This is a flashback thing, as I said in the last chapter. This chapter deals with Finnick's 'work.' I don't go into any detail about the actual situation (this is mostly just what happens before and the telling of the secret), but it is alluded to in a couple of sentences (he calls it 'work', 'service', etc). If you don't want to read this for content reasons, it won't affect the next chapters. Just putting this out there so you know what this is.
I took the midnight train to the Capitol for two reasons. Reason number one – no one would know I was gone and I didn't want them to know. Reason number two – according to my clients, being fashionably late is my trademark. I call it I don't want to be there anyway, so I try to cut down on the time.
Once I arrive in the Capitol by the empty train, I have to head to the hotel. There is only one very small hotel in the Capitol because they really have no reason for it, except to accommodate people in my position and the occasional district governor who has to come do business here. That hasn't happened for twenty years.
I head down the hallways slowly, my hands in my pockets. It's a dingy place. The sign from outside is probably the only one that doesn't flash neon colors and shoot fireworks off every thirty minutes. The carpets are an ugly red color underneath all the splotches of wine and other things I don't even want to know about. They probably have a rat problem too, but no one would ever let that information leak. The elevator is broken, so I have to walk up three flights of stairs, dreading every step.
Thirty minutes. Three of which I've wasted because of the trademark. Thirty minutes, twice a month, to protect my family, friends, and Annie. One hour. That's what I give for protection to everyone else. Not me. I do this to protect others. Cashmere slides down the stairs, past me, applying a fresh coat of thick red lipstick.
Neither of us say a word. We don't mention these things, not ever. No matter who you see waiting outside, in the room next door, entering the hotel, in the staircase, you never mention it, not ever, to anyone. The first time this happened I was terrified to come into the Capitol for the Games next year. No one even said anything, but I think Johanna knew something was up, because she pulled me out into the hallway and said something I'll never forget.
"Finnick, every single one of us has something going on. It could be drugs, it could be what you do. Some of these people are here every week. Quit freaking out like someone is going to say anything. We do have certain amounts of respect."
She entered back into the room and I stayed out in the hallway for a little while I composed myself enough to go back inside. Ever since, when I see a new victor, I fear for them more than in the arena. Sometimes, it's worse outside. When Rosie died, I was a tad bit relieved. I knew if she won, she would be in the same line of work. She saved herself from that by dying in the arena.
It feels like little pieces of me, internally, are dying every time I go up these stairs. I take a deep breath, shake my hair out like I was requested to, and entered into the dimly lit hallway. Friday nights certainly were popular around here. It was always a Friday when I got called up and then my entire weekend would be ruined. By Monday, I tended to have suppressed the memory enough to wake up, go to work, and try to conduct a somewhat normal life.
There was a scream from one of the rooms, not a sexy sounding thing. Someone was probably getting murdered or suffering from poison. Either way, I would probably find out by the end of the night.
I met the woman outside of room 323. Like normal Capitol citizens, she dressed up for the occasion. The top half of her hair was a bright pink, the bottom a creamsicle orange. Her eyelashes had to be fake and they were coated in an orange color that matched her hair. Her dress was what would be called a 'cupcake' with pink and white lining at the bottom. I didn't bother to learn her name. It was best to avoid those things in these situations. Names make people relatable. She pulled a thick stack of cash out of her pocket in the dress. I pushed it aside.
"I don't accept cash as a form of payment," I tell her. When she speaks to me, I can feel the alcohol heavy on her breath.
"Then how can I pay you?" She breathes. Capitol citizens have a funny accent, kind of thick and guttural. It sounds terrible when they are drunk.
"All I want from you is a secret," I answer. She hastily grabs my collar and pulls me into the room, throwing me on the bed and lying beside me. When she leans in, I pull back and stand up away from her.
"No payment, no service," I tell her in the most demanding voice I can summon up.
"You want to hear about room 301?" She asks, rolling her rs. "That man in there just got poisoned, by Snow, actually. I'm almost sure his wife, Marina, took him here in order to get him out of the house. Probably thinks it's a disease. He'll be dead soon."
"What's his name?"
"Brody, pretty important. All the people seem to like him. He was sure to be a shoo in for the head gamemaker next year. Heard now it's some guy named Seneca. No idea why someone would name their kid that," she scoffs. I kind of want to know her name now. It's probably something worse than that.
"Are you good now? Enough payment?" She asks, growing impatient.
"Yeah, sure. Twenty minutes," I say, setting the timer on my watch. She reaches up and pulls me down with her. I sure hope she works fast. For those twenty minutes, I turn into an emotionless, unfeeling, empty robot that she uses.
When I leave, Gloss is waiting outside. We don't make eye contact. The street is filled with people, which isn't strange for this time of the day.
Brody, I guess, is being carried out on a stretcher. The smell of blood lingers in the air as I head to the train station, ready to go home.
Okay, let me know what you think! This was hard to write, but I hope you enjoyed it. Make sure to review! Thank you all for reading! I hope to get the next chapter up before Friday.