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ilguna · 4 years

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Metanoia - Chapter Three (f.o)

Summary: you will be crowned victor of the 75th hunger games.

Word Count; 5.8k

Warnings; swearing

NOTES: i give reader a last name to fit the world.

–

The alarm clock isn’t the worst thing in the world, but it isn’t the most flattering either. Listening to what sounds like screaming birds is not how you anticipated it would sound in the slightest. You tried to get it to go off last night to see what you were getting yourself into. But the clock outsmarted you.

Rolling over, you slam your hand onto it for the hundredth time in frustration, this time getting the button square on. You’re not sure how you missed it before, but clearly you were too drowsy to coordinate your movements. You get onto your elbows, pulling yourself closer to the clock as you turn it off entirely.

A sigh leaves your lips as you throw the blankets off of you. The air is surprisingly warm, enough to the point where you don’t feel cold, and you’re not swelteringly hot. The technology here in the Capitol truly is amazing, you might just have to stay here again after you win.

You head over to the dresser, pulling out a new pair of underwear and a sports bra that won’t irritate your shoulders because of the material. Next is the tank top and the pair of stretchy leggings--yoga leggings, is what you think people call them. All you know is that they’re incredibly comfortable and soft.

You head to the bathroom, catching a small glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You go through the drawers, brushing your teeth while simultaneously brushing your hair, and then tying it out of the way. Three minutes later and you have the shower running, your teeth are brushed, and you’re heading inside.

You take a cold shower to get your blood running. It’s also a good exercise that you learned about. You never know if the water in the arena is going to be warm or not, and if you build up a sort of tolerance, then it isn’t as shocking. However, there’s no way you think you’ll find yourself swimming for fun.

You avoid getting your hair wet at all costs, wanting to leave that up to the prep team that will greet you in less than an hour. You clean your body again, washing everything that you can think of. By the time you’re getting out, your skin is a light shade of pink and you smell like sugar.

You pull on your clothes quickly, being sure to pick up the necklace that Tanith gave you some time ago. You don’t put it on, since you need to give it to Neysa so that she can get it approved for the games. It’s better than having nothing inside of the arena to fiddle with.

Deciding to go barefoot, you leave the bedroom and enter the main room. It has the kitchen, dining room and living room all in one. Off to the right stands an avox near a cart with drinks, as Neysa sits at the table with a cup of coffee.

Neysa glances up at you when you get closer, eyebrows raised, “You’re up on time.”

“The alarm clock they have is annoying.” You say, “I’m tempted to break it.”

“They’ll just replace it.” Neysa sips her coffee.

“I bet they would.” you take a seat across from her, but don’t make a move to touch anything on the plates, “How much time do I have?”

“Until Brutus is out.”

“Is he awake?”

“Yes.” she says.

It won’t take too terribly long, then. Guys don’t really take that much time to get ready, he should be out in less than thirty minutes. In the meantime, you watch the television that’s behind Neysa. It’s a montage, more or less.

Getting up now, you’re curious. You turn up the volume and stand in front of it with your arms crossed, wondering what it’s on about. Across the bottom of the program it explains that it’s the tribute parades from each tribute that is in the Quarter Quell. It starts with the oldest, District Four’s very own Mags Flannagan.

She looks young, you’d take a guess of no younger than sixteen. She was pretty, a tribute that is very clearly capable of winning the games. As the camera zooms, there’s a fire in her eyes, but it’s also filled with wonder. Being inside of the Capitol can do that to you.

Next to follow is Woof, which isn’t very much of a surprise. After Woof is Seeder, Beetee, the girl from nine, and then Chaff. The guys from five and nine, Wiress, and Brutus. Then there’s Blight, Cecelia, the girls from ten and five, both from six. Then it hits Gloss, then Cashmere, the guy from ten. You appear, then it’s Finnick, Johanna, and Katniss and Peeta.

It’s weird to watch as the quality slowly gets better. After binging all of their games last night, you know that Mags’ games was the eleventh one, which is a long ass time ago. The age range of these games is surely unfair, but it's going to be an advantage. It’s as high as eighty and as low as seventeen.

Unfortunately most of these tributes are still fit, or they’ve been preparing themselves recently for the Quarter Quell. Whether they’d get picked or not, it didn’t matter. At the time, they just wanted to be in the correct physical shape. You’re sure the ones that did take that precaution are patting themselves on the back.

Considering that the Capitol is showing off these parades, you can only assume that they’ll be doing the same thing with all the major events. Like the training scores, the interviews and possibly even the beginning of the games. You can’t lie, it’s cool that they’re doing this.

“I’m ready.” you hear.

You turn to see that Brutus is definitely ready to go. He’s dressed in similar clothing to yours, but it’s nowhere near matching. Neysa pushes herself up from the table, setting down her mug, “Okay, let’s get a move on, then.”

“What about Edmond?” Brutus asks.

“(Y/n) scared him off. He’s still here, just not… here…” Neysa says, you smile proudly, “As for Theo, he’s going to be sitting back for a while.”

“Sounds good to me.” you say, then you remember the necklace in your hand, “Hey, I need you to get this through approval.”

You pass it over to Neysa as you all start out of the apartment. She doesn’t look over it too long, tucking it into a pocket of her slacks. You all get into the elevator, Neysa presses the button, and you head right on down.

“Do me a favor and not piss off the prep teams.” Neysa says.

“The Capitol is practically my home.” you tell her, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Theo would beg to differ.” Brutus snickers, and you join in.

Neysa doesn’t say anything, but you have a feeling she enjoyed that joke.

She leads you to your room first, and then takes Brutus away. Almost immediately, you’re swept into the sterile grooming room. The first thing that comes out of one of the guys mouth is a compliment on your tattoos. He’s in absolute awe for a moment, like he can’t believe that you’ve got sleeves on both arms, and then tattoos scattered around after that.

You got them all as soon as you got your first check from the Capitol after your victory. You just wanted to have something specially done, something permanent, and the Capitol delivered better than you thought they would. The ink hasn’t budged or faded even after eight years of wear and tear. There’s a few places where it’s a bit wonky because you cut yourself by accident or something. Other than that, they’re all as good as the day you got them.

The tattoos started with meaning, memorials for your family members, your left arm has only flowers with names on them. People that meant a lot to you. Your grandparents, parents, aunt, uncles, cousins, and siblings. Big and small, flourishing, or forever stuck in a bud.

As for your right arm… a little more sadistic, you have to admit that. But everyone has it in them, and it’s a constant reminder. Getting skulls with the names of the tributes you killed was your way of growing up. They’re with you forever now. There’s candles, and little tokens that remind you of their district by their skull.

They’re not colorful, they’re dull. Black and white. A funeral. A tribute out to them. Death is never a thing to really celebrate.

At the beginning of your forearm after your elbow and down, it’s a blank canvas, unfinished. Whereas up, it has all the names and the tributes. You thought that it being unfinished was just fine, but now that you’re going back into the games, you’ll undoubtedly have to continue down to your wrist, and maybe beyond to the back of your hand.

This is a good time to mention that the soulmate words aren’t on your death arm, it’s on the flowery one… which could be considered as the other death arm, since your family is all dead, there’s no one living. Even when you were a teenager, you were smart enough to keep the loved ones on the side with the soulmate, since they would one day be a loved one too.

Anyway, those aren’t the only tattoos you have. You’ve got others littered around your body, meaningless ideas that you would come up with. When you’d have a handful of ideas, you’d get the tattoos done, and then go back to District Two. It’s why the governor isn’t too happy with you.

The prep team finally pulls themselves together, and gets to work. You don’t complain with anything that they do, you mainly just listen to the talk between each other. How they’re so excited about the games, and all the tributes that were pulled and volunteered. They’re already taking bets on a few of you guys.

They try to keep quiet, but they’re mostly buzzed about the careers--you guys--Finnick, Johanna and the recent winners. Everyone else can basically go fuck themselves, is what you’re getting. They have good taste, you’ll have to admit that. They like the more vicious victors. If you didn’t win by being ruthless, then you might as well be chopped liver. They want entertainment, not boredom. Even Beetee’s games were a favorite just because of the creativity.

“Oh, you’re going to be so eye-catching.” one of the guys sighs, “Stunning…”

“Sure.” you say.

After that, they give you one more look-down from head to toe. They make sure your skin is completely smooth and they haven’t missed anything. They twirl your hair between their fingers to make sure it’s silky and full of life again like they’ve intended. They even sigh because of the whole perfume you’re giving off in general.

Finally, they get you to the room where you’ll wait for your stylist. You sit on the edge of the metal table, robe already pulled on. You don’t care what the stylist wants, you’re tired of sitting around naked. You’re ready to be put in whatever god-awful outfit you’ll be given this year.

It’s quite a while of silence. Of being in this small room that you’d consider to be a prison holding cell. Even if you’ve never been in one personally, you think you can take a couple of guesses on what it feels like. The vibrations it gives off. And just like a prison, this is nowhere near welcoming.

You never feel anxious, but you’re beginning to get a bubbling feeling in your stomach, almost making you feel sick. You’d swear it’s because of the fact that you haven’t eaten all day, but that’s nowhere near close. The prep team guys have been feeding you each time you’ve requested something, understanding your struggle or whatever.

No, this feeling is completely new. It doesn’t belong to you.

“Stop already.” you whine, brushing your hair out of your face.

You almost want to punch your stomach to get your mind taken off of it. You don’t know how it’s even allowed for their emotion to overpower yours. It’s disgusting. And you don’t know why all of a sudden they’ve decided to exist. They couldn’t have appeared any other time?

Whoever they are, they’re nervous and they’re making you feel sick. You have to get off of the metal table to pace around the room, taking deep breaths and wiping the sweat off of your forehead when it starts to appear in droplets.

The door then swings open, revealing your stylist. A woman, shorter than you are, but she looks like she knows what she’s doing, competent. She’s got her skin stained a bubblegum pink, but wears a complete white outfit like she walked out of the gates of heaven.

“Anxious?” she asks, looking you over.

“No, impatient.” you tell her, “It took you long enough.”

“Neysa said you had a mouth on you.” she looks you up and down, “Guess I’m not surprised. My name is Amias.”

“(Y/n).”

She nods, motioning for you to follow her. You lag behind a tad, not trusting the new room you’re walking into. You scan it over, wondering if you’re going to see your costume for this afternoon, but you don’t.

“Put these on.” she says, holding out a matching set of black underwear, “We’ll be moving rooms in a moment, the prep team is fixing the disaster.”

“Matching outfits with Brutus?” you ask, pulling on the high-waisted underwear.

“Of course.” Amias is standing at the door with a window, looking out of it, “Armor, which I’m sure you’re not new to.”

You untie the robe, draping it over the side of the couch while you fix the bra, “No one is. It’s the only thing stylists seem to do every year, just a new variation. Tell me, am I going to be naked?”

“Nowhere close.” She says, “I’m not new to designing, but I am new to District Two. Needless to say I have some ideas I’d like to try out.”

“I’m not a one-size-fits-all.” you inform her.

“They’re all in your size.” She says, looking at you now, “Fix the right strap and throw the robe on again, unless you’re willing to walk through the halls like that.”

Not bothering with the robe, you follow behind her. Amias doesn’t seem bothered, unlocking the door and then heading straight to the right. The hallway is completely empty for a couple of seconds, until a door opens, and a stylist steps out, with someone trailing behind her.

It takes you a moment before you realize who it is.

Finnick looks you up and down impressively, a little smile hinting at the corners of his lips, “Nice tattoos.”

“Nice pendant.” you retort, jerking your left arm away from him as he passes so he doesn’t touch you.

Amias brings you right into a fancy room that’s lit up fairly well. There’s no overhead lights, only lamps that sit in the corners, and one that sits by a chair. Around the room are mannequins that have the different outfits on them. The prep team stands by, prepared for whatever Amias might order them to do.

She definitely expected you to head towards the chair, but you shut the door and stand in front of the mannequins instead. You take in every single outfit, one by one. They’re armor, that’s for sure. But they’re cleverly designed like they’re trying to give off a different mood for each one.

A smile grows on your face, “Am I allowed to pick?”

“I thought we could do that last,” Amias comes over, “Do you have one in mind?”

You run your fingers over the leather, “Yes, this one.”

The top is grey and it ends mid-rib, it’s cloth and not actual metal. The gold metal is on the shoulders in layers. The bottoms are brown and high-waisted, and the heeled boots that go with it, are up to your knees, also gold. There’s splashes of maroon and grey here and there to compliment the scheme.

“Good taste.” Amias says.

“Thanks.” you move towards the chair now, taking your seat in it, “Have at me.”

The prep team starts almost immediately. They pin your hair up into a bun on the back of your head, pulling out some hair here and there to dangle in your face, and in the back. They curl them, and then move on as quickly as they started.

To hold it all in place, they pull out some hairspray, covering your face. When they get out of the way of the mirror, you can see that your hair is glittery. Like gold flecks all over your hair to match with the gold armor.

“I wish I could have done something much more greek.” Amias says, she’s pulling the outfit off of the mannequin, “Unfortunately, I was told that’s what District One is into.” she makes eye contact with you in the mirror, “I would say I’m bummed, but a warrior is much more interesting, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think I’m going to be the most eye catching thing out there,” you say, “With everyone that has been picked.”

“You’ll find a way.” Amias says, “Neysa tells me you’re smart. You’re independent, speak your mind. You don’t deal with anything. She said that you’ll get your way one way or another. I’m counting on it.”

“Neysa likes to talk a lot.”

“She was just telling me more about you.” Amias lightly defends, “But you are right.”

The makeup is also gold-inspired. They make your face shimmer with all the highlight that they add to your nose, cheeks and forehead. Every way you turn your head, you can see the sparkle.

“Good?” the one doing your makeup asks.

“Yes.” you say, tilting your head as you continue to stare.

They move onto jewelry, which isn’t that big of a surprise. Everything is gold. The sword earrings, the solid choker that is just a bar around your neck. The upper arm bracelet that they set on the vanity for after you put on the costume.

Speaking of which, Amias takes a part of the clothing off one by one, and puts it on you instead. Starting with the bottoms, and then the armored boots that go to your knees. The final touch is the top, which you’d thought would be heavy and bulky, but it’s surprisingly light. Either it’s not real gold, or it’s just very thin.

“Move around for me.” Amias says.

You follow her directions without complaint. This is her job after all, she’s doing her best to make sure that you look great, and eye-catching enough for the Capitol citizens. You’re going to want to be drawing in sponsors like crazy, and this is the main way to go about it.

You stop when she allows it, standing in front of the vanity. You stare at yourself while the prep team makes the final adjustments, and Amias cleans up the room. You don’t want to be out there too early, waiting for the horses. Although, you can imagine that you’ll be out there with plenty of time to spare, considering the time you actually got in here.

While you wait, you do a series of positions to stand in, wondering about which would be the best to work with while you’re on the chariot. You turn your body some, having one foot out further than the other. You try with both feet together, and even turning in the direction where Brutus would hypothetically be.

It isn’t until you pull a stool in front of you and put your foot in it, playing around, when you realize that this is familiar. The look is familiar. So, you continue to try and find the one spot that will click the memory. The second that your arm is in the air, hand enclosed in a fist, while your other is on your hip, you realize.

You look like you’re about to go to war. All those pictures in the history books had things similar to this. You should be yelling the words ‘to war!’ or something dumb like that. Leading an entire army to take over the land, claim your spot.

And the funniest thing is, you are. You are in a war right now, with every single tribute. You’re competing for the most sponsors. You’re competing to be the favorite. You’re competing to be the winner of the seventy-fifth hunger games. The Quarter Quell.

You get your foot off of the stool and kick it back into place, “I’m bored of being in here.”

“You’re free to leave.”

“Wasn’t asking.” you say, moving to the door as you almost throw it open.

The entire training center building might be new, since they rebuilt it and upgraded everything that was inside. But the layout is still basically the same, you don’t need the help of Amias or anyone to get to the chariot. It’s around a couple of corners and through a wide hallway, and suddenly you’re where everyone else is.

You take a look around, determined to see who all is standing out here right now. Your eyes catch first on Finnick, who seems to have the same idea as you do, and catches your eye almost immediately. A small smirk comes over his face, and you turn your head away from him in response.

No wonder he’s out here so quickly, he’s half naked. But as you go over to your chariot with Brutus, you can see that he’s not much better. Cashmere and Gloss look great, though. Their stylist must be proud.

“(Y/n).” Cashmere sings, her mouth drops open a little, “Gosh, that is amazing.”

“You look better, I can promise you.” you tell her, being sure to place your back to where you just walked out of, so you can keep a good eye on the people that continue to come out.

Also so no one can sneak up behind you.

“Do you guys have any ideas on allies?” Gloss asks.

Brutus whistles, “(Y/n) is being difficult.”

“I’m really not. Not wanting Finnick Odair as an ally should be common sense.” you glare in his direction, just in time to watch him pop something into his mouth.

“Common sense?” Cashmere laughs, “He’s a career for a reason.”

“You take him, you’re taking Mags.” You tell her, “Pick your poison.”

“She wouldn’t be too hard to handle.” Brutus says.

“If you’re talking about killing her, any of these guys are easy to handle.”

You give a look to Gloss, “You’re only saying that because you got mediocre muscles at best, and you’re tall. You’re not really that special, even Cashmere is way past your shoulders now.”

“She’s still shorter than me.”

“So am I, and I’m pretty sure I could kill you before you can spell the word ‘moron’.”

“Who pissed in your cereal?” Gloss asks.

“Neither of us really ate today. Early start.” Brutus tells him.

“Just to look like that?” Cashmere mutters.

Your eyes land on her, “I’ll give you bravery points for saying it to my face, unfortunately it wasn’t loud enough. Say it again.”

Cashmere doesn’t look embarrassed, “Just to look like that?”

“You look like you just rolled out of bed.”

“You told me I looked amazing.” Cashmere looks smug.

“I lied.” you enunciate the words.

The four of you are all staring at each other for a long moment, until you’re tired of staring at their faces and decide to walk somewhere else instead. You’re half-tempted to go and shoot your shot with Katniss Everdeen, but you end up at your chariot instead.

If you make that proposal with Katniss, then that means you’ll have to bring Deadweight with you. You’re sure he’s at least somewhat of a decent fighter, but you’re not willing to take a chance like that. You’d rather know ahead of time, and after watching his games yesterday for the research purposes--he’s not very good with anything.

Incompetent.

“So, was the outfit purposely designed to show off your tattoos, or was it all a coincidence?”

Your glaring eyes are suddenly turned to none other than Finnick Odair, who has a smile on his face as usual. Oh, how much you wish you could smack it off of his fucking face. Imagine how pretty it would be to go into the tribute parade with a nice pink hand mark on his cheek.

You’d get in trouble, though. And since you’re trying to win the favor of the people around you, and not push them away, you cross your arms and clench your fists.

“I can’t wait to add you to my graveyard, Odair.” you snap.

“Is that so?” Finnick asks, he leans to his left slightly, like he’s trying to get a better look of your right arm, “You’ll have to catch me first.”

“It’ll be easy, since you’ll be caring for grandma over there.” you jerk your head, not moving your eyes.

“Oh really?”

Finally, you look at Finnick. It’s not hard to spot when someone is feigning interest in a conversation. ‘Is that so’ and ‘oh really’ is what you say when you’re trying to get out of one.

“What do you want from me?”

“Hmm?” Finnick hums, his eyes are squinted, and he’s staring at your left arm now, “Who’s Paesyn?”

Your arms are out of being crossed within seconds, and you draw your arm back and swing so fast that you’re surprised that Finnick had even had time to catch your wrist. You’re mere inches from his face, any faster and that bright pink hand mark would be on his face, just like you desired.

“You’re hot headed.” Finnick notes.

“You’re a nosy, self-centered, Capitol-raised bitch!” you shout, catching the attention of a few others, “You’re so cynical that you can’t read a fucking room! You think everyone likes you. You think you can do whatever you want!” you suck in air between your clenched, “News flash, Finnick Odair, you’re nothing but another pretty face in the sea of victors that are here. No one likes you, as they should.”

You yank your wrist free of his hand, watching as his eyes widen, “You’re a filthy human being. I’ll be praying that your death is the first on my hands. I can’t wait until that pathetic girlfriend of yours gets to watch as your body is lowered into a six-foot-deep ditch.”

Finnick’s had enough, and you can see his face begin to turn red from rage, “You say nothing about Annie.”

“I can saying whatever the fuck I want about her.” You stand taller, almost matching his height exactly, “You just don’t like to hear it, because it’s all true.”

Finnick starts forward, but a pair of peacekeepers appear between you two, pushing him back, since you’re already at your chariot. You smile at Finnick over the peacekeeper’s shoulder, satisfied that you were finally able to burst his imperfect bubble.

You take deep breaths to get yourself level-headed again. However, you don’t even get as much as thirty seconds, before another person is talking to you.

“You’re on a roll today.” Neysa says, “I definitely should have made you sleep in.”

“It’s not the fact that I’m sleep-deprived. They’re all so fucking irritating.” you crack your knuckles to keep yourself from running a hand through your hair, subsequently messing it up.

“Have you ever considered that it’s just you?” Neysa asks.

“Oh, I’m sure it is.” you laugh, but you’re not finding it funny. You’re so angry, “And it’s not my fault that Finnick had approached me like that. He should have seen it coming.”

“He doesn’t know the things you have against him.” Neysa defends.

“He does now, and he’ll be thinking twice before talking to me again.”

“You want everyone to hate you?”

You look at her, “At this point, running solo would be a lot easier.”

“No.” Neysa’s voice is hard, “No, you’re not going it alone. I won’t allow it.”

“My games, my choice.”

“No.” She repeats, but this time even angrier, “You’ll get yourself killed.”

“Maybe it’s about fucking time!” you yell, and then you start taking deep breaths again, “Go away, you’re going to make me hit you.”

“Like you almost hit Finnick?” Brutus asks.

You laugh again, “I am--” deep breaths, “--going to make this whole tribute parade thing a fucking option and not a required thing if you two keep it up.”

The intercom person is your savior, and you don’t say a single word to Neysa or Brutus as you step onto the chariot. Brutus gets on too, leaving space between the two of you. Neysa tries to readjust something but you slap her hand to keep her from touching you.

“Away, Neysa.” you say, “It’s not against the rules to fight my mentor.”

No one has actually tried it before, so you wouldn’t know, and neither would she. Neysa finally listens and leaves you be, wandering off to where the other mentors are standing. More specifically, District Four’s mentors.

“Great.”

“They’re probably settling the dispute, get Finnick to leave you alone.”

“As it should have been anyway.” you snap, grabbing a hold of the side of the chariot as the others begin to move.

You erase the scowl from your face as soon as you’re out of the mouth of the hallway and the sunshine is hitting your face. You give a big smile, waving out to the Capitol citizens even if you’re nowhere near the stands just yet. It’s easier to do it early on, to make them realize that you’re eager.

Brutus makes a point not to stand too close to you, since you really are on a streak when it comes to snapping at people. It doesn’t keep you two from interacting every now and then to make sure that the Capitol citizens know that you’re allies. For now.

It wouldn’t be such a bad thing to go it alone. You haven’t done it before, but if other people can do it, then you can too. If you come across people, all you have to do is kill them and move on. There’s not really a reason to show mercy anyway.

As you get closer to the stands, they start to throw gifts. You catch a little present in the palm of your hands, unraveling the ribbon. You drop it, and unbox it too, to find a ring inside. Dainty, but cute. Pure black.

You hold it up, blowing a kiss, and then slide it onto your finger.

“Wish they’d throw things like that at me.” Brutus mutters.

“Try and catch one of the fedoras, because that’s as good as you’re going to get.”

“Wouldn’t go with my outfit.”

“You said you wanted something.”

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the big screens before it’s switched to someone else. But that little moment was as good as it could have been. You looked fantastic, you’re sure that Amias is giving herself a pat on the back for this look. You wonder what else she has in store. Particularly, the interviews.

Snow stands at the same podium in the center circle where he had delivered his speech in the winter. Behind him, sitting in rows of chairs wearing all black, is old men. Probably those who help run the country.

Snow looks at all of you with a straight face. You give him a smirk and a wave, wanting to see if he’ll smile at the comedy of it, but he doesn’t. There is no speech this year, as you’re turned right around and head back to where you had come from.

The rest of the parade is just like the beginning. The cheering of the Capitol citizens gets louder after you see District Twelve erupt into flames. Which you’re not too surprised about, of course they would repeat their signature. You’re just a little curious as to why they waited so long, instead of making sure the Capitol citizens were swooning over them.

There’s no point in waving after that, though. Instead, you fix a forced smile on your face and cross your arms for the rest of the ride. As soon as you get inside the building, the smile is gone. Especially when you see that Neysa and Edmond are still standing with the District Four mentors.

“Look at the mess you’ve gotten yourself into.” Brutus laughs.

“She’s probably going to tell me that he’s got a restraining order or something,” you snicker, and Brutus does too, “Or apologize for hurting his precious feelings.”

The chariot stops, Brutus gets off first and then offers his hand for you. You take it, and think about how funny it is that everyone else is worried about you being a ticking time bomb. But Brutus hasn’t once tried to treat you like one. It’s not like you and him are around each other very often, so it’s weird that he already has experience with a personality like yours.

“What’s the issue now?” you ask once you’re close enough.

“You. I suggest you apologize to Finnick before…”

You look behind you to see the chariots that are coming in, districts three, four and five. Finnick is giving you a dangerous look.

“Before what?” you ask, looking at his mentors, “Before he decides that he wants to kill me? You know how dumb that sounds, right? We’re going to be attacking each other inside of the arena anyway.”

“I know.” his mentor says, “You’re a target.”

“He’s my target.” you say, “You think I was lying?”

“What’s going on?”

Neysa gives you a look, and then Edmond nearly replicates it wrinkle by wrinkle. You take in a deep breath, watching her face for any indication on what she actually wants you to do. However, it looks like she wants you to handle this by yourself.

You don’t apologize to people. You’re not a sorry person. You say what you have to say, and that’s about it. If people don’t like it, then they can ignore you and your opinions.

You look at Finnick, beside him is Mags, and she has an angry look on her face too. He’s been shit talking you. No surprise there.

You force another smile, “I sincerely apologize for what I said about Annie.” the smile fades, “As for everything else, I don’t take that back. You’re a whiny human being that deserves everything that comes at you.”

Finnick stares at you for a moment, like he’s unsure of how to take this. And then there’s a smile peeking onto his face, “I hope you die first.”

You give him a mock smile back, “Go fuck yourself.”

“I’m sure you’d like that.”

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