Chapter 6: The 68th Annual Hunger Games

There are girls who come and go. They spark his interest for a moment or two, with sweet, seductive smiles that lead him to believe their intentions are innocent. They hold hands, frolic on the beach and kiss under the sycamore tree. Then they ask him about the Games or the Capitol or being interviewed on national television. They gaze upon him with wonder and awe, nuzzling close to him and remarking on his handsomeness or his strength. They show him off as if he's some sort of prize to be won.

Finnick expects nothing more from anyone. He even welcomes the company, though it is vapid and leaves him feeling empty. It's the girls who go, not he – for as soon as they recognize the vacant expression in his sea green eyes or hear the very little that he has to say, they realize he's not worth the trouble. Again and again, he's reminded that he is a living legend on the outside: strong, striking, and charming, but on the inside, he is hideous. Broken beyond repair.

The girls, they come and they go just as quickly. Still, it's only Annie's name he fervently wishes not to hear during the Reaping.

"Marigold Abnett," Marcocia's clear voice calls out.

His shoulders sink as the crowd begins to cheer. Not Annie. Someone must have heard his screaming pleas.

Finnick doesn't attend school anymore, in part because he was a distraction to his fellow classmates who were delighted to have a victor in their present and in part because he has difficulties focusing himself. Having too many things to do overwhelms him, as though he's losing the only control he has left. Most days, he visits Mags and she works with him on his studies. Her stern voice and concrete reasoning are the only things that can keep him engaged.

While he no longer sees Annie at school, he sometimes spots her down at the fish market. Mags insisted he resume his informal work there – she said it would help. And she's right. Roscoe Roe is happy (though he hides his happiness well) to take him on again, and every day for a few hours, Finnick channels all of his energy into being the bright, confident young boy he used to know. His sales records still top the charts.

He comes home exhausted from pretending to be someone else, but that's just as well, for sleeping at his home in the Victor's Village is the only way he can stand being there. Each day, Leander grows unhappier, craving his previous life as a fisherman. His old friends see him as a lucky bastard with more money than he knows what to do with. They surround him with attention in the hopes to reap the benefits of his fortune, but there's no real friendship there anymore. Finnick knows all too well how he feels. Dixie, on the other hand, thinks he should go to Mayor's Dinners. District Galas. They should live like the elites they've become.

"That's the only way we'll find happiness," she tells Finnick one day. "We have to live our lives as who we are and what we've become."

This comment terrifies Finnick, for he has searched, but cannot find happiness living as a victor. Nor can he find it if he faces the truth about himself.

It also serves to remind him that his parents are unhappy, and he is to blame.

He still catches Annie on the beach sometimes, on the evenings when he's tried to escape his family with sleep, only to be tormented by the Games in his dreams. She still joins him in the sand, careful not to wake her fragile mother. They sit together in silence until the sun peeks out over the sea.

Another two dead. Another twenty-three, in total. The Games ended early this morning with an unexpected raid of mutt spiders the size of dogs. The final surviving tribute from District 2 was hoisted out of the arena with a spider attached to – and gnawing on – her leg.

Suppressing dry heaves and impending panic, Finnick had fled to Mags' house, knowing that he would have a particularly awful day. Mags instructed him to soothe his mind someplace quiet – a place that made him feel safe and that he knew like the back of his hand. She coached him to focus on a mindless activity that came easily to him.

"They're not you," she'd told him firmly. "And you're not there. So live here. In the present. Don't fade away."

Still, as he sits tying knots at the beach, the hot sun beating down on his bare shoulders and the comforting sounds of the waves rolling in, he can feel himself drifting away. He gets this way sometimes, unable to enter the realm of reality. He feels his mind recede further and further until it's just blank. And sometimes, it's only in the blanket numbness that he can cope.

Mags tells him that most tributes experience similar post-traumatic stress symptoms. Sometimes they get better over the years, but sometimes they get worse.

"But you can fight it," she assures her youngest victor. "You're strong, Finnick, at mind and at heart. I know you want to come back to us; I can see it in your eyes when you're gone."

He loops the rope and pulls. Loops, and pulls. Over and over until his long legs, stretched out in front of him, are enmeshed in netting. And still he doesn't stop, not even when a human shadow falls over his day's work. He doesn't even have to check who's approached him. He already knows.

"That's a detailed net you have there," Annie remarks. She drops a bag in the sand beside him but keeps walking, barefoot, to the sea. As he continues to knot, Finnick watches her enter the ocean up to her knees and bend down to clean off her hands. Then she stands there, letting the water rush around her as she closes her eyes to meet the sun.

At fifteen, Annie is no longer the stick she once was. Her legs are long and lean, muscular from days spent trudging through the sand. Her arms are strong from swimming and her windswept hair extends nearly to her elbows. Finnick has noticed that there are curves where there were no curves before. As she turns and smiles at him from the water, he sees the delicate features on her face – her button nose, the friendly crinkles just outside her eyes.

She's quite beautiful, really. It's not the first time it's come to his attention, but it's impossible to ignore in the glistening sunlight.

When she joins him in the sand, she places the bag on her lap and digs inside. She produces an orange, holding it out to him.

He declines. "It's okay."

Trying again, she finds a bottle of water and offers it to him.

Again, he shakes his head.

"You sure?" she asks. "My mom said you've been out here since morning."

He doesn't argue, but replies, "I'm not hungry."

"Well, at least drink something."

If only to shut her up, he takes a sip from the bottle of water. A taste of the cool liquid alerts him to the fact that he's parched, and before he can help himself, he gulps down nearly half the bottle.

Annie smirks, saying nothing.

He resumes knotting. Annie leaves the bottle of water beside him, just in case, and begins to brush off her feet, which have collected sand since her wade in the sea. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, focusing on the here and now, as Mags instructed. It's easier to do so with Annie than without, he realizes. She's the one thing that stayed the same before and after the Games.

"That's a good net," she observes, reaching over to examine his intricate, mindless work. "It's strong. Where'd you learn to knot so well?"

"From you," he replies simply.

This surprises her. "Really?"

He nods. "When we were young."

Evidently, she doesn't remember. She giggles. "We're still young."

Swallowing, he says, "I feel very old."

Annie doesn't reply, and he knows he's made her feel sorry for saying anything. It wasn't his intention.

On a whim, he adds, "It's why I'm still here, you know. It's what saved my life in the Arena."

She's reluctant to take his word for it. "The trident saved your life."

"The trident was what I used to kill," he agrees, surprised he's able to speak about it so openly, "but it can't be launched through the woods or hurled from a distance. I needed the net to trap my victims. And I wouldn't have known – wouldn't have been able to do it if you hadn't taught me."

He feels Annie's eyes on him, studying him with sincerity. "Well, then," she says quietly, "I don't regret it."

He meets her gaze, seeing a reflection of his own clear green eyes in hers. Aside from Mags, she's the only one he's never questioned in his mind. The only one he knows to be true.

But why? Why does she bother with him when he's so cold, so lost, so un-repairable? When he's done everything in the world not to deserve her company?

"Why do you sit with me?" he can't help but ask. "Why do you sit here when you know there are other girls?"

She must know about the girls. They fawn over him in District 4, begging for a minute of his time, a fraction of his attention. And Finnick was raised to never disappoint.

Annie lowers her eyes. Calmly, she answers, "Why do you ask, when you know there are no other boys?"

He bites the inside of his lip, considering her words. She's right. There has never been anyone else for Annie Cresta. Still, he doesn't know why.

Abandoning the net in his lap, he brings a knee to his chest, steadying his opposite hand in the sand. Wetting his lips, he reaches over, catching her chin with his index finger and tilting it up so that they are eye to eye.

"Because I have to know," he replies.

He kisses her then, sliding his hand from her chin into her hair. Her lips are soft and full, and they part with such eagerness as she wraps her hand around his wrist, begging him not to let go. With Annie, he knows to be tender and fragile, and she knows him just as well.

When they part, he opens his eyes slowly with a gulp, brushing her hair behind her ear.

"I can't help it," is Annie's reply to his question, every word spilling with emotion. "I knew you before, and I want to know you after. I want to know you forever."

He nods and presses his forehead to hers. The word 'forever' sounds so sweet and inviting rolling off someone else's tongue. She's too genuine to be telling a lie.

He brushes her lips lightly, feeling her tremble under his touch.

"Okay," he murmurs in agreement. "Then you will."

Netting trails behind him on the ground. Finnick drags his feet on the way home, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. He's dazed, but he doesn't feel so far-gone today. Today, he's been revived by the scrawny little neighbour-girl who wants to spend forever with him.

It's as though the heavens have opened. Finnick relishes the sight of the deep blue sky as he wanders home, remembering how Saskia compared it to the grey haze of the Capitol. She was right. The skies of District 4 are brilliant by comparison, stretched and open and bursting with colour.

Annie's kiss lingers on his lips even as he enters the front door of his house in the Victor's Village. Dixie bristles as he enters, and before he can say hello, a hefty figure appears in the doorway of the kitchen.

Radman.

Fear plunges its stake into his heart, and he deflates like a balloon. "What's going on?" he asks.

Struggling to remain calm, Dixie says, "Come to the kitchen, please, Finnick."

He does so with wary footsteps, sensing that something's not right. The President sending his henchman for a visit can't be a good sign.

Fletcher is waiting for him, too, his arms folded across his chest and his grey eyes hard and cold.

"Where's dad?" Finnick asks. Leander should be here. He wouldn't leave his family with this man if he had a choice.

"Oh, he's fishing," Dixie replies, her nerves causing a tremble in her voice. "Hasn't come home yet."

"You've been out quite a while, Mr. Odair," Radman remarks, his lips curling into an icy smile. "Must have had something important to attend to? Something to keep your attention for so many hours?"

The tendons in Finnick's arms tense, the veins in his forearms enlarging as he clenches his fists. What could Radman know?

"At first, your family mentioned that you were fishing with your father. I suppose that can't have been the case, given that you were unaware of his whereabouts."

Finnick says nothing. He can feel Fletcher's anger emanating from his spot in the corner, as if it's Finnick's fault that this gargantuan messenger of the President has invaded their home.

"No matter," Radman says coolly, his eyes trained to the young victor. He clears his throat. "Mr. Odair, President Snow has requested your presence in the Capitol."

Suppressing a growl, Finnick returns, "Why?"

"I believe it's a private matter."

Finnick gestures to the kitchen. "And I believe this is a private home."

Radman's eyes narrow. "Be that as it may, Mr. Odair, I'm afraid I'm under strict orders not to give details."

Standing tall, Finnick broadens his chest and answers with a confidence he does not possess. "Then I'm afraid I'll be staying here."

Dixie takes a shaky breath, unable to handle the intensity in her kitchen.

Radman nods slowly, a twitch in his eye. "I see. Mr. Odair – Finnick – are you aware of what happens to those who defy the Capitol's orders?"

The Capitol has all sorts of punishments up its sleeve. He thinks of his own Games and the one following in which he was a mentor – the Avoxes were the ones made to wait on mentors and tributes alike. The punishment for treason or any crime against the Capitol was to have one's tongue removed and forever live as a servant.

Though he has little use for words these days, the thought still sends a shiver up his spine.

"I thought you said it was a request," is his only reply.

With a derisive smile, Radman says, "Perhaps you'll keep in mind for the future that a request from the President is an order."

"Oh, Finnick," Dixie says, placing a hand on his shoulder, "go with him. You adore the Capitol."

"And the Capitol adores you, Mr. Odair," Radman adds.

He looks to Fletcher. His elder brother wears his rage the way others wear a t-shirt: his disdain for Finnick is smeared across his face, apparent even in his stance.

He knows he has no choice. There is no place he can hide. Even his family wants him gone.

Licking his lips in defeat, Finnick keeps his voice firm as he concedes, "Fine. Let me go get my things."

"No need. We'll have everything you need in the Capitol," Radman brushes him off.

He knows he is under close surveillance now, after proving that he has no wish to return to the Capitol. Radman won't let him out of his sight.

"Then I should go across the street and let Mags know."

"I'm afraid there's no time. We must leave now."

This confirms it.

Glaring at Radman, he asks defiantly, "And what about my father?"

Unimpressed, Radman gestures to Dixie. "I'm sure your mother will be kind enough to inform him when he arrives."

Dixie nods fervently, her compliance dripping with desperation. Still, Finnick hesitates.

Radman cracks his knuckles, losing his patience. "It's not as though you'll never see him again. Mr. Odair, we've really lost an awful lot of time."

"Go, sweetheart," Dixie tells him, pulling him in for a kiss on the cheek and a hug around the neck. "We'll see you soon. Everything will be all right around here."

Through the kitchen window, Finnick sees a hoverplane in the meadow beyond the Victor's Village. That will be his method of transportation to the Capitol. They really do intend on a quick shipment.

With one last glance inside before he leaves through the back door, Finnick locks eyes with Fletcher. He's crossed the kitchen to place a comforting arm around their shaken mother and glares at Finnick with the utmost loathing. As if Finnick has done something wrong.

As if he chose all of this.

Desmeretta, as it turns out, awaits him in the hoverplane. As they fly at high speed to the Capitol, she and a small prep team begin their work on Finnick. The idea is to shape him up for a magnificent party. A party commemorating the end of another successful Hunger Games.

"It's s-so much more exciting for Panem when former victors gather to c-celebrate in the Capitol," says Oslo Busby. Oslo, like Radman, acts on behalf of President Snow – but unlike Radman, he's a rather small bespectacled man, pudgy and stuttering. Finnick would like him under other circumstances. "All the important figures of the Games will be there, except for the victor, of course. C-Caesar Flickerman, Claudius Templesmith, the gamemakers… and I'm s-sure you'll recognize s-some of the previous victors."

"And why do I have to go?" Finnick asks as a prep team buzzes around him, whispering comments to one another on how to fix him up.

"It's a televised event," Oslo replies. "You've been highly requested in the Capitol by your fans. S-seems Panem has become quite attached to you. One of our youngest victors. S-so charming to them."

On his way out of Finnick's prep room, he turns with one last comment for the victor. "It's a joyous event," he adds, "s-so remember to s-smile."

Once he's left alone with his prep team and they begin to fiddle with his hair, Finnick looks to Desmeretta for answers. "What's going on? Why am I here?"

A member of the prep team applies a cool, wet cloth to his face. Impatiently, Finnick swats at her hand, ripping the cloth away. Desmeretta approaches him with a dry towel.

While she pats his face dry, she leans in very close, whispering so quietly he can barely hear. "They didn't like the spiders."

He frowns. "The spiders?"

"Shh," she hisses. "You saw end of the Games this morning?"

He nods.

"The spiders," she repeats. "They think the District 5 tribute should have won. He was the strongest. He had the plan to kill the rest with explosives. And he had that adorable girlfriend waiting for him back home. The Capitol loves stuff like that."

"So?" Finnick whispers. He knows that the Capitol also loves a good bloodbath.

"The spiders killed him first," she says, lightly patting his forehead with the towel. "They went straight for him. Then they killed the others. There was no final confrontation; no chance for a victor to shine. There's word going around the districts that the Games were rigged – that the tribute from District 2 didn't win fair and square."

"How do you know that?"

"Spies," she replies simply.

He thinks of Annie's father. Is he reporting this material back to the President?

"The head gamemaker will be killed," she continues, no longer using the towel on his face. She leans in even further, her lips brushing his ear as she speaks. "They need you to appear at the closing ceremony. To act like nothing out of the ordinary has happened. You'll repair the damage – you and previous victors will legitimize this year's victor."

"We're saying it's all right," he says, dread washing over him. It's his job to convince Panem that the Capitol is good. That sacrificing their children, no matter in what order, is okay.

With a knowing look, Desmeretta nods. "It's all right."

Finnick is unsure whether other victors have the information that he does, but they are all propelled into the 68th Annual Hunger Games Closing Celebration looking their finest and feigning smiles. Though his black pants and pale blue collared shirt are too tight, Desmeretta has assured him that they won't restrict his movements and that they show off his finest features. She's rolled up the cuffs of his sleeves to give him a relaxed look, sure to mention to him that Capitol women find his naturally tanned skin quite alluring and it's important to show it off.

As promised, many of the faces Finnick knows to be associated with the Hunger Games are present. Claudius Templesmith, the Games' announcer, seems to know every face in the crowd and makes his way around the ballroom to greet the guests. Haymitch Abernathy, District 12's sole victor, stumbles around the ballroom in a drunken stupor, cheering whenever a server passes by with a platter of drinks. Chaff, a well-known handless victor from District 11, comments in a brief interview onstage with Caesar Flickerman that the spiders were a total surprise – the remaining tributes didn't know how to react. It was just luck on the part of the victor.

The celebration spares no expense, and Finnick senses that it's more upbeat than usual. On purpose, he wonders? He'd like nothing more than to speak with fellow victors to gather their perceptions, but he's never given the chance – Capitol women seem to swarm him, their brightly-coloured hair and outrageous clothing overwhelming him. They want to know where he's been, if he's missed the Capitol, how his skin is so beautifully tan, if he has a girl back home.

It's odd to think that just hours ago, he was with Annie. It seems so long ago. So far away.

Anjulia Lavalle is there again. Finnick's stomach flips when she approaches him and plants a kiss on his jaw line. She still stinks of artificial flavouring.

"Older and more handsome than ever," she murmurs in his ear. "I'll have my way with you tonight."

And then she leaves him, bewildered and mobbed by near-drooling females, to puzzle over her words.

He's able to pry himself from his "fans" when he notices a gamemaker walk by.

"Mr. Crane," he calls, jogging a few steps to distance himself from his followers. "Mr. Crane, please."

The man turns, his facial hair trimmed in intricate and odd patterns. He gives Finnick a relaxed smile. "Mr. Odair," he replies, holding out his hand to shake. "Call me Seneca, please."

"Finnick," Finnick affirms with a nod. "Do you have a moment?"

"For a victor? Always."

Seneca Crane is young for a gamemaker, but there's a cruel wisdom behind his eyes that keeps Finnick on edge.

"I was just wondering… the spiders. Were they always in the plan?"

Seneca cocks an eyebrow. "The plan?"

"Well, as a gamemaker, it's just… is everything set before the Games even begin? Or are new ideas developed along the way?"

Warily, the gamemaker replies, "The plan is always set. Each Games is unique and thoroughly developed. But of course, as you know, things in the Arena can change in an instant… adaptability is a must."

Finnick is about to ask another pressing question when Seneca shifts his eyes around the room and steps towards him, keeping his voice low.

"You should know," he says ominously, "that the position of head gamemaker is now up for grabs due to what happened in the Arena. You're young and not accustomed to Capitol politics – but speaking of this now is foolish. I suggest you return to your women, do what you do best, and let the gamemakers worry about the spiders."

Unsure of how to respond, Finnick can only nod. He could be insulted by the man's arrogance, but instead, Finnick feels a shred of gratitude – the way Seneca grazed the room for watchful eyes before speaking so frankly with Finnick lets him believe that the gamemaker had his best interests in mind.

Caesar Flickerman calls him up shortly thereafter for a brief interview. He asks the same general questions Finnick has been answering all evening long. Bored, Finnick looks out into the audience as he speaks, noticing Anjulia Lavalle in serious conversation with Oslo Busby. Curious.

"And which tribute were you rooting for this year, Finnick?" Caesar asks him.

That's a new question. A trick question, too, Finnick thinks. He can't be too obvious.

"My District 4 tributes, of course," he replies with ease. "We do still have a couple of luxury houses up for grabs in our Victor's Village. Would be nice to fill up the neighbourhood."

The audience laughs.

"Although I'm looking forward to welcoming District 2's victor to our mentor circle," he's quick to add. "She's very pretty. Wily, too."

"Very pretty?" Flickerman repeats with a sly grin. "Could our Finnick Odair have a crush?"

"It's hard to say," he answers, realizing that his female audience is waiting on his response with bated breath. Knowing he's expected to appease them, he continues, "There are so many beautiful women here tonight."

There's a collective, dreamy sigh from the crowd and a pleased expression on the face of Oslo Busby. Finnick knows he's done his job.

At the end of the night, as the crowd is thinning and Finnick is so tired, he's afraid he might just keel over, Oslo approaches him for the last time.

"Wonderful you could join us, Mr. Odair," he states. "Now, for one last task…"

"Task?" Finnick asks weakly.

"Ms. Lavalle is in need of an escort home," he says. "S-she's requested your s-services s-specifically."

Finnick feels himself sinking. "Is there no one else?" he asks, his voice pleading. "It's been such a long day."

"I'm afraid not," Oslo says, though his expression conveys no apology whatsoever. "You've made quite an impression on her."

With a heavy heart, Finnick makes his way across the marbled floors of the grand ballroom and allows Anjulia to link her arm through his. She nuzzles up to him as a chauffeured vehicle brings them to her residence.

"I'd like to show you around," she says to him.

He follows her inside – despite his weariness, he's still a boy, suspicious but intrigued by the riches and glamour of the Capitol.

Anjulia's house is truly exquisite – five times the size of his house in the Victor's Village. From the massive pillars just outside the doorway to the grand staircase with intricately-carved, polished wooden railings, Finnick is entranced.

"Like what you see?" she asks, biting her lip.

He nods. "It's amazing."

"Good," she says, taking his hand and pulling him towards her. She releases a pin in her yellow hair, letting it cascade over her shoulders and onto her pink-tinged skin. Grasping his tie in her hands, she breathes, "I've waited so long for you."

Before Finnick can respond, she smothers his lips in a kiss. Her overpowering scent nearly chokes him.

Breaking apart, she frantically loosens his tie, continuing, "And tonight I finally have you. You're mine."

He's hers?
Frustrated after a few seconds with the tie, Anjulia groans and pulls him in again for another hot kiss.

"I could have anyone," she gasps, "anyone at all. But I like holding out for the special ones." Releasing an animalistic growl, she rips at a few buttons on Finnick's shirt and adds, "There's something so sexy about a poor district boy in love with the shining lights of the Capitol."

She grinds against him as they kiss. Adrenaline pumps through his body, which responds to Anjulia's advances even though he begs it not to.

"Though you're not such a poor boy anymore, are you?"

"Not so much," he replies, eliciting a giggle from the colourful Capitol woman.

Anjulia wraps her arms around him, attaching her lips to his neck and sucking. He gulps. Shuts his eyes tight.

"Oh, tell me you want me," she says between breaths. "Tell me I'm your only one."

His only one. There's never been only one.

While his body betrays him, he wonders if, far away in District 4, Annie is waiting for him in the sand.

Early in the morning, Radman awakens him with urgency. Eyes crusty with sleep, he splashes his face with water and throws on the clothes provided for him. His prep team is nowhere in sight, and he wonders where it is he's being escorted to so early that doesn't require a makeover.

It isn't long before he finds out. Without a bite to eat, Finnick is shown into the board room adjacent to his suite. There, President Snow awaits him. Weak-kneed, Finnick sits across the table from the stone-faced president. Radman leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

The air is thick with anticipation and dread as Snow folds his hands on the table and flashes the victor a cold smile.

"Splendid of you to make an appearance yesterday evening, Mr. Odair," Snow says. "You've been sought-after since your last visit to the Capitol, as I'm sure you know."

Finnick nods, his body stiff.

"Too bad, of course, that the evening was sullied by your visit with Ms. Lavalle." Finnick keeps his eyes level, and Snow continues, "Oh yes, she informed me this morning that despite her persuasions, you were unwilling to enjoy her company."

Finnick knows what Snow means by 'enjoy her company'. A whiff of Anjulia's perfume shoots up his nostrils by memory, and he coughs in disgust. When her intentions became clear to him, he couldn't go through with it. He wouldn't be bought and sold like a slave. He didn't belong to anyone, not even for a night.

"As heiress to a large sum of money, Ms. Lavalle has been integral in the support of many Capitol programs," Snow goes on. "Updated textbooks for our schoolchildren, research grants to our medical system, a huge sponsor to our Hunger Games – one of your sponsors, you know."

Finnick remains stoic.

"She was fairly disappointed, after paying for your services, that you were unable to provide for her."

Money? He'd received money from Anjulia before, but not last night. Whom had she paid for his body? To whom did he now belong? The Capitol?

"The life of a victor is very privileged," Snow finishes. "You have many things for which to be grateful. However, it does not mean you're without responsibilities." Tipping his head to eye Finnick carefully, he adds, "You'll do well to remember that in the future."

Finnick's teeth are clenched so hard, he's afraid his jaw might wire shut or the teeth themselves will disintegrate. It's clear now what the Capitol wants from him: the utmost humiliation.

The President leans back in his chair, looking out the window to the busy Capitol streets. "With that said, I do have some rather unfortunate news, Mr. Odair."

Finnick's eyebrows raise. He's unsure that anything could be more unfortunate than what he's just heard.

Snow's voice is apathetic. "It's your father, I'm afraid. He was killed this morning. Boating accident, reports say."

All of a sudden, it's as if Finnick's entire body has slackened. He no longer has control over his legs, his arms, his jaw. His head hangs. This can't be coincidence. It's too cold; too convenient.

His father. Dead?

"A pity you aren't there to grieve with your family," Snow remarks. "Although given the circumstances, we should be thankful that no one else was injured. Your mother, for instance. Your brother. Little Annie Cresta."

Finnick's head snaps up, fire igniting in his heart. How does he know that name? He knows now it was no coincidence. Somehow, in the early hours of the morning, his father was murdered by order of the Capitol.

He was never given a chance to say goodbye.

"That will be all, Mr. Odair," Snow says, and with a dismissal of his hand, he invites Finnick to leave the room. It's as though they've just had a business meeting, not as if Finnick's entire life was sent spinning. With one final glance at the boy he now owns, Snow adds, "You may want to consider the implications of your choices upon your next visit."

Can't have sweet without sour, right? Just another step towards our Finnick's cruel loss of innocence.

Thanks for all your comments so far! I'm trying to keep up with my Thursday-Sunday posting schedule but I'm afraid that in a couple of weeks I might catch up to myself. For now, I'll see you Thursday!