BLOOD ON MY HANDS || Finnick Odair

twenty-two; flora's flowers.

Three different beds, he warmed under direction of President Snow. The first hadn't been too bad; a married couple who enjoyed the lavish feel of soft leather and handcuffs. He had left with faint bruises and a sore back, but had also been gifted a beautiful stroller for him to take home to Cissy.

The handle was gold, actual or merely painted he wasn't sure, and had intricate designs sculpted into the handles. The basket itself was a soft white fabric and had a shade that could be rolled over the top to keep her covered.

The second had been a party where all he'd been required to do was dance on a stage for the guests entertainment. Alcohol was the only thing that made it bearable. But he made connections to powerful people that promised his daughter a good life, so he could only complain so much.

The third was by far the worst. A woman closer to Gramps' age than his own, and she was much less kind. Eden couldn't remember her name, but he found out very quickly she was interested in what kind of things the human body could withstand.

All he left with the next morning was bruises.

Tonight he had been invited to another dinner party where he'd been dressed up in shades of green, as the host had specifically requested. His hair was free of all the gels and pastes he was usually subjected to, so it occasionally fell into his eyes. Three different bronze powders had been applied to his face to accentuate those gorgeous features of yours, Hinge had told him. He was grateful he still had the same  prep team, but Eden knew that was bullshit.

The event planner wanted him pretty to look at, and Snow was happy to oblige.

Since they had given him access to his apartment building's exercise room his clothes now fit a little tighter but that definitely could've been on purpose. Fawke might've dropped the size down so make him look bigger than he was. That seemed to be another common request.

Now sitting in a motorized vehicle with an escort to the dinner party, Eden readied himself as best as he could for for a room full of fanatical strangers. Men wanting to shake his hand and grab at his shoulders, women lightly dragging their fingers across the width of his back in passing...he readied himself to be an object.

The Capitol's most recent prize.

Something for people to awe and fawn and lust over.

He readied himself to be the winner of the 70th Hunger Games.

To be a Victor.

The vehicle slowed to a stop at the front steps of the venue and the door opened by one of several Peacekeepers. The moment he stepped outside, he was met with the flashing lights of cameras.

Eden plastered on the phoney humbled-yet-flirty smile he had become known for and inwardly cringed at the squeals that followed. With Fawke on his left and Oridion, his personal guard, on his right, he was escorted up the marble steps to the grand double doors.

Even before he was inside the smell of faux florals and sweets filtered through his senses, and after the first few steps through the door that smelled only grew. It was so strong it briefly caused his head to ache, but even he couldn't deny the beauty of what was inside.

Vines hung at various lengths from the rafters of the ceiling, some with brightly coloured flowers, some with massive leaves, and some without any at all. He assumed that was where the smell came from. Lighting filtered through them to make it seem like they were outside and the sun was setting, fans creating a gentle breeze to keep the space from getting too warm.

All around the room tables of food had been set up with waiters moving through the room carrying trays of various drinks. Everyone working the event had been dressed in a way that wouldn't draw any attention; black pants and button up shirt, black shoes, and hair pulled away from their faces. Some were avox's — servants with their tongues removed as a punishment — while others were normal, lower citizens of Panem.