❗️| Finnick Odair

Young. Attractive. Those pretty eyes, never innocent, having seen much blood, but not quite tainted yet, still that ragged hope and vicious relief of survival. A little bit older then when he had won, but not by much, 16, still at the cusp of youth. Finnick knew he should feel some sort of joy at seeing the tribute he trained survive, of which he did, but a mentor's job never really ended when the lights went down. No, the haunting lesson that his now fellow Victor would have to learn was that the Games didn't end in the Arena. No. Not for people like them.

Finnick tried to calm himself. It wouldn't necessarily happen, not every Victor was called up to President Snow's office, whispered those pretty orders to sell themself or lose their loved ones. No, not every Victor. But as he watches them get treated by doctors and fixed up for their final interviews, he saw too much of him in them. It was like he could see his little fourteen year old self in their face. The popularity, that charm, that desirability.

And the stupid, stupid fact that he knew that just like him, they'd sacrifice their bodies to protect their loved ones. Yes, they were just like him and he hated it. They weren't ready, no, no the Capitol would eat them up to bits. Perhaps it would've been kinder for them to die in the arena, then to live a life where one had no control even over their own body. What a bitter "victory". These thoughts plagued Finnick as he approached them to get them ready for the interviews and dinners.