resilient
He watches them on the television, because of course he's stuck here with that axe-murderer and the little girl while everyone else gets to go save the world. He sees how they stand strong in the streets, shattering windows with bullets. He can see the haunted look in her eyes as more and more of her companions fall. But she doesn't back down. She's a tough one, a survivor. And now the whole thing is almost over.
"Haymitch, can you watch Buttercup for a bit?" the little girl asks. "I'm needed in the medical area. It won't be long, I'm sure." The excitement and hope in her eyes is too much to refuse, even though he hates the cat.
"Sure, sweetheart. Hurry back." The cat eyes him, sizing him up. Probably wondering how many scratches he could get away with. "Not one," he tells the fleabag. "Not if you want your tail to stay attached."
The cat hisses. Don't fight me. Not unless you want all ten fingers, his glare seems to threaten.
They watch each other for what seems like forever. Eventually they both doze off, but the cat keeps one eye open. So does he, just so he won't wake up with a dead mouse on his face. They're both jerked back into consciousness as a huge explosion comes from the screen. There's smoke and blood and flames and all either of them can do is watch as the medics come rushing in.
That's when he remembers that the girl's not back yet, though she said it would be quick. He wishes he had some liquor to drown his dread in, but he doesn't, and there's nothing else to do but stare at the screen and hope he doesn't find her.
No such luck. There she is, blonde braid and un-tucked shirt, and the Mockingjay sees and pushes her way through the crowd, and then he thinks that they're both dead. He knows that at least one of them is. Why are you doing this to me, sweetheart? I'm too old to be the last one left.
But there's no answer, not even a whisper. It's as if the world's mocking him for thinking that she was strong enough to come back. That they both were.