I'm just re-reading CF and MJ now so I'm trying to get details as accurate as I can =)

Finnick POV

I kiss her neck and smirk. It's disgusting, but… I'm paid well for it. By well, I mean in.. secrets. About the Capitol, and the Districts – murder, power, treachery, lies. I realized soon after Annie had won that I didn't need the money anymore. Both of us were filthy rich, and since we're provided with free homes and food already.. I thought secrets were more suited to my tastes. At least, they'd assist me in getting down Snow's throat, eventually. I've learned.. a lot, to say the least. I only 'provide' for those in the highest power. Nobody rats me out to Snow because, after all, I'm their 'lover'. I'll come back to them, eventually… please.

"Anything you need to tell me?" I purr seductively. The woman gasps and I stare at my wedding ring. Annie doesn't know. She doesn't know about the secrets. She thinks I'm paid in cash; and she doesn't goad me about it, anyway. I haven't told her because it will only result in her harm. Knowing government secrets is risky enough for the most beloved man in Panem; I don't want her under fire for my decisions. The woman starts to whisper. She's trying to make her voice low and sexy, but it only makes her sound all the more ridiculous. When will these hags realize they're not attractive? Someone natural is so much more appealing.. the only way this is bearable is to drift off when they.. use me. Sometimes I imagine I'm with Annie, other times I imagine I'm back in District 4, swimming or something. Anything but this. "District 8.. District 3.. District 4.. are rebelling against us! They've already staged revolts! That Katniss girl started this! The others are following," She whispers, her voice thick with distaste.

That's all I need. I roll out of her bed, throw my clothes on and I'm out the door before she can protest. District 4 is… revolting? How was I not told? Well.. I'm one of the most famous victors to have ever lived. I'm supposedly friends with Snow, and I have many 'lovers' in the Capitol. I suppose those in charge of the rebellion would assume I'd transport top secret information to Snow. Still. It wouldn't take a genius to figure out the start of the rebellion, yet I'm still in the dark. I will be a part of this rebellion. I will help over-throw the Capitol. As I head back to the Tribute Building, I stop in the lobby. I need someone that will fill me in. There's only a few hours until the Chariot rides start, and I'm not wasting any time.

I spot Haymitch, talking with Chaff, a victor-tribute in the Games this year. They're enjoying liquor together, but I don't have time for a chat. Haymitch is the best choice. He's the mentor of Katniss and Peeta, and he seems like he generally dislikes the Capitol. I won't be getting in trouble for this. "Haymitch." My voice is smooth, and cold. He looks up at me curiously, a bit of surprise in his eyes. "May I talk to you?" He nods and follows me. We need to go somewhere it's absolutely positive we're not being tracked… we walk to a busy bar a few blocks away from the building and head inside. No one stops when they see us, most are too drunk to notice. This is a safe bet, and since most of the occupants are shrieking and singing drinking songs we won't be easily heard. Then again, what the Capitol can do is immeasurable..

I make my voice as low as possible. "The Rebellion. Tell me what you know." He looks suspicious and distrustful. I laugh, shortly. "I want the Capitol thrown down just as much as you do. You really think I'm spying for Snow? He forces me into prostitution. He's not my buddy," Haymitch looks surprised, but I've convinced him. "Look, you can't tell anyone.. the plan is still under the works. Nothing is permanent yet. I'll tell you more as soon as I can," He looks around warily, but goes on. "District 13 exists, as you probably know," I nod. I had always had the suspicion that the destruction was exaggerated, and I was proved right a long while ago. "They're going to try to break victors out of the Games as soon as they can; get you to District 13. It'll have to be a convenient time, and it'll have to be carefully planned. Of course, some will have to die before they can follow through. But it'll definitely be war against the Capitol by then," I don't ask for more information. My jaw literally drops open but I close it before anyone stares at me. Haymitch looks at me meaningfully. "We'll meet for more details, soon."

oooo

Annie's face is identical to mine. We're both shocked. I took her to the same bar that Haymitch and I were in only an hour earlier and broke the news. Normally, I wouldn't tell her. But how can I not? Her breathing slows and her green eyes become wide. "Oh, Finnick, I don't know.. I don't know if I'm ready.. this will change everything. Our lives. The Capitol will be at war.. nothing will be safe. And you, that Katniss girl, you'll be some of their biggest targets," Her eyes reflect worry, but also, a strange bit of longing. It's a chance. A chance that the Capitol will fall. That we will be free. It'll take war, suffering; but if that means that children will no longer be sent to death.. it's worth it.

"District 13 exists. We'll be transported there," I whisper, and I help her up before she can react. It's time to get back for the Chariots. She wants to speak to me, but I brush my hand against her lips and we walk back separately. As I walk back into the Tribute building, I'm met with a team of furious stylists. I flash them a grin, however, and they practically swoon before forgiving me. They're the exact same team I had ten years ago, and have had since; and all are unchanged apart from more obvious, pitiful plastic surgery intended to enhance their appearance. They gush over me, but it's over-played and exaggerated. They're attached to me, and however naïve they are, they know I don't deserve this. We sit in silence for an hour; I'm forced to take extra special care of myself due to my… situation, so there's next to nothing to perfect. Sparkles the color of my eyes are glued onto my body, my hair is fluffed out and styled, and intricate, colorful sea-based tattoos are drawn onto my body.

My stylist bounces in, a ridiculous, forced, cheery expression on his face. "Mr. Odair!" He's not the same stylist that dressed me for my win; he's only worked with me for a few years. I'm slightly touched – if even Capitol citizens are pained over this Games, then maybe it'll be stopped… and maybe pigs will fly. Not even those Snow lives to please can smother his cruel ambition. At least, though, if I die – I'll be remembered. Mention of my name may be forbidden publicly, but I'll always be in the heads of Capitol citizens. Maybe, one day, Snow will finally feel guilt. He'll finally realize what he's done. He'll finally realize that he's killed innocent children. Children..

I start to cry. Tears spill down my face, and my clenched hands grasp the sides of the cold, metal chair I'm sitting in. How can the world be like this? How? I put myself in the place of a parent. A sibling.

Just imagine. Watching a knife mangle the body of your child. Your sister. Your brother. Watching the light slowly fade from their eyes. Watching the terror and horror etched in their expression, the few desperate tears that stream down their suddenly childlike face. You can do nothing. You can only watch the television, grip it, and somehow wish you could be transported there. To take the pain for them. You have no power as they take their last strained breaths. You can only watch, as miles away, the person tied so deeply to you – the person you've raised or been raised with, taught, and cared for – the person that is one of the largest pieces of you – is reduced to nothing.

My nails are bloody, broken. I try to push my thoughts away. I think of Annie, the ocean, and District 4. But the emotions I've been hiding – the things I avoid thinking about – have already been unleashed.

What if I had died in the Hunger Games? I try to imagine it. To my surprise.. it's easy.

I imagine the pain swallowing me. The smell of blood. The feeling of defeat. What must it feel like? To know your life is over? To know that you will never see your family again? To know that you've failed, and to know that thousands of indifferent people are watching your murder. They don't really care, they're just happy it's not them. I can't imagine the anger and sadness that must swirl around you when you know you're dying too soon. The regret. The absolute desperation, panic and all around depression. I'm sure the mental despair overpowers the physical despair.

Nobody remembers the bloodbath tributes from the 43rd Games. Nobody remembers the tribute that came in 5th place in the 18th Games. And so on, and so on. After a while, even their families forget about them. They deal with grief by putting it away. If they don't forget their child's voice, their child's personality, and memories of their child they will slowly seep into insanity. It's like putting make up over an infected, open wound to hide it. It's injustice. A tribute's sacrifice – for entertainment – is not acknowledged. They are a statistic. They are forgotten.

How can human life be this worthless? How has society become this ruined? Everyone, in our world, has to live in fear and the majority live in poverty. How much longer will these Games go on? Hundreds of years? Thousands of years? Will someone finally realize what a mistake this is? Or will people just stop having children, eventually, just to end the suffering and pain?

I'm condemned. I will never be able to have happiness, if I even live past these Games. I will never be able to live with the one I love. If I have a child, he or she will automatically be thrown into the Games. My life, too, is worthless. This world is a never ending cycle of decay and suffering.

I punch the fancy, engraved mirror in front of me. It shatters instantly, lodging glass in my already bloody hands. Containers of make-up stashed on the shelf above it begin to fall, staining the glass that still remains intact with shreds of color. Powder and cream explodes out of tiny glass vials as they hit the steel floor. My stylist is backed up the wall, hunched in terror, his hands shaking. I forcefully throw a container of glitter across the room, and it hits a wall. It shatters and sparkles fall out and begin to dust the floor. I stomp out of the room, clothed in nothing more than a skimpy robe. My skin is stained with blood and various colors of paints and powders. My hands and feet are cut with glass, but I don't care. My actions were petty, and they weren't against my stylist. I know by the end of the day Snow will have heard what I did. He'll know it's an indirect attack against him, and that alone satisfies me.

I'm not sure what I'm doing. I wonder what would happen if I refused to go to the chariots – I suppose I'd either be shot or forcefully dragged there. Let me see them try… Tears are still streaming down my face as I make my way to the District 4 floor. My escort gapes at me as I exit the elevator. I don't attempt to hide my tears – as childish as crying may seem – as I walk to my room. I sit down on my bed and thoughts of the Hunger Games hijack my brain. My body tenses as my door opens. Capitol officials? Snow himself?

Annie. I stare at her. Her eyes display shock, but she says nothing. "Finnick." She whispers. She holds out her arms and I willingly fall into them. My tears have stopped, though my depression still lingers. "I'm sorry, Finnick, I'm so sorry." She strokes my hair for a few moments and then leaves. I want to call out to her, but I'm too emotionally exhausted to even utter her name. She goes into the bathroom and comes out quickly, bandages and a needle in her hand. She pulls out all the glass stuck in my body, and gently cleanses each sore spot afterwards. My head falls onto her chest as she works on my hands, but we're silent. She takes a thread and stitches up my wounds impressively, before tightening a bandage around each. It's painful, but my body is numb.

She leads me to the bathroom. "I'm not sure.. do I want to know what you did, Finn?" She smiles and stares at the makeup. "Whatever it was, I hope it pissed the Capitol off." I recount the story to her – I leave my thoughts and what provoked me out, but chances are she already guessed them. She laughs at my stylist's reaction. "Why, I guess I'll have to be your stylist then, Mr. Odair!" She drapes a neon towel around her head to mimic the obsessively bright stylists and pouts her lips. I slip my robe off, having no choice but to jump in the shower to clean the array of colors. Annie turns away from me, her face red, her arms crossed. "You think you'd be used to how amazing I am by now." I tease. "Finnick..! Chariots are in a few hours. And I'm your stylist. Get in the shower. Now."

"Fine." I sulk. Strangely, my mood has improved, already. I decide, if I get out of the arena, I will dedicate a portion of my live to remembering. To paying respects to those who have died. Wherever their souls are, I hope they can sense that someone knows, and someone cares. I'll also spend my life trying to get rid of the Hunger Games, if this rebellion fails. They need justice, the victims and the families. Crying won't help them, though I know it's beyond my power not to feel sadness.

I pretend to jump in the shower, but quietly tip-toe until I'm behind Annie. She's about to turn around when I wrap my arms around her shoulders. I lift her up and she shrieks as I carry her towards the shower. "FINNICK! My clothes..!" I jump in with her and I start pressing random buttons on the small shower controller. Within two minutes, we're completely soaked and covered in a red, rosy-colored liquid soap. Lime green foam joins us and both of us slip. We start snorting, and as I try to help her up she purposely pulls me under again. "Ha!" We end up having to scrape the foam off of our bodies, and Annie tries to glare at me but fails.

As we finally jump out of the shower, we have to laugh at our difference in appearance. My skin is glowing, the bandages still perfectly secure over my stitches. Red blotches surround Annie's face and body, and her skin is pink and irritated from scrubbing off the foam. Her elegant Capitol clothes – a few layers – cling to her body and spray water all over the floor. The eye make-up her stylist must've forced on her drips down her face – like she's crying blood. I gently wipe the red from her face and she scowls at me. She glances at the time displayed on a small, silver clock above the sink. "Finnick! The Chariots are in less than an hour – how have they not come for us yet?"

We snicker as we run from the bathroom.

oooo

I try to appear cool and collected as I make my way to the Chariots. The chariots are situated in a large stable, and clean horse stalls are lined up in the back of the room. Tributes stare at me, and I pretend not to notice their steely gazes. Annie tried her best to cover up my stitches with make-up, and it worked, mainly. My stylist was too petrified to come after me, again – so he gave Annie the outfit and she was forced to make me wear it, and make sure it was perfectly set and straight.. I smile in amusement when I think of her blushes. A golden net is weaved over my private area, though it comes close to be being too revealing. It's completely plain – I probably could've made it myself, back home. My chest and legs are bare. I was given a golden trident to hold, a replica of the one that won me my Games. Diamonds, shells and seaweed wreath it. Mags is wearing a flowy, long-sleeve, green dress that covers her entire body. Shells and jewels are glued on, and small sections of brown net are draped over her shoulders. She's wearing jewelry in every place possible: brooches on her dress, bracelets, anklets, earrings, necklaces and shimmering hair-pieces. Her hair is longer, curled and dyed a bronze red, replacing the white I know; and her stylist forced her to wear high heels, hidden in the folds of her dress. She's wearing a ridiculous amount of makeup. They've desperately tried to make her look younger, and it hasn't worked. As I glance around the room, I can tell this is the strategy for many stylists. All have had the same results as Mags.

Time to play up your.. seductive role, Finnick. I spot a bowl of sugar cubes towards the edge of the stalls. I go to it and slip a few into my hand. I chew one gently as I look around the room. How many of us will be alive for the break from the arena? If the plan is even successful? I stroll slowly towards the chariots from 1 and 2, flexing my muscles. I wink at Cashmere, and she glares at me, though I see her eyeing my outfit. Enobaria, Brutus and Gloss stare at me coldly. I make a few more rounds, flirting with tributes and stylists alike. It's easy to put up a mask when I make myself indifferent. That's when I spot her. Katniss Everdeen. Her outfit's stunning. It looks like glowing coals have been spread over her body. A big change from the aura she's been giving off lately – innocent. Girly. Weak. The chance to talk to her, the Mockingjay, is too much to resist. I saunter over to her. I move extremely close to her and shove a sugar cube in my mouth. She turns toward me and her eyes widen in surprise for a moment before the uncaring look returns. An act. Like me. "Hello, Katniss," I say, smoothly.

Katniss Everdeen. She was perfect: she volunteered for her sister, got an 11 in training, and was intriguing as a girl supposedly in love. Peeta did a lot to protect her in the arena; yet she didn't look for him until the announcement was made: two tributes could win. That shocked me. Countless love stories have been spread over Hunger Games'; yet none had resulted in that. Combine their 'unconditional' love with Katniss' skill, mystery and family devotion and Peeta's friendly personality, and you have the perfect love story. Ultimately I assumed Cato or Clove were going to be winners after the announcement was made, though I was absolutely positive the announcement was too good to be true. It was. Katniss and Peeta pulled the berry stunt, and now it's almost obvious that Snow wants Katniss' throat. She's at fault. She's the reason the Games are taking place. But I know that that's not true. Snow is the reason the Games are taking place. The boiling rebellion is the reason the Games are taking place.

Could I beat her? I looked her up and down. She had trained since she had won the Games, that much was obvious. She was amazing with a bow, but if needed, I could take her down easily. I'm stronger than her. She almost died multiple times in her Games – if Clove had decided to kill her quickly during the Feast, or if that knife hadn't missed and hit her backpack the day of the Bloodbath, among other things, she wouldn't be here. Luck was certainly on her side during the Games. She doesn't have the mindset of a killer, of a Career. She doesn't kill willingly. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for me. I'll kill to get out of the arena. Katniss' the heart of the rebellion, and she'd be a decent ally. And I like her spirit, as everyone does. I'll do my best to protect her in the arena – she's vital to the plan, which is vital to the downfall of the Capitol. But if it comes down to the two of us, I will kill her.

"Hello, Finnick," She says, fidgeting uncomfortably. I fight the urge to laugh, and decide to milk this for all it's worth. She's discreetly angelic and pure – so unlike other victors. "Want a sugar cube?" I open my hand. "They're supposed to be for the horses, but who cares? They've got years to eat sugar cubes, whereas you and I… well, if we see something sweet, we better grab it quick." I can tell she wasn't anticipating this conversation. "No, thanks. I'd love to borrow your outfit sometime, though." I'm taken off guard by her response. I smirk slightly and lick my lips lightly. "You're absolutely terrifying me in that getup. Whatever happened to the pretty little girl dresses?" It's true. Girl on Fire is fitting for this outfit; Girl in Love has been her stylist's aim for the past few months. I'm used to seeing her in billowy dresses that completely hide any curves she may have, all in soft colors. It makes the love.. act? more believable. She looks unbeatable and powerful in this outfit. Certainly not childish and naïve. "I outgrew them." She speaks with confidence. I touch the glowing coals of her outfit. They're only slightly warm, nothing else.

She's beautiful, in an exotic kind of way. I'm curious. Has Snow made her sell her body..? I rack my brain desperately for a way to imply it without out-right asking her. Perhaps, since she has Peeta, he would not; but he could easily make it so absolutely no one spilled anything. Plus, it'd be even more exciting for customers to know they have something they shouldn't have. "It's too bad about this Quell thing. You could have made out like a bandit in the Capitol. Jewels, money, anything you wanted." I don't think she quite understands what I'm trying to say – perhaps she doesn't even know victors are used. I can tell she knows about my 'lovers', but she thinks I do it willingly. Out of choice, and for the pay. "I don't like jewels, and I have more money than I need. What do you spend all yours on, anyway, Finnick?" So Snow doesn't use her. I'm slightly relieved – she doesn't deserve it – and at the same time jealous. "Oh, I haven't dealt with anything as common as money for years," It's the truth – I don't really care if she knows it. "Then how do they pay you for the pleasure of your company?" I frown.. is it a safe idea to tell her? Then I realize she has more of a target on her head than I do on mine, and she's more trustworthy than any of the other tributes. "With secrets," I whisper, and lean in towards her. "What about you, girl on fire? Do you have any secrets worth my time?" I'm curious about the rebellion. This is my way of asking, and if I have to seduce her to get more information, I will. I want to know everything. Everything about the plans to start a war and take down Snow.

But if she knows, she keeps silent. "No, I'm an open book. Everyone seems to know my secrets before I do." She mutters. I'm disappointed; Haymitch only seems willing to provide the bare minimum. I don't care if it's safer that way. Her words are true, however. I feel pity for the girl on fire. I smile, a hint of sadness tainting it. "Unfortunately, I think that's true." Peeta's making his way towards us, a curious expression on his face, a hint of jealousy marring it, if I'm not mistaken. "Peeta is coming. Sorry you have to cancel your wedding. I know how devastating that must be for you." My words drip with sweetness. At least they were getting a wedding, and I highly doubt they love each other in that way. It takes time. Everybody knows about Katniss'.. cousin. But as I look at them, I can see a bit of affection and caring in her eyes as they talk, though she doesn't seem to notice it herself.

I reflect over my conversation with the Mockingjay. I know now she is absolutely necessary for the rebellion – she is necessary for Annie, and possibly I, to be free. As tempting as it is to go off on my own, I want to be allies with her. I can't kill her if it comes down to it. I want to protect her.. and Peeta, it seems. If the rebellion is successful, everyone will be free. Katniss is the spark, the match necessary to keep the Rebellion alive. And I will make sure that that spark does not fade.