We remember Cecilia, from District Eight. Cecilia Gray never thought she'd be going back to the arena. All she wanted was to live peacefully with her husband and three children. Though she dreaded the shadow of the Hunger Games, she never dreamt it would fall on her instead –

Finnick hastily moved the piece of paper to the back of the stack and began the next one. We remember Brutus, from District Two. Brutus Emery was a competitor through and through. He welcomed the chance to go back to the Hunger Games, seeing it as just one more test of his prodigious skill –

Frantically, Finnick began flipping through the sheets of paper, but he couldn't help seeing the names that leapt out at him from the neatly typed pages – Rue Oliverra – Wiress Sabeck – Margaret "Mags" Delaney –

Flinging the papers from him onto the table, Finnick leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, resting his head on the back of his chair, trying to calm his breathing.

"Finnick?" Evans spoke softly, from his left. "Are you all right?"

Eyes still shut, Finnick nodded. "Just give me a second."

She did. Taking a deep breath, Finnick sat up straight and opened his eyes, looking at her. He managed a small smile for her sake. "I'm all right."

But she wasn't there. Finnick couldn't explain it, but somehow she suddenly just wasn't there. In a panic, he jumped to his feet, heart pounding in his Adam's apple.

"Finnick?" Fulvia hurried towards him, cheeks pink under their silver flower design. "What's wrong?"

"Where's Evans?" he asked with numb lips.

Fulvia pointed over to the other side of the soundstage. "Right there, talking to Plutarch."

Finnick whipped around. Sure enough, there was her vivid braid. He stared at her, but she did not disappear.

"Finnick?" Fulvia sounded nervous. "Is everything all right?"

He nodded but did not look at her. "Yeah," he said, voice strangely low. "Yeah, everything's fine."

She walked away, shoes loud on the tiled floor. Finnick sank back into his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers and trying to take deep, calming breaths. He thought he'd stopped seeing people…

At first, when he'd first come here and had been at his worst, it had been Annie, by herself mostly but sometimes accompanied by Riley. Then other people had started populating his imaginary cast. Mags. Katniss, who for some reason was always angry at him. Connor.

After a couple of weeks, as he finally started getting a grip on himself, Finnick had seen less and less of them. Annie stopped sitting by his bed and was only a flash of brown hair at the end of a hallway. Riley gave up walking next to him to stick his head out of random doorways. Eventually, they'd faded altogether.

So what the f-k was Evans doing in his illusionary lineup?

Mechanically, he stood and walked over to where Plutarch and Evans stood. Evans, who seemed to have been giving Plutarch some sort of instructions, broke off as Finnick approached.

"Finnick!" beamed Plutarch. "How are you?"

"Fine, thanks," said Finnick. Actually, he felt slightly sick. "And you?"

"Couldn't be better." Plutarch gestured towards the papers. "Are you ready to start, then?"

Finnick nodded. "I think so."

"Excellent." Plutarch led Finnick over to where a folding chair had been set up next to a microphone, panels, and other recording equipment. "It'll be just your voice, so no need to worry about acting. Just read off the paper into the mic, and put a little feeling into it."

"Right." Finnick sat down on the gray plastic chair, swallowing hard.

Fulvia bustled over, carnation-pink hair piled on top of her head and a clipboard in her manicured hands. "Right, first we'll just have you read the little intro, and then I think we'll do all the ones from the Quarter Quell first, then the 74th, and then we'll just go back doing all the important tributes." She smiled at Finnick. "Don't worry, no one's leaving you and Annie out."

Finnick nodded. He tried to be glad, but only felt nauseous.

"Ready, then?" said Fulvia. "Let's start with the intro. You've got the paper, right?"

"Yeah, right here," said Finnick, pulling the right one out.

"Good," enthused Fulvia. "I think if we work hard, we can get everyone from the 75th in today, and maybe some of the important ones from the 74th. Does that sound okay?" Finnick nodded. "Remember, the red light will flash three times, and then it will stay on. That means you're recording, so read nicely!" She hurried back to her seat, some feet away, with Plutarch, Evans, and Cressida.

Finnick took a deep breath. I can do this, he thought. This is nothing.

"Ready?" called Fulvia brightly. Finnick nodded.

The little red light next to the mic flashed once, twice, three times. Then it was on, a steady, unblinking eye.

Taking a deep breath, Finnick began to read. "My name is Finnick Odair. I was the victor of the 65th Hunger Games. Now I speak to you of all the other tributes who have lived and died in the games. But regardless of whether they one or lost, they – we – have all suffered. So we remember them now."

There was a beat of silence, and then the light turned off. Fulvia beamed at him, and Plutarch gave him two thumbs up.

"Beautiful!" called Fulvia. She looked down her clipboard and said, "Okay, let's do Gloss next. You have his paper?"

Finnick nodded again. He noticed his hands were shaking slightly as he found the paragraph dedicated to Gloss.

Again, the light blinked three times and stayed on. Finnick cleared his throat and started reading. "We remember Gloss, from District One. Gloss was admired through all the districts for his beauty. In fact, he and his sister Cashmere were often compared to ancient gods and goddesses. But that beauty couldn't save him when his name was picked in the Quarter Quell – "

Finnick's voice cracked and broke, and he had to stop. "I'm sorry, can we start over?" he asked.

"Of course," said Fulvia, nodding. "Take as much time as you need."

Closing his eyes, Finnick took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "Okay, I'm ready," he said.

"We remember Gloss, from District One," he began. "Gloss was admired through all the districts – "

And he couldn't continue. With a choked cry, he jumped off the seat and ran to the back wall, knocking a panel over on the way, ignoring the surprised cries of his audience. Gasping, he leaned against the wall, trying to regain control, but it was no good. He sank to the floor with one arm wrapped around his middle, feeling cold and sick.

He hadn't liked Gloss. Heck, he'd hardly known him. But here he was, crouched on the floor like an animal, feeling as sick and dizzy as if he had the flu.

"What's wrong with him?" he heard Fulvia say, shrilly, as if frightened. Swallowing hard, Finnick closed his eyes and tried to breathe normally.

"Finnick?" Evans' voice sounded soft by his head. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he gasped. "Just give me a minute."

Slowly, his swirling stomach calmed and he opened his eyes, face and back cold with sweat. Evans was kneeling next to him, a look of unalloyed sympathy on her face.

"You don't have to do this, you know," she said. "Not if it makes you ill."

"No," said Finnick, shaking his head. "No, I have to. It's about more than me, isn't it?"

Evans looked sad. "It's your decision, Finnick," she said. "If you think you're up to it…"

"I have to be." Finnick used the wall to push himself up.

"Okay." Evans hesitated before asking, "Is there anything you need?"

"Water?" he asked hopefully. That was rationed just as tightly as food.

Evans looked to Plutarch, who was standing a few feet away. He nodded to her. "Don't worry, Finnick," said the older man. "Just take five minutes for a break. We'll get you a glass of water, and maybe then you'll feel better and continue."

Finnick dipped his head. "Thank you," he said. He still felt a little shaky, so he made his way back to his seat and sat down, running his hands through his shaggy hair.

Fulvia pattered over, looking upset. "I'm sorry, Finnick," she said. "I didn't think this would have such an affect on you…"

"It's all right," said Finnick, looking up and attempting a smile. "Don't worry about it."

"Oh, but are you sure?" Fulvia looked to Evans, who was standing next to Finnick with a hand on his shoulder. "Do you really think he should continue, if it makes him sick?"

"That's for Finnick to say," said Evans quietly. "I think he can handle it."

Fulvia looked doubtful, but she went back to her seat. An aide came up to Finnick and handed him a glass of water. Finnick drank only enough to settle his stomach, wishing that the engineers who purified the water would find a way to get rid of that metallic taste as well.

"All right," he said, voice hoarser but stronger. "I'm ready."

Plutarch nodded to the man who was handling the recording. Finnick took a deep breath, balanced the paper on his knees, and began to read.

"We remember Gloss," he said, voice strong and clear. "Gloss was admired through all the districts for his beauty. In fact, he and his sister Cashmere were often compared to ancient gods and goddesses. But that beauty couldn't save him when his name was picked in the Quarter Quell. So he bravely bid goodbye to all the people who had learnt to love him and set out once more for the Capitol…"

"God, I hope this works," said Finnick, staring at the little screen in front of him on the table in Command. More and more people were coming in; he had one foot on the seat next to him, saving it for Katniss.

"It'll work," said Plutarch. "Beetee's an absolute genius."

"He'll have to be, to crack the Capitol feed."

There was a ripple of interest from the gathered people and Finnick turned his head in time to see Katniss walk in, accompanied by her bodyguard. "Hey, Katniss," he called casually. "Saved you a seat."

"Thanks," she said, slipping into it. "What's going on? Aren't we seeing the Twelve propos?"

"Oh, no," said Plutarch, on the other side of her. "I mean, possibly. I don't know exactly what footage Beetee plans to use."

"Beetee thinks he's found a way to break into the feed nationwide. So that our propos will air in the Capitol, too," explained Finnick. "He's down working on it in Special Defense now. There's live programming tonight. Snow's making an appearance or something." A flicker of movement on his screen caught his eye. "I think it's starting."

The Capitol seal first, of course, accompanied by that bloody anthem. Then a shot of the man Finnick hated most in the world, more than Jarex or Silas or anyone else, looking immaculate in pale gray with a white rose in his lapel. And sitting to his left, Peeta…a complete wreck. Skinny, sweating, with that look written all over his face.

"He's worse," whispered Katniss. Finnick grasped her hand comfortingly.

Peeta started ranting about his cease-fire, talking about damage done to the districts. That was nonsense, of course. Finnick was keeping his eyes pealed and his ears pricked for any special messages to Katniss –

And there was Katniss, standing in a ruined house on the screen! "He did it!" shouted Plutarch, leaping up. "Beetee broke in!"

The camera returned to Peeta, looking confused. And then Finnick saw a picture of a small, black-haired girl and heard himself saying, "Rue saw Katniss not as a competitor, but as an older sister – "

There then followed an absolute media war, Beetee's clips against the Capitol's studio feed. Finnick sat stunned by the barrage of images. Beetee had known he'd need striking clips to catch his audience's attention, and there were so many of blood and death and destruction…The rest of the room was cheering, but Finnick struggled hard to hold on to his sanity while forcing himself to watch.

Finally, the Capitol managed to wrench screen control back to themselves. Snow spoke to Peeta, his normally cool tone heated. "Given tonight's demonstration," he snapped, "do you have any parting thoughts for Katniss Everdeen?"

Peeta's face screwed up like a small child trying to remember. "Katniss…" he gasped, "how do you think this will end? What will be left? No one is safe. Not in the Capitol. Not in the districts. And you…in Thirteen…" He took a deep, fighting breath. "Dead by morning!"

"End it!" barked Snow. Beetee began flashing more images of the ruined hospital, and Finnick caught his breath and closed his eyes. But he could still hear. He could hear the sounds of fighting, and Peeta's cry of pain as someone hit him. And rapidly, consuming all, was the rising babble of people's voices.
"Shut up!" roared someone. Finnick opened his eyes as the room quieted. Haymitch was standing at the head of the table, next to the woman. "It's not some big mystery!" he snapped. "The boy's telling us we're about to be attacked. Here. In Thirteen."

The babble began again, questioning him, questioning Peeta. Haymitch snarled and everyone fell silent again. "They're beating him bloody while we speak. What more do you need? Katniss, help me out here!"

She sat frozen in her seat, pale, eyes large and wide. At Haymitch's demand, she swallowed hard and said, "Haymitch's right. I don't know where Peeta got the information. Or if it's true. But he believes it is. And they're – " She broke off, and her lower lip quivered.

Haymitch turned to the woman. "You don't know him," he said. "We do. Get your people ready."

The woman did not respond immediately, but stood there, deliberating, tapping a keyboard with an unpolished fingernail as she weighed her options out loud. Finnick did not listen to her. He didn't have to – someone else would surely tell him what to do.

"I do," he heard the woman say evenly. "At any rate, we're overdue for a Level Five security drill. Let's proceed with the lockdown."

And a horrible, high-pitched, mind-numbing wailing filled the air. Finnick screwed up his face in pain from the sirens.

Katniss' bodyguard appeared next to her. As Katniss was getting out of her seat, he gestured to Finnick to come too. Finnick wordlessly rose – speech was useless in this alarum – and followed the two down stairs after stairs after stairs. Finnick began feeling claustrophobic, not from the building, but from the hordes of people that surrounded him. He was so sure they were watching him…

The bodyguard had him and Katniss check themselves into a computer. Finnick barely noticed the surroundings – just that they were big, and dimly lit, and unfriendly.

Katniss' bodyguard told him he was assigned to Compartment O. Finnick nodded mutely and set off, weaving his way through the people, keeping his head down and trying very hard not to be noticed. But his heart was pounding in his throat and sweat beaded his temples.

A hand came down on his shoulder. It was a light touch, but he jumped out of his skin all the same. "It's just me, Finnick," soothed Evans.

Finnick breathed a sigh of relief, partly because it was her and partly because he had reached his space – a bunk carved into the wall, with his name on a tape written above it. Mercifully, there were only a few other people close by.

"Where's your compartment?" he asked Evans.

She nodded her head back up the way they had come. "Compartment E," she said. "But I'll be checking on you often."

"Okay," said Finnick numbly. He sat down on his bunk, past caring at this point.

"Here." Evans extended her hand, and Finnick saw she held the rope. "You might want this."

"Thanks," said Finnick hoarsely, taking it. She nodded once, seeming to want to say more, then turned and began walking away.

"Evans!" called Finnick quietly, standing. She turned back to him, worried. Finnick took a deep breath, shaking his head slightly. "Evans, I don't think I can take this."

Walking back to him, she took his hands and raised them to the height of his chest, on level with her nose, wrapping them around the rope. "Yes, you can, Finnick," she said. "Just don't give in."

He didn't give in on the first night. Nor the second. The third was worse.

It had begun with nightmares, godawful nightmares that he couldn't remember when he woke up but left him with a cold sheen of sweat all over and a sick feeling in his stomach. So instead of sleeping, he'd settled down with his back to the wall under the dim fluorescent light, knotting and re-knotting his rope until the ends began to fray. It was the only way he could keep himself together…

"Finnick?" Katniss whispered out of the half-darkness, and Finnick saw her eyes gleam like a cat's as she scooted over to sit next to him.

"Hey, Katniss," he said back. Then he took a better look at her face and saw it was drawn with pain. "What's up?" he asked gently.

Katniss took a deep breath. "I figured it out," she said. "I know why Snow is torturing Peeta."

Finnick didn't say anything. He kept knotting the rope. But a small voice at the back of his head was saying, It took her this long?

"It's to get at me," whispered Katniss. "Not for information on the rebels. It's to target me, to make me so distracted and in pain that I can't do anything."

Finnick nodded once, shortly. He had no interest in hearing Snow's twisted schemes.

Katniss looked at him. "This is what they're doing to you with Annie, isn't it?" she asked softly.

"Well, they didn't arrest her because they thought she'd be a wealth of rebel information," he said, with a hint of his old sarcasm. "They know I'd never have risked telling her anything like that. For her own protection."

"Oh, Finnick. I'm so sorry," said Katniss, and she meant it.

"No, I'm sorry," he returned, and frowned at his rope. "That I didn't warn you somehow."

"You did warn me, though," said Katniss. "On the hovercraft. Only when you said they'd use Peeta against me, I thought you meant like bait. To lure me into the Capitol somehow.

"I shouldn't have said even that," said Finnick shortly, unknotting the rope in one savage pull. "It was too late to be of any help to you. Since I hadn't warned you before the Quarter Quell, I should've shut up about how Snow operates." For Katniss' sake, he tried to keep his voice from being too bitter. Then he sighed. "It's just that I didn't understand when I met you. After your first Games, I thought the whole romance was an act on your part. We all expected you'd continue that strategy. But it wasn't until Peeta hit the force field and nearly died that I – " He stopped, stuck for words.

Katniss waited for him to continue. When he didn't, she prompted, "That you what?"

"That I knew I'd misjudged you," he said. "That you do love him. I'm not saying in what way," he added, clarifying. "Maybe you don't know yourself. But anyone paying attention could see how much you care about him."

He went back to his rope, tying knot after knot after knot, trying to keep himself from falling apart. Katniss was silent next to him, dealing with her own personal demons.

After a while, she asked, "How do you bear it?" As if she was hoping for guidance.

Finnick stared at her incredulously, unable to believe that she was looking to him of all people for the right way to do things. "I don't, Katniss!" he said. "Obviously, I don't. I drag myself out of nightmares each morning and find there's no relief in waking."

Even in the dim light, it was clear that that look was creeping into her eyes. Finnick quickly backpedaled. "Better not to give in to it. It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart."

Half-closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. Finnick watched her struggle with her hurt, and a stab of pain hit him in his own stomach.

"The more you can distract yourself, the better," he said. And though it was difficult beyond measure to give away the thing keeping him in one piece, he held out his hand with the slowly unraveling rope and said, "First thing tomorrow, we'll get you your own rope. Until then, take mine."

"Thank you," said Katniss softly. She took the rope and tiptoed back to her own section.

But now there was nothing for Finnick, nothing to distract him from the dark and the cold and people all around and the gaping ache in his middle that was Annie alone and frightened and hurt in the Ca – the Capi – in their hands. Wrapping his arms around his stomach, he hunched over, battling the physical pain. He did not sleep. He didn't dare to.

Sometime later – he guessed at maybe three, four in the morning – Evans padded softly over.

"Finnick?" she whispered, and he raised his head, face drawn and white with pain. "Finnick, where's – where's your rope?"

"I gave it to Katniss," he whispered back. "She needs it more than I do."

"Oh." Evans hesitated, then asked, "Do you mind if I sit with you?"

Finnick shook his head. Evans sat next to him where Katniss had, crossing her legs.

"Shouldn't you be sleeping?" Finnick asked.

Evans almost smiled. "Shouldn't you?"

"I can't," whispered Finnick, resting his chin on his folded arms. "I get such nightmares…"

Evans' hand rubbed up and down his arm soothingly. "It's all right," she said.

"No, it's not," said Finnick. "How can it be? With Annie shut up in there with all those – "

"Shh," said Evans. "Don't think about that."

Finnick buried his head in his arms. After a while, he asked, "Evans?"

"Yes, Finnick?" she said, voice infinitely gentle.

"Will you stay with me?"

"All night, if you want."

At first, Finnick was confused as Boggs led him, Gale, and Katniss out of the bunkers and up to Special Defense. But then they entered a room very like Command and every thought was wiped out of his head by the blissful aroma of coffee.

The woman was talking, saying something about going above ground to shoot more propos, but Finnick didn't listen to her. Instead he inhaled, sucking in the heavenly scent of the roasted beans that he hadn't smelled since before the Hung – since before he went to the arena…

"Any questions?" asked the woman.

Finnick had one, a very important one. "Can we have a coffee?" he asked.

That first sip was like a religious experience. Finnick drank it slowly, hands cupped around the warmth, until he opened his eyes and realized that Katniss, whom he was sitting next to, was looking at her own steaming cup with a wrinkled nose and narrowed eyes.

Truth be told, the coffee was pretty black. Finnick poured cream into her cup and fished a couple sugar cubes out of the bowl. It reminded him of the first time they'd actually talked to each other, way back when before it all started. He'd been practically naked at the time, too, and unless he was mistaken it had made her pretty uncomfortable. "Want a sugar cube?" he said in his most seductive drawl.

There, that got a smile out of her. Finnick grinned and put three cubes in. "Here, it improves the taste."

But pretty soon Fulvia was hustling him out of the room. Finnick clutched the coffee to his chest and followed her. "Where are we going?"

"Honey, even that handsome face of yours needs a little touching up," she said. They entered a room like a mini-makeup studio and she pushed him down onto a stool. She sighed, bustling around, getting brushes and powder, adjusting the lights on his face so he was half-blinded, and all the time keeping up a running monologue.

"I really wish the president would give us a little notice beforehand," she muttered, testing a brush on the back of her hand. "I mean, it's not like we can just wave a magic wand and everyone's camera ready, though that would be nice. It takes hours just to get Katniss looking presentable. And you!" She stopped in front of Finnick, hands on her hips. "Exactly when was your last haircut?"

"Um…" Finnick squinted up at her. "A while ago?"

"Exactly!" Fulvia started opening drawers and shutting them, looking for something. "If we'd had time I'd have given you a proper haircut, but as it is all I can do is trim the split ends…" Finnick pulled a chunk of his hair and squinted down it in an effort to see the ends.

"Stop that." Fulvia slapped his hand with the flat of her scissor blades. Wincing, Finnick folded his hands together and tried to sit still as Fulvia attacked his hair with a brush, still talking away –

"At least that Hawthorne boy tries to keep himself looking neat. I mean, goodness me, he doesn't need it much, he's so handsome, but you…" Her scissors went snip-snip, cutting off little feathery segments of bronze hair. "Well, you're very good-looking too, Finnick, but the fact is you've let yourself go lately. You're simply not the same boy Capitol audiences are used to seeing."

Finnick choked on his coffee, letting out a stifled "Eeep!" Fulvia glared at him suspiciously.

"What?" she demanded.

"Nothing," gasped Finnick, eyes watering. "Go ahead."

With an impatient snort, she resumed her clipping. "I mean, look at you. Circles under your eyes, and you must have lost five pounds in muscle since you came here. And exactly how often do you shave?"

Finnick ran a hand over his chin, feeling the stubble scratch his hand. "Every two, three days."

"Well, it ought to be more," said Fulvia fussily. "Unfortunately I haven't got any razors or anything here, just these scissors, and better stubble than a cut…and will you sit still!"

Finnick sipped his coffee and tried not to fidget as Fulvia trimmed his hair, dabbed tan-colored liquid under his eyes, and brushed his face with powder.

"There, you're done," she said, sounding far more exasperated than she needed to be. "That took, what, seven minutes? Run along now before Plutarch and the president have my behind on a platter."

Finnick did run along, though he left the empty coffee cup in the room. He caught up with Katniss and the others as her bodyguard opened up a trapdoor. The scent of the fresh air was nice, and Finnick found himself inhaling gratefully. They climbed out, into the browny-green woods. Despite the fact that he was aching for the sea, Finnick found himself appreciating these unfamiliar trees more than he thought possible. It must have been an effect of being underground so long. But although he felt fairly calm and normal, he could sense that it was just a brittle crust, waiting to break so everything underneath could burst through…
"What day is it?" Katniss asked, running her hands through the light foliage.

"September starts next week," said her bodyguard.

Finnick happened to be looking at her, so he saw her start shaking. He hoped it was just a reaction to the coffee.

They walked through the woods, passing one hella deep crater. The area on top of District Thirteen itself had been bombed into oblivion, leaving nothing but gray ash and black rubble. "How much of an edge did the boy's warning give you?" asked Haymitch. Finnick wondered why he didn't use Peeta's name.

"About ten minutes before our own systems would've detected the missiles," answered Katniss' bodyguard.

For some reason, she looked desperate. "But it did help, right?"

"Absolutely," answered her guard. Finnick felt like he should really learn his name. "Civilian evacuations was completed. Seconds count when you're under attack. Ten minutes meant lives saved."

That was nice. That meant the next time the Ca – they decided to bomb District Thirteen and there was no Peeta to warn them, they wouldn't have enough time to get everyone undercover. Beautiful.

The only building left was the old Justice Building, familiar to Finnick from the many fake District Thirteen broadcasts. As they got closer, Finnick could see pink and red roses scattered all over its steps. Katniss saw them, and her face turned white.

"Don't touch them!" she shouted. "They're for me!"

What the hell?

It turned out it was some sort of twisted warning of Snow's. Finnick paced restlessly while they tried to get Katniss to do a few simple lines – "Just a few quick lines that show you're alive and still fighting," he could hear Cressida saying. But Katniss clearly was upset and jittery, and from more than the coffee. Finnick tried to encourage her, but he felt he wasn't doing a very good job. After all, he realized, anything he said here would most likely be taken out on Annie…

Suddenly he had to swallow back bile. His knees were shaking and he sat down on a chunk of concrete, cold. Those We Remember propos…surely the Ca – the Capi – they had recognized his voice. Had Annie been the one to pay for it?

On the steps, Katniss opened her mouth to say her line, and burst out crying hysterically instead.

"Cut," said Cressida. She looked pained.

"What's wrong with her?" Plutarch, on the other hand, looked puzzled.

"She's figured out how Snow's using Peeta," said Finnick, chin propped on his fists. Could Plutarch really not see that?

The people around them, those with an interest in the Mockingjay and not Katniss, seemed disappointed. But it was Haymitch who went up to Katniss, embracing her with a tenderness Finnick wouldn't have thought possible from the aging, bitter drunkard.

Within a few minutes, Katniss' sobs had turned to hysterics. Someone mercifully drugged her and put her out. Finnick avoided looking at her limp body as Haymitch and Boggs laid her down on the leafy floor.

Taking a deep breath, Plutarch ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Well, that settles it," he said. "Guess we'll have to rescue Peeta and the others after all."

Finnick stared at him, icy cold all over. What did he mean, after all?

"Finnick?" Cressida was looking at him warily. "Finnick, are you all right?"

"What are you talking about?" Finnick breathed to Plutarch, ignoring her. "Weren't you going to rescue them anyway? On the hovercraft, you said you were starting rescue efforts right away!"

Plutarch looked highly uncomfortable. "Well, we would have liked to, but once we got to Thirteen President Coin wouldn't let us unless it was absolutely necessary…and I guess now it is – "

Finnick lost it.

"You f—king bastard!" he screamed, voice cracking. "You let them keep Annie there – "

"No – no, Finnick!"

" – after you f—king promised!" And Finnick launched himself at the older man, shouting curses, and he didn't care what he did as long as he hurt Plutarch as badly as he could. Again and again he sank his bony fists into Plutarch's flesh, fighting against the hard arms that tried to restrain him, screaming and swearing at the top of his lungs to drown out the sound of someone calling for a tranquilizer –

The last thing he was conscious of was the flash of pain as the cold needle stabbed into his arm.

Finnick jerked awake with a wild cry, chest heaving. He was falling apart, he could feel it – bits of himself were spinning away into nothingness, he was breaking into pieces like a shattered china doll –

"No!" he screamed, choking. "Oh God – NO!" He cried out again in the dark, incapacitated by the agony of feeling himself separate into a thousand little parts, his hands clutching the twisted sheets and his face half-buried in his pillow as he futilely tried to smother his throat-tearing screams.

"Finnick!" Evans burst in and ran to him. "Finnick – "

"I can't help it," he gasped, body rigid, sweat running down his torso. "I'm falling into pieces – "

"Shh, it's all right – "

"HELP ME!" he screamed.

Evans seized his hand and held it tightly as he curled into a ball, racked by torment. Finnick held on so tightly he new it must be hurting her, but she never slackened the pressure of her own hand, anchoring him as he gasped and struggled through the endless minutes, fighting the pain of having pieces of his very identity crack and fall away…

At last it was over. Finnick drew in a shaky breath and lessened the pressure on Evans' hand. He could feel her flex her fingers between his.

"Sorry," he said. His voice was a cracked whisper.

"It's all right," said Evans softly. She took his hand in both of hers, holding it firmly. Finnick, still scrunched up in a ball, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He realized that the sheets were soaked in his sweat.

"The old nightmare?" asked Evans.

Finnick nodded. "It was worse that time," he whispered. "I could feel the pieces of me slipping away…"

Evans' hands tightened on his and he stared up at her desperately. "Am I going mad?"

"No, you're not," she said firmly. "Your mind is just going through stress, that's all."
"But if this keeps getting worse – "

"It won't," said Evans. "Not if you keep fighting it."

Finnick swallowed hard and nodded. For a long while he lay still, feeling the tremors that were running through his body gradually slow.

Finger ran through his disheveled, sweaty hair, smoothing out the tangles. "You need a haircut," said Evans.

Finnick smiled a tiny, tiny bit. "Fulvia said the same thing."

"Well, she's got one thing right." Evans continued stroking his hair. "You could use a shave, too. Otherwise Annie might not recognize you when she gets back."

Opening his eyes, Finnick looked up at her. "Evans – what Plutarch said – "

"I know." For the first time, Finnick heard real anger in her voice. "I can't believe it."

"What will she be like?" whispered Finnick. "My God, Evans, she's been in there for over a month…"

"She will need you to help her," said Evans. "And you can't do that if you're falling apart, can you?"

"No," said Finnick, letting out a long, slow breath. "I can't."