Rated T for violence, gore, and suggestions of rape and necrophilia.

When he wakes, it is with cold stone against his back and even colder air all around him. His every muscle is sore, and when Finnick tries to trace his memory back to the cause, all he can remember is the fog, how it poured over them, choking them, filling their lungs with its violet agony. Finnick had been certain, then, that death was near, that Tigris' basement would become his grave, but he should have known better. The Capitol does not offer its Victors even the smallest of mercies.

Though the smell of antiseptics makes his head pound, he forces himself to sit up. His stomach twists when he sees what little is left of the Star Squad. Katniss and Peeta are still unconscious, and both have been stripped down to their underwear, but besides the three Victors, the room is empty. Finnick glances down at his own body and finds that he is clothed only by a pair of briefs, and not Thirteen's standard issue undergarments. He tries not to think about the hands that changed him and where else they might have wandered, but he shudders all the same.

To the naïve eye, there is no escape from this room, but Finnick knows that there must be a seam in the smooth metal surface. At some point, their captors will come for them. Interrogation can't be their motive, for if it was, they would have kept the other members of the squad alive. All that awaits him, Peeta, and Katniss now is a short drop and a sudden stop broadcast live for all of Panem to see. He promised Annie that he would come back, and never before has he broken a promise to her. Finnick hopes the cameras that must be watching them cannot spot the mist in his eyes.

No. He won't allow this to happen, not on the Capitol's terms. It's a terrible thought to think, much less carry out, but it is what must be done. Finnick can't allow the Girl on Fire's execution to serve as another piece of propaganda. Katniss deserves so much better. Still, his hands tremble as he walks over to where she lays, spread-eagled over the floor. "Katniss. Katniss, wake up." There's no response, and perhaps that's for the best. Having her awake could only make this more difficult.

"I'm sorry, Katniss." His voice breaks halfway through his sentence, but his hands do not tremble as they coil her dark braid around her neck. His knots have always been clever, and this one is no different. A single loop, one tug, and he doesn't even have to hold the makeshift garrote as she depletes that last breath of oxygen. With her eyes closed and the hard edges of her face softened by sleep, Katniss looks even younger than her seventeen years, and Finnick wants nothing more than to undo the knot so that she can live out the life she deserves. He settles for holding her head in his lap as she slips away. "I'm sorry," he whispers again and again as he strokes her face with the pads of his thumbs and hopes that the death he has chosen for her isn't painful.

A part of Finnick had hoped that the guards would stop him, that a dozen Peacekeepers would hurry in to protect the Mockingjay until they were ready for her to die, but even after her face turns purple and she can't possibly be resuscitated, he is left alone. Finnick sets her down gently and rearranges her limbs into a more dignified pose before moving on to Peeta. This should be easier; the moment that he learned that Peeta had been sent as a part of their reinforcements, he suspected that he will have to kill both the Capitol's monster and the innocent boy hidden beneath.

When he reaches Peeta's side, the younger man is just beginning to stir. Finnick forces down the bile that rises in his throat and sits down beside him. He doesn't have time to hesitate, for the boy will only suffer more the longer he waits. Peeta moans when Finnick grabs his head and lifts it before smashing it against the ground. Blue eyes snap open, but he can't stop now. Three more, four more times he crushes Peeta's head against the ground, and there is blood on the floor and the sound of Peeta's head has changed from a crash to something wet, but he still does not stop until the blue eyes turn glassy. Finnick watches Peeta's chest for a moment to be sure that it does not rise and fall, and he does not know how long he sits there, half-hoping that he'll sense a flutter of life. Perhaps minutes pass, or hours, but time holds no meaning for the dead or those who merely wish they were.

There is no trial. What purpose would one serve? Reshowing the propo footage or publicly announcing Finnick's involvement in the plot that ended the Quarter Quell might further fan the rebels' flames. And so, the first time and last time that Finnick emerges from his cell beneath the Presidential Palace is on a sunny spring morning that Snow has decided will also serve as his execution day. Hours before the ceremony, he is led to the Training Center for one final session with his prep team. After all, they wouldn't want him to die looking anything less than his best.

They dress him in a pair of loose shorts and apply gold shimmer over his chest to hide the paleness that has developed over weeks of living underground. Just as they finish his makeup, one of the women wraps him in a tight hug. "I'm so sorry they're doing this to you," she cried. "You deserve so much more." He hates that he ends up patting her back and trying to dry her tears minutes before he is scheduled to die, but this is the closest thing to a comforting embrace that he will receive, and for that, Finnick feels that he must be grateful. "We love you, and the rest of Panem does too."

"Thank you." He doesn't have to lie now, doesn't have to add an I love you too the way he has a million times before, for now, there's nothing to lose.

Finnick squares his shoulders as the Peacekeepers surround him. He cannot convince himself that he is not afraid, but he is determined to fool the crowd and the cameras that will watch his every move. The thought of Annie seeing him broken and afraid in his last moments sends a pain through him so sharp that it's almost physical. He needs to be strong for her if he can't be for himself. They scream when he steps out into the sun. He longs to shield his eyes as the sun's rays bounce off of the millions of jewels that the tens of thousands of gathered Capitolites are wearing. His execution, Finnick is certain, will be the biggest event of the season, and none of the elite would dare miss such an opportunity. They parade him in a narrow path through the crowd, and the onlookers do not miss their final chance to touch his bare chest or declare their undying love. A brave few drag him down for a kiss, and any hope of having Annie's lips be the last he ever kissed is shattered.

It is almost a relief when he is at last guided onto the platform that has been erected in the very center of the plaza. The Peacekeepers walk him up the steps to where a noose hangs, waiting for him. Only once the rope is positioned around his neck does he meet the eyes of the serpent. President Snow smiles at him, almost cheery, and Finnick does not know if the sudden scent of roses is his own imagination playing tricks on him or a deliberate effect. Either way, he will not look away, not as the president reads the sentence and declares that Finnick has pled guilty to high treason. The only punishment suitable, naturally, is death.

He does not break eye contact as Snow raises his glass in one final toast or as the executioner causes the floor beneath him to drop. It's just falling, and it'll be over soon, but even a quick, clean broken neck is too much to hope for. Finnick wants to stay brave for Annie, but when the tight snap of the rope cuts off his air, it's a natural human response to panic. His hands claw at the rope, desperate, and there are ten thousand eyes watching him struggle, but only one pair burns. He's lost to Snow again, just as he always has, and though he tries to cling to thoughts of Annie and Mags and Four, the last thing Finnick sees is Snow smiling back at him.

For a few moments, he is allowed to dangle there, his limbs too rigid to swing in time with the gentle breeze. Most of the crowd files out, their entertainment over. Others stay, and when the executioner cuts down the body, they swarm over him, fondling his still-warm skin or snapping a quick photograph. They do not have long, though, for even his most devoted fans are soon shooed away by the bevy of Peacekeepers that carry him back into the palace, careful not to muss his hair or mar any of the golden shimmer applied earlier that morning, for there are still those who have a use for him. Finnick, the president has decided, makes too beautiful of a corpse to be allowed to go to waste.