𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐄 ‣ 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐫

viii. the end is near

act two, chapter eight – the end is near

Everybody saw the night as a success. Zelda, Neptune, Paris, Wilma, Iris, Callum. Finnick. Fallon should have too because they had achieved the objective of the night: to rally the public against the Games. There was no reasonable explanation to explain why Fallon felt the bleak, emotionless sensation of emptiness. The Quell, all of it considered, hadn't made her feel the myriad of reactions she experienced on the stage and left her feeling so drained. The Capitol and the Games made her spiteful and cynical; this was not that. Those emotions were based off of events. This was based off something else entirely. 

"Just fabulous!" Zelda says, leading the group onto a collection of chairs.

Neptune pops the cork of champagne bottle, the fizz of bubbles spilling over the top. "It was perfect. Great job guys. That poem was genius, Finnick."

He shrugs boredly, sinking deep into his chair and crossing one leg over the other. "Eh," he sighs. 

Iris takes a sip of her drink. "What's the matter?"

Finnick shoots them her glare so unusually bitter that makes her recoil slightly. "Funny," he says in a monotone voice. After swallowing thickly, he grabs a flute a pours the wine to the rim. 

Now Fallon's just frustrated. At him, for the way he's acting right now, and herself, also for her behavior that she can't get a grip on. Abruptly, she pushes herself out of the chair with more force than intended. It reverberates a screechy pitch over the sound of her heels clicking away. She knows she should've said a good-bye, or at least something to them, but she can't find it within herself to do so. Without looking back she walks into her quarters, well knowing that the team had paused mid-sip into their drinks.

When she gets to her vanity room, she stares back at the person in the mirror. Tearless but empty, she gazes into dead eyes. Ones who have seen too much but knew that more was to come. In this lighting, they're bordering on black rather than green. Her cheekbones frame her face in a way that makes her look ghostly rather than human. Over her aching body rests the lavish dress, feeling like a weight and looking like a mask over who she really is. Right now, she doesn't know how to define who that is. 

Without care, she yanks the shoes off her sore feet and throws them to the side, making them tumble widely until they hit the wall. Placing her hands on the rim of the sink, Fallon looks back at this person. Her head hangs low, peering down the darkness of the drain, after one glance at her meek reflection.

The buildup of anxiety and dread hovers over her head, shadowing her gray and emotionless. Curiosity flickers to ask Finnick what or who he was talking about but there was no use in asking; it would end up hurting Fallon either way.