the uninhabited blue

by ididitfortheplot

Summary:

“But I’m still breathing, for they may have taken my soul, but they can’t kill what’s already been buried.”

Before the charm, before the crown of sugar and secrets, there was a boy from District 4, dragged into the tide too early. This is the long fall—through victory, velvet, violence, and the quiet rot beneath it all.

Notes:

hey everyone! i'm posting this out of the sheer joy that my A-Levels will be done in two weeks, as well as my rehyperfixation of the hunger games universe after sotr & the cast list came out :)) elle fanning as effie omg!

this is a finnick-centric fic, which will contain canon-typical violence, death, prostitution, etc. i won't be adding it as a warning because it shouldn't be anything out of the ordinary for this fandom. this is what i imagine finnick's life to be from his reaping onwards, and will be a pretty long one.

i will (hopefully) be updating every friday or saturday and have a couple chapters written already so gear up hahah :D

anyway this is my first fic so please be nice and feel free to leave comments/suggestions/critiques!

Chapter 1: Oar Droppers, Sea Cucumbers and Sea Goblins

There’s something oddly eerie about a dark night here in Sun City, especially considering it’s just past midnight. While most nights pass by with street lights flickering and Peacekeepers’ torches flashing, tonight I tiptoe across the fence solely relying on the faint glow of the moon and my brother ahead of me. It’s past town curfew and every step feels like it echoes, too loud against the hush of a sleeping district.

My older brother Kael doesn’t look back. He never does. He says the faster we get to the end of the beach, the lower the chances of getting caught. But truthfully, everyone knows we’re out here. Over a hundred teenagers meeting on the same night every year and lighting a bonfire doesn’t exactly go unnoticed. I consider us fortunate that Peacekeepers treasure their one-night-a-year-in and turn a blind eye upon our tomfoolery.

The sand is cold this late, grainy against my soles where it’s crept into my shoes. The air smells like brine and damp rope, a scent so woven into my skin I don’t notice it most days. But tonight, everything feels sharper. Like the wind carries whispers, or the sea’s holding its breath. We’re halfway across the beach when I hear the soft rustle of a dress behind me. Mira. Mira, my older sister, catches up to me without a word. She doesn’t walk so much as glide. Shoulders squared, chin up, eyes forward. Probably having made sure Mam and Da are sound asleep before locking the door behind her.

Who are we kidding? Mam and Da used to do the same thing when they were younger, when security in Sun City was much tighter. I wonder why they allow us to sneak out every year, fully knowing the risk of getting caught. Perhaps it’s to quiet the guilt. Just in case it ends up being our last night in Four. Maybe letting us have this one tradition is the only thing they can give, when so much else isn’t theirs to decide.

Kael slows when we reach the stretch of jagged rock that splits the beach from the cove. He scales it with ease, fingers gripping the notches he’s memorized since we were kids. I follow, one careful step at a time, breath shallow, my basket of salty bread bumping against my side.

The fire comes into view just past the ridge. It flickers from within a ring of driftwood and half-buried nets, tall flames licking at the sky. Someone’s already added seaweed to the edges - it sparks and crackles with a strange green tinge. Shadows move around it in bursts of laughter and quiet, hushed greetings, the kind that slip between people who’ve known each other their whole lives.

Kael disappears into the crowd first. Of course he does. He’s always belonged more than I have. The older kids know him, respect him. Mira lingers beside me, “Go put down the bread, Finnick,” she looks down at me, “step, spin, don’t fall, kiddo.”

It’s an inside joke from when I was seven, when Mira got it in her head that I needed to learn how to dance for our neighbour’s wedding. “Properly,” she said, as if I was out here flailing like a broken fish. She dragged me to the dock behind our house where the boards creaked with every step and made me practice some fancy spin she saw on the town’s big screen. I was halfway through trying to impress this girl from our neighbourhood. Millie, I think? When I tripped over my own feet and went down like a sack of seaweed. Straight onto the dock, knees scraped, pride obliterated. Mira didn’t even ask if I was okay. She just laughed so hard she choked on her spit and said, “Step, spin, don’t fall, Finn.”

I didn’t get much better at the dance, but now she says it every time I look remotely nervous. Before school exams, before a big day at sea, and probably again tomorrow. Because apparently, that’s what sisters are for.

The moment I drop the basket and turn around, something shifts. The fire’s glow softens the cliffs, brushing everything in warm gold. Laughter rolls over the cove like the tide: unhurried, familiar. Whatever tension clung to the walk here melts a little in the heat and the light and the noise.

“Late again, Odair.”

I don’t have to look to know it’s Atlas. He’s sprawled on a piece of driftwood like it’s a throne, one leg kicked up, sleeves rolled to the elbows. There’s a half-eaten orange in his hand and his mouth is sticky with juice. Typical. He’s been taller than me since we were eight and still manages to talk like he’s older, even though we’re the same age.

Beside him, Rowan grins and tosses something small at my chest. I catch it out of habit. A sand dollar, pale and chipped.
“Trophy,” he says. “For the last to arrive.”

“I was helping Mam weave nets for the business.” I roll my eyes, but the corners of my mouth tug upward. Atlas pats the space next to him, clearing off a tangled net someone left behind. I slide in without a word, the heat of the flames brushing my skin, the smell of salt and citrus hanging between us.

Rowan leans back on his elbows, looking up at the stars. “Tide’s low tonight.”

Atlas hums like he’s been waiting for the setup. “Means the moon’s full.”

“Means we’re screwed,” I add. “Every Peacekeeper and their dog’ll see us trying to get back.”

Rowan snorts. “We’d be fine if you didn’t stomp around like a herd of whales.”

“I do not stomp.”

“You do, a bit,” Atlas says, through a grin. “Like, not full whale. Maybe a… what’s the tiny one? A dolphin.”

“That’s still a sea creature,” I mutter.

“Exactly. We’re being thematic.”

I chuck a pebble at him. He ducks with all the grace of someone who’s dodged my aim a hundred times. It sails past him and lands on a girl’s shoulder.

She startles, twisting around with a sharp, “Hey!”

Rowan immediately points at me. “Finnick did it.”

Atlas, unhelpful as ever, nods solemnly. “We tried to stop him.”

The girl narrows her eyes, brushing the pebble off her shoulder and squinting at me through the firelight. It’s Tessa, she lives a few streets over, works the morning nets with her dad. I don’t know her well, but I’ve seen her cut through sea rope with her teeth, and I wouldn’t want to be on her bad side.

“Next time,” she says, “aim better.”

“Noted,” I reply, raising both hands in surrender.

She turns away with a huff, but I catch the smallest flicker of a smile before she does. The kind that says she’s used to idiots like us and doesn’t actually mind.

Atlas leans closer, voice low. “You’re making friends all over the place tonight.”

“Charming the whole district,” Rowan agrees. “One pebble assault at a time.”

Tessa shakes her head, flicks her hair over her shoulder, and walks off, but not before tossing the pebble right back at me. It bounces off my knee. Atlas wheezes with laughter.

“She’s got better aim than you,” he manages between snorts.

“Not hard,” Rowan says. “I’ve seen sea cucumbers throw straighter than Finnick.”

“Oh please,” I scoff, settling into the sand. “The two of you couldn’t hit water if you fell out of a boat.”

“I literally live on a boat,” Atlas replies, deadpan.

“Yeah,” Rowan says, “and you still managed to drop your oar in the bay last week.”

“That was sabotage,” Atlas says with mock-seriousness. “Finnick loosened the grip while I wasn’t looking.”

I raise my hands. “Why would I sabotage your oar? What do I gain from that?”

“A reputation,” Rowan says. “For violence.”

“For pettiness,” Atlas corrects. “He wants to be feared. Like a sea goblin.”

“I hate both of you.”

“You love us,” Rowan says, slinging an arm dramatically over my shoulders. “We’re your emotional support idiots.”

“I’d rather be emotionally supported by a jellyfish.”

“Great,” Atlas says. “You can sting us next time instead of throwing pebbles.”

I can’t help it. I laugh, real and unfiltered. The kind that makes your chest feel lighter. Around the fire, more people are cracking jokes, shouting over each other, someone off to the side already trying to roast fish on a stick that’s very much not meant for food.

Rowan pulls out a piece of driftwood and pretends to knight Atlas with it. “I hereby dub thee, Sir Oar Dropper of the Ship Aboard.”

Atlas takes it solemnly. “Thank you, Sir Sea Cucumber of the Shallow Bay.”

They turn to me expectantly.

I sigh. “Fine. And I’m… what? Finnick the Sea Goblin?”

“Sea Goblin Prince,” Rowan corrects, holding up a string of seashells like a crown. “You’ve got royal energy.”

“Tragic royal energy,” Atlas says.

“Doomed at sea,” Rowan adds.

“Bite me.”

They grin.

“We’d rather not,” they say in unison.

I finally tear into the bread, Mam’s recipe, thick with sea salt and rosemary, and pass a chunk to Atlas, then Rowan. The basket starts making its way around the vague circle we’ve all sort of collapsed into. People take pieces without asking, like always. It’s not fancy, but it’s warm and soft and a little burnt on the edges, which is exactly how we like it.

A bottle appears next, passed along with less ceremony. It’s the kind that probably came from someone’s uncle’s garage. Dark glass, no label, tastes like melted seaweed and regret. Atlas takes a swig, coughs immediately, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Liquid courage,” he mutters, handing it to me.

“For what?” I pass the bottle on to Rowan without taking another sip.

“You’ll see. In about… now!” Atlas exclaims, just as a sharp trill from a flute cuts through the air.

Everyone still enough to hear it freezes. The tune stumbles at first, like the player’s laughing through it, then steadies into something bouncy and absurd. The kind of melody you could never take seriously.

“Oh no,” Rowan groans, already half-smiling. “No way.”

Across the fire, Atlas’ brother Davian drops to one knee in the sand with a clumsy little flourish. Calla shrieks and claps both hands over her mouth.

“Third time’s the charm,” Atlas says under his breath.

She nods before he even finishes asking, and the whole cove erupts. Cheers, whistles, someone letting out an actual scream of joy. The flute player launches into the opening notes again, louder this time.

“Not it,” I say quickly, but Rowan is already on his feet.

“It’s the dance, Odair. We have a civic duty.”

People are hopping up all around us, forming a wide, loose ring. Mira rolls her eyes and joins in without protest. Even Tessa’s dragging someone by the wrist toward the center.

Rowan sighs dramatically. “I hope you’re ready to row, Your Highness.”

I laugh, but they’re already stomping in place, clapping offbeat, spinning each other in circles like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. Atlas throws an arm over my shoulder, nearly knocks us both over. It doesn’t matter. None of it does.

I give in and start moving. Half the steps don’t make sense and the other half I’ve long forgotten, but I know enough. Arms waving, feet kicking sand, dodging elbows as everyone pretends to paddle a boat going nowhere.

The music swells. Someone shouts, “Row the bride across!” and Calla gets hoisted up by three laughing girls while Davian does a ridiculous bow in the sand.

We’re all grinning now, breathless, ridiculous, alive.

By the time the flames begin to shrink, curling into themselves with soft hisses, most of the food is gone and the singing’s faded into scattered murmurs. A few couples drift toward the tide line, their laughter quieter now, footsteps dragging in the wet sand. Even Rowan, ever the loudest of us, leans back against a half-buried log, eyes half-lidded, hair a windblown mess.

The air’s turned cooler. Someone’s draped a net over their shoulders like a blanket. The bottle’s long since passed out of our circle and disappeared somewhere along the edge of the cove.

I stretch out on my back, letting the warmth of the coals chase off the salt-chill in my clothes. Atlas has gone quiet beside me, head tilted back, watching the sparks drift into the dark like fireflies.

And then, from the far side of the bonfire, a voice cuts through the night.

“To Tonya Moore, the girl who’s gonna win the Games and bring us all an awesome year of gifts!”

It’s a boy from the Training Centre in the next town, Gold Coast. He’s standing on top of a washed-up crate like he’s on stage, one hand lifted in mock salute. The group around him cheers, a ragtag mix of older kids who trained with Tonya back when she was still half their size and already outpacing them.

“Queen of the sparring ring!” someone yells.

“Breaker of noses!” another adds, laughing.

All eyes turn to where Tonya’s sitting near the edge of the fire circle, flanked by a few of her closest friends. Even seated, she’s impossible to miss. Broad-shouldered, six feet tall, with arms roped in muscle from years of hauling nets and sparring at the Training Centre. Her windblown hair is tied back in a messy braid that swings down her spine like a whip, and the firelight glints off a faint scar on her jaw, the kind that looks like it came with a story no one’s brave enough to ask about. A fishing knife is tucked into her boot, half-visible, as natural there as a second skin. She could probably pick me up and crush me with her fingers with no struggle whatsoever. But of course, she wouldn’t do that. She’s saving all that for the arena. She’s got her arms wrapped around her knees, and rolls her eyes at the attention, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, as if she’s already won whatever game’s being played.

Someone tosses a piece of kelp into the fire. Then a rope knot. Then a tiny, carved fish that sails through the air and lands with a hiss in the embers. One by one, people start throwing in whatever they’ve got on hand—bits of net, smooth shells, a few torn scraps of old boat sails. It’s not somber. It’s tradition. Loud and messy and bright with heat.

I grab a crust of leftover bread and toss it in, watching it catch flame.

“Why bread?” Atlas asks.

“I heard she likes the garlic ones,” I say, shrugging. I’ve never actually talked to her, but Mira shares a few classes with her at school.

Rowan snorts. “Of course she does. She fights like she’s fueled by spice.”

Across the circle, Tonya finally stands. She gives a theatrical bow, all sweeping arms and mock elegance.

“Appreciate the offerings,” she calls out, deadpan. “But pray for the boy who’s going to get reaped tomorrow instead.”

A round of laughter follows, half-hearted and a little too loud, like no one wants to admit how close her words hit. Someone tosses a final shell into the coals, and the fire hisses as if in agreement. The mood doesn't dip, not quite, but something settles. A hush that spreads through the group like the wind picking up before dawn.

District Four doesn’t do double volunteers. Never has.

It’s not some grand moral stance. Just practicality. Two volunteers mean two kids who’ve trained together, fished together, known each other since they could swim. The Capitol might love the drama of friends turning on each other, but we’re not stupid. You send two volunteers, and one’s gonna hesitate when it counts. You send one? They fight like hell.

Tonya’s the obvious pick this year. Eighteen, built like a storm wave, and ruthless enough that even the Peacekeepers step aside when she passes. She’s been sparring at the Training Centre since she was eight, and the trainers have picked her to volunteer the second the escort calls out a name.

We leave in scattered twos and threes, feet dragging through sand that’s cold and wet from the returning tide. The sky’s just starting to stretch awake, streaked with soft pinks and dull lavender. Mira walks ahead with Kael, their shadows long against the shore. She’s tugging her sleeves over her hands, hair loosened from its usual braid. Kael’s nodding along to whatever she’s murmuring, jaw tight in the way it always is when he’s listening more than he wants to admit.

Atlas and Rowan hang back beside me, trading half-whispered commentary on who danced worst, who spiked the drink, who fell face-first into the seaweed pile during the flute solo. We laugh, tired and too hoarse to be loud.

By the time we make it home, the hush has folded over us completely. The sand gives way to cobblestone as we near the square, shoes swinging from our fingers, damp hems brushing our ankles. Mira veers off toward the front door without a word, already reaching for the handle.

Kael lingers outside to shake the sand from his boots.

I don’t bother. I head straight inside, down the narrow hall, and into the shared bedroom. The window’s open a crack, the scent of salt still drifting in like the sea refuses to leave me alone. I don’t change. Don’t even wash the grit off my face.

I just collapse face-first onto the bed.

The mattress groans under my weight, and the pillow smells like home—sun-dried cotton, a hint of rope and salt. My limbs feel heavy, sunburnt and sea-worn, the ache of laughter and dancing settling into my shoulders.

Tomorrow’s the Reaping.

But the sea hums outside my window, soft and steady. For now, that’s enough.

Chapter 2: Driftwood, Ribbon and Polyester Rope

I wake up to a pillow being yanked from beneath my head and a voice far too shrill for this early in the morning.

“Up. Now. Shower, dress, and be out the door in ten.”

My eyes crack open to the blurry outline of Mira, standing with her arms crossed and the sort of judgment only a big sister can master at this time of day.

“What time is it?” I croak.

“Time to move,” she snaps. “We’ve got a thirty-minute train and less than an hour until the Reaping. If you make us late, Mam will flay you.”

It hits me like seawater in the lungs. The date. The time. The sun pouring faint gold through the shutters. I shove the blankets off and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, toes hitting the cool floorboards. My clothes from last night still smell like driftwood smoke and salt.

“You didn’t wake me sooner?”

“Mam was going to,” She tosses the pillow onto the bed, hitting me square in the face. I groan and peel it off. “But I said I’d do it. Faster this way.”

“Gee, thanks.”

"Kael already left with Dad," she adds. "We’re catching the second train. Mam's waiting downstairs."

That’s enough to jolt me upright.

The bathroom is barely more than a closet with a drain and a bucket, but it serves its purpose. I pour half a scoop of lukewarm water over my head and suck in a breath as it trickles down my spine. The chill wakes me faster than Mira ever could. I scrub quickly with the little bar of soap left over from Mira’s last market trip, then towel off and pull on the set of clothes folded on the hook.

White shirt, stiff collar. Gray slacks. The kind you only wear twice a year: for the Reaping and when someone dies.

I stand and wince. Last night’s dancing did a number on my legs. My calves ache, and I’ve got a scratch on my knee I don’t remember getting. I limped into bed at what must’ve been past three.

Our mother is in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tying Mira’s bronze hair into a braid with quick, practiced hands. The smell of toast and brine hangs in the air. Someone boiled fish bones for stock last night.

“You look like you wrestled the sea,” Mam says when she sees me. “Eat something before we go.”

“Not hungry.”

She gives me a look. The kind that doesn’t need words to make you sit down.

I fold myself into the chair. Mira’s chewing a piece of bread, the corners of her mouth pinched. She doesn’t look up. Her reaping dress is newer than my suit, but still plain. Dark blue with tiny buttons down the front. She’s pulled her sleeves tight at the cuffs, and her boots are already laced.

I shove down two eggs, though my stomach is too knotted for me to really taste anything. Mam stands behind me the whole time, a hand on my shoulder, thumb brushing back and forth. I don’t know if it’s to comfort me or herself.

“Did Kael and Da say what time they’d meet us?” Mira asks as she adjusts the hem of her sleeve.

“They took the bus with the Hale’s ,” Mam says. “You’ll see them at the Gold Coast square.”

Gold Coast is the “main” town in our district. It’s got all the important stuff, like Justice Building, the Mayor’s house, the train station, City Square, Victors’ Village, and the Training Center. There’s a school Sun City shares with Gold Coast, placed precariously in the middle of both towns. I bike there every afternoon for my classes, after helping Da with the boat early in the morning, and Mam with the nets after dawn.

Mira nods, but she doesn’t say anything else.

“I’ve packed your tokens,” Mam says, nudging a small pouch toward me. “Don’t lose them this year.”

“I won’t,” I mumble, though I probably will. They’re not much, just a little carved piece of driftwood on a string that Kael swears keeps bad luck away.

“Shoes,” she says next, and Mira and I both hop up like we’ve been stung.

By the time we’re outside, it’s around a quarter to nine, the sun already warming the tops of the rooftops in that soft, golden-orange light that only shows up at this hour. The air smells faintly of salt and damp earth. The platform’s already starting to fill, people walking in quiet pairs or tight little clusters, shoes polished, shirts tucked, hair braided neat. 

I slide into a seat beside Mira, the stiff collar of my shirt itching at the back of my neck. Out of habit, my fingers find the sea glass in my pocket, its edges biting into my palm. Mira's knee bounces a rapid rhythm against the bench, her usual stillness fractured. When I nudge her with my elbow, she glares but doesn't stop. The motion makes the tiny buttons on her dress shimmer like minnows darting in shallow water. It’s too early for the smell of fish to have settled in the air. Just salt, and morning dew, and something faintly metallic from the rails.

Halfway through the ride, a figure drops into the seat across from me, breathless.

It’s Maeve.

Her curls are wind-blown and only half-tamed by the ribbon she’s used to tie them back. She’s wearing a faded green dress that brings out the color in her eyes, and there are smudges of tired beneath them. She looks like she barely slept.

“There you are. Walked through ten cabins of this darned train to find you,” she says.

“You weren’t at the bonfire,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “I thought you died. Or were avoiding us.”

Maeve pulls a face. “Neither. Just... couldn’t come.”

“Why?”

She hesitates for a second, then sighs. “Lani. She turned twelve last month. Had nightmares all week. Kept begging me not to go anywhere. She thinks if she wakes up and I’m gone, that means I’ve been reaped.”

My smile drops.

“Damn,” I say. “I didn’t know.”

Maeve shrugs, but it’s more protective than casual. “She doesn’t know the odds are low. All she knows is twelve-year-olds get picked, and this year, she’s one of them.”

“First time’s the worst,” Mira says quietly beside me, surprising us both. “The fear before you even understand what you’re afraid of.”

Maeve glances at her, then nods.

“How’s she now?” I ask.

“Sleeping, finally. In Mom’s lap. I promised I’d be back before she woke up. Probably lied.

“You bring your token?” she asks after a beat.

“Driftwood necklace.”

“Classic,” she says, managing a half-smile. “I’ve got a ribbon. Lani made it.”

“Nice.”

We sit in quiet for a while after that, the train rocking softly beneath us, windows rattling with the tracks. Somewhere in the distance, we can see the sea stretching past the edge of District Four. Calm today. Not like last night.

Maeve nudges me with her elbow. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“If it’s you, I’ll scream.”

I blink at her.

“At the Reaping,” she says. “If it’s you, I’ll scream. Loud. Like a banshee.”

I grin, despite myself. “Good to know, but it won’t be me. I haven’t taken any tesserae.”

“Still. Just so you’re warned.”

The train begins to slow, City Square drawing near. I sit up straighter, the familiar tightness coiling in my stomach. The train’s brakes shriek like a gutted seal as we lurch into Gold Coast station. My knees lock hard against the seat in front of me, the impact vibrating up my shins. For one stupid, glorious second, I consider staying put, letting the train carry me back down the coast, past the docks where the gulls are already fighting over scraps, past the boundary markers with their rusting barbed wire, all the way to wherever the tracks ends in some forgotten corner of Panem.

Maeve squeezes my elbow before melting into the crowd, probably to find her parents. Mira’s nails dig crescent moons into my wrist. "Move." Her voice has that frayed edge I only hear when she’s been awake all night staring at the ceiling.

The platform is swarmed with white-collared kids shuffling forward like ghosts. No one runs. No one shouts. Just the endless scrape of polished shoes on concrete and the occasional hiccup of swallowed tears. The air reeks of industrial cleaner and something sharper underneath. Like the Peacekeepers had scrubbed the very smell of salt from the stones. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, suddenly craving the sourdough rolls Mam burns every Sunday.

We spill onto the sun-bleached cobblestones where Da and Kael stand sentinel by a lamppost. Kael’s arms are crossed, his biceps straining the sleeves of his only suit, the grey one with the mismatched buttons where Mira practices her sewing. At twenty, he looms over the crowd like a breakwater, safe in a way that makes my throat ache..

"There’s my baby brother," Kael said, reaching out to ruffle my hair. I duck, but not fast enough. His fingers catch in the sand-crusted tangles I missed in my rushed shower. "You look like you got dragged through the surf backwards."

"Smells like it too," Da adds, but his hand settles warm between my shoulder blades. His palm is rough as a barnacle shell against my starched shirt. "The Hale girl fainted at the blood station last year. Try not to disgrace me before the cameras start rolling."

I open my mouth to retort when a commotion erupts near the ticket booth.

"Finnick Odair, you absolute traitor!" Rowan barrels through the crowd like a spooked seal, his tie knotted so tight it’s practically a noose. Atlas follows at a calmer pace, picking seaweed from between his teeth like this was any other morning.

"You swore on your mother’s net-mending needle you’d take the early train with us!" Rowan accuses, slinging an arm around my neck. His sleeve smells like lavender soap: the medicinal stuff his mom uses to scrub her medical uniforms. Underneath it lingers the sour tang of nervous sweat.

"I never—"

"Abandoned us for your fancy family," Atlas sighs, examining a ragged hangnail. "And after we shared our contraband licorice with you last night." He leans in conspiratorially. "Which, by the way, was absolutely medicinal. For my fragile constitution."

Kael snorts. "You fed him Capitol licorice? No wonder he looks three steps from keeling over."

The banter dies as we reach the blood check station. Three lines of kids shuffle forward like lambs to slaughter, each offering a trembling hand to the bored Peacekeepers. In the Peacekeepers’ gloved hands are a needle-machine-thing. The needles glint maliciously under the morning sun, its stainless steel tip flashing every time it plunges into another finger.

My stomach rolls. The eggs Mam forced into me threatens to make a reappearance.

Da noticed. He turns me away from the line, his work-roughened hands framing my face like he used to when I was small and needed steering through a crowd. "Look at me, minnow." His breath smells of the anise candies he sucked to quit smoking. "Remember your first storm at sea? Seven years old, clinging to the mast like a barnacle?"

I nod, the memory sharp as salt in a fresh cut, how the waves had towered over our little skiff like black mountains, how Da had laughed through the gale like it was nothing more than a temperamental child.

"This?" He jerks his chin toward the needle. "This is less than that. Breathe through your nose. It’ll be over before—"

"Next!"

The Peacekeeper grabs my hand without looking up. The alcohol wipe stings cold, then—

Fire. White-hot and sudden as a jellyfish sting. I bite down hard on a curse, tasting copper where my canine tooth sawed into my lower lip. My vision swims with black spots, but Kael’s hand grips the back of my neck, steady as a mooring line in a squall.

"Good lad," Da murmurs as the Peacekeeper smears my blood on the glass slide. My knees threaten to buckle, but then Atlas materializes with his rusted tin of salve, the one he claims can cure everything from splinters to broken hearts.

"For your grievous injury," he intones solemnly, dabbing something green and reeking of fermented fish oil on my throbbing fingertip.

Rowan presses a perfect scallop shell into my palm, its ridges biting into my skin. "For your bravery in the face of unspeakable Capitol tyranny," he announces, then yelps when Mira "accidentally" stomps on his foot.

We drift toward the square in a loose huddle, Da and Kael flanking us like escort ships. The Capitol banners snap overhead, their sigils leering down at us with embroidered eyes. Peacekeepers herd kids into roped-off pens, their white-gloved hands impersonal as gaff hooks sorting the day’s catch.

At the fourteen-year-old boys’ section, I part ways with Atlas and Rowan, who make their way to the fifteen-year-old boys’ section. My birthday’s in six months. Kael pulls me aside. Up close, I see the sunburn peeling across his nose, the raw patch on his thumb where he’d been worrying at a fishing callus. He presses something rough and thin into my hand: a short piece of polyester rope tied into his favourite knot. "Brought it along from home," he mutters. "Supposed to be lucky or some shit."

Da squeezes my shoulder hard enough to bruise. "Chin up, minnow. We’ll be right behind the—"

A Peacekeeper shoves between us with a barked order. The crowd swallows them whole, Mira’s braid flashing bronze for half a heartbeat, Da’s broad back vanishing behind taller boys, Kael’s knot the only thing I’m seeing before I’m alone in a sea of white shirts. I channel Mira's voice in my head, and think “Step, spin, don’t fall.” 

The sun beats down on the back of my neck like a brand. Somewhere to my left, a boy mutters odds under his breath like a prayer: "Twelve slips out of five thousand, twelve slips out of five thousand..." He must’ve taken tesserae for his family.

Once all the eighteen-year-olds are settled into their section up front, just as the City Square clock strikes ten, someone on the stage stands up and walks to the podium. It’s the Mayor. She clicks something on a computer, and goes back to her seat. The screens around us start playing the same Capitol video I’ve seen since I was a kid. It tells the history of Panem, the Dark Days, the start of the Hunger Games, and the past sixty-four years of the games. This year is the sixty-fifth year. I know the video well enough, so instead I look at the people under the screens. 

To the left of the Mayor, sit District Four’s victors. Our District has had eight victors in total, six of whom are still alive. They’re sitting in order of year won, with our most recent victor, 23-year-old Chester Torres, next to the Mayor. He’s the only one I can remember, having volunteered, and won, five years ago. He’s sort of a heartbreaker-ish public figure in the Capitol, with Chestnut brown hair and equally brown eyes, which currently seem to be bloodshot. Maybe he’s been crying. Or smoking some Capitol stuff. He won his games by throwing knives at tributes from treetops, and ended his games within a week. Once he got back to Four, rumor has it that he broke up with his girlfriend and never talked to any of his friends ever again. 

Next to him is Connor Maxwell, then Oona Sanders, Marcel Foley, Lucas Steele and finally, Mags Flanagan. I was born the year Connor Maxwell won, and the others won their games far before that, so I don’t know much about their games. I've never met any of them in person. Not even Marcel, though he’s the only one who actually grew up in Sun City. Mam went to school with him. Said he was quiet, good at math, and used to bring seaweed snacks in his lunchbox. Hard to picture him now, stone-faced in the front row like someone carved him out of driftwood. Anyway, the only victor I’ve been curious enough to look up in my school library is Mags. She won the eleventh games at just sixteen years old, so she knew a life before the Hunger Games. I wonder what that was like. Does she remember the rebellion? Was life before the rebellion really worse than our current way of living with the Hunger Games? Was the sacrifice of 23 children really better than living in pre-rebellion days? I doubt it is. Whenever I see her, she’s always watching everything, quietly. Like she knows what’s going to happen before it does. Kael says she’s clever in a way that doesn’t need to be loud. That she’s survived more than just her Games.

She’s tiny, barely five feet, with silver hair pulled back in a simple knot and hands that always seem to be working on something - knitting, usually. Right now, she’s got a length of green yarn wound through her fingers, and I can’t tell if it’s a scarf or a net. Maybe both. I’ve never watched a recording of her games’ recap, never could bring myself to do that. They say all she wanted was to protect her district partner, who was her little cousin. But after he was killed by some District Two tribute, she poisoned all the remaining tributes one by one within the span of three days. Brutal. I know. 

They don’t talk much, the victors. But they do sit close, elbows brushing, like people who’ve been through the same storm and don’t need to speak to know the damage. Every once in a while, I catch a glance passed between two of them. A small smile. A tiny nudge of the knee. Chester mumbles something under his breath, and Connor lets out a low huff of a laugh. Marcel leans back in his chair with his arms folded, but he’s angled slightly toward Oona like he’s got her back, even sitting down.

I’m not sure if they’re close, but they do have something going on. Some sort of pact, maybe. Like they belong to a club of killers no one else wants to join, but once you're in, you don't walk away from it.

The Mayor’s now stood at the podium and thanking the Capitol for their generosity and leadership. As she drones on and on, I notice Theodore O’donnell standing up from the other side of the podium. The Mayor must’ve introduced him. 

Theodore’s our district escort, and I swear to Poseidon, he gets weirder every year. This time, he’s wearing a pale seafoam suit with scalloped lapels and a massive starfish brooch pinned to his chest like a badge of honor. His hair’s bright coral, swept back with enough gel to hold against a hurricane. When he walks, he clicks - heels too high, shoes too narrow, like his stylist doesn’t know that cobblestone isn’t a Capitol runway.

He teeters up to the microphone with all the grace of a baby crab, and for a terrifying second, I think he’s going to faceplant into the Mayor. But he recovers with a dramatic spin, arms out like he’s presenting a magic trick instead of, you know, the annual death sentence.

“District Four!” he trills, voice cracking right at the top of the four like a rooster mid-squawk. A few kids near the back cough loudly to cover their laughter. Theodore doesn’t notice. Or he pretends not to. He strikes a pose, hand on his hip, then pulls a conch shell out of his pocket and blows into it with all the ceremony of a royal trumpet.

It makes a noise like someone stepping on a wet sponge.

Silence.

Even the seabirds stop.

“Right!” he chirps, cheeks red, conch hastily shoved back into his pocket. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

He flounces over to the girls’ bowl like nothing happened, though I can see Connor Maxwell rubbing his temples in the background.

“Starting off with the ladies,” he waves his hand over the bowl, before sticking it in and pulling out a slip of cream paper. Flipping it open, he reads, “Amaya Hennessy!”

Amaya turns out to be a small, pale fifteen-year-old. Even smaller than me, and I haven’t hit my growth spurt yet. She’s got tears streaming down her face. Did she not know that the volunteer was going to be a girl this year? Perhaps not. Or perhaps she’s just terrified of the reaping itself. I’ve got to give it to her, having your name called out in front of the entire District is quite horrifying.

“Congratulations, Amaya!” Theodore pulls her frail, shaking body onto the stage.

“Now, do we have any volunteers for Amaya?” 

There’s some movement in the eighteen-year-old section, and Theodore seems so excited he looks like he’s about to faint.

I hear an “Oh! Amazing !” from Theodore before he steps towards the left to give Tonya a hand.

Tonya doesn’t need a hand.

She’s already halfway up the steps, moving with the same relaxed confidence she had last night by the fire. Her chin is up, shoulders squared, and even her braid swings like it’s smug. 

Tonya Moore. Eighteen. Absolute unit of a human. Six feet tall and built like Poseidon from Mam’s stories. Top of her class at the training centre. Gold pins on her collar and a reputation for knocking out boys larger than her in sparring. No one’s surprised to see her up here. If anything, we’re just surprised she let Theodore finish his sentence.

She pauses beside Amaya just long enough to brush the girl's shoulder with a quick, quiet reassurance. “Go on,” I read her lips on the big screen.

Amaya practically flies off the stage and into the arms of a waiting Peacekeeper.

“Wonderful!” Theodore gushes, grabbing Tonya’s wrist and holding her hand high like she just won something. “We have our female tribute. What is your name darling?” Darling? How is he still in one piece after calling Tonya darling ?

“Antonia Moore.” It’s the first time I’m noticing it, but she definitely doesn’t sound like she looks. Her voice is raspy, but so soft I can't believe it came from her.

“Welcome, Antonia! How about we all give her a round of applause!” Theodore beams.

No one claps. Not because they don’t care, but because clapping would mean pretending this is a game worth cheering for. We just stand there, wind pulling at our collars and the waves hissing distantly, like the ocean itself is unimpressed.

Tonya doesn’t seem to mind. She drops her arm from Theodore’s grip and steps into place, eyes scanning the crowd until they find a group of her friends near the front. One of them gives her a thumbs-up. She smirks, just barely. Business as usual.

And then Theodore, still glowing like someone just proposed to him, turns to the boys’ bowl.

Theodore fans his fingers over the bowl like he’s casting a spell. “And now, for our young gentlemen!”

He reaches in with exaggerated flair, like he's swirling wine. Not that I’ve ever seen anyone swirl wine. I barely take notice of Theodore. My eyes are still on Tonya. Or more accurately, my brain is still trying to catalogue all the creative, mildly terrifying ways she could end a person if given a ten-foot rope and about five seconds. Drown someone in ankle-deep water. Snap a neck with a fish hook. Gut you with a smile.

I bet she’s already ranked everyone in this square by threat level.

She doesn’t look nervous. Just a little bored.

I’m still stuck imagining her turning a spear into a kebab skewer when I hear my name.

“Finnick Odair!”

Notes:

hi guys! new chapter's up after today's gruelling bio paper 5. one week to go till i'm freeee and i'll never have to touch bio ever again! thank you so much for the kudos and comment (singular) love you hahah<3 i hope you enjoy this (longer) chapter :))

Chapter 3: Kisses, Nooses and Theodore O’donnell

The first time I nearly drowned, I was seven.

We were out near the kelp beds, Mam and me. She was showing me how to lash crab pots without cutting into the line: just two loops and a hitch, tight but not too tight, “like a promise you actually intend to keep.” I was tying my fifth one when the boat jolted. A swell rolled underneath, knocked a bucket of bait clean over, and one of the nets slipped straight off the edge. I didn’t even think. I just dove.

I don’t remember much about going under, just how fast it happened. The water was cold and green and swallowing, like something alive. The net drifted out of reach, spinning in slow circles. I swam harder, fingers brushing it once before it sank deeper. I reached again, and something pulled me down with it. My ankle. The loose coil of rope.

I remember struggling. Kicking. Sinking. The burn in my chest. Mam always said knots could fix anything. Nets, sails, traps, even broken hulls. But all I could think was, she lied .

Then… snap! Pressure around my ribs. Something jerking me upward. A rope from a neighboring boat, looped around my arms. I came up coughing so hard I couldn’t speak. They showed me later the rope that saved me. Four knots spaced like rungs on a ladder, were what kept the rope from slipping through their hands.

Mam wrapped me in every spare towel on board, muttering about stupid sons and smart knots. And I believed her again, after that. Believed her when she said knots can save almost anything.

And now? Standing here with every eye in District Four watching me, the echo of my name still ringing in the air, my first thought is that someone will tie a knot and pull me out of this. 

I immediately realise after, that nobody can. I wonder if Mam lied after all. Because I don’t think there’s a knot in the world that can fix this.

“Finnick Odair?” Theodore sounds confused. 

Shit. How long have I been standing here? I have to move.

My legs aren't working right. I jolt forward, way too stiff, like I forgot how to walk. My foot catches weird on the first step and for a second I’m almost sure I’m going to faceplant right there in front of everyone. But somehow— somehow —I catch myself, stumble up onto the stage. I can feel hundreds of eyes burning into my skin. It’s like walking into a wall of heat, even though the wind’s still whipping cold off the ocean.

Don't trip. Don’t trip. Don’t trip.

Every step feels wrong, like I'm made of someone else's body parts sewn together badly. My mouth's dry, my palms are soaked, my heart is thundering so hard it’s probably visible through my shirt.

I make it next to Theodore, barely. He’s grinning like he’s just pulled off a magic trick.
“Well then! Do we have any volunteers for young Mr. Odair?” he trills, voice all bright and fake like he’s selling candy at the market.

No one moves.

Of course no one moves.

But it still hurts.

I keep staring out at the crowd anyway, like an idiot. Like maybe someone'll jump up last second and shout: “I'll take his place ! ” like the hero in a bad story.

But it's just rows and rows of faces, stiff and frozen and miserable. No one can even look at me. It’s always like this when a younger kid gets reaped. Like it’s somehow worse when you’re small enough to remind them of their own siblings, their own kids. And I’m not even one of the taller, more built kids for my age. I’m still skinny, still short, still boyish enough that my Mam ruffles my hair without thinking about it.

I bet I look ridiculous up here. Like a fish yanked out of the sea, gasping and flopping around, too stupid to know it’s already dead.

I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood.

Theodore claps his hands together with a little hop. He honestly looks like he’s about to start skipping. He grabs my wrist way too tightly and tugs me toward Tonya Moore.

Tonya's standing there like a rock. She doesn’t flinch, even when Theodore shoves my hand into hers like we’re getting married or something.

“There we are! Our brave tributes for this year’s Hunger Games!” he announces, practically singing it.

Tonya’s palm is calloused from years of Hunger Games training, rough against mine. Her shake is quick and firm, no nonsense. She doesn’t meet my eyes. I don’t blame her. I don’t think I could handle it if she did.

Theodore's chirping something about a round of applause , but nobody claps. Nobody even moves.

Tonya lets go of my hand and drops her arms to her sides like she’s ready for whatever comes next.

Me?

I feel like my bones are trying to crawl out of my skin.

A Peacekeeper appears and makes a vague herding motion. Tonya goes first, striding toward the Justice Building without so much as a glance over her shoulder. She doesn’t need to look back. She knows the way.

I follow because... well, what else am I supposed to do? Run? Jump off the stage and swim for it? Get shot in the back like a dog?

The second the glass doors thud shut behind us, the sounds of the square - the crashing waves, the crying, the muttering - vanish. It’s weirdly silent inside, too big and too clean. The air smells sharp and metallic, like wet coins, and the overhead lights buzz faintly.

We’re immediately separated. A Peacekeeper gestures Tonya down one hallway and me down another. She disappears without hesitation. 

I get shoved into a small room with ugly cream walls and a peeling Capitol flag sagging from a pole in the corner. There’s a splintery wooden bench and a pitcher of water on a wobbly table. That’s it.

I stand there for a second, not knowing what to do with my arms, my legs, my breathing. Everything feels wrong. My skin's too tight. My shoes feel too small.

Finally, I sit, because I’m pretty sure if I don't I’m going to pass out.

The bench creaks under my weight. The water in the pitcher sloshes when I bump the table by accident. I flinch like I just got punched.

I wipe my sweaty hands on my pants and press my palms to my thighs to keep them still. It doesn’t work. They’re still shaking.

A few years ago, one of the older kids in my class, Brenna something. Her sister got reaped. I remember her telling us in a whisper, like it was some sacred secret, that you got an hour split into ten minutes.

Ten minutes with each of your family to say goodbye before they carted you off to the Capitol.

I twist my fingers into the hem of my shirt, blinking up at the ceiling.

Will they let me see Da and Mam? Kael? Mira?

Will they even come? What if they don’t get here in time? What if it’s already too late?

What if they tell me I can't hug them because it’s procedure ?

I lean forward, pressing my hands into my forehead hard enough that little sparks dance behind my eyes. I feel like I'm going to explode out of my skin.

Somewhere down the hall, there’s a loud bang. Like a chair getting knocked over. And then raised voices.

For a second, my heart leaps so fast it hurts.

Someone’s shouting.

Maybe — maybe —

I sit up straighter, hands clenched so tight my knuckles ache, and strain to listen.

The door swings open so hard it bangs into the wall, and my Da storms inside like he’s about to punch someone. For a second, I almost expect him to. His fists are clenched so tight his knuckles are white.

Da looks wrecked. His hair’s standing on end like he’s been tearing at it, and his shirt’s still half-untucked from his belt. He looks huge in here, bigger than normal, like a storm shoved itself into this tiny grey room. His eyes, usually so sharp you could slice fish with them, are bloodshot and wild.

For a second, he just stares at me. Like maybe if he looks hard enough, he can memorize me. Or save me.

His boots scuff loud against the floor as he crosses the space in three steps and grabs me, not rough, but not gentle either, pulling me into a hug so fierce it knocks the breath out of my chest.

“Hey, Da,” I say.

It barely comes out. My throat’s so dry it feels like it might split open.

“You’re my boy,” he mutters into my hair. "My boy."

Over and over. Like he thinks if he says it enough times, none of this can touch me.

When he finally pulls back, his hands stay locked on my shoulders. His eyes are boring into mine like he's trying to pin me to the earth.

"You listen good, Finnick," he says, voice low and shaking. "You're gonna go out there, and you're gonna fight smart. Smarter than them all."

I nod, even though my stomach's doing this awful flip, like it wants to crawl right up my throat.

"You keep your head down at first. Let the others tear each other apart. You survive, that’s your job." He squeezes my shoulder hard.

"And you get yourself a trident if you can. You hear me? First chance you get. Don’t mess around trying to play hero with something you don’t know."

I open my mouth, then close it again. Because what am I supposed to say? Sure, Da, no problem, I’ll just grab a giant deadly weapon from the Cornucopia during the initial bloodbath and not get killed doing it?

Da nods like he’s reading my mind.

"You know how to use it already. It’s an extension of your arm, boy. You can fish, you can fight. Don’t waste time swinging a sword or firing bows you barely know. You get a trident, you get it fast."

But I just nod, because that's what he needs.

What I need, too, maybe.

"And stay near water if you can," he says fiercely. "Water’s your home. Ain’t many’ll follow you into it."

He lets out a ragged breath.

"They put you in a jungle, a desert, a damn arena made of fire. It don't matter. You find the water. Water gives, water saves. Water's yours."

The way he says it, so fierce and desperate, makes my chest ache.

I bite the inside of my cheek hard. Does he really think I have a shot at winning the games? There’s no way. He’s deluding himself.

Da must see it, because his face softens a little. His hand ruffles my hair. Quick, rough, like when I was little, and he says, "Don’t you cry for them, Finnick. Don’t you give them that."

I blink fast, but it’s no good. My stupid eyes are burning.

I’m not crying. I’m not.

It's just —

It’s just Da, standing here with the whole ocean on his shoulders, telling me to fight for my life like it’s some fishing trip we can muscle through together.

"Save your tears for the sea," Da says. "Or better yet, don’t waste 'em at all." His voice cracks at the very end. Just a little. Like he hates himself for it.

I want to tell him I'm sorry.

I want to tell him I'll do it. I'll survive. But the words are stuck somewhere behind the giant rock sitting in my throat.

I nod instead. One sharp, fast jerk of my head.

Da presses his forehead to mine, just for a second, and I feel his breath, rough and shaking. Then there's shouting outside the door again. Peacekeepers barking something about time being up. And before I know it, they’re hauling him backward.

His hands slip off my shoulders like water through a cracked net.

He turns to argue, but two more Peacekeepers enter, grabbing his arms.​

"​Let me go! That's my son! I have more to say!"

“Da—” My voice comes out like a whisper, but I don’t know if he hears me. I want to shout. I want to scream that I’m not good at it. I want to tell him I’m not ready for this. But my mouth goes dry and I can’t speak. I stand up, and watch as Da is dragged out of the room.

He doesn’t get to look back.

Maybe he wanted to.

Maybe he couldn't.

“Wait! Da!” My voice cracks, a desperate sound, but it doesn’t stop the Peacekeepers. They drag him down the hall and I hear the muffled sound of their boots fading away, but it doesn’t feel real. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. I try to move, to run, but my legs feel like they’re stuck to the ground. My stomach turns.

“Please…” I whisper, but the sound is lost in the hollow echo of the empty hallway.

The door to my room slams shut behind them. And I’m alone again.

The seconds drag on, each one feeling like it’s been stretched out, longer than the last.

I stare at the door. My hands are still clenched into fists, my nails digging into my palms, but I don’t feel it anymore. It’s like I’ve gone numb. One... two... three... The seconds are ticking away, too fast, too slow. My breath is shallow, and every noise outside the room feels like a lifetime.

I wonder if the Capitol’s clock is louder than the one in Justice Building, ticking down to the next Reaping.

Four... five... six...

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to think. I try not to picture what might be going on outside. Maybe Da’s yelling, maybe it’s all the things he wanted to say that he didn’t get to.

Seven... eight... nine...

The door creaks open, and I jump like I’ve been jolted out of a dream. Atlas and Rowan step in. I brace myself for the serious, “You’ll be fine, Finn,” speech, but instead, they both pull me into a hug.

Wait. What?

This is new. This is weird. We’ve never hugged before. Not once. We’ve been through enough close calls to know that hugs are for people who actually expect to live through whatever’s going on, and we’ve never really been that kind of group. But here they are, one on each side of me, pulling me in like we’re all about to go into battle together. Which, okay, we kinda are, but still. Hugging? Really?

I slap Atlas on the back. “What is this? A family reunion or a last-minute act of charity?”

Rowan smirks and rolls his eyes. “You look like you need it. Might as well go out with a hug.”

“You’re both insane,” I say, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “If I get stabbed by Tonya Moore, you’re gonna have to explain this whole ‘hugging thing’ to everyone.”

Atlas pulls back just enough to look me up and down. “Nah, man. If Tonya Moore gets you, she’s not stabbing you. She’s going to adopt you as her new pet.”

Rowan snorts. “Yeah, you’d be her personal bodyguard. She’s probably been practicing with those knives so she can look all badass and ‘you’re gonna die’ in front of the cameras. But I bet she’ll find you too cute to actually hurt. I don’t think she has it in her to kill a fourteen year old from her own district.”

“I’d make a hell of a pet, wouldn’t I?” I joke, even though the thought of Tonya Moore butchering her chances of winning to protect me makes my stomach twist. “Maybe she’ll name me ‘Finnick the Glorious’ and parade me around the Capitol before the Games.”

Atlas grins. “If she does, you better make sure she gets your good side on camera. You’re the one with the pretty bronze hair.”

“Yeah, well, I’m also the one with zero chance of surviving against someone who can throw knives from fifty yards away,” I mutter, though it’s more to myself than anyone else.

Rowan waves his hand dismissively. “Eh, she’s gonna be too busy intimidating One and Two to even notice you. You could probably sneak up and put her in a headlock before she even realizes what’s happening.”

“Please,” I snort, “If I get within headlock range of Tonya Moore, it’s game over. I’ll be skewered before I can even blink. Besides, I’m not going to win. I’m on Tonya’s side. At least when she wins, you lot’ll have package day every month for a year.”

Atlas steps back, taking a breath. “Look, Finn. Whatever happens in there, we’re not gonna judge you. If you get scared, if you kill someone, if you have to be half naked during the parade. If you make it out alive or not... we’re with you. All the way.”

“We won’t let you be forgotten. You’ll have the best ghost story of anyone,” Rowan grins.

I try to laugh, but it feels like something heavy’s sitting in my chest. “I’ll haunt you all, promise. I’ll even make sure to drop things on purpose just to mess with you.”

“Like when you tripped last summer and nearly took out that fisherman with the oar?” Rowan says, shaking his head.

“Yeah,” I chuckle, trying to ignore the weird, uncomfortable feeling bubbling up in my stomach. “That guy still hasn’t let me live that down. You think he’ll be my first ghost-victim?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Atlas says, shaking his head, and for a second it almost feels normal, like we’re just messing around by the docks again. “Seriously, though. Enjoy it. The train, the food. Stuff your face like it’s the last meal you’re ever gonna have. ’Cause, you know. It probably is.”

I snort before I can stop myself. “Way to sugarcoat it.”

Rowan shrugs like he doesn’t even feel bad. “What, you want us to lie? You’re not exactly District Four’s secret weapon, Odair.”

“No kidding,” I say. My voice comes out sharper than I meant it to, but they just take it in stride.

Atlas leans his shoulder into mine. “Hey. Doesn’t mean you gotta roll over for them. Eat their food. Break their stuff. Smile for their cameras. Make 'em feel like idiots for thinking they own you.”

Rowan grins. “Yeah. If you’re gonna go out, go out swinging. Tonya Moore probably won’t skewer you in the first five minutes, but there’s a good chance the Careers will, so you might as well give ’em a show before she does.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” I mutter, but I can’t help grinning.

“Anytime,” Rowan says, like he means it.

There's a beat of silence, and I realize I don't hate it. It's not heavy or miserable like I thought it would be. It’s just us, the way it always is. Only this time, it’s a goodbye.

I shift my weight and clear my throat. “There’s gonna be a feast for Tonya when she gets back, huh? You lot’ll probably get to go as the fallen tribute’s best friends. You better save me a plate. I’ll come back and haunt you if you don’t.”

Atlas chuckles low under his breath. “You can have mine. I’m not fighting a ghost over a fish pie.”

Rowan elbows him. “Fish pie? C’mon, if Finnick’s gonna be a ghost, he’s gonna demand something fancier. Capitol pastries or something disgusting like that.”

“Ugh,” I say. “If I have to smell a sugar cake, I might ask Tonya to finish me off as soon as the bloodbath starts.”

They laugh, and it’s the best thing I’ve heard all day. It doesn’t make any of this less real. It just makes it a little less awful.

Rowan steps forward and pulls me into a rough hug, thumping me hard on the back. “You’re a pain in the ass, Odair. But you’re our pain in the ass.”

Atlas follows, hugging me too. It still feels weird because we never do this. Not really. Not unless someone’s hurt bad or going away.

Which, I guess, I am.

When he pulls away, I feel a weird twinge in my chest, but I try to push it down. It’s stupid to be all sentimental right now, when I’m about to be carted off to the Capitol and left to die. Still, the fact that this is the last time I’ll ever see them, it’s a little too much.

But I don’t tell them that. Instead, I just let out a deep breath and try to shake it off. “Alright, alright. Don’t make me cry in front of you, okay?”

“Not crying, man. Not today. You’re gonna tell us all about it when you’re back as a ghost. Just promise me you won’t make Tonya Moore think you’re cute.” Rowan grins, though it's more of a grimace.

I laugh, though it’s more out of habit than actual humor. “Don’t worry. I’m pretty sure she’s only interested in her knives, not me.”

“Don’t do anything dumb,” Atlas says, almost softly.

I flash a crooked grin. “No promises.”

They laugh again, and then the door opens, and they’re gone, just like that.

The room feels colder without them. Too big. Too quiet.

But for a second, just a second, it felt like it was going to be okay. Not because I’m going to survive, we all know I’m not.

But because I got to leave them with something good to remember.

I start counting again. One. Two. Three. Four.

I try to keep the numbers steady, but my head’s spinning, and I don’t know if it’s from the nerves or the fact that I have to try not to cry for the next forty minutes. I can’t believe I’m actually wasting my time counting. This isn’t math class, I’m not gonna get a gold star for it.

Still, I count, because what else is there to do? Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. The seconds are slipping by, way faster than I can handle, like I’m watching the ocean pull the shore back in a giant rush, and I’m dragged into it.

I should probably say something more serious. I should probably make some big statement about how I’m gonna miss them or something. But I’m not good at that. I never have been. I can’t even make a speech without sounding like I’m about to cry.

Then again, maybe I am.

But screw that, right? I’m not some kind of tragic hero in some movie. I’m just Finnick. The kid who’s probably about to get speared by Tonya Moore.

I’m at fifty-five, when the door flies open.

The door creaks open again, and this time it’s Maeve.

She steps inside like she’s expecting the floor to collapse under her. Her arms are crossed tight over her chest, and her hair’s coming loose from its braid. Did she run the whole way here? Her hands are twisted together in front of her, knuckles white.

I’ve seen Maeve mad enough to punch a girl twice her size. I've seen her knock a grown man flat for bad-mouthing her kid sister.

I have never seen her look scared before.

“Hey,” I say, my voice cracking right down the middle like I’m twelve again. I clear my throat and try again. “You’re late.”

She huffs out something that might be a laugh, but it sounds closer to a sob. “Sorry. Didn’t realize we were on a schedule. Thought you might be halfway to the Capitol by now.”

“Nah. Stuck here. Bad service.”

She lets out this short, breathless laugh that sounds more like a sob. Before I can say anything else, she crosses the room and wraps her arms around me in a hug so tight I think she’s trying to hold me together.

I’ve never hugged Maeve before either. We throw rocks at gulls and race to the docks and yell at each other across the fish market. Hugging is not in the job description.

But I hug her back. Tight. I notice there’s a whole lot of hugging going on today. It’s actually quite funny, how people show the most affection right when they’re about to be separated.

“You look like crap,” she mumbles into my shirt.

“You always know how to make a guy feel good about himself.” I pat her hair.

She snorts, but she doesn’t pull away.

For a long second, it’s just the two of us, breathing in the stale air of the Justice Building. Then Maeve pulls back and punches me lightly in the shoulder. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make a point.

“Listen,” Maeve says, her voice low and fierce. “You can’t just charge in swinging like an idiot. Yeah, you’re good with a trident. But the others are probably better with their own weapons. You’re not the biggest. You’re not the scariest. And they’re gonna see that.”

I frown. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

She ignores me. “You’ve got to play smart. Blend in with the Careers at first. Nod when they nod. Laugh when they laugh. Make yourself useful. Make them think you’re just part of the pack.”

I shift on my feet, uneasy. “Blend in? What, like a barnacle?”

Maeve huffs out a breath, a crooked almost-smile twitching at her mouth. “Yeah. Exactly like a barnacle. Stick close. Stay quiet. Let them do the messy work early on. You’re fast, you’re slippery. You can slip out of a bad spot faster than they can blink.”

I make a face. “And then what? Wait until they’re all asleep and stab ‘em?”

“Pretty much,” Maeve shrugs. 

I open my mouth to argue, because the idea of cozying up to a bunch of musclehead killers doesn’t exactly sound like a good time, but she cuts me off.

“And don't trust them for a second. Not even if they’re smiling at you. Especially if they’re smiling at you. You're smaller. You’re younger. You're the easy kill when things get tight.” She says it so matter-of-factly that it sticks in my chest harder than any speech about being brave or whatever.

I nod slowly. “Blend in. Wait. Run.”

“And one more thing,” she adds, grabbing the front of my shirt and pulling me down so our foreheads almost touch. “If it comes down to it, if it’s you or them, you pick you. Every single time. Even if it’s Tonya. I know you want her to win, but you pick you. Understand?”

“Yeah,” I whisper hoarsely. Our foreheads are really touching now.

I don’t know what I’m doing. Maybe it’s the way she’s looking at me, like she’s memorizing my face. Maybe it’s the way my heart’s slamming against my ribs.

Maybe I just know there won’t be another chance.

I lean forward and kiss her.

It’s clumsy and fast and definitely not smooth. Her lips are dry and cracked and taste faintly like saltwater, and I don’t even know what I’m trying to say with it except thank you or maybe goodbye.

When I pull back, Maeve’s eyes are huge. She’s so stunned she doesn’t even move for half a second.

I open my mouth to say something. Apologize, explain, anything. But the door bangs open and Peacekeepers barrel in.

“No, wait, just—!” Maeve jerks toward me, but they’re already grabbing her by the arms, hauling her backward.

Our hands miss each other by inches.

The last thing I see is her mouth moving, trying to shout something I can’t hear.

And then the door slams shut between us.

I’m left standing there, fists clenching and unclenching at my sides, heart pounding so loud I’m half sure the Capitol can hear it from here, and let my forehead thunk lightly against the nearest wall.

“Great job, Odair,” I mutter. “Real smooth.”

I wipe the sleeve of my shirt across my face, once, fast, and start counting again. One. Two. Three. The seconds feel heavier this time. Like each one’s dragging its feet on purpose.

By the time I hit forty-two, the door opens again. And Mira barrels through it like she’s been held back for hours. Her eyes are sharp, jaw set, her hand shoved deep into the pocket of her jacket like she’s hiding something.

She beelines straight for me and, without a word, pulls me into a hug so fierce it actually knocks the wind out of me. For a second, I just stand there, arms awkward at my sides, because, seriously, Mira’s not a hugger. She’s more of a punch-you-in-the-arm-and-call-it-affection kind of sister.

But right now? Right now she’s holding me like she’s afraid I’ll break into pieces. And before I can think about it too hard, I melt into her. Fists bunching in the fabric of her jacket, like I’m five years old again and the world’s too big and too scary and she’s the only thing holding it together.

Mira’s hugs aren't fancy. They aren't even comfortable, half the time. But they’re solid. And right now, they’re the most important thing in the world.

"Easy," I manage to croak. "You're gonna snap me in half before Tonya Moore even gets the chance."

That gets a short, rough laugh out of her. She pulls back just enough to look at me, her hands still gripping my arms.

“Oh, squirt. That won’t happen," she says, voice low, "don’t worry about her, okay? I know her. A little. She wouldn’t do that.”

I blink at her. “You what now?”

“She’s not gonna come for you right away,” Mira says firmly. “Tonya’s the real deal, yeah, but she’s not a psycho. She’ll go after the bigger threats first. You keep your head down at the start, you’ll buy yourself time.”

I stare at her, trying to figure out if she’s just lying to make me feel better. But Mira doesn't lie. Not to me, anyway.

“Great,” I mutter. “So I’ve only gotta survive, what, the first five minutes?”

“Ten if you’re lucky," she deadpans, then cracks a small grin. "You're slippery. You'll make it longer."

Somehow, that actually helps. A little.

Then she pulls something out of her pocket and holds it up. The simple shell anklet she wore this morning.

“I want you to wear this," she says. "Not that stupid token you’ve got.”

I glance down at the little carved piece of driftwood hanging from a string around my neck. It’s fine, I guess. Kael made it. But... it doesn’t feel like anything.

"This is better," Mira says, already crouching to tie the anklet on my foot. She does a double knot. The one that’s insanely hard to untie. "You keep it on you no matter what. It'll remind you who you are. And where you’re from. And that you're not alone in there, no matter what it feels like."

My throat tightens up weirdly. I don’t say anything. Just nod and hand her the driftwood necklace, which she puts around her neck.

Mira watches me for a second, then reaches out and messes up my hair like I’m still seven years old.

"You’ll be fine," she says. “You’re too annoying to die easy.”

I snort. “Thanks. Real comforting.”

We lapse into this weird, jittery silence. I kick at the floor. She crosses her arms tight over her chest like she’s trying to hold herself together.

And then it just kinda blurts out of me.

"Hey, uh — about Maeve —"

Mira tilts her head. “What about Maeve?”

I rub the back of my neck, feeling stupid. "I... sorta kissed her. Accidentally. Maybe."

Mira’s eyebrows shoot up so fast they practically fly off her face.

"Seriously?"

"It wasn’t… it wasn’t like a thing," I babble. "It just… happened, and then the Peacekeepers yanked her out, and now she's probably mad at me or thinks I’m the weirdest idiot on the planet or both."

Mira smirks, because of course she does, but her eyes stay soft.

"Classic you," she says.

"Can you..." I shift my weight, feeling about two inches tall. "Can you tell her I’m sorry? I didn’t mean to mess it up. You’re better at fixing stuff."

Mira rolls her eyes like I’m the biggest burden in Panem, but she ruffles my hair again and says, "Yeah. I’ll talk to her."

Relief floods me so fast I feel dizzy.

The Peacekeepers stomp back in, heavy boots on polished floor, and Mira grabs my face between her hands like she’s trying to memorize me.

"You’re gonna be okay, Finnick," she says, “remember the good parts.”

I want to say something back, something cool or funny or smart, but all that comes out is a choked, “Yeah.”

She leans forward fast and presses her forehead to mine, fierce and fast.

"I love you, you little idiot," she mutters.

And then they’re dragging her away too, and the door slams. I pull my knees up to my chest and touch one of the shells on her anklet, “I love you too Mira,” I whisper.

Silence again.

I rest my forehead against the cold wood of the door and start counting. One. Two. Three.

The door swings open again. And Kael walks in, all hard lines and stormy eyes, like he’s been holding himself together with duct tape and pure spite.

He doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t hug me, doesn’t sit. Just stops and kneels in front of me, crossing his arms.

“You still got the rope I gave you this morning?” he asks, voice low.

I blink at him, thrown off. “Uh… yeah. In my pocket.” I pat it just to make sure.

He holds out his hand. “Give it here.”

I fumble it out and hand it over. The coil of fishing rope feels heavier now. Why does Kael want rope?

Kael crouches down, the rope flicking through his fingers like he’s done this a thousand times.

"Watch," he says. Twist, pull, loop twice, knot, and suddenly it’s a noose. He puts it around his neck and pulls at the tail to tighten it.

My stomach flips. “Kael—”

He cuts me off as he loosens the knot and hands me the rope. “You’re gonna learn it. Right now.”

I do what he says, clumsy at first, but Kael’s patient, making me redo it until I can tie the knot quickly and surely.

The third time, he finally nods. “Good.”

I stare at the ugly little loop sitting in my lap.

Kael’s voice drops low, almost a whisper. “If it gets bad, Finnick. If it gets real bad, you don’t have to let them tear you up slow. You hear me?”

My mouth goes dry. “Kael, suicide is the one thing I’m not allowed to do in the arena. I can’t— if I do that, the Capitol’ll kill you and Mira. Or Mam. Or Da. I can’t—”

Kael grabs my face between his hands, rough and sudden.

“We can survive that,” he says fiercely. "We can take beatings. We can take punishment. But not... not watching you suffer like that. Not while they make a show of it."

His hands fall away slowly. He sits back on his heels, his mouth a hard, grim line.

"You fight like hell," he says. "You stay alive if you can. You kill if you have to. But if you get cornered… and if it’s painful, you use what I taught you."

I twist the rope between my fingers, heart hammering.

Then Kael leans forward again, his voice shifting — a little lighter, but still dead serious.

"And listen," he says. "Get yourself to a spear if you can. Fast."

I blink. "A spear?"

"Yeah." He rakes a hand through his hair, frustrated. "They’re not gonna have tridents, Finn. No one but a little of Four knows how to use ‘em. But a spear’s just a trident with half the points missing. You already know how to throw one. How to twist it in close quarters. It’ll feel the same once you’re holding it."

I nod slowly, that weird hot-cold feeling rising in my chest again.

Kael smirks, a little crooked. "You’re the best damn spear fisher in the district. Remember that when you're staring some Career in the face."

I manage a shaky laugh. “No pressure, huh?”

He grins — a real grin, sharp and fond and just a little sad. “No pressure. Just don't embarrass me.”

The Peacekeepers stomp back in.

Kael stands fast, turns to go — but at the door, he looks back, just once.

"Remember what I taught you, squirt," he says.

And then he’s gone.

I’m left sitting there, the rope still warm from Kael’s hands.

Before I even have the chance to start counting again, the door creaks open and Mam is there. Her shoulders are tense, face blotchy, eyes so red they barely look like hers. The moment our eyes meet, she breaks. Not the quiet kind of crying either; the shuddering, breathless kind that makes you feel like the world is splitting apart at the seams. And I just stand there for a second, frozen in place, because seeing my mom cry like that does something to me. Wrecks me in a way nothing else has yet. Then she crosses the room in two quick steps, wraps her arms around me tight, and I’m crying too. Loud and ugly and fast, our tears tangling somewhere between her shoulder and my cheek.

So much for not crying today, huh.

We just hold each other for a while, no words, just shaking and breathing and crying. Her fingers curl into the back of my shirt, anchoring herself, like if she lets go for even a second, I’ll slip through her hands. I bury my face in her collarbone and inhale deep, memorizing the way her laundry soap smells, the salt on her skin, the way her heartbeat drums against my cheek. She’s always been the one to hold it together, to patch scraped knees and hearts and egos like it’s nothing, but right now, she’s not trying to be strong. And if she can’t be, then neither can I.

Eventually, we both start to settle. Our breaths even out, the sobs quiet into hiccups and trembling exhales. She presses her lips to my temple, once, then pulls back just enough to cup my face in her hands. Her thumbs swipe at the tears still stuck under my eyes. “Alright,” she says softly, voice still wobbly but steadier than I expected. 

“Listen carefully, Finnick. There’s not a lot of time.”

I nod, sniffling like a baby, but I’m listening.

“D’Kael manage to teach you a new knot?” 

She’s talking about the noose. “Yeah,” I whisper hoarsely.

“Good, okay. Now, the second you’re on that train, find Marcel Foley. He won’t be mentoring you, not officially - he doesn’t do that anymore - but tell him you’re Sandy McAvoy’s kid.”

“He knows you?” My jaw drops.

“He does,” Mam does this weird thing with her face, scrunching up her nose like she’s trying not to break into tears, “we were in the same year at school, had a few classes together. Got quite close before he volunteered. He’ll remember me. And he’ll look out for you.

“If you get the chance, ask for Mags. Request her. Trust me on that.”

I blink, trying to keep up. “Mags the old lady?”

“Yes, Finn. Mags the old lady.”

“But—“ I’m now pulling hard on Kael’s rope because there’s no way Mam’s being serious right now, “shouldn’t I get someone like Chester or Connor or someone?” I feel my skin burning up by the rope. Maybe I’ll get a rash tonight, but I don’t really care right now.

“Mags is the only one of the lot who wasn’t a volunteer. When I was younger, she exclusively mentored the reaped children, and even got one out at some point” Who? Aren’t all of Four’s victors volunteers? They must be dead.

“Mags’ll know what to do with you. She’ll know how to keep you alive.” She tucks my hair behind my ear the way she used to when I was little. “She’ll care about you, Finn.”

I nod. I’ll trust Mam on this.

Her eyes flick briefly to the door, then back to me. I can tell she’s calculating how much she can say before the Peacekeepers storm in again. “Now listen. You need to get into the Career pack.”

I recoil instinctively. “What? Ma—” Literally, where is all this coming from? Mam never talks about the Hunger Games. Not to me, not to Da, not to her friends. Sometimes she even sneaks away from mandatory screenings to weave nets at home.

“Let me finish,” she cuts in, firm. “I know they’re big and scary. But they’re the ones who control the supplies. The food. They have shelter, weapons, sponsors. You don’t have to like them or make friends with them. You just have to stay close long enough to eat, rest, and survive. Your mentor will tell you how to do it. When the time comes - and it will come - they’ll turn on each other. That’s when you run. Don’t fight. Just go.”

She pauses, checking my face to see if I’m following. I nod again, slower this time, the weight of her words settling deep in my chest.

“Once you’re on your own,” she continues, “don’t play hero. Set traps. Stay on the move. Come back to check them every so often. People caught in traps are easier to kill. You don’t know how to fight hand-to-hand, and you won’t learn in a week. So fight dirty.”

Mam’s on a roll today. If I weren’t about to be shipped off to face my imminent death, I’d probably stand up and do a salute to her. Maybe even crack a few mastermind jokes. 

Right. My imminent death. My throat is closing up. “How do you even know all this?”

Ma gives me a tiny, sad smile. “I’ll tell you when you come home.”

There’s a knock—no, more like a warning bang—on the door behind her, and I know it’s time. I grab her hand and squeeze it so tight my fingers ache. She leans forward again, presses a kiss to my forehead, and whispers something I don’t quite catch.

And then she’s gone as well, and I’m alone for real this time.

Notes:

MY A LEVELS ENDED YESTERDAY!!! I WILL NEVER HAVE TO TOUCH CHEM AND BIO EVER AGAIN IN MY LIFE THANK GOD so I went karaokeing with my friends for hours on end and completely forgot to post this chapter, anyway here it is and I hope you like it :)

Chapter 4: Knots, Strategy and A Hot Shower

Notes:

hi lovelies! this has been my first (1st) full week of freedom and ive never felt better, i havent touched a single textbook and managed to clear half of my school stuff - worksheets, lab reports, past papers, scrap notes etc etc. ive gone shopping more times than i can count and im currently doing a marvel rerun marathon (finished phase one, which is uptil the first avengers film, so thats going great), and decided to post this on my break from the tv hahah. hope everyone's well and happy summer :))

sneak peek:
"Her name is Marbles. I’m losing my marbles."

The train is insane.

I mean, yeah, I expected it to be nice. Capitol nice, velvet curtains and gold trim and chairs that don’t creak when you sit on them, but this is something else entirely. The floor’s so clean I swear I can see my reflection in it, and the walls are lined with glowing panels that shift colors like it’s trying to pick a mood. The air smells like citrus and mint, like the Capitol’s trying to scrub the District out of me already. Everything hums gently under my feet, smooth and steady like it’s gliding instead of chugging. Which, I guess it is. No bumps, no rattles, no nothing. Just that low, soft whir that somehow makes it feel even more surreal.

An attendant in Capitol blue waves me down the corridor, all smiles and stiff posture. She walks fast, and I trail behind her, still taking everything in: plush carpeting, mirrored walls, glowing ceiling tiles that pulse soft and slow. She stops in front of a door marked with a sleek gold 9 and pushes it open with a hiss.

“This is your compartment,” she says, gesturing for me to step inside. The room’s got a bed bigger than the one Mam and Da sleep in back home, a desk, a closet, and a little private bathroom that looks nicer than the one in the fancy restaurant in Gold Coast. “You’re welcome to stay in here or walk about the train as you like. But please be seated in the lounge in Cabin Three in ten minutes. The victors have requested your presence.”

She flashes me a perfect Capitol smile and disappears before I can say anything. I flop on the bed for a second, just to see what it feels like. The mattress practically swallows me. I could fall asleep in it in seconds. But then I remember the ten-minute deadline, and I don’t want to start things off by getting yelled at, so I peel myself off and head toward the other end of the train.

At the very back, I find a sunroom. Real glass. Floor to ceiling. Every wall except the one behind me is see-through, and I step up close, one hand braced on the window, just in time to watch District Four shrink behind me.

The coast fades first, the docks turning into tiny little matchsticks. Then the hills roll back, green and soft like waves. My house is somewhere in that mess. So are my friends. Maeve. Kael. Mira. Mam and Da. I try to memorize it all, but it’s already gone. The train’s fast. Too fast.

The door slides open behind me. I wipe at my face quickly and turn around.

Tonya Moore leans in, one eyebrow arched. “Lounge is this way, Odair. Chop chop.”

I mutter something like “Yeah, okay,” and follow her out. Her boots make these sharp, confident taps on the floor as we head through the train, past compartments and doors and sleek little wall panels that light up as we walk by. She doesn’t wait for me to catch up, but I don’t think she’s trying to be rude. I think that’s just Tonya. Head down, eyes forward, don’t look back.

The lounge is cabin three, just like the attendant said. It’s massive, with a big circular table set for nine in the center, and everything’s too shiny to be real. There’s a rotating tray on the table, Tonya calls it a “lazy Susan” when she sees me eyeing it, which spins so you can reach whatever food you want without asking someone to pass it. The counters are covered in trays and platters and bowls, all piled high with food. More food than I’ve seen in months. Maybe years. Everything smells rich and buttery and sweet all at once.

I sit down kind of slowly, eyeing the mountain of dishes. There’s a tower of tiny pastries that look like flowers, a big bowl of some kind of creamy golden mush with dark flecks on top, and something that looks like meat but is bright pink and jiggling a little too much to be normal.

I poke the pink thing with a fork. It wobbles. Suspiciously.

“That’s glazed tuna belly,” a voice says from behind me. I turn and see one of the victors, Connor, grinning like he’s caught me doing something dumb. “From the Capitol. Costs more than a house. You’re supposed to eat it cold.”

I give the tuna a doubtful look. “It’s… pink.”

“It’s fish. You’re from Four, you’ll love it,” he says as he takes a seat opposite me.

I poke it again. Maybe.

One by one, the victors start trickling into the lounge, each of them looking more tired and more bored than the last. 

And then comes Theodore O’Donnell.

He doesn’t walk. He glides, arms stretched just wide enough to make it known he expects attention. His suit sparkles, actually sparkles, and his hair is piled high in a way that seems to defy gravity. He clapps his hands once, loud and sharp.

“Darlings!” he trills, “you’ve all outdone yourselves with punctuality, positively delightful!”

The victors, weirdly enough, treat him like a spoiled pet. Mags pats his arm gently like she’s calming down a fussy toddler, while Chester offers him a seat and pours him water as if he’s hosting this whole thing. Lucas rolls his eyes, but Oona beats him to it. “Theo, sit down before you trip over your own sleeves.”

Connor calmly pours a glass of water and hands it to Theodore, who takes it like he is being served royalty. “You’re too good to me, Connor,” he sighs, pressing the glass to his cheek like it’s a gift.

“For the hundredth time, Theo, call me Max,” Connor, no – Max, says.

A Capitol attendant sweeps in after a few minutes, and glides around the table, placing dishes in front of each of us with practiced grace. First, a small bowl of something leafy and green, with chunks of pale meat tossed in a creamy dressing.

“Chicken salad,” Chester says from my left, “first course.”

Real chicken. From Ten. Not the scraps you get when a fishing boat crew brings in a few stowaway birds by accident, but actual chunks of meat. Juicy, cooked with lemon and herbs, tossed in a bed of green leaves that doesn’t look like weeds. I stare at it. There’s more than enough to fill me up. First course? You mean there’s more?

There is.

Next comes a steaming plate of pasta, long, flat noodles tangled in a thick red sauce. The smell is unreal. Garlic, tomato, something rich and almost smoky. I’ve never had anything like it. I eat it faster than I probably should, and just when I think that’s the meal done, the steak arrives. Actual steak. It’s so tender it barely needs chewing, dripping with juices and topped with something sharp and tangy.

Then comes the cider. Chilled, gold-amber, sweet with a little bite at the end. I’ve never had cider before, not even on the black market. The way it bubbles and fizzes across my tongue makes me feel stupidly fancy. It also makes me more attuned to what’s going around me. Apparently the adults’ve been gossiping throughout lunch while I was stuffing my face. Never mind. I’ll listen now.

Lucas is swirling his cider, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to remember something. “Did you all hear about Gloss’s latest endorsement deal? He’s modelling trousers now. Trousers.”

“Gloss could model a potato sack and make it look like Capitol couture,” Oona says, reaching for the rotator and spinning it toward a bowl of grapes. “But trousers? What, did he run out of weapons to pose with?”

“He’s got that whole ‘stoic and sculpted’ thing going on. Capitol laps it up.”

Theo perks up instantly. “Oh, I adore Gloss,” he gushes. “So sharp, so symmetrical. He winked at me once, I nearly fainted!”

“Bet he winked at the waiter behind you, Theo,” Marcel mutters, too low for anyone but Max, Chester and I to hear. Max nearly chokes on his drink.

“Oh hush,” Oona says with a smirk, patting Theo’s hand like he’s a beloved but slightly unhinged houseplant. “You’re symmetrical enough.”

Theo beams and flutters his napkin onto his lap like that was the highest praise he’s ever received. “You’re too kind, darling.”

“Not as kind as Haymitch at last year’s banquet,” Max piped up. 

“Man offered me a drink and then drank it himself. Said I looked too sober to be interesting.”

“Classic Haymitch. You know he once told President Snow that his haircut gave him games flashbacks?”

“Snow was at the banquet?” Theo gasped. “Why wasn’t I invited to that?”

Mags, who hasn’t spoken much, finally chimes in with a dry, “Probably because you would’ve tried to touch his hair.”

Theo opens his mouth, clearly about to defend himself, but Chester interrupts smoothly. “Anyway, speaking of fashion crimes, did anyone see what Enobaria wore to the Gala last month? She had a snake wrapped around her neck like a scarf.”

“A real snake?”

“Alive and everything. Bit a stylist on the way in.”

“She said it added drama,” Theo says. “Honestly, I respect it.”

“Of course you do,” Marcel mutters. “You once wore a jellyfish as a hat.”

“That was one time. And it was art. ”

Chester leans down toward me, stage-whispering, “Don’t worry, it only gets weirder from here, kiddo.”

I just blink at my plate, unsure if I’m supposed to laugh or nod or run.

By dessert, I’m stuffed. Uncomfortably stuffed. I’m half-hunched over my plate, trying to breathe like a normal person again, when the attendant places something warm in front of me. It's golden and lumpy, dusted with sugar, and smells like cinnamon and melted butter. There’s a scoop of something white melting on top of it, dripping into the crust like snow.

“What’s this?” I ask no one in particular.

“That,” Max says, “is the reason I stayed alive in the arena.”

“Apple crumble,” Oona says. “With vanilla ice cream.”

The ice cream melts into the crumble, and I take a bite. It’s sweet and warm, the apples soft and spiced, and the cold ice cream makes everything better. I swallow and blurt, without thinking, “This tastes like ambrosia.”

Chester’s eyes widen, confused and caught off guard, like I’ve grown a second head. But he doesn’t say anything. Just goes back to eating like it never happened. I don’t think anyone else heard me.

Right. That’s not normal, apparently. I spoon another bite into my mouth and pretend I didn’t notice.

Eventually, once the food’s mostly gone and the attendant is clearing plates, Theodore taps his glass. “Introductions,” he says. “I’d like to get to know our stars this year!” He looks unnaturally enthusiastic about this.

I swallow what’s left of the crumble and sit back, pretending my stomach isn’t planning a full-scale rebellion. I let Tonya go first, seeing as she’s the volunteer. And the one who’s going to win.

Tonya doesn’t even blink. “Tonya Moore. Eighteen. Training Centre volunteer, though you lot already know that. Weapon of choice is a sword, or a polearm. I prefer a longsword or rapier, but I can work with anything to be honest.”

I don’t even bother asking what a long-sword and rapier is.

“I swim, of course. Great stamina, and I can lift about a hundred-fifty pounds.” 

A hundred and fifty pounds? That’s it. I am so cooked. I don’t even weigh a hundred twenty. Tonya could probably lift me and chuck me from one end of the arena to the other.

Max lets out a low whistle. “Straight to the point.”

“Why waste time?” she says coolly.

Theodore claps, delighted. “Brava, brava! And now our other tribute, what’s your name, sweetheart?”

I brace my elbows on the table and try not to sound like a twelve-year-old doing a class presentation. “Finnick Odair. Fourteen. I did not volunteer. I fish. I tie knots. I can hold my breath for four-and-a-half minutes if I don’t think about it too hard.”

“You fish?” Chester leans forward, intrigued. “Net or spear?”

“Both. Started with a net, then Kael taught me how to throw a trident without taking my own eye out.”

“Kael?” Max asks. “Older brother?”

“Yeah.” I scratch the back of my neck. “He aged out last year. Lucky bastard.”

Mags, on the other end of the table, puts down her knitting needles and mutters something I don’t quite comprehend. I heard she had a stroke last year. That’s probably why. 

“Uh— I’m sorry, I don’t really understand.” I rub the back of my neck.

“She’s asking how good you are with a trident,” Marcel translates. Oh. Marcel. I need to tell him about what Mam said. But I’ll answer Mags first.

“I can kill fish with it, if that’s what you’re asking,” I shrug. Mags mumbles something that sounds vaguely like a “can work with that”.

The cider’s fizzed out of my system enough that I can think straight again. Probably a bad thing, considering what I’m about to say.

“I’m supposed to tell you something,” I say, mostly to the table, but my eyes land on the guy three seats down from me, the one who’s been pouring himself drinks all through lunch. “Marcel Foley, right?”

His fork pauses mid-sip. “That’s me.”

“Yeah. My Mam told me to tell you—uh—I’m Sandy McAvvoy’s kid?”

Marcel goes still.

Like, weirdly still.

His whole expression just… drains. The joking, the smirking, the snide little asides vanish instantly. He stares at me, hard, then at his plate, then at the table, as if he’s lost track of where he is.

Across the table, Mags very gently sets down her spoon.

“Everything alright, Mars?” Oona asks. Her voice is careful. Like she already knows it’s not.

Marcel blinks, then nods once, sharp and fast. “Yeah. Fine.” He picks up his whiskey and takes a long drink. Then he stands up and leaves the lounge. Oona looks at me apologetically and follows him out.

Tonya looks at me, eyebrows raised, but doesn’t comment. Okay then. Guess I’ll just file that under cryptic adult trauma stuff and move on.

The silence after they leave is thick and clumsy, like everyone’s chewing on glass and trying not to show it. No one moves right away. Even the silverware goes still.

Mags is the first to resume knitting her scarf, calm as ever, needles quietly tapping against each other as if nothing had happened. The sound is oddly grounding. Everyone else looks vaguely like they forgot what we were talking about.

“So, Tonya,” Chester says after a moment, his voice a little too chipper, “you mentioned polearms earlier, yeah? What kind of polearms are we talking? Tridents, spears, glaives?”

Tonya glances at him, a flicker of surprise crossing her face at the sudden attention. “Uh—mostly spears. Some trident work, but they don't teach that until you're sixteen.”

Chester nods, fingers drumming against his glass. “Still. That’s solid. Lotta tributes barely know which end to point. And as for tridents, I don’t think they have those anymore. Apparently nobody really uses them.”

I close my eyes. There, my already slim chances have completely vanished.

There’s a polite chuckle around the table. Max adds, “You did Centre training, right? That makes a difference.”

“I was on the combat track,” Tonya confirms. She adjusts her posture, the slightest lift in her chin. “ Placed top five last year. Made it through three melee rounds without a scratch and won close-quarters twice. Not the championship, though.”

“Well damn,” Chester says, grinning. “You might have to give us old-timers a few lessons.”

Oona’s chair is still empty. The door’s still ajar.

Tonya smiles modestly, but she’s warming up now. “It’s mostly reflex drills and repetition. You train until it’s automatic. Until you stop thinking.”

Her words are precise, efficient. The kind of thing you practice in front of a mirror. She’s saying all the right things.

I’m not listening.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the length of Kael’s rope. It’s frayed a little near one end, where he burned it trying to seal the fibers. I rub my thumb over the scorch mark.

The knotting comes without thought. Over, under, loop, pull. I don't even glance down at my hands. The table fades. The food fades. The sound of Tonya talking about weights tied to her ankles, throwing knives while running backwards—it all fades. I picture the porch at home, the railing with all our dumb, pointless knots hanging from the beam. Mine were always messier than Kael’s. Not sloppy, just... too tight. I wonder why.

Someone laughs, maybe Theo, and I flinch a little.

I’ve tied three knots and I don’t remember doing it.

“—and of course, I’ve done distance training,” Tonya says, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “But I prefer close range. I think it plays to my speed better.”

“She’s quick,” Max agrees. “That’s going to help. They’ll underestimate you.”

Tonya looks pleased. Her hand goes to her glass. She hasn’t touched her drink, but maybe her mouth is dry from all this speaking.

“Right, so,” Theodore says, sitting forward with a sudden clap, “I suppose we should get into it, then! Strategy. Always best to start early, while we’re fresh. No time like the present!”

My hands stop moving.

Theo’s voice carries that infuriating sparkle, like he’s announcing a parade float. “Let’s go over strengths, weaknesses, possible alliances... maps, maybe. All the groundwork to give our darlings the best shot.”

Oh, for hell’s sake.

The rope is digging into my fingers now. I don’t realize how hard I’m gripping it until my knuckles go white.

“Strategy?” I blurt, before I can stop myself. “I’ve been here like, an hour, and now we’re strategizing? What, should I pull out my blood-soaked war map and start marking targets?”

Theo blinks at me, brows knitting. “I just meant—it’s what the mentors usually do—”

Tonya sighs. “It’s just basic prep. Not actual battle plans.”

“No, see, that’d be fine if I had any clue what I was doing! ” I snap, louder than I mean to. “But I don’t. I don’t know how to sword fight, or climb cliffs, or booby-trap a jungle with berries or whatever. I can fish. Cool. Great. Let me know when the arena’s underwater and full of tuna!”

The table goes quiet again. Not awkward quiet this time, more like watching a small child self-destruct quiet. I feel my face burning. I look down at the table, at the condensation forming around my glass of water. My stomach flips again, but not from the food. I see Theodore look around like he’s expecting someone to stop me. He gets lucky.

“Finnick,” Lucas says, quiet but firm.

“No!” I snap, loud enough that even Mags flinches, “I’m fourteen years old. Four-teen. I weigh, what, a hundred pounds soaking wet? I haven’t even finished growing. Tonya here could probably bench press me with one arm, and she’s not even the scariest person we’ll be up against! There are tributes in this thing with actual stubble and I still get asked if I want the kids’ menu.”

I look at Theodore. He blinks at me, like a startled deer, and then opens his mouth again. Wrong move.

“You want to talk strategy?” I gesture wildly. “Okay, let’s strategize. Step one: hope nobody notices the fourteen-year-old wandering around like a lost camper. Step two: oh wait, that’s it. There is no step two, because I’m going to get murdered in the first ten minutes anyway. Because I’m a kid. Because I’m barely five foot four and the only weapon I know how to use is something the Capitol thinks is too old-fashioned now.”

“You’re overreacting,” he says, but there’s a tremor in it now.

I slam my hand on the table so hard my water sloshes. “Overreacting? You’re right. I should be thrilled. Free train ride, complimentary murder! All I have to do is be paraded like a prize tuna and then die well enough to bump the viewership ratings, right? You know what? Maybe this is how it’ll play out. I go into the arena, I scream real loud, and then I hope someone feels bad enough to kill me fast.”

Tonya lets out a short, stunned breath from my right. I don’t look at her.

“You’re not a mentor. You’re not a friend. You’re not even a person to me, Theo. You’re a silk-wrapped executioner with glitter on his lapels. You don’t get to pull my name out of a bowl and then applaud . You don’t get to say how excited you are to work with me when all you did was put on a shiny suit and smile while my parents watched their kid get sentenced.”

Silence. Until I throw my hands up and snap, “What do you even do , Theo? Besides dress like seafoam and smile while children get murdered? Do you have a side hustle? Do you go home at night and alphabetize your wigs?”

Max chokes on his drink. Lucas tries not to laugh, which makes him snort, which makes Max laugh harder. Mags doesn't laugh, but her lips twitch.

“I’m glad you’re entertained,” I snap.

“No, it’s—” Max wipes his eyes. “It’s the ‘paraded like a prize tuna’ line. That was brutal.”

I freeze. “I’m not joking,” I snap. “This isn’t funny!”

“Exactly,” Max says, still wheezing.

I go red. Not with embarrassment—just more rage. They're laughing . They're sitting there laughing and I’m—

“I hate all of you,” I mutter, shoving back my chair so hard it nearly tips.

I storm out, vision blurry, chest heaving. My legs take me to my room before I can think. I slam the door shut, then sit on the edge of the bed, knuckles white around my rope, breath coming too fast.

I curl my fingers in the bedspread and punch the mattress once, hard. I hate this. I hate all of it. I hate the train and the velvet chairs and the golden forks. I hate how nice everything is. I hate Theo and the Capitol and the mentors who just watched me break apart and didn’t do a damn thing. I hate that I’m the one who has to die.

I don’t mean to cry. I don’t want to. But it burns through me—hot, frustrated, humiliated tears. I lie back without thinking, still half-clothed, diagonally across the bed, fists clenched, face burning.

I cry until I’m empty.

Then I sleep.

I wake up with a dry mouth and a sore throat, curled sideways on top of the covers like I lost a fight in my sleep. The curtains are drawn, but the sunlight bleeding in around the edges makes a shadow of the closet. Mid-afternoon, probably. I blink a few times, trying to piece together how long I’ve been out. My head still feels foggy.

I sit up slowly. My shirt’s rumpled and damp with sweat, and my eyes sting like I’ve been crying. Which I did. Which I am not thinking about.

The door’s unlocked when I test it, which is honestly a little surprising. I half-expected them to bolt me in, let me scream it out like a tantruming toddler. But no. Just the hum of the train and the sharp chill of overdone Capitol air conditioning.

I don’t even really know where I’m going when I start walking. My feet drag me down the corridor on instinct. Maybe there’s an escape hatch tucked behind the dining car. There isn’t. Obviously.

I end up in the sun room.

It’s mostly empty. Big windows stretch along the wall, and the light outside is strong but slanted, the way it gets when the day’s started to lean toward evening. There’s a single figure sitting by the window.

Mags.

She doesn’t look up when I walk in. Just keeps watching the world blur by. Her chin is propped on one hand and the other is playing with the frayed edge of her shawl. It’s the most peaceful I’ve seen anyone look since we boarded this train.

I almost leave. But she turns, just slightly, and pats the seat next to her.

So I sit.

The cushion hisses softly when I sit down. I don’t say anything. Neither does she. For a while, we just sit there in silence, the only sound the low hum of the train and the occasional bird that flits by outside.

Eventually, she gestures toward me. Then at herself. Then holds up one finger, then two.

I frown. “You’re… mentoring me?”

She nods, then mumbles something slightly coherent.

“And Max has Tonya?”

Another nod.

I chew on the inside of my cheek. “Okay.” Mam said to request Mags, but Mags chose me herself. I decide I’m not going to over think it. Mags is my mentor.

She watches me for a beat longer. Then she gestures again—taps her own fingers like she’s tying something, then raises her brows at me.

I blink, then reach into my pocket and pull out the length of rope Kael gave me. I hold it up.

She points at it, then at me. Then she folds her arms.

Right. Knots. She wants me to show her.

I start slow. Tying and untying every single knot I know. Reef knot. Half hitch. Blood knot. My fingers remember what to do even when my brain is still playing catch-up. I tie them one by one, showing her before I untie it and move on. See? I’m not totally useless. I know how to do something.

Mags watches every movement, writing something down on a notepad. I tie a noose, and Mags lifts her eyebrow at me, but she doesn’t write it down. She gestures for me to move on instead. She nods when I finish, then holds out her hand for the rope.

I give it to her, and she unties the knots with quick, practiced motions, faster than I’ve ever seen anyone do. Then she reties them—but differently. The techniques are the same, but the order is off, the combinations unfamiliar. She passes it back.

I get what she’s asking.

I try to mimic what she did. I mess up. She taps my wrist and gestures again. I try again. And again. Until I get it. It takes longer than I’d like, but she doesn’t seem impatient. When I finally get it, she writes down: Running Bowline Knot.

Then she shifts. Points at me, then makes a fist, then spreads her fingers wide in an exaggerated explosion motion.

I squint at her. “...You’re talking about the Careers?”

She nods.

She raises three fingers. Districts One, Two and Four. Then she folds down one, leaving two. One and Two. She points at the folded finger, Four, and shakes her head.

Without Four, the pack is weaker.

I frown. "But I didn’t volunteer. They won’t just let me in."

Mags’s mouth tightens. She mimes someone strong and cocky, a Career, then points at me and pretends to laugh. They’ll underestimate you . Then, quick as a knife flick, she jerks her hand up in a sharp strike. Use it .

"But how?" My voice cracks. "I’m not—" I gesture to myself, my thin arms, my height. Not a threat. Not useful.

Mags exhales sharply through her nose. She grabs the rope from my hands and ties a knot in one fluid motion—a slipknot, the kind we use to secure nets under tension. Then she yanks it tight and holds it up.

This is what you offer .

I stare. "Knots?"

She nods, then mimes wrapping the rope around a wrist, a throat, an ankle - restraints, traps, snares. Then she pretends to haul something heavy. A net, maybe, or a body.

Understanding clicks. "They won’t care about fishing knots."

Mags’s eyes flash. She scribbles: ‘Not just knots. You know how things hold .’

She underlines ‘hold’ twice. Then adds: ‘Nets. Weapons. People .’ She underlines ‘People’ twice as well.

A cold prickle runs down my spine.

She’s not talking about tying off boats. She’s talking about anchors. About making sure the Careers’ kills don’t get away.

Mags mimes eating, share supplies, play along , then makes a sharp cutting motion. Join them for as long as I need to. Then get out. Clean break.

Mam’s voice echoes in my head: Get in the pack .

This is why.

Mags sees the realization in my face and nods. 

"When do I leave?"

She scribbles the number 12 and circles it twice. When half the tributes are dead. Of course. When the pack makes up the majority of the tributes.

I twist the rope in my hands. "What if they don’t believe me?"

Mags leans in. She points at my face, then writes: “Let them think that you’re desperate. But that you also have something to offer. They’ll like that.”

The truth of it stings. A scared kid from Four, clinging to the pack for survival? That’s a story they’ll buy.

Mags mimes tying a knot, tight and quick. Then holds up two fingers.

“Two rules?”

She nods. Then lifts one finger. She points at me, then at her own mouth, then mimes zipping it shut.

Don’t talk too much.

She lifts the second finger. Makes a clock motion with her hand. Then pretends like she’s punching someone.

Leave when they start fighting.

I nod, slower this time. That part I understand.

She settles back into her seat again and lets the silence grow between us. Outside, the sun dips lower, painting the fields gold. I twist the rope in my hands, then hesitate.

"...What’s the deal with Marcel?" I ask quietly.

Mags stills. For a second, I think she won’t answer. Then she scrawls: “Ask him yourself.”

I grimace. "He left when I mentioned my mom."

Mags exhales through her nose. She writes: “Not my story to tell.”

Then, after a pause, she adds: “But he’ll help you. If you ask.”

I don’t get the chance to press further. Mags glances at the golden light filtering through the windows, then scribbles one last note: “Your stylist is Tigris. Good. Very good.”

I blink. "Who’s Tigris?"

Mags just smirks and tucks her notepad away.

Before I can ask anything else, the door slides open. Oona leans in, her braid swinging over one shoulder. "There you two are," she says. Her voice is light, but her eyes linger on my red-rimmed ones for a second too long. "We’re watching the reapings in the lounge. Come on, the Evening Show is starting."

Mags stands, but I stay frozen, the rope digging into my palm.

Oona’s gaze flicks between us. "Finnick?"

I force myself up, and jog to catch up with Mags.

The lounge lights are dimmed when Oona, Mags and I enter, the only real glow coming from the wall-mounted screen playing a Capitol advertisement. The room looks different now, softer, quieter. Tonya’s curled on one of the plush couches with a pillow tucked behind her back, Theo’s perched dramatically on the armrest like he’s posing for a portrait. Max and Chester are sprawled out on the rug, using one of the ottomans as a shared footrest. Lucas and Marcel stand by the window, nursing a drink and muttering to each other. Oona settles down on the empty red L-shaped couch, and Mags sits down beside her, leaving a seat next to her. I stretch out my legs on the L of the couch and sink into the cushions behind me.

Caesar Flickerman’s voice fills the room, saying something about introducing this year’s tributes. Right. This is a mandatory viewing. My family will be watching this back home in the safety of the kitchen, so will Atlas and Rowan. Maeve.

District 1’s tributes appear first. Both are volunteers, tall, glossy, statuesque. The boy, Silas, steps forward before the escort even finishes saying “reaping,” his hand shooting into the air like it’s a reflex, like he was born doing it. He’s tall and built like one of those marble statues in the Capitol broadcasts, skin all smooth and polished, hair too-perfect. The girl follows half a beat later. She walks to the stage like she’s modeling a gown instead of signing up to die. She links arms with Silas like they’re dating, and they're smiling, actually smiling, and for a second I wonder if maybe they don't know what the Hunger Games are. Her name is Marbles. I’m losing my marbles.

District Two follows, another pair of volunteers. The boy, Varro, is built like a brick. Tall, broad chest, neck like a tree stump. When he makes it onstage, he beats his fists together and roars so loud I flinch. The girl, Petra, doesn’t roar. She just walks up with this calm that’s way scarier. She doesn't even look at the cameras. Just climbs the steps, nods once, and takes her place beside Varro. She doesn't even blink. She’s kind of like Tonya, and I wonder if Tonya could beat her.

“I don't like that girl,” Theo whispers from the armchair beside me. He’s cradling a flute of something bubbly and blue. “She’s got the eyes of a snake.” 

The room chuckles.

District Three’s tributes are younger than the Careers, but still older than me. Sixteen, maybe. The boy’s got neat braids pulled back into a short ponytail, and the girl wears round glasses that keep sliding down her nose no matter how often she pushes them back up. They look a little alike. Same soft jawline, same brown eyes, but the way they uncertainly glance at each other makes it obvious they’ve never met.

Chester pipes up. “Ten bucks says they both blow themselves up before anyone else gets to them.”

I shift in my seat. Then the screen shows District Four.

Tonya appears before me, standing tall in the footage from earlier. There’s a sharpness to her that wasn’t as obvious in person - a calm, honed stillness that makes her seem more dangerous than any of the Careers we’ve seen so far. If I could place bets, I’d bet on Tonya winning. She’s even taller than the boy from Two. 

I watch myself walk up to the stage again, expression flat. Tonya next to me, tight-lipped and poised. On-screen me isn’t nearly as shaky as I remember being. I look... composed. Like I meant to walk up that slowly. Like I wasn’t swallowing panic. It didn’t feel like that. Not even close.

"Didn’t throw a tantrum on stage," Max says, nudging my shoulder with his knee. "That's an improvement."

I snort, but my face still burns. Mags reaches over and squeezes my hand once, and I loosen my grip on the rope. I didn’t even realize I’d been twisting it again.

"You feeling better?" Lucas asks, his voice low but not unkind.

"A little," I lie. I don’t know how else to answer.

Dinner arrives midway through District 6’s reaping. An attendant wheels in trays piled high with food and sets plates gently in our laps like we’re royalty. The rest of the reaping passes by with little spectacle, except for a massive guy who must work in logging camps from Seven, and an obviously malnourished girl from Ten who won’t stop crying. I barely register what’s in front of me until Caesar starts listing our ages, one by one, and I’m genuinely surprised when I’m listed as the youngest one in this year’s pool. What do you mean those children from Twelve and that girl from Ten aren’t younger than me. They’re tiny, and so sickly thin, I’m sure Tonya could snap them like a twig.

My plate’s full of creamy potatoes and roasted carrots and something that might be turkey. I pick at it while the screen keeps flashing with Caesar Flickerman and one of the gamemakers discussing us tributes like we’re collectible cards.

I slip out as soon as the plates are cleared. The others are still lingering in the lounge, laughing too loudly, arguing over whether District Twelve will make it past the bloodbath this year. I don’t want to hear it. My stomach’s full in a way it’s never been before, but it feels like it might turn inside out any second.

The train is quiet past the lounge. I pass windows full of rushing dark and long stretches of polished paneling, trying not to think too hard. My fingers find the rope in my pocket, and I rub the end between two fingers, letting the pattern of the knot steady me.

“Hey,” Tonya’s voice calls out behind me. I stop walking, wait for her to catch up. She slows down when she sees my face, then walks beside me instead of in front.

“You okay?” she asks. “You were quiet during the recap.”

“I was watching,” I say. It comes out sharper than I meant it to, so I add, “Just trying to remember faces. Never hurts to know what’s coming.”

She nods, but her brow’s still pinched. “You did good today,” she says. “Kept your head up. That calm thing? It played well on camera.”

I frown. “I wasn’t calm. I could barely breathe.”

She shrugs. “Didn’t look like that. You walked up slow, steady. Looked like it was all part of the act. You came across solid. Confident.”

I look at her, really look this time. She’s taller than me by almost a foot, lean and wiry, built like a blade. But through her sleeveless tunic, I can clearly see the muscles in her arms contracting as she crosses her arms. She didn’t eat much at dinner. Didn’t talk much either. Just watched. Not the screen, not the food - the people. Is she an introvert? Or was she already thinking strategy?

“You were the most dangerous one among the lot,” I say before I can think better of it.

Tonya lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah? What gave me away?”

I shrug. “Just a gut feeling.”

She considers that, then nods once, like she’s fine with being a gut feeling.

We reach the door to my compartment. I pause with my hand on the handle. “You gonna try to kill me in there?”

“If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t do it in a hallway,” she says easily. She doesn’t answer my question. “Besides, you’re useful. You fish, right?”

I blink. “Yeah.”

“Know how to throw a spear?”

“Is it anything like a trident?”

“No. Not really.”

“Then no.”

“Would you like me to teach you?”

“You’d do that?”

“Sure. You tossed garlic bread into the bonfire last night for me.”

I’m shocked down to my core. How did she notice? I was on the opposite side of the fire to her. I open my mouth to say something to her, but then she’s already walking past, heading toward her own room. I stand there a second longer, then duck into mine and close the door behind me.

My room’s dim when I step inside, the lights soft and low like the Capitol thinks it knows what comfort looks like. On the bedside table, someone’s left a folded note. The paper’s thick and smooth, the handwriting careful.

Shower and sleep tight.

It’s Mags’ shaky handwriting. I stare at it for a second, then place the note face-down on the table, and walk into the bathroom without closing the door. 

The shower controls look like they belong in a spaceship. There are dials for temperature, pressure, scent, even one for "rainforest mist," whatever that means. I try that first, and warm droplets falling from above in a soft, steady rhythm. But then I switch to something called “hydro-massage” and nearly jump out of my skin when a blast of water hits the middle of my back. I cycle through steam, foam, and even a setting labeled "sea breeze" just to see what it does. None of them smell like real sea breeze, not the kind I know, but I get caught up anyway, turning the dials and letting the water pour over me like I’ve got nothing else in the world to do.

I notice my anklet halfway through. Eight little cowrie shells strung onto a thread, knotted and sun-bleached, with one singular orange pearl in the middle. The token Mira gave me for the games. I crouch down, spending a good few minutes undoing Mira’s unyielding double knot, and take it off, fingers lingering at the knot. I set it on the counter beside the soap that smells too clean to be real.

The heat starts getting to me. Or maybe it’s the quiet. The water drums against my shoulders, and all at once, my knees give out. I slump against the tile and curl forward, the sob catching me before I even know it’s there. It’s not loud, just a bunch of heaving gasps and my face in my hands. It feels like every muscle’s vibrating. Like I can’t keep any of it in anymore.

I swear I’m not usually like this. I’m not a crybaby. I don’t fall apart in empty rooms. Much less multiple times in a day. But I’m not home, and I’m not safe, and I don’t know if I ever will be again.

When I finally shut the water off and towel off my face, I’m not sure how long I’ve been in there. I dress quickly and climb into the too-soft bed, the sheets tucked too tight. I fish Kael’s rope out of my bag and Mira’s anklet from the counter and hold them both in my hands as I lie down. The rope scratches against my palm. The anklet is still damp.

I close my eyes and hold tight. And for a second, I pretend that I’m safe in bed at home.

Chapter 5: Spears, Tigris and an Octopus

Notes:

hi my loves im so sorry for the late update (tbf i'm only late by 2 days). i just got back from a girls trip to seoul (south korea) with my friends, and the trip was so awesome i completely forgot to upload this chapter. we shopped so much and my feet hurt so much after walking 25k steps every day for a whole week. i hope this chapter was worth the wait and see you this friday again (praying i dont forget now that im not on a school schedule LOL).

I wake before the sun does.

It takes me a second to remember where I am. The sheets are smooth and cool, tucked too neatly for someone like me. The air’s filtered, cool, no hint of salt or fish or the distant sound of Dad yelling about engine grease. No creak of wood, no slap of waves on the dock. Just the soft hush of a Capitol-engineered train gliding through land I’ll probably never see again.

Still, I get up the same way I always do. Slow. Quiet. Careful not to jostle the morning.

Through my blurry morning sight, I see a note on my bedside table, and smile. It’s Mags’ note from last night. I pick the note up, fold it again, and slip it into the drawer like it’s something worth keeping. I put Kael’s rope into my pocket, and tie Mira’s anklet above my foot. Double knot, how she does it.

By the time I leave my room, the sky’s still dark, but the train’s lounge is bathed in soft, amber light. The Capitol’s good at making things feel like sunrise, even when they aren’t. It smells like fruit in here, sweet and tangy, and I spot a platter laid out on the glass coffee table. Each one’s labeled on little cards, like we’re at a market for people who’ve never met fruit before.

Mango. Blueberries. Pomegranate. Kiwi. Something pink with spikes called dragonfruit. I pick up a mango slice, bright orange and dripping a little at the edge. It tastes like syrup and sunshine. The blueberries are sharp and sweet, bursting between my teeth like they were made to be hoarded. I don’t quite like the dragonfruit, but eat it anyway. Who knows if I’ll ever get to have it again.

Marcel’s already here, stretched across one end of the couch, half-wrapped in a blanket and looking like he never fully went to sleep. When he notices me, he lifts a hand, lazy and familiar.

“Early riser,” he says.

“Muscle memory,” I reply, dropping onto the edge of the armrest. “Boat stuff.”

He grunts, a sound of understanding. “My dad used to drag me out before dawn to go check crab pots. Never really shook the habit. You stop waking up early, the sea gets offended.”

I glance at him. “Didn’t know you had a dad.”

He snorts. “Didn’t think I looked the type?”

Fair enough.

For a minute, we eat in silence. Not the weird kind. Just two guys from Four who know how to keep the peace in the morning by keeping quiet. Maybe it’s too quiet though. The question’s itching at me to be asked. Darn it. I’m going to ask him.

I glance sideways. “How do you know my Mam?”

His hand stills over the fruit tray.

“She and I sat together in class. Back when we were your age.” He pauses. “Introduced me to her sister.”

I blink. “She had a sister?”

“Identical twin,” he says, smiling to himself. “They used to mess with everyone. Switched places for an entire week once. Drove our math teacher insane.”

I don’t know what to say. I didn’t even know Mam had a twin. She’s never mentioned her. Not once.

“What happened after?” I ask.

He goes quiet. His eyes flick toward the door, where footsteps echo faintly in the hallway.

“That’s a story for next time, kiddo.”

Tonya walks in, hair tied back, face alert. She clocks the two of us, gives a polite nod, and heads straight for the fruit without a word, and picks up two bananas. She doesn’t even wait for us to finish eating, clapping her hands once. “Odair. You, with me.”

I glance at Marcel, who just shrugs and pops another blueberry into his mouth like he’s enjoying the show.

Tonya’s already striding out. I jog to catch up.

She leads me down the corridor with long, purposeful strides, muttering something about “no time like the present” and “if you’re gonna survive, you might as well learn how to stab people properly.” I can’t tell if she’s joking or not.

We end up in the game room, which looks more like a rich person’s lounge than anything else - fancy chairs, a velvet-lined pool table, golden sconces on the walls. Tonya scans the room, then cracks her knuckles and walks over to the pool table.

“You gonna teach me billiards?” I ask.

Instead of answering, she plants her foot against the leg of the table and shoves. The whole thing scrapes loudly against the floor as she pushes it aside like it’s made of driftwood. I just stand there. Pretty sure my jaw’s somewhere near the carpet. That table probably weighs more than both of us combined.

“Okay,” I say, blinking. “So not billiards.”

She goes to a tall umbrella stand in the corner and pulls out what looks like a walking stick or maybe the leg of a broken curtain rod. Either way, she tosses it to me. The stick is as tall as me, and then I realise. It’s a billiard stick.

“Closest thing to a spear we’ve got,” she says. “Show me how you hold it.”

I catch the stick, spinning it once like I would a trident, and rest it casually against my shoulder.

She blinks. “That’s adorable.”

“What?”

“You’re holding it like it’s your fishing pole’s fancier cousin.”

“...It’s not?”

She strides over and lifts my arms into place without warning. One hand on my elbow, the other near my hip, shifting me like a mannequin. “Spears aren’t meant to rest. You grip it near the end, here. Dominant hand in the back, guiding hand in the front. Elbows relaxed. Feet apart, wider. You’re not waiting for a fish to bite. You’re hunting.”

I adjust my stance, frowning, and mimic her movements.

She steps back, folding her arms. “Better. Try lunging at me.”

“What—”

She raises her eyebrows. “I said lunge, shrimp.”

I do. Or, I try. The tip of the stick jabs toward her midsection but she sidesteps with the ease of someone who’s been doing this forever, tapping it away with two fingers.

“You’re tense,” she says. “Too much wrist. Let it glide. You’re not trying to beat the air into submission.”

“How do you know all this?” I want to ask, but the words get stuck somewhere between curiosity and intimidation. So I keep them in my head and try again.

I get better with each jab. She lets me circle her, correcting the angle of my elbows, adjusting the way I shift my weight. I don’t land a single hit, but I start to understand the motion. The flow.

How does she move like that? Effortless. She dodges like she can already see my muscles tense before I strike. Her braid swings behind her like it’s in on some secret. Even when she’s standing still, she seems braced for something to happen, like a storm’s about to hit and she’s already picked where she’ll plant her feet.

How does she know all this?

I pause, breathing hard. “So, how long have you been training with spears?”

She smirks. “Since I knew what a spear was.”

Fair enough.

Eventually, she stops me with a hand and nods toward the far end of the room. “Let’s try something else.”

She disappears for a minute, then returns with three slender knives in one hand and a pillow tucked under her other arm.

I blink. “Did you just loot the lounge?”

“Borrowed,” she says sweetly, dropping the pillow onto a chair and stepping back. “Throw one.”

I pick up a knife, turn it over in my hand. “You ever think about just playing cards or something?”

“Too stabby,” she replies. “Now throw.”

The first knife hits the wall. Handle-first.

The second one spins like a helicopter and lands sideways on the floor.

She claps politely. “Excellent technique. Very distracting.”

I glare at her. “You’re loving this.”

“Not at all,” she says. “I’m rooting for you. That pillow’s terrified.”

Eventually, I get one to stick. It’s crooked and barely hanging on, but it’s a win.

I grin.

She grins back.

We take turns after that, flinging knives and missing more than we hit, trading dumb jokes. It doesn’t feel like she’s training me anymore. Just two kids with too much energy and too many sharp objects. The whole room smells faintly of velvet and ozone, the kind of weird luxury air you can’t bottle.

Then, the door creaks open. An attendant peeks in, eyes wide, just as Tonya pierces another pillow. She faintly gestures in the direction of the lounge. I guess we’re being summoned.

Tonya lowers the last knife and looks at me. “Fun’s over.”

I exhale and lean the practice stick against the wall. My shoulders ache.

She catches me glancing at her warily.

“I’m not gonna kill you, Odair,” she says, ruffling my hair as we walk out. “Not before you actually hit the pillow.”

It’s the only time I laugh all day.

By the time I reach the lounge, the train’s already slowing. Through the wide glass windows, I catch glimpses of towering silver buildings and flashes of neon. The buildings, roads, the people, they all gleam.

Oona stands near the center of the room, arms folded behind her back. “We’ve arrived,” she says. “You’ll be escorted to the Remake Center shortly. Just— be polite to your prep teams and stylists, alright? It makes all our lives easier.”

Tonya makes a face at me from behind her. I give her a look back that probably says I'm scared more than I'm cool.

What follows is a blur: wide glass doors sliding open, attendants with bright eyes and clipped voices ushering us through. Every hallway looks like it’s been dipped in chrome. Every person looks like they’re trying to outdress each other at a circus-themed wedding. Someone has a cape made of actual light projections. Another has eyeballs tattooed on her eyelids, so when she blinks, she’s still staring at you.

I keep my head down and walk fast.

Eventually, I’m guided into a room marked FINNICK ODAIR. It feels weird, seeing my name printed in Capitol font, and before I can even step in properly, three people descend on me like a pack of rabid raccoons in heels.

“There he is!” shrieks a woman with fuchsia lipstick drawn over both cheeks like blush-streaked war paint. She’s wearing a dress made entirely of purple feathers, and her hair is a swirl of teal spun up into what might be a sculpture or a weapon. “I’m Fanny!”

“And I’m Chantalle,” says another, who has delicate gold wire twined up her neck like a vine and tiny crystal beads stuck to her eyelashes. Every time she blinks, I flinch.

The third one waves both hands like I’m about to faint from the honor. “Jerry. Yes, this is a real mohawk. Yes, it glows. No, you can’t touch it.”

His mohawk shifts from white at the roots to neon blue at the tips, and it’s actually giving off light. How do they do that here in the Capitol? He also has little pink hearts tattooed all over his arms. I count seventeen before they start pushing me toward the marble platform in the center of the room.

I am, apparently, their latest art project.

“Arms up, sugar,” Fanny trills, spinning me as if I’m on a rotisserie.

“Don’t mind her,” Chantalle says, already rolling up my sleeves. “She gets possessive of her tributes. Last year’s boy was all elbows and acne, this is such an improvement.” Now that’s offensive. Last year’s tribute volunteered in place of a deaf kid from the other side of the city, and these Capitolites are talking about him like he was a moldy fruit they had to work around. I remember watching him die. Throat slit by Cashmere from District One. But sure, what a tragedy his elbows were.

I don’t say anything. I just let Chantalle keep unbuttoning my shirt. My jaw’s tight, though. I hope she notices. I hope it makes her nervous. But it doesn’t. She just hums to herself and takes off my shirt, then my shorts, then my underwear. I’m standing stark naked in front of them now. Is this normal? Is there no such thing as personal space and privacy here in the Capitol? I guess not.

“Can we talk about the cheekbones?” Jerry gasps. “And that sun-kissed skin. Did you grow up in a painting?”

I stare at him. “No. Just... outside.”

“Same thing!” he says brightly, grabbing a sponge.

The scrubbing is relentless. They hit me with a gritty pad that smells like lemons and smoke and something a little like nail polish remover. Fanny attacks my arms, Jerry gets to my legs and Chantalle works on my back. I’m as clean as I can get after showering last night. What are they trying to do? Scrub off a few layers of skin?

By the time they move on, my skin feels raw. Not just tender— raw. Like I’ve been dragged across the dock gravel during low tide. But I don’t say that. No point. They’d probably call it “opening the pores” and sprinkle glitter in the wounds.

“Oh, he’s cute,” Fanny keeps saying, pinching my cheeks like I’m five years old and not about to be thrown into a murder arena. “What a cute little thing.”

“Those eyes!” Chantalle coos, while carefully filing my nails. “Big and tragic. He’s going to destroy the sponsors.”

“He’s got that whole ‘fresh off the boat’ look,” Jerry adds, scrubbing behind my ears with the enthusiasm of someone cleaning a prized antique. “Rustic. Innocent. Very now.”

I don’t say anything. Mostly because I don’t know how to respond to someone calling me rustic while sticking glittery cream on my neck. But also because if I open my mouth, I might scream.

They wax my arms, my legs, my knuckles . My toes. I try to tell them that I don’t even have hair in most of those places, but they shush me.

“Just in case,” Fanny says with a wink, brandishing another strip like a weapon. “Can’t risk fuzz on camera!”

“You’ll thank us,” Chantalle says serenely as she trims my eyebrows. “You’ll see.”

“Do you moisturize?” Jerry asks suddenly.

“I—what?”

“Never mind, we’ll start you on a routine.”

My eyebrows get shaped (“barely, just a whisper!”), my nails get buffed, and my entire body gets dunked in a bath full of steaming lavender oil that makes me smell like something that belongs in a gift shop in Gold Coast for the tourists from the Capitol who visit District Four. I sit in there blinking at the ceiling, wondering how many hours it’s been since I left home and if I’ll ever stop smelling like flowers and melted sugar.

Eventually, when I feel like a boiled fish in a perfumed stew, I say, “So… who’s my stylist?”

They all freeze.

Then they squeal .

“Oh my god, you are going to love her,” Fanny says, gripping my arm.

“You got Tigris,” Chantalle breathes.

“ The Tigris,” Jerry nods reverently. “She hasn’t styled anyone in ten years. Total legend. Something happened to your original stylist, last-minute emergency or whatever, and they called her in.”

“She came out of retirement just for you!” Fanny says, tears welling in her eyes like this is a wedding announcement.

They all look at me like I should cry from joy. Or faint. Or do both at once.

I nod, slowly. “…Cool.”

They squeal again.

I close my eyes and let the scent of lavender and humiliation sink in. So far, the Capitol’s been exactly what I expected. Bright. Overwhelming. Ridiculous. And apparently really into scrubbing teenage boys until their skin stings.

The prep team finally declares me “ready,” which mostly means I’ve stopped squirming and my skin’s pink and raw and lemon-zested enough to meet their standards. Chantalle spritzes some glittery nonsense into the air, and I walk through it like a trained animal. It settles on my shoulders. I smell like fruit, flowers, and something that might be cinnamon but also might be bug spray. I’ve barely had time to put on the white robe they gave me when they ushered out of the prep room.

“Now for the fun part!” Fanny trills, clapping her hands. “Tigris is just in the next room.”

They herd me forward. The hallway is pale gold, inlaid with scrolling patterns, as if it was carved out of icing sugar. I step into a private studio full of sketchbooks, fabric swatches, and racks of garments organized by color, season, and, from the look of it, lunar alignment. There’s a tall woman standing in front of a board pinned with designs. Tigris.

She turns when I enter, standing by a tall sketch table, white-haired, tiger-faced, wrapped in layers of burnt orange and gold silk. Her profile looks carved. Precise jaw, exaggerated cheekbones, and skin tattooed with faint, feline stripes. Or maybe that’s surgery. Her nose is slightly upturned, almost snout-like, and there’s a hint of whiskers inked onto her cheeks.

Her eyes flick over me, precise but not judgmental. Not like the prep team. She steps forward, heels silent on the carpet, and offers a small, polite smile. “Finnick Odair,” she says, voice soft but clear. “District Four.”

“Uh... yeah,” I manage.

“I’m Tigris. Your stylist.”

Of course she is. My prep team wouldn’t shut up about her, like she was some kind of Capitol fashion deity who’d stepped down from Mount Couture. They didn’t mention the tiger thing, though.

“Come stand here, and take off your robe.”

I do. Because what else is there to do? 

She circles me once, then again, slower. There’s something different about the way she looks. Not like she’s evaluating. More like she's checking to see if I’m breathing.

“I had something else planned,” she says eventually, half to herself. “Metallics. Angles. Power.” She lifts her fingers, pauses. “But then I saw you yesterday. Just a glimpse on the screen. And I changed the design overnight.”

“Why?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

She tilts her head. “Because it wasn’t right.”

That’s all she says. No explanation. No dramatic monologue about themes or symbolism like I was half-expecting from someone in the Capitol. She just steps over to a mannequin and pulls a cover off a new outfit. I stare.

It looks... dumb.

It’s dark plum purple, with swirling stitching and big, exaggerated cartoon eyes embroidered on the back. Eight puffy fabric arms curl around the shoulders and sides like a squid-hug. No, not a squid. An octopus.

Is she serious?

It looks like something my sister would’ve dared me to wear as a joke. Or maybe something a Capitol toddler would wear to a themed birthday party.

“Uh,” I say carefully, “is that an... octopus?”

Tigris nods, stepping toward me to adjust the collar. “A gentle creature. Intelligent. Slippery. Unexpected. I thought it suited you.”

My stomach sinks. I know I’m supposed to be polite. That’s what Oona said. Smile, nod, let them have their way. But I can feel the awkwardness crawling up my throat. I’m going to look like a child next to the Careers. No, not look like, remind everyone that I am one.

I glance at her. “It’s... not what I expected.”

She studies me for a second, then gives the barest smile. “Good. It’s not meant to be. But you’ll make it work.”

That’s it. No justification, no room for argument. 

Maybe. Or maybe I’ll trip over the octopus and fall flat on my face in front of all of Panem. Either way, I nod. “Alright.”

She hands me the outfit and gestures at me to put it on. And just like that, I'm dismissed. Not disrespected. Not ignored. Just... trusted to put it on and not make a fuss.

I quickly step into the outfit and turn around. Tigris zips me up with quiet efficiency, her long fingers moving fast despite how delicate they look. The suit fits surprisingly well, for something that makes me look like I lost a fight with a sea-themed mascot. The fabric is soft, though, and the weight of the octopus arms is lighter than it looks. I’m not tripping over them yet, at least.

“Sit,” she says, gently steering me toward a tall-backed chair near the mirror.

Then the real ordeal begins.

She doesn’t speak much as she works. For nearly an hour, she’s poking and prodding at my face, dabbing something at the corners of my eyes, brushing powder across my cheeks, running a tiny comb through my eyelashes. Every few minutes she tilts my chin this way or that, narrowing her eyes in concentration. At one point, she applies some kind of shimmer down my neck and mutters, “Too sharp. Needs softening.”

I stare at myself in the mirror as this happens. The longer I look, the less I recognize the kid staring back. He’s not me. He’s some Capitol art project wrapped in seafoam and satin, an octopus clinging to his shoulders like a barnacle that won’t let go.

“I can’t believe this is real,” I mutter.

Tigris doesn’t look up. “It’s not. Not really.”

I don’t know what she means, and I don’t ask.

She brushes something cool across my lips and steps back, finally. “There,” she says. “Still a boy. But striking.”

I glance at her in the mirror. “You sure it’s not... ridiculous?”

“Of course it’s ridiculous,” she says, a little smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “That’s the point.”

And weirdly, that does make me feel better. Even though I look like I belong in the kiddie pool.

Tigris leads me through the maze of hallways behind the Remake Center, the plush carpet giving way to tiled floors that echo with every step. The space opens up into what looks like a stable, if stables were scrubbed clean and smelled like rosewater instead of manure. The horses are real, though. Two of them. Dyed blue.

Not just any blue either - cyan blue, unnaturally bright, the kind you only see in Capitol commercials and dreams that end badly. Their manes are braided with strands of seafoam ribbon, and someone’s glued tiny pearls to their hooves.

A bowl of sugar cubes sits on a barrel near the stall. I pop one into my mouth. Sweet enough to make my teeth ache, but I don’t spit it out. The horses nudge at my shirt, and I feed each of them a cube, trying not to laugh when one snorts into my face.

“You like them?” Tigris asks from beside me. “They’re nervous. Most are.”

I glance at her. “Hard not to be, looking like that.” I mean the horses, but she smiles like I meant me.

Tonya appears then, frowning and tugging at the skirt of a pale green dress made of what looks like layered fishing net and sheer fabric. There’s sequins on her collarbones, and some kind of sheer cape attached to her arms like seaweed.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she mutters, then freezes when she sees me. “Wait. Wait, wait. We were supposed to match.”

I shrug. “Guess they changed their minds. Last-minute octopus panic.”

Her eyes trail up the puffy cartoon limbs stitched onto the back of my plum outfit. Then she bursts out laughing.

“You look like someone’s rejected pool toy.”

“Thanks,” I say, deadpan. “It’s the effect I was going for.”

We stand side by side near the railing, watching as the other districts begin to arrive. District Five’s in metallic silver, all stiff shoulders and lightning bolts. District Six looks like they got lost on the way to a motor show, with helmets tucked under their arms. District Seven’s outfits are surprisingly tame. Brown bark-patterned suits and dresses with leafy sashes, but they always look like this. Maybe it’s even a recycled outfit.

“That one looks like a salad,” Tonya mutters.

“And that one looks like he lost a fight with his horse.”

“Capitol fashion at its finest,” she sighs.

Our stylists find us again, bustling around with last-minute brushes and sprays.

“Smile and wave,” Aethelwyne, Tonya’s stylist chirps, fixing a curl behind my ear. “You two look absolutely stunning.”

“Try not to fall off,” Tigris adds, which is both helpful and ominous.

We’re ushered toward the chariot. Yes, an actual chariot, with wheels that sparkle like sand in the afternoon sun. The horses whinny and shift as the handlers click their tongues. We climb on. Me, an octopus. Tonya, a walking algae bloom.

Right behind District Three.

“Ready?” Tonya asks under her breath as the gates creak open ahead of us.

“Born ready,” I lie.

The gates open with a mechanical groan that makes the horses flinch. Floodlights snap on, washing everything in that golden, glowing Capitol hue, bright enough to sting my eyes even after a full day of gaudy color. Ahead of us, District Three’s chariot rolls forward, their tributes stiff and silent, glittering in panels of LED lights that blink like static.

Then it’s our turn.

The horses step forward and the wheels creak behind us. The cheers start small, then rise like a wave - louder, higher, impossibly big. Capitol people line the streets, packed shoulder to shoulder in impossibly tall shoes and glowing clothes, all of them shouting and waving and throwing flowers. Some have signs with our names on them already.

"Smile," Tonya hisses out of the side of her mouth.

I paste on the best version I can manage, baring my teeth at the crowd and lifting a hand in what I hope looks like a confident wave and not a cry for help. Somewhere above us, giant screens show our faces. Mine lingers longer than I’d like. The camera doesn’t seem to know what to do with the ridiculous octopus stitched around my torso.

I glance over. Tonya’s waving too, but her smile’s not as forced as mine. Her spine’s straight, chin up, the breeze catching the edges of her cape. Somehow she makes it work. I try to copy her posture. If I’m going to look like a sea creature, I might as well do it with pride.

The lights sweep across the avenue and the crowd screams louder. People toss streamers and fake pearls, and someone hurls what looks like a plush dolphin that bounces off the side of our chariot.

“Fan mail already,” Tonya mutters.

“Should’ve been a dolphin,” I say.

“You’re too smug for a dolphin.”

“Rude.”

She grins at me, then resumes her wave. That makes me grin too. I put more effort into waving, even blowing a few kisses and winking at a few ladies. Someone throws me a rose, and I expertly catch it, putting it in between my teeth, and try to do that lazy smirk Kael does when he flirts with our neighbour. I wonder what Kael thinks of my outfit.

I glance around at the massive buildings, all lit up like storybooks. The air smells like sugar and something burning in the distance. Capitol smell. We pass under the shadow of a giant arch. I catch a flash of Caesar Flickerman on a balcony, grinning like he’s the sun itself. He blows a kiss to the tributes. Everyone cheers harder.

And then, just like that, we’re inside the City Circle. The chariots begin to line up around the platform where the President will speak. The roar starts to quiet, a slow hush sweeping over the space like wind.

Tonya lets out a breath. “Not bad for two kids from the docks.”

I don’t say anything. I just keep smiling, my hands tight on the rail as the lights all swing toward the center stage. President Snow comes out onto the stage, and if it’s even possible, the cheers get louder. After a solid five minutes of clapping for the President, the crowd gets fainter, and he begins speaking.

His skinny old frame is up on a white platform in his usual sharp suit, surrounded by roses that probably cost more than my entire house. His voice crackles through the speakers, low and syrupy, saying something about honor and pride and unity. It’s hard to tell, it all blends together into one long Capitol lullaby. Tonya’s still standing straight, hands clasped in front of her like she’s listening, but even she blinks a little too slow.

I stop paying attention after he says “courage.”

Instead, I watch the light bounce off the back of the District One girl’s sequined dress. It catches like fish scales. Her partner, tall and built like a stone wall, is shifting from foot to foot like he’s bored out of his mind. Maybe he is. Maybe we all are.

Snow finally finishes. Everyone claps. I do too, barely. The horses start pulling again, taking us away from the platform and down a side tunnel. The lights dim. The roar of the crowd fades to a low hum behind the walls.

The chariot jerks to a stop inside a vast underground stable. It’s quieter here, save for the horses huffing and snorting, their hooves scuffing against the floor. Capitol handlers in metallic vests swarm the space like ants. We’re told to wait here for our mentors.

I slide off the chariot and stretch, boots hitting the ground. Tonya jumps down beside me, cracking her neck. “That was less awful than I thought,” she mutters.

We don't get to bask in the moment.

District Two’s chariot pulls up behind ours. The male tribute hops down—tall, blocky, with a jaw like a brick and hair slicked into combat-readiness. His outfit is some steel-plated mess. His partner says something to him, but he’s already zeroed in on me.

“Seriously?” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear. “What even is that?”

I turn to him. “An octopus.”

He smirks. “Is it supposed to be funny? Cute? You look like something my little sister would draw and then set on fire.”

I blink. My instinct is to laugh it off, maybe say something snarky. But before I can, Tonya steps forward.

“Keep walking,” she says. Her voice is low and razor-sharp. “Before you get embarrassed in front of your whole district.”

The boy raises an eyebrow. “Relax. Just making conversation.”

“You want conversation, try your district partner,” she says. “Or better yet, a wall.”

He scoffs and turns away, muttering something under his breath that I don’t catch. Tonya watches the tribute from Two walk away, arms still folded, face unreadable. The boy’s words hang in the air like the sour aftertaste of something rotten, and I can feel them clinging to me even as the stable fills with more noise: hooves shifting, handlers murmuring, gears squeaking behind the chariot wheels. I stay where I am for a beat, not looking at her, not looking at anyone. Then I turn and walk off. Quick, quiet, threading between metal posts and stacked crates until I find a pocket of space that feels out of sight. I lean against the wall, jaw tight, fingers tugging at one of the stitched octopus arms like I can rip it off if I just pull hard enough.

I hear her footsteps before I see her. She doesn’t sneak up, Tonya’s not the sneaky type, but she gives me a second. Then, casually, like it’s nothing, she stops a few feet away and says, “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” I say too fast, the words sharper than I meant. They bounce back at me in the echo of the concrete walls, harsher than I want to sound. She doesn’t flinch. Just waits. That makes it worse somehow.

I don’t know why it’s bothering me this much. It was just a dumb comment, a Capitol-costumed insult from some blockhead with a superiority complex. But it wasn’t just about me. It was about how I looked. What I represented. What people would see when they watched me on screen. It was about the fact that I can’t control any of it. Not the octopus costume, not the smile I have to wear, not the way people laugh like I’m some harmless little beach kid who wandered into a nightmare. And then Tonya— Tonya —cut in, like I needed saving.

“I didn’t ask for help,” I mutter, staring at the floor.

She doesn’t say anything. So I keep going.

“You didn’t have to step in like that. I could’ve handled it.”

Her arms cross again. “Really,” she says flatly. Not a question. Just the kind of word people use when they already know the answer.

“I mean it.” I’m frowning now. “He was mouthing off, sure, but I don’t need someone swooping in to shut him up for me. It makes me look weak.”

Tonya raises her eyebrows, like she’s hearing something absurd but isn’t surprised by it. “You think he would’ve backed off if you told him to?” Her voice is calm. No edge, no mockery. Just flat logic that makes me feel about six inches tall.

I open my mouth. Close it again.

She takes a step closer, gaze level. “He wasn’t talking to you, Odair. He was talking to his audience. That wasn’t a comment, it was bait. For you. For anyone watching. You respond? You play into it. You don’t? You look scared. I shut him up because someone had to, and you—” her eyes flick down to the outfit, to the stitched arms curling across my chest, “—you didn’t look like you could yet.”

I flush. Whether it’s from shame or anger, I don’t know. My fingers curl into fists at my sides. “So what, you think I’m useless?”

“No,” she says, and it’s instant. Not dismissive, not harsh. Just true . “I think you’re smart enough to learn. And smart enough to know you’re not there yet.”

I look away. My stomach churns. The costume itches against the back of my neck like it knows I want to rip it off. “You don’t get it,” I mutter. “I already look ridiculous. The Capitol sees me like I’m some little idiot kid from the sea, good for a few sponsor tears and not much else. Every time someone defends me or laughs at the costume or calls me cute like I’m a pet— it sticks. ”

“You think stepping up makes you look weak?” she asks, not moving. “Try looking like a threat when they’ve already decided you’re not one.”

Her voice is lower now, firmer, but not angry. Like she’s trying to give me something I don’t know how to take. “You don’t get to pick how they see you. Not at first. So use it. Let them think you’re soft. Let them laugh. Let them call you harmless.” She tilts her head. “Then make them regret it.”

The words hit harder than I expect. Maybe because no one’s said it like that before. Not Dad. Not Kael. No one. Not like this.

I stare at the wall for a second longer, the tension in my chest slowly loosening. Not all the way. Just enough to breathe again. “You always this good at lectures?” I ask, half a joke.

She shrugs. “Only when someone’s asking for it.”

I huff a dry breath that’s almost a laugh and push off the wall. My feet feel heavier now, but steadier. I follow her back toward the others, toward the noise, the lights, the cameras I won’t be able to hide from much longer.

Tonya doesn’t look back. She doesn’t need to. And I don’t say thank you, but I think it anyway.