Hi Everyone! Well, it's time once again to experience the not so pleasant side of Panem. Let's take a breath and remember that Finnick is a little broken, but he will be OKAY!

Thank you for all the support and thank you so much for taking the time to read my story. Please vote!

Take care and stay safe! ~CANGEL

***Trigger Warning: Non-explicit Child sexual abuse. Underage alcohol consumption***

***

Finnick Odair

     As Finnick sat on a rounded bench in a crowded viewing room of the Capitol, he tried to keep a smile on his face as the countdown hit zero marking the start of the 67th Hunger Games. Roe and Loach wasted no time as they leapt from their podiums into the shin deep in pure white snow, intent on getting to the Cornucopia and the weapons first to proceed with the plan that they had made with Crimson.

     Finnick could do nothing as Roe reached the first set of weapons first halfway to the metal shelter. Instead of arming herself first, she tossed Crimson a small knife and gave him her back. He knew—he knew that Crimson would betray them. And even though he saw the decision that Crimson had made before he acted, he still hadn't been prepared for the brutality that followed. He had not been prepared for the sight of Crimson ramming his body into Roe's, taking her to the ground, nor had he been prepared for the close-up screen shot of Roe as Crimson pulled her head up by her hair and dragged the blade across her throat, staining the snow red.

     Loach had hesitated, somehow still shocked by the betrayal that Finnick had warned them both about. So. Many. Times. And Crimson had ended his life with a dagger to the chest.

     The opulent room he was in was filled with the soft hum of conversation, laughter, and clinking of glasses, a stark contrast to the brutal scenes playing out on the large, ornate screens.

     His tributes were dead, staining the snow red with their blood.

     He wanted to scream but kept his frustration buried deep beneath an easy smile everyone expected from him. Even as he had expected this outcome, it didn't lessen the pain of their deaths on his conscious or the heavy weight of guilt at the thought that maybe he hadn't done everything he could have.

     "Ah, that's too bad." Cassius said barely biting back his laughter as he offered a less-than heart felt consolation to Finnick. His perfectly coiffed hair and gaudy, colorful suit screamed Capitol excess which matched his richly lined pockets—though those might prove to be lighter after this Hunger Games. Finnick's jaw tightened, but he forced a grin, knowing that any show of displeasure would be noted and likely used against him later.

     "Better luck next time," another voice chimed in, accompanied by a hand clapping down on his shoulder, squeezing purposefully with too much force. Finnick turned his head and aimed his smile upward, meeting the cold, calculating eyes of Marcus Plinth, a high-ranking Capitol official and not someone he wanted to cause problems with.

     "Thanks," Finnick replied, keeping his tone light. "It's all a part of the game, right? Next year, District 4 will bring home another Victor." Easy confidence filled his voice even though his mind spun with doubt.

     Cassius chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, Finnick, always the optimist." More laughter joined him and Finnick forced himself to laugh along with them. "Maybe you should just stick to what you're good at and leave the mentoring to ol' Mags." Cassius laughed as he took another drink from the glass he held as he met Finnick's gaze.

     His eyes were on Finnick, as sharp as his pointed words were as they cut deep just as intended. A reminder that no matter how popular Finnick might be, he would always be beneath him.

     And as if to cement the meaning of his words, a small, delicate, desperate hand pressed against his chest. He turned his attention downward to see Deverra Bovart sliding close to him until her body was flush against his.

     "Finnick, darling, you look tense," Deverra cooed, handing him a glass of potent alcohol. No one would suspect that the thin-boned woman underneath countless layers of dress and makeup and surgeries, was actually that of a sixty-year-old grandmother of three with a penchant for younger men. "Oh, you poor baby," she murmured as she rubbed her hand along his partially exposed chest as she poorly concealed her desire by offering comfort he didn't want.

     His lips curled up as his fingers tightened around the narrow stem. "Thank you," he said as he raised the glass to his lips. "I just get a bit too involved, I guess." He murmured as he took a long sip, letting the fruity alcohol settle heavily in his gut. Though it tasted nothing like the drinks he had in his room—the ones that burned going down and heated his stomach, he'd had enough of these fruity beverages to know that it would do the trick and numb him just the same.

     "Oh, we all do," she purred with a dismissive gesture. "But that's the beauty of it, isn't it? We never know how the games will go. Relax, Finnick, and enjoy the show."

     With her words, Finnick turned back to the screen just as an arrow pierced the District 2 females' throat. He raised his brow as a trickle of shock flickered through him. She had scored the highest out of all the tributes in the assessment and had been the Capitol's favorite to win this year and now she was dead, just as his tributes were.

     "See?" Deverra's high pitched voice trickled in his ear, but he paid her little attention, his attention focused on the screen as the tribute fell to the ground dead, leaving a stunned Scarlet standing in the burning shelter.

     Get out. He wanted to shout at her, though he wouldn't. Finnick wasn't supposed to care.

     He took another drink of his alcohol as he watched her finally move from the burning shelter. He wasn't sure she had done herself any favors by lighting up the leftover supplies. Though it was a smart move that would cripple the remaining Careers—and Crimson; it would also make them that much more desperate to hunt Scarlet down and kill her.

     Knowing what he knew about Scarlet, he suspected that she wouldn't mind that. He just wasn't sure that her skills could compete with those of a Career, let alone the two remaining ones.

     He watched as she ran towards the woods that surrounded the open fields where the Cornucopia was positioned this year, following behind the small boy from District 12.

     "That's surprising." He murmured lightly.

     "What is?" Cassius asked, his eyes on the screen. Finnick assumed that his investment was linked to the large sum of money he had staked on a winner. It must not have been Ambrosia or Augustus, otherwise, he would have left in a bitter and dark mood already.

     "She didn't seem like the type to take an ally." He said, as the camera shifted back, giving them a few of the Urban and Elixia rounding the corner after Crimson, who held a spear in his hand.

     He watched as Crimson threw a spear in Scarlet's direction as she retreated from the Cornucopia. It had been a perfect throw and one designed to kill. Crimson had downplayed his skills and abilities, and everyone around him was buzzing with the unexpected performance from both the twelve-year-old tributes from District 14.

     His hand tightened in his lap as he watched the spear fly through the air, straight toward Scarlet Wolfe. Was she also going to die today? By her own brother's hand?

     "Hey, Finnick," Cassius called out, pulling his attention from the screen as Scarlet dived to the side, the spear passing through the air where she had been. He let out a shaky breath, covering his relief with another drink as he turned his eyes toward the other man sitting across from him.

     "Yeah?"

     "What's his skill with the spear?" Cassius asked, a calculating look in his eyes as he leaned forward, showing genuine curiosity for the first time since the start of the Games.

     "He's good." Finnick answered with a shrug. "Accurate and skilled enough to pin a moving target." Finnick turned back to the screen as Scarlet now stood in the snow. He saw a glint of metal flying through the air just a moment before Crimson dropped to the ground, a hand covering his lower leg.

     "Pathetic!" Cassius sneered.

     Guess he knew who Cassius was betting on.

      As the screen zoomed in on Crimson's injured leg, blood pooled from between his fingers as one of Scarlet's daggers stuck out from his skin.

     "If any of the supplies survive the fire, he'll be fine." Finnick told Cassius lightly, who gave a dissatisfied huff in return. Finnick didn't like to make light of the Games, or the tributes suffering, knowing firsthand what it felt like to be in there, but it was fucking hard not to delight in Crimson's suffering and Cassius' misfortune.

     It was well deserved, in Finnick's opinion. After all, it had been Crimson's silver tongue that had led both Roe and Loach to an early death. It seemed only fitting that he was injured and his smooth sailing to victory crushed by his own sister.

     As Finnick turned back to the screen, he saw Scarlet crawling back towards the edge of the woods, watching the Cornucopia. It was a risky move, but he supposed, one that fit the fiendish girl. The Careers were desperately trying to save as many supplies as they could, and Crimson was trying to patch up his injury. No one would be hunting right away.

     From the Capitol, he observed her watching the Cornucopia. District 12 was by her side, clearly thinking his chances were better with her rather than on his own. Finnick definitely would have been thinking the opposite if he had been in the Arena, but then again, Finnick was on the outside and he didn't think the small boy would be this year's Victor.

     His thoughts were confirmed when Scarlet leaned over and pressed her lips to the boys' cheek. Stunned stupid, he never saw the blade that Scarlet wielded with deadly accuracy as she slid it into his stomach showing no hesitation or mercy.

     Even to the boy who likely saved her life.

     That was what a tribute did when they wanted to survive.

     Finnick saw the fading of Scarlet before his very eyes, and in her place, the Wicked Wolfe was rising. A Victor in the making.

     His hope for the girl grew a little bit more.

     As the bloodbath ended, the replays started, showing the most brutal and surprising deaths, placing stats on the screens of each remaining tribute. Scarlet was placed first, having killed four tributes so far. Urban and Crimson had both killed two. Elixia with one. The rest of the tributes hadn't killed any in the bloodbath and were listed in order by district.

     The images on the screen shifted to Scarlet's last kill, Finnick's eyes skated to the bar where he expected to find Haymitch. He wasn't there, and Finnick quickly scanned the room before returning to the screen not seeing him anywhere. He was probably passed out drunk somewhere and didn't even know that one of his tributes was already dead—or he just assumed that they both were.

     Though Finnick thought that Haymitch was a good buddy to have when he wanted to get plastered, he couldn't help but also remember watching Cassandra Valentino be led away in handcuffs and being too drunk to hardly think let alone form proper responses. Haymitch had probably been the only reason that Finnick hadn't been arrested himself, but along with the gratefulness he felt, he couldn't help the budding resentment at, once again, being completely unable to help.

     As the rest of the room's occupants filtered out quite a bit, with the initial bloodbath ending, Finnick decided to stick around. Deverra leaned up, pressing her enlarged lips against his ear, the smell of her fruity drinks tickling the inside of his nose as she whispered her request.

      A nod from him and she was off on her way, content with the fact that she would see him later, leaving Finnick alone with his thoughts. After failing last year, Finnick had been determined to do better this year. He had been determined to bring a tribute home.

     But he had failed.

     Again.

     Last year, both his tributes had died late in the Games. Though Mags had assured him repeatedly that their deaths weren't his fault, it felt like it was and to this day, he still had not eliminated all of the guilt he harbored. 

     Fresh off his own Victory, Finnick had been overly confident in one of his tributes succeeding. District 4 had looked to him to bring another Victor. And all of his Capitol fans had been confident in him. Finnick had gained more sponsors and gifts than he had known what to do with, waiting for the right moment to send them to his tributes in the Arena.

     He had been so sure of himself and his abilities. He knew how to survive the Games. He had just done it. Getting one of his tributes through too had seemed so simple.

     Then they died.

      And for probably the first time in his life, Finnick had experienced such a public failure. The change in the Arena, from good to bad to irreparable, had happened in a span of minutes. It hadn't been something that Finnick could believe even as he watched it—let alone have anticipated beforehand in order to stop it. Before he could blink, the alliance had broken, and his tributes had been left bleeding out in the snow.

     From the Capitol, Finnick had watched, shocked and horrified, with unused gifts and no tributes left alive to give them to. Completely helpless.

     After last year's Hunger Games, Finnick had spent a good amount of time in a dark, depressing place. Mags had tried to give him hope, and when that had failed, she had tried to warn him of the consequences that would follow. But Finnick had turned his back on her and everyone around him as he had continued his downward spiral, losing himself in copious amounts of alcohol and found himself waking up in places he hadn't recalled going to.

      "Thinking about your tributes?" a soft voice interrupted his thoughts. Finnick turned in his seat to see Cecelia Sanchez, a Victor from District 8 standing beside his cushioned seat, her eyes were soft, matching her voice.

      She still had both her tributes in the Games this year, but District 8 had not seen a Victor since Cecelia won the 60th Hunger Games. Perhaps her look was one of pity, because she knew what he was feeling inside. Finnick didn't need her pity, but he appreciated her company, nonetheless.

      "Just reminiscing," Finnick replied, attempting to sound nonchalant. "It's hard not to."

     Cecelia nodded, her gaze flickering to the screen that was flickering between the remaining tributes. "It's always harder than we think it'll be. But we keep going." We don't have a choice.

     The words weren't said aloud, of course, but it was felt in both of them.

     As the silence grew stilted, Cecelia cleared her throat. "It's good to see that you're doing better, Finnick."

     "Well," Finnick said, leaning back on his cushioned seat as he popped a candy into his mouth, sucking on the cool mint for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. "We keep going."

     Finnick had eventually found his way out of the bottom of the bottle and out of his own self-thrown pity party, but by the time he had, his new reputation had already been formed.

     Finnick Odair: The Capitol's darling. The King of debauchery. Playboy. Drunkard. Lady's man.

     He had once been a fierce warrior in his father's eyes and a hero in his brother's eyes. He had been a beacon of hope and limitless possibility to District 4. He had been God to the Capitol.

     His thought to give up being a mentor was a short lived one. His mother's death still haunted him and likely always would. A needless death and final blow delivered to Finnick with deadly accuracy by President Snow.

     Now he was a simple-minded man with a pretty face, a perfect smile and a golden body. To all of Panem, Finnick had everything. In the hearts of the Capitol, Finnick led an easy life, given anything he desired with a curl of his finger, a smile or a wink. In the eyes of his family, he'd traded his mother's life for a fortune and his reputation for an easy life.

      The stakes were clear, and the lines drawn. Finnick had won, but he wasn't free.

     He knew then that he could never escape the reputation he'd unintentionally formed, just as he could never escape the role, he'd been assigned by the President of Panem. Finnick would be a Mentor. He would be the Capitol's darling. He would be whatever President Snow wanted him to be.

     As Finnick watched Scarlet burrow into her handmade snow shelter, he didn't doubt that she could win. But he wondered if Scarlet should win this year's Hunger Games. Scarlet Wolfe was wild and reckless. She was a wildfire that no one could control or contain. What would happen to her as a Victor?

     The Wicked Wolfe.

     He thought of the dark aura she'd portrayed before the games. The volatile temptress that left everyone spinning, on their toes, wondering what outlandish things she would say or do next.

     If she won, that was who she would be for the rest of her life.

     A wicked girl, with a wicked temper and an unpredictable nature.

     Would it be enough to keep her safe from the Capitol's unsatiable appetite? Would it keep her safe from President Snow's greed? She was even younger than Finnick had been when he won. If she won the games at twelve...would she get the chance to grow up first?

     Or would she be threatened and exploited like he had?

     Finnick pushed the unsettling thoughts away as he made his way back to his room for the evening. Anything could happen inside the Arena. Scarlet was doing well now, but tomorrow was a new day and if Scarlet wasn't careful, it could be her last.

     He couldn't afford to worry about a future that wasn't sure to happen, especially when his own future was spinning fast out of his control.

***

     As Finnick entered his own private room, one in a different building than the Training Center and the tower that he had called home for the past week, he quickly showered and changed into fresh pants, leaving his chest bare.

     The cool air from the room's ventilation system kissed his dampened skin, providing a brief moment of relief from the tension that had knotted his muscles throughout the day. As Finnick made his way to the liquor cabinet, the lavish furnishings of the room he'd been given were barely noticed. What had once been jaw dropping and awe inspiring was now a reminder of the heavy price attached to the finery of his new life.

     He poured himself a glass of something stronger than the fruity drinks offered in the viewing room. The amber liquid burned as it slid down his throat, warming his insides and numbing the sharp edges of his thoughts. He leaned against the window, staring out at the glittering Capitol below. From here, he could almost pretend he was back home in District 4.

     A soft knock on his door broke the silence. Finnick let out a breath as he set his glass down on the table before crossing the room to open it. Deverra Bovart stood in the doorway, her glassy eyes glittering with a mixture of desire and expectation. She stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, her hands immediately reaching out to touch his bare chest.

     "Finnick, darling," she purred, her voice dripping with a lust she was too drunk to hide. "I thought we could spend some more time together." she says with a slurred giggle.

     He forced a smile, his fingers brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. "Of course, Deverra. Anything for you."

     She smiled, satisfied with his response, and pressed her body against his as she allowed him to lead her to the couch. He grabbed his drink off the table and poured her a glass of wine before returning to the couch.

     "So grown up," she murmured, taking a sip of her wine, her hand skating up his thigh.

     Finnick shrugged his shoulder as he took another sip from his own glass, swirling it around. Grown up?

     In a sense, he supposed she was right.

     He was sixteen this year. Available. Eligible. Legal.

     But Finnick had been grown up ever since he became a Victor.

     From the time he was 14, Finnick had been receiving the attention of his Capitol Fans. Wanted, or not. Starting with a touch. A brush of a hand against his chest. A hand slipping between his legs or squeezing his flesh as he walked past them. Running their fingers through his hair and whispering things he probably shouldn't have heard.

     Those indiscretions had been kept secreted away in the shadows and deserted corners of the Capitol.

     Whispers and rumors and secrets.

     A bag of coins or a priceless jewel in exchange for silence.

     Finnick had been forced to smile as he was paraded around the Capitol. He was forced to accept the touches and hear the whispers. He was forced to keep the attention and the affection of the citizens, keeping close in their hearts, and feeding into their secret desires.

     It wasn't hard. Finnick was good looking and charming, and the citizens of the Capitol were putty in his hands, and he had so much money now, it was more than his family could use in several lifetimes.

     But that's what made it so fucking hard.

     Finnick was the golden god of the Capitol. He was charismatic and beautiful.

      Even as he walked toward the bedroom with a woman nearly as old as his favorite mentor, he laughed and smiled and teased, kissing her as they fell together on the bed, a tangle of limbs naked flesh, never once letting go of the mask that covered his true feelings.

     Afterward, he lay on his bed, a little bit more empty and broken as he stared up at the ceiling trying and failing to find the mercy of sleep.

     His thoughts turned back to this year's Games and the tributes in the Arena. More specifically Scarlet Wolfe.

      She was the opposite of him in so many ways. He was fully convinced that she was simply incapable of being charming. Oh, she enthralled people—in the way each person watched the Hunger Games, unable to look away from the screen while disgusted and filled with horror at what they were watching.

     He drew people in, unarmed them, and slipped secrets from their lips. She pushed them away, stunned them, and slipped their souls from their bodies.

     Yet, Finnick liked her dislikeable nature. She was bold and daring and more wicked than any twelve-year-old should be.

     But more than that, she was free.

     She was completely opposite to everything he was or could ever be. Perhaps that was why he could never get her far from his thoughts. She was chaos unbridled and freedom without restraint.

     And as Deverra slipped from his bed, leaving a pearl necklace in her wake, he realized the truth of it all. The reason that he could not forget the girl with wild black hair, bright hazel eyes and a wicked tongue hit him like a brick to the gut.

     Scarlet Wolfe was what he wanted to be, but never could as long as he remained a pawn under the thumb of Panem.

--------------------------

Oh, Finnick. You are breaking my heart and filling it at the same time. 

You see Scarlet for who she is. Wild and free. Untamable. She belongs in the wild, uncaged and unkept. Unbroken. 

You long to be that way too. 

I hope you get your freedom. I hope you get a long life to bask in it. 

What do all of you think?

Comment and don't forget to VOTE if you are enjoying my story!

Take care and stay safe! ~ CANGEL