Since the Careers dominate all of the stations Finnick had wanted to visit, he elects to frequent the survival skills stations instead. He learns about edible plants, how to bind a wound, how to sterilize a water source. Most of these skills he learned back at the academy a long time ago, but he figures it wouldn't hurt to refresh his memory, especially when he needs these skills to be second nature in a place where nature itself will be like nothing he's ever known. More than once, he catches the Career pack stealing glimpses at him, muttering amongst themselves, and pretends not to notice.
When he's sure they are watching, he studies them. Where Bellona excels at ranged weaponry, she is not so adept at grappling, and where Miles is proficient with swords he does not fare as well with spears. Alabaster is all brute strength and offense, while Ruby is swift and primarily defensive. There's something hypnotizing about the way she fights, like a serpent always slipping out of her opponent's reach, inflicting a series of blows while, not fatal singularly, serve to gradually exhaust her adversary and weaken their defenses. Then, once the opposition has worn itself out, she darts in to deliver the fatal strike, swift and deadly. It's a good thing he's at the knot-tying station or he would've made an utter fool of himself, ogling at her like a mudskipper.
At lunch, Finnick eats alone. There's no point in approaching the Callows at this point; they're all as nervous and flighty as rabbits after watching the Careers flaunt their abilities for them to witness and fear. In the pre-Games period, psychological warfare is a more potent weapon than any sword or spear.
Once he's finished his lunch, he walks up to the trap station to try his hand at building snares. It's not much different from making nets, and Finnick finds his hands flying over the rope and sticks in no time, tying knots and making loops and attaching them to meticulously positioned sticks.
While he's working on a particularly complex knot, the girl from Seven has already mastered her first snare and has begun another. She seems highly competent, perhaps even more so than he is, finishing her snare almost before the instructor. She must notice him watching her because her ears turn pink beneath her mane of curly red hair.
"You're pretty good at that," Finnick remarks, jutting his chin at her completed snare.
"Thanks." She tucks a curl behind her ear and smiles shyly.
"I'm Finnick. District Four." He turns fully toward her but edges back a little so she won't feel crowded. Even crouching, he can tell he's a good head taller and about seventy pounds heavier than her.
"My name's Linden. I'm from Seven."
Abandoning his own snare, Finnick sits back on his haunches and links his hands around his shins. "So tell me, Linden: How'd a girl like you get so good at making these snares?"
For a long moment she remains silent, and Finnick thinks he's scared her into wordlessness. Finally though, she replies. Slowly, as if measuring each syllable before letting it out of her mouth. "In Seven, everything is in the woods. We have to clear out the birds and critters and such before we can cut down the trees."
Of course, she can't just come out and say she's trapping animals. But Finnick is gratified by her willingness to answer, even if it's indirect.
"Sounds like a smart idea," Finnick replies honestly. Learning to capture animals via snare is something he never learned how to do in the academy. If the arena turns out to be woodlands, Seven will be able to use it to their advantage much more comfortably than Finnick, who grew up on the coast of Panem.
After another pause, Linden blurts out in a single breath, "It was nice of you to, um, stand up for the boy from Ten."
Finnick winces and tries to cover it with a nonchalant shrug, absentmindedly tying a knot in a piece of twine. "It was stupid of me. The trainers would've taken care of it."
"I think it was brave," Linden replies quietly.
"Doesn't matter now. One's really got it out for me now. They're gonna slaughter me the second the gong rings." Finnick unravels his carefully woven knot with a single tug, letting it drop in a single, long strand at his feet.
"No, they won't."
The surety in her voice takes Finnick by surprise. "What makes you so sure?"
"Did you see the way they cheered for you at the parade?" Linden pokes something on her snare and it snaps up, rope and twine dangling in the air. "You've got sponsors for sure, even with the blight—"
She clamps her mouth shut, face flooding with scarlet, but it's too late. Finnick cocks his head, snare forgotten. "Blight?"
Linden inhales, lips pressed in a thin line, and turns back to the instructor.
Pushing her on it now would just raise her suspicions, so Finnick decides to let the matter be. Instead, he refocuses his attention on the trainer, still rambling on, and files the new information away. He'll ask Mags about it later.
"It's Ten and Eleven," Mags announces at dinner. In her hands she clutches a clipboard, presumably filled with information she's garnered while Finnick had been at the Training Center. "A blight hit Eleven's orchards this year, and it spread to Ten as well. Apparently the price of food in the Capitol has skyrocketed."
So Four's misfortune has finally extended to the farming districts. Nine, with all of their livestock to feed, must be feeling the impact as well. "So what does that mean for me?" Finnick questions over a piece of cod, tender baked potatoes, and a mountain of greens. He could have had red meat for supper, tried to build some muscle in the final days before the Games, but the familiarity of seafood and salad comforts him. "Will it be tough to get sponsors this year?"
Mags shakes her head. "Maybe for some tributes. Not for you."
Swallowing the last gulp of his milk has suddenly become oddly difficult. "You seem really confident," he manages to get out once the milk has finally gone down.
Mags shrugs. "You're not going to want for sponsors, Finnick. I'll make sure of it, one way or another."
I think Mags took one look at you, rich Finnick Odair, precious golden boy of District 4, and decided your age was a good thing. She probably thought, Finnick is so young, the Capitol will have no choice but to sponsor him, the poor luckless boy from District Four. They'll take one look at his puppy eyes and fall over themselves for a chance to throw their money at him.
Caspia's accusation rings in Finnick's ears, seared there indelibly no matter how hard he tries to forget it. Why does he keep letting himself dwell on her words? Caspia doesn't know Mags, just like she doesn't know Finnick. But on the other hand, he can't let his misgivings overtake his objective. Distractions, no matter how small or unfounded, can hinder a tribute in the Games. And under those circumstances, hindrances can be deadly. So, galvanized by a surge of boldness, he chooses to ask.
"Mags," he starts, gaze carefully trained on his salad. "Do you think I would've gotten more sponsors if I'd volunteered?"
A pensive silence ensues: Mags, tapping her fingers against her clipboard. Finnick, trying and probably failing to look engrossed in his food. "I don't believe so," Mags replies at last.
Finnick's heart trips, caught in the maelstrom of apprehension stirring behind his breastbone. "Why not?"
"Because volunteerism in Career districts doesn't elicit the same pathos as it would if it happened in a Callow district." Mags answers as if she's thought about it extensively in the past—a prospect that makes Finnick cringe inwardly. "Young, patriotic Finnick Odair volunteering for his district? It's heartwarming, but it's also been done in the past. Both Cashmere and Gloss were fifteen when they volunteered, not even a year older than you." She slides her clipboard onto the table and slaps her hands down behind it. "Now, young, innocent Finnick Odair, thrust into the Games by chance, whose only wish is to do some good for his district and make his parents proud? That's a Career story the Capitol can get behind."
Finnick bobs his head. "Do you think I've totally blown my chance with the Career pack?" Mags hadn't expressed disappointment outright when he'd recounted to her the events of his first day of training, but there had been no words of approval, either. He wishes this didn't bother him as much as it did.
Mags shakes her head. "No. Alabaster is envious, but he's not stupid. He's obviously used to being the center of attention, and now that someone else is, he doesn't know what to do. But if he's smart, he'll come around. He'll realize he needs all the strong fighters he can get. Speaking of..." She gestures at Finnick's still full plate. "I want you eating more protein next time. You need to put on all the weight you can. And don't ignore the arena flora station." She holds up a hand when Finnick begins to protest.
"It's called the Hunger Games for a reason, Finnick," she says. "Do you want to be known as the Career who died due to starvation? Do the floral station tomorrow. I want a full report on everything you've learned."
He rises early the next morning and arrives at the Training Center when it opens at eight.
Not even the Primaries are here this early, so after warming up, Finnick works through his trident drills using a spear. The weight takes some getting used to, but Finnick adapts quickly.
"You're really good at that."
Finnick spins to face the speaker, twirling the spear so its butt rests against the floor. "Thanks."
It's the boy from Ten, watching him from the other side of the benches. He shifts, seemingly on the verge of speaking, but nothing comes out of his mouth. The pause stretches from lingering to uncomfortable, so Finnick gives him a conclusive nod and resumes his drill.
"I never got to, um, thank you. For trying to help me yesterday." The boy clears his throat.
"Didn't really do anything," Finnick replies without stopping. He's glad no one is there to witness the interaction.
"You tried."
Finnick finishes out the final movement of the drill, bringing the spear back in close to his body, limbs loose and warm and ready to take on the next threat. He examines Ten with a critical eye. He's older than Finnick by a couple of years, but shorter and stockier, with shoulder-length black hair pulled back in a tail, and earnest brown eyes. Growing up in Ten, he's probably had a lot of experience ranging broad swathes of land with his district's livestock, unencumbered by the close confines of a factory or mine.
"You want to try?" He offers Ten the spear.
The boy eyes the weapon warily, like Finnick might try to stab him with it at the last second.
"Come on," Finnick persists, though at the same time he can see Mags' brows furrowing at him in his mind's eye. "I'll show you the basics."
"I already know the basics," the boy from Ten scoffs. "You aim and you throw."
"Well, yeah," Finnick says, an unconscious grin spreading across his face. "But can you hit the center of the target more than once? These ranged weapons, they're not just about accuracy, they're about precision—hitting the same spot over and over and over again. To prove his point, he turns and heaves the spear at one of the targets. It pierces the bullseye with a gratifying thunk.
"Don't say anything yet," Finnick warns. "Now, if I do it three more times in under twenty seconds, then you can be impressed."
Ten opens his mouth, but something in his expression shutters, his gaze flickering to the Training Center's doors.
Two has arrived, and their arrival might as well be a raincloud drifting over the room. They are not boisterous and extravagant the way One is, but they demand the same attention, the same unquestioning submission.
Before Finnick can look away or busy or something other than enthralled by their very presence, Bellona spots him and offers a curt nod. They make their way toward the range, Bellona leading the way, but the boy from Ten doesn't move.
"Four," Bellona says coolly, ignoring Ten altogether. "One isn't here yet?"
Finnick shakes his head. "Haven't seen them."
"Hm." Bellona sniffs and grabs a bow and quiver off the weapons rack. Then she starts firing arrows at the targets in rapid succession, and she doesn't stop until every arrow is stuck in one of the dozen targets lining the wall. Then she turns and jerks her hand at Miles. "Your turn."
For a Primary, Miles' performance is middling at best. He seems unfamiliar with the equipment, fumbling the arrow as he struggles to notch it, handling the bow like it might bite him. While he manages to hit every target, he does so at such a slow rate that any healthy tribute would be able to escape the bow's range before he managed to loose a shot.
Once he's finished, Miles looks at Bellona expectantly.
"Better than last time," is all she says.
Is this kid actually a Career? It's incredibly rare for a non-Career to be reaped from Two, especially since they consider volunteering for the Games to be a great privilege, but it has happened in the past. Intradistrict politics beyond Finnick's knowledge often play a major role in who becomes tribute—as Mags had told him on the train ride to the Capitol, no one gets put in the arena by chance. The reaping reruns are never an accurate provider of anything more than the most basic information. For all Finnick knows, this guy is the valedictorian of his class, trying to pass himself off as an oaf to get Finnick and the others to underestimate him. An unorthodox strategy for District 2, but he supposes anything can happen.
Finnick considers these things as he grabs his own bow off the rack and takes his place in front of the targets. The line between exploitable competency and threatening expertise is a precarious one, but Finnick doesn't have to try hard to appear mediocre at archery. It was one of his least favorite skills back at the academy, and it shows here. Bellona certainly doesn't look impressed, but Bellona seems like one of those people who is rarely impressed by anything.
Ten o'clock comes and goes, and One has yet to make an appearance.
"I wonder where Ruby and Alabaster are," Finnick remarks offhandedly. They have taken over the weight-lifting benches, where they handle barbells and other strength-training equipment under the watchful (and unnecessary) supervision of an instructor.
"Knowing Alabaster? Probably drunk," Bellona says, barely winded after ten minutes of vigorous squatting.
"Sounds about right," Finnick agrees. He's working hard with a pair of dumbbells, but given his age he can't lift as much as Miles can. What Miles lacks in finesse he makes up for in brute strength—a trait District 2 seems to favor in its male tributes above all else.
"Don't you think he would have a little more discipline than that?" Miles says. Finnick watches out of the corner of his eye as Miles bench-presses 250 pounds with ease and wonders if the rumors about anabolic steroid use in Two are true. "I mean, his mentor would be furious."
"Does Alabaster Finch seem like the kind of tribute to have an ounce of self-contol?" Bellona retorts. "After the stunt you pulled yesterday, Four, he's probably up there nursing his wounded pride along with the mother of all hangovers."
Consumption of any mind-altering substances is strictly forbidden at District 4's academy, but he doesn't suppose the rules also apply in One, whose ethics and standards seem to align very similarly to those of the Capitol. "And what about Ruby?" he asks, grip unconsciously tightening around the dumbbells. "Think she's too scared to come down without her district partner?"
The barbell falls to the ground with a heavy clang. Bellona rolls her shoulders and shakes out her legs, a knowing smirk curving her lips. "No, I'm sure she's busy working. I bet Cashmere Columba has all sorts of tips to give her."
"I didn't see her at the parade," Finnick says. "Cashmere, I mean."
Bellona and Miles exchange glances, and Finnick suddenly feels as though he's missing a crucial piece of a puzzle he hadn't been aware he was solving. "She is mentoring this year, right?" In District 4, victors are mandated to serve a term of five years total as senior mentor within twenty years of their own victory. Some, like Mags, serve for many years beyond their required term. Others try to cram all of their Games into the last of their twenty years, perhaps hoping someone like Mags will take them instead. Finnick assumes it's a similar situation in District 1.
"Oh, she's mentoring all right," Bellona says. "One would have to be crazy not to sign her up."
Finnick is just glad he's competing against Ruby instead of Cashmere Columba. He remembers her vividly, staring at the television screen as this fifteen-year-old girl, voluptuous and sly as a woman twice her age, slinks out from behind the curtain, takes her place on stage, and charms the wits out of every man in the Capitol and even some outside it. The odds were already stacked in her favor: She came from a prestigious family of victors, her father having won the Games a generation earlier, and her brother a mere year before she stepped into the limelight. Her stunning good looks were just icing on the cake.
Luscious blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, a smile that would put the sun to shame—Finnick had been awestruck, and evidently so had the Capitol. Riding the coattails of her family's esteemed reputation, Cashmere hacked and slashed her way to a magnificent victory and returned to a hero's welcome both in the Capitol and her home district. Evidence of the Capitol's favor was ample: Back in Four, Finnick saw her featured in Capitol advertisements and magazines everywhere he went—a shining beacon of Panemian pride and unity.
"Speaking of absent Careers..." Bellona turns her full attention on Finnick, who tries not to squirm. He's been subject to the scrutiny of more than his share of people, but few can compare to the intensity and dispassionate judgment of Bellona's gaze, like Finnick is a knife and she's deciding whether he's worth throwing. "Where's your partner? I haven't seen her since the parade."
Finnick blinks, the glamour of Cashmere's interview dress still emblazoned on the inside of his eyelids, and tries to regroup his thought so when he answers he doesn't sound totally stupid. "What do you mean?"
"Why isn't she here?" Miles asks. "She's not sick, is she?"
Finnick doesn't respond right away, because he's privately asking the same question. But he can't hesitate too long or risk seeming like his loyalties are divided, so he shrugs and replies, "Beats me."
"It's clear she doesn't want to join the pack," Bellona muses, brushing a few sweaty strands of hair out of her face. "It's her loss."
She says no more, but judging by the calculating glint in her eye she's thinking less about Caspia's misfortune and more about how easy it will be to slit her throat. Memories of previous Games rise unbidden to the surface of Finnick's memory. He thinks of Darya Wells, of her final, bloody moments trapped in the clutches of the sadistic boy from Two. Now he imagines Caspia in Darya's place and Bellona standing over her, teeth and knives and bloodlust bared.
"I'm going to get a drink of water." Finnick replaces the dumbbells on the weight rack and makes a beeline for the water fountains in the corner of the gym. He lets the cold water slide down his throat, hoping it will wash away the acrid taste souring his mouth.
If the Capitol and the district money has to go to one or the other, it will go to you. And I think Caspia knows it.
Clearly, Caspia's desire to win isn't enough to galvanize her into implementing a winning strategy. Even if she didn't want to join the pack, she could come down and mess with some of the equipment, get a feel for the competition, perhaps even learn a thing or two from the trainers. But once again, she shows no signs of attending. Would her chances have been better if Finnick hadn't been reaped? If someone older, someone wiser, someone more ordinary had been her district partner? Would she be willing to actually try?
Finnick wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and glances up. By now, the Gamemakers have started to arrive, peering down at them from their elevated viewing boxes like a flock of birds watching an ant colony. They had first arrived early yesterday morning, but Finnick had been so preoccupied by his spat with Alabaster he barely paid attention to them. Seeing them again reminds Finnick of his goal, of the whole reason he had wanted to volunteer in the first place. Helping District 4 has always been his objective. If Caspia cannot or will not do it, then all the responsibility falls on him. He cannot afford guilt here, in this merciless land. If he wants to win the Games, then nothing matters except them. Because nothing matters except his district.
So Finnick takes everything he feels about Caspia, every bit of worry, anger, and remorse, and tucks it away where it can't bother him. He heads over to the hand-to-hand combat station, where several tributes are concluding their first sword fighting lesson with the trainer. They shy away at his approach like he is proceeded by a mighty current, pushing everything in front of him further away.
"I want to train with you," he tells the trainer. "Now, if you're willing."
The trainer bobs his head. "Of course. Would you like to select your own weapon, or—"
Before he can finish, Finnick plucks a sword from a rack nearby and takes a couple of practice swings. "I'm ready."