CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Words: 2,319

They walked briskly down the dark corridor.

"Get him to Detox," Coin said.

"I'm fine," replied Haymitch, the bag Effie gave him in his hand.

"You're not fine. You're still going through withdrawals; I can tell by the way your hands are shaking. I need you detoxed ASAP because I don't have time for your snide remarks or crankiness. Not to mention I need your mind off of the bottle and onto
the larger matter at hand."

Haymitch bit his cheek, glancing sideways at Plutarch, who refused to meet his eye.

Haymitch scowled.

"What happened to your face?"

"Our Mockingjay is pissed that we didn't save the boy as well." He wouldn't give anyone of the satisfaction of letting anyone know how badly his face hurt.

His girl could hit.

He'd be proud if it didn't hurt so damn badly.

"I did say I'd rather have him, but no one listened. She'll have to get over it," Coin said coolly. The three of them stopped at a gray door. "This is where we part. You'll be secluded until you're deemed able to leave. Until then." She shook his hand,
her grip firm, and turned to Plutarch. "I imagine you want to sleep. Give me an hour of your time after you deal with him and I'll grant you that. My office in twenty, Soldier."

And with that, she was gone.

"She is strangely dislikable," muttered Haymitch.

Plutarch cracked somewhat of a smile. "That's why we had you mainly deal with Paylor." Plutarch acknowledged the guard's presence, and following the guard, the two of them made their way to what would be Haymitch's home for the next few months. "You'll
probably go stir crazy so I'll try and get you in on the action as soon as I can. You're somewhat of a legend here, so it shouldn't be too difficult. Most people know how long you've been in on this. So do me a favor… don't blow it."

"Don't I always rise to the occasion?"

Plutarch arched an eyebrow.

"Okay, so I'm a screw up. But there's too much at stake here. I'll do what I'm supposed to."

"Good. And just so you know, District 13 strongly believes in Prohibition. You'll find no alcohol here, and even rubbing alcohol is kept under lock and key."

Haymitch sighed. "Let's get this shit over with."

"I think this will be a good time. You should let yourself heal. Heal and… mourn." Plutarch hesitated once he reached the door, and then slowly turned around. "For what it's worth… I'm sorry about Chaff. He was a good soldier."

Plutarch left, and Haymitch wished more than ever he had a drink.

Whether it was for Chaff or Effie, he wasn't sure.

XxXxXxXx

Haymitch watched, slightly amused, as Plutarch paced back and forth. "She's horrible, Haymitch. I mean really, really bad. In the Games you forget she's a fifteen, sixteen-year-old girl. She's vicious. But here in 13? She's nothing but a child."

"With a broken heart," Haymitch muttered. "You can't force Katniss Everdeen to do anything. She's from the Seam. That's how we're made. Let her go to 12."

"There's nothing there, Haymitch."

"Let her see that."

Plutarch stared at Haymitch Abernathy, former Victor of the 50th Hunger Games, a Quarter Quell, and most devoted person in the rebellion. Plutarch hadn't been lying when he had told Haymitch that he was a legend. He was respected. Always had been, and
always would be. Haymitch may have a temper; he may be a drunk; he may be incredibly difficult to work with. But the man was brilliant, and his brain never stopped working, even in his drunken stupors.

Plutarch trusted Haymitch with his life.

"Okay. I'll suggest it at the meeting tomorrow."

Haymitch nodded his goodbye, his face immediately turning gloomy the minute Plutarch was gone.

It was crazy. Insane, really, how this time last year solitary confinement wouldn't have bothered him. Not in the least. But now? Now he fucking hated it. He was damned miserable. The only people he saw was Plutarch.

Katniss hated him.

And damn it, she should. Peeta was supposed to be taken out of that Arena alive. All the people who had died on his behalf, only for him to be left?

Thinking about it made him want to dive head first into the nearestliquor bottle.

Only there was no liquor bottle to dive head first into.

Not in 13.

Blasted District.

How the hell was he supposed to function?

He couldn't. There was actually no way to possibly function.

Not with the withdrawal symptoms.

He was losing weight—Plutarch told him that at some point they were going to make him start working out, but not now. Now his skin was yellow, his hair matted, his cheeks hollow.

He hated being this sober.

The nightmares kept coming back. And the hallucinations.

Not just ones about his girl and his family. But ones about Katniss and Peeta, and Chaff. Chaff who was already dead, and could be added to the list of ghosts who'd haunt him for the rest of his life.

And he had dreams of Effie.

So many dreams of Effie.

Most nights he couldn't figure out if he was throwing up because of his dreams or the lack of alcohol.

He had to keep reminding himself that Effie was safe. They had left her behind because it was safer.

Plutarch had promised him that she'd be safer.

Course there was no point in promises when it came to war.

He was really good at keeping thoughts of Effie at bay.

Until night fell.

When he realized how lonely he was, and how in a few short days he'd gotten to her body, next to his.

Fucking A why did they ever cross that line?

If it wasn't for Plutarch Haymitch would have gone mad. He kept him updated about everything going on: Katniss going to 12 with Gale, and secretly coming back with Buttercup. Her agreeing to be the Mockingjay after Peeta's own propo.

Peeta.

Haymitch had nearly wept with relief when he found out Peeta was still alive, until he realized the alcohol was making him stupid.

This was bad. Really bad. There was only one reason Snow would keep that boy alive, and it was to fuck with Katniss.

When he found out Annie had been taken to get to Finn, Haymitch threw up all night.

Whether it was from withdrawls or fear he wasn't sure.

He was going soft.

He blamed Katniss. Katniss had changed something in him, probably because she reminded him of himself from head to toe, and he'd forced himself to care about her. Then Peeta came, politely fucking asking his way into the corners of Haymitch's dormant
heart.

And then once he let them in, it only made sense to add Cinna and Portia.

Which then, in turn, forced him to open up to Effie.

Fucking shit.

How did he get here?

That was easy. Lack of medicinal liquid.

He was forced to remain sober. It was amazing what sobriety could do to a man.

He was going insane.

As time passed, he started to wonder if any of this was even worth it.

He thought back to how he'd first gotten involved. It'd only been six months after Snow killed his family, on his Victory Tour, where he'd first met Chaff. Chaff was already something of a legend. He'd refused to have his arm fixed, which in itself was
considered defiant.

They'd been cut from the same cloth, those two.

They'd chatted over drinks at the bar of his Victory Ball, and after about an hour they had left the bar and gone to a booth. Chaff had suggested it, and Haymitch had thought nothing of it at first.

"You defied the Capitol," Chaff had said bluntly, and Haymitch had jerked in his seat.

"Well so did you," said Haymitch in response.

Chaff gave him a dark smile. "Yes. Yes, I did. And I'm damned glad I did, too."

Haymitch had looked around, his eyes darting in every direction nervously.

"Relax," Chaff said smoothly. "Don't draw any attention to yourself, or us. I'm just going to ask you a simple question, okay? It's yes or no. If no, you can walk out of here, none the wiser. If yes, I can figure out if you're trust worthy or not, and
we can go from there."

Haymitch looked at Chaff, and something in his gut told him that this conversation would change his life forever, as bloody cliché as it was.

He had thrown back another drink—he was still new to the beauty of alcohol then—and asked, "What's your question?"

Chaff leaned closer to Haymitch, folding his arms on the table. "Would you like to avenge your family's death?"

Haymitch hadn't even hesitated. In fact he had answered so quickly that he didn't get a chance to wonder if he was being set up. He just looked Chaff dead in his eye and said, "Fuck yah."

And it had been the start of a beautiful friendship.

He'd been told about a whole different world: about District 13, and how it was still around.

District 13, who was once known for its weaponry.

One of the most vivid conversations Haymitch remembered having with Chaff was about the symbol. They were discussing how 13 needed a symbol of sorts to let people know about the Rebellion, whenever it finally presented itself. Something about putting
it on the old footage of 13. They had a guy—Beetee from District 3—who could hack into the system and inplant the symbol.

"What could we use?" Haymitch had asked, taking a sip out of his bottle. He was a professional drinker now.

Chaff had leaned in closer. "Your story resonated with a lot of us closes to the Rebellion. It nearly ignited another spark amongst the Victors. We were pissed. So we thought… what if we used Masilee's Mockingjay?"

Haymitch had stared at Chaff, stunned.

The Mockingjay.

The bird that was never supposed to be.

Its very existence was rebellious.

He had obliged.

When Beetee became a Tribute a year later, all hell broke loose.

Whispers of there being a leak in the group started to surface, and things had shut down.

But that Mockingjay on the old footage always stayed in the right hand corner.

Gradually trust started to be rebuilt. They'd allowed more people in. Finnick. Johanna. Seeder.

They just needed the spark.

It started with a Volunteer.

And when he'd seen her with that Mockingjay pin, the wheels started turning.

The pressure was paramount.

And Katniss was naturally a Rebel. It was in her all along. All she needed was a push.

And then he'd grown to care about her, but by then it was too late.

And now he was more worried than ever. He was always worried. He'd been worried ever since Katniss had buried Rue, but before he could bury the worry in a deep, dark, sacred corner. He'd only have to visit that worry when he ran out of liquor, and then
he was back to channeling it—or if he was really luck, ignoring it—until he got his next drink.

But now?

Now he was constantly worried about something, least of all himself.

And he was pretty sure he was dying.

But no, he spent time worrying about Katniss, despite the fact that she currently hated his guts—he could just add her to the long list of people he'd betrayed over the years.

He thought about Peeta, and what they were doing to him in the Capitol, because they had to be punishing him somehow. The boy wouldn't go untouched, and the fact that Snow was keeping him alive scared Haymitch more than anything. And he'd been
the most innocent out of all of them. All he ever wanted to do was to protect the girl he'd loved.

He tried not to, but he also thought about Effie.

Haymitch did a great job of keeping her memory away during the day.

It was the nightmares that got to him.

She was always in them. It never failed.

Most of the time he dreamt about his first girl—and when had he start calling her his 'first,' as if he had two? Fawn. He'd call her by her name: Fawn Greir. He hadn't said her name to himself in years.

God she'd been beautiful. Dark brown hair that rivaled the best dark chocolate. Stormy gray eyes that rivaled the night sky. Dark olive skin that glistened.

But she was never pretty in his dreams.

Somehow Fawn always found her way into his Games. Most of the time Masilee would turn into Fawn, and sometimes Fawn would turn into Masilee. Either way it always ended with one of them dead in his arms.

Lately, though, it'd always been Fawn. They'd be running through a meadow, laughing, carefree, almost. Then they'd be Reapead, and his imagination came up with numerous ways to make sure she was killed, and that he'd never save her in time.

And every single time he reached her broken, dead body, and turned her own, she'd turn into Effie Trinket.

He found it difficult to understand how he still had anything left in his stomach to throw up.

He was never supposed to fucking care, damn it.

Nor was he supposed to miss her.

So when thoughts of her plagued his mind, he ignored them, for as long as he could, because damn it he needed to forget about her. He'd probably die in this damn Rebellion, anyway. It wouldn't be so damn bad. He'd be able to see Chaff and Cinna, and his
mother and brother, and his first girl.

Fawn.

Long as he didn't see Effie.

He had no reason to think he would.

She was safe.