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Chapter Text

Is it Over Now..? (Abby's Version) 

Playlist

"Slut!"(Taylor's Version) by Taylor Swift

The Great War by Taylor Swift

Not Strong Enough by Boygenius 

Summer Child by Conan Gray

Doomsday  by Lizzy McAlpine

This is me trying by Taylor Swift

Die For You by The Weekend

I Know the End by Phoebe Bridgers 

Sweet Nothing by Taylor Swift

The Winner Takes it All by ABBA 

Guilty as Sin? by Taylor Swift

Chapter Text

Abby's POV

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I’ve forgotten how to. The canon just went off. The boom shattered in the sky like thunder. I wish it was thunder. I wish a storm would come through and drown me before- I have to keep running. 

Snow. White snow everywhere. It’s difficult to run in but I try nonetheless. Legs pumping and my lungs burning. I’m trying to get as far from the cornucopia as I possibly can. I hear screaming already, I try not to look. Something hits my shoulder- painfully so. I fall to my knees and gasp out. I reach a hand up, now covered in snow, and rip the knife out of my shoulder. It’s a small throwing knife- I’ll live. I turn to see who did it, and there’s a teenage girl running straight towards me. She’s a career and she’s seventeen years old. Her attention is on me as she runs towards me with a knife, fear has me as frozen as the snow. 

Is this my death? I can’t die in the first five minutes. How pathetic am I? I already got a score of 3. This is supposed to be part of the plan. This cannot all be for nothing. 

He comes out of nowhere -knocks her down. She falls into the snow a few feet away from me- his dark skin contrasts the snow as he attacks her. He slams a knife into her leg and she screams in agony. I wince with wide eyes. I should run- I should run- I should run. 

But I don't. 

I watch as she kicks his knee somehow and he falls to the floor. I look behind me to the outline of the trees- safety. I should run. But when I look back she’s got her knife out and she stabs him in the stomach. Not to kill- to cause pain. He screams and yells. He turns his head to me, his bright blue eyes wide with fear and desperation. ‘Help’ he mouths to me. 

She brings the knife down into his skull. 

I wake up with a pant- clutching my chest as I attempt to breathe. There’s sweat covering my forehead and my body, I feel it. My sheets stick to my skin because of it. 

I see his eyes everywhere. Every time the sky is a certain shade of blue. Every time I see a capital woman’s dress in that exact shade. A teal blue. He saved me and I didn't even try to return the favor. I wonder all the time why he did it. Why save me? I was pathetic, weak framed with wide eyes. I was quiet and had a glazed over look. Did he save me or did he just want to kill her? 

I feel trapped. I feel like I’m in a hospital. The tiles are shades of orange from the lighting above me. It flickers. 

I can hear Katniss through the wall behind me. She’s sobbing and whimpering. I never really thought she cared for Peeta until now. Now it is as if she lost everything. Hope and sanity was stolen away with him. 

Every night this happens. They don't let her out of her room. They say she needs to rest. She’s supposed to be strong for the rebellion. No one asked her if she wanted this. The pressure on her shoulders, the face of the rebellion. 

Finnick’s waiting for me always, he can hear my screams too. I know he does. I’m not brave enough to go back into his arms. It feels selfish. I don’t want to get addicted to it. Or attached to him again. The second you idolize someone is the moment you’ve lost your sanity. It never ends well. 

We won the games at what cost? Finnick told me we made it out, we survived. But for what? 

What do we do now?

Chapter Text

Hey guys,
I am so insanely terribly sorry but I'm going to be taking a quick break from writing. I'm so sorry but I have exams this week and some personal stuff going on, and I just don't have the time to write and update right now.
Hopefully by next week I'll be back on track and update a few chapters.
I am so sorry!!!!
- <3

Chapter Text

Abby's POV

By the seventh night in a row of endless night terrors- I find that I have to leave my room. It’s not allowed- we’re supposed to stay in our rooms and get sleep. Because they need us to be healthy. It’s suppressed in the opposite way of the Capital. The juxtaposition makes my head spin. 

The hallways are eerie- yellow lights flickering. It makes me uneasy. I creep out of my room, fresh tears sticking to my cheeks. I’ve lost all care for my appearance and my pride. Everyone on this floor has seen my blotched eyes and tear stains. They’ve trapped us in the infirmary, despite the fact that most of our wounds have healed. It’s the internal ones they are more concerned about. 

I feel cold. 

“You can’t be out here” The voice makes me freeze, I turn slowly. I’ve been caught- for what roaming the halls? And they’re going to send me back to my room- lock it up. I can’t be locked up anymore. “Miss Everdeen” Their voice is calm and unwavering- like a recorded message. Katniss is curled up by a pipe. I see her now. She’s clutching her head and rocking back and forth. Madness. It calls to her like a siren, it’s seeping in her blood. I can't imagine what it's like for her. Peeta being there. It’s times like these that I’m grateful to not have a family. To not have people who I care for. It's a lie and I know it. I can't keep playing pretend. 

“One more minute-” Katniss' voice cracks, and the woman steps towards her with a flashlight. If I stay she will catch me too. Across from me is another door to another room, which looks identical to mine. But it's not. I tiptoe down with bare feet- the cold is unwelcoming to my nerves. I pull the door open, hoping he’s not asleep but knowing there's no way he could be. 

The door slides open letting me in, its even colder in here. Maybe this was a mistake. 

“You shouldn't be in here” He’s awake, sitting on his bed like an empty soul. He looks lifeless and cold. His voice is strained and even from our distance I can see the glistening of tear stains on his cheeks. 

“Do you want me to go?” I whisper back, with fear. Rejection could crush me right now, when all I want is the comfort of warmth. It doesn't have to mean anything. 

“No” He shakes his head, his voice breaking “please stay” I take that as an invitation, walking across the small length of tile to get to his cot. The white sheets that he lays on top of look like mine. His skin looks pale and yellow, he still looks pretty. Pretty like the sun at his best and pretty like the moon at his worst. I like them both. I crawl into the bed, sitting up next to him. My cold skin presses against his warmth. We are thigh to thigh and arm to arm. His lights flicker too. 

“I wish I was dead” Finnick says this once a day. Every single day. It’s the seventh  day that we have been here. Freedom perhaps. Or maybe we’ve traded one kind of madness for another. 

“Finnick” My voice is low- warning. No one is getting sleep around here. Katniss screams every night. It’s to the point that my brain has become accustomed to her screaming- but I still can’t sleep. My own night terrors keep me awake. 

“They took them.” The guilt eats at him, he stares at the wall with numb eyes. I want to help him- but I barely feel alive enough to keep myself up. “I wish I was dead” 

“I don’t” He turns to me, finally blinking out of his trance. His eyes take me by surprise- the light has faded and I only see a dark blue now. And tears. So many tears. 

“How can you say that?” His lips twitch into a frown as he furrows his brows at me in deep confusion, “I was horrible to you” 

“It’s okay Finnick” 

“It’s not” He blinks hard, and tears fall onto the sheets below us. “You deserve so much more- you deserve to know why” He looks back up at me with watery eyes, his face is such sadness that I’ve only seen in reflections. 

“Not tonight Finnick” I shake my head, “tell me another time” I lift my hands to grasp his face, gently forcing him to look at me “I'm glad you're alive” His lip trembles, and I pull him in. He presses his face into my neck. I feel the cold wetness  of his tears as I hold him. My own tears slip through my eyes as I stare at the wall. He tries to conceal his cries- I can feel it. But small sobs rip out of him as he grasps on to me for dear life.

Sleep comes hits me deeply. I haven't slept for so long. Without the nightmares or the tossing and turning. Without the nauseating thoughts or the painful memories. But sleep found me in the night, in his embrace. Sleep came suddenly to us but delicately. 

I’m awoken from slumber by a hand shaking me harshly. 

"Hey," someone is hissing in my ear. "Wake up." My eyes snap open in fear, I forget my surroundings and when I whip my head around I see Haymitch crouched beside the bed. My brows furrow and I look back to see Finnick sound asleep. 

“What?” I rasp out as quiet as I can as I turn back to Haymitch. 

“We need to talk to you” His use of ‘we’  has me sitting up in bed immediately, careful not to startle or wake up the sleeping blonde beside me. 

“Give me a minute” I tell him, and he nods before walking out to the hallway. I sigh and run a hand through my hair, before slowly slithering out of Finnick’s grasp on my waist. This scene feels familiar- I don’t want to leave him again. 

Looking back at him is a mistake. His face looks like the closest thing to peaceful since the night before the arena. His eyelashes kiss the freckles on his cheeks that I feared had faded. I feel guilty for how I treated him. The way I thought of him. I judged him. 

I look away before my mind can spiral anymore- I know it's not the time. Something bigger is coming up. 

I step into the hallway where Haymitch is waiting. There's a stupid smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. I pull my sweater tighter around me and step up into a walking pace with him. As we start to walk he looks over at me, still smirking. 

"Finnick's room, huh?” I shoot him a glare and he raises his hands in defense, “I'm not one to judge, but you're playing a dangerous game, sweetheart."

“Don’t call me that” I snap at him immediately. 

“Jeez someone’s grouchy-” He rolls his eyes at me, “Don’t tell me you and Finnick didn’t get your eight hours” He thinks he’s hilarious, but I just roll my eyes at him and heave a sigh. 

"We just happened to end up in the same room, that's all," I mutter as I try to get him off the topic. Unfortunately, Haymtich just chuckles and his smirk widens. 

"Right, and I just happened to win the Hunger Games by accident," he retorts,  his tone dripping with sarcasm.

"You know, you're not as funny as you think you are, Haymitch." He seems the least bit affected by my words. He’s leading me down a hallway I’ve never been allowed to go down before. My curiosity is growing just as my frustration is. There’s an elevator at the end of the hallway, hues of yellow lighting and steel. 

"Maybe not, but at least I'm not as obvious as you two," Haymitch teases, nudging me playfully as we walk. "If you're going to sneak around, at least try to be discreet about it."

"We're not sneaking around. We're just friends," I insist with a huff , though I know my cheeks are flushed. My body betrays me in that sense. 

"Sure, sure, just friends," Haymitch echoes, a knowing glint in his eye. "Well, tell that to the boy who threatened me over keeping you alive in the arena” That takes me by surprise. He stops in front of the elevator doors, and we walk in as they open. I haven’t been in an elevator in a long time- but I’ve never been a fan of confined spaces. There's no trust in elevators, they move too fast, and one wrong malfunction and you’ll fall to a brutal death. 

“He did what?” My tone gives away my shock and he grins at that. But I truly cannot help it. I know Finnick and I have become closer again, but that wasn't until the end of the arena and now. So why would he threaten Haymitch to keep me alive before we even got in the arena? 

“Seems like you’re not as all knowing as you think you are '' He sing-songs to me all giddy to have this piece of information over me. I decide not to give him any more satisfaction and I change the subject. 

“Where are you taking me anyways?” I ask as I notice the lower and lower we are going, there are more floors than I thought there were. “You’ve been discharged” My face shifts to intense confusion, perhaps some relief. “But you’ve been summoned to a meeting first” He just states simply, not giving a dramatic quip like usual. 

“With who?”

“Coin and Plutarch” I nearly feel my eyes twitch with annoyance at his short answers. But I’m also a little taken back at his answer. Coin is the president here in 13. So why does she want to see me? 

“Why do they want to see me?” I question him, “Why not Katniss or Finnick?” Surely they’d want Katniss first, she’s the leader and the symbol. I forget she’s also my friend. 

“Because for some reason they seem to think you’re the most stable one of the bunch right now” I want to retort to him, but he’s almost right. Katniss isn’t doing well at all, and Finnick- well Finnick. 

The elevator comes to stop, and when the door opens I’m overwhelmed with the amount of people. They are all wearing the same thing- I see as Haymitch leads me through the crowd. A grey jumpsuit, they look not quite peaceful or happy but something close to it. They look untouched. I take notice of every room piled around the circular facility, like a huge cylinder hollowed out to hide us inside it. I thought the infirmary was the best of what this District had left after the war, but this is so so much more. 

Haymitch stops in front of a door finally, a giant steel door at the end of the hallway. The cool grays give me chills, and I feel off. Something feels off in my gut. He turns to me with his smirk gone, a look of worry and something close to desperateness on his face. 

“Play nice- please” He almost sounds like he’s begging as he looks me deeply in the eyes, I narrow them at him. If he’s worried, something must be wrong. 

“No promises” Haymitch sighs at my answer, like he’s given up on me. But he opens the door nonetheless and it slides open. The cool air hits me immediately. We step into the room, and the sight of a long meeting table greets me. The table lights up, wealthy enough for me to mistake it for Capital technology. There’s room for nearly twelve people at the table, but only two are sitting down. There’s a large screen behind me to the right, where one could watch announcements or interviews or even project plans or ideas. I take in every detail of the entire room. 

I might be out of the arena- but that doesn’t mean I’m safe. 

I recognize Plutarch from Capital parties and from the training evaluation. President Coin looks- cold. Her eyes are sharp and her smile thin, and her hair as gray as the walls around us. She brings an element to the room, a chill in the air that I can’t quite ignore. 

“Ah- the infamous Huntress. Please take a seat” Plutarch smiles brightly at me, and beckons me to have a seat. I hate what he calls me. I wish that name would have died in the arena. 

“Abby this is Plutarch Heavensbee and Alma Coin- the President of District 13” Haymitch introduces for me, although there's no need to. But I take the seat offered to me nonetheless. I sit down on the cold leather, it feels stiff and unmoving, like I’m stuck.  

"We appreciate your coming, Abby," Coin speaks, her tone is calculated and crisp. It feels false, the way she has some delicate pitch that makes her seem friendly. Perhaps I'm too paranoid or too untrusting but my gut is warning me. 

“Of course” I simply nod, nothing else for me to say. Especially since I didn't have a choice. 

“Your reputation precedes you Ms. Stryker, we’ve been watching your progress” Coin states, not bothering to address her reason for summoning me. I don’t want my reputation to precede me, I’d like to have something of my own. 

“You certainly caught my attention from your evaluation” Plutarch attempts to joke as he smiles at me, “Threatening Snow in front of the Capital was a statement.” Plutarch leans in, his demeanor suggesting a mix of earnestness and strategic thought. “You're extremely skilled and clever” 

"I've been doing what I must to survive," I feel uneasy. My reputation should not be celebrated. I’m no leader. 

"Indeed, but through that, you've demonstrated qualities that are crucial to our cause," Coin says, cutting to the heart of the matter. "Leadership, resilience, and a deep care for your fellow survivors."

"We need you," Plutarch adds, "but not just for your leadership. We need your help with Katniss." Confusion takes over my feelings of unease. Katniss. The girl on fire. A friend if I dare to stretch that far. I feel responsible for her. 

"Katniss?" I echo. I don't understand their angle. I actually don't understand anything that is going on right now. All they’ve done so far is lock me in my room and then take me out to compliment me for the things I hate most about myself. 

"Yes," Coin confirms. "Katniss Everdeen has become a symbol of hope, a beacon for the rebellion. But as you know, she's been... hesitant to embrace that role fully. We believe you can help change that." Her wording twists my gut. Does she truly feel no remorse for Katniss's situation? 

"Why me, though?" I feel apprehensive, "Why not approach her directly?"

"Katniss trusts you," Plutarch explains. "You've fought beside her, suffered with her. Your influence could be the key to helping her see the importance of her role in this fight." This doesn't feel right. Katniss isn’t just a symbol. She’s human and she’s mourning. She’s suffering while Peeta is being tortured no doubt, and they expect me to force her to forget that and lead the rebellion for them? 

“We need you to be a role model for her- get her to trust us” Coin cuts in, “Which means you need to show her you trust us. You have to start setting an example” Her voice turns frosty which triggers something in me. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” My tone is sharp as I narrow my eyes at her. 

“It means if you're going to sneak into Finnick's bed in the middle of the night, you have to let us know” How the fuck does she already know about that? Are they doing bed checks or something? Her tone pisses me off and I find myself growing a little irritated. 

“I wasn't aware we were prisoners” I retort, sitting up in the chair. Haymitch sucks in a breath, he looks uncomfortable. But I could care less. The way she said that made it seem like I was sneaking into Finnick’s room for something else. It’s like she’s slut shaming me and also scolding me. 

“Ms. Stryker, don’t you think it's insensitive to compare yourself to prisoners when Peeta and them are locked in the Capital?” She glares at me and her icy tone sharpens. “You should be grateful” Something snaps inside of me. The final string has been cut at her words. 

“Don't ever tell me I should be grateful” I snap at her, anger filling my veins. I hate that. I hate anyone telling me what I should be. Especially not grateful. 

“Kid” Haymitch tries to calm me down, sitting up with a hand to place on my shoulder. I shrug his touch off of me. 

“Don't ever fucking call me that” I stand up, aggressively enough for my chair to screech backwards. My stomach feels sick with anger. I feel vile in my throat at the name. It reminds me of my father, of the boy who used me, and it reminds me of my mentor. It feels condescending and patronizing. 

“Have you ever been in the arena?” I look to Coin with deep anger in my eyes, her face stays numb and firm.  “Do you have any idea what it's like to fight for your life and watch children slaughter and be slaughtered?” Her face changes an inch, her mouth moving a little and her face a little pale. I put my hands on the table, anger seething through me, “Can you even fathom what it's like to leave the arena and be forced to celebrate your murders? What it is like for your body to be sold to capital citizens?” The words vent from my lips like lava pooling out. I’m boiling hot in my rage. “I didn't think so” I scoff at her face of dumbstruck, “Don’t fucking tell me to be grateful” 

“Calm down” Haymitch tries again but I ignore him, I stand up straight to make my point be emphasized. 

“You want us to fight? Then give us the freedom to cope with the aftermath. You keep locking us up- you keep locking me up?” I stare deeply in her gray eyes, even Plutarch has surprise on his face. “And I’ll tear the fucking walls down” I turn to leave before I scream anymore, to get some control over my rage. But I turn at the last second, to face them again.  “You want Katniss to fight? Then let her out of her cage” 

Chapter Text

I expect punishment. In fact I wait for it, outside the hallway. I would have stormed off somewhere but I don't know these halls. I don’t know where to go. Or where not to go.

Instead of punishment, they give me a room. It’s tucked in a corner of the other rooms, a little high up. A full glass wall for me to watch people below. There’s two beds in the room, and it's much more spacious than my last. I can't help but wonder if they’ll put someone in here to occupy the other bed. It’s not a main concern right now. I crawl into the bed, exhaustion has overtaken me. From what I don't know. Perhaps because of using my voice so much, I can't remember the last time I was able to raise my voice. Probably that last scream in the arena. It feels like a lifetime ago but I know it was barely a week at most. Sleep is calling to me like a siren and for once I decide that I’ll allow myself to try. The sheets feel the same as the ones in the infirmary. Cold and cotton. I miss warmth. I miss the sun. I don't know if I’ll live to see it again. As I lay in the cotton sheets, I stare at the bed across from mine. It’s empty. So painfully empty. It takes me back to when I used to face a full bed.

“Where are you going?” My voice cracks as I stare at her bed. My eyes are wide and my chest feels tight.

“Out” My sister doesn't respond harshly but matter-of-factly. We’re both whispering. Even though he’s black out drunk in the living room.

“Don’t go- please” I’m begging, my body is freezing and I'm trying to stay warm under the only blanket I have.

“You’ll be fine” She’s throwing something into a little bag, I can't tell what it is.

“He’s going to come after you”

“Let him try”

“He’ll be angry- we- we don’t have any food” My eyes begin to water, “How are we supposed to eat?”

“That’s not my problem” She’s not like this usually, something must be wrong, “You have to learn to fend for yourself”

“Why are you acting like this?” Tears are rolling down my cheek freshly.

“Look kid,” Her eyes softened as she kneeled down in front of me, I remember the look in her eyes. Her tired blue eyes that looked nothing like mine. “In this family- in this world- you need to understand that its every girl for herself”

“Please don’t” I sob, “Please stay” I’m only ten. I think in my head, but I know it’s useless to remind her. I know I can’t change her mind.

“I’ll come back” She turns to leave and stops, like I’m pulling her back. She turns back to me looking torn and regretful, “Just keep fighting okay? Promise me that no matter what, you will never stop fighting”

“I promise”

She did come back. Three years later. Just in time for a final year with her. By that time she was twenty-three, the same age she died at. I’ll outlive her soon.

It feels like a punishment. I don't resent her. For those three years where she left me alone with him- the man who was supposed to be my father. I don’t resent her for leaving me to hunt for food, to beg for scraps, and to wield an axe daily for survival. For his survival too. I resented her in the moment, in those three years where I sobbed and pleaded to the sky. But now, I wish that I had been brave enough to run like she had. And I wish she had never come back- maybe she’d still be alive.

It stirs me the wrong way when I awake from a slumber that I don’t remember falling into. It doesn't count as a nightmare- my usual terrors are far worse. In fact, this memory is light compared to the others. But why is this memory recurring now? It feels planned. Promise me that no matter what, you will never stop fighting Is that what I’ve done? Have I stopped fighting? Am I disappointing her? Is this her way of whispering in my ear to beg me not to give up. Not again?

I don’t believe in god, I never have. I don’t believe in a higher being or fate but- she moves me to get up.

I change into the jumpsuit they have laid out on the table. It's gray in the same shade as a storm cloud. I feel muted, stipped from my individuality, but that's something I’ve gotten used to in this world. I exit my room without knowing where I’m going. I need to find Haymitch- I need to find something to do. I can’t sit there and do nothing. I won’t. Some people give me strange looks as I pass and twist my head around in the crowd, trying to find a familiar face. My limbs groan with each twist and turn.

“What are you doing out here?” I turn to see a very unfamiliar face. He’s tall and looking down at me with a hard stare.

“Who are you?” I rasp as I meet his stare. I won’t allow a stranger to intimidate me. I stand as tall as my weak and healing bones will allow.

“That’s not really your concern” He targets his gruff tone at me with a clenched jaw and dark eyes. “You’re not allowed in these sanctions”

“Under whose orders?” Lips turned down in a scowl, I keep my head straight.

“That's not your concern” His chin is tilted down like I am some lower class, sneering at me like an unbearable sight.

“And you are?” My fingers curl into a tight fist, my anger becoming me.

“Gale Hawthorne”

“Right.” I scoff, laughing, “And you’re ordering me around because?” I push at the buttons of his fragile ego. My talent for reading men can sometimes be magical.

“I’m a soldier” The words fall from his mouth like he’s awarding himself with praise. I blink. His jaw twitches from my lack of a reaction. “Just listen to orders”

“Where’s Haymitch?” My tongue clicks to the roof of my mouth. If patience were a rubber band, mine would be snapped and shattered.

“That’s none-”

“Tell me that one more time, and I will hurt you.” My gaze is sharp, narrowed on his dark brown eyes.

“I’m not scared of you.” he spits the words out as he tightens his grip on his gun.

“You should be.” I nearly snarl, teeth bared, anger and self hatred rolled into one shallow person. Silence passes between us, but the busy hidden society around us continues. I can hear children, women, and men all scattering around and finding their places from the orders given.

“Dining hall” Gale sighs out, annoyance written on his features. Shoulders rolled back, strained in a way that makes him look like anything but a soldier. 

“And that would be?” I cock an eyebrow, no sign of gratitude in my body language.

“Down the hall to the left, and then take a right”

“Thanks for your overwhelming help” Sarcasm drips from my mouth, and I resist saying anything else as I stalk off.

Chapter Text

It seems like everything in this place is an awful shade of white.

I take one step into the dining hall, and the fluorescents are blinding my retinas as the beaming monochrome brings a scowl to my face. 

I pick at the cuff of my jumper—more like a uniform—as it itches against my skin. My nails are still raw and short from the aftermath of the arena. I have more scars too—like I needed more reminders of what I have done. And who I am. The stitches are still relatively fresh- threatening to snap free every-time I flex my arm. It's almost tempting, to allow it to happen so I can feel something. 

Haymitch is easy to spot. He’s the only one sitting alone. The strobe light above serves as a spotlight that only exposes the dark circles underneath his sunken eyes. There's a plate full of food on the table in front of him, and it looks like he hasn’t taken a single bite. My footsteps echo through the almost empty cafeteria as I stalk towards his table.

“Thought I’d find you buried under a pile of empty bottles.” The words are a little harsher on my tongue than I intended, but I make no move to apologize. I take a seat across from him, and the cold seeps through the fabric of my clothing. It's cold everywhere.

“Disappointed, sweetheart?” He doesn’t even look up, just draws his finger on the rim of his empty glass. “Don’t worry; give me a few hours.” 

I bite my tongue from snapping at him for the nickname. I guess it's turned futile at this point, but that doesn't stop the turn of nausea in my stomach. 

“I need to talk to you.” My arms rest on the table as I lean forwards with a heavy stare. 

“Ah, here it comes.” He glances up with an amused expression, completely distracted by his exhaustion. “Here to scold me for encouraging Coin?” 

“I don’t like her.” I narrow my eyes at his sunken ones. I know I'm just repeating myself, hissing the same complaints that bring no change. But I don't know what else to do. 

“You don’t have to like her; you just need to be willing to fight.” I don’t give him the chance to finish his sentence, my mouth already in a scowl. 

“For her?” Disgust falls from my mouth. I can’t explain this immediate dislike for her. But there's a chant in my head that tells me not to trust her. And so far, that gut feeling has never done me wrong. 

“With her.” Haymitch blinks at me before sighing, “Just follow their orders for now.” 

“They ordered me to sit in my room and occasionally whisper encouragement in Katniss’s ear.” I should be doing something better than snarking at Haymitch, but that's the exact problem. I have nothing. And no one. I have no mission. 

“We need Katniss to win this rebellion.” I want to laugh, because honestly, he thinks I don't know this? I shift my gaze to the far walls of the cell room. Where is everyone else?

“She doesn't need me.” The words that slip from my tongue are nothing but the truth. She doesn’t need me or anyone else. I’ve seen her fight; I’ve seen that familiar glint in her eyes. 

“The rebellion does—” Haymitch sighs then, his voice going softer, “Look, I know you. I was you.” I resist rolling my eyes, fingers grazing the bitter metal of the dining table. “You need a fight. Not to win but to have something to do, a purpose—” My lips gape softly at his dissection of my drive,“and I’m telling you that sitting here bitching to me isn’t going to do anything.” 

I look deeper, as if I can see his past beyond his sunken eyes. I don't know what happened during his games, but I suppose it doesn't really matter. The games, no matter how cruel, can tear apart anyone. 

“Sitting still feels like losing.” I mutter it, unhappy to be this close to vulnerability with Haymitch. I feel like an infant, crying about the ways of the world to an adult. 

“Yeah, I know the feeling.” He scoffs under his breath, “I’m not telling you to sit and wait. I’m telling you to find something bigger than yourself—find that drive that's kept you alive all these years.” 

“I had different motivations back then.” I whisper, the memory of my sister lingers like a phantom on my shoulder. 

“Do this for yourself.” Haymitch slams the rest of his drink. “Do it for Johanna, for Katniss, for Peeta—” his eyes flicker with something like guilt. “Do it for Finnick.” My tongue turns to sandpaper, thick and scratchy against my teeth as I find something to say to that. I haven’t thought about that golden-haired boy in a while. That makes me feel a little guilty. I spent a night in his bed only to disappear before he awoke the next morning. What must he have thought? Did he even ask someone where I am? Perhaps he’s still in that same room, in the same bed. 

“Alright.” Haymitch sighs, eyes tracing the conflicting emotion in my eyes, “You want to be useful? Learn to play the game. Listen, watch, and figure out what people need before they even know they need it. That’s how you stay ahead, how you survive.” 

“You’re saying I should just blend into the background?” My eyes narrow as I take in his words, his surprising heroic speech. Even if the sentences were slightly slurred and I could practically taste the alcohol on his breath. 

“I’m saying you should learn to pick your battles. Sometimes the smartest move isn’t the loudest one.” He shrugs then, grinning, “But hey, what do I know? I’m just the drunk with all the answers.” 

“Maybe you’re not as useless as you pretend to be.” A small smile forms on my face despite myself. Haymitch smiles too, raising his glass in a mock salute. 

“Don’t spread that around. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking I’ve gone soft.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The ceremony is mandatory. Watching Katniss stand on the metal pedestal next to Coin, as they declare her the Mockingjay (as if she hadn’t already declared that with her dress at the Quarter Quell) and everyone cheering as if that meant we had already won the war, only made makes my stomach twist. 

The war isn't close to being over. It is just beginning. 

It’s been brewing for centuries, ever since the first Hunger Games. 

My eyes are locked on Katniss, who doesn't look entirely convinced she should be here. Her lips are turned down, and her fingers twitch at her sides. She's got a storm of anger in her eyes. It's a kind of storm brewed by fire, something that even now, she doesn't seem to lack. The fire softens when she looks down, finding her mother and sister smiling up at her as if they could burst into tears. 

I know I shouldn't, but I envy her. 

She has things I've lost. She has things I've never found. Not because she's spoiled or lucky, but because she's got something I never did. A strength I can never seem to muster.

She's the chosen one. 

And I will just be another person who dies helping her end centuries of murder and suffering.

"Today marks the beginning of a new era." Coin's voice trails out through my thoughts, her voice is as steady as a dictator's, "One where the Capitol no longer holds the leash, where the Games are nothing but a relic of the past. With Katniss Everdeen as our Mockingjay, we will unite. We will fight. And we will win." 

The crowd erupts into cheers, but I don’t feel any lighter. If anything, my stomach twists tighter.

Katniss barely reacts, her shoulders taut as she stares at the crowd. It’s almost like she can see through them—past the adoration, past the desperation—to the truth that none of them want to acknowledge.

We aren’t close to winning. We aren’t even close to surviving.

I glance around at the people in the crowd, their faces lifted in hopeful reverence. 

A weight settles against my ribs, pressing down, and before I can stop myself, my eyes drift across the gathering. I scan each face for anyone who might seem as cryptic as I am, but instead-

That’s when I find him.

Finnick’s gaze is already on me. 

How could I ever forget the look of his eyes? The sea within them can be seen even from across the room. The shades of blue are darker today as he looks at me like something he lost. 

He’s standing near the edge of the crowd, partially obscured by the sea of bodies, but I could pick him out anywhere. His shoulders are squared, his expression carefully blank, but I know better.

There’s something in his eyes. Something unreadable, something knowing.

I should look away. I should pretend I didn’t see him watching me the way he is—like he knows what I’m thinking before I can even admit it to myself.

But I don’t.

Because for a split second, before I can blink or breathe or remind myself why this is a bad idea, I swear his lips twitch as if he might softly smile at me. 

But then he brings his head down, and takes a couple of steps forwards. 

Towards me. 

My heart races. I don't think I can keep myself together in front of him. 

"Abby." My name doesn't come from his lips. I turn around, only to find the Mockingjay herself in front of me. 

"Katniss." I furrow my brows at her. I swear she almost seems nervous. 

"Can I speak with you?" Her voice is low, like its a secret she doesn't want anyone else to hear. 

"Oh." I blink. "Uh-" 

I crane my head over my shoulder to look for him. 

But Finnick is gone. 

As if he was never even there. 

"Yeah," I swallow my disappointment, "Of course." 

Chapter Text

Finnick's POV

Finnick pushes through the crowd, his pulse hammering against his ribs. The cheers behind him feel suffocating, like the walls of a cage closing in. He needs out. Away from the speeches, away from the eyes watching his every move.

Away from her.

Because the moment his gaze locked with hers, something inside him cracked. His fingers had twitched, and his feet were moving before he could begin to stop them. He didn't know what he was thinking. If Katniss hadn't grabbed her attention, he would have done something stupid. Something stupid like touching her hand or murmuring how he hadn't slept these last few days. Or asked her why she left without a word- like he was some secret she wanted to keep.

Finnick doesn’t stop until he’s past the main hall, where the hum of the crowd fades into the distant roar of war preparations. His footsteps echo through the dim light of the building, and he doesn't even know where he's heading. He just needs out.

“Finnick.”

He turns, already knowing who it is before he sees him.

Plutarch Heavensbee stands in the corridor, his expression carefully unreadable. That alone makes Finnick wary. 

Sure, Plutarch was pretty much the only reason Finnick is standing here now. Thanks to his involvement during the Quarter Quell, but that doesn't mean he's not capable of working for Snow. 

“I was hoping to catch you,” Plutarch says, stepping closer. “The Mockingjay is coming along well, but I believe we need something more. Something… human.”

“I’m guessing this isn’t a casual conversation.” Finnick crosses his arms, already not liking where this conversation is heading. God, his head is pounding, and he can practically feel the dark circles forming underneath his eyes. 

Plutarch smiles. “You always were perceptive.” He pauses, then tilts his head down the hallway. Finnick looks, and then wishes he hadn't; he sees Abby walking past with Katniss. “Your relationship with her.”

“What about it?” A muscle feathers in Finnick’s jaw.

Plutarch clasps his hands behind his back. “You know as well as I do how powerful love is in times of war. The people need something to believe in. Something to root for. And from what I can tell, you care about her quite a bit.”

Anger swarms his vision until his fingers are curling into fists. 

Finnick stiffens. “She doesn’t even know.”

“All the better,” Plutarch says smoothly. “A slow reveal. An undercurrent of tension, of longing—something real. Something we can build on.”

Finnick lets out a humorless laugh. “You want me to sell my feelings?”

As if the Capital hasn't sold everything else? Finnick's hands shake with frustration. He's given them everything. 

They already took his family, his friends, and his home. 

They have already sold his body. 

No, they would not take this from him, too. 

“I want you to use them,” Plutarch corrects. “Like we’re using Katniss and Peeta. People fight harder when they have something to fight for. And love? Love is the greatest motivator there is.”

Finnick shakes his head. “No.”

Plutarch exhales as if he expected as much. “You care about her, don’t you?”

Finnick doesn’t answer.

Because yes. He does. 

And that might be all that he has left. 

Plutarch steps closer, his voice quieting. “Love is dangerous in a time like this, Odair.”

Finnick meets his gaze, something sharp and unwavering in his own. “So is giving people something to exploit.”

Plutarch studies him, then sighs. “Think about it.”

“I already have,” Finnick mutters.

Plutarch nods once, then turns and disappears down the hall.

Finnick exhales, pressing a hand to the wall as if it might steady him.

Because the truth is, Plutarch is right.

Love is dangerous.

And if he’s not careful, it’ll be the thing that destroys them both.

Abby's POV

I follow Katniss through the halls and past a corridor. I hear voices coming from it, but I don't bother glancing. She finds a room, empty and blank just like all the others.

The door clicks shut. 

“Coin wants me to make Propaganda videos,” she says, voice flat. “Plutarch does too. But I don’t know how to do this.” She gets straight to the point, and it's not her bluntness that takes me off guard but rather her words. 

I blink. She’s asking me for advice?

“Katniss,” I say carefully, “why are you asking me?”

I see her hesitate, as if she's pondering the answer herself. But then her jaw clenches, irritation forming in her eyes. “Because you don’t like Coin either.”

That catches me off guard. 

She shifts, arms still tight around herself. “I know you see through all of this.”

Looking at her closer now, she doesn't look like the invincible Mockingjay but rather a hollow and broken version of it. She looks devastated and destroyed. Almost lifeless. 

I see myself in her eyes. 

She’s right, but it doesn’t stop the doubt curling in my stomach.

“I don’t know if my advice would help.”

Katniss exhales sharply, as if she’s frustrated—not at me, but at everything. “I just… I don’t want to be their puppet. I don’t want to be Snow’s, either. I need to figure out how to make this my own.”

That, I do understand.

I hesitate, then nod. “Then don’t give them what they expect. Make them work around you.”

She studies me, and for the first time since she approached me, something in her expression softens with something of interest. 

"Make sure you have control over what you'll be saying, don't just read the lines they provide." I continue, "Nothing they release goes without being approved by you." When she doesn't seem motivated, I lower my voice, "Katniss, who are you doing this for?" 

I know the answer. She does too. 

Her irises sharpen as if I've struck something within her. 

“They posted another video,” she says quietly.

My stomach drops.

“Of Peeta.”

The world narrows. Everything—the distant sound of voices, the dim lighting of the hall—fades under the weight of those words.

I was lucky enough to not have seen the first videos of Peeta. I've heard enough. 

I don’t even realize I’ve stopped breathing until Katniss speaks again. 

“He’s worse.” Her voice wavers, but she doesn’t cry. “I thought… I thought I was prepared to see him like that, but I wasn’t.”

I feel sick.

“I—” My voice dies in my throat.

Because what am I supposed to say? That I know what it feels like to be powerless? That I know what it’s like to watch someone suffer and be unable to stop it? That I know how much it hurts?

Katniss looks at me then, her gray eyes burning. “We have to get them out.”

Peeta. Johanna.

I swallow, nodding.

Because she’s right.

And if we don’t do something soon, there won’t be anything left of them to save.

I steel myself, pushing past the storm of emotions churning inside me. “What can I do to help?”

Katniss looks down for a second, as if debating whether to ask me. Then, when she meets my gaze again, her expression is set.

“I need you there. When I do the propos.”

I frown. “You think Coin—”

“I don’t trust her,” she interrupts. “And I know you don’t either.” She exhales sharply. “I just… I need someone watching her while I do this. Just in case.”

A cold feeling creeps into my chest. Coin is calculating, careful. She’s not a brute like Snow, but that doesn’t make her any less dangerous.

Katniss is right to be wary.

I nod. “Okay. I’ll be there.”

She doesn’t say thank you, but she doesn’t have to. The weight of the moment settles between us, silent and heavy.

And we both know—whatever happens next, we’re walking into a battlefield.

Chapter Text

Finnick's POV

It's been three years. 

One-thousand and ninety-seven days. 

He watched the reaping; of course, he had. 

Part of him knew deep down that her name would be called, but his body was begging whatever god might listen for them to spare her. She didn't deserve to go through the games again. 

Not that anyone did.

But he's selfish. 

And then there was that sick part of him that was happy he would be able to see her again. To have a better last memory with her than the one at the hotel room. 

She must hate him.

He hates himself too.

He'd been buzzing with anxious energy as his stylist rubbed oil all over his skin to make him shine for the crowd.

What would he say to her? What would she say? 

Would she tell him to go fuck himself? He wouldn't doubt it. 

None of those questions matter anymore, because he sees her. 

He's in the middle of playing his role as the egotistical victor, driving Katniss Everdeen past annoyance and into murderous frustration- when he sees her. 

And fuck, she's looking at him. 

She's as beautiful as the first time he met her. Her brown hair is practically black in the lighting, her brown eyes are sharp from the dark makeup, and her face- there hasn't been a day that's passed that he hasn't pictured it. 

Her eyes are narrowed at him, as Katniss scoffs something to him that he can't even pretend he's listening to.

His heart is pounding, it might even fall out of his chest.

He turns to Katniss, head cocked with a giant smile in a way that doesn't make him seem as flawless as he is supposed to pretend to be. 

What were they talking about again? Secrets? Money? A wedding? 

"As wonderful as it is to meet you, I'm afraid I've just seen someone I must grace with my presence." He flashes his dimples, but it's all just for show. Katniss raises an eyebrow, confused by his sudden disinterest in bothering her. 

"Have a nice day." Finnick pops the sugar cube into his mouth and turns to leave. He passes a slightly worried-looking Peeta, who nods at him. "Peeta." He nods back in greeting before walking past.

Straight to her. 

Abby's POV

The first propaganda video goes well enough. 

Not at first. 

The lines are scripted, practically dripping with the words of someone who has no idea what it is like to suffer. They sound like alienable words coming from Katniss's mouth. 

But then, her fire came through and she found her own words. 

Not for them, but for Peeta. 

I spent the time restless, my leg shaking as I sat with a narrowed gaze on everyone in the room. 

"Well, that went well." Haymitch drawls beside me, his usual amused smirk dotting his face. 

"I'm sure it's exactly what Coin wanted." Sarcasm drips from my tone as I sit up in my seat. My limbs ache from the constant stillness. I need to move. I need to do something besides sitting. 

"I'm guessing we have you to thank for that." He gives me a knowing look, his hair falling into his face. 

"I don't know why she wanted my opinion, but she took it." I shrug, stretching my arms behind my back. 

"Do me a favor?" Haymitch sighs, "Instead of causing more chaos today, do something?" He's almost teasing, eyes twitching with mirth and annoyance. 

"Fuck off." I scoff at him, "If I had something else to do, I would be doing it." 

"Go visit Beetee, or Effie, or do us all a favor and go see your lover boy, Finnick." 

I freeze, stopping in my tracks from where I was about to leave. I turn to him with surprised eyes. 

"Beetee is here?" I ask, which earns me a sarcastic look from Haymitch. 

"That little tech bird is practically sleeping in the training room, designing all kinds of new tech." He tells me as if it is obvious. 

I roll my eyes, but his words do spark some curiosity. Beetee's mind works in ways I can't even begin to understand. His gadgets and tech have saved lives. And if he's busy designing, maybe he's got something new, something useful, something that could give us an edge in the fight. I turn on my heel, heading toward the training room without another word to Haymitch.

The door to the training room opens with a soft creak, and the familiar hum of machinery fills the air. It's almost eerie, the quiet concentration that hangs around the space. I see Beetee before I even hear him. He’s sitting in a wheelchair near a table full of various weapons and gadgets, his face illuminated by the soft glow of screens. 

"Beetee," I call softly, my voice cutting through the stillness.

His head snaps up, and despite the strain in his face from his condition, there's a spark of recognition in his eyes. His lips quirk into a small, appreciative smile. 

"Ah, Abby," he says, his voice a mix of warmth and exhaustion. "What brings you here?"

I approach, noticing the intricacies of the weapons laid out in front of him—each one more carefully crafted than the last.

"I was told you were busy," I reply, my gaze flicking over to the devices. "What are you working on?"

Beetee gestures to the weapons with a faint nod, his fingers lightly grazing the surface of each as he speaks.

"I’ve been thinking about what would be most useful for the team," he explains, his voice steady and focused. "For Katniss, of course, a bow... something fitting her skill. And for Finnick..." He gestures to a trident with a wicked gleam in his eye. "A weapon that suits him well."

I glance over, intrigued by the sharpness of the trident's gleaming silver prongs. Then my eyes fall on a more familiar weapon: an ax, one designed for me. 

For a moment, I just stand there, taking it in. The ax is heavier than I would have imagined, but its design is perfect—balanced, sharp, deadly.

"You’ve been thinking about this for a while," I say quietly, almost to myself.

Beetee’s eyes flick to mine, his hands pausing over the ax’s handle.

"Well, I know what you're capable of," he says thoughtfully. "And I know what you'll need to defend yourself. This—this will suit you."

I can’t help but feel a rush of gratitude. Beetee always had a way of seeing people for who they were, even when they couldn't see it themselves.

I reach for the ax slowly, testing its weight in my hands, and I feel an odd sense of comfort. The weight feels like control, like power I didn’t know I had, but now that it’s here, it feels right.

"I don't know if I'm ready to wield this," I admit softly, not sure why the words spill out.

Beetee gives me a knowing look, his eyes softening in a way I didn’t expect. "None of us ever are," he says, voice low. "But when the time comes, you’ll be ready. We all will."

Chapter Text

Finnick's POV

I'm walking through the halls again. I never have an ending destination. But the endless circles are better than sitting in my room. 

In fact, the endless circles just mirror my thoughts. 

I should be thinking about the lingering doom of destruction and death. I should be thinking about war and strategy, even thinking about avenging all the wrongs that have tarnished my life. 

But instead, all I think about is her. 

Every night I just replay one of my most treasured memories to keep the nightmares away.

Everything is sparkling and bright. It blinds me. I haven't gotten used to Capital parties. Not after all these years. I still feel the same as the day I won the games. A hole inside me that no substance can seem to fill. 

We’re celebrating a new victor. My presence is mandatory. But there's people all around me, circling me like vultures. My body is pulsing pure anxiety through my shaking bones. Everyone wants something from me. I'm only seventeen, I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be looked at like this. 

The crowd has me trapped under the vulnerable spotlight. My lips are in a smirk, keeping up my facade as Panem's golden boy. They are all around me, and coming closer. Too close for comfort. There's hands on my arms and my back, fingers twitching on my skin. 

"how about you and I-" 

"how young are you again?" 

All of their seductive questions and glaring glances make my stomach turn. I feel my skin begin to sweat but I keep up the performance. 

No words can form. I think this is going to be my death- but then in a flash of a second the crowd begins to quiet. Murmurs echo as I watch them turn to something- to someone. 

“What is she doing?” An older woman questions as she ogles the form. They whisper and gawk like vipers. 

“She looks delicious” Another giggles, and that familiar rage fills my veins. Then, the crowd parts. The dazzling glitter seems to dim as I recognize the familiar form. 

“Huntress.” A man gawks. 

There she is. Walking with her head down right towards me. She doest give a single look or smile to any of the capital peacocks. No. I am the one she’s walking to. Her dark hair is pinned up in a way that makes me yearn to let it loose. But I keep such longing thoughts to myself. 

She looks up then, head tilting up to offer a scowl to the people of the Capital. I bite my cheek to keep from smiling in pride. I can't help it, the way she holds herself with glares and wits is the opposite of the show I have to put on. 

"Finnick." She looks up at me, and I can't help the genuine smile that forms on my face. My name on her lips is a sound I'm afraid I am beginning to get addicted to. 

Fuck, she looks beautiful. Even in the bright orange dress her stylist made her wear, all I can do is stare at her. 

"Hi, honey." Maybe I shouldn't call her that, but it feels so natural and it's worth it when her cheeks flush. It makes me want to call her it again. "I didn't know you'd be here."

"I like to keep you on your toes." She shrugs, and although she pretends not to notice the eyes surrounding us- I can tell. Her shoulders are tense and her fingers are twitching at her sides. I yearn to reach out and grasp them. 

Usually this is the part where I quip something back, something flirtatious, but instead I blurt out; 

“Want to get out of here?” 

For the first time since I was a young child, my cheeks flush. I feel like a timid little boy with a school crush. 

“Yes.” She blinks in surprise but still breathes out her answer, her own cheeks holding a scarlet hue. 

I don't hesitate to take her hand, and lead her away from the prying eyes. The warmth floods through my body, and my racing heart seems to begin to relax. I pull us through the crowd who all gawk as we walk by. I feel their stares and glares but I don’t give a damn about them as I put a shaking hand to her lower waist to lead us. I'm being selfish and stupid, I know this. If my publicist saw me now, he would probably murder me himself. 

She snatches a bottle of a wine from a waiter as we walk, and doesn't falter in her steps. Her heels make her taller tonight, but I still have the ability to tower over her. I like the feeling, knowing I can see any threats before her- not that she needs my protection.   

We are headed towards a secluded area, and I know what everyone must think. 

I  know they are labeling us. Calling me insults and dissecting whatever relationship I have with the brunette young woman next to me. I don’t even know what we are. And honestly, I don’t give a fuck. Let them call it what they want to. 

We end up at an extravagant yet secluded swimming pool. The pool water twinkles from some capital like flare- but its trying too hard. The ocean doesn't need any mechanics to be beautiful, it simply is. 

“Thank you.” She murmurs as the wind blows between us and she takes a seat at the edge of the body of water. She slips her feet into the water and hisses at the chill. I can't help but smile. 

I follow her without hesitation. Our feet dangle in the water, the coldness calming my nerves. 

“You don’t need to thank me.” I shrug as I speak softly, “I stole you away for purely selfish reasons” 

“Oh yeah?” She raises an eyebrow, “Please do enlighten me Mr. Odair” 

“I can’t” I grin, “You’ll have to wait and see." She rolls her eyes at me, but it only encourages me. 

She opens up the bottle of wine, and takes a long sip from it. She offers it to me, her lipstick staining the glass, and I take it, only drinking a small amount. 

“I must say, this dress…” I trail off and she turns to me with a sharp glare. I'm teasing her because I enjoy seeing her get fired up- but truth be told she could be wearing the worst of Panem's fashion and I would still fall to my knees. 

“Don’t you dare!” She scolds me but I am already grinning at her with mischief. The air between us settles down but my heart is beating fast from the proximity to her. If I just moved my hand slightly, our fingers would brush. 

“What?” I gasp as I nudge her shoulder, “It's not that bad, I just thought you were the sun at first because of how bright you were-” 

“Finnick” She gapes as I laugh. She nudges me back with a look of annoyance, but her laughter gives her away. “I already feel ridiculous.” 

“I’m just messing with you” I nudge her again, and then because I can't resist- “I think you look great, just like a passionfruit-” 

“You son of a-” She gasps as she glares at me but I'm too busy laughing.

Then she pushes me, and I barely have time to widen my eyes before I'm falling into the aquamarine. Water overtakes me, so close to how the ocean feels. I hear her laughing and the sound is addicting. I feel as if starlight is in the water, soaking my skin and clothes. Her laughter is music and it intoxicates me. 

I reach out and grab her arm to bring her down with me. She gasps but even for the infamous Huntress, she can't escape my pull. 

Our laughter gets cut off by the water, as she splashes right next to me. I feel as if i'm floating. Her hair breaks free and the fabric of her dress clings to my skin- she looks ethereal. 

But I can’t stay under forever. So I swim to the surface, fingers paddling through the cold water, until I break the surface. 

“You are ridiculous.” She pushes her wet hair out of her face as we float. Her make up runs a little, but as it washes away it reveals her true beauty, not the Capitals. 

“Me?!” I sputter in disbelief, my smile so wide that it hurts my cheeks, “You pushed me in!!” 

“You deserved it!” I rolls my eyes with a wide smile. All I can focus on is the beating of my heart. Can she hear it? 

I wish time would freeze. I could spend hours just staring at her. How has it been months since I've seen her? 

“What?” She question me suspiciously as she notices my staring. 

“Nothing.” I smile at her, resisting the urge to tell her the truth. The truth that she's making my world tilt on its axis and I would gladly waste my life staring at her. But instead, I shrug and say, “I just didn’t know that dress could look any worse.” 

“Finnick!!” 

I turn the corner and nearly run straight into Haymitch.   

"Easy, Fish Boy," Haymitch grumbles, barely looking up as he shuffles through the hallway. He looks terrible, worse than ever. His shirt is wrinkled, his hair tangled, and his eyes are sunken. 

"What’s going on?" I narrow my gaze on the man in front of me. He's barely standing. If I had to guess, I would say his portions of alcohol are almost completely gone. The side effects of withdrawal must be kicking in.  

Haymitch exhales heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. "They’re filming another one. Propo. District Eight."

I frown at the thought. I had heard the first couple went well- well enough. I haven't met Coin yet, apparently her high and powerful has no need to see a broken victor.  

"They’re actually sending Katniss out?" I try to keep my disapproval from my tone, but Haymitch catches it. 

"Not just Katniss," Haymitch mutters. "She’s taking a whole team. Gale, Boggs, the camera crew."  

My stomach twists. I understand the idea behind the propos but to put the leader of the rebellion in open fire? I don't like the idea of Katniss being so vulnerable. She's only a kid. 

"Where exactly in District Eight?" I question as Haymitch begins walking again, to which I follow his pace. 

He gives me a sidelong glance, as if debating whether or not to tell me. I hold his gaze until he sighs with defeat. 

"The hospital." 

My steps falter. 

"The bombed hospital?" My voice comes out sharper than expected. But honestly, what sort of idea is this? 

Haymitch nods as I stare at him, waiting for a punchline, some indication that this is a joke or a hallucination. 

But the older man just sighs and rolls his shoulders.  

"Who thought that was a good idea?" I snap at Haymitch, knowing he doesn't deserve it. 

"It wasn’t exactly up for debate."  

I run a hand through my hair. I knew they were going to use Katniss for the rebellion, but sending her into a Warzone? Into a place the Capitol had already bombed once?  

"What the hell are they thinking?" 

"Look, I've already got Abby yelling at me three times a day, I don't need your input too." Haymitch rubs a hand down his face with exhaustion. 

I freeze at the mention of her. I stop walking. 

Haymitch does too. 

"How is she?" My voice loses its anger as I ask him. I watch his eyes shift with something I can't decipher between pity or envy.

"She's a real pain in the ass." Haymitch attempts to joke, but sees my desperate eyes and sighs, "She's struggling. But she's also stubborn and restless-" Haymitch hesitates then, and it sends my pulse hammering.

 "what is it?" I ask, stepping forwards. He looks like he doesn't want to tell me, or as if he's not allowed to tell me. "Haymitch, tell me." 

"She's going with Katniss." He admits, "To district 8." 

The world stops. My heart drops. I feel sick. 

"What do you mean she's going?" My brows are furrowed as panic crawls up my neck, "Who's orders?!" 

"She volunteered." 

Why? Why would she do that? It's too dangerous- 

"And you let her?!" I know it's not fair, to be yelling at him. 

"As much as you would all like to believe, I don't have the power to protect you all." Haymitch snaps, his eyes shifting with guilt, "just ask Peeta." he mutters.

I swallow my anger. The mention of Peeta makes my stomach sick. 

Peeta and Johanna are suffering- and I will not stand by and let her to be hurt too. 

"Where is she?" I ask, pratically humming with anxiety and frustration. God, what is she thinking? 

 "Training room."  

I turn on my heel and stalk towards the training room without bidding Haymitch a goodbye.

My hands curl into fists. 

I know it's not reasonable for me to be angry with her. I'm not her-

Anything. I have no say in what she does. And lord knows she can protect herself. 

But I cannot lose her. 

I don't know what I'm going to say to her. 

There's too many words I never told her. So many things we never did. Too many things she doesn't know. 

But I know one thing for certain.  

There's no way I'm going to let her walk into this without me.

Chapter Text

Abby's POV

age thirteen.

I was always so excited to turn thirteen. Turning thirteen meant I was officially a teenager. 

Old enough to whisper secrets and share hidden kisses, but young enough to be careless and chaotic.

Not that I have ever been able to be careless. 

No, it would seem my burden has always been to care too much.

I still have tear stains on my ruby cheeks from my father's episode earlier today, but I put on my best dress, something my sister sewed up from scraps she's collected. It's layers of denim and cotton in the shades of eucalyptus and pine needles. I pick at the hem of the dress as I wait in line towards the reaping. 

I've never felt like I belong in a dress. No matter how beautiful it might be, I feel too rough. My hands are too callused, my fingernails too rough, and my hair too tangled. But my sister wanted me to look my best, and I wanted her to be happy. 

"well, you clean up nice sweetheart." There's a low voice calling out to me towards the left, as soon as I step through the gates and into the reaping ceremony. 

My heart clenches with foolish hope, as I turn to see him. 

Elias stands there, his shirt pressed and his hair brushed. For a moment, I fool myself into believing his words are genuine but then I see that smirk on his face. 

"Elias." I nod his way, not strong enough to bite back at him. It's so stupid, to have a crush on someone who barely notices me.

Especially when I have greater things to worry about, like my name being drawn. 

He says something else, but the words drown as peacekeepers begin shouting and ordering us to our places. 

I follow orders, anxiety flushing through me.

I stay calm and gentle- trying my best to go unnoticed by any watching eyes. I dig my nails into my palms in order to ground me.

The anthem begins, ringing through the square, hollow and familiar. I’ve heard it every year, but today it feels sharper, the notes sinking into my skin like tiny blades.

The escort takes the stage, their smile too bright, too rehearsed. Their voice is high and cheerful, a painful contrast to the silence that has fallen over the crowd. My stomach twists.

I take a brief glance around the crowd, wondering which poor souls will have their fate deemed today. I spot people I've grown up with, some crying and some glaring. And then, I see my father. He's on the other side of the fence, watching me as if I have any choice in what happens. 

I look away from his lifeless eyes.

I keep my breathing steady as they begin their speech, the same one they recite every year, but my mind is elsewhere. I think of my sister’s hands, how they worked tirelessly to piece together my dress. I think of Elias, standing somewhere behind me, his presence a distraction I can’t afford.

"And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for!"

I flinch as the escort reaches into the glass bowl. The world around me slows.

My fingers tremble at my sides. I press them into the fabric of my dress, trying to still them.

The paper unfolds.

A name is called.

It takes me a second to understand. To register the shape of it, the sound of it.

Then it sinks in.

It’s my name.

I don't remember walking up the stage, through my teary eyes and shaking limbs. But I look at the crowd, only to see no remorse. They are all glad it's not them standing up here. Then, I look to the fence for my father. 

He's gone. 

I throw the ax with as much strength as I can, my stitches still healing. It chucks across the room in a fast blur, then nails the target with a sharp thud. The mannequin's chest is impaled and tearing in styrofoam pieces. 

I release a pant, wiping sweat from my brow. I must have been training for hours at this point. I haven't been keeping track of time through my mixture of conditioning and the unwelcome memories that plague my mind. It's not the worst memory I have, but that doesn't mean I want to replay it. It already happened. My fate was sealed that day, and here I am again, training as I prepare for war. 

This time, I'm not fighting for just my life. I'm fighting for everyone who's died by the Capital's hands. For everyone I've lost. 

And I'm not fighting innocent children or careless victors. No, I'm fighting the cruel mechanical workings of Snow. 

I push the stray hairs that have escaped my tied up hair, the sweat coating them as they cling to my skin. 

My breathing levels out as I go to retrieve my ax. But the door slams open and startles me. 

"Are you insane?" I turn at the passionate words, only to find Finnick standing in the doorway. 

"Finnick?" My brows furrow as I take him in. His chest is rising fast and his shoulders are tense. "What's wrong?" 

"What's wrong?" He lets out a humorless laugh, stalking towards me with purposeful steps, "What's wrong is that you've lost your mind!" 

"Will you just get to the point?" I roll my eyes at him. I move to walk past him and towards the weaponry table, but he gently grips my arm to keep me still. His touch sends a flush through my body- as if I'm more touched starved than I realized. 

"Haymitch said you're going to District 8 with Katniss." He says it as if he's begging me to deny it. 

"Yeah, I am." I blink at him. Finnick’s grip tightens on my arm—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that I feel the heat of his palm searing through my sleeve.  

"No." His jaw tightens as he shakes his head. My brows knit in frustration. 

"What do you mean no?" I let out a humorless laugh, "I don't need your permission." I pull my arm from his grasp, and he lets me. 

"You're still healing. You can barely breathe without wincing, and you're going to throw yourself into an active war zone?" His voice is steel now, his sea-green eyes flashing with frustration.

"Finnick, I can handle myself." I remind him, my voice going lower. 

"That's not the damn point!" He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "You think I don’t know you’re strong? That you’re more than capable? You think I’m underestimating you?" He steps closer, and I hate the way my pulse spikes when he does. "Because I’m not. I know exactly how capable you are. But that doesn’t mean you’re invincible."

"I never said I was." I scoff, crossing my arms. 

"But you're acting like it," he snaps. "You throw yourself into everything like you don’t care if you make it out or not. And I can't—" He cuts himself off, looking away for a second like he's trying to wrestle his thoughts back under control. "I can't stand there and watch you march into another fight when you’re still bleeding from the last one."  

I falter for half a second. But I can't let myself break now.  

"Finnick, I have to do this," I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. "I'm not like you. I don’t have anyone to hide behind or protect. This war—this fight—it’s all I have left."  

Tears threaten to form in my eyes. There's a lump in my throat when I think about everyone who's gone. 

His head snaps back toward me, his expression unreadable.

"Don't say that." He rasps out, voice quieter now but just as intense, "Don't act like you no one would care if you didn't come back-" He swallows then, eyes flashing with pain, "I would care." 

I want to challenge him, to tell him that he doesn't care for me in the way that would change my mind. But this isn't a battle I want to fight. 

So, instead I bite the inside of my cheek. 

"I can't sit here and wait." I breathe out, "I have to go." 

He sighs in defeat, like he knows there's no way to change my mind. 

"Please be careful." His tone is soft and desperate, as his hands come up to grasp face. "Promise me, you'll be careful." He looks me deep in my eyes, and I stare right back. A hundred memories of us flashes between our frames. I wonder if this might be my last chance to kiss him. Should I lift up on my toes and press my lips to his, to see what it feels like? This fantasy I've dreamt of for years now- but I guess some things I'll just have to die never knowing. I blink away my desires and accept our reality. 

"I promise." 

Chapter Text

Abby's POV

The hospital in District 8 smells like antiseptic and blood. The air is thick with sickness and desperation, and the walls feel too thin—too fragile to keep out the war pressing in from all sides.

I move through the crowded space, hands steady even as my heart pounds. I wasn’t supposed to be here, but Coin insisted, and Plutarch promised I’d be useful. So here I am, helping however I can—holding a child’s hand while a medic stitches up his leg, pressing bandages into the palm of a nurse too exhausted to ask.

Then I feel a small tug on my sleeve.

I look down and see a girl—maybe seven or eight—her face pale, a bandage wrapped tight around her head. A medic kneels beside her, carefully splinting her arm, but she barely flinches. Her fingers tighten around mine.

“You’re her, aren’t you?” she asks, her voice hoarse but certain.

I swallow. “Who?”

“The Huntress,” she whispers, eyes wide with something that looks too much like admiration. “You fight the Capitol. You fight for us.”

I blink. My throat is tight.

My nickname has always seemed like a curse. Why would I want to be called a Hunter, if I had to murder innocent people to get it? I used to hate it. The name sent disgust down my spine, but coming from this little girl. It makes me freeze.

I’ve never seen myself that way. A soldier, a survivor, a weapon, maybe—but never a hero.

“I—” I don’t know what to say.

She smiles anyway, squeezing my hand. “You’re my hero.”

My breath catches.

The words shouldn’t hit as hard as they do, but they burrow under my skin, settle in the cracks of me I try to keep hidden. I open my mouth—to tell her I’m not, to tell her she’s the brave one, sitting here with an arm broken by the Capitol’s bombs and still finding something to believe in—but then—

A single, distant whistle. Then another.

My stomach drops.

I barely have time to turn before the first explosion shakes the ground beneath me. Screams erupt. The walls tremble. The force of it throws me forward, slamming me into a gurney. Pain flares in my ribs, but there’s no time to dwell on it. Smoke billows in from a collapsing hallway, and then—

“Get down!” a voice yells.

I don’t know if it’s Katniss or Gale or one of the medics, but I obey, throwing myself to the floor as a second explosion rips through the ceiling. Debris rains down, metal and concrete, and someone’s arm yanks me backward just before a beam crashes where I was kneeling.

The world is fire and dust. The moans of the wounded turn to panicked cries. I shove a broken chair off my legs, coughing as I struggle to get up. My ears are ringing, my vision blurry—but I see Katniss, bow in hand, pushing through the chaos. She looks up.

And then I see it too.

The Capitol’s hovercrafts, sleek and silver, gliding through the smoke-choked sky like vultures circling their dying prey.

I scramble to my feet, ignoring the ache in my body, and spin around—searching. The child. The girl with the broken arm.

She’s still there, curled on the cot where I left her, trembling, eyes darting around in terror. My heart lurches as I stumble toward her, reaching out—

Then the firebombs drop.

The blast sends a wave of searing heat through the wreckage. I throw my arms over my head, bracing against the force, but the screams—God, the screams—cut deeper than the flames ever could.

Through the smoke, I see Katniss rising. A living ember in the ruins. She nocks an arrow, fires—one shot, then another, straight into the belly of the beast above us. Her rage, her grief, her defiance—it’s enough to make the world stand still.

I force myself forward. My body aches, my hands tremble, but I grab whoever I can, dragging them away from the worst of it. A woman clutches my sleeve, her lips forming words I can’t hear, her eyes wide with terror. I help her up, push her toward the door—toward life.

Some won’t make it. I know that.

But I search for her anyway.

For the little girl who called me her hero.

I never find her. I search until my fingers bleed and my throat is raw. 

It happened again. I couldn't save her. 

She was a child. 

She believed in me. 

And I pray to whatever gods are left that she was wrong. That I can still be one.

Finnick’s POV

The ticking of the clock is relentless. A steady, rhythmic sound that only serves to stretch the time thinner, making every second feel like a minute, every minute like an hour.

The underground halls of District 13 feel colder than usual. Or maybe it’s just me.

I pace near the entrance, my boots scuffing against the dull concrete floor. My hands won’t stop fidgeting—running through my hair, clenching and unclenching into fists, rubbing against my arms like I can shake off the tension settling in my bones. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker slightly, casting long shadows against the gray walls.

She should be back by now.

My chest tightens at the thought. It was dangerous sending them out there—sending her out there. I knew it. I told her. I fought with her about it. And yet, she went anyway.

Because of course she did.

That’s who she is.

She wouldn’t stand by while people suffered. She wouldn’t let herself be locked away, safe in the depths of 13, while the Capitol tore through the districts like a wildfire. She told me she could handle herself. That she wasn’t a child, that I didn’t need to protect her.

But she doesn’t understand—I do need to protect her.

She’s not just another soldier in this war. Not to me.

The distant sound of rushed footsteps echoes through the corridors, followed by the static of the intercoms crackling to life. My head snaps up, heart hammering. A moment later, voices carry down the hall—urgent, tired, defeated.

Then I see them.

Katniss steps in first, her expression grim, covered in soot and dirt, carrying exhaustion in every step. Gale is right beside her, his jaw tight as he helps another soldier limp forward. And then—

There she is.

Blood stains her sleeves. The fabric near her shoulder is torn, dark with crimson. There’s dirt on her cheeks, smudged over drying tear tracks. Her hair is falling loose, strands plastered to her skin. And she looks—

She looks broken.

I don’t think. I just move.

I push past the others, closing the distance between us in a matter of seconds. My hands are on her immediately, searching, desperate. I grab her arms, eyes scanning for the worst of her injuries, trying to assess where she’s hurt.

“Where?” I breathe out. My voice sounds off—too raw, too shaky. “Where are you hurt?”

She blinks up at me, dazed, like she isn’t entirely here.

“Are you okay? Talk to me.” My hands brush over a gash on her forearm, and I bite back a curse. “You shouldn’t have—”

Her lip trembles.

And that’s when I realize.

It’s not the pain of her injuries that’s breaking her.

Her voice is barely a whisper when she speaks.

“I couldn’t save them.” Her breath hitches, and the weight of the words crushes the air from my lungs. “I couldn’t save her.”

And then—she shatters.

Her body caves forward, and I catch her. My arms wrap around her as she buries her face into my chest, shoulders shaking. A quiet, broken sob escapes her lips.

I hold her tighter.

I hold her like I can somehow piece her back together, like I can take away the weight she’s carrying, like I can make it hurt less.

But I can’t.

So I just keep holding her. Like I should have done that night when she had to watch her tributes die.

age eighteen.

She wasn't supposed to be here. My publicist promised me the infamous Huntress would not be a mentor for these games. 

I should have known better, my publicist has always been a goddamn liar. 

I knew I wouldn't be able to face her. 

I thought this new life of mine was hell. The endless nights and unwanted touches- but then, she cried.

I made her cry. 

Now that was hell.

Watching her walk out of the party, with tears falling down her face. 

No one expects the infamous Huntress to care about anyone. But I know her better. I knew her better than that. 

"Well, well, well," Someone clears their throat and the people surrounding me scatter like flies. "That was quite the performance, Mr. Odair." 

I don't have to turn to know who it is. The voice will forever be burned into my mind, along with the strong smell of roses and blood.

"President Snow." I turn, because I have to, and nod at the small frame of a man before me. 

I could snap him like a twig. I should. I should end this right here and then run out of those gates and beg her for forgivance. 

But I can't. 

There would be too many consequences like this. It would start another war, and then the games would only get worse. And it would all be because of me.

"You always did obey orders well." My stomach curls at his sickening words. 

I am not obedient- I want to spit in his face. 

"I did my job. She hates me know." I mutter, "She'll never want to see me again."

Snow chuckles, a slow, satisfied sound. "Oh, Finnick. You still think this is about whether she wants to see you?" He steps closer, his breath curling around me like the scent of decay. "You forget—want has never mattered in the Capitol. You’re learning that well, aren’t you?"

I clench my jaw so tight I swear I hear my teeth crack. My nails bite into my palms, but I don’t dare react.

"She looked quite devastated," Snow continues, tilting his head as if he’s reminiscing. "Such a shame. And to think, you could’ve had her."

I don't take the bait. I won’t let him see that he’s already dug the knife in deep.

"I did what you wanted," I say instead. "That should be enough."

Snow hums, then places a hand on my shoulder, a light, almost fatherly gesture, but it makes my skin crawl. "Enough? Finnick, dear boy, you're far too important for enough. Your role isn't just to be wanted—it's to be needed. And I assure you, no one needs you more than the Capitol does."

I feel sick.

"Do you know what I love about heartbreak?" Snow muses, tapping a finger against his lips. "It makes people reckless. Desperate. And desperate people are so easy to control."

My stomach turns because I know what he’s really saying. Abby isn’t just devastated—she’s vulnerable now. And that means she’s a threat.

"If she gets in the way again…" Snow sighs, shaking his head as if he’s disappointed in the thought alone. "I trust we won’t have to revisit this conversation."

I swallow the rage burning my throat. "She won’t," I lie.

Because the truth is, I don’t know what Abby will do. I don’t know how deep her anger runs, how much it will fuel her, or if she’ll come for me just to demand answers. But I do know one thing.

She’s smart.

And if she ever finds out the real reason I pushed her away—if she realizes that the man she loathes is the one who loves her most—she’ll never stop until she burns this whole place to the ground.

Maybe I should let her.

But I know I can’t.

So I do the only thing I can. I nod, swallow back every ounce of grief trying to claw its way out of my chest, and let Snow believe he’s won.

For now.

Chapter Text

Abby's POV

Part of me doesn't know why I bothered to think I could change anything. I'm not a hero. I'm not Katniss. 

Just ask that little girl who died in District 8. 

I couldn't save her. 

I couldn't save Lyla, Orion, Peter, Elijah, my sister- and now I can't save Johanna either. 

Some district partner I turned out to be, I think bitterly. 

Every time I care for someone- when I try to protect them, it only gets them killed. Maybe I should just let the war take me, so I don't have to watch anyone else I care about get hurt. 

Like Finnick. 

God, I run a hand over my face in frustration, Finnick is going to be the death of me. 

I was ready to yell at him. How dare he act as if I'm not strong enough to protect myself? I can handle more than he thinks. 

But then I stepped off the jet, and there he was. 

Brows knitted in worry and his lips parted in a smile of relief when he saw me. Then he frowned, like he knew what I was thinking. 

He held me as I fell apart. Like he's done so many times before. 

Part of me feels selfish. How I let myself indulge his compassion to comfort myself. Then I go and push him away again. 

Why does he keep coming back? Why doesn't he get tired of this? Of me?

My fingers grasp the bracelet around my wrist. The aquamarine colored beads that remind me so much of his eyes. 

I wonder how Katniss does it. 

How can she be so strong while the love of her life is being tortured by Snow? How can she still lead a rebellion and a war? She's only seventeen. 

Her words from earlier replay in my mind. 

"Fire is catching! And if we burn, you burn with us!" 

The venom in her voice was enough to make anyone shiver. The fury in her eyes as fire burned everything around us. There she was, leading a rebellion after hitting down a capital bomber.

And where was I?

Choking down nausea on the sidelines, bruised and bloody. Weak. 

Stuck in the thoughts of my own self loathing, I don't notice that the alarms have begun to wail. The low hum hits a high octave, bouncing off the walls and making me cover my ears. My blood goes cold. 

Something's happening. 

Something bad. 

I exit my room swiftly, grabbing onto my door for support as the walls begin to shake. 

There's chaos all around me, people screaming and running. I'm wide eyed with terror as I whip my head around, looking for any familiar faces.

The ground trembles, just slightly—but enough to know this isn’t a drill.

The alarms are screaming now. A red glow pulses in the hallway, bathing the sterile white walls in a hellish light. My breath catches in your throat.

District 13 is being hit.

Hard.

I stumble forward into the hall as other people begin to rush past. Shouts echo—orders, panic, cries for loved ones. The chaos grows in seconds.

Someone grabs my elbow. I spin, heart slamming against my ribs—ready to strike, to run, to fight—

But it’s Finnick.

His hair is disheveled, eyes wild, chest rising and falling like he ran the whole way here. His hands are warm and solid on my arms, anchoring me.

"Abby," he breathes. "Thank God."

He’s scanning my face, my body, for injury. Even now. Even while sirens scream and the ground shudders, all he sees is me. 

"What's happening?" I ask frantically, although I could probably guess. 

"The Capital's bombing us." Finnick informs me, his voice rough with desperation. "Come on, we need to get to the bunker." He pulls me with his, gently but urgent, and begins to follow the crowd. We weave in between uniform individuals with their gray jumpsuits and frantic movements. 

He has one of his hands, large and firm, against my lower back as he navigates me through the chaos. 

I know I've been through worse than this, but as we climb down stairs upon stairs upon stairs- my mind is reeling and my skin is pale as ice. 

This could be the end, and I spent my last moments feeling sorry for myself? What does that say about me?

Pathetic, I can hear my father's voice in my head. 

"Come on, Honey." Finnick's voice overlays my fathers, steering me with a firm grip on my waist. "Stay with me."

If my heart stutters at the pet name falling from his lips, then I pretend not to notice. Finnick must pretend too. 

We reach the bunker before I realize it. My breathing is frantic and I feel as if I might pass out- 

"I need you to breathe sweetheart." He murmurs low enough for me to hear, his lips close to my ear as he finds an unoccupied cot near the side of a wall. He sits me down gently, and kneels in front of me. 

"I can't." I shake my head. I don't know if I'm panicking because I'm scared of death or because I am scared of how I lived.

"Yes, you can." His scarred hands reach up, and grasp my face gently enough to tilt my gaze to meet his. His eyes are steady, even with the glistening of sadness and the furrow of his brows. "Nothings gonna hurt you, baby." He chokes out the words like a promise. Like if he stares at me deep enough, then his words will be true and nothing will even touch me. 

"You can't promise that." I shake my head as hot tears spill from my eyes onto his hands. He doesn't seem to mind, instead brushing them away with a featherlike touch. 

"I will protect you with my life." Finnick's voice is steady even as his eyes begin to glisten with tears. 

"I'm not scared of dying." I admit to him. 

"I am." He frowns deeply, his own tears spilling, "Nothing terrifies me more than you dying." 

"Finnick."

"I love it when you say my name."

A shaky breath escapes me. Not quite a sob, not quite relief—just emotion too tangled to name.

His thumbs trace slow, trembling circles across my cheeks, wiping at my tears even as more fall. His green eyes, the color of sea glass and storms, don’t leave mine for a second.

He leans in—his forehead resting against mine. 

The bunker hums with anxiety, filled with the buzz of panicked whispers and clattering boots overhead, but in this tiny corner, in the hush between our breaths, it’s just us. 

"will you stay with me?" My voice is vulnerable, shaking even, terrified he will say no. That he will leave like my father. 

"Always." Finnick promises as he presses a kiss to my temple. He stands up, before finding his place next to me. We are thigh to thigh, arm to arm, and I can't help but lean into him. I scan the bunker, finding so many terrified faces. I can see Katniss's mother and sister. My heart clenches. 

Breathing becomes difficult once more. 

"Hey," Finnick's hand finds my thigh, "Don't let your mind spiral. Just breathe." He says softly to me, but his words don't distract me from the reality of the present. 

Distract.

"Distract me." I turn to him, eyes filled with desperation. 

"How?" 

"Tell me about the ocean." I get a sense of deja vu as I whisper those words. Finnick does too, I can see it in his eyes. It takes us both back to the night we met. "Like you promised me." 

Finnick swallows, like he wants to argue. To tell me that he still plans to show me the ocean. But we both know the truth. Nothing is promised.

"The water isn't just blue or turquoise." He murmurs, "It's shades of a thousand aquamarine jewels that no paint on earth can replicate." There's a ghost of a smile on his face as he looks off towards the distance, as if these concrete walls were an endless ocean instead of a confined bunker. "People are scared of the tides, because they're scared of getting pulled in and being left stranded." He tells me, his grip on my thigh tightens swiftly, "But they just need to learn how they work. Once you understand them, you learn how beautifully strucuted they are. And swimming in them, feels like floating." I stare at Finnick as he speaks, watching a bittersweet smile form, "My mother used to say, 'the tide is like love honey, if you don't let it carry you, you will always be fighting." 

I can picture her, probably blonde with curls like her son. I bet she has the same dimpled smile as him too. Or, she did. 

"Were you close with her?" I whisper so delicately. His throat bobs at my question, his eyes flashing with sorrow. 

"She was pure sunshine." Finnick smiles painfully, "She loved the ocean more than anyone. But she always told me she loved me more." 

He doesn't have to say how she died. I don't need to ask. 

"I'm sorry, Finnick." 

He shakes his head softly, "Don't apologize. I think.." He pauses, "She would have loved you." 

My throat burns with thick emotion. I look away from his eyes. 

"What about you?" He asks, and although I don't want to answer, I know its only fair. I've never told anyone about my mother or my father. But with Finnick, I feel safe. 

"I don't remember my mother." I swallow my emotion, "She left after I turned three." 

"And your father?" Finnick hesitates with the question, as if he knows he won't like the answer.

"He was a drunk. Never saw him without a bottle in his hand." I purse my lips, tears falling like rain now, "He was always yelling. Breaking things. He drove my sister to run away too." 

"Why didn't you?"

"I-" I hesitate, "He was all I'd ever known. I loved him, and I thought he loved me." My lips are in a deep frown, "But then my name got called in the reaping and he ran away too." 

Silence swirls between us. He doesn't know what to say. I don't blame him. 

I've said too much. 

"You didn't deserve that." He squeezes my thigh, "You didn't deserve any of that-" He takes in a deep breath, and then finds my eyes. "I'm not going to run." He murmurs, promise in his tone. 

The building shakes violently. I automatically grip Finnick's bicep like a lifeline. He holds me back. 

"We're gonna be okay." He leans his head against mine, tucking me into his chest. "Nothings going to hurt you baby." 

I can't help but believe him. 

Chapter Text

finnick's pov.

The rise and fall of her chest against mine is as soothing as the sound of waves crashing on the shore. The rhythm is predictable and comforting. 

The entire bunker could crumble any minute now but I cannot bring myself to care. She's in my arms, and nothing else matters. 

"She feels safe with you." My head snaps up at the hoarse voice, only to find a disheveled looking Katniss. The dark circles under her eyes have only seemed to get worse. 

"I don't know why." I admit in a whisper. 

Katniss takes a seat on the cot across from us, as I continue to run my hands through Abby's hair. Concrete powder and flecks are falling around us, looking morbidly like ashes.  

Katniss watches me for a long moment, her expression unreadable.

Then she says it.

“You love her.”

It’s not a question.

And I don’t deny it.

I can’t.

I glance down at Abby in my arms. Her lashes flutter slightly, her face still creased with worry even in sleep. One of her hands is curled lightly into the fabric of my shirt, like she needs to hold on to something to stay grounded. To stay here.

“I do,” I whisper.

Katniss exhales like she already knew. Maybe she did. Maybe everyone does.

“So why won’t you tell her?”

I swallow, shifting slightly so I can tuck Abby in tighter beneath the thin blanket. She shivers in her sleep and I adjust my arm to keep her warm.

“I’ve tried,” I say finally, my voice low and hoarse. “God, I’ve tried. A hundred times in my head. A dozen times out loud.”

Katniss tilts her head. “So what’s stopping you?”

I laugh—quiet, bitter. “I don’t think she’d believe me.”

Katniss’s brows furrow.

“I mean—” I glance at her, then look away. "I was awful to her. I said some things that-" My voice cuts out and I take a deep breath in, "I lost her trust and despite the reasons I had for it- now she doesn't belive she is capable of being loved." 

"Haymitch said you two have a long history." Katniss doesn't tell me that I'm being crazy. She doesn't tell me some optimistic bullshit. 

"Yeah." My lips twitch into a smile, "I met her when I was fifteen." I can still see it. I can smell her cherry perfume and see the glint in her brown eyes as she took my hand. I should have never let her go. 

“She was fire back then,” I murmur, my fingers still absently running through her hair. “Not the loud kind like Katniss. No, hers was quieter. She’d set you on fire with a look and leave before you even realized you were burning.”

Katniss watches me, her expression still unreadable, but something shifts behind her eyes. Maybe recognition. Maybe guilt. Maybe she knows what it feels like to carry the weight of being someone others look at but never really see.

“I wanted to protect her even then,” I continue, “but I didn’t know how. I thought I had to push her away to keep her safe. Thought I was doing the right thing. Thought I could keep her from being dragged into the same hell I was already in.” I pause, my voice lowering. “All I did was break her heart.”

Katniss leans forward, her elbows on her knees. “You think she’s still carrying that?”

I can still see the tears in her eyes when I said all those awful things as her mentees were slaughtered on live television. Thats the kind of heartbreak time can never mend. 

I nod. “She doesn’t trust easily. And when she finally let herself trust me again—really trust me—I let her down.”

“She still crawled into your arms during a bombing,” Katniss says plainly, like it’s fact, not emotion.

I glance down at Abby again, brushing a lock of hair away from her cheek. Her features are soft now, peaceful in sleep, but I can still see the smudge of blood near her temple. She always gets caught in the crossfire—of war, of love, of everything.

“She thinks she’s too broken,” I say, more to myself than to Katniss. “Like love is something meant for other people. And I just... I don’t want to say it and have her think it’s another lie. Another sweet line from a boy who doesn’t mean it.”

Katniss’s voice softens. “It wouldn’t be. And she’d know that.”

I meet her eyes.

“I’m scared,” I confess, and the words burn on the way out. “Not of dying. Not even of what the War might still do to me. I’m scared of looking her in the eye and telling her what I feel—really telling her—and her turning away.”

“She wouldn’t,” Katniss says without hesitation. Then her voice lowers. “If Peeta were here… I’d tell him. In a heartbeat. Even if I didn’t know how he’d react. Even if it made everything worse.”

I bite my tongue from apologizing. I can't imagine what it's like for her. 

If Abby was captured-

"Tell her Finnick." Katniss rasps, "Time is running out." 

abby's pov: thirteen years old

I'm shoved into a tube. The doors suction closed behind me. 

I bang on the glass towards the figures standing there. Watching me being sent off to my execution. I see Elijah's face, and he doesn't even give me a sympathetic frown. He might be my mentor, but he knows as well as I do that there is no saving me. 

Tears are streaming down my face in harsh rivers. My heart must be beating at the speed of a hummingbird and my skin is white hot with terror. 

What did I do to deserve this?

The tube lifts up until the arena comes into view. 

I see white everywhere. I try rubbing the tears out of my eyes but the white doesn't fade. 

There's snow everywhere. 

God no, please. I beg to anyone who might be listening. 

I can't do this. 

I can't do this. 

"Stay on your mark or you will be shot." I hear the announcer over the speakers of the arena but I cannot process it fully. "...is about to begin! Enjoy the show and may the odds be ever in your favor." 

This is cruel. This is sick. 

The Snow is symbolic. The president is sending a message. 

Snow lands on top.

I curl my fingers into fists as the cold begins to hit me. I'm angry- no I'm furious. 

"3..." 

If I am going to die here, I'm going to send a message. 

"2..."

I will not be a puppet for their entertainment. 

"1..."

Snow may land on top. But it's no match to fire. 

And i'm going to fucking burn every last inch of it.

Chapter Text

abby's pov:

age 13

my body is shaking with the terror that only Snow can inflict. My fingers still feel blue and numb, even though its been a day since I was dragged out of the arena. My head keeps snapping at every movement. I'm paranoid. 

A man brushes his arm against mine and I twitch. I have to dig my nails into the palms of my hands to keep from pinning him to the floor and pressing a blade to his throat. It all feels natural. As if I have been conditioned like some animal. 

"Smile." Selix, my stylist, hisses into my ear. I can practically taste the liquor on his breath, it smells as strong as gasoline. 

I don't smile as he tells me to. Instead, I scowl. 

Capital citizens shout and cheer as I walk up the pearly white steps, the shade of bones. At the top of the steps, lounging on his throne made of those he's murdered, is Snow. 

His white hair contrasts his blood stained lips, like a soul sucking demon.

The cheers grow louder, but they’re muffled, like I’m underwater. Drowning in the sound of celebration I never asked for.

My dress is heavy on my frame—emerald silk layered over bruises I haven't even looked at yet. The neckline scratches my collarbone like a leash.

As I climb the last step, I meet his gaze.

President Snow.

The Devil wrapped in ivory.

He doesn’t rise. He simply lifts a bony hand, the gesture fluid and practiced, like he’s done it a thousand times before. Because he has.

Because I’m not the first child he’s congratulated on killing. I won’t be the last.

“Victor of the 67th Hunger Games,” the announcer declares behind me, voice proud, almost giddy. “From District Seven…”

I tune the rest out.

Snow stands now, moving toward me with a slowness that feels deliberate. Controlled. Like a predator before the kill.

His smile is small and sharp, and when he takes my hand, his grip is too tight.

I brace myself for the cameras. For the victory crown. For the blood-colored roses.

But instead—he leans in. His breath is warm and sweet with rot, like wilting flowers soaked in poison.

"You truly know how to put on a show, Miss Stryker." He murmurs, lips twitching, "You surprised the people of panem, the game makers-" His eyes shift, "You surprised me." 

I don't say anything. I'm trembling but forcing myself to stand still. I keep my eyes locked with him. I will not look away.

"I don't tend to like surprises." Fear cascades down my skin and sends shivers of terror through my bones. 

"Abby Stryker." He announces loudly as he releases my hand, the bruising pain throbbing, and he lifts the golden crown in the air. "The Huntress." 

The crown is laid on my head as I keep my eyes locked with Snow's lifeless ones. 

How tragic it is, that this is reality. 

The crowd is roaring with cheers and celebration. I bite back vile in the back of my throat. How can they celebrate me? I'm a killer. A monster- I deserve a worse name than the Huntress.

Snow plucks a singular white rose from his pocket. He inspects it for a moment, twirling it between his wrinkled fingers. 

"A rose." He offers it to me, a glint in his eyes. A smirk on his dry lips. "For your sister." 

Everything stops. 

My cool facade slips. 

He tucks it behind my ear with the precision of someone pinning a knife.

The crowd roars again, mistaking the gesture for something sweet.

Something fatherly.

But my heart stops.

My stomach sinks like stone.

A flower for your sister.

My sister, who I haven’t seen in weeks. Who I’ve fought for, bled for, survived for.

He doesn’t need to say anything else. I understand.

This isn’t a gift.

It’s a funeral.

present.

a rescue mission. 

they are going to send out soldiers for a rescue mission. 

to get Peeta. 

to get Johanna. 

my skin is pale and slick with sweat. I am terrified. 

I've always known how truly terrifying the Capital is. The white roses and the smell of blood can never be erased from my mind. 

when the bombing eventually ceased and I awoke in Finnick's arms, we emerged to the surface to find white rose petals covering every inch of the rubble. 

a message. 

i knew it all too well. 

Katniss knew it too. 

Peeta's life was about to come to an end. 

I tried distracting myself by training, throwing every dagger I could get my hands on but my aim was off. I've been shaking all day. 

Now I'm pacing the hallways, trying to pray to whoever might listen that the mission is successful. It's risky, it's so risky. 

I don't know which soldiers are going. I only know Gale is leading the pack. I don't particularly care if we lose him, but a life is still a life. 

"Miss Stryker." I whip around, eyes wide and hands shaking, to find Plutarch standing before me.

Plutarch’s standing just a few feet away, out of breath, like he’s been looking for me. His brow is furrowed, but his expression—per usual—is unreadable.

“What?” I ask too quickly, my voice cracking. “Did something happen? The mission—?”

He shakes his head, one hand raised. “No—no, nothing’s gone wrong yet.”

Yet. That one word plants ice in my chest.

“I just thought you should know,” he continues, “Finnick’s helping with the rescue. He’s involved.”

My heart stops.

“What?” My voice comes out as a whisper, then louder, more frantic. “What do you mean he’s helping?”

Plutarch blinks, caught off guard. “He volunteered to assist. Said he wanted to help bring them home.”

Home.

Peeta. Johanna.

The mission.

My stomach twists violently. I take a step back, shaking my head like I can somehow reverse what I’ve just heard.

“No—no, he wouldn’t…” But he would. Of course he would. He’d do it without telling me. He’s stupidly selfless like that. Brave to the point of reckless.

And I’d let myself be held in his arms as he whispered promises to me last night. I let myself believe that maybe he would stay. 

I turn on my heel and bolt.

“Miss Stryker!” Plutarch calls behind me, but I’m already running.

My feet slam against the cold metal floor of 13’s hallway, the fluorescent lights a blur above me as I sprint through corridor after corridor. My mind is screaming. Every worst-case scenario crashes over me like a tidal wave—guns, bombs, fire, the Capitol, his face going still like everyone else I’ve lost—

Not him.

He can’t die.

He can’t leave me.

I should have told him what he deserved to hear- I should have told him the truth. 

I shove through a pair of double doors, heart hammering, lungs burning.

Inside is the control room—screens, radios, technicians shouting coordinates and code-words—and Katniss, standing rigid in the center of it all.

She turns at the sound of me stumbling in, wide-eyed and wild.

“Where is he?” I demand, breathless. “Where’s Finnick?”

Katniss blinks, confused. “What?”

“Is he already gone?” My voice cracks, loud enough to draw attention. “Is he already on the transport to the Capitol?”

She frowns. “He’s not going on the mission.”

I freeze.

“What?” I whisper.

Katniss exchanges a look with one of the techs. Then she steps closer. “He’s not going into the Capitol. He’s… broadcasting. They’re airing his testimony right now.”

The words hit me like a brick to the chest. I stumble back a step, vision spinning.

“He’s not on the mission?” I ask again, like I didn’t hear it right the first time. 

"He's outside." Katniss tells me, sniffling from the tears running down her cheeks. Reality comes back to me then. 

I look to the screen, and there he is. Stoic expression and furrowed brows as he speaks to the camera. 

Next to his screen is eight smaller video camera's broadcasting the rescue mission from each soldier.

The grainy footage is blurry from the rushed movements. Everyone in the broadcasting room is dead still, like if any of us moves then something bad will happen. 

I look back to Finnick on the screen.

“President Snow used to sell me." Finnick's voice cracks, "Or my body, at least.” 

Part of me already knew this- but I never wanted to hear the truth out loud. My eyes begin to water on their own accord. It's almost laughable- how I went from barely ever crying to now crying at every depressing thing. And I am surrounded by depressing things. 

“I wasn’t the only one. If a victor is considered desirable, the president gives them as a reward... or allows Capitol citizens to buy them. And if you refuse?” Finnick continues, his jaw tightening as he swallows. "He kills someone you love." 

There's a beat of silence. I know I should look to see how the mission is going, but my eyes are stuck on Finnick. He looks as if the light within him has been sucked out. I feel as if I'm seeing the truth behind his charming facade for the first time.

“I learned early on that love is dangerous. That it makes you a target. That if they even suspect you care about someone more than they want you to...” His eyes gloss with years of emotion, and his lips turn in a frown. "He threatened her life." 

I suck in a breath. 

Finnick releases a shaking one. 

“Because he knew I loved her." My heart races and it seems like the world itself is off it's axis. Surely it couldn't- "I met her when I was fifteen, and I've loved her ever since. And Snow knew."

I can't tell if it feels like I'm dreaming or living a nightmare. 

He loved me?

He loves me?

"And if anyone else knew that?" Finnick's nostalgic smile returns to a tragic frown, "The Capitol wouldn’t want me anymore. No one pays for someone who already belongs to someone else. So he made sure I stayed valuable.”

His voice is breaking but he's pushing through. 

“He told me that if I ever spoke her name, he’d carve it into the dirt with the others.”

This couldn't be true. Could it? I can feel Katniss and Haymitch's gazes on me but I cannot bring myself to look away from Finnick. 

I've spent countless sleepless nights replaying every interaction between Finnick and I, wondering what went wrong to make Finnick turn on me. For him to say such awful things to me as if he hadn't been the same boy to write letters and hold my hand. 

But this? Never once did I guess that he did that for me. 

To protect me. 

No one has ever-

“So I didn’t. I smiled. I played my part. But every time I did what they asked, it was to keep her alive.”

Tears stream softly down my face. 

All these years I wasted. 

I cover my mouth with a shaking hand. 

“There are secrets the Capitol would kill to keep. Secrets they’ve buried with blood and lies. But not anymore.” He leans forward just slightly, voice growing sharper.

“Their weapons are gone. The districts are uniting. This is the Capitol’s end.”

He looks right into the camera, and I swear it's like he's looking in my eyes. His voice goes softer, as if it's just for me. 

“And I hope she knows. She was the only real thing I ever had.”

Chapter Text

All of District 13 shifts off its axis the moment Peeta enters the hospital.

I don’t even see him—not a glance—and still, I feel it.

That nervous energy buzzing through the district turns into something darker. Heavier.
Like the air itself learns how to suffocate.

As soon as the last syllable falls from Finnick’s haunting lips, I run to him.
My breath is too fragile, no match for the storm pounding in my chest.

But there’s too much around me.
Too many bodies.
Too many anxious glances.
Too many unsaid things.

Katniss bolts toward the medical bay. I should follow—to see Johanna, to let her know she does have someone left after all.
We were district partners. I owe her that much. Maybe more.

But I can’t.
I have to find him.

Finnick.

I have to see him with my own eyes.
Make sure he’s real. That this isn’t some Capitol ploy or a glitch in a hologram fantasy.
That he’s still breathing. Still here.

Instead, I run right into Haymitch.

His hand grips my arm, rough and impatient.

I brace myself for the worst news possible. 

"How many?" 

"Four soldiers, and-" Haymitch's eyes gloss over with pain, and my stomach drops. "Annie didn't make it." 

My stomach turns, and I feel like I might puke. Annie, the girl Mags died to protect. The girl Finnick- 

Oh god, Finnick. 

"I can't be the one to tell him." Haymitch's voice cracks, as if he's having flashbacks. 

I barely register his pain—until I hear the scream.

Peeta.

Chaos ignites like a match.
Screams.
Alarms.
Soldiers moving fast. Katniss yelling his name, voice raw and panicked.

And then—another sound.

A rasp. Low. Ragged. Like someone is struggling just to exist.

Johanna.

No one’s with her.
They’re all too busy watching Peeta lose himself.

I turn the corner toward her room, dread dragging in my limbs like wet sand.
I’m not ready to see her.
Not like this.

But I owe it to her.
She deserves more than silence.

I step through the doorway—and almost stagger backward.

She looks... hollow.

Her head is shaved down to her scalp, her skin pale and paper-thin. Her eyes—once sharp, wild, alive—are sunken in, ringed with shadow.
Every bone in her body juts like it’s trying to break free. Her hands tremble just from sitting upright.

My stomach lurches, but I force myself not to flinch.
Not to cry.

She’d hate that.

She glances up at me.

“Thought they forgot me in here,” Johanna rasps, voice like a dry blade scraping stone. “Guess I should’ve died to be worth a damn.”

“Don’t say that,” I whisper, stepping in. I grip the edge of her bed to stay grounded. “You made it back.”

Johanna gives me a long, unreadable look. Then a humorless smile curls the corner of her mouth.

“Back’s a relative term.”

She coughs—dry, sharp, blood-specked—and I can’t move.
Can’t breathe.

I remember her beside me in the Quarter Quell.
Throwing axes like her arms were forged for war.
Standing tall while everything else burned.

And now?

I barely recognize the warrior I once stood by. 

It should have been me that got captured, not her. Not Peeta. Not Annie.

Annie should be standing here. Not me.  

“I kept trying to think of your face,” she mutters, catching her breath. “When they started cutting into me. Thought if I remembered you, I’d stay sane.”

My throat closes instantly.

She doesn’t say it like a compliment. Just fact.

And somehow, that’s worse.

“I’m here,” I manage. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Liar,” she says, almost fondly.

Then her gaze shifts—past me. Over my shoulder.

And I see the color drain from her face.

I turn.

Finnick.

He’s standing there. Eyes locked on mine.

Everything slows.

He’s real.
Whole.
Alive.

But something in his face changes.

And I know.

Before he says a single word—I know.

“What happened?” he asks quietly, voice already fraying at the edges. “Where’s Annie?”

I can’t speak.

No one’s told him.

“She—” Johanna starts, but her voice breaks. She looks away.

I want to lie.
I want to tell him she’s recovering. That she’s resting.
That she’ll walk through that door tomorrow with her saltwater smile and auburn hair. 

But I can’t.

Because he’s already crumbling.

“Haymitch.” His voice cracks. “Tell me she made it. Please.”

Haymitch steps forward, hands trembling, heart splitting.

“She didn’t…” He whispers. “I’m sorry.”

He blinks like he doesn’t understand the words.

Then he steps back. Like he's been shot. 

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “No. That’s not—She wasn’t supposed to—”

His hands press to his face.

And the sound he makes—
It’s not rage.
It’s not even a scream.

It’s grief. Pure and violent. The kind that guts you from the inside out.

“She was just a kid,” he whispers. “She was my family.”

I reach for him, but he turns away, his shoulders heaving with the kind of sobs you don’t come back from.

And I get it.

I understand.

It was never just about surviving for him.
It was about protecting the people he loved.

And he thinks he failed her.

I want to hold him. To say something that might help.
But I don’t know how to fix this.

I don’t know how to save someone who already thinks they’ve lost everything.

So I just stand there.

Watching the only person who’s ever made me feel safe fall apart right in front of me.

And I have no idea how to save him from the same grief that once almost killed me. 

Age thirteen. 

The cameras are gone.
The crowds. The banners. The emerald dress they wrapped me in like a ribbon around a knife.
All of it is gone.

Now it’s just me. And her.

I kneel in front of the gravestone with flowers in my hands. Wild ones. Sunflowers and baby's breath, her favorites. She used to say she wanted those flowers for her wedding. 

I picked them myself. My fingers are still stained with dirt.

I don’t even know if they buried her here.
Snow never confirmed. No one did.
But there’s a marker. Just her name. Just the date.

It’s enough.

I set the flowers down gently, like I’m afraid of waking her.
And then I fold. I fall to my knees in the moss, dirt sticking to my skin, and I start to cry.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “God, Marah, I’m so sorry.”

I press my forehead to the stone, and it’s cold. Always cold. Like the arena.
Like the Capitol’s hands. Like the hovercraft. Like my own heart, some days.

“I did everything I was supposed to. I won. I killed them all for you. And you still…”

I can’t say the word.

Dead.

She’s dead. My sister. My everything.

“It should’ve been me,” I choke out. “I was the one who was supposed to die.” Tears are falling in fast streams down my cheeks, and my heart hurts so much I feel like I might die. Part of me wants to. 

My voice is small and ugly and honest. “You were gonna have a baby. You were gonna have a life. I didn’t even want mine.”

I drag my hand across my eyes and force myself to sit up straight, like she’d scold me for slumping.
Like she’s still here.

“You would’ve been such a good mom,” I whisper. “You always took care of me, remember? When Mom left. When Dad started drinking. It was always you.”

I trace her name on the stone with my fingertip.

Marah Stryker.

It doesn’t look right.
It shouldn’t be carved like this. It should be scribbled in crayon on a baby announcement. Stitched on a blanket. Scrawled across a birthday card.

Not this.

Never this.

“It should have been me that died." I sob out, falling back as the dirt covers me. "I should be dead." 

I sit there for what feels like hours, until the sky turns pale and the wind picks up through the trees. I talk like she’s sitting across from me. Like we’re still on the back porch, sipping mint tea and watching the paper wasps build nests under the railing.

And when I finally stand, my legs are numb and my chest is hollow.

“I’ll never stop missing you.”

I don’t say goodbye. I never do.

Because I already said it once.

And it destroyed me.

Chapter Text

Finnick's POV

The thick fog brushes past my ankles and circles the room like shadows. It’s not there. I know it’s not. That torturous gray fog is in the arena, still in the exact place it took her from me. 

I swear a piece of me died with her as soon as her gray and wrinkled body hit the ground. 

Whatever was left with me feels as if it’s died today, too. 

I can still picture her auburn hair and her terrified green eyes. The face of a young girl whom I was supposed to protect. 

I didn’t save Mags.

I didn’t save Annie. 

I’ve only saved myself.

And how terrible it feels to be alive. 

Part of me, that cruel and realistic part, knows she isn't coming back. But the stupid and foolish part of me keeps staring at the door, waiting for her to walk in. But she's not going to.

The room is trashed. Glass is shattered on the floor like glitter. Furniture turned upside down and bed sheets thrashed. 

“You can’t blame yourself.” The rasp of his voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard. Like the scratch of a record. 

“Get out.” I grit through my teeth, refusing to look at him. 

I can’t look at anything but the door. I hear the hiss as it shuts behind him, and stare at the cold steel. I can see my reflection in it, a little hazy, but just as terrible as I feel. 

His footsteps are slow. Measured. He crosses the room like he’s walked into warzones like this before. Maybe he has — in his own ways.

He stops a few feet behind me, doesn’t say anything at first. The silence is thick and heavy, like the fog in my chest.

“I said get out,” I mutter again, my voice cracking on the last word.

“No.” His tone is quiet. Not hard. Not dismissive. Just honest. “Not this time.”

I let out a humorless laugh, bitter and broken. “Why? So you can lecture me?”

“I’m not here to lecture you.” He pauses. “You think I don’t know how this feels?”

I clench my teeth. “Don’t.”

“I had someone too.”

His voice wavers — barely, but it does. And that cracks something in me.

“Her name was Louella,” he says, almost like a confession. “She was twelve. Small girl. Blonde braids. Thought I was some kind of hero. I tried to keep her alive. Swore I’d protect her.”

His words are thick with something I’ve never heard from him before. Regret. Love. Grief that never healed.

“She died in my arms,” he says quietly. “I watched it happen, and I couldn’t do a damn thing. Sometimes I swear I can still feel her heartbeat against my hands.”

The room feels colder, somehow.

“That was years ago,” he continues. “And there are still days I can’t look in the mirror.”

I stare down at the broken glass on the floor, my reflection in a hundred shattered pieces.

“You cared about Annie,” he says. “You loved her like she was your own sister. You saved her once, Finnick. You gave her more time than she ever would’ve had without you. And you gave her love. That’s more than most people in this world ever get.”

My throat burns. I try to swallow, but nothing goes down.

“You know what keeps me alive?” he asks, quieter now. “It’s not revenge. Not even this shitty alcohol. Not anger anymore.” He hesitates. “It’s the people still here. The ones who somehow give a damn about a broken bastard like me.”

He steps closer but still doesn’t touch me. His voice softens even more. “You still have Abby.”

The name alone makes my lungs seize. I squeeze my eyes shut, chest tightening like a fist is around my heart.

“You still have her,” he says again, slower this time, like he’s trying to anchor me to it. “And she loves you. She’s still here. So don’t you dare let this kill you, too.”

I let out a shaky breath — more like a sob I barely catch.

"I can't lose her, too." The awful truth slips from my lips. "Everyone I love dies." 

Salt streams pour out of my eyes now, and I can't even bother to care about my masculinity or whatever societal bullshit- I break down in front of him. 

Haymitch kneels beside me, not forcing anything, just being there — a presence, a reminder that someone understands.

"Then fight for her." His words are said with the tone of someone who knows this grief all too well. "Fight for her, fight for Mags, Annie, Wiress, Peeta-" His voice falters. My fingers curl into the fabric of my pants to have a grip on something. Just to keep myself from lashing out. From breaking more things. 

"Do not let them win this." Haymitch's voice shakes with anger, "They do not get to use our grief to distract us. We will mourn, but we will fight. We have to stop this, I have to stop this." A couple of tears leave his eyes, and I watch with tears in mine, "I've promised too many people that I would end this. I need to keep this promise." 

I nod weakly. Neither of us speaks for a little while. He sits next to me on the floor. For once, he's not drinking. For once, I wish he were. 

Faces cross my mind. Flashes of my mother, Annie, Mags, every person I slaughtered in the games- 

"It's not your fault." I turn to him, and his eyes are red. My lungs feel heavy. 

"Yes, it is." 

"No." He shakes his head, "It's not your fault, kid." He reaches out and puts a hand on my shoulder. For a brief moment, it almost feels like Mags. Like I could close my eyes and pretend it was her comforting me here. 

"It's not your fault." 

My shoulders shake as a sound tears out of me — raw and broken. I bury my face in my hands. I can’t keep the grief down anymore. It crashes through me like a wave I’ve been holding back too long.

Haymitch doesn’t say anything else. He just stays beside me. And for the first time today, the room doesn’t feel like it’s closing in on me.

Abby's POV

I've seen a lot of ghosts in my life. But never before have I seen one that's real. 

Johanna looks nothing like the girl I last saw in the arena. Her eyes feel hollow, her skin is too pale, and I can see her bones. 

It feels like she's dead, but she's sitting right across from me. 

"You're trying to think of what to say." Her voice doesn't even sound like her. Only the faint bitter sarcasm is recognizable. 

"I don't know how to talk after what you've been through." I respond, my fingers toying with a forgotten bracelet on my wrist. The aquamarine is the only color in this room. 

"Not to me." She scoffs, "You're trying to think of what to say to him." I look up at her, my eyes a little wide and my heart far too heavy. 

"I-" My voice falters, and I don't even bother to deny her accusation. "There's nothing I could say that could change how he feels." 

"Maybe he just needs someone to be there while he feels it." 

"I'm here with you." I turn my head away from her when I start to be able to see her veins again. My lips turn down in a frown, then, "You should have told me the real plan from the beginning." 

"Yeah." She lets out a humorless laugh, "Then it would be you sitting here in a hospital gown with twigs for limbs." 

"Yeah, it should be." My eyes darken, "I would take that outcome a million times over you and Peeta and Annie-" My words die, tears burn in my eyes. 

"It was supposed to be me. It had to be me." Johanna snaps, "I didn't have anyone-" 

"Don't give me that bullshit!" I cut her off, standing up. "You had me, you had Finnick, and Beetee and-" 

"And what about you?" Johanna yells back, "What do you think Finnick would have done if he lost you, too?" 

"This isn't about him!" I exclaim, my heart burning in my chest.

"Yes, it is! It's about how you have him, and I could not allow you two to lose each other!" Her hand waves with her frustration, glass shattering when she hits a bottle of rubbing alcohol. 

A harsh breath leaves my lips as we both stay in the silence. 

"You were wrong." Johanna speaks softly, "That day on the reaping. When you told me you had no one to say goodbye to." 

Tears fall from my eyes and brush my lips. 

"You had Finnick then, and you have him now." She tells me. "So do me a favor, friend to friend, and don't leave things unspoken." 

I don't say anything. 

"Why can't you just do that?" Her anger comes back gently. 

"Because I will not be the girl who sits here in the middle of a war, while people are dying, and cry over my feelings for some boy." 

"You're crying anyway," Johanna says it bluntly, in a way only she can. 

A breathless laugh leaves my lips. 

"I hate you." 

"You love me." She grins, and finally, this ghost in front of me begins to look like Johanna. 

My friend from district seven. 

Chapter Text

Abby's POV

His mouth is on my neck, hot and messy like he’s fighting time. Maybe because we are. Time has never been on our side. 

My head is thrown back on his bed sheets, the silk kissing my burning skin. His hands, god those hands, are everywhere. 

He’s touching me like he’s trying to memorize me before I disappear. 

The calluses of those gentle hands are touching the scars on my thighs, moving up and up-

“Tell me to stop and I will.” He breathes out against my skin, moving back to hover his lips over mine. My half open eyes meet his- those blue eyes are a dark storm. His shirt is already off and thrown across the room, and my hands have wasted no time in tracing the lines of his chest. 

“I want this.” My words are confident, but my words are breathless. “Do you?” I ask, because I know- I know his past. 

What Snow made him do. 

What people paid him to do. 

His eyes shift because he knows what I’m asking too. There's almost a smile that graces his lips, like he’s touched. One of his hands moves up to cup my cheek, tilting my head so I look him right in the eyes. 

The eyes of the boy I fell in love with as a young child. The eyes of the man I still love now. 

“Sweetheart, you’re all I’ve ever wanted.” His lips find mine hungrily this time, like he’s been starving for years. 

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

12 hours earlier…

The briefing room smells like metal and smoke. The air hums with electricity—the kind that comes before a storm. Coin stands at the head of the table, her arms folded neatly behind her back, and Boggs is beside her, steady as always.

“This is not an assault mission,” Coin says, her voice clipped and cold. “This is a controlled infiltration. The Capitol is rigged with hundreds of pods—traps designed to kill or broadcast our deaths. You will be recorded at all times.”

It’s supposed to be a propaganda mission. A performance of war.

But no one in this room believes that.

Katniss sits stiffly in her chair, jaw tight. Gale is leaning back like he’s already rehearsing his heroism. Finnick sits across from me, silent, unreadable, his trident laid flat across the table like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

When Coin says “You leave tomorrow at dawn”, the silence is deafening.

I swallow hard, the sound louder than it should be.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, we step into the Capitol. Into Snow’s arena one last time.

When night comes, and it comes by a habituated clock in my body with no windows to prove I’m right, I cannot sleep. 

I had always been prepared to die. Since I was thirteen years old. But somehow, tonight I cannot fathom death like I once did. 

The cold hand of darkness does not feel like a savior from hell anymore, it feels like a curse. 

I fear I have too much to lose now.

 I wander the halls as if I don’t have every corridor memorized. This could be- this will be the last time I ever see these halls. These shades of frost and powder, they only remind me of snow. 

My feet, which have taken me through every inch of hell, lead me to Finnick’s doorstep. 

I know it's selfish and my stomach is curled sick in guilt, but I need to see him. Especially if it's my last night. 

I don’t want anymore regrets. 

He told me he loved me. 

He deserves to know the truth- that I love him too. That I’ve been in love with him since we were fifteen. 

My fingers curl into an anxious fist, and although I raise it, I cannot bring myself to knock. 

What if I got it wrong? I know I heard the words from his lips, but what if things changed? 

I shouldn't be doing this right after Annie died-

“Abby?” No matter the lifetime or the world, I will always feel a spark when he says my name. 

Turning to face him feels like a film reel in slow motion, and god, those eyes of his. 

“I’ll show you the ocean one day.” 

“Finnick.”

He stands in the corridor holding a small ration tin he clearly wasn’t hungry for—not with the way his knuckles are white around it. His curls are damp, like he’s just run a hand through them too many times. His eyes—storm-grey at the edges, sea-blue at the center—lock onto mine, and I can feel the world tilt under my feet.

“I was coming to find you,” he says quietly. “But I didn’t expect—” His gaze flickers to his door, then back to me. “You standing here.”

“I uh-” The words get stuck in my throat. “I needed to see you.” 

His eyes flash like I’ve struck him, I watch the movement of his throat as he swallows. 

“Come inside.” He nods to his room, and the door opens on his command. The room is as cold as mine and just as empty. 

It looks like no one lives here. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.” 

“Why didn't you?” He’s not angry, it's worse, he sounds confused. 

“It felt selfish to see you after…” I trail off, not wanting to say her name. But it hurts him just the same. 

“You’re acting like you’re saying goodbye.” His lips pull into a frown. I wonder how we got here. His smile used to light up my darkest nights. 

I don’t respond because it's true. This is goodbye. 

“Don’t go tomorrow.” 

“You can’t ask me that.” I shake my head firmly. 

“I can,” he says, stepping toward me, “and I am.” His voice isn’t loud. It’s worse than loud—it’s breaking. Fraying at the edges like a rope that’s been holding too much weight for far too long. His trident sits abandoned on the bed as if he dropped it the moment he saw the look on my face.

“Finnick,” I whisper, “you know I have to go.”

His jaw flexes. “I know that people told you that you have to. That Coin told you. That the cameras told you. But you—” He presses a hand to his chest. “You don’t owe any of them your death.”

I look away. Because if I look at him, I’ll crumble. “This isn’t about debt.”

“It is,” he snaps, before immediately softening. “Abby, it is. You’ve been paying in trauma and blood since you were a kid. And now you’re trying to give them your life too.”

“Someone has to go,” I whisper.

His laugh is soft and furious, like he’s choking on the sound. “Someone will go. But it doesn’t have to be you.”

“You’re going,” I shoot back.

“That’s different.”

“How?” My voice cracks at the edges. “How is it different?”

He looks at me like I’ve asked him to explain gravity. Like the answer feels too big for the room, too dangerous to say aloud.

“Because losing me won’t destroy you,” he says quietly.

The words hit like a pod going off under my feet. My breath punches out of me. I don’t know whether to laugh or yell. 

Because losing him would destroy me. 

The first time I lost him I couldn't breathe. 

But to lose him now?

His eyes widen a fraction, like he realizes only after speaking that he’s said something unforgivable.

“Finnick,” I breathe, “how can you think that?”

He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair, curls falling messily back over his forehead. “You survived before me. You survived worse. You don’t need me.”

“Finnick—”

“But I…” His voice drops, and suddenly he isn’t the Capitol’s golden boy or District 4’s deadly victor. He’s just a man. A man who looks so unbearably tired. “I don’t know how to walk into tomorrow without knowing you’re safe.”

My heart is a storm. My chest is too small for it, too fragile. “I’m not safe. Nowhere is safe. Not for any of us.”

He steps closer. Close enough that I can see the tiny scar on his bottom lip from some long-ago fight, close enough that I can see the trembling in his hands.

“But if something happens to you—” His voice breaks. Full-on breaks. “Abby, I won’t make it.”

Silence falls like ashes between us. I feel it in my throat, in my ribcage, in the hollow place where fear has taken root.

“Don’t say that,” I whisper.

“It’s true.” His breath shakes. “It’s always been true.”

My hands ball at my sides. “Finnick, you can’t expect me to live my life based on whether it hurts you.”

He lifts his eyes then—blue and devastating. “But I do,” he says, and there’s no apology in it. 

Just truth. 

Raw and stripped. “Because I thought there was nothing left that could hurt me. Not after everything Snow did. Not after Annie. Not after the arena. But you—” He takes a step forward. “You prove me wrong every damn day.”

Something hot stings behind my eyes. “That’s not fair.”

“It isn’t.” He breathes out shakily. “Neither is the way you look at me and then pretend it means nothing.”

I freeze.

His words hang in the air between us, dangerous and honest.

“I don’t—” My voice comes out thin. “I’m not pretending.”

“Then what?” he demands, stepping closer until I can feel the warmth leaping from his skin to mine. “You stand here in my doorway, shaking like you’re about to walk into an execution—because of me—and you expect me not to ask?”

My fists clench.

He’s too close. Too perceptive. Too Finnick. 

“Why are you here tonight?” he asks, quieter now, like he’s afraid of the answer.

I swallow hard. “I told you. I needed to see you.”

“Why?”

My chest collapses in on itself. “Because—”

“Tell me,” he whispers, leaning down until his forehead nearly touches mine. His breath is warm against my lips, his voice wrecked. “Abby, tell me.”

I shake my head, a tear slipping free. “Finnick, if I say it—”

“Say it,” he pleads, his voice barely a breath. “Please.”

“It’ll ruin everything.”

His hand lifts—hesitates—then cups my jaw like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he touches too hard. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, “everything’s already ruined.”

My breath catches.

“What are you so afraid of?” 

Something in me snaps. 

“I’m terrified because—because I love you.” The words spill out, raw and uncontrollable. “Because I love you, and I’ve loved you forever. So don’t you dare act like I wouldn't care if you died, because I would die too!” 

For a heartbeat, the world stops.

Then he kisses me.

Not gentle. Not hesitant.

He kisses me like he’s drowning and I’m the first breath of air he’s had in years. Like the world is ending and he’s choosing me anyway. His hands slide into my hair, down my back, pulling me in like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.

And I kiss him back, every piece of me, every year of wanting and waiting, crashing into him like the tide finally reaching the shore.

Finally, the kiss I’ve dreamt of. 

“Don’t go.” His voice is a rasp against my parted lips. I run my fingers through his hair and watch as the world goes wild. 

“Kiss me again.” I whisper back, watching a spark flutter in his eyes. He gives me a smile, almost a smirk, that reminds me of the cocky showboy I once knew.

His mouth crashes into mine before my next heartbeat.There’s nothing careful about it now. No hesitation. No planning for tomorrow. Just heat—sharp, consuming, overwhelming. His hands grip my waist like he’s terrified I’ll slip through his fingers, like he’s been starving and finally gets to taste something real.

I gasp into his mouth, and that single sound breaks him.

He pushes me back against the wall, lips devouring mine, breath hot and uneven. “Abby—” My name is barely a word, more like a groan dragged from somewhere deep.

His hands are everywhere at once—wild, frantic, like he’s trying to memorize me with touch alone. My hips, my waist, the curve of my ribs. He touches like a man racing against sunrise.

I pull him closer, fingers fisting in his shirt until he just rips it over his head, dropping it to the floor without even looking. His chest is warm against mine, solid and shaking, and he exhales like he’s losing his mind.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, voice hoarse.

I tug his hair.

That does something to him.

His mouth finds my throat, hot and urgent, kissing and dragging down my skin like he’s following a map only he knows. His teeth scrape lightly at the place beneath my jaw and I gasp—too loud, too desperate.

He groans into my skin, a sound that melts every thought I have.

My back hits the wall again as he lifts me, hands under my thighs, and I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively. He holds me like I weigh nothing, like adrenaline alone could keep me in the air.

“Finnick—” I can barely breathe.

“Don’t stop saying my name,” he murmurs, lips on my collarbone, breath ragged. “Not tonight. Not if this is all we get.”

The words punch the air right out of my lungs.

This night.

 This room.

 This moment.

Our one chance.

He’s kissing me again before I can fall apart—hard, possessive, rushed—like every second that passes is another second stolen from us. I tug on his hair and he moans into my mouth, the sound low and wrecked.

“Bed,” he gets out between kisses, voice shaking. “I need you—God, I need you closer.”

He half-carries, half-stumbles with me toward the bed, dropping me onto the cool silk sheets that contrast violently with the heat burning under my skin. He’s on me a second later, mouth on mine, hands exploring with a hunger that’s almost reverent, almost broken.

His forehead crashes gently against mine as he sucks in a breath. “If we had time—” His thumb brushes my cheek, trembling. “If we had more than this one night, I’d go slow. I’d make it perfect.”

“It’s perfect because it's you, Finnick.” I whisper against him, “Time has never been on our side,” We both laugh breathlessly at that. “I just want you.”

“You’re all I ever wanted.” Finnick breathes out, his eyes going glossy as he looks down at me, “I wish we had more time. I would have made it up to you, all those years, the pain- I would give you every night and morning.” 

My eyes burn too. I wish we could have that. 

“We have tonight.” 

And maybe that's all we have, but I’d gladly die by his side.