Chapter Text
He was fucked.
Haymitch Abernathy looked at the sight before him but wasn't really seeing anything. In fact, his sight was blurred, ears ringing loudly.
He was reaped. Reaped. At a Hunger Games with 48 people instead of 24.
He knew who he was; he was a lanky teen, only good as the spotter in a hunt; the kind of guy his peers gave the neck of a caught deer for him to slice out of pity, knowing fully well that he wouldn’t be able to catch it on his own. He was a loser in a fight—even the ones he initiated in—and he couldn’t lift anything heavier than a sack of wheat. He was never the pick of the litter.
As the cries of Ma and Delta grew muffled by the sealed door, he realized his fate.
The second he walked into that arena, He would —
“Mr. Abernathy?”
He looked up to see the District 12 Escort Devonia beckoning him with her hands, where the other three kids were being rounded up; Hyacinth Harlow, twelve years old; Rye Dacus, fourteen years old; and Maysilee Donner, fifteen. He remembered the camera panning to Maysilee as she untangled herself from her sister and that best friend of hers. Them Capitol folks sure love a good sob story, though he wasn't sure if it was ever worth anything, if they're still tuning back in to the child killing show every year without guilt.
Before them, an unfamiliar woman was standing before them, clad in all black from top to bottom. Black leather jacket, black combat boots, black pants. Something about her made him think that her colors had been stolen a long time ago, and all the darkness left she used as last defense, an armor. She wasn't at the stage, during the reaping, but she looked like someone important.
She also looked familiar — like he'd seen her before.
"Now, Mr. Abernathy, Ms. Harlow, Mr. Dacus and Ms. Donner," Devonia chirpily broke his thoughts. Compared to the woman, Devonia was her antithesis; young and colorful, hair dyed in six different hues and done in an updo that seemingly defied gravity. He still didn't understand how all her getup wasn't melting beneath the sun's trapping heat. "this is District 12's mentor, Lucy Gray—"
The woman reached out to Devonia, stopping her immediately. "Thank you, Devonia." She said, not unkindly. She had a dazzling smile, that Lucy Gray — even for an old lady, she was gorgeous. "But I can introduce myself just fine."
Haymitch crossed his arms over his chest, skeptical. His cheeks were still wet from the goodbyes, still stained by Delta's lipstick, but already he was putting his defenses back, his last fortress. "I thought 12 doesn't have a mentor."
He hated how her smile remained, if not a little strained. "Well it's a nice surprise, then, is it not?"
He looked at her in disdain, opening his mouth. "Don't know how nice it is, considering none of ours ever came back anyway." He retorted. His father said he had a sharp tongue, if nothing else. He planned to maximize it in the weeks he had left. "Not sure how your presence would have made a difference."
Devonia's grin faltered, eyes widening in alarm. "Mr. Abernathy." She said, rather nervously. Haymitch's eyes traced hers, to the stiffening Peacekeepers.
"It's okay, Devonia." This time the woman — Lucy? Ms. Gray? — said it a little louder, and Haymitch observed how the Peacekeepers backed off. So she had more power than Devonia, he thought. "I know you're upset, Haymitch, and I hope we met in better circumstances, but I'll do my best to help you win."
She sounded genuine, but it was hard to tell with these Capitol folks — what with their guns and bombs and games, packaged as tv shows. Who knew if there was a camera rolling somewhere, if this was the making of a heartfelt tape to be later displayed at the yearly recap of the games? “How?” He asked. Challenging. Begging? He didn't know the difference, dejection and desperation mixing in his chest. “You don't look like you can fight.”
No, not a fight.” the woman — Ms. Gray — agreed. “but I can help you put on a good show.”
***
Reaping at 12 was always at the afternoon, nearing evening; last district, last slot of the day. Today was later than the past years; there were some kids who decided to escape at early dawn, venturing into the wilderness on the off-chance of finding freedom. The reaping ceremony couldn’t start until they were found, and when he was hauled alongside the other tributes to the station, he saw the runaway children rounded up, heads covered with opaque fabric.
Haymitch refused to think about what happened to those kids — his age, perhaps younger. Instead he focused on the fact that the sky had already turned from bright blue to orangey magenta, which meant that the night was near. He could sleep the nightmare away, if just for one more day.
Devonia showed him and the other kids each of their rooms, which basically took over half the cart each. Hyacinth squealed at the grandeur sight of it, and even Rye and Maysilee seemed to have their mood improved at the sight of their respective rooms, but the way the gold glittered left only a bitter taste at Haymitch's mouth.
"And this is real gold?" He asked Devonia, who was accompanying him to his place. The biggest one because he was the oldest, probably. He thought about how Ma told him to always wait until Cooper finished taking his meal. Thought about how he'd push his plate to let Delta have some more.
Somehow having the best here felt worse than having the worst home.
"Yes." She said, proudly, like it was an achievement. Haymitch thought of the miners who couldn't afford to eat twice a day, or the vacant-eyed children filling his mother's clinic. "Only the best for our Tributes."
"Charming, to dazzle us with all this shimmer before they went for the kill." Haymitch said, deadpanning. It would be a lie to say he didn't enjoy Devonia's splutter at his words. "Real informative. Thanks, Devonia."
His room was slightly bigger than Hyacinth's, filled with furniture he was sure would cost his entire house just to buy. He thought of the room he had back home, shared with his brothers; always pulling sticks every night to determine who sleeps on the floor. Always a fight over the blankets because it was too small. The bed he had here, it could host 4 people — 5 maybe, if he was being generous.
"You can rest now, or you can join us at the lounge. but you're expected to attend the dinner later at the dining cart." Devonia said from behind him, hand gesturing at a closed door just beside the opened one leading to the bathroom. "There's clothes for you there. You can pick whatever you like so long as it is proper."
He turned at her, raising his brows. "Expected by whom?" He asked, "Ms. Gray?"
Tsk-ing, Devonia replied, "It is not Ms. Gray — "
But Haymitch didn't really care about who were asking, not really. "Do I have the chance to say no?"
Spluttering again, Devonia looked baffled at the question. "What—Well, it doesn't work like that, Mr. Abernathy —"
Waving his hand to dismiss her, Haymitch chose to tune the rest of her words out. "So she's demanding, not expecting. Gotcha." He said, giving her a smile that sure looked as unpleasant as it felt. "You know what, Devonia, it has been a really long day." He pushed her and her frilly skirt — how does someone have that much fabric for a skirt? — outside of his door. "And as is expected of me, i'll see you at dinner."
He slammed the door right in front of her face, which wasn't much, considering the state-of-the-art hinges it used to automatically slow down the door upon approaching its frame. He wondered how much it costed, wondered if it could feed his family for the rest of the week, or the rest of the month.
Approaching the bed, he wondered about Ma again. She looked positively distraught at him during the farewell. He was the oldest after all; the one expected to look after his scrawny brother if, no , when she passed. Cooper was barely fourteen, still growing some of his teeth. And then there was Delta — hollow-eyed, a husk. Haymitch wondered if she had started prepping his funeral, the second she stepped back home. The thought made him nauseous.
He hopped into the bed, hands touching the blanket, feeling the softness of the fabric. It repulsed him, this lavishness. How he couldn't share it. How it was a distraction to the slaughterhouse he's being delivered to.
Cause there was no denying it, was it? Him, a skin and bone from a loser district, up against 47 people. Some who had been trained for this, bred for this, their whole lives.
He was going to die.
Grabbing the TV remote, he started browsing the channel, trying to find something to numb his mind with. And then, there was a knock on his door.
"Haymitch?"
Narrowing his eyes, Haymitch climbed down, opening his door to see — "Rye." He greeted the other tribute, "Somethin' I can help you with?"
Out of the other kids reaped with him, he knew Rye best — Cooper's classmate, whose parents ran a community garden that was ruined by the Peacekeepers just because they could, some months ago. He was a scrawny little thing, even littler than Cooper. "I —" he looked really frustrated, like his tongue is holding back his thoughts, "I saw Miss Devonia fuming at the lounge cart." He said, finally, and for some reason Haymitch thought that it wasn't what he wanted to say at all. "She said you shoved her out of your room."
"Did she, now." Haymitch entertained it anyway, leaning at the doorframe. "She saying anything else worth noting?"
Rye looked at him, calculating. "...she called you a son of a bitch."
This made Haymitch chuckle. So there was some edge to that colorsplash lady. And here he thought that she was just a walking cartoon. "Ah. See — there's the Capitol crass."
"But Miss Lucy told her off." Rye continued, now eager, perhaps, because Haymitch broke off his cynical act. "She was bein' real strict about it too. Said she'll drop Miss Devonia at the nearest woods if she keeps runnin' her mouth at the kids."
Haymitch raised his eyebrows. "Miss Lucy?" he said, “You on first name basis now? That’s quick.”
"Yeah. She was kind." Rye nodded, head turning back to the direction he was coming from. "Sat with Maysilee as she cried until she stopped."
"Huh." Haymitch hummed. Was that the norm? Survivors showing kindness to soften the blow of impending death? "That all, Rye?"
At this, Rye shifted his stance, the nervousness back at full force. "I don't like the dinin' hall." He said, quietly. "Way too many peacekeepers in there. With their shiny guns. And the room feels... too empty." He fidgeted with his fingers as Haymitch waited. "I was ... wondering, if... If I can stay with you?" He added, immediately, "just for until dinner."
Haymitch looked at him and was reminded of Cooper. Something sank at the pit of his stomach. "Yeah." He straightened himself immediately, making way for Rye to come in. "Yeah, of course, come here." He took the boy's hand, "I was just looking for stuff to do. You came at the right time, actually."
Rye tutted nervously behind him, both sitting at the floor in front of the TV and its array of shitty options. "What have you found?"
"Just this lame war movie, some reality TV, a nature documentary..." Haymitch recounted his findings, tone as bored as he felt. "oh. There was this exclusive interview with President Snow back when he was just an 'aspiring young politician'. Ugh." He made an air quote as he made a face, before turning to Rye. "Reckon anything worth seeing?"
The younger boy seemed to consider this ask quite seriously before answering. "Let's do the nature documentary."
"Good idea." Haymitch pressed play on the selected film, something about the interesting behavior of released jabberjays, which genuinely didn't interest him at all. But Rye looked captivated at the sight, and Haymitch felt his chest filling with heaviness as he watched the boy watch the nature documentary, trying to grab that sliver of innocence before being thrown at the lion's den.
"And the Jabberjays, who had always been bred in captivity, cannot survive without the mockingbirds in the wilderness; here we see one who tried to hunt on their own and was quickly discovered by a sharp-shinned hawk, its wings clipped to prevent escape..."
He was about to fall asleep when he heard a small, "Hey Haymitch?"
"Hm?"
Rye was still looking at the screen, where the hawk continued to pluck the jabberjay's meat amidst the poor thing's weakening scream. "In the games, if I — " his breath hitched, "can you help me? To make it quick and less painful?"
Haymitch looked at the TV then the kid. He thought of Cooper, and prayed that the next year will be kinder to his Ma. I’m gonna die too, you know, he wanted to say, but Rye’s eyes were so big, and the words died in his tongue. So instead he pulled the kid to the bed with him, patting his head, "Go to sleep, Rye." He said, quietly, thinking of the way he was trained to wait last, wait until everyone finished their turns. "I'll be right here with you."
***
Haymitch woke up to a darkened sky and a murmur from his TV, which was currently the only source of light in his room. Narrowing his eyes, he squinted at the screen, trying to decipher what was being said.
"...and of course, Panem's first Quarter Quell this year. I heard this is your first time sitting in the Architect chair?"
"Yes, Lucky. The president has been more than kind in giving me the chance to prove myself, and I hope I deliver."
Two men — one with a ridiculous hairdo and a weird mustache (does the Capitol hold a prize for ones dressed the strangest?) And another one looking modest with a white rose on his chest pocket was strolling amidst a garden as they talked.
"The promotional view of the arena had been stunning, dare I say, Mr. Snow."
It was that stupid interview of the now-President, he realized, which meant they must have missed the rest of the nature show.
Haymitch wanted to shut down the show immediately, disgust overtaking him, but… a part of him was curious. The now-President, he looked younger, bashful, like the workers at the mine, like an honest man. Nothing at all like the child killer he was today. A part of him wondered what went wrong — when did that bashful young man died and the tyrant was born. Wondered if there was no clear turning point, no visible line when he crossed from human to monster.
The thought scared him somehow, so he kept watching, disgustingly fascinated by the man who was ordering to kill him for no other sin than being District.
Young President Snow gave the interviewer a charming smile, if not a little bit sheepish. "Thank you, thank you."
"Though I must say that I do hear rumors." The interviewer pressed on now that he had an opening. "About a rift, between you and the Head Gamemaker."
The President's sheepish smile turned forced, so abrupt that even the grainy camera could pick it up, as if the temperature was plunging all of a sudden. "Dr. Gaul and I have differing opinions about how we should do the games this year. It is a special occasion after all." He said, and Haymitch had hunted with his friends, knew calculation when he'd seen one. "But I assure you that all of us here at the Capitol aim to deliver the best for Panem."
"Of that I have no doubt." The interviewer raised his hands in disarmament. "But if I were to ask —"
A beat, and suddenly President Snow's focus shattered, immediately turning away from his interviewer. "One second, Lucky." He said, and before the interviewer — what kind of name is Lucky? — could say anything, he was already darting away, skipping small steps as the camera trailed his furthering figure. "Darling?" The mic picked up his voice, "What are you doing outside?"
He was approaching a girl, Haymitch realized. The camera tried to zoom in some more, and Haymitch realized that she was pregnant — pretty far along, in fact. "The room is suffocating. I just wanted to get some fresh air."
"The doctor said you should be in bed rest after what happened last week." President Snow insisted, in a caring tone with a tad bit of possession that made Haymitch nauseous.
The girl's hand flew to his arm, as if trying to reassure him, settle him down. "I'm fine, Coriolanus —"
"Lucy Gray —"
What?
Haymitch felt his entire body run cold at the sight as he immediately pressed pause on the tape, just when the camera panned in its furthest zoom possible on the faraway couple. He hoped he was hearing it wrong, that it was a glitch of the aging recording, but —
But there was no mistaking that face, even if it was younger by years.
Suddenly he remembered why his mentor's face looked familiar; he'd seen her before — fleeting every year, always standing behind the president as he opened the games from that wretched balcony.
“Ah, young love.” He could hear Lucky’s voice muse, though felt very far away now. “Their beginning was rather tragic, but they do make a stunning pair, don’t you think?”
Beside him, he could feel Rye stirring, saw him rubbing his eyes from his peripheral. "Haymitch?" He said, voice hoarse. Haymitch threw the covers and climbed down the bed, mindless about being barefoot as he stormed out. "Hey, Haymitch, what —" he could hear Rye gaining his conscience rapidly, alarmed at his haste. "Haymitch?!"
He was storming throughout the compartments, steps thundering as he slammed every door open until he arrived at the Dining Hall, where the girls and that wretched Devonia had apparently been residing. "Mr. Abernathy, what a pleasure to finally see you, though tardiness is frowned upon at the Capitol—"
And then his eyes landed on her.
“Mr. Abernathy?”
A split second passed. Haymitch spotted a butter knife at the side table. His hand took it.
Then all hell broke loose.
“Mr. Abernathy?!”
"The president's wife?" He was in front of her, inches apart, butter knife touching her throat. He had never killed a human before, but it couldn't be much different than an animal. Maybe there wouldn't be a difference. “The president's wife is the mentor for 12?"
He could feel someone clawing at his back, another trying to pull him away. "Haymitch. Hey, Haymitch—"
"Mr. Abernathy, now calm down—"
"Shut up, rainbow hair, I'm not talking to you." He said, shrugging away a distressed Devonia to a dramatic Ah!
He turned his focus back to her, his mentor, the girl on camera, the traitor . "You.” he said, pressing the knife deeper to his neck. There was a line of redness there now. “Why are you here, huh? A mockery? A fucking insult?"
The traitor spoke, voice strangled. "Easy. Easy, Haymitch—"
Haymitch saw red. He pressed harder, until reality could match his sight."Don't. Call me that." He hissed, ears ringing. "You don't get to call me that."
The Mentor, the Traitor, paused for a second. It felt like forever, the tense silence. A standoff, their guns on his head and his knife on her neck. "I was a victor." She choked her words, trying her best to speak. "Just like every other mentor, I was — a victor from twelve. I won at the 10th Hunger Games." She moved her free hand, and for a split second Haymitch thought that she'd snap him away, and his head would be free range for her husband's Peacekeepers, her Peacekeepers. "And I am tasked, like any other mentor, to help you to —"
But her hand didn't push him away. Her hand only touched him, trying to calm him. Another hand was raised — a halt, putting her husband's dogs on standby.
"I can kill you right now." Haymitch said, as if his knife wasn't speaking on its own. "See if he likes it, the president — to see his loved ones killed, year by year. Maybe I ought to do that, hm? Make him taste his own medicine?"
"Mr. Abernathy, that is enough!"
"Haymitch, let it go — "
He could feel the cold barrel of a gun planted to the side of his head. Could feel the laser-eyed focus everyone in the room had on him. He smirked. They think he cared about dying, now — when he was on his way to a state-sponsored massacre?
"I know." Croaked The Traitor, "I know you're angry, Mr. Abernathy, but you really need to put your knife down."
"Tell me why I should." He said, and he saw a trickle of red coming from her skin, coating the knife, his fingers. Maybe if he pressed harder, he'd hit a large vein. "You think I fear my death, Lady? When Fairy-hair reaped my name up there on the stage, I no longer give a shit."
"Not your death, no." She said, softly, still holding him. Still holding her Peacekeepers back. "Your loved ones."
Haymitch stilled. Thinking of Cooper. Thinking of Ma. Thinking of Delta. "...are you threatening me?"
"No." And now there was a glint of plea in her eyes. Funny, the Mentor begging at the Tribute. He would have laughed if he wasn’t so angry. "I'm warning you." She said, "The president is a man of great power, Mr. Abernathy. I would prefer it if you don't get his wrath."
Haymitch looked at her. Tried to seek the demure girl from the interview from the woman before him. Trying to see honesty in her eyes. "You're really from twelve?"
She nodded. Measured. Careful. "Yes."
Her blood continued to bleed to his fingers, trailing down his hand. "And you married the fucking president of the Capitol?"
At this, something passed in her eyes. Something akin to resignation. "It's not that simple, Mr. Abernathy."
"Really? Cause it's simple enough for me." Haymitch hissed, "You're a sellout; selling out your own people, your own home." He saw her tears well up. Good. "Just for a pretty cage and some psychopath's dick."
And then Haymitch backed away, doing a mocking courtesy just for the sake of it. "You know what — you’re right, about your talent.” he said, throwing the knife. Wiping the blood on his shirt. “For a second there, I thought you were genuine; You sure know how to put on a good show," he drawled, enjoying the way her face paled far further than when he was slitting her throat.
“Madam Snow."