CHAPTER TWO : surprise

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JUDGING BY THE TOWEL draped over the bannister of the stairs and the clanging of pans in the kitchen, Finnick woke up early today. Evie huffs as she shrugs off her robe and hangs it up on the coat rack. She shuffles down the hallway, swinging the brown paper bag from the bakery back and forth in her hand. The hallway opens to a combined kitchen-living area, the morning sunlight streaming in through the windows and reflecting against the ocean just beyond their backyard.

     Finnick's bent down at the island in the middle of the kitchen, sorting through the cabinets for who knows what. Only the very top of his head and his sculpted, tanned shoulders are visible.

     "Well, I got you breakfast but if you'd prefer to cook for yourself..."

     Finnick nearly hits his head on the counter from the surprise. He looks up in the direction of his girlfriend's voice and grins, first at her, then at the bag dangling from her right hand. "I was wondering where you were." He crosses the kitchen to greet her, cupping her jaw in one hand to plant a kiss on her lips, taking his breakfast in his other.

     With a vague gesture in the direction of Main Town, Evie explains, "Just at the bakery with Dillan."

     "I thought you might be, but the car was still in the driveway," Finnick says as he returns to stand at the kitchen island. He pulls out his breakfast — a croissant with sliced banana and honey on the top — and plops it onto a plain old plate. Finnick's plates and bowls are all dark terracotta with scalloped edges and deep grooves, Evie's are in every colour and style under the sun. The Odair family loves simple, understated. The Covey loves colour.

     Evie shrugs. "I walked."

     Finnick stops, only halfway through tearing off the end of his pastry with his fingers. "You walked all the way there?" he asks, brows furrowed. Evie nods. Finnick searches through his memory for a moment, eyes flickering back and forth as he thinks. "Your cane was still by the door when I came down."

     "I can walk without it, y'know?" the girl says, holding back an amused grin. To demonstrate, she shifts her weight from leg to leg on the spot. She winces a little while on her left leg, but not enough to draw much attention. "It's only fifteen minutes, anyway."

     With a shake of his head, which sends his still-damp blond hair flying over his forehead, Finnick laughs lowly. He finishes breaking the piece off his croissant and holds it to her in a mock salute. "Well, I appreciate it."

The moment he tosses the croissant piece into his mouth, the front door swings open, banging on its hinges. Instinctually, both Finnick and Evie snap into a defensive position, ready to fight if necessary. They never quite left the arena. Evie's the only one with eyes on the door, and once she spins around and spots the intruder, she relaxes. Finnick follows suit, watching her shoulders lower.

"You need to start knocking."

"Not my thing."

Finnick recognises the voice. "We've talked about this, Oscar."

Oscar Pike kicks off his sandy boots at the entryway — he won't knock but he's polite enough to not track sand through the carpets — and tries to hold onto the wall whilst gripping a half-full bottle of bourbon in the same hand. His dark hair hangs in his eyes and his tattooed arms are bare despite the chilly temperature. The cold doesn't bother him, not with the amount of alcohol he's consumed over the past few hours. He doesn't touch the stuff normally, not until Games season comes back around.

Once both of his boots are off, he saunters down the hall, swiftly sidestepping Evie, to sit on a barstool in the kitchen. The girl follows suit, leaving an empty stool between the two of them. Oscar goes to take a swig of his bourbon but Finnick grabs it before the older man has a chance. Instead, the blond grabs a glass from a cabinet and fills it with water, placing it in front of him instead.

     Though he grumbles in protest, Oscar drinks it.

     Evie leans forward, resting her head on her hands. "Okay, what's up?"

     Oscar frowns. "Does something have to be up for me to visit?"

     The couple exchanges a glance. "Not exactly, but you don't usually come around just for a chat," Finnick says, taking another bite of his croissant.

     Oscar purses his lips, considering Finnick's statement. "Don't remember," he says, trying to reach across the island for the bottle. He can't quite reach. Evie raises an eyebrow at him.

     "If you're worried about the Quell—"

     "Don't—" Oscar slams his hands down on the sapphire blue countertop, making the crockery and cutlery resting on it rattle with the impact. Evie jumps, drawing in a sharp breath. She nearly reaches for the butter knife on the other side of the bench but relaxes her limbs before she actually makes the move. "Don't talk about—"

     Oscar's Games had been one of the most unfair in Games history, possibly only rivalling the frozen tundra set Thirty-Fifth Games and the poison paradise of the Second Quell. He'd been thrown into a post-apocalyptic wasteland, nothing but half-destroyed buildings and rusted metal for miles, scorching temperatures that left his skin blistered and scarred for decades to come. More tributes died from the undead Mutts hiding out in the buildings than they did from each other. Oscar lost an eye once one of the beasts spat in it, he's had to wear a glass replacement since.

     In comparison, Evie's islands and toxic toads, and Finnick's tropical wetlands and ugly reptiles were child's play.

     "Sorry," Evie says, lowering her gaze to the dark floorboards.

     Finnick reluctantly slides Oscar's bottle of bourbon back across the bench. The older man brings it to his lips to take a swig. He stumbles back up to his feet, glances at the door, then back at the couple. "Good luck," is all he gets out before he trudges back to the door.

     They wait for the door to shut in silence. Finnick sighs. "I think he worries about us."

     And he does. It's clear by the way he pays them a visit a few times during Games season. He sits in their kitchen, drinks his alcohol, eats their food. He becomes a shell of the version of himself that he portrays in the nine months between the end of the Games and the halfway mark between the end of the Victory Tour and the start of the next Games. He makes sure they don't end up like he did.

     Evie bites the inside of her cheek. "I worry about him," she replies.

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12pm - Noon.

In white text on a dark blue background, "PRESIDENTIAL ADDRESS. MANDATORY VIEWING." appears on the television screen.

Finnick and Evie are already nestled up on their patterned sofa, eyes glued to the hologram in front of them. A siren blares through the town, notifying those who aren't by a television or a projector to go and find one as quickly as they can. The Peacekeepers will be wanting the streets empty, save for the Square, where two projector screens are set up for occasions such as this.

The text remains for a good minute before cutting to a shot of the Capitol's Avenue of the Tributes. The camera pans along the long road, starting from the training centre at one end and coming to a stop at the President's podium on the other.

     President Snow takes his place at his podium and the camera zooms in on a close-up of his face. Evie can't help the scowl that grows on her face. Finnick squeezes her shoulder, bringing her back to Earth.

     He raises a hand to quiet the applauding Capitolites filling the stands on either side of him.

     "Ladies and gentlemen. This is the Seventy-Fifth year of the Hunger Games."

     Pause for applause, and for Finnick to shuffle further down onto the sofa. Evie rests the back of her head on his bare chest.

     "It was written in the charter of the games that every twenty-five years, there will be a Quarter Quell to keep fresh for each new generation the memory of those who died in the uprising against the Capitol. Each Quarter Quell is distinguished by games of a special significance."

     The information rockets through Evie's brain before she has the forethought to stop it and concentrate on the broadcast. First Quell, district votes, Townes Monroe, District 8. Second Quell, double tributes, Haymitch Abernathy, District 12.

     What now? What now?

     "And now, on this, the Seventy-Fifth anniversary of our defeat of the rebellion, we celebrate the third Quarter Quell as a reminder that even the strongest cannot overcome the power of the Capitol."

The strongest. So, adults only? Just men, since the Capitol always seems to think women are weak despite many female victors? Or—

It's in that split second that Evie understands. The blood drains from her face. Her heart rate rises. She sits up straighter.

"On this, the third Quarter Quell game, the male and female tributes are to be reaped from the existing pool of victors in each District."

     District 4, usually quiet, usually serene, explodes. There's a scream from next door, a crash from a few doors away, chaos from the markets all the way down the road.

"The victors shall present themselves on Reaping Day regardless of age, state of health, or situation."

     Of course, President Snow hates Katniss Everdeen, the only living female victor in 12. Anybody who knows him could see it from miles away. But, he also hates Evie — he's never said as much, but she's had to face him every year since her mother died in the Games. She's seen the way his eyes narrow when he looks at her, the way his thin upper lip curls when she's in the same room as him.

      District 4 has four surviving female victors: Nana Mags, Fallon Wayne, Annie Cresta, and herself. Nana Mags and Fallon are far too old, too frail to survive the Games again. And Annie, poor Annie would be a nervous wreck.

     She knows what the President has just done.

     She has to go back in.

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a/n:
i didn't plan for the daryl dixon to play the guy who literally had zombie mutts in his games but, like, it works?

also happy rep tv clowning day, can't wait to be proven wrong again!

published : november 27, 2023
word count : 1.8k