I do not own The Hunger Games.

Finnick Odair is precious.

The Girl With The Green Eyes

Slickest Boy At The Ball

The pre-Hunger Games festivities are well underway.

And though he serves as a mentor in the Games by decree of President Snow himself, Finnick O'Dair is in his busiest time of year.

Another reason why he hates the Games so.

The interviews, the charming of the sponsors.

That's enough, treating everyone like meat, like this is some big party.

But there's a worse reason, a darker one.

President Snow has sold him.

He is, for all intents and purposes, a prostitute.

One of many, if he's any judge of the ruthlessness of their esteemed and feared leader.

On good nights, he can consider himself an escort.

Rich old ladies who simply wish to have a charming, handsome young man at their side.

Young, ravishing debutantes, who coo and bat their eyes and squeeze his ass only slightly less tight than sneaky arthritic hands dripping with diamonds.

Making small talk and fetching drinks and hors d'oeuvres. Igniting the absolute white hot envy of every other woman (or interested man) in the room.

Dancing.

On bad nights, he soaked his bruised and lacerated body as carefully as possible, on rare occasion when he was younger and weaker, requiring delicately placed stitches and a special sitting pillow for several days.

He had been sold to women and men.

Young and old.

Kind and brutal.

The lonely.

And the sadistic.

Beautiful. And frighteningly unique.

No one was allowed to be visible and unattractive in the Capitol.

Bizarre perhaps.

But never unattractive.

Those marred, maimed, or simply ugly became invisibles in the lower realms.

And Finnick O'Dair, at the command of President Snow, was a high-priced whore.

Only sold to the richest, those in the highest social elite circles.

If he refused, his family would starve.

If he misbehaved, his family would be punished.

Once quite soon as after his first selling, he took a kitchen knife and stood at his bathroom mirror, stomach roiling, tears flowing.

Willing himself to slash up his face, take away his forced livelihood.

If I'm ugly, they won't want me.

If I'm ugly, they'll leave me alone.

And there had come a knock at the door.

A heavy set man with flat eyes.

And a video message from his 'gracious benefactor'.

"Good evening, Mr. O'Dair. Just wanting to check up on you. Make sure nothing . . . unfortunate has happened to that handsome face of yours. It would surely upset and concern your mother if it had."

And he had sunk to the floor of the apartment, shaking like a leaf and crying like a frightened child.

Which he was.

There were eyes everywhere in The Capitol. Spies, eyes, spies with eyes and eyes of spies.

And cameras, of course.

Videos.

He had no idea how many of his liaisons had been photographed, filmed, or otherwise preserved for posterity.

He did know he trusted no one.

He did know his family was well-cared for.

Had no idea of the real nature of his seemingly tripe dailiances.

They, like everyone else in Panem, save for President Snow and his solicitors, simply believed he was a playboy, someone out for a good time.

A cocky young man with a handsome smile, fantastic bone structure.

And a slick tongue.

What they didn't know was who his tongue (and everything else) essentially belonged to.

Sometimes he could pretend to himself that he was enjoying it.

Some of the girls were pretty enough.

Some of the men were too.

Sometimes he counted the seconds until he could graciously escape.

And sometimes he count the seconds until he could scream.

And there were always secrets.

Secrets of secrets.

And they were his bread and butter, his stock and trade.

His real only currency.

The way he found any real power at all in the Capitol.

Such as it was.

This night had been one of the . . .

"Oh hi, Finnick."

"Hi."

. . . nights he really needed another shower.

"I didn't see you after the ball. Where did you go?"

"I hardly think that's your business."

Though nothing could cleanse whatever was left . . .

"Tribute."

. . . of his soul.

Ick.

Just ick.

Anyway, thank you for reading.

And thanks to Bea and Natalie Rushman (and their graciousness of Finnick's trauma) for previously reviewing.

Thanks also to Lily Ocean (that sounds beautiful), Shakespeare367 (Mercutio, baby), and Moosemonkeybread (now that's an original, I love it) for adding your support to this tale.

:)