Disclaimer - Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins and not me. If it did Katniss would be with Gale ... You know it makes sense ;)

'To the Victor Belong the Spoils'

by Witherwings

Chapter One

The noise of a car pulling up outside my house registers in some distant part of my mind. It's not a familiar sound in District 12 - most of the general population have never even seen a car, let alone have the wherewithal to own one - yet I still manage to ignore the crunch of it's tyres on the loose surface beyond my front door and return to my alcohol induced oblivion.

For a few moments at least.

The all too familiar click, clack of stilettos follows close on the heels of the car's door slamming shut, the footsteps growing ever closer until there is a rap at the front door and a muffled, female voice calling for me by name.

The sound goes right through me, but I know I won't get any peace until I answer it. "I heard you," I bark, the incessant knocking finally falling silent as my croaky voice reaches my visitors ears. "Keep your pretty pink hair on," I add sotto voce, already fully aware of the identity of my caller.

Pocketing the knife I always keep with me during the few restless hours of sleep my body obliges me to endure each night, I rise from my slumped position on my makeshift bed - the dinning room table - my right cheek sticking slightly to an unidentifiable substance which has congealed on its surface. Shakily, I push myself upright and stagger towards the front door, my dragging feet sending empty liquor bottles rolling noisily across the floor. By the time I reach my destination my senses are swimming. Pushing the heel of my right hand into my temple, in a futile attempt to reduce the pounding there, my other hand fumbles with the door lock which releases with an audible click a moment later.

In response to the sound, my visitor pushes the front door fully open, allowing the too bright sunlight to pour over the threshold. My eyelids retreat to slits leaving me squinting at the woman through the tangle of my own eyelashes.

"Hello Haymitch," comes the familiar, and unwelcome voice of Effie Trinket, District 12's official escort. Today she's wearing a ghastly spring green suit which clashes horribly with her bright pink hair. "Ready for another big, big ... " Her voice trails away to nothing, her eyes narrowing disdainfully, as she takes in the interior of my home. No, scrub that. Never, not in more that twenty years of residing here, have I considered this place home. Some would consider a luxury house in the victor's village a dream come true. A reward for victory. My fellow victors and I know better. It is not some sort of medal to be worn with pride, but instead, a millstone that hangs around each of our necks until the day we die.

"Still haven't taken my advice to spend some of your winnings on a maid I see?" adds Effie after a beat, her nose wrinkling in disgust.

"A pleasure to see you again too, sweetheart," I say, enjoying her discomfort immensely.

She, like all of the cosseted citizens of the far of Capitol, is the polar opposite to people like me who live, work and die in District 12. They are the wind; insubstantial, superficial, changing direction on a whim. Whereas, I, and the people of District 12, have grown to be as cold and hard as the very rocks we burrow through in search of the precious coal all of Panem demands.

Composing herself by feigning the need to flip through the timetable affixed to her clipboard (despite my certainty that she has already committed it to memory in its entirety), Effie finally re-finds her voice and says, "It's one o'clock, Haymitch. Remember we need you on stage in the town square by two."

A deep, mirthless chuckle escapes my throat. "I've been doing this since your Mommy was cleaning the turds off your pretty little behind, darling. I know the drill. I'll be there."

"Yes, well," splutters Effie as I make no effort to hide my amusement at her discomfort. "Make sure that you are. I have a feeling this could be our year."

A ripple of anger crosses my features. Our year? I seethe silently. How dare she - a delicate little Capitol baby - refer to herself as if she were one of us...even in passing. No child raised in the privileged world of Panem's first city would last two minutes in the Seam. Less than half that should they be awarded the 'honor' of becoming the District's tribute. "Twenty-third time's the charm," I say through gritted teeth, managing to quell my true emotions only because of the knowledge that the Capitol would be quick to punish the population of District 12 should I step out of line.

Apparently ignorant of my silent rage, Effie's mood brightens considerably. "That's the spirit," she says, turning to leave. "I'll see you in the square. Remember, two o'clock." She only makes it down two of the three steps down to street level, however, before she comes to an abrupt halt. "You don't need a lift, do you?"

For a moment I toy with the idea of taking her up on the offer. I can tell from her expression that she would much rather I declined, only her ridiculous obsession with good manners prompting it in the first place, but disregard it almost as quickly. As much as it would entertain me to watch the prim young woman squirm in my less than debonair company for then next hour or so, even this short conversation with the oppressively chipper escort, has convinced me that I am going to need several more drinks to make this afternoon bearable. I say as much aloud, my statement eliciting a look of commingled relief and disgust on the young woman's face.

Behind her, the chauffeur of her black, government issued car, exits the vehicle and opens one of the rear doors, the sound of his boots on the gravel drive drawing Effie's attention. Taking her cue to leave gratefully, she trots back to the car, pausing briefly to offer a last nugget of advice. "Just - just try to be on time, OK?" she says. "And let's try to look at least a little more presentable," she adds, subconsciously adjusting her wig. "The whole of Panem will be ..."

By way of an answer, I slam the front door loudly cutting of Effie's final words. I mutter something obscene and make my way back to the kitchen, my own words ringing loudly in my ears, 'Twenty-third time's the charm...' Can it really have been so long? Have I really witnessed forty four children under my tutelage die? Forty four innocent lives extinguished all in the name of ... entertainment.

And now the reapings have rolled around again, I think despairingly. With luck, perhaps I'll draw a couple of twelve-year-old's who won't last more than the first minute. Then it will all be over - for another year at least.

Appalled by my line of thought - morose even for me - I slump down in my chair and mechanically pull an unopened bottle of white liquor towards me. With practised ease, I unscrew the lid and take a long pull straight from the bottle, the fiery liquid burning my throat as I swallow it down giving me a different kind of pain to focus on, a brief moment of clarity stemming from that distraction.

No, it really wasn't true what they say.

That only one of us can survive the Games.

I, like all my fellow victors, am condemned just as readily as the tributes who perished in the arena. A longer, more drawn out death to be sure, but death nevertheless. Oh, yes, unlike my competitors - forty seven of them in my case - my heart still beats within my chest, my lungs continue to pull down air thick with coal dust, I eat, I drink - yes, a great deal of the latter - but I haven't truly lived a day since my name was called during the reaping twenty four years ago.

To the victors belong the spoils. A wry snort of amusement sounds deep in the back of my throat as the words spoken a hundred lifetimes ago, by some, now long forgotten leader, filter into my thoughts unbidden. Seventy three victors may have been crowned over the years, but there has only ever been one winner, and not once has it been the boy or girl left standing come the bloody conclusion to the games. I, like most of my fellow victors, won nothing. We exist, but little more. A swift death at the hands of a competitor seems almost humane by comparison now. But then, of course, this is exactly how President Snow, the one true champion of the Hunger Games, wishes it to be.

If even the strongest amongst us are broken, damaged beyond repair, what chance is there for the rest of us? Perhaps some day someone stronger can challenge the status quo, but it won't be me. I've suffered enough pain for ten lifetimes. My story is not unique, nor is it the worst, but it is mine, and it is all I have left.

My name is Haymitch Abernathy, and this is my story...

TBC...

Author Musings

Hello all. This my very first Hunger Games fic, so be gentle ;) Haymitch is, IMNSHO, by far an away the most interesting character in the books, and whilst no doubt it has been done before (and probably far better than I can manage), I simply had to try and tell his story. Real life is very busy, so it won't be finished quickly, but I have never failed to finish a story yet and don't intend to start now. Next chapter we jump back to the Haymitch's 'triumphant' return to 12.

As I don't want to spoil Hunger Games for my regular beta's this story is unchecked, so I'm relying on you guys to help me out on that front - especially as this is my first attempt at first person narrative - it just seemed wrong to write HG in 3rd person. *shrugs*