Elusive

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. All recognisable characters, content or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

In retrospect, survival wasn't worth it. Before the victory, however, no one ever mentioned the nightmares, or the guilt, or the all-encompassing self-hatred.

No one ever said that the dead were the lucky ones.

Maybe if they had, Katniss would have thought better of fighting. She'd lived, yes - she'd made it, but a part of her had died in that arena - had been unequivocally lost - and it would be a part of herself she would never get back.

She'd hoped, for those first idyllic months, that everything would return to normal - that she would return to the girl she'd been before - but over time, that hope had waned, and Katniss had eventually come to accept the truth.

She would never be the same again.

Outside her window, the sun crept over the midday mark, hot and sweltering. Inside, a door slammed far away, and Primrose had given up on another restless attempt of sleep.

She, too, had learned the truth.

With a weary sigh, Katniss deposited her journal and pencil on her nightstand, lifted herself out of bed, and prepared for her day. A morning trip to the woods had been out of the question, and Primrose had taken up the responsibility of Haymitch's care, but the show was never over, and for a little time yet, Katniss would have to provide the show of her life.

With that in mind, Katniss donned a black, empire waist dress that skimmed her knees, the corresponding silver jewellery, and a pair of matching peep-toe, wedged sandals. Her makeup was applied, her teeth were cleaned, and her hair was styled into a high, meticulously straight ponytail.

By the time she was done, it was time to leave.

"Are you ready?"

"Yeah," Prim answered, "Are you?"

Katniss grimaced. "Do I have a choice?"

It was Reaping Day. Not just any Reaping Day, though. It was the Quarter Quell - the third of its kind.

The last time, Haymitch's year, there was double the amount of tributes. The time before that, districts had to choose who would be sent to the slaughter. this time, tributes would be reaped from the existing pool of victors.

Essentially, it was the hell none of them had dreamed of, planned for, or ever anticipated.

Except they were all victors, and none of them had ever stopped fighting.

—

The walk into town felt like a funeral march. Those whom they passed kissed three fingers, bade their farewells the only way they knew how, and by the time Katniss had checked in, she was ready for the entire farce to be over.

Mayor Undersea proceeded with his usual speech, Effie followed suit, and Prim laced her fingers between Katniss'. The older girl squeezed comfortingly, Effie tottered across the stage in her ridiculous heels, and Katniss held her breath.

"Primrose Everdeen."

With an exhale of relief, Katniss stepped forward. "I volunteer as tribute."

It wasn't a surprise. Katniss had done the same thing years ago, when Primrose was twelve and Katniss sixteen. She'd known that if it was her name that Effie had called, Primrose would have volunteered in her place, but it wasn't, and her little sister would be safe.

That said, safety was relative these days, and it was yet to be determined whether or not the outside was a better place to be.

In hindsight, it probably wasn't.

Katniss climbed the stage, took her place behind Effie, and cast her gaze over the crowd. The Hawthornes were solemn, Posie with tears on her rosy cheeks.

Nearby, Katniss caught Barley Mellark's gaze, and smiled. He held his newborn - a little girl - and beside him, his wife - Rosemary - appeared weary, but content.

He'd been her best friend once. A lover, too. Those days were long gone though, and they'd both moved on, lived different lives, found love in others.

It was hard to believe that it had been only five years, but before she could dwell on it, Katniss' attention was drawn by Effie. She was stifling sniffles as she reached for one of the names, and to Katniss, the woman was painful to watch.

"Haymitch Abernathy."

Effie finished the presentation without ado, and significantly less exuberantly as usual, Katniss and Haymitch shook hands, and afterwards, they were escorted by Thread towards the train. He'd informed them, vindictively, that farewells would not be had that year, though katniss wasn't fussed, and neither was Haymitch.

Prim would be on the train, and there was no one else that mattered - not to her.

"What a dick," Katniss commented mildly. She could still feel the grip of his hand around her bicep, and the bastard needed to die. Soon.

"Preaching, Sweetheart," Haymitch answered. He dropped gracelessly into a lounge chair, and Katniss followed suit.

"I wasn't preaching anything, Haymitch. just making an observation."

Haymitch ignored her, and instead mournfully eyed the empty flask he - for whatever reason - carried around with him. Katniss and Effie had made sure the train was dry though, and so long as they could run interference between Chaff and Haymitch, than the man would - hopefully - remain sober for the foreseeable future.

It was all they needed.

She kicked off her shoes, sprawled out along the couch, and stared at the ceiling over her head. "Did you ever think we'd be back here, Haymitch?"

He scoffed, and Katniss supposed that was answer enough. Victors were supposed to be safe. Over 18's were supposed to be safe.

Why would he have ever thought that he would one day return? Katniss certainly hadn't.

She smiled bitterly. "Neither."

Behind them, they heard Effie approach. Peeta's heavy tread, and Prim's lighter one, weren't far behind. Haymitch pocketed his flask, Katniss straightened out, and they both braced themselves.

Again, the Hunger Games had just begun.