A/N: Mockingjay1116, not to fear! It'll be soon…he is a major character, after all. Thanks for the reviews, everyone! Always appreciate feedback.

Greens and browns whir by me in a kaleidoscope of colors. Woods and trees mesh into one large palette of mottled tan, thrown together in a giant mixing pot. At two hundred kilometers an hour, the train doesn't allow for much of a view of what's around me. I have to make do with staring off into the bright blue sky here in the viewing car, trying to savor my last day or two of privacy and anonymity before I'm thrown into the cage against legions of cameras and reporters.

My family and I boarded the train for the Capitol last night – me, Reed, my mom and dad, my aunt Prim and my cousin Iris – the last two only come because my mom frankly demands it. She thinks the Capitol doesn't give Prim credit for her work as a medic in the rebellion, but according to Prim's words, she didn't do much anyway. I choose to believe her honesty.

I don't know what'll happen when we get there, but my mom's already given me the run-down. People I've met before will be there – one rather bitter woman named Johanna who's apparently a fellow victor; Finnick and Annie and their two sons, Rayne and Drake; as well as Haymitch (who's probably passed out somewhere on this train) and several others. To be fair, I like very few of them. I haven't seen the Odairs in ages; they haven't made the trip the last few times I've come. The others, though…them I could without.

That particularly includes a woman from District 2 named Enobaria. I could definitely do without her and her arrogant snobbery.

I can do with this train, however. It's not the monuments to lavish living like my parents describe their trains to the Hunger Games, but it's still quite nice accommodations. The viewing car hosts several plush beige couches, one of which currently supports my prone body as I gaze out a clear ceiling. A completely glassed-in rear panel gives me a look out the back of the train as trees disappear into the muted landscape behind me.

Some of the other cars are even nicer. The dining car sports fancy lighting suspended from the wall on chromed holders, while each bedroom has its own bath. I have an entire one to myself. Unfortunately, that led me to dawdling around in said bath for about an hour and a half this morning, losing myself in the water while rocking to the motion of the train.

Life could be worse.

"Summs," a rich male voice speaks out from the door of the car, causing me to flinch. "Mom says lunch is in ten."

Reed leans against the wall at the door, all six foot-three of him looming large over me. He's just started working at one of the medicine factories back home since he's eighteen, but he's built well enough to work in any of the apple orchards or hay farms. By comparison, I'm about half his size – without his light blonde hair that girls around the district seem to love. No, Reed got the looks of the family. I was left with…whatever I am.

"Okay," I mutter, looking back at the clear sky.

"What's up?" he doesn't take the hint, sprawling out on a couch opposite me. "I don't think I've even talked to you the past week. You've been in your room so much when you're not at school."

"Nothing, Reed," I protest.

"C'mon, I've known you for fifteen years," he replies, easily beating past my lie. "Is it that boy who likes you? I can punch him if you want."

"Why does everybody but me know about a boy who likes me?" I groan. Does the entirety of District 12 know about Flint's feelings? "And no, don't hit him. He's nice."

I might not approve of Reed's womanizing ways, but at least he's protective of me. We're different in plenty of ways, but I'm glad he's not one of those brothers who flat-out hate their younger siblings.

"You sure?" he asks me overdramatically, staring right into my eyes. I can only just keep myself from laughing, but a stupid smile plays across my lips as he flops down in a couch beside mine. "Fine, I'll leave him alone. Why are you so quiet?"

I shrug at him as I look at the floor. Why does he want to know? I'm always like this…there's nothing to say. Eventually I manage to make up a half-truth: "I don't really wanna go to the Capitol."

Reed smirks: "Who does. What a fun place. Bet we get jumped by that Plutarch guy the second we step off the train."

Ugh. From all of Plutarch's visits to District 12 and my mother, I already know I don't like the man. The wealthy Chief Advisor to the President has accumulated a lot of power recently serving as the public face of Panem's leader. The President – President Fictus, a woman in her sixties from District 1 – is rarely seen outside of carefully-taped messages. It's been the eccentric Plutarch who's represented her hand as the Capitol has slowly taken back all the gains of the districts during the Rebellion, according to my mother. Mom's said before that Plutarch's a dangerous sort, second only to one man in Panem – the Executor.

Executor Cassus is the leader of President Fictus's enforcement arm, the Praetorians – "the successors to the Peacekeepers," as my mom calls them. These gray-clad soldiers are bad enough, supposedly "protecting freedom and democracy," but Cassus is something else. It's rumored he's from District 2, but no one – nobody at all – knows who he is. The man wears a black cloak over onyx battle armor, covered up to the tips of his fingers in fiber. Even his face is sheathed in a carbon deaths-head mask, concealing whatever identity lies beneath. How he is supposed to safeguard Panem's "democracy" is beyond me; he sounds built for the Capitol's tyranny that my mom fought to destroy.

Just thinking about the Capitol makes me wish I was headed anywhere else.

"Well, think of it this way," Reed diverts my thoughts to the present as he rambles on. "Mom says Plutarch and all those rich people are obsessed with all the Victors and whatnot; maybe they'll leave you alone. You can hang with Finnick's kid and stay out of the spotlight."

"I don't even remember that guy," I murmur. "Drake?"

"Yeah, that's his name."

Truthfully, I don't remember him. My images of Finnick and Annie's youngest son swim vaguely in my head – a boy around my age, tall, well-built and confident with a short cropping of bronzed hair. In short, everything I'm not. I've seen these types of guys before; they want nothing to do with girls like me.

"Think I'll just stay out of the way," I pick at a fingernail as I reply.

"You can't just hide, Sis," Reed looks at me with an expression stuck between amusement and concern. "Look, uh…I'm not good at this stuff, but you sure everything's okay?"

I'm not good at this stuff, either, and I have no desire to talk to Reed about my feelings. My mom's shown me just how well that works out, and I quickly brush him off with an awkward reply: "I'm fine. I'll…see you at lunch."

I brush past him as I walk out of the viewing car, looking away as I rub a lock of hair behind my ear. Why does everyone have all these questions? Can't even my own brother let me be? As I try to pull away, more and more I see all those people who drive me to do so trying to intrude on my space. It's frustrating at its best; suffocating at its worst.

That's the good thing about Flint. He's the one guy in District 12 who knows well enough to leave me be when I need space. In a way, he's better family than my actual family. At least he understands me.

I wish he was here now.

Lunch hums along with me sitting in the background, listening to my other family members talking among themselves. My dad and my Aunt Prim talk over old memories of the Capitol back from the days after the Rebellion, trading small-talk about smoke and ruins. They laugh about things now, but I can see hurt in the corner of my dad's eyes. The memories and scars haven't faded yet; not completely.

Prim's daughter, my cousin Iris, is the only one I can talk easily with. Since she's only twelve, she doesn't judge with the harshness of my mom or the patronizing sympathy of my dad. No, she's still got some childish innocence that flows in her wavy blonde hair and soft pale face; certainly more than I've got, by any means. Iris's dad, an uncle I've long forgotten, died just days after she'd been born. Aunt Prim hadn't even taken his name, leading me to believe that Iris probably grew up better without him. She's a ray of sunshine among all this dead weight around me.

Nonetheless, I inhale my food and find the quickest way to escape the meal. It's not as if the food was bad – quite the contrary – but I don't want to be around everyone while they're so chatty. Not now.

I make my way back to the viewing car, stubbing my toe on an exposed wall sprocket as I do so. I bite my lip and grit my teeth in response to the pain as I open the door to the last car of the train, happy for the solitude at last.

Unfortunately, I'm not alone.

Haymitch Abernathy lies on the couch I formerly occupied, a crystal glass filled with brown liquid in his left hand. He stares with vacant eyes out the glassed-in car, watching the trees and forests zip by. There's something about his face - so lost and empty, with unkempt hair and streaks of dirt - that's familiar.

"I'm sorry," I mutter quietly. "I'll leave you."

"No," Haymitch replies, his words echoing with a somber growl. "Have a seat, sweetheart."

I hate it when he calls me that. He uses the same pet name on my mom, and I sure don't want the association. Regardless, I take a seat across from him on the couch, kicking off my sandals and pulling my knees to my chest.

"Not lookin' forward to the Capitol?" Haymitch says without looking at me.

"No," I murmur.

"You're right," he replies. "There's somethin' dark there."

Haymitch is an enigma. To me, he's always the man my mom goes and drinks with; the strange third Victor of District 12 who raises geese and drinks whiskey all day. I don't know what my mom finds so interesting about him that she's always happy to go to his place; maybe now I have the chance to find out. Once again, my curiosity manages to beat out my shy apprehension.

"Dark?" I ask, egging him on.

"Your mom…and all we fought for…that was s'posed to make everything right, Summer," he belches, refilling his glass from a half-empty glass bottle. "I 'member Plutarch telling us on the hovercraft back from the Capitol after Katniss had been cleared of anything. It was supposed to be democracy like he'd read in those old books. I didn't buy it. Sounded too perfect. Look at Plutarch now; certainly likes his dinner parties and benefits, don't he? What's that do to the people who're still starving in the district? It ain't changed. Never does. It's going slowly back to what it used to be; by the time you're all grown up, it'll be like the Capitol never went away."

Haymitch takes a long swig from his glass, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and setting the whiskey down on a table: "Hell, maybe they'll bring back the Games while they're at it."

"What were they like?" I ask tepidly, knowing full well that I'm broaching a sensitive topic. "The Hunger Games, I mean. My mom doesn't want to talk about it much…my dad just gets quiet."

Haymitch laughs, shoving the bottle of whiskey in my direction after he's filled up his glass: "You might want some if we're going off the deep end, sweetheart. Don't tell Katniss."

I've told myself I won't try alcohol; I've seen what it does to my mom. I've seen it turn her into something dark; something to be feared, something angry…I can't partake. I can't turn into that. I can't be like her. Can't give in to her failings…can't…

What the hell. It's got to do something right if it gets Haymitch to forget his past.

I turn and grab a glass off the condiment table, pouring myself a half-glass of whiskey. The fumes overpower my noise as I bring the glass to my lips, forcing me to scrunch my eyes as I tilt back the cocktail to take a sip.

Blech!

I force myself to swallow the concoction, as bad as it is. How can Haymitch – and my mom, for that matter – like this stuff? As the bitter liquid flows down my throat, I feel something else…something nice. A heat wells up from my throat and stomach, bringing up visions of sitting in front of a fire on a cold winter day.

I want more.

"Looks like you loved that," Haymitch laughs at me. "But you want to know about the Games…alright, sweetheart. If Katniss an' Peeta ain't talking, I guess I'll have to do. What do you want to know?"

I kick back another drink, welcoming the warmth as I open up to Haymitch: "You won, right? Why won't my mom and dad talk about it if you can?"

He shrugs: "Everybody gets over their problems in a different way. Your father…he had an adjustment period after the Rebellion and what-all. Hit him and your mother hard. Can't blame 'em if they don't wanna talk about those kinda things, back when it seems like everybody was dyin'. That's just how the Games were; one winner out of twenty-four kids. When you gotta kill to survive…well, you get a lil' jaded."

"Jaded?"

"We ain't born to murder people, Summer. In the Games, that's what we were forced to do. Kill another kid so you can go home; bring glory to your district by making some other poor bastard die for his. I killed three in my Games. Your father killed one in the heat of the moment; barely even knew he was dead at the end of the last Hunger Games. Your mother racked up a pretty impressive kill count. That kinda thing don't just leave you. Some Victors…they were like me; drank themselves almost to death. Others tried Morphling. Others just committed suicide. Couldn't live with the guilt and the memories. It's worse if you knew someone in the arena. Their face comes back to you when you sleep…eventually ya' just don't sleep."

There's something funny about the whiskey. Usually I'll listen to other people's problems only so far as to hear their words. Here in my first real conversation with Haymitch, however, my head grows woozier and I'm keenly hooked on his words. I pour myself another glass as he goes on, surprising myself with my newly-found taste for the alcohol.

"Last place I want to be is back where it happened every year," Haymitch takes a long drink as he speaks. "Capitol. Where you don't have a choice what you do; pushed from place to place as you watch your kids die for another year. Sorry if I'm not excited, sweetheart. It's not exactly thrilling."

I'm quiet for a moment as I digest what he's said. The alcohol's getting to my head, making it feel like my brain's pushing to get out on all sides with a throbbing relentlessness. Maybe the drinks weren't such a good idea; nonetheless, I pour myself another glass. The whiskey's making me strangely conversational. Where I'm usually quiet and reserved, the alcohol's turned me into a curious bundle of questions and imagination.

"So you really think it's going to go back to that?" I ask after I've taken another drink. "When…they just take kids and make them kill each other."

"Yes, sweetheart, we're actually sending you to your death right now. Bring the bottle with you."

Haymitch sees the horrified look on my face and backs off: "Alright, that wasn't very funny. No, I don't think they're going to send you into an arena and make you kill a bunch of other kids. But I don't pretend to imagine what Plutarch and his cronies think up; the Games were all about control, sweetheart. There's a lot of ways to do that, some of which could be worse than twenty-three kids dying each year. Who knows what it'll end up with at this point. Seems like we rebelled for nothing."

I'm no longer hearing his words; just listening. As the alcohol makes my stomach feel sick and my head throb, the thoughts of something horrifying coming my way take over. Is Haymitch just trying to stave off my fears now? The Capitol isn't a nice place; he's right – but could they be thinking up something like that?

And it's all too obvious: If they did want to make an example out of a bunch of kids, I'd be the first to go. Reed's too old, but if the Capitol wanted the child of someone famous, of course they'd go to the daughter of the two most recognized rebels in Panem. That's me.

Haymitch reads me like a book: "Look, sweetheart, they probably do nothing. Plutarch's just a man who wants his dinner parties. The President's old and frail. You got nothin' to worry about."

Too late. The whiskey's made me feel good, but it's also exacerbated my fears; of which I already have too many.

"I don't feel good," I whimper, putting my empty glass down on the table. "I'm going to go back to my room."

"Yeah," Haymitch mutters, staring at his own half-empty glass. "Yeah."

I hear the sloshing of whiskey as I leave. Haymitch is pouring himself another glass.