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Tender-Blue ✺ The Hunger Games Pre-Hunger Games / Mocking Jay.
I. COSETTE SEEKS WANTS TO HAUNT FINNICK ODAIR.
Coming back to District 4, unclean, with blood that was never hers still clinging to her skin, and having Finnick at her side, it made her angry. The applause, the reverence, the labeling: Career. A title she never earned. A lie they gave her, confusing her survival with strategy, violence with ambition. She was being praised for something he was. Something she never clung onto for hopes of being.
Every time she'd turn her head, those chocolate-brown eyes (bruised with sorrow) would meet his sea-green ones, the same shade as the ocean she always woke upon. The way those eyes of his would soften when he'd see her—filthy, fractured—it made her mad. The way his dimples creased between every word, every look, every whispered promise that she didn't have to go through this alone, it made her furious.
Why couldn't he just hate her like the rest? She wasn't a Career like him. She wasn't even a traitor. She was nothing. Nothing like him. Just a girl who outlasted monsters by becoming one. She wondered if this was pity from Finnick? If this was guilt for not telling her the upcoming truth of what really was the life of a victor. If everything he had said before was just a lie and thinking she'd die in the arena she had overcome in. But, her male tribute was the first to be slaughtered. District 4 never stood a chance, not after what Finnick did two years prior. It didn't matter for how long it had been. No one trusted them. No one allied with them. The boy died trying to be close to a Career, and his body was left where it fell, a warning, a promise of what would come.
The 67th Hunger Games, in little words, were registered a terror in its site. It was a fight for one's self. No alliances. No mercy. No unity—not even among Careers. Everyone feared betrayal. Everyone feared the someone would pull the— "Odair card."
Cosette survived and had won by not trusting anyone. No friends. No allies. No name on her lips to mourn. Just a rusted hook, a bloodied hatchet, and instincts sharpened to a scream. Her hands always clinging to a throat, throats that had lunged out of her or spoken to her with threatening tones. An end to all unknown sources of tangential threats.
