𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐏𝐈𝐄 ━━ finnick odair ✓

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲. ( denial of nature )

  He pulls the jewel bedecked handle to expose the room in front of us. It's filled with party guests, all wearing half-face masks of various animals. They're all looking at us. Every single pair of eyes.

Madam Larson remains the only unmasked individual in the hall, standing rather importantly on a small red velvet carpeted stage. She beckons us over. Ronan and I part the crowd to reach her, just barely. They stand so close to my passing form that I feel the hot breath and gentle perspiration in the air around us. When we reach the stage, she begins to speak.

"Welcome all, to a night you'll never forget. Though with the amount of wine we've already gone through, it seems like some of you hope to." Her admonishment rouses a chuckle from the crowd. "The main event tonight is no simple form of entertainment, and therefore I believe many of you will not truly grasp the artistic complexity." Again, another chuckle. The crowd does not feel insulted, but instead enthralled.

"Standing next to me right now are two baffling fixtures in our society. To my right, you'll see the man who once fought tooth and nail for survival. He has killed half a dozen, and received direct benefit from the violence. To my left is a little girl who slipped through the cracks and is now given the room to feign morality. But they both stand here. Both given the same treatment and status. Yet, they are the dichotomy of predator and prey."

She gestures with a sweeping arm to us, the eyes of the crowd follow. Whispers begin to populate the hall.

"They act as allies now, this much is true. The brute aiming to defend the lamb. He fools himself into thinking he can do anything other than hunt. I'd like for us to show him just how wrong he is. How much easier it is to embrace the instinct to take instead of give. Ronan Rodriguez." She addresses him by name for the first time. "There exists a choice tonight. You can take her on this stage, right now for all of us to see. Or you can choose to guard her from the hands of the many others who vie for your position."

"I'll take my chances on the second option," he responds immediately, jaw set squarely with indignation. Whispers rise to a low hum.

"So be it," growls Madam Larson. "If you wish to claim the prize, simply step onto the stage and take it." The hum reaches a roar.

Nobody moves for a precarious second, and I think that perhaps it will be over that simply. But then, from the front row, walks a man wearing the mask of a boar. He struts up the carpeted steps and straight towards me. He's stopped by the barring arm of my fellow victor. He firmly pushes the boar-faced man away. They struggle for a minute, pressing back and forth before Madam Larson tires of the game.

"Show a little teeth, won't you Ronan?" She calls

The effect is instant. His fist lands squarely between the man's eyes. The flow of blood from his nose forces him to cease his advance on me. He stumbles aside and walks off the stage, deterred by the first blow.

More movement from the crowd, emboldened by the failure of the first of their kind. This time when they fall upon Ronan, there's no illusion of peaceful struggle. They come at him ready to inflict damage, fists raised and eyes wild. He dispatches the first two as easily as the previous man. But this is no deterrent to the masses.

"Ronan, it's fine!" I dash up to him. "There's no need to fight. I don't want you to."

He doesn't respond, instead brushing me back with a bloody fist. People aren't moving forward one at a time anymore. They seem to have realized that power exists in numbers. The surge is led by a woman in a tiger mask, fist raised high into the air. Ronan fells her with a savage kick to her knee, so forceful I can nearly hear it crack.