Disclaimer is attached to the first chapter.

Note: Sorry this is two days late. I had the next chapter ready, and then this thread turned up at the last minute and demanded to be added. I'll post the next chapter a bit early to make up for this one being late.

Capitol Nights, chapter 56

Effie eyes a bright green wig with the acquisitiveness of a crow looking at a snippet of ribbon. Her fingers play over Haymitch's arm before she tears her gaze away from the newly found treasure to smile up at him. "What do you think?" she asks, a bit tentatively.

Haymitch looks doubtfully at the lurid headgear, trying to think of a response not wholly discouraging. "Green, Effie?" he tries.

"Why do I ask you?" Effie murmurs rhetorically, her attention already back on the display.

Haymitch shrugs and looks around, wishing he could be simply bored and irritated by all this. That would be the natural response to wig shopping with Effie, an ordeal he'd never imagined would constitute part of his life. This really shouldn't be part of his life. It's a bit too much. He ought to be planning ways to punish her for this. If he got drunk enough, maybe he could do some creative modeling with the brighter wigs…

The tension and the carefully suppressed fear nix any chance of revenge, though. Big day today. Big, big day. Effie has no idea just how big.

"How about those?" he says, nudging her and pointing to a tier of various shades of blond with flowers set in them.

Effie gives him a suspicious look, sure he's teasing her. "Those are for children," she says slowly when he doesn't respond to the look.

Haymitch sighs, exasperated. "Get the green one, then. It matches your eyes, I guess. Because hair color should match eye color."

Effie's expression softens. "I know you're bored. Why don't we go to Interesting Diversions next? You could pick out a flask to match next year's Reaping dress."

"That's the actual name of the store?" he asks, snickering.

"Yes, it is," Effie says with great equanimity. Then her control breaks and she giggles, raising a delicate hand to hide her mirth. "It's not funny!" she insists in a high-pitched whisper-laugh.

"Quick, Effie: first three things that pop into your pretty little mind when I say… interesting diversions," he prods her, grinning.

"Oh… stop!" she gets out, laughing helplessly and slapping weakly at his arm. "Your… your cut-crystal flask… came from there!"

With a burlesque look of horror, Haymitch draws the offending item out of his jacket pocket. He sets it on the shelf next to the green wig and takes a large step back. "I'll bring one from home next time. Worst that'll have lurking in it is dirt and maybe chicken crap."

"Ignorant savage," Effie opines, her eyes dancing with merriment.

"Guess it must be so." Haymitch shrugs and looks around again. No one's watching them. All of the other patrons are busy in their perusal of the wares, and none are within ten feet of them. They won't get a better opportunity.

"Going to find the men's room," he says to Effie. "I'll meet you there."

Effie doesn't say anything, doesn't even look at him. The not-looking is fine. The not-saying is ominous as a roll of thunder when you have your arms full of liquor crates and more than a mile to walk back to the Village. Her hand tightens on his arm and he thinks bleakly, Here we go. I knew she couldn't. He can play off his statement, and probably whatever she's about to say. But he can't leave her here if she's lost her nerve.

Then Effie turns and plants a quick kiss on his cheek, startling as a static shock. "Don't be late," she says, looking intensely up into his eyes. But at least her voice sounds okay. "I want a table on the terrace." She lets go of his arm and starts pointedly looking around for a sales associate to take the wig to a dressing room for her.

Haymitch turns and walks out of the shop without a backwards glance, ostensibly searching for one of the self-cleaning pay toilets that stand unobtrusively on every street in this section of the city. There's one at the next corner, but luck is with him so far. The little 'occupied' sign is lit. Trying to slow his heart a little, Haymitch walks on down the street and turns into the next side street.

He walks twenty blocks, navigating solely by a memorized map and a memorized set of directions. Even with the gnawing worry about Effie and the all-pervading fear of being caught, he doesn't make a single wrong turn. This had been what most of his latest session with Plutarch had consisted of- the part of it he'd been awake for, anyway. Plutarch had had him recite the directions at least two dozen times, and draw the map by memory on scraps of paper Plutarch had then set on fire one by one. The ringleaders are all worked up about this one.

Stepping out of a nameless alley too narrow to even hold the usual row of trash cans, he finally spies the rendezvous site. He doesn't allow his steps to falter, but his lips quirk in a wry smile. 'Course, he'd known, but to fully appreciate this you gotta be there. It's a boutique with a red and black striped sign, red bunting around the show window, and the window itself painted with a very feminine tiger and a pointedly male wolf. These two animals are eyeing each other in a way that leaves no room at all for an innocent interpretation. In white spiky letters above this unlikely couple is the store's name: Wild Things. This is, of course, a very inconspicuous place for a faction of an underground resistance movement to meet.

Haymitch can't help casting a furtive look around before stepping into the store. If a single so-called reporter for one of the entertainment glossies saw him go in here… Well, if they did then you're dead, he tells himself with counterfeit resolve. Not a damn thing to be done about it now.

Of course, he might well have earned himself a questioning by someone several times over before he even got here. Twenty blocks he'd walked, a lot of it on busy streets, in full daylight, with no disguise, on a day when his only official reason for being in the Capitol is Effie. No one had challenged him, of course. Doesn't mean no one noticed. At least a few people undoubtedly did notice the notorious senior Victor of District 12 pass them on the sidewalk today.

The shop is mostly animal-themed lingerie, although one may also purchase such things as wolf masks that cover the entire head, and various kinds of tails. There aren't any customers in sight, nor does he see the proprietor.

Haymitch steps through a dense beaded curtain behind an owl display and someone immediately lays hold of his arm and squeezes. "Don't do that!" a voice hisses even as Haymitch twists his arm out of the tight grasp and shoves the barely seen person away from himself. A surprised little "oof!" noise comes from the floor.

Haymitch's eyes are adjusting to the near-darkness; he can make out two women, one sitting on the floor and staring up at him while the other stands behind her.

"Come on, quickly," the upright one hisses, pulling her compatriot to her feet. They turn and lead the way down a flight of stairs. What little light there is quickly diminishes as they descend. Holding onto the banister, Haymitch tries to distract himself by admiring the not-inconsiderable view. The women are of the young, perfectly proportioned sort that become more and more common the closer one gets to the presidential manor. Tiny waists, shapely rears, long legs. They'll be equally impressive from the front. The one he'd inadvertently knocked down is directly in front of him, dressed in a halter top and bikini bottoms covered by a very sheer sari. If they weren't descending into a lightless pit where they could all be trapped by a single Capitol Guard with stupid ease, he could really get into a view like this.

At the foot of the stairs there's a door that isn't made of strings of beads. The leading woman ushers them through before closing the door and turning the deadbolt.

"Whisper. This isn't sound-proofed," she tells them. She meets Haymitch's gray eyes with her bright orange ones. "Hello, Timerian. I'm Tamerlane, and this is Samarcand." She waves at her scantily clad friend, who curtsies. "We're going to do your prep. You can tell me if something makes you uncomfortable, but we really have to hurry. So try to bear with us, if you can. Okay?"

"There isn't a single damn things you can do that is even going to be a blip on my radar, little darling," Haymitch says aggressively. "I don't know who told you that you were intimidating, but you must be a hell of an easy lay if you're that gullible."

"Sit down, then, and we'll get started," Tamerlane says tightly, narrowing her eyes. She juts her chin in the direction of a chair and table set up directly under the ceiling light.

"Bring it," Haymitch says, dropping gracelessly into the chair.

"Quite a jump you gave up top, for such a macho guy," Samarcand snipes, picking up a comb.

"Leave it, Samarcand," Tamerlane says soothingly. "We have to focus."

"I'm going to focus," Samarcand snaps. She begins to comb Haymitch's hair briskly and expertly, twisting it into a top-knot with one hand and snatching a black elastic with the other. "He's a boorish, uncouth, posturing lout." She takes a deep breath. "That's all I'm going to say. Now, where's the wig cap?"

"Here," Tamerlane says simply, passing it to her.

"I don't like people fucking grabbing me in the dark," Haymitch growls defensively. Neither woman replies, and after a moment he mutters, "Sorry. About the 'easy lay' bit."

"Thank you," Tamerlane says graciously. "Hands flat on the table, please." Samarcand doesn't say anything, but she flashes a smile at him before reaching for the wig.

Barely twenty minutes later Haymitch steps out into the store again. There are a couple of people browsing the racks now, but their casual glances slide off him almost at once. He's no one of note. No one interesting. Best of all, no one memorable. Awesome.

He's dressed mostly in black, the clothes so perfectly fitted that whoever provided them must have been given his measurements. The cuffs of the trousers have a cut flare adorned with deep red embroidery, so it kind of looks like bloody slashes in his ankles are gaping open as he walks. The same designs cover the lower half of his long-sleeved shirt. His hands are clad in black silk gloves, the backs of which are covered in a mosaic of dark red glass. They've given him a mustache and a full beard that comes to a sharp point at the base of his throat, both dyed deep red. The wig is made up of hundreds of thin, red, shoulder-length braids. As a finishing touch they'd painted the diamonds along his ear with a red polish to make them look like rubies, although he'd been told to let the wig hide his ear as much as possible. In his right hand he carries a black walking stick topped with a silver dog head. The dog appears to be laughing.

Some six blocks away he comes to the ice cream parlor that is the next station in this business. He stops near the door, looking around casually and twirling the walking stick. And before he even has time to start feeling very, very conspicuous- not to mention incredibly stupid- a girl approaches with a bright smile lighting her face. "I've been waiting, father. Right where you said."

"Come, Camille," Haymitch replies, calling up a smile in response. His posing-for-photographers smile, but it seems to work well enough. When he offers her his left hand she takes it unhesitatingly. She looks about eleven, but could be as young as nine. And they're going to her certain death.

Camille never lets go of his hand as they draw near to their destination. She keeps pace with him, not hanging back even as they pass through the gates into the park. Her features are composed, except for her wide and watchful eyes.

Haymitch looks down at her, wondering how much of this she understands. He knows nothing about her except where she would be waiting for him. He doesn't know how old she is, or her real name, or even where she's from. He doesn't know if she's a naïve kid who thinks this will be an adventure, if she dreams of being immortalized as a hero, or if some zealous parent or guardian volunteered her for the suicide mission.

However she ended up here, he knows they'll kill her. Not today, unless someone fucks up royally or they have spectacularly bad luck. Plutarch says they might make it a couple of weeks before the switch is uncovered. But two weeks is nothing to a girl this young. They probably won't torture her; no one would tell a little girl anything of use to the enemy. And Haymitch is sure they told her that, even if nothing else was ever explained or justified to her. They would have told her over and over that it won't hurt.

And then Camille does stop, staring down the path. They've arrived, and so have the people they've come to meet. At a bend in the path, walled in by tall hedges on both sides, two scarlet-uniformed Avoxes watch them with the blank lack of expression that's so characteristic of the slaves that serve in the presidential manor. They don't smile, or look stern, or bored. If anything, they look faintly expectant. These two are both young women. One rests her hand proprietarily on the shoulder of a young blonde who could easily be Camille's twin. Both girls have the same hairstyle, braids pinned up in a deceptively simple-looking fashion. The Avoxes' girl wears a jeweled butterfly pin in hers. Their dresses are not the same, but Camille's could be described as an only slightly less expensive and less fine version of her doppelganger's. Standing between her nanny and her hand-maid, Cordelia Snow looks at and through the newcomers with none of the wonder or fear that shines from Camille's face.

"Camille," Haymitch prompts, twitching her hand. Camille tips her face up to his, and for a few still and silent seconds she begs him to take her away. Eyes stained bright blue just days ago pierce him. Camille shakes her head minutely, but she doesn't make a sound. She knows what's at stake.

"Come, Camille," Haymitch says in negation. He can't drag her over there, even if he would. Ultimately this scheme depends upon her cooperation. She has to consent to be killed for the cause. Were it possible to simply pick her up and toss her over the side of the ship if she balked at walking the plank, Haymitch knows he would have orders to do so. And he really doesn't want to know if he would follow those orders.

Camille shuts her eyes for a beat, working to put her mask back in place. Then she says, "Yes, father." She walks forward again, leaving behind her last chance.

Reaching the Avoxes, Haymitch produces a plain wooden box from his pocket, no bigger than a match box. He hands it over to the Avox who doesn't have her hand on the girl's shoulder, and the woman nods and pockets it with no change in her expression at all. The other one unclips the butterfly from her charge's golden hair and puts it in her own pocket. She'll fix it into Camille's hair once Cordelia is safely out of sight. Then she guides the president's granddaughter forward and Haymitch takes Cordelia's hand as Camille watches mutely.

"You'll come with me, Cordelia," Haymitch says, firmly and reassuringly, trying to sound as much like Peeta as he can- and as little like himself as possible. He's half-sure she'll ask who he thinks he is and demand that he let go of her at once. Instead, she looks at him with a drugged, pitiful curiosity before losing focus and going back to looking at nothing in particular. She's doped to the eyeballs with something called Devil's Breath that's supposed to make her very compliant and suggestible. Capitol drugs. The wonders they can work, Haymitch thinks with bitter amusement.

Camille joins the Avoxes. The two women turn and walk away, and Camille steps up her pace to walk in front of them, where anyone would expect to see Cordelia. Ten paces ahead of the women, her walk becomes unhurried and casual. Her step and posture proclaim her sense of pride and power, still mostly unconscious at this age. Whatever she does or doesn't understand about her new situation, someone trained her well for this.

Haymitch and Cordelia walk off in the opposite direction; very soon they are lost in the warren of side streets and increasingly narrow alleys.