finnick & liberty

THE DAYS in the bunker were marked by the steady hum of hidden machinery and the rhythmic pounding of Liberty Bird's own heart, which seemed to thunder louder with each passing hour of unanswered questions.

The first week after their rescue from the arena felt like drifting through a storm without a compass. Her body ached from unhealed wounds, her mind reeled from the trauma, and her soul—her soul remained tethered to fears too vast to name.

She had thought she understood what safety meant. She had thought surviving the Games was enough.

It wasn't.

The truth came in waves.

On the fifth day, Liberty and Finnick were summoned to a conference room deep within the heart of the bunker. Calypso and Vicente led the way, their faces set with the kind of grim determination Liberty had learned to read as both resolve and regret. Mags, ever silent but ever present, shuffled beside them, her sharp eyes taking in every detail. The walls of the room were lined with technology far beyond anything Liberty had seen in District 4—glowing panels, projection consoles, and a massive holographic map of Panem suspended midair.

Standing at the controls was a slender woman with a sharp, focused gaze. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight braid, and her fingers moved with quick precision over the glowing keys. She wore the practical attire of a tech specialist, but there was something undeniably fierce in the set of her jaw. Liberty recognized her vaguely as a victor of some long-forgotten Games—District 3 if she recalled correctly.

"This is Free," Calypso said, gesturing to the woman. "She's been with us for years. Married Pen, one of ours, and never looked back."

Free didn't look up from her work but gave a curt nod. "Glad you two are still breathing," she muttered. "We need every victor we can get."

Pen, a sturdy man with rough hands and a kind smile, offered a warmer greeting from his place near the door. He was quiet, but Liberty could feel the strength of his presence—like the calm before a storm.

The map shifted, glowing red over the Capitol and its surrounding districts. Liberty's stomach tightened as her eyes traced the lines of Panem, her mind already racing with questions she wasn't sure she wanted answered.

"We've confirmed the identities of those captured," Vicente began, his voice low and steady. He looked at Liberty, his eyes full of unspoken apology. "You already know about Johanna Mason, Peeta Mellark, and Enobaria. But there's more."

The air grew heavier. Liberty clenched her hands into fists, the scarred flesh of her palms biting into her skin.

"Who?" she whispered.

Vicente hesitated. Calypso touched his arm briefly, and he sighed. "Your brothers," he said softly. "Lark and Lyric were taken the day you left for the Capitol."

Liberty's world shattered.

Her breath caught, her vision blurring. She staggered back a step, shaking her head as if she could physically push the truth away. "No," she whispered. "No, that's not possible."

"We didn't know," Calypso said quickly. "Not until you were already in the arena. If we had known—"

"You didn't tell me until now?!" Liberty's voice rose, sharp with grief and betrayal. "They're my brothers! How can you be so calm?!, and now they're—"

Finnick was there, his arms strong and sure around her shoulders, anchoring her before she fell apart completely. "Liberty, breathe," he murmured against her ear. "Breathe."

She shuddered, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing in a world that had turned to smoke. Her heart raced, each beat a painful reminder of how far she was from the people she loved.

"We'll get them back," Vicente promised, his voice heavy with the weight of experience. "The rebellion is moving faster than Snow can control. There's hope."

But Liberty felt no hope, only a searing rage that burned too deep for words.

...

That night, she lay awake in the small, shared room she and Finnick had been given. The walls were bare, the ceiling low, and the only light came from a single dim lamp in the corner. She stared at the ceiling, her mind replaying every moment of her life with her brothers—their laughter, their arguments, the way Lyric had steadied Annie when no one else could.

Finnick shifted beside her, propping himself on one elbow. His face was shadowed but warm, his sea-green eyes watching her carefully. "You're thinking too much," he whispered.

She gave a short, humourless laugh. "Thinking's all I have left."

"You have me," he reminded her, his hand finding hers beneath the thin blanket. "And you're not alone in this."

She squeezed his hand tightly. "I should have been there."

"You were fighting for your life."

"And I should have fought harder. For them." Her voice cracked. "I don't even know if they're alive. I don't know if Peeta and Johanna are alive. All we have are ghosts."

Finnick was silent for a long moment before he spoke again, his voice soft but steady. "Do you believe they're gone?"

Liberty closed her eyes. "No," she whispered. "But maybe... maybe it would be better if they were. At least they wouldn't be suffering."

Her words hung between them like a blade, sharp and unyielding.

"But they're not gone," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "They're still out there. I can feel it. And all I can do now is pray."

Finnick pressed his forehead to hers, his breath warm against her skin. "Then we'll pray," he said. "And we'll fight."

And in the silence of the underground, they held on to each other like the world above was already burning.

The days passed slowly in the underground bunker, each one a test of endurance, a grinding weight that pressed harder on Liberty's spirit. The knowledge of her brothers' capture gnawed at her insides, filling her with dread that no amount of reassurance from Finnick could calm. Her heart was a tight knot of pain, tangled with the guilt of survival.

Every breath was a reminder that Lark and Lyric were suffering while she lay in a place they had helped build, a place meant to protect their people—a protection her brothers no longer had.

On the morning of the seventh day, Liberty found herself back in the conference room. The holographic map of Panem flickered in the dim light, red blots marking Capitol-controlled zones, smaller yellow lights indicating pockets of resistance. Free was at the controls again, her fingers moving with deft precision as she brought up surveillance footage smuggled out by sympathizers in Districts 7 and 8. Beside her, Pen adjusted the settings on a communication terminal, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Calypso stood at the head of the room, arms folded, her dark eyes scanning the map with a sharp, calculating focus. Vicente leaned against the wall, the shadows making him look older, more worn. Mags sat in a chair near the back, her gnarled hands folded in her lap, her eyes closed as if resting—though Liberty knew better. Mags missed nothing.

"You're up early," Calypso noted as Liberty entered, her voice softer than usual. She gestured toward a nearby chair. "Couldn't sleep?"

Liberty shook her head as she sank into the seat. "No." She rubbed her eyes, trying to chase away the exhaustion that had settled deep in her bones. "I keep thinking about the Capitol. What they're doing to Lark and Lyric. What they've done to Peeta, Johanna... Enobaria." Her voice grew bitter. "I don't know how to just wait."

Calypso sighed, placing a hand on Liberty's shoulder. "None of us do," she admitted. "But waiting isn't the same as doing nothing. Every day we stay hidden, every day we gather intelligence, we get closer to striking back."

"What kind of intelligence?" Liberty asked, her voice sharp. "We've been sitting in this bunker for a week, staring at maps and lights. How does that help them? How does that save anyone?"

Vicente cleared his throat. "It keeps you alive," he said firmly. "And whether you believe it or not, that matters."

Liberty clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. "It doesn't feel like it."

Before anyone could respond, Finnick entered the room, his expression tired but alert. He crossed to Liberty's side and placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. "It will," he murmured. "It has to."

She looked up at him, her anger softening just a little. "How do you stay so calm?"

He smiled faintly, though there was no humour in his eyes. "I'm not calm," he said. "I'm just holding on."

The holographic map shifted, displaying a new feed from District 2—a Capitol transport hub, heavily guarded and crawling with Peacekeepers. Liberty stared at the image, her mind racing with a hundred half-formed plans and wild, desperate ideas. She wanted to move, to fight, to do anything but sit in the shadows while her brothers' lives hung in the balance.

"Soon," Free muttered, her eyes never leaving the console. "The time's coming."

"Not soon enough," Liberty whispered.

That night, back in their room, Liberty sat with her back against the wall, her knees drawn up to her chest. Finnick sat beside her, their shoulders touching, his hand warm over hers. The air was thick with unspoken fears, the weight of their shared silence a comfort and a burden all at once.

"They wouldn't want you blaming yourself," Finnick said finally, his voice low and gentle. "Lark and Lyric. They'd tell you it wasn't your fault."

"But it is," Liberty whispered. Her voice broke. "I wasn't there. I couldn't save them."

"You didn't know."

"I should have known."

Finnick turned to face her, his hand tightening around hers. "And if you had? What would you have done? Gone after them? Walked into the Capitol with no plan, no allies, nothing but your heart and your fury? You'd be dead, Liberty. And they'd still be in chains."

She closed her eyes, her breath trembling. "Maybe that would be better."

"Don't," Finnick said sharply. "Don't you dare."

She looked at him, tears burning in her eyes. "I just want them to be safe."

"I know," he whispered. "And we'll find a way."

The room fell into silence once more. Finally, Liberty rested her head on Finnick's shoulder, her heart heavy with hope and despair.

"Do you really believe they can make it?" she asked softly.

"I do."

She nodded, closing her eyes. "Then I'll keep praying. But if they're not... I hope they don't suffer."

And as the darkness of the bunker wrapped around them, Liberty held on to that fragile thread of hope, even as the storm of her heart raged on.

The oppressive silence of the bunker pressed heavily on Liberty's mind that night. Sleep had eluded her once again, and the air in her room had felt too thin, too stifling. She needed to move, to breathe. She wandered through the dim, cavernous halls, her bare feet padding softly against the cold concrete. The underground maze seemed to stretch endlessly, each turn marked by flickering lights that buzzed faintly above.

As she approached a smaller, quieter wing of the bunker, she heard the soft murmur of a familiar voice. It was faint, almost inaudible as if the speaker was caught in a conversation with someone who wasn't there. Liberty followed the sound, her heart tightening.

There, sitting on a bench in a narrow corridor, was Annie Cresta.

Annie's thin frame was hunched over, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her fingers wringing together like the ebb and flow of the tide. Her lips moved, whispering words that dissolved into the stale air. She rocked gently, her eyes unfocused, lost in a world far removed from the bunker's cold reality.

Liberty's heart ached. Annie had always been fragile—her mind fractured by the horrors of her own Games—but there had always been a warmth, a spark that Lyric could coax to life. Now, without him constantly at her side, the shadows seemed to cling more tightly to her.

"Annie?" Liberty called softly, stepping forward.

Annie didn't respond immediately. Her gaze remained fixed on the floor, her voice a faint hum. Liberty knelt beside her, gently placing a hand on her arm. The contact seemed to break whatever trance had held her. Annie blinked, her sea-green eyes refocusing as they met Liberty's.

"Liberty?" Her voice was hoarse, uncertain.

"I'm here." Liberty squeezed her arm, grounding her. "You're not alone."

Annie's eyes filled with tears. "They're hurting them," she whispered. "I can feel it. I hear it. Lyric, Lark... Peeta... Johanna. They're screaming. I can't stop hearing them."

Liberty felt a sharp stab of pain in her chest. She swallowed hard, trying to keep her own emotions in check. "We don't know that," she said, her voice trembling despite her effort to stay steady. "We don't know what's happening to them."

"But you think it," Annie murmured, her gaze sharp now, cutting through Liberty's fragile mask. "You believe they're gone. You're giving up."

"I..." Liberty felt her throat tighten. "I'm trying to prepare myself. I'm trying to be strong."

Annie's hands moved to clasp Liberty's, their fingers tangling together. "Strength isn't giving up before the fight is over. Strength is believing."

"Believing?" Liberty whispered, her voice cracking. "In what? In miracles? In hope? What good is hope when all it's ever done is break us?"

Annie's tear-streaked face softened with a sad, knowing smile. "Hope is all we have left. It's what keeps us breathing, Liberty. It's what kept Lyric strong when he held me together after the Games. He believed in you. He believed in Finnick. He believed that there would be a day when the Capitol's grip would break. You can't dishonour that by giving up now."

Tears slipped freely down Liberty's cheeks. "I'm sorry," she choked out. "I'm sorry I'm not strong enough. I'm sorry I'm not him. I should have been here. I should have—"

"No," Annie interrupted firmly, her fingers tightening. "You are exactly what Lyric believed you to be. You are brave. You are fierce. And you are still here. That's enough. You don't have to carry all of us. Just believe. In Lyric. In Lark. In yourself."

Liberty closed her eyes, the weight of Annie's words sinking deep into her soul. The storm inside her eased, if only slightly. She didn't have to be unbreakable. She only had to believe.

When she opened her eyes, she found Annie watching her with a quiet, unwavering strength. Liberty smiled faintly through her tears and pulled Annie into a gentle embrace. "Thank you," she whispered.

Annie rested her head on Liberty's shoulder, her voice soft but certain. "We'll find them. I know we will."

And in that dark, silent corridor, two broken hearts held on to the fragile thread of hope—and each other.

an: I love Annie sm