Once upon a time, there'd been a state known as California. It was composed of sunshine and oranges, white stained boulevards lined with palm trees. The land opened out into the sea, sun beating down onto pale sands. There had been multitudes of thriving metropolitan areas filled with people from every nationality, ethnicity and creed.
What had existed of California before global warfare, ecological crisis and the formation of the state of Panem remained only in the stories that passed from father to son, mother to daughter. They spoke of times before President Snow had ruled their nation with an iron fist, times before districts were composed of people penned in like masses of cattle. Times that could only be spoken about in faint whispers for fear of treason.
The seas had risen to swallow whole cities, making islands out of mountains and hills. Rivers had grown polluted and sore. Eventually, with time, some semblance of normality returned but only because the people who survived were resilient. Hard. That was what Coral Swan told herself as sunlight woke her at five a.m., signifying the start of another day. Her mother was already up, pottering about in their small kitchen next door long enough to leave the house scented with bread salted with seaweed. At seventeen she had outgrown the small twin bed that filled most of the space in her room, a body formed of long limbs and pointy elbows.
The mattress was too thin. The curtains threadbare.
It was this hour of the morning where she allowed herself a singular moment of weakness. A moment to remember when the room she'd lived in would've fit into her current one three times over. Where the pillows were soft enough to sink into. In that house, the scent of bread would've been of the fresh bought bakery kind. At five a.m. it would've been her father up, a soft argument taking place in the room next door where her brother slept as he tried to coerce the boy out of bed.
Chest constricting painfully, she wondered when she might wake without rifling through these memories. When her weaknesses could be an accepted part of her rather than a secret. In that other world, crying was normal. Feeling was normal. Or rather, feeling something other than roiling anger. Chin lifted upward and eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling, Coral wondered what other people saw in her face. When she found the desk at the back of the classroom and sat there unmoving; did they wonder what was passing through her mind?
Was her impotent rage in plain sight, or did the mask she constructed actually work?
A rap at her door was the signal for the end of her reflection for the day and she rose. Found a clean set of clothing and gathered her things. Most days were monotonous. Mornings before eight went to the sea to catch the early shoals and return them to shore. From eight was school for six hours, broken only by a brief lunch and the occasional sports session. Lessons ranged from the basic history of Panem and the rise of Coriolanus Snow to their president, to targeted work preparation. Quality control experts for the plants. Knots and metal work for the fishermen. Zoology and cooking for those who would process the food to be sent to the Capitol.
Subdivision A, the greatest body of residents from District Four, held primarily seamen, divers and pre-processing facilities. Subdivision B educated the processing and quality control agents. Subdivision C were over packing and distribution. They learned the full scope of District Four's production under the Capitol's generosity. After all, subdivisions weren't prisons. There could be free movement between them all. Within reason. And curfew. And poverty lines.
After work was her mother's fish market stall. Panem was run on strict rules. The Capitol dictated who could own the businesses, of how much of the product was moved to be sold elsewhere and how much remained to be sold to their own. For the bulk of her youth, the Swan's comfortable life had been structured on a fleet of extended permit fishing trawlers. After her brother's name getting called at the Reaping, Delmar Swan had traded off the bulk of his trawlers for sponsorship gifts. For all the good it had done.
Income now was via her father's remaining trawlers and the occasional long distance permits they managed to secure during lotteries. Which meant supplementing it somewhere else was vital to maintain their status quo. Gillian Swan's hands had once been soft and supple like water. They were hands that served only to darn socks and bake cookies for her children. Now, the occasional time Coral felt her mother's palm on her cheek it was calloused and stinking of fish. They'd made it work though. Her father's business kept their home. Her mother's supplied everything else.
All in all, it wasn't a bad life. It wasn't an especially good one either.
Of course, as with all things, some days were better than others.
Finnick Odair's presence in the market was a parting of seas. The first flicker of panic rose as Coral looked to the front of the stall to where her mother normally stood preparing food. Coral preferred the back, a blade in her hand and viable entrails siphoned off for stews. It wasn't pleasant to look at but it suited her more than feigning polite interest in the lives of their customers. Back teeth gritting together, she reached the window in the same step as the boy on the other side.
"Well if it isn't the prettiest girl in Panem!" Odair's voice was a sing song, grating every nerve in Coral's body with its lightness. Grip tightening on her knife, she rolled her eyes at the boy blotting out the sun. It turned the fairness of his hair into a bright halo and the titters that had swept through the market moments earlier had gravitated closer. Those titters were a warning call, one she hadn't paid close enough attention to. Somehow, Finnick always managed to find the stall when she couldn't escape. He even switched up his days to make it impossible to predict. Coral had ranted about it endlessly to her mother, receiving only a pitying look and a reminder that Finnick Odair was their best customer. Yet another reason to detest him.
First, he'd done what her brother couldn't and now, now he was the patron that kept shoes on her feet and food on their table.
"What're you looking for Odair?"
"Would a night with you be out of the question?"
"Go take an ice shower. Either order or go." It was for his own survival as much as anything else that Coral kept the conversation short. Stabbing Four's prime tribute in broad daylight was a sure-fire way to find herself on the blocks.
Most times when Finnick swaggered his way into the market, Coral made herself scarce. An errand to get more herbs. The delivery of an order to a stall down the far end of the market. Four wasn't built for competitive markets, with only five percent of the daily catch being allocated to their residents. It was up to the fishmongers to find a way to generate their sales. The more sales, the higher the allocation of fish to a stall. It was straight forward.
Gillian's crowning glory was in her processing. Where others scrimped and saved on other ingredients, she pushed her budget. The results spoke for themselves. Better ingredients, better cooking, better sales. It was a straightforward but powerful system and it was about the only thing that kept them from finding themselves demoted to one of the slum houses. Accommodation was tiered according to income, immediate reward for those who were able to push the lines in their favour. Coral had watched the endless rotation of homes directly before the reaping when the annual figures were due. Promotions, demotions. Another cog to make them all spend their time fighting one another instead of the system that had put them there.
Her mother's head for seasoning and processing, coupled with a knack for business, meant that while they'd lost their merchants home - they could still afford some luxuries. To retain that hold, they needed the games victor's seal of approval. These days where Finnick went, so too did public favour.
Coral's mind returned to the boy at hand and it took her a moment to realise that Finnick hadn't actually said anything in a while. Quite the feat for someone who seemed to adore the sound of his own voice.
"Mags said you'd be angry it wasn't her today."
"Mags doesn't waste my time with inane conversation when I have sales to make." Tone pointed; Coral put her knife aside. Gave Finnick her full attention. This way, he might vanish sooner and she could go back to seething at him from a safe distance.
"Just three today then. Got to keep us healthy and hearty before we head back to the Capitol." Her expression grew taut as a stretched elastic at his flippant disregard for his own words. Families bought a single fish from the stall to feed themselves for a week. Just three. The extravagance of it was infuriating. So much so that she almost missed it when he continued to speak in a more subdued tone. "Are you prepared for the reaping? You have two more, right?"
Caught off guard, Coral near dropped the bundle of wrapped fish in her hands. How dare he. How dare he?! Securing the items into a bag, she thrust it at him.
"Is that all? I have other customers to see to."
Pointedly looking beyond him to the crowd that had appeared on his tail, Coral felt her eye twitch with the way his expression fell. Briefly. Feeling vindicated, she didn't take the money until he dropped the coins into the small tray.
"Talkative as ever. Keep the change Coral. May the odds be in your favour."
Smile forced and tight as Finnick retreated, fury burned in her chest.
Someday, she would kill him and he'd only have himself to blame.
"You stare at that boy too much for your own health." Coral startled away from glaring at Finnick's retreating figure, turning a side glance to the familiar voice beside her. She hadn't even heard the canvas sheet move.
"You're not meant to be back here. My mother will be pissed."
"Fuck off, your mother loves me." Coral scowled, finishing off serving the woman who had been waiting behind Finnick before actually turning to the girl who had appeared behind her. Aveline Wyndham was just about the only person in the whole of Four that Coral trusted. Mostly because she'd wormed her way in and refused to leave.
With dark skin and impossibly angular features, Aveline was a nightmare for the ego. She accented her looks with a black-market trade in homemade cosmetics. A pearl diver by profession, Aveline collected trinkets from the seabed and utilised what she could to create lip stains and powders for the more affluent girls. Opportunities to dress up were rare, but Aveline prized herself on salesmanship. She could have sold a saddle to a seahorse if given half a chance.
At some point after Ford's games and the Swan's demotion to the middle homes, Aveline had decided she wanted to claim Coral as a friend. Resistance had been natural. It was difficult to continue hating the bulk of one's district when certain entities insisted on inserting themselves into her life. Somehow, it had happened regardless. Both the friendship and the continued dislike of the rest of Four.
"Were you in the water today?" A side glance answered the question before Aveline did, dark skin accented by one of the Capitol issue swimsuits. If that hadn't been answer enough, she wore the tight braids she usually sported for her dives. "How much did you get?"
"Bad haul," Aveline sighed, ignoring Coral's protest as she snagged the packet of leftover bread Gillian had brought for Coral, using her teeth to tear through the hard crust, "I only managed to get seven big ones. I turned them over but you know how it is. At least I won't need to take out another tesserae this time around though."
Coral did know. Five fucking percent of the catch. It was criminal, especially with people in such poverty they were willing to put their names countless times over just to feed their families.
"I mean it though; you do stare too much. Half your year think you're helplessly in love with him Cor."
"Shit!" Blood welled along her hand from where the blade met skin, Coral shoving her thumb against her lips to try and settle the sting. "Why would you even say something like that?"
"Because I listen to and tailor the gossip just for you." Coral glared, receiving a shrug in answer. "And if they think you love him, they're less inclined to report you if he's found in a pool of blood around the corner from your stall."
"Don't be ridiculous," The first aid kit dug out between managing another customer, Coral cleaned her hand with the small bottle of antiseptic and a below her breath hiss, "I'd at least wait – thank you for buying from Swan fisheries Mrs. Semple, I'll tell my mother you were asking for her - until he was past the junction first."
"Please. You have absolutely no self-control when you get angry."
Aveline had a point, Coral's temper was barely restrained as it was. The first chance she got to justifiably throw that boy to the wolves, she would. It was the one flaw of being moral. She at least had to feel like there was enough reason to take him down beyond her intense hatred of him.
"It's funny though," Coral turned back to her friend as the girl polished off what would have been the only meal she'd have had between school and that night's dinner, "If I was to put money on one of you having any emotion other than your boundless rage, I'd put it on him what with how often he comes down to your stall."
Coral couldn't help it. She laughed. What an absolutely ridiculous notion. Finnick Odair had an adoring Fanclub to keep him occupied and when that failed, he was narcissistic enough to enjoy the sight of his own reflection in the water. Clearing the last of the present customers with a too tight smile, Coral moved back to where she'd been preparing fish for the front of the stand. It put her beside Aveline, breathing in the odd combination of rose oil and brine that trailed after the girl.
"He comes because he wants to flaunt his Victory money, and because he buys for Mag's when she can't make it. There's nothing more to it than that." Aveline's pursed lips suggested an argument rising, but it mercifully didn't arrive. The reminder of Mag was an adequate distraction.
"You'll see her on the reaping day right?" Coral nodded, "Think you could convince her to flaunt some of my products when she goes to the Capitol."
She bit back another laugh, unable to even being imagining Mags Flanagan trying to sell cosmetic products. First off, the woman was old. Second, she hardly even spoke anymore. Not since her accident a year previous. Rather than point that out to Aveline and her starry-eyed expression, Coral gave a sigh of acquiescence.
"I can ask her to ask Medea or Cove. They've bought from you before, but they probably won't want to try sell off black-market supplies right under President Snow's nose. Plus, they should busy keeping some poor kids alive." Her tone implied that Coral doubted this would be the case. It had been Mags who'd fought for Ford, not the other two victors from their district. Mags who had treated him as the kind boy he was. Dwelling on such things made her blood boil and Coral focused instead on the produce she needed to prepare for her mother to sell.
A scuffle on the other side of the canvas said the woman in question was back and Aveline looked immediately guilty. For all Gillian did adore Aveline, she had no patience for distractions when her business was on the chopping block.
Coral felt a damp kiss against her cheek that heated her to her toes as her friend slung an awkward arm around her neck.
"I'll come meet you after dinner tonight for a while. Tell Gillian I said hello!" As Gillian appeared around one side of the canvas, Aveline disappeared around the other. Leaving behind the scent of rose, brine and a half-smeared mark of tan lipstick on Coral's pinked face. The venomous mood had lifted and by the time Coral collapsed into her bed tonight, she had almost forgotten that that bastard had dared bring up the games in her presence. Almost.