"Why would I tell you about myself? You're a stranger who's done nothing but insult and hurt me since we met. Doesn't exactly inspire my trust in you. Maybe if you shared something first. My policy is a secret for a secret, at the very least."
He leans back.
"I don't particularly care about dwarves, but I do care about regular people getting fucked over by people in power. I can't fight much against the status quo in my world, so I guess it's freeing to do it here." He shrugs.
"If I recall correctly, it was 'buy me a drink and I'll talk.' Now it's a secret for a secret?" Joke was on him though, Nina didn't really have any secrets. Thing was — no one really asked about the shit she didn't just blurt out outright.
She finished her drink, set it on the table, and lifted her hand up to motion for a barmaid to refill it. "That's the first reasonable thing you've said since we met." She said. Nina tapped her fingers against the table.
"Interrogating someone doesn't inspire trust either," he mutters. Goddamn, this is already getting exhausting. He decides to chug his drink right after her, putting it down on the table with slightly more force than necessary.
He sighs, wanting to aim her own question back at her: what's your fucking deal? But that's just going to lead to more bickering. So he asks what he usually does to new people.
"What sort of world do you hail from? What's your life like there? Aside from ogreslaying."
Nina just stared at him. All signs pointed to you're hiding something and at this point she was just too stubborn to stop harassing him until she figured it out.
"It's a lot like this one. Except less magical in most places, especially where I'm from where it's primarily human." With an odd elf tossed in, maybe some others, but they were pretty few and far between. It wasn't as diverse as Caldera unless you traveled west. "I'm an adventurer. I kill monsters, I clear out bandits, I travel around and do odd jobs for people for food, coin, or jack shit. I have an older brother, Caleb, I compete with to see who can be the biggest hero. I'm winning."
"... A hero." He says it very flatly, raising his brows at her but changing nothing else about his unimpressed expression.
In this moment, he thinks they have nothing in common. He's extremely bitter that his world has no heroes, no one to save all those children from their untimely and unjust deaths. Even Victors are just cogs in the machine of suffering that churns endlessly, every single fucking year.
"My world doesn't have heroes," he says, and the bitterness and cold apathy seeps into his tone. He then sips his drink.
"Ask me a specific question, and I'll answer it honestly."
Nina wasn't Ciriuss Whiteheart levels of hero — not pure of heart and valiant, but she and plenty others considered herself as such for all the good she inevitably did, even if it was usually a messy sort of good. Finnick's incredulous response wouldn't make her think otherwise.
"Why do you think there aren't any heroes in your world?" And that seemed to be her question.
"Because if there were, children wouldn't suffer and die in needlessly cruel and unusual ways at the behest of the fucking President. Someone like Nina Ironfist, the Ogreslayer, would swoop in at the last minute and save them all from their collective doom. But that doesn't happen. Not once, not ever."
His tone is icy and aggressive. It's clear the nice-guy facade is completely gone, exposing his raw hatred for the state of things in his world. If this is an act, then he must be an amazing actor.
Suddenly, in a tavern full of people, with a burning hearth and warm ale in her belly, Nina felt cold. Children suffering and dying because of some — she assumed by the title of president — high and mighty prick was a little too familiar. And there was no hiding the tension in her hand as it squeezed around her mug.
"How — what do you mean? What is he doing to them? Why isn't anyone helping?" The questioning started low, but each subsequent question sounded more frantic.
yeehaw. cw capital punishment, general totalitarian dystopia vibes
He doesn't expect her questions, doesn't expect her to give a shit. Even though everyone in Caldera he's told does give a shit, it's so normalized in his world that he always expects people to say so what? Especially Nina, who seems endlessly unenthused with him.
But she obviously does care, and urgently so. It's a little concerning. Finnick leans forward slightly, forearm on the table.
"He's taking 24 kids, 2 from each district, every single year, and putting them into deathmatches where only one can survive. No one is helping because the whole system is designed to prevent a rebellion. If you so much as speak out of turn in protest you could be whipped in the street or have your tongue cut out or killed on the spot. And we're constantly surveilled."
It was fucking unreal how familiar it was. Different, yes, because through some form of mercy the entirety of Valsheria was not like that, but familiar enough to her.
The wooden mug started to splinter under her fingers, ale spilling between the cracks; knuckles bone white. There was a fury in her eyes that raged more intensely than the seemingly perpetual anger they usually held. And somewhere beneath that fury — was fear.
Finnick's eyes widen as they stare at her hand cracking her mug. Good lord. He moves his hand subtly to splay his fingers toward the mug, using his water manipulation power to keep the beer from spilling everywhere.
"Yeah. When I was fourteen. They call us Victors, the kids who survive."
She didn't notice. Nina didn't notice a lot of things in those few moments; the edges of her vision suddenly blooming with red.
"Fuck." She cursed. Nina didn't fully understand how that situation led him to act the way he did now, but for all she knew that's just how he dealt with the trauma. Much like how she dealt with her own by being angry. "I'm sorry. I — holy shit." She flustered, tongue tied. "You won't fucking believe me when I tell you that I understand how you feel."
Finnick's brow furrows, his eyes widening slightly. Still keeping her beer vaguely inside the breaking mug. People always lose their shit when they learn about this, huh?
But then she says she understands, and he cocks his head to the side quizzically. No, he doesn't quite believe her, not yet.
"You understand? How?"
Please don't tell him there is another world with Hunger Games.
The thing about the Guild of Shadows was that it worked underground, a well kept secret known only to those with money and power enough to earn it. It wasn't as big an event as Finnick's Hunger Games, but it hit all the same notes.
"Because I've won plenty of similar matches." She said, her voice cracking. "When I was... seven or eight, me and a handful of other kids were kidnapped and forced into pits to fight for the entertainment of masked nobles. I was down there for years, so I'll let you guess how much blood is on my hands."
Finnick's jaw drops, as does his spell, the beer spilling onto the table and the floor. Seven or eight? For years?! Even Snow wouldn't reap kids under 12, and once you won, you never had to do it again.
"You-- You're..."
A Victor. And not even from his own world. He blinks rapidly.
"I'm sorry- this is- what the fuck? You were... So young. Twelve is our minimum age."
And truly, seeing a 12-year-old in the Games is horrifying, but his heart breaks to learn she was barely old enough to read or write or know anything about the world around her and that was what she had to learn to survive.
Nina growled and pulled her hand back, flicking the liquid off her hand and shoving the broken mug off the table. If people wanted to complain about it, she'd throw them a few Bones and tell them to suck it up.
"Yeah, the Guild of Shadows didn't have a minimum." Just old enough to fight. "I would have died down there eventually, if Roland Ironfist hadn't come to save us, once he figured out how to find the pits. Kicked their asses — the nobles, the guild members — and took the kids back to their parents, save for me and three others. Caleb, Amelia, and Jacob. He adopted us when he couldn't find our homes."
Her gaze softened. Still angry, but easing more toward sad. "I'm sorry there isn't a Roland Ironfist in your world."
He listens with a furrowed brow and a concerned frown. He still can hardly believe she went through something similar...
Hearing that she was saved makes him feel a myriad of conflicting things. Envy, gratitude, grief, each flashing up for just a small moment.
"I'm sorry, too. But I'm grateful there was one for you, and that you found a family." He smiles, small and soft and sad. No wonder she believes in heroes.
"The thing with my world isn't that there's no one as brave or strong as Roland Ironfist, but that there's no way one person can stop the Games on their own, no matter how awesome they are. It's too big. We need a rebellion, we need all of us to stand up at once and fight against it, but we're constantly told a revolution will spell death for all of us. A lot of fearmongering and propaganda."
She hated to think she was lucky in that the Guild of Shadows was the heart if that shitty operation and not the entire world. But she was, in a way. It was small enough a single man could put an end to it and save those children that survived.
"Shit like that is scary for common folk." She muttered. "Rising up against people in charge that are stronger, have more money and manpower. A lot of shittier nobles take advantage of their positions to keep people in line, make examples of them with public executions... I understand the sentiment, if nothing else."
There was a pause, then a loud bang when her fist hit the table. "No one else is supposed to understand this shit."
Finnick nods. Fear is the reason, and the Capitol is very effective at stoking fear. The faceless Peacekeepers that patrol each district holding guns also don't make one feel at ease.
He doesn't flinch as she bangs the table.
"I know. Some people here are from shitty places, like literal hell, but I didn't expect anyone who wasn't from my world to have an almost identical situation..." His tone is regretful.
This seems to change everything between him and Nina. He no longer feels the deep mistrust and grudgingness. He feels inclined to tell her more.
"I can... I can answer your original question that brought us to this bar, if you want. Why I'm like this, with the flirting. But I guarantee you won't enjoy my answer, so it's up to you. I don't like dumping it on people who aren't prepared."
"Neither did I." And it was awful to think anyone had suffered a similar situation that she and her siblings had. She never wanted anyone else to be in a situation where they had to fight for their life — especially children. Gods. Why always children?
Nina watched him for a moment, unfurling her fist to rap on the ale soaked tabletop. "Can't surprise me anymore than you have tonight. Go ahead."
Finnick generally doesn't feel too sorry for himself, but the tributes he mentors year in and year out, almost all of whom die, are another story. The grief stacks, becomes so heavy he has to disassociate. He feels that grief now, for Nina, too. For the childhood she lost.
He isn't sure what she says is true; that he can't surprise her more. But he'll go on anyway, because it seems important to her to know what makes him tick.
Thankfully, more drinks come just in time, and the barmaid mops up the spilled ale. Finnick thanks her quietly with a small smile, and once she's gone he takes a healthy sip and speaks.
"I'm the youngest Victor in Games history. Every tribute has their own strategy, their unique strengths for survival. The main reason I won my Games was that I was liked. If rich people like you, they can sponsor you, send you things in the arena that can save your life or give you an edge. I was so well-liked that I was sent a Trident in the arena, my weapon of choice. It was the most expensive gift ever given in the Games."
This is important, for Nina to understand why he's 'fake' and cares so much to be liked. He had to be. Has to be still, not so much here, but in his world.
"If a Victor is desirable, then once they win, the President sells them to the rich in the Capitol. For their bodies. Of course, I was a prime candidate. If I refused, he would kill someone I loved. They were supposed to wait until I was sixteen to really go for me, but of course, not everyone is that... Upstanding. For ten years I'd make trips to the Capitol and sleep with people. People far too old for me, with power over me, and I had to do what they asked of me. I had to be good at it and maintain my perfect image to keep my people at home safe."
He presses his lips into a grim line and takes another long drink.
Now she felt lucky, even if the fact that she did so made her feel equally as awful; made her stomach roil. She had suffered for years in those pits, fighting for her life, knowing only the crack of fragile bones and the smell of blood. But she had been freed eventually, taken into a noble house and cared for by a man too good for the shit world they lived in. She had a family, a home, and a life of adventure in the years where Finnick was still subjected to the horror of his reality.
Nina was violent because it was all she knew for so long. Fighting was what she was good at, so she kept doing it. Despite the comforts offered to her, she never left that fight or flight mode that was stuck in fight. And Finnick couldn't turn off that charm — that need to seem desirable, that need to be liked because it meant he would survive.
A part of her wondered if it was some inherent knowledge of their similarities that made her press him to begin with. Some ability to see past the facade and not knowing entirely why.
"A lot of things suddenly make sense." She said quietly, voice low to try and stem the fury rising in her throat again. "I'm sorry doesn't change shit, but I am sorry you had to go through that, on top of everything else. You were just a kid." She bit the inside of her cheek. "You don't deserve that shit."
Nina saw through him, even if she didn't know exactly what she was seeing. Really, it isn't too hard to catch onto Finnick; there are always times when his mask cracks, or when he says something so offbeat and cynical that even his charming smile can't cover up the dark undercurrent beneath it. She isn't the first one to notice, but she is the first to blatantly call him out, the first not to play into his flirting. Hell, there are people here he fucks regularly who don't know any of what he just told her. If people want to keep it surface level with him, he will play along, but he does silently judge those who don't make an effort to get past his facade. When people push through the niceties and ask him about the horrors, it shows they really care, that he's worth more to them than just a quick fuck or a flirtationship.
Despite her aggressiveness, he's glad in the end that she interrogated him.
His gaze is cast down at the table now, a sad smile on his face.
"Thanks," he says quietly and sincerely. "It's fine, though. I'm fine now."
Heavily debatable, Finnick. He inhales deeply through his nose and looks up at her again, as though to snap himself from his thoughts and break the tension.
"I'd love to say all of that is why I'm annoying, but truthfully I think I was born that way." He grins.
Nina didn't believe him for a second. No one was fine now after that. If she had to guess with some simple math — he was being sold off into his twenties, and there was no way in hell he was much older than that now.
For once though, she didn't say anything. Nina had gotten enough out of him — a lot more than she expected, really.
"It only made you more annoying. Got it." She quipped. "I'd say I can't believe that shit works on people, but I've known plenty of guys who do the same thing and people are falling all over them."
He's definitely not fine now. But he can lie to himself and everyone else, and if they turn this shared drink into a therapy session they'll be here all night talking about his shit. Best to move on.
"It certainly didn't help," said with a smirk. "I often can't believe it either. But rich people are stupid and the people here are too nice. They probably just pity me sometimes," he shrugs. "And people like compliments. They like being noticed."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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He leans back.
"I don't particularly care about dwarves, but I do care about regular people getting fucked over by people in power. I can't fight much against the status quo in my world, so I guess it's freeing to do it here." He shrugs.
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She finished her drink, set it on the table, and lifted her hand up to motion for a barmaid to refill it. "That's the first reasonable thing you've said since we met." She said. Nina tapped her fingers against the table.
"What do you want to know?"
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He sighs, wanting to aim her own question back at her: what's your fucking deal? But that's just going to lead to more bickering. So he asks what he usually does to new people.
"What sort of world do you hail from? What's your life like there? Aside from ogreslaying."
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"It's a lot like this one. Except less magical in most places, especially where I'm from where it's primarily human." With an odd elf tossed in, maybe some others, but they were pretty few and far between. It wasn't as diverse as Caldera unless you traveled west. "I'm an adventurer. I kill monsters, I clear out bandits, I travel around and do odd jobs for people for food, coin, or jack shit. I have an older brother, Caleb, I compete with to see who can be the biggest hero. I'm winning."
no subject
In this moment, he thinks they have nothing in common. He's extremely bitter that his world has no heroes, no one to save all those children from their untimely and unjust deaths. Even Victors are just cogs in the machine of suffering that churns endlessly, every single fucking year.
"My world doesn't have heroes," he says, and the bitterness and cold apathy seeps into his tone. He then sips his drink.
"Ask me a specific question, and I'll answer it honestly."
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"Why do you think there aren't any heroes in your world?" And that seemed to be her question.
cw child death
His tone is icy and aggressive. It's clear the nice-guy facade is completely gone, exposing his raw hatred for the state of things in his world. If this is an act, then he must be an amazing actor.
It's all downhill from here
"How — what do you mean? What is he doing to them? Why isn't anyone helping?" The questioning started low, but each subsequent question sounded more frantic.
yeehaw. cw capital punishment, general totalitarian dystopia vibes
But she obviously does care, and urgently so. It's a little concerning. Finnick leans forward slightly, forearm on the table.
"He's taking 24 kids, 2 from each district, every single year, and putting them into deathmatches where only one can survive. No one is helping because the whole system is designed to prevent a rebellion. If you so much as speak out of turn in protest you could be whipped in the street or have your tongue cut out or killed on the spot. And we're constantly surveilled."
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The wooden mug started to splinter under her fingers, ale spilling between the cracks; knuckles bone white. There was a fury in her eyes that raged more intensely than the seemingly perpetual anger they usually held. And somewhere beneath that fury — was fear.
"Were you in one? The deathmatch."
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"Yeah. When I was fourteen. They call us Victors, the kids who survive."
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"Fuck." She cursed. Nina didn't fully understand how that situation led him to act the way he did now, but for all she knew that's just how he dealt with the trauma. Much like how she dealt with her own by being angry. "I'm sorry. I — holy shit." She flustered, tongue tied. "You won't fucking believe me when I tell you that I understand how you feel."
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But then she says she understands, and he cocks his head to the side quizzically. No, he doesn't quite believe her, not yet.
"You understand? How?"
Please don't tell him there is another world with Hunger Games.
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"Because I've won plenty of similar matches." She said, her voice cracking. "When I was... seven or eight, me and a handful of other kids were kidnapped and forced into pits to fight for the entertainment of masked nobles. I was down there for years, so I'll let you guess how much blood is on my hands."
no subject
"You-- You're..."
A Victor. And not even from his own world. He blinks rapidly.
"I'm sorry- this is- what the fuck? You were... So young. Twelve is our minimum age."
And truly, seeing a 12-year-old in the Games is horrifying, but his heart breaks to learn she was barely old enough to read or write or know anything about the world around her and that was what she had to learn to survive.
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"Yeah, the Guild of Shadows didn't have a minimum." Just old enough to fight. "I would have died down there eventually, if Roland Ironfist hadn't come to save us, once he figured out how to find the pits. Kicked their asses — the nobles, the guild members — and took the kids back to their parents, save for me and three others. Caleb, Amelia, and Jacob. He adopted us when he couldn't find our homes."
Her gaze softened. Still angry, but easing more toward sad. "I'm sorry there isn't a Roland Ironfist in your world."
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Hearing that she was saved makes him feel a myriad of conflicting things. Envy, gratitude, grief, each flashing up for just a small moment.
"I'm sorry, too. But I'm grateful there was one for you, and that you found a family." He smiles, small and soft and sad. No wonder she believes in heroes.
"The thing with my world isn't that there's no one as brave or strong as Roland Ironfist, but that there's no way one person can stop the Games on their own, no matter how awesome they are. It's too big. We need a rebellion, we need all of us to stand up at once and fight against it, but we're constantly told a revolution will spell death for all of us. A lot of fearmongering and propaganda."
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"Shit like that is scary for common folk." She muttered. "Rising up against people in charge that are stronger, have more money and manpower. A lot of shittier nobles take advantage of their positions to keep people in line, make examples of them with public executions... I understand the sentiment, if nothing else."
There was a pause, then a loud bang when her fist hit the table. "No one else is supposed to understand this shit."
no subject
He doesn't flinch as she bangs the table.
"I know. Some people here are from shitty places, like literal hell, but I didn't expect anyone who wasn't from my world to have an almost identical situation..." His tone is regretful.
This seems to change everything between him and Nina. He no longer feels the deep mistrust and grudgingness. He feels inclined to tell her more.
"I can... I can answer your original question that brought us to this bar, if you want. Why I'm like this, with the flirting. But I guarantee you won't enjoy my answer, so it's up to you. I don't like dumping it on people who aren't prepared."
no subject
Nina watched him for a moment, unfurling her fist to rap on the ale soaked tabletop. "Can't surprise me anymore than you have tonight. Go ahead."
cw sex trafficking, child sexual abuse
He isn't sure what she says is true; that he can't surprise her more. But he'll go on anyway, because it seems important to her to know what makes him tick.
Thankfully, more drinks come just in time, and the barmaid mops up the spilled ale. Finnick thanks her quietly with a small smile, and once she's gone he takes a healthy sip and speaks.
"I'm the youngest Victor in Games history. Every tribute has their own strategy, their unique strengths for survival. The main reason I won my Games was that I was liked. If rich people like you, they can sponsor you, send you things in the arena that can save your life or give you an edge. I was so well-liked that I was sent a Trident in the arena, my weapon of choice. It was the most expensive gift ever given in the Games."
This is important, for Nina to understand why he's 'fake' and cares so much to be liked. He had to be. Has to be still, not so much here, but in his world.
"If a Victor is desirable, then once they win, the President sells them to the rich in the Capitol. For their bodies. Of course, I was a prime candidate. If I refused, he would kill someone I loved. They were supposed to wait until I was sixteen to really go for me, but of course, not everyone is that... Upstanding. For ten years I'd make trips to the Capitol and sleep with people. People far too old for me, with power over me, and I had to do what they asked of me. I had to be good at it and maintain my perfect image to keep my people at home safe."
He presses his lips into a grim line and takes another long drink.
cw: descriptions of violence against children
Nina was violent because it was all she knew for so long. Fighting was what she was good at, so she kept doing it. Despite the comforts offered to her, she never left that fight or flight mode that was stuck in fight. And Finnick couldn't turn off that charm — that need to seem desirable, that need to be liked because it meant he would survive.
A part of her wondered if it was some inherent knowledge of their similarities that made her press him to begin with. Some ability to see past the facade and not knowing entirely why.
"A lot of things suddenly make sense." She said quietly, voice low to try and stem the fury rising in her throat again. "I'm sorry doesn't change shit, but I am sorry you had to go through that, on top of everything else. You were just a kid." She bit the inside of her cheek. "You don't deserve that shit."
no subject
Despite her aggressiveness, he's glad in the end that she interrogated him.
His gaze is cast down at the table now, a sad smile on his face.
"Thanks," he says quietly and sincerely. "It's fine, though. I'm fine now."
Heavily debatable, Finnick. He inhales deeply through his nose and looks up at her again, as though to snap himself from his thoughts and break the tension.
"I'd love to say all of that is why I'm annoying, but truthfully I think I was born that way." He grins.
no subject
For once though, she didn't say anything. Nina had gotten enough out of him — a lot more than she expected, really.
"It only made you more annoying. Got it." She quipped. "I'd say I can't believe that shit works on people, but I've known plenty of guys who do the same thing and people are falling all over them."
no subject
"It certainly didn't help," said with a smirk. "I often can't believe it either. But rich people are stupid and the people here are too nice. They probably just pity me sometimes," he shrugs. "And people like compliments. They like being noticed."
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