Chapter 5: 66th Annual Hunger Games

Finnick is the youngest mentor in the history of the Hunger Games.

While it's a requirement of all victors of the Games to act as mentor to future tributes, it's up to the victors of a particular district to make the arrangements each year as to who will mentor. Generally, two mentors train two tributes, unless a district is home to only one victor, like in the small and impoverished District 12.

In District 4, there are seven male and three female victors. Mags mentors most years, saving the other female tributes from the agony and heartbreak. She tells him that the male pool mostly takes turns, and they won't ask him to mentor at such a young age.

She's right. It's not the male tributes who ask him to mentor. It's a request from the Capitol. Straight from the desk of President Snow.

Mr. Odair,

It would be a delight to see you again at the Games this year. Your Victory Tour left many in the Capitol wanting more, and what better way to show your appreciation than by returning to the Games that gave you everything? You were a remarkable tribute and there is no doubt that you'll make a remarkable mentor.

We'll see you soon.

Sincerely,

President C. Snow

The letter, written in Snow's own script, starts Finnick's stomach churning unpleasantly.

As soon as he gets his letter, he races across the Victor's Village to Mags' house. She's the only one with whom he'll trust to share it.

"How strange," Mags says, her tone distant.

"So this hasn't happened before?" he asks.

Disturbed, she shakes her head. "Not to a victor so young. Then again, I can't recall a victor younger than yourself."

"Well, I'm not doing it," he announces, holding his nose in the air and sitting himself down at the kitchen table. "Besides, Trib has already agreed to be the male mentor this year."

"You have no choice," Mags replies ominously.

"What do you mean? He doesn't say it's mandatory. He just says 'it would be a delight'."

"And it's an order nonetheless," Mags finishes. "You must go."

Finnick came for support – not this. The idea of venturing back into the mindset of the Games makes him ill. He feels like he has barely just returned from his Victory Tour, and staring into the faces of the families of the tributes he'd killed himself was not so triumphant as it was downright torturous.

He furrows his brow. "But I don't want to. I-I can't. What does he want with me?"

Again, she shakes her head. Crossing the room, she looks out the window over her kitchen sink and breathes in deeply. "I don't know, my dear. But it can't be something good."

As she does every so often, Annie joins him on the beach the night before the Reaping Ceremony. He's had another restless sleep plagued with nightmares, and she has a mother whose eye isn't particularly watchful.

"Scared for tomorrow?" he asks her, gripping a smooth stone he's found in the sand. He's on edge, nearly shaking with fury - or nerves - as he dreads his return to the Capitol.

"Yes," she admits.

He admires her honesty. For once, he takes a note from her book, replying, "Me, too."

"But you're a victor," she points out. "Your name won't be entered tomorrow."

"I'm a mentor," he tells her. "I'm going to the Games no matter what. And the best case scenario is that only one of the kids I meet tomorrow is going to die."

Annie pauses, taking her eyes from his face and staring at her hands. "Already? But it's so soon. You just came back."

"I know!" he cries angrily, flinging his stone into the sea. Calming himself, he leans his head forward and runs his fingers through his hair. "I know, Annie. I'm not ready. I can't go back."

He rocks himself back and forth, cradling his head in his hands.

"How can I be a mentor?" he asks, voice cracking with emotion. "How can I tell a tribute to hold it together when I'm falling apart?"

After a few moments, he feels Annie's head leaning against his shoulder. He is bent forward, consumed in his own grief – but he doesn't snap at her, knowing that she needs comfort, too.

"Why are they doing this?" she asks.

He shakes his head. He doesn't know. He's conflicted in his feelings for the Capitol. He's even conflicted in his feelings for District 4, his home. But there's one thing he knows for sure: he hates the Hunger Games. The Games made him into what he is – a murderer. The Games took everything from him. His home, his brother. His life.

He feels Annie breathe shakily against him. "Finn, I don't want you to leave again."

When he leans back, she removes her head from his shoulder. Her eyes are similar to his in colour: sea green and bright. He looks upon her with a pained expression. It may be her naivety at the young age of thirteen, but she's the only person who still believes he's inherently good. A stupid girl. Stupid, but someone he desperately wants to trust.

"Stand where I can see you tomorrow," he asks of her, remembering how he sought a glance of her at last year's Reaping and never found her until the bitter end.

"I will," she promises. "Will you look at me? When they're choosing the female?"

Fear stirs in his chest at the thought. He shuts his eyes. Nods solemnly.

"I will."

The Capitol seems a little smaller this year to Finnick. Rather than a wide open space, Finnick views it now as a dome that can close in on him at any time. He and Mags have two seventeen-year-old tributes this year. They are two years older than Finnick and already he can sense that they despise him. How could he, a young boy of fourteen, survive the games, when at least one of them must die?

At the same time, he feels relief at their unwillingness to accept him as a mentor. The cooler their relationship, the easier it will be when they go. Not easier – just less difficult.

His efforts to maintain a calculated distance are normally foiled by Marcocia, who sidles up to him any chance she can get and proclaims his bravery, his wit, and his confidence to the District 4 tributes. She strokes his arm, threads her fingers through his hair and whispers little comments in his ear. And when she hugs him – which is often – she presses her breasts into his chest and wiggles. It becomes increasingly difficult to prevent himself from lashing out, snarling or recoiling in discomfort.

His only comfort comes from his moments with Mags, and even then, it's only when they're not discussing strategy for their tributes. Which is almost never – the Games need most of their efforts. Which tributes are the strongest, which tributes are most likely to get sponsors, which tributes would make the best allies, what the tributes' mentors are telling them (Mags is much more useful in this category than Finnick, as she has known all of the mentors for years).

Despite all their work, ultimately, one or both of their tributes will die. So what's the point?

Finnick finds it strange and unnatural for Panem to be cheering children on to their deaths. Children who never had the chance to live. Children who will never get to grow up. Children who never did anything wrong.

The day before the 66th Annual Hunger Games begin, Finnick receives a message from President Snow through his messenger, Radman. Radman is a tall, broad-shouldered man with thick, threatening limbs and dark eyebrows set in a permanent frown.

"The President would be honoured if you'd join him tomorrow at the Launch Party for the Hunger Games," he tells Finnick.

"But that's when my tributes go into the Arena," Finnick replies, instantly regretting his words. Of course, Radman knows that.

"The other mentor can handle your tributes for the first few hours," he says, his deep voice almost robotic.

Finnick senses that this is not a request or an invitation – it's an order. Much like the "nudge" he got from President Snow to become a mentor this year.

What could Snow want from him?

He confides in Mags, who is disturbed by it all but who assures him she'll be fine acting as mentor alone until his return.

The Launch Party is held in the center of the Capitol, in a grand ballroom inside the President's Mansion. Finnick arrives feeling stuffy in his collared shirt and blazer, eyes widening at the outlandish costumes and hairstyles of the guests. The Capitol citizens place a high value on both fashion and innovation, but Finnick can't help but think they all look rather ridiculous.

Radman meets him at the door. "Very glad you could make it, Mr. Odair," he says, pulling Finnick aside before he can enter the ballroom. "The President will be quite pleased."

Finnick nearly rolls his eyes at the formality – the pointed eyebrows on Radman's face indicate that he's anything but glad.

"The President has asked that you please escort one of our valued Capitol citizens to the ball."

This gives Finnick moment to pause. Escort? Valued Capitol citizen?

"Er… what do you mean?" he asks.

"Quite simple," Radman replies. "Greet her at the door, take her arm, enter side-by-side. When she's ready to leave, escort her out."

It does seem simple, but Finnick has a sneaking suspicion that there's an underlying motive here. He just can't figure out what it is, nor does he have the grounds to refuse.

"Who is she?"

"You'll be escorting Anjulia Lavalle, heiress to one of the biggest fortunes in the Capitol." Radman takes note of the young victor's expression, a combination of worry and hesitation, before adding, "She asked for you personally. She'll be delighted you're here."

As it turns out, she is. When Finnick greets Anjulia Lavalle, a platinum-blonde, rose-skinned woman at least ten years his senior, the smile that crosses her plastic face is almost frightening. Finnick knows she's rich just by looking at her – the amount of work she's had done on her body and its features is staggering.

"Ever since the last Hunger Games, I've wanted to meet you," she tells Finnick in her Capitol accent. "You and your golden hair and your beautiful smile. I just knew you were special."

Finnick isn't sure what she means, but he politely takes her arm and escorts her into the ballroom. He expects to recognize no one in there, and he doesn't, but everyone recognizes him. It seems that every time he finishes a conversation with an oddly-dressed Capitol citizen, another one appears, craving his attention. Anjulia has her own crowd of admirers – most likely those who have an interest in her fortune – but he notices that whenever another female approaches him to chat, Anjulia materializes and pops into the conversation, too. Almost as if she wants to monitor what's going on.

President Snow finally gets up to speak, and Anjulia whispers to Finnick how wonderful he looks for his old age. How regal. How brave.

Finnick can only compare him to a snake.

"Welcome to the launch of the 66th Annual Hunger Games," he says to his people, flashing them a snakelike grin. The crowd cheers. "It's the most exciting time of the year for Panem – the time when we select one male and one female from each of our twelve districts and ask them to fight to their deaths. This is to remind them that we are their Capitol, and we are a force to be reckoned with!"

Another uproarious cheer from the crowd. Finnick's eyes graze the unfamiliar faces as he gulps. Anjulia's green fingernails run possessively up and down his arm, making him want to squirm.

"We take their children and place them in the Arena to remind them of their rebellion. To remind them that they are at the mercy of the Capitol. And they shall not be forgiven for their indiscretions – not for a long, long while."

Snow takes a moment to let his words sink in to the mesmerized audience. Finnick swears that Snow's cold, soulless eyes are piercing into his own, as if it's his fault that the thirteen original districts of Panem rebelled more than six decades ago. Finnick knows he's the only outsider here. He has the only ears for which Snow's words aren't intended.

"With that, let us enjoy the opening of this year's Games – knowing that it is not a tragedy that these children must die, but penitence."

From behind President Snow, a giant screen is lowered from the ceiling. It will broadcast the Hunger Games for the entire crowd to see.

Queasy, Finnick isn't sure how much longer he can stand upright. He isn't sure if he can watch the Games with these people – not now that he knows they have no sympathy. Even Anjulia whispers her excitement to him, hoping "the dream from District 8" lasts longer than a day for her viewing pleasure.

The screen illuminates to show all 24 tributes surrounding the golden Cornucopia, as always. Finnick looks for his tributes. They are spaced quite far apart from one another, looking strong.

Still, he can't watch. It's too horrible. Too devastating.

Claudius Templesmith's voice booms throughout the ballroom. "Ladies and gentlemen, let the 66th Annual Hunger Games begin!"

The next thing Finnick can remember, he's outside with Anjulia, bidding her farewell.

"It's too bad about the boy from District 8," she's telling him. "He had such a wonderful figure."

Finnick finds himself nodding.

She flashes him a grin. "You must be pleased that both of your tributes are still alive."

"What? Oh, yes," he replies, relief sweeping over him.

"I'm very glad you were able to join me today," she says to him, taking one of his hands in hers. "I do hope we can see each other again soon."

"That would be nice," Finnick agrees, though he has no intention of ever seeing Anjulia Lavalle again.

"Oh, you're so young," she coos, twirling a lock of his hair around her rose-tinged finger. "But I just can't resist."

Before he can get in another word, she kisses him squarely on the mouth. Shocked, he can only stand there until she pulls back, murmuring "Mm," and leans in to kiss him again.

It's wet and overpowering and she smells of artificial fruit.

When she finally pulls away, she squeezes his hand one last time and transfers something to him.

"Worth every penny," she says as she winks. Then she climbs into her vehicle and is driven away.

Finnick stands alone in front of the President's Mansion, wiping the flavouring off his lips that upsets his stomach so, and looks at what she's placed in his hand.

Money.

Finnick returns to the mentor's compound at the Training Center, carrying a heavy burden on his shoulders. He says hello to Mags but cannot elaborate further. He just needs to sleep. To be unconscious for a while.

And while the children in the Arena fight to their deaths, Finnick has his own tortured nightmares and wishes he'd died when he had the chance.

On his first night back in District 4, having watched his tributes die gruesomely along with twenty-one other tributes since he was last there, he runs to his old home on the beach feeling changed. He removes his shoes, walks from the sand to the shore, and shreds the bills given to him by Anjulia Lavalle. He lets the sea take them away.

What good is money when you can't live where you really want to live? What good is fame when you can't choose who, what and where you want to be? And what good is being a victor when you die in the Arena just like the other 23 tributes?

With an animalistic growl, he kicks the water. Nothing is what he'd expected it to be. It never gets better, it only gets worse. Every night he falls asleep thinking of Saskia's wide open eyes as his trident pierced through her chest. Every morning he awakes to his brother's hatred. And all day long, while he smiles and fakes confidence, his heart shrivels and turns grey, knowing that he's a monster. Knowing that no one could ever really love him. That no matter how many people surround him, he will always be alone, for the rest of his long, empty life.

He should have died in there. He should have died when he had the chance. The other tributes – the ones who die – they're the lucky ones.

There's a rustling behind him.

"Go away, Annie," he says on instinct, knowing that she will ignore him and come.

After a few moments of standing silently in the sea, he realizes that she has not approached. He turns to see a stray cat wandering across the stoop of his former house. Annie's not with him at all.

He glances at her house. The windows are dark. At this late hour, she and her mother are probably fast asleep, as they should be.

Suddenly, Finnick feels an urgency to see her. It's not enough to come back in the morning – he has to see her, hear her voice. And it has to be now.

After living beside the Crestas for fourteen years, Finnick knows which room belongs to Annie. He tiptoes past Poppy's room near the back door and rounds the corner, knowing Annie's bedroom to be at the front left of the house. Just tall enough to reach the bottom of the glass, he balls his hand into a fist and knocks very lightly.

Following a few attempts at light knocking, Annie's panic-stricken face appears at the window. As she looks down at Finnick, who looks back up at her with his hands humbly in the pockets of his shorts, her panic melts away into a feverish excitement. She tucks her chestnut brown hair behind her ears and fumbles with the lock at the window. When it's finally unlatched, she pushes it up and sticks her head out.

"Finn," she breathes. "I didn't know you were back."

He nods. "Got back today." He looks to his left and to his right. There's no one around. Training his gaze to Annie, he asks, "Can you come out?"

Annie lifts her window even higher so that she can crawl through. She's careful, and it isn't a far drop, but still he grabs her waist and lowers her to the sand. She spins around to face him. Her eyes are a bright green, deep and trusting and filled with concern. For a moment, he loses his words.

But Annie knows what to say. "It was horrible," she says, barely moving her lips. "I don't know how you could bear it."

He knows. It was horrible, and hearing it from her, a young, sweet girl of only thirteen, fills him with anger.

Voice cracking, he states with conviction, "You don't have to worry, Annie. I'm not going back there again."

He means that with every fiber of his being, even if it means stagnating in District 4 forever. Never does he want to see the bright lights or hear the vibrant noises of the Capitol again. He just wants silence. That's the only way he can put himself back together.

Whether or not she's convinced, Annie shows no uncertainties about him. She takes a step forward and wraps her skinny arms around his waist, hugging him tightly. Tension fills him, freezing him in place.

But he remembers where he is. Who he is with. And it goes unsaid – he can feel it in her touch – that no matter who he's become or what he's done to get there, to Annie, he is still the boy-next-door.

Just like, though she lives miles away from his stuffy, foreign house in the Victor's Village, she'll always be his neighbour-girl.

As he leans his cheek against her hair and places a steady hand on her back, he breathes in deeply. She smells not of artificiality or pretence, but of the salty sea that always brings him home.

Just want to thank you kids (again) for taking the time to read this story - especially those who review anonymously, because I'm not able to reply and thank you privately! From browsing through the archive, I can see that there are plenty of Finnick and Annie stories that attempt to fill in the blanks, so it means a lot that you're giving this one a chance :)

I'll be back Sunday with another update, and I think (I hope) that you will be pleased that there will be more Annie occurrences in upcoming chapters!