Blurry Memories

By Jellybean Thief

Disclaimer: Suzanne Collins created a fascinating world filled with independent and interesting characters. They aren't mine, and I promise to put these ones back where I found them when I'm done.

Part One

If Haymitch were honest with himself, he couldn't remember the first time he saw the girl who would become the girl on fire.

When he thought it through, it was likely he'd encountered the grey-eyed girl at the Hob from time to time, she trading squirrels or birds, he trying to talk Ripper into an extra bottle or three of the rotgut she brewed. The booze had a way of fuzzing your vision and blurring the faces of the people around, which was a good thing as far as Haymitch was concerned. But it also meant that if the Everdeen girl were Ripper's assistant herself, he wouldn't have recognized her when she stepped from the crowd to take her sister's place.

And that was the moment Haymitch had to admit he couldn't remember, even if he tried.

The record would show that District 12's only victor was drunk that day. No surprise: he was drunk most days. The only problem with this strategy, as far as he could tell, was that while the white fire fuzzed most faces out, it seemed to make that damned Capitol escort - Effie Tinker, Trenchant, something like that - louder and more clearly defined. At least, Haymitch hoped that was the case, because he couldn't imagine a world where the sharp-voiced pink lady his brain produced was actually a reduced version of reality.

So the only thing he remembered from the Reaping was Effie Termagant's voice: first summoning a Primrose Everdeen, then commotion, then a request from Effie for applause. Applause for a volunteer.

That got Haymitch's attention. He liked that, actually. Liked a girl so stupid that she'd volunteer for death. It would make her easier to write off when the time came.

Yes, he liked her.

The first five years after his victory, Haymitch had worked to teach the kids strategy and gamesmanship; had fought to bring them home. But ultimately, Haymitch decided that a different strategy would be better for his own long-term stability. These days, he avoided the tributes as much as possible, and then, in the last possible moments, he sat them down. He told the tributes that there was no reason that District 12 couldn't have another victor: it was really just luck, after all. That their best hope would be to get to the cornucopia as quickly as they could; to get a weapon, a pack, or a tool to help them survive. To win.

He told them to run fast.

He told himself that it was a kindness.

Usually they didn't even make it to the cornucopia. Only twice in the past decade had they made it out of the bloodbath. And that's when things got ugly. Say what you would about the District 12 tributes under Haymitch Abernathy, they didn't starve or drown or freeze. They didn't puke or shit or seize their way towards death on national television, courtesy of a nasty infection or poisoned plant. The tributes of District 12 went down fighting, and they went down fast.

It was a kindness.

But this girl...this volunteer. Haymitch remembered thinking - right before he must have toppled off the stage - that she would go down faster than most.

He didn't remember falling. And he didn't remember her.

His memory scrolled forward nearly a full day before it could produce a reliable image of her face. The tributes, frustrated with his studied indifference, had jumped him.

Perhaps that was an overstatement, but not by much. The boy - Haymitch had chosen not to remember his name, dubbing him instead, simply, "48" - had knocked Haymitch's breakfast aperitif out of his hand. The girl - "47" - nearly pinned his hand to the table. For a moment, he was back in the Games, blinded with panic and terror, recognizing that the time had come to kill or be killed.

But the knife was buried in a table, rather than bouncing off a forcefield, and his mind reoriented itself. Not the Games. Rather, not his Games. A different Games, forty-six dead tributes later.

With not one, but two tributes who now seemed determined to fight for life whether he told them to or not.

And so, Haymitch looked at his latest casualties. Alcohol-soaked though his brain was, it had felt the moment was worth enough to preserve as a memory.

Handsome, both of them. The boy, well-fed and stocky. His eyes were clear and blue; guileless. Trustworthy. Capable. Kind. Still innocent. Haymitch could think of a few District sponsors who had indicated an interest in such children before. Who could be interested in making an investment, with the understanding of certain quid pro quos should the tribute return a victor.

And the girl.

Grey eyes. The look of the Seam, but without the pallor that indicated a life already given to the mines. She stood straight, and while she was too thin by Capital standards, she was well-formed and better-fed than most of her peers. She was small - probably a good six inches shorter than the female tribute from District 1 - but just as clearly fast, resourceful, and good with a knife.

Not pretty - too strong for a simple word like pretty, and still too innocent to be called beautiful - but something about the way those grey eyes met Haymitch's made him grudgingly admit that she was...compelling.

And brave, in the way that only the truly hopeless could be.

This didn't mean much, of course - 24 went in, 1 came out. A lot of brave, compelling kids would be seen in the arena sky over the next month. Supposedly, that's what made it entertaining viewing. After all, it wouldn't be nearly as interesting if the tributes just sat around and sang kumbaya as they waited to die - no, no, the Capitol wanted to see gutsy kids doing penance for an act of rebellion now nearly four generations old.

"Compelling" would only help if she had a mentor who was more skilled at lining up sponsors. Who'd even tried to give a shit over the past 20 or so years.

And "brave" would only matter inasmuch as it determined how quickly she'd run towards her fate.

And headlong she'd have to run. He could tell just by looking at her that otherwise the girl would cling tenaciously to life as long as she could - giving her district, her family, Haymitch himself - a taste of what hope could be, only to snuff it out brutally when the inevitable happened.

So he stuck to the party line. Told the kids that if they didn't interfere with his drinking, he'd stay sober enough to train them.

Because he was planning to train them to run.