Victor's Crown: A Hunger Games Story

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 [𝟲]

When he arrives back on his floor for dinner, he expects Mags to be waiting for him like she was the night before. Instead, a note lies on the table in the center of the room.

Gone to a meeting with Abalone, it reads. Get some rest.

She must be meeting with potential sponsors. The thought consoles Finnick somewhat as he swipes a piece of fruit from a centerpiece bowl.

A terrific crash fires a jolt of alarm down Finnick's spine. Before he even has time to think, he'd dropped the fruit, swiped a knife from the table, and is creeping toward the source of the noise, every sense shifted to high alert.

Then a shattering sound erupts from behind a door—Caspia's door. Holding his knife aloft, Finnick edges toward the door and carefully pushes it open.

"Caspia? Are you okay?"

"Get out!" Something small hurtles toward his head. Only a lifetime of training lends him the speed necessary to yank his head behind the door before something glass shatters against it. He waits until it's been quiet for a few moments before he dares to crack the door again.

Illuminated by a broad shaft of light streaming in from the hall, Caspia is sprawled on the mutilated remains of her bed in almost total darkness. The glint of a knife clutched in her hand makes Finnick's heart plummet to his gut, but then she stirs, throwing a hand over her eyes and turning her head away from the light. Finnick barely stops a noise of shock from escaping his throat. Locks of long, dark hair are strewn about the room, littering the bed, the floor—even stuck to the ceiling. It's as though a hurricane has devastated the room. Caspia has put her knife to good use beyond her own head, tearing up her mattress and duvet, scoring jagged gashes across the walls, driving the blade repeatedly into the ceiling. Dishes, clothes, and other unidentifiable objects in various states of ruin mingle with the hair on the floor, making safe passage to Caspia's bed nearly impossible. Most prominent amidst the mess is the presence of bottles. Some shattered, their contents creating amorphous stains on the floor. Others half empty, sitting on dressers or the bed. The reek of old liquor stings his nose, and bile creeps up the back of his throat.

"Caspia, what—"

"It'll just get in my way anyway."

Get in the way? "But it was so—"

"Beautiful?" Caspia lets out a harsh, dry laugh, strident and mirthless in the dark. "Nothing of mine could ever compare to you."

So Mags was right about the jealousy thing. "But you're a Career," Finnick finds himself saying. He inches further into the room, careful navigating around shards of glass or other broken items. A part of him wonders why he's trying to encourage her, especially when he'd just dismissed her as a lost cause earlier the same day. "You've got a way better chance than any of those Callows, and probably some of the Primaries! The boy from Two is incompetent, and neither tribute from One even showed up at training today."

"It doesn't matter," she mumbles without budging an inch. "None of it matters."

"Come on," Finnick says cajolingly. "To be a victor, you have to have the attitude of a victor. What would Abalone say if he saw you like this?"

"He wouldn't care," Caspia replies bitterly, speech amplified and slurred by liquor. "He doesn't care about me."

"I'm sure that's not true," Finnick starts, but Caspia makes a derisive noise in the back of her throat, cutting him off.

"You wouldn't know anything," she sneers. "Your mentor loves you, just like everyone else."

It pains him, Finnick realizes. It pains him like a broken rib to see Caspia Deltan—trenchant, unshakable Caspia Deltan—brought so low. If the Games can get the best of Caspia before they've even begun, what will they do to him?