This time, the tributes' costumes are made of a light, sleek fabric, with a ridiculous purple belt that can't be for the sake of fashion, and shoes so light that Finnick's steps are almost impossible to hear except for the occasional squeak of rubber.

He doesn't speak to anyone except Mags. He's too tense, too wound up, too well aware of what's to come, out there, in the arena, for small talk.

Too focused.

On him, and on Mags. On survival.

Not on the thought of losing the woman who's been a surrogate mother to him for the past ten years, who saw him through the Games and their aftermath as well as anyone can.

It's not smart strategy, but he's going to keep her alive as long as he can.

The last few moments before hell are unleashed are spent with his stylist, but there's little to say. Finnick's focused, watching the glass cylinder swoop down to collect him, watching the ceiling above him, waiting for his first glimpse of the arena. Tensing to spring at the sound of the gong, when a millisecond's hesitation can kill you.

But there is no arena.

Instead, there's a flash of light, a sense of change, and no glass, no plate beneath his feet, no Cornucopia. No Games.

Too tensed to take it, Finnick spins, the tension in his muscles screaming to be released, to pounce, to run and claim the supplies that will save his life. Instead, it leaves him wild-eyed, disoriented, his hands raised in a defensive gesture that, given a second, could turn into an attack.

This wasn't the plan.