Points of Creativity

There was something about District Thirteen that could make a cinder block look like a cheerful burst of rainbow by comparison. Everything was grey. Uniform. Perfectly calculated for maximum efficiency and minimum soul – because, really, what room was there for emotion on a quarterly report that marked such ‘frivolous’ endeavors as obsolete?

And yet, Finnick Odair could count every moment he’d felt this overwhelmed on one hand. Rage and love and absolute terror wrestled within him, swirling and merging and detaching again while he tried to hold it together with a practiced smirk and a confident stride was the opposite of how he felt.

The dreary, monochromatic hallways gave rise to a cookie-cutter door, behind which the loveliest, most clever, most infuriating creature he’d ever met was calmly packing for a trip she had no business joining.

“Well, that was clever of you.” Finnick’s arms were crossed over his chest as he leaned against the doorway of the apartment he shared with his wife.

His wife.

He still could scarcely believe he could finally call her that, after all the years of hiding – threats and panic for her safety hanging over his head while he forced the bile back down his throat every time to make good on a deal he made with Snow, so that she wouldn’t have to.

Annie startled for only a second, looking up at him with those doe eyes – same lovely green as the rest of their district, marked by the sea – before continuing to fold what looked like standard issue fatigues into a backpack. “You always did say that I’m a clever girl, but I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

“Using ‘optics’ on Plutarch was definitely inspired.” He finally kicked off the doorway to walk into the room. He raised a hand, as though directing a marquee, his voice theatrically sarcastic. “District Four’s Fragile Victor Healed! Love is Fighting Oppression Together!”

Annie put down the shirt she was folding, and tucked her knees underneath her on the bed, though there was no mistaking the mischievously triumphant upward turn of her lips. She was clearly proud of herself. “I don’t think you have the wording quite right. Mine had a bit more pizzazz.”

“No?” He plucked something from her backpack before she could stop him, but caught the affectionately exasperated look before tossing the object – rolled up socks, maybe – into the air and catching it with all the feigned carelessness he could muster. “Well, then. Illuminate me. What exactly did you say to our fearless propaganda leader?”