Warning: this chapter is not for canon purists. This is for those of us who do see elves, who believe that you can still get to Narnia through the wardrobe, and know that Sirius Black isn't dead, he's just on the other side of the archway.
Heart pounding painfully, lungs gasping for air, Finnick threw down his gun and leapt for the ladder, sweaty hands scrabbling desperately on the metal rungs. Claws raked his leg from knee to ankle and he cried out, willing himself desperately to move faster. But the stench of roses was suffocating him, and sharp claws grabbed his hair, yanked his head back, and he supposed that if he were the hero of a novel, he might have died with Annie's name on his lips, but as it was his mind was blank as the razor-sharp teeth swept towards his naked throat –
An explosion rocked the metal walls, deafening Finnick and breaking his hold on the slippery metal. With a yell, he plummeted downwards, hands frantically trying to grasp something –
Gasping, he jerked to a halt as his hands made contact with the corrugated metal ridge, his feet dangling above the toxic, flaming stew into which all the mutts had plummeted.
Well, all but one.
With a hiss, it skittered down the slimy wall towards Finnick. Grunting, Finnick swung his legs and planted his boot in the mutt's ugly face. It screeched, lost its grip, and tumbled headfirst into the sewage.
Finnick hung there for a moment, panting, his heart hammering. When he had gotten some control over himself, he tried to pull himself back onto the ledge. But his feet, scrabbling on the oozing metal of the wall, couldn't find any purchase and his arms suddenly gave out, making him fall back and almost lose his grip again. Beneath him, the foul sewage hissed and bubbled, only four or five feet away…
Teeth clenched, Finnick heaved himself up by the strength of his arms alone, biceps screaming, face contorted and beaded with sweat. At last with a gasp he tumbled onto the ledge. For a minute he simply lay there facedown, trying to catch his breath. Then he pushed himself up on his arms, got to his feet, looked up.
There was nothing left of the ladder except twisted bits of metal. Finnick could see light through the jagged hole in the ceiling, but not very much. There was no sign of Katniss or the others.
Well, they probably thought he was dead.
There was an odd rumbling sound. Finnick flattened himself against the wall just as a pipe opened not a foot away from him, allowing a deluge of steaming, filthy water to splash into the muck below. The stench was overpowering. Finnick gagged, turning away and covering his nose with his arm.
It was a reminder to Finnick that he didn't know anything about what went on in the Capitol's sewers. He needed to get out of here. Fast.
And for that, he need a guide.
After hours of searching through the tunnels (and in the process becoming hopelessly lost), Finnick had to conclude that all the Avoxes had either run away or been eaten by mutts. Because the tunnels and pipes were completely, absolutely deserted. Finnick wouldn't have minded so much if there had been an obvious way to the surface. But there wasn't. A ladder might go up two or three levels, but not all of them. The ones that Finnick suspected did lead to the surface were locked. With numerical codes. Or voice-recognition technology.
And Finnick was starting to get desperate. He'd already had three close shaves – twice with pods (one that sent saw blades whizzing menacingly through the air, and one that released a spray of yellow acid that ate even metal away) and once when he'd slipped on a catwalk, saving himself from tumbling to his death only by clutching one of the metal supports. And there was his injured leg, too. The mutt claws had scored it from knee to the top of his boot, tearing the leg of his uniform into ribbons and carving bloody streaks into his calf. He'd tried to mop it up as best he could with the remnants of his pants leg, but there wasn't nearly enough fabric to stop the bleeding. Every step he took made it burn like hell. And he didn't want to even think about the germs and filth that had accumulated on the mutt's claws.
Limping, he staggered to a halt, leaning against a wall in a low, square tunnel, with pipes running along the ceiling. Somewhere, somewhere in this infernal place there had to be an Avox mad enough to stay…
Movement at the end of the tunnel caught Finnick's eye. He squinted, trying to make out what it was through the haze.
A burst of hot air from one of the pipes cleared the steam somewhat and Finnick was able to make out a dark-man shape, busily working on something. Finnick caught the fitful gleam of sparks and realized he was welding.
"Hey!" shouted Finnick, voice cracking slightly after being silent for so many hours. "Hey! Can you help me?"
Whoever it was did not respond, though Finnick's words echoed all around the tunnel. Finnick began to jog towards him, favoring his wounded leg, footsteps reverberating on the metal floor. "I'm lost," he said, slowing to a halt beside the man. "Can you help me out?"
Still, the welder did not answer. Finnick couldn't see his face – it was covered by a protective visor – but the gray jumpsuit he wore was grimy with what looked like years of accumulated filth. Fire flared up again from the man's gas torch and Finnick looked to what he was welding.
It was nothing. Just scraps of metal, placed in haphazard patterns on the wall. "Um…right, then." Finnick swallowed, turned to go, and was stopped by an iron grip on his arm. Alarmed, he snapped back around to face the welder.
He had raised his mask, revealing a heavily lined, hawklike face, the jaw coated with dark stubble. One of his eyes was a flinty blue. The other was hidden behind a black eyepatch.
"Um…hi," said Finnick.
The welder said nothing, only continued to stare at Finnick with one sharp eye.
"Listen, I've got to get out of here," said Finnick. "So if you're not going to help me, can you at least let me go?"
He tried to pull his arm out of the man's gloved hand, but his grasp was as firm as steel. Finnick considered striking him, but before he could move the welder had held up four fingers, eyebrow raised questioningly.
"I don't understand," said Finnick. "Sorry," he added hastily, as the man's forehead contracted either in anger or irritation.
Deliberately, he showed Finnick numbers one through five on his fingers. Then, releasing Finnick's arm, he went up to ten. Then showed him ten fingers, one. Ten fingers, two.
Bewildered, Finnick shook his head. "I still don't…"
The man repeated the sequence. Numbers one through twelve.
` "Is it – is it twelve things?" said Finnick. He felt like he was trapped in some horrible version of a childhood party game. "Twelve? What has – Oh! Twelve districts?"
Looking grimly pleased, the man nodded. He showed four fingers again, then pointed to Finnick.
"Am I from District Four? Yeah, yeah I am." He looked at the welder curiously. "How could you tell? My accent?"
The man nodded again, pointed to himself.
"You're from District Four too?"
Another affirmative response. Finnick, encouraged, asked, "Will you help me get out of here?"
The man jerked his head upwards. "Yeah," said Finnick. "To the surface." He waited, added, "Please?"
Nodding, the man tapped himself on the chest, grinned. Finnick felt himself smile in relief. "Thanks!" he said. "I mean it, you saved my life – "
His savior set off at a smart trot down the hallway. Finnick hurried to catch up with him, grimacing each time he had to put weight on his wounded leg. "Hey…do you think you could slow down a little?"
The man's fingers dug into his arm again, his one eye fixing Finnick with a piercing glare. Finnick gulped. "Okay, no slowing down. Got it."
Releasing his arm with a sharp nod, the man set off down the hallway again. Abruptly, he turned right down a narrow shaft through which he could barely fit the welding equipment he was lugging with him. "Here," said Finnick, once they were through the tunnel. "Let me take some of that."
Without even looking behind him, the man handed Finnick his blowtorch. "Um, right," said Finnick. "Lead on, then."
They walked only for an hour at the most. By that point, Finnick's exhaustion, thirst, and injured leg forced him to stop.
"I can't," he gasped, leaning against the wall of the narrow ventilation shaft, the blowtorch clattering to the ground beside him. "I really can't go on. I've got to rest."
Making a remarkably expressive sound of disgust deep in his throat, the one-eyed man turned away from Finnick. One hand clutching his leg above the calf, Finnick slid down the wall to the floor.
"Do you have water?" he begged.
The man turned around, an expression of surprise appearing on his face when he saw Finnick on the floor – at least, his eye widened and his mouth pressed itself into a thin line. With a grime-darkened, gloved hand, he gestured peremptorily for Finnick to get up.
"I can't," repeated Finnick. "I'm thirsty. And my leg is injured – see?" He stretched out his leg for the man's inspection, holding the bloody rags of his pant leg back.
The man crouched down, looking at the wounds with professional interest. Finnick twisted his leg so the man could see the four bloody lacerations on his calf better. Though the bleeding had stopped, they were still bright scarlet, crusted with maroon. Blood had dripped down his leg to glue his black sock to his ankle. There were streaks of brown and green mixed with the red on his skin from where he had ineffectually tried to clean the wounds.
With a grunt, the man sat back on his heels. Finnick massaged his aching leg and watched in bemusement as the man drew a stub of neon orange chalk (probably normally used for marking things) from his pocket. In a large, childish hand, he scrawled out the word FRIEND? on the floor in glowing letters.
"Huh?" Finnick stared at the letters, eyes watering slightly in pain and the bright glow in the dark tunnel. "Yeah, I'm your friend…"
Shaking his head impatiently, the man slapped the ground next to the word, then pointed upwards.
"Oh." Finnick's heart sank. Once he did get to the surface, he would be alone and defenseless. Katniss and whatever was left of Squad 451 would (hopefully) be impossible to find. And of all the "lovers" he had had, he doubted there was one that would care about him enough to actually shelter him…
"Actually, I do know one person," said Finnick. "Aurelia Beechgrove, 417 Aquamarine Court." He looked hopefully at the man. "Do you know how to get there?"
Balanced on the balls of his feet, the man stared down at the floor. With a sudden jerk that made Finnick start, he rose to his feet. Putting his folded hands under his head, he mimed sleep, then pointed to Finnick.
"You want me to sleep?" said Finnick, voice cracking with exhaustion. "Here? Is it safe?"
The man shrugged. Finnick slumped to the floor, careful to keep the weight off his injured leg, and he was asleep almost before his eyelids had closed.
Finnick's eyelids felt like they were glued together. Groaning, he cracked them open, feeling strangely disoriented. Part of it had to do with not knowing whether it was day or night. Part of it had to do with his dehydration.
Wincing at the soreness in his arms and shoulders, he pushed himself upright. His leg no longer ached – it was now numb. Finnick, looking down on it, saw that it had been clumsily bandaged with what were at least moderately clean strips of cloth. The one-eyed man sat across from Finnick with his back to the wall, a metal flask in his hand. When he saw Finnick was awake, he held the flask out to him.
"Thanks," said Finnick fervently, taking it. At the first taste of water in his parched mouth, he wanted to guzzle all of it down in about ten seconds, but he'd learned early on while mentoring that one of the worst things to do was drink or eat too much after a period of deprivation. He restricted himself to only a couple of mouthfuls.
As he set the flask down, he realized there was food, too – two slices of bread, and a metal tin containing some sort of purplish-brown paste. At this point hungry enough to eat a mutt, Finnick ate without complaining. The paste tasted a little like olives, and vaguely like chicken, but not much like anything else.
As Finnick had been eating, the man had been pacing restlessly. When he saw Finnick was done, he gestured sharply for him to get up. Using the wall as a support, Finnick pushed himself up, keeping his wounded leg off the ground.
"It doesn't hurt so bad," he told the man. "I think I can walk on it – "
Agony lanced up his leg, making him cry out and stagger against the wall. Gritting his teeth, he clenched his hand around a pipe and waited for the pain to subside.
When it had passed, leaving him with a throbbing ache in the four slashes, he took a deep breath and raised his head. The man was staring at him, almost as if he were afraid.
"I'm all right," gasped Finnick, despite all evidence to the contrary. "Really." Gingerly, he put his foot against the floor, put pressure on it. The pain, though intense, was lesser. Finnick let go of the pipe, took a cautious step. His leg still hurt, but it was manageable.
"I can do it," said Finnick. He looked straight into the man's one eye, willing him to read his own determination.
"I'm getting to the surface. Even if I have to limp the entire way."
They were close. At least, Finnick hoped they were close. He didn't really know. At this point, he was entirely in the hands of his guide.
Never mind that he was completely lost anyway. He wasn't even considering where they were going, just following the man blindly. All he could think with every other step was that his leg hurt. Step. His leg hurt. Step. His leg hurt. Step. His leg really, really hurt.
The man tapped him on the shoulder, pointing in front of them. Finnick jerked his head up, saw half a dozen channels in the floor of the room they had just entered. A narrow walkway intersected them, and at the other side – glory hallelujah! – was a ladder.
Finnick limped forward, but was stopped in his tracks by the violent smell of petrol. "Oil?" he gasped, eyes watering, and gestured to the liquid in the conduits.
Shrugging, the man walked forward – he still carried all his welding equipment – and began walking across the channels. Gagging a little at the overpowering scent, Finnick followed him. His boots echoed on the metal floor – and as if in response, he heard clanging footsteps from far behind them.
Finnick stopped cold in his tracks, petrified. In front of him, the man swiveled around, eye wide. Dear God, please let it just be some Avoxes…
"Spread out and search!" rang the shout, distorted by distance and multiple echoes. The sounds of feet separated, their pace quickening to match the speeding of Finnick's heart. The man gestured frantically for him to run and Finnick lurched forward, but at the sound of heavy bootsteps behind him he whirled around, staggering –
The Peacekeeper skidded to a halt, but his momentum and the slick floor carried him forward and he crashed into Finnick and they toppled to the ground, Finnick crushed beneath the Peacekeeper, his face inches from the stinking fumes. The Peacekeeper's gun was wedged in between them and with a fierce cry Finnick jerked his elbow up underneath it, jamming the sight under the Peacekeeper's chin. Choking, the Peacekeeper lost his hold on Finnick for a split second. It was all Finnick needed to shove him off with a massive effort and into the channel of oil.
Desperately, Finnick tried to get to his feet, but his injured leg gave out under him and he fell to the floor again, his frantically grasping hand seizing his guide's blowtorch along the way. Behind him, the Peacekeeper rose from the oil like some horrible sea monster, dripping black goo, his breath heavy. Finnick yelled, rolled over onto his back, and automatically fired with whatever was in his hands – the torch.
A jet of blue and orange gas hissed out of the nozzle and the oil-soaked Peacekeeper burst into flame. Finnick shouted again in shock, his yell drowned by the Peacekeeper's own awful screams, and scrambled backwards. Hard hands seized him under his armpits, dragged him to his feet, and Finnick staggered against his guide, watching in horror as the burning Peacekeeper screamed and writhed, stumbling backwards and falling to the solid floor in front of the door – in which more Peacekeepers were rapidly lining up.
There was no time to think. Finnick grabbed his guide and threw themselves backward as he lobbed the still-flaming blowtorch into one of the oil conduits.
A massive wave of hot air slammed Finnick into the ground, the orange light searing his eyelids, his leg in agony, hot blood trickling from his nose onto his upper lip. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Finnick staggered to his feet, holding onto the man's arm for support, and started climbing the ladder. There were shouts and screams behind him, but he didn't look back at the raging inferno, just kept forcing himself to climb up rung after rung after rung…
Suddenly there was open air instead of wet metal, and Finnick flopped over like a fish out of water, lying with his cheek against the cold grating. The man climbed out over him, dragged him all the way off of the ladder into the room. Finnick didn't react – his leg hurt so bad that his eyes were stinging, and he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, fighting the urge to cry out.
With a loud clang, the man shut the lid over the ladder, locking it securely. Finnick raised his head, saw yet another ladder leading upwards, and wanted to do nothing more than lay there and sob. Did it ever end?
But his guide apparently was indefatigable. Dusting off his jumpsuit, he got to his feet, looking grimly pleased under his eyepatch, and slapped a rung on the second ladder.
"Just give me a minute," panted Finnick. His leg hurt like hell…Blood from his nose had run into his mouth and he spat some out.
But the man shook his head, mimed shooting the lock on the first ladder. With a groan, Finnick pushed himself off the floor, latching onto the man's arm. Come on, Finnick, he told himself. Do you want to see Annie or not?
And so he climbed.
The utility room was dark, silent. Cautiously, Finnick pulled himself out of the manhole, holding his breath. For a full ten seconds he was perfectly still, listening. There was nothing.
Lightly, he tapped the ladder. The man climbed up to kneel on the ground beside Finnick.
"It's all clear," whispered Finnick. "I can take it from here."
The man nodded. In the light from the tunnel, Finnick could see his expression, and it was hard to tell, but he thought he looked pleased.
"Thanks, man," said Finnick. "I mean it."
His guide dipped his head, held out his hand. Finnick shook it. As he did so, he pulled on the man's glove, and he saw the ID tattooed in purple on the man's wrist, P. DAILY…
Finnick stared at the past victor. But with startling speed, the man released Finnick's hand and disappeared down the ladder, pulling the lid shut over him.
Left alone in the dark room, Finnick paused, trying to make sense of the world he lived in. At last he blotted his still-bleeding nose on his sleeve and painfully got to his feet.
If he remembered correctly, Aurelia lived in one of the corner apartments. He didn't know who owned the center one. Whoever it was, he hoped they were a very, very deep sleeper…
His efforts to move as silently as possible were hampered by his injured leg, which absolutely refused to support his weight for any longer than a fraction of a second. And the floor was concrete. Finnick stopped to consider, then lowered himself to the floor and removed his boots, stashing them inside a supply closet next to a mop and a bottle of bleach. His black-socked feet weren't exactly silent, but they made a hell of a lot less noise than those combat boots. Finnick made his way to the door and opened cautiously.
The hallway was just as dark and deserted. Finnick limped down it, keeping one hand on the wall, grateful for the thick carpet that muffled his footsteps. Quicker than he had expected, he reached the front door. Letting out a long breath of relief, he opened the door, stumbled out, and shut it as quickly and quietly as possible.
The hallway he was in was chilly, the cold seeping from the marble floor through his thin socks. Finnick shivered slightly and looked at the numbers above the door he had just shut. It was 419 – Building 4, Floor 1, Room 9. Aurelia was in 417…
Finnick stopped in front of the light blue door, realizing that Aurelia was probably asleep. There was nothing else he could to, but –
Trembling slightly, he reached out and pressed one grimy finger against her doorbell.
He could just hear the ring of chimes inside the apartment. Finnick waited, one arm bracing himself against the wall, practically choking with nerves. If she wasn't there…if there was someone with her…if she didn't want to help him…
Minutes passed, and nothing happened. Finnick swallowed and rang the doorbell again. He only waited maybe ten seconds before ringing it again.
"I'm coming, I'm coming!" he heard someone call, voice blurred with sleep. Finnick gritted his teeth, prepared to run just in case…
The door opened. "Finnick!" shrieked Aurelia.
"Shh!" said Finnick, lurching inside and quickly shutting the door behind him.
"Finnick!" cried Aurelia again, although thankfully she didn't seem to have enough air in her lungs to really make any noise. "Oh my God! How did you – what – "
"Aurelia, I need a place to stay," said Finnick rapidly. "Just for a few days until I can sort things out. I'm injured, I gotta get at least a little help – "
"You're hurt?" gasped Aurelia.
"My leg," said Finnick, swaying. "Please – it hurts and I'm exhausted – all I ask is – "
"Oh my God, sit down," said Aurelia. "Of course I'll help, Finnick – "
Weak at the knees with relief, Finnick staggered to an ottoman and practically collapsed onto it. Aurelia checked the curtains to make sure they were closed and switched on a floor lamp, lighting up the room with a soft rosy glow. As she turned back to Finnick, she gasped and covered her mouth with her hands.
"That bad, huh?" said Finnick wryly, looking up at her. He knew he looked a mess, unshaven, with his hair all tangled, covered in blood and grime…
"Well, no, but – oh, Finnick!"
"It's all right," said Finnick, voice dragging with weariness. "What time is it?"
"It's – " Rubbing her eyes, Aurelia looked to the little silver clock on the wall. "Three-fifteen." Turning back to Finnick, she asked, "What do you need?"
"A lot of things," said Finnick wearily. "A bed sounds good…"
Aurelia had knelt next to him and was gently unwrapping the bandages from his leg. As she bared the wounds, a sour smell rose up and Finnick saw that the scabbed edges were ringed by lobster-pink inflamed flesh.
Aurelia choked, covering her mouth and nose with one hand. "That looks infected," she managed to say. "You'll need a doctor…"
Finnick stared down at his leg, at the painfully throbbing wounds. Suppose he needed an amputation…
"Well." Aurelia rocked back onto her heels and stood up in one fluid movement. "At least we can clean it. I'll get a bath going for you, Finnick, and then you can sleep." She walked out of the room, legs moving like scissor blades. After a moment, Finnick heard water running. With a grimace of pain he got to his feet, moving to the bathroom in a sort of absurd half-walk, half-hop.
Aurelia was in the palatial bathroom, bending over the marble tub to test the water. Finnick lowered himself onto the edge of the tub, trailing one grimy hand in the water, trying to read the expression on Aurelia's profile. Straightening up, she tucked a strand of pale blonde hair behind one ear.
"It should be fine," she said. "There's soap, shampoo, towels…" She pointed to a folded pile of cloth on the sink countertop. "There's your clothes."
They looked familiar. Finnick raised his eyebrows. "Mine?"
Aurelia blushed slightly. "You left a lot of stuff here when you left, Finnick," she said, looking down at the floor. Extending her foot, she planted her big toe squarely in the middle of one of the little teal diamond-shaped tiles. "So I kept it. Just in case you came back."
Finnick didn't know whether to feel touched or awkward, and settled for tired. "Thanks, Aurelia," he said. "I'm sorry for the trouble."
She suddenly leaned in very close to him, hands on her knees, lips at his ear. "Don't be," she breathed. Then she darted out of the room, silently shutting the door behind her.
Finnick was too weary to feel more than vaguely disconcerted at her behavior. Stripping off his filthy army uniform, he slid into the warm bathwater, hissing between his teeth as his wounds burned and stung. Little jets of water massaged his back, infusing the water with a constant stream of blissful heat…
Within minutes, Finnick was asleep.
The silkiness of the sheets against his cheek was something Finnick hadn't felt in a long, long time. Eyes closed, Finnick inhaled and smiled, thinking Annie must be beside him, surely…
There was no one there.
Finnick raised his head, blinking in the bright sunlight that was streaming through the gauzy curtains. The ornate little clock on the bedside table showed the time as half-past one.
He felt very peaceful, and still drowsy. He drifted in and out of sleep for a while until he began to get bored with just lying there. Finnick rolled over onto his back, looking up at the silver floral pattern pasted on Aurelia's egg-white ceiling. He became aware that his leg hurt, but not nearly as much as it had before. Kicking off the sheets and cover, he sat up, twisting his leg to inspect the wounds. They were wrapped in neat white gauze. Finnick was tempted to lift up the edges of the bandages to see the difference since last night, but knew it for a bad idea.
His clothes sat in a neat little pile at the foot of the bed. Finnick pulled them on – brown corduroy pants, white T-shirt, periwinkle blue hoodie. Simple clothes, and poor, compared to what Capitol citizens wore. That was probably why Finnick preferred them.
He was pleased that he could walk from the bedroom to the living room without having to hold onto the walls. Aurelia was curled up in the corner of her curved loveseat, wearing silver leggings, a fuschia top, and a morose expression as she flicked through channel after channel on the TV.
"Who bandaged my leg?" asked Finnick.
"I got a doctor to come," said Aurelia. "Don't worry, he doesn't know who you are. He never even saw your face. You were asleep the whole time, anyway." Not once did she look away from the TV, even though she was skipping through stations too quickly to actually be searching for something to watch.
Finnick realized he was hungry and ambled into the kitchen. Aurelia's fridge and cupboards were loaded with delicacies, but Finnick settled for hazelnut butter on toast.
"How's Annie?" he heard Aurelia ask.
Chewing on his toast, Finnick walked back to the doorway, leaning against the frame and watching Aurelia's profile. "My wife is fine," he said quietly. "Thank you for asking."
He didn't miss the swift spasm that contorted Aurelia's face. She stopped flicking through channels, staring blankly at the screen that advertised feathered lingerie.
"I didn't know you got married," she said at last.
Finnick swallowed the last of his toast and brushed his hands off on his pants. "It was almost two months ago," he said. "It was a very small wedding, but…we liked it better that way."
Aurelia's razor-thin eyebrows contracted over the bridge of her nose. The TV switched to another ad, this time an infomercial about the benefits of green-wheat-infused hand lotion. "Where were you married?" she asked. "District Four?"
Finnick blinked. "Yeah," he lied. "Yeah, in District Four."
The infomercial babbled on about smoother skin and smaller pores in a happy singsong voice. Abruptly Aurelia turned the TV off. She still hadn't looked at Finnick.
"Then I'm very happy for you," she said, but she didn't sound it. "Congratulations."
"Thank you," said Finnick softly.
Aurelia remained seated for a moment longer, back rigid as a statue's. Then she got up and crossed quickly to her room, shutting the door with a snap behind her. Finnick stared at the filigreed silver door with an odd feeling of pity and regret.
With a sigh, he sat down on the loveseat that Aurelia had vacated and turned the TV on to watch the news.
Finnick would remember that exact time of day for the rest of his life.
It was 8:17. He knew because he had glanced at the wall clock as he had sat down in front of the TV. And then Finnick had been frozen in shock as he saw rebel soldiers pouring through the Capitol's streets.
This was his third day hiding in Aurelia's apartment, and he'd been glued to the TV the entire time, afraid to miss even the slightest hint of what was happening. At first there'd been nothing except warnings to the public about Katniss and Gale and Peeta and Cressida and Pollux. The next morning, he'd seen rebel soldiers really beginning to invade. By evening, citizens were being forced to house those who had run from the rebels' path. A young man had been mistaken for Peeta and clubbed to death by hysterical citizens.
Finnick had stayed up until early in the morning, long after Aurelia had disappeared into her bedroom. In fact, he'd fallen asleep on the sofa with the TV on. In the morning he'd woken up with a stiff neck and a funny taste in his mouth. Momentarily reassured nothing tremendous was happening, he'd showered, eaten a quick breakfast, brushed his teeth. He'd sat down in front of the TV feeling – well, not much of anything, really.
And then whatever story it was had been interrupted by rebel feed, bearing the unmistakable stamp of Beetee's editing and showing wave after wave of rebel soldiers in snow camo suits, gunning down citizen and Peacekeeper alike. Finnick stared at the TV, assaulted by the images, his breathing speeding. He saw a girl no more than five in a canary-yellow coat get cut down like a weed and jumped up with a cry, twisting away from the blaring screen, covering his face in his hands. And suddenly he felt shaken in a way he hadn't since when he first came to District Thirteen…
"Finnick?" Aurelia ran in, clutching a white silk wrapper around her. "Finnick, what's…"
Her voice trailed off as she saw the violence on the TV. "Oh my God," she breathed.
Finnick, trembling, turned around and saw her standing rooted to the spot, staring at the screen with her eyes wide dark pools in a face drained of blood. The next clip that burst into life was of a pod that shot foot-long metal javelins down a street, transfixing both soldiers and hapless citizens into the sides of buildings like bugs pinned down in a display –
"Oh GOD!" shrieked Aurelia. "How can they – NO!"
She screamed, staggering backwards. Finnick leapt over to her, trying to get a grip on her arms as she writhed and screamed again, hands clutching her face as if she could unsee the violence, her horror rapidly developing into hysterics. "Aurelia!" shouted Finnick, but she was unreachable, her face bone-white, her eyes screwed shut.
And suddenly Finnick was done with it. Gripping Aurelia's wrists, he dragged her back to the couch and sat her down, hard. "Aurelia!" he barked. "Stop it! Stop it NOW!" She flinched away from him with childish fear. "You watch kids kill each other every year!" snapped Finnick, fingers digging into her arms. "Why the hell is this any different?"
"Because it's real!" wailed Aurelia.
Finnick went cold. Cold, cold, cold, like the depths of an icy black lake. Aurelia shrank back from his glare into the cushions of the sofa.
"Don't look at me like that," she whispered with a frightened little hiccup, breaking her wrists from Finnick's hands and drawing them to herself protectively. "Finnick – "
"It's not real?" Finnick hissed. "You sit here, with your pink cushions and silver clocks, and you tell me that what I went through isn't real?"
"Finnick, I'm sorry!" cried Aurelia, her eyes filling with tears, but he had already stood and gone to get his boots from the closet. When she realized what he was doing, she leapt up with a gasp and ran over to him, seizing his arm. "Finnick, don't leave!" she begged.
He jerked his arm free and sat down to lace his boots. Aurelia threw herself to her knees next to him, tears running down her lotion-softened, silk-dried cheeks. "Where are you going?" she whined pitifully. "I'm sorry about what I said – You can't be going outside – you'll die – "
"I don't really give a damn," said Finnick, standing up. "Besides, you'll get over it."
"No!" Aurelia's violent denial brought her to her feet as well. "I'll never love anyone but you!"
"Really?" Finnick raised an eyebrow at her. "Then whose jacket is this?"
Aurelia stared at the jacket he had pulled out of the closet, her lip trembling. It was a very expensive jacket, made of thick, buttery leather the color of coffee beans, lined with fine black silk – a definitely masculine garment.
"That's no one's," said Aurelia in a tiny voice. "Just a friend's."
"Well, I'm going to have to borrow it," said Finnick, putting it on. "Your 'friend' won't mind, right? Besides, I don't think you want me to freeze. It's pretty cold out there, you know."
She didn't reply, just stood there staring at him with mute appeal. Finnick went to the door with every intention of simply walking out, but his conscience gave him a pang and he turned around with a sigh.
"Don't look like that, Aurelia," he said, in a much gentler voice. "Don't waste yourself on me. You know…fish in the sea and all that."
Aurelia sniffed, face dripping with tears, but seemed unable to speak. At last, she managed to say, "Well, you'd know all about fish, wouldn't you?"
Finnick smiled a little. "I guess so," he said. "Bye, Aurelia."
"Bye, Finnick," she whispered. "And good luck."
"Thanks," said Finnick softly.
And so Finnick left her apartment to make his way to the City Circle. He ran through the pastel streets, dodging snowflakes and bullets, feeling the slow burn return to his leg and the fear to his heart. He heard the screams, heard the hiss and crack of metal hitting its target, and when he had to throw himself to the ground, sensing the slush that covered the ground melt its way into his jeans, he saw warm red blood pooling in between the rainbow-colored tiles and melting the snowflakes that fell on its scarlet surface. The cold that gripped him, that chilled his spine and numbed his fingers, had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the brightly-dressed bodies that lay around him with blood on their breasts and nothingness in their eyes. But he kept going, didn't turn back, because some inexorable force within him was saying Go on. He didn't know why, only that it must be obeyed – and he did so unquestioningly. He could not go directly to the City Circle, but was forced to take detours to avoid pods, rebel soldiers, piles of dead bodies. And so it was that Finnick arrived at the City Circle only when the last wisps of smoke were clearing over the burnt and shattered bodies of hundreds of children.
And still Finnick didn't stop. He walked right through, stepping past scattered curls and tiny hands lying limp and pathetic, and he marched right up to the woman who was also stepping over the destruction she had caused, flanked by her personal army and District Thirteen reporters and with snowflakes falling unmelted on her iron-gray hair, and he pushed his way right through her security to stand in front of her. She stopped in her tracks, hard eyes widening. Finnick stopped too, standing with both feet planted square in front of the tiny body of a little girl. They all halted, all those surrounding the woman, waiting for what she would do, their breath steaming in the icy air.
At last, she spoke. "Get out of the way, soldier," she said.
Finnick looked at her.
"My name is Finnick Odair."