Chapter 11: Master and Apprentice
"Hey! Vedaldi!"
37 years of being addressed thus had left Duke ambivalent whenever the Peacekeepers came knocking on his door. Most of the time, he was left alone as a sort of hermit, living legend in the Victor's Village. But not today. No, today was Reaping Day for the 50th Hunger Games, also known as the Second Quarter Quell. Having to pick two kids to die was hard enough. Having to pick four would be damn near unbearable. Duke remembered the First Quarter Quell and how it had had a twist. Some kid from District 8 pulled off a come-from-behind victory. Both his tributes had died in the Bloodbath.
Just as every tribute he had ever mentored died.
The one thing that made the whole sordid affair at least tolerable was Proteus, his old escort and friend from the Capitol. He would be retiring at the end of this year, after half a century of escorting District 12 tributes.
Duke saw the old man now as he was escorted to the stage in front of the Justice Building. He gave him a warm hug and took his seat between the Mayor and Proteus. Slowly, all the residents of Twelve trickled in.
The video was just as canned and predictable as it had been at Duke's first Reaping. Only now, the Mayor could at least use his line about Past Victors and not be embarrassed by it.
"And now, we shall read off the names of past District 12 victors: Duke Vedaldi!"
There was token applause, and Duke stood with a small smile and waved half-heartedly. The first few years after his victory, the applause had been loud – for the 14th Games, his first year as mentor, a riot had practically occurred as the residents celebrated their hero's victory. But with every year, and every death, the applause had grown fainter and fainter. Duke had even heard many citizens whisper about whether the 13th Games had been rigged just so Twelve could have a victor. He had been insulted, of course, until he remembered that most of the people who had been alive for his Games were all dead or dying.
At least I stay sober off the drugs for this. If I didn't love my district, I could be as wasted as I like and not care.
Proteus took the stand and Duke was pleased that he was given a smattering of applause, even more than had been for him. Well, it was the guy's last year, and he had been a loyal servant for Twelve until the end.
The girls were selected first:
"Kessler Pieper!" A girl of about 17 took the stage. Then Proteus selected a second ball from the Girls. Duke was about to remind him of his error, until he remembered the twist.
"Maysilee Donner!" This girl, blonde and beautiful and about 16, joined Kessler.
"And now for the boys." Proteus selected from the second bowl.
"Russell Sanders!" Duke stifled a groan as he saw a scrawny 12-year-old take the stage, terror in his eyes. You should be, buddy – you're going to be dead in a few weeks.
"Haymitch Abernathy!" Duke started, recognizing the name. Faster than lightning, his eyes found the boy's mother, Reneé Abernathy, nee Cyrus. Then, he followed movement coming from the 16-year-old boys' pen.
Tall, dark hair. Seam eyes. Muscular. Reneé's oldest son was quite the looker. Duke's mind instantly whirled five steps ahead, wondering how many sponsors would back him. With looks like that, it was not a question of who, it was how many. Given that his tributes barely got funding to begin with, Duke knew he could work with the Abernathy boy.
Duke waited in his special chamber in the Justice Building. Technically, the mentor was allowed to have visitors, though no one ever did come by. His father had, tokenly, the first decade or so after his victory, but they never spoke. Oh, well. Poor bastard was long dead anyway.
So it came as something of a surprise when the door opened to reveal Reneé Abernathy, wearing a simple frock. Duke stood.
"Wasn't expecting a visitor," he cracked self-deprecatingly, but she ignored him. Instead, she took his hand.
"Duke, you have to promise me. Make sure my boy comes back alive. I don't care what you have to do. Just get him home to me!"
Duke was about to tell her it was hopeless. No District 12 tribute had been crowned victor save once, and that result was standing before her: a 53-year old, middle-aged drug addict.
Then he remembered how he had made his mother a similar promise, to save himself. He could see her now, in Reneé's eyes, the way she pleaded for her son to live.
He sighed. In another life, one without the arena, he might have grown a pair of balls and asked Reneé to go out on a date, maybe even marry him. But one choice like the Games could change the course of an entire life. Still, Reneé was his friend, which is what made him utter what he did next.
"I promise. Haymitch will win." Not Haymitch might win, he will win.
Yet another promise Duke wasn't sure that he could keep.
The dinner on the train was a silent affair. Proteus had learned long ago not to judge the tributes' eating habits, especially those from the Seam, where all but Maysilee hailed this year. That alone put him heads and shoulders above most of the Capitol snobs.
Duke sat in silence, waiting for any of the quartet to ask him questions. Some years, he had had to hold their hands through the process, coaching them through their interviews and training so it looked as though he at least tried. Didn't mean the tributes always did. Some resigned themselves to the fact that they were as good as dead. Duke's living proof as an exception to this unofficial rule did not relieve their hopelessness.
Haymitch was the first one done. "All right, that's it. How do we win?"
Well. He hadn't heard that question from a tribute in a long time. Duke eyed his best friend's child with sad eyes.
"You don't, kid. Even if you become a victor, you only survive. You never win these Games."
Haymitch scoffed. "First of all, my name's not kid. It's Haymitch."
"I know your name, boy, your mother is my best friend…."
"And she said you would help me! That starts by not treating me as though I'm some pig for slaughter! And third, you survive these Games by living as long as you can. You win by walking out alive!"
"Don't talk about things you don't understand, Abernathy! If you even manage to be crowned victor, which I highly doubt, you will learn. The world is not as black and white as you think. If nothing else, that is what the arena will teach you!"
"Then, lay it on me, old man! How do we win?"
Duke eyed him pointedly. Haymitch rolled his eyes. "Fine. Survive."
Duke stared at the boy. He was sure of one thing: he had a fighter on his hands. And looking around the table, he could tell he had more than one. Maysilee was eyeing him eagerly, as was Kessler. Even little Russel – bless his heart! – was gripping the table tenaciously.
And in their eyes, Duke saw something that he had once held himself: determination.
He let out a long breath. "You want to know how to win? Fine. Here's how: Stay alive. Now let's break it down from there; here's how you do it….."
The training was a whirlwind. Duke was the most engaged he had been in years, giving his tributes tips on what to focus on in training, coaching them through their interviews, telling them what angle to play. Through it all, he managed to at least learn a little bit about each of them, too. Some years, his protégés had been just names to go with faces, anonymous, invisible.
Especially when none of them came back in anything but a coffin.
All too soon, it was time to say goodbye to them. He hugged the girls and reminded them both, "Run. Find water." He ruffled Russell's hair. "Take care of yourself." Barring a miracle, he knew he would never see the little boy again. Then, he faced Haymitch.
"Haymitch, when you're in there…." He gathered his courage to make the decision. "You remember who the real enemy is."
Haymitch nodded shortly. He understood. Clever little man, this guy was.
After seeing the hovercraft off, Duke entered the Mentor's Bar, where past victors could watch their tributes from big flat screen TVs, and also order sponsor gifts. It was much more crowded than it had been Duke's first year here. Over the decades, just over a dozen souls had ballooned into 49 people, the oldest being in their late 60s.
"And there he is! The Druggee of District 12!"
Duke smirked good-naturedly at the 60-year-old grandma like figure as he took a seat at the bar. "Hey Mags. You retired yet?"
"Sugar, please. You know we only get to retire when we're dead!" She flagged down the bartender. "Two Bloody Marys, on the rocks! And make it snappy! It's almost 10 AM!"
Duke burst out laughing. Mags was one of the Old Guard, victors who had won the first decade of the Games. She had been the 4th victor and ever since his win, he had looked up to her.
"How's Muscida holding up?"
"Oh, all the boys are drooling after her. But she's a big girl. She can handle herself." Duke looked back to the booths to see Mags' first, and so far only, successful protégé, Muscida Selkirk, laughing and talking with other victors (she had won in the late 20s). At least the two women could share the load together. If only he had a partner to mentor with….
Screams erupted as the TV feed became live. Duke straightened, the most anxious he had been in decades. He scanned until he saw all four of his tributes: Kessler, Russell, Maysilee and last of all, Haymitch. He waited as they were about to take off into the most beautiful, but surely deadly, arena he had ever seen. It actually kind of reminded him of his own Games.
Come on, you guys. Give me a win…..
"I must say, Twelve is putting up a fight this year," Mags observed.
"Nothing like a Quarter Quell to get you to grow some balls," Duke chuckled ruefully, a little buzzed from the drinks.
But Mags was right. Twelve was putting up a fight – a better one than normal. With double the tributes, 18 of whom died on the first day, all four of his pupils had managed to escape the Bloodbath, even little Russell.
He didn't last long after that, though, as the giant Career pack had hunted him down for sport. Still, the other three were all still alive.
Haymitch had quickly made for the trees of the arena and never strayed, in fact saying on a remarkably straight path throughout. He encountered no other tributes for a while, and had the good sense to not drink the poisonous river water, cleverly collecting what rain fell from the heavens.
The comfort had not lasted long though. Several days in, the mountain in the arena suddenly erupted as a volcano, killing 10 tributes and all but 5 of the Career Pack. Kessler was among them. That left only a dozen tributes left, including Haymitch and Maysilee. Still, Duke was pleased. The field had dwindled to a quarter of what it was and two of his tributes were still alive? In any normal year, that would have been an outstanding showing. For this year, it was remarkable.
Then, Haymitch had encountered three of the five Career tributes. Duke had panicked, thinking this was the end and he would have to work hard for Maysilee to win. But no, Haymitch put up an incredible fight, killing two before the third disarmed him. In a nailbiting twist, Haymitch was spared when Maysilee appeared and felled the third Career with a blowdart. The two District 12 tributes formed an alliance reminding Duke painfully of him and Gracey. Alliances this late were never good.
Or maybe they were. Haymitch and Maysilee fought better as a team, making and then bypassing the Final Eight benchmark. The only disconcerting thing was that Haymitch insisted on proceeding in the same direction. Maysilee must have sensed this, too, for at one point she refused to go any further without an answer.
"Because it has to end somewhere, right? The arena can't go on forever."
By now, Haymitch and Maysilee had gathered quite a following amongst the victors, and Duke had even managed to net some sponsors for them. In the Mentor's Bar, the victors looked at each other.
"What does he mean, 'It can't go on forever'?" a woman from District 5 asked. Everyone looked to Duke, who merely shook his head without taking his eyes off the screen.
"I don't know…." But something told him it didn't sound good.
Amazingly, Haymitch was right. After searing through a thick hedge with a blowtorch, he and Maysilee came to the edge of a steep cliff. An abyss was far below. The camera feed fuzzed and got slightly static, as if the Capitol was unsure whether to cut away from this unexpected development.
"That's all there is, Haymitch. Let's go back," Maysilee was saying.
"No. I'm staying here."
Mags looked to Duke, baffled. Maysilee squared her shoulders.
"Fine. There's five of us left, anyway. I don't want it to come down to you and me."
"All right," Haymitch responded, without even turning his head. Maysilee walked away. Duke was relieved. Good. Perfect time to break it off.
Then, he looked up at a gasp from his colleagues.
"What happened?"
"The pebble…. It bounced back!" someone breathed.
"Pebble? What pebble?" Duke reached for the remote.
"No! Don't rewind it!" Mags cried. "Just watch. He's thinking."
Duke observed Haymitch look at the pebble, then over the cliff. Then, the boy suddenly seized a rock the size of his fist and hurled it over the edge. A pause. Then the rock bounced back – right into Haymitch's waiting hand.
A huge gasp filled the bar.
"A forcefield! There's a forcefield down there!" a District 2 mentor cried, pointing at the screen.
"He knew something was waiting at the end! But how?" asked another.
Mags was just laughing right along with Haymitch on the screen. "Way to go, Tic-Tac!" she crowed.
But Duke was stunned – and terrified. Whatever Haymitch had found had never intended to be. He would be punished for sure! What had he done?
A sudden scream distracted everybody. And Duke just felt worse. He knew that scream….
Haymitch did, too, for he sprinted in its direction without a second thought. He found Maysilee a few yards into the woods, stabbed through the neck by deadly pink birds. He held her hand as she died.
"All right, all right! We're at the Top Two! Who's going to win? Place your bets, place your bets!" Mags called out like a carnival barker as she passed around a hat.
"I bet 15 Panemts on District 12!" called a man.
"And I say 20 for the girl from 1!" yelled another.
Mags smirked at the second fellow. "You're gonna lose that wager, Soren. I'll match that – 20 Panemts for Haymitch Abernathy!"
Duke added a ten for his last living protégé. After Maysilee's death, another tribute had been killed by golden squirrels and a third had fallen to the last remaining Career – the first girl from District 1 – in combat. But Haymitch was still in this. Duke wasn't sure what to be more terrified of: for Haymitch to die just short of victory, or for him to literally make history and win.
Screams split the air as the camera cut to the last two tributes, ready to face off at last. Duke gripped the bar so hard, his knuckles turned white. Come on Haymitch…. don't let me down.
The fight was vicious. Haymitch gave as good as he got; he even managed to take out one of the girl's eyes. And he was still standing.
At least until the girl sent an axe into his stomach.
"My God, his guts are starting to show! He's dead! Come on, you little bitch – finish him off!"
"No, look! He's running!"
Screams and calls like this only rose as Haymitch stumbled through the woods, holding his intestines in. Duke didn't even let the foreboding thought of where he was headed deter him from screaming at the TV along with the others. He didn't give a fuck anymore.
"Come on! Come on, kid! You got this!" he yelled.
Just as Haymitch reached his cliff, the girl lost patience and threw her axe. It sailed past Haymitch's head and over the cliff.
A hush fell over the crowd as Haymitch faced his final foe, weak and on his knees. With no weapon to fight with, the girl just stood there awkwardly, clearly betting that Haymitch would succumb before she did.
"He's growing white! He's done!" a Career mentor whooped.
"No," Duke whispered, clearly remembering what was coming where others didn't. "It ain't over till the last cannon…."
It happened so fast, the mentors almost didn't see it. Haymitch fell to his stomach, a blur whizzing over his head. The girl's shocked face and then –
BOOM.
"….sounds," Duke exhaled, just before the deafening roars of delight, shock and anger immersed the bar.
"HE DID IT! HE FUCKING DID IT!" Mags screamed, gripping Duke's arm.
"Son of a bitch used the arena as a weapon!" Soren gaped in utter disbelief.
Muscida seized Duke's hand and shook it vigorously. "Congratulations, Duke! You deserve it, after all these years!"
Duke was just deflated. Amidst the screaming and cheers and Claudius Templesmith announcing Haymitch Abernathy as the winner of the 50th Annual Hunger Games, all he could do was weep. Weep for joy at finally not feeling alone. Weep in grief at what might come next. For which, he wasn't sure.
The aftermath of the Games was a blur for Duke. Before he could blink, he was on the train back home. Only this time, a young 16-year-old boy – no, man – sat across from him.
And his 53-year-old mentor had no idea what to do with him.
"So, what happens when we get home?" Haymitch asked.
Duke just stared out the window as he answered, "We live the rest of our lives."
The train pulled into the District 12 station. Unlike in past years, however, it was packed with people. The door had barely opened before hands seized Haymitch and Duke and yanked them into the crowd. The roar was deafening. Duke tried to jostle his way past people; most everyone was focusing on their district's first new victor in decades. Suddenly, a body mowed into Duke as someone threw her arms around him. Reneé.
"Oh, God! Thank you, Duke! Thank God for you!"
It happened so fast. Reneé kissed Duke, right on the lips – a peck, really, before springing back. Duke stared, stunned and his eyes quickly looked for Haymitch. No, the boy hadn't noticed, thank goodness. Even if his father was dead, it wouldn't look good if….
He turned back to Reneé. There was a slight blush to her cheeks. Before he could say anything (or even kiss her back), she had disappeared into the crowd.
The weeks passed. Haymitch moved into his new home in the Victor's Village, along with his mother and younger brother, Gregory. The younger Abernathy was a gentle giant, so he didn't look like he was only 14, but he still acted like a small child. Duke had only heard that it was caused by something called Autism….
Reneé, for her part, never mentioned the kiss at the train station, and neither did Duke. They went on being good friends.
One evening, about a month after Haymitch's victory, Duke had been invited by the Abernathys over for dinner. Soon, another guest joined them: Brooke, Haymitch's girlfriend. She was a pixie little thing, but pretty with curly black hair. Duke didn't know her well, except when she had once privately thanked him for saving her boyfriend's life.
"I watched all those deaths, and every one of them, I thought, 'It could have been Haymitch,'" she had said.
It could have been, especially with a field of 47 others instead of 23.
Just as the dinner was ending, the door suddenly burst open and Peacekeepers rushed in.
"Hey, what's going on?" Haymitch started. Then a Peacekeeper grabbed Brooke's arm roughly. "Hey!" the boy snapped angrily, but Duke intercepted him and held him back.
"Duke, let me go!"
Other guards had also seized Gregory and Reneé. "Duke, what's happening?" Reneé cried.
"It's going to be OK, Reneé!" Duke lied. He turned to the Head Peacekeeper, anger behind his eyes, barely contained. "Take it outside. Make it quick."
But the Head Peacekeeper just smirked. "On second thought, let's do it here, boys." he called to the others.
Haymitch turned in Duke's grasp. "What does he mean? Do what here-?"
BANG.
Brooke crumpled to the floor from a single gunshot.
"BROOKE!" Haymitch screamed. He instantly lunged for the Peacekeeper who had fired, his arena instincts coming back, but Duke held him in place, tears in his eyes.
Another BANG! brought down Reneé.
"MOTHER!"
The Head Peacekeeper turned his gun on Gregory, who was struggling against the Peacekeepers and crying, not understanding what was happening. Haymitch struggled fiercely.
"NO! LEAVE HIM ALONE! HE HAS SPECIAL NEEDS! HE DIDN'T DO ANYTHING WRONG!"
Gregory whimpered. "Brovey….": his interpretation of the word 'brother' as it referred to Haymitch.
BANG.
"AHHH!" Haymitch roared, breaking free of Duke at last and rushing the Head Peacekeeper and grabbing his throat, intent on strangling him. The official threw a punch that hit Haymitch full in the face, bringing him down. Duke rushed to his side, then glared at the Peacekeepers.
"Your work here is done. Take them and get out."
The Peacekeepers dragged out the bodies, leaving Duke to try and console a weeping Haymitch. It didn't take long for the grief to turn into rage, and Haymitch pushed Duke away.
"You knew! You fucking knew it when they walked in here and you didn't try to stop them! Why didn't you….?"
"BECAUSE THE SAME DAMN THING HAPPENED TO ME!" Duke yelled. "Two weeks after my victory, I had to watch those sleazebags rape my mother and then kill her. It destroyed my dad! At least your family was given a quick execution!"
"BUT I WON!" Haymitch screamed in Duke's face. "I played their stupid little Game! What more do they want from me? Why do I deserve this?"
"Because you won," Duke answered quietly. "The wrong way. You didn't play by their rules."
"What are you talking about? The Games don't have any rules!"
"True, but that also means there are no rules against making ones up," Duke explained somberly, echoing the lesson Proteus had taught him oh so long ago. He sat Haymitch down by the fire. "From the moment you reached the edge of the arena and discovered that forcefield, I feared for you. What might happen if you won. Or if the Gamemakers would make sure you died. You found a chink in the Capitol's armor, Haymitch – a chink that wasn't supposed to be found. Your trick with the axe at the end made them look stupid, and if there's one thing the Capitol hates, it's being laughed at. This slaughter was designed to break you. They can't kill you, you're a victor now – only break you. You'll be used as an example for others who might dare to make the Capitol look bad. They'll turn you into a joke, make it look like you don't matter, so people will forget."
Haymitch sniffled. "Is that why your mom was killed? Did you 'cheat' in your Games too? If we want to call it that."
Duke nodded. "I did quote on quote 'cheat', to use your terminology." And he was off, telling Haymitch in precise detail how he had won the 13th Hunger Games, right up through rigging the bomb to Jefferson's chest and pushing him into the volcano. Haymitch smirked at the end.
"That was definitely unorthodox. But is that why I've never seen your Games on re-runs?"
"Yup," Duke nodded. "And probably why we'll never see yours re-aired, either. As punishment, I was made into an aberration. A freak accident. But they used me because I could then train future tributes. It's as I said the first time we were on the train: the world is not as black and white as you think." He gripped Haymitch's shoulders. "And I played right into the Capitol's trick. Drugging myself out to forget the pain. Haymitch, whatever you do, don't do what I did. Because then the Capitol will have won."
Haymitch didn't keep that promise, of course. How could he? The pain of losing his girl and his family was too great.
The first time Duke caught Haymitch with a bottle during the Victory Tour, he went ballistic and threw it into the fire. But after a time, he gave up and let it slide.
The first year, Duke and Haymitch went back to the Capitol together to mentor, so the master could train his new apprentice. After that, Haymitch took over and went on his own – by now, addicted to alcohol and usually drunk.
So it was seen as serendipity then, when, having produced a successor and trained him as an apprentice, Duke Vedaldi passed away suddenly after the 53rd Hunger Games, dead of a drug overdose.
A/N: It is well known in the books that Haymitch had a little brother. I based him off of my own brother with special needs because I wanted there to be someone to totally break Haymitch beyond even his mother and girlfriend being killed.
