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Katniss Everdeen is the first person I meet in the training center. I sit beside her the first chance I get, immediately noticing the hunched over girl whose dark hair falls over the side of her face where it's not woven in with the rest of her long braid, which winds across her head and then over her shoulder.
The fishing station is typically unused by other tributes, which, over the years, I've found unsurprising. Those who have a hand at it, such as I once did, didn't end up having a chance to use it in the arena. To others, it's purely not a subject of interest that they'd enjoy delving into. However, that's the same place in which I first saw Katniss seated as I entered the gymnasium and split from Finnick's side to find a unique area of attack during our morning training session.
I'm not surprised to find that Katniss equally has a knack at the trade.
"How do you do that?" Katniss asks with dark, expectant eyes, nodding her head in the direction of the shard of bone the instructor gave me with high hopes that I'd be able to craft something out of it. With a small blade and a hint of creativity, I'll have to admit that I've created something that could work quite nicely.
"Lots and lots of practice," I laugh, meeting her curious gaze. She smirks at me, finding amusement in my words. "It feels like my dad has had me out fishing since before I could even walk. My fishing pole is basically an extension of myself, at this point."
"That wouldn't surprise me," Katniss returns. "Isla Winslow, right? From District Four?"
The sound of my name feels weird coming out of her mouth, but I nod my head slowly. "Yeah, that would be me."
Little, old, broken me.
I wonder for a split second if Katniss watched my Games when she was younger - if she watched the older girl on her television screen do the most horrible things to survive with no idea that'd she'd be in the same position one day - that she would have to commit the most terrifying acts.
But now I'm sure that she understands how little pride we have over what he had to do - that what's left of our humanity makes us more motivated to forget it all than brag about it.
"Prim likes you, my little sister, I mean. Since she's been little she has always found your pearly gowns to be the prettiest. I remember that."
I remember her sister - as pure as a raindrop until fear quickly took over her expression with the calling of her name through the speakers around District Twelve during the Reaping a year ago. It's hard to imagine her knowing of my existence - of believing me to be pretty and not just another terrible monster the Capitol had a hand in creating.
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The Sea, The Gambler | Finnick Odair
Fanfiction↳ 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...