Drunken Thoughts:

The Routine

I do not own The Hunger Games series, and there are some Mockingjay spoilers.

Haymitch Abernathy swallows another gulp of poison, the bitter drink cascading through his veins as he sets down the bottle. He takes a look around. Empty glasses litter the bar as the clock strikes two. Only the bartender remains with him, wiping off the counter in a gesture more to occupy him than to clean. He slings the slightly damp washcloth over his shoulder, casting an apathetic glance in Haymitch's direction.

"You want another?"

"Yeah."

The conversation supplies nothing except to hear the words. Of course he wants another. Haymitch Abernathy never turns down an offer for another drink. As the bartender grabs the hard liquor the Victor closes his eyes, taking in the moment. It was the middle of the night, he had nothing to live for but the next bottle, and he'd repeat this process every night until he died.

There were worse ways to live.

The Hunger Games now in the past, the entire country of Panem now found it confused. How do we live now? What do we live for now? Who do we serve? The idea of a rebellion remained the only thing keeping the poor districts alive, and the Hunger Games remained the only thing supplying the existence of the wealthy districts and the Capitol. The rebellion had succeeded and the Hunger Games terminated—now what? The citizens held so much hope to win, but not once did they possess the faith to believe it to happen. Now they found themselves lost, puzzled over what to do with their children safe from murdering.

The bartender hands him the drink. Haymitch accepts it, but doesn't bring the glass to his lips. The liquor waves as it suspends in air, hanging inches above the counter. The Victor watches it roll, slopping against its walls until it slows considerably. With his hand shaking the drink never quite subsides. With his mind constantly reeling the images never quite vanish.

The Hunger Games, his own in the Quarter Quell, never leave memory. If anything, they grow stronger and even more vivid than when they actually occurred. Every scream, every expression, every pair of eyes staring at you right before you kill them flash in the mind as though desiring to relive the time. And they knew. They knew if they were going to die if not when. Just as the moment arrived they might have debated fighting, struggling, postponing the final breath of life. If they were unfortunate enough not to die immediately, they stared you down, sending every emotion into their pupils to display for the world. Pain, fear, hatred, confusion, regret, insanity, but most of all, youthfulness.

They were young. They still are young. If the good die young, then he must be the largest bastard of them all, his damnation set in stone when he came out the Victor of the 50th Hunger Games.

Haymitch stares at the drink a second longer before bringing the glass to his worn lips. The liquid sloshes around his mouth for a fraction of a moment before rushing down his throat and into his bloodstream of animosity and dead hope. The bartender notes his strange actions, but says nothing as he collects the glasses from nearby tables. Haymitch was more than a regular to the bar; he was a fixture upon the building. He gathered numerous dishes and took them to the sink in the back.

The glass rests on the counter, empty. Haymitch runs the back of his hand over his mouth as he lifts a napkin off the bar. He plays with it through his index and middle finger as the bartender comes back to the main area. He pauses his work when he notices Haymitch's lack of alcohol.

"You want another?"

This time, the broken man doesn't respond immediately, and the bartender sets down the two bottles in his hand. "No." He waits another moment as the worker returns behind the counter and grabs a glass. This time, he fills it with water and sets the drink down next to Haymitch. "Thanks," he remarks, taking the glass. This time he doesn't hesitate before taking a swig. "There was a meeting today, down at the Capitol."

"Oh? What about?" he replies, knowing their routine.

"What to do about the government ruling. They wanted us all down there—the Victors that is—but I didn't make it." He took a moment to stare at the counter, setting the glass back down in its ringlet. "I bet they threw a party when they realized the stubborn Haymitch Abernathy wouldn't be joining them, the bastards."

The bartender nodded, always neutral to any Capital affair. "Why do they want you guys there?"

Haymitch shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe to remind them of the damage the past president caused. Maybe so they can keep a close eye on us. After all these years, I guess they've known our hatred won't really die."

"It can only die with you," responds his companion. "They forced you to murder innocent children."

Haymitch's lips curl slightly, in a gesture of grim thought. "They only forced us to partake in the blood bath. After that, if we didn't murder, we got murdered. We all knew that. We all knew." He dropped his face as the bartender grabbed him another drink, this time a simple beer. Haymitch took the bottle, popped the top, and swallowed half the drink at once. "We all knew, and no one did anything for seventy-five years, the sons-of-bitches." He finished the beer, practically slamming down the glass bottle. But he knew his strength, even if he wasn't sober. He shoved the glasses away and stood up, swaying on his feet before leaning against the bar.

The bartender grabbed the bottles and proceeded to throw them away. He half-watched as the Victor stumbled out into the quiet night. He never could understand why they called them Victors. If anything, they were nothing more than forced murderers, and forced child murderers at that. The government behind the Capital possessed sick, twisty minds.

The Hunger Games were only the past control. In another fifty, hundred years, something even more terrible and painstakingly horrendous would occur to keep government in power. But what did he know? He was only a bartender.

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~HappyHowler4myLuver