Sugarcubes // Finnick Odair - Hunger Games Fanfic

XI.

Hey Mags!

I sign, sitting next to the older woman. We are all waiting for our private sessions with the game makers, and while there is some nervous tension in the air, there is a buzz caused by chatter amongst the participants, something which wasn't there in my previous games. I sit silently next to Mags, with an eye trained on Finnick, who sits alone, in a corner.

Hello Kendria, she signs back, smiling at me. I don't know what made Mags not be able to talk. I know that she can lip read pretty well, but I love signing to her. It's a lot more comfortable than having a one sided conversation.

I wanted to ask you something about the mocking-jay operation. Katniss has been collectively known as the mocking jay amidst the people of the rebel cause, because of the mocking jay pin that she wore during her games. The mocking-jay operation, is Plutarch's idea of a good code name for the operation involving getting Katniss and  Peeta out of the arena safely. I think it's not one of his best ideas. The Capitol is well aware that the term 'Mocking-jay' refers to Katniss and it isn't a viable code name for a supposedly secret operation. But it's the only thing everybody else will understand since my idea to name the operation 'snotty and stubborn' after Katniss's personality, was rejected.

Finnick was very eager to sign up. She tells me, a cheeky grin spreading across her face.

Very funny Mags. Have they said anything yet? I ask, waving away her comment, although my gaze rests on the man sitting a few meters away from me, twiddling with a rope (It always calms him to tie knots on a piece of rope when he's stressed) for longer than feels right.

I believe Haymitch plans to convey some information by the end of today. The plan – You asked to know everything apparently?

It takes a long time for her to sign out that sentence. Her brittle bones make her movements blurred and it's hard to understand what she's saying, but I've had almost 7 years of practice. Mags is one of the people that I think will not make it out of the arena – regardless of whether the rebels succeed in their mission to save us or not. To be very honest, I don't think she wants to make it out of the arena a second time either. I think she has decided that her time will come very soon, and she is the kind of person that would rather walk right into her death than spend every moment running from it. She is the kind of person I strive to be.

It is not safe to be openly discussing our plans for rebellion. So, we stop. Granted nobody really pays attention when Mags talks – to them figuring out the sign language reaps no benefits and is not worth the trouble – but regardless. Mags and I sit in silence for a while, her stroking my hair every once in a while. She's a parent figure to me. More so than Blight or Haymitch – considering they are drunk half the time. The person that really cares about me, and my well being, and my life. It's too bad that the capitol is using her, like they are everyone else, to get back at two teenagers who broke the 'system' with a handful of blueberries.

Mags never had kids of her own. I don't think any of the Hunger Games survivors – except Seeder and Blight – had kids. I wouldn't want to have kids if I knew that they might one day have to face the same horrors that I spend every night in. I don't think Blight even knew what he was doing when he had Terry, seeing as he barely remembers who Terry's mother was.

It takes a few more hours for anything to happen. All I realize is that it is taking a much longer time for the game makers to go through the private interviews than my first games. Each of us here has a strong personality. And it is not very easy to subdue us anymore – we are all losing everything anyway, for the second time in our lives. Each tribute comes out with a look of determination on their face, not a 'I'm going to win these games' sort of look that the careers have, but a 'I'm going to make hell going down' kind of look. It's also very clear who are part of the rebel movement by the state in which they come out of the room – kind of like I did in my first games – covered in paint. It is clear that this is our final sort of pledge to the rebellion. The final middle finger to snow. The salute to Plutarch – telling him that we are with him. Telling him we want to see the Capitol burning in the flames, fueled by all of our stolen innocence that rots with them.

It is a mark of just how true it is that the Capitol legitimately stole my innocence from me when I smile at the thought of an entire city going down in flames.

I relish the thought of throwing Snow into that fire and watching his body shrivel up and die.

I want to crush his flower in my hands like he did my innocence, my virginity, and my sanity.

And suddenly, I have an idea of what I am going to show the game makers in my upcoming session. The last and final middle finger to the hunger games and all associated with it.

When I enter the room, I immediately notice that there's something different about it. Sure, there are no visible differences, but it seems off. The room is shabbily put together – as though the last person in here – Blight – made a really big mess.

I'm about to make a bigger one.

I look up at the game makers, who unlike my last games, are staring intently, their gaze not averting from me to look at their plates or their dishes. There is an eager tension in the room, waiting for me to prove to them that I am worthy of their applause, like I did in my last games by emerging victorious. The only problem with that is that I am not here to prove anything to any one of these monsters. I am here to send a message.

A message to the rebellion. A thing that I hated for so long because it was associated with my father but have come to believe that I can't do without. It is necessary because Lia's kids and Danny and Jo's kids should not have to struggle in a world that I did.

My first step is to count the game makers. I count twelve, excluding Plutarch. Which means I need fourteen dummies for what I am about to do. I vaguely register that Plutarch leans into the microphone to let me know I have ten minutes, before I go running off. I drag as many dummies as I can find to the center of the room, running from one station to the other on my hunt. I end up with two extra dummies than I need, which I invent a use for on the go, by tying pieces of rope around their necks, in a noose fashion. Then I get my signature red paint bucket.

I place one dummy in the middle, and the hung dummies to either side, and place all thirteen other ones around them. On the chest of the middle dummy in the outer circle I use my flower painting skills to paint a single white rose. They all know who it is. Our beloved president. I hope that he gets a clip of my session.

I go to the dummy in the center – the one that is suppose to be me, with a variety of weapons, and blood red paint. Carefully, I scoop out a handful of paint and put it on the crotch – right where the blood came from after my first 'appointment' – coincidentally with one of the men now watching me with horror. Then I impale my own dummy with every weapon I can find. I step back, away from the scene and admire what I have created, before hefting the largest axe I could find – a little heavier than my own – and hurling it, through president Snow and at myself. President Snow breaks in two halves, and I have a dent in my chest.

I hope they realize what I am saying as I walk around the room, slicing off the heads of each and every one of their dummies.

I will stop at nothing this time around, to make sure president Snow is dead. Even if It means killing myself in the process.

I let the axe clang to the floor with a loud sound, missing my toes my millimeters. Then I stare up at the box. Each and every one of them stares back at me. I'm pretty sure I've made a message.

I'm just about to walk out the room, not bothering to announce my name and district – I'm pretty sure they know who I am – when I see a man enter. He's not a game keeper. He doesn't even look like a capitol person. No one in the box bats an eye at his entry – it's like he's not even there. He leans over to Plutarch and whispers something, which makes the man smile, and exits again.

It's a pity he didn't exit fast enough because I got a look at his face. It's a face I never thought I'd ever see again.

My father.

Published: 27th December, 2023