Chapter Text
Katniss went through the reaping in a blur. Her thoughts mostly went Prim? Prim? Prim’s here, am I dead, NO THEY’RE TAKING HER YOU CAN’T TAKE HER AWAY FROM ME-
And then she was on stage. The sun was in her eyes, the crowd ( her people, her district, dead dead dead and bombed ) silent except for Prim’s screeching as Gale held her back. Katniss almost wanted to run back into the crowd and hit him - how dare he touch what he murdered what he took from her - but her legs wouldn’t move. Her ears were ringing like when she and Rue had blown up the food stash in the Games. She could hear in both ears again, but the ringing was still there.
Peeta was next to her, young, concerned and fearful. Peeta and her were on stage. Peeta had both legs. Haymitch was on stage, off to the left, looking for all the world like he was about to be sick. Effie was still prattling on. Peeta was mouthing something at her, concern briefly over taking the fear on his too young face. A face Katniss loved, had cradled, had held poisoned berries too and had begged to trust her. He wasn’t crying this time, but Katniss’s own dead fish look might have distracted him.
It was about now that Katniss realised where she was. When she was.
She managed to take out two Peacekeepers before she was dragged away from Prim and Peeta again, screaming for her sister the whole while.
She unfortunately didn’t wake up after that. She tried not to acknowledge the stinging pain from the Peacekeeper’s dragging her away. Pain meant it was real. And if it was real, she couldn’t exactly go to Peeta ( Peeta, her love, her sanity , her only reason for ever helping Coin in the first place and for staying alive in the after- ) and play ‘Real or Not Real’. He barely knew her here. What he did know of her was a starving snappish girl who’d happily believe the worst of him. Katniss was a starving, snappish girl who’d happily believe the worst of anyone. She was a kind of starving you could never take away, the snappishness of one who wished they had wolf fangs to go with the attack. Shen did believe the worst of everyone.
But not Peeta.
Not anymore.
He’d been a Mutt and he’d remained hers, had his hands around her throat and left her with nothing but bruises. He’d given her pearls and safety, and loaves of bread. He’d given her the colour orange. He knew her’s was green. Peeta had died for her, and she had almost clawed Haymitch’s eyes out for him. Had chanced the Cornucopia for his medicine.
No, Peeta was hers, and she was his. This Peeta or no. She needed him. Nobody needed him? Well Katniss fucking did.
She had to believe the best of him.
It was either that or loose her last remaining link to any form of mental stability, and Katniss had never taken well to loosing Peeta.
She had no intention of doing that now.
So the Games were on again? Well, Katniss was a Hunter this time. She wasn’t the little prey girl from 12 trying to make herself big anymore, she was a honed weapon who’d taken out two tyrants and then let her loved one’s try and rebuild her. She was what they made her.
She still clawed when they tried to take Prim away after her visit. Still struggled between instructing Gale to protect Prim or slitting his throat (She settled on some very specific and disturbing threats). She still took the mockingjay pin from the Mayor’s daughter, smiling bitterly at it, and pinned it to her shirt.
She hated being the Mockingjay, but it was what she was. It was what let her get Peeta back, tooth and claw. Cinna gave her her wings, based on this stupid piece of polished tin and bronze, and perhaps she loved the ghost of the man too much to let it go. She’d thought it was gold once. She should have known better, there was no such thing as gold in the Seam.
She let Peeta help her onto the train this time, eyes darting around as she took it all in again. The contrast between the silver and the dirt. It was just as awful and jarring as always.
Peeta’s hand was warm, soft. Callused only from working in the bakery, bearing none of the shapes formed by holding spears or gardening tools. His thumb didn’t have the lumpy scar from the Capital, during her time in 13. He didn’t linger, didn’t hold her as long as he could, didn’t even make eye contact.
It wasn’t her Peeta.
But he was a Peeta, and that made him hers, and Katniss ached fiercely. Let them try and touch him. She was the Mockingjay, and she’d happily burn down the entire fucking world.
Let it all rot, so long as she could keep this.
Katniss knew she hadn’t been that observant the first time around. She’d been scared, terrified really, and torn away from everything she knew. Suspicious of everything. In hindsight, that made her take some things at face value rather than reality. Like the fact that when she stole a sip of Haymitch’s drink, expecting some strong Scotch, she was met with water. Haymitch was drinking water when he stumbled out to breakfast looking absolutely smashed and exhausted. Coloured water served from an alcohol bottle into alcohol glasses, but still.
What the fuck.
Katniss hadn’t seen him look so awful in months. He’d been doing his best to be sober for them. Said they’d had enough shit in their life, they didn’t need an alcoholic mentor on top of it all during the end of the war - they’d convinced him to continue it after.
Seeing him like this, hurting and filled with clear self loathing, made Katniss a particular kind of furious.
But it didn’t explain the water.
Maybe he’d always done this? Tried to refrain from alcohol around them - he did call them kids after all - tried to only be hungover rather than actively drunk. Who knew? Not Katniss. She hadn’t cared like this before.
She couldn’t exactly ask her Haymitch either, and for some reason that hurt almost as badly as not being able to swap food with Peeta. She knew the apple pies by her plate were a favourite of his. This Peeta had never even tried them.
She took three and slid the plate in his direction anyway, missing his blink of confused surprise.
Haymitch was saying something. Peeta had asked for advice, just like last time. She slid her gaze over, attempting to listen.
“Uh…okay.” Haymitch lent back in his chair, swirling what Katniss knew now to be water ( why , why was he faking it ). “My advice? Embrace the possibility of your imminent death, and know in your heart that there’s nothing I can do to save you.”
Katniss had stabbed a butter knife between his fingers before she could even finish comprehending the words. Her Haymitch would never give up on her. Hadn’t given up on her, ever, had stood by her side. She’d known this was the turning point for when he decided to try. Last time I waited till he asked for marmalade . She thought to herself. Last time , whispered her subconscious, you didn’t realise he was lying, and you didn’t feel so fucking betrayed that your father was turning away from you . Katniss knew it was stupid - she couldn’t hold someone now to a standard they might never become. It was likely that if Katniss didn’t intervene, Haymitch really would drink himself to death in this life.
“Look at you, just killed a placemat.” Haymitch says, something unreadable in his eyes. “Maybe you do have a chance.”
That was new. It had the same ring as ‘Katniss, you can do this’ standing outside an Arena as he cupped her cheek and gave her some last advice, a father sending his daughter to a death match. As ‘Come here, you’re going to be okay, I promise’, as ‘Nice shooting sweetheart’, as ‘Just Katniss’, as ‘I’m with the Mockingjay’, as ‘We’re going home’. The supportive softness that Haymitch had slowly learned to trust her with, when he let himself have a heart again.
Maybe this was where it started, a knife in a placemat. Maybe this was where it always started.
Katniss sat back down.
She watched Haymitch pick out the knife, and gesture for Peeta to ask away, and thought about how this was the man who’d fought the Capital to stop them from altering her body. Who’d had steel in his voice when it came to her and Peeta.
He would have volunteered if Peeta had been chosen for the Quarter Quell. She’d seen the desperate grasp of his hand when Peeta volunteered, her other half stepping forward too fast for their father to stop him.
In the present, she watched two people she knew intimately, two people to whom she was a complete stranger, and thought Family, huh? Well, it always was a found thing . And let the past - now the present - carry on as it had.
Haymitch Abernathy was having the worst fucking day of his life. And that was saying a lot. He’d had a lot of fucking terrible days. Haymitch woke up with a pounding head, a crick in his neck, and hair that had definitely seen better days. He honestly would have considered the possibility that he’d gone back to the drink, and gotten so heavily smashed he’d lost time, if it hadn’t been for two things.
One, there was no solid gold bangle patterned with flames on his wrist - Finnick had given it back when they’d gotten him, Jo, and Kat out of the Arena. A good thing too, given the earrings Effie had made for Finnick as a sign he was one of them had been destroyed as thoroughly as the boy’s body when he died. Haymitch hadn’t taken it off since, and knew in his soul he never would willingly, no matter how drunk he got - it was a symbol of their family, and Haymitch had only ever given it away once, to keep said family alive. That and, no matter how badly Haymitch wanted a drink right now, he’d been sober for nearly half a year. He’d been doing so well. After all, he could hardly tell Katniss to stay away from the alcohol if he himself wouldn’t. He’d been trying so hard.
Two, Katniss wasn’t here. Now Peeta was understandable - the boy hated when Haymitch drank, said it reminded him too much of his mother. He’d been the one in the past to drag Haymitch to bed and help Katniss wash him up, but the moment Haymitch was out Peeta would leave. So Peeta not being there was no surprise. But Haymitch knew that if he’d broken his word and got smashed, Katniss would either be at his side fuming, tongue lashing ready to go, or quite literally breaking down his door with the same goal. She’d snuck him alcohol once upon a time, but never after the rebellion - after the rebellion she’d basically told him he could be sober for them or he could get out of their lives. She hadn’t meant it, but he hadn’t risked it.
It was also that Haymitch had woken up on a train bunk, knife in hand and lights out, with bottles littering the floor.
More than two things, but overall, fucked. He felt like Katniss must have in the Arena when he was trying to send her messages with all the subtlety of hitting the girl over the head with a loaf of bread. No you don’t get water, you’re close to it already stupid girl, use your head, why would I give you something to get liquid out of trees, if you stop irritating Finnick I’ll stop sending food you absolute idiot stubborn girl we’re trying to keep you alive .
Haymitch was good at sending those messages. Whatever this was though, sucked.
I want my kids , he thought to himself. He rolled out of bed (gods when had he last washed the sheets) and immediately tripped over a bottle, stabbing the wall in a split second instinctive response. Great. The day was going great.
Well , thought Haymitch as he sat down to breakfast, feeling distinctly ill and somehow still hungover a day later. I got my kids .
The reaping.
The motherfucking reaping.
He hadn’t realised Katniss could scream like that, not about anyone but Peeta.
She’d apparently always been a feral little thing - Haymitch, despite himself, felt kind of proud. That’s his girl. She’d show them. She’d fucking show them all. How drunk had he been last time to miss all of that? The two peace keepers she took down, the clear concern and terror Peeta held for her. He vaguely remembered something about falling off the stage and cringed back in his chair a little.
Peeta was the next one to the table, looking vaguely startled to see Haymitch already there. He pushed a goblet of water towards Haymitch anyway, and sat down. Not that what he wasn’t currently drinking wasn’t water that he’d coloured himself anyway. Sobriety was an absolute bitch, but Haymitch couldn’t afford to do wrong by his kids right now. They were little and untrained, and they needed sponsors and advice, not alcohol and apathy. He’d have to build up to it, but Haymitch was pretty sure that he and Katniss couldn’t deserve a soul like Peeta in a thousand life times. If remaking his image (slowly, to avoid suspicion) was what it took, well fuck it, Haymitch had already sorta done it once. Under duress.
Still.
He took a long drink out of his glass, desperately wishing despite himself that it was hard liquor.
Addiction was a bitch .
He kind of wanted one of his geese, if only so he could hold it up to feral baby Katniss and say ‘this is you. Meet Kit-Kat, she too and likes to scream angrily and murder things. She doesn’t ever stop gnawing at my shoes’ and watch Katniss leap across the table and try and kill him with her bare hands. It’d be funny.
Instead he said something stupid and dismissive to whatever Peeta’s question was and watched Katniss stab the table.
Damn . He thought to himself. Clearly said something worse than last time. Fucking way to go Haymitch. Way to fucking go .
Still, he took the knife out the of the table and put it back down.
“Alright, uh, Peter was it?”
“Peeta.” Peeta said with a firmness and sense of self Haymitch had sort of missed.
“Peeta.” Haymitch said, trying his best to keep an uninterested sort of sneer in his voice. It was really hard when he kind of wanted hug the kid and also laugh in his face. Peeta had never really lost that fierce spark that made him a force of nature, subtler than Katniss, but it’d mutated over the years. Become more broken. Peeta had always played the Capitol game, as Katniss played the Arena.
“Well, kid, what’d you wanna know? Ms Placemat slayer over here seems to think I’ve got all the answers.”
Peeta gives him much the same considering look that he gave Caesar before the whole baby debacle. It was somewhat more amusing on a kid who hadn’t yet been through the games.
If it gets to the point again where it’s either or , Haymitch thought, thinking of Katniss’s screams as she clawed at his face, trying to stab him with a syringe, all her undying trust in him broken when he chose her over Peeta, I’m going to do what my fool of a fire cracker did, and I’m saying fuck it I’m keeping both .
He answered most of Peeta’s questions (average ones that any tribute would ask, questions about food and water and shelter) on autopilot, all the while planning how fast he could get to a jeweller. He missed his fucking bracelet, not that he’d ever tell anyone that. It might have been stupid sentimental useless jewellery but it was his stupid sentimental useless jewellery, so fuck off.
Haymitch missed his kids.
Update, Peeta was a snarky bitch. Haymitch had no clue how he hadn’t noticed before. Well, he did, he’d been drunk out of his mind and focused on Katniss, a girl who might actually survive the first few hours of the Games. But gods the kid had clearly developed his skill of saying something in the gentlest way that couldn’t possibly convey offence while the actual content of his words tried to bash your head in early.
“Holy shit.” Katniss whispered while Peeta waved at the crowds. When Haymitch glanced at her, she was oddly pale. “That’s Finnick Odair.”
Peeta’s head whipped around to Katniss while Haymitch’s snapped to scan the platform. Sure enough, hidden in the back of the crowd was Finnick. Mags son, and a kid Haymitch could have come to consider his own if they’d had more time. Almost had. The kid had been 14 when he won, and while he might be 20 something now, Haymitch remembered holding the boy as he shook and sobbed, remembered the amount of times he stepped between the kid and the ugly greed of the Capitol before Snow threatened them all. He’d never really been able to be close to the kid after that. Katniss had had nightmares about how he died for well, up until Haymitch ended up the past. Finnick was so heavily disguised it was a wonder the girl recognised him. Haymitch wondered why he was there.
“Gods kid don’t tell me you’ve got a crush on him.” He said to Katniss, Peeta’s oddly pale face switching back from the platform to Katniss like a bobble-head. Yeah yeah kid we all know you have a crush on the girl, I think it could be seen from space.
Teenagers. Gods. He’d have so much less patience if they weren’t his idiot teenagers. Still not much patience though.
Katniss’s face screwed up. “No! Well. Sort of? Not really? I mean you can’t have a crush on someone if you don’t know them.”
Haymitch, who’d watched Peeta moon after Katniss for some time only to find out they’d had exactly one (1) interaction before the reaping, hummed dubiously. Still, he let the matter rest, taking a swig of his fake whiskey as he stepped off the train and let the roar of the crowds over take them. He’d started rubbing real alcohol around the rim of the bottles so it smelt right. The crowd, at least, was familiar. The ogling never stopped, not even after the rebellion. You got used to it. But the kids weren’t. He turned back to look at them and saw Peeta smiling at the crowd, his twitching hands the only sign of his nerves. Katniss on the other hand had her shoulders up, head high as she scanned and rescanned the entire platform for threats. Her eyes kept straying back to where Finnick had been - the man must have left at some point, likely to not draw attention. Haymitch watched her wrap a hand around Peeta’s for a second, soothing the tremors almost subconsciously, before remembering herself and ripping it away.
She really was young. Haymitch had known it, but it was in a new light again.
This was a teenager, thinking she’s going to her death. Feral brat or not she’s terrified.
Haymitch sighed, and walked back, clapping a hand against her back. She stumbled.
“Come on kid, greet the crowd. Pete here has the right idea. Once we’re done here you can have a nap or something.”
Katniss eyed him incredulously, but did as he asked, a strained smile coming across her face as she waved and walked. She’d never been a good liar, let alone good in front of Capitol crowds. Peeta just winced at Haymitch’s purposeful incorrect use of his name.
While Haymitch normally put himself in front of his kids ( protect them, they’re going to get killed, pushing in front of Peeta time and time again to provide a barrier of his own body, holding Katniss close as she screamed- ) today he trailed behind. Guarding their backs, as they wouldn’t for each other - not yet. They hadn’t learned that trust yet. But Haymitch, hell or high water, would fucking get them there.
He’d earned his geese gods dammit, and he was going to get his mediocre ending if he had to punch Snow himself. Actually, particularly if he could punch Snow. He really wanted to do that. Show that fucker who got to hurt Haymitch’s kids.
After all, you don’t give a feral and starving wolf in a tight cage pups, and immediately think you can take them away again.
Haymitch might not have used his teeth since he was 16 and wildly sobbing over his only friend’s body, but he still had them.
He’d shown it when they tried to alter Katniss’s body. When Peeta lost his left leg and Katniss lost the hearing in her left ear. And he’d been smashed the whole time. Now he was in withdrawals sure, but he was piercingly sober. Gods help anyone who touched what was his.
It wasn’t that Katniss had forgotten how awful the Capital was, it’s just that maybe she’d gotten too used to the particular brand of awful that was war. The kind of awful you could fight back against. Not the kind of awful where uncaring soldiers sedate you and strap you to a table with full intention of doing whatever they want, not knowing if you’ll wake up looking the same or even you. Haymitch had saved her last time, not that she’d know or understood for a while. Judging by the yelling when she woke up, vision hazy and head fuzzy, he’d likely done the same this time.
Katniss ached with a painful love so hard it hurt. He didn’t know her. Had no reason to fight for her, but each time he did. He was a good man, even if he was a pain and so unreliable he was lucky geese were mostly self sufficient. Even if he still drank himself to unconsciousness in this time.
Katniss slowly became aware that someone was patting her hair. It wasn’t the creepy type she was expecting - her fight or flight instinct hasn’t even kicked in, which was a warning sign in and of itself. Instead it was soothing, gentle. Almost familial. She would have thought it was Haymitch if she couldn’t hear him outside. Instead, she opened her eyes and was met with dark eyes and gold makeup, and immediately burst into tears. Perhaps it was the pressure and horrid nature of living through the reaping again. Maybe it was the fact that none of her family knew her or loved her here. Maybe it was that she’d seen Finnick, but he’d actually been alive not a shredded hallucination.
Maybe it was that Cinna was brushing her hair ever so softly, dark eyes so soft with compassion and sorrow.
She’d watched him die. Her big brother, the man who gave her wings and fire.
She’d missed him.
She sobbed into his lap, unsteady from the drugs, and he soothed her. Words that went right over her head, the tone gentle and loving. He’d seen her as a person. He saw her as a person.
He learnt to braid her hair like her mother had, so she could keep something from home.
Katniss cried into the lap of a man who didn’t know her, the gasping terrified sobs of a young girl, and let herself scream.
Haymitch had been roughly a third of the way through tearing a stylist into shreds so tiny they would never dare go near another woman again when he heard Katniss scream. Even that alone would have got him moving, but it was the type of scream that chilled his blood. It wasn’t anger, or fury, or hatred, or even fear or pain. It was a scream of pure animalistic grief, one that Haymitch had only heard once, when the canon went off in the first games and Katniss thought Peeta dead. It was a scream he was sure she’d given when Prim was bombed in front of the manor. It was a scream that had Haymitch sprinting towards his daughter, slamming the door open with force, a blade already in hand.
( What did it say that he’d heard Katniss scream enough times that he could tell the difference? What did that say about his child’s life under his care? )
Peeta wasn’t there, was his first realisation. It provoked an awful need in him to hunt the boy down and check him over from head to toe. Two, Katniss was still on the table, untied and likely drugged but conscious and from what he could see, unaltered. There was a blanket draped around her. A good thing, as Haymitch already had to carefully orchestrate the deaths of anyone who’d seen or touched his baby’s without their permission, especially those who had so callously drugged his scared kids.
No one ever suspected a useless drunkard.
Third, Cinna was there, gently soothing Katniss as she sobbed. No doubt the terror and reality of her situation had hit her. Haymitch lowered his blade slightly, catching the stylist’s gaze. They regarded each other for a moment, sizing each other up. There was a moment of mutual understanding - you hurt her I end you, she’s only a child - and relief bled into Cinna’s shoulders.
“She’s physically okay.” He says quietly, hand not stopping for a moment as he spoke to Haymitch. “You’re her mentor right? Thank you for fighting for her. They still removed hair and so forth, but they mostly left her alone. It’s more than what any of the other mentors have done for theirs. I’m Cinna, I’ll be her stylist - well, especially now you seem to have eviscerated my colleagues. My thanks for that too.”
“They deserved it.” Haymitch says, equally quiet. This was new territory. Last time, Katniss hadn’t screamed - and if she had, Haymitch had been too drunk or too far away to notice or care. A terrible thought, but possible.
Cinna hummed in agreement, even as Katniss’s sobs petered out. He turned his gaze from Haymitch to Katniss, that trademark gold around his eyes far more tasteful than the Capital usually displayed.
“Hey, little songbird.” He murmured. “It’s okay. Your mentor is here now. He’ll take care of you. I’m Cinna, I’ll be your stylist - we’ll see each other tomorrow yeah?”
Katniss sniffed, finally sitting up and nodding. Haymitch hadn’t seen her this vulnerable around someone that wasn’t him or Peeta for a while. Let alone in the Capitol. Still, he supposed she hadn’t learnt how dangerous that vulnerability was here yet, it was just mostly pride that stopped her. He gave an awkward wave when Katniss glanced his way, glad he’d hidden his knife. Didn’t want to give the wrong impression.
She’s still quiet and sniffling, staring at the floor when he walks over, hesitating and then kneeling beside the bed. He hesitates again, visibly wavering, before he reaches out and puts a careful, rough hand on her arm. He remembers the way she had sprinted towards him, Effie, and Cinna when she won her Games with Peeta. The way she’d flung herself into his arms first, desperate. His touch now is much the same as how he slowly held her back then, gentle and cautious, almost disbelief that he could.
“Come on kid.” He says, softer than usual. He knows he probably smells like alcohol. He spilt some on his shirt when pouring a bottle down the sink earlier. He knows he’s being out of character, but dammit, his kid is hurting. Haymitch can’t not do something. He never could, even back when he lied to himself. These two wrenched their way into his heart and stayed like feral raccoons, impossible to remove no matter how hard he tried or how angry he got about it.
“Come on, let’s get you some clothes, and we can go get Peeta, okay? Then we can go to the tribute rooms, and you can rest. Alone. Safe. Okay?” He tries to push some levity into his tone. “I assure you, your one room will be bigger than the Mayor’s house. It’s insane.”
Katniss sorts, a wet and ugly sound but looks up. “Fine.” She turns her gaze from Haymitch to Cinna, something challenging in her eyes. “But I want pants.”
Haymitch sees Cinna breathe a subtle sigh of relief at the show of personality, and does much the same. Then he curses getting up, because fuck, how’d he forget how much his knees hurt at this point in time. Bloody hells.
Katniss trails behind Haymitch quietly, hands soothing over the jacket Cinna had given her. She’d fucked up, maybe. Showed herself to be weak. Sure, that’d got her Cinna’s worry, and Haymitch’s uncharacteristic softness, the type he only gave when utterly necessary, when he wasn’t close to lashing out at anything and everything. But what if they now thought her weak? What if it meant Haymitch didn’t find her worth the effort? Katniss wasn’t stupid enough to think she’d survive without his behind the curtain deals, no matter how good she was with a bow now. She’d always been able to hit a bullseye. She couldn’t just snap her fingers and conjure what she needed in the Arena though. That was her mentors job, and she might have just made herself not worth it.
She had to get back into his good graces. Had to show she could fight, had fire - that was what made him fond of her last time, and Katniss couldn’t bear to loose her father just because she’d been stupid and sensitive. He’d handled her wildness, in the 75th, but he’d been at their side for a year by then. He’d already been there through the nightmares and fights between me and Peeta. Had given me harsh truths and support at the same time, cruel to be kind in the way only he could be. But this Haymitch? This Haymitch smelt of cheap Seam whiskey, had deep marks under his eyes and greasy hair, had barely got his buttons right on his shirt. It looked like someone (probably Effie) had attempted to pick out clothes for him, and he’d approached them with the disdain he had for all things Capitol. This Haymitch barely knew her, and needed her far less than Katniss needed him. This Haymitch didn’t gruffly offer her stupid bits of glass that just so happened to be Katniss’s favourite shade of green, this Haymitch didn’t replace Effie’s makeup without saying a word, hadn’t purposely bought Peeta shoes with laces when Peeta was still half out his mind just to reteach him how to tie them and double knot his laces.
But this Haymitch was still Haymitch and Katniss still loved him with the desperation of someone who’d had nothing her entire life.
Peeta greeted them in a similar outfit to Katniss’s, minus the jacket (which had been shed from Cinna’s own shoulders) and seemed to immediately pick up that something was wrong.
“Are you alright?” He murmured to her behind Haymitch’s back as they followed the man to the tribute suites.
Once Katniss would have lashed out. Now she merely curls her hands into fists and shook her head. “I will be.” She murmured back.
“I will be.” I’ll make it alright.
Huh. Thought Johanna Mason, staring up at the ceiling. She had hair. Fucking hells.
Finnick owed her fifty pence.
She fucking told that bitch Hell was the Capital.