Haymitch Abernathy is a bastard.

I thump against the door yet again, my knuckles reddening.

If I could manage to wake at dawn, track and shoot two plump squirrels and be standing on his porch before eight, the least Haymitch could do is get off his arse and answer the door.

Instead, the frustrated staccato of my pounding echoes throughout the vacant Victor's Village. It's quiet and overwhelmingly empty; not just of people, but of life. I drop my hand and look over to the garden I passed on my way in.

Peeta and Haymitch's houses were the only two to survive the bombings - some sick joke from Snow, I suppose - and the other homes weren't rebuilt when we returned to Twelve. After all, they were brick and mortar reminders of death - those who could have lived in them, but never got the chance to. Instead, the rubble was cleared and grass laid around a block of marble with 147 engraved names; a memorial. It doesn't get many visitors, because people don't like revisiting ugly pasts. They prefer to stick a stone in the ground - some pathetic semblance of care and commemoration - before moving on to new babies and sickly sunshines and passing days that are forevermore inching towards a future where our darkest times are only remembered by ancient tomes.

In the month since our New Panem began, people in Twelve have seemed to move on with remarkable speed. They go to Town Halls with full smiles, they talk of their dreams and hopes with their neighbours, they begin new jobs with gusto. I stare at the stone a moment longer before dropping my gaze to my wrists, each with scarlet grazes peeking from under my coat sleeves - evidence of yesterday's scramble through the woods.

It's not that I can't keep up with the speed of everyone else as they hurtle towards something new and foreign and full of hope - it's that I haven't even begun the race. I don't want to.

I sigh. I don't like coming to the Village; though it's quiet like the woods, there are no distractions from your thoughts - no paths to run down nor trees to get lost in. I rap harshly against the door once more. I also don't come here to trade often because when I do, Haymitch is always sure to make me wait.

"Haymitch! Open the damn door!" I holler.

I hear a small shuffle from inside, but it's another three minutes of knocking before the door swings open slowly, revealing Haymitch on the other side with a satisfied grin on his lips.

Haymitch Abernathy is a bonafide bastard.

I hold up my hands, brandishing three squirrel carcasses.

"I got you three," I mutter, "I know I said on Tuesday I'd try again at dusk, but after your pissing about I don't quite feel like it anymore."

Haymitch's smile disappears, and I smirk.

"I've got wild dog in here for Sae, though," I say, patting my hunting bag. "If he's not picky about his pies he can take a leg."

Haymitch wrinkles his nose. "Dog pie just doesn't have the same ring to it, Sweetheart. How much for the squirrels?"

I glance behind Haymitch. His house is grubby, sure, but the hallway is still lined with gilded wall sconces and swirling crown mouldings. Victors may no longer receive the exorbitant salaries from the Capitol they once did, but they still have enough to sit pretty, feet up, for the rest of their lives.

"Ten coins."

"Mmph," Haymitch grunts before reaching into his pocket and stuffing a wad of notes into my hand. I pause, looking down at the crumpled money, surprised at his lack of protest. I push the notes into my pocket hurriedly, and as my raw knuckles sting against the coarse fabric, a wave of spite crawls up my neck.

"Ten each."

Haymitch bites out a laugh and his eyebrows shoot up in amusement, but his hand returns to his pocket to dig out more notes all the same. For one moment, I feel guilty - there is no Prim or mum waiting at home who needs this extra money - and the spite lulls, retreating. I look back to Haymitch, ready to renege, but the hallway stretching behind him catches my attention yet again.

Fucking sconces.

I shove the extra bills into my pocket and hand the squirrels over to Haymitch.

"Thanks," I say curtly, before turning briskly to leave.

"Ahh, Sunshine. Where do you think you're going?

I spin back.

"What?" I snarl.

"Who's going to skin these?"

"Do it yourself, Pretty Boy."

Haymitch guffaws. "Not when I've paid thirty bloody coins for three squirrels."

He meets my stare, challenging. I could leave, and Haymitch could easily skin them himself, but I know that next Tuesday he won't take the half of my paperwork I can't finish in time.

"Fine," I growl, stalking inside and snatching the squirrels back. The hallway pans into a large kitchen to the left, and a living room to the right. A mahogany table fit for a feast lays beyond, in front of bifold doors and a sprawling patio. Everything is covered in a thick layer of grime; papers are scattered haphazardly, booze bottles are littered over the counter and the yard outside is no doubt covered in geese shit given Haymitch's recent taking to breeding. And yet despite the filth, the sheer luxury of the space is undeniable.

I pause momentarily, stunned. I knew, of course, that Victor's houses would be opulent, but there is a difference between imagining grandeur and standing in it.

"Knives are in the third draw."

Haymitch's voice snaps me from my daze and I hurry to the counter, dumping the squirrels and fishing out a knife and bowl. I strip off my jacket and begin slicing, making small incisions at each neck and draining the blood into the bowl.

"You want this?" I ask, proffering the blood. "Fertiliser for your garden?"

"No, you take it."

I snap my head up and study Haymitch. Gone is the jest from earlier; instead his tone is soft and laced with a hint of pity. He's propped against the back of his couch, staring at the squirrels as I dangle them above the plastic.

"What?"

"Nothing," he replies, turning to look out of his back doors. I catch the way his mouth pulls in a tight grimace though, and the way his eyes flit over my arms periodically.

I frown and plonk the squirrels back on the bench, beginning long, deft slices along their spines with a hurried hand. I spent longer than usual on the escarpment yesterday, and it wasn't till the sun had fully set that I began the trek back to town. That in itself wasn't an issue - I've run the woods many a time before at night. The difference yesterday was that I'd neglected to factor the new moon into my travels. With no light to guide my way, I'd stumbled and fallen more times that I'd care to admit. By the time I had arrived at the fence, my arms were swathed in angry scratches, and upon waking this morning, I'd discovered small bruises peppering my skin.

I don't mind that Hyamitch sees them - after all, I've been emerging worse for wear from the woods for six years - but I do mind his reaction; that, for some reason, my getting scratched up in the woods bothers him. My fingers run over the thin ribs of each squirrel, separating meat from flesh. It shouldn't matter to him what scars or scabs pepper my skin … they're mere scratches; transient. There are bigger worries in our world.

With a flourish I peel off the last of the pelts and begin cleaning away the mess. I should leave it for Haymitch, but judging from the pile of dishes next to the sinks, he'll likely leave it to set and stain. I slap the counter once finished and Haymitch turns his attention back to me. His eyes are back to normal now, and his face once again arranged into his usual irritated countenance. I feel myself relax.

"Done."

Haymitch merely grunts and leads me to the front door. He opens the door in an exaggerated manner, bowing slightly and sweeping his hand as if to usher me out. For all his earlier bastardry, I can't help but let a corner of my mouth lift in amusement.

"Good day, sir," I deadpan, before striding out of the house. I hear the soft thud of the door closing behind me and, ever so faintly, the sound of a rusty chuckle. The laugh is odd and angular, bearing the hallmarks of thorough disuse. It rings in my ears as I dart over Haymitch's porch and weave along the path out of the Village. I train my focus on the cobblestone, tracing cracks and lines, feigning interest in weeds and my raggedy boots - anything but the curtain to the house on my left that had quickly been pulled shut as soon as I stepped back onto Haymitch's porch.

Peeta's house. Peeta's curtain.

Though I don't glance back, I know it will still be swaying, slightly, gliding around in a slow dance.

Peeta has been in the peripheries of my life since I was twelve, when a pair of fresh loaves landed at my feet. After that day, I began to take notice of the youngest Mellark - the boy who could throw pounds of flour in the air like a bag of feathers; the boy who excelled in wrestling; the boy who sought the seat next to an open window in every class; the boy who double-knotted his shoelaces without fail. I would watch him in person, but I would see him in so many more places; in scraps of bread, in Prim's grins and stories and rosy complexion, in our family celebrations and the genuine laughter that continued on in the years since the night I almost gave up.

Now I no longer have class in which to watch the boy, nor do I see him in the life that he gave my sister and me. Rather, I see him in the future he has created for our New Panem. I see him in the smiles of people I pass and the way my neighbours stride up to the microphone in Town Halls, confident in sharing their opinions. I see him in the rounder cheeks of school children, in their bright eyes sparkling full of hope and dreams that'll likely be realised. I see him in the clean pressed clothes of former miners and the cobblestone alleyways that are no longer smothered in soot. I see him in new buildings and new life and the new people that come to visit our district from others.

I see Peeta everyday now, and I hate it.

Because seeing him adds a new dimension to this weight on my chest - a guilt for the insurmountable debt I've accrued against him. It makes my limbs heavy and my forehead hot, and my chest will fill with this sludge of a feeling.

Since the day I jerked that gun away, I haven't spoken to Peeta. We've shared a polite nod on the odd occasion, when passing through the square or forced into close proximity to each other, but that's the extent of our communication. Formal and perfunctory.

Typical behaviour of individuals who've saved each other's lives.

I reason my action by telling myself it's not all that different from before - we were never friends, nor ones to engage in idle chatter - but I know that's a lie.

I don't stop ignoring him though, and he never approaches me. I see Peeta everyday, in everything, as I walk around with my guilt and a chest full of sludge and, worse of all, this flicker of doubt. An ember of uncertainty that simmers in the back of my conscious, flaring when I hear Madge mention trials or Haymitch talk of Peeta doing 'okay' - when I catch glimpses of the deep puce circles that hang under Peeta's eyes or see a fluttering curtain and no blue-eyed boy waving from behind in greeting . It eats at my skin and swims in my thoughts.

It's another reason I run, because when I push and push and push my body, my mind has no room to hear anything else but my screaming muscles and panting breaths. It has no room to consider this flicker, this ember, this thought:

Maybe I shouldn't have pulled Peeta's gun away.

The Hob is busy when I arrive, crowded with a mid-morning rush. I weave through the throng to Sae's stall where she's scooping soup into the chipped bowl of a customer.

Her face splits in a smile when she sees me. Her eyes are rheumy and her teeth - those that aren't missing - are an aggressive shade of yellow, but when her wrinkles bunch around her cheeks and her crows feet deepen, she has the radiance of someone who's lived too long and seen too much, but would still welcome another twenty years. I smile back and quickly slip behind her, into the back of her stall. She soon follows with a low whistle of appreciation as I empty my bag onto the table.

"You're too good to me, girl," she says as the wild dog I shot earlier thumps against the plastic.

I shrug. "It's nothing."

Sae glances back at me, her grin widening as she shakes her head, but she doesn't argue. "How much is for sale?"

"All yours."

A girlish giggle spouts from Sae, and my insides warm.

"As sure as pigs can fly it's all mine. Half again?"

Sae makes towards the dull butchers cleaver to her left, readying to cut the dog, but I shoot out my hand to still hers.

"Seriously, Sae. All yours. Use half for your soup and then the other half to bulk up the broth for when Leevy comes by with her kids. They're looking too skinny."

For a moment Sae watches me in silence, eyes wide and kind, before she nods and begins rummaging around in her money box.

I peel away half of the notes she hands over to give them back. Her head shakes in protest.

"S'okay Sae, keep it."

"Girl …" she begins, drawing the word out as if to give me more time to change my mind.

"I've only got my mouth to feed, Sae. The Hawthorne's, sometimes, but Gale's got some good money coming in with his job. Besides, I slightly swindled Haymitch earlier on some squirrel. Better the money goes to the Seam than to booze and liver damage."

Sae studies me for a moment before opening her palm and taking back the cash.

"You say you've got one mouth to feed. You feedin' it?"

"I'm eating Sae," I smile. "You know I'll be taking a bowl of your soup before I go."

A small hmph sounds and she looks mildly placated. Sae sweeps over my body again.

"You still running, then?"

I nod. Sae nods too before going to fiddle with the money box. I pick up a nearby bowl and Sae's spoon, scooping soup into the porcelain and blowing softly on the mixture. I figure the interrogation dropped, but when Sae turns around, her expression remains pensive.

"You talking to anyone?"

My forehead scrunches in confusion. "What?"

"Talkin'. About what happened in the war and after. Who listens to you?"

I stumble for a moment, searching for an answer. I know Sae won't be satisfied with the truth - that no one listens, because there is nothing to listen to. I don't talk about the war. I don't talk about much, period. I settle on what she'll likely expect.

"Gale."

Sae's lips don't quirk up as I thought they would.

"You talk to Gale?" she asks, voice full of doubt.

"I talk to Gale."

Sae bobs her head and she comes closer to lean against the counter next to me. I slurp my soup.

"You're a good girl, Katniss. You deserve good."

I gulp my soup in one hurried mouthful to avoid answering, scalding my throat. I place the bowl down and emit a pained chuckle.

"Thanks, Sae. I'd best be off."

I don't want to be drawn into conversations about talking and listening and goodness. People discuss healing now like it's inevitable, like it's a reality simply waiting to be manifested by time. As I make my way out of the Hob, back to the Merchant Quarter, I know that it's not, at least for people like me.

There is no healing for me, no goodness down the path of time, and no amount of talking or sharing will change that.

I feel jittery, on edge, and can't help but twist my fingers anxiously as I mount the Justice Building steps. I was hunting only a few hours ago, yet I itch for the smooth wood of my bow and the cool cover of the forest's canopy. Instead I'm greeted by the splintering timber of the Building's door and the musty smell of carpeted hallways. I make my way towards the conference rooms and steel myself for my meeting with Paylor. They're never bad, per se. I respect and admire Paylor greatly, and she treats me the same. It's more so the questions that come at the end of the meeting and the knowing smile that accompanies them. Paylor knows I don't have a particular love for social interaction, but that doesn't stop her from encouraging me all the same. I push against the last door with a resigned sigh, and am met with Paylor's face, already lit up against the far wall and chatting animatedly with someone.

I stop short.

"Madge?"

Madge swivels round and grins at me. Her eyes crinkle in genuineness.

"Hi, Katniss. Paylor's asked me to sit in on your meeting today. Do you mind?"

I swallow dryly before shaking my head and taking a seat opposite her. I shrug off my hunting bag and it lands against the ground with a loud thump. A sharp smell invades my nostrils briefly and I wince. Usually my one on one with Paylor is just that, one on one - with Paylor videoing in from the Capitol and myself sitting in an empty room. I can toe off my shoes, arrive one minute before I'm due, and most importantly, hide my hunting bag half-full of dead animals under the table. Madge's nose wrinkles slightly for a moment, but her smile never fades. It's hard to hold onto a grudge with someone when they pretend to ignore the smell of sweating carcasses for your sake.

"Thank you both for coming," Paylor starts, "Let's get started."

Paylor and I discuss District Twelve for the following half hour, everything from Town Hall outcomes to proposed welfare schemes. She does the same with Gale every Wednesday, focusing instead on numbers and buildings and growth, but our mornings are reserved for talking about Twelve's people; ensuring that those numbers and buildings and growth have tangible benefits for everyone. Whilst I don't harbour a love for the socialness my role as District Leader necessitates, nor am I convinced I'm particularly suited for the job, I can't deny that I enjoy it's purpose.

As our time draws to a close I watch the clock more closely. I'm wary of Madge being here - and all the more suspicious given she hasn't said a word yet. It's five minutes to finish before Paylor changes the meeting's course.

"Last item on the agenda is Peeta Mellark," Paylor states.

My stomach sinks.

Paylor chuckles. "Get that pained look off your face, Katniss."

I straighten and am about to object, but Paylor continues on. "Madge has told me you've said no - this is not a meeting to persuade you. All I'm asking is that you listen to Madge once more and that you allow her time to explain the process. If your answer is still a no, then we'll take it as final."

I nod slowly, having lost the ability to articulate my thoughts. Too many are swimming through my head, but they all come back to the same point. I don't want to talk about Peeta Mellark.

"Thank you," Paylor says, "I'll see you next week then. All the best."

The wall returns to beige as Paylor's video feed cuts, and the room is momentarily consumed by an overwhelming quiet. Madge breaks it with her lilting voice.

"Follow me?"

It's a question, not a demand. An olive branch. I nod and grab my bag, following her back out into the hallway and down a labyrinth of corridors I've never ventured past.

"The perks of being a Mayor's daughter," she shares with a wistful grin as we come to a glass door. "You come to learn the nooks and crannies."

Madge pushes it open and we step into a small courtyard, lush with green and dotted with marble benches. I watch as she takes a seat on a bench surrounded by potted flowers, before perching myself on one opposite. The edge is hard and cool against my thighs. For a moment we sit in silence. I figure I owe Madge and Paylor the courtesy of listening, but as I fiddle with the end of my braid impatiently, hot anxiousness racing through my veins, I'm not too sure how long I'll last.

"I want to talk to you about what Peeta's facing in the next few months."

Madge's voice is soft and melts into the air, but I still stiffen at the word 'Peeta'. I want to walk away from Madge's words and the way they make me feel, but I know that if I don't hear them now, Paylor will be sure to make me hear them later.

"Go on."

"Well first, the jury won't be entirely random. They'll be one person per District, and at least three have to be past Victors. Given the lack of trained legal professionals, Paylor's asked that supporting teams for the barristers are formed from District Leaders, regardless of their knowledge of law."

I frown. "Why so many exceptions?"

"This trial, Katniss …" Madge pauses for a moment and sighs heavily. "It has the capacity to pave the way for our New Panem. Peeta has a lot of support, but also considerable opposition. If Peeta's trial was conducted as any other, it wouldn't be fair - there are too many nuances, too much history to consider. The quasi-organised jury, the involvement of citizens and Victors alike, District Leaders supporting both the prosecution and the defence - it's not just about delivering a fair outcome for Peeta. It's about delivering an outcome that is fair, and appears fair, for Panem. We can't create any opportunity for dissent."

I nod in understanding, but I can't help but feel some kind of discontent deep in my gut. The woeful irony doesn't escape me; even with the Capitol and Coin gone, Peeta is still a puppet - a prop to leverage peace. Madge continues on without notice.

"Each supporting team will have three Leaders, so you'll be working with -"

"There are twenty four leaders, Madge," I interrupt. "I still don't understand why you require me."

"I don't require you, Katniss - I want you. I need a team of three, and I want people on my Team who are connected to Peeta, who have seen different sides of him, who know and believe in him."

A tired groan rushes from my lips.

"Madge, I don't know Peeta!" I fulminate. "I've spoken all of thirty words to him in three years! I respect him, and I don't think he should be tried guilty, but I'm not connected to him, I'm not privy to his different sides, and I don't have a fucking clue who he truly is!

There are still twenty four other people to ask, Madge. I take eons to read and write, but I speak without a second thought. I don't think, period, I just feel and jump into my opinions. I swear like Rooba on a bad day. I go to most of Paylor's meetings with dried deer blood caked under my fingernails, and if I'm not in one of those meetings, you'll be hard-pressed to find me within the District fence. I'm not designed for this, Madge, any part of it."

Madge is silent for a moment as she digests my outburst. Her eyes flit to the ground, as if some weed or crack will hold the answer as to how to convince me.

"Katniss," she says gently, "I know what I'm asking when I say I want you. I know what I'm getting. I'm telling you now that I want you regardless of those factors. I need you because of those factors."

Her gaze drifts up slowly and lands on my face, imploring. I soften slightly and for a second I prepare to relent, but as I focus on her eyes - deep and blue - my thoughts wander to another blue pair; a pair that used to hold mirth and now hold memories of blood and dark pasts. A boy with an upcoming chance who deserves more than what I can give.

"No, Madge."

I hadn't planned to go back into the woods in the afternoon - my knuckles, though no longer red, remained slightly tender from my incessant knocking in the morning, and I am nothing if not petty. Yet when I'd returned to the Seam and my empty house, my body was still pent with tension. Faces and movement and words had flickered through my mind on repeat; the way Peeta's curtain had fluttered in the wake of his quick exit from the window, the way Madge's face fell when I'd said no again, the way Sae drawled the words 'girl' and 'goodness'. The memories replayed and replayed and replayed. It was only moments later that I was back out the door, slipping into the woods to curl my fingers round my bow and fill my mind instead with the sounds of leaves and darting squirrels.

Half an hour later, with two further squirrels in hand and my thoughts quieted for the time being, I make my way to Haymitch's. The door swings open immediately this time. Haymitch is standing in the same clothes as this morning, the scruff on his jaw a shade darker.

"So you said no to the boy, huh?"

I purse my lips. It shouldn't come as a surprise that Haymitch knows - he spends the most time with Peeta, after all. I lift up my two squirrel carcasses. "I don't see how that's any of your business. Besides, there twenty three other qualified leaders to choose from."

Haymitch scoffs and reaches for the tails, taking them from me. They swing slowly against his side.

"That Undersee girl sold it to you all wrong," he says.

"How so?"

"She told you why the trial needed you. She should have focused on why you need the trial."

A sneer curls round my would I need a trial for, hm? More bureaucracy, more suits, more offices and notes and dull conversations

"More pull, Sweetheart. More status, more leverage. You think you'll be asked to sit in the town halls after that?"

It's dark by the time I reach Madge's. The door peels open with a tired moan.

"Katniss?" Madge asks, peering round its side, eyes squinting as if she doesn't trust her vision.

"I'll need money and I want to set the times I work. No Wednesdays. And after it's finished I want to be excused from meetings. Town halls, video calls, the works. And I'll need to know that the other two Leaders in the team are competent. I need to know that they'll get what Peeta needs."

Madge is silent for a moment. Her eyebrows pucker and pull in confusion before settling.

"You'll do it?" she breathes in a tone of air and hope.

I reply with a small, harsh nod. Madge's teeth gleam in the night as her mouth falls into a wide grin.

"I'll see you tomorrow at the Justice Building," she says, and I nod again before turning to make my way home.

My chest feels light as my feet skim across the concrete paths leading to the Seam. I need the trial, if only for the time it will give me after - time to be spent in the woods, outside. The prospect of being on escarpments or deep in valleys in three months time - for days and weeks, not mere hours - buoys me with excitement.

I can see it: clearly.

I can see me leaving the house in the Seam for the ramshackle structure that sits on the lake's shore. I can see myself going to the lumber yard, pockets heavy with coins, and dragging planks of timber to the cottage. I can see weeks spent labouring in the sun, smearing concrete over cracks, thatching a roof, nailing rickety shelves together. I can see mornings spent hunting, afternoons spent fishing, and occasional excursion into Town to buy supplies with the trial's paycheck. I can see my extra coins padding the pockets of the likes of Sae and Leevy and Hazel.

I need this trial. I want it, viscerally.

Haymitch was right. The bastard.