✦ Chapter 3: Quarter Quell ✦
┅
FINNICK GENTLY ROUSED the sleeping girl, moving her blonde locks out of her face. "It's the big day." He says, referencing the announcement of the Quarter Quell. President Snow would be addressing the entire country in just a few hours, revealing this year's special event.
"I really don't want to know what it is." Isla clutches her silk sheets like a scared child as she speaks.
"We need to prepare, you need to know so that we can be ready. It's for them, not for us." His words are too true to ignore. Isla had to put her big girl pants on and accept the fact that no matter what she wanted, it really didn't matter. She was a mentor now, and had to be strong for her tributes. No matter how weak she felt.
"Alright." She sighs, rising out of bed. She combs through her wavy hair, but doesn't bother to dress for the difficult day ahead. Whatever the President announced today, she knew it wouldn't be easy to digest.
The three victor's ate breakfast together. Annie had started to occasionally join them recently, but it was clear that today was a day that she needed to be with her family. It would be triggering to see President Snow on screen, and even worse to hear of his sinister plans for this year's Hunger Games.
"You watched both Quarter Quells, didn't you, Mags?" Isla asks. She knows the answer, Mags had won the Eleventh Hunger Games. The woman would have mentored the tributes in both of the Quells.
Mags nods, a solemn look on her face. She signs that they were terrible, and she could go the rest of her life without having to see another. She was dreading the day just as much as the rest of them were. Isla felt sympathy for the poor woman, she'd seen so much death since her games. How could she be so kind and caring after years of watching such awful things happen?
There was no one in the world she admired for their strength more than Mags, she thought. The victor had been through so much, seen so much, and still she was as strong as ever. Maybe not physically, due to her age, but not one of the victors that Isla had met could compete with the woman's brave heart. She was truly remarkable, and no one deserved a large house on the beach, where she could garden and live in peace, more than Mags did.
Finnick attempted to keep Isla occupied by teaching her some sort of game that involved small makeshift game pieces and some dice. Isla was sure she was actually winning when the television to her left flicked on without warning. The Capitol anthem blared loudly, and Mags' expression turned sour as she covered her ears.
"Greetings." President Snows voice boomed into the microphone as he stood behind is signature mahogany podium. A single envelope sat on the top of it.
"It was declared in the Treaty of Treason, that every twenty five years, on the anniversary of the Hunger Games, there would be a Quarter Quell. A special occasion, marking our progress as we stray farther from the Dark Days. And as it was written, on these Quarter Quells, a predetermined rule shall be implemented into the games." He speaks with authority, his white gloved fingers gingerly picking up the envelope.
It looks old, as if it really was sealed seventy five years ago. He opens it, pulling out a yellowing piece of paper. Isla squeezes Finnick's hand as he sits close to her, Mags sitting in the chair next to them, her fingers pressed to her lips in anticipation.
"On this, the third Quarter Quell, it has been decided that the tributes shall be drawn from the existing pool of victors." He says it so casually, so monotone, that Isla has to blink a few times and really register what he's said. Surely she heard him wrong?
She looks from Mags, whose hands have fallen into her small lap, to Finnick. The usually large, confident man seems to curl into himself, a look of absolute despair painted across his face. And it is then that Isla is sure she did hear President Snow correctly.
Things move slowly, and Finnick's angry shouts are muffled by the constant ringing in Isla's ears. He begins to throw things at the walls, knocking books off of the shelves while Mags attempts to calm him down. But Isla just stares at the now black television screen, unable to move, unable to talk. She's frozen in fear.
It would be Finnick. There was no other male victor, they'd all passed away years ago. Then it was between Annie, who would surely be far too frightened to survive, Mags, who needs a cane to walk, and Isla as the female tribute. The three names would sit at the bottom of the bowl for Fleur to choose from.
Isla couldn't let Mags go, it would be a death sentence for the elder. She could hardly speak, hardly walk without support, and needed her medication for her chronic pain. The district, let alone herself, would never forgive Isla for letting Mags go into the arena again.
And Annie. To let Annie go into the arena would make all of Isla's suffering for the last year be for nothing. She'd have taken the woman's place as mentor, allowed her to make strides in her recovery, just to rip it away and send her to her grave. She imagined what the poor woman was doing now, likely sobbing with her family, terrified of what the future might hold. What would happen if that slip of paper read the name 'Annie Cresta'.
And surely Finnick would never be able to live with himself if his true love died next to him. No, he'd sacrifice himself for her. And they'd never get their chance to be together, happy and healthy. And Isla couldn't let Finnick die, sure he was friends with some of the other victors, like Johanna, but those bonds are only so strong. In the arena, it's about survival. No one would help him.
So it was decided. Isla would volunteer, no matter what name was pulled out of the bowl by Fleur's perfectly manicured fingers. Surely if her name was called, neither of the other woman would volunteer, it would be suicidal. Isla was the most logical choice, if you put her obviously unwell mental state aside. She's the most recent victor, the most youthful, it would be easy for her to call upon her previous sponsors to help her once more.
Isla hadn't noticed that Mags had cleaned up her living room. Or that Finnick now sat at her feet, crying into her lap, soaking her pants with his tears. She had been so focused on her thoughts, the ringing in her ears so loud, she didn't notice when his screaming had ceased. Now, she could hear his whimpers, like an injured animal that needed to be put out of its misery.
"We have two days until the reaping." Isla states, staring down at the man who gripped the hem of her shirt. He looked up at her, his eyes puffy and red.
"Ye-yes, two days." He stutters, and Mags hands him a tissue to wipe his nose.
"So we have two days to prepare before we're sent to the Capitol. We can't waste another minute, Finnick." She looks at him with a hard expression, and the man's ocean blue eyes look at her in shock.
"We?" Finnick asks. "You're not serious?"
"If you think i'm sending Mags in there, you are absolutely insane. And if you think I'm sending Annie in there with you, you're even crazier. You won't be able to think with either of them next to you in that arena. You'll be so focused on protecting them, you'll forget about yourself." She looks at the old woman, who is staring at her with a mixture of sadness and gratitude. "No offence." She adds, not wanting Mags to feel as though Isla views her as weak.
The woman shakes her head, waving off Isla's comments. She knew the blonde was right, no matter how much she might want to sacrifice herself for the two youthful female victors. If Mags were to go into the arena with Finnick, she'd be deadweight, a distraction.
"I- No!" Finnick gets to his feet, infuriated. "You can't go back, you can't handle it!" His voice is beginning to rise again, and Mags gently touches his large bicep to calm him.
"So you'd rather it be Mags? Or Annie? You can't save them in there, Finnick!" It came out harsher than she had intended, she had stood up to face him, although she was still several inches shorter. The man's face falls. "I can protect myself, at the very least. You can't stop me from doing this. And I won't let either of them volunteer in my place, you can't ask them to." Isla points a finger at Finnick as if he were a disobedient child. His arms fall to his sides in defeat.
"Why are you doing this?" It comes out of his mouth in a whisper, pain is evident in his words.
"Because I have to." Is all she can say in response. How can she explain that she feels so indebted to the two victors standing in front of her, that she feels like giving her life isn't even enough to repay them? That she's grown to love them, that they're her family now? They're the reason she hasn't done something irreversible to herself yet.
Finnick shakes his head and flops down onto a chair, sniffling. "Sorry about my... reaction." He motions to the broken vase that Mags had swept into the corner. Isla waves it off, sitting on the arm of the couch.
"We need to prepare. I haven't trained since..." Isla trails off, flashbacks of her games entering her mind.
"I'm a bit rusty myself." Finnick reassures her. Although his body looks magnificent, covered in thick muscle, Isla has to admit she's never seen the man actually pick up a weapon. Not since watching his games when she was just about nine years old.
"Then we better see just how bad our aim's gotten." Isla gets to her feet without another word, going upstairs to change into something with more flexibility and less tear stains.
Once back downstairs, she finds Finnick in a pair of shorts and a tight t-shirt. Mags is holding two baskets, clearly containing their homemade lunches. Mags strokes their cheeks before sending them off to District Four's makeshift training centre. It's a shack, disguised amongst the many fishing shacks on the wharf. They pass a few of the district's citizens, who look at them both with a look that Isla can only describe as pity. Of course, everyone knew of the Quarter Quell announcement, and what that meant for the two of them.
There wasn't a single soul in the training shack. Everything had been neatly put back, anyone who had been training for the games had likely stopped at least a week ago. The closer it got to the reaping, the less the kids could train, as the camera crews would show up on the trains to set up. With them came more peacekeepers, ones from the Capitol that were more strict about the rules. Even though District Four's year-round peacekeepers knew of the training that happened in preparation for the games, they couldn't do anything about the ones that came from the Capitol. They were like a different breed, relentless.
With the shortages in seafood, there'd been an influx of new peacekeepers already. And it had put a huge damper on any tribute training weeks ago. Besides, not many kids were willing to volunteer for a Quarter Quell. Only the most brazen would offer up themselves as tribute when the possibility of death was only increased by the event. Isla imagined the shack hadn't been touched for some time. Any potential careers had likely decided to pause their training until after this year's games.
"I think we should touch up on what we're already good at, make sure we're confident in that before we try and learn anything new." Isla says as she examines the throwing knives hung on the wall. Finnick nods, making his way over to the spears. The same ones that Amelia had trained with before last year's games.
As Isla twirls the knife in her hand, she frowns. Her approach to training would have to be different than when she had been growing up. The people she was up against now were experienced killers. Clearly, Finnick had already figured this out, as he threw spear after spear at the targets, unrelentingly. Sweat was already beginning to form on his brow, his muscles rippling under his shirt at every movement.
Isla turned her focus to her side of the room. Targets hung off of the wall, a clear bullseye marked with red dye. She took a deep breath, her fingers loaded with knives. Muscle memory overtook her arm as she flung the knives at the targets.
Then, she was screaming.
Her feet tripped on the sandy ground, and she fell back onto her behind. Scrambling across the ground, struggling to get away from the boy that bled out in front of her. Her knife sticking out of his neck, his lungs filling with red fluid.
She was shaking now. Strong, tanned arms enveloped her curled up body. His hand strokes her hair, the other clasped against her mouth to stop her screams. They couldn't risk drawing the attention of the peacekeepers, they'd find the illegal training centre and they'd both get into trouble. Although, how much could it matter now? They were already condemned to the arena.
"Sh...." Finnick coos, "You're okay. You're in District Four. You're safe."
Maybe Isla was wrong. Maybe she wouldn't be any better to take into the arena compared to the other two victors. Maybe the competition would feel too bad to kill Mags, so she'd live for awhile. No, Isla still couldn't send her in there. If another victor didn't kill Mags, some monster would, and it would be far more painful.
"I'm going to let go now, you need to stay quiet though." He says, slowly removing his hand from her lips. She breaths heavily, the boy on the wall gone.
"I'm sorry." She mumbles as he helps her to her feet. She dusts off the sand that covers her backside, and runs her fingers through her hair. "I saw the boy, the one from Eight." She admits.
"I get that, too, sometimes." Finnick tells her. "You'll see them less and less. It just takes time."
"I don't have time, Finnick. We leave in two days. We hardly have more than a week before we have to start fighting these people." She becomes overwhelmed, feeling as though her lungs aren't working properly. Like a heavy weight has been pressed against her chest.
"We have time. Hey," He hugs her now, and somehow the pressure of his muscles as they squeeze her so tightly against him relieves the weight she feels, allowing her to breath. "We have time."
She spent the rest of the day focusing more on brushing up her survival skills instead of her fighting skills. Making fires, tying knots, setting snares and traps of all sorts. She even reviews her knowledge of plants and animals, quizzing Finnick while he practices his combat skills. However, knowing the Capitol, not everything in the arena will be the same as it is outside of the arena. Edible plants could be made poisonous, animals made into mutts. Still, she tries to absorb the information as it's written in the books sat on her lap. Her lunch set out next to her while she reads.
They spent the majority of the day at the shack before returning to Victor's Village. To their surprise, both Annie and Mags awaited their arrival in Isla's kitchen. Even more surprising, when Annie runs to the pair, she hugs Isla, not Finnick. She is hardly able to contain herself as she cries, "Thank you, Isla, thank you!" Isla assumes Mags must have told the brunette that she plans to volunteer if either of their names are called at the reaping.
Isla doesn't know what to say, so she just hugs the small woman back. After a moment, they separate, and Annie hugs Finnick. "I wish it didn't have to be you." Isla can hear her whisper to the man. It makes Isla's heart hurt.
Mags manages to separate the lovers and get everyone to sit for dinner. It's a lovely meal, packed with protein and carbs. Mags insists they must pack on weight before the games, especially Isla, who was barely back to her normal figure. None of them complained, eating plate after plate of the delicious food.
Eventually, it's just Isla and Finnick once more. Annie didn't seem to have any discomfort at the idea of Finnick staying as she hugged them all goodbye. If anything, she seemed happy to see that he had found someone to lean on during this time, as she clearly couldn't handle the weight of seeing him now that he was destined to go back into the games. It must be unbearable, Isla thinks. To see your lover sent back to the very place that your nightmares stem from. Unbearable.
"Shall we?" Finnick yawns, motioning to the stairs. Isla nods, leading the way. She changes into a night dress, Finnick holding the lantern so she can see as she crawls into bed.
"Goodnight." She says, like always.
"Goodnight, sweetheart." He responds, like always.