Chapter Text
ACT I — BLOOD IN THE WATER
"You are the light. It's not on you it's in you. Don't you ever in your mother-fucking life dim your light for nobody."
ST. CHROMA — Tyler, the Creator
Finnick Odair has been described as many things.
In his youth, a promising career. A stand up gentleman. Family oriented.
During his games, a charming young man. A lethal competitor. Stealthy under his golden veneer.
After, easy. Vain. A washed up Capitol darling desperate to hold on to fame.
From birth, he was formed by what people thought. He was a slab of clay molded by the hands of those who never really knew him. Eventually, he wasn't sure who he really was. Which version of him most resembled the truth.
Sometimes he wondered if it mattered. If he became what people wanted from him, at least he'd keep people happy. It was easier to sway along with the shifting tide of public opinion than decide for himself.
People thought they knew Finnick Odair and he let them believe that.
But this isn't their story. This is his.
Reaping day stripped Finnick of the things he loved. No symphony of the ocean greeting him at dawn. No cousins bustling around the breakfast table. No sessions at the Career Training Facility, or digging his bare feet in the sun-soaked sand.
Instead, he was clad in his best sear sucker suit choking down past-ripe plums and warm grain dotted with raisins. His training bag sat slumped by the door, neglected for the day. His dad was out on the waters, opting for the early shift to make a quick buck before the ceremony.
As he stood in the hallway with his hands in his pockets, watching the light shift on the walls, he begged the day to pass quickly so he could feel like a person again.
"Did you even fix your hair?" his mother asked, fingers fussing through his curls, still stiff with salt.
He muttered something about it not mattering. No one would be looking at him anyway. He hadn’t been picked to volunteer this year—not yet. One more year to blend into the crowd, to watch someone else take the place he yearned for.
His mother didn’t accept that. She had trained him, as fiercely as any Capitol instructor, to stand tall and smile politely no matter what. But he wouldn’t bother—not today. He was too bitter to pretend.
Cassian Handlind had been chosen to volunteer for the 65th Games and it made Finnick sick.
He couldn't compare to Finnick and everyone knew it. Most trainers wouldn't given him a second look. Cassian had been on one Capitol Specialized Training Trip, could barely maneuver a sword, and never received high honors at the Career Training Facility (also known as the CTF, an acronym just as welcoming as the wrought iron fences that encased it.)
Cassian’s one claim to fame was being first in hand-to-hand combat. Finnick figured he’d be first in cowardice, too, if that were on the scoreboard.
Still, they’d voted for Cassian. He would bask in the glory, and Finnick would be left on the sidelines once again, applauding a boy he could best blindfolded.
In District 4, unlike most others, the careers are a class of their own. Kids are told from birth that the only future worth striving for is the life of a Victor—that serving Panem in the arena is a noble calling, one that promises riches and honor beyond imagination. The careers take on the burden of sacrifice so no one else has to. Their selection means the rest of the district breathes easy.
The Reaping won’t bring tears or grief this year. It’ll bring dancing. Drinking. Fireworks and full glasses on every corner. Because in Four, the only thing more beloved than a safe child is an excuse to celebrate.
And no one loves careers more than the Capitol. To them, a career Victor is two breeds of celebrity rolled into one— athlete and idol, warrior and ornament. They're swept into a life of luxury and attention, their victories immortalized, their tragedies glamorized. It’s a current stronger than the sea itself, and Finnick longed to be carried by it.
His mother loved to tell one story from when he was four. He would strut around the house pretending to be Jaxon Vance, that year's victor from One. He'd steal a butter knife from the kitchen, imagining it was his blade, and repeat his infamous line. One the Capitol took care the play about a thousand times.
Hovering above a scrawny boy who managed to kill his district parter he uttered a rageful, "You'll pay for this." He was too young to know what it meant, but it was apparent he sure as hell liked it.
From then on, his parents swore victory was all he ever spoke of. The Games were his life, a hyper fixation of sorts. When he became of age for the CTF they wasted no time enrolling me. It wasn't until his teen years that he realized jus how much they had to sacrifice to get him there, which made the importance of this endeavor even weightier.
His value of memories was constructed around age seven. For the first Games he could recall, he absorbed every second with stars his my eyes as the victors on the screen were celebrated. He would plead with his parents to delay bedtime a little longer so he could soak in all the applause and glory. Blinded by the spectacle, he never payed much mind to the killing.
That all changed when the CTF began its mentoring program. Each younger student was paired with an older of the same gender to be taken under their wing. To Finnick's delight, he was paired with a boy named Myron. He was, and probably still is, one of the most skilled, and yet most genuine people he'd met in that place. Myron was a friend to everyone, and if he had that run-of-the-mill ego problem most Careers had, it was hidden behind his charm and his sweet talking.
He would ask Finnick about his life—the real stuff, not just asking what my parents do and what grades he made in school. He went out of his was to sneak Finnick into his training sessions, and sometimes they'd even get ice cream in town square on the way home. For a period of time, the kids Finnick's grade were envious of how good of a lot he got.
That year, Myron was chosen by the Center to volunteer. Finnick was filled with pride, like it was somehow a victory of his own.
But Myron last long—in the midst of a sand storm he fell victim to a scrawny District Nine kid with a sword. Finnick watched it all play out on his TV, yet didn't remember much. A bunch of tears, some of which were his own, and flashes of blood soaking the bone-dry desert floor. There was screaming. Lots of screaming. It never occurred to Finnick that there was a chance his mentor, his Myron, wouldn't come home. In Four Finnick saw him as untouchable. A god amongst men. That image shattered as he was brought to his knees in an unceremonious end that left the publics' mind before the body went cold. To this day, Finnick loathed Nine because of it.
After that day the idea of being a victor became less shiny. Less idealistic. That's not to say he didn't revel in the idea of what winning would bring. It didn't squash his drive to prove himself as one of the greats, but from that point on the means to the end was no longer lost on him.
That was the moment things shifted. The means to the end was no longer lost on him. The Games stopped being myth and started feeling personal. After Myron, Finnick knew better than to believe in untouchable victors or heroic deaths. Still, he wanted it. The house. The money. The safety. A future that didn't reek of the bay and sting like fresh rope burns. He wanted to win. For the show and the celebrity of course, but also for himself. For his family. For the life that only seemed possible from forging a path inside that arena. And this year was supposed to be his chance.
Two weeks before the Reaping, the CTF convened its private selection committee. That’s how it worked in District Four—volunteers weren’t random. They were nominated from a shortlist of top-performing Careers, then voted on by the instructors, past victors and Center staff. Everyone knew the top fifteen students were eligible. Finnick had never once fallen outside the top five. He thought the invitation was lost in the mail. Until a Center aide pulled him aside after sparring and said, awkwardly, “You’re not in the running this year. Orders came down this morning.”
“From who?” he asked, stunned.
The aide only shrugged. “Not my place to ask.”
No explanation. No reason. Just orders.
He hadn’t told anyone. Not his mother, not his father. Not even Reagan, Carrington, or Florance, his closest cousins and best friends. Because maybe it was a mistake. Maybe it would all get sorted. Maybe they’d call his name at the last minute and it would all make sense again.
But it didn’t. The days ticked on. Cassian Handlind—who’d barely scraped top ten—was given the honor. Finnick hadn’t slept properly since.
The town square was buzzing, citizens anxious for the later celebrations to begin. The sun warmed stone and chattering kids made Finnick feel even more distant. He wished he could enjoy this day like the rest of them, but he had been snubbed and therefore was furious.
He stood with his jaw tight, eyes twitching as their brand-new escort launched into her Capitol-mandated speech, hitting each point with theatrical precision.
Beside him, Jace struggled to stifle a laugh. "Dude, what's wrong with your hair?" He scans him as Finnick shimmies into their age section.
There weren’t many boys at school who tolerated Finnick. His mother insisted it was jealousy. He hadn’t believed her until a few months ago, when he overheard a cluster of classmates whispering that his looks were “the only weapon he has.”
Anyway, Jace never seemed to mind Finnick. He had that dark tanned skin everyone envied and annoyingly, perfectly tousled fawn hair, so he received his share of female attention. Finnick figured that's why Jace tolerated him.
"Is it that bad?" He asked as he ran his hands through it, but is met with the resistance of knots.
"Uh, yeah." He cracks a shit-eating grin. "Better hope no one sees you like this. Not sure how far you'll get around here without your looks."
He's teasing but Finnick sure wasn't laughing. He couldn't stand when people spoke about my appearance. He felt like they were intentionally negating any of his merits. His mother always said his father had the same gripes when he was about twenty years younger—sans the gray hair and the sunspots.
"Is that why you're late?" Jace pressed on.
Finnick rolled his head back dramatically and groaned. "You and my mom would get along great, you know that?"
"Oh trust me, I know." He smirks and Finnick feigned a gag.
Neither of them could let silence last for long, so when Finnick heard his friend stifle a laugh, he was already smiling at the anticipation of his comment.
Jace nudged him and nodded toward the escort. The woman looked like an underfed stork—tall and frail, with a breathy voice that made her sound like she'd just sprinted around the town square. She had a silver hair so long that it trailed behind her, getting caught on the splintering wood stage. “Think they use that thing as a mop at home?”
Finnick smirked. “Well, she’s clearly not doing any physical work.” He watched her ribs shift beneath layers of velvet as she gestured grandly toward the crowd.
“Please,” Jace scoffed, a little too loudly. “Do any of them? I figured they just sit around painting their faces and sucking each other off.”
Finnick huffed—more exhale than laugh, but it was the closest he could manage.
The speech dragged on, each word more hollow than the last. When it finally ended, the crowd fell silent. The only sound was the wind stirring the sun-bleached awnings along the storefronts. Even the familiar tang of citrus and sea salt on the breeze couldn’t calm his nerves.
“Let’s see who the lucky lady will be,” the escort trilled. Her manicured fingers dipped into the glass bowl and plucked a slip with surgical grace.
“Ebony—”
“I volunteer.” A voice rang out—sharp, immediate, expected. Asteria Montrel. The Career Training Facility’s obvious female pick. Finnick had no problem with her claiming the role. At seventeen, she was a weapon in human form—lethal with nearly anything the CTF had put in her hands. She held the record for the fastest mile, and her logistics scores were flawless.
She climbed the stage in a frilly pink dress that barely disguised the muscle coiled beneath her tan skin. Her dark hair was slicked back, her eyes sharp and merciless as she scanned the crowd.
Then came the second name. “And the male who will be representing us…” He rolled his eyes, making no effort to hide it—he’d never been good at that.
“Finnick Odair.” The name sliced through the square like a blade. For a moment, everything dropped out — sound, thought, breath.
Wait. His chest tightened. No. That can’t be right. He blinked hard, as if clearing swirling thoughts from his peripheral. They told me I wasn’t in the running. That’s not how this works. Volunteers are chosen, prepped, positioned. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
But the silence that followed was louder than any protest. No Cassian, no correction. No one stepping forward to take the place that had been promised to someone else. Just bated breath and the weight of predatory, expectant eyes. Just stillness and watching and waiting.
Why isn’t he stepping up? Finnick’s stomach twisted. Well, I know why. Coward.
This was all wrong. It was never supposed to happen like this. He was supposed to be prepared, twice as brave as he was now, and walking up to the stage like he was floating on a cloud.
Peacekeepers began moving. Their rifles glinted beneath the midday sun, and their eyes locked on him like they had their orders. As if they already were privy to exactly who he was and what needed to be done.
That’s real, Finnick thought. That look in their eyes that activated the part of his brain that begged him to run. He had seconds, just seconds, to decide what version of himself they would see.
I can’t just stand here like an idiot. Move. Look like you expected it. Pretend. He swallowed hard and forced his legs to carry him forward. A Peacekeeper reached for his shoulder and Finnick dodged without flinching. He would not be seen as non-compliant. Shocked. Unprepared. He straightened, rolled his shoulders back the way his mother had drilled into him, and shaped his mouth into something resembling a smile. The kind that charmed CTF trainers, turned heads in the market, got him out of trouble and into opportunity. That smile had always worked. He'd let it work now just the same.
The cameras leaned in just as the crowd did. This was his moment now, whether he wanted it or not, and it wasn't lost on him that he was expected to entertain. That's what this was, and the Capitol had a lot to offer him if he played his cards right. And if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was perform.
As he reached the stage, he offered his most confident smile. The escort beamed, voice flickering with artificial warmth as she announced their names again. The square erupted in a cacophony of sounds: a rehearsed applause, the hiss of the confetti cannons, the cheers of adults ready to drink. It drowned out the sound of the waves in the distance, the rustling of the trees, and everything he associated with home. From here on out, that was gone.
The Justice Building was colder than he expected—maybe one of the only air-conditioned places in the District. The marble floors clicked beneath their feet, spotless, like no one had ever dared step on them before. The walls were lined with portraits of past victors, their faces frozen in triumph. He knew each of their names and heroic stories by heart. He should’ve been picturing himself up there someday. But all he could focus on was the faint metallic smell in the air—not quite blood, but close.
A Peacekeeper ushered him into a side room like a criminal, the doors slamming shut behind him with mechanical finality. He stood still for a beat, listening to the hum of voices gathered outside, then exhaled—long and quiet, like he didn’t want to be heard.
The room was absurd. Velvet drapes. Glass decanters. Gold trim on the ceiling, like he’d stepped into some Capitol socialite’s fever dream. He paced at first, but the shock was still wearing off and his clothes clung uncomfortably to his skin. So he eased into a nearby couch, limbs heavy, heart light and frantic.
He had expected fear. Dread, maybe. Even a flicker of thrill. Instead it all felt pointless. The cameras, the ceremony, the forced solemnity. And as he sat there, alone, it struck him how unceremonious it all was.
He’d imagined this moment before—countless times. But in those visions, he was older. Taller. Steadier. A man, not a boy still trying to fill out a suit jacket and keep his voice from cracking. He was skilled—no one could deny that—but was that enough? Was this something a fourteen-year-old could take on and survive? Had anyone his age done that before and lived to tell the tale?
He reminded himself that skill was only half the battle. The other half was something that most others tributes didn't know: the Games didn't start in the arena. They start here—in the spotlight.hey started here—in the costumes and interviews, in the Capitol's spotlight. The performance was everything. And if there was one thing Finnick Odair knew how to do, it was perform.
Most of his life had already felt like an act—charm on command, grin sharpened to hide anything too real. Keep your flaws buried, and no one can use them against you. It was a trick that had saved him more than once. But sometimes, in the stillness between roles, it didn’t feel like a trick at all. Just a necessary evil. A life of masks, even if it meant no one ever really saw his face.
Maybe that was the point. Maybe that’s why he’d be good at this: because he knew how to give people what they wanted. He'd keep just enough of himself tucked away where no one could touch it.
I will be good at this, he thought. If nothing else, at least for that reason.
He rolled the tension out of his neck and thought about the tributes. Some of them would break down, especially the younger ones. Hell, he couldn’t blame them. The whole thing was terrifying. But it also meant he had less to worry about. He wasn’t eager to hurt anyone, but the arena only had one exit, and he wasn’t planning on leaving through the other one.
After minutes that felt like hours, there was a knock at the door. His parents. He was sure he wouldn't be afforded any other visitors. Jace wasn't a close enough companion to make the effort. His cousins, who had just watched him be reaped from their own respective age groups, would wonder why they weren't warned. Why they never got a goodbye. The last time he the boys, they were throwing rocks into an open window of a pretty girl from school. The girls were teaching him new braids with tall grass from the dunes. It was just a normal day for them, and it very well may have been the last.
When his mother entered, her face was streaked with tears, though she was smiling—that tight, too-wide smile she wore when she was trying to believe something she didn’t. She was dressed in something outdated but elegant, a symbol of the fallen Capitol darling she was. When he saw her tarnished Capitol jewelry and fraying silk in the kitchen this morning he could hardly hide his embarrassment. She was a Four woman through and through—a merchants daughter from the coast—but she dressed like she's never work a day in her life. In fact, she hasn't.
A visiting Capitol official swept her off her feet thirty-some years ago. He called her "a charming little sea thing" with her sun bleached hair and delicate limbs. She recounted her rendezvous often and it didn't matter whether or not his father was in the room to hear it. He wondered if that was purposeful.
Sooner or later, she washed back up on the shores of Four like driftwood—hollow and worn. She became too fragile to work a trade job but too proud to be pitted—this resulted in her parading around in the scraps of Capitol couture she has left, and not working a day in her life to earn anything more.
A mother clinging to the last shreds of her Capitol connections wasn't exactly a legacy to be proud of. For years, he saw her as a cautionary tale—white-knuckling vanity and performance like it was something sacred. But he realized quickly the Reaping had a way of changing what matters. Suddenly, he saw her for what she was: a woman trying to preserve the only thing she thought made her worth keeping. It's tragic, yes—but it was also human. And somehow, that made it easier to forgive.
His father stood behind her, quiet. His eyes were glassy, but steady. Finnick blinked. He had never seen his father cry before. Not when a young Finnick broke his arm on the asphalt, or when his best friend disappeared on a small craft last November. He was still wearing the windbreaker from his shift on the water. He must’ve come straight here,Finnick thought. Of course he had.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” his mother whispered.
“I didn’t know,” he said honestly. “It wasn’t supposed to be me.”
“Well, I’m proud of you,” she said, reaching up to stroke his face. Her hands were trembling, rough, wrinkled with age, and reeking with the scent of oranges and faded perfume. Finnick had never liked being touched much, but this time, he leaned into it. For her.
Not only for her.
His father cleared his throat. “You’re ready.” Finnick nodded, meeting the man of few words at his level.
“You know what this means.”
He did. It meant victory. Wealth. A home in Victor’s Village. No more worrying whether the nets came back empty. No more shared rooms or patched clothes or quietly skipping meals so the kids could eat. It also meant his life would no longer belong to him, but he didn’t say that. He just nodded again.
His mother’s mood swung like a pendulum, as it always did. “My son, the next Jaxson Vance!” she laughed, throwing her arms up. “Oh, wait until the neighbors hear!”
Finnick chuckled, because what else could he do? In this room, pretending felt smarter than feeling.
When the Peacekeepers came to take them away, he hugged them both. His mother clung too tight. His father rested a hand on his back like he was still just a boy. Maybe the last time he would ever been seen in that light.
As they stepped through the door, his mother turned back one last time. “Make us proud,” she said. Like he was off to a swim meet. Not into a bloodbath. He watched the door close behind them. And didn’t move for a long time.
The escort, Cassandra, as she told me, entered next without knocking.
A lot of effort in her look, he figured, but it was all for naught. She wasn't just unattractive, she looked like she was rotting from the inside. Her heels clicked like a clock counting down and he could smell her before she even reached him—something expensive and suffocating, like perfume and smoke trapped in velvet.
“All settled in?”
He gave her the barest nod. Her eyes flicked over him, calculating. He met her gaze and held it long enough to make her blink.
“Well,” she said, already turning, “I’ll leave you to—”
“Wait,” he said, a grin slipping onto his face without effort. It always came when he needed it. “Do tributes get a send-off drink? Seems like the least the Capitol can do.” He gestured toward one of the glass decanters, filled with some golden, bubbling liquid. She raised an eyebrow. “You’re… seventeen?”
I’m fourteen, he thought. Fourteen, dressed to look seventeen. She was probably thirty, painted to look twenty. What a pair we are.
He smirked. “Would it matter if I were?”
She studied him for a beat. Then giggled—soft and uncertain. “Just one.” She poured the drink and handed it to him stiffly, like she knew she shouldn’t but couldn’t help herself. Once she left, he brought it to his nose, sniffed, then poured it quietly into a nearby plant. It smelled disgusting. He’d only ever had a drink once—cheap white liquor mixed with juice, passed around on the beach and later vomited onto the dunes.
He walked to the window and looked down. Families gathered in the square. They hugged. Laughed. Then drifted home to change into their best party attire. Congratulations—your child wasn’t picked. Meanwhile, his family would toast in his honor. Laughing. Bragging. Hoping.
And Finnick would picture it too. The money that opened every door. The house big enough for all his extended family to live in. The relief in all their eyes. Maybe he wanted to be their miracle. Or maybe he just needed to prove something—to them, to the Capitol, to himself. Either way, he planned to win. Not just because he believed in the Games, or because it was his patriotic duty, but because it was a way out. A way forward.
And because if there was one thing he could do better than anyone else, it was make them believe in him.