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When Finnick opens his eyes, all he can see is blood.
It coats his hands, and his trident is slick with it. He can barely keep a grip on it. But he doesn’t need to, because the carnage surrounding him is proof that he’s done his job. His stomach lurches and he sways on his feet, body tilting to one side.
Finnick blinks again and he’s on a boat, the waves rocking gently beneath him. It’s his boat that he bought with his victor money, the boat that he and Annie now share. He can see her now, smiling at him. The sunlight glints through her dark hair, impossibly bright. She beckons him to the water. Jumps in.
He leaps forward to follow her, and wakes up with a jolt.
Finnick’s eyes snap open for real this time, and he fights the urge to close them again at the bright sunlight that streams through the windows. The train rocks gently on the tracks, and he can feel the push and pull of the movement even when he sleeps. The train, he finds, has a way of dredging up old arena memories better than any other place he’s been.
He gets up quickly and stands in the cold shower long enough for the grogginess to melt away. The kids are already at the breakfast table when he arrives, but nobody’s actually talking.
“Good morning, Finnick,” says Glenna, District Four’s escort. She has such a grating voice, so he puts on an extra genuine smile to mask his annoyance. “I was just telling Tessa and Malik about all the delicious food they’ll get to try once we get to the Capitol!”
He sinks down into the chair beside Mags, but doesn’t make a move to fill his plate.
Tessa and Malik are fifteen and fourteen respectively. Four’s been having a dry spell with volunteers lately, which is why they didn’t send somebody more qualified. They’ve both been trained, at least, but training can only do so much.
“The first thing you’ll do in the Capitol is go to prep,” Finnick begins, and their heads swivel in his direction. “It won’t be fun, but just let your prep team do their job.”
“They just want you to look your best,” Glenna interjects.
“The tribute parade will be tonight,” he continues, after sending Glenna another smile. “I’ll talk to the stylists to make sure you have something decent to wear. The mermaid look is getting tired, so I’ll try to convince them to try something else.”
“What about the arena?” Tessa asks, fiddling with a strand of her dark hair. “You know, the actual important part?”
Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation or Mags’ encouraging hand on his own, but Finnick doesn’t bother to restrain himself when he says, “You’re already in it.”
The Mentors’ Lounge is a deceptive title given to the room where mentors monitor their tributes.
There’s really nothing leisurely about it. The furniture may be expensive, but the inescapable undercurrent of tension negates any superficial comfort. Finnick’s not the only one who feels this way. Cashmere and Gloss sit with taut muscles as they discuss strategy with Brutus and Enobaria, all four of them on edge for a fight they don’t get to partake in anymore. This room makes even Haymitch uneasy.
Sometimes, in fleeting moments, Finnick envies Haymitch. He doesn’t deal with the confidence-hope-disappointment flurry that One, Two, and Four do. His tributes never have a chance, so he can mentally check out before he even checks in.
Finnick feels immediately guilty for thinking it, but guilt isn’t good for anything.
The Games haven’t even started yet. It’s a much tenser affair when they are on, although they’re all victors and theoretically on the same team.
Finnick’s busy in the corner making a cup of coffee when Johanna joins him.
“Are the odds in your favor this year?” she asks, going through the motions. She doesn’t look particularly enthused about the bitter, scalding mixture she’s concocting.
“I guess we’ll have to find out.”
“Come on,” Johanna says, rolling her eyes. “That’s not an answer.”
“No,” he mutters, taking a swig of his coffee. “They’re young.”
And the Gamemakers won’t let Four win so soon after Annie’s victory. They never do, and Johanna knows it.
Her coffee is abandoned on the counter, where some Avox will probably clean it up later. “I have an eighteen-year-old this year. Lucky us.”
It’s not lucky for her, either. Johanna’s victory was one year after Annie’s, so Seven’s even worse off than Four is. “Lucky us,” he repeats, because something about the painfully false phrase is enough to be vaguely funny.
“I’m surprised you’re here,” Johanna says. She dumps her coffee down the sink. “I thought the president would have you busy by now.”
“Well, it’s only morning,” Finnick responds, dread pooling in his stomach. He gives Johanna one of his famous Capitol smiles, and she wrinkles her nose, so it’s a win to him. “I do have to spend some time helping my tributes. Can’t let Mags do it all alone.”
That’s truer than she knows. He doesn’t know why Mags keeps coming back to the Capitol even after her stroke. Finnick asked her about it once, a few months ago. She said there were too many people she’d hate to lose. He thought she was sort of kidding at first, but now that he’s here, he gets it.
“How are things back home?” Johanna asks casually. She’s trying to sound less interested than she is, but he can only tell because of how well he knows her by now.
“Well, the tide’s still coming in,” he mutters, because that’s Four’s way of saying that things are still moving along. Beside him, Johanna snorts. “And Annie’s good. We’re good.”
That’s what she actually wants to know, and who is he to keep that information from her?
If Finnick had to pick a best friend in the Capitol, it would probably be Johanna. She’d balk at even the idea of putting that sort of label on their relationship, but he does it anyway. They’re close in age and in experiences. Besides, she puts up with his shit and he doesn’t tell anyone when she lets a few tears slip.
He doesn’t ask how her family is. He doesn’t need to. Not when the rest of her family is all here already.
“Glad somebody is,” Johanna responds, before sitting back down with Blight at the District 7 station.
Finnick dumps his coffee down the sink. He put too much sugar in it, anyway.
When Tessa and Malik come back from their first day of training, Finnick isn’t there to greet them.
Mentoring isn’t his only obligation while he’s in the Capitol. He sits for prep then meets Gaia Corvus in her apartment, already smiling. Gaia is talkative and easy to please, and usually doesn’t notice if he leaves his body for a few minutes. Some of the others do, but Finnick doesn’t mind letting the numbness buzz at his brain when he’s around someone like Gaia.
So when she opens the door and he says, “It’s so good to see you,” he actually means it, even if just a little.
“I was just overcome with shock,” says Gaia later as she swirls some wine around in her glass. “I mean, it was so sudden! And at the Victory Party, too. You’d think if he were going to collapse, he’d do it somewhere less important. But some people have no decorum, so perhaps it can’t be helped. Honestly, Finnick, even you would have handled it better. And you’re from the districts.”
He just lets an easy smile spread across his lips. “And what did you hear from the hospital?”
She heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Nothing, of course. They said he was dehydrated. As if we all haven’t been watching the Games long enough to know what dehydration looks like.”
Gaia’s husband works in the Capitol’s finance department, although she won’t divulge exactly what he does. All Finnick knows is that his work is somewhat controversial. Controversial enough to warrant hushed calls from the president, many of which Gaia has attempted to listen in on.
They sip wine for another hour or so before she gets impatient. Finnick doesn’t like to drink on the job, but he will when it’s offered. It’s not like he has another option. So the world is blurring a little when she finally pulls him into bed, but not enough that he loses control of himself.
The sheets are sweaty against his bare skin when they finish. Beside him, Gaia breathes heavily. He can see her chest rising and falling in his periphery.
“I needed that,” she breathes. “The week before the Games is so hectic. Exciting, of course, but hectic. It’s such a relief to have moments like this, don’t you think?”
Actually, in moments like this, Finnick prefers to not think at all.
“Absolutely,” he agrees, smiling at her sweetly just how she likes it. She wants to feel like he wants to be here. Like he’ll choose her when her husband won’t.
“Oh, look at that,” says Gaia as she steps back into her dress. “It’s so late already. Here, I’ll pay for your cab home.”
Finnick has a driver to take him back to his apartment. “Oh, that’s very generous, but you don’t have to.”
She adjusts the sparkling gold curls of her hair back into place. “Well, I don’t just want to send you out with nothing.”
“So don’t,” he replies, careful to make it sound like a suggestion rather than a demand. “I have all the money I could ever need. But there’s another way you could compensate me, if you’d like.”
She trails a finger down his bare chest, breathing heavily. “How so?”
“Tell me,” he begins, and the moment is diffused. “What does your husband do? Specifically?”
“Oh,” Gaia laughs. “Well, it’s top secret. I’m sure you understand.”
“Who would I tell?”
That line is just a means to an end, but it’s true. He holds these secrets in his mind, some of them for years. He hasn’t let a single one go because he hasn’t afforded to. They’re like fuel, in a way. They keep him going when the vapid compliments and stimulant pills can’t.
“Alright then,” she replies with a smile. “He doesn’t just work in the finance department. He runs it.”
The man who runs Panem’s finances, sent to the hospital under mysterious circumstances. Isn’t that a nice surprise?
If the Mentors’ Lounge is tense before the Games start, there’s no describing the feeling he gets as he watches the countdown.
He’s pretty sure every victor feels something as they watch the clock tick down. Even without stakes in the game, they all remember that feeling of standing alert on the launchpad. Even the ones who had no trouble running off of it.
Finnick’s screen displays Tessa’s vitals, which are collected through the tracker in her arm and updated in real time. Her heart rate and respiration rate are both up, but so is everyone else’s. Beside him, Mags watches Malik.
The countdown ends. The gong sounds. The kids sprint.
The first several minutes are hard to keep track of. That’s why they don’t sound the cannons until after it’s over. Finnick’s eyes are locked on Tessa as she runs, brown braid flying out behind her. He can’t help but look at her and see Annie, but not Annie as he knows her now. Annie on her first day in the arena, scared but resilient. Tessa’s not in the Career pack. Neither is Malik.
Four’s tributes have been worse off lately, and he tries not to think too hard about why that is.
In the end, all it takes is a spear through the chest to send Tessa sprawling to the ground.
The boy from Two at least waits until the last of her air is coughed from her lungs before taking the spear back out. It’s hardly a comfort, but it’s not nothing.
Mags reaches for his hand, and he reciprocates. This part never gets less brutal. “I need some air,” he says, feeling vaguely queasy, but numb enough to do nothing about it.
The roof is as good a place to be as any.
Finnick slumps down to the ground, knees tucked against his chest. Four hasn’t had a good run in three years now. His stomach lurches, and he rests his head on his knees, suddenly too tired to keep it upright.
His muscles tighten with alarm when he hears footsteps beside him, but immediately loosen again when he sees it’s just Haymitch.
“Your kid out?” is all he says, and Finnick nods. “Yep. Mine too.”
Haymitch has brought a flask up here, which he takes swigs from regularly. He offers a sip to Finnick, who lets the alcohol burn down his throat. It’s stronger than what he’s used to, but he barely sputters.
“Look, kid,” Haymitch says, and he knows he’s about to get a lecture he doesn’t want. “You can’t save everyone.”
“I’ve been doing this for seven years,” Finnick replies, a little affronted. “I know that.”
Haymitch shakes his head. “You knew that. Then you brought Annie home and now you see those kids and think that maybe one of them will be like her.”
“That’s not true,” he protests. And, really, what would Haymitch know about bringing a kid home?
“I’ve had a few close calls,” he says, shrugging. “It’s not like I haven’t gotten my hopes up either.”
The wind is swirling outside, and it blows through his styled hair. That’s the only reason they’re allowed to talk about this up here. The roof is bugged, just like anywhere else in the Capitol, but the wind is enough to block out most of their conversation.
“I’m not about to take advice from someone who hasn’t been sober in twenty-five years,” he mutters darkly.
Haymitch lets out a caustic laugh. “I wouldn’t either, kid. So take it from someone who’s been where you are.”
Finnick’s next question spills out of him before he can really stop it. “Does it ever get better?”
Haymitch just looks at him like he already knows the answer. “No. But you get better at pretending it does.”
Now that his tribute is out of the Games, Finnick’s attention is focused on his other job. Malik is still in, but Mags is his official mentor. Finnick’s schedule quickly fills in the way it always does once the Games start. People are excited. Ravenous. They want every piece of the Games that they can get, and for the past seven years, he’s been a desired commodity.
His stylist, Vance, is applying his makeup. But Finnick isn’t really here. He’s been running non-stop for days, or so it feels like. The only thing fueling him is coffee and the Capitol’s miraculous stimulant pills. At least Vance will let him doze off during most of the prep.
When he does, he leaves his body.
Sometimes, he doesn’t feel like a person at all. He’s just a collection of pristine parts, skin stretched over muscle and bone and tendon, smooth and unblemished. He knows that blood would come out if his skin were to break, but on the worst days, he has a hard time believing he’s not hollow.
He can’t think like that for too long before he starts to slip into existential dread, which he really can’t afford.
“Eyes open for me,” Vance mutters, and Finnick feels his eyelids peel open. “Good.”
Finnick takes that as a sign to let his eyes slip closed again, but Vance speaks up before he can.
“You’ll be out all night, so we’ll see you back here in the morning for touch-ups.”
Vance talks like that often. It’s not 'he has you all night' but 'you’ll be out all night'. Like it’s his choice. Maybe it’s a way of shifting the blame to a more comfortable place. Maybe it would annoy Finnick more if he had the energy to care about anything other than putting one foot in front of the other.
“See you tomorrow,” says Finnick as he staggers up from the chair, vision darkening for a second before righting itself again.
Vance slips a few painkillers into his hand. Finnick swallows them dry.
It’s several days later when Finnick finds himself in what his fellow victors have affectionately dubbed the Pit. It’s less like an orchestral pit and more like a pit full of venomous snakes. The Pit is where the sponsors hang out, place bets, and drink. It’s also where desperate mentors gather around and try to coerce anyone with money or influence to sponsor their tributes, who are skilled and lucrative and certain to make a splash this year.
Malik is still going strong, allied with an affable girl from District Eight. They share a canteen of water between them. Malik holds the girl’s long, wispy hair back as she drinks, so she doesn’t get a mouthful of it in her haste to get to the water. She smiles at him for it. It’s sweet, even here.
Malik isn’t technically his tribute, but since Finnick’s in between clients, he’s going to help him in any way that he can.
“Are you sure?” asks Velius Bucco, a paunchy man with a proclivity to donate more money than is necessary. “Four’s tributes have been rather weak lately. Although you’re the exception, of course, Finnick.”
He flashes another smile, with just the right amount of pleading as to not be desperate. “So don’t you think it’s time for a change? Malik could be the one. He’s certainly strong enough.”
Velius isn’t convinced. “He’s fourteen.”
It’s almost too easy. Velius walked right into that one. “So was I. And we all know how that turned out.”
It’s borderline seductive, but he’s not trying to be. But Velius just shrugs and pats him on the shoulder before making his way to Cashmere and Gloss. Finnick bites back a sigh.
Sometimes, the sponsors aren’t the worst thing about the Pit. It’s the giant screens that line the walls and the audio that never seems to stop playing. The screens are big enough to rival the ones in the Mentors’ Lounge, which makes the Games inescapable.
Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith have a running narration, which is the main focus since things in the arena are still right now.
“As we head into the night, we’re going to be seeing which tributes are unprepared for the colder weather,” says Caesar conversationally. Still, though, he’s right. The arena, with its snow capped mountains and icy terrain, is cold enough during the day.
Claudius picks up right where he left off. “We’re expecting that the District Ten male will die from exposure tonight. Compared to the other tributes, he hasn’t managed to find sufficient shelter.”
Finnick scoffs, but it’s barely perceptible. He hopes his glowering isn’t too obvious, and he schools his face into something more presentable.
Johanna slides up to him, her breath warm in his ear. “Welcome to the Capitol,” she whispers, sarcastically seductive. “Where everyone either wants to screw you or screw you over.”
Or both, he thinks wryly, eyes flicking back to where Velius is still discussing strategy with the mentors from One.
“Hi, Johanna,” he says in return. Even having her here is a relief, pathetic as it sounds.
“Come find me when you’re ready to get out of here,” is all she says before she’s whisked away by a tall woman, and he prepares to take on the sponsor gauntlet again.
Finnick really needs to ask Vance if anyone in the Capitol has painkillers that will last longer.
He’s coming back from an appointment with his muscles aching and a headache pulsing in time with his heart. He’s already gotten the bruises dealt with in prep, but that doesn’t erase the ache. His throat is scratchy and it hurts to swallow and all he wants to do is sleep for a week.
Finnick makes a beeline for the elevator, his finger already prepared to press the 4 button. But somebody’s at his side before he even make it to the elevator. Which isn’t fair because he’s off the clock, and he has no more clients tonight, and if he never sleeps at all then he’ll eventually run himself into the ground, and what will Snow do then?
“Finnick,” a voice says, and he startles a little. But it’s just Beetee, and they get into the elevator together, where Finnick immediately slumps against the wall. “I’m glad I caught you. I hope you don’t mind stopping by our floor for a moment. We have some strategy to discuss.”
Finnick likes Beetee. He respects Beetee. They sit right next to each other in the Mentors’ Lounge because Beetee is Three and he is Four. He always offers a kind smile when Finnick slumps into his chair after a long night. He’s always ready to explain the mechanics of the arena or the advantages to sending a particular sponsor gift over another.
But right now, Finnick really wishes Beetee weren’t here.
“Another time, okay?” he asks, but it comes out less clear than he intended. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.” It comes out too sultry, which is definitely not how he meant it.
Beetee amicably pretends he didn’t just say that, which is nice of him. “Actually, it’s a time-sensitive matter.”
So that’s how he finds himself half awake on District Three’s couch, propping his head up in his hands as he waits for Beetee to explain.
“I know you’re tired, so I’ll make this brief. Wiress and I have disabled the bugs in here, but we only have about twenty minutes. Thirty at most.”
“You disabled the bugs?” Finnick asks, voice hushed. He didn’t even know that could be done, but if anyone could, it's Wiress and Beetee. “How?”
Beetee gives him a tight smile. “That’s a story for another time, I’m afraid. Finnick, I think you and I both know that this system isn’t sustainable. For any of us.”
“What system?” he asks, feeling sluggish. “The Games?”
“Yes. And the rest of it. The power imbalance. The wealth disparity.”
His brain is slower to catch on than he’d like, but unease prickles up his spine when it does. “I don’t understand,” he says woodenly, but he does. He just doesn’t want to.
“We have a resistance group that we’d like you to be a part of. Haymitch vouched for you.”
Haymitch is in on it? They must be fairly serious if Haymitch is willing to join. Still, he doesn’t feel much better about the whole thing. Rebellions are unbelievably risky. He has too much to lose already, even when he does as he’s told and follows all the rules. He can’t even begin to imagine what would happen if he doesn’t.
“I can’t,” he tells Beetee, but it feels like he’s ripping the words out of his throat. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Beetee assures him. “But stay for one more moment.” He points to an Avox who stands by the door. “This is Cordelia. She’ll be in the Mentors’ Lounge tomorrow morning. Go up to her and order a mimosa tomorrow morning, and I’ll know you’re with us.”
Finnick nods, but Beetee’s words seem to slip through his mind as he trudges back to his floor. He doesn’t even like mimosas.
In the Mentors’ Lounge the next morning, Finnick looks out the window and tries not to think about the way Malik died.
It was brutal. More brutal than he deserved. He can’t scrub the image of Malik’s terrified eyes from his brain. Or the way blood trickled from his slips, slow and languid, even after his heart flatlined.
So he tries to focus on something else. The chatter of the other victors. Mags’ tight-lipped smile that she gives as they make eye contact. The way the glass of the window is warm to the touch, heated by the sun.
It works, but only temporarily. Because there’s another thing that Finnick can’t get out of his head. Beetee’s voice, telling him the life he’s living isn’t sustainable. He’s not wrong. Finnick’s only twenty-two. At the very least, he has another twenty-five years of this left. That’s another twenty-five years of his life that he can’t bear to think about, because thinking too far into the future will make him wonder whether he wants one at all.
In the end, it’s not his tribute’s deaths that do it. It’s not the headache that’s been pulsing at his temples all month, or the shadows under Johanna’s eyes as she staggers into the Mentor’s Lounge. It's not even Gaia's half-baked story that clearly points to poison from someone higher up. Because that’s life. Whether he likes it or not, that’s the life he has.
What actually convinces him is the image of Malik holding the Eight girl’s hair back for her. The way Cecelia’s children cling to her during the footage of Eight’s reaping. And Annie back home, squinting against the sun, scolding him for tracking sand into the house but hugging him anyway.
Because if those moments exist, then they can be preserved. They should be protected.
He’d like to live in a world where those moments are commonplace. And he’s not sure how much longer he can live in this one.
“Good morning,” he says to the Avox working at the bar. Beetee’s right; it is Cordelia. She watches him with big, perceptive eyes. “I’d like a mimosa, please.”