I can't thank enough those who still bother to review. ETNRL4L, Vyrazhi, Iacopo, Ginglerfluff, Lollipop and Supernova18, you are awesome^^.
We're finally deep in canon territory.
Year 73, November, Creneis Town.
There was no moon, only acrid clouds of dark smoke. Outreaching flames licked the night sky, and a drizzle of thick ash fell on the black sea.
Mags stood against the heat, its bite at stark contrast with the chill seeping through her feet. She blinked stinging tears out of her eyes. Another green flag. The fifteen's section had all its students. Where was Alyx? It had taken four steps for Mags' body to remind her that there was nothing for her to do but watch.
FLASH was burning. It had burned once before, but today there was no Esperanza to howl at the stupidity of world, no Angelites to hug her and promise that it was but a minor setback, no Dylana reminding Mags even the most stubborn could see reason, no Glynn and Marquise rolling up their sleeves and rounding up peacekeepers and civilians to douse the inferno.
"Mags do you want my shoes?" Annie asked, her comforting grip tight on the old woman's arm. It would never occur to Annie that Mags in her haste had simply forgotten the shoes, the young victor was one of the few who still treated her as an adult regarding all things and Mags loved her for it.
Mags' lips split into an odd smile, her long white and grey hair tangling like a fisherman's net around her coat.
Creneis Town had burned FLASH down the first time, before it was even FLASH, when her and Esperanza had been girls and Career tributes in Four just an ambition.
The Capitol had burned FLASH tonight and a wall of peacekeepers stood stoically in front of the once proud building, ignoring the men and women running back and forth to limit the flames just enough to get the last of the trapped students and staff out.
They had masks, towels, ladders and didn't take needless risks. They know what they're doing. Mags forced bitter-tasting oxygen in her lungs as sixty years of work surrendered to the flames.
Once Four had turned peacekeepers to their sides by showing they were human, but the people Snow had sent to Creneis a year before were only held back by fear. It could not last.
But FLASH was never meant to be forever, just a stepping stone, a tool.
"If you cry, then it must be the ash. It really stings."
Mags chuckled at Annie's adorable little smile. Yes, it did sting. She held Annie tighter. Precious child.
Fifteen of the eighteen still missing were Career trainees. Alyx, where are you?
Mags smiled, because her children were safe and there was nothing left but the rebellion. From every district the message was the same: fewer arrests, less general bullying from peacekeepers. Too much repression would convince people they had nothing to lose, so Snow was giving them some slack, room to breathe, to hope and to finally bow down as the reality of his power would seep in every District dweller's very bones.
One deep breath, one last deep breath, and Mr. President would see how wrong he was.
"We should go. They'll expect solutions in the morning and you won't get a wink of sleep." Annie waived a young man over, a former peacekeeper. They always made circles around Mags, just far enough to look casual, but Mags knew they took guard turns. She couldn't thank them enough. "Go grab friends and run around those helping, far enough not to bother them, and chant how amazing they are," Annie said, a spark of excitement beyond the horror at seeing her home of five years burn.
The man, well past twenty and with the beard to prove it, frowned, a slightly bewildered look many got with Annie, but then he grinned. "Boys, gotta do some emotional support here," he bellowed.
Mags grinned despite herself when the impromptu encouragements and cheers morphed into rhythmic songs. Annie winced when she saw Creneis' children teenagers join in and Mags let her lead them home.
The motorcycle soon drowned every other noise and Annie sped like there was no tomorrow. Mags' heart lurched like everytime she remembered that Annie and Finnick did worse away from the hard-dirt roads.
"Get some sleep, Auntie," Annie said, pecking her cheek as she left her before her door. Mags pressed her fist to her heart in promise, a smile still on her lips.
She was glad the fire hadn't triggered anything. Maybe Annie was truly beginning to shake off her demons.
A pungent scent of ash filled her nostrils as she slid her front door open. Mags froze.
She was too old to wield a knife, so she simply waited for the shrouded figure dropping ash over her carpet to speak.
"I don't think anyone saw me."
Mags rolled her eyes at the voice, refraining the urge to curse from relief. She wondered why all her friends thrived on drama.
Alyx Rivers grinned, her smile blinding against the soot covering her face. "I heard everyone who was anyone in Creneis was faking their deaths, I couldn't resist."
Mags' muscles melted as the stress holding her together evaporated. She found herself clinging to the woman before frantically babbling to get the soot off, to destroy the evidence, in a sad mix of gestures and hacked words.
"The fire spread from the Careers' quarters," Alyx's voice was low, tightly laced with a rage mirroring the contained fire still raging outside, "the children were dead before it began. Estrella had snuck out, she does that. She's the only one left."
Estrella. Mags could see the girl, a blurry construct of puzzle pieces formed from Alyx's tales. A tall black-haired tomboy, former thief, volatile, passionate, with a deceptively serious demeanor and a wicked smile. Sixteen.
A dozen of younger Careers had volunteered over the decades but never had the reaped child been forced into the arena since the eighteenth and its monstrous gingerbread arena, where food had been as abundant as pits and poison. Dear Blue had held her head up higher than many.
Mags would find a boy to shout out he'd play the Capitol's Games on Reaping Day and bump fists with Estrella. Bloodbath or victor, twelve or eighteen, but as long as Mags lived children and parents of Four would not fear the Reapings.
"Where to, Alyx?" She asked.
"I hear the Capitol grows its cocaine in Eleven."
Mags had to crack a smile. She slapped Alyx's arm, nevertheless grateful for her wit.
"District Three," the woman replied, her eyes darkening as determination replaced her humor. "Ghosts will take me through. Those valorous Peacecops are too new to be clever. Three is a powder keg, and impatient, you've said it yourself. They need promises, reassurance or they'll rebel too fast and lose everything. They have no source of food, we need to push the black market to its limits." Alyx swallowed. "We've trained half those ghosts, Mags, you, me, Larimar, Eirene. They'll do good. We'll make it."
There was a question, shamefully peeking through the beautiful mask of confidence of a woman in her mid-fifties who had yet to embark on the riskiest adventure of her life.
"Yes," Mags promised. You'll make it. There was no doubt in her tone and eyes. Mags of all people wasn't allowed to doubt.
If only she'd been thirty years younger. She'd have gone with Alyx without a second thought.
Year 74, late February, the Capitol.
"I am forever in your debt," Finnick said with a bow, leaving Flavius and Demeter smiling like fools.
Learning the names of the surveillance and security personnel, and being extra nice to them, had been the best decision of Finnick's life.
Guilt and exasperation warred inside him, but guilt was slowly gaining the upper hand. He couldn't blame her for not reaching out for help. Careers were hard-wired: don't show weakness, don't ask questions, don't show the person behind the angle, it was how victors were made, how they were kept functional, docile.
And damn it he should have paid more attention to Cashmere! Annie, and Jo despite all her protests, were healthier, truer, than the blonde who had helped him survive all that was twisted in the Capitol. Cashmere was manipulative and slippery and Finnick had so much to do but he couldn't believe he'd let himself believe she wasn't in danger anymore.
He was well known in Lazarus Hospital and he stuck to the corridors where no patient would be well enough to block his path. He blinked at one of the unexpected faces in the organ-transplant reanimation room.
"What's the hurry, Sweetheart?" Haymitch barked, his hand around the vilest alcohol he could find, as if that would stop the Capitol from dragging his drunken arse out of District Twelve plugging a new liver to his system every ten years. It was bad form for victors do die before their sixties.
"No one can bear to wait for me," Finnick said with a wink, without breaking pace.
"Modest too."
Finnick ignored him. He'd been the boy with the easy smile, who'd seen everything as a challenge, every outrageous demand as an adventure. He'd been the victor reciting on stage at the theater, the picture perfect savage turned civilized. He had managed for years before arrogance had creeped in his eyes, his sense of humor, his very words.
He had to feel superior. It kept him calm.
He was far from calm when he found Cashmere, her golden hair lacking its usual shine but her skin as smooth at twenty-eight as it had been when she had first set foot in the Capitol. Her revealing red dress was a criss-cross of laser beams that glittered to random patterns. Finnick's suit was stitched with every digit of Pi that could fit, because science was the new hot, which, as usual, meant ostentation rather than erudition.
"Of course it would be you, you charmer," she said, her voice husky and hoarse.
Only Cashmere would manage to sneak up on the Hospital's roof and not so much as nick her high heels. Fifty feet below, taxis and pedestrians milled about, oblivious.
Finnick wrapped his arms around her and pulled her away. He wasn't afraid she would jump, survival was etched too deep in every fiber of her being, but what else could he do? She smelled of nothing with a faint hint of her, the perfumes had all evaporated.
Finnick handed her a bottle of water, painfully wondering how long she'd been hiding.
"I tried to be clever," Cashmere finally whispered. "Lucinius Fitzroy is dead."
Finnick frowned. A powerful man, but not as high profile as some. No scandals to his name, no rumors, no rebel involvement that Finnick knew of. "How is he linked to you?"
"We were to marry," Cashmere said, her voice soft and airy as if she had no energy for other emotions. "A quiet thing. A surprise for all."
Finnick shut his eyes, his hold tightening around the woman in his arms. Marriage. The golden stepping stone to Capitol citizenship, to true rights and respect. It would have been a crazy dream before, but now...
Angle had taken another meaning since Bale from Ten had won the year before. Caesar Flickerman and his ilk had stepped in immediately, skillfully dispelling doubt, whispering in every listening ear. Bale had power and look what happens when a District boy is given power, they all but said, wrapping it in beautiful, flawed rhetoric that had blocked all critical thinking and murdered empathy for generations. But despite all those puppetmasters' efforts, the questions stubbornly remained: why editing the arena to make Bale more ethical in that case? What of the other victors, what other secrets did the Gamemakers keep? Why not let a more innocent tribute win?
"I was the intriguante they lusted for. I enforced some rules but always as part of their game. I thought I had played long enough." Her neck was warm on Finnick's shoulder, her hair tickling his exposed skin. "I was brought to the hospital under a flimsy excuse, for monitoring." A muted laugh, barely more than a breath, escaped her full lips. "At least someone up high was afraid of my reaction..."
"How did they find out?"
Cashmere twisted in his arms until their lips were an inch apart. "Will you marry me, little boy? Gloss cannot, and I have no one else to ask."
Her heartbeat was strong against his chest and she was so beautiful. She was everything of the Capitol that Finnick wanted to flee and forget. "I won't." He wasn't enough of a coward to say he couldn't. "But I'll find a way. How did Snow find out?"
"Brutus." Cashmere would say nothing else.
It had been a while since a man from the Districts had been at the top of Finnick's fantasy kill list.
Brutus was no man for parties, but he had his circles, his mentorship arrangements and was never too hard to find and spent at least two days a week in the Capitol.
Once that had been enough for Finnick to feel a strong solidarity with the man.
Finnick picked Two's most popular victor up with a taxi. "Something serious came up, Brutus, grant me a minute."
Brutus agreed to follow, his hasty step the only indicator of his surprise. They silently drove to the theater where Finnick occasionally still recited. It was almost empty at this late hour. Finnick lead Brutus to one of the makeup rooms, where the cameras had been blocked by artists happy to have some privacy.
"Is Mags alright?" Brutus said once they were inside.
The genuine concern in his voice stole away Finnick's urge to bash his head in. "Cashmere isn't," he whispered heatedly.
Brutus stiffened. "Enobaria is difficult. Capitolites respond badly to percieved defiance. The President must never doubt our loyalty," Brutus said in clipped tones, his jaw set tightly, making it clear Finnick should feel honored to be given that much information and was an idiot for asking such a moronic question in the first place.
The compassion Mags' name had brought up vanished as Finnick's fist connected with Brutus' solar plexus.
"What did Enobaria really risk? Tell me! They sterilized Cashmere and told the world she'd done it to herself thinking she was too good for STDs. They'll keep her a piece of flesh until she stops making a profit and then the highest bidder will be allowed to kill her. This was her chance!"
"Marriage? " Brutus snorted, drawing himself to full height and balling his fists. Finnick stepped back despite himself. The man was fifty, but he had a Capitolites' health and he was huge. "It means nothing. This is a bad time for victors to put on airs, Finnick."
"And you think that if I put whisper in the right ears, put the desire there, that if the right people go to Snow, he'll refuse to sell Phoenix? That Snow's too grateful to District Two?"
Finnick swiftly moved aside when Brutus' lunged, but when the man's foot collided with his thigh, Finnick was reminded why he didn't lose his temper with Careers. They didn't fight with words and one had to be insane to threaten the victors they'd pulled out of the arena.
"This isn't about Ones or Twos," Finnick spat, jumping out of reach. "We're all District to the Capitol, all pets and toys and barbarians, and you, not Snow, you, kicked Cashmere down to make sure she, and through the tabloids extrapolations every one of us, remain subhuman to their eyes."
Brutus' eyes narrowed, his breathing heavy with anger. "Watch your tongue, Odair."
'Odair'. Worse, the slight flash of confusion in Brutus' eyes as Finnick implied he'd had a choice.
Finnick straightened. "Warn me next time Snow challenges your loyalty, for all the times a Four stood up for a Two." Brutus winced, and Finnick hoped that Mags would not mind him using her like this. Anger soon pushed away his doubt. Finnick could have helped a married Cashmere, he could... He forced a smile as rage threatened to turn him into a mindless brute. Brutus was trapped, more privileged than most but still trapped, by his training just as much as by the Capitol. "Brutus, Snow knows you're loyal. He doesn't ask you for proof because he doubts. It's about control."
Seeing Brutus tense further sucked the fight out of Finnick. There was nothing malicious about the older man, only... only blindness. Beetee had been right. Finnick hoped that when the firing started, Brutus and the others would pick the right side, but they couldn't afford to include them, not even Lyme.
He hoped Mags' protection would ensure Brutus' loyalty long enough.
A pained breath escaped his lungs. Finnick had years of secrets, more blackmail than almost any man alive. He knew what happened behind locked doors, where money was stealthily exchange and what people dreamt behind the masks they wore. Surely he could do something for Cashmere.
Year 74, April, the Capitol.
Effie Trinket gasped, her hand flying to her painted lips. Ten years as District Twelve's escort, no one got away with calling her faint to her face, but now she feared she would faint.
Her chest heaved and yet her eyes had barely reached the third of the list.
Had Mr. Templesmith really? Before Cashmere's Victory Tour even...? And Mr. Lorris, that... that hypocrite! He advocated faithfulness until his lungs gave out!
There were no words! And it stretched, it stretched down forever. Effie had to sit down.
How could Tiberius tolerate it! His own victors! Haymitch... Effie shut her eyes. Breathe, Woman, in, out, in, out.
"Smile!" She said brightly, opening her arms wide out of habit. The ritual was good for keeping a bright exterior. It wasn't Twelve's trembling children but that list that stared back at her. Haymitch was a disgrace and rude and... infuriating but she'd murder the first person who'd... Effie took one large, shaky breath. She couldn't think about Haymitch.
And who in their right mind would pay such sums to be the hundredth... Effie blushed and shuddered, pushing the appalling thought at the far back of her mind or she'd be sick.
Oh dung, she was going to be sick. She just couldn't ignore it. Escorting had taught to ignore many things and focus on the big picture, but victors... Victors had won!
Effie shrieked when the phone rang. It was Sybil, and Effie's breath hitched as she prepared herself for a nice big burst of outrage. Sybil was stuck with District Seven, and Effie had been envious, until her friend told her about that terrible Johanna.
Effie felt her eyes sting. Had Johanna...?
"Did you see how much of a slut Cashmere has been?"
Effie spluttered as her breath went the wrong way. The list was staring angrily back at her, and she realized her main emotion was anger. "Well she didn't rape them, did she? They knew what they were getting into," Effie cried. "She needs to be sent back to One. Her brother too! It's obscene."
Sybil's silence made her realize she'd shouted. Effie grit her teeth, her face red. She didn't shout, but maybe this warranted shouting. Her grand-mother Myia had always warned her that nasty things happened in those parties, but Effie had never suspected that.
She'd refused to believe it.
"You realize how much blackmail this is?" Sybil said in an odd voice. "Some of these men declared thefts when the money just went in Cashmere's bra."
"Taxes 95%," Effie read ashenly. It was the last line. "The money's staying in the Capitol."
"That's nasty," Sybil finally allowed. "Do you think it's used to make up for rebel sabotage or -"
Effie couldn't get her hands to stop shaking. "Is Johanna -"
Sybil snorted. "She'd leave a trail of corpses behind."
Effie's heart skipped a beat as memories long buried resurfaced. "I need to go," she stammered.
Cecelia. Effie remembered how thrilled and embarrassed she had been as a girl when they'd eaten with her at Grandma Myia's house. Cecelia had been so liberated before she'd had Charles and...
Liberated. Effie felt filthy for having thought that of her. Cecelia was so nice.
Effie uncorked the bottle of spirits she kept in the cupboard in case her mother came to visit. She held it between two fingers, Haymitch's face floating before her eyes as the smell of alcohol reached her nose. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath before pressing the bottle to her lips, an odd thrill coursing through her as she realized she really should have taken a glass. Savages drank from bottles.
There was nothing civilized about that list.
She had to stop her mind from thinking. It was much too horrible.
Year 74, April, the Capitol.
"Everyone knows there's corruption, prostitution with dubious consent, but it's abstract. When the proof's printed on paper, then something must be done," Donna said, her lips tightly pursed.
"Why couldn't this have worked five years ago? I need to be here, and I'll do what I must, but Cashmere and Gloss?" Finnick said, his eyes soft despite his anger as he thought the respite the siblings would finally have. Snow couldn't risk social unrest by selling them in secret anymore.
"Finnick, true ethical debates about victors only began after your Games. Cecelia's children, the series of Career victories, Annie's Games, the Homeguard ball..."
Aunt Lorelei, Uncle Larimar, Uncle Jasper, his cousins, at least their deaths had helped the right side.
Donna huffed, her face all but shouting how painfully frustrating it all was. "Before that, the fear was so much more prevalent and worse, people were convinced it couldn't be any different. They'd have been outraged but gone on with their lives. Just another scandal, quietened by false promises and no change."
"I suppose it helps that many used company money to finance their pleasures. I wonder how much is about the finances rather than us victors."
Donna sighed. "Don't be fooled by the fact we got the information quickly. That's decades of networking, infiltration and covering our tracks. We just shouted out to Snow that he's not in control of information. It's a risk we couldn't have taken even five years ago. Wader's crash on the Gamemakers' Tower was much too raw."
"We need that final push, Donna." Finnick struggled to keep the rising panic at bay. With everything so brittle they risked losing control of the rebellion, of having it all descend in chaos and blood, with no chance at victory. "We need to figure something out, fast."
A grim smile split his lips unbidden.
"Mr. Odair, are you certain you intend to keep your word? You have less than two years to vanish. I would hate to have to forcibly dispose of you."
"When you reach the top of a mountain, the only way to go is down. I cannot fade Mr. President, so I'll crash. A terrible scandal. They'll love to hate and shun me. I'm growing cockier by the year, it's terrible long-term strategy."
"You are cocky indeed, Mr. Odair."
"I'm a creature of vice. Wear a mask too long and you find you can't take it off anymore."
Finnick had every reason to feel confident. He hoped that the old man enjoyed the taste of scandal.
Year 74, August, 74th Hunger Games, Reaping Day.
Glimmer from District One was blonde and beautiful and oozing sex at only sixteen. She could have been Cashmere's younger twin had she not smiled happily and with crafted guilelessness at the cameras. Marvel cracked a clever joke onstage, because cocky's always better wrapped up in smart and funny. Finnick winced when a fifteen-year-old girl volunteered in Two's solemn square. Clove was a little doll with murder in her eyes, simmering with rage behind a mask to thin to fool him at having to be the cute one while the huge Cato would be dark and dangerous. But Cato smiled fleetingly at her, a friend's smile, and Finnick couldn't see through her mask anymore.
The Twos knew each other, worse, they were close. Glimmer and Clove were too young to be there. Finnick didn't believe in chance. He hated the gauzy fabric clinging to his skin and missed Annie with a vengeance, but if something happened he had to be here, in the Capitol, and his teeth painfully ground together when Mako volunteered in Lycorias, curly-haired and fourteen and the walking testament that FLASH's days were over.
Avidly he searched the live Reaping Ceremonies for something, anything, the rock in his throat bigger and bigger as he saw only sallow faces and terror-filled eyes, District after District.
Until her.
"I volunteer!" A sister's gut-wrenching cry, a spark of life in beaten down Twelve where the clothes matched the color of the sooty ground.
Wiry, underfed, but she was willful. Katniss Everdeen was pretty, the cameras wouldn't get bored. Primrose, fair and prettier still, the younger sister, the sacrificial child.
Finnick began to smile. The child would be magnificent on posters.
His smile fell as the camera briefly passed of the reaped boy's eyes. It returned with cold, chilling determination.
Thirteen would have their symbol. If it didn't work this year, it never would.
Peeta Mellark, sixteen, same as the girl, already in the shadows, but his eyes… Finnick's jaw hardened in compassion. He loved her, obsessively.
Finnick stood up. They were right behind his doors, the journalists he had first abhorred but the years had taught him how easy they could be to manipulate.
"It must be terrible not to be in Four for the reapings," the first chirped. "Do you fear you will be disadvantaged with only Nori on the train to prepare them?"
But they didn't want to talk of the fourteen-year-old boy who'd rushed up to the stage, of the sixteen-year-old volunteer who looked like an unfinished Career. They wanted Katniss Everdeen and Finnick would prove it to them.
"It's surprisingly rare, for them to volunteer for a sibling. And in Twelve... Did you see her?" Finnick asked with an awed smile.
It was a terrible accident that sent Twelve's stylist to the hospital, truly tragic, and when Cinna stepped in, with a glowing recommendation from DeCharon, the Hunger Games committee couldn't have been more relieved.
When the train reached the Capitol, the cameras focused on cheering highschool students brandishing a poster with Primrose and Katniss side by side, fingers brushing and tear-jerking emotion in their eyes. Finnick tipped an invisible hat to Rhapsody Valens. Those teenagers had no idea they were the front line of rebel propaganda in the Capitol.
Finnick found Effie Trinket just before the chariot rides in the Coliseum. Twelve's escort was so febrile with excitement her wig was all askew. Finnick tore from her an admission of hope, that maybe, maybe, this year Twelve would have a victor.
Year 74, August, 74th Hunger Games, Chariot Rides.
The Girl on Fire.
Cinna didn't just listen, he was amazing. Twelve's parade chariot had come out bearing two regular tributes, prettier than usual maybe, but unremarkable, until her dark dress, and the whole chariot, but oh the dress, had caught fire. Finnick didn't doubt for one second why the man had become DeCharon's protege.
Finnick couldn't cheer, not today, not with so many deaths to come, but he didn't bother to conceal his slack jawed expression.
The symbol was beginning to emerge, and it was powerful. The fire had to take.
Haymitch was looking so close to respectable outside the prepping rooms that Finnick fought the urge to hug him and say how proud he was.
"Is that alcohol I almost can't smell?"
"Bugger off, Odair."
"What's she like, as a person?" Finnick said, undeterred. "Think I'd like her? Respect her at least?"
"She's a survivor," Haymitch gruffly replied. There was a definite pride as he straightened, and Finnick got what he wanted: assurance Haymitch wanted that girl to come home. "Never had to steal or cheat to survive either."
"Haymitch, this isn't about the Games," Finnick said, forcing himself to be serious, to trust Haymitch. "This is bigger. I want her to win. They'll forget her sister. We need something more solid."
"Who's we?" Suspicion creased dark folds in Haymitch's face.
Stop thinking just about the Hunger Games, Haymitch. "Everyone," Finnick whispered. "Everyone who wants change."
There was a tense pause, but finally, a low curse left Haymitch's lips. "The girl's not playing, not angle, not teams. She's tough." His chuckle was raw and bitter. "But she'll kill Caesar before she smiles and simpers. The boy's the clever and charming one."
"And also in love with her." Four's were partners, that was the Game Finnick knew, the angles Mags had crafted meticulously over the decades. Finnick knew exactly what he could offer the Capitol, he just needed Haymitch to trust him.
Haymitch's raised eyebrows betrayed his skepticism. "It's a crush." Finnick's expression made him pause. "You think he'd die for her in there?"
I know. Finnick's heart clenched as he thought of Delfina. She looked so young on the recaps now. "Haymitch, if Peeta declares his love, if he lives it... Make every Capitol girl want to be her, strong and with such a loving handsome boy yearning to be hers."
"Odair, want to write that sugar speech?" Haymitch said, his sneer belied by the hesitant glint in his eyes. "Not sure I'm too much for lovin'."
"Ask if you need help," Finnick would turn Haymitch into a Career mentor if it was the last thing he did. Haymitch was clever enough, he just had spent too many years not caring. "Talk to the boy, make sure the girl tempers her hostility. Victors we got in handfuls, we need a symbol. We need it this year."
Maybe, maybe, the idea of two victors would stick. Finnick both loved and hated the fierce purpose that filled him at the thought. Seneca Crane couldn't afford one more mistake, he was desperate, and desperate men could be manipulated, especially desperate and proud Head Gamemakers who craved to be remembered.
Haymitch slowly nodded, "Finnick," he said, something beyond the usual gruffness in his voice. "Her token's a Mockingjay pin, it... Think we can do something with that?"
Finnick smiled, his hand coming to rest on Haymitch's arm for a moment. "We certainly can."
"Sponsors, sponsors, it's not like I have Katniss this year, is it?" Johanna said, making it shrill and loud. "Stop bugging me, Sybil. Besides, do you want Primrose Everdeen to starve? Are you that heartless? That adorable child, you disgust me."
Finnick wouldn't have believed Jo had it in her.
"Overdone?" Jo whispered when she passed him.
"You were amazing." Jo wasn't a bleeding heart and rarely took a shine to her tributes, Finnick couldn't have asked for a better ally.
"Subtle," Beetee muttered, nudging them with a smile. But he hadn't let go of his tributes yet, and Finnick could see them haunting him in each of his moves.
"You were right, about the Careers," Finnick muttered. It had been a troubling talk he'd had with Rhapsody Valens, but his fight with Brutus -and they still avoided each other- had showed him the Twos, despite their loyalty and staunchness, wouldn't understand what the rebels were offering.
"Oh God, someone record this!" Jo mock whispered, her eyes comically wide. She shocked Beetee by pulling him into a crushing embrace. "Volts, my hero, I apologize for all the ill I did you."
Unfortunately, private moments were stolen and fleeting with so many Capitolites hungry for the victors' attention. Finnick smiled at Antonius Van Fleet and hoped the man couldn't hear Jo's skin crack as she forced a smile herself.
Johanna dug her fingers into Finnick's arm when Cashmere appeared. "No, no, Finn ripped his veil of denial. You are evil, go away!"
"I've knocked you to the floor once already, honey," Cashmere replied brightly. "Recess is over, some people actually do have a shot at sponsors here."
Finnick grabbed them both by the wrist. "I'm a little tired of being figuratively castrated when the two of you get together." They enjoyed it too.
"Don't tell me I don't make you feel like a real man," Cashmere said, her suggestive smile as effective as a knife.
Finnick smirked. "Jo, I need a testosterone shoot, coming right back."
"You two-faced boytoy. Don't come back crawling to me later," Jo accused, and Finnick wished he had a pillow to throw at her.
"We have half the number of sponsors and a quarter of the sponsor money we usually have, all your fault," Cashmere said, failing spectacularly at looking angry.
"I'm so sad for you," Finnick said with his best smirk. "I weep at night, I do."
Cashmere pinched his side. "I have a problem. That bitch from Twelve. She's an oddity, I'll grant that, and I want that stylist, but how did she get that special?"
Finnick shrugged, hating to lie to her, too aware that he couldn't afford more than an innocent facade. District One would rebel anyway. Cashmere and Gloss would be smart enough to play it safe then. "They always like to pick a favorite. Cashmere," he added seriously, "do you really want a girl like Glimmer to win?"
A girl like you. Blonde, attractive, alluring, deceptively soft. Cashmere's expression darkened.
"Besides, isn't it a joy, to see Haymitch really mentoring? Effie's so happy she might explode."
"You bleeding heart." Beneath the teasing, Cashmere's eyes were hard, still trying to understand how Katniss Everdeen had come to obsess each and every sponsor.
Finnick raised his chin. "And proud. Mags raised me well." He grabbed Cashmere's hand and dragged her to where Haymitch was struggling to sell his girl.
"Don't mind us, we're the audience," he said with a testy smile. "Just telling Cashmere how refreshing it was to see you sober and care. Katniss must really be something if she managed to save you from those terrible nightmares plaguing your days and nights since you lost all your loved ones and sunk into depression. Seeing you strong again, Haymitch," Finnick said with a solemn nod and a tear in his eye, "that's a neat treat."
Capitolites, especially tipsy ones, were so easy to play. Haymitch had to back off to avoid being hugged by tearful people who minutes earlier were eagerly chatting about the Girl on Fire but who'd yet to truly see her as a human being.
Cashmere pinched him again, this time hard. "Are you helping him, Odair?"
Finnick grinned. "Being nice feels good, you should try it."
Year 74, August, 74th Hunger Games, Private Training Sessions.
Plutarch was so deep in thought he tripped against a bowl of punch. The ungraceful impact on the hard floor reminding him he was well past his prime. Usually he paid little attention this far into the private training sessions, but today would be critical.
Katniss Everdeen, their prodigy from Twelve. They'd seen her shoot in training, and also avoid any meaningful interaction with any other tribute. The girl was fuming at being ignored, unawares it was a test, to see her limits, to finally get a reaction out of her.
She exceeded all of Plutarch's expectations.
The arrow landed in the pig roast with a thud, inches from Seneca Crane, tearing a muffled scream from the nearby Athenaeus. Yes, it could have been your heart had she had a more insane streak.
"Thank you, for your consideration," Katniss said with an insolent bow, storming out of the room.
Plutarch repressed a shiver, so chilly was the silence. His blue eyes shone with thrill as he turned to his stunned colleagues. It was in moments like these, that a simple nudge could turn crowds around.
"The Girl on Fire will burn on her own," Plutarch said with deep amusement. "She's too guileless to be dangerous. She'll be great sport, Seneca, make them go wild."
Seneca's frown melted into a smirk. "I shall grant her a score of eleven," he purred. "She deserves no less."
Plutarch's smile broadened. The crowd loved Katniss too much for the Careers to dare kill her too early and Estrella from Four had made sure to dispel the pack's doubts on the matter. As long as Katniss survived, it was just a matter of pulling the right strings.
He donned a compassionate expression when Seneca returned after the interviews, stiff from his conversation with Snow. "A score of eleven may have been a bit enthusiastic," Seneca said, "the President wants us to 'contain the hope', don't let her get too cocky."
"It's not the eleven in training, it's the fact they may see a Twelve as a hero, a role model. Let her rise high, then have her fall," Plutarch said.
Seneca's lips twitched, relief flashing in his eyes. "Oh, I have plans," he said.
"The boy is sincere," Plutarch pointed out. Peeta Mellark's declaration of love during the interviews, right after the girl had twirled in her flaming dress, had thrown the Capitol into highly desirable chaos.
"Love and the Hunger Games don't really mix," Seneca impatiently replied. "She was as stunned as we were, there will be no flirting."
"Then up the stakes. If they don't deliver on the romance, find something," Plutarch replied with a slight shrug, his relaxed posture quite at odds with the pacing younger man. "Seneca, you are Head Gamemaker, don't censor yourself."
"There are rules." And Snow breathing hard down his neck.
"What do the tributes know?" Plutarch said, feeling a pang of pity for the man. "Lie to them. She's no Bale, she's uncomplicated. All this effervescence around her, it's the people. She's just a Twelve who volunteered and can shoot a target."
Seneca smiled, his relief at reclaiming control endearingly obvious. "Yes, we'll make her magnificent."
"We need the boy for that. He shouldn't fade too quickly," Plutarch cautioned.
He wasn't certain he could give Finnick the two victors he craved, but he would try.
74th Hunger Games, arena day 1. The Capitol.
Finnick believed in destiny, and when he saw the forest arena, the very setting Katniss Everdeen had navigated all her life, he mentally removed his shirt and did a victory run. Outwardly he huffed, because how was a forest anything original.
Mako died in the bloodbath, along with eleven others, and Finnick focused his grief into passionate hope and frantic caution. The arena was large, the outliers had scattered, with only a single alliance of two. It would be a drawn out fight, with the cameras focusing almost exclusively on the Career pack, their banter, threats and flirting. Loner tributes were rarely interesting.
Peeta had joined the Careers, and Finnick hoped the boy was camera-aware enough to milk that advantage. They would make him kill, to shatter the lover boy image. It was no use dwelling on that, Haymitch had warned the boy. Keeping the Career mentors, and Snow, oblivious was much more critical.
But the symbol would die if Katniss failed to be entertaining. Unfortunately the girl had no sense of show and no clue of the chance she represented.
Finnick ambushed Haymitch as he retired for the night. "Don't give her water tomorrow unless she's literally dying."
"What?" Haymitch hissed, eying him as if he was crazy. As if he wasn't aware that Katniss had gone two days without drinking, that she was almost crawling in the mud.
"She's close. She's pathetic right now. She finds it on her own, we can build on that," Finnick patiently explained. "The Capitol hands on water, and she becomes an umpteenth outlier who can't take it."
Haymitch brought his hand to his forehead, anger entering his pained expression. "Bloody bastards, have to think of everything. I'm not letting her die, Odair. I never had such big money before. I could buy her a frigging pony."
Haymitch stood his ground when Katniss asked the cameras for water, a huge sigh of relief escaping his lips when Katniss finally found the stream. "I hope they enjoyed seeing her crawl. It won't happen again," he vowed tightly. He'd barely touched alcohol in days and the other mentors were starting to eye him differently.
The Girl on Fire survived the flames and fireballs forcing her back towards the Career pack on day Four and it wasn't hard to find appropriate metaphors to celebrate her skill.
All was going so well, and yet Finnick was terrified.
74th Hunger Games, Arena day 6. The Capitol.
The fancy pastries taken out to celebrate the sixth night of the Games were tasteless on Plutarch's tongue.
Little Rue couldn't move Katniss while the leaves purged the venom out of the older girl's system. Trackerjacker stings were a vile thing and they'd brought the Games to a halt. Claudius Templesmith had grown bored of exalting Rue's extraordinary level-headeness and the humbling courage the twelve-year-old from Eleven displayed as she nursed Katniss, starving herself to feed the suffering older girl. The recaps had little to show save a depleted Career pack arguing.
And Peeta was wounded, a slice from Cato's blade. He'd run off with the camouflage case as his only supplies. "Go find your girl, tell her we say hi. You have twelve hours, Twelve. Then we'll hunt you."
The Two boy didn't dare be the one to deprive the Capitol of their romance, but Glimmer's and Estrella's deaths had rattled the Career alliance and Trackerjacker stings did little for Cato's temper. Plutarch could now see how protective he and Clove were of each other and a part of him regretted their subtlety, their affected detachment, because this year even Careers from Two would have been allowed to show feeling.
With Peeta wounded, there was little left to fill the daily recaps. Peeta had found a camera to whisper to whenever he could steal a moment, talking to Katniss as though she could hear, revealing how he'd loved her since she'd sung that valley song at school, how he'd watched her from afar and saved pieces of bread so he could slip them to Prim in the hope of erasing the bags under Katniss' eyes. They learned Katniss was too proud to accept help, that she'd fought for her family's survival since her eleventh year. Peeta told the trees how he missed her, how hard it was to stay with the Careers, but that he'd stop at nothing to protect her. The love story lived through him, that clever, charming boy. But stories alone were not enough and now Peeta Mellark barely had the strength to hide among the trees.
Stress sent pain shooting up Plutarch's shoulders. It was the victors' turn to play their hand but the evening dragged on and everyone drank to cover their boredom.
"Relax."
Plutarch barely had the time to register the word as Cecelia rushed past him and through the crowd. "Charles!" she exclaimed.
A jolt of surprise shocked Plutarch's tenseness away as a child's frame appeared in the chattering crowd. He choked back laughter, unable to believe his eyes.
Was that Rue? A blackened face, a carefully drawn 11 on his shirt. They dressed Charles as Rue? And little Victoria, wearing a braid like a queen and dragging a bow with her.
"Don't worry, Mom, we paid for the taxi. We had to get away: the babysitter was deathfully boring," Charles said with an outrage only a seven-year-old could muster. "The parties can't always be without us!"
"What is all this makeup, darling?" Cecelia's gray eyes were too wide and her lips twitching a little too much, but Plutarch knew her better than anyone. He hid his grin behind a gulp of wine. "Why is there a sign on your brother saying Buttercup?" Cecelia asked.
"That's Katniss' and Primrose's cat," Charles said. "I heard someone say it on TV."
"Why ever Rue, my boy?" A man demanded. People were rushing to the family like starving hawks. Perfect, Cecelia, they are perfect.
"She's little and she's strong, it's not like there's a twelve-year-old-boy doing all the right things in there," Charles said defensively. "Besides, I couldn't be Peeta because Vicky's my sister. I can save her from Trackerjackers, but kissing her? Gross."
Victoria pulled a face in agreement. "So how do you like my costume?" She asked the growing crowd. "When I grow up, I'll be a hero too!"
Plutarch intervened before Charles could become too flustered by off script questions. Victoria had begun to try to shoot forks with her small bow. "Children, there's a place for every age. You should go home."
"Not without Mommy, Uncle Archie," Victoria exclaimed. "It's not fair you all get to keep her to yourselves."
"I should be ashamed," Cecelia whispered to Plutarch. "Charles has the same drama instructor as Finnick. He loved the idea of dressing up and putting up an act."
Plutarch wouldn't call it romantic love, the bond that united him to Cecelia Rheys, but he admired her spirit, the softness she had dragged out of the depth of her heart for her, their, children, the lack of resentment when she taught them of the Capitol. He heard Dad when the children called him Uncle Archie, and the doubts, the weariness plaguing him since Mags' stroke and her subsequent retirement, vanished when Charles, Victoria and the still crawling Camlet looked at him with unquestioning trust.
"And Victoria's just that spirited," Plutarch said fondly.
"Only in the Capitol. They're tools enough," Cecelia said, fighting to keep the smile on her face. "I don't want to raise monsters."
"You're not," Plutarch assured her before moving in to pick Victoria up and hand her to Woof. "You go, Woof. You should take care of yourself at your age."
Woof nodded, grateful for the reprieve. "Come on, Rue and Katniss need their beauty sleep too. Camlet, don't let go of your brother's hand."
Cecelia grinned at the crowd. "Every day there's something new with this lot." She let out a helpless laugh. "My little boy, painting himself all black and dressing up as Rue, can you believe it?"
"Cecelia?" Seeder called, appearing on cue and walking swiftly towards the younger victor. "I heard a crazy thing about your child and my Rue." Her eyes all but popped out of their sockets as people eagerly pointed at the leaving Woof.
It was all once more about Rue, Katniss and Peeta as everyone forgot all about their boredom.
Plutarch hoped Katniss would give them a symbol that would outlast the arena every time he made the cameras absently zoom on her Mockingjay pin, but he was confident they could craft something even if the girl simply survived.
Survival was all they could hope for.
74th Hunger Games, Arena day 8.
Finnick winced every time Haymitch slammed his fist on the controls.
"A wound kit. Bloody numbers say I can buy eight, I can't buy a damn one! They don't want me to cure him. Should I send a frigging map to Katniss so she can get her arse up where the boy's dying?"
"She'll find him," Finnick assured him. "The Capitol won't be denied the reunion."
"Or what? They'll revolt?" Haymitch snapped, his hand grabbing the bottle on Chaff's seat. He took a shaky breath, eyeing the spirits longingly, before putting it down. "I'm taking a walk."
74th Hunger Games, Arena day 9.
Silence fell when Coriolanus Snow marched into the control room. Plutarch gave him a greeting bow of the head, of them all the most relaxed. Snow wondered if the former psychologist was the only competent man in the room.
Young Rue, Eleven's little darling, The Girl on Fire's savior, had died from a spear in her gut and allowed Katniss Everdeen to kill Marvel in self defense and keep her aura of innocence.
Coriolanus stroked his white beard in cultivated indifference as Katniss sang, placing flowers around Rue's inconveniently pretty corpse, sang the very song Peeta had made a fool of himself trying to sing on the first night, when he'd pretended to need to take a dump. Coriolanus could hear the sobs coming from every home, those nauseating idiots. His jaw tightened when the girl raised her fingers towards the cameras in salute, her body screaming defiance.
The Girl on Fire had burned long enough.
"Seneca, I want the girl to win. I want her to kill the boy. In cold blood," he smiled thinly. "And I want them together, to show that the girl doesn't love him. That she used us. You have twenty-four hours, and I have a mess to clean up in Eleven."
He would shatter Katniss Everdeen.
The reaction shots in Eleven were not broadcasted. Coriolanus was almost glad for the open riots. If the Districts got too bold, he'd show them how creative, his peacekeepers could get. He signed the peacekeeper's permission to use bullets against agitators. "Leave enough of those monkeys intact to work," he told the Colonel.
When Katniss took a bite from the bread baked in District Eleven and gratefully thanked Rue's District, Coriolanus allowed Seneca to keep it in the day's broadcast. The rebels would come, and they would finally understand the depth of their foolishness. He would make sure Seeder and Chaff received prime footage of the riots.
74th Hunger Games, Arena day 10.
"Attention tributes. Attention. The regulations acquiring a single victor has been suspended. From now on, two victors may be crowned if both originate from the same district. This will be the only announcement."
A choked peal of laughter broke through Finnick's lips. He couldn't breathe. He realized he'd lost his balance when Nori and Cecelia steadied him, painful understanding in their eyes. Finnick couldn't stop. He giggled like a girl. Look at this Delfina. We did it, we finally changed their minds. No Capitolite would challenge the rule change. Finnick wondered if Plutarch was a genius or Seneca Crane really rubbish under stress. Two victors if they were of the same District? Why hadn't he made the same rule earlier, just two victors, and then watched Katniss be torn between Rue and Peeta? That spear wound could have been healed with the right medicine.
He winced, his hysterical laughter cut short, when he saw Cato and Clove turn wide eyes towards the cameras, their hope bleeding through for one shining second before they remembered to the masks they had to wear. You don't deserve this kids, you really don't. He'd never be able to look at Brutus and Lyme in the eyes again. He didn't dare imagine what was going on in the Career mentors' room.
Finally the star-crossed lovers found each other and the victors breathed as one when Katniss finally got over herself and gave the poor boy a kiss. Haymitch triumphantly slammed the sponsor gift button. It wasn't much, just enough to tell them to play.
"She'd better get it now," Haymitch huffed.
Finnick slid next to Seeder and lightly kissed her forehead. Her eyes were red from tears, and threatened to bring some to Finnick's eyes. Seeder didn't weep when Eleven's tributes died. Finnick doubted she'd given anyone the satisfaction of seeing her shed a tear since she'd been a little girl. But today Seeder wept for Rue, for the little girl in her flower bed and for Katniss, the bravest sister in Panem. Finnick had never thought he'd find such hope in a woman's tears. If Seeder allowed herself to cry, then truly, something great was happening, something so much bigger than the inhuman Hunger Games.
Unfortunately Katniss still couldn't act to save her life and Peeta was too wounded to muster the strength. Boredom descended once more over the arena like a choking hold. Finnick counted the seconds until the Gamemakers intervened. Haymitch looked ready to murder someone.
Finally, as the second week of the Games came to a close, Seneca Crane's voice boomed through every speaker.
"Attention, tributes. Attention. Commencing at sunrise, there will be a feast tomorrow at the Cornucopia. This will be no ordinary occasion, each of you need something desperately and we plan to be generous hosts."
"Don't you dare muck it up, Girl," Johanna hissed. "Not now."
There was a reason they called feasts little bloodbath. Miraculously, Katniss survived and obtained enough medicine to save Peeta. A storm raged for a night and a day after the star-crossed lovers reunited in their cave, trapping them inside, and Circe, had Gamemakers ever been that unsubtle?, and finally they kissed once more, and once again, and there was a flicker of sincerity in the girl's eyes. Haymitch stopped cursing with every breath as he could finally send the two the feast they deserved.
The last tributes died one by one, Thresh from Eleven, clever Finch from Five, until only Cato, Katniss and Peeta remained.
"Kill him, just kill him, you coward," Finnick growled as Katniss stood with Peeta on top of the Cornucopia, as one of those monstrous human-headed wolf mutts tore a shrieking Cato apart. "Just shoot him."
"She's no Career, hesitation is instinctive," Nori said tightly, her hand soothing on her shoulder.
He exhaled loudly when Katniss finally shot the poor boy. "I know," he whispered. But he couldn't imagine how dragged out those minutes had been to Cato.
There were just the two tributes from Twelve. Rebellion, no more masks, no more secrets. Christmas with Mags in Creneis Town. No one except his Annie. Finnick feared his heart would burst.
74th Hunger Games, Arena day 18.
"Attention. Attention, tributes," Seneca said in the microphone. "There's been a slight rule change. The previous revision allowing for two victories from the same district has been revoked. Only one victor may be crowned. Good luck. And may the odds be ever in your favor." He smiled and turned the microphone off. "Well that should do it."
Plutarch said nothing. Peeta would not kill her, the girl had her bow and they had nightlock, those deadly little berries that had ended Finch from Five's life. If Katniss was stubborn enough, if she suddenly developed a strategic mind so close to the end...
"Go ahead," Peeta said, calm compared to the crushed-looking girl. She really had believed. "One of us should go home. One of has to die, they have to have their victor."
"No," she breathed. Plutarch wasn't surprised to see her throw down her bow and quiver and walk up to the boy. If you knew how much depends on you, Katniss Everdeen. The spear point the rebellion so badly needs.
"They don't," Katniss said, her voice shaking. "Why should they?" She opened her hands to reveal the lethal nightlock berries.
Peeta blanched. "No!"
"Suicide?" Seneca whispered, hope and wariness warring on his features. In every restaurant and large square, people were shouting their protests and Seneca knew his epic finale would never be. "The boy will make a more docile victor."
Plutarch frowned, he was confident Katniss wasn't that noble.
Indeed she wasn't. She gave Peeta half the berries. "Trust me. Trust me."
His eyes widened. "Together?"
"Oh fuck. People, give me an idea, now!" Seneca shouted, his voice cracking.
The panicked silence in the room was the sweetest sound Plutarch had ever heard
Katniss gave him a small smile. "Together."
Clever girl. Well done!
"Okay," Peeta said, and the love in his eyes was unmistakable. "One."
"Two." Determination instead of love, but in that moment Plutarch saw everything Peeta saw in Katniss' dirt-stricken face.
Plutarch made sure the Mockingjay pin was well in sight. Already Eleven's rioters painted the bird in red in dark alleys and destroyed buildings.
"Could we afford having no victor?" Seneca asked frantically, his fingers wrapping themselves treacherously around the microphone.
Plutarch pulled a face. Your funeral, it said. Poor Seneca, of course he should let the couple die but he had no idea of the danger two victors, those two victors, represented. He only saw the President's anger and the lynching mob that would have his hide if their beloved star-crossed lovers died such pathetic deaths.
"Three," Peeta said.
"Stop! Stop!" Seneca exclaimed in the microphone, large droplets of sweat running down his cheeks. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the winners of the 74th annual Hunger Games. Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark!"
Plutarch stood up, too afraid to betray himself as adrenaline shot through his veins. The taste of success seared his throat. He had to leave the room.
He expected to hear from District Thirteen within the month.
Year 74, August, a week after the end of the 74th Hunger Games. The Capitol.
"To Mags," Plutarch said raising his glass, his gaze on the horizon beyond which Four lay.
"To Mags, and all the absent friends who made this possible," Glynn echoed. "To a lifetime of dreams, and victory." A rueful smile cracked her lips. "Head Gamemaker," she added with a bow of her head.
Plutarch smiled. "I volunteered." Seneca Crane had not come back alive from his meeting with Coriolanus.
Glynn squeezed his arm. "You'll be extraordinary. History will forget all the others."
Only she still managed to make him blush like a boy. "To victory and Katniss Everdeen," Plutarch whispered, draining the glass in one long swallow.
So, what do you think? I hope I did everyone justice. Please review!
All announcements and the exchange between Katniss and Peeta are taken from Hunger Games (books and movies.)