finnick

FINNICK FINALLY peeled himself away from the elevator, his steps slow and heavy, as if every part of him resisted moving forward. His mind was still fixated on Liberty's face as the elevator doors had closed, on the courage she forced into her expression despite the fear in her eyes.

He knew he couldn't linger in the hallway forever; the Games were beginning, and he had to face the reality of it. He made his way to the viewing room, where Calypso, Vicente, and Mags were already seated. The Capitol's national anthem was blaring through the speakers, a pompous announcement that the Games were officially beginning.

Finnick dropped into a seat, his jaw clenched. The timer flashed on the screen, counting down the final seconds before the bloodbath would begin. Finnick hated this—hated every moment of it. He loathed the Capitol for what it was about to do to Liberty, to Grayson, and to all the other tributes. And yet, despite his hatred, he knew his duty wasn't over.

As a mentor, he couldn't just sit and watch the Games in peace—not that watching tributes die would ever bring him peace. The Capitol wouldn't allow him to remain in this room the whole time. There were parties to attend, gatherings to show his face at, and sickeningly, events where the Capitol's elite would drink, bet, and revel in the deaths of the tributes.

Calypso had already warned him about this. "It's worse when your tributes start losing," she'd told him bitterly. "They'll parade you around like a showpiece, force you to smile through their vulgar bets about who will die next or who deserves to win. It doesn't stop, even after the Games are over."

Vicente had echoed her words, adding grimly, "When I first started mentoring, they threw me into viewing parties. Wealthy Capitol citizens would bet on which tribute would get the bloodiest kill, or which one would die screaming the loudest. They don't see them as people. They never will."

Finnick swallowed hard as he thought back to Calypso and Vicente's stories, his stomach twisting at the thought of being forced to participate in such depravity. This was his first year mentoring, and the weight of it was already suffocating.

The Capitol's appetite for cruelty was endless, and now he had to endure it all over again, knowing Liberty was out there.

His thoughts turned to Daisy Greene, his own partner from his Games. He remembered how the Capitol citizens spoke about her—vulgar, leering remarks about her beauty, bets about who would "claim" her if she survived. Finnick clenched his fists, the memory too fresh and too painful.

Now, with Liberty in the arena, he feared hearing the same things about her. He knew it was inevitable, but the idea of it made him physically ill.

The screen in front of him flickered to life, pulling his attention back. The countdown hit zero, and the Games began. The arena revealed itself: a dense forest bordered by a shimmering lake. Finnick's eyes locked on Liberty's screen, ignoring Grayson's entirely. The footage was split to show both of their tributes, but he only cared about Liberty. She stood on her platform, her gaze sharp as she scanned the Cornucopia. The moment the gong sounded, she sprang into action, sprinting toward the weapons.

Finnick's heart nearly stopped when an axe came hurtling toward her, the gleaming blade spinning dangerously close. For a split second, he thought it was over, but Liberty ducked just in time. The axe flew past her, embedding itself in the ground, and in one smooth motion, Liberty retaliated. Her spear sailed through the air with deadly precision, striking the male tribute in the heart. The first cannon boomed.

"Bird got the first kill! Nice, gives us an advantage with the sponsors!" Calypso cheered, her voice loud and triumphant.

Finnick barely registered her words. His eyes were glued to the screen as Liberty continued to fight, her movements swift and calculated. She dodged another attack, this time-saving Perish, one of her temporary allies.

Finnick didn't even realize he was biting his fingers until he tasted blood. He flinched as Vicente placed a hand on his shoulder, snapping him back to reality.

"Careful there," Vicente said quietly, his voice calm but firm. "We don't need you fainting from blood loss." He handed Finnick a small container of salve, his expression unreadable. "Use this. And get yourself together. You're a mentor. You need to believe in them."

Finnick nodded stiffly, taking the salve and applying it to his bleeding finger. The sting of the medicine grounded him, but his gaze didn't leave the screen. "How do you do it?" he asked after a moment, his voice low. "How do you stay strong and not... fall apart?"

Vicente's expression darkened. He stared into the distance, his voice hollow as he replied, "I've mentored my younger brother, my best friend, and my girlfriend. All of them." He paused, the weight of his words sinking into the silence. "And I lost them all."

Finnick's chest tightened. He hadn't known this about Vicente, and the revelation hit him hard. The man before him wasn't just a mentor—he was someone who had endured unimaginable loss. Vicente's voice was distant, almost detached, as he continued.

"It never gets easier, and it never will. But I've learned something. The world we live in dangles the things we love in front of us, and when we reach for them, it either snatches them away or lets us keep them—if we're lucky. I ran from it all, Finnick. I never fought to take back what was mine. Don't make the same mistake. If she wins, protect her. No matter what it costs you."

Finnick couldn't speak, his throat tight with emotion. Vicente handed him a small bracelet, its woven threads uneven and messy. "She made this for you," Vicente said simply. "Told me to give it to you before she went in."

Finnick held the bracelet delicately, his eyes tracing the crude weaving. At its centre was a shell, rough and imperfect, but undeniably beautiful.

Memories flooded back to him—days spent on the beach with Liberty, collecting shells, laughing as they made necklaces and bracelets out of fishing line. He still had all the ones she'd made for him, tucked away in a box at home.

He lifted the bracelet to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to it. His gaze returned to the screen, where Liberty sat with the Careers at the Cornucopia.

For now, the arena was eerily quiet, the chaos of the bloodbath subsiding as the surviving tributes scattered into the dense forest or clustered near the Cornucopia.

Finnick's eyes remained fixed on Liberty's screen, his chest tightening with each passing moment of stillness. She was with the other Careers, her spear resting in her hands, her expression unreadable. The others were laughing and boasting about their kills, their voices loud and carefree as if they weren't surrounded by death. Liberty, however, stood apart from the group, her focus distant.

Finnick's instincts told him this wasn't true calm. The Games never allowed it for long. He knew that the first day was meant to lull the tributes into a false sense of security before the real horrors began. The Gamemakers would bide their time, letting the Careers settle into their arrogance, waiting for the scattered tributes to grow restless, and then they would strike. He had seen it play out in countless arenas before, and he knew this one would be no different.

But this time, it wasn't just any tribute in the arena. It was Liberty.

Finnick leaned forward, his fingers gripping the edge of the table as he studied her every move. She was tossing her spear lightly from hand to hand, her gaze occasionally flicking to the forest beyond the Cornucopia. Her body was tense, coiled like a spring, and he could see the subtle way her eyes darted, scanning for threats that the others seemed too distracted to notice. She was on edge, and Finnick recognized the telltale signs of someone who couldn't let their guard down—not even for a second.

"She's sharp," Vicente commented from beside him, breaking the silence. "Keeping her distance from the others. That's smart."

Finnick nodded faintly but didn't take his eyes off the screen. "She's always been like that. She doesn't trust easily."

"That'll serve her well in there," Vicente replied. His voice carried a sombre weight as if he was speaking from experience.

On the screen, Liberty suddenly stilled. Her head tilted slightly, and Finnick saw the moment she picked up on something the others didn't. Her eyes narrowed, locking on a patch of trees just beyond the clearing. Finnick's breath hitched as she rose to her feet, her movements slow and deliberate.

None of the other Careers noticed—Dane was busy twirling a knife in his hand, Cage was leaning back with his eyes closed, and Flo and Perish were deep in conversation. Only Liberty seemed to sense the shift in the air.

"What's she doing?" Calypso asked, her voice laced with curiosity as she leaned closer to the monitor.

"She sees something," Finnick said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The camera zoomed in, following Liberty's line of sight. The dense foliage rustled slightly, and for a moment, Finnick thought he saw a figure dart between the trees. It was quick—too quick for the Careers to notice—but Liberty had seen it.

She turned and walked back to the group, sitting next to Grayson, who was rummaging through his pack. Finnick watched her murmur something to him, her expression calm.

Grayson didn't glance up, not even for a moment. Finnick's brow furrowed as he observed the interaction more closely.

Liberty had leaned in toward Grayson, spoken a few words to him, and then straightened back up. To anyone watching—Vicente and Calypso included—it looked like she had just issued a subtle warning. Vicente even muttered, "They're being watched," his voice low with understanding.

But Finnick saw through it. He saw the faint smirk on Grayson's lips and the way Liberty's body language remained neutral, unhurried. Whatever she'd said wasn't a warning. She wasn't alerting him to the movement in the trees. She was making idle conversation.

Finnick's fists tightened, his knuckles white against the table. Why didn't she warn him? She wasn't careless—he knew Liberty better than that. She had seen the tribute, just as clearly as he had through the monitor, but she made no move to tell the others.

Vicente, unaware of Finnick's unease, leaned back in his chair and remarked, "Let's hope the others don't dismiss her warning."

Finnick didn't respond. He was too focused on Liberty, his chest tight with unease. She wasn't warning them because she didn't want to. That much was clear. But why? Was it a strategy? Was she trying to test the lurking tribute's intentions, or was she simply keeping the information to herself as a future advantage? Whatever the reason, it unsettled him.

On the screen, Liberty shifted slightly, her fingers tightening around her spear. She had moved to a position slightly apart from the group again, her back half-turned to the Careers but angled just enough to keep them in her periphery. Her body language was coiled, like a spring waiting to snap, her every muscle taut and ready to react.

"Smart girl," Calypso said, her voice light with approval. "Keeping herself just far enough to avoid an ambush, but close enough to stick with the pack."

Finnick barely heard her. His focus was entirely on Liberty. Something about her behaviour gnawed at him—the way she moved, the tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes flicked toward the trees but never lingered too long. She was aware of the danger, fully aware, and yet she was holding her ground as if waiting for something.

His stomach churned as he considered the possibilities. Was she preparing to strike first if the tribute revealed themselves? Or was she testing the loyalty of her so-called allies, seeing how long it would take them to notice the threat on their own? Both scenarios felt plausible, but they didn't ease the tight knot in his chest.

The calm in the arena felt fragile like glass stretched too thin. He knew it wouldn't last. Liberty knew it wouldn't last.

"She's playing a dangerous game," Vicente murmured, breaking Finnick's thoughts.

"She always has," Finnick replied, his voice low.

His eyes locked onto the screen, watching as Liberty's gaze flicked to Grayson again. This time, there was no smirk, no hint of casual conversation. Her expression had hardened, her focus sharp. Finnick could almost feel the shift in her demeanour through the screen.

For now, it was calm. But Finnick knew better. The storm was coming, a storm that would test Liberty's every instinct, every ounce of training and strategy she possessed. And when it hit, he could only hope she'd made the right choice in staying silent.