By the time the interviews roll around to Caspia, Finnick has to concentrate very hard on not squirming in his seat. Instead, he focuses his attention on his district partner, who walks stiffly to her chair and sits down on it like it might bite her.

Caesar clasps his hands in his lap, sucking in a breath. Finnick finds this is a common occurrence preceding attempts to talk to Caspia. "Well, Miss Deltan, I have to admit: You come off as a bit of a mystery to me. I'm not sure if I know where to begin."

Caspia cocks her head. "Are you trying to say I'm strange and off-putting?"

Caesar's responding chuckle carries the slightest note of panic. "Of course not, my dear!"

Caspia snorts. "Too bad. That was the angle I was going for."

The tension in Caesar's hands eases a bit. "Really?"

Caspia nods. "Oh, yes. The stranger the better."

"But Miss Deltan," Caesar protests. "You might want to be stranger, but we certainly don't want you to be one to us. Why don't we start at the beginning? Tell us a bit about yourself. If my sources are correct, and they always are, you grew up inland, yes?"

"Yes."

Caesar hums, his tone laced with a sympathy that makes Finnick cringe internally. "And what is it your parents do?"

"They work in a fish factory," Caspia replies, chin lifted. Even on the screens, her eyes are bold, defiant, daring someone to make a comment.

"Is that so?" Caesar says. "Forgive me, but I shudder at the thought. Seafood doesn't sit well with me, sadly. Can't stomach the smell." He wrinkles his nose and the crowd snickers. "I'd imagine your folks came home smelling fishy more often than not, eh?" He and the Capitol audience share a good laugh, louder this time.

Caspia's eyes are hard and cold as stone. "Well, when you're breaking your back in a processing plant twelve hours a day, you learn not to care about your smell too much."

Finnick chokes back a cry of dismay. There's no way the audience won't recognize the insinuation behind Caspia's reply. And even if the remark flew over the audience's head, the Gamemakers will have caught it and crushed it between their gritted teeth. Caspia will pay for every iota of defiance in blood and tears. Finnick thinks about Firth Pierson, one of District 4's victors from many years back, who made some sort of snide remark about Capitol people and their hypocritical behavior—how they claimed to love the very children they sent off to die. When Pierson returned from his Games a victor, he was greeted with the news that his girlfriend had died—perished in a tragic boating accident out at sea. Pierson's own death, self-inflicted, soon followed.

What does Caspia think she'll gain by being spiteful? Is this her idea of payback, her roundabout way of exacting revenge on the people she hates so much? Though the idea of it is tempting, Finnick knows better. Mags taught him too well for him to be so caught up in the little things, the petty grievances and bitterness that ultimately do more harm than good. Nothing that comes out of Finnick's mouth during these Games will be cause for the Capitol to hurt anyone he loves.

Instead of addressing Caspia's response directly, Caesar tries another tack. "I'd imagine it was difficult growing up without parents to provide for you," he says, brows knit in sympathy. "You yourself must have had to work hard to get where you are now."

"Volunteering has always been my dream," Caspia says mechanically, like she's reading from cards Abalone is holding up from his seat. "Winning the Games would change my whole life." Finnick wonders how much coaxing it took to get her to recite those two simple lines. He supposes her backstory, if presented with enough flair, is enough drama-fodder to evoke at least a hint of Capitolite sympathy. But considering that sympathy would be contingent upon Caspia playing the role of the poor, defenseless orphan child, Finnick suspects it will be slow in coming.

"It would indeed," Caesar says, head bobbing in agreement. "Still, it took a lot of guts to volunteer."

"I'm very familiar with guts," Caspia says mildly. "I pull them out of fish and eat them raw. You know, us savage inner-sector folk and our quaint little habits." The smile she directs at the camera could've put a tiger shark to shame.

This prompts a laugh from the audience, but it's more uncertain, like they aren't sure whether Caspia is joking or not. Finnick doesn't know whether to be impressed or unsettled by Caspia's nerve.

When the buzzer sounds, Finnick can almost reach out and touch the relief radiating from Caesar in waves. He thanks Caspia, who puckers her lips and sucks in her cheeks, mimicking the face of a fish. Then she sits down, and Caesar swiftly and smoothly moves on.

"Next up, ladies and gentlemen, is a certain someone I think all of us are dying to know more about, with the big splash he made at the opening ceremonies. Everyone, please welcome the male tribute from District Four, Finnick Odair!"

It's showtime. Finnick rises to his feet, chin up, spine straight, grin plastered on his face. The cheers of the crowd are a thunderous roar in his ears, the constant drum of rain against a windowpane. As he walks forward to take the seat next to Caesar, the stage lights shine directly in his eyes, blinding. He can't make out Mags, Abalone, or even Calliope in the countless rows of seats comprising the City Circle. But he can see Caesar—it'd be hard to miss him in his striking blue-green ensemble. Finnick sees his opening.

"Well, then, Caesar," he drawls, sprawling into the interview chair like it's his living room couch. "It's nice to know you're a fan of mine."

Caesar's vibrant brows shoot up. "I am, but how did you know?"

"Why, your hair almost perfectly matches the color of my eyes." At this, Finnick can definitely pick out the shrieks of a few female members of the audience.

Caesar's eyes widen theatrically. "Does it now?" Hand clamped to the side of his head, Caesar turns to face the audience, who oblige him with a round of whistling and applause. "What do you think, folks?" he asks, leaning forward in his chair to give the cameras a better view. "Does my hair match the eyes of Finnick Odair? Look closely now."

There's a torrent of affirmative yelling from the audience. "There you have it!" Caesar crows, a grin bordering on maniacal wrinkling his unnaturally smooth face. "You must have truly lovely eyes, dear boy, because I picked out this shade myself."

"Do I?" Finnick smirks. "They must match the rest of me, I guess."

Looking out at the audience, Finnick does as Mags instructed and flips a switch in his brain. He no longer sees people, living, breathing creatures who will be responsible for throwing Finnick a metaphorical life preserver the very next morning. He sees a mass of brimming coffers and empty heads, a sea of bright colors masking the darkness of ignorance and triviality. The Capitol is not human. The Capitol is a resource to be used. They do not manipulate him, he manipulates them.

Caesar places a comforting hand on Finnick's shoulder. "Now, Finnick, I know it must be difficult for you to talk about something other than your looks, but I'd like you to try. For your admirers in the Capitol, and your people watching back home."

Finnick fake frowns. "I don't know if I'll be able to manage it, Caesar, but I'll give it my best shot."

"Such bravery in the face of hardship," Caesar quips. "Now, I'll try to start out easy for you: A little birdie told me you are only fourteen years old. Can you confirm or deny this claim?"

"Fourteen, turning fifteen in little over a month," Finnick informs him.

"Gracious," Caesar gasps, clapping a perfectly manicured hand to his chest. "Here's food for thought: If you win, you will be the youngest victor in the history of the Hunger Games."

This stirs up quite a buzz in the audience. Finnick strokes his chin, head tilted. "Youngest victor ever, huh?" he muses. "I think I like the sound of that."

"I think everyone else does, too," Caesar replies. "Especially after your daring escapade during the parade. What was it you picked up?"

"A shark figurine," Finnick responds. "I have it here." He plunges his hand into his pocket and pulls out the shark, which Mags had cleverly given him right before the interview. The Capitol's reaction is predictably uproarious.

"This little shark must be quite special if you've kept it for all this time," Caesar remarks. "What made you pick it up in the first place?"

"I could...I could see she really wanted me to have it," Finnick answers, turning the figurine so the stage lights glance off its bronze exterior. "And I don't want to let her, or any of you, down."

Caesar hums his approval, green brows drawn soberly together. "I'm sure you'll try your best."

"Don't doubt it," Finnick tells him solemnly. "If things go my way, I'll be back home celebrating my birthday with my family when this is all over."

"Now, you bring up a good question—one we're probably all dying to ask," Caesar says. "Everyone knows you're a good-looking young man. I'm sure all the ladies loved you back in District Four."

Finnick grins. "What do you think?"

When Caesar speaks, the whole audience seems to be holding its breath. "I think we all want to know if there might be a special someone waiting for you back home, someone who you want to celebrate your birthday with."

When Finnick shakes his head in denial, he can sense the whole Capitol suddenly tense and relax simultaneously. "Only my parents, I'm afraid."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that," Caesar says sympathetically, giving him another comforting pat. "But I can't say many of your admirers in the audience feel the same way."

It's almost ironic that with all of the alterations and enhancements available to Capitol citizens, they think he's the attractive one. It's kind of unsettling how some of them ogle, almost salivating in their zeal for him, but he can't let his discomfort crack his mask. After all, adoration, even Capitol, is still adoration. And adoration means more sponsors. So Finnick winks and smiles again. "After meeting all of you lovely folks, I can't say I'm too sorry either."

Caesar cackles, and he's so good at his job it sounds genuine. "It looks like our time with young Finnick Odair is almost up. But before you go, is there a birthday wish you'd like to share with us in the Capitol? Anything at all?"

Finally, Finnick finds Mags in the audience, plain and washed out amid the flamboyant vibrancy of the Capitolites. Even though her face is mostly hidden by shadow, he can understand her advice as clearly as if she'd whispered it in his ear.

Make this one count.

"I wish...to go home," he says quietly. It might be the first truth he's told the entire interview. "I wish to make my district proud." The buzzer sounds, and the whole audience lets out a collective sigh.

"So young, and yet so noble," Caesar says gently. "Everyone, give it up for District Four's Finnick Odair!"

As the Capitol's ovation swells to fill his ears, Finnick searches once again for Mags. From the midst of the ecstatic audience, she gives a small, approving nod.

And for the first time that night, Finnick really smiles.

Finnick can't sleep. He ranges his quarters for what seems like hours on end, fighting an invisible opponent with his trident, throwing imaginary knives at random objects around the room. When at last he triumphs over a fictional adversary in a dramatic swordfight atop his bed, he glances at the clock, fully expecting a good three hours to have passed. A noise of dismay escapes his throat when he realizes only a half an hour has gone by since he last looked.

This is ridiculous, Finnick thinks angrily. He hops down from his bed, the carpet soft and luxurious beneath his bare feet. Has he not been training for the Games his whole life? He should have no reason to be nervous. Visions of Caspia, sprawled on her bed, her spirit as ragged and scattered as the hair shorn from her head, flash through his mind in rapid succession, especially vivid in the relative darkness of his room.

The energy buzzing under his skin is going to drive him to distraction if he doesn't keep moving. He storms out of his room to clear his head, get a drink of water, and...what?

He figures it out when he finds Mags sitting on the couch in front of the television. She looks up as he approaches. "Can't sleep?"

Finnick shakes his head. "I feel like I could swim the whole length of the pier ten times, but at the same time all I want to do is sleep for a year. Is that normal?"

Mags smiles sympathetically and pats the couch next to her. Finnick doesn't hesitate. He curls up next to her on the couch, head resting on her shoulder, and it strikes him how much he missed this closeness. Not so much physical closeness—lately, he has been plenty friendly with more than his share of Capitolites and tributes alike. But knowing Mags, knowing he's safe with her, knowing she's looking out for him—in this kind of closeness there exists a comfort beyond anything the Capitol and all its luxuries can provide. Knowing she knows him gives him the strength to say something he has ever spoken aloud to another person.

"I'm scared, Mags." Admitting it out loud makes him feel even more puerile—a shameful schoolboy confessing his crimes, not a born and bred Career from District 4.

"I know," is all she says in reply. Of course she knows. She is probably the only one in this whole desolate place who does. "Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?"

Asking her to make the promises he wants to hear would be foolish. Asking her to try to keep them would be even more so. Mags will try her best, and so will he. "No."

"Then try to get some sleep." She reaches over and pats his shoulder, part consoling, part admonishing. "You need to be well-rested for tomorrow."

Finnick tips his head up so he can see Mags' face. Right now, sleep seems as unreachable as the night sky. "How do I do that?"

She glances down at him and brushes a lock of hair away from his eyes. "Close your eyes, for one thing."

So he does.

"Now imagine home. More specifically, imagine you're sitting on the beach. The sun is rising—"

"Setting," Finnick amends drowsily.

"The sun is setting," Mags corrects. Her gentle fingers have found his scalp, rubbing it in the slow, methodical way Finnick's mother did when he was young. "It's setting and it's golden, the fiery light shimmering off the ocean it's sinking behind. A breeze drifts across your skin. Ocean waves wash languidly against the shore. You're sitting on the beach, sand still warm, and you're at peace. You have no burden on your shoulders, no anxieties plaguing your every waking moment. It's just you, the light, and the sea."

In a brief, self-indulgent moment, Finnick tries to imagine such a world. There is no Games, no Capitol, no President Snow pulling Finnick's pre-installed strings. All he knows is this paradise, this tranquility. The idea relaxes Finnick more than anything else.

"Now picture the tide washing in and out, waves lapping against the shore. Can you hear them? When the wave comes in, breath in through your nose, let the salty air fill your lungs, soothe any troubles bothering you. Then as the wave flows out, exhale. And let all your pain, all your worry and fear, wash out with the tide. It disappears into the depths of the ocean, never to be seen for felt again."

Wave surges in...inhale. Wave washes out...exhale. Over and over Finnick breathes, surrounding himself with the memory of his beach, his ocean, until it's all he knows. With the tide, calm and exhaustion finally set in.

"Mags?" he mumbles vaguely. He can feel himself falling, his head nestled in Mags' lap. "Do you really think I can win?"

At last, sleep is pulling him away from shore and out into the deep, dark waters of oblivion. Right before the waves close over his head, he dimly hears Mags' response:

"I think you can do anything."