Chapter Text
If there’s anything about the Capitol station that Haymitch remembers, it’s the handcuffs. The feeling of being dangerous, caged animals that were unpredictable and far from human.
But when he looks at Cliff and Ardis, their wide eyes, the fear in their faces, it’s not danger he sees—instead, he just sees two kids scared out of their minds. And again he wonders: how did we get here? What kind of world have we grown to live in?
“Haymitch!”
He looks up to see Ardis and Cliff being pushed out of the train by a couple of Peacekeepers, Ardis’ eyes frantic and her head turning all directions as someone cuffs her trembling hands. “Haymitch!” She cries again, and a Peacekeeper hits her in the chest with the back of his gun.
“Quiet,” he says, and exchanges words with the other Peacekeeper.
“Don’t resist!” Haymitch reminds them, immediately running to the window as his doves are ushered away. “I’ll see you guys soon,” he adds quietly, knowing they won’t hear him over the squealing arrival of the other trains.
The train door slides shut, sealing Haymitch in the quiet car. He can see the array of trucks the Peacekeepers are herding the tributes into, and it’s the first time that Haymitch can get a good look at them now that they aren’t shielded by a television screen. Compared to Cliff and Ardis, they’re bigger, they’ve got more build, though not by much. It’s really not a comparison; they’re all victims of the Capitol.
He can’t help but notice the clothes they’re wearing, the dress that sits too large on the District 9 girl’s shoulders or the way the District 7 boy’s bowtie rests crooked on his collar. He imagines hours before the Reaping, the boy’s mother fixing the bowtie and kissing the top of his head before he leaves to the pens, wishing more than anything that she gets to see him live another year.
Haymitch is snapped out of his thoughts when Effie, who is now standing by the opening train doors, clears her throat. She makes a point to nod her head in the direction of the Peacekeepers, and Haymitch reluctantly joins her as they’re guided into the backseat of a car, an Avox in the driver’s seat.
I need another drink, Haymitch thinks to himself as the car begins to move, the engine silent compared to the outdated cars back in 12 that the Mayor uses. From the window, Haymitch can see that they’re behind another identical car that probably carries the District 11 mentor and escort.
The Capitol streets are busy as per usual, the candy-coloured sidewalks crowded with huddles of people. When their chain of twelve cars drive by, the children tug on their parents’ sleeves and point in their direction, jumping up and down as their eyes widen with curiosity.
Now I know what zoo animals must feel like, he thinks.
Haymitch feels slightly safer from behind the tinted car window, though he can’t veil his exhaustion that reflects onto the glass. Did his eyebags get darker? His cheeks more hollow?
He doesn’t know where he’s going, what mentors do in that little gap of time when the tributes are being costumed for the parade. The Training Center, perhaps? What kind of mentor was he, not even knowing what was going on in his part of the game? Ardis and Cliff needed him, and he hadn’t a clue what was happening around him. If it weren’t for Effie, he definitely would’ve been shot by a Peacekeeper for being out of line. Ah, but Snow needs a mentor for District 12, doesn’t he, and what better than the Victor of the Second Quarter Quell? No, if he were out of line, he would surely face punishment later… or was being forced to live with what little remained of his past self punishment enough?
About fifteen minutes later the car pulls up to the Training Center, the last of a dozen identical cars. Effie tuts as he struggles to work the fancy car door handle, finally pulling it at the right angle after about eight attempts.
The sun hits his face when he exits the car, warmth streaming down through his lashes and making Haymitch squint his eyes. He watches as Effie takes out a pair of rather exotic-looking sunglasses, tiny plastic flamingos stuck onto the sides, and follows the rest of the mentors and escorts inside the building and into the chilly lobby.
He doesn’t recognise any of the others (not that he would) but they all seem to be well-acquainted with each other based on the polite chatter that follows them to the corridor of elevators. Neither Mags or Wiress is there, though he isn’t surprised, based on what happened… he has himself to blame for that.
Haymitch doesn’t pay much attention to what the few other mentors are talking about in the elevator. He spends the minute beside Effie, gripping the metal bar on the wall as the elevator soars up and stops every few floors, the car emptying out until it’s just him and Effie, surrounded by silence.
“Well, that’s it for now,” Effie says when the elevator opens to District 12’s floor and Haymitch steps out. “I’ll be back in about an hour for the Parade.”
Haymitch just nods, not sure what to say. He watches as Effie offers a soft smile, her eyes reflecting something along the lines of sympathy, and the doors slide shut and Haymitch is left alone.
The silence is deafening.
It’s weird being back in the apartment, Haymitch knows, and it certainly isn’t pleasant. Being the only one in here, it’s like the end of last year’s Games all over again.
He knows it’s the same floor, the same apartment, even though the decorations have changed. Instead of the burnt orange colour scheme that covered almost every surface last year, the apartment he stands in now boasts several shades of light blue and green, and the thin curtains that frame the window paint the apartment in an artificial sealike glow. Someone had sprayed some kind of perfume in here, but they’d obviously overdone it because it makes Haymitch feel dizzy and nauseous, and every breath he takes makes him believe he’d taken the smoky air in 12 for granted.
And I thought last year was an eyesore, Haymitch thinks to himself as he slumps on the teal-dyed leather sofa and shuts his eyes, urging himself to think of anything other than getting his hands on some spirits.
It feels as if he’s only just shut his eyes when Effie comes to collect him, and it’s when she shakes him awake does he finally hear the cheering and applause of the Capitol citizens from the City Circle down below.
Effie makes him change into an old suit and wash his face with a damp cloth before they take the elevator downstairs. She’s mumbling something about always running behind, and, in classic District 12 fashion, they’re the last ones to arrive in the now-busy lobby. He wonders if there was ever a time their District has done anything right during the Games, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it because soon they’re all being herded outside and his ears fill with the crowd’s hollers and cheers, now magnified as the mentors enter their fields of vision.
It’s nighttime now, though when he looks up, Haymitch can’t see the stars like he can in 12. No, the sky here is pitch black, a victim of the Capitol’s light pollution. It’s fine, it’s probably for the better; he doesn’t want Sid to see what he’s become.
“Twelve,” he hears a Peacekeeper say, and he snaps into attention. “Move it,” he grunts impatiently, pointing to a fenced-off seating area with three rows of fold-out chairs situated adjacent to Snow’s mansion. The other mentors are already seated, and he stumbles over to the last empty chair, exhaling a sigh. For a brief moment, he’s glad District 12 is in the back row, but then remembers that means he’s closer to the sinister mansion behind him.
“You… you’re from last year, aren’t you?”
Haymitch turns to his right. The District 11 mentor, who looks about ten years older than Haymitch’s past self, offers an amiable smile, and holds out a hand—his right one, which is strange, especially since it involves him turning his entire body—but when Haymitch’s eyes fall to his left hand—or lack thereof—he understands, and he remembers: Chaff won the 45th Hunger Games at the age of sixteen, though he lost his left hand in the process. Although he’s only really five years older than Haymitch, six years of being in the Games has obviously aged him. “I’m Chaff.”
He shakes, slightly embarrassed that his hand has been seemingly-perpetually sweaty ever since the morning of the Reaping. “Haymitch.”
“How’s it feel being on the sidelines for the first time?”
Haymitch sighs and laughs weakly. “Still feels like I’m fighting for my life.”
“Hm. We all never leave the Games, not really.”
Someone from the Capitol audience loudly cheers and whistles in the mentor box’s direction, shouting, “I love you!” Haymitch catches a glimpse of the District 2 mentor waving back.
“How do you deal with it?”
“With what?”
Haymitch shrugs. “The Games. Being a mentor.”
“Oh.” Chaff beams a toothy grin and opens his suit jacket to give Haymitch a quick peek at the tiny flask in the inner pocket, “a mix of alcohol and denial.”
Haymitch nods, “right,” and silently wishes Chaff had answered with something other than what he had been trying to avoid.
Chaff sighs. “In all honesty, just doing your best. The kids don’t got much—you offer them everything you can; anything is better than nothing.”
Well, there it was. Really, Chaff’s words should be reassuring—Haymitch was doing everything he could for Cliff and Ardis… but why didn’t it feel like it was enough? He didn’t have years of experience to back him like the Career districts surely did, and it’s not like he won his Games fair and square, at least in Snow’s eyes. But he was trying. Surely, that had to amount to something, right?
“Right,” Haymitch says again, wiping his sweaty hands down the front of his suit.
He flinches when the speakers situated all over the streets crackle to life with the opening music. There’s a hidden speaker somewhere too close to Haymitch’s ears, and he winces when the gong sounds right before the doors open and the chariots start to roll onto the street, the horses’ hooves clicking on the cobblestones.
Haymitch has been dreading this moment (well, let’s be honest, he’s been dreading everything to do with the Hunger Games) for obvious reasons that he chooses to push to the back of his mind, and instead he spends the time wondering whether the new bottom-of-the-barrel stylist Snow’s found has chosen to stick Cliff and Ardis in the same-old miner’s outfits they’ve been doing for the past God-knows-how-many years. Maybe part of the reason why no one seems to take their District seriously starts with their appearance in the Parade.
They’ve never given us a chance, Haymitch thinks dully as the cheers from the Capitolites grow louder when the chariots in front of them. He looks up to the nearest screen to see the tributes’ wide smiles from the District 1 and 2 chariots, and he feels sick, thinking about the false glory that has corrupted their little minds.
The District 12 chariots soon appear on screen, and whoever’s controlling the camera zooms too close into Cliff’s and Ardis’ faces than Haymitch would like, because up close he can see the blood gone from their faces, see how tightly Ardis is gripping the edges of the chariot, see the red scratches on Cliff’s neck from the frayed ends of the itchy miner costume’s collar. It isn’t helping Haymitch feel any better about himself, and it certainly isn’t giving them an edge with sponsors. Then, in the back of his mind, a voice—one that’s on the edge of familiarity, yet far enough to make his hair stand on end with caution—whispers, only if they’re willing to bank on pity.
No, Haymitch says back to the voice, they can have a chance. They still have a chance…
The voice laughs. Do they?