Chapter 4: 65th Annual Hunger Games
Everyone has their own particular words of congratulations for Finnick when he emerges as the victor of the 65th Annual Hunger Games.
"Good thing you came back alive," Desmeretta tells him, her silver facial tattoos crinkling as she winks at him. "I'd be devastated if all my Victory Tour wardrobe plans were for nothing."
Marcocia hugs his head tightly to her breasts, which are nearly exposed in the low-cut top she's wearing. "Oh, I so hoped it would be you this year," she says with a squeeze. "You had my eye from the moment you were chosen."
"Fierce," says Qais about his performance in the arena. He'd been more of Saskia's mentor than Finnick's. Still, Qais gives him a warm smile and a handshake, adding, "Glad it's one of our own this year."
Seneca Crane, one of many gamemakers, nods at him in a flurry and makes a puzzling comment: "Well, the odds were certainly in your favour."
But it's the Capitol's reaction that stuns him the most. They want to see him, to hear him, to touch him. They scream at his name and nearly knock themselves unconscious at the sight of him. He's never known such rabid desire and doubts he deserves it. Not now – now that his blood runs cold.
Before Finnick leaves the Capitol to reunite with his family in District 4, he has one last visitor.
President Snow meets with him in secret, bringing along only one of his personal staff members – Radman, whose bulky chest and darting yellow eyes cause Finnick to once again fear for his life. When the president shakes Finnick's hand, his fingers are cold and stiff, wrapping around Finnick's hand like he never intends to let go.
"Congratulations, Mr. Odair," the President says, his ice blue eyes boring into Finnick.
"Thank you, sir," Finnick replies dutifully.
"It's come to my attention that you have a great following in the Capitol."
Finnick shrugs. "Not more so than any other victor, I'm sure."
"I wouldn't say so," Snow says with an arched eyebrow. "The frenzy that takes over whenever anyone mentions your name is quite… unexpected."
Deciding to be charming, Finnick grins. "Doesn't bother me."
"No, of course not," Snow forces a stiff chuckle. "The Capitol is enamoured with you, young man. And with great adoration of a people comes great possibility to the one adored."
An uneasy taste is in Finnick's mouth. He swallows, and the feeling settles in his stomach. It doesn't make him sick – just cold.
"You'll come back to see us now, won't you?" Snow asks.
Finnick nods slowly. "Yes, on the Victory Tour. And I suppose when I mentor tributes in the future."
"Yes, of course," Snow says again, narrowing his eyes as though sizing up the victor. "You're still young. There's plenty of time. We'll make the arrangements then."
"Arrangements, sir?"
Ignoring his question, the President's lips instead curl into a rather nasty smile. "Enjoy your reunion with your family, Mr. Odair. We'll be seeing you soon."
The only person Finnick will relay this conversation to is Mags.
"Odd," is all she says. "Very unusual… but not unheard of."
And then she gets a faraway look in her eyes, warning Finnick that she's best left alone to her suspicions.
Finnick has dreamed of stepping off the train in District 4 since the moment the trident was bestowed upon him in the arena. He has dreamed of victory parades and wild celebrations in the streets. He's dreamed of his family's glory as they welcome him back with open arms. Most of all, he's dreamed of stepping foot in the district and knowing that he'll be able to step out again. Saying the hell to fishing and rejoining his group of friends for games of Kick-The-Ball. Feeling like District 4 owes him something, for once, instead of the grudging loyalty he has felt to his home and his family's destiny.
When the time comes to step off that train, Finnick struggles to remember his dreams.
Mags and Qais proclaim that it's good to be home, but Finnick can't feel anything at all. He stares at the deep blue sky, unobstructed by clouds or haze, and wonders if Saskia would appreciate this more than him. If she should be the one stepping off the train.
Of course, it's too late for that – now that he's murdered her.
He is sure that if he was cut open, surgeons would find nothing there. He is hollow to his core.
Celebrations are had. Finnick is glorified in the District Court. Everyone chants his name; everyone wants a chance to speak with the victor. The district is abuzz with his story: the boy who had no hope, until he had all the hope in the world.
Finnick smiles for the citizens of his home district. Cuts ribbons. Kisses babies. He flexes when they ask him to flex. And when they ask him about the Arena – when they force his most painful, abhorrent memories to the forefront of his mind – he gives them the answers they're looking for without so much as an outward wince.
He doesn't feel triumphant. All he feels is shame, and the shame penetrates every morsel of his being.
His family is moved into the Victor's Village, miles away from their heritage home on the beach. The Victor's Village smells like a meadow, with fresh green grass, morning dew and wildflowers. The air doesn't sit right with Finnick. Sometimes it causes his stomach to flip. It's strange and unwelcome, and despite every moment of his youth telling him otherwise, he yearns for the stench of fish. The sting of saltwater in his eyes after a morning swim in the sea. Skin so red and singed by the sun that it peels off and never turns cold.
The new house is clean, untouched and large. Finnick and Fletcher no longer have to share a bedroom, but Finnick finds that he misses the sound of steady breathing from across the room at night. It was always a good reminder that he wasn't alone.
Everyone in Panem knows his name. Girls fawn over him at school and the fishmongers now practically beg him to drop by the fish market to promote business. Everywhere he goes, he is noticed. Recognized. He is welcomed with smiles and open arms.
And yet, like his solitary bedroom in the quiet Victor's Village, he is so wholly, dreadfully alone. Pieces of his old self crumble and wither away every passing day. He is not the same boy he was. He's not a boy at all, really.
He is a victor. And a victor's reward is nothing but an empty shell of a life.
Dixie weeps for him an awful lot. When he goes to bed. When he helps to prepare supper. When he returns her "I love you's". Even when he appeases the crowd by allowing pretty girls to kiss him on the cheek or answering passers-by when they ask him what the Arena was really like. Everything he does is suddenly a miracle to her.
"My boy," she says to him, taking his head in her hands and kissing his forehead. "My sweet, sweet boy."
And every time she does, he feels Fletcher's glare burning a hole in the back of his head.
Finnick now has enough riches to provide for the whole family for the rest of their lives. Leander doesn't need to fish anymore, but he does when he can simply to feel useful.
"Son," he says, netting thrown over his shoulder as he prepares to depart one morning. "Come with me. With you and your trident, we'll break the record books with you on board. Come. I need to spend time with my son."
Standing behind him with his own sharpened trident, Fletcher's eyes are rimmed with loathing.
"Our brave little boy gets served first," Dixie always says at dinnertime, giving him the largest helpings.
"He's given us the greatest honour a family could have," Leander boasts to his fisherman friends.
"I'm just so glad you're here," Dixie coos when she hugs him. "Seeing your face again – it's like I've come back to life."
"You've made us proud, son," Leander tells him, arm around Finnick's shoulders. "You've made your old man so proud."
And with each passing day, Fletcher grows increasingly bitter. Until one day, when the bitterness morphs into a hatred whose roots sink deep into his bones.
Finnick brings home beef for dinner. It was imported at a high price from District 10, and it's supposed to be tender and juicy. He announces his purchase to his mother's delight, and she sweeps it from his arms and takes it to the kitchen to begin the preparations.
Fletcher watches her exit and then announces that he's going to fish.
"It's the evening," Finnick says, glancing out the window at the dusk. "And we have dinner."
"Well, I don't have mine."
"What do you mean? I bought it for all of us." Finnick creases his brow.
"With what? With your murder money?" Fletcher retorts. Finnick is too stunned to respond, so he continues, "No, thank you. I'll come by my food honestly."
He picks up his supplies and makes a move to leave.
"Fletch," Finnick says, gathering his wits, "you don't mean that."
"Oh, I do," Fletcher sneers, flinging open the front door.
Finnick races after him, eager to make him stay. "I won for this family, you know," he says through gritted teeth, though he knows it isn't true. "I won for us."
Fletcher finds this interesting. He stops in his tracks and turns on his heels. "Did you?" he asks, a derisive smile crossing his face. "That's funny. I thought I made it clear that I was banking on you not coming home. That we'd get along just fine."
"Why can't you be happy for me?" Finnick exclaims, unable to mask the pain in his words. "Why can't you be like everybody else?"
"Because everybody else is terrified of you," Fletcher spits back. "Can't you see that? They watched you kill. Over and over and over. They can't forget that. Every time they see you, they remember the way you killed your ally from District 4. The way you speared your District 1 enemy with a chuckle and a crazed look in your eyes."
It's all he can do not to squeeze his eyes shut and block his ears with his hands. The images Fletcher brings to mind are the ones that torment him deep in the night, the ones he locks and buries in the darkest of places during the day. Heart racing, Finnick is falling. Somewhere in his mind, he's falling and falling and soon he'll hit the ground. Splatter into a million pieces.
"You think Dad's happy living here? You think he wanted to give up his life's work for riches and luxury? If that's true, then why does he still spend every day in ratty old clothes in the sea? And what about Mom? You think she weeps because she's happy you're alive? No, Finn. She weeps because she knows you're a monster."
It's as though a cannonball has been shot at his ribs. He's pained – physically pained. It hurts so much because there's a part of him that swears Fletcher's words are true.
"So I'll get my own food. I'll make my own way. And if you find yourself alone in the end, then God have mercy on you. I sure as hell won't."
He strides away, leaving Finnick leaning on the doorframe for support.
He's right. He knows his brother is right because the same thoughts have plagued him since stepping foot on District 4 soil after the Games. The fame, the fortune, the friends – it's all lies. How could anyone love him? How could anyone love a killer?
"It's not what I thought it would be, Mags," Finnick confesses to his mentor one bright and sunny afternoon. He's dropped by her house in the Victor's Village for tea.
"Nothing ever is," she says wisely, pushing the bowl of sugar across the table to him.
"I thought I'd get out of the district and feel cultured for exploring Panem. The whole country would chant my name. I'd never want for anything again. And my family… I thought they'd… I thought everything would be perfect," he finishes.
Mags sips her tea. "Oh, the Hunger Games never makes anything perfect," she says. "Quite the opposite."
"Did you feel this way?" He looks to her for guidance.
"Lost? Alone? Scared? Hopeless?"
He opens his mouth to correct her, but when the words sink in, he knows that's exactly what he is. So he nods.
Mags nods with him. "Yes, of course. And like you, I got everything I'd ever wanted from the Games. Money. Fame. The world. But when you acquire it with a damaged soul, it doesn't mean a thing."
Cradling the mug of tea in both his hands, Finnick stares at the hot liquid and asks, "A damaged soul?"
Mags watches him struggle with her words. Then she sighs. Grabs his wrist, wrenches it from the mug, and holds his hand in hers.
"Finnick, you must know I think very highly of you," she said. "And I'm glad you did what you did. You were one tribute I couldn't have stood to lose."
He raises his bleak eyes to meet hers.
"But you can't win the Games by being honest and kind. You have to be selfish, cold-blooded and cruel. All of the victors are at heart. We're not good people, Finnick. If we were, we'd have died in there."
His hopes crumble. His shoulders sag, his eyes sink.
"And this is our punishment," she says. "Life is our punishment. The Games were simple. Now comes the hard part."
He hates his bedroom in the new house in the Victor's Village. The pillows are too soft. The blankets are too warm. And worst of all, the room is dead silent, like he's in isolation. He longs for the deep breaths of another to soothe him to sleep.
Because in the quiet dark, the nightmares come. The dangerous rustling of the trees. The bow and arrow he can't seem to aim. His victims' eyes, wide and pleading, before he takes their lives with his trident.
And when he wakes, gasping and thrashing, there is no one there. He's alone. Like he's the only person left in the world.
So he runs. He runs in the dark, away from his nightmares, away from the bed that was made for a victor. He lets his feet take him away and doesn't care where he's going as long as it's far from home.
Sometimes – often, really – he ends up at the beach. He convinces himself it's because he needs to breathe in the salty air and listen to the waves roll in, but deep down, he knows he needs to visit his home, too. His real home. In the black, early hours of the morning, he catches his breath from his few miles' run and plops down in the sand just behind his family home. Sometimes he lays back to gaze at the stars. Others, he pulls his knees to his chest and watches the tide. But he never lets himself fall asleep. He won't let this place be tainted by his nightmares.
"You come here an awful lot," says a small voice one evening. He recognizes the voice instantly, although until now, he'd forgotten about the scrawny, curious neighbour-girl with the broken mother.
"Go away, Annie," is his response. Tonight he sits watching the waves, imagining that they are washing away the bodies of every tribute he's killed.
As always, she ignores him. Tentatively, she takes a seat beside him in the sand. He can feel her eyes on him, but he won't look back. He can't bear to see the fear in her eyes when she looks upon him. He can't face the innocent girl he used to know. Not after what he's done. Who he's become.
"Go back inside," he murmurs.
"Do you really want to be alone?" she asks.
Licking his lips, he nods.
The tide brushes the tips of their toes as Annie whispers, "I don't believe you."
Those are the last words they exchange, but she sits with him until dawn breaks.
Is everything, like... cool so far? I have to be honest: I've never written novel-based fan fiction before, and I've also only read the Hunger Games series twice - once in 2010 and once a month ago - so I can't promise that I have a firm grip on Collins' world or anything. I'm aiming not to draw too much attention to that, but you can let me know. I think Suzanne Collins created a really compelling world, and I wouldn't change anything she's written (well, there are SOME things...), I just want to expand on it.
With that said, thanks for sticking with me so far :) See you Thursday!