Chapter 7: 69th Annual Hunger Games

Damellys is a sweet, soft-spoken woman who dresses fairly conservatively for a Capitol girl. Though he's been with her before, her wildness in the bedroom still surprises him. When she's not tying him up with belts or scarves, she prefers to face away from him, and that comes as a relief. When he's with Damellys, he's free to drift off, shut his eyes tightly or stare blankly at the wall ahead. He knows now how to remove his mind from the situation. One moment he's there, and the next he's far away, fishing with his father on the beach behind their old home or playing Kick-The-Ball with his school friends. Sometimes, when his eyes cloud over and he fades away, Annie slips into his thoughts. Little Annie Cresta, the neighbour-girl who wants to know him forever.

At least, she did. He's barely seen her since his father's memorial service. When he sees her in the market, he busies himself with another customer. If he passes her on the streets, he pretends not to see her. Sometimes he wishes she would seek him out, but she doesn't. He knows it's better this way. He can't face her. Not this time.

He doesn't visit his family home in District 4 anymore. Memories of his father are everywhere – in the wooden steps he built with Fletcher, in the shingles on the roof, in the sea itself. And the thought of seeing Annie – having to admit to her what he's become after the honest moments they shared – is unbearable.

So when the nightmares visit him at night, sending him into thrashing fits and jolting him awake, covered in sweat and sometimes, tears, he forces himself to stay put. He can't run away when his safe place has become what he's running from.

Annie must despise him for his betrayals. He doesn't doubt it. But he knows that if she hates him, it can't be anywhere near as much as he hates himself.

Damellys releases a final moan and then disengages herself from Finnick's body. He runs a hand through his mussed-up bronze hair and returns a deep kiss.

"Well worth the money," she says, winking as she reaches for her wallet on the nightstand. "You're to die for, Finnick Odair."

He delivers her a blank stare. If only she knew.

In the Capitol, the nightmares are twice as bad – especially when he's visiting during the Games. He shuts his eyes knowing he's unsafe. At any moment, one of Snow's henchmen could come knocking with another paying customer in waiting. And when he does sleep, he sleeps restlessly, visited by all the faces of those who terrify him most.

The recognition in Saskia's face before he plunges a trident into her chest. Anjulia's wild eyes as she bites into him. Radman's lips curled into a heartless smile as he comes to collect Finnick for another lady. Fletcher's cold, unflinching gaze, despising his younger brother for everything that he is and is not. Damellys and her scarves, binding him to this life he's never chosen. Seneca Crane, the new head gamemaker, sitting in a dull-lit room behind several screens with a panel of buttons and a slew of new, interesting ways to kill his victims. His father, fishing alone, disbanded from his fishermen friends, surrounded by Capitol men who convict and execute him for a crime committed by his son. His mother, who will never know the truth of his murder. Snow's eyes, laughing all on their own, wielding Finnick on strings like a puppet.

And Annie. She invades his dreams quietly, and it isn't until she's seen what he's done, viewed the faces of those he's killed and those who own him, that he finds her there, repulsed, horrified, and utterly afraid of him. Then Snow swoops in again, taking Annie with him.

That's when he wakes, covered in sweat and reeking of fear, voice hoarse from yelling her name.

He's had five trips to the Capitol in a year. Sometimes, the trips are merely to make a dent in the line of women President Snow and his advisors have set up. Others, he attends public events. Gives interviews. Poses for photo shoots. Even takes a pro-Capitol stance at political functions.

Walking down the polished streets of the Capitol, there are billboards with his face. His barely-clothed body. Even in the districts, it's impossible to turn on the television without seeing one of his ads. There's not a soul in Panem who doesn't know the name Finnick Odair. There's not a woman who doesn't bat her eyes at the sight of him or swoon at the sound of his melodic voice.

"A charmed life," Roscoe Roe always says to him. "World won't never get in your way, but here you are, in my rotting booth at the fish market."

A charmed life, indeed. To the world, it's a success story. Fisherman's son uses skills and tools from generous sponsors to win the Hunger Games and basks triumphantly in good looks and fortune. More alive than ever.

In truth, he's more of a dead man than Leander Odair, who lies six feet underground. And still, he's not dead enough for Snow.

Radman calls on him in the night time. He dresses blindly in the dark, knowing that whatever he wears will be quickly dismissed and discarded.

"You're gonna like this one," Radman tells him, baring his teeth – almost sharp – as he smiles.

Finnick, whose weary spark barely elicits a flicker, says nothing.

Radman adds, "She's just your type."

He leads Finnick down the carpeted hallway and into the elevator. After pressing a button, they shoot upwards, probably to the top floor, where there's a luxurious, private suite for the most clandestine of tasks.

Radman unlocks the door using a set of keys attached to his belt. He holds it open for Finnick, who walks through without a second glance at his escort.

"You know the drill," Radman says from behind him. Then he shuts the door, leaving Finnick alone.

A king-sized bed is the centerpiece of the room, book-ended with nightstands carrying small, dimly-lit lamps. The far wall is nothing but glass, overlooking the bustling Capitol itself. There's also a sofa facing an enormous television screen hung over a fireplace – very cozy, indeed.

As he walks deeper into the suite, Finnick only feels cold. A shiver races through him as he dreads his next task. Who will she be? The daughter of a conniving politician? A wealthy middle-aged bag?

"Hi, Finn," says a sultry voice from behind him. He pauses, recognizing the voice.

Spinning around, he spots Marcocia Duterre sauntering through a connecting door in the suite. His shoulders sag with relief.

Until he realizes she is wearing nothing but a thin silk robe and a seductive smile. She approaches him with a frightening gleam in her eye, handing him a glass and pouring him some champagne.

"Marcocia," he breathes, his voice shaky. It can't be. Not his own escort.

She shrugs, her inflated lips forming a pout. "Couldn't let everyone else have all the fun, could I?"

He feels himself crumbling.

"If I'm selling you, I have to know what I'm selling, don't I? A product must be tried and tested." She takes a sip of her drink. "You know I've always had my eye on you."

In turn, Finnick downs his entire glass. All the alcohol in the world won't be enough.

"You have such strong arms," she comments, running her long, painted nails up and down his bicep. Another shiver, unrelated to the cold, travels through him.

"Such golden hair," she continues, tangling her fingers through it.

He gulps, staring at her with the hint of a frown.

"Such beautiful, clear eyes," she finishes.

With that, her pouted lips are on his, and Finnick feels lost in their enormity. They're unnatural. Marcocia must be forty, but looks twenty-five. She was his escort to the Games. The escort to what was supposed to be his death.

And now she is robbing him of everything he has left.

How can he mentor in the Games after this? How can he face her when she's paid to strip him of his dignity?

She runs her nails under his shirt and over his skin, tracing the muscles in his back.

He breaks the kiss, turning his head to the side to avoid another repulsive encounter with her fish-lips.

"I can't," he croaks. She must have some sympathy for him. Somewhere inside of her, she must.

Marcocia takes a step back, and he watches, frozen, as she removes the silk belt that holds her robe in place. She shrugs her shoulders and the robe falls to the floor. Her breasts are too big, her waist too small. Inside and out, she is distorted.

"You know," she tells him matter-of-factly, "you're not the only sex symbol in Panem."

His palms are clammy, his throat dry. He's sure if he speaks, he'll be sick.

When her hands are on him again, it's all he can do to close his eyes and let it happen. And when his bare skin is pressed against the plastic of Marcocia's body, all he can think of is her figure in front of the Mayor's Building in District 4, calling little children up to die.

When he is returned to his room after a hot shower, he's still trembling. She knew him. She knew him. She wasn't just a rich Capitol elite looking for excitement or political gain – she was his escort. She knew where he was from, had been to his home, spoken to his parents. She'd watched him survive the Games at the age of fourteen and knew how it had changed him. Destroyed him.

And still she violated him.

In the privacy of his own room, he sinks into the chair facing the window. He hunches over his knees and buries his face in his hands. They say he's got a charming smile. Friendly, but daring eyes that sometimes glaze with mystery. Bronzed skin, kissed by the sun. He's beautiful, flawless, made by the gods.

But he knows how ugly he truly is. They flock to him, but they only want his body, one smile from him that's meant only for them. Nobody cares to stay longer than a fleeting smile or a brush of the lips. For when they get too close and see too much, they realize his imperfections are vast. His glossed coating is thick, but inside it hides a hideous man with a black, shrivelled heart.

At dawn, the door to his room opens quietly. He believes it to be an Avox, a servant without a tongue, here to make his bed or bring him breakfast. Still, he is hunched over in his chair. He intends to stay that way, unable to face even the most treasonous figures of the Capitol. His shame is too broad; his misery too deep.

In the quiet, a hand befalls his shoulder. He recoils, swatting it away and crying, "Don't touch me!"

Cheeks streaked with bitter tears, he unwillingly meets the face of his disturber.

Mags.

He holds her gaze until he can't anymore, until his shaky breaths force him to release a sob. He rakes his fingers through his hair, hanging his head.

"I can't—" he begins, choked with another sob. His stomach aches from heaving. His shoulders are sore from shaking. His insides are grey with age and abuse. He's wrecked.

"I hate this place," he breathes, not protesting as Mags drags a chair to sit next to him.

She reaches out a tentative hand to pat his head, leaning her cane against the chair. When he doesn't react violently, she scoots closer, placing her arm around his shoulder. He tries to take a steady breath, but dissolves again in tears.

"My boy," Mags says to him, and it reminds him of his mother's tenderness. "Let it go."

Leaning his head on her shoulder, Finnick does just as she instructed. He lets go, weeping openly for the first time. His chest is wracked with sobs that rise painfully through his throat. Tears spill from his eyes, staining Mags' blue cardigan. He cries until he can't anymore. Until he is empty.

And when an Avox steps lightly into the room to bring him a warm mug of tea and a box of tissues, he sees a kindness in her eyes that puzzles him. How can she be good and kind when they've taken everything from her? When they've turned her into this?

He, too, has been stripped of everything, but he knows there is no real kindness in his eyes. There is only anger, despair, and loneliness.

Mags sends him to bed and sits beside him on her chair, holding onto his hand.

"Oh, my dear," she says lovingly. "You're so strong. Even after all they've put you through."

Brows furrowed, he asks in his cracked voice, "Then why do I hurt so much?"

She leans forward, brushing stray hairs from his forehead. "Because you're still human. You still feel. And that, boy, makes you stronger than any victor – any tribute – I've ever heard of."

The wall is patterned with roses and thorns, and he stares at it bleakly.

"Sleep," she insists. "I'll watch over you."

He's unsure if he'll ever sleep again, so he asks, "What about your tributes?"

"Oh," she replies, giving his hand a light squeeze, "we lost the second one in the night. Don't start, Finnick."

He gives a light shake of his head at the injustice of it all, but is too weary to protest. He shuts his eyes.

Mags adds softly, "It's better this way. They were nowhere near as brave as you."

Back in District 4, Dixie carries on. She's terribly heartbroken, and Finnick sometimes hears her cry herself to sleep, but she truly believes Leander's death was an accident. He can't bring himself to tell her the truth.

"He'd be so proud of you, Finn," she tells him sometimes, gently stroking his hair. "You gave so much to this family."

Her words are painful. He knows he's despicable. Knows his father hated living in the Victor's Village and spent the last few years of his life wishing nothing had ever changed. If Finnick had died in the Arena, they could have kept their family home. If Finnick had died, Leander would still be alive.

Fletcher, who carries on their father's legacy at the wharf, is much cleverer than Dixie. He has his suspicions. He barely speaks to his brother anymore, and even then, it's only to ask essential questions. Finnick deserves the hatred from his brother – he knows now that Fletcher was right to hate him all along – but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt him just the same.

The only one he trusts to love him unconditionally is Mags, and that's only because, just like him, she is despicable. They are both Hunger Games victors, sharing a bond that no other citizen of Panem ever could.

It's impossible to win the Games a good person. Finnick believes that now with every shredded piece of his tattered heart.

Mags knows about his nightmares, especially after their most recent trip to the Capitol together for the Games – her as mentor, he as prostitute. The walls of their separate rooms were too thin; she heard him calling out in the night. His secrets have become hers.

Finnick visits her during the daytime, just to give her company, and she sees the circles under his eyes and gets to work brewing him a cup of tea. When he's not looking, she infuses the tea with herbs to help him fall asleep.

"It's not right for a person to be so misused," she tells him sternly, trying to build up his self-worth. "In the world I was born into, no one was so broken. I'm older than the Games, you know. I remember when children weren't pitted against each other for sport. Now, the world is ugly and evil down to its core."

She brings the mug to him on the sofa and makes him look her in the eye.

"This was never your destiny, Finnick. Know that. You were made for so much more."

"I wish I could believe that," he says bleakly, for he knows that this hell is the punishment he deserves.

"If you were never reaped, you'd be…" she trails off, ignoring his pessimism.

He replies, "A fisherman." He'd so despised the idea as a young boy, but now, it seems like the greatest occupation the world has ever known.

"No," she shakes her head, "though no doubt you'd make a great one. No, that's not what you truly want. What would you be, if you had no limitations?"

Although she's only dreaming up ways to distract him, he leans his head back on the couch cushion and seriously ponders her question. "A Kick-The-Ball player in the Capitol," he answers. "I've heard there are professional teams there. People play the game for a living. Can you imagine that?"

"No," Mags says with a light chuckle. "It seems too good to be true. And right up your alley. You're very coordinated."

He's only taken a few sips, but he feels the herbs of the tea kicking in. Eyelids fluttering, he adds, "I was always picked first at school. Everyone knows I'm the fastest. It just comes easy to me."

"As do the snippets of arrogance," she says in amusement.

His head lolls to the side. "The best feeling in the world is running so hard, you think your lungs are going to burst. When your bones are screaming and your muscles are on fire."

He hasn't felt so alive in a long, long time. He's not sure he even truly remembers the feeling. Maybe he's just imagining its existence.

"I'd be the best player in the Capitol," Finnick goes on, pausing to yawn. "Everyone would buy tickets just to see me play. I'd sign autographs for fans and teach little kids the game."

Sitting in the armchair just across from him, Mags smiles. "That sounds just like you."

"And when I got too old to run anymore," he finishes, sinking into the couch, "I'd find the woman I loved. We'd get married and live by the sea. Our kids would hate fishing, but we'd make them learn to net out of ropes and nylon. They'd learn how to fish so we'd know they'd always be able to feed themselves – but we'd let them do whatever they wanted to do when they grew up. As long as they were happy."

He drifts to sleep on Mags' couch, for once, with pleasant thoughts.

He awakes after a nightmare. This one is less powerful than the others, but still wakes him with a jolt. Snow's sinister eyes always do.

Hair sticks to his forehead, slick with sweat. He manages a dry gulp as he assesses his surroundings. Realizing he's not at home, he sits up straight, blood rushing to his head. With a grunt of pain, he brings his hand to his face, applying pressure to ease the throbbing.

"Drink this. He's awake – I'll be right back."

He remembers his afternoon visit to Mags' house. She put special herbs in his tea to send him to sleep. He must still be with her.

When the pounding in his head has ceased, he removes the hand from his face and opens his eyes carefully. Crouching in front of him is a girl. A girl with thick, flowing hair and worried creases in her brow.

"Annie?" he croaks, barely believing what he's seeing.

She nods, placing a hand on his knee. "You were dreaming. You were crying out, kicking… are you okay?"

Though he sees Mags a few yards away in her kitchen, he has to ask himself whether he's still asleep. Annie's face is so clear in front of him, so fraught with concern, and he can feel her touch. But how can it be real?

"Annie?" he asks again in disbelief.

"Yeah," she replies, covering his hand with hers. "Mags came and got me at the market. She said you ask for me sometimes when you're sleeping. She said… she said it would really help if I came to see you. She told me everything."

His heart is pumping wildly in his chest. He's sure she feels the tremble in his fingers. "Annie," he breathes.

This third utterance of her name causes a break in her voice. With a whimper, she nods again. "It's me, Finn. I'm here."

He's tried so hard to stay away, but he can't anymore – not when she's right in front of him, her eyes sparkling with tears. He needs to know she's real.

She's pulled towards him with urgency. He wraps her in his arms, burying his face in her neck. She returns the hug just as fiercely, gasping at the contact.

"I hated you," she cries, squeezing him tightly. "I hated that you left me after I… after we… after you said you'd never go back there."

"I'm sorry," he murmurs into her skin.

She knots her fingers into his hair, resting her cheek against it. "Mags told me everything. She told me what they've done to you."

He squeezes his eyelids shut, but a tear escapes anyway. "I'm sorry," he repeats, inhaling the smell of the sea that lingers on her skin.

"It's not your fault," she breathes, tugging him even closer.

But he needs her to know it. Believe it.

"I'm so sorry," he gasps.

She nods against him. "I know," she whispers. "I forgive you."

He can't bear the thought of letting her go. He wants to hold her forever, just like he promised her he would. She fits so wonderfully in his arms and grips him like he's all she has. As though she needs him in a way that no one has ever needed him before.

They are silent for a long while, desperately clinging to one another. Finnick memorizes the smoothness of her skin, the softness of her hair and the sound of each breath she takes. He shuts his eyes to the feeling of her fingers gently raking through his hair.

The sense of total exertion of which he'd spoken earlier with Mags fills him then. It's like his lungs will burst. He knows that he hasn't felt this human in a long, long time.

Annie pulls back, holding his face in her hands. She uses her thumbs to stroke his cheeks.

"I missed you," she whispers.

A warmth spreads through his bones. He is inches shy of her lips, wanting so badly to kiss her, when a groan interrupts them.

"Mags," Annie says to herself, knotting her brows. She jumps up. Finnick is quick to follow her to the kitchen, fear replacing the warmth.

At the kitchen table, Mags is slumped over her chair. Her right arm hangs limp at her side.

"Mags!" Annie cries, rushing to her side. "Mags, can you hear me?"

The old woman lifts her head, though her eyes are cloudy. She opens her mouth, but only a garble escapes.

Finnick is paralyzed with fear.

Annie tries to help her up, but Mags leans heavily on her, complaining of dizziness.

"We have to get help," Annie says to Finnick. "Call someone!"

He picks up the phone, which comes equipped in all houses in the Victor's Village, and can't think of any number to dial but his own.

"Hello?" Dixie's voice answers.

"Mom," he says frantically. "It's Mags. She can't walk. Can't speak."

"I think she's having a stroke," he hears Annie say.

"What do we do?" he asks.

"The medical center!" Dixie exclaims. "You have to take her to the District Courtyard. Should I send Fletcher to get someone?"

"No," Finnick replies quickly. "I'll take her. I have Annie."

"Go quickly," Dixie says. "Go now."

He hangs up, realizing that Annie is struggling to support the elderly woman.

"Mags, I've got you," Finnick tells her, lifting her easily over his shoulders. To Annie, he says, "Get the door. We have to move."

By nightfall, all ten victors have gathered at the medical center. They've left their families at home, not wanting to crowd Mags in her delicate state. Still, they want to be there for their head mentor. Finnick has not developed close relations with any of them, but Mags has a love for them all, and they love her in return. To see her go would be a great heartbreak.

Dixie was the one who informed them – just as she'd informed Mags where to find Annie, Finnick later learns. According to Qais, she'd knocked on each door in the Victor's Village, bearing the bad news gently. Every victor was quick on his feet from there.

Using the phone in the medical center, Finnick thanks her sincerely. Her calm state in the face of tragedy got them all through the day. He wonders if it brought back memories of her husband's sudden death. He wasn't even there to grieve with her then.

Annie leaves him at twilight, knowing she doesn't belong in a close-knit room of victors.

"I can't help but think it's my fault," she says, teary-eyed. "She walked all that way to find me. All that way back. I'm sure that's what brought on the stroke."

"Then it's not your fault. It's mine," Finnick assures her, gulping his heart down his throat. "She found you for me."

Searching deep into his eyes, Annie asks, "Will you visit me again, Finn?"

He nods. He knows he shouldn't, that he doesn't deserve her, but he can't stay away now. Not when he needs her so badly. He is too selfish to stay away.

"Will you promise?"

Her pleading eyes nearly break him.

"I promise. As soon as Mags is on her feet, I'll be there."

With a nod, she gives him a weak smile and begins to walk out of the District Courtyard. Emotions swirl in his chest as he watches her go, when all he wants to do is hold her near.

"Annie?" he asks softly.

She turns.

With a true smile of his own, he breathes, "You're beautiful."

A flush spreads across her face. Rolling her eyes, she deadpans, "I've seen the photos. I know the girls you've seduced in the Capitol." Looking down at herself, she adds, "I'm nothing like them."

Her reference to his side-job makes him flinch. Still, he gives a wry smile and leans against the doorframe of the medical center, folding his arms across his chest. He scans her up and down as she waits expectantly.

He chuckles softly to himself. "You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

It's after midnight when he arrives home, but a light is on in the kitchen. Curious, he steps cautiously through the door.

Fletcher sits in the kitchen, hands folded stiffly on the table. When Finnick enters, his stony face doesn't even flinch.

"What's going on?" Finnick asks.

Barely moving his lips, Fletcher answers, "They took her."

He freezes. "They? Who? Mom?"

Fletcher meets his eyes, and Finnick can honestly admit that he's never been so scared of anyone.

"Yes – mom. Who? Capitol men," Fletcher replies calmly. He gives a moment for Finnick to process this before he slams his hand flat on the table, sending his brother jumping. "Dammit, Finn, they took her because of you!"

"Took her where?"

"To her death!" he cries, rising from his chair. He's shaking with rage, and Finnick can see a gash above his eyebrow, another above his lip. Dried blood is crusted underneath his nostril.

"What happened?" he asks.

"They came to collect you," he replies, struggling to keep his voice steady. "They had a job for you to do. Mom said no. You were with a dear friend. She wouldn't tell them who or where. She told them, 'Not today. You won't take him today.'"

It doesn't sound like his mother – but at the same time, it does. She knew the pain and fear associated with losing someone. She'd tried to protect him.

Bile rises in his throat along with deep-set panic.

"And then they took her," he finishes simply. "They took her in your place."

The blood on Fletcher's face now fits neatly into the puzzle.

"In my place?" he asks weakly.

Fletcher spins around, his eyes mad and fiery. "They're gonna kill her!"

Too stunned to respond, Finnick lets his voice echo throughout the room.

"Maybe not," he says quietly. "Maybe… if I can just get there… I can save her."

Fletcher's Adam's apple bobs up and down as he gulps. Then he rounds his fist. Leans back. Swings.

The acute sting in his jaw is nothing compared to the pain that follows, brought by Fletcher's words.

"Save her?" he asks, as if it's a ridiculous notion. "You condemned her! You condemned all of us! You think I don't know what they did to dad? Well, I do. They wouldn't let us see inside the casket. Said his body was bent and broken from the shipwreck. But I had to see him. Had to know if it was true. And you know what I found?"

Holding his stinging jaw, Finnick shakes his head.

Fletcher spits, "A bullet hole in his chest."

Finnick backs into a wall, collapsing when his knees give out on him. He is falling apart. His heart is tearing in two.

"You killed them," Fletcher accuses him, hatred oozing out of every word.

"No," Finnick gasps, frantically shaking his head. It's his only defence.

"You killed them!" Fletcher booms, banging his fist on the table. He's so angry, his entire body is shaking. He approaches Finnick, eyes shrouded in darkness. "You're not my brother. Not anymore. All the luxury in the world won't buy you a family."

"Fletch," he pleads. It's too much.

"I never want to see you again," Fletcher says, his voice low, but firm. "Not in person, not on TV, not anywhere. As far as I'm concerned, you're dead. You died in the Arena."

He storms out of the kitchen, picking up a bag he's left in the hallway. Paralyzed on the floor, it's all Finnick can do to watch him go.

Before his brother shuts the door to their family home, he adds three last venomous words: "And good riddance."

Then he's gone.

So... let me know what you think here. I think it's important to show that Finnick has both bright and dark spots in his life - the dark greatly outweighs the light, but at the end of the day, it's those little bright spots that keep him hanging on :)

Hope you've enjoyed! As always, I seriously appreciate your feedback. I'm running out of material to post on a bi-weekly basis (I should have seen this coming), but I will have a chapter ready for this Sunday!