First off, apologies for the silence. I hit a real-life writing deadline and put this on hold to get that done, and then had a heck of a time picking it back up again. This chapter was essentially written, but since the next two chapters have been giving me trouble, I wanted to be sure there were no major changes affecting this one before I made it public.

(I might be looking for a beta? I'm not 100% sure - I've never actually worked with one before, but I'm getting a little insecure about the pacing here…if anyone is interested, please private message me with an explanation of what you see the beta's role as being, and how you'd like to be involved.)

Now, where last we left things, Haymitch had slipped up and revealed his little "inside joke" nicknames for his tributes. Cinna asked Portia and Effie to leave the room. Also: All hail, Suzanne Collins. :)

Blurred Memories, chapter 4

By Jellybean Thief

The stylist and the victor stared at each other. Haymitch could feel the room starting to swim around him, while Cinna seemed perfectly at ease. He wished desperately that he hadn't knocked back that final, provocative drink, but he had, and now he had to face the preturnaturally composed stylist with his own wits severely numbed. Desperately, he sucked at the water in his glass. And waited.

Cinna waited too.

Finally, Haymitch drained the glass, slammed it on the counter, and met the other man's gaze full on.

"Might as well get it over with," he explained. "What is it, stylist?"

"I'm trying to figure you out," Cinna said calmly. "Winner of a particularly intense games, and in a spectacularly dramatic fashion. But 23 years later, you're still the lone victor of your district, and your kids die quickly and violently almost every time."

"There was a longer gap between Balsam's win and mine," Haymitch said defensively.

"Balsam Corland died less than two years after his victory," Cinna pointed out. "In all the other districts, getting the first Victor is the biggest hurdle; once a district has at least one real mentor, things get easier."

"What makes you think I'm a real mentor," Haymitch snapped back.

"I don't, actually," Cinna replied. "That's why I'm trying to figure you out. What drives Haymitch Abernathy of District 12? And what would convince him to give at least a modicum of a damn - enough that the rest of us could do our jobs without knowing it was all being thrown away?" Haymitch growled at this, but Cinna pretended not to hear, moving closer to the Victor. "Is it money? Probably not. But if it were, there are ways to buy you out. Pride? That's more likely. There's a cachet to being the lone victor in your district, isn't there? You're a hero, but a tragic figure too."

"You think I like-"

"Shh." Cinna interrupted him, holding up an impossibly long finger to stop the flow of words. "Just listen. You don't have to accept anything now. But if there's any chance that you're not giving these kids their best because your screwed up ego can't stand to share the limelight, I'm going to make you an offer, and it's a simple one: I'll take you on. I'll be your personal stylist - before the games, after the games, anytime you need. Put yourself in my hands and it won't matter if District 12 wins the next ten Hunger Games - you'll be the one they're looking at. You'll be the First. The Best. Even Finnick Odair won't be able to rival you for splash."

Haymitch knew that he shouldn't let the stylist get to him. But rage was stealing through his body, a throbbing fog of anger starting to blur his vision. He tried to breathe deeply. Speak evenly.

"You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Maybe I don't. But I do know that you've been were responsible for 46 kids who are now dead. And I know that you fall off platforms and don't show up to presentations and spend enough of your time getting shitfaced that it's clear your tributes stand no chance. Do you bet on them? Place side bets that your kids' time in the area will be measured in minutes - and then tell them to run into the fray? Because I wouldn't put it past you."

"What are you saying - I'm profiting on the deaths of innocent children? Then, I'd say we're equal, aren't we, stylist?"

"No, I'm saying you're a murderer of innocent children."

Haymitch laughed. He had, after all, been a Hunger Games mentor for 23 years.

"Of course I'm a murderer, you ignorant affectation! I'm a fucking victor! Don't you realize what happens in these games you delight in playing with us?"

Haymitch was furious. He was scared. He was still a little drunk. And so he continued.

"Yes, my kids die fast. They die fighting. They die desperately. They could never do it any differently - because the Capitol holds all the winning cards. You control our food. Our medicine. Our flow of goods and services. And yet, every year you insist on proving your power over Panem by demanding that we hand over our children to be slaughtered." He was aware that he was treading on dangerous territory here, but was far too angry to reign himself in now.

"I say no. I say screw you. My district's kids will not be tortured for your entertainment. And if that means their lives in the arena are short and violent, then so be it."

"So, to you, it's a form of rebellion."

Angry as he was, the word acted like a bucket of water on Haymitch, shocking him into near-sober wariness. It was a loaded term in the Districts, moreso in the Capitol. Now a complete stranger had just said it to him, and was watching to see how he would react.

His fingers scrabbled at the empty water glass, desperate for a drink, and more desperate to appear as if he weren't completely out of his depth in this moment.

What was this stylist trying to do? Align himself with Haymitch's interests to get the mentor back on "the right path"? Collect evidence to be used at some future date? Some other, more sinister plot?

His mind whirled faster than it had in years, trying to determine the safest course. Trying to feel his way through a conversation suddenly fraught with more than the usual number of landmines. But as he thought, he came to realize that his silence was an answer in itself. So he swallowed hard and raised his eyes to meet the stylist's.

Cinna nodded at what he saw there, and somberly reached out to refill the other man's glass.

"Haymitch, you know what I see every year?"

Haymitch shook his head, and Cinna continued. "I see 24 kids go into that arena, and only one come out. And which kids come out? The ones from districts 1, 2, and 4 - districts that most directly serve and honor the Capitol."

"Big surprise," Haymitch grumbled. "They're the districts that aren't starving to death. Districts where a chosen group of talented kids are given resources to train."

"Right," confirmed Cinna. "But there's also a message inherent in their continued victories: bow to the Capitol, save your children."

"We bow."

"Was that what you were doing, just now? Is that what you've been doing, all these years? Haymitch, you've been going about it all wrong. Your district isn't meant to win. Your kids are supposed to be cannon fodder. It's when you became a victor that you became a problem. When any of the lesser districts produce victors, they are problems. They're symbols that, despite everything, there are still pockets of strength in Panem. It says that some of you have fight left. It says that the Capitol will never dominate completely."

Cinna had been talking earnestly this whole time, but now he got right up in Haymitch's face.

"You want to fight, Haymitch, forget about fighting against the Games - fight to win them.