Couple of Fighters

Action and reaction,

ebb and flow, trial and error, change –

this is the rhythm of living.

Out of our over-confidence, fear;

out of our fear, clearer vision, fresh hope.

And out of hope, progress.

-Bruce Barton

My name is Haymitch Abernathy.

I am 40 years old.

My home is district 12.

I was a tribute in the 50th Hunger Games and survived.

I've been a mentor ever since.

For more than two decades children have been steered towards me like cattle. They are passed into my care to become polished and strengthened, to be taught and prepared.

I used to think it was for survival.

I used to be cocky about it all.

I used to think I had it all figured out.

So what happened you ask?

I suppose a lot of things happened, and you would think it all started when I was sixteen and my name was drawn from the reaping.

But that wasn't the beginning.

Nor was it the day I entered into that beautifully painted hell they called an arena.

No… it all started the day I made my way, bleeding and half dead, to that cliff's edge with a purpose. The day I used a dangerous enemy's own weapon against them and came out alive.

It took too long for me to realize I hadn't stumbled away from hell, but rather stepped unprepared into it.

Sure I had survived the games with twice as many odds against me. But in the process of winning I had slapped that already dangerous enemy in the face with my little trick and created a lethal one.

It was the very un-accidental deaths of my small family that made me realize the truth:

I have control over nothing.

Exactly two weeks after my stunt with the force field my mother and girl were gone.

My younger brother quickly followed.

But the deaths didn't end there… because my time with the games had only begun.

There have only ever been two victors to come from district twelve and I am one of them…and by this point I'm the only one still breathing.

So I'm the lone victor… the only person left to carry out the impossible task of mentoring the two children who are unfortunate enough to come under my care.

There was a time when I actually thought I could make a difference in the yearly deaths of district twelve's children… because despite all my mistakes and losses I'm far from being ignorant:

I know each and every way you can play the audience.

I know how to pin point a child's true strength and then how to teach them the best way to present it.

I know when they should speak and when they should remain silent.

I know over a dozen different ways to kill a person with a five inch blade, and to top it all off I have an endless supply of clever one-liners and effective manipulation skills.

I could... once upon a time... have sponsors lined up behind my tributes in such a way that I could be the one to pick and choose.

I'm not sure exactly when it all changed though; I can't remember which child's blood made the growing stain on my hands too thick to wash away.

All I remember is one year I found myself trying not to try… and in the end I still lost.

As soon as those children are pulled away from me and thrown into the arena, they're alone.

No amount of sponsors could help me shout a warning to the small thirteen year old boy when a large axe was swung towards the back of his head.

No amount of publicity could help me stop the starving girl from stumbling into a trap that had her choking on her own blood.

No amount of combat training could help prevent both my tributes from being beat to death in the first sixty seconds of the games when their weaker bodies stumbled and grabbed for weapons and provisions they would never reach much less use.

There simply isn't any control once that gong sounds and the blood starts flowing.

At some point I began to teach myself not to care and somewhere along the way I picked up my first bottle... not to drink away the pain as I had been doing... but to prevent it from coming all together.

Despite the alcohol having the ability to allow me a dreamless sleep once in a blue moon… it also has the ability to blur out my surroundings when I'm awake… and I've learned the less clear a child's face is while they're alive the less they can haunt me once they're dead.

This has been my process for so long now I can barely remember what it was like when I actually attempted to give a damn.

Of course this process... if it can even be called that... is far from perfect.

In spite of the blood on my hands I do have a soul and despite all my actions to the contrary the damn thing can't be drown into extinction by gallons upon gallons of alcohol.

So there are still those inevitable moments where my mind is too clear and I have no choice but to meet the eyes of a child I'm leading into death.

This year is no different.

That's why when I find myself rising from the familiar murky wells of alcohol-induced oblivion and meet the eyes of yet another child… I can't stop the jolt in my stomach that always comes when I recognize the familiar grey.

I reluctantly take in the olive toned skin and black hair that mirrors my own, that mirrors each and every child that has grown up in the Seam… in my old home.

As I lift my hand to swig back the wine... that has long ago lost its flavor... something else flickers in my memory… something that has nothing to do with growing up in the coal district.

There's a young girl's voice shouting in my head…

"I volunteer!"

She's shouting to come into the games and not for a way out of them…

And then I remember.

I remember this year's reaping in district 12… I remember the words that made this round of herding and choosing different from the countless others.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

I recognize the determined face... that stood out among a blurred array of others... is the same one sitting across from me now.

"So, you're supposed to give us advice?"

I blink and pull myself back to the present when I realize the same voice in my memory has just spoken directly to me.

When her question registers I know there are several answers I can give… but Instead of forcing my mind to filter through the worthless words, I let the rusty laugh building in my chest scrape up my throat…

"Here's some advice… stay alive."

My laughter is released with the words and it's too loud, filling the compartment and tearing through my already sore head… but I can't stop it.

Because really… at this point I can either laugh at my futility or bash my own head in.

Stay alive.

That's probably the first bit of real advice I have willing given in years and I find it hilarious that it still means nothing at this point.

"That's very funny…" Before I have time to agree with the sarcastic angry words or even register the fact that it was a different speaker this time, I feel a sharp pain in my right hand.

Suddenly all that's left of the glass of wine my shaking fingers were clinging to is shards of crystal and splatters of deep red liquid scattered around my feet.

"…Only not to us!"

Though my reflexes are much slower than they use to be, my instinctual reaction to the sudden pain through physical contact is still the same as it has been since my time in the arena.

My now empty hand clenches into a fist and lashes out with bodily force, connecting with human flesh in a familiar dull smack that reverberates up from my knuckles and into my shoulder.

I hear more than see the boy hit the ground and with the obstacle gone I instantly reach for the wine bottle, the mess staining the too clean floor of the train now completely forgotten.

But before my hand can reach its destination my dulled reflexes are, once more, pointed out to me. There's a loud thunk and I see a knife imbedded in the table mere inches from my outstretched fingers.

The blade is quivering and releasing a soft thwang of noise that proves, more than anything, the strength and intent behind the throw.

My hand is already clenched back up… ready to pull back for the second time when I look up and meet those grey eyes again.

I can see the anticipation of retaliation register in them. But instead of fear or shrinking away, I watch as the girl's slim shoulders brace in preparation and her small chin lift ever so slightly… as if daring me to take the swing.

I allow my eyes to drift to left to see the boy now rising to his feet, his jaw already red and swelling.

This time the eyes I meet are bright blue… and despite the shocking contrast in color the anger and defiance in them is exactly the same as the gray.

I sit back trying to clear my hazy sight so I can fully take my new lambs for slaughter.

The boy is tall; his shoulders wide and arms thick. His light skin, and golden hair tell me he is not a half starved creature from the seam… but a child raised in town… maybe a merchant's son.

I already know the girl is from the seam, but though she is skinny I can tell she is far from starvation. There is muscle in her thin arms and strength in her posture that tells me that wasn't the first time she's thrown a knife.

"Well, what's this?" I ask roughly, as I feel a spark of something I refuse to acknowledge as hope flare up in my chest.

"Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"

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So should I keep going? I don't plan on doing the whole book from Haymitche's POV. Just little snips and oneshots. More of a writting exercise and practice than anything.

If you would Like a certian scene leave me a note in a review...along with (hopefully) your thoughts on this small piece.

Till next time ;)