Poppies

Haymitch/OC

Summary:

These days, Elaine Greenberg lives in a clouded, sedative induced daze. She has forgotten the main parts of her life, including her time as a Tribute and her long lost love for the District 12 mentor. But when she hears about the 75th Quarter Quell, she decides to volunteer in order to join the rebel group protecting Katniss. Sure, she doesn't expect to get out of the Arena alive, or be much of a help to Katniss anyway, but there is some sort of strange, invisible force pulling her toward the Girl on Fire. Now, if only she could remember why the man in her dreams is so familiar to her...

Prologue

The subtle chink of metal on porcelain echoed through the room. Two spoons of sugar slipped delicately into the warm tea. A woman with long dark brown hair stared at the glandules as they disintegrated, but her eyes weren't taking in the actual reality before her.

It was often like this. These days, life rather floated along like a soft current in a pond. Hours would be filled with long periods of time just staring off into space, unmoving and hardly present. The ocean of grief that used to cloud this woman's life had been cemented over, like a painting that no body wanted to see anymore. She had lost a part of her - she couldn't exactly say what - but there was a wide, empty space residing within her that could not be filled.

She was in a lovely little world. The poppies were just blooming outside her window and she liked to watch them. The colors interested her greatly, because she used to be an artist. But that had long since past as well, and the vivid hues of cerulean blue and fuchsia and sunflower yellow became faded along with her memories.

But it was for the best, they told her. She needed to forget because the doctors told her she might go insane if she remembered. She thought she knew, in some deep area of her mind, what her past had been like. She could recall vague images of young children screaming around her, caught in a bloodbath of smeared red. She could see the dim glint of metal, the deadly edge of a knife shining radiantly in the sunlight before darkening with a union of blood.

On some strange altercation of fate, she had been the sole survivor. She had been given a beautiful house and all the paints she could ever want. But her pictures had grown steadily darker as the months passed by, and it wasn't long after that when she found out the doctors had been ordering her housekeeper to add sedatives to her drinks. She was unstable, they said. She was dangerous. After that, her paintings lost their dark quality, and then lost everything altogether.

The woman shifted her eyes open. Her head tilted sideways, towards the window with the beautiful poppies. The faded, desolate colors took her silent words away.

Chapter One

An Introduction into Insanity

Life hasn't been a solid concept for years. But there is one thing I can fathom, and that is death. Death is just a departure, after all. Another thing I realize is that Katniss Everdeen cannot succumb to death. That is why I volunteer as Tribute. I will not be a threat to her in my state, and that will help everyone. Also, death does not frighten me. The doctors say I've been dead for years now, so how can I be afraid of something I already possess?

I'm not sure how exactly I got here, because my memory is fuzzy and all I recall seeing is lines of off white walls without any windows. The walk here is short, though, because I already live in the capitol and my sense of time is skewed anyway. Somehow, in some gap of space that isn't really there, I must have entered the room and sat down, because now I'm a part of a very strange group of people.

Perhaps 'strange' isn't a good word to describe us. Most of them look sane, especially the dark, brooding one from 7. Even the male 4 looks normal. I'm sure that I'm the only one who looks clouded, but I can't really help that because they gave me an extra dose of sedatives this morning, and I know because the world is more muddled than usual.

"We are here," a voice jars through me, and I find myself looking over to the speaker, a man I classify as Seneca Crane's predecessor. The hushed babble of the room lowers as everyone turns their heads to look at him. "We are here," he continues, "to be witnesses of the Quarter Quell. Our purpose is to keep the Mockingjay alive."

Alive, I think, I much better than dead. Though there are little things I know these days, I can understand that Katniss is the face of the rebel movement and in need or protection. I listen closely.

"These Games will be different than any other because you will all be working together. As Victors, all of you know the hardships of the Arena. Please remember that even though you are a web of allies, there are still some who we have deemed untrustworthy and are not part of this alliance."

Oh, there are poppies just outside the window! How ironic, I think, that the colors are nearly as bright as they are at home. I turn my full attention to them, catching bits and pieces of Plutarch's words. Signals…bread….three days…..Mockingjay.. But my world has already folded again, and soon, all I can do is sit there and try to remember why, and how to breath, and who I am, and why I have all these strange, vivid memories of death and decay and violence. And who is the Mockingjay again? The morphling has set in.

I like chariots because they sort of feel like you're flying when you ride one. Apparently, I'm the only one who thinks this though. The male tribute from District 6 doesn't seem to have an opinion. In fact, he looks even more airy than I do, which is strange because upon coming here the Avox girl has been increasing my morphling during the nighttime.

They dress me up in a mauve gown that has obvious black and gray stitching on the corset. I'm not sure how this symbolizes District 6, the transportation district, but I don't complain because I quite like the way the silken fabric swishes when I walk. By the time I step onto the chariot, I am enamored by the uplifted feeling coursing through my veins. My hair, which is put into an intricate braid and wrapped up in a bun, makes me look elegant and lovely, even though I'm well into my thirties and should probably feel hatred towards the capitol for bringing the Victors back into the picture.

The crowd goes absolutely wild by the time the first chariot beings the procession. They are screaming, shouting praises and gratification. My heart pounds in my chest and I wonder if any of them will cheer for me, because I don't think I would. But they are yelling for Mags, who is old and wrinkled in her District 4 chariot. So when District 6 begins to roll, I am pleasantly surprised to hear that the noise has not decreased in volume.

I tilt my head back and smile dreamily, seeing the colors whirl by. The seats are very, very colorful because the capitol fashion is so vivid. The flashes of yellow and red and blue makes my head spin because for a moment, all I sees is poppies, floating along my line of vision.

And then, everything stops, and the poppies morph back into clothing and makeup and I'm suddenly facing President Snow as he sits in his chair and waits for the remaining tributes.

Before my mind can fade again, the noise randomly increases. It's not random, though, because it's District 12's Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, star-crossed lovers and adored tributes. I turn my head to watch them ride up, noting that they are situated in the center of the line while I am at the edge.

I think she's pretty. They're hands are clasped and they look like a team, which makes me smile. I like the color of her hair, which is tied up in a wild sort of hairstyle. I like the shade of her eyes, too. I wish I could paint them, but I haven't lifted a brush in years.

I'm so out of it that I barely notice that I've caught her attention with my staring. She's looking directly at me, which startles me in a way that I cannot describe. The corner of my mouth tilts up into an honestly friendly smile but she doesn't return it, and I can't really blame her.

A strange memory shifts into my head and further catches me off guard. It is blurry and unfocused, centering around a lovely shade of blonde and a pair of mischievous eyes that wrinkle when they smile. For a moment, the glimmer of a name echoes through my mind, but it is gone before I can grasp it and I cannot remember whose face I had been seeing.

But I swear I recall that it has something to do with District 12: a person who meant a lot at one point but I haven't seen for ages. I flounder, and tip back into the present. Katniss is still staring at me in curiosity. I gently look away.

I'm vaguely aware of the passage of time. Later on they dress me up again in a dress that shows off my figure. It makes me feel uncomfortable, like a forest without leaves or a song without a beat. The waist clings to me and the neckline is plunging. But at least the color is a fine shade of turquoise.

When the stylists have finished putting my hair up into a pretty, sweeping updo, I'm told to go stand in the line. But I've done this before, and I float over there before they're even finished speaking. I'm not sure why, exactly, but I feel that this moment is important, and it has nothing to do with the sponsors.

Each person has an angle. The Career districts are haughty and arrogant. District 4 is charming. As for District 6, I'm sure I've forgotten what angle I'm supposed to be playing anyway. But people have told me that I have a natural sort of grace that mystifies people, so I guess I'll be mysterious.

Finally, I hear 'Elaine Greenberg, from District 6!' and I know it's my turn. So I lift up the dragging skirts of my risqué dress and stride out onto the stage. My heart is pounding in my chest, and my palms are sweaty, but my nervousness doesn't show on my face because I've forgotten how to move my features in such a way.

Caesar Flickerman grins when he sees me, jolts into a standing position, and reaches immediately for my hand. I surrender it willingly and give him a breezy, only half-there smile as he tells me to have a seat. My dress crumples delicately as I do so.

"My dear Miss Elaine - may I call you that? - you are the image of beauty this night!" the crowd roars in agreement and I try to look humbly unconvinced.

He laughs and then a serious glint forms in his eyes, "Miss Elaine, I wonder if you might answer a few of my questions? I first would like to know why you volunteered."

My head tilts a little as though thinking, but the answer is already at the tip of my tongue. With a smile that is more edgy than graceful, I respond, "It's the adventure of it all, Mr. Flickerman. I'm a fool for adventure."

My answer makes him surprised, but in a pleased manner. He turns to the audience and says, "Well! We learn something new about our beloved Victors every day, don't we?" Again, the crowd roars with acknowledgement.

Caesar reaches for my hand again, and my small fingers fit his neatly. His next question is more serious than I would have liked. "Now Elaine, we have heard rumors about you, you know. About how you hardly remember anything from your days in the Arena? Is this true?"

I open my mouth and close it again. My face contorts into what is probably confusion, because I'm trying to remember, really I am, but as usual I can only grasp onto fleeting images before I'm lost. Haltingly, I murmur, "I can…recall…vague images." And I refuse to go on, because I feel rather ashamed that I don't even know who I am anymore.

Caesar lets it go and simply nods in a sympathetic sort of way. He catches my eye and gives me a small smile. "You live in the capitol now, don't you? There wasn't much of a transition for you in coming here then."

I nod my head and turn to the audience, giving them a soft smile, "I've grown quite used to life here. I'm afraid the Arena will most likely be the last thing I know."

The audience murmurs their disagreements and Caesar shakes his head, "Oh, no! I'm sure that won't be true. In your first Games you were most brave, and you can't lose something like courage."

But I just smile and nod. I don't care anymore. I'm floating again, high above the seats of these Capitol folk, higher than the folds of the clouds and the shift of the atmosphere. Before I'm gone, however, Caesar manages one last question. "Why do you want to come out a Victor, Miss Elaine?"

I glance at him, lips trembling into a transient smile, and tilt my head back as I lose my grasp on the world. With a sweet chortle, I say, "But I don't, Caesar. I don't intend on staying alive at all!" And I laugh once more, even though everyone else is silent, because I'm flying even higher now and I've started seeing poppies cloud my vision.

Later that night, in District 12's quarters

Katniss has seen all sorts of insane people. In the Hob, they are all over the place. But the Seam is full of insanity of another sort: the kind you get from starvation, and abandonment. This brand of insanity is something she has never seen before, and it frightens her a bit.

They are watching the interview reruns on the TV, trying to gauge out their competition. She thinks she should worry about Finnick Odair from 4 and most definitely the Careers. But not this woman. She doesn't feel a shred of anxiety viewing this woman, except perhaps the anxiety that she is unstable.

Peeta glances at their mentor, who is sitting beside them on the couch and staring at the woman with a strange glint in his eye. His nails are digging into his palms because Peeta had forced him to swear he wouldn't touch alcohol until their Games were over. But the wild way his features are arranged, almost as though he is in pain, has little to do with the lack of spirits and more to do with the current interview.

"Do you know her?" Peeta wonders, eyeing Haymitch with a knowing look. Because there's no way his mentor can hid the fact that he is familiar with Elaine Greenberg. It's too obvious in the way he is staring at her.

Haymitch glances at him, immediately trying to look nonchalant and uncaring. He gives Peeta a glare and scowls, "Used to. Now shut up."

But his reluctant answer makes Katniss curious. She's been interested in this woman since she caught her staring at her during the chariot rides, and wants to know more. "How do you know her?"

Effie Trinket seems interested in the answer to this as well, and leans forward to hear Haymitch. But he doesn't answer, because he's now watching the woman tilt her head back and laugh. There's a spark of warmth in his gaze that reminds Peeta of his own emotions for Katniss. In this moment, he realizes something that Katniss and Effie are still both in the dark about.

Peeta leans forward and softly wonders, "…What's she like?" Because this, of all things, is something that Haymitch knows about.

The mentor turns to look at him, a haunted sort of look dwelling on his face, and answers, "…Most Victors have something wrong with them. She takes it to a new level." Peeta decides that he wants this Elaine Greenberg as an ally.

This is just gonna be a new idea I'm playing around with. I think Haymitch needs some love ^o^ Please feel free to review~