Back into the arena. He was certain that it was the nightmare that they all had at one point or another -- the notion of being in the arena riddled their brains with darkness, chewed them from the inside out. It had been terrifying to hear his name called out, terrifying in a way it hadn't been when he was 14. At 24, he understood death and pain and suffering. He knew what was waiting for him inside that arena. But, he also knew that it was the only chance they had. It was a grand opportunity, and one that would never be repeated again. As long as they got Katniss out alive, it would be a rallying cry. Snow was serving them a great chance.
Finnick strode off the hovercraft and worked on keeping his hands still, even though his fingers itched for the heavy weight of a trident. He was sorely tempted to play with the bracelet that was wrapped around his wrist, but he knew better than to draw attention to it before getting into the arena.
He reached for the door that would lead to the launch pad, able to feel the tension twisting up his spine, clawing at his throat. This was nothing, he told himself; he was Finnick Odair, and he was made to endure.
When he opened the door, he faltered for a moment. It wasn't the same industrial layout of last time, which admittedly, was now a decade before. But there was no launch pad here. This couldn't be the arena, could it? He edged inside carefully, eyes scanning the walls, feet feeling along the carpet for any trap that could be waiting. It looked like some of the nicer hotels he had been taken to in the Capitol. They wouldn't fight here, would they? It was certain different than anything he had seen before -- but no countdown, no cornucopia. No other tributes.
And then he heard Johanna shouting. He resisted the urge to break into a run. This territory was too unfamiliar. She didn't sound too far off -- maybe on the other side of the lobby.
"Johanna!" he shouted in return, his senses on high alert for any attacker.
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Date: 2013-12-20 02:49 am (UTC)Finnick strode off the hovercraft and worked on keeping his hands still, even though his fingers itched for the heavy weight of a trident. He was sorely tempted to play with the bracelet that was wrapped around his wrist, but he knew better than to draw attention to it before getting into the arena.
He reached for the door that would lead to the launch pad, able to feel the tension twisting up his spine, clawing at his throat. This was nothing, he told himself; he was Finnick Odair, and he was made to endure.
When he opened the door, he faltered for a moment. It wasn't the same industrial layout of last time, which admittedly, was now a decade before. But there was no launch pad here. This couldn't be the arena, could it? He edged inside carefully, eyes scanning the walls, feet feeling along the carpet for any trap that could be waiting. It looked like some of the nicer hotels he had been taken to in the Capitol. They wouldn't fight here, would they? It was certain different than anything he had seen before -- but no countdown, no cornucopia. No other tributes.
And then he heard Johanna shouting. He resisted the urge to break into a run. This territory was too unfamiliar. She didn't sound too far off -- maybe on the other side of the lobby.
"Johanna!" he shouted in return, his senses on high alert for any attacker.