Games || Finnick Odair

The Reaping

The morning dawns bright and cold. Leaves shiver on the trees as a chill breeze sweeps through them, though it is not yet winter. A salty smell is strong in the air, doubtless from the same breeze, blowing straight off the ocean. 

I sit at the edge of the sand, waves lapping at my feet, shoes discarded a little way up the beach. I know it will be a little time before the residents of District 4 wake; there is, after all, nothing to do until the reaping this afternoon. Almost the whole district thinks of the Games as One and Two do; considers it an honor to compete in them. Most years, a person was barely called before another leaped forward to volunteer. They had never had their own brother do the same, had never watched as his own district partner stabbed him in the back as he was keeping watch. Alliances only last so long, and that was perhaps the shortest one I have ever seen.

I stand abruptly; a few metres away is a long piece of driftwood, which I angrily throw into the ocean. It bobs up and down on the swell a couple of times, before washing in to land at my feet. I drive it into the sand in frustration.

A twig snapping behind me makes me whip around; only to come face to face with last year's victor, Finnick Odair. I look at him in disgust. He is nowhere lacking in good looks, or really anything, and the way he saunters down the beach to stand next to me shows that he knows it. That was the only reason he won, I think, annoyed. Every person in the Capitol was probably tripping over themselves to sponsor him. What makes it even more infuriating is that we are practically the same age. He's  cocky, smart, attractive; everything that I'm not. And if I'm reaped- if I'm reaped and no-one volunteers to take my place, he will be my mentor, training me up to, most likely, die. I shudder at the thought. 

"I didn't know you were here," he says. I don't reply. He's almost certainly been seeking out someone to try and charm, or whatever it is that he does. 
 "Shouldn't you be off with your hundreds of admirers?" I ask, not bothering to look at him. 
"Plenty of time for that later." He pulls the stick out of the sand, and effortlessly spears a fish with it. He holds it out to me.
"For you," he said with his famous smirk.
Ugh. I roll my eyes and decline. 
"I'm heading back to my house," I say evenly. Somehow I seem to be the only person in the whole of Panem that doesn't melt as soon as he looks at them. I stalk away up the beach, just stopping to pull on my shoes. 

By the time I arrive at my house, my parents are both awake. I slip inside, knocking the sand off the soles of my feet. Mother is in the kitchen, and I can smell fish frying. I peep inside, and by the size of it, that fish must have been quite expensive. 
 My father comes in from the living room, the expression of weariness on his face probably mirroring my own.
"Breakfast is almost ready. Come to the table."

We eat quietly. It is delicious, but somewhat dulled by the prospect of the reaping. It's in only a couple of hours, and by the end of it, I could be on the way to the Capitol. Unlikely, but possible. Mother breaks the silence. 
"Isabelle, come to the bedroom. I have a new reaping dress for you." 
It's obvious she is trying to keep from crying. We are some of the few people in the district who hate the Games, hate that we have to treat it like some sort of fun. Unlike many of the tributes from other districts, I actually have a chance. A girl from 10, I remembered, one year, was so sick she could barely walk up when her name was called. The injustice of it stings, especially since I'm fairly well-off, compared to others. 

As I enter the bedroom, I gasp. Lying on the bed is the most beautiful thing. A navy blue dress, overlaid with a sparkling transparent white fabric.
"It's beautiful!"
My mother smiles, somewhat sadly, I think. 
"It was one of your grandmother's reaping dresses. It should fit you now." 
My grandmother. She won about fifty years ago. What's her name? Oh yeah. Mags. 
The clock strikes one. 
"I'd better get ready." 
I pull on the dress, which falls to just below my knees, and my hair is brushed and piled into some sort of bun on top of my head. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I walk by. I can't remember the last time I looked so pretty, I think in surprise. There is, after all, not much cause to be pretty in Four, except, of course, at reapings.

I walk out into the street, and catch up with the rest of the crowd, making its way down to the square.

All around the Justice Building are cameras, set up the day before. On the hastily constructed platform that stands before it are the two reaping balls, full of paper slips. Ten of those, I know, have my name written on them. 
 As Peacekeepers herd the boys and girls into separate roped-off areas, the District 4 escort comes onto the platform. Priscilla Fray has been our escort as long as I could remember. Today she wears a purple dress, with too many frills to count. Her hair is also purple, but I'm pretty sure it's a wig, given that last year it was much shorter, and also orange.
Behind her, in another small area, stand our victors. In 65 years, we have had ten. Mags stands next to Finnick, who was deep in conversation with a woman who won about eleven years ago. I don't know her name. 

Priscilla clears her throat. 
"Welcome! Happy Hunger Games and, may the odds be ever in your favour!" The Capitol accent is so affected it's almost impossible to keep a straight face. 
"Ladies first"
She reaches into the bowl and pulls out a slip of paper.

"Isabelle Fenton"