AN: I've revised and expanded Beholden from a one shot to a 7 part story. Part 2 & 3 contain the revised and expanded original one-shot. For the actual newly posted chapter, see Part 1.

Original AN: Forgive me. Not trying to write a MarySue!Madge, but she doesn't strike me as being street smart…to an extent. Do I think she's involved in the rebellions? Yes. But she's not Katniss, either. So, that's where I'm coming from.

Beholden

"Most of the Peacekeepers turn a blind eye to the few of us who hunt because they're as hungry for fresh meat as anybody is." — Katniss

Part 2

After taking a basket from the pantry, I slip out through the back door, crunching through snow to get to the gate and the sidewalk beyond. The brisk morning air makes my nose tingle. By the time I'm walking through the residential streets, my hands and cheeks sting. Despite the thick wool of my coat and brisk pace, I shivering. It's a silly day to be outside.

Maybe it's because of the cold that not many people have ventured out into the square yet, even though the shops are open. Or perhaps they celebrated themselves into a stupor, like my dad says? Perhaps they're saving their energy for the Harvest Festival in two days.

The festival promises to be one of many favors from the Capitol this year, in addition to the shipments of sugar, oil, grain, and extra rations all the households have already received. But the banquet held in our home will be a much smaller affair, with attendance restricted to Capitol officials who choose to make the trip, our own district representatives like Rufus Weidenbach and the other clerks in the mayor's office, and guests special to the victors. It doesn't surprise me that Katniss's guest list contains only a fraction of the number of people than Peeta's does, which includes the wrestling team and a lot of other kids from school. Despite it's size, her list holds much more interest for me.

I enter the bizarrely clean business district before reaching town center. The Capitol provided the district with funds to hire men and women to clean up the square, the Justice Building, the Victors' Village, and the grounds around the mayor's mansion before the start of the Victory Tour. All of these places have been and will continue to be seen by viewers all over Panem until they have new victors to follow. The Capitol doesn't approve of the coal dust that provides a constant, dull cover over every building, tree, and light post, and which stains every snow bank — and frankly, most of its people too. Some of the residents have taken the massive cleaning project as a hint to spruce up their own habitations but with lackluster results. Truly, the district looks more smudged than clean except around the square. Despite the efforts, the Hob remains just as it always is, filthy and derelict, looming in the distance beyond the town like a sore thumb.

Hanna says that as the Tour draws closer to District 12, it's becoming an inside joke amongst her neighbors that soon the Capitol will send in teams to personally scrub and groom every last man, woman, and child before they'll be satisfied with the appearance of their poorest district.

It would take all the water in District 4 to accomplish that. So I hope the Capitol has braced itself to experience disappointment. Since they thrive on novelty there, maybe they'll enjoy that.

I reach the square and stop inside Hammond's, the green grocer, first. I'm the only one browsing through wrinkled late summer vegetables that probably should have been canned by now. The sad specimens laying in their crates are the last of a late shipment from the Capitol, which receives the first pickings of every district.

We in Twelve usually receive the last of anything and the prices often quadruple by the time they reach us. Though due to supply and demand or, as some have said, because the Capitol fixes the prices to guarantee profits, who can say? Today I pay especially good attention to the numbers on the labels due to my father's theory that merchants may lean on the till when I come by. The price for the sad zucchini in front of me could probably buy a pound of chicken in the Capitol. The Undersees can afford it. But I'm aware that these prices prohibit other families.

Many of these vegetables on display do not grow in the woods, either. So there's no alternative way to get them, even for the more intrepid individuals in the district. I glance at the snow piled up against the shop facades across the street. Currently nothing's growing in the woods. But even if it did, there's nobody available to scavenge for greens beyond the fence on a regular basis. Not with Katniss on tour. I long for fresh produce. But the squash, wrinkly peppers, onions, carrots, potatoes, and some weeping leeks will have to do. Mrs. Hammond, the grocer's wife, measures out some dried beans for me. Then she puts the vegetables into the burlap bags I brought in the basket. Her two small children stare up at my face from under the board that serves as a counter for her till. I smile at them while she fills out a receipt slip for me; one giggles and the other hides.

The square begins to look a little livelier when I step out of the shop. I have to cross in front of the Justice Building on my way to my next errand and I wonder how my father's meeting with Cray is going. I'm more familiar with the interior of this building than most people my age. Those few kids who have seen the interior tend to leave and not come back. Dad's office doesn't face into the square, so I can't try to peek inside or see if he's looking out the window. I hesitate in front of the steps leading up to the heavy double doors, playing with the idea of going inside to offer moral support. But then, if Dad is like me, then he won't want an audience if the conversation's a flop.

I hear trudging footsteps approaching me from the side, punctuated by a sniffle. My heart sinks. Only one person in this district can sniffle like a truck idling. Cole Binns stops in front of the steps next to me.

The junior clerk looks like a garden rake wrapped in a winter coat that ran out of warmth several hours ago. I have to crane my neck backward to look him in the eyes. He's taller even than my father. And some other people. And bony. Shoulders that slant from his neck like an inverted V. A beaked nose set in a turnip face. He's also the reason why the word "proboscis" hasn't gone out of use yet. His nose practically has its own dimension. And right now it's inflamed, probably as a result of being dabbed repeatedly with the cotton rag in Cole's hand.

He removes his hat, like one of those old-timey gentlemen in historical films from before Panem, revealing a mop of ashy blond hair that's parted too close to one of his ears. The part gives him an unnecessary comb-over. I suspect he wears it that way on purpose to resemble my father…who really needs the comb-over. Anyone within a mile radius of Cole knows exactly what his twenty year plan looks like. He had the Treaty of Treason memorized after his third day at work. I know. I asked him.

Cole's perhaps twenty years old, or will be, and lives in a boarding house for single men with either no family or those who can afford to live apart from them. He has a mother and a sister in town. That makes him somewhat well-to-do in District Twelve. He's the new junior clerk under my father after the last one, Cletus Burdick, decided he'd rather keep his hair than follow in my father's footsteps one day.

Mr. Burdick had decided to focus on a rising career as a notary public under old Rufus Weidenbach, the district clerk in charge of vital records, witnessing weddings, and maintaining a baseline of local business red tape…in triplicate.

Unlike Burdick, Cole has the advantage of being too young and too new to remember me as a young girl running around the Justice Building on days when my mother took to bed and Hanna couldn't stay to watch me. Poor Mr. Burdick frequently got stuck prying open the derelict elevator doors whenever I'd purposely press the emergency stop button. The facilities manager at the time had gone on strike over that button and had it written into his contract that he didn't have to touch the elevator on days when the mayor's daughter was present in the building. I don't think Burdick knew I pressed the button on purpose for the fun of it. And maybe for the attention. That elevator's a death trap and probably a century past its expiration date, which is a good alibi when you're a bored child.

My father likes his junior clerk, so I paste an obligatory smile to my face. "Hello, Cole."

He sniffs, then dabs. "It's a p-pleasure to see you again, Miss Undersee."

I stifle a grimace. Cole is nothing if not exact, so his word choice could be alarmingly problematic if he didn't cling to using my surname. On rare occasions when he's feeling casual, I have gotten him to at least call me Miss Margaret. It makes me sound like a school marm or some character in a children's rhyme. But he'd probably only call me Madge if he wanted to feel immoral. I've often suggested it just to see him squirm. The day he takes me up on it will be the day I disappear through the fence for good.

"It's a beautiful morning," I reflect, despite the evidence.

Cole's pale eyes have a washed out quality and they survey the snowy square without relish. When his eyes return back at me, he looks concerned that he'll have to contradict me. And I can tell by the set of his mouth that he's about to say actually…

"Actually, it is generally considered too overcast for the necessary production of melatonin to be considered a beautiful day. It is also immoderately cold for late autumn. The average ambient temperature that humans consider comfortable is seventy degrees." Then he says, "But you are correct that it is morning and will continue to be for another thirty minutes."

My voice sounds more choked than polite. "Thank you. I don't wear a watch." Then I ask, "What are you doing here on a Sunday? Don't you usually visit your mother?"

Pink patches appear on his cheeks. "You are very observant, Miss Undersee. I have been called out to perform reconnaissance of the district per Mayor Undersee's instructions."

I blink at Cole. "He sent you for a walk of the whole district?" So, Dad didn't want an audience while he spoke with Cray, after all. "Why you and not the Peacekeepers?"

Cole clears his throat. "No, not the whole district, Miss Undersee, but those portions relating to last evening's complaints. I understand that your father preferred to conduct his own inquiry."

"Of course he did." That's just another way of saying that Cray wouldn't oblige. "And what have you observed?"

Cole dabs at his nose. "A profusion of broken liquor bottles, a suggestive scribble on an alley wall, a forgotten scarf…."

"Thank you, Cole," I interrupt before he can bore me into a stupor. "Maybe save the exact details for my father?"

Cole hides his comb-over under his hat again. "Of course. Are you here to visit The Mayor?" His voice actually projects more from the diaphragm whenever Cole refers to my father as The Mayor or Mayor Undersee. I suspect he's really thinking "His Lordship" in the back of his head. I shouldn't scoff. With all my father has to put up with, it's sort of nice that he has a fanboy.

"Not today. I have errands to run," I tell him, lifting my basket as evidence. "And you'd better get upstairs. Don't keep the mayor waiting."

The thought makes him turn a little green. "No, I had better not. Thank you for the reminder. I seem to be distracted." He takes a step forward, but stops. Then he grimaces at me and says, "I look forward to seeing you tomorrow night at the Victory dinner, Miss Margaret."

That grimace might have been a smile. That coupled with the voluntary use of my given name is a measure I did not expect this morning. He looks at me expectantly and it seems like somethings hovering in the air between us. Whatever it is, it makes me want to swat it away like a fly.

"Okay," I mumble, backing up. "I'll see you there."

His head tilts to the side like a curious bird's. "I know. It's being held at your house."

"You're right. Uh…goodbye?"

I turn on my heels and dash across the street toward the butcher shop so I don't have to watch while Cole disappears into the bowels of the Justice Building. With the sudden escalation to my proper name, I feel that we're getting precariously close to my diminutive name. I think of future me ten years from now and shudder.

Once in the butcher shop, I glance at the list and Hanna's order. It's for lamb. For some reason that feel inauspicious. I leave the shop as quickly as possible.

The bakery stop will complete Hanna's list. I brace myself before going inside. You just never know what you're going to get on the other end of the counter, especially now that Peeta doesn't work for his family.

Leven, the oldest, isn't so bad. He just has a habit of hiding his girlfriends behind the counter when his parents aren't in the shop. Sometimes it feels like customers might be interrupting something. Sometimes I've had to ask Hanna to stop at the bakery on her way home. She doesn't embarrass like I do.

And Bran's just full of himself, especially after placing first in wrestling. He leaves me alone because my father has money and status. That matters to Bran. But other kids who don't have my advantage, the ones who seem odd or isolated, tend to become the butt of his jokes in the school hallways. That gets under my skin like few things can. I detest bullies.

If Mrs. Mellark's working the till then I might decide to give up carbs for the week. She's rarely a treat to talk to, especially after some of the revealing conversations from the 74th Games. I can't imagine what family dinners are like now in the Mellark household. Maybe I should feel a little compassion for the woman known all over Panem as her husband's second choice. But she sure makes it hard.

I take a deep breath, then push the door open. The cow bell tinkles as I step inside. Warm, yeasty air envelopes me, causing the blood to rush into my cheeks. I breathe in deeply before my nose loses its sensitivity to the wonderful smell of baking bread. This is the one place in the district where the flour isn't coarse or mealy. Fresh strawberries aside, bread is my favorite food. I survey the displays holding fine, crusty miche; white sandwich loaves; rolls with herbs or cheeses; and filled pastries that still look warm from the oven. I struggle to curb my appetite. I shouldn't have given Dad all of my breakfast. It's left me extra greedy.

"Morning, miss," Mr. Mellark greets me. His older sons must be busy in the back with his wife and I have to say I'm not sorry. I prefer Mr. Mellark at the counter. He's the most affable like Peeta.

"Good morning," I reply as I hand him the slip of paper with my order. "Have you been very busy?"

"Busy enough. We could use Peeta, of course, now that we haven't got him," Mr. Mellark answers jovially as he scans the list. "If you had brought this list to us yesterday we could have added your order to the delivery going out to your place tomorrow," he points out.

Yes, if only Hanna had thought of that. "That's okay. We're completely out of bread at home and we'll need something for breakfast."

He raises an eyebrow at one of the items. "An extra loaf of the cardamom?"

"It doesn't stick around long," I admit. "You know Dad. He'll eat anything with sugar on top of it."

Mr. Mellark smiles at me. "Yes, I recall Henry's preference for sweets. It still puzzles me that he chose local politics over taking on the candy shop from your grandparents. He spent a lot of time in there."

I laugh for Mr. Mellark's benefit, but I'm not surprised at all by Dad's choice. My mother would have left him if it meant moving back into the apartment above that shop. She's never gotten over losing her twin. But I also understand Mr. Mellark's sentiment. Dad chose a rough job. And even the perks have a catch. I wonder if the heat's still on in his office.

As Mr. Mellark retrieves items for me, he talks about the pastry orders that his family's racing to fill for the banquet. Then there's the breads for the festival the next day. He shares his memories from the last time the bakery had to fill an order so large.

That had been nearly twenty-five years ago when Haymitch Abernathy won the 50th Hunger Games Quarter Quell. The Capitol hadn't skimped on anything then either, according to my father. Dad admitted to me once that he'd used some of the festivities to get nearer to my mother, who he'd been sweet on for a couple of years. She had been in a vulnerable state at the time and, well, I guess his tactics worked. I'm proof of that.

"I was much younger then and still working for my father," Mr. Mellark reminisces as he scratches his head, laughing shyly. "Your dad and I used to have a lot more hair."

I have a keen awareness of how old he must have been at the time of the second Quarter Quell, because he belongs to the same reaping peers as my father. They're two years older than my mother and her sister. Aunt Maysilee did not come back from the second Quarter Quell, but she would have been in her early forties if she had.

Next March, if the odds are in my favor, then I will turn one year older than the Games allowed her to. It somehow feels like a challenge issued from the universe. Can I outlive her?

I'm finding it harder to breathe all of a sudden so I ask Mr. Mellark to add a loaf of yule bread to the order. It's enriched with eggs, butter, candied citrus peel, cherries, and almonds, and coated in an unhealthy but festive dusting of powdered sugar held on by a mixture brandy and melted butter. It might be a little early for it, but getting it down from the display and wrapping it in its special wax paper will make Mr. Mellark turn his back on me for a while. So I can compose myself.

It's very rare to see clips of my aunt's Games on TV. I have seen exactly one vid in my lifetime. And only because my father had stepped out of the room to attend to my mother at just the wrong moment.

The clip showed a jumpsuit version of me bleeding out from the throat while a stranger held my hand. My grade school mind knew it wasn't me. But my body couldn't tell the difference. My screaming brought Dad back to the study. And that's how I learned about my aunt's death beyond some vague references. It would be a few years, though, before I received her pin. And a few years after that before I learned our family's connection to the drunken oaf on stage at every reaping. And what the pin really symbolized.

Sometimes my body pulls up that memory from deep within its tissues before my mind knows it's coming. And so I pump air in and out of my lungs and listen to Mr. Mellark complain that the cherries and citrus arrived inexplicably late this year and looked too poorly even to candy. So he's added brandy-soaked sultanas to the recipe instead.

I know the reason for the late shipments. But I can't tell him. At least the dull minutia of holiday baking has allowed the panic to pass.

Our chat turns toward the Victory dinner at my home tomorrow night as he boxes my order. The Mellark's will be guests of honor. He tells me which of the town girls will attend as Leven's and Bran's dates. I don't have a date for tomorrow, but I'm saved from having to admit that as other shoppers enter. They are full of questions and don't seem to notice that he's still helping me.

Mr. Mellark responds to the customers haphazardly as he fills out a receipt for me, per Dad's request. I pay but hang back as they pry for more information about the televised engagement between Peeta and Katniss. Did the Mellarks suspect? Has Mrs. Everdeen spoken to the family since last night? What will he bake for the Toasting? That sort of thing.

I linger a little longer than needed, pretending to rearrange the purchases in my basket so that I can eavesdrop on his answers, since I haven't felt brave enough to ask anything about it myself. Mr. Mellark offers a few non-committal replies that don't satisfy anyone…including me. But the baker's wife bustles through the interior door between the shop and the kitchen soon after with a laden tray and everything goes back to business in a trice. I leave the shop with my head full of talk of Katniss's and Peeta's return and what their engagement could mean…for people.

The warmth from the bakery quickly fades in the wintry chill once I slip back outside. My arms strain under the weight of the basket now full of heavy bags and white boxes, and I feel ravenous and ready to get home. It's got to be after lunchtime now and I can feel the gnawing in my stomach.

About a block behind the square, a gust of wind whips down an alley, blowing my long hair around my face, despite my hat. I struggle with the packages that threaten to spill over the edge of the basket, trying to free a hand to brush the hair away from my eyelashes. The toe of my stiff new boot catches on a raised cobble hidden by snow and I lurch forward.

The basket and the packages inside tumble to the ground at the feet of a group of young men just coming out of the alley. Though in plain clothes, I recognize them for Peacekeepers from the many times I've seen them while visiting my father at the Justice Building. I often have to bring him dinner on days when he has to stay late or when my mother wants me to give him a message she doesn't feel can be safely relayed over the phone.

They're clearly off duty, judging by the disarray of their clothes, and the absence of their white uniforms. One has hair like bleached boar bristles that accentuates his round, fleshy face. I don't remember his name as he's a fairly new recruit. The pink flush of his skin makes me think of boiled ham. He sways a little on his feet like his equilibrium isn't right.

Then there's Gaius, whose coat hangs open despite the frigid air. It looks like he buttoned his shirt in the dark, skipping a hole and off-tracking the rest of the buttons down to the hem. His white undershirt has come untucked, yet he somehow managed to properly lace his boots.

Behind them, a guy named Felix reclines against the side of the abandoned shop where he's drinking out of a bottle. He's thought of as handsome in the district with his aquiline features and auburn hair. But like Head Peacekeeper Cray, he's earned an unattractive reputation for luring vulnerable women.

Gaius whistles and the others make ribald remarks as I stoop to pick up my groceries before the dirty snow can soak through the cardboard packaging. An aggravating flush burns its way up my throat to my cheeks. But I pretend not to hear their catcalls as they hover over me, in an effort to simply get home without incident. Peacekeepers will often behave this way when they're off duty. Usually it's only words. Other than being insulting, there's no real harm done that can't be forgotten. Provided you just keep walking and don't engage. Women who talk back can have a different experience, though.

"What's your name, pretty girl?" the ham-faced one petitions me directly.

A rare move. Most aren't stupid enough to take on the mayor's girl. Which means he's likely very drunk and therefore uninhibited.

"What?" he drawls as he kicks the box I'm reaching for out of the way. "Too proud to talk to me?"

I freeze, then glance up at him. A mistake.

Thanks for reading!

OCs and medea!verse character names:
"Alyss" or "Alyssum" Everdeen: Katniss's mother
"Bran" Mellark: Peeta's middle brother
Cletus Burdick: distinguished notary public
Cole Binns: An iteration of Geeky_DMHG_Fan's Cole Phillips, resident Gale!foil / Unfortunate Soul
Drunk Peacekeepers: Felix, Gaius, Niels
"Gram" Mellark: Peeta's father
Hammond family: green grocers
Hanna: the Undersees' housekeeper
"Henry" Undersee: Madge's father, district mayor
"Leven" Mellark: Peeta's oldest brother
"Marigold" Undersee: Madge's mother
"Margaret" or "Maggie" Donner: Madge's maternal grandmother
Mrs. Stukley: sweet shop owner
Nero Ashfield: A secretary in Snow's council
Rufus Weidenbach: District Clerk (referenced in Dustland Fairytale)