Finnick's POV

He had spent his day at the training center. There were several different training centers located in District Four, all of them ever the more populated with the Games nearing by the second.
In a few days, the tributes would be escorted from their homes and forced into an arena.
In only a matter of weeks, twenty three children would be murdered.
Some would be kinder deaths than others.

The worst ones Finnick had seen on the family television were the agonizingly slow, delayed deaths. Most of those consisted of freezing to death, dying of thirst, a tribute snared and trapped, the lucky ones were ended quickly while the unlucky starved.
Then there were the tortured. Fatalities like those were always the most gruesome.
One year two male careers had been mortal enemies. About half way through the Games, one of the tributes set up a trap for his "ally".
The poor other career had naively fallen for the trickery and been ensnared like an animal. The tribute who had set up the trick had taken his time with his fellow career's death.
In the end of it all, limbs had been hacked off and the maniacal career had kept his allies' finger as a trophy.
Finnick had kept his eyes squeezed shut when he had watched the gruesome scene of it all. He had not even been aware that a human being could be holding so much blood, so much red guts and entrails. The thought of it even now caused a shudder to course through his body.

That year, the psychotic career had not even won. In the end a small girl from 11 by the name of Seeder had managed to trick and kill the remaining tributes and return home victorious.

There were several trainers working patiently with the other children who were hoping to volunteer. All of them were older than he, most of the age of eighteen, ready to volunteer and bring honor to the District, to prove themselves worthy of fame, attention, and riches.

   So what was he doing, skipping a school day for extra training? That was precisely it: he was avoiding his peers to stab at mannequins with adequate tridents, not his wooden weapon that gave him splinters, but a Capitol weapon made of all kinds of strong and foreign materials.

It was still morning and potential tributes were arriving.

    He had been listening through a short lecture on knifing opponents, watching as the instructor demonstrated a smooth and quick stab to a training dummy-not a wound fatal enough to kill but definetly to disable and cause a rainfall of blood.

Behind his head, whispers were audible-murmurs were heard from the background. He chose to ignore the voices and concentrated as best as he could on the instructors movements and demonstrations.

The whispers increased in volume and he found his concentration wavering.
"Is there something particularly funny that I should be aware of?" The instructor asked, aggravation leaking behind her words.
A dirty blonde girl in braided pigtails smirked. She looked around seventeen years old and her face was cocky and arrogant, her lips pulled into a snarl.

"Oh we were just wondering why a certain young child is amongst us," she said. It took Finnick a few seconds to realize that she was referring to him.

"Shouldn't he be in school, not hanging out with the big kids?" Her tone was mocking, belittling.

Finnick hated her instantly.

He hid his loathing with a small smirk and retorted, "hey, nice pigtails. Did your mommy do your hair for you?"

There were a series of jeers and a few scoffs, until the instructor yelled for quiet and threatened that she would close the training center for the rest of the week if she didn't get silence, which, of course, she couldn't, but it was affective in shutting them up.

The girl's glare intensified.

He gritted his teeth and focused his attention back to the lesson. About an hour passed, possibly longer though he wasn't keeping track. Soon enough, the crowd lessened, disinterested, and went hunting for a new skill to occupy their attention, whether it be a simulator of a tribute or simple knots, the variety was endless.

Finnick found himself interested in the one simulator and slipped from the waning crowd and over to the gathered crowd by the machine, labeled in bold letters: Practice Tributes.

Instead of there being several of these positioned by the Training center to be occupied, only one stood at the front of the building. Watching the other kids work their way through the simulator, Finnick got the basic idea of it.

It was a simulator to create an avatar opponent to fight. The Simulator would randomly select a terrain for the "arena" to be located. Kids were allowed to choose the preferred level of intensity depending on the tributes-an outlying District would be simplistic whereas a Career district would be nearly impossible. Children were evaluated based on their decisions and the overall layout of how well they did. If a tribute battled an outlying District Sim and still failed, that would reflect poorly on said tribute while failing on a Career District Tribute was understandable if not excusable. Excelling at defeating a Career in an impressive way made said person a likely candidate for the Games.

He waited as patiently as possible, only letting his gaze slip to the clock every once in a while. The other kids watched as well, not all because they were waiting, but they were analyzing, assessing the competition, judging and placing bets on who would be weeded out and who was a weakling. Though the conversations were hushed, his ears latched onto their words of negativity.

His palms were sticky with sweat that had formed previously once the simulator was left unoccupied. He made his way there, ignoring the snickers and sneers he was receiving from everyone else. He cared not. Let them laugh, let them believe that since he was young that meant that he lacked both strength and courage.

He knew without a doubt that in the end he would have the pleasure of the last laugh.

The simulator was simple enough. He placed his right knuckle on the larger button in the middle, labeled cheerily, push to begin!

Once he pushed, a blue holographic image appeared in front of him. Squinting, he could make out a spinner rapidly making its way through each section, and every section was labeled with a number, 1-12.

The spinner slowed and he craned his neck to see. Once he figured he'd explode from anticipation, a short and simple ding! sounded signaling the end.

The spinner dissapeared and was replaced with a bright 8.

He released a breath. Change District? No.

Continue? The simulator asked, and he chose to, much too late to back down now, what with all of the waiting, expectant eyes.

He went through each step of creating this character, this creature, this tribute.

It took roughly about another thirty minutes, the crowd was growing bored, he could tell everytime he looked back. He knew how to read body language. The passing glances, the tapping of feet, disinterested stares at their nails, gazes flickering toward the clock.

And yet, with all of this supporting evidence, each and every person stayed, not wishing to miss out on a single detail.

It hit him then why they were all waiting, why they cared in the slightest about Finnick's false brawl.
They were expecting him to lose, and they wished to gloat, he could see it in their eyes, the arrogance glistening clearly, reflecting in their irises the way stars stood out so clearly and beautifully in the night sky, except these were no stars. The expression flickering in their eyes was much too horrible and cruel for a star that represented hope, love, and life.

Perhaps it was his determination to prove himself, or that he wished to gloat, which caused him to make his final choice.

He scrolled back to the first question which so clearly stated that the feux tribute would originate from Eight.

He pressed backspace and replaced that 8 with a simple 1.

This sparked something in the crowd of gathered teenagers. Some were shaking their heads, their gazes burning into him, each delivering the same message: that he would fail.

He ignored this and, without another thought or hesitation, clenched his hand into a fist and brought his hand down on a button labeled Simulate.

The training center around him vanished into nothing. Darkness overcame his vision, the eerie silence of the abyss chilled him to the bone. He wanted to run, but where to? His feet were planted firmly to the ground, his mouth dry, tongue parched.

His first reaction was panic, but somehow he was able to control those nerves and focus, concentrate.

No sooner had he composed himself did the darkness brighten into a pixelated image-foggy, clearing up as the seconds ticked by into something so incredibly lifelike, so incredibly real.

He couldn't say how, but once the image had cleared, a phrase popped up in his mind, bold and clear.

Testing Tribute can overcome panic.

Overcome panic? What?

He had no time to give those words another mere thought, for they vanished immediately, and his attention focused on the terrain.

He was surrounded by a simulated arena of his own, the only detail his brain could process was the bitter sting of cold on his bare face.

The terrain was one of snow and ice-a winter wonderland of death. He knew without a doubt that soon that beautiful, pristine snow would be caked with a contrasting shade-crimson.

Frost had formed on his eyelashes. Astonished, he brought his numb hands up to wipe away the chill. His hands were covered in a thin material of gloves. He wasn't wearing gloves that day, which led him to the conclusion that his clothing had been modified for the environment.

And they hadn't been kind enough to lend him a scarf.

Jerks, he thought, he tried to form the word but his lips were too chap and dry from the freezing weather to actually say it aloud. He imagined a family in the Capitol who had probably shoved their scarves away in a corner, not giving another thought of what good it could do for someone who actually needed it. He not only desired something to warm his face flushed from the icy air, but he needed it.

And those five year olds wearing wigs and dying their skin blue were probably watching him from the simulation, smiling as if to say, oh haha, want this? Oh no, I'm much too partial to it! Get your own! Oh, wait, you can't! You're stuck in a Sim of the Games! Have fun!

He trudged through the thick layers of snow, the trees concealing him.
Life really sucks.

He was more than tempted to flip off the Capitol audience in his mind but found that that choice would umlikely be benificial on his part, plus his hands were too numb to be moved. Instead, he sent a few mental threats and choice words to said Capitol residents.

Testing tribute shows signs of rage, irritation, and envy for citizens who do not exist. Candidate has earned our concern.

He rolled his eyes and glared at the sky, as if he could brawl with it.

Oh shut up, like you wouldn't blame anyone for the cold? Oh, that's right. You're a stupid freaking computer whose doing the damage.

Words flashed again across his mind.

Testing tribute shows signs of abandonment, for he has resorted to conversing with and insulting said simulation. Thorough suggestions are being made to consult with a doctor or therapist?

He almost lost it and screamed in fury, but bit his tongue at the last second to silence it. Why were computer systems so aggravating?

Sighing, he felt for his coat pocket, and was rewarded with a wicked looking dagger. Not a trident like he had hoped for, but he could make do with the weapon.

A twig snapped, jolting him out of his thoughts. He turned, fingers tightly gripping the blade's hilt, as he surveyed his surroundings.

Though nothing appeared to be suspicious, Finnick was taught to never let his guard down-especially not in an environment such as the arena-even a simulated one with a conniving, backstabbing computer system.

It is most advised that candidate should quiet his insulting thoughts, for he is being evaluated and points can be deducted for said behavior. That being said, is it possible for Testing tribute to stop being a pain?

He rolled his eyes and sighed inwardly. He was conversing with a Sim in third person. Lovely.

He shook his head and focused his attention back on his terrain. The same, snow-caped deserted wasteland he was already abandoned in.

The area had darkened though. Not the settings but the mood-the aura. Something was different.

He knew what to do-a trick he had learned previously from all of Annie's surprise attacks. (Though he would never admit that her barging in unexpectedly, shooting darts at him actually paid off in the future).

He, against his will, allowed his shoulders to relax and his muscles to loosen from their tense state. Then, he let out a long, dramatic sigh of relief. Yes, he'd admit that perhaps it did sound much too scripted for it to be real, but it didn't matter. He could tell that his attacker lurking in the shadows was thoroughly convinced that Finnick was unprepared for an ambush.

He heard the arrow, flying straight towards him. Instinctively, he dropped to the ground, covered in a frosty dew. Then, he sprang up immediately and captured a glimpse of his pursuer.

The tribute had been concealed by the trees, but since Finnick was much more alert and aware, he could make out the tribute's form.

The tribute ran toward him. The girl's bow was shouldered lazily, and she was holding in her right hand a long and sharpened sword-the tips were red from heating it with fire.

He glanced down at his once "wicked" blade, which currently looked pathetic and puny.

May the odds be ever in your favor.

He brought his knife up to parry the blade that was coming at him. He grimaced from the effort it was taking for him to keep the girl from District One from impaling him, but he had to admit, the fake girl was strong.

He was admitting too many embarrassing things that day.

He pushed his knife harder against her blade. She grit her teeth. He swept her legs from underneath her and she collapsed to the ground, her sword flying in the other direction, clattering in the snow.

He stood there with a smug expression. The girl was unarmed, disabled, cowering, and-

A moment too late he realized that in his seconds of arrogance, he had missed the chance to kill his opponent, and she had scurried to her sword and was armed and charging.
At him.

No Finnick, look behind you, there's some phantom there that she's gonna kill instead of you, then you two can chat and have tea!

Now is not the time for sarcasm, he chided himself, and then, because he couldn't help but ask, why tea?

He didn't get an answer. He was knocked off his feet and banged his head against the ice, a sword pressed against his neck.

Great going, my fake self is going to die in front of an audience and I'm going to look like an idiot.

Candidate already is an idiot. Replied the computer system. That thing was out to get him.

"Any last words before I skewer you?" The girl asked, her voice a hiss. Her cocoa colored hand was pressed against his arm, enabling him from moving. Her eyes narrowed, squinting even more then they already were. Finnick realized that she was savoring this moment-this computer generated system was taking great pleasure in his death.

He thought of last words that could be hilarious to have on his record.

Don't stab me! -said the tribute who got stabbed.
What are you going to do, kill me? -a tribute who got killed one year.
At least I'll die with bringing honor to my District! -said by a tribute one year who was one of the first to be annihilated and brought no honor to his district.
I will win! -a tribute who lost.

Hmm, what to choose, . . . ?

"So," he said nonchalantly, "will you go out with me?" Then, tilting his head back, he added, "any of you girls, for that matter, are welcome to volunteer!"

He could practically hear the laughs, though he hoped that amid the jesting would be the occasional swooning female.

This caught his attacker off guard, and he actually chose not to waste his one chance. He quickly squirmed from her grip and punched her in the nose. Blood gushed from the wound, coating his knuckles in the moisture. He tackled her, his fist connecting with her jaw. She lashed out blindly at him but barely managed to do any damage aside from a punch to his side. Her face had instantly transformed into a raw, bloodied mess.

He had her pinned down until she was growling like a feral, wild beast. During their tackling spree, her sword had clattered to the ground, and Finnick collected it before she had a chance to.

He felt something at his side-chilled and smooth and-
Where was his knife?

He gulped finally understanding what that nagging at his side was-scraping.

The tiniest droplets of blood were forming by his stomach, sliding down in humid drops like sweat or condensation.

He elbowed her arm with his with as much force and rage as possible. She cried out, and the knife dropped from her red tinted fingers. He grabbed at the weapon.

Now, he had both the sword and knife. He stared at both in bewilderment, hesitated, how had he managed to disarm her?

His moment of hesitation was his downfall. She landed a kick at his wounded stomach-a fatal blow. He felt numb as his head made its journey all the way to the sharpened ice. The moment his head collided with the ground, feeling returned, numbness vanished. He felt the stabs in his head as ice contacted with his scalp, the miniaturized crystals now doubt spreading in his hair. He groaned in pain.

In his peripheral vision, he saw the metallic glint of the knife nearing his chest.
The knife that had been tightly held within his grasp.
The knife that cluttered to the ground from his clumsy grip.

No, he thought, I'm not going to "die" with everyone watching.
No.
I will prove myself.

At the very last second, he turned so that the blade made contact with his shoulder instead of his heart. He cried out in pain, blood seeped from the wound and covered his arm in the concoction, he gagged at the fact that it was his blood, and the crimson covered everything around him. He was overwhelmed by the metallic scent of the blood, the odor wafting into his nose, deadening.

He had witnessed many publicised deaths in his life, whether it be during the Games, or an act of rebellion that needed said, . . . adjustments, yet he never considered what could possibly be more lethal-the cause of blood or the blood loss itself? Or even, hypothetically, the mere thought of losing said blood, the blood awning over a decaying, souless body.

Even with those thoughts clouding his simulated mind, he was aware of how unreal the situation he was in was. District One girl would stab him, he would wake in a cold sweat in his real body in the outer realm, and be evaluated.

If he reacted not, he would lose the chance to prove himself.

She was wiping at the blood dripping from her nose, then, with a cruel tranquility, she calmly flipped the sword in her hand.
She repeated this careless action several times, and he realized that she was taunting him, had expectations that he would overcome said injury and put up more of a fight.

Fine. If that was what she and the Gamemakers desired, then he would put on a show.

Though excruciating with the dagger lodged into his shoulder blade, he managed to prop himself up. District One girl was still playing with her sword, glaring at him as the blade came near to slicing open her skin.
She tossed the sword again. Before she could catch the weapon, however, he managed to land a forceful swipe at her legs, knocking her off balance.

Her form collapsed, and the sword that she had been so effortlessly taunting him with clattered directly at her, the metal struck her abdomen.

The pristine snow darkened instantly.

An angry wail of pain lodged from her throat and echoed through the arena.

Panting, he clawed his way to her still form, blood trailing from his previous spot. Her breathing grew ever the more shallow with each passing second.

It hit him that she should have been dead, but the Gamemakers were keeping her computerized body alive and breathing, tortured by the pain. They wanted him to end her phony life, to bring the weapon down, to watch in anticiapation as her form lost breath until the soul was removed entirely. The realization brought a grimace to his face, to see this girl sprawled in front of him at his mercy.

He didn't wish to delay it, not even for a human being who was not truly real.

When he himself stabbed her abdomen, he looked away, but not soon enough to catch the sight of blood spurting from the wound, coating the snow in crimson.

The girl vanished instantly, the setting fell apart little by little only to be replaced by the Training center room, where he was seated by the simulator.

Well, that was fun. Does said Testing Tribute desire any more forms of entertaining, torturous events, or is he returning to his mundane life?

He kicked the machine and spun on his heels to the audience.

He barely registered the clapping as he walked back to his designated area, hands still numb from the biting cold.

Some of the tributes had eyes widened in surprise as if to say, wow you're alive?

He shrugged his shoulders in reply.

"We all figured you'd wimp out, kid," said the voice of the girl in pig tails. She was staring at the wall absentmindedly, her word spoken in a tone laced with boredom.

"Finnick Odair," a voice boomed, and he turned to take in the face of a few Gamemakers-most of them ranked at a lower level, for the higher leveled Gamemakers were having a blast at the Capitol, readying themselves for the incoming Games. The lower leveled ones were sent to evaluate tributes and decipher which ones should have the greatest honor of volunteering.
So, these were the people who had programmed the words of wisdom in the Simulation. My, how wonderful these humans were for granting him such esteemed words of motivation.

"You excelled, and wonderful show you put on for us!"

He was rewarded with more clapping, this time he was aware of the blasting sound of hands pressing together to form the celebratory noise of praise.

He felt proud for only a moment, let arrogance flood through him at his opponents expressions.

Then, it was ruined.

He probably should have expected it, but he had lost track of time. The doors swung open and slammed against the walls. A figure ran through the building and directly to him, radiating frusteration and anger.

"What," came Annie's enraged and steely voice, "the hell do you think you're doing?" She stabbed her finger into his chest, hardened eyes boring into his.

He did not reply, nor did anyone else. His cheeks heated from the embarrassment of the situation he was in. Believe it or not, he found himself in weird, awkward moments many times, though he figured that he didn't deserve most of them.
And here she was to force him into yet another aggravatingly humiliating moment that he would probably remember forever, and tell stories about.

Annie's face was flushed, most likely from the run. Dirt and among other greases were smuged on her temple. Her hair had been pulled up into a hasty ponytail, messy and unruly as usual, though he suspected that she never truly cared.
She had her jaw set tightly, one hand positioned on her hip and the other stabbing Finnick's chest, her eyes screaming bloody murder.

She looked ready to kill someone, and he had happened to be that certain victim.

She spun on her heels to face the low ranking Gamemakers and the remaining tributes who had come to watch the show of what a fool Finnick was.

"You don't mind if I take him, do you?" She asked innocently, even with a touch of a smile, though her eyes spoke the opposite.

The Gamemakers looked to a stout man with thinning hair and a rather unpleasant face. The man simply nodded in approval, granting Annie her cue to go forth with his execution.

She grabbed his ear-hard enough for him to yelp in pain-and literally tugged him out of the room.

Once they were out the door, his ear protesting and aching from the pain, he heard Pigtail's voice call out, "have fun dealing with your relationship issues!"

Annie either pretended not to notice or didn't hear. Her grip on his ear did not lessen either way.

"Okay, okay, I get it! Let go!" He practically shrieked the words. The two were standing in an alleyway-vacant by the looks of it, though every now and then there was a clatter of noise, which he presumed to be rats or other rodents. The alley was positioned between two buildings-one being the training center. He remembered hearing stories of fights and brawls in places like these, yet the only thing his brain could register was the exorbitant amount of gray surrounding the area-not a dark, gloomy shade, but one that seemed almost metallic.

She released his ear and banged a trash can lid with her fist in fury.
He tentatively brought his fingers to his damaged ear, then pulled back once his fingers made contact with flesh. His pointer finger came back coated in a thin layer of red, and just to test it, he pressed his finger against his tongue. There was no mistaking the unique and metallic taste of blood.

He winced, then gaped at her in astonishment. How could she possibly make his ear bleed by merely gripping it?

This was not Annie. At least, this was not the kind, overly smart and boastful, nicely-sarcastic (only sometimes, if there were such a thing), calculated girl who just so happened to be his best friend.

This was the monstrous Annie with unexpected mood swings who screamed at the most random things.

Though this time around, he relented that he may have deserved her wrath.

"How could you?" She demanded, her voice much too calm and calculated-scary even.

"What Annie?" He exclaimed, exasperated, "I'm not allowed to even train without your permission? I-"

"Don't even play dumb!" She hissed through her teeth, her jaw locked tightly.

He ignored her demand and instead replied with an annoying amount of smoothness, "and what did I do?"

He regretted the words the second they escaped his pressed lips. Annie was practically steaming with anger-not only at his incompetence and false, stupid play at ignorance, but at the words he was refusing to speak aloud, the ones she knew.

Her jaw went slack and she sighed to let out some of her steaming anger. "Hmm, let's see. You skipped school for training and left me alone," her glare led him to believe that there was something that may have happened to entice her anger beforehand, a subject he may have been hearing about if he had stayed home.
"Thanks for that by the way," she added dryly.

Even though he knew to keep his mouth shut, he couldn't help but let the words slip from his tongue, "like you've never skipped school before."

She scoffed lightly and pushed back a strand of her hair that had escaped the tight ponytail.
"Yeah Finnick, that's why I'm mad, of course, please continue elaborating on how important an education is to me." Her scowl was impossible to ignore, as was her sarcastic tone.

He said nothing else, waiting for her to speak up again.

When she did, it was in a dejected tone, so lost and abandoned that he found himself overwhelmed with shame.

"I just-I thought-" Annie winced and began again, "you may be a pain, but I don't want to lose you." She paused, then her sea green irises searched his, hers filled with emotion and, . . . tears?

That must have been a trick of his mind, for when he blinked, her eyes were clear and focused.

"So why are you attempting to make yourself lost?" Annie's voice was so soft, he barely heard it.

Finnick thought through the question, and found that it puzzled him. Why was he doing this? For honor? For riches? Or was it to merely prove himself, that he could achieve greatness unlike the 'you can'ts' his peers fed to him? He was someone, and that would be known to all of Panem someday. Finnick Odair was not only a pretty face of District Four, but a victor.

That was why he couldn't answer her question. Why he stood there and did not protest when she walked away, her silhouette growing smaller and smaller with each passing step until she dissapeared entirely.

~*~
Wow okay this chapter is all over the place and I'm not sure what to think about it, honestly. I know there are some (*a lot*) of unclear things and I'll try to explain them in the upcoming chapter. If that makes sense.

American readers: Happy Thanksgiving!
Everyone else: Happy Thursday!

Happy holidays to all! :)
Okay, I'll see you all later and yeah
Byeeee
~*~CBG