Chapter Text
". . . Odair, one of your two mentors. Annie, this is Finnick Odair."
"H-hi."
She can't be more eighteen, hardly more than a child.
But four whole years older than me when I won.
"I'm . . . Annie."
He wonders if he looked this young and afraid and vulnerable when he was Reaped five years ago.
"It's . . . n-nice to meet you."
Wondered if Mags felt this much despair . . .
She has no chance of winning.
. . . at the complete lack of chance of him winning . . .
What a waste.
What an absolute waste.
. . . as he does this girl.
"Th-thank you for agreeing to help me."
She could be so happy and free.
"Yeah."
If she didn't live in Panem.
"No problem."
And he can't bring himself to use his finely crafted wiles and charms on her.
Can hardly bear to look her in the eye.
God, what a waste.
This red haired, porcelain-faced beauty.
So young, so afraid.
I wish I didn't have to watch her die.
So absolutely, utterly hopeless.
It wasn't that Finnick didn't believe she could survive and win The Games.
"Okay, uh, what can you do? What are you good at?"
It wasn't that he didn't care.
"Oh. Um. Well. Nothing, really. I've . . . never had to . . . survive before."
And that was exactly it.
"What about survival? Have you ever been camping?"
He knew she couldn't.
"No. Not really."
And he didn't blame her. It wasn't her fault.
"Can you build a fire?"
Children, well, teenagers, well anyone, didn't deserve to have to fight and die just to appease the ruthless warmonger that ruled Panem.
"Um, sometimes? If I have a lighter."
Well, President Snow maybe.
"You won't get a lighter unless a sponsor gives you one."
Finnick sure would like to see him down in the mud and blood and filth at the very end of The Games.
"Oh."
When your desperate, gibbering mind and flailing, failing body lashed out at another living, breathing person in order to continue your own cursed and damned survival.
"What did you do back home?"
So when Annie couldn't answer the question, couldn't stop trembling or crying, Finnick Odair decided . . .
"Oh. Uh. I went to school. Helped my mom in our shop. We make bread."
Of course you do.
. . . he hoped she died quick and in not too much pain and fear.
"Okay."
Though even that . . .
"Well, . . ."
. . . was still . . .
". . . I guess we'll just start with survival skills."
. . . a very long shot in The Games.
"Thank you."
Indeed.
"Yeah. Sure."
"I can't help her, Mags! She's going to die! She's just a helpless little girl and she's going to die! All because Snow is a monster!"
Mags doesn't answer.
She can't. Stroke and all.
But she really doesn't have to.
Her eyes speak volumes enough.
You have to try.
She's all alone.
She's scared.
You have to give her some hope.
That's your job.
You have to try.
Finnick Odair stubbornly holds the unwavering gaze of his mentor as long as he possibly can.
Then, when she has finally succeeded in glaring a hole straight through his thick skull, he turns on his heel with a mutter of a grunt.
"I know. I know. I just hate it."
And stalks off.
Four Hunger Games.
Eight dead victors.
Four boys. Four girls.
All scared, all alone, all pathetically hopeful.
And, now . . .
Even when we win The Games, we still lose for the rest of our lives.
. . . this pretty, skinny, helpless girl.
Annie.
Even her name sounds weak.
And she is going to die too.
Her and the other guy that she came in with.
The sulking, silent one that keeps to himself.
The one that doesn't look at anybody, doesn't talk, doesn't engage at all whatsoever.
And Finnick knows why.
He knows she's weaker.
He knows he's going to have to kill her.
Or let her be killed.
And he knows we're going to have to watch him do it.
And so he lets . . .
". . . ake him with us."
"Okay."
. . . the other Mentors take him.
And Finnick . . .
I hate this.
. . . goes off to do what Mags has guilted him . . .
I'll always hate this.
. . . into doing.
And he finds her, floating in a pool.
Yeah, cause that makes sense.
Float before you go off to die, sure.
And he's about to turn on his heel and walk off, just leave her there if she's going to be so blase about the whole thing.
And then he stops.
Watches her.
They're in the Tribute Complex in the Capitol.
District Four's section has a pool, the one she's in right now.
And this girl, only a year younger than him, is floating.
Eyes closed, arms out at her sides, legs straight, toes pointed.
Hair tendrilling out like red tide seaweed.
One piece green swimsuit more modest and yet somehow still more alluring than any over the top Capitol attire he's ever been directed to peel off a drunken, preening socialite.
More than that, she's serene, she's peaceful.
Floating with her eyes closed, floating without movement.
It's a bright white sterile space, nothing like the blue sky, salt-tinged District Four oceanside.
It's the most at ease he's seen her.
And suddenly he wishes he could remember what it was like to be free and innocent.
There's nothing but blood and screaming in his dreams, his recollections.
Ever since stabbing another person to death with a trident at the age of fourteen.
And he wishes he could be like her.
It's quiet in the space, so quiet he can hear himself think.
And it's not very pleasant.
He is not comfortable with his thoughts.
Or his life.
Just the way Snow wants it.
And he's about to open his mouth and call out to her, some snark or other.
Or simply turn away and leave her alone, no matter what Mags says.
When she suddenly flips in the water like a fish and disappears, pulling herself along under the water with strong, sure strokes.
Finnick feels his mouth drop open, and his mind clicks in place.
Of course she can swim. She's from District Four.
And he thinks she should have mentioned that during their interview of sorts.
But Snow will probably have the damn thing in a desert anyway.
And it is then that he turns.
Or the moon.
And does leave without saying a word.