𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐏𝐈𝐄 ━━ finnick odair ✓

𝐨𝐧𝐞. ( glass walls )

          Everything is thick. My tongue in my mouth, the air I suck into my lungs, the ringing in my ears. It's impossible to discern anything that my senses tell me when I take it all in at once.

I begin with the warmth beneath my cheek, soft amidst the hard pressure points under the rest of my body. When I inhale through my nose, a comforting familiar smell floods my synapses. Linen, spice, ink. I'm home, I'm safe.

I groan, trying as hard as I can to break through the barrier which separates sleep and consciousness.

"Faraday?"

It's Ronan. I fight to open my eyelids. If Ronan's here, everything must be alright. But... it's not, there's something incredibly wrong here. The lights are bright white above me, clinical and sterile in an environment to match.

"Ronan? Where are we?" I manage to slur the words out.

"We're... There's been a bit of a hitch in the plans."

I turn my head over in Ronan's lap to look at where we're being kept. The floor is white linoleum, and all of the walls are made of glass. The distance wall to wall can be no more than ten feet. Outside the walls are more walls, but instead of glass, they're stark white. Only a few benches line the perimeter of them and standing alone in a corner is one solid metal door.

"Ronan." I find a stable sort of firmness in my voice. "Where are we?"

"We're still in the Capitol." He says it with a voice that matches the extreme gravity of the situation.

Fuck . This is the worst possible outcome.

"Where's Finnick?" I ask, sitting straight up, wincing at the pain in my head.

"District 13." This at least does something to calm my fried nerves. "Along with Katniss and Beetee."

"What about Gloss and Cashmere?" I ask, gripping onto his scrub-like pants.

"I don't know where Gloss is. Cashmere is... Cashmere is dead Faraday."

"Dead?" It takes me much too long to run the events of the games back through my head. "I killed Cashmere? That's real?"

"That's real," he affirms, leveling a hand on my bicep as if he's worried I'll find something rash to do in our cell.

"What about Grant?"

"Grant's not here."

"Good. You're sure they made it to 13?" I ask.

"The crafts made it out of Capitol airspace, so I'm certain they got there," Ronan says, turning his grip on me into a sort of stroking motion.

"Why are you here? Weren't you supposed to get picked up by Plutarch's ship?" I search his face, desperate to read into the story as soon as possible.

"Do you remember why I was so bad at chess?"

"What does that matter?" I groan, not in the mood for riddles.

"I always overestimate my ability to get out of a sticky situation."

"Which means?"

"I tried to stick around too long and backed myself into a corner."

Ronan's lips twitch towards a smile, which does more to betray his proximity to tears than his bloodshot eyes.