When you've been a victor for long enough, the Training Center becomes a home away from home. It's the inevitable reality of spending weeks to months in the same building every year. Everyone has thoughts about the place where their bed and memories and life are, even when that place is a prison. Like it or not, I've come to know every inch of this penthouse.
Which is why it's so maddening that I can't seem to find a bottle anywhere.
The others went to bed after the announcement of the scores, so there's nobody here to witness me turning the place upside down. Except for the Avoxes, of course. Who I am doing my best to ignore.
Unsuccessfully. I'm checking the same cabinets for the third time in a row when I finally admit that their assistance might be necessary. It makes my stomach turn, but thankfully I get a lucky break when I go to grab one. Darius isn't there- just the redheaded woman.
"Where's the alcohol?" I ask, more harshly than intended.
The woman doesn't acknowledge my rudeness. Avoxes never do. Instead she reaches into her back pocket and hands me a small pink card. I open it up to find a handwritten message. Until further notice, no alcoholic beverages of any kind are to be stored or served on the 12th floor. Thank you in advance for your cooperation.
The note isn't signed, but it's easy enough to guess who the immaculate cursive letters belong to. I crumple the paper in my fist. "Check whether Effie's left for the day and send her back up here. Immediately."
She nods and gets up to obey. I'm on my sixth round of re-checking all the cabinets when she reappears with a very annoyed looking Effie, who must have been off redoing her makeup somewhere. You can no longer see the smudges from when she wept over our training scores.
"Really now," says Effie. "All this over wanting a drink? You've succeeded in disrupting my evening. Was ransacking the entire floor also necessary?"
Apparently getting one's tongue removed isn't enough to stop certain people from inventing new ways to tattle. I shoot the redheaded woman a nasty look. She doesn't dignify this with a response, so I turn back to Effie.
"You had no right," I say.
Effie straightens up with an air of self-importance. "As escort, I most certainly have the right to ensure the health and safety of our team. Besides, Peeta and I both need you in good condition for the presentation and content sessions tomorrow."
"No need. I'm fine, and I'm not doing any sessions."
"Don't be silly, you have to! Tributes cannot simply excuse themselves from prep work!"
"Yeah, well, I'm a grown man and that's exactly what I'm doing," I snap. Effie only looks more affronted by this, so I backtrack. "It's not just for me. Katniss and I, we've been through this before. Why make her sit through eight hours of things she already knows? She and the boy only have two days left before they take us away. They should be able to spend it together without worrying about all this."
Effie tugs fretfully at the cuff of her sleeves. "I suppose it would be nice to give the children a day to themselves. But where will you be?"
"Out," I grunt.
Her eyes pass meaningfully between myself and the Avox I had just been trying to shake down for liquor. "Alone? Are you sure that's wise?"
"Won't be alone. And I told you, I'm fine."
"...alright. But you must promise me not to drink."
"I can't," I say quickly. I can feel my palms sweating into the little pink paper. "I need it to sleep. It doesn't have to be a lot. Just enough to sleep."
Just enough to stop thinking about how I'm doomed. How I've doomed everyone else once by letting the berry stunt happen, and again by volunteering, and another time after that by insulting the Gamemakers to their faces.
"Can't you use your room screen to order a sleep aid?" asks Effie.
"Room screens don't give out pills anymore. Not since that girl from 9 tried to overdose before the 67th," I say.
Effie winces at the memory, which strikes me as foolish. Thanks to the wonders of Capitol medicine, the overdose didn't even come close to killing the girl. She lived long enough to have her throat slit from ear to ear in the arena a few days later.
Effie seems to consider something for a moment before digging around in her purse. She then holds out a gloved hand to drop two white tablets into mine. Sleeping pills. I frown at them in disappointment.
"Do not push it," she warns.
It's at least something, so I concede and dry swallow the medicine. "You know," I say, "It seems kind of improper for an escort to be wandering the Training Center with drugs on them."
"What did I just say!"
I laugh and turn to leave her be. I can just barely hear her muttering something rather unladylike as I round the corner.
The bit of fun at Effie's expense allowed me to forget myself, but the mood comes crashing right back down the moment I shut the door behind me. It almost makes me want to go back and ask her not to leave me alone so soon, but I don't obey the impulse. That's a whole different kind of pathetic that I'm not prepared to stoop to.
The pills aren't nearly as good as liquor, obviously. There's no sense of warmth or softening edges when you take them. Just a dull haze dragging you in and out of consciousness. I know that I dream, and that it's bad, but the drugs don't let me keep hold on any of the memories. When I awake the next morning, all I have left is the lingering exhaustion and a vague sense of unease. I'm not sure whether it's better or worse than a sober night.
After I get dressed I linger in front of the elevators, debating whether to check on Katniss and Peeta first. I decide against it. Effie will take care of it. Besides, I don't want to waste time thinking up an excuse for why it's so important that I leave them behind.
The thing about going places where you're not supposed to be is that you have to walk with confidence. Not too determined, just assured and casual enough to look as though you are truly unaware that any rules are being broken. If you do it correctly, most people just go along with it- even Peacekeepers.
Under the right circumstances, anyways. A couple of them raise an eyebrow at me as I make my way through the crisscrossing hallways in the under levels of the Training Center. None make any attempt to stop me, though. Their only job is to ensure that I don't escape the Training Center outright, and that's not going to be necessary for what I have on the agenda today.
My destination is an unassuming backroom, dusty from years of unuse. It must have been an office, once. But today it is filled with anxious looking victors huddled around a meeting table.
Beetee motions at me to shut the door while he taps away at a small keyboard. "There we go," he says. "The jammer is up. We can speak freely now."
"How can you be so sure? What if it doesn't work?" says Blight.
"If the jammers can't be trusted, then we're already compromised," says Seeder evenly. "No sense trying to prevent damage that's already been done. Say what you need to say, Beetee."
"Right. I'm sure we've all been hearing different bits and pieces of what's been going on. Now's the time to get everyone on the same page. First, the most important matter: District 13 has pledged their support to our cause. Their first action before declaring war will be to break into the arena part way through the Quell."
There are a few gasps and slackened jaws from around the table. Most of the older victors, including myself, don't react. We've already been briefed on this part.
"That's great and all, but how exactly are they planning to do that?" asks Finnick.
Beetee launches into a hurried explanation involving currents and electromagnetism. I glance back at the others and am relieved to see that they look just as confused as I feel. Mags clears her throat loudly, startling Beetee out of his lecture.
"Ah. Well. The important thing is that this will disable the forcefield and allow hovercrafts to pass in and out of the arena."
"Why now? What does District 13 want with the arena?" asks Cecelia.
"The Mockingjay," says Wiress in a sing-song voice.
"Oh," says Johanna with a dawning look of horror. "Oh, you cannot be serious. We're doing all of this for her?"
I decide to step in before things go downhill. "This is the first time in decades that District 13 is seeing enough rebel activity to consider stepping in. We can't act without 13, and 13 won't act without Katniss. Dragging them out of hiding would be an enormous win, even if none of us survive."
Seeder gives me a warning look.
"..but obviously the goal is for as many of us to be rescued as possible." I finish lamely. A motivational speaker I am not.
"Where is the girl on fire, anyways?" asks Chaff.
"With the boy. We shouldn't share the details with them. Not yet. Snow is watching them way too closely, and even if he wasn't, they're too likely to prioritize each other's safety over the rebellion."
"So she can't even be trusted. And yet you'd still expect us to die for her," Johanna growls.
Cecelia sighs wearily. "This whole thing has problems. A lot of problems. But I can't think of a better option."
To my immense gratitude, most of the heads around the room are nodding in agreement, if a bit reluctantly. Johanna throws up her hands in frustration. "Alright, fine! Fine. But if she's not in on the plan, what exactly is going to convince little miss firebrand not to shoot an arrow through the skull of every person in this room?"
"My stunning good looks and captivating personality," declares Chaff.
I frown. "She actually doesn't like you very much."
"Well, there's no accounting for taste."
"Doesn't matter, I've thought of this already". I slip the gold bangle off my wrist and hand it to Finnnick.
He raises an eyebrow. "Shall I fend her off with jewelry?"
"No, it's a signal. Even if I'm not around to vouch for you, she'll recognize this as a sign to trust you. As for you two," I say, turning to Johanna and Chaff, "You can take advantage of those she does trust. She's mentioned Mags, Wiress, and Beetee. And me, I suppose. If you can, group up with one of us before you approach her."
"I see," says Beetee, looking a bit surprised to be included on the list of trusted individuals. "And this goes without saying, but we should all be choosing our words carefully during the interviews tomorrow. We don't want to be so inflammatory that it gets canceled midway, but we also can't pass up an opportunity to support the rebels."
Seeder glances down at the communicuff she smuggled in. "And with that, I think it's about time for our distraction."
"Finally!" exclaims Blight. He reaches into a large bag slung over his chair and starts pulling out wine bottles. My mouth suddenly feels very dry.
"Did we really need all of this?" asks Seeder, who seems less than thrilled about the growing collection of alcohol on the table.
Johanna scoffs. "The Peacekeepers will never believe that this is a victor party if we don't have any booze. What did you want us to do, sit in a circle and sing nursery rhymes?"
"Never mind. Haymitch, come here for a second," says Seeder. She pulls me into a corner out of earshot from the rest of the group, who have now begun turning the room into a makeshift party venue. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," I say automatically. My eyes keep drifting over her shoulder towards the bottles.
"Then what the hell happened with the training scores yesterday?"
I snap back to attention. "Right. That. You know, I was thinking. Beetee mentioned that we can't say too much during the interviews because they'll cut the feed afterwards. But I'll be going last, so. It won't matter if they retaliate. I could say anything."
"No. This is not a suicide pact and we are not throwing caution to the wind. If we hold the line there will be too many of us speaking out to retaliate against in the arena. Follow everyone else's lead and do not scapegoat yourself."
"Might be too late for that," I murmur.
She grips my shoulders. "Listen. We are getting out as many of our people as we can. Whatever it takes. When the gong sounds, find Katniss. We need you there to guide her and to keep the alliance together."
She waits for me to nod and shoots Chaff a stern look from across the room before leaving me with him. I can only assume that I'm being spared from a tirade against drinking because Chaff had to suffer through one earlier. We settle for a few chairs in the corner that keep the alcohol out of our sightline.
You can no longer tell that this room was being used for serious conversation only moments ago. Music is blaring from speakers, bottles are being uncorked, and the lightning system is now cycling through increasingly obnoxious strobe effects. New faces begin to trickle in as Seeder's communicuff ping gets circulated. A smattering of tributes and mentors from 1, 2, 5, 9, and 10 enter looking surprised but pleased at what we have set up.
To them- and more importantly, to the Peacekeepers who noticed us coming here- there will be no evidence that this gathering was anything more than the final hurrah of people celebrating their last days on Earth.
And it's a good day, cover story or otherwise. We all stay in that room together for hours; laughing, swapping old stories, and passing around what bits of food we managed to pilfer from our floors earlier. At times it feels like all the dangers we've been discussing are nothing more than a distant dream.
Annie Cresta must have crept in at some point. She's there swaying in the middle of the room with Finnick the moment the music turns slow. Their foreheads are pressed together and their eyes are closed. It's a much more public display than I'd normally recommend, but nobody has the heart to warn them to be more discreet in this final hour.
Chaff must be thinking something similar, because his hand reaches out to take mine. I move away from him. "Not now," I say.
"Not now is starting to look a whole lot like not ever," says Chaff. There's no self-pity in his voice. Just a well-worn statement of facts.
I stay quiet. It's different for us. I know it is. He would know too, if only he had seen the bodies after the last Quell.
I don't get the chance to explain further. The door suddenly swings open, and a few hopeful people turn to welcome whichever victor has wandered in late. No such luck. The bony woman glaring at us from the doorway is far too covered in furs and powders to be from the districts. I take note of the pencil-thin eyebrows and match the face to Bellona Barker, longstanding escort of District 1.
"Oh, please no," says Gloss.
"So," Bellona hisses, "This is where I find you. No note, no warning, no nothing. And on the eve of the interviews of all days! You two should be ashamed."
Several of the victors make an audible 'oooooooo' sound, as though we are children watching Cashmere and Gloss be summoned to the principal's office rather than Quarter Quell preparations.
"Take a hike, Bell," Cashmere grumbles. "And the rest of you, can it."
"Well, you might not take proper procedure seriously, but I assure you that I do." Bellona steps back triumphantly to reveal a gaggle of Peacekeepers standing behind her. "Party's over."
"Oh yeah?" says Cashmere. She pauses. For a moment it looks as if we're about to witness a rare moment of Cashmere actually conceding an argument to somebody else. Then a couple of things happen very fast. Cashmere shoves over the table, grabs her brother's hand, and sprints out of the exit door on the opposite side.
Chaos erupts. Knocking over the table has caused several bottles to shatter onto the floor. Johanna whoops and begins smashing the ones that remain. Somebody starts throwing food into the air. People are cackling and darting in different directions.
One of the Peacekeepers sighs heavily and rubs his temples. He can't exactly order all of us to be brutalized the day before we go on camera. If we decide to behave like rowdy assholes in the meantime, well, that's just the perk of celebrity.
Chaff and I catch each other's eyes and come to a silent agreement. The Peacekeepers are divided and distracted by chasing after Cashmere and wrangling the multiple people hurling projectiles across the room. It gives us just enough time to slip out the same way they came in.
We're not thinking too far through this grand scheme of mildly inconveniencing some Peacekeepers, so we end up collapsing into some smaller office not too far down the hallway. It's a struggle just to catch our breath between the fits of laughter and loudly shushing each other. This is the sort of bullshit we haven't gotten up to since our twenties. It feels juvenile and so refreshingly human.
We fall quiet as the thundering sound of boots rush past our hiding place. Reinforcements. They'll have all of us rounded up soon. I'm starting to become dizzy, and not from the breathlessness. I'm not ready for it to be over.
"You can't go into the bloodbath," I blurt out.
Chaff gives me a long look as if to study me. Then he smiles. "Come on, Haymitch. After all these years we've known each other, the least you could do is trust me."
"Don't joke about this. Please."
He starts opening his mouth to respond, maybe to say that everything will be fine or something stupid like that. But we're out of time.
The door opens again, and two Peacekeepers have us on our feet in a matter of seconds, ready to personally deliver of us back to our respective floors.
They gave the answer for me, then. Not ever.