A BERRY SWEET VICTORY

After the hellbringers, Haymitch Abernathy disappeared. There were no eclipses near him because there were no lives either.

Every summer I was informed by two dead children that he continued to struggle with mentoring.

At some point he stopped wearing his father's miner jacket and joined a rebellion that the Capitol itself initiated with incidents like Haymitch's spurring it on. Some victors were recruited. Among them were close friends of Haymitch.

Over the years, the grief, what began as a dull, cold ache, had concentrated into a biting line across his middle. Sometimes in the slow, heavy moments before a drunken stupor Haymitch would hike up his shirt and scratch at the invisible stitch, trying to find the fastenings of his wound from the arena that were burnished afterward. Instead his nails sunk into soft skin, an inevitable result of middle age.

His drinking worsened in the race to warm the psychosomatic ice, considering his condition when the boy and girl on fire came along.

You should also know that he did not question things anymore - only expected them, dreaded them. His attitude on everything was to shrug his thoughts like his shoulders and take a long pull from his flask.

When Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark realized that, they became the only tributes under Haymitch to dare to reanimate him.

I had met them both several times prior to their deaths, Katniss even before her Hunger Games career and Peeta Mellark twice in his.

* * * KATNISS EVERDEEN * * *

A black plait swung across her back as she strode,

always forward and determined.

Her face seemed forever pinched into a scowl,

lips naturally pouted and eyes unnaturally guarded.

Her calloused hands remained curled at her sides

as if they had nocked an arrow too many.

Her voice was like that of her father,

one of the songbird and the wood.

My first encounter with Katniss was very familiar, though she had worn a faded belted dress rather than a blackened waxcoat jacket.

I had passed by the Justice Building with a crew of burnt miners, on our way to the congregating January clouds, when a little girl broke away from her mother and sister, both Town-capped, to receive the Medal of Valor. While the girl was Seam, she closely resembled her mother, whom I recognized all those years ago as Verbena.

Artie Everdeen extended his hand, reaching for them, and I gently pulled it back. "Katniss and Primrose," Artie informed me of his daughters' names. Even apart from his body, his voice sang.

A teenage boy followed after Katniss, then held the hand of his pregnant mother when he returned to her and his younger siblings with the plaque. The pregnant widow was once Miss Hazelle Monalow and a friend of Haymitch, as was Artie. Comparing her son to one of the miners, I realized he looked exactly like Rohan Hawthorne, another ex-friend.

How peculiar.

"His name's Gale," Rohan had told me, proud and dead. "You won't meet him for a very long time."

"I hope so," I replied, smiling. He was almost right.

The second encounter was months before the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games.

Outside District Twelve's still-lapsing electric fence, two fugitives were captured. A young lady cried out as an older boy was harpooned. I pulled the weapon out from between his shoulder blades before a net emerged from the underbelly of the hovercraft and dragged the girl inside with the lifeless boy.

All the while, the daughter of Artie Everdeen had hid with the son of Rohan Hawthorne in the undergrowth. They watched and waited for the Capitol to leave their little haven. When the forest resurrected, they raised their longbows, shifted their satchels stuffed with herbs and wildflowers and gutted squirrel carcasses. They resumed surviving.

That year's reaping, the Capitol escort read aloud, "Primrose Everdeen!"

All of Panem watched Katniss volunteer for her little sister.

They also watched their only living victor stagger forward and throw his arm around her shoulders. "Look at her!" cackled Haymitch while Gale Hawthorne carried Primrose back to her bent, crying mother. "Lots of... spunk!" He grinned toward a camera with the seal of Panem attached to it, inebriation having numbed his strained laceration scars. Hand wavering, he pointed at the camera marked as the president's private view. "More than you! More than you-!" As the drunkard tumbled off the stage, headfirst, the crowd let out a collective sigh, either relieved he had stopped making a fool of himself and their district or disappointed that they did not hear the rest of his censure.

In a show of respect and defiance, the people of Twelve touched their fingers to their lips and held them out to the volunteer onstage.

Yes, she was indeed the showstopper the districts needed.

The Capitol woman hurriedly plucked another slip and called out the name of the male tribute. She was like me, culling and delivering the dead. The differences were that I liked Haymitch and she didn't, and I have never worn a pink wig. Did she herself need a name to those people? No, but it was Effie Trinket.

Peeta Mellark almost tripped on the fourth step from the bottom climbing up to the stage. Shaking hands with his district partner, he visibly gulped and squeezed her hand. Katniss raised a brow before she focused her attention on the dreary audience.

Their mentor, a showstopper once himself, met them both on the train that evening, vomiting and then collapsing. He came to with a shudder right when a shower faucet coughed, bringing warm rain.

A damp towel clumsily wiped at his mouth. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Just cleaning you up. I'm, um, Peeta Mellark," answered a boyish voice. The bathroom lights were so damn bright; even squinting he could not see the words' owner.

"Well," Haymitch drawled up at the figure, fulfilling his annual duty of leaving bad first impressions, "if you don't mind, Peeta Mellark, I'll clean myself, thanks." He grimaced as he touched the knot under his black curls, which were soaked with water and stomach contents.

"Yes, sir." The voice sounded grateful.

* * * PEETA MELLARK * * *

Flaxen hair hung in front of his Town blue eyes,

and a button nose underwhelmed his face.

He had the bearing of a short, squat flower,

the arms of a worker - a baker to be exact,

and a comely yet bashful smile that a nation,

a girl, and a chessman grew to love.

On a string that drooped in the middle were Haymitch Abernathy's memories: lacerated, grimy, and beautiful, drenched in alcohol and brine. One literally, despite said metaphorical string, outshone them.

Blazing through the streets of the Capitol towards the Training Center were a boy and a girl on fire. Their contenders also paraded in their costumes, but none held a candle to District Twelve, especially when they themselves were torches. With capes and crowns of fire and coal-black suits, Katniss and Peeta were tributes - pawns - ready to unknowingly set a nation aflame with rebellion.

* * * FOR FUTURE REFERENCE * * *

Coal is useful as it burns,

but then it disintegrates.

Their flames, projected on all the screens, flickered off Haymitch's face. Chaff stood beside him, his dark, pockmarked features awash with amazement.

"Better get your sponsors ready," advised the District Eleven victor. He jerked his chin in the direction of a cheering group of bird people. A playful shove followed.

Shoving back, Haymitch said, "Aren't you coming along? You've got a fighter this year."

"But he's not on fire at the moment." Chaff grinned, Haymitch smirked, and that was them. "I'll go later when my boy really gets attention - after training scores and that."

Haymitch decided years ago that he would more than tolerate Chaff Anders when the older man had told him over lip-stained glasses and misery, "You know, I've got a ma and pops back home, and a sister, and a wife. Used to have a little brother, too, but I refused the ultimatum the first time around - just like their damn prosthetic - and, well, I feel for you. I do."

Of course, such moments happened, never to be forgotten, and yet never spoken of again. Such were the memories of the Capitol devices.

A gong announced the start of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, and Haymitch felt a hand grab his own. The eyes of Effie Trinket were a sparkling dark blue, false as her eyelashes. He wrenched away, grumbling something about her pointed acrylic fingernails.

They both stared through the screen, into the forested arena, at the tribute grappling with Peeta Mellark.

* * * FOR LIFE AND A KNIFE * * *

The charming Town boy,

who had publicly declared his unrequited love

for Katniss the night before,

sat on the chest of a District Four male tribute

and strangled him,

thumbs overlapped on his neck,

clenching.

After sunset, at last, the Hunger Games cut to Capitol commercials so the portraits of the eliminated could be shown. One advertised a hit gossip show, showing celebrities, politicians, and even victors.

Finnick Odair flashed upon the screen showing what was broadcasted. According to the glitzy show host, the victor was seen last night with Gamemaker Aegidius Bernstone! The host inquired aloud if their possible fling could enhance the odds of the District Four tributes' favor.

"Considering his kid just died a couple hours ago, I doubt it," muttered Haymitch. Effie, fully engrossed in the commercial, shushed him. He left the Control Room for coffee.

They, along with some other mentors and escorts, had barely exhaled throughout the entire first day - only a sharp inhale, never a release. They inflated. Those who left when the canons fired a dozen times were deflated.

Katniss' first alliance in the arena was not Peeta. Rue of Eleven was a bird in her own way, a small, dark one that flitted between branches because the canopy was too open and the ground too dangerous. Together they dropped a nest of mutant wasps on some tributes and then blew up all of their food - just two pawns surviving the Games.

A young man from One ensnared Rue and speared her in the stomach, just under her wings. Katniss shot him through the neck.

While his Seam eyes reflected her dying ally, Haymitch only thought of his, Maysilee Donner, and how he could not rescue her from me as well. As Effie sniffled beside him, he realized his throat had tightened, though he was not sure whom it was for.

When I collected the District One tribute, he was flat on his back, knees folded under him. I helped him up and he frowned at the hovercraft above us, the leaden sky rimmed around it.

Rue had vibrant wildflowers in her black hair and tiny hands. She kept them and hummed her final lullaby Katniss had sung as the three of us walked on. Her ally sobbed nearby.

That evening, an announcement declared two victors could win if they were district partners.

Immersed in a riverbank, Peeta smiled.

Perched high in a tree facing south, Katniss called his name.

Swivelling idly in his chair, Haymitch closed his eyes and breathed - in and out. Please.

I officially met Peeta shortly after, his hair speckled with mud and blood. A tear in his pantleg revealed a rather infected gash. Katniss mopped up the pus, blood, and other fluids, looking as nauseous than Peeta. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and his breathing stilled. I reached for him.

Katniss stroked his cheek and then shook his shoulder, brushing me off. "Hey," she called, not knowing it was a greeting. "You awake?"

Peeta hoarsely replied, "Yeah, I'm awake."

The twenty-two souls collected during those Games were the usual intolerable. One had not yet fallen to the ground when her canon fired. Her hands and lips were stained dark with berries. Her demise was held in her slackened fingers.

* * * THE GAMEMAKER GUIDE: NIGHTLOCK * * *

A fatal combination

of nightshade and hemlock.

Sown in forested arenas,

first appearing in the

Second Quarter Quell.

Katniss scooped them into a pouch, an action that determined the outcome of the second civil war.

Mutant wolves surrounded the three remaining tributes at the Cornucopia. A colossal boy from Two I had already gotten to know through his victims, including Chaff's fighter, kept Peeta in a chokehold while Katniss' arrow aimed for his forehead: a stalemate. Peeta painted a bloody X on the back of his assailant's hand. Her arrow hit the target with a muted squelch. The District Two tribute howled like the wolves circling the golden statue beneath them, and soon met them after Peeta shoved him off the Cornucopia.

Because of a weak please, an arrow from Katniss Everdeen's quiver found its temporary home in his skull.

I pulled the boy to his feet, to his defeat. "Whatever. They damn well deserve to go home together," he said.

Shrieking, the Capitol woman impulsively kissed Haymitch on the cheek and danced in her swivel chair. Haymitch slouched, dumbstruck, gawking at the screen, at Katniss and Peeta, his not-losers, his victors. He might have smiled.

Then, a booming voice negated the earlier announcement. Rules were rules: there could only be one victor.

"No," croaked their mentor, maybe all of Panem. His bloodshot eyes stung hotly around the rims. The victors gathered in his Control Room murmured dissent.

Another announcement frantically apologized for the previous one just as the nightlock berries teasingly kissed the lips of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark.

I present to you the star-crossed victors of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games. Victory is sweet, isn't it? Sweet as berries.

The train ride back to Twelve was quiet.

In the chess game, Haymitch had only checked the president using his two pawns, and that was why he worried. His opening move was not a checkmate either, as impossible as that was, and it had cost him his loved ones. No doubt the president was angered by his champions. Haymitch could only wait for his reciprocating maneuver.

While the rebellion stirred the country, ardent yet uneasy, life happened for Haymitch Abernathy.

In the year after the double victory to the Third Quarter Quell, as either fellow victor sat next to him, with him, Haymitch grudgingly decided he liked the new company of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, no matter how virulent he was to them on many, many occasions.

Those children woke him up.

AN: Chapter title just makes me giggle. Bad puns are the best puns! Well, we're in the home stretch now. I hope you enjoy these last few (long) chapters that will cover the actual series and then some.