Wide open space
Catch my tail, fishing net.
Fold up my frown, take the rage
and smooth it out.
- Ellie Goulding, Fighter Plane.
I should probably specify - in this fic, I made Reaping Day July 1st (as you'll find out in about 30 seconds) I hope that's not a big problem!
Finnick Delain Odair was growing tired of June.
Well, more specifically, the end of June.
More specifically, the day right after it.
But he hated June 30th almost as much as he hated July 1st, because that day was when he felt the overwhelming sense of nothingness. Tomorrow, he would put on his show face and smile and flirt like the other 364 days of the year. But today, he would bury his head under the covers and insist Mageana - his housekeeper - leave him alone for the day. Of course, save for the 5 minutes he allowed her into his room to bring him his special blue pills. The chalky tubes were strong enough to last him the day until he fell into his writhing, howling slumber.
Finnick Delain Odair was growing tired of July.
Annalaese Verula Cresta was completely tired of July.
She stood, sweating, shaking, and swaying in the middle of the over-crowded town center of District 4. She lurched precariously as Stark, the district's escort with eggshell blue skin and white coiffed hair, gracefully strode across the stage. She grabbed the microphone with a incomprehensibly upbeat swish, smiles eccentrically and begins the worn tale of the world before Panem, a world known as North America. It's a story that really doesn't need to be repeated; any child in any district can recite the tale by heart. Nonetheless, the strange blue-skinned woman continues to recount their history with vigour.
"...And so came our glorious Capitol, the twelve districts, and all of Panem!" Stark finished, swirling her well-manicured hands. Without skipping a beat, she segued into the introductions and welcoming of the district's mentors. Not that they need any introduction - the mentors are as notorious as the story of Panem's creation. But Annie wasn't complaining, it was another few minutes of rest before the moment of horror. Cocking her head slightly, she gripped at her earthen dress and exhaled loudly. The moment was getting closer.
Bombay, a friend from the docks, brushed her hand across hers reassuringly.
"Just a couple more minutes, Annie, then we can go home." She whispers from the side of her mouth, eyeing her cautiously.
Annie sighed, hearing the logic in her words. "You're right. We just need to get through the next little bit, then I'll be able to relax. I just get so wound-up at these things!" Bombay can only smile sympathetically and nod, they've already spoken too much and the Peacekeepers are visibly eyeing them. Talking during the Reapings is never a good idea.
The girls draw their attention back to the stage as the mentors begin their ascent of the steps, and despite Bombay's words Annie's lips draw into a tight line.
First on the platform was the 70-something-year-old Mags, a winner who's Games almost no one remembered - but the winners following her victory had all died or were seemingly missing. So here she was, a woman who should long ago been in retirement, overlooking young girls and boys about to be called to the death penalty. The group held a collective hush out of respect, but movement still stirred among the youth. She was a winner of the horrific Hunger Games, and even if no one knew how she won, she could still be revered.
If Mags had caused a ripple, the next mentor caused a tidal wave. Finnick Odair. He was the boy, nay, man, who had taken over the hearts of women and men alike all over Panem. Especially 4, and especially the Capitol. He was inhumanly gorgeous - no one could deny it. The beauticians would strive for years to replicate his good looks; his tan skin and golden, shining hair. His indescribable green eyes and his perfect smile. Even his voice, his famous seductive purr, was the epitome of sexuality. But they never would be able to hold a candle to his aesthetics, it was simply impossible. He was a God among men. The pride and joy of 4, winning the Games at the age of 14, much thanks to his luck with sponsors and a trident that almost seemed an extension of his hand.
Annie studied the man for a second, letting her hands clench and unclench as they pleased. When the world fell quiet, she knew.
It was time.
"Well," Stark paused dramatically, obviously enjoying the attention, "ladies first." With a smirk of the immune she slowly dropped her hand into the glass bowl, twisting and turning her eloquent fingers in the slips of paper. She grasped one, drawing it out at the pace of molasses.
Annie inhaled sharply, squeezing her eyes shut. She began to hum a lullaby, rocking on her feet, waiting for the terror to be over. As she heard Stark unfold the paper, her nerves flushed. Her name was only in there six times, she hadn't taken any tesseraes. She would be safe.
Still, some strange sense of foreboding kept her eyes shut.
That's when Stark cleared her throat.
Annalaese Cresta.
Her eyes burst open.
Me.
Finnick watched with little real amusement as Stark reached into the glass bowl.
Annalaese Cresta.
The name didn't have a significant weight to it, but Finnick hadn't remembered a girl's name in a long time. Clenching his hands lightly, he hoped this new girl would be a Career. They were easier to deal with - easier to watch die. But as he watched the girl step forward, he knew instantly she was anything but a Career.
She was an innocent. Couldn't be a day over seventeen, with long flowing chocolate hair and a small gait.
As the guards pushed her up, he could already see the grim determination mixed with fear that her eloquent sea-green eyes struggled to contain. As she stepped closer to the platform, her shapely lips slightly parted in shock, he could see she was an attractive girl, in a very feminine way.
It wasn't the contrived aesthetics of those at the Capitol, but it would definitely be an asset in earning sponsers.
At least that's one thing, Finnick sighed.
She takes dainty steps up the large stairs, already overwhelmed. The guards part and she sways, lost looking in a sea of faces. No one has volunteered to save this poor, small, girl.
She scans her eyeline, then turns and looks all around her as the male tribute is called up. Her gaze reaches me, I can feel it. She scans me upwards, her orbs hazy, until she catches my own eyes.
I can't resist, she's a pretty girl - my most charming smile breaches my face. Maybe that'll brighten her mood.
She only stares into my eyes a moment. Just a moment. But long enough for me to see we killed some part of her the moment Stark's lips echoed her name.
Annalaese Cresta... Are you going to fight?
So that's that! I hope you guys liked it! If you did... why not leave a review, eh? Thanks for your time, lovely readers, I hope to hear from you in the future.
~ Petite Cherie.