Chapter 12: 71st Annual Hunger Games
Finnick settles quite happily into mornings alone with Annie. They are quiet and tender with one another, Annie grasping for her sanity and Finnick dangling it as close to her as he can get it. With the surety of waking up next to one another, both develop the courage to brave each day.
He wakes before her most mornings, his internal clock sounding the moment the sun peeks over the horizon. He climbs out of bed, careful not to disturb her, and cleans himself up. Or waters the flowers on the stoop. Or checks on the vegetable garden in the back. Or makes breakfast. Anything to keep his mind occupied.
But on his last morning – the morning of the Reaping – he sits on one of the balcony chairs with the sole intention of watching the sun rise.
Annie joins him shortly thereafter, dark strands of hair flying loose from her unkempt bun. She yawns, placing a hand on his shoulder and offering him a bite of her toasted bread. He shakes his head – the pangs in his gut are not those of hunger, but dread. Another Hunger Games. Another two tributes. Another visit to the grey-faced Capitol with its abhorrent citizens.
"You should eat," she tells him. "We have eggs. Or leftover black drum."
"I'm not hungry."
"I can get you some juice," she offers.
Again, he shakes his head, staring bleakly into the sunrise.
Annie slides her hand along his shoulder blade, running her fingers through his thick hair. Her voice is faint as she says, "I wish I could go with you."
At this, he manages to break himself from his hardened stare to look up at her. "No," he says firmly. "That would be even worse."
"Even worse than being apart from you?"
"Much worse."
Annie frowns, chewing slowly on the last bite of bread. Knowing he's wounded her, he reaches around her waist and pulls her gently onto his lap.
"I don't look forward to being away from you," he says, wrapping his arms around her, "but knowing you're safe in District 4 is all that will get me through the lonely nights."
She sighs, draping an arm around his neck. She leans her head against his, replying, "I only feel safe when I'm with you."
Finnick knows it's true. If he hadn't been with her during her Victory Tour, there's a good chance she wouldn't have made it back. The big, cheering crowds and constant mental revisits to the Arena had her in a perpetual state of unrest and blind fear.
He presses his lips to her neck, murmuring against her skin, "I wish it didn't have to be like this."
Raking her fingers absently through his hair, she asks softly, "What do you dream of, when you dream of freedom?"
Allowing his dreams to take hold of him, he shuts his eyes and sees Annie's smile. The crinkles outside her eyes. Her lively laughter. "You," he replies. "With or without the freedom, it's you."
The sky trades its byzantine tint for azure as the sun rises higher. Annie runs a hand down his cheek, silently asking him to look her in the eyes so she can tell whether or not he speaks the truth. Their sea green eyes find each other's and lock instantly, and she holds the connection for a few comfortable seconds before leaning in to kiss him. It's nearly painful to be this intimate with her only hours before they must be separated for weeks.
"I dream of poverty," she tells him afterward. "A little house overlooking the sea where you wake to the gulls' cries and sleep to the crashing waves. The next meal is whatever you can catch. The house has big, open windows to welcome the sunlight and even though the paint is chipping and the wooden chairs are wobbly, the tiny house feels full and alive."
Breathing in, Finnick says dreamily, "That sounds nice."
"This house has everything," she remarks, "but it feels empty and cold."
"I know," he agrees, apologetic. "You weren't supposed to be in a place like this."
"Neither were you." Annie pulls back, keeping her arms loosely linked around his neck. "Finn?"
He raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement as her next words strike a chord within him.
"This house – this life – is this our forever?"
"Now, I've heard stories about your mentor, Mr. Finnick Odair," Caesar Flickerman tells Aspen, the female tribute from District 4. It's the evening before the Games begin – Interview Night – and Finnick sits with the other mentors assessing the strengths and weaknesses of every tribute who takes the stage. The moment Caesar mentions his name, the cameras pan to his face and he feels the eyes of the audience on him. On cue, he delivers a dazzling smile and a wink to top it off. "Rumour is he's quite the ladies' man."
"Yes," Aspen agrees, adding a faux-giggle. "He seems to know every woman in the Capitol! He can make any girl feel very special."
Though Aspen was instructed to play the friendly, resourceful angle – good for attracting allies – Finnick knows there's a devil inside of her. She's a true Career, a District 4 volunteer who trained for the Games from a young age.
"And has he made you feel very special?" Caesar asks. "After all, we know that mentors develop a unique bond with their tributes, and I wouldn't put it past Mr. Odair to get to know his tributes – particularly the females – very well."
Aspen laughs sweetly, replying, "In other circumstances, I'd be done for after just one smile. But I have other priorities for the time being. If he gets me out of the Arena, then we'll talk."
"Oh, ho!" Caesar exclaims, slapping his knee in amusement. He looks into the crowd, pointing to the cluster of mentors. "Hear that, Odair? You've got some work to do if you want the attentions of this feisty lady."
The crowd bursts into laughter as the jumbo-tron zooms to Finnick's reaction. As always, his boyish grin is at the ready – smile, charm, and win them over. These are the expectations he's always met.
"My hopes are high for my boy tribute this year," says Johanna Mason, District 7's female mentor who catches up with him as the mentors mull out of the stadium. "So if you want to bang your tribute, I'd do it now. It'll be your last chance."
He frowns, asking Beetee, an old victor from District 3, to excuse him. "Johanna – what?"
"I said, if you're going to sleep with her—"
"Shh," he interrupts, chuckling as a few mentors look over with interest.
"I'm just giving you a heads-up," she shrugs. "Your tribute killed mine last year, so this year, you owe me one."
Finnick raises an amused eyebrow. "Are you serious? Your second tribute then turned around and decapitated mine. We're even." Making light of something that so heavily traumatized Annie is not a line he's breached before, and having done so makes his stomach churn. He's wary of Johanna. She's not like the other mentors who have come to accept their fates, and for that reason, she is both exciting and dangerous.
"And who took home the victory last year?" Johanna asks, making a show of racking her brains. "Oh, yes: little Miss Annie who wouldn't hurt a fly. You owe me."
He rolls his eyes though a smile crosses his face. She's a funny one, Johanna.
"I'd get to it," she suggests, checking the time. "Only a few hours of lovemaking left before she dies in the Arena."
"You know, you have a sick sense of humour," he remarks.
"And you have a disgusting taste in women," she retorts. "I saw you leave the tribute parade last week with Azalia Bancheri. She must be aged half a century, if not older."
An onset shiver slides down his spine at the thought of Azalia. But she'd been a smart choice. From her, he'd learned Snow's methods of poisoning his political targets: drinking from the same cup to ward off suspicions. His arsenal was stacked with cyanide antidotes, of course, but even then, his murders did not leave him without scars – when one looked close enough, it was possible to see the boils on his lips, carefully concealed by the heavy scent of roses on his lapel.
"I wouldn't pin that to my personal taste," is all he says in response.
"Of course not," chides Johanna, "you only do as you're told. You're wrapped around Snow's twisted little finger."
She makes no effort to lower her voice, and he flashes her a glare – she may have nothing to lose, but he certainly does.
"In that case, better not fool with your district's broad tonight," Johanna finishes. "Nothing gained for our dear President there."
"Could you watch what you're saying?" Finnick snaps, eyes darting around the premises. "I know you have no one, but some of us do – and some of us value their lives more than the satisfaction of running our mouths."
This seems to shut her up. Taken aback, Johanna falls a few steps behind Finnick as they head through the Training Center. He looks over his shoulder as he strides ahead, if only to flash her an irritated glance.
She steps off the elevator on his floor to catch a quiet moment with him.
"Is it worth it?" she asks, her tone softer. "Is keeping them alive worth this slavery? This… this sick, demented ownership of mind and body?"
He shakes his head in annoyance, ignoring her as he walks down the carpeted hall to his suite. Insistent on saying her piece, Johanna charges after him, grabbing a hold of his wrist and spinning him around so that they stand face-to-face.
"Is it worth it when the ones you love look upon you with disdain, knowing you've sacrificed everything you are just for another day with them? Knowing that one wrong move on your part controls their destiny? Wouldn't it be more humane to release them from this suffering, wretched life, knowing that you'd spend every day afterwards fighting? Wouldn't they want it that way, Finnick?"
Leander. Dixie. Annie. He feels tied to their fates, knowing he was and is the reason for their suffering.
And he never asked if they would have wanted it another way.
From Marquiana Sundry, the young, innocent daughter of the Minister of Luxury Goods, Finnick learns that Snow decorates his Mansion in rich tapestries of red and black – easier to conceal the blood of his potential threats. Finnick likes the younger women best – they're easier to manipulate when it comes to gathering information about the man he hates more than anything in the world: Marquiana was shy at first, and it took coaxing and some of his greatest charm, but eventually he stripped her both of clothes and secrets.
It gets easier every time, and it sickens him.
"What about you, Finnick Odair?" asks the impressionable girl with long, threaded hair dyed violet. "Do you have any secrets?"
He smiles as he stands and buttons his pants. "Oh, one or two," he replies in cavalier fashion, "but they're the secrets of a fisherman's son, not a Capitol elite. They wouldn't interest you."
"Try me," she giggles.
Arching an eyebrow, he crawls across the bed to whisper in her ear. "If I told you, sweetheart," he says, capturing her lips in a wet kiss, "you'd wake up screaming every night for the rest of your life."
He leaves it at that.
"What do you say?" Johanna asks, leaning across the table to block his view in the Recreational Room. "Let's see… last time I checked, I had two tributes alive and you had…" She counts on her fingers. "Oh, that's right. Just the one."
Grimacing, Finnick leans back on his chair. By his observation, he's the only mentor Johanna picks on face-to-face. The others she's kind enough to mock behind their backs.
"Last time I checked," he counters, "my tribute had a group of allies in the Career pack and an overflow of sponsors, while both of yours are alone, starving and in hiding."
Johanna scowls, her dark eyebrows knotted in a line across her forehead. "We'll see, Odair. Everyone likes a good underdog story. You and I can both attest to that."
He gives her a small smile. She annoys him to no end and her name spells trouble, but underneath it all, Johanna both amuses and mystifies him.
If the truth be told – and Finnick is disgusted with himself for wishing it – he hopes that District 4 won't have a victor this year. It's true that the victor's district is showered in gifts and supplies from the Capitol throughout the year, but if his tributes perish, he can return earlier to Annie and won't have to worry her with another miserable Victory Tour later on in the year.
But that's a secret best kept from Johanna.
"Sponsorship book, huh?" Johanna asks, gesturing to the catalogue in front of him. She sits herself on the table and picks it up, flipping through all the potential gifts a mentor can send to their tribute along with their prices. "Haven't looked through mine yet. I'm saving up pledges for a gun. Is there a gun in here?"
Finnick snorts with laughter, lowering his head so that other mentors won't catch him cavorting with the loose-tongued rebel. "I don't think so," he says. "Too easy. Too anticlimactic."
"Damn," she mutters under her breath as she flips through the pages. Finally, she closes the book and sighs, crossing her legs as she examines the room full of mentors who sit at their respective tables watching their screens and plotting. She nudges Finnick, nodding her chin in the direction of the table reserved for District 1. "What are Threadbare and Sandpaper thinking?"
Finnick looks over to see the two mentors from District 1 – a brother-sister duo – hunched over their table, deep in discussion. Keeping a straight face, he points out, "I think their names are Cashmere and Gloss."
Ignoring his correction, Johanna continues, "You know they'll get their tributes to dispose of yours as soon as he's no longer convenient."
He folds his arms across his chest. "Thanks for your concern, Johanna, but I'd leave the worrying about my tribute to me."
"I intend to," she replies, placing her palms flat behind her on the table. "It's why I came over here, actually – just wanted to check on you. If I recall correctly, last year you almost had a hernia getting that girl out of the Arena. From one mentor to another, I wanted to make sure you weren't going into cardiac arrest this time around."
He gives her a dry stare.
"Guess not," she concludes. "Not that I blame you – your boy has a strange upper lip and after his interview, I'd say he's nothing to write home about. Not like darling Annie." Finnick tenses as Johanna continues, "I bet you were all over that after her Games ended. Tell me, did she pay you, or vice versa?"
His eyes darken, all amusement vanishing. She's crossed a line, and if he weren't in a room full of brutal Hunger Games victors, he'd lunge at her.
"Go back to your booth," he says.
She smiles. "I was only joking."
"You don't know when to stop, do you? Those lonely lips of yours run away with you into unfamiliar territory," he sneers.
Her smile fades, replaced by a stony frown. "At least my loneliness and I sleep soundly at night."
Intent to be rid of her, Finnick shakes his head irritably and picks up the sponsorship catalogue, leafing through it without purpose.
Johanna stands and makes a move to leave – but then she changes her mind and stays. "They say she's mad," she remarks. The softness of her voice reminds him of Annie on the days she needs verification on what is real and what is not. "Is that true?"
Finnick closes the catalogue, grinding his teeth to collect his answer. "We're all mad."
Johanna's eyes sweep around the room over the other mentors. Catching Finnick's eyes again, she nods. "Maybe so."
As she takes one last look around the room and heads back to her station, Finnick's mind calls to Annie – what she's doing, where she is, who wakes her at night when she's screaming for the lost souls in the Arena.
He clears his throat, calling, "Johanna. What you said the other night…"
The mentor turns, awaiting his next words.
"I've thought about it, and it is worth it."
She raises her eyebrows.
"Anything would be worth just one more smile. One more kiss. There's nothing I wouldn't do just to lay eyes on her one more time, or spend one more night sleeping next to her."
Johanna licks her lips, surprised by his conclusion.
"You may not agree," Finnick continues. "You may think I've sold myself to this place, these Games – but you'd be wrong. They can't own me when I gave myself away a long time ago to someone else."
He pauses, waiting for Johanna to take a few steps towards him.
"Now, with that said," he finishes, "can we make a deal?"
Johanna scoffs. "I already told you, Odair. This year it's my turn to have a victor."
"Not about the Games," he brushes her off. "No, a deal about a lumber trade."
Coming home has never been greater than this: having a girl waiting for him in the meadow who walks straight into his arms the moment he steps off the hoverplane. Finnick drops his bags and embraces her, squeezing his eyes shut as the layers of ice around his frozen heart begin to chip and melt. He never wants to forget how it feels to be dearly missed. As long as he lives, he'll always remember how it felt to see her face coming off the aircraft, those sea green eyes lingering on his as though they've finally found what they're looking for.
When he wakes later in the night, nightmares of the Arena leaving him shivering and raw, it's Annie who cradles his head and rakes her fingers through his hair, whispering to him that it's over now, he's home.
As he lies next to the one he loves, the two of them entwined by every limb, for they can't get close enough, he thinks distantly of Johanna. He wonders who meets her off the plane, who holds her at night, who whispers softly into her ear.
He wonders why she lives, when all she has is freedom.
After a morning of swimming in the sea which nearly traumatized her – other than to shower, Annie hasn't set foot in water since the Arena for fear of drowned, floating corpses – they lay together on her bed in the afternoon, exhausted as the sun's rays pour into her bedroom and the gentle breeze drifts in through the open windows. Annie lies on her back, knowing it's best to stare up at the canopy decorated with remnants of the life she loved. Finnick dozes on his stomach, his arm thrown protectively across Annie's torso and his chin turned in her direction, resting in the crook of her neck. The sun bathes them in warmth as it casts a deliciously sleepy glow.
"Finn?" Annie asks, her voice no more than a whisper.
"Mm hmm?"
"Can I ask you something?"
"Mm." He keeps his heavy eyes closed, hoping to retain his comfortable position.
"Do you think the innocent have somewhere to go after they die?"
At this, his droopy eyelids lift. "What do you mean?"
"Do you think they… go on, somehow?"
"How could they go on if they're dead?"
She rests her arm over his on her stomach, shifting herself slightly so she can meet his eyes. "I don't know. But sometimes I like to think they do. That somewhere – not here, but somewhere that's like a dream – they keep on living. And maybe they don't do the same things they did while they were on Earth, but they remember us. And when we die, the ones we used to know find us in the dream and it's like we were never apart at all."
Finnick contemplates this. He's seen more dead bodies than he cares to count, and all of them have one thing in common: they're dead. Stiff. Lifeless. And sometimes, Finnick consoles himself with this. They are reprieved from their suffering. Set free. No longer strapped to their bodies or souls. He can't imagine that any of them still exist somewhere, even in a dreamlike state. They're dead – that's all.
"Maybe," is his indifferent response, if only to appease her. "Why is this on your mind?"
Annie sighs, staring distantly at the canvas above. "I'm thinking about my mother," she says. "When she came to see me before the train to the Capitol, we said our goodbyes. We knew it was the last time we'd see each other – but both of us thought it was because I wouldn't be coming home. We never considered that she… well, we just thought it would be me. And the things we said to one another were in the spirit of me dying, not her. Now that I look back on it, I wish we could have one more conversation. The only way that's possible is if there's some sort of life after this one."
When she finishes, he gives her a gentle squeeze but has nothing to say. Life after death – it's too easy, too good to be true. A world with Snow and the Hunger Games simply wouldn't allow it.
"Do you ever wish you could see your father again, Finn? Or your mother?" she asks him.
Somewhere in the Capitol, his mother still lives – but it's better if Annie thinks her dead. "I suppose," he says thoughtfully. "But if there's such thing as a dream after death where all the innocent go, I doubt I'll see anyone I love again."
Unhappy with his answer, Annie rolls onto her side to face him. "Why is that?"
His tongue darts out to wet his lips and he stares into her eyes with a faint frown. "Annie," he says softly, as if she should already know, "I'm not one of the innocent."
She reaches out to smooth back his hair, replying, "Of course you are."
"I've killed," he says, and she flinches. "Sold my body. Trained children to die. When it comes to eternity, Snow and I will be damned to the same hell."
"That's not true!" Annie says in alarm. "Finnick, you can't truly believe that."
"What other afterlife is there for me?"
With a pained expression, Annie holds his gaze for a few strained moments. "Maybe it doesn't matter what we've done in this life," she reasons. "Maybe it doesn't even matter who we are. All that matters is that our hearts are good. And, Finn – your heart is good. After all we've seen together, I know it."
He gives her a weak smile, though he casts down his gaze.
She sidles closer to him, her sea green eyes wide and probing. "We'll meet there, someday," she tells him firmly. "Either that or we'll walk there hand-in-hand."
He raises his head. Whether or not it's true, it's an idea that keeps Annie strong. And he can't deny that it all sounds beautiful.
Before he catches her lips, he says, "Well, I hope so."
While Annie attends her therapy session one breezy morning, Finnick makes a trip to the fish market. There, he strides straight to the booth of the cranky Roscoe Roe.
"How are things, old man?" Finnick asks.
"This miserable weather," Roscoe grunts, though the warm breeze and clear sky isn't anything less than perfect. "Stinking fish. Rotten pay. Dirty peacekeepers stalking around more'n usual. Damn crooks."
"Things are great with me, too," the victor jokes dryly.
"You lookin' for a job? Could always use a salesman – there was always something about you, kid."
"I'm touched," Finnick says with a grin. "But I have another job in mind. One that's going to take quite a bit of my time. With that said, I got a question for you, smiley."
The fishmonger rolls his eyes and wipes the sweat from his brow with a sodden handkerchief tucked inside the pocket of his apron.
"How much do you know about architecture?" Finnick asks.
"'Bout as much as I know about women," Roscoe replies in his usual gruff tone.
"That'll do," Finnick chuckles.
"Eh?"
Finnick leans across the booth, staring intently into the sweaty fishmonger's eyes. "I'm working on a major construction project. It may take months. And I need you to help me."
Brushing him off as if it's a joke, Roscoe says, "These old bones can't lift more'n a handful of dirt."
Finnick presses on, "You'll never go hungry. You'll never be without as long as you live. I give you my word."
The balding man eyes him suspiciously. "I ain't worth nothing. Born a fishmonger, die a fishmonger."
"My word," Finnick repeats, holding out his hand to shake.
"Leander had that spirit of yours," Roscoe remarks, "once upon a time."
The victor gulps, imploring Roscoe with his gaze.
"And if you're anything like your father, your word's as good as gold," he concludes, shaking Finnick's hand with his bulging sausage fingers.
Finnick grins, showing his former employer where to meet him the following morning to begin.
"And Roscoe," he calls as he heads out of the fish market, "there are worse things to be all your life than a fishmonger."
The peacekeepers look on with interest, but do not say anything as Finnick signs a deed in the Mayor's Building declaring him owner of a small plot of land near the outskirts of the district. He knows they will report this directly to Snow, but he could hardly care less. He has nothing to be afraid of.
Johanna has kept her end of the bargain, and one gorgeous morning, Finnick receives a large shipment of prime District 7 lumber directly to his new plot of land. The peacekeepers raise all kinds of fuss, but Finnick has the transaction papers that prove the legality of the trade. Roscoe gets a gruff sense of enjoyment from this and is never more pleased than when he gets to tell them off.
With his lumber, his land and very little labour, Finnick is set.
That's the day he begins to build Annie a house on the sea.
Happy Sunday! I have to apologize if this chapter seems a little unpolished – I've only looked through it once as a whole and intend to do so again later. Thanks as always to anyone who's taken the time to read! Also: the movie. Yay or nay? Other than a few minor details that weren't necessary for them to modify, I was quite pleased. But I also had my eyes shut for about 25% of the film as shaky cameras make me sick. Guess the only solution is to see it again! :)