District Four - After the 65th Games

Mags felt it would be best if Finnick got into a talent quickly. Idleness was not good for him.

"I figured I'd just mend nets," said Finnick with a shrug. "I'm good at that."

"Your talent isn't allowed to be practical."

Finnick's next three suggestions (having abs, drag racing, and rope bondage) were similarly rejected ("that's not a talent," "you're literally too young for a driver's license," and "no").

"Poetry!" He said one day.

"You want to write poetry?" Mags was skeptical. Finnick was a clever boy, but he had never been particularly literary.

"No, I could memorize love poems. For, you know, that job."

Mags shook her head. "Your talent should be for you. Something you can feel proud of."

Three weeks passed before they both arrived at the same conclusion: free diving. It was the old practice, now maintained only for challenge or sport, of diving without breathing apparatus to spear fish or collect shellfish, with the goal of maximizing duration and depth. It presented an opportunity for Finnick to continue developing and challenging himself physically. And unlike a well-crafted poem or fishing net, it was impressive to the general populace. It would give Finnick something to brag about to the masses, a healthy way to earn the praise and attention that he drank up.

So Finnick began to train. He practiced breathing exercises. He refined his swim strokes. He mastered his body's panicked reaction when it ran out of oxygen, to force it to keep going and override the powerful self-preserving instinct to surface. And Mags found there was a joy in coaching him. He worked hard, learned quickly, and seemed preternaturally adapted to the water.

Finnick lay on the sand, several weights piled on his chest. The goal of the exercise was resistance training for the diaphragm, but the target was, apparently, too ambitious. He struggled to breathe. Rather than the deep, powerful inhalation he was supposed to be working toward, he was only managing thin, insubstantial gasps. His vision narrowed. His lungs burned. He knew he could exit the exercise by simply rolling to one side or the other. He could even have snapped his fingers or kicked sand to alert Mags. He wasn't sure whether she would actually be able to lift the weights, but she could certainly knock them off of him. But he did none of those things, just lay on the ground struggling to breathe until his mentor finally noticed his cyanotic semi-consciousness.

"What the hell was that?" asked Mags, annoyed. "We're not going to train if you won't be responsible about it."

"Is that what dying feels like?"

"How would I know what dying feels like? For that matter, how would I know what getting the breath crushed out of me feels like?"

That wasn't a very useful answer, but Finnick knew it has been a stupid question. He decided to ask another. "Why don't I feel guilty?"

Mags lowered herself to the sand, parallel to Finnick, facing the surf.

"I just killed a bunch of kids and I'm going to meet their families. I should feel guilty, or sad at least. And I don't. So I thought that maybe if I could see what dying is like, I would realize what I did and feel bad about it."

"And?"

"And I still don't feel guilty." Finnick dug his feet into the sand. "I think I might be a bad person."

"You might be," said Mags. "I don't know. We've only known each other a short time. But it seems to me that a bad person wouldn't worry about being a bad person."

They stared at the sea.

65th Games Victory Tour

The next time Haymitch saw Finnick Odair, the kid seemed…fine. Actually, unnervingly fine. As in, way too fine for a 14-year-old who had just been forced to kill several other children before being told he was to be sex trafficked by a fascist dictator. By means of prodigious self-medication, Haymitch himself had largely succeeded in forgetting the awkward, miserable conversation in which he explained the 'deal' Snow was going to offer the boy. but he suspected (hoped?) the kid hadn't erased his own memory by getting blackout drunk.

The boy was on his victory tour. Haymitch didn't know if Snow had actually sold him yet, or if the possibility was simply hanging over the kid, but either way Finnick was apparently fucking great at compartmentalizing, because he was cheerfully eating venison stew and chatting amiably with a couple of locals – a schoolteacher and a young man who recycled broken glass – while his escort and mentor looked on. The kid was charming them all, telling a story about how he had held a shell up to his ear to hear the sea – some kind of District Four practice – only to find out there was a crab inside which proceeded to latch onto his earlobe. It was a cute story and very crowd-pleasing, ever so slightly self-deprecating with no actual danger. Haymitch watched the boy reenact his flailing attempts to pull the crab off. He could tell that Finnick had told this story many times before, had honed it to elicit the maximum number of avuncular smiles and empty laughs.

A waiter – or rather, a sullen teenager girl who had been coerced into the role by the mayor – brought around a tray of drinks. Haymitch signaled he wanted a refill, watching as Finnick tried to talk his way into some wine. The waiter looked a little panicked, obviously having been told to do whatever the victor asked while simultaneously having the very strong suspicion that she was still not supposed to give alcohol to a child. Luckily, Mags intervened before the girl's conflicting orders could blossom into a panic attack. "Half a glass," she said. "And not until after dinner."

Finnick looked ready to pout before he schooled his features back into a smooth smile. He tipped an imaginary hat to Mags, his promise to follow the rules, and went right back to holding court.

Once the boy seemed settled back in his role as raconteur, Mags found her way to Haymitch's dimly lit corner. "You're the life of the party, as always."

"Your little glamour doll seems to have things well in hand." Haymitch looked around for the waiter, wondering where his drink was.

"I never did thank you for talking to him."

"You could thank me with a couple bottles of that cactus liquor. What's it called?"

"Tequila. Sure, I'll have some sent to you." She took a sip of her drink. "He had his first appointment later that week."

"That fast? Cashmere didn't start until after her tour, and she wasn't…" Haymitch waggled his fingers in Finnick's direction to indicate the boy's youth.

"He's popular."

"Sure, if that's what you want to call it."

Mags sighed. "I mean there's demand. It's not just about humiliating the victor this time. He's profitable to Snow."

"Well, why the hell did you let him parade around the Capitol like a fucking pole dancer from planet sex? I mean, you must have approved that thing he wore for his interview with Flickerman – you could practically see the outline of his dick in those leggings."

Mags didn't rise to the bait. "Why were you looking?" she asked mildly. Without waiting for an answer, she added, "And I let him because I knew that he could win if he got sponsors."

"You knew, though. You knew what it would cost him."

"It always costs a lot. Just making it through the arena costs everything." For the first time, Mags understood that Haymitch was actually angry with her, not just indiscriminately surly. "And I threw everything behind Finnick because I knew he had a chance of bearing the weight."

"Yeah, and how was he after his first night of whoring?"

"He slept late. He stayed in the bath for about an hour. He didn't have much appetite, but he still managed to eat."

"He sounds like the paragon of mental health."

"He's doing better than some people I know." Mags didn't look at Haymitch's empty whiskey glass. She didn't have to.

Everyone at Finnick's table laughed. Haymitch couldn't hear exactly what was being said, but the boy had leaned across the table, gallantly kissing the schoolteacher's hand.

"I did what I could," said Mags, her pride and defensiveness finally flagging. "I made threats. I burned contacts. I begged – actually begged – Snow to wait, just wait a couple of years. There's such a huge difference between fourteen and sixteen."

Haymitch snorted. "And what in all the districts made you think Snow would give a damn?"

"Nothing at all. But I had to try." She sighed. "The buyers can't take him out in public yet, so that's something. It will all be hush-hush until he reaches the age of consent. At least he won't have to deal with the media, won't get a 'reputation' for a few years."

"Well, as long as he's raped in secret, that's not so bad, right?"

The waitress came back with Haymitch's drink. Mags declined a refill.

"Who's he got?" asked Haymitch. "To protect, I mean."

"Father and two brothers. His older brother is married and has a daughter. There was an epidemic in Four before the youngest was born. The disease did something to the babies. His younger brother is sickly, and he's slow, mentally."

"The boys have a mother?"

"She died pregnant with their fourth child, about two years ago."

Laughter broke out at Finnick's table. He was cradling the schoolteacher's hand in both of his, in a pose suggesting he was about to offer her a chivalrous kiss. Instead, he batted his eyes at her and waggled a finger in a mock-scold. Everyone laughed again. Haymitch didn't get the joke.

District Four

"I just don't know how to help him." Corbin poured two cups of tea and offered one to Mags who took it gratefully.

"How could you be expected to know?" Mags' smile was sympathetic, not pitying. "There are only a handful of people in all of Panem who know what it's like to parent a victor."

"There are so many things I never considered. I never thought about school. He doesn't want to go back. He says none of the other victors did. But they kept saying on the television that the next youngest victor was sixteen. Finnick never even started high school."

"It's hard enough to make algebra matter to a kid in the districts." Mags took a cautious sip of her tea. "It's hard to make anything matter after you've spent weeks fighting for your life."

"I understand that. I do." Corbin shook his head. "No, actually I don't. But I want to understand. I've tried. I've told him that I want to listen. I've told him that if he wants, we can watch every minute of his games together, and if he wants, we can never talk about it again. He just tells me not to worry and smiles. Smiles!" He looked down, ashamed. "It's not that I want him to be miserable, but I almost think it would be easier if he cried, if he came to me scared and hurt like he did when he was little and there was a thunderstorm or one of the bigger boys pushed him over."

Mags considered this. "You've seen fish with eyespots?"

"Sure." Everyone in four had seen them. Eyespots were large colorations on a fish's body meant to fool predators – if the creature had such big 'eyes', surely it was enormous. They were a common adaptation.

"They're faking to survive. I think we agree that Finnick is faking when he smiles. But maybe he needs to keep faking. Maybe it's the only thing that makes him feel safe."

"But he's not in the arena anymore. He is safe."

"Is he?" Mags held Corbin's eyes, not saying, but saying.