It's incredibly light on its feet, lighter than it should be as it flips away, letting Finnick scramble to his feet. Everything in him is racing, tensing, singing with the fighting instincts that were awoken in him long ago and never retreated. It goes over to a young woman -- its ally of some sort? -- in clothing the origins of which Finnick can't place.

He's not thinking of that. He's thinking of his defence, of his attack, of fighting, and surviving, because that was what today was always meant to be about. It hasn't occurred to him that no lethal force has been offered; he was on his way into the arena, and he's been attacked.

There's a dangerous focus in his eyes as he chases the creature, looking around for anything he can use as a weapon. There's nothing that he can see, so he simply lunges forward with his hands, ready to grapple; it wouldn't be his first time fighting like that.