BOMBSHELL - Finnick Odair

10

Ember

"Damn, kid," Felix praised.

Each knife hit the makeshift target in my basement. I heaved a heavy breath, sweat rolling down the side of my forehead. "It's a shame I never discovered this talent before my actual games."

Felix tilted his head, "This could be a good thing. No one will know how good you are."

The two of us have spent the last six months training in preparation for the Quarter Quell. I didn't have a choice being the only female Victor in District Five, but Felix had a 50/50 shot with a man who won several years after him. Markus was practically unknown to the Capitol, with his never leaving the house.

Still, I forced the old man to wean off of the liquor and pick up a sword instead. I knew he wasn't happy about it, but he did it for me.

Finnick and I had always used training as a form of distraction. But this time it did little to distract from how scared I truly was. Not just for myself. For him as well.

I yanked the knives out of the poster board with a grunt. "I think we should call it a night, get some rest for tomorrow," Felix suggested.

"Yeah, you're right," I agreed. "It's not like it would make much of a difference now."

He rolled his eyes, never liking my pessimistic outlook on things. "I'll see you in the morning, sunshine," he said sarcastically.

I saluted him back, matching his sarcasm.

I really wanted this plan of his and Haymitch's to work. But I know sacrifices will be necessary for a future where Wes can grow up peacefully. Which is why I agreed with them and Plutarch to begin with.

The next morning, Wes and I ate breakfast together for what could be the final time. He was 14 years old now and understood much more than he once did.

"You're not coming back...are you?"

I dropped my spoon and it rattled against the ceramic bowl, his words shocking me. We weren't able to fill him in on the plan because it was too risky. But I did leave a note, sealed in a pretty envelope, in his dresser drawer that explained everything.

"No," I answered truthfully. "Probably not."

I shoveled more oatmeal into my mouth and the sound of my chewing engulfed the kitchen.

"But you're smart," he argued.

"And you've been training for years!" he said, his voice getting louder and full of desperation. I stared on at his angry face. Everything I wanted to say but couldn't stuck in my throat.

"You're all I have left," he whispered the last part.

"Wes," I sighed, moving around the table to pull him into my arms. It was true, no matter how morbid it sounded. A rogue tear of his splashed onto the sleeve of my dress.

He pulled away, holding his hand out. "I want you to have this."

In his hands lay a gold necklace, in the shape of a flower. "Is that..." my voice trailed off. He nodded.