**The 51st Hunger Games**
Haymitch is sitting at his kitchen table, clutching his knees so hard, he can already feel bruising in the soft parts of the joints.
His prep team and stylist will be here in half an hour. He's a mentor, now. 12's only mentor in a long time. He's the most recent victor, the only living one in 12, and people will expect one of his kids to win, and blame him forever if they don't. He wants to ask somebody if he can have until next year, when he's 18, and an adult by District 12's laws. But he knows there will be no leniency. He knows what they might do if he steps out of line, thinks bad things about the Capitol, and President Snow.
How did they know what I told Terra about the forcefield? he wonders for the millionth time. Then, also for the millionth time, he hears his father's voice in his mind. They're always listening, always watching.
Haymitch pictures a tiny speaker that looks like the ones on stage at the reapings, then thinks, No, it would look like the escort's microphone, because it would be picking up sound . And then, he thinks, irritated with himself for his inability to think clearly, and decisively, Actually, the Capitol could probably fashion a recording device from whatever they want. It could be that weird-looking plant, or inside one of the knickknacks. He hasn't gone looking for it, has invited none of his friends over on the weekend.
He slaps his leg, mad at himself. The prep team are coming. He's got to be ready. Today is the reaping.
Haymitch looks around the house. He's faintly embarrassed (the feeling is mostly buried by his anxiety about what will happen on stage today) by the state of his house. He doesn't give a shit what a bunch of Capitol pigs think of him personally, but he can't get his mother's voice out of his head. In his mind, she paces around the room he's in.
"Look at this!" she cries, holding up a plate. "A plate with food on it? And it's moldy! Do you want rats and other vermin tracking in here, sending messages to all their friends, 'Hey, guys, this guy never cleans!' You're the only person from 12 they'll ever meet, and this is how you want them to think of us?"
Hoping to at least banish this vision of his mother (it's just too painful, knowing how clearly his mind can conjure her, when she'll never get after him again), he gets up, and starts cleaning.
He collects all the plates and bowls and thinks he's collected all the cutlery. He scrapes moldy, sticky bits of food into the bin, and runs the hot water. He plugs the drain, piles in the dishes, and lets them soak. He sweeps the floor. There's more to do, but he's not sure how to get started. Dishes and floors were his chores at home, rubbish and maintaining the outhouse, his brother's. His mom did the rest – laundry, window washing, cleaning kitchen appliances and the fireplace. He remembers watching her do these things, but doesn't know what cleaners she used, and starts feeling tense and angry again.
Knock, knock, knock.
"Is there a victor from 12 in there?" comes the cheery voice of Frugi, the District 12 escort.
Haymitch suppresses the urge to tell her she's free to check her asshole first, and opens the door.
"Happy Reaping Day!"
Haymitch walks away.
"Young man, that sort of attitude might work out here in 12, but it's not going to help you, or your tributes, in the Capitol."
She follows him into the living room, where he's standing, digging his fingernails into his palms. His stomach has turned to lead. His tributes, his responsibilities.
His prep team follows Frugi, and chivvies him up the stairs to the bathroom. He's too worked up wondering who his tributes will be to worry about being nude in front of his prep team again. Last year, he had shook and turned red with humiliation, but this year, he just gets into the bath they're drawing for him without comment.
"They did a wonderful job with your scar!" says Julia.
He nods.
"So quiet!" says Paulus. "That won't help you this year, honey."
Unbelievably, he feels tears in his eyes. He closes them, he won't let them see him cry, that's not happening, and then he sinks down into the tub, bending his knees so his whole head is submerged. He comes back up, and his prep team gets to work.
After they've toweled him off and started on his hair, Julia and Paulus remember vital products they left in the car, and disappear to get them.
Domita whispers, "Don't worry. It's your first year. No one's going to be expecting a victor from 12. Then again, you didn't even have a mentor, and you won a Quell!"
He nods, looking at his reflection. He doesn't look worried. He looks furious. Maybe he is. He can't tell. He can feel Maysilee's hot blood on his hands, and feels desperate for a towel, even though he knows it's not really there.
He's more successful blocking out his prep team, and thankfully, it doesn't take too long. They dress him in one of the suits from his Victory Tour. He's going to look like a Capitol asshole in front of all of 12. He guesses it won't be the worst thing that happens in front of the Justice Building today. At least no one is expecting their kid will live, with him as their mentor.