Disclaimer:

None of the characters in this work belong to me, most of the background plot doesn't belong to me either. If I really had that great an imagination, I'd be spending my time sipping pina coladas in the Bahamas instead of writing fanfic.

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The young man stared up at the azure blue sky, a vacant expression frozen on his face. He listened cautiously to the world around him, as his chest rose and fell in harsh, uneven gasps. He heard the cawing of some type of gull, but the sky above him remained clear and blue. He felt the warm indent of sand beneath him, the rough granules pressed into his bare calves and elbows.

Alex couldn't help but reflect on the previous few hours. He pondered why they'd chosen him of all potential guinea pigs. Their excuse had seemed particularly weak to him, and Alex couldn't help but speculate on Blunt's ulterior motives.

He blandly considered the possibility that he'd been transferred from the 'Active Asset' folder, to the 'Direct Threat to National Security' folder. A change that he'd been quietly awaiting since he'd finally grown into his fifteen-year-old shoulders. He wondered if Blunt had made the executive decision to burn Alex. If the Head of MI6 had decided that the advantage of Alex's youthful looks no longer balanced the scales against the risk of Alex divulging his veritable treasure trove of mission related intelligence.

Blunt's near hysterical terror of being compromised or worse – blackmailed - by his own pet asset thrived on Alex's rebellious silence and reluctant capitulation. Blunt feared Alex; an asset that was familiar enough with the intrinsic workings of MI6, that he'd previously infiltrated the 2IC's personal residence undetected. An asset that had been trained by potentially the most blood-thirsty terrorists organisation to date, and one that had been on a rather long leash since the death of his previous caretaker, Jack.

Alex was aware of these facts. He was also aware that his quite cultivation of several underground contacts had been silently observed by less than inconspicuous - or at least mildly incompetent- MI6 field agents. He suspected that the knowledge that Alex could easily slip a kill order to any one of those contacts had only added to Blunts burgeoning paranoia. Alex also suspected that Blunt knew that after over a year of floundering in the tender grasp of several callously exploitative clandestine organisations, all at the behest of the Head of MI6, he had more than enough motive to want the Head's head.

The sudden hiss of water as it crept over sand pulled Alex from his thoughts. He felt the sudden heat of the sun as it rose a little higher, cresting over the dunes behind him. The sudden increase in light burned his retinas, and he closed his eyes, turning the uncomfortable brightness into a soft pink glow through his eyelids. The sunlight gradually warmed the sand around him, and even as he tried to fight unconsciousness the warmth lulled him to sleep.

With a spastic twitch of muscles, his limbs lost the little tension they'd held, and his body slumped into the embrace of the sand. Alex surrendered with a sigh and falling into oblivion.

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The bronze haired young man had been walking along the beach early that morning. In the past few years he'd learnt that the only way to enjoy the quiet sanctuary of the beach was to abstain from sleep. A sacrifice he was all too willing to make to escape the rabid, grasping talons of his nightmares.

He was reclusive by nurture, but not by nature. He hated the stares; hated how his own people treated him – as if he were some strange creature that had clambered its way up the shore. A foreign and possibly dangerous creature, which may or may not lash out. And so he went to great lengths to avoid people in general, if only to avoid the few who stared.

He still loved the sea with that same wistful passion he'd harboured as a child, when he use to play in the shallows with his friends, collect clams with his mother, and dream about sailing away from the life of poverty that was all he had ever known. The same passion which had left him standing in the shallows, motionless, for hours, a three-pronged fishing spear in one hand and a hand woven net in the other.

Despite his mild obsession- which he surely had in common with most of the District- he could never gather the resolve to battle the morning crowds that surrounded the docks and beach, just to join with his one true love.

It was during this early morning ritual that the Finnick stumbled across a strange sea creature of his own, splayed limply across golden sand. At first Finnick was sure that he'd stumbled across a body. Seeing the young unblemished face, he immediately assumed that the young man was a Career in training. One who'd either misstepped in the minefield of pre-Games politics, or one who'd sought the only out available for a final year Career. However, he noticed that the young man was more of a teenager than a man, and therefore it was unlikely that either was the case. He was too young to be a threat to most of the senior year volunteers, and too young for the psychological pressure to have built to the point of no return. He was too well fed to be one of the community home boys, and rarely would such a good looking teenager not be sponsored by a family.

The young man presented quite the conundrum, and Finnick, assuming the young man was dead, was happy enough to leave the body for somebody else to deal with. He had no desire to deal with any more dead bodies in this lifetime, and didn't want to have people interrupting his solitude to ask him questions. Questions which would surely be laden with a heavy serving of suspicion and most likely begin with, 'did you kill him?', because despite no Victor in Four ever harming another resident, the stigma was entrenched. He was used to the wary manner in which the inhabitants of District Four treated their Victors; with a mixture of idolization and a healthy dose of appreciation for the danger that Victors presented. An awareness borne from watching Victors killing and back-stab their way out of the arena, and then seeing their subsequent break-downs, which were often quite public. It tended to leave the impression that Victors were broken violent creatures, one wrong comment away from mass murder.

His silent debate was interrupted by the halting and uneven rise of the young man's chest. He felt a faint stirring of surprise, given the pallor of the boys skin, and the blue encircling his mouth, Finnick had been certain that they young man was deceased. With a great deal of reluctance, and an absurd desire to turn around and simply pretend he hadn't seen anything, he knelt next to the boy.

The boy twitched as if sensing Finnick's presence. His brown eyes flickered open for a split second, glassy and unfocused.

Finnick sighed silently to himself.

He leant over the young man, and the boy's eyes struggled to focus on him, losing some of their glossy sheen.

"Can you hear me?" Finnick asked quietly, checking for responsiveness. He scoured his memories of Career training which at one point had included basic First Aid. Unfortunately, the price of being a prodigy was that he'd only completed two years of his 'studies' and it was so long ago that he couldn't recall what markers of responsiveness he was meant to be observing.

The boy grunted intelligibly at him, this mouth and tongue moving in dichotomy. A frown of dismay graced the boy's bluish lips.

"Okay," Finnick said reassuringly, not knowing what else to say. He wondered what he was doing. But with unvoiced sigh, he hauling himself to his feet. He crouched back down next to the boy on the balls of his toes.

"I'm going to take you back to my house, and then go and get the doctor. Okay?"

It wasn't really a question, and he was already lifting the boy out of the sand.

The boy let out a faint noise of protest, but his body lay limp and unresponsive.

Finnick couldn't help but feel grateful that the streets where empty at the crowing hour, as he took a shortcut through the centre of town, carrying the boy bridle style. He usually took a longer, more circuitous route to and from Victor's Village, in order to avoid the residents of District Four. In the dim morning glow Finnick only saw a few old, wizened fishermen preparing for a day's work on the trawlers.

When the Victor reached Victor's Village, Finnick shifted the boy in his arms so that he could open his door. Navigating the entrance hall, he headed into the kitchen. He cleared the kitchen bench with one careless sweep of his forarm, before depositing the boy onto the marble surface.

The boy was more alert than before. His eyes tracked Finnick warily, seemingly all-to-aware that he was defenceless in a Victor's house.

Finnick sighed internally at the common reaction to his presence, but didn't deign to comment on it.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he reassured the boy gently, "I'm going to go and get a doctor. I'll be back shortly."

The boy made a vicious noise of protest, seemingly more averse to being seen to by a doctor, than remaining in a Victor's house.

"I have to get you some help. You're hypothermic."

"Nugh," the boy complained, "dunnt."

Finnick stood there immobile for several seconds, unsure what to do. Finally, he decided that if the boy didn't want to be seen to by the doctor, then he must have a good reason. Instead, he climbed the stairs to the upstairs bedrooms and collected two thick blankets from the linen cupboard. He slipped into the lounge room, placing he blankets over the back of one of the couches. He returned to the kitchen, lifting the boy off the cool marble of the kitchen bench, carrying him to the lounge, before stripping him of his sodden clothes, and covering him with the thick blankets.

Finnick headed up the stairs to his mother's old room. He ignored the untouched dresser, with her comb and perfumes still laid out. He didn't glance at the bed which was made to her exacting standards, complete with her ridiculous pink cushions. Instead he entered the en suite bathroom. Reaching under the sink with grasping hands he found her old hot water bottle that she'd claimed worked wonders on her aching bones.

Returning to the downstairs kitchen, he put the kettle on the stove to boil. He half filled the water pack with tap water, and pulled the kettle from the stove at the first sign of a whistle. With gentle, steady hands, he added poured boiling water into the bottle, until it reached the rim. Screwing the lid on tightly, he wiped the outside of the bottle down with a dish wipe before returning to the lounge room. The teenager was still shivering despite the thick blankets he was swaddled in, and laying the bottle gently against the boy's chest, Finnick prayed that he wouldn't have to spend that night digging a grave in the backyard.

It would be awkward if people started asking questions.

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A short time later he pulled himself to his feet from where he'd been sitting beside the teenager's shivering form. He passed into the kitchen and pulled some bread from the pantry and eggs from the fridge. Retrieving a bowl from under the sink, and a whisk from the draw, he cracked a few eggs, and began to make scrambled eggs. Adding a touch of goat's milk, he poured the mixture into a hot pan. Running through the rest of his morning ritual, he made himself a coffee with beans imported from the capitol, and toasted a slice of bread until it was charcoal black.

Once finished, he sat down at the kitchen bench and dug in. He realised as he went to pick up his coffee mug, that the marble was still damp from his impromptu house-guest and the moisture had created a suction seal. He slid the coffee mug to the edge of the counter-top, breaking the seal, before lifting the mug to his mouth.

He sighed in appreciation. As much as he despised the Capitol as a whole, there were some things that they did far better than the Districts; coffee being one of them.

After picking at the last of the egg left on his plate, and emptying his mug, he placed his cutlery gently on his plate and lent backwards with a sigh of satisfaction. Most people in the capitol seemed happy to regurgitate what they ate in order to stay skinny, but Finnick had always appreciated the filling sensation of a lot of good food. His current sculpted muscles and Adonis-like physique was the result of his strenuous exercise regime, and the unrelenting demands of the capitol. With a stretch and a yawn, he pulled himself to his feet and deposited the dishes in the sink.

In the end, Finnick ended up spending most of the day orbiting the lounge room and his unconscious house guest. The boy stirred several times throughout the daylight hours, but didn't wake. It was verging on nightfall when his eyes finally fluttered open. They boy was more aware than when he'd previously awoken, and his eyes flickered around the room, taking in the spacious carpeted room and the plush leather lounge.

"Who're you?" he asked.

Finnick was vaguely surprised that despite seemingly being fully aware of his surroundings, the teenager had failed to recognise him.

"I'm Finnick Odair, Victor of the 65th. You don't know me?" he asked, frowning in concern.

"No." The boy responded, "Should I?"

Since the 65th Games, Finnick hadn't met anyone, from the Capitol or the Districts, who didn't instantly recognised him.

"I suppose not." Finnick responded diplomatically.

"Do you know where I am?" the boy asked.

"You're in District Four," Finnick explained cautiously. At the boy's blank look he continued. "Panem."

Finnick was vaguely unnerved as the boy's expression became unreadable.

"It seems I'm having some memory difficulties," the boy commented blandly, "What year is it?"

Finnick wasn't sure what to make of such an unusual question, but answered regardless.

"This will be the year of the 69th Hunger Games."

"Hunger Games?" the boy inquired, his expression mildly curious.

Finnick grimaced uncomfortably. The Games were such a intrinsic part of life in Panem that he'd never had to explain them before. Children grew up watching the Hunger Games, and rarely if ever asked questions about them. If they did, then it was only in the privacy of their own homes. Parents were usually quick to censor children who expressed any opinion -good or bad- about the Games in public, for fear of being made an example of by the ever-watchful authorities. By the time they entered School- usually around four or five- they knew the party line by heart, and only ever expressed sanctioned opinions when directly prompted. Finnick had never thought to express in words what the Games were, and had never attempted to express his own personal opinion. The very fact that this boy was so willing to ask- to question- was almost frightening. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and a chill ran down his spine; the ever-present sensation of being watched became oppressive.

"What's your name?" the Victor diverted.

"Alex." The boy replied quickly, before continuing, "Why did you help me?" the teenager's expression was closed, yet suspicious, "What do you want?"

Finnick raised an eyebrow, faintly offended.

"Nothing from you, I simply didn't think you'd appreciate me leaving you to die."

The boy flushed.

"Thank you, then." He said quietly, "I do appreciate your help."

Finnick nodded his head slightly, unsure what else to say.

"So, do you remember where you are from?"

The boy- Alex- frowned, as if searching his memory.

"No."

"What about how you ended up on the beach?" he asked.

"No, sorry."

Finnick was frustrated at being stonewalled- whether it was intentional or not- and he was unsure how to proceed. Where once he was naturally gifted at socialising, and could talk for hours about nothing in particular, now his native Four personality was socially inept and faintly awkward. While he spent a great deal of time socialising with the elite within the Capitol, he preferred to divorce himself totally from his Capitol facade when in his home District. Even at the expense of what had once been key personality traits. When he retreated to the haven of Four, he was only ever his visceral self- mercurial, socially inept and introverted. Behaviours he was never allowed to indulge in when he was acting the part of the Capitol's favoured son.

"Do you know where your parents are?" Finnick asked, continuing the line of questions.

Alex frowned again, "Dead."

Finnick nodded his head somewhat sympathetically, "I'm sorry to hear that, but if you can remember that, why can't you recall anything else?"

Alex shrugged helplessly.

Finnick sighed.

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The truth was that Alex remembered in excruciating detail the circumstances that had led to him washing up on a beach in a place called Panem. He simply believed that given the lack of information he had about the situation he'd found himself in, it would improve his longevity to keep his mouth shut.

The series of events began something like this.

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Alan Blunt, Head of Special Operation in MI6's covert Black Site Projects, sat behind his mahogany desk staring emotionlessly at Alex, as the teenager stood before him defiantly.

Alex blinked back, frustration and helplessness simmering beneath the miasma of despair that had clung to him since Jack's death.

Mrs Jones reached into her breast pocket, seizing a peppermint. She unwrapped it with a methodology that spoke of ritual, and popped it into her mouth.

"No," Alex said quietly, not bothering to allow Blunt time to begin his equivocation.

Despite Alex's belligerence, he was resigned to his fate, too worn down and apathetic to care anymore. His sense of self-worth had been eroded by a year of struggling to survive day-to-day, and constantly on edge, apprehensively waiting for Blunt to throw him back into the lion's den -knowing it was only a matter of time. In that regard, Alex almost felt a sense of relief knowing that the time had finally come.

Jack's death had been the tipping point. His best friend, his sister, dead in a fiery ball of flames because Blunt thought it would be a good idea to send her - a civilian - with him to Cairo.

"Whatever this is; whatever new way you've concocted to get me killed, you can count me out," Alex said with a faint frown.

Blunt's expression remained stoic and unreadable. The man reached forward and lay a hand gently on top of the manila file in front of him, running his index finger slowly down the right-hand side in a sickening mockery of a caress.

"Alex, you are the only one who can complete this mission," Blunt stated coldly, "You seem to have forgotten that you have a duty to your country. Such disregard for our efforts in housing and protecting you is unacceptable. Without us you would be dead many times over. Do you not recall that you are a target for both the triads and SCORPIA?"

Alex raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. He recalled the excuse that Blunt had used to wrangle him into going to Cairo. He had suspected from the start that the sniper at Brookland Comprehensive was somehow on Blunt's payroll- probably via a few fake names and offshore bank accounts. The whole narrative had reeked of MI6 style manipulation. Especially considering the outcome.

"What is it this time?" Alex asked facetiously, "A billionaire psycho with a poor hairdo wants to take over the world? somebody has developed daisies that spy on British agents and report back to their Russian handlers? Osama bin Laden has decided to take a shit on British soil and you want me to off him?"

Blunt frowned heavily, marring his usually blank and inexpressive face.

"Alex," He chided, " Take this seriously. We wouldn't call you in unless it was for the most vital of missions. You are unparalleled at what you do. We wouldn't waste your time, nor our own, by sending you out on second tier missions."

"Gee, thanks," Alex replied sarcastically, " Its nice to know I'm appreciated."

"Indeed," Blunt stated stoically, apparently ignoring Alex's sarcastic tone, " Now, this mission in particular is highly sensitive. You will not be able to mention it to anyone, not even your foster family. This might be the difference between nuclear war, or a utopia of peace for years to come."

Alex rolled his eyes irreverently, but remained silent.

"A few weeks ago we acquired a Russian scientist who was more than happy to disclose details of the top secret project he and a few others had been working on, in return for a new identity for him and his family as well as some cash in hand. It seemed that while he is an opportunist, he is also a rather pragmatic altruist. He believed that the technology he was working on, in the hands of the Soviets, could result in untold destruction and loss of life. He believed that by giving us access to the same technology we could return to something of a stalemate. A balance of power in which neither side will make a move in fear of reprisal from the other."

"You're talking about the beginning of another Cold War," Alex stated distastefully.

"Yes, of a sort." Blunt agreed, " But such a stalemate is often necessary to ensure that the world's superpowers are held accountable. It would result in a catastrophe if we were to allow a country like Russia to act unimpinged. It is for this reason that we summoned you today. We require somebody to test this new technology to ensure that the technology Sasha has given us is both real and viable."

Alex twitched, annoyed at Blunt's typical circuitous manner of speech.

Ignoring Alex's growing annoyance, Blunt continued.

"Unfortunately, due to the enclosed space within the machine, only people of rather small dimensions are able to squeeze into the internals. Therefore, as you are perhaps our most competent agent under 100 kg and 6 feet, we request that you take part in this mission."

Alex felt a glimmer of frustration at that comment. He was somewhat self-conscious about his height; an issue stemming from the innate knowledge that his stature was the key reason that Blunt and his MI6 lackeys hadn't cut him loose yet. At 5 feet 7 inches, he was still considered 'useful', still an 'asset', and his fresh-faced appearance - as well as his beguiling blond hair and calf brown eyes- didn't help matters. He eagerly looked forward to the day he began shaving, as it would signify the beginning of the end of his indentured servitude to MI6, and his country by proxy.

He wanted to argue; to claim that he was incompetent and inexperienced, but he recognised as self-defeating argument when he saw one - and his record spoke for itself.

One look at Blunt and Jones' stony expressions, and he knew that nothing he could say would stop them.

The helplessness he felt was tempered by determination; he would not make this easy for them.

"Jack is a burnt and shrivelled corpse because of you lot," he pointed out callously, "I have no reason to comply. There is nothing more you can do to me that hasn't already been done. So if you don't mind, I will be leaving now."

Alex's eyes were cold and hard, the soft brown colour tainted by his dispassion. He made to stand, but Jones leaned towards him, her face a picture of concern.

"Alex, I don't know if you've been made aware, but Dr. Three has spent the last four months resurrecting SCORPIA. He is determined to restore SCORPIA's legacy. He wishes to minimise the company's loss of face by making an example out of you. I believe that you are aware of exactly how Dr. Three tends to make examples of people who do not support his interests. After all, you've read his books." Jones pointed out carefully, "We do not wish for you or your friends to be harmed, Alex, and to ensure this doesn't happen we are more than willing to take Tom Harris and his family, as well as the Pleasures into protective custody." She finished, her tone lifting suggestive.

Alex's stony expression twisted into a bitter grimace, "But I have to do this for you in return, I'm guessing," he growled bitingly, "How convenient that whenever there's a threat against me, you are happy to help, just as long as I do something for you."

"Alex," Blunt stated, his tone a mockery of sincerity, "There was no way we could have known that Cairo was a trap."

Alex glared at the grey man.

"And yet you call yourself Military Intelligence." Alex quipped. "SCORPIA played you like a fiddle; you've become predictable. Even the terrorist organisations have your number, Blunt. How many more people will die before you realise that you are obsolete?"

Blunts lips thinned, but before he could say anything Jones interrupted.

"Alex, its true that we failed you in Cairo. You have no idea how much we regret what happened there. But you must remember that we recalled you well before those unfortunate events unfolded. In the end, the Americans were the ones who were running you in Cairo, not us."

"Yeah, the CIA who strung me up and waterboarded me. But at least they were honest about their intentions." Alex barked back. "They didn't play this game," he said, waving his hand around the room at large.

Blunt frowned heavily.

"Despite your valid concerns, Alex," he said blandly, "We require your assistance, and in return we will ensure the safety and well-being of those that you care about."

Alex felt the violent twist of bitterness in his heart. Resentment.

He closed his eyes with a weak sigh. He loved the Pleasures dearly, but after Jack's death there had been a hole in his chest – a gaping, bleeding, torn chasm - that he refused to fill. He had hardened himself against love and compassion because he refused to let anybody get close enough to hurt him like that again. He knew himself well enough to know that he would always value Sabrina's life – the only friend that had ever really understood what his 'missions' entailed – more than he did his own safety.

He bowed his head in resignation, a faint muscle in his cheek jumping as he clenched his jaw. "Fine."

"Thank you, Alex," Blunt said, as if he were just doing MI6 a favour. He couldn't help but wonder somewhat hysterically if Blunt considered Alex's missions as small favours equatable to taking out the trash. He wondered if Blunt had ever stepped foot into the field, or if he'd spent his whole life behind a desk. He pondered whether Blunt knew what it was like to feel blood ooze through his fingers as he grasped the handle of a knife. He considered whether Blunt knew what it was like to watch somebodies brains splash against pavement, and know that he was the one that put them there. He wondered whether Blunt knew how exhilarating those few moments before and after a kill were; and how crushing the aftermath could be. The way the world shifted and fell under Alex's feet, as he struggle to stay afloat after the adrenaline and shock had warn off.

Alex didn't think that the man could have been as composed and emotionless about sending a teenager to fight adults to the death, if he had known what it felt like.

Blunt seemed entirely unaware of Alex's thought train, and nonchalantly flicked open the folder in front of him. His finger slid down the left-hand side of the page, before he began to talk in a slow monotonous drone.

"Two weeks ago, an agent - who will remain unnamed – extracted from Russia, a scientist. We have been in conference with this scientist, and have determined that he is, in fact, working on a machine of untold strategic value.

We'd previously only heard rumours, from our agents in the Kremlin, and we weren't sure how accurate our sources were, despite all reports concurring. When we made contact with our agent, we realised that the extraction of the scientist was by his direct request. It seems that he is more than willing to share his technological advancements with us. He seemed to feel that the Kremlin would misuse the advantage that this technology would give them, but feels that Western powers are far more trustworthy. He fears that misuse may result in a global catastrophe, unlike anything we have ever seen."

Alex almost snorted at that, this man obviously hadn't grown up in the same universe as he had. The young teenager didn't think there was any potential worldwide disaster worse than nuclear fallout covering the majority of northern Europe.

Blunt continued, "This machine is colloquially known as a 'time machine'."

Blunt paused, a ghost of a grimace passing across his features; obviously uncomfortable talking about something that was straight from a sci-fi movie. Alex was suitably unimpressed, but knew it was not in Blunt's nature to jest. He absentmindedly pondered what the long-term effects of extreme stress were, and whether they were linked to early onset dementia.

Mrs Jones noted his somewhat disbelieving expression and scowled, "this is a serious matter, Alex."

Alex rolled his eyes, "really?" he asked sarcastically, "because it doesn't sound like it to me. We aren't in 'Back to the Future', I'm not about to jump into a Delorean and go racing through time."

Mr Blunt, clearly recovered from his brief episode of discomfort, stated sharply, "I have never had a more serious conversation, Alex."

Alex raised an eyebrow sardonically, "so what about paradoxes then? Are we going to destroy the present by changing the past?"

Mrs Jones' severe expression lightened, seeming to believe this response meant Alex was taking all of this bullshit seriously.

"The machine can only send an individual into the future, not the past. This is because the scientist felt this condition would help to circumvent any true paradoxes. And certain time limits have been prescribed to limit further paradoxes.

"For example, the first time limit is the time period that the subject is allowed to enter. To avoid paradoxes, you are only allowed to enter a time, in which otherwise, you'd be long dead.

"The second time limit is the period of time you are allowed to spend in the future. This is based on the idea that the shorter your sabbatical in the future, the less the timeline will diverge from its natural course."

Alex raised an eyebrow sardonically. "Really?"

Mr Blunt looked to Mrs Jones, faint signs of resignation visible on his usually unreadable expression.

She nodded, understanding an unspoken message. Mrs Jones stood and waved for Alex to follow her. Alex followed her from the office, and followed her down the corridor to the elevator. They stood in awkward silence as the elevator descended into the depths of the basement.

"Please Alex, take this seriously. You cannot overestimate the vital role we are asking you to play," she begged.

"Yeah, about that," Alex said, with snark which had once been so characteristic to his person, "you still haven't outlined my 'mission'. What is it you're trying to get me to do this time?"

Mrs Jones remained silent for several moments, until the elevator's doors opened with an electronic beep.

They entered a room off a long corridor.

"We are asking you to go to the future," she explained as they stepped through the doorway, "we chose you in particular, because of not only your small size, but also your native abilities and raw instincts of which our ranks are so devoid of. We are most confident in your ability to complete your mission, entirely without any support from our clandestine service. We are relying on your intuition and instincts, and as we cannot reach you in the future, your mission will have to be self-determined. But generally, we ask that you seek information. Apprise us of the general circumstances, but be cautious about the information that you pass back to us. Too much and you may change the course of the future for the worse."

Alex was unimpressed. Her vague explanatory terms left too much leeway, he felt that he was on too long a leash, and he was suddenly very anxious. MI6 rarely let him on a long tether, they preferred shorter leashes that they could violently tug on when they feared he was disentangling himself from their control. They were aware that he was a loose cannon, one who could and would defect at any time. Alex suspected that they held a folder, full of multiple contingencies for any such occurrence, deep in the filing cabinets of level 5.

Their willingness to give him so much latitude did not bode well for this mission's survivability.

Alex looked up, and saw a wide-open room, the floor covered by thick snaking electrical cables. In the centre of the room, looking small and rather unimpressive, sat a tin bucket, connected to the majority of the wires and cabling.

Along the back wall sat a concrete parapet with blast screens surrounding it; it was lead lined.

No, this mission didn't bode well for his continued survival at all.

"This," Mrs Jones said with grandeur, as if announcing the entrance of a King, "is the time machine."

Alex's expression remained unchanging, but Mrs Jones forged on, "you will be sent to the year 2569. Your assignment is to be unobtrusive. Leaving the timeline as unaffected as possible, scout out the future and report in only general terms about the changes of society and the world. Two months after you are dropped, we will send a return shuttle which will land at these co-ordinates at this time."

She handed him a small slip of paper and a GPS. The paper held two different co-ordinates and two dates.

"what's the second set for?" he asked, curious despite himself.

Mrs Jones pursed her lips.

"If you are unable to make it to the point at this time then there will be another opportunity for us to retrieve you one month later."

A man with thick glasses stepped forward and spoke with a thick Russian accent.

"This is my time machine, you like?"

Alex shrugged.

The man frowned at him.

Mrs Jones introduced them, "Alex this is Sasha. He is the man who invented this machine. Sasha this is Alex, the operative who will be testing your machine."

The man grinned at him with open – bloodthirsty - glee, "test subject, yes?"

Alex paled slightly, "you know, despite this great offer, I'd really rather not. Can't somebody else be the… um… test subject?"

Mrs Jones shook her head, "we've had several different animals go through the machine, the only problem is that they aren't intelligent enough to return. Sasha might be a tad unhinged, but he is brilliant, you don't need to worry Alex."

Sasha muttered in Russian under his breath. Alex had only just begun studying Russian, and could only pick out a few words, "Hope…live …time."'

Alex suddenly really regretted spending the last few weeks playing computer games, instead of doing his Russian homework.

Mrs Jones cleared her throat, "is the machine ready Sasha?"

The man stared at Mrs Jones blankly for several seconds as he processed her words and then he nodded, "ready."

Alex's fists clenched nervously at his side.

The insane scientist shuffled Alex towards the machine and swung the door open. Alex reluctantly slid inside, the tin can was actually constructed from 3-foot-thick steel welded panels. It was a tight fit and Alex felt the sudden onset of claustrophobia.

"Good luck," called out Mrs Jones, her voice nearly silenced by the harsh ringing of steel on steel as the door swung shut.

For a moment the world was still, and Alex tried to brace himself. He felt his heart pounding, the cold apathy warmed by the burning fires of fear.

With the whirring of machinery, his world began to spin.

"Oh, God," Alex swore as the G-forces pulled him against the outside of the machine, the force so strong he couldn't lift his head. He slammed his mouth shut, his eyes squeezed closed tightly. Then he prayed to every deity this side of Hell.

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Alex was glad to get the stickiness of the salt water off his skin as he stood under the warm shower spray. After a long, circular, and all-together rather pointless conversation with Finnick Odair, Victor of the 65th games – whatever that meant – Finnick had decided to let him stay until he regained his memory. Alex didn't have the heart to tell him that he didn't actually have any memory issues. He felt it was safer to play dumb.

He needed to get a sense for where and when he was.

Finnick had already set the stage for Alex, already, introducing the key players through his questions earlier. He had already outlined what this society found important, and what had struck Alex as odd, was the emphasis that this time had on 'Games'. The measure of the passage of time based on which year's 'Games' were on. Finnick's stature and obvious fitness, paired with his ridiculously large, but barren house as well as the fact that he'd introduced himself as 'Victor of the 65th Games', all set the scene for a society that was sporting mad. What specific type of sport, Alex hadn't yet figured out.

He'd be sure to do some subtle prodding tomorrow, bright and early, when his new friend's guard was down, tempered by the drowsiness of sleep.

Alex scrubbed himself harshly with the bar of soap. His skin felt oddly tight, and he wondered whether that was a side effect of time travel. He still shook slightly from the cold, despite the warm water that coursed over his shoulders. The teenage spy eventually turned the water off and slid out of the shower, drying himself vigorously with the towel. He slipped into the clothing that Finnick had kindly offered. They were too big, but he wasn't going to complain about warm dry clothes.

He ran his hand through his damp clothes that he'd dropped onto the bathroom floor. When he failed to find the GPS or the paper with the written coordinates he began to panic.

It was clear that he'd lost them, probably before he washed up on the beach. He scoured his memory for anything that had happened between stepping into the 'time machine' and waking up in Finnick's house, but drew a blank. He couldn't remember how he'd ended up on the beach, and had no idea where the GPS or the written instructions could be.

Panic threatened to overwhelm him as his heart shuddered in his chest and his hands shook from something other than the remnants of hypothermia.

He collapsed onto the floor, crying and laughing in hysterics.

He was trapped.

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Once he'd gathered himself, and hidden the evidence of his hysterics, he headed downstairs towards the kitchen that he remembered passing on his way upstairs. He could hear the burner and cooking utensils being moved. Following the noise, he found Finnick just as he was serving food onto white ceramic plates. It was a little too late for dinner, but both of them were hungry – Alex more than Finnick.

"Thank you for putting me up, you didn't have to," Alex remarked.

Finnick looked up from his meal, vaguely surprised, "don't worry about it. If I didn't then you'd probably end up in the Community Home until you remembered."

Alex assumed that was a bad thing.

They ate in relative silence. The food was good, dried fish, cheese and slightly salty bread with a mug of water sitting in the centre of the table. Alex drank plenty.

When they finished eating, Alex said an awkward goodnight and retreated to the room Finnick had directed him to earlier. He crashed onto the bed, and he was fast asleep not 5 minutes later.

The next morning breakfast was scrambled eggs on toast, and Alex had the feeling that that was a staple meal.

Finnick suggested they head to the Hall of Justice to either apply for residency, or to confirm identification. It was possible that Alex was originally from District Four. Possible, but not likely. Alex had blond hair and brown eyes, whereas most inhabitants of District Four had either black or brown hair, with blue or green eyes. Blond was an unusual colouration, something so rarely seen in District Four that even Finnick, social recluse that he was, would have recognized him.

They entered through the large double doors, unhindered by the Peace-Keepers standing to attention outside. It was obvious that they recognised Finnick, though they made no move to acknowledge him.

A bulky man stood beside a desk to the side of the double doors, and when Finnick approached the man looked up and smiled at him. "Finnick, my old friend, what are you doing here on this lovely day?"

Alex's facial expressions became an indeterminably cooler. There was something not quite right with this man's speech pattern.

"Hello Sebastian, I found this one washed up on the shores," he pointed casually to Alex, "and I wanted to know if you guys know him, he doesn't remember anything but his name."

Sebastian scrutinised Alex closely before shrugging and turning back to Finnick, "doesn't look like he's from around here, he looks more suited to district 1 or 2 with that blond hair. And he looks well fed too. I wonder how he ended up on the beach." He glanced back at Alex suspiciously.

Finnick shrugged with forced casualness, "can you have a look, then?"

"Name, boy?" Sebastian asked harshly.

"Alex Rider."

The man turned to the bulky computer that sat on the cluttered desk before him.

"Hmm… Alex Rider… hmm," the man shook his head and turned back to the pair, "there's no Alex Rider in the system."

Finnick bit his lip in thought, "can you register him as a citizen of Four then, until we can find his home District?"

"I suppose, seeing as he doesn't actually exist he could become a citizen of any damn District he likes," Sebastian said snappishly, "but the question is, how does he not exist? The capitol logs everybody when they're born. There is nobody in the whole of Panem named Alex Rider. How is that possible? Unless he's given you a false name…" He glared at Alex suspiciously.

Finnick shrugged, "is that really your problem?" He asked, "does it really matter if a single person somehow avoided the registry? Especially if he's trying to become a citizen now."

"Well," Sebastian debated, "it does mean he's missed several Reapings. I'm not sure the Capitol will be too happy about that."

Finnick grimaced.

"Does the Capitol have to know?" he asked thoughtlessly, more to himself than the man before him.

Sebastian's eyes widened in outrage, "of course the Capitol must know! To do otherwise is treason! Besides," he added, "it will show as an anomaly in the database. They will know immediately even if we didn't draw their attention to it."

Finnick sighed. "So?"

Sebastian looked at Finnick calculatingly for several seconds, his cold eyes giving Alex the heebie-jeebies. Then the large man turned away, frantically digging through what seemed like endless piles of paperwork covering every inch of the desk. Finally, he gave up with the desk top and started opening draws. He reached the third draw and found what he was looking for.

"Here's a birth certificate, fill in your details or what you can and we'll file it," the bureaucrat said, "I can't tell you what happens after that, but that all that I can do."

Alex took the birth certificate and the pen that was offered. He leant against one of the many piles of paper covering the desktop, filling in his details. His sex and name were easy enough, and some quick maths gave him his birthdate, but what about his parents' details? He handed the certificate back to Sebastian, "I can't remember my parents."

Perfect, it wasn't a lie after all; he didn't remember either of his parents.

Sabastian shrugged apathetically, "doesn't really matter, I suppose. If you don't exist, they probably don't either. Now, I will call Darren and he can take you to the community home."

"Don't bother," Finnick interjected, "I offered to put him up until he can remember where he lives."

Sebastian raised a sceptical eyebrow, "and the fact that he doesn't exist, mightn't suggest that he has nowhere to live?"

Finnick flushed slightly in abashed acknowledgement of Alex's underhand trickery.

Alex twitched in shame.

"Well, I suppose he'd be better off living with you," the man said callously, "I can't count the number of Community kids I've seen fished out of water in the last few years."

Finnick nodded, his lips pale white as he pursed them in reluctant agreement.

"But if he's living with you, then he has to be a relative," Sebastian pointed out, "the law states—"

"Yeah, okay— why?" Finnick asked.

"The law states that it's to prevent more than one family unit living in a housing complex. To stop overcrowding."

Finnick almost rolled his eyes.

"So, what then?"

Sebastian was silent in thought, "you could adopt him."

"Adopt?" Finnick choked out in disbelief.

And rightly so. Alex was only three years younger than him.

"You're eighteen Finnick; entirely capable of adopting. And it's not like he'll be a financial burden," the bureaucrat points out.

"Fine, I'll take him," Finnick said in resignation.

"You don't have to," Alex protested impotently. He felt that there was more going on behind the scenes that he didn't understand. That he couldn't understand because he didn't have the context. But he also really didn't want to be stuck in an orphanage which regularly fished its dead residents out of the ocean. What the hell kind of orphanage was that?

"Are you sure?" Sebastian asked.

"Yes. I'm sure." Finnick hissed in frustration, his eyes flashed with anger. He noticed that Sebastian flinched away from him minutely, in the face of his ire. He wasn't pleased about being forced into this situation. He didn't like that the kid had played him. He didn't like that his morals meant that he couldn't, in good conscience, let the boy go to the Community Home.

Sebastian turned away quickly, digging through his desk again, searching for another form. He gave it to Finnick and asked him to sign it.

Finnick, with only a slight hesitation, did.

And so, at the age of eighteen Finnick Odair became the legal guardian of a manipulative fifteen-year-old that he thought he could very well hate.

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It was a cool reception that Alex received back at Finnick's house. His newly titled legal guardian was very unimpressed, and was making no efforts to hide it.

"First off, I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt. Did you know that you wouldn't be in the system?" Finnick questioned as he sat down in the lounge room armchair.

"No," Alex answered. Of course he hadn't known, not for certain at least. Though he had no good reason to suspect that his name would be in the system.

Finnick gave him a cool searching look, not quite believing the boy's effortless lie.

"Look," Alex explained, "maybe I didn't know for certain, but really, I was caught between the same rock and hard place as you. I don't remember anything, so of course I didn't know if my name was in the system. But I if I had, then I would have been out of your hair for good."

Finnick sighed, "well I guess I can't blame you then."

"I'm sorry about you becoming my guardian. I know it's probably not what you want."

"It's not about what I want, kid. The fact is that being anywhere near me is dangerous. Being my friend, especially so. Being related, if only legally, even more so," Finnick explained with a sigh.

"What do you mean?" Alex asked.

Finnick was silent for several moments, seemingly gathering his thoughts.

"I'm a Victor. That means that the Capitol, the people that run this country, sees me as a very public figure. I'm constantly in the media when I'm living there. And I live there six months out of the year. But I have to be what they want me to be. If I do not conform, if I do anything that doesn't fit the persona of Finnick Odair, Victor, then it's a death sentence. Not to me. I'm too valuable," he spat the word with venom, "but to everybody else around me. You'll become just another leash on my freedom. Like Mags, and like my mother."

Alex frowned, it seemed that he'd seriously misinterpreted what the 'Games' were.

"What are the Games, Finnick?" Alex asked.

Finnick looked away, looked anywhere but Alex. The boy sat across from him, entirely unaware that he was sharing the room with a murderer. Finnick felt vaguely ill. He'd never had to explain himself to somebody before. Never come across somebody who had no formed opinion on the Hunger Games. Somebody that hadn't already judged him based on the actions he'd taken during his games. It was refreshing and terrifying all at once. He didn't want to tell Alex. He wanted the boy to keep that innocence, that naivety.

"The Games," he began, "are actually called the Hunger Games. They are an annual event to celebrate the Victory of the Capitol over the Districts, and to remind us all of the power the Capitol holds over us."

Alex gave him an encouraging look, when he trailed off, unwilling to continue.

"To commemorate this event, two tributes from each of the twelve Districts, one boy, and one girl, is sent to the Capitol to compete in the Hunger Games."

Finnick could see that Alex was getting frustrated at his half-hearted avoidance.

Like ripping out a fishhook, he thought to himself, just get it over with Finnick.

"In the Hunger Games, these twenty-four tributes will fight to the death. Only one will survive. That person will be crowned Victor."

There goes. He admitted it. Not in as many words, but still. Alex was a smart kid, smart enough to put the dots together. Alex knew that it was a fight to the death. Knew that there was only one 'winner', and he knew that Finnick was that winner. Knew that Finnick was a murderer. Knew that Finnick had killed children.

He refused to look at Alex, even as he heard the boy let out a deep breath and lean back against the chair.

Alex meanwhile, was consolidating his knowledge. He realised that this little town, which he'd assumed was part only part of District Four, was only one of twelve, most likely equally sized towns. He summarily estimated the population of Panem to be between 72-100 thousand, not including the Capitol. Instantly, his thoughts were dragged off course by an overwhelming sense of dread. If that was the population of the whole country, and as far as he could tell, Panem was the only country known of, then such a small population could cause untold genetic issues.

He had already noted that both Finnick and Sebastian had commented on the physical characteristics of the Districts. He idly wondered what period of inbreeding was necessary for blond hair to become a common enough physical trait to characterise a whole District. He wondered what kind of state the District gene pool would be like by that point.

It also suggested pro-longed District based isolation, a theory which was supported by the attitudes of those Alex had met in District Four.

His tangent was interrupted by Finnick, "Alex?" the man asked quietly, as if scared that Alex was in shock.

"Yes?"

"Are you alright?" Finnick asked.

Alex was curious, he wondered why Finnick sounded so hesitant, but quickly realised that in an off-handed way, Finnick had done what was tantamount to confessing murder. Alex realised that Finnick might be concerned at Alex's lack of reaction.

"Yes Finnick, I'm fine," Alex responded calmly, "thank you for telling me."

"Alright," Finnick said, still staring at Alex out of the corner of his eye, waiting for the inevitable freak-out.

He couldn't imagine how somebody could accept the Hunger Games and all its implications so easily. He vividly recalled the year he'd first understood what the Hunger Games actually were. Recalled the horrifying realisation that those weren't just actors on the screen, that the boy who'd just been bisected by a tomahawk was Thomas, who had lived five houses down from Finnick's childhood home. He remembered the panic, the terror, the anger and confusion. He remembered being so confused about Volunteering.

'Why would anyone volunteer to die?' he'd wondered.

It was only later that he realised that people didn't volunteer to die, they volunteered to win. And it had always seemed so absurd to him, right up until he did it himself.

But Alex's reaction was unsettling, as if he'd not yet comprehended what Finnick had told him.

"How old?" Alex asked abruptly.

"Sorry?" Finnick questioned, jolted from his train of thought.

"The ages, there must be some kind of age limit. You said boy and girl, not man and woman," Alex explained.

"Oh, yes. Twelve to eighteen." Finnick stated.

"And you were…?"

"Fourteen."

"Is that young?" Alex inquired, honestly curious, but aware that prying probably wasn't the best social etiquette.

"Yes, very. I'm the youngest to have ever… won," Finnick grimaced disgustedly at his choice of words. He didn't win, no Victor did. They only survived.

Alex nodded silently, his face a frown of concentration, as if puzzling through a problem.

"And the Capitol benefits how?"

"Entertainment. Control. Fearmongering," Finnick disclosed stiffly, his jaw clenched.

"Okay," Alex said, for lack of anything else to say.

Finnick sighed, "now, I've been entirely honest with you. It's your turn."

Alex looked up at Finnick cautiously.

"Where are you from? Really?" Finnick asked.

The tiniest hint of defiance flashed across the boy's face, before disappearing behind a false calm.

"I've already told you, I don't know."

Finnick threw Alex a filthy look. A look that said, 'Do you think I'm stupid?'

Alex almost looked contrite, but remained stubbornly silent.

"Your parents?"

"They really are dead," Alex capitulated.

"Your age?"

"I really am fifteen."

Finnick froze in horror, a thought dawning on him.

"You had no records…" he struggled.

"No. I told you though, I wasn't to know."

"You said you were fifteen…" he moaned, his eyes sliding shut in horror.

"I am."

"No! You don't understand! They didn't know how old you were. You could have said that you were eighteen, and they would have had to believe you."

Alex frowned quietly to himself, drawing on his recent knowledge. He quickly realised their missed opportunity, and cursed his earlier restraint. His failure to interrogate Finnick at his first opportunity.

"I'm within the age bracket," Alex commented vaguely.

"Yes," Finnick said finally with a grimace.

"So, what, though? You said it's two people every year, one guy every year. How are they selected? Why are you so worried?"

Finnick sighed painfully, "yes one boy, but it's random draw. That means that the Capitol can twisted the selection in their favour, to ensure interesting tributes each year."

"So, I just make myself uninteresting, then," Alex commented.

Finnick shook his head, "it's not that simple. The very fact that you're living in this house makes you interesting to them. They're obsessed. Not to mention they'll be eager to use you as leverage."

It dawned on Alex exactly how deeply into the hole he had fallen without realising. How irreversibly screwed he was, and for a second, he couldn't help hating this kind, lonely young man who'd put him up free of charge.

"When are the Games this year?" he asked quietly.

"A month and a half," Finnick stated haltingly.

Alex closed his eyes and sighed in exasperated resignation. His stomach clenched in horrified anticipation. Please, don't let me be picked, he begged, unknowingly echoing the thoughts of thousands of children across the country.

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Alex screams as Sarov pulls the trigger, the ringing of gunfire turning into the chug-chug-chug of the conveyer belt it carries him closer and closer towards the crushers. Then Jack is screaming, the car is exploding, and there's so much blood pouring from the hole in Julius' head. Razim is falling, the salt eating-eating-eating, Nile's arrogant grin flashes as he effortlessly twirls his sword in a remarkable show of swordsmanship. Crocodiles wriggle hungrily below him, his arm aches. He can smell the skin on his back as it burns, can't feel the searing heat that he knows he should be able to.

He gasped awake, his limbs jerking and twitching uncontrollably in remembered terror as adrenaline coursed through him.

"Quite the nightmare that," a voice stated calmly, a man silhouetted against the doorway.

Alex had felt briefly ashamed. He'd effectively hidden his nightmare from the Pleasures for the whole period of his stay, yet he here he couldn't hide them for more than a week. He usually never dreamed in strange surrounding, but either exhaustion, or the growing familiarity of his new room had defeated his subconscious. He usually never let his guard down enough for a stranger to enter his room without him waking, yet Finnick stood in the opened doorway. Alex was unnerved.

Finnick walked forward, towards the kid's bed. He was curious about the kid's nightmares, but honestly couldn't bring himself to care. He'd had too much experience about all the horrible things that one person could do to another, he had no desire to build on that knowledge.

"You want to get some fresh air and clear you head?" Finnick asks.

Alex nods, still fighting his instincts that were telling him that he needed oxygen, that he needed to feed his muscles, and that he needed to be ready to fight (flee) at any moment. It's hard to see in the dark. He can't seem to find Finnick's face, and that doesn't help him calm down, even though he intellectually knows who he's talking to.

Alex glanced at the bedside clock, realising it was only two o'clock. He felt faintly guilty for waking the man. He attempted to apologize.

Finnick laughed and waved him off, "no need to apologise, I was already wide awake."

Alex quickly dressed, and they headed out the door. They walked down the street, passed an arching gateway and several other unfamiliar landscapes that he hadn't seen on any of his jaunts through District Four. Finnick wove his way unerringly through the houses and backstreets, Alex following closely behind.

When they reached their destination, it was obvious. The building was huge. The solid steel door was tightly shut, but when Finnick placed his hand on an electric scanner to the left of the entrance, the door swung open.

"Welcome to the District Four's training grounds," Finnick announced, sounding only faintly sardonic, "this is where the Careers train. Where Victors come to work out our frustration, the only way we know how."

Alex looked around. The building was no less impressive inside, with large marble corridors that led to oak doors. The chandeliers were crystal. The opulence left a sour taste in his mouth as he recalled the many delipidated houses within the District.

Finnick guided him through the building out to a large courtyard. The ground was dirt; human shaped dummies lay to one side, bullseyes marked over the vital areas of the body. The other side of the courtyard held a large wooden shed, and as Finnick swung the doors open, Alex realised that it was a weapons cache.

"This is the practise ring. This is where Careers run through a technique until they believe they have perfected it, then they head to the simulation rooms. If they don't complete the technique to the standards of the instructor while under pressure, then they return here to continue training. I thought that seeing as you couldn't sleep and neither can I, a distraction might be welcome."

Alex nodded his head gratefully. Looking at the weapons, he realised the opportunity that Finnick had handed him. He knew that it was possible that he'd be reaped, and if he was, then he'd miss his shuttle back to the past. He was realising that that this may truly be vital for his survival. It was possible that if he was reaped, he may not be able to return to the past. That he'd end up stuck here as an actual citizen of this very messed up country.

And he always leapt at the opportunity to learn new skills. The only weapons that he was any good with were guns, knives and his body. True he was a third Dan in karate and had taken ninjitsu up, in honour of the late Yassen Gregorovitch, so he did have basic knowledge of swords. Basic, however, was the key word in that statement.

His knowledge of knives was based on his short stint with SCORPIA, and wasn't nearly comprehensive enough to use in an actual fight. His knowledge of guns however, was extremely comprehensive. Before Jack had died he he'd had the talent, just not the drive necessary to excel. However, after Julius, he'd learnt to accept that he must kill. He'd rallied against Blunt and Jones, both of whom seemed to think that by not carrying a gun, people wouldn't shoot at him. He fought for the right to harness his instinctive knowledge of guns mechanisms, and quickly became an embryotic shooter. Nurture, not nature.

Finnick leant into the cache and grabbed a trident, "seeing as you don't remember anything, I thought that I might as well teach you something. Using a trident is a useful skill in District Four, if not for fighting, it can give you the basic skills needed for spear fishing. Though I will warn you, using a trident and using a spear to fish are worlds apart, and if you're not careful, you might take your foot off."

"Is this advice from personal experience?" Alex quipped smartly.

Finnick rolled his eyes, he was trying to be serious. But he was also trying to distract himself, and joking worked just as well.

Finnick ran Alex through the various grips and their corresponding uses in different types of strikes and blocks. Then he ran Alex thorugh a basic combat pattern, and set up some dummies. He made Alex repeat certain thrusts and jabs again and again, until the boy's arms shook and his chest heaved. Only then did Finnick let him have a break. He collapsed, bringing the trident down with him.

Finnick rolled his eyes, and could keep himself from commenting jokingly on Alex's weak consitution, though he knew that after almost fifty minutes of using the heavy training trident, even he would have trouble continuing.

Finnick grabbed a blunt wooden practice sword, and a blunt wooden practice trident, both far lighter than the one he'd had Alex training with.

"Now, attack me," Finnick ordered Alex.

Alex slowly lifted his head from where he lay on the ground, trying to catch his breath.

"Are you mad!? Somebody could get hurt, and I'm exhausted," Alex complained.

Finnick scowled at the teens dramatics.

"Attack me!"

"OK, fine but I called it," Alex said as he heaved himself to his feet.

He grabbed the practice trident from Finnick's hand, it was light and unfamiliar in Alex hand. He took a step back from the Finnick and lifted the trident into a defensive block Finnick had shown him not an hour earlier. The trident had longer reach than the sword, so he knew that he would have to stay outside the swords arch.

Finnick also held the sword in a defensive grip. He barked out instructions to Alex; ways to attack, which foot to use, speed, distractions. He continued in a constant litany while they ran through a very slow and stuttered spar. Damn, now he was reminding himself of Brutus.

The fighting sped up as Alex became more comfortable with the weight and balance of the training trident.

Finnick leapt forward, aiming to spear Alex in the chest with the blunt tip of his sword, but Alex held the trident in two hands, and blocked, using a staff fighting technique. He held the trident on either side of the impact zone, forcing the sword up and away from his chest, over his head.

"If this was a real fight," Finnick snarked, "you'd now have a very short shafted trident."

Alex twitched in annoyance at Finnick's response to him taking initiative.

Finnick however, was very impressed. Alex had a lot of potential. After only minor explanation, and corrections, Alex seemed to have already internalised most of the instructions and techniques, using them to great effect. Finnick attacked in a manner that he knew that Alex wouldn't know how to defend against, but was surprised again by Alex's swift dodge. He ruefully thought back to the days when he'd been learning to use the trident.

From a childhood of spear-fishing, it seemed only natural to want to use the trident. However, the static nature of spear-fishing, the silent still wait as the fish swam around your feet, didn't prepare him for the constant movement required to master the trident. He had, much to the consternation of his instructors, been useless to begin with. He refused to move his feet, and often ended up on his arse instead. But a key characteristic of Finnick's personality was determination, and even as a young child, Finnick was determined that he would master the trident. And so, he had.

Alex was using moves that Finnick hadn't taught him. And Finnick quickly realised that Alex must have had some instruction in other similar weapons, to so quickly adapt to the techniques needed for the trident

Alex felt himself being pushed back, and knew, as he had suspected from the start, that Finnick was playing with him. His chest was heaving, arms shaking, sweat dripping from his brow and his lungs ached by the time Finnick called for halt.

He was incredibly grateful. He dropped the trident, lifting his arms above his head he put his head back and tried to catch his breath. From where he was, he could hear Finnick breathing hard as he rolled his shoulders to stretch out his muscles.

When Alex caught his breath, he too, started to stretch.

"That was fun," Finnick said.

"Fun! You call that fun," Alex choked out, wide eyed and concerned for the sanity of his new friend.

Finnick raised an eyebrow at him, and Alex gave up. He laughed.

"Yeah, I guess it was. You're a great fighter," Alex complimented Finnick sincerely.

"You too kid," Finnick admitted grudgingly.

They packed up together, and exited the building, heading back to 'Victor's Village.'

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