A/N: Yes, yes, another crossover... I have a problem, okay? ;-; (in my defense, it's a weekday project and I've already written seven chapters) (also I have time off from work coming up so I'll have time for TPS and perhaps even more GoT watching, which I'll need if I want to make progress on Emma Snow) Blame Love's Just A Feeling for making me ship this on accident.
Enjoy?
My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am eighteen years old. My home is District 12. I was in the Hunger Games. District 13 took me in. Peeta was taken prisoner by the Capitol. He died by President Snow's hands. Prim died by Coin's. I was not allowed to die by my own. I need an escape. Beetee is offering me an escape…
A Song of Ash and Arrows
Chapter One: The Invitation
I sit at the kitchen table, alone in the darkness, the book I made splayed open in front of me. The only sound in this house is the crisp and steady turn of each page. I am on autopilot, looking but not seeing.
Greasy Sae and her granddaughter have come and gone. I've proven I'm capable of cooking for myself again but she's still making sure I eat, and I accept the company. Or I don't have the heart or the fight to turn it down. Even Buttercup curls up on the table and I don't yell at him to get off. He sits in a loaf, purring, watching me. As attentive as Greasy Sae. I guess I must be getting bad again.
Suddenly his paw shoots out and pats at something, startling me out of my stupor. I almost swat his paw out of the way when I do a doubletake at the page.
It's Prim. The photo he tapped. And next to her, my drawing of Peeta.
A dull ache hiccups in my chest, shooting up to my throat. I try to swallow it back down, but even so, my fingers trace the images on the page. There's an actual photograph of Peeta too somewhere, on another page I think, but I thought it would be a nice tribute to his memory to try to draw him. It's nothing compared to Peeta's paintings, or the illustrations I know he would've gladly added to these pages, but it's enough to elicit a reaction from me.
I wonder sometimes if he would've drawn Prim, if he had been there, if he had known…
There's no question, I realize as I remember his painting of Rue. I don't wonder. I know. He would've picked a primrose from the forest, pressed it in the pages, surrounded her with a crown of them in his art…
Buttercup takes another swing at the photo, at my hand, and I notice I'm pressing my fingers so hard against the page that they're shaking. I swat back at him this time and abruptly slam the book shut. The sudden motion and noise on impact startle Buttercup so much that he scampers and jumps off the table.
I storm upstairs to bed. The cat follows shortly after. He curls up next to me, waiting for me to sleep, the way he used to with Prim.
I wish Prim were here. I wish Peeta were here. I want either, both, in Buttercup's place.
I sleep for hours. Possibly more than the cat.
Sometime in the afternoon, between Greasy Sae meals, I decide to go see Haymitch. He has nothing going on, I have nothing better to do besides hunt. As always, we are a match made in hell – or at least the Victor's Village.
I greet his geese when I arrive. I like them well enough, find myself amused by them. It's nice to be hissed at by an animal that isn't Buttercup. He hasn't been doing as much hissing at me these days anyway, which is unnerving – and then depressing when I remember the reason. Some of the geese flutter their wings at me, and it makes me think of the ones Cinna made. Reminders are everywhere in District 12.
Missing the luxury of Haymitch having Hazelle for a housekeeper, I push open the front door and brace myself for a sour smell.
It doesn't come. Or, rather, it's not as bad. Have I become accustomed to it after all this time, or has my sense of smell gone dull…?
From the look of things inside, this does not appear to be the case. There's no vomit, no liquor bottles on the floor, at least half as many wrappers discarded in various places. Haymitch has cleaned up. Or someone else has. And the answer is draped on the couch next to him, freshly untangled from his arms and staring wide-eyed back at me.
"Effie?" I say, because there's nothing else to say. The answer to "what are you doing here" is pretty clear.
"Katniss!" Effie breathes, still straightening her wig. "Oh, good, you're here." As if there's nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to see here.
"Knock next time, sweetheart," Haymitch drawls. There are no bright lipstick marks peppered on his face where I expect them to be. Except I think I see a shimmer of pink and gloss when I squint. Looking at Effie now, I notice she's dolled… down. Her wig is more contained, her makeup more subtle.
"Should I come back later…?" I ask dryly, already wondering how best to drive this image out of my head.
"Yes," Haymitch replies.
"No," says Effie at the same time, hasty as she stands from the couch. "No, I'm glad you're here."
Haymitch makes a noncommittal grunt, but Effie rounds the table and strides over to me, engulfing me in a perfumed hug.
"It's good to see you, my girl," she murmurs in my ear. I try not to cringe when I smell Haymitch on her breath.
Nicely, I hug her back, and give her a pat of greeting. "I didn't even know you were visiting," I say, making sure to fit a hint of accusation in my tone.
She picks up on it and has the sense to look embarrassed, batting her eyes innocently after we pull away. Her lashes are still shiny and glittery. "I was going to come by your house at three," she assures me.
"It's a quarter past," I inform her.
Effie looks briefly horrified, which allows me a small spark of joy. "Well, no matter," she amends, but shoots a dour glare at Haymitch, who looks rather pleased with himself. She picks something up off a counter and hands it to me. "Here, a letter for you."
"Who's it from?" I ask preemptively, accepting it from her. I can't register the name or handwriting just yet, but I venture a guess. "Annie?"
"Oh, have you been writing to Annie?" Effie asks with a smile.
"Now and then," I tell her, and lose my filter. "I guess when you've both seen your district partners decapitated, you tend to gain a sense of camaraderie."
Effie exhales sharply. "Katniss!"
"Sorry," I say. Using humor to cope doesn't actually make it any easier. But it does bring a wry, knowing mouth quirk to Haymitch's face. Not exactly a smile, of course, but acknowledgement. He won't laugh, but he knows.
"It's alright," Effie sighs. "I suppose there's a ring of truth to it." I think she's gotten somewhat used to my shock factor.
Flipping the envelope in my hands, I glance back down and finally make sense of the name. "It's from Beetee."
"Yes, I imagine he'll mention whatever brilliant creation he's been working so hard on these days," Effie remarks, making a face as she examines herself in Haymitch's cracked mirror. "He's been at it for months and he won't tell a soul what it is. But I suspect if there's anyone he'd share his big secret with, it would be you."
Beetee. I don't hear from him nearly as much as I do Annie, Finnick, or Johanna. Not at all, really. I initially chalked his silence up to guilt because of the bombs, but it sounds to me like he's simply been in a world of his own, inventing away in District 3. I tear open the letter, confusion giving way to curiosity.
Dear Katniss,
I hope this letter finds you well. Or, at least, in good health. First, I must apologize that it is so many months overdue. Ever since the war ended, I have devoted my time and efforts to a top-secret project I believe you will find particularly interesting. The few times I have spoken to Effie, Haymitch, Finnick, Annie, and Johanna, they have mentioned you are still going through a great deal of emotional and physical pain. I cannot refute that I am possibly to blame. Words cannot express my sorrow, nor how much the thought haunts me. Too much has been taken from you. Too much loss, in too short a time, for someone still so young. However, I think we can help one another.
I offer you a potential escape.
Perhaps this is too much of me to ask, but I invite you to please come see me at my workshop in District 3. You will be the first to find out what I have been working towards. And perhaps, if you are so inclined, the first to experience it for yourself.
Regards,
Beetee Latier
I squint at the words on the paper, unsure if I've read them right. Beetee's expertise is in weapons and wiring. The war is over; what can he possibly have that I want? The tiny chip that holds hours of songs…? No. He's too smart to think that's enough of an escape for me.
"What's he want?" Haymitch asks, keeping his voice gruff to contain his interest.
Lowering the letter, I look over at him and Effie. "He wants me to come to District 3," I say, but try to bury my curiosity as well. "Am I not still bound to District 12?"
"That was until further notice," Effie reminds me. "Beetee has cleared it with Paylor and you are free to visit him as you please." She eyes the letter with heightened interest. "Did he tell you what his newest invention is?"
"No," I tell her softly. My grip crinkles the edges of the letter. "But I'm going to find out."
