Hi again,

Sorry, for the long update time. Things came up and this was bumped down to low priority. Plus Haymitch fades from being a part, so I needed to figure out something for him to do. So please comment, review, flame, or anything else you want. TELL ME HOW I AM DOING! Thank you, and thank you for reading.

Sincerely,

Draco Ranger

Note: I do not own anything mentioned in this story and am not making money off it in any way. If someone wants to pay me, PM me and we'll discuss how to do it without violating copyright laws (which I am not doing).

Violence and Therapy

Stumbling and cursing, I practically fall out of the ramjet, finally on solid ground back in the Capitol. The giant super bunker has not changed a bit, except it may have a few more scorch marks and the receptionist appears to have fainted from excitement. Or from cheering too much, or from some other reason that I do not care about. Ramjet travel annoys me, can you tell?

Regardless of my personal feelings, I had the money, Katniss and Peeta get to live for a few more days, and I might be able to get drunk off of aftershave. Life sometimes throws you a bone, usually in the form of opportunity, but if you are lucky, in the form of household goods that are filled with restricted drugs. With that happy thought, I wander through the deserted streets of the Capitol, ignoring the shouts of bloodlust, intent on only one... maybe two... things.

A few minutes later, I arrived at the Mentor's Head Quarters while, surprisingly, not under the influence of alcohol. Entering the atrium, I am greeted by a Capitol security guard, requesting my identification, despite my required presence here for the past twenty four years. Despite my strong desire to murder or at least assault the man, I content myself with brushing past him, an event that should have worked if not for the shock batons that all crowd control guards carry as a nonlethal option.

"..." Is what I yell at the guard, my explicatives hampered by my inability to control my lungs, larynx, or mouth.

"So, you thought you could just walk by me, eh?" The guard asks, in the obligatory District 3 accent. Armored in full riot gear, all I can make out is his mouth, which has herpes scars, buck teeth, and is sewn shut. It is possible that my rage at that moment altered my perception of the man.

"... Fuc- ow" I manage to whisper before the guard stomps on my hand. Apparently the Peacekeepers here are not only incapable of recognizing the only reason they are employed but are also sadists.

"Do you know the penalty for attempting to interfere with the Games? First, you are deleted from all records. Next, you are tortured for a few months, just to get you ready for the rest of your horrible existence. Soon after, as you lie crying in your cell, they cut out your tounge and turn you into an Avox. But for you, I think we have something spec-" He asks in a heavenly voice, apparently becoming lost in the visions of my torture. Then I interrupt him.

"Do you know I am a mentor? And you have just possibly killed the District 12 Tributes?" I gasp out, not completely truthfully.

Upon hearing this, the mouth of the guard opens in fear, the skin around it turns gray, and he starts trembling. His hand jerks to his sidearm and fumbles for a moment. The gun is withdrawn and placed to the side of his head. A shot rings out. Blood splatters the wall. Then the guard starts cursing.

"Motherfuc-" He gets out before firing another shot. Apparently, the guard missed the first shot and only hit his visor, which shattered and sent shrapnel flying into his face. The second shot flattens against the bulletproof mesh of his helmet, once again not killing him. Howling in pain, the shot must have punctured his eardrums, and given him a concussion from the impact and overpressure; the hapless guard falls to the ground and passes out from the shock. He appears to be enthusiastic for his months of torture and can't wait to get started.

I leave him lying on the ground and head to the elevator. I did say that I had a strong desire to kill him, but it seems that he did it to himself.

Having successfully led to more people's deaths than Katniss, this episode doesn't bother me much more than most of the others. Then again, this is from a depressive alcoholic, so that isn't saying a lot. Still, occasional times without whisky has forced me to learn how not to be affected by sobriety and guilt, so I push the event out of my head, soon to return to my near-continuous nightmares.

As I deal with the inevitable pain that I suffer due to causing another human's death, I am greeted by a sound that makes my brain cells commit suicide, Effie's howler monkey like cheering.

Back into the elevator I go.

Thankfully, there is a private Mentor's Only section several hundred feet below the main area. This is supposed to be used as a place for the universally addicted and nervous wrecks that are the mentors to relax and get therapy, in their manner of choice. As such, there are holo-porn booths, drug injectors, a fully stocked bar, and an ordering system for prostitutes of all shapes, sizes, colors, and physical "improvements." There is even a clown and mime, along with several bats and sharp implements, not necessarily to be used together, but the creeps are always on morphine [Yes, I know its morphling, but if the bird names, plant names, and weapon names all remain the same, I don't see why the name of a medical item which generally has the name written on the bottle would be changed. This will probably also apply to "muttations" in the future. -Draco] and some people can't help but take a whack at the most creepy thing created so far. If you are truly desperate, there is even a therapist.

"Hi, Haymitch!" Shouted the ever peppy and upbeat therapist, Ms. Stultus.

"Go die in a ditch." I reply. I have a theory, since that nobody likes peppy people, they can't be in heaven as it wouldn't be heaven for other people. In addition, they can't go to hell, as they would be immune to the torture that it gives. As such, they must go to purgatory, where they will be trapped for all existence, with nothing but themselves, slowly going insane, crushed in the white fog that is their plot in the afterlife, knowing nothing, learning nothing, and feeling nothing. Plus her name is stupid. I don't really like many people, have you noticed?

"Right-o!" She replies, before turning to the mimes. Ahh, never a more fitting torture for such unholy creatures, one who never stops speaking must talk to one who never speaks!

Finally excused from the horrors of the pep and the mime, I head over to a computer. I close the whore interface, which is filled with the many prostitutes I could order, and pull up the purchase page. The purchase page is where Mentors buy new items for their Tributes. I am not as skilled with this as most of the other Mentors, but I know it fairly well from last year. The different items are placed by category, with more expensive items being sold by custom order. Pulling up a spile, a hollow tube that is used to collect plant sap or, in this case, water [Seriously, they forget the name for morphine but remember "Spile," which happens to be so obscure that Word refuses to accept it as a word? Whatever. -Draco]. I check out the price, which fortunately is well within what Max gave me and what he should make on betting with the inside information.

Before ordering, I receive a message saying the first day is nearly over, with highlights. Standard gory stuff, a lot of people died, the career Tributes banded together, arguments over whether all of them are career Tributes, an agreement to rename what used to be career Tributes to be the Westerns and for Katniss's team to be the Easterns. Katniss created a fairly large team, how Katniss and Peeta are in love, and, finally, the odds. Apparently, Peeta has middling odds while Katniss is getting 1:2. Considering that there are 15 murderous fiends, sorry "old friends," left this is very unusual. I was very surprised that Katniss actually followed my instructions and banded together with decent fighters rather than the cripples. With this in mind, I send a message to the Mentors of Districts 4 to come down and discuss how we should work together and aid our Tributes.

As it was nearing midnight at the Capitol, and the island was about 5 hours behind us, with a sunset at about 20:00, I needed to send the order as soon as possible so that the Easterns would be able to actually figure out what I was sending them and use it. Although I should notify the rest of the Eastern team Mentors to what I was doing, time was of the essence, and I purchased the spile. It would be sent to the Easterns as at the earliest convenience and hopefully they would know how to use it without destroying it. My work is done.

Looking at the bar and drug injectors I have an idea. I did say I would stop drinking, but I never said there weren't other ways of taking in alcohol... Well, hopefully there will be a Happy Haymitch tonight and Hangover Haymitch won't kill anybody tomorrow. I can finally get a drink.

Day One is just about done, maybe a little more about how the Tributes finally figure out how to use the spile. The next chapters will be concerned with the rebellion and Haymitch's role in it. Thank you people who reviewed, thank you people who read this, and thank you Ms. Collins for making such a good book. Audrey and Beth, thanks for reading this over in addition to the many things that eat up your time, you're both awesome!

Sincerely,

Draco Ranger

P.S. I may state more of my opinions in the story, depending on what I find stupid and what I refer to.

P.P.S. Stultus (the Therapist) means stupid in Latin (OK, it literally means foolish, but its close enough). A lot of the Capitol is based on the Roman Empire, so that is where I am getting most of my names.

Thank you moonlight goose and iligar516 for the support and the reviews, sorry it took so long to respond.