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i.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victor of the Sixty-fifth Hunger Games, Finnick Odair! I give you — the tribute of District Four!”
His name is Finnick Odair. He is 14 years old. He has three sisters and two brothers and many cousins. He has a trident. He has killed 7 people with it. The blood on his face does not belong to him. He has been in the arena for 12 days.
Those things are real, he reminds himself later – in a Capitol hospital, where they put him on morphling. He dreams of the other tributes rising from the river, seaweed entwined in briny locks, bony hands curling around his ankles and dragging him down.
The current sweeps him away, tearing tanned, smooth skin from his limbs and flesh, salt gathering in the soft lining of his eyes the color of the sea -
”Finnick!”
Mag’s voice is the safety line. She brings him up, safe and warm, “Shhh, you’ve done very well, I’m so proud, you’re safe now Finnick.”
“No, I’m not,” he whispers, so softly that she misses the words.
He doesn’t realize how right he is.
ii.
My name is Finnick Odair. I am 16 years old. I have three sisters and two brothers and many cousins. I am the winner of the 65th Hunger Games. I killed 7 people. These things are true.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Thank you, Mister President.”
“I’ll do whatever you’d like. I’m here for you.”
These things are not true.
Especially not the last - he is here for his sisters and brothers and cousins; his mother and father. He is here to protect them from President Snow, he is here because he killed 7 people and this is his penance.
He closes his eyes and silently wishes the hot candle wax dripping across his bare torso could burn away the shame. The other, older man gathers bronze curls in one pale hand, teal nails teasing along his scalp, and wrenches his head forward. Finnick gives no cry – he will not give him the satisfaction.
iii.
My name is Finnick Odair. I am 19 years old. I am the best paid whore in the whole of the Capitol. I am the mentor of Annie Cresta. She is a tribute in the 70th Hunger Games. I will do anything to get her home alive. These things are true.
He means anything, whatever it takes - at the cost of knowing looks from Cashmere and faint scar lines that even Beauty Base Zero cannot entirely erase.
It makes President Snow half-satisfied, it fills the Capitol coffers, it gets him the sponsors that Annie needs.
It makes him receive a call in the middle of the afternoon – “Finnick, where are you? Bad news, real bad. Your girl’s lost it,” – because he was in a woman’s bedroom and not with the other mentors like he should have been; he thinks lost as in dead and it turns out almost worse.
iv.
My name is Finnick Odair. I am 20 years old. Annie Cresta is the victor of the 70th Hunger Games. I am in love with her. Haymitch Abernathy reeks of alcohol. These things are true.
“Hey, hey – Haymitch, I didn’t take you for the type –“
“Shut up, loverboy,” the District 12 victor growls, and drags Finnick into an alley that smells of rot and stale vomit. “We don’t have much time.”
“What can I do for you then?”
“I know that Snow uses you. I know what you’ll do for your family. What will you do for that girl out there?”
Annie in the moonlight is all pale skin, dark hair and large, shining eyes like green-blue gems. Her stylist has her dressed in a swathe of silk that makes her look like a sea nymph, something ethereal and otherworldly that has risen from the waters.
She doesn’t deserve this world.
“Anything,” he tells Haymitch, and wishes he had promised to bring her back safely, not just alive.
v.
My name is Finnick Odair. I am 21 years old. I am part of the Resistance. I love Annie Cresta. These things are true.
We are happy together. She loves me back. These things are sometimes true.
Annie is a little broken. I wish this wasn’t true.
vi.
My name is Finnick Odair. I am 23 years old. The Resistance has found their spark.
The District 12 tributes make their walk across the stage, their faces illuminated by flickers of flame. Their cloaks burn in fiery brilliance, and he catches Haymitch’s eye down the aisle. The older man nods once.
So this is her – their girl on fire. The crowd is wild for them, cheering and stomping, hands fluttering through their booklets to find the names of the tributes lighting up the night.
“Katniss Everdeen,” he rolls the name on his tongue.
It tastes like hope.
‘Annie, Annie, cross your fingers and wait for me.’
She’s the only victor to win by waiting, after all. She has the patience of a saint and it’s served her well. It only has to work one more time -
This is their last chance.