I do not own Hunger Games.

Finnick Odair is precious.

The Girl With The Green Eyes

Things Finnick Odair Hates


Opulence.

That was what they showered the tributes with.

Opulence, the best of everything.

From the time they got on the train, that damn train.

All silver and sleek and smooth.

Finnick had been the tribute, the victor of the 65th Hunger Games, had been forced to travel to every district on his 'Victory' Tour.

Had witnessed the starving poverty of District 12, choked on the factory smog of District 3.

District 4 was no Capitol or even District 1 or 2.

District 4 didn't starve. They didn't bathe in dirt.

They even had birthdays, Christmases, anniversaries.

Modest gifts of shell jewelry, shark tooth.

Handmade.

Most of them wore shoes without holes, clothes untattered.

They counted themselves lucky, saved for the Reaped children.

But the people of his home had no possible conception of the true wealth lavished upon the tributes the Capitol sent off to murder each other.

The richest of foods, eaten and drunk on the finest silver and china and crystal.

The groomers, the stylists, attended to every single possible inch of you. In all ways possible.

Draped you in the finest of materials, fashioned you up like the prize showpony President Snow required.

All for the enjoyment of the Capitol, pleasure of the audience therein.

The opulence, ah, the outpouring of the opulence.

It was all a diversion, all a manipulation, a scheme.

The Capitol provides; President Snow is generous.

This is what it is to be of the inner circle of Panem.

The Life here, isn't it Grand, isn't a Grand Opportunity for those chosen few.


The Tribute Parade.

Take the tributes out and show them off to all of Panem.

Make an impression, get people's attention, interest possible sponsors.

Black chariots, pulled by jet-black horses.

Topped with fabulously adorned feathers and finery.

Flowers upon the ground, trinkets and tidbits.

Leading all the way to the Centre of the City.

Doomed Christians to the Ravenous Lions of Rome.

Rolling Death.

One hundred thousand people in attendance.

Screaming, cheering, raving.

All adorned in outfits of every imaginable and unimaginable material, frippery, color and mixtures of colors known and unknown to nature and man.

A veritable, undulating sea of the obscene and garish and bizarre.

And, of course, President Snow.

Presiding over them all.

Not a frip, not a flair.

Plain black suit.

White hair of an old man.

Single white rose in his lapel.

And Finnick Odair hated him.

Absolutely.

With a complete and white hot fury.

An old ailing man who held the absolute power of an entire country and every single man woman and child within it under his merciless thumb.

And everybody . . .

I hate him.

. . . everywhere . . .

I wish I could kill him.

. . . knew it.

I wish somebody could kill him.


And Caesar Flickerman, oh how he hated Caesar Flickerman.

Claudius Templesmith was bad enough, the toady little commentator.

But Caesar, oh Caesar.

The Master of Ceremonies.

With his play-by-plays and his flashbacks and his interviews with tributes and mentors.

Caesar Flickerman with his outrageously styled and colored hair and his top-of-the-line tailored sparkly suits.

His false sincerity and impossibly toothy smile and and booming voice.

Like a peacocked and preened shark.

He was another of President Snow's monsters, his Frankensteins, Finnick had no doubt about that.

". . . never forget. The moment a tribute . . ."

Murders another human being?

". . . becomes a victor."

The Master of Ceremonies.

Conversational in the interviews, welcoming.

"Now I've heard tell our next tribute is simply as lovely as her name."

No one could avoid him.

"Shall we meet her?"

No one could deny him.

"Let's give a warm welcome for Annie Cresta from District 4!"

And Annie, there, trapped on the stage, trapped on the digital projections.

Annie, afraid, alone.

Red hair done in an elegant updo, framing pale oval face.

Form draped in garment silky, sleek one moment in ocean blue.

The next, seafoam green.

Perched nervously on the chair across from Caesar.

Caesar, who cared so much, who listened attentively.

"Do you feel as though you are prepared for the Games, Annie?"

Annie.

"Well, uh, I've tried to be. I'm, uh, I've been practicing and training."

Floundering, she was absolutely floundering.

"What would you say is your biggest strength?"

Mischievous, secretive co-conspiratorial gesture toward the baffled, timid girl.

"Or can you tell?"

Who completely failed . . .

"Oh, um, well . . ."

. . . to take advantage of the toothy man's . . .

"I . . . uh . . ."

. . . proffered mystery.

" . . . don't really, . . . um . . ."

She had absolutely nothing and everyone knew it.

And the Caesar the Showman.

The one positive thing Finnick could say about him was that the man used every possible skill within his well-honed repertoire to make each and every tribute look as good as possible for the audience, and by default, the sponsors that would or would not help them survive in the Games.

"Well, Annie , you certainly are a lovely, gracious young woman and I wish you the best luck. Let's give her a resounding round of applause, ladies and gentlemen. Annie, District 4!"

And everyone clapped and cheered and Annie skirted off the stage and Caesar and all his sharky teeth laughed and laughed and laughed.

As if it were all just a fun, harmless game.

"Did I do alright, Finnick?"

Ah. yes. of course.

"Yeah. Sure."

Good fun.

"You did fine."


Thanks to daughterofathena, DinahRay, and Natalie Rushman for so kindly reviewing!