Victor's Crown: A Hunger Games Story

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 [𝟭𝟬]

When Calliope rouses him early the next morning, Finnick crawls out of bed like a dead man reanimated. He dresses in the plain tunic Calliope gives him and follows her to the hovercraft waiting on the Training Center roof, mechanical and unfeeling as a robot. Is Finnick really awake, sitting in a hovercraft, about to be thrust into an arena to fight for his life? The sting of his tracker being injected barely registers in his brain.

After they have disembarked from the hovercraft, Calliope leads Finnick into the Launch Room to prepare. He slips into a long-sleeved shirt, dark green pants, and a tan vest with lots of pockets, sort of like the vests some of the older anglers of District 4 wear when they go fishing. Then he stands with his back against the wall, too high-strung to sit and too uneasy to roam. An array of delectable breakfast foods is spread out on the table in front of him, but he can barely stand to look at it, let alone consider ingesting it.

Instead, he uses his last few moments of peace to study his clothes, attempting to deduce the arena type by their make and style. The fabric is light and breathable, so his best guess is somewhere warm. Hopefully not desert. Finnick's worst nightmare is an arena without water. In all of the arid Games he can recall, not one of them was won by a tribute from Four.

"I have a feeling you're going to do very well this year," Calliope says cheerfully as she smooths the front of his shirt.

Is that what you told each of your tributes in the seven Games before mine? Finnick suspects he might jump out of his own skin with anticipation. He desperately wants ten o'clock to arrive faster, and at the same time he wants to remain frozen in this moment forever. What would Mags say? She's probably sitting in her luxurious quarters of the Capitol's own Victor's Village, waiting for the Games to begin. Is she alone? Finnick hopes she isn't. More likely than not she's sitting with a group of her fellow victors, surrounded by cameras and reporters waiting to capture their reactions to the bloodbath.

The bloodbath. Are the Primaries as nervous as he is? Theatrical Ruby, confident Alabaster, vicious Bellona? Miles. Miles is probably anxious. Finnick takes some comfort in the thought.

Focus, Finnick. He can hear Mags' voice in his head clear as day, a bulwark for his scattered thoughts to rally behind. It's called the Hunger Games for a reason! Though he can't bring himself to eat, he forces himself to drink a glass of water and wills it to stay down.

"Take a deep breath, Finnick." Calliope coaches him like she's done it a hundred times before. He must not be hiding his apprehension as well as he thought. "Is there anything I can do for you before you go?"

Mags! Her name jumps instantly to his lips. I want my mentor, not some flashy Capitol popinjay. But he doubts his competition is sweating or crying for their mentors. So he swallows back his reproach with some difficulty and attempts a smile instead. "Calliope, you've done such a wonderful job, I don't think there's anything else you can do for me."

Part of him wonders why he's still playing nice with her when it won't matter in the end anyway. Whether he comes out of the arena dead or alive, she'll never be his stylist again. But after spending nearly a week surrounded by Capitolites, it's second nature to ignore his natural response in favor of a more amiable one.

"Such a kind boy," Calliope simpers, patting him on the cheek. He resists the urge to pull away. "You're going to be the star of the Games, I'm sure of it."

After that, Finnick kind of tunes out whatever Calliope is rambling about. From now on, his mind is focused on the Games and nothing else—not Calliope or his parents or Mags and whatever sponsors she may have accrued—because no matter what environment he finds himself in, no matter what kind of horror the Gamemakers throw at him, the first five minutes of the Games are crucial to how the rest of them will play out. Whether Finnick can snag a knife or a bag or even just a box of matches may be the difference between life and death later on. He can't make a mistake in the very beginning as so many of the other tributes do. And, of course, Finnick picks his mark. His first choice is obvious.