The Girl in the Sea

By Seabreeze

Chapter 2

A/N: Huge thanks to my reviewers.

Disclaimer: See First Chapter.

Luckily for me, Adem stops by my room on his way to dinner and wakes me up so I'm not late. He says little as I try to scrub the sleep out of my eyes and thank him profusely, but that isn't odd for him. Neither of us are much for gabbing on when there's no need for it. Still, though, the pull of his eyebrows tells me his relative silence is different than usual.

We make our way into the dining cart to find Finnick and Imogen chatting cheerfully as they wait for us. They give no acknowledgement of us as we walk in, and I glance briefly at Adem before taking a seat across from Imogen. They must have been waiting on us, though, because as soon as we are both seated, the serving staff comes in with trays of food.

"Oh, good!" Finnick says, grinning down at his plate. "I've been starving!"

From the look of him, Finnick hasn't gone anywhere near starving since his win five years back. Everyone in District Four is lean, but Finnick has muscle that took good eating to build up. He always had.

I have to pretend to glance out the window at the wilder parts of Panem streaming by to hide my irritation, but when I look down again, my plate is full of food: steamed vegetables so deeply green that they looked artificial, a thick hunk of dark meat drizzled in a pale, creamy looking sauce, long brown grains mixed with vegetables, and some sort of sparkling drink in a goblet.

I sigh. For some reason, the sights and smells before me don't give me the reaction that was intended (and honestly, that I would've expected from myself): hunger, excitement, salivation… I feel more that the mountains of food on my plate I have to climb instead of eat. It makes me tired.

"What is it, darling?" Finnick's voice drawa my eyes up, and he is watching me almost lazily. "Eat your fill now, while you can."

"Annie," I correct automatically. The condescending and mocking tone stings, and in my normal fashion when I'm angry, leaves me basically speechless. I spear some of the vegetables with my fork and took a bite, vowing not to give Finnick Odair the time of day ever again. It was one thing to insult me when I clearly wasn't one for fighting back – it was entirely another to make no effort to learn my name. What did it matter to him? I would be dead by the time he learned it, anyway.

I think I hear him chuckle, but since I refuse to look at him, I wouldn't know. Adem eats mechanically beside me. I wish for nothing more in this moment but for Finnick and Imogen to be called away to more important things so I could just talk to him, but I'm out of luck.

So out of luck, apparently, that Imogen decids to start speaking to us.

"So," she says, sounding casual. "Adem. Annie. Any skills you'd like to share with us? Either of you have any talent with a trident, or a spear?"

Finnick chuckles again, and I swallow what I had been chewing, and glance at Adem again. He takes a knife and fork to his meat, and eats on without acknowledging any of us.

Apparently I am on my own.

"We're good with ropes," I say, hating the soft frailty of my voice. "Knots. Tying and untying. Nets too."

It sounds pathetic, even in the silence of the dining car, where the servers are dressed better than anyone I know at home. I might as well have said, go ahead and stop feeding us. That's how much time we have left.

"Good at swimming," Adem grunts, surprising everyone. "Good stamina. Lung capacity." I stare at him and think of the life we shared separately; how we spent each and every one of our days until today.

"We have good upper body strength," I add. "From helping haul nets out of the water."

Everyone stares at Finnick, who looks pensive as he glances back and forth between the two of us. After a long moment, he shrugs.

"I can't think of anything that would help much, but we never know what will be in the arena anyway."

It's all I can do to keep my gaze down and focus only on my food. He might as well have just signed our death certificates. With our worthless skills and uninteresting personas, we're doomed.

Dinner is quiet after that, and after Adem stands up to leave, I'm quick to finish my water and join him.

"Adem!" I whisper once we are out of the dining car, and Finnick and Imogen are behind the closed door. "I've been wanting to talk to you." Adem slows, but does not look at me.

"So," he says slowly. "Which one of us is going to kill the other?"

It strikes me that Adem had always been a little dark, but even in light of what we're involved in, it's a little macabre for me.

"I don't plan on killing anyone." I tell him, a little defiantly, though my voice shakes.

"Then you're dead." He replied, as if this were simply the only possible outcome. Harsh, but unfortunately also true. "What are the odds, huh? No careers from District Four this year."

Most of the other districts seem to be under the impression that District Four is one that has a lot of Career Tributes – kids that train for the Games. Kids that want to play them.

It's not untrue. Finnick O'dair himself was a Career – how else could a 14-year-old boy win the games, outside of sheer luck?

We do have plenty of those kinds of kids around District Four. For every one, though, there are three of us who'd rather let them take our places.

You'd think that'd be an easy fix – I don't want to go, but a Career girl does, so she volunteers and takes my place. Everyone's happy.

Unfortunately, volunteering doesn't work that way in District Four. Each district has its own volunteering rules and procedures, and the more careers a district has, the more complex the process is.

Ours is not that complicated. Every family is given a rating from one to four that places them on an ascending scale of "income", but really it's a measure of how comfortable we live Finnick O'dair is a well known five. All the careers are. They have plenty to eat, and dress nicely, and, yes, train for the games. From there down, the lifestyle quality decreases – fours eat well, and can afford medicine easily. Not many of them train for the games, but one will occasionally volunteer. This scale goes down to ones, who struggle to keep food on the table. Sometimes they don't.

My father and I are a two family, though if the scale were more specific, we'd probably be a two and a half.

The scale was created for two reasons – one, to clarify the importance of the different jobs people do, and two – the Hunger Games.

The rule in District Four is that volunteers are allowed – one per tribute, per reaping – but only within our number groups. In my case, Emm, who like Adem and I, is a two, could've volunteered and taken my place, but Schell, a five girl who would actually want to take my place, cannot.

We suspect this a way of keeping the games interesting – Districts 1 and 2 always have careers, which is predictable. Boring. 4 might be considered a "career" district, but we don't always send careers.

I shrug.

"Not statistically all that surprising," I say. "Even with all the extra tessarae they take."

"Extra unnecessary tesserae," Adem corrects. I wouldn't argue, even if I wanted to. The corridors and cars pass us by, scenery flashing in the wide windows.

"Look, I just – " I stop, forgetting that I have no idea what I'm going to say.

"You just want me to watch your back out there?" he guesses, a little darkly.

"I… that's not quite it." We're quiet for a minute as we reach the door to his room, and we pause. "It's just that… I'm going to die." I say, and look him straight in the eye. "And probably you, too. I don't want to be alone."

"Isn't it a little early for alliances?" He looks surprised, but open to the idea. "Why not? I just want you to promise me one thing."

"What's that?" I ask, relieved and apprehensive at the same time.

His eyes seem to focus more intently, darkening as they hold my own.

"I want you to promise to kill me quickly if it comes down to it."

I gape. "…what?"

"If we're together, and the others catch me, and are going to torture or kill me in a horrible way… you do it. Make it quick."

I let the words sink in. Adem is just as resigned to his upcoming death as I am, but he has put much more thought into it. He extends a hand, looking at me as if he thinks I will refuse him.

I surprise us both by shaking his hand firmly.

"Same for me." I say, and I'm pretty sure I've earned his respect, if not his trust.

"It's a deal then." He says, letting go of my hand. "Goodnight."

Without another word, he is in his room, and I am alone and slightly stunned by the deal I have just made. I stand there for a moment, lost in thought, before heading down the hallway to my own room.

Just before I reach the door, someone calls out to me.

"Hey! Kid!"

I turn to see Finnick jogging after me, and I press my lips together.

"Annie," I correct, watching him levelly.

"Whatever," he says. "I couldn't help but notice you chatting with the other tribute – "

" – Adem –"

" – outside his room."

I raise my eyebrows, which is bold for me. As usual around Finnick, my blood is odd temperatures in my veins out of fury, and I hope my face isn't burning red.

"Well, just be careful who you trust around here. You think you see him around town, you know him. Next thing you know, though, he's stabbed you in the back. Literally."

He seems amused by his little joke, and I shake my head in disgust.

"Whatever," I mimic, and go into my room, not knowing or caring how he reacted to my rudeness. When the door closes and I am free of him, my blood is running hot and cold and I feel my cheeks – hot. Finnick absolutely sickens me. To him, we are Whatever and the Other Tribute.

I lock my door and glare at it, daring anyone to bother me tonight. I've had enough of tributes and capitol servants and Imogen, and the only thing I want is to cry myself to sleep.

I shower, pull on the softest pajamas I can find in my wardrobe (how ridiculous – now that my days are numbered, I have more clothes than I could ever use) and curl up in my enormous bed, wishing desperately for my rickety old twin bed in our drafty house where I can always smell the sea and hear its waves crashing the rocks below.

I cry myself hoarse thinking of father, and what he will do once I am gone. I cry for wanting him with me, and because I will never see him again.

As it always does when I cry, my mind eventually goes to my mother, and I cry for her.

At the end of the day, though, I will be like her, and it is father who will be all alone, like I am now. It is not a comforting thought, but I fall asleep to it anyway.

A/N: I'm either a jerk or a slow writer or have writers' block. Or any combination of the three. Apologies.