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Finnick has been visiting Victor’s Village since he was eight years old, which is probably what makes this experience as weird as it is.
Stepping into his own house feels like something out of a dream. Familiar and somewhat logical, but with something uncanny about it. The house is furnished but feels deeply impersonal. Usually the mentor would give the new victor a tour once the cameras left, but since the basic layout of the houses is all the same, Mags must know that a tour would be pointless.
“Why don’t you go pick your bedroom?” Mags asks him. “I’ll help your family get settled in.”
He does, just because he needs something to do. He picks the one with a window overlooking the main street of the Village. The bed is in the corner, up against the wall. The door is directly in sight so he can instantly see if anyone were to enter. He doesn’t like not seeing the door. But picking his room only takes a few minutes, and it’s not long before he’s retreating back down the stairs into the kitchen.
“You will need to give it time,” Mags is saying in a hushed voice. Finnick stops abruptly.
“I just don’t know what to expect,” says another voice, and that’s his dad. “He’s only fourteen.”
Okay, so they’re definitely talking about him. He could go in and confront them or he could hang back and keep listening. Finnick keeps his breathing slow and quiet. He can almost completely silence his movements if he really tries. It’s a recent skill he’s picked up.
So Mags and his dad don’t hear him on the stairs. “You should know that in the eyes of the Capitol, Finnick is an adult now. Being a victor means you bypass any of the traditional age requirements.”
His dad sighs. It’s the same sigh he used to give when talking about Finnick’s mom’s sickness four years ago, right before she died. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I agree,” says Mags. “I want you to know that we recognize his age. He’s been through something life-altering, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t need a parent anymore.”
Finnick has to stop himself from huffing. What is Mags trying to say? That he made it through the arena but he still needs his dad to remind him to clean his room and do his homework? Well, maybe not the homework part, now that he won’t be going to school.
“I know.” A chair slides against the floor, and he can imagine his dad sinking into it tiredly. “I just—am I supposed to act normal, like nothing’s changed? What authority do I even have over a Hunger Games victor?”
A pause. “It’s not about authority,” Mags says softly, and Finnick has to strain to hear. “It’s about support. He might not want you telling him what to do. He might only listen to other victors. It’s too early to say for sure.”
“Because there’s never been a victor this young,” his dad finishes. Mags says nothing, so she must have just nodded. “I don’t know how to protect him.”
Finnick frowns. Protect him from what? If there’s anything these past few weeks have shown, it’s that he’s perfectly capable of protecting himself. He doesn’t really want to listen to this conversation anymore. So he walks the rest of the way down the stairs, joining Mags and his dad in the kitchen. They both smile like nothing is wrong.
After his dad leaves to go get the rest of the stuff from their old house, he turns to Mags. They’re working on cleaning up the dishes from dinner, and having multiple sets of dishes is still really weird. She hands him a plate to dry, and he asks, “Were you talking to my dad about me?”
Mags gives him an inscrutable look. Eventually she says, “Were you listening?”
Finnick shrugs. He can lie to almost anyone, but he’s never been able to lie to Mags. “Yeah.”
“Then you already know that I was.”
“I’m not a little kid,” he says, then immediately winces because that’s exactly something a little kid would say. Then, “I won the Hunger Games.” There. No little kids can say that truthfully.
“I remember,” Mags agrees. She sounds a little amused. “Nobody thinks you’re a little kid, Finnick.”
He pauses his work on the dishes, too frustrated to continue. “Then why were you talking to my dad behind my back about protecting me?”
“Nobody is trying to undermine you or your strength,” Mags assures him. “We all just want to help you.”
Finnick clenches his jaw and says nothing.
“Finnick,” she says. “I’m going to be honest with you, because I think you can handle it.”
Some of the tension bleeds from his shoulders. “I can handle it,” he confirms.
“Your situation is extremely unprecedented. You know the rules in place for victors, I’m sure. The things about legal adulthood and no more school and such. Well, those rules are intended for victors who are seventeen or eighteen. People who are close enough to adulthood that it doesn’t make a difference. But for you, a free pass to legal adulthood at fourteen is just not reasonable.”
“I wouldn’t call it a free pass,” he mutters. His fingers clench around an imaginary spear.
“You’re right. That was a poor choice of words.” She turns the faucet off, dishes abandoned. “What I mean is that while the Capitol may be inclined to treat you as an adult, we want you to grow up gradually and in peace, like anyone should.”
Finnick’s eyes flicker toward the ground. He doesn’t feel like he has much growing up left to do. “Okay,” he tells Mags, because it does make sense. “I believe you.”
Sometimes when Finnick can’t sleep, he likes to walk around.
It’s only been a few weeks since he’s been living in his new house in Victor’s Village, but he already knows the Village really well. He’s known Mags for years, and some of the other victors, too. He knows everyone’s name and what year they won and whether they were reaped or volunteered. Those are important things to keep track of when you’re trying to win the Games.
A dense, gray fog cloaks the sky one early morning. It’s early enough that dew is still sparkling on the grass. Finnick’s been waking up earlier and earlier every day, for some reason. His body is tired but his mind decides that it’s time to be awake. He wonders how long it’ll be before he stops sleeping at all.
Even though it’s early, a few people are outside. Nerissa, victor of the 30th, is drinking a cup of coffee on her porch. Dylan, who won the 38th, approaches her and they start talking inaudibly. None of this bothers Finnick. There’s only one victor he’s trying to avoid.
“Hey, Finnick!”
Finnick ducks his head and pretends not to hear. He turns around to head back into his house.
Calder must see right through his pretense because he crosses the paved path towards Finnick and says, “Want to come in and have breakfast? I made muffins.”
“No, thanks,” he says. “I already ate.”
“No problem,” says Calder. “Will you come inside anyway? I think we should talk.”
Finnick absolutely does not want to talk to Calder. He has nothing against Calder. It’s more about what Calder has against him. He pauses for a little too long, shifting on his feet.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Calder continues. “If you just want to sit there and listen, that would be enough.”
Finnick says nothing, but nods and follows him inside.
Calder’s house is really similar to his. And to Mags’. They must all look similar, furnished with the same Capitol furniture that they’re not allowed to get rid of. Calder has more things around his house, though. Like a massive bookshelf teeming with books. Some are new and pristine, others are creased and faded. Finnick’s never seen so many books in one place. He’s not sure he’s ever even finished one.
“Let’s sit down,” Calder begins, gesturing to a worn couch.
“I’d rather stand,” Finnick responds. Easier to make a quick exit.
He doesn’t question it. “No problem.”
This is probably the part where Finnick is supposed to ask what this is about, but there’s no need. They both already know.
“First, I just want to say that I don’t blame you for anything,” Calder says. “This situation happens every time we get a new victor.”
“I killed your tribute,” Finnick bites out.
“No, Finnick,” says Calder firmly. “What happened to Corinne is not your fault. It never was.”
Finnick doesn’t feel like he needs to explain this. It seems perfectly obvious. “Sigrid only killed her to get back at me.”
“Sigrid killed her because that’s the Game,” he corrects. “You’re not responsible for other people’s actions. And I promise that we’re all very happy you’re here. I’m not mad at you, and there’s no need to be mad at yourself either.”
“I would have died without her,” says Finnick. He starts to pace from one end of the room to another, which Calder lets him do without complaint. “She got me into the alliance. She gave me supplies before I left. She was a really good fighter. And smart.”
“Those things are all true,” Calder agrees. “And it’s also true that you deserve to be here.”
Then why does it feel so wrong? Why is he here, a scrawny fourteen-year-old whose voice hasn’t even broken yet, when Corinne rots in the ground in the tribute cemetery?
A restless energy buzzes under his skin. He doesn’t voice these thoughts to Calder, but they must show on his face. Or Calder is just good at reading people. “Follow me,” says Calder, and Finnick does so without thought.
The fresh morning air and the sunlight peeking through the clouds makes Finnick feel a little better, but not completely. They approach one of the houses across the street, on the women’s side. Calliope, victor of the 59th, stands on her porch. She’s wearing athletic clothes and stretching.
“Hey, Callie,” says Calder. She waves. Calder was her mentor; she’s the only victor he’s pulled, at least so far. “Have you met Finnick yet?”
“A few times,” she says, pausing her stretching. “Hi, Finnick.”
“Hey.”
“Great,” says Calder. “Do you want to take Finnick with you on your run? I think he could use it.”
Finnick glances over to Calder in surprise, then back at Callie. She doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest. “Yeah, sure,” she agrees. Then, to Finnick, “We don’t have to go far.”
“No, I want to,” he says. Why does everyone think he can’t do anything?
But Callie doesn’t contradict him. “Good.”
It’s weird to think that Callie is the closest victor to him, but she’s a full ten years older. None of that seems to matter once they start running. She must know that he’s tired of being underestimated, because he pushes the pace and she lets it happen. By the time they reach the Village again, they’re both breathing heavily. Finnick plays it cool until he gets back inside his house, then he takes a quick shower and burrows under his covers to take a nap.
Nerissa opens her door immediately when Finnick starts knocking, which is a good sign. “Hi, Finnick. Is there something you need?”
“Yes,” says Finnick. Nerissa steps aside and lets him into her house. “When can I start training tributes at the Academy?”
“In five years,” Nerissa answers simply. “Would you like a cookie? Callie brought them over and there’s no way I can eat them all.”
Finnick doesn’t want a cookie. “Five years? That’s literally forever from now.”
Nerissa sighs. “I’m sorry, Finnick, but you’re only fourteen. We don’t let any victor teach at the Academy until they’re older than the students.”
“Yeah, but I won, so doesn’t that make me more qualified?”
“It’s not about that,” she replies. She leads him to her kitchen table and pours him a glass of lemonade. Finnick fiddles with the straw. “We all know you’re very capable. But think about it. What if you go there to teach and you see your former classmates? They may not respect you as a teacher. It might be awkward for you. It could even be painful.”
“Yeah, but maybe it won’t be any of that and it’ll be fine,” he points out. “I want to help.”
“Okay,” says Nerissa slowly. “Why?”
Finnick blinks. “What?”
“Why do you want to help teach at the Academy?”
He pauses. Takes a sip of his lemonade. “Because I want to help the district.”
“You already have helped the district,” she points out. “Everyone in Four gets Parcel Days for a year because of you.”
“Yeah, but I can do more than that,” he says. “I can handle it.”
Nerissa gives him a long, careful look. “Finnick, has Mags ever talked with you about sparring?”
“Not really,” he says slowly. “I mean, she’s seventy. I don’t really think I should be hitting her. I might break her bones.”
She gives a small laugh. “Well, Mags is tougher than you think. But sparring is something that some mentors do with their victors. It can be hard to let go of the instinct to fight after leaving the arena, and this way, you don’t have to give it up completely.”
“What does this have to do with teaching at the Academy?”
“I don’t think you care about teaching at the Academy as much as you think you do,” Nerissa says bluntly. “I think you won the Games and now you feel like everyone’s treating you like a kid. So you think teaching at the Academy like the older victors will make people take you more seriously. Does that sound right?”
Well…now that he thinks about it, yes. Finnick gives a begrudging nod.
“You don’t need to put yourself into that situation to prove that you’re mature,” she continues. “If in a few years you still want to, you and Mags can talk it over then. But for now, I think sparring will help, and we can do that right now.”
Nerissa leads him to her basement. There’s a workout room with equipment lining the walls. A treadmill, a bench, some weights. In the middle of the room is a bunch of open space with mats on the floor.
“Here are the rules,” Nerissa says as they stand in the middle of the room. “No weapons.”
He waits for her to say more, but she doesn’t. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” she confirms. “Anything else is fair game.”
“I’m not going to go easy on you,” he warns. “What if I hurt you?”
“Don’t worry about that,” she assures him. “And I won’t be going easy on you either. I don’t think you’d appreciate it if I did.”
Accurate again. Finnick just nods.
In the end, it’s not an even fight. Nerissa has several inches on him, and despite being in her fifties, she’s still very strong. She has him on the floor in minutes, and Finnick’s so exhilarated at doing some serious fighting that he can’t even bring himself to feel embarrassed about it.
“Don’t worry,” says Nerissa, extending a hand to help him back up. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”
All of the victors are gathered at Dylan’s house for dinner, and this is the first time Finnick has seen them all in one place. That is, when that place isn’t the reaping stage.
He feels a bit like an outsider watching them all interact, especially because they’re all so much older than him. He can tell they’re trying to treat him like an equal, which is nice. They play cards and gossip and help Dylan cook dinner and it’s all very domestic.
At some point Finnick slips away to use the restroom, and when he comes out, something on the hallway table catches his eye. It’s a picture of a smiling boy. Dylan’s son Leander, he realizes. The one who died in the 62nd.
Finnick can’t stop himself from picking up the picture and examining it closer. Leander had been fourteen when he died in the arena. His shoulders tremble in an involuntary shudder. What strikes him most about the picture is that Leander looks so young.
“Hey,” says Dylan, and Finnick jumps a bit and puts the picture down. “It’s okay. You can look.”
“Sorry,” says Finnick, and he’s not sure if he’s apologizing for looking at the picture or offering his condolences for Dylan’s dead son.
“It’s okay,” Dylan says again. “We just wanted to make sure you hadn’t gotten lost. You alright? You look a little pale.”
Finnick’s eyes find their way back to the picture. “When, uh, when was this taken?”
Dylan picks up the picture. A fond smile settles on his face. “A few months after he turned fourteen, I think.”
“He looks…” Finnick swallows harshly. “Young.”
“He does,” Dylan agrees. “He hadn’t hit his growth spurt yet.”
Finnick shudders again. He tries to imagine a world in which this is his picture in his dad’s house. With everyone saying he was so young, gone too soon. Is that how they see him now, even after everything? Dylan puts the picture back down, brushing off some of the dust.
“Do you want to go back to the others, or would you rather sit here for a while?” Dylan asks, impossibly gentle.
Finnick blinks rapidly a few times to clear his head. “Uh, probably go back with the others.”
He lets Dylan lead him back to the kitchen, where the other victors are setting the table for dinner and chatting idly. At the end of the night, Finnick returns to his house. His dad is sleeping on the couch, probably waiting for Finnick to come home. He startles awake at the creak of the door hinges.
“Hey, how was dinner?” asks his dad. “Mags said—”
Finnick doesn’t answer. He just crosses the room in a few long strides and wraps his arm around his dad in the tightest hug of his life. Finnick’s fingers clench around the fabric of his dad’s shirt, and he buries his face in his chest. He can feel his dad’s surprise before he reciprocates the hug.
“Did something happen?” his dad asks cautiously after a few moments of silence.
“No,” says Finnick honestly. “I just…wanted a hug."