Finnick Odair, aged 15. The Capitol
"This is what I'm good at," he had told Mags. And whilst he hadn't really believed it when he said it he was beginning to realise it actually was true. He had lost count of all the rich and famous faces he had met, of how many people had come up to him to shake his hand, or gush about how much they loved and admired him. It's so far away from the wet ropes and stinking nets he'd always thought his future might hold. It's so close to the dream he'd always held secret and close to his chest. The dream where he was rich and famous and somebody, instead of another grey district face.
There's something nagging at his brain though. A thread of guilt churning up his gut, a voice whispering in his head about how he doesn't deserve this. Reminding him what he did; of all the disgusting things he did. How dare he enjoy himself tonight when he's standing on so many corpses. The voice sounds like Sagitarria.
But tonight it's easy not to listen to that voice. Tonight it's drowned out by the laughter and the music and the compliments. The colourful cocktails perhaps are helping as well, more than he'd like to admit. Finnick plucks another one, bright green this time, off of the tray offered to him by an avox. It tastes like stars. Yes, this is what he's good at.
The pink haired woman leaning against him pushes closer, her breasts pressing into his chest.
"Were you scared?" she asks.
A man somewhere behind him has his fingers in Finnick's hair, stroking the strange bronze curls gently. Another fan still is tracing the net pattern of Finnick's shirt. Their fingers are warm and sticky.
Finnick is feeling more than a little drunk by now. Alcohol is scarce in District Four, and he thinks the room might be spinning a little bit. He doesn't notice at first when the conversations around him begin to quiet. He doesn't see the President until he's standing right in front of him. There's a woman standing with him, with long golden hair trussed up high on top of her head. The strands curl down the back of her neck like a waterfall. She's dressed in swathes of blue, many different shades, that remind Finnick somewhat of a cresting wave, just before it crashes over your head. Two long jewel encrusted tridents hang from her earlobes.
"What a pleasure it is to have you back in the Capitol, Mr Odair" the President is saying. He looks the same as he always has, for as long as Finnick remembers seeing him on television. Finnick wonders how old he must be. The strong cloying smell coming from the rose in his buttonhole is thick and unpleasant, and together with the swirling in his head it's making Finnick feel a little nauseous.
"I must introduce you to someone special," the President continues, gesturing at the blond woman with him. "This is Hortensia Wildrock, Mr Odair. She was the one who paid for your trident."
Hortensia Wildrock extends her hand toward Finnick at this statement, and at a lack of understanding what the expected response to this is, Finnick takes the proffered hand gently into his and kisses the back lightly.
"Thank you," he says to her, surprising himself when he realises he's being sincere. "That trident saved my life." He doesn't let himself think of the blood that stained his palms. Tonight, this is what he's good at.
"Indeed," President Snow says simply. "I would think that you owe Mrs Wildrock quite a debt."
The smile that plays her lips is wide and blood red.