My hand shoots out to grab Katniss. Snow has presented Darius to us as bait, certainly, and it is imperative that we do not take it. Both for his sake as well as our own.
I needn't have bothered. Katniss breaks free from my grip and stalks off to her bedroom without a word. This is the best outcome for everyone involved, but I almost wish that she hadn't. Now I am left alone with Darius's mute stare and Peeta and Effie's confused faces.
Effie titters something meaningless about manners and how a young lady should properly dismiss herself. Peeta's eyes dart nervously between myself and Darius. He clearly recognizes Darius as a familiar face but likely doesn't know him well enough to appreciate the full context. Peeta was never a Hob frequent the way Katniss and I were. And even Katniss doesn't know the extent of some of the "favors" that Darius has done for me in the past. Half of my involvement with the rebellion over the years would never have been possible without some level of compliance from sympathetic Peacekeepers such as Darius.
Could Snow have known about this even after we went to such great lengths to cover our tracks? Is that why Darius is being punished this way? Perhaps not. Maybe the Capitol hasn't acted until now because they truly didn't take any notice of him until he interrupted Thread at the whipping post.
But that doesn't really matter. Either way, Darius will never speak again. And I'll never be able to put him out of my mind whenever I list out all of the people whose lives have been completely destroyed just for being in my general proximity.
I nod along numbly to whatever crap Effie is spewing and then mutter an excuse to head to my own bedroom. Peeta's got other plans.
"Wait," he says. "You haven't talked to me about how to be a mentor yet."
"Didn't realize that talking was still a thing we did," I mutter. Boy's been giving me the cold shoulder since the train ride in.
But he's already conjured up a chair and a notepad for himself, gesturing for me to sit down as well. "Tell me everything."
So we go over it, at least the condensed version. How to discuss alliance deals with the other mentors, how to reach Caesar Flickerman before the interviews to request certain talking points, how to spot the sponsors who will be loosest with their time and wallets. Effie chimes in here or there when I've left something under explained.
Peeta's tone with me is businesslike but not cold. A major improvement over where we were yesterday. I must have racked up an appropriate amount of pity points somewhere between being sentenced to the arena and being taunted with Darius's mutilation. Great. Just great.
Once they've seen that I've had enough, Peeta and Effie release me on the condition that there will be more strategy talk in the morning.
This does not work out as intended. Much as the rest of us would like to catch up on lost time, Katniss takes it upon herself to stall the entire operation by remaining holed up in her room. For far, far too long. Possibly she has started a fun social experiment to see how annoying she can possibly get before I finally snap and drink every drop of liquor in the Capitol.
I'd like nothing more than to drag her out of there myself, but every time I get up either Peeta or Effie usher me to sit back down and let them give it another try. I suspect that I've entered the stage of sobriety where everyone around me can sense that the next minor inconvenience is going to make me lose my fucking mind.
I diffuse a bit once Peeta finally coaxes her out and the planning begins in earnest. That's how the alcohol cravings are most of the time- always present in at least a low persistent hum, then crashing down all at once until a new point of focus comes to bring me back out of it.
Five days. Just five more days before the arena defangs sobriety by taking away the burden of choice. Maybe we can even rein Katniss in long enough to give me a chance in hell at making it until then.
"We should stay separate for the most part," I tell her as we take the elevator down to the training room. "The last thing either of us need is for people to think I'm here to babysit you. Besides, you need to get to know the others on your own terms. If you don't start making connections this is going to devolve into me begging everyone to put up with you as a favor."
"Yeah, because you're such a social butterfly yourself," says Katniss.
I'm about to retort that my connections in the Capitol are fine, thank you very much, but the point is preemptively undermined once we arrive and find that only Brutus and Enobaria are present. I've never remotely understood Enobaria and have been purposefully avoiding Brutus for years. On the list of victors I'd like to strike up a conversation with, they would be close to the bottom. Katniss looks a bit smug when I immediately become preoccupied with studying the ceiling tiles rather than trying to approach either of them.
Things get better as the others begin to file in. Though by my count about half of our number didn't show up at all. But who could blame them? If I didn't have the kids to worry about I wouldn't have bothered myself. At least there's a silver lining to facing reality here rather than getting black out drunk in the penthouse. Today is the first day where I will have more than a few seconds at a time to speak with the other victors.
The trainers give us the go-ahead and everyone disperses into different stations. My eyebrows furrow a bit when I spot Chaff and Brutus making an immediate beeline for the spear throwing station together. Both of them have what could charitably be described as strong personalities that historically have not mixed well. Brutus is almost as bad at relating to outer district victors as Chaff is at relating to Career victors. Almost. I don't think I've ever heard either of them have a single kind word to say about the other.
Based on the glares that the two keep directing at each other, today is not going to be the day that they finally make up. Brutus clearly came to training with the intent to impress and is hurtling spears at the target with every ounce of his strength. This seems to have personally offended Chaff who is making a valiant effort to match him move for move. They are so engrossed in this that they don't notice my approach.
I clear my throat. "So, how's the dick measuring contest going, gentlemen?"
They both snap out of it, clearly embarrassed about having been called out. Though Brutus, who is always seconds away from camera-readiness, is quick to mold his flustered expression into a confident grin. "I don't know about that, but I'm feeling fantastic. What an honor to be competing again!" he says.
Chaff scoffs at this. I'm not especially thrilled either, but in the interest of preserving my own sanity I opt to keep my tone as light as possible. "And in a Quell, even. Guess you finally got your dream after all."
An awkward silence follows. Neither of us care to mention it, but I'm certain that Brutus and I are both remembering the day he first told me about that dream. It happened decades ago, during his Victory Tour after the 51st Games. Apparently he had attempted to get into my own Games a year prior. Problem was, so did every other Career looking for the extra prestige that comes with a Quell victory. Two other boys nabbed District 2's volunteer spots in the 50th Hunger Games before Brutus could.
I killed those very same boys with my own hands. Brutus had been well aware of that fact. But the only thing he had wanted to talk to me about during his Victory Tour was how "lucky" I was for being in the second Quarter Quell. How he wished that he was the one who had gotten to test his mettle against me in the arena.
In hindsight, I genuinely do not believe that Brutus meant any harm when he told me that. More likely than not, he had been speaking to me the same way that he had always spoken to his fellow Careers back home. That's just how they make them in District 2: blunt and eager to prove themselves. But I didn't know that back when I was seventeen years old and still grieving the very recent death of my first two tributes. That's how I ended up decking Brutus the second we got a moment away from the cameras. His black eye lasted for the rest of his Tour.
We never talked much after that.
With that happy memory weighing on us, Brutus takes it upon himself to exit this utter mistake of an interaction. As he leaves the spear throwing station he glances back at Chaff and I just long enough for us to catch the uncharacteristically sympathetic look on his face.
"He pities us," Chaff grunts. His tone makes it clear that the very thought is repulsive to him.
It's no wonder that Brutus would pity us. He has so much that we lack. The loyal sponsors, the physical superiority, the favor of the Capitol. Though somehow I'm not sure that I'd want to trade places with him. There's something sad about the way he continues to praise the Games with complete sincerity even after all these years. I may have been abused by the Capitol more than Brutus has, but at least I was raised to be able to actually recognize when that abuse was happening.
"Feeling's mutual, I guess," I say. Chaff shoots me a quizzical look that I don't acknowledge. I don't think I'd be able to put my thoughts into words the right way. Even if I could, I'm not certain that Chaff would understand.
Chaff and I have spent another year apart and neither of us quite resists the temptation to chat. It's the same catch-up topics as always, all of them impossibly mundane given our current circumstances. How is Chaff's sister? Is her son doing well with the new baby? What has Chaff been writing lately?
He never asks what I've been up to in District 12. Not out of rudeness, but because he's learned by now that I'd dodge the question. Time spent in the Capitol is miserable, but there are also hardships specific to District 12 that nobody here has to know about. Gaps in time that I have no good way to explain. We don't need to test how many context clues I can throw out before Chaff pieces together exactly how long I can stretch a bender without leaving the house. I guess I have Katniss and Peeta to talk about now, but… well, the entire country already knows what's going on with them.
"We should get moving. See how many people are going to be a viable pick for the alliance. Just promise not to feel bad when I get twice as many people on board as you," says Chaff.
"Why is every pariah in town teaming up to call me antisocial today? You couldn't even get through the morning without almost dragging Brutus into a fistfight," I say.
"You're the expert on pummeling Stone-For-Brains, not me. Besides, I can charm people and have a fistfight at the same time. I'm just good at networking like that," says Chaff.
"Could've fooled me. If you were so eager to start an alliance, the least you could have done is avoid sexually harassing my district partner at the first opportunity," I say.
Chaff pauses. "In hindsight, I do see your point. Does this mean that you're also a bad alliance member for laughing about it in front of her?"
I ignore him.
Lunch is called, and Chaff promises to tone himself down in an attempt to win over Katniss. His presumptiveness about us being allies is a weight off my shoulders. At least one person here can be counted on to have my back without any pretense or negotiation required. I feel safe adding Seeder to that list given that my trust of her runs just as deep.
Some of the others will be trickier. After all, we'll be asking them to guard Katniss and help bust out of the arena. A lofty goal almost guaranteed to kill most of us- probably all of us, if it turns out as badly as I'm suspecting it will.
None of the outer district victors would stoop so low as to rat us out to the Peacekeepers, but that doesn't mean they'll be lining up to personally take part in our suicide mission. From what I can remember from Plutarch's lecture after the reading of the card, converting anybody still on the fence is apparently my job. Lucky me.
It's a bit too easy to get swept into a casual tone with everyone eating together at lunch, so I resolve to start being more strategic after the meal. Communicating about sensitive topics while under surveillance will be complicated, but nothing that we don't have plenty of experience with already.
I wander over to Johanna and Cecelia at the knife throwing station. Training back in District 12 has taught me that I have no business using knives as anything other than short-range weapons, so I keep mine firmly within my grasp to avoid embarrassing myself.
"Out recruiting, District 12?" asks Cecelia, pursing her lips a bit. Clearly she has heard at least enough from Plutarch to be able to guess why I'm making rounds.
"This is the day for it, after all. Why, are you already spoken for?" I ask.
"I might be. Figured that you and the girl on fire would be a package deal. Frankly I'm a bit hesitant to join up with a little thing who romances her way to victory" says Cecelia. We both ignore Johanna guffawing behind us. "What do you think of her?"
That was not the question I was expecting to be asked. I scramble for the first thing that comes to mind. "Well, we all saw the post-Games report from last year. She out-performed in every audience feedback category, and comparatively-"
"Uh-uh," Cecelia says, holding up a finger to stop me. "I'm not some Capitol sponsor who wants you to use your bullshit mentor voice. Tell me what you actually think about her. Some lucky breaks and stats on a piece of paper are not enough to stake an entire alliance on".
More cackling from Johanna. "Aw, go easy on him Ceci. Haymitch sucks at talking up his tributes, everyone knows that."
"Thanks," I grumble.
"Always happy to help," she says.
I chuck a knife in frustration and watch it clink uselessly to the ground next to the target. Every word we speak in this room will be closely monitored, so I can't say what I'm thinking out loud. I shouldn't have to. Both Johanna and Cecelia are more than smart enough to realize why playing by Snow's rules and fighting amongst ourselves is a terrible idea. The Gamemakers will never allow disobedient outer district trash like us to win their Quell at such a politically sensitive moment. If we don't stand together, our best case scenario will be dying to whichever easily manipulated pro-Capitol tribute Snow has hand picked for a rigged victory. Or maybe they'll kill all twenty-four of us just to even the score after our "extra" victor from last year.
Defending Katniss (and by extension, the rebellion) with our lives shouldn't be that hard of a choice when the only alternative is a certain and meaningless death. Any normal person would choose the former over the latter.
That's the problem though. I'm not trying to win over normal people. I'm trying to persuade victors, primarily victors from low-odds districts. We are exactly the type of people who will continue to claw for a shot at life even when the chances of survival seem nonexistent. The probability of death may be overwhelming, but it's still not enough to convince Johanna to sacrifice herself in the prime of her life. It's not enough to make Cecelia accept that her children are no longer going to have a mother.
Cecelia leans forward to place a hand over my own, and the sudden gentle sympathy in her voice makes her next words so much worse. "I know you're trying, Haymitch. She's the only child in the Games this year and you're saying whatever you can to protect her. I respect that. But I'm not going to pretend that your choices have anything to do with strategy."
I falter at that, unsure of how to respond. The pause goes on just long enough for the three of us to register that a strange hush has fallen over the room. Johanna cranes her neck to get a better look at something and I instinctively turn to inspect whatever has caught her attention.
For a moment I'm not sure what we're supposed to be looking at. There's Katniss at the archery station, sure. But that hardly seems notable given that her weapon of choice became public knowledge to every person in Panem last year.
Then we see her shoot down four moving targets with a single shot.
I blink, wondering if maybe my eyes were just playing tricks on me. Then she does it again, five moving targets this time. Finally she notices the roomful of victors who have stopped to gawk at her masterful display. She looks surprised and a tad embarrassed while returning her bow back to the rack.
It's awkward but somehow the perfect final touch. A moment that says: this isn't even a performance for me. I draw crowds without really meaning to. I command rooms without even trying .
I don't bother pretending not to be smug about it as I turn back towards Cecelia's raised eyebrows and Johanna's envious scowl. Turns out that I won't be doing nearly as much work pitching this thing as I thought. Whether she realizes it or not, Katniss has reignited our little rebellion once again.