When Finnick emerges from his room one sleepless night later, Mags is waiting for him. Caspia, thankfully, is nowhere to be seen. Back in District 4, nothing short of a literal cyclone would roust Abalone from his shack on the beach. The Capitol is no exception.
"Nice of you to finally join us," Mags remarks. Then, after closer inspection: "You look awful. Did you sleep at all?"
"Kind of." The few snatches of sleep he could manage were plagued by nightmares of being pulled underwater by monsters with crimson smiles, razor claws, and glittering jewels for eyes.
"Head up, Finnick," Mags says. "It's day one of training, and we need to figure out your strategy. Sit down, eat, drink."
Although eating is the last thing on Finnick's mind, he knows he has to remain strong and healthy for the Games. So he nibbles on an egg and bacon pastry while Mags presents her case.
"Today, I want you to team up with the Primaries," Mags says. Even though she was up until the wee hours of the morning attending meetings, no signs of fatigue show on her person. Finnick cannot say the same about himself. "You know the drill: Show enough to deem you competent, but not so much they consider you a great threat. After the parade, any smart tribute will have noticed how popular you are, at least where sponsorship is concerned. For your competition, at least, you need to balance your personality with mediocre skill."
"I'll stick with the basics," Finnick suggests.
"I also want you to study them," Mags continues. "See if you can't draw out more than the usual information. What are their likes, their dislikes? Are they ignorant or perfectionist or vain?"
"If you're from One, you're all three," Finnick says with a snicker.
"I want you to figure out what angle they're going to lean toward in their interviews," Mags says. "It'll give us a better idea of how they'll play in the Games."
"And what about Caspia?" Finnick asks.
Mags sets down her cup of coffee like she's afraid it might shatter. "What about her?"
"We kind of fought last night," Finnick admits, setting his half-eaten pastry back down on the plate. "I'm not sure she's willing to be my ally. Did you know she's not going to join the Career pack? She's playing alone."
"Abalone is a fool to encourage it," Mags says quietly. "We can't afford such a level of virtue in these Games."
"'Virtue'?" Finnick echoes. "What's so virtuous about pulling a loner? I think it's selfish. She doesn't have a chance of winning alone. They'll take her out at the bloodbath just to get her out of the way." He gesticulates wildly, nearly upsetting a full glass of orange juice set next to his plate.
"Don't write Caspia off so quickly," Mags warns. "Not wanting to be a part of the Career pack is, in my opinion, not a smart choice. But it is a noble one."
At Finnick's protest, she puts up a hand to quiet him. "Let me remind you exactly what kind of people you're going to be allying yourself with," she says shortly. "One and Two are called Primaries for a reason: They win almost every year. Do you know why? It's not because they're pleasant and merciful people. They cater exactly to what the Capitol wants: A savage, gory murder spree with no rules and no inhibition. And you are choosing to put yourself in the middle of it, Finnick. Don't resent Caspia for not wanting to do the same."
The orange juice with which Finnick washes down his breakfast tastes almost like the stuff his mother makes at home. Almost, but not quite. "Do you think she has a chance?"
"In any other Games? Perhaps. But you're her district partner. If the Capitol and the district money has to go to one or the other, it will go to you. And I think she knows it."
Oh. Finnick tries to imagine himself in Caspia's place. A poor, somber girl with a decent Career background volunteers in hopes of scraping by on skill and a bit of luck, only to immediately be overshadowed by her district partner, the wealthy, popular, prodigious Finnick Odair. If he were Caspia, he would resent him, too.
"You were the shining star of the opening ceremonies," Mags says. "Already you have the attention of the Capitol and most of the tributes. Caspia has neither. And to put it bluntly, she's pretty, but not as pretty as you."
As cruel as it sounds, Finnick knows she's right. Caspia is not ugly by any stretch of the imagination—almost no Career tribute is—but her beauty is harsher, a little less inviting and good-natured. A raging sea to Finnick's calm one.
Mags' frank assessment brings up the memory of his and Caspia's quarrel the night before. Mags knows Finnick, probably better than he knows himself. Though he hates himself for it, he finds himself pondering as he sits across from her at the table, just the two of them. Would Mags volunteer him without his consent? She had seemed so adamant against the idea before, but if Caspia was right and there were no better candidates...
No singular entity—whether it is another victor, your family, or even yourself—comes before the good of the whole district.
"So what do you suggest?" The luxurious tablecloth is a tightly bunched wad in Finnick's sweaty hand. "Treat her like an enemy?"
"Turning against your own district partner doesn't tend to sit well with the Capitol," Mags responds. "And I imagine it wouldn't go over well in Four, either. They donate to your sponsorship too, you know."
"Sponsorship isn't the only factor present in the Games," Finnick counters. "Parachutes don't mean anything if the Gamemakers really have it out for you."
"So make it worth their while to let you live," Mags says, as if it's the easiest objective in the world. "You've already caught the Capitol's attention with your exhibition last night. When you go in for your private session, charm the Gamemakers, but don't amaze them. An extremely high training score, combined with your preexisting Capitol support, will put a target on your back like nothing else. You need Gamemaker favor more than district."
Finnick nods and wipes his mouth on a cloth napkin. "Anything else I should know before I go?"
Mags' nails tap incessantly on the table's wooden surface—a habit she tends to employ while in deep thought. "Just because you can't reveal anything vital about yourself doesn't mean the other tributes won't. Never underestimate the value of information, Finnick. The Career pack likely won't be the only alliance made. Search for deficiencies and search for strengths. When you come back tonight, I want a list of each tribute with at least one strength and one weakness, Career and Callow both. And it can't just be the easy ones."
A slow grin spreads across Finnick's face. Finally, something he could do besides stand around and look pretty and stupid. "I can be good at getting secrets out of people."
"Ortensia will be by to take you down at ten," Mags tells him.
"Tell her I'll go down early," Finnick says. "The other Careers always go down early, and they go by themselves."
Mags nods approvingly. "Now you're thinking like a victor."
When Finnick strolls down to the Training Center an hour early, he's immediately greeted by the Career pack already gathered next to a wrestling mat off to the side.
"Hey, there, stranger." Ruby beckons him over. "Nice of you to join us." Her short hair, still curled from last night's parade, is held back by a simple black headband. Somehow, she manages to make simple activewear look appealing. There isn't a wrinkle or stray thread on her person. Her eyes, now devoid of makeup, are a deep, rich brown and bright with energy.
Finnick fake-yawns. "I just couldn't bring myself to get out of bed this morning."
Ruby matches his smirk with one of her own. "Up late last night?"
"Yeah. I couldn't stop thinking about this girl I met after the parade." Finnick inches closer, searching cautiously for signs of disinterest or outright repugnance. So far, she shows neither. "She wore this fantastic red piece, and let me tell you, she was drop-dead gorgeous."
Both of Ruby's brows shoot up in mock interest. "Really? Who is this mystery girl you speak of?"
"Not sure." Finnick tilts his head. "If you see her, will you point her out?"
Ruby inclines her own head, mimicking Finnick. "No guarantees. Sounds like this girl might be competition."
"Hey!" Alabaster calls from several paces away. "Are you two going to stand there and chat all day, or are we going to get some work done?"
Ruby rolls her eyes but turns to rejoin the pack. "Come on."
There's no need for introductions, since Finnick knows their names from the reaping reruns. But he still needs to become a member of the Career pack, and whatever shaky relationship they'll form for the duration of the Games is engendered here, in the Training Center. So he remains silent when Ruby begins introductions.
"Bellona, Miles, this is Finnick."
"Four." Bellona nods curtly, her tone cool and terse. Her pale blonde, almost white hair stands out in stark contrast to Miles's dark head and is pulled back in a severe bun. She has freckles, Finnick notices somewhat unhelpfully. They spatter her ash brown skin like paint, the same clear shade of taupe as her eyes.
Finnick grins. "Hey." He turns his greeting on Miles, who, to Finnick's surprise, smiles politely and extends his hand. Finnick takes it cautiously, but all Miles does is shake hands. He doesn't know what he expected from the tributes of brutal, spartan District 2, but Miles doesn't seem to fit the mold. He's young for a Career—sixteen, if Finnick remembers right—and seems a little unsure, shifting almost imperceptibly to stand behind Bellona once the introductions have concluded.
"Alabaster," Finnick tries.
Alabaster sneers. "Finnick."
So it's going to be like this, then. Repressing the urge to sigh, Finnick turns to Ruby, who at least has the grace to pretend at courtesy. But it's Bellona who speaks first.
"We're going to start with ranged weapons." She words it as a command, an order from a general to her soldiers. Finnick feels he has no choice but to agree.
They all follow her over to the ranged weaponry station, which offers a whole arsenal of weapons. There are spears, throwing knives, axes, slings, and darts, among other things Finnick doesn't remember the names for. Officially, training doesn't start until ten, which means they'll be left to their own devices for the first hour.
There are only a couple of other tributes here this early, and Caspia is not among them. The Career pack barrels past them like they own the Training Center, and the tributes scatter like fish set upon by sharks. Finnick, bringing up the rear, flashes an apologetic smile at one of the girls, who blushes and ducks her head shyly.
As they approach the ranged weapon station Bellona doesn't hesitate. She stalks up to the rack of knives, grabs a set, and begins flinging them with the speed and ease of a seasoned Career.
By the time she runs out of blades, the targets are peppered with knives. They aren't all perfect bullseyes, but the speed at which she threw them makes her feat much more impressive.
Knives are a good choice for spacious, open arenas, the academy instructors had told Finnick and his classmates. They allow a tribute to inflict damage upon their opponent without having to get within range of a sword or pair of fists. Throwing knives are a weapon District 2's female tributes specialize in, which means they are a weapon District 4 has had to teach its tributes how to counter or avoid.
But Bellona doesn't need to know that. So when Finnick's time comes, he throws his knives as he would at any training session back home. Small, ranged weaponry is not his strongest skill, and it shows. Still, he has to maintain the balance, play the part Mags has created for him. So once he is done, he rolls his shoulders and smiles like he just threw a perfect set.
"Not bad, eh?" he says.
"Yeah, sure, Four," Alabaster says. "I mean, I could do better in my sleep, but not bad." He grabs his own set of blades and moves to the front to take his turn.
By the time Ruby has thrown her set, almost all of the tributes have arrived, and the head trainer calls everyone over for orientation.
Finnick doesn't really pay attention to anything she says. He takes the chance to size everyone up while they're all gathered in one place without the added stress of a large crowd distracting them. Aside from the Career pack, none of them seem like particularly stiff competition. Callows, as Career districts like to call them, play essentially the same role every year: Live bait for Careers to hunt down and murder in horrible, bloody ways. At first glance, the line-up seems fairly stereotypical—frightened, starved rabbits from Six, Eight, and Twelve; intelligent but physically deficient individuals from Three and Five; bumbling rustics from the farming districts.
During his inspection, he inadvertently makes eye contact the gaze of the girl from Eleven, who doesn't blush but holds his gaze, unwavering. He winks. She simply looks away.
Judging by how Ruby and Alabaster titter between themselves, they're not listening either. Finnick wishes they would be quieter; the head trainer keeps flashing them annoyed looks, though she doesn't reprimand them aloud.
Seven tends to be a bit of a wild card when it comes to tributes. District 7's primary industry is lumber, and almost every year its tributes enter the arena with ample experience using axes and saws and other tools handled they handle daily back home—a fact reflected in their unusually high percentage of victors for a Callow district. Notable exceptions include children who work in the lumber processing factories, where using apparatus seen in the Games occurs much less frequently.
Seven's boy is short and has no left hand—perhaps the tragic result of a sawmill accident. When he gets to the girl, he catches her already looking at him. She's a small girl, probably his age, with fiery red hair and a smattering of freckles on both cheeks. He starts to smile at her, but she has already looked away, face flushed bright crimson.
The head trainer finally releases them, and immediately they all disperse to different stations.
Ten o'clock has officially come and gone, and trained experts materialize seemingly out of nowhere, ready to aid tributes at their respective stations.
"Swords," Bellona says, and immediately she and the pack head in the direction of the mat. It's not directly in the center of the gymnasium, but together they make enough noise to draw the attention of every tribute in the Training Center.
"Hey!" There's a pained cry as Alabaster bodily wrenches the arm of one of the Callows. "What do you think you're doing?"
"I got here first," the Callow—the boy from Ten—wrests his arm out of Alabaster's grip. "You don't have to be nasty."
"Excuse me?"
Finnick's legs are moving before he's consciously aware of them, brushing past the others, who jump out of his way in surprise, and grabbing Alabaster's wrist, poised to deliver a powerful blow.
"Not here," he starts. But Alabaster is already turning toward him, and in one fluid, trained movement, drives his fist into Finnick's jaw.
White, then utter darkness flashes across Finnick's vision. He doesn't remember falling, but the next thing he knows he's on the ground, hand pressed to his throbbing jaw.
"What was that, Four?" Alabaster is yelling, even as trainers are hauling him away with practiced efficiency. "Think you're some kind of hero? Callow-loving freak!"
District 1 male is easily aggravated, Finnick can hear himself reporting to Mags later.
A clinical hand touches his cheek: A medic, probing his face with gloved hands.
"Did he hit his head?"
"No." The single word comes out garbled, but at least it comes from Finnick himself. The others stare down at him wordlessly, varying levels of pity showing on their features. Miles, surprisingly, looks the most sympathetic. Bellona's brows are raised, eyes hooded, mouth quirked scornfully. Ruby just looks amused.
"We're going to go sit you down."
He's halfway to his feet by the time the medic's words register in his jumbled brain. "What? No."
The medic frowns. "Are you—"
"Yes, I'm sure." To prove his point, he hoists himself to his feet and cracks his neck. Standing, it's even more apparent that his little squabble has captured the attention of every tribute in the Training Center. "Takes more than a little love tap to knock me out."
The medic doesn't appear convinced, but he knows better than to argue. "Are you sure you don't want an ice pack?"
"Nah," Finnick lies. It's incredibly painful to muster a grin, but he does it anyway. "I'm fine."
At last, the medic walks away, but Finnick cannot let down the façade.
The head trainer is standing in the corner with Alabaster, apparently engaged in serious conversation with him. Indignation radiates from Alabaster in scorching waves, and the other tributes make sure to give him a wide berth.
"I think it'd be best if you took a break for today."
It's Ruby, standing so close her lips almost brush his ear when she speaks.
Instant dread freezes the blood in his veins. "You're kicking me out?"
Ruby shakes her head. "No, but Alabaster needs some time to cool down." Then she drifts away, rejoining District 2 in line at the hand-to-hand combat station.
Finnick walks all the way to the other side of the gymnasium to the boy's bathroom, makes sure no one else is present, and pulls the trashcan in front of the door before he allows himself to touch his face. It's tender and the flesh inside his mouth is a mess, but his jaw is still in full working order and he has all of his teeth. He's endured blows worse than this one at the academy. His pride, though, is another story completely. He spits into the sink, watching the blood from his mouth eddy and disappear down the drain.
How could he do this to himself, to Mags? His whole objective was to make nice with the Career pack, to secure a place with them for the Games. The boy from Ten could have handled himself; he hadn't asked for Finnick's help. Why had he felt the need to step in?
No more of that, he tells himself. From now on, he's focused on one goal only: Initiating himself into the Career pack. But he can't really do that right now, especially not with Alabaster out for his blood.
There are the other tributes, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Mags pipes up in the back of his mind. Never underestimate a player in the Games. Underestimating Callows is what gets Careers killed.
Finnick splashes some water on his face and pats it dry with a paper towel, staring at himself in the mirror like his face will change if he looks at it long enough. A mature face for fourteen, he heard Calliope say. A versatile face.
Well, Finnick thinks grimly, this versatile face has a lot of work to do. It takes conscious effort to adjust his features into something more amiable: softening the muscles around his eyes, relaxing his jaw, pulling up the corners of his lips in a pleasant smile. He tousles his hair, checks to make sure there's no blood gathered between in his teeth, and with his precise, most impenetrable expression plastered on his face, he slips out of the bathroom and saunters back into the gymnasium.