A/N: Alright, so here goes nothing. This is really just an idea I mustered up at 10 o'clock at night, sitting in the car and thinking about Haymitch Abernathy. Don't ask why. I'd really like if you guys gave me suggestions, like reviews saying "Finnick Odair should be the next chapter" or "Johanna Mason should be the next one." No reviews, no update. :D Enjoy!

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So here you are, two steps ahead and staying on guard

Every lesson forms a new scar

They never thought you'd make it this far

But turn around, oh they've surrounded you

It's a showdown and nobody comes to save you now

Haymitch Abernathy

2nd Quarter Quell

50th Hunger Games

Haymitch sits upon the plush chair, gripping the arm rests with much the unentertained look on his face. Young Caesar Flickerman sits forward in his chair, his hair a slick shade of red, his clothes a pale orange, his smile fake. The crowd sits seemingly motionless in front of them, regaled by Haymitch's half-assed responses; his sharp jawline and displeased eyes looking much more handsome than they will in 25 years after the hard liquor and ages without a good night's sleep.

"So Haymitch," Caesar says, cocking his head, making Haymitch want to punch him in the throat. Must everyone here act like they have a Gamemaker's hand up their ass, performing puppetry, he thinks. "What do you think about there being twice as many victors than usual?"

"I don't see much of a difference." He mumbles, rubbing his thigh, not in anxiousness but boredom and frustration.

"Because there will only be one victor?" Caesar asks.

"No." Haymitch says sharply, finally showing interest, shifting forward in his chair a bit; ruffling his feathers, so to speak. "They're just as stupid."

"You find yourself smarter, you mean?"

Haymitch's flat, lifeless eyes bored holes in Caesar-who's too much of a dumbass to understand anything. "I said: they're all just as stupid." But Haymitch isn't. He knows no one's paying attention to him. He's just a poor soul from twelve, reaped at the worst time possible. He will make those eyes watch him. He won't murder with rage but he'll play those sick games with such audacity he'll have to be seen; those cameras will flock to him. They'll know who he is.

Rage isn't what Haymitch feels towards the Capitol. Whatever the next level of hatred is, take it up ten notches and that's what he feels. No one-not even Caesar-could understand that feeling of dread young Haymitch felt when his name was called and he stood there like a dumb fuck as everyone in 12 turned with wide eyes, staring at him as his feet refused to move. His mother didn't cry. No one did. They all sighed in relief, since it was neither them nor one of their kids to walk up on that stage. He had stood up there with another boy and two girls, who were all shivering in fright. The boy wouldn't look at Haymitch, wouldn't say a word to him. He was an enemy already.

Haymitch was sixteen. The young girl Maysilee was 14. The other two tributes were 17. Maysilee was a pretty little girl, definitely not deserving of such a horrid death as the one headed her way. Haymitch's eyes had stayed on his mother, and he remembers that look she gave him. She wasn't weeping, she wasn't scared… it was a warning, an unheard alarm. Haymitch wouldn't find out just why she gave him that look until a year later when her, when she lie dead next to her son, the murder occurring at the exact same time Haymitch's fifteen year-old lover met an untimely demise.

Haymitch did no training, he did no prepping. Why would he? If he knew anything about murder, it'd be from watching the previous Hunger Games, not fighting in his own. The training stations are packed anyway. He wanders, listening to a speaker for just a few moments, catching things like don't eat anything too colorful, don't set fires at night, don't swim in waters that are unclear and don't make much noise when moving in the woods. He makes a mental catalog, and then mentally shuts down.

.

On Game day, Haymitch tries to stop his nerves from getting the best of him. He tells himself, "Be strong. Be focused. Don't touch any Careers; don't go near anyone unless they're attacking first." And most importantly, don't lose sight of why you're fighting, why you won't lay down and die. You'll win these games and make the Capitol regret every move they made. Of course, Haymitch knows how foolish he sounds, even if he didn't say that aloud.

He slaps away his stylist's hand, mumbling, "What's the point of looking pretty?"

"Sponsors dear." The very homosexual looking man mutters, appearing sick to his stomach.

"You don't want to be here. So go."

"I must see you off, boy." He says, nodding to the glass tube Haymitch is to step into. He does so, and it locks him in.

He only starts to really regret his urgency when it starts moving, escalating him vertically with a circle of light blinding him from above. He wishes he could slow time, look at his stylist again and find something meaningful to say.

When he can finally see again, his jaw drops. The landscape around him is gorgeous, admirably so. Green grass sprouts around the 48 gaping tributes, a meadow lasting for miles. On one side, a plush forest, on the other, rocky snow-topped mountains.

Haymitch is immediately hit with an astonishing scent as a voice begins counting down from 30. He's not sure he likes it. His senses are screaming at him, and he pulls his shirt over his nose. He looks to the girl to his left-a young one who's staring at moving flowers at her feet. She's too distracted. Haymitch tenses when she leans down and picks one flower. Suddenly with a violent scream, she drops it. Haymitch can't process it all.

Hives shoot up her arm and seem to grip her insides and twist them and Haymitch can see the pain and terror in her eyes. The second the flower hits the grass-delicate pedals and beautiful scent in all its glory-the ground rocks with an explosion, and like that the girl is gone. Dead already.

A shame.

"3… 2… 1." Haymitch breaks off in a sprint as at least half of the kids stare at the stream of intestines and dirt falling to the ground, another quarter of them afraid to touch the flowers around them or even step on them. One girl's even hit in the face with the poor tribute's heart. She screams bloody murder and falls on her behind as Haymitch reaches the Cornucopia, plucking a bag off of the ground, slinging it on his back and heading towards those deadly smelling, compact trees.

"Shit!" He hisses as a dart whizzes past his ear. He's not the only one headed that way. Three Careers are hastily making their way towards him, long legs carrying two guys towards him at top-speed, the third-a smaller girl-the deadly dart shooter. She snatches another off of her belt she's just slung over shoulder and pushes it in the shooter.

Haymitch ducks under it as he quickly searches blindly in his bag for a weapon. His fingers wrap around the welcome hilt of a knife.

As the first boy reaches him he drops his bag and falls backwards on his behind, kicking the Career right in the groin. He topples in pain and Haymitch digs his knife into his gut, twists, and slashes to the left. He falls face-first in the grass, which seems to coil around him and drag his lifeless body further into the dirt.

The second boy goes for a swing and a miss with his two-sided word, and Haymitch decks him, knocking the weapon away and rendering him defenseless aside from his barbaric fists. Haymitch quickly raises his knife and slams it into his forehead. He goes limp immediately.

Every poor soul that's fleeing from the Cornucopia is vehemently going around Haymitch and his wrath as the dart shooter discharges another projectile, catching Haymitch's sleeve. He pulls it out before it can scrape by his skin. He runs at the girl full speed, kicking her in the stomach, grabbing her shooter and striking her in the face with it. He chucks the bamboo-like shaft and goes in for the kill, sitting atop of the fragile girl's frame, squeezing her neck until she grows blue in the face and cold to the touch.

Haymitch runs and he runs like hell, canons blasting.

.

Haymitch touches nothing while stalking through the forest, keeping his arms tucked in front of him and his head down, his footsteps light and measured. What became of him just back there? He had no clue he was capable of such a massacre.

Well damn them, those Careers, he thinks, someone needed to put them in their place and I did. Now the Capitol's eyes are on me, the sponsors and the crowd too. Good. Watch me kill your favorites and weep for the underdogs.

He quickly pulls his knife when he hears the clatter and clash of uncaring, running footfalls. He tucks himself behind a tree, hiding.

"Haymitch!" Young Maysilee cries, having already spotted him. He steps out, knife poised and ready. He calls his own bluff when she scrambles back, tripping over a root.

"I can't throw knives worth a shit." He mumbles, gasping and pulling Maysilee off of the ground. "Don't. Touch. Anything. You saw that girl out there. I smelled that flower from where I stood. Everything here smells like death." He crinkles his nose in disgust as the dainty girl throws her arms around his neck. She reminds him of his girlfriend from back home, and with two fingers, he pulls her arms off of his shoulders uncomfortably. "No, don't do that." He grumps.

She looks scared. She tells him, "I can't do this, Haymitch. I'm going to die."

He gets close to her, snarling in her face. "Be quiet. You know how many sponsors you're scaring off right now?"

"I-I'm sorry…"

He huffs and walks forward, Maysilee following. "What are you doing?" he asks.

"We'd live longer with two of us." She says blandly.

He frowns, looking her up and down. She has nothing other than… a blowgun. From the Career he killed. Smart girl, he thinks. He shrugs the pack off of his shoulders and tosses it to her. "While we walk, check out what's in the bag." He never loosens his grip on his knife. Maysilee happily obliges, walking close to Haymitch as she searches.

"Empty water bottle," she notes, "some sort of cracker, and a… a shoelace?" She holds it up for Haymitch to see.

"It's not a shoelace." He mutters, and when she goes to ask what it does he snatches it from her. He steps behind her, wrapping the ends of the string around his knuckles, and then wraps it around her neck. She steps back into him in shock. "It's for choking someone. Keep it." he says, slinging it over her shoulder like and undone tie. Maysilee looks a bit appalled.

"I could never get close enough."

"Hope and pray Maysilee that you'll never need to." He mumbles.

.

Haymitch and Maysilee sit down in a spot where they're touching no plants. Maysilee has said to Haymitch that he's overreacting to the whole everything is poisonous thing. He ignored.

She grabs his arm in surprise when the ground starts to shake. Haymitch looks around, thinking maybe it's an earthquake. Bang, bang, bang, sound the canons in the air. "What the hell?" Haymitch says to himself, standing and looking to a patch of sky he can see through the treetops. Black smoke rises from the direction they came from.

"The mountains." Maysilee informs him.

"What about them?"

"Volcanoes, Haymitch. They're volcanoes, not mountains." She clarifies, wincing when another canon blast echoes in the thick, slightly humid air. He looks at her, mouth parted, in the process of comprehending.

"Well…" he searches for something to say, "not going that way." Maysilee is surprised when he dismisses it easily.

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They don't eat for two days. Haymitch won't let Maysilee touch anything still. She teases him playfully, calling him stubborn. In the past forty-eight hours, nine canons have sounded, meaning 22 are now dead. They had a run-in with another tribute midday yesterday. Haymitch was about to advance towards him when he noticed a stockpile of squirrels sitting in the trees above. Haymitch bolted, dragging Maysilee with him as the squirrels rampaged down to the forest floor, eating their enemy alive.

Maysilee is about to just snatch a fruit off of one of the plentiful trees and pop it in her mouth whole. She reaches up to do so, but Haymitch stops her.

"Maysilee, have you ever seen a fruit tree in one of the games?" he asks, eyes narrowed.

"Uh… no." she answers.

"Then don't eat from one. It's a trap. Keep walking." Raindrops begin to speckle Haymitch's shoulders and he stops dead in his tracks. He sticks his hand out to see if it's true, and then snatches their empty water bottle from the bag. "Sit," he orders Maysilee, "we're going to be here a while."

She sits on an exposed tree root as Haymitch places the open water bottle on the ground, and they wait and watch the rain fall.

.

Food doesn't come for another day. They hear a pinging sound and look up to see a parachute floating their way. Maysilee catches it and pries it open, seeing the delicious crackers, bread and meat. They feast, mindful to save some for later.

.

By the time it's down to the last five tributes, Haymitch begins to watch Maysilee more closely. Maysilee seems to be quite accurate with her blowgun-she even dipped it in some poison from one of the many plants surrounding them, and shot the Career right in the neck. They've safely headed west for the past six days, and they finally reach a cliff that seems to resemble a dead-end for them.

"What was the point, Haymitch?" Maysilee mumbles miserably, turning and looking into the forest.

"No one can sneak up behind us here, at least." He grumbles in his usual uncaring tone.

Maysilee wrings her hands together, and Haymitch knows what she's going to say. "Haymitch, I think… we need to split up now. You've helped me and I've helped you, but what more can we do now?"

"Save your breath, Maysilee. I understand." He points to the forest as her eyes widen and soften slightly. She nods, looking sullen as she grabs her blowgun and heads off.

She stops momentarily, only to blow a kiss to him and say, "Good luck. May the odds be ever in your favor, Haymitch."

"Good luck to you too." His heart constricts, and he turns, kicking a rock over the cliff to bottle his emotions. He plops down on the ground, only to be hit smack dab in the head with that same pebble, flying right back at him.

He frowns, standing and grabbing a much bigger rock. He chucks, and it comes right back at him, and he catches it. He smirks, tossing the rock up and down, an ear-splitting scream piercing his happiness and making him freeze in horror.

"MAYSILEE!" he screams, grabbing his knife and sprinting off to where the young blonde disappeared.

.

Haymitch finds Maysilee, happy he yelled her name. Surely, the murderer ran off in his direction, and now Haymitch has the time to slump to his knees by her side and she chokes on her own blood. She reaches out for him, and he takes her hand, leaning over her. He strokes her hair, saying softly, "You attract trouble, don't you?"

She gives a smile, her teeth red with spilling blood which pours in small streams over her cheeks, dripping onto the ground near her. "I…" She coughs violently, "I know you c-can do this Haymitch." Her voice is soft, filled with no fear, no regret.

He keeps his mouth shut for a few moments, avoiding the lump in his throat. "You're so strong, Maysilee. And you know where you're going is much better than this hellhole."

"Y-yes," she whispers, "I know." Her eyes glaze over, drifting off to the sky and her head lolls. Haymitch clenches his eyes shut and holds her hand to his lips as the canon blows. He reaches forward, closing her glass-like eyes and letting his hand rest on her cheek.

"You're lucky you're not as stubborn as me." He murmurs, stepping up and standing back as the hovercraft comes to take her away. He blows her a kiss, just like she did he.

Goodbye, darling. Sleep in peace. Don't let the demons touch you, because you're more powerful than them. You're strong and you…, he thinks. You were all you ever needed to be. Goodnight, Maysilee. Sleep in peace.

Haymitch could never say these words out loud. He's not capable. He hangs his head. He freezes when two more canons fire off.

After watching the ship carry young Maysilee away to her resting place, Haymitch lets out a yelp as a blurry figure slams against him and knocks the wind out of him. It's a girl from District 7, looking wily and out of control. She wields an axe, slicing at him in a blind fury. He scrambles away, drawing his knife and prepping himself in a fighting stance.

She wastes no time. She comes at him swinging and Haymitch ducks under her axe, slicing at her. He grabs her arm so she can't swipe at him again, but she clunks him in the head with its blunt, flat side. His right knee buckles and he staggers, gasping when he feels a stinging, otherworldly pain slice through his stomach. He gasps, grabbing his abdomen, feeling blood rush over his hand. He a fitful rage and thoughtlessly shoves his knife forward and twists. The girl screams.

He retracts his blade and begins stumbling back towards his cliff-his promising cliff-as the girl from Seven pursues, screaming, "YOU BASTARD! I'LL KILL YOU, 12!" He doesn't stop. He sighs when begins the climb up a small hill, and he knows she's catching up. He thinks he's seeing things, but he's definitely feeling intestines squirming against his palm.

Meekly, he turns and blocks a blow from her axe by sticking up his arm, and he cries out when his fingers are sliced and it hard wood staff cracks against his limb. He slices his knife down her front, from one side of her collarbone to her opposite hip. It's not deep at all, but blood seeps immediately and she gets momentarily sidetracked, checking to see if the blow is fatal.

Haymitch stammers over the small, finally stepping onto the dirt and pebbles of the rising cliff edge.

"Come on," he pants, "just… just do it." His own skin looks horrifyingly pale to him, and his knees give out. He feels all-too lightheaded. He plops onto his butt as his attacker throws her axe with a roar, almost scalping Haymitch. He smirks at the same time as she.

"We can just stand here, you know." She snaps, "You're bleeding out 12."

Breathlessly, Haymitch whispers, "But they'd never allow it, Sweetheart." He lays down, staring at the sky, a flash of brown and silver whizzing past him. The axe, having hit the force field, flies back at 7, embedding itself in her forehead. Haymitch closes his eyes, inches from sobbing when the canon blows, signifying the horrible girl's death.

"Congratulations, Haymitch Abernathy," a voice booms, "We give you the victor of the 50th annual Hunger Games!"

That's the last thing Haymitch remembers, for he blacks out.

.

Haymitch is painfully aware of the constricting bandage around his stitches that reach all the way across his stomach. President Snow-a middle aged man with a graying beard and the protruding belly of a spoiled Capitol citizen-never breaks eye contact with Haymitch as he places the masculine crown on his battered blonde head while the crowd cheers and roars, shouting Haymitch's name. Haymitch feels no pride or sense of confidence. He only holds hate, hate for the man standing inches from him, glaring at him with icy eyes.

"Congratulations, Haymitch," Snow says reluctantly, "you're quite the fighter."

"Always have been, always will be." Haymitch mutters curtly, an undertone clear in his voice. The only thing he wants to do is go home and hug his mother and brother, kiss his girlfriend and hide from everyone else.

But Haymitch will never get the chance. Out of punishment for his stunt with the force field in his final battle with the girl from twelve, Haymitch's only three loved ones are killed by the Capitol with one clear message: "You are a piece in our games, no matter how safe you think you are."

So? Listen, I know you've probably read Haymitch's story before, but TELL ME who's story you want to see next. IMPORTANT: Some of the coming chapters may include sexual content, like Finnick's story and maybe Johanna's. For now it's T. REVIEW, TELL ME, ADVISE, CRITISIZE.