Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Effie fucking Trinket doesn’t wake me up. 

She always wakes me up. With absolutely no consideration for my privacy or personal space, she will appear on my doorstep at precisely eleven o’clock, every year on the Fourth of July. She will then unceremoniously yank me awake and force me to be relatively presentable for the Reaping. If I’m being honest, Effie Trinket’s nonsense is usually the only reason I ever actually make it to the Reaping.

Inexplicably, she has not shown up this year. Is she finally sick of my shit? Or did she quit and move to another district? Nah, I’m never quite that lucky. I have no idea where she is, but I’m sure she’ll turn up eventually. And the Reaping is definitely still happening. 

I drag myself out of bed and the world lurches under me. I have a splitting headache and I massage my temples as I attempt to locate a clock, trying to figure out what the fuck is currently happening. What the fuck is the time? Did I miss the Reaping? Will they let me miss the Reaping? I am, like, 80% sure that I own a clock. I did fling a bottle at the one on the mantelpiece a few years ago, after a particularly awful Games, but there’s definitely another one somewhere. Could it possibly be in the kitchen? I don’t remember. One glance out of the window tells me that the sun is already high in the sky. I’m still drunk from whatever I was drinking yesterday, I think. Obviously, it is Reaping Day; so I snatch the bottle of dark liquor off the kitchen floor. I squint at the clock that miraculously still seems to tell the time. 

Less miraculously, it is apparently now one fifty-six. Which means that the Reaping starts in exactly four minutes, and I am nowhere near where I’m supposed to be. . 

I don’t remember how exactly I find my shoes and hurtle out of the door, but I am reasonably certain that some amount of alcohol was involved in the process. Actually, as I nearly collide with the gate of the Victor’s Village, it occurs to me that perhaps it was too much. Yeah, well. It’s Reaping Day, so I know full well I’m not getting through that shit sober. It’s become almost muscle memory over the years, but it shockingly never manages to get any more fun. 

Theomond, who has been mayor for a ridiculously long time now, is halfway through his introductory remarks when I trip on the stairs to the stage. 

“Why the fuck didn’t you wake me up?” I holler at Effie. Judging by her disgusted expression, she is not impressed. Perhaps my brain has reached the stage where the words in my head are no longer connected with what’s coming out of my mouth, and she hasn’t a clue what I just said. I fall into the chair next to hers just as Theomond reads out my name alongside Lucy Gray Baird’s. Hearing the stupid list only makes me faintly annoyed. 

Effie scowls at me. “Behave,” she hisses. 

Hm. Why should I do that? So that the two walking corpses she’s about to summon can see that I’m a great fucking mentor? If she wanted me to look like a great fucking mentor, then maybe she should’ve woken me up in the morning. Ever consider that, Trinket? 

The crowd applauds and I stand at the same time as Effie does. Unfortunately, it doesn’t quite work and I stumble into Effie. Wait. Uhhh, fuck. Blindly, I reach for her to steady myself. Effie, being the idiot that she is, jerks away; my fingers catch the edges of her pink wig, which promptly lists sideways. 

Effie yelps in anger and shoves me away. Again, her own fault for not waking me up. I think the audience is snickering a little bit. Hey, maybe the dead kids will laugh for a few seconds before their lives are destroyed. 

As if they read my mind, the audience quiets down into its usual nervous trepidation. Most people out in the square are halfway to pissing themselves in fear that their precious little darling is going to end up dead. All hoping it’s someone else’s precious little darling instead. 

Theomond shoots me a look of distress, and I assume it is because of Effie’s wig and not because of the dead children. I salute him and slump back into my chair. Least this time I actually land in the chair. 

He introduces Effie, who curls her lip at me before bouncing to the front of the stage. I’m sure her lip-curling expression may have had the desired impact if I wasn’t currently seeing double - Effie Trinket currently resembles a funny little pink blob. She’s the brightest thing in the square by far, since everyone else is coated in a permanent layer of coal dust and sadness. It’s almost funny how garish she always seems. I should’ve pulled her stupid pink wig right off. I stare at the stupid pink wig so that I don’t accidentally make eye contact with a walking-corpse kid. 

A tiny, shifting movement off the corner of the stage catches my eye and despite myself, I glance sideways. There’s a dark, raggedy umbrella set up just out of sight of the audience. Underneath it is a figure I can unfortunately recognize even in my seeing-double, half-dead state. Amity Undersee cuts an unmistakable figure. 

What the fuck is Amity Undersee doing here? I can’t remember her attending any Reapings since her kid was little. Why’d she have to show up today? Does she not have a migraine? Maybe that means her morphling is working better. Fuck’s sake, if Amity becomes a morphling addict then we’re all fucked, like, on a societal level. More than we already are, if that is actually conceivably possible. 

Amity turns to look at me and nods in grim acknowledgement. I raise a hand in greeting. Is she here in case Madge is reaped? Is Madge even Reaping age yet? I swear that the last time I saw her, she couldn’t have been more than ten. No, wait. It’s the seventy-fourth Games this year, so Madge must be around….I furrow my brows, trying to do some math. 

Effie is rummaging around in the girls’ bowl. If she pulls out Madge’s name, I think I’ll just throw myself off the stage. Oh, fuck, what if Amity being here is a sign that it might actually be Madge? I refuse to mentor Madge Undersee. I draw the line there. The Capitol would love it a little too much. Or maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they want to bury my Games somewhere very far away, and they know full well that Reaping Madge would bring it back up. Does the mayor get a say in the Reaping? Surely he could make sure it’s never gonna be Madge? 

I’m so distracted by Amity’s presence that I don’t even register it when Effie announces the dead girl. The crowd is dead silent in the aftermath, and I close my eyes and wait for the crying of someone’s loved ones to begin. Well, whoever the new tribute is, we’ll all see far too much of them in the next few days anyway.

A piercing shriek cuts through the silence, and I wrinkle my nose. There it is. It is in fact the desperate sound of a loved one realizing the kid they love is dead. I’m very familiar with the sound. 

“Prim!” the person screams. It’s a girl’s voice. Why does the name Prim ring a bell? Do I know a kid called Prim? That’s ridiculous. I make it a point to not know the names of anyone under eighteen in this forsaken fucking town. 

I rub my hand over my forehead, willing this stupid fucking event to end as quickly as it can. The girl will stop screaming eventually, I’m sure. 

What I do not expect are the next words to blast across the square. 

“I volunteer!” the same voice screams. “I volunteer as tribute!” 

…What the fuck? This actually sends what feels like a physical shockwave through my system, and I stand up where I am.. The world tilts strangely on its axis, but I put a hand on the chair in an attempt to balance myself. Surely I cannot be so drunk that I have begun to hallucinate volunteers? I’ve only ever hallucinated once or twice, and I am sure that I was having a far worse day than I currently am. 

No, I’m definitely not hallucinating because Theomond, seated next to me, stands up at the exact same time. His face is pale. Okay, so some utter lunatic did in fact just volunteer. Cool. Fine. Whatever.

“Lovely!” says Effie, looking bemused. “But I believe there’s a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then, we, um…” 

Yeah, she has no idea. Why would she have any idea? I’ve been doing this stupid fucking shit for longer than any of the kids down there have been alive, and I’ve never, never seen a volunteer. Who is the brave idiot who just condemned themselves to death? Perhaps the child is crazy. Actually, yes, that’s definitely it - the kid is clinically insane and a little suicidal, and this is the most dramatic death she could come up with. Yeah. 

Reluctantly, I glance off the stage. The girl who was reaped is clinging to the volunteer. The volunteer’s forced her face into cold acceptance, but the little kid is screaming hysterically, and then suddenly the air escapes from my lungs. 

I know the little kid. That small blond face is definitely familiar. I’ve seen her before, standing in the Reaping section just across from my own, weeping Maysilee Donner’s name moments before my own life ended. I’ve seen it in the years after, one of the few faces to consistently wear an expression of actual kindness. Saving Seam boys from whipping posts. Taking care of a lonely canary. Waving at me from across the town square, even though I’d never wave back. Running away with a coal miner, the talk of the town when I was all of twenty. 

Of course, Ilona Everdeen isn’t twelve years old. That makes the two insane, desperate kids in the crowd her daughters. Which is only maybe thirty percent less gut-wrenching than the tribute being literally Madge Undersee. I watch, pained, as the volunteer detaches her sister’s arms from around her waist. 

“Prim, let go,” she says, her voice a little too cold. “Let go.” 

The older girl is holding back emotions. I don’t know if anyone else can see it, but to me it is suddenly obvious that she is trying to keep her gait steady, her eyes clear. It’s a difficult feat under most circumstances, and I’m sure it’s even stranger when you’ve volunteered to be there. 

“Well, bravo!” says Effie, and I drag my eyes away from Ilona’s daughters, shooting Effie a look of intense annoyance. “That’s the spirit of the Games! What’s your name?”

“Katniss Everdeen,” the girl says, trying her best to prevent her voice from shaking.  

I spend a moment contemplating whether or not I should slap Effie Trinket. I am very tempted to do so. It is not technically Effie’s fault that Ilona Everdeen’s daughter has just condemned herself to death. It is not technically Effie’s fault that she has to say all these disgusting, Capitol-approved speeches. Still, I cannot quite prevent myself from daydreaming about knocking her off the stage and ending this whole batshit fucking farce. 

Despite myself, I scan the crowd for Ilona. It doesn’t take more than a second before I see her. She has pushed to the front of the barricade, and is clinging on, watching her daughter walk to the stage like a lamb going willingly to the slaughter. Her knuckles are pale. 

I’m not here anymore. I’m sixteen and I’m on the Reaping stage for the very first time. My eyes are fixed to the treeline and I am hyper-aware of my own mother’s helpless gaze as I walk onto the stage. I am hyper-aware of the fact that I am still on the same damn stage. 

Oh, I’ve had too much to drink. Either that, or I haven’t had enough. Consciousness suddenly seems utterly exhausting, and I find myself wishing for something to just knock me out so that I do not have to watch this grotesque scene play out. 

“I bet my buttons that was your sister!” Effie gushes. “Don’t want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let’s give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!” 

Steal all the glory? Every time I think that Effie might not be quite as insufferable as she pretends to be, she says something that makes me feel utterly violent. This skinny little idiot of a teenager has just thrown away her life to save her sister’s. She deserves….oh, I don’t fucking know, a nice funerary service. Steal all the glory, my ass. 

…..Would I have volunteered? If they’d called Dillon’s name out, twenty-four years ago? Would I have stopped my brother from getting on the stage, gone into the arena voluntarily in his stead? 

I don’t know. I try to imagine it, and I can’t. He would’ve been utterly, incandescently furious with me if I’d tried such a stunt. But Dillon was only a year younger than me. He wasn’t nearly as tiny as Prim. Still, could I have let him walk to his death? I don’t think I could’ve. Watching someone you care about in the arena might actually be worse than going in yourself. Of course, it wouldn’t have mattered. Dillon is even more dead than the person who did go into the arena twenty-four years ago.

Fucking hell, if I’m thinking this much about Dillon and my mother then today is already a massive toss and I should just get even more violently drunk in the vague hope that tomorrow is somehow better. 

The crowd is dead silent despite Effie’s urgings to applaud. Good for them. Their refusal to applaud is probably the closest thing they can do to flipping off the cameras. And, well, at least it’s not just me who’s been driven to a sudden and uncomfortable set of emotions by Katniss Everdeen and her sad little sister. I look at the aforementioned Katniss Everdeen, whose face is set in a thin, determined line. She’s deliberately not looking at her sister, which is definitely an intelligent move. 

Then someone in the crowd places their fingers to their lips, and holds their arm out to the sky. And then the whole district raises their arms in the same heavy silence. One by one by one. They’re honoring her. They’re honoring Katniss Everdeen, Ilona’s little girl who has just volunteered to die. A lump rises in my throat, which is a strange and unfamiliar feeling - I truly cannot recall the last time I’ve felt an emotion this strongly. I drum my fingers against my leg. Well, I suppose the district has now held her funerary service. Good for them. 

The lump in my throat disappears rapidly as I watch the camera drones sweep over the crowd, broadcasting the image of this silent salute across the television screens of Panem. A sudden fear crawls across my skin and my stomach does a slow flip, which I am relatively certain has little to do with the liquor. The cameras just have to ruin everything. Panem will be paying attention, today, because an interesting Reaping in Twelve is so unusual - I know full well that Caesar Flickerman will be made to unpack this silent salute, explain to the Capitol what this gesture means. And I know full well that there’s no explanation other than the fact that Katniss Everdeen’s voluntary death will be a tragedy of epic proportions. This salute is a fuck-you, and I can’t possibly be the only one who sees it as a fuck-you. This bunch of massive District idiots have decided to conduct a salute at a reaping. They have decided to publicly declare that a system that sends a sixteen-year-old to die to save her twelve-year-old sister is utterly, unimaginably fucked. 

The Capitol does not like being reminded that their system is fucked. I am extremely familiar with what the Capitol does to people who remind them that the system is fucked. Katniss Everdeen’s sacrifice is going to be so utterly futile, because they are going to murder her sister within approximately ten seconds if anyone overanalyzes why the fools in the square are busy saluting.

Another glance at Katniss also tells me she’s half a second away from crying. Which is…bad. She’ll be dead if she cries, and her sister will be dead because they saluted. I take a step towards her, and the stage spins confusingly under my feet. I’ve no idea what I’m doing, except now the cameras are looking at me and not at the angry, grieving crowd. 

“Look at her!” I shout at the cameras. They swivel eagerly at me, excited to have something ridiculous to examine on television. Out of the corner of my eye, I see them lowering the salute. “Look at this one!” 

I’m angry, I realize. She shouldn’t be up here. None of them should. The world is swaying and I stagger. I have to throw my arm around Katniss’s shoulders to keep my balance, which she clearly does not appreciate even slightly. 

“I like her!” I tell the camera. “Lots of….”

I don’t quite know what I want to say. Spark sounds bizarre. Fire? Bravery? Uhhhhh. I need to say something. 

“Spunk!” I decide, ignoring the obvious glee of the cameramen. Fuck them. Fuck them and their ridiculous Games. Fuck all of them, sitting pretty on their living room couches and watching a teenage girl sacrifice herself for her sister. They’ll never know that kind of desperation. They’ll never fucking have half of what it takes to be someone who is either brave or stupid enough to volunteer for the Games. 

“More than you!” I shout at the smirking, pink-haired cameramen. I walk towards the front of the stage. “More than you!” 

This probably is not very smart, given that I had wanted to prevent today from smacking of rebellion. Still, I’m reasonably sure that I’m now what the cameras are focusing on. 

I take another step forward, intending to give the cameras another soundbite. When I do step forward, I realize belatedly that there is no more stage left underneath me. I barely register what’s happening when I tilt off the edge of the stage, and then the world goes black. 

Fifteen minutes later, I wake up in the Justice Building. My head hurts like a fucking bitch. Did I just…yell at the Capitol and then fall off the stage? The last half hour feels like a fever dream. I sit up suddenly as I remember Katniss Everdeen volunteering. Definitely a fever dream, then. I have long since accepted the reapings and the Games as part of my existence, and I cannot remember the last time a Reaping made me angry. They used to make me angry, didn’t they? Last few years, they’ve just been numb. This is disconcerting. 

My train of thought is interrupted by Effie, who emerges from somewhere and eyes me with disapproval. Effie’s default expression is eyeing me with disapproval, so I cannot say that I’m very impressed. 

“Your hair is sideways,” I inform her. Her glare shifts from ‘somewhat disapproving’ to ‘deeply murderous’. It’s rather satisfying to watch. 

“And whose fault is that?” she snaps. “Here. Put that on your head.” 

She’s holding out an ice pack. I don’t want an ice pack.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I don’t need a fucking ice pack. What’s the boy’s name?” 

“What?” 

“The boy. I assume you picked a second tribute?” 

“His name is Peeta Mellark,” she says. Mellark. He’s one of the baker’s kids, then. I like the boy’s father. Been working in the bakery since I was a teenager. He offered me free bread after I won the Games. I did not require free bread after I won the Games. 

Well, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark have made this year already more shit than usual.  That is an achievement by itself. Effie is still waving an ice pack in my face, and I try to bat it away. 

“Take the ice pack,” she huffs. “You have a concussion. ” 

Whatever. I take the ice pack because it’s less effort than picking another fight, and Effie looks far too pleased with herself. 

My mood plummets even further as I see Ilona Everdeen and her younger daughter emerge, eyes bright with unshed tears, from the room at the end of the hall. I generally try to escape the Justice Building before the tributes are done saying their goodbyes. Last thing I want is to have to talk to bereaved parents. 

Unfortunately, Ilona catches my eye. I nod back at her, hoping that she’ll just keep walking.  I really have very little to say to her - I have never had very much to say to her. I’m sorry that I will have custody of your daughter for the last few weeks of her life. I’m sorry I can’t save her. I can’t save most people, but I am particularly sorry that it’s your kid out of everyone in this damn district.

And, fuck, she’s moving towards me. Far too late for me to make an escape. 

“Hi, Haymitch,” Ilona says, her voice somehow steady. She’s holding her younger daughter’s hand. 

“Don’t -” I begin. My voice cuts out - must be the concussion - and I start over. “Don’t make me promise to save your kid.” 

Ilona’s mouth twists. “I wasn’t going to.” 

“Okay.” 

I don’t say anything else. I get the impression that Ilona doesn’t really know why she’s here either. My head begins to painfully throb, and I lean it against the wall. 

“Don’t let her go at it alone. She’s too alone,” says Ilona finally. This statement is somewhat confusing, since it is obvious that Katniss has a family that loves her very much. But what the hell can I do other than nod? A single tear rolls down Ilona’s cheek, and she swipes it away angrily. Prim wraps her arms around her, and Ilona kisses her head. 

“Yeah,” I say. She nods and walks quickly away, her arm securely around Prim’s shoulders. Prim turns back to me last-minute and waves. 

I bury my head in my hands. For fuck’s sake, I thought I’d perfected the art of running from the tributes’ families before I mentored their kids to death. If I hadn’t knocked myself out, I would’ve been able to hide myself away somewhere. Instead, I had to look at Ilona’s sad blue eyes. Don’t let her go at it alone? What does she expect me to do, pat her kid on the head and tell her it’s all going to be okay? It’s not all going to be okay. And I don’t befriend tributes. I’m not an idiot anymore. 

Because today somehow still has the ability to get worse, I see Madge Undersee walking into Katniss’ room to say goodbye. Of course they’re friends. 

Madge Undersee might just be my last straw for today. I stand and drop the ice pack - I’m going to get on the fucking train and try my very best to forget whatever fresh hell has just occurred. Effie sees me stand and tries to stop me from leaving (Haymitch, you’re going to hurt yourself, you’re still concussed ) but I shake her off and stalk away in the direction of the platform. I just want to be unconscious again, because it was much better when I had no idea what was going on. 

The second I get to the platform, however, I’m joined by a squadron of Peacekeepers who bring Katniss and the boy - who I assume must be Peeta - out to the train. Katniss has kept her face dead clear of any emotion, I note with approval. Peeta, on the other hand, has tear stains on his cheeks. Still, he’s tall and looks reasonably strong. I’ve had worse tributes. 

I think being knocked out sobered me up. Unfortunate. Thankfully, I have memorized the locations of the best and most expensive liquor they keep on the trains. I give the tributes one last once-over, though I have no desire to talk to either of them. They’re probably around the same age, sixteen or seventeen, though the boy looks a bit older. Well, either he looks older, or he looks like he eats more food. 

I glance over Katniss again. She’s small, yes, but Katniss does look better-off than some of the other Seam kids I’ve seen over the years. Small but not unhealthy. Almost certainly better fed than I was at her age. My gaze slides over to Peeta, whose eyes are red and swollen but whose mouth is set in a controlled manner. He seems affable, I think, as I watch him wave and put on a smile for the cameras on the platform. Affability, unfortunately, is a lovely trait for a human being and a terrible one for a tribute - good fucking luck to this guy. Peeta brushes his hair out of his eyes and manages to give me a polite smile as the train doors slide shut. 

I snap myself out of it. For fuck’s sake, this year has me so shaken I’m paying attention to the damn tributes. If I’m not careful, I might actually remember some details about them after they die. 

Katniss disappears instantly, the second we board the train. This is a very reasonable response, and I decide that I am also going to disappear to my room. Though I shall do so with a bottle of whatever overpriced liquor they’ve left in the pantry this year.

Peeta lingers in the common space of the train car. He examines the decor as though he’s genuinely interested in it, and then he smiles at me again. I try to refrain from rolling my eyes in response. 

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you,” he says. “I didn’t get to introduce myself earlier. I’m Peeta.”

“I know who you are,” I snap back. He blinks for half a second before his expression clears. 

“Well, you missed my Reaping,” he says lightly, smiling again. He doesn’t seem too thrown by me. That’s quite weird, actually. I’ve met his type before - they’re predictable. They always try to get in my good books, thinking that my approval will give them a better chance of surviving. It doesn’t work, and they seem incapable of understanding that my approval or lack thereof has approximately nothing to do with it. 

“Really? I didn’t notice,” I say dryly. 

Peeta laughs. Generally, this type of tribute gets upset when I don’t bother with scraps of affection. They’re usually easy to scare away, but I don’t think I’m upsetting Peeta at all. I don’t like his attitude very much. Would vastly prefer it if he just went and hated me. 

I stand up and roll my shoulders before going to locate one of the whiskey bottles they store in the bottom cupboards. I actually suspect that they restock them occasionally for my benefit. 

“I’m going to take a nap,” I announce. I leave the room before Peeta can say anything else. 

And then, like I always am, I’m back in my old train car. They’ve redone the trains a few times, over the years, but the layout has always remained the same. I split the seal on the whiskey bottle with an overgrown fingernail. I slide down against the wall. Me and this wall are old buddies. 

I’ve long since stopped measuring the amount of liquor I drink. The familiar burn of the whiskey is a comfort. The stuff they serve in the Capitol is sweeter than the white liquor they brew back home, and I’ve started to associate the smoky taste of the dark brown whiskey with the feeling of the train car. 

There have been too many ghosts today. I am so fucking sick of running from ghosts. They’re here every year, though, and they’re unavoidable. I just need to keep my head down, wait for the kids to die, and get through one more Games. At least Chaff will be there in the Capitol. Least I get to see the people who make me feel a little bit human, even if it’s during the worst few weeks of the year. 

I probably shouldn’t be drinking with a concussion. Fuck knows what it’s doing to my brain. Perhaps it’ll result in a deadly brain bleed. Sounds festive. 

Abandoning the whiskey on my bedside table, I collapse into bed. Perhaps I actually should try to take a nap, since I feel like my brain has been placed on the inside of a blender and spun around at an extremely high speed for far longer than one should ideally spin a brain around in a blender. Optimistically, I close my eyes, press my still-swollen head against the pillow. 

Obviously, it doesn’t work. The second my eyelids slide shut, I’m thrust headfirst into a nightmare so bad I might as well be sixteen again; I am in the arena, the light dappled and golden and beautiful. My fingers are wrapped tight around the hilt of a knife, and I’m positioned so carefully with the smoking remains of a mountain behind my back. 

Up ahead, the Careers talk. It’s like I’m viewing the scene on a dual-holograph monitor, like I’m watching myself from the Tribute Center. I am both in the woods and outside of them, aware of what’s to come and yet somehow helpless to stop it. In the dream, I watch myself fight; I see myself take down one, two Careers and I pretend I don’t remember their names. I pause as I’m thrown to the ground by the boy from Two, waiting, because I know exactly who’s about to emerge from the woods. Except, of course, in this dream it’s not Maysilee Donner who appears holding a dart-gun. It’s her best friend, the girl who works in the apothecary. Ilona stands in the woods and raises Maysilee’s gun. 

She doesn’t shoot the boy from Two. Ilona shoots me in the head, and I wake up covered in a cold sweat. 

I roll out of bed with a groan. For fuck’s sake. I ball my hands into tight fists, digging my nails into my palm as hard as I can. It’s barely been a few minutes since I attempted to go to sleep. Funny how quickly a dream can pass. I raise my fingers to my temples, trying to massage away the lingering ache - this fails immediately, since my head is still bruised from flinging myself off the fucking stage. 

Extremely fascinating how I manage to invent new and fun ways of having terrible days, even after living through what objectively must be a wildly above-average number of terrible days. I reach for the bottle again. I think it’s going to be one of those evenings. 

Chapter Text

I am in a bathtub, and the cold gray light of the morning is filtering in through the window. Admittedly, this is not the first time I have woken up with absolutely zero memories of how I ended up where I was; I do, however, think that this might be a record for how early in the Games it happens. Generally, this is the type of thing that happens post-Cornucopia.

I get up halfway, and then lie back down as I remember the events of yesterday. I bury my head in my hands. Going outside is the last thing I want to do, but if I do not get myself up then I know full well that I’m going to be immediately subjected to Effie barging into my room with no warning, screeching something about a big, big, big day. 

The light is ridiculously bright, and I rub my eyelids in a futile attempt to block it out. Effie’s awake already, and I catch her helping herself to a muffin. She turns, jumps around guiltily as she hears my footsteps. 

“Oh! You’re up early,” she says. She then wrinkles her nose at me. 

I don’t bother with a response. I just watch as she places the muffin carefully back on the tray. 

“Are you going to eat that?” I ask. She raises a brow. 

“Eat what?”

“The muffin. You were staring at it like it was your firstborn child.” 

Effie flushes, and her morning makeup is light enough that I can see the red coloring her cheeks. 

“No. You can have it,” she says. 

“What makes you think that I want a muffin?” I mutter. I make my way over to the drink bar and pour out some cranberry juice. I rifle through the closed cabinets until I find some clear liquor to thin it with. Vodka? Tequila? No idea, it’s not labeled. 

“You like muffins,” Effie points out. 

“I do not like muffins. Muffins are just the food group that offends me the least.” 

“You’re insufferable,” she grumbles. 

“Thank you,” I say, stretching and sitting down at the breakfast table. I would like to be sufficiently shitfaced before the tributes surface for the morning. I have no desire to be present for Katniss’ accusing glares.

What was it that Ilona had told me yesterday, after the Reaping? Don’t let her go at it alone ? This request is just as puzzling as it was yesterday. Every tribute is alone. That’s the point of the Games. And for District Twelve, that is even more the case. The fuck does Ilona want? Emotional support for her kid? Oh, for fuck’s sake. Does she want me to have her hold hands with Peeta Mellark so that they can die together?

As if on cue, Peeta emerges from his room. Effie turns to him with a surprised smile. 

“You’re awake too!” she says, with delight. I can’t tell whether or not she’s upset that she didn’t get to wake everyone up today. “Good morning, Peeta. Breakfast is all laid out, and you’re welcome to ask for as much as you like!” 

“Thank you, Effie,” says Peeta politely. He sits, and a Capitol attendant places a giant breakfast platter in front of him. His eyes nearly bug out of his head. I pour a second drink. 

Peeta glances around, clearly a little uncomfortable with the room’s relative silence. I’m not about to start making small talk with Effie so that he can feel better, so I stare at the violently pink color of my juice. Do any real berries even come in this color, or does the Capitol modify them to be brighter? I wouldn’t be surprised. They’re constantly making things brighter and sleeker over there. It’s a wonder they’re not constantly overstimulated. 

Effie sits down next to me. Brighter and Sleeker Personified places a single elegant slice of cheese onto her plate, which she spears with a tiny fork and takes a little nibble out of. If I have a couple of drinks right now, then I’ll time it perfectly - I’ll be drunk by the time we reach the Capitol, I won’t remember the tribute parades, and I’ll have sobered back up again by the time the rest of the victors want to go to the bar at the end of the night. It’s like clockwork. Effie gets up again, probably to go fetch Katniss. 

An attendant appears and asks Peeta what he’d like to drink. He widens his eyes slightly and glances at me, and I stifle a snicker. 

“Not like that, boy,” I say helpfully, though I’ve no doubt they’d hand him champagne if he asked for it. “Try the hot chocolate.” 

Peeta only hesitates a moment before asking the attendant for a hot chocolate. 

“Actually, just bring the whole pot out,” I say. Effie frowns at me and I shrug. Maybe the girl wants hot chocolate too. 

The attendant returns and Peeta takes a tentative sip. His eyes widen again, but this time in a good way. 

“Shit,” he says. “Shit, this is good.” 

Wow, do I so love watching tributes enjoy the food before they die. Almost takes away from the fact that they’re about to be brutally murdered. 

Peeta glances at me over the rim of his hot chocolate. “Thanks for the recommendation. Definitely worth dying for.” 

Did he make a death joke? I can’t help it - I grin. That’s a bit funny, actually. Just a tiny bit. 

“Well, least this one knows what’s coming,” I say cheerfully to Effie, as she sits down beside me. 

“What?” she says, having missed most of the conversation.

“He knows that the hot chocolate is worth dying for,” I say, keeping my tone deadpan. 

“Haymitch!” she gasps, getting to her feet. Her face flushes red, and she actually looks livid. 

He made the joke first, I consider saying, but Effie just kicks her chair out of the way. Have I actually succeeded in getting Effie Trinket to her last straw, after fifteen years of trying? Is a death joke in front of the tributes really all it took? 

She leaves the table, muttering swear words under her breath. I didn’t even know she knew that many swear words. Peeta examines a bread roll and looks very much like he’d rather be somewhere else. Can’t really say I blame him. 

Katniss finally appears and lingers in silence near the doorway of the train car. I wave her towards the table. 

“Sit down, sit down,” I laugh. If Effie wants to pretend that we’re having a fun little social morning and not on our way to a death parade, I can do that. I will also be pouring out a third drink of the morning. I thin the cranberry juice out a little more - the taste of the tequila is vile, but I really don’t mind it. Somehow, it remains more appealing than the piles of bread and meats in front of me. 

Katniss sits in silence and takes in the platters of food. Yawn. This is starting to get repetitive. 

“They call it hot chocolate,” Peeta says to her. “It’s good.” 

Everyone finishes breakfast with little conversation. I survey the tributes. I’ve come up with a nearly foolproof system of classifying my tributes, after doing this for nearly a quarter of a century - almost all tributes can fit into one of three categories. 

Most commonly, there's the Weepy kind. Usually, they’re young - somewhere between twelve and fourteen. They know they’ve got no shot, but they’re scared to die and they’re not really afraid to show it. They shed enough tears to provide an effective irrigation agriculture system for half the Seam. A subset of Weepy is Clingy. Desperate for comfort and suddenly missing their parents, they will first try to attach themselves to me. When that fails, they go for Effie, who is annoyingly softhearted and will happily pet their hair and tell them it’s going to be okay. Weepy and Clingy almost always die at the Cornucopia. 

Then there’s Grumpy. Usually older, old enough that they might’ve stood a chance if they weren’t from Twelve. Unfortunately, they’re from a shithole of a district and they know it, so they’ve resigned themselves to death and don’t see much point in going quietly. They’ll snap, storm, yell, and then they’ll die beautifully within the first two days anyway. 

Occasionally, I get the Sunshines. If I had to categorize them this year, I’d probably list Peeta as a Sunshine. Sunshines will smile for the cameras, they’ll be nice to me, and they’ll blow kisses - they’ll try their best to play the Game, and then they’ll get butchered within thirty seconds of the gong going off. 

Katniss is an odd one. Can’t quite fit her into one of the above categories. She’s certainly not weepy, that’s for sure - I haven’t seen a single tear on her face since she walked onto that stage. I’d have guessed she’d be a grumpy one, but she doesn’t have the air of anger and resignation that I’d typically associate with those. She’s just…sort of there. 

Actually, specifically, she’s staring at me with something that looks a little like hate. Okay, good for her. I thin the cranberry juice a little bit more. I’m currently far too coherent for my own liking. 

“So,” she says. “You’re supposed to give us advice.” 

Oh, so she’s not an odd one. She’s just stupid. I burst out laughing. What advice could I possibly give them that would be helpful? They’re going to die anyway. 

She’s still looking at me expectantly, though her nose wrinkles in a way that is strangely reminiscent of Effie Trinket. 

“Here’s some advice,” I say. “Stay alive.” 

This, of course, reminds me of the first time I heard and followed that exact advice. This in turn reminds me of the absolute, horrible irony of it all, and I burst out laughing again. Ha, ha, ha, stay alive, you little shits. Good luck trying. 

That’s when my glass goes flying into the wall, splattering glistening red liquid across the table. The liquid looks awfully like blood and smells awfully like tequila, and Peeta’s sudden movement across the table has his eyes blazing with violence, and a jolt of anger races through me. I don’t even have to think about it when I ball my hand into a fist and strike the absolutely awful kid in the jaw, hard as I can. 

Sunshine, my ass. They’re both just delusional fools. I try to avoid looking at the bloodred spatters on the table as I reach for the bottle of spirits next to me. I focus on the ache in my knuckles very, very hard, and I bite the inside of my cheek. The iron taste of blood fills my mouth, and my hands shake just the tiniest bit. I’m not staying present, that’s for sure - it’s currently a choice between disappearing into my head or disappearing into the tequila, and the tequila sounds like an infinitely preferable bet. 

Before I can reach for the tequila, a knife slams down into the table between my hand and the bottle. I jerk my fingers away on pure instinct, and I turn my head to see the face of the girl who apparently knows how to use a fucking blade. Her eyes, like Peeta’s, are dark and steady and angry. 

Effie gasps in horror. “That is mahogany,” she exclaims, and everyone ignores her. 

I look at Katniss again. That’s what’s different, I think. Katniss is Grumpy, yes, but her anger isn’t just flowing meaninglessly into space. She’s directing it. And apparently, she knows how to use a weapon. 

I lean back in my chair, and I exhale carefully. So does Katniss, who instinctively shifts her body into a defensive stance. She’s waiting for me to hit back. I don’t. 

“What’s this?” I say, finally, drumming my fingers on the table. “Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?” 

Katniss and Peeta exchange a glance. I gnaw at the inside of my cheek again. Fuck it. If these two are as delusional as I think they are, then maybe I’ll be delusional with them. 

Peeta gets up from where I knocked him to the ground, and goes for the ice in the fruit tureen. I raise a hand to stop him. 

“No. Let the bruise show,” I say resignedly. “The audience will think you’ve mixed it up with another tribute before you’ve even made it to the arena.” 

It’s also not lost on me that the boy knows how to treat a bruise. Fighting experience? Maybe. Or maybe he just gets punched a lot. 

“That’s against the rules,” says Peeta, eyeing me suspiciously. 

“Only if they catch you,” I say. “That bruise will say you fought, you weren’t caught, even better.” 

The Capitol only plays by the rules when it suits them, after all. I turn to Katniss, who’s watching this play out with only a slightly raised brow. 

“Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?” I ask her. She considers it for a moment, and then nods. She picks up the knife, and I note immediately that she’s not bluffing. Her stance is almost perfect, and she’s familiar with the knife’s grip. She shifts her weight, squints at the wall, and flings the knife in a straight, perfect line. It lodges neatly in the crack between two wooden panels. Effie no longer looks distressed, and watches with open interest. 

Well, maybe I’m a little bit impressed. Suddenly, it strikes me that I have seen Katniss Everdeen before. I’ve always made a point of avoiding her, as I do everyone who looks like they might still be Reaped, but I’ve seen her in the Hob. I’ve seen her trading freshly shot meats practically every day. Like her father used to do. Where the hell is her father, actually? I didn’t see any signs of William Everdeen at the Reaping. Didn’t know the guy well, but from what I did know, he was definitely the type of man who would make some noise if his daughter ended up on the Reaping stage. I try to think, but I’m drawing a blank. Maybe he died out in the mines, or something. He’s Seam. We don’t have long life expectancies. Still, this does mean that Katniss Everdeen probably knows how to use a weapon. 

I snap my attention back to Katniss and Peeta. I nod to the center of the room. 

“Stand over here. Both of you,” I say. They obey, and I survey them as quickly as I can. Try to see them from the perspective of a sponsor. From the perspective of someone from the Capitol. How do I best present them to an audience? 

I circle them carefully. Katniss does look young for her age, yes, but she’s got a determined look to her. One glance at her eyes and you can tell she’s resilient, that she had to grow up quick. Same with Peeta, though he’s already tall and built strong. I look them up and down. 

“Well, you’re not entirely hopeless,” I concede. “Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you’ll be attractive enough.” 

I wince a little as I say it. I cross my fingers and hope that we get a half-decent stylist this year. Someone who can make them look okay without turning them into sex symbols. Oh, this is not exactly an easy fucking balance to strike. I don’t think I can help them if I have to think about it too hard. 

I lean back, lace my fingers together, and I try not to let them know the extent to which I’m dubious. “All right, I’ll make a deal with you. You don’t interfere with my drinking, and I’ll stay sober enough to help you. But you have to do exactly as I say.” 

“Fine,” says Peeta, a little too quickly. Presumably before I can change my mind. This is probably smart, because I am already half-regretting this agreement. 

“So help us,” snaps Katniss. She clearly hasn’t forgiven me for - not sure, actually. “When we get to the arena, what’s the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone -” 

The Cornucopia? Oh, she’s thinking way too far ahead. These two need to make it through all the bullshit that happens before. The Cornucopia is the least of their concerns. How do I even begin to explain to this kid that the Games have already started? She needs to focus on surviving the now, and - 

Fuck. The light is getting darker, which means that the train is entering the tunnels, which means we’re seconds away from arriving at the Capitol. A lecture now will just confuse them. 

“One thing at a time,” I say, cutting Katniss off. ““In a few minutes, we’ll be pulling into the station. You’ll be put in the hands of your stylists. You’re not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don’t resist.” 

“But -” 

“No buts,” I say. “Don’t resist.” 

Before I can think too hard about what I’ve just signed up for, I snatch the tequila bottle off the table. I slam the door to my room and close my eyes until the train pulls into the station in the Capitol. 

Effie raps hard on my door, and I groan. 

“I’m coming, Trinket. Calm down.” 

Effie won’t stop chittering at me as the tributes are captured by the styling teams. Peeta gives me a worried look, and I narrow my eyes at him. Don’t resist, boy. If the tributes last a little longer in the Games, then the prep teams will be interviewed at some point. They'll be better off if they make a good impression. 

“Haymitch!” says Effie, poking me. “Are you listening to me?” 

“Am I ever listening to you, Effie?” 

She huffs in frustration. “I was saying, we have new stylists this year. They’d like to meet you.” 

“Oh, wonderful. New stylists. We get those about as frequently as we get new tributes,” I point out. 

Effie grits her teeth. “They requested District Twelve specifically,” she says. 

“Okay. And?” 

Effie flings her hands in the air. She nearly drops her clipboard. 

“You,” she says violently. “Are coming. With. Me.” 

“I. Am. Coming. With. You.” 

Effie actually snarls at that, which is honestly amusing. Still, I follow her. Stylists who requested Twelve is a new one, despite what I might say to Effie. This year seems full of new ones. If I was the superstitious type, I might’ve said it was a good sign. 

I take a minute to brace myself before we open the door to the stylists’ room. I’ve met my fair share of stylists over the years. I’ve even punched out a stylist once, when he insisted on sending my tributes onto the chariot fully naked. That had been, what - Sixty-Sixth? Year after Finnick had won? Other memorable stylists include Stellius, the idiot who styled my own Games, and Tigris, who did my Victory Tour on the President’s own personal orders. No, I am not the world’s biggest fan of stylists. 

My first thought is that we’ve got the wrong room, because these stylists look strangely normal. There’s a man and a woman sitting on the chairs. The man is taller than me, dark-skinned, and his hair is close-cropped. He’s dressed so plainly he might even have blended in in one of the wealthier districts. I could see him wandering around Two or Four, easy. I am embarrassed that my second thought is that he’s actually quite attractive. 

His partner has similar dark skin, and her hair is dyed blonde. Actually dyed, I note with interest. Not a wig. She’s dressed smartly, but simply. Not insane and Capitol-like. It’s a little unnerving. 

“Hi,” the man says, standing up to greet us as we walk in. “My name’s Cinna. You must be Effie and Haymitch?” 

I shake Cinna’s hand. The woman introduces herself as Portia. 

“So why did you want to meet?” I ask them, sitting down. I see no point in excessive niceties. 

Cinna and Portia glance at each other. Portia speaks, eventually. “We wanted to confirm our looks for the tribute parade with you.” 

“And wanted to check in about your tribute strategy. Are you comfortable with them in complementary outfits?” Cinna says. 

I raise a brow. I’ve never been consulted by stylists on tribute strategy before. They’re usually more concerned about showcasing their own lookbooks. 

“Define complementary,” I say, hedging. 

“Well,” says Cinna. He pulls out a binder full of sketches. “The actual outfits are inside being refitted, of course. While they’re in alterations, though, it’s not too late for last-minute changes.”

He points to images in his binder. “Currently, this is what we were envisioning.” 

I peer over his shoulder, expecting to see some kind of ridiculous coal-miner outfit. I remember with a sudden shudder how the girls my year wore lampshade bras. It was an atrocity. Instead, I see a long gown, with open cutouts and a cape. In Portia’s sketchbook, the boy’s outfit is cut in a nearly identical style. 

“That doesn’t look very coal-related,” I say. “Did these get cleared by the Committee?” 

Cinna smiles, and turns the page. A full-color illustration shows the same gown, this time illuminated in…….actual fire. Well. I guess that’ll do it, when it comes to coal-related. Still. Fire? 

“They very much did,” he says. “I thought they’d suit Katniss especially.” 

“Are you planning to set my tributes on actual fucking fire?” I ask, incredulously. 

Portia grins. “Leave that part to us,” she says. “I wanted to check if the outfits are too similar. There’s still time to re-cut Peeta’s, you know, so if you want us to distinguish the tributes from each other visually…” 

I consider it. She’s making a real point. The outfits are drawn nearly identically. Sending them out like this will mean that the commentary will be about District Twelve, not specifically about Katniss Everdeen or Peeta Mellark. I think about the Career costumes, and how they almost always have distinguishing elements to them so that the audience can easily distinguish between the boy and the girl. 

Then I think of how Katniss and Peeta - consciously or not - worked as a team to force my attention, strong-arm me into a deal to mentor them properly. I think of Katniss’ mother, who could’ve left me any last message about her probably-dead child, telling me not to let her do it alone. I run a hand through my hair and close my eyes. 

“No, don’t change it,” I say finally. “Let them go up together.” 

Cinna grins. 

“Perfect. Together it is.”

Chapter Text

The tributes are in the stylists’ hands until the parade, and I’m left to my own devices. I wander towards the common space of the Training Center, where I’m sure to find some other mentors to pass the time with. Hopefully they are mentors that I can stand. 

My entire body exhales with relief when I see Chaff walking towards the lounge too. He catches my eye and greets me in his usual manner, which is a too-long, overly affectionate hug. I tolerate it and slap him in return. 

I pull away from him and frown. After all these years of knowing him, I am fluent in Chaff’s body language. His face is split into the widest possible grin, but the tension in his frame is palpable. Something about the way his shoulders are moving sets off alarm bells in my brain. 

“What?” I ask. 

He shakes his head. “Nothing.” 

I scowl at him and fold my arms. He relents within five seconds. 

“I’ve got the tiniest little girl this year,” he says despondently. “Swapped tributes with Jasmine because she started crying when talking about her. So she’s got our jacked eighteen-year-old, and I’ve got this absolutely tiny little kid.” 

I sigh. “Remember when you gave me a lecture on getting attached to tributes?” 

The corner of Chaff’s mouth quirks upwards. “And then you ignored that advice, got attached anyway, and went into a debilitating depression for weeks?” 

“Not the point, Chaff,” I say, scowling again. I am never going to find my first year as a mentor amusing in the slightest. “Take your own advice for once. You’ve had small tributes before.” 

Chaff doesn’t look convinced. 

“What?” I ask. “Is she clingy or something?” 

“The opposite,” he says sadly. “She’s so self-sufficient. Way too old for a twelve-year-old.” 

“We all grew up fast,” I point out. I’m aware I sound heartless. I’d rather sound heartless than watch Chaff get attached to a twelve-year-old girl who will be dead in the water within a week. No twelve-year-old stands a chance, and he knows it. 

He closes his eyes, bites his lip, and shakes his head, like a dog shaking off water. “I know,” he says. 

“C’mon, then,” I say. “Let’s go inside.” 

Inside, we’re greeted with a hubbub of noise as every single victor has apparently had the same idea. We don’t actually have to see our tributes to the parade starting point - the stylists will see to that - but many mentors like to be there anyway. Beforehand, though, they do like to convene at least once. An astonishingly predictable lot, really. 

Frankly, I do need to assess who’s mentoring this year. I haven’t bothered watching any recaps on TV, so I’ll need to survey in person. Immediately, I spot some usual suspects - Beetee and Wiress converse in low tones in the corner - and Elaine from Six sits near them, though she looks so completely strung-out on morphling that she resembles an actual corpse. I see Althea and Davey from Four, and spot Finnick across the room with Johanna. I do doubt that Finnick is actually mentoring. Finnick catches my eye and winks at me, and receives an eye-roll in return. Lyme strides across the room towards us as we enter, and I smile against my will. 

“Took you fuckers long enough,” she says, whacking Chaff on the back so hard he splutters. 

“I was meeting my stylists,” I complain. Lyme rolls her eyes. 

“Everyone’s talking about your girl, you know,” she says. “Volunteering, and all that.” 

It’s an innocuous enough statement. To any onlooker, it sounds like your standard bit of Games gossip, the type of thing that half the streets of the Capitol are probably saying endlessly by now. For Lyme, though, who would rather die than spread idle gossip, it’s loaded. I narrow my eyes at her. 

“What are your plans for the parades?” I ask. 

“Some of us are planning to watch them in here,” she says calmly. 

Well. That’s clear enough. I suppose Mags’ Gang of Pointless Rebellious Whispers wants some input, which means that my tributes won’t see me at all before this evening. I just hope they don’t decide that I’ve abandoned my promise entirely and am drunk in an alleyway somewhere. 

Speaking of, I haven’t had anything to drink since the morning. It’s nearly seven o’clock, and I’m starting to develop a headache. As if he reads my mind, Chaff points me towards the bar cart. I help myself to a gin and tonic, but I limit myself to exactly one drink, which requires phenomenal self-control. Lyme watches me with narrowed eyes. 

“She’s that good, huh?” she says. I stare at her in confusion. 

“Your tribute,” she clarifies. “She’s so good you’re stopping at one drink?” 

Oh. I suppose it’s a giveaway. I shrug noncommittally, since Lyme may be my friend but I’m not daft enough to let her know anything too much about my tributes. Particularly since she’s mentoring District Two with fucking Brutus this year. 

People begin to move around the room as they get calls about the tributes starting towards their chariots. I’m going to have to trust in a combination of Cinna, Portia and Effie to get Katniss and Peeta where they need to be. Cinna and Portia seem alright, I decide. Weird by Capitol standards, but my gut instinct is that they’re okay. And their insane fire outfits might actually bring Twelve some attention this year. Fuck knows we need it. 

Finnick, Johanna, Mags and Beetee descend on our little bar cart group and I sigh. The anthem blares from a speaker near the television. 

“Is this everyone?” Beetee asks. Since Mags had her stroke, Beetee has sort of become the de-facto coordinator of these ridiculous little clandestine meetings. Unfortunately, it’s not made me like him any better. 

“Depends who everyone is,” I reply, maybe a little harshly. I know there’s some faces who are often part of these meetings who are not here at all. Jasmine, Chaff’s fellow Eleven representative, is nowhere to be seen. Althea left for the parades. Hyssop and Seeder aren’t in the Capitol. Wiress and Elaine have vanished. 

Beetee gives me a level look from above his glasses.

“I think this is everyone we need,” he says. “I won’t take long. Then we can go and watch the parades.” 

Chaff places a reassuring hand on my elbow. I shake it off, since I certainly don’t need reassurance. Beetee has his little interference device running, the one that supposedly prevents nearby conversations from being overheard. 

Beetee looks directly at me. I brace myself for whatever he’s going to say. 

“Haymitch, Plutarch has an eye on Katniss Everdeen,” he says bluntly. “He thinks she has potential.” 

He doesn’t have to explain what she has potential for. It’s obvious to everyone in the room. 

Six years ago, Mags summoned everyone to the rooftop and announced that she had a groundbreaking update. Her contact in the Gamemakers’ office, Plutarch Heavensbee, thought that their allies were appropriately positioned to strike when the time was right. I even remember her pausing for effect, making eye contact with everyone in the room, while she watched the news sink in. 

She explained that her contact in the Gamemakers’ office thought that their allies were appropriately positioned to make it official. She’d paused then, for effect, which I still remember. Plutarch’s allies outside the twelve districts - whose identity we still don’t know - were ready to make a move on the Capitol. 

She’d then gone on to explain that all they needed was a symbol. Something, or someone, to unite the districts of Panem against the Capitol and break them into all out rebellion. Since then, Plutarch’s been keeping an eye on the Games and on the victors, looking for someone who he might be able to shape into his perfect little icon. 

Frankly, it all sounds a bit ridiculous to me. Over-the-top, idealistic, and grandiose. Ideas like rebellion and overthrow the Capitol sounded great to me when I was seventeen and miserable and desperate. They sounded like a lifeline. Now, they just sound like a fantasy. 

Still. I can’t deny that they’re an appealing fantasy. And Mags’ little group of rebellion-minded individuals at least makes one feel like one’s doing something a bit worthwhile. 

“What do you want me to do about it?” I say to Beetee, finally. “She still needs to survive the Games.” 

“She needs to survive long enough, at least,” he says carefully. “Long enough to make an impression.” 

I stand up from where I’m sitting. “The hell does that mean?” 

Beetee raises his hands, in a symbol of surrender. He looks like he’s trying to placate an angry, irrational child. I resist the urge to smack the stupid wire frames right off his face. 

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he begins, and is cut off by Johanna Mason, who laughs horribly. 

“Isn’t it obvious what he means?” She looks around the room. “Good luck with your symbol. I, for one, think this is stupid as shit.” 

She turns and marches out of the room. Nobody is bothered, since this is classic Johanna behavior. Finnick groans. 

“What’s gotten into her?” Lyme asks drily. 

“Long story,” mutters Finnick. He turns and heads off after her. Beetee watches them go in silence. 

Mags mumbles something. After a couple years of being confused about her post-stroke accent, I’ve started to figure out her speech. I lean in to catch what she’s saying. 

“Watch the time, ” she says, annoyance palpable even behind her garbled speech. 

Okay, fair. We’ve been in a suspicious huddle a bit too long. 

Beetee looks right at me and begins talking rapid-fire. “Not much left to say. They just want you to make sure Katniss does well in the Games. That she makes an impression. Got that?” 

“Sure,” I say blandly. I forcibly stop myself from rolling my eyes. 

Beetee has just handed me what is possibly the most basic mentoring advice imaginable. What a brilliant contribution from District Three’s resident genius. I know full fucking well that if I need my tributes to do well in the Games I need them to make an impression.

Well. Her, at least. I’ve apparently been given orders from above that Peeta Mellark needs to die, which is an angle that I doubt that the Gamemaker even thought of. My hands shake a little bit and I reach for the bottle on the bar cart in an attempt to still them. 

The meager little group sits down to watch the parades. I lean my elbows onto my knees, genuinely curious about what Cinna’s odd fire outfit is going to look like on the screen. I also, I realize, need the distraction before I spend too much time contemplating the implications of Beetee’s instructions. 

I’m not disappointed by the parade, at least. Katniss and Peeta emerge from the tunnel wreathed in what looks like real flame, their bright glow impossible to miss in the city’s gathering dusk. The crowd actually goes wild. A shiver goes down my spine, entirely involuntarily, as the broadcasters turn up the background noise. The crowd is screaming for them. They’re screaming their names. 

District Twelve! District Twelve! District Twelve! 

They look phenomenal. Cinna and Portia….I really do need to have a conversation with them, because in all my years here I’ve never, ever, seen something like this. The camera swoops downwards, circling their chariot, and we get a glimpse of them - my eyes widen as I realize that they are clinging to each other’s hands. 

Did they do that voluntarily? Katniss didn’t strike me as the hand-holding type. Or did the stylists put them up to it? Either way, the commentators scream when they realize what’s happening. The camera stays right on Katniss and Peeta until the chariots have almost completed their circuit. It barely leaves them for a moment. 

I shiver again and then I stand up, suddenly unsure what to do with my body. I don’t know what to do with this. I have never, ever, worked with tributes that the cameras have enjoyed. I have never seen District Twelve applauded and celebrated by the crowd like this. It’s….groundbreaking, really. My hands twist nervously. 

Beetee tracks my motions, eyes following me intently. 

“See?” he says quietly. 

I resent his patronizing tone. Still, I nod slowly. 

“Yeah. I see,” I say.  

It’s impossible for anyone to take their eyes off Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. Even as President Snow appears on the balcony, even as his repulsive face begins to read out the opening statement, all eyes are focused on the tributes from District Twelve. I turn away from the television screen, unable to shake the sudden sense of unease that has begun to build somewhere deep in the pits of my stomach. 

The ceremonies conclude and people start to leave. Mags mutters something in annoyance and I tilt my head towards her, trying to catch what she said. 

“Need to go check on Finnick and Annie,” she says. “Who knows what Johanna’s gotten them all into?” 

My brow furrows and I stare at her, not sure I heard that right.

“Annie?” I ask incredulously. Okay, I’ve heard more than enough about Annie Cresta over the last few years. I spend enough time with Finnick for that, and he won’t shut up about his crazy girlfriend if you get him started. But why the fuck would Annie Cresta be in the Capitol? From what I can tell, she’s more stable than she was a few years ago, but certainly not stable enough to mentor. Almost certainly not stable enough to handle being in the Capitol again.

Mags’ face darkens. “I know,” she says. “President’s orders.” 

That does explain at least why Althea and Davey disappeared so quickly earlier today. No wonder Four is on edge, if they’ve had to bring Annie Cresta to the Capitol. No wonder Johanna looked half-ready to fling an axe into the nearest bystander. 

“Don’t ask Finnick about it,” says Mags drily, watching my expression. “He’ll probably start crying.” 

I snort. “I believe that.” 

Mags disappears and I sink back into the couch. It’s just me, Chaff, and Lyme in here now. I bury my head in my hands. Katniss being watched by Plutarch. Annie Cresta being in the Capitol. Katniss and Peeta holding hands in the chariot. Something’s in the air, this Hunger Games, and I’m certainly not like it. And try as I might, I can’t seem to find the words to describe the feeling. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” says Chaff succinctly. 

“I’ll toast to that,” says Lyme. “Althea told me about Four earlier. Says they know it’s just to scare Finnick, but they’re all stressed anyway.” 

She’s kept her voice low, under the noise of the television, but we glance around nervously anyway. She looks at me. 

“Good luck with the whole….thing, anyway,” she says. She knows better than to discuss the actual tributes with me. She’s a Career mentor, after all. 

“Thanks,” I say, after a beat. I don’t really know what else I could possibly say. I’m going to need to spend the entire evening turning Beetee’s statement over in my head. I notice suddenly that I’m drumming my fingers against my knee. 

“Right,” says Chaff finally. “I should go and check in on Jasmine and the like. Before we go out tonight, anyway.” 

“I should go too,” I say. It’s already getting late, and if I really am planning to be a responsible mentor this year I should show up for dinner. 

“See you lot at the Bell Jar?” Lyme says. Chaff and I nod at the same time. Going to the discreet little bar has been a highly unofficial yearly tradition at least as long as I’ve been a victor. I have both good and terrible memories at the place, but I might as well go this year. Could suss out the feelings of the other mentors on their tributes, at least. 

I’m left alone in the room and I stare at the television screen again. They’re already doing the first recaps of the tribute parade. I watch as Katniss and Peeta wave madly at the cheering crowds. Then my gaze wanders over to where Beetee informed me, calm and unbothered, that Plutarch has his eye on Katniss. Based on what? Her volunteering? I think of all the mysterious talk I’ve heard over the years. Allies outside Panem. Strikes on the Capitol. Overthrowing the system.

What exactly has Katniss Everdeen gotten herself into? 

Chapter Text

When I reach the Twelve apartment, I stare blankly at myself in the mirror for a full two minutes. I look terrible, obviously - that’s not new. Frankly, I take a little pride in looking absolutely terrible. It’s one more tiny-little fuck-you to the Capitol that I committed to when I couldn’t have been more than nineteen. 

Unfortunately, I’m not sure I can sustain this if I want to keep my promise to Katniss and Peeta. If I want to listen to Plutarch and Beetee and their eyes on her. It won’t be enough to just give them advice this year - judging by the splash they made at both the Reapings and the parades, I might actually have to deal with sponsors. And….I know from experience that sponsors do prefer it when you look….somewhat appealing. 

I shudder as I step into the shower. I’m old and a laughingstock, I tell myself firmly as the hot water hits the top of my head. I’ll only be selling sponsorships based on the tributes’ merit. It’s fine. That’s how it’s supposed to be played, anyway. 

By the time I step out of the shower, I know full well that the others are going to be starting dinner. A knock on the door startles me, and the door cracks open to reveal Effie. 

“Where have you been?” she snaps, without bothering with even a hello.  

I raise a brow. “The common rooms. Not that it’s any of your business.” 

“Did you even bother to watch the opening ceremonies?” she asks, in an exasperated tone. “They were excellent, if you even car -” 

“Of course I watched them,” I retort. “They were impressive.”

“Oh,” she says. She pauses. “Well, are you coming for dinner?” 

“Yeah. Give me a bit.” 

“Okay,” Effie says, hesitating in the doorway. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” she blurts out, and she makes sure to shut the door behind her. 

Effie Trinket has never been the most logical character. I decide to ignore it, as I generally do when it comes to her more bizarre behavior. 

Dinner is a magnificent spread, good even by Capitol standards. I arrive just as they’re placing the dishes on the table, and Peeta smiles at me in happy acknowledgement of my existence. Katniss just looks at me in blank surprise. 

My stomach turns at the sight of the food and I try to remember the last time I ate. I can’t actually recall it. A red-headed Avox pours wine into my glass, and I stare at the mushroom soup in suspicion. The wine stares at me, the bubbles sparking at the top. I force myself to eat a few spoons of soup before reaching for the glass. 

I turn to Cinna, who is eyeing his own soup. “So, your outfits were half-decent,” I say. 

“Thank you,” he says, unbothered by my phrasing. “We were a little worried, but we’re quite relieved we didn’t accidentally set them on real fire.” 

Portia giggles. “The assistant stylists were placing bets.” 

This is less than amusing to me, but Effie laughs and I force a tight smile. 

“How did you come up with the idea?” Effie asks. Her voice does that thing where it goes up an octave at the end of her sentences. “It was so creative!”

“Well,” says Cinna. “What’s the point of being a stylist if you’re just going to repeat what’s been done already? I’m not trying to reinvent the wheel. I’m trying to change the game.” 

This sounds uncomfortably like something I’d have said aged about sixteen. Where do Cinna’s ideas come from? I narrow my eyes at him, and then I snap myself out of it. Cinna is a Capitol-born, Capitol-raised stylist who is talking about the intricacies of fashion design. If I’d had similar thoughts in the past, they were more along the lines of how do I survive the death-match I’ve been tossed into against my will? Nothing there is remotely similar. 

“Cinna was always the best in our class,” Portia says warmly. 

“You’re being too modest. I’d never have gotten very far if I hadn’t been partnered with you.” 

I notice out of the corner of my eye that Katniss is steadily working her way through a glass of red wine. I stifle a laugh. I absolutely can’t blame her for that. The conversation continues and I try my best not to zone out. There’s only so long I can sustain fashion-speak, and Effie seems insistent on asking them about the intricacies of their choices in material for the flame outfits. 

“I can’t wait to see what you have planned for the interviews!” trills Effie, and Portia winks. 

“You’ll have to wait and see,” she says with a smile. 

An Avox brings out a massive cake and then proceeds to light it on fire. Frankly, that’s far too much cake for six people. I try to imagine the response if they brought something like that out back in Twelve - say, for the Harvest Festival - and then I shake my head. I’m too old for such fantasies. 

“What makes it burn?” asks Katniss abruptly. She’s pushed her wine out of the way and switched it out for water. “Is it alcohol? That’s the last thing I wa - oh! I know you!” 

Everyone turns to look at her, because who the hell could she possibly be talking to? My stomach does a slow flip as I realize she’s looking right at the fucking Avox. The Avox? What would possess her to say such a thing? Katniss has been nearly dead silent throughout dinner, and this is what she chooses for her first sentence of the night? What the fuck does she mean, she knows the Avox? There’s almost no way she knows the Avox. I look the girl up and down for good measure. She certainly doesn’t have a Twelve look about her. She’s far too pale, for one thing, and surely even I’d have noticed if a teenage girl had been turned into an Avox in the recent past. Our Head Peacekeeper Cray is a massive dick, but he doesn’t seem to particularly enjoy terminal punishments. How does Katniss Everdeen know someone from outside of District Twelve? 

The Avox, for her part, looks utterly terrified. Katniss just looks bewildered. Oh, no, what has she done? I don’t know how they treat the Avoxes back here, but I know it can’t be good. I’ve never wanted to know. What are they going to do to the girl? 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Katniss. How could you possibly know an Avox?” snaps Effie. “The very thought.” 

Right at the end of her sentence, Effie glances at me. Despite her righteous anger, real doubt flickers behind her eyes, and I can read her expression like a book. Effie was brought up Capitol. She knows the consequences of this kind of talk. 

“What’s an Avox?” says Katniss, sounding lost. Can we play this off as sheer District stupidity? 

“Someone who committed a crime,” I say. I try to sound as dismissive as I can. “They cut her tongue so she can’t speak. She’s probably a traitor of some sort. Not likely you’d know her.” 

“And even if you did, you’re not to speak to one of them unless it’s to give an order,” says Effie. “Of course, you don’t really know her.” 

Effie glances at me for assurance again, and I nod. Least we’re on the same page with this one. 

“No, I guess not, I just -” says Katniss, cutting herself off. She’s starting to look actively terrified. 

“Delly Cartwright,” says Peeta suddenly. “That’s who it is. I kept thinking she looked familiar as well. Then I realized she’s a dead ringer for Delly.” 

The look Katniss gives him is reminiscent of a starving child who’s just been handed food. Her whole body relaxes like that boy’s voice is lifeblood. 

“Of course, that’s who I was thinking of. It must be the hair,” she says, a little too quickly. 

“Something about the eyes, too,” Peeta agrees. 

I mean, it’s clearly bullshit. I don’t know who Delly Cartwright is, but I do know that almost nobody from Twelve looks like that Avox does. But Peeta played it cleverly. It sounds innocuous. Their agreement genuine. 

“Oh, well. If that’s all it is,” says Cinna. 

Have I underestimated Peeta Mellark? He might be sunshiney, but I’m starting to think he might be smarter than he looks. And I have possibly overestimated Katniss Everdeen, who apparently can’t think very quickly under pressure. Except…she somehow does know an Avox from somewhere outside District Twelve. Which hints that she has something else going on, because I’m almost certain she wasn’t lying about that. 

Katniss Everdeen is just mystery after mystery. And, though it feels odd, my job is not to unravel those mysteries - it’s to prevent them from ever coming out. To iron out whatever layers she has and present her as a flat, palatable image to the masses of the Capitol. It’s never a very nice role. 

Effie suggests that everyone moves to watch the parade recaps, and I concede that it’s a good idea. Besides, I have questions for Cinna and Portia that I would like to hear answered. 

“Whose idea was the hand-holding?” I ask, as Effie coos over the flaming chariot’s appearance. 

“Cinna’s,” says Portia. 

I nod, giving Cinna an appraising look. “Just the perfect touch of rebellion. Very nice.” 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Katniss’s eyes narrow. She smooths her expression over almost immediately after, but I can’t help but wonder what she was thinking. 

The clock on the wall chimes ten. I still have more questions for Cinna and Portia, and I did agree to meet Chaff and Lyme at the Bell Jar tonight. So I turn to Katniss and Peeta, who are both starting to look exhausted. 

“Tomorrow morning is the first training session,” I say. They both look at me, suddenly alert again. “Meet me for breakfast and I’ll tell you how I want you to play it. Now go get some sleep while the grown-ups talk.” 

I watch as the two of them walk down the hallway together. Even though they’re not talking, there’s a certain….cadence between them. Like they’re aware of and comfortable with the other’s presence. 

Look, I’ve seen what feels like millions of different dynamics between tributes. I’ve seen reluctant alliances. Complete animosity. Distant politeness. Most commonly, I see that the tributes just ignore one another, overwhelmed by the knowledge that the best-case scenario is that only one of them gets to live. Hell, I tried that out in my year. Obviously, this did not stop me from getting attached to one of my District partners, but still, I - am getting distracted. There’s something different about these two. Already, Katniss and Peeta are acting like a pair. 

I think of how seamlessly they played off each other at the dinner table, the ridiculous yet convincing Delly Cartwright conversation, and I can feel the inklings of a strategy beginning to form. It’s too new, too tender for me to prod at fully. Instead, I turn to Cinna. 

“So this is your first year as a stylist?” I ask him. 

“First year as a Games stylist,” he corrects me mildly. “I’ve done other styling work over the years.” 

“Right,” I say. “So they assigned you to the shithole district?” 

I know from what Effie said before that Cinna and Portia picked Twelve themselves. Effie frowns, leans forward as if to correct me, and I give her the tiniest shake of my head. She sits back again. I want to hear it from them. 

“No. We chose District Twelve,” says Cinna with a smile. “Don’t call it a shithole.” 

I raise a brow. “You chose. District Twelve.” 

“Yes. Wouldn’t you?” he asks. 

“No. I’d choose a district where the tributes don’t die like sad, sacrificial little lambs every year.” 

“You didn’t die like a sacrificial lamb,” says Cinna. His tone never wavers from a sort of mild, pleasant, calmness. I see Effie’s eyes widen, as though she’s bracing herself for my reaction. 

Maybe I should’ve, is my instinctive response. I check myself before I can blurt it out, which is something I’m currently sober enough to do. 

“I’m the exception that proves the rule,” I say instead, folding my arms. It’s a line I heard in a Caesar Flickerman special about past victors. The fluke Twelve win from a quarter-century ago. Statistically bound to happen at some point. 

“Somehow, I doubt that,” says Cinna. 

Something in my expression must alert Effie, who suddenly and helpfully has a coughing fit. The attention in the room shifts to her, and despite myself I shoot her a tiny, grateful smile. She looks vaguely determined. 

Cinna gets the hint. He glances towards Portia, who gives a tiny nod. There’s an interesting amount of non-verbal communication in the room tonight. 

“We wanted to work for Twelve because we saw Katniss volunteer for her sister. It was very moving,” Portia says. Her voice is firmer than Cinna’s is. 

“It moved you so much you wanted to work for Twelve.” I’m taking this conversation a bit far now, but these stylists…..there’s more to them, and I want to know what it is. I can’t quite let it go. 

Cinna laces his hands over his knee. “Yes. Portia and I were apprenticed to a stylist who…encouraged us to seek the unconventional.” 

Well, I suppose that does make sense. They see Katniss and Twelve as weird little freaks that they can use to make their name. That’s usually what people who sponsor us say, though obviously in not so many words - if someone says they put money on Twelve, it’s basically guaranteed to get a reaction from the room. At the end of the day, most things in the Capitol seem to come down to whatever can get the best reaction from the room. 

Portia takes a sip from a glass of dark rum. She looks at me over the rim. “Her name is Tigris. You may have heard of her?” 

Every muscle in my body tenses involuntarily. Have I heard of Tigris? Tigris, who joined me on my Victory Tour as a teenager. Tigris, who was kind and pleasant and sympathetic. Tigris, who was the President’s own first cousin, who was sent there to provide him with a personal, detailed report of my state after I watched my family and my girlfriend die. Tigris, who’s mysteriously stopped working at the Games. Yeah, I’m fucking familiar with Tigris. 

And I’m also pretty sure that Tigris is one of Mags and Beetee’s mysterious insider contacts in the Capitol. I discovered this fact almost entirely by accident, and it’s something that surfaces in the depths of my memory when I’m actually letting myself think about things. It is a fact that is both deeply confusing and incredibly frustrating. What exactly am I supposed to do with a Snow family member who is willing to assist a group of deluded, rebellious victors? 

Cinna’s watching my expression carefully, and I’m dead sure he’s noting every flicker of recognition and emotion that crosses my face. I smooth my expression into deadpan, as best I can.

“I’ve heard of her,” I say neutrally. 

A small smile appears on the corners of Cinna’s lips, and Portia looks almost openly thrilled. I don’t reciprocate the expression. I’m still not sure where, exactly, I’m meant to file this information. A glance at Effie tells me she’s equally hesitant, though I’m not sure why. She notices me watching her, and she wipes the hesitance off her face. 

“Did you know, I wore TIGRIS for my very first Reaping?” she says, breaking the silence and shattering the charged energy in the room. 

“Is that so? Which collection?” asks Portia, and I lean back in my chair to ignore the rest of the conversation. 

Katniss and the Avox. Katniss and Peeta in the chariot. Beetee and his whispers in the lounge. Chaff and his infant of a tribute. Allies outside of Panem. These strange, strange stylists, with their normal expressions and their silent communications and instantly iconic parade outfits. Too much has been happening today. Already, I am getting a very, very dangerous sense about these Games. 

I’m saved from further thought by a rapping on the door. Chaff, most likely. I stand to get it, and everyone else stands with me. 

“It’s late,” says Cinna tactfully. “Portia, should we head back?” 

“Sure,” she says. “Are you driving?” 

Cinna laughs, and they walk towards the door together just as Chaff steps inside. The expression of complete bemusement on his face almost makes me cackle. He’s right - everything about this is bizarre. 

“Effie!” he exclaims, to cover up his confusion. “Fancy seeing you here!” 

She rolls her eyes at him and promptly ends the conversation. I let myself laugh at her deeply annoyed expression. 

“I have many, many questions for you,” says Chaff drily as he steers me out the door. He always shoves me out like I’m a prickly teenager. I occasionally wonder whether Chaff still views me as a prickly teenager. 

“I promise I have no fucking answers,” I respond, equally dry. 

He scoffs. “We’re late again, by the way. Mags called and said we have to handle a Finnick situation.” 

“Oh, wonderful. Exactly what I needed. What’s he done now?” 

“No idea,” Chaff says cheerfully, and we step out, once again, into the too-bright streets of the Capitol.

Chapter Text

Finnick Odair is currently melodramatically sprawled over the bar, piss-drunk on tequila, and staring at the ceiling. 

“They’ll destroy her,” he moans, waving his hand aimlessly in my direction. “They will tangle her in their nets and skewer her dead. They will find everything that makes her good and hack it to tiny tiny little bits.” 

“How tiny?” asks Johanna, with an air of genuine curiosity. I glare at her, and she shrugs. “What? It’s a serious question.” 

“Sooooooooo tiny,” says Finnick seriously. “So tiny. She’s so tiny, Johanna. Her hand fits so well in mine, did you know?” 

Johanna makes a truly unnerving barfing sound. “Haymitch, make him stop. He’s disgusting.” 

He is actually very stressed out about a very stressful situation, but I think I’m with Johanna on this one. Publicly monologuing about his girlfriend in a Capitol bar is both a stupid and a dangerous move, even in a relatively abandoned underground space with few patrons besides ourselves. 

I sigh and grab the idiot lovesick kid by the shoulders, hauling him to his feet. 

“Time for you to go home,” I say firmly. Finnick stares at me blankly. “Isn’t Annie in the Four apartment, anyway?” 

“She is,” agrees Finnick. “She is there. I love her. But she shouldn’t be there, she should be at home - ” 

“Both of you should be in a mental hospital,” says Johanna, helpfully cutting him off. Frankly, at this point, I’ll let it slide. He’s been at this for the better part of an hour. 

Finnick sighs and sits back down. He buries his head in his hands again. “But I don’t want her to see me,” he says. 

“Oh, here we go again,” mutters Johanna, but sits down next to him. “You know she doesn’t care -”

“It’s not about her, it’s about -” 

I cough into my hand. Look, I get it. His existential crisis may be understandable, but it needs to occur somewhere that is not two blocks off the Corso. 

Both Johanna and Finnick look at me. 

“Get out,” I say. “Odair, if you can’t walk, then get a fucking cab. Do you understand?” 

He looks at me like a little lost puppy. I point to the door. 

“Out,” I repeat. “Go home.” 

Johanna grabs him by the arm. “Come on, idiot,” she says. “Let’s go.” 

“Okay,” he sighs, and follows Johanna obediently out of the door. 

The other victors are gathered somewhere on the opposite side of the room. Chaff slumps down next to me. 

“Surprised he even left that girl alone in the apartment,” he says drily. He flags down a bartender. 

“She’s not a kid,” I point out, surprised. 

“Yeah, but she’s insane -” 

“Says the sanest guy in the world.” 

Chaff snickers. An attendant arrives and he orders a bottle. I accept a glass. 

“Point taken,” he says. 

There’s a beat of silence. I close my eyes and try not to let the rollercoaster of the day flood me. The appearance of several other mentors at our table distracts me. 

“How’s Finnick?” Althea asks me, sounding concerned. “I thought he would go straight back after his client, since, y’know-” 

I roll my eyes. “He’s Finnick,” I say. “He’s dealing.” 

She snorts. She’s the one from Four, anyway. She sees more of him than I do. “Dealing. If you say so.” 

“Interesting tributes you have this year, Haymitch,” says Brutus, raising a glass in my direction. The sound of his voice makes me tense. 

“Sure,” I say, unable to keep the cold undertone out of my voice. “Who are yours again? The man-hulk and that smirking little bitch?” 

Brutus grins, the way that I imagine a wild animal grins before he kills and eats his prey. “Good to see you’ve been paying attention.” 

It takes everything in me not to punch him out immediately. Lyme shoots me a look and Chaff shifts an inch in my direction, ready to back me up if I go for it. I take a deep breath, ball my hands into fists and restrain myself. Brutus is fucking lucky I’m not very drunk. 

“Personally, I think Cashmere’s girl stands a chance,” says Lyme calmly. The undertone is clear: shut up. This is a casual chat about the Games. 

“Cashmere’s girl,” says Brutus, “will be a whore within two minutes of her victory.” 

Lyme’s flinch is barely perceptible. My levels of disdain for Brutus somehow, miraculously, get even higher. 

“I think Cashmere would agree with you,” says Althea, folding her arms. 

Well, as horrible as this conversation is, at least they’re not talking about my tributes anymore. Let Brutus think their fiery chariot debut was a fluke. Lyme…well, Lyme’s District allegiance to Brutus and his ilk only goes so far, a fact which I greatly respect her for. 

“What about Chaff’s boy?” Brutus asks, raising a brow. “He looks interesting.” 

“Jasmine’s boy,” says Chaff darkly. “We switched.” 

Brutus chuckles. “She couldn’t handle the little waif?” 

“Don’t go there,” says Chaff. Brutus does not take the hint. 

“I’m telling you,” he says. “Your boy isn’t even bad. Set up a volunteer system in Eleven, you lot will be winning year after year.”

Chaff raises his whiskey in a toast. “You try convincing our Peacekeepers to let that slide.” 

They’ve been having this conversation for years. I try not to roll my eyes. Brutus seems to be incapable of comprehending that not every district habitually kisses the asses of the Capitol. That not every district has the most lenient and friendly Peacekeepers in the country. 

The scowl on my face must be visible, because Lyme kicks me. 

“How is Jasmine?” she asks Chaff before he says something that we will probably all regret. 

“She’s okay. Stayed in the Training Center tonight, I think she wants to make friends with Cresta.” 

“That’ll be nice,” says Althea, and I roll my eyes. I have nothing against Jasmine. Sweet kid. There’s just a tiny, slightly resentful part of me that absolutely hates that Chaff got to bring a tribute home, and I’ve never once managed it. 

The ancient clock on the wall reads nearly two in the morning. Training tomorrow starts at ten, and unfortunately I actually have to wake up in time to tell my damn corpse kids what I want them to do. More importantly, I actually have to think through what I’m going to tell Cinna about their training outfits.

“We should get back to the Training Center soon,” says Chaff, as if reading my mind. 

“Agreed,” I say. 

I don’t even try to make conversation on the way back. My head is spinning, and for once it’s not because of the drink. 

“You know,” says Chaff, “you’re going to have to let go of your grudge against Brutus at some point.” 

“No.” 

“It’s been twenty-three years -”

“I seem to remember you getting into a violent bar fight with him, what, ten years ago -” 

“Sure, ten years ago ,” says Chaff. 

He pauses, waiting for me to respond. I don’t. I stare out of the cab window, disguising the tremor in my hands by tapping repetitively against my own knee. 

There was a point at which I tried not to hate Brutus. Same way there was a point at which I tried to save my tributes. Same way there was a point at which I thought winning the Games would solve all my problems. Same way I once envisioned a future that was a tiny house in the Seam with a fucking cat and the girl I loved. 

In case it isn’t yet obvious, I am very sick of trying. 

“Shouldn’t have brought it up,” says Chaff after a few minutes. “Sorry.” 

I shrug. It’s okay. Like he said, a grudge from twenty-three years ago shouldn’t sting anymore, but - something about Brutus. Something about the way he smiles takes me back so specifically to watching my first ever tributes - my fucking friends - get absolutely butchered at his hands. It’s like saying that the nightmares shouldn’t still be around so many years later. Things like that don’t just fucking go away. Some years, it’s not so bad. I can almost ignore him. Today? Visions of Katniss Everdeen being butchered by Brutus’s Career boy flash incessantly in my head. Peeta terrorized for entertainment before he’s murdered. I’ll have to go back to Twelve and watch as Ilona Everdeen loses yet another person she loves, and it will once again be my doing.

I press my head against the cool glass of the cab. Why exactly have I agreed to help this year’s tributes? I never agree to help the tributes. It’s a lost cause. Gives them unrealistic hope. They might start thinking they can actually make it home, and then what? Hope is more dangerous than knowing what’s going to happen from the start. They’re dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead - 

The cab pulls up in front of the Training Center. Even this late at night, there are crowds that form in front of the building, desperate for a glimpse of tributes. Projections in the sky display the earliest betting odds. Despite myself, I glance at the numbers in the sky. Apparently, people are already betting on Brutus’s boy to win. Ten to one odds gleam under a picture of his smiling face. If I had a bottle, I’d shatter the projector. Instead, I make do with a glower at the screen. 

“Haymitch! Chaff!” a reporter’s voice breaks out from the crowds. “What do you think of the latest odds? Any comments about your tributes?” 

Chaff shakes his head, pushing forward through the crowd like he usually does. I move to follow, ready to carve my way through the crowd, but an image of Katniss flashes in the sky and I pause. Her odds read….90-1. There’s an odd sinking feeling in my gut. So they do still think that despite her fantastic debut and the fact that she volunteered, she has almost zero chance of winning. 

It’s hypocritical. I know it. Somehow, though, seeing my own biases confirmed in neon lights in the Capitol sky makes me angry. Ninety-to-one odds? A nearly 100% chance she’ll die? I mean, it’s true, but it’s not fair. Nothing about the fucking Games are fair. 

“Yeah,” I say to the reporter. People lean in closer, desperate to hear what I have to say. “Those odds? They’re fucking wrong.” 

I jab my finger at the sky for effect. People follow my gaze to where Katniss Everdeen’s headshot lights up the night sky, glowing in the place where the moon should be. Murmurs break out behind me and they quickly turn to shouts as people shove mics in my direction, desperate for another statement. I don’t bother to oblige, and I follow Chaff inside the Training Center. 

“That was…..bold,” says Chaff carefully, once we’re inside the force field and safe from the hordes outside. He’s ridiculous. Look at the guy trying to contain his curiosity after ostensibly pissing me off only moments ago. 

“Yes,” I say. “I think this year calls for it.” 

He nods slowly. “Okay.” 

I can see him trying to read me. Trying to glean what I’m thinking about my tributes. About Katniss, who is being watched by a rebellion without her knowledge. About….everything. Unfortunately, I suspect that he sees more than I want him to. He usually does. 

He’s right that it was bold. It’s very bold to declare confidence in one’s tributes early. So bold, in fact, that if I contemplate my decision too carefully I will likely find myself lost somewhere inside a bottle before tomorrow morning. But hasn’t this whole damn thing been bold? Wasn’t Katniss volunteering for these Games bold? Weren’t the stylists’ fiery outfit choices bold? Fuck, having them hold hands was ridiculously bold. 

If there’s any time to be bold, it’s now. I glance outside the door, where a force field gently blocks the crowd from coming within a few feet of the building. I can see them through it, milling around, placing bets, talking into microphones. There’s few things that make me feel less safe than being within the bounds of a force field, and the presence of the teeming crowd outside doesn’t put me any more at ease. 

I step onto the elevator in silence. 

“You’re brooding,” says Chaff quietly. He never knows quite when to let it go. “Need a drink?” 

“Obviously,” I mutter. “But later. When they’re dead.” 

“Old age,” says Chaff, rolling his eyes, “has not mellowed you out.” 

The elevator reaches the eleventh floor, and Chaff steps halfway out. He turns back to me. 

“Do you want me to stay?” he asks. 

“No. Go to sleep.” I fold my arms across my chest. 

He leaves in silence and I let out a yell, kicking the side of the elevator viciously. This achieves nothing, except it sends lancing pain through my foot and I’m then inelegantly hopping, eternally grateful that nobody is present to witness this. 

I’m not even certain what I’m frustrated about. The correct answer is something along the lines of everything. Maybe I need to go to sleep. What I actually require is a drink. It’s so late that maybe if I drink something now, I’ll be sober enough to be useful tomorrow morning? The thought of another drink makes the back of my throat itch. I hate the number of thoughts currently racing through my brain. The idea of silencing them is so, so tempting. 

I kneel outside the cabinets in the living room. There’s almost certainly bottles of something underneath here. As long as I’m awake in the morning to give a few sentences’ worth of instructions to the tributes, nobody will notice if I’m drunk late at night. 

The sound of the penthouse door opening nearly causes me to drop the bottle of wine I’m holding. 

“You promised,” says Effie Trinket, “to stay sober.” 

I look up at her, my confusion at her appearance outweighing the sudden, instinctive spike of anger that surfaces whenever someone tries to take my drink from me. Why is she even awake? And why is she dressed to the nines? She’s almost as dressed up as a tribute at an interview. 

“I actually only promised that it wouldn’t interfere with my mentoring,” I inform her after a moment. 

She sighs. “Give me that.” 

“Another step, and I will throw this at your head.” 

“Oh, now it’s violence? Very mature.” 

“The fuck are you even doing here, Effie?” I snap, too exhausted to bother. “Why are you dressed like….that?” 

Admittedly, it’s a good outfit. Actually flattering, unlike some of the strange contraptions she shows up wearing half the time. 

“The gala ,” she says in exasperation, like she’s expecting me to know what she’s talking about. 

“Talk sense.” 

Instead, she looks at me in genuine bemusement. “The gala,” she repeats. “Where I go every year after the parades.” 

I am fucking tired. I am baffled. I want to sit on the floor of my room and forget my own name. 

“Fourteen years, and you’ve never once noticed that I’m out all night?” she asks. Am I losing it, or is that actual hurt in her voice?

I try to remember. I really do. Except most years, I hardly remember the names of the kids who died. I hardly remember anything at all but flashes of nightmares and grief and the bodies of too-thin, gray-eyed children in wooden boxes on the lonely train back home. My brain is swimming, my head hurts, and I do not remember the first thing about Effie Trinket. 

“Typical,” Effie huffs. “Absolutely typical.” 

“Fuck off.” 

I expect a tirade. She rants at me quite often. It’s generally something to do with how I’m a useless drunk and an embarrassment to my district. It’s really not unusual. Instead, she just looks mildly defeated. 

“You could at least make an effort,” she says. She turns away, and I really did not think I had the capacity for yet another emotion in such a short span of time, but I feel a stab of guilt. 

“Sorry,” I say gruffly. 

Effie turns to me, her expression unreadable. 

“Good,” she says. She pauses for a minute. “Are you going to put that wine away?” 

“Nice fucking try.” 

She actually fucking laughs. What’s gotten into her? Has the Capitol replaced her with a strangely nice mutt? 

“You really don’t remember when you interrupted the gala by being arrested?” 

“....I remember getting arrested.” It was ten years ago. When Chaff got into a fight with Brutus. Brutus didn’t get arrested, and we did. It wasn’t pleasant. 

“And you called me.” 

“I……”

I wish I was lying. I genuinely do not remember anything at all. I certainly don’t remember calling Effie Trinket. 

She raises a brow. “Never mind.” 

I raise the bottle at her in a salute, and I disappear into my room. I have plans to make. 

Here’s the fucking thing. I don’t have time to think about Effie Trinket and her feelings. The clock strikes three, and I have about five hours to decide what I’m going to do with Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. 

Sure, nobody’s going to see them tomorrow but the other tributes. But the tributes, if their mentors are worth shit, are going to report every detail of training back to them. I know that I, for one, am going to gather everything I can about the other tributes based on the Twelve kids’ impressions. The mentors are going to use that information to plan out their own strategies. The brutal ones are going to shit-talk other districts’ tributes to potential sponsors. It’s our own special bloodbath. 

Yeah, how I present them for training tomorrow is important. 

The thing is, what my gut is telling me is unhinged. It’s insane. It’s impossible, and its absolute best-case scenario is Katniss leaving the arena more broken than victors usually are. How, exactly, am I supposed to ignore every single pattern that’s appeared on a platter in front of me over the last two days? It’s been obvious to me since fucking Delly Cartwright. Since they held hands on the chariot. 

They’re going to have to be a fucking pair, aren’t they? 

Chapter Text

I take it back. Matching training outfits is a bit much. 

Peeta enters the dining room at nearly the same moment I do. I note that Portia has put him in some sort of tunic, with leather boots. Earlier this morning, I hauled both Cinna and Portia aside. As briefly as I could, I explained that I wanted to continue presenting the tributes as a set; they were extremely receptive. In fact, I strongly suspected that they had independently arrived at the same conclusion. 

I’m proved right when I see Katniss seated already at the dining table, dressed perfectly identically to Peeta. Okay, so the stylists do have their own agenda. Noted. Weird, but noted. I don’t have time to deal with it, since Katniss takes one look at Peeta’s attire and puts on a scowl that would rival Johanna Mason’s; I can’t even be annoyed, because matching training outfits could not be sending a clearer notice to everyone in the room. 

Unfortunately, this reminds me that there is one very obvious snag in my new plan. If Katniss and Peeta don’t want to work together, there’s not a lot I can do. Forcing a strategy can only go so far; Capitol audiences are stupid, but they aren’t always utterly imbecilic. They’ll be able to tell if it’s completely fabricated. Especially considering the way Katniss’ every emotion is constantly written all over her face. Right now, for example, her resentment of the training outfits is obvious. 

The tributes eat in silence. I watch as Katniss anxiously flips a roll of bread over and over in her hands. I already need a drink, and I can still feel the remnants of last night somewhere in the recesses of my brain. I pull a flask from my pocket - what did I even put in there? Doesn’t matter, can’t remember - and I take a swig. It’s an unidentifiable mixture of substances. Does the trick, though. A feeling of slight blurriness takes over from the sharp angles of the morning, and I inhale slowly before shoving my plate away and turning to the tributes. 

“So, let’s get down to business,” I say. “Training. First off, if you’d like, I’ll coach you separately. Decide now.” 

I’m pretty sure I can still make it work if they want to be coached separately. It will, however, make my life that much more fucking difficult. My life is difficult enough. I hope they pick up on my slightly threatening glare.

“Why would you coach us separately?” says Katniss, sounding like it’s possibly the most insane question she’s ever heard. Okay, well. Works for me.  

“Say you had a secret skill you might not want the other to know about,” I say, layering my voice with sarcasm. 

Katniss and Peeta glance at each other. Already, non-verbal communication. They’d better be on the same damn page as me. 

“I don’t have any secret skills,” says Peeta mildly. “And I already know what yours is, right? I mean, I’ve eaten enough of your squirrels.” 

They know each other, then? Maybe somewhat. I mean, I know Katniss trades in the Hob. I’ve seen her before, though I’ve never gone anywhere near her. I already know that it takes balls to trade in the Hob. It takes more balls to trade wild game with Peacekeepers. These facts I have already filed away. It didn’t occur to me that she might also trade game with townies. Trading with townies is just plain nuts. 

Katniss watches Peeta carefully for a minute, as if she’s also aware that it’s nuts. Like she’s waiting for his comment to reveal a hidden, underlying barb. I recognize the look. I’m pretty sure I wear it a lot. 

“You can coach us together,” she says finally, looking up at me. She’s trying and failing to keep her expression unreadable. 

“All right,” I say neutrally. “So give me some idea of what you can do.” 

“I can’t do anything,” says Peeta helpfully. “Unless you count baking bread.” 

Is he stupid? Or possibly he’s trying to be funny. I’d prefer stupid. 

“Sorry, I don’t,” I say, already turning to Katniss. “I already know you’re handy with a knife.” 

I suspect there’s something more there. I have killed squirrels with a knife. It isn’t pretty, and I doubt it’d have resulted in sellable game. 

“Not really. But I can hunt,” she replies. “With a bow and arrow.” 

I lean forward on my elbows. This is interesting. “And you’re good?” 

Katniss pauses, unsure. It’s a fair deliberation. Good is one thing when you’re alone in Twelve. Good is another when you’re in the Games. 

“She’s excellent,” says Peeta. His expression is dead serious. “My father buys her squirrels. He always comments on how the arrows never pierce the body. She hits every one in the eye. It’s the same with the rabbits she sells to the butcher. She can even bring down deer.” 

I give Peeta a cold, hard look. What’s the boy playing at? Unconsciously playing off your district partner is one thing. Actively complimenting her, being endearing, being nice ? Look, it’d be one thing if he was being sweet to a weepy twelve-year-old. I’ve seen that dynamic before. If she’s not a threat, there’s no harm in being nice when you know you’ll both be dead in a week. But Katniss is visibly threatening, isn’t she? Enough of a visible threat that Plutarch Heavensbee is watching her in the Game Center already. Hell, she’s enough of a threat that she independently convinced me to stay coherent through these Games. Is Peeta trying to get on her good side? Hoping it’ll keep him alive longer? 

I look to Katniss for her reaction, and my wariness is reflected in the apprehension written all over her features. 

“What are you doing?” she asks, voice laden with plain suspicion.

“What are you doing?” Peeta responds, incredulous as though she’s asked the daftest question in the world. “If he’s going to help you, he needs to know what you’re capable of. Don’t underrate yourself.” 

I mean, okay, he’s not wrong. I do need to know all the information I can before I play my hand. Still, it’s weird as fuck coming from him. 

“What about you?” Katniss snaps at him. “I’ve seen you in the market. You can lift hundred-pound bags of flour. Tell him that. That’s not nothing.” 

What the fuck? Yeah, I mean, that is useful information. But also, what the fuck? 

“Yes, and I’m sure the arena will be full of bags of flour for me to chuck at people. It’s not like being able to use a weapon. You know it isn’t.” 

“He can wrestle!” Katniss blurts, staring at me imploringly. “He came second in our school competition last year, only after his brother.” 

Why am I stuck in the middle of this increasingly bizarre argument? Are they planning to compliment each other to death in the arena?

“What use is that?” asks Peeta, sounding legitimately angry. “How many times have you seen someone wrestle someone to death?” 

“There’s always hand-to-hand combat. All you need is to come up with a knife, and you’ll at least stand a chance. If I get jumped, I’m dead ,” says Katniss, who is also starting to sound furious. 

“But you won’t! You’ll be living up in some tree eating raw squirrels and picking off people with arrows. You know what my mother said to me when she came to say good-bye? As if to cheer me up, she says maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner. Then I realized, she didn’t mean me, she meant you!” Peeta’s sentence comes out like a torrent, like the words are being drawn from him by force. 

I am starting to feel like I’m intruding on an uncomfortably personal moment. I take another swig from whatever vile concoction I put in my flask last night. Neither of them notice, because they are too busy arguing while gazing deeply into one another’s eyes. 

“Oh, she meant you,” says Katniss, half-sneering. 

“She said, ‘she’s a survivor, that one.’ She is,” says Peeta. He sounds pained. 

His comments actually bring me up short. It’s not like I’m not aware that mothers in Twelve can be awful. Mothers are complicated. I remember Rina’s mother, and - I don’t want to think about her, so - I - I focus on my own instead, which isn’t exactly much better, because she was one of the kindest people I have ever known and would never, never, have said something that would’ve made me believe I was dead. I can’t imagine any parent saying something so callous at those awful, final goodbyes. What did my mother say to me? Dillon told me to stay alive, and my mother - my mother - she said - I think she said……I don’t remember. I refill my flask and take a long draw, waiting for the world to blur a little bit more. 

Katniss and Peeta have paused their argument, but they continue to stare passionately at one another. It’s getting ridiculous. 

“But only because someone helped me,” whispers Katniss finally, and I have no idea what she’s fucking talking about. 

“People will help you in the arena,” says Peeta, and I recognize this tactic at least. Deflecting an uncomfortable conversation is familiar territory. “They’ll be tripping over each other to sponsor you.” 

“No more than you,” says Katniss.

“She has no idea,” says Peeta, and the kid actually rolls his eyes at me. The audacity is…it is audacious. “The effect she can have.” 

Audacious, but correct. People aren’t tripping over themselves to sponsor Peeta. No rebellion has taken a second glance at him. It’s all been her. He’s dead meat, and Katniss is shooting her most murderous stare at her roll of bread. 

The silence is deafening. Whatever-the-fuck is going on between these two, it’s clearly more than skin deep. I am going to need time to unravel their relationship, and time is the one thing I absolutely do not fucking have. 

“Well then,” I say, as the silence stretches on. “Well, well. Well.” 

I need to focus on what I can control. I can work on things I can’t control later. Katniss’s weaponry skills are probably the most tangible thing in this room right now. 

“Katniss, there’s no guarantee there’ll be bows and arrows in the arena, but during your private session with the Gamemakers, show them what you can do. Until then, steer clear of archery.” 

It’s simple, reliable advice. I’ve dished it out a hundred times. Even heard Mags and Julius and Lyme give it out to their highly-trained murder-kids. And it’s common sense that a kid from Twelve with a hidden talent needs to keep that shit to themselves unless they want to end up on the end of a spike by first nightfall. 

And obviously, it goes without saying that the Gamemakers want their damn show. And a kid from Twelve - a small-made little girl - with a hidden, deadly talent is fantastic fucking television. If they know she’s good, they’ll put a bow in the arena. 

Katniss is unresponsive. 

“Are you any good at trapping?” I ask, glaring at her. She has no more room for secrets. Not if she wants sponsors in there. 

“I know a few basic snares,” she mutters. She’s still visibly bothered by whatever the fuck that conversation was with Peeta. 

“That may be significant in terms of food,” I say. Finally, I turn to Peeta. “And she’s right, never underestimate strength in the arena. Very often, physical power tilts the advantage to a player. In the Training Center, they will have weights, but don’t reveal how much you can lift in front of the other tributes.” 

He nods slowly, as if parsing out the information. At least he actually looks like he’s thinking about it, unlike Katniss, who is still glowering at a lump of bread. I want to smack her. 

“The plan’s the same for both of you. You go to group training. Spend the time trying to learn something you don’t know. Throw a spear. Swing a mace. Learn to tie a decent knot. Save showing what you’re best at until your private sessions. Are we clear?” I say. I need the time this buys me to put together the specifics of their sponsor plan. I think they will almost certainly be allies. 

They nod. 

“One last thing,” I say. This part is the riskiest. Everything they do will be reported back to the other mentors by tonight. They need to get it exactly right. “In public, I want you by each other’s side every minute.” 

 “But -” 

“Why -” 

“Every minute!” I snap, slamming my hand on the table. I do not have time for explanations. I doubt they’ll even listen to explanations. I just need them to do . “It’s not open for discussion! You agreed to do exactly as I said. You will be together, you will appear amiable to each other. Now get out. Meet Effie in the elevator at ten for training.” 

They fuck off. I sit back on my chair, bury my head in my hands, and groan. How do I explain to anyone that I have two tributes who apparently do not know each other, but somehow also bicker like they’ve known each other forever? Who hate the idea of being presented as a team, but also work together so seamlessly that it reads like muscle memory? Who apparently know each other’s strengths perfectly, despite having absolutely nothing in common? 

“What did I just hear?” says Effie, appearing in the doorway. She has terrible fucking timing, has anyone ever told her that? 

“They’re meeting you in the elevator at ten.” 

“Not that ,” she says breezily, moving past me and towards the coffee. “That they will be together, and appear amiable to each other. ” 

“Meant to talk about that,” I say gruffly. Maybe I should drink a coffee too. 

“Did you.” 

“I did, actually,” I say, rubbing a hand over my forehead. Between Chaff and Finnick and Johanna and Brutus, I’ve had absolutely no time to sit and chat with Effie. Except for that mildly awkward interaction last night. I reach for my flask again. 

“At least drink champagne instead. It’s nine-thirty in the morning,” she snipes at me. 

“Is champagne a more appropriate morning drink for Capitol tastes?” 

“It is, actually.” 

“I’d like to see you drinking champagne at nine in the morning,” I drawl, letting the words spill thoughtlessly from my mouth. 

“I’m sure you would,” says Effie. 

I close my eyes, ignoring her. “So, I think presenting them as friends early on is a logical strategy.” 

I expect her to push back. It’s a ridiculous strategy on paper. I’m pretty sure if I told Chaff what I was thinking, he’d laugh at me. It’s just that…well. It takes watching the two of them at very specific moments to actually understand why. 

“I was thinking the same thing!” says Effie excitedly. “The early sponsors I’ve been talking to are fascinated by their dynamic. Them holding hands in the chariot? Absolutely stunning. ” 

I pause. Huh. Okay, then. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” she says, scowling. “I’m good at my job, Haymitch.” 

“Okay.” 

“Don’t okay me, you classless cretin -” 

“Fuck you -” 

“You are the most insufferable -”

I stand and leave. I absolutely cannot listen to Effie’s nonsense today. Besides, I’m not seeing the tributes again until later tonight; today, I need to start closing early sponsor deals. Yeah. Fine. I love closing sponsor deals, right? 

Unfortunately, she fucking follows me. Because of course she does. I turn around and glare at her. 

“If you’re following me with a damn etiquette lecture, you can take it and shove it right -”

“Shut up , Haymitch!” she shrieks, and she sounds so genuinely distressed that I do. 

“What.” I say instead. 

“If you want to -” she pauses, taking a minute to compose herself. “Do you think they can win?” 

“They? What, you think they can both win?” 

“That’s not what I meant -” Effie stops again, taking a deep and centering breath. 

“What, ‘cause they’re interchangeable to you?” I snarl. “You don’t give a fuck which one it is, long as Twelve gets a win? Then you can fuck right off to some posh district where you belong?” 

“Oh, like you care about the tributes. I’ve seen how you are, you’re positively cruel -” 

I take several steps forward, until I’m right in her personal space. My chest is heaving with unreasonable, irrational anger. She doesn’t back down, eyes blazing. 

“Don’t talk to me about the tributes. Do not talk to me about the arena. In fact, how about you don’t talk to me at all, yeah? Is that a simple enough instruction to get through your thick fucking skull?” 

Effie doesn’t respond. Her expression flickers, somewhere under the thick layers of paint slathered all over her face. She’s breathing heavily too. 

“Noted,” she says. “Noted.” 

I turn away from her. My job will be so much easier if I don’t have to deal with Capitol sleazebag escorts at all. Yeah, there’s absolutely no need for Effie Trinket. 

Chapter Text

It is noon. I am somewhere a quarter of the way through a bottle. Effie is about thirty seconds away from breaking down my door, because apparently listening to a very simple command like don’t talk to me at all is beyond her capabilities. 

I get up and swing the door open so fast she stumbles right into me, and somehow she manages to right herself before I can even react. 

“What happened to noted ?” I ask. 

“I noted it.” She wrinkles her nose. “And then I decided to ignore it.” 

“Really.” 

She jabs a finger into my chest. “You promised to help Katniss and Peeta.” 

“And?” I snap. 

“And so we have to work together, ” she says. 

“Says fucking who?” 

“Says me, ” replies Effie. “Whether or not you like it, Mr. Abernathy.” 

I don’t reply. If anything, working with Effie is only going to make things worse for Katniss and Peeta, right? I mean, the way she drives me up the wall - I’ll drink myself to death before this year’s tributes are cold in their graves. 

Unfortunately, a mental image of a scowling Beetee Latier pops into my head. That deeply, deeply annoying man seems to haunt my every thought. Because it’s not even like the little angry victor circus keeping an eye on Katniss Everdeen actually means anything. They’ve kept an eye on tributes before. They’ve watched a particularly smart girl from Three. A very young but resourceful boy from Ten. A seventeen year old from Nine who gushed movingly about her girlfriend in her interviews. A Career from Four whose easy rapport with her District partner made her an instant favorite, until her District partner was beheaded and she went crazy in front of a national audience. Everyone that Mags’ little gathering has watched is dead. Well, except for Annie Cresta, but she’s so fucked in the head that she might as well be. 

What if I force Katniss and Peeta to be allies, and then Peeta gets violently murdered, and Katniss goes batshit fucking nuts? She’s given me very little indication that she’s, y’know, stable. 

That is very much not the point. Effie is still glaring at me. Do I need to work with Effie? 

Effie’s glare suddenly and unexpectedly reminds me of my own escort. Like, the escort who took me through my own Games. Her name was Donatella, and I never quite worked out what I thought of her. All I remember is being sixteen and alone and desperate for any kind of connection and all she could do was hit me and throw me at whatever event was next scheduled. Isn’t that just what Effie is too? Some clone who sees tributes as meat and mentors as twisted forms of social clout? Sure, there have been times over the years where I’ve thought she was almost human. They’re rare and misleading. 

Effie clears her throat and wrinkles her nose at me. I stay silent for another moment. 

“Fine. Where do you want to start?” I ask. 

“Hmph,” says Effie, and then she pushes past me and into my room. To her credit, she only wrinkles her nose momentarily at the space before she pushes a clipboard at me. 

“I’ve come up with a game plan,” she says. 

I frown slightly at her choice of phrasing. I’ve been around the Games for enough years now to have picked up on Capitol language, and a game plan is specific. It’s something that Gamemakers use when they’re designing arenas. When they’re picking a narrative for how the year is going to go. When they’re sending in a wave of mutts to wipe out a tribute they don’t like. Effie using the term game plan is ... .strange, to say the least . 

“What is it? Does it involve setting one of them up as an incarnation of yours truly , again?” I ask. 

Effie scowls. “I said that once . Years ago.” 

“And have your planning skills improved since then, princess?” 

“Yes,” she snaps, pointing viciously at the clipboard with one long, curved blue nail. “It’s like I said. They should be a pair.” 

“Is that all you came to say? Because we’d worked that bright idea out already.” 

Effie takes a deep breath. I can see her visibly trying to control her annoyance. “I think that at the sponsor dances, we should ask them to sponsor Twelve as a whole and not just one tribute.” 

“Okay.” I’m terse, but she’s right. That’s the quickest way to get rumors out to the general public of the Capitol that Katniss and Peeta are probably going to be allied. I am going to have to toe a very fine line between spreading the right story and keeping my strategy private. 

“Because I think that they should be allies in the arena,” she says, echoing my thoughts rather precisely. Personally, I would prefer it if I didn’t have any thoughts in common with Effie Trinket, so I frown.  

“From day one?” I ask. 

Effie doesn’t have an answer ready immediately. She glances thoughtfully to the side. 

“I think we should wait and see,” she says, slowly. “Depends on how training goes.” 

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “And what about sponsors?” 

The sponsor side of things is Effie’s forte, not mine. The thought of going out to sweet-talk Capitol fools has always made my skin crawl. There are victors who are good at that shit. I’ve never been one of them. 

“Yes!” she says, her face visibly brightening at the sound of a question that she can answer. “I’ve gotten so much interest, Haymitch!” 

“In both, or in Katniss?” 

Her expression falters. “In Katniss. But if they’re allies, then that’ll be interest in both of them, right?” 

I scoff. “They can’t both win. Interest in Katniss is interest in Katniss.” 

“Fine,” says Effie. “Then Katniss.” 

“Anyone ready to close?” 

“No. Most people are waiting until after the interviews to place their bets. Especially on an outlier like Twelve, since it’s not like we have regulars.” 

Fuck. That means the interview is key. While Katniss seems like she can do fine in the arena, I’ve gotten no personality out of her other than grunts and snarls. In fact, the only time I’ve heard anything real from her is when she talked up Peeta’s skills yesterday. And complimenting another tribute is hardly interview material, especially not if she’s the main sponsor draw. Peeta……Peeta, I think I can work on. My mind flashes back to the Delly Cartwright nonsense at the dinner table. He can think quickly. I at least have some confidence that he can read a room. 

“Then again,” says Effie, even though I haven’t responded, “the fact that they’re from outlier districts might be what gives them a real chance.” 

“Huh?” I say, eloquently. In my experience, being from an outlier has never been more of a disadvantage. Every year, the tributes from One and Two get bigger and more vicious. Four’s are usually also excellent, though they’ve never quite managed to replicate Finnick. Last time an outlier won was, what, Johanna? And she didn’t exactly win through sponsorship setups. And before that I can’t even remember. 

Effie glances around, as if concerned she might be overheard. She looks as though she’s been in on Mags’ rebel plot, not like someone plotting a mildly controversial Games strategy. 

“I’ve….heard things,” she says. 

“Elaborate.” 

“Seneca Crane,” Effie whispers. She’s taken a few steps in my direction, and she’s standing physically very close to me. “His family knows my friend Cassia’s husband’s sister. They were in the Academy together, and now Cassia’s husband’s sister is probably having an affair with him, but that’s really just my opinion, but either way, they’re very close, and -” 

“Spit it out, princess,” I say. Seneca Crane’s sex life or lack thereof has absolutely no bearing on my tribute strategy, whatever Effie may seem to think. 

“Rumor has it, he’s on the rocks with President Snow,” she says, cheeks flushing so bright I can see them under her makeup. 

“How so?” I ask. This could be interesting. 

“The President didn’t like how the last few Games have gone. He’s been upset since Johanna Mason,” she whispers. 

“Everybody loves Johanna Mason. And that fucker from Two who won last year.”

Effie flashes a tiny smile, thrilled she has information that I don’t. “ I heard that the President doesn’t like Johanna Mason. He thinks she’s uncouth. And Pyrite won in three days, which was so boring , don’t you think? People weren’t happy with it.” 

I resist the urge to prickle at a Games being described as boring. 

“So, what?” I say.  “They want an interesting Games, but with a winner who isn’t as annoying as Johanna?” 

Effie shakes her head slightly. “Yes. But apparently, Seneca’s on his last legs as Gamemaker. If he doesn’t perform well, he might even lose his job .” 

I think in Capitol terms, losing your job is basically equivalent to getting reaped for the Games. A death sentence. Leaves you desperate and lost. And desperation is always interesting. 

“So a sudden standout girl from Twelve might just be interesting enough to let Seneca keep his job?” I ask.

“Yes,” says Effie, smiling. “After all, Twelve has only won once. Another victory from here would be a splash either way, so -” 

Effie’s voice continues, but I’ve stopped paying attention. Why does she always have to bring my Games up? And also, I’m not the only person to have won. I know that. Does Effie know that? Maybe she doesn’t. They’ve stopped reading out Lucy Gray Baird’s name at the reapings, which they used to do when I was younger. Now they just read a list of living victors, my lonely name up on that stage, barely acknowledging that we’ve had another victory in the past. I used to be curious about Lucy Gray Baird. I once asked Mags if she’d known her, since Mags is easily the oldest Victor I know. She’d said the name rang a bell, but they’d definitely never met. Maybe she never existed, and I dreamed the name up when I was drunk. I don’t fucking know. Maybe Twelve has never had a normal victory. Maybe Effie is wrong and Twelve winning is just a bad omen. 

“Haymitch! Pay attention!” Effie snaps. 

I glare at her. She keeps talking. I exhale, wiping my slightly sweaty palms on my pants. It’s not my job to get distracted thinking about the ways in which Katniss’s victory could go wrong. She wants to survive? Fine. Maybe Seneca Crane’s job prospects are what gets her there. 

Effie’s stopped talking. 

“This is good,” I say into the sudden silence.

She smiles. “It is,” she says. “I’ll see you at dinner.” 

Then, as quickly as she arrived, she disappears. Her clipboard, covered in indecipherable scrawl, is snatched out of my arms and the last thing I hear is the odd clicking sound of her heeled shoes as she stalks down the marble hallway. I’d never have guessed that Effie Trinket has terrible handwriting. 

It’s barely past noon and I have nothing to do until dinner. There’s a sponsor ball tomorrow, but I already know my strategy. I crack the seal on another bottle, but then Katniss’s resentful glare flashes behind my eyes and I shove the bottle away so hard it topples, spilling its dark contents all over my bedroom floor. 

Maybe I’ll go bother Chaff. Usually works to kill time. The tributes are probably at lunch by now. I distinctly remember sitting alone and in silence, and I have no doubt that the vast majority of the tributes want to do the same. I wonder if Katniss and Peeta listened to me and are sitting together. What would they even talk about? What are Katniss’ interests? I haven’t a clue. Better if I don’t know. 

The District Eleven quarters are unusually quiet, and I wonder for a moment whether Chaff and Jasmine are out at some sponsor lunch, or something. Their boy must be getting some attention. A sudden movement from somewhere in the distance startles me, and my head jerks to the side. 

My eyes pan across the living room, which is the exact same layout as the Twelve apartment. I’ve spent enough time here drinking with Chaff that I know the place reasonably well. The sudden movement comes from the side behind the bar, and I peer over the countertop. 

Chaff’s sitting on the floor under the bar, staring blankly at the wall with a spaced-out expression. He’s not usually this bad at noon. 

“Chaff?” I ask. 

“Hi,” he says. He’s trying to look at me, but his eyes can’t focus. They slide over me, through me, past me and end up fixated on a wall behind my head. Drunk. He’s very drunk. 

“C’mon. This is my job,” I say. I can’t remember the last time he’s the one who was blackout at midday. And the Games haven’t even started yet. 

“Haymitch,” he says. 

“What?” 

“They took Jasmine,” he says, and an icy snake of fear shoots down my spine. 

“What do you mean?” I ask sharply. He doesn’t reply, and I shake him. “Chaff. What do you mean?” 

“What do you think?” he mutters. “Sent her a little piece of paper with an address. Shipped her off to the person who bought her.” 

Shit. Shit, I thought they’d got bored of her a few years ago. They usually don’t make them do it past twenty-five. Not once there’s newer and more interesting victors on the market. Someone with a fetish, maybe? Someone who bet on her all those years ago? 

“Okay,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say and the silence is too loud. 

“They fuckin’ took her, Haymitch,” Chaff says. “My kid. They took my kid.” 

“She’s not your fucking kid. She’s twenty-eight and married,” I say. It’s harsh. Chaff flinches like I slapped him.

“They’re going to hurt her,” he says. 

“Too late,” I reply. 

“I don’t know how to stop this,” he says, and his words are slurring. His eyes are drifting shut and then I actually slap him, because the last thing I need is Chaff passing out and requiring medical assistance. 

“You can’t stop it,” I say. “Started when she got Reaped. She’s not your tribute anymore, and this shit isn’t your job.” 

His laugh is so resigned it would be amusing if it wasn’t so sad. 

“She’s still my tribute,” he says. “She’s my damn tribute. I could’ve let her die, you know that? Could’ve let her die, but now she’s alive and it’s worse.” 

“Not worse. And she’s not your tribute anymore,” I say. 

“What do you know?” Chaff mumbles. “You never brought anyone home.”

“Fuck you,” I say. I intend for it to come out angry,  but I think I just sound resigned. What can I even say to that? He’s right. The year Jasmine won, I had two underfed Seam kids. A Career shot them both, about ten seconds into the game. That was the year before Finnick won, I think. Or year after? Can’t remember. I do remember Chaff that year, because I barely saw him. Single-minded fucking focus, he had, completely hell-bent on bringing that girl home. He and Seeder would sit together whispering for hours, planning the right times to get her food, get her water. It was my suggestion, eventually, that did it. Arena was bone-dry, and I told them to send her a matchbox. The Capitol was able to fix her burn scars once she came out. 

Chaff shakes his head, already moved on. “Dunno how Mags does it,” he says. 

“Ask her,” I say. “That’s what I did.” 

“What’d she tell you?” 

“That I’d find out.” I asked her this question when I was maybe twenty-two. Nearly half my lifetime ago. I’m still not sure I ever found out. 

Chaff laughs. “Sounds like her.” 

He’s silent for a beat. Then he looks at me, meeting my eyes for the first time since I entered the room. 

“Maybe it’ll be your turn. This time,” he says. “Then you’ll see.” 

Then I’ll see….then I’ll see what, exactly? What it’s like to bring a tribute home? Is he saying that if Katniss wins, she’ll be like Finnick or Cashmere or Jasmine? Selling herself in the Capitol, on pain of her sister’s death? She’s already sacrificed her life for her sister once. Maybe she’d do it again. Maybe she’ll be better off if she dies in that arena. I know I would’ve been. 

“Do me a favor, Chaff,” I say, standing up. 

“Yeah?”

“Sober up.” 

I leave the Eleven apartment, needing a drink more than ever. I need to clear my head. With some strength of will I didn’t know I had, I avoid the bar and walk straight through to my room. My head is spinning, and for once it’s not from too much to drink. I feel like I’ve been slammed with information, and at the same time I’m nowhere any different from how I was yesterday. Katniss and Peeta still need to be a pair, but I’m operating under the knowledge that…what? The Head Gamemaker is a little bit desperate? The government is sending victors out to the streets again? That people are legitimately contemplating a victory from District Twelve? 

Effie is on the phone in the apartment when I get back. Sponsor call, probably. She hangs up when I come in, and before she plasters a bright smile onto her face I catch a brief expression of frustration. 

“What?” I ask. The last thing I need is some kind of snag in our sponsorship plans. 

“Nothing,” she says. “Just my mother.” 

“Oh,” I say. Mothers aren’t really my strong suit. I look away. 

“She wants to know more about Katniss,” Effie says. “She doesn’t usually want to know more about my tributes. But my mother, you know, she has an uncanny sense for the frontrunners in the Games.” 

I scowl. I’m sure she does. Mothers back in Twelve tend to cite the Games among their greatest fears. In fact, Effie’s mother’s intuition about the Games simply makes me want to smack her. 

“Well, is she planning to send Katniss some sponsorship money?” I snap. If Effie’s mother is going to be taking up the apartments with her uncanny senses, she could at least have the decency to back them up with cold hard cash. 

Effie looks vaguely affronted. “My mother can’t sponsor Katniss. Not with me here, and certainly not with Ianthe working at the television networks.” 

“The fuck is Ianthe,” I say tiredly. It should’ve been a question, but there’s a limit to the amount of energy I can muster. 

“My sister,” says Effie pointedly. “My little sister.” 

“Stupid name,” I say. 

“I agree,” she says. 

“Well. Sounds like you have a nice happy family,” I say, turning to leave. There’s only so much Effie I can do in one day, and she’s just about exceeded her limit. 

“I wish,” she mutters, and that is nearly interesting enough to make me turn around. Then again, from the stories I’ve heard from Finnick, the average Capitol family isn’t very happy. They’re closer to insane or depraved. Somehow, though, Effie’s always seemed like such a little princess that I assumed she must’ve come from some kind of Capitol perfection. She’s so…sheltered. 

Whatever. Katniss and Peeta are going to be back from training soon, and I have things to prepare. Effie’s personal life, Chaff’s existential crisis - all of it can fucking wait. 

Chapter Text

“Well?” I ask into the dead silence at the dinner table. Katniss and Peeta have returned from training. To nobody’s surprise, Katniss is moody and scowling. Peeta looks uncomfortable. I am beginning to think that this is their status quo. “Are either of you planning to tell me what you did during training?” 

Katniss’ scowl deepens, and mine does the same. 

“Unless, of course,” I add sweetly, “you would rather I didn’t bother?” 

“He doesn’t mean that!” Effie chimes in. 

“Oh, yes, he does,” I say. 

“Well, we began at the knot-tying station,” says Peeta quickly, after a brief glance at Katniss. 

“And what did you do there?” asks Effie encouragingly.

“Was there anyone else at that station?” I add. 

Peeta clears his throat, as though surprised at the onslaught of questions. “We learned a snare that can leave a man hanging from a tree. At least, Katniss did.” 

“Katniss did?” I prompt. 

Peeta laughs, affable and a little self-deprecating. “I tried my best. Katniss really is excellent at snares, though. Which I really shouldn’t have been surprised about.” 

“You got the trap nearly as quick as I did,” Katniss interjects. “And I’m not that good at snares. I mostly hunt with my bow.” 

“If that’s what you call ‘not that good’, I’m dying to see what you are good at,” says Peeta. 

“Enough,” I snap. Frankly, these two and their compliments are bizarre and off-putting. “I asked who else was at the knot-tying station.” 

“Nobody,” Katniss snipes back at me. 

“Fine,” I say. “At least it looks like you enjoy each other’s company. Was anyone watching you?” 

They exchange a look. 

“Only about seventeen Gamemakers,” says Katniss. 

“That’s not a bad thing, Katniss,” says Effie. “That means they’re paying attention to you.” 

“But you shouldn’t be standing out too much in training,” I add, before she can get any ideas. “If you’re that good at snares, pick a different station tomorrow. Did you do anything else?” 

“Painted camouflage,” grunts Katniss. 

“Thrilling. Care to elaborate?” 

“Peeta frosts cakes,” she says. I think she’s being deliberately obtuse, and I desperately want to smack her. Does she want my help or not? 

“Never mind,” I say. “Did you get to watch the Career pack at all? How are they looking?”  

Katniss doesn’t respond, but Peeta nods. “Yeah,” he says. “The boy from Two seems to be leading it. And Four seems like they’re on the outs this year.” 

I raise a brow. If he’s right, then that’s interesting information. 

“What do you mean, on the outs ?” asks Effie. “What gives you that impression? Four is quite heavily favored in the polls this year.” 

Peeta frowns thoughtfully. “Well, the boy from Four is on the younger side. I think he’s maybe fifteen. So I don’t think that One and Two take him very seriously,” he says. 

“Interesting,” I say. “But Four’s had young victors before. Doesn’t necessarily mean anything.” 

“That’s true,” says Peeta. “But this kid is no Finnick Odair. He seemed okay with a spear, but not mindblowing.” 

“You never know for sure,” I warn him sharply. “Not everyone shows off at training. What about the girl from Four?” 

“Not bad,” he says. “I think she’s on good terms with the One girl. Glimmer, I think her name is? But the boy from Two doesn’t seem to like her much, and he’s the one in charge.” 

“Is Glimmer the One girl, or the Four girl?” Effie asks. A stupid question, in my opinion. Glimmer is clearly a District One name. Peeta’s patient, though, and answers Effie’s follow-up. 

Peeta’s observations of the Career pack are interesting. If he’s proven right - and we’ll see about that in the training scores - then I may have underestimated him more than I had thought. He can read a room, and he’s clearly paying attention, which is more than I can say about Katniss. If he plays his cards right, he could be onto something. 

Dinner wraps and the tributes head to bed. I should follow. I’m exhausted, but I do my best thinking at night and I have work to do. 

“Thoughts?” I ask Effie. She doesn’t respond immediately. 

“I think training is going well,” she says contemplatively. 

I incline my head slightly. Personally, I think it could’ve been going better, but it also could have been very much worse. And the Gamemakers are watching Katniss, which is…interesting. Definitely interesting. 

“I’m going to try to wrangle some information out of Finnick,” I say. “Why does Four not seem to have a good contender this year? Think it’s got anything to do with Cresta?” 

“Cresta? As in, Annie?” asks Effie, sounding baffled. 

“She’s in the Capitol this year,” I say. 

“Oh. Poor dear. Why would she want to come back to the Capitol?” 

 I give her a look. Effie’s naivety is utterly ridiculous. 

“Don’t think she had a choice,” I mutter. 

“Why would that have affected the Reaping?” asks Effie.

“I don’t fucking know,” I say, frustrated. If I could read people’s minds, this job would be a lot fucking easier. Something to do with District Four politics, maybe? Perhaps Mags did something to piss off Snow? Maybe Finnick did? 

“Well, talk to Finnick then, I suppose,” she says. “How is he doing?” 

I narrow my eyes at her. What’s she playing at? Why does she care about Finnick Odair’s wellbeing? She doesn’t have any stake in his life, and I don’t see Effie caring overmuch about things that don’t directly concern her. 

“What do you mean?” I ask. 

“I’m not daft, you know,” she says, affronted. “I’ve seen him come in here crying before. I thought maybe he was having a hard time. Relationship problems, or something?” 

I resist the urge to scoff. Relationship problems. Okay. Yeah. Right. She has no idea, does she? 

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” she asks. 

“No,” I say. Finnick’s privacy might be the one thing I’ll protect within an inch of my life. Fuck knows he doesn’t get enough of it. “I’ll talk to him about his tributes.” 

“Okay,” says Effie. She pauses. “Do you think it might be a good idea to get Katniss on good terms with the Careers?” 

I jerk back like I’ve been shot. 

“What is it about Katniss,” I ask, “that makes you think she would ally with the Careers?” 

Effie looks a little offended. “Well, I just thought, since people keep comparing them in the magazines,” she says. 

“What are they saying?” 

“She volunteered,” Effie says, eyes widening. “Some people think she might be Twelve’s first ever real Career.” 

I…what? 

“Every time I think that you Capitol people might have a thought behind those dyed-blue eyes,” I sigh. 

“ I know she isn’t,” Effie protests. “I know it was just for Prim. But, Haymitch, you have to see what it looks like from the outside. She’s a volunteer, she can fight, she looks twice the size of other children from the Districts -” 

“She won’t go for it,” I say. “She’ll never join the Careers.” 

I don’t know where my conviction comes from. I don’t know Katniss all that well. I just know that I’ve been where she is, I suppose. When I was a kid, I was shocked that I allied with a townie, let alone a Career. I’m certain Katniss had the exact same number of tesserae this year that I had when I was Reaped.

“Even if it means she’ll live ?” asks Effie. 

“I…don’t think so,” I say. Everything about Katniss so far has screamed independence. Even when she’s complimenting Peeta, she’s barbed. And she’s a trader at the Hob, for fuck’s sake. She’s got a shitty lot in life, and she knows it. Is she like me? No, no, I really thought I was smart enough to beat the system. I was a straight-up fool. Katniss just seems….quietly determined to win. So why…

Maybe it’s just that if it was really survival over everything, for her, she wouldn’t have volunteered to die for her sister. She has values that I don’t think she’ll compromise. No, she won’t ally with the Careers. 

Effie is waiting for my explanation, but if I give it I will sound insane or drunk. So I simply shake my head again. “She won’t go for it,” I repeat. 

 “If you’re sure,” says Effie. 

“I am. What do you think about the Gamemakers watching her?” I ask. “You’re the one with the fancy connections.” 

“It makes sense,” says Effie. “She’s generated a lot of buzz. They’ll be writing a game plan involving her as we speak.” 

I exhale. It’s a strange year, that’s for sure. When I won, I don’t think the Gamemakers knew who I was until halfway through the arena. Sure, I didn’t do badly - in retrospect, my interview wasn’t terrible, and I had a respectable training score - but with forty-five other tributes, I was lost in the mix until the field had thinned. In fact, I didn’t see any sponsor gifts until after I allied with Maysilee. This, then - this tabloid frenzy, this attention, this spotlight on Katniss - it’s new territory. Could make it easier. Could make her a target. 

“What time is it?” I ask. “Too late to go bother District Four?” 

“It’s ten-thirty,” says Effie. “Knowing Finnick, he’s probably off having….relations by this time of night.” 

I try not to let her declaration annoy me. He feeds into his own image, after all, and at the end of the day Effie’s right and Finnick is definitely not in his apartment anymore. 

The conversation lapses into awkward silence, and I’m left staring vaguely in the direction of the bar cart. Maybe one drink before I make myself go to bed. I’ve been awake since nine in the morning, which is at least six hours before I like to be awake. 

Instead, a rap on the door startles me, and I swivel. 

“Come in!” trills Effie, and I scowl. 

The door slams open, and I am genuinely surprised to see a short figure that I recognize as Johanna Mason. 

“Good. You’re awake,” she says by way of greeting, stalking into the room. 

“It’s only past ten,” begins Effie, and Johanna visibly rolls her eyes. 

“Get rid of the escort, Haymitch,” she says. 

Effie splutters in outrage at being addressed in this manner. 

“She can stay,” I say, surprising even myself. “She knows her shit.” 

“Really? She knows everything?” asks Johanna pointedly, and I cringe. 

“Actually, Effie, I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, inclining my head towards the door. 

“What?!” she says, her voice getting shriller by the second. 

“Effie.” 

“Fine,” she snaps. She turns and picks up her coat, pulling on a pair of ridiculously high heels before stalking out the door. She manages to slam it nearly as hard as Johanna did. 

“Are you sleeping with your escort?” asks Johanna flatly, seconds after Effie leaves the room.  

Now it’s my turn to splutter in horror and indignation. “Excuse me?!” 

She shrugs. “Thought maybe that’s why you suddenly don’t hate her.” 

“No. Absolutely not. That’s disgusting,” I say. 

“Whatever,” says Johanna, flopping onto my couch. 

“What do you want?” I ask. A visit from Johanna means she has something to say. She’s hardly the type to make cute little social calls. 

“So what do I have to do to get Katniss Everdeen to ally with my tributes?” she says. 

“I -” 

“No, no, don’t start. Look, I’m sure you have some little plan cooked up already with Beetee, okay? But hear me out. Four’s useless this year, and Two are a bunch of dicks, and Eleven won’t ally. So what do I have to do to get the Everdeen girl?” 

What the fuck is happening. I try to remember who Johanna’s tributes are, and try as I might I can’t recall anything notable about them. My instinct is to shut this shit down. 

“Why should Katniss ally with Seven?” I ask instead, deflecting. 

Johanna scoffs. “Oh, I knew you’d be useless.” 

“Fuck’s sake, girl,” I snap. “Have a little patience.” 

“I am patient,” she says. “I am very patient.” 

I squint at her. She isn’t making eye contact, and her last sentence slurred painfully. 

“Johanna, are you drunk?” I ask. 

“You’re a fine one to talk,” she says, confirming my suspicions. 

“Shockingly, I’m not actually drunk,” I say. “Where have you been?” 

“District Four,” she says. 

“Did you and Finnick break into the liquor stores again?” I ask. 

“No.” 

“Then what? ” 

“Was with Cresta.”

I burst out laughing. I can’t help it. That’s objectively the funniest possible answer she could’ve given. Johanna’s mouth is twisted into a petulant pout.

“Is Finnick back at the Training Center?” I ask, between snorts of laughter. “I need to talk to him.” 

“No,” she says, scowling. “Fuck knows where he is.” 

Johanna stands, scouring the room for another bottle. 

“Sit your ass down,” I tell her. “You don’t need another drink.” 

“Hypocrite,” she says. 

“We can talk alliance when you’re less plastered,” I say. 

“I thought you’d be more sympathetic,” she says. “If you want, you can join me and Cresta in the killed-our-own-families gang. Aren’t you the founding member?” 

My head rolls back. Perhaps I do need a fucking drink. 

“You’re incoherent,” I snap. 

“No, you’re incoherent,” she says. “What? Still in denial? Come on, Haymitch! It’s more fun this way!” 

I’m not in fucking denial. In fact, I try my best to be sympathetic to the Johanna Masons of the world. I know what these first few years are like. I remember the haze of grief and anger and regret all too well. 

I exhale slowly. “I will talk about an alliance. When you are fucking sober.” 

“Fuck you,” she snarls. “Fuck you and your shiny new tribute.” 

“Go home, Johanna,” I say. 

“I’d fucking love to,” she says. “Only my home’s been burned to the ground, you see. Did you know, they never found my dad’s bones? They found my dog’s body in the ashes, though.” 

Oh, she is very drunk. My knuckles whiten against the armchair. 

“What was it for you?” she asks. “I saw the pictures of your dead family, obviously. First thing they showed me. So obviously they didn’t set them on fire.”

“Poison,” I say bluntly. “Get out, Johanna.” 

“Poison,” she repeats. “Did it hurt them?” 

“Out!” I bark, grabbing her shoulder roughly. 

“I just want to know,” she says. Her vision is noticeably blurry. She can’t focus on anything. She’s going to be violently hungover tomorrow. 

“I don’t care,” I say, and my voice is an octave lower than it usually is. “Go to bed.” 

“Tell me their names,” she says. “Then I’ll leave.”

“Fine. My brother was Dillon. My mother was Anisa. My girlfriend was Rina.”

“Nice names,” she says. “Pity they’re all fuckin’ dead. My dog’s name was Maple.” 

If she doesn’t get the fuck out of my apartment, then I will make damn sure she goes the same way her daddy did. 

“I’m going, I’m going,” she says. She hauls herself up from where she’s sitting. “Thanks, by the way.” 

“For fucking what?” 

“The reminder,” she says. “Doesn’t get any fucking better, does it?” 

And then she’s gone.

Chapter Text

Johanna’s words put me in a foul mood for the entirety of the next day. I’m abrasive and angry and irrational, and the worst part is that I know it. By the time Katniss and Peeta leave for their second day of training, I’m nearly half a bottle of wine in; I know it’s only going to get worse, and I’m entirely correct. There is something deeply fucked about the fact that I know my own behaviour that damn well, and I still do fuck-all about it. 

I really do try to be patient with Johanna. She just makes it completely impossible. I don’t see her all day, and somehow I don’t feel the pressing urge to seek her out and make good on my promise to discuss an alliance with her. Katniss would be better off without the useless Seven kids anyway. Katniss is the star of this year’s show, and Johanna Mason knows it damn well. That’s why she wants our districts in an alliance in the first place. She holds absolutely no cards this year, and I have a hidden flush. 

Or maybe not that hidden, if Beetee’s little alliance already knows my entire hand. I don’t particularly want to think about it, so I pour myself another glass of the rather expensive-looking red wine. 

Little Prim, convulsing on the floor of a new Village house. Ilona Meadowmark - sorry, Everdeen - drawing her last painful breaths, knowing I was the cause of her pain once again. Katniss screaming on the lawn as her world collapses around her, except now it’s not Katniss, it’s me, and I’m seventeen and slowly realizing that I have nothing left to live for. 

Fuck you, Johanna Mason. Fucking fuck you. 

I’m sleep deprived and angry by the time dinner comes around. Today, I have already told Effie Trinket that she’s a useless airhead with a poorly done boob job. I have already cussed out Finnick Odair for being a good-for-nothing pretty boy. I have avoided Johanna Mason because I think I might actually be violent if I see her in the next couple of days. No, I have not had a great track record today.

I’m an asshole at dinner. I have sobered up somewhat by the time my tributes return from training, and it doesn’t make me any nicer. 

“What did you do today?” I bark at them, before the bread rolls even reach the table. 

“We learned to throw spears,” says Peeta. 

I scowl. “I thought I said stay away from what you’re good at? That’s not so far from archery.” 

“Oh, don’t worry,” says Peeta. “We’re both terrible.”

“Reassuring,” I drawl. “I’m sure your incompetence will save your life next week.” 

Peeta opens his mouth to say something and then thinks the better of it. Katniss looks as though she might start her murder spree before the arena gong sounds. She is staring at her soup as though she’s worried it might be poisoned. 

“Anything else?” I ask. “Or did you just make eyes at each other over a spear?” 

“We did fire-starting, shelter making, edible plants, and hand-to-hand combat,” Peeta reels off smoothly before I can say anything else. 

“And?” 

“Katniss is excellent at finding food. I took out two trainers hand-to-hand,” says Peeta, meeting my eyes. 

“Did the food not come easily to you, Peeta?” asks Effie, picture of concern. 

“It’s not my forte. Not unless the arena is a bakery,” he says, quirking a smile at Katniss. As though it’s something they’ve discussed before, some kind of private joke. Katniss snickers before returning to her soupy contemplations. 

“Do you two think that this is amusing?” I ask. Banter at the dinner table is quite possibly the worst thing that has ever happened to me, ever, in my entire life. “Believe me, it’s not going to look very funny when you’re running from mutts inside the fucking arena.” 

“What else?” Effie cuts in quickly. She gives me a look that very clearly says calm down. I will not. “Did you notice any other tributes?” 

Katniss and Peeta exchange another look, and Katniss seems to retreat mentally somewhere back into her soup, which does not bode well in terms of her general stability. 

“Nobody of note,” says Peeta tactfully. 

“Everybody is of note,” I hiss. “Who did you see?”

“Just the girl from Eleven,” Katniss says quietly. She looks miserable. Peeta gives her a sympathetic glance, which I don’t even think Katniss notices. 

“The twelve-year-old? What about her?” I ask. 

“She’s just a kid,” says Katniss. 

“Well, I’m sure she’ll do wonderfully,” says Effie, which might possibly be the worst thing one could say about a twelve-year-old in the Games. 

“Never mind,” I say, before Katniss can launch into some kind of diatribe about the injustice of it all.  “What did you talk about at lunch?” 

“We discussed a time when Katniss was chased by a bear,” says Peeta. 

I narrow my eyes at him. “Talk about something else when you’re in public. Discussing the woods is unnecessarily risky.” 

“Well, is that really -” Peeta begins, and I slam a hand down on the table. 

“No talking back,” I snap, and Peeta shuts up. 

It’s like an angry cloud settles over everybody’s heads for the rest of the meal. Frankly, I don’t understand why. Do they want me to hold their hands and pet their hair while I prepare them for a death match? Being nice to tributes has never helped anyone at all, let alone the tributes themselves. I am starting to lose count of the number of little faces that have sat across from me, staring at me like I’m the last hope they have left in the world. (It’s forty-eight this year, a snide voice in the back of my head tells me. Hey, it’s a milestone year. I’ve outlived the same number of tributes outside the arena as I did inside.) 

Anyway, I don’t see the point in giving tributes any kind of delusions. It just makes it harder on everyone when they die. 

Peeta finally tells Effie that he wants to make sure that he’s well-rested for the private training sessions tomorrow. Effie, being Effie, immediately fusses over the two of them, insisting that they must go to bed immediately. I just try not to roll my eyes as they practically sprint out of the room. 

“They’re not actually tired,” I tell her drily as she watches them leave. “They just didn’t want to hear the lectures.” 

Effie scoffs. “You’re too hard on them,” she says. 

“No,” I say. “You’re too soft. You think anyone in the arena is going to care how well-rested they are?” 

Effie frowns at me. “No,” she says, but there’s a note of hesitation in her voice. 

“So cut it out.” 

She shakes her head. “I don’t understand you,” she says. “What harm does it do to show them a little kindness before they go into the arena? It’s not as though they have much of it left in their lives.” 

I can’t help it. I laugh. The irony is baffling, you see, and yet somehow it makes perfect sense that that’s how she thinks. Sure, let’s be nice to them before we send them off to die. Let’s feed them piles of wonderful, expensive food, before we throw them in the forest to dance for scraps from sponsors. Let’s dress them up in pretty glitter before we march them to their death. Tell Katniss to be nice and chatty to Peeta so that it hurts twice as much when she has to watch him die. The sheer barbarism of our role is astounding. I feel nauseous. 

“Maybe you’ll understand when you’re in the arena yourself, princess,” I say, raising a glass to Effie. 

I expect her to scoff, roll her eyes, or hurl a barrage of insults my way. Instead, she’s just silent. She purses her lips and she looks away, and the silence grows quickly awkward. 

Effie and I jump as the door to the living room opens again. We’re not expecting anyone, and we’re certainly not expecting Peeta to stride into the room, looking somehow simultaneously determined and awkward. 

“Peeta!” exclaims Effie. “I thought you wanted to go to bed?” 

“I actually realized,” he says, “I need to talk to Haymitch.” 

“Oh?” says Effie, as though the very idea of anybody willingly desiring a conversation with me is the most conceptually baffling thing she’s ever heard. 

“Yeah,” says Peeta. He pauses, shuffling his feet, and Effie realizes she’s expected to leave. I half-expect the melodrama she showed yesterday, when Johanna walked in - fucking Johanna - and I brace myself slightly. But I don’t think she can quite bring herself to be angry with Peeta, so she picks herself up, dusts off her jacket, and wishes him a goodnight. 

“So,” I say, once the room has gotten quiet again. “What do you want?” 

Peeta pauses, then. I get the sense that he doesn’t quite know what he wants to say either. 

“I don’t have all night, boy,” I say, which really shouldn’t help, but somehow causes Peeta to shake himself and look at me properly. Oddly, I respect it. 

“I don’t understand what you’re doing,” he says. I narrow my eyes at him. 

“Your strategy with Katniss,” he clarifies. “And - and me.” 

“If you’re here asking me, I suspect you already know,” I say. The boy’s more perceptive than he looks. 

“Not entirely,” he says slowly. “I want to know why you’re linking us together. What exactly is your plan?”

“Look, kid,” I say, buying myself a minute to think. “You’re a character on TV. I’ve gotta sell a story to the audience, and I’ve got to pick the story that makes the most sense.” 

“Why a pair?” he asks. “Why not anything else?” 

“Once again, boy,” I say. “You’re asking me something you already know.”

Peeta looks away, so I press the issue. “You and Katniss know each other. At least to some degree,” I say. “Come on.” 

“Not really,” he says. “We don’t know each other at all.” 

“Really,” I say flatly, not believing him for a second. “We’re not in Twelve anymore, boy. I don’t give a fuck about your personal life, and nobody’s going to know or care if you have a soft spot for a girl from the Seam.” 

I honestly don’t know where the words come from, but I know they’re true as soon as they leave my mouth. Peeta flinches in shock, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. 

“Peeta,” I say, and I don’t think I’ve ever addressed him by name before so he flinches slightly at that, too. “If you have information I can use, I need you to tell me.” 

“I -” 

“I am trying,” I add, “to keep you alive.” 

“We don’t know each other. I’m not lying,” he says. “But. We’ve met a few times. In the past.” 

“I’m going to need you to be more specific,” I say. “Let’s start with something that’s been bothering me. What was she talking about the other day at dinner? You helped her?” 

He nods slowly. “It was maybe four years ago. The year there was that huge mine accident? A lot of Seam kids lost their parents, and Katniss was one of them.” 

Peeta says it like I would know about the mine accident. There've been so many of them in my lifetime that I couldn’t for the life of me point out which one was which. I remember Katniss’ father, though. We went to school together. I didn’t know definitively that he was dead, but since most people from my childhood are probably dead the information shouldn’t surprise me nearly as much as it does. 

Peeta continues. “Well, I remember noticing that she wasn’t in school for about a month. And I was starting to get worried, but a lot of other miner kids weren’t back either. But then I saw her outside of my house. She was going through my trash cans, and I could see her through my window, and she was starving. She clearly couldn’t walk, and she had that look about her….that look that you see on the bodies of Seam kids who’ve starved to death. They look hollow. She looked hollow.”

He pauses, and I wait for him to finish. 

“All I did was throw her some bread.” 

“Some bread,” I say. “Bakery bread?” 

“Yes,” he says. 

I frown at him. “And your parents, they were okay with that?” 

Look, maybe things have changed around town since I was growing up. But we used to fucking hate each other, us Seam and town kids. I remember the distrust, the anger, the unspoken boundaries all too clearly. I even remember being mistaken for true Seam, in my earliest days as a victor, and harassed out of the square until someone recognized me. I don’t know jack about Peeta’s parents, but I doubt they habitually gave handouts to children of the Seam. 

“Not really,” Peeta admits, confirming my suspicions. 

“I see,” I say. “So why’d you do it?”

He glances away again. “She was starving,” he repeats. 

Peeta is holding information back, and I don’t fucking like it. But I get the feeling that if I press the matter, the conversation will end right here. 

“Did she ever talk to you about it?” I ask, changing tack. 

Peeta looks relieved. “No,” he says. “I’m surprised she remembers, actually.” 

“I’m not,” I say. “She’s proud. Probably the only time she’s taken real charity in her life.” 

“Oh,” he says. “Oh.” 

He shakes himself. “I still don’t fully understand your strategy,” he says. 

Well, I’m not going to fucking explain it to him. Especially not since I absolutely cannot share that a little group of Capitol-haters have a definitive investment in Katniss making it out of the arena alive. 

Instead, I shrug. “Part of the show. I need to know how you both respond to unexpected circumstances.” 

He frowns at me. I frown back. 

“I think,” I say clearly. “That you need to go to bed so you don’t make even more of an ass of yourself during private training.”  

“Alright,” says Peeta. “Goodnight, Haymitch.” 

I don’t exactly feel the need to wish him goodnight back. 

The next day dawns and Katniss and Peeta are ushered away to private training. I desperately want to catch them before they go, give them some final words of advice, but Effie stops me, on the grounds that I could not possibly say anything to them that hasn’t already been said. Begrudgingly, I concede the point.

Because Katniss and Peeta are Twelve, and Twelve gets absolutely shit luck, they’re dead last in front of the Gamemakers. In my year, I distinctly remember that they barely gave me a glance in my direction. No tribute since has had a great deal of luck, though frankly most of them have very little to show in the first place. Suffice it to say, my expectations for today are very low. 

Having nothing to do in the Capitol is one of the worst situations in the world, and I am far too used to it. When your tributes typically die ten minutes into the Games, it is a situation that becomes all-too-familiar. Usually, I’ll just drink until the silence doesn’t bother me anymore. Today, since I can’t get overwhelmingly drunk, I resort to sipping wine and arguing with Effie and then I breathe a sigh of relief when Cinna and Portia come in. They’ve been busy designing outfits for what seems like days now, and their presence is like a breath of sanity in the sheer bizarreness that has been the overwhelming strangeness of the Twelve apartments for the last several days. 

They show us the designs for the outfits that they plan to put Katniss and Peeta in for the interviews. They’re beautiful, and even I can recognize that - Cinna and Portia are far too talented to be stuck designing for District Twelve. 

“You’re keeping up the matching looks?” I ask, glancing at the flame-patterns that they plan to have adorn both my tributes. 

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” says Cinna. “We want to match the outfits to what the children are going to be saying in the interviews. To help them stand out when they need to. Do you have any idea what that’s going to be?” 

“Well,” interjects Effie, “interview prep only starts tomorrow, since we’ve been focusing on training.” 

“Understood,” says Portia, “but you’ve both been spending time with the tributes for days now. Is there anything you’ve picked up? Like, is one of them more prone to nerves than the other?” 

I pause, mulling the question over. Nerves isn’t really a word I’d use to describe either of them. Katniss is headstrong, and Peeta is subtler, but neither one is nervous. 

“What we’re trying to do here,” adds Cinna, “is make sure that our interview outfits play to their strengths. Is one of them going to need more help standing out than the other?”

“Yes,” I say. “Katniss.” 

Effie makes a tiny noise of surprise, which I ignore. 

“She’s good. Like, she can use a weapon and she knows how to survive an arena, but she’s moody and she’s not going to want to play for the cameras,” I say. 

“And Peeta will?” asks Portia. 

“Yes. I think Peeta will,” I say. It’s a risky gamble. For all I know, they’re both going to turn around and completely flop. Or Katniss will secretly shine, and Peeta will seize up onstage. But if I’m being honest, then Katniss has never shown me that she’s capable of acting on anything other than pure impulse.

“Perfect,” murmurs Cinna, grabbing a pencil from his bag and scribbling some illegible notes on the side of his drawings. “That works excellently, because audiences tend to pay more attention to the girls’ clothes, anyway.” 

“I’ll keep you updated,” I say. “Based on how prep goes tomorrow.” 

“Sure,” says Cinna. “But I trust your judgment already.” 

Fascinating. I don’t typically trust my judgment. 

The door opens and everyone swings around. It’s early evening and Peeta must be back from training already. 

“Hi,” he says, clearly not expecting everyone and their mother to be assembled in the living room. “Cinna. Portia.” 

“Hi, Peeta!” says Portia. 

“Well? Spit it out, boy. How bad was it?” I ask. 

Cinna gives me a reproachful glance, which I ignore. 

“Could have been worse,” he says. “Let’s wait for Katniss, and we can all go over it then?” 

Smart tactic. Buying himself time before I inevitably grill him on every half-second of everything that happened today. 

He sits down and asks Portia how her week has been. Portia says it’s been stressful down at the design studios, and Peeta nods wisely as if he has the faintest idea what the inside of a design studio could possibly look like. 

It’s a quick fifteen minutes before Katniss appears. The door slams open and Katniss runs in, and is she - crying? The fuck? 

“Katniss?” Effie calls out. “Katniss, come back!”

“Well, shit,” I say, getting up. Effie exchanges a look with me and then we’re both off down the hall towards Katniss’ room, where we arrive just in time to see the door slam and the bolt drive home. 

“Katniss!” I yell, knocking on the door as hard as I can. 

“I promise it isn’t as bad as it seems!” calls out Effie, which strikes me as a bit pointless, because Katniss is looking death right in the eye and everything probably seems terrible from her perspective. 

“Open the door, girl!” I say, rattling the handle. This, predictably, achieves very little. 

“Go away!” she shrieks, sounding borderline hysterical. 

It takes about five minutes of this for us to give up, and I stare at Effie in defeat. 

“She’ll have to come out eventually,” says Effie grimly. “We can deal with whatever it is then.” 

We return to the living room, where Peeta and the stylists sit with airs of obvious concern. 

“What the hell happened to her?” I snap in Peeta’s general direction. 

“No,” he says. “All I know is that she was planning to show them her shooting.” 

“Shooting?” asks Cinna. 

Peeta nods distractedly. “She hunts,” he says. “Back home. She’s excellent.” 

“Huh,” says Cinna. 

“Let’s give her until dinner,” says Effie. “Maybe she just needs an hour or two to cool off.” 

“Then I’m going to go shower,” says Peeta, hastily exiting the room. Nobody stops him. I’m sure he has a lot to mull over. 

“She’s not going to calm down in a couple of hours,” I say glumly into the silence. “She sounded half-mad.” 

“Well, what’s the worst that could happen?” says Effie. “Say she missed the target and gets a low score. We can just hint to the sponsors that she’s hiding her skills from the other tributes, and then it’s no harm, no foul!” 

Oddly, Effie’s forced cheeriness doesn’t piss me off as much as it usually does. A wave of sheer exhaustion crashes over my entire body, and I press a hand to my temple. I forget how tiring the Games are. I’ve talked to more people in the last four days than I have in the past year. And Katniss is a more confusing case than any that I’ve had in a while, at least. The effort it is going to take to keep her alive is almost more than I think I have in me. Unfortunately, I owe it to her to try. I at least owe it to her mother to try. 

Suddenly, this apartment feels full of ghosts. I shiver and reach for the half-open wine bottle on the living room cabinet, ignoring Effie’s disapproving glare. The world seems as though it is in too-sharp clarity, and I need to dull it before it renders me useless. 

“Haymitch?” says Cinna. “What do you think?” 

“What?” I say. 

“I was saying that if Katniss ends up with a low score, should it affect the way we present her?” 

“I - no. I don’t think so. It’ll be a tough sell, but like Effie said, she’ll just have to hint at the interviews that she’s got some kind of hidden talent. Which, if Peeta is to be believed, she does.” 

“That’s good,” says Cinna. “Then we don’t have anything to worry about.” 

Why do I get the sense that we means, to him, much more than the four of us in this room right now? I make a mental note to catch Cinna and grill him about what exactly he’s doing here. I will not have Beetee and his crowd of mental people siccing people on me for surveillance. 

The hours pass while Cinna and Effie make small talk about something Capitol that I don’t bother trying to understand. Portia and I sit there in relative silence. I try not to plot the murders of everybody in this building. 

The clock strikes eight and Effie sighs. 

“I’m going to go try and fetch Katniss for dinner,” she says. “Wish me luck.” 

“Good luck,” I say. 

“You’re not coming?” 

“No.” 

She sighs again and then she leaves. The rest of us glance around at one another. 

“Alright,” says Cinna, with an inexplicable half-smile. “Time to go see what Katniss Everdeen has done now.”

Chapter Text

There is absolutely nothing in this world or beyond it that could have prepared me for the degree to which Katniss is completely, utterly, insane. 

Of course, she doesn’t open up immediately. She appears at the dinner table, eyes red and swollen, and proceeds to stare sadly into her food bowl for the first ten minutes of the meal. She either ignores or fails to notice the concerned and sympathetic looks Peeta is giving her. 

“So,” Cinna says, clearing his throat, “It’s a bit warm for soup today, don’t you think?” 

I stare at him incredulously, but Effie picks up the conversation. “Well, the forecast has been so unreliable lately. Maybe the chef thought it would be damp. Did you know, it’s currently supposed to be pouring all day when the Games start?” 

I elect to ignore the vast majority of the above conversation, instead spending my time observing the two tributes sitting across from me. Katniss’ eyes well up with tears every few seconds, which she manages to prevent from spilling right over. It’s good emotional regulation. I noticed that when she didn’t cry at the Reaping. Most kids cry at the Reaping, including Peeta. 

She raises her head just once and catches Peeta’s gaze. He raises a brow at her, and she shakes her head slightly. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this kind of melodrama about private training before, and frankly I don’t have a clue what to make of it. 

“I’ve heard that the warm weather is impacting the President’s rose garden,” says Effie. “Did you know, he takes care of the roses personally? Apparently, he's been spending all his time there lately.” 

“Is that so,” says Portia neutrally. She was trained by Tigris, wasn’t she? I wonder what she’s heard about the President herself. I wonder if she’s heard anything at all, or whether the President’s cousin keeps her secrets close to her chest. 

“It is,” says Effie. “He’s even been hosting his meetings with the Head Gamemaker over there.” 

She glances at me, just for a second, and I nod tightly. I remember our conversation about Seneca Crane. Perhaps he and the President have been having meetings about Katniss. The thought makes me feel a little ill. 

The Avoxes arrive to clear out the soup and bring dinner out. Everyone is avoiding looking at Katniss, and it's starting to piss me off. There’s only so long we can pretend to ignore the elephant in the room, and if I don’t know what this kid has done then I can’t fucking help her.

“Okay, enough small talk,” I say, cutting Effie off in the middle of some thrilling anecdote about someone who wore feathers at a party. “Just how bad were you today?” 

Peeta jumps in, presumably to buy Katniss a minute. Their relationship never fails to be compellingly strange. “I don’t know that it mattered. By the time I showed up, no-one even bothered to look at me. They were singing some kind of drinking song, I think. So I threw around some heavy objects until they told me I could go.”

This is approximately what I expected to hear. Probably better for Peeta if he doesn’t draw too much attention to himself, anyway. Perhaps I’ll be lucky and Katniss is just suffering from a case of wounded pride after being roundly ignored by the Gamemakers. 

Katniss still isn’t being exactly forthcoming. I glare at her.

“And you, sweetheart?” I ask. 

She glares at me right back, but I seem to have snapped her out of her fugue of self-pity. At least I know that insulting her is effective. Katniss clears her throat, and then she addresses herself to me.

“I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers,” she says.

It takes me a second to process what she said. There’s a dead, stunned silence around the dining table as everyone stares at her. She shot…an arrow at the Gamemakers. 

Honestly, my first instinct is to laugh. Her audacity is truly stunning. That’s some shit I’d have respected when I was a snarky sixteen-year-old, convinced I really was better than the Games themselves. That’s some Johanna Mason level of bold insolence. 

“You what?” says Effie, voice cracking in horror. 

“I shot an arrow at them,” she says, in case we didn’t hear her the first time. “Not exactly at them. In their direction. It’s like Peeta said, I was shooting and they were ignoring me and I just…I just lost my head, so I shot an apple out of their stupid roast pig’s mouth!” 

She’s insane. She’s completely fucking insane. I genuinely cannot understand the train of thought that would have led her to shoot an arrow at the people who have absolute control over whether she lives or dies. It’s an effective middle finger, sure, but only someone with an absolute lack of instinct for self-preservation would even think of it, let alone follow through. 

Well, at least there’s one thing that’s certain. Seneca Crane is going to get the dazzling show that he fucking needs. 

“And what did they say?” asks Cinna, eyeing her thoughtfully. Next to Effie, whose face is a pale mask of shock, Cinna’s eyes are narrowed and I can see that he’s thinking about something very carefully.

“Nothing,” says Katniss, which sounds like a lie. “Or, I don’t know. I walked out after that.” 

“Without being dismissed?” yelps Effie. I think she may pass out. I hope she doesn’t. That would be a pile of very inconvenient paperwork. 

“I dismissed myself,” says Katniss, and I resist, once again, the urge to laugh hysterically. It’s funny. It would be funny if it didn’t have absolutely astronomical implications for the, I don’t know, two weeks that this idiot child has left to live. Though, honestly, maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t care. They’ve already exacted the maximum punishment - she has already been sentenced to death. 

“Well, that’s that,” I say. Katniss looks miserable. I reach for a bread roll. 

“Do you think they’ll arrest me?” she asks. She’s looking at me. 

“Doubt it,” I say. Is she not aware that she’s already under arrest? Legally, she’s a prisoner of war from the moment of the Reaping until she dies. My own legal status is still prisoner-of-war, and that has been the case for the past twenty-four years. Somehow, I don’t think this information will be comforting to Katniss while she’s sitting on death row. “It’ll be a pain to replace you at this stage,” I add. 

Katniss hesitates, and she’s picking at the skin on her fingers. 

“What about my family?” she asks, and her voice falters. “Will they punish them?” 

Oh. Oh, that’s why she’s so worried. It’s not an unfounded fear. Of course it’s not. Would they punish them? Fucking hell, the dead families are everywhere today. I imagine, not for the first time, Katniss returning home victorious to find her little sister dead on the floor. They would do it. They could make it look like an accident. It’s so, so, easy for the government, and who would stop them? Who could stop them? Katniss is still picking the skin on her fingers. 

If they punish Katniss’s family, it can’t be for a private training. I know Snow and his logic better than that. They kill families for public dissidence, for the things that the tributes do in the arena that undermine their messaging. They do it if they need to publicly break their spirit. They do it to control the District population after something that gives them a little too much hope. Everyone knew my crime. No, for a legally private show of insolence - they can’t punish her more than they already have.

“Don’t think so,” I say, trying my best to sound casual. “Wouldn’t make much sense. See, they’d have to reveal what happened in the Training Center for it to have any worthwhile effect on the population. People would need to know what you did. But they can’t since it’s a secret, so it’d be a waste of effort. Most likely, they’ll make your life hell in the arena.” 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Effie watching me. Does she look….sympathetic? The thought is unsettling, so I top up my wine glass. 

“Well, they’ve already promised to do that to us either way,” says Peeta. 

“Very true,” I say. Currently, there’s nothing they can do to Katniss that hasn’t already been done. Frankly, the only liabilities are Prim and Ilona, and as long as Katniss doesn’t declare her allegiance to the rebels of the Dark Days - or, I don’t know, shoot an arrow into the arena’s force-field - they’ll be fine. They have to be. 

Katniss is looking visibly more relaxed. The whole conversation is so bizarre. She shot them. She shot the fucking Gamemakers. Oh, she’s insane, but she’s probably the most interesting tribute I’ve had in a very long time. I start to laugh. 

“What were their faces like?” I ask, a sudden mental image of a slack-jawed Seneca Crane popping into my mind. 

She smiles slightly. “Shocked. Terrified. Uh, ridiculous, some of them. One man tripped backwards into a bowl of punch.” 

The sheer absurdity of it gets to me. I burst out laughing, and Cinna and Portia take up my cue, and then Katniss is giggling too. Maybe this is what she needs. To see the Gamemakers as fools tripping into punch-bowls, instead of all-powerful omniscient beings. I imagine one of their elaborate wigs disintegrating under the force of the fruit juice, and I laugh again. 

Effie isn’t laughing, probably because she thinks that laughing at a Gamemaker will get her instantly shot. “Well, it serves them right,” she says. “It’s their job to pay attention to you. And just because you come from District Twelve is no excuse to ignore you.”

She looks around like she thinks that Peacekeepers will immediately materialize from the walls and arrest her on the spot. “I’m sorry, but that’s what I think,” she says defiantly, to the imaginary Peacekeepers. 

Coming from Effie Trinket, that might as well be sedition. Good for Katniss. A righteous Effie Trinket declaring the innate value of District Twelve to the Training Center is not something I thought I’d ever see. 

…Maybe, just maybe, Mags and Beetee have a point about Katniss. If she can incite seditious language from Effie Trinket…

“I’ll get a very bad score,” says Katniss, though she sounds like she finds the idea a little funny. 

“Scores only matter if they’re very good, no one pays much attention to the bad or mediocre ones. For all they know, you could be hiding your talents to get a low score on purpose. People use that strategy,” says Portia. Johanna got a three. Now she’s an insufferable little bitch, so not very much unlike Katniss herself. 

Ideally, I can keep Katniss out of mine and Johanna’s killed-your-own-family club. That would be nice. I decide that it is probably better if Katniss knows as little as possible about said club. 

“I hope that’s how people interpret the four I’ll probably get,” says Peeta.  “If that. Really, is anything less impressive than watching a person pick up a heavy ball and throw it a couple of yards? One almost landed on my foot.”

Katniss smiles at him, and I narrow my eyes. He seems to have a unique ability to be casually and thoughtfully amusing. He defused the situation even more than I did, and the casual self-deprecation is carefully timed. If Katniss wasn’t the obvious focus this year, he would have been a good tribute. I think. More likely, he’d have seemed like he had some substance and then he would have been shot to shit on day two. His death will be a waste of a perfectly nice boy. 

We make our way towards the living room, where they will be airing the scores. I enter the room just behind Cinna, and I glance around to see Effie looking at me again. I raise an eyebrow at her, asking what . She frowns a little, like she has something to say to me, so I incline my head. Her mouth turns down, and she looks away instead. Okay, I guess. I turn my attention to the screen. 

Peeta gets an eight, which, honestly, is impressive. Most of my other tributes average a five. Once again, I curse the fact that he’s paired with the far-more-impressive Katniss. He wouldn’t have lived, but I’m sure he wouldn’t have died in a completely embarrassing way. 

Then they post a fucking eleven. 

I don’t know why I’m surprised. Seneca Crane wants a show. I know he wants a show, because if there’s one thing I trust Effie on it’s knowing Capitol gossip. 

An eleven is batshit. Fucking hell, there’s no hiding Katniss now. No flying her under the radar and pulling her out like a royal flush right at the end of the game. She’s going to be a target from day one, now. Crane - or maybe Snow - hopefully just Crane - has managed to simultaneously punish her for her insolence and ensure that he gets the show he wants. Goddamnit. Damn it, damn it, damn it. It’s getting almost old, trying to play cards with the Capitol, when they have made it so abundantly clear that they have not only read the cards in advance, but they have also orchestrated the entire hand themselves. I need another drink. 

Effie and the stylists are screaming with shock and joy, apparently not seeing the absolute doom that I already do in the eleven flashing on the screen. She shrieks out congratulations and runs in to give Katniss a hug. 

My mouth twists, and thankfully everybody is too distracted to notice. But fucking hell, don’t they know it by this point? The Capitol does not reward audacity. Make no mistake, Katniss. This is a punishment. 

As if she reads my mind, Katniss turns to me. “There must be a mistake,” she says. “How…how could this happen?” 

I could tell her. I could tell her pretty easily, kill the optimistic mood in the room with just a sentence. The Capitol doesn’t make mistakes, and this is just a sign that you and probably your family are going to be killed extremely violently. They’re angry with you. There is no way that the President has not been personally updated on what you have just done. But what would that achieve? She’s going into the arena either way. It’s better for her if she doesn’t worry about her family, and instead pays attention to the maintenance of her own life. 

“Guess they liked your temper,” I say evenly. “They’ve got a show to put on. They need some players with some heat.” 

Behind me, Effie is nodding. Nothing I’ve said isn’t true, and I’m certain Seneca Crane actually does need his show. Frankly, putting her up with an eleven is just going to make dead sure that she’s targeted by everyone and everything, because they have to see her as a threat now. Maybe they’re hoping that the stress of the arena will push her too far and she’ll do something really worth a punishment. 

Cinna and Katniss are talking about interview outfits, and I’m trying to keep the scowl off my face. 

The tributes escape to bed, Katniss looking relieved but sick of all the attention, and I press my head into my hands. I have never had to handle a tribute like this before. An eleven. I’m pretty sure that fucking Gloss got a ten. Finnick was a nine. I don’t remember anyone ever getting an eleven, though I’m sure my memory isn’t really to be trusted. I’m operating in unknown territory. 

“All okay, Haymitch?” asks Cinna, as everyone leaves the room. 

I shake my head resignedly, the corners of my mouth turning slightly upwards into some semblance of a strange smile. 

“Cinna,” I say. “I really hope you’re prepared to cave an entirely new minefield with that girl.” 

He laughs. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that usage before.” 

“Must be a District thing,” I say, suddenly feeling defensive. Strangely, with Cinna and Portia, I haven’t got that sense that I usually do in the Capitol. See, usually when I’m in a room full of Capitol people, I am constantly aware of my otherness. I know exactly how they see me, and I’m always something innately less-than. That hasn’t been the case around Cinna and Portia. Still. They’re Capitol, at the end of the day. Born and raised. 

“Yes,” Cinna says. “Coal mining metaphors. Very Twelve.” 

The thing is, Effie would’ve said it with a barb. With some undertone about how I’m rough around the edges and don’t deserve to be in polite society. Cinna just says it like it’s a fact. I shrug, not responding. 

“It sounds like a fascinating place,” Cinna continues, taking a step back into the room. “The people, at least, seem wonderful.” 

“Depends who you ask,” I say.

“Well, what do you think?” he asks me. 

“It’s a dump,” I snap. “Nothing to Twelve but coal dust and white liquor.” 

Cinna shrugs. “Doesn’t sound so different from the Capitol,” he says. 

Is he taking the piss? I can’t tell. Nobody in their right mind would say that about the Capitol. Especially not one of its citizens. Especially not a Games stylist. 

“Well, maybe not the coal dust,” Cinna amends with a rueful smile. “The liquor, certainly.” 

“Least the liquor here is decent quality,” I say. “The shit they brew in the Hob would kill a Capitol quicker than the nuclear apocalypse.” 

Cinna laughs. “What’s the Hob?” 

I’ve said too much. Fucking Cinna has an terrible way of putting people at ease. Making me forget what I can and can’t say. 

“Trading center,” I say brusquely. It’s not. It’s a black market, and frankly wouldn’t exist if the Capitol cared enough about Twelve to shut it down. 

“Alright,” says Cinna. “Is it nice?” 

“Shockingly, it’s filled to the brim with coal dust and white liquor.” 

“As Effie put it,” he says, “maybe it just needs a bit of pressure to turn into a pearl.” 

This actually takes me aback, and I laugh. “What the actual fuck does that mean?” 

“It’s a line she’s been using on sponsors, apparently,” says Cinna, smiling. “Katniss was rather offended.” 

“I’ll bet,” I mutter. “A pearl?” 

“I think the pearl was a metaphor for the Capitol,” says Cinna seriously. I glance at him and realize that the corners of his mouth are twitching. 

“Does Effie know what a metaphor is?” I ask. “That’s news to me.” 

“Don’t underestimate Effie,” warns Cinna. “There’s more to her than meets the eye.” 

“Yeah, yeah. All you Capitol people are secretly angels under all the layers of glitter.” 

I expect offense, but Cinna just cringes. 

“Point taken,” he says. 

I glance at him from the corners of my eye. That’s not a Capitol response. Where does this man come from? What does he represent? 

“I think you and I need to have a conversation,” I say. 

“Yes,” Cinna agrees. Then he glances around. “Not here, though.” 

I nod. “Tomorrow. There’s a bar called the Bell Jar, and the patron’s all right. Be there at ten-thirty.” 

“I’ve heard of it,” says Cinna, smiling. “I’ll see you then.” 

“Cinna,” I say. “Come alone.” 

It’s not that I don’t trust Portia. I just don’t trust anyone else, and I know that I will be alone. I do not particularly want to be outnumbered. I need to find out what exactly the rebellion has in store for me, and I can’t do that if they’re co-ordinating and pre-planning every word that comes out of their mouths. 

He pauses, and nods. “Tomorrow at ten-thirty. I’ll see you then.”

Chapter Text

The next morning I have to collaborate with Effie Trinket, which is bound to ruin my day before it even starts. I’m awake at what feels like the crack of dawn, and I have to endure her disapproving tuts as I pour exactly a shot of brandy into the coffee an Avox sets in front of me. She should count herself lucky that I’m not blindly pouring in half the bottle. The birds are barely chirping and I’m contemplating falling back asleep at the table when -

“Peeta!” exclaims Effie, and I look up in surprise. I’m not expecting him to be up this early. The sun is still low in the sky, and the tributes are only due to start interview prep at around nine. I just needed to catch Effie before then. Peeta, however, looks determined. 

“Good morning,” he says. “I was told you were awake.” 

“And so you decided, as one does, to ruin our perfectly good morning,” I say. Effie glares at me. 

“How are you, Peeta?” she says.  

“We’re doing interview prep today?” he asks. 

“Yes,” she says. “Did Portia tell you?” 

He nods, gaze darting around the room. “I wanted to ask if we’ll be continuing the strategy we were already using,” he says. “The pair one.” 

Effie looks bemused, but I nod. “I assume so,” I say. “Unless you have new and earth-shattering information that you’d like to share.” 

“I have a question first,” he says. “Does Katniss have a target on her back?” 

I exchange a look with Effie. I haven’t had the chance to talk it through with her yet. 

“Yes,” I say. “That eleven was a double-edged sword, at best.” 

“Alright,” says Peeta. There’s a furrow between his brows. “What are people out there saying about her?” 

I sigh, nodding to Effie. It’s her job to keep on top of the Capitol chatter. Ideally, she needs to report it back to me, which she may have done if Peeta hadn’t decided to interrupt at seven in the morning. 

“They’re excited,” she says, slowly. “The eleven means she has combat skills. People are talking about what her childhood might have been like. Paying attention to District Twelve society for the first time in, maybe, ever. I think the popular consensus is that they think she might be - well, they think she might be Twelve’s version of a Career.” 

I can’t help but snort out a laugh over my spiked coffee. She told me something along those lines a few days ago, and it was just as ridiculous back then. Peeta looks equally dumbfounded. 

“They think she’s a what?” he asks, baffled. 

“Well, not exactly,” says Effie. “They think that maybe she wanted to be in the Games.” 

“Why would she -”

“It’s all talk, Peeta,” says Effie. “People have come to the conclusion that she loves Prim. They think that maybe she wants to win so that her family could be wealthy. Some people think she might want to be the one who brings her family the glory of a victory.” 

“Is it not obvious that it was only because Prim was Reaped?” he says, still sounding lost. “They were going to send her sister out to die.” 

“Well, Peeta,” I say, drawling. “I didn’t see your brothers jumping at the bit to volunteer.” 

This shuts him up. 

“Okay,” he says. “But people are talking about her. And that’s a good thing?” 

“Like I said, double-edged sword,” I say. “She won’t join the Careers. And if she doesn’t join them, then yes, she’s going to be their first target when the pack’s still young and out for blood.” 

“She’s the star of the show, whether or not she wants to be,” he says, and it sounds almost like he’s talking to himself rather than to us. I scan his expression for a hint of something. Jealousy? Resentment? I find none. 

“You still have a great chance, Peeta,” says Effie. “Don’t be discouraged. After all, the early stars don’t always make it very far once the gong sounds!” 

We both stare at her like she’s grown a set of horns. That sounds almost grotesque to say about someone like Katniss. Given that it’s Effie speaking, I don’t know why I’m surprised.

“Most people are aware that you’re a pair,” I say. “Word gets out, even from training. But yes, she’s the star.” 

Where is this going? This cannot still be about some bread he threw at her at the age of eleven. Peeta has been mulling over a plan, and I suspect I’m about to hear it. 

“I’m dead,” says Peeta. 

“You both are, probably,” I say. “Why does it bother you now?” 

Effie actually cuffs me around the head for that one. I hiss at her, and Peeta steeples his hands on the table until we’re paying attention to him again. 

“Don’t count yourself out like that,” says Effie, but I stay quiet. If he’s going to say what I think he is, then I want to hear it from his own mouth. 

“Is there any way,” Peeta says slowly, “that you can help me make sure she’s the one who wins?” 

I sit up, pushing the bottle of brandy away. 

“Boy. Think about what you’re saying.” 

“I am going to die,” he says, and there’s no hint of self-pity or anger in his voice. “And if I am going to die, I want her to live.” 

“Why?” 

“What else do I have to live for?” says Peeta, and for the first time in this conversation a hint of real emotion enters his voice. “If I’m going to die anyway, then at least I’ll know my death did something good. Something for her.” 

“Alright, alright,” I say, holding up a hand. I don’t need the righteous emotion. I lace my hands under my chin and I watch his expression. I expect him to look guileless. Lovesick, perhaps. But he just looks at me with a kind of determined clarity, and I think he might actually be serious. 

“How do you want to go about this?” I ask him. Normally I’d never trust a tribute to come up with their own strategy, but I suspect that Peeta has something in mind. He would only have brought this up to me about this if he needed my help with something very specific. 

He takes a deep breath. “Yeah. You said it yourself,” he says. “Right now, apart from the Gamemakers, the biggest threat to her is the Careers?” 

“Probably,” I say. 

“And she won’t join them. We all know that. But I could,” he says. 

“You want me to get you in the Career pack?” I ask. 

“Yes,” he says. “Can you?” 

“Let me get this straight,” I say. “You want to join the Career pack to - what? Double-cross them? Convince them Katniss isn’t a threat?”

“Something like that,” he says. 

“You haven’t thought it through,” I accuse him. “Katniss could’ve faked a low training score. She can’t fake a high one. They know she’s a serious threat, and if they suspect that you aren’t loyal to them they will kill you in a heartbeat.” 

“I know that,” says Peeta. “But Katniss is going to be on her own. I can lead them away from her, maybe. Even if I can mislead them just once, it could mean life or death for her in there. Can’t it?” 

“How do you plan to mislead them?” 

“I -” 

“Boy, if I am going to leverage every friendship I have to get you into the Career pack, I need to know you won’t screw it up,” I snap at him. 

 He inhales. A lesser tribute would’ve been thrown by this. Maybe stormed off in tears. Peeta just rolls his shoulders and thinks for a minute.

“I’m going to have to tell them I’m scared of her,” he says slowly. “Convince them I want her dead and I need their help. It’ll be a hard sell, since they think we’re a pair, but those people like Cato have one hell of an ego. I’m sure I can pretend that I don’t really give a shit about her, and that I’m just so desperate for their protection that I’ll sell out my own district partner - right? And then I’m going to have to distract them by sending them…after other people.” 

“Close,” I say. “That’s what you’ll have to tell them. But here’s the thing, Peeta. That’s going to backfire on Katniss.” 

He looks at me in confusion, and Effie makes a noise of dissent. I silence her with a wave of my hand and I return my attention to Peeta. 

“Think about it, boy,” I say. “I have to sell Katniss’ image, too. What is it going to say to the Capitol if a boy who looks like her friend - who held hands with her on the chariot - stabs her in the back on day one? They’re going to start asking themselves what’s wrong with her.” 

“Oh,” says Peeta. “Oh.” 

I stand. “Your plan has merit. But it’s more complicated than that. You’re going to have to sell a double-act.” 

I’m thinking out loud, now, hoping my train of thought isn’t incoherent. But as I speak, all the pieces slowly start coming together. This might work. If the boy can pull it off, it might actually work. 

“You’ll have to convince the Careers that you are stabbing Katniss in the back. At the same time, you’ll have to convince the audiences - both back home and in the Capitol - that you’re doing it to save her. Do you think you can do that?” 

“I can do it,” he says. “I’m a good actor - I can do it. But how do I tell the audience I’m on her side?” 

“We’ll have to discuss it during interview prep. Right now, apparently, I have to go talk to District Four.” 

Peeta nods. “Do you think you can get me in?” he asks. 

“I can try,” I say. I’ve heard enough to be convinced that this is a viable strategy. I try not to think too hard about the sixteen-year-old kid wanting to lay down his life for his oblivious classmate. 

“How?” asks Effie. She’s been quiet so far, listening to our rapid-fire conversation. 

“Between Finnick, Mags, and Althea, I think I can work District Four,” I say, mostly to Effie. She nods. 

“Wait,” says Peeta. “I’m not sure Four is the best choice. I don’t think they’re leading the pack this year.” 

“I know,” I say. “But I’m calling in a favor to get you a good word in. All the mentors know each other, boy, and if the mentors from Four can convince One and Two, you might have half a shot.” 

“What about the other Career Districts?” he says. “Can you talk to them?” 

“It’s dicier,” I say. “I’m on decent terms with some people from Two, but their tributes are traditionally massive assholes. They won’t just take you on because their mentors said so. You’ll have to really sell the fact that you’re willing to betray Katniss. In fact, if this is going to work, it will hinge entirely on your performance. Are you actually ready for this?” 

“I think so,” he says. “Worst case, they kill me. And, like I said, I’m already dead, so that really isn’t too bad.” 

I look at him to find that he’s smiling. It’s his quiet humor again. He’s good at it. I think I might actually like the boy, which is a thought too horrible to contemplate. 

“Go drink a cup of tea, boy,” I say. “I’m going to go and enable your suicide plan.” 

I leave the room before either Peeta or Effie can say a word. I need a moment to think before I go and accost Four for a huge favor. This plan has changed more times than I can count, and it’s evolving before my eyes. Peeta’s scheme will involve so many tricks. So much betrayal. So many fine lines that will have to be walked. 

Say I tell Finnick that Peeta wants to be a Career. He’s going to have to actually believe that I’m turning my tributes against each other. I’m going to have to lie to Finnick - a twenty-three year old boy who actually trusts me - and tell him to play along with a harebrained plot that will likely get his tributes killed. I will have to convince Lyme and Althea that Peeta really wants to kill Katniss, and they’re going to have to buy it, at least until they actually ship the kids off to the arena. 

And once they figure it out…once they figure out that Peeta is trying to double-cross their tributes, what then? I’ll just have to hope that they only find out once it’s too late for them to  communicate directly with their kids. I’ll just have to hope that the victors’ tendency to forgive one another for the violence of our tributes is enough to salvage whatever relationships I have with these people. I remember with a shudder the anger I still feel when I think of Brutus murdering little Elly, my first year as a mentor. I still remember the year I couldn’t look Chaff in the eye after his boy killed my girl. I close my eyes. Chaff and I got over it, didn’t we? And Elly…Elly was different. This isn’t like that. My first duty is to my tributes, and this plan might actually be what brings Katniss home. 

I knock sharply on the door to the District Four apartment. They’ll be expecting me - I sent an Avox down minutes ago, as is the official allyship request protocol. Hopefully, they’ve shepherded their tributes somewhere out of the way. 

Finnick opens the door, looking more tired than usual. Dark circles ring under his eyes and the usually golden glow of his skin has a distinctly sallow tint. 

“You look like shit,” I tell him, by way of greeting. 

“Sleepless nights,” he says tersely. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” I say, because I can’t quite bring myself to be cruel to Finnick. 

“S’ok,” he mumbles. “Althea and Davey are inside, if you want to chat. Tributes are off with the escort revising their deportment lessons, so they should be out of the way.” 

Not for the first time, I scowl at the sheer number of victors Four has to take care of their tributes. They’re spoiled up there in their little town by the sea, and I’m certain that they know it. 

“How’s everything over here?” I ask. 

“There’s been better years,” says Finnick, and he glances inside to where Annie likely hides. Then he shoots me a half-smile. “Still, it could be worse. My tribute could’ve gotten an eleven.” 

“Fuck off,” I say. “You’d be thrilled if your tribute had an eleven.” 

“Yeah. We had a seven and an eight this year, so Althea’s in a terrible mood.” 

“Can’t believe mine outranked yours,” I say, stepping inside. “Are you coming to hear the plans get made?” 

“But I’m not mentoring,” he says, and I roll my eyes. 

“When has that ever stopped you Careers from getting everyone and their mothers involved in the mentor process? Don’t be a dick,” I say. 

“Alright, alright,” says Finnick. “But only because Annie’s still asleep.” 

“You have it so bad it’s pathetic, boy.” 

He smiles, unbothered, and I can’t help but grin at him. If anyone deserves to find a little bit of happiness, it’s Finnick. 

Althea and Davey look excited to see me, and I’m encouraged until I realize that they thought I was here to make a deal about Katniss. 

“The boy?” asks Davey, looking baffled. “And here I thought I would learn how that girl managed to pull an eleven in private training.” 

“Sorry,” I say. “But Peeta got an eight, which is just as good as your girl. Better than your boy, in fact. And he’s more malleable than Katniss is.” 

“Don’t pull training scores on me,” warns Althea. “And what exactly do you mean by malleable?” 

“He’s willing to compromise. Get in with your lot to better his chances. He’s smart, charismatic, and, most importantly, he knows Katniss.” 

“What do you mean, our lot ?” asks Davey, who tends to be oblivious to victors’ politics. 

“Don’t pretend you don’t know exactly how outliers see your little alliance,” I say drily, and Davey looks supremely irritated. 

“It’s true,” Finnick chimes in. “Last year, I offered Johanna a place in the Career alliance and she told me to go kill myself.” 

“Did you point out later that if she’d taken the alliance, then Pyrite might not have slaughtered her two at the bloodbath?” I ask. 

“I’m alive and talking to you today, so no, I did not,” says Finnick. 

“Exactly,” I say. “People from the outlying districts are so stuck to tradition that we refuse the alliances that could keep us alive. It’s what Katniss has done, but Peeta’s being more reasonable about it. He knows that working with the Careers could keep him alive, and he has skills and information that could make him invaluable to the pack.” 

Finnick and Davey are nodding, but Althea is drumming her fingers on the table. 

“What are you playing at, Haymitch?” says Althea. “Every report has told me that your two tributes are inseparable.” 

“Their relationship is complicated. I won’t get into that. But I promise you, Peeta knows that the pack is his best shot at getting home to his family. He has his reasons for wanting to go home at any cost.” 

Althea pauses for a long moment. “Haymitch,” she says. “I don’t believe you for a second.” 

“Okay,” I say. “What can I do to convince you?”

“Nothing,” she says. “But I’ll talk to my tributes anyway.” 

I raise a brow. “Really?” 

“Yes,” she says. “All the buzz this year is about your girl. If your boy joins the pack, then we could redirect some attention back to the Careers, anyhow.”

“Ah,” I say. 

“Besides,” she says. “I trust your judgment.” 

Althea levels a stare at me, and I read the undertones in her expression instantly. She and I have been a part of the rebellion since day one. She knows what they’re thinking about Katniss, and her acquiescence to my demands is a nod to that. 

“Thank you, Althea,” I say sincerely.

She nods. “Don’t make me regret it.” 

“Noted,” I say. “I’d better get back to my tributes. Can I tell Peeta that you will talk to Lyme and Gloss and their company, then?” 

“Yes,” she says. “Lyme will come around. I can’t promise you about the others, but you have as good a shot as any.” 

“Thank you,” I say. “Whole lot of you. It’ll be worth it.” 

“Let’s hope so,” says Althea. 

“Good luck on the interviews,” I say. “I’ll see you in the Mentor Lounge.” 

Finnick salutes me and I return to the Twelve apartments, where Peeta and Effie sit in silent anxiety.

“Well?” asks Effie. 

“You’re as good as I can get you,” I say. “No guarantees.” 

Peeta breaks into a grin, and I shake my head. “Don’t look so thrilled at the likelihood of your own death, boy.” 

He shrugs. “I’d rather it was this way than any other,” he says. “When do we tell Katniss about the plan?” 

“We don’t,” I say drily. “Really? How do you think she’s going to react to the idea that you would really want to sacrifice yourself for her?” 

“Badly,” he admits, after thinking it over for a minute. “She’s prickly.” 

“And extremely reactive,” I say. “Unfortunately, we are going to have to keep her in the dark. Which she also will not like. Peeta, I am asking you for the last time. Are you prepared for this?” 

“Yes,” he says. “I know what I’m doing.” 

“Good,” I say. “She can’t know anything. No matter how she reacts.” 

“Sure,” says Peeta. “Do you think she’ll be mad at me?” 

“My guess is she’ll have her feelings pretty badly hurt. Won’t say anything, but she’ll be extra impossible for the next few days.” 

She likes Peeta. I can tell that. This is going to sting, but I don’t trust that she has the subtlety required to pull off a stunt like this. 

“You really get her,” Peeta says, his very blond eyebrows meeting in the middle of his face. 

“I wouldn’t say that,” I mutter. “Anyway, she’ll be awake soon. Time to face the music.” 

As if on cue, Katniss walks in. She doesn’t bother greeting any of us, instead piling her plate high with lamb stew and rice before she sits down at the table to eat, apparently unbothered by the tense atmosphere around her. 

“So, what’s going on?” she asks, between sips of orange juice. “You’re coaching us on interviews today, right?” 

I take a deep breath. “There’s been a change of plans,” I say. “About our current approach.” 

“What’s that?” asks Katniss. I’m not even certain she knows what our current approach even is. She’s sort of been going with the flow and doing exactly as she pleases. 

“Peeta has asked to be coached separately,” I say. 

None of us miss the way that her eyes widen and her lips turn suddenly downwards. Betrayal and shock scan across her features and she looks at Peeta, just for a second, like she’s been shot. 

This is going to be an interesting training session, to say the least. 

Chapter Text

Katniss hardens her expression almost instantly. She tosses her braid behind her shoulder and huffs, “Good. So what’s the schedule?” 

“You’ll each have four hours with Effie for presentation and four with me for content,” I say. “You start with Effie, Katniss.” 

I need more time with Peeta to work on our new plan. I’m sure he’s good enough to play off Caesar Flickerman, but in order to work on Katniss’ content I’ll need to plan out his, in detail, first. 

I flick my finger in the direction of the living room, and Katniss and Effie leave for her rooms to - I don’t know - try on dresses or some crap. I sit Peeta down on a garish green sofa, and I frown at him. 

“So,” I say. 

“So,” says Peeta. “Where do we begin?” 

“Where we left off,” I say. “How are you going to convince the audience you’re on Katniss’s side?” 

“Okay,” says Peeta. “I have some ideas. But how do you suggest I go about it?” 

I don’t answer him immediately. Instead I look at him and rest my chin against my hands. “Why are you doing this, Peeta?”

“What do you mean?” he asks. “I already told you.” 

“No,” I say. “You just told me that you wanted to live for something. I believe you, but the way you talk about this is telling me quite clearly that there’s more going on here.  Something prompted this, boy, and I want you to spell it out for me.”

“You’re asking me something you already know,” says Peeta, and I glare at him. 

“Don’t you dare use my own lines on me,” I say. “Look. You’re going to be doing a lot of lying in the next few days, you understand? And no lie in the arena works unless it has some basis in truth. All the best tributes have to use at least a little bit of honesty. You think Finnick Odair isn’t a natural flirt? Think Brutus isn’t naturally vicious? Even Johanna Mason - famous for lying - told real stories about her dad and her dog during her interview. You can’t build up a personality from scratch. If you want to convince them that you are willing to lay down your life for Katniss, you need a real story. So, tell me properly. Why are you doing this?” 

Peeta pauses, taking in what I have to say. Then he exhales slowly, knuckles whitening on his kneecaps. 

“Because I’m in love with her,” he says. “I’ve been in love with her since I was about five years old.”

Peeta closes his eyes like he’s achieved some kind of catharsis. 

“Excellent,” I say, leaning forward. “Does she know about this? I assume she doesn’t reciprocate, otherwise you would not be sitting here trying to kill yourself about it.” 

Peeta lets out a sharp huff that sounds somewhere between pain and laughter. “No. She has no idea. We have no friends in common and we’ve never even spoken in school. Of course she doesn’t love me back - she barely knows me.” 

“Okay,” I say. “That’s horrible for you, but we can work with it. So the goal for today is to work this little tidbit of information into your interview tomorrow.” 

“Wait,” says Peeta. “Do I just say it right out? Tell Caesar Flickerman that I - that I love Katniss?”  

“Yes,” I say, and the last bits of the plan slot together in my head. Suddenly, I’m grinning maniacally at Peeta. “That’s how we’re going to convince the audience that you’re on her side. You’re hopelessly in love with her, and you’re going to do anything to make sure she gets home safe.” 

“That won’t be hard,” says Peeta. “Given that it’s the truth. But won’t that make it harder to convince the Careers that I’m ready to betray her?” 

“Nah,” I say. “Everyone knows interviews are bullshit. People say whatever to get the audience to like them. It’ll be easy to convince the Careers that you were talking nonsense for attention. You want to take it a step further, tell them you were talking crap just to throw Katniss off her game.” 

Peeta sits back in his chair, rubbing his hand across his cheek. “I think I can pull that off,” he says. He thinks about it for another minute, and a slow smile spreads across his face. “Actually, I like this. I really like this.”  

“When you’re in the arena, you have to find a way to tell the audience that you’re doing it for Katniss. It’s going to look stupid, but you’ll have to find a way to step away from the pack and, I don’t fucking know, whisper her name to the stars or some shit. Anything that the commentators can pick up on and I can turn into a story in the behind-the-scenes interviews. Understood?” 

“Yes,” says Peeta. “Okay. How do I make sure I get an opening to bring it up in the interview tomorrow?” 

“Caesar’s good at picking up on cues. Let’s figure out the rest of your presentation strategy,” I say. 

I start my usual approach, using a tribute’s personality to come up with a way to present them as palatably as possible to the Capitol audience. Peeta is thankfully easy to work with, and we run through several rounds of mock interviews. The key is making sure he doesn’t look pathetic. If we’re going for a hopelessly-in-love angle, it needs to make him look loyal, intelligent, and thoughtful, rather than weak or laughable. 

 I tweak his answers here and there, throwing oddball questions at him to see if he loses his stride, and am pleased to discover that he doesn’t. He has an easy way of answering questions in a way that’s casually funny, a little self-deprecating, and eminently approachable. 

“Good,” I say at last, after several hours of this. “I’m pretty confident you’ll do fine tomorrow. Just keep your head, and remember that you have to tell them you’re in love with her.”

“Towards the end, I assume,” says Peeta. “It’s a pretty big bombshell.” 

“Indeed,” I say. “In fact, you’re probably going to be every single headline after the interviews end. I’m pretty sure nobody has ever even attempted this strategy before.” 

Peeta laughs. “Good to know I’ll be making Hunger Games history,” he says, and his voice is imbued with just enough sarcasm that I laugh, too.  

“You’ll be memorable for sure,” I tell him, and then my smile drops because there is something so fucking awful about the fact that this little boy is going to memorialize himself and his unrequited love for a girl on television tomorrow. He will be dead and this will be his legacy. Oh, they’ll remember him. How could they forget? I know that I certainly won’t. 

“Any other advice for me?” he asks, which shakes me out of my train of thought. If he wants to do this, it’s my job to make sure he does it well. 

“Watch your back,” I tell him. “Assuming you even get in with the Careers, you’ll still be an outsider. That alliance is designed to break. One of them always incites a betrayal, and if they suspect for a second that you’re double-crossing them then you will be the first on their list.” 

“I’ll have to gain their trust,” Peeta says. 

“Trust is a strong word. But it’s safe to assume you’ll have to prove yourself to them somehow, before you find Katniss. Are you prepared to kill?” I ask.

Peeta inhales. “I think so. I mean, I never have. But if it’s life or death, then I think I could do it.” 

I nod. “If you want to stick with the pack, I don’t think that you’ll escape the Cornucopia without some blood on your hands. I need you to be prepared for that.” 

There’s a beat of silence as Peeta contemplates this. I get the sense he’s evaluating the morality of killing some innocent child so Katniss has a chance of making it out alive. 

“What’s it like?” he says, abruptly. “Killing someone.” 

He braces himself, as if he’s prepared for me to respond with anger or cruelty. It’s not an unreasonable assumption. His words make me feel like I’ve been hit in the chest, the breath escaping instantaneously from my lungs. If Effie - or, or anyone, really, had asked me a question like that, I would have probably thrown the nearest heavy object hard and fast in the direction of their head. 

Somehow, though, with Peeta, I don’t feel the sudden flash of anger that I expect. His question is genuine. It’s not morbid curiosity, on his part; simply the query of a teenager who will inevitably be faced with the prospect of murder within the next few days. 

Still, I take my time to respond. I draw the words out of myself like they’re an arrow from an open wound. 

“I’ve seen lots of different responses,” I say. “Seen kids puke, or scream, or cry. In the heat of the moment, though? It doesn’t feel like anything. It’s only afterwards that it’ll haunt you. And you’ll remember it in vivid detail for the rest of your life, however long that might be.” 

The faces of the tributes I killed in the arena flash uncontrollably before my eyes. Diamante and her white-blond hair, stained pink with blood by the time she died. The pack of Careers I took out with Maysilee. The little boy from Nine, whose screams echo regularly in my nightmares. No, killing people in the arena stays with you forever. 

Still. I shrug at Peeta. “Don’t worry, kid. If everything goes according to plan, you’ll die soon anyway and then it won’t be a problem.” 

“Fair enough,” says Peeta, and the end of his sentence goes up slightly as though he’s asking a question. I don’t want to give him too much time to think about it.  

“Let’s go back over some interview questions,” I say. “We should try and work out different openings for you to bring up Katniss.” 

“Let’s do that,” says Peeta, and we work on his interview until Effie pokes her head in and asks if we could please have lunch now. 

“I think we’re good here,” I tell Peeta. “I’m sure you’ll do great tomorrow.” 

“Thank you,” he says. 

“It’s going well, then?” Effie asks, and Peeta nods.

“I think we’re going to blow them away, actually,” I say, and I’m surprised to find myself smiling. I actually cannot wait to read the headlines after Peeta tells the world he’s in love with Katniss. The Capitol is going to be obsessed with them. I couldn't have come up with a better strategy if I’d tried. 

“Thank goodness for that,” says Effie. I take a look at her and notice that the corners of her mouth are pressed tight and there’s lines of tension around her eyes. She’s frazzled. 

“What about you?” I ask her. “How was the morning?”

“Let’s hope Katniss’ content is so excellent that her manners won’t matter,” she says grimly. 

After lunch, I sit Katniss down in the living room and I take a minute to assess her. I’ve been so distracted by Peeta’s plan that I haven’t had a second to evaluate what her own interview is going to look like. Even though whatever she says is going to be supplemented by Peeta’s declaration, it’s important that she doesn’t come across as a fool in her own right. 

I squint at her. Peeta was easy to come up with an angle for. In fact, it was so natural for him that it barely even counts as an angle. He’s just going to be himself. Or, at least, an augmented and streamlined version of himself. Katniss, though…how do I reconcile the different facets of her personality that the Capitol has already seen? They’ve seen the desperate girl at the Reaping, running onto the stage to sacrifice herself for her sister. They’ve seen the laughing girl on the chariot, bathed in Cinna’s flames. They’ve seen the training score of eleven, which indicates that she’s capable of intense ferocity. Well, either ferocity or self-destructive rebelliousness, but for obvious reasons I can’t go with the latter. 

“What?” asks Katniss, who has a scowl so deeply etched on her face that I would worry that the expression plans to permanently take root there. 

“I’m trying to figure out what to do with you,” I say. “How we’re going to present you. Are you going to be charming? Aloof? Fierce? So far, you’re shining like a star. You volunteered to save your sister. Cinna made you look unforgettable. You’ve got the top training score. People are intrigued, but no one knows who you are. The impression you make tomorrow will decide exactly what I can get you in terms of sponsors.” 

“What’s Peeta’s approach?” she asks. “Or am I not allowed to ask?” 

Oh, she’s mad. She’s extremely bitter, actually. 

“Likable,” I say. “He has a sort of self-deprecating humor naturally. Whereas when you open your mouth, you come across as more sullen and hostile.” 

“I do not,” she snarls, thus proving my point immediately. 

“Please,” I say. “I don’t know where you pulled that cheery, wavy girl on the chariot from, but I haven’t seen her before or since.” 

“And you’ve given me so many reasons to be cheery,” she spits at me, which strikes me as rather unfair given that I’m definitely not the one who put her in the Hunger Games. Would she rather I fussed over her like Effie does? 

“But you don’t have to please me,” I say. “I’m not going to sponsor you. So pretend I’m the audience. Delight me.” 

“Fine!” she says, which is already a terrible way to begin. Who told her that being a little shit was a viable Hunger Games strategy? 

Still, I do try. I throw the same questions at her that I did at Peeta, focusing on things I know Caesar will ask. I ask her about her training score and what she thought of Cinna’s flame costume. I try my best to ask about Prim in a way that won’t put her back up immediately. 

“Alright, what’s one thing you want the audience to know about District Twelve?” I ask. 

“That if they gave us a tenth of the food they had here, we’d be set for life,” she says, scowling at me like I’m personally responsible for the Seam’s food shortages, and I press a hand to my forehead. She’s got to know that this shit isn’t going to fly in an interview. That’s the type of answer that actually will result in her family being dead on their own kitchen floor. In fact, I strongly suspect she is aware of this and is simply saying whatever she thinks will piss me off the most. I take a deep breath. 

“All right, enough,” I say. “We’ve got to find another angle. Not only are you hostile, I don’t know anything about you. I’ve asked you fifty questions and I still have no sense of your life, your family, what you care about. They want to know about you, Katniss.” 

“But I don’t want them to!” she half-screams. “They’re taking my future! They can’t have the things that mattered to me in the past!” 

The worst part is, I get it. I hated talking about my own family in my interviews. Wouldn’t even tell them my girlfriend’s name, because it felt too personal and too real to display on a stage in the Capitol. In retrospect, I wish I had just told them. At least then her name would be on a public record. People would be forced to remember her and she would exist somewhere that wasn’t just my own decades-old memories. Maybe then someone would wonder where she’d gone. 

Fucking hell, this is beside the damn point. I need Katniss to say something of note in her stupid interview. I need to get at least one soundbite out of her. Some kind of narrative that I can control. Even if it’s not real. 

“Then lie!” I snap. “Make something up!” 

This is the direct opposite of the advice I gave Peeta. I’d never give a tribute worth anything the advice to lie, because the Capitol has a way of sniffing out true deceit like bloodhounds. But at least if she lies I can work on blending her narrative myself, mixing it with the things I already know about her and pulling some kind of plausible - 

“I’m no good at lying,” she says glumly. 

I grit my teeth. What is wrong with her? She won’t tell the truth, but she won’t lie, and she also won’t be evasive. What exactly is she planning to do? Sit onstage in silence? Even that won’t work. You need a certain commanding presence to pull off silence in the interviews. She would just come across as petulant. 

“Well, you better learn fast,” I snarl back at her. She’s impossible. “You’ve got about as much charm as a dead slug.” 

She flinches and stares at me with giant, sad, gray eyes. Really? She’s going to hiss at me for the better part of an hour and then she’s going to stare at me like a kicked puppy? I ready myself to volley some other sarcastic comment at her, but then I look back at her and she actually looks like she’s about to cry. 

That’s when suddenly, something in her expression suddenly reminds me, bizarrely and horribly, of Dillon . My brother, who was young and precocious and had too-wide Seam eyes that had seen too much. I take a breath. Katniss is a child in a situation that’s wildly out of her control. I bite my tongue. 

“Here’s an idea,” I say, careful to make my voice a little gentler. “Try acting humble.” 

“Humble,” she says. 

“That you can’t believe a little girl from District Twelve has done this well. The whole thing’s more than you ever could have dreamed of. Talk about Cinna’s clothes. How nice the people are. How the city amazes you. If you won’t talk about yourself, at least compliment the audience. Just keep turning it back around. Gush.” 

It’s obviously a form of lying. She couldn’t have more contempt for the Capitol if she tried. But if she really doesn't want to talk about her family - which I understand - then this is a way to avoid that.

“Let’s try again,” I say. “So, Katniss. What have the last few days been like for you?” 

“I like the food,” she says, and manages to say it with such a livid, glaring frown on her face that she might as well have declared the food poison and the entire place sick in the head. I grit my teeth in frustration yet again. We’re going to need another approach. 

I bring out a bottle of brandy somewhere halfway through this session. Despite my best efforts, Katniss is becoming increasingly infuriating. She won’t work with me, and I don’t know how to make her. 

What did I do in my interview? I just remember rocking back on my chair and throwing Caesar snarky comments. I try having Katniss do that, but she’s stiff and awkward. She doesn't look confident, just blocky, and there’s a wide-eyed nervousness to her that just invites sympathy. Sympathy doesn’t get you an eleven in training, so that’s not even something worth playing up. 

My knuckles tighten over the neck of my bottle of brandy as Katniss snaps increasingly angry - or worse, rebellious - answers at me. It’s like she can’t control her impulses for more than a second. It is becoming increasingly clear that she won’t have a good interview tomorrow; she won’t be able to complement whatever Peeta says about her. 

Peeta. There is something so eminently unfair about the fact that Katniss won’t even take the interview seriously, when I have just spent the better part of the day with a boy whose last wish in his very short life is simply to die for her. Peeta is willing to make his entire legacy - the sum total of his sixteen years on this earth - about Katniss, and she can’t even rein in her emotions for long enough to give a decent three-minute interview where she comes across as likable. Hell, I’m not even asking for likable. I’m just asking for something. 

Peeta is going to die for her. Katniss is also going to die, and she will never know what Peeta sacrificed, and she will likely die doing or saying something so horrifically stupid that they will kill Prim and Ilona for it, and then the blood on my hands is going to be, once again, a still-darker shade of red. She won’t stop fighting the system. She won’t stop spitting in its face, and I know better than anyone that this system can’t be fought. You can think your way to the edge of the arena, but you can’t ever get out. They still take everything from you. They will take everything from her , and there’s not going to be anything I can do to stop it, no matter how much she shrieks at me. 

Katniss spits another interview answer back at me, and I can’t take it. 

“I give up, sweetheart,” I spit back. “Just answer the questions and try not to let the audience see how openly you despise them.” 

“Fine!” she says, and then she turns and storms out of the room, making sure she slams the door on her way out. I pour myself three more drinks in quick succession, paying no mind to how much the colors of the world are blending into each other in a too-familiar swirl. I stand and I sway slightly, stumbling my way back to my rooms, where I collapse against the inside of the doorframe. 

My forehead feels damp with sweat, and bits of my hair stick to my face. I’m not sure why my heart is racing like I’ve just run a mile. I should have another drink. Then I can just lie down in bed and forget the world exists, disappear to somewhere less awful. Who am I trying to delude? I have spent years trying to disappear somewhere less awful. I have found nowhere less barbaric yet. There is no escape in dreams. 

I don’t know how and when I close my eyes. I just know that I surface to the sound of someone knocking hard on the door. 

“Mm?” I say. 

“Haymitch?” says a voice. Effie. “You disappeared. Are you coming for dinner?” 

“No,” I say. “You go ahead and eat.” 

I expect her to leave so that I can be left in silence for a little while longer. Instead, the door creaks open and Effie pokes her head in. 

“It’s dark in here,” she says. “Why are you on the floor?” 

“I dinnt notice,” I say, words slurring together until they’re barely recognizable. 

“You’re drunk,” she says. “When did you get drunk?” 

I shrug. I don’t want to talk to Effie. I look pathetic and I know it. 

“What did they say?” she asks. She enters my room without being invited, which I’m sure is a breach of some kind of Capitol etiquette. Maybe that etiquette doesn't apply to District people. She doesn’t switch on the light. 

“Who?” 

“Katniss. Peeta,” she says. 

“He loves her,” I say, and I don’t know why it sounds so awful when I put it that bluntly. I laugh, and there’s no humor in it. “Apparently, he’s been in love with her since he was five years old.” 

Effie makes a sound low in her throat. Distress. 

“Oh,” she says. “Oh, that’s horrible.” 

“They’re going to die,” I say. “How does it matter? They’ll just die. They always do.” 

“Not always,” she says. “You didn’t.” 

“Stop it,” I say, burying my hands in my too-long hair. “Stop saying that.” 

“Why?” she demands. “Why do you hate it so much? It’s the truth. You won, and so maybe she can too - ”

“I didn’t win ,” I say, and the liquor has loosened my tongue and I’m laughing again, laughing like I’ve just told the funniest joke in the world. My head lolls back against the wall and I swallow, feeling the dryness in my tongue scrape the back of my throat. I reach for my bottle and yelp when Effie snatches it away from me. 

“What’s all this about?” asks Effie, and I look away. “Haymitch.” 

“What?”

“Can I ask a personal question?” 

“Princess. What has ever given you the impression that you can ask me a personal question?” 

Of course, she’s Effie, so nothing has ever stopped her in her life. “What happened to you after you won?” she asks. 

Oh, what the hell is there to lose? Effie pries into my business. That’s what she does. That’s what she’s always done. 

“They killed everyone I loved,” I say, and then I laugh again even though nothing here is funny and I’m barefoot on the floor of the same room I’ve returned to every year since I was sixteen. This floor has seen so very much. I think there’s still glass shards embedded in its concrete, from the year I fought with Chaff and coated its surface with piles of glittering, deadly dust. 

I make myself look at Effie. I expect her to look shocked at the very suggestion that the Capitol would do such a thing. Instead, her mouth is turned downwards, her lipstick is chewed off and her eyes are wide with sadness and what looks like genuine sympathy. Sympathy from Effie is a little too much more than I can bear. She reaches a hand towards me and I flinch away, stumbling to my feet. Are there still glass shards on the floor? I don’t know. 

“‘M gonna shower,” I say. “I have to meet Cinna at ten-thirty.” 

“What?” says Effie, sounding startled. “Haymitch, you’re in no state to -” 

I wave her off. I’ve recovered quickly from being far more drunk than this. I veer into my bed frame on the way into the bathroom, leaving what will definitely be a bruise on my leg, and ignore her yelp of concern. I slam the door, making it definitively clear that I need Effie gone by the time I emerge. 

I can’t afford to waste time like this. Not when I have a tribute to save. By the time the water of the shower is running, the brandy is still pounding through my head and it makes it very, very difficult to tell whether or not I really am tasting saltwater.

Chapter Text

The Bell Jar is, thankfully, reasonably quiet. I arrive early, at around ten-fifteen, and by then the brandy is starting to leave my system and I’m pulling it together. I nod a greeting at the patron, who sees me and, as if on cue, turns the music up high and the lights far lower than they need to be. I smile my thanks. 

I try to ignore the smell of alcohol around me until Cinna gets here. I’m still far from sober, and I know I at least need to be coherent by the time that he arrives - I want to at least remember what he has to say. 

It’s another half-hour before Cinna arrives, and I am tapping my fingers on the table, annoyed at the Capitol man’s lateness. Does he think that because I’m District I’ve got nothing better to do than wait around in a bar for him to arrive? I’ve been awake since the crack of dawn and the Games are always fucking exhausting. I’d rather not be here, frankly, and while - okay, it’s not like I would’ve slept , Capitol nightmares are the worst - but I could’ve been with Chaff or Finnick or someone else I actually might want to see. 

The door slams open, hitting the back wall with a bang, and Cinna rushes in. He’s drenched in water and I squint at him. 

“Rain?” I ask. 

“Yes,” he gasps. He’s been running. 

“Would’ve thought you people figured out a way to stop it by now,” I say, drily. 

“Stop what? The rain?” Cinna asks. 

I shrug, and he laughs. “Only the richest of the rich have that kind of device,” he says. 

“You’re being serious?” I ask. I was being belligerent. Didn’t think that shit actually existed. 

“How do you think the President’s hair is always perfect?” asks Cinna, and he flags down the bartender. “Or any singer at a carpet event?” 

“I can’t say I’ve ever paid attention to the President’s hair,” I admit. “The smell of blood on his breath is usually too distracting.” 

Cinna cringes slightly. “I’ve heard,” he says. “Wait.” 

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small black device. It takes me a minute to place where I’ve seen it before, because I’ve only ever seen one pair of hands operate something similar. Beetee. It’s the device that obscures recordings. A slight chill runs down my spine and I tilt my head back, just for half a second. The device is all the confirmation I need, really. Cinna’s with the rebellion. 

I ignore the sudden twist in my stomach as I watch him flip some kind of hidden switch at the bottom, watching the device blink on. He slides it back in his pocket. I have never understood the technology behind the device, and I've never asked; I assume that whatever it is, it works, because none of us have been publicly executed quite yet. 

“I take it you’re familiar,” says Cinna, following my gaze. 

“Yes,” I say. “What about cameras?” 

“I doubt it. But if there are, I brought precautions,” he says, reaching into a sodden bag slung over his shoulder. He pulls out a sleek black tablet and opens up a grayscale projection of a long, glittering gown. 

“Is that for Katniss?” I ask. 

“Yes. What do you think of it?” 

“It’s beautiful,” I say. Bringing his designs here is intelligent, too. Any visuals of this interaction will look like a simple late-night strategy consultation. “Wait. What about the fire theme? Are we sticking with that?” 

Cinna laughs slightly and swipes across the screen. The hologram flickers into full color. “See for yourself,” he says. 

I inhale. The gems on the dress look like they’re real embers. They’ll be talking about this one in the magazines for sure. 

“It’s perfect,” I say sincerely. My job would have been much harder if I didn’t have a competent stylist. Of course, given that I have a glorious idiot of a tribute, it’s still pretty fucking difficult. The slight smile slips off my face and I scowl at the glittering gown.

“Yes?” asks Cinna, picking up on my changed mood. He’s annoyingly perceptive. It’s a bit like Chaff. 

“Nothing,” I say. “Just Katniss. She’s an arrogant, snarky little piece-of-shit and her interview is going to be terrible.” 

Cinna raises a brow. “That’s not my impression of her,” he says. 

“Well, maybe she’s all glitter and rainbows when she’s around you , then,” I snarl. “Perhaps she has hidden depths and a sunny personality that will emerge the second she’s in the arena.” 

“That’s not quite what I meant,” says Cinna, who doesn’t look thrown in the slightest. 

I tighten my hands into fists on the table in front of me. Arguing over Katniss will simply be intensely frustrating and isn’t exactly why I’m here in the first place. 

“Forget Katniss,” I say. “I want to hear about you.” 

“Likewise,” he says. 

“No, no,” I say. “I’m asking the questions first.” 

“I’m an open book,” says Cinna, spreading his hands wide. 

"Fine," I say. "Here's a question. Why?" 

He pauses, shoulders hunching slightly. He gives a slight laugh. “You're going right for the jugular, then.”

“Yeah. Tell me. Why?” I hope my tone conveys everything I really want to ask. Why are you here? Why would a Capitol citizen, a man clearly on the up-and-up, be interested in risking everything to help a probably-doomed rebellion? Why should I trust him? Why Katniss? Why Twelve? 

“Because I’m not blind,” says Cinna, so quietly I have to lean forward to catch it. “I have been watching the Games since I was a child. When I was young enough - or stupid enough - to question them publicly, I was punished.” 

Cinna pauses, as if waiting for me to speak. I don’t bother. I want to hear as much as I can before he says any more. 

“Not, uh, severely,” he adds, looking at me a little awkwardly. “But I was beaten in school when I was a child for - for expressing sympathy.” 

“Sympathy.” 

“There was a victor,” he says. “Forty-eighth Games. I believe you know him?” 

Chaff. He’s talking about Chaff. 

“I watched him win,” says Cinna. “I was young. Nine, ten years old, maybe. Old enough that I should’ve been able to watch the Games without flinching, but all I was thinking about that year was that that boy looked like me. There’s not a lot of people who look like me out here in the Capitol.” 

I inhale, and Cinna continues.

“That year when he won - I’m sure you remember - it was awful. That other boy cut off Chaff’s hand, and you could barely hear the victory trumpets over the sound of him screaming. It wasn’t glorious, like they told us. The cameras showed him in so much pain, crying while they pulled him out of the arena, and before I knew it I was crying too.” 

I look away from Cinna, forcing myself to take a steadying breath. Chaff. My Chaff. I was expecting a lot of things, but simple empathy for Chaff wasn’t one of them. I wonder how he’d feel if someone told him that his victory moved a little dark-skinned Capitol boy so much that he wanted to rebel against the whole system. I force myself to look back at Cinna, assess him properly in the light of this new information. 

The first thing I noticed about Cinna is that his appearance looked natural. Not like some other stylists I see around, with their artificial faces and implants and false hair. And I’ve never thought about it, not seriously, the fact that in some ways Cinna carries a look I associate more with the District working-class than I do the Capitol. Maybe if you took away his eyeliner and his accent, he would fit right in in Eight or Eleven. Even the Seam, in a pinch. Maybe Cinna keeping his own features was his first form of rebellion. 

“You see it once, and you never stop seeing it,” Cinna continues. “Elaine from Six, the next year, with nerve damage so bad she had tics through her interview. The Quarter Quell, which everyone - I - you know what happened. Annie Cresta and her district partner. I watched the Games, and all I saw was tragedy after tragedy.” 

He bites his lip, inhaling, and meets my eye again. “So. That’s why.” 

“Just sympathy?” I ask. “That was enough?”

Cinna shakes his head. “You question the system once, and it just keeps going. Whispers. Rumors of early victors who simply disappeared after their victory, never to be seen again. Then you start hearing the stuff that happens right here at home. Some rich boy from your design school approaches you in a bar, says ‘if you get me a job with Tigris, I’ll buy you Finnick Odair.’ You hear about deaths. Assassinations. You hear things about the President himself that would make anyone sick.” 

His voice has dropped so low it’s practically inaudible. 

“Tell me about Tigris,” I say. The name alone brings back memories of my Victory Tour, cold and lonely and grieving and suspicious of everyone. The tiger-woman who made me realize nobody in this hellish city could ever be trusted, even a little bit. And yet - and yet - 

“Tigris,” he says, and his voice turns slightly defensive. “What do you know about her?” 

“She’s the President’s cousin,” I say. “She used to be on personal terms with him. Close enough to do his bidding.”

“Tigris,” says Cinna, “has been around longer than the Games themselves. She might be the only person alive who can tell you what the President was like as a boy.” 

I scoff. “He isn’t some enigma. He must’ve had classmates. His wife.” 

“I once found a list of the most prominent members of his Academy cohort. Every single one is now dead. Including the First Lady Livia.” 

“Snow is old as balls,” I point out. 

“The First Lady was perfectly healthy and in her sixties when she passed,” says Cinna. “From a sudden heart attack.” 

The words send yet another chill down my spine. “A heart attack.” 

“Coincidentally,” he says, “that is also the main symptom of a nightlock-derived poison.” 

“Well,” I say. I would be lying if I said that this was the first I’d heard of it. There was a point where Finnick would relay to me the worst things he’d heard, whispered to him by rich assholes over damp pillowcases in the dead of night. I made him stop telling me. I already knew that the President killed with poison. I’d seen the effects of his preferred weapon firsthand. I see them every day in my nightmares. 

Cinna’s gone silent. The loud music of the bar pounds through my ears. 

“I need a drink,” I say, and Cinna waves down the bartender. The bartender slides a whiskey to me without even asking, and then nods to Cinna, who orders a glass of expensive red wine, because of course he does. 

We sip our drinks in silence for several minutes. I am not yet fully sober from earlier in the evening, and so the whiskey goes to my head quicker than I’d like. I slow down. Unfortunately, I need to be conscious for this conversation. 

“What about Portia?” I ask. 

“She’s different,” Cinna says. “Grew up a little rougher.” 

“Rougher?” 

“Her family fell on tough times when she was younger. Her father got on the wrong side of the President, and so they struggled financially. Lost their house and everything. She fought through a lot to get where she is, and so it wasn’t hard for her to agree with what Tigris told us about the system.” 

“What exactly did Tigris tell you?” 

“That things weren’t always this way. That the Dark Days were bad, but could’ve been prevented if we hadn’t treated the districts so awfully in the first place. That the Games are unjust, and there’s no peace if we’re paying in the blood of children. And that in the early days, the Games were controversial and most people in the Capitol hated them.” 

“Did she actually say all of that, or are you paraphrasing?” I ask. It’s hard for me to imagine the quiet, catlike woman I met all those years ago monologuing about blood and justice. 

“She said all of it,” Cinna says. “Though I came to the conclusions myself. She just gave me the space to explore it.”

“Here’s what I don’t understand,” I say, leaning forward. “You say you don’t like the Games. You think the system is unjust. Then why are you here? Why are you designing outfits to help sell tributes to a popular audience?”

Cinna nods. “I didn’t plan to be a Games stylist,” he says. “I was going to work on other things. Actors or singers or something. Honestly, all I really wanted to do was rebel, but I didn’t know how. Tigris, though - she and the President had a huge falling out some years ago. Nobody knows the details. But that’s when she introduced me to Plutarch and the rebellion. It was them who told me they were focusing their work on the Games. They told me to come here.” 

“I see,” I say. It’s a lot to take in. From Chaff to Capitol politics to Snow’s cousin, who apparently hates him so much she’s willing to help overthrow his government. 

The bartender is inching closer to us, and I side-eye him slightly. I know he’s not so bad, technically, but we’re talking too rebelliously for me to be truly comfortable with anyone’s presence.  

“You think that’s impressive, wait till you hear what Peeta’s going to say in the interview,” I declare loudly, nodding my head subtly in the direction of the bartender. Cinna nods at me, taking the cue.  

“Oh, do tell,” he says. 

It’s second nature for me to act drunker than I am. I give in to the slight roll in my vision, the slur in my voice as I say, “Trust me. If I tell you right now, you wouldn’t even believe me.” 

Cinna laughs and the bartender starts walking in the other direction. I relax slightly and turn back to him. 

“Alright,” I say. “I believe what you’re saying.” 

I don’t know what it is about Cinna. I don’t typically believe people that quickly, or that easily. Maybe it’s his open, kind demeanor. Or maybe it’s the fact that his story was so simple. If he’d wanted to lie, he could’ve come to me with some wildly complicated, juicy Capitol tale about betrayal and glory. All he said was that he saw a suffering boy who looked like him, and then he couldn’t look away. Isn’t that how it is in the districts, too? We grow up seeing Seam kids who could’ve been our neighbors, our family, our friends, butchered in the arena?  

“Thank you,” says Cinna. 

“You sound surprised,” I say. 

“I am,” he admits. “From everything I’ve heard about you, I didn’t expect you to trust me.” 

“I get it,” I say. “What do you have to ask me?” 

I don’t exactly enjoy talking about myself, but if he’s been honest with me then I suppose I owe it to him to respond.

Cinna pauses, taking another sip of his wine. “Nothing so specific,” he says slowly. “I think I just want to know you.” 

I scoff. “There’s nothing much to know,” I say. “Nothing you probably haven’t been given on a datasheet by now, anyway.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” says Cinna, a small smile playing on his expression. “I think you’re quite an interesting person, Haymitch.” 

“Don’t flatter me,” I say. “Either ask a question or don’t, but don’t flatter me.” 

“Okay,” says Cinna. “Do you think Katniss can win?” 

It takes me by surprise. I’ll admit that. I was expecting something Effie-style and intrusive, a pry into my habits or my past or my friendships. I wasn’t really expecting Katniss. Then again, am I ever expecting Katniss? That’s why we’re here, after all. She’s why Cinna’s styling for Twelve, instead of some popular Career district. She’s behind all of this, even though she’s belligerent and annoying and depressingly sixteen. 

“I -” I open my mouth to respond to Cinna, and am surprised to find that the words stick in my throat. Silently, I curse him. Anything else and I could’ve responded. I was prepared, dammit. I’ve already told Effie far too much this evening; the worst floodgates have already been opened tonight. But he brings up Katniss, and the words stick in my throat. 

I turn my head away from Cinna. I can’t answer. I want to say something. I want to say Katniss is the best tribute I’ve had in years. Maybe the best ever. She’s good with a weapon. She’s got a story and she’s got a fool of a boy willing to lay down his life to take out her biggest threat. She’s got people she loves back home and the desire to win. I want to say Katniss is smart. She acts a fool, but she’s not stupid. She won’t be taken in by traps and cheap tricks. She is capable of staying on top of the game. 

I say none of those things. Cinna clears his throat. 

“Let’s just see if she can survive the interview,” I say cagily. Why can’t I bring myself to answer? It’s a simple question, and I know what I want to say. 

“And after?” he prompts gently. 

“She -” and I’m incapable of speech again. “She’s good.” 

“That wasn’t a yes,” says Cinna. 

“No,” I say. “It wasn’t.” 

“ I think she can win,” says Cinna, and despite all his principles he sounds so naive and so sheltered and like a little Capitol boy who’s never experienced the world outside its pearly gates. “I think you should have a little more faith in her. She needs it.” 

“There’s no fucking winning, ” I growl at him. Something in me snaps. The whirlwind of emotion that’s been building and breaking in me all day rises to the surface once again, and I stand. “That’s what you’re never going to understand. You don’t win the damn Games. Nobody wins. Ever. And you cannot make me fucking wish survival on her.” 

Cinna’s eyes widen slightly. Hah. He wanted to know me? Great. Here I am. 

“I don’t think,” he says, and his tone remains neutral, “that you get to decide that for her.” 

He didn’t get it. Of course he didn’t. 

“Fantastic point,” I say. “I’m not deciding shit.” 

I knock back the rest of my whiskey. 

“I’m leaving,” I say. “I have things to do.” 

“No, wait,” says Cinna, and then he actually grabs my arm. I’m so shocked by the sudden contact that I turn towards him again. 

“What?” I say. 

“I’m sorry,” says Cinna. “I didn’t mean to offend you.” 

Just like that, the surge of anger drains from my system and all I feel is a kind of hollow resignation. Then again, hollow resignation is my default state of being, so I don’t mind it very much. 

“Forget it,” I say. 

“I don’t claim to understand,” says Cinna quietly. “But I’m on your side. If you’ll have me.” 

I hold his gaze for a long moment. Then I nod. 

“I think,” I say quietly, “that with you on my side she might actually stand a chance.” 

It’s not a yes. It won’t be a yes until she’s on the train with me back home and I’ve delivered her safely to her mother. It won’t be a yes until she’s thirty-five and living with her intact family in the Victor’s Village. A chance is the closest thing that Cinna and the rebellion are going to get from me. 

Cinna smiles slightly. “I hope so,” he says. “I’d bet on her. If I could.” 

I still feel raw and resigned and like all the sharp edges have been drained out of me, but I smile back at him. 

“I think,” I say, “you make terrible investments.” 

Cinna laughs out loud, then, and I feel like a tiny bit of the weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

Chapter Text

I studiously avoid the tributes for most of the following day. I don’t really have to see them until their interviews, and the thought of interacting with Katniss’ sullen hostility makes me wildly angry. The thought of Peeta and his silent, self-sacrificial determination just makes me sad. 

They’re with the stylists all day, anyway, and I’ve already told Cinna to pass the details of Peeta’s plan onto Portia. I trust they’ll handle it until tonight. Effie has fucked off somewhere - to meet sponsors, I assume - and I am left to my own devices. I could theoretically go with Effie and seek sponsorships, too, but I am avoiding this task until the Games actually begin; let me focus my energy on what I can control, which is the narrative around Katniss and Peeta. Besides, I have to admit to myself that I’m worn thin. This Games has been more intense than usual, and the effort of my relative sobriety is exhausting; this would all be so much easier if I could let myself disappear like I always do. My promise to my tributes weighs heavy in more ways than one. Staying present is painful. 

I decide to go seek out Chaff. I’d usually see more of him during a Games year, but this year has been unusual in its chaos. 

He’s not in his apartment, which is puzzling. Instead, I see Jasmine sitting alone on the couch, frowning at a screen packed with numbers. 

“Hi,” I say, tentatively, when she doesn’t look up. “Everything OK?” 

“Are you looking for Chaff?” she asks. “He’s with District Eight.” 

“What? Why?” 

“Not sure,” she says. “Cece wanted to talk to him?” 

“Oh,” I say. I don’t want to talk to Cecelia. I mean, I’ve got nothing against Cecelia - she’s nice, and she’s been in with the rebellion since she won some fifteen years ago - but that doesn’t mean I want to talk to her. 

I shuffle my feet and turn towards the door instead. Perhaps I’ll just go find a bottle to keep myself occupied until the evening. Like I said, easier. 

“You can stay,” says Jasmine. She swipes across her tablet and inclines her head to the sofa. “Chaff should be back soon enough.” 

“Okay,” I say hesitantly. I sit on an armchair across from Jasmine. “What are you working on?” 

“Sponsor money,” she sighs, rubbing a hand across her face. “It’s a mess this year.” 

“Hm. Why?” 

“We usually try to pool our funds. Distribute it equally between our tributes, if we can. But it’s so completely disproportionate this year…..”

“Can I see?” I ask. 

“Sure,” she says, sliding her tablet across to me. I squint at the numbers for a minute, and I exhale through my teeth. 

Eleven isn’t short on money this year. In fact - though Effie hasn’t shown me the exact numbers yet - I don’t think they’re far behind our own estimates. But there’s three methods through which they can donate to a Games pool. They can sponsor a tribute. They can set up an entire District fund - that’s where most Career money comes from - which the richest do, pledging a certain amount of money to a district each year. Really, only the Careers have those. Sponsors can also simply make a one-off donation to a district, leaving the specifics up to its mentor. The sponsorship rules run so that a district pledge is more expensive than an individual one, making it high-risk, high-reward for the sponsors. 

District pledges are what I hope to achieve with my Katniss-Peeta strategy - link the two of them so inextricably that sponsors will feel compelled to hand over a district pledge, rather than an individual one. That way, I will earn more money and I have more freedom to use it as I see fit. 

When I look at Eleven’s funds, I see that they don't have a single district pledge. Almost all their money is an individual sponsorship of the boy, who I learn is named Thresh. Which leaves almost nothing for their little girl, Rue. 

“Shit,” I say. “That’s not ideal.” 

“Yeah,” she says. “Chaff’s not thrilled. I’m guessing you don’t have that problem?” 

“I haven’t been over our numbers yet,” I say, realizing as I speak that I’ve been putting it off. I can’t risk leaving such an important task to Effie. “But I don’t think I do.” 

“That’s good,” she says. Her eyes glint suddenly. “Your two are stealing the show, by the way. What do you have planned for tonight?” 

I laugh. “You first.”

“Thresh is going for sullen and silent,” she says. “It comes naturally for him.” 

I curse, once again, at Katniss’ inability to pull that off. It would have been the obvious approach for her personality. Unfortunately, she’s about five feet tall and has big sad eyes and would therefore look like a wet rag. 

“And I think Rue’s just going for the innocent underdog,” Jasmine adds, and her shoulders slump slightly.

“I’m sorry,” I say sincerely. I’ve been there enough times to get it. There’s something uniquely awful about having to prepare a very young tribute. Nobody under fourteen has ever even come close to the crown. 

“I just hope she dies quick,” says Jasmine. “I hope she doesn’t suffer.” 

“Me too,” I say. “I don’t know, Jasmine. Maybe it’s better if she doesn’t have sponsors. It’ll be quicker for her.” 

“Yeah,” she says, though she doesn’t sound certain. “Maybe.” 

“And even if you had a district fund, you’d still have to choose between them eventually,” I say. Splitting the money only works so far. A smart mentor would’ve backed Thresh from day one, instead of wasting money on a dead twelve-year-old. Chaff and Jasmine are too soft-hearted to say this, even though they both know it’s the case. 

Jasmine just looks uncomfortable with my declaration. “You never told me what your plan is for your tributes,” she says, very obviously changing the subject. 

“Oh,” I say. “I just hope Katniss doesn’t make a complete ass of herself. Hoping she doesn’t get stage fright and start - I don’t know - freestyle singing.” 

Jasmine guffaws, and I can’t help but grin. I genuinely have no clue what Katniss is going to say tonight. She’s a total wild card. 

“And Peeta?” she asks. 

“He’s just going to declare his undying love for Katniss.” 

Her jaw drops. “Are you serious?” 

“Yep.” 

She laughs, incredulous. “That’s insane.” 

“I know.” 

“It doesn’t even matter what she says, then. Even if she freestyle sings. Everyone will love her anyway.” 

“I know,” I say, and I try not to cackle. 

“That’s - wait, does she really have stage fright?” Jasmine asks. 

“I mean -” 

I’m cut off by the sound of the door opening. Chaff and Cecelia walk in, and they both look surprised to see me. 

“Haymitch!” says Chaff, coming over to slap me on the head in the friendliest manner imaginable. I duck, scowling. 

“There is something so very wrong with you,” I mutter to Chaff as Cece walks over to curl up next to Jasmine. 

“Hey,” says Jasmine to Cecelia. “Barely seen you at all lately. How’s Tulla?” 

It takes me a minute to place the name. I think that’s Cecelia’s two-year-old. 

“She’s doing fine,” says Cecelia. “She’s the clingiest baby of the lot, though. She could barely stand to let me go this year - wept and wept -” 

“Awww,” says Jasmine, and I try to keep the grimace off my face. I hate children. 

Chaff nudges my shoulder. “Where’ve you been? Nobody’s seen you for days.” 

“My tributes have been keeping me on my toes,” I admit. “They’re both fucking insane.” 

“So I’m sure you understand them on a spiritual level.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“Speaking of your tributes,” Chaff says, “Beetee wants a chat.” 

“Oh, seriously. Fuck off. ” 

“You’ve got to go talk to him at some point, you know,” says Cecelia drily. She’s tapping her fingers in a rhythmic pattern against the side of her chair. I think it’s some kind of nervous habit. 

“I know, I know,” I grumble. “He could at least give me until they get to the arena.” 

“They’re getting impatient,” says Chaff. “Also, what the hell did your girl do in there?” 

“In where?” I ask, taken aback by the apparent pivot in conversation. 

“Private training. Nobody’s sharing, but apparently they’re all blown away. Completely obsessed with her.” 

Fuck. They is obviously code for Plutarch and company. I forgot that Plutarch would’ve been in the room when Katniss pulled her arrow stunt. No wonder they want a chat. From their perspective, she’s everything he’s been waiting for. 

“You won’t even believe me if I tell you,” I say, since everyone’s waiting to hear, and then I scan my eyes across the ceiling. I’m no fool. I know how heavily bugged the Training Center is, and the District apartments even more so; Katniss’ behavior is no secret to the Capitol elites, but I have no idea who monitors these tapes. I don’t want information escaping more than it has to. We’ve probably already said too much. 

Chaff follows my gaze and raises a brow. “That bad?” 

“Yep.” 

He shrugs. “Just make sure you invite me to your chat with Beetee.” 

“If you insist,” I say. 

The apartment phone rings suddenly, and we all jump out of our skin. 

“I’ll get it,” says Chaff. 

None of us use phones much. We’re not used to them, really, and they’re all bugged to hell and back; if I need to find someone, I just show up at their door.

“It’s your stylist, Haymitch,” says Chaff, returning a moment later. 

“What?” 

“He wants you upstairs to try on something for the interview.” 

“The hell does he need me for?” 

“How should I know?” asks Chaff drily. “Go on. You’re clearly in high demand.” 

“Oh, screw off,” I say. “Drink after the interviews?” 

“Sure,” he says, and I leave to go locate Cinna. 

The door to the Twelve apartment is ajar, and Cinna paces inside. 

“What do you need now?” I ask him. He holds up some kind of suit jacket. 

“I need your measurements,” he says. 

“What? No,” I say. “It absolutely can’t matter what I’m wearing tonight -” 

“On the contrary,” says Cinna. “I will be presenting all of you as one united team.” 

I shoot him the most evil look I can muster, which does not faze him at all. “I refuse any kind of prep.” 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “My prep team is busy with Katniss, anyway.” 

I sigh, and permit Cinna to whip a measuring tape across my chest and arms. He looks pleased and says something about how very few alterations will be required. 

“Fantastic,” I drawl. 

He chuckles. “You and Effie are going to be in the same color scheme, by the way.” 

“Absolutely fucking not,” I say. 

Cinna raises an eyebrow, and I acquiesce. 

“Fine,” I say. “How’s Katniss?” 

“I haven’t seen her yet,” Cinna admits. “I’ll be going in to dress her in a couple of hours.” 

I huff, and Cinna must read the expression on my face because he shoots back an answering expression of sympathy. 

“She’ll be fine,” says Cinna. “I have faith in her.” 

“You didn’t see her in practice yesterday,” I say. “She can’t do it. Her only hope is that boy.” 

“Yes. I remember,” says Cinna, looking a little grave. I filled him in yesterday, the details of Peeta’s plan. “Is he really okay with this?” 

“He’s the one who suggested it,” I say, a little irked at the implication that I’d willingly sacrifice one of my tributes for the other. I mean, not that I wouldn’t. Everyone I know has done it at some point. Still, it’s hard not to see it as accusatory when it comes from someone else. 

“True enough,” says Cinna.

“Besides,” I say. “You know she needs to win.” 

Cinna meets my eyes levelly for just a second. “Yes. I know.” 

The sun is turning dark gold before I know it, and I’ve been wrestled into the suit by Portia. Despite my demand that I won’t see a prep team, Portia convinces me to let her put some kind of cream in my hair. I hate the feeling. It looks stupid, but I grit my teeth and bear it. 

Effie is dressed in a long dark gown, her hair in dark red. Presumably to match the tributes’ fire theme. It’s irritating, but at least dark colors give me plausible deniability. I’ll blame everything about my look on Cinna. 

The tributes emerge from their rooms at the same time, meeting Effie and me at the elevator. They assess each other, and Peeta smiles slightly. Katniss keeps her expression unreadable, though I see the way she narrows her eyes at the flame patterns that adorn Peeta’s sleeves. They look well-matched, and I appreciate the stylists’ efforts. Katniss is wearing the dress Cinna showed me yesterday, and admittedly the effect works; she looks ten years older than she is, but it gives her a powerful appearance. Makes it harder to ignore her. 

Everyone is silent while we get in the elevator. Even Effie manages to refrain from making some kind of stupid comment. All the adults in the room know what Peeta’s about to say, about to do; we all know of his suicidal plan. It’s sufficiently grave that nobody feels like smiling. Katniss is gloriously oblivious, of course, but she looks so wrapped up in her own concerns that she doesn’t even notice. 

I watch her as the elevator slides downwards. She’s tense, keeping her eyes on the doors and avoiding eye contact with anyone. Especially Peeta, I realize, because he’s standing right next to her. Her gaze is trained anywhere that isn’t him. 

Oh, fuck , she still thinks he wanted to be trained separately. Who knows what kind of conclusions she’s jumped to? I’ve been so caught up in planning Peeta’s speech that I haven’t thought about what she might say to destroy our plan before it can be set in motion. 

The doors slide open and the tributes walk out. There’s an awkward distance between them, one that’s almost entirely created by Katniss. This isn’t going to work. 

Just as they’re about to walk onto the stage, I push past Effie and Portia and come up behind them. 

“Remember, you’re still a happy pair. So act like it,” I growl. 

Katniss looks baffled, but there’s no time for further instructions - I am going to have to trust that she can follow a basic order. At least, don’t say anything to indict Peeta on the public stage. 

Peeta nods at me, and I raise an eyebrow back at him. He gives me a half-smile and a shrug, and I jerk my head towards the stage. He follows Katniss up onto the platform, and then his eyes are completely trained on her. I can’t tell how much he’s acting. 

Finnick appears behind me just as my tributes are leaving, so suddenly that I jump out of my skin. 

“What do you want?” I ask. 

“Are you going to come sit with us? Or are you planning to glare at your tributes all night?” he asks, grinning. He inclines his head to where Althea is sitting, in the front row of the mentor box. I understand Finnick’s implication immediately. Four needs to talk to me. 

“Coming,” I say. 

Caesar’s opening theme begins playing just as I reach Althea’s side. Chaff silently slides me a drink from the seat behind me, and Johanna reluctantly moves over to make space for me on the bench. 

Althea leans over as I sit down. “You need to find Cashmere,” she says, just as the first tribute appears on stage. “I think you’ll like what she has to say to you.” 

I nod slowly at Althea, a sudden wave of relief hitting me. If she’s saying what I think she is, then the last bit of my plan is falling right into place. 

“They’ll take my boy, then?” I ask. 

“Yes. But they’re not without their reservations,” she whispers. “They think you’re up to something.”

“I am,” I say drily. “Aren’t we all?” 

“Don’t play around,” Althea warns. “If they think you’re double-crossing them, they’ll be pissed.” 

It’s annoyingly similar to the advice I gave Peeta. You don’t fuck with the Careers, no matter how nice they are to you personally. Not when it comes to the Games. 

“I know,” I say. “Don’t worry. I’ll convince them, and besides. The interview will help.” 

“Really?” she says. “What are your tributes going to say?” 

“Be patient,” I mutter. “You’ll hear them say it in about an hour.” 

Finnick laughs, and Althea rolls her eyes. To my right, Johanna watches me with a shrewd expression.

“The Careers?” she hisses at me after Althea’s attention is back on the stage. “Really?” 

“Have some faith,” I whisper back, through gritted teeth. I remember with a wince that she had wanted Katniss to ally with her own tributes. “It’s not what you think.” 

Finnick elbows me in the ribs. “Shut up,” he says. “Have this conversation later.” 

I am so busy cursing my luck at being stuck between the most annoying young victors in this box that I miss the first few interviews. They’re all predictable, anyway, since every tribute is playing up district stereotypes. Cashmere’s blonde princess is being so obvious it’s disgusting. The girl is practically naked on that stage and I can already see the old men in the audience drooling. For her own sake, I hope she dies. 

The camera swings through the crowd of mentors as each interview goes by, and I see it linger on Finnick for far too long while the girl from his district talks. Where is Davey? He’s the actual mentor here, not Finnick, though I know that the Careers sort of rotate their duties. The camera pauses on me sitting near Four, for just a split-second. Long enough that the audiences will pick it up. From their perspective, it’s an odd combination - their glittering golden boy and the old alcoholic from Twelve should have nothing to do with each other. Hopefully, it’ll get them talking about the potential alliances I have planned. 

Once Four is done and the cameras have moved on, I mutter at Finnick out of the corner of my mouth. 

“Why does Four have a twelve-year-old?” I ask. “I thought you people had a system worked out?” 

Johanna cackles. “Their system’s gone to shit, didn’t you know?” she says. 

Finnick glares at her. “He’s fourteen, not twelve. And yes. Jo’s kind of right. We had a deserter.” 

The word is unfamiliar and it takes me a minute. I wasn’t watching the other Reapings this year, so I don’t remember what happened in Four. 

“Was he Reaped ?” I ask, incredulous. I can’t remember the last time Four actually had to Reap someone. 

“No,” says Finnick, through his teeth. “Not exactly - but the person who was supposed to -” 

“Shhh. Loud,” says a voice suddenly, from somewhere behind us. I turn and see Wiress, who has her hands over her ears. Finnick softens immediately, and nods at her with a comforting smile. 

“Later,” he says to me. 

They’re on District Seven now, which means they’re more than halfway. Johanna rolls her eyes as her tributes finish their unremarkable few minutes, and her expression is heavy. I have the inexplicable urge to say something nice to her. I resist. She’d just say something evil back. 

The districts pass in a blur, and I spend most of the time watching Katniss and Peeta on their platform at the back. Katniss actually just looks green, and she’s worrying at her lip. I hope she doesn’t completely break down onstage. Peeta, of course, is perfect - he’s sitting straight, and every few minutes, he shoots Katniss a fond look. Nobody else is watching them, but they will go back over the footage tonight and broadcast his every expression. Either he’s very good, or he’s really just that infatuated with her. Or perhaps both. 

“Katniss Everdeen!” calls Caesar, and the audience goes wild. They’ve been waiting for her. 

Caesar asks some kind of opening question, but all I’m paying attention to is how terrified she looks. Was I too hard on her yesterday? Should I have acted like Effie or Cinna, told her that she’s wonderful, so that she at least had some confidence up there? 

She doesn’t respond immediately to Caesar, her eyes flitting across the crowd. They go right past me, and - who is she looking for? I follow her gaze to the stylists’ box. Cinna. Why Cinna? Does she trust him? What has he told her?

“The lamb stew,” she says, in response to some question, and to my ears she just sounds confused. Some of the audience laughs, so maybe it’s not a dead loss. 

They have some kind of exchange about Cinna’s outfits, and Katniss actually manages to get a real laugh from the audience. This interview isn’t as bad as it could be. Maybe they’ll read her as sarcastically deadpan. But then she’s spinning around onstage and fucking giggling - giggling - immediately destroying that small chance of being seen as drolly amusing. I try to keep the irritation off my face, in case she decides to look at me and lose all her confidence. She looks incredibly stupid, so the task is difficult. 

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you. Can’t have you following in your mentor’s footsteps,” says Caesar.  

I know this means the cameras will be on my face immediately, so I wipe the annoyance off it and roll my eyes at them in some semblance of a good-natured laugh. I point back to Katniss. The less she’s associated with me, the better. No need for her to follow too closely in my footsteps. 

Then Caesar asks about her training score, and I’m paying attention again. I went over the possibility of this question in practice, but all she did was spit at me. I hope she has the sense not to do so today. 

“Um, all I can say is, I think it was a first,” she says, and she looks up at the Gamemakers’ box.

“You’re killing us,” says Caesar. “Details. details.” 

I silently will her to avoid the question. She can’t answer it. Not without sounding either rebellious or revealing her skills too early. 

“I’m not supposed to talk about it, right?” she says. Directly at the fucking Gamemakers. She’s batshit crazy. 

“She’s not!” shouts out a voice from the box, and my stomach drops as I realize that the speaker was Plutarch Heavensbee. He’s laughing. Looks thrilled. 

I don’t have time to dwell on Plutarch because Caesar moves onto the subject of Prim, and Katniss surprisingly doesn’t get defensive. 

“What did she say to you?” he asks. “After the reaping?” 

“She asked me to try really hard to win,” she says, and there’s a hardness to her voice that wasn’t there before.

“And what did you say?” asks Caesar. 

“I swore I would,” says Katniss, finally, and she looks into the camera with a determined, icy glare. I believe her. I hope they do, too. 

The audience applauds and Katniss retreats. It wasn’t awful, I suppose. She answered the questions inoffensively. The giggling was horrible, but the ending was strong. Plutarch personally helped her out of an impossible question. Not the best interview of the night, but certainly not the worst. 

Althea is raising an eyebrow at me, and I shake my head. Then Peeta walks on stage, and I tense. 

He catches my eye immediately and winks. The cameras pick it up and everyone’s immediately enamored by him, laughing and hooting as he and Caesar do some kind of routine about roses and the water back in Twelve. Peeta is shining, I realize. He’s at ease on stage in a way few other tributes were. He looks like he was born to be up there, reclining on the seat and laughing with Caesar. Worlds away from Katniss and her hysterical giggles. 

“I like him,” Finnick mutters to me in surprise. 

“You would,” I say. 

“I don’t,” says Johanna. 

“You wouldn’t.”

“So, Peeta. You smell good. You’ve got that gorgeous blond hair. You must be quite the ladies’ man, back in Twelve.” 

Peeta shakes his head. “Not at all, Caesar,” he says. Next to me, I feel Finnick cringe. It doesn’t show on his face. 

“You’re kidding me,” says Caesar. “Then you must have someone on your arm. A pretty girlfriend back home?” 

Peeta shakes his head, but he’s blinking in a way that makes it look as though he’s lying. He’s fucking excellent. 

“Handsome lad like you. There must be a special girl. Come on, what’s her name?” 

“Well, there is this one girl,” he says, and the air of funny confidence is replaced with a slight vulnerability. “I’ve had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I’m pretty sure she didn’t know I was alive until the Reaping.”

There’s a round of awwwws from the audience. More reaction than they’ve shown about anything this evening, including the tributes with sob stories about their families. More sympathy than they had for little Rue. 

“She have another fellow?” asks Caesar. A District love triangle, they can work with. 

“I don’t know, but a lot of boys like her,” says Peeta, and I can see the audience melt for him. I’m sure they would like him back in a heartbeat. I beat back the irrational anger rising in my chest. They’ll be distracted in a minute. 

“So, here’s what you do. You win, you go home. She can’t turn you down then, eh?” 

“I don’t think it’s going to work out. Winning…it won’t help in my case,” says Peeta. Everyone’s silent. They’re not sure what he’s doing. 

“Why ever not?” asks Caesar, baffled. 

Peeta actually blushes. You can see it on his pale skin, rising under his makeup. I’m pretty sure you can’t fake a blush. 

“Because…she came here with me,” says Peeta. 

The crowd’s scream is deafening, and I let a grin spread across my face.

Chapter Text

Johanna Mason is cackling like a banshee next to me. Head rolled completely back, hooting and hollering alongside the Capitol crowd. 

“Genius,” she says to me, slapping me so hard on the back I choke on my drink. “Fucking genius.”

Beside me, Finnick looks almost shell-shocked. “What?” he says. “ That’s your plan?” 

Chaff is grinning with Johanna, and he leans forward from the seat behind me, clasping my shoulder. “You never half-ass anything, do you?” he says. 

I’m not listening to any of them. My gaze is trained on Katniss, whose face has been projected on every screen across the City Circle, her expression bright against the smoky night sky of the Capitol. Her mouth is open in what seems to be a moment of genuine shock, and then she presses her mouth shut and tries to conceal whatever’s going through her mind. To me, she looks almost sad. Confused, certainly, but a little sad. It’s perfect. Whatever her response is, it’s genuine; that’s all her, up on that screen. Not some scripted lines about lamb stew. That expression is just Katniss. 

“She didn’t know?” asks Caesar. 

“Not until now,” says Peeta, and I don’t think he’s faking the slightly nervous glance he shoots backwards at her. Then I look back at Katniss and realize she’s blushing, too. It’s less obvious on her than it is on Peeta’s pale white skin, but it’s unmistakable; there’s a flush on her cheeks. You can’t fake a fucking blush. 

People in the audience are screaming their sympathy out at my two tributes and their tragic love story, and I want to give the cameras a feral grin. If this is what it takes to get them to see the horror of those kids’ predicament, then so fucking be it. 

The lights go out and Caesar is saying something like “our hearts go with you, Peeta,” and then the show is over. The anthem blares in the sky, a sound that never fails to send nervous shivers down my spine, and then the tributes are leaving, filing in silence away from the stage. The cameras make sure to linger for just a second on Katniss and Peeta, the last shot of the broadcast before the stream ends. They pick up Katniss’s confused glance in his direction, a glance so momentary that I’m not even sure she noticed it. 

They’re all that they will be talking about. I’m so sure of it. District Twelve has won the night, that is for certain; Peeta surpassed all expectations. They will gush over the two of them until well into the early hours of the morning. 

The crowd begins to pour out, pushing around the mentor box; some of the more hyperactive or intoxicated Capitol citizens reach for us, trying to grab us or touch us. 

“Come on,” I tell Johanna, who is closer to the exit than me. She moves toward the barricade, and a jostle makes us both turn simultaneously. A Capitol girl with pink skin has leaped over the barrier, ignoring the Peacekeepers trying to maintain order, and has grabbed Finnick by the shirt and yanked him down into a kiss; Johanna’s face contorts with rage and Althea presses her lips into a thin, angry line. We’re all frozen in place.

“Alright, let’s go!” Althea yells, finally grabbing the pink girl’s shoulder herself and pushing her off Finnick. The Peacekeepers halfheartedly escort her out of the box, laughing to themselves and shaking their heads. Finnick just looks dazed, and Johanna takes a step towards him before he forces his expression into one of casual laughter. Only the people in the box recognize the tightness around his eyes, the strain in his laugh. A surge of protectiveness rises suddenly, powerfully in me and suddenly I’m angry too. We need to get out of here. 

I turn and grab the stump of Chaff’s arm, pulling him along with me as I push out of the box. I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to. The victory of Peeta’s interview has soured. At least Peeta will die having achieved the death he wants. And if Katniss wins, what kind of person will I be, bringing her here into this life? She has no vision beyond going home to her sister. She has no idea what winning means. 

The tributes’ cars have left already for the Training Center, and I dive into the nearest one idling on the roadside, dragging Chaff behind me. 

“Wait!” I hear Effie call as she pushes past another escort, ignoring the woman’s yelp of annoyance as she jumps forward to enter our car. She squeezes into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut behind her. Moments later, Finnick dives in next to me, leaving a seething Johanna to another car. 

“Where’s Cinna?” I ask Effie. “And Portia?” 

The stylists’ box is closer to the escorts. They like keeping the Capitol people together. 

“In the next car,” says Effie. “I swear, their crowd control gets worse every single year.” 

“Tell me about it,” says Finnick, drily. 

Effie doesn’t seem to hear him, or she doesn’t care. She’s never cared much for Finnick. Strange, for a Capitol woman. A good thing, too. Maybe even respectable. 

“So,” says Chaff. “Star-crossed lovers, eh?” 

Effie lets out a slightly hysterical giggle. “Haymitch, they were perfect!” 

“I know,” I say. Again, I replay the last few seconds of those interviews in my head. The slight slump of Peeta’s shoulders. The confusion and blush on Katniss’ face. It was everything I had wanted out of the interview. 

Effie leans over and flicks a switch on the driver’s dashboard. Some kind of radio channel comes on, and Caesar Flickerman’s voice bubbles through the speakers. He’s dismissed the tributes for the night, but I know his work isn’t over yet; he’s on air for another hour in the Games Center, publicly commenting on every interview. 

“So, Claudius!” Caesar’s voice echoes out. “Who was your favorite candidate you heard tonight? I know I had my favorites, but I, for one, don’t kiss and tell.” 

“Don’t be coy, Caesar,” says Claudius. “Isn’t there one interview that just blew everyone away? Let’s talk for a minute about those two shining stars from District Twelve. Just when we thought we couldn’t learn anything new about Katniss Everdeen, here comes Peeta Mellark with information we never even thought was possible -” 

“Hahahahaahaaaa, Claudius! This is a twist in the tale we’ve never seen before. Let’s go over what we know about these two young lovers. Now, I’m sure that if anyone hadn’t been paying attention to Katniss Everdeen, they will have noticed her now - and to remind everyone, let’s recap the first moment that we saw our favorite girl on fire. A name had been drawn in the Reaping, and it was a name that wasn’t her own..” 

Effie turns the radio back off, and she’s smiling. 

“Perfect,” she says, and there’s a cold glint in her eye that is almost terrifying. “Haymitch, we are going to go over the numbers tonight. We’ll have a lot to discuss.” 

“Don’t forget to find Cashmere,” Finnick says. “Judging by Althea’s expression, you’re going to have a lot of explaining to do.” 

“Cashmere?” asks Chaff. “You fucking bastard, Haymitch. Where are you going with this?” 

I meet Effie’s eyes in the rearview mirror. I am in the car with two of the people I care most about, and the only person who knows everything running through my head is Effie fucking Trinket.

“There’ll be time for this once they’re in the arena,” I tell Chaff. “Right now, I have work to do.” 

“I’m sure you do,” he scoffs, and am I hearing a real undercurrent of bitterness in his voice? 

“Jasmine showed me your numbers, by the way. Pretty sure you have work to do, too.” 

“I assume you’re not coming to have a drink, then,” says Chaff, and I’m definitely not missing the slight resentment in his tone. I do not have time to worry about Chaff’s feelings right now. 

“Chaff,” I say, “we can have a drink at any other time.” 

“Okay,” he says, and then he folds his arms and doesn’t say anything else. Finnick is silent too, his eyes flicking between us. 

The car pulls up in front of the Training Center, and I jump out.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say grimly, and I follow Effie into the building. Cinna and Portia are waiting for us at the entrance. 

“Effie! Haymitch!” says Portia. “Oh, wow, they were brilliant!” 

Cinna’s laughing too, and unexpectedly, he hugs me. I shove him away, not wanting anyone at all near me. 

“All right, all right,” I say. “Let’s go see how little miss sunshine handled the news.” 

“Surely Katniss knows the interview was good,” says Portia, slightly surprised. “And Peeta’s a good boy.” 

“Somehow, I doubt it,” I say darkly. “She’s never had a normal response to anything in her life.” 

We pile into the elevator and find ourselves with Blight and Johanna, who are distinctly not talking to each other. 

“Where’s Finnick?” asks Johanna, by way of greeting. 

“His room, I assume,” I say, distractedly. 

The doors slide open to let Johanna and Blight out, and then we’re up in the penthouse. 

I step out of the elevator behind Portia and I see - blood? Why is there blood? The bright iron smell makes my head spin, and I feel my heart rate spike. What’s happened? Who’s here? The arena is only tomorrow -

“What’s going on?” asks Effie, her hysterical tone bringing me back down to earth. “Did you fall?”

I peer past her and see that Peeta - Peeta is on the floor. Bleeding in a pile of broken ceramic, hands slashed, expression wide and shocked. Standing over him is Katniss, ablaze in righteous fury. 

“After she shoved me,” says Peeta, as Effie and Cinna run to help him back up. 

White-hot rage floods my entire body and suddenly I can’t think. 

“Shoved him?” I ask, turning towards Katniss. She’s standing in front of me, still wearing her jeweled gown, red-painted bottom lip jutting out petulantly. She glares at me.

“This was your idea, wasn’t it?” Katniss hisses. “Turning me into some kind of fool in front of the entire country?” 

If she shoves me, I will have absolutely no shame. I will throw her headfirst into that damn pot myself. I’m twice her size and I can even the odds between her and Peeta, easy, because she does not deserve what Peeta has just done for her. She doesn’t deserve that boy’s sacrifice. 

“It was my idea,” says Peeta, who is looking far calmer than he has any right to be. “Haymitch just helped me with it.” 

“Oh, yes, Haymitch is very helpful!” Katniss yells. “To you!” 

Maybe if she wasn’t a little bitch, I would be more helpful to her. I’m trying to keep her alive, damn it. Is that not enough for her? What the hell does she want from me? Can she not see past the length of her own nose, understand that we’re playing a game, understand the picture beyond the next day, the next second, beyond the immediate need to survive the moment? 

“You are a fool,” I say, finally, my disgust palpable. “Do you think he hurt you? That boy just gave you something you could never achieve on your own.” 

“He made me look weak!” she says. 

“He made you look desirable!” I say, and now I’m yelling too. “And let’s face it, you can use all the help you can get in that department. You were about as romantic as dirt until he said he wanted you. Now they all do. You’re all they’re talking about. The star-crossed lovers from District Twelve!” 

“But we’re not star-crossed lovers!” she wails, and I lose all reason and sense. She’s stupid. She’s actually fucking thick, and I don’t think she’s even aware that this game goes well beyond the arena. This is a game of words and lies and talk and deception, and her skill with an arrow will mean nothing in the arena if she can’t play the subtler game outside of it. I grab Katniss’ shoulders and throw her into the wall, desperate to make her see sense. If she cannot, she will die, and there will be nothing I can do to save her. 

“Who. Cares,” I say. “It’s all a big show. It’s all how you’re perceived. The most I could say about you after your interview is that you were nice enough, although that in itself was a small miracle. Now I can say you’re a heartbreaker. Oh, oh, oh, how the boys back home fall longingly at your feet. Which do you think will get you more sponsors?” 

She pushes me away, looking as sick as I feel. She bites her lip and looks on the verge of tears. 

“He’s right, Katniss,” says Cinna gently. He puts an arm around her shoulders.

“I should have been told. So I didn’t look so stupid,” she says. 

“No, your reaction was perfect. If you’d known, it wouldn’t have read as real,” says Portia. 

“She’s just worried about her boyfriend,” says Peeta. Fucking what ? She has a boyfriend? That might actually explain the violent reaction a little bit more. Did Peeta not think to share this bit of information with me before he proposed his -

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” says Katniss, petulant. Okay, so it’s complicated. I don’t care enough to parse it out. 

“Whatever,” says Peeta, for once sounding just as petulant as Katniss. “But I bet he’s smart enough to know a bluff when he sees it. Besides, you didn’t say you loved me. So what does it matter?” 

I look at her, trying to read the emotions on her face. No boyfriend, then. Why did she react the way she did? Is it because we left her in the dark? She knows she can’t act, though. She said it herself, to me - she’s no good at lying. She said Peeta’s stunt made her look weak. Weak. Does she think being the object of love is a weakness? Maybe she does. And perhaps she’d be right if she did. The image of Finnick being manhandled by some Capitol woman flashes before my eyes. 

“After he said he loved me, did you think I could be in love with him, too?” asks Katniss, her hesitance obvious. At least she’s understood. I think she has. If she’s asking this, she must have. 

Effie and Cinna and Portia rush to reassure her, and I nod too. 

“You’re golden, sweetheart,” I say. I can’t keep the edge of annoyance quite out of my voice, but I try not to sound actively hostile. “You’re going to have sponsors lined up around the block.” 

“I’m sorry I shoved you,” she says to Peeta, though she still won’t look at him. 

“Doesn’t matter. Although it’s technically illegal,” he says, and he’s not looking at her either. 

In the ensuing silence, we move to eat dinner and watch the recaps. Portia has to go with Peeta to bandage his hands, because the bleeding won’t stop on its own. He must’ve nicked a vein or something. The cuts run deep. Hopefully Capitol healing balms will take care of it before tomorrow morning. 

After the recaps end, there’s quiet in the room. I’ve done this a million times now. Looked kids in the eye the day before I send them to the slaughter. So why does this time feel like there’s a knife slicing through my ribs? 

Effie takes both their hands. She sounds truly sincere when she tells them she will miss them, that she is honored to have known them, that they have brought their district so much pride. 

Then she glances around and says, “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I finally get promoted to a decent district next year!” 

She runs from the room with uncharacteristic speed. I have never in my life understood what the hell goes on in that woman’s head. 

Then it’s just me and Katniss and Peeta, in the dark district apartment. I fold my arms and look at the two of them. Peeta, especially, is hard to look at. If everything goes according to plan, the next I see him will be his still body in a wooden box on a train. His skin will be pale, clammy, and cold. 

Katniss…I don’t know what to make of her, still. Prickly, angry, defensive Katniss. Chances are, I will accompany her body home too. If that happens, I think I will deliver her coffin to her family myself, because it is the least I owe her mother after all these years. Then again, I have never been good at paying my debts. 

“Any final words of advice?” asks Peeta. 

I shake myself. “When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there. You’re neither of you up to the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water. Got it?” 

I’m talking more to Katniss than Peeta. We still can’t tell her the Career plan, because she will flip her shit. I hope Peeta has the sense to realize this. 

“And after that?” she asks. 

“Stay alive,” I say grimly. The words echo, wrenched from me from somewhere a little angry and twisted. 

Katniss nods, quietly. Then she leaves without a word, and Peeta stays to talk to Portia. I linger, too, staring out of the window. The interview afterparties have already begun, I think. The streets are full and fireworks explode in the distance. 

“Haymitch?” says Peeta tentatively. “Do you have any…advice for me?”

I shake my head. “Plan’s the same as it always was, boy. I think you’re in with the Careers. I’ll finalize with Cashmere tonight.” 

He nods. 

“Listen. You’re only going to have one chance to protect her, got it? Keep them away from her as long as you can, and then when you can’t hold it off any longer, they will expect you to lead them to her. Backstab them at the last second. Buy time to let her escape. If you can, take one of them out for her.” 

“Okay. And then?” 

“And then they will kill you,” I say. “They’re not going to forgive this.” 

“Okay,” says Peeta, and he takes a deep breath. “Sure.” 

“I’ll send word through Portia tomorrow morning,” I say. “Tell you what exactly the Careers want you to do.”

He nods, and so does Portia. 

“Goodnight, Peeta,” I say. 

“Goodnight,” he says, and then he leaves for bed. I watch him as he goes. Try to prepare myself for the sight of his lifeless body. For his blonde hair returned to me stained pink with blood. How will they kill him? I imagine the brute from Two spearing him through the neck. I hope the Careers aren’t sadists this year. Let him die quickly, painlessly, at the least. Spare him the last gasps for breath, the bloodstained lips, the moments of panic as you realize that this ending is permanent. I hope he feels like his death was worth it. I hope - for his sake, I hope Katniss survives.

Chapter Text

I don’t sleep the night before the Games. 

I rarely sleep well in the Capitol, anyway, and I have so much work to do. It is well past midnight and I am pacing the floor of the Twelve apartment. I heard one of my tributes slip out of their room a few moments ago, heading in the direction of the roof. I don’t bother them. It was hard for me to sleep the night before, too. 

Effie’s here, too. She left to answer phone calls after dinner, field sponsorship requests; some hours later, she marched back into the apartment holding three tablets, a hologram, and some kind of mobile communication device. Tomorrow, we’ll both be issued communicuffs that we can use to monitor our tributes long-distance. Today, we’re surveying numbers. 

“Did you talk to Cashmere yet?” asks Effie, flinging the electronic devices down onto a sofa. 

“Yes,” I say. Only moments after Peeta retired to bed, the phone rang and Cashmere’s shrill, demanding voice was asking where the hell I was. I went to find her. The conversation lasted only minutes. 

“And?” Effie asks. 

“Peeta’s in,” I say. “Althea convinced Lyme who convinced Cashmere. Apparently once Cashmere was in, Gloss was bound to follow, and then Brutus was outnumbered. Peeta’s going to have to find Glimmer from One at the Cornucopia, and then she and the girl from Four are going to make sure the Two boy accepts him.” 

“Good,” Effie breathes. “That’s excellent.” 

“Yes,” I say. “Give me those sheets. Call Portia, will you, and bring the line to me?” 

“I’m not your secretary, Haymitch,” Effie says, and I shoot her such an angry glare that she turns and stomps away to find Portia’s number. 

While Effie’s out, I snatch one of her tablets. The most elite Capitol people can phone in sponsorship requests to our personal lines once the Games start, get direct access to mentors. Some, who have the privilege of attending the sponsor events that will be thrown periodically through the Games season, will seal their sponsorship deals in person. The majority donate through some kind of electronic system, which deposits the money right into our accounts; these are the cheapest but most numerous sponsorships, that don’t guarantee any of the coveted contact with a victor or their entourage. 

The tablet projects an interface into the air. A red light blinks out, scanning the details of my face. I try not to wince as it shines right into my eyes, reading some kind of genetic code there, glaring at me like a threat. Finally, it determines that it is satisfied with my identity, and produces some kind of beeping noise. The interface blinks once and then opens out onto the pre-Games mentor screen. 

Blocky letters print District Twelve into the air. On the right, a headshot of Katniss, with her name, age, and odds underneath. On the right, Peeta. Dead center, at the very bottom, is the sum total of our sponsorship money. 

I squint at the number printed there. Then I pause, stand, take a lap of the room. I come back, sit down, and stare at it again. Am I drunk? I don’t think so. I count the number of zeroes flashing at me, and I count them again, unable to believe what my eyes are showing me. 

It’s more money than I’ve ever had before. Probably more than the combined income of the entirety of District Twelve. Enough to not only sponsor a tribute comfortably, but to cover both of them if they survive weeks into the Game. As I watch, the numbers tick upwards as more and more people deposit money into our fund. 

Effie opens the door, a mobile comms device in hand. 

“Portia,” she says.

I grab the device from her. 

“Hi,” I say. “Tomorrow, you tell Peeta he’s in with the pack. Tell him to find Glimmer from District One and Maren from Four, and they’ll make sure he’s defended at the Cornucopia. He can trust Four, and One to an extent. He needs to watch his back with Two, especially with that boy, because Brutus was the only Career mentor who wasn’t on board with the plan.” 

“Got it,” says Portia. “He knows who they all are? Should I carry headshots with me?” 

“No headshots,” I say. “They’ll search you before you get on the hovercraft. If they see headshots, at best the plan leaks before we can start it. At worst, they think we’re cheating.” 

“How would that be cheating?” 

“I don’t know. But I’m not risking it,” I say grimly. 

“Okay,” says Portia. “Any other tips for him?” 

“Tell him to make sure he gets hold of a knife. It’s the only weapon that you can really use without training. Glimmer and Maren will make sure he’s not butchered by the other Careers, but he’ll still need to defend himself if he wants to be taken seriously.” 

“Sounds good,” says Portia. 

“Oh, and tell him to stay away from Katniss. No eye contact with her until they’re well inside the arena. If she gets even a whiff of this, I’m dead certain she’ll kill him herself. But tell him the absolute most important thing is convincing the audience that he’s doing it for her. I don’t care how he does it, but he has to do it. Otherwise it was all for nothing.” 

“Haymitch, are you panicking?” asks Effie, in a tone of genuine curiosity.

“What? No.” 

“I think I’ve got it,” says Portia, and her voice irritates me. 

“Wonderful,” I say. “Would you like me to go over it again? Okay, first, you need to tell him the details of the Career plan. Who to trust is key, but he can’t trust any of them too much. They’ve all been training their whole lives to win this thing, and that boy is a baker. He needs to stick to Glimmer and Maren and the boy from Four is probably okay, too - his name is Hull - but not Two at any cost. If he survives the Cornucopia, he’s in for sure -” 

“I’ve got it, Haymitch,” says Portia. “Peeta’s smart. He’ll be fine.” 

He’ll be fine strikes me as particularly inappropriate, given that he will be dead in a week. I exhale into the phone line. 

“Fine,” I say, and I hang up before I have to hear any more. I toss the phone onto the floor, ignoring Effie’s yelp of anger, and point back at the mentor interface. 

“See that?” I say, jabbing my finger at the number at the bottom of the screen. 

“Yes, I do,” says Effie. “You’re the one who’s been ignoring the numbers this whole time.” 

“Shut up. We need to break down what to allocate where.” 

“Is the list out yet?” asks Effie. 

She’s referring to the list of available resources that we can send into the Cornucopia. Some will be predictable, of course; there is always, for example, water, rope, and trail mix. Some will be climate-dependent. If the arena is hot, they might provide insulated bottles or electrolyte drinks. If it’s cold, extra winter gear. There’s always weapons, of course, but those are so astronomically expensive that I don’t think that even I can afford them without draining our entire fund immediately. I’ll have to trust that Katniss can find or make a weapon on her own. 

“Let me check,” I say, swiping my hand through an icon at the bottom of the screen. “No. Nothing.” 

It’s early, still. They likely don’t want to risk us waking our tributes, giving them any clues about what the arena will be like. 

“It’ll probably come out when they leave tomorrow,” I say. “We can still guess until then.” 

I tap the fund total and the screen blinks and changes. I’m now looking at a rolling list of every deposit I’ve received, names and identities of sponsors, and most importantly, the type of sponsorship they’ve made. Every couple of minutes, the screen pings with a notification that I’ve received a new deposit. 

I click through the viewing options until the screen sorts the numbers for me, giving me a tribute-by-tribute breakdown. This highlights the individual sponsorships of both Katniss and Peeta, and shows me on a second panel the additional sums that have been a whole-district donation. 

The number under Katniss’ name is much higher than Peeta’s. That’s to be expected, of course - she’s the one who scored an eleven. She’s the volunteer. I click on Peeta’s name to check the timestamps of his individual donations, and I find that I am right - all his sponsorships are from this evening. After the interview. 

“Wow,” says Effie. “They loved him tonight.” 

“Drop the pointless commentary,” I say. “Unless you have something of value to share, shut up.” 

Effie huffs and shuts up. I scan Peeta’s numbers again. 

“There’s not enough here to be of any value to him,” I say. “I won’t be able to get him anything he can’t find at the Cornucopia.” 

“You can pool with the Careers,” says Effie. “Share their funds for him until he can….you know.” 

“That’s if they cooperate,” I say. “They won’t like how little I’m contributing to their pool.” 

We both glance at Twelve’s combined pool. The district donations, that I can technically distribute as I like. 

“So the combined fund is for -”

“For Katniss,” I say. I can’t waste the money on Peeta. 

“The Career mentors won’t like that,” says Effie. 

“No. They won’t.” 

“What are you going to do?” she asks. 

“Hope Brutus doesn’t murder me in the Mentor Lounge,” I say. 

“It can’t last forever,” says Effie. “Once Peeta starts talking to the audience - I mean, once you start talking to the audience -” 

“I know,” I say. “The mentors will know the plan too. Once they figure it out, I’m just going to have to hope they can’t communicate with their tributes.” 

Technically, I know that communication is possible. Lyme, for example, is smart. Experienced, too. If she wanted to make sure Peeta wasn’t a threat to her tributes, she could’ve worked something out. Planned a system with her girl. If I send you white bread, kill the Twelve boy in his sleep. Brown bread, and he’s okay.  

I’m going to have to trust that she won’t. Trust that she and Althea are committed enough to the rebellion and to Mags and to Plutarch and Beetee that she will see my plan and be willing to let it go. Hopefully, Brutus is too stupid to have planned that far in advance; too stupid or too cocky. I try to remember who else is here from District Two, and I can’t - that’s a problem. I need to find out. Can they throw a wrench in my plan? 

Effie is nodding. She reaches out to the interface, swipes over to Katniss’ numbers. 

“What about Katniss?” she asks. “What are you going to do with all that money?” 

“I don’t know,” I say. “Can’t predict what she’ll need.” 

“How expensive is a bow?” Effie’s lips are pursed. 

I pause. I could send her a bow. I don’t think I have enough money, yet, for such a powerful weapon - for such a powerful statement. But on day one, with a full field, things are still not yet too expensive. I could spend tomorrow working sponsor networks, going out to betting centers, talking to people Effie sets me up with. I could get enough money to send her a bow. 

“I’m not sending her a bow,” I say.  

“Why on earth not?” 

I take my time, knowing Effie won’t just accept instinct as an answer. 

“Katniss is resourceful,” I say. “She’s spent years keeping her family alive. I’ve seen her selling her game in the Hob since before she was Reaping age. Katniss isn’t the type to start hunting the others down with the strongest weapon in the game - she’s going to be hiding. Surviving. She’ll need medicine. Food, maybe. Shelter. I’ll even throw in a knife, if she ends up with nothing to defend herself.” 

Effie doesn’t look convinced. 

“Look,” I say. “You and I know she’s good. They don’t know shit, yet. She’s not going to start running after the others and killing them, so there’s no point sending her a weapon. She’s going to have to show off that she’s resourceful. Her hunting skills. Survival instincts.” 

Effie nods, slowly. “Sending a weapon in is flashy,” she says. 

“Yeah. They still replay Finnick and that damn trident every year. I send her a bow, they’re going to expect a Finnick come again.” 

I don’t have to explain to Effie what happened after Finnick received his trident. The ensuing bloodbath is burned into everyone’s memory, Finnick’s included. The boy we had that year was one of the best tributes I’ve ever mentored. 

“We’re playing the long game,” I say. There’s a lull, for a minute. The party outside is still going strong, and I see a string of fireworks go off in the distance. 

 “Can I just say -” 

“No, you can’t.”

“I was going to compliment you!” Effie snaps. “You make it so freaking difficult -” 

“Save it, princess,” I say, tired. “They’re not even in the arena yet.” 

The clock on the wall beeps four. We both sit for a minute, listening to it chime. Six hours until the Games begin. 

“I should get some sleep,” says Effie. 

“Come to the Lounge tomorrow. For launch,” I say. 

“Can I?” Effie sounds surprised. I suppose that’s fair. Usually, she’s more of an annoyance than a help in the Mentor Lounge. She’s one of the only escorts that’s even allowed in, given that every other district has two active mentors; I keep her out anyway, not liking the way she exists in my space. This year, I’m more than aware that I’ll have my hands full. I’ll need someone else to field phone calls and help monitor the Games feed. 

“Yes,” I say. 

I remember, suddenly, the first ever year she became a Twelve escort. Or maybe it wasn’t the first, but it was early on; the years have blurred together, at this point. The tributes died at the Cornucopia, within the first five minutes, and Effie fucking cried. 

“Do not embarrass me,” I warn. To my surprise, a smile flickers over Effie’s face. 

“Why, Haymitch. You’re starting to sound just like me,” she says. 

I splutter. “What the fuck?” 

She’s suppressing an actual laugh, now, and I stand up, indignant. 

“Whatever, princess. I’m going to bed.” 

“Okay. I’ll see you at nine-fifteen precisely, ” she says. “Don’t be late. There’s a schedule.”  

“Precisely ,” I mimic. 

Then she vanishes. I stay where I am, staring at the numbers on the screen. I have no control over what happens tomorrow. I will help them as much as I can. I will let Effie drag me to sponsor parties. I will smile for interviews, talk to slimy Capitol elites, monitor those kids’ feeds every waking second. And even then, there is almost nothing that I can control. I can’t help Katniss if the Gamemakers decide to start an avalanche, crush her in her sleep for her audacity in private training. I can’t help her if the Careers decide to slaughter Peeta and overpower her. There’s a million factors over which I have no influence at all, no way of protecting her, no way to save her from the thousands of forces that will be hunting her in six hours’ time. All of this could be for nothing. 

I spend the night tossing and turning in bed. The nightmares are predictably bad. I wake up covered in a cold sweat, pressing my fingers to my eyes in an effort to wash out images of Katniss bleeding out on the arena floor, twitching and convulsing and helpless, her bow flung somewhere far out of reach. Peeta, screaming for mercy as the boy from Two shoots him, brain matter and shards of skull exploding onto a camera lens. Then I’m in the arena myself, and my nightmares end up where they always end up, and I’m watching Maysilee choke on her own blood while I whisper her meaningless comforts. Maysilee opens her eyes and then she’s Katniss. That’s when I jerk awake. 

I knew sleep would be no comfort. It was stupid to try. I throw the sheets back just as the filtered light of dawn breaks over the city skyline. I stalk out of my room, knowing that the tributes must have just left. The hovercrafts will be on the rooftop this minute. 

I throw on whatever clothes I find in the closets, trying to keep in mind that I will be on air in a few hours. I will go to the Games Headquarters early, I think; review my sponsorships, plan how I’ll secure more. It’s too early for me to make follow-up calls to the big sponsors, but that’s okay. I need to keep my hands occupied, because otherwise I will lose my mind. 

There’s already reporters on the street as I cross the City Circle in the direction of the Headquarters. They scream as they see me, waving and cheering. I raise a hand of acknowledgement and I keep walking. 

“Haymitch! Have Katniss and Peeta left for the arena yet?” one screams in my direction. 

“What did they say to each other last night after the interview?” another asks. I ignore them all. There’ll be time for press later. 

The entrance to the Headquarters is as heavily guarded as any top-secret government war room. Peacekeepers guard the doorways, keeping reporters at a healthy distance. Early-morning camera crews are already entering the building, though they will have extremely limited access inside; they aren’t even allowed into the Mentor Lounge. They will wait in the hope they can catch one of us for an interview at some point during the day. 

I endure a full security scan from the Peacekeepers at the entrance. Their equipment is clean and sterile-looking, and it never fails to remind me of the inside of a hospital. They scan my retinas again, take my fingerprints, check me for concealed weapons. They’re so thorough, one might even think that we were terrorists or prisoners of war. Oh, wait. 

When they finally let me inside, the only other mentor already in the Lounge is Lyme. She looks up in surprise as I enter. 

“Hi, Haymitch,” she says. “You’re up early.” 

“Late, maybe,” I say drily. 

“What are you doing here?” she asks. 

“Mentoring. What do you think?” 

She sighs. “You really are up to something,” she says. 

I don’t answer. Instead, I pick up the communicuff that rests on my station. A large 12 is emblazoned above it, and the glass dividers between my station and the next are down. I hate this room so fucking much. I slide the communicuff onto my wrist, where it will remain for the next few weeks, until Katniss is dead or on her way back home. From my communicuff, I can access a remote feed of either of my tributes at any hour of the day, even if I’m not at my station. If I switch it on now, all I’ll see is static. 

“Switch the television on,” I say. The largest screen in the room is on the back wall. The public Games broadcast will play there all day, while we watch our individual tributes’ feeds at our stations. 

“I’m busy,” says Lyme, snippily. 

I take a deep breath. I can’t afford for Lyme to be on my bad side. 

“Okay. Do you know where the remote is?” 

“You’re never in here this early, are you,” says Lyme, drily. 

“Rarely,” I admit. I typically avoid this room as long as I possibly can. 

She studies me for a moment. I study her back. I have known Lyme for as long as I have been a victor; I met her only days after I first emerged from the arena, still shaky and disoriented. I remember being struck by her friendship with Chaff, then still shocked by the camaraderie between a former Career and a boy from Eleven. In the years since, I have grudgingly come to respect her. She’s a rebel, after all. 

“Good luck, Haymitch,” she says. She looks genuinely sincere. 

“Thanks,” I say. “Okay. How do I switch this thing on?” 

She laughs, tension easing. She flicks some kind of switch on the back wall and the television comes to life, playing a clip of Caesar Flickerman’s pre-Games commentary. When the Games begin, we will switch the volume off and watch our own tributes, leaving escorts to monitor more closely what the general public sees. 

“What are you working on?” I ask. 

“A plan for Clove. Brutus is dead-focused on Cato as our victor, but I’m not so sure. I want to make sure I have a good contingency for Clove in case things go wrong.” 

I watch her for a minute. I’ve never seriously considered what she has to do, to balance the mentorship duties with the other brutes from her district. Brutus is the worst, but I’m not exactly a fan of Pyrite or Julius or any of the other fools from Two. And as far as I know, Lyme is the only one from her district to show anything but complete loyalty to the Capitol. How does she work with them so well? 

For a second, I briefly contemplate the possibility of having to work with Katniss as mentor next year. This thought is so horrifying that I immediately shelve it. Too far into the future. I need to make sure she stays alive in the here and now, and worry about that later. 

Other mentors begin filtering in, looking various shades of exhausted. Chaff appears around nine, grabbing his communicuff from the station next to mine and then slumping down into the spare chair near me. He swings his feet up to rest on my legs, and slides a bottle in my direction. 

“Good morning,” I say drily. I accept the bottle. 

I drum my fingers on the table in front of me. Then I shove Chaff off me. 

“I’m going to get coffee. Want some?” 

“Sure,” he shrugs. 

I’m going to need the energy. Games days are brutal. I return with two cups - black for me, with sugar for Chaff - and I slide one silently over to him. He pours whiskey in his, and offers the bottle again to me. I shake my head, and he rolls his eyes. 

The door opens at exactly nine-fifteen, and Effie comes in looking flustered. 

“You’re early ?” she asks me. 

“Always so surprised,” I say. “Sit down.” 

“Is that my cue to leave?” asks Chaff. 

“Maybe. Sorry,” I say. 

He spins around once in the chair before getting up and leaving to join Jasmine at the Eleven station. He hits a button to slide the glass divider up for privacy before bending his head towards her, pointing to the broadcast and murmuring something with a frown. 

Various Capitol attendants come around, holding trays of food and drink. I decline food, feeling a sudden knot of nervous tension in my stomach. I take a glass of some sort of sweet white wine. 

Brutus stands at his station, flicks the volume off on the main broadcast. Onscreen, Caesar mouths words silently into the distance. The Lounge descends into a sudden silence. Cashmere catches my eye from across the room, giving me a long, slow nod. Finnick spins around and around on his chair. Johanna is leaning on the table next to him, a drink in hand. 

Up on the broadcast, they show the viewers a sweeping shot of the Lounge. From their perspective, we look focused. Mentors ready to be the only real connection between our tributes and the rest of the world. I make sure to look up and into the camera before they cut away.

They’re dissecting us on the screen now. I pull up my numbers, which are higher than they were last night. Effie leans over my shoulder to look at them too. 

“List out?” she asks. 

“Yeah. No point looking now.” 

I tap my fingers against the glass. The tension in my chest prevents me from forming full sentences. A sudden notification on my communicuff tells me that our tributes have been connected to our devices, and that we can start our feeds as soon as we’re ready. I hit the command button immediately, and my station lights up with three-dimensional holographs of Katniss and Peeta. They’re still in the Stockyard, waiting for launch. Katniss is clutching Cinna’s hand, pale and clammy. I hope she rallies before she’s launched. Peeta sits with his head in his hands, Portia next to him. I’m glad neither of them can be seen by general crowds now. I pull my headset on, though there’s still no audio. 

The broadcast is showing crowds all over the country, waiting for the clock to count down. Massive rallies in the City Circle, of course. A shot of what looks like One, with brilliant people watching a glittering screen. 

Katniss is talking to Cinna. He pulls something out of his pocket, and I squint to make out what it is. The cameras in the Stockyard aren’t very good, though, and I can’t make out the details - he’s pinning something to the lapel of her jacket. She must’ve brought a token from home. 

They’re walking to the launchpad now. She lets go of Cinna’s hand and the glass seals around her. She’s holding her head high, confident, no trace of the nervous clamminess I saw a moment ago, and a stab of something shoots through me. Pride. 

The feed shows only black as Katniss is hurtled through the earth and into whatever mysterious place they’ll be sending her. My mind flashes through all the ways this could go wrong. The arena might be like mine, where even the best survivor could be taken down by poisoned water. It might be a frozen wasteland. Abandoned nuclear power-plant. Somewhere her skills are rendered useless. 

“Ready?” murmurs Effie, as Katniss slams into the arena. Her eyes are closed, but her muscles are already tensing. She’s preparing to move. 

“Ready,” I say, my mouth like sawdust. 

“Ladies and gentlemen!” echoes Claudius Templesmith’s voice, right in my ears. “Let the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games begin!” 

Chapter Text

Sixty . 

Katniss and Peeta are a few plates away from one another. The camera drone on the big screen pans in a circle, just quickly enough for me to catch a glimpse of the tributes’ surroundings. I try my best to assess them from what they give us. 

A standard arena this year, I think, with a vast meadow that looks uncomfortably like the one in Twelve. There’s a cliff - useless - that seems to give way to fields of lush grain and - there. Behind Katniss, a sparse yet fruitful pine forest. I glance at my monitor and the full-color holographic Katniss narrows her eyes. She sees it, then, and I desperately hope she is sensible enough to run for it. 

Get to the forest, I will her through the screen. Get out, find shelter, find water. You’ll manage everything else. 

I can send her a pocket knife. I can even get her a sleeping bag or a blanket if she needs it. I can’t get her shit if that brute from Two skewers her on a sword. 

Forty. 

The countdown always feels so fucking long. A terse silence has descended upon the Mentors’ Lounge, and Peeta is glancing around at his surroundings. As I watch, he catches the eye of the girl from Four - Maren - just two people to his left. He raises his eyebrows at her, and she gives him a brief nod. 

Thirty-five. 

It doesn’t help that Katniss is a mule-headed fool. If she doesn’t go for the forest -

Thirty. 

Katniss is eyeing the pile at the Cornucopia with a bit too much anticipation. I glare at her as though she can see me. If she tries for the supplies, then all my hard work has gone to shit. I eye the gleaming whiskey bottle on the lounge table. 

Twenty-five. 

Peeta is following my instructions. He’s not looking at Katniss at all - or - well, fuck. Now he’s looking right at her. Idiot boy - he’s shaking his head? Why? Is he trying to give her some kind of subliminal message? 

Eighteen. 

If he is, it’s not working. Katniss just looks baffled. She glances between him and the pile of supplies, and I squint at the Cornucopia, trying to see what she sees - fuck me, there’s a bow. Of course they put a bow there, after the performance she gave at private training. Welcome to the world’s greatest television show. 

Fifteen. 

Can she? The other tributes are focused. A glance at the screen tells me that the boy from Two is laser-focused on the entrance of the Cornucopia, muscles tense and ready to sprint. He’ll be fast. Katniss is scrawny and she’s underfed and she scored an eleven, and she’s a prime target.

You went for it in your own year, a snide voice in my head tells me. I silence it with a whiff of liquor. I only made it in my own year because the other kids’ heads were filled with poison clouds. In retrospect, I took a stupid risk. I can’t let Katniss make the same mistake. 

Ten. 

Fuck. 

Nine. 

She’s looking dazed now. Come on, Katniss. 

Eight. 

The countdown hasn’t felt this long since I was on that plate myself. 

Seven.

“Is she going to go to the forest?” whispers Effie. 

“Shut up,” I mutter. 

Six. 

“I’m sure she will,” says Effie. 

“No,” I say slowly, a lead pit settling somewhere in my stomach. “I don’t actually think she will.” 

The girl who shot an arrow at the Gamemakers? She won’t stay away from a fight. She’s going to die like a brave idiot at the Cornucopia, and there will be nothing I can do to stop her. 

Five. 

The sun’s directly in front of her, which won’t matter if she turns and runs like she’s supposed to. 

Four. 

Peeta and Maren are holding eye contact, which the broadcast has picked up on. The camera circles them for a long moment before shifting to a clear overhead shot of the arena. Twenty-four tributes encircle the Cornucopia, and I know that the camera will remain steady here until the bloodbath begins in earnest. 

Three. 

Two. 

Well, this is it. Hallelujah. 

One. 

The gong sounds and Katniss’ feet shuffle for a second. Half a critical second, because the Careers and Peeta launch off their plates like cannons, diving in the direction of the Cornucopia like their lives depend on it.

“Oh, no,” says Effie as Katniss flings herself forward, grabbing a useless sheet of plastic at her feet. I can’t even muster a sense of real disappointment. Somehow, I knew she would throw her life away in some stupid manner like this. I stare passively as she lunges for some kind of backpack, waiting for some Career to take her out like the obvious threat she is. Every nerve in my body screams at me to get up and head for the liquor cabinet. I know it’s over. I knew it was over the minute I saw Katniss eyeing that bow. I knew it was over the second I saw Ilona Everdeen’s daughter volunteer for her little sister. For some inexplicable reason, I stay where I am. 

I look away from Katniss’ screen, following Peeta instead. He’s standing opposite the boy from Two. Postures tense, not violent. That’s fine. Tense is good. I turn up the volume on my headset, trying futilely to pick up their conversation, but the chaos of the Cornucopia is too much and I resign myself to analyzing their body language. 

Beside me, Effie lets out the slightest shriek and I turn to hiss at her. My reaction dies as I see her pointing at the screen in a silent panic, and my heart jumps into my throat as Katniss dives out of the way of the girl from Two. Useless adrenaline shoots through me as she blocks the knife with her backpack and sprints. To the woods. 

And then Katniss is out of the line of fire and a strange sensation spreads through me. Relief. The main camera loses her entirely, cutting to the far more interesting bloodshed at the Cornucopia, and then it’s just me and her hologram in a steady, silent jog through the pine forest. She’s okay. She made it out. 

Peeta, however, isn’t safe yet. He and Four have piled supplies at the Cornucopia’s mouth, and they’re defending their hoard while One and Two pick off stragglers, executing their butchery all around the meadow. Peeta’s blond hair has a bloodstain near his left temple. I pray he’s not injured. More importantly, I pray Katniss didn’t see him team up with the Careers. 

He’s somehow acquired a knife and he’s utterly vicious with it, teeth gritted in concentration. The camera on the main broadcast circles Peeta like a vulture, picking up every micro-expression that crosses his face. 

“Check the conversation channels,” I mutter at Effie. She has access to Capitol social networks, where citizens can discuss Games developments with each other. There, every death and every conversation is analyzed in as much detail as the official commentary. In short, they’re a mentor’s best friend. 

“They’re shocked,” says Effie slowly, squinting at her screen. She scrolls a little further. “But he’s all they’re talking about.” 

Peeta managed to avoid looking over at Katniss after their brief eye contact during the countdown. This is a shame for cinematic reasons but probably a good thing in terms of survival. Capitol citizens, however, are obsessive and have already picked up on that seconds-long interaction - they’ve latched on to the narrative like leeches. Perfect. 

A scream cuts through the air behind Peeta, so loud I nearly yank my headset off, and I watch him swing around, backing into the hot metal of the Cornucopia - I tense for a moment, but he’s alright. Nobody’s targeting the boy from Twelve, not when he’s protected by a pack of lethal Careers. 

The scream is the boy from Four, though, and Peeta stares in a moment of blank horror as an axe takes off most of the kid’s neck. To his credit, Peeta recovers quickly from the sight and steps ahead of the body as Maren bends over, screaming over the boy’s corpse. I raise my head and make eye contact with Four’s mentor and my friend, Althea, who shoot me a grim look. That boy’s death isn’t good for Four. Nor is it good for me. 

Cato slams his sword to the hilt in the stomach of the boy from Seven, whose axe claimed the life of the boy from Four. His name was Hull, according to the display, which is a fact I’m sure someone had told me before. Johanna cackles as her tribute’s blood sprays the screen, tossing her headset away in an all-too-familiar gesture of resignation. 

“See you later, suckers,” she announces to the silent mentors’ lounge. Nobody acknowledges her, so she turns to me. “Drinks later, Haymitch? When they’re all dead?” 

Normally, I’d qualify her with at least a laugh. This year, I adjust my volume settings and try to tune her out. She scoffs at me and I pretend not to hear her, narrowing my eyes at the Peeta hologram instead; he’s catching his breath, leaning against the side of the Cornucopia, and I catch a glimpse of blood. I hope he’s not injured. Too early in the game for him to be injured already. 

Most of the mentors stay in the Lounge until the bloodbath ends, so when Johanna stalks out of the room it’s a hell of a statement. They won’t cut the broadcast to the Lounge until after the cannons sound, but I can see the drones following her exit; they’ll almost certainly try catching her for a soundbite to air later tonight, when things quiet down. 

They’ll try to catch me for an interview soon enough, I think. The camera and the channel speculation has focused on Peeta inordinately, and they will probably want to seek out any information they can about the situation. We’ll have to find a way to spin it in our favor. 

The battle at the Cornucopia is winding down. By this point, most tributes have been killed or had the sense to flee; the only exceptions are the Careers or the exceptionally foolish. I’m not certain where Peeta falls in that spectrum. Blood spatters the screen as the girl from Two - Clove, I should probably learn their names at some point - pursues a fleeing kid at the edge of the forest, knife catching her right in the throat. I think that’ll be the last death of the morning. 

The Careers regroup at the mouth of the Cornucopia. The initial killing spree is officially over, then, unless - unless - 

The cameras have picked up the tension in the newly minted, blood-soaked Career group. Six Careers, three boys and three girls, but the boy is from the wrong district. It’s markedly strange - though Peeta’s blond hair eases the visuals of it all, his lower bearing is obvious to anyone watching. 

Effie clears her throat next to me. “Haymitch,” she says, and her voice is small. 

“What?” 

“Donations are slowing.” 

That gets my attention. I spin my head around so fast my neck hurts, snatching Effie’s tablet from her hands. I scan the timestamps of the donations, the money flowing into my account, and I curse. She’s right. 

“They don’t know what our story is,” I mutter. 

“What?” Effie asks, leaning in. 

“They’re confused,” I say, keeping my voice low to avoid eavesdroppers. “They were paying for the star-crossed lovers. They don’t know what they’re paying for right now.”

“I don’t think anyone knows,” says Effie, and I frown. What does she mean? 

A glance to my left tells me the answer. Chaff’s face is dark as thunder as he stares at his screen, fists clenched tight around a glass of liquor. I watch him for a few moments; years of friendship have taught me his body language, and I know from the set of his shoulders that he’s refusing to look anywhere close to my direction. 

I got my boy to join the fucking Careers. No wonder he won’t look in my direction. I can only imagine what they’re saying back home, and that imagination is a distraction I cannot currently afford. 

Onscreen, Maren has stepped protectively in front of Peeta. She waves her hands aggressively in Clove’s face, while Cato smirks in the back. Snippets of their conversation float in and out of my headset as they finalize the conditions of this unusual deal, the one their mentors forced on them at the last minute. It’s visibly tense out there. 

“Hull is dead, ” Maren is saying. “When was the last time we lost someone this early on, huh? We could use the boost in numbers.” 

“How does it matter?” shrieks Clove. “There’s only one winner. Kill him now, and we’ve eliminated half the field in the first two hours -” 

“And what would be the point? Boosting your own stats?” asks Glimmer, tossing her hair. It glints bright, painfully white in the sunlight. The ends of her hair are soaked in blood and I have a hard time looking away. 

Peeta looks remarkably calm for someone who’s having his murder debated in front of him. He listens quietly, eyes flicking back and forth between Glimmer and Maren and Clove as they argue. Assessing. 

“Frankly, I could use another kill,” says Cato, the massive brute from Two. “I only got four.” 

“I only got three ,” protests the boy from One. Marvel. 

“Not my problem, Fantastic,” says Cato.

“That is not my name -” 

“None of you have asked my opinion,” interjects Peeta. 

Glimmer and Clove look back at him, while Cato sneers. 

“Stuff it, Lover Boy. I’m not in the mood to hear you beg.” 

To his credit, Peeta’s expression doesn’t flicker. “I’m not begging. I’m here to make a deal.” 

The cameras scan his features hungrily, focusing on the steely glint in his eye. He looks straight ahead at Cato. 

“Let’s hear it, Lover Boy,” says Marvel. “I’m getting bored of this.” 

“In exchange for your alliance, I’ll lead you to Katniss Everdeen.” 

There’s a beat of dead silence. I don’t know what those kids’ mentors told them, but some clearly knew more than others - Maren looks calm, Clove bemused, and Cato angry. 

“This some kind of trick, Lover Boy?” he says. “We all saw that damn interview. You’re about to go kill the love of your life, or whatever-the-fuck?” 

“It was an interview,” says Peeta, unmoved. “People lie.” 

“It didn’t sound like a lie,” says Cato. 

Peeta shrugs. “I’m not saying I’ve never had a crush on her. But, y’know, a crush versus life-or-death…” 

Cato and Clove exchange glances. 

“Alright, say we believe you,” says Clove. “ Lyme believes you, anyway. Who says you’ll even be able to find her any better than we can?” 

“She trusts me,” says Peeta simply. “And now she thinks I’m in love with her. Shouldn’t be too hard.” 

Damn. He’s good. 

Cato lets out a cruel laugh. “If she believed that love shit, she’s stupider than I thought,” he says. 

Peeta glances to the side a bit, raising his eyebrows slightly. The camera catches his glance dead-on, and it’s as if he’s looking right at us, laughing a little bit with the audience. Cato, by his own admission, believed the love shit only a few seconds ago. I bite back a laugh myself. Peeta’s not just good. He’s fantastic. 

A glimpse of Chaff’s expression kills my mood. He doesn’t look angry anymore. Instead, he’s baffled. He’s - I think he’s hurt. With effort, I pull my attention back to my feed. 

“So tell us her secrets, then,” says Maren, wiping her bloodied spear on the grass. “Where’d that eleven come from? She got survival skills? Secret weapon?” 

“Nobody in Twelve’s got survival skills,” says Peeta. “None of us are allowed in the woods, so she’s never been there. But, y’know, she’s from a mining family. Pretty sure her dad worked down there, and they were close, so she probably knows her way around a pickaxe, explosives.” 

I bite back a smile. Good. Good, excellent. Chaff might not get it yet, but Peeta’s going to have people back home whispering. Everyone knows that Katniss is a regular in the woods. Everyone knows her skills are with a bow and arrow. Soon, it’ll be clear to the whole country that Peeta is lying his asscheeks off. 

Clove assesses Peeta slowly. She circles him like he’s some kind of prey, looking him up and down. 

“Good enough, Lover Boy,” she says. “You can stick with us for tonight.” 

I lean back in my chair, letting out a huff of relief. I’m rudely interrupted when Effie nudges me and points to the broadcast, which has fixated on my face; they’re ravenous for detail. I won’t give it to them. 

The Careers break to go collect their supplies, and the cannons begin to sound. The broadcast cuts to Caesar and I take that as my cue to leave my seat. I roll my shoulders and I wink at the camera. Let them contemplate. 

“Lunch?” says Effie, and I nod. Peeta’s done his part. It’s time for me to go and do mine, while Katniss - uh - takes a leisurely stroll through the forest, according to my hologram.

“Time to face the music,” I say grimly. Studiously avoiding the accusing eyes of my fellow mentors - of my friends - I set my headset down, activate my communicuff, and walk right into the hordes of rabid reporters gathered outside the Lounge. 

Predictably, I’m bombarded instantly. The clamor is so loud I physically retreat, gritting my teeth and bracing myself. Effie stands stoic next to me, more used to dealing with the press. Her only reaction is to dig her claw-like nails a little tighter into my arm. 

“Alright, alright,” I yell, waving my hand in the air. There’s no reaction from the mass of vultures, who continue to shriek questions at me, and I scowl. 

“Try to pretend you don’t hate them,” mutters Effie in my ear. I scowl at her. 

“Haymitch! Was it all a lie? What’s happening out there?” someone hollers at me, getting so close I can smell the chicken stew on their breath. It’s disgusting. 

“Does Katniss know?” another reporter asks. 

“Does Katniss love him back?” 

“What did he say to her after the interview?”

“Are you hoping that Peeta is going to win?” 

Okay, I’ve had it. I glance around at the mass of reporters, seeking out an opening. If I give the wrong person an interview, I could cost those kids their lives. This play is so very delicate.

“There,” whispers Effie, and I glance sideways to see Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith emerge from the broadcast room. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I mutter. One only gets an on-air interview with Flickerman if he personally invites you into his studio. Generally, in these early stages, he doesn’t do interviews with mentors, since he has enough other material to work with.  

“Trust me,” says Effie, and to my horror she waves her hand in the air to catch Caesar’s attention. 

Caesar’s eyes, somehow, spark with genuine interest. He pushes his way through the crowd of reporters, which easily parts for him. He gives me a once-over, and I stand there in silence with an eyebrow raised and my arms folded. It probably does jack shit to hide my discomfort. 

“Well, folks,” says Caesar, his signature maniacal grin gracing his face. “If it isn’t the representatives of the district that has us all buzzing with excitement this season! Haymitch, do you have a minute?” 

“For you, Caesar? Always,” I say. The crowd of reporters fades away. They’re nothing compared to Caesar, and they know it. From the corner of my eye, I see some of them circling other mentors as they leave the room. I think I spot Cashmere raising a brow in my direction, but I’m whisked away before I have time to think about it, and then suddenly I’m center stage in Caesar’s studio. 

“Are we live?” I ask tensely, taking in the bright studio lights. Caesar sweeps me over to his velvet-lined interview chair. 

“Nope,” Caesar says. “Make yourself comfortable. We’re airing reruns of the Cornucopia right now, and Claudius is over there doing a voice-over…did you see that Two girl’s kills? Pack’s formidable this year, is it not?” 

“Hmm,” I say, noncommittally. 

“Pretend the camera isn’t there,” Caesar instructs. “We’ll have this on air in an hour or two, once we finish our bloodbath overview…now, Linda, on three?” 

I jolt as I realize that there’s a woman manning the camera. She’s wearing a suit that makes her blend into her surroundings, giving her a beetle-like appearance. Every time I think that this city can’t unnerve me more. 

“Three…two….,” says Linda, and a snide voice in the back of my mind whispers, once again, let the seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin .

Chapter Text

“Haymitch, please. Detail. We’re dying, over here,” says Caesar, putting his hand over his heart and fake-swooning in his interview seat. I stifle a snort. They’re hardly the ones dying. 

I give a forced laugh, remembering Effie’s advice to pretend I don’t hate him. Fuck, didn’t I yell at Katniss for the same thing? I’m a hypocrite. I refuse to act like Katniss, so I force my stance to relax and I shoot Caesar a knowing wink. 

“A good player never reveals his hand so early on,” I say. 

“Are you an expert at the card tables, Haymitch?” says Caesar, feigning interest. Hah. They’d be surprised. 

“Let’s focus on Katniss and Peeta,” I say, smiling. “Caesar, I’m curious. You’ve had me talking. What do you think of the recent developments?” 

“Intrigued, Haymitch. I’m intrigued. I think I can speak for the whole Capitol when I say that we’d do anything to know what Katniss and Peeta are thinking right now.” 

Katniss and Peeta are definitely thinking about how to survive the night, and I’m certain that nobody in the Capitol would last five minutes in their shoes. I can’t, unfortunately, say that to Caesar. 

“Well, you’ll have to see some of it for yourselves,” I say carefully. “I can’t spoil the whole game before it’s even begun. But what I can say is that love is complicated. And what you see is never really what you get.” 

“Fascinating. Utterly fascinating,” says Caesar. “Peeta mentioned that his love for Katniss wasn’t really a lie, didn’t he? What do you make of that?” 

“It’s hard to lie about something so serious, isn’t it?” I say. “And when you’re in the arena, you’re at your most vulnerable. Makes it even harder.”

“True,” says Caesar. “Very, very true. Are you quite sure I can’t wheedle more out of you yet?” 

“Quite sure,” I say. “But believe me when I tell you all to stay tuned. This isn’t the last you’re all going to hear about the star-crossed lovers from District Twelve.” 

“And, cut,” says Caesar, making a slit-throat gesture at the woman behind the camera. “Excellent, Haymitch. I’m excited to see what’s coming.” 

“Me too,” I say. 

“All of this takes me back to when you were first in my interview chair,” he says genially. “I remember it like it was yesterday. Do you?” 

“Of course,” I say. The cameras aren’t rolling. 

“Well, with any luck, this year will end up just like the Second Quarter Quell! Good luck to you and yours, my friend,” he says. 

With effort, I hold my tongue. For Katniss’ sake, I fucking hope it doesn’t. 

I exit the studio to a million staring eyes. The collective consciousness of the mass of reporters, mentors, attendants, and escorts turns hungrily in my direction, knowing that Caesar has gotten interview tidbits that will control the Games’ narrative from hereon out. At least, I hope that’s what they’re thinking. 

Mentors mill around the common area, getting coffee and refreshments while the Games footage plays on a massive screen on the wall. I get the occasional suspicious glance from my friends, but shockingly enough I couldn’t give less of a damn what Chaff and Cecelia think of me. Let them glance. Reflexively, I check my communicuff, but all seems quiet on the Games front; Peeta and the Careers are taking an inventory of their supplies, and Katniss is still trekking determinedly in the northwest direction. 

Effie spots me through the crowd and shoves her way over to me. 

“How did it go?” she hisses. “I tried to get in there, but -” 

“It went okay, I think,” I say. 

“Okay isn’t good enough -” 

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, princess.” 

“Their lives are on the line, Haymitch -” 

“You’ll see it for yourself in an hour, won’t you?” I snarl, wrenching my forearm from her claw-like grip. Her nails leave red marks in my skin. 

From the corner of my eye, I see Cashmere and Althea striding towards me. I tense. 

“I’ll be right back,” I say. 

“Haymitch, wait -” 

I meet Cash and Althea in the middle of the floor. 

“We need to talk,” says Cashmere bluntly. 

“Yes, we do,” I say. 

“Lyme says Brutus is livid,” says Althea calmly. I catch a flash of something in her expression, but it’s gone before I can examine it further. 

“Is he ever calm?” I ask drily. This gets a snort from Cashmere and an eye roll from Althea. 

We’re interrupted by the sudden arrival of Finnick Odair, who pushes his way through the crowd towards us. 

“Wait for me!” he says. “I love seeing Brutus enraged.” 

“Finnick?” I ask. “What are you doing here?” 

“Sorry, I had to - anyway -”

“Are you even mentoring?” I ask. 

“Yeah. Technically, substituted for Davey this morning - not that it mattered, with Hull fucking dead -” 

“I don’t care,” says Cashmere. 

I nod at her. “Let’s talk inside,” I say. 

Both she and Althea nod tersely at me and we move towards the Mentor Lounge, where reporters and audio recordings are banned and we can have at least a semblance of privacy. Cashmere points to a secluded corner of the Lounge, and I follow her directions without complaint. She and Finnick sit. Althea and I remain standing. 

“Alright,” I say. “What is it?” 

“What exactly is your play here, Haymitch?” she says. 

I sigh. I’ve been expecting this. 

“It’s what it looks like,” I say. “For once, I have two strong contenders. I’m playing to each of their strengths to see how far they can get.” 

“Do you think I’m stupid?” she asks. “Peeta’s strategy puts Katniss in direct danger.” 

I shrug. “And it’s also helping her,” I say. “People are eating up the whole star-crossed lovers shit. It’s getting her donations.” 

She opens her mouth to continue, but I cut her off. 

“Besides,” I conclude. “Only one of them makes it out, anyway. No point ignoring reality.” 

I can only keep stringing Cashmere along so far. Peeta will have to make his intentions clear to the audience soon enough, but the Career alliance is still young and fragile. I’m not going to give away Peeta’s entire strategy this early on. 

Althea rolls her eyes. “What are you trying to do here, Cashmere?” she asks. “I thought we discussed the plan yesterday?” 

“I’m trying to protect Glimmer,” says Cashmere coldly. “I’d assume you’re trying to do the same for your kids, except you’ve already got one of them killed.” 

Finnick scowls at that, though Althea shrugs off the insult. 

“You’re trying to protect Glimmer. He’s trying to protect Katniss and Peeta. Who cares?” she says. “It’s like Haymitch said. There’s only one winner anyway.” 

“The pack is designed to break,” I add. “Whatever this is, it can only be temporary.”

Cashmere looks between me and Althea for a moment. She purses her lips. 

“Fine,” she says. “I’ll get Gloss to calm Brutus down. But Haymitch…” 

“Yes?” I ask, when her ominous pause gets a beat too long. 

“Not even Lyme can stop Brutus forever,” she says. 

“Looking forward to it,” I say drily. It’s an empty threat and I know it. I’ve gotten into fights with Brutus before. He may have killed Elly in the arena, but he can’t kill me without risking arrest, and besides that what’s the worst he can do? Beat me up?

Cashmere rolls her eyes, and I am left with Finnick and Althea. I raise an eyebrow at her. “That could have gone worse,” I say. 

“Could have gone better,” she replies. “I got you out of that one and you damn well know it.” 

“She’s right,” Finnick chimes in. 

I scowl at him. “Why are you here, again?” 

“Eye candy.” 

On that note, I decide it’s best if I take my leave and seek out Effie Trinket. I slide back into my mentor booth and boot my holograms up again. My communicuff, which I have been checking periodically, has shown no significant developments; I leave one monitor playing the live feed, and rewind another one on Peeta so I can listen in on any conversations he’s had in the last couple of hours. 

There’s not much substance there. Mostly standard Career material, bantering about number of kills, comparing skill-sets, bickering over supply distributions. Peeta seems to have found a companion in Maren, who appears to have adopted him as her replacement district partner. Meanwhile, Katniss’ comfort in the woods is already becoming apparent. She’s somehow managed to extract some foodstuff out of pine bark, which the commentators say is a common tree around District Twelve. Though she can’t admit to illegal activity, it’s enough to get people whispering. 

I send Effie to handle sponsorship calls, though she gives me a dire warning that I’ll need to show my face soon if I want to keep the sponsors on my good side. I scowl at her. Too many people are on my back about something or the other, and if I keep trying to please everyone I’ll snap and end up killing Katniss. I let myself pour a single shot of whiskey, for the sake of my own sanity. 

The sky outside the Lounge is darkening, and the reporters outside are packing up to leave for the day. They’ll be back tomorrow, of course, to dissect the happenings of the night. Caesar will remain in his booth until the death toll recaps are done playing. Around me, some mentors leave. The ones with dead kids are out already, probably drinking the night away at the Bell Jar; others, like Isadora from Five, also take their leave despite having a living tribute. Fair enough, since I doubt they have either sponsors or interviews to deal with. Worst case, their kid dies. 

The Lounge at night is always eerie. I’m suddenly, strangely grateful for Effie’s company, as she perches at my side with her own headset sitting awkwardly atop her stupid-looking wig. She’s like a shield from the judgemental, curious, angry, stares of my fellow mentors. 

I watch as Katniss effortlessly scales a tree, strapping herself into a sleeping bag. She’s doing well so far, though her day was unexciting - she defended herself at the Cornucopia, escaped with supplies, and has proven that she’s fit and capable in the woods. It’s enough to retain sponsor interest. What’s more obviously driving sponsor interest is happening on my other screen, as Peeta helps the Careers set up camp by the Cornucopia.

“There’s food missing,” complains Cato. “We had twelve packs of dried berries this morning. There’s only ten now.” 

“You must have miscounted,” says his district partner. “Might’ve got lost during the melee.” 

I switch tabs to my sponsorships, losing interest in the Careers tallying their supplies. Peeta’s gained significant ground today, surpassing even his post-interview boost. Sure, his strategy relies purely on Katniss, but in any other year he’d be an excellent prospect even standing alone - he scored an eight, he’s a smooth talker, and he’s worked his way into the Career pack. Combined with the star-crossed lovers angle, he’s nearly unstoppable. Shame he’ll be dead in a few days. 

Effie taps my shoulder to get my attention, one ear pressed to the sponsorship phone line. “Thank you so much, Mr. Gaius. Yes, absolutely we can. Tomorrow at noon, perhaps? Sounds perfect. District Twelve thanks you for your interest!” 

“What was that?” I ask. 

“I’m setting up a lunch for you tomorrow,” she says. “Three high-profile sponsors for Twelve. Do not. Piss them off.” 

“Fine,” I say. I would love to protest, but I’m more than aware that I need to start talking to important people. “Who do they want to sponsor?” 

“Combined pool,” says Effie. “They want to see what you’ll do with it.” 

I nod, turning back to the screen as a conversation in the arena piques my interest. 

“I’ll go fetch water,” Peeta announces to the group. “No point wasting the bottled stuff when we have the lake right there.” 

“Go with him, Glimmer,” says Cato lazily. “Don’t want our newest acquisition running off on us.” 

I find myself bristling at his tone, though Peeta smirks, unfazed. Despite myself, I’m impressed. Peeta and Glimmer make their way towards the lakebed. Peeta finds a clear enough section to fill the bottles from, while Glimmer stands guard, holding iodine to purify the water that Peeta hands her. 

While crouched by the lakebed, Peeta glances around surreptitiously. When he confirms that Glimmer’s a safe distance away, he closes his eyes and visibly exhales, as though he’s taking a moment to breathe. 

“Katniss, love, where are you?” he whispers to himself, under his breath. It’s almost inaudible under the sound of the wind and the lake water, but it’s enough. The cameras manage to catch it, catch the undertone of longing and sadness and pain in his voice. More than enough. If I could give the boy performance notes, I’d tell him that his delivery was melodramatic, but whatever. I can work with it. 

I glance up at the main broadcast, where Caesar is in actual hysterics over Peeta’s whisper, and I grin. Next to Effie, the phone rings again. I crack my shoulders. 

Night is falling in earnest, now, and the daily recaps have begun. I watch neutrally as Caesar replays every single death from this morning. The knife slides in the throat of the Nine boy and Katniss escapes, the camera lingering on her for a second longer than necessary, and then there’s an extended shot of Peeta defending the supplies, back to back with Maren. Good. They know who their stars are. 

As the recaps play in the sky, the cameras show each tribute’s night-time camping spot. The headshots of dead tributes illuminate the faces of the living ones, making for beautiful cinematography. I watch as Katniss carefully counts off the dead on her hands, and I pray she’s making a mental note of the exact tributes that still pose threats to her. Her eyebrows raise as Hull’s face flashes on the screen - she wasn’t expecting a dead Career this early on - and I suppress a grin as I notice her shoulders tense towards the end. She’s waiting for Peeta. The face of the girl from Ten flashes instead and Katniss’s face shows a second of genuine relief. It’s subtle, but they’re overanalyzing her anyway. I’ll point it out next time I’m interviewed. 

“Lover Girl is alive, then,” laughs Marvel, poking Peeta. Peeta flinches just the slightest. 

“I know,” he says languidly. “I told you I’d help you find her, didn’t I?” 

“Get some sleep,” is Maren’s answering murmur. “We’re hunting at midnight.” 

As Peeta rolls into his sleeping bag, only inches away from Maren, an expression of grief, love, and guilt settles on his features. I’m not sure whether it's real or not. I’m not sure if he knows whether it’s real or not. Either way, it’s effective. 

“You should try and get some rest,” says Effie. Her light touch on my elbow makes me flinch backwards, and she retracts her arm. “Even if you’re staying here.” 

“I’ll try,” I say. No promises, though. 

Somehow, though, I manage to doze off at my station. I fade in and out of sleep, vaguely aware of the arena sounds in my headset, the murmurs of the other mentors around me, Effie tapping away at her keyboard on my right. I wake up suddenly to the sound of conversation in my headset. 

“Get up, Lover Boy,” a voice snarls in my ear. Peeta’s ear. “We’re going hunting.” 

I pinch the side of my hand, hard, willing myself to full consciousness. The Games are on, and there’ll be time for sleep when Katniss and Peeta are dead.

Chapter Text

Well, the cat’s out of the bag. At least, part of the cat. The cat’s ass-end is out of the bag. Am I sleep deprived? 

“Someone should go back. Make sure the job’s done,” says Marvel. 

“Yeah, we don’t want to have to track her down twice.” Maren.  

“I said she’s dead!” Cato snaps. 

They devolve into a bickering argument. On my hologram, I track where Peeta’s eyes are going. I swear his expression lingers on Katniss’ tree. Does he see her? I can’t tell, but his mouth presses into a thin line. 

“We’re wasting time! I’ll go finish her and let’s move on!” he snaps, a little too loudly. He draws his knife and I watch in silence as Peeta commits cold-blooded murder. At least he has the decency to close the girl’s eyes after he does it. 

I sip a horrible-tasting cocktail of tequila-infused coffee and I try to will my brain into gear. Katniss’s face morphs into a near-comical expression of open-mouthed shock as she recognizes Peeta’s voice. It’s fine, I tell myself. She’ll probably hate both me and Peeta for it, but at least the betrayed expression reads as genuine. She’s given the cameras enough to work with. 

I try not to let out a hysterical laugh as the Careers discuss her from well within her earshot. Really, I couldn’t have set the shot up better myself. From a cinematography perspective, it’s perfect. As someone who knows Katniss, however, I’m on edge. Keeping this plan solid now relies on Katniss having the emotional intelligence to understand that there’s more to the game than Peeta selling her out. Unfortunately, Katniss Everdeen has the emotional intelligence of a squirrel on morphling. 

With the girl from Eight dead, Peeta’s able to hustle the Career pack along the path, away from where I think he at least suspects that Katniss is hiding. As he takes up his position towards the pack’s rear, he shoots a glance backwards the way they came. He heard something. I’m sure he did. 

I listen to their conversation a little longer as I sip my coffee. 

“Alright, Lover Boy. You said she’d be somewhere underground, right?” 

“Yep,” says Peeta confidently. “Like I said. She’s a miner, so she thrives underground. We need to be looking for hidden cave systems, things like that.” 

“You’re sure she wouldn’t just be hidden in a bush? Up a tree?” 

“We don’t have trees in Twelve,” says Peeta. “At least, not big enough to climb. I don’t know where she could’ve learned to climb a tree.” 

Peeta’s deception should be getting more and more obvious to the audience. The sponsorship numbers are ticking up steadily, and we have a sizable income tucked away. Oh, who am I kidding. We have enough sponsorship money here to feed the Seam for a year. Hopefully, it’ll be enough to send a couple of gifts over when the need arises. 

Fittingly, the broadcast chooses that moment to focus back on Katniss as she shimmies down expertly from the tall willow tree. The timing is nearly comical. Now, with the sun on her face, her every expression is naked to the world - the camera lingers on her face, waiting to catch some semblance of a reaction. In a rare moment of insight, she tilts her head slightly to the left and gives them a knowing smirk. Weird, but okay. I’ll tell them it’s because she just trusts Peeta that much. 

“Why did I bring this bow again?” Glimmer complains as Peeta steers the Career pack as far away from Katniss as they can get. “It’s so fucking heavy.” 

“Because we have two swords, a spear, and a knife thrower already,” snaps Cato. “Not to mention the blond deadweight over there.” 

Peeta has an uncanny knack for guessing exactly where the cameras are hidden. He shoots a drone a long, sarcastic look that draws an audible laugh from Caesar. The audience should remember that Peeta had been the one who convinced Glimmer to take the bow. They don’t know why yet, but they should. Soon. 

I assume that nothing interesting is happening in the arena, because the broadcast is showing late-rising Capitolites the exciting events of the morning. I watch Peeta kill Cecilia’s girl from about six angles before Caesar decides to switch to speculation about his new favorite topic, my star-crossed lovers. He’s brought out a bunch of reaction videos of various high-profile Capitol citizens watching the conversation in the tree, and he’s successfully making it look like the most exciting event of the season. Really, he’s making my job easy. 

I nearly leap out of my skin as Effie appears behind me. Somehow, she’s managed to find the time to put on a fresh face of makeup and a new wig. 

“Good morning, Haymitch,” she says. When did she even leave last night? Did she go home? “Remember, sponsor lunch at noon. I assume you’ll be there?” 

“Yes,” I say, though my mouth goes dry at the thought. I take a large gulp of my lukewarm tequila coffee to compensate. It doesn’t help. 

“Their names are Fausta and Gneius Gaius and they are high-profile singers. I’ve made you a dossier with everything I know about them…believe me, I know you don’t have things like music out in the districts, but I promise you their endorsement is a big deal. If they say publicly they’re supporting Katniss, it could mean huge boosts in funding -” 

“Alright, alright, I say,” the beginnings of a headache already beginning to set in. “Let me see the dossier.” 

I skim it at my desk, keeping one eye on my camera feeds. All seems peaceful in the arena, except Katniss is a fucking idiot and hasn’t found any water source yet. That is, in fact, not my problem. The Gaiuses seem like a very normal Capitol couple, though I know from Finnick that Capitol folks are more depraved than they seem. However, aside from the fact that the name Gneius Gaius sounds like a disease, they appear genuinely interested in sponsoring Katniss. And I trust Effie not to send me into a hostage situation with actual creeps. 

I studiously avoid interacting with any other mentor in the Lounge. Chaff and Cecilia are furious with me, because Peeta is a Career and Peeta killed Cece’s tribute. Cashmere and Brutus are probably furious with me for the exact opposite reason. By now, my plan must be obvious, and I doubt any of them like it. I use Effie as a shield and pretend to be deep in conversation with her as I sneak out of the Lounge. 

She’s booked us a very nice car to take us to the restaurant, which is in a high-end district just a couple blocks off the President’s mansion. My communicuff tightens on my wrist and I sip steadily from a tiny flask of gin that I’ve managed to sneak into my pocket. 

“Are you drinking? ” snaps Effie. 

“Me? Drinking? Never,” I say. 

“Give that to me,” she says. 

“Make me.” 

“Haymitch, I swear to effing god -” 

“I will not listen to a woman who says effing -” 

A round of beeping from my communicuff stops me. I pause and flick the display on. The beeping is coming from Katniss’ tracker, which tells me that her hydration levels are getting concerningly low and her heart rate too high. I frown at it. It’s too early on for her to have such a ridiculous problem. 

“What?” asks Effie. 

“Katniss is dehydrated,” I say. “She has about a day to find water, or she’s in trouble. And she’d better pray that the Careers don’t find her before that.” 

“ What?! ” says Effie, reaching for my cuff, and I slap her hand away. 

“Not the main problem right now,” I say. “I think we’re here.” 

Effie visibly steels herself as we walk through the door of the restaurant. I just hope she can carry the conversation. It’s been years since I had to mingle in Capitol high society, and I’ve never been good at finding topics of conversation to talk to them about. The best I can hope for is that I don’t make a fool of myself. 

The door to the restaurant swings open, and I feel like I’m onstage again. People’s heads turn when we walk in, and I hear whispers of excitement as I’m recognized. They crane their necks, squint their eyes, and I see portable cameras being surreptitiously pulled out of bags to photograph me. I’m the talk of the Capitol, I think. Me and my tributes, charming the citizens of our illustrious nation one by one. 

Gneius Gaius and his wife are already waiting at our table. They shake hands with both of us, though I notice Fausta wiping her hand on a napkin as soon as she lets go of me - can’t let my district skin contaminate her too badly, after all - and Effie is able to guide the conversation perfectly. 

“We don’t have much in terms of music in the district,” I say, and that immediately sets Gneius and Fausta off with coos and gasps of excitement. 

“I’d love to introduce you to some of what the Capitol has to offer,” says Fausta, her red irises boring into my skin. I suppress a gag. 

“Maybe. If this partnership continues,” I say. 

“Speaking of partnerships,” says Gneius. “Let’s talk about this tribute of yours, Mr. Abernathy.” 

“Of course,” I say. “She’s my favorite topic of conversation lately.” 

They both titter. “Ours too!” 

“So, what do you want to know?” I ask. 

“What’s she like ?” Fausta asks. 

The question catches me off-guard. What’s she like ? I was expecting something about her strategy. Whether she loves Peeta. How she got the eleven. Not what she’s like. 

“What do you mean?” I ask, stalling for time. 

“Well, she’s so fascinating because she’s such an enigma, you see. We were hoping to get a sense for what she’s really like, you know? Who she really is? Who’s the person we’re going to be investing in?” 

A story. They want a story, not a real person, I know that much - they don’t wnat to hear about how Katniss hates the Capitol, how she’s forced to fend for herself back home so that her sister doesn’t starve to death. They don’t want to hear about how she’s snarly and angry and hurting all the time, and she should be because the world hasn’t been kind to her at all. They want an insider piece of the narrative. 

I’m silent for a beat too long, and Effie jumps in. 

“I think Katniss is very driven,” she says. “She wants to win.”

They nod at each other, but they’re looking for more. I know they’re looking for more. 

“Katniss is motivated by the people she loves,” I say. I don’t know where the words come from, but I don’t let them stop. “Her sister Prim most of all. You saw how she volunteered for her right at the beginning. Katniss knows she can win, but more than that, she wants to win for Prim and for her family back in Twelve, and that makes her stronger than the other competitors, you know?” 

Gneius leans forward, clearly intrigued. “Why does it make her stronger than the other tributes? Do you think it puts her at an advantage over someone like Cato?” 

“Sure,” I say easily. “Katniss fights for what she loves. And right now, what she loves is in the arena with her.” 

Fausta gasps out loud, clapping her hands to her mouth. “Oh my ,” she exclaims. “Gneius, darling, it’s just too sweet.” 

“So she loves him, then?” Gneius asks, unconvinced. 

“She might not be admitting it to herself,” I say. “It’s a dangerous situation that she’s in. But I can confirm to you right now - confidentially, of course - that she absolutely loves him. And he loves her back.” 

Gneius is nodding slowly, and Effie shoots me a look of genuine excitement. 

“One last question,” he says. “Fausta is very observant, you know.” 

“Sure.” 

“There’s something about Katniss that nobody’s mentioned in the interviews yet, you know.” 

My stomach lurches, but I manage to raise an easy eyebrow at this Capitol man. “And what might that be?” 

“That pin she wears. What is it?” 

Pin? Pin? Katniss has a pin? How have I missed it? Did Cinna bring it up? Was I too drunk to remember? I’m a terrible mentor. Cinna’s in charge of her token, he’s the one who sends it through for approval - she brought a token? What token? 

For once, the ubiquitous nature of the Games is a blessing. My communicuff lets out a round of urgent beeps, and I know it’s only to alert me to Katniss’s dehydration but I take the excuse to switch the device on, pull up my feed of her and zoom in as close as I can to her lapels. 

And it’s there. Clear as day. Somehow, through some intervention, I have managed to miss it all this time, though it’s gleaming, bright and obvious, on the collar of her jacket. It reflects in the dying light of the arena and as I stare at it my breath catches and my head spins and suddenly I am no longer at this table and with these people. 

Katniss is wearing Maysilee’s mockingjay pin. 

Chapter Text

“Excuse me,” I mumble. Ignoring Effie’s stare of anger and alarm, I push myself away from the table. The room is hot, too hot, and the walls are closing in around me as I stumble away from these sponsors, my communicuff still beeping that Katniss is dehydrated and traipsing through the woods. 

“I didn’t see him drinking,” I hear Fausta whisper to her husband, her lips pursed, as I break into an awkward half-run, half-walk somewhere in the direction of as far away as possible. 

I have to go back eventually. I know that. I owe it to Katniss, and I don’t like leaving debts unpaid - fuck knows I have too many - like the one I owe to her mother, whose best friend bled out in my arms a quarter-century ago, whose death is on my head and Katniss’s will be soon, too, because Katniss is wearing Maysilee’s fucking pin. 

I find myself a block away from the restaurant, leaning against a wall in an alleyway. It’s too warm outside, too, and the sun beats down on my head as I try to catch my breath. I can’t afford to lose it while talking to sponsors. I don’t know why Katniss has Maysilee’s pin. She never said anything. What does she know? What has her mother told her? Katniss was so hostile towards me, and now I can hardly blame her, because she’s wearing a symbol of the first person I loved and who I let die. 

Fuck. I need to get it together. I pull a flask of gin from my pocket - half-consumed from the car ride on the way over here - and I take a long, measured gulp. I take a deep breath, pressing my hands to my eyes, trying to stop the sheen of cool sweat that has broken out across my entire body. It’s visible through my nicely pressed shirt. Effie’s going to kill me. 

Think , I will myself. It’s an effort. Every nerve cell urges me to lose myself to oblivion, hide from the storm of confusing emotion that the sight of Maysilee’s pin has ignited in me, disappear somewhere at the bottom of a bottle where nobody can ask anything of me ever again. I bite the inside of my cheek, so hard that the unmistakable metallic taste of blood fills my mouth. Think. Didn’t I see Madge Undersee going to visit Katniss at the Reaping? It was so unexpected that it registered even in my drunken haze. I don’t know what happened to the pin after it was shipped back to Twelve in a cold box alongside Maysilee’s body. Maybe Amity took it. Maybe she gave it to her daughter. Maybe her daughter gave it to Katniss. It’s a bizarre stretch of imagination, ridiculous in its coincidences. It’s the only plausible theory I can come up with. 

Oh, fuck , what do I tell the sponsors? I can’t exactly stroll in there and tell them the truth. I’m trying to dredge up as few memories of the Fiftieth as I can. I don’t want Katniss following in my footsteps. But I can’t waste more time out here, can I? I’ve been gone too long. I might have cost Katniss valuable sponsorships already. Judging by her current state, she’ll need them. 

I take another sip of gin, willing the liquor to still the tremor in my hands. It doesn’t work. I run a hand through my hair and force myself to turn around, facing the restaurant. I take the first step, then the second, and slowly I will myself to re-enter the place and face the sponsors. Trying not to think too hard about my disappearing act and I lock eyes with Effie. She’s glaring at me like she’s imagining all the various ways she would like to see me dead. It’s oddly comforting. 

I slide back into my booth, closing the display on the communicuff. 

“What was that, Haymitch?” asks Effie through gritted teeth. She really needs to work on her acting skills. 

“I went to check on Katniss,” I say calmly. “Her heart rate’s abnormally high.” 

“Why is that?” asks Gneius. 

“Dehydration,” I say. It’ll be obvious to them all soon enough. “She hasn’t found a good water source yet.” 

“I see,” says Gneius. 

“Perhaps, darling, if we send her a little something…” says Fausta, placing a hand on her husband’s arm. “Dehydration is an easy fix, is it not?” 

Gneius hesitates. “I suppose so,” he says. 

“Well,” I say. I hope my voice is steady. “I wouldn’t send her water, anyway. Even if you were generous enough to make a contribution.” 

Effie kicks me hard under the table and I try not to yelp. 

Gneius leans over the table at me. He looks genuinely interested now. “Why wouldn’t you do that?” he asks me. 

“Because Katniss is a capable tribute,” I say. “She can find her own water source. It’ll be more reliable than anything I can send her, and I can save any donations for more important things.” 

“You think she can find her own?” he asks. 

“Easily.” 

Gneius sits back. “Could you give my wife and I a moment, please?” 

“Of course,” I say. Effie and I stand and leave, finding a spot near the entrance of the restaurant while Gneius and Fausta discuss what I can only hope to be obscene amounts of money. 

“Care to explain what on earth happened back there?” Effie mutters as we leave their earshot. 

“Not particularly,” I say. “Why do you want to know?” 

“You nearly jeopardized our entire mission,” she snaps. “And I think I have the right to know why.” 

“It’s -” I begin. The words jam in my throat and I look away. What was I even going to say? Nothing could possibly begin to explain my behavior today. A death twenty-five years ago doesn’t warrant abandoning Katniss to her fate the way I did in there. Besides, Effie wouldn’t understand. 

Effie opens her mouth, clearly about to say something more, when our potential sponsors wave us over from the booth. 

“Come on,” I say, tilting my head in their direction. 

“I hope you had enough time to discuss this with each other!” trills Effie. She’s overcompensating, and she’s doing it badly. 

“We did,” says Fausta, eyes shining. “Just one last question before we seal everything. Haymitch, I never did get an answer about that mockingjay pin…” 

My stomach drops and I fight back a heave. I grip the underside of the table so hard my knuckles whiten. I was expecting this. Effie glances at me, concern writ on her features, and I give her a glance that’s probably unreadable. 

I’m shocked by the steadiness of my voice when I reply. “The pin was a gift from her sister,” I say. “From Prim. She gave it to her right after she volunteered.” 

“Oh!” says Fausta. “Oh, that’s lovely. Katniss’s family really means a lot to her, doesn’t it?” 

Another wave of nausea. Yes, Katniss’s family does mean the world to her, doesn’t it? Aren’t they the most valuable playing cards the Capitol could possibly have if she challenges them, even a little bit? 

“Yes!” Effie says, after I’m silent a beat too long. “Katniss loves Prim more than anything in the world. She’s trying to win for her , after all, because it’s no small force that turns a girl from Twelve into a volunteer with an eleven! And, Mr. and Mrs. Gaius, like I always say, with the right amount of pressure, you can turn even the blandest piece of coal into a diamond!” 

“Quite right, Miss Trinket,” says Gneius, apparently oblivious to the fact that nothing Effie said made an iota of sense. He produces something from his pocket, and draws a long, elegant pen out alongside it. With a flourish, he signs the cheque at the bottom and hands it over to me. 

“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Gaius,” I say. “Your contribution will make a real difference.” 

“I’m sure, Mr. Abernathy,” he says. “A photograph, before we make our exits?” 

I nod and Effie signals to one of the waitstaff. On Fausta’s portable camera, the man snaps photographs from every angle of me shaking hands with the prominent Capitol figures, the ornate cheque with the grand signature lying noticeably on the table. 

“I’ll have these sent to the news outlets by tonight,” says Fausta. “The people will love it! ” 

I thank them again, so profusely I make myself ill with it. I even extract a promise from Fausta that they’ll send more contributions my way as soon as I need it, giving them the secure phone line to the Twelve apartment. It’s things like that that make Capitols feel special. 

My heart rate only slows when we enter the taxi that waits to return us to the Training Center. Being accosted by camera crews upon leaving a Capitol restaurant is a new experience for me, certainly, and I don’t think I look quite my best. 

“So,” says Effie, as the bustling streets of the Capitol whiz by us. She slides up the partition between our seats and the drivers’. “Are you really going to withhold water from Katniss?” 

“I think so,” I say. “We can talk more in the Lounge, but it doesn’t make any sense to send her something that basic.” 

The thing is, sponsor gifts are signals. They tell the audience things about the tributes. Things about their strengths, their skills, their weaknesses. A good mentor can even communicate with his tributes if he plays the game right. More than that, a good mentor can communicate with the audience. Optically, a sponsor gift can make or break a tribute’s chances in the arena. My mind flashes to the Sixty-Fifth games, the year that Finnick won; Mags had enough money to keep sending that boy food and medicine until the very last day of the Games, if she’d wanted to. Instead, she let him fend for himself for days in order to save up for that goddamn trident. Commentators still talk about the moment that Finnick Odair got his trident. They say it’s one of the most iconic Games visuals of all time. 

Katniss, though, is no Finnick Odair. I can sell her love story. I can sell her devotion to her family and her determination to win. But she doesn’t command the room the way that Odair does - she lacks the charm, the wit, the subtlety. I don’t know that I’ll gain the kind of money Mags did, with her Career sponsor bank and long-standing connections, and I can’t bet on getting Katniss a bow or even a knife; my mentorship will have to rely on smaller, subtler gifts. 

“We’re trying to show the audience she’s scrappy,” I tell Effie. “Me sending her a fucking water bottle won’t do that. It’s going to make her look weak. Vulnerable to the elements. It’s the last thing she needs.” 

“What if there’s no water near her?” Effie asks. “Or it’s poisoned?” 

“It won’t be poisoned,” I say, though my treacherous brain flashes in images of tributes dying at my feet from river water, blue-green vomit coating my shoelaces. Today isn’t really my best day.

“How can you be sure?” 

“I’m pretty sure the arena is mostly natural,” I say. “Next year’s a Quell. They’re saving up money and spectacle for that. Engineering an arena from scratch is more effort than a throwaway year is worth.” 

“I don’t know,” says Effie. “They did poisoned water last Quell, so -” 

“Oh, gee, I had no idea,” I say. This only shuts Effie up for a second. 

“Haymitch,” she says. “Do not silence me when you are the one who brought up Quarter Quells.” 

“Fine,” I say. “Tell me why I should send Katniss water.” 

“You could look neglectful,” she says. “People hate a neglectful mentor.” 

“She could look weak,” I shoot back. “Better I look neglectful than she looks weak.” 

“But -”

“Princess, do you think it’s my glowing personality or Katniss’ skills that’s getting us sponsorships?” I ask. 

“Katniss’ skills. Though I wouldn’t discount Peeta’s performance,” she says. 

“Either way, definitely not me. So my looking neglectful won’t affect her.” 

“People are less likely to give you money if they think you’ll waste it,” she says. 

“Sending her water is wasting it. It’s shit mentoring. She’s a survivor. She’s already proven that she’s good in the woods, and the reports have talked about it. If she can’t find water, she’s screwed her own image.” 

“Well, you didn’t answer my other question,” says Effie. “How do you know the lake isn’t the only source of water?” 

“I don’t,” I say, grimly. “We’ll have to scan the feeds when we get back.” 

“If the lake’s the only source of water, will you reconsider?” 

“Maybe, princess. No promises.” 

The taxi pulls up in front of the Training Center and the chauffeur steps out to let us leave. I’m hyper-aware of the force field at our right as we cross the building’s threshold. I wonder if the Capitol citizens know it’s there. What do they think of it? Is it to keep the Capitols out, or to keep the district-people in? Do they think at all? 

After a brief stop in the apartment, we make our way back to the Lounge. Lunch has cost me valuable hours, meaning I’ll have to catch up on media commentary, missed arena conversations, and probably some mentor interviews. 

As has now become a habit, I avoid any passing interactions with my fellow mentors. I can feel Chaff’s eyes on me as I pass his table, and his gaze burns a hole into my skin. I pretend I don’t notice. I wait patiently as the system scans my retinas, allowing me access to the channels, and I pull up the holograms of Katniss and Peeta. Katniss is still searching for water, and she’s looking more exhausted by the hour. Other than that, uneventful. Peeta’s feed will require more careful rewinding, as I’ll have to cross-reference every lie he’s told the audience, every impression they may have had of him in the hours I spent securing sponsorships for his district partner.

Oh, but first, I’ll have to check for water in Katniss’ vicinity. If I can spot any freshwater source anywhere within walking distance of her location, I can safely withhold sending in any water bottle. If not, I’ll have to reconsider my strategy. 

Before I can pull up the feeds, though, a gasp from Effie has me spinning in my seat. “What?” I say. 

She’s watching the main broadcast, which is playing an interview with…Brutus and Lyme. Fuck. 

“So!” says Caesar. “What do you think of this year’s alliance? Were you expecting this twist so early in the game?” 

Lyme manages to cut in before Brutus does. “It doesn’t matter what twists there are,” she says. “Clove is one of the strongest tributes I’ve had in years. She might be only fifteen, but her knife-work is absolutely unsurpassable. Nobody can get the drop on her, and she has the best range weapon of the pack. I’m not worried for her safety in the slightest.” 

 “That’s a good assessment of Clove’s skills,” says Caesar. “But tell me, were you aware of the unusual addition to the traditional alliance this year? Nobody was expecting Peeta Mellark to join the pack. And Lyme, I’m sure you’ve seen that most of the current speculation is that Peeta is in the process of betraying the pack. Did either of you see it coming?” 

“I’ll tell you what I see coming,” says Brutus. I’m surprised he has the cognitive ability to string a sentence together. “I see a useless mentor and a worthless tribute trying a desperate attempt to win some favor before he dies. Say you’re right and that blond boy does betray us. What’s that gonna do, huh? I know that for one thing, Cato will kill him if he even suspects a whiff of betrayal, and Peeta can’t keep up this shitshow for much longer.”

The interview cuts and I curse under my breath. Brutus may have just undone all my carefully laid PR in five sentences. I pull my keyboard towards me and my fingers fly over it, crafting a response to Brutus that I can send to Caesar as an official response statement. The gist of it is that Brutus is a thick-headed idiot who relies on brute strength to win and cannot possibly comprehend my plan. It’s rough, but it’ll do. 

My screen flashes in another round of beeping as Peeta’s heart-rate spikes. I switch monitors as fast as I can, paying full attention to his hologram, and I realize that he’s discovered active land mines at the Cornucopia. 

“What in Panem,” breathes Effie. “That’s not supposed to happen.” 

“I think another tribute has rigged it up. Probably Three, from the look on Beetee’s face.” 

“It shouldn’t be possible,” says Effie. “Those bombs are meant to be top-of-the-line technology.” 

“Well, apparently a runt from District Three has just beaten it.” 

We watch in silence as the Career pack finds the source of the problem. Predictably, it was the kid from Three, some noodle-looking stick who looks objectively ridiculous beside the overly muscular Cato and Marvel. 

“What do we do with him?” says Glimmer. Cato raises his sword as an answer, and the kid from Three whimpers. 

“Wait,” says Peeta. “We could use his skills.” 

“We’ve already taken in one stray this year,” says Marvel coldly. “We don’t need another.”

“He doesn’t need to follow us around,” says Peeta, who is as usual unbothered by the barb. “But right now, we’ve been wasting manpower by leaving a guard with our supplies.” 

“You want him to guard the supplies?” says Clove. “Have you seen him? The fuck’s he going to do?” 

“The landmines,” says Peeta, gesturing in the vague direction of the ground. “He can rig them to protect our supplies. Make it so that only we can get in. And that leaves more of us free to move around the arena as we please.” 

The Careers look at each other for a long moment. 

“It’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” says Marvel. “What do you say, Three?” 

“Yes. Of course, yes,” he says. The kid looks so terrified I’m surprised he hasn’t pissed himself yet. “I can be useful. I promise.” 

I turn to Effie and mutter in a low voice. “You said that tampering with those landmines shouldn’t really have been possible?” 

“Yes,” she says. 

“Seneca Crane was already on the outs, wasn’t he?” 

Effie glances around the room in furtive horror, as if she’ll get sniped on the spot for sharing that piece of gossip. Still, she shoots me a short, sharp nod. 

“So this probably didn’t help his case.” Tampering with the arena structures? Turning them to your advantage? They won't like that up in the Presidential Mansion. I know they don't like that up in the Presidential Mansion. At the back of my mind, Snow's snakelike eyes stare me down from across my study-room table. No, they really don't like when people fuck with Games structures. 

As the boy from Three reaches a trembling hand out to Cato, Beetee makes eye contact with me from across the room. Despite myself, I give him a weary grin. It’s going to be another long night.

Chapter Text

The next day, I’m already doubting my decision to withhold water from Katniss. 

“Are you sure about this?” asks Effie. “ Caesar Flickerman accosted me in the hallway. He wants to know why we’re not sending Katniss water.” 

I nod distractedly. “What’d you say?” 

“I gave him the line you told me to give. That she’s a capable hunter and can find water on her own.” 

“Good.” 

I double check Katniss’s position against a map of the arena. She’s been walking in a straight line three days and two nights, searching for water, avoiding trouble. I can tell from where I am that she’s close to a small but deep pond, which - unless I’m incredibly unlucky, which is a real possibility - should contain perfectly drinkable water. Especially with the iodine bottle in her bag. Still, I dig a nail into my palm as I watch her stumbling around, increasingly disoriented, as she seems to lose cognitive ability with every passing hour. Three days of absolute dehydration is enough to do some serious damage, but the idiot girl brought it on herself. My first - well, my second instruction to Katniss was that she would have to find water. If I send it to her now, she might think there’s no water available in the arena at all, and then where will we be? 

I switch to Peeta’s feed, ignoring the stab of guilt as I watch Katniss trip over a branch and fall to her knees, too weak to even get up. Physically, Peeta’s in far better shape. He’s got access to the Careers’ superior supplies, he’s eating well, and he’s got water. In fact, I’m quite certain that if it wasn’t for Peeta, Katniss would be doing much worse in terms of sponsorship popularity. 

The phone line at my desk rings and Effie reaches for it as I watch Katniss struggle back to her feet. Come on, girl, I will her. At this point, I’ve listed a million reasons why I won’t send Katniss water. There’s another one, however, which I am struggling to articulate and could never really tell the audiences. It’s that Katniss should have thought of me at least once by now. I mean, I’m sure I’m not exactly top of mind, but I’m the only contact with the outside world that she’s allowed to have; surely, it has occurred to her that I could relieve her predicament with the tap of a button. I need her to have faith that I am withholding that water for a reason. I need her to realize I’d only keep water from her if she could easily find it herself. If she doesn’t trust me, if she doesn’t understand me, then my mentorship is already dead on the ground. 

My resolve nearly breaks when at some point mid-morning, she reaches her hand up to the sky, pleading. “Water,” she croaks. 

She’s talking to me. I know she’s talking to me, and my hand hovers over the button. Is sending her water the merciful decision? Will it make her inevitable death more pleasant when it comes? By denying her the simple relief of water, am I simply being cruel, letting the audience watch her prolonged suffering when I could end it with the press of a button? 

I clench my hands back into fists. No. If I send her water, I seal her fate. Get it through your head, kid , I will her. I’m withholding it on purpose. 

The commentary from the broadcast flickers through my awareness. “She’s struggling, folks,” says Caesar. “She might be the Girl on Fire, but looks like what she needs is a little water, amirite?” 

The broadcast plays a laugh track over the line. Gritting my teeth, I stride to the other side of the room and mute the television. A moment of blissful quietude seeps through the Mentor’s Lounge.  

“Put that shit back on,” says Chaff’s voice, immediately destroying the illusion. I swing around to face him. He hasn’t even looked up from his screen. 

“Do it yourself,” I say, mouth twisting in disgust. Easy for him to say when they aren’t talking about his tributes. I don’t know what’s causing Chaff’s ridiculous attitude, but I don’t have the energy to find out. Instead, I walk out of the Lounge, not sure where I’m going but certain that watching Katniss dehydrate slowly to death is a worse alternative. 

I hear footsteps behind me as I leave the Lounge and I swing around. “Wha - Chaff ?” 

“We need to talk,” he says. He looks…worried? 

“Do we?” I ask. “As far as I’m aware, I’m fine and you’ve been throwing an inexplicable bitch-fit for days.”

A couple heads turn in our direction and I see a reporter’s eyebrows raise. Sure, the Games are more exciting, but a fight between mentors is enough to make a gossip page. 

“Don’t,” Chaff says. “The barb routine worked on me when you were nineteen. It’s just embarrassing at your age.” 

“Fine,” I say. “Then talk.” 

“Not here,” he says, and his hand twitches. A flash in his palm reveals one of Beetee’s signal-blocking devices, the ones he uses to prevent the Capitol’s cameras from learning about the rebellion. Chaff having one in his palm could mean nothing other than that he’s been sent here by Beetee. Of fucking course he has. The device is, unfortunately, entirely redundant in the Mentor Lounge lobby, where there are eyes on us in about sixteen different directions. 

“Your apartment, then.” 

“Yours,” says Chaff. “My escort’s in mine.” 

I shrug. “Where’s Jasmine?” 

“Covering for me at the station,” he says. “She owes me. I took the night shift yesterday and she got some rest.” 

Ha. What I wouldn’t give to have someone take night shifts for me. I nearly choke on a wave of resentment - against Chaff, against the rebellion, against myself - and I wordlessly turn on my heel and make my way back to the Training Center. I don’t bother stopping to check if Chaff is behind me. 

“So,” I say, once the elevator doors open at my apartment. I step inside. “Talk.” 

Chaff struggles for a moment with the signal interference device. The button to switch it on is tiny and on the wrong side, making it difficult for him to operate with his one hand. I sigh. 

“Give that here,” I say. 

“I got it.” 

“Don’t be an ass,” I say, snatching it from his hand. I switch the device on. 

“I said I had it,” he says, miffed.  

“Take it up with Beetee for his shitty object design. And that’s what you get for refusing the Capitol prosthetic.” 

He drops it. If he’s dropping a meaningless fight - a personal meaningless fight - then something must really be on his mind. Chaff lives for a fight. 

“I’ll just get to it. Beetee says it’s impossible to get hold of you in the Lounge without drawing suspicion, but we’re friends so he’s sending a message to you through me. He wants to update you on what his - agent - has to say.” 

Obviously, he means Plutarch. Even here, with a device that is supposed to block any sound interception, Chaff is wary of using Plutarch’s name. 

“Okay,” I say. “What’s happening?” 

“They’re happy with Katniss’ performance,” he says. “She’s drawing in crowds. Likable enough so far. He said - uh, I’m pretty sure he said he was especially pleased with their star-crossed lovers storyline. Says she has a lot of potential.” 

“I’m thrilled I’ve got a stellar performance evaluation,” I say, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Is that all you had to say?” 

“No,” says Chaff. “I was told to give you a warning.” 

“A warning.” 

“Katniss is doing well. But if she’s going to be what they’re looking for, they’re going to have to…turn up the heat.” 

“Turn up the - do not talk to me in riddles, you fucking -” 

Chaff raises his stump of a hand in a gesture of what is probably meant to be surrender. “I’m just the messenger,” he says dully. 

“If you’re gonna give me utter shit, then why did they even bother to send you?” I snap. I’ve been on the receiving end of Chaff’s glares and anger and general horrific vibes for the past three days. And the first time he decides to contact me is on behalf of the rebellion? To deliver a message that doesn’t make any logical sense? 

“Althea said she’s been talking to you too much lately, and it’s pissing off the other Careers. Lyme can hardly be seen talking to you at all. And Beetee’s - well, Beetee.”

“Could’ve sent Odair,” I say. Not that I meant ‘why did they send Chaff specifically’, but if that’s how he wants to interpret it, then fine. 

“Do you want a fucking list of why nobody else could make it?” Chaff snaps. Good. This means I’m successfully wearing his patience thin, and I’d rather have a fighting Chaff than this weird passive one. 

“Odair is off being a good whore for Snow’s inner circle. Johanna Mason is a little bitch. Mags’ brain has been scrambled eggs since her stroke. Wiress isn’t much saner than Annie Cresta. Believe me, I made the most sense,” he says, glaring. 

“Wonderful,” I say, spreading my arms wide. “Thanks for clearing that up. If we’re done here, we have nothing left to talk about.” 

Chaff turns to leave. He turns, and I am suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to just fucking punch him, to take out all my latent anger and frustration on his body. If he hits back, then I welcome it. I glance down and my hands are shaking more than usual. 

I’m turning away too, all silence and no action, when Chaff’s voice startles me and I flinch. 

“A drink before I go?” he says. I stare at him for a long moment. 

“Okay,” I say. 

I wrench open the cabinets in the living room, extricating a bottle of dark scotch that I’d left there at some point. This Games? The last? I can’t remember. Mechanically, I pull the cork and pour two glasses. Two shots of whiskey, two cubes of ice, how Chaff always likes it. Without speaking, I slide one over to him, the glass scraping the wood of the table. In equal silence, he takes it. 

I am not willing to break the sudden noiselessness of the Twelve apartment. What’s unusual is Chaff’s silence. He’s chatty. He’s always been chatty, since we were just kids trying to survive the Capitol together, and now I don’t know what’s bothering him and I don't know why he’s suddenly silent and strange. It’s not like him at all. Silence and avoidance is my job. 

Perhaps this year will be different for everyone. 

“Did Beetee put his tribute up to it?” I ask suddenly. 

“That stunt with the landmines?” Chaff asks. “That hit close to home for you?” 

“Just answer the fucking question.”

“No. Of course not. He’d never tell his tribute to do something that stupid.” 

“Are you sure? It’s Beetee.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean his priority is this. The rebellion. Is this some kind of backup plan? Some attention-seeking stunt in case Katniss isn’t what he’s looking for?” I blurt. 

“I don’t think so,” says Chaff. “It would be a shitty backup plan, anyway. I think it was all the tribute.” 

“Okay,” I say. 

Chaff opens his mouth as if he wants to say more. A brief flash of something crosses his expression, but it’s gone before I can read into it, and the room’s back to silence. I raise the whiskey glass in a toast - to what I’m toasting, I’m not sure - and I drain the thing in one, the woody flavor hitting the back of my sinuses, and I set the glass down. Chaff follows my motion, and does the same. 

“Well,” he says. “Thanks for the drink.” 

“Sure,” I say. “Thanks for the message.” 

Without another word, Chaff’s out of the apartment. The door swings shut behind him, hinges perfectly oiled. I reach for the bottle, pour myself another glass, but my hands shake and the bottle crashes to the floor, glass shards shattering at my feet. I stand rooted to the spot, staring at the pool of dark whiskey that spreads out from under the table, soaking into the underside of my shoes. The glass sits empty and untouched where I left it. 

This is how it’s always been with Chaff. Small fights. Tiny resentments that end in bitterness and awkwardness and tension. There’s never any resolution, no, because we will just come back next year like we always do and by then who remembers? An ally in the Capitol is too rare to lose over a tiny resentment. And each year there’s a new set of wide-eyed kids we have to try and save, kids with little to no chance of survival, kids who distract us and occupy us until they die and we go home alone on a train with two cold coffins. Or, at least, I do. Chaff at least has the privilege of some company. Year after year after year.

I remember the night I met him so vividly, on the rooftop the night after they released me from the hospital. After my Games. The apartment - this apartment - had felt so empty without the three children that had accompanied me here, and Maysilee’s ghost was suffocating me and Chaff and Althea and Lyme had found me staring out at the city, terrified and alone and clutching a knife. He hasn’t let me go ever since. Twenty-four years, and he just wouldn’t let me go, following me to the interviews and showing up in my apartment year after year, talking me through that awful first year when Elly and Connor died so horribly and on my watch. He handed me a bottle when I needed it, at any rate. Have I managed to shake him now? After twenty-four years? I don’t even understand why. Maybe it’s a good thing. 

Another memory grips me. That’s how my memories seem to work, I realize - it’s blankness for weeks, months, maybe years, and then they’re all back in floods. It must be the Capitol. The Games. This haunted apartment. The memory that surfaces is Chaff, again, when we must have been - in our late twenties? Early thirties? I don’t know. Years ago. We were both drunk, almost certainly, and it was probably after our tributes had died, because those are the worst nights in the Capitol. When you have nobody to watch over and you’re alone in this city of nightmares. We were on the rooftop, again, the same spot where I first met him - the same spot where Maysilee once stared over at the city skyline, where I first noticed the mockingjay pin glinting on her lapel - and we were in silence. Not the nasty, heavy silence that had hung between us today. A kind of easy, gentle silence. I remember that Chaff broke it. 

“Do you think you’ll ever fall in love again?” he had asked. He had - has - a habit of doing that. Asking questions that are too blunt, too much, without ever trying to soften the blow. No regard for the other person at all. 

“What?” I said. The question caught me entirely off-guard, air sucked right out of my lungs. I had choked on my answer. 

“Fall in love,” said Chaff. “Like Althea. She’s having a fuckin’ baby .” 

“I know.” She had skipped the Games that year. On account of her pregnancy. Everyone had been talking about it, since a victor having a baby was exciting tabloid stuff. 

“So would you date again?” Chaff had asked. “Or do you think she was the only one for you?”

“Who?” I asked, to buy myself time. Obviously, I knew. There was only one she . 

“Your girlfriend,” Chaff said. “Rina.” 

It had to have been at least ten years since my Games. Maybe fifteen. Rina had been dead for longer than I’d known her, because I’d only known her a year and loved her for less before the Capitol executed her for the crime of loving me. I’d long hidden all the photographs, of her and of my family, because I hated the sight of their smiling faces with their arms around me, all of us looking so sickeningly happy. I don’t know if I could recall her face on command. 

“I -” I’d choked on the words. I didn’t have the words. I didn’t know what I would’ve said. Still don’t. 

I drank myself stupid that night. It had been years since my drinking was newsworthy material in the Capitol tabloids, but the image of my body face-down drunk in an alleyway splashed the gossip sheets anyway, evidence of my innate nature made public to all and sundry. It’s not a good memory. Why has it resurfaced now? Why did Chaff even think to ask? Ironically, I find myself reaching as if in a daze for the one thing that I shouldn't, the half-shattered bottle on the floor calling my name. 

What snaps me out of it is the beeping of my communicuff. The sound is grating, urgent, almost painful to the ear and I answer it immediately, abandoning the bottle and rushing to the living room to switch on the television. Simultaneously, I open the cuff to reveal the holograms of both my tributes. Peeta’s doing nothing, I can see that already, and Katniss is - on the floor? No, no, she’s - in a pond. Water. The stupid girl finally found water. 

The beeping on my communicuff has nothing to do with either tribute, I discover to my sudden annoyance. It’s a message from Effie, who is down at our station in the Lounge. 

“WHERE ARE YOU?” she’s written to me, in massive capital letters. I imagine her face twisted in rage as she screams at me. 

“COMING,” I type back.

“Hurry up,” she replies, and a jolt of anxiety rushes through my bloodstream. What could possibly have happened? 

I arrive at the Mentor Lounge a few minutes later, a little red-faced and out of breath. 

“What the fuck was that about?” I ask Effie. She wouldn’t have paged me unless there was a real emergency, would she? 

She ducks below the screen at our station. “I overheard something,” she says. “Well, two things.” 

“Out with it, princess.” 

“First thing. Gloss saw you leaving with Chaff. He thinks you’re plotting something.” 

The stab of anxiety I felt earlier turns into a full blown knot at the pit of my stomach. Gloss can’t suspect anything. There’s a reason nobody’s told him about the rebellion. A reason we keep One and Two far away from the planning and the discussions. It’s not like I actually believe that the plan could be successful, but its discovery could mean death for everyone involved - forget me, it would mean the deaths of Chaff and Finnick and Mags, which I think is more than I could bear. 

“What did they…suspect?” I say slowly, forcing the words out from between my teeth. 

“That you’re planning a counter-alliance. Katniss, Peeta and Thresh against the rest of the Career pack. Gloss, Brutus, and Cashmere think you’re going to send Peeta some kind of signal to take the Careers out.” 

“...Oh,” I say, some of the tension in my shoulders releasing. This is so far from what I was imagining that it feels eminently stupid in comparison. “Let them run with their theories. They’re wrong.” 

Effie is shaking her head. “That’s not what I was worried about. Just thought you should go to an interview and feed the theories a bit. Lead them in the wrong direction.” 

“Smarter than I expected from the likes of you,” I say, receiving a glare in return. “But what’s the other thing?” 

“I got a call from my mother.” 

“Princess, I don’t give a rat’s ass about your mother.” 

“No, just - listen ,” she says.

“I went to see her and my sister yesterday,” says Effie, voice coming in a sort of strange, breathless whisper. “They heard from a friend. Seneca Crane is in serious trouble already. Rumors in their circles are that they’re going to try and kill off Katniss early, for shock value.” 

“What?!” I hiss. “That’s bull.” 

“It’s true,” she says, insistently. “They want her death to be dramatic and unforgettable.” 

“That makes no sense,” I say. “Katniss surviving is memorable. A girl from Twelve dying on day three is status quo. It’s boring.” 

“That’s what I said!” says Effie, her voice about an octave too high. “And so many Gamemakers agree! But Seneca’s mad about the landmines. And he was already being called a bad Head Gamemaker. Like, it’s been three days and we’ve had no deaths since the first night! People are getting bored.” 

“If Seneca’s mad about the landmines, he should take it out on Beetee’s boy, not Katniss,” I say. “What’s she done to him?” 

“There’s no way to take out the boy from Three without taking out the Career pack,” says Effie. “And besides, that would hardly solve the boredom issue. Katniss dying early, on the other hand…” 

I grit my teeth. It’s a stupid plan, on the Gamemaker side. Katniss should be their biggest asset right now. She and Peeta are making all the headlines, drawing the big sponsor money, and have Career-level training scores. But still.

“Desperate Gamemakers do desperate things,” I say, rolling my tongue over my teeth. 

“What do we do ?” Effie asks.

I take a moment to answer, but when I do, it’s decisive. 

“We have to make her indispensable,” I say. “Make it so that if she dies in a Gamemaker attack, people will be furious at the lost potential.” 

“More indispensable than she is now?” Effie asks. 

“Yes,” I say. “So far, her storyline with Peeta’s been great. But she’s been boring. Dying of dehydration is hardly the type of interesting content these people want from someone as dynamic as Katniss.” 

Something flickers in Effie’s expression. In an instant, it's gone and replaced with her usual bright grin. 

“So what do we have on her that we haven’t shared?” she asks. 

“The mockingjay pin,” I say. “New. Visible. Personal enough that people will pay attention.” 

Effie’s eyes narrow at me. “You said it was a gift from Prim.” 

“We’ll stick to that story. Embellish it a bit. I’ll tell them - oh, I don’t know - that mockingjays in District Twelve symbolize - uh - hope against all odds. Prim gave it to her with a promise she’d come back home. It’s the kind of sappy shit they love.” 

“Why on earth would a songbird symbolize -” 

“It’s a television show, ” I snap at Effie. “Who the fuck cares if it’s true?” 

“I suppose,” she says. 

“Do you have a better idea?” I ask. “Until Katniss decides to do something of her own accord, we have to write her story for her. And you just confirmed that if the audience gets bored of her, the Gamemakers will fucking murder her.” 

“Alright, alright,” says Effie. “Must you really swear at me?” 

“I must,” I say. “I’m going to go make Caesar Flickerman give me an interview.” 

It’s not the most risk-free plan. Maysilee carried the same pin in as a token, and a truly astute commentator could figure that out. But I remember how she wore it, hidden and tucked away under layers of clothing and pinned face-down. Nothing like Katniss, where the bright gold of the mockingjay sits proudly against the black of her jacket. I mean, tribute tokens get very little attention anyway, especially when the tribute is long-dead and long-forgotten; it would take serious archival digging to pick up the connection. Given how my Games have been buried, never rerun and rarely mentioned, I’m certain that nobody will notice. 

Caesar, for his part, is all too happy to give me another interview. Apparently his broadcast is running low on material and none of the other mentors have anything new to share. 

“None of the other mentors are as good as I am,” I return, when he says as much on air. 

“Now that’s the Haymitch we all know and love!” whoops Caesar, clearly delighted to have a new soundbite to run. 

We go back and forth for a while. It’s almost becoming comfortable being in the spotlight again, with people in the Capitol actually paying attention to what I have to say. Oh, what fun we have, me and Caesar and the twenty-three doomed children onscreen. I talk about Katniss finding water (“see, Caesar, even you doubted her and she still managed to find it herself”) and Peeta convincing Cato to bring the boy from Three into the pack. It’s not until the end of the interview that I have the opportunity to bring up the mockingjay pin, when Caesar himself asks about how I think Katniss’ family is handling her newfound fame. 

“I think Prim would be very happy,” I say. “After all, Katniss did promise her that she’d win.” 

“Of course, of course,” says Caesar. 

“In fact, there’s proof of that on Katniss’s jacket,” I say, and Caesar immediately notices what I’m trying to say. 

“Her token?” he asks, leaning forward. “That pin is beautiful.” 

“It is,” I say, and I launch into the spiel that I ad-libbed to Effie earlier today. At least, it’s a more confident version. I hope it’s the right amount of heart-wrenching, and doesn’t come across as entirely sappy; judging by the Capitol’s reaction to Peeta’s increasingly melodramatic pronouncements, however, I’m certain that the audiences love the sap. 

It works, because Caesar puts a hand to his heart and pretends to weep right there in the booth. “Oh, love is everywhere for Katniss, isn’t it?” he says. “We all know that Peeta loves her, but there’s something so touching about the love between siblings.”

“There is,” I say. “Nothing like it, really.”  

“And I must say, Haymitch, there’s nothing like learning more things about our Districts. The mockingjay symbolizing hope is such a beautiful message, isn’t it? Such a wonderful thing for Katniss’ sister to have shared with her.” 

“Definitely,” I say. “I’d go as far as to say that hope was what guided Katniss to water this afternoon.” 

With that, Caesar wraps the interview and I’m off the hook. I return to the Mentor Lounge to find Effie smiling, as the interview snippet has already hit the airwaves; by the looks of it, it’s already making a good impression. 

“I think that’s the best we could do,” I say, sitting down. 

A glance at my monitor shows that both Katniss and Peeta are dozing. In the Career pack, Maren is taking a watch, which means Peeta’s likely safe enough to get some sleep; Katniss passed out as soon as she drank her bodyweight in pond water, likely needing the time to recover. 

“You’ve spent the last two nights in the Lounge,” Effie says quietly. “You should get some rest too.”

“You’re telling me the Gamemakers have directly threatened my tribute and I should sleep ?” 

“You look like a trainwreck,” Effie says, wrinkling her nose at me. “And you smell even worse than usual. You’ll do Katniss and Peeta no good at all if you look like a hooligan.”

“Hooligan?” I protest, but I don’t argue further. 

I retreat to the District Twelve apartment, cold and empty, and I’m shocked when my body gives way the second I hit the pillow. I don’t know how many hours later it is when I’m woken from my slumber by an urgent beeping from my communicuff. I jolt out of bed, uselessly brandishing my knife in the air and gasping as the room spins around me and the urgent beeps of the communicuff indicate that something is terribly, terribly wrong. 

My hands shake so badly that I can hardly hit the right commands on the device, and its steady, rhythmic beeping shoots stabs of panic straight into my chest. A visual of Katniss fills my screen and I curse out loud as holographic smoke curls through my room. 

Turn up the heat. 

Plutarch Heavensbee, I am going to fucking kill you.

Chapter Text

It’s almost too perfect. I have half a mind to break into the Gamemakers’ office and shake Heavensbee, slap Seneca Crane, and burn the place to the ground. Of fucking course they set fireballs on the Girl on Fire, and of course I didn’t see this shit coming. Why wouldn’t they pull a stunt like this? They couldn’t resist, not after she’s been so boring for the past few days. Both Seneca and Plutarch can’t let Katniss be boring, no, not Plutarch who wants his rebellious legend and not Seneca who needs his Games to be exciting and successful. Bunch of fucking bastards. 

The adrenaline that currently pounds through my veins is utterly useless. Intense, life-or-death situations in the arena are when a mentor is at their most helpless; we operate when things are quiet, when the narrative can be controlled or a sponsor wooed. Moments like this are entirely on Katniss, and her survival is wholly in her own hands. 

The wall of flames has surrounded the Career camp. Glimmer screams, waking the entire group up, and Peeta’s quick to grab a weapon and a pack before sprinting with the group away from their camp. 

“What about my stuff?” Clove screeches as she follows the pack’s lead away from the camp. 

“Leave it,” says Peeta harshly. “There’s more back at the Cornucopia.” 

She shoots him a glare but doesn’t argue. I’m shocked at how Peeta’s managed to obtain a semblance of command from within the pack. A few days ago, I’m certain that Clove would have gone back for her stuff just to prove that she doesn’t take orders from District Twelve. 

The wall of fire descends upon Katniss and I stare at its flames, unable to move. My stupid, last-minute plan to draw Katniss some new headlines was clearly ineffective. Would they kill her? Would they risk that, so early in the game? Like it or not, I now have to put my trust in Plutarch to cut the attack off before she gets too badly hurt. It’s not as though I want to trust a Gamemaker about my tribute, no matter his allegiance, but it’s not as though I have a choice in the matter. Surely, surely, he’ll know that if Katniss dies now, her value to the rebels will die with her? 

“Coffee?” says a voice from behind me. Finnick Odair’s idiotic grin appears over my shoulder. 

“Is now really the time?” I ask, as the wall of fire onscreen transforms to a closeup visual of Katniss on her knees, vomiting into the greenery. Sweat and panic register clearly on her features. 

“Something I’ve learned from experience is that it’s always time for coffee.” 

“Experience? Experience ? Boy, I’ve been doing this longer than your pathetic backside has been alive -” 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, handing me a steaming cup of coffee. “I put sugar in it.” 

“Of course you did,” I say, taking it. 

Katniss sprints through the woods and so do Peeta and the Careers. As the Careers run, Maren trips and falls on a burning log, screaming in horror as the flames get close to her face  - the other Careers don’t stop, but Peeta turns and yanks her to her feet, narrowly dodging a burning log himself. I suspect he’s acting on pure instinct.

A tree next to Katniss bursts into flame and Finnick decides that it’s now a good moment to sit down in Effie’s empty chair. 

“What are you doing, boy?” 

“Is it illegal to want to say hello?” 

“It should be,” I say. “Shouldn’t you be with Althea?” 

“Technically, my tribute’s dead,” he says. “So I’m free as a bird.” 

“Aren’t we all.” 

“You’re not,” he says. “Never thought I’d see the day.” 

“Shouldn’t you be with your girlfriend?” I ask. “Isn’t she locked away in a crazy den upstairs?” 

“She is!” Finnick says. “Unfortunately, I have other duties to attend to. Besides, technically, Four and Twelve are allied right now. We should be talking.” 

“Oh, joy of joys,” I say. “Are you here to talk about our alliance, then?” 

“Well, I - ow. That looks horrible.” 

I whip around and see Katniss scuttling backwards on the floor, screaming in agony as her pant leg burns to a cinder. Fuck. Fuck, she got hit. I heave a sigh of relief when she regains enough sense to turn and roll the active flame out - for that, I thank the District Twelve education system, designed solely to make our kids into efficient miners - and I tense again as another fireball shrieks down in her general vicinity. She just about manages to avoid it, and she’s clearly terrified. 

“Peeta and Maren haven’t talked about it, but Althea thinks Maren suspects Peeta’s plan,” Finnick says. 

I turn. “How do you figure?” 

“We’ve been working with Maren for years. Althea knows how to read her body language.” 

I force myself not to scowl at that. Yet another ridiculous advantage these people get by handpicking their sacrificial lambs. 

“Okay,” I say. “So she suspects Peeta’s working against the Careers?” 

“She does. And we think she’s okay with it.” 

I frown at the screen, where Peeta has his arm around Maren, helping her out of the smoke while she coughs viciously. I suppose I can see that there’s an implicit trust there. I am loath to admit it, but I see where Althea is coming from. 

“So what do you want?” 

“When Peeta breaks the alliance and goes back to Katniss, I want him to bring Maren with him.” 

I look at him. “I can’t control what Peeta does, boy.” 

“I know,” he says. “But you can signal your approval. Sign off on it if he does.” 

“I can’t promise anything,” I say, pulling my headset off so I don’t have to hear the sound of the crackling forest. “But if he does take Maren with him, I’ll publicly endorse it.” 

“That’s all I want,” says Finnick, saluting. “Thanks, Haymitch.” 

The attack seems to be winding down. Peeta and the Careers are long out of the crossfire, and I’m dead certain that the attack was meant to target Katniss specifically. The sun is beginning to rise outside the window and in a couple of hours, Caesar will be enthusiastically recapping the events of the night. I have a couple of hours to control the narrative. To figure out how best I can help Katniss. A spare glance at Peeta tells me he’s no worse for wear, other than some scratches and a lingering smoke-cough - Katniss, on the other hand - 

“Mr. Odair, I believe that seat is mine?” 

“Morning, princess,” I drawl at Effie. “I see you missed the light show.” 

“Is she okay?” Effie snaps, pushing me aside to get a better look at Katniss. “Did she get hurt?” 

“Yes,” I say, shoulders slumping. “Can’t see it right now, since she’s in that pool. Her leg’s burned pretty bad. Hands, too.” 

“Oh, dear,” says Effie. “Oh, poor thing.” 

Finnick clears his throat from behind me. “Looks like you guys are busy,” he says. “But, uh. hey. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Yeah. Later,” I say. 

Effie zooms in on the display in front of me. “How bad is it?” she asks. 

“We’ll have to get a more careful look before we do anything,” I say. “But I’m not optimistic.” 

“And Peeta?” Effie asks.

“Fine. Minor scrapes and a sore throat from the smoke.” 

“Good,” says Effie. 

“I’m going to check the dossiers on burn injuries,” I say. “See what we can do for her.” 

Abandoning Effie to watch the recaps, I make my way to the back of the Lounge. There’s a door there that leads to a tiny room. The room contains folder upon folder of training material, most of it adapted from the three days of instruction that they give to the tributes. The tributes barely have time to access the information, try to synthesize whatever they can before they’re thrown to the wolves, so the information is entirely wasted on them. Us, on the other hand? We’re free to reference them at our leisure. 

I open the door to find the room empty. It’s still early in the day, and most Capitol citizens aren’t yet awake. Most mentors, even the ones that frequent the Lounge, must still be in their apartments. I run my hands along the shelves of various binders, reading the titles one by one. They’re loosely sorted by topic or by station. Together, they contain enough knowledge to theoretically keep a tribute alive for weeks. Combat techniques. Knot-tying. Edible plants. The binder titled Wounds and Injuries is by far the biggest one. I pull it off the shelf and begin leafing through it, not entirely certain what I hope to find. 

I flip through the pages, searching for something that might be useful,  pausing for a moment to switch on the television that’s mounted on the back wall. The sound of Games coverage fills the room as Caesar begins his first recap of the fireball attack. 

I frown as I watch him commentate. He first lets the entire attack play out again, right from the beginning, from Katniss’ perspective; the audience gets a glimpse of her alarmed face as she realizes that she’s in danger, seizing her pack and sprinting for her life. It’s not the attack itself that gets my attention; I’ve already seen it once, and I know what happened.  Now that the immediate fear of losing her is removed, I’m able to study the attack mechanisms more analytically. 

First, the firewall. Okay, classic. Big, flashy, unmissable, and it’s a standard Gamemaker move; the arena has been almost wholly natural up until this point, so a fire raid is a reminder to both the tributes and the audience that they are in control of these Games and have total autonomy over the fates of the tributes. .Old news, really.. Then, once the audience’s appetites are whetted by the massive fireball, they began the targeted fireball attacks. 

Katniss wasn’t technically their only target. The Career pack had a few near misses, as I saw from Peeta’s screen. Some other outlying tributes found themselves in tight spots, and I see now that the girl from Five had her supplies torched. But the angles of the fireballs, combined with how the coverage focuses disproportionately on Katniss, makes it clear to me that the main target of the attack was undeniably her.The other casualties were incidental. 

There’s three reasons they’re targeting her. One, because the attack has  pushed her off-course, away from the arena’s edge and  into the Careers’ line of sight. This is the most obvious reasoning - they wish to manufacture a confrontation, probably between Katniss and Peeta. Two, the Games were getting boring and she’s the Girl on Fire, so they might as well literally torch her ass. And three, Seneca Crane is deathly afraid of another boring year. 

That being said, it was maybe only fifteen  minutes of actual firebombing. And it stopped strategically, as soon as Katniss sustained a visible injury and it became increasingly unlikely that she would be able to evade the fireballs. There’s two things going on, then; they  need to put pressure on Katniss, and they are willing  to put her at the risk of death. Simultaneously, there’s also a hesitance to kill her outright. Potentially, then, some tension between different Gamemaker factions on how best to approach her? Or perhaps they’re just being conservative about how they deploy their biggest crowd-pleaser of the season? I don’t know. Either way, maybe something I can use. 

I turn my communicuff on so I can see in real-time how Katniss handles her injury. She’s examining the leg wound and clearly in pain, but she’s keeping it together, taking deep breaths as she probes the brilliant red skin. Those blisters aren’t looking good. She pulls her knife from her pack and cuts her mangled pant leg off, squinting at the injury. She tests the spring water with her hands and then submerges the scalded flesh in it, showing very little hesitation. 

Of course. Her mother used to work at  the apothecary in town, and from what I hear in the Hob she still treats clients in the Seam. Katniss must have at least some basic medical training, some understanding of wound care and pain management. The thought is reassuring, and I turn back to the binder open on the table in front of me. I look at the many indexed labels. Arrow wounds. Lacerations. Fractures. Head injuries. And there, right towards the end, a section on burns. 

I rewind the footage and take a close look at Katniss’s injuries, comparing them to the images in the book. Her hands are red and shiny, and it looks like there’s some swelling in the fingertips. I’d hazard that they’re first-degree burns, but they’re large, covering nearly the entire surface of her palms. Her leg is more concerning. According to the book, they seem to be second-degree. The blistering covers an area that is definitely more than five inches in diameter. No, this is too severe to let it heal on its own. It’s barely the fourth day of the Games, and a wound like this will seriously disadvantage her over the next couple of weeks. 

Just as I flip to a section on remedies, the door to the little room opens. Lyme steps in, and I shut my book.

“Hello,” I say cautiously. Lyme is decent enough, and occasionally my ally, but her tributes are the biggest threats to mine in the arena. She lives most of her life in the heart of the Career districts. I have known Lyme since I was sixteen years old, but something at the back of my neck still prickles each time she enters the room. Distrust? Perhaps it’s simply guilt. 

“Haymitch,” she says. “Also looking into fire injuries?” 

“Yeah,” I say, glancing up at the broadcast. Capitol viewers are being treated to a closeup of Katniss’ face as she exhales in pain. “What about you?”

“Smoke inhalation,” she says. “Clove’s lungs aren’t doing so great.” 

I give her a sort of noncommittal grunt in response. If she can afford to send Clove medication for something as stupid as bad lungs, then I have nothing to say to her. Careers and their endless streams of permanent donors. It’s gross. 

“Can I see that?” she says. She points to the binder in my hand, and I incline my head to the seat next to mine. I’ve flipped to the section on burn remedies and I’m trying to determine what might possibly fit my budget. 

I run down the list of remedy options, trying to ignore Lyme’s piercing gaze. None of the cheaper options seem adequate. A plant called aloe that apparently soothes the skin. Calendula extract. Better, but still not good; the guide recommends it for first-degree burns, which means it won’t really do for Katniss’ leg. I look  back at Lyme, not wanting to give away any information about my budget or the severity of Katniss’ need. 

“Fortified honey should do it for Clove,” Lyme says. She’s leaning over my shoulder, reading the same list of medications that I am. 

I try to rein in my curiosity, but it wins out. Besides, Peeta is technically Clove’s ally. I should have the right to ask Lyme whatever I want. 

“You don’t do a lot of sponsor gifts towards the beginning,” I say. “Why now?” 

Lyme shrugs. “We don’t like sharing. And there’s no way to say who the parachute belongs to, so most of us wait until the alliance breaks to start sending gifts in. Unless, of course, the need is urgent.” 

“So whatever you send…” 

“Will probably be divided between all of them. Which means your boy can probably get a bit, if he needs it.” 

“Oh,” I say. 

“Haymitch,” she says. “I know you and that boy have your scheme up your sleeve.” 

I shrug. At this point, it’s not much of a secret. Once Caesar Flickerman figured out that Peeta’s endgame was protecting Katniss, there wasn’t much point hiding it: still, I don’t want to give Lyme more than I have to. None of the Career mentors have given me much of a reaction yet, and I suspect they’re all just waiting to see what happens. 

“Both our tributes can’t win anyway,” she says. “So whatever happens in there, please remember. We’re on the same side.” 

For the first time today, I actually meet her gaze. She holds mine, expression steady. There’s a well of something behind her eyes, and I try to identify the emotion there. I think it might be affection. 

I turn away, focusing my attention back on the list of remedies in my hand. Lyme sighs, and I hear her footsteps recede and the door swings open. 

Just as she’s about to leave, I raise my head. 

“Lyme,” I say. “I know.” 

She smiles at me then, a real smile. Then she’s gone, and I’m back to my burn medicine. 

Katniss seems to be asleep in the pond. Good. She needs the rest, and from the gist of my conversation with Lyme the Careers don’t seem like they’re doing too great either; she probably has a few hours’ respite. I flip to the next page of the medical manual and look at the more serious burn medication. 

The Capitol remedies are beyond my imagination. Long, unpronounceable drug names take up nearly entire pages, and I can hardly comprehend their meaning; I am reduced to reading the layman descriptions that accompany them. They have a whole host of advanced medicine listed here, and it is up to me to figure out which one will work best for Katniss.

The first seem moderate. Morphling-based, from what I can tell, and mostly work to numb the pain from the wound. Pain management is good, yes, but Katniss’ biggest concern is infection. She’s going to need to use her hands sooner rather than later, and her leg is a massive open wound with no dressing; if it gets infected, she’s fucked. The medicine will need to have pain management, anti-infection, and ideally accelerate the pace of healing. 

There. The Capitol seems to have manufactured a kind of  specialized, high-tech burn treatment that’s specifically engineered to correct and regrow burned flesh. It’d be ideal for Katniss; at least, it would be ideal for Katniss if I could afford it. 

The medicine name in hand, I return to the Lounge. Several heads turn in my direction, and I catch Chaff’s eye. Is it just me, or is his gaze marginally less hostile? He then turns to Jasmine, laughing loudly about fuck-knows-what, and I shrug it off. 

When I slide into my seat, Effie has her eyes fixed intently on the broadcast, the phone line to her ear, and appears to be in the midst of an intense conversation with someone. I pull open my sponsorship tabs, and, without pausing, select the large, glowing parachute icon. 

A massive, drop-down list of supplies unfolds on the screen in front of me. They have an astronomical amount of sheer stuff in the Games vaults, ready to send in at the push of a button; for an additional fee, we can request custom items that aren’t in the vault. The ever-changing cost of the gifts appears in a column on the left. 

I have a decent amount of money, endorsements from various influential Capitol citizens, and the benefit of constant headlines about my tributes. Still, compared to the Careers and their established, consistent donor pledges - I shudder to think of the amounts they have in their coffers. Mine certainly can’t compare, and next to weapons, advanced medicine is the most expensive thing a mentor can send to their tribute. With some trepidation, I enter the name of the drug I found into the search bar. Thankfully, it pops up, which means that it’s on the list of standard medications available for me to purchase. Unfortunately, the price is utterly formidable. 

“Hey. Look at this,” I say, gesticulating vaguely in Effie’s direction. “We need to send it to Katniss.”

Effie glances over from where she’s watching Games commentary. “What is it?” 

“Medicine,” I say. “Her burns are too severe. We can’t wait for them to heal on their own, so we need to send her this.” 

Effie’s eyes widen at the cost. “That’s an expensive gift, Haymitch,” she says. “Do we really want to…” 

“Yes.” 

She sighs at me. “Can I ask -”

“No.” 

I already know what she’s going to ask, and I don’t want to hear it. Do we want to spend so much money on one gift, when we could save it up and get her smaller ones? We skipped our chance to send her water. She has enough food. She certainly doesn’t need rope, or matches, or even bandages. She needs burn medicine. 

Besides, sending in high-tech medicine is flashy. We’re prohibited from telling our audiences exactly how much money we have, but we can certainly show them. I haven’t sent Katniss anything yet, and our sponsors don’t know what exactly they can expect from me. Sending in expensive medicine - it’s a signal. A powerful one. Hopefully, it will prove to Capitol citizens that Katniss is a popular tribute and that they should bet on her, if they haven’t already done so, because enough people are betting on her that her odds are climbing by the minute. 

“Haymitch,” says Effie, voice rising in an insistent whine. 

“What?” 

“You can’t afford the medicine.” 

“Yes, I can,” I retort. 

“Haymitch, I know they don’t teach you very much mathematics in the districts, but look at the numbers,” says Effie. “Katniss’s individual fund doesn’t have nearly enough money.”

With some effort, I ignore her comment about the state of district education. 

“The combined fund,” I say, shortly.  

“Haymitch, it’s still not enough,” she says. 

I exhale slowly. I know this. I am not, despite what Effie seems to think, a complete fool. I just don’t like being made to say it aloud. 

“It’ll be enough if we redirect Peeta’s funding,” I say. 

She turns to me, eyes wide. “Haymitch. If you do that, you won’t be able to send Peeta anything at all. For the rest of the Games.” 

“Don’t Haymitch me,” I snarl. “I’m aware.” 

“But Peeta’s doing so well,” she whispers. The sight of her wide eyes is infuriating. “How could you do that to him?” 

“The boy’s got no chance,” I say. I open my mouth to say more, and then I shut it again.

“Can’t you send Katniss something else? Some bandages and anti-infection gel?”

“No. She needs real medicine.” 

“But it’s hardly fair -”  

“Effie. Either say something useful or shut your stupid fucking mouth,” I say. “Preferably the latter.”

My hands are trembling slightly on the keyboard as I enter the command. A flashing warning sign appears on the screen. YOU ARE ABOUT TO TRANSFER ALL FUNDS FROM TRIBUTE “PEETA MELLARK” TO TRIBUTE “KATNISS EVERDEEN”. PLEASE CONFIRM YOUR INPUT. I steady my hand against my desk, pausing for just half a second, and I hit CONFIRM. 

I watch as every last penny of Peeta’s sponsorship money - all the donations he earned from his stellar interview, every dramatic arena performance - drains into Katniss’s account. This is what the boy would want. He walked into that arena, suicide plan in hand, and he’s been playing his role with his whole heart ever since. He wanted her to survive, didn’t he? Because of love, or some sappy-ass shit like that? This is what Peeta would want. This is what Peeta’s wanted since the beginning. 

I repeat the motion one more time, moving everything from the general District Twelve donation pool into Katniss’s account. My fingers drum aimlessly on the desk, and suddenly I slam my hand down, pushing my chair away from the table. I stand, walking as if in a daze towards the refreshments table. Mechanically, I pour several ounces of expensive Capitol whiskey into a crystal glass, dropping two ice cubes into it. 

“What are you waiting for?” asks Effie as I return to the table. “Doesn’t Katniss need the medicine right now ?” 

 Her arms are folded and her stance is defensive. It pisses me off, and I don’t answer. Mostly because I don’t quite know. All the money is there, in Katniss’ account, and since we are well into the afternoon and most of the Capitol citizens have watched the recap of her fiery escape, the donations are actually increasing. From now on, anything that they send to Peeta or to Twelve goes straight to Katniss. I could send in a parachute with that medicine right now, while she dozes by the pool. 

Something stops me. Some instinct that I can’t quite name. Intuition, perhaps. Or perhaps it’s just the sudden cloud that forms in my mind as a result of that whiskey, the first drink I’ve had in hours. In the haze of it, I wait. 

Sending this medicine is a message. A message I can’t take back. A message to the people of the Capitol, yes, but it is also a message to Katniss; I am the only contact she has with the outside world. The only person who can get something through to her. I watch her image as her head lolls back against a rock, inflamed leg submerged in the cold spring water. I put my headset on, listening to the sounds of the forest around Katniss. 

I wait. 

Chapter Text

And then, on the headset, I hear the sound of footsteps. Katniss hears it the same moment I do, and she reacts instantly, scrambling to her feet and making a mad dash for it. I open Peeta’s feed alongside hers, watching the scene from a dual perspective as the Careers catch sight of her, realizing that they now have the ability to take out their biggest threat. I watch both pursuer and prey as Katniss ignores what must be serious pain to sprint through the underbrush, and I wince in sympathy as I watch branches strike against her burned skin. Well. I hope the sponsors notice how well she’s bearing the pain. Oh, fuck, if I’d sent her the medicine already she wouldn’t be in pain, and she’d be faster, wouldn’t she? Have I just fucking killed her? I think I’ve just fucking killed her.

I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I draw blood as Katniss swings herself up the branches of a massive pine tree. Blisters pop against the wood, leaving a grisly trail of blood and pus on the bark as she hauls herself upwards. A glance at the broadcast tells me that Caesar Flickerman is nearly on the floor with excitement, and I’m certain that the viewing numbers are currently through the roof; this early evening slot is prime time for Games watchers, after the working day is over and before the clubs open. They couldn’t have planned it any better. 

Katniss pauses, panting for breath, when she’s about twenty feet in the air. The Careers gather at the base of the tree and I watch them from Peeta’s perspective. He’s hanging back slightly, a couple paces behind the rest of the group. He’s trying not to let any expression show on his face. 

I realize as I do that I’ve hardly watched Peeta’s feed at all today. I haven’t made a note of the stories he’s told the Careers, what they did after the fire, and what exactly he said to guide them to the base of this pine tree. This is a critical misstep and I make a face, knowing I wasted too much time researching burn medicine and the moment is too tense now for me to go back over the footage. Tonight, I tell myself. If this situation defuses - and I have to assume, for now, that it will - I will go back to the apartment and pick apart Peeta’s web of lies in detail. 

“How’s everything with you?” Katniss shouts out cheerfully from the tree. It’s the first we’ve heard her speak, really speak, since the Games began and the sound of her voice catches me off-guard. Her district accent is thick and familiar, though her voice is noticeably raspy with smoke damage. 

Caesar’s broadcast cuts suddenly to a view of the Capitol streets, where a big crowd has gathered at the City Circle to watch the standoff. The entire crowd bursts into spontaneous cheers at the sound of Katniss’ voice, and Caesar laughs and laughs in a box in the corner. 

“Well enough. Yourself?” says Cato, who has had enough media training that even his stupid ass can come back from Katniss’ wit. 

“Been a bit warm for my taste,” says Katniss, with a shit-eating grin. “The air’s better up here. Why don’t you come on up?” 

She reclines on the tree branch as though she’s not in excruciating pain, swinging her uninjured leg nonchalantly. Despite myself, a smile spreads across my face. She’s a complete ass and I hope she knows it. Where was this Katniss - this quippy, funny Katniss - when I was coaching her for the interviews? Perhaps Katniss shines best when she’s covered in burns and trapped halfway up a tree. I should’ve had them shoot darts at her or something while she was on Caesar’s stage. Maybe then I could have gotten something useful out of her. 

“Think I will,” says Cato.

“Here, take this, Cato,” says the girl from One. She hands him the bow and arrows - the bow and arrows that Peeta convinced her to bring from the Cornucopia. I pray Katniss figures it out, finds a way to get her hands on that bow - if I can just show the audience that she’s more than just a survivor, she’s a fighter - 

I tense again as I watch Katniss fix her eyes on a point on the ground. It doesn’t take me or the cameras very long to figure out that she’s gazing at Peeta, her expression entirely inscrutable. Peeta, for his part, is refusing to make eye contact - he has angled his face downwards, away from and invisible to her. What is the audience thinking? Are they assuming that his noble endeavor to save Katniss from the Careers has failed? Do they hope that he has a plan to get her out of there? Fuck, I hope he does have some kind of plan. I hope he’s smart enough to at least pretend that he does. 

Cato and Glimmer both make attempts at reaching Katniss up in that tree. As soon as she spots them moving, she reaches for another branch and climbs higher, so high it’s making me concerned for her safety, but it works - neither Cato nor Glimmer is able to get close to her. It’s obvious to anyone watching that she’s good at climbing trees - excellent at climbing trees - and she’s experienced at it, to the point where her skill directly outmatches those of the Careers. 

Glimmer tries shooting at her with the bow, and I smirk to myself as I realize that Glimmer isn’t particularly talented. The arrow flies shy of Katniss, who, rather boldly, reaches down to pluck it from the tree and wave it teasingly in the air. Good for her, the little shit. 

I turn up my headset volume to catch the conversation they’re having on the ground, trying desperately to make up for my lack of attention to Peeta over the last day or so. 

“Clove, can’t you knife her?” asks Cato. 

“Not from eighty damned feet away,” snaps Clove. “And I can’t climb with this stupid gash on my hand.” 

“Maren, spear her.” 

“Through the branches?!” 

“We could set the tree on fire,” suggests Glimmer. 

“No,” says Peeta, a little too quickly. “There’d be too much smoke. She could escape in it.” 

Clove eyes him suspiciously, but nobody contradicts him outright, perhaps deterred by the too-recent memory of smoke poisoning. Excellent job, Peeta. Please do keep them from remembering that you informed them two days ago that District Twelve doesn’t have any trees. 

I notice movement from across the Mentor Lounge. Brutus, at the District Two station, rises to his feet and I follow his motion as he strides towards the back of the room, towards where I sit. Has he chosen this moment to confront me? No. He’s just getting a refreshment. Fucking hell, what am I doing? I don’t have time to pay attention to Brutus. 

“Let’s go to the Cornucopia and get some rope, then,” says Cato onscreen. “I’m sure Four over there can rig something up.”

Maren and Peeta exchange a look. I pray Two doesn’t pick up on it. 

“The branches cracked when I tried to climb it, and I’m the smallest here,” snaps Glimmer. “Rope won’t help.” 

The sky is rapidly darkening. Finally, Peeta’s voice rises above the rest. Loud enough for Katniss to hear. 

“Oh, let her stay up there. It’s not like she’s going anywhere. We’ll deal with her in the morning.” 

I’m sure Katniss isn’t faking the expression of hurt that flickers across her face. The cameras certainly don’t miss it, and the long, slowed-down shot of it onscreen means that they’ll definitely be dissecting every moment of the interaction for the remainder of the night. 

“Fine,” says Cato. “We’ll figure it out in the morning. Lover Boy, you’d better have some ideas for how to get your girlfriend down from that tree, otherwise you’re on thin fucking ice, do you hear me?” 

Peeta shrugs. “She trusts me. I’m pretty sure I could lure her down, though I don’t know that you standing there with the sword is gonna help my case much.”

Cato glares at Peeta, looking him up and down. Eventually, he seems to decide that it’s not worth it for tonight. 

“Lover Boy, you’re on first watch. With me,” he says. 

“Sure,” says Peeta, expression open and innocent. “The smoke got you worse than me, though. You sure you don’t need some extra rest?” 

Cato shoots him a look of disgust. I smile at how easily Peeta takes to his role, the subtle barbs that show the audience full well that he can hold his own in a battle of wits against these trained killers. I’d bet on him, if I could. At least, I’d bet on him if I didn’t know he had a suicide wish. 

Up in the tree, Katniss closes her eyes, blowing gently on her palms in a futile attempt to ease the pain of the burns. She tries her best not to let her pain show as she pulls her sleeping bag out from her bag, setting it over a sturdy fork in the branches. 

As Cato moves aside to supervise Clove’s tent pitching, Peeta breaks away from the pack for just a split second. He places his hand on the bark of the tree, looking upwards into the branches where he knows Katniss is positioned. Under his breath, eyes shut dramatically, he whispers, “Don’t worry, Katniss. I’m so sorry. I’ve got you, always.” 

I wait for just a beat until it’s clear that none of the others heard him. He fastens his knife to his belt in one fluid motion and takes up his watch next to Cato. 

The intensity of this standoff has cooled somewhat, and it has left the Capitol with enough material to obsess over all night. I will check in with the broadcasts in a few minutes, try to get a pulse on what they’re saying, but for now I stand vigil here over Katniss and Peeta. Is now the time? Do I send in the medicine? No, they’re still replaying Katniss’ snarky comments onscreen, still fixated on Peeta’s melodramatic, lovestruck face, and I am hesitant to break the momentum. Katniss is currently trapped, alone, injured up a tree; what will the medicine bring except a brief respite from the pain? Maybe that should be my play here. I’ve already waited enough, haven’t I? 

“I’m going to sleep,” says Maren to Peeta under her breath. “You gonna be okay?” 

“Of course,” says Peeta, a false easiness to the cadence of his voice. “Your burns alright? Do you need anything?” 

“Nah,” she says. “They hurt a bit, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“You’ll be okay,” Peeta says. 

Maren’s eyes flick to Peeta’s waist, where his hand rests easy on the hilt of his knife. She swallows. 

“Peeta -” she says. 

“You’ll be fine. I’ll make sure of it,” he says, and there’s an intensity to his tone that Maren picks up on. Her gaze flits from the knife, to Peeta, and back again. Her brows furrow, and Peeta waits. 

“Peeta, I can help you,” she says. Her voice is so soft Peeta has to lean in to hear it. He recoils slightly. 

“Are you sure?” he asks. 

“Certain,” she says. “Wake me up before you do anything, okay?” 

Peeta glances up to the sky, where he knows Katniss waits, an invisible figure watching him from above. The glance is barely a second long - it is so short I find myself wondering whether or not it was intentional - but the brief flit of his eyes reveal everything, to both Maren and the audience. This is a boy who has a plan. A suicidal plan, but a plan nonetheless. 

“I will,” he says. “I promise.” 

“Goodnight,” says Maren. Peeta turns away, now staring up into the trees with an expression of naked desperation, and I realize with an ice-cold trickle of certainty that Peeta does not plan on surviving this. Not just the Games, but this altercation; he plans to play his trump card. In the morning, when Cato is recovered from smoke poisoning and ready to launch some diabolical plan to kill Katniss up in that tree, he’s going to tackle him and stop it, probably at the cost of his own life. Fuck.

Movement on Katniss’ monitor grabs my attention. She’s fixated her gaze somewhere into the trees above her, and I swivel the monitor and increase my brightness to try and see what she sees; is there danger? Something lurking up in the branches, some mutt that’s about to pounce down where she can’t escape? 

Just as the cameras focus on the figure in the tree, I hear a sharp intake of breath from Chaff in his station next to me. I look up at him and our eyes lock just as the tiny little figure in the trees raises her hand to draw Katniss’ gaze upwards, to the thin branches far above her head. Katniss follows her hand in confusion, trying to focus in the dying light of the arena, and then she spots it - something that even I hadn’t noticed. Chaff’s girl is warning Katniss about a tracker jacker nest, nestled in a branch only a few feet above Katniss’ head. I tighten my fist on my keyboard. Fucking tracker jackers. She’s fucked. 

I turn the perspective on my monitor, trying to see how close the nest is to her. They could pose some serious danger, and the smoke from the fire could only slow them down so much; she needs to get out of the tree. I need to send her that medicine so she can heal up her injuries, cull the pain so she can escape from the tree before they get to her. I can’t wait for the moment to be perfect. She can’t leave the tree tonight, but maybe if she’s healed enough in the morning then Peeta’s plan to betray the pack can buy her enough time to run, to hide, to get out of there and sequester herself somewhere until the Games end. Ideally without facing a death by tracker jacker, which seems like a horrible way to go. 

My hand hovers over the parachute icon and I’m about to hit send when Katniss moves suddenly, full of new determination. The intensity of her motion gives me pause. Wasn’t she about to go to sleep? I wait, a little baffled, as she swings herself further up into the tree. She’s left her bag and her supplies, along with her sleeping bag, in the fork in the tree; the only thing on her person is her serrated knife, which she’s slid into her belt loop. 

It takes a second of climbing for me to realize what she’s up to. She’s climbing towards the nest with a knife, and my eyes widen. She’s going to try and drop the damned tracker jacker nest on the Career pack. 

Katniss Everdeen is fucking insane. 

She’s not just insane. She’s smart, too. She waits until the light of the seal and the sound of the anthem blare through the arena; the outside audience is treated to a recap of the day, from the fire to the Career chase through the woods, overlaid on the sound of Panem. Nobody died today, so Katniss will not have much time; she will only have seconds to saw through that branch, to drop the nest. 

The plan is good. I can’t fault her, though the sheer boldness of trying this kind of offensive move while cornered up a tree is baffling to me; she’s even taken the precaution of the anthem, so that they won’t hear her and figure out what her plan is. She has no way of knowing that Peeta plans to betray the pack for her in the morning, and - oh, fuck, if this attack kills Peeta then she’s screwed. The whole narrative is destroyed if Peeta’s name is added to her kill count and this is entirely on me for not bothering to tell her the plan. If she’d known, would she have given it away? Which one is more worth it? Was I right? 

The anthem is ending onscreen and Katniss’s face is wrought with an expression of intense determination. I wince in sympathy as I see the blisters on her hands pop even further, and then the feeling is replaced by a strange, glowy one that I struggle to even name. As I watch on Caesar’s broadcast, the crowds are gasping with excitement and joy as Katniss determinedly saws through the tree branch. I think - I think I’m proud of her. 

As the anthem crescendos through the Mentor Lounge, I navigate as quickly as I can to the sponsorship screen. The price of the medicine has gone up, but only by a little bit; with Peeta’s money, she can absolutely afford it. I hit send , and watch as a drone is dispatched with my horrifically expensive gift. 

I open up the parachute navigation and I guide the medicine to the fork in the trees where Katniss has left her sleeping bag. I deposit it carefully in the center, where I’m sure it won’t be disturbed. It’s the perfect visual, the glittering parachute among her supplies. The sound of the drone and the sight of the parachute obscured by the strains of the anthem, I am certain that Katniss’ enemies did not catch sight of this valuable delivery. 

Katniss struggles down the tree and drops down into her nook. Her eyes alight on the gift immediately, and her little gasp of joy sends an actual, involuntary smile to my face. I know what it feels like to see those parachutes; for her, it’s probably the only bright spot in her day. I watch as she smears the ointment on her palms, and the ugly red marks look visibly cooled, and I know I’ve made the right decision. 

Above Katniss’ head, the half sawed-off tracker jacker nest teeters in the wind, ready to collapse in the morning when Katniss will dispatch it on her opponents. Her opponents and Peeta, who I suppose is also an opponent because he does actually have to die at some point if she wants to win. As Katniss applies the medicine to her blistering, swollen leg, I pray she understood my timing. I was right to wait; visually, the drama of receiving a gift after her successful confrontation with the Careers and the start of a new, offensive strategy is perfect. 

Well done, kid, I think to myself. Less dying of preventable dehydration. More dropping tracker jackers on Careers.  

Katniss passes out almost instantly, sheer exhaustion getting the better of her. As long as she wakes before dawn, she’s okay, I think. 

Effie runs back to our station, beaming with joy. I brace myself for the impact of her high-pitched screech, and I’m hit with it just a moment later. 

“Did you see that?!” Effie squeals. My eardrums are bursting. 

“Obviously, I saw that” I drawl. “I’m getting a drink.” 

“She’s so clever!” 

“No, she’s lucky that Chaff’s girl was nice enough to warn her. She’d have been tracker jacker food otherwise.”  

“You’re insufferable,” says Effie, her heels clicking as she turns and wanders off somewhere. 

I don’t dignify her with a response, instead choosing to make a rude face at her retreating form. 

While Effie disappears, I decide it’s a good time to open up her monitor to check the Capitol social networks. Theoretically, this is supposed to be the escort’s job - nobody from the districts should really be allowed on Capitol social servers - but really, I doubt anyone will bother retribution for such a minor infraction. I don’t even think anyone checks anymore. Am I really supposed to believe that Finnick doesn’t use the social networks? Cashmere? Nah, they’re not gonna care if I glance through Effie’s screen. 

I read through a few posts from Capitol citizens, browsing their discussion on the recent developments. Lots of histrionics about the tragedy of Katniss and Peeta’s doomed romance. Predictable enough. Discussion about Katniss’ plan and the tracker jacker nests - popular posts sharing information about tracker jackers seem to abound, and Caesar’s channel is already running through tracker jacker fun facts. There’s commentary about the parachute, I note with some amount of pride, as people realize that Katniss has sponsors and pretty serious financial backing. Some are discussing Peeta and Maren’s apparent micro-alliance, too, wondering what will become of it. 

The Capitol networks reveal, however, that people’s main fixation is disproportionately on Katniss and Peeta’s romance. In fact, the fascination is beginning to border on obsessiveness. Multiple people are preemptively trying to predict romantic scenarios that could arise in the Games, hypothesizing about what they think Peeta will hallucinate when the tracker jacker venom makes him have nightmares about Katniss. 

I scroll further down, a little bit sick of seeing speculation about my tributes’ love life. Though really, who is there to blame but myself for this mass hysteria? Maybe it’s my job to read paragraph after paragraph of these nauseating conversations. 

I pause when another post catches my eye. The vast majority of the discussion has been vaguely romantic in nature, simply reactionary, or otherwise bland. This commentary, however, references me by name. 

“Rue helping out Katniss?!?! Does that mean Haymitch and Chaff were planning this the whole time? 👀”

I read the sentence over and over. Then I curse aloud, drawing a few stares from the slowly-emptying room. 

“Hey, Chaff,” I say quietly. He hears it. He always hears me. 

“Yeah?”

“Do you wanna talk about this?” I ask, inclining my head to the screen. 

For a beat, he doesn’t respond. Then his face breaks into a wide, if slightly hysterical grin, and Jasmine next to him looks slightly alarmed. 

“You fucking idiot, Haymitch. Yeah, okay. Let’s talk.”

Chapter Text

I incline my head towards the back room, where the instruction manuals are stored. I know for a fact the room isn’t broadcast, because the Capitol doesn’t like the general public getting glimpses of that kind of information - what would the districts do if they got ahold of the wealth of medical information and survivalist knowledge in those books? No, the information manuals are purely for the mentors’ eyes, which means that the room enjoys some relative privacy. More importantly, it means I can safely use it for my purposes. 

Chaff picks up on the direction I’m looking to. He nods. 

“Hey, Jazzy,” he says. “Keep your eyes on Rue for me?” 

“Sure,” she says. “All quiet on the Thresh front.” 

“As always,” Chaff mutters. He flips one of Jasmine’s braids off her shoulder, a gesture of such casual and almost parental intimacy it makes my teeth ache. 

The door to the room swings shut behind us and I size Chaff up for a second. There’s something unsteady in his gait that makes me suspect he’s not entirely sober. I can’t quite blame him. Doing the Games sober is its own special class of torture. 

“Well, it’s about time,” Chaff declares finally. 

“About -” I splutter, half-ready to burst into a string of expletives. Only the thought of Katniss cornered and burned up in that tree reins me in. Whatever strange resentments I have are nothing compared to the horror of being inside the arena. I can cope. 

I take a deep breath. “I’m not looking for a fight.” 

“Neither am I,” he says. 

“You’re always looking for a fight.” 

“Not with you,” he replies, easy as day. 

“What the fuck -” I begin, before forcing my mouth shut again. I should’ve brought a bottle of fucking absinthe or something with me. It would’ve been less frustrating for everyone involved. “Okay. I just wanted to ask about your tribute.” 

“Her name’s Rue,” says Chaff. 

I give him a long stare. “Fine. Wanted to ask about Rue.” 

“I wish I could tell you,” he says. 

“Are you trying to be mysterious?” I ask, scowling. “Because it’s not working.” 

“No mystery,” says Chaff. “I just can’t help you.” 

My frustration is mounting by the second. I turn and stare blankly at the walls of informational texts. The stress of the last few days is constantly seconds away from blowing up in my face, all of the minor irritations with Effie and Beetee and Chaff and even fucking Finnick; all the abuse I wanted to hurl at the glittering, predatory sponsors that I persuaded to send Katniss medicine, all the anger at the sight of that fucking mockingjay pin, comes right to a head, and I am ready to simply -

“Haymitch?” says Chaff. “I lost you there.” 

“What?” 

“You’ve been dead silent for the last five minutes,” he says.  

“No I haven’t.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “It’s OK.” 

I take a deep breath. “So you and Rue haven’t discussed anything?” 

“We haven’t,” he says. “Jasmine and I have been focusing on Thresh. Anything she did was of her own accord.” 

“She’s been doing well,” I say. 

“Well,” says Chaff. “She’s not dead yet.” 

“There’s rumors we’ve been planning something.”

“They’re rumors,” says Chaff simply. “There’s also a rumor that Finnick and Johanna are having a torrid affair. You’re putting too much stock in rumors.” 

I open my mouth and then I close it again. He’s right. Of course he’s right. A nonsensical comment about a plan shouldn’t have gotten to me the way it has, shouldn’t have affected my demeanor like this. 

“I suppose,” I say. 

“Is that all?” asks Chaff. I search his gaze for animosity. For anger, for provocation, for anything I can use to yell at him, to use him as an outlet for the rage that still smokes somewhere in my belly. I find nothing. I start to form a sentence, and find only silence.The silence stretches on for a minute, for two, to the point where it’s reaching critical tension and I can feel it close to snapping. Then finally, as though the words were forced from my unwilling throat, I say - 

“What’s been happening with you?”

Chaff pinches the bridge of his nose. “Took you this long to ask, eh?” 

“Look, if you don’t want to -” 

“That’s not what I said, you prickly bastard,” he says.  

“Okay,” I say, lost for words. 

“You’re a massive pain in the ass, you know that?” says Chaff, leaning his bodyweight against the wall, rolling his eyes slightly. He’s definitely drunk, I realize.

“Are you done insulting me?” I ask. I reach for the flask in my pocket. I may not have absinthe, but whatever I have on hand will definitely ease the flow of whatever this is. 

He reaches into his pocket. Before I know what’s happening, he’s switched on a little device. Signal-blocking. 

“You brought one of those in here?” The sheer stupidity of bringing one of Beetee’s highly illegal, seditious devices into the Games Center is beyond me. There’s security checks at every gate, for fucks’ sake, does he really think that this is a good idea? He’s going to get us all busted. 

“You’d be surprised at how lax the security’s gotten in this place,” he says. “Their scanners are pretty easily fooled by a metallic liquor bottle.” 

“You’re not serious,” I say. 

He pulls a small bottle out of his pocket. Gold-plated, some of the finest tequila that the Capitol has to offer; I recognize it from a particularly horrible night in my twenties. “Dead serious.” 

I can’t help it. I snort out a tiny laugh. “They don’t suspect that the old alcoholics are carrying illegal weapons?” 

“They don’t suspect jack shit,” he says. 

“You’re fucking crazy, man,” I say. “Give that bottle here.” 

He snorts, too, and tosses it in my direction. It’s a testament to my relative sobriety that I only fumble it once before I drop to my knees, snatching it out the air before it shatters on the floor. It’s a sign of his lack of sobriety that his throw was anything resembling accurate. The bottle is still half-full and it is none the worse for having had a signal-blocker immersed inside of it. I’ve definitely drunk worse. 

“So,” I say, as the sharp taste of tequila coats my tongue. “What’s so important you need a signal blocker to tell me?” 

His expression sobers instantly. “Haymitch, shit’s been bad in Eleven.” 

“Bad how?” 

“Bad, as in, the harvest failed.”

My eyes widen. I have only ever been to District Eleven the once, and I hardly remember it, but years of friendship with Chaff and Seeder and more recently Jasmine mean that I have some understanding of how life is there. Besides, I grew up Seam. I remember what happened when the mines didn’t produce their quota. 

“So crackdowns,” I say, my voice dropping to barely above a whisper. 

“Yeah. Beatings, shootings, you name it. Worse than usual.” 

I nod sharply. There have been crackdowns in Twelve back in my day. I know what they looked like, know how they affected the district. But.. I know Chaff. He’s like me. Well, he’s not like me, but he’s close enough - he tries not to involve himself with the affairs of everyone in the district. Seeder does, but he stays out of it as much as he can, except - except - 

“Chaff. Your cousin. She okay?” I blurt, before he can say anything else. 

“Oh, she’s fine,” he says. “That’s not what the whispers about.” 

“What whispers?” 

“According to Seeder? Whispers between workers in the fields. Passed on through secret messages. They want to rebel.” 

The words send a cold chill right through me. I’m familiar with the word rebellion. It’s been hanging in the air since I was a teenager, whispered in my direction from other hopeless, desperate victors. It’s a word that gave me a thrill and something to cling to when I had nothing but the neverending loneliness of the rest of my life. It’s a word that I have come to associate with little more than wishful thinking, the word of a lonely idiot who wanted anything at all to live for.

But what Chaff is saying is different. He’s saying that the people, not the victors, are whispering rebellion. Maybe that means something new, something tangible. Or maybe it just means the people of the districts are just as helpless and desperate as we are. 

I’ve gone quiet again, I realize. Chaff’s watching me, waiting for a response. 

“What’s that gotta do with you?” I ask, finally. I know Chaff. The state of the district, however, distressing, is not what is really plaguing him. 

“Seeder’s wife died last month,” he says. 

I turn to face him. “What?” 

“Heart attack. Out of nowhere.” 

“Shit,” I say, lost for words. “That’s why she’s not here this year?”

He shrugs. “That, and the medics said Seeder has cancer.” 

“Seeder’s got cancer?” I ask, stunned. I don’t know much about cancer. It’s not common to die like that out in Twelve, where we usually just blow up in the mines or from starvation or exposure. But I’ve heard of it, yeah, amongst older folks in the Seam. If the mines don’t kill you while you work down in them, the dust can get in your lungs and it grows there. You die slowly and horribly. How would Seeder even have got cancer if there’s no coal dust for her to breathe in Eleven? 

“Yeah,” says Chaff, bluntly, taking another large swig from his bottle. “They say she’s got about a year. Two years.” 

“Shit,” I say again. “She’s a victor - can’t she get some kind of special Capitol treatment or -” 

“They said no,” he says. “She isn’t valuable enough anymore.” 

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it. I take the bottle from him. Seeder’s a good woman. She’s always been kind to me, even when I really didn’t deserve it. She was owed a peaceful end. 

“Yeah.” 

There’s a beat of silence while I absorb the information. Unrest in Eleven. Anger in the fields. Seeder’s wife dying in sudden, mysterious circumstances. Heart attack, my ass. And I don’t know what to make of cancer. But still, somehow, nothing adds up. It’s Chaff’s behavior that bothers me, really, I think. His performance of slow rage is not like him; it is my style, not his. Chaff is quick to anger, quick to forgive, wearing his heart on his sleeve and rushing into a confrontation. The state of his district is one thing. This is another. 

“That doesn’t explain why you’ve been acting up at me,” I say. I half expect him to swing at me. Chaff’s favorite response to things is to swing at them and honestly, I’d quite welcome the excuse to swing back. He doesn’t oblige. Instead, he lets out a dark chuckle. 

“Oh,” he says. “I just wanted to see how long it’d take you to realize something was off.” 

I don’t respond. What is there to say? I lean back against the wall and stare blankly at the ceiling.

“Why?” I ask, finally. 

He looks at me, and then suddenly he is the Chaff I know. His heart is written out on his expression, and I look away as I’m hit with this wave of secondhand guilt and anger. He reaches for the bottle in my hand and he’s already slurring his words. I suspect I am too. 

“Because you hardly ever do,” he says, and then he stumbles slightly. It’s really a miracle that he’s been drunker than I am these Games - I am almost invariably the person falling on their feet, endangering themselves with the bottle, and it is so, so strange that it’s Chaff this time who is acting up. 

I take the bottle back from him and, tentatively, place another hand on his shoulder. He turns in my direction like he’s been electrocuted, eyes wide and vulnerable. The amount of sheer emotion there makes me physically flinch and it’s all I can do to keep my hand steady and not pull away. I avert my eyes. 

“Let’s get you back to your apartment,” I say. “You’re drunk.” 

“So’re you,” he says. 

“Not as drunk as you are.” 

I jerk my head towards the door, urging him to follow. He waits for just a beat and then he follows obediently, stumbling slightly as he walks. The room spins around me slightly but I refuse to let it show, putting all my willpower into appearing less tipsy than I am. The crowd of reporters mobs me the second I leave the Mentor Lounge, and I wave them away - let them have tonight to speculate amongst one another, let the rumors run wild, let Katniss fend for herself up in that tree for a night. She has the medicine, she’ll be alright, and the citizens of this illustrious city have been fed and gorged on their offering of content, of suffering. It’s enough blood to sustain the machine, despite the low fatality rate. The promise of real death awaits tomorrow, and tonight the city drinks and revels in keen anticipation. 

Chaff slumps against the elevator wall as the doors slide shut, and I can see him watching me from underneath his eyelashes. I won’t give him the satisfaction of letting him know I’ve noticed. I reach instead for my flask, which is nearly empty. 

Jasmine is curled up in a chair when I push Chaff roughly onto the couch, dropping him there like a sack of potatoes while I walk off to find some water. She says nothing, just raising her eyebrows at me while she continues to peruse something on her tablet. Donations or sponsorships or something of the like. I’m sick of looking at it, sick of thinking about it, sick of being in this stupid fucking city. 

“Drink,” I say at Chaff, shoving a glass of water in his direction. Somewhat reluctantly, he takes it. 

“Haymitch,” he says finally. 

“What?” 

He doesn’t respond. I don’t ask again. 

“Go to bed,” I say. “Tomorrow’s gonna be one hell of a day.” 

He nods. “Alright.” 

When he makes no effort to get up from where he’s sitting, I stride across the room and drag him to his feet, grip viselike on his forearm. 

“Okay, I’m going,” he says. He then stumbles towards his room, apparently rallying enough to walk in a semi-straight line. The door creaks shut.

There’s a beat of silence and I turn away from Jasmine, not wanting to face whatever I’m going to see in her expression. I drop to my knees in front of the liquor cabinet instead, wrapping my hand around a bottle of cheap white vodka, something similar to the kind of shit that Ripper in the Hob brews. The kind of stuff that obliterates your capacity to think, at least for a while. I can afford oblivion until tomorrow morning. I think I owe myself that. 

Jasmine is still where she was when I walked in. She raises a brow at me and I glance away. Do I offer her condolences for whatever tragedies are rocking her district? Do I ask her how she’s doing? I don’t know. I decide that the easiest course of action is to leave, to retreat to the relative safety of the Twelve rooms where I can be alone with a bottle and my thoughts, far from the screaming mob of Games-watchers at ground level and the simmering, latent grief that weighs down the air in the District Eleven territory. If there is one thing that I don’t know how to handle, it’s grief. 

I’m a foot out the door when Jasmine’s voice stops me. It’s the first I’ve heard her speak today and it’s against every minute of my better judgment that I half-turn again to face her. 

“Hey,” she says, her chin resting on her closed fist. “You know Chaff loves you, right?” 

I spin all the way around, searching for some kind of tell in her face. I find nothing, and I turn back towards the door, struggling slightly for breath. 

“Yeah. I know,” I say finally. 

Chapter Text

Katniss Everdeen is fucking shit up.

She wakes before dawn, while Peeta and the Careers are passed out from exhaustion, and signaled Rue to get out of the vicinity before sawing through that damn branch, fighting through the pain of several tracker-jacker stings - which is a problem I will have to deal with later - but within seconds, she sends the nest crashing through the trees. It lands squarely in the middle of the Careers’ camp.

I thank my stars for Peeta’s commitment to Katniss, because his sleep was light and fitful and when the nest hits the ground he’s the first to leap to his feet, abandoning his supplies and sprinting madly in the opposite direction. Cato and Clove are with him, probably because they were awake plotting Katniss’ murder; Glimmer, who had fallen asleep on guard duty, has the nest fall nearly on top of her head. Maren seems to have vanished in the melee.

I tune back into the public commentary, where Caesar is awake and shrieking like a banshee into his mic. I’m not sure how he manages to be awake every time something interesting happens on screen. Chaff thinks he does cocaine. I think he gets tips from the Gamemakers. 

“Good morning, folks, and in case you’re not caught up, we’re right in the middle of one of this year’s most exciting moments. Katniss Everdeen, our very own Girl on Fire, has just launched a full-scale tracker-jacker attack on the allies from One, Two, and Four, an alliance which includes her district partner and rumored lover, Peeta Mellark! Claudius, have we ever seen anything like this before?”

“Not in my memory, Caesar, no,” says Claudius, peering at the display. “Turning the tracker jackers into a weapon like that - really, it’s ingenious!” 

“Certainly, my dear Claudius, certainly!” says Caesar. 

I don’t love their phrasing, but they’re right about one thing. It is ingenious. Very occasionally, Katniss is capable of something other than outright stupidity, and I’m glad they’re picking up on that; this commentary is good for her odds, good for her sponsorships. 

Onscreen, Maren and Glimmer are swarmed by tracker jackers. I watch as Glimmer collapses, twitching, at the base of the tree - Maren tries to flee, to follow Peeta and the others, but her stings slow her down and she stumbles, crashing to the ground screaming bloody murder. I don’t want to imagine the kind of nightmarish hallucinations she experiences in her last moments. From across the room, Finnick and Althea’s monitor goes gray and Maren’s body stops twitching, her swollen face nearly unrecognizable. Althea shoots me a brief and unreadable glance as she pulls her headset off, setting it down with a sense of overwhelming finality. She and Cashmere will soon be summoned for their exit interviews. I wonder what they will say. 

I return my attention to Katniss, who manages to reach the ground without falling to her death. The remaining Careers and Peeta have made it to the lake, where the tracker jacker swarm hovers just above the water. Peeta is still coherent enough to keep his head underwater and hold it there as long as possible - I wince as he is forced to come up for breath and the tracker jackers hone in on his blond scalp, delivering another sting to his face before he’s able to dive back under the surface. 

“What is she doing ?!” Effie’s voice comes from behind me in a slightly panicked shriek. 

“Fuck,” I say, as I turn back to Katniss’s monitor. The venom-addled fool is stumbling in entirely the wrong direction. I curse. There is no salvaging this, not from the Mentor Lounge. Her sweeping, intelligent victory over the Careers will mean nothing if she just runs back into their clutches like this. I open the donations screen, though it is absolutely futile - sending her a gift while she’s in the middle of a tracker-jacker induced insanity spiral will do nothing. She’ll just as likely try to fight the parachute. 

Then she bursts back into the clearing and suddenly her goal is obvious. So obvious that now I feel like an idiot for failing to realize it earlier. She wants Glimmer’s fucking bow. Peeta managed to talk Glimmer into bringing the damned thing in the desperate hope that Katniss might find a way to get ahold of it.

Katniss is dense, but perhaps not that dense - if she can get her hands on that bow, she might just swing an even bigger win out of this, establish herself as a real competitor in these games. If she can’t, she’s killed herself for nothing. Unfortunately, if there’s one thing I’m starting to understand about Katniss Everdeen, it is that she will never half-ass anything; she won’t run and minimize her risks if she has even the tiniest shot at victory. I think it’s stupid, but her instincts are clearly terrible after years in the woods frolicking with wild animals.

A yell from the headset draws my attention. Cato has resurfaced, panting and gasping, from the lake - a glance at him tells me he’s been spared the worst of the jacker attack. He has a sting, maybe two.

“I am going to fucking KILL THAT BITCH,” he screeches. He rounds on Peeta, who looks dazed and lost, the venom clearly starting to take effect. “And you, motherfucker, did you know about this? Huh? You put your little girlfriend up to it? You sent her after us?” 

Peeta cringes away. The venom is likely making him more paranoid. 

“No,” he manages. “She dropped the nest on me too, didn’t you see?” 

“You - you -” Cato struggles for words. “I’m going to fucking find her and I’m going to fucking kill her. And I’ll deal with your ass later.” 

“Hff,” says Peeta, and I suspect that the tracker jackers are starting to reach his brain. That, or the lake water. 

Clove and Marvel emerge from the water, and Cato is temporarily distracted from his murderous rampage by the terrible state of his district partner. 

“Clove?” he says, and the small girl bares her teeth through what must be pretty serious pain. Several angry tracker jacker stings pepper her body.

“Cato,” she manages, before stumbling, falling back into the lake water. Cato runs to prop her up and Peeta looks between them for a moment. 

I don’t know how Peeta manages the lucidity, but he takes advantage of Cato’s distraction to turn and sprint in the direction that he came, hurtling back into the woods and towards the abandoned camp. For Maren? For Katniss? For his weapons? I’m not sure. 

“Hey, come back!” shrieks Clove, before she gags, dizzy, and rests her head on Cato’s shoulder. Cato looks between Peeta and Clove, torn for a minute, but Peeta is now several yards away from the lakeshore and seems to be laser-focused on reaching Katniss’ tree. 

My heart sinks when I look back at Katniss. She’s woozy with pain and venom, her body clearly already weakened from the burns and the smoke, and she’s clutching the bow, trying desperately to break the death-grip of Glimmer’s fingers. 

“Get out of there, girl,” I hiss at my screen. Even if she could hear me, I’m certain it would be futile. 

“She could use that bow, though,” says Effie, wryly. It’s so unlike her that I snap my head back to check that she hasn’t been somehow replaced with a mutt clone. 

“She can’t use shit if she’s dead,” I say. 

“No need to be so pessimistic,” says Effie. “Look, Peeta’s coming back for her!” 

A disoriented Peeta slams his way into the clearing, knife held aloft. I’m not sure he’s sure why he came back, because the sight of a half-conscious Katniss clutching a bow has him making a nearly comical expression of shock. 

“What are you still doing here?” he hisses, furiously. Katniss just stares at him, clearly not processing. 

“Peeta?” she whimpers, her gaze unfocused and voice cracking. And maybe it’s the tracker jacker venom or maybe it’s just my own delusion, but I think I hear some relief in her tone. 

“Get up! Get up!” Peeta says, voice rising in an unhinged shriek. He grabs her arm, poking her with the butt of his weapon. 

Cato emerges from the treeline, lethal intent obvious despite his unsteadiness. He points his sword straight at Peeta.

“Run! Katniss, run!” screams Peeta, shoving at Katniss before turning and launching himself directly at Cato. Something registers in Katniss’ venom-addled brain and she runs, fucking finally, crashing through the branches unheeding as they slash at her face. She’s screaming and useless, an incomprehensible stream of gibberish pouring from her mouth as she claws at her own skin and I am uncomfortably reminded of Annie Cresta’s similar flight through the woodlands only a couple of years ago. No, no, I tell myself. This is tracker jacker venom induced. Katniss will come out of this with her mental faculties intact. It’s not permanent. And at least she’s not clutching her friend’s decapitated head. This is the Hunger Games, and things could always be worse. Run, Katniss, run, I think. I suddenly feel an inexplicable urge to laugh hysterically, a tightness rising in my chest that I can’t quite understand. 

Peeta kneels amongst the bodies of his fallen allies. Some instinct in him seems to have sought out Maren’s stiffening body and he prises the spear from her grip, Cato bearing down on him. He barely dodges the slash of Cato’s sword and he rolls - or, more accurately, flops - to the ground, his incoherent screeches mixing with Katniss’ in my headset until the cacophony is too much and I silence my feed, watching the whole thing play out in terrible silence. 

Cato brings his sword down again and somehow, despite Peeta’s slowed, delayed responses, he is able to shove his whole ungainly body backwards. The blade slashes deep into his thigh instead of his stomach and Peeta’s screeches heighten in pitch. I think Cato hits a vein or perhaps an artery because the blood from Peeta’s leg shoots upwards and into Cato’s eyes. Cato stumbles backwards, gasping and trying futilely to wipe it away. The bloody eyelids and the tracker jacker venom are too much for Cato and he succumbs, thrashing incoherently, slapping himself in the face while Peeta’s screams continue. Even in my silenced feed, Peeta’s sweet features are contorted into a horrific howl, and there is wildness in his gaze that I’d never have thought him capable of. 

Half-insane, Peeta somehow manages to haul himself to his feet. Cato is distracted by Clove’s cries of terror and Peeta, gagging and dizzy, stumbles in the direction where Katniss disappeared. Blood is still spurting down his leg and I am starting to worry that this stupid wound is going to kill him before I am able to - able to what? Save him? I’m so sleep deprived I’m starting to sound delusional. Perhaps the tracker jacker venom will make him hallucinate so bad he won’t even remember he’s dying. 

Katniss’ flight through the woods is brought to an abrupt halt as she crashes into a tree, stumbling to her knees. It only takes a second before she passes out in some divot in the ground. There could be worse places to pass out, I reason. There’s some foliage around her, at least, though I’m not sure she found it intentionally, instinctively, or purely by accident. All I can do is hope that it’s enough to prevent her from being found.

“To the lake,” Peeta mutters between wails. Somehow, the kid is still running. “Toooo the lake.” 

“Not to the lake, moron,” I mutter back. There is really no reason for me to still be here at this monitor. Katniss, the tribute that I have invested everything in, sleeps in a ditch and I need to be using this time to do more interviews, to strategize with Effie, to secure some sponsors so that when she wakes up I can buy her something that she needs. Instead, I am glued to my monitor, watching as Peeta staggers his way through the forest, blood flowing freely. 

“There’s no way he hasn’t passed out yet,” says Caesar Flickerman in a tone of genuine awe. “That boy has a mind of steel.” 

“Well, Caesar,” says Claudius Templesmith. “In honor of Miss Everdeen’s little scheme, I took the liberty of unearthing some research on tracker jackers and their venom. This research analysis - and, folks, this is serious stuff, dating back to the Dark Days - seems to imply that some people are born with more resistance to hallucinogens like tracker jacker venom.”  

“Fascinating, Claudius. For the sake of our viewers, would you care to explain what that means?” 

“It’s experimental research,” says Claudius. “So we can only make some educated guesses on what’s happening to Peeta right now. This report says that hallucinations can vary from realistic to severe - severe hallucinations means that most recipients of tracker jacker venom will see things that aren’t there at all, their minds inventing new objects, situations, and scenarios to terrify them. These may or may not be related to their pre-existing fears.” 

“I see, I see,” says Caesar.

“I’m not allowed to bet on anything Games-related, as you well know, but I would put good money on the fact that Peeta is more resistant to the tracker jacker venom than Katniss. Which means that while our dear Katniss is probably dreaming of nightmare mutts, her Peeta is probably just deathly afraid of his immediate surroundings, and , of his immediate memories.”

The light goes on inside Caesar’s head, which is a rare enough occurrence that even I take note. “Ohhhh. And for Peeta, that immediate memory is of Cato?” 

“Exactly!” says Claudius. “The venom amplified his fear of Cato, which is overriding his need to pass out. That’s how he’s been running for so long.” 

“Fascinating stuff!” says Caesar. “Now, coming up on the right, we have some quick commentary from District Two, and we’re broadcasting live some remarks from our beloved Lyme -” 

I mute the commentary and turn back to my mentor feed of Peeta, switching the volume back on. I will go and watch Lyme’s interview soon, but something prevents me from ignoring Peeta as his body finally gives in to the weight of his injuries. He’s crawling now, on his hands and knees, and he’s moving upstream down a small water body. His injured leg catches on a rock, and he gives a low moan of agony. I know that sound. It’s what happens when your body is on the verge of giving up and can’t even muster the energy to scream any longer.

Some part of Peeta is lucid enough to turn and try to wipe away the bloodstain on the rock, but his coordination is so poor that all he does is get gravel under his nails and blood on his hands. My stomach turns at the thought of the sharp, metallic scent. I keep watching. There’s an unsettling strangeness in his demeanor as he bats the air, undoubtedly seeing visions that nobody else can, and some part of him is trying to fight it, something keeping his body moving, dragging his half-prone form along the riverbank. It’s only when the tracker jacker venom finally overwhelms his system, his eyes roll back in his head, and he passes out in the stream that I look away from his monitor. 

There’s an eerie silence in the Lounge. There aren’t really many of us left, and half the tributes have just been rendered unconscious thanks to Katniss and her tracker jackers. This number includes Katniss herself. Only Chaff and Jasmine, Beetee, and Isadora from Five have tributes that are both alive and conscious; the rest of us sit staring in awkward silence as the broadcast cuts between the bodies of the tracker jacker victims. I stand up, cracking my neck, and stride to the refreshments table, ignoring the death stares I receive from the front of the room. 

The silence is broken by Cashmere, who stands up with a toss of her blonde hair. She huffs in my direction before flinging her headset on the ground. “Congratulations, Haymitch. Your tribute’s odds were better than Glimmer’s, anyway.” 

It’s shockingly less hostile than I was expecting from Cashmere, and I narrow my eyes at her. She doesn’t wait for my response before stalking dramatically out of the Lounge, a move that will certainly be filmed and projected later on television. It is, of course, pure theatrics, because she’ll be back soon enough to help her brother mentor their boy. 

Cashmere’s comment does remind me to check the betting odds. Before I can pour out a drink, I hurry back to my monitor. The odds will have changed since the attack, since Katniss has added two bodies to her kill count. I remember Katniss’ early 80-1 projection, a near-impossible statistic that she’s meticulously and methodically improved over the past ten days. I’ve long since stopped obsessively monitoring the actual numbers; the odds are fickle and they are rarely in my favor, and they are often just discouraging. Enough people will place safe bets on a Career boy that a girl from Twelve, no matter how good her performance, will never stun at the gambling markets. 

Still, the current tables rank Katniss as fourth, after Cato, Thresh, and Marvel in that order. She and Clove are nearly tied. Peeta is just behind her while Rue, Isadora’s girl from Five, and the boy from Ten linger at the bottom, as the crowd waits for them to die off slowly.  

No, wait. As I watch, the odds are being updated; after her successful tracker jacker attack, her odds have been reassessed and she is now nearly as high as Marvel in the rankings. I suspect that if she hadn’t been a victim of her own attack, she’d be even higher. Peeta, however, just saw his odds plummet. He’s now only polling just ahead of Rue, whose half-decent training score has her a little above Five and Ten. Against my better judgment, I cast half a glance at Peeta’s monitor, where his body jerks wildly from a combination of blood loss and tracker jacker venom. There is very little I can do for him now. 

I shove my chair back from my station and blindly pour out more liquor, ignoring the fancy bartending tools and acting like I do back home, knocking back as much as I can handle. I ignore Effie’s slight tuh of disapproval. Slowly, I relax as the movement and chatter in the room dulls to background noise, the Capitol liquor strong enough to overwhelm my already shot nerves. The sudden rush of my thoughts begins to slow and with my surroundings numbed, I’m able to focus on whatever I want.  

I feel Effie’s eyes following me as I move, but the liquor makes it easy to pretend she doesn’t exist. I return to my monitor, swiping my forearm across the projection to relegate the feets of my unconscious tributes to the background. I open the desk drawer and rummage around, only vaguely registering the loose nail that slices open the side of my hand. I wrap my hands around the thing I’m looking for - an electronic pen - and I stare at it in blind fascination for a moment as a thin streak of blood smears its otherwise flawless surface. I don’t wipe it away. It’s fitting, I think, that I lose a little blood while Katniss and Peeta writhe in the throes of jacker venom in the arena. 

I squint hard at the pen. I can’t remember the last time I ate, and the weeks of cutting back on drinking means that a smaller-than usual quantity of liquor has impaired my functioning more than I can afford, really. With some effort, I focus on the weird color of Effie’s hair. 

“Effie, go get something to eat ,” I say, and I’m surprised when my voice comes out louder than I expect. And more than a little slurred. 

“I told you not to drink that,” Effie says, but she swivels around and walks purposefully towards a somewhat terrified-looking Capitol attendant. 

“You actually didn’t say shit,” I say, and the annoyed stares from around the room are so familiar that I can’t muster a damn to give.

I pick up the hard-won pen again and I begin writing out my thoughts from this morning. Katniss’s sponsorships are holding steady, thankfully, but after today she’ll lose the bonus that Peeta’s been giving her. Gifts are getting more expensive by the minute with nearly three-quarters of the field eliminated, and the splurge on the medicine means I hardly have enough to send her a meal. Then again, she should be good on food, because her newfound bow and arrows mean that she can hunt like she did back home. Still, there’s no telling what other necessities might crop up. I am going to need to go and rally her sponsors soon, because there’s no telling how long she’ll be out and in the meantime Thresh or Marvel could garner some unexpected source of support; I can’t have her waking up and feeling abandoned. The thought of having to woo sponsors makes me shiver slightly, and I am unable to shake the unwanted feeling of skin on skin, a leftover from my earliest years as a victor when I was young, popular, and desperate. I can’t let my wariness of sponsors get in the way of Katniss’ victory any more than it already has. 

I’m squinting so hard at the display that I don’t notice that Effie’s chair has been suddenly occupied by Chaff. 

“Enjoying yourself?” he asks. 

I swing around with a hiss, arm lashing out instinctively. Chaff is smart enough to dodge me. 

“What the fuck?” I say. 

“Have you looked at your tributes’ feeds lately?” he says. 

“Of course I have,” I say. “They’re unconscious. Fuck am I gonna do by watching them sleep?” 

“Look again,” Chaff says. Without bothering to ask, he leans past me and taps away at my screen, pulling up the individual feed of Katniss. She’s collapsed in the same little ditch she passed out in.

“What am I looking at?” I ask. 

“Caesar’s broadcast hasn’t even noticed it yet,” Chaff says. “But wait. Keep watching the treeline back there.” 

I frown, doing as he says. For several minutes, there’s nothing at all and I am spinning around and around on my chair, bored and ready to smack him. 

“There!” says Chaff, stopping my chair with his hand. I peer, focusing very hard despite my self-inflicted dizziness and the beginnings of a headache. There’s a slight rustling in the trees, and I use both hands to zoom the camera in closer. A small, dark-skinned figure emerges from the treeline. She darts forward, impossibly light on her feet, and dances closer to Katniss’ prone body. She keeps a respectable distance, staying within range of the trees and leaping backwards every few moments, as if afraid that Katniss will wake up out of the blue and launch an attack. When apparently satisfied, she disappears and I lose sight of her entirely. Maybe it’s the drink, but I’m fucking mystified. 

“The fuck is she playing at?” I ask Chaff. “All she’s gotta do is take a swing and Katniss is dead.” 

“I don’t know,” says Chaff. “But this is the third time she’s tried it.” 

We look at each other. I get the sense that he was hoping I’d have more answers than he does, an explanation for the strange behavior of his underdog tribute. 

“Maybe she needs help,” I say. “She have any injuries?” 

“No. Nothing major,” says Chaff. 

“Did Rue say nothing to you? What about during training?” I ask. I don’t recall either of them mentioning anything about a little girl from Eleven to me. Then again, I know full well that Katniss and Peeta are more than capable of concealing information from me, especially when I am snapping in their faces. 

Chaff doesn’t say anything. He just watches Katniss’ body on the screen for a couple of seconds. Finally, he sighs. “I asked her once. How her training was going.” 

“....And?” 

“And the only thing she said was she liked what Katniss did.” 

“So what? Your kid was stalking Katniss from the beginning?” 

“Stalking? Admiring?” Chaff says, throwing his stump of a hand in the air. “Or just fascinated by?” 

“Okay,” I say. “That’s….okay. I mean, you gotta give me more to work with than that. What else do you know about Rue?” 

“Not much. Parents are farmhands. She worked the orchards after school,” he says. “Not so different from me.” 

“‘Cept she has parents,” I point out. “Anything else?” 

“Nothing,” he says. “She’s pretty quiet. Likes Jasmine, I think. Good with a slingshot.” 

None of that helps me figure out why she’s stalking Katniss. Unless….unless. “She have any other family?”  

“Siblings,” says Chaff. “Saw ‘em at the Reaping.” 

“Siblings,” I echo. Siblings are interesting. See, by the time training started, audience didn’t know shit about Katniss. All she’d done was show up in a fiery suit on those chariots, which said more about Cinna than it did about her. Except that’s not true, because there is the first thing that Rue would’ve known about her. That everyone would’ve known about her. I can still hear the desperation in Katniss’ voice as she screamed for Prim at the Reaping, the grief and the panic so potent it cut through the fugue of drink that had been fogging up my mind, so potent that it elicited long-dead emotion from me. I’m sure I’m not the only one. 

“Her siblings. They’re Reaping age?” I ask. 

“Nah. Younger,” says Chaff. “Whole brood of ‘em. All younger.” 

I shrug. “Maybe that’s that, then.” 

“Maybe what’s it?” 

“The kid is twelve years old. Everyone knows she’s got no chance. Maybe she just wants to be near someone who thinks like she does. Or, I don’t fucking know. Maybe she wishes someone like Katniss would have volunteered for her.” 

Chaff’s eyes widen a little. My guess is wild and I know it, but it’s the only theory that makes sense. The most logical answer, of course, that Rue was stalking Katniss to kill her. If Rue wanted Katniss dead, however, then she’s had ample chance to take her out. I mean, you could excuse Rue telling Katniss about the tracker jackers. Maybe she wanted Katniss to take out the Careers for her. But now Katniss has done that already and Rue has found her lying unconscious and helpless in a ditch, and her reluctance to finish her is senseless. The only logical answer is, therefore, illogical. Something frivolous. Like a wisp of comfort for a lonely little girl in an arena. 

“The arena is a fucked up place,” says Chaff, and I know that his mind has gone the same place that mine has. 

“This is the least fucked-up thing about it,” I say. I raise an eyebrow at him and for the first time since the Games started, I think we’re actually on the same page. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“Ahem,” says Effie Trinket. We both jump. “Why is it that whenever I leave this room, I find a different person in this seat?” 

“Sorry, beautiful,” says Chaff, giving Effie an exaggerated wink. 

I give him a look and Effie swats him on the head and commands him to get out. Obligingly, Chaff vacates Effie’s seat and returns to confer with Jasmine.

“What was that about?” asks Effie. 

“Rue is watching Katniss,” I say. 

Effie pales. “So -” 

“I don’t think she’s in danger,” I say. “Besides, if Rue decides to kill her, the fuck can we do about it?”

“Haymitch, really?” says Effie, wrinkling her nose. “I’d have thought that by this point you’d care at least a little bit.”

“If she dies, she dies,” I say. “It’s happened before.”

"Yes," says Effie, and am I imagining things or does her lower lip tremble slightly? "Yes, I suppose it has." 

Chapter Text

“As you can see, Clove is recovering well from the tracker jacker attack,” says Lyme, confident in Caesar’s chair. She’s taller than he is and effortlessly commands the entire studio. “I’m sure it’s only a brief setback. In fact, tracker jacker venom is a hallucinogen, and Clove once told me during training that her biggest fears are what motivate her the most. So I, for one, am confident that after this episode we’re going to see Clove return stronger and more sure of herself than ever, after this reminder of why she’s here.” 

Caesar nods, eyes crinkled. He gives Lyme an expression that I assume is meant to be sympathetic, but comes across instead as cartoonish. 

“That is so incredibly touching,” he says. “Viewers are already so moved by Clove’s determination. So Lyme, can you tell me more about what some of Clove’s fears are? What might she be thinking of, asleep over there?” 

“My understanding of Clove is that she’s most afraid of failure,” says Lyme. “She’s always been skilled at whatever she sets her mind to, and she told me that she’s top of her class in school…” 

I turn the volume down, letting Lyme’s voice trail off. Her attitude is grating. School, my ass. I know full well - as does everyone watching - that Clove was at the top of her training academy back in District Two, and school wasn’t even in the picture. Career mentors, like Lyme and Gloss, have spent years personally coaching every single one of those kids. Physical combat advantages aside, it also means that Lyme can be called into an interview on zero notice and have something genuinely insightful to say about her tribute. I, on the other hand, am left trying to suss out Katniss Everdeen’s opaque, stubborn nonsense based on approximately six days of interacting with her. And that’s if you can call the screaming matches and sullen silences interaction, anyway.

 My communicuff buzzes with a message from Caesar. HAYMITCH! INTERVIEW AT 1400 HRS? 

The Capitol is so pretentious with its constant use of military time. Nobody back in Twelve would call two in the afternoon 1400 hrs. Strange cultural quirks, I suppose. I know that despite the message’s friendly tone, it’s not optional - one does not turn down an interview request from the host of the Hunger Games. Then again, it’s currently just past noon, and Katniss has been unconscious for over a day. If I want her to maintain her relevance with the Capitol, I’m going to have to drum up some publicity soon - the audiences get bored so quickly, and they’ve already moved on to watching Thresh battle venomous snake-mutts in the fields. 

Of course, I have already set Effie on the task of chatting up some low-level sponsors. Just enough to keep Katniss’ donations above the critical line. Still, they’re not as high as I would like. Buying her that medicine depleted them completely, and the ever-increasing price of parachutes means that I can never just rest on my earnings - if I want Katniss’ money to be worth anything at all, I have to keep making more of it. 

I set about trying to figure out what to say in this interview. This will be my first media appearance since the tracker jacker attack, and they’re going to be paying close attention to what I say. Caesar has already done exit interviews with Althea and Cashmere, spoken to Gloss, and Lyme has just done her second press piece since Clove passed out. Brutus is the only Career mentor who hasn’t been called in yet, and I strongly suspect Caesar is saving his and mine for the last. Even though Marvel and Thresh both lead Katniss in the betting markets, it is obvious to everyone that Katniss has gripped the public imagination in a way that someone like Thresh or even media-trained Marvel hasn’t managed. One almost sympathizes with a figure like Marvel, whose years of training have turned him into yet another District One Career clone. I guess no amount of training can organically replicate Katniss Everdeen’s inherent insanity. 

I don’t know the exact questions Caesar will ask me, but I can try to control the direction of the interview. He’s going to ask about Peeta sacrificing himself for Katniss, I’m quite certain - the Capitol viewers must be hungry for more information about their dynamic, about how the tracker jacker incident changed it, how much each tribute knew about the others’ plan. I’m going to have to tread carefully, because Katniss is stubborn and likely won’t play along with my stories unless she thinks she has no other choice. Caesar will probably bring up the firebombing attack, too, since I haven’t done much press since then - I’d better be prepared with some pandering lines about the Girl on Fire. 

I jump slightly as the phone at my desk rings. It would be part of Effie’s job to take the call, but Effie’s in another sponsor meeting, which leaves it to me. With some trepidation, I reach out and answer the line, bracing myself for a barrage of questions from some high-profile sponsor whose name I haven’t bothered to remember. Instead, I hear a familiar, calm, and oddly welcome voice. 

“Cinna?” I ask, in disbelief. I wasn’t expecting to hear from the stylists until next year, at least; I can’t remember ever getting a phone call from the countless stylists they’ve fobbed off on Twelve over the years. 

“Haymitch. It’s been a busy few days, I assume?” says Cinna, his voice so different from the squealing sponsors I expected that I have trouble responding. 

“That’s one way of putting it.” 

“Sorry to bother you,” he says. “I tried the apartment phone a few times, but I didn’t get through to anyone.” 

“Oh,” I say. “I’ve been at the Lounge.” 

“For three days?” Cinna asks.

I shrug. “What’s your point?” 

“Nothing at all,” says Cinna. 

“Look, I don’t have time for -” 

“Well, just hear me out for a second,” he says, and there’s enough urgency there that I pause before hanging up the phone. “I wanted to ask when your next interview was going to be.”

“It’s, uh - in about ninety minutes, actually.” 

“Ah,” says Cinna, and I suspect that’s the closest he can get to swearing. “I was hoping for a bit more time.” 

“Time for what ?” I ask. 

“I have some outfits for you,” he says. 

“What? No. I don’t want them.” 

“Haymitch,” he says.  

It’s only then that the rebellion occurs to me. Has Cinna been sent by them? Is that why he’s calling me at the last minute? Perhaps he needs access to the heavily guarded Games Headquarters, or the Training Center. Of course, there is absolutely no way I can ask this on the phone, but I also can’t occupy this phone line for much longer, because what if a sponsor calls and I’m wasting time talking to Cinna? 

“Two minutes to make your pitch. Then I’m hanging up.” 

“Alright,” says Cinna. “I don’t know if you’ve checked, but people are desperate for more information about Katniss and Peeta. They’ve been watching the exit interviews from this morning and ignoring everything that Althea and Cashmere have to say, because they only want to hear from you. You have never had this kind of scrutiny on you and your district in your entire time as a mentor -” 

“Hey, what the fuck -” I begin, but Cinna cuts me off. 

“And people are going to be tuning in. And I can tell you for certain that the Capitol pays attention to appearances, and you have just confirmed to me that you have been sleeping in the Mentor Lounge, so forgive me, but if you want to represent Katniss and Peeta to the best of your ability, you should take any help you can get.” 

I sit back, surprised. I haven’t exactly known Cinna for long, but he’s always come across to me as soft-spoken and trustworthy, and I certainly wasn’t expecting this kind of forceful display from him, of all people. 

“Well?” Cinna says, and his naturally gentle tone is back. “Did I pitch well enough?” 

“Yes. Get to the building and I’ll let you in,” I say. 

“Great. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he says. “I’ll come to the Training Center. Use the time to get ready.”

Without bothering to answer, I click the phone back into place. I close out of my monitor and switch to my communicuff, and, for the first time in several days, I return to the District Twelve apartment. Compared to the constant noise and bustle of the Games Headquarters and the City Circle, the apartment is hauntingly quiet, the dust settled and untouched from days of abandonment. I fucking hate this apartment. 

By the time I emerge from the shower, Cinna is waiting for me. His presence hardly makes a dent in the stillness of the place, and he cuts a slim silhouette as he perches, legs crossed, on a chair by the balcony window. He doesn’t seem to notice my arrival. 

“Cinna?” I ask. “How’d you get in here?” 

He jolts at the sound of my voice, as if I’ve woken him from some distant daydream. “Oh, hello,” he says. “The Peacekeepers at the gate recognized me. I said I was here for you and they believed it.” 

“Should they not have believed it?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. 

He smiles slightly. “Not at all. That’s why I’m here.” 

“Alright,” I say, shaking out my damp hair. “Then hurry up. I’ve barely got an hour.” 

Cinna turns to the couch, where he’s left several garment bags. “Here,” he says. “These should see you through the next few weeks. There’ll be more interviews as the Games progress, won’t there?” 

“Yes,” I say. As tributes begin dying off and deaths become fewer and further between, the Capitol will hunger for more content, bored by the inactivity of the exhausted survivors. It will be up to the mentors to fill in the gaps, provide the entertainment. 

“Great. I’ve brought at least six outfits for you, plus a matching one for Effie in case she ever gets airtime,” he says. 

“She’ll be delighted,” I say drily. 

Cinna smiles. I decide not to mention the obvious, which is that he’s assumed Katniss will survive long enough for me to need all these clothes. I stand there, eyeing the garment bag with trepidation. Cinna notices my inaction and moves to unzip it himself, pulling out a shockingly simple suit jacket with a plain black t-shirt. 

“That’s it?” I say. 

“Expecting something else?” Cinna asks, a twinkle in his eye that I find deeply frustrating.

I squint at the outfit. There’s no flashiness to it whatsoever, and instead, the entire thing is in varying shades of black. There’s absolutely nothing that distinguishes it, nothing that makes it remarkable enough to gain attention from Capitol tabloids. I lean forward and rifle through the other garments, which are all in equally dark colors. Finally, I turn back to Cinna, and my confusion must show in my face. 

“Why?” I ask. 

Cinna puts his hands in his pockets and looks out again into the distance, out into the City Circle that is packed with people watching Games coverage on the big screen. It’s only reruns, and they’re playing the tracker jacker attack back in slow motion, zooming in tight on the swollen stingers corrupting Glimmer’s pretty face. The crowd stares, hypnotized. 

“I don’t know about the districts. But here in the Capitol, we don’t like dark colors very much,” he says. 

“You’re telling me,” I say, quirking an eyebrow at him before I can stop myself. 

“People here associate black clothing with funerals,” he says. He laughs slightly.

I stare at him, uncomprehending. “Funerals.”

“Yes,” he says. “Don’t worry. It’ll be written off as district ignorance.”

I turn away from Cinna, pinching the bridge of my nose. The fuck is this man getting at? Funerals? I am meant to represent Katniss and Peeta, and I most certainly don’t want to imply that Katniss’ funeral is imminent. Peeta’s, maybe? Am I meant to be subliminally implying Peeta’s death? Which other funerals might I be attending, there in Caesar Flickerman’s too-bright recording studio? 

“They won’t even notice the full effect right now,” says Cinna. He is watching me, his gaze haughty and a little defensive. “They might only pick it up towards the end. Or they might not pick it up at all.”

I was right, I think. Cinna did have an agenda here. Whether he was sent by Tigris or anyone else is unclear, but he called me because he has a message to send and I am the medium in which he wants to communicate. I only wish I understood the damn message. 

“Bold, isn’t it,” I say.

Cinna just inclines his head slightly. “Will you wear it?” 

I stare down at the lengths of black fabric that Cinna has presented to me.

“Yeah.” 

“Then I’ll see you soon,” says Cinna, picking up the small bag he’s brought with him. 

I frown at him. “What? When?” 

He gives me that same elusive smile. “When Katniss wins.” 

I watch as Cinna walks out of the apartment, leaving me there alone again. I don’t have much time before I have to be there at Caesar’s studio, prepared with some interview that will allow Katniss’ popularity to coast by on her tracker jacker attack until she wakes up again, and I have to be sporting what appears to be funerary wear. 

Fine. I guess I’m doing this, whatever this is. The clothes fit perfectly, as I knew they would - in fact, I suspect Cinna has planned this for weeks, only springing it on me at the last minute so I have as little choice as possible in the matter. The outfits are shockingly simple and not so different from the clothes I’ve been wearing for days, though even my inexpert eye can tell that they are beautifully and carefully made. I think Cinna might be right. The outfits are subtle and I doubt anyone will pick up on messaging immediately, especially not if I'm dropping bombs about Katniss and Peeta's relationship.

The clock on the wall shows 1:45, and I am expected at the studio. I can’t really afford to be late, as I’m not exactly Cashmere and I can’t risk alienating Caesar and his establishment. This time, as I cross the City Circle to the Headquarters, I plaster a smile onto my face as the people turn and point at me, calling out my name in excitement. The crowd surges forward and I end up shaking hands with several people, waving at others, laughing awkwardly to avoid the questions being lobbied at me. Finally, a group of Peacekeepers grab my arms and drag me across the square to avoid any further confrontations, while politely ushering the eager Capitolites a step backwards. 

By the time I make it to the Headquarters, the clock is about to strike two and Caesar himself flings the door open to usher me inside. 

“Ah, Haymitch,” he says. “I nearly thought I wouldn’t be seeing you today!” 

“I would never dream of leaving you hanging,” I say, with the tiniest touch of sarcasm. I don’t think Caesar notices. From this close to him, I can see the sweat clinging to his layers of makeup. It’s always interesting seeing the cracks in these peoples' facades.

“Sit down, sit down, make yourself comfortable,” Caesar says. “That’s quite the outfit you’re wearing.” 

“It’s the middle of the Games,” I say, shrugging. “I’m not paying the most attention to my clothes.” 

He giggles, patting the top of his own powder-blue wig. “Of course. I wouldn’t expect otherwise. Could we get Haymitch a different colored chair, please? So that we can see him more clearly on camera?” 

I watch as a crowd of bug-like assistants rush off to fetch me something else to sit on. They come back a few minutes later bearing a sort of pale gray chair on wheels. It’s hideous, and I collapse onto it with glee. 

“Cameras rolling in three. We’re airing live today,” says Caesar. 

I nod. 

“Three. Two. One. And action!” he says, and a red light blinks on a camera to indicate we’re live. 

“Good afternoon, Haymitch!” Caesar says, and I switch on a half-smile. It feels vaguely unnatural. 

“Hello, Caesar,” I say. 

“We have had quite a few days, haven’t we?” he says, his grin looking just as fake as mine. 

“We certainly have,” I say. “Where do we want to begin?”

“Well, let’s start with the highlights. That tracker jacker attack! Really, nobody has been able to talk about anything else since. My heart was in my mouth the whooooole time. Just incredible, wasn’t it?” 

“Absolutely,” I say. “It was very smart of Katniss to not only think her way out of the situation, but to turn it into a victory. She's very resourceful.” 

“It was! As Claudius mentioned right when it happened, it was absolutely ingenious. Using the arena to her advantage like that!” 

Caesar turns from the camera back to me, and I catch a flash of something in his expression, behind all the layers of facepaint and color. He is, however, waiting for an answer, and I can’t afford to dwell on flashes of expression. I clear my throat. 

“Definitely, Caesar. The attack was exciting, but I can’t imagine that launching it was an easy decision for Katniss,” I say.  

“Ah,” says Caesar, smile fading slightly. “Because of Peeta.” 

I raise an eyebrow. “Because of Peeta.” 

“That moment when Peeta came running back for her - I think I can speak for everyone watching now, but we were all so emotional when it happened! I can say that me personally, I nearly shed a tear.”

“I’m not surprised he did it,” I say. “Peeta’s always had a bit of a self-sacrificing streak. He could have used that moment to escape himself, but he used it to buy Katniss a few seconds of time.” 

“I know ,” says Caesar. “That’s what gutted me. His love for her, it’s so utterly moving! But Haymitch, I want to pick up something you said to me just now. See, we heard from Peeta’s own lips that he’s been in love with her for years.”

“That’s right.”

“But just now, you said that dropping the tracker jacker nest couldn’t have been an easy decision for Katniss.” 

“I did,” I say. I have to tread very carefully now. “I mean, easy is relative, because it was between the tracker jackers and dying. Now, I just wanna be clear here - Katniss has hardly confessed her love for Peeta. Not to him and certainly not to me.” 

“Hahahahaha! Knowing her, I’m not surprised!” says Caesar, laughing heartily. “That’s our Katniss, alright!” 

“Right,” I say. “And like I’ve said, what Katniss cares about most of all is going home to her sister. That’s what’s motivating her in the arena. But I, unlike the rest of you, saw Katniss’ reaction the night of the interview. And believe me when I say that there’s probably something more there for her.”

“Oh my,” says Caesar. “You really think so? You have got to give me more than that! Details, I am begging you!” 

I force a laugh. “Nah. That’s all you’re getting.”

“Oh, come on, Haymitch, don’t be like that -”

“Nope.” I lean back in my chair for effect, spinning it around exactly once. 

“You’re killing me,” says Caesar.

“You’ll live,” I say. A beat too late, I add a half-smile so that people don’t think I’m sassing him. 

“I’ll get it out of you sometime,” says Caesar. "Ah, but it's just so heartbreaking! Katniss volunteering for her sister and then Peeta going back for Katniss...oh, the doomed love. Oh, the self-sacrifice. It's really getting to me! I think I might tear up again!" 

I shrug, smiling. 

“Anyway," he says. "Let’s move onto the other topic that viewers have been just dying to hear about. Three of our lucky citizens have recently been honored with the Gaul Prize, and have won the opportunity to ask you one question of their choice. Now, I’ve got them written down just here. Let’s start with Livius Quill, who wants to know: does Haymitch think that Katniss or Peeta had more girlfriends or boyfriends in school?” 

Oh, boy. It’s going to be a long interview. 

I don’t know how I do it, but I manage to provide adequate answers to the Capitolites’ questions. Someone named Minerva Daunt wants to know if Katniss would be interested in representing their indie fashion house if she wins, and Sophocles Sullivan wants to know what Prim would think of Peeta. Needless to say, I am unprepared for these idiot questions - of course, it would have been too much for Caesar to let me know about this fuck-off “prize” in advance - but I think I manage to scrape together something acceptable. I tell Livius Quill that neither of them dated anyone in school, because they were both too busy. I tell Minerva Daunt that no, Katniss will not represent the indie fashion house, because she is too loyal to Cinna and his designs. I tell Sophocles Sullivan that Prim would like Peeta a lot. 

None of these answers are award-winning, and they are obviously shorter and more brusque than these people want. Frankly, if a tribute had tried those responses on me during a training session, I’d have immediately written them off as dead meat. Whatever. As long as Katniss and Peeta don’t decide to sit together in the arena and have a heart-to-heart about their personal lives, I doubt anyone will look too hard into it. 

Finally, Caesar glances at the clock. He must realize that we’ve been here for too long, because he starts bringing the interview back around to concluding questions. 

“Well, I must say, I am super excited to see what Katniss comes up with next!” says Caesar. “She strikes me as a very resourceful person, doesn’t she? I must say, I was impressed by those traps she set up to get herself some food.”

“Sure. That was very impressive,” I say. I can’t exactly risk implying that she hunts in the woods. Casually admitting to breaking the law on national television would be an excellent shortcut to having her entire family shot dead.

Caesar notices that I’m not forthcoming, so he switches tack. “And then there’s the matter of young Glimmer’s bow. Now, I know that she was under the influence of the tracker jacker venom, but did Katniss risk her own life and Peeta’s just to get her hands on a weapon?” 

Now this, I can answer. “Caesar, I think you might be onto something pretty interesting here. Remember that training score?” 

Caesar leans forward, actually grinning. “Oh, Haymitch. Don’t tell me.” 

“My lips are still sealed,” I say. “Can’t share what happened in private training. But I think you might learn soon enough.” 

“Oohooohhoooooooh!” says Caesar. This man’s capacity for making the oddest noises must be some kind of medical mystery. “With that teaser, I think we might have to close out of here. There’s so much more we have left to learn about the Girl on Fire, but we’ll save it for next time! Thank you so much! You were just listening to the mentor from District Twelve, Haymitch Abernathy, and the host of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, your very own Caesar Flickerman!” 

One of Caesar’s cameramen plays the theme song over the speakers, and I recognize that as my cue to leave. This interview wasn’t exceptional - I blame the Gaul Prize for that - but it could have gone worse. In any case, I expect that I’ve provided the Capitolites with enough interesting tidbits to obsess over for a while - I’m sure that the implication that Katniss reciprocates Peeta’s feelings, combined with the hint about her skill with a bow, is enough to keep people talking. 

When I return to the Lounge, I feel all eyes on me. I seek out the drinks table, habitually ignoring the stares, and I pour myself an indiscriminate amount of liquor while I watch the broadcast. It’s still quiet out there for both Katniss and Peeta, who are squarely unconscious. Then I check on their donations. 

The reception of my interview was good enough to create a reasonable spike in the sponsorship money coming in. My redirection of all the Twelve funding to Katniss also helps. But with the already-exorbitant prices of everything at this stage in the game, and the fact that I spent everything on that medicine, all of my resources combined will only just about keep her going. It might be enough to buy some bread, some rope, and a box of matches. Still nothing like the kind of medicine I sent her only yesterday. Nothing like the kind of money I think I’ll need. 

I rub my forehead slightly, at the spot on my temple where a headache is beginning to develop. If I want Katniss to wake up from this tracker jacker haze and have a real shot at going home, I am going to have to do something drastic.