A/N: I like this one. Pretty angsty. Drug use/language for those that care. I will probably rewrite this soon, since there's some stuff that needs to be changed. I wrote this before reading Catching Fire, so there are a few minor details and general clean-up to deal with... whatever! (I'm gonna end all my author's notes with "whatever!" from now on.)

21 – Escape

Despite the Capitol's state-of-the-art air conditioning system, designed to maintain a perfect temperature in accordance to each mentor's personal preference, Haymitch could feel the sweat gathering along his hairline. When he ran his fingers through his hair, he could feel the moisture glistening.

He could have easily gotten up to adjust the temperature settings. But that could wait. There were more important things at hand. Right now, Haymitch was fixed on the several monitors positioned in front of him.

A hardly audible sound behind him indicated that someone had entered. He risked briefly looking away from the monitors to see who it was. As soon as he realized, his focus returned to the monitors.

It was a pair of Avoxes. The first precariously balanced a tray of the Capitol's food—which looked and smelled absolutely delicious, as usual. The second balanced another tray with a single wine glass on it. In her other hand, she held a bottle of wine. For the festivities, Haymitch supposed sarcastically. Oh, how he hated the Capitol and their "entertainment." The Avoxes left as quickly and silently as they had entered.

He had no intention of touching the food or drink just yet—in fact, he resolved not to touch the wine at all, at least until the dust settled. A clear mind was necessary for his job.

Finally, the familiar voice of Claudius Templesmith boomed, taking Haymitch by modest surprise. "Let the 62nd Hunger Games begin!" In unison the familiar metal plates rose up through the ground. While some of the tributes standing on them were clearly terrified, others seemed almost excited at the imminent bloodshed. Haymitch shook his head slightly, reflecting on this.

All twenty-four tributes were displayed on the center monitor; that was what everyone across Panem saw. The other two monitors were personalized for Haymitch as the mentor of District 12. They were positioned to the left and right of this center monitor showed his two tributes.

While attempting to keep track of time mentally—he estimated there was about fifty second now until they could move—Haymitch examined his tributes. The girl, Clover, seemed to have pulled herself together, despite being one of the youngest tributes. She also had only gotten a three in training.

Admittedly, there wasn't any real chance that she would win. Haymitch never told her this though; he didn't have the heart, and it probably went unsaid regardless. She was thirteen-years-old and didn't have any skills that stood out. The best Haymitch could do for her was give her the typical underdog-tribute advice: get away from Cornucopia, find water, and only then come up with a plan. At least she was preparing to make a run for it.

Next Haymitch examined the boy. He was older—fifteen years old. Somewhat surprisingly, he managed to get a five in training. He seemed to have a sort of natural skill with a sword, despite having never used one before back in District 12. Of course, that "skill" was nothing in comparison to what the Careers were capable of—but he always had luck to fall back on, unlike the girl.

Worst case scenario, he'd just end up dead.

This natural talent may actually be the death of him, Haymitch thought darkly. He'd given the boy the same advice as the girl, but now the boy was eying one of the swords at Cornucopia.

How much time was left? Haymitch had lost track. As he continued to watch the boy, his apprehension grew. With every second, the boy seemed to become more and more confident with the idea of going to Cornucopia.

"No!" Haymitch hissed. "You idiot!" It was hopeless. The boy was positioning himself to run. He'd die and Haymitch would once again return to District 12, back to the gaze of those now-broken families.

Would they blame him? Did they blame him for the swift deaths of last years tributes? Haymitch honestly didn't know. But whether it was just paranoia or a legitimate suspicion, it sure as hell felt like the families blamed him. Everytime he saw them, it felt like he was under their gaze, their scrutiny. Last year he didn't have the courage to speak with them about the death of their children. That was a policy that likely would not see revision this year.

Haymitch's eyes were glued to the screens, darting from monitor to monitor, but they never left the Games altogether. Maybe this was how the Capitol felt when watching the Games. As a kid he always tried to look away, when squished among the crowd of District 12's unwilling viewers. But no, the Capitol didn't care. They liked this.

At last—or perhaps too soon—the cannon fired. Haymitch watched, relieved, as Clover sprinted towards the cover of the trees with everything she could muster. She wouldn't have any supplies to aid her once she got away from the other tributes, but that would have to be dealt with later. At least she would survive the bloodbath. Haymitch had a feeling that was more than he could say for the boy.

The boy—well, he was on his way to Cornucopia, along with over dozen other tributes who decided to battle it out. They paid almost no attention to each other as each sprinted at a breakneck speed towards the giant horn.

He leapt up onto Cornucopia at the same time as a few other tributes, scrambling for a handhold. He made it. Admittedly, he'd made it further than Haymitch had expected. The boy grabbed the sword. Haymitch wondered if he might even bring another tribute down with him.

The gleaming blade was just sliding out of the sheath as the mace struck him. The blow knocked him clean off of the massive horn. Haymitch recoiled, turning his face about forty-five degrees to the left, but his eyes remained fixed on the three screens in front of him.

He now lay immobile on the ground. Dead? Maybe. The cannon wouldn't sound until the entire bloodbath was over. His sword had been thrown from his hand, landing even further from the horn.

Suddenly, there was movement. The boy propped himself up on his elbow. Haymitch had to admit, the boy had some fight in him. Likely more than Haymitch would personally have, granted that Haymitch wasn't stupid enough to be in this situation in the first place.

Another tribute had climbed down from the horn now. It was clear that he was moving towards the boy, who now was crouched over, staring at the ground. The approaching tribute laid a kick into his head. He lurched over.

Haymitch, whose face had just been inches from the monitor, finally fell back into his chair. He felt his body slouch down, the tension from his shoulders release. For the first time in several minutes, he closed his eyes, and kept them that way for several seconds.

When he opened them, the boy had a knife shoved in his throat—he was dead.

Haymitch had no desire to watch the Games any more. Another tribute had failed under his watch, died a brutal death because of these goddamned Games. And Haymitch just had to sit there, powerless to do anything other than pop an artery.

But he still had one more tribute left.

He sat back up and turned his attention towards the monitor on the right. Clover was jogging through the woods now. She didn't know what had happened to her fellow District 12 tribute. She'd find out that night. If she made it that long.

She had nothing at all. No food. No sleeping bag. No weapon. Even when she found water, she'd probably get dysentary without purifying tablets to clean it. Fatally? It didn't really matter. She might have survived the bloodbath, but one way or another, she was going back to District 12 in a box. The boys brutal death had spoiled any optimism that Haymitch had left. Not that it mattered.

Haymitch rotated his chair around, away from the monitors. He didn't want to watch anymore right now. On the computer next to him, he checked for sponsor funds. There were some, but they were so few that it wouldn't even be enough to buy a single cracker on day one. It was useless to even hope.

Suddenly, Haymitch's anger flared up. An impulse led him to grab the plate of food next to him and hurl it like a Frisbee at the wall. The crystal dish shattered satisfyingly and the food stained the carpet. He wrapped his head in his hands and forearms, assuming something similar to the fetal position. He stayed like this for several seconds, making a grunting sound with each breath.

When his anger subsided enough, he turned his attention back to the innocent little girl walking through the woods. All he felt now was a deep willingness to help her—to do something for her. But what? What could he do now? She had no sponsors and he couldn't contact her in anyway. He was essentially watching a movie now. He didn't know the ending yet, but there was no way he could possibly influence it.

Haymitch glanced around the room. There was the bottle of wine that he had earlier resolved not to touch. For about half-a-minute, he stared at it, not really thinking about anything.

And then he abandoned his resolution.

Now there was no real need for clarity of mind. There wasn't anything he could do anyway. No important decisions to make. The boy was dead. The girl's fate was as good as set in stone.

He popped the cork off the bottle and filled the wine glass nearly to the brim. With the glass gripped firmly in his hand, he hesitated, his eyes briefly lost in the little bubbles that sporadically danced towards the top of the red liquid. He blinked.

And then he chugged it. And then he refilled the glass, which he proceeded to inhale.

It was nighttime. Clover was leaning against a tree, one arm lying across her stomach. She made no sounds or movements, but it was clear that she was in pain. The color had flushed from her cheeks. Finally, she leaned over and wretched, expelling the foul water that she drank about two hours ago from her body.

Haymitch noticed none of this as it was happening. He didn't even recognize the sound of the cannon a few minutes later.

The wine bottle was upside-down in one of his hands. He patted the bottom of the bottle eagerly, urging the last few drops to empty out into the wine glass. They came out, but missed, and landed on the silver tray. This he also didn't notice.

The last glass was only half full. He downed it in a single gulp. This was his escape.