When Calliope rouses him early the next morning, Finnick crawls out of bed like a dead man reanimated. He dresses in the plain tunic Calliope gives him and follows her to the hovercraft waiting on the Training Center roof, mechanical and unfeeling as a robot. Is Finnick really awake, sitting in a hovercraft, about to be thrust into an arena to fight for his life? The sting of his tracker being injected barely registers in his brain.
After they have disembarked from the hovercraft, Calliope leads Finnick into the Launch Room to prepare. He slips into a long-sleeved shirt, dark green pants, and a tan vest with lots of pockets, sort of like the vests some of the older anglers of District 4 wear when they go fishing. Then he stands with his back against the wall, too high-strung to sit and too uneasy to roam. An array of delectable breakfast foods is spread out on the table in front of him, but he can barely stand to look at it, let alone consider ingesting it.
Instead, he uses his last few moments of peace to study his clothes, attempting to deduce the arena type by their make and style. The fabric is light and breathable, so his best guess is somewhere warm. Hopefully not desert. Finnick's worst nightmare is an arena without water. In all of the arid Games he can recall, not one of them was won by a tribute from Four.
"I have a feeling you're going to do very well this year," Calliope says cheerfully as she smooths the front of his shirt.
Is that what you told each of your tributes in the seven Games before mine? Finnick suspects he might jump out of his own skin with anticipation. He desperately wants ten o'clock to arrive faster, and at the same time he wants to remain frozen in this moment forever. What would Mags say? She's probably sitting in her luxurious quarters of the Capitol's own Victor's Village, waiting for the Games to begin. Is she alone? Finnick hopes she isn't. More likely than not she's sitting with a group of her fellow victors, surrounded by cameras and reporters waiting to capture their reactions to the bloodbath.
The bloodbath. Are the Primaries as nervous as he is? Theatrical Ruby, confident Alabaster, vicious Bellona? Miles. Miles is probably anxious. Finnick takes some comfort in the thought.
Focus, Finnick. He can hear Mags' voice in his head clear as day, a bulwark for his scattered thoughts to rally behind. It's called the Hunger Games for a reason! Though he can't bring himself to eat, he forces himself to drink a glass of water and wills it to stay down.
"Take a deep breath, Finnick." Calliope coaches him like she's done it a hundred times before. He must not be hiding his apprehension as well as he thought. "Is there anything I can do for you before you go?"
Mags! Her name jumps instantly to his lips. I want my mentor, not some flashy Capitol popinjay. But he doubts his competition is sweating or crying for their mentors. So he swallows back his reproach with some difficulty and attempts a smile instead. "Calliope, you've done such a wonderful job, I don't think there's anything else you can do for me."
Part of him wonders why he's still playing nice with her when it won't matter in the end anyway. Whether he comes out of the arena dead or alive, she'll never be his stylist again. But after spending nearly a week surrounded by Capitolites, it's second nature to ignore his natural response in favor of a more amiable one.
"Such a kind boy," Calliope simpers, patting him on the cheek. He resists the urge to pull away. "You're going to be the star of the Games, I'm sure of it."
After that, Finnick kind of tunes out whatever Calliope is rambling about. From now on, his mind is focused on the Games and nothing else—not Calliope or his parents or Mags and whatever sponsors she may have accrued—because no matter what environment he finds himself in, no matter what kind of horror the Gamemakers throw at him, the first five minutes of the Games are crucial to how the rest of them will play out. Whether Finnick can snag a knife or a bag or even just a box of matches may be the difference between life and death later on. He can't make a mistake in the very beginning as so many of the other tributes do. And, of course, Finnick picks his mark. His first choice is obvious.
Miles is a threat whether Finnick considers him from a sponsorship, Gamemaker, or Career angle. As distasteful as the prospect seems, it would be imprudent, if not deadly, for Finnick to let him live past the bloodbath. It's easy enough to imagine: Picking up a knife, flanking Miles while he's distracted, slipping the blade between his ribs. A swift, quiet death—more than most could ask for in the Games. A simple resolution for both parties involved.
Tribute, please step into your cylinder.
Finnick starts as though he's been shocked. Numbness has blossomed in his core, spreading out through his limbs and to his brain. Everything in the Games costs something exorbitant—blood, energy, time—and the list of things he can't afford keeps getting longer and longer. Empathy is near the top of the list. So is hesitancy.
He gets in the tube and it slides shut behind him, closing him in.
Hands clasped in front of her mouth, Calliope giggles and bounces on the balls of her feet, floral ornament wobbling dangerously on her head. She blows him a kiss.
Finnick can't bring himself to reciprocate the gesture. Memories of Bellona hitting multiple moving targets with her arrows and Miles bench-pressing more than twice Finnick's weight play on a continuous loop in his head.
The tube begins to ascend. Once more, Finnick forces those costly distractions from his mind. Years of training have led to this day. Will they pay off?
Survey your surroundings. Find water. Watch out for One and Two. Focus. Focus!
He emerges into brilliant daylight, heat, and stifling humidity. The squawking of birds and the hum of insects are the first thing he registers—hopefully edible, or at least killable.
"Ladies and gentlemen," a voice, Claudius Templesmith, crows from overhead, "let the Sixty-fifth Hunger Games begin!"
Templesmith's announcement is an electric shock to Finnick's brain. Senses heightened, blood thrumming in his veins, he begins a perfunctory scan of the arena and the other tributes, committing them to memory.
Finnick's tube has ejected him onto a series of stone steps leading up to a square, flat-topped pavilion built from the same rugged gray rock as the stairs. Within the pavilion Finnick can make out the Cornucopia, gleaming bright and golden in the morning sun. Backpacks, boxes, and drawstring bags litter the steps around him, sparser than in some years but mercifully still present. Once, the Gamemakers hadn't provided any supplies except what was hidden deep within the Cornucopia and almost every tribute had either starved to death or was lost to the elements. Since then, the Gamemakers have been intentional about supplying at least some necessities outside the Cornucopia.
Though Finnick can't see much directly in front of him, being elevated above ground level allows a good view of the terrain. He spares a quick glance over his shoulder to confirm his inference: A rich green canopy of leaves extends over a lush, rolling landscape, stretching on as far as the eye can see. The glittering white curve of a waterfall catches his eye, way out in the far reaches of the arena. Good. There's a body of water out there somewhere in this...in this...?
Rainforest. The word floats to the surface of his mind's eye, read in an old textbook in one of his classes. Hot, humid, and drenched in water.
With the arena surveyed, he moves onto the positions of his fellow tributes. The steps are essentially increasingly small slabs of rock stacked on top of one another, creating a three-dimensional triangle to be ranged and utilized as a tribute dares. A pyramid. He doesn't know why geometry lessons are popping into his head now, of all times.
To his left stand five other tributes: Four trembling Callows and Miles. Finnick stands on the far right, but not so far out that he can peer around the corner to assess the tributes on the adjacent side. Six tributes on his side, twenty-four tributes altogether, six tributes per side. His mind races through the calculation, a million neurons firing all at once, and it takes a great deal of discipline to reign in his racing thoughts and plot linearly, logically enough to formulate a plan.
Hopefully they've all been placed on the same stair level, because the Careers will outrun all of the Callows and maybe Finnick, too./o
Miles. All he has to do is beat Miles to the top and he can take him out while he's still climbing. A spear to the chest, a knife to the neck—Bellona wouldn't even know it was Finnick who killed him. If Miles makes it to the top, should Finnick still attempt to off him in front of everyone else, risking his own status as a member of the Career pack?
And the Callows—he can't underestimate them as so many of his fellow Careers have in the past. Mags warned him, time and time again: Everyone, even the Callows, will target you because of your youth. If a Callow can take down a Career early in the Games, it means a higher likelihood of sponsorship and a lower likelihood of stiff competition later on.
The snake or the rats: What will be more deadly to him in the end?
Another expensive commodity in the Games is indecisiveness; he shoves the question aside and refocuses on his initial objective: Get to the Cornucopia. Eliminate anyone in his way. He estimates forty steps to the top—they're steep and uneven, stippled with loose pebbles and crevices. Dangerous to someone without sure footing. He'll have to be careful. It's a lot longer going down than it is going up.
Finnick actively clears his mind, slides his eyes shut to block out the sights and sounds of a canvas about to be painted red. The steady thrum of his heartbeat pulses in his ears.
Everything—the jungle, the noise, the anxiety—disappears. He drowns it. Nothing exists except the Finnick and the Cornucopia. Finnick and the crown. Finnick and the salvation of District 4. Finally, all of his training and preparation is being put to the test. Will it be enough? Will he be enough?
You want to know how to win the Games? Mags' voice echoes in his ears, clear and unshakable as ever. You want to know how to beat these people? Stop thinking about them as people. They are numbers, obstacles to be evaluated and eliminated. In the Games, you must be a mathematician. You have been trained to take those numbers and manipulate them into an equation whose only solution is your victory.
Mags, his parents, Batten—they have charted this course for him his whole life. They've provided him with the boat, the supplies, the crew, shown him a map delineating a clear passage to his destination. To set sail on his journey at last, to be a part of a quest greater than any one tribute or victor—in the still fraction of a second before the world turns upside down, Finnick cannot think of a nobler calling. Finnick is willing. Finnick is ready.
The gong rings out.
It's oddly exhilarating, the race up the stairs to his lifeline. Legs pumping, blood racing, breaths coming in measured puffs from his lips. This is merely a race, and he's sure he will be the winner.
Until someone grabs his ankle.
Panic bursts in his gut, fueling him with the energy to rip his ankle free. But in his haste he trips, knee connecting painfully with the edge of the stair. He twists around just in time to see a Callow boy, face set with determination, lunge at him with a jagged chunk of rock in his hand.
Forget running on the beach—maneuvering on these stairs is harder than any sort of water or sand-based agility training Finnick has ever endured. He flings himself left and throws out his hands to keep from tumbling down the steps. The rock careens past his ear and crashes into the step, spraying dust everywhere. By the time the boy turns around, Finnick has regained his balance. He seizes the boy's outstretched arm, uses his momentum to spin him around, and delivers a powerful kick to the boy's midsection. The boy lurches backward with a choked cry.
Finnick doesn't wait to watch what happens next. He turns and scrambles to the top of the stairs, his heart a thundering war drum in his chest. There's no room for guilt or disgust in his animal brain. There is one objective, and one only: Get to a weapon, and use it on as many tributes as he can.
He's lost valuable time in the scuffle, but it seems the tributes who reached the top first are too busy fighting their own battles to worry about confronting him. In the back of Finnick's mind, he registers Alabaster, engaged in combat with another tribute; Bellona brandishing a bow; and Ruby, vibrant and beautiful amidst a battlefield shadowed by death. Cries of pain and panic fill the air, but they are inconsequential, they are elsewhere, they are nothing but background noise to be filtered out and ignored. Finnick grabs the first weapon he can get his hands on—a pair of spears, primitive with their stone blades and wooden shafts—and rounds the tail of the Cornucopia.
Clang. Metal screeches against metal, piercing, as Finnick stumbles back, bringing up his spear to block another devastating strike—
Then Finnick's attacker lurches forward with a choked grunt, the gleam of menace in her eyes snuffed out like candlelight. Before Finnick can process what is happening, she crumples to the ground, allowing Finnick to see the cause of her demise. The entire back of her skull is caved in, blood already seeping through her braids and pooling beneath her.
"You all right, Four?" Miles Strand readjusts his grip on his weapon—a huge hammer, bloody at one end—and kicks the body away, mouth drawn in a somber line. Recognition flickers through Finnick, vague but distinctly nauseating. It's the girl from Eleven.
"Yeah." Inexplicable anger seethes in his chest, acrid and scorching, and it's everything he can do not to round on Miles and stick his spear in his back in turn.
If Miles notices Finnick's sudden fury, he doesn't react. "I'll spot Bellona. You good with Ruby?"
Why is Finnick so angry? Miles just saved his life. There's no time to dwell on it now. Finnick just nods and brushes past Miles, continuing down the other side of the Cornucopia. Though there's no immediate sign of Ruby, he does spot a boy creeping down the steps, a backpack clutched in his hand. It takes no thought, practically no effort at all. It's as easy as netting a fish, quick as the blink of an eye. It's almost...natural.
"Hey!" Finnick shouts, drawing back his arm. When the boy turns, Finnick throws. The spear hits him squarely in the chest. The boy's eyes open impossibly wide. They seem to bulge in their sockets as he drops the backpack in favor of the spear jutting from his ribcage, his mouth working soundlessly in a grotesque imitation of a landed fish. Then he topples backward down the stairs.
Finnick switches his second spear to his throwing hand, testing its weight, as he slips behind one of the columns supporting the pavilion. Most of the tributes have elected to forgo the treacherous climb and are absconding into the jungle instead, the pure white of their shirts flapping like flags of surrender. Those who haven't fled either stand amidst the Cornucopia's bounty, reveling in victory, or lie in growing pools of their own blood. Some of the latter group are still moving. Caspia, he notes, is not counted among them. He doesn't know whether to be relieved or concerned.
Before Finnick can head out to finish off the stragglers, a tribute stumbles into view, panting, clutching a scarlet wound in his leg. Finnick recognizes him in an instant: The boy from Ten, the one who defied Alabaster, and is now undoubtedly paying the price for it. He spots Finnick and mouths a single word:
Help.
The source of his alarm comes careening around the tail of the Cornucopia, brandishing a bloodstained sword like he really wants to use it again. "Where do you think you're going? You have nowhere to run, Callow." Alabaster thrums with a frenetic energy, a ravenous shark taunted with a drop of blood.
Finnick acts before he can think twice about it. In a swift, trained motion, he lifts his spear and hurls it at his target. A flawless throw, perfectly executed. Batten should be proud. As Ten falls to his knees, gratitude shining in his eyes like a supernova, Finnick stalks forward and yanks the spear loose. The boy from Ten spills to the ground, blood and air gurgling in his throat. His final breath is not an angry yell, but a sigh of relief. Finnick lets out a breath with him. He hopes the people of District 10 will be able to honor him the way he deserves.
Almost immediately, his dying is overshadowed by Alabaster's yelling.
"What do you think you're doing?" he shouts, face red with indignation. He swings the sword so violently it ricochets off the gleaming surface of the Cornucopia with a resounding clang. "That was my mark, Four, and you know it!"
"You beat him already, Alabaster," Finnick replies. Though his nerves still hum with unspent energy, his voice rings hollow and heavy, made indecent, almost vulgar by the presence of a corpse at his feet. "I just ended it for you. You're welcome."
Alabaster hefts his blade, spewing every obscenity Finnick has ever heard, as well as a few new ones. Well, this alliance was short-lived.
"Alabaster! If you're done acting like a child, I'm going to get to work."
Ruby sits atop the Cornucopia like it's her throne and she's the arena queen, leaning against the curved metal of the tail with almost impertinent ease. She wipes a long, wickedly sharp knife on a cloth and peers down at them, smirking.
"We'll get a chance to kill each other later," she says. "Right now, though, it looks like we've got...about twelve other tributes to hunt down."
Alabaster mutters something under his breath but lowers his sword, glaring at Finnick like his gaze alone could kill.
"Come now, Alabaster," Ruby croons as she slides down from her golden throne, landing almost soundlessly on the ground beside them. "You took out, what, three tributes? That's almost half of the total casualties." The bloodbath is winding down, and there's not a hair out of place on Ruby's head. But the red stain still glistening on her blade is telling enough. A good Career doesn't get through the first day of the Hunger Games without spilling blood.
"Two. Two casualties. It would've been half if it weren't for Fish Brain over here," Alabaster grumbles, gesturing at Finnick. His movement sends the sour-metallic odor of sweat and blood wafting Finnick's way.
"Come now, we can't let you have all the fun." Ruby pats Alabaster's shoulder good-naturedly and slips past him. "Let's go see what the terrible Twos are up to."