Young Writers Society

Author's note: This is the short story that I have submitted for the YWS Hunger Games, Fan Fiction event. It is about the one thing that bugs me the most about the series. About Mockingjay. Finnick dies. So I changed it, warping his death scene into one of life. :)

The air I breathe is like poison, the foul stench creeping into my body. I hold back the convulsions and try to breathe through my mouth. At least then I will be able to function properly enough to concentrate at the enemies facing me. Sneaks behind me. Surfaces below me. Falls above me. Corners me.

There seems to be no escape.

The mutts pour from the pipe like sewage water, filth taking form in the shape of savage animals. Cruel reptilian faces curve upwards in snarls, saliva dripping from catlike fangs. Their leathery skin is white, almost as if to mock us. Like the Capitol is trying to tell us that these are innocent creatures, pure as snow.

But behind those tawny muscles lay the Capitol’s corrupt soul and mind. Behind those muscles, lay pure evil.

Bring your foul faces closer to me so I can rip them apart.

“Finnick, we have to go now!” Katniss screams at me, already being pulled away herself by Gale’s powerful arms. Fingers fumble with her bow, she tries to put an arrow on the string even as she is pushed to a ladder that is set against a grey building. Tries to pull the bow back even as she starts to climb.

I hesitate. Destroying the mutts means that they can’t follow us. If we kill them all, we won’t have to run. But Katniss is right. Gale is right. If I stay for a moment longer, or if anyone stays longer, then the mutts will overtake and kill us all--leaving no one to complete the mission.

The mission.

I know what our real mission is—kill Snow. Katniss hasn’t spoken her plans to us, but remains secret about them, pulling inside herself. But everyone can sense what the group has turned into. Not a stage group meant to take photos for the rebellion. Not a team meant to rally the districts. That might be what District 13 thinks of us, but that is not what we have become. Stamped with this title or not, we are the squad that will bring President Snow down once and for all.

I only hope I live long enough to see it.

“Finnick! NOW!”

I try to pull myself together. Now is not the time for drifting thoughts. Now is not even the time to destroy everything that belongs to the Capitol—with the mutts first. Now is only the time to escape.

Escape.

I hate that word. It means surrender. It means giving in. My hand itches to draw back the trident once more, that sleek tri-bladed weapon that has already skewered several mutts in the preceding moments. But something stops me.

Perhaps it is an image. Annie watching me from District 13. Our wedding. Her small hands releasing mine as I went away to this foul Capitol. The only person I truly care about lies far off in a different world, separated from me by the bonds of war.

I leap over a mutt’s body—pierced by both arrow shafts and countless bullets—and run towards the ladder, somehow finding my grip on the slippery ladder rungs. The rungs that are slippery with both the mutt’s blood, and that of my friends, mingling with my own as I pull myself up.

So far to climb.

They roar below me, no longer contained by the cutting edges of my trident. No longer contained by my fighting rage.

Red eyes dilating, they leap up as high as they can, teeth snapping down over air. Crashing into the ladder—jostling me around precariously—before tumbling back down to the ground. One mutt comes high enough and lunges forward to take a bite from my leg. But before it can, my free hand snaps forward, slashing the beast across the snout with the blade of my trident.

It falls, slamming heavily into the black ground.

I reach up for another rung to climb higher than the monsters, and feel a searing sensation in my leg. The teeth of a mutt sinking deep into me—past the Rebellion uniform, ripping into the flesh beneath.

I hold back the scream. Hold back the river of agony that washes over me, drowning out all other senses. Leaving nothing for my anger.

But once the initial shock is over, the constant pain, the consistent throb that travels up my spine, is enough to bring me back. To realize that the mutt is holding onto my leg, its weight pulling me down into the infernal abyss of death that I had just climbed out of.

I try shaking it off, wringing my leg in a feeble attempt. The effort causes the mutt’s hold to move about, ripping different parts of my calf.

Let’s spread the pain around, shall we?

With my free hand, I dash the trident down. The spear points glance off the mutt’s skull, and the trident drops. Falls down into the pack of mutts, where it lands harmlessly on the ground—out of my reach.

My hand fumbles for my only remaining weapon. One that I never use because of its awkward feeling, and whimsy appearance. The trident always serves me better, anyway. But more than that. I leave it inside its holster because it is the kind of weapon that the Peacekeepers use. Used against me, against my friends—anyone in their path.

I yank the pistol out of its holster and point it at the mutt, not bothering to aim. Pull the trigger one time. Two. Three. Four. Five times the deafening gunshot echoes around, and the bullets tear huge holes in the mutt’s face. Yet it still hangs on.

On the seventh shot, the mutt finally releases a whine. A high-pitched squeal so unlike the roar it emitted earlier that I almost release my grip on the ladder in surprise. And then it falls, toppling down to the ground. Never moves again.

“Finnick, take my hand!” Gale reaches down for me, his arm hanging down as far as he can. Fingers extend to grasp mine, but they are still too far away.

Each rung was like torture. The agonizing sensation crawling up my spine like fire, scorching pain igniting every nerve in my body. A faint moan escapes my lips, but I clamp them shut.

Never show weakness. Never show pain.

Gale’s hand finally touches mine. A faint remembrance that I am not alone in this dark hellhole. Not left on my own to escape the mutts, who still snarl below me.

My hand grasps tightly to Gale’s, and he lifts me up. Pulling me up till I am on the same level with them, collapsing on the balcony alongside them.

“You okay?” he asks.

My calf is torn to shreds, the pieces of flesh hanging from bone like gruesome tentacles, leaving my leg useless. My trident lays beneath the feet of those raging monsters, far below me now. I can barely move from exhaustion, and my hands and arms are cramped, refusing to move from their grip around the ladder rungs.

“Never been better,” I say.