Finnick's big breakthrough on the intelligence front comes one night when he finds Haymitch in a clean white shirt and a pair of dark pants. Both are new and freshly pressed.

Finnick grins. "Looking spiffy. Hot date?"

Haymitch looks put out. "I wish." He tugs at his unbuttoned collar so it hangs loose. "And how I got myself into it, I'll never know. This is worse than having to give an interview."

Finnick is thoroughly intrigued. "I'll wish you luck, then."

"Stick around and you can do better than that, you can drink to the mission. I'm not doing this unfortified."

"Gladly," Finnick says, and sits down to join him. He suspects Haymitch finds it easier to justify drinking if he's got company, because that way he can keep denying that he has a problem. It's all voluntary, doncha know?

Without trying to seem too interested in the political side, just friendly and supportive, Finnick coaxes the details of Haymitch's new least favorite activity out of him: diplomacy.

He learns that District Thirteen is receiving visitors. Diplomats from a country called Ayre. Finnick's not heard of it, but District Thirteen has been in touch with them secretly for many years. Plutarch's hoping to get military support. No, Haymitch doesn't know where the country's located, but he's been given some details on their customs and drilled on how not to offend them.

Finnick keeps his questioning light, and intersperses with as much dry, man-to-man sympathy as won't arouse too much suspicion.

"And you have to do a meet-and-greet with these people?"

"Yeah, it's stupid. Heavensbee won't even go talk to them in person on the first night, they have to work their way up to him. Lotta ceremony. I'm not allowed to speak off the cards."

"Ooh, you have cards? Are there a lot of them?" Finnick holds out his hand coaxingly.

Haymitch shrugs, and Finnick helps himself to the contents of Haymitch's breast pocket. He does his usual act of flipping through without seeming to be interested in the content, while memorizing as much as he can. When he does set them down, he puts them on the table closer to him than Haymitch, without looking at them.

"What've the higher-ups got you doing?" Haymitch wonders.

"Twiddling my thumbs until the snow melts," Finnick gripes. "As usual. Can you believe it? And you've been working so hard."

"What, you wanna go?"

Finnick doesn't hesitate. "It's the least I can do," he says as casually as he can. "You've been interceding for me with Katniss all this time." He's taking advantage of a man who's probably too far gone to think clearly, but how the hell Finnick Odair didn't get included in a ceremony like this...well, Finnick knows why. But if Plutarch's not going to be there to put a stop to it, Finnick can present him with a done deal.

If that means Haymitch hates him in the morning, Finnick's made that sacrifice too many times to have qualms now.

Haymitch shrugs. "Well, hell, I don't want to go and be polite to a bunch of monkeys in suits. You go, I'll have another drink."

"You can drink to my success," Finnick suggests.

Leaving Haymitch downing a glass with a grateful expression, Finnick's gone in the blink of an eye, before Haymitch can change his mind.

Finnick nods silently to Cashmere to follow as he passes out the door. "Let's go get dressed up and break out the makeup," he says to her as soon as they're out of earshot. "I squirreled some away after we did the propaganda."

Cashmere nods. "I saw."

"You'd have made a great spy," Finnick says approvingly.

Then he kicks himself when he sees Cashmere gasp and start shaking her head urgently. "No, no, I know you're not a spy," he backtracks. "I'm just saying that if you'd been from Four, I would have loved working alongside you in the Capitol." When she doesn't look the least bit reassured, he continues, "All right, I won't say that here in Thirteen. It was a compliment, not an accusation." Finally, he sighs, gives up, and puts a hand on her shoulder. "You're not a spy, okay? You're not a spy. I'm sorry."

He waits until Cashmere's breathing normally again and she nods at him, a hint of reproach in her eyes.

Fuck. I need to get her out of here. "You don't have to come," he says gently. "You can go find someone to train. I'll swear you had no idea what I was up to."

Cashmere looks undecided. "What's going to happen to you?"

Finnick shrugs. "Probably a slap on the wrist. I'm used to getting away with murder. But I know how you are about rules, and I won't force you into anything you're not comfortable with."

For another minute, Cashmere watches him, thinking. Then she puts her hand on Finnick's arm. "I'm with you."

Touched by her loyalty and hoping it's not just self-preservation, Finnick takes her hand. "There's no one who's better at this than we are anyway. Let's do it."

Plutarch is going to kill Abernathy, and then himself. Abernathy swore he could get through one evening without more alcohol than he could carry. That all those public appearances were to get the Capitol off his back. And Plutarch was stupid enough to buy it.

And then Pollux, when Plutarch sent him to find out what the delay was, reported that he found him slumped over next to an open bottle in his room, unresponsive.

Frantic, Plutarch paces in his office. Pollux stands in the corner, hands folded behind his back, staring down at the floor and waiting for orders. One of the best personal assistants Plutarch's had. His loyalty is complete.

Maybe it's not the end of the world, Plutarch tries to tell himself. There were three other people in the reception committee, after all. But this was his only victor, and the speeches were carefully distributed.

While he's thinking, there's a sudden commotion from outside.

Plutarch glares at the interruption, then nods at Pollux. "Go find out what that's about."

A minute later, the Odair kid is striding into his office, looking like the cat that got the cream.

When he realizes what the boy is wearing, Plutarch's blood pressure skyrockets. "You didn't."

"I handled it." Odair drops into a chair and lounges, smirking. "Problem solved."

"You were not authorized to be anywhere near this mission!"

Odair is unabashed. "Sure didn't seem like Haymitch was handling it."

"You should have immediately reported the situation to me."

"You're always busy when I try to talk to you, and Haymitch was out for the count, and I was bored, so...you're welcome."

Plutarch feels his face turn bright red with silent fuming at the idea of going on delicate diplomatic missions because you're bored!

Instead he swallows with difficulty. "I'm sure your intentions were good. But this encounter was meant to be scripted."

"I didn't start negotiating anything, if that's what you're so worried about. I told them I was leading the welcoming committee to help them settle in before the real work began."

"Well, that's a relief! But I had briefed Haymitch on a whole mountain of information that you didn't have access to when you decided to waltz in on a critical mission without any idea what was going on."

Odair flaps a dismissive hand. "The notes were in Haymitch's pocket. I winged the rest."

Plutarch stares at him in mounting disbelief. "Great. You picked his pocket too?"

Odair gives Plutarch the same adults are idiots look that Plutarch's kids used to give him when they were teenagers. "What exactly do you think I was doing in the Capitol all those years? And you act like I've never handled anything life-or-death before. We're just trying to get them to give us money and gifts, right?" He flashes his famous grin. "Relax. I got this one."

Odair's insouciance scares Plutarch more than if he were being confrontational. This boy never takes anything seriously.

"This isn't the Capitol!" Plutarch hisses. He can just see the alliance he's worked so carefully on for so many years melting away in the face of Odair's insanely unshakable conviction that any of the skills he's acquired in his life are relevant here in Thirteen.

Odair rolls his eyes. "You seem to think I'm a one-trick pony. Or two tricks: killing and sex. Well, I didn't do either, if you actually need to hear that spelled out. Meanwhile, if you're so concerned that the person you gave all that useful information to didn't use it, and the person who needed it didn't have it, then maybe we're finally on the same page. Figure out who the reliable members of your team are, and use them. Now, do you want a report on how it went? Will that help you relax?"

"I want you to stay away from them. This is serious business." Plutarch's already wearily envisioning the amount of damage control he'll have to do. Finnick Odair can be charming, no doubt, but the odds are so drastically against the rebellion that Plutarch's trying to emphasize impressive preparation to his allies. Imposing, serious, likely to succeed, not fun and frivolous. "Believe it or not, there are more important things than whether they liked you. We need to convince them we're a good investment."

Plutarch can't decide if the look on Odair's face is amusement or deep offense. "Did you seriously just tell me not to bother my pretty little head about it?"

"That's another thing. You need to stop taking everything so personally. Your contributions are valued. What do I need to do to convince you of that so you'll stop telling yourself what you're currently doing isn't good enough?"

"You're not interested in my contributions," Odair says. His smile has faded and his impatience is showing. "You've slotted me into your preconceived notions of who and what I am, and you're not interested in changing those notions after seeing me in action."

"I've seen you in action, and I was very impressed-" Plutarch begins placatingly, but Odair doesn't let him finish. Complete lack of discipline.

"I'm not talking about combat! I'm talking about things like tonight. Taking initiative, picking up slack, winging it, noticing that the hovercraft we came in on is the same one we flew tonight-"

"Different 'craft," Plutarch says. He keeps his face impassive while he lies through his teeth. He'd tried to keep the existence of the craft secret on the first night, while he decided what to do about Cashmere. Now it's an open secret, but he's been caught in his lie.

"Same serial number, same dent."

Damn Odair. Plutarch sticks to his guns, feeling this encounter slip away from him. "Different. 'Craft. I want your promise to stay away from the diplomats."

Odair gives Plutarch a hard stare. "You have gold in your hands and you are throwing it away."

"Your promise."

Odair tries to bargain. "I will represent myself as being from the sovereign nation of Four, located on the west coast, and allied with but not identical to whatever new nation you have going here."

Plutarch shakes his head. "Unacceptable. We have to present a united front." He has no evidence other than Odair's word that such a nation exists, and regardless, secession is the worst possible approach. If the districts splinter, they'll be destroyed one by one. "This is a rebellion to overthrow the government. Same nation, different laws."

"I am a citizen of a different nation."

That's tantamount to Odair saying he won't accept the authority of anyone in Thirteen, and cannot be counted on not to continue going rogue and interfering with everything Plutarch is trying to accomplish.

Plutarch sighs. "All right, it's going to be a long night. I need a glass of water and I'm sure you do too." He turns to Pollux and signs. Bring a detail of four armed soldiers loyal to me. He doesn't want Odair harmed, but he does want him taken into custody.

Odair's looking at Plutarch's hands, no doubt wondering why he signed to a hearing man. Plutarch half-smiles wryly. "I have to keep in practice, or I forget all the signs."

"Yeah, me too," Odair says sympathetically. "Cashmere, come inside, close the door, and don't let anyone leave the room."

Odair's voice is so friendly that it takes Plutarch a second to process the words, and by that time, the door is closed and Plutarch is locked inside with what he suddenly remembers are two trained killers.

Finnick watches Plutarch struggling to show contempt rather than fear. "What is this, a coup?" He curls his lip, and doesn't let himself bolt upright in his chair.

Finnick carefully keeps slouching in his, downplaying his state of alert. "Nah. I could have had the equivalent of your job back home. Mags convinced me I didn't want it. Now that I've seen your job, she was right, as usual. Pollux, just keep your hands still where Cashmere can see. We're going to have a very civil conversation, the two of us."

As Finnick suspected, Plutarch's too old and too canny to let himself be lulled into a false sense of security. He catches the barest flicker of an eye movement toward the drawer in Plutarch's desk. What's he got in there, a handgun? A letter opener?

Carefully and ostentatiously, Finnick keeps as close an eye on Plutarch's hands as Cashmere is keeping on Pollux's behind them.

"Now." Finnick puts his own hands on the desk and gestures to Plutarch to do the same. "You have one minute to explain what you need with four soldiers, and you'd better make it good."

"I have no intention of harming either of you. I simply can't have you going rogue while negotiations are in progress. I want you where I can monitor your movements, and after tonight, I think you have to admit that's a reasonable desire. Once I need search and rescue missions again, or I need a bodyguard for Katniss, or anything of that sort, you'll go back on duty."

"And you thought four was enough?"

Finnick has to admire the way Plutarch's trying to hang on to the psychological upper hand, even if he's lost the tactical upper hand. "I can add more if you like." He deliberately matches his casual tone to Finnick's.

Finnick's eyes light up in understanding. "You forgot about Cashmere, didn't you?" He laughs harder than Plutarch thinks is appropriate, and Plutarch bristles. "Yeah, that happens a lot around here." Then he grows serious again. "Every single conversation we have is the same. We go back and forth, talk past each other, and end up exactly where we started. If I enjoyed these conversations more, I'd keep coming back, but there comes a point at which Mags always said, 'Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.'"

Finnick tilts his head back, keeping his eyes on Plutarch but aiming his words at the two people standing behind him. "Pollux, do me a favor and bring me the lockbox with the railway maps. Set it on the desk here in front of Plutarch so he can open it. Cashmere, keep an eye on him. No sudden moves."

The box set in front of him is not the one he recognizes. "The darker, thinner one," Finnick says, lightly. "More bronze-colored."

To his credit, Plutarch keeps a straight face. Finnick guesses this one has some kind of a weapon in it. While Pollux is fetching the other one, Finnick transfers this one to the floor beside his chair.

Plutarch swipes his thumb over the biometric sensor to unlock the bronze-colored box, hiding any disappointment he may feel at not being able to open the other one. At least they're both playing it cool, keeping the situation from escalating.

"I don't want Cashmere seeing those," Plutarch warns.

Finnick's not sure whether a better strategy is to avoid letting Plutarch give any orders, which he's clearly doing in an effort to regain the upper hand, or to limit the battles he picks to the ones he really cares about.

He hedges his bets. "All right, I'll humor you. Push your chair back from the desk. Pollux, go stand next to him. Hands folded in front. Cashmere, please stand behind the desk and keep an eye on them. You need any backup support, just say my name."

The maps have a lot of detail that's encoded in ways Finnick doesn't know how to read. Under any other circumstances, he'd ask every question he could think of. That's how Mags trained him, after all, and he's never been embarrassed to show ignorance in the process of learning. But Plutarch has every incentive to lie, so Finnick doesn't ask.

At least, Finnick thinks, he doesn't have to pretend he's not interested in the maps. He's used to picking up information oh-so-casually in the Capitol, he reminds himself. This is easier.

Deep in scrutiny, Finnick almost cheers out loud when he figures out the numbers that represent elevation.

When he's worked out what he needs and resigned himself to not understanding the rest, he closes his eyes, goes over the plan in his head until he's sure he's got it, then folds the maps and puts them back away.

"Any messages you want me to take to the leadership in Four?" Finnick asks, his dispassionate voice a match for Plutarch's.

If he's gratified to see Plutarch rattled by the unexpected, he doesn't even allow himself to show that. "You're leaving?"

"What you've been asking me to do, Gale and a hundred others can do just as well. You won't miss me, and I'll be out of your hair."

"Look, I know you're a victor and you're used to having the spotlight, but this is an army, and I need exactly that, hundreds of soldiers to do jobs that aren't glamorous. If everyone deserts because they're bored, we might as well surrender now."

Finnick presses his lips together. "We'll leave aside the desertion gibe, since I don't recall signing up or taking any oaths in your 'army.' But back home, I used to gut fish. After I became a victor. I defy you to find anything less glamorous than that. I'll do what it takes to win the war, but I'm twiddling my thumbs half the time, and that means you can't tell me you need me so badly doing grunt work that there's no time to spare for anything that might pay off in the long run."

Plutarch fixes him with a stern, more-disappointed-than-angry look that barely even registers with Finnick after Mags and Rudder. "Your problem is that you haven't readjusted your expectations. You may be hot stuff with a weapon that no one will ever use outside the arena, but you're from the districts, and that means you lack anything resembling a background that would make you of any use as an officer. It may be no fault of your own, but it's a fact that I have to work with and that you need to accept."

"But I'm trainable," Finnick insists, "and you're not taking advantage of that. I haven't learned anything since I came here that I didn't pick up on my own, nor have I been able to use what I have learned."

"This isn't an academy, this is war."

"I learned more in the arena than I have here. We're never going to agree, so I'm relocating to a different front."

"She's going with you, I take it?" Plutarch's gaze flicks toward Cashmere.

Finnick nods. "No hard feelings, but I think they'll be able to find some way of tapping her potential."

Plutarch folds his arms, making both Cashmere and Finnick tense slightly at the motion. "If I let you go through that door-"

Finnick laughs.

Not the best idea to pretend you have the upper hand when everyone knows you don't, but Plutarch doesn't react when he's forced to change tack. "If I let you loose in Thirteen and don't pursue you, how do I know you're not going to betray me?"

"Because if I were going to betray you, I wouldn't walk through that door. In this room, I have the tactical upper hand. The moment I walk out and leave you free, I'm giving you the opportunity to marshal your supporters. No, if I were going to stage a coup, I'd put Pollux where I can see him, keep an eye on both of you. I'd send Cashmere for Gale, Coral, others who'd support my regime." He's bluffing about Coral, but she is from Four, so it's plausible.

"Then I'd bring Katniss in. She's not too happy with me, but she's not too happy with you either. I know you've been disagreeing about plans. I could offer her concessions, agree to do things her way, in return for her support. Then I'd have Beetee brought in. Katniss would tell him to prioritize establishing communication with Four. Then you could have a nice long vacation in a cell somewhere.

"There. I've laid my cards out on the table, named some of the people I could trust, given you weapons to counter my plan. That alone should tell you I'm not planning on doing it. But you want to know my reason for not doing it?"

Finnick leans forward and looks Plutarch directly in the eye. "The next time I see President Snow, I want to be the one laughing, not him.

"I've been telling you, I want an alliance between Four and Thirteen. Unite the districts east of the Capitol, we'll hold the west, and we'll make them fight a two-front war. But unless you are prepared to take me seriously, I'm not going to get that here. I've no objection to being lied to, but I do mind being treated like I'm stupid."

In a way, Plutarch's insistent lie about the hovercraft made Finnick's decision easier. He may not get along with Pearleye, but he can still hope that Mags had some influence on her. Failing that, there's always Rudder.

Finnick can't wait to get home.

Once they're safely on the border between Thirteen and Six, Finnick goes over the plan with Cashmere to make sure she's comfortable with it. They're standing on the shore of a very large lake, which he plans to cross by boat. Once in Six, he wants to grab a train or two and take them west.

"Six isn't in rebellion—yet—so there might be fighting and we might have to drive the trains ourselves, but we only have to make it to Seven, then we're in friendly territory."

"I've never driven a train," Cashmere says, disconcerted.

Finnick grins wolfishly. "Neither have I. But I got a demo once, on Annie's Victory Tour. You just have to pretend you're bored, and find someone who enjoys what they do, and in my experience they're usually happy to show you what they're doing."

"Is that...legal?"

"Of course not! Anyway, driving a train is mostly automated. It's way easier than sailing a boat, and they have all these safety mechanisms in place to avoid crashes. They should work even with the trains not running on a schedule any more. Your train just stops if it detects another train coming toward you. Then one of you has to back up and find a switch to pull over on before anyone can proceed."

Cashmere still looks uncertain.

"You can do it," he says encouragingly. "If you were smart enough to go through an academy and survive the arena, you can pick this up in no time."

Finnick knows he's handwaving issues like fuel, getting caught, the safety mechanisms failing, getting lost, etc. But volunteering for the arena was way more dangerous, and this has potentially tremendous consequences: linking up rebellious districts in the east and west without going through enemy territory.

"Ready to go home?" Finnick asks with a smile. "I think we'll be able to do better by you than anyone's done here."

"Home—you mean Four?" Cashmere asks.

Finnick inhales sharply. "Yes. I'm sorry. I would drop you off in One if I could. But the Capitol would be on you in a second. They watched you defect, and even if you claimed you wanted to betray us and tell them everything you knew about our location and plans, you'd have a hard time convincing them you weren't working for us and feeding them misinformation. And you would be a prisoner until you could convince them otherwise."

"I understand."

Finnick can't blame her for being disappointed, but this was the best he could do when he saved her life. Leave her alive to mourn her brother and blame herself for his death, leave her a prisoner in all but name, cut her off from her home. But she's alive.

"If you wanted to convince them otherwise, I'd suggest you cut off my head in my sleep and bring it to them as proof when you escape, but..." Finnick bares his teeth in a grin. "I sleep lightly."

"I wouldn't hurt you!" Cashmere exclaims, offended.

"I believe you. I was joking. So we'll stay together for now, but you should have more freedom when we get there. I hope." Maybe Rudder can be convinced to accept her in the militia, if Pearleye doesn't trust her.

"Home, then," Cashmere says. She takes a step closer to him, and he slides his arm around her at the invitation. "And, Finnick? When we get there, I understand that you're engaged. I won't make a fuss."

"We'll see what Annie has to say," Finnick says easily. "I don't think anyone's going to make a fuss. I just hope she's safe."

"I hope so too," Cashmere says, tightening her arm encouragingly around him. "I hope so."

The quote about insanity is often attributed to Einstein, but it's not known for certain who truly said it first. We'll just suppose Mags said it most recently, in a long line of advice-givers. ;)