CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: THE BEST OF GIFTS

"The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him."

G. K. Chesterton

My first arrow pierces the tender flesh of the nearest Monster-Bat, and the creature screams as it makes contact with the ground. I'm not sure if this is intentional or not, but it seems like every time one of those things screams, the Gamemakers cue a crack of thunder in perfect harmony. I'm sure it's meant to exemplify the horror of it all, but frankly, it's just pissing me off. I can only focus on a single threat right now, and that threat, obviously, is the winged bats swooping menacingly above the forest. The thunder, lightning – and everything else for that matter – will just have to wait. The Gamemakers need to stop fucking with my concentration.

"Just die, you stupid beast!" I yell, crushing the head of an unfortunate creature that fell out of the sky and into my path. Its leathery wings beat helplessly against the ground for a few lengthy seconds, but then a shudder passes through it and the Monster-Bat dies. Great, I think despondently. Two down, thirty-eight to go!

With Cato by my side, I'm sure the two of us could take out this newest abomination in no time. What's a few scratches compared to being thrashed about and possibly poisoned, then ripped apart, then chomped on to death? But Cato's a bit…occupied. Hopefully he'll rid the world of his endearing district partner soon – though by the looks of it, that didn't seem to be the case when I made my escape. However, I know I did the right thing in leaving; if I stayed, the bats would've wormed their way inside the Cornucopia, killing us in what would inevitably result in a feeding frenzy. I saved the three of us from a horrible, bloody fate.

I snort. Too bad there's no one around to thank me.

A shadow looms over my right shoulder, and without breaking stride I knock the approaching bat out of the air with my bow, putting all my strength into it. The Monster-Bat flounders for a moment, bewildered, and I take my opportunity; whipping another arrow into position, I let it fly straight through its ugly, bulbous head. Three down. I'm on a roll here. But, well…there's one slight problem that may hinder my winning this battle: I have approximately one arrow left in my cache.

"Oh, shit," I whisper. How did I not prepare myself ahead of time? I knew this moment was coming. I must've been too busy slobbering over Cato, and the thought of that blue-eyed, tightly muscled, sweet-talking boy ruining my chances of winning the Games infuriates me.

Another Monster-Bat is bearing down on me, veiny wings outstretched to their full length, mouth open, teeth glistening. Defeated, I finally stop running. Going down on one knee, I squeeze one eye shut, put the creature's forehead in my sights, and let my last hope of salvation go.

Four down.

The remaining thirty-six beasts – though there's probably more at this point – are amassing, covering the sky in an ominous cloud. It doesn't matter that night hasn't completely fallen; with the Monster-Bats' presence, everything has been drenched in hues of black and grey. Colors of death. Killing four of them in rapid succession did little to diminish their numbers.

I had no chance of winning this; I see that now. How could I, when all my weapons are gone and the other tributes are off trying to kill each other in the most sadistic way possible? The Gamemakers wanted me to fight for the amusement of the audience, and so I did. Now that the fight's gone out of me, they're thirsting for blood. The Capitol's ready for the Games to end.

How could I have forgotten? The Hunger Games is – above all else – nothing more than quality entertainment.

HAYMITCH'S POV

It's time, he thinks with a carefully composed expression. Wearing this mask has become tiresome, as – day by torturous day – he's been forced to watch children slaughter each other. The amount of stress he's experienced just from watching and (there's really no way around it) waiting for his two recruits to die has taken a massive toll on him, one that even alcohol can't fix. Bottle after bottle after bottle, Haymitch drank until he required medical assistance, and even after they pumped his stomach to within an inch of his life, he'd made a beeline for the nearest crowded bar, where he sat right back down in front of the live broadcast and resumed where he'd left off.

But, little by little, by some insane miracle, Haymitch came back to himself.

At first, when the tribute numbers really began to dwindle, the aged mentor assumed nothing. Luck, he thought to himself. They've survived the Bloodbath, but they're only living on luck and borrowed time now. He didn't believe they would last another night. But they did. And another, and yet another. Something in him began to strengthen. But when Katniss killed her own district partner, he nearly drowned himself in gin. He thought it was all over then. They had lost. He had failed them.

But then…something unexpected.

Katniss fought back.

She used her brain and her skills, her cleverness, caution, and common sense. Haymitch began to watch with a new fervor, fascinated by this girl who had been deemed the girl on fire. Slowly, he had come to admire her, and, even slower still, to root for her.

Now, in what may be his greatest mistake yet, he intends to watch Katniss win.

Slowly rising from his comfortable vinyl seat, Haymitch worms his way through the crowded common room, brushing aside women in drooping floral patterns and vibrant, mismatched pastels. Hair styled in wild arrangements bar his way, but he will let nothing deter him. He casually places his mostly full wine glass on the corner of the bar before sauntering, with sly intent, towards a blocked-off room. The three Peacekeepers standing guard admit him at once.

Several hallways later, Haymitch finds himself outside a locked room. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he presses his index finger against an invisible keypad. Recognizing his print, the door unlocks and allows him access. Stepping into an all-black room, he hears the door click shut behind him. The only furniture in the room is a mahogany table with two items on it; a wrapped, black bundle and a red button carved into the far wall. A bright light burns overhead, illuminating the bleak scene.

Haymitch approaches the table, running his aged hands over the confined object. For the first time in a very long time, he is truly afraid. He barely allows himself to touch this precious package for fear of breaking it. Everything hangs on this item. Everything. Katniss will know what to do with it once she receives it, and if she succeeds…nothing will be the same. This is happening, he thinks numbly. I'm going to press this button, and all hell will break loose.

He hasn't let Snow in on his plan. Why would he? This one aspect he's kept totally secret. The only people who know are Haymitch himself and the man he paid for this shapeless bundle. This secret may cost him his life in the end, but the District 12 mentor thinks he may be able to live with that.

Licking his dry lips, he carefully picks up the package and carries it over to the far wall. Gently placing it in a small hole in the wall that can only be seen if you know where to find it, Haymitch very lightly places his finger on the red button. He inhales deeply, counting silently to ten.

Snow will be furious. The Gamemakers will be confused. The Capitol citizens will shriek with amusement, enthralled by this new development. But the rest of Panem…all those people in the out-lying districts…they're the ones who will cheer silently in locked houses. They're the ones who will benefit from this act of treason the most. They're the ones who need hope.

Haymitch presses the red button, releasing his final piece of advice into the arena. With this, Katniss will know what to do. She'll understand. She may not be the strongest tribute, or the smartest, or the quickest, but she is without a doubt the most determined. And she will win this. Not just for her home district, not even just for her family; she will win the Games because that's what it's going to take to make Snow realize that he can be beaten.

It's a dangerous ploy, but it's the only one he's got.

The bartender wordlessly slides him a new glass of whiskey as he reenters the common area. Retaking his previous seat, Haymitch leans back, nonchalantly crossing his legs. Idly, he lets his gaze wander over the crowd, nodding here and there. Finally, his eyes land on the upper left corner of the vast room.

On screen, Katniss's head jerks up and her body snaps out of its defeated slump.

That's my girl, he thinks with a slow grin. Now let's win this.