Chapter 13: 72nd Annual Hunger Games
With something meaningful to do, Finnick finds that time passes faster than ever before. Building a house is not something that he – or Roscoe, for that matter – has any experience with, so he spends weeks shadowing construction workers in the district and developing a blueprint for the house. It's going to be small, just like Annie imagined, with big, wide windows to let in the sunlight and a porch overlooking the sea.
It isn't long before Finnick is an expert with tools, namely hammers, saws, and axes. Roscoe is surprisingly adept with geometrics and spends most of his time with a pencil behind his ear as he wanders around measuring angles, making marks all over the blueprints, and complaining about the sunny weather. While Finnick does all of the heavy lifting and physical labour, Roscoe finds himself useful with the simple things, such as holding nails into place.
At first, Annie visited only sometimes, and only to bring them snacks and refreshments. While she wanted to be of help, Finnick could see that sharp noises like the bludgeoning hammer or the slicing of the axe left her blocking her ears and squeezing her eyes shut, the sounds bringing her straight back to the Arena. But as more members of the Victor's Village become involved with the project, the more Annie joins them and, on the good days, assists with the more delicate tasks.
By the time the skeleton of the house is in place, Finnick has a team of six or seven, including Qais, Jarvis, and Elsie and her husband. Purposeful work seems to bring all the victors to a happier place – but it also draws the attention of the peacekeepers. Normally, the Capitol soldiers leave the victors alone, but they've been suspicious of Finnick's motives from the beginning and seem determined to ensure the house is never complete.
"It's too tall," they declare one afternoon. "District 4 bylaw number 257 states that no house situated directly on the ocean shall be more than 4.75meters in height."
Instead of giving up, Finnick and his team spend days re-jigging and fit the house to the bylaw.
Another bylaw – number 258, which Finnick is certain was created with Snow's permission just to interfere – is presented to them a month later, when it appears that the house was built too close to the sea. Finnick temporarily halts construction and takes this one to the Mayor's Building, having it decreed that, should the house erode over time from the tide, he alone will be responsible for whatever damages there may be.
When Finnick begins to work on the roof of the house and spends every day staring at the ocean 4.75 meters aboveground, he always pauses to wave to the fishermen who sail by at the end of each day with their catches. It's then that he realizes that Fletcher is among those fishermen. Though he doesn't always find his bronze-haired brother amongst the cluster of boats, he knows Fletcher is there. And on days their eyes find one another's across the expanse of water, he can still feel Fletcher's anger burning as bright as it did on the day they last spoke. But behind that anger – and only sometimes – Finnick senses his brother's curiosity.
It's that small source of hope that keeps him plodding on.
With her slow, shaky movements and muddled speech, she's not fit to mentor anymore, but altruistic old Mags insists on accompanying Finnick to the Capitol for the 72nd Annual Hunger Games. On one hand, he's relieved that he'll have someone to talk to – someone who feels like home – but on the other, he worries about Mags' health and even more about leaving Annie alone in the Victor's Village. Before he left, she promised to visit Roscoe Roe every afternoon, who in turn promised to have a fresh catch of the day for Finnick's girl. Still, he worries about the nights. He worries that there won't be anyone there to turn off the television for her when they're broadcasting news of Finnick Odair's many Capitol flings for all of Panem to hear. He worries that she'll wake up alone.
On the evening of the tribute parade, all mentors watch the screens in the Training Center, gathered and reunited for the first time. Finnick spots Johanna's cropped brown hair across the room and feels an inexplicable sense of warmth, as if she's ever been any comfort to him at all. A strange itch propels him toward her.
He sneaks up behind her small stature and says into her ear, his voice a low purr, "Gorgeous, what would you say if I told you that you could have the desirable Finnick Odair all to yourself for one hot, passionate evening?"
With a bored expression, Johanna sizes him up over her shoulder. "I'd say find me someone with a smile less pretty, a chest less shiny, and an ego less puffed."
Finnick grins, stepping beside her. "The more the better, I say."
"Less is more, I say," she retorts. "What's it to you, Odair? Capitol broads not getting you up lately?"
He rolls his eyes at her uncanny ability to ruin a friendly moment. "Just wanted to say hello, actually."
"Well, hi," she replies, turning her attention back to the screen to catch her tributes emerge in the parade. Finnick watches with interest as she heaves a sigh, her eyes fluttering in annoyance. "Every god damn year," she tells him, pointing at the screen, "they give District 7 the same useless stylist who dresses the tributes as lumberjacks or trees. Every year!"
"They do look ridiculous," Finnick agrees, though his own tributes are dressed in equally bizarre costumes as scantily-clad mer-people.
"Who do I have to sleep with to get a new stylist for my tributes?" she demands. "You have all the connections; you tell me."
Finnick purses his lips. "Relax. At least you're not from District 12. Those tributes are always dressed as miners – or even worse, coal itself."
But Johanna's not convinced. She continues to rant, "These tribute parades completely bias the Capitol audience. Who would you sponsor, a sparkling diamond from District 1 or a dirt-brown tree with leaves growing from its ears?"
Amused, Finnick raises an eyebrow. "Do you really want to open the floor to the inequalities of the Games?"
"Someone should," she spits back. "But since you're too busy bending over for our dear president, I'll take my thoughts elsewhere."
At this jab, memories of former interactions with Johanna trickle into his conscious mind and he remembers her sharp tongue and its potential to do more harm than good.
"Great catching up, Jo," he says dryly as she steps away.
Over her shoulder, she adds, "Don't train your tributes too hard, Odair – they'll only be leaving the Arena in a box."
From anyone else's lips, those words would send his temper flaring – but Finnick has come to accept, and even appreciate, Johanna Mason and her tactless insensitivity. So he only shakes his head with a short laugh, turning to rejoin Mags amongst the mentors.
He spins around, coming face-to-face with Cashmere, the long-legged, stunning blonde beauty from District 1. If anyone receives close to as much evening company as Finnick Odair, it's her – he's sure of it, even though her cocked head and fiery eyes scream of danger.
Finnick mutters a quick hello and makes his way across the room to Mags, nodding to a few victors he recognizes: Chaff, the handless victor from District 11; Haymitch, the sole, drunken victor from 12 who stares bleakly at his frightened coal miner tributes on the screen; Beetee, the quiet and resourceful victor from 3 who's beaten in age only by Mags; and Cecilia, the gentle mother from 8 whose tributes are usually Bloodbath victims as they were nurtured by their mentor rather than trained.
For a moment, he meets the eye of Calix, a fairly young victor from District 6 who is either the happiest or the unhappiest to be there. It's always difficult to tell with morphling users, Finnick muses – their abused, emaciated bodies and sunken cheekbones tell a different story from the faraway look in their eyes.
If there's anyone he envies tonight, it's them.
Before the tributes are released into the Arena, Finnick dips outside for fresh air – as fresh as the hazy Capitol can get – and a walk around the Training Center to gather himself. No matter how many times he mentors and how much effort he invests into emotionally distancing himself from his tributes, he always catches himself overwhelmed with sadness as they say what he knows is their last goodbye.
Johanna joins him for the stroll, not nearly as torn as him but still fuming about the injustice, as usual.
"For someone who boasts a life of solitude, you seem to enjoy my company," Finnick remarks.
"Get over yourself," she brushes him off. "If there was so much as a snail not glued to the television screen, you'd be walking alone."
Finnick snorts.
"I just want to hear how that house is coming along."
He gives her an odd stare, unsure if she is genuinely interested or is simply distracting him from thoughts of the Arena. Either way, he appreciates the thought and begins to describe to her the construction process, the challenges faced, and his overall concept for the design of the modest, open house. Within minutes, he feels himself come to life, and it's like he's back in District 4 staring proudly at the fruits of his labour.
"And your lady love?" Johanna asks. "What does she think?"
"Annie?" Finnick gives her a half-smile, a pang twisting in his heart at the thought of his girl. He nods. "She loves it. She's always talking about ideas to decorate and how she'll arrange the furniture so it's facing the great, wide ocean. I think once I get her in there – once she feels like she has a real home again – everything will be so much better. She'll be… she might start to feel like herself again."
Johanna scoffs, staring at the ground as she walks. "If that's what you're aiming for, you might as well invent a time machine. Nobody ever feels like themselves again."
Silence hangs heavy between them as Johanna waits for a reply and Finnick lets her statement sink in. He doesn't have time to reply before they're approached on the street – mostly empty due to the launch of the Games – by a little Capitol girl, pink hair curled and coiffed. She can't be more than ten as she holds out the glossed pages of a magazine and asks them to sign. Their faces – the faces of past victors – stare glowingly back at them from the page.
"Mom!" she calls, looking over her shoulder as Finnick takes the pen and signs his name. "Mommy, it's them! It's Finnick and the one from District 7!"
Suppressing another snort, Finnick gives a snide glance to Johanna, who rolls her eyes and elbows him in the gut. Still, she begrudgingly signs the magazine after Finnick.
"Thank you," the girl says politely. As her mother approaches with another child in tow, she adds, "Happy Hunger Games!"
"Oh, thank you," the girl's mother repeats, gushing, "We were just on our way home to watch the launch – it's the most exciting part, of course, and it's the first year my youngest is old enough to enjoy the Games. It's really just coincidence and luck that we were here to bump into you!"
"Our pleasure," Finnick says on behalf of himself and Johanna, whose expression is fraught with boredom.
"To get her ready for the Games, we've been watching all of the best clips from the past few years," the mother continues, squeezing the hand of her youngest daughter who hides her face in her mother's fur coat. "We've just seen the both of your victories! Brilliant, just marvellous! That's why they're so excited to run into you!"
The older girl is undoubtedly thrilled, bouncing up and down with her magazine. The younger appears to be shy at first glance, but when her mother finally coaxes her to show her face and greet the victors, Finnick sees big, fat tears rolling down her cheeks.
With a slight frown, he bends to her level and asks, "Everything okay, sweetheart?"
The girl clings fearfully to her mother's cloak, shying away from Finnick as her face pales. As he reaches out to pat her shoulder, she whimpers and trembles.
Finnick straightens. Johanna watches with one eyebrow arched, thinking the family peculiar as all Capitol citizens are.
"I'm sorry," the woman apologizes, shaking her little one as if it will help. "She just doesn't quite understand yet."
She bids them good luck and ushers her daughters away, wishing them, as always, a happy Hunger Games.
While Johanna mutters bitterly beside him, Finnick turns to watch them cross the street, the youngest daughter openly wailing as she steals glances at him with her hand firmly grasping her mother's.
The woman was wrong, Finnick thinks. It's not that her little girl doesn't understand – if anything, it's that she understands all too well.
Since their first encounter, he'd always thought of himself and Johanna as complete opposites. After meeting the terrified girl not yet infected by the warped mindset of the Capitol, Finnick is reminded that he and Johanna are not so different, after all.
They are alike in their desire for triumph, their intrinsic need to fight for their lives despite all odds and obstacles, and the atrocities they committed to stand where they stand, as mentors and victors of the Hunger Games.
They are one in the same: cold. Violent. Soulless.
Murderers.
The Capitol throws grand parties during the Hunger Games, as if corrupted, slaughtered children are something to be celebrated. While it's not a requirement for mentors to attend, most do, as it's the best way to mingle with Capitol folk and garner sponsors for one's tributes.
The first time he attended a Capitol gala as a victor, Finnick knew no one. By the 72nd Annual Hunger Games, it frightens him how many faces he recognizes in the crowds and how many of those faces have whispered him drunken secrets in the dark.
"Okay, Prince Charming," Johanna says to him when she arrives, decorated by her stylist in a feminine yellow dress that makes her look most uncomfortable. "Point me in the direction of the Capitol gal with the most tortured past and leave it to me to work my magic for my tributes."
Amused, Finnick merely folds his arms across his chest and stares her up and down. "Johanna, sweetheart," he croons, "you look like an angry banana who'll explode when peeled."
She scowls. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Everyone knows you as ferocious," he points out. "What's with the dress?"
She punches him – hard – in the shoulder. Chuckling, he rubs the spot where he knows he'll develop a bruise as she replies, "I can be dainty. I can be upbeat. I haven't learned nothing from watching you prance around like a pony at a circus all these years."
Shaking his head at her antics, Finnick takes another look at the crowd. Bright, vivid colours, outlandish hairstyles and wildly designed clothing identify every Capitol citizen waiting to be talked up by a mentor. He can pick out a few mentors in the crowd as well – Cashmere and her soft, tousled blonde waves flirting with an older Capitol gentleman, Haymitch and Chaff drinking themselves to oblivion at the bar, Cecilia waiting patiently for a group of Capitol elites to give her the time of day. President Snow is also present in the crowd, and Finnick keeps a perpetual eye on his nemesis. He greets Gloss, Cashmere's brother, and Finnick can swear that with the subtle movements of Gloss's head, he's gesturing towards them across the room. Snow looks over for a brief second and catches his eye.
"Or should I be like Threadbare over there?" Johanna asks, interrupting his staring contest with the president. "Schmooze with the president, gush over how wonderful everything is here in the Capitol, and be set up by Snow himself with a most willing sponsor? It all seems too easy."
As his eyes sweep around the room at all the mentors making fools of themselves to keep their tributes alive, Finnick knows it's anything but easy. And once again, his eyes fall on Calix from District 6, who seems to have lost himself in the corner of the room – but it's a pleasant kind of loss accompanied by a dose of morphling, one that takes all the pain and suffering away.
"Good evening, Mr. Odair," Snow says. As his cold fingers wrap around Finnick's hand to shake, Finnick gets a most unwelcome whiff of his perfume-scented lapel. He can't help but cough, using his free hand to cover his mouth. Snow ignores him, continuing, "Are you enjoying the festivities?"
"I always do," Finnick replies dryly – he and Snow both know he's lying through his teeth.
"Excellent," Snow says, keeping up the charade. "And I trust all is well at home in District 4?"
Finnick resents the man even more for his cutting small-talk. "As well as well could be."
Snow nods. Beside him, Oslo Busby seems impatient to move on. Looking over his shoulder, Snow chuckles to himself and says, "Well, I can see I'm getting dirty looks from a number of women who are silently accusing me of monopolizing the attentions of a beloved victor. All these years, Mr. Odair, and you're still the crowd favourite. What is it about you that has so entranced such a wide variety of Capitol women?"
With his eyes locked on Snow's, Finnick answers, "They say it's my charm, sir. But I like to think it's because they're desperate for honesty, and they believe every word I say."
"Honesty," Snow muses, raising an eyebrow. "Very interesting. That reminds me, Mr. Odair: it's been brought to my attention that you've developed camaraderie with the girl from 7. Miss Mason, that is."
Finnick struggles not to show his surprise, but still has to frown. "All the mentors try to get along. We spend a lot of time together during the Games."
"As you should," Snow agrees. "However, it's fair to warn you of the possibility that the nature of your relationship with Miss Mason may soon bridge into dangerous territory."
"Dangerous territory, sir?"
"The girl's tongue is loose," Snow elaborates. "Loose with lies – treason, some might say. And that tongue may have to be stripped of her someday."
Finnick knows that Johanna's cut him deeply with that fiery tongue of hers, but still, the thought of her as an Avox causes him to wince with pain.
"There's a reason she has no one, Mr. Odair," Snow concludes. "No friends, no family. On the contrary, there's a reason you still have the fair Miss Annie. Not worth the risk, is it?"
Finnick glowers at Snow, gulping down his rage. It would be so easy, with only the stammering Oslo Busby standing guard, to snap the president's neck. He'd be taken down, of course, but not before catching a glimpse of Snow's lifeless, pathetic corpse.
But Snow's right: he has Annie, and it's not worth the risk.
"That being said, how is our darling Annie?" Snow asks, his eerie smile sending a shiver down Finnick's spine.
"She's fine," he says through gritted teeth, despising the sound of Annie's name from Snow's curled lips.
"Fabulous. Lately, I've been receiving good reports from that doctor of hers. Ablesworth, is it? Perhaps next year she can join us in the Capitol."
"She's not fit for it," is Finnick's quick reply.
"After all this time?" Snow asks, feigning shock. "Then perhaps she should be moved back to the Capitol as stipulated in our agreement. She'd receive better care here."
"She receives care at home," Finnick says firmly. "She needs to stay there, where she's stable."
"For now, Mr. Odair," Snow says mysteriously. "For now."
Johanna glares at him from across the ballroom. At first, Finnick attributes it to Snow's warning and is overwhelmed with guilt from ignoring her. However, when he begins to notice the sour glares of other mentors, he realizes it may have to do with the fact that he has one Capitol woman on each arm and a few more in tow and they're constantly surrounded by a circle of elites. No one is sure anymore whether the District 4 tributes receive sponsors based on their own merits or the beauty and charm of their mentor.
By Radman's instruction, he knows the woman he'll be bedding tonight – but he feels guilty about that, too, as he'll be more interested in her secrets than her purse strings for his tributes.
Seneca Crane, the Head Gamemaker, makes a brief appearance before being called back to the gamemakers' compound, and even he gives Finnick a wary, nervous glance – thinking back to the last time they spoke at Annie's Games, Finnick can't blame him.
And suddenly, standing in a crowded room surrounded by adoring admirers and wealthy elites, Finnick is entirely alone. From across the room, Snow flashes him a cruel, knowing smile, and he remembers that the president wants it this way.
He needs a breather.
Extricating himself from the women and slipping out unnoticed is no easy task, but Finnick soon slides out of the room and backs into the hallway where the coats are stacked.
When he turns around, he nearly jumps out of his skin – Calix is there, staring blankly amongst the coats, not at all perturbed by his presence.
"Sorry," Finnick breathes, "I didn't see you there."
Calix shrugs, looking more content than ever. And though his body is a thin and wiry wasteland and his heart must be working overtime, Finnick envies what remains of the man. He lives far away in the most secluded nooks of his own mind.
"Do you mind if I rest here for a couple of minutes?"
The morphling shakes his head.
Finnick mumbles his thanks and leans his head against the plush coats, breathing in and out for his own sanity. He watches as Calix produces a small white pill from his pocket, places it on the tip of his tongue and swallows it dry. The relief that floods his face is almost instant.
Finnick watches the man close his eyes in euphoria and then open them slowly. Itching with curiosity, he can't help but ask, "What does it feel like?"
Calix's eyes focus on him but do not seem to register the question.
"The morphling. What does it do?" he elaborates.
The man gives him a sad, lazy smile. "Takes it all away."
Finnick shakes his head in confusion. "How?"
The morphling licks his cracked lips, breathing in deeply. "It starts at your tongue," he says. "There's a soothing warmth – like sun felt through glass – and it slides down your throat and spreads from there. It coats every organ in a cloud and everything comes easier – standing, sleeping, breathing. You're weightless, floating away. And when it reaches your mind, it's the deepest relaxation, like everything you ever worried about was never really important at all."
Finnick gulps. "That sounds wonderful," he admits.
With eyes half-closed in relaxation, the man slides a hand in his pocket and produces another pill. He offers it to Finnick in the palm of his hand.
"Try it yourself," he says.
Finnick stares at the tiny pill in Calix's pale, veiny palm. He's never been more tempted to slip away from the world, to forget he ever had worries at all – even if it's just for one night…
"Mr. Odair – there you are!" exclaims a cheerful voice. Finnick jumps, spinning around in the hallway and using his frame to conceal Calix, who dumps the pill back into his pocket.
The man is no one Finnick recognizes, but he wears the sureness of a gamemaker on his face, as if he alone knows the victor of this year's Games.
"Plutarch Heavensbee," the man says, holding out his hand to shake. "Gamemaker."
Ah, thinks Finnick. Knew it.
He removes himself from the hallway of coats and shakes hands with Heavensbee, who's apparently delighted to cross his path. An Avox grabs Heavensbee's coat from the rack and holds out the vibrant garment while the man slides into it.
"Lovely to meet you, just lovely," Plutarch gushes. "The boy with the golden smile, they call you, and I can see why."
Finnick, who wasn't smiling at all, stares oddly at the plump man.
"How do you feel about the Games this year, my boy?" Heavensbee asks as they venture into the lobby. "Think the odds are in your – or should I say, your tributes' – favour?"
"Well," Finnick begins, the guilt over his forgotten tributes making him wish he'd popped the morphling pill when he had the chance, "they're strong and clever. If the odds aren't already in their favour, I have some leverage here in the Capitol I may be able to swing."
Heavensbee gives a hearty chuckle. "That's the spirit. You're good to your tributes, Odair; that's what I've always garnered from you. You really do care about them, don't you?"
Momentarily tongue-tied, Finnick shrugs with a charming smile. "If it's another victory for my district, I'll do everything I can."
The gamemaker appears unsatisfied with his answer, and his smile starts to fade.
Finnick adds quickly, with more honesty than charm, "They're good kids, all the ones I've mentored so far. Of course I'm rooting for them – they deserve to live."
Heavensbee nods slowly as they make their way towards the doors. With his hand on the knob, he checks both ways to ensure they're alone in the lobby and leans in to ask, "Can you keep a secret, Mr. Odair?"
Finnick has to chuckle – if only Heavensbee knew the crushing weight of secrets already resting on his shoulders. He replies, "Yes, sir."
"Between you and me," the gamemaker says, "I, too, believe they deserve to live." He backs away from Finnick and opens the door to let himself out. "Marvellous party," he announces, his voice rising. "And wonderful meeting you, Mr. Odair. I look forward to seeing you again soon."
He closes the door on his way out, leaving Finnick to mull over his confession with confusion and alarm.
Victorless, Finnick returns to District 4 and his team of builders resume working on the house by the ocean as if no time has passed in between. As a group of victors, they understand it's best to ignore that the Games happened at all – even the more brutal, pro-Capitol victors, like Jarvis. Finnick is grateful for it, as he dreads reliving his near-succumbing to the temptation of morphling, his isolation from the mentors, and the night after night in which he sold his body to the highest bidder while Annie slept alone.
Not even the peacekeepers mention the brief pause the Games brought on their building process, and they, too, pick up right where they left off: keeping a suffocating eye on the construction of the house in conjunction with the bylaws of the district. But Finnick is more careful. He sees the way Annie's eyes glimmer with delight when she visits and how she throws herself into little decorating projects with Mags. He won't risk anything anymore.
Until one afternoon when two peacekeepers patrol the surrounding area, determined as always to find fault with the project. One wanders up and down the road past the house and another stands one hundred yards inland, having roped a fairly young schoolgirl into conversation. It's not unheard of for peacekeepers to prey on younger girls – during his Capitol exploits, Finnick learned that in the poorer districts, some girls prostituted themselves to the guards to feed their families. But in District 4, one of the wealthier districts, the girls are harder to sway with promises of coin and must instead be tricked – or forced.
Using a pulley system with ropes, Annie sends a small basket of snacks up to Finnick and Qais, who work diligently on the roof. From their vantage point, they can see the peacekeeper across the way inching closer to the girl in conversation, brushing back her hair, caressing her waist.
"He'll get her," Qais says to Finnick as he grabs an apple from the basket. "Dirty bastard. No way she's more than fifteen."
Finnick shivers at the thought of Annie being so close to the corrupt Capitol men. Not so long ago, she was fifteen herself. The thought of her being preyed upon causes his stomach to flip uneasily.
Grabbing a roll from the basket, Finnick takes a bite and jokes, "Someone should throw something at him."
To his horror, Qais takes him up on his offer. He brings his arm back and hurls the apple across the beaten path, straight to the unassuming head of the peacekeeper.
The other peacekeeper, wandering up and down the path, springs to action at this assault. Whether or not he realizes it's just an apple, he removes what appears to be a gun from the holster on his back and points it directly at Qais. He's so stealthy about it that everyone is still looking at the first peacekeeper for his reaction – Finnick only catches a quick glimpse of him before he shoots.
There's no time for warnings. With the ghost of a laugh on his lips, Qais is hit in the calf, and the momentum – or the pain – is enough to knock him backwards off the scaffolding. Finnick tries to grab him, but he can't manoeuvre quickly enough across the shell of the roof. There's a scream – Annie's scream – as Qais drops fifteen feet to the ground.
And then everything seems to happen at once. Annie rushes to his aid, followed closely by Jarvis and the other contributing victors. The first peacekeeper abandons his schoolgirl and begins to march across the street, thirsty for revenge. The second relaxes his weapon but is about to be approached by an incensed Roscoe Roe. Finnick shuffles along the ledge of the roof and climbs down the scaffolding, trying to decide what is more important: Qais, who lies unconscious on the ground; Annie, who's overwhelmed by the activity and, though she struggles to remain calm and be a help to the wounded victor, takes deep breaths and squeezes her eyes shut over and over; or Roscoe, who is about to tell off the peacekeepers and get himself killed.
By the time he jumps to the ground, Finnick's mind is made up. He takes off at a run after Roscoe, hoping he's not too late.
Even with all the commotion behind them, Roscoe's voice rings out clearly. "Damn scoundrels!" he calls out, shaking his fist at the peacekeeper who shot Qais. "Dirty, good-for-nothing, money-hungry, rotten—"
"Roscoe!" Finnick shouts, alarmed at the rage building in the peacekeeper's eyes.
But that doesn't stop the old fishmonger. "—couldn't see a real threat if it punched you in the throat, mindless, thoughtless, heartless—"
The peacekeeper scorned by an apple strides by, intent on causing damage.
"Wait!" Finnick says helplessly, but he's shrugged off by the peacekeeper who forges ahead. He's longing to take off after him, but he has to assume that Jarvis or another big-boned victor will be able to calm him down on-site.
Finnick turns his attentions back to Roscoe and the second peacekeeper.
"—spending all your resources on a damn house being built rather than patrolling the district for real crime, Snow's sure lucky to have a group of fools like you—"
That does it. The peacekeeper lifts the butt of his gun and is about to bring it crashing down on Roscoe's head. Finnick lunges forward and grabs hold of the weapon before it can make contact, knocking Roscoe out of the way to the dusty ground. Face-to-face with the peacekeeper with both of their hands on the weapon, Finnick knows apologies are his best bet, no matter how insincere.
"Look, he didn't—" Finnick begins to say. He's cut off by the man's fist connecting with his cheekbone. He staggers backwards, nearly tripping over Roscoe's body from the blow.
"Who are you to talk that way to me?" the peacekeeper demands.
Once Finnick steadies himself, his blood is bubbling with fury. He charges at the peacekeeper with renewed strength, ripping the weapon right from his hands and throwing it to the ground. The peacekeeper wears armour but his neck is unprotected, and that's exactly where Finnick's hands are reaching. They struggle and scuffle with one another as Roscoe mutters bitterly on the ground, and suddenly, the air is pierced with another scream.
Both the victor and the peacekeeper pause to examine the scene behind them. Finnick's heart stops; he blinks to do a double-take.
The house is ablaze. In his infinite fury, the other peacekeeper set it on fire.
There's screaming and yelling as the flames lick the baseboards, rising slowly up the walls. A group begins to carry the unconscious Qais out of the burning house. Another group rushes down the beach for water to quell the flames.
No one thinks to apprehend the peacekeeper. When it comes to fighting back, even a group of victors are paralyzed with helplessness.
But Finnick's spirit, though bent and misshapen, has not yet been entirely crushed by the Capitol. And as soon as he catches sight of Annie amidst the chaos, fallen to her knees and dragged away by the peacekeeper with her eyes squeezed shut and hands blocking her ears, his determination to overthrow the powerful surges in his chest.
Leaving the second peacekeeper behind, he jets across the pathway without a second thought, grimacing at the searing embers that land on his skin. The guard turns as he approaches, hauling Annie to her feet and ignoring the flames that inch closer and closer. Finnick has every intention of breaking his neck, but when the guard holds his gun to Annie's temple, he stops dead in his tracks.
With skinned knees and ashen streaks on her face, Annie keeps her hands over her ears and pleads tearfully, "Don't make me go back in there, I won't go, don't take me there!"
Finnick holds up his hands so as not to provoke the guard, but still orders him to let her go.
The peacekeeper is amused by the situation, cocking his head with a nasty smile. "Think you can always have your own way, Odair?" he yells over the commotion. "Think everyone in Panem lives to kiss the ground you walk on?"
"She didn't have anything to do with this," Finnick says as evenly as he can. "You can let her go."
"'Give me a reason,' Snow said to us," recites the peacekeeper. "'You prove she's insane, she comes back to the Capitol. Odair agreed to it himself,' Snow said."
"My name is Annie Cresta," Annie says loudly to herself. "I live in District 4. I grew up with the sand and the waves and the sun."
"And what's this?" the peacekeeper asks, giving Annie a shake as if to prove a point. "She's barking mad!"
"You're hurting her!" Finnick cries, his own body jolting every time the peacekeeper jerks on Annie's hair.
"This house is a safety hazard!" the peacekeeper shouts as the flames slink closer. "And your girl is about to be locked away in the asylum where she belongs."
Finnick chokes on the smoke, haze clouding his mind as he tries to think on his feet. Before he can act, there's a blow to the back of his head and he tumbles to his knees. The pain is blinding, the blackness enveloping him and threatening to pull him under. He reaches a hand around his neck and pulls it away – his fingers are sticky and warm, slick with his own blood.
The second peacekeeper has returned to continue where they left off.
His head hangs low and he opens his eyes to stars. Black boots march around his body. The peacekeeper yanks his head up by his hair and delivers another swift punch.
He falls backward into the dirt, red spitting from his mouth. His vision is no longer in focus.
Flames. Blood. Smoke.
Annie's voice. "Don't hurt him!"
Pain. Scorching, biting pain.
He's yanked by his hair again. His eyes meet the blackened orbs of the bloodthirsty peacekeeper. He winds up his fist, ready for another strike.
"Been a long time coming, Odair," he hisses.
Annie screams. "No!"
He waits for the hit. He hears the impact but feels nothing. Is he dreaming? Dead?
Opening his bleary eyes, the body of the peacekeeper lays in front of him. He stares, confused. What hell is this?
A rough, edgy voice. "There's more of us'n there are of you. Leave the girl and take your friend."
Just as Annie's thrown in their direction like a rag-doll, Finnick lifts his eyes. Above the unconscious body of the peacekeeper is Roscoe Roe, his mouth set in a hard line as he holds the peacekeeper's previously discarded weapon.
And as the standing peacekeeper shakes his partner to life and half-drags him away with grunts and curses, Roscoe mutters grumpily under his breath, "Hate them damned Capitol mutt bastards."
Half of the house is charred. Qais is delivered to the medical center to be treated for a gunshot wound in the leg and a drop from the second storey. Elsie's husband follows with third-degree burns from dousing the flames with water. Finnick has a concussion, a bruised cheek and a long, thin strip of bandage wrapped around his forehead that applies pressure to the wound on the back of his head, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care about any of it, not even if the peacekeepers report the events to Snow and he has to pay for it later with his own blood.
All he cares about is what he put Annie through, and watching her repeat her mantra to herself with deep breaths ("I am Annie Cresta, I live in District 4…") as Mags patches up her skinned knees fills him with grief. The incident has set her back months; he's sure of it, and he hates himself for being unable to prevent it. He's filled with such guilt and self-loathing that he's on the verge of tears when she takes his hand and asks him if he's ready to go home with her.
"Be gentle with her," Mags tells him in so many garbled words. "The best thing for her is comfort."
So when her eyes turn vacant and she drops from reality into nothingness, he holds her close and whispers familiarities in her ear. His weary voice breaks here and there, certain it's going to be a long night, but he's surprised to feel her trembling again, back to the present with just his soothing voice.
He expects to sleep in the chair again, but she waits for him in bed, clinging to him as he pulls the blankets over their bodies. She regards him with tenderness, gently grazing his purple cheek with her fingers. He turns his head slightly and kisses the palm of her hand to assure her that he's okay.
Sorrow rests in her sea green eyes.
"Finn?"
"Yes, Annie?"
With her hand still cupping his cheek, she thoughtfully traces his lower lip with her thumb. Such sweet sadness spills from her mouth as she says, "He called me mad today."
Finnick's lips part, but no words come. "I know," he finally admits. "I could have killed him. I know you hate when I say those things, but it's true."
She blinks. "Am I? Am I mad?"
He pauses, certain he can hear his own heart as it shatters for her.
"I'm mad," she states, looking to him for answers. "Real or not real?"
He promised her so long ago that he'd always be here to tell the truth.
"No, you're not mad," he murmurs, and his ears ring with her screams from earlier that day.
Annie lets her hand fall from his cheek and holds it to her chest. "What if I am?" she asks. Lowering her eyes, she recounts, "Sometimes I still hear the trees whispering to me. They tell me not to trust you; that you want me dead. When I dream, I dream of Mace, and when I wake I'm so sure, for the first few moments, that you're here to take me, too."
Finnick closes his eyes, her words paining him more than the blows to his skull.
"But you've never hurt me," she concludes. "Not once."
He runs a hand through her hair and rests his forehead against hers.
"If I'm not mad, then when will the screaming stop?" she asks him innocently, her voice a whisper. "All I hear is screaming."
His eyes open. He hears the screaming, too. Even in Annie's arms, it plagues him every night.
"The Arena took a piece of you," he tells her. "It took a piece of all of us. If you're mad, I'm mad. We're all mad."
Her eyes pool with tears. "But he only said me." She squeezes her eyes shut as a tear slips out. "What did they do to me, Finn? Who did they make me become?"
With resolve, he hugs her tightly, kissing her wet eyelids. "You listen," he tells her, looking deep into those sea green eyes. "It changes all of us, being in there. You're better than the rest of us and that's why it's affected you the most. But I think you're perfect. You help me every day. You don't belong in a safe house; you belong in a little house by the sea. You belong with me."
"And I want to stay with you," she says.
"You will," he assures her. "I won't let them take you."
"What if they take you?" Annie asks worriedly, gripping his shirt in her fist. "What if they take you away to the Capitol?"
"I'll come back," he says. In theory, it's all so easy – but one flashback to Snow's snakelike eyes is all he needs to know it will never be easy.
"There are all those Capitol women," Annie muses. "With their funny hair and skin. They look at you like you're a toy. Will you leave me for them?"
"I'm never gonna leave you," he promises, kissing her forehead.
"What if there's someone else?"
Finnick pulls back and studies her with a frown, smoothing her tangled hair behind her ear. In her eyes there rests genuine concern.
He kisses her gently on the lips and promises her one last truth: "I'll never love another."
She holds his gaze, and when he does not falter, she nods her belief in his words, nestling comfortably into the crook of his neck.
"Finn?"
"Yes, Annie?"
"Say that to me when I wake up screaming," she murmurs against his throat, "and I'll come back to you."
Happy Sunday! You guys are awesome and I feel very lucky that you're giving my story a chance. That is all.