Snow's voice is sibilant, luxuriant.
"To show the rebels that once war starts, there is no escape by either birth or deed, this year's tributes will be reaped from the Capitol Escorts and District Mentors."
The President doesn't laugh. But he might as well.
Haymitch is oddly, terrifyingly calm.
Peeta had been out the door and moving before Snow had left the stage, so Haymitch can't have had more than a minute to take in the news. But he's sat upright at his kitchen table, liquor bottle in hand but half-full, grey eyes gleaming. Peeta's only sure he's seen the announcement because of the sympathetic smirk the older man gives him, and the fact that there are three full glasses laid out between them.
"I don't understand" Peeta says, because it's true. "We're Victors. We're supposed to have immunity. And Effie's a Capitol citizen. I don't understand how they can do this."
"Sit down, boy."
Peeta sits, because he's never been one for making trouble when he didn't need to. But he pushes the liquor glass away – to the side, not towards Haymitch. He can make trouble when he does need to, as well.
"He said mentors. Not Victors. Even though people would have understood that better. So that means – Katniss and I have never mentored. It's you and Effie. Right?"
"Right. Me and Effie."
"Then I'm your mentor. Or Katniss is, and I'm Effie's. Either way, I'm not drinking that stuff, not now, and neither's Katniss." He demonstrates by taking the second glass and sliding it after the first. "And you – I'm not going to try and control you, not before the arena. Not too much, anyway. Just – remember on the train last year, you said you'd stay sober enough to help us?"
Haymitch looks up from his glass. Their eyes lock.
"We can train. Get you in shape. Katniss and I will teach you what we know. Maybe this time you stay sober enough to help yourself. Your friends in the arena. The people you care about."
Peeta leans forward, looking for a response, just as Katniss finally comes crashing through the front door. Seeing him seems to throw her, and her eyes flicker from Peeta, to Haymitch, to the untouched alcohol before a sob rips from her throat. Wordlessly, Haymitch passes her his own glass of liquor and she sits, cradling it. Peeta wants to smash it when she takes a sip, but she follows it with another gasping sob and he finds his arms reaching for her instead.
She's choking words out. "It's not fair. I can't go back, I can't but Effie can't, I don't want either of you with me, not like that, I don't know what I want! How can you just sit there? What's wrong with you? What's wrong with us, for this to happen? How can this happen, it's not fair!"
"S'not you, sweetheart. Weren't you listening?"
Sometimes, Peeta can love Katniss so much that he forgets her flaws. Of course. She's not good with words, hasn't seen the difference between Victor and Mentor, doesn't realise that it's Haymitch being targeted, or one of the other districts. That she's safe, even that Prim's safe from this year's reaping.
"He's right, Katniss. We're Victors, but we've never mentored. We're not eligible. It's Haymitch and Effie."
He hadn't quite realised how absurd it was until he sees Katniss' expression change. To her credit, she doesn't look relieved. The sobs stop, but horror and incredulity battle across her features.
"Effie? Effie, in the Games? I thought I'd have to volunteer, again. Or Snow would make sure it was me. I thought…" She trails off, seemingly not quite sure how to manage a crisis that isn't about her. "And you, Haymitch…I thought – I mean, it's been so long…"
"So long what, sweetheart? That they'd forgotten about me?"
"That if they were going to do something" Peeta says levelly "something more, they would have done it by now."
"We're mentors." Katniss says suddenly. Just as there is a tribute pool of two, they are the only possible mentors in District Twelve. Peeta wonders idly how they're managing this in the Career Districts; presumably, there is a queue waiting in case an escort is reaped, only a minor shifting in the usual pattern. So Haymitch and Effie will, most likely, be up against traditional Careers from One, Two and Four. He doesn't share the thought.
"Yeah. Lucky you. You want me or Effie on your conscience?"
"Effie." Peeta murmurs. "She'll have heard by now. Where will she be, do you think?"
"Her folks, most likely. Doesn't go to those fancy Capitol shindigs for the reapings much anymore. Either I embarrassed her too much to show her face or she finally got tired. Though I guess showing our faces'll be mandatory, now we're tributes and all."
"Should we call her?"
The ghost of a smile plays on Haymitch's face. "She'll call us, when she's ready."
Effie's wineglass hits the floor and smashes, irreparable. The screen is black again. All she can see are the insides of her eyes, and the look in Haymitch's eyes after a nightmare, reflecting back at her.
"Euphemia?" Her mother's voice is brittle, ready to snap. "What does he mean?"
Horrible things happen to horrible people. She should know that by now.
She is a tribute.
She is going to die.
"Did you know about this? Euphemia!"
And all these years, she believed somewhere in the back of her mind that people chose to be in the Games. They played the footage of District Two, those proud, deadly volunteers who believed they could win, who were desperate for honour, and all the time she resented the squalid, scrawny children of District Twelve because they didn't understand about the Hunger Games.
She doesn't understand. She doesn't understand about the Hunger Games.
"Shut up, mother!" and she's never heard Bella be so sharp with their mother before. A second, or maybe a day later, maybe years later, her sister takes her hands. She knows it's Bella because she can feel the diamond engagement ring on her finger, scraping against skin. When her eyes refocus, the older girl is kneeling in front of her, trying not to cry. Failing.
"But there must have been some mistake! They can't send Capitol people to the Games! Especially not escorts, who are the height of fashion and class! And who will keep the tributes to schedule if the escorts are the – tributes!"
It's such a simple question that this is where Effie's head starts. Who will escort them? Some of the higher districts have multiple escorts, and enough mentors that probably none of them will end up in the arena in any case. It's entirely possible that Twelve might be left to escort themselves. But someone has to call the names. Would they make her call her own?
"Lauralynne Day" she answers. "I suppose they'll have her replace me on stage, though I don't know how far into the Games we'll keep her."
She supposes it might depend how far into the Games they live.
"But" her mother won't shut up "I had afternoon tea with Susette Day just last week, and Orpheus Ogilvy too, he's a Gamemaker, he can sort out this mistake! Because obviously, if he'd have known, he-" Mother stops, suddenly, and Effie wonders what Orpheus Ogilvy said or did that, in hindsight, meant he knew Effie was going into the Games.
Last week. Last week, this was real. Her life was over last week and she didn't even know.
When she and Bella sipped milkshakes in the park and rated men out of ten, she was already dead. Kissing Cinna's cheek at the Capita Fashion show, already dead. At the theatre, dead. Shopping for new shoes, bored on a first date, writing unsent letters to Haymitch. Dead, dead, dead.
"Dead" her mouth trails afters her brain, unthinking. Bella kisses her knuckles, salty tears dripping into her palms. She grips her sister's hands. She must remember them while she can. Dimly, she can hear Caesar, dear Caesar, and Claudius Templesmith begin their eternal commentary.
This year she will probably never hear the end.
"It's the ultimate showdown, Caesar! Imagine, Finnick Odair taking on Brutus Escariot to become champion of champions! What could be more exciting?!"
"Yes, but of course there's the other side to it. It's not only victors – escorts are also eligible to be reaped. Actually, District Twelve's Effie Trinket is the only possible candidate. Can an escort really stand a chance – even a chance of surviving the bloodbath – against actual victors?"
"Exactly! It's the widest field of tributes we've ever seen. That can only make it more exciting!"
Effie's sure that's not logical. She's not sure how, but she knows Haymitch would scoff at it.
There are Peacekeepers on stage, she notes. Armed Peacekeepers. She instinctively knows they haven't been there in previous years, though now that she searches her memory, she doubts herself. Has it always been this way?
"Of course, some of the victors won't be on fighting form, either. Twelve's Haymitch Abernathy will be going in with Trinket, and he was a very popular victor in his day, but we've all seen the damage the years have done. Can he really hold his own? And as one of only three living female victors from Seven, we might see Johanna Mason again – another favourite, but she can't pretend weakness a second time."
Haymitch Abernathy. Will be going in with Trinket. With Trinket.
She squeezes Bella's hands and drops them. Steadies her voice.
"I need to speak to Haymitch."
Her mother passes the phone, finally struck mute.
Only now, it occurs to her to wonder why she never thought it could be a mistake.
"Haymitch?"
"Effie."
"Are you all right?"
"Peachy, princess."
"Haymitch...
"As right as I ever was. More importantly, how're you?"
"As right as a tribute can be, I suppose."
"Don't give up on yourself just yet, alright? There are things I can do to help you. The kids, too. We'll have allies. Just...hold on 'til you get here, right, princess?"
"We?"
"You and me, Eff."
"Right. Of course. We'll hold on."
This is my first effort at Effie and Haymitch, so I could really use some reviews from you lovely people! Go on, make my day...
Next chapter: The Reaping, Haymitch talks tactics, and a mysterious letter...