Hunger Games fic: Treading Water (31/33), PG-13
Title: Treading Water (Part III - The Arena)
Chapter Title: The Gray in This City is Too Much to Bear
Rating (this chapter): PG-13
Word count: 4,598
Beta: mrsdrjackson (all mistakes or missteps are mine)
Focus: Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair
Characters: Finnick Odair, Johanna Mason, Annie Cresta, Haymitch Abernathy, Coriolanus Snow, original characters
Summary: A sharp “Don’t” escapes her before she can cut it off as she backs away from him...
Warnings (this chapter): none
Author's note: The title for this chapter comes from Laura Marling's Alpha Shallows.
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Chapter 31 - The Gray in This City is Too Much to Bear
Finnick closes his eyes. His fingers go still on rope twisted into dozens of knots in his hands, so like the twisted loops of his thoughts. Even as he hopes that Annie heard him, that she knows he understood her message, he wishes with everything in him that somehow, impossibly, she’s no longer in the Capitol to have heard his words, that she’s back home with his family and that they’re all headed far out to sea to a place where even Snow’s long reach can’t touch them.
“You are such a fool, Odair,” he says aloud, not caring if all Panem hears it. It’s nothing but the truth. The way things are headed in this arena - sixteen already dead and they’re barely into the third day - he’s lucky to have made it this far, luckier if he survives long enough to see Katniss win her way free. And he has even less control over the fates of Annie and his family.
He shifts to a more comfortable position, lays Annie’s rope on the sand in front of him. His gaze catches on the bit of rope around his wrist, the first knot in the long chain that Annie worked for him, its lines inexpert but all the more precious to him because of that.
Annie.
Finnick buries his face in his hands, but Snow’s voice rolls over him, as implacable as the tide. “I’m sure the Capitol will love her as much as you do.” Slithering inside his head, insinuating itself into his consciousness. Inescapable. “You have my word, Finnick. For as long as you perform for both of you, your Annie may remain snug at home.”
“Our agreement dies with me,” Finnick whispers to the sand between his feet. The specter of his own mortality, carrying images of Annie’s likely fate once he’s gone, sends icy fingers dancing down Finnick’s spine. A shudder runs through him. Stop thinking, Odair. You’re not good at it. With a sudden tearing restlessness, Finnick surges to his feet. If he sits on that beach for a second longer, he might start screaming.
The violent motion as he rises pulls at the makeshift bandage tied around his thigh, ripping it partially free from the scabbed over wound; it stings as it breaks the seal of dried blood that glued it to his skin. He looks down with distaste at the dirty thing wrapped around his leg. The injury hadn’t seemed that serious, the bleeding stopped hours ago, but the bandage has become truly nasty. Finnick rips the bandage free, balling it up in his hand; he’ll rinse it out later and maybe even wear it as a shirt again, some small protection against the relentless sun that will replace the moon in just a few hours.
New blood doesn’t well from the wound right away, but he feels it gathering against the edges of the tear in his skin and muscle. He sighs. Probably have to re-wrap it soon, he thinks, glancing toward the deeper darkness at the edge of the jungle. He’d forgotten to gather up some of Mags’ moss earlier in the day to bandage it, but no force outside that of a Gamemaker can drive him into those trees just then, and it doesn’t matter how far away he is in both time and relative distance from the jabberjays. Maybe Johanna will take pity on him when she wakes, collect some moss and rebandage his leg for him. Finnick laughs softly. She’s more likely to mock him, tell him to stop being a baby and rebandage his own damned leg. Shaking his head at his own cowardice, Finnick looks up again at the sky.
“Babe,” he says with a wry grin, “if we have the money and it’s not needed for anything more important, do you think maybe you could send me a first aid kit? Or even just a needle and thread?” It wouldn’t be the first time he stitched his own wound. But the moon continues to shine over the arena with supreme indifference and no silver parachutes rain down from above.
Finnick shrugs and leans down to pick up Annie’s rope, which he quickly coils, throwing it over his head and right shoulder like a sash. He didn’t really expect anything. Hooking his toes under the head of his trident, he flips it upward, catching it before it falls again to the ground. Then, trident in hand and resisting the urge to use it as a walking stick, he takes a turn around their camp, checking on the others as they sleep, Beetee still restlessly, Haymitch’s kids and Jo more soundly.
Satisfied that they’re well, Finnick returns to his spot on the beach, but doesn’t sit. Instead he stands looking out over the water. There’s no tide to speak of, whether by design or because the salt lake is simply too small, but still the water shimmers in the silvery light, moving with the light breeze and the equally light current that Finnick felt circulating beneath the surface every time he went in. He wants nothing more than to walk out into it now and let the salt of it wash away the dirt and the blood, the sweat and the fear. But he can’t do that just yet; he has a responsibility to the others to stay where he is, at least until Johanna wakes for her turn at watch. He doubts anything from the arena itself will attack, since Katniss’ clock theory seems to be true and the section they’re in has finished for the night, but Enobaria and Brutus are still out there, both of them playing the Capitol’s Games.
With Lyme on their side, he’d hoped that at least Enobaria could be convinced to join them, but that hadn’t worked out. Maybe Johanna wasn’t their best choice to approach her, but Lyme, respected by her fellow Careers, hadn’t been able to talk her around, either. Finnick doesn’t know if either of them tried with Brutus. If he gets the chance, Finnick decides he’ll give it one last shot to try to bring at least Enobaria over to their side. Regardless of whether or not he makes it out of this arena alive himself, he doesn’t want any more of his friends to die.
He swipes absently at a tickle on his thigh and his hand comes away bloody. Maybe I shouldn’t have ripped the bandage off. He huffs a laugh at himself. Too late now. He shakes out the disgusting undershirt and refolds it, pressing the cleanest spot he can find against the injury to sop up the new blood. At least for the moment, the flow of blood isn’t heavy enough that he can feel the effects of its loss, but in spite of his earlier poke at Peeta about having two good legs, it could become a problem if they have to run.
Finnick hears Johanna approach him from behind long before he sees her. And it doesn’t surprise him at all when she lightly smacks the back of his head as she passes. She doesn’t stop until her bare feet are in the water up to her ankles. Her back to him, she partially blocks his view of the Cornucopia in the distance.
“Just making sure you’re awake,” she smirks at him over her shoulder and he rolls his eyes.
“Don’t ever change, Jo.”
“As if I would.” They stand there for a time, both looking out over the shimmering water. Eventually she walks back up the slope and turns around again, standing at his side. She shoulder bumps him and asks, “Anything fun happen while I was asleep?”
Finnick looks up from the water to the sky. The moon is still high overhead; yet another unnatural construct of Plutarch and his friends, it doesn’t seem to have moved at all in the hours since the faces of the day’s dead faded away. Wouldn’t want the good citizens of the Capitol to miss anything because of poor lighting, would we? The moon clearly defines Johanna’s features when he looks back down at her. Focusing on her eyes, turned dark gray in the silvery light, Finnick shakes his head.
“Nothing fun, no.” Johanna frowns, the forced confidence dropping suddenly away, replaced by concern for whatever she picked up in his voice.
“Everything okay?” She searches his face, her gaze falling to the rope slung across his shoulder. He raises a hand to one of Annie’s knots, lifts it in a kind of salute.
“Annie figured out another way to tell me they didn’t hurt her.” Johanna’s eyebrows rise, her eyes glittering. “I showed her how to make this knot the night before Snow’s last summons to the Capitol. No one else even knew about it.” Johanna reaches out a hand, her fingers brushing against his as she touches the knot.
“I’m glad. I know how worried you were.” He snorts.
“Fuck that. I was terrified.” Closing his eyes for a moment, Finnick whispers, “I can’t go through that again.” Johanna closes her hand around his and squeezes; he opens his eyes, finds hers again in the moonlight.
“You won’t have to,” she whispers. “Not if we’re careful.” Finnick says nothing, just looks at her sharply. Facing down toward the ground, she says, “Beetee. The rolls that came just before dinner. They were a message.”
Looking down himself, at the knots resting against his chest, his ribs, Finnick observes, “The arena is just full of messages tonight.”
“Whatever is going to happen, it’ll happen once midnight rolls around again.” Johanna falls silent, crossing her arms beneath her breasts and turning away from Finnick, toward the Cornucopia. Finnick lowers his trident to the sand, lifts the rope over his head and drops it to land beside the weapon as she continues, “We just might pull this off, Finnick. All we have to do is stay alive another… twenty-two hours? Piece of cake.” Even whispering as she is, her bitterness comes through loud and clear on that last.
“So there’s a plan?”
“The kids interrupted before he could tell me anything else, but yeah, there’s a plan.” She shifts, facing toward where Peeta and Katniss sleep in a tangle of limbs. “I just hope those two’ll give him a chance to tell us what it is.” Her lips barely move.
“About that…” Finnick feels her eyes on him. “I told Peeta we’re trying to keep him and Katniss alive.” He meets Johanna’s gaze; he can’t read her expression.
“Do you really think that was a good idea?” Her expression is carefully neutral and he grins, knowing from that very neutrality how torn she is between thanking him and calling him a dumbass.
“Yeah, Jo, I do. And so did Mags.” Making a show of yawning, he stretches his arms over his head and cracks his back; the number of audible pops makes her wince. “One of the last things she said to me was that I should tell him everything.”
“And did you?”
“No, not everything.” He pulls the sticky pad of his off his leg and shakes it out again as he takes a step toward the water. “But hopefully enough that he can help us.”
Frowning at him, Johanna asks, “Where are you going?”
“For a swim.” Her eyes widen.
“Anything could be in that water,” she protests. “I know you, fish boy. You won’t stay close to shore.” He laughs.
“It’s fine, Jo. If there were any mutts in the water, we would have noticed by now.”
“You don’t know that.” He shrugs and walks past her, wading in, his blood-soaked shirt held firmly so he doesn’t lose it while he rinses it out.
“Maybe I don’t care.”
“Damn it, Finnick!” There is real anger in her voice, but it only makes him laugh harder.
“I’ll be careful, Jo,” he finally concedes, calling out toward her silhouette on the shore just before he dives under.
xXx
“-needle and thread?”
“Damn it! We even talked about that!” Annie realizes she said the words aloud when she notices Watt staring at her. Feeling her cheeks grow hot, she shrugs and turns her back toward him, but as she does, from the corner of her eye she sees him smirking and shaking his head. Annie punches the button to call the Fulfillment Center somewhat harder than necessary.
“Yes, District Four?” It sounds like the same man Martin spoke to before he left.
Her readout of available funds shows a figure quite a bit lower than it was a few hours ago. “How much will it cost to send Finnick a first aid kit?” she asks and breathes a sigh of relief when the total quoted is less than she expected, well within the range of what they have to work with. She makes a mental note to ask Martin to go over sponsorship calls with her when he starts his shift. Annie doesn’t like that there’s so little money available. It’s making her nervous, and it doesn’t help that Haymitch is sure someone tampered with both the District 4 and District 12 coffers. She never heard if someone also tampered with Districts 3 or 7.
“Do you want me to send the kit, Miss Cresta?” She’d almost forgotten the line was still open.
“Yes, please. Send it.”
The balance ticks down as the man tells her, “It should drop in about thirty minutes.” He pauses and then adds, “I’ll let you know if there are any delays, Miss Cresta, and I apologize for not doing that with the rope. Holds for review of tribute gifts are unusual.”
Her half recognition of his voice confirmed by his offer, Annie thanks him and settles back in her chair, staring at her monitor. Absently, she starts to run her fingers through her hair, but stops when she knocks her headset askew; she resets it, but whatever she did when she knocked it out of place, it refuses to sit comfortably. She reaches for her coffee, only remembering that it went cold long since when her fingers close around the cool surface of the cup. Making a face at the offending beverage, she pulls her headset off and stands.
Hooking the headset on the back of her chair, Annie glances across the control room toward Haymitch, his hands locked behind his head, bare feet resting on his console. His eyes are closed and his face relaxed, he appears to be asleep, but when she walks over to him, nearly tripping over one of his shoes, he opens one eye.
“Everything okay, sweetheart?”
“I’m going downstairs for some coffee,” she tells him as she kicks his wayward shoe toward its fellow beneath the console. “Do you want some?”
Watching her with that one eye, he grins at her. “You’re gonna spoil me, little girl.”
Amused, Annie asks, “Is that a yes?”
“Yep.” He closes his eye again, not bothering to add anything else. Annie smiles as she turns and heads for the door.
There is no one in the victors’ lounge, but the big television is still on, still tuned to the channel that shows the Hunger Games’ live feed twenty-four hours a day, although at the moment it shows one of the final eight family interviews instead of the arena. The interviews originally aired earlier that evening in a two-hour broadcast, but that was while Annie was asleep. She would have liked to see the interview for District 4, if only to feel that brief connection to whoever in Finnick’s family chose to talk to the interviewer, a tiny reminder of home. If they’re repeating the interviews, she may get the chance.
Annie steps off the stairs watching a woman who looks entirely out of place in a bright fuchsia suit, seated on a comfortable-looking if threadbare gray-blue couch; her makeup reminds Annie of a well-fed flamingo. The woman leans toward a thin, dark-skinned girl who looks to Annie like she’s in her mid-teens. Wearing a beige tunic and skirt, she sits stiffly on a high-backed wood chair. The contrast between the two is stark. A yellow and gold splash at the bottom the screen labels the soberly dressed young woman as Chaff’s daughter.
“It must be such an honor for you that your father was chosen a second time.” Annie tunes out the rest of what the human flamingo has to say. Honor? she thinks, brushing at her hair and pulling it back from her face before letting it fall again down her back. That’s not the word I would’ve used. I bet that girl wouldn’t have, either. As she passes by it, the image on the TV screen splits between the interview with Chaff’s daughter and a view of Chaff awkwardly climbing a tree. Once he’s high enough, he lashes himself loosely in place with vines, facing a clearing in which Brutus and Enobaria have set up camp.
Johanna’s voice replaces that of the reporter as Annie reaches the countertop housing the coffee maker and supplies, the only place in the lounge with no view of the TV. “Just making sure you’re awake.” Johanna must have joined Finnick on watch, but it’s almost as if she’s speaking to Annie. Frowning, she looks around the little niche and spots a set of speakers recessed into the ceiling. That explains why it’s so clear. Cut off from the rest of the large room, it has separate speakers so the mentors won’t miss anything while getting their caffeine fix.
“Don’t ever change, Jo,” Finnick tells Johanna and Annie shivers. She can almost feel the tickle of his breath on her skin; the sudden need for him, his heat, his touch, his presence, is so strong that she grips the edge of the table to keep from losing her balance. Annie closes her eyes and holds her breath until the wave of longing passes.
In control of herself once more, she dumps the remains of her coffee into the sink, rinses her cup and refills it, and then pours a second cup for Haymitch. When she walks back through the lounge, two steaming cups of coffee in hand, the view on the TV changes again and suddenly she’s looking at a close up of Finnick, his green eyes catching the moonlight, twin spots of bright color in an otherwise silvered scene. Annie stops abruptly in front of the television. A loose hank of hair drops in front of her eyes. She shakes her head to try to move it, but it doesn’t help.
The camera pulls back to show Johanna standing beside Finnick on the beach, very near the water, the two of them looking out toward the Cornucopia. Finnick shifts, facing toward the ground, and Annie thinks he whispers something to Johanna, but she can’t make out much more than the slight hiss of sibilants, no actual words. It could as easily be the sound of a light breeze rustling through the leaves of the trees a little farther up the beach from where they stand. While Annie watches Finnick and Johanna, the door to her left opens and someone enters the victors’ lounge.
Thinking nothing of it, assuming it’s another victor coming in for a shift change, Annie frowns at the bit of hair still partially obscuring her view. She blows at it, which helps for half a second until it falls again and she starts to look around for a place to set down the coffee so she can braid her hair back and out of her way.
“Ah, Miss Cresta. You look much more relaxed than last we met.” Annie’s eyes widen and she turns toward the two men standing just inside the door: President Snow and his assistant. Even as her mind identifies them, Snow walks toward her. When he’s near enough, preceded by the sharp scent of blood-tinged roses, he lifts a hand and brushes that stray bit of hair behind her ear in a surprisingly gentle gesture. Annie steps hastily back, the coffee in both hands sloshing wildly with the movement. The coffee in her left hand spills over the rim, splashing her hand and wrist, some of it catching her thigh as well. She ignores the pain of the hot coffee on bare skin, far more concerned about the danger Snow presents.
“I didn’t mean to startle you, my dear.” Snow pulls a handkerchief from an inner pocket of his suit coat, drawing Annie’s gaze to the ever-present white rosebud in his lapel. He moves toward her again, clearly intending to dab at the coffee on her wrist. A quick glance down and she sees that her skin is scalded red, the rope bracelet and a long streak on her jeans stained.
A sharp “Don’t” escapes her before she can cut it off as she backs away from him again. Snow stops, one eyebrow rising as he looks at her.
“I take it Martin is on duty in the control room?” he asks mildly, tucking his handkerchief back into his pocket and nodding at the pair of cups in Annie’s hands. She shakes her head in denial.
“No, he’s…” with a client. She stops herself from finishing the sentence aloud, nearly choking on the words.
Snow’s gaze holds Annie’s. “I suppose it’s of no consequence. I’m sure you or one of the others will relay to him what I have to say.” He gestures toward the stairs. “After you, Annie.”
Hesitating briefly, Annie starts up the stairs to the control room, stumbling on the first step. Snow steadies her with a hand on her elbow and she can’t stop either the sharp intake of breath or the bone-deep shudder that runs through her. She nearly drops one of the coffees, has a mental flash of throwing it in the president’s face, but in the end she merely tightens her grip and moves more carefully up the stairs. She can feel Snow and his assistant watching her the entire way up.
Why is he here? she asks herself as she crosses the landing to the control room door. It’s two o’clock in the morning! She presses down on the door handle with her elbow, pushes the door inward. I feel like I should warn the others. But there’s nothing she can do but ride it out.
Stepping into the room, Annie turns immediately toward the District 12 station. “Haymitch.” Something in her voice alerts him an instant before President Snow follows her into the control room. Haymitch abruptly stands and Annie hurries to his side. Around the room, the others stand, too, as they become aware of Snow’s presence. His assistant fades into the background, his back to the once again closed door.
Snow continues into the room, stops in the center and turns around in a clockwise direction, pausing to look at each victor in turn. He lingers longest on Haymitch, although that may simply be because Annie is standing with him. Two for the price of one, she thinks, feeling a little panicky, slightly hysterical laughter beginning to well up inside her. The woman on duty for 11 joins her and Haymitch, a warm, steady presence at Annie’s back.
“That man is such a snake,” she whispers in Annie’s ear and Annie feels the laughter bubble up to the surface, fighting for release. She bites her lip until the pain makes her stop. To distract herself, Annie sets the coffees down on Haymitch’s console before she ends up crushing them.
“What’s the occasion, Mr. President?” Haymitch asks. Snow doesn’t answer him. Instead, he stares at Haymitch for a moment longer, then makes a slow circuit of the room, noting the darkened monitors of those tributes no longer in the Games, particularly District 1, pausing at Annie’s unattended station to watch her monitor. Annie glances over her shoulder at Haymitch’s screen. In the arena, Johanna is standing on the beach facing toward the Cornucopia, watching Finnick walk away from her and into the water. Johanna’s lips are moving, Finnick turns around to listen to her, still walking backward into the water, and Annie wishes she hadn’t left her headset at her station.
Snow comes to a stop again in front of Haymitch. Annie is surprised to see that Haymitch is a couple of inches taller than the president. Snow glances at Annie and 11 - Annie adds it to her mental list to find out her name - but then his attention settles on Haymitch. Snow’s assistant still stands by the door, looking to Annie like he wants to be anyplace else. As she watches, the man leans back against the door and closes his eyes; the circles under them are so dark they look like bruises.
“What game are you playing, Mr. Abernathy?” At the sound of Snow’s voice, Annie drags her gaze away from the president’s tired assistant.
“Excuse me?” Snow’s expression doesn’t change, but a muscle at the corner of his right eye begins to jump rapidly. Annie can’t help but stare at it and it comes to her that President Snow is angry. And, too, there is something else in his eyes, a shadow of something that strikes her as fear. He blinks slowly. Once. Twice. The shadow is gone and so is the muscle spasm.
Stepping closer to Haymitch, Snow asks, “How did you and your friends manage to change the terms of the Quell?”
Haymitch stiffens beside Annie; 11 draws in a harsh breath behind her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t believe you, Mr. Abernathy.” Snow smiles at Haymitch; it doesn’t reach his eyes. Annie shivers and 11 lays a hand between Annie’s shoulders, silent support.
“You honestly think any of us wanted to go back into the arena? You’ve lost your damned mind.” The tic at the corner of Snow’s eye starts again. “Mr. President.” The man’s gaze shifts from Haymitch to 11.
“Perhaps you can explain to me, Lena, why your Chaff has been persistently leading Brutus and Enobaria away from the others for the past-” he glances at his watch “-eleven hours?” Chaff’s mentor says nothing, but Annie can feel her begin to tremble against her back.
Before the President can say anything else, his assistant abruptly straightens, no longer looking exhausted, but rather looking worried instead. Lifting a hand to his right ear, he turns toward Snow. “Mr. President, you’re needed back at the government center. It’s urgent.” Snow’s eyes narrow as he looks from 11 - Lena - to Haymitch, his gaze touching briefly on Annie in passing.
“You going to try to pin whatever that is on me, too, Mr. President?”
Snow’s eyes narrow as he glares venomously at Haymitch before he looks again at Annie, lingering for a moment before he steps back. Turning toward the door and his assistant, his gaze falls on Shale at the District 2 console. Winner of the 73rd Games, Shale is only a couple of years younger than Annie.
Gazing speculatively at Shale, Snow says, “Maximus. Please schedule appointments for physical examinations for Annie and Shale following the Games.” The younger man speaks into a device on his wrist as he holds the door open for the President to step through. Once they’re gone, no one says a word. No one moves.
“Physical examination?” Shale asks, frowning. “Why does the president care about my health?”
Annie runs for the door and the bathroom down the hall, suddenly filled with the need to be violently sick.
Chapter 32 - Let's Go Down the Waterfall
Chapter Title: The Gray in This City is Too Much to Bear
Rating (this chapter): PG-13
Word count: 4,598
Beta: mrsdrjackson (all mistakes or missteps are mine)
Focus: Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair
Characters: Finnick Odair, Johanna Mason, Annie Cresta, Haymitch Abernathy, Coriolanus Snow, original characters
Summary: A sharp “Don’t” escapes her before she can cut it off as she backs away from him...
Warnings (this chapter): none
Author's note: The title for this chapter comes from Laura Marling's Alpha Shallows.
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Chapter 31 - The Gray in This City is Too Much to Bear
Finnick closes his eyes. His fingers go still on rope twisted into dozens of knots in his hands, so like the twisted loops of his thoughts. Even as he hopes that Annie heard him, that she knows he understood her message, he wishes with everything in him that somehow, impossibly, she’s no longer in the Capitol to have heard his words, that she’s back home with his family and that they’re all headed far out to sea to a place where even Snow’s long reach can’t touch them.
“You are such a fool, Odair,” he says aloud, not caring if all Panem hears it. It’s nothing but the truth. The way things are headed in this arena - sixteen already dead and they’re barely into the third day - he’s lucky to have made it this far, luckier if he survives long enough to see Katniss win her way free. And he has even less control over the fates of Annie and his family.
He shifts to a more comfortable position, lays Annie’s rope on the sand in front of him. His gaze catches on the bit of rope around his wrist, the first knot in the long chain that Annie worked for him, its lines inexpert but all the more precious to him because of that.
Annie.
Finnick buries his face in his hands, but Snow’s voice rolls over him, as implacable as the tide. “I’m sure the Capitol will love her as much as you do.” Slithering inside his head, insinuating itself into his consciousness. Inescapable. “You have my word, Finnick. For as long as you perform for both of you, your Annie may remain snug at home.”
“Our agreement dies with me,” Finnick whispers to the sand between his feet. The specter of his own mortality, carrying images of Annie’s likely fate once he’s gone, sends icy fingers dancing down Finnick’s spine. A shudder runs through him. Stop thinking, Odair. You’re not good at it. With a sudden tearing restlessness, Finnick surges to his feet. If he sits on that beach for a second longer, he might start screaming.
The violent motion as he rises pulls at the makeshift bandage tied around his thigh, ripping it partially free from the scabbed over wound; it stings as it breaks the seal of dried blood that glued it to his skin. He looks down with distaste at the dirty thing wrapped around his leg. The injury hadn’t seemed that serious, the bleeding stopped hours ago, but the bandage has become truly nasty. Finnick rips the bandage free, balling it up in his hand; he’ll rinse it out later and maybe even wear it as a shirt again, some small protection against the relentless sun that will replace the moon in just a few hours.
New blood doesn’t well from the wound right away, but he feels it gathering against the edges of the tear in his skin and muscle. He sighs. Probably have to re-wrap it soon, he thinks, glancing toward the deeper darkness at the edge of the jungle. He’d forgotten to gather up some of Mags’ moss earlier in the day to bandage it, but no force outside that of a Gamemaker can drive him into those trees just then, and it doesn’t matter how far away he is in both time and relative distance from the jabberjays. Maybe Johanna will take pity on him when she wakes, collect some moss and rebandage his leg for him. Finnick laughs softly. She’s more likely to mock him, tell him to stop being a baby and rebandage his own damned leg. Shaking his head at his own cowardice, Finnick looks up again at the sky.
“Babe,” he says with a wry grin, “if we have the money and it’s not needed for anything more important, do you think maybe you could send me a first aid kit? Or even just a needle and thread?” It wouldn’t be the first time he stitched his own wound. But the moon continues to shine over the arena with supreme indifference and no silver parachutes rain down from above.
Finnick shrugs and leans down to pick up Annie’s rope, which he quickly coils, throwing it over his head and right shoulder like a sash. He didn’t really expect anything. Hooking his toes under the head of his trident, he flips it upward, catching it before it falls again to the ground. Then, trident in hand and resisting the urge to use it as a walking stick, he takes a turn around their camp, checking on the others as they sleep, Beetee still restlessly, Haymitch’s kids and Jo more soundly.
Satisfied that they’re well, Finnick returns to his spot on the beach, but doesn’t sit. Instead he stands looking out over the water. There’s no tide to speak of, whether by design or because the salt lake is simply too small, but still the water shimmers in the silvery light, moving with the light breeze and the equally light current that Finnick felt circulating beneath the surface every time he went in. He wants nothing more than to walk out into it now and let the salt of it wash away the dirt and the blood, the sweat and the fear. But he can’t do that just yet; he has a responsibility to the others to stay where he is, at least until Johanna wakes for her turn at watch. He doubts anything from the arena itself will attack, since Katniss’ clock theory seems to be true and the section they’re in has finished for the night, but Enobaria and Brutus are still out there, both of them playing the Capitol’s Games.
With Lyme on their side, he’d hoped that at least Enobaria could be convinced to join them, but that hadn’t worked out. Maybe Johanna wasn’t their best choice to approach her, but Lyme, respected by her fellow Careers, hadn’t been able to talk her around, either. Finnick doesn’t know if either of them tried with Brutus. If he gets the chance, Finnick decides he’ll give it one last shot to try to bring at least Enobaria over to their side. Regardless of whether or not he makes it out of this arena alive himself, he doesn’t want any more of his friends to die.
He swipes absently at a tickle on his thigh and his hand comes away bloody. Maybe I shouldn’t have ripped the bandage off. He huffs a laugh at himself. Too late now. He shakes out the disgusting undershirt and refolds it, pressing the cleanest spot he can find against the injury to sop up the new blood. At least for the moment, the flow of blood isn’t heavy enough that he can feel the effects of its loss, but in spite of his earlier poke at Peeta about having two good legs, it could become a problem if they have to run.
Finnick hears Johanna approach him from behind long before he sees her. And it doesn’t surprise him at all when she lightly smacks the back of his head as she passes. She doesn’t stop until her bare feet are in the water up to her ankles. Her back to him, she partially blocks his view of the Cornucopia in the distance.
“Just making sure you’re awake,” she smirks at him over her shoulder and he rolls his eyes.
“Don’t ever change, Jo.”
“As if I would.” They stand there for a time, both looking out over the shimmering water. Eventually she walks back up the slope and turns around again, standing at his side. She shoulder bumps him and asks, “Anything fun happen while I was asleep?”
Finnick looks up from the water to the sky. The moon is still high overhead; yet another unnatural construct of Plutarch and his friends, it doesn’t seem to have moved at all in the hours since the faces of the day’s dead faded away. Wouldn’t want the good citizens of the Capitol to miss anything because of poor lighting, would we? The moon clearly defines Johanna’s features when he looks back down at her. Focusing on her eyes, turned dark gray in the silvery light, Finnick shakes his head.
“Nothing fun, no.” Johanna frowns, the forced confidence dropping suddenly away, replaced by concern for whatever she picked up in his voice.
“Everything okay?” She searches his face, her gaze falling to the rope slung across his shoulder. He raises a hand to one of Annie’s knots, lifts it in a kind of salute.
“Annie figured out another way to tell me they didn’t hurt her.” Johanna’s eyebrows rise, her eyes glittering. “I showed her how to make this knot the night before Snow’s last summons to the Capitol. No one else even knew about it.” Johanna reaches out a hand, her fingers brushing against his as she touches the knot.
“I’m glad. I know how worried you were.” He snorts.
“Fuck that. I was terrified.” Closing his eyes for a moment, Finnick whispers, “I can’t go through that again.” Johanna closes her hand around his and squeezes; he opens his eyes, finds hers again in the moonlight.
“You won’t have to,” she whispers. “Not if we’re careful.” Finnick says nothing, just looks at her sharply. Facing down toward the ground, she says, “Beetee. The rolls that came just before dinner. They were a message.”
Looking down himself, at the knots resting against his chest, his ribs, Finnick observes, “The arena is just full of messages tonight.”
“Whatever is going to happen, it’ll happen once midnight rolls around again.” Johanna falls silent, crossing her arms beneath her breasts and turning away from Finnick, toward the Cornucopia. Finnick lowers his trident to the sand, lifts the rope over his head and drops it to land beside the weapon as she continues, “We just might pull this off, Finnick. All we have to do is stay alive another… twenty-two hours? Piece of cake.” Even whispering as she is, her bitterness comes through loud and clear on that last.
“So there’s a plan?”
“The kids interrupted before he could tell me anything else, but yeah, there’s a plan.” She shifts, facing toward where Peeta and Katniss sleep in a tangle of limbs. “I just hope those two’ll give him a chance to tell us what it is.” Her lips barely move.
“About that…” Finnick feels her eyes on him. “I told Peeta we’re trying to keep him and Katniss alive.” He meets Johanna’s gaze; he can’t read her expression.
“Do you really think that was a good idea?” Her expression is carefully neutral and he grins, knowing from that very neutrality how torn she is between thanking him and calling him a dumbass.
“Yeah, Jo, I do. And so did Mags.” Making a show of yawning, he stretches his arms over his head and cracks his back; the number of audible pops makes her wince. “One of the last things she said to me was that I should tell him everything.”
“And did you?”
“No, not everything.” He pulls the sticky pad of his off his leg and shakes it out again as he takes a step toward the water. “But hopefully enough that he can help us.”
Frowning at him, Johanna asks, “Where are you going?”
“For a swim.” Her eyes widen.
“Anything could be in that water,” she protests. “I know you, fish boy. You won’t stay close to shore.” He laughs.
“It’s fine, Jo. If there were any mutts in the water, we would have noticed by now.”
“You don’t know that.” He shrugs and walks past her, wading in, his blood-soaked shirt held firmly so he doesn’t lose it while he rinses it out.
“Maybe I don’t care.”
“Damn it, Finnick!” There is real anger in her voice, but it only makes him laugh harder.
“I’ll be careful, Jo,” he finally concedes, calling out toward her silhouette on the shore just before he dives under.
xXx
“-needle and thread?”
“Damn it! We even talked about that!” Annie realizes she said the words aloud when she notices Watt staring at her. Feeling her cheeks grow hot, she shrugs and turns her back toward him, but as she does, from the corner of her eye she sees him smirking and shaking his head. Annie punches the button to call the Fulfillment Center somewhat harder than necessary.
“Yes, District Four?” It sounds like the same man Martin spoke to before he left.
Her readout of available funds shows a figure quite a bit lower than it was a few hours ago. “How much will it cost to send Finnick a first aid kit?” she asks and breathes a sigh of relief when the total quoted is less than she expected, well within the range of what they have to work with. She makes a mental note to ask Martin to go over sponsorship calls with her when he starts his shift. Annie doesn’t like that there’s so little money available. It’s making her nervous, and it doesn’t help that Haymitch is sure someone tampered with both the District 4 and District 12 coffers. She never heard if someone also tampered with Districts 3 or 7.
“Do you want me to send the kit, Miss Cresta?” She’d almost forgotten the line was still open.
“Yes, please. Send it.”
The balance ticks down as the man tells her, “It should drop in about thirty minutes.” He pauses and then adds, “I’ll let you know if there are any delays, Miss Cresta, and I apologize for not doing that with the rope. Holds for review of tribute gifts are unusual.”
Her half recognition of his voice confirmed by his offer, Annie thanks him and settles back in her chair, staring at her monitor. Absently, she starts to run her fingers through her hair, but stops when she knocks her headset askew; she resets it, but whatever she did when she knocked it out of place, it refuses to sit comfortably. She reaches for her coffee, only remembering that it went cold long since when her fingers close around the cool surface of the cup. Making a face at the offending beverage, she pulls her headset off and stands.
Hooking the headset on the back of her chair, Annie glances across the control room toward Haymitch, his hands locked behind his head, bare feet resting on his console. His eyes are closed and his face relaxed, he appears to be asleep, but when she walks over to him, nearly tripping over one of his shoes, he opens one eye.
“Everything okay, sweetheart?”
“I’m going downstairs for some coffee,” she tells him as she kicks his wayward shoe toward its fellow beneath the console. “Do you want some?”
Watching her with that one eye, he grins at her. “You’re gonna spoil me, little girl.”
Amused, Annie asks, “Is that a yes?”
“Yep.” He closes his eye again, not bothering to add anything else. Annie smiles as she turns and heads for the door.
There is no one in the victors’ lounge, but the big television is still on, still tuned to the channel that shows the Hunger Games’ live feed twenty-four hours a day, although at the moment it shows one of the final eight family interviews instead of the arena. The interviews originally aired earlier that evening in a two-hour broadcast, but that was while Annie was asleep. She would have liked to see the interview for District 4, if only to feel that brief connection to whoever in Finnick’s family chose to talk to the interviewer, a tiny reminder of home. If they’re repeating the interviews, she may get the chance.
Annie steps off the stairs watching a woman who looks entirely out of place in a bright fuchsia suit, seated on a comfortable-looking if threadbare gray-blue couch; her makeup reminds Annie of a well-fed flamingo. The woman leans toward a thin, dark-skinned girl who looks to Annie like she’s in her mid-teens. Wearing a beige tunic and skirt, she sits stiffly on a high-backed wood chair. The contrast between the two is stark. A yellow and gold splash at the bottom the screen labels the soberly dressed young woman as Chaff’s daughter.
“It must be such an honor for you that your father was chosen a second time.” Annie tunes out the rest of what the human flamingo has to say. Honor? she thinks, brushing at her hair and pulling it back from her face before letting it fall again down her back. That’s not the word I would’ve used. I bet that girl wouldn’t have, either. As she passes by it, the image on the TV screen splits between the interview with Chaff’s daughter and a view of Chaff awkwardly climbing a tree. Once he’s high enough, he lashes himself loosely in place with vines, facing a clearing in which Brutus and Enobaria have set up camp.
Johanna’s voice replaces that of the reporter as Annie reaches the countertop housing the coffee maker and supplies, the only place in the lounge with no view of the TV. “Just making sure you’re awake.” Johanna must have joined Finnick on watch, but it’s almost as if she’s speaking to Annie. Frowning, she looks around the little niche and spots a set of speakers recessed into the ceiling. That explains why it’s so clear. Cut off from the rest of the large room, it has separate speakers so the mentors won’t miss anything while getting their caffeine fix.
“Don’t ever change, Jo,” Finnick tells Johanna and Annie shivers. She can almost feel the tickle of his breath on her skin; the sudden need for him, his heat, his touch, his presence, is so strong that she grips the edge of the table to keep from losing her balance. Annie closes her eyes and holds her breath until the wave of longing passes.
In control of herself once more, she dumps the remains of her coffee into the sink, rinses her cup and refills it, and then pours a second cup for Haymitch. When she walks back through the lounge, two steaming cups of coffee in hand, the view on the TV changes again and suddenly she’s looking at a close up of Finnick, his green eyes catching the moonlight, twin spots of bright color in an otherwise silvered scene. Annie stops abruptly in front of the television. A loose hank of hair drops in front of her eyes. She shakes her head to try to move it, but it doesn’t help.
The camera pulls back to show Johanna standing beside Finnick on the beach, very near the water, the two of them looking out toward the Cornucopia. Finnick shifts, facing toward the ground, and Annie thinks he whispers something to Johanna, but she can’t make out much more than the slight hiss of sibilants, no actual words. It could as easily be the sound of a light breeze rustling through the leaves of the trees a little farther up the beach from where they stand. While Annie watches Finnick and Johanna, the door to her left opens and someone enters the victors’ lounge.
Thinking nothing of it, assuming it’s another victor coming in for a shift change, Annie frowns at the bit of hair still partially obscuring her view. She blows at it, which helps for half a second until it falls again and she starts to look around for a place to set down the coffee so she can braid her hair back and out of her way.
“Ah, Miss Cresta. You look much more relaxed than last we met.” Annie’s eyes widen and she turns toward the two men standing just inside the door: President Snow and his assistant. Even as her mind identifies them, Snow walks toward her. When he’s near enough, preceded by the sharp scent of blood-tinged roses, he lifts a hand and brushes that stray bit of hair behind her ear in a surprisingly gentle gesture. Annie steps hastily back, the coffee in both hands sloshing wildly with the movement. The coffee in her left hand spills over the rim, splashing her hand and wrist, some of it catching her thigh as well. She ignores the pain of the hot coffee on bare skin, far more concerned about the danger Snow presents.
“I didn’t mean to startle you, my dear.” Snow pulls a handkerchief from an inner pocket of his suit coat, drawing Annie’s gaze to the ever-present white rosebud in his lapel. He moves toward her again, clearly intending to dab at the coffee on her wrist. A quick glance down and she sees that her skin is scalded red, the rope bracelet and a long streak on her jeans stained.
A sharp “Don’t” escapes her before she can cut it off as she backs away from him again. Snow stops, one eyebrow rising as he looks at her.
“I take it Martin is on duty in the control room?” he asks mildly, tucking his handkerchief back into his pocket and nodding at the pair of cups in Annie’s hands. She shakes her head in denial.
“No, he’s…” with a client. She stops herself from finishing the sentence aloud, nearly choking on the words.
Snow’s gaze holds Annie’s. “I suppose it’s of no consequence. I’m sure you or one of the others will relay to him what I have to say.” He gestures toward the stairs. “After you, Annie.”
Hesitating briefly, Annie starts up the stairs to the control room, stumbling on the first step. Snow steadies her with a hand on her elbow and she can’t stop either the sharp intake of breath or the bone-deep shudder that runs through her. She nearly drops one of the coffees, has a mental flash of throwing it in the president’s face, but in the end she merely tightens her grip and moves more carefully up the stairs. She can feel Snow and his assistant watching her the entire way up.
Why is he here? she asks herself as she crosses the landing to the control room door. It’s two o’clock in the morning! She presses down on the door handle with her elbow, pushes the door inward. I feel like I should warn the others. But there’s nothing she can do but ride it out.
Stepping into the room, Annie turns immediately toward the District 12 station. “Haymitch.” Something in her voice alerts him an instant before President Snow follows her into the control room. Haymitch abruptly stands and Annie hurries to his side. Around the room, the others stand, too, as they become aware of Snow’s presence. His assistant fades into the background, his back to the once again closed door.
Snow continues into the room, stops in the center and turns around in a clockwise direction, pausing to look at each victor in turn. He lingers longest on Haymitch, although that may simply be because Annie is standing with him. Two for the price of one, she thinks, feeling a little panicky, slightly hysterical laughter beginning to well up inside her. The woman on duty for 11 joins her and Haymitch, a warm, steady presence at Annie’s back.
“That man is such a snake,” she whispers in Annie’s ear and Annie feels the laughter bubble up to the surface, fighting for release. She bites her lip until the pain makes her stop. To distract herself, Annie sets the coffees down on Haymitch’s console before she ends up crushing them.
“What’s the occasion, Mr. President?” Haymitch asks. Snow doesn’t answer him. Instead, he stares at Haymitch for a moment longer, then makes a slow circuit of the room, noting the darkened monitors of those tributes no longer in the Games, particularly District 1, pausing at Annie’s unattended station to watch her monitor. Annie glances over her shoulder at Haymitch’s screen. In the arena, Johanna is standing on the beach facing toward the Cornucopia, watching Finnick walk away from her and into the water. Johanna’s lips are moving, Finnick turns around to listen to her, still walking backward into the water, and Annie wishes she hadn’t left her headset at her station.
Snow comes to a stop again in front of Haymitch. Annie is surprised to see that Haymitch is a couple of inches taller than the president. Snow glances at Annie and 11 - Annie adds it to her mental list to find out her name - but then his attention settles on Haymitch. Snow’s assistant still stands by the door, looking to Annie like he wants to be anyplace else. As she watches, the man leans back against the door and closes his eyes; the circles under them are so dark they look like bruises.
“What game are you playing, Mr. Abernathy?” At the sound of Snow’s voice, Annie drags her gaze away from the president’s tired assistant.
“Excuse me?” Snow’s expression doesn’t change, but a muscle at the corner of his right eye begins to jump rapidly. Annie can’t help but stare at it and it comes to her that President Snow is angry. And, too, there is something else in his eyes, a shadow of something that strikes her as fear. He blinks slowly. Once. Twice. The shadow is gone and so is the muscle spasm.
Stepping closer to Haymitch, Snow asks, “How did you and your friends manage to change the terms of the Quell?”
Haymitch stiffens beside Annie; 11 draws in a harsh breath behind her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t believe you, Mr. Abernathy.” Snow smiles at Haymitch; it doesn’t reach his eyes. Annie shivers and 11 lays a hand between Annie’s shoulders, silent support.
“You honestly think any of us wanted to go back into the arena? You’ve lost your damned mind.” The tic at the corner of Snow’s eye starts again. “Mr. President.” The man’s gaze shifts from Haymitch to 11.
“Perhaps you can explain to me, Lena, why your Chaff has been persistently leading Brutus and Enobaria away from the others for the past-” he glances at his watch “-eleven hours?” Chaff’s mentor says nothing, but Annie can feel her begin to tremble against her back.
Before the President can say anything else, his assistant abruptly straightens, no longer looking exhausted, but rather looking worried instead. Lifting a hand to his right ear, he turns toward Snow. “Mr. President, you’re needed back at the government center. It’s urgent.” Snow’s eyes narrow as he looks from 11 - Lena - to Haymitch, his gaze touching briefly on Annie in passing.
“You going to try to pin whatever that is on me, too, Mr. President?”
Snow’s eyes narrow as he glares venomously at Haymitch before he looks again at Annie, lingering for a moment before he steps back. Turning toward the door and his assistant, his gaze falls on Shale at the District 2 console. Winner of the 73rd Games, Shale is only a couple of years younger than Annie.
Gazing speculatively at Shale, Snow says, “Maximus. Please schedule appointments for physical examinations for Annie and Shale following the Games.” The younger man speaks into a device on his wrist as he holds the door open for the President to step through. Once they’re gone, no one says a word. No one moves.
“Physical examination?” Shale asks, frowning. “Why does the president care about my health?”
Annie runs for the door and the bathroom down the hall, suddenly filled with the need to be violently sick.
Chapter 32 - Let's Go Down the Waterfall