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Most people believe the rebellion started when Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark raised those berries to their mouths. Most people are wrong.
The truth is that the rebellion has no start and no end because kindness is eternal. And, in a world like Panem, rebellion and kindness are the same thing.
Finnick wishes he were hyperventilating right now.
It’s a counterproductive thing to wish for, but he does. He’s not picky; tears would be fine too. Anything but the numbness that works through his body, like there’s a layer of empty space between his skin and the rest of his body. It’s a feeling he’s become accustomed to since he won the Games six months ago. It leaves him feeling disoriented, and now is not the time to make mistakes.
“Nervous?”
He reacts all too slowly. It’s Cashmere, last year’s winner, here to ceremonially pass the torch. “No,” Finnick says truthfully, smiling like he believes it.
Cashmere slides her high heels off and leans against the wall. They’re backstage at Caesar Flickerman’s studio, but Finnick’s not sure exactly where. He’d just been in search of somewhere private. “You seem to say all the right things.”
“I have a good teacher.”
“Hm,” says Cashmere, adjusting her flowing blonde hair. “I always used to get nervous for the interviews.”
He’s surprised enough by this that some feeling begins to return to his body. “Seriously? Because you seem to say all the right things.”
“I was always better at the fighting,” she explains. “Not that I get to do it very much anymore. But when I was onstage, I always used to keep an extra hair pin in my pocket to fiddle with. To keep me grounded.”
A hair pin. He gets the feeling she’d rather have a knife, but victors are only allowed to be violent on television. “I don’t have a hair pin.”
“Here,” she says, slipping something into his hand. A Capitol attendant walks past, and Cashmere smiles widely. “Congratulations on your victory.”
For a room with the word ‘lounge’ in the title, the Mentors’ Lounge is not very relaxing.
Finnick walks in a bit late, so preparation for launch is well underway. He feels out of place even with Mags by his side. He’s only fifteen, and everyone else here is at least an adult. Not that Finnick’s a child, either. He’s in a weird liminal space, somewhere in between.
Mags shows him to the District Four console, but Finnick is preoccupied with watching the other victors mill around and talk to each other. An old man from Eight gives Mags a hug, and another woman smiles in greeting.
“Do you know everyone?” he asks, fascinated.
“I’m here every year,” she answers. “Wait here for a moment.”
Finnick, a typical fifteen-year-old, does not follow directions.
He instead follows Mags through the crowd of people, stopping at the District Eleven console. Eleven’s mentor—Seeder—greets Mags with a warm smile. “How are things in Four?”
“The same,” says Mags vaguely. “And Eleven?”
Seeder gives a wordless shrug.
Finnick can’t be sure what’s just transpired, only that something has. The victors all behave this way. Like they’re communicating without talking. He knows that they’re doing it but not what they’re saying, so it’s all confusing.
Mags reaches into her purse and pulls out a small bag. “For your grandchildren.”
Seeder beams, accepting the bag, which Finnick can now tell is saltwater taffy. “Thank you. I’ll let them know who sent it.”
When Mags turns around to see Finnick watching, he almost expects to be in trouble. He’s not supposed to wander off when he’s in the Capitol, although he gets a great deal more freedom back at home. Instead, she just says, “We should get to work.”
“You’re not mad I didn’t stay put?”
She shrugs. “Only victors are allowed in here, and I trust them.”
“Why did you give Seeder that taffy? Can’t she just buy it in the Capitol?” Finnick asks as he settles down in the chair next to Mags.
“It’s better when it comes from Four,” she replies. “And when it comes from a friend.”
Finnick nods along. “So you and Seeder are friends?”
Mags laughs, and for a second she looks just like any happy grandmother. “So full of questions. Maybe you can try to be half as interested in our work.”
Finnick is seventeen when he mentors for the first time. He’s also seventeen when he loses his first tribute.
The Capitol is obsessed with him, and the cameras are clamoring for any news on how he’s handling his brand new responsibilities. It’s hard to escape them, even now that his tribute is gone. He stumbles blindly out of the Mentors’ Lounge, vision cloudy with tears. The elevator is only a few feet away if he can just make it.
“Finnick, how do you feel about your performance this year?”
“Will you try again next year?”
“Do you have a moment for a quick interview?”
He can’t say for sure if he answers any of those questions. His stomach lurches, and he envisions vomiting right then and there, soiling everyone’s shiny nice shoes. It’s only after the image fades that he hears the doors of the Mentors’ Lounge open again.
It’s Enobaria this time, who’s never had a kind word for Finnick, probably because they’ve never really spoken. Her tribute is still in, though, and is looking like a favorable contender.
She looks at him then, like she sees right through him, then says, “I’ll do an interview.”
It’s not like the Capitol to question anything, so they don’t ask why Two’s most unsociable victor is suddenly ready for publicity. The crowd swarms around her like moths to a flame, and the path to the elevator is blessedly open.
Finnick doesn’t waste any time in rushing in and letting the doors close behind him. He slumps against the wall, exhausted, tears dripping onto his shirt.
But it’s quiet, and nobody’s watching him, and that’s all he can ask for.
The bad thing about returning to the Capitol multiple times a year is that all the victors know your business, whether you want them to or not. The good thing about returning to the Capitol multiple times a year is that all the victors know your business, and you don’t have to explain yourself.
Finnick knows before he sees her that Johanna’s family is gone. What he doesn’t know is that there’s a protocol for these things. He catches the elevator to Seven’s floor, relieving Cecelia of her vigil. It’s so fresh that Johanna needs someone with her always, to make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid. And with Blight watching Seven’s tributes, the other victors step up.
“Finnick, you’ve gotten so tall,” she tells him as she passes.
“And you look prettier every day,” he replies with a smile. He knows better than to ask how her kids are.
Johanna’s in her bedroom, but she comes staggering out when Finnick arrives. “I thought they were sending Wiress next,” she says drowsily.
“Just me,” says Finnick.
She slumps on the couch and Finnick takes her lead. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“That’s good, because I’m not a babysitter,” he tells her. “I’m here as a friend.”
Even as tired as she is, her glare is incisive. “We’re not friends.”
“Colleagues, then.”
“Considering we’re literally opponents, I don’t think that fits either,” she counters.
Johanna can be contradictory all she likes. “Friendly opponents,” says Finnick, and she gives a resigned sigh.
“Don’t you have something else to do?”
“Actually, no,” he answers, surprising even himself. “Not until the evening. I’m not sure what to do with all this free time.”
She grabs the television remote and flips idly through the channels. “What do you usually do?”
“Sleep.”
“Yeah,” says Johanna with a bitter laugh. “I’ve been doing that a lot lately.”
“Wait, stay on that channel,” says Finnick, and a movie begins to play. It’s one of those cliche Capitol movies where the main character visits the districts. They like to watch them here to feel cultured, never mind the fact that the portrayals are rarely accurate. “These movies are the best.”
Johanna narrows her eyes. “That doesn’t look anything like District Nine.”
“Yeah,” he replies, grinning. “That’s the fun part.”
She makes some comment about shitty Capitol TV but makes no move to change the channel. Finnick even hears her laugh a few times.
74 is not District Four’s best performance.
Honestly, things have been going downhill with Four since 70, and it’s not just the tributes. It’s everything; the environment, the working conditions, the wages. Still, it’s a bit of a shock when Four loses both tributes before Twelve even has one out.
Haymitch is leaning over his console, half asleep. It’s hard to tell from here if he’s been drinking or not, but with two tributes to look after and only one person, it’s just as likely that he’s exhausted.
Finnick stands up and makes his way to the Twelve console, locking gazes with Lyme as he does. It’s clear that they both have the same idea, and they reach Haymitch at about the same time.
“Haymitch,” says Lyme, and he jolts in his seat. “Get some sleep. Finnick and I will watch the kids for a while.”
He rubs at his eyes. “You still have kids in.”
“Brutus and Baria are taking over. They’ll be fine. But you won’t be if you don’t at least take a nap.”
Haymitch eyes them both for a second, then staggers to his feet. “You better not get them killed.”
“That’s the last thing we want,” Finnick says honestly, which seems to appease him.
Finnick takes the empty chair for Twelve and settles down next to Lyme. Two, like Four, has a surplus of victors and can often afford to bring more than two. It’s always good to have an extra person on deck for when things get tough, or to draw sponsorships. Lyme’s good at that part.
“Do you think they can make it?” he asks after a stretch of silence.
Lyme’s jaw clenches. “Someone has to.”
“I can’t believe Haymitch does this all on his own,” Finnick admits. He can barely handle doing it with a partner.
“He’s tougher than you think,” she replies. “Not that he’s had much of a chance to show it.”
True. Twelve’s tributes usually die in the Cornucopia bloodbath. Haymitch barely has to work for a day. “When should we wake him up?”
“Immediately if anything happens,” Lyme answers, like she’s done this before. “Otherwise, we let him sleep. Someone else will cover for him if you have somewhere to be.”
She says it so confidently, as if nobody in this room is too focused on their own self interests to help Haymitch out. But as he looks around, he can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t do it, even if it’s just because they’re victors and that’s what they do for each other.
Because Lyme’s right. Somebody has to.