I do not own The Hunger Games.
Finnick Odair is precious.
The Girl With The Green Eyes
Stay Alive
And that's how it goes.
Tributes live, tributes die.
The cannon booms.
Annie stays hidden, afraid and alone.
Finnick coos and croons the high rollers of the Capitol for sponsors.
Mags comforts him with tea and a patting hand as he stares at the projection screen in their fourth floor Tribute Tower apartment.
And works his rope into knots.
Not a metaphorical rope.
Not a down-and-dirty-naughty rope.
Not an SM-inspired rope.
Not his much-sought-after rope.
A real rope.
A regular length of sailor's rope.
Something a seafaring grandfather or a pirating uncle might cut and gift to a curious young lad.
To learn, to work.
Different knots.
Overhand. Granny.
Double sheet bend.
Running bowline.
Sheepshank.
He knows them all.
Anything to keep his hands busy.
When he isn't . . .
". . . my, those fire ants just seemed to come up out of nowhere, did they not, Claudius?"
"Yes, Miss Cresta seems to be covered in their stings. Tell me, Caesar, are they deadly?"
"No, no, not to my knowledge. But oh the stings, you can tell it really hurts."
"Finnick Odair, are you still campaigning for your precious little tribute? You know her skin is nearly as red as her hair now. She's scratching those fire ant bites to bleeding. I dare say, she'll get an infection if she doesn't stop."
"That's why I've come to you, Yutel. I think I've got a . . . proposal that might interest you."
"Well, come here, you Vivacious Victor, you. Let's see what you've got that I want."
. . . keeping his hands busy.
There is one moment he just knows the end has come for her.
That Annie Cresta has survived The Hunger Games just as long as she can.
And that now she is going to die.
She's hiding as always, laying on her side, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around her ever trembling frame.
Red hair strewn with leaves and dirt fanning out from her head.
Involuntary twitches and flinches and shivers having overtaken her fragile form permanently.
It's in the gloaming of the day, when the light is just odd enough that one may miss things right to the side of them they would otherwise see clearly.
And there they suddenly are, two tributes.
Stomping and arguing . . .
". . . -ll him when we had the chance. Now he's with them and we'll never get them."
"If we wait long enough, maybe they'll kill each other."
. . . right past her hiding place.
"Or come after us because you were too much of a coward to-"
"I'm not a coward!"
And eventually . . .
"Uh oh, Caesar, it looks like we may have situation brewing here. Who is that?"
"The male tributes from District 9 and 10, let me see here, . . ."
. . . going for each other's . . .
"-d, get off me, no-"
. . . throats.
"You know, it's always fascinating to see the moment these alliances dissolve. Now, look at these two, Claudius. One moment, they have each other's backs completely and the next,-"
"A knife in the back. Metaphorically."
"Yes, well put. I do believe that knife is, in fact, in the front."
And as the two Capitol commentators cheerily dissect the murder of one underage Panem tribute to another . . .
". . . there goes the cannon. Ah, so epic! You know, . . ."
. . . Finnick watches with a jaw so clenched it will ache for hours afterward as the girl under the overgrowth, green eyes wide and horrified, strives to remain still and silent.
Clawlike hands clamped over her mouth, almost to smothering, tears streaming, breath hitching in tiny gasps . . .
"Say now, Caesar, isn't that the hiding place of a certain sweet District 4 tribute . . ."
. . . as the skewered District 9 tribute, the one who just didn't want to die, collapses atop the dense tangle of shrubbery.
"Oh my, Claudius, you are right. If she moves now, makes any sound at all, she may give her position away . . ."
Pressing it down onto the already terrified Annie.
". . . and we may hear another cannon boom here, just within moments!"
Thorns scratching her face and the hands that mute her cries.
". . . heart is in my throat, Claudius!"
As she turns her face away, pressing it into the warm, damp earth on which she has been laying.
". . . -most can't bear to look! It's so exciting!"
And blood oozes from the limp corpse hanging above her.
Down among twists of twigs and leaves and thorns.
Pooling, dripping down, little by little, . . .
". . . - running away! He didn't even know she was there!"
. . . onto the body, the face, the hair . . .
". . . believe it! Annie Cresta from District 4 remains safe yet again!"
. . . of Finnick's remaining tribute.
"- fantastic luck, doesn't she, Caesar?"
"That she does, Claudius, that she does."
She tries to clean it off eventually.
The blood.
Never gets it all.
And Finnick, . . .
"She's falling apart, Mags. She's breaking up, look."
. . . agonizes in watching her.
"She's not going to make it much longer."
And can't bear . . .
"Even if no one finds her first."
. . . to stop.
And the Capitol celebrates.
Every fight, every slight.
Every pointless death in the arena.
Finnick celebrates the booms grimly as well.
And watches Annie.
Annie, a ghost of a ghost.
Creeping from her hiding place to sip water.
Gathering from the dwindling supply of berries.
Attending her bodily functions (from which the cameras everso diplomatically, unless it is death, panned away from).
Annie, searching out the medicines Finnick has managed . . .
Apply to fire ant bites. -F
. . . to procure for her.
Whilst Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith . . .
"You know, we're only six tributes away from this year's victor, Caesar."
"Who will it be, who will it be? Jax Haus from District 7? Glorious Ray from 2?"
. . . continue their near constant chattery commentary . . .
". . . a force to be reckoned with no doubt about that. You know, those Career Tributes always are."
. . . of the 70th Annual . . .
"But it isn't always the fastest or strongest that win The Games, you know, Caesar."
"Ah, yes, so true, so true. Do you remember the year . . ."
. . . Hunger Games.
Thanks to IAmaFanfictionFan and RavenLunaHD13 for adding your support to this story! Hope you enjoy. :)
