𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐏𝐈𝐄 ━━ finnick odair ✓

𝐟𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧. ( smaller fish to fry )

            Reform has hit us like a truck. With only a brief warning from Cashmere, my friends have been saddled with sinister new roles. It seems that all of them are sparsely given time to sleep, with media and client appointments back-to-back day and night. The only ones left around the tower are Blight, Magnus, and myself. In the hours of quiet company we share, Blight tells me that this isn't the first time this has happened. The uptick in work never lasted too long in the past, only requiring a certain amount of energy to shift direction before settling into the new direction.

It's almost as cut-and-dry as a physics equation. A change in direction requires a change in force exerted. In a vacuum, the new path can be maintained for as long as there's no other interfering force.

Magnus's theories paint everything in a much more dramatic light. He drunkenly claims that this signifies the end of times. He thinks there must be something terribly broken in order to need this size of patch to fix it.

I find my own answer is a healthy mix of both perspectives. The change may be routine, but the cause is very likely the fuel of upset in the Districts after our most recent Hunger Games. The only variable I remain perplexed by is the lack of my own role. All of my appointments for the rest of the week have been cleared, which Finnick predicts to mean that I'll be sent home. I have a hard time understanding how giving me more leeway could possibly give Snow peace of mind.

Blight has an easy, well thought out answer to this as well. Snow is frightened by the opposition of those he views as intellectual threats. Beetee has never been allowed within viewing distance of the Capitol except when he's required to be here for mentoring. To the same effect, none of the District 3 victors are allowed to remain here very long.

Blight says that Snow understands the nature of unspoken curriculum taught in the technology district. Children are taught secrecy as second nature, sharing information as currency from early ages. It allows a sort of unlocked level of scheming that he finds to be dangerous. When I finally ask why Snow doesn't bother to try to reform the whole district, Blight smiles like it's obvious.

"Snow's not stupid, he knows that uniting a group of skeptics against him as a villain could be disastrous. It's better to let it fester in the dark than try to bring it into the light of day."

That answer quells me enough for a while, giving me quite a bit to examine in my newfound free time. Snow's power once seemed so imposing and all encompassing that it was futile to question it. Now I can see the cracks that form in the spaces between his control. His leadership is entirely based on how much his reign can tolerate. If he leaves some things unspoken, he doesn't have to worry about whether or not his brute force will be enough to stifle it. Better to let us have the illegal books than try to burn them all and fail.

The explanation doesn't make it any easier when I have to board the train and leave, given hardly time to write notes of farewell to my friends. I have a feeling it'll be a long time before I'm permitted to return.

The ride is quiet, and not altogether unpleasant. Letting myself enjoy even a fraction of the solace leaves me feeling guilty and unwell. While I spend hours staring peacefully into the passing nature, Finnick and Grant are forced to give increasingly lewd interviews. Their pivot seems the most stark to me, simply because I haven't watched enough media before to get a grasp of who they were painted previously to be. Blight said that us young victors were always displayed as overtly wanton, so the new interviews won't be as jarring to long-time viewers. To me, it's earth-shattering.

I finally sit through an entire talk show segment when my boredom on the train grows. Finnick and Gloss are together on this one, seated on opposite sides of a plump little hostess. Gloss is wearing glasses , which he's never before needed. His simple black suit deviates from his usual gaudy bright shirts. Finnick isn't even given the luxury of wearing a gaudy shirt, he's bare-chested and glistening with sweat. Whether it's real or painted on, I can't tell. He sits with his arms open, hands interlocked behind his head, feet crossed lazily in front of him. The look of leisure is almost believable. When the camera flashes to close shots of his face, the dilation of his pupils is striking. He's been put on some sort of drug. I hope that it helps him to find a bit of peace.