right now, he has no chance surviving the Games. He's...what's the word...?" She doesn't get to finish her thought, because the elevator pings and she's already strutting through its doors, her heels clicking behind her.
"The boy's hopeless," Ren whispers to Tilda, but loud enough for me to hear. He's wisely opted to keep distance between us since our encounter this morning, but he still can't resist involving me. When I clench my jaw, confirming that I did hear him, Ren looks almost satisfied. "He really is."
Liber is practicing hand to hand combat, trying his hand at a sword. He is a tall boy for his age, but his build is lanky and awkward. His knees buckle as he tries to take a proper stance, though it proves fruitless as, with his first strike, he has already off-centered himself, and his respective opponent, a cautiously armored trainer, is able to disarm him and send him falling backwards. From the sidelines, I notice Rheon bury his face into his hands, a bit too obviously, because the other Mentors notice. Some of them look away and a few smile. The whispers had started well before we arrived in the Capitol and this only solidifies those musings; it's dangerous for them.
As Liber is stumbling over himself, I decide to avert my gaze Ceres' screen. As per Tilda's instruction, she has not dealt her hands in spears - a specialty of hers we want saved for the Arena itself - but is rather taking on knife throwing. Her focus is sharp, pun possibly intended, though her aim is off. Where she aims for the center of the chest she instead hits in the shoulder; not poor, but I do wince at the prospect of a critical miss. Still, she does well. Even through the screen, I can tell she's hyper focused. When the dagger pierces just above the center mark, she smiles.
Realistically, Ceres could stand a chance in the Arena. If it were just herself she were prioritizing, I could imagine her doing well, maybe even...winning. But I imagine her before the Cornucopia, beelining towards her brother and hyper-focusing on his protection. Again, logically, I understand her reasoning. On his own, it is below less than likely that Liber could survive the first few hours of the Games, even escaping the initial bloodbath. With his sister, he stands a chance, but for how long? If she's intent on keeping him safe, what's stopping her from forgetting to raise her own guard? If she retaliates against someone attacking him, she's left herself open.
But it is a good story. Two siblings in the Games protecting each other, both from the child of a Victor, will garner attention. That alone won't do much, though, as I am diligently aware. My tryst with Cashmere and the watchful eye of our client was proof of that.
"Look there," Tilda says.
On another screen, I see Lamia, the girl from 1, is remarkably acrobatic, as she expertly dodges her respective opponent and flips herself from reach, able to disarm him without a weapon on her person, and find the sword brought up to the armed man's throat. It is a quick triumph that earns her a well-respected nod, before repeating the process, this time with two guards. I watch her maneuver like a snake around them, sliding between one of their legs, before she swipes hers out to send them to the ground. I frown, glancing back to the screen with Liber, who is parrying better, but his defense is still poor. Then to Ceres, I see that she's moved on to practical survival, to the study how to make a fire. We've made fires in District 4 before. When we were twelve, we snuck out to the beach during a full moon and built one, where we cooked some fish we caught and told scary stories. She threatened to feed me to the sharks when I remarked that she looked scared, and we threw sand at each other. She told me I was insufferable, but we both laughed when we realized our fish had burnt and were covered in sand.
But she practices all the same, and after Liber has moved on from swords she coaxes him to her. When I look back at Lamia, I see that she, too, has moved on to watch Jason, who was sparring with an axe. He was twice the size of the other Tributes and I have no doubt that the Sponsors would be eyeing him hungrily. The larger and stronger ones are usually the safest bets.
When Rheon has long since left the room, undoubtedly to find Haymitch in whatever hole he has buried himself, Tilda treads into more sensitive areas. "We have a potential Sponsor," she offers, looking this time at me.
Given how Ren's lips purse, I expect he already knows. It gives me no pleasure to be behind him in that way topic. "Who?"
"Seneca Crane. His uncle mentioned this morning he was leaning towards 4, but he's weighing his options before he makes a final decision," she says. "My guess is he'll have made up his mind after their scores are announced."
"He better not have high hopes for that one," Ren mumbles.
It is far from a bad thing to have someone like Seneca Crane Sponsoring Liber and Ceres. As the Gamemaker's nephew, he has a broad influence and his wealth is impressive. If others found out about his interest, whether he shared it openly or not, it could inspire others to do the same. Perhaps he, along with a handful of others, could be enough to keep them alive and sustained. Still, I try not to let that breath of relief part from me too soon. It's not done yet. Seneca could take one look at the Careers and change his mind entirely, or go unpredictable and choose one of the lower Districts to Sponsor. Still, this is promising.
But I do wonder what could have caught his attention so quickly. I've never paid attention to Seneca Crane in the past, as he usually kept to himself and did not fraternize with the Mentors as his uncle does, but I do know his pattern of leaning towards the second best bets. I remember Tilda once mentioning that it was predictable to choose the highest betters, and that Gamemakers shouldn't be predictable. But second best is still safely profitable. With pursed lips, I wonder what that means about us. "Why 4?" I ask eventually, settling my gaze on District 12's Tributes; a thirteen year old boy studying poisoned herbs and a fourteen year old girl nervously handling a machete. I haven't seen Haymitch much since our arrival, much less have heard about his efforts to keep his own Tributes alive.
"You weren't there during Lucius' rounds through the chariots. He stopped at us and had a nice chat, and I think Seneca talked with Liber and Ceres directly, not just small talk. I wasn't paying attention. But he seemed pleased when he left," Tilda replies, looking thoughtful. "As far as I saw, he didn't do much talking with the other Victors after us."
"That is promising," I admit, albeit apprehensively. "I wonder what caught his attention."
Ren clucks. "Well, Ceres did cut a figure in that dress."
All at once, I feel sick. The insinuation is all but a brutal punch to my stomach and it's all I can do to not double over and vomit what's left of my small breakfast across the floor.
I swallow it all down. God, I have to. "I didn't notice," I say, ignoring the looks they give me. I feel green. "I doubt that would influence Seneca's decision."
Tilda has the decency to appear sympathetic while Ren merely rolls his eyes. "Maybe," she offers me. "But if Seneca is interested in Sponsoring us, we shouldn't overthink it, for their sakes. He's the Gamemaker's nephew and if he likes them, that could play to our favor." When she notices how stony my face has become, she keeps talking. "Lucius hasn't shied from bias before, but he's not obvious about it. We might have an advantage."
"I remember that year he made the Arena all mountain-y. That Tribute who climbed well won, didn't he?" Ren says, looking thoughtful. "Maybe he'll include a variety of water."
Focus, stay focused, I beg myself. As per usual, my mind betrays me by forcing me to consider the visual of Seneca Crane watching the Games unfold on his holograph, sipping wine smugly as he sends parachute after parachute for Ceres. If she wins, I imagine her being led to Snow's office, and the following night led to Seneca's quarters. My jaw is so tight I feel as if my teeth are going to break. My shoulders are trembling, though neither Tilda or Ren seem to notice. My fury is quiet, though I try to quench it. Tilda is right. There's no point in overthinking an advantage like this now, least of all when we are still analyzing their competition.
I point at the screen. "Lamia and Jason will make good Allies. They've proven lethal already. She's fast and he's, well...a mountain," I say.
"When did Cashmere say she would get back to you?" Tilda asks.
"Soon," I say, scanning the screens.
Something catches my attention. Ceres is looking up from the fire that Liber is desperately trying to start, watching intently as the boy from District 8 is practicing archery. He does it surprisingly well, as I examine him on a separate screen. One of his arrows perfectly hits the target's eye, and when I look back at Ceres I see that she has become perfectly still. It would be of no surprise if she had stopped breathing entirely, and that stillness forms itself into a rock deep in my stomach. I count the seconds that pass as she's just sitting there. I get to twenty before Liber is nudging her, oblivious and proud, as he rejoices over the fire he stirred. Ceres seems to break out of her trance, looking down between them and smiling. She praises him, and it is as if what has happened never did. In fact, if I hadn't been looking, I wouldn't have known.
I still remember the arrow that pierced through Harpee's eye and the blood that splattered onto my face. She had been so surprised when it happened, death opting to take its time. She'd stared at nothing, a blabber of words escaping her. I'd been surprised, too, but I had no time to focus on that. Survival was key. I had my dad to think about, but, realistically, he wasn't even a blip on my radar. My instincts had kicked into overdrive then, and all I saw was flashing white as my body did well to protect itself.
They didn't show this in the Games, but I'd found a grotto where I'd thrown up the food that had been parachuted to us. I had dry heaved after, too.
But after that, all I had was myself to think about, and that made surviving easier. Callous as that might be, it's the truth
Out there in the Arena, alone, I couldn't afford the luxury of stilling in horror to process something terrible. I had to be that something terrible. Ceres won't have that luxury, either, and if she does try to spend her life on it, it won't be for long. She'd have her throat slit before she could even have time to react.
Exhaling sharply through my nose, I glance over at Tilda and Ren to see if they noticed the same thing, but they're both preoccupied discussing Sponsors. I suppose this is a good thing, because this is a conversation that should be exclusively between myself and Ceres. No one else will understand the way we do.
"I need to speak with you, preferably in private," I say, an hour after we've eaten supper. Thankfully, my pager at my hip hasn't gone off, and given the lateness of the evening I expect to have the rest of it to myself. Normally I might have laid in bed and stared at nothing, but it would be best to be productive and assist Ceres. When she casts a cool glare in my direction, I smile sweetly back. "Could you fit me into your schedule?"
Dinner had been pleasantly uneventful. As expected, Rheon had never showed, and I wonder if he's in his room dining to his own devices or if he had spent the evening more productively with Haymitch or a bottle on its own. While not a hard-drinking man, Rheon has never quite shied away from the comfort of a glass. And as for his children, both were visibly weary from their training throughout the day, with Liber noticeably bruised and Ceres' hair still damp from a long shower. With the respective Mentors and Liber having ventured to bed not long after, Ceres had instead taken to the dining halls to enjoy mangos left in a pretty sea green bowl. I was lucky to find her alone, even more so with the knowledge that the other Mentors shouldn't be cutting in. Still, she looks unhappy to see me.
Ever since our little argument on the train, she's been careful with her words and her encounters with me, though she's warmed somewhat since then.
Ceres purposefully pops another piece of mango into her mouth and chews exceptionally slowly. "Maybe," she says, after a minute. "And the dining hall is pretty private. Talk away, fish boy."
"Not necessarily private. I think you'll probably yell at me for what I'm going to say, so I'd prefer we talked in my room. The walls are soundproof so you won't wake up our sleeping or otherwise distressed companions."
"Soundproof?"
I shrug. "Are details necessary?"
"Guess not. But I still don't want to talk to you." Ceres looks tired as well as frustrated, though it doesn't feel as if this is directly pointed towards me as her gaze is not accusing or resentful. "I've gotten a lecture from Ren about Liber already. I know he's struggling, but he has time to get better. He's been interacting with some of the Tributes and they seem to like him. And I know I should push him when we're training together, I just don't want to push him too hard. This is-"
"No, it's not about Liber, though we will talk about him later."
"So, what then?"
"It's about you. You done?" I gesture to her mango.
"Is this that urgent of a conversation?"
"I'd say so." I smile cheekily, though there's a pit in my stomach.
Ceres takes her time finishing her mango, while I stand beside the countertop idly tapping my foot. I count the seconds until I reach over a hundred, then by that point I'm close to glaring. She meets my gaze evenly and with seeming delight, until she finally yields and sets the half-finished fruit down. I lead her away to my room, which is odd in its own right. Even before the Games, Ceres and I had never been in each others' rooms. She had been in my house before, as I was in hers, but our rooms were always something private that neither intruded upon. The joy, or lack thereof, of each others' companies were usually held in the market, on the beach, or, rarer still, exploring the hidden coves where Peacekeepers rarely patrolled. The room I have here is not so different from the room I have back home, as both are deceptively boring, and usually gather dust from lack of use. The room is large with two walls solely composed of windows, overlooking the Capitol. My bed is large enough to fit, arguably, four people - although I've never entertained in the suites before. It's generally frowned over, but I think Snow likes having the option looming over my head, or just a reminder.
The walls are darkly painted and the lighting is usually dim in an inadvertent sensual atmosphere, though the lamps I keep on either side of my be do well to provide more light. As is, my room is mostly lit by the Capitol outside, which is aglow with activity and celebration, and I notice that my clothes from earlier are still laid out over a desk in the corner. I hope she doesn't notice.
Based on her quick scan and her eyes settling back onto me, expression the same, I'm grateful that she hasn't. In any case, what would those clothes mean to her? They're luxurious and fancy for my usual style, but it is the Capitol, and one could only see bright pink lip prints on the collar if one looks close enough.
"Okay, so...what did you want to talk about?" Ceres asks warily, hands resting on her hips.
"You can't freeze up again," I say, deciding it will save us both trouble to cut to the point. "I saw you while you were training. When you saw the arrow go through the dummy's eye, you froze. That can't happen in the Arena."
Ceres' mouth opens, agape like a fish. Noises spew from her, though no words could ever properly be formed. Anger swells in her gaze but I meet it back with coolness, because I know that I'm right and I won't have her pride or guilt killing her in the Arena. "I didn't freeze!" she says, voice cracking. "I was just watching the competition. That's what they said to do! You - you...you said to be alert! That guy could kill us with a bow and arrow, so-"
I can't be her friend here, so I lift my hand and speak sharply over her. "You can't think about Harpee when you're in the Arena. That's going to get you killed faster than you can breathe," I say, snapping my fingers in front of her face. Fury flashes in her dark blue eyes, which regard me almost hatefully. Fine. Let her look at me like that, let her be angry and petty and catty. As I tower over her, my voice deepening, I remind myself to stay assertive. I'm her Mentor. There is no banter anymore, no teasing or throwing sand. This isn't a silly game. I know she's started to recognize that, but she isn't even close to understanding. "When you see something horrible, you keep moving and, if necessary, you keep killing. I know you're not stupid. You've watched every Games and you've seen every nightmare a person could conjure in the Arena. It hasn't scared you before, and it definitely shouldn't scare you now. You have Liber to protect, don't you?"
My chest swells with satisfaction as I turn her argument over on her, as she continues to stare mutely at me. Her mouth closes, but her eyes are still sharp.
"Harpee is dead. There's no point in thinking about how she died or if you had Volunteered instead of her. It's you in the Games now," I say.
"Don't say her name," Ceres says, her voice trembling.
"She forgave you, remember? There's nothing to carry with you in that Arena."
Her jaw flexes. "There's everything to carry with me in that Arena, Finnick."
"Fine. But do yourself a favor and minimize your load. You'll break your back if you don't let something off your shoulders," I say, evenly. I want to be frustrated with her, but that won't get us anywhere. I have to be the calm one. "Nothing else needs to matter when you're in the Arena, especially if your main goal is to protect Liber. You can't let ghosts haunt you. They aren't the threat. The real threat are the living who want to bash your head in or slit your throat or worse." Her eyes widen. A part of me wants to soften my tone, but I keep it firm, and I press on. "You'll get killed if you think about before, trust me. You have to detach as best as you can to survive."
"So that's what you did? Detach?"
"It's easier than you think. I do it all the time, especially here-"
"When you're with your clients."
I wince.
Of course she would be aware of my disappearances and my tussled hair and the smell lingering on my person if I'm in close proximity to her, but to have her address it so directly takes me off guard. My eyes narrow at her. I want to snap and to argue, but that won't do us any good. We aren't in 4 anymore. She's here in the Capitol and she could die in the next few weeks, or sooner. What's stopping her from freezing in the middle of the bloodbath? It's worst case scenario, sure, but I'm not leaving anything to chance. I can't afford to, just like I can't afford to be angry with her. My nostrils are flaring, but I force myself to at least sound calm and unaffected by her words.
Imagining and being apart of something are very different things, so how could she possibly fathom me with my clients? I remind myself that she's still naïve and petty, though that doesn't do any good soothing that dark part of my head; that relentless shadow, so to speak. I try not to go back to earlier when Felix was cackling over me and Cashmere, throwing out requests for us as we were in the act, and offering a handful of rubies to us after. It was like giving a well-deserved treat to a dog after it performed a trick.
"I'd probably be insane otherwise," I say, strained. It's the truth, which I can afford her. "I'm very popular, you know. They love me."
Ceres shakes her head. "They love the idea of you," she amends.
I laugh. It's loud and mirthless and borderlines that edge of insanity that I find myself occasionally peering over. It's a giant ledge that creeps down to inky nothingness. "It looks like you are learning, Sea-Sea," I say. "Detaching is like cutting a line - it seems wasteful, but it's better than being dragged down with whatever you're fighting against. Out in the Arena, nothing else has to matter. Why am I explaining this to you? You've done how many hours of studying? This should be obvious."
"I never imagined that the Games would be like this-"
"Ugly, huh? A nightmare? I'm what you wanted to be, Ceres. Capitol darling. Would you like to be me?" I say. "You saw Harpee die on the screen, but I lived it. I didn't freeze after, though. I had to push on, and I survived. You need to do the same, otherwise Liber will be hopeless without you."
Her eyes flash.
I wait for her to reply, but she doesn't. So I sigh and sit on the edge of my unmade bed, raking my hand over my face and into my hair. If she were upset then I would have known by now, as her nose scrunches a certain way when she's been put off. Alternatively, if she were angry, she would be yelling at this point, or storming out. What she's doing now is something I haven't seen before, as her lips are pressed tightly together and her eyes are focused someplace out the window. I wish I could peak inside of her head and catch a glimpse of what's going on in there, but, then again, maybe I don't.
"I know you're right," she admits. "And I'm sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry for, Sea-Sea."
"No, I'm sorry for dragging that into this, and for...assuming."
It's not exactly an emotional or heart-felt apology, but it is an apology. I smile up at her. "Forgive and forget," I say, standing. "It's not all bad. Sometimes I can make my own decisions, though they're usually limited. When I do make them, I try to make them count."
Ceres swallows. Her eyes flicker to mine, her lips hesitantly parting as she takes me in. "I know, Finnick. I know why...you asked me to kiss you. It was because you wanted something to be your choice before they took all of it away from you. I've never...I've tried not to overlook your decisions, like how you'd go fishing with me even though you didn't have to. You came to me after you found your dad, and I wish I'd ignored my dad when he said to leave you be. I'm capable of my own decisions, so I…"
As she's going off, I think about the idea of choice and of Ceres in front of me, smelling like sweat and, oddly, sea salt, and before I can process my own actions I've cupped her face in my hands and leaned down to capture her mouth to mine. It's entirely selfish. My chest is aching with that familiar burn. Her lips are dry and taste salty, as well as the sweet taste of mango that explodes across my tongue.
Our first kiss had been awkward. I'd kissed some girls prior to her but I hadn't been fully aware of what to do with myself, at least with her. Other girls seemed easy, whereas Ceres was so complicated, and I'd been grateful when she demonstrated being just as awkward, if not more awkward, than me. We'd been young then. I don't know about her, but I've become a well-practiced man in that time. My reputation wasn't won by my looks alone. I kiss her easily when she kisses me back. My hand holds her face, spreading across her jaw and to her neck, while my other drags down until it settles over the small of her back. While her touches aren't as fluid as mine, I still welcome them. She experiments, alternating her hands from my face to my neck to my shoulders, and I let her do so as I lavish her with my attentions. It's only a background thought that we're in my room, me backing her slowly against the wall. I'm focused on how she still smells so naturally like the sea and how small she is compared to me.
Between kisses, she murmurs my name. I like it too much and sensibility tells me to stop, but I keep kissing her and holding her to me. Ambitious and stubborn as she is, Ceres surprises me when her teeth graze my lip. It's almost a ghost of a sensation, her testing her boundaries, and I smirk against her mouth. I conclude that she has brushed up on practice in the years between this moment and our last encounter. Although awkward, there are certain things she does that are not quite so innate or without practice.
Her hand spreads out over my cheek before gripping my neck, while her free fingers have latched onto my hair. Her lips are swollen by the time we both pull away for air and her striking blue eyes are alight with with a mingle of confusion and, I hope, happiness. I don't waste a moment before my lips find the corner of her mouth and drag along her jaw, to her neck where my lips brush over the outline of her pulse. I feel her shudder against it. This is what I'm used to. It's falling into something naturally. My body knows what to do, with one hand on her waist and the other holding her head, tilting it back so I have easier access to her neck. "Let me," I purr, in a voice that isn't wholly mine, into her ear, squeezing her hip, "show you what I'm capable of..."
I feel her body stiffen. It takes only a moment for me to realize what I've said, how I've said it, and my grip on her falls away. I step back, taking her in as she leans back against the wall watching me with her pitying gaze I've jaded myself to. Now there's something else, too; unspoken anger. Her face is still flushed. Her hand cups over the spot on her neck where my lips had been a moment ago. I feel my heartbeat quicken, all for the wrong reasons. That nausea sweeps back over me like a riptide. I clench my jaw as tightly as I'm able, along with my hands now balled at my sides. That familiar self-hatred plumes through me. There are so many ways and so many places where I've wanted to kiss her again, to hold her against me and relive that moment that was ours. She could be dead in a few weeks. Selfishly, I wanted a new memory for us, to hold onto in case her ghost comes to haunt me. I'm more a ghost than a person now, but still. The way she's staring off, I realize that I should have let that need for a memory remain a fantasy.
I swallow thickly. Regretfully, I still taste mango on my lips. "I'm sorry," I say. "You aren't one of those Capitolian women. I shouldn't have handled you like one."
Her eyes are distant, seeing through me. The way her brow scrunches and her eyes go downcast, I know that she's thinking, and, again, I wish I could just peer inside of her head.
"Ceres." I reach for her, grateful when she doesn't shy away. I touch her arm. "I shouldn't have..." There are no words to describe this. I swallow bile rising in my throat and nearly choke on it. The way her eyes flicker to mine, how her anger softens, I know that she grasps what I'm trying to say. If we were back home and if things were some semblance of normal, before the Games claimed me, she might have made a quip about it. "You know."
"I do, Finnick. It was your choice, though," she says. "You don't get a lot of those."
"I suppose I don't," I agree. "You'll notice a pattern in my decision making."
Her jaw flexes. "I...I liked kissing you," she says. "I like fishing with you, too. But I don't want to use you like this."
My lip twitches. "Use me? I'm not porcelain. And it's not using, it's-"
"And I don't need to bring anything else with me into the Arena. You said so yourself." Ceres is watching me intently, studying how my face slowly tightens. "I'm sorry."
"There's nothing to be sorry for."
I want to say more and I expect she does, too, but we ultimately just stand there in my dimly lit room staring each other down, waiting for the other to react. It's a tense silence that slows time between us, almost painfully so. Our eyes flicker to and away each other, until Ceres decides to break it. I'm not surprised that she's the one to do it. Selfishly, I want her to stay in this room with me, at least for a little while longer. But as she takes a few steps back, I release those thoughts back into that deep pit I sometimes loom over. At the very least, she's trying to smile at me.
"Goodnight, Finnick..." Ceres says quietly.
"Goodnight, Ceres."
The door clicks shut behind her.
(a/n): This chapter is over 12,000 words! It was a BEAST. To be honest, I was a little intimidated writing from Finnick's perspective and I thought that it was going to be so hard and that the process would be a freaking nightmare, but look! I actually wrote this out fairly quickly, and...lengthy. Geez. That being said, this chapter was super fun to write, and I did enjoy taking on the BTS side of the Hunger Games! Mentors are so fascinating and I love the inner workings that Tributes, obviously, don't get to see. That being said, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! We get to see some canon characters, and we get introduced to brand new characters who will play important roles during the actual Games. What do you guys think so far? How was Finnick's take on things? What did you guys think of the kiss? ;) If you guys are enjoying this story or have any constructive criticism, please leave reviews! Reviews, no matter how simple, give me life and muse!
ALSO! Who's ready for some Haymitch next chapter? I know I am.
Fancasts:
Lamia: Willa Fitzgerald
Jason: Tom Welling
Cashmere: Stephanie Leigh Schlund
Review replies
Grace of the Damned: Oh my God, thank you so much! That means so much coming from you, you are such a remarkable writer. I am beyond flattered! Honestly, Ceres has become a drastically different character from what I had planned three years ago. She was originally going to Volunteer 100% because of selfish reasons and her District partner was going to essentially be a Red Coat or an antagonist, but after a lot of time and consideration I realized that that path wasn't going to work. Ceres seeing the Games for what they are as they are happening will get all the more intense. I have a lot planned, especially for her Interview. ;) Also, I was so happy when I saw your comment about wanting to see Finnick's side of things, as I had already started this chapter before seeing your review. I had originally meant to keep Ceres as the only POV for this story, but I realized that her training would be redundant and boring, so I decided to tackle the behind the scenes side of things. We never really got to experience the Mentors and their inner workings during the Games in the books, so I wanted to explore that. Plus! I loved having the chance to write up Finnick and his views on this whole experience, especially with their kiss. I hope that you liked it! ^^