Chapter Text
“Ooh! I wonder what it’ll be this year! ” screamed young and excited voices around the market.
The 75th Hunger Games — the third Quarter Quell. The year that marks exactly ten years from Finnick Odair’s own games. He paid no mind to it being a Quarter Quell, it probably wouldn’t be that special, but he still doesn’t like the idea of having to possibly mentor more than two children this year.
Ignoring the happy voices of a few people around him, Finnick walked through the small corner-side marketplace, headed straight to, what his father calls, ‘The Useless Junk’ section. He passed multiple stands on the way, pulling his hood further over his head as he tried his best to blend in to the crowd and not get noticed by anyone.
Sliding past the second-to-last booth, he made his way to the very last one, Doris Rilla’s trinkets and white-knots. She was an older lady– but not at all unkind, just like most in District Four. Ms. Rilla had always been nice to him, before and after his Games. Coming here every Sunday was the thing he’d always look forward to.
Arriving at the small store, he pulled down his hood and stepped closer to examine the various objects on the table. In the 60 cent area, there were little multicolored pens with glitter inside. In the 70 cent area, there were a handful of erasers for school kids. But what really caught Finnick’s eye was the pile of pins, each adorned by their own bird.
The first was a woodpecker, a sliver color. The second was a mockingbird, a light gold color. The third was the mockingjay, almost identical to the one the District Twelve tribute and victor of last year’s Games had worn. People seemed to like her, he just hopes they don’t like her too much.
He idly picked up the pin and stared at it. It was pretty, a nice golden touch, but it wasn’t anything that was worth mass producing. It would be just a matter of weeks before they lay here and rot, he assumed. He laid the thing back onto the table.
“Oh, dear, speak up next time, I almost didn’t see you!” exclaimed Ms. Rilla, appearing behind the tables out of nowhere. She smiled at him, showing her decaying teeth in all their glory.
Finnick smiled back at her, but didn’t say anything immediately, eyes still downcast at the bird pins.
“Aren’t they just gorgeous? Made them myself in the good ole’ blacksmith a couple of weeks ago,” said Ms. Rilla. Now he feels a little bad for thinking they wouldn’t sell, but he shoved the thoughts to the back of his mind as he spoke.
“Yes, they are,” responded Finnick, glancing back up at Ms. Rilla. A bystander was idly chatting about tonight’s Quarter Quell announcement, and thinking about it sent shivers down his spine. Anything could happen tonight, and it had no option but to be bad.
“Finnick, dear..” mumbled Ms. Rilla as she saw his distant look. “Don’t be afraid to tell me what’s wrong. I can only help if you let me know,”
He shook his head. It wasn’t anything he should really be concerned about. It wouldn’t be him directly affected by it and everyone knew it. Still, the thought of having to do anything except mentor for the Quarter Quell is driving him crazy.
“There’s nothing wrong, Ms. Rilla,” responded Finnick.
A sudden shake on the shoulder catches him off guard, as he spins on his heel to see who’s behind him.
“Finnick! Mom said that we have to go now,” said Kristelle, his younger sister. As he realized who it was, a sigh of relief shook through his body.
“Okay, okay. Let’s go,” said Finnick. Before they departed, he turned back to Ms. Rilla and mouthed a lazy ‘ Sorry!’ to her. She waved him off and walked to another customer.
“You won’t believe what happened at school today,” said Kristelle.
“Yeah? What happened?” instigated Finnick. As the girl told him a story about what they’d done today, he stopped listening halfway through, thoughts floating back to the Quarter Quell announcement.
Eventually, they reached their parents, though they had occupied themselves in the jewelry stand. His mother and father always had a knack for jewelry, but he’d argue that it’s mostly worthless wastes of money. He silently tapped his mother on the shoulder.
“Hm?” hummed Lelia Odair, turning around to see who had tapped her. “Oh! Back so soon, that’s great. We should get going if we want to see the announcement in an hour.”
Kristelle visibly deflated at the mention of the Quarter Quell announcement. The kid was only twelve, so this was the first year she’d be eligible for the reaping. Her name was only there once since Finnick completely refused to let her put in her name again for tesserae. He grabbed his sister’s shoulders, bending down a little bit to speak to her.
“Hey– Kristy, look at me,” said Finnick, only continuing when she did as he said. “It’s not going to be you, alright? I promise.”
Kristelle stared into her brother’s eyes and finally responded, “Okay.” It was weak, but it was something.
Their mother ushered their father out of the jewelry stand and they got a move on. Finnick stayed with Kristelle the entire walk back, rubbing her back in an attempt to soothe her. By the time they arrived home, it would be just another thirty minutes before the announcement was made.
Desperate for something to distract himself with, Finnick took the job of making dinner. But even then, as he chopped carrots and boiled water, all he could think about was what awaits. He had a seriously bad feeling about it, like it was eating him alive.
He poured the soup into four bowls, one for his father, mother, sister, and himself.
“Dinner’s ready!’ called Finnick, and the family gathered to grab their bowls, but retreated back into the living room to sit in front of the television.
Grasping his bowl to make his hands work properly, he waited for the dreaded moment Snow popped up on the screen.
Soon enough, Snow appeared, looking just as artificial as ever. He must’ve got more lip filler because his lips are botched.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” began Snow, “ W elcome to the Seventy-Fifth year of the Hunger Games. By the Treaty of Treason, it was written in the charter of the Games, that every 25 years, a ‘Quarter Quell’ would commence, to keep the reminder of our defeat over the Rebellion fresh for each new generation.”
Each Quarter Quell is distinguished by the Games of a special significance. As a reminder, that even the strongest cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes are to be reaped from the existing pool of victors in each district.”
Finnick was hit with a wave of dizziness and he sat his bowl on the ground. Snow was still speaking, but he couldn’t hear him. The existing pool of victors in each district.
His mother screamed, her bowl tumbling off her lap and onto the floor.
“No! No!” she shrieked. His father grabbed her, making sure her hysterics didn't get out of hand. He grabbed her instead of his son, who could be going back into the arena to die.
“Finnick–” said Kristelle, choking off her sentence after one word. She couldn’t say or do anything but stare at her brother in disbelief.
Finnick felt as if he was in a trance, stuck between reality and a twisted sort of dream.
“ The male and female tributes are to be reaped from the existing pool of victors in each district.”
The words replayed over and over in his head, ricocheting off the sides of his skull and right back into his brain every few seconds. It can’t be true. Snow has to be joking. The broadcast is over – it’s not a joke. This is real.
Ignoring the screams of his family, he shakily stood up and grabbed his shoes, slipping them on. He needed Mags. She’s the only one who could understand what was happening to him right now.
You’re being selfish , he thought silently. It wasn’t just him, no, it was putting every victor of Four at risk. Mags, Annie, even poor old Doris Rilla. The thought didn’t stop him from bolting to Mags’s house, though.
She lived only two houses down in Victor’s Village, while Annie still lived with her parents in the southern part of town. Once he came up on her doorstep, he banged on the door, hoping to be let in.
Mags opened the door, not saying a word until he stepped inside, shutting it behind him.
“Boy.. is.. true?” asked Mags, looking up at Finnick sadly. It was hard for Mags to speak the Capitol’s language due to the stroke she had a few years ago, but he always understood what she meant. It was easier in her native language, but they’d made using any language but the Capitol’s illegal many years ago.
Finnick nodded, meeting her gaze with unshed tears in his eyes. It was okay to cry in front of Mags.
Mags guided him into the living room and they both sat down on the couch. He sunk into the cushion, head leaned back onto the top of the backrest. Neither of them spoke for a long while, opting to sit in silence and just be there for each other.
A small fish taped to the wall caught Finnick’s eye. It was something he had made for Mags when he was in first or second grade. It didn’t shock him that she’d kept it, but taped to the wall? It was so out of place, it would’ve made him laugh had it not been under the circumstances they’re under currently. Instead, it made those stubborn tears in his eyes threaten to fall.
Thinking of his past during difficult times was never really helpful for him.
“Hijo,” whispered Mags, “It’s.. going.. be okay.”
How could she think that? They could both be reaped, forced to kill each other. Or it could be him and Annie, or even him and Doris RIlla. This wasn’t fair, but then again, when was the Capitol ever fair? He didn’t even bother responding, knowing it was rude, but not caring about that anymore.
“There’s.. many of us. Won’t be you.. Annie.. or me.” added Mags.
It was true, District Four did have a lot of victors, but it seemed as if the Capitol hated him enough to pick him anyway, right along with someone he loves.
That’s good drama, isn’t it? Getting a loved victor to kill someone he loves to survive? It sounded straight out of a shitty Capitol romance movie. Those things were always so inaccurate that it hurt to watch for too long.
Instead of voicing any of his thoughts, Finnick settled on a nod. Pretending to agree with Mags is the easier way out. Besides, he didn’t feel up to arguing right now anyway.
Thinking about arguing leads to thoughts about Johanna, back in District Seven. She’s definitely pissed, probably getting drunk off her ass right now. The older male in Twelve definitely was, anyway. Finnick distantly thinks that he should call and check in on Jo some time tonight or tomorrow. And maybe Haymitch.
Finnick Odair will never stop owing Haymitch Abernatthy. He was there when Finnick had first won his Games. He was the one who talked to him after the first time that President Snow had sold him to a Capitol citizen. Haymitch had even taken him out drinking after the second time, even though Finnick was not yet of age.
Yeah, maybe Finnick will call him some time. But right now, all he felt like doing was sleeping.
Shifting his position slightly, he got comfortable enough to slip into sleep, even though he knew his mind wouldn’t be generous when it came to his dreams.