Thank ETNRL4L for this chapter, I was stuck on it for a week and a short discussion put things back in place (as in having me delete 3k words and write 4k more in the last five hours).
Thank you once again to my reviewers, you are wonderful people, and thanks also to you lovely lurkers for reading^^.
Year 66, July, Creneis Town.
The seagulls' cries mixed with high-pitched laughter and shouts as young children zoomed between the returning sailors, chasing away the hungry birds hoping for some pickings.
Mags' knuckles had frozen inches from the thin wooden door.
It was no secret what the sensual Pearl did for a living, and it did not surprise Mags that Finnick, in his quest to understand by soaking in other peoples' experiences, would want to talk to that woman in particular.
Mags finally knocked and allowed herself in. Few people barred their doors during the days and there were no locks in Creneis Town.
Upon seeing her, Finnick jumped as if scalded, and Mags flinched at the shame in his eyes. Family shouldn't have to keep such secrets.
"Finn, we need to talk," she said, a reassuring smile on her lips. "You'll come back later if you want to." She turned to Pearl, her expression hardening despite the compassion lighting the woman's tanned features. Any person who knew was a danger to all. "The truth about the nature, and the purpose, behind Finnick's inquiries can never leave these walls. If there must be rumors, then they'd better be about Finnick soliciting your usual favors," Mags said, the steel in her voice making Pearl blanch. "But thank you," Mags added, not wanting Pearl to feel afraid.
"Anytime," Pearl said, sounding a little breathless. She then shook her head. "Finn darling, I think you can talk to your Aunt about it."
As they walked, Finnick stared at the torn houses, the bare-chested workers sweating in the sun, the piles of debris that now flanked the destruction waged by the tornadoes. His expression hardened with every step.
Mags remained silent, holding his hand like a child's.
Finnick, her nephew, that grinning little boy with eyes of the deepest green. Not an equal, that wasn't how things worked, not in families. He'd had his own battles to fight, that's how adults were made, but some battles were not meant to be fought. Ever since Cecelia had won the 59th, Mags had thought of victors being sold, of what it did to them, of what she could do to help. She'd done her best to set them free and not think too much about what happened before she succeeded, but with Finnick that was no option anymore.
That had never been an option, but Mags had refused it, allowing herself to be distracted by everything else, because it just couldn't be, not family. Family wasn't supposed to mix with the world of victors, where people had to be so terribly strong and morals were so despicably gray.
When Mags sat down next to him, she wasn't the great-aunt who had helped him overcome his parents' death, but the mentor. The great-aunt was too emotional, too protective to help Finnick become the man he had to be.
"What have you been up to in the Capitol?" Mags asked.
She had been discreet, leaving him to his silences, watching him bury himself in those memory exercises as the weeks went by, but she couldn't say, if she'd done it for Finnick or for herself.
"I've been seeing Cashmere."
Mags nodded, pushing back tears before they even reached her eyes. She was his mentor. Dwelling on who Finnick could have been, in a better world, would serve him none at all.
"You did the smart thing," she said after a painful silence. "How are you holding up?"
Finnick forced a smile, his shoulders tense. "Had sex with a gorgeous blonde, can't really complain." He wasn't looking at her anymore. "I took a decision behind your back."
"It wasn't a bad one," Mags said, reaching out to squeeze his hand. She forced a little smile, pretending the words didn't burn, that it wasn't a defeat. That grinning, trusting little boy. "Finn, no matter how hard you fight, some things will always escape your control. You are a victim, all victors are, even if some have it harder than others, and you will have low moments. That doesn't make you a failure or compromise what we're trying to achieve," she said, forcing him to meet her gaze.
She knew, from the way his breath slowed, how his pupils dilated, that each word would be remembered. She prayed she was finding the right ones.
"At worst, I'm the only one harmed," Finnick said with a little smile. The fear in his eyes seemed subdued and Mags knew she would have to thank Cashmere.
"Those are Glynn's words," Mags said, she could see her old friend's signature in that cool logical advice. "What did Cashmere tell you?"
"That I shouldn't be afraid to enjoy it." A cutting smirk drew itself on his lips, one that had no place on a fifteen-year-old. "That I'm attractive, and that I should milk that for all its worth."
Finnick sighed, bringing his knees up to his chin and burying his face in his arms. "I don't know how to act like it." He groaned. "Cashmere has tried to explain. I think…" He threw his head back, his eyes far away. "I think Glynn is trying to get me a TV role where I play the kind of boy that I need to be, so that people come to see me that way. It'll give me a canvas on how to act." He chuckled helplessly. "I'm half of a mind to ask Instructor Rivers to flirt with me. Handle brazen middle-aged women I wouldn't normally fancy and all that."
Mags suddenly pictured Alyx's face. Despite the horror of the situation, she laughed, a throaty deep laugh that didn't seem to stop. There was no ambiguity between Alyx and the students. She had authority and their best interests at heart, and she teased them mercilessly, knowing full well how impressionable teenagers were. Mags assigned her the girls who came in with betrayal in their eyes, convinced women were weak. She gave her the boys who needed a strong, feminine hand. She'd given her Annie Cresta, who just couldn't see why she'd need anyone. But Alyx had never seen the students as more than potentials to be nurtured, and life was cruel, to plant the idea in Finnick's mind.
Finnick blushed, grinning with her. "She already calls me and half the students 'Sweetie' and she isn't unattractive, for a woman her age. Nothing weird will happen, but I'm sure she can flirt."
"Oh yes," Mags confirmed, "and if you're going to traumatize someone, might as well be Alyx." Mags chuckled wryly. "She will hate me if I ask, but she's practical, even if you're a baby to any woman over thirty who doesn't crave ego boosts." Mags almost bit her tongue when Finnick winced. That had not been the smartest thing to say, but Circe, Mags was not going to pretend this was normal or healthy.
Mags stood up, suddenly finding the sun too hot and the cicadas' call grating.
"Finnick, you're not a piece of flesh," she said, the anger she'd been trying to push down resurfacing with a vengeance. "Snow needs you functional and popular. You can straight up tell him that you're not comfortable with too much, that you need to find yourself first if you want to be able to deliver. He needs you, but he must be brought to think you are more easily broken than you are."
"That shouldn't be too hard," Finnick whispered, disgust and shame darkening his face as he looked away once more. "I don't sound strong, when I talk to him."
How dare that despicable man hurt her little boy!
Rage coursed through her veins. "I'll make it possible for you to say no," Mags vowed. "You won't have to accept everything."
She clamped her teeth after the words left her lips. She knew better than to make promises she couldn't keep, but the naked hope in those green eyes only sharpened her resolve.
Victors were sold because the Capitol needed funds, for the Hunger Games, for their infrastructures, while maintaining the illusion of unlimited wealth. A popular victor with an image that sold for years would be more profitable than someone expensive for a year and then forgotten.
A cold shiver ran up Mags' spine, and a bitter wave of grief crashed into her. Esperanza had paid for her life the last time Mags had made the mistake to think Snow a logical man.
66th Hunger Games, the Capitol.
"Finnick, how does it feel, to mentor the best of District Four?" The journalist said, her hair full of pearls and feathers and her voice a seductive purr. "Aren't you excited?"
Finnick chuckled, an apologetic smile on his lips. "What do I know of mentoring? Mags knows all about it. She'll take care of them." His instincts told him to brace himself, instead he opened his arms, his grin broad and warm. "I'm here to see you."
They cheered, stared, shoved to get closer like a colorful crashing human wave. Finnick struggled to stand his ground, to look confident as cool sweat pearled on his brow. These people would turn him into an idol, imprison him into a role and leave him no escape.
"How can you stand it?" Sawyer asked, his anger barely contained as they walked into the prep-rooms for the rides. "Their clothing, all these unnecessary… the amount of leftovers in the train… everything!"
FInnick shrugged. "I guess they grew up feeling they need the stuff. It's got nothing to do with us."
Sawyer gave an incredulous chuckle. He then sighed. "You're really not the judgmental, envious type… But you never lacked anything," he said, without resentment, but stating a fact.
Finnick didn't feel slighted. He was stiff around Sawyer, because it was Colt all over again. Finnick would see him die, and he didn't know if he had the strength to let go of people like that, again and again.
But he couldn't stay back, because there was something about Sawyer, something that reminded him of Delfina.
Azurine was angry and hated everyone. Finnick remembered the rumors from his first year, of her getting into fights, the kind with blood and broken bones. She was charming on the surface, as long as she was in control. Finnick was sure the Capitol would like her, but he sure didn't, even if she didn't deserve any of this.
But Sawyer was fighting for something, something bigger than him, and Finnick couldn't step away from that and pretend it wasn't happening. If Sawyer wanted him around, Finnick would be. It was the least he could do.
Finnick's heartbeat accelerated, slamming painfully into his ribcage, when Lawrence, Rose, Cadmus and Delphi, all glitters and feathers and smiles, made their grand entry.
He couldn't be here.
It had been him and Delfina and it was the same, but so different and so wrong. His vision began to spin.
"Get some air, Finn," Mags said, her eyes crinkled in concern. Smooth and assertive, her voice snapped the shackles keeping him rooted. "Get a Homeguard to escort you."
Finnick broke into a run, shallow breaths bursting out of his lips. He could feel their eyes on his back, the men in Capitol red and black. Would they call Snow?
Finnick took a shaky breath. He was Finnick Odair. Wherever he went, he would be wanted. He straightened, broadcasting a confidence he did not feel.
"I am in need of an escort to go to Mercy, Sir," Finnick told a guard. The fame, it bewildered him on good days and disgusted him on the bad, but it was true, and he'd make something solid and good of that power.
Finnick had heard that name, Mercy, in passing, a throwaway sentence in a conversation among hundreds. He'd remembered because it had stunned him, that even in the Capitol, people died young or grew so fragile the white walls became their new homes. Finnick had heard that some in Mercy weren't expected to ever leave.
The hospital's receptionist made to call security, but she lowered the phone when Finnick winked and brought a finger to his lips. She frowned but giggled and relented when he planted a chaste kiss on her rosy cheek.
Finnick met a woman so thin he was afraid to breathe in her direction. She knew his name of course, he found out hers was Augury. There was a boy, barely starting puberty, with limbs much too short and a face that was all wrong. He pointed, mangled syllables exiting his wet lips, and the nurse cooed at him to calm down, but Finnick crouched near him, pretending not to see the label on the boy's shirt which read Secundus R., and asked the boy to introduce himself.
Finnick sat among the disabled and sickly, determined to hear their stories and etching those excited smiles and wonder-filled eyes in his mind, willing them to shield him against the coming nightmares.
"Still certain?" Mags asked Lyme as the chariots pulled over.
A wry smile lit Lyme's lips. "Six months spent with that little demon. I'll kill you if he dies, Mags. I always had a weak spot for the ones that had something to prove, the ones that really need a parent, and I should never have spent so much time with him."
Mags squeezed her arm in sympathy. Bahamut had been Lyme's, the one boy Lyme had brought home. This year was the first Lyme mentored aside him, something she'd never have done on a regular year, because Mags knew, that Bahamut would back down the minute his tribute's interests would clash with his mentor's. It wasn't the Two way, each mentor was supposed to fight their hardest for their own, but some bonds weren't easily forgotten.
Lyme's eyes were dancing. "Prep team started squealing when they saw Wolfe," she said, incredulous laughter giving a seldom heard musical note to her voice. "There's this popular graphic novel character, a villain, but beloved by fans, called Lovell. He's a werewolf, with black hair, amber eyes, and a hair-cut we can give Wolfe for the interviews and the arena." Lyme rolled her eyes. "They'd shave the sides of his head to have flowing black mane of hair reach between his shoulder blades, but at least it wouldn't hamper his vision."
A small smile crept up Mags' lips. She had stopped believing in such coincidences. She was inclined to bet that Lovell had made his first appearance in those comics a few weeks after the Victory Tour. It would make everything so much easier.
"Mags, Wolfe and Sawyer are ours, and they'll play," Lyme said, her expression now hard and calculating, "but to keep the attention on them, they need a rival, someone to create tension. Katana lacks the showmanship, she's too frank. I will have to observe Vanity and Duke from One, maybe -."
Mags frowned, and soon, she was shaking her head slightly. Lyme had never approved of how Careers were made, but she'd come to think like one. There weren't six players and eighteen extras in the Hunger Games, there were twenty-four tributes. Mags swallowed, her throat dry as she slowly replayed the reapings in her mind. Lyme was right.
"Basil, from Eleven, volunteered. He looked lucid." Determined, willing, afraid. "I'll speak to him," Mags said.
Lyme nodded, but all color had fled her face, and Mags knew why. Mags broke all the rules. Seeder, Cecelia, Mags had interacted with many tributes not her own, keeping a sharp eye for victors, but setting up a tribute to die by giving them, and worse, their mentor, and Seeder was so much more than a colleague, hope? Not even the Career mentors dared jeopardize their sanity in such a way.
Glynn had said Mags was the innocent one, but Glynn had never been part of the Games.
Footage leaked from the gymnasium where the tributes trained, it always did. There was too much money changing hands during the Hunger Games for rules to be respected.
New faces replaced the old, but every year they were the same. The boy made vicious by fear and anger, the girl who hid, paranoia blazing wild in her eyes, those who huddled together, brave and loyal like they had never been before. There was the boy who cried, the girl who lied, the one who didn't listen and pulled a muscle, the one who waited, petrified, and those who broke things, desperate to feel alive.
And then there were the Careers.
Vanity, red-haired and gorgeous with a voice that melted butter, who cursed and laughed as if death was just a concept. Her and Duke danced around each other, creating tension and challenge to better show off their skills and charm. Duke, dark where his partner was fair, contained and superior, who deigned to speak only to those who would cross his two-hand staff.
That's when Basil from Eleven caught the camera's eyes, breaching the invisible line separating Careers and outliers. "Just wanted to know where to put the bar," Basil said, sweating profusely and spitting on the floor, after Duke had whacked him aside, finally tired of toying with that boy from Eleven who had dared volunteer.
Mags had spoken to him, and her lips thinned in guilt at the thought of Seeder. Basil who had volunteered to redeem Eleven's name. Who had volunteered to avenge his parents, murdered by thieves, to prove that there were decent people in Eleven, that rebels –and it angered Mags that the words rebel and criminal were synonyms in so much of Panem- were few, just loud, and that most of Eleven just wanted peace.
A patriot from Eleven. Mags had just had to help him with the interviews, to make sure he caught the crowd's attention by talking of expenses in addition to ideals, by losing his modesty and revealing the extent of the tragedy that had befallen him.
"How can they care about drama?" Basil had asked, spluttering in anger and dismay. "Isn't me being here, my reasons, drama enough?"
Drama was everything, and that was why the Careers looked like beings of color in a bleak movie in black and white.
Katana drew. She sliced a face into an archery target, it was her own, and it was smiling. Azurine declared then that they would be friends, and demanded she do better. Katana carved the Capitol's flag into a trunk with her sword, and hacked a dozen dummies until the parts were enough to make a throne and Azurine laughed and skipped aside her like an awed little sister.
The outliers saw insanity, callousness, blood thirst, but Mags knew how terrifyingly sane it was, how calculated, to forge relationships so the Capitol would feel, to shine through strength and wit to make the sponsors tear their eyes away from the pallid reaped tributes and only care for those who had dedicated their lives to this moment.
Sawyer watched Wolfe and Wolfe watched the outliers. The handsome youth walked, an island of calm and power among febrile chaos, his step slow and graceful, his frank curiosity giving place to that cute childish smile when any dared meet his eyes. When they dropped their gaze, pale-faced and frantic to study their way out of death, Wolfe's lips curled in disappointment.
Mags smiled. The cool, tight-lipped smile she granted their overlords. She smiled despite Leslie Rosier's too familiar kiss on her cheek, despite the covetous glares they shot at Finnick, despite the hurtful comments and callous chatter the worst among Capitolites had to offer.
"Hmm, Sawyer, he's… alright, I guess," they would say, their lips puckering as if the word was sour. "Hasn't done much, has he? But you chose him, Mags," they would add with knowing looks. "I can't wait to see!" And those bright smiles then, which Mags craved to slap off their faces.
"Why don't you say anything, catch their interest? Haggle a bit?" Finnick whispered, holding her arm as if she needed his support to walk, and none had yet dared pull him away. "That man, he left, but I'm sure he would have accepted –"
"That's the worst mistake you can do," Mags said, some softness fleetingly returning to her smile. "They need to come to you. Start chasing them, and you'll lose their awe, their respect and they will tear you to pieces. Now they hover and pretend they do not care, but they will come."
She waited for Seneca Crane to appear, to tell her Wolfe and Sawyer were out of bounds. Wolfe hadn't needed to be told more, just 'be original.' He wasn't docile enough to be a Career, he had too much imagination, he dared question the rules and institutions, but he remained a boy of the Annex of District Two, and he would be bold within the Capitol's unspoken rules.
Seneca Crane found the two boys in the Gamemakers' lounge, the one from where they oversaw the tributes' sessions on the day of the interviews. Mags barely had to give the Head Gamemaker a nudge before his greed, his hunger for something original, took over.
"If I was surprised, Master Crane, then the most jaded watchers shall be too."
Seneca had Wolfe and Sawyer filmed and interviewed for their transgression, and made sure the Capitol crowd would remember their names.
If condescension had chosen to take human form, Wolfe would have been the perfect host. He lazily prowled around the tributes, boredom darkening his piercing eyes, but unlike the first day, he talked to them.
"Look at you all, could you at least pretend you want to survive?" Wolfe hissed. "Why bother with snares and swords you've never used before when a rock is enough to kill a man? One kill, just one to your name and you'll be showered with weapons and the best medicine sponsors can buy. You outliers, you barely need to try to get their support," he said in disgust. "They'd sell their own children for you to be anything other than despicably weak."
"We're not here to murder, we're here to survive," a treble voice, a tall gangly boy with a mean face but soft hands that betrayed he hadn't left school.
"Yes, you're just the meat, keeping the sponsors entertained as you run around, hoping to outlive the Games." Wolfe smiled, it wasn't evil, instead he looked compassionate. "Your kind never outlives it, the madness takes you and then yes, sometimes, you get interesting."
"Shut up, freak," a voice snapped, another boy, hidden in the group.
A muscle in Wolfe's jaw twitched. "Because these are my Games, and if you are boring," he said, all trace of amusement gone, "you'll make me look bad. Make an effort, I want these memorable."
She was short-haired and sickly, her glasses worn and round, and when she started sobbing, it was Basil who stepped forward. Without warning his fist squarely hit Wolfe's jaw, drawing blood.
"I'm listening," Basil said, his voice shaking with rage. "No need for weapons. I got fists. I need more practice, can I do this again? For sponsors, understand."
Somebody laughed. Wolfe wiped his split lip, and Mags knew that at that moment, Wolfe would strike to kill.
A hand restrained him.
"Wolfe, you made them more bent on playing than the fear of impeding grisly death," Sawyer said with an incredulous smile. "You sure are something."
"He's hardly a decent man," Sawyer had said. "But I can see why Lyme cares. He lets you believe he could be fixed. He can be clever and insightful. I don't know yet what to think."
Wolfe blinked, a flash of surprise in his eyes. He turned to Sawyer, his fury miraculously ebbing away. "Practice those moves," Wolfe told Basil, his accursed carefree smile tugging at Mags' heart. "Because I will kill you. You, and anyone who tries to take you from me."
Mags swallowed, sharing a loaded look with Donna. She'd wanted rivals, rivals they were.
Mags made sure not to smile when Wolfe made Caesar Flickerman loose his wits for the first time in decades. Seated between Beetee and Finnick in front of a screen broadcasting the interviews live, she felt nothing but hate, a cold, controlled hate that burned away the compassion for the tributes and their families, the horror of their orchestrated deaths. She grieved yes, but above all she looked for the cracks in the Capitol, for the hints of rebellion they seeded, and planned their next moves.
It wasn't Wolfe but that Lovell character on that stage, an evil manipulator in an aristocrat's clothing. With makeup, the resemblance was almost perfect. It seemed that looks, charisma and a hint of weakness could have the Capitol love the worst of men. Why bother with an angle when the Capitol handed you a costume on a platter? Especially a costume that fit so well and had the Capitol eager to see him triumph.
"You must get bored," Wolfe said, his silken voice a smooth promise. "Year after year, the same Games, predictable archetypes walking up on stage and then out of the arena in a box, forgotten minutes later. Nothing new, nothing memorable."
"Your ten in training is certainly memorable," Caesar replied, much harder to faze than the excitable audience.
Wolfe lifted his eyes skywards. "Seventy-one tributes earned a ten in the last sixty-six Games," he chuckled, an aggravated sneer on his lips. "Training on dummies," he said scornfully. "The numbers mean nothing. There's only one way to test a tribute's mettle and that's by placing a bright-eyed, terrified and pathetic human in their way."
His innocent grin broadened as he stepped closer, and closer, to Caesar, graceful and slow in his movements, like a viper coiled to strike.
"What are you doing?" Caesar said, his voice hitching with sudden alarm.
There were armed Homeguards just out of the crowd's sight, ready to intervene, but this wasn't an angry district tribute. This was a Career, trained to handle pain and kill in seconds.
"Terrified, human," Wolfe whispered, inches from the man's ear, a frightening light in his amber eyes. And for the first time, the audience seemed to realize those people on stage could be dangerous.
Wolfe stepped back, his cheeky smile returning. "I can't wait for the arena."
Caesar gave a little giggle, straightening as if he'd never lost control.
Wolfe had played his role, and it was time for Sawyer to play his.
Sawyer had a small trustworthy smile so different from his ally's eerie false innocence. His arms were crossed, his thumbs digging into his palms, but Mags knew no one would notice.
"You know, those who try the hardest at being strong and independent are usually those that fell the hardest," Sawyer said, his smile turning sad. "The ones that got kicked and stomped on every time they dared be weak, every time they dared trust."
Caesar leaned in. "Are you telling us, there's more to Wolfe that he lets on?"
Sawyer sighed, his eyes so much softer than Azurine's before him. "Isn't that what the arena is supposed to reveal? You should keep your eyes on him, look carefully, and maybe you'll see, what he doesn't want to show you. What he doesn't dare show you."
Finnick's soft snort had Mags' lips twitch.
"What's in it for Sawyer and you?" It was Asclepiad from Five, seated next to Finnick, who suddenly edged closer to Mags. The anger behind those words was reflected in many of the outlying mentors' eyes.
Mags wished she could tell them. The same anger you feel now will ripple through the Districts. Too many have become resigned to the Hunger Games and that anger will surpass their fear when we'll offer them a chance to seize their freedom.
Caesar waited for the awws in the crowd to fade. "And what about you, Sawyer, ready?"
Sawyer shook his head, a wry smile on his lips. Compared to Wolfe scene-stealing presence, he looked subdued and the crowd chattered, paying him only half a mind. "Have you ever felt, Mr. Flickerman, that you can't complain about your life, because really, it's fine, so many people have it worse, but you just know something is missing? That you're made for something greater and just need life to give you a chance to prove it?" Sawyer's eyes were far away, and Mags wished that it was all angle, that he didn't believe a word of it. "The risk doesn't even matter anymore."
"How very… Capitol," Haymitch said with a sneer, his speech thick and slurred. "Our kids don't have the time to mope about purpose."
"So now trying to make them care is cheating?" Finnick snapped.
His words seemed to suck what little spirit there was out of the room. It was like that every year, some snide comments on Careers, but it got too depressing, when the outliers stepped on stage.
"I'm taking a walk," Finnick whispered, jumping to his feet after the poor boy from Twelve left amidst catcalls and jeers.
Collis had tried to be tough and arrogant and Caesar had left him stuttering like a fool for daring to pretend to be something he was not. The audience kept hooting long after Collis had fled red-faced, as happy to despise as they were to adore.
"Be careful, Finn," Mags said. She wondered how long it would take Snow to summon them both.
That night, she lay awake in tears, trapped in thoughts of the lives those young faces hid, and what pain their destruction would bring. Rare were the Games without tears, but rarer still were the times she cried after the boys and girls turned tributes entered the arena. It was too late then, and Mags would not betray Panem's true rebels by being distracted from her duties.
Snow summoned them at dawn.
Mags bit back a yawn, fierce annoyance hiding behind her blank expression. Because of the cameras in the Presidential office, she couldn't even glower at Snow when he wasn't looking.
"Mr. Odair, you've been… visible. What place has a victor, among the FCW?"
"Isn't that what you wanted?" Finnick said. "I don't understand, Mr. Snow."
Something broke in Mags' heart. Finnick had… melted. Before Snow was left only a young boy, lost and eager to please.
The sight filled Mags with shame. When had she become so proud? She hadn't been very different, with Evadne Achlys. More assertive, but only because Achlys had made that possible. If the late President had required Mags to crawl, Mags would have crawled.
But the years had stripped her of the ability to crawl. Finnick was crawling for them both, and Circe, was he magnificent.
"I'm not giving any warning of where I'll be, so people can't go looking for a free glimpse of me," Finnick said, his eyes narrowed at the ground. "I go to people with lots on their minds, those who'd care little about the Games. I get them interested. I make sure I'll sell, beyond… uh… personal purchases, and TV or fashion. I just had those guys talk about themselves. I'm not making any statements, just getting my image to sell."
Mags knew Snow was bothered because Finnick took initiatives, but even Snow could see that Finnick was incredibly lucrative. But seeing Finnick so subservient… Mags, the great-aunt, itched to hug him, to tell him to lift that chin up, but the mentor had never been so proud of him.
A grin lit Mags' lips as soon as she could afford it. She brought her hand to Finnick's cheek. "I'm proud of you, Finn." Nothing would protect him more than being beloved by the Capitol's population. "FCW?"
"First Contact Watchmen," Finnick said, his sudden huge smile lighting up the corridor. "They believe aliens are out there. This guy in my theater troupe, he's got a son in there and he told me there was some special meteor shower tonight so they'd all be meeting." Finnick chuckled wryly. "Nice guys actually. But some of them are huge, Mags."
"You've seen what they eat," Mags replied with a grimace. "The poor of the Capitol cannot hide their excesses."
Aliens? What? Was it serious?
A proud smile slowly bloomed on Mags' lips. "They're the little people of the Capitol, Finn. Those we're never meant to see. Those who feel left out even if they're still so much richer than us. They're important, you're doing great."
'Clocks small and big, plain and precious, white, black, red and blue, locked into each other, but also able to re-position themselves and change angle. They heat up or freeze depending on the time. There are even three huge clocks that are big enough to walk in rather than onto, with man-sized parts. One is hosting a river'
Despite Leander's warning, Mags couldn't tear her eyes from the arena. The forcefield dome was black and opaque, hiding the sky. Below was a pit of sand, a mile across, glowing brightly enough to cast twilight shadows over the tilted dented clock-platforms.
In the sands below, dozens of huge scorpion mutts converged, their pincers hungrily pointed towards the tributes above.
Like every year there were three games.
One was no game at all. When the Gamemakers made walls fall between the tributes, tearing alliances apart, the fear and paranoia was raw and real. When Basil poisoned the Careers' food in the hope of saving his district partner, he never paused once to think of the cameras. When the girl from Nine was stuck in a pit on the third day, the wall growing hotter and hotter as the seconds loudly ticked by, the girl from Three didn't fake her tears when she pushed down the lever that would either free her ally or give her desperately needed supplies.
The child chose the supplies, Collis from Twelve chose his ally, and because there was a second game on, she was lead to the Careers and he wasn't, because that night the Capitol enjoyed nobility.
The Careers were the best at this second game. They knew the Capitol didn't want three-day-long Hunger Games like the year before, so instead of killing at the Cornucopia, they taunted and teased. Wolfe threw a sword at Basil and ordered him to come back when he'd be a challenge. The four who lost their lives were those who had insulted the Capitol in the Careers' presence.
In a clock of forests and mirror mazes in which firefly swarms marked the hours, the Careers explored in pairs, and Wolfe and Sawyer slipped away. The Careers didn't even need to search to find the cameras, didn't need to think to know how to act to get the audience on the edge of their seats.
It was at it had always been, the Gamemakers chose the settings, the Careers wrote the script, the outliers reacted and behind the scenes, mentors and sponsors battled to turn the odds in their favor.
The Careers wanted Wolfe and Sawyer, because they were the threats, so they found the Eleven girl and took her hostage, to draw out Basil, knowing Wolfe would follow, because Wolfe had promised a rivalry to the Capitol and had no choice but to deliver.
So, hidden behind a waterfall, Wolfe carved a crossbow, confident the other tributes would be entertaining enough for the Gamemakers to leave him in peace for at least the next few days. He and Sawyer traded stories, Sawyer's patience and kindness a humanizing influence on Wolfe's hunger for power and elaborate schemes. As the hours passed, they smiled and joked, bonding as if they had all the time in the world.
Mags' chest was painfully tight, because Sawyer looked happy, excitement blazing in his eyes as adrenaline rushed through his veins. Why had there been no cure for his dangerous recklessness?
"The roosters give the time and keep us safe," Sawyer said. "It's always dawn on one of the clocks and we shouldn't stay too far from that. String the bolts with feathers, but release the roosters when you're done."
Mags watched her sponsor credits spike when the twist was confirmed on screen by Claudius Templesmith.
The third game was different still, and few were aware of its existence.
A tense silence fell over the Career's mentor control room when a stony-faced Mercury from Three strolled in and slapped Enobaria before anyone thought to ask.
"Your bitch killed my girl," Mercury hissed.
"I'm not mentoring anyone," Enobaria protested, eyeing the smaller woman in dismay. "Slap Bahamut."
"He'll rip my head off, no way," Mercury said, sparing Bahamut a fearful glance. "Come on, you've studied enough, let's go talk not about the Hunger Games."
"Mercury," Bahamut said, warning thick in his rumbling voice. "She didn't slap you back because she's afraid to break you, but don't go pushing buttons. We're not Threes who fight with clever words."
Mercury winced. Her mouth twisted, and Mags saw the exhaustion and grief of failed mentoring sharp on her face. "Sorry, I'm not really blaming you," she said with a sigh, sparing a nod at Mags before dragging Enobaria out of the room. "You're just an easy target."
Enobaria's sharp chuckle pierced through the door before Bahamut shut it.
The sound of Enobaria's voice brought back vivid memories. You have real non-Career friends?
Mags stood up. This was not where Mags had to be. The Career mentors' controls room preserved her sanity, but it was in the other one that she was needed.
"Come with me, Finn."
Larger, brighter and fetid with resentment, guilt and despair, the outlier mentor's room was poison.
Mags brought candles that smelled of pine, ozone and lime. She lit them in a circle, willing her hands not to tremble despite the pain rolling in waves from the men and women around her. It was with the same wonder and triumph she had felt fifty-years before that she saw them tear their eyes away from the screens, the hostility and powerlessness fading for an instant from their faces, as they eyed her with curiosity. A fragile curiosity that hid a cry for help.
"I realize that in all these years, I have never asked what songs they sung in the other Districts." Mags smiled. "We have songs for tides and sunsets, for the migrating turtles and summer storms."
"I don't know if we have songs," Beetee whispered with a frown.
"You need to go out more, Man," Chaff chuckled, his small smile mirrored by Seeder's. "In Eleven teams are expected to sing in the fields, it gives a rhythm, gets people to work harder and you can't plot if you're singing."
"There was one my aunt used to sing, every time she was pregnant," Cecelia whispered, a mischievous light entering her eyes as she met Mags'. Cecelia colored slightly, her hand over her stomach, and Mags knew exactly what she would ask Plutarch the next time she saw him.
Cecelia's voice filled the room, it was slightly hoarse but the melody was simple and light, sending them all to a happier, more wholesome land.
Finnick took the chair left empty by Mercury, and Mags sat on his lap, warmth flowing through her veins as the worst of the darkness slowly faded from the victors' eyes.
Basil poisoned the Careers' food, but just like he didn't know Wolfe was long gone, he had no idea Duke, Vanity and Katana had been trained to recognize the taste and that they would make him pay dearly for forcing them to spend hours with their pants down, with the whole Capitol laughing at their predicament.
They tied him up and began to cut while Katana from Two stood watch, they left shallow gashes, aware real torture would have the Gamemakers break it up, but they knew to cut where it would bring the most pain.
"You blame people for generalizing about Eleven," Azurine said, her eyes blazing with hate, "but you'd kill us all in a blink because you think you deserve it more than us. You hypocrite."
"Everyone doesn't have to die in real life," Basil spat, "not the same rules you idiot."
It was his last coherent sentence before his screams filled the skies.
Katana saw Wolfe, but she failed to see Sawyer. He had a hatchet on her throat. Wolfe slowly came closer and put his finger to her lips.
"You deserve better than this," Wolfe said. "Go make a name for yourself, come back when the time's right." And because Katana was a Two, she didn't betray him.
With every word, every step, Wolfe showed that the tributes could truly be in control of the Hunger Games.
Azurine fled, Vanity and Duke died and Wolfe reminded the world only he had the right kill Basil. He turned to the cameras, and declared he refused to face Basil unless the other boy could put up a fight. Basil received medicine within the hour.
On the eighth day, the times changed, food was dangerously scarce and the platforms grew more treacherous, shaking and tilting, driving the tributes to the edges. Wolfe was agile, but without Sawyer's sailor's sure-footedness, the roaming scorpions would have torn through them like they had Azurine, pushed by the Seven boy who she had dragged down with her.
It was perfect, Wolfe would meet Basil next to the waterfall. Only Katana, the loyal Collis from Twelve and his wounded ally, still walked the arena.
But the Gamemakers believed there was still money to be made from that particular rivalry, and inexorably delayed and tried to push Basil into the final two.
A soapy liquid bubbled from beneath the clock's stone surface. Wolfe and Sawyer began to slip, tying their only rope around a narrow wooden pole just in time. They were left dangling above the shimmering sands, too heavy to get back up without risking to snap the pole. They could swing and reach the small opal clock-platform nearby, where the two outliers hid, holding their breaths. It was the only way.
The only way according to the Gamemakers. Sawyer disagreed.
They did not hear what he said to Wolfe, only that for a moment, Wolfe looked horrified, his shocked silence giving way to a shout of denial when Sawyer let go of the rope and dropped down.
His cannon blasted within seconds of the first huge scorpion sting piercing his chest. Mags painfully squeezed Finnick's hand. At least it had been quick, and on his terms.
Too shaken to hunt Basil down, Wolfe crawled to safety and brought his knees to his chest, his hands over his ears as the bell of the ruined chapel swung frantically to announce impeding danger.
A flock of crow-mutts was no match for a furious Career. Mags watched him, bloody and his clothes torn spit "Fine," at the camera, but when he found Collis from Twelve, crying over his ally's corpse, a knife in his hand as he screamed about hallucinations and not having meant it, Wolfe just hugged him.
"Lost my ally too, better guy than I was," Wolfe said, pale with fury. "Basil is right over there. He's too good a guy to hurt you and he's got food because of me. Clean yourself up, and be brave for your Mom."
Gloss gaped at the screen. Cashmere, while more poised, stared at Lyme in disbelief.
"What?" Lyme snapped. "Sawyer saved his life. It doesn't matter that we all know Sawyer was destined to die soon. Wolfe is having a conscience crisis. It'd be nice if tributes were non-human puppets, unfortunately, it's tough enough to train solid Careers."
Collis tried to be brave indeed, but his thoughts were all over his face, and when he tried to kill Basil in desperation, Basil, panting and horrified, killed him instead.
Wolfe didn't even make it last one second. "I made a mistake," he said over Basil's corpse. "I thought you were something. Sawyer was something. You're nothing but a fool. The one who's left, she's the one deserving my time."
Mags and Lyme shared a fleeting look. Wolfe had just robbed the Capitol of a long awaited confrontation. If he wanted to survive their wrath, he had better make it up.
Katana was sharpening her rapier and she bowed when she saw Wolfe stride towards her, wild and majestic with his spear in hand.
For the first time in ten years, two Careers would fight for the victor's title, and never since the 38th had those Careers been District partners. But where the silver-tongued and deceptively delicate Eve had sliced Sapphire's throat in one practiced move, making her first and only kill the winning one, neither Wolfe nor Katana had any intention of making it quick.
It was a very fair fight, very Two. Her with her rapier and shield, him lethally swift with his spear. They paused, started again, traded words, challenges, never insults. Katana drew first blood, she shredded his already tattered shirt and drew a deep red gash on the side of his leg. Wolfe broke her left hand with a particularly hard whack. She dropped her shield but they barely slowed.
They moved, jumping from clock to clock, dancing around each other, pausing for breath. The minutes became hours but none of it was cut.
"Truce?" Wolfe called as Katana wheezed.
They were filthy and red with their own blood. They ate together and there was no betrayal, no sudden moves. A shower of sponsor gifts fell around them, new, fancier clothes, jewelry, and enough water and medicine to look as good as new.
It's the ultimate show and Mags smiled because this was the Hunger Games revealed in all their glory. Careers, who'd rather be honorable and fair, who were naive, but they were trained to be, and the Capitol poking them with sticks to make sure they'd play.
It's okay. Just keep your head down and accept it. What's the chance it'll affect us? And we could win, it's so much food. It's even worth it, to have a victor.
Mags wanted that hope gone. Some hopes kept people strong, but this one kept them slaves. There was no accepting the Hunger Games. People had been too accepting too long. Mags was tired of being patient.
Katana and Wolfe, attractive and fierce, bowed to each other once more, the glowing sand casting long shadows against the surrounding rocks. The clock was flat and exposed, golden and silver, the highest point beneath the pitch black forcefield.
The dance was over. The sparring led way to a death match.
Katana lost her weapon first, but her arms and legs became a blur of offensive and defensive strikes. She and Wolfe fell into the sand six yards below and by some miracle, both rolled without breaking their bones. Wolfe had never let go of his spear. The end seemed close and obvious.
Instead, Wolfe stepped back.
The scorpion mutts had all been fast asleep, but Wolfe's sharp kick had one start awake. The creature's instinctive sting caught an unprepared Katana on the leg.
She cried out. Her foot crashed on the mutt's body with a satisfying crunch, but it was too late.
Wolfe's hands were shaking. "You're my district partner. It would have been bad form to kill you," Wolfe said, stumbling over the words.
"I'm asking," Katana ground out, struggling not to scream as her body convulsed. "Do it. Two won, that's good. Tell Bahamut I'm sorry."
Lyme squeezed Bahamut's shoulder, the pain she felt for him conflicting with her joy at bringing another boy home. He gave her a weak smile.
"Farewell." Wolfe's expression was grave as he raised his spear one last time. Katana's suffering was over in instants.
His face a mask of stone, Wolfe wiped the blood off her face.
A sudden shadow on the screen had Lyme bolt upright. "IS THIS A JOKE?" She bellowed.
Had he moved a second later, Wolfe would have been impaled. Katana's kick had only stunned the mutt, and now a very angry scorpion dived for Wolfe, not caring at all that he was the new victor, and very much bent on finishing him off.
"It seems mutts don't listen to orders when they're mad with pain and rage," Finnick whispered hoarsely.
Lyme looked ready to jump into that arena and kill the thing herself.
Wolfe and the mutt were locked in a wrestling match when the Hovercraft finally arrived, with Homeguards carrying with firearms. Trapped in the soft sand, Wolfe had been losing, and badly. He'd avoided the sting, but the pincers were razor sharp.
Mags stared horrified at the gaping wounds on the boys' legs and… her breath hitched. Was that his neck?
There was no cannon, no emergency announcement. Mags let out a slow breath.
"I bet the outliers had a laugh at that," Gloss said, his lips crinkling in dark humor. "He thinks he's won, and boom a –"
"Shut up," Lyme snapped.
"Hey, it's ironic -" Gloss never had the chance to finish that sentence. Despite training-honed reflexes, Lyme's punch had him clutching his jaw, on the floor.
"I swear -," Lyme took a deep breath. "Mags, come with me or I'll murder someone."
Year 66, days after the end of the 66th Hunger Games, the Capitol.
Wolfe could not speak, just whisper, and without a cane he couldn't walk. The Capitol offered to amputate his shredded, badly patched-up limb and replace it with a prosthetic, but Lyme and Wolfe staunchly refused.
"A real man cherishes his battle wounds," he rasped when Caesar asked. "I earned them, I keep them."
Mags saw it in his eyes, that he knew it was the price to pay to be forgotten. Capitolites didn't like cripples. Wolfe would remain a treasured tribute, but without his charismatic voice and graceful step, the victor would interest them little.
It's not over until you leave the Capitol.
Mags made the mistake of walking the corridors alone.
A strong hand shoved her against the wall, and tortured amber eyes were staring straight at her. Wolfe. He caught Mags by the throat, his hold bruising. Mags couldn't breathe. She couldn't move, cold fear paralyzing her in place. She forced her eyes upwards despite the pain, forced herself to hold his gaze.
If Wolfe snapped, and her neck would snap with it.
"Was that part of the plan? Sawyer sacrificing himself?" He whispered, his lips trembling.
"Like this? No, you did something right for him to come to respect you," Mags managed to choke. "He couldn't win, they didn't like him."
Wolfe wasn't tightening his grip, but he wasn't letting go.
She deserved it. She'd been playing too long with human beings. That the Capitol had already made them their toys didn't lessen her responsibility.
"Wolfe!"
Lyme voice slashed through the air like a whip crack and Wolfe let go as if scalded, suddenly hanging his head like a lost little boy.
"Time to go home," Lyme said sternly. She grasped his arm, hard, and pulled him with her. "You want to fight someone, fight me, let it out, and we'll talk," she said through clenched teeth. She turned to Mags, a flash of panic entering her eyes.
"Say something, are you alright?"
Mags nodded weakly, her hand over her throat. Circe.
Year 66, late August, Creneis Town.
Like every year, Cereus was the first to her side when she stopped out of the train.
"You won," he said proudly, holding her close.
"This year," Mags said with a rueful smile, fighting the urge to massage her neck. "Let's try to keep it up."
Cereus coughed, and Mags pressed her ear against his heart, praying that it would never stop beating.
This is the last in-depth Hunger Games chapter. I think now I really have established all the dynamics between involved and anything more would be repetitive. The next chapter will end right before Annie's Games (the 70th).
Please review!^^