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August 75, Arena day 1.
Mags winced. The shock of Finnick's steps on the ground slammed into her bones despite his efforts to make her less uncomfortable. She sharply recalled clinging to her father's back, when been six years old and fleeing from District One. Her life had come a full circle in the oddest of ways. She chuckled softly. Children didn't appreciate how solid their bodies were.
Here, clutching awkwardly her great nephews' shoulders in the thick jungle, Mags felt oddly at peace.
"I guided you," she impulsively said. "I can end here."
Finnick missed a step and Mags squeezed his arm. At her age, it was just the natural way of things. Her own grandparents hadn't reached seventy. Seeder, Woof, so many of those who had grown old with her were gone. The world had changed and her world would soon be history. She didn't want to add to Finnick's regrets.
"Be happy for my eighty-four years. Don't let me, or grief, trap you. The rebellion is not about me." She let her face fall on Finnick's shoulder when his arms tightened under her. "I am happy, proud, of the life I had. You have Annie, so much to live. Be wise. Don't let me hold you back."
The 9th Games had been the only ones with no true arena, but in the end, not escaped her fate. lived a life of danger and lies, but also seen so much courage and hope. She regretted very little.
"No estas muerta," Finnick hissed. Mags smiled despite herself. How she loved hearing him speak Spanish. Every time it reminded her how far the Capitol was from the total domination it had sought.
No, she wasn't dead. That wasn't the point. She didn't want to die. She wanted to punch Plutarch, with a chair. It probably wasn't his fault, but leaders had to take one for the team.
"They look up to you," Mags replied instead.
Her twenty-five-year-old Finnick, strikingly handsome with such a rare, unassuming charisma. He wasn't a leader or a strategist, not like Plutarch, Glynn or even Beetee, but he had so much to give, so much that was his and that Mags couldn't bear to see die.
"I'll do my best, Auntie," Finnick said. A roguish smile had split his lips and Katniss threw them an odd look. Mags simply grinned back. always asked for so much and Finnick had never told her to leave him alone and go find someone else.
See, Vicuña, we got our happy, useful victors in the end. We have been changing the world.
August 75, District Four - Somewhere in the wilderness.
"I'll see you again," Syrianus Valens said, his grip loosening on his wife's hands. Rhapsody wore a look of benign resignation and Donna had all but run out of the hovercraft to avoid being caught up in the family goodbyes.
"I have failed others, but I've always kept myself safe enough. Don't worry about me," Glynn said with one last smile at her husband. "Wreak havoc from this side of the line, and we'll compare notes."
The next few weeks would be crucial and power had never lost its exhilarating pull over her. Glynn watched the love of her life and their only daughter disappear as the Hovercraft took off again, leaving District Four's safe border for the chaos that lay outside.
lived her whole life for this. People had died so unexpectedly when been a kid in Creneis, sometimes so stupidly, that Glynn had soon shed her fear of death. Dying happened. She focused on the doing.
Lyme was looking at her bemused. "I keep having to tell myself to think of you as a soldier."
"It's the make-up and frills," Glynn joked, making her earrings jingle with an exaggerated shake of the head. Glynn did belong more in a fancy office than on the battlefield. need new clothes as soon as they landed in District Eight.
The night and the vastness of the wilderness cloaked them better than advanced technology. For all the Capitol's shine, the city was a only a little dot on the map of Panem.
Lyme was stiff and silent, once more glued to her mentor pad. Slick sweat stuck to her muscled arms despite the air conditioning, but even far from the mentor room, she fiercely kept a veil over her emotions as she watched Brutus' and Enobaria's every move.
Brutus had almost immediately figured out how to obtain water from the bamboo-like trees, but after hours of wandering without finding any other tribute, the Careers had decided to settle down for the night at the edge of the beach.
Gloss and Cashmere were now sleeping entwined while Enobaria and Brutus watched, the paralyzing venom making the veins in their arms bulge. There would be no hunting until the morning.
"It's stupid to let district partners on watch together," Lyme muttered. "Gloss and Cashmere shouldn't be so certain they won't be gutted."
Glynn tore her eyes away from the screen, biting back the urge to ask Lyme to give her a glimpse of Mags.
"Lyme, they'll hack the pad to locate us once they realize it's gone. Turn it off and throw it overboard. We can't help them anymore," the words were painful to utter and heavy against her chest. "We can only help their vision come true."
Lyme bared her teeth, boiling fury finally flaring in her eyes. "Brutus had no vision, just honor and the Village."
"No," Glynn countered. "He had a vision, because he believed a lie. He believed that in Two children did not starve and hospital care was free because he and his people were loyal."
She was speaking fast, embarrassingly fast, but Lyme radiated such power, such menace in her anguish, that Glynn thought caught a glimpse of what it felt like, to be stuck in an arena against tributes so much more lethal than you could ever be.
"That's the truth," Lyme spat, standing upright and pressing her tense hands against the hovercraft's window.
"It'd be if the Capitol recognized you as human. There is no partnership, no true gratitude on the Capitol's side. Two's pride is an illusion: you are still slaves. A child in five goes to the quarries, a child in two in peacekeeping; there's no place for those who don't fit in. It's just that in Two, they make an effort to educate you to fit in instead of breaking you if you cause trouble." No one should feel privileged for having access to a dentist. "We can make Brutus' illusions closer to the truth."
Lyme's chuckle was pained and hard. "Odd that, without mentorship, without this family we forged in blood, we victors would have had so much less. Had this rebellion happened before my victory… I… I hate that thought."
Glynn's throat constricted. never fooled herself by thinking she understood how deep Two's victors' kinship ran, but to say this, when both Brutus and Lyme had given so much for children who'd ended up dead so far from home, filled her with a sense of bitter awe.
Worse, it hit home in a painful way. "In a just world, I would never have risen so high in the Capitol." And Circe, she loved the life had. "Lyme, I'm not so self-righteous as to demand you be thrilled to rebel every step of the way."
Lyme sent the pad left on her seat flying to the floor and crushed it under her heel with a sharp exhale. That was all the agreement Glynn needed.
"What do I need to know?" Lyme demanded.
"District Eight has two towns, the one you know" and a monster of a town it was, hastily built towers that fell into disrepair due to lack of funding, soot-covered square blocks that had never seen a brush of color, "and a second one much closer to Two's borders, Silksteel. That's where we're going. In Silksteel, five-thousand people make combat vests for peacekeepers and Homeguard alike, as well as fireproof materials and all hospital related textiles, including bandages. No whiff of rebellion has reached Silksteel."
"They're wealthier?" Lyme predicted.
"Silksteel has a real hospital, gardens, and the life expectancy is seven years longer than in the rest of Eight," Glynn said. The District administrators were unfazed by human suffering, but not foolish. Many of Silksteel's head workers were as specialized as Three's engineers and couldn't be replaced on a whim.
"We're to get the rebellion to Silksteel and then go to Two," Lyme said. The mention of home unlocked some of the tension in her muscles and a strikingly vulnerable curiosity had entered her eyes.
Glynn nodded. Lyme was going to be even happier once heard the rest. "Exactly."
Battle uniforms and field hospitals kept peacekeeper casualties much lower than rebels. Many wounded peacekeepers were flown back to Two every week and would soon be back on the frontline. Glynn wanted combat conditions bad enough for peacekeepers to start deserting. If Snow was forced to send the Homeguard where the fighting was fierce, the Capitol families would be quick to demand a compromise.
"Silksteel is a highly prized location for older rankers -"
"Only since sunny Four has been such a clusterfuck since Finnick's victory," Lyme cracked.
Glynn couldn't help the proud smirk lighting her face. She'd spent less than a quarter of her life in Creneis, and she'd been bored half to death by the time she'd hit sixteen, but Four had given her her rebel's heart and for that Glynn owed her birth-land everything.
"Older rankers, people you know, Lyme. They're those you trained when you were in your late twenties and thirties, before switching to the Annex."
"Back when I still thought I could soften the system…" Lyme mused. Her eyes had narrowed into slits. "I think I remember all their names," she said with true Career nonchalance for her near-perfect memory. There was nothing merry about her laugh. "I have to tell them to let their brothers and sisters die on the frontlines for the good of Panem?"
"No, you have to convince them that if those uniforms and bandages don't get to Two, there won't be a Two to come back to," Glynn said darkly, "because those peacekeepers on the frontlines won't stop the rebellion and eleven districts combined will want to tear Two apart if you don't start fighting smart."
Lyme's eyes widened as she finally understood. "This isn't about the rebellion, it's about Two." She stood taller, as if a weight had been lifted from her broad shoulders.
Glynn smiled. "Lyme, the moment we became a team, that's what it's always been about. Years ago, Mags made Plutarch promise not to let the Districts tear Two apart. Plutarch will be busy fighting for the Districts, so I'm fighting with you."
Peacekeepers, white clad with helmets that hid their eyes and every last sign of humanity, were the ones that burst into people houses and beat down parents who'd tried to smuggle food to feed their family. Peacekeepers, not Capitolites, punched the foolish children who shouted 'Death to the Capitol!', too often breaking teeth or dislodging jaws and them disfigured or worse for the rest of their lives. Peacekeepers, not Capitolites, made pretty girls, and much less pretty ones, worry whenever they left their homes.
Shielded by her experience in Creneis, where peacekeepers had been feared bullies but not monsters, Glynn had not believed it at first, unwilling to accept how horrible it could be in the lower Districts until the avoxes had ripped her veil of denial. It didn't matter that the many, even most, peacekeeper followed the spirit of the law when those who abused faced little to no consequences.
Peacekeepers, not Capitolites, were shooting the rebels and erasing Mockingjay symbols. And as far as everyone was concerned, peacekeepers were all from District Two. The Capitol was far away and abstract. Peacekeepers were its evil face and bloodied hands and had planted hate and fear in every District citizen.
The rebels understood that the Capitol as it was needed to go, but what they wanted, what they died for, was to get rid of the men and women in white who'd pushed them around and worse for so long.
Glynn crouched to pick up the shards of Lyme's mentor pad. "You've been doing the Capitol's dirty work for too long, Lyme. It's time to learn to say no. District Two just needs to understands that they won't lose everything if they choose the rebels' side."
August 75, Night 1 in the arena.
The twelve gongs, midnight, that huge bolt of lightning, should have raised all the red flags decades of mentoring had taught Mags to spot.
Instead, the four of them ran blind at an ungodly hour, fleeing for their lives in the thick darkness.
The poisonous mist was swallowing the distance between them. Even Finnick stumbled on the uneven ground, branches snagging at their clothes. What beast of chemistry breezed through leaf, earth and wood and covered flesh with ghastly welts?
Mags could barely breathe as she struggled to hold on. The mist flooded the forest, surrounding them like a silent tidal wave. They weren't fast enough.
Mere yards behind her and Finnick, Peeta screamed. Mags' heart skipped a beat when the boy fell, writhing on the ground.
She couldn't hesitate anymore. Katniss was too light to carry Peeta and already she seemed to hesitate: flee or try to save him. Finnick couldn't carry them both. Peeta couldn't die.
It was simple. So very simple. Was this how Constantine Aquila had felt, when he'd crashed the hovercraft to let Mags win? The fog seemed to slow, just to give her time. Maybe it was designed so, maybe Plutarch was giving them as much of an edge as he could afford with Snow watching his every move.
"Put me down," Mags rasped.
A huge sadness filled her as Finnick let her slide off, rushing to Peeta's side. There had been a cannon shot while the lightning storm had raged on the other side of the jungle and then another, shortly before the mist awoke. Mags wondered, her heart heavy. Their faces, Beetee, Chaff, young Jo whom she so wished to have known better, were the only thing her eyes could clearly see in the dark.
It would be quick. It would save Finnick, Katniss and Peeta. She was loved but she wasn't essential, not anymore. Mags couldn't remember the last time she had been handed such a black and white choice on a platter.
Finnick. Crouched next to Peeta in the dark, he looked so lost. Mags put a hand on his shoulder and bent down when he turned to her. Her lips met his, just a forceful, dry kiss and she wished him all the strength in the world. I'm not Annie, you have all your life ahead of you.
Sheturned away from her stunned nephew, his face etched in her mind and resolutely walked towards the wall of death.
"Mags?" Finnick hoarsely said.
"Mags!"
Mags' heart broke at the same time as Finn's voice. She could hear him scrambling to his feet. She prayed he wouldn't run. He'd be faster.
"Finnick," Katniss rasped.
Stop him, Katniss, keep him back. Don't make him choose between me and the rebellion. She was proud of the girl, for making the noble choice even when she had so little hope.
"MAGS!"
The air was ugly and green. Katniss' hold on Finnick was strong enough to buy Mags the time she needed. Or so Mags imagined, because she didn't dare turn. She couldn't afford to look back.
Mags thought she saw shapes as pain exploded on every inch of her skin. It filled her mouth, throat and lungs, burning her vocal cords. Good, they deserved better than hear her scream.
Shadows… Cereus, Esperanza, Marquise. Her little ones: Lorelei, Larimar.
Mags stumbled as her vision darkened. I did my best, Mama.
The cannon boomed through the darkness, heard by little more than a score of people as most of Panem slept.
Calm. It was so very quiet.
The soft brushes of dawn lit the higher branches, but they had no way to tell if daylight would keep them safe from the arena.
Finnick sat against the tree, his hands clenched tight against his chest. Mags was dead. What if they weren't rescued? Annie… What if something happened to Annie? What if Snow decided he wanted her, no matter the cost? He'd been so certain. Mags had been so certain! Furious tears ran down Finnick's cheeks, and he struggled to keep quiet. He was their leader now.
He watched his hands shake, filled with helpless fury. He'd endured caresses with a smile, he'd watched patrons strike their avoxes, and laughed with the most horrible of men, women and every gender determination in-between. He could do this! He would push it all out until they were safe.
Fix it, Heavensbee. Fix it quick!
The tears kept falling. He kept watch, his back to the two resting teenagers from Twelve. He hoped they'd snatch a few minutes of sleep. They had to make it. Katniss was their Mockingjay.
Katniss had held him back.
'Finnick we have to go. We have to get out of here!'
He hated her. He hated her so much. Peeta, why couldn't that boy have run faster? He was seventeen, and he'd known he'd be back in the arena. Did he expect to be saved every damn time? Why had Mags had to pay the price?
The tears stung bitterly and Finnick struggled to let go of the hate, to see through the cloud in his mind. Tomorrow, he'd need to be the man Mags wanted him to be. Aunt Mags. She'd been all the family he'd had left.
She'd found his Annie. If there was no Mags, no Annie, then what would have been the point... His breath hitched. Annie, just tell me you're alright.
The sobs wouldn't stop. Mags had been immortal; he'd never truly believed that she could...
Mags was dead. That confident smile, her rough hands on his cheek, promising a happy ending. That shared understanding when she popped a sugar cube in her mouth. He remembered her from before the stroke, always running about, always taking the time to listen, her voice echoing in every corridor of FLASH, giving Four back the spine the Dark Days had broken.
If not for Mags, Sparrow would never have jumped out of that bush to intercept the monkey-mutt that would have killed Peeta.
The boy was lying exhausted next to Katniss, pretending to sleep, too tense to fool a baby.
You're a talker, Peeta. You empathize, you get people, you make them want to be better and to fight. You'll make Katniss want to fight. You two are the symbols the rebellion needs. Hunger Games victors don't die easily. They'd not have sacrificed themselves just for anyone.
Finnick couldn't say it. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow. His knuckles brushed something hard and he tensed. A camera. Bitter rage filled his tears as he stared straight into the lens, are you happy now?
Games 75, day 2, The Capitol
Plutarch's heart began to race when his forearm grew warm. He'd added a thermic chip to warn him of incoming messages from Thirteen. He twitched the radio in the bathroom, the code whirring in his mind as soft music filled the cubicle.
'Midnight, tomorrow.' Thirteen offered no explanation, just reassurance the plan was back on track. Plutarch pushed down a stab of anger and swallowed a half-dose of pills. It wouldn't be enough to fill the huge void in his chest but he had to be out of the Capitol by six PM tomorrow.
The clock arena had revealed its traps. Every hour starting at midnight, one of the twelve wedges would become deadly. Katniss, Peeta and Finnick had escaped the poison fog by walking into the neighboring wedge, which had activated minutes after they'd stepped in, infested by carnivorous monkey mutts. Plutarch humbly thanked Sparrow from Six once more for jumping in front of the monster that would have torn Peeta apart.
The number of survivors was dwindling. Only the Careers had completely avoided the night's dangers by sleeping on the beach and heading out into the jungle before the mid-morning tidal wave. After eighteen hours of nothing, as far as they were concerned, Enobaria wasn't the only one betraying her exasperation anymore.
They probably were already regretting it once they stepped in the eighth wedge. Biting beetles and kangaroo-spiders as large as Brutus' hand suddenly dropped from every leaf and branch, but Plutarch smiled when the Careers collected themselves and dispatched the mutts in a flurry of blades, turning the horror into an insect slashing and squashing competition. Finally, he could send them their first meal that wasn't half-charred tree-rats.
The morning had come with its share of sponsor gifts. Plutarch sent a bag of twenty-four rolls to Beetee. Twenty-four: midnight. He hoped Beetee would figure out that the rolls arrived in a parachute labeled Three because the important midnight would be the third. If not, Plutarch would send something else.
The whole arena had been woken by the lightning bolt striking the tallest tree in the jungle at midnight. The tree hid the forcefield's main node. Plutarch would just have to program an excess of power, and the forcefield would burst. It would be easier still if Beetee helped from the inside. The coil the man had taken inside the Cornucopia wasn't just any alloy. In any case, Plutarch would need them all together when the rescue hovercraft landed.
Just one more day.
Should the footage of Finnick's tears be broadcasted once Plutarch had left the Capitol? Or would it be useless and obscene? Plutarch couldn't, he wouldn't, let his mind linger on Mags right now. He was proud of her. That's all he allowed himself. There was too much to do.
It was hard, and harder still when he saw Johanna joyfully reunite with Finnick, the first bright laugh he'd heard in the arena. Beetee, Wiress, Johanna, Finnick, Peeta, Katniss. Those were those he had to save.
Plutarch would have broken out the champagne when Katniss exclaimed 'It's a clock!' (He really should have, when would he ever get to drink champagne after this?)
Wiress had figured it out, and Katniss had figured out Wiress' vehement and cryptic 'Tick Tock!'s.
The poor woman was half-locked in her mind since she'd woken up in a jolt soaked in blood. Blood rain. Plutarch had pulled out the 'discarded ideas' file from under his desk for this arena and watched Coriolanus light up in depraved glee when he'd mentioned how such things would affect the PTSD-stricken victors. Johanna, Blight –who'd found them at sundown-, Beetee and Wiress had looked like zombie extras in an amateur movie. The rain had taken Blight, who'd run into the forcefield while trying to remove the blood from his eyes.
Blood rain struck in the first wedge, the one closest to the lightning tree, and when Johanna, Beetee, and Wiress had been trapped in that wedge, again at 1PM, Plutarch had to fight the urge to apologize on the microphone. The three had been dangerously close to the four Careers, who'd huddled tight beneath one of the thicker trees until the hour had elapsed. Her face all but buried into Brutus' shirt and her eyes wild, Enobaria looked like she would be the next to break.
Without the drugs, it would have been impossible to watch.
"Careers converging on the Cornucopia," Lucia warned tapping with her nails on the real-time arena map.
Plutarch stared, reining in his acute frustration, as Gloss, Cashmere, Enobaria and Brutus stealthily neared the central island while the others were too entranced in figuring out the damn clock. A stubborn sliver of hope kept him from cracking when he saw the Ones take the lead.
Cashmere, you saved Beetee once, you missed Johanna. Please -
Wiress was singing softly at the edge of the Cornucopia, apart from the others. Plutarch winced when Gloss burst out of the water, knife in hand. Wiress didn't have a chance to scream before the cannon pitilessly announced her death.
Cashmere had jumped on the closest stone wedge and sprinted for Katniss. Katniss was too slow to grab her bow, but Johanna had already been holding her ax. The ax buried itself in Cashmere's neck, stopping the blonde in one clean strike.
Plutarch couldn't find it in him to cheer.
Finnick locked weapons with Brutus, his trident against the larger man's sword. Finnick was younger, maybe faster, but Brutus had kept practicing hard long after he'd left the arena. Katniss had no clear shot and lost visibility when the two disappeared behind the Cornucopia. Finnick turned and shoved Peeta backwards when the boy tried to join the melee. Back to back once more, facing Katniss and Finnick, the Twos prepared for the kill.
Not on his watch. Not when he finally could act. "Spin it," Plutarch told Lucia.
The Cornucopia platform, ten tons of hard sponge covered with a layer of stone, began to spin, quickly reaching dizzying speeds. Within seconds Beetee, Peeta, Katniss and Johanna were thrown to the ground. Huge waves slammed into the stone wedges, forcing Enobaria and Brutus back into the jungle under threat of drowning.
Katniss slid, caught by Johanna who screamed from effort as both their weights threatened to dislodge the ax Johanna was gripping onto for dear life.
Plutarch stared stiffly at the screens. He couldn't stop now. Coriolanus had to interpret the spin as show, not as a strategic intervention to save the Mockingjay.
But if Johanna's ax slid off... If the young woman let go…
Finnick was the last to lose his balance, but soon even he was on his stomach desperately holding onto the irregular stone. Boxes and weapons were flung into the water, a scythe almost crippling Peeta before disappearing in the foaming water.
Johanna cried out as Katniss slid from her grip and rolled off the platform, her lithe frame swiftly swallowed by the waves.
One. Two. Three. "Okay that's enough," Plutarch said. Within seconds, all was back to normal.
He sighed softly when Katniss re-emerged coughing from the waves. He'd rarely known relief so painful.
"You okay?" Peeta said, rushing to her.
"Let's just get what we need and get off the bloody island," Johanna snapped. She'd never had much patience for sentiment.
"I have some people to go see," Plutarch announced. Haymitch was waiting for his signal. "I don't want another death today or its impact potential will be wasted. You have enough material to feed recaps and retrospectives for quite some time."
The doors behind him slid open. "Before you leave…"
Plutarch froze. "Mr. President, are you finding the arena to your liking?"
Coriolanus smiled thinly. "It's fulfilling its purpose. No matter how hard they try to save each other, the world abides by our rules. They cannot win. Nevertheless -"
Plutarch waited. Those silken tones bode nothing good, but he detected no threat directed at him.
"I'm no expert, Head Gamemaker, but why did the Ones blow their element of surprise on Wiress? They have always had a soft spot for Odair, but I would think both Cashmere's sense of strategy and her heart would direct her towards Johanna Mason. She didn't even throw her knife at Katniss, she ran up to her as if…" Coriolanus' expression darkened. "This looked disappointingly like a suicide."
"Yes. I think it was a suicide." Plutarch enjoyed the flash of surprise on the man's face. Let the siblings have this one small victory. Their death was theirs. "But no one has to know that."
The President scowled at the monitors. "Why would they do that?"
"Perhaps we failed to make victory sound appealing," Plutarch said, busying himself with the real-time tracker feed. Maybe they couldn't bring themselves to entrust their fates to rebels. He shrugged. "The Twos won't harbor such misguided ideas."
"Indeed." A thin, spidery smile spread beneath Coriolanus' thick white beard. "Monitor Odair closely, I want to be informed immediately of any trouble." Plutarch didn't trust the underlying triumph in the man's tone. "Pride was always Mags' chief flaw. District Four takes itself much too seriously."
Plutarch frowned, glad for the dull buzz of nothing in his mind. "Is a strike planned against Four?"
District Four's militia and peacekeeper held the train lines and cities. The docks were crawling with anti-aircraft guns and whatever Four had managed to set up to protect their boats. The Capitol had the means to bomb Four into submission, but number of bombs required to level all five of Four's towns would be prohibitive. So far the rebels were, somewhat successfully held in check with peacekeeper shock troops and all Capitol media worked day and night to convince the rebels that they were few and isolated. Such an overt and final action would announce war.
"It would be premature. Hopefully they learned their lesson today."
Plutarch wondered what he would find were he to peek in Coriolanus Snow's mind. They both wore twin masks of confidence and control, and Plutarch wondered what lay beneath the President's.
"They soon will if they have not," Plutarch pointed out with a wry smile.
Thirty hours. He just needed to survive thirty more hours.
After the Cornucopia had spun, the tributes couldn't tell anymore which wedge activated at which time. Plutarch took pains not to watch when the six found themselves trapped with hundreds of Jabberjays in the fourth.
"Fold the forcefield to lock them in the wedge," he said despite the heaviness on his chest. Appeasing Coriolanus' bloodthirst to buy an extra day had to be his priority. Jabberjays didn't kill.
He didn't want to see Finnick's expression when he heard Annie Cresta's manufactured pleas. He didn't want to hear little Primrose Everdeen scream ever again.
August 75, the Arena, night 2
He'd stayed in control. No one had doubted his abilities, his focus, and yet Finnick's hands shook badly when the sun dropped beneath the tree-line.
Annie's screams still rang in his ears. They were fake but… He couldn't concentrate on anything else.
He instinctively turned towards the sky instants before the anthem filled the arena.
Cashmere's picture appeared the force field dome, shining silver in the gloom. She was so beautiful. Finnick couldn't look at Beetee. He'd emptied his tears the night before. Gloss. They'd fought for him, for the rebellion, in their way. Acid burned his throat. He'd never see them free and happy. Mags replaced Wiress, hitting him like a blow, and Finnick's lips formed words he couldn't utter.
Gone. He wasn't sure he could do it. His eyes constantly flashed to Katniss' bow. He'd pretended not to hear when her and Peeta had argued about who should die for the other. For the girl, their alliance was temporary, the fact they had saved Peeta's life multiple times unfathomable, and she was nearing her breaking point.
Finnick snapped towards Jo when Blight's image appeared. He wasn't the only one suffering. 'Put me down'. He had to let go of Mags just enough to be a decent friend.
'He wasn't much, but he was from home,' Jo had said earlier and Finnick had seen the pain behind her callous facade. She'd been a pillar of calm, helping Beetee walk fast despite his knife wound, when he and Katniss had panicked at the Jabberjays. 'They can't hurt me, there's no one left that I love.'
He'd almost smiled at Katniss' stunned look when Jo had assured her that her sister Prim was fine, that no-one would dare touch Prim because that would spur a rebellion, and the Capitol absolutely did not want a rebellion. Jo had shouted straight at the cameras and Finnick doubted that the girl from Twelve had ever heard someone dare speak their hate so openly. He liked what that had sparked in her eyes.
There was a look of bitter betrayal on Jo's face as Finnick sat closer to her, their shoulders touching. He kept his eyes on Katniss and Peeta, waiting for Johanna to be ready to talk.
Finnick couldn't let himself relax. He knew that Enobaria and Brutus were right behind the tree line, behind the forcefield that had wrapped itself around the beach just after they had decided to stay away from the jungle.
It was standard practice, to limit the death-per-day count to milk the most out of every death, but Finnick didn't dare acknowledge the forcefield or the Twos, too scared to get Plutarch in trouble. He knew Beetee had noticed, and said nothing. But Finnick wanted to stand up, to signal to Enobaria and Brutus. To stride out and find Chaff who was who knew were.
Everyone else was dead. Aside from Career tributes, who was left? Young Moire from Eight. Finnick hoped the girl would know to run. Mercury and Aster from Three, who'd probably had gone underground the moment the Reaping crowds had dispersed. District Ten's Bale from the 73rd, who'd not gained anyone's sympathy, and old Keith from Seven. Victoria from Five and Taurine from Ten, both victors of the second decade, were all but gone, afflicted with dementia and living in a Capitol retirement facility.
So few... Fifty-eight victors had been still alive before the Quell, thirty-four of them Careers. Finnick had never felt death so keenly.
It wasn't until Peeta went to bed and Johanna replaced him on watch with Finnick that she finally opened up.
Of course, with Johanna, nothing was ever simple. Finnick hadn't seen her coming.
He was on his back, Jo's ax pressed against his neck and her dark hair tickling his cheek.
"You said it'd be okay, you bastard," she hissed. "You said we'd be fine!"
"I believed it," Finnick replied, struggling to ignore the cold blade on his exposed skin.
Mags was dead. Cashmere and Gloss were dead. Everyone who'd been strong for him was now dead. Cecelia, Wiress, Seeder. It wasn't meant to be like this.
Jo's hold on her blade faltered and Finnick grabbed her arms, pushing her off him. He didn't let go of her wrists, his heart racing. He didn't want to feel threatened by Jo, but his every instict forbade him to let her threaten him again. He took a deep breath, staring into her wide eyes and for the first time in two days, something felt right. This was what he was supposed to do, keep people hoping.
"I must hope. I don't want to be like you," Finnick said gently. "I don't want to be able to say everyone I love is dead." He forced a little smile and let her go. "At least as long as you're saying it, I know it won't be true for me."
Jo unexpectedly hugged him, clinging to him like she'd never done before. "You trust too much, you moron," she ground out. "At least Kat has the sense to keep her bow close. I may slit her throat yet."
He'd heard that edge to her voice too many times.
"I wish you could forgive yourself, Jo," Finnick said.
"Forgiving myself is an insult to the dead," Johanna replied, pulling away. "They were just kids." Her lips curled into a snarl. "Cashmere… that I could forgive myself for."
Finnick shook his head. They'd known each other too long for her venom to wound him. He'd seen how Cashmere and Gloss had attacked, making mistakes no Career would make, not even half-starving or drunk and they had been neither. He knew Enobaria and Brutus had to be thinking the same thing, and now more than ever wished he could reach out to them and explain, why he'd refused their Career alliance, why this year was so very different. He'd never considered them enemies.
"Want a bread roll?" Finnick suggested. He saw Johanna's frown, the frown of outliers who'd never really played the symbol's game, but as her teeth sunk into the bread, her eyes narrowed. He could see her realize how expensive such rolls had to be, what a waste of money they were considering there were edible mutts and seafood for food, and how odd it was, for them to be sent to District Three, who had to have the weakest odds among the survivors.
A huff escaped Jo's lips. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I do trust you still, for now." She shuffled awkwardly. "Mags… Wanna talk?" She said in a tiny voice.
Soft chuckles built up in Finnick's chest, and finally the anger seemed washed away into pure sadness, a sadness that didn't overwhelm him, as he sat next to Jo in the moonlight. This was what Mags would have wanted, to be a binding force, to reveal the best in them.
RIP Mags. I feel like I've murdered a friend. I've spent an unhealthy amount of time in that woman's mind, hoping and building alongside her. I'm so happy to have been able to share all of this with you all.
As parallel reading, I strongly suggest "The End is the Beginning is the End: The Quarter Quell" by Lorata if you want to read the Quell from the Career's POV. It's just 9 chapters long and like everything I read by Lorata, it's hard to resist the temptation to rip off everything for my fics.
The next chapter has Plutarch leaving the Capitol and the escape to Thirteen. The chapters after that will not closely shadow Mockingjay. Instead, I'll write scenes narrated by various characters (Plutarch, Finnick, Lyme, Paylor, Coin, Snow and more as needed –Jo, Annie, Enobaria, Glynn, Flickerman, whoever makes sense-) with the aim to add insight to canon. WATCH MOCKINGJAY PART 1!
I'll be using movie canon more than the books'.
Please review !