LABYRINTH [FINNICK ODAIR]

four

The victors— no, the tributes— were taken promptly to the train station, where they met the teary-eyed escort Drea didn't bother to learn the name of, and Mags, who had volunteered to be their mentor this year, as if they'd need one. Together, they were all packed onto the train and soon enough, Drea's last glimpse of her home faded out the back window.

Silence filled the dining car at dinner. The escort attempted to make conversation, but their indignation to talk must have become evident very quickly because as soon as she's finished with dinner, she disappears to her room.

After dinner, they watched the recap of who was reaped, of which of their friends would be sent to the arena with them. It wrenched Drea's heart all over again to see Annie's sadness on the television, her gut-wrenching cries somehow worse in hindsight.

"Johanna..." she heard Finnick mutter, when they got to District Seven. Johanna was a good friend to both of them, but she was the only one Drea was particularly close with that got reaped, besides Finnick.

That should have brought her some solace, knowing she'd only have to witness one friend die in there, as long as everything went to plan— the plan being to get Finnick home. Because even though she'd somewhat promised him she would let him protect her in there, of course she wasn't going to follow through with that promise. He meant too much to her, had done too much. She owed him her life in more ways than one.

It brought a pang to Drea's chest to see that Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark were both reaped for the games as well. Whether their love was real or not, they were only seventeen. They'd just been in the arena a year ago, barely escaped with their lives then, just like the rest of them, and now they were heading back.

At least Drea had gotten six years between then and now, even though they were arguably the worst six years of her life.

And though it was six years ago, she remembered this feeling so vividly— the train ride to the Capitol, the dread-filled dinner in which you had little time to accept your death before you were to be primped and preened and put on display, made to sound excited about having to fight for your life.

Only then, it wasn't Finnick sitting next to her. Six years ago, it wasn't Finnick she was envisioning herself dying for like it was now.

SIX YEARS AGO

REAPING DAY - 69TH HUNGER GAMES

Tears trailed down Tobias Moreno's cheeks. He trembled all over, and the hand tucked tightly into his sister's was clammy, cold, jumpy. He was thirteen and he was terrified.

Eighteen year old Drea wasn't as scared as she thought she'd be. When she had horrible visions of her name being called from the Reaping bowl, she always imagined she'd be a wreck about it, lost, scared, guideless.

She didn't feel that way now because she knew exactly what she was doing, at least in the aspect that she had a plan— and that plan was to die.

In the moment, though, she was busy studying the two victors ahead of her, while simultaneously holding her brother together. Her body was filled with nervous energy, but she wasn't scared.

One of the victors was a woman who couldn't have been much younger than eighty, her skin wrinkled and her hair a frizzy mop of gray; her face was kind, though, and her eyes were intelligent. Mags Flanagan, won the 11th Hunger Games.

The other victor she was more familiar with. He was eighteen, exactly her age, but already an experienced killer. Bronze hair, striking green eyes, eyes that reminded Drea of the water at home— water she'd never see again. Finnick Odair, won the 65th Hunger Games at fourteen years old, the youngest to ever make it out.