Chapter 08 - LAST RITES

"I am looking for Katniss," Peeta said, when he saw Rose sitting alone at the breakfast table at the 3rd day of training. "Have you seen her? She's not in her room."

Rose avoided his gaze. She'd seen Katniss, and she knew exactly where the girl was. The Avox quarters, 13 floors below ground. At breakfast she'd noticed that for once Effie had overslept, and had used the opportunity to corner Darius as soon as he rolled in the coffee cart.

Rose had seen them both disappear behind one of the inconspicuous wall panels, where elevator shafts connected the training suites and the utility floors. She'd promised to keep shtum, albeit with unease. Whatever Katniss did down there – Darius could not be helped. The damage was done, and if they were discovered, Katniss as a victor would receive a mere slap on the hand, but Darius would be severely punished.

She chewed her caramel-trickled toast and shook her head.

Peeta sat down, surveyed the bread basket and sighed. "Just look at this!"

He held up a tiny braided roll. "District 4. Salt sprinkled bread-sticks, "District 7. Very tasty, and keeps for months. And this" – a fish-shaped loaf . "District 3 – they mix shredded seaweed into the dough which gives it a pleasant tangy taste."

Rose screwed up her nose. The bread looked way too greenish for her liking. But she adored the white bread from District 1, with its honey-sweet glaze.

"What's on the schedule today?" she asked to distract Peeta from Katniss' absence.

"In the morning it's training as usual. After lunch you'll be called one by one for a private session with the Gamemakers."

"A private session?" Rose could only wonder how little she knew about the background of the Games. She'd watched them all her life and could still recite all the victors back until her first year. But what happened with the tributes until they entered the arena, never featured in the reports. People left their home district, showed up beautifully dressed on chariots the next evening, and once more three days later for an interview with Caesar Flickerman.

Nobody had ever lost a word about prepping, about training, about winning sponsors. She could only imagine how it must have been for Haymitch, who had to get by without a mentor...

"In your private session the Gamemakers hope to get an insight in your abilities."

"So they can tweak the rules and make it more interesting for the audience?"

Peeta's mouth twitched. "Probably. But mainly so they can set the odds for general betting. The higher your score, the higher are the chances of you being the victor in the end."

"So to get rich, you must bet on a tribute with a low score?"

"Yeah. But that tribute then has to win… Quite improbable for those who score below 6. On the other hand … Remember Annie Cresta from District 4, some years ago? Her score was a meagre 6, but then she was the only one who could swim when they flooded the arena on day five."

He smirked. "Haymitch says some people got very rich that day, the Head Gamemaker's family amongst them."

Rose could imagine that. Even in the districts people bet with what little money they had, although it was frowned upon. "And poor Annie Cresta won, but lost her mind."

Peeta nodded. "She completely freaked when the other tribute from 4 was beheaded right before her eyes."

Appetite suddenly vanished, Rose pushed back her plate. "There is nothing I can show the Gamemakers."

"Nothing?"

" I don't want to be a part in all this. I know they don't care, but I am not a willing participant."

"Self-preservation instinct will set in." Peeta's sad eyes told her he was no stranger to her arguments. "When someone attacks you..."

"Then I'll defend myself, I guess. Survival instinct will kick in. But I don't go into the arena to win, and I won't kill without provocation. When I am killed, my blood will be on the Gamemakers' hands alone." She stared straight ahead, at the high windows. They showed a pleasant meadow, but by now she knew that could be changed by the touch of a button, and turn into a desert scene, a forest clearing, a busy street. All lies.

"As your mentor I should tell you to fight. But as me, Peeta, I tell you to do what your heart tells you. Don't be their pawn."

She looked at him, remembered he'd been in her position just a year ago. He'd been 16 then, a boy. But his week in the arena had turned him into a man who had seen too much. Haymitch was right – there were no victors, only survivors.

"I guess, that's just what I'll do then," she said, feeling calmer now.

A loud noise outside the door made them both spin around. Out on the corridor they saw an Avox on her knees, picking up the broken remains of a stack of china plates, and Haymitch, trying in vain to help her and at the same time find a hold on the doorjamb. Finally he abandoned the mission and ambled into the breakfast room.

Rose stared at his attire.

He wore a dress-shirt, partly unbuttoned, and black slacks. No shoes.

She clenched her fists. Last night he'd left the bathroom so hastily to meet the mysterious "C.", he hadn't had time to find his shoes. And now he had a smudge of lipstick on his collar, a deep scratch down his chest – and had obviously not spent the night in his own bed.

It hurt.

It hurt worse than she cared to admit.

He owed her nothing, he'd made that very clear. They were not married, not lovers. Maybe not even friends. Certainly not allies– and after what he'd revealed last evening, she understood now why the thought scared him so much. But to see him like this ...

Haymitch ignored them both and poured a cup of coffee which he then – after some consideration – fortified with a double shot of brandy from his flask.

Rose got up and left. She'd take a bubble bath, a wondrous luxury, and listen to some of the extensive music collection provided by the sound system in her room, until it was time to take the elevator down to the training facilities. And Haymitch be damned.

/

Haymitch slumped down in a chair and took a tentative sip of coffee. When an Avox tried to set a plate with bacon and eggs in front of him, he recoiled and waved the man away.

Peeta frowned.

Haymitch closed his eyes, then he sighed.

"What?"

"Nothing." Peeta sketched District bread on the pad he always carried around, every pencil stroke an unspoken accusation.

"Oh please. I can hear you frown."

"I thought … well, never mind."

Silence.

Eventually Haymitch gave up and opened his eyes, casting an irritated glance at the boy. "You thought what, exactly?"

Peeta stared at the fondant cakes at the five-tiered etagere. "I thought you loved Rose."

"So?"

"So …" The pad snapped closed. "So why are you late for breakfast, reeking of Capitol perfume? And by the way, there is a lipstick smear at your collar!"

Haymitch used a butter knife to check, and nodded regretfully. "Ruined, I'm afraid."

He leaned back and crossed his arms defiantly. "It was just sex. Get over it."

"But if you love Rose, how can you…"

"You are what, 17? "

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"When you are 17, you think sex is the most important thing in the world." Haymitch held up a hand. "Can't blame you. It's a rare commodity at that age."

"That's not funny." Peeta blushed violently.

"No, it's not. One day, when you are older, you'll learn it is something that can be sold and bought."

"Sold!" The boy's voice sounded half alarmed, half disgusted.

"Did you ever ask yourself who paid for the broth you received last year?" Haymitch gave him an arch stare. "That gift cost more than your father makes in ten years."

"Are you saying this woman..."

"Her name is Camilla. Her family, the Thornstroms, sit on the council. In their plants in District 6 all of Panem's trains are assembled."

"I don't know her, she does not know me. Why would she send me a gift?"

Haymitch's mouth twitched in a bitter smile. "Let's say, she wanted something from me and in exchange paid for the gift." He shrugged. "After all those years with my tributes returning in coffins, I was willing to do ... a lot ... to bring one of you back alive."

"Are all the sponsor deals like that?" Peeta's face had lost all colour.

"No, not all. Many of the sponsors give to bolster their reputation, or to give the tribute they bet on an advantage. Some do it simply because they can afford it. But some of them will make you an offer…"

Haymitch felt sorry for the boy. He remembered his first season as a mentor, absolutely clueless and determined to do anything to help the tributes from District 12. The following year he'd been more jaded and more carefully, and the deals had been … bearable. After the disaster of '55 he'd given up and refused to negotiate at all.

"I was your mentor," he added. "I did what I had to do to keep you alive." With a shrug. "Or rather, to keep Katniss alive. You know that. But once they changed the rules ..."

"I don't blame you."

"Yes, you do. And you have every right. But once these Games are over, you'll understand what it means to be a mentor."

"But those deals …" Peeta stared at him. "I don't know if I can do that, Haymitch. And I certainly won't let Katniss…"

"Won't let me what?"

Katniss came in and pulled out a chair to sit next to Peeta.

Haymitch smirked. Let the boy dig himself out.

"Make deals," Peeta mumbled.

"What deals?" She buttered a roll and heaped it with strawberry jam. A shrewd glance at Haymitch... "Sponsor deals? You advise Peeta about sponsor deals? What about me? Shall I be the little wifey waiting in the sidelines until the men are done talking about who will live and who will starve in the arena?"

Haymitch almost choked on his coffee, laughing at Peeta's miserable face. "Go on. Explain!" he prompted. "I'll take a shower. Wouldn't want to be late for training."

Passing Katniss, he patted her shoulder. "Don't hurt him. He means well."

When Peeta tossed a seaweed roll at him, he caught it out of mid-air, and left, happily chewing. Before the doors closed after him, he could hear Katniss' voice.

"What deals?"

/

When they waited for the training scores to be announced, Haymitch and Rose had not spoken with each other all day long. Just as well, thought Rose, as she nervously hugged a pillow and tried to tune out Effie's chatter.

She'd done as she'd agreed with Peeta. So far so good. Now why did she feel like a school girl who'd flunked a test?

This day had not started well and she only wished it to be over soon, so she could crawl into bed, curl up under the covers and cry herself to sleep. After she'd watched Haymitch coming home from his … whatever it was he'd done with "C." … she'd wandered aimlessly around the training stations. She'd spent time with Mags and sat at lunch with Johanna and Blight. Blight was District 7's prison-tribute, a small time thief and trickster, as he openly admitted. But at one time he had made the mistake of cheating at a high stakes card game with some Peacekeepers. They had had no sense of humour, he complained. There had been an axe involved, and several bottles of District 7's infamous resin liquor. Anyway, Blight insisted to be innocent, but two Peacekeepers were dead.

Johanna seemed to like, or at least tolerate, him. But when he suggested they team up with Rose and Haymitch, she shook her head. "Haymitch won't ally. And neither will I."

Rose had received several offers that morning. One came from the absolutely harmless looking tribute from 5, who – as she learned later from an amused Finnick – had strangled and drowned four women in his home district, all with brown hair and freckles. Another came from Freya, a high class prostitute from District 6 who'd poisoned one of her clients – by accident, as she claimed.

All in all, the prison-tributes seemed to cluster together, while the seasoned victors stayed by themselves. The careers from 1 and 2 would ally, that was obvious. Brutus and Enobaria were a frightful sight as they trained alongside each other, both honed fighting machines. Their prison counterparts had also formed a team, but it was clear they'd not hesitate for a second to kill the victors and vice versa.

Rose had watched groups form and drift apart all morning. After lunch they'd sat and waited to be called in for their training session with the Gamemakers. In the end it had been only Haymitch and she. He sat, slumped against the wall, eyes heavy lidded, reeking of brandy. But she knew him well enough by now to know he was not half as drunk as he'd pretended to be. In fact, he had bumped into a Peacekeeper on their way to the elevator and had spilled the content of his hip flask all over his shirt. But anyone who'd watched him and Chaff guffaw and joke all morning, had to assume he was well sauced.

When they'd called his name he'd looked at her the first time. No word. Only a glance, a nod.

It had almost taken half an hour for him to return, looking rather pleased with himself. He smirked and gave her a thumbs-up when the Peacekeeper led her into the examination room.

And now she sat on one end of the couch and he at the other, Effie, Cinna, Portia, Peeta and Katniss between them. They heard the signation, saw the familiar seal of Panem and the beaming faces of Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith as they read out the long list of names, districts and scores.

Both Brutus and Enobaria received a 10, Finnick even 11. Five of the prison-tributes scored highly as well. Freya got a 10, which made Claudius snigger but he would not explain what was so funny.

Portia laughed as well. "She had that same score -10 – in her former profession, I gather."

"They score the prostitutes?" Cinna asked mildly. "Do you believe the price goes up with the score?"

Before Portia could answer, Effie shushed them. "District 12! Here we go."

"Haymitch Abernathy – a score of 8," Claudius read out." This is a disappointment for all who fondly remember Abernathy's dedication in the 2nd Quarter Quell."

Haymitch snorted. Katniss clapped his shoulder. "Well done!"

Caesar wrestled with his papers. "And now, as our last contender from District 12, Rose Cumberland." His cheery voice faltered as he checked his list again, then turned to look at the screen in the background. Shaking his head sadly, he announced:

"Zero points."

With an almighty crash the air-screen came down when Haymitch threw his bottle right through it.

Effie gasped. Peeta nodded, satisfied.

Haymitch turned at Peeta, his face white with anger. "This is your fault. What did you tell her to say to the judges? That she would not kill?"

Peeta did not flinch but stood his ground. "I checked the stats. 25% of the former victors won without spilling blood. "

"Yeah, because they made themselves scares until all the others were dead!"

"It was my decision alone," Rose intervened. "Don't blame Peeta."

"How is she supposed to hide?" Haymitch ignored her. "Zero points. That's like painting a target on her back!"

"But you said you wanted her to run and be invisible," said Katniss. "Isn't a low score better than a high one? The careers will just ignore her, at least for the first days."

Irritated he rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "I said average! Somewhere in the middle, neither good nor bad. Nothing that makes her stand out like a sore thumb. Average is NOT zero!"

"It's six to eight," Effie said. They all stared at her when she pointed a finger accusingly at Haymitch. "You got eight points, that makes you pretty average. Not interesting for the careers." She shrugged. "It's still against the rules, but I see why you would hedge your bets."

He leaned forward and took both her hands. "Effie, sweetheart, you have to be very strong now. But I don't give a damn about the rules."

Effie tsked. "Not a good example for the young ones," she admonished in her primmest voice.

Katniss turned to Rose. "What did you show them to get zero points?"

"I offered to sing a song, but they were not interested, and that was about it." Rose shook her head when she remembered standing in the middle of the training room, facing the Gamemakers. "The scariest thing was that I WANTED to impress them. I wanted to please them. It took every bit of stubbornness in me to do … nothing."

Katniss bit her lip. "I had this discussion with Peeta, last year," she said in a low voice. But Peeta and Haymitch were still snarling at each other, and Effie was discussing schedules with the stylists, so nobody listened to them anyway.

"Peeta said, we should not play their game. But I always knew I could not refuse to fight, I had to win. "

Rose gave her an understanding smile. "You had Prim. I know your mother wasn't well for a long time. You had to return. ... But I don't. There is nobody waiting for me. I am free."

Katniss nodded pensively." It sounds very stupid and inappropriate considering the situation, but I kind of envy you. I've never been free. Not since my father died."

Rose stole a glance at Haymitch who now argued with Cinna and Portia. "Jacob – my late husband," she explained when she saw Katniss' confused look. "He always said that love is the most valuable thing. But freedom comes a close second."

The girl blushed and stared at the carpet. "Love is complicated. It's like cutting a heart into pieces. Messy, and painful. And you are the one left behind with only half a heart."

Rose had to chuckle when she saw her frustration. "Believe me, in the end it's all very easy. You'll know once it's real love."

"I'd rather go hunting," Katniss said wistfully, staring at the windows with their current image of a deep green forest. "I'd rather be free."

They both flinched when Effie suddenly stood up and clapped her hands.

"To bed, everybody. Tomorrow is the last day and the most important. We'll take turns, your mentors and I will prepare you for the interview with Caesar, and the stylists will make you look good. So no more discussions, and off to bed with you all."

She swallowed dryly, fighting back tears. "We are a team, aren't we? Let's not fight."

/

Remembering Effie's words, Rose went into her four hours of interview training with their escort with the best intentions. But when Effie passed her a book and asked her to walk up and down the hallway, balancing the book on her head, she had to grit her teeth to stay calm.

"Effie, I don't think Cinna will let me wear a book when I go on stage."

"It'll help you to keep your head up high." Effie held out the book, undisturbed by Rose's mocking. "When I started escort training I was sooo shy I wouldn't meet anybody's eye. So our trainer made me carry a book, and I had to look straight ahead. I still do. "

Her face was so earnest and pleading, Rose had to give in. Balancing the book was not easy, but at least she could talk while she paraded in front of Effie.

"How does one become an escort?" she asked and tried a half-hearted turn. The book slid of her head and landed on her toe.

Effie helped her to put it back on. "My parents died when I was very young," she explained casually. "I was educated in one of the President's schools." With a touch of pride she added: "I was always top of my class, so I had a full scholarship. My classmates went on to be clerks. I could have been a district official. But I thought …" Her hand shot up and caught the book. "Keep your head up!" She giggled. "Well, that's exactly what I thought! Keep your head up, Effie! Panem gave you so much, now it is time to give something back."

Rose remembered the time in college, when their teachers had always told them how much they owed Panem. Apparently the Capitol students were told the same.

"But it can't be very fulfilling to be the escort of District 12," she said. "You and Haymitch don't get along that well, and the tributes…"

"Ah, Haymitch is a crusty old dear," Effie sighed. "My predecessor applied for replacement after only one season, but I decided to stick it out. And really he's not so back once you get to know him. But losing all those tributes …" Her voice trembled. "I keep thinking, President Snow made so many sacrifices. So if it helps him and Panem, I'll do my little bit."

"If it helps Panem to kill its children year after year?" Rose stared at her in disbelieve. She took off the book and dropped it at a counter.

"Haven't you seen the reports about the Dark Days? You, a teacher? The Districts and the Capitol, caught in a never ending war? Millions died!"

"And the Districts still pay the price."

Effie's brow wrinkled. One of the pink shells she wore as hair ornaments had slipped past her ear and dangled whenever she moved. "I think the Games help us heal, as a nation. And they give the Districts a chance to be proud of what they have achieved since the Dark Days." Her lashes fluttered, her eyes brimming with emotion. "And they are, aren't they?"

"What? Proud?"

"Yes. Panem and the Districts, it's like an escort and the tributes. We are a team. We are in this together."

'No,' Rose thought. 'We are not. I am going to die, and you are going to get another two tributes next season to boss around.'

Aloud she said: "Let's talk about something else. Something nice?"

Effie blew her nose. "OK. What do you want to talk about?"

"You choose."

"OK." A tentative smile. "How about … shoes?

/

Haymitch refused point-blank to be coached by Effie, and kept his time with Katniss at the bare minimum.

"Once we are in the arena," he said when they sat in the salon, with the windows on forest-mode. "You two stick together."

Katniss nodded.

"I mean it." Haymitch held her gaze. "Don't let them separate you."

"We'll have to talk to sponsors."

"Then talk, but go there together. People are used to seeing you as a couple, so that's not conspicuous."

"Conspicuous? Haymitch, what is going on?"

"Nothing." He rose and went to the bar. If he liked one thing about the Capitol, then it's ever replenishing supply of liquor.

"Is this about the uprising in the districts? Do you think anything like that is going to happen here?" Katniss insisted.

"Probably not. Probably the Games go by and you and Peeta return to Twelve. If Snow insists on you getting married, you'll smile and say 'we do'. But…"

"But?"

"But the uprising will come, you are right about that." He filled his glass and returned to the couch. "If not now, then in a year or two. Or five. And if you want to be part of it…"

"I do. I will be part of it whatever you say," she cut in, a dangerous gleam in her eyes. "Don't think you can talk me out of it."

"Did I ever?"

"In District 11? When they shot the old man?"

A sip of whiskey. A sigh. "Yeah, right. But believe me, you can't be part of anything if you are dead. It'll help neither you nor the rebellion if the Capitol chews you up and spits you out. So stick with Peeta. He's the sensible one."

"I am your mentor." She glowered at him. "I should give you advice, not the other way around."

He toasted her with his drink. "I am all ears"

Her smile was the saddest he ever seen.

"Stay alive, Haymitch."

/

The interview on the last evening before the Games started was the scariest thing Rose had ever done. Peeta had tried to prepare her, and they had rehearsed every possible question and answer they could come up with. But not even the final exam at the teachers' college had been as frightening as this event – and her whole future had depended on that. This time "her future" would not last longer than a few days, so she really had nothing to lose or fear, but the whole atmosphere was still nerve-wrecking.

Again Cinna's team had taken over, treating her like a doll they could paint and brush and dress. Cinna had chosen an off-white dress, very simple in its lines, with long sleeves and a demure neckline. It reminded her a bit of a nightgown she'd worn as a child. Compared with Freya, who radiated elegance and drama, she looked … plain. Like a well scrubbed young girl, younger than she was – and so much younger than she felt inside on this evening. Negligible, Haymitch had called it. Non-threatening, he claimed he'd meant, and she believed him, but it still stung.

She chewed on her thumbnail and kept her eyes on the screen which showed them one tribute after the other walking on stage, being greeted by Caesar Flickerman. The show-host wore blue tonight. All over, eyes and hair and jacket. His teeth gleamed, his skin did not show a wrinkle. But he must be past 60, Rose mused. She remembered him from the earliest Games she'd watched, in first grade like all of Panem's children. Caesar had not changed at all, had not aged. A triumph of aesthetical surgery, she assumed.

Still, she rather liked the man. In his way – albeit a cruel and inhuman way – he tried to help the tributes. Like Cinna and his team he did his best to make them look good. Each tribute had five minutes in the spotlights. Five minutes to shine, to dazzle, to inspire. Five minutes to win sponsors, and so maybe the lifesaving gift of water, matches, a weapon. Peeta had warned her that Caesar could make or break victors.

"Talk with him like you'd talk with a friend," he had instructed her. "'Cause that's you want him to be tonight – your very best friend."

And now here she sat on a stage in front of a huge audience she mercifully could not she because of the blinding lights.

Caesar beamed at her, his teeth brighter than the spotlights.

"Rose," he said. "Ah Rose." A sweet smile, a sad smile. Her hand in his. "Tell us what happened."

She stared at him like a cornered deer.

"Happened?"

"Your score, darling." Caesar shook his head. "Zero points? How can a healthy young woman like you get zero points?" He turned conspiratorially to the audience. "And remember she's not just any young woman, but a convicted traitor. She and her co-conspirators held up a train. In the end the snow was read with blood."

The audience hissed and boohed.

"So I ask you, what went wrong in the private session? Are you angry at the Gamemakers? Do you feel short-changed?"

Rose swallowed. "No," she croaked. "They gave me zero points because I told them I would not play the Game."

"Not play the Game." Caesar pretended to have misheard. "But my dear, why ever? Isn't it an honour to stand for your district?"

The man was unbelievable.

"I did not volunteer," Rose tried to remain calm. "I wasn't even reaped from the youth of my district. I simply exchanged death by firing squad for death in the arena."

"But if you win, you are free." Caesar would not let go. "President Snow decreed that the victor will be pardoned if he or she is from the prison contingent."

"Have you seen the other tributes?" She did not wait for him to answer, everybody could see the contenders on the platform behind the stage. "I'll die in the arena, that's for sure.. But I'll die on my terms. I did not kill when we held up the train, and I shall not kill for the amusement of Panem."

A gasp from the audience.

Caesar raised both hands to placate his angry viewers. "Strong words, strong words. Now, Rose, those of us who follow the news from the districts …" He made a funny face, to indicate that he certainly did not. "Have already met you, or so I've been told."

Rose's stomach flipped. Of course someone had dug the old report out. The digital archives never forgot.

Caesar gave a signal, and the screen center-stage flickered. "Four years ago, our sweet Rose here survived an extraordinary ordeal."

She closed her eyes. She didn't need to watch to know what the audience would see. The mine in Branch 12A. Desperate people, grieving for their lost relatives. The elevator cage, blown to bits. And then a shot of her, grimy and exhausted, her hands and bare feet bleeding. They'd had to carry her because she had been too weak to walk the few meters to the ambulance car.

"Four years ago, in late November, the mine in 12A suffered a terrible, terrible accident." Caesar's eyes actually teared up, and a close-up had the audience mute with sympathy within a moment. "A man, a brave engineer, died. And later the rescue party was virtually annihilated when a second explosion destroyed the elevator shaft and the only way out. There was no sign of life. They were all lost."

Rose gritted her teeth. The bitter taste of ashes in her mouth … not real. Not anymore.

"But then!" Caesar's blue lips formed a perfect O. "After six days … out of the darkness … crawls our Rose!"

He raised both hands, and the audience, his willing slaves by now, clapped enthusiastically.

"Her eyes almost blind after six days in utter darkness. Her hands and feet torn to bloody shreds." He affectionately took Rose's hand and kissed it. "Tell us, Rose, how you escaped."

She took a shaky breath. "There was a funnel. I climbed out."

"There was a funnel, she says!" Caesar jubilated. "I bet the camera can show us this funnel!"

A collective "Ah!" rose from the audience. Rose knew they saw the narrow dark chimney that led straight down for more than 30 metres.

"Six days in the darkness, the only one still alive, and she would not give up. Against all odds she found a way out! I think we all owe her and her fellow minders a huge applause!"

This time it took even Caesar a while to calm the cheering audience.

"Well, now that I know about her ordeal … Far be it from me to second-guess the wisdom of our esteemed judges. But maybe this young woman can't be held fully responsible for her actions." His finger drew a circle by his right temple. "Maybe what happened to her four years ago has left her mentally unstable. Not a criminal per se, not evil – just someone who can't decide between reality and illusion anymore. I say she doesn't deserve a score of zero. She once made her district proud, and I bet she can do so again!"

A sad smile for the audience. "Let's give Rose a big hand, as out of the darkness she now goes into the light!"

It took Rose every bit of self-control she possessed to make a graceful exit. Had he really implied she was a lunatic - in front of the whole country?

When she passed Haymitch, who was the last tribute for Caesar to interview, he gave her a questioning look. She stared straight ahead, and walked up the steps to the platform where all the tributes had to wait, so the audience would get a good look at who they'd be betting on.

/

Haymitch was the last tribute, and Caesar greeted him like an old acquaintance – which he was, having mentored for 25 years.

They shook hands, and Caesar grinned at his interview partner.

"Well, Haymitch, what's your take of this year's tributes? Last time you fought against 47 contenders, now we have 12 former victors and 12 convicts. Less tributes, but double the experience and menace, maybe?"

Haymitch shrugged. "I hate to repeat myself, but … they are 100% as stupid, so the odds are still the same."

Like an eerie echo an old interview-clip from the 2nd Quarter Quell on screen showed a much younger Haymitch give almost an identical answer.

Caesar shot his audience a huge smile. "That's our Haymitch!" Like a rubber mask his face scrunched into a grimace of concern. "But tell us … how come you only scored a meagre 8? Could it be …" He drew it out with relish. "Could it be … the victor has lost his touch?"

The screen now showed the training suite. Chaff stood, balancing an apple on his head, a broad grin on his face.

Haymitch toying with a throwing knife. Setting it down to take a swig from a flask.

"Ouch!" Caesar hissed in anticipation. "Don't drink and throw!"

On-screen Haymitch stowed the flask in his jacket, then nonchalantly picked up the knife and threw it at Chaff.

The victor from 11 yelped and touched his ear. His hand came away bloody.

On-screen Haymitch fell over laughing.

On-stage Haymitch just shrugged. "Maybe the old throw-hand is not as steady as it used to be. … But then again – who says I didn't aim at his ear?"

The audience applauded and Haymitch winked at them.

Caesar waited for the applause to calm down, and asked, suddenly serious: "Tonight we heard 23 tributes. Some were frightened, some were confident. Others, like Johanna Mason, were angry. Oh boy, was she angry!"

He fanned his face and got the laughter he expected.

"I take it some of the victors felt cheated by being reaped a second time."

Haymitch looked straight into the camera, his eyes suddenly ice-blue. "I'll only say one thing. We won't forget your promises, we won't forget your lies. The Seam will remember."

A bit baffled, Caesar rose and held out a hand. Haymitch shook it and joined the other tributes, leaving the show host unusually worried. Not that his shining forehead could have wrinkled even if he'd tried. But his eyes flitted to the camera, to the tributes, to the audience, not sure how to segue into an uplifting finish.

But decades of practise took over.

"And WE shall remember those brave men and women who'll compete in the 3rd Quarter Quell!" He clapped enthusiastically, and the audience fell in, cheering and throwing flowers at the stage.

Caesar took a bow, and Rose saw him give a hasty signal to the camera crew.

The Games signation boomed from the loud-speakers, and the stage fell dark. Haymitch reached for Rose's hand.

"Let's get out of here," he said in a low voice. "Let's not spend out last hours together in anger."

"I am not angry. I am miserable," she sighed but let him lead her off-stage and through a backwards corridor to the elevator. Effie ambushed them to say good-bye.

Rose hugged the escort. Shallow the woman might be, but she had a good heart.

Effie kissed her on both cheeks. "It was an honour to have met you, Rose. And may the odds be …"

She hurried away, openly crying, trying to save her eyelashes from being swept away by a flood of tears..

"Take care, Effie," Rose whispered.

Haymitch pushed her into the elevator and pressed the highest button. "Go ahead. I'll meet you in a minute."

/

When he opened the door to the roof terrace, his blood froze.

Rose stood at the edge of the small roof garden, balancing with out-stretched hands, her open hair flying in the breeze. There was no wall, no fence, and the building was more 12 floors high.

"Jumping off will hurt," he said as calmly as possible, so he would not scare her.

She did not turn, only stood there, the setting sun on her face. She still wore the silk dress, and he could make out the silhouette of her body under the thin fabric. Great, just what he needed right now…

"Rose, step back, before you get hurt," he said and set the tray he'd brought with him down on a small table.

"Why not end it here and now?" she asked, her voice a bit shaky. "No more fear, no more pain."

"I wouldn't count on that," he said and seized her from behind to pull her back from the edge. "There'll be any amount of pain, believe me."

He picked up a small stone and dropped it past the edge. It fell, paused in mid-air and bounced back again. "Do you think you are the first tribute considering an easy way out?"

"It's a force field?"

"Yeah, and a painful one. Not for the stone …." He broke a flower off the ornamental brush next to him and dropped it. It fell, stopped, fizzled and came up scorched at the edges. "All organic material will suffer a nasty electrical stroke. A bit like touching a loaded fence. Hurts like buggery."

"But it won't kill."

"Certainly not. They need their tributes alive, at least until they step off the launching pod in the arena. Then they are welcome to die however they please."

Rose bit her lips. "I wouldn't have jumped anyway."

He drew her in his arms. "I know."

They stood there, just holding each other, for a while.

Then Rose asked: "What's with the tray?"

Haymitch shrugged, feeling suddenly awkward. "You know I am not a romantic."

She smiled.

"But Peeta is, and he insisted I take all this with me. Let me see ..." He unpacked. "Blanket, check. Candle, check. Bottle of champagne. Glasses, check. And this is ... " He held up a frosted cut-glass bowl. "Ice cream, I assume."

He lifted the lid.

"Chocolate!" she sighed. "Peeta is such a sweetheart."

They draped the blanket over one of the wicker benches and sat. Haymitch looked at Rose and held out his arm. She smiled and let him draw her closer, until her head rested on his shoulder.

The sun touched the skyline, turning the roofs and windows into molten gold, then copper. The sky turned violet at the horizon.

"They are watching us, aren't they?" Rose whispered.

"Yes. But they can't hear us." He pulled a small globe out of his pocket. "Beetee let us have his little toy for tonight."

"The silencer," Rose said in awe.

"Still, they can see you," Haymitch warned. "So if you want to curse President Snow, better whisper in my ear. They'll think it's sweet nothing."

She smiled. "And if I want to whisper actual sweet nothing?"

His eyes burned into hers. "Don't make this any harder than it already is, honey."

"I won't." Rose closed her eyes and sighed. "Let's open the bottle, and pretend we are alone."

Haymitch filled the glass flutes with bubbling champagne. He did not really get the stuff – too sweet, too fizzy, too weak. What was the use in alcohol if you needed bottles and bottles of it to get drunk? But Rose had never tasted champagne, and he enjoyed watching her face when she took the first sip.

"Oh! Wow!" She swallowed and took another sip. "This tastes really nice. I've only ever read about it."

He held out a spoon with ice-cream. "Try this. Peeta says it's the best in Panem, and he's considered an expert in that area."

It tore his heart apart to see her face light up in bliss when she licked the spoon. They could have had this, every day of their lives. Sitting on the porch, watching the sunset. Talking, laughing. … Loving.

"That was quite a statement you made tonight," Rose said suddenly. "The Seam will remember. Almost a threat."

He pushed back the painful regret he felt when he thought about what could have been, and shrugged. "You were right. They don't own me. They did, for the better part of my life, but not anymore. I am only sorry I gave you false hopes on the train."

She looked up at that. "When you said, we might not die?"

"I had reason to believe … But it won't happen. So this is the end."

"You can still win. You are strong, and you are smart." She nestled her face into the crook of his neck.

Haymitch kissed the crown of her head, so gentle she would not notice it. "Let's face it. I am past 40, and I drink too much. Maybe not as much as I pretended, but it sure takes its toll. So no, I won't be this Quarter Quell's victor."

She drank from her glass. It was almost dark now, the candle flickering in the light breeze. A night moth circled the flowering vines.

"Can I ask you something, Haymitch?"

"Anything."

"The scars on your forearm? What are they standing for?"

He stiffened, stalled. "Why do you ask?"

"Brutus said something, yesterday at training. He called you a stone-cold killer, and told me to ask you how you got those scars."

Brutus. Of course. Funny how it always came back to vengeance.

"Did he tell you I killed his older brother?"

She sat up. "No. Did you?"

"Drusus, District 1. He was one of the careers in the 2nd Quarter Quell. A head taller than I, two years older. But not as fast with a knife."

It took her some time to come to swallow that. He'd deliberately phrased it as hard as possible. No more lies between them.

"But why the scars?"

Damn it. No more lies.

"One for every tribute I killed in the arena." He pushed back his sleeve and pointed out the first pale lines. "Four – their names were Drusus, Ethan, Mallory and Droo."

Rose touched the puckered skin with her fingertip. He had to clear his throat to go on.

"Three for my mother, my brother, my girl. Wreath, Dillan, Lily."

"But …"

"I killed them, just as if I'd slit their throat. Not with a knife, but with arrogance and stupidity."

She said nothing, but when he touched her face her tears wet his fingers.

"Two more for the Peacekeepers who executed them. Arcus Finch. Metellus Undership." His voice was hard. There was no regret about these two killings, and never would be. Nine scars. He'd left room for one more, but that would not come to pass now.

"So Brutus is right when he calls me a killer. And that's why I want you to stay away from me in the arena. Promise me, Rose."

Rose remained silent. Eventually she breathed in shakily. "I promise."

And then she kissed him.

He was not prepared, and it shocked him more than if she'd pushed him away and slapped him in disgust.

It started out shy and sweet. His blood throbbed in his ears, when he drew her closer, conquered her mouth, gained access. She tasted of chocolate and tears.

Her hand wandered under his shirt, stroked his back.

She gave a small moan, when his lips trailed the line from her jaw to her collarbone.

Haymitch groaned.

He wanted to undress her, to make love to her – not just sex, not what he'd done with Camilla the night before for the promise of support in the Games. With Rose he wanted to take his time, to dare to go slow, be gentle. Love her, and be loved in return.

But not here, not where the ever watchful eye of the Capitol could see them. He would not give them that.

"Rose," he said with all the restraint he could muster. "They are watching us."

She froze, and he felt her face heat up. "I am sorry," she whispered.

"Believe me, sweetheart, not as sorry as I am."

"Can we at least stay here, until it is time?"

He wrapped the blanket around them, and let her have his shoulder for a pillow. "Try to sleep. I'll wake you when the sun comes up."

She was so close, he could feel her smile.

And so he held her. This really wasn't so bad, he thought. Many had never had the chance to say good-bye in such a way, to hold their beloved one last time. He watched the night sky, the cold far-away stars, until a purple seam in the east brought the night to a close.

/

It couldn't be the same Launch room. After all, 25 years had passed and this was another arena. But it looked the same – stainless steel and glass, tubes and screens, a suit bag on a clothes-rack. It smelled the same, of filtered air and warm plastic.

Haymitch swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. It certainly felt the same. As if the walls were closing in on him.

Portia helped him with the outfit the Gamemakers had specified. Even that was pretty close to the stuff he'd worn so many years ago: combat pants, sturdy boots, a long-sleeved t-shirt, a tan jacket made of some lightweight insulated material. He looked at the stylist:

"I reckon colder climate. Mud?"

He nudged the boots with the tip of his foot.

Portia nodded. She was not her usual brisk self but oddly subdued. Even her hair looked depressed, all straight and dark-red.

"Lots of pockets." Haymitch fingered the jacket. "It will be important to gather supplies and carry them. Or maybe they expect us to gather nuts and berries."

"There'll never be berries in the arena anymore," Portia said quietly. "I think they learned their lesson, at least on that."

She waited until he'd laced up the boots, then she smoothed his collar and handed him his token. "There is a small pocket inside the waistband of the trousers."

Then she did something unexpected. His first stylist, an older man whose name he could not recall … Grachus? Gratian? … had accompanied him to the tube and had watched the young tribute being elevated into the arena. His face, half excited, half regretful, had been the last glimpse of normality then.

But Portia did not even wait until game-control gave the command for all tributes to get ready. She only hugged him and pressed a cool kiss onto his jaw. She flinched when his beard scratched her cheek. "Oh my," she sighed. "But it really looked good."

She left, the Peacekeeper in her wake, taking her down the long corridor to the hovercraft landing dock.

Haymitch stared after her. The silence in the Launch room was suddenly unbearable. Then he heard the dry hissing of a service elevator. All over the city these narrow shafts provided access for the Avoxes, for serving and fetching and cleaning. A city kept running by invisible slaves, who popped up whenever they were needed. Haymitch knew the Avoxes were kept in quarters many levels below ground, where they toiled in the kitchens, the engine rooms, the sewers. Only a fraction of them were ever allowed up in daylight – the servers, the cleaners. And, or so he at least assumed, those who had to fulfil other cravings of their masters.

The elevator opened soundlessly. This was no luxurious mirrored contraption like the elevators in the Training Centre, but a narrow tube not unlike the launching tube for the tributes.

The man who stepped out of the elevator certainly was no Avox. Haymitch's knees buckled with relief.

"You are cutting it mighty close, my friend."

Plutarch Heavensbee, already in his austere Head Gamemaker's suit, arched an eybrow. "Did you really think I'd desert you?"

"Not willingly, no. But …"

Plutarch raised a hand to silence him. "We don't have much time. Portia will keep the Peacekeeper for a minute or two, but he'll return."

"Just tell me Katniss and Peeta will be save."

The Gamemaker narrowed his eyes. "Are they worth more than you … and your lady friend?"

Haymitch laughed bitterly. "My life isn't worth you know I'd do anything … well, almost anything … to keep Rose alive."

"Almost?"

"Anything but risking the Mockingjay. It's more than a 17year old girl from District 12. It's an idea. It must not die, or all this," he nodded towards the glass tube that would transport him into the arena in a few minutes, "was in vain. And don't make the mistake of thinking Katniss is more important than Peeta. She needs that boy. Without him there is no Mockingjay."

Plutarch nodded. "We'll get them out. Both of them, and the mentors who are on our side, as well."

"Annie Cresta?"

"Her, and Darren Franck from District 7. And Beetee's friend Wiress."

"Good. That's good." Haymitch rubbed his chin. "By hovercraft?"

"As was your plan. You cause a distraction, I get them out."

"Right." A metallic screech made him spin around, but it was only the launching tube adjusting it's position. "And then?"

Plutarch smirked. "Rebellion is a lot like chess, I find. You have to consider the next move, and another beyond that. … It's all set in motion."

"So 13 is in."

"Yes. They are sceptical, of course. Paranoid bunch, all of them. But who can blame them?"

"If they really are prepared for an uprising, you'll deliver the spark that will ignite a blaze. They should be grateful." Haymitch crossed his arms over his chest. "So, a distraction. When do you need it?"

Plutarch's eyes darkened. "There's the rub. The team we planted in the hovercraft unit need at least four days, maybe five."

He saw Haymitch pale. "I know this will be hard on you. But we'll have only one chance and it must not be hastened. I'll give you a sign. On the evening before we launch the mission, we'll make a regrettable mistake. We'll project the face of a tribute who isn't even in the Games."

"They'll know."

"Mistakes happen." The Gamemaker shrugged. "We'll apologize profoundly, of course. But this is your sign. The next day at noon I need all eyes fixed at the screen and the betting boards, and oblivious of what is happening on the airfield."

"Consider it done."

"When they find out what is happening, they'll shut down the broadcast and seal the arena." Plutarch flinched when an almost inaudible alarm in his watch started to peep. "They are coming, I got to go. Listen, Haymitch! You cause a distraction and as soon as the lights go out, you get the hell out of the arena."

Haymitch laughed mirthlessly. "Yeah? And how will we do that? Fly away?"

"Remember the Games of '55?"

Haymitch rubbed his eyes. Did he remember '55? The year Hazelle's brother Wyll had died before the Games had even officially started. Hell yeah, he knew the exit out of this arena, alright.

"We recycled the old plans. I'll have a retrieval team waiting at the exit, but only for one hour after the shutdown. Then you're on your own."

Plutarch raised a hand in greeting and stepped back into the covering darkness of the service shaft. When the Peacekeeper reached the Launch room, Haymitch was alone.

A pleasant mechanical voice ordered the tributes to step onto the launch pad inside the tube.

The Peacekeeper ushered Haymitch to the round platform. "Happy Hunger Games," he said earnestly when the glass tube slowly lowered it shut close. "May the odds be ever in your favour."

He stepped away from the tube.

Haymitch took a deep breath. "The only odds in our favour are those we set ourselves."

/

To be continued.