After a night filled with nightmares of strange men pawing at me and Peeta being led away from me by a parade of beautiful Capitol women, I have zero energy to give to the third day of training. I seriously consider joining Mags, who is curled up on one of the wrestling mats apparently asleep, but I don't want to risk having a nightmare without Peeta here. In the end I wind up back at the knot-tying station, hoping the intricate work will at least keep my mind distracted. Finnick joins me, also looking worse for the wear after whatever he wound up doing last night. We work side by side silently for a while, until he can't hold himself back anymore and starts correcting my shoddy work. Later in the morning he shows me how to fashion the noose he displayed on our first day. "Never know when one'll come in handy," he says with a wink.
After lunch it's time for our private sessions, fifteen minutes for each of us to amaze the Gamemakers with our hidden skills. Of course, none of us have much in the way of hidden skills anymore. Peeta and I may have held back in training last year, but nobody holds back in the Games. There are no secrets left this time around.
There's a lot of kidding about it at lunch, what we might do to surprise them. Sing, dance, strip, tell jokes. Mags says she's going back to her nap. I don't know what I'll do.
Like everything else, we go in district order, so the room gradually empties over the course of the afternoon. Finally Haymitch and I are left alone after Seeder is called in.
"So what are you going to do?" I ask him.
Haymitch shrugs. "Dunno. It's not like I've got any surprise skills left up my sleeve. You have a plan?"
I shake my head. "I can't really use them for target practice this year, with the force field up and all. I don't suppose I can just play them a tape of last year's Games?"
Haymitch actually grins at me. "Sorry, sweetheart, don't think it works that way."
"Guess I'll shoot some arrows," I say. "Maybe throw some knives. Hopefully they're paying more attention than they were last year."
"Try to surprise them if you can," Haymitch says. "There could be a lot of high scores this year. If you want to stand out to the sponsors, you have to stand out to the Gamemakers. At the very least you don't want to fall behind Brutus and Finnick."
He's right; a mediocre training score would send a clear message to sponsors that I can't measure up to the "real" Victors. But that still leaves the question of what would surprise anyone at this point. "I don't know what I can do that's any better than the shooting I did on Friday."
"Well, it wasn't exactly your shooting that got you that eleven last year, was it?" Haymitch says.
I scowl at him. "I don't want to paint a target on my back, Haymitch."
"I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but I'm pretty sure you've already got one of those," he says with a dark laugh.
"No use making it any bigger."
"What, like you did at the opening ceremony?" he asks. I scowl even harder at him, but I have no other response, because he's right. From the perspective of trying to survive these Games, directly challenging President Snow like that was monumentally stupid. Haymitch tried to warn me off when he realized what I was doing, and Peeta said something as soon as he saw me after. But at the time I wasn't thinking about strategy or survival. Riding in my second tribute parade, faced with the man who was sending my unborn child into the Games, I just couldn't help myself. All I wanted in that moment was to… to…
…to show the Capitol they don't own me. That I'm more than just a piece in their Games.
That's how Peeta said it last year. The night before we went into the arena, when I was angry that he wasn't trying harder to survive. I didn't get what he meant at the time, too focused on my own survival to understand his more abstract worries. But I understood later. When I had to watch Rue die, I understood. When they tried to make me kill Peeta, I understood.
And three days ago, that's what I had wanted to show to President Snow. That I'm done playing along with his Games. That despite his best efforts, I have not been cowed. To remind him of just how dangerous it is to play with fire.
But what did I accomplish? Like Haymitch said, I made myself an even bigger target. Did I have any reason for acting out like that other than my own stubborn pride?
On the other hand, does it matter at all? Can I really make myself a bigger target than I already am, when Snow set up this entire Quarter Quell just to get me back into the Games? When he told me to my face that he wanted me blasted to bits last year? Can anything I do really affect how the Gamemakers will treat me in the arena, when the last Head Gamemaker was executed for letting me live?
I stop myself and force those dark thoughts from my mind. That kind of thinking means I've accepted my inevitable death in the Games, and I can't allow myself to do that. Not when I have a baby in my womb who's depending on me. Not when I promised Peeta that I'd keep fighting. I just can't afford to think like that.
So I shake my head to Haymitch's suggestion. "No. I'll shoot some arrows, I'll get an 8 or a 9, and I'll let Peeta sweet-talk the sponsors." After seeing him in action last night, I know I can count on Peeta to convince people to support me in the arena. "People will want me to have a bow after seeing me last year. Peeta will find someone willing to buy me one, even if it's only to make the Games more exciting. And then it won't matter what scores Brutus and Finnick got, just like it didn't matter for Marvel and Cato."
Haymitch looks disappointed, but he often looks disappointed with me so I'm prepared to ignore him, but then he speaks up again. "You told me once that you had decided to trust me."
That gets my attention like few other things could. Even though Haymitch, Peeta, and I have spent every day together training for the last two months, this is the first time any of us has brought up the conversation we had the day before our training began. The day I consciously and deliberately placed the lives of Peeta and our baby into Haymitch's hands, despite the secrets we all knew he was keeping from us. Partly because he helped us both survive the Games once already. Partly because I think that deep down he really does care for us, in his own way. But mostly because I had no other options.
I look Haymitch in the eye, and for the first time since I've known him his expression is completely open. He's not angry with me or frustrated with me or disappointed in me. He's not being mean or sarcastic or cynical. He's practically begging me to trust him on this.
I swallow hard. "You remember what I trusted you to protect." My husband. My child. My family.
"Yes," Haymtich says seriously.
"And you understand how precious that is." After what he told us happened to him after his own Games, he should understand better than most.
"Yes," he says again. Nothing in his expression suggests anything other than a desperate need for me to go along with him on this.
"And you're saying that the best thing I can do is go in there and make myself even more of a target than I already am?"
"What I'm saying is that you need to make the biggest impression you can on the Gamemakers, no matter how big a target it makes you later on," he says. "Worry about what happens in the arena when you're in the arena. Right now you need to go in there and make them forget all about Brutus and Finnick. Make them forget all about that nobody girl from Twelve who shot an arrow at them last year. Make them forget about everything except what they saw the famous victor Katniss Mellark do this year."
I take a minute and consider Haymitch very carefully. By far his most frustrating trait, more annoying than his drinking ever was, is his tendency to tell us exactly enough to convince us to follow his instructions, and not one tiny bit more. He's had six months since the Tour to clue us in on what he knows about a rebellion; two months since he knew we would be going into the Games together to tell me who our allies are and what our strategy is. Yet he continues to keep his silence and play games with information.
But then… he also agreed to die so Peeta can live. He also gave up drinking so he could be a better fighter in the arena, to protect me and my baby. And following his advice last year did, in fact, lead to me surviving my first Hunger Games.
Peeta and I decided back at the beginning of our Quell training that we would trust Haymitch to help me survive the Games again. It doesn't make sense to abandon that plan before we've even entered the arena. So for the time being I accept his premise, that the best way for me to survive is to go in there and make myself a target for the Gamemakers, as counterintuitive as that sounds. After all, last year I thought his command to act friendly with Peeta was counterintuitive, and look how that turned out.
Haymitch can see when I've made my decision, and something in his expression relaxes. But we still haven't solved the original problem. "I still don't know what I can do in there to accomplish that, though."
"Oh, I'm sure you'll think of something," Haymitch says dismissively. "If we've learned anything from the last year, it's that you have an innate ability to connect with people."
Peeta has tried to tell me similar things before, but hearing Haymitch say it is a surprise. "You told me I have the charm of a dead slug."
"Sure, when you try too hard," he says. "When you're pretending, you have all the charisma of a clump of mud. But when you act natural, when you let yourself go… you can't help but draw people in. It's how you got sponsors last year. It's how you got that little girl to trust you. It's how you got Loverboy's attention all those years ago. Heck, it's how you got me to actually mentor you. And it's how you've enthralled the country."
I can't help but scoff. "Yeah, and look where that got me."
"Worry about one thing at a time," Haymitch says. "When you get in there, just… don't overthink it. You're at your best when you don't second-guess yourself."
We're quiet for the last few minutes before they call Haymitch for his session. "Wish me luck, sweetheart," he says, then stands to go.
"Stay alive," I tell him. He flashes me one last smirk before leaving.
I'm alone for the allotted fifteen minutes before they call me in. As I enter, I can feel the mood is very different from last year, when the Gamemakers were half drunk and more focused on their banquet table than the tributes. Now they are all focused on me, occasionally whispering to each other as they await my performance.
I wonder how many of them were here last year? At least one, I recognize the man who tripped into a bowl of punch when I shot the apple. He's now wearing the magnificent purple robe of the Head Gamemaker. I remember now that Peeta mentioned meeting him when we were here for the Victory Tour. New Head Gamemaker Plutarch Heavensbee was the one who waylaid Peeta and kept him distracted so that President Snow could corner me on my own. Obviously a loyal toady of Snow's. As if any other type would have been appointed to replace Seneca Crane.
Do you have any idea how much I hate you? I think. You, who have given your talents to the Games? You, who have given your loyalty to Snow?
All of the Gamemakers sit up there, so removed, so safe compared to us mere tributes down below. Haymitch said that last year I was nobody and now I'm a famous Victor, but that doesn't matter to these people. Being a Victor won't impress them, when they make the Games that make the Victors. Killing four tributes last year won't impress them, not when they kill 23 tributes every year.
Except for last year. Last year they only killed 22 of us. It seems like a miniscule change, but apparently it was enough to threaten the rule of the Capitol over the districts. As my anger at them builds, I want to find a way to remind them of this. I want to remind these powerful Capitolites looking down on us from their loft that they aren't as safe as they think they are. Because last year the famous victor Katniss Mellark killed more than just tributes.
First I grab a length of rope from the knot-tying station. It was right here just hours ago when Finnick Odair taught me this particular knot, so I make quick work of replicating it. Next I grab one of the target dummies and drag it into the middle of the room. I never took note before that the fabric the dummies are made from is actually skin-toned, somewhere between my olive skin and Peeta's fair complexion. The color serves my purposes now. I slip my noose around the dummy's neck and use some chinning bars as a makeshift gallows to hang it from. I grab another short rope and tie the dummy's hands behind its back. That's a nice touch.
Next I head to the camouflage station. I find a container of blood-red berry juice that will serve my needs perfectly. I use my fingers to paint the name across the dummy's chest, standing so as to hide what I'm doing from the Gamemakers. Once I'm done, I take just a moment to inspect my work. This is probably my crowning achievement as an artist, better than anything I ever managed to create on canvas. I wish Peeta could see it.
I make a bit of a flourish with my arm like Cinna unveiling a new dress as I step aside and reveal my work to my audience. I turn quickly so I can see the Gamemakers' faces turn from boredom to horror as they all realize what I've created.
I just hung Seneca Crane.
Several of them let out shrieks of surprise, and fright. Several more lose their grip on their drinks, filling the training gym with the tinkling sound of shattering glass. Plutarch Heavensbee himself, the man who was chosen to replace Seneca Crane, appears to have crushed a peach in his fist. The juice runs through his fingers and drips to the floor as he stares at me, dumbfounded. Behind him a woman with silver flowers inlaid in her cheeks appears to have fainted.
Finally Heavensbee clears his throat. "You may go now, Miss Everdeen," he says.
I stay where I am, staring up at him. "It's Mellark."
I can see his jaw twitch. Most of the other Gamemakers have recovered enough to begin shifting around nervously as the moment drags on, though they turn green again whenever they glance at the dummy. Heavensbee's voice is tight when he says, "Mrs. Mellark. You can go."
I give him a nod of acknowledgement, and turn to leave. I realize I'm still carrying the container of berry juice, and before I get too far away I can't resist tossing it over my shoulder. I know I've hit my target when I hear the muffled thud of the jar hitting the dummy, followed by more shrieks from the Gamemakers.
It's not until I'm in the elevator on my way back up to the District Twelve suite that I begin to second-guess myself. Haymitch said I should make the biggest impression I could, even if it meant making myself a target. Well, I certainly made an impression, and have absolutely made myself a target. But was it worth it? Is Haymitch's advice sound? I have no way of knowing, not with how stingy he is with information.
What happens in the private sessions is kept secret; I learned that well enough last year. But last year I was just a brash girl desperate for the Gamemakers' attention. This year I've made a direct threat against them, when I already have the death of one of their number on my record. I wouldn't be surprised if a "malfunction" sets off the mines beneath my plate before the countdown is even done.
I shake my head to clear it. I have to stop arguing myself in circles over this. What's done is done. It could be a very smart move, or the thing that gets my baby killed. It all depends on whether Haymitch was right in his assessment of my options. And I won't know that until the end of the Games.
Well, hopefully the end of the Games. If Haymitch is wrong then I could find that out much earlier. And it may be the last thing I ever learn.
I've made my peace with my decision and am even starting to feel good about the reactions I provoked when the elevator finally reaches the top floor. My good mood lasts until I enter my room and find Peeta sitting on the bed waiting for me, no doubt eager to hear how my private session went.
This could be a difficult conversation.
…..
After a lot of Peeta running his hands through his hair and trying not to yell and a lot of me repeating phrases that begin with "Haymitch said…" eventually Effie calls us for dinner. Peeta storms out of our room, leaving me to chase after him to the dining room. I see Cinna and Portia have joined us for dinner tonight so we can all watch together when they announce our training scores later. Peeta doesn't acknowledge either of them as he strides up to the table. "What the hell, Haymitch! Are you trying to get her killed?"
"So she actually took my advice for once?" Haymitch says far too calmly for Peeta's taste. Peeta's clenching his jaw and balling his fists like he's just barely holding himself back from physically attacking something. Or someone, I guess.
I catch up to Peeta and start rubbing circles on his back to try to calm him down. I'm not sure how successful I'll be, because I'm pretty sure he's equally angry at me right now, but after a few moments I feel his shoulders relax slightly. I get him to sit down and take the seat next to him.
Effie looks affronted by Peeta's behavior and I'm almost surprised she hasn't admonished him for it yet. Cinna and Portia seem content to let things play out. I try to defuse the situation by changing the subject slightly. "What did you end up doing, Haymitch?"
The look Haymitch gives me tells me he knows what I'm doing, but he goes along with it. "I stood in the middle of the training floor, told the Gamemakers I didn't have anything else to show them, and waited for them to dismiss me."
Arrogant. Superior. Uncooperative. Reveals nothing. It's perfectly Haymitch. It also plays into what he told me before he went in, about us being important Victors and not unknown kids.
Effie doesn't see the beauty of it, of course, and chides Haymitch for his rudeness. Before their argument can take over the dinner entirely, Cinna interrupts to ask me, "What did you do, Katniss?"
I decide there's no point in sugarcoating things. "I hung a dummy and painted Seneca Crane's name on it."
This shocks everyone into silence. Well, everyone but Peeta, who has been glowering by my side this entire time, just waiting for the chance to have it out with Haymitch. The silence is broken when Haymitch starts laughing. It begins as a chuckle, but steadily grows into a full-blown laughing fit. Soon there are tears running down his face from how hard he's laughing. "Oh, Sweetheart. You are a real piece of work!"
I'm almost sure he's insulted me somehow, but before I can snap at him Cinna regains the power of speech. "You… hung… Seneca Crane?" he asks.
"Yeah. I was showing off my new knot-tying skills, and he wound up at the end of my noose," I say.
"Oh, Katniss," Effie says in a hushed voice. "How do you even know about that?"
"Is it a secret?" I ask. "President Snow didn't act like it was. In fact, he seemed eager for us to know."
"This is dreadful," Effie says quietly, shaking her head slightly. She presses her napkin against her mouth and flees the room.
"Well, I've definitely upset Effie," I say.
"Not just Effie," Peeta mutters beside me. His stare is still focused on Haymitch. So is Cinna's, though his is more questioning than angry. Portia is pressing her eyelids closed with her fingers, as if she's warding off a very bright light.
Haymitch, meanwhile, has finally gotten his laughing under control. "Sweetheart, I could kiss you! I might try it, if I didn't see what you already did to Chaff the other night."
Peeta has kept his silence long enough. "Why would you encourage her to do that, Haymitch? After a stunt like that, we'll be lucky if the Gamemakers let her survive five minutes in the arena!"
"I have to agree with Peeta on this one," Portia says. Her eyes are still closed, but she's moved on to rubbing her temples.
"Believe me, that was the best thing she could have done for her chances of survival," Haymitch says.
"And what if we don't believe you?" Peeta says with a challenge in his voice.
"Then you should have volunteered," Haymitch says. Now I want to throttle him almost as much as Peeta does.
"Maybe if you'd just tell us why…" I say.
"This isn't the time or the place for that discussion," he says.
"Well, we're rapidly running out of time, and we don't exactly have a lot of choice as to the place," Peeta says.
Haymitch sighs, and finally loses the humor that's infected his voice since he found out about my private session. "Look, I made a promise to you kids, and I'm trying to keep it. I'm doing my best to make sure that sweetheart and the bun in her oven both make it out of here alive. And she just did us all a huge favor toward that goal."
"And you always live up to your promises?" Peeta says derisively.
The insult in Peeta's voice is enough to bring back the acerbic tone that I normally associate with Haymitch. "Yeah. Just like last year when I told you I could get her out alive. Lived up to that one, didn't I?" Peeta slumps in his chair. He has no rebuttal to that.
We eat the rest of the meal in silence. Afterward we gather around the television to get our training scores. Effie rejoins us just before the broadcast begins. We all watch as one by one the tributes' scores are revealed. Nines for Cashmere and Gloss. Tens for Brutus, Enobaria, and Finnick. Low to middling scores for everyone else. Johanna Mason only scores a seven; maybe she really was hampered by the lack of an axe station to show off at.
Then they get to District 12. Haymitch and I make Hunger Games history when we both score twelves. But Haymitch is the only one who feels like celebrating. His renewed laughter echoes in the silence left by the rest of us.
"Why did they do that?" I ask.
"So that the others will have no choice but to target you," Peeta says bitterly. "Even the Careers will have to treat you two as the top threat now."
"They gave me a twelve just for being associated with you," Haymitch says, more to himself than any of us.
Peeta jumps angrily off the couch. "I need some air. I can't stand to look at either one of you right now."
I make to follow him as he storms out of the room, but Cinna stops me. "Let him go for now," he says. "We're all under a lot of stress. Just give him some time to cool off."
"You should go to bed, anyway," Haymitch says. "We have interview coaching tomorrow."
Interview coaching. I remember that day last year was its own special kind of terrible. Four hours of walking on stilts while tripping over my dress with Effie, then four hours of Haymitch telling me how horrible I was at everything. "Are you going to surprise me in the morning by asking to be trained separately?" I ask.
"And face Effie alone?" Haymitch says. "Not a chance."
I do go to bed, but I know sleep won't come without Peeta here. It's at least an hour later when he slides into bed behind me and pulls me to his chest even tighter than usual. "I'm sorry," he says into my shoulder.
"I am too," I say.
"I'm just so scared of losing you," he says. "Losing you both," he adds as he splays a hand across my stomach. I'm reminded of the Victory Tour, when he told me that most of his nightmares were about losing me. Now with our baby to worry about too… This Quell must be torture for him.
"We have to trust Haymitch," I say. I have to admit that's getting harder and harder to do, given how irrational his instructions are becoming. But the situation hasn't changed since the reading of the card; we still don't have any better options.
"I'd rather be able to protect you myself," he says. But we both know that's impossible. Even if every Gamemaker and all 23 other tributes are my sworn enemies, I'm still better off with Peeta waiting for me out here rather than as a corpse in the arena.
After a moment I say, "Do you know what I was thinking? When I decided to hang Seneca Crane for them?"
"What?"
"That I wanted to show them that I'm more than just a piece in their Games."
Peeta considers this for a while. I feel his lips twitch where they're still pressed into my shoulder. Then he actually huffs out a small laugh. "We're terrible," he says.
"Yeah," I say.
"And so is Haymitch."
"Yeah."
"I'm still scared."
I clutch his arms where they're wrapped around me. "Me, too."
…..
I had a lot of trouble deciding what Katniss should do in her private session here. For the purposes of attracting Plutarch's attention and building toward the role Katniss will have in my alt-Mockingjay, I wanted to keep pretty close to canon. But the reason she did that in canon was because she already planned to die and was trying to draw the Gamemakers' ire away from Peeta. She has neither of those motivations here; in fact she has the exact opposite goals from canon. Logically she should have just shot some arrows and walked away with a solid 9 or 10 to show the sponsors she was a legitimate contender. But that would be narratively unsatisfying and wouldn't push the plot in the direction I wanted it to go.
So I went with a sort of a Haymitch-ex-machina. In this AU Katniss has no reason to put a target on herself by provoking the Gamemakers. But Haymitch, with his hidden plans and secret manipulations, has reasons for wanting her to act this way. K&P made a decision in Chapter 20 to trust Haymitch even though he was keeping secrets from them, and as I write these later chapters Katniss finds herself falling into a sort of a death spiral of sunk-cost fallacy, where she keeps choosing to trust Haymitch more and more because she's already trusted him this far. In for a penny in for a pound, as they say, assuming they have pennies or pounds in Panem. She does something similar in canon, though to a much less extreme degree, when she accepts Finnick as an ally based on Haymitch's bangle.
Of course, in canon, Haymitch betrays her trust, sells her out to the rebellion, and leaves Peeta behind. Will that happen here? Only time will tell.
My favorite detail in this chapter: Katniss's shooting exhibition on the first day of training happened "back on Friday." How do I know that? Well, in the first book, on the day before the interviews, Katniss mentions that it's Sunday. Counting back form there, the first day of training would have been on Thursday. Assuming Panem still has a 365-day year (and since they use the same names for the months and the days of the week I think it's pretty safe to assume that the rest of their calendar is still the same too), and assuming the Games happen on the same date every year and aren't one of those wandering "third Monday of the month" holidays, AND assuming that the year of the 75th Hunger Games is not a leap year, then the same day the next year would be on a Friday.
These are the sorts of things I puzzle out in order to avoid awkward sentences like "the shooting I did back on the first day of training."
Next chapter: Interview coaching! Or, well, maybe not interview coaching.
Preview quote from Chapter 24:
"I think this is my moment."
