𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐏𝐈𝐄 ━━ finnick odair ✓

𝐭𝐞𝐧. ( out of the frying pan and into the fire )

 The sterility of the interior of the hovercraft makes me feel as if I've entered a dream. The white walls and clean suits of the bustling people make me feel alien in my dirtiness. The current has not released me yet, so I have no choice but to sit like a statue and observe. Finally someone approaches me. She's a tall woman with smooth dark skin and a pearly white smile. My ears seem to be ringing, so I can't make out what she says but it seems to be something in the vein of offering comfort. She holds her hands out to me and I see clasped within is a thin hypodermic needle.

I try to struggle against the electric restraint, I don't want to have anything about me altered right now. She closes the small gap between us with a few strides and swiftly injects me. Only moments later, I begin to feel the effects of whatever drug she's stuck me with. Finally, the current releases me. Yet, as I try to move, I find myself sinking further and further into a deep pool of relaxation. I wish to do nothing more than curl up and sleep on the floor, so I do.

The first thing I'm aware of is voices near me, then a mechanical beeping blaring at my left ear. The taste in my mouth hits next, chemical and sharp. After days of waking up to terrible morning breath, this is a good change. My body lays in a semi-upright position, head pushed slightly forward by a plush pillow.

When I finally attempt to open my eyes, the blinding white light forces me to screw them shut once again. Suddenly, I'm aware of the length of tubing forced into my nose and I gag. I try to sit up to clear my throat, but find I'm strapped against the bed I lay on. Whimpers rip from my dry throat, and my breathing quickens. I spiral into a coughing fit and the noise of people bustling around me becomes clear once again. A hand grips tightly around mine, then everything fades away again.

The next time I come to, everything makes sense much quicker. When my eyes snap open, the room is bright but not intolerable. When I try to sit up, I'm not impeded by anything. When I've adjusted, I realize that I'm in some sort of medical treatment room. There's no tube in my nose this time, and there's no people in the room. Instead, there's a small bowl of clear liquid sitting on a small table suspended over my lap. I feel quite hungry, so I lift the bowl to my lips, ignoring the spoon. It's a semi-sweet broth, akin to a fruit juice. I become full quickly as I chug the contents. I have to stop only about halfway in, scared of losing all of it back up again.

I know that I'd entered a stage of starvation near the end of my time in the arena, but I hadn't expected this stage of regression. I suppose the first week of lean eating combined with the three day fast at the end had been much harder on my body than I'd thought. And who knows how long I'd been suspended in a medical sleep? That definitely could have contributed to my current weakness as well. However they were giving me nutrients probably hadn't done much to work my starving stomach into shape.

The clicking of a door shutting brings my attention back to the room. An avox has entered, carrying a small bundle of clothing in his arms. I avert my eyes, feeling rude for staring. The very concept of creating mute servants to please Capitol had upset me from a young age. It had manifested into a quiet discomfort while I was here to train for the Hunger Games, but it now hits me full force. He sets the bundle on the foot of my bed and I can see him offer me his hand from the corner of my eye. I quickly take his offer of help and stagger to my feet.

Though I expected to be quite wobbly, I stand sturdy once I'm upright. I test my balance out, squatting and twisting to ensure full range of motion. When I'm satisfied with my physicality, I pull my hand out of his and look at him expectantly. He gestures to the bundle of clothing, then to the door. His instructions are clear: dress and head outside.

He exits soon after, leaving me with the privacy to change out of the flowy gown I'd worn in bed. The clothes are simple, a white long sleeve top and tan bottoms. They look ominously similar to the outfit we'd worn in the arena, yet are in a perfect state of repair. The thought strikes me that I will be on camera soon. They must be wanting to film a reaction from me, perhaps meeting my team. Thinking back to watching the Hunger Games events on television, I'm sure that's what happens next. Though there's a few days of delay between the actual games and the closing broadcast, they maintain the illusion that it happens seamlessly. It will appear as if I've just come out of the arena when I exit the doors.