↳ i don't rise from the ashes, i make them...
oc x finnick odair
catching fire - mockingjay pt. 2 (flashbacks included)
TW: Depression, thoughts of suicide, use of drugs/alcohol, use of tobacco, detailed gore, use of weapons, death, and mentions/sug...
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For Isla to say that she wasn't intimated for her entry into the Training Center would be a lie. Her hands jarringly quivered at her sides as she rode the elevator towards one of the lower floors, only accompanied by Arden and Finnick in the small space. The tension in the elevator car caused her to clutch her hands to the fabric of her tight, cotton pants, not wanting to let go. The glass cage spiraled downwards, bringing them closer and closer to the ground level.
Isla glanced forward, barely making eye contact with Finnick. She wished to avoid him as much as she possibly could, not wanting to be another victim to his mysterious, complex aura, but was somehow being grasped by the nature if it all, just the same. She was at the mercy of his precarious personality, and wished to do anything she could to fight it off - to prevent herself from falling in it's clutches - but was also aware she couldn't.
Nobody had that sort of strength.
She had spent the previous night thinking all about Finnick's dull warning to her, not wasting a second to link his cryptic words back to her fellow District Four tribute. Even catching a stray look at him now, she couldn't help but still be confused as to why Finnick would say such things to her. Sure, Arden wasn't particularly the sort of person that had seemed necessarily kind since she first met him a few days ago, but he also didn't seem like he could do much harm. After all, he had been the one to gently take her hand in his in an attempt to help her into the chariot the day before, and had seemingly gotten enough of a grasp on his senses to be a little bit more personable than he previously was.
She couldn't help but still think of Finnick, though, the subtleness of his warning trying to help her. His green eyes pierced her with a sort of alarm that stuck with her as she tried to fall asleep, but failed miserably over and over again. No effort she attempted to put forth really exuded a sense of victory.
His essence was insufferable.
The two elaborate braids that Ezra had convinced Isla to weave through her hair felt uncomfortably taut, making the girl want to move her fingers towards them to pull them loose. She felt bad doing such a thing, however, because she could never even attempt to replicate the intricate work that Ezra had put into her hair. She dropped her hand, opting to leave her hair alone, and resumed picking at the fabric of the outfit Ezra had dressed her in.
When the elevator doors pulled apart, Isla knew it was time to leave, and shifted uncomfortably as she waited for Finnick to lead them outside. The hall they were brought to was dark and dank, only a few lights on the ceiling and along the floor being able to light the cement room. It reminded her of the one they took the previous day, which brought them to their awaiting chariots for the Tribute Parade. All of that seemed so long ago - like miles and years away from where she stood then - although it had only happened the day before.
