Story [Hunger Games] perseus/andromeda (Annie Cresta & Finnick Odair novella) New Chapter Feb 03

Title: p e r s e u s / a n d r o m e d a
Author: Idrelle_Miocovani
Fandom: The Hunger Games trilogy
Genre: drama, romance, hurt/comfort
Characters: Annie Cresta, Finnick Odair, OCs and some appearances by other canon characters
Timeframe: Annie and Finnick's child, teenaged and adult lives.
Summary: This is District 4, where competing in the brutal Hunger Games means honour and pride. Being a victor is so much more than simply walking away with your life. Victory is only the first tentative step towards a corrupt world filled with deceit, blame, hurt, and, perhaps, love and forgiveness.
Notes: You know, I kind of wish my first venture back into fan fic was something fluffy, but where would the fun be in that? This is a story I really wanted to write after re-reading the Hunger Games and my muse became extremely attached to Annie and Finnick. It's also something of an experiment with style, since I wanted to try a non-linear approach. If you like something that is structured more like a series of interlinking vignettes, you've come to the right place.

This story deals with difficult themes. There are times when rape, sexual assault and their effects will be discussed. It will always be board appropriate. Thank you, Mira_Jade, for reviewing board policy regarding these topics with me.

And without rambling from me... here we go. Thanks for reading!

---

p e r s e u s / a n d r o m e d a​

“… maybe he’s changed.”​

“So have you. So have I. And Finnick and Haymitch and Beetee. Don’t get me started on Annie Cresta. The arena messed us all up pretty good, don’t you think?”​

Katniss and Johanna, Mockingjay.​

“If a victor is considered desirable, the president gives them as a reward or allows people to buy them for an exorbitant amount of money. If you refuse, he kills someone you love. So you do it. I wasn’t the only one, but I was the most popular. And perhaps the most defenseless, because the people I loved were defenseless. To make themselves feel better, my patrons would make presents of money or jewelry, but I found a much more valuable. Secrets.”​

Finnick, Mockingjay.​

“Did you love Annie right away, Finnick?”​

“No. She crept up on me.”​

Katniss and Finnick, Mockingjay.​

*​

[district 4]​

[annie]​

This is District 4 in the eyes of Panem:​

Brave, beautiful, occasionally reckless. Strong, arrogant, charming.​

Salt water. Ocean.​

Pride.​

Career Tributes.​

This is District 4 in the eyes of District 4:​

Wind and salt. Tempests and storms. Sand and seaweed. Driftwood and footprints. Tides and tide pools. Boats and ships. Nets and fish.​

Injuries Dehydration. Sunburn. Sunstroke.​

Pride. Honour.​

Career Tributes.​

Victors.​

The Hunger Games are more than a national celebration. It’s part of our way of life. We don’t train for the Games, not like the tributes from Districts 1 and 2 are rumoured to do. Our strength comes from our homeland. From the sand and the sea. From the afternoons spent gathering fish and knotting nets. From the community that bands together to make sure that no one goes hungry, that no one is without shelter. Panem’s cameras don’t show the sunburned skin, the peeling noses, the calluses and the dehydration, but these are parts of the whole that make us who we are.​

We know how to brave the elements. We know how to navigate. We can net and capture. We can gut and kill another living thing.​

I was four when I realized what death meant. My first fish swallowed the hook.​

Its head came off when my mother helped me pull it out of the water.​

I didn’t eat fish for a month after that.​

In District 4, it is a great honour to serve in the Hunger Games. They bring fame and wealth to the victor, and food and supplies to the victor’s district. And if you die, you die knowing you tried to bring better days to your home. We dream of fighting and winning the Hunger Games.​

It is the right thing to do, because you are District 4.​

 

Aaaahhh I can't wait for this! I love Finnick and Annie Very interesting start! I wish we saw more of the individual Districts and got to know them a little better--I'm looking forward to learning about District Four

 

Nat - I know you love Finnick and Annie, we've talked about this. I'm glad you're excited. I'm having a lot of fun exploring the dynamic in District 4. I think iIt's tempting (in fanfic) to make every district like District 12 in terms of attitude and poverty, but I don't think that was true in Collins' world. It doesn't make sense, otherwise the entire country would have rebelled much earlier. Plus, District 4 is a Career district, so I think they probably had a different attitude about the Games than districts like 11 and 12.

Mira - Thanks! The writing is supposed to be a little disjointed. Each chapter is more like a set of memories linked to a theme; I'm hoping that it plays up the disjointedness of memory recall, especially when the person in question may be mentally unstable.

And I'm glad to be back writing fan fic, too!

 

[reaping day]​

[annie]​

Finnick jokes about Reaping Day. He isn’t the only one. Most of us do. We celebrate Reaping Day with fancy meals and specially-made clothes. We all look forward to it. It’s a national holiday, one where we can show our pride for our district on national television.

Those who don’t are called cowards. No one likes being a coward.

District 4 has very few cowards. Who wouldn’t give everything to represent their home in the Games and try their best to reap the benefits of becoming a victor? Our elders always tell us they wish they had been tributes.

“You are lucky,” one teacher says. “You have the opportunity to be chosen to do more with your life than many of us. If you are chosen, make the most of it.”

“If you are reaped,” another says, “you will be afraid. You will be scared. Laugh all you want now – once the adrenaline from Reaping Day passes and you’re on your way to the Capitol, the fear will come. And you should be scared. You are going to the arena, where you will face extremely high chances of being killed. But remember that we all face death, every day. You could be swept overboard and lost to the sea. You could drown in the lagoon. You could accidentally be speared with a trident. To be reaped is to allow yourself to be afraid, and then to let that fear go. You are District 4. You can fight for every chance to return home.”

The Hunger Games is on everyone’s minds this afternoon. The Victory Tour has just passed through District 4. We were all curious to see the boy who beat our tributes last year. We were disappointed. He was so strong – scary, even – on screen, but in person, he was underwhelming. Shy. Nervous.

Not like our victors. Though we don’t see much of our victors. They either stay in their village, or they are in the Capitol, enjoying their transformed lives.

“If I’m not reaped, I’ll have to volunteer,” Finnick says as he tries to fix his net. We’re sitting on the beach with a group of other kids from school. We all have chores to do, but that doesn’t mean that we have to do them at home.

“Why’s that?” I ask. My fingers are working quickly. I know how to knot nets. It’s in my family. Before she lost her hands, Mama used to invent different kinds of knots to use and she taught me and my sister everything.

“I’m too pretty not to be on TV!”

It’s a joke. Finnick’s one of those boys who knows he’s attractive. He’s thirteen and he turns most the girls’ heads at school – and some of the boys’, too. He’s already working on his father’s fishing boat. A lot of people are jealous of him.

He also can’t tie a knot to save his life.

“If you’re reaped, someone’s gonna mess up your face in the Games,” Quintan says.

“But then I’ll win, and the Capitol will fix it.”

“But then I’ll break your nose when you get home.”

Quintan is my age. He lives next door to Finnick. They’ve been friends forever, so Quintan’s allowed to say things like that.

“What do you think, Annie?” Finnick asks.

I pause and put down my net. “Your dad isn’t going to catch any fish if he uses that sorry excuse for a net.”

“What’s wrong with my net?”

“Everything.”

I fix his net.

He doesn’t listen when I explain what he did wrong.

We’re all excited for the Games this year. Most of us have just turned twelve and we’re eligible for the first time. Finnick makes a big show of scoffing at us younger ones (like he’s so much older!). Twelve year olds are really rare. District 4 is a Career district. It’s an honour to be in the Games. If you’re twelve and you’re reaped, someone older than you is going to volunteer. They don’t want to see their chance disappear in some grubby twelve-year-old’s hands.

District 4 always puts forward tributes that are capable and deserve to be in the Games.

My sister Arianne made my first reaping dress. She worked all year on it, and she wouldn’t show me. She said it was a surprise. Finally, when the day comes, it’s hanging on the back of my chair in my bedroom.

“It’s blue,” she says. “For the sea. And there’s this—”

She holds something out in her hand. It’s a delicate necklace of pale pink seashells that dangle together on a narrow chain. I quickly put it on and notice that it’s much too long for me.

“I made it for me,” Arianne says, “when I was fifteen. It was going to be my token. I always thought that if I was chosen, I would want to remember the sea in the arena. Now it’s yours. So you can remember it if you’re chosen.”

“But I’m not going to be chosen,” I say.

“Probably not this year. But you never know.”

“Arianne,” I say quietly, “I don’t think I want to be chosen. Not ever.”

Arianne smiles. “Annie, I think a lot of people think that way. They just don’t tell anyone because it wouldn’t be right.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I know I didn’t really want to be chosen, even though I pretended I wanted to.”

“Then it’s okay to be scared?”

Arianne takes my hand. “It is always okay to be scared.”

It takes us almost two hours to get to the Justice Building. Our village isn’t the closest, and I am jumping up and down in the boat so much (nerves, I guess?) I almost tip us twice. I say goodbye to Mama and Arianne. I have my identification taken for the first time. I join Mare and Ariel in the section with hundreds of other twelve-year-old girls. We’re all dressed up, all chatting. No one looks scared. Everyone is sure that if they are reaped, one of the older kids will volunteer for them.

Jasmine Sparks stands on the stage. She’s our District escort and she’s been around for what seems like forever. Maybe even before I was born. Somehow she doesn’t fall over even though she’s wearing shoes that make her feet almost point on a ninety degree angle. I wonder how she does that.

My friend Ariel loves her. She wants to be like Jasmine when she grows up.

“You’ll have to be a Victor one day,” I told her.

“I don’t really want to be a Victor though.”

“You’ll have to! You can only get aqua hair if you live in the Capitol, and you can only live in the Capitol if you’re a Victor.”

The names are read. A thirteen-year-old girl is called up on the stage. Then a twelve-year-old boy. I don’t know either of them. They’re from a different village.

Then the volunteering starts. It’s quite a process, like haggling in the market. My legs are starting to go numb from standing in one spot by the time it finishes. We have new tributes, both volunteers. The girl is seventeen. I don’t know her, but I think she’s really beautiful. A lot of tributes are, girls and boys.

I wonder whether I will ever be pretty enough to be a tribute. But I’m not sure I even want to be a tribute.

“You don’t have to decide now, Annie!” Mare says as we clap for the pretty girl who is going to be our tribute this year. “There are volunteers every year. It doesn’t matter if you get reaped. If you don’t want to do it, then someone will volunteer. If you do want to do it, then you volunteer. Easy. That’s what I’m counting on.”

Mare is amazing in how she’s able to explain things that don’t really make sense. I feel better.

The boy tribute is sixteen. Unlike the girl, I know him.

His name is Ben Odair and he’s Finnick’s cousin.

I can see Finnick in the crowd. He’s excited. He looks really proud that a family member is going to represent District 4 in the Games this year.

Jasmine is calling them two of the brightest and best District 4 has ever seen, and there is a lot of applause. Then the Peacekeepers let us go. I wonder why they stand guard over us. It’s not like anyone’s going to miss Reaping Day.

It’s our holiday.

You don’t miss Reaping Day.

Happy Hunger Games.

*​

[finnick]​

When you grow up with the Games, you think you understand everything. You think how amazing it is, to see people from your home compete in a Game that means everything. You know it’s life and death for them, in the arena, but it’s more than just that. It’s pride and honour. It’s about doing something for your district.

That’s what my cousin said. Ben wanted to volunteer for his Games. It was his dream to go out in a blaze of glory. He was the ninth kid in his family. No one paid attention to him. He was useless on a fishing boat. He almost took his hand off with a hook.

“When there’s nothing for you here, Finnick,” he said, “you start to think big.”

“What if you lose?”

“Then I lose.”

“You’ll be dead.”

“More people die in accidents out on the sea every year than in the Games. I’d rather die for my District than gathering seafood and pearls for a green-skinned ogre in the Capitol.”

When I saw him die on our television screen, I had to remind myself that he said that. I quoted him aloud and my aunt slapped me across my mouth.

“Finnick!”

“But he said that!”

“You little liar!”

“I’m not making it up!”

“Get out! Out out out!”

My aunt chased me out of the house with a broom and meat cleaver and I went to watch the rest of the Games with Annie and Quintan.

The Games finished two weeks ago. It hurts to be around family right now. They only go out when they need something, or when they have to go to work on Dad’s boat. Everyone cries. My cousins all cry. My sisters cry. My brothers cry. It’s the thing that sucks about being part of a big family. When something bad happens, it’s like the entire family is one big emotion blob.

They’re not sad. Ben was reckless. He was always pulling stupid stunts (like seeing how long he could balance on top of a ship’s mast) and almost getting himself killed. But they supported him when he decided to volunteer for the Games. No one told him no. He fought to be accepted as volunteer. We all really thought he could do it. If anyone could win the Games, it was Ben.

And now he lost and now he’s dead.

They are all ashamed.

You can see the glares some people in the village give my aunt. I’m guessing those are the people who took her word when she told them Ben would win. They put money down on my cousin winning.

There’s something wrong with that. I don’t know what it is, but when I think about it, it just doesn’t seem right. Everyone knows the Gamemakers control the Game. You’re almost more likely to be killed by some Gamemaker trap than another tribute. I have this theory that when they get bored, they start playing eenie-meenie-minie-moe to pick off tributes.

“That’s horrible,” Annie says.

We’re on the beach. Annie brought a blanket and she’s lying on her stomach, making these little braided and knotted bands out of coloured string. She likes to keep her hands busy. She says it helps her think. I’m digging a hole in the sand with the end of a stick. Don’t know why. It makes me feel better.

“I think it’s true.” I stab the sand with the stick.

Am I ashamed of Ben? It’s crazy to think of how much I looked up to him. Dad keeps telling me that I have the same reckless streak. I keep telling him that I don’t, I’m just legitimately curious to see if I can cliff-dive.

“I’m really sorry about your cousin.”

Ben’s dead. Why did he die? That other tribute – the one from 11 – cut his throat. Why did she cut his throat? Because Ben was going to kill her if she didn’t? Because the Capitol made her?

Does that mean the Capitol killed him? Or did he kill himself, volunteering for the Games? Ben thought he could win. He was sure he was going to win. He thought he could bring honour to the District. He wanted to do something that would make his family proud of him, something that would make us forget all his stupid stunts.

Annie pulls another knot tight on her bracelet. She’s waiting for me to say something. She’s good like that. She doesn’t like pestering people for conversation. I’m the one who likes to talk. She probably thinks it’s weird that I’m not saying much.

Am I ashamed of Ben?

Whenever I think about my cousin, all I feel is anger. I’m angry. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because he’s dead. I’m angry at him for volunteering.

I’m angry at him for losing. And dying.

I’m angry at the girl from District 11, but she’s dead, too.

I’m angry at all the people talking about my family in the village market. Saying how Ben let down our District. You don’t hear them talking about his district partner that way.

I take the stick and hurl it as far as I can. It lands with a splash in the water and disappears under a wave.

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

Annie pauses. “We don’t have to.” She ties a knot tight in her string. “My sister says that she’s going to start taking me out on her boat in the morning once I turn thirteen.”

“Yeah?”

“She says I need to learn how do more than just make nets.”

“You’re pretty good at those,” I say. I mean it. She’s the best.

“Could you give me a few pointers?” she asks. “On fishing?”

Immediately I get why she’s asking. I know where this is coming from.

“Annie, are you still scared about all your fish coming up headless?”

She looks down at her string bracelet and pulls a couple knots tight.

“I’m not teasing you.” I sit on the sand beside her blanket. “It’s an actual question.”

She picks up her bag of string and shuffles over so I’m able to sit on the blanket with her. “Yeah. What? I was four. Of course I was traumatized.”

“You’ve seen all the stuff that goes down in the Games—”

“That is different. That’s TV.”

It was only TV when Ben had his throat cut. I saw him die.

“You know what’s happening.”

“But it’s not happening right in front of you. At least actually in front of you. There’s a difference.”

I don’t get it. I saw Ben die when he died, it didn’t matter that I wasn’t in the arena with him. “What difference?”

“I don’t know! There’s just a difference.” She brushes sand off her blanket. “I just don’t like seeing things heads’ come off, okay?”

“Just because that one fish swallowed its hook doesn’t mean they all will.”

A wave crashes to shore and deposits my driftwood stick on the sand.

“I’ll teach you how to fish,” I say.

What I don’t tell her is that is when I decide that I’m going to volunteer for the Games next year. The next Reaping Day is going to be my last. I’m going to train, even though we’re not supposed to. I know people who can help. I’ll be ready. I’m going to win back our family pride, for Ben.

And I’m going to make sure everyone remembers the Odair family name.

 

This is great! I love the two perspectives and peoples' different views about the Games in District 4. And now I"m really wondering how Annie ends up competing!

 

Nat
Thanks! Yeah, it's interesting investigating that. And in regards to your last question -- you'll eventually find out.

---​

[games]​

[annie]​

As is tradition during the spring, we run to the beach as soon as the teachers let us out of class.

The school backs on to a small section of grainy sand that is usually covered with bits and pieces of driftwood and stray seaweed. Occasionally something more interesting washes up on shore, like the remains of an old boat. One autumn, there was a whole row of jellyfish and we quickly came up with a game that involved bouncing rocks off their shiny, ballooning bodies.

The boys start racing each other up and down the shore. Some of the girls join in, chasing them and each other. I sit with Ariel and Mare in our favourite spot. Like the good girls everyone tells us we are, we have nets to mend before dinnertime.

But we are completely distracted by the antics on the beach. I want to join in, but I have work to do. Mama isn’t going to be happy with me if I don’t finish fixing the net. Arianne needs it for tomorrow’s haul and she’s so busy now that she doesn’t have time to fix it herself.

The group returns, hooting and hollering, carrying piles of driftwood sticks they found somewhere along the shore. Two boys hold the longest sticks; they’re pretending to spar as they walk along the beach.

“I’ll be Gil and you can be everyone else.” The boy has black hair and a face that looks like it’s always grinning. He’s in my year, but in a different class. I think he’s name starts with Q or some weird letter like that, but I’m not sure.

“I’ll still beat you!” The second boy’s bronze hair is windswept from the run. He looks a bit older than his sparring partner. He sounds brash, arrogant and ridiculously impossible not to like. He has one of those voices. “On guard!”

The first boy jumps out of the way as the second boy takes a swing at him. “But I’m Gil,” he protests. “Gil has to win. That’s the way it goes.”

“Not if I’m Percy.”

My imagination is levelled at just about zero, so I decide to start calling them Flighty and Fighty.

“Gil and Percy didn’t even fight in the same Games,” Flighty argues.

“It’s called using your imagination,” Fighty takes a fighter’s stance, planting his feet firmly in the sand. He holds out his stick, ready to counter any attack from Flighty. “If Gil and Percy fought in the same Games, Percy would win.”

Flighty whips his stick around in a complicated little pattern. It moves so fast I can hear the whoosh. “Bring it on. I want to test the theory!”

All the other kids make a circle around them, clapping and cheering. I know this Game, they play it a lot. It’s a game where the players re-enact parts of the Hunger Games, usually pretending to be their favourite Victors. The Game ends when you knock your partner cover and call, “Dead”.

This should be interesting. I watch them from my spot, still working on my net.

“I hope they don’t hurt themselves!” Ariel says.

“It’s their fault if they do,” Mare says.

Whack!

Fighty is the first to strike, jabbing his stick forwards. Flighty parries it, dancing aside and out of the way. He’s light on his toes, but I can also tell he’s impatient. He wants to win, but he makes a few mistakes. Fighty whacks him a few good times on the shins and Flighty is hopping from foot to foot, trying not to wince.

We watch them go at it. There are plenty of laughs and giggles and clapping hands from the kids watching. Ariel shouts at them to be careful – she really hates seeing people get hurt. It’s a wonder she can stand to watch the real Hunger Games at all. She bites her nails whenever the sticks crash together.

Flighty and Fighty move across the beach, laughing and hooting as they break free from the circle of onlookers. They move closer and closer to where I’m sitting with my friends – they’re not really paying attention to where they’re walking, they’re so focused on each other. For the most part, they seem pretty evenly matched, but I know they’re both going to be bruised and sore tomorrow.

Whack!

Mare and Ariel shriek as the boys get closer. Mare laughs, pulling Ariel with her as they stumble in the sand, hurrying to get out of the way. I leave my net in the sand and throw myself to one side, narrowly dodging one of the driftwood sticks. I crouch down, watching. The boys haven’t noticed me, even though I’m a couple of feet away from them.

“Annie! What are you doing?”

The sticks crash together one more time. I tug as hard as I can on my net.

Flighty and Fighty are flying head over heels, dropping their sticks as they fall. I stand up, my mended net in my hands, and walk over to where they’re struggling to get up. I throw the net down, snaring both of them. Then I pick up one of their sticks. The kids on the beach are laughing hysterically.

I lightly jab them both in the stomach with the butt end of the stick. “Dead and dead,” I say triumphantly.

Flighty groans. “Not fair!”

“It’s the Hunger Games. Anything goes.”

“Who are you supposed to be?” Fighty asks.

I plant my stick in the sand.

“Mags,” I say. “She can beat you any day.”

*​

[finnick]​

It’s almost pitch black when I take off from camp. I have three knives, all of different shapes and lengths. All are extremely sharp. My backpack is strapped on, filled with food and water and a few other supplies. I wasn’t stupid enough to leave camp without it, like some of the kids in my alliance. I’m not sure how long I’m going to be gone. We took the Cornucopia, and I’m going to make sure I use it to my advantage.

Ben also took the Cornucopia and he still got killed.

But I’m not Ben. Everyone’s been reminding me of that lately. That was the last thing my Dad said to me before I left for the Capitol.

“You’re not your cousin.”

“Good thing too, otherwise I’ll be coming home as a corpse.”

They don’t understand why I did it. From their point of view, they’ve already lost one family member to the Games. They don’t need to lose another. I didn’t have to volunteer. They don’t know I didn’t have a choice. I had to put myself in these Games.

Right now, I’m trying to remember why. To be in the Games is nothing like watching them. I understand that now. I think back to a conversation I had with Annie, one day at the beach. She couldn’t see the difference between death in front of you and death on the TV screen, when you knew that it was really happening. I didn’t agree with her.

I realize that she was right.

I was the first person to reach the Cornucopia. I grabbed a knife. Then my alliance arrived – the tributes from 1 and 2 and the boy from 7. I threw them weapons. Then the other tributes got there – the stupid ones, who thought they could filch something from us. They didn’t. They died.

Maren, the girl from 2, was laughing when she stabbed her first victim. She had this look in her eye, like she’d been waiting to do this her entire life.

She’s eighteen. Maybe she has. I don’t know what it’s like in District 2, what kind of stories she grew up on.

I stood guard over the supplies in the Cornucopia, watching as my alliance fanned out and hunted down every tribute in the area. They threw knives. They stabbed. They hacked. They slashed. I don’t think my brain understood what I was seeing until it was over. It shut down. I couldn’t move. I could only stand and watch.

My alliance isn’t happy with me. They think I should have joined them in the slaughter. Because that’s what I realize the Cornucopia really is – a slaughter. One of the tributes escaped and I was standing close enough to get him. Maren isn’t going to let that go any time soon. I can already tell that when the time comes to turn on each other, Maren wants me to go first. She thinks I’m useless. I’m sure the rest of the alliance thinks that, too.

After it was over and the bodies were retrieved, I sat on the bloodied grass, holding my knife. It was the only weapon we had that didn’t have blood on it. Katie came over and sat next to me.

“You wanted this, remember,” she said. Her expression was cold.

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

Katie’s eighteen. People rarely volunteer for the eighteen year olds, especially the girls.

“I know.”

“You did. You volunteered. You petitioned to be accepted. And I thought they were crazy, letting a fourteen year old get up here.”

“Don’t underestimate me yet, Katie.”

“You’re just like your cousin,” she hissed. She wasn’t looking at me; she had her eye on the other tributes in our alliance. Especially Maren. Maren makes everyone uncomfortable, even her district partner. Maren probably thought we were trying to strategize.

Yes. She did. I saw her going over to Emerald, the girl from District 1. They started talking, glancing in our direction.

“I am not my cousin.”

“Oh really? Isn’t he the reason you wanted to be up here in the first place?” She shook her head. “You’re unbelievable, Odair.”

She got up and walked away, hefting a long, bloodied sword over her shoulder.

I haven’t killed anyone yet. Not like Katie, my district partner. Not like the rest of my alliance. That’s usually the sign of someone who isn’t going to win. But I have to win. I am going to win.

You can’t win the Hunger Games without killing someone.

My alliance kills people brutally and messily. There are the tributes like Maren, who seem to enjoy what they’re doing. There are the tributes like Katie, who do what they have to do, even if they don’t know how.

I have this weird memory flash up about a pet dog someone in the village had. It got hurt – I don’t remember how – and had to be put down. I remember Dad saying that it was a good thing the dog had been “put out of its misery.”

They killed the dog, but they did it quickly.

That’s what I resolve to do. I promise myself that if I have to kill, I’ll do it quickly and try to make it as painless as possible.

So here I am, walking through the arena at night, abandoning the relative safety of my camp and alliance. Not that I’m safe there. Maren probably wants to cut my throat in my sleep. I need to prove to them that I’m not useless. That I can fight. I need to show them that they need to keep me around.

There’s a little bubble of something twisting in my stomach. It almost makes me stop and run back to camp, but I keep walking forward, slowly increasing my pace.

This is the Hunger Games. Kill or be killed.

I just have to remind myself of that.

I stop walking and lean against a tree. I have a feeling that someone, or something, is watching me. But it’s too dark to see. There are stars in the sky, but the moon isn’t out. I quietly draw a knife and wait, listening.

There!

I hear it – the crack of someone stepping on a fallen tree branch. I spin around, but I don’t see anyone. I look down, trying to get my eyes to adjust to the gloom. There’s something dark at the base of the tree. It looks like a plant. I prepare to move on. I’m just tense because it’s the first night of the Hunger Games.

I stop. The plant isn’t a plant.

It’s a boy.

He’s lying still, barely breathing, hoping that I will pass by without noticing him. But I have noticed him. What do I do now? I freeze. Part of me is hoping that he will attack me. Somehow I think it will be easier to kill if I’m attacked first. Self-defense.

But the boy just lies there. Maybe he’s already dead.

No. Maybe? I don’t know.

I draw my flashlight and turn it on.

The boy’s alive. He turns and looks at me, shaking like a deer. For a moment it looks like he’s going to run, but then he starts screaming. It’s more like a shriek. It’s an inhuman sound.

I had no idea one person could make that much sound.

I turn off the flashlight, but he keeps screaming.

“Shut up! SHUT UP!”

If he keeps screaming, anyone else in the forest is going to know where I am. Either they’ll move further away, or they’ll come looking, hoping to stab the boy’s attacker in the back while he’s busy slaughtering the kid.

I hear a branch crack behind me. Something flutters through the trees. I tense. There’s someone else in the forest. I can feel them behind me.

The boy keeps screaming.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

The boy keeps screaming.

My knife is in my hand. I raise it.

I squeeze my eyes shut as the knife goes down so I don’t have to see the splatter of blood. Not that I would see the blood anyway. It’s too dark for that.

The boy keeps screaming. It’s weird. He sounds almost like a mewling cat.

“Shut up… shut up…”

I’m crying as I kill him. I can’t stop myself. I’m not sure if that means I can’t stop the tears, or if I can’t stop myself from killing.

“Shut up… shut up…”

I’m still saying it even after the screams fade.

The cannon fires.

Dead and dead. That’s what Annie said, the day Quintan and I met her. We were being stupid, pretending to be in the Hunger Games. None of us really knew what it meant.

Dead and dead.

I crawl away.

 

I had all these chapters I never posted, so...

Hey! I'm posting them!

---

[stories]​

[annie]​

“Your turn.”

“I can’t think of anything.”

“Your turn!” I say.

Finnick rolls his eyes. “Once upon a time, there was a boy called Finnick and a girl named Annie. The boy called Finnick threw the girl called Annie into the water because she wouldn’t stop saying stupid things and then he lived happily ever after. The end.”

Quintan laughs. If Ariel were in my place, she would probably glare at him. But Quintan laughs at everything. Even the stupid things.

We’re at the beach. The sun’s going down. It’s the night before Reaping Day, one of the few times when we actually get to see Finnick. He spends most of his time in the Capitol these days.

Not by choice, I’ve gathered.

He always gets to come back to District 4 for Reaping Day. It’s tradition – or is it mandatory? These days I wonder how similar those words are – for the victors to be present for the reaping. To give their blessings to the new tributes.

Jasmine Sparks finds Finnick very frustrating. He never listens to her and he goes where he wants, not like the other victors who seem a lot more passive. But compared to the other victors, Finnick’s still a teenager. Finnick says Jasmine blames his rebellious streak on his age.

She doesn’t know Finnick very well.

Usually the victors stay in the Victor’s Village in the days leading up to the reaping, but not Finnick. Every year, he comes to the beach with Quintan and me, so we can do what we’ve always done before Reaping Day. We have a tradition of our own.

It started the year Finnick volunteered. His cousin Ben died in the previous Games, and it changed him. He still smiled and laughed and made terrible, terrible jokes, but Finnick was different. I guess Quintan and I always knew that it wouldn’t be long until he did something stupid, like volunteer for the Games.

Everyone has a tradition, even if they don’t talk about it. It’s something that they do either the night before or the morning of Reaping Day to say goodbye to District 4. It’s usually something simple, like having your favourite meal or going out on your boat one last time.

Our tradition is to go to the beach the evening before Reaping Day and watch the sun set into the sea. The sea is us. We grew up swimming in it, playing along the shore. We’ve all seen so many sunsets in District 4, but we always want to remember the last one.

So we go out and collect driftwood and lug it to one spot. We make a bonfire and sit there until the fire goes out, which is usually long after the sun has set.

It’s a good tradition.

It’s cloudy today, but that doesn’t matter. We would still be here even if it was raining.

“Nice story, Finnick,” I say.

“Did you like it?”

I shrug. “It was kind of stupid. I don’t think it counts.”

Quintan’s still laughing.

“Shut up, Quintan!” Finnick says. “Why not? It had a beginning, a middle and an end.” He grins.

It’s good to see him looking happy. I’ve become way too familiar with the dead look he gets sometimes. That’s why we’re telling stories tonight. We’re trying to accept why we’re really here and move on without much fuss. None of us are going to mention Reaping Day.

“If that’s what you call a real story, I hate to think what you call poetry.”

“Finnick, writing poetry?” Quintan’s standing waist-deep in the water. “Now that I’ve got to see.”

Finnick stands and raises his hands to the sky. As if by magic, the clouds part and a single ray of sun shines down, illuminating the sand behind him.

“Finnick Odair is a talented kid
Who grew up on the edge of the sea.
There isn’t a challenge he won’t face
Even if it means writing poet-ry.”

I burst out laughing and resist the urge to slap a hand to my forehead. “That was horrible.”

“Yes, but I wrote it, didn’t I?”

“I think I’m going to have to hide from the worst poetry ever written,” Quintan says. He dives into the next wave, his feet disappearing under the water.

I grin and run into the waves, shrieking with laughter when a wave crashes and sprays water into my eyes. Finnick races after me and soon we’re diving into the waves, doing flips and handstands. We get into a splashing fight to end all splashing fights.

We’re in the sea. Why wouldn’t we?

Suddenly, Finnick seizes me and slings me over his shoulder. I yelp with surprise.

“Finnick! Put me down! Finnick! Quintan, stop laughing!”

Quintan shakes his head, grinning. “Nope. This is way too funny. Throw her in the water!”

“You traitor, Quintan, you trai—!”

Truth to form, Finnick throws me in the water and I am successfully defeated. I emerge from my dunking and wipe wet hair out of my face. Finnick and Quintan are howling with laughter. “You two are horrible.”

“I think she looks mad, Quintan,” Finnick whispers conspiratorially.

“She always looks mad, Finnick.”

“I think I’m scared of her.”

“So am I!”

I dive into the water and start swimming towards them, shark-like in my approach.

“Uh-oh, she’s coming after us! What do we do?”

“Quick! Strategy huddle!”

“Huddle!”

I get them back for dunking me. I always do.

The clouds have parted enough by the time we emerge from the sea that the sunset can splash its colours across the sky. We dry off and sit around our bonfire, watching the white wood crackle in the flames.

“You still owe us a real story, Finnick,” I say.

“I gave you poetry!” He makes a grand, waving gesture. “What more do you want?”

“I think that’s fair enough,” Quintan says. “Poetry, stories, same thing.”

Finnick runs a hand through his hair. It sticks up at odd angles. “Why stories, Annie?”

I shrug. “It’s just a game.”

“No, it’s not. Why stories? Legitimate question!”

I slowly braid my wet hair. “Maybe I like to think about what other lives are like. People have imaginations for a reason.”

He gives me an odd look. “Is your life so horrible?”

“No.” I mean it honestly. District 4 is not a terrible place to live. There’s something comforting about our home.

But then, I’ve never been anywhere else, so what do I know?

“There’s nothing wrong with stories,” Quintan says quietly. “But I don’t think people should spend all their time imagining something different. I think… your life is your life. You make what you want out of it – how happy you are, how sad you are, that’s up to you. Imagining something different just seems like you’re running away.”

“There are times when you should run away,” Finnick says. It’s not directed towards us, but there a hint of that coldness that swallowed him up when he came back from his Games.

We’re quiet for a while, watching the flames flicker into coals as the sun slowly sets. The grey sky is shot with red and orange. It feels like a storm is going to blow in. When the fire finally dies down, we throw sand over the coals and stamp out any remaining sparks.

*​

[finnick]​

“Tell me a story,” she says. She’s standing with her back to me, looking out the window at the Capitol skyline.

“About what?” I’m filling two tall crystal glasses with wine. One is for myself. The other is for her. Normally I wouldn’t give her one, but it’s important to appear cordial. She expects me to be nice. I won’t get anything from her if I don’t play along. Be the person she wants me to be.

There are times when it’s easy to hate people like her, but at the same time I know people like her are naïve. They don’t know any better. They don’t know how it hurts. Maybe they don’t know how to hurt.

I hand her the glass and take a long drink from my own. Most victors agree that wine can make anything tolerable.

She twists her long, curly aqua hair between two fingers. She’s looking at me with those large, dark eyes of hers. In the moonlight, with the curtains fluttering and whispering around her body, she almost looks beautiful. She’s washed off most of her makeup and since she doesn’t go for stenciling on her face or arms, right now she could pass for any District 4 woman. I try not to think about how old she is or how many reconstructive surgeries she’s had to keep her body going.

Or what she looks like beneath her robe.

I try not to think about the fact that I even know these things.

“Your home,” she says. “I’ve been to District 4 almost more times than I can count, but I’ve never truly experienced the place. It seems so… quaint, compared to the Capitol. But I’ve always been curious. Curious about the sea.” She sets her glass down and takes a step towards me. “The sea and its people.” Her hands slide around my neck.

I feel like I’m being strangled.

“There’s not much to tell,” I say.

“Oh! Don’t be coy, Finnick, I know you better than that.” Her fingers are undoing my robe.

I set down my glass and catch her hands. She gasps a little and arches an eyebrow.

“What kind of story do you want?”

She leans in close. “Something about ships. Ships in the middle of a tempest.” She kisses my ear.

“And what do I get?”

“The pleasure of my company?” She kisses me.

I place my hands on her shoulders and push her away, as gently as I can. “What do I get?”

She stares at me, unhappy that her momentum has been lost. “I have a simply delicious tidbit about Seneca Crane and how he came to be Gamemaker,” she says. She raises an eyebrow. “Is that good enough for you?”

“What if I said no?”

She strokes my cheek, delicately running a taloned thumb over my lips. “Oh, my dear Finnick. Do you think it really matters if you say no? You know the deal. I get you, and you get a secret. You don’t get to dictate what kind of secret.” She pulls me in for a long kiss.

I’m stronger than her. I know I could knock her out. I could strangle her with my bare hands. I could run and escape.

But I don’t. There’s no point in resisting.

I have to give her what she wants. That’s the way this works.

“Tell me about Seneca Crane,” I murmur against her lips.

She pulls away, fluffing out her hair. With one graceful motion, she loosens her robe and slips out of it. It takes every ounce of self-control to keep my expression neutral. She loves her stenciling. She has it all over her body, in places she normally doesn’t show the public. Most of them are pictures. Pictures of victors she admires, past and present. Her body is a shrine to the victors of the Hunger Games.

It’s no surprise she works as a Games escort.

“Tell me about that ship first,” she says, drawing me to her.

*​

[annie]​

After Finnick’s Games, it’s hard not to go anywhere without hearing his name. The younger kids play the same game we did, but now instead of Gil, Percy and Mags, they’re playing as Finnick. Everyone wants to be Finnick.

They call him a lot of things. Impressive. Intelligent. Strategic. District 4’s hero.

We’re enjoying a surplus of government-issued food and supplies thanks to Finnick. Because of that, he’s treated as royalty. More than royalty – a Capitol citizen. People cheer when they see him. Jasmine Sparks is almost always with him, aqua hair bouncing in the wind. She has something planned for him for at least one day, every week, until his Victory Tour.

He smiles at the kids when he walks down the street in the village market, or when he’s on the beach, or even when he’s on his father’s boat. They crowd around him and he gives them high-fives. He tousels their hair. He’s their hero. They worship him and they love him. They want to be him.

They can’t see the dead look. They don’t understand what it means. The little ones don’t even realize it’s there. Finnick’s just the same – smiling, happy, joking Finnick.

And that’s the problem with District 4. You grow up believing in the Hunger Games. But I’m starting to get old enough to notice that the tributes who do make it out are never the same people they were going in.

I can’t say I understand the dead look in Finnick’s eyes. Neither can Quintan. I think parts of us still believe in the Hunger Games, holding on to the certainty that there’s a difference between the person you are in the arena and the person you are outside. But we weren’t where Finnick was. We didn’t have to kill those tributes in the arena, like he did.

And we know he’s struggling, and that he will probably never be the same.

I know Finnick regrets volunteering for the Hunger Games every day.

So when the little kids group around him and ask him, “How’d you get the guy from District One?” or “How’d you make that trap for the District Five girl?” or “Maren! Tell us about Scary Maren!”, he smiles. He tells them a story. I think he spares them the gory details, especially since he knows a lot of them hide their faces in their hands when they’re watching the Games. But he’s there hero and he wants to make them happy.

All hail the Hero of District 4.

 

You know I feel like a complete idiot... I left out part of the chapter.

It's like I forgot how to upload a story. ARGH.

Anyway, thanks, Mira. I'm glad you're enjoying the style - I'm attempting to convey moments that parallel each other in a way that ups the sense of foreboding. If you feel unsettled, then yay, I'm achieving my goal.

New chapter up soon.

 

[first reaping]​

[finnick]​

I am fourteen and I am standing exactly where my cousin was this time last year.

Dad had me put on my best clothes. He encourages the entire family, in his simple, straightforward way, to dress appropriately for all occasions. It has nothing to do with the Hunger Games or trying to impress the Capitol. It has to do with respecting yourself.

Self-respect is something my family takes very seriously. Especially after what Ben did last year. Or, more specifically, what Ben couldn’t do.

Jasmine Sparks stands on top of the platform, her aqua hair styled into two strange horn-like spikes on top of her head. The previous victors are lined up behind her, some standing, some sitting. Most look bored. Mags, the oldest victor, is swaying back and forth on her feet. The old woman’s a little odd. No one really knows much about her, since she doesn’t speak much. But the district’s respect for her is almost unfathomable. Many of us can’t even think about living as long as she has.

The girls names are read first. A girl called Katie Leise is called. She’s tall – taller than me by a foot. She’s probably eighteen. Her hair’s black, her skin is dark, and she looks like a stern schoolteacher. She stiffly walks up the steps to the platform and faces the audience.

The boys names are read. Raen’s name is called. I know Raen. He’s seventeen. He works on Dad’s fishing boat.

I feel the pang I knew I would, the disappointment that I hadn’t heard my name. But I had a feeling I wouldn’t be reaped. I always planned to volunteer. That’s usually the way things work in District 4.

Volunteering is complicated, especially when there are more than one volunteer. Because the officials want to get things over and done with as quickly as possible, you have to petition them to volunteer ahead of time. All petitions are done in confidence. If you are desperate to be chosen and you think there are plenty of other volunteers, you have to bribe the officials to make sure you are chosen.

I bribed the officials last week.

But the petition is entirely pointless if you don’t stand up during the reaping. You still have to say the words.

So when they ask for volunteers, I immediately step forward.

“I volunteer as tribute!” I shout.

I can see my family out of the corner of my eye – the multiple teenaged cousins and brothers and sisters spread throughout the square in their individual categories. The aunts and uncles on the sidelines. Dad.

There’s a hush in the audience. Normally a volunteer is sixteen or older. You never see a fourteen year old volunteer. Most fourteen year olds won’t do it, and besides, they don’t have the funds for a bribe.

I do. Certain officials, Jasmine Sparks especially, have a weakness for certain types of seafood that I just happen to be very good at getting.

Jasmine Sparks smiles and gestures, welcoming me up on to the platform. “It seems we have a volunteer! A very brave young man named—” She pauses for dramatic effect. She already knows my name. She was there when I submitted my petition.

“Finnick Odair.”

There is a brief wave of laughter from the crowd. It dies quickly, but it’s enough to make me feel like I’ve been stung.

“Well, well, Finnick. I’m sure District 4 is happy to have you as their representative in this year’s Hunger Games.” She shoos Raen off the stage. He gives me an odd look as he goes. It’s like he’s thanking me, but also hating me.

Jasmine Sparks fixes her hair and looks out at the crowd. “Any other volunteers? Ladies?”

There aren’t any. Katie looks old and strong enough. If there were any petitions put forwards, they’ve backed down. Or they lost their nerve.

Jasmine Sparks calls an end to the reaping. “Happy Hunger Games,” she says. “And may the odds be ever in your favour.”

There are cheers. Some applause. And then Katie and I are whisked off into the Justice Building. Katie is eyeing me. They separate us. I’m in a sparsely furnished room painted blue and white.

The door opens. “Three minutes,” a Peacekeeper’s voice says.

Annie comes in. Her face is flushed red and she’s shaking a bit.

“Annie—”

“Don’t say it,” she hisses. “Don’t say you’re sorry. I know you’re not. I knew you were going to do this.”

“I had to.” It sounds stupid when I say it, even though it’s true.

“You don’t need to prove yourself, Finnick.”

“I know.”

“None of us really care what other people say about your family.” She rubs her eyes. They’re red and watery.

“I know.”

Suddenly, she throws her arms around me. “You are such a stupid idiot,” she whispers.

“Trust me, I realized that a long time ago.”

She laughs, but she’s now trying really hard to hold back her tears. “Good luck,” she says.

Annie kisses me on the cheek and leaves. The Peacekeepers open the door for her and Quintan comes in.

“I’m guessing Annie’s already told you you’re an idiot,” he says, crossing his arms.

“Yeah.”

“I agree with her.”

“So do I.”

We both grin, but it doesn’t last long.

Quintan pauses. It’s strange to see him lost for words. “I guess we’re finally going to find out if you’ll live up to all your bragging,” he says.

“I guess so,” I say.

“Good luck.”

Quintan claps my hand and embraces me. Then he’s out the door.

My father is the last person to come see me. When he enters, I feel like bolting.

“Finnick,” he starts, but I cut him off.

“Don’t say anything, Dad, please. I’m doing this.”

“There’s nothing I could do to stop it.”

My father looks sad. Sad and tired.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“I’m sure you are,” he says.

“This isn’t what you think.”

“What do you think I think?”

I look down at my feet. “That this is about Ben?”

“That is an accurate way of putting it.” Dad sighs. “Finnick, I know you idolized him. And some of his examples may even save your life. But I am praying that you don’t turn out like your cousin.”

“Volunteering for the Games was the honourable thing to do.” I say it so quietly even I can barely hear it.

“That’s not you talking,” Dad says. “You’re quoting the district.”

The Peacekeeper thumps on the door. We have less than a minute. Dad embraces me, and I can tell that he thinks that it’s going to be the last time.

“Be patient. Patience will be more helpful to you in the arena than you think. Use what you know. You’ve got a good head. Remember to use it.”

“I’ll… try.”

“And I hope, for your sake,” Dad says, “that you don’t come to regret this decision.”

*​

[annie]​

Quintan and I are both eighteen.

This is to be our last Hunger Games – or, at least, the last Hunger Games where we are eligible to be Reaped. Quintan and I both relish it being over. We want it to become something we don’t have to think about until our (hypothetical) children are eligible.

By the time you turn eighteen, the Hunger Games have lost their charm. It makes you kind of wish you had the same blind faith you had so easily when you were a kid.

No one from District 4 has won since Finnick’s games five years before. We came close – very close – but no one seemed capable of matching the sheer ferocity Finnick displayed the year he won. So, there is a lot riding on the shoulders of whoever gets the honour of representing the district at this year’s Hunger Games.

And me? I have mixed feelings. Part of me still wants to believe in the Games. That we fight in them for honour, for the chance to bring fortune to our district, for the opportunity to do something greater with our lives. Just like our teachers and parents and families and government officials tell us. But after seeing what the Games have done to Finnick, how they and the Capitol have changed him, I’m not so sure I can support the Games as willingly as I once did.

The Capitol turned my friend into a brutal murderer. I know it was on TV, but still to know what Finnick was capable of… and to listen to them dissect it on TV, as if tributes weren’t people! It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. It confuses me, since I still want to support the Games and what they stand for.

I guess the problem is I don’t know what they stand for anymore.

“You’ve survived this far, Annie,” Quintan said one day not long before today. “Maybe your luck will hold out.”

He doesn’t want me to go to the arena. Which is fine, since I don’t want him to go to the arena, either.

But I felt that if I said something like “You’re wrong” or “I doubt it” or “Let’s calculate the probability”, I would start a self-fulfilling prophecy that could only end with me lying in an arena far, far away from here with my brain bashed in on national television. That’s what happens to twenty-three out of twenty-four tributes. Or worse.

So I didn’t say anything other than, “I made bread.”

Quintan and I do our traditional Reaping Day morning routine. Finnick can’t join us – Jasmine Sparks has him tied up all morning with the other victors, preparing for the reaping. I have breakfast with Mama and Arianne. Then I go to Quintan’s for a second breakfast with him and his family. Then we steal Finnick’s canoe (not that he would notice, he barely has a chance to use it anymore) and paddle around the lagoon and the tidal pools. We catch fish. Quintan cleans them. I cook them.

There’s always a lot of eating before the reaping, as if we’re trying to bring part of District 4 with us.

After Quintan and I pull Finnick’s canoe ashore, he hugs me. “Good luck.”

“You, too. It’ll be over soon.”

Arianne made my dress, like she does every year. Though this time she didn’t hide it from me. It’s the same shade of blue as my first Reaping Day dress. This one is more mature. Somehow, its fabric recognizes that I’ve grown up. I’m not a child anymore.

I still wear the necklace Arianne made for me on my first Reaping Day.

Arianne fiddles with the fabric, straightening and smoothing.

“There,” she says. “Beautiful. As you should be.” She kisses my cheek.

I catch sight of us in my mirror, two dark-haired, green-eyed sisters standing together. With a start, I realize we look more like mother and daughter than sisters. Arianne’s face is weathered and lined, her green eyes tired, but optimistic. Hopeful, even. My face is fresh, sunburnt, with a sprinkle of freckles that will grow even more pronounced throughout the summer.

I realize how anxious I look. That’s not going to help Mama.

So I practice smoothing out my expression before I go out of my room.

Mama’s wearing her permanent scowl when she sees me in Arianne’s dress. She sits in her wheelchair, clucking disapprovingly as I come into the kitchen.

“I don’t approve of this tradition of dressing up for the slaughter,” Mama says wearily. She doesn’t like the Hunger Games or frivolous attire. Frivolous attire for the Hunger Games is a living nightmare.

“Mama,” Arianne says, “what do you want me to do? Paint Annie’s face with tar?”

“This celebratory frippery only shows that we support the Capitol.”

“No,” my sisters says, “it shows that we respect ourselves.”

“You’re playing into the Capitol’s sense of grandeur. You’re giving them what they want – pretty boys and girls to coo over until it’s time to watch them bleed. I won’t have my last daughter look like she’s graciously accepting her slaughter.”

“Who says I’m going to be slaughtered?”

My mother and sister exchange looks.

“Neither of us,” Arianne says.

“You very well could be,” Mama says bluntly. “But there is only a slight chance. There are many girls in District 4 with their heads on the chopping block and, hell, some even want their necks there.”

“Mama, it’s not a chopping block,” Arianne says.

“What do you know about it?” Mama snaps. “You’ve been lucky to escape the Hunger Games. Not everyone is as fortunate as you, Arianne.”

“I don’t support or condemn the Games.”

“That shows a damn weakness of character,” Mama says. “I am ashamed of you. Pick a side and stick with it, don’t wobble on the fence.”

“We’re going to be late,” I say.

Mama sighs, thumping her handless arms across her knees. “You look lovely, Annie.”

Arianne smiles and hugs me, satisfied that Mama has admitted at least partial defeat. The last thing my sister wants is for me to feel uncomfortable on Reaping Day. And I know that she’s certain painting tar on my face would make me feel horrible.

We head to the sprawling village centre, where our Justice Building is erected. I say goodbye to Mama and Arianne. I kneel next to the wheelchair so Mama can embrace me clumsily and kiss my cheek.

“Be strong, Annie.”

She lets me go. I wave and disappear into the throng of children and teenagers lining up for identification. I see Quintan in the crowd. There’s a smile beneath his peeling nose and sunburnt face. I see hundreds of boys and girls I recognize from either school or the fishing boats. Some of them are so young. Tiny. Barely half my height.

It’s the young ones especially who look excited.

The district victors are lined up on the stage in front of the Justice Building. They are in varying states of health and age. Old Gil died last year. Mags is indomitable and unalterable as ever. Percy’s so nipped and tucked and dyed and bleached and stenciled that you can barely recognize him. And Finnick is Finnick. Whatever his stylists get up to in the Capitol, they always try to retain the natural, youthful beauty that made him so popular during his Games.

(Finnick has told me he refuses to be stenciled out of common sense.)

I catch Finnick scanning the crowd for me. I nod, giving him a small wave of my fingers that hopefully won’t be caught by the cameras. If I am reaped, I don’t want my first impression to be that I was going to fall to my mentor’s feet, drooling.

Not like some Capitol women do. I’ve seen it happen on television.

But then we see a lot of things happen on television. We all do.

They’re preparing to read the names. The girls go first. The girls are always first. I wonder where the saying “Ladies’ first” came from. On a fishing vessel, girls and boys are treated equally as part of the crew. Do your share, or someone will throw you overboard and hope you drown for being useless.

(That last part’s not quite true. They pull you out before you drown. Usually.)

Jasmine Sparks’ hand dips into the giant glass ball and dips out again, clutching a paper slip. I’m holding my breath.

“Annie Cresta!”

I’m still holding my breath. My lungs don’t want to let it go.

My name’s been called.

My name has been called.

I’m going to the Hunger Games.

My body knows it must walk forward, so I walk forward. I feel oddly detached – as if someone else is doing the walking.

My foot catches the hem of my dress and I stumble on the final step. Someone reaches out and catches my hand, pulling me upright.

Finnick.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

“Someone might volunteer for you.” His voice is low. Anxious. Angry, even.

But he knows the same thing I do. I can see it in his eyes. I’m eighteen. I’m smart and strong, and a close friend of District 4’s last victor. No one will volunteer for me.

I am the perfect female candidate.

I turn and face the crowd, head held high. I have been chosen.

I have been reaped.

I will accept this. I will face it with dignity.

Then Quintan’s name is called.

The sound of Jasmine Sparks’ voice reading his name is like a punch to the gut. I am winded. I stare in horror as Quintan mounts the steps. He glances at me and nods.

We stand together, facing the crowds, waiting for the usual parade of volunteers.

There are none. No one wants to volunteer. No one wants to take our places. We are the brightest and the best. They have hope for us. But there is something that has ignited dread deep in the pit of my stomach.

I am going up against my best friend in a death match.

And our friend is going to be our mentor.

And Finnick, our friend, is eventually going to have to support only one of us – and leave the other to die.

 

Thanks, Mira!

So, it's been awhile, but I remembered that I still have chapters to post...

---

[shows]​

[annie]​

It’s “After”.

That’s how I think of my life now. “Before” and “After.”

There is only one thing that I’m good at – staring right ahead. Because looking anywhere else hurts. It hurts my body. It hurts my mind. I can’t think, I can’t sleep. It’s easier just to let everything go and shut out the world.

Because the world hurts.

I don’t want to have to look at the faces of all the families whose children died in the arena. Especially not the Boy’s. Or the Girl’s.

I don’t want to be in District 4, where people mutter on the street how Quintan should have lived and I should have died. Because I’m not capable of being the hero of District 4. Not like Finnick. I didn’t deserve to win the Hunger Games.

I agree with them. I wish I was dead right now.

It’s hard to explain how much it hurts, because whenever you try, they either smother you with affection or blame you. You see the blame in their eyes everywhere you go.

But part of me is still fighting. There’s one tiny little flicker of flame inside my head (I imagine it looks like the burning driftwood bonfires we used to light). It says, “They probably wish you drowned, too. Well, guess what, I’m from District 4 and I can’t drown. And I’m going to keep on living just to prove you wrong.”

I hold on to that little flicker of flame.

It’s terrifying how quickly it disappears when someone touches me. And then to get it back, I have to go looking for it. I have to dig through my head, looking for that little flicker of flame, the one hope that I still have for myself, and I’m usually screaming the entire time.

They’re starting to talk about it.

“She’s mad,” they say. “The mad girl from District 4.”

I’m not mad. I’m… broken. There’s something wrong with me, something that went wrong as soon as I was shunted up into the arena, and it is never, ever going back to normal. I’m not going back to “Before.”

I miss “Before” so much it makes my body ache. I hate the “After” so much it makes me want to scream.

And I’m always going to be trapped in that “After”.

*​

[annie]​

I’m sitting in the large chair by Caesar Flickerman, a man that has such a large personality you think that he should only belong on a television screen. Having just welcomed me on the stage, he’s laughing and having a wonderfully swell time. I smile and nod. It’s weird how much this is about me, and yet how much this is about Flickerman.

“Now, Annie,” he says, “I’m sure many of our viewers are wondering – because I’m sure they wish they had your chance, isn’t that right?!—”

There’s a lot of whooping and cheering coming from the audience. I can see them practically dancing in their seats out of the corner of my eye.

“—what is it like to be mentored by the great Finnick Odair?”

The cameras zoom in on Finnick. He looks a little surprised, a little caught off-guard, but he smiles and waves. Someone sitting behind him claps him on the back. He looks so natural, sitting there, as if he has always belonged. He fits in well with these Capitol crowds.

“What is it like?” I say.

I really shouldn’t be surprised by the question. It was bound to come up. Finnick’s been hot stuff in the Capitol for five years, and his following only grew as he got older, and older, and then became a legal adult. Fawning over a fourteen year old was considered a little odd and creepy, even for the Capitol citizens. Now that he’s nineteen, those same people can do it without being considered disturbed.

“Yes,” Caesar says. “To be under the mentorship of such a beloved icon of the Games – because he is a beloved icon, isn’t he?!”

There are more cheers. More whooping. More whistling.

This really isn’t going to be an interview about me. It’s going to be an interview about Finnick. I’m going to have to work extremely hard to re-capture the Capitol’s eye. I can’t afford to go into the Games being remembered as “Finnick Odair’s girl tribute”.

Oh God.

I just noticed that Flickerman’s hair is sea-green. It looked a little different farther back, when I was backstage, but now that I can see him up-close, I notice the colour. It’s disturbing to see Finnick’s eye colour turned into a hair and eyebrow dye.

I’m suddenly extremely thirsty. I could drink an ocean. If it was a freshwater ocean.

But I have to say something, so I open my mouth and—

“I wouldn’t say he’s beloved!”

“Oh…” Flickerman bends his head to one side. He’s chuckling. “I’m sure our audience disagrees with that!”

I really need to watch what say. I’m having no luck winning them over. “I mean, maybe he’s beloved to you, but he’s not to me.”

I’m digging myself into a hole here.

Flickerman raises a sea-green eyebrow. “Am I sensing a little bit of heartbreak from a charming young woman, hmm?”

“No!” I say vehemently.

There’s a lot of laughter from the audience. I flush. I don’t even want to glance at Finnick right now.

“I think the young lady may be lying to herself!” Flickerman says. “Who wouldn’t be charmed by Finnick? I mean, look at him!”

Laughter. Lots and lots of laughter.

I try to regain control. “No, no, no! Caesar, you’re being a tease!”

Laughter.

“Well, Annie?”

Good. I’ve got their attention back.

“I’m lucky, Caesar,” I say. I can feel the audience tensing up. They’re expecting some kind of juicy story. A sneak peek into Finnick’s secret life, as told by someone from his district. “Finnick was a friend before he was a Victor. And because he’s a friend, I can’t call him ‘great’ or ‘beloved’ or any of those adjectives you Capitol people throw his way. It’s a little odd to call someone ‘great’ when you’ve seen him fall face-first off a cliff and belly flop into the water.”

“HA!” Flickerman grins. “Oh dear – hold that applause, I think we have some confessional about Panem’s favourite victor!”

Audience members are practically rolling in their seats. I straighten my dress and continue talking.

“And I’m lucky that he is here to support me in person, as friend and as a mentor. He’s taught me everything he can to give me the best chance at winning the Games.”

“And do you think the odds are in your favour this year?”

I smile. “I wouldn’t count myself out. After all, I have a secret weapon.”

“Care to share what it is?”

“If I did, it wouldn’t be very secret!”

Flickerman claps his hands together. “Spoken like a true strategist! Any hints?”

“It involves water.”

Flickerman makes an “ooooh” expression. “Well, that should keep us guessing! I hope you have a chance to show off your secret weapon during the Games. Thank you very much.” He shakes my hand and I stand. “Ladies and gentlemen, Annie Cresta!”

I hold my head high. I smile. I wave.

I walk away.

*​

[finnick]​

I hate being a mentor.

Especially for these Games. Part of me wants to blame it on the Capitol, that they somehow rigged the system so that Annie and Quintan’s names were chosen specifically to damn me after my last little outburst. But I know it really was just random chance.

If it wasn’t, I would know by now.

I thought the worst of it was over when I won the Sixty-Fifth. I had no idea how worse it could get. I had no idea how much I’ve come to regret my decision, or how I hate myself for believing District 4’s mantra about honour and pride. I was an idiot.

Annie told me so herself, the day I volunteered.

I’m still an idiot.

I’ve submitted to the care of my stylists and I’m now waiting to go onstage. Claudius Templesmith and Caesar Flickerman are out there right now, discussing the current turn of events in the Games. They’re about to invite me to join them.

That has more to do with my current popularity than anything my tributes have done. The Capitol is bored with these Games. They’re not exciting enough. They’ve actually been turning away from speculating who’s going to win and they’ve been re-watching old Games.

And my client list is growing longer and longer.

Don’t think about that. Not right now.

“What do you think, Claudius?” Caesar’s voice asks. “We’re at the end of Day Two. Things haven’t changed much since yesterday. The numbers are still the same. Eight are dead, sixteen are left. Any strategies jump out at you?”

“I do believe we have some very enthusiastic tributes this year, Caesar,” Claudius says. I can almost see him nodding his rather bulbous head. “Especially from the Careers.”

“You are, of course, talking about the way they banded together to kill off one of their own.”

“Hmm, yes—”

Why do they have to talk about this? They could talk about anything else! What about the girl from Eight? Or the boy from Nine? Weren’t those cruel deaths, too?

I really want to strangle both of them right now. Caesar, for asking the question, and Claudius for answering it.

“—I don’t believe we’ve seen that tactic from the Careers before,” Claudius is saying. “Usually they band together and hunt down the remaining tributes after the Cornucopia, but it seems to me that they actively chose to form an alliance with Four in order to betray them and get them early, so to speak.”

“Heading off the competition, you mean.”

Chuckles from the audience.

You did not just make that joke.

“Yes! Yes, that is a good way of… eh…. Putting it.”

“Would you say that the Careers felt threatened by Four,” Caesar continues, “what with their tributes being the oldest in the Games?”

“It’s quite possible,” Claudius replies. “The eighteen-year-olds are the most likely to be the strongest, the fastest and the best tactical thinkers.”

Only anything I said didn’t help them at all.

“Ah, but that isn’t always the case, is it?” Caesar says. “I’m sure we all remember when Finnick Odair won the Sixty-Fifth Hunger games within just a few days, and he was only fourteen at the time!”

“When considering the statistics, that is most unusual,” Claudius says.

“Do you hear Claudius, Finnick?” Caesar shouts. “He called you unusual!”

Time to go.

I bound on stage, smiling and waving. The audience is cheering.

“I suppose I am,” I say as I slide into my seat.

Caesar turns to the audience. “That’s right, viewers, we are here with District Four’s mentor, Finnick Odair, Victor of the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games. He has very kindly taken a few minutes out of his busy schedule of hounding sponsors to speak with us. Though I am sure those sponsors enjoy being hounded!”

I force a grin. The audience is laughing. Some of them know just how true Caesar’s words are.

“I’m sure they do,” I say.

There are a few gasps from several of the ladies in the audience. I recognize most of them.

“So, Finnick.” Caesar smiles at me like we’re old friends. “It’s the end of Day Two. How do you feel about the turn of events? You are down one tribute, but the other is still out there!”

“Yes.” My voice is colder than I meant. But really, how else am I supposed to respond?

“It was an astounding move by District One’s Sapphire, wasn’t it?” Claudius says. “Forming an Alliance after the Cornucopia with the other Careers—”

No. No. They can’t do this. They can’t make me talk about this on live television. By God, if they show any of it—

“—and then turning oh-so-quickly on District Four’s Annie—”

“And then – sorry for interrupting, Claudius, this was my favourite part of yesterday—”

The bastards.

You are going to show it. Damn you.

“—District Four’s Quintan jumping in front of her, just like that! As if he saw it coming. Yes, you can see it right there.”

They’ve turned the re-cap screens on. I am not watching this. I refuse to.

“—Sapphire has the sword out, she’s turning, Annie has no idea what’s happening – who would? I wouldn’t expect it! – and she isn’t even armed! And then ever-so-quickly, Quintan throws himself in front of her. It’s like he’s shielding her with his body. He has a knife, he thinks he can take Sapphire – and yes, yes! There she goes – and there goes his head!”

The bastards are laughing.

I want to kill them all.

“That Sapphire has a very strong arm,” Caesar says.

“Unfortunate her sword wasn’t sharper.”

Claudius has caught on. He’s looking between me and Caesar, trying to assess damage control. “Maybe we should think about adding a whetstone for next year, for – eh – sharpening!”

No. That just makes it worse, Claudius. The audience is laughing even more now.

Thankfully, they turn off the re-cap. I hope I never have to watch it again.

“I agree, Claudius, I agree,” Caesar is saying. “Well, you don’t normally see something like that on the Hunger Games. What a spectacular way of going out. I have to wonder whether Quintan did it on purpose or not; he was Annie’s district partner. Finnick, care to share some light?”

Bastards.

“I think Quintan’s goal was to take out as much of the competition as possible.”

“And what about Annie?” Caesar presses. “What does she have for a master plan?”

Bastards. Bastards. I’ll bring every one of you down some day.

“Probably something along the lines of ‘stay alive.’” I smile.

“Isn’t that every Tribute’s plan, Caesar?” Claudius interjects.

“Claudius,” Caesar answers, “I have to wonder if that wasn’t Quintan’s plan. As you can see, a very brave sacrifice on the part of the tribute from District Four. And as for Annie, she has disappeared. Not from us, of course, but from her former alliance. She is running through the woods, as we speak. I hope she finds help soon, otherwise she may meet a very untimely end.”

“She may surprise you,” I say.

“I’m sure she might!” Caesar holds out a hand. “Thank you very much for joining us, Finnick. Ladies and gentlemen, the Victor of the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games, Finnick Odair!”

I stand. The audience is cheering and applauding. I shake Caesar’s hand, ignore Claudius, and walk off stage.

I am contemplating murder.

*​

[finnick]​

I have made some horrible decisions with my life. Every time I try to fix one mess, I get myself into another.

Annie told me that she has a “before” and an “after”. That works for her. It helps her remember the happier times.

My memories are a blob. Happy one time, furious the next. There isn’t a clear “before” and “after” for me because for as long as I’ve been getting myself into trouble, it’s usually been my fault.

Annie has clear moments when she’s Annie, the girl from District 4 that I’ve known for most of my life, and then she has moments where she’s gone.

I don’t have those. I spend so much of my time pretending that I think I lost the real Finnick somewhere along the way. Even right now, I am not myself. Annie is worlds away and I’m playacting for the high society.

I’m in the Capitol. Some grand, luxurious apartment, decorated in a garish, multi-coloured theme.

There’s a woman lying on the bed, stretching her hands high above her head. Her entire body is mottled with reds, oranges and golds. A poet would probably say she looks like a sunset.

“What’s troubling you, my love?” Her voice is soft. Too soft to be natural.

“I’m just thinking. It’s nothing.”

“Are you going to make me come over there?” she asks. She rolls over, her body caressing the sheets. “Don’t be cruel, Finnick.”

“Me? Cruel?” I laugh. “I would never think of it!”

So I go and kiss her.

And I hate myself.

 

I've missed so much! And I'm still catching up, but I can't resist commenting on the first two chapters I missed

I love that Annie's hero is Mags! Mags is a special lady. And I just feel so bad for Finnick! First when he killed the other boy, and perhaps even more so after, when he was with Jasmine. I can't believe he stands it

I love this story, though, and I"m excited to read more!