8 Months Later

My communicuff is beeping.

I should answer it, silence it, something. Except I can't. Can't do anything but stare at the television and hear an echo of the same words ringing over and over.

"On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from the existing pool of victors".

Once my body remembers how to move I do so gingerly, as if any sudden movement might trigger an invisible bomb that the people on screen have just set. I do the only two things that seem somewhat adjacent to a solution. First, I take the communicuff in my hands, press a button to quiet it, and stuff it back into the hidden compartment under a loose floorboard where I no longer have to think about it. Then I grab a bottle.

It's not been long since my last drink, but my hands shake as though it has been. I'm still fumbling with the cap when the boy bursts through my door. His chest is heaving despite the short distance between his house and mine. He may have ran here.

I want badly to say or do something to lessen the tension that hangs in the air like lead. Instead Peeta and I just stare at each for a few moments until he strides over to my television and turns off the reading of the card broadcast.

"I'm going in with her," he says.

I stare at him a beat longer for good measure before sighing deeply. I make him wait for me while I snap the bottle's seal and take an exceptionally long drink from it.

"You know," I say once I've finished, "Most people take at least ten seconds to think an issue through before they decide to kill themselves over it. That's a recurring problem of yours, you should work on that."

"I'm just telling you what is going to happen. It's what's best for us. For all of us."

"Your corpse is what's best for all of us? The rest of the country might disagree if they had to pick between us two. I'm old, I've already lived my life".

This is something of a half-truth. I have only recently turned forty-one, and that number means very different things depending on who in Panem you ask. Miners from the Seam wouldn't find anything too unusual about someone dropping dead in their early forties. Meanwhile, a Capitol citizen would describe people my age as having not even reached the halfway point in their lives yet.

I am genuinely unsure of the expected natural lifespan for an alcoholic recluse from Victor's Village. It's not the kind of category they keep track of in a census.

The weakness of my argument seems to be lost on Peeta, who visibly hesitates in response. He's too polite to say so out loud, but it's evident that forty-one seems positively ancient to his teenage brain. In other circumstances I'd find that hilarious, but right now it only serves as a harsh reminder of just how young Peeta really is. Too young to be offering himself up for slaughter.

"All I know is that I can't live without her. Keeping me safe is a waste unless Katniss makes it out alive. You already know how to be a mentor, but I can't do a thing to protect her unless I'm in there with her. Please, Haymitch. Do this one thing for me," he begs.

For a moment I let myself imagine it. Allowing Peeta to go back to the arena. Staying behind myself. Surviving. And it lifts a weight off of me like nothing else could.

I want so desperately not to die. I always have. I wouldn't (couldn't) still be here if that were not true.

But there's a second weight brought with it, every bit as suffocating as the first. Shame, loss, and everything else that always comes with being the unworthy leftovers that somebody else had to die for.

"You've got a lot of nerve coming in here and making demands under my own roof, boy," I whisper.

"Do I?" he asks. "Because as I seem to recall it, I was the one who was left in the arena to die last year. You chose Katniss. In the spirit of fairness, it sounds like it's my turn to be the one doing the choosing around here- and I pick her. You owe me."

It's a compelling reason to hear him out; perhaps even an obligation. Peeta showed up ready to reframe his argument around a Seam man's preoccupation with debts owed. He always did know how to play to his audience.

Maybe it's because of this, or the guilt, or that sick feeling that grows every second that he doesn't just leave me alone , but I give the boy a sharp nod. He straightens up with an air of satisfaction.

"I'm sure she'll come here looking for you soon enough. You already know what to tell her." He wrenches open the door and leaves as abruptly as he came.

Soon enough, he says. I'm not so sure. It would surprise me if the two of us have even crossed sweetheart's mind yet. Well, she's not my most immediate concern either. Not yet anyways. I pull the loose floorboard up again and fish the cuff back out.

With restrictions on communication throughout Panem being what they are, having an untapped communicuff out in the districts is expensive, rare, and very illegal. Mine hardly ever sees use. Few messages are worth the potential risk of somebody realizing that I've smuggled one out here.

Taking a deep breath, I click to accept the call and am greeted by the exact voice I have been dreading.

"Don't worry, nobody's listening in on us," Plutarch explains, unnecessarily. If the bugs in my home were at all active tonight he never would have sent me an audible ping and I never would have answered it. "I wouldn't have minded a quicker response, you know. The public is already clamoring for my official statement about the reading of the card. I don't have endless free time."

"Sorry to inconvenience you," I say, my voice devoid of any emotion.

"No matter. I don't think we'll have another chance to speak freely, so I'm glad to hear from you now. Our mutual friends are aware of the situation and have agreed to step in. Operation Mockingjay is still on."

My breath hitches. "How is that possible? The Quell-"

"Is nothing that can't be worked around. Due to the circumstances we've decided that Plan 5C will be the best fit," says Plutarch. He pauses to gauge my reaction. "I assumed that you would be more enthusiastic considering that it's one of your ideas."

"That's what has me concerned, actually. You really couldn't think of anything more practical?"

"There are scattered uprisings in nearly every district now. If the rebels don't unite their forces soon we'll all be overtaken individually and miss our window of opportunity. We need a public display of power, something that every corner of the nation will see. Disrupting the Quell during mandatory viewing is the best chance we're going to get."

I take another long drink and rub my temples. "5C was only intended as a hypothetical. The odds of any tribute surviving a mid-Games rescue operation were always slim to none. And they're even worse now that you've turned one of those tributes into a political figure. You're not going to get an Operation Mockingjay if you gamble her life away on a pipe dream."

"We're aware of the risks and doing everything we can to minimize them. I will be contacting every trustworthy victor to alert them of Ms. Everdeen's importance to the cause. I may need your assistance in garnering their support and directing them on what to do next. While you are mentoring you will-"

"What do you mean while I'm mentoring?" I ask sharply.

Silence on the other end of the line. Plutarch is considering his next words carefully.

"This particular reaping," he explains slowly, "Will be heavily predetermined, at the President's request. As Head Gamemaker, I will be given some limited input on exactly which names are called. It is imperative that we take advantage of this and try to get the right people into the arena."

"And you've taken it upon yourself to decide that a seventeen year old boy will be among the right people," I say. It takes conscious effort to loosen my grip on the communicuff enough to avoid snapping it in half.

"The best outcome we can hope for is having a variety of young and strong people protecting Katniss in the arena while the more knowledgeable and experienced victors assist me in ensuring their success from the outside. I trust that you can understand why I feel most comfortable giving the former task to Peeta and the latter to you."

"You and I have different definitions of what a best outcome is if it involves getting a kid killed. But I suppose that's what happens when a Gamemaker is allowed to make the plans," I say.

The words have no bite to them. Plutarch has heard this manner of criticism from me dozens of times before. It never changes anything.

"If best meant the same thing as ideal we'd both be living in a very different world. Let's just do what we can to get them both out. Remember to touch base with the others and get as many victors on our side as possible. We need all hands on deck." He pauses for a moment. "And for what it's worth, I truly am sorry."

Click.

I practically throw the communicuff back underneath the floorboards. My head hurts, and the scent of white liquor wafting through the kitchen has never been quite so appealing.

Katniss will come to talk to me at some point tonight- Peeta knew that as well as I do. I wish she'd hurry up so we could get it over with. What kind of person forgets about their district partners when there's a life or death situation waiting to be discussed?

You, my brain reminds me helpfully. I had been gearing up to shut out the entire world and drink myself into oblivion before Peeta and Plutarch so rudely interrupted. Guess sweetheart must have ran off to find a corner of oblivion of her own. Ain't we an altruistic pair.

I stay where I am and wait for her anyways. Partly because the conversation needs to happen, but mostly because I have nowhere to go and nothing else to do except watch the clock and drink. By the time my door finally swings open once more, I am frustrated and well past drunk.

While Peeta was the picture of composure, Katniss looks like hell. Eyes red from crying, bits of dust in her hair, hand bleeding from some unknown injury. I find that the mere sight of her infuriates me. I don't bother to ask where she's been or what she's been doing.

"Ah, there she is. All tuckered out. Finally did the math, did you, sweetheart? Worked out that you won't be going in there alone? And now you're here to ask me… what?"

She hovers in my doorway like a ghost. Still and sad and silent.

"I'll admit, it was easier for the boy. He was here before I could even snap the seal on a bottle. Begging me for another chance to go in. But what can you say?" I raise my voice a few octaves to mimic her. "Take his place, Haymitch, because all things being equal, I'd rather Peeta had a crack at the rest of his life than you."

The look of shame on her face is intense and immediate. I feel my anger deflate a bit. This is not a premeditated demand for me to lie down and accept my death. It's a terrified sixteen year old still too deep in shock to have even thought through what she's asking for. I'm still considering how to reverse my approach when she beats me to it.

"I came for a drink," she says.

That throws me. I laugh and offer the bottle to her without protest. Far be it from me to deny a fellow victor the chance to drown their sorrows. The strong liquor makes Katniss cough and sputter, but she powers through and pulls up a chair to sit with me.

"Maybe it should be you," she says. "You hate life, anyway."

"Very true," I say. "And since last time I tried to keep you alive… seems like I'm obligated to save the boy this time."

"That's another good point," Katniss says. She takes another swig and actually manages to keep it down this time. A fast learner.

"Peeta's argument is that since I chose you, I now owe him. Anything he wants. And what he wants is the chance to go in again to protect you."

I pause to reflect on this. Peeta is only a boy, and yet already he possesses the resolve to seek me out and offer himself up to die. He had to, because he knew that I would not be ready to come to him.

"You could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve him, you know," I finish.

Katniss seems to instinctively understand the words I've left unspoken. "Yeah, yeah," she says dismissively. "No question, he's the superior one in this trio. So what are you going to do?"

I sigh. "I don't know. Go back in with you maybe, if I can. If my name's drawn at the reaping, it won't matter. He'll just volunteer to take my place."

That much is true, but it's far from the whole story. To defy Peeta's wishes would be one thing, but Plutarch is another matter entirely. Like him or not, the plans he is making are so much bigger than the three of us. Bigger than all of the victors combined.

I spend a long while ruminating on this before Katniss pipes up again. "It'd be bad for you in the arena, wouldn't it? Knowing all the others?"

"Oh, I think we can count on it being unbearable no matter where I am," I say. A sea of familiar faces flash through my mind. There's that sick feeling again.

Which reminds me. I'd really prefer to not be conscious right now, and Katniss has had more than enough liquor to satisfy someone as small and inexperienced as she is. I nod to the bottle. "Can I have that back now?"

Katniss refuses and hugs the bottle to her chest. Something about the way she clings to it makes me uncomfortable, but I push the thought away. After all, adults gave me alcohol all the time when I was her age. I pop the seal on a brand new bottle and leave Katniss to hers.

"Okay, I figured out what I'm asking," she says. "If it is Peeta and me in the Games, this time we try to keep him alive."

I can't help but cringe slightly at the request. I'm not sure whether Katniss picks up on my reaction or not, but she persists regardless. "Like you said, it's going to be bad no matter how you slice it. And whatever Peeta wants, it's his turn to be saved. We both owe him that. Besides, the Capitol hates me so much, I'm as good as dead now. He still might have a chance. Please, Haymitch. Say you'll help me."

Although Katniss has no way of knowing it, this is the one thing I cannot do for her. Snow may have turned our world upside down with this Quell, but one thing has remained the same: Katniss Everdeen is the face of the budding rebellion. If anyone's life is to be made top priority, it is hers.

"All right," I say.

She thanks me and gets up to stumble back outside, now heavily intoxicated and still clutching the bottle I gave her. From the looks of her, she is likely to pass out the second she arrives home. Unconscious and ignorant. A winning combination if there ever was one.

It seems like all I ever do to these kids is lie to them.