Disclaimer: The Hunger Games and certain characters belong to Suzanne Collins, Lionsgate, et al. No profit is gained from this writing—only, hopefully, enjoyment.
Title(s) from the 1982 film of the same name.
There are nightmares and weird, terrifying moments when she knows she's still there in the Arena but will gradually come back and realize she isn't, that it's all just in her head. She's supposed to be doing things, stupid, ridiculous activities like those the people of The Capitol seem to love—arranging flowers, decorating this house, designing clothing, being happy. It's disgusting, and smiling is now just another lie she tells people.
She thinks she now knows why Haymitch drinks all the time.
Peeta seems to be adapting quite well, though. He lives alone in his Victor's house, and if he lies with his pleasant temperament and sweet smiles, then he is a great actor. His family is still down with their bakery, and Katniss has to tell herself every time she and Peeta are together that it's not right for her to ask why. She thinks she already knows why, and it's sad because she's the one who would do better alone but has her mom and Prim, while Peeta needs people, craves the interaction and talking—and he gets stuck with a bad mom, a dad who stands back, and two older brothers who beat up on him. That's why he's all alone up in his hard-earned house. That's why he's so good at talking and getting people to like him, to listen. Peeta learned to fight with his mouth a long time ago, and Katniss doesn't think she'll ever be on his level when it comes to planning and verbal sparring. But, then again, she doesn't have to be.
That's why they work well together, as a team. Peeta will convince everyone with his words, and whoever he doesn't manage to snare she will. He can have the figurative traps; she'll handle the literal ones.
The drier climate always makes him tire more easily, and the higher elevation periodically gives him nosebleeds. The sun seems farther removed, the moon as well. There is nothing organic or authentic in The Capitol. Everything is stone, like an ancient crypt, or distorted indulgence, like lipstick on a corpse. It's fitting.
Once Tributes are Reaped, they're all dead. Some just stop breathing sooner than others.
It all rushes past in a blur, much like that first train ride into the Capitol. Two hundred miles per hour and more, and still she finds life can't move quickly enough. There's no blurring the horror and shock on their faces, and no amount of looking away will ever banish the enormous wave of guilt and shame rising inside her.
Nothing can stop the Reaping; the Games must go on.
She feels forever stuck on that train—trapped between two disparate worlds with no hope of ever finding true safety, caught between a rock and a hard place. Point A is 12, where people simultaneously pity and loathe her. Point B is the Capitol, and the less said about it the better.
Now, it's time to get ready, be primed and polished and photographed and then. . .
She is a commodity now, Haymitch slurs at her one night in the Victors' Village. The Capitol made her what she is and reserves the right to distribute her as it sees fit—to whomever it sees fit. He doesn't come right out and say it then, and later Katniss screams at him for lying to her, for hiding the truth.
"Well, excuse me for trying to be tactful for once!" he yells back, waving the hand holding his drink glass and thus flinging expensive liquor all around the room. But, the place is already well on its way to smelling like him, so it's no great loss—at least in her book.
Effie of course is of a different opinion.
"Haymitch, please!" she trills, sounding about as angry as she ever gets. "I'll not have another fire in here like that dreadful incident three years ago with Finni– !"
"Shut the hell up!" Haymitch shouts back at her, cutting her off, and this time he deliberately hurls his glass in her direction. It hits the wall behind Effie, about a foot to her left really, but it's close enough to make her scream and everyone else in the room come to a complete stop.
"Haymitch?" Peeta then quietly asks, and even Katniss, though she's still roaring with fury inside, recognizes that maybe things have gone too far—that maybe she's pushed too hard.
Effie's stuck-up and all, but that's no reason to terrorize her. It's not her fault.
She doesn't call the shots; none of them do, really.
One of his most charitable sponsors actually managed to come away with the trident he'd used in the Arena. She'd whispered over dinner that he was to meet her later on the third floor, second door to the left.
It still had blood on the tips of its gold prongs, and he'd forgotten about the shell and scalloping detail running the length of it, but it was comforting and familiar, and he felt strong and impervious once more holding it.
Mercedes had come up behind him, told him to hold it like he were readying to spear someone.
"Pretend it's that girl from 3 you skewered," she whispered into his ear. "You could even go ahead and throw it. I'll replace the wall, the decorations. I'd pay anything to see you throw that in person."
For a second, he'd thought she'd said, 'throw that in a person,' and he'd abruptly dropped it to the floor.
It'd been years before he'd picked up another trident back in 4—this one plain and true and in the family for generations—and even so, he felt terrible every time he hurled it. But, he kept throwing it. He couldn't not.
It was a necessary evil, and he was making up for lost time in not having realized that before.
But, the silence just makes Haymitch blearily look around the penthouse at them—at Katniss and Peeta, uncomfortably dressed and made up to within an inch of their lives, at Cinna and Portia, ruffled and on-edge but oh-so-quiet in their worry, at Effie, who's visibly shaking before the wall splattered with some kind of green rum. Next, there are soft footsteps behind them in the hallway, the one that leads back to the bedrooms, and Katniss winces and refuses to turn. Peeta does, though. He always looks.
Fully turning around, he says, "Hey, Lara," before walking back towards her. "Sorry, did we wake you up?"
Haymitch snorts at that, but the rest of them are silent. It's been awkward and difficult for all of them to remember. . .
Katniss looks back, catches the tail-end of the girl's headshake. There's some series of movements she does with her hands that Peeta frowns at, and that's when Katniss faces away again. She doesn't want to see that. It makes her a coward, pretending that what's out of sight is out of mind, especially here in these circumstances with all that's looming large on the horizon, but the alternative is just too agonizing. She'd rather be a capable coward than a broken one.
"I'm, uh– " Peeta starts to say, and his voice is louder suddenly, clearly speaking to the rest of them now. "I'll just take her back to her room now."
Katniss looks over her shoulder at him, and their eyes meet briefly, and then Peeta's herding Lara back to the hallway. As they get closer, an Avox steps away from the wall, even hesitantly holds out a thin hand. That's something else painful to see, Lara pausing long enough to grab the hand, and then it's the three of them passing out of sight.
As she turns her head back to Haymitch and the others, she sees another Avox is already working at mopping up the mess on the wall and floor. Effie's moved over and is sitting like a bright but tiny bird on the corner of the sofa.
"Well," Katniss says, for lack of anything better, "that was exciting. It's not every day we get booze thrown around the room. Oh, wait," she adds, making it as innocent-sounding as possible, as Haymitch turns the full force of his glare on her again, "we do."
"Don't you start. . . " he rumbles, which makes her scoff in disgust and frustration.
"Like you get to be upset in this situation!" Katniss snaps, trying to make her voice as harsh now as she can. "I don't see any 'appointments' taking up space on your schedule, Mr. Abernathy!" And now Haymitch is fully facing her, but he's not looking, not meeting her eyes, and she knows exactly why that is and goes for the verbal jugular. "Where are your lectures on anatomy and expectations? When are you being pimped out to anyone who can pay?!"
The room is silent and charged like a storm is close. Maybe she's the storm in this instance, raging against whatever's in her way—even when it's got no say in how things are. Effie's not at fault here and neither is Haymitch, but it feels good to wound and hurt and cut deeply. She sees Cinna's eyes flick over her right shoulder and knows without looking that Peeta's returned just in time to catch that last outburst of hers.
She could wound him too, knows precisely which spots to aim for. She's a hunter, after all, a killer—a murderer. Three of them are in this room, more in this building, and more in The Capitol itself. They're all murderers in a way—complicit in sending children to their deaths year after year. They thrive on it here, get high off it like the smoke they breathe in or the morphling they shoot in their veins. They send all kinds of kids into the Arena, good ones, bad ones, small kids, aggressive ones, terrified and skilled and pathetic. Healthy kids volunteer; sick ones are volunteered. There have been kids who can't run, can't think properly, one who couldn't see.
Now there will be one who can't hear.
She abruptly turns around and stalks out of the room, avoiding touching or even looking at Peeta on her way. No one says a single word to stop her. She wishes they would.
It's taken a little while, probably longer than it should have, but Katniss now knows the truth everyone else tried to keep from her last year. No one wins the Games except the President. Tributes die, and inch by inch Panem dies with them. They're all dead inside—empty and useless.
And now she's one of them.
Even when he'd returned that first time, he'd had his Capitol smile firmly in place. Off he'd stepped from the train, Mags a solid presence at his back and the sun pounding overhead, only to be hit by a wave of relatives and friends and acquaintances, all rushing to him, all overjoyed to see him.
Months passed before his sleep pattern evened out, and his appetite, reflexes, and reactions never truly went back down to normal, but he'd managed to step into the sea within hours of coming home. Later, his uncle Jonas had had to follow him in and pull him out when, long after the sun had set, he'd still made no move to come in, and they both pretended his face and chest were wet from the water, not tears and sweat from fear.
It was just him re-acclimatizing.
At first, it seems like just a sick joke, albeit one nobody in the room is laughing at, and usually Haymitch laughs at everything. She doesn't know what it says about the situation when even Haymitch isn't laughing, but it can't be good.
It's honestly the definition of adding insult to injury, and what's worse is that it's not just her. It's Peeta too. It is, she's informed, something of a longstanding tradition, and her mind is then caught up in a loop of thinking about exactly how Haymitch knows and then deliberately not thinking about that and then coming back to thinking about it and. . .
"You're not serious," she says, but she knows he is.
Haymitch heaves a huge sigh, and then he wobbles over into his kitchen and rustles around a little until he finds another bottle of white liquor. And here she is just standing in the middle of his so-called living room, dripping snow and water onto the floor, Peeta perched on the cleanest arm of the least ruined sofa with a hand literally covering his mouth in shock, and Haymitch is just going about his usual business of maintaining his drunkenness.
The weirdest part about all this is how standard it feels, how not weird. She should be more surprised, like Peeta is, or at least be feeling really bad about it, but, honestly—she's not all that surprised. Somewhere in the back of her mind, maybe even not that far away, she thinks she's always known something like this was in the cards for Victors. If Haymitch had done it too, it might go a long way to accounting for—well, Haymitch and all his issues.
She wonders if this is the time to start drinking.
Every year, it feels like things just get progressively worse. For some reason, she doesn't have particularly strong or thorough memories of her childhood. Oh, the big moments are there, loud and clear, but it's the little things that are missing, to the point where it seems like her whole life is just one long series of horrible events. She remembers when the mine collapsed but not when Prim was born or walked the first time or lost her first tooth. She remembers them starving and being so desperate to get food that she was prepared to sell herself to Cray but not the first day of school or her first hunt. She remembers twisting her ankle when she was little, while she and her dad were out beyond the fence, and he'd gone on without her, just around the bend, just a little ways, but she'd been so scared that he'd leave her there, utterly terrified without reason because her dad—never would've left.
He didn't. He didn't leave; he was taken from them. The Capitol and all its bullshit took her father away, left a shell of her mother behind to keep breathing and to serve as a constant reminder that this was how life really was. Life is starting out with a whole and healthy family and being so happy that all the world is green and blue and yellow, and every day looks better than the last, and growing up is the slow process of having all that yanked away, piece by piece, until death is the only thing left, until how a person dies is the only choice left to make.
Life is losing everything until there's nothing left to lose.
They don't tell the kids this in school, but everyone finds out eventually. Suicide is the third leading cause of death in 12, right behind 'accidents' and starvation, and a kid's not really grown up until someone close has died. Some kids are 6 when they're adults, the lucky ones 11 or 12, but everyone who's gone through a Reaping comes out the other side older and more hollow. There are no kids older than 12 in 12. It makes for a nice synchronicity.
That's what life is, and that's what The Capitol does, and maybe that's why she can't remember the happy stuff anymore, why she couldn't hold onto those memories. Maybe it's better this way.
She can't remember all that she's lost, just that she's lost and will continue to do so as long as she's still alive, for there are many ways to die here but really only two causes. Either people are killed by The Capitol or by their own hand. There's no middle ground.
"When– when do we start?" comes Peeta's voice, and she looks over at him sharply.
"Night of the opening ceremonies," Haymitch responds, and it's probably the quietest she's ever heard him speak. There's a clinking sound like he's set down a bottle or a glass heavily on the counter, but she doesn't turn to look.
She keeps her eyes on Peeta because it's good practice—for later. He's not looking back, but she knows he's still watching her in return. Peeta's subtle like that. He's good at being patient, and if she didn't know him as well as she does now, she'd call him words like "clever" and "sly" and "crafty."
She does know him, though, much as she still wishes she hadn't had to learn. And he knows her.
"We're both going," she states, and Haymitch chooses to laugh at that, but it's Peeta finally meeting Katniss' eyes that really brings the truth of it home. He looks scared but resigned, and she hopes she's not as transparent as Peeta right now. If she is, she'll have to work on that.
She doesn't want to look weak in front of—those people. She won't give more of herself to them than she has to, and if by being strong and unmoved she can also somehow hold onto the parts of Peeta that truly matter, then that's what she'll do and excel at.
She doesn't give up without a fight.
Haymitch finishes his chuckling with a little snort, saying, "That was the main stipulation, I'm told. You're a package deal."
Well, good then. She's glad they're all on the same page, since they're stuck reading this book till the end.
The announcement comes while he's in the sea, swimming. He'd timed it so.
He climbs out, hands and feet slipping wetly on the ladder rungs. When he's close enough, he can hear Annie crying in the cabin. It means he's a terrible person, but he doesn't go in to her for at least another ten minutes—just stands there on the deck of his boat, the water from the sea slowly sliding down to form a colorless pool beneath him.
She's home with Prim and her mom when the announcement for the Quarter Quell airs and hasn't even been able to really divert any thought to what the catch might be this year. For the 25th, it was the Districts voting in the Tributes themselves, and in the 50th, Haymitch's Games, the number Reaped had been doubled, so that a total of 48 went into the Arena that year.
What's worse than being thrown to the wolves by your own people, or knowing that in order to survive, you'll have to outlast 47 other kids? She hadn't wanted to dwell on it, and now it's here, and she and Prim are sitting on the sofa together, and their mom is perched on the edge of the stuffed armchair nearby, and what goes through her head as President Snow reaches into the box and withdraws the envelope marked 75 is the thought that right now there are kids out there who soon she will be watching kill one another. There are kids nearby, in this very district, who she will personally try to keep alive.
Then, the President flips open the envelope and withdraws the card from inside, and he's reading, and she thinks she must be imagining the high-pitched whine screeching in her ears, or maybe it's the television malfunctioning or the telephone ringing because it's very loud, and it hurts her head to hear it.
"On the seventy-fifth anniversary," Snow reads, "as a reminder that the rebels stood alone, cut-off, and in direct defiance of The Capitol, the male and female tributes will receive no sponsorship, notifications, weapons, or supplies whatsoever within the confines of the arena."
The whine turns into a scream in her throat, and Katniss jerks her hands out of Prim's tight grip and darts out the front door before either Prim or their mom can stop her.
She's halfway down the path before she even knows where she's going, and it's only the wind suddenly picking up and sending her loose hair flying across her face that snaps her back to awareness. There are still lights on down in the town but only two houses up here that glow in the darkness.
It's cold out, and she's just standing here, and someone distantly calls out her name, and Katniss realizes this is her life in a nutshell. She's so screwed, and she knows it, but somehow she just can't give in and go back inside, can't pretend that she doesn't see what's there or that it doesn't matter.
She'll face it alone if she has to, but she can't keep putting it off.
"Katniss," he says, at the same time that he sets a hand down carefully on her shoulder, and that's when she starts shivering. "Katniss," he repeats, and she's kind of surprised it isn't a question.
But, why should it be? He knows, after all. He must be feeling the same things she is right now, maybe even worse because they both know he's—softer-hearted.
"I could hear you tromping the whole way up here," she says detachedly, receiving a squeeze on the shoulder in response. The wind is more powerful up here in the Village, where there are fewer trees to catch it and slow its passage. It whips her hair around, sometimes causing it to slap in her the face. It feels like just the beginning.
"You're not wearing any shoes," Peeta remarks a moment later, which is followed quickly by the seemingly random, "and I, uh– I made you a cake. It's chocolate."
Now would be a good time to turn and stare, but instead she just smiles.
"Did you decorate it?" she asks, and to her embarrassment it comes out as a sob, her voice cracking in the middle.
"Come inside, Katniss," he says, and it's low but firm, solid, still—like there's no wind to compete with in order to be heard. "Come on. You've stood out in the cold for long enough.
"It's time to go inside."
He isn't surprised to be told he's volunteered again as mentor. He isn't even shocked he received a face-call from Snow confirming it. He isn't sad he's going back to The Capitol. He's not happy; he's not angry.
Feeling anything regarding work is inane at this point. He'll try again this year, but it's all just a formality. The Victor has already been crowned, and it's no Tribute. It is never a Tribute.
Officially, Haymitch is mentoring the boy tribute and Katnisss the girl, but in reality she and Peeta are observing as Haymitch takes on both. Comings and goings in the Training Center are monitored but not particularly restricted, so Peeta's presence has yet to be formally remarked upon. Plus, with all the Tributes' personnel and the Gamemakers and the staff tasked with maintaining the Center itself, it seems anyone in possession of a clearance code is allowed inside—all for the glory of the Games.
Besides, they're the star-crossed lovers of District 12. The rules were changed for them once—not broken, as Haymitch constantly repeats, but merely modified, "adapted to suit the ever-changing political and social climate" of The Capitol—and having Peeta stay in the Training Center, specifically in her room, is just another in a string of revisions this year.
But, it is the Quarter Quell. All rules fly out the window once every 25 years.
And as far as the lodging arrangements go, she's used to sharing a bed, or at least she was up until about a year ago. Ever since Prim was old enough and big enough to sleep in a proper bed, the two of them have shared one. It got to the point where, those first nights away from home—on the train and then at the Training Center—she'd had trouble sleeping by herself, all alone in a strange dark room. The Capitol had a weird sound to it anyway. It was silent where she expected creaking and quiet where the coughing was usually loud enough to wake up the whole neighborhood. It was that difference in how things sounded which made her take notice of the lack of breathing at her side. Even now, she had difficulty falling asleep and staying that way most nights, and part of that was the memories of the Arena, but a big chunk had to be because—she felt lonely at night.
Which is why, when the time came, she didn't really seem to have as many problems sharing a bed with Peeta as apparently everyone expected from her.
That's not to say that she didn't have any, or that she didn't then communicate them to the others quite vocally, but really she knew and accepted that this was what would have to be done. They had to look like they were madly in love with each other, and people who were madly in love—slept together.
And nobody outside their little circle ever need know that sleeping is about the extent of it.
He and Mags and Accalia silently herd their two Tributes off the train, down the Tribute-Walk, and into the Training Center. The cameras record everything, and he grins and waves and winks and leers at the crowd.The whole world is a stage, someone had once quoted to him from some book.
The whole of Panem is a stage, The Capitol the center point. What people seem to forget is that people are stages too.
He'd say he was acting, but that would imply effort or intent. He isn't acting; he isn't the actor. He's the stage. A stranger will occupy his space, take over his actions and speak with his mouth, and then when the show stops—the stage stands empty, collecting dust, forgotten until it's time for the next spectacle.
People in The Capitol aren't subtle. She's not sure if they're exactly trying to be, but the fact remains that it's kind of easy to figure out who is actually from here and who is not.
The 'entitled,' as she and Peeta have termed them, wear a certain expression when looking at something they consider foreign, interesting, unpleasant, threatening, confusing, or the like. It's an ugly, embarrassing expression. It says a lot about the person wearing it. Someone looking like that at a strange thing or, more often, a strange person is showing more for less and being confident that somehow it will still all even out. Capitol people think that way. They actually believe the saying about favorable odds and that they're the ones who will always be on top—mostly because they always have been.
Normal people sometimes think like that too and show what they're thinking like that but only when they're safe, when they're with people they trust, when they're not here in The Capitol. That's how she and Peeta can immediately tell whether a person's Capitol-born or not. Are they entitled? Are they fearless? Are they lighter than air?
The only people who consistently mess up this system are Victors because most of them are crazy, high, or some combination of both, and they've all had to be brave and selfish and self-destructive, so pinning down who's a Victor and who's a Citizen is a whole other game Katniss is frankly getting sick of playing. Peeta still gets a kick out of it, meeting these sad weirdos, but she just finds it sick and macabre. They're bonding over death—surviving it and giving it, passing it on to others.
Katniss wants to glower. Her mouth aches to twist into a snarl.
But, it's not safe to give in, not here, not in The Capitol, not for her. She's not one of the ghouls. She and Peeta, Haymitch, the other Victors and some of the designers even, they're just the entertainment. They are prey, food for the slavering masses here.
Yet it's Peeta who whispers to her one night that though the Capitol thinks they're sheep, they're more than that.
"Victors are wolves, Katniss," he breathes, and something in her loosens just a little. "We're wolves in sheep's wool. We have teeth—and claws."
Among the first words Haymitch Abernathy ever said to him directly were, "You think this is hard, imagine what it'd be like for 'em if you weren't there standing in the way," and since then the two of them have generally agreed on most things—mainly, that it's all downhill from here.
He likens it to having two distinct families, both of circumstance, which he dreads seeing overlap. Annie is from the second family, which formed because of the Games, The Capitol, him becoming a Victor and periodic Mentor, yet now she's more a part of his first family than he is—Mags too. Both live closer to his parents and aunts and uncles and cousins throughout the year than he, and both have actual day-to-day lives in 4, whereas he's a guest in his own district. He goes back only a couple times a year, and they look at him now, these people he grew up amongst, the same way they look at Accalia or the Peacekeepers or anyone not from 4, like he is a stranger from The Capitol.
But, thankfully, no one from his first family has yet crossed over to his second. And his family in 4 is large and includes several children of eligible age, and for all that they too stare at him, and for all that he can't tell if it's curiosity or fear on their faces, this set of circumstances is far preferable to others.
Things get worse; they never get better. He thinks he can live with that—off in The Capitol, where he also still manages to convince himself his home is 4.
The areas for Victors alone are designated by the color red, and they're in The Capitol for three days before Haymitch finally manages to get it together long enough to show them around. Although she and Peeta have done some exploring on their own of course, they've left the Lounge, Club, and Mentor areas well alone. The Restaurant was intimidating but at least it was empty when they'd walked in the other day, hand-in-hand and both nicely poised. The Rec, however, was bustling with activity, but that was to be expected, given the general nature of Victors. They wouldn't want all those 'skills' to go to waste. She and Peeta had left that area pretty quickly, barely getting a couple glances thrown their way before bolting.
"Now, don't say anything stupid or do anything foolish, and for your own damn good try to avoid a fight, and– " Haymitch abruptly stopped, both talking and walking, right in the middle of the pathway, causing the two of them to stumble into him from behind.
"And. . . ?" Peeta asks after a moment, once the two of them have rebounded off Haymitch and recovered their balance. Peeta looks over at her, and she shrugs in response. So he sighs and releases her hand to step around and try to get Haymitch's attention.
"Yeah," Haymitch suddenly says, his voice distant and his attention clearly on something else.
At that point, Katniss moves around until she can follow Haymitch's line of sight, and he seems to be looking up at one of the giant vid screens that are everywhere in The Capitol. The action on-screen is another recap of past years' Games, and at the moment it's showing Caesar Flickerman and a woman she doesn't recognize talking in a studio while a young kid in the background is bent over, running for his life with an arm wrapped around his stomach. A closer look and a gasp from Peeta tell her what she'd subconsciously already picked up on. The boy running on the screen is Haymitch, and from the way blood and other things can be seen peeking around his fingers, it's clear he's just been literally gutted. She's surprised he's even still conscious, let alone making a decent attempt at escape.
But, then it's like a switch is thrown. Haymitch, the older one standing beside her now, kind of flinches, and then he's off again down the walkway at a fast clip. Peeta jerks his hand out, palm open, and Katniss sighs and takes it, and together they follow their erstwhile Mentor through what she's determined is the heavy foot traffic typical of The Capitol. She manages another quick look up at the screen just in time to see that wounded kid collapse on the ground and a figure come rushing up behind him, when Peeta pulls her into the Lounge, and she can't see the screen anymore.
The President kept a hand on him for several minutes after crowning him Victor.
"Now, wave to your admirers, Finnick," he'd said, and together they'd turned to face the crowd, and together they'd waved and smiled at all the people, and President Snow was gripping the spot where his neck met his shoulder throughout it all.
That was their first meeting, and later he couldn't recall if he'd noticed the smell of blood or if the rose scent had been especially overpowering or even what he was wearing. What remained, years and years later, clear as the finest crystal, was the feeling of being squeezed tight and turned around and the perfect recall he had of Snow's voice saying his name. He always said it the same way, and it wasn't until everything was over and done with that he realized that was his first encounter with Snow but not Snow's first encounter with him. And it certainly wasn't the last.
"Finnick," Snow would say, and only later would he realize that's how people he'd slept with said his name—like they knew and owned every part of him.
" –is complete and utter horseshit!" they hear a woman shout from farther inside the building, immediately followed by sounds of laughter and jeering. The main room itself is empty, save two people sitting in a corner booth, talking animatedly about something if their wild hand gestures are any indication. Haymitch is still a few paces ahead, but he waits at the double doors leading who knows where for them to catch up. Then, he pushes his way through with a literal bang, as the right door is forced all the way back until it loudly knocks against the wall.
That's how Katniss and Peeta are introduced to the other Victors in The Capitol this year—by Haymitch deliberately making an entrance and then swiftly abandoning them in favor of the bar on the other side of the room.
Peeta's still holding her hand, and he goes in first, but she can't deny it's nerve wracking walking in there the first time. They're all staring at the two of them, and the only thing she and Peeta can do is look back. Katniss thinks she'd be better off not scowling, but she can't seem to stop. Peeta, meanwhile, looks too happy in her estimation, or at least that's what the petty side of her thinks. He'll probably be best friends with all of these people inside two hours. Maybe she should quit before she starts and just go join Haymitch in getting drunk.
Then, she looks past the Victors at the wall of screens behind them and sees the replay of past Games is going on in here too, only sans any commentary by Flickerman or his sort. In fact, as Katniss takes a few steps closer, pulling Peeta along with her, she suspects this is different footage altogether from what's being shown outside.
"Is that the 72nd?" she finds herself asking aloud, recognizing the desert-themed Arena from that year.
There's a brief moment of silence, and then one of the older Victors says, "Yeah, it's Talasi's turn again." Katniss looks over, meets the speaker's eyes, and the good-natured smile she sees there seems sincere, but the man's voice is as coarse as his appearance, and if he's not drunk, then she's Caesar Flickerman.
She leans over and whispers in Peeta's ear, "Great, a whole room full of Haymitches." Peeta, thankfully, is returning her smile when she pulls back again, but her action's produced some interesting responses in the meantime—mostly bemused, from what she can tell, but there are a few who look varying degrees of disgusted and angry. One of the younger Victors, the one slouched so far down the sofa that her head is almost on the seat cushion and her butt nearly off it, currently has the most sneering sneer on her face Katniss has ever seen. It's the epitome of 'sneer,' and she's looking right this way.
But, Katniss isn't the type to pick fights, and this is definitely not the type to pick fights with, and so she just nudges Peeta with her elbow towards a couple of empty chairs over on the left, and they go and as unobtrusively as possible sit down.
Now that there's not much to do besides watch, she finds it hard to do so. This was the year where appearances were deceiving. The giant ugly tree-things with spikes and barbs were the only source of safe drinking liquid, while the hardy flowers and thin, green, leafy plants proved poisonous and lethal when consumed. The same went for the animals. Katniss can remember holding her breath as one of the Tributes fired off a shot at a hideous bird-like muttation with smooth, featherless wings and huge talons. Back then, she'd been sure it was a bad move made out of sheer desperation because if anything looked guaranteed to be inedible, it was that 'bird.' How wrong she'd been. That was probably the best eating any Tribute had that year, as the sponsor-balloons were continually getting caught and tangled in the tall, barbed, tree-like plants. One girl, the Victor that year, as it turned out, managed to climb one and retrieve some much needed medicine for a snake bite, but that too seemed more like a combination of luck and desperation than skill or knowledge, and no else ever pulled it off.
Talasi, the guy had said. That was the Victor of the 72nd Games, Talasi Numkena from District 5.
Katniss suddenly feels eyes on her and looks to the right, over at the sofa, where another younger female Victor's looking back. This one, though she's sitting right next to the one who'd sneered at Katniss, appears curious, but as she and Katniss keep up the eye contact, there seems to be more going on in those eyes than just casual interest.
Sudden screaming coming from the screen echoes through the room, and the girl whips her head back around to look, as Katniss does the same, only a second later wishing she hadn't. What's playing now is apparently the uncut footage of one of the Tributes being slowly eaten by a giant snake muttation. Snakes don't have mouths ringed with long sharp fangs, but these creatures did.
Katniss turns her head away, looks to her left at Peeta, who's still staring at the screen with stark horror, and then as distraction she swings around to peer across the room and see what Haymitch is up to. Surprisingly enough, he hasn't passed out yet but is actually engaging in conversation with another older male Tribute, this one thin and wiry with glasses. They're both sitting down but close together, their heads angled towards each other, and she can see Haymitch's worried scowl all the way from over here.
Then, the screaming abruptly stops, and Katniss feels terrible once she realizes she'd actually gotten used to it enough in the past minute to effectively ignore it. She doesn't look at the screen, knowing what she'll see and not wanting to, but she does raise her head enough to look in the direction of the sofa again, just as one of the Victors—a young man this time, whom she thinks was a Career—remarks, "And then there were two."
And Katniss keeps looking at the profile of the girl from before until that girl turns once more, and then it's that same shameful feeling rising up inside her from a moment ago when she'd automatically blocked out the screaming Tribute. For looking back at Katniss from the blood red sofa in The Capitol Victor's Lounge is the 72nd's Talasi, and she still looks mildly curious, but underneath Katniss sees that deeper 'something else' and feels bad for ignoring it or not catching it right away—because Talasi looks like she's screaming on the inside, and everyone else is still just blocking it out.
It's already full by the time he arrives, but they still let him through.
And here he was hoping he'd get turned away. Of course then he'd just have to make it up to Anaxa later. Better in the long run to just get it over with now.
He walks right in and wastes no time pushing his way over to the block because if he's here, he might as well get the most out of it and enjoy his free 'refreshments.' One of the very few perks in this work is the fact nobody really minds if he's a little out of it with booze or smoke or thrum or morphling or any other kind of mind-altering substance. As long as he can and does follow orders, his people are happy, and when they're happy—The Capitol makes money. Besides, he pays for almost nothing with actual money anymore. It's all given to him.
The real expenses require a different sort of return.
He sidles up between a small figure draped in glossy green slips and a taller, more masculine form wearing gray fur and leans over the top of the counter. He's tall enough that, when he stretches his arm out, he's able to block the path of one of the tenders, causing her to jerk her head over in a glare at him, which quickly changes to something much more congenial.
"Finnick Odair!" she exclaims, setting down the three orders she'd been carrying and coming closer, and he catches the accent there in her voice, a kind of clipping off of the last sound in his name that makes it seem worlds more sophisticated. He doesn't like it. It immediately reminds him of all the snide comments over the years about his 'tragic upbringing' out in 'those horrid, backwards districts.'
He finds he doesn't like this tender for the sole reason that his mind can't reconcile her genuine smile with her Capitol accent. One's pleasant, the other infuriating. He blinks, lifts his head, and without another thought walks away from the counter, leaving the tender gaping after him in hurt confusion. He's now unsettled and can't risk making it worse. Every meet is always twice as difficult if he's worked up, and he's learned the hard way that adding anything on top of anxiety only leads to him messing up. Rarely do people want their paid companions maudlin and surly, and what state he's in when he starts—imbibing—will only intensify the more he indulges.
So much for courage or comfort of any kind tonight. Looks like he'll be fulfilling the whims of this particular patron dead sober.
Well, there have been worse beginnings, and he doesn't expect tonight to be anything out of the ordinary. In three years, Anaxa Goras has never been a problem.
Famous last words.
He literally collides with Jo a couple hours later, stumbling up from the basement of the club and taking a wrong turn towards the bathrooms instead of the service entrance. At least he's still together enough to have headed away from the main floor because what he really doesn't need right now is more bad press making its way back to 4, showing him in all his post-appointment glory to everyone in the district and succeeding only in further illustrating, in color and high resolution, the extent of his decadent descent into the embrace of all The Capitol has to offer its beloved Victors.
Well, at least the fillip is doing its job. Anaxa lives off the stuff and makes a living living off the stuff. He lives to liven up the lives of others. His voice is the voice of the voiceless multitude–
"Shut the fuck up already," Jo snaps at him, her hands gripping his shoulders and her feet bracing his own so he doesn't slip or slide or end up doing the splits. "What are you on?!" she then hisses, and he laughs and lets his head drop forward onto his chest the way it's been wanting to for the last half hour.
His neck is missing, or it's not doing its job, and his back hurts. Johanna's fingers are curled around his shoulders like the talons of a hawk encasing its prey. A few more fingers, and she'd be touching the innermost part of him, the substance that keeps his body alive and ticking and fucking and tricking.
Jo's scowl wavers, and then she's jerking him forward to peer at the back of this body they all love, and whenever she hisses she sounds exactly like a cat.
"Shut up, Finnick!" First, she shakes him, and the scowl's back, but then she grabs him by the hand and tugs him after her all the way out the back of the club, and that's where he'd been trying to get to anyway, so his feet follow.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Jo is chanting under her breath, and he knows her eyes are on a constant swivel, making sure the path ahead is clear of media hounds.
"In fact," he offers, once they're out in the alley with the rest of the filth and garbage, "I only very recently finished, Jo!" Then, he grins and chuckles and squeezes the hand around his own, and that's when his legs decide to stop working. He fittingly takes a header into the closest sack of trash, which results in Johanna being jerked abruptly to the side, which in turn proves to be too much for her tall, pointy shoes. One heel breaks with a loud crack, and before he knows it she's down on one knee.
"Finnick!" she growls, practically throwing his hand back at him in fury.
He just keeps laughing from where he's facedown in the bag of trash, which, judging by the smell, is the remains of some kind of fish, and that's when his brain and eyes stop functioning correctly.
"Annie. . . " he says, and if he tries hard enough maybe this can be the sea, with the saltwater on his face and the smell of fish in the air and the heat and burn of the sun on his back. Maybe this can be home.
Maybe it already is home. Home is where the heart is, but where is home for those who are heartless?
He's pretty sure this is as close to home as he'll ever get. After all, at least he belongs here with the stinking garbage The Capitol tosses out, easily replacing anything it uses up. No one would begrudge him space here.
For this is not 4, not home, not saltwater of the sea but of his own eyes' making, not the smell of fish caught but fish eaten, and not the pain of sunburn on his skin but the fire of whip lashes administered in front of an aroused crowd by the hand of someone who paid for the privilege of doing so.
"For fuck's sake, stop crying and get up," Jo says, and the words are harsh, but she's not—not to him, anyway, not in the ways that matter, anyway. "Finn, turn over," she grouses. Her hands are gentler this time, not quite as grabby as before in the club.
"I hurt my back," he tells her, rolling onto his right side carefully.
Jo frowns at him, an expression wholly different from her scowl, and then she just shakes her head a few times and sighs. "You didn't hurt it," she counters, and she's not looking at him, instead staring upward where stars and the moon would be if the two of them weren't here—where the real world really would exist if it weren't this one.
"I didn't?" he asks her quietly.
She shakes her head again. Then, her eyes drop down to meet his, even as she keeps her head tilted upwards. Now she just looks like she considers herself superior, like she's looking down her nose at him both literally and figuratively.
He finds he doesn't mind all that much. He's kind of used to it, and Jo's a friend.
"They hurt it," she declares, stressing the subject, not the verb or object. "They did this to you; they do it to all of us." Then Johanna Mason throws her eyes back up to the sky and says to him, "For now."
Haymitch waves them off from the sofa he's likely been passed out on all night. When she'd shaken him awake, he'd grimaced and hunched away from her hand, mumbling something like, "Don't need to go anyways," or "Pull the blinds closed, mockingjays." She's not sure which, but either one gives the impression he's not accompanying them on today's lunch meet.
It's evidently some sort of tradition. All the Victors gather in the latest popular restaurant and just take up space for an afternoon, eating, drinking, gossiping, most likely fighting some. Katniss wouldn't have even known about it until it was too late, if not for Peeta mentioning it the other day. He'd been checking with Haymitch and Portia and, to a certain extent, Cinna about what was expected, and Katniss hadn't even the faintest clue what he'd been on about. Shows how interested she is in the society and politics here, although in this case she's a little bit grateful Peeta brought it up when he did. She is kind of curious to be included this time. They've seen and essentially overheard the other Victors interacting, but, other than Haymitch, neither she nor Peeta have actually spoken directly to one before. It will be like looking into the future maybe, and while she's already pretty sure that's not something she'll enjoy, it's always better to be prepared than not. She hates surprises.
"Wear the blue," Cinna tells her, holding out an outfit of pants, shirt, vest, and boots, all in slightly varying shades of blue.
"What's blue mean?" Katniss asks in return, gamely taking the clothes before sliding off her robe and beginning to put them on. She spares a couple seconds silently lamenting her lost sense of modesty, but after all, in the scheme of things, that's a minor price to pay in exchange for her life—and Peeta's.
Still, it's a kind of placeholder for the larger issue of innocence, not that she'd been as naïve or hopeful as some, going into the Reaping for the fifth time with plenty of tessera already to her name. But, she hadn't used to dwell so much on dying before this all started—other people dying, yes, those close to her like Prim and Gale and her mom, but not she herself dying and certainly not at the hand of some other kid about her age for the entertainment and edification of Panem. Before everything this past year, death had been distant like The Capitol itself. She'd known it was there all right, had seen its face up close several times even, but she hadn't courted or hidden from or tried to outsmart it.
"It's calming," Cinna says in answer to her question. "Almost everyone likes at least some shade of blue." Briefly setting his hands on her shoulders, he goes on, adding, "Figured you could use some peace on your side today," which makes Katniss smile a little.
She finishes dressing, going over to the huge, floor-length mirror and patiently doing up the many small buttons that run down the front of the soft blue vest and along the outside of her forearms on the darker shirt underneath it, and then Cinna makes a clicking sound, and she can see him frown at her hair. He follows her over and lifts up her hair with his hands, his mouth twisting in that way that means he's debating what to do.
"What do you have in mind for that?" she asks him cheekily, and he mock-scowls at her before letting her hair drop back down.
"Nothing. I rather like the wild, casual look for this."
Katniss just raises her eyebrows in reply, and Cinna smiles at her over her shoulder and then bends close and kisses her on the cheek. Katniss closes her eyes briefly, finishes up the last button, and doesn't wonder at all when the door to the room opens and closes, accompanied by the sounds of more than one pair of footsteps.
"We match," Peeta then says quietly, and she snorts, opening her eyes to the sight of him all decked out in different pieces of clothing from hers but still, as he says, matching.
"Of course we do," she replies, and she closes the distance between them, even sticking her hand out first for him to take. "Better go see what's become of our erstwhile Mentor," she quips, just to see Peeta smile.
"Wonder if he ever found that bottle he came in looking for last night," he offers, as they start off down the hall to the foyer.
Katniss actually finds herself laughing at that, having temporarily forgotten that whole drama the night before. "Oh, his face when he almost sat on you!" she crows, stopping a moment to bend over at the memory. "I thought he'd messed himself honestly."
Peeta makes a sound that's a cross between a giggle and a sob. "Didn't need that mental image, thanks," he tells her, and that just sends her off again.
But, Haymitch just ends up begging off, which means she and Peeta are on their own, again, but then they're getting used to that—again.
He arrives late, and at this point it might even be subconscious because he's been doing this for so long. Odair, the party boy, Odair, the reprobate, Odair, the glory hound—Odair, Odair, Odair, who isn't really there.
His first act is to get himself in a more suitable frame of mind, and he ignores the noise until after he's downed all of his first drink and half of his second. That's when he turns and starts making the rounds. All the regulars are snug in their usual spots, save Haymitch, who's a no-show, and the addition of last year's firebrands.
Those 12s, he muses, are trouble by default.
Jo is doing her best impression of an angry wall support, tucked into one of the corners and glaring at all and sundry. She spares him not a glance as he comes close, but the seat next to her is free, and he takes it for the invitation it is.
"Afternoon, Princess," she rumbles, and he doesn't miss the smirk that flits over her lips before disappearing.
"Technically," he responds, upping the cheerfulness of his tone just to needle her, "it's still morning for, oh, another seven minutes or so." She actually looks at him this time, and he grins. "So, good morning, beautiful Johanna!" he loudly proclaims, receiving looks from the others that are in turn amused, annoyed, or, in some cases, a mixture of both.
"Fuck off," she politely sings back, and practically everyone laughs at that. He glances down towards the other end of the long table and can just make out Haymitch's power couple. The boy is smiling like he's perfectly at ease, while the girl just looks sullen and not a little confused. He ducks his head and makes a show of chuckling, leaning over to whisper in Jo's ear while the others are all still momentarily distracted, "You talk to anyone yet?"
"No," she responds on an exhale, the coolness of her breath tickling his cheek and ear. Under the table, he feels it as she sets her hand over his and gives it a quick squeeze, the space of only a few seconds passing before she's withdrawn again. Jo is like a door to something mysterious. He doesn't know if what she keeps locked away inside is great or terrible—although, given the circumstances, it's probably the latter—but he doubts he'll ever find out anyway. Still, it's a beautiful door all by itself, and he's pretty sure only he and maybe Haymitch have managed to get even this close.
"What about the new ones?" he asks, this time loud enough for the rest to overhear. Turning his head, he again looks down the length of the table and projects his voice. "You two enjoying yourselves? Why, you don't even have drinks yet!" he exclaims, sticking up his hand and waving pointedly at one of the hovering tenders. There is always a ton of staff at these meets, all of them officious and seemingly just waiting to do the Victors' bidding. When one comes over, even bowing to him, which makes Jo snort derisively, he just gestures to the two from 12 and declares, "Keep them well-lubricated!"
The others break out in knowing laughter, but he drops his voice and tells the female tender firmly, "And make sure it's halved and measured, or I'll have the head of whoever's pouring for this." The tender promptly nods and makes to withdraw, no doubt to scuttle off and relay both the order and the warning, but he changes his mind at the last second and darts a hand out to catch her wrist. "Make that quarter-strength, no more. You get me?" And she meets his eyes and nods seriously, and he smiles, releasing her. He turns back to find several pairs of eyes on him. Brutus is smirking into his glass, and Cashmere and Gloss aren't even looking his way, but the rest are almost studying him.
"Drink orders," he offers, slouching down in his seat so he can put his feet up on the table. "Can't expect a couple of kids from the ass-end of nowhere to know what the hell they're doing, can you?" He waves condescendingly at Haymitch's girl and boy—the former glaring, the latter bemused—and shouts, "You're welcome, kiddies!" just as the first of the quarter-strength drinks are carefully set in front of them by the same female tender. "Drink up!"
And after that, he orders double shots for himself and manages to forget for almost a whole night.
"It's not so bad, huh?" Peeta says quietly at one point.
She just shrugs and takes another sip of whatever it is in front of her. It's sweet and almost milky, and she can't taste anything off about it, and it hasn't made her feel weird, so she doesn't think it's anything too bad. She'd been leery at first, though, when Finnick Odair traipsed in and made a big production out of everything. What an overdramatic snob, she'd thought, taking in his elaborate outfit and huge gestures. Who does he think he is, she'd whispered furiously to Peeta after Odair's attention had seemingly wandered away from them.
"I think he's okay," Peeta had whispered back. Katniss had just stared at him incredulously for a few seconds, but then he'd pointedly looked up the table, even jerked his head in that direction, trying to get her to see something.
"What am I supposed to be seeing here?" she'd asked somewhat belligerently a minute later. "He looks stupid, even worse than Effie."
"He's not," Peeta had argued. "Do you remember his Games?"
She searched her memory a bit, finally coming up with, "Water, right?"
Peeta nodded, and it occurred to Katniss that they both must look like weirdos, sitting here staring at Finnick Odair so intently. But, then again, from the sound of things, that was probably pretty standard for the Party Boy of 4. He must be used to people ogling him by now.
"He played them all," Peeta goes on, leaning close to her and whispering while keeping his eyes locked on Odair. "I remember my dad placing his bet on him after the Tribute interviews. He said, 'That one's going to get it. You wait and see. There's something off about that boy.'"
"Not exactly a ringing endorsement there," she says.
"He meant the act he was putting on for the cameras," Peeta responds, sounding somewhat frustrated and turning to look at her. "Look, we know everyone here did what they had to to get out, right?" He waits until she nods exaggeratedly that she gets what he's talking about.
"Yeah, okay. So?"
"So," he says, drawing the word out irritatingly, "what makes him any different? He lives here all the time, Katniss. You've seen it too. Everyone goes home after the Games. Look at Haymitch. But," and Peeta goes back to staring at Finnick Odair as he makes a fool of himself, "he doesn't. He doesn't leave."
She looks again now too and says, "He doesn't get to."
"They get you where it hurts, I think," Peeta says. "It's whatever you want. That's what they keep from you."
"You mean that's what they take from you," she corrects.
Peeta just shrugs. "Same thing. It's still a game. Everyone's just playing for more than their lives this time. I don't think anything is what it seems anymore, Katniss. I really don't—especially people."
She turns her head away from Odair and says very clearly to the boy beside her, "I am."
And he looks at her and winces. "For now," he corrects.