Mags tacks a path through the doctors and Games staff as soon as the hovercraft lands and gathers me up in a huge hug. I wrap my arms around her in return and bury my face into her shoulder, escaping from the cameras I can still feel following me for just a few minutes.
Prying hands try to force us apart and someone shoves a microphone in my face asking for my comments. I react instinctively, grabbing the weapon and lunging towards them, ready to strike.
Strong arms catch me and haul me backwards as two other peacekeepers grab the journalist, who apparently wasn't supposed to be here and marches them away. I struggle against the grip, for a minute seeing only enemies trying to kill me until Mags puts her hands on either side of my face and forces me to look at her, reminding me of where I am.
I stop struggling and fall limp in their grip, all my energy drained. I'm safe now, I try to remind myself. Shark-Finnick's time is done. Mags turns and glares around the entire group of people surrounding us.
"I say this every year, and every year you people don't listen. Give. Him. Space."
They back away under her furious reprimand, leaving me on my own wobbly legs but feeling a lot less pressured to defend myself.
She keeps her hand on my shoulder as she leads me inside, back into the Training Centre lift, back to the apartment with its awful angular furniture and nudges me gently into a chair. Someone hands me a drink, fruit flavoured and somehow both sweet and salty at the same time. I reach up to wipe my mouth with my right hand and hiss in pain.
"I believe they were re-broken," a clipped Capitol voice says over my shoulder. I turn quickly and end up spilling half the drink down my front.
The white-coated man waves an impatient hand at two attendants who start cleaning it up and turns to Mags, apparently continuing a conversation.
"You can see why I think it would be better."
She crosses her arms stubbornly, shakes her head with a sigh and uncrosses them.
"You may be right on that one point. Why don't we let him decide?"
They both turn to me and start to speak, then stop and glare at one another. Mags smiles wryly and waves him on. He clears his throat and faces me officiously.
"We need to fix up your wounds, which are all essentially minor, and it is customary to provide victors with a full body polish to remove all scars and blemishes. I feel this would be easier for all of us if you went under sedation for, say twenty-four hours. Your…ah…mentor would prefer you to stay awake and to not have the polish, though I would like to remind her that the Gamemakers-"
"The Gamemakers can order the moon to dance for all I care, if Finnick doesn't want your unnecessary cosmetic treatments-"
"They are entirely necessary, especially for a victor who seems to insist on going about half-naked-"
They continue arguing while my head spins. I hadn't thought much about what Mags said about the sponsors while I was in the arena, but I suspect it's one of the reasons she is arguing against them doing anything to me.
A shrill electronic ringing noise splits the air and the doctor holds a hand up to silence Mags while he unfolds a communicator and answers. I can't hear the other end of the conversation, but whoever called him seems to be doing most of the talking, while he makes affirmative noises. Finally he hands the device over to Mags, who scowls as she puts it to her ear. Whatever they say to her doesn't make her any happier and she closes the device with a snap and throws it hard back at the doctor.
"I'm sorry Finnick," she says shortly. "It seems our preferences are being overruled. You are to go with Doctor Esterlin and his team down to the medical centre. It will be ok, and if they do anything more than just a simple body polish I will make them regret it. Understood?"
"Well," says Doctor Esterlin, "surely a few other enhancements in the-"
He stops when Mags gets right up in his face and grabs onto his white coat, pulling him down until he is eye to eye with her.
"Anything else and I will personally rip your balls off and shove them down your throat, do you understand?"
The doctor squeaks and nods and she lets him go.
I need the help of a hovering Games assistant to stand, trying hard not to think about what they might want to enhance as we make our way back into the lift and down to a below-ground level bathed in unnatural white light.
A pretty nurse smiles at me as she settles me onto the bed and wipes clean my hand to insert a needle. I smile back instinctively as she tells me to start counting backwards from twenty. I make it to fourteen before the world goes black.
~xXx~
The yelling brings me back around, though it is distant, muffled, through at least one closed door I realize once I become aware of my surroundings.
Something moves over to my left and I twist around quickly, hands reaching for a weapon. Gabriela, Anita's mentor smiles back from her chair next to the bed.
"Don't worry, it's completely normal to be a bit jumpy. Even now I still reach for a knife if someone sneaks up on me."
Her Games were at least a decade ago, and if she's still jumping at strange sounds I guess it's ok for me to be too. The shouting outside gets louder, accompanied by a door slamming. The voice sounds suspiciously like Mags.
Gabriela shakes her head sadly as another loud slam echoes through the building.
"They kept you under for nearly two days when they said it would only be one, and they, well…"
She points to my bare front. I look down and immediately notice my pectoral muscles seem to have grown larger. Further down, my abdominal muscles stand out like a movie hero in a perfect six-part arrangement.
"She stopped them before they did anything else," Gabriela says. "Broke that smarmy doctor's wrist when he tried to throw her out just to be sure he couldn't keep on going. They arrested her for assault of course, but I guess they let her back out. I think she was told she couldn't come see you yet, which is why she asked me to sit in."
The door thuds open and Mags walks in, her face flushed and her long gray hair slightly dishevelled. She looks at Gabriela who gives her a nod and she relaxes a little.
"Are you ok?" I ask, worried that she might be in trouble because of me.
She smiles back, her own shark smile, the one no-one ever argues with, and says, "No, no. Just a small misunderstanding. I've apologised to the good Doctor and even tried to shake his hand."
Both Gabriela and I laugh at that, perfectly sure which hand and wrist she shook and how hard she shook it.
"He has agreed not to make any more alterations and I have allowed him to keep his man-parts attached to his body, and we have both agreed not to bring the Gamemakers into this again."
"That's all?" Gabriela asks pointedly, and Mags waves away the question. "Oh they fined me three months of my victor's salary and made some noise about restricting my sponsors for next year. Nothing important, and certainly a sacrifice I'm willing to make to stop them turning you into the next Ignatius Plenny."
I wrinkle my nose at the name of the obnoxious movie star who played a womanizing hero in a series awful action films. We always used to laugh about his obviously altered muscles and face when we saw the movies on TV. I look down again and poke my abdomen.
"It's steroidal not implants, thank goodness," Mags tells me as she nudges my feet aside and sits on the end of the bed. "Without further treatments it should wear off in a few months, though I expect you'll replace them with the real thing."
I shrug. Probably. I couldn't imagine not staying fit after all the years of training.
"Do you remember the thing we talked about on the train?" Mags asks after pointedly glancing around the room. I nod.
"Already crossed my mind," I tell her, though really I've tried not to think about it.
"Well," she says as she stands again, brushing her skirt flat, "I'll just remind you that minors are not granted full control of their bank accounts until they are at least sixteen. And, of course the legal entry age to a lot of clubs is eighteen, though many people stretch it a year or two. Not four though."
I take the hint, that I have a little bit of time before I can be touched by any sort of sponsors looking for more than a blown kiss. Maybe after a year or two I won't be so interesting. After all, there will be new victors in town, maybe just as good looking as me, just as interesting.
There's a loud knock on the doorframe and a timid looking Games staffer sticks his head in, swallowing heavily before he says, "Excuse me, but if it's ok we would like to bring Finnick his lunch now, and then maybe after shoot the reunion? If you don't mind?"
The boy, who barely looks older than me actually takes a full step backwards when Mags raises an eyebrow. I wonder if he was there when she broke that doctor's arm.
She cackles with laughter and winks at me before holding out an arm to Gabriela.
"Come on dear, I think they know better than to try anything else with our boy. Let's get this nonsense over with."
She turns to me and adds, "Don't take too long eating, and get that camera smile ready. I'll see you in a bit."
They leave, the boy taking another step back as the women walk past him. He looks back at me and flinches when he sees my grin. I wonder if he's just scared of everyone, the sort who thinks District folk are savages. Then I realize this was probably the same grin I was wearing while I stood over the dead bodies of tributes in the arena.
"I'll…I'll just go get your...um...lunch." The boy backs away, stammering as my smile falls and disappears into the corridor.
He returns a few minutes later with a small plate of stew and bread, setting them on the furthest edge of the bedside table and not looking at me as he asks if I can manage eating without help.
I flex the fingers of my right hand, which only ache a little and say, "I think I can manage."
He nods while backing away, and flees once he gets past the doorframe. I wonder, as I tuck into my food why they have someone so timid doing this. Then again, it's better than some giggling girl trying to flirt with me.
Once I've finished eating the boy returns with a copy of my Games outfit, which he places on the end of the bed. He scurries over to the table where my plate that I literally licked clean is waiting and grabs it without making eye contact, hurrying away again.
I can't help but laugh as I change into new, fresh sandals and shorts, ripped authentically to match the damage it took in the arena. As I unfold the shorts a flash of metal catches my eye as a slither of movement drags the object to the ground. My district token. Well some of it anyway. It's missing the pearl bead and one of Oris' shell beads, and the pendant my trident teacher Torric gave me is tied on wrong, but that doesn't really matter. I squeeze it gently until the tiny bronze sword pokes into my soft, smooth skin.
My hands are flawless now, and while there's no mirror to check I can only assume the rest of me is too. They even took away some of the older scars, the markings on my thigh where I fell off a rooftop two years back, the tiny line on my left palm when I accidentally tested the sharpness of my first knife when I was seven.
I should look younger with this softening. I guess that was why Doctor Esterlin wanted to give me a few extra enhancements. I wrinkle my nose one more time as I poke the ridiculous abs; they usually shoot the reunion with the victor wearing clothes identical to how they ended their Games, so I get to go topless and show off my new stupid muscles.
I make my way out into the hall and down the corridor. They often show the official reunion of the victor and their team as a prelude to the post-Games events, so I make sure my hair is ruffled and my smile is good before stepping through the door where the people who helped get me through the Games are waiting. I go straight to Mags, ignoring her protests as I grab her in a huge hug and pick her up, spinning her around with a laugh.
"Put me down Finnick Odair!" she cries, whacking at my arms, but she's laughing too when I do set her back on her feet and messes my hair some more, earning her a dark look from Phineas. My stylist is wearing a tight suit jacket in a suspiciously familiar shade of green and shakes my hand, offering his own congratulations. He seems more cheerful than I remember. Then again, I might have just made him very rich.
Acanthus also seems genuinely pleased to see me, shaking my hand firmly and clasping my shoulder in a friendly way. "So glad to see you back," he says with a smile. "You've managed to become quite the sensation."
I glance at Mags at this, who gives me a slight nod. I had assumed, like all good-looking and competitive tributes that I wouldn't lack for Capitol sponsors but it sounds like they're suggesting something more than usual.
Once we're done hugging and chatting for the cameras I'm sent off with Phineas and reunited with my prep team to ready me for the first post-Games event. Euthalia has streaked her bright yellow hair with blue and green to match her heavy eye make-up. Theodorus has had his hair dyed to match my own bronze and shows me a new tattoo he had done two days ago of a net and trident to mark my victory. Even stiff Pelagius has tridents painted on his nails in glowing metallic paints.
"Oh Finnick darling, you're simply a star," Euthalia says as she directs me into a warm, silky-smooth bath. "Everyone loves you, and your look of course. Did you know there have been shortages of Autumn Bronze hair color since the third day of the Games? Can you believe it?"
"Don't forget that the tanning salons are still booked out with people trying to get this lovely golden skin," Pelagius adds. "And there's a fifty-person waiting list at Mellania's clinic for getting your eyes re-colored according to Dania Cardrew, though she does sometimes exaggerate the poor girl. And I've heard that the clinic can't actually match this natural color anyway, but of course it doesn't stop people from trying."
"Dania Cardrew? Why do you even talk to her? I thought she dropped you for that, oh what was his name? The author fellow with the funny nose."
My head swirls as they continue on chattering about strangers trying (and by the sound of things often failing) to look like me. The way they are talking you would assume that the entire Capitol is a fan of mine. Which is crazy. There's always factions and fans for at least a few of the top tributes.
They finish cleaning me off, then wrap me in a robe ready for my stylist Phineas, who arrives carrying an armful of various green shirts, pants and suit jackets. He drops these on a chair and encourages me to stand with a wave of his hand as he circles around me with a thoughtful expression.
"It really is a shame your mentor is so uptight about you getting some simple modifications," he says as he pulls my robe away with a gentle tug. "It would make you look so much more mature."
"I don't want to look more mature," I tell him with a grin as he begins to sort through the shirts holding one after another up against me.
"Nonsense," he replies as he winces at one particularly bright colour. "All children your age want to look older."
"Nah," I tell him, "Growing up means being responsible and I've never been very good at that."
He tutts a little as he hands me the shirt he is currently holding gesturing for me to put on. I slide it over my shoulders, enjoying the soft rippling feeling as it slips down my back. Almost as soon as it's on he tells me to take it back off again, muttering under his breath.
The next shirt is too big and the third is also the wrong shade of green. The fourth has an interesting pattern of rippling swirls like undercurrents of waves formed by barely different shades of thread. I actually quite like it and it appears my stylist does too. He tells me to leave the buttons undone as he moves on to some matching pants. These end up being a much darker shade of green, the sort that would look black from a distance. There's a matching jacket in the same colour but I only have it on for a few seconds before Phineas pulls it off again and throws it aside. Like my pre-Games interview outfit the shirt is only half buttoned.
He spends a lot more time fiddling with my hair, which still has some of the highlights from the parade in it. He also tries to talk me into getting rid of my district token once again but this time I just grin at him and shake my head. As soon as he sees that smile he stops talking about it and sticks with rubbing more sticky goo to make my hair look like I've just stepped off a fast boat.
I look in the mirror when he's done and notice with some disgust that the shirt is tight enough to show off some of my stupid new muscle lines. I try to pull the front of the shirt out a little but Phineas slaps away my hands and settles it back in its original position.
"Perhaps we should go a size smaller to really emphasize your improved abdominals," he says as he stares over my shoulder in the mirror. I shake my head. The last thing I want while having to watch through my Games is the inability to breathe because of tight clothing.
Suddenly I really don't want to go out on the stage tonight. I really don't want to watch all the deaths, all the people I killed. I especially don't want to do it with a smile. But I know it will be expected. Many other volunteer victors spend their Games viewing cheering and waving and egging the crowd on. I wonder now for the first time how many of them were acting. If I get a chance I might ask Gabriela. Then again she played her Games quite sneakily, so she could get away with staying in that sly secretive persona that didn't react while watching.
Our last victor, Wade made a bit of a show celebrating some of his later plays and kills I remember. Then again he is a bit of a jerk. He might not have been acting. I decide to keep smiling if I can but to not overly celebrate any of the deaths. It's probably the best balance I can manage.
Phineas messes with my hair for a few more minutes before declaring me presentable. He walks alongside me as we head to the area under the stage, giving me frustrated glances every time I inadvertently touch my face or hair. He readjusts my shirt for a fourth time as we join Mags, Acanthus and my prep team.
Mags shoos him away and pulls my shirt back to a looser position, ignoring my stylist's glare. She bends down to give me a brief hug and whispers in my ear, "Remember to keep smiling."
I was already planning on doing that. She steps back, fixing her own hair as she takes her place on one of the metal platforms as I'm directed to my own by a fussy assistant. Overhead a sudden loud roar makes all of us jump. Euthalia laughs loudly in excitement as I realise the sound came from the waiting crowd.
The prep team are the first to rise to the stage where they are greeted by a second a similar wave of noise. As Phineas follows, already wearing that smug smile I suddenly shiver. These rising platforms are far too reminiscent of the tubes we entered the arena in to make any victor feel comfortable.
I glance over at Mags as my escort is announced and starts his ascent. She doesn't seem bothered. Then I remember in her Games they didn't rise on platforms into the arena but entered through doors in the wall. She gives me a smile of encouragement as her platform rises and she stands tall, well as tall as she can for someone half a foot shorter than me, her chin held high.
I get a few moments of privacy which I use to pull my shirt even looser and ruffle my hair out of its artificially arranged style. My hand instinctively reaches for its trident when the platform begins to move but I managed to regain my shark grin before the cameras are on me again. The roar from the crowd is so loud that I nearly take a step backwards. For a moment there is just a blinding swirl of flights and colour and noise that I can't bring into focus, almost as though I'm looking at the world from underwater. Then Caesar, who is suddenly beside me, or maybe he was always was and I just didn't notice, touches me lightly on the arm.
It takes a huge effort not to appear startled and I cover by cheerfully shaking the host's hand. Caesar goes along with this without question and keeps a gentle hold on my arm as he guides me to the front of the stage and the waiting chair. My victors throne is heavy cast bronze, the back shaped like the prongs of the trident and the seat crafted from a spilled net. I smile and wave to the crowd as I'm expected to before I take my seat. I notice as I sit that the net isn't right, at least for fishing. For some reason this annoys me.
Luckily I'm not expected to talk during this event and make an effort to keep on smiling as Caesar leads us into the start of the recording of the 65th Hunger Games. There's always a story to tell in these official versions, and I pretty much knew mine while I was still in the arena. Sure enough the focus is on a brave young man, the hero like in a fairy tale of old, fearless and handsome fighting passed all obstacles as he seeks to reach ultimate glory.