A Switch of Destinies

In an alternate universe, things could be different. You could be here and I there; our roles reversed, our emotions exchanged. In an alternate universe, I feel your pain and you feel mine. Somehow, my dear, we are on the same boat.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games Trilogy or any of its characters.

A/N: I am back, mates! First of all, I would like to thank everyone who reviewed and followed my fic, and those who liked and reblogged my updates on Tumblr. I've received some anonymous reviews from you guys, and could not thank you personally, so I am taking this opportunity to thank you. I hope you enjoy this one, mates.

Chapter 3

Theodore Abernathy sat on a metallic three-legged stool that was precariously balanced on the pristine glass flooring of the gamemakers' hovercraft. In front of him was the holographic layout of his latest and most cruel masterpiece: the 2nd Quarter Quell Arena. After long, grueling years of hard work and mind-numbing thinking, the physical set-up was finally completed, and the head gamemaker was now orchestrating the vile surprises within the gigantic stadium of gore and bloodbath. He was unable to hide the overwhelming joy that filled his heart. His greatest project, which had begun the day he was assigned as the head gamemaker, was almost done. His smile had a certain quality in it as he admired the scene – the way his bow-shaped lips would part to reveal his teeth, which were whiter than pearls and slightly crooked (a quality that only made him more attractive). It was comparable to a child's nasty grin when he had been afforded the opportunity to murder a helpless colony of ants as they marched down their anthill with determination. It was only a matter of time. He knew that his arena would make history.

With the press of a button, the holographic layout was gone, replaced by the actual image of the man-made Eden. The panorama was so surreal that even he could not believe his own eyes. The vibrant reds and blues of the berries and fruits were so enticing, so agonizingly mouth-watering, that one could not rest until he plucked a fruit out of its parent and put it in his mouth to taste. The lake was clear as glass, and in the glow of the artificial sun that was much brighter than the real thing, the waters sparkled, like there were stars and jewels down below. Come nighttime, when Theodore would dictate that the ever-circular satellite be released from where it slept, the stars would come out of hiding, and their tiny, twinkling lights would be mirrored by the already glistening lake. These waters generously flowed throughout the arena in winding channels like liquefied silver, and were accessible to anyone who wished to cup his hands and quench his thirst. The fields were lush and green – no other grass could ever be greener – and wildflowers dotted the ocean of grass with yellows, purples, and pastel pinks. The trees towered over the ground, and their branches danced and swayed, while flocks of birds soared high all over the blues and whites of the firmament. It was unthinkable for death to wrap itself insidiously around a mantle of immaculate beauty while it waited for its prey, but the wonder and ingenuity of it all was that, it did. And while most people would curse the arena's deceptive nature, the head gamemaker would only nod his head in satisfaction because in his eyes, treachery made his creation magnificent.

'Nothing is ever what it seems,' he said on his interview a few weeks ago.

He was drawn out of his reverie when the voice of Dante Crane cracked through his earpiece.

"Are we to subdue the beasts?" Dante asked his superior.

Theodore pushed the button and the layout reappeared, and he readjusted the microphone so that it was closer to his lips.

"Yes," he said, "put them in their respective places, my friend." His voice was calm, yet powerful enough to ebb the raging seas. "After all, we wouldn't want to spoil the surprise for our guests, now, do we?"

The head gamemaker watched from the monitor as his team loaded the muttations – beasts that were developed to possess extraordinary qualities; they were once used as weapons and gadgets to battle the District rebels in the pre-Hunger Games era – into one of the hovercrafts. They were to be released from containment when the right time comes.

"Dante, please do check if the rain machine is working as it should," Theodore laced his fingers; his freshly manicured nails were the final additions to his crisp appearance. His pinstripe dress shirt, light gray suit, and black leather shoes made him look fine, and his clean-shaven face made him look younger than forty-three. However, the streak of silver locks on the sides of his dark brown hair gave him away. But he was a beautiful man (despite his vile disposition), so these strands were heralded as the mark of his wisdom and experience as gamemaker. The pale bluish light the holographic monitor gave off added a sinister feel to his countenance. "We do not want our lovely young tributes to die of dehydration, after all."

"Yes, sir," Dante said on the other line, and all of a sudden, a torrential downpour swept over the verdant fields of the Quarter Quell arena.

"Good work," Theodore said.

"Should I stop the machine, now?" his junior asked.

"No, no. Just let it stay that way for a while."

The head gamemaker synchronized the machine with his device, and touched the raincloud on the holographic layout. His deep silver eyes were alit with pleasure as the heavy rains came into a sudden halt. Theodore delighted in controlling the flow of nature, or anything else, for that matter. It was his obsession, and because of this idiosyncrasy, being head gamemaker suited him well. His job gave him all the control he could ever want; it allowed him to play god. However, his range of power had limits. He was, of course, under President Snow's command, but he thought it was a small price to pay for all the luxuries he was afforded.

And then, there was his son.

In the Abernathy Manor, Haymitch Abernathy stood impatiently in his Egyptian cotton pajamas while his mother clapped and greeted him a happy birthday. It was the first Saturday of the schoolyear, and he planned on sleeping in. However, his mother, the renowned designer Isabelle Dubois-Abernathy, had other plans for him as she entered his room unannounced – the key dangling on her slender finger – with a cart-pulling avox at her heel. He looked at the tower of chocolate cake on the cart; at the apex of the mouth-watering delight were the numbers one and six. 'She had come in goodwill,' he grumbled in his mind. He did not enjoy these waylay visits from his mother, but she looked so happy that he relented, and smiled. The avox lighted the candles and Isabelle pushed him with the strength he never knew she had.

"Make a wish, my little Mitchie," she said with her thick Capitol accent, and he cringed. Not because of the mortifying nickname his mother had called him, but because she was wearing thick layers of makeup again. And when her makeup was too thick, he had learned it to mean that she was hiding something.

The sixteen-year-old looked at his joyful mother, and then at the unspeaking servant who offered him a small smile – a greeting, he construed, that he acknowledged with an imperceptible nod. Through years of relentless servitude offered to him, Haymitch had learned to trust the old avox, Phineas, even though his father told him that avoxes were not to be trusted. 'Well, the same rule applies to you, dear Father,' he would remind himself. He leaned over and blew out the candles; he'd make a wish, like his mother had suggested, but he'd grown out of such childishness a long time ago, the night he saw his mother barefaced, and bloodied.

Haymitch tried to erase the gruesome images from his memory, but he found himself remembering that particular night when he woke up in his Victorian-style bedroom – which was a design Isabelle had chosen for the whole mansion – with a need to relieve himself from a full bladder. The only illumination in his room came from the pale white light of his digital alarm clock, a device that did not fit in anywhere in his home, and he held onto his bedpost while his feet found their way into his soft, furry slippers. Sleepily, he dragged himself out of the room, and walked the long, well-lighted hallway in search of the bathroom, but the sound of muffled screams reached his ears, and forgetting the cause of his premature awakening, the twelve-year-old boy ran towards its source.

Each room in the mansion was soundproof, but in Theodore's haste, he forgot to close the door, and from that tiny crack, the boy saw his hurting mother – bruised and scratched from the beating she was receiving from her husband. Haymitch's heart pounded against his chest, and a warm, streaming liquid soaked his pajama bottoms, but he daren't move. He so wanted to push the door wide open and run towards Isabelle – put his arms around her to protect her – but his feet were glued to the floor, and his olive-colored face was as white as a freshly laundered sheet. The boy was watching the man he aspired to become hitting the first woman he ever loved. He did not notice the tears streaming down his face, nor did he feel Phineas' gentle grip as the avox pulled him away from the dreadful scene. All he could see was Theodore's face – a face that was almost similar to his own – punching, kicking, and scratching his beautiful mother.

Haymitch was pulled out from this reverie when he felt a soft, silken fabric being wrapped around his eyes. His dark-colored eyebrows were creased in annoyance – he hated surprises – and he sucked on his teeth as he shook his head. He could almost feel his mother's radiant, yet somewhat broken smile directed at him, and he found himself unable to protest when she gently gave him a push – a sign that something special awaited him outside, and that he should walk towards this special gift. Isabelle had a tendency to dote on her only son, and his sixteenth birthday gave her an excuse to shower him with extravagant gifts.

"What are you up to, Mother?" His voice sounded less than enthusiastic as he tried to walk down the staircase with a blindfold, holding onto Phineas and Isabelle for support.

"Don't be impatient, love," Isabelle replied in a singsong voice as she excitedly led him downstairs. She failed to notice the exasperation in her son's tone. She was too busy directing Haymitch's path, trying to keep him from sliding off the stairs, and eventually from the varnished mahogany furniture that may bruise his toes and knees.

Haymitch felt the soft carpet against his bare feet, and he wondered what could be so special that his mother had forgotten to nag him about his slippers. 'Maybe she got me one of those freakish hovershoes, and customized it so that it would be encrusted with expensive jewels and crap.' He shuddered at the thought. It was one thing to float around campus like a pixie, he mused, but to float around campus like a pixie whilst wearing bejeweled shoes was something else completely. 'Popularity was fun while it lasted.' He was removed from his thoughts when he heard the 'swish' of their metallic front door – the only modern thing in their otherwise antiquated abode, aside from his digital clock. His feet had left the carpeted floors of their house, and he stood at the cold marble doorstep, in front of their long, circular driveway. His mother loosened the blindfold, and Haymitch squinted as the white morning sunrays burned his silver irises. He almost did not notice the brand new silver sports car parked in front of him. Almost.

The aforementioned vehicle glistened in the sunlight, its windows tinted black. With one click of a button, the door opened with a 'whoosh,' revealing a spacious interior and soft black leather seats that invited one to sit and feel the luxury of being young and rich. Haymitch's thin mouth that usually lined his face was agape, and his eyes scanned the entirety of his newly received possession. He could see his sharp features reflected on the glossy paint of the car – his chiseled mandible, strong aquiline nose, and wide-set eyes, features that were framed by a crown of messy dark-brown hair, did not betray the surprise he felt towards the unexpected gift. Isabelle noted the look on her son's face and she smiled in satisfaction.

"Do you like your gift, Haymitch?" she asked.

"I – I," He stuttered as he tried to form words in his mouth, "I – ah – it's a bit too extravagant, don't you think?" It had nothing to do with his mother's lavish gift. Haymitch was accustomed to receiving expensive gifts from both parents; it was the feeling that he did not deserve it. Especially not this year, after he had caused trouble in school before the first week was over. Of course, they were yet to receive the news.

Isabelle kissed her son's cheek and patted him at the back. "Nonsense, love," she said. "It's your birthday, and you deserve the best. Besides, I didn't force you to have those driving lessons and exam for naught. Any day now, you shall receive your driving license in the mail. My excellent little boy."

Haymitch forced a smile. "Excellent," he let out a nervous chuckle, all the while thinking of Plutarch's bloodstained uniform. "Of course." He opened his arms wide and enveloped Isabelle in a warm embrace. His eyes found Phineas' and the avox looked back at him with a knowing glint in his blue eyes.'Again, I shall disappoint my already hurting mother.' He inwardly sighed at the thought. He really was no better than his father.

Haymitch was a very smart and proficient young man. He did well in his academics; perhaps he did not get straight A's like Eric Dugan or Bilius Videbeck – one of his closest friends – but he had never gotten a grade lower than a B. His extra-curricular activities made him popular amongst the young ladies, an inspiration to younger boys, like Seneca Crane, and even an object of envy amongst less attractive, but equally competent young men, like Plutarch Heavensbee – whom he bested at both Fencing and Judo (while Plutarch bested him in Literature and Science). But while he was not one to enjoy the negative attention, Haymitch was impatient and quick to anger, and this quality led him into situations he'd rather not face.

Plutarch was an audacious boy with a sharp tongue, so Haymitch, gave the former a fistful of his mind. It was something Headmaster Octavius Mosby did not appreciate, so he did what any sensible headmaster would do, and sent a holographic mail to his troublemaking student's father. It happened before; Haymitch, in his frustration, would lose his temper and start a fight (only it wasn't really a fight if his opponent was the only one receiving punches), and Headmaster Mosby would intervene, but it never happened on the first Friday of the schoolyear before. So to say, it was not a good start.

"Well, what are you waiting for," Isabelle said, releasing herself from her son's embrace, "why don't you take it out on a spin, see how it suits you, my dear."

She handed him the keys and Haymitch cautiously made his way into the driver's seat. He felt the rubber pads of the pedals on his feet, while he wrapped his hands around the soft leather that encased the steering wheel. He was about to close the door when a black luxury car made its way into the driveway. Haymitch stopped to look at Theodore Abernathy stepping out of the vehicle, a furious mask veiled his usually calm countenance.

"Darling!" Isabelle greeted him. She purposely ignored the angry look that painted her husband's features, opting to welcome him warmly, as she always had. "It's been too long since you've graced us with your presence. Are you here to celebrate our son's birthday?"

She was about to put her arms around Theodore, but he pushed his wife to the side and promptly made his way to his wayward son. The smile she plastered on her heavily made up face disappeared. Isabelle was used to her husband's bouts of fury, but never had he taken it out on their child. She watched in astonishment as Theodore took Haymitch by the collar and hurled curses his way.

"Damn you, child," he snarled, "After years of feeding you, educating you, and giving you more than you could ever want. You repay us with your grotesque ingratitude!"

Theodore pulled Haymitch out of the silver car and shoved him to the concrete. The boy only looked at him with burning contempt as his father straddled him and threw strong debilitating punches his way. Isabelle ran towards the two men – her tall heels clicking with each step – and tried to hold off the older man, but he shoved her with his arm and she fell to the ground, bruising her leg.

"This is why our son is a rotten piece of shit, Isabelle," The woman looked up from where she was sprawled; Theodore towered over her, casting a shadow over the ground. "You spoil him with lavish gifts he does not deserve." He did not have the right to lecture his wife on raising children, for he was also subject to the same errors. He was very fond of Haymitch, especially when the boy was young and impressionable. He was pleased that his son wanted nothing but to become like him. However, things have changed. Haymitch knew Theodore for what he is, and the relationship between father and son had become irreparably torn. "Now look at your boy, woman," he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up. "Take a look at that piece of garbage, writhing on the ground like a dying insect; the little vermin."

Isabelle glanced upon her son with pity, and tears streamed down her beautiful face. The trail of tears erased some of the powder and revealed her olive skin – a shade lighter than her son's color. She held onto Theodore, trying to subdue him before he resumed his assault. She had never seen Haymitch in so much pain, and her heart bled for him.

"Please, Theodore," she begged, "whatever he did, it's my fault. My shortcomings had led him to do what is displeasing to you. I deserve the punishment."

Lying on the ground, Haymitch watched as Isabelle tried to protect him from Theodore. He had to bite his cheek to keep his tears at bay. It was not his mother's fault; it was his. But like every other self-centered teen, Haymitch chose to blame someone else for his actions. In his case, he blamed his father. 'Who else in this family carries the gene that programmed me to become so easily enraged?' he thought. But perhaps it wasn't even an inherent quality; instead, it might be the feeling of perpetual frustration bubbling up inside him. Still, it did not justify his beating of Plutarch Heavensbee into a bloody pulp the day before (he explained to the headmaster that Plutarch was a 'haughty son of a bitch, and he had it coming to him'). The holographic mail from Mosby was probably sitting in his father's inbox the whole night before he finally found it this morning. He wished that Theodore found it last night, so that his mother would be at her workshop, designing clothes for future District 1 tributes, instead of standing there whilst watching the ugly spectacle unfold before her.

Haymitch was surprised when instead of hurting his mother, Theodore simply removed himself from her grip, and made his way towards him.

"Haymitch," his voice was stern. "Time and time again, I have been patient with you. Octavius sent me messages, but I let you off with a warning. You said that you wanted to become a gamemaker someday. Do you honestly believe that you can make it if you keep on creating trouble in your school?"

"I do not want to become a stupid gamemaker," Haymitch blurted out, his voice was hoarse and his nose bloody. "Not anymore. Not like you." He winced, preparing himself for the worst. "I'll be an escort instead. It's less demanding. All I have to do is wear expensive clothes and pick out names from a fishbowl."

Haymitch wheezed as Theodore's kick landed on his stomach. His mouth spewed out blood, which he wiped behind his hand. He looked at his father whom was raving mad, and his mother whose mouth was covered with her hands. The avox remained by the doorstep, watching wordlessly as his masters' domestic problems unfurled before him. The boy tried to stand, but found that he was too battered, too weak, so he lay still, and laughed at the irony of the situation.

'Happy birthday to you,

This damn place is a zoo.'

Theodore crinkled his nose. "You disgust me," he said. "You're not even worth it." With those words, he turned his back on his son and decided to spend the rest of the morning in his study. On his way to the house, he passed by his wife, who was paralyzed with fear, and the avox. To the latter, he handed over his car keys.

"Park this for me," he said. And he disappeared into the house.

Haymitch's last memory of that morning was of his mother running towards him and cradling his bruised head on her lap.

That evening, Haymitch woke to the sound of a ringing phone. His eyes were met with darkness, and his hand felt its way to the switch of his lampshade. As the warm yellow light illuminated the room, he made his way towards the phone, regardless of the pain that ailed his sore muscles. The phone's design befitted the rest of the furniture – an antique of some sort – but it had been customized to fit the necessity of the post-apocalyptic era. With a push of a button, the holographic image of Tiffany Nightingale filled the room with a bluish tint. Haymitch could not keep the smile off his face. Tiffany, however, looked aghast.

"What happened to you?" she asked, forgetting the customary cordiality that commenced a friendly phone call. "You did not get into a fight again, did you?"

"Father received mail from Headmaster Mosby," he sighed, "you could only imagine his disappointment. And Fury" He remembered to add.

Tiffany's eyes softened, and she pursed her lips. "I'm so sorry, Haymitch," she said. "I wish I could be there to tend to you."

Haymitch shook his head and touched her heart-shaped face through the holographic image, distorting it as his fingers grazed. It was a lovely face, with big brown eyes, a small, straight nose, and full, pink lips. Her gentle features were framed with silky ebony tresses that reached the small of her back. She was not wearing any make up, which he appreciated greatly.

"You're here now, aren't you?" he said.

"You know that's not what I mean," Tiffany pouted. "I wish I could actually be there with you."

"You wouldn't want to get involved in this freak show," he said. "My father is probably beating my poor mother as we speak." Haymitch's voice cracked as he said this. "It's better that you're there, and I, here. We still get to talk, and that's what truly matters to me."

"I love you, Haymitch, do you realize that?" she asked. "You know I'm willing to go through hell with you."

"And you do realize that I feel the same for you, don't you?" was Haymitch's reply. "I would protect you no matter what it takes. I'll never drag you into my messes."

Tiffany looked at him with growing affection, and he returned the sentiment. The girl in front of him, he thought, was his only guiding light. 'And she is enough,' he thought. She had always been enough.

Haymitch met Tiffany in Kindergarten, while he was still a young boy of five, and he thought that she was the prettiest girl in school. He adored her kindness and her gentle smile. However, she disliked his boastfulness and wished that the smug look on his little face would disappear. But eventually, he became her protector; in the schoolyard, where cruel schoolgirls would try to bring her down with vile words of criticism, he would tell her that she was beautiful – too perfect to belong in a world of homely Capitol girls who covered their plainness with outlandish hairstyles and bright clothing (for even in childhood, simplicity had been a foreign concept in their world; a fact that only Tiffany seemed to be oblivious about). "Take off those girls' sparkly petticoats and you'll see how ugly they are," Haymitch used to tell her, "You see, those sequins reflect the sun, so that light would mask their unattractive looks." Tiffany would believe him because honesty was one of his good qualities, and he would continue, "You, on the other hand, allow yourself to let your hair down because it looks like silk, that really soft fabric my mother loves. And your clothes do not look like aluminum foil because the light would only tarnish your prettiness. So, see, you're much better." They became friends, then. In the corridors, they walked hand in hand, because he feared that if he let go, she would get away. But little did he know that even if he did, she'd stay right beside him, because she loved him, too.

But pretty, little Tiffany had grown up and followed the Capitolian trend. She, too, had fallen victim to the lavishly decorated dresses and thick layers of make up. She styled her hair in peculiar curls, and put ribbons on her silky black tresses. She did it to please her female peers who believed that beauty, grace, and elegance were based solely on the amount of artificial colors on one's body. Haymitch said nothing; he did not seem pleased, but there was no sign that he disliked it, either. He never bothered to tell her to return to her formal self. She played around with her hair and make up some more because her efforts did not seem enough, and she was resolved to do what it takes to hear Haymitch say the words 'you look wonderful.' But no matter what she did, he never said a word. Adolescence, she found, was all about feeling inadequate about one's worth.

The change in Haymitch had been more subtle. At first, he only lost his boastfulness. He no longer walked around with his chin up while telling everyone that he was the son of a gamemaker. That boastfulness had been replaced by a cold indifference and his honesty by belligerence. His childish impatience had grown into aggression; more than once, he had unlinked his hands from Tiffany's, so that he could curl them into fists and punch the first irritating person he saw. Still, she stood by him, because she knew that it was all for show – his actions were the mask he wore to hide whatever hollowness and pain he felt gnawing at his insides. She believed that while everything changed, their feelings never would – and in a way, it was true. They'd been there for each other through thick and thin, and could not picture spending the rest of their lives with anyone else. They knew that beneath her generously applied make up and his halfhearted smiles – masks that disguised their dissatisfaction with life – their true selves resided, and it kept them sure of each other.

A knock on the door released them from their musings. It was Phineas, bringing the young master his dinner.

"I have to go, Tiff," Haymitch said, reluctant to end their conversation, "they wouldn't want to see me out of bed."

"Rest well, Haymitch," she pushed the button. She was gone. He had forgotten to tell her how much he loved her bare face. She did not want to let him know how much her heart ached when, for a brief moment, he unraveled his true self before her.

Haymitch limped back to his bed and positioned himself before allowing the avox entry to his room. He watched as his servant quietly bowed and arranged his dinner in front of him. The mouth-watering aroma of roast beef and mashed potato filled the room, but Haymitch had no appetite. There was only one thing he wished to know.

"Is Mother well?"

Phineas only turned away. Haymitch knew what the gesture implied.

Later, Haymitch would finally muster the courage to open his door. Only then would he find his mother seated in the living room with one of the female avoxes – Marian, the former doctor – tending to her wounds. He would lean on the banister, a silent spectator to his mother's sorrows. And then his father would arrive late at night with a bouquet of expensive flowers hiding behind his back. It was his form of undoing; he did it more for himself than for his wife. He did it to quell his guilt, that's if he felt any. Haymitch knew the routine so well. He knew that his mother would smile, despite the pain that throbbed from her split lip, and wrap her arms around his father. Just like that, the romance returned to their sad, pitiful lives. Haymitch would bite the insides of his cheek and return to his room, devastated with the superficial display of phony affection, and angry because his life was made smooth by fake smiles and snake oil.

"Another birthday made perfect," he meant it, too, because he was rarely afforded the opportunity to see the ugly truth that surrounded his life.

A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. Reviews are very much welcome. Corrections, criticisms, etc. Thanks. :)