if you’re not rereading your own 3yo one-shots every once in a while so you can shake your head at the ao3 tab and mutter god i’m fucking funny then what are we even doing all this work for?
“It’s the way you take over the space around you. You remind me constantly, loudly, indecently, of all the little things that make you you. It’s impossible to escape, and it makes me very angry.”
A companion piece to the drabble I posted the other day, this one focusing on Katniss.
A Covey song.
Of all the songs she could sing, it had to be a Covey song.
He can’t blame her. She sang a song she knew, just like Burdock did when he taught it to her. It’s not like either one of them knew the president had a sinister proclivity for Covey girls.
When he’s summoned to Plutarch’s apartment, Snow is already waiting for him.
They sit in the library beneath the portrait of Trajan Heavensbee. The president, Plutarch, Seneca Crane, and a tray of bread, cheese, and wine that nobody’s stupid enough to touch.
“I’ve never heard the Ballad of Katniss Everdeen,” Snow says.
“It’s a work in progress,” Haymitch replies. Wrong answer. “She isn’t one of them. They’re long gone. The kids, they hear the songs sometimes. None of them know where they came from or what any of them mean.”
Besides, the lullaby was the least of it. Katniss made the Capitol see Rue’s death. She made them own it. Another Louella McCoy placed at Snow’s feet, but this time the rest of Panem saw it too.
“The damage is done,” Plutarch cuts in.
“And whose fault is that?” Snow says, turning his fury toward the head gamemaker.
“The tragedy of Katniss Everdeen trying to save young Rue like she did her sister has been the top storyline of this year’s Games,” Seneca argues. “How could we have known it would cause a riot in Eleven?”
A riot in Eleven? Haymitch doesn’t miss Plutarch’s coy smirk. He wanted this to happen.
Uprisings during the Games have grown more common in recent years, but never the outer districts.
“Fix this,” Snow commands. “What kind of mutts do we have this year? A flock of predatory birds, perhaps? Feels poetic.”
Haymitch clears his throat. “If you kill her now, Rue’s death in the meadow will be the only thing people remember from the 74th games.”
“Who’s left?” Snow asks, unmoved. “That brute from Two?”
“The showdown between him and the boy from Eleven has potential,” Crane agrees. “We haven’t been able to lure him out of the fields.”
“The careers haven’t been popular this year,” Plutarch says. “The most interest they had was when they were being double crossed by Peeta. Maybe we should bring him back.”
A good ole rascal. That’s what the girl could use right now to take off the heat.
“The boy from Twelve is as good as dead,” Crane points out. “Fever, dehydration. He’ll be lucky to make it to morning.”
“What a waste,” Plutarch says. “The star crossed lovers would have made good television.”
“The story is played out,” Crane argues. “He sacrificed himself so she could get away from Two. We couldn’t have asked for a better ending.”
“Except he didn’t die!”
Haymitch feels a pang of guilt. It’s been the plan all along to bring Katniss home, but it doesn’t feel right letting the kid die scared and alone.
“Imagine him dying in his lover’s arms,” he suggests. “A scene like that and the country would forget all about young Rue.”
“Doesn’t seem worth it,” Seneca says, souring the mood. “She never seemed that interested in him.”
Seneca Crane is an idiot, but a useful idiot, no less.
There’s nothing Snow loves more than a Covey girl and the fool that loves her. The perfect distraction.
“No, I think Mr. Abernathy is onto something,” Snow says with a slow smile. “Miss Everdeen may look like a hero now, but when push comes to shove she’ll choose life, I have no doubt. Not so inspirational anymore.”
“They’re so close to the end,” Plutarch says. “She’d be a fool to align with him so late in the game.”
“I’m feeling generous,” Snow says. “We’ll allow for two victors this year, if they both come from the same district.”
The men exchange silent looks. None of them for a second believe more than one tribute will make it out alive. How cruel to taunt these children with hope.
But it’s the only chance to bring Katniss home. The tributes from District Twelve are all but guaranteed a spot in the final two. The gamemakers will make it so. And in the final climax, the boy will sacrifice himself so that his Covey girl can live, and Snow will feel the vindication he craves, and the girl will lose the nations sympathies for letting her lover die. But she’ll be left alone.
The plan is infallible.
Except for the ghost who will join the haunting.
Haymitch sends her a clear message in his gifts. Listen kid, you’re on thin ice, so I need you to follow the script to the letter. And she does. Brilliantly so.
She rescues the boy and he falls desperately in love with her, and in the end, he’s eager to give up his life so that she can live. She’s so close to victory. So close.
Then Haymitch sees a familiar twinkle in her eye. She has an idea. Thinks she can break the arena. Then she holds out the berries. He remembers once having the same thought. A year without a victor. But it’s different this time.
Chaos erupts behind the scenes. The gamemakers are trying to figure out how to stop her. They consider another round of mutts. A sniper, perhaps. If only their trackers could self destruct. There’s no time to think their way out of it, though. She’s called their bluff.
Haymitch is struck with both pride and dread. She has no clue, the trouble she’s putting herself in. But for a second, as Claudius Templesmith announces the two victors of the 74th Hunger Games, she’s won. She’s actually won.
He and Plutarch exchange glances. This might be possible.
A missing scene from The Hunger Games inspired by Sunrise on the Reaping.
Haymitch wakes on the floor the morning after the training scores. This isn’t unusual, as the pristine linens on his bed have gone untouched all week. He scrubs a tired hand over his face and heads to the kitchen to fix himself a drink.
The boy is already at the dining table swirling a spoon through his tea.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Haymitch muses.
“Nah, I’m always up before the sun,” the boy replies.
Haymitch feels a chill creep up his spine. Why is this damn place crawling with so many ghosts?
“Nervous?” asks Haymitch.
The boy doesn’t respond. His eyes dart down the hallway then settle back on his tea. He’s checking for the girl.
Haymitch knew this was bound to happen. An alliance can only take you so far when there can only be one winner.
That girl’s eleven was as good a death sentence as his name being pulled from the reaping bowl.
“You know an eight’s not so bad,” Haymitch reasons. “I scored a one back in the day and I’m still here.”
The boy snorts. “Really? I’d heard that before, but I figured it was a myth. What’d you do to get that?”
“We’ll save that story for another time,” he replies darkly.
The boy is looking down the hall again. “She should win,” he decides. “Katniss. Her sister needs her. Her mother too. Half the town depends on her, maybe even more. If anyone should come home, it should be her.”
A question rings at the back of his mind. “What do you want?”
Peeta stares at him. Blinks. “What I just said, for Katniss to win.”
“Yeah, I get that part, but this isn’t a competition you can bow out of. You’re still going into that Arena before all of Panem, and the odds are better for her the longer you stay alive. You want to die, but how do you want to do it?”
“I don’t get it.”
“What do you want your death to mean?”
The boy doesn’t answer.
“You got anyone back home?” Haymitch asks.
He shrugs. “My mother, my father, two brothers.”
Haymitch wracks his memory of the Mellarks. Otho’s boys were all on the older side. Peeta must be the youngest of them. Not that it matters. The baker keeps the Peacekeepers fed, no one would burn it down to teach some kid a lesson.
“A sweetheart?”
Peeta looks down the hall, his cheeks flushed. “Like a Katniss?”
Oh right, the nickname. “Like a girl,” he clarifies.
“No,” the boy shakes his head. His gaze lingers down the hall.
“I’m going to tell you something, then,” Haymitch says. “My mentor asked me the same question when I was a tribute: what do you want? And you know what I said?” He doesn’t wait for the kid’s answer. “I wanted my death to be enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“To be the last one.”
Peeta frowns as he considers it. “Okay, yeah, I think I get it. I don’t want my death to just be for entertainment. It’s not like I want to be mourned or anything. Or for it to be noble. I want the people watching to see me as a person, just like them. Not some nameless slaughter.”
Haymitch likes this kid. He’s the type to fashion a fork in the arena so no one could call him an animal in the end.
He doesn’t belong to them, he can hear Maysilee’s voice in his head. Don’t just hand him over. Make them fight for him.
He may not be able to turn Peeta Mellark into a Victor, but he can help him be remembered.
Effie comes to join them at the table. She looks ridiculous in some sort of silk bonnet and matching tutu.
“I should change,” Peeta says, feigning to stand. “I suddenly feel underdressed.”
My word, Maysilee would love this boy.
“No, stay,” Haymitch says.
“At least you’re taking this seriously,” Effie huffs. “Katniss is going to sleep through the Games entirely at this rate.”
“It’s good,” Haymitch says. “Gives us time to update our strategy.”
Effie goes pale. “Update? You know how I hate to improvise.”
“Yes, but you thrive at it.” Effie is pleased by the praise, so he continues. “Katniss does too. Better to keep her out of this.”
She doesn’t need to be burdened by Peeta’s sacrifice. She needs to focus on winning.
Too late, Katniss enters the room and goes straight for the food. She hasn’t even sat down before she starts digging into it. She’s aware of the tension. “So what’s going on?” she asks. “You’re coaching us on interviews today, right?”
“That’s right,” Haymitch says. No one at the table speaks.
She scoops another pile of rice into her mouth and says around the bite, “You don’t have to wait until I’m done. I can eat and listen at the same time.”
“Well there’s been a change in plans. About our current approach.”
I think I’m almost to the end of Part 1 so still in Millie’s POV but I’m irrationally irritated about the sheer number of “I’m sorry” and “Are you okay?” bits in the dialogue when the situation is clearly NOT okay. I’m sure this will all make more sense when I get into Part 2 but damn.
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