these teenage hands will never touch yours again (but i remember you)

by dhabitude

Summary:

Sawney enters the 77th Hunger Games angry and afraid. She knows she'll die, and waits patiently for it to come.

Chapter 1

Primrose Everdeen stood on stage, crying. She was too young to fully understand how careers perceived weakness to worry about it, although it didn’t really matter anyway; the Capitol always loved when they killed twelve year olds, and Sawney Carter didn’t think this year would be any different.

She stood watching Primrose from the fifteen year old section, squished between uncomfortably relieved girls that she used to go to school with. Having dropped out the year before to work in the mines and be her family’s breadwinner, Sawney didn’t really know anyone. Or, rather, all the girls she had been friends with either hadn't bothered to remain friendly or had started to hate her at first look after someone had taken it upon themselves to churn the rumor mill. Horrible gossip, things she heard in passing occasionally in the streets, none true.

Katniss Everdeen didn’t volunteer, as Sawney thought she would when she had run screaming to the middle of the square, rows of girls rushing to clear the way for her. A lone peacekeeper had taken a swing to her temple as she rushed up the aisle and the poor girl had been knocked cold immediately. It had made Sawney wince, both for the bruise that was bound to form and that mud that would be a pain to wash out of Katniss’ best and only dress. If Sawney had known that volunteering for Primrose, who had sold her discounted goat milk and cheese on a number of occasions and was probably the nicest person in the Seam, would bring a stop to the Hunger Games in just a few years, she would’ve. But she didn’t, and so she watched with the rest of Panem as Primrose got skewered in the bloodbath by District Two’s male volunteer, a big beefy blonde.

The victor that year was a small ginger from District Five, unpopular among the Capitol but unseemingly smart, tainting the careers supplies with nightlock berry juice and simply waiting until they turned on each other that evening after the District One male tribute had died, thinking one of them had sabotaged the food. The final showdown was between two tributes; herself and Peeta, who had been pulled opposite Primrose in the reaping and hidden until the last moment. It had rained in the arena for days beforehand and the cornucopia was wet and slippy, but was the only refuge from the pack of angry mutts chasing them. Peeta had slid off the cornucopia before even fully climbing onto it, leaving Finch to be crowned victor after his slow and painful death.

The Capitol had thought it was a boring game that year, even with the love confession from Peeta about his district partner’s sister, but Finch hadn't been popular, too plain. The last Sawney had seen about her on the news was the latest tech she'd been making in Capitol labs, technology to improve scrambling rebel transmissions.

The following year was a Quarter Quell. Sawney had watched with bated breath as Snow had read out that there were to be no volunteers from any district. Five twelve year olds were reaped that year, as was a mayor’s daughter from Four. The career districts were hit the hardest, with the highest training score being a seven, from Three’s female. She had won that year though, proving herself to be strong and vicious and getting the highest kill count from any game, that of fifteen. The games that year had been short, but even in Twelve Sawney had seen the porn videos and photos the Capitol had been churning out of her at an alarming rate. The citizens obviously still enjoyed their victor.

The next year was won by a career from Two, a leggy blonde who giggled and flirted and fucked her district partner in the arena, slitting his throat in the process. Sawney found she quite liked her, especially her interviews. Her name was Shine, as dumb a name as you could get, and she had bitched about the smell of her fellow tributes and rolled her eyes at Caesar’s jokes, cementing herself as a good actor and someone not to be crossed with. She had blasted the unnecessary killing the games brought and spoke about the poverty she'd seen in other districts and was found hanging from a noose in her house in Victor's Village after her Victory Tour. Snow tried to sell it as her not being able to deal with the guilt from murdering her district partner, her love, but everyone in the districts knew the truth.

---

The day of the 77th Hunger Games dawned cold and damp, the chill biting at Sawney’s bones. Her mum had woken her up as the sun was rising, telling her in a low voice that she was going to help some Seam kids get ready for the reaping. She did it every year, bringing bread from the Mellarks’ next door and usually giving it to Gale’s family, or one of his neighbours. She usually spent the morning gossiping with Mrs Hawthorne and calming the kids before meeting Sawney in the market and heading to the square together.

Sawney, however, usually spent her reaping mornings in the woods, hunting. Despite being a merchant family, Sawney and her mum still struggled to get by. Sure, Sawney's stomach folded when she sat down, but good, cheap food had become rare in the districts in the past few years and they just didn’t have enough money to feed themselves, especially since none of the district had enough money to buy clothes from Sawney’s mum, the tailor. Most of her work was darning socks for the mayor and sending off clothes to the Capitol, undoubtedly never to be worn.

The tree leaves were covered in dew that morning, and Sawney sneaked through the underbrush scowling, knowing most game would be tucked in nooks and crannies so early. And if not, Gale had probably gotten it; he had always stolen Sawney’s kills, the bastard. They were far from friends, Gale having a prejudice against merchant kids and Sawney not liking guys who didn’t deny horrible rumours, although Sawney wasn’t even sure he knew about it. She could hear him laughing with Katniss somewhere far off and smiled at the girl’s outraged cry. Kill stealer.

Neither of them had to worry about being reaped today, having aged out the previous year, and that was a thought that made Sawney stumble and fall loudly on a root. Sure, Gale had Vick and Rory to worry about, but she knew that neither of them took tesserae, that they had no chance of being plucked out of that bowl. She also knew that Prim hadn’t and that shut up her selfish thoughts pretty quick.

“Sawney!” She could hear Gale’s shout, hopefully from far, far away. “That you?”

With a sigh, she stood and brushed herself off, gingerly stepping on her twisted ankle. “Over here,” called Sawney, scrapping her hunting plans for that morning; Gale always talked too much. “You know, for being somewhere you’re definitely not supposed to be, you sure as hell make a lot of noise," she said as Gale came stomping past a tree and into her view. “Hi, Kat.”

“Hello.” Katniss always looked in pain, her smiles more like grimaces. Sawney could remember Katniss looking wholly unapproachable even before Primrose died, though, remembered being scared to approach her the first time they met in the woods, so this wasn’t anything new.

Gale chuckled at Sawney. “Rich from you. What’d you do, fall into a metal bunker or something? Pretty sure Snow heard it from in the Capitol.”

Sawney scoffed, shaking her head. She brushed some of her fringe out of her eyes and made a note to trim it when she got home from the reaping, fussing about with her knives as she frowned. Maybe she wouldn’t make it back. "I can set off a bomb and would still be quieter than you."

Gale laughed, his eyes crinkling and most definitely scaring off any animals Sawney was vouching to get. His face fell into something serious, or as close as it got with Gale nowadays. After Katniss had turned eighteen and had moved in with him, the two hadn't gone hungry and had lived as well as you could in Twelve. He was always happy now, and so Sawney pursed her lips when Gale stopped smiling. "You alright?"

No, she was most certainly not alright. If her name was drawn that day, Sawney was going to die. "Peachey,” she replied.

“Well," Gale said after a minute of silence, his words trailing off.

"Look after my mum and all that if I get pulled." And Sawney couldn't look him in the eye, crossing her arms and staring hard at his shoulder, which she saw tense.

"Of course we will,” Katniss soothed after a moment, her voice quiet. It felt better coming from Katniss than Gale, knowing the girl was almost always truthful and rarely went against her word.

"Thank you."

Gale smiled sadly at Sawney then, lifting a hand up in farewell. "See you later, yeah?" Sawney nodded and waved goodbye at Katniss as the couple started to walk away.

As she thought, Sawney’s ankle was tender and probably wouldn’t be made better with traipsing about a forest, and so she made her way back to the fence, picking off a fat rabbit on the way. Fatter than almost everyone in her district, she mused as she pulled her knife out of its neck and continued on. How annoying.

Her ankle wasn’t swollen, Sawney noticed happily as she scrubbed her legs with lukewarm water. Having decided to treat herself, she had tried to make a warm bath, but it always took so long to boil and carry jugs of water to the bathtub that Sawney ended up with a bath that was still more cold than hot. Her mother had laid out a dress for her before she left that morning, and Sawney made her way to her room after squeezing her hair out, letting herself drip dry.

Her mother had given her a small, dirty mirror for her twelfth birthday, and Sawney inspected herself in it as she waited for herself to dry off just a bit more, not wanting her dress to stick to herself. It was a sign of wealth to have larger hips in the district, and the uncommon marks that told of weight gain on hers were something Sawney was most proud of, knowing her hard work in the mines and the woods had put them there. Sawney’s hair needed trimming, almost reaching her mid back, and was ferociously knotted after scrubbing at it in the bath. There was no way Sawney was going to brush it when it was like this, and so she twisted it back and tied it with string into a bun that tickled her neck. Her dress was grey and was tighter than it had been when she had worn it to the reaping last year, tight around her stomach and breasts now. She was scared that if she was reaped they’d try and go for the sexy angle most eighteen year olds were given.

That was the thought she had when meeting her mum in the market, and the one she had whilst getting her finger pricked in the town square. What if they change me, she thought as she stared listlessly at Effie Trinket blathering on about the Capitol in that god awful voice of hers.

Effie liked to switch it up every couple years, doing the boys first or the girls first or whatever she wanted, really. This year, she dipped a hand with blue tinted skin into the boy’s bowl first, coughing delicately into the microphone as she pulled a paper slip out. “Ahem. This year’s male tribute is,” she held her breath here, giggling as if the suspense was too much in the face of a terrified district, “Aden Sadler! Come, come, my boy!”

Sawney didn’t know Aden, although she wasn’t surprised when a Seam kid stepped out of the crowd barely looking older than thirteen, making her wince. Even from across the square, she could see the look of terror on his face and the tears already making paths down his cheeks. Everyone knew he was going to die in the arena, and nobody clapped with Effie as a mother’s sobs were heard in the crowd behind Sawney.

Effie waved a hand adorned with enough rings to feed the district at Aden, beckoning him up the stairs impatiently. “Come on my dear, we must do the girls soon! Now, would you like to tell them your name again?” She giggled into the microphone again, huge eyelashes reflecting light. Sawney thought it looked like she had massive blue spiders stuck to her face and snorted at the thought, scowling at a girl who turned to glare at her.

Aden coughed and it took all her energy not to laugh at Effie as she moved to the side in disgust and the boy stuttered his name into the microphone. Nobody volunteered when Effie asked. “Yes, yes, brilliant.” The capitolitan pointed to the other end of the stage and Sawney smiled with half amusement and half hatred. It was the boy’s home, and probably the last time he was ever going to see it and Effie felt the need to speed everything along, the bitch.

“Now, for the girls,” giggled Effie and it seemed as if all the girls around Sawney sucked a breath in. Effie took a lifetime to get the name out of the glass ball, making a giggling show of dragging her fingers about and reading the name. Sawney wouldn’t be surprised if she couldn’t read.

“Amy Winefred!” Effie said in a clear voice and Sawney’s heart dropped.

She worked with Amy’s dad every day, whose stories about his daughter were one of the only things that kept Sawney lifting her pickaxe up and placing explosives even after her arms wanted to fall off and the blasting powder corroded her fingertips. She remembered when Amy had gotten her first boyfriend when Sawney was fourteen, and she remembered when they broke up a week later, how Andy had barely slept over her tears. She remembered every one of the girl’s birthdays, and had even bought her a blue ribbon from Greasy Sae for her twelfth a few months ago.

Sawney had never seen her in her life, but as the shaking girl walked onto the stage she thought she would be able to recognise her from anywhere. Her hair, tied up in a braid with the ribbon Sawney had brought her, was the exact same dark brown as her dad’s and the two had the same nose, although Amy’s was far cleaner. Despite the distinct lack of coal, it was still the large hunk her dad had that was sticking out of her face, big enough to be distracting.

“Come here and introduce yourself, darling.” Effie giggled yet again and Sawney wanted to get up there and gouge the bitch’s eyes out, spiders and all.

“M-my name is Amy.” The small girl stuttered into the microphone, standing on her tiptoes to reach it. “Amy Winefred.” She was crying, snot slurring her words a little and all Sawney could think about was the kid’s dad, whose wife had died during childbirth and who she knew would probably hang himself if his only child ever died.

Sawney turned her head to search through the crowd of parents and people who betted on tributes to try and find Amy's dad. It was never hard during reapings to spot the parents, who were always surrounded by people rubbing shoulders and backs in a protective bubble. Mothers were always the worst, screaming and crying. Andy, when she found him, had his knuckles pressed hard into his mouth and a hand stuck in his armpit as if he was trying to keep his body from falling apart. Sawney could see his face of anguish and the tears trailing down his cheeks, down the cheeks of the man Sawney loved like she had her own father.

“Any volunteers?” Effie spoke into the microphone after placing a hand on Amy’s small shoulder. And she wasn’t really thinking, was she, as Sawney raised her hand nice and high.

“I volunteer as tribute,” she shouted and ignored the gasps around her, eyes locking with Amy's dad's. A friend had to help him stand after he took his hand away from his armpit and slumped with relief.

She released the breath she'd been holding and forced herself to bring her hands down to her sides. Sawney allowed her expression to soften and lifted her chin as she squared her shoulders and began to walk forward. The girls that surrounded her had already moved aside, forming a small path for her to walk down. All eyes were on her, but she refused to look at anyone. She kept her eyes locked ahead, focusing only on moving one foot in front of another, ignoring the telltale itch of tears forming in her nostrils.

Agonising silence followed as she took her steps up to the stage of the Justice Building, the soft tap of her shoes echoing into the crowd. Effie was yet to say a word, and she looked as shocked as Sawney felt, mouth actually hanging open. It was almost enough to make Sawney chuckle despite everything as she made her way over to the woman. Effie, with all her pounds of glitter and makeup, curled an arm around Sawney’s shoulders as she neared, her other hand still clutching to Amy’s shoulder. Her rings pressed into Sawney’s shoulders and she frowned a bit, looking out into the audience.

“Sawney Carter,” she said into the microphone in a hard voice after she realised that she’d shocked Effie into a blissful silence. She could see images of Primrose crying onstage in her mind, and remembered how the Capitol tore those who cried to shreds. Effie giggled at this, too high and harsh in Sawney’s ear, who winced.

“W-well here we are!” Effie was almost screaming at the crowd, arm still awkwardly around Amy. “District 12’s female tribute and first ever volunteer!”

Nobody applauded. They had never been through this before. Sawney and everyone before her surely knew that she’d be dead before the sun set on the first day in the arena, however it was that year. Would it be freezing, or a desert with no water to drink? Maybe there would be no food. But it wasn’t as if she was going to survive long enough to see.

“Off the stage dear,” Effie pushed Amy towards the steps and she almost stumbled down them.

“What are you doing?” Her voice was cold and cruel, and Sawney knew she’d be punished for this. “I’m sure she knows where the stairs are, seeing as she just walked up the goddamn things. There's no need to push her."

Effie’s eyebrows, blue, thin things, were halfway up her wrinkle-free forehead. “My dear,” she giggled, “it’s not my fault if she has wobbly feet. Now shake hands you two.”

Panem’s anthem began to play as Effie let out her last giggle, and Sawney glared at the camera she could hear zooming in on them, turning to face Aden, who she gave a small smile. He wasn’t looking at her, keeping his gaze pointedly locked over her shoulder. When he clasped his left hand with hers, she was surprised at how firm his grip was for a boy as small and skinny as him. The Anthem ended and Sawney took one last look at the crowd before Peacekeepers moved to guide them into the Justice Building.

Everyone in the district looked almost as angry as Sawney felt.

Chapter 2

Sawney had never been in the Justice Building before, but if she had to describe it she would say it was disgustingly extravagant. It’s the richest place she’d ever been in, with shiny wooden walls and thick, deep carpets of green velvet. The chair she sat on was made out of the same stuff and felt sturdier than anything she’d ever sat on before. Here, in the brief moment of peace before her goodbyes, she ran her hands over the soft upholstery.

Sawney felt glad for how numb she was, knowing she couldn't afford puffy eyes from tears or a snotty nose; there would be cameras on her from the moment she stepped out of the building until the moment she died. She had an hour to say her goodbyes before she’d be sent off, never to see anyone she knows ever again. Her mother came in first, dressed in a dress similar to hers except in a faded blue. Sawney stretched her arms out and held her mum, the two sitting in silence.

“I had to.” She eventually muttered into her mum’s hair, the same dull orange as hers. “It’s not right that they get to take away someone so young.”

Her mum sniffled into the wet patch she'd created on Sawney's shoulder, and she's reminded of the times their roles were reversed; seeking comfort after she’d given herself a black eye at school during a fight at seven, after her dad died and it was just the two of them left, when the rumours started at school about her and Gale and she’d screamed herself hoarse at her mum for dare having the gall to ask her why she was crying. “Don’t you dare tell them that,” her mum said. “Spin a story if you have to, but don’t admit to them you hate the games. You won’t come back.”

“And what makes you think I’m going to?”

Her mum huffed a laugh and sat up. Life had aged her, giving her slight wrinkles by her eyes and around her mouth, telling of a life of laughter. “A mother knows. You use all that anger up to give them a victor they’ll hate, one who can still live as someone from Twelve even after she wins. Come home to me.”

Sawney’s eyes found the floor. “Mum, that’s not how it-”

“Well, you don’t know that. You could be against a bunch of children!” Her voice had risen to a shout. “For fucks sake, Saw, you don’t even know the girl and you’re just going to lay down after fucking volunteering-”

“Like it’s my fault?” She was shouting too now. She had the same temper as her mother, quick and harsh. “Don’t you dare say anything about it when you aren’t in my shoes!”

Her mum pulled her arm away from Sawney’s, anger clouding her too. “I was in your shoes for six fucking years, Sawney! I stood by as four twelve year old girls were pulled and didn’t do anything, knowing I couldn't change anything! Why couldn’t you do the same?”

“Because I’m not a fucking pussy maybe, I don’t kn-”

And then Mrs Hawthorne was at the door, Gale and Katniss behind her. “What?” Sawney shouted at them, tears pricking at her eyes and she cursed. “What do you want?”

Gale was there, pulling Sawney into a hug that she quickly pulled away from. “Ew,” she sniffed, chuckling at the boy.

Mrs Hawthorne had an arm around Sawney's mother, whose face had gone blotchy and swollen from tears, and then they were hugging so hard it hurt, Sawney sniffing in her mother’s scent before she forgot it, and all she was saying was, “I love you. I love you, I love you," and hearing her mum say it back. A peacekeeper pulled them apart and Sawney lunged after her mother, stopped by a thin arm around her waist.

“I’ll win! I promise!” She shouted as her mum got pulled out the room, eyes never leaving Sawney's own. “And I won't say anything bad, mum, I swear!” Katniss dropped her arm from Sawney when the doors shut.

“We promised to take care of your mum, and we will," she said deliberately, her voice gentler than normal.

“Thank you, Katniss,” Sawney whispered in reply, frantically wiping tears off her cheeks and hoping she didn't look too flushed. “I-I’ll try to make it back, I promise. I know you’ve probably heard that before-”

“Prim didn’t try.” Katniss shook her head. “She was too young, too scared. It’ll be different for you, you just need to get knives.”

“And if I don't?” Sawney said, thinking of the countless tributes who run from the cornucopia and get nothing. She couldn't remember one of them ever winning.

“Make one.” Gale said, as if it was easy. “You can hunt, and I know you know it’s not that different.”

“Squirrels and rabbits can’t fight back, and you know it.” Sawney’s voice left no room for argument and had risen above her normal volume. It went quiet for a second before Mrs Hawthorne placed a hand on Sawney’s shoulder and squeezed.

“It’ll be fine, honey. Your mum will be safe with us and whatever happens, whether you win or not, she’ll always be welcome. We’ll look after her.”

“Don’t let her starve. And make sure Amy is okay, too.”

“We will.” The three took their leave after another round of bone crushing hugs, soon replaced by Amy and her dad, Andy.

The two had obviously been crying together and Sawney felt a sharp pang of jealousy, bitter and cold. She’s going to go into that arena and never get that with her mother again.

“Sawney, I don't know how to thank you.” Andy started and Sawney shook her head.

“Don’t bother, it’s fine. Just, ah, visit my grave?” She gave him a weak smile and winced a bit at her joke.

“I would've died,” Amy said in a small voice, lifting her chin up. “You saved my life.”

“Maybe,” she shrugged, knowing the girl still has more reapings and more years of harsh winters and bad food. In some ways, the games are a merciful death. Nothing much is said after that, although Amy gives back the ribbon she was given by Sawney for a token.

---

It’s a short ride from the Justice Building to the train station, where it’s brimming with reporters and cameras. Sawney stepped out of the first and only car she’d ever been in and is glad that when she spied herself on a television screen close by she didn't look like she’d been crying. Aden, on the other hand, obviously had been and still was, sniffing every now and again. He looked terrified by the amount of cameras and Sawney took his hand so he wouldn't get lost in the crowd. She assumed he was going for the weak, Johanna Mason look, although for his age she's equally confident that he was just a scared boy.

Effie, after ushering them onto the train carriage, teetering on her heels and giving them a speech about the luxuries of the Capitol and how this train is just magnificently quick and yet you can't even feel it, how magnificent, left them alone. They had been told their mentor was asleep.

Haymitch Abernathy was a drunk, and this is one of the two things Sawney knew about him. She also knows he's a fool, with words that go right for the soft spots and a heart too big for him. After her father had fallen ill, Sawney had tried to sell him her body and he had had none of it, shoving what was in his wallet into her hands. It had been more money than she'd ever seen in her life, and although too little to afford the right medicine it had given her more time with her father and enough money to settle on until she had gotten a job. Sawney owed Haymitch Abernathy her life. What a shame it was something she was going to have to give away in the arena.

The reapings, watched off a hologram in a separate, even more extravagant room, were something Sawney had sat to watch, pulling Aden down with her.

"It's important," she said. "You need to know your enemies, and scope out any allies you want."

"I'm not going to last one hour in there. We both know it." Big brown eyes glared at her, defiant and sad.

"Maybe." Sawney agreed wholeheartedly with the boy, but going in with no hope was bad. You were as good as dead if you stepped off the plate knowing you were going to die. "But maybe you won't. Give yourself a chance, at least." Aden had simply huffed at Sawney and she giggled at him, turning her attention to Caesar Flickerman as he announced the beginning of the show. He was green all over this year, and Sawney snorted when he opened his mouth to show emerald green, sparkling teeth. He looked like a pig that’d been chewing on grass, and the thought of him rolling around in mud shot a trickle of glee into Sawney.

"This year looks very exciting, ladies and gentlemen, we've got a real show for you!" The presenter laughed, green hair bobbing as he enthusiastically spoke.

District One looked grand as it came on screen, its Justice Building embellished in shining silver. The kids in the crowd looked excited, making Sawney's nose curl in disgust. As usual, both tributes were volunteers, the boy a big, buff brunette and the girl a giggling blonde; Form and Fliss. District Two was similar, with its male tribute volunteering before the actual name was called, stomping up the steps of the stage with a grin on his face that made Sawney sink into her seat. He announced himself as Bruke, and looked like he was going to break his district partner's wrist as they shook hands, the muscled female called Star staring him down just as hard.

Two scared, sniveling kids were drawn from almost every district bar the careers, and a few muscular boys in Districts Seven and Eleven. The girl from Ten had strong, broad shoulders and scowled at the cameras, and the girl from Six smiled sweetly, her eyes glinting with something sinister.

Aden looked ready to cry when he watched his name being pulled, and his slow walk up. The tears on his cheeks were stark in the high definition cameras and Sawney almost wanted to pat the boy on the shoulder, but she was too worried about what she looked like to do so. Sawney drank in the sight of Amy's little face as she scuffled her way onto the stage, her nose her father's. Her own face was full of anger as she stormed up the steps and volunteered for the girl, and Sawney winced as they showed her curse Effie out. No sponsors were going to dig into their pockets for a rude girl.

"Well," Sawney chuckled as Caesar came back onto the screen, "at least we both looked equally shit."

"You looked good." Aden glowered at Sawney, who rolled her eyes.

"If you're talking about my dress, I don't think something that grey is gonna make people sponsor me," she replied. "Plus, I shouted at Effie. The Capitol loves Effie."

They settled into a silence after that, and Sawney's mind went a mile a minute -or rather, however fast the train was going- as she sat there, and as she ate her full at the dinner table, laughing at the silence that continued between Aden and Haymitch. "Oh, you're amazing at this Haymitch,” she chuckled after ten minutes, in which the man had done nothing but sip his glass and eat. "Just brilliant."

Haymitch, who smelt unwashed and of cheap spirits, gave her a smile that he surely used on the ladies. Sawney tried to calm her small blush as he said, "Well, I do try, honey, but it's not like I can do much when I get shit like this every year." He motioned to Aden and Sawney with his butter knife.

Sawney scowled. "Maybe share your drinks if you know there's no hope for us."

Haymitch chuckled at her, shaking his head as if in jest. "You'll die the moment the gong goes off it I do, sweetheart."

"And that would be such a bad thing?" She hissed back, hackles raised and temper flaring. "If I win I'm slitting my throat in the camera just so Snow doesn't get a victor. If I die with no show I'll be happy."

"Don't say things like that!" Effie shrieked from the other table, pointing a long manicured finger at Sawney. "You are going to be so much work, young lady!" Sawney laughed, and hoped she would be. Anything to make her happy in her last few days.

Sawney lay in her bed that first night, tucked into silken sheets that made her skin crawl with the uncomfortableness of it, thinking of home. Of how her mother would kill to get her hands on silk like the one she was laying in, how she would make the prettiest clothes out of the fabric and wear them everywhere with a gleaming pride. She thought her mother was selfish sometimes, or too sentimental, the two things going hand in hand from what Sawney had learnt in her lifetime. But what does that make her? For it was the sentimentality she got looking at Amy's ribbon that made her volunteer, the memories of her father's jokes. She was selfish to not want such a pretty piece of cloth to go into the games.

The sheets were silk, and were too warm against her skin when she woke up in the morning, trees a blur outside the window she hadn't covered the night before. Sawney had lost blood once, too much too quickly, after cutting the tip of her finger off in a freak shattered mug incident. She wasn't going to die from it, not by a long shot, but she had sat dizzy and faint with her hand in a bucket until her mother had come home from the Hawthorne's. Sawney couldn't place what she was seeing outside the window, only the greens of trees, and it reminded her of how her mother had rushed into the house that day, a blob of grey clothes and orange hair.

---

Haymitch was on the wrong side of tipsy - or the right side of hungover- the next morning; outrageously grumpy but undeniably helpful. His hair had puke clumps dangling from it and Sawney felt bad about not helping him even though she heard him hacking up the night before.

"You," he points at Aden, "have no chance. You're weak and scrawny, but that doesn't mean you can't get sponsors. Act your age, maybe younger. Some like that."

"Don't be disgusting,” Sawney snaps, even though it's probably true. She can picture overweight, bald men reaching sticky hands out to grab onto children and wants to hurl. Haymitch turns to her as gingerly as he can without being noticeable. Sawney, however, is good at seeing things. "Bit of a delicate disposition today? Bet you're fucking thanking the stars you can't feel this trains speed."

His laugh is loud and clear, and Sawney likes it. Haymitch seems younger and more carefree as he laughs in people's faces, it seems. "You're a fucking nutcracker, honey. Don't know what I'm gonna do with you."

"I can think of a few things,” she snaps as nicely as she can, and she knows it's too flirtatious for breakfast with her mentor and Effie Trinket but she's bored and tired and it makes her laugh.

Effie gasps and Sawney rolls her eyes as the woman says, "Absolutely not! No, you are going to be a lovely sweet, innocent girl who volunteered out of the love of her heart. Don't you dare ruin that for me young lady, I've already told Kitty that you're the kindest thing I've ever met!"

"The same thing that shouted at you in front of all of Panem?" Sawney scoffs, taking a large bite of a bread roll. "Good luck with that."

"Don't talk with food in your mouth!" Effie shrieks, and looks to Haymitch for help, who has a toothy grin on his face. "She is your tribute, Haymitch, and if she dies it's on you."

"It's on her if she dies."

"It's your job and you'll be frowned on, Haymitch."

"What, more than he already is?" Sawney snorts. "He's a drunk, and an embarrassing one at that. Now, any advice? So you don't get frowned upon, of course."

Haymitch smirks and Sawney knows he's going to come up with some piss poor joke that only he would find funny. "Stay alive."

"You're useless." Aden pipes up, finally. He's glaring at Haymitch with an empty plate in front of him. "Help us!"

And it makes Sawney feel something, knowing that every year children, who still get fed by their father and loved by their mother, have to beg to even have a chance at winning. She thinks about when she could count her ribs with ease, after Haymitch's money had run out and before she was old enough to get a job, when she'd stumble door to door asking if anyone would spare some food in exchange for nothing. None did, and so her mother almost died of starvation as the frost turned to water on leaves outside their window, past a fence. "Haymitch, please." She says, and it's the kindest thing she's said to him.

Haymitch seems to debate about it in his head for a few seconds in a way so obvious Sawney can see his morals and his stubbornness having a brawl around the inside of his skull before he shrugs. "Any good with weapons?" He finally settled on.

Sawney stays silent, staring at Aden until he shakes his head. "No," he says, "but she can fight."

"A tussle in the slagheap isn't a fight,” Sawney says, chuckling. "Georgia May goes down if she breaks a nail, Aden, those skills won't be winning any games."

He shakes his head, says, "you're a fighter. You hunt and you kill and you give food to the Seam. She can win this."

Sawney frowns and leans back against her chair. The seam of her trousers is digging in slightly, having eaten until she was fit to burst. The table was still full enough to feed dozens. "I don't hunt. It's illegal."

Aden laughs and even Haymitch huffs out a breath of air. "Don't think that's gonna stop you, sweetheart." He mutters, pouring spirit into a glass of red juice. It stinks something foul, and the smell makes Sawney angry.

"Stop fucking drinking!" She screams, toppling the chair as she stands up, ignoring the loud gasp from Effie. "You're being a fucking coward, not helping a twelve year old."

"And what about you?" Haymitch snarls right back. "Sit your ass down and wait. We do this on my terms; no messing with my drink, no arguing with me."

"Fuck off."

"Sit, girl, we're almost there." Haymitch grunts, and stabs a knife in the air in the direction of her chair. Effie's staring at the chair as if it's a fallen friend, and the tears in eyes almost make Sawney choke on her spit as she rights it, brushing it off and tapping it whilst smiling at Effie.

"Chair's fine! No war wounds or nothin'."

"Good." She sniffs and the train goes dark apart from the warm lights it has.

Sawney realises that it must be going through the mountain tunnel that takes them to the Capitol. They were lucky, geographically, because the only place to invade was from the mountain side, and so rebels climbing over were easy pickings for Capitol soldiers. Sawney wonders if the games would be happening if the Capitol had been by the sea, or in the flatlands. Sawney stands there holding her chair and finds comfort in knowing she's beneath tonnes of rock, like the mines. They always scared her, knowing of dead dads and mining accidents and gas leaks, had to brace herself every day before getting in the lift that took her down, down, down. But the Capitol wouldn't have a weak tunnel and wouldn't dare risk a tribute, and so she finds comfort in it.

Light floods the carriage as they reach the platform, and Sawney is stood stunned still as Aden runs to wave at the hoard of Capitol citizens clamouring to spot a tribute, even one from Twelve. Sawney stands back, sickened, feeling like a prize pig as she takes in the rainbow of hues and shining buildings.

"Go on." Haymitch nudges her back and she grunts at him, going to stand by Aden with her arms crossed.

"Wave, Sawney!" Effie snaps and it startles a laugh out of Sawney as she lifts a hand up. It seemed her new pastime was to see how long it would take for Effie to snap at her every day. But for now, Sawney waves and smiles and greets citizens, thinking of how they're going to watch her and Aden die in a few short months.

Notes:

I've never thought I'm good at dialogue so be gentle. Take a shot every time j start I sentence with Sawney or her though and hopefully you won't be able to see any mistakes
edit- 11 july 22- this next chapter is so hard to write idk i've rewritten it like five times now lol
edit-25/3/25 the next chapter sucks i was so right it was difficult. edited chapter two and three and spliced them together into one as they were both short, so ignore the tense change at the end i cba to fix. read sunrise on the reaping a few days ago and am editing this whilst i figure out the next few chapters. how we feeling abt the book chat :((

Chapter 3

Notes:

this was SO difficult to write im so sorry. i tried it like seven times but none of them fit, you know. im still not sure if this version does, but i think getting past the chariot sequence will let me get on with this quicker

For a while, Sawney didn't do much except lie back and complain; she yelped as they waxed her legs, kicked their hands away when they started insisting on taking their work higher, rolled her eyes at their jokes and their giggles and did not stop frowning. Didn’t stop frowning until she saw the getup Finnick Odair is in.

“It’s horrendous,” she grins at Haymitch, who shot her a lazy smirk. His hair wasn’t hanging in clumps around his face anymore, soft and fuzzy now - Sawney wondered how much he complained as his stylist washed his hair. Knowing Haymitch, even as little as she did, Sawney knew that his stylist had probably made a botched waterboarding attempt too, just to shut the blond up.

“They put him in crap like this every year,” Haymitch responds. “They won’t notice he’s ageing if they can stare at his cock.”

Sawney hums and says, “What about when it gets all old and wrinkly? Like yours?”

Haymitch shoots her an annoyed look with a chuckle, before beckoning a hand to Finnick. “I get you your sponsors, sweetheart. Be nice,” he snarls.

“Fuck off,” Sawney mutters as she watches Finnick strut over. God, did he look like a prick, skin all golden and unblemished, oiled up as if he was seconds away from stepping foot onto the set of a Capitol porno. Sawney could see the blinding white of his teeth from over twenty feet away and scoffed, attempting to turn away on her heel to talk to Effie instead. Haymitch grabbed her arm as she did, yanking her back with a crooked grin. His form of torture; Finnick Odair.

“Get the fuck off me,” she sneers, nose scrunching up.

Haymitch tuts and taps her cheeks, one at a time. “Give us a smile, honey,” he croons, breath wafting in her face.

She groans and yanks her head back. “You fucking stink.”

“Yeah,” Haymith shrugs, “but I’m alive and I’m rich. Who the fuck cares if I smell?”

“And how many people did you murder to get there, huh?” Sawney spat. The joking smile left Haymitch’s face and he let go of her arm, as if it had scalded him. They were just glaring at each other now, Haymitch old and tired, and Sawney, packaged in a tight black dress, ready to be sold. She knew it was mean, that he had been in the same position as she, and that it wasn’t his choice, but Sawney had never been one to apologise and wasn’t about to start on her deathbed.

“Haymitch!” The delighted voice of Finnick made Haymitch turn as the two greeted each other with manly claps on the arms, one disgustingly cheerful smile and one smaller one. “How are you this year?”

Haymitch shrugs and says, “Got a twelve year old and a cunt.” He gestures at Sawney, who scowls. “Apparently she wins tussles in dogging sights, though, which’ll get her some money. If not, that dress will do.”

Finnick hums in agreement, gaze flicking up and down Sawney. Her stylist, a green skinned stick of a woman called Florentia, had squeezed a skintight black dress over her head and called it a day. There had been a good stylist for Twelve a few years ago, but he was long gone, either off to greener pastures or dead. The dress was long, at least, with a large slit that went up to her hip and a deep v-neck that scared Sawney, if she was being honest. She tilted her chin up at Finnick with a glare, resisting the sudden urge to cry. She wanted to go home to her mum and her warm jumpers.

“Fuck you,” she spat at Haymitch, gulping down the frog in her throat and hoping it wasn’t too obvious. Haymitch looks at her carefully, and she wonders if he saw her begging for money, hungry and poor, as he once had. She wonders if he saw her for how scared she was.

He rolls his eyes at her instead and slings an arm around her shoulders roughly. “Shut up,” he says gruffly, squeezing her. “Be nice .”

Sawney lets out a breath of laughter and says, “I’m not your dog, Haymitch. ‘M not gonna roll over when you tell me to.”

“You would’ve once,” He snaps, and she cuts her eyes at him. This was his revenge, she thinks. Revenge for a horrible comment, something she deserved; something she’d let him have. Sawney doesn’t respond, but a smile tugged on her lips when Finnick chuckles warmly. She thought he was so stupid, standing about in nothing but a golden thong and not understanding a word her and Haymitch were saying. He should’ve stuck to fishing, or fucking.

“Well, my tributes should be here any minute,” he says. “Both quite average, I think, Haymitch. I best be-”

“Can you not treat them like they’re some kind of meal, ” Sawney demands. “‘Oh, yeah, the beef’s a bit weird but the spice has a real kick to it’. Weren’t you scared once?”

Finnick stares at her, in a deliberate way that makes the hairs on her neck rise. It made her realise he was wearing contacts, bright green things, fake like everything else. She frowns at him. Finnick smiles, despite everything. “She is a bit of a cunt, isn’t she?” He says to Haymitch with a tinkly laugh. “Watch out.”

“I’ll try,” Haymitch responds cryptically, nodding as the other man walked away, hips jutting from side to side. Sawney supposes that if she was stupider, less exposed to the world, she would’ve found it somewhat seductive.

Aden arrives shortly after, escorted by a pink-clad Effie, and Sawney does almost cry. She hated the Capitol, hated Snow, and Aden’s stylist. He wasn’t wearing shoes, or anything at all really; dusted in black shadow and only wearing a pair of short, skin tight dark shorts, Sawney wanted to know just how, exactly, had their stylists even been hired. She’d heard stories of a stylist who licked frogs and dressed his tributes in miners’ outfits every year; Sawney would’ve preferred him.

“Remember,” Effie claps her hands at the two of them, “big, big, happy smiles! Say hello to the crowd! They’ve come from all across to see you, and they’re going to be lapping you up! Now, go, go. Have fun!”

“Be nice, sweetheart,” Haymitch tells her wryly as he helps her into the chariot next to Aden.

“Always,” Sawney replies, smiling tightly.

Haymitch makes a noise that could, generously, be called a laugh. “Very funny,” he says.

Capitol employees scatter about for a few seconds, fussing with horses and chariots alike before they’re off, last of the bunch. Sawney hears more than sees when each district goes out, the shrill screams of a large crowd increasing steadily. For the golden duo in two, for the ethereal two from Four, clad in shimmering fabrics that make them look like the sea, and for each and every other chariot, no matter how good or bad, how friendly each tribute looked - the people were just excited they were in the Games.

Aden bumps his elbow against hers as they start moving. “You look nice,” he compliments her with a weak smile. She grins back and, in a move specifically to piss off Effie, ruffles his hair right as they enter the runway. Aden tugs away with a laugh, shaking his head.

“We both look horrible,” she shouts over the screams engulfing them, and Aden laughs, moving closer to her side.

Sawney has never seen so many people, so many colours. It’s overwhelming in its intensity and she wishes, just a little desperately, that she was like one of the miners. Tall and broad, loud in just about everything he did, Ben had been what Andy was to her for many; something to get you through the day. How this man was always smiling in such a place had confounded Sawney for years and she’d hated him at first for it. How dare he be happy with what he’d been given, like just living for them wasn’t a punishment. It wasn’t his happiness Sawney envied, though, it was the way he saw the world - in grey. Ben had never seen colour in his life, or so he said, and it was all Sawney could think of when faced with the full technicolour of the Capitol, just how badly she wanted it.

She feels herself getting a headache the longer she’s stood on the chariot, feels her temples thumping as the horses trot to a stop before Snow, tribute chariots arranged in a semicircle below him. He looks down at them as he speaks, welcoming them and the Capitol to enjoy. Sawney wants to shave his beard off and make him eat it, feeling distinctly like she’s being appraised and tossed aside into a pile.

Instead, Sawney glances at Aden again, and reaches down to hold his hand. She’s not sure if it’s for him or for her, but it’s a comfort nevertheless. She wants to go home. She doesn’t want to see Primrose’s dead body in her mind whenever she talks to Aden, and she doesn’t want her mum seeing her like this, pranced about for people to give her money for the slim chance she’ll win. For the chance they’ll get to sleep with her if she does.

Sawney prays to God, or Snow, promises she’ll give a show if she can just die. She doesn’t want to see herself in a world where she’s been in an arena, and doesn't want to see what she could become if she ever makes it out.

Chapter 4

Notes:

i rise from the dead, offering a solid 6k of confusing tenses written in two hours

The walls of the elevator are made out of glass so clear that Sawney can see people milling about in the streets below the Training Centre as it rises. They're little specks of colour, getting smaller and smaller as the seconds go by and Sawney thinks, a tad too gleefully, that this is nice - looking down on the Capitol citizens, unable to even tell their gender or what they look like. In that moment, they're as unimportant to her as the Districts are to them.

 

The elevator is silent until Effie says, "You were great! We would have benefitted from a little more smiling and waving, but we can make up for that later. The Capitol loved the hand holding, you'll continue to do that - the two of you will be a united front until the games begin."

 

"And after?" Sawney turns her head away from the glass to look at Effie, who chuckles weakly. 

 

"As much as I wish I could," she says, almost bitterly, "your decisions are your own, and I have no control over them."

 

Haymitch huffs a small laugh. "As in don't fuck anything up." 

 

Effie gasps and clumsily covers Aden's ears with her hands. Sawney thinks she sees her scratch his cheek with a nail. "Don't use such foul language around him, Haymitch!" She scolds. "He's only a child."

 

Sawney catches her eyes sharply, glaring. "Then why is he here?" 

 

Effie sighs and removes her hands to wave them about, dithering and almost catching Haymitch in the face. "You know, darling," she settles on. "The war ."

 

Sawney laughs, a harsh thing. "Oh yes," she drawls, "the war ."

 

"Sawney," Haymitch says lowly, and Sawney can't figure out if it's a threat or a warning. 

 

"I've heard worse," Aden pipes up when the tense silence stretches on for a few too many seconds, and Effie pats him on the head.

 

Effie doesn't speak again, not until she's all but bouncing down a long hallway to show Sawney her room. The walls are a deep, almost red, wood that shines, and the floor is no different, subjected to Effie's sharp heels. She's nattering on about thread counts and pillows as they walk, and Sawney thinks is this it? All they care about, aesthetics and comfort? She thinks of their blissful ignorance of the poverty in the Districts, and of Finnick's golden skin, unblemished despite the almost fatal stab wound he received in his chest in his own Games, and thinks herself stupid for only realising it now.

 

"This is you!" Effie smiles at Sawney as she comes to a stop in front of a door. "I'll come to collect you for dinner soon, but I suggest you have a shower beforehand. Me and Haymitch and, of course, little Aden are all down here as well, so don't feel too lonely! 

 

Sawney smiles tightly at her, thinking that she'll never feel more lonely than she does with the three of them, and enters her room. 

 

The quarters are almost as large as Sawney's home, and she frowns as she takes in all the buttons they have to offer - there's got to be a hundred in the shower, all dispensing a different scent of soap, Sawney assumes. She presses one in the middle after hesitating, and the machine dispenses a floral smelling liquid in her hand, which she uses to wash her hair. The mayor's daughter uses liquid soap to wash, Sawney knows this from Katniss, who'd told her once almost reverently. It's a luxury neither of them can afford, and so is the conditioner used in the Capitol and lower Districts. Sawney doesn't bother trying to get some from the machine, missing her bar of soap from home.

 

Yet another machine detangles and dries her hair as she picks her clothes from a screen on the wall; simple cotton pyjamas that are still of a better quality than anything Sawney has touched in her entire life. She hates herself for enjoying it, for running her hands down her clothed side reverently and marveling at the softness of them.

 

During the long hours of Sawney’s imprisonment in her penthouse bedroom, plush with luxury, she often found herself wandering through the canals of her memory. With nothing else but thoughts of her upcoming slaughter and the occasional shuffle from another room, there was really nothing better to do than reminisce and keep her mind off her impending doom. The evening before training was to begin, she found herself thinking of Andy, something becoming so common Sawney was starting to dislike the man in a way only a teenage girl could: bitterly and completely without reason.

 

It was from her first summer in the mines, where she’d enter with her top sticking to her sweaty back and leave the depths shivering. She measured the time in bags of coal taken to and from the drop off, each one marking yet another arduous hour past. Sawney got used to it, of course, and now had the shoulders and arms of a labourer, thickly muscled beneath a layer of fat she was proud of.

 

Sometimes, in the high hours of the day, the mines would get warm too, each opening of the elevator letting more thick, wet air into the shafts, and, when she was younger, Sawney would grow slower, each heft of coal in her hands heavier than the last. She was still young, unused to hard work and seen as the weakest in her group. Andy would sometimes drag her bag the last few metres, not seeing helping the fifteen year old as beneath him. He believed in her, or something else equally as warm, and Sawney appreciated that.

 

Those small acts set her on a path. In some of her darkest moments, Sawney would hate the part Andy’s fucking heart played in them. But that was still to come, the burning of her humanity.

 

Sawney, flat on her back in a bed that could easily fit more than three of her, was remembering a day they all got let out an hour or so early, a rarity in a place like Twelve. It was raining the sort of hot, uncomfortable rain that only summer could bring, and Sawney was sitting on the path leading out from the mines, shoulders aching and legs too sore to walk home just yet, when Andy joined her.

 

What you’ll understand , he’d said after a few moments, is that life’s fucked, Sawney. Life’s fucked and then you die, right? The worst thing you can have at the end of all that is this, this fucking life you’ll have if you do nothing . He’d paused here, smiling at a few passing miners.

 

Don’t spend your best years in the mines, sweetheart -he’d continued- have fun . 

 

Sawney had always thought of Andy quite fondly, her pseudo father-miner, but fuck was he wrong. The thing that was worse than doing nothing was dying on the fucking television.

Sawney woke up to Effie banging on her door and coming into her room. She looked a little too gleeful as she pulled the duvet off of Sawney, obviously still holding a grudge from when Sawney stood on her foot the day prior, still in her heels from the chariot ride. 

 

“Come on, dear,” Effie urged her out of bed, one hand on her arm as she guided her to the bathroom. “Your first day of training today, isn’t that exciting? Get yourself cleaned up and join us for breakfast. I’ll ask somebody to leave your uniform on your bed, so wear it.”

 

Sawney blinked at Effie, rubbed her eyes, yawned, and nodded. “Good morning,” she said. “Lovely to see you, too.”

“Well, of course it is!” Effie chuckled. She dithered for a few seconds before realising that Sawney wasn’t about to shower in front of her and left. She wouldn’t be surprised if the woman had stayed, already knowing how much of a perfectionist she was. 

 

Breakfast was a quiet affair, mostly. Effie nattered on for a while about potential sponsors she’d spoken to the night before. Sawney nodded in the right places, gasped when Effie paused for reactions at anything scandalous and ate at a more measured pace than Aden did. 

 

“Now,” Haymitch said as they were in the elevator. “Whatever skills you think you might have, don’t show them, don’t do anything. Watch the others, learn how to light a fire, whatever.”

 

“Whatever!” Sawney repeated with a salute, smiling when Aden giggled at her. Haymitch rolled his eyes and swatted at her.

 

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he drawled before pointing at Aden. “Don’t get in anyone’s way, kid.”

“Because I’m the most annoying tribute you have this year,” Aden nodded solemnly. 

 

“Fuck off,” Haymitch said, unceremoniously pushing the two of them out as the elevator doors opened. 

 

The room they were in was of a large size, L-shaped, all metal, no windows except for the glass slats glowing eerily around the room. At first, she had believed that these windows opened up to the outdoors, but the white light shining through remained too constant to be cast by sunlight. Sawney placed an arm around Aden’s shoulders and glared at a girl who looked at them for a little too long. “Come on,” she said, guiding him to the large twelve painted on the floor.

 

“What can you do?” Aden asked. “I mean, your knives are the worst kept secret in the district, but is there anything else?”

 

Sawney snorted and squeezed his shoulder, eyeing up the tributes from five as they stepped out the elevator. “Katniss taught me how to shoot, but I’m not as good as her. I can throw a spear pretty well, too.” She’d only ever thrown wooden ones, a far cry from what would be in the arena, but she didn’t say this.

 

Aden opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the instructor, a stern looking woman who promptly told them they’d all be dead soon. Sawney’s lips twinged into a small smile as she continued, about infection and dehydration. It was all quite obvious, the idea that you’d starve if you didn’t eat, but it was nice to see the careers frown, not that they’d ever get close to starving; gifts of food were most popular, and careers always got a few from sponsors.

 

“So,” Sawney began, “do you want to learn how to light a fire?”

 

The first day of training was spent teaching Aden everything she knew, and learning alongside him from instructors. Nobody paid much attention to the two of them, and Sawney was glad for it. She wanted as few people to notice Aden as possible, for they’d soon realise what an easy target he’d be. Aden didn’t seem to realise this himself, yet, or he didn’t care, nattering on about the fish hooks he and Sawney made, and the fire they lit together, and the knots they had learnt to tie to a bored looking Haymitch in the evening.

 

“Well, don’t you sound close?” He smiled bitterly at Sawney before taking a long pull from his drink. Sawney glared at him.

 

“We both need to learn it,” she defended herself. “It’s the smart way to do it.”

 

“Saving time, are you?” he asked, and she shrugged, popping a piece of meat in her mouth and chewing it viciously.

 

“Don’t chip your teeth, dear! There’s no way you’ll be able to get that fixed with the games so soon.” Sawney was sure Effie was trying, in her out-of-touch way, to somehow diffuse the situation. 

 

“Sorry,” she said sweetly, instead of cursing out the lady. “I’m just used to the tough meats from twelve, you know? Never had anything this tender.”

Effie simpered, reaching out a hand that, inexplicably, had a new set of nails on the fingers. She rested it atop of Sawney’s own. “Of course you haven’t,” she replied with a pitying smile. Sawney tried to return one, but knew it came out as more of a grimace when Effie chuckled awkwardly and pulled her arm back. “So, Aden, I take it you had fun?”

 

Aden nodded quickly, his eyes brightening up again as he started to speak. “Absolutely! I never thought Sawney would be this nice , she usually looks so scary back home.”

“I do not ,” Sawney squawked as Haymitch barked out a laugh. “I am so approachable! Maybe the most approachable person in the district.”

 

Aden laughed at her, a smile dimpling his cheeks. “If that’s what you think,” he replied cheekily, moving his head out of the way of Sawney’s hand as she swatted him. 

 

“Insolent little shit,” she said with a laugh, ignoring Effie’s little gasp. 

 

“What were the other tributes up to?” Haymitch asked a few minutes later.

 

“The careers can fight, obviously, but they all seem to use swords or spears. The girl from ten can use knives pretty well, but the others stuck to skills today,” Sawney said through a mouthful.

 

Haymitch hummed. He was less drunk today than he was yesterday, but Sawney didn’t think whatever thing he had going was going to last. “Right,” he said. “Do the same thing tomorrow, okay?”

 

The next day of training passed quickly, with the two of them going from station to station. Sawney made Aden flip through books of edible plants for a few hours before teaching him snares and continued with any useful skills she could think of . She taught him a few fighting stances, but emphasised that he had to run for his life if he ended up in the arena near a tribute that wasn’t her. She steered clear of any weapons herself, as Haymitch had said to do, but encouraged Aden to learn some from the instructors.

 

Allyships formed at lunch, in the communal room they ate in. All four tributes from five and three sat together in awkward silence, and Sawney bet it was going to end with throats slit in the middle of the night. The careers stuck tightly together, but they tried to talk to the girl from ten a few times, who steadfastly ignored them and continued to work and eat on her own, seemingly uninterested. Sawney thought she was being an idiot, thinking of the cornucopia supplies the careers stockpiled for themselves every year. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement for everybody to leave Sawney and Aden alone, something she appreciated greatly, although she tried to be friendly to the twelve year old girl from seven as often as she could. 

 

She followed them around the final day, a little blonde shadow. She was a wisp of a thing, no more than twenty five kilos, Sawney thought. She spoke in a small, sweet voice, saying her name was Rose and that she’d like to learn how to light a fire, please. Sawney felt slightly stupid, her only allies being both under fourteen, but she’d dutifully taught Rose the movements needed for a spark, and how to stomp a fire out quickly, and how a nighttime fire was a worse fate than freezing to death. Rose spoke about her home whenever she could, it seemed, about the thick trees both her parents cut down, and how storms shook their house in all seasons. 

“You can’t get them both out,” Haymitch said the night before the rankings, drink in hand. It was late, and she was the last person remaining in the lounge area with him.

 

Sawney made a sound that was somewhere between a whimper and a groan before she caught herself. “They’re my allies,” she bit out, glaring at him.

 

“They’ll be dead in the first five minutes.”

“Don’t,” Sawney pleaded. “At least let me pretend they’ll survive, Haymitch.”

 

“All right, sweetheart,” he replied tiredly after a moment. Sawney went to bed soon after, lying on her side until she eventually passed out. He was right, of course, as infuriating as it was. Neither could survive in an arena, especially not without her, but she was going to try for at least one.

 

They pulled people out of lunch on the fourth day for individual rankings. District by district, boys and then girls. Sawney smiled encouragingly at Rose as she left for hers, although she doubted the girl would be able to score above a six without a miracle helping her out. The dining room was awkwardly silent as each person left, until eventually the girl from eleven gets called out.

 

“Show off any weapons skills you’ve learnt first, okay, and then move on to smaller skills, like fires and snares,” Sawney advises Aden as he’s called. “Good luck.”

 

“Thank you,” he smiles at her. “Get bullseyes only, okay?”

 

Sawney nodded at him and smiled. It was about fifteen minutes until a peacekeeper came for her and brought her to the gym, where the gamemakers would decide on her score. They were rowdy, maybe slightly drunk. Definitely slightly drunk, Sawney thought to herself as she watched one of the men trip into a table.

 

She moved quickly to the knives section and began working, quickly and methodically. All her knives stuck, dead centre or close enough. Once she used her last knife, Sawney turned to the gamemakers and frowned. A few were nodding in approval, but most were talking amongst themselves, drinks in hands. 

 

Sawney was as furious as she was the moment she volunteered. Upstaged by a fucking drink, her life meaning nothing to these men. It’s dehumanising, and Sawney suddenly felt incredibly small, showing off for these people just for the chance to live. Her face burnt with frustration, and she grabbed a few more knives, looking critically at the gamemakers. 

 

Three glasses smashed in quick succession from Sawney’s knives, their owners reeling back in shock. One of them shrieked. 

 

“Pay attention to me, or the next one will be through your hand!” She shouts, turning back to the targets. She outperforms herself, knives sinking deep into targets from the force behind them, spears and arrows all hitting spots that would kill.

 

When she decides she is done, Sawney turns back to the gamemakers and inclines her head once. “Have a nice evening,” she grinds out before turning on her heel and storming out of the gym.

“Are you a fool?” Effie cries, pacing around the room. Her and Aden were sitting on the sofa whilst she wandered around the room, Haymitch standing off to the side, looking decidedly bored. 

 

Sawney didn’t reply, letting Effie ramble on about sponsors and manners and general decorum until she’s eventually sent back to her room. The possibility of a punishment, for her or her mother, hung over her head grimly, and Sawney spent a very long shower trying and failing to ignore it. She ultimately decided that the gamemakers would give her a low ranking and have their way with her whilst she’s in the arena; it’s much too late to arrest and replace her as a tribute, and the capitol is always very strict about the secrecy of training. They’d have to reveal what she’d done, which they wouldn’t. Besides, Sawney hadn’t hurt anyone. 

 

They eat dinner tensely, with Effie pointedly congratulating Aden on getting through his final training smoothly, to which Sawney rolled her eyes at. Both of twelve’s stylists had joined them for the evening as Effie had deemed it important. Sawney couldn’t figure out why, considering her and Aiden would probably be dead in two days.

 

The stylists make snide comments throughout the meal, and Sawney thinks that their hatred of one another is why her and Aden didn't match at all during the chariot ride, their stylists choosing whatever difference they shared over the two tributes' lives.

 

"How original was your idea of coal dust, Octov," Florentia simpers, sipping on what Sawney thinks is her glass of red wine. Effie had given her one when she sat down, but Haymitch had refused to give her a second one.

 

Octov points a fork laden with juicy pork at Florentia and laughs. "And the little black dress! I would say it's so 68th Games, but I suppose everyone loves a throwback sometimes."

 

Florentia glares at him and Sawney rolls her eyes. "We both looked like we were being sold to the highest bidder so I'd say you both won," she snaps, rather sick of them. "On that note, next time can you perhaps not put us in clothes that we’re not about to fall out of?"

 

Florentia giggles and cocks her head to the side. "That's the whole point of being a tribute stylist, dear - to make you look as appealing as possible."

 

Sawney clenches her jaw harshly, teeth grinding. "Of course it is," she gets out instead of the unintelligible teenage angst she usually spouts, turning to spend the rest of her meal to speak with Aden, whom she finds much more agreeable than Florentia.

 

She settles in between him and Haymitch when the rankings are soon to be announced, Effie and the stylists sitting on a separate sofa. Aden rested his head against Sawney’s shoulder, and she placed her arm around his shoulder, pointedly ignoring the noise Haymitch made next to her.

 

They first show a photo of the tribute, taken from the reapings, then flash their score below it. The career tributes all get in the eight-to-ten range, with most others around the five-to-sevens. Rose got a four, not that Sawney had expected more, and the girl from ten surprisingly got a nine. 

 

District 12 is last, as always, and Aden pulls a shocking seven. Sawney cheers for him, squeezing him into a hug as he laughs. Haymitch reached around her and patted him on the back, leaving it there as Sawney’s face flashed onto the screen, a ten shortly following. 

 

Effie squealed, all she said about manners forgotten, and clapped her hands before kissing Sawney’s cheeks. “Oh, well done! I’m so proud of you two!” She said, and Sawney thought she was quite genuine.

 

“Thank you, Effie,” she replied, squeezing the hand that was on her cheek. Haymitch knocked his shoulder into her with a small smile. Sawney scrunched her nose as she smelt his breath, a mix of harsh alcohol and meat.

 

“Guess they enjoyed your temper,” he smirked and Sawney rolled her eyes, a smile on her lips.

 

“Everybody will be looking at you two, goodness, just wait until you see what you’re wearing tomorrow for your interviews,” Aden’s stylist said and Sawney scowled.

 

“What is it this time, underwear?” She snarled at him and he rolled his eyes.

 

“Do shut up,” he replied, sipping on his champagne.

 

Effie ordered celebratory drinks and congratulations were strewn about the room until Sawney escaped for bed. Sleep came surprisingly quickly, and she fell asleep relieved with the thought of a score of ten in her mind. Of the pride she hoped her mum would have.

 

Sawney woke up at dawn, and lay where she was for a little while. She had to wake up before the sun rose back in the district to hunt before going to the mines, but on Sundays she usually lay in until the sun touched her room. Her days off were usually spent in the kitchen with her mum until lunch, when Sawney went beyond the fence and into the woods. Then to the hob and back home to give her mum meat to make a meal with, and then to bed. Sawney supposed that, to the people in the capitol, it was mundane, boring, but Sundays always had a tranquillity to them that Sawney hadn’t managed to find anywhere else, as if there were no responsibilities or worries in the world.

 

Eventually, Effie knocked on Sawney’s door to remind her that there was going to be another “big, big, big day!” ahead of her. She gets ready slowly, thinking of home as she steps into a shower that smells like lavender and orange. Sawney’s not sure it’s a scent that goes together, but she’s not expecting anybody to be smelling her without receiving some crushed toes.

 

Breakfast was equally as slow, apart from Effie’s everpresent chatter that Sawney had begun to learn to tune out. Sawney had never really cared for gossip, and Capitol gossip was something she cared for even less. 

 

“Today you’ll have two hours with one of us, then two hours with the other one,” Haymitch declared once everybody had finished eating. “Sawney, you’re with me first.”

“Yay,” Sawney drawled, although she was secretly glad that her personal alone time with Effie would be later in the day.

 

Effie took Aden away, leaving Sawney and Haymitch alone in the lounge area. They sat staring at each other for a few minutes, Haymitch’s eyebrows furrowed. Eventually, Sawney 

asked, “What’s wrong?” 

 

Haymitch huffed and said, “I’m trying to decide your angle. We could really lean on the weird child allies you have-”

 

“No.”

 

“Okay,” he sighed. “They’ll want to speak about the girl you volunteered for.”

“I’m not talking about that,” Sawney replied immediately.

 

Haymitch sighed, and ran a hand down his face. “Sweetheart, you have to. God knows it’s the only thing you’ve got going for you.”

“My score was good,” she defended weakly.

 

“Maybe, but whatever mystique that gave you will be shattered when you open you goddamn mouth and tell Caesar he’s a fucking prick,” Haymitch snapped back.

 

Sawney wrinkled her nose. “He looks like a piece of broccoli this year,” she said. “Maybe if he didn’t look so stupid I’d be nicer.”

 

“Then look at me, or Effie or pretend you’re talking to someone else, someone you like,” Haymitch said.

 

Sawney looked around, then turned her eyes to him steadily with a nod. “I can do that,” she said, and Haymitch nodded back. 

 

“Don’t be yourself, but don’t be a simpering little shit, okay? And don’t talk about your job, or your dad, or any other shitty thing about twelve. The gamemakers already don’t like you.”

 

Sawney nodded. She could pretend she loved working in a collapsing mine and living in a starving district, sure. Easy. Her and Haymitch pretended to do an interview together, but Sawney was angry. She didn’t want to prance around on her stage for an audience. It made her sick.

 

“So,” Haymitch said in a falsetto, “what’s your favourite thing about district twelve?”

 

“Oh, you know, seeing everyone die because there’s never any goddamn food,” Sawney snapped back.

 

“No it’s not, think of something else,” Haymitch retorted.

 

Sawney scowled. “My mum.”

 

Haymitch stared at her for a second before rolling his eyes and gesturing for her to continue.

 

“She’s the tailor,” Sawney continued. “She loves me.”

 

“That’s sweet, darling, but gives nobody anything. More,” demanded Haymitch.

 

“We cook together if I’m not working,” Sawney said after a moment. “We don’t have much, but we have more than most in twelve. We’re lucky to have each other.”

 

Haymitch inhaled sharply through his nose and nodded once, sharply. “Answers like that,” he pointed at her. “That’s what we need. Good job.”

 

They continued for a while, Haymitch snapping at Sawney until all her answers were relatively okay. Finally, he said, “And the girl you volunteered for?”

 

Sawney shook her head and said, “I’m not answering-”

 

“Yes, you are.”

 

Sawney seethed for a second, glaring at Haymitch. Her hands were clenched in her lap, but if anyone was more stubborn than Sawney it was her mentor. “She- her dad,” she eventually answered. “Mine’s dead and I work with him and he’s- he’s as good a father to me as anyone could be. He loves his daughter more than anything, and I couldn’t live with myself if I had to go back to work knowing I could’ve saved him any pain. I would rather be here and get murdered.”

 

“That’s perfect, sweetheart,” Haymitch nodded, carefully leaving out the last bit. “You'll do well enough tonight.”

Effie’s training consisted of making Sawney walk up and down the hallway in heels that she teetered on, ones that pinched her toes. She walked up and down, Effie snapping at her to relax, to move her hands, to stop grimacing, until she could eventually walk with minimal shaking. She practised a smile until her cheeks ached and her stylist came to collect her.

 

Florentia took her to the same place where she had gotten ready for the parade. Sawney was waxed all over yet again, doused with sweet smiling liquids and creams, her hair brushed and styled and makeup applied. Her styling time was a buzz around her, congratulating her on her score, on her hair and really anything they could. 

 

“Your dress is similar to the last one you wore,” Florentia told her as she unzipped a garment bag, revealing a black, sparkling dress. It had a higher neckline, although it was still a little daring for Sawney, as were the slits on each leg.

 

“It’s…nice,” said Sawney and Florentia leaned down to kiss her on the cheek.

 

It made Sawney look old , though, like a real grown up. Her makeup was dark, outlining her eyes, and her face was pale and carved out with makeup. The dress clung to her like the last one did, shimmering like water with her movements. Sawney hated to admit that it was rather stunning.

The interviews were three minutes each, district by district. Tributes waited with their mentors until they were called up, girls and then boys. Effie was fussing over Aden, who was wearing a suit that matched Sawney’s, his hair fluffy. It had made Sawney a bit choke up, Aden looking like a kid playing dress up. 

 

All the careers went for the vicious, fierce angle, bearing their teeth and bragging about their scores in a way that made Sawney furious. The girl from five bounced off of Caesar, their humour matching each other remarkably well, making the audience laugh and laugh. Rose was sweet, young, something Sawney knew wasn’t hard for her to do, although she doubted many would sponsor her for it. The girl from ten, who Caesar introduced as Betty, was serious and eager to go home, telling Caesar of her five siblings. 

 

“Okay, sweetheart, you’re next,” Haymitch said as eleven’s boy went up, grabbing Sawney’s shoulders. “Remember, be nice but not too nice and don’t be a bitch. You love the Capitol, you love your home and you love fighting to the death.”

 

Sawney laughed, shaking her head. “Shut up,” she chuckled, and Haymitch’s eyes crinkled. “I’ll be fine.”

 

Haymith raised his eyebrows at her but let her go for Effie to move her hair about a bit and adjust her dress. “Oh, you are gorgeous, dear,” she said. “Not when you open your mouth, of course, but I suppose you can’t help that, can you?”

 

“No,” Sawney grinned at her.

 

When her name got called, Sawney made her way onto the stage on wobbly feet, raising a hand to block her eyes from the harsh,bright lights that illuminated the stage. “Come here, come here,” Caesar called to her, reaching his hand out. His green hand. Sawney swallowed down a laugh and walked forward to shake it, smiling shyly at the man.

 

“Hello,” she said, and the audience chuckled. Sawney frowned for a second before smiling, taking a seat on the chair Caesar gestured to.

 

The audience stretched back beyond what Sawney could see, a riot of colour. “So,” she turned to Caesar as he spoke, “how are you, Sawney? You’re looking drop dead gorgeous . Are you enjoying the Capitol?”

 

Fuck off was she. “Yes, Caesar, it’s very…welcoming,” she replied with a small smile. “Everyone’s been too kind, thank you.”

 

Caesar laughed loudly, turning to the audience. “Oh, she knows how to butter us up, doesn’t she?” He laughed again, turning back. “Tell me about that score! I don’t think we’ve gotten a ten from your district in, well, ever!”

 

Sawney laughed as Caesar did, trying as hard as she could to keep it tinkly and sounding real. “You know I can’t tell you anything, Caesar. It’s against the rules .”

 

Caesar pouted, first at Sawney then the crowd before laughing loudly. “Yes, yes, I suppose. Well, are you excited for the games?”

 

Sawney blinked. “ Excited ?” she said, incredulous, before thinking of Haymitch’s stern face. “Er, yes. A little bit.”

 

“More nervous than excited?” Caesar pointed out and Sawney nodded, a relieved chuckle escaping her. “That’s quite understandable, what with the tributes this year! Tell me, what do you think of them?”

 

“Um, well, it’s a good group,” Sawney answered. “I’ve gotten close to my district partner, Aden, and a few others. Everyone looks really good at fighting and, er, stuff, so it’ll be a good game this year, for sure.”

 

“Your district partner!” Caesar grinned at her. “He’s the same age as the girl you volunteered for, yes? Tell me about that, what a brave thing for you to do.”

 

Sawney gulped, her eyes flitting between the audience and Caesar before she took a deep breath. “Well, I work in the mines with her dad, and we’re quite close. He’s a role model and someone that I, ah, care for. Quite a bit. He loves his daughter an incredible amount, Caesar, and I didn’t want to watch him go through losing her. He’s done a lot for me, so I thought I’d repay it. He deserves to see Amy grow up.”

 

Caesar placed a hand to his chest and turned to the crowd, who were cooing. “Goodness, how sweet is that, everybody? Just so heart-touching. Who else did you leave at home? Any boys?” Caesar wiggled his green eyebrows and Sawney laughed, shook her head no. “Surely you do have a man? A girl like you?”

 

“No, I assure you, there’s only my mum and a few friends waiting for me,” she replied with a laugh and a small grimace.

 

Caesar laughed and said, “Are you sure about that?”

 

“Absolutely, Caesar!” Sawney smiled at him, her jaw aching. She was sick of this. 

 

“Well, we’ve got time for one last question-” thank god “-so; what do you want to say to the people of Panem?”

 

“Er,” Sawney replied, “um, well, I really want my district partner to win, honestly. I think more kids like him deserve to go home, you know? He’s worth the sponsor, trust me.”

 

Caesar chuckled tightly, slapping Sawney on the arm. “You are such a kind person, volunteering for that girl and now vouching for your partner. Unfortunately, we’re going to have to love you and leave you. Everybody - Sawney Carter!”

 

The crowd cheered as Sawney waved goodbye, her smile dropping the moment she was out of view of the camera. She sighed, making her way over to Haymitch and Effie, patting Aden on the shoulder as he walked the way she had come. “That sucked,” she groaned.

 

“Actually, dear, you did quite well,” Effie said with a smile. “Why, you’ll have sponsors falling over themselves to get to you! Oh, and the dress helped so much, I’d say.”

 

Sawney rolled her eyes. “Cheers,” she replied.

 

Haymitch leant over and whispered in her ear, “don’t say stuff like that again. About the kid.” Sawney furrowed her brow at him, Caesar announcing Aden’s entrance cutting off her words.

 

Their host looked brighter on the screen, somehow, his teeth almost acid green. Sawney would never understand Capitol fashion, how people disfigured themselves with no discernible reason. It confused her as much as it disgusted her. 

 

Caesar clapped Aden around the shoulders, grinning down at him as the two sat down, sharing niceties and the icebreaker questions Caesar always asked; are you enjoying yourself here? and what’s your favourite thing about the Capitol so far? and your outfit is simply stunning, do you like it? Aden nodded and answered them all shyly, sweetly, perfect little answers to satisfy the audience.

 

“Your score was so high for someone your age!” Caesar exclaimed, laughing as the audience cheered. “Tell me, Aden, you must be so proud. What do you think your family thinks?”

 

Aden leans over to Caesar, a cheeky smile on his face, as if he’s letting him in on a secret. “I would have gotten a three if I hadn’t gotten help,” he uttered into the waiting microphone. “I’m very grateful for Sawney, who’s very proud of me. I’m sure my family acted like she did, cheering and the like, when my score got announced. They all love me very much. I’m sure my mum would be proud if I scored a one, even.”

On the screen, Caesar is wiping a fake tear away, simpering, and it was hard to believe that this man could care for the tributes beyond any bets he made, as he said, “How sweet! I think we’re all wondering if there’s an allyship forming?” His voice has a teasing lilt to it, grinning as Aden blushed.

 

“I hope so,” he responded lightly. “We are friends.”

 

“Of course,” nodded Caesar, obviously thinking that Sawney would stab him in the back at her first chance. “On the topic of friends, are there any you’re leaving behind that you’d like to say something to?”

 

Aden’s face lit up with a smile, before it tinged with sadness. “I would’ve loved to grow old with them all,” he replied, all childhood and sunny school afternoons. “My mum’s friends are always over, our families are all quite close. I would’ve loved that.”

 

Sawney turned away from the screen, coughing on sudden tears. “Fucking hell,” she murmured, leaning into Haymitch, who grunted. 

 

“FInally,” Caesar said, “if you win, what’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get home?”

 

There was a pause, before Aden said, “I’m going to make some bread with my mum and hug my brothers. Then we’re going to sit in the garden and watch the sunset together until it’s time for bed. That’s my perfect day.”

 

For a moment it’s silent, before the crowd erupted in pitying noises, some openly weeping. Sawney scoffed at them, pressed a hand to her own flushed cheeks with a sniffle, and watched as Aden waved goodbye, a toothy grin on his face. It was a few moments before he joined them, looking up at Haymitch with such expectant eyes. “Was that okay?” he asked.

 

A half-smile graced Haymitch’s lips as he nodded. “They love you, kid,” he assured Aden, who grinned.

 

“Yeah,” Sawney added, “that was great. Almost made me cry.”

 

Aden’s eyes lit up and he teased, “big, scary Sawney crying ? Haymitch, we have to tell the districts. This is more exciting than the games!”

 

Sawney laughed at him, a little wetly. He was just a child , how could they do this? Bet on his life, maybe even cheer when he died, one less for their favourite tribute to get past.

 

Sawney fucking hated it.

Chapter 5

It’s late, the night before the games. Effie disappeared after a small dinner to some party, Aden heading off to bed shortly after. Even from the penthouse, behind the thick glass, Sawney can hear the jubilant cheers of the Capitol below, already celebrating the beginning of the games before anyone has even entered the arena. Sawney and Haymitch sat in the dark on a sofa, the bright lights of the city illuminating them.

 

“Haymitch,” she began, breaking the silence, “it’s him, alright. All the money goes to him, not me.”

 

His laugh was brief and humourless. “Sweetheart, there’s no hope-”

 

“Please don’t let him die,” she interrupted, her voice raw and desperate. “ Please .”

 

He didn’t say anything for a while, before taking a large gulp from the bottle he was holding. He held it out to Sawney, who eagerly reached for it. “Okay,” he agreed, mouth twisted in his ever-present frown, and that was that.

 

They shared the bottle until Sawney grew tired, no further mentions of the promise made, and she went to bed. She paused where the hallway began, turning back and giving him a small wave. 

“The arena will probably be relatively warm, but with cold nights,” Florentia said, fingering the jacket Sawney was wearing thoughtfully. They stood together next to the chute that would send her into the arena. Sawney was in starchy, clean clothes and a waterproof jacket, the thick boots on her feet putting her own hunting boots to shame. Florentia had plaited her hair neatly, all down the centre of her scalp, weaving Amy’s ribbon within the braid's strands. It was solid, and Sawney didn’t think she’d have to redo it for a few days. If she survived that long.

 

Sawney gulped, heart hammering within her chest as she stepped onto the platform when a voice echoed through the room ordering her to do so. She hoped they would be in woods, something familiar and easy for her to navigate. Florentia offers her a last glass of water that she chugs eagerly, not knowing if there would even be water available in the arena this year.  Nervousness quickly seeps into terror, wondering if she’d even be alive to find out by the time the hour passes. 

 

Florentia squeezes Sawney’s hand one last time as a glass cylinder comes down to close around her. Sawney feels a frisson of contempt that, potentially, the last person to touch her could be Florentia , but that is quickly overcome with a rising panic that she struggles to suppress. 

 

The cylinder rose through darkness, and Sawney was briefly blinded by gleaming sunlight when it emerged, her nose filled with the hopeful scent of trees. Her eyes adjusted quickly, and she could hear Caesar Flickerman announcing the beginning of the 77th Hunger Games. She had sixty seconds to figure out a plan.

 

Sawney takes in the cornucopia, stocked with weapons that gleam in the sun, spotting an entire rack of knives, but it’s much too close to the centre for her not to get murdered whilst trying to get them. Backpacks with supplies are strewn about the meadow they stand in, and there’s one about a hundred metres from Sawney that she can easily get, bright blue against the pale grass. There are two rings of tributes, and Sawney is in the one furthest from the cornucopia. She can see Aden in front of her and to the left, in the opposite direction of the backpack she was eyeing up.

 

Sawney groans, looking around her once again; there’s a large lake to her right that takes up a large portion of the arena, with a large, rocky mountain towering above and behind the cornucopia. A relieved chuckle escapes Sawney as she sees that the rest of the arena is dense forest, thicker than what she’s used to, but familiar enough to make her feel safe, or as safe as one can feel in an arena.

 

Sawney’s ears are filled with the ticking of the clock, almost overtaking her thoughts. She was fast, she knew that, one of the fastest in her year, and that ought to count for something against the other tributes, although she doubted she could outrun any weapons thrown her way. She could probably get to the backpack before anyone else did, and then find Aden; hopefully everybody would be too distracted by the threat, the bounty, that the cornucopia posed to go after him immediately. 

 

Sawney positioned herself to the right slightly, jumping off the pedestal and sprinting in the backpack’s direction the moment the gong went off. She avoided the flying dirt from an exploded landmine to her right, a tribute having stepped off their pedestal too quickly, and dodged between two other tributes. She was first to the backpack, and turned around with it in her hand. Aden wasn’t far from his pedestal, frozen and dithering. He looked halfway between running for his life and offering his neck to the first tribute that walked past.

 

“Aden,” she screams, running over to him and ignoring the stitch already running up her side. Sawney motions to the woods with a sharp jab, following him as he begins to run towards them. Sawney can hear feet pounding behind her, and turns her head to see the girl from three chasing her, a knife in each hand. She’s too close for Sawney to outrun, and she looks too damn determined for Sawney to lose, and so she turns, meeting the girl with a tackle around her midsection.

 

They grapple briefly, Sawney holding the girl’s arms away from her face and tries to prise a knife out of one of them. The girl bucks her hips, trying to throw Sawney off of her, but Sawney’s legs are strong and stay firmly on the ground. A hand comes up to claw her face as Sawney finally gets possession of the knife, scratching her down her cheek and Sawney yelps loudly, before bringing her hand up and shoving it down, the knife wedged in the other girl’s neck. 

 

No cannon goes off, but Sawney knows that happens later, and, panting with shock, takes the other knife from her. There’s two more wedged into the girl’s belt loops and, feeling distinctly like she’s violating her, Sawney slips them out and into her own. Before she stands up, she closes the girl's brown eyes and looks around. Around a dozen tributes are fighting closer to the cornucopia, others scattered around, unmoving in the grass. Sawney gulps and stands up on shaky legs, making sure no one follows her as she turns to find Aden.

 

The forest floor is softer than Sawney expected, and it takes her a few seconds to grow used to it as she runs through the underbrush. Aden isn’t far ahead of her, and Sawney falters, realising how quickly the fight with the girl had started, and ended. It makes her feel sick, but she doesn’t stop until Aden does ten minutes later, gasping for air. She nudges him behind a thick tree before clutching him to her chest in a quick embrace.

 

She hunches down to his level, grabbing his shoulders. “Are you okay?” she asks, and her voice is strained, breathless. Aden nods, mouth open, before bringing a hand up to her face. Sawney flinches back as he touches the scratches there and she shakes her head at him. “Don’t,” she says firmly. “I’m fine.”

 

Sawney looks away from his furrowed eyebrows, taking in the trees around them. It’s too thick with bushes and tree trunks to see much, but Sawney supposes that was the gamemakers’ intentions, to disorient them. “We need to go,” Sawney says when Aden looks as if he’s breathing more steadily and stands.

 

They continue for a few hours, trying to put as much distance between them and the cornucopia as possible, stumbling across a large river they both take greedy gulps from before crossing. Sawney’s boots squelch from wading through the water, but the sounds of animals and birds, the wind through the trees, is louder and covers it up. It’s late afternoon when the cannons sound, making Sawney flinch and reach for a knife, before she pauses, counting. Fifteen .

 

“Fifteen,” she tells Aden, who nods.

 

“I can count,” he replies and Sawney shakes her head at him, smiling, before catching herself. Fifteen people had died, that makes nine still in the game. Sawney absentmindedly reaches up to touch the scratches on her cheek, knowing that three was definitely one of the ones gone. Sawney briefly wonders about Rose, but knows she wouldn’t have survived, and continues walking, ignoring the sudden dryness of her throat.

The sky is a deep orange when Sawney stops them at a thick, sturdy looking tree. She boosts Aden up to the first branch before continuing behind him. “There’s good,” she calls up and Aden stops climbing at a thick branch, carefully settling on it, leaving room for Sawney to sit next to him. She straddles the branch, facing him, and takes her pack off before slumping against the tree, suddenly exhausted.

 

“Tie yourself in,” she orders Aden, taking her own belt off to do so. She checks how secure he is before unzipping her pack, praying for food or water. She lets out a relieved chuckle as she pulls out a plastic, two litre water bottle, roughly a quarter full. Aden cheers almost comically quietly, and Sawney rests her head against the trunk behind her with a chuckle. “Have as much as you’d like,” she smiles at Aden and hands it to him. They’d go back to the river first thing in the morning.

 

She reaches her hand back into the pack and pulls out some rope, carefully placing it before her. There’s more, too; water-purification tablets, enough to last a few weeks if she rations them, a few bags of dried meats and fruits, a coil of wire, a sleeping bag, a small roll of bandages and, shockingly, a small knife. Sawney grins, handing it to Aden. “We’ve gotten very lucky,” she sings as she places it all back in the pack, leaving the wire and fruits out. “We’ll go to the river in the morning to fill that up, if that’s alright with you?”

 

Aden shrugs, biting off a mouthful of fruit. “I don’t mind,” he says, mouth full. “I am at your service.” This he says mockingly, a smile playing on his lips.

 

Sawney points her finger at him and says, “Don’t talk with your mouth full. Effie would have my neck knowing I let you.”

“She still likes me more than you, even if I shit myself on camera and ate it.”

 

Sawney guffaws and claps a hand to her mouth. “No,” she laughs. “She will come in here and kill you herself if you do that. Cause of death; stiletto through the heart.”

 

“Eyes poked out with her nails,” Aden giggles.

 

“Suffocated on perfume.”

 

“Eardrums blown from a high pitched voice.”

 

Sawney pauses, looking Aden in the eyes before spluttering, waving a hand. “Enough,” she snorts. “Effie’s too nice to deserve this.” Aden hums and raises an eyebrow at Sawney, who smirks but otherwise ignores him.

 

It’s silent for a few while, the air growing colder around them as the sun continues to set. Sawney heads down the tree and places a snare in the foliage, far enough that if a tribute were to stumble across it they couldn’t find her and Aden. She returns to the tree when it's dark, heading to a branch just above her partner, close enough that they can still hear each other talk, and gives him the sleeping bag before tying herself in. 

 

The tree offers enough concealment that Sawney can barely see the ground poking through the leaves. She looks up as the Panem anthem starts playing and can see the emblem in the night sky clearly, far up enough that the canopy is thinner. The faces of the fallen tributes begin quickly after that, starting with the girl from one. Sawney wishes, for a moment, that they saw how they died to know who managed to take out a career on the first day, before scowling. Both the boy and girl from three appear in the sky, and Sawney desperately pushes down the rush of feelings in her chest. The girl from four had perished, as had both from five did, as did one from six. Aden gasps as only the boy from seven appears, and Sawney sighs in relief. 

 

“Rose!” Aden exclaims and Sawney nods back fervently, not taking her eyes off the sky as all four tributes from eight and nine appear, followed by the boy from ten and, finally, both from eleven. The Capitol seal appears for a moment, before the anthem stops, leaving only the sounds of the forest behind.

 

Sawney turns to Aden and begins counting her fingers as she talks, “The boy from one, both from two, the girls from four and six. Rose. Betty, and us. That’s only nine left, Aden.” She grins at him, and she begins praying, sadistically, for the careers to all kill the rest and then fight amongst themselves. Sawney would create a little home in the trees for her and Aden where no mutts would find them and they'd be perfectly safe. 

 

“Nine,” he repeated. He reached out a hand and Sawney clung to it tightly, their hands clasped in the open air between the two branches. “And we can get Rose tomorrow, right? She’s our friend.”

 

Sawney hesitates, before nodding. “If we run into her,” she answers, “then she can join us.” She’s worried about food, knowing how scarce it can get when tributes begin to dwindle. Knowing the Capitol, though, fifteen dead in one day, each death probably more gruesome than the last, would be enough to sate them for at least a few more days. Hopefully.

 

“We should go to sleep,” Sawney says in a low voice a few minutes later, giving Aden’s hand one last squeeze before letting go and clasping it with her own. She hears Aden mumble his agreement and settles in herself, exhausted from the long day. She falls asleep shortly after.

The sun has already risen steadily above them when they finally reach the river. Sawney had finished the last of the water that morning, and was already beginning to feel her thirst in the humid climate. The river was full, the noise of its flowing water thankfully muffling Sawney’s yelp as she slipped on a rock. She turns to glare playfully at Aden, who giggled, before filling up the bottle to the very top. She ushers him along quickly, only putting one of the tablets from her pack into the bottle when they’re hidden back in the trees.  She puts it back in her pack, next to the bag with the rabbit from her snare, skinned and ready to cook for when Sawney thought it was safe enough. If she thought it would be safe enough, although hopefully the thick canopy would block most of the smoke from a fire.

 

“Sawney?” Aden asks from a few feet away, and she turns her head. He’s motioning to a bush with berries that she can see are juicy from where she’s stood. “Can we eat these?”

 

She reaches over, picks one off its stem and crushes it between her fingers. It leaks dark purple juice and Sawney smiles at Aden. “They’re blackberries,” she murmurs. “They grow  back at twelve, before it starts to snow.” 

 

Aden’s brow furrows and he says, “I’ve never seen them.” Sawney blanches, because she’s only ever seen them beyond the fence and there’s no way she can tell him where they’re really from. Snow would probably kill her mum for it, the bastard.

 

She waved her hand at the bush. “I’ve only ever seen one bush, years ago. I was probably around your age.”

 

“Where?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious. 

 

Where, indeed. Sawney hums, picking a few blackberries before she answers, slowly, “on the way back from the mines. I cut behind…Gale’s, you know there’s a field behind his house?”

 

“Really?”

 

“Uh-huh,” Sawney responds and smiles. “In summer, all these wildflowers grow there, they get tall enough to touch my hips. We used to pick the nicest ones and take them home to our mums. Prim used to love it, she made a little daisy chain for her cat once.”

 

“Wasn’t she Katniss’ sister?” Aden asks quietly and Sawney nods.

 

Sawney smiles at him, sad and weary. “Yeah,” she responds and stands up. “Go one, get some and put them in the pack.”

 

Aden eyes Sawney with a frown before doing as she said. She nibbles on the berries in her hand until he declares himself finished, and then stands with a smile. They head off again, walking through the woods for the next few hours, talking nonsense at each other.

 

“-and his hand swelled up for the rest of the week. It was huge , at least triple the size,” chatters Aden excitedly, telling Sawney about the time his elder brother got stung by a wasp. She listens with one ear, the other to their surroundings as she pushes him into another tree. It’s not quite sunset yet, but Sawney decides it’s better than being out in the open when the careers go hunting for tributes.

 

“Triple?” Sawney chuckles as she starts to climb up herself. “I think you’re exag-”

 

A scream cuts her off and Sawney whips her head around. It sounds close, possibly a couple hundred metres. She hurries up the tree, shushing Aden when he tries to speak and urging him further up as another scream pierces the air. It definitely belongs to a girl, and Sawney hopes that it’s Betty, the only other tribute on par with the careers.

 

“Help!” The girl is screaming now, and Sawney hopes to anyone listening that whoever, what ever’s doing that, doesn't notice Sawney or Aden. “Please, somebody. Help!”

 

Aden shoves Sawney’s shoulder and he hisses at her, “that’s Rose! Sawney, come on, we’ve got to go help her.”

 

Sawney opens her mouth, flinching when another scream rings out. She hadn’t actually thought they’d encounter Rose, wasn’t planning on looking for her or helping whoever was screaming, but as Aden looks up with desperate, pleading eyes she sighs. She shoves off her pack, handing it to him quickly. “Stay here, do not move,” she demands, her voice leaving no room for argument. “I’ll be back soon.”

Sawney scurries down the tree, jumping the last few feet. Rose’s sobs echo throughout the forest and she follows them at a run, trying her best to be quiet. She takes two knives out of her belt loops, one in each hand, just like the girl from three had done. Sawney’s steps falter, and she decides to slow, watching where she puts her feet. If it’s the career pack killing Rose, she decides she’s not going to help her.

 

But it’s not the careers, just the boy from four. He’s straddling a thrashing Rose, his hands tight around her neck. He looks vapid, feral, and Sawney thinks he looks half mad, like the victors who don’t get seen after they win. She throws one of the knives without stopping, and Rose takes a large gulp of air as he falls to the side and a cannon sounds.

 

Sawney rushes over and pushes him fully off of the girl, taking her knife back from where it’s lodged in his head as she does. “Rose, Rose, it’s okay, you’re fine,” she murmurs as the girl crashes into her. “It’s okay, sweetheart, you’re okay. Are you hurt?”

 

Rose sobs loudly into her shoulder and Sawney looks around, one hand stroking her hair. They’d been loud, and Sawney needed to leave now, but Rose couldn’t speak, her wails only getting louder and louder. Sawney pulls away from her and grasps her face between her hands, wiping some tears away with her thumb. She tries to smile as encouragingly as she can as she firmly asks, “Sweetie, are you hurt? Can you walk?”

 

Rose shudders and shrugs, still sobbing. “My, my foot,” she cries and Sawney nods, shushing her. 

 

She stands up and carries Rose on her hip as she walks swiftly away from the boy’s body. Sawney never fancied herself a murderer, and she sure as hell doesn’t like the reality of it, how dirty it makes her feel. Rose was still crying, though, and she was more important than any self-deprecation, or pity, that Sawney had. 

 

Sawney can see Aden peering down through the branches as she nears the tree, closer to the ground than he was when she left, and glares at him. “I told you to stay put, Aden,” she snaps. “Help Rose up with me.”

 

He has the decency to look ashamed as he reaches down for the girl’s arms, pulling her up as Sawney pushes her. She follows when she’s sure Aden has a tight hold on her, sighing. 

 

Looking after one kid was hard enough, and Sawney knew one of them had to die for the other to win.

Notes:

fr tho what kind of fucking name is sawney. sawney. where did it come from? had I suffered a freak saw injury to my knee when I thought of it? fucking sawney man it's so ridiculous

Chapter 6

Rose’s ankle had gotten twisted when she was running away from four’s boy, and Sawney kind of hated her for it. It’s not that she wished the girl dead, just that she felt like a deadweight dragging her down. Sawney doesn’t want Rose to get slaughtered by somebody, but she was tired, and carrying around a twelve year old for hours at a time was the best way to get Sawney to consider chucking Rose in the river and running away.

 

She was on her back, and had been for what feels like days. Sawney was ridiculously grumpy, and she was sure she could hear Haymitch laughing at her somewhere. “So, Rose,” she said bitterly, “I feel like I hardly know you. Funny, that. Considering I’m carrying you through the arena .”

Aden turned to her, because for some reason he’s leading, like the kid knows absolutely anything about what he’s doing, and shook his head, incredulous. “God, you’re a bitch ,” he blurted accusingly. Sawney scowled at him and he scoffed before turning around, his back to her. The afternoon sun was beating down on them, and it was  hotter than yesterday and Sawney was sure that her skin was a bright, blistering red. She felt like she was dying. She thought she might be being a bit too dramatic.

 

“What do you want to know?” Rose asked and a piece of her hair got into Sawney’s mouth. Sawney came to an abrupt stop and started shaking her head madly, and she can just see sponsors putting purses back in their bags as she dropped Rose on the floor.

 

“Sawney!” Aden cried and Sawney rolled her eyes, sitting down next to a shocked Rose.

 

“I am tired,” she grouched, feeling distinctly like the youngest of the three. She crossed her legs in front of her and lay down on the ground, waving a hand in the air at Aden. “Five minutes. Rose, tie your hair up. Please.”

Aden muttered grumpily as he sat next to her, possibly cursing Sawney’s bloodline. Sawney cracked an eye open to glare at him and he stuck his tongue out in retaliation. The mad thing inside Sawney that’s used to caves and dark, solitary dampness softened and she sat up, gesturing for Rose to sit in front of her. The girl looked at her a bit warily, which made Sawney snort. “Come here, I’ll plait it for you,” she offered. It’s easy work, separating and pulling across sections, adding hair on each cross; it’s calming, and Sawney had a small smile on her face as she took the hairband Rose held aloft for her and tied the plait off.

 

“It’s not as good as Florentia’s,” shrugged Sawney, “but I’m a miner, not a stylist. I’m sorry for being mean to you, Rose, truly.”

 

Reaching up to feel the plait’s bumps along her scalp, Rose smiled at Sawney. She was a sweet little thing, with eyes the same blue as the sky and baby fat, a small nose and chin that Sawney thought would get pointy if Rose ever got to grow up. “Thank you,” she smiled toothily at Sawney, and there’s a gap there that she hadn’t noticed before.

 

“Oh!” Sawney giggled, gently taking Rose’s chin and peering closer. “You’ve lost a baby tooth, did you know that? Is it your last one?”

 

A blush spread across Rose’s cheeks as she averted her gaze with a shrug. She answered in a small voice, “I think so,” and it warmed Sawney up.

 

“That’s adorable,” she gushed, darting forward to place a quick peck on Rose’s forehead. She smelt dirty, sweaty, like people from home, familiar and loved. Aden leant over and put his chin on her shoulder, and Sawney suddenly felt embarrassed, playing house for all of Panem to see, but she thought it would be a good thing too. She told them a story about how she, like Rose, sprained her ankle when she was nine and had to hop all the way home from school, and then another about when she was so tired from two days straight in the mines that Andy had to carry her home, and then another about when she fell asleep in class and snored so loudly it woke her up again, and the three off them laugh so much they almost miss the parachute’s beeping. A gift of sweet, dense bread from seven was their lunch, and Sawney decided that she would happily carry Rose around until her back gave out.

 

Rose told her and Aden about her home, anything she could think of; what the trees looked like throughout the year, how the sounds of chainsaws woke her up for school every morning, how her mum walked her there and would pick her back up again. Every year on her birthday, she shared a cupcake with her parents, and every year she wished for their happiness. She told them how she waited on their porch every evening, long after the sun began to set, to see her dad, and how he picked her up in a hug every night. It made Sawney ache with a jealousy so fierce that she had to swallow it down before she spat poison.

 

A cannon went off later in the afternoon, when the air was thick with summer heat and the sky was a deep orange, when the time could either be three or eight. It scared Aden, who told Sawney that they were too close to the river, ignoring her reassurances and dragging her along behind him as he led them deeper into the woods, away from the water.

 

Nobody came after them, and Aden calmed quickly. They wandered aimlessly through the thick underbrush for the majority of the day, and Sawney couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing. Too quickly, she had grown to care for Rose and Aden, too deeply for them to be together in the games. It was dangerous, and the Sawney from two weeks ago would probably despise this softer version of herself, would sneer and turn her back on her.

 

Aden and Rose shared the sleeping bag that night, the thick rope from their pack tying them in together, the three of them watching as the face of the girl from six filled the sky. Sawney watched over the two of them, one hand on her belt where her knives had found a home and one holding Aden’s hand. Her face, all harsh lines and glares into the darkness, never relaxed into sleep.

The rabbit was finally cooked the next morning in one of the caves by the river. Smoke filled Sawney’s lungs and nostrils until she choked on her coughs and had to stand outside on the riverbank, watching the tree her allies were still in, their giggles occasionally drifting over to her. It was a greasy, messy breakfast and Sawney had to wash Aden’s hair in the river water after he had run his hands through it without wiping them.

 

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” she grumbled, roughly dunking his head in the water until he squawked, splashing her with the water. The three ended up drying out on the large slabs of stone that surrounded the river after treading and throwing water for the better part of an hour.

 

Sawney was drifting off into sleep when the cannon went off, a scream that was far too close for comfort rousing her. “Up, up, now , we have to go, hurry,” she hissed at the other two, jogging away from the riverbank before Rose was fully on her back, leaving the girl scrambling for a solid hold on her shoulders.  Aden was in front of them, the pack bouncing on his shoulders with each of his steps.

They were panting high up a tree when Sawney heard voices below. She could see the two tributes from one stomping about. A rush of anger filled her as she saw the boy smiling, blood staining his face as he said, “he sounded like such a girl. No, please, I thought we were allies! What an idiot!”

 

Sawney was struck with such an intense, burning feeling of disgust at these two people, her age but so much younger, brainwashed and laughing about murdering an ally. Career tributes were always better fed, more vicious and overly arrogant because they were Capitol lap dogs, born and bred for the games. Nobody in twelve had ever had anything good to say about a victor from a career district, and Sawney easily assumed it was a sentiment shared across most of Panem.

 

The girl, Star, shot him a smile, pausing to lean down and retie her shoe. They were about ten metres from Sawney’s tree, and she held her breath as the forest around them seemed to get quieter. Damn gamemakers , she thought and stilled her entire body. “How many are left?” The boy asked, hidden from Sawney’s sight. She wondered how he could be so relaxed after killing the boy from two, after the two had been attached at the hip for the majority of training.

 

“Six, including us.”

 

“Is the girl from ten still alive?” The boy asked, and Sawney thought he was stupid for not keeping track. Being unaware in an arena would kill you. 

 

Star nodded before standing up. “There’s her, us, both from twelve and the girl from seven.”

Careers never stay together for this long, not really, although Sawney chalked it up to them being from the same district. She hoped, wished, begged whatever deity Snow had banned Panem from worshipping, that they’d kill each other, and she’d then figure out the rest, stain her hands once more if she had to. The two of them thankfully moved along shortly after, but nobody in the tree moved or said anything until the sun started setting.

 

“We should head in the other direction,” said Sawney. “Past the river, all the way to the edge. Are you two okay?”

 

Rose nodded at her and Aden hummed, and Sawney started to get scared. Six left, and half of them were up the same tree and Sawney wasn’t ready to kill anyone else, especially the two in front of her. “I’ll rewrap your foot,” she offered to Rose, who awkwardly lifted her leg past Aden, who leaned to the side; they were all on the same thick branch, the three of them straddling it. She had ripped a strip of her shirt off the night they rescued Rose, using that to tightly wrap the girl’s swollen ankle instead of the precious bandages they had, and she untied and tightened it again before they set off.

 

They were still walking when the boy from two appeared in the sky, and they were still walking an hour later when Sawney’s legs buckled, exhausted, and Aden had to help both her and Rose climb up a tree. He strapped Sawney in tight, his face just a pale, scrunched blob in the darkness, and Sawney couldn’t stop thinking about a baby Prim as she looked at him.

 

“I’m gonna keep you safe,” she whispered, clutching blindly at his cheeks. “Neither of you are going to die on me, I promise. I swear to you.”

 

Aden hushed her as she blathered on at him, bringing her into a tight embrace as her promises turned to small, pathetic sobs. “I know you are,” he murmured softly, stroking her back and making Sawney feel like a child.

The rain woke her up a few hours later, so heavy it dripped down the leaves in steady streams that chilled Sawney’s skin. Aden and Rose were curled up in the sleeping bag on a branch above her, the pack tied to the end of her branch with someone’s belt. Below, the arena was flooding slowly, a few centimetres of brown mud sloshing about. The Capitol was getting bored, so it was obviously time for a natural disaster. Sawney scoffed quietly as she resettled, crossing her arms over her chest and closing her eyes.

 

She woke up to Aden shaking her later. He didn’t look worried, or hurried, just resembled a drowned rat. Yawning, Sawney reached up and pushed his wet hair out of his eyes, plastering it against his scalp. “You look like Cray,” she giggled, and Aden glared at her, shaking his head and splashing her with water as she laughed, gently pushing him away. “Good morning to you too, you little tosser.”

“Morning!” Rose piped up, and Sawney looked up to where she was nibbling on a bit of leftover rabbit meat. “It’s raining.”

“Oh, I didn’t notice,” teased Sawney.

 

Aden hummed, sharing a look with Rose, who giggled. “ Miners ,” he sighed. “They know nothing.”

 

Gasping, Sawney dramatically pressed a hand against her chest. “You wound me, sir! Me, your elder.”

 

“Elder ly, ” added Rose and Aden barked a laugh. Rose was still shy, still slow to add her own jokes into the mix, and so Sawney laughed along with him. 

 

They stayed in the tree for most of the day, only venturing down to relieve themselves. The rain didn’t let up and seemed to only get heavier and heavier until Sawney couldn’t open her mouth without it filling with water, couldn’t see through her sodden lashes. Needless to say, she was grumpy and shivering by the time Rose rolled over to go back to sleep and she decided to escape them for a little while, heading down the tree and wading through water that reached her shins to scavenge for food.

 

More blackberry bushes appeared, and Sawney tried to get as little rainwater in the bag they ended up in, but it ended up being an impossible task. She felt like a child again, tethered to the tree her allies, her friends, were in like it was the fence, not daring to go farther than where she can see them. When she had first started hunting, Sawney had never gone more than a mile into the trees, trying as hard as she could to avoid Gale and Katniss whilst she shoddily shot down rabbits and birds. She felt certain that Gale was laughing at her, spattering around in muddy water and probably scaring off any game in a mile radius.

 

In her isolation, peaceful despite the waves of thick, murky water that occasionally made her wobble, Sawney thought about the games, how they would end. She knew only one person could make it out and be crowned victorious, that one of the kids would have to die for the other to live. Sawney didn’t want to think about who would be the hand doing it, wondering if it would come down to her own, bloody as they already were.

 

She hoped the cameras were on her as she started talking. “Haymitch,” she uttered. “Haymitch, can you hear me? Are you even awake, or have you passed out?” Sawney felt stupid as she paused for his answer, nodding as if he was there with her. “Well, I have a slight conundrum that I need you to solve for me. You see, there are two kids up in that tree wanting to go home and I don’t know who should. I don’t know if I can decide that for them. I-”

She stopped and clenched her jaw. It was a few minutes before she spoke again, and when she opened her mouth she had to spit water out of it. “I miss my mum ,” is what came out of her mouth instead of what she was going to say. “I want to go home and I want to lie in bed next to her and I want to wake up and go to the mines and do what I know . I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, Haymitch, I think I’m going nuts, I have no idea what I’m doing. I want to get to go home, I want to slap Gale across the face and tell him to marry Katniss already, tell him that she loves him back and that he’s being a fucking fool, and I want to see them get married. Hell, one day I might want to get married! I want to grow old and be proud of it and have my own children, and I want so much it hurts .” 

 

Sawney let out a sob, clapping a shaking hand to mouth, the noise sputtering out between her fingers. Her tears made no difference to the state of her face, the rain washing them away as soon as they came into existence. “I want a cat. It’s been my dream for what feels like my whole life, to be rich enough for one. I want a cat, maybe two, and I’m never going to get any of it, am I, Haymitch? Because I’m gonna slit my throat so one of those fucking idiots can do all of it, like I said I would on the train. Do you remember that? I wanted some of what you were drinking and you refused , you cunt, and so I had a strop. Do you remember?”

 

The bush is stripped of berries, a while later, and Sawney had stopped crying, stopped pleading into the air, was instead being what she thought was ridiculously brave. “I never thanked you for what you did, when I asked you to- the first time we talked, years ago. You saved my life, I think,” she confessed. “I got to say goodbye to my dad and look after my mum and have food to eat. I got to mourn for him before I had to worry about getting a job. I don’t even know if you remember, you were so drunk. It’s the only reason I asked, really, thought I could maybe steal your wallet and run away before you ever realised. I think you would’ve laughed at me if you knew how scared I was. I-” Sawney grunted and slipped the bag of blackberries into her pocket then straightened up and cracked her back. Her moment of madness had disappeared, and now she felt vulnerable and foolish. “I’ll stop talking now, I think. I just wanted to say thank you, so, yeah. Thank you, Haymitch. Truly.”

 

The sleeping bag almost broke that night as Sawney squeezed herself in beside the other two, the seams stretching dangerously. They’d had an indulgent meal of rabbit meat, the last of the dried fruit and blackberries before going to sleep early, and so she woke up easily to the sound of beeping, a sound she knew from a lifetime of watching mandatory games. A parachute has lodged itself in the branches above her, and it took careful manoeuvring to get to it without waking Aden or Rose. 

 

Sawney chuckled as she opened it up to reveal a pot of hot broth and sighed happily as its steam wafted over her cheeks. After screwing its lid back on, Sawney moved it to her lap and fished out a slip of paper that was hidden underneath the metal canister. I’ll keep my promise - H. Her lips twisted. Haymitch wanted Aden alive, wanted one of his tributes to finally come home. She didn’t blame him, the only mentor to never succeed. 

 

“What’s that?” Aden asked from below Sawney and she startled, whipping her eyes to him. The sleeping bag was tugged up to his chin and he looked shockingly young, too innocent.

 

She held up the broth and waggled it. “A gift from Haymitch,” she replied. “For you calling me old yesterday.” Sawney waited until Aden looked away to tuck Haymitch’s note into the small pocket next to her breast, joining her token from Amy. The three of them split the broth carefully, each taking little sips before passing it off to the next person. Sawney giggled when she realised how much they resembled the miners when on a break, passing cigarettes back and forth between them in the darkness. 

 

The rain beat down on them as they trekked through the water later in the day. Rose stumbled more than Sawney and Aden, falling onto her hands and knees occasionally, but Sawney knew that she couldn’t carry her any longer, let alone through flooded woods, and Rose was steady enough if they went slowly. Sawney didn’t think much of it, later, when she heard Rose splash in the water. She sighed and turned around to help the girl up, blanching when she saw the arrow sticking out of her back.

 

The boy from district one died before he could notch another arrow, Sawney panting as her knife lodged itself deep within his throat. He fell to his knees and yanked it out, halving the rest of his life and drowning in his own blood in the time it took for Sawney to grab another knife. She heard Aden’s cry next to her, the splash as he fell to Rose, but she didn’t dare look yet. No cries came when the first cannon went off, and Sawney assumed that the careers had split, no Star running out of the trees to avenge her fallen brother.

 

Rose was curled up on her side, Aden keeping her head lifted above water with his hands, and Sawney could hear that both of them were crying. “Aden, move,” she grunted, pushing him to the side and taking his place. One look at the wound and Sawney knew that Rose wasn't going to recover, the arrow pierced through her lungs, its metal tip poking out the front of her body. It was far beyond Sawney’s meagre healing abilities, probably beyond the Capitol’s too. Sawney stared helplessly at the wound, and reached for one of Rose’s hands blindly, her other one pulling Aden back down next to her.

 

“I’m hurt,” Rose said dumbly, eyes wide, and Sawney nodded. The girl was young, but she was no fool, and comforting words weren’t going to help her.

 

“No,” denied Aden, his words so garbled it took Sawney a moment to understand him. “No, you’re fine, you’re fine.”

 

Sawney looked between them, and she wasn’t sure what to say, didn’t want to deny Aden this last moment with his friend, and didn't want to undermine his words. Sawney clutched at Rose’s hand like a lifeline, like she was the one dying and not the other way around.

 

“There’s only two left,” Rose whispered. “You have to win.”

Her eye’s weren’t looking at either of them as she spoke, and Sawney didn’t know who she meant, didn’t want to think about it. “We will,” she promised. Her voice was thick and scratchy with tears and smoke, hoarse from fatigue. She wondered if this is what Katniss felt, seeing Prim die, seeing the careless way the boy from two threw her limp body aside, seeing him laugh with the other careers when her face lit up the night sky. 

 

Sawney was there when her dad died, was clutching his hand like she was clutching Rose’s, watching as the life bled out of his eyes. He had been so bright, warming up Sawney’s life like the sun, this immovable force in the centre of her life. 

 

“We’ll take you to see your dad,” she told Rose. “You can wait with your mum for him to get back from work, Rose, I’ll make sure of it. We’ll bring you back home to them.”

Aden nodded frantically, both his hands enveloping one of Rose’s, bringing it up flush to his chest. “We promise you’ll be safe,” he agreed. His face was red, blotchy, a child experiencing his first tragedy. 

 

When Rose coughed wetly, blood trickled down her chin and Sawney gently wiped it away with a soft smile. “My token,” she said. “It’s my mum’s.”

 

Sawney shushed Rose as she made to open her mouth again, her voice too garbled for her to understand. Tears were rolling down Sawney’s cheeks, fat and heavy, as she said, “We’ll give it to her for you.”

 

Eventually, Rose’s eyes fluttered shut, her last breath small and almost imperceptible. Her cannon fired, and Aden’s flinch was so strong that it shook Sawney’s body. The rain finally petered out as they sat over her like two sentries guarding the fence. Slowly, Sawney let go of Rose’s head, watching as the water covered her delicate features, and gently took her token off her wrist. It was a small bracelet made from twine and glass beads, and it joined her ribbon and Haymitch’s note in her pocket.

 

“Aden,” she finally uttered, when her tears had stopped and she felt uncomfortably empty. “We have to go now.”

 

The boy screamed, the kind only a child could make, the kind that sent shivers down the back of Sawney’s body. “No!” He cried. “We can’t leave her, we promised we’d-”

 

“We can’t take her,” she tried to say firmly, but voice cracked as she tugged at Aden. “We can’t .” He continued screaming as Sawney dragged him away from Rose, horrible sounds that scared her, ones that sounded like his throat was ripping itself apart and they didn't get far before Sawney tripped and fell into the water, unable to get up again. Harsh sounds tore past the lump in Sawney’s throat and she tried not to choke on them as she gripped Aden’s body to her, ignoring as he thrashed and scratched her skin.

 

Sawney barely noticed when the girl from ten, Betty , crashed into the clearing, her sword held aloft. “Go away,” she hissed at her, trying to curl around Aden. Betty took a step forward and Sawney whipped a knife at her, missing by a few feet. “Go away!” Her voice was bellowing, too loud, and she was in danger because Aden couldn’t, wouldn’t move, and she didn’t want to die like this.

 

Betty’s eyes flickered between her and Aden, and Rose’s floating body, and she lowered her sword. She nodded her head at Sawney, just the once, and said, “I’m sorry.”

 

She was gone before Sawney could even figure out what she’d said, and the act of mercy, of pure humanity that shouldn’t belong in an arena, pulled Sawney away from the hole she was clawing herself down into. It was difficult, carrying both Aden and the pack because he was heavier than Rose, and he almost threw a fit when the third cannon of the day fired, and Sawney had to force him into the sleeping bag that night, debated knocking him over the head with a rock so that he could finally feel some peace and sleep.

 

Grief wasn’t a stranger to Sawney, and she let it wash over her in the darkness, felt it trickle and settle deep within her stomach as Rose’s face appeared in the sky, sweet and innocent. She was the epitome of a childhood innocence, of someone far too young to be touched with such violence. Betty surprised her, her fierce glare belting down from the sky onto Sawney like the once torrential rain had.

 

Only one left , she thought, and felt along her belt for the two knives that remained. Aden would be on a hovercraft by the next sunset and taking her memory home to her district, where it should never have left. Briefly, she regretted volunteering for Amy, for putting her neck on the chopping board so easily.

Aden was strung out in the morning, his face swollen and his lips perpetually turned down. “I’m not hungry,” he snapped when Sawney held out the last of the broth and she withered back. 

 

“I’m killing Star today,” she declared after they’d climbed down the tree. “You’re going home and she’s dying.”

 

“And what about you?” Aden asked brusquely. Sawney didn’t answer, turning her back on him and heading in the direction they’d come from, the day before, towards the river and the cornucopia. Aden didn’t ask again, and Sawney knew he understood.

 

The arena was eerily silent as they trekked on, and Sawney heard Star before she saw her, the girl splashing through the water. Sawney stopped and reached for one of her knives, gripping it with sweaty hands and, belatedly, she realised she was scared. 

 

Star clattered into view with a snarl, but Sawney managed to dodge the first knife she threw and chucked her own back. It stuck the blonde in the shoulder and she cried as Sawney pounced on her, suddenly furious. They grappled desperately, arms twisting and water choking them as they wrestled. Sawney, a miner to her core with thick, strong legs and solid arms that would always rival whatever factory-made bodies careers had, ended up on top, pushing Star’s head under the water for a few brief, victorious seconds before a blazing pain appeared in her hip, down her thigh and she let go, howling. 

 

Star wrenched Sawney’s own knife out from where she’d created a jagged tear down her leg and gulped in lungfuls of air. There was a brief reprieve for Star to catch her breath and for Sawney to see past the dizzying pain she was in before they were on each other again like wild pigs, frenzied and thirsting for blood. There was mud in Sawney’s eyes and she could barely see as Star stabbed her in the shoulder. With a cry, she pushed the girl off, and the knife fell out of her grip and disappeared beneath the water, and then it was just them.

 

Sawney managed to wrap her arms around Star’s throat and squeezed, but the girl from one, with her muddied hair and straight, white teeth that only a career would ever have, got one of Sawney’s hands in her mouth and bit down, ripping two fingers away and escaping her hold. Grunting, Sawney pulled on her legs, dragging her back underneath her. She would win this, she’d send Aden home and he would finally be safe.

 

And Sawney was a miner, through and through, and she’d be a miner until the day she died. She would always crave that darkness, the stifling air and the easy camaraderie she had with her crew, and so it was easy, too easy, to lift a rock above her head and bring it down, again and again, like it was a pickaxe and it was just another day at work, into Star’s skull. Sawney ignored the burst of the girl’s eyes and the crunch of gristle and bone, so different from the game she’d killed before, back home, but she didn’t stop until the cannon sounded. Star’s face, unrecognisable and beaten like a squashed berry, would forever be in the back of Sawney’s mind, and she retched as she clambered off her, bile burning the back of her throat. 

 

But there was no happiness, no celebration as Sawney turned to Aden. The girl’s first knife hadn’t missed, had stuck itself deep into Aden’s chest and Sawney cried as she desperately tried to claw her way over to him, dizzy from blood loss and so exhausted. “Aden, Aden, Aden,” she chanted as she clutched his body, dragging herself into his eyesight. He looked dazed, half dead already and Sawney let out a whimper as he looked at her. “I got her,” Sawney slurred, and she wasn’t sure who was going to die first, her or Aden. “Haymitch is gonna take you home. He promised me, he did, you’re gonna live.”

“Sawney,” Aden begged, gargling in his own blood as he reached for her. 

 

“Don’t,” she demanded, her own eyes fighting to close. “Let’s just lie here, together.”

 

Aden didn’t answer as Sawney flopped clumsily onto the ground next to him. She was dying fast, and the water around them was red with her blood but she’d won , she’d succeeded. “Just look at the sunset,” she whispered to Aden, who stared up at the bright blue sky. It was still morning, the sun not even halfway into the sky,  but Aden stared up at it like it was the most beautiful thing in the world, as if there were blues and pinks and oranges up there and not just grey clouds. 

 

Sawney was slipping, she could feel it, and it was like the time when she’d sliced her finger open, everything blurring and her eyelids opening and closing slowly until they eventually didn’t open anymore. There was no attempt to open them, and Sawney struggled with her breathing, ignoring the harsh rattle in her chest until it wasn’t there anymore, and neither was she, not really.

Chapter 7

Notes:

tws @ end

When she wakes up, Sawney is frantic, crazed, and she’s clawing at the doctors around her, shrieking at them. She’s in a white room, bare except for the bed she’s on and she can’t breathe. She's so scared, and she doesn’t notice the needle jamming into the back of her neck.

 

When she wakes, she’s in the same room, and the ceiling is glowing a harsh white that makes her eyes burn and her nose wrinkle and so she turns her head to the side. A group of wires connect her arm to a beeping machine and when she tries to reach up to yank them out, she finds her arms are tied to the bedframe with thick, white restraining bands. Two fingers are missing from her right hand and she starts to panic, trying to wiggle her wrists out of the bands. The machine next to her starts beeping louder and faster until the glass door slides open and Haymitch walks in.

 

He’s sober , is the first thought Sawney has as she takes in his haggard appearance; the stubble that’s on the wrong side of unkempt, the sickly pale of his usual tanned skin, the thick, dark bags under his eyes. “Where’s Aden?” Sawney asks, and she feels sick and stupid, because she knows . 

 

Haymitch sighs heavily and collapses into a chair next to her bed. It’s plastic, with a straight back that looks uncomfortable but he doesn’t complain, and Sawney knows. She can feel her nose start to sting as she shakes her head at him. “No, you promised,” she accuses, yanking her arms against the restraints. “You promised me, Haymitch, you fucking promised me.”

 

“Sawney,” and it’s so fucking gentle, so different to the Haymitch she knows, lacking all of ihs usual snark and hatred. Sawney thrashes in the bed and she’s got all the anger she usually has, like he’s passed it over to her, and it’s too much for her body. It comes crashing out as she launches any part of her she can at him, biting the air around his face and kicking her legs out. None of her attacks land, and she ends up sedated again, fuzzy.

 

He’s there when she wakes up, distinctly not sober anymore. “Will you stop?” He snaps when she does nothing but seethe at him. “You’re a fucking victor now, be happy, girl.”

 

Sawney’s not tied down anymore, and so nothing stops her as she lunges at him, raking her good hand down his face like the girl from three had done to her. She catches his eye, and he throws back against the bed and then they’re both screaming at each, terrible things that Sawney would grow to regret. “You bastard !” She shrieks as he grabs her wild arms and pushes her back into the bed again, and she knows it’s nobody's fault but her own, and she begins to wail.

 

Feeling ridiculous, Sawney pushes Haymitch away when he reaches out to comfort her, and then is pulling him back a few moments later. “He’s dead,” he says and his voice is hollow, and hearing the words makes Sawney go slack against his chest. She wants to scream at him, claw his eyes out, turn him black and blue and dig his heart out with her knife, and wants him to feel what she’s feeling. Instead, she’s limp in his arms, all the fight gone from her bones. She’s weary, and Haymitch smells stale, of alcohol and dirty hair, and she wants to pull away from it but he’s stroking her hair and it’s the most care an adult has shown her in years.

 

“I thought I died first,” Sawney says wetly.

 

“You did.”

 

Sawney wrenches her head up and stares at Haymitch, at his scraggly blond hair and honest eyes. “What? That’s not how the games work, they can’t do that, they can’t-”

 

“They can do whatever they want,” Haymitch interrupts with a tone that he must’ve picked up from Effie, holier than thou and firm. “And they didn’t want him.”

 

Sawney didn’t answer, and she pressed her face back into his chest, and he pressed his fingers against her neck comfortingly. Her breath stutters and hitches and she feels more than hears Haymitch’s sigh. “What am I going to do with you, sweetheart,” he asks, and she doesn’t answer, because he’s not really asking her.

 

She gives up in the end, stops eating or drinking and they have to pump her full of stuff to get her ready to walk out the tribute centre, where Haymitch told her she was being cared for. He forces a warm broth down her throat the night before she’s due to be on camera and she retches it all up down his front just to spite him and he doesn’t even complain and she knows something’s wrong with them.

The first time she sees Caesar Flickerman after the games, she’s dolled up in thick makeup that’s supposed to liven her up and bring colour to her face. Florentia had put her in a long, green dress with a deep, open back that tugs uncomfortably as she moves about in her seat. 

 

When Sawney had looked in the mirror, after the prep team had had their fun with her, her eyes drifted to her leg almost immediately. It was deeply scarred, her skin gouged out in a thick line that started at the top of her hip and ended halfway down her thigh. It hurt to move now, even with Capitol medicine, and Sawney walked around unevenly with a limp. She was skinnier than she’d ever been, could see the indents of her ribs when she breathed in and she had traced over them with her hand, the one with three fingers. The others were small gnarled nubs that had scared Sawney when she first saw them, and for some time after that. 

 

“Welcome, Sawney,” Caesar says to her when she sits, jubilant as ever and Sawney’s hand twitches against her thigh. She wants to scrape that grin off his face, but Haymitch has left his hand on her shoulder and it stops her. It’s customary for the victor’s support team to enter the stage with them for their first interview, but they don’t normally stay. Sawney had cried and screamed the first time she’d been alone with someone who wasn’t Haymitch, though, and so she thinks that they made an exception for her this year. Nobody wants another Annie Cresta, after all.

 

Caesar is looking expectantly at Sawney and she glares at him. “What?” She snaps, but he just laughs, looking out toward the crowd as if they were all in on some secret she didn’t know about. Haymitch squeezes her shoulder tightly and she turns to glare at him. They’re sitting on a small sofa next to each other, cameras surrounding them, but it doesn’t stop him from sneering back at her.

 

“Someone’s a little nervous, don’t you think?” Caesar teases Sawney and she shrugs. She hates him, and wants to pull his stupid green teeth out one by one until he stops smiling. “I asked how you feel after your victory.”

 

The laugh that comes out of her throat is a bitter, emotionless thing. “How do I feel ?” She repeats in a hiss. “I feel like shit, Caesar.”

 

He doesn’t ask many questions after that, and they don’t play the whole game as they usually do, just the highlights. The deaths. Sawney watches some parts intently, like the avalanche that separated the two tributes from one, and she finds out she was very, very wrong. They cried out for each other the whole time, Star reaching out as her district partner got swept away in the mudslide, separating them. “I thought they betrayed each other,” she says dumbly, and Caesar latches onto it, the second thing she’s said the whole interview.

 

He laughs and shakes his head, his hair bobbing. “No, they were quite close. The tributes this year all were, really. Sawney, did you know that you had the longest allyship in the history of the games?” His eyes are bright, and they remain bright even as Sawney turns her head away from him and doesn’t answer.

 

She refuses to watch the last day of the games and tries to think of anything but bones snapping beneath rocks and little boys dying as she stares at the ceiling. She hears Aden’s cannon go off, hears Caesar saying how close she was to death, how he was almost a victor, and it makes something horrible rise in Sawney, wanting to be let out, and she leans forwards and is sick in her lap. They take her off the stage soon after that, and the interview is over.

 

The next time Sawney sees Caesar she’s so high she doesn’t know how to breathe. She’s at some party that Effie forced her to go to, and she’s leaving for home in a few days. She’s terrified about it. 

 

Finnick Odair, of all people, with his stupid fucking megawatt smile and his blue eyes, had found her puking up liquor in a plant in the mansion they were in, had seen her blotchy cheeks and wet eyes, and had offered her some pills with one of his famous winks. Happy pills, he’d smiled flirtatiously at her. They’d been small things, the brightest colours Sawney had ever seen and she’d snatched them from him and walked off, glaring.

 

Now, though, she can’t breathe, can’t remember who she is or where she is and can’t stand up on her own. She can’t feel anything, not even Caesar fucking her hard against a wall, groping and hissing in her ear words she wouldn’t remember, couldn’t understand. “You showed me up,” he’s snapping at her, panting between words, “the lowest ratings I’ve ever gotten, you bitch -”

 

Sawney’s head lolls to the side and she can’t even remember the colour of Caesar’s hair, and she’s groaning loudly, uncomfortably warm and it’s all she can feel, suddenly - bad. She tries to say something but her tongue is too thick in her mouth and it’s not working and Caesar slaps her hard across the face with one of his sweaty hands. It jostles Sawney so quickly that she starts to retch, puking all down the front of Caesar’s suit and he’s complaining loudly, shouting at her, dropping her onto the floor where she stays, unmoving, just a puddle of a human.

 

It’s Finnick Odair, again, who saves her, lifting her up and tucking her back into her dress. He feeds her water, the first of which she's happily drunk since her games, and whispers soothing words as she’s sick on the floor. It’s all across Capitol news the next day, photos of Finnick carrying her out of the party and into a car where Haymitch was waiting.

 

He didn’t say anything about it in the morning, but his eyes were heavy on Sawney as she struggled to walk without being sick again, as she went to bed after an hour awake. He doesn’t mention the bite marks on her neck and shoulder, and neither do her prep team as they cover them up a few days later.

 

The next time she sees Caesar, she knows it’s the last and that they won’t see each other again until next year. He’s grinning and thrusting a microphone into her face as she and Haymitch stand in front of cameras before boarding the train to district twelve. When he shakes her hand, she crushes his fingers between hers with all the strength she can muster, basking gleefully in the wince he makes. She feels, for the first time since the arena, victorious.

Sawney moves into Haymitch’s house without complaint, in the end.

 

Her mum had been the first to greet her when she stepped off the train, her eyes brimming with tears and her hands clawing desperately at Sawney’s shoulders. The sound of cameras clicking made Sawney’s hackles rise, but she returned the embrace with as much ferocity, soaking in the smell of her mum’s soap, and it's something she’d forgotten whilst in the Capitol, the softness of it. Her mum smelt clean, and Sawney had wrenched away from her, disgusted by this new her that could taint her mum. Then she’s hugging Andy and Gale and Amy and anybody who could get her hands on her, trying to remember that she was real, she existed, and that she’d actually come home, the proof under their hands.

 

Katniss’ hug had been the only one that didn’t feel selfish, like she was hugging Sawney for Sawney’s sake and not her own. The smell of the woods clung to her and rubbed off against Sawney as Katniss stroked her back in soothing motions. Aden’s mum had stroked her face with a wrinkled hand, thanking her for her protection and introducing her to her other sons. They were all older than Aden, but had the same features, just matured, and Sawney had staggered away back to Haymitch in a daze.

 

It was a ghost town, Victor’s Village, with the biggest houses in the district. Have any house you want, Haymitch had smiled grimly, and she’d picked the one opposite his and tried to stitch herself back up.

 

It’s ugly, Sawney’s new life. Her mum doesn’t know what to do with her anymore, her relieved hugs and smiles turning into pity and then worry as Sawney wakes up screaming every night and shrieks at her horrible things during the day.  She doesn’t know what to do with the shell of her daughter, doesn’t know how to feed her or get her to bathe or, when she catches her, how to clean her wounds and, more often now, how to deal with her hangovers.

 

So she asks Haymitch, the only other person in the district who might know. He refused, at first, wanting nothing to do with Sawney, the girl who never turned on the lights in her house and never left it. He never turned his off just to be contrary, and would sometimes see shadows in Sawney’s living room, her distinctive hunch wandering around the room, searching for something.

 

The morning he knocked on her door, he was piss drunk and half expected the slap he received. Sawney glared at him from where she stood, one hand curled around the door, keeping it open. “Fuck you,” she spat, and slammed the door on his foot over and over until he pushed her away from him and stepped into the house. It was brand new, missing all the stains and clutter Haymitch’s had, and he remembered how unsettling it had been, all those years ago.

 

Her mum wasn’t in, because life went on, and Sawney debated killing him until he reached in his pocket and slammed a bottle of white liquor on the table in the entryway. Sawney’s mum screamed herself hoarse when she returned to two drunks in her house, pointing at the door until Haymitch left with his head hung low.

 

The next morning, Sawney showed up on Haymitch’s doorstep warily, shuffling inside with the distinct air of somebody regretting coming. She sighs, glares weakly at him and says, “My mum says you have to take me out today.”

 

Haymitch scoffs. “I’m not your father.”

 

Sawney inhaled harshly, squaring her shoulders like a cornered stray. “She’s asked Ripper to stop selling to you until you fix me,” she confesses.

 

Haymitch takes her to the end of the street where they sit in silence for a few hours, long enough until her mum sees them, and Haymitch’s job is done then and there because there’s no fixing a victor.

Gale and Katniss invite her to their toasting, two months after she returned from the games. The Everdeen house is too small to fit everyone, all the Hawthornes and Gale’s miners and Sawney, and she chokes on the air and leaves before they’d even broken bread. Katniss’ mother finds her sitting on the back porch, and sits beside her until she stands and turns back to the house, and nobody mentions her red-rimmed eyes or distant smiles.

 

Andy’s there, for some reason, and Sawney feels like she’s missing something; she wasn’t sure if he knew Gale or Katniss, or if they grew close whilst she was away, or if he’s there for her. He ends up pressed against her, shoulder to shoulder, whispering, “if you’re ready for it, Amy needs somebody to pick her up from school when I’m working. No pressure.” And his smile speaks purely of truth, and Sawney shrugs, leaning her head against him.

 

“I missed you,” she says finally.

 

“I miss you,” Andy responds and the next day she’s standing, her entire body pulled taught, outside the school. 

 

It’s a horrible building, one of the only stone ones in the district and it sticks out like a sore thumb. Everything in twelve is overlaid with grey, always has been, but Sawney had always felt that the school started it all, the greyest of greys.

 

She can’t remember what time everyone heads home, it's been so long since she attended, so she’d been standing there for an hour in the rain, shivering in just a top and trousers, when Amy tugs on her hand. Her head whips down to her and she tries to smile, although none of them really work now. 

 

The hand Amy’s holding only has three fingers, but the girl doesn’t seem to care and starts slowly pulling Sawney through the streets to her house. Sawney learns on the way about everyone in school, it feels like, about how Sandy and James were caught behind the bins the other week, about how stupid Amy’s teacher was and how much she hated her, and how she’d almost gotten expelled during Sawney’s games when she punched someone in the face.

 

It shocks a laugh out of Sawney, who says, “I can’t imagine that.”

 

Amy shrugs, and she looks older than when she stood on that stage a mere few months ago. “They said Aden should come home, not you, and I just got really mad. I don’t know-”

 

“He should’ve,” Sawney chokes out, and drops Amy’s hand. “He deserved it.”

 

And Amy, in a way much older than her and Sawney, puts her hand back around Sawney’s fingers and firmly says, “nobody deserves this.” She squeezes the remnants of Sawney’s gnarled hand and she doesn’t really know what she’s talking about.

 

She breaks into Haymitch’s home that night, feeling more like a teenager than she ever has when she knocks on his bedroom door. He wakes up when Sawney enters, slashing a knife through the air with a roar that she easily dodges until he realises who and where he is.

 

Curled up beside him later, she whispers, “it has to get better.” Haymitch doesn’t answer, but she can feel his answer in the silence. No, it doesn’t, it says.

 

Sawney keeps on dropping by, making soup when Haymitch is too nauseous to move, bringing gifts of liquor and bread. They talk about unimportant things; Sawney complains about Finnick Odair for a solid hour one time, about how much she hates him and his face, and Haymitch grumbles about his aching limbs and Sawney calls him old and, when conversation turns dangerous, they talk about the weather. Twelve doesn’t try and guess the weather like the Capitol does, but Haymitch tells her they think it’s going to rain for a straight month anyway, that her Victory Tour is postponed until the it lets up and Sawney spends the next half hour struggling to breathe, crying until she’s hyperventilating. They don’t talk about it.

 

Sawney shows up so drunk that she can barely stand the next night, and Haymitch has to put her in the bath after she vomits in her hair. She’s too skinny and pale, and when he touches her back she doesn’t pull away like usual. “Don’t do this again, sweetheart,” he says and Sawney glowers at him until he dries her off and tucks her into bed.

 

The month before her Victory Tour passes by in a blur. Sawney wakes up in the middle of the night, usually, and wanders around the house like a ghost until the sun rises and she leaves. Sometimes she goes to the hob and buys things, just because she can now, because what’s she going to do with a nightstand when the house came fully furnished. Sometimes she sits in Gale-and-Katniss’ house, where she gets plastered with fresh meat and cheese and she leaves the nightstand on their porch one day in silent thanks. 

 

She visited Aden’s family once, sitting stiffly in a rickety wooden chair with a warm cup of tea between her palms. She and his mother, Sarah, had an unspoken rule not to mention him, and they ended up having a conversation about gardening so boring Sawney felt like braining herself on their table, but she thinks it's her fault. She left a terribly obvious pouch of coins on the same table before she left and Sarah took it with a grateful silence. She didn’t attend his funeral, even after she got invited, and her mum had to pull her out of a puddle of vomit instead.

 

The days where she doesn’t drink and when she can manage to get out of bed always end with her picking up Amy. Sometimes she takes her home, and sometimes they wait patiently for Andy at the entrance to the mines. Her old crewmates clap her on the back heartily as they leave, some teasingly pinching her cheeks or hugging her, all of them leaving coal dust on her clothes.

 

The fence and the freedom loomed over her until she went out there with Gale and Katniss one Sunday, sodden and squelching and scaring away any possible game.  They still had their snares, in the same familiar spots that Sawney knows and it makes her smile, because of course nothing out here changed, until she has to snap the neck of a squirrel who didn’t die in a snare and she’s crying, the feeling of gristle and cartilage under her hands too familiar and too terrifying. She’s still crying when they bring her home, and Haymitch sneaks into her house ten minutes after they leave and sits with her.

In a burst of colour and noise, Effie and Sawney’s prep team arrive two days before she’s due to leave. She’s sat, half-dressed, on Haymitch’s kitchen floor when they arrive, and Effie tuts and titters and natters at her like a whirlwind, and it’s so dizzying.

 

“Oh, but you do look so dreadful, dear,” Effie tells her with a pout, as if Sawney did it on purpose to make her job harder. Sawney supposes she did, actually, and smiles at Effie. Today, her escort has a bright orange wig that almost brushes Sawney’s ceiling, and her skin is white and glittering faintly, matching her striped dress. 

 

Florentia touches Sawney’s shoulder tentatively, and Sawney thinks she might be a little disgusted; she hasn’t showered in a week. “I do try,” Sawney grins at Effie, her tooth catching her lip.

 

Effie sighs and pressed a hand to head dramatically and Sawney’s enjoying herself, annoying these little Capitols that have never felt hardship. “You spend too much time with Haymitch,” declares Effie in a shout, but her voice has always been too loud. “He’s rubbing off on you.”

Sawney thinks of the nights she clambers into his bed, the mornings spent clutching the toilet seat retching, the empty liquor bottles she returns to Ripper every week, and her smile twists unhappily. “Yeah, maybe.” 

 

Haymitch, from the living room, barks out a laugh. He hasn’t drunk much yet, and so Effie glady wanders over and gives him a quick peck on the lips. “Hey, sunshine,” he drawls and Sawney rolls her eyes, pretending to gag.

 

For a while, she can imagine they’re still on the train to the Capitol, before the games, and the most pressing matter Sawney’s ever encountered is being a thorn in Effie’s side. She doesn’t think about the looming Victory Tour, nor about bone crunching beneath her hands, or about arrows and knives and dead children. She just exists in the kitchen, listening to her prep team gossip and catch her up on the things people from the Capitol think are important.

 

For a while, she can imagine she’s not a murderer, or a failure, and she loves it.

 

Notes:

tws; violence during sex, sex under the influence, drug and alcohol abuse, grief

Chapter 8

Notes:

hellooooo queen of spacing right here only took a year to figure it out!!!

The night before her Victory Tour starts, Sawney has a nightmare. They’re a common occurrence now, and she’s so used to waking up screaming, or panting or crying, feeling harrowed and empty, that she finds them more annoying than anything else. She’s taken to treating them as if she were someone from the Capitol watching something on a screen, and tries to calm herself down every night by critiquing her brain’s storytelling.

One time, she woke up in shock after falling out of a tree. She’d been in the arena, because where else would her nightmares be set, and hadn’t tied herself onto a branch yet. The dream had had that hazy quality they all do, where you can’t pinpoint anything apart from what’s in front of you, and Aden and Rose had been so real, so dead, with weapons sticking out of them. You killed us, you killed us, you killed us , they’d chanted and pushed her out of the tree. She picked that dream apart through its colours, because Rose’s eyes were never green and Aden hadn’t worn a brown shirt in the arena, and she decided brain had severe continuity errors.

Usually, Sawney would calm down and slink through the house, out her front door and into Haymitch’s, slide beneath his duvet and tell him how they made her feel, because he understood, the other victor. It was selfish of her, and Sawney always woke up with the sun and left a cooked meal in his kitchen as some sort of penance. She always went to Haymitch because her mum didn’t deserve to be woken up by her daughter, grown up and crying from a nightmare. Sawney didn’t want her to worry her mum anymore than she already had, had already stopped drinking or talking to her about anything but her mum’s day.

But it’s the night before her Victory Tour, and she’s had a nightmare, and she misses her mum more than she had whilst in the arena. So she slips out of bed, padding down the hallway like a ghost and hesitates in front of her mum’s room. The door’s open a crack, like it’s been Sawney’s entire life, inviting her in just like it had when she was six and she’d had her first nightmare about a spider. Somehow she’d been braver then, hadn’t dithered outside the door as if touching it would burn her, had simply walked into her parent’s room.

“Sawney?” her mum’s voice is groggy as Sawney eventually pushes the door open. It creaks like the elevators in the mine shafts, and Sawney pauses as her mum looks at her. Her hair is plaited down her back, and her mum’s nightwear has always been more stylish than Sawney’s, the nightdress of a tailor made of silk. 

When Sawney speaks, she sounds pathetic. “I had a nightmare,” she says and her mum makes a noise that’s somewhere between pity and comfort, and beckons Sawney to the bed with her arm.

Her mum smells safe, like she always does, like clean clothes and spring flowers. She kisses Sawney on the head and curls around her as she tucks Sawney’s head under her chin. “Do you want to tell me about it?” She asks, and it’s a tentative, hoping thing, because that is what Sawney used to do. She’d lie between her parents, or later just next to her mum, and tell them about every little detail she could remember. It made everything less scary.

Sawney turns her cheek to rest against her mum’s bosom. “I was in the arena,” she says, and doesn’t get farther before beginning to cry. 

“Oh, sweetie,” her mum comforts her, rocking her back and forth in her arms. It’s awkward and jostling, reminding Sawney of an angry Caesar, and so she pulls back harshly, lying flat on her back and staring at the ceiling. It’s dark out, but Sawney can still see the texture of it from the moonlight. 

“I’m sorry for being such a bad daughter.”

“Sawney…” she’s denying, smoothing a hand over her hair.

“No, I’m serious.” Sawney presses on, boring her eyes into her mum’s. “I've been horrible to you, so mean. All you’ve been trying to do is help me and I’ve been so difficult and I don’t know how to stop.” Sawney feels cornered, trapped, as if she’s in a Capitol cell being interrogated and not lying in a bed next to her mum. “I’ve done drugs and alcohol and I did things in the Capitol that I hated , mum, and I feel like I’m letting you down every time. You- you didn’t raise me to throw my life away and I feel like I am, like I’m disappointing you.”

Her mum’s watching Sawney closely, as if her minute expressions are a map to her mind, soaking her face in. She lets Sawney babble, confess every dark thing she’s ever done and when Sawney stops after telling her about how she wishes she’d never volunteered for Amy, she presses a lingering kiss to her brow. Sawney’s crying now, snotty and disgusting, but her mum just holds her close. “You’re in pain,” she says, as if that makes Sawney innocent. “Whatever you’ve done, whatever you feel guilty for doing, none of it makes me love you any less. I gave birth to you, sweetheart, and I’ve watched you shoulder the weight of the world on your back too many times and I’ve done nothing to help. I’d love you if you were just my neighbour, and I’m not going to stop because you’re growing up and going through things.”

“I killed kids,” challenges Sawney and her mum frowns at her. “I’m a fucking murderer.”

“And I’m glad you are,” her mum snaps back, not letting go of Sawney’s face when she begins to rear back. “I will never judge you for it, I don't care. If that’s what brought you back to me, and if all of this badness that you say you’re doing now will do that again, then I do not care .”

“You can’t possibly think th-”

Sawney’s mum laughs bitterly, and her eyes are wild and desperate as she says, “Sawney you are alive, and you’re breathing next to me. You’re grieving and you feel guilty but you won’t always. I promise you, it’ll get better. I’ll always be here for you when it’s rough, and I’ll be there when it gets smooth.”

Sawney falls back asleep eventually, right there in her mum’s bed, and doesn't speak to her again. She knows how easily a promise can be broken.

---

They start the Victory Tour in district twelve, as if Sawney hasn’t been back for months already. Her fringe has grown to tickle her jaw, and her prep team has a field day in the morning, regaling her with all kinds of gossip and compliments and turning her into something the Capitol approves of. It’s not normal to start the tour in your own district, usually it’s where you finish, but Sawney doesn’t care to ask why the change occurred. She assumes they either still think she’s going mad, or it’s something about transport, or something equally fascinating.

Florentia puts her in a simple dress and, after Sawney proves that she can no longer walk in them with her botched leg, throws the heels she had planned for her to wear back in the trunk she’s got. She ends up wearing her hunting boots because Florentia said i t’s edgy, maybe enough to start a trend.

She’s waiting behind the thick doors of the Justice Building for Effie to finish her own speech and introduce her. When she had been reaped, Sawney had thought the Justice Building was the most luxurious place in the world, with its velvet furnishings, but she’s been to bigger places now, seen the shine and sparkle of the Capitol.

“Be nice,” Haymitch says simply from next to her. “Read off the cards.”

“I know,” she replies and tilts her head to rest gently on his shoulder. He doesn't wrap and arm around her, but Sawney feels supported all the same. “I’m a very nice girl.”

“Not to Snow,” Haymitch says and Sawney looks up at him. It’s not a good angle and she can only catch the curve of his jaw and his stubble, but she doesn’t try to find a better one.

“What?” 

“Just be good, sweetheart.”

“Why?” She asks, genuinely confused.

Haymitch waves a hand lazily around them and tells her, “this is your job now. Be good at it or get fired.”

Sawney leans back to look at him, at the resolute curve of his lips and blue eyes, and thinks there’s something about twelve’s only victors looking like merchant kids. From the stage, Sawney can hear Effie introducing her and shoots Haymitch a searching look before opening the doors and stepping out.

There’s loud applause, but none of the usual cheers and whooping Sawney associates with the Capitol. As she steps out of the shade of the building and her eyes adjust, she can see that banners with her face and the Panem seal have been hung up around the square. It’s packed with people, like during a reaping, and both her and Aden’s family are cordoned off on two platforms. Her mum looks lonely but proud, smiling at Sawney in a blue dress she made especially for occasions such as today. Her and Florentia, of all people, had actually bonded over seamstressing and the memory of it brought a small smile to Sawney’s face. 

Effie guided her over with a hand and one of her large smiles, waving to the microphone before giving Sawney a kiss on the cheek and stepping aside. As is custom, children that Sawney recognises from the seam greet her with two bouquets of flowers and Sawney thanks them before turning to the microphone. She flies through what Effie’s written, reciting her thanks for the Capitol’s generosity and how honoured she is to be home. It’s easy until Sawney says, “I wouldn’t be here without the courage of my district part-”

She cuts herself off and can feel her Capitol-smile dropping off her face, and feels her lips twisting into something ugly. Effie’s words are emotionless and Sawney’s sure she’s not the first victor to have them written down, is sure it’s a custom every year, but she lowers the cards. “Aden was my district partner,” she says in her own words, turning to look at Aden’s family. “But he was more than just someone I went to the Capitol with, was more than just my ally. I- him and Rose got me through the games and I can never thank them for it. I see Aden in the trees around my house, and every day when the sun sets, in the bread I get from the bakery and the children that leave the school at the end of the day. Sarah, your son was incredibly kind, funny and caring and he deserved a much longer life than what he was given. I’m sorry.” Sawney’s voice cracks and she steps back.

She feels small and exposed with everyone’s eyes on her, and fiercely misses her days of anonymity and mining, of hunting and solitude. Effie’s hand is on her back then, pushing her back to where Haymitch is standing in the shade so that she can make a closing speech. Sawney stands next to him with a straight back, impenetrable apart from where her mangled hand clings to the end of his jacket. It’s soft, worn, and Sawney lets go of it without protest when he turns to walk back in the building.

The rest of the day is a blur of getting to the station and saying goodbyes. Her mum smothers her in a hug that she sinks into, plastering her with a package and a bag she’d packed. “I put your clothes in there for you, and there are some treats from the bakery, too. You’re going to be fine,” she assures her, pressing her hands to Sawney’s cheeks and pulling her head down to kiss the top of it. Sawney remembers a time when she was shorter than her mum, when she’d have to stand on the tips of her toes to hug her properly.

Sawney smiles weakly when her mum pulls back. “I’ll be fine,” she repeats, sounding sceptical, but gives her mum one last hug before getting on the train. Both Gale and Andy were only given an hour or so off of work to attend the beginning of her tour, and so she’d said goodbye to them and their families yesterday.

There’s an indulgent dinner, a fully Capitol affair, that Sawney nibbles on. Her whole team is on the train -Effie, Haymitch, Florentia, her prep team- but the table is so large there’s still space for more chairs. She ends up between Effie and Florentia, who have a conversation about feather boas for the majority of the meal over her head, and Sawney only drinks one glass of wine before Haymitch refuses to give her another, and it’s all so familiar. Aden’s absence at the table is a burning hole that Sawney can’t ignore, and so she leaves for bed early.

Her mum had packed Sawney’s old cotton nightdresses, ones she hasn’t worn since the games because of the way they show the scar on her leg, but she prefers it to the starchy clothes in the train wardrobe. She knows Haymitch doesn’t like to sleep when it’s dark, knows he’ll be awake for hours, and waits until she can hear Effie’s light snoring before she leaves her room. 

Sawney knocks on his door relentlessly until he opens it, scowly. “What?” He says, and Sawney wrinkles her nose at the liquor coming off him.

“What did you mean earlier?” 

“You’ll have to be more specific, sweetheart,” he drawls with one of his lopsided drunken smiles. Sawney rolls her eyes and barges past him to sit cross-legged on his bed, looking expectantly at him. “Make yourself comfortable, then.”

“When we were in the Justice Building, you said Snow didn’t like me,” she says brusquely and Haymitch closes his door and makes his way to settle next to her, oddly serious.

“He doesn’t,” he replies and Sawney scoffs, waves a hand at him to continue. “Some saw the way you acted in the arena as rebellion.”

“That’s bullshit,” exclaims Sawney. “I just wanted Aden to live.” The look Haymitch gives her is pointed, and Sawney hunches her shoulders as she realises that’s exactly what he means. “Well, I didn’t mean it in the way Snow thinks I did.”

His face sobers, and he looks old in the glow of the lamps. “He doesn’t believe that, sweetheart. You’re gonna have to make him.”

“ How?” Sawney splutters, incredulous. The threat of Snow is something real and tangible, always has been, long before Sawney was even old enough to be reaped.

“Be a good girl,” Haymitch says, and it’s bitter. “Stop being so emotional.”

“ Fuck you,” she hisses and Haymitch laughs at her.

Pointing a finger in her face, he says, “ that . Knock it off.”

---

District eleven had been a harsh place, with peacekeepers worse than strictest ones stationed in twelve, shepherding people around with their guns. Their stay was neither long nor successful, a mediocre speech from Sawney and then they were all bundling back onto the train. They were in eleven for around three hours, not even long enough for Sawney to need to use the toilet. They were in the livestock district by nightfall, and were greeted by a pleasant mayor and taken to their Victor’s Village. Like twelve, district ten didn’t have many victors, with only two living, one male and one female. They introduced themselves as Edith and Zain and both looked to be around Haymitch’s age. 

The woman, Edith, almost looks like she could  be from the seam, with her dark skin and eyes, straight black hair heavily streaked with grey. The only thing that marks her as from another district is her teeth - she’s got a full, gleaming set and Sawney finds herself unconsciously tonguing at the small gaps in the back of her own mouth, where they’d rotted out years ago. She embraces Sawney tightly and she grunts, shocked. “You were so brave in your games,” she declares when she pulls away.

“Ah,” says Sawney, “there’s no need for that.” 

“As in, stop talking, Edith,” chuckles Zain, offering a hand for Sawney to shake. He’s the palest person standing in the square, bar Effie, with teeth a bit more crooked than Edith’s and grey eyes. He has a hulking frame, and Sawney belatedly wonders what they actually do in district ten as his fingers seem to crush hers in an enthusiastic handshake. He turns to Haymitch, after, who reluctantly accepts a manly hug from Zain, complete with back-thumping that makes Sawney snort.

Edith directs everyone that’s not a victor to one of the empty houses, where she says there’s attendants waiting for them. Sawney raises her eyebrows at Haymitch as they walk to, presumably, Edith’s house, where the lights are on and inviting. A man opens the door as they walk up the porch, and Sawney recognises him easily from Capitol television, some dramatic show that Effie constantly had on in the background of the penthouse. He looks oddly normal, the only thing distinguishing him as a Capitol is his hair, a grown out bleach job. “Welcome,” he greets them in a deep voice, and what ensues is a bustling dinner of beef and hearty stew. 

Sawney learns that Edith and the man, Blake, have three girls together, their oldest nine. She entertains them for most of the night, letting them brush and plait the hair that she hasn’t cut in a few years. It almost reaches her waist and provides ample amounts of fun for two of them, the last one falling asleep in Sawney’s lap soon after her meal. 

“So, Sawney,” Edith begins, and Sawney thinks she might be a little drunk, “are you naturally just a child-magnet, or should we worry about how close you were with that boy?”

Edith’s laugh is grating and Zain talks before Sawney can threaten snapping one of her daughter’s necks. “Edith, don’t,” he orders. “You’re not funny.”

“I’d listen to Zain if I were you, Edith, that one-” Haymitch flicks two fingers in her general direction, “almost gouged my eye out last time I talked about her games.”

“It’s getting late,” offers Blake, standing up. “I can show you to your rooms, if you’d-”

“We can find them,” snaps Sawney. She stands, her hair ripping away from the two girls, and places the third in the chair next to her. Edith waves her fingers cheerily in a goodbye as Sawney stalks out the door and up the stairs, trusting Haymitch to follow her.

“What the fuck is up with her?” She hisses at him, hushed.

“She’s a Capitol girl. Very patriotic,” he says, giving Sawney a jaunty wave as he close one of the bedroom doors on himself.

Sawney doesn’t sleep, jittery and caged in the unfamiliar house, and her prep team tuts at her in the morning as they sponge makeup around her face. She ends up looking caked, her eyes outlined in a green that makes Sawney scowl, slam her way out of the house and storm off in something she refuses to say is a strop. Ten’s Justice Building is easy to find and Sawney follows members of the district to the square, ignores the mutters and the way they openly shy away from her figure, all done up in Capitol clothes. They part for her, and she ends up waiting on the stage, alone.

When Betty’s family arrives and stands beneath her picture, Sawney has just started to feel a little ashamed of her childish tantrum. There are no seats on the stage, and she’s been sitting on the floor of it as the crowd thickens, so she doesn’t expect it when seven people stand beneath the banner of Betty, five kids and two strung out parents. In a moment of impulsivity that Haymitch would later have her head for, Sawney stands.

Families of the dead are always put closest to the stage in what Sawney thinks is a sick attempt to reopen any healed wounds. Betty’s dad watches her with wary eyes as she slides down the side of the stage and makes her way to them.

“How are you?” Sawney asks and cringes. “I mean, do you have enough to get by?”

Betty’s dad nods, just once. “We’re doing as well as we can.”

Sawney nods back and clears her throat. “That’s good,” she replies in a tight voice. “I didn’t know the other tribute, nor Betty, really. But she spared both mine and my partner’s life when she was well in her right not to. Your daughter was merciful, and she kept her humanity all throughout the games, and she was empathetic and strong. She turned down every offer the careers made for her to join and I admired her very much. Your daughter was a good person.”

Four of Betty’s siblings stare up at her in misplaced wonder, too young to understand anything about the games, with the shortest not even reaching Sawney’s hip. The fifth, a man that towers over Sawney with Seam hair and skin, crosses his eyes and glowers at her. “My sister deserved to win,” he rebukes and Sawney averts her eyes as his mum swats him in the side. She realises suddenly that she’s a victor from another district, and is a threat to them.

“Yes,” she says, “she did. But I think we all did, really, deserved to go home.”

“Perhaps,” says Betty’s mum and touches Sawney’s shoulder carefully, the one that’s got a puckering scar from a stab wound. “I’m sorry about the children.”

“I don’t- you really shouldn’t…” she trails off, hopeless. “You can’t say that,” thinking of Snow and the children and her own controlled life.

It’s silent for a moment before familiar gloved hands, peacekeeper hands, roughly guide her back onto the stage. Her speech is the exact same as district eleven’s, bland and tasteless, and then she’s in a car with Haymitch on their way to the station.

“Let’s sleep in the train, next time,” she says as if it’s a joke, but Haymitch takes in the severe slope of her smile and nods.

“They’re not all like Edith,” he says. “She’s a Capitol, through and through. There are some I think you'll like.”

“Like Chaff?” Sawney kids, because the man’s friendliness and wet, welcoming kisses had sent her into a frenzy, waiting for the slap, the bites, and Haymitch had had to wrench her away from him.

He says nothing, and they clomp into the train in silence. 

---

Sawney gets drunk before going on the stage in seven, and slurs the words of her speech with a skill rivalling Haymitch’s. The entire district smells like the arena, all fresh woods and grass and Rose, whose parents watch her with tears in their eyes. Sawney pukes on her bright pink shoes and has to be forcibly taken off the stage.

Johanna Mason ruffles her hair and rolls her wide set brown eyes as Sawney retches into her kitchen sink. “How come every victor ends up the same in twelve?” She cackles, rocking on the balls of her feet as she stands a few inches from Sawney. “Rich, lonely and pathetic! Well done, Haymitch.”

Haymitch rolls his eyes at her and dryly says, “thank you, Johanna. I do try my best.”

Sawney’s sober by the time Johanna starts declaring her hunger, and forces her way through a bread roll or two as Johanna talks to Haymitch, her every joke harsh and cruel. She only realises the subject has turned to her own games when Johanna turns her head to her. “What were you even trying to do?” She says incredulously. “I mean, what kind of idiot can possibly think that Snow would let a twelve year old win when you look like that .” She gestures at Sawney, who looks quite dreadful and puffy.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She asks, tilting her chin up.

“Everyone knows you fucked Flickerman in the Capitol,” continues Johanna, ignoring Sawney’s flinch, “it’s gonna be so easy to sell you. He’s probably been planning it since your parade.”

Sawney thought of Snow putting a price on her. With her pointed features and scarred, slimmed body, she didn’t think there’d be that many takes. There were never many in twelve, after all, but the way the Capitols had screamed during her monosyllabic interview changed her mind. They all wanted a piece of the fresh, shiny victor just to say that they had, and the thought made her feel sick and helpless.

Sawney glances at the clock on Johanna’s wall, methodically eating the last of her roll without caring that every bite scratches her already sore throat raw. “I need to go,” she tells the other two. “I have to go over my lines with Effie. So lovely to meet you, Johanna, shame your family aren’t here, isn’t it?”

“Sawney,” warns Haymitch and she scoffs. Everyone knows how Johanna’s entire family perished in a gas leak before she returned from her games, knows how, like twelve, district seven doesn’t use gas. They’re two of the few districts who don’t, relying instead on the scraps of coal and wood the Capitol lets them keep to keep everything working. 

Johanna smiles at her, her teeth bared like one of the Capitol mutts. “Get out,” she orders, and Sawney does.

---

Each day is the same; wake up, get dressed, follow Effie and Haymitch around as victors and mayors and head peacekeepers introduce themselves, slap on a winning smile and make a speech, leave the district when the sun sets. It’s draining, and Sawney’s not fit enough anymore to keep up with the blur of people and dead tributes and families. She goes to bed the moment she’s allowed back on the train everyday, and doesn’t get up until her prep team wakes her every morning.

It’s the same train as the one she’d been in a couple months ago, and it’s the same bed that she lies awake in. On the other side of her wall is an empty room. She tries to ignore it, thinks instead of how she’s gone soft. No longer is the lone hunter she once was, stalking prey and working tirelessly to feed her mum. Instead, she’s now wholly dependent on her and Haymitch, and that keeps her up just as much as the ghost banging on her wall.

District four is Sawney’s favourite by far, and she’s glad when Effie tells her the train can’t move for a few days until the track isn’t flooded anymore. A storm had started brewing back in district six and hadn’t let up yet and, like the rain in Sawney’s arena, she has to garble around it as she talks to the district. 

“It’s an honour to be standing before you today, alive,” she recites, and she almost knows the words off by heart now. “The unwavering generosity of the Capitol and their support gave me the strength to win my games. I am forever grateful to them, as I am to your own tributes. Their deaths, however tragic, helped me get to where I am today. Know that your sacrifices have not been taken lightly, and are felt keenly by me. I hope that you’ll-”

“Murderer!” Someone screams, and Sawney’s eyes dart to where the district four boy’s family is standing, the one she’d killed. There’s only two people there, a teenage girl and the boy's father and he’s furious at Sawney. She doesn’t blame him.

Instead of speaking to him, as Haymitch had cuffed her around the head for doing the last time she addressed a tribute’s family, she continues. “I hope that my victory brings you joy and continues to help you live prosperously. Panem, today. Panem, tomorrow. Panem, forever.” 

Finnick Odair’s victor house is cosy, and Sawney’s hatred for him swings her head with a newfound vitriol when he kisses her cheek in greeting as if they’ve known each other for years. She lurches back, disgusted, and he winks one of his green eyes at her with a chuckle. “Nice to see you haven’t changed,” he quips before enveloping Effie into a hug and kissing both of her cheeks in succession. Sawney’s never seen Effie flustered before and her giggles make her curl her lip up. Haymitch isn’t any better, slapping Finnick on the back and smiling . 

Sawney’s so caught up in this betrayal that Mags, old, dithering Mags, manages to sneak up and rest a hand on her shoulder, and she whirls to her. Mags has grown shorter as she’s gotten older, and Sawney can remember reruns of her games, the tallest female that year. Now, she reaches Sawney’s chin and gives her a firm pat on the shoulder, strong for her age. When she speaks, it’s broken and mangled, and takes Sawney a few seconds to understand, but “you are good,” is enough to make Sawney laugh and hug the lady.

There are only six living victors left in four, but Sawney only meets three of them. Annie Cresta, the girl who turned so mad she didn’t even have a victory tour, wanders into Finnick’s house in the middle of dinner and promptly walks back out again. “She does that,” Finnick had explained, chuckling, and Sawney had wanted to stab him.

Effie tells Sawney that she’s not expected anywhere until the day before they leave, three days away, when the Capitol predicts the storm will cease. Sawney ends up watching the fisherman the second day before the sun has risen. She watches their boats rock back and forth in the ocean in a way that makes her heart jump, but a lifetime of fishing has given them strong legs, and no one even stumbles. Sawney can barely hear their laughter over the clashing thunder, but it twitches at her lips, infectious. 

She’s playing with the sodden sand, letting it run through her fingers and collecting shells and stones in her lap, when Finnick Odair sits next to her. “I’m sorry,” is what he says and Sawney refuses to look at him. “I shouldn’t have given you those drugs.”

“I liked them,” Sawney says, even though she didn’t. It was one of the worst experiences of her life, those little neon pills.

“I’m sure you did,” he agrees easily and Sawney glares at him. The sun has begun to rise, and rays of it tangle in his eyelashes, splay over his skin until he’s a radiant, glowing gold. She thinks of how he looked at the lost Annie the night before, how he was half out of his seat before he realised.

“I heard you leave, last night,” she says, because it was true. She hadn’t been able to sleep and the sound of Finnick Odair’s back door clicking shut and bare feet on the patio had been enough to have her leaning out her window, watching as he walked to the end of his garden, where the sand met the sea, and sat next to Annie Cresta. He’d leant his head on her shoulder and just stayed there until Sawney eventually got tired and retreated back beneath her covers.

Finnick Odair, the youngest victor alive, who hunted his tributes and trapped them under nets to slaughter them in a Capitol worthy show, freezes up next to her. “Is it more like me and Haymitch?” Sawney continues. “Or is it something distinctly Finnick and Annie?”

“What even are you and Haymitch?” Finnick deflects and Sawney shrugs.

She purses her lips before answering, “He’s Haymitch. I need him.”

Finnick Odair, certified ladies man, peers down at Sawney through his golden lashes in a way she’s on the screens before and whispers, “what else do you need?”

The whole thing is just so ridiculous, isn’t it; Sawney, a victor, feeling the sand beneath her toes in district four, being flirted with by The Finnick Odair. She barks a laugh, and then a snort and tips back to lie in the stand with a drawn out noise, amused, and the corner of Finnick’s lips quirk as she looks at him. “I killed your tribute, just told you I know about your secret relationship and now you’re chatting me up?” She laughs. 

“Worth a shot, wasn’t it?” He shrugs, leaning back to settle next to her. Their shoulders are touching and it’s weird that Finnick’s wearing a shirt, and he snorts when she says so. “Why, you want me to take it off?”

“I’d rather fuck Caesar Flickerman again before I fuck you,” she says. It crashes over her quite quickly that this is, indeed, not true, and so she corrects herself, “I’d rather fuck Haymitch, actually.”

“Oh, yeah, he’s better at it than Caesar,” Finnick says and Sawney cranes her head to look at him in disbelief, because him and Haymitch . “Caesar’s got them sweaty hands, don’t he?”

Sawney groans loudly and pretends to barf. “He’s so gross,” she complains. “All of them are. Why do you do it?”

Finnick averts his gaze and Sawney thinks he’s going to change the subject again before he shrugs and, simply, replies, “because I love Annie.” 

Sawney swears then and there that she's going to murder Snow one day.

“I don’t want to do what Finnick does,” she confesses to Haymitch that night in a quiet voice. She’s in his bed, facing him on her side. “I don’t think I can do that.”

Haymitch grunts, half asleep. “Gonna have to, sweetheart,” he responds. “Unless you want your mam dead, there’s no way ‘round it.”

Sawney shuffles closer, shakes her head against his shoulder. “I’m going to kill him one day,” she says and feels Haymitch’s chuckle more than she can hear it. “I’m gonna fucking enjoy it.”

“Well, make sure I’m there for it, will you?”

---

Finnick’s house is all made of light, solid wood, the kind you only get in four. His kitchen has a large table in the middle of it, and Sawney fingers the scratch and burn marks as she leans against it. The rain is still lashing down outside, but the lights are glowing in this kitchen, and Sawney feels warm. She thinks of rainy days in twelve, how she’d return home with coal dust turned into a paste on her skin, how she eventually stopped bothering to scrub it out from under her broken nails and the grooves of her skin.

“Did you ever want to be a fisherman?” She asks Finnick. He stood at the sink, facing away from her and cleaning some dishes. Sawney hadn’t offered to help him, and won’t.

“Did you always want to be a miner?” He asks back. Sawney hates him, his complete inability to ever just answer a fucking question the most annoying thing she’s ever encountered.

“No,” she answers. “It’s a death sentence. Did you ever want to be a fisherman?”

“How is it a death sentence?”

“Mines collapse, explosions happen, miner’s lung,” she lists absently. “Did you ever want to be a fisherman?”

“You know,” he says, turning around,” when Haymitch told me he had a really annoying tribute a couple months ago, I thought he was being dramatic, but now-”

“It’s Haymitch, of course he was,” Sawney interrupts, smiling gleefully. “Did you ever want to be a fisherman?” 

Finnick laughs at her, shaking his head as he wrinkles his nose up. “Yes, I did. What’s miner’s lung?”

“When the coal dust collects in your chest and you die before you’re thirty,” she answers. She hates Finnick.  “Everyone gets it. Why did you want to be a fisherman? So you could walk around shirtless all day?”

“I know you don’t mind it,” he wets his lips as he walks around the table, leaning his head impossibly close to Sawney’s. She grunts and pushes it away, thinking of a salivating Cray the one time she’d offered him the only thing she had, back when she was starving. 

Haymitch coos from where he’s sat in the adjoining room, and Sawney’s glares at him over her shoulder. She can see him clearly through the large archway. “You finally making friends, sweetheart?” He chuckles and tips his glass at her when she scowls at him. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I have friends!” Sawney retorts, defensive. 

“That little girl doesn’t count,” he sneers. 

“Katniss is my friend.”

“You didn’t even stay long enough to see her get married, that’s not real-”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” she counters, turning and pointing a finger at him. This is the worst kind of drunk Haymitch gets, when he’s cruel. He sits up in his seat and leans his elbows on his knees. He’s smiling, lopsided, and she hates it, all of it, all of a sudden. Because he’s right, and her only real friend is an alcoholic twice her age who doesn’t even like her and tells her secrets. “Haymitch, you’re being mean.”

“Grow up,” he hisses. Sawney walks over to him in quick stomps, knocking into the sofa separating them when she doesn’t compensate for her limp, and stops short. She banged her hip, and it’s screaming in pain and Sawney can’t move to slap Haymitch across the face as he snorts at her, eyeing her leg up. “Even the Capitol didn’t want to fix you proper, so stop coming to me for it!”

“Well I’m sorry that I can’t sleep ‘cause you couldn’t be bothered to keep a fucking promise!” She screams at him and wrenches her shoulder away from Finnick’s grasp. “If you were a better mentor then you wouldn’t have ended up with me, you’d have him! I wouldn’t need fixing if you had just done what you said you would!”

“You think I wanted you to live?” Haymitch laughs bitterly. “You’re a waste of my goddamn time.”

“If you really thought that, you would’ve locked your doors after the first time I came to you,” snaps Sawney, and it feels final, an epilogue to what could’ve been from that morning. She’d woken up earlier and imagined spending a comfortable day inside Finnick’s house, out of the rain that never seemed to stop and had started to seep in her dreams, flooding her memories. But it hadn’t ended up that way, and Sawney slams Finnick’s front door as she leaves, feeling like a teenager again.

She only ends up in the next house over, an empty one, sitting on its back porch. The sea is closer than it was that first night, the rain making it pour over up the sand, like the river had done in her arena. But she’s safe from the rain under its outcrop, although no one’s ever safe from Finnick Odair. Sawney doesn’t hear him approach until the porch vibrates with his footsteps and she immediately gets up to leave, still simmering with rage. Finnick reaches out and grabs her arm in a grip she can’t get out of. “Get off of me,” she says, hackles rising like a trapped cat.

“Haymitch is drunk, he doesn’t mean that,” he says. 

“Get off of me,” she repeats, her voice raising. The rain is getting in her eyes and her mouth and the familiar, dangerous sensation that makes her tense and shuffle back underneath the porch. Finnick lets go of her. “Haymitch is a drunk and he’s never going to be anything more than that, I should know, not you. You don’t get to have an opinion here, Finnick.”

“I’ve known Haymitch longer than you have,” Finnick says.

Sawney scoffs. “You see him once a year, if that. I see him every day, not you.”

Finnick’s face reconstitutes with a new wariness that frightens Sawney. “We’re both victors,” he says slowly, “and we have been longer than you.”

“But you don’t really know him,” she says, breathless, a little desperate, and wonders what she’s trying to prove, “you don’t know anything beyond that.”

The sky flashes with white lightning and it bathes Finnick in its light for a few seconds, and he looks paler than she’s ever seen him. “What don’t I know about Haymitch?” Finnick asks in his usual friendly tone, but it’s different, an underlying current of danger in it that thrills Sawney, and she’s suddenly itching for a fight. 

“He was supposed to bring Aden back, not me,” she says. “He’s a liar and a killer.”

“You can’t hold that to him, that’s insane,” he says, the most emotional Sawney’s ever seen from him. Finnick’s anger is a desperate thing, something that stays in your throat for days, like a child trying to win a fight without crying. “You don’t know the first thing about being a mentor, nothing’s up to us-”

“He could’ve saved Aden!” Sawney screams, throwing her arm in the direction of his house.

“He did,” snaps Finnick. “Snow wanted you, he brought you back to life, not Aden. If Haymitch intervened, that boy would be broken right now.”

Sawney scoffs and shakes her head. Shakes and shakes. “He’s just a man , Finnick, he can’t have everything he wants.”

“Yes, he can, Sawney,” Finnick says and his voice holds no room for argument. “Come back inside when you’re finished.”

When Sawney has a nightmare that night, about holding Rose’s dying body in the water and drowning herself, the rain is even worse and she cries until she can’t breathe, unable to calm down as it pounds against her window and the roof. She sits there for hours, flinching at the thunder and occasionally wiping snot off her face with the duvet. 

---

Mags opens her door the next day and moves aside for Sawney to hobble through with any preamble. She cooks and feeds Sawney, makes her a tea she says is calming whenever Sawney wakes from a nightmare, teaches her recipes from four in her mangled voice. Mags is kind to her.

When the rain stops, Sawney’s sitting at the table and drinking a cup of Mags’ tea as she watches the house across the street. It was a while before she saw any movement, and wasn’t surprised when it was Finnick bustling about his kitchen. He’s a good cook, and Sawney can tell he’s been sat in the same house as she, in the same situation. Haymitch is never awake this early.

Sawney watches as Effie bursts into Finnick’s house in her usual frenzy of colour, sees the moment he turns into Capitol Finnick, where his hips lead and his smiles are seductive. Feeling distinctly like a voyeur, Sawney stands to head over there. Effie hasn’t spoken to either her or Haymitch in days so it must be important and Sawney wants to spare Mags from as much Effie as possible.

Sand is everywhere in district four, even in the elite Victor’s Village, and it scratches beneath Sawney’s boots as she walks across the square and into Finnick’s. His door opens smoothly when she turns the handle, and she waits silently, listening in on him and Effie.

“They had an argument,” she can hear Finnick saying and frowns.

Effie giggles. “They’re always arguing, Mr Odair.”

“This was less of an argument and more of…a volcano exploding.”

“I doubt it’s that bad. They’re both very dramatic.” Sawney opens her mouth in a silent gasp at Effie.

Finnick chuckles, and Sawney hates him just as much as she did that day by the chariots. Maybe even more, as he says, “it was about her games.” Effie’s small oh makes Sawney’s mouth twist. “I’d be careful not to mention anything even close to the topic unless you want them to stab you anytime soon.”

“They’ll be fine,” says Effie and it’s more as if she’s trying to reassure herself than anything else. 

Sawney thunks her boots a few times on the floor and limps into the kitchen, where Finnick is staring at her in a knowing way, leaning against his counters. She glances away from him and towards Effie. “It’s stopped raining,” she says.

“Oh, Sawney, dear, how are you?” Effie says, petting her on the cheek. “Yes, I’m over here to tell you and Haymitch that we’ll be gone bright and early tomorrow morning!”

“He’s not awake,” says Sawney and Finnick snorts. She hates that it sounds sexy , because of course it does. She bets he practices it. “He doesn’t wake up this early.”

“Oh, Sawney,” says Effie, hushed. “You’re so sweet. Make sure you tell him for me, then, please. Me and Florentia are having a day in the fresh air, now that the rain’s gone, so I’m going to be too busy.”

“Finnick can do it,” she says, somehow annoyed. “I’m busy, too.”

“Well, so am I,” says Finnick, deliberately obstinate. “I have work.”

“Because there are so many Capitols here to sleep with, yeah,” replies Sawney, relishing the corner of Finnick’s mouth turning down. She wants it framed and hung in her house.

Effie laughs as if Sawney has said something hilarious and says, “I’ll just leave a note.”

“Smart.”

“Still being a bitch then,” says Haymitch and Sawney spins around. He looks like shit, more than usual, and Sawney can tell he hasn’t drunk anything yet. “Thank you, Effie. I’ll be ready to leave when you are.”

“I’ll be ready, too,” Sawney adds, as if it’s a competition. She glares at Haymitch as he swings his eyes to her, incredulous. “What are you even doing up so early?” 

“Sorry to burst your bubble, sweetheart, but I do wake up early when you don’t barge into the house in the middle of the night.”

Sawney laughs at him and narrows her eyes. “I think the last time that happened was the day of your reaping .”

“Well it definitely wasn’t yours,” he says. “You’re just another dumb tribute.”

“I’m the only tribute you’ve managed to keep alive,” she hisses. “No wonder you don’t wake up on time.”

“Sawney!” Effie gasps, a hand covering mouth as her eyes flick between the two of them. “Don’t be so cruel. After everything I’ve done for your image, you’re just going to throw it away? There are people here.”

“I don’t care about Finnick,” scoffs Sawney. She looks at Haymitch for a lingering, scathing moment before telling Effie that she’d see her in the morning and taking her leave. 

She misses her mum something vicious as she heads towards the beach, her steps sloppy and heavy, a hunter’s shame. 

Chapter 9

Notes:

my least fave chap so far

Sawney thinks the sun sets differently over district one, the favourite of the Capitol. It’s somehow brighter, reflected off the shining marble buildings in a way that blinds. The streets are all cobbled, not just Victor’s Village. The whole place is like if the Capitol had a younger brother, and Sawney can see how the fashion and adoration is almost the same. It’s sickening, and she avoids wandering hands.

She avoids acknowledging the families of Star and her district partner during her speech, and doesn’t accept any offers of a night in the village. She stares at the ceiling of her train compartment the whole night, Star’s blood spraying against her face whenever she shuts her eyes.

By the time she gets to the Capitol, Sawney is desperate for sleep. It’s been over a week since she’s had a good night, and she’s hopeful that some Capitol fan will give her something for it. The privileged love her, love any of the victors, so she knows it should be relatively easy.

Back in her old quarters in the training centre, it’s even worse. She can hear Aden pacing in the room next door, his laughter whenever Sawney sweared, and can see his cheeky grins when she sits at the dining table. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she blurts when an avox sets down a decadent cake in the middle of the table. It’s the same kind as the one they all had the night before the interviews. She’s having lunch before doing an interview with Caesar on the makeshift stage outside the centre. 

“It’s only a couple of minutes, dear,” says Effie. “He’ll just ask about how the tour went, that’s all. The President himself has told Caesar not to mention anything else, everyone knows you’re still much too sensitive for that. Don’t worry.”

“I don’t want to,” says Sawney, and it sounds whiny. Effie frowns almost imperceptibly at her, disappointed, and Sawney’s legs are being waxed less than an hour later.

She bumbles her way through the interview, trying hopelessly to cover herself up in the almost see-through, completely backless dress Florentia made her wear. Sawney can tell what she’s going to be doing next time she’s at the Capitol, and so does Caesar, his grin turning sinister for a split second when Sawney steps out of the doors to greet him.

A crowd has gathered around the stage, held off by barricades and obscured by the camera equipment and bright lights. Sawney talks about the generosity of the districts, and how honoured she was to visit each one, and how she’s so excited to be in the Capitol again. Effie had drilled lines into her until they danced in circles around Sawney’s head.

“Now, please, please, we simply have to know,” says Caesar, “if there’s a man waiting for you at home yet? I know there wasn’t last time we spoke but it’s been months , surely someone’s managed to snatch up the third ever victor from twelve already?”

Sawney giggles and rests her hand on Caesar’s arm, leaning into the microphone. “Believe me, Caesar,” she says conspiratorially, “you’d be one of the first to know if I did.”

Caesar guffaws, tipping his head back. Sawney can see where his orange foundation stops, right at the base of his neck, and chuckles. “You are too funny!” He exclaims after a moment. “Isn’t she funny?” The crowd cheers back. “But, seriously, Miss Carter, what’re you going to do when you get back to twelve? Have you figured out what your special talent is going to be yet?”

Has she fuck. Sawney hums whilst trying to think of an answer that sounds like she cares before saying, “Caesar, darling, you know my talent is still in the works. Sneaky . When I get back I’ll be working on my first project using my talent, and then there’s the boring stuff that you don’t want to hear.”

“Do tell!”

“Well there’s a stack of dishes that I haven’t washed up yet calling for me,” laughs Sawney. “I might just have to throw them out at this point! My mum’s probably waiting at the front door already to lecture me.”

Caesar pretends to snore before lighting up with a laugh. “How humble she is!” He says. “It’s truly incredible. Now, before we go, I simply must compliment your dress. Your stylist has really outdone herself this time.”

“She really has, hasn’t she? Florentia promises that they’re only going to get better from here, too!” Sawney smiles, and this time it’s tighter, her voice lacking it’s usual high pitch from when she’s on camera.

“Oh, we all hope so,” chuckles Caesar. “Now, I’m going to walk the lovely Miss Carter back up to her floor whilst you at home watch this exclusive clip from this week's episode of Lightning Love . Enjoy!”

When Caesar eyes her up the elevator and presses the stop button, Sawney thinks of Johanna’s dead family and her mum, who’s waiting at home for her. She lets Caesar unzip his trousers and crowd her, his hands moving on her hips and then lower, with the grubby appreciation only someone from the Capitol could have for a victor. His hand is sweaty as it turns her head to meet his, and Finnick’s words ring in her ears as she lets him.

When the elevator doors open, Sawney’s sure that everyone can see what he’s done, that he’s somehow written it on her face, but nobody says anything. Effie claps her hands at him and then Sawney, and invites him to stay for a drink. Sawney sits next to Haymitch as Caesar declares what a success Sawney will be, and takes the drink out of his hand. She’s surprised he lets him; they haven’t spoken since that morning in four. Caesar kisses her on the lips as he says his goodbye, and Sawney leaves for her room the moment the elevator doors close.

She wakes Haymitch up that night, crawling into his bed.

“Jesus,” he says, placing the knife in his hand on the bedside table. “What the fuck are you doin-”

“I’m going to be a prostitute,” she says, staring down at him. “Everybody knows it. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think you’d win, sweetheart,” he says. Sawney’s knee is touching his side. 

“Well, I did. And Caesar’s taken to fucking me whenever he can,” she spits. Haymitch lowers his head into the pillow with a sigh and pets her leg awkwardly. “I don’t like it.”

“I’m sorry,” says Haymitc h, and Sawney lurches up from his bed and leaves because she doesn’t want that from him. She doesn’t really know what she does want from him, but it’s sure as hell not pity.

 

 

President Snow requests a private meeting in his mansion with Sawney a few hours before his party. His office is easily half the size of her house in the village, and Sawney thinks that's the point; the long walk up to his desk makes her feel exposed.

“Hello,” she says. “Thank you for inviting me into your home.”

President Snow nods his head. “You’re most welcome,” he says, and smiles with his teeth. It makes the hair on Sawney’s neck stand up and she resists turning around to see if anyone’s behind her. “Please, sit.”

Sawney does as instructed, adjusting her dress over her thighs. It’s despicably short, and Sawney places her clasped hands over her crotch in embarrassment. After a silence stretches on for too long, she says, “Why am I here?”

“I have a problem, Miss Carter, that started the moment you refused to play my games correctly,” President Snow says, leaning forward slightly. The sickening smell of roses and perfumes reaches Sawney and her lips twitch in disgust. “You see, people are beginning to question the merciful nature of them, after your little rebellious act.”

“I didn’t intend to be rebellious,” defends Sawney.

Snow glares at her for interrupting and Sawney stiffens. “I know that, Miss Carter, but if people start to think you were taught such ideas by, say, your dear mother, then we’re going to have a problem on our hands. The Capitol would have to intervene with any rebels.” 

“Yes,” she says, glad that he didn’t skirt around the topic. Sawney always hated ambiguous threats.

“I’m glad we understand each other,” he says, lip curling in what she thinks is supposed to be a smile. The tight, surgically enhanced skin of his lips makes it off putting. “Now, tonight at my party, there’s someone who's going to want to meet you. I expect you to treat Mr Hallesea most…pleasantly.”

“Okay.”

“Good,” he smirks. “Congratulations on becoming a victor, Miss Carter.”

Sawney wished she could rip his throat out right there in his office.

When he crowns her a few hours later, Sawney spends the whole time staring in his eyes and imagining it.

 

 

The party is mainly held in the banquet room, but soon spills into the surrounding corridors and rooms. It has no equal; the high ceilings have been changed to reflect the night sky, and musicians float above the heads of the crowd. An endless number of plush, velvet sofas and cushions are positioned around the room, and there’s a long table stacked with food pressed against one wall. Whole roasted cows and pigs, countless cheese platters, miniature desserts and countless flutes of drinks, varying in colours. Sawney sticks to the drinks, fearing she’d get sick if she ate any of the food. She can’t stop tapping her foot, almost delirious with nerves.

People stroke her arms, kiss her cheeks, exchange pleasantries that she immediately forgets. Hair the same colour as hers hangs around almost every woman who shakes her hand. Sawney makes no effort to seek out the company of people until she spots Finnick Odair across the room and excuses herself from some doe eyed, adoring fan and begins to make her way across the room.

“Fancy seeing you here, Odair,” she says as she nears him, flashing a smile to the preening woman next to him. “Why are you here, then?”

“Just had to see you in this dress, darling,” he teases, reaching over and tugging on the bottom of it. “So flashy, isn’t it? And your crown, too.”

She laughs and tugs him down into a hug. “I need some more of those pills,” she murmurs into his ear and he winks back when she pulls away. “President Snow thought people would enjoy it, too,” she says in her normal tone, and Finnick raises an eyebrow in response. His mouth briefly purses.

“It is truly the most gorgeous thing,” Finnick’s woman gushes, and Sawney turns to her.

“Cheers,” she says, raising her glass and sipping down the rest of it. She pouts exaggeratedly and giggles. “My drink’s all gone!” 

As Sawney expected, the woman rushes off with promises of bringing both her and Finnick another, and she turns to Finnick. “Having fun?” She says, none of Capitol-Sawney.

“Who is it?” Finnick ignores her and Sawney shrugs, averting her gaze. 

“Mr Hallesea,” she sneers, tugging on the hem of her dress. It rises up whenever she walks and Sawney’s lost count of the amount of times one of her buttcheeks has popped out the bottom. “But, I’m planning on getting some adorable little pills from somebody, so. I’ll be fine.”

“Let’s go to the toilet, shall we?” Finnick smiles at her and Sawney scoffs and holds her hand out, palm up. A bright green pill gets placed in her hand after a few seconds where Finnick seems to deliberate before fishing it out of his waistband. She curls her lip at him in disgust and he flashes a smile. 

“Thank you,” she says and squeezes his arm. “What are you doing here?”

“Working,” his eyes flash above Sawney’s head as he exclaims, “Eclipsia, you are such a dear!”

Sawney turns to find that the lady has returned and gladly accepts the blue flute she holds out to her, and flushes the pill down with a large gulp of it. It tastes like spring, and Sawney says so to Eclipsia’s giggles. When Sawney sees the lady’s hand creep down the back of Finnick’s trousers, she excuses herself.

Florentia finds her eventually, and introduces Hallesea to her. He’s a large, balding man and Sawney feels disgusted when he asks her to dance. He tells her he’s been a gamemaker for over two decades as he slides his hands down Sawney’s hips and she acts interested. To her, gamemakers rank below maggots and cockroaches. He seems torn between looking at her and the crown on her head, and Sawney has to push down the impulse to thrust its spikes into his neck.

Hallesea’s pale, pale eyes crawl over Sawney’s face. “You really are beautiful,” he says, trailing the back of his hand down Sawney’s cheek. He makes satisfied noises that Sawney can barely hear as he traces her nose and lips and skin, and it’s around the time his finger inches down between her breasts that Sawney’s vision starts getting fuzzier. 

“You’re too kind,” she says, looking up at him through her lashes.

She lets Hallesea lead her out of the banquet hall to one of the side rooms. Sawney vaguely registers Finnick’s cock in Eclipsia’s mouth before she’s shoved over the side of a table, her dress riding up to her back and her crown tumbling off her head to the floor.. She grunts when her chin makes contact with the solid wood and begins to straighten up when Hallesea presses her face against it. “Stay still,” he orders with a grin and Sawney clenches her jaw, nodding, but reaches her arm up and rests it under her chin, turning her face to the side.

Haymitch is sitting in a chair, blitzed and staring at her with faraway eyes. Sawney pales and turns her head back to the other direction, where a pair of Capitols are making out, half dressed. One of them has skin the same colour as the pill. Sawney closes her eyes and tries not to cry out or think about Haymitch sitting there when her underwear is moved to the side and Hallesea forces himself into her. It’s painful, and it’s so much worse than either of her incidents with Caesar because she has an audience, can feel hands running over her body that aren't Hallesea’s fat ones. They have the fashionable long nails of a Capitol and Sawney hisses when the person scratches down her back, arching away and into the table.

She keeps her eyes squeezed shut as Hallesea yanks her back by her hair and drills into her, his fingers digging into her flesh. Her senses are fraying at the edges, and Sawney’s trying to coax her high further out of its slumber when he starts talking. “Is she always this quiet, Haymitch?” Hallesea says to her mentor and Sawney snaps her eyes open, trying fruitlessly to turn to talk to him, tell him that it’s none of his fucking business and that he’s a shit lay and deserves to die.

“I wouldn’t know,” slurs Haymitch and she glares at him, breathing ragged out of her mouth. 

“You could find out,” a sultry voice says above Sawney, and she struggles to raise her head to bare her teeth at the green Capitol woman, who slaps her across the face. “Of course, it’s up to Mr Hallesea, here.”

Hallesea laughs and Sawney can feel it verberate through her. “I think I’d like little Sawney all to myself,” he says. “The most gorgeous victor, isn’t she?”

The woman agrees with him readily and Hallesea lets go of Sawney’s hair, letting her face fall back down onto her arm. She’s lost the fine control she usually has, and is glad when the pain between her legs drifts into a slight discomfort. When Hallesea shoves his fingers into her mouth and grunts into her ear, she doesn’t even have the strength to bite down on them. She slumps into the table when Hallesea backs away, and stands when he pulls her up.

“Lovely to meet you, Miss Carter,” he says, kissing her on the lips until she responds, sloppily. She closes her eyes after catching the lady’s eye, and hopes this is the last time in a long time she has to do this. She nods when he says, “we must do this again sometime,” and walks away, the lady following him.

“Sweetheart,” says Haymitch when the door closes, and she falls readily into his arms, uncoordinated. “What’ve you had?”

Sawney makes a noise into his shoulder, and hopes Finnick and the strange couple have left as it turns into a small sob. 

Snow arranges four more clients for Sawney before she returns back to district twelve. She bites the last man’s cock when he says how he’d prefer Aden on his knees, not her, and is picking out the flesh between her teeth for hours.

Her mum dies in a gas leak when she’s on the train ride home.

Most of Sawney’s days are spent in the woods when she returns, venturing further and further away from the fence. Her bag is always brimming with fat, dead game that she trades to Greasy Sae at the hob for stew. She buys things frivolously, exchanging solid gold coins for string or little knick knacks.

She always saves something to leave on Haymitch’s porch; they still aren’t talking, but nothing ends up rotting, so she knows he’s alive.

Careless, Cray himself catches her slipping back through the fence one night and sneaks her back to her house without punishing her. Sawney sneers at him and says he’s going as soft as his stomach and he threatens to execute her. Sawney realises she’s going a bit off the rails when she leaves a live goose tied to Haymitch’s doorknob, and breaks into one of the other empty victor houses- because hers is gone - to set up shop and doesn’t come out of the house. Grief overtakes her quickly.

Sawney takes up wandering through the rooms of the house soon after. She rips the carpet out of the living room with her hands and bundles it up in the kitchen in a fit of unexplained fury one day. She breaks out in uncontrollable, gut-wrenching sobs that force their way out of her throat on another, curls up into a ball in the office and falls asleep on the floor. Mostly, though, she lays in bed, unmoving. She doesn’t eat or drink anything apart from white liquor and bread, her thoughts hazy and emotionless.

She screams Gale and Katniss out of the house the one time they come round to check up on her, and almost skewers Katniss through the arm with a throwing knife. They don’t come back, and so it falls to Haymitch to look after her; he feeds and bathes her, gives her morphling when she cuts her arm open during a delusional argument, stitches her up and tucks her into bed. She tries to avoid him, but she never succeeds, even when she hides in the bathtub with the curtains closed around her.

When Sawney does sleep, she has nightmares about flames and her mum’s screams, about groping hands and moans, and cuts her hair off after a particularly vicious one about Hallesea pulling her away from her burning mum by it. Haymitch smears a salve that smells like the Capitol over the parts of her scalp that she skins with the knife.

She eventually wanders out the house, and snow she hadn’t realised existed freezes her bare toes as she sludges through it to Haymitch’s house. She doesn’t knock, and wrinkles her nose when the door hits a pile of empty glass bottles. It’s amazing how completely and utterly Haymitch can defile a space. Sawney fingers the gouges of knife marks in the bannister as she climbs the stairs. Haymitch is lying in his bed, unkempt, unwashed and naked, tangled in his sheets.

Sawney snags the half empty bottle of liquor off his bedside table and gulps it down, easily dodging the knife Haymitch swings at her with a roar. She kicks him back onto his bed and joins him.

“Do you want to fuck me?” She asks.

“Are you serious?” He says, and Sawney can tell he’s still wasted from his voice. “Sawney, what are you doing here?”

Sawney yanks on his hair after a moment of tense silence, slamming his face into hers. Their teeth crash with a sound that shakes her jaw, and there’s nothing pretty or life altering about the kiss. They’re both drunk, and when Sawney wraps her mangled hand around Haymitch’s cock, he shudders and pushes her away.

“You’re drunk,” he says and Sawney scoffs.

“So’re you,” she says and leans back to kiss him but misses her mark and ends up mouthing against his neck.

He shoves her away again, capturing her wandering hands in his. “You’re drunk because your mum died,” he says. Sawney groans and bashes her head against his shoulder. “I’m not fucking you.”

“Haymitch,” she says, and it comes out pathetic and desperate and pleading. “I’ve never fucked someone all nice before.”

“No,” he says firmly. “Finnick can do that. Now get your ass-”

“Finnick’s in love with Annie,” she whines and wrenches one of her hands out of his grasp and back into his lap. “Haymitch, plea-”

Haymitch grunts and rips her away from him, forcing her to lie down. “Go to sleep,” he says and Sawney nods, giving in. When Haymitch looked after her, she sometimes created arguments for them to have, bright and furious, but they always burnt out like a match flame; quickly and with little fuss. 

“Did you like the goose?” She slurs, rolling over to lie half on top of him. “I thought you’d get along well with it.”

Haymitch huffs a laugh, and Sawney’s asleep before he answers.

Sawney feels like she could be tied to the table and still feel as free as she does, staring across the table at a frowning Andy. 

It had been a normal day for Sawney, post-mum-murder; she’d woken up before the sun had risen and gone hunting, then to the hob, and then back to the cavern of her new house; she’d drunk herself into a stupor and had passed out at the kitchen table before the clock had hit noon, and woke up in the evening in a puddle of drool. She’d debated for a while about what to do, but had ended up setting off for the hob as the sun set.

It’s a Saturday night, and so her old mining squad were settled at a beaten table, black-stained skin glowing in the yellow light of the hob. It was rowdy, and mugs of beer and liquor had been passed around as everybody avoided the topic of Sawney’s personal life in the way one avoids looking at a screaming person in public. They were ferociously bad at it, and Sawney had gotten wasted. When she’d begun sliding her hand up Thom’s thigh, who was married with four kids, Andy had dragged her home with him.

Coal stains his face, five grey lines showing where he’d tried to wipe it off with a damp hand. His nose is still the massive hunk in his face, like a mountain in the flatlands, and Sawney doesn’t realise she’s begun to cry until the tears trail down her cheeks. 

“You’ve gone to shit, Sawney,” he says, in that matter of fact, achingly soft way only a father can. He’s grasping one of her hands in both of his, and Sawney’s clutching at the bundle it’s made with her other. “I’m worried about you.”

Sawney’s crying like an out-of-tune orchestra, loud and ugly. “I wish I never volunteered for Amy,” she sobs, her breath catching randomly. “Everything’s horrible and I hate it and I want to go home. I’m sorry.”

Andy, in a way Sawney thinks she’d never be able to, seems completely unfazed, even shrugs at her. “No, I think you’re right, honey,” he says and takes one of his hands away from hers to brush tears off her cheek. “You’ve gone through a lot of shit recently. You’re too young for it, but you’re also too young to be doing this , huh? Drinking?”

“I can’t sleep without it, not nicely.”

“I don’t think you’re gonna be able to sleep all nice for a while,” he admits. “I couldn’t for months and months after Arnie died. Sometimes I still can’t, even after a long shift. ‘N I know it’s different for you, what with the games and all, so it’ll be a bit more difficult, but that’s to be expected. But you’ll do it, I’m sure, like you’ve done everything else you’ve set your mind to. I’m real proud of you, kid.”

Sawney sobs and feels disgusting, dirty, like she’s violating the place where Amy surely eats her meals. She stands sharply and wobbles on her leg for a second. “I’m a whore,” she hisses at Andy. “I fuck Capitols to keep you alive and I’m shit at it! I can’t do it right and my mum’s dead!”

“That ain’t your fault!” Andy raises his voice slightly, like the louder he says it the deeper it will root into Sawney’s head. “What that man makes you do, whatever he does when you don’t ‘do it right’, or whatever other bullshit you try telling yourself, it ain’t nobody's fault but his. You’ve done everything right, Sawney, as good as you can.”

“I’m a murderer,” she says. “I killed kids Amy's age.”

“I didn’t see you kill anybody her age, Sawney. I saw you kill to keep them safe-”

“And I couldn’t even do that, could I?” Sawney’s screaming now, because she got her temper from her mum, and her words are slurring and she’s sure she’s waking Amy up. “They all died!”

“On whose orders?” Andy shouts back, and Sawney's not sure if he’s mad at her or Snow. “Those games aren't your goddamn fault, and you can go back to Haymitch and tell him that too because I’ll be damned if either of you die in your sleep choking.”

Sawney makes a noise that could, generously, be called a laugh. “I didn’t have to do any of it, though, did I? They’re just games .”

“You promised us you’d make it back,” says Andy accusingly, pointing a finger at her. “And you may have done that, but this ain’t my Sawney. The Sawney I know is strong, and she understands who really does the bad shit around us, and sure as hell doesn’t think this little of herself.”

“Well, I’m sorry that I’m having a hard time adjusting,” she says in a snarl. 

“That’s fine, Sawney! Take all the time you need, but come back to us. I don’t want you to end up like Haymitch.”

“Haymitch is a good man,” says Sawney. “You don’t know anything about him, or what he’s been through.”

“I watched him come back from his games a husk,” says Andy. “I knew him before, and I knew him after and I don’t know him anymore, you’re right about that. But I know exactly how quickly it took for him to fall apart, what it looked like, and it’s standing right in front of me again.”

“Fuck you,” she hisses. 

“Why don’t you go fuck yourself instead?” Andy retorts, and it’s just a bit too childish of a sentence for him. Sawney snorts a laugh that turns into a sob and then she’s gathered up in Andy’s arms, wailing. It feels like hours and hours, crying until a headache forms across Sawney’s forehead and behind her eyes, and then she’s crying about that and Andy’s rocking her in his arms. 

He tucks her into bed on the sofa and doesn’t mention how she clambered into his bed in the middle of the night when she wakes.

It’s a week before Sawney visits Sarah.

It’s the day her monthly haul of food gets delivered from the Capitol. Sawney thinks it’s a great advertisement for it all; receive a wagon of food for winning the games! She packs her bag until it’s stuffed and bouncing on her hip with provisions and puts on her fanciest clothes before tying her hunting boots. Haymitch watches her as she flits to and from her pantry, trying to squeeze just one last thing into the bag.

“I can come with a bag,” he says and Sawney stills. Everything does, really, for a few seconds, her heart and the ticking of the clock.

“What.”

“I can come with a bag,” he repeats, rolling his eyes. “Don’t act like I’m asking you to marry you, sweetheart, it’s just an extra bag. I’ll drop it off and leave.”

Sawney doesn’t look at him, shoving a packet of yeast into one of her pockets. “You could stay there with me,” she suggests, and tries not to feel like she’s holding her heart in her hands. “We can go to the hob after, see Ripper?”

“Don’t have to bribe me for it,” says Haymitch, but Sawney can tell he kind of wants her to. He ran out of liquor this morning in his cup of coffee.

Snow still covers the district, and the two crunch through the untouched parts of it leading out of the village. Sawney has to link her arm through Haymitch’s as they get to the merchant district and it turns to slush, her leg having trouble with the slipperiness. They stop at the bakery, and the store Sawney gets her snare supplies from, and Sawney buys some wool for herself. She’s taken up knitting instead of drinking in the middle of the night, and gives Haymitch a new scarf every couple of days. It doesn’t always work, and sometimes she spills liquor all over the scarf. Haymitch never says if the scarf smells, but she’s not sure if he’d even be able to tell the difference between how the scarf smells and himself.

Sawney slows as they near Sarah’s house, a few minutes away from where Katniss’ mum lives, and Haymitch doesn’t mention when Sawney exaggerates her limp or when her sweaty hands wipe against his coat.

They stand together on the porch for a few minutes. Haymitch is silent and unmoving apart from where his hand holds Sawneys, supporting her. He ignores the quickening of her breath and the way she shuffles, but doesn’t let her turn around when she tries. Sawney scowls at him and he winks back, and she reaches up to knock on the door as if the action is going to spite him.

Sarah answers after a few seconds and smiles widely at Sawney, moving aside and ushering them in. “It’s so good to see you, Sawney,” she says and brings her into a tight hug before she’s stepped over the threshold, which Sawney returns with a chuckle. “And you too, Haymitch.”

Haymitch nods at her, and Sawney realises very suddenly that he failed to bring Aden home, not just her. He was their mentor. Sawney reaches out and tugs on the hem of his jacket, smiling at him when he looks at her. His lips quirk slightly and he says, “Sarah, nice to see you again. I’m sorry about Aden.”

Rolling her eyes, Sarah turns and moves the few feet towards the kitchen where she begins boiling the kettle, stocking the fire with coals. “I don’t blame either of you for Aden’s death,” she says firmly. “He died because of the games, but he didn’t die like the rest of the tributes do. He was happy, and loved. I have you two to thank for that.”

Sawney grunts and blinks. “We brought food,” she says instead of crying, because it’s all she seems to do recently and she’s sick of it. She begins to empty her bag onto the counter next to Sarah. 

“You don’t have to do this every month.”

“I want to.”

After offering them with cups of tea, Sarah sat down at the table with them. “When is the funeral?” She asked softly and Sawney tensed.

“It’s in the Capitol next week,” she said wryly. “So graciously organised by Snow himself.”

She was never given a choice about it, about what she wanted to do. There was no body to recover, and she hadn’t really thought about organising a memorial service until she received the phone call from Snow. It was open to the public, and all the victors had been invited. Anybody Sawney wanted was an afterthought, to be shoved on the train with her and Haymitch and then put at the back of the crowd. She hasn’t invited anyone, and doesn't plan on it. The Capitol isn’t a place suited for anybody not born there.

“How nice of him,” says Sarah, sipping her tea. 

Sawney snorts. “Just so lovely.”

“I’m sure we could organise something here. If you want?” Sarah offers and Sawney tenses slightly.

Haymitch slurps on his tea and Sawney shoots a look at him. “That’s such a great idea, isn’t it, dear?” He says, and Sawney knows there’s no room for wiggling here. “It would be nice. We can have it at that bloke’s house, the one with the wife? You went to their toasting.”

“Yeah, I did,” Sawney says. Haymitch knows their names because she’s cried about their toasting to him several times. “It was really nice.”

Katniss organises it, because she’s Katniss, and she may be the most unobservant person Sawney’s ever met but she has the biggest heart. It’s bigger than she thought it would be, and it hurts for Sawney to remember that her mum was popular, a merchant and a coal miner’s wife; all of Sawney’s mining crew, as well as her father’s old one, show up with their families, her mum’s friends, clients, neighbours, the Everdeens-and-Hawthornes and then people from the hob. Greasy Sae brings a tub of her stew and sets it on the kitchen table, ladling it out into the bowls from Sawney’s kitchen. She’d wanted to have it anywhere else but the village, but her house was the biggest in the district. Haymitch said that it was good to make new, nicer memories in it and Sawney had poured the bottles in his kitchen down the sink and they’d screamed at each other for an hour.

There’s speeches, short ones and long ones, about how kind and sunny Sawney’s mum was, about how she once beat up a guy at thirteen for her old friend Eileen, about how she made winter coats for kids free of charge. About her mum.

“You having fun, honey?” Andy asks after the beers get passed around. Sawney’s warm and happy, the fire roaring and snow falling outside. 

“I love you,” she grins up at him and he tips his head back and laughs at her, pointing his finger at her.

“You’ve had enough to drink, I think,” he giggles, and Sawney smiles toothily at him as he pulls her into a hug.

The whole thing is less about her mum’s death, the arm of Snow, and just about her mum. 

 

The Capitol Funeral is held in a large, white building in the city outskirts. Sawney and the other victors are mixed in with high-ranking Capitols, their bright skin and hair and ostentatious jewellery too bright against the black outfits. Sawney’s mum isn’t actually getting laid to rest anywhere near the Capitol, the whole thing just a media farce, an excuse for favourite victors to make speeches about someone they’ve never met and have it televised across Panem. Sawney isn’t allowed to make a speech and she has no doubt that it’s because of the trouble her mouth’s already gotten her into.

Finnick Odair, of all people, goes up first. He’s not wearing a shirt under his open suit jacket and Sawney snorts when he steps up to the podium. Haymitch elbows her as he says, “It’s with a heavy heart that I stand here today to welcome you all to the funeral of Ruth Carter. 

Her passing was so unexpected, and my heart goes out for Sawney, who I know misses her mum more than anything else. She told me she’s too sensitive to make a speech today, but gave me something to say for her, so; ‘I loved my mother as if she was a part of me. I miss her like a limb that still aches, even now, and I know I’m only standing here today because of the support from President Snow, who came to district twelve to give me his condolences in person. I thank all of you who have had my mother in your minds, like President Snow did, and I hope I serve her memory well.’”

Sawney doesn’t roll her eyes because of the camera trained on her face, and doesn't scream at him. She clenches her jaw until she’s sure her teeth are going to pop out and watches as, later, after many speeches from people whose faces Sawney can’t place, Haymitch leaves her side to stand behind the podium.

He’s in a black suit that Sawney’s seen before, a nicely worn, comfortable thing that makes her jaw relax, because it’s just Haymitch. He’s not sober and he's not drunk, in that comfortable middle where he can string a sentence together half-eloquently.

“Unlike most of you, I knew Ruth well,” he begins and Sawney’s face twitches. “I met her daughter whilst mentoring her for the games and had to bring back a broken Sawney for her mum to put back together. Most of our conversations were arguments, because I’m not a good influence and Ruth saw that.

I never liked her all that much, this demanding woman so much like her daughter that barged into my house at odd hours and told me off. That trait runs in the family. The only thing I ever liked about her was the way she loved Sawney, who deserved it most of all. She shouted at me to help her daughter, slapped me when I couldn’t, left me alone to try, because she loved her in a way that consumed everything around her. The only civil conversation we ever had was about Sawney. Her and Aden, and everything that came along with that. Ruth cried for hours. She was a good person, and an even better mum. She’d be proud of you, Sawney.”

Haymitch nods and walks away from the podium, over to Sawney, who rolls wet eyes at him and laughs thickly. “You’re a fucker,” she murmurs as the next person stands up and he winks one blue eye at her. His hair’s fluffy, and Sawney likes his stylist quite a bit.

“She’d be so proud, sweetheart,” he says and Sawney laughs a sob. They’re ignoring Cecilia from district eight as she wipes a tear and it makes Sawney laugh even harder and knock her shoulder against Haymitch’s.

“Fuck you,” she says, and she hears one of the Capitols behind her gasp. Haymitch smiles on of his lopsided half-grins at her and Sawney leans against him, sniffing. One of his arms cradles her shoulders and reaches up to smooth her hair away from her face. Haymitch rests his chin on the crown of her head and says nothing. He’s warm, a piece of home.

Sawney doesn’t clench her jaw again until President Snow hands her a cream envelope after the cameras turn off with her next client laid out inside. 

Notes:

for some reason i kept thinking nothing was happening in this chapter whilst i was writing it like my girl sore knee hadn't become an orphan and been forced into prostitution
also no, i cant write a speech to save my life, no one mention it

Chapter 10

Notes:

i arise from my slumber part 3 (SORRY)

Sawney eventually went back to the tailor shop, a month after she returned from the Capitol Funeral.

 

She was born in the back room, that entire lifetime ago. Her mum had worked until she was waddling around at nine months, back when people could afford to buy clothes occasionally, and she didn’t realise she was in labour until she was in too much pain to move. Katniss’ mum was busy with somebody who’d accidentally hacked their hand off, so Delly Cartwright’s mum had to coax Sawney out of her mum with her gentle merchant hands, cut the cord for her dad, who was away at work. Sawney had been told how she was a loud crier, how she hadn’t stopped until she fell asleep later in the day, how she hadn’t opened her eyes until the morning. Her mum called her stubborn, determined, even as a baby when she refused food or taught herself to crawl earlier than other kids. 

 

The back room was filled with racks, some full and some empty, others with projects of varying states and colours lining them. Sawney’s mum had made all the clothes back here, and she traced the ancient sewing machine with her reverent fingers. 

 

“You could learn how to sew,” said Haymitch. Sawney turned her head to look at him with a half smile. He was leaning against the door jamb, arms crossed. 

 

“She already taught me,” she said. “I knew how to work a needle before I ever touched a knife. My mum wanted me to take over the shop one day, not to spend my whole life mining.”

 

“You still can.”

 

Sawney shook her head at him. “Victors can’t have jobs, Haymitch.”

 

“It could be your special talent. We can hold off on it for a bit longer if it is.”

 

Sawney turned back to the sewing station, contemplating. She didn’t want to touch her mum’s stuff, wanted to be able to leave some of it where it was forever, dust it off occasionally. “Not with any of this,” she said. “New fabrics, new machines, the whole lot.”

 

“I’ll call Effie up.”

 

It was hard, fingering through the garments hung up and recognising ones her mum had brought home and loving crafted by the fire. She felt guilty when she started gathering clothes to give away to people from the seam, felt that she was just throwing aside her mum’s life work. Trying to lighten herself up, she kept on pulling out brightly coloured pieces that were probably shipped out to the poorer parts of the Capitol and gave them to Haymitch. “You should try this one,” she said every time she handed him a bright orange dress or a pair of sheer, sparkling tights, and he scoffed at her every time. He hung them all up carefully on their own rack, though, brushing out creases in fabrics.

 

The picture of Sawney and her father behind the counter, in a worn wooden frame, made her pause when she went back there. It was faded, black and white and old like all of Twelve, but she remembered when it was taken vividly. She had been nine and it was a Sunday, a day of rest for her father, but he had gotten up at the crack of dawn anyway and made breakfast for her and her mum. They’d spent the day together, the three of them, packing a small meal of bread and cheese for an impromptu picnic in a field. The sun had blinded them as they stood for the picture, but their grins were wide and happy. Sawney pocketed it after a moment before leaving the shop with Haymitch.

 

The door still had to be pulled flush against its frame, and kicked in the bottom left corner or it wouldn’t lock properly. Sawney thought she was getting better and left with only fond memories that overtook her burning hatred for Snow for a few brief days.

---

Sawney was called back to the Capitol every month for a week, still in high demand. Most of her clients were pitiful and gentle, talking about the loss of her mum and how brave she was, the perfect victor. It took a lot of effort to not stab them with butter knives or gouge their eyes out, but Sawney managed it in a way she was very proud of.

 

There were bad days, always, after she returned, where Haymitch had to spoon feed and wash her, zip up her clothes when she wasn’t lucid. Those clear moments that she can remember are always few and far between after a Capitol trip, and she spends most of her time otherwise wondering who and where she is, asking for her mum or where Aden is, crying through snot.

 

She takes up hobbies in a frenzy when her mind returns to her, and Haymitch knows to check the back porch for her if she’s not wallowing in her bed. Gardening, sewing, knitting, baking, painting - she tries it all. She has the money to waste now, after all. She usually has to go to bed when she remembers why, memories flashing behind her eyes like some sick Capitol film. She rarely acknowledges that that was all they were, the worst moments of her life just that season’s craze; it makes her fume when she does, and Sawney doesn’t like how she argues with Haymitch when it happens.

 

The garden, the one they share now, because Sawney’s not exactly safe on her own after her mum’s death, grows slowly. Effie sends over tools and seeds, plants that are already grown and just need to be put in the ground, when Haymitch asks, and Sawney spends her spare time weeding and digging at the barely-fertile land twelve has. Sometimes she has screaming matches with the goose when she goes out the back in the mornings, greeted by half-eaten flowers and herbs. 

 

She was kneeling in freshly laid soil when Gale showed up, a hulking, stained figure on her porch. He treads around her trowels and stands above her, blocking out the sun, just a silhouette. 

 

“Katniss is pregnant,” he said. It’s grim, and makes Sawney freeze immediately. 

 

“Oh,” she replied, putting down her primrose plant. “I thought she didn’t want kids.”

 

“She doesn’t.”

 

“Do you?” Sawney asked harshly, because Gale had always been a little selfish. She’d never really liked him, the kill-stealing, rude miner that haunted her school years. Only Katniss. Gale shrugged and Sawney glared at him. “ Gale . Did you want a kid?” She repeated and his silence was answer enough.

 

“Get out,” she said, firm. Her jaw was clenched and her hands were fisting in her trousers. “My purse is in my bag, take out money to get rid of it. Then leave.”

 

“We’re not doing that ,” he spat. “That’s for Capitols.”

 

“Where’s Katniss?” Sawney ignored him, pushing off the ground as she stood up slowly, straightening her bad leg out until it cracked loudly, fixed.

 

“She’s not here,” said Gale and Sawney rolled her eyes at him before clambering past and back into the house. She didn’t check if he was following, but he was standing behind her when she turned, a wad of cash in her hand. He looked at her, incredulous, offended. “I’m not taking that. We don’t need it.”

 

“It’s not fucking charity , Gale, I’m the richest person in the district,” she sneered, thrusting her hand out. 

 

He stepped back and laughed darkly. “I’m not taking your blood money,” he said and Sawney reeled back as if he’d slapped her.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“You don’t get to wave it around wherever you can, Sawney. People may have forgiven you and forgot about what you’ve done, but you’re still a murderer. You’re still a victor ,” he said it as if the word was a slur and Sawney barked a laugh at him, lifeless even to her own ears.

 

“You were the one who told me to win, that it was no different from game,” she said back, because he had, once. Sometimes she repeated his words back to herself after a dream about Star’s crunching bones and popping eyes, about nameless people she’d stabbed and slain.

 

“Nobody thought you’d actually win, Sawney.”

 

“So it’s different because I have?” She’s started to shout now, and hears the faint thumps of Haymitch moving around upstairs. “You can’t fucking judge me, Gale!”

 

He shook his head in disbelief. “We all saw what you did. We all saw.”

 

“But then you hugged me when I came back! Invited me to your toasting as if I was-”

 

“Which you left in the middle of!” He shouted back. Sawney thinks that Gale is now the only person alive that could match her touchy temper.

 

“And I feel really bad about it, Gale. Is that what you want, huh, my apologies?” She screams. “I’m sorry for leaving your toasting because I was traumatised, and I’m so sorry for you having to watch me fight to the fucking death. How inconsiderate of me! I should’ve thought about you first.”

 

“You can’t expect us to go on as if everything’s normal. You killed people, and it’s shown on the screens every day, and so is you prancing around like a peacock at the Capitol. I mean, seriously, Sawney, you hang off the arms of them wherever you go. It makes me sick.”

 

“Then turn off the screen!” She said with a scoff. “If you don’t want to see it, Gale, then it’s that easy.”

 

He rolled his eyes at her then looked at her with so much disgust that she felt suddenly vulnerable, even more judged than with the Capitol’s peering eyes on her. “You’re so different now,” he said, but Sawney could almost smell the venom lying on his tongue, unsaid. “I don’t know how you can live with yourself. You’re one of them .” A monster, a child-killer; all that’s left unsaid still hangs from Gale’s lips.

 

She pursed her lips, staring at him. Her arm was still half outstretched, and she shoved the money in his shirt pocket violently. “Get out,” she ordered. “Get rid of the baby that Katniss doesn’t even want before you call me a monster.”

 

It was final, and Sawney watched stiffly as Gale stomped out of the house, knocking his shoulder into Haymitch as he passed him. “I didn’t hear you come downstairs,” she said to him instead of acknowledging the argument. The door slammed hard enough to shake the house and Sawney looked away from Haymitch, sheepish.

 

“Well,” he replied, “he is a loud lad.”

 

Sawney snorted, peeking up at him searchingly but there was no judgement, no agreement with Gale, no distaste for her in his face. Haymitch was always some unreadable being, snarky and drunk and mysterious and it annoyed her a lot of the time. He raised an eyebrow at her silence and her cheeks flushed, caught. “He is,” she agreed.

 

“Very insightful, sweetheart,” he said, huffing a breath of a laugh through his nose. “Have you fed the goose?”

 

Because that was the most important thing to Haymitch, the goose, and not prying up Sawney’s layers and sitting her down to talk. She appreciated him quite a bit at that moment. “The goose you threatened to eat?” She replied. “He munched on my bushes this morning, he’s not getting anything else.”

 

“Oh, I didn’t notice him in bed with us earlier,” teased Haymitch, his lips quirking in amusement at his own joke.

 

Sawney snorted and rolled her eyes. “Hardy-har,” she sneered. “You’re so funny, Mr Abernathy.”

 

“You don’t have to tell me that, my love,” he drawled in an impression of Finnick, flipping his hair over his shoulder. “I hear it so much it’s beginning to bore , be more original.”

 

Haymitch wasn’t very good at impressions, but Sawney laughed at his joke all the same, albeit a tad too loudly. He looked at her with questioning eyes and Sawney looked away, standing upright from where she’d been leaning against the counter. “I should get back outside before the goose decides to eat my trowel next,” she said with a tinny laugh. Sawney would refuse to ever admit that she fled, would later slap Haymitch when he accused her of doing it too much, but she knew in the tense set of her shoulders and the scamper of her feet that it was the truth. She was never very good at feelings. 

 

Haymitch looked at her with pity when she woke up screaming in the middle of the night. She ignored him until the silence became too clingy and then she turned and shouted at him to go back to sleep and leave her alone before she stabbed him. She wasn’t angry when Haymitch woke her up a few hours later with his own nightmare, but looked at him with exaggerated, pitying eyes and a pouty lip until he grumbled and rolled over, calm now.

 

“You’re so fucking annoying,” he muttered and Sawney snorted, hooking her chin over his shoulder.

 

“But baby, don’t you love it?” She teased her own crappy Finnick impression. She ran her hands over his chest and giggled. “We can have so much fun now that we’re both awake, my sweet little darling honey angel, don’t you agree?”

 

Haymitch chuckled and shook his head. “You’re not gonna win any prizes with that Finnick,” he said and Sawney made the little humming noises that Finnick did when he was working with a client before spluttering out a small laugh.

 

On Sawney’s next trip to the Capitol, three weeks after her argument with Gale, the train stopped at district four to pick up Finnick. “Hello, my darling,” he greeted her with a hum. “You are looking ravishing today.” Sawney’s drink came back up through her nose because of her laughter.

---

In the week leading up to her birthday, the phone went off in Haymitch’s house. It wasn’t a common occurrence, and Sawney thought nothing of it, expecting one of Effie’s bi-montly conversations that could last hours. She groaned at Haymitch as she stood up from the kitchen table, making her way to where the phone was fixed to the wall in the hallway. 

 

It was a heavy, clunky, cream thing that was perpetually sticky and Sawney grimaced as she picked the receiver up. “Effie?” She said into it, tucking her shoulder against the doorframe.

 

“Unfortunately not, Miss Carter, it’s just me,” President Snow said and Sawney froze. She unofficially lived with Haymitch, but it wasn’t exactly common knowledge; just last week Sarah had gone to Sawney’s house to drop off some stew, thinking she lived there. Sawney tried not to shudder as the reality of Snow’s power settled on her shoulders.

 

“President Snow,” she said, and Haymitch snapped his head up to look at her, oddly serious. It was barely noon, and the spring sun lit up his hair, golden and waxy. He raised an eyebrow and Sawney nodded. “Do you want me to pass the phone to Haymitch?”

 

Snow laughed down the snow, a raspy thing that belonged to the miners and not the president. “Quite the opposite, my dear,” he chuckled. “I’m merely ringing to inform you of your birthday celebrations.”

 

“I didn’t realise there were any.”

 

“Of course there are, especially for the most recent victor. A train will come in five days time to bring you to the Capitol,” he said. “There’ll be a few parties, of course, and you’ll have to stick to your usual duties also. The most exciting event is the shoot you’ll be doing, though.”

 

“Shoot?” Sawney said simply. Haymitch’s jaw clenched and Sawney wiped a hand down her trousers.

 

“Yes,” replied Snow. “It’s with Mr Odair. The citizens have noticed what good friends you are, and I thought it would be a lovely treat for them.”

 

This was true, the publicity of Sawney and Finnick. They were always booked in at the same parties, hanging off people, their faces snapped and put in magazines constantly. Sawney was wholly unfamiliar with most of the victors, and especially didn’t trust any of the ones that did the same job as her, most of them careers. She only spoke to Finnick because Haymitch trusted him.

 

“Right,” said Sawney. A fucking porno . “Perhaps a…private audience would be better? Exclusivity and everything.”

 

Snow hummed and Sawney’s ear twitched. “You and Mr Odair are both quite popular.”

 

“Then surely access would fetch a pretty penny.”

 

“I’ll think about it, Miss Carter,” he said, and Sawney took that as a no. It seemed he was determined on making her as much of a commodity as possible. “I’ve sent word to Miss Trinket to debrief you on your full schedule, and she’ll be there as your escort once more.”

 

“Okay.”

“It was lovely to talk to you, Miss Carter,” he said, and Sawney’s muscles tensed at his tone, the slightly amused one that always brought trouble. “Do congratulate Mrs Hawthorne on her pregnancy for me. The joys of life are always so sweet.”

 

When Sawney spoke, she was surprised words could escape her mouth around her lead tongue. “I will,” she choked out. “Goodbye, President Snow.”

 

Sawney didn’t wait for his response before slamming the phone down, and wondered what violent client she’d be shacked up with as punishment. Almost at the same moment, Haymitch said, “I think a walk would be nice.”

 

Sawney didn’t really think her house would have bugs, let alone Haymitch’s, but it did, apparently. She nodded, a little numb, and didn't even make fun of Haymitch when he knocked the table with his hip as he walked to her.

 

“Good weather today,” she said as she tied the laces of her hunting boots. 

 

“Very seasonal,” he replied.

 

It was early May, still in that delightful grace period of soft sun and gentle breezes after harsh winters. Sawney usually couldn’t find it in herself to be sad about anything in early spring, all her innermost crevices bathed in sunlight, but she felt she was stood in shadow as she stumbled down the front porch, sick to her stomach.

 

“ Haymitch ,” she gasped out, turning violenting and fisting his shirt in her hands. “He can’t , he can’t-”

 

“Not now,” he hissed, dragging her away and towards the end of the square, where a long expanse of grassy fields separated the village from the fence. She sped along beside him, struggling to keep up and wondering, in a brief moment of hysteria, how an alcoholic could ever manage to walk so fast. Haymitch came to a stop in the middle of the field, turning to Sawney. “You’re going to be fine, sweetheart, I promise.”

“Why is he doing this to me?” Sawney asked and latched onto the flicker of Haymitch’s eyes, the same uncertainty he had all those months ago when Sawney lay in a hospital bed, freshly remade. “What? Haymitch, what aren’t you telling me?”

 

“Sawney, your actions had consequences, all over the districts,” said Haymitch, waving a hand to shush Sawney when she opened her mouth, confused. “When your girl from Seven died, three districts rioted. Peacekeepers had to go in with guns, okay? It was serious, and a massive undercut to Snow’s power.”

 

“I didn’t fucking mean-”

 

“I know!” Haymitch snapped. “But your actions caused them, the selfless, kind things you did for those kids. Even people in the Capitol were talking about it, alright? People started asking for more than one victor. It was real bad, sweetheart.”

 

“And you didn’t think to tell me this before?” Sawney shouted, taking a step away from Haymitch. “My mum is dead! You’re going to stand there and tell me I could’ve stopped that?”

 

“Sweetheart, I told you many times he wasn’t making it out of there so you shoulda just given up the first time,” he said. “Your mum was gonna die anyway, now or sometime later. Snow had to punish you somehow.”

“So the prostitution wasn’t enough?” Sawney cried, one hand raised. “When is he going to stop, Haymitch?”

Haymitch sighed, shrugged, shuffled his feet; avoided her. “When he runs out of people you love,” he answered after a moment. “You’re on this train forever, sweetheart. Even when the excitement of you wears off, you’ll be going to the Capitol every year to mentor and to do whatever Snow wants you to. I’m sorry, Sawney.”

“Would it’ve been the same for Aden?” Sawney asked quietly, and lurched back when Haymitch nodded. “Snow’s dead , Haymitch, I’m gonna do it myself, just-”

 

Haymitch let her rant and rage for all of five minutes before sitting down beside her when the ultimate reality of her future crashed over her. It was a sobering, heavy thing that pushed tears out of Sawney. She thought, wildly and with a frenzy that Haymitch’s sombre face quickly shut down, of running away, packing her bag with food and escaping off into the woods. They’ll hunt you down , he said when she grabbed his shoulder and suggested it. 

 

“We could find a paradise, Haymitch, just for us,” she begged him. “Make one, whatever.”

 

“We have to find peace of mind first, if we ever can. We’ve been dealt pretty shit cards, haven’t we?” Haymitch chuckled grimly, bringing Sawney into his side with one arm.

 

She thought of Aden and Rose and Prim and Betty bleeding out in manmade plains, of miners dead in explosions, and nodded. “The worst.” Haymitch squeezed her and rubbed his hand over her shoulder. Sawney sighed and stretched her legs out in front of her before groaning. “I hate Finnick.”

 

Haymitch barked out a laugh, but let her continue with her usual tirade about the victor, even though most of it wasn’t true anymore. She respected Finnick, in that weird way only a fellow victor can, and her heart sometimes twinged when she thought of the life he’d never get to have; fishing, the ocean, a family, stability, comfort, Annie . Her words started to get harsher, more horrible, when she realised they were now the same, two sides of the same coin, and she’d never get to be happy either. 

---

Gale didn’t come to see her off at the station.

 

Sawney wasn’t spectacularly surprised, didn’t gasp and go into an outrage when she saw Katniss standing by herself, a good distance from Andy and Amy. She hugged them first, pulling lightly on Amy’s braids and saying how she’d probably grow another inch in the month Sawney would be gone. Andy clutched her tightly to him, one firm arm around her waist and the other against her upper back. “You behave yourself, now,” he said and Sawney chuckled, snorting around a couple sudden tears.

 

“I’ll be fine,” she promised. “Just don’t turn your screen on, okay? Please.” Sawney wasn’t sure when or what would be broadcast about her, but in the event of Snow deciding that everyone should get to watch her and Finnick, she didn’t want Andy to see. 

 

“Promise,” he said and Sawney ignored the frown that pulled on his lips as she pulled him in for another hug.

 

Her goodbyes to Katniss, and then to Sarah, were similar, entirely unsubtle and terrifying. Sawney wondered which one would be the next on Snow’s list, and dutifully stepped onto the train when Effie called her over.

 

The train still managed to mesmerise her whenever she got on it, with its glimmering surfaces and plush furniture. When it was stationary and Sawney looked out the window, the contrast sometimes made her feel weird, guilty, undeserving. Even the cutlery she ate her dinner with was shinier than any she’d ever seen in twelve. Sawney always had a hard time adjusting to the sheer luxury and wastefulness of the Capitol.

 

The train arrived at the Capitol by sunrise. Effie had told her she was to be greeted by a few victors and the rest of the Capitol, and then be whisked off to be remade by her prep team in team for the interview and following party later in the evening. Sawney hadn’t slept, and Effie had violently covered the gauntness of her face with makeup in the morning, scowling and muttering about how difficult she and Haymitch were. It was almost enough to make Sawney stop being stressed.

 

Sawney stiffened in Finnick’s hug at the train station, and puked in the first bin she found, away from the screaming Capitols.

 

Her prep team were even worse, showering her with hugs and kisses and firm hands whilst tugging on her dead hair and bemoaning her general lack of upkeep. Sawney hissed and scowled at them when they waxed her body and shoved her into a thin, long dress the colour of the sky. Sawney always hated when she ended up looking nice, feeling like the Capitol had won whatever battle she’d concocted in her head.

 

Sawney thought she’d get a slight reprieve with Caesar’s interview. He was no longer green, but a bright, shining yellow, like a great ball of pure endless light outside the tribute centre. She laughed at his jokes, twirled around in circles when he complimented her dress, and answered his question like the gleaming golden girl she was.

 

Until Caesar leaned in with a meddling look on his face and whispered, loudly, “Finnick has been seen with you quite a lot recently. Do you have anything to say about that?”

 

Sawney forced a laugh, leaning away from Caesar’s orange face. “Just friends,” she denied, desperately. “Me and Haymitch are always together, too, Caesar, are you going to ask me a question about him?”

 

Caesar laughed uproariously along with the crowd. “Haymitch is no Finnick Odair,” he chuckled after a moment. 

 

He’s better , Sawney thought. “You’ve got me there,” she giggled instead, shrugging and acting ditzy. 

 

When the interview ended, she dived back into the building before she did something stupid like cry.

Capitol parties made Sawney want to burn the entire city to the ground. They were always full of everything , from foods Sawney couldn’t even pronounce to people whose names she couldn’t care to remember or to the sheer amount of colours that blinded. 

 

“You have to be seen with Finnick tonight,” said Haymitch when they were in the car on their way to the venue.

 

“What?” Sawney said, sounding too young and gutted. “I can’t stay with you?” Her hand had started shaking, after her games, shaking and shaking, causing flutters in her writing and spilt soup. Haymitch gently rested two fingers atop it and Sawney balled the offending hand into a fist. “Why not?”

 

“Because they like you and Finnick,” he said and Sawney wanted to carve out his brain and study his emotions when she looked at his unreadable face. 

 

“For how long?”

 

“Until they get sick of it.”

 

Sawney found Finnick eventually, sequestered away in a room on a plush sofa with Johanna Mason and, on a matching sofa opposite them, Haymitch, the fucker . She didn’t wait to be invited over before settling next to Haymitch, slipping his full glass out of his hands with her own wobbly one, sipping on it. “‘Ello,” she said simply and Haymitch snorted. “I am exhausted .”

 

“Finished?” Haymitch said and Sawney hummed her assent, knocking her shoulder into his. She’d already serviced her client of the night, an oddly genuine man who Sawney thought only wanted a quick shag for the sake of company. 

 

“What are you doing?” She asked, peering at Johanna, who looked away from her conversation with Finnick to send her a sneer.

 

“We were enjoying ourselves,” she said, crossing one leg over the other.

 

Sawney giggled and reached out one hand to place it on Johanna’s leg. “Well,” she said, “now we can enjoy ourselves together. As a family.”

 

Finnick threw his head back with a laugh as Johanna shook her head, pushing Sawney’s hand off her. “How drunk are you?” He asked, eyes twinkling in delight. 

 

She scowled at him and Johanna chuckled. “Your dress is ripped,” she said. “That fun, was it?”

 

“Yeah,” she mocked, “I love getting raped.”

 

“Sawney,” warned Haymitch, tugging on her hair harshly. “Behave.”

“You fucking behave,” she said, indignant, but settled back into her seat anyway. Sawney crossed her arms and legs and scowled.   

 

Haymitch scoffed. “When you return to another dead friend don’t come crying to me, sweetheart,” he said, curling his lip at her. They’d both drunk a bit too much already, firmly in the cruel, mean mood they frequented more when in the Capitol.

 

“I’m already sleeping with him,” she retorted, jabbing her bad hand in Finnick’s direction. “It’s not like he can punish me on top of that.”

“I’ve been told I’m quite a generous lover,” said Finnick and Sawney rolled her eyes at him.

 

“I think Annie’s brain is too mangled to say words that big,” she spat and Haymitch pinched her leg, hard enough to bruise, as Johanna barked a laugh. Finnick, for a moment, had a frown pulling at his lips, big blue eyes sad, before he put on a grin, all teeth, and laughed.

 

He stared at her, head cocked to the side, and Sawney felt like she was being appraised. She tilted her chin up at him and resisted the urge to walk out the room. “I didn’t think you could get any ruder,” he said, “but you’re even worse than at your tribute parade.”

 

“I was fun at my parade,” she snapped. “I wore heels!” She’d only worn them two or three times since, and it was the only thing Sawney thought was good about her bum leg.

 

“You tried to break Effie’s toes with them,” said Haymitch dryly, and Sawney flushed when Johanna and Finnick laughed. She always got more sensitive after a drink or few, and she felt belittled, like an ant being burned under a magnifying lens. Her bed was calling to her.

 

Sawney shrugged one shoulder, a frown twisting at her face as she frowned. “I miss my games,” she admitted. Haymith’s shoulder tensed against her briefly before he laughed, bitter. “Effie was nice to me beforehand.”

 

“She’s still nice to you,” scoffed Haymitch. “She doesn’t have to send you all the junk for your monthly hobby.”

“I’m not the one who asks her for it,” said Sawney, avoiding Haymitch’s eyes with a wry smile as she kicked her leg back and forth. “Can we go home yet?”

 

There was something like pity in Finnick’s eyes, something that made Sawney tilt her chin down and twist the rings around on her fingers. “You’ve got a couple more days left, I think,” he said.

 

“Have fun!” Johanna said, smiling mischievously, the edges of her lips sharp like they always were. Sawney didn’t think Johanna liked her. She didn’t blame her.

 

---

The shoot with Finnick came quickly, violent with the force of it. Sawney thought the lead up had been worse, constantly being asked about Finnick by Caesar and the two of them being forced together in social circles. Finnick’s overwhelming presence made her miss Haymitch more than anything - his  gleaming smiles and skimpy clothing made her skin itch with the need for her home. Only in the moments between, with the two of them in cars or alone in rooms for a few seconds, did Sawney catch a semblance of Finnick , the one she’d spied on through a window once, the one who had a girl waiting back home, the one who wasn’t a victor, just the same as she was. Somehow, it made Sawney hate him more and she wondered if she was capable of empathy, ever, stood in dark corners with someone the same as her and wanted to gouge his eyes out still. 

 

Effie woke her up the morning of, her obnoxious smile dimmed as she ushered Sawney to breakfast and then to her prep team. The lack of Effie’s Effieness didn’t do anything but unnerve Sawney and make her feel worse as she got waxed in near silence, a near miracle. Sawney wondered if Effie had said something and vowed to behave perfectly at her next event in thanks. Haymitch had gone back to twelve early, and so Effie had been the one lugging her body back to cars after parties. Sawney wonders, selfishly, if Haymitch had gone home because he didn’t want to see the shoot occur, or watch her undoubtedly crumble afterwards. She hates him for it.

 

Finnick is kind, at least, in that pitying way of his that leaves Sawney feeling disgusted and ripped bare open. He slips hard candies in her palm, neon orange and blue, and she takes them without question. She looks at him after popping them down her throat, her chest sparking and rattling about with her nerves. “I can’t,” she shudders and Finnick narrows his eyes at her, not in an unkind way.

 

“You have to,” he bumps his shoulder with hers. Sawney notices he’s wearing fake eyelashes and almost laughs, incredulous. “What else can we do?”

 

“We can just not ,” she replies, and she knows she’s pleading to something, desperate. “We can all just stop being victors and go home, or run off into the woods. Into the ocean , Finnick, wouldn’t that be nice?”

 

“We would be doing it alone,” he smiles bitterly. “You know that, Sawney. This is it for us.”

 

Her eyelashes itch her eyes, plastered with makeup that makes her feel heavy and droopy. She exhales sharply, defeated. Her fits of anger, of rebellion, never lasted long, sputtering out like a match. “I don’t want to do this,” she admits, her tongue getting heavier in her mouth, more unmanageable. Briefly, she’s scared she’s going to cry. Her hands wont stop shaking and her heart’s about to jump out her chest, she’s sure, and bounce along the white linoleum in front of her. She’d not sure it would even faze Finnick.

 

It’s over as quickly as it began, in the end, and Effie has to wash puke out of Sawney’s hair in the shower. Televised across all of Panem, live , she’d been bent over and presented, high out of her mind. In the pink lights that blinded her, she’s sure her scars looked almost pretty, shining with the glitter she’d been slathered in. Under the warmth of Finnick, she didn’t look so jagged and terrible, bathing in the glow of thoughts, lost somewhere else. Sawney’s sure that her performance resembled a flopping fish rather than the agile bodies of Cashmere or Gloss, and thrills at the idea that, perhaps, she wouldn’t be wanted for a shoot ever again.

---

Twelve’s train platform awaits her two days later, grey and bleak and familiar. No one waits for her on it, and so Sawney begins the slow traipse back to Victor’s Village by herself, the early summer sun dancing across her cheekbones. She cuts behind the houses, brushing her hand along the tops of wildflowers, oddly content. The smell is friendly, of coal and grass and dampness, not particularly likeable. 

 

Beggar children line the streets as she gets closer to the town centre, running about with laughter in the sun. Proof of rain squelches beneath Sawney’s boots and she laughs when one of them tags her into the game, chasing after them with a renewed sense of life, leaving them with the food and money from her bag. 

 

She avoids the gazes of adults, judging and pitying, going the long way home to ensure she wouldn’t see Andy or Katniss or anybody she knew. The porch light is still on from the previous night when she stomps up the stairs of Haymitch’s house and the door opens with a creak.

 

She can see him sat at the dining table from the entryway, flowers from her garden in a vase before him, pink and yellow and orange. Faltering, briefly, she dumps her bags by the door, leaving it open to air out the house; it smells, disgustingly, of Haymitch’s sweat. She leans her hip against the arch to the kitchen, smiling at Haymitch in a disjointed way. She’s oddly scared of him for a moment, because she can hear the tele going in the other room, can sense, somehow, that he’d watched it.

 

“Have fun?” He asks, finally, lips twitching with mirth because he’s just so funny, and Sawney laughs. She throws her head back with the force of it, more out of relief than anything.

 

“Effie hates me,” she replies with a grin, slipping into the chair opposite him. “You’re never allowed to leave her alone again. I think she might kill me next time.”

 

“I think she’s planning to quit before the reaping,” says Haymitch, fingering the glass in front of him. “She’s been dying to get rid of me for years. And you’re even worse.”

 

Sawney should have known Haymitch would be waiting up, strong and unshakeable.

Notes:

this is roughly 7k but the majority was written over a year ago and the rest tacked on after almost half a year without writing anything, so sorry for the ridiculous drop in quality lol. i felt that the shoot was necessary in terms of sawney's progression as a victor but was a bit uncomfortable writing it; i coudlnt capture the essence it needed at all so decided to just whiz through it
about this fic's future, considering it's been a year since the last chapter, im never going to fully leave it i think. sawney and haymitch take up a shocking amount of my brain, rent free, and i have the next act largely thought out , plot wise. updates will always be at my usual snail's pace with horrendous tense continuity and flipflopping of everyone's characterisation, unfortunately. sucks, considering this character focused. eg, remembered that i despise gale at the start of writing this and turned him into cunty mccuntface
ABSOLUTELY no promises on when the next chapter will b out lol, hopefully in the next 7 years
(+ unsure about spacing etc in this chapter so sorry if its ugly)

Chapter 11

Notes:

pls ignore any mistakes - bad chapter that i didn't want to read through to edit anymore than i had to, sorry

In the early hours of the day, when the sun just begins to blossom and spread onto the garden, Sawney usually sits and muses. Sometimes, when she dreams of her mother, nicely, in ways that make her feel like holding a warm mug of tea, her thoughts are equally light. Mostly, she stomps through the recesses of her mind with anger and fear.

 

The year before she’d been reaped, it had been the mayor’s daughter. Rich, kind, untouchable; nothing had stopped her name being pulled. Sawney had stood, sweat sticking her dress to her back, and had felt some kind of sick vindication as Madge walked up the stage, hand pressed over her mouth. It had been brief, as most of her feelings were, but it had stuck with her more than the dull numbness that followed Madge’s death. 

Sawney wasn’t sure if she’d been born bitter, but can remember herself cringing at her mother’s mere presence before she’d even hit ten, so it wasn’t too far of a stretch. She supposed, when she wakes up from nightmares where her hands drown in blood, that she was bound to end up in the arena someday, her chosen punishment.

 

Madge had died in the bloodbath that year. It somehow made it worse, seeing her heave breaths in and panic as she stood on her plate. It did make it worse. Aden, all of thirteen, had done the same, frozen in fear when the gong finally went off. Sawney had gone out the back door and spat bile onto the grass when Madge’s head had been cleaved in and she’d fallen onto the desert floor ten feet from her plate. She didn’t have a fucking chance.

 

In the slow weeks after her shoot, when she woke, Sawney’s thoughts went in circles around Finnick. Rather, about Annie. She wonders whether he’d loved her before she’d gone mad, or if it had begun after she got back from her games; she’s not sure what answer she prefers. Sawney rolls them around in her mind, half angry and half upset; their lost future worse than the dead tributes’. It’s not a pretty thought. 

 

She admires her hands in the morning light, too. Her games were supposed to end with the smell of blood and water, the remnants of her limbs fading away into some long lost memory in the backs of people’s minds. Aden was supposed to win, supposed to run home into Sarah’s arms and never have to worry another day in his life; instead, Sawney wallows in the streets. It was some sick, cruel joke of Snow to not fix her up, she thinks, to leave the proof of her failure littering her body. She knew the Capitols liked it, that they thought she was new and interesting compared to Finnick’s unblemished skin, and knew they liked to look at her like a specimen floating in a jar, dead but never resting. 

 

Haymitch will eventually stomp down the stairs and break her thoughts, on cue with the goose waking up and screeching at her every morning. He’ll make two coffees, pouring some god awful spirit into his and an abundance of sugar into hers. Then, she’ll think about him. 

Sawney doesn’t know how Haymitch won his games, doesn’t know anything about his life as an early victor. They’re on uneven footing but even Sawney’s not insensitive enough to ask about it; he’s attractive even as an alcoholic, middle-aged man, so it’s not too difficult to guess. Sometimes she’ll think about him before her, all alone in his house and leading children to the slaughter every year on cue, and sets her day off in the wrong direction.

 

She wonders if she had siblings when she says, “thanks,” and wonders if he’d been in love when she takes her first sip of her drink. She’ll ask one day, in some dreamscape she has where the two of them are fine , and the games don’t exist and she feels safe.

 

“Shut that fucking thing up,” he’ll eventually grumble, hungover and ready to murder Sawney’s pet goose.

Their days bleed together into a swath of sweet nothingness, early June fading far too quickly. The air turns sour, tense and uncomfortable as the reaping approaches. Sawney walks barren streets, past houses that spout tinny laughter, erring too far into the side of fear. She walked hand in hand with Amy everyday after school, occasionally bringing her back to pet the goose, because of course the girl had taken a liking to it. She saw Andy less, unsurprisingly, because he’s constantly in the mines, and avoids Gale out of fear of violence; she never did like to upset Katniss, who has the beginnings of a bump. 

 

“Kids , Katniss?” Sawney says one day, one hand clinging to her friends’. It’s raining, the torrential pour of early summer and Sawney has to half shout to be heard about the droplets on the roof.

 

Katniss huffs and looks away. “I know, Sawney, god,” she says, and she was never a very good liar. “But it might not happen.”

Sawney had shot up, flinging her hands above her head. Katniss stares with her hazel eyes, and Sawney can see the lies in them. They both know she’s wrong. “You’re one of my closest friends, Katniss. If any kid gets fucking pulled it’ll be one of yours,” she spews past the rock in her throat.

 

Katniss frowns and picks at the loose thread on her sleeve. “I can’t help it, Sawney. It was an accident.”

 

And it goes the same, every time; Sawney will say she gave money for an abortion, and Katniss will say they used it for Posy, who’d had a bad fever, and they’d both ignore the fact that Sawney was rich enough to feed the district, because it’s done now. 

 

Her child will get pulled one day, far from now. Sawney will have to guide it willingly to its death, as she’ll have to do in the coming weeks. She ignores it to the point of arrogance, smiling as Haymitch turns louder and shouts more often, plants the prettiest flowers she has in the garden and, in a display equal to that of an angel, doesn’t kill the goose when he eats them mere hours later. 

 

And then, the bottom drops out from underneath her.

Two days before the reaping, Sawney runs off into the woods before the sun rises, heart thudding and her brain going too fast for her to think. Madge floats around up there with Aden and Rose and Prim and Peeta and she’s terrified. Rich, pretty, kind, poor, it doesn’t fucking matter in Twelve. Sawney screams as she kicks a tree, uncaring about the birds flying off into the sky; peacekeepers had a long history of accepting Sawney’s bribes, in whatever form they were. It could be anyone, indiscriminately, and it would probably be someone she loved, or knew. Her old neighbour’s kid had just aged up, and both Vick and Rory are old enough to be in there. 

 

Eventually, it’s the woods that calms her down. Her heart evens out as the sun brushes over her temple, dancing. Her arena had been dense, each step trapping her feet into the thick undergrowth; the woods around twelve were more sparse, with room to run and jump and sit. They smelt real , the sap of the trees and nature’s earth burning her nostrils so different to the underlying metal that blanketed her arena. She took a seat on a boulder, crossed her legs and tipped her head back, closing her eyes. She had no choice but to do her job.

 

There had been no sun peeking through the canopy in Sawney’s arena, no moments of peace. She dreamt up a life in the woods on that rock, swimming in the lake a few hours from the fence line and bringing back foraged food for her and Haymitch to eat in a cave. There would be no oppressive fist hanging over their heads, waiting to squash them like a bug, just her, Haymitch and the open trees.

Her mother had gone round the Hawthorne’s every reaping morning for as long as Sawney could remember. She had to sneak out the back door in the early hours to avoid Effie’s watchful gaze, tiptoeing down the cobbles in near darkness. She’d packed a bag of food for them to have breakfast and, despite her slow walking, wasn’t surprised to see Gale sat on the wooden porch of his mum’s house, bathed in the dark.

 

“I brought breakfast,” says Sawney after a few moments of them staring at each other, silent. “It’s just some bread and stuff. I wasn’t sure if anyone would be hungry, considering.”

 

Gale appraises her, and Sawney knows this is a last ditch attempt at intimidation, to protect the sanctuary of his childhood home from her. She wasn’t leaving though, and Gale’s lips eventually forced up into a reluctant grimace of a smile. “Go on in then,” he nods at the door.

 

Sawney nods back, taking one step forward before faltering. “We were never friends,” she admits, because they both know it. Sawney had hated Gale since she was thirteen, and she’s not sure if he ever liked  her either; she was some kid wandering the woods, disrupting his time with Katniss.

 

“No,” he agrees, “we weren’t.”

 

The wooden floorboards creak the same as hers once had, the door crying out familiarly when she opens it. The seam and merchant district had the same houses, all prefabricated before the Dark Days for miners to live out of. They were cheap, with rotting wood and rusty nails, with walls swaying in the winds of winter. Mrs Hawthorne looks up from the dining table, Posy waving a wiggling hand at Sawney. “Hi,” she smiles, cooing at Posy, who had a face full of food. Sawney had never separated the real Posy from when she was a baby, really, and, at the age of six, her cheeks were still squishable enough for it to be acceptable. 

 

“Hello, dear. You’re up early,” says Hazelle, smiling at Sawney. Sawney had always liked Hazelle, strong and hardworking and occasionally rude, she still managed to smile like only a mother could and stroke Sawney’s cheeks with the back of one of her rough fingers when she came closer. 

 

Sawney places her bag onto the table before Hazelle after she says hello, emptying its contents;  a large loaf of fresh bread and Capitol cheese wrapped together in a linen cloth, a tub of stew Sawney had bought from Greasy Sae the morning before, a small collection of biscuits and a tub of  hand cream Sawney requested from the Capitol. “This is supposed to be really good,” she says, picking it up and waving it slightly. “Effie told me it’s popular at the moment. Tell me if it dyes your skin blue.”

 

Hazelle lets out a chuckle and takes the cream with a nod of thanks. “If it does, I’ll pour the lot in your washing.”

 

Snorting, Sawney looked around the small house. Hazelle was lucky enough to have a separate bedroom where the boys slept, but they were absent - Posy was making more than enough noise eating her bread to wake them up. “Where are Vick and Rory?” She asks.

 

Hazelle rolls her eyes, standing up with a press to her knees. The chair shrieks against the floor and Sawney cringes, but Hazelle takes no notice as she gathers the food to prepare, already in the beginnings of getting a pot for the stew. “Katniss has taken them gallivanting,” she replies. “No need for it today, of course, but the boys wouldn’t listen and, well- Katniss is Katniss. Hopefully they bring back something larger than game.”

 

“I didn’t know they hunted.”

 

“They barely do ,” says Hazelle. “Brought me back a damn flower the first time they went out by themselves. They won’t stop, even though there’s no need for it anymore - Gale and I provide more than enough and, well .” Here, Hazelle raises an eyebrow at Sawney, who blushes sheepishly. She’d taken to the habit of dumping huge chunks of meat on Hazelle’s porch after her mum died and hadn’t exactly stopped.

 

Sawney tears off a piece of bread for Posy, who’d run out of hers and takes it with thanks. “They need to stop,” she says, trying hard not to encroach on parental territory. “Snow won’t be as nice to them as Cray. And he’s a piece of shit as it is. It’s not safe for them.”

 

“You be the one to tell them that, then, they hardly ever listen to me,” huffs Hazelle, pouring Sae’s stew into a pot over the fire. “And Gale’s been no help at all with it. He doesn’t like you half as much as he used to, you know, says you’re just gonna up and leave one day to the Capitol. Utter fool. We’ve all seen how unhappy you are there.”

 

Sawney hums, the conversation slipping all too quickly into unwanted areas. It was her fault, of course, but the only other option was the reaping and that wasn't about to happen; Hazelle had two kids up for the Capitol to grab and Sawney would be the one to take them there. The chances were small; neither of them had taken tesserae, but it was surely rigged. They’d brought her back to life, for fucks sake. So Sawney steers it away from dark corners to Posy, who had been in school for over a year and was learning how to sing Panem anthems at the moment. Gale skulls in from outside after a bit  with the sun on his heels, Katniss and the boys following her. Sawney takes it as her cue to leave.

 

With a sigh, she stood up from where she’d been sitting, grumbling. “Effie’s going to have my hide if I’m not there when she wakes up,” she snorts, leaning over to kiss Hazelle on the cheek. “I’ll see you all later, okay? You’ll be alright.” Because Haymitch wasn’t the only one who could make false promises.

 

Hazelle ushered her out, Sawney’s saviour, and she gave Katniss a smile as she closed the door on the family. Seam ground was half coal year round, and Sawney trudged through it at her usual slow pace. Andy lived round the corner, but she wasn’t sure if it was her place to visit him, and so she didn’t. It was too early anyway, his day off, and Sawney had had enough of staring dead youths in the face for a lifetime, suspecting she’d cry if she saw Amy.

 

The sun was up and Sawney was late. She didn’t rush, though, revelling in the quiet streets of twelve for as long as she could, steadfastly ignoring the tension in the air. It stretched all the way to the Village, thick and stifling as it always was.

 

“Where have you been?” Effie shrieks at Sawney almost immediately after she opens the door. “It’s the morning of the reaping, Sawney! Your team has been waiting around for an hour for you.” She could faintly hear the faint rumble of an angry Haymitch through the ceiling and hoped that he was getting waxed.

 

Sawney rolls her eyes as Effie pulls her in for a hug, screaming forgotten. She smells suffocatingly of a floral perfume, and the plastic flowers adorning Effie’s dress stabbed into Sawney’s body. “Sorry,” she said. Effie pulled away and frowned, not relinquishing her hold on Sawney’s shoulders.

 

“You look deathly, dear,” she tutted. “Florentia’s taking a turn about the garden, you took so long. Take those boots off whilst I fetch her.”

Effie tottered away towards the back door on her neon orange heels whilst Sawney did as she was told, leaning on the wall for support. She suspected that the next few hours with her prep team would be worse than her games, and resigned herself to the fact of her upcoming torture just as Florentia slammed her back door open. 

It was odd, standing on the stage instead of before it. The people of her district were small before her, clumping together as one mass as Haymitch breathed enough alcoholic fumes her way to get secondhand drunk. Sawney looks over at him, her ears twinging as the speakers behind her start talking about the Dark Days and the rebels, taking in the slope of mouth as he frowned back at her. Sawney was on strict orders not to talk to anybody whilst on the stage, Effie’s wrath the only thing stopping her from complaining. She’d already tried to locate people she knew in the crowd, failing, and had distracted herself so much from the upcoming reaping that she was growing faintly bored, a headache forming on her temples.

 

She was trying not to be horrendously rude, though, and so plastered a frown on her face that she was sure portrayed her extreme hatred for Snow and the seriousness of the situation. Unwilling to think about anything, really, she stared unseeingly at the swath of greys and creams before, each head a child ripe for the Capitol’s pickings. Sawney wondered how many names in the bowls were forged, swayed against here in sick punishment, and gulped. 

 

Effie’s hollering laugh broke the noise of the Panem anthem, blaring directly into Sawney’s ears. She flinches, glaring at the woman, unnoticed. Effie’s dress was excessively obnoxious this year, a rainbow of colours that Sawney had only seen a few times in her life, and she briefly wonders about the newfound riches her escort gained after her victory. Any blossoming feelings resembling affection towards her immediately sour.

 

Bright and bubbly as ever, Effie spouted her usual words. “Happy Hunger Games!” She said into the microphone, but it came out as a deafening roar. The speakers must have been turned up more than usual. “May the odds be ever in your favour!”

 

Only ten feet away, Sawney can see how Effie’s high heels wobble when she walks and wonders whether she would be here next year. Everyone in the district knew Effie was only waiting for her chance to climb up to a better district; Haymitch and her were too embarrassing on television for Effie’s reputation to last for long, despite Sawney’s growing one. 

 

Effie went to the glass ball holding the slips with the boys’ names first, her hand reaching in with a slowness that made Sawney want to slap her. It wandered around in the air for a few seconds before snatching one from the top, pure white. Effie took it back to her microphone, the seconds pulling taut into one long string of fear as the boys below started to move. They were fidgeting. “What an exciting day!” she warbles as she fusses with the tape holding the slip together, the name hidden. It came undone after only a few seconds, but Sawney’s heart was high enough in her throat for it to feel longer. “Mitch Jenson.”

 

Sawney sighed, relieved. She felt immediate shame as the crowd started to move, turning and parting for him. A small boy emerged from the fourteen-year-old section. Mitch was tiny, with unnaturally large eyes that spoke of his mother’s drug use, probably during pregnancy. He was blond, a merchant, but anyone with eyes could see that he was malnourished. Sawney didn’t even recognise him and felt sick for feeling thankful. She watched as he made his way to the stage, making an aborted step towards him that had Haymitch clutching at her wrist. It stayed there, a deterrent from misbehaving, but Sawney knew she had the strength to pull away. She stayed put.

 

Mitch wobbled in his place next to Effie, not crying but looking close. It was as if he’d been picked up by the scruff of his neck and put there, still trying to find his balance. He looked like he wouldn’t last a day in the arena.

 

“And for the girls!” Effie grinned once Mitch was in place. She raised one hand to adjust her blue wig before turning it to the girls’ ball, contaminating them with her Capitolness as she rummaged her hand through the slips. The crowd drew their second collective breath of the day as she made her way back to the podium, each step creating a thunderous click on the stage. She smoothed the piece of paper before opening her mouth to speak.

 

“Amy Winefred!”

 

One time, when Sawney was blind drunk and staggering around the house, she’d fallen down the stairs and tumbled to the floor. It had been sudden, as if the impact had knocked every wisp of air from her lungs. She’d lain there, struggling to inhale, to exhale, to not puke, to do anything .

 

Stood on the stage, she was struggling to breathe now, audibly gasping wet gurgles as Haymitch grasped her arm tighter. She realised that she hadn’t really bothered to worry about Amy getting picked, because that would have been too obvious, too much of a slap in the face for even the Capitols to ignore.

 

“Effie,” she breathed, wrenching out of Haymitch’s grip and staggering closer. “Effie, do it again. Do it again!”

 

Effie, standing out against twelve like only a Capitol could ever do, shook her head, a frown pulling at her lips. Sawney could see her lip quiver for this girl she didn’t even know, whom she’d only ever care about in the same way she would an avox, dirty and other , and slaps her. It isn’t Effie’s fault, but Sawney can’t find it in herself to care, even when Effie cries out and peacekeepers yank Sawney back, tugging on her arm sockets. Somewhere, she could hear the distinct sounds of a father crying. 

 

The crowd was murmuring unhappily, louder than they usually do for little kids. Sawney finally looked out to them, where Amy stood dumbly in the middle of the aisle. Even from far away, Sawney could see how the blood was drained out of her face, her clenched fists and small steps. She wore a pale pink button-up dress that brushed her knees with every movement and made her look so young. 

 

“Let her go,” barked Haymitch, pulling her out of the peacekeepers’ hold just as violently as they yanked her about. If it was another time, if Sawney had been in the mood for jokes, she would’ve laughed about how he stumbled with the force of it, over halfway to being too drunk to walk. Instead, Sawney let out a single sob, just a sound without the tears. Her chest squeezed painfully, between fear and anger and dread, and she could feel some imaginary Snow laughing down the back of her top, lingering.

 

Amy didn’t need to speed to the stage like so many others, didn’t need the peacekeepers to drag her away from her family. Sawney was taking all the attention, and Amy walked slowly down the path, her feet climbing the stage steps. There’s shock displayed over her face, and she made no move to attempt to stop the tears slowly trailing down her cheeks as Effie reached an arm out to her, which she dutifully tucked herself into. Mitch still stood where he began, eyes boring into Amy. 

 

“What an exciting day!” Effie said, struggling to make even her smile believable, racing against the souring sentiment of the crowd. A red welt had already formed on her cheek, visible under all the makeup. Sawney’s neck was itching and she tried desperately to steady her breathing as the mayor began to read the Treaty of Treason. Peacekeepers drag her from the stage to the justice building, Haymitch following. Sawney turned to look at Amy, to try to some fruitless attempt at comfort or reassurance, but her back was turned towards her.

 

They dump Sawney into a room, different from the one she was in a year ago, and leave her with Haymitch, who’s no longer swaying on his feet. “What did you do?” He asks and Sawney heaves her shoulders into a shrug. 

 

“Haymitch,” she says, and it comes out pathetic and desperate and pleading as she reaches out to grab a handful of his shirt. “Haymitch, she can’t go in there.”

“She has to,” he says firmly, prying Sawney’s fingers off him to cup the hand in his own two. It’s an apology, she knows. “You have no choice in this Sawney. You never will, sweetheart. It’s like this forever.”

 

She knows this, has known it from the moment she could understand the world around her. It’s not some new, shocking discovery, but she lets out a small, choked sound from her throat at the words. “It’s not fair ,” she whispers, because Amy had been saved. Sawney had done all the work only for it to turn out to be for nothing. 

 

Haymitch frowns, the edges tinged with pity and puts a hand to her cheek with a thud, halfway to a slap. “I’m sorry,” he says, and Sawney knows it’s not about anything he’s done. “But there’s no way either kid from twelve survives this year. Not with the noose around your neck. Stop being so emotional about it all.”

 

“ Fuck you,” she spits, even though Haymitch had always been mean. They were both mean drunks on the best of days, and she knows he’s trying to make her feel better in some roundabout way. 

 

He says nothing, and Sawney cries onto his shirt until it’s time to leave.

Notes:

STRUGGLED w tenses and characterisation in this one + a shocking lack of haymitch made it a bit difficult too
having amy get pulled after abso no screentime or character improvement is ridiculous of me but it's been in the PLANS and i coudln't b fucked to write a twelve year old talking tbh theyre insufferable and im tired but lit w a fire to write abt sawney this week (missed my bitch, wrote 5k in two hours, brain melted)
also me saying how sorry i am abt how slow i am at updating and then posting 12k in two days is pure cunt im so sorry

Chapter 12

On the train, it becomes clear that Sawney’s about to burst out of her skin.

Haymitch sits opposite her on the sofa, sipping amber liquid out of a glass, ignoring her staring. The two of them had been hauled almost immediately to the train, no chance for any goodbyes, and they’d been sitting in silence ever since. Her staring is getting annoying to Haymitch, had been annoying for the past ten minutes, and he glares at her. “Quit staring,” he says, frowning. She blinks at him, looking decidedly un-sheepish. Haymitch tries not to glare at the tear tracks trailing through her makeup, but he’s sure he’s unsuccessful.

“Sorry,” she says, and Haymitch thinks she’s taken his talking as an invitation. Her staring only seems to intensify, big brown bug eyes drilling into his face, and he rolls his eyes. “I didn’t do anything wrong, Haymitch, I don’t know-”

“It doesn’t matter,” he interrupts, swirling his drink around. “The whole thing is one big threat, sweetheart, not a punishment.” Sawney’s chest heaves with a violent gulp of breath, her mouth open in a perpetual gasp. She looked, despite all her prep teams’ effort, like shit; her hair was hanging in clumps around her face, her eyes too wide for comfort. If Haymitch didn’t know her, he’d assume she’d been dragged through a hedge and thrown off a cliff. She’d spent the better half of an hour sobbing before she calmed down, and he’s sure he doesn’t look any better.

“It feels like one,” she eventually says, almost too breathy for Haymitch to understand. “Does she have any chance?”

Haymitch doesn’t answer her, raising his eyebrow. It’s a futile question, one they both know the answer to; no. But Sawney had always had an indomitable air of hope around her, suffocating even when she was slitting her wrists in his kitchen or choking on drug-induced puke. Impossibly melodramatic, sure, but she was a bottomless pit of selflessness and care all the same. She sinks in her seat noticeably, the weight of it all settling on her shoulders. Even when she’d been half begging to a camera during her games, or crying in the middle of the night, she’d never looked so young.

Eventually, the doors open and Effie’s voice bubbles through the air. Haymitch barely moves as Sawney jumps up to greet the kids, his chest uncomfortable. Someone, probably Sawney’s stylist, has covered Effie’s mottled cheek with makeup. It’s an ugly job and Haymitch can see the raised bump of it from here, feeling incredibly vindicated that she was finally on the receiving end of the violence of last-minute cosmetic work, although he’s sure Effie and the stylist probably cried about it together. She’d been dramatic and altogether too-present since he'd met her at his games, clinging around the victors even before she became an escort. Still, Haymitch could never find it in himself to dislike her the way he had his escort.

“Sorry,” says Sawney to the room. She opens her mouth before snapping it shut, eyes caught on Amy. Haymitch doesn’t remember the reaping last year, admittedly, but he assumes she’s grown in the months since. She’s still small, a spitting image of every kid the seam churns out with her dark hair and olive skin, a nose too big for her face that Haymitch isn’t sure she’ll ever grow into. Not that she has the chance. Sawney still stands there looking lost, but now isn’t the time for confrontations or crying.

“Sit down,” he says. The boy, obscured behind Effie’s dress, makes his way over almost immediately, avoiding looking at Haymitch. “Come, enjoy the time you’ve got left.”

“Haymitch,” snaps Effie. Sawney was slowly inching closer to the girl behind her, obviously trying to avoid talking to Effie, but gets caught. She points one blue fingernail in her face. “You, young lady, go take a shower. In fact, everyone is taking a shower! Supper will be served soon and you all need to eat up.”

She ignores Haymitch as she struts past him, the three others following like lost sheep. Haymitch snorts, wondering what kind of absurdity goes through Effie’s head everyday. He has no idea, but resigns himself to drinking alone as she ploughs through the train without him.

Haymitch doesn’t make it to supper that night. He pukes on the floor an hour after Effie had left, gets dragged to his room by a disgruntled avox. He’s barely awake when Sawney crawls onto his bed hours later, smelling like a mixture of every possible scent. He thinks she purposefully misuses Capitol technology when she gets worked up about something, thinks annoying Effie makes her feel better. “Haymitch,” she says, far too loudly to be polite. He has a raging headache and opens one eye to glare at her. It’s dark, but he can still see the silhouette of her crouching on her knees next to him. “Are you awake?” He grunts, not answering her. She leans over him and Haymitch thinks she’s trying to start a fight, can smell the liquor on her breath.

“You smell,” he drawls, staring up at her. It’s too dark to make out anything but the shadows dancing across her cheekbones, the faint colour of her teeth as she bares them in a smile.

“Just tryna be like you,” she slurs, flopping onto her back next to her after her arm slips. “I want to fucking rip his throat out.”

And Haymitch knows who she’s talking about, every victor does. He doesn’t answer her words, thinking of the cameras probably trained on them right now. “She needs you more than you need any kind of revenge,” he says instead. He’s spent a lifetime failing tributes, failing rebellions, traipsing dead-kids-walking through the Capitol in the hopes that someone takes enough interest in them for a sponsor, and stopped caring how disgusting the offers got after a while.

Sawney sniffs next to him and he’s pretty sure she’s begun crying. Like everything with her, he’s knows it’ll be short lived, that she’ll either pass out or try to come on to him in the next few minutes. Still, he pats her thigh in comfort, the only place he can easily reach. “I don’t want to,” she whispers, turning her head into his shoulder.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, soft in ways he usually isn’t. Against the part of his brain screaming at him to push Sawney off the bed and go back to sleep, he rolls over until he can grasp an arm over her shoulders. She falls, uncoordinated, into his chest, making a small noise that turns into a larger sob. She cries for a few minutes, soaking the front of Haymitch’s top like it’s her new job.

“It’s not fucking fair,” she whines, pathetic and desperate and pleading for something Haymitch can’t give her.

“No,” he replies into the crown of her head, ignoring how the pungent smell of oranges almost makes him gag. “It’s not.”

 

Sawney crept out of Haymitch’s bed in the morning, not sure if the sun rising through the window was real or artificial. She’d been scared of running into Effie in the hallway, not wanting to be on the receiving end of one of her rousing speeches, but she doesn’t see her until breakfast. She’s been sitting at the table, alone, digging out a line of wood with a knife when Effie comes through the door connecting the dining carriage to the next one with a whooshing sound. Her wig is the most putrid shade of yellow Sawney’s ever seen in her life, and she loses the words she was about to say somewhere in her mouth when she sees it. After a few seconds, Sawney says, “I’m sorry for slapping you.”

“Oh, Sawney,” she shushes, waving one hand in the air as if to brush it all away. “I was expecting you to do something horrible at some point. Now, you’re not forgiven, of course, but if you start today on your best behaviour I may well do.” Sawney smiles thinly, having anticipated nothing less; they were both just doing their jobs.

“I promise,” she says, because none of this is Effie’s fault. The Capitols had drooled over the games since they’d begun, Sawney didn’t know why she thought Effie would open her mouth and declare that she’d put Snow’s head on a pike that morning and wrapped it up as a gift for her. She was disappointed, anyway. “When will we arrive?”

Effie’s sat at the table, and the napkin she begins to lay on her lap looks more expensive than anything one could buy in twelve. “Well, the trains are truly so fast,” she replies and Sawney fights the urge to roll her eyes. Trains were one of Effie’s favourite things to rant about. “The conductor said we’re only a few hours away! The children will go right through to get ready for the tribute parade, not like what you did, because we’re in a bit of a time crunch. Your stint put us back a few hours.”

“Sorry,” Sawney says dryly, dragging a basket of bread rolls closer to her instead of the knife to gouge her eyes out. “It’s not every day the girl you volunteered for gets reaped again. And the very next year! What are the odds of that, huh?” Effie shoots her a look before laughing as if Sawney had said something hilarious.

“The games are always unpredictable, dear,” she replies and then, with something coming shockingly close to seriousness, says, “don’t say anything like that again, Sawney.”

“Why not?” Sawney bites. It’s the first time Effie has ever shown knowledge of the games that isn’t fashion or sponsors, and she pounces at the chance. Effie raises one thin eyebrow at her, not condescendingly. Sawney’s not sure exactly what she’s trying to portray but doesn’t really give two shits.

“I think you know why. Now, you have an interview with Caesar during the parade, so you’ll miss the chariots coming out, I’m afraid. They usually leave it a little later, but everyone’s rather excited considering the circumstances.” Sawney suspects that she’ll be suddenly too busy to see Amy until it’s on the screen and she’s dying, and frowns.

“Haymitch?” She asks.

“Oh, absolutely not,” laughs Effie. “He hasn’t had an interview in years, darling. Perhaps a few other victors, though - Finnick, maybe Cashmere. It’s very last minute.”

Somehow, this feels like the worst news Sawney’s received all week. She’d been expecting something at the reaping, of course, but she’d forgotten that being a mentor meant seeing others. Just the sight of Finnick can set her off into a strop, and she hopes she’s in a good enough mood for an occasional moment of them getting along. Sawney thinks Finnick likes her, thinks her amusing, which makes her hate him even more.

“Yay,” is all she says, and ignores Effie until the doors open again. It’s Amy, traipsing in front of a bedraggled looking Haymitch, who pins Sawney with a glare immediately. “Good morning,” Sawney greets Amy, ignoring Haymitch. She pushes a chair out for Amy with her good leg, and she sits in it with a smile. “Sleep well?” Amy shrugs, eyes glazing over the food before her in marvel.

“No,” she says and Sawney winces. Haymitch barks a laugh and Sawney pushes his chair out as he sits, causing him to wobble and frown at her. His face is puffy and red, telling of his hangover, but Sawney saw herself in the mirror that morning and knows she’s no better.

“There’s always breakfast after a shit night’s sleep,” she offers to Amy. The girl is looking at the food without touching anything, so Sawney points to a bowl of fruit with a smile. “Hate to say that Capitol fruit is better, but…”

Sawney’s sure Amy had never had freshly picked berries, only the kind sold at the hob, bruised and squished. The girl smiles and reaches, taking the whole bowl with her and Sawney snorts.

“Did you sleep well?” Amy asks.

“‘Course I did,” she lies. Amy smiles at her again, her joy always free for all, and Sawney’s drops as she wonders how quickly it would take for all of that to be stripped away in the Capitol, in the vapid arena. “We’re almost there. Effie says you’re going straight to the parade, but I won’t be there with you guys. Where is Mitch?”

“I don’t think he’s woken up yet,” says Amy. She’s eating the fruit, strawberry juice on the corner of her mouth. “I haven’t heard him get up, at least.”

“‘S not like he has much to do,” says Haymitch and Sawney hums in agreement.

Sawney decides to wait for him before talking about the parade, wanting to spare him from the onslaught of Effie. She’s reasonably confident that he’ll feel like the outsider of the five of them, Amy having been round Haymitch’s house before in a way that there’s surely some small connection formed there in her brain. She doesn’t want him to be at odds, uncomfortable, before the games even starts, and wonders about how much effort she should put into preparing them. Realistically, Snow’s going to blow them up at their pedestals, anyway.

“I can go wake him up?” She says, more of a question to Effie, who nods.

“That would be so helpful, dear,” she says, and so Sawney stands, running a hand over Amy’s head with a grin at her as she walks past to the door.

The train always ran too smoothly for Sawney. She thinks she would prefer stumbling through the hallway as it moved, feeling some kind of separation from the Capitol before getting there. Mitch’s door is closed, and she knocks on it hard, pushing it open after a few moments of silence. It’s dark, only a small light from the cracked curtain coming through, and Sawney has to squint to make out Mitch, who’s sat on his bed.

“Good morning!” She says after staring at him dumbly. She’s half sure his shoulders are moving with tears, and a crease forms between her brows. “Can I come in?” She doesn’t wait for an answer before stepping into the room, leaving the lights off. She sinks down carefully next to him, hesitating before laying a hand on his shoulder.

“You okay?” She asks. Mitch turns his head to look at her, and Sawney can see the faint glimmer of tears on his cheeks. Shushing, she pulls him in for a lopsided hug, unsure. “I know, honey,” is all she can say, cradling his head as he sobs into his shoulder. As she runs a hand down his back, Sawney can feel every notch and groove of his spine, of a child who never got to experience the life of comfort he deserved, and presses her mouth to his hair in a kiss.

“I miss my mum,” he sobs and Sawney feels a spur of anger in her chest, can feel herself clawing out of her own pit of sadness that’d begun forming over the past day. She grunts and hugs him tighter, not sure what to say. “I don’t want to die.”

“You’re not going to,” she declares, a little too harshly, too much of a lie that even she can’t believe it. “It’s not going to happen.” Sawney wonders about Haymitch, briefly, about his tributes that undoubtedly cried to him, of all the promises he’d made in his prime.

They sit there in silence, entwined, the occasional sniffle appearing as Mitch winds down. When Sawney hears his stomach rumble, she chuckles and pulls back slightly. He lets her and she says, “I came to tell you that breakfast is ready, but we can stay for a bit longer if you want. Effie will save you some.” Mitch shakes his head, hair sticking to the wet cheeks and so Sawney pushes it back gently, tucking it behind his ears. “We arrive at the Capitol today,” she says when he doesn’t say anything to her. “It’s always a bit much, scary, but Effie’s going to look after you. It’s the tribute parade.” He wrinkles his nose in a slight disgust and it shocks Sawney so much she barks a laugh, realising she knows nothing about this kid.

“Gross,” he says, voice thick. “They’re not going to cover me in coal, are they?”

“They might,” she jokes. “I’ll give ‘em a ringing if they do, though, don’t you worry.”

“You better,” he says.

Sawney laughs and, feeling ridiculous, begins to stand, pointing a door to the connecting bathroom. “Go wash up,” she orders with a small smile. “Food’ll be on the table for you.”

 

The train finally begins to slow a few hours later, and the carriage is dark as they go through the tunnel separating the Capitol from the rest of the world. When it passes, Sawney winces and tears her head away from the bright light streaming in through the windows, adjusts enough in time to see the kids racing over to them, to glimpse the grandeur. The train platform, when it comes into view, is a cacophony of sounds and colours, Capitols struggling against each other to catch a glimpse of the tributes. Sawney’s lip curl in disgust, and she goes over to stand next to Haymitch, arms crossed.

“Smile, sweetheart,” he drawls, and Sawney tugs at the neckline of her dress, scoffing. Florentia had appeared from the shadows like something from a scary story after Sawney went to Mitch, all but shoving the thing over her head and beating her with a hairbrush until she looked decent. The dress is a flimsy piece of a thing, a deep green that reveals most of her chest and ass that Sawney’s planning on casting into the first fire she sees. She’d been dolled up, heavy makeup that makes her eyes twitch and look older than she is, her hair slicked and pinned in waves against her skull.

A small contingent of peacekeepers are waiting at the door for Sawney, and she hugs both Amy and Mitch tightly before they take her away, giving Haymitch a strong look that he shrugs at. She’s not sure if he’d be any help at all over the next few days, and stomps along with the peacekeepers, ignoring the Capitols trying to grab her with a bitter sense of vindication. She’s shoved in a car that takes her to a building she doesn’t recognise, unnaturally tall and covered in windows that refract light directly into Sawney’s eyes.

They’re not any better to look out of, the movement of the elevator making her dizzy, nauseous. The shining doors open after a brief few seconds, and Sawney steps out without the help of anyone into a room filled with people. She recognises a few, fellow victors or Capitols from parties or the television, and frowns, knowing exactly what this’ll turn into as she spots Finnick, shirtless and talking to a woman. She beelines towards him, gleefully shoving a man with her shoulder to get past, and grins wickedly when he sees her.

“Finnick,” she crows, and hates how his megawatt smile doesn’t falter as he pulls her in, landing kisses on her cheeks in greeting.

“Darling,” he says, eyes roving down her dress with a flirtatious smile she knows means nothing. “Happy Hunger Games!” Sawney laughs and rolls her eyes, fighting the urge to bash his head in. Shockingly, Finnick Odair can be just as annoying as she can.

“My favourite time of the year!” She says and he lets out a delicate snort, surely practised. She casts a smile at the woman opposite her, tries not to let out audible noises of contempt as she sees her blue skin and surgically enhanced shoulders, spiky, a cheap imitation of tributes’ starvation. “What’s going on? Effie barely told me anything.”

“Interviews,” he says, shrugging as if that explains everything. There’s no unlikable victor here, from what she’s seen, and she tries not to roll her eyes at his purposeful ignorance. “I believe there’s going to be a small party afterwards.”

The woman lets out a gasp, pressing one hand to her chest. “It’s going to be so exciting,” she promises with a laugh, eyes fixated on Sawney’s chest. “These things are never so last minute, but I’m not exactly going to complain! An invitation to a private party is just the most amazing thing.”

“Obviously,” gushes Sawney, struggling to match her enthusiasm. “I’ve never been to one myself.” Finnick rests a hand lightly on her back, a semblance of reassurance that only makes her hackles raise. He shares a laugh with the woman, head tilted back enough for Sawney to see light catch on the glitter on his neck.

“She’s always so modest,” he says, ignoring Sawney. “She’s an absolute riot, though. Gorgeous dress, by the way.”

“Isn’t it just,” she says, turning to the woman. “My stylist, Florentia, comes up with the most crazy things.”

“You know,” the woman says with an outstretched hand, “I heard that she stole a few designs from some poor chap, oh. I can’t remember his name.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” defends Sawney, trying to remember a time she’d had a less intellectually stimulating conversation and finding nothing. “Florentia’s work is all her own.”

“Then I suppose it isn’t that original,” whispers Finnick, winking as if they’re in a conspiracy. Sawney laughs and leans into his body. It’s unnaturally smooth, no sweat even in the hot environment, pressed in a gaggle of bodies, and she thinks of the possibility of them surgically removing his glands. A waiter passes by with a collection of champagne flutes on a silver tray, and Sawney reaches out to snatch one for a distraction.

“Is a repeat show of you two in the works?” The woman asks with a raised brow, flicking blue fingers between the two of them. “I’d love to see it.”

“I’m sure you would,” Sawney hums, letting the conversation dwindle into boredom until the woman seems to give up in her attempts at accosting the two of them, walking away to harass someone else. Scoffing, Sawney disentangles herself from Finnick. “The fuck is this, Finnick?”

Finnick, with his hips constantly mid-thrust and wearing next to nothing, looks at Sawney like she’s thick. “Interviews,” he says, clicking his tongue. “No thanks to you, of course. Victors are more exciting than the tributes this year.”

Sawney hums. “How are yours?”

“Weak,” replies Finnick, halfway to dismissive, eyeing her. “Neither’s going to win.”

“Don’t be a cunt,” she hisses, and Finnick’s eyes light up in amusement, excitement maybe. Sawney scoffs, turning away to find somebody else to talk to, or perhaps to sit in a corner and start a monopoly on waiters with champagne, but Finnick grabs her arm. She sneers at him.

“Give us a smile,” he jokes, tapping her cheek with a finger. She slaps his hand away and he laughs in her face, not unkindly. She thinks he’s just bored and latching onto the first thing to be entertained by, trapped in a room full of Capitols. Sawney grumbles and fidgets next to him, periodically glaring when Capitols come to and fro, each offering some new piece of gossip that slowly turns her brain to mush.

Roughly every ten minutes, someone new gets called for an interview and then returns; Cashmere, Gloss and Zain from ten. Their interviews are displayed on screens hanging from the ceiling, and Sawney notes with distaste that they’re with Caesar. She’s trapped in a conversation about wigs with Finnick and a woman who keeps stroking her arm when her name is called over the loudspeakers in the room. She pouts at the two of them and says, “I’ve got to go, darlings. I’ll see you later.”

She squeezes her way through the warm bodies of the room, all squished together despite its large size, and walks along the wall to the next room. The doors, towering and made of a shining, dark wood, are opened by an avox for her, and they shut it behind her once she walks through. There’s a camera rig set up, lights taking over the majority of the room, facing two sofas. Caesar is sat on one, his bright red getup matching the colour of the velvet upholstery he sits on.

“Sawney Carter!” He claps when she enters, and Sawney rushes to plaster a smile on her face as a Capitol shoves a handheld camera in her face. Caesar stands, waving her over with one of his orange hands. “Our newest victor, everyone!” Sawney trots over, her short heels clicking on the marble floor, and greets Caesar with a brief hug.

“Lovely to see you,” she says when she pulls away, smiling. “You’re looking very red this year, Caesar.”

Caesar flings his head back in a guffaw, waving at Sawney to take a seat. “Always so hilarious,” he says as he sits. “Now, I look nowhere near as gorgeous as you, my dear. You’ve been popping up all over the place this year! What’s next in the works for you?”

“I’m mentoring,” she says slowly, unsure. Sawney isn’t sure if Caesar's trying to proposition her or just being incredibly bad at interviewing today, and she doesn’t have the capacity to care. She can see that his hair, now that she’s up close, is covered in sparkles and she struggles to look away from it, caught in whatever Capitol hypnosis it induces.

“Oh, yes,” he simpers. “I think everyone at home wants to know about your tributes this year. The girl was the one you volunteered for last year, isn’t she?”

Sawney nods and hums, trying to think of a suitable answer. “It was quite a shock,” she ends up saying.

“And you’re close to her, I’m assuming?”

“Yes,” she smiles, tighter, her voice lacking the usual high pitch she has on camera. Caesar pouts and lays a hand on her arm, leaning closer. The overwhelming scent of his cologne and makeup fills her nose. He hums, and Sawney knows he’s pressing her for more. “I’ve gotten to know her a lot more since I came back from my games.”

“How do you feel about her participating in her own? It’s a huge honour.”

Sawney snorts, shooting a look at Caesar. “Sure it is,” she replies, placing her head on the chopping block for Effie to have a go at later. “She’s very honoured.”

Caesar finally leans away from her, and Sawney watches with amusement as his pores shrink with the distance. “We all understand it’s difficult to talk about,” he says softly, saving her, “but may I ask one more question?”

Sawney shoots him a smile and giggles. “Thank you, Caesar,” she says with a nod. “It’s quite upsetting for everyone involved, of course, but I’ll try my best to answer you.”

Caesar wipes a fake tear away, turning to the camera. “She’s always been so brave, hasn’t she?” A fake cheer goes through the room, and Sawney snaps her gaze to a speaker next to the camera, and it almost shocks a laugh out of her. “Now, dear,” she looks at Caesar, “what do you want to say to the people at home about her?”

Sawney purses her lips, genuinely thinking. They deserve nothing about Amy, but Sawney knows the only way for her to have a slim chance is sponsors. “Amy’s sweet,” she says, steadfastly ignoring the sudden bundle in her throat. “I have a goose, the most evil thing in the world. Bit my fingers off,” she jokes with a wry smile, raising her arena-scarred hand and Caesar laughs. “She’s the only person in the world it likes. She’s strong too. She’s worth your pick, I promise.” It’s weak, and an underhand move, but Sawney lets a tear fall from her eye with a fake sniffle. She’s not looking to burst into tears on camera, but knows a delicate sob and spreading her legs will get more sponsors than if she didn’t. “Mitch, my male tribute, is lovely too. I don’t know him as well, obviously, but he’s a good lad. They’re both amazing.”

There was a pause, where Caesar, possibly for the first time in his life, doesn’t say anything. Sawney’s sure the cameras are zooming in on her and sniffs one last time, smiling wetly at Caesar. “Well, my dear,” he says, “they’ve got my vote. Now, we’ve got time for one last question before we call our head gamemaker in. We here have noticed you and Finnick have become rather close this year, as we’ve all been watching from home. Please, tell us more.”

Sawney wants to rip his head off: she laughs instead. “You never kiss and tell,” she teases. “I’m sure you know all about that, Caesar.”

He laughed loudly, turning to the camera with a hand on his chest. “Cheeky,” he says to the audience at home. “Isn’t she just?” He roars with laughter before turning back to her. “I’m afraid we’ve got to let you go now, my dear, but save a dance for me later.”

“Absolutely, Caesar!” Sawney winked at him, her jaw aching. She was so fucking sick of him. He lets her go with a promise of dancing and a dramatic wink, and Sawney fights to keep the camera-ready smile on her face as she waves goodbye to the set.

She bumps into Cashmere a few feet into freedom, and gives her a grimace of a smile as she looks around for anyone she knows. Finnick has disappeared, probably to fuck someone in a cupboard or to pop pretty pills before his interview, and so she hovers where she is, trying resolutely to ignore Cashmere, whose gaze Sawney can feel burning into her cheek. It makes her uncomfortable, being appraised by a career.

Sawney could only remember a haze of watching Cashmere’s games, notable only because they were the first ones she’d been deemed old enough to; vaguely, she can recall crying when Cashmere betrayed her allied careers and killed her district partner. The thing about Cashmere, the thing Sawney despises more than anything, is that she seems to revel in being a victor; the rest of them hunched or tried to hide themselves in public, but Cashmere wore thin nylons and translucent dresses like it was fun. Perhaps she was only a good actor, but Sawney wasn’t one to give the benefit of the doubt.

“You know old Snow won’t let them live,” Cashmere says from beside her, in that queer, sultry tone that’s become distinctly hers. A woman stands in front of them, dragging from a cigarette that flares smoke over their heads. “There’s no point being here, pandering.”

Sawney’s eyebrows furrowed with a glare. “Fuck you,” she tells the other victor, and strides away as quickly as she can. She realises, with a thud in her chest, that she’d been scared of Cashmere; her shoulders still rippled with muscles even a decade and a half after her games, that ferocity in her eyes having never left. It felt like being trapped in a cage with a mutt that wasn't yet hungry, toying with their food.

The room was almost dark, the last dredges of sunset giving nothing, and was lit with warm-coloured, useless sconces that were placed few and far between. It gave Sawney the gift of near-anonymity, the realisation that she was her sparking in people’s eyes as she was walking past them, long gone. There’s a bar at one end of the room, made of dark wood and littered with delicate glass accents that she beelines towards. Surprisingly, it’s tended by Capitols that laugh and talk with the partygoers as they make their drinks.

“Our newest victor!” The man behind says to Sawney after she waits for a few minutes, his face inlaid with gold studs that move when he smiles at her. “What’ll it be?”

“Just give me a drink,” she replies. The man looks at her more closely, and Sawney raises an eyebrow that has him laughing and hurrying to pour her drink. Sawney takes it without paying, wondering if she even has to, and finds that she doesn’t care.

She gets accosted on her way to the toilets, where she’s planning to hog a cubicle until she has to go home, by a man dressed in a purple suit. He’s handsome in the way that speaks of surgery, pale skin that stretches unnaturally, but he looks rich. “Hello,” she says when he stops her.

“Miss Carter,” he greets with a nod, placing a hand on her upper arm. It’s a light touch, but Sawney feels trapped, as if he was holding a gun to her face. “I’ve been waiting a while to meet you.”

Sawney laughs, a delicate thing she’d designed over her months in the Capitol. “I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed,” she teases. “I’m not that fun.”

The man’s lips quirk into a wide smile that bears his shining, toothpaste-ad teeth. “I’ve heard you are,” he says, low. “What do you say to a dance?”

He nods to an area of the room where people were moving together, swaying in multitudes of couples. Sawney spots Finnick dancing with a woman, whose grinding on him as if she’ll be fucked right there, and takes the man’s outstretched hand. It’s warm, and Sawney thinks him briefly the kindest Capitol she’s ever met when he ignores how hers are soaked in slick sweat. The thought of dancing with him in his suede suit and pointed silver shoes makes her lips twitch in a laugh that he drinks in.

Sawney couldn’t dance, historically could barely walk in a way that didn’t resemble an overgrown calf, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he yoinks her to and fro, occasionally flinging her body out into a twirl. When she bangs back into him, he holds her tight, clasping his jaw in a tight grip and giving her a crushing kiss, and she doesn’t say a thing when he leads her into a sideroom to have sex with her. It bordered on too intimate, something she would’ve considered special if it had been with someone of her choosing, and Sawney was all too happy when he bid goodbye to her, sitting on a plush sofa. The longer she sat there in the darkness, the more her mind became a ravenous pit. Eventually, she stood and walked out, hunting for jangling pockets and the promise of a few coins thrown her tributes’ way.

 

It’s all too late when she gets ferried back to the tribute centre by a waiting car, and she’s not surprised that only Haymitch is waiting up, cradling a bottle of liquor religiously in his lap. She pads over already drunk herself, and sits cross legged next to him. “How were the kids?” She asks, eyelids heavy. Haymitch shoots blue eyes over to look at her, takes in the dress with one sleeve ripped off and grunts.

“They looked alright,” he mutters. “How was your party?” Sawney slips the bottle out of his hand before answering, taking a long gulp that burns her throat.

“I think I got a few sponsors,” she rasps. “But so did everyone else there, so I’m not sure.”

He hums, and they sit together in silence, stewing in the sour air the games create. Sawney flicks on the screen eventually, clumsily turning to the reapings, and regrets it almost immediately when a boy from one volunteers. He looks like he could squash Amy’s head like a tomato, and his district partner bares her teeth in an almost-crazy grin, the two of them tanned, golden beacons of wealth. Two is similar, both riddled with muscles and dangerous. Tributes that would normally be harmless, like the sniffling fourteen year old girl from three, Sawney eyes with fear; all older, stronger, than hers. The boy from seven has broad shoulders and eyes that glared at the cameras, his district partner a fifteen year old girl that reminds Sawney of Johanna; dark, pale and angry. The girl from eleven had bushy hair that dwarfed her already hulking frame. Sawney turns it off when she sees Effie walk onto the stage, noting that Amy and Mitch were the youngest tributes of the year.

“They’ve got no chance,” says Haymitch, softer than she’d ever heard him. It brings her back to after her games, when she’d woken up screaming as he’d given her the news of her victory, how he treats her like an injured animal.

She frowns and shakes her head. “We’re going to give them one,” she says fiercely, and Haymitch’s lips turn down in a frown. She’s being ridiculous, ignoring the glaring facts, but it’s by choice.

“I have nothing to give them,” he admits softly, and Sawney realises, dumbly, that he doesn’t. However much she loves Haymitch, the Capitol never has and never will; he’s washed up, drunk and obscene. “I'm sorry, Sawney.”

Sawney thinks of writhing bodies and the marks left on her neck, and fights against the sudden tingling in her nose. “I’ll get them sponsors,” she promises Haymitch, even though she’s not sure if he cares, and wonders if this is just another routine year of failing without trying for him. “The first time you're giving up isn't going to be now, Haymitch.”

His light eyes press heavily into her, and he sighs. “When I got my back from my games,” he begins, and Sawney’s eyes widen, “Snow had blown up my house, my brother and ma. Tricked me into feeding my girl poison. We both know I gave up long ago.”

“You're here, though,” Sawney stresses, her voice edging into frantic. “You're always here for me, Haymitch, please. Just a little longer and we can be done, I promise. We can live in the woods.”

Haymitch doesn't answer, and it's minutes before he reaches over and clasps her hand in his. He gives it a tight squeeze, and Sawney’s not sure if it's supposed to be comforting her or rallying her. She sticks with the latter, ignoring the truth thudding in her heart-they'll never be done.

 

Sawney mourns the loss of a pleasant sleep when Effie bangs on her door in the morning. She hollers in acknowledgment, her mouth dry and head stuffed with cotton, and debates never leaving her bed, but feels disgusted at the very notion. Breakfast, when she gets there, is gluttonous mountains of food that the four of them would never be able to eat in one meal. Mitch looks like he’s trying to, at least, shovelling porridge into his mouth at a pace that makes Sawney snort.

“Don’t choke,” she jokes as she takes her seat between Effie and Haymitch. For once, he’d woken up before her.

“Don’t entertain him, Sawney,” says Effie, and she knows that Mitch must be making her want to hurl right now. It makes Sawney grin, her teeth catching on her lip.

“He’s fine,” she says. “He’s enjoying himself!” Effie frowns at her in distaste, and Sawney relents with a compromise. “Don’t eat too much, you’ll be sick in training.”

Amy, who’d been staring out the wall-to-floor windows, snapped her head over at Sawney’s words. “What do we do?” She asks, brown eyes wide with worry.

Sawney nudges Haymitch under the table, who grunts but says, “don’t show any skills you have off. Stay at the stations today to make snares and such.”

Usually, Sawney would have agreed, but she knows with a vicious sense of sadness that neither of them have any skills to speak of. “Try and learn some hand-to-hand,” she says instead, thinking of her own tussles with the girl from three and Star. Mitch frowns at her, but doesn’t say anything. “Make sure you learn about plants and snares over the next few days. Things that could save your life are more important than showing off or becoming career targets.”

“And if we’re bad at it all?” Mitch asks and Sawney shrugs with a wry smile. He’s smart, she can tell, and he already knows the answer. They’re doomed anyway.

Effie clears her throat to Sawney’s right, dabbing the sides of her mouth with a cloth. Sawney waits in silence until she’s almost sure Effie isn’t going to talk before she does. “Be polite,” says Effie. “Sponsors can be everywhere!” Amy raises an eyebrow at Sawney, who nods.

“Me and Haymitch will be getting you sponsors this week,” she says. They get herded into the elevator after a bell goes off, Effie fussing about being on time, and Sawney is left in the penthouse with Haymitch, an unnerving silence settling over them, like something’s about to burst their little bubble of hope.

Notes:

sooooo sunrise on the reaping am i right haha. it's put a bit of a wrench in my plans for this fic (no offense to lenore but the only girl for haymitch is his stupid bald idiot sawney) but has also kind of catapulted me down a different avenue entirely so bear with the next few chaps if its choppy whilst i get my feet.
ALSO have finally updated the tags to inclue haymitch/oc. thought it a bit dumb to have them when it was mainly abt sawney but IDC let there be love they need to kiss please im begging (im the author)

Chapter 13

Their first day of training was surprisingly eventful, considering. Sawney remembers her training, how she and Aden talked to no one but each other until Rose wiggled her way in, how they hogged stations for plants and fires and snares until they were sent back up to the penthouse with no news to report to Haymitch or Effie. The careers, she remembers, were loud, obnoxiously so, throwing out around their weapons like they were toys and barking laughs that were loud enough to make Sawney jump.

“The girl from four talked to us today,” Mitch says when he and Amy return, joining their mentors on the sofa. Sawney vaguely recalls her towering over her district partner during the reaping, scowling at the camera as her escort fluttered around next to her. She was probably only a few months from aging out of the games, barely younger than Sawney herself.

“In a nice way?” Sawney asks, because she’s half certain the girl was eyeing them up for the easy kills. Everyone probably was - whoever chopped Amy’s head off this year would be famous, even if they didn’t win. 

Amy shrugs, and Sawney’s eyes linger on the dark hair escaping her plait, creating a small dome of fuzzy flyaways. Something tugs at Sawney’s heart as she forces herself to listen. “She came up to us at the snare station,” says Amy. “She showed us how to tie knots like they do in Four. They’re much better than the ones you do.”

Haymitch barks a laugh that has her elbowing him in the gut and shrugging. “Well, I’m not a fisherman", she says. “Did she seem nice, or was she scary?”

“I mean, she’s huge ,” says Mitch, averting his eyes with a blush Sawney decides to ignore. The games weren’t a place for a childhood crush, no matter how heartwarming. “She’s very strong, I mean. But she’s kind too.”

“She said she liked my hair,” says Amy, brushing one of her small hands over the mess on her head. The girl was obviously a skilled liar, possibly tricking the two into trusting her. Sawney pictured her laughing maniacally as she slit their sleeping throats in the arena, the very picture of betrayal.

“That’s nice and all,” chimes Haymitch, “but this isn’t a playground. Did she seem like she was waiting to pounce?”

The two tributes shake their heads and Sawney looks at Haymitch questioningly, unsure. She thought, briefly, about a seventeen year old Haymitch who had to do this by himself, wondering if his only support was Effie or if another victor had taken pity on him and helped. His grey eyes look blank as he shrugs at her. “There’s still a few days left,” he tells her. “We’ll figure this four girl out soon enough.”

“Her name’s Firtha,” says Mitch, bringing up his legs to cross them underneath him. His ankles peek out from his training trousers, skinny enough that Sawney could wrap her fingers around them, far too pale. 

Sawney sighs and rubs a hand against her face. “ Fuck ,” she sighs, cracking something resembling a smile when Effie bursts into a tirade behind them about ‘language!’ that has Amy grinning. She laughs and shrugs. “If you like her, I suppose. Allies are important. You two, you’re staying together, yeah?”

“You should,” says Haymitch, his one piece of mentoring done for the night. It’s useless, obviously, and makes Sawney curl her lip at him. The thought of separating in the arena undoubtedly never even crossed their minds. It crossed Sawney’s during her training, selfishly, when Aden would choose poisonous plants in easy questions, or when he tripped over the edge of a foam mat, or when he looked at her for guidance with those bug eyes of his. Sometimes she wished she had been brave enough to do it, to leave him in the dust during the bloodbath. She’d be a hell of a lot better for it.

Now, Sawney pulls her thoughts from the dreams she once had and eyes Mitch and Amy. They’re both exhausted, she can tell, and that’s bad enough by itself; they did next to nothing today, and she dreads what the arena will do to them. Half hopes they’ll die in seconds and get it over with, not wanting to see them starve. “It’s best if you do,” she agrees with Haymitch. “But the girl from four could be good. If she’s as huge as Mitch says she is, that is. What else did you notice about her, then?”

She’s half-teasing him, poking at the edges of his crush, and grins crookedly when he splutters. “She uses a trident,” he says. “Really well, actually. She’s healthy, too.”

Sawney stares as Haymitch leans forward, settling into a more upright position, before he says, “follow her like lost puppies. Maybe we’ll get lucky this time.” Sawney frowns at him, confused, but is cut off by Effie calling them over for a snack.

---

The jumpsuit is a good sign, Sawney thinks. It’s see-through, sure, but she’s still wearing her underwear beneath the rare, long sleeved garment. It puts a pep in her step she knows wouldn’t be there if she had been put in a flimsy dress again, and it’s enough to tolerate the other victors for the evening.

There’s yet another party, more formal, and Sawney thinks they must have one every evening during the Games, wrinkles her nose at the intoxicated Capitols dancing around her. It’s stifling in the building they’re in, a pre-war stone structure that creaks menacingly with the movement of bodies. None of the windows are open, although it’s surely not out of politeness for neighbours. Maybe it’s to stop her escaping, she muses as she settles into a corner of the room. 

Bodies crash into her occasionally in their dancing, and she’s not quite sure what the point of the evening is. There’s sponsors, sure, but she can barely hear anyone speak over the thumping of the music through her ears, and whoever she does manage to catch in a conversation are too in the clouds to understand her. No one’s here to entertain her, like Finnick, or to be entertained by her, and Sawney’s not in any particular mood to seek potential clients out. She only realises it’s a career party, one of madness, when Enobaria manages to sneak up on her.

The strobe lights, pink and blue and green, flash against Enobaria’s teeth as Sawney turns to look at her. The points of them suddenly give Sawney a pang of ferocious envy, and she turns her head away in shame; the modifications were surely forced upon Enobaria. Still, nothing’s getting in her mouth with them.

“You killed my victor,” she greets her, an easy grin on her face. She’s stunningly beautiful, but Sawney can see the tightness of her forehead and temples and thinks she’d be even better without having been Remade. Enobaria’s a solid fifteen years her elder, and Sawney wonders why she doesn’t keep her crow's feet. She’d be proud of them.

“I did,” she replies, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“Star was far too cocky,” says Enobaria, and Sawney leans closer to hear her better, keeping a wide berth of her mouth. “You deserved to win. You and that boy.” Sawney cuts her eyes to the career’s and narrows them. Enobaria laughs at her, mocking her. “Don’t be surprised. We’re both in this business. It’d be nice to see the old man taken down a peg or two.”

“Sure,” she scoffs.

“You don’t believe me?” Enobaria protests. “I put my money on you , girl. Earned myself a punishment and all.”

“Snow wouldn’t touch you,” she denies, shaking her head. “And you wouldn’t touch a Twelve with a pole.”

Enobaria shrugs, the muscles in her shoulders rippling. She leans closer, and when she speaks, her lips brush Sawney’s ear. “My boy has a blindspot on his left, and my girl has a bum hip.” Enobaria pulls away with a wink, shouting her goodbyes over her shoulder as she slinks away from Sawney. She’s half sure she never even stood next to her as she disappears in the throng of bodies.

Careers are cheaters, Sawney knows this, but not like that . In the more prosperous districts, Enobaria’s actions rival treason, selling out her prized tributes. When she leaves that evening, her head held high, Sawney feels like she’s never committed more of a crime than in her whole life.

She tiptoes past her tributes’ rooms when she gets in, bare feet touching the cool floor of the penthouse. Haymitch’s door is shut, but it opens silently with a small push and she pads across the plush carpet to his bed. A shake of his shoulder has him rearing up, wild eyes locked on Sawney’s face.

“Was I popular?” She asks as she crosses her legs underneath her. Haymitch grunts and flops back onto the bed, and a thrilling sense of power hums through her when she cocks her head down towards him with a hum.

Haymitch doesn’t even open his eyes. “I thought we were done with this,” he groans, gesturing vaguely between the two of them.

“When am I ever done, Haymitch?” Sawney kids, knocking her foot into his shoulder. “Answer me.”

“Popular, when , Sawney, ‘cause you’re sure as hell popular-”

“Enobaria said she put money on me during my games,” she interrupts and Haymitch, for the first time, looks into her eyes, and she knows she’s got him. “So I’m asking if me and Aden were popular, and not just in the districts.”

“What you talking to her for?” Haymitch asks. “And it doesn’t matter if you were popular , you damn well still lost, and you’re mighty popular now.”

“ Now doesn’t matter, Haymitch,” she snaps, looming over him. “You told me it was only the districts, only Snow. You lied to me. My mother is fucking dead, Haymitch, so I’m gonna ask again whether it was just the districts, or if people here liked us.”

Haymitch sighs, and she already knows his answer, already knew it before she’d stepped foot in his room. “People had polls,” he says quietly, “voting for two victors. They were protesting.”

For once, she’s not mad at Haymitch. It’s shocking, and she has to double check, ponders on faking it for a few seconds before grinning and leaning her face next to his. “They’re all little rebels, huh?” She whispers and feels Haymitch’s answering huff of laughter against her cheek. “Think we could do it again?”

At this, Haymitch eyes her, appraising her. “We’re inside,” he replies, and she knows his answer, knows what he wants to say like it’s prophesied. Yes . She laughs loudly, the sound escaping her chest before she clamps her mouth shut and listens for movement through the walls before shifting to stand.

“I think it’ll be fun,” she says, ignoring the tearing of her jumpsuit as she takes it off, dumping her clothes into a pile. It was itchy, anyway, a horrible plastic mesh. “We could make a few days of it. You know, I’ve heard that Two’s tributes aren’t even that good this year. The girl I like, she’s got a leg like mine, but the boy’s just plain stupid. Who goes into the arena with a blindspot? Fucking stupid.”

Haymitch reaches for her when she boosts herself into the middle of the bed, pulling her towards him. She falls with her face inches from his, can see the glee dancing in his eyes, the appearance of rare smile lines around his mouth, and smiles wryly as she wraps an arm around his neck. The thought of leaning forward, only a few centimetres, to kiss him niggles the back of her mind. “They need more help than some gossip,” he says softly and Sawney's hope wavers at the truth. “But the girl from four would be good for it, I think.”

“She’s really pretty, Haymitch,” says Sawney, resting her head on the pillow next to him. “I’m not watching her be me forever. You should’ve told me about that .”

Haymitch reaches a hand up to brush the hair out of her face. “Sweetheart,” he says softly. “No one thought you would actually win. We just hoped for it.”

A sad smile tugs at Sawney’s lips. “I wish I had Enobaria’s teeth,” she confesses, because it’s dark and it’s Haymitch . “It hurts, you know. Plus, she’s scary. I want to scare them sometimes.”

“You scare me plenty,” he whispers confessionally.

“Good. I like to keep you on your toes.”  

Sawney slides her eyes shut whilst she waits for Haymitch to reply, because he's a fan of long pauses. She’s tired, the adrenaline from meeting Enobaria finally trickling out her body. “Let’s not do it forever,” says Haymitch eventually, and she lets out a low hum in return. “When we’re old, sweetheart, it’s gonna get real annoying.” 

When she’s old, Sawney would like to scare people. She doesn’t want to be some gnarled victor people care for, she wants to have fun.

---

By day three of training, they’ve settled into a weird sense of normalcy.

Sawney is seen in the penthouse few and far between, drinking in her time with Amy whilst she’s there. She jumps around the Capitol to clients, showing up on doorsteps that she’d been to before in the hopes of a promise to sponsor twelve. Her actual clients, the ones she receives in an envelope every morning, she uses to her advantage, too, wringing them dry of any money she could possibly get.

It’s surprisingly boring being a mentor, and Sawney spends most of her time being a layabout whilst she’s in the penthouse. She spends hours tracing the delicate decorative moulding that spans the entirety of the ceiling, counting the windows in the building opposite the tribute center until her eyes cross. It’s mind numbing and does exactly the job Sawney wants it to, to distract her. She spends more time focusing on not thinking about her tributes than actually sparing them a thought, and she’s pleased with herself. 

Still, they’re there, occupying far too much space for two people so small. She remembers when Amy used to tie her hair in two braids, just a few months prior, how she would trail her fingers over their soft down before tugging on the ends of them with a cackle. The girl hated it, of course, but Sawney would always see the smile she’d hide from her, buck teeth poking through. Guilt gnawed at her for her lack of relationship with Mitch; if it came down to it, that choice between or the other, she knew it'd be Amy. She just doesn't know if she could bring herself to do it, and return to Twelve to look his family in the eye.  Haymitch would. He’s already given up on them, like she should, and is only playing along to keep her sane. 

It’s dark, hours past when she sent them off to bed to get well-rested, and Effie had left her to her own devices earlier, leaving on a pathetic Capitol soap for her to watch. She’s sulking, she thinks, lying on her side on the sofa and staring unseeing at the screen. One of her previous clients is the show’s lead actor, but she doesn’t know how to change it to something else. Sawney could ask an avox, go bother them with something so inconsequential that she might get lucky and have them rip her own tongue out, but decides against it; she can’t complain if she can’t talk.

She falls asleep there, woken a mere few hours later by Haymitch poking her in the side. She retaliates by swinging a leg to kick him in the gut, vicious satisfaction warming her heart before he shoves her leg off the sofa. Opening her eyes narrowly, she spies the bottle of wine in his hand and liberates it from him after several tugs. She thinks, briefly, about chugging the lot to spite him, but she’s sworn off her vices since the reaping, save for the few occasions when she needs a drink to get through a client. Haymitch hasn’t, of course, and crows a laugh when she presses it back at him.

“Have a nice evening, sweetheart?” He asks, sitting where her legs were and cradling the bottle to himself. She’s half lit with jealousy, and he can tell, a smirk pulling at his lips. 

She rolls her eyes, snaps, “not as fun as you, drunkard ,” and lifts her head off the sofa. Her cheek is damp with drool and she wipes it with her sleeve as she drags herself into a sitting position. Her leg twinges and she unfurls them in front of her with a groan, her shoulder pressing into Haymitch’s.

“Sponsors better keep to their word,” he grumbles to the air. It’d been his turn for interviews this evening, and she thinks of him schmoozing against the likes of Cashmere, her hope running low.

“They damn well will,” she snaps. “I ain’t been whoring for nothing.”

He sighs and rubs a hand over his scruff, the motion jostling Sawney. “They always promise,” he says. “And then it’s the rankings and the interviews, and it never arrives. Your pot was practically empty until you killed that boy from four.”

She turns to give him a sardonic smile. “My bleeding heart, aye?”

“Your murderous intent, more like. If Finnick’s girl sticks to her word, we should be good,” he says. Sawney had rewatched her reaping that day, had bothered to remember her name this time; Firtha. “If her partner dies, she’s allied with us. We’re lucky it’s Mags with him this year, she’s got a bleeding heart.”

“They’ll pool it?” Sawney asks, because she still isn’t sure how mentorship really works, what is and isn’t allowed. Haymitch had said that mentors with no tributes left alive could choose to gift their donations to someone alive, whoever they deemed fit, but she wasn’t sure about much else. She’s surmised it’s just watching screens and pressing buttons, but there’s more interpersonal politics than she’d expected.

“Some, hopefully,” he says. “Effie’s cousin is our only one who’s not going to back out. She never does.”

“That’s nice,” she says. For all that Sawney dislikes Effie, she’s not the kind to give up on tributes, the patriotism obviously running deep in her family. She knew it ought to make her happy, but somehow she still felt empty inside. Emotions were Effie’s forte, and Sawney would probably end up braining her if she dares to shed a tear when Amy perishes. Her thoughts are dramatically spiralling into the very place she’d spent all day bringing them out of, so Sawney turns and forces a grimace of a smile at Haymitch. “Worst dressed of the evening?” She jokes with a raised eyebrow.

“Guess.”

“The one and only Odair,” she replies in an imitation of Caesar, and laughs when Haymitch hums in agreement. “Ugh. Thanks for taking that one, then.”

“We’re going together next time,” he says tiredly to her. And she’s still sulking, she remembers dumbly, and puts on a show of groaning and complaining until Haymitch is pushing her off to bed, threatening to smother her with a pillow whilst she sleeps.

---

Effie raps on their door in the morning, sticking her head in to parrot the usual at them. “Get up, get up! It’s a big day ahead of us!” She chirps, drumming her nails on the door when Sawney rolls away from her. “None of that, Sawney, it’s ranking day, we have to be there to see them off. A united front!”

“I’m naked,” she retorts, eyes closed, and kicks Haymitch in the leg to stop his snoring. 

“I can see that you’re not, thank you,” Effie says, and Sawney spins her head around to glare, pulling the duvet up over her clothed top half. “I’m thinking we should wait for them to come out with the rest of the mentors, don’t you? I’d rather like to see what their tributes have been up to.”

“Getting twelves, probably,” scoffs Sawney, swinging her legs out the bed. Effie’s come into the room now, beginning one of her classic spiels about District Twelve resilience, one that has Sawney nodding to appease her and finish faster.

“Why, I was there when Haymitch won, you know?” Effie says. She looks, for a second, torn, before continuing, “I wasn’t really his escort that year, but in my heart he’s always been my tribute. I haven’t strayed from his side since, have I, Haymitch?”

Haymitch, who Sawney was sure was still sleeping, grunts. “And you won’t let me forget it,” he complains, voice rough. “And you were my escort, much better than the other one.”

It’s gleaming praise from him, and Effie visibly brightens at his words in a way that has Sawney smiling at her sweetly, truthfully. “You’ll always be my escort,” she admits. Effie’s eyes water dangerously, and Sawney takes it as her cue to stand, stumbling over to pull the older woman into a hug. After her games, it had taken Sawney months to admit to herself that she enjoyed the way Effie smelled, and she breathes in the scent of her perfume and shampoo as she rubs her back comfortingly.

In the time it takes Effie to pull away, Haymitch has already finally arisen and put on a top and trousers. It’s some sort of signal to Effie, who sniffs delicately and visibly cheers herself up, slotting a smile onto her face as she says to Haymitch, “those do not match in the slightest, Haymitch.” 

Haymitch looks down at himself and shrugs. Sawney can’t really figure out the issue, but Effie’s devastated sigh makes her stop opening her mouth to say so. “Honestly,” she says, shaking her head at Sawney, the two in on some secret joke she doesn’t understand herself. Sawney snorts, allowing Effie to turn her around and guide her out the room, nails scratching lightly on both shoulders where she’d placed her hands. She’s rattling on in Sawney’s ears about their day as they walk down the hallway to the living space, the click of her heels almost drawing out the dull slap of Haymitch’s feet behind them, a row of ducklings following their mother.

Effie deposits them in front of the groaning dining table, laden with heaps of food, before collecting the kids from their rooms. It’s a hearty meal, toasted breads, cheeses and strawberries that fill Sawney’s mouth with sweetness as they speak together.

“I don’t think I know enough to get a good score,” Mitch says in the middle of Sawney explaining the rankings to them.

“We’ll all be proud of whatever score you’ll get,” Effie rushes to assure them. “Nobody will remember what the score was, anyway, not when you’re in the arena. Johanna Mason only got a three, and look where she ended up!”

“Johanna Mason was pulling a Johanna Mason, though,” snaps Mitch, desperate. “She was actually good. We can’t pretend.

It’s an outburst of anger Sawney hadn’t expected to ever see from him, but she’d expected nothing less, not during the games. She dithers, buying time by tucking her hair behind her ear and looking at Haymitch to her right, seeking help.

Immediately, she regrets this. “We know you’re no good,” he shrugs and Effie tuts. “You’re, what, thirteen? Your score won’t get you any sponsors.”

Sawney scowls at him. “Effie is right,” she says thinly, ignoring him. “Your scores will be forgotten the second they see you ally with Firtha. That’s when you’ll get sponsors.”

“You do already have some!” Effie chimes in, one finger raised. “People believe in you!”

“How many?” Amy exclaims, her voice hard. “Because I think you’re all being delusional. We’re only here because of Sawney and we’re not fucking leaving.”

Sawney blanches, her hand hovering in place where she was attempting to have a drink. It was an unspoken thing, Sawney’s involvement in her demise, one that sweet, little Amy had previously been all too happy to join. The feeling in her chest, one of extreme hurt, renders Sawney speechless. Haymitch, thankfully, doesn’t share her feelings and slams his fist on the table. “Don’t swear!” He shouts, and it confuses her enough to close her mouth. Don’t swear. Repeating Effie’s mandates isn’t going to do a damn thing right now. “You’d be buried by now if it weren’t for her. She volunteered for you, girl! Have some damn respect.” 

“I think we-” Effie starts timidly, one placating hand raised in an attempt to soothe.

“ I think your scores are going to be shit,” Sawney interrupts, a surge of anger rushing into her chest at Haymitch’s words. It’s the truth, and Amy looks chastened at the reminder. “We’re not expecting Twelves, not even fives . We just expect, I dunno, an attempt, maybe. For all of us to do the best we can. This ain’t the time to have a go at me over something I can’t control. You know damn well I’m sorry about it, but it’s done - you’re here.”

The room is silent for a few beats, Sawney’s words hanging in the air. The subject had been simmering for the past few days, in the way Amy shied from Sawney’s touches and her quietness. She just hadn’t expected for the string to finally snap.

“I don’t think I’m here because of you,” says Mitch, an attempt of a smile forming on his lips. 

“Thank you, Mitch,” she says dryly, resigning herself to a nasty day ahead of her.

Effie claps her hands together once, a sharp noise, before standing. “I think we’d best be off. It’s always better to be early!” She declares. “Come on, up, up, up!”

“I haven’t finished!” Mitch exclaims, gesturing at his half-eaten plate. 

“That’s your second helping,” says Effie. “We don’t want either of you being sick today.”

“She’s right,” agrees Sawney, pressing her hands into the table to help stand. She averts her gaze from Amy, who still hasn’t said anything, and begins to follow Effie to the elevator, trusting Haymitch to follow.

They wait for it for all of thirty seconds, but it’s enough time for Amy to slip her hand into Sawney’s and give it a squeeze, an apology.

---

Ultimately, they weren’t allowed to wait for their tributes to finish, the peacekeepers not even giving in to Effie's pleas. Sawney was quietly thankful, remembering how she’d waited for her time to be ranked for hours and hours, and waves goodbye to Mitch and Amy with little fuss. Still, it’s a ferocious stress that gnaws at her, waiting for the rankings to finish and their tributes be released back to them. Technically, she could be doing something better with her time -cozying up to potential sponsors, showering, preparing for the interviews tomorrow- but instead spends a large amount of time thinking about the careers. She imagines them waiting happily, counting their stacks of sponsor money without a care, confident on the high scores they were almost assured to get.

They were milling around the living area, Sawney lounging on one sofa. It was largely quiet, the silence broken only by small talk and the occasional laugh from Effie, who was pacing on the phone to Florentia. Probably gossiping about district manners.

Sawney’s eyes slide towards Haymitch. He’s sitting in an armchair perpendicular to her, his head tipped back and grey eyes closed. The ends of his hair curl against his throat and Sawney traces the curves of his dark skin with a fascinated eye. She thinks him handsome, in a scuffy way, and the realisation makes her blush violently, tearing her gaze away.

Effie Trinket, somehow equally stupid and all knowing, is staring at her, lips creased with unspent laughter. She’s hung up on Florentia, though Sawney isn’t sure when, and Sawney splutters at her, embarrassed. Effie walks over with a giggle, sitting primly beside Sawney. “Now?” She asks her, and Sawney can almost hear the cogs turning in her brain. Sawney glances at Haymitch, who hasn’t moved, and shrugs at Effie, red-faced and sheepish. Effie purses her lips and mimes zipping them closed, before turning on the television, and Sawney is endlessly grateful. Caesar and Claudius Templesmith appear, twittering on about her own games. 

Sawney’s thankful, because it gives her an excuse to change the subject. “Can we watch something else?” She asks.

“Why? I loved your games,” Effie says, a genuine look of confusion on her face, and any goodwill Sawney had been garnering towards her over the past week evaporates quickly. 

She scoffs and shakes her head, refusing to answer Effie. She feels small, exposed to the very substance of her being as Caesar plays a clip of her pleading to the camera, to Haymitch, and laughs at her. Silly , he calls her, as if it’s some inside joke the two of them share in the dark over giggles, and she stands harshly. She feels foolish, on the verge of tears, and sticks her nose in the air as she walks away in a hopeless effort to keep her dignity intact. 

There’s a toilet a few metres into the hallway, some unnecessary extravagance when they each have an ensuite, and Sawney shoulders her way into the room. It’s fully outfitted, a bath and shower included, and she sinks into a heap against the cool marble of the bathtub, surprised when she lifts a hand to her face and comes away with tears gleaming on her fingertips. It makes her sob harder, ugly, wretched things clawing out her throat, and she pulls her knees up to bury her face into them, arms wrapped tightly around her shins. It immediately makes her bum leg cramp up, the tight position straining her ruined muscle, the living reminder of her games making everything worse. And it’s selfish, isn’t it, turning into a wreck over her games when a fresh arena gets opened in two days. Sawney thumps her head repeatedly against her kneecaps, feeling caged and jittery. 

She doesn’t notice Haymitch until he’s sliding a hand over her knees, a soft barrier, and pulling her into his tight embrace, shushing her like you would a babe. “ Honey ,” he comforts as Sawney falls readily into his arm, uncoordinated, nosing at his shoulder as she shudders.

“I wish I never fucking volunteered,” she sobs, her voice thick to the point of being almost unintelligible. “She should’ve died in my stupid games and I should be home with my ma. I wanna go home.”

Haymitch rocks her, clicking his tongue. It’s how he calms the goose, which she realises with a wet snort. It’s never taken much to soothe her when she gets wound up, and her tears are already slowing their descent when she pulls back to glare weakly at him. Adorably, Haymitch looks genuinely concerned, a frown playing at his lips as he reaches one hand up to roughly cup her cheek. “You don’t mean that,” he tells her and she sniffs, rolls her eyes, and secretly agrees. 

“I was really starting to like Effie,” she whispers after a minute or two, after her heart’s stopped leaping about in her chest like it’s trying to kill her. She doesn’t know what they did to her after her games, when she was unconscious, but she knows her body would give out almost immediately if she had to do it again, like all the strength in her bones got zapped. She thinks of her purposefully scarred limbs and wouldn’t put it past them, to Remake her worse than when she came in. 

“She doesn’t mean it,” says Haymitch, and she knows this. “It’s just how she is.”

Sawney huffs, leaning her forehead against his chest and closing her eyes. “I don’t care,” she says into the cloth of his shirt, her voice muffled. She thinks she can hear his heart, and then realises it’s her own still thudding in her ears. She can hear Haymitch hum in return, feels it vibrate through her, a non-answer she’s familiar with; ‘I don’t agree, but if it makes you happy…’. 

She stays where she is long after her tears dry to sticky blotches on her skin, her fingers digging, probably, painfully into Haymitch’s arms to keep him holding her. It’s selfish, she thinks, but when has she not been; volunteering so she wouldn’t have to see Andy upset, throwing Rose halfway into a river because the girl was annoying her, begging Haymitch to help her. It’s how she is. She wants to be taken care of, wants to have the liberty to keep her legs closed and her dignity intact, wants to curl up under her mother’s feather duvet and never crawl out. Take her crown off and she’s a lonely girl clawing her way home.

---

It had been a long day, and Sawney realises it was going to be an even longer night when Effie walks into the room followed by Florentia and Octov, Aden’s old stylist, who carries a large tiered cake lit with candles. 

“Bit early, no?” Sawney asks when she realises Effie is looking for a reaction, standing before them with her hands clasped. She’s squeezed on a sofa between the armrest and Amy, her arm over the girl’s shoulders, messing with Mitch’s dark curls. Haymitch has moved his armchair, pressed it against where Sawney sits, and she can feel the bafflement radiating from him. She thinks he should be more used to Effie general Effiness, considering they’d known each other longer than she’d been alive.

Effie sighs and throws her hands up in exasperation. “It’s to celebrate all of you,” she says, as if it’s obvious. She opens her mouth to speak but Octov grunts behind her. “Octov, stop being stupid and put it down. It’s far too heavy for you, apparently.” Sawney laughs as Effie shakes her head, clamps her lips together when she receives a rare glare. “It’s just… we never got to celebrate your games Sawney, and I think you’ve all been so brave about yours. It felt fitting to celebrate you altogether.”

Effie’s eyes are welling up again and Sawney reaches out one of her legs to rub her socked foot against the woman’s shin. Hopefully, it disgusts her enough to continue, or at least gives her a little comfort. When all Effie does is use Florentia’s procured handkerchief to dab her eyes lightly, Sawney says, “that’s really sweet of you, Effie.”

“Don’t make fun of me!” Effie warns, poking a finger in Sawney’s direction. “I know you think it’s stupid, but we’re a team! I’m your escort, it’s my job to get you comfortable and one of my creature comforts is a big slice of cake after a bad day. I was just trying to be nice.”

“I was serious,” says Sawney. “It’s sweet.”

Effie raises an eyebrow like she doesn’t believe her fully before stepping aside to reveal the cake’s full grandeur. It’s a three-tiered, ghastly thing, covered in green and white frosting that Sawney knows won’t sit right in her stomach. The flames of the candles are still twinkling, dancing in the light breeze flowing through the room, and it is sweet. Very Effie. The woman in question opens her arms to it and smiles brightly. “Go on, you two, blow them out!” 

It’s laughter all around as Amy and Mitch struggle to find a place where they can both their faces comfortably together, and Sawney leans her head back as she watches them. The stylists start a countdown, and Sawney joins the clapping when the flames of the candles are extinguished by the two.

“Now,” says Effie as she settles into the last remaining seat facing the screen, next to Florentia, “it was a hassle getting it here on time, honestly. You’d think I was asking for the impossible! But apparently it was, and now we all have to wait to eat it, the show starts in a few minutes.”

Amy groans from where she’s still hovering next to the cake. Mitch had already left, stealing her seat next to Sawney, and laughs at her, not unkindly. Effie shushes him as she unmutes Caesar Flickerman in a move Sawney despises her for.

“He’s so red ,” says Mitch and Sawney guffaws at him, covering her mouth with a snort when Effie shoots her an annoyed look. Because Caesar really was quite red, his red hair and teeth joined by a sparkling red suit for the special. 

“Good evening!” He grins on the screen stupidly, looking far too saturated next to the blue-skinned Claudius, who’s wearing a cream suit. “If you’re just tuning in, where have you been ? We’ve had a great day of showing reruns, but, well, we know you’re only here tonight for one thing, don’t we Claudius?”

“Indeed, Caesar. The rankings!” 

Sawney tunes them out rather quickly, her eyes more focused on the numbers that eventually pop up on screen next to the photo of the tribute. The two from One had both gotten nines, with the boy from Two getting a ten and the girl, somewhat shockingly, getting an eleven. The two from Three are weaker in comparison, a six and a seven, along with the boy from Four. Firtha gets an eight, which makes Sawney let loose a small cheer, squeezing Mitch around the shoulders. The pattern of low scores, fives and sixes, becomes repetitive until both the tributes from Seven get sevens, which Caesar points out with a chortle that makes Sawney gnash her teeth. They’re the only outliers until the large girl from Eleven, who gets a surprising eight.

She’s anxious to see her tributes’ scores, on the edge of her seat as Caesar goes into a long winded spiel about Eleven’s girl. Both Mitch and Amy had returned from their rankings saying they’d shown the gamemakers their talents with snares, fires, and Firtha’s knots from Four. It wasn’t much at all, but Sawney’s holding out hope for the gamemakers being too drunk to notice and lumping her two together with the rest of the districts, giving them similar scores. She’s proven lucky when a five appears beneath a photo of Mitch, cherub cheeked. Sawney cheers loudly with Florentia and Effie, grappling the boy into a tight hug. It’s a few seconds before he disappears off the screen and they display a photo of Amy, followed shortly by a four. It’s not good by any means, the lowest of the day, but it has been a meager year. Sawney leans forward to include Amy in the hug, crushing the two together as she congratulates them. 

“Cake!” She can hear Effie shout happily. “This deserves cake! Well done!” 

Sawney feels the warmth of Haymitch as he reaches over her to slap Mitch on the shoulder, throwing a thumbs up at Amy as she finally lets them go. She’s grinning, her cheeks painful, as she reaches over to Haymitch to hug him as well, chucking a kiss to the slope of his cheek. 

When Octov comes over to hug her too, Sawney puts her hand up in defense. She was happy, sure, but not that happy.

 

Notes:

lets all ignore absolutely nothing happens in this chapter pls n thank u. also ignore the missing interview day because i was about ready to break my laptop and was not writing that shit. either next chap will b super short or it's gonna feel out of place w the games n ur gonna have to deal w it cos i was reaching 8k words and i cant read that much guys i hate editing long chapters im just a girl

Chapter 14

Sawney couldn’t sleep the night before the interviews.

Or, rather, she’d awoken in a fit in the dead of night. Effie had segregated her and Haymitch to their respective rooms for the evening, a Capitol camera crew arriving in the morning to document the team. It was a cruel punishment from Snow, televising her most precious hours to Panem, something that hadn’t happened last year. So she lay in her too-large bed, sinking into its plushness until she’d drifted off to sleep, hoping for dreams of slitting his throat.

Instead, it was a cruel nightmare, the one she’d woken from. She’d been in her arena, of course, caught in the mudslide she’d only gotten wind of after she’d become victorious, reaching across plains of thick, immobilising dirt for a crying Aden. She watched him drown in it, the brown sludge lapping across his neck, and then his chin, and then into his mouth, open in a never ending cry for help. The mud had filled her own mouth soon enough, and she woke up retching bile onto her pillow, scraping imaginary dirt off her tongue.

Sawney had escaped to the roof, something she was rarely wont to do. When she was twelve, Sawney had met Gale stuck up a tree. He’d always been loud, a shockingly good hunter for his heavy footfall, and she’d thought he was a peacekeeper, clambering up to the top of the closest tree to hide from him, holding her breath in wait.

Gale had been following her, or so he’d said, wanting to know who this newcomer to the woods was, and had easily found her hiding spot. She’d been a small child, a growth spurt only hitting her at fourteen, months of mining rations helping her build muscle, and managed to sit in the thin branches at the top of the tree, ones that would crack under her weight if she was bigger. Sawney’s secret, one she’d forbidden Gale from ever uttering to another person, was that she had been scared of heights, had started crying in fear, relief maybe, the second she saw he was district, not a peacekeeper. He was too large to scamper up after her, and had spent half an hour of precious daylight calming and coaxing her down the branches.

She’d largely gotten over it after learning there were worse things to fear, but the memory of clinging to teetering branches had managed to nestle itself into her bones. In her arena, she double and triple checked that everyone was secure in the branches they seeked haven in, staying up far into the night. It had looked good on camera, almost as if she was guarding vigil over Rose and Aden, not scared she’d slip to the side in the night and crack her head open on the arena floor, a pitiful death that surely would’ve been one reruns for years to come, the fool tribute who fell out a tree. She could imagine Caesar laughing at her. 

The roof was hidden behind a small, dome shaped door, and the cool, windy air slapped Sawney across the face as she stepped through it. The tribute center was a tall building, but by far not the tallest in the Capitol, and lights from around the city twinkled in the darkness, a swarm of fireflies. There were never any electricity shortages in the Capitol, and memories of living by candlelight in Twelve emerged from the recesses of Sawney’s brain as she plodded her way to the edge of the roof.

There were no railings, but Sawney knew of the forcefield that surrounded the tribute center. Protection , Haymitch had told her with a roll of his eyes. It wasn’t for the tributes, assuredly, but for the image of the games themselves. It looked bad if tributes were absent, their brain splattered on the sidewalk instead of in the bloodbath. She wished there was a railing, something to cling to, though; an invisible force field wasn’t much of a safety net. She wondered if it even existed, or if it was just another fake deterrent imposed by the Capitol. The peacekeepers in Twelve were one, their guns their sole bravado, the majority of them turning a blind eye to unlawful behaviour. So far from the Capitol, few cared. Sawney herself sold picked berries and skinned game to Cray, even before she was a victor.

Cray was a nasty old man, someone in desperate need of replacing, but even thinking of him made Sawney miss Twelve fiercely. Katniss had offered to care for the goose in Haymitch and Sawney’s stead, and she was sure she’d return to Katniss’s half-eaten body after the games, lying in a patch of her dead plants. They were the one thing she had as a victor; she had no real job anymore, the mines a thing of the past, no set routine for her days. Haymitch spent most of his days drinking, which she occasionally joined in on when she was feeling particularly morose, and she often passed her time knitting. The plants, grown by her own hand, were carefully tended every morning under the watch of the sunrise, her precious slice of life.

Sawney was getting vaguely angry, thinking about plants. The wind was horrifically loud in her ears, whipping the ends of her hair in and out of her eyes, and so she was thoroughly distracted by the time Finnick snuck up on her. 

He made her jump, whirling around to glare at him. He was, for once, fully dressed in sleep trousers and a poorly made green jumper. It was an abomination of a thing, missed stitches creating small holes every now and then, obviously hand made. Sawney was oddly endeared by it. 

“What?” She said loudly over the wind as he looked at her questioningly. Sawney missed the first thing he said, evidently, and found little patience in herself for a battle of wills to see who would speak first.

“I said,” he repeated, leaning in too close to her ear, “that the alliance will work this time.”

Sawney scowled, pushing his face away from hers. She wasn’t in the mood for talking about the games, had little care for anything other than self-pity after nightmares, and could barely tolerate Finnick on a good day. She liked him, sure, but he was obnoxiously Capitol, and Sawney was half sure this alliance was some sick trick sent by Snow to publicly oust her, once and for all, as a rebel sympathiser.

“Firtha is good on her promise,” said Finnick earnestly, placing a hand on her shoulder, and Sawney snorted, rolling her eyes. She remembers how she hesitated, watching the boy from Four leach the life out of Rose in her arena, how she was the one to leave alive, not Aden. Promises meant nothing when the games actually started, that much Sawney would bet on. “I’m serious, Sawney,” and she hates the way her name sounds in his seaside accent. “The districts can’t take another year of happy families. When your girl dies, it’ll come to a head.”

Sawney frowned and pushed his hand off her violently. “My girl ain’t dying,” she hissed, and her voice was harsh, half thick with emotion. “And yours is no figurehead for a rebellion. Believe me, Finnick, I should know.” The roof was safe to speak, Sawney knew this, but she found herself eyeing the door to it suspiciously, as if a contingent of peacekeepers would burst out any second. She had spent months denying it, how Snow saw her actions as defiance, but remembered her anger at him when she volunteered, how she swore he wouldn’t get a victor that year, and came to recognise them for what they were. She was a Twelve, born to a merchant with a temper that ran deep and a poor seam boy two weeks early. Her first act of living was rebellious.

Finnick eyed her, green eyes twinkling. She amused him, she knew this, and it angered her. “She’s a snivelling twat anyway,” she spits, “allying with Twelve. You know what I think? I think she’s going for two easy kills, Finnick, nothing more.”

He laughed, a real one, his head tipped back for a few seconds, and shook his head at her. “You know nothing about Four,” he said, and this was true. All she knew was fishermen laughter and the village. Still, he wanted an answer.

 “It’s career ,” she said. “I watched your games, I know all about your happy families.” 

Finnick froze minutely, but Sawney didn’t care. She was eight when he’d won, but the image of him trapping his own district partner in a net and stabbing her in the back with his golden trident was burned into her brain. He knew nothing of loyalty. He glared at her after a moment and a thrill of victory danced up her spine. “Her father was hung two months ago,” he said instead of addressing Sawney’s words, and any triumph she had fell abruptly. “ Dissention . He’d been sending rotten fish here. Her reaping wasn’t a coincidence. She’s a good kid, kind . She’s not you. This will work.”

Sawney gave a mocking laugh, turning away from him, eyeing the skyline with distaste. The sun was beginning to rise, the sky turning lighter. In the dark of night, when she’d proposed the idea to Haymitch, she had thought it would work, half drunk on career rebellion. Now, she knew the plan was doomed to fail, knew she’d return home to another burning building. “Why are you even here?” She asked him, because she was sick of his presence. “Shouldn’t you be getting your makeup on for the cameras?”

This time, his laugh was one for the Capitol, and she knew their conversation had ended. He’d hit the dead end she was, and Finnick had never proven successful in learning her secrets. “I was born camera ready,” he joked, and Sawney shot him a wry smile. 

“Not in that jumper.”

A pause, and then, “no. It’s from Annie. I’m changing beforehand.”

Sawney, who had thought Mitch a fool for crushing on Firtha during their training, who had grown rather fond of Haymitch over the past year, who would never know happiness as a victor, reached down to grasp his hand. Neither of them had calluses, the ones she was once so proud of treated and easily decimated by her prep team, as if she had never had a life before. “I’m sorry,” she said, even though she was never one to apologise, to pity.

“So am I.”

---

Sawney was showered, styled and dressed by the time the elevator doors opened to welcome the two-manned camera crew to Twelve’s penthouse. They were a new thing, apparently, an insight into the lives of mentors and tributes a treat for the Capitols, to be run before the games began tomorrow. The singular camera, which Sawney thought was a little poorly planned out, was already rolling when they arrived, and Sawney slapped a smile onto her face for them as Effie waved the crew in. The man that wasn’t holding the camera, a portly thing with purple skin, installed small microphones onto their clothes and told them he’d be independently monitoring the technology. Sawney thought this made sense, as he was far too ugly by Capitol standards to be on camera.

“They’re sitting in with us for the interview prep,” Effie had told her the previous night before bed. Thus, Sawney was being babysat by Effie.

It was a little insulting, how Haymitch had put her in charge of preparing Amy and Mitch for their interviews, like she was a toddler about to burst into a tantrum. Still, it was the easiest job of the day, sitting in a chair whilst Effie ordered Mitch to walk around the room as the man with a camera recorded from the corner. Sawney was treating him like her personal soundboard, and though he never responded, he focused the camera on her whenever she spoke. 

“Straighten up!” Effie demanded, clapping her hands in emphasis. It had been half an hour of this, watching Mitch walk in circles. Sawney couldn’t really understand what he was doing wrong, exactly, because the book balanced on his head hadn’t fallen to the ground in a while.

“I am straight!” Mitch shouted, and the book fell to the floor with a thud. Sawney snorted at his scowl, rather enjoying being the watcher rather than the doer, and shot an amused look at the camera. For her own interview prep, Effie had placed her in heels so tall she tottered and swayed as she walked, never really getting the hang of it. It had been the most infuriating hour of her life, and she’d left to go to Haymitch with aching ankles, and had spent most of her time with him rubbing her bare feet through the plush carpet. 

Effie, whose heels are even taller than the ones Sawney had worn, delicately walked over to Mitch, reaching down to grab the book off the floor. It was a thick thing, fresh off the press with an uncracked spine. “This isn’t just about your posture,” chided Effie. “You must hold yourself in a way that exudes confidence. You should look like you belong on that stage. Slouching won’t help. And stop scuffing your feet on the floor. Hold yourself with grace.”

Effie led into her umpteenth demonstration of the day, placing the book on her tower of hair and catwalking over to Sawney, who inched back in her seat. “Why don’t you try him sitting?” Sawney offered, because she had a feeling Effie’s dangling earrings were going to be ripped out of her lobes sooner rather than later. Sawney gestured at the empty chair beside her, and Effie nodded primly.

 

“Yes, I think a break would be good, too,” she agreed, sighing. “It’s not like we’re getting anywhere with the walk. I don’t mean to cause offence with this Mitch, but please know you’re almost as difficult as Sawney was.”

Mitch opened his mouth, flabbergasted, and Sawney pumped one of her fists in the air behind Effie’s back as the woman launched into a barrage of instructions. Sit straight, but not too straight, be comfortable in the chair, but don’t lounge, face who you’re speaking to, but allow the audience to get a frontal view of your outfit, blah blah blah. Sawney could feel her brain curdling out of ears, bored to the point of near tears. She was glad when the door knocked, opened a crack, and Amy poked her head through.

“Haymitch says it’s time to swap over,” she said and Effie let out a devastated sigh, acting as if the girl had said he’d keeled over and died in a pool of his own vomit.

“Well, Mitch,” she began, and Sawney knew it was going to be nothing good, “we’ve done as much as we can, I suppose. I just hope it’ll be enough. Please, take your time with Haymitch to heart. I fear you’ll need all the help you can get.”

Amy slunk into the room, eyeing Mitch as he stomped past her, the camera following him, muttering under his breath. She shared a fearful look with Sawney, who sent her a mocking smile in return. “It’s time you learn how to walk,” she said in lieu of an explanation. Effie was rummaging through the large bag she’d brought with her that morning, eventually pulling out a pair of heels with a ‘voila!’. They were a sickeningly bright pink, decorated in moulded flowers with a heel the length of Sawney’s entire hand, fingertip to wrist. Sawney looked at Amy, who was eyeing them in horror, and found she had little sympathy for the girl; Florentia was probably only going to put her in kitten heels. 

Haymitch, like they had agreed the prior evening, had told Amy to lean into her youth, to simply be the sweet little girl from Twelve she was, and so she answered the questions Effie shot at her as demurely as she could. “What is your favourite thing about the Capitol?” Effie asked monotonously, eyeing where Amy’s hand was clinging onto a cabinet for balance with distaste. 

“Nothing!” She gasped, her ankle twisting almost dangerously. 

“Wrong!” Sawney and Effie parroted at the same time, and it made her giggle. Next year, she knew Effie would be sitting watching her, but for now Sawney had the luxury of doing next to nothing, kicking her feet in glee. She was having quite a bit of fun, teasing her tributes from her spot of honour. The day was one of laughter, largely on her part, and was a far cry from her night of woe and murmurs of rebellion.

It was, unfortunately, over far too quickly when Effie flourished a golden pocket watch from some hidden flap in her dress with a gasp. They were far, far too late, apparently, which Sawney thought was a little ridiculous of the woman; there was over four hours until they had to be at the interviews. To Effie, however, this was almost the end of the world.

She herded everyone to the elevators in a near frenzy that had Sawney wedging herself in the corner of the glass walls for safety as she ranted about politeness and being on time. Sawney had to hold in a grin when one of Effie’s gesticulations cuffed Haymitch on the chin, and she knew he felt the same way when he didn’t complain. It was his fault, really, getting in the way of Effie on a rampage.

Florentia and Octov were waiting in the prep center for them, and peeled Amy and Mitch away to their own private rooms. Sawney and Haymitch, however, were left at the mercy of their respective prep teams to be trimmed and waxed and plucked. The victors, understandably, were less important than the tributes and were in a conjoined room, a curtain separating the two, easily pulled aside by Sawney to nose at what was happening whenever Haymitch shouted in anger or his team whimpered. She never offered any help, only cackling at their frightened expressions and Haymitch’s chest, which had strips of hair missing. Sawney’s team, in comparison, were having a grand old time styling her finger length hair into gelled waves, creating the intricate patterns with her locks that had become her signature style since she sheared her hair off.

It was over fairly quickly, Sawney having semi-regular upkeep by her team anyway, and they left her be to put on the outfit Florentia had left for her. Florentia had been replaced by a benevolent deity, seemingly, because the dress was once again a long sleeved piece with a high back and neckline, made of a flexible, shimmering teal, embroidered with a delicate leaf motif. It was simple, even to Sawney’s standards, a far cry from the outrageous glitters and slits she was usually put in. Even when she put on the gold heels, the ones she had no hope of walking in, Sawney didn’t dare complain, fearing Florentia would burst into the room with a different outfit. ‘Those are only my pajamas!’, she imagined her crying as she thrust a napkin at her to put on. 

Haymitch’s outfit was similarly plain, a simple black suit with no tie. They waited in the lobby of the prep center with Effie, who hadn’t gotten the memo and was constantly adjusting the extravagant feathered hat on her head. Sawney pitied whoever sat behind her. Other mentors held similar positions around the room, a scowling Johanna in a heated argument with Seven’s mentor that Sawney watched, entertained. She couldn’t hear what they were fighting about, but Sawney assumed it was the stiff, poofy dress Johanna was wearing, and thoroughly enjoyed watching her chewing out the escort. 

When Florentia emerged, Sawney was quietly glad. She hustled over to the trio with a gusto that Sawney had come to fear. “I’ve left Amy to get dressed by herself,” she explained, coming to a stop before them. “I haven’t a clue what Octov’s doing, but we did coordinate the outfits this year.”

This was a surprise to Sawney, who remembered them arguing at the dining table the night of her ranking scores. “What’re they in?” She asked, picturing Amy walking out in a dress so large only her face was visible through its fluff.

“Well,” started Florentia, who then stopped, carefully considering her words. Sawney narrowed her eyes at her, and she gulped. “Do you remember how well your mother and I got on when I arrived for your victory tour?”

Sawney had tried to wipe it from her memory, the image of Florentia and her mother laughing together with tilted heads in the garden. “Yes,” she replied bitterly.

“Well, she shared some of her designs with me when you were fiddling about, and Octov and I have dressed us all in them tonight. Surprise!” Here, Florentia twirled, the layers of her dress blending into a sea of blues and greens. Shocked into silence, Sawney only gaped at her.

“She did ask us first,” Effie rushed to assure Sawney, placing a jewelled hand on her forearm. “And me and Haymitch agreed it was a nice gesture.” 

“No, it is,” said Sawney, her voice soft. They were the designs she’d parsed through at the tailor shop, the ones her mother sent off to the Capitol to be forgotten, the ones made of fabrics so luxurious Sawney had never thought she’d touch. The tingle of nose had her laughing wetly, Effie hurriedly dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief she’d pulled from somewhere as she urged Haymitch to help. The woman probably thought she was angry, her mother desecrated, but she was far from it. “No, no, truly,” cried Sawney with a violent sniff that had Effie wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Thank you.”

“She’s serious,” reassured Haymitch when neither Effie or Florentia burst into the long-winded explanation of the outfits that Sawney had expected. He ran a hand up her back to cup her neck, bringing her into a squeezing side-hug. “Huh, sweetheart?”

Sawney nodded, laughing when Florentia began to talk about Amy’s outfit, right on cue. Apparently, it had been one of her mother’s proudest works, the layers and ruffles of the fabric painstakingly stitched together by Florentia herself over the past week. She shoved a hand in Sawney’s face to display the needle pin pricks in her fingertips, continuing until Octov eventually emerged with Amy and Mitch in tow.

Mitch had on a suit made of patchworks of silk in vibrant hues of blues, invisible where the shapes joined together, his hair styled into a fluffy wave tucked behind his ears. Amy’s dress was a similar shade to Sawney’s own, the skirt of it extending into delicately layered ruffles of chiffon. They were plain, in the grand scheme of things, sweet, harmless District Twelves.

---

Mentors and escorts sat in the front row of the audience. Sawney had found herself between Haymitch and a frantically muttering Wiress, who had clutched onto Sawney’s hand when Caesar’s theme song began and hadn’t let go of it since. Sawney understood her completely, because he had such a grating voice, and reached over to clutch Haymitch’s hand with her other one, the three of them a conjoined chain.

There were large screens on the sides of the stage that showcased Caesar up close, occasionally switching to audience reactions and the mentors. Sawney herself had shown up briefly when he had mentioned her games, long enough to find the camera and send it a showy wink.

He called each tribute up one by one, to audience screams that burst her eardrums. Districts One and Two were as she had predicted; tough, vicious, confident. Not overly memorable compared to every other career interview. Sawney cheered with the audience for district Three, raising her and Wiress’ clenched hands, even when her tributes didn’t make much of an impact, too smart for the Capitols to understand their jokes.

Firtha’s dress was a gorgeous thing, shimmering like fish scales and trailing the ground as she stepped onto the stage. She didn’t acknowledge the crowd, heading straight for Caesar, and Sawney shifted forward in her seat; she hadn’t seen anything from her since the clips of her reaping, and Finnick’s words had her interested.

“My, my!” Caesar crowed as they shook hands. “Don’t you look positively gorgeous! Doesn’t she, folks?”

Firtha smiled at the crowd with a nod as she settled into her seat with crossed legs. Evidently, she knew how to sit in a chair, looking like she belonged there in seconds. “Thank you, Caesar,” she said kindly.

“Now, tell me,” he said, “how did you get that score? One of the highest of the year!”

Caesar turned to the audience, encouraging them to cheer. Sawney frowned, thinking that they should make the interviews longer if such a fool was going to spend most of the time fawning over himself. When the cheers died down, Firtha answered. “You know that’s a secret,” she winked at him, and Caesar laughed uproariously. 

“If only we knew. Do you have any secrets of your own to tell me?"

Firtha laughed at him and a smile crept onto Sawney’s face. “None you don’t already know,” she answered.

“No?” Caesar said, pouting when Firtha raised an eyebrow at him. “Okay, okay. Tell me about your family, Firtha. Are they proud of you?”

On the screen, Firtha’s blonde  eyebrows furrowed slightly. “I wouldn’t know. My mother died when I was very young,” she replied, pausing when the audience cooed. “And my father was recently hanged.”

“Hung!” Caesar exclaimed, turning to the audience, a cover up. “Well, I agree, it should be a crime to birth such a beautiful young lady. Anyway, I’m sure they would be proud.”

“I think they will be,” she smiled at him, and Sawney squeezed Haymitch’s hand. ‘ She’s good ,’ it said, and he squeezed back a ‘ told you so’. 

“The big question of the night..” Caesar began, holding his breath in jest, “...are you excited for the games?”

With a smirk, Firtha shrugged, the classic career. “Sure I am,” she said. “I’ve got some good allies.”

“Do tell! Are you pairing with the rest of the careers this year? Your district partner?”

Firtha laughed sardonically and shook her head. “Amy and Mitch,” she replied. “From Twelve.”

Here, Caesar gaped for all of two seconds before recovering with a shocked laugh. “Twelve?” Caesar exclaimed, stupefied. Sawney and Haymitch, their hands locked together, appeared on the screens, and this time she glared at the camera defiantly. “You’re pulling a Sawney Carter so soon?”

A Sawney Carter. Bitter resentment rose in her chest. A Sawney Carter. The worst moments of her life dressed up in a catchy tagline. Sawney felt, suddenly, sorry for Johanna, indignant. Firtha had reappeared on the screen, where she was smiling, straight teeth exposed. “I like them,” she shrugged. “They’re good kids.”

Caesar laughed as if she was telling a joke and Firtha seemed to go along with it as she giggled. “If that’s what you want,” he shrugged, shooting a blinding grin at the camera. His red teeth had Sawney grimacing, disgusted, reminded of Enobaria. The buzzer to signal the end of the interview sounded, and Caesar sighed exaggeratedly. “One last question!” He said with a raised finger. “What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get home?”

Firtha laughed, this time a real thing, and said, “ sleep ,” into the microphone as the two of them stood, synchronised. Caesar wished her well as she exited the stage, applause following her. As the boy from Four was welcomed on, Sawney leaned to speak into Haymitch’s ear. 

“I like her,” she admitted in a near shout, the audience cheering around them. He turned to her, a smirk on his lips, and raised an eyebrow.

“I knew you would,” he said back, and Sawney stared at his eyelashes, little golden wisps, momentarily entranced. When the audience cheered, she turned away, feeling like she’d been caught drawing on the walls by her mother.

The only other interesting interviews were from the two tributes from Seven, who spat vitriol into the microphones and glared hard at the cameras, unflinching. The girl, whose dark eyes and hair reminded Sawney of Johanna, bowed mockingly as her interview ended. Sawney found herself laughing as the crowd gasped.

Her mind wandered until it was time for Amy’s interview, who she screamed cheers at, feeling a little foolish. She was loud enough that Amy found her in the crowd, laughed at her, the nerves in her shoulders visibly dissipating.

“Looks like you’ve got a fan!” Caesar laughed as they took their seats.

Amy smiled sweetly. “It’s just Sawney,” she joked. “Ignore her.”

Sawney grinned, lifting the hand Wiress was holding to wave at her. Both her palms were sweaty by now, but neither Haymitch nor Wiress had voiced displeasure, so she didn’t really care. Caesar laughed. “Hello!” He waved back, and Sawney quickly pulled her hand down with a laugh. “I’m sure everyone here wants me to ask you one question, tonight, Amy, and I’m sorry that we’re skipping the pleasantries. You were reaped twice in two years, though, and that begs the question  - do you feel lucky?”

Amy gaped, a little like one of the fish the Capitols kept floating in their water cages. Effie, from the other side of Haymitch, was drawing a smile on her face with fingers, and Sawney thought it scared Amy enough into answering. “It’s an odd coincidence, for sure,” she replied, oddly diplomatic.

As if she had passed some test, Caesar nodded solemnly. “We all wanted to know more about you when Sawney volunteered last year, but she was incredibly tight lipped about it. Do you want to shed some insight on your relationship?”

“She’s stubborn as a mule, that one,” she joked and Caesar nodded violently at the crowd. “But, um, she’s actually closer with my dad. I’d never met her when she volunteered for me. I owed a stranger my life.”

Sawney, faced with the ghosts of her mother and her past at the same time, found herself blinking away the wetness in her eyes, gulping down the frog of emotion jumping up her chest. She bent her head down when she appeared on the screens, not looking when Caesar started speaking again. “You didn’t know her at all? How heartwarming . But you’re closer now, I assume.”

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “She’s my big sister. Picks me up from school and everything. I’m really glad she’s here with me. She’s been great to me and Mitch.”

“Your district partner,” said Caesar, talking to the crowd more than Amy. “Your alliance with him and Firtha, are you excited for it?”

“Yes,” said Amy primly. “I think Mitch is really funny, and Firtha’s been nothing but kind to me. I like them both very much.”

Placing a hand to his chest, Caesar turned to the crowd, who cooed along with him. “Such sweeties we have this year,” he simpered, wiping a fake tear from his eye. Sawney glowered at the screen, half sure he was poking fun at her tributes. “Now, a more lighthearted question is needed, don’t you agree? What’s your favourite thing about the Capitol, Amy?”

This was a question they’d rehearsed until Amy was shouting it in Effie’s face, one that Caesar asked most tributes. “The food is great!” Amy replied, and Sawney found herself mouthing the line with her. “It’s much better than anything I’ve ever had before, that’s for sure. Even the bread is better here.”

It went down a treat with the crowd, who all laughed at the poor little district girl, almost drowning out the sound of the buzzer. Caesar, who was surely wearing an earpiece, sighed loudly into the microphone almost the very second it sounded. “That’s all the time we have, I’m afraid,” he said, and Amy pouted. “The very best of luck to you, little Amy.”

Caesar reached over to pull Amy into a brief hug that had Sawney’s hackles rising, before she walked off the stage, waving to the crowd with a grin. She was quickly replaced by Mitch, who walked on stage with a comically straight back.

“Are you feeling alright?” Caesar guffawed as they shook hands. “Your back is as straight as a ruler, Mitch!”

Mitch laughed and shrugged, a little sheepish. They’d settled on sweet for Amy and funny for Mitch, who both seemed to have gotten the picture quickly. “Effie told me it’s polite to sit straight,” he said. Caesar laughed, and Sawney vaguely registered that half the audience did too, too focused on watching the stage. 

“She’s a smart lady,” nodded Caesar. “I fear I need to take her advice. I think I’m forming a slouch! It doesn’t look too bad, does it?” Here, he folded himself over in an exaggerated slump, straightening up to laugh with the crowd as they shouted reassurances at him. For all she hated him, even Sawney had to agree he was the host of the games for a reason. 

“Now, Mitch,” he said confidently, “are you enjoying your time here? Got enough pillows for your back?”

“I’ll take more if you’re offering them,” laughed Mitch. “But it is nice here. Very, er, welcoming.”

“That’s great news! Your score was great, too. Are you proud?”

Mitch nodded. “I think so,” he said. “We had a little party last night. Effie bought a cake for everyone. I think I’m still full.” He turned to the crowd, patting his belly as Caesar laughed.

“I hope you saved me a piece! I’ll be coming up for it later.” Caesar said this in a near whisper, conspiring with Mitch. “Do you think your family was cheering you on at home?”

“I hope so,” said Mitch. “My mum probably cried. I really miss her.”

The audience sighed, and Sawney heard a few loud sobs. “I’m sure she was incredibly happy for you,” said Caesar, laying a hand on Mitch’s shoulder. “I bet she’s also happy you’ve been making friends. What do you think of Firtha?”

When Caesar placed the microphone in Mitch’s face, he spluttered into it, a fierce blush fighting against the makeup on his face. Sawney barked a laugh, loud enough for him to find her and glare. “She’s really nice,” he said, looking into her eyes. Sawney, thinking he was seeking encouragement, nodded. “She’s taught us all about Four. I’d love to see the ocean some day.”

Make them pity you, Haymitch had told them, and Mitch was damn good at doing what he was told. “Maybe one day, if you win,” said Caesar. “Do you have any tricks up your sleeve to help you?”

“A few,” said Mitch slyly. He had absolutely none, this much Sawney knew, but she was glad he was smart enough to keep that to himself. 

When the buzzer sounded, Haymitch tugged on her hand, standing up. “We’ve got to go round back,” he shouted over the audience. He eyed Wiress for a quick, downcast moment, before saying, “bring her too. Beetee will take her.”

Sawney nodded, and the three of them followed Effie at a harried pace, pausing momentarily for her to reprimand the peacekeepers guarding the door to the backstage for not immediately letting them through. “Do you know who we are?” She had cried, and Sawney nodded at the peacekeepers as they walked past them. It was terrifying, being on the receiving end of Effie in a state, and she pitied them for it.

Backstage was largely empty, with only the team from Eleven, Amy, Beetee, and a cameraman remaining. It was a large, white room, with television screens dotted at regular intervals on the walls, and Sawney watched as Mitch walked off the stage on them. Wiress easily let go of her hand as Beetee nodded at her in thanks and Sawney waved them off with little speaking. 

“You did so good,” she gushed as Amy neared, pulling her into a tight embrace. “Just so good."

When Sawney pulled away, she trailed a hand over the girl’s hair and cupped her cheeks, pressing a kiss to her forehead. She saw the flash of the camera from the corner of her eye, and rolled her eyes in confidence with Amy, who giggled.

“Really?” She asked, eyes wide. 

“Oh absolutely, my dear, the best of the bunch,” declared Effie, her hat bobbing as she nodded. Haymitch shot her a sly thumbs up and, from behind him, Mitch appeared, flanked by a peacekeeper. Sawney shot up, clambering halfway over to him, until Haymitch hooked an arm around her waist and half carried her the remaining way. Her leg had been throbbing in agony since they stood from their seats, and was sure to give out before they got up to the penthouse, her muscle stretched beyond its limits. 

Mitch all but jumped into her open arms and she laughed into his hair as she cradled him. “The two of you are gonna have sponsors coming out your ears!” She said as she pulled away, half lying. 

She turned to Haymith, who smiled slightly and nodded. “They love you,” he said, patting her hip. He thought it was funny, she knew, their only sponsors because she was the newest victor, but it was nothing but sad to her. The donations sponsors gifted her tributes came with a price tag she’d have to pay in the future, doubly so if either of them won, this she knew, dreaded.

She grew sullen quickly, not knowing what to do; to bed with them, where they’d lie awake thinking about the games tomorrow, or somewhere else? Fortunately, Effie was there, a much better mentor than her or Haymitch would ever be. “We do have some cake left if you’d like, and I’m sure an avox can bring us some ice cream to mix it up with,” she said. “Yet another evening of celebrations!”

It was a poor distraction for the looming threat of the arena, but Sawney thought it sufficed just fine.

 

Notes:

i LIED im a big fucking LIAR this is not a short chapter it's the same damn length as the last one. i just love caesar icl i think he's cool (obvs not in this fic). I HATE writing children but if iget to write caesar im all for it so the interviews went on far too long but dw! Next u see him he will suck and be unslay again :) the games will 100% start next chapter btw i promise

Chapter 15

Every evening in the Capitol brought with it a new, unforeseen countdown to an inevitable catastrophe. The one the morning of the games is President Snow. 

When Effie woke her, shaking her with a violence and loudly whispering, Sawney had just assumed the power had gone out, or something else similarly mundane. It had happened once, where Effie had woken Sawney because she wasn’t sure how to close the blinds and didn’t want to wake an avox for it. So, she’d woken Sawney instead, tapping her cheek lightly until the girl rose with annoyance.  

The calmness of that first time was what made Sawney wake so quickly. She had pondered on feigning sleep until Effie left, but she had sounded so harried that it had only been a few seconds before she opened her eyes into narrow slits. Effie was in her pyjamas, a long silk nightgown and a matching headwrap, her eyes looking small without the makeup and eyelashes Sawney always saw her in. 

“I’m not sure why he’s here,” she launched into an explanation, helping drag Sawney up off the bed when she was too slow. “But he wants to see you, now, are you dressed?”

Still blinking the sleep out of her eyes, Sawney struggled to understand Effie. “What?” She asked dumbly, before looking down at herself. She was obviously dressed. “Who wants to see me?”

Effie didn’t answer as she pulled Sawney out of the bedroom, pulling her along as she walked quickly down the hallway. Sawney stumbled after her, a newborn calf, her head still fuzzy. She dreaded the worst, to get into the living area and see Finnick, or Caesar, and felt stupid when they turned the corner.

President Snow is sitting on Haymitch’s armchair, facing her. He’s centered in the middle of the roaring fireplace, the flames bracketing the chair, but stands when he sees them. “Thank you very much, Miss Trinket,” he says, smiling to Effie, who gives a half-curtsy and a strained giggle. “I’m sorry to have woken you for this. Please, return to your rooms and catch up on your missed sleep.”

Effie smiles at him. “It was lovely to see you again, President Snow,” she says, and he echoed the sentiment back at her. He waits in silence until the door to Effie’s room could be heard closing, and Sawney takes the time to look him over. He’s fully dressed, a three piece suit whilst it was still dark out, and she tries to focus on the absurdity of that instead of worrying, a fruitless thing. The alliance she and Haymitch had crafted, a direct reflection of her own rebellion, was the only thing she could think that she’d done wrong. It was a big thing, even if it was only singular, worthy of treason and execution. 

“Miss Carter,” greets Snow with a nod of his head, snapping her out of her own. He waves her over, gesturing to the sofa beside him as he retook his seat, and she follows, obedient. If he’d taken the trip to the tribute centre before dawn, the morning of the Hunger Games, Sawney knew she was in great trouble. “She’s lovely.” He’s talking about Effie.

“She is.”

Snow smiles, his skin stretching, and it makes Sawney think of career grins as they jumped for the kill. “I think this will be a lot simpler if I cut to the chase, do you agree?” He says, and Sawney nods at him. “Good.”

It’s an uncomfortable silence that settles over them as Snow brings a small, rectangular object out of his pocket. Sawney doesn’t know what it is, only that it’s some piece of technology, and she wonders if he’s about to kill her with it. “Do you know what a computer is?” He asks.

“Yes,” she replies, because she wasn’t born yesterday. She knew they had one in the peacekeeper barracks in Twelve, but had never used one herself. 

“This is like one, just smaller,” he explains calmly, and presses a button on the side. A holographic image appears, a blur of people Sawney can't decipher. “And this is the riot you caused last night.”

Here, Snow presses another, almost invisible, button, and the image starts moving. It’s a video with sound, and Sawney’s eyes widen as she watches a group of people clamour by a stone building, armed with fiery torches and hatchets, until suddenly, a gunshot rings out. Sawney flinches backwards, but can’t pull her gaze away as the mob descends on a line of peacekeepers who shoot bullets into the crowd. Sawney can hear the cries of anguish as people fall unmoving to the ground, and watches as the peacekeepers are slowly pushed back, outnumbered. The video flickers closed as Snow presses another button, and she wrenches her eyes to him.

“I don’t know what I’ve done,” she says, her voice stretched thin. She’s both elated and worried by the riot, because she hasn’t done anything to cause it. 

“Not you, directly,” he replies and Sawney furrows her brow. “This image,” another click of a button, “did.”

Staring at the photo of her and Amy, taken from the side and backlit almost angelically, Sawney casts her mind back to the evening before. She vaguely remembers the forehead kiss, the flash of light from the camera next to him. Such a small moment, in the grand scheme of things. “Why not just kill the photographer and be done with it?” She asks, careless, and flushes.

Instead of leaning forward and shoving poison down her throat, though, Snow laughs, and the sound crawls up her back. “He’s already encountered an unfortunate accident,” he says. “You, however, are much more difficult to deal with. I could have uprisings here if I have you killed. No one would buy it.”

“They might,” she says boldly. “Just hang me.”

Snow huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Such a simple way to go. What would I have you hung for, hm?” Here, Sawney stays silent, because he hasn’t uttered a word about the alliance yet. “Don’t worry, Miss Carter, I already have your punishment lined up.”

A frisson of worry raises the hairs on Sawney’s arms, and she straightens. “What is it?” She asks.

“Hasty,” tuts Snow, a warning dancing in his tone. “That’s for later .” 

She thinks of a fiery homecoming, another few funerals, but doesn’t dare ask again. She wants him gone, out of the penthouse and buried six feet under. Briefly, she thinks about reaching out and wrapping her hands around his throat, wonders how long it would take before she gets caught, if he was able to fight her off. Instead, she nods at him. 

“How are your tributes?” He asks, as if they’re gossiping over tea and scones.

“Fine.”

“Mr Abernathy?” And Sawney replies the same, monotonous. “Miss Carter, this is a lot better for both of us when you try to play along.”

“He’s doing well,” she replies this time, almost choking on her next words. “What is this?”

“I’m merely interested in your loved ones,” says the president. Sawney bets he is.

“Well, they’re all doing fine.”

Snow clicks his tongue at her, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the side of his lips. “You say you never meant to rebel against me,” he says, “and yet your every word is defiant. Why, then, do you act confused when I question you?”

“I am confused,” declares Sawney. “The districts, the Capitol, they know I have a relationship with Amy. You know I do because why else is she here? She’s going to be dead in a few days and be forgotten, the rioters punished. I don’t know… I don’t…” 

“Speak, Miss Carter.”

“I don’t know what you want from me. I’ve done everything you asked.”

“I want obedience ,” he hisses, and Sawney shrinks back into her seat. “You are a weak, sloppy prize for my people. You do what I demand halfheartedly, as if my words do not matter to you.”

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“I doubt that,” he says, and they both know he’s right. “After these games, I am permitting you a fortnight in Twelve before I want you back. You have one last chance, Miss Carter, to prove that you do not mean to defy me.”

He stands before she can answer, the breeze his movement creates wafting over her. He stares for a few seconds, Sawney small under his nose. “Go,” he demands, a far cry from his dismissal of Effie. “Return to Mr Abernathy’s bed. You have a big day ahead of you.” She doesn’t watch him leave, only daring to breathe again when the elevator doors slide shut with a chime. When she does, she slumps forward, catching her head in her hands as she struggles to remain calm, her heart thudding in her chest. 

Outside the window, the sky begins to lighten with the morning sun, and she does as he ordered. 

---

They only see the children for a short time before the hovercraft comes to take them to the arena.

It’s a tense breakfast, the day bearing down on everyone’s shoulders, but Sawney presses food towards her tributes nonetheless, hearty carbs and glasses of water that should keep them satiated until they can find sustenance in the arena, if they ever do. As a last treat, one last celebration for their bravery, Effie gives them each a few squares of chocolate. 

“Remember, run from the cornucopia” stresses Sawney, each hand holding onto one of their shoulders. She’s crouched, at their eye level. “It’s important to find food and water, but don’t just go eating things off the ground like idiots. Stay hidden, stay safe, stay with Firtha. And-”

“We know ,” says Mitch, forcing a grimacing smile that Sawney thinks is supposed to calm her. “You’ve already told us.”

“Well I never know if you’re listening to me!” She bristles, her voice shrill. “And I’m sorry, but if you die because your laces are undone or something stupid like that, I’ll never forgive you.”

“We’ll double knot them,” promises Amy, and Sawney makes a pathetic whimpering sound before pulling them into a tight, awkward hug. Peacekeepers are already waiting to take them away, and she has to be quick. 

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispers into hair, unsure of whose it is, and then their time is up, peacekeepers tearing them apart. “Stay alive!” Her last words to them, Haymitch’s infuriating advice, shouted at their retreating backs. Fitting.

Haymitch allows her a few seconds of reprieve before placing a hand on her back and leading her to the elevator, Effie joining them. She and Haymitch will be taking a car to the place the real mentoring begins, where a parachute is the difference between living and dying, whilst Effie will be cold calling, scrounging up as many last minute sponsors as she can. 

It’s a short ride, only a few minutes, and an even shorter trip to the room they’ll live in for the next few days. It’s large, windowless and the walls are painted with an almost grey blue. 12 desks are placed sequentially around the room in three rows, two mentors per desk, one console each. On the far wall, to the left of the door, screens cover every square inch of plaster, circling one large one in the middle, the one that would show what the audience were seeing. Caesar and Claudius are, blessedly, muted on it, the others showing headshots of the tributes at random. Sawney doesn’t try to look for hers. 

There were few victors at their seats, most milling around the self-serve bar that lined the wall opposite the entry; Sawney supposes it was easy access for after you watch your tribute get their head chopped off. Avoxes were dotted around the room, one carrying a platter of roasted nuts and offering it to victors as she neared them, and Sawney dodges her.

“Come on,” says Haymitch, guiding her to the desk marked with a twelve near the back of the room. Here, he boots up the screens, not bothering to walk Sawney through the administrative tasks. He points at things as they pop up though, those he’s deemed important, and walks her through the menu of items the gamemakers had compiled that you could send to tributes. “I’ve got Mitch, you’ve got Amy,” he explains, shrugging at her with a droll smile. “Thought it made sense.”

Sawney pauses for a minute, a frown tugging at her lips. “Snow visited me this morning,” she blurts, and it’s the wrong time for it, can see Johanna spin her chair around to listen from where she’s sitting in front of them. 

Haymitch starts, his eyes widening, turning his head from the screen to face her. “What’s wrong?” He asks and Sawney drops her eyes.

“I started a riot, apparently,” she scoffs, shaking her head.

“Where?” Johanna asks, and Sawney glares at her. Uncaring, Johanna raises her eyebrows, pressing her, and Sawney curses whoever placed their desks nearby each other. She and Johanna are two of the same magnetic poles, too alike to ever get on fully.

“Mind your business,” she snaps, but can tell Haymitch wants to know. “I don’t know. I didn’t recognise it, but it looked too poor to be career.”

“That’s helpful, sweetheart,” mocks Haymitch, and he runs a hand through his hair with a groan. “What else did he say?”

“That I’m a rebel,” she says stoutly, and he waves a hand for her to continue. It wasn’t exactly news. “And that I’m being punished soon. It’s a surprise, but he said I have two weeks home before coming back, so.”

Haymitch opens his mouth to answer her, but some traitor has unmuted the main screen, and Caesar’s voice fills the room. “We’re continuing this,” warns Johanna, pointing a finger at Sawney before turning back to her own desk. 

Most of the victors had arrived by this point, the last few stragglers taking their seats in a hurry, and they all watch the screen intently. “We have such a treat for you today!” Caesar says with a grin. “The 78th Annual Hunger Games begin in approximately,” he looks at his watch performatively, “thirteen minutes!”

“But before then, we’re going to give you a tour of the arena, footage courtesy of the gamemakers,” says Claudius, and the camera zooms out to show a third person. Sawney doesn’t recognise them, but Claudius introduces them as Zoya, one of the gamemakers who designed this year's arena. 

“It’s a fun one,” she says with a wry smile. “Last year’s arena was so bland , so we tried to make the actual terrain a challenge for the tributes this year.”

“Nobody saw that mudslide coming, though!” Caesar laughs, and Sawney scowls. What a twat.

They talk for a few minutes more before the footage changes to the arena. It’s a desert, that little Sawney can tell, and she immediately swears. She hadn’t even seen sand until her victory tour, and there's not a chance Amy or Mitch ever have. She can only hope for Firtha, born in Four, to guide them, to keep to her word. If she won by betrayal, Sawney was going to kill her herself. 

“This footage was taken two days ago,” says Zoya in a voiceover. “You can’t really tell much right now, but as the drone moves closer the geography will become a lot clearer.”

“It’s a desert!” Caesar says. 

“We took elements of desert biomes, yes, but also from dry flatlands, like the ones surrounding Districts Ten and-”

“It’s on the move!”

The footage was shaky and the blur of dusty yellows and browns hurts Sawney’s eyes until it almost stills to a stop, floating around the cornucopia. It’s on top of a barren plateau, the sun reflecting almost painfully off its metal, and the tributes’ pedestals are in two rings surrounding it, the outer one almost scraping the edge of the cliff it was situated on.

“This plateau is called a mesa,” says Zoya. “and we thought it would be a great starting point. As you can see, its steep walls will trap the tributes momentarily, but we made sure that it was relatively easy for them to climb down. Once you get the hang of it, that is. It should make for a frantic bloodbath.”

The footage changed with her words, zooming backwards to show what she was talking about; the mountain protrudes from the ground a few hundred yards, the sides of it covered in boulders and dirt. On the southern floor, the desert was covered in rocky terrain that looked almost impossible to traverse, a quick death if you fell travelling down from the cornucopia. A river lazed its way through the flatland, birthed from a large lake in the east and ending with a waterfall to the far west. The camera followed it.

“This is, in my opinion, the most dangerous part of the arena,” says Zoya, as the camera zooms around to show the northern area. Heatwaves distort the image, but Sawney can see the movement of mutts prowling, some fighting each other, some dozing on the cracked ground. “This is what I lovingly call a mutt medley.”

“That’s a good one!” Caesar crows. “You don’t mind if I borrow it?”

“Please, that’d be an honour!” Sawney rolls her eyes, shares a look of disdain with Haymitch. “Here you can see the full range of mutts we have in the arena, from our large coyotes to our small deathstalkers and rattlesnakes. We spent all year modifying them to be far deadlier than their wilder counterparts, of course. They’re all venomous if they attack, and poisonous if ingested.”

“How will the tributes find food then?”

“There are a few animals that we left safe to consume - fenneks, hares, songbirds etcetera. And each pack contains food this year.” Here, the camera darts through the shadow the mesa creates, turning to show its eastern side, which was covered with shrubs and cacti. “If I was a tribute,” says Zoya with a laugh, “I’d want to be here.” 

“They’re so fucked.” Haymitch turns away from the screen as Sawney whispers at him. 

His face sobers, the lights of the screen etching deep lines into his skin. He doesn’t answer, but takes her gnarled hand in his. It’s a move of pity, far too telling of Haymitch’s own depleted hopes for a victor this year. 

She thinks of Haymitch, unmarried and living a life of imposed solitude until she’d clawed her way to her own victory. Wonders if he had ever tried with his tributes, only to give up when realising the risk of winning. Sawney knows all too well the taste of it, in reapings and funerals and long nights, and doesn’t fault him for it. Once, when she was fresh on the train with Aden, she had, had screamed in his face for his lack of care. It makes her feel guilt now, the feeling invading her as she lays her free hand over the one holding hers. He twitches in her grasp.

“Five minutes!” Caesar cries, and Sawney takes a deep breath in, tilting her head at Haymitch.

“Five minutes,” she repeats, numb through her poor attempt at a smile. 

“When they’re in there,” he says, “you do what I tell you to.”

“What if I have a good idea?” She asks. Haymitch looks askance at her. “I do have them, you know.”

“I’ve never seen it,” he jokes, sarcastic, and she’s hit with a sudden sense of gratefulness for him. He’s more sober than she’s ever seen him, bar the rare days when Ripper is out of stock, and he’s being, for once in his life, patient with her.

She turns their hands, enveloping him in her own. “Thank you,” she says. “I don’t - I’m glad you’re here.”

“Don’t be going soft on me now, sweetheart,” he says in a light tone. She doesn’t dare answer, because she knows Haymitch isn’t a fool, can tell when she’s lying, and so she smiles before dropping his hand back on the table. 

“You ready?” She nods to the consoles, because she honestly hasn’t got a clue what she’s doing with them. Capitol tech eluded her, from their mind boggling showers to computers, a far cry from her life in Twelve. Haymitch reaches his hand to her computer, presses a button, and it changes from the list of gifts to footage of an empty pedestal; Amy’s.

“It’s easier if you’re actually looking at them,” he says and Sawney tells him to fuck off. A smile crinkles the corners of his eyes, but Sawney has to turn her gaze away from him when Caesar starts counting down the last two minutes, his voice dripping with excitement, Zoya long gone. The cornucopia is shown from the cameras hidden in the arena on the main screen, the video switching rapidly between pedestals as the tops of them slowly open.

It’s nerve wracking, watching her screen for movement. Forever passes before the metal of the pedestal slides open and, seconds later, Amy appears on screen, rising. She’s dressed in light clothing the same colour as the ground of the arena, a tortoiseshell of mottled yellows and browns, her hair plaited tightly down the center of her head. Her eyes are squeezed tightly shut, and Sawney remembers her own harsh transition from the tube to the bright, glaring sun. She peeks a glance at Haymitch’s screen, where Mitch is doing the same. 

“Where are they?” She asks, and Haymitch points to the wall of screens, where the outer ring forms the rings of the tributes, the center screen the cornucopia. Sawney finds two twelves nestled in the innermost ring, closest to the eastern side of the mesa, a four to the northeast that she can only hope is Firtha. If they do as they’re told, turn and run like hell down the cliffside, they’ll be in the safest part of the arena. It’s the best news Sawney has gotten since the reaping.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Caesar’s voice booms through the room, “let the 78th Hunger Games begin!”

All they have to do is stay where they are for the next minute to avoid getting blown to bits before the games even start. It’s not a difficult concept to grasp, and Sawney knows neither of them are stupid, but the thought of it still terrifies her. Mentors are locked out of their consoles, barred from providing aid, until the bloodbath is finished and the cannons boom, so all she can do is watch

The main screen is showing the cornucopia, laden with packs and weapons that only the careers are going to reach in time. Further out, the pickings dwindle, but Sawney can still see loaves of bread, tarps, and empty water jugs strewn across the ground. The footage switches to the girl from Seven, the name ‘Anise’ flashing across the screen, and Sawney can see a parcel of nuts and bolts a few feet from her pedestal. She briefly imagines her throwing them at other tributes one by one, her sole weapon, but sombers when Firtha flashes on the screen, her face serious, focused on a brown pack twenty yards in front of her, followed by a shot of Pearl from One.

“Twenty, nineteen, eighteen…” Caesar is chanting, and Sawney looks down from the big screen to her own smaller one, where Amy has turned her back on the cornucopia, body braced to jump off the pedestal when the gong blares. 

She’s facing the edge of the mesa, but Sawney can see her mouth moving. She turns the volume up. “-around, you idiot!” She’s shouting.

“Our tributes are already arguing,” says Haymitch, and Sawney looks to his screen. A pack lies ten feet ahead of Mitch, a small thing barely the length of Sawney’s forearm, a waste of time, but she can tell he’s gunning for it. 

When the gong goes off, it’s a struggle looking between the three screens; the careers sprint for the cornucopia, Mitch dives for the pack, Amy stalls and, somewhere, a pedestal sends its tribute into the air. “Fuck!” One of the mentors from Six shouts in frustration as their screen goes black. It’s one of the morphlings, and Sawney wouldn’t be surprised if they were too doped up to remember to tell their tributes one of the only constants of the games, but feels bad for her thoughts when he starts sobbing loudly.

“Shut up!” Gloss shouts from the front of the room, not turning around from his screen. Sawney huffs, looking down at her own console. She’s missed the whole thing, apparently, because her tributes are already skidding down the side of the cliff feet first. The pack is in Mitch’s hands, and they’re making a frantic escape together.

“District Six is out already!” Caesar declares, and she looks to the big screen, where Firtha is pulling a knife out of the girl’s eye socket, the first kill of the games. She’s halfway to the cornucopia, her own bag looped over one shoulder and a belt of knives slung over her neck. Two spots are empty, the knives in her hands. “And there goes Watt from Five!”

“Come on ,” Sawney hisses quietly. She’s not sure if Firtha is trying to make a last bid attempt at a career alliance as her district partner nears her, and she hesitates to look at him.

“Join us!” He shouts at her, and Sawney thinks them stupid, having a chit chat in the middle of the bloodbath. 

“I’m going,” warns Firtha, standing from the body of Six to face him. “You either let me or you don’t.” 

He hesitates, and the look she sends him is fraught with tension. “Just this once,” he says, holding up a finger, but Firtha is already off running. 

She’s running east, dodging a punch from the boy from Nine, who goes down seconds later to a spear, and then she’s slipping haphazardly down after Sawney’s own tributes. On her screen, they’ve already hit the flats, running towards the safety of the distant shrubbery. There are only two other tributes doing the same, Ismene from Five, the girl, and Berwin from Eleven, but Sawney thinks they’re all trying their best to pretend they don’t see each other, wonders how long that’ll last.

“We’re still in,” she says, a relieved laugh escaping her lips as she grabs Haymitch’s shoulder, who sends a rare grin her way.

“Better than I usually get,” he tells her. “I’ll watch us, you can watch the broadcast.”

She smiles at him, thankful, turning to the far wall. A clip of Firtha running after her tributes is shortly followed by the boy from Two launching a spear that catches Ripley from Ten’s hip. She winces as he cries, dirt flooding the wound as he stumbles down the cliff, a sure infection. He’s with his district partner, she thinks, and she catches him before he dives into the rocks below. It changes to the boy from Two again, who didn’t even stop to check if his spear landed, and is now focused on the boy from Three. In one swift move, he swings a mace and his prey falls like a ragdoll. The camera changes, a different angle, and Sawney can tell he’s a goner instantly, his temple caved in and oozing blood, something that’s surely going to be shown for years to come.

“Nasty!” Claudius exclaims, his voice gleeful. Sawney wonders if they can mute them, or if it would be better if she goes two floors up to them and silences them herself. 

The camera changes from the careers hunting the last remaining tributes on the mesa to Firtha, who is bent over, panting, her hands on her knees. She’s into the shrubbery now, almost fully caught up with Amy and Mitch, who aren’t faring much better, crouching behind a large boulder to catch their breath. Firtha recovers first, finally slinging the second strap of her pack over her other shoulder and snapping the clasp closed over her chest. When she continues, it’s at a slower pace, and she’s soon to be upon her tributes. Sawney’s still half certain she’s hunting them, but can’t glimmer much from her face as the camera switches once again. 

The two tributes from Seven are facing off the girl from Eleven to the west. The girl, whose muscles almost bulge out of her top, lifts her hands in peace. “Let me help,” she says. 

“Fuck off!” Anise snarls at her, tightening the grip on the rock she’s holding, her only weapon. She’s skinny, malnourished, and they’re cornered. Eleven’s not looking for a fight though, Sawney thinks.

“Is an allyship forming?” Caesar asks over the broadcast and Sawney scowls. It’s bad enough that she’s watching the games so intently, but to be agreeing with Caesar? A new low, Sawney’s sure of this. 

“Anise,” the boy hisses, elbowing her. “We might need her.”

“Are you thick?” She asks, throwing an arm up to gesture at Eleven. “She’s just trying to get us when we’re sleeping, Emin, like a coward.”

“I could kill you now,” says Eleven lightly, and Anise whirls to glare at her.

“Do it then!” She taunts, and Sawney wonders if Seven only breeds little Johanna Masons, how their district even functions with it. When Eleven doesn’t move, Anise grunts at her.

Emin, her district partner, sighs. “You can come,” he tells Eleven. Anise glowers, but doesn’t refute what he says, and he’s obviously in charge despite her bravado. When the girl from Eleven nears, she sticks out one dark hand.

“I’m Teresa,” she greets. 

“We’re not playing house,” scoffs Anise. “And you’re not keeping watch, ever . First sign of anything from you and I’m slitting your throat.”

“With what weapon?” Teresa scoffs and Anise curls her lips to bare her teeth at her. “Technically, that’s chewing.”

“I wouldn’t push it,” Emin says, and the camera turns to Caesar and Claudius before the conversation finishes. 

“The bloodbath is over!” Claudius says, his blue hair bobbing with every word.

“It’s recap time!” Sings Caesar, and begins recounting deaths over their respective clips. All the tributes from Six, Eight and Nine perished, as well as the boys from Three and Five. Only eight were killed. Fifteen had died in Sawney’s bloodbath, but each death from this year is more gruesome than the last. She hopes it’s enough to entertain the Capitol, hopes it grants her own tributes a small reprieve. 

“Ripley from Ten suffered a nasty injury there,” says Caesar and Claudius nods.

“If he doesn’t get medicine soon, infection is going to kick in.”

Medicine is one of the most expensive gifts this year, second only to antivenom and the one-offs like Finnick’s trident, and Sawney knows he won’t ever get it. Sponsors won’t throw money at a lesser district on the best of days, least of all at a dead man walking.

“Now,” says Caesar, “let’s see what everyone’s up to. It looks like the career pack are taking stock of their supplies.”

The careers were ignoring the bodies strewn across the mesa, grinning as they chucked food or weapons at each other, stacking piles almost as tall as them. It’s an exorbitant display of greed that has Sawney frowning, thinking of the berries she’d spent hours picking to form a single, measly meal in her arena. The camera switches and Sawney tunes out Caesar’s incessant narration as she sees Amy. 

She’s laughing, carefree, as Firtha ruffles Mitch’s hair. The girl from Four is pulling a damn good Sawney Carter.

Notes:

thank you minecraft biomes my saviour
doing a shockingly small amount of writing abt thg for a hg fic but thats fine we're all gonna ignore it okay pls n ty xoxo BUT whole games n a bit on is sketched out fully but work is kicking my ass atm so im spending less time writing and more time falling asleep w the latop on my chest. the other day i wrote a single paragraph in four hours :D

Chapter 16

Sawney really wants to stab the Hunger Games hosts.

It had been, in terms of the Hunger Games, a rather boring day after the bloodbath. Hours had passed before the careers even thought to leave the cornucopia, the arrival of vultures from the gamemakers the first time they remembered the people they’d killed waiting to be airlifted out the arena. In that time, the rest of the tributes had scattered, far from the danger of the pack. Most were staying close to the lake flowing through the southern area of the arena, the only known source of water.

When Firtha and Mitch had emptied their packs, it was to groans of despair, Sawney included. In a ploy meant to keep tributes together, probably, all the water jugs were empty. The only things in Mitch’s pack had been a small jug and a spool of rope. 

“It could come in handy,” Firtha had said when he pulled it out, cringing when he unwound it. It was barely long enough to wrap around his waist. Her pack, on the other hand, was filled with a folded tarp, two empty jugs, a pair of sunglasses, three bags of dried fruit and, in what was shockingly kind of the gamemakers, a small jar of burn ointment. For Firtha, though, the most important thing she’d gotten was a compass. She’d grinned widely when she pulled it out, flipping it open. “East!” She’d exclaimed happily, as if it meant anything. Maybe it did in Four. 

Caesar and Claudius had narrated the whole day, as was their job, and Sawney could tell they were getting increasingly bored.

“More of them should’ve fallen off that cliff!” Caesar wails, devastated. “The wasted potential. It’s a tragedy!”

“It’s only the first day, Caesar!” Claudius cries back at him as Sawney stands from her seat, sick of them. The games started six hours ago, and her bum has been numb for the last two. 

“Do you want a drink?” She mumbles to Haymitch. Chaff is snoozing at the desk next to theirs, the occasional snore breaking through the relative quiet in the mentoring room. 

“Please,” he replies, and Sawney’s sure he’s desperate for one. His flask, one he’d pulled from some hidden pocket, had long since run dry, and he’s been uncomfortably snarky for the past hour.

In some sick twist of events, as if the past day wasn’t bad enough, Finnick is at the bar. She tries to avoid him, debates grabbing one of the bottled waters for Haymitch instead of the liquor Finnick is blocking, but even she isn’t that cruel.

He’s leaning against the countertop, his eyes closed, peaceful. Sawney delights in sidling up to him. “Excuse me!” She says loudly in his ear, cackling when he lurches away from her, her one piece of entertainment used up for the day. Finnick glares down at her, and it’s a sight to behold, a pretty boy frown. “Tough day?”

Shrugging, Finnick pretends to yawn loudly, flapping a hand in front of his face, and she wrinkles her nose up at him. “I’ve just got nothing to do,” he whines in what she’s sure is a joke. “Both my tributes are alive and incredibly popular. It’s a travesty.”

“No, it’s good,” she tells him as she pours Haymitch a glass of white liquor. “You can keep it in your pants for once if you’re busy.”

Finnick pretends to laugh, a robotic thing that has Sawney shooting him a grin. She’s in a damn good mood, both of her tributes also alive and, somehow, in the midst of an arena, enjoying themselves. “We’re allies, Finnick, be nice,” she tuts at him, debating on whether or not to pour herself a drink. 

“One won’t hurt,” he teases as he watches her, and she sneers at him, mind made up. With a nod, she departs, depositing Haymitch’s drink on the desk.

 “For you. Anything new?”

“You were gone for three minutes,” he says, full of snark. “What do you think?”

“Who won?” Haymitch huffs a laugh at her as she sits back down. Sawney had expected to be on the verge of hystericals until the games finished, or her tributes died, screaming and crying at Haymitch in the corner. Her good mood is unexpected, but she capitalises on it, even talking nicely with Johanna about stew when she spins her chair around. 

When the sun begins to set in the arena, the careers go out hunting, venturing to the east first, and Sawney’s blissful state sours. On her screen, the trio are splitting a bag of fruit, drinking greedily from a water jug. They’d gone back on themselves earlier in the day to fill the jugs, and are now closer to the cornucopia than Sawney would like. In the desert, there are little hiding spots, and they’re huddled behind a boulder that barely covers the three of them

To the left of the main screen, a map shows the tributes’ exact location, and Sawney watches fearfully as a clustered group of 1s, 2s and a 4 nears her two 12s. “Haymitch,” she calls quietly, because she isn’t sure if he’s paying attention. 

“I see it.”

“What do we do?”

Haymitch grunts, shakes his head. “A parachute makes noise,” he reminds her gently. Sawney flops back in her seat with a distressed noise, eyes watching the numbers move closer and closer until-

“A fire!” Keres, the girl from 2, shouts, and Sawney watches as the noise registers on Firtha’s face as she motions to the other two to be quiet, a finger on her lips. 

“They’re not that stupid,” groans Sawney. A fire ? Only careers and fools have the privilege of fires in the games, the smoke a signal to anyone with eyes. 

“It’s not them,” a call from Finnick, who turns around to throw a megawatt smile at her. “It’s Eleven and Five.”

Sawney peeks at glance at Chaff, who’s still asleep and, after a glance at Haymith’s shaking head, leans back in her seat. Like her, Chaff could do nothing to save his tribute, and waking him to watch was a move she’d save only for Brutus, who had been gloating all day. Seeder had left an hour ago for a meeting with Eleven’s most important sponsor, and she’d probably kill him when she returned. 

On the map, the Three was moving away from the Eleven. Sawney watched the main footage for a few seconds, but she didn’t show up. “What’s Three doing?” She asked, her voice raised. 

Across the room, Beetee tells her she’s going to relieve herself. They rarely show tributes pissing in the arena, which Sawney thinks is the least they can do. She remembers one year, when she was small, that a girl had been ambushed in the middle of it, remembers the laughs of the careers as they stood over her, and the lingering shot of her body, bloody and with her pants still down around her knees. In her games, Sawney hadn’t peed for the first two days, paranoid that she was going to squat directly over a camera broadcasting it live. 

The camera is focused solely on the careers now, uncaring as their feet loudly crack dried plants and sticks beneath their shoes. Keres is leading, occasionally hacking a shrub out of her way with a footlong serrated knife. They’re moving away from Amy, Mitch, and Firtha, beelining towards the cloud of smoke, barely visible in the waning sun. If they’d waited twenty more minutes to set their small pile of twigs ablaze, the two tributes might’ve survived.

On Sawney’s screen, Firtha is herding the kids further east. They move quietly, half-crouched, pausing every few minutes for Firtha to listen to their surroundings, avoiding the howling she hears to their left. Night creatures are coming out, and Sawney can only hope they encounter no mutts in the darkness.

The boy from Eleven leans in to fan the fire on screen. Berwin , a text overlay says, and Sawney shies away from the guilty feeling chewing at her. She still didn’t know the names of half the people she’d killed in the arena, never wanted to know them, easier to think of them as game if they remain nameless, but still feels bad that she’s only now learning his. The girl from Five is almost half a kilometre away, closer to the girl from Three than Berwin. If she’s smart, she’ll run the second she hears his cannon.

When they descend on Berwin, Sawney turns away from the screen, trying desperately to tune out his agonised screams and pleading cries. Either the careers this year are uniquely viscous, or they know to put on a show for the bored Capitols, his screams and their laughter continuing for several minutes until, finally, a cannon goes off. Like vultures, they pick at his dead body until nothing remains, one of them stripping him of his jacket to replace their own torn one. Someone cries out, “Nine down,” and she’s sure it’s the boy from One. 

Sawney pushes her surge of anger down, forcing a calm breath as she looks back at the screen. Five is sprinting through the underbrush, one hand holding up her unbuttoned trousers, a look of pure terror on her face. Sawney’s shoulders are tense, watching the careers languidly walk away from Berwin in the direction she’d left, and curses when the girl trips over a root.

She falls on her chin with a cry, and Sawney can immediately see she’s bitten straight through her tongue, blood already pooling at the corners of her mouth. She half crawls to a thorny hedge, uncaring of the scratches she gains as she crawls through it, seeking some sort of haven from the oncoming careers.

“Stop!” A whispered cry shocks Sawney, and she watches as the girl from Three pokes her head out of a crack in a pile of boulders Sawney hadn’t noticed. She’s harried, foolish, Sawney thinks. She would’ve stayed quiet, let the firestarter die. “Come here!” 

The girl from Three has a hand under her mouth, blood spilling out of its cupped shape onto the floor as the girl from Five wrenches her towards her, a branch of thorns tearing her trouser leg open. They squeeze back through the gap, sucking in and holding their breath and, for a brief moment, Sawney thinks the girl from Three would get stuck, but she falls to the ground on the other side as the other girl tugs her through. A camera shows the hole they’re in, barely big enough to accommodate the two of them as they huddle on the ground, silent, just as several pairs of feet are heard thumping on the ground.

“You said she went this way!” The boy from One shouts at Keres. They’re standing mere feet from the boulders the pair are hidden in. 

“She did!” She shouts back. “All the bushes are trodden.”

“Well, then, where is she?” 

An argument breaks out between them, and Sawney watches the screen switch to a prowling, furred animal. It looks like a wolf, although Sawney can’t be sure. “Oh, go on!” Caesar coaxes it as it slinks through the ground cover, hunting its prey. Its mouth opens wide mere feet from the careers, saliva dripping down the large teeth it has, before it pounces on the boy from Four, sinking a bite deep into the meat of his calf.

“Fuck!” He screams, trying in distress to hack at the mutt with his own knife as he falls to the ground. His arms are too short, the animal too fierce for him, but the boy from One lurches into motion, hacking off the animal’s neck with one fell swoop. Its head hangs from Four’s leg, lifeless, teeth buried deep in the muscles, and Sawney grimaces. 

The shock of it all, despite being only a few mere seconds, takes all the careers’ attention away from what they were hunting as they grasp their weapons tighter, waiting for more mutts that won’t come. The boy from One reaches down to detach the head from the boy from Four, who’s wailing in pain, writhing on the floor. 

“Don’t pull it out!” Pearl cries, pulling One’s hands away from the carcass just as Four begins to claw at his leg, his nails carving bloody gouges in the flesh. All venomous if they attack, the gamemaker had said, and Sawney hisses a low, sympathetic tone. She can only imagine how it feels, the burning sensation through the boy’s poor leg. “Dylan, stop! You’re hurting yourself!”

As the careers hurry to subdue the boy, Dylan, Sawney remembers the list of gifts, the extortionate price for the antivenom at the top of it. She looks to Finnick, who had been at every party this week, in every interview she’d seen on television, garnering sponsors, and who is now sitting calmly at his own desk, watching the screen, unmoving. Mags had gone to sleep in the bunks on the floor a few hours ago, leaving him in control of both their tributes. He’s doing nothing but watching his tribute die.

“Are you going to help him or not?” Sawney snarls across the room, because she knows he can afford the medicine. She would’ve already sent it. Finnick however, ignores her. She debates arguing with him over it, but catches sight of Firtha on her screen, corralling her own tributes behind a thick cactus, and drops the subject. It’s more funds for her, technically, and she’s uncomfortably fine with a boy dying an agonising death for them.

The careers are shouting at each other as they struggle to hold down Dylan’s thrashing body, frantic in a way that makes Sawney remember that they’re just kids. The youngest, Keres, looks close to tears from where she’s holding his head in place tightly, and Sawney remembers the way her and Aden had floundered in the water next to Rose’s body, how she had been scared to hurt him, thinking she could’ve cracked all the bones in his small body as she tried to drag him from their dead ally.

It takes several long minutes for Dylan to succumb to the venom, for his body to begin to weaken, twitching against the ground until it comes to a stop. “It’s passing,” cries Pearl, and she’s trying to lift his body up, carry him somewhere. She fights against her district partner when he takes Dylan’s limp body from her arms. “I- fuck off! He just needs to get to the cornucopia. We can treat him.”

“We can’t ,” Keres denies, her voice cracking. She’s still in a sprawled heap on the ground, less than a metre from the opening Three and Five had escaped through.

“He’ll never make it,” the boy from Two says softly. “We have to leave him.”

“But he’s-” Dylan’s cannon cuts Pearl off, and she flinches violently on the screen, lifting one shaking hand to cover her mouth. 

Careers were Capitol dogs, Sawney knew this, bred for entertainment and their brutality, laughing while they slaughtered their allies and torturing poor little boys from Eleven, hunting other humans for fun. Packs usually started killing each other when the end of games neared, partners betraying years of friendship to stab each other to death, their only want the glory of victory. Nobody in Twelve ever respected careers, the worst of the bunch, but even Sawney is entranced by the show of emotions on the screen. She’s never seen a career cry; she doesn’t like it.

For a while, the careers stand there in silence, delaying the inevitable arrival of the hovercraft. Instead of their performance at the cornucopia, though, their purposeful forgetting of those they’d slain, Sawney’s certain they don’t want to part with his body from where they’d gently laid Dylan down on the floor, his arms crossed over his chest. It’s gut wrenching, watching the girl from One sob into her district partner’s arms, and Sawney reaches a hand out to cling to Haymitch’s sleeve. Finally, they leave, trekking back to the mesa, hunting forgotten. 

When the night sky fills with the faces of fallen tributes an hour later, Finnick leans forward, pressing a few buttons on his screen. 

Firtha is presented on the main screen, hopelessly trying to sniff her tears away. She’s even a pretty crier, tears caught in her eyelashes reflecting the moonlight, her thick mouth gently pursed. Sawney hopes she dies in the arena, never wants another tribute to have the life she has. 

“I’m sorry,” says Amy gently, and Sawney watches as Firtha shakes her head at her, weakly laughing.

“I hated him,” she admits with a bitter chuckle. “He used to go to the beaches during mating season to smash the hatchlings with rocks. He’s horrible.”

Her words, somehow, make her cry harder and she collapses into Mitch with a small sob. Amy awkwardly hugs her other side, the two of them enveloping her in their arms. A beeping interrupts them, and Firtha peels her head from Mitch’s small shoulder to watch a parachute float lazily through the sky to them. It lands a mere metre from Amy, who twists and stretches to reach it, drags it over to where the trio are sitting. It’s from Finnick.

Firtha takes it when Amy looks to her, unclasping the silver silk of the parachute and laying it to one side before flipping open the latch to reveal what’s inside. A small smile appears on her face, the camera changing to an angle over her shoulder, where Sawney can see six small, fish-shaped pieces of food. “It’s bread,” says Firtha, reverently taking one out and into her palm, running her thumb over its surface. 

“Why are they green?” Mitch asks, taking one out and holding it to his nose, breathing in deeply with an appreciative hum.

“They’re made with seaweed,” Firtha tells the two of them as they each take small bites of their rolls. “My dad used to make them for me on my birthday.”

Amy pauses, and she looks to be thinking over her words. “Why did they hang him?” She asks, her mouth full of food.

“Fucking hell,” mutters Sawney, glad that Effie wasn’t seeing the manners she’d drilled into Amy be abandoned so quickly.

Instead of offending her, though, Amy’s question shocks a laugh out of Firtha, who shrugs. “My brother was in the games last year,” she says softly, and the wind goes out of Sawney’s chest. “My dad started sending rotten fish to the Capitol when he died.”

“Sawney,” calls Haymitch as she stands, staggering back from her desk. She hears him call after her again, but she’s already slamming the door open and stepping into the hallway. She’s aware of the tightness of her chest, how her breathing rattles her lungs, her escape attempt having done nothing to quell the rising hysteria that’s sure to drown her.

She’d murdered Firtha’s brother. 

She barely remembers it, and she thumps her head against the wall as if the memory of him will come back to her. It’d been when she’d found Rose, that much she knows, but she can’t even remember his face, or if he’d fought back. 

“Sawney,” and Haymitch is upon her, wrenching her away from the wall, each of her shoulders clutched in his hands as he gives her a slight shake. 

“I killed him,” she babbles. “I killed her brother, Haymitch. She’s not our fucking ally, we have to tell them, she’s gonna-”

“Yes, she is,” snaps Haymitch, because they’ve had this conversation before, when she wakes in the night convinced Firtha’s playing the long game. Now, though, Haymitch’s denial of it makes Sawney uncontrollably angry.

“What do you know?” She shrieks, shoving him away from her, uncaring of the open door to the mentoring room, where she’s sure Johanna is eavesdropping, entertained. “I killed her fucking brother, Haymitch. I’d kill my tributes too!”

“She’s not!” He says brusquely, and she doesn’t know why he’s angry at her. 

“You don’t know that,” she spits, her voice bouncing off the walls. It’s dark now, the moon shining through the window and making Haymitch look even more sallow than normal, a pale blue. “You don’t know anything!”

“I knew you killed him, honey,” he shouts at her, cutting off Sawney’s tirade. “I watched your games, I saw it all. Do you think I’m stupid? She is our ally.”

“ Haymitch ,” she says, and it comes out pathetic, pleading, and he brings her in a tight embrace when she grasps a hand at his shirt, her own apology. “I don’t even remember him.”

She feels his answer more than hears it, vibrating through her torso. “You do,” he says and Sawney nods against him, because she can remember his gasp when her knife struck true, the thud of his body against the floor, the sound of his last wheezing breath as she reached for Rose. “She won’t kill them,” he continues. “I spoke with Finnick.”

Sawney lurches her head up to look at him. He’s frowning, dark seam eyes looking back at her. “You did?” She asks, and it’s tinged with a hopefulness that embarrasses her.

Haymitch nods, a small thing that sends strands of hair skittering down across his face. “He said she’s more mad at the games than you,” he explains. “She is our ally.”
“What if she’s lying?”

“She’s the only thing keeping them alive,” he says firmly, and it’s true. She’d taught them all she knew, laughed and broke bread with them, killed to bring them to safety when she could’ve just gone after them during the bloodbath. If Firtha’s simply acting, biding her time for her revenge, it’ll be later, and gives Sawney a few more days of looking at Amy and Mitch before she does so. It’s a price she has to pay, one she has to hope won’t happen. 

Haymitch cups Sawney’s face in his hands, a gentle hold. “Go get some sleep,” he orders, and she knows she can’t argue. “I’ll watch them.”

---

When she returns to her desk in the morning, a cream envelope is waiting for her. 

It’s infuriating, that she hadn’t been given the same reprieve from her other work like she knows Finnick and Cashmere has. She wonders if this is the punishment Snow had spoken about, if it was waiting in the envelope patiently, or was back at home for her. She doesn’t want to find out yet, and pushes it to the side. 

Caesar, in a fresh outfit of creams and pale pinks, is recapping what happened the day before. “So far, only ten tributes have died,” he says. “Eight of whom were killed in the bloodbath this year.”

The broadcast switches to clips of the eight deaths, from Firtha’s handiwork to the careers’, and then Berwin’s death, before it switches back to Caesar. Sawney thinks Claudius might still be asleep, and she doesn’t blame him. “This year’s career pack lost one member on their first day!”  A shot of the wolf leaping at Dylan is followed by the careers walking back to the cornucopia, all the anguish in between cut out, the careers packed back into their box for the Capitols.

“Did anything happen while I was gone?” She asks Haymitch, because she trusts his words more than what the Capitol is trying to feed her. Shocker. 

He shakes his head before stopping and nodding at the envelope. No, then, the only thing of importance was its arrival, and she shrugs at it. They both know she’s not opening it yet. “While you were gone,” he says instead, “I ate your breakfast.” Sawney’s eyes take in the empty bowl he motions to, before giving him an incredulous look. “I was hungry.” 

She’s half sure he’s done it to give her something to bitch about, to distract her from the ticking time bomb on their desk, and is secretly grateful for it as threatens to report him, no , to tell the whole of Panem, even. “They’d think it more interesting than the damn games, I’m sure,” she rants. “Stupid, the whole lot of them.” 

And then, in a move born from some kind of spite, Sawney picks the envelope up and tears it off its contents, letting it drop underneath the table as she reads what it held. Reads it twice, three times, before Haymitch is reaching to pluck it out her shaking fingers. She clenches them into fists in the middle of her lap, bites back tears that blur her vision

“Sweetheart,” he says commiseratingly, in a tone she hates , one that has her turning away from him and her punishment, the one he’s holding. She thinks about tearing it up into little pieces, chewing them and swallowing them into her stomach, pretending it’d never arrived. She doesn’t want to know it exists, but holds a hand out to have it back, to check again that she’s reading it right. When she does, she covers her mouth with one hand, because it’s still the same thing it was when she first opened it.

It’s still an invitation to her and Finnick’s wedding.

Notes:

smashed sawney over the head w a bat this entire chapter for some reason

Chapter 17

Summary:

this chapter fucked me in the butt i rlly hate it but we're just gonna move on okay?

Sawney’s parents had a love story for the ages, one spouted from cabin doors and wine stained mouths, the memories gone crooked with the deaths hanging over their heads. The arena had turned her secretively sentimental heart into a bitter, resentful thing, and she now turned her lip up at couples in disgust, punching the former out of her chest. In short, the only thing she knew romance to bring was misery and nonsense.

Her mother had been a merchant, fair haired and ruddy cheeked and clean, the day she’d met her father. He’d said she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, waxed as poetic as a miner could about her blue plaid dress, the little bow tied around her back. She’d been rich, almost disgustingly so, her parents selling clothes and designs to the Capitol for money no one else from Twelve could compete with. Sawney’s father was born, probably, from the mud of the seam, moulded with coal dust in his veins, haggling and throwing fists for a meal all his life.

They’d met at sixteen, an age that Sawney remembered to be full of woeful longing for anyone with a pulse, and scoffed at the very idea of their true love years later. Her house in the village was stewing with fire and she lounged, maudlin, nursing a filched bottle of spirit in front of the flames. Her mother was dead and buried with her father, and an unstoppable anger was slowly brewing in Sawney. It would come to fruition one day, when she’d chop death’s head off, but for now it made her feet itch. 

She felt, in lieu of denial, that her parents were deluded. Her mother had left her family at eighteen to marry some nobody from the seam, working her fingers to the bone washing the very clothes they sold to barely make ends meet. Her father was dead, and she thought he was better off for it. Her father was dead, and she wouldn’t have gone into the games if he was still alive; she’d never had her name picked, would’ve never felt anything for the little girl standing on the stage but pity, forgotten in a day. Instead, she had to find work, had to forge documents to make her old enough to work in the mines, stared defiantly into the eyes of miners who knew the exact day she was born.

Her father had missed her birth because, naturally, he was working. He’d run all the way from the mines to the tailor shop, where her mother had still been lying, little Sawney red and blotchy in her arms. That was love, Sawney thought, gathering up dregs of energy to sprint halfway across the district after a full day's work. He’d kissed her mother before her, had heard tales of how her mum was half convinced he hadn’t even noticed the babe in her arms until Sawney had whipped a hand out of her blanket with a cry. 

In the months after her mother died, Sawney had gone wild. She cringed when she thought back on it, of her screams and violence and drinking. It’s around the time her feelings for Haymitch grew fonder, although she hadn’t really known what it was yet. But when she was piss-drunk and he’d washed and combed her hair out, Sawney liked to think that’s when she knew, you know.

If they ever made it, if Sawney had gotten the chance to grow old in Twelve and mould a little life for herself, it’s what she would’ve told people when they asked. That he was sweet, for a drunk, even when she tried to claw his eyes out over nothing, that he was just so Twelve she couldn’t help it.

Now, though, the thought of Twelve, of home, the life she wanted, makes Sawney lean forward and retch on the floor, heaving up nothing but bile. Haymitch had eaten her breakfast, and the acid of her empty stomach burns her throat something savage, and she imagines it’s what the venom coursing through Dylan’s leg had felt like.

When her brain swims back into semi-consciousness, her lucidity returning in a dizzying way, Haymitch and Finnick are screaming at each other, the room tense. She’s never heard Finnick raise his voice, the deep timbre of it rattling her bones, and she raises her head from the pile she’d created on the ground to look up at him. 

The invitation is in his hand, half crumpled, so pale against his golden skin, and he’s in the middle of shouting something, enraged and wild. “-said you could control her!” He accuses Haymitch, one hand flinging a gesture in Sawney’s direction. Mags tries to calm him, laying a hand on his back that he shrugs off. “This is my life you’re ruining, you know.”

“ Your life?” Haymitch scoffs. “You’re not the one who’s going to move districts, are you? They’d never let you step foot in Twelve.”

Johanna, who watched an argument between Brutus and Finch from Five yesterday with a gleeful smile, is sitting in shock, still at her desk, staring at Sawney. Sawney sniffs and sends her a sneer, falling back on the feeling of anger she’s much too comfortable with as she stands from her chair violently, uncaring as it clatters to the floor.

“Don’t act like you fucking care,” she tells her, and Finnick switches his ire from Haymitch to her. 

“What did you do?”

“She started a riot,” Johanna says dumbly, and there’s no reason she should’ve held it safe, secret, but Sawney still feels betrayed.

“If a single photo can start a riot, then maybe it’s less my fault and more the system they’re raging against,” she says in a superior tone, her voice raising in an effort to beat Finnick’s.

“Oh, will you just-”

“What do you think you’re doing?” It’s Effie, screaming shrilly over the commotion. She’s standing in the doorway, decked in a horrific neon pink from head to toe, and she’s Capitol, so they all stop. They know their places well enough. “Arguing is not going to help your tributes! Take your seats, now.”

Finnick, looking distinctly like a scorned child, shuffles back to his desk, where he sits down. All his anger seems to bleed out of him, his shoulders slumping, the very picture of dejectedness. She’s certain he’s going to cry when Mags runs her hand over his back, whispering broken words she can’t hear into his ear, but she can’t bring herself to care. 

He could still live on the same street as Annie, could invite her round to eat with them. All Sawney would get was the Capitol, once a year, when she’d be more focused on her doomed tributes than being lovelorn.

“Honestly, I thought you could stay settled for at least one day whilst I was away,” continues Effie firmly, oblivious to the look Brutus sends her way as she struts through the room. “ Nothing is more important than your tributes right now, which you should all very well know.”

“Effie,” says Haymitch, reaching a hand out in an attempt to silence her, because she never could read a room, but she avoids his grasp to stand with her hands on her hips and stare at the main screen.

“No, I won’t hear it, Haymitch,” she snaps, nose high in the air. “I haven’t slept all night, and this is how you repay me?”

“What horror,” mutters Johanna, and Sawney glares at her.

“Fuck off,” she says, but it has none of her usual bite, and yet Effie still lightly cuffs the back of her head. 

“You should all be watching,” she exclaims, pointing a finger at Johanna, who turns around with a roll of her eyes. Effie’s voice is squawky, her frustration evident. 

Here’s a secret of Sawney’s; she enjoyed when Effie ranted, found it funny. She’s glad for it now, the Capitol uncaring of the glares she receives, verging on rude as she snaps back at the offending victors, taking control of the mentoring room in less than a minute. It’s all very Effie.   

When she finishes, Effie stands there for a second, dithering, dramatics forgotten, before rescuing an abandoned chair from the empty desk of Nine and bringing it over to sit on the end of the desk. Sawney ends up sandwiched between her and Haymitch as Effie shoves her face into their screens, tapping the console screens to show their available funds with a shocking efficiency. Technically, Effie wasn’t allowed in the room, but a victor usually had more than one person guiding them through their first year of mentoring and, Haymitch being Haymitch, a seemingly drunken fool, is the only thing allowing her to still hold access to mentoring stations.

“They should have more money than this,” she says in an annoyed tone, and Sawney stays quiet. Half the clients she’d serviced, half the sponsors she’d given herself up to for their promise of a few tossed coins, were missing from the donor list. They’d never given her their money, and Sawney doesn’t doubt that the rounds Effie had been doing since the games started would turn out to be futile too. 

“They’ll start coming in soon,” she says instead of telling Effie, because Sawney was in no mood for her delusions. It appeases the woman, who blessedly leans out of Sawney’s space and firmly back into her own. 

“Sawney,” begins Haymitch, and she doesn’t want to hear it. She glares at him harshly, and he closes his mouth, pursing his lips tightly together. “I’m so sorry.”

His words are soft, and Sawney doubts Effie can hear them. She spares her escort a glance, but she’s so focused on watching the games that she probably wouldn’t notice if Sawney stripped her clothes and streaked around the room screaming. Blindly, Sawney reaches to clutch at Haymitch, who grasps her hand in a grip so tight it’s almost painful, her only anchor. 

---

The careers pack antivenom into their bags, taken from the discarded piles in the cornucopia.

They venture into the northern half of the arena, slaying mutt after mutt instead of the very tributes they’re hunting. Sawney would’ve turned tail and ran the first time she saw one, but careers were always too cocky for their own good.

She’s not surprised when a snake rears from the ground, its scales gleaming in the harsh sun, and sinks its teeth into the ankle of the boy from One. Almost immediately, he starts convulsing on the ground, and the other male career barely has the strength to hold his neck steady as Keres pops the stopper of the tube holding the bright blue antivenom and empties it down his throat. They’re calmer this time around, their trust in the Capitol medicine strong, as they take turns carrying the boy, Quintus, back to the cornucopia. 

Sawney, rightly so, is in a foul mood, and half hopes they drop his body down the cliffside to his death, give Caesar the very thing he wants. 

When night falls in the arena, Sawney finally wrenches herself out of her catatonic state. Most of her day had been spent obsessively trying to burn every memory of Twelve deep into her mind; the curve of Katniss’ mouth, the smell of the air on a spring day, wildflowers brushing her hips, learning to swim in the hidden lake, it’s all there. 

She’s morose when she reaches her hand to tap the keyboard, watching her tributes and Firtha swap their own stories of home as they bunker down for the night. Haymitch had gone to sleep around midday, far later than he should’ve, but Sawney thinks he was forcing himself awake to ensure she didn’t hack Finnick to death in an attempt to get out of marrying him. She’s in charge of their tributes, and it’s a risky move; she gets so spiteful when she’s mad she wouldn’t put it past herself to neglect them in a fit of rage.

She scrolls the list of gifts almost aimlessly, eventually settling on a gift of three squares of chocolate, identical to the one Effie had given out the morning of the first day. ‘ Type your message…’ the screen blinks at her, and she does as she’s told.

Sawney watches her gift float its way down to the tributes, falling beside Amy’s head, who reaches to take it. Mitch and Firtha watch, intrigued, as Amy opens the container with a snort. “It’s from Sawney,” she says, and passes the small slip of paper to Firtha. “She’s being ridiculous.”

“Is she usually so…” Firtha begins, trailing off. She holds the paper up to show Mitch, who rolls his eyes. The camera changes, and Sawney can see her ‘ TOP FOURTEEN!’ typed out in bold, dark lettering, snorts at it.

“Dumb?” Mitch asks and Firtha shrugs a yes. “She thinks she’s being funny.”

“It’s sweet,” says Firtha lightly. Amy laughs, and Sawney’s sentimental, hidden heart rears its head. She’s smiling at her screen.

“Don’t do that,” she giggles, laying a small hand on Firtha’s arm. “She’s making fun of us, you know.”

“That was a waste of money,” says Finnick quietly, and Sawney turns her head from the screen to where he’s taking Haymitch’s seat. Sawney hums at him, eyeing where his legs stretch out underneath the table. “You won’t even have to live with me. You can take Annie’s house.”

“That’s not the point, Finnick,” she mutters in reply. “We can pretend all we want, but when they want our wedding night? A baby? Snow won’t let me sleep in Annie’s bed then.”

He pauses, sitting in silence for a while, before saying “I’m sorry. I know you and Haymitch-”

“You know nothing about me,” she snarls, her words thick with vitriol. “I have a home in Twelve, I have family there. We have a goose . Nothing you can try and give me in Four will ever compare, and you know it. I’ll be miserable ‘til the day I day and I’ll make you suffer it.”

“Four has some strong knots,” he says after a moment, and she knows what he’s saying.

“The only time I’m being hung,” she retorts, “will be in front of Panem. I won’t give him the pleasure of anything else.” 

“I know,” sighs Finnick, and she watches as he runs a hand over his face. Even in despair, he’s gorgeous, and it makes Sawney scowl at him, which he ignores. 

“Maybe I could learn to fish,” she says, but they both know it’ll never happen. Snow would never put his precious victors on a boat out at sea, least of all Sawney. She’d probably try to steer it into the vast expanse of the ocean, losing herself to freedom, but even that’s a thought that makes her upset. She’d miss Twelve eventually. “I don’t know how you do this.”

Finnick lets out a sigh, something tinged with regret, and his arm is sliding around her shoulders as she leans forward to sob, his touch so foreign it discomforts her. 

She’s stuck under Snow’s thumb for the rest of her life, and not even looking at Amy’s angelic face, laughing on her screen, makes the reality of it any brighter.

---

The second day of the games had been uneventful, Quintus easily recovering from his bite with only a worsening fever to tell the tale of it. Even Sawney’s growing tired of watching the tributes do the same thing each day; the two from Seven and Teresa are making a slow trek to the far west, the two from Ten are hunkering down in the rocks all day, everybody avoiding the glaring sun. It’s draining the life out of them, and, even with the burn ointment, her own tributes are bright red, their skin peeling high on their cheekbones.

Sawney isn’t surprised when the mutts begin to wander on the third day, pushing Ismene and Ada, the girl from Three, out of sanctuary and into the flatlands beneath the cornucopia. Ismene had well and truly mutilated her tongue when she’d fallen running from the careers, and speaks only in grunts and hums, the very picture of an avox. 

“It gets humid in summer, back home,” Ada is saying as they walk along the cracked ground together. Every clip shown of them is just her talking on and on, and Sawney is beginning to suspect she saved Ismene’s life so she had someone to listen to her. “Makes my hair frizz up, like a dandelion. My house doesn’t have air, but the school does. I think it’s the only time I enjoy being there.”

Ismene stays silent, as expected, but Ada laughs like she’s told a joke. “I know, it’s insane, but I don’t get what they’re teaching us. I just don’t know how to rewire anything. Everyone else does!” 

As Ada opens her mouth again to speak, the camera switches to Keres. She’s standing, a spear stuck into the ground by her side, staring down the mountain at the moving pair, almost as if she’s a sentry guarding the cornucopia. When her district partner comes to stand next to her, she doesn’t turn her head.

“We should go get them,” he says.

“I thought Enobaria taught you about patience, Atlas,” she replies. Now, she does turn her head to him, squinting blue eyes against the sun. “They’ll see us coming from a mile away.”

“We can’t lose her again,” he says, and she hums an affirmation. “We’ll be a laughing stock back home.”

A frown tugs the edges of Keres’ mouth, and she turns her back on the swathes of desert. “They’re not here,” she says. “They can’t laugh.” Sawney is struck by the image of her, all of fifteen, crying in a pile on the floor. 

“You know they will.”

“Well, when I’m richer than the lot of them, then we’ll see who’s laughing,” she says, and then sighs. “I thought…”

“What?”

“I thought this would be easier,” she finishes, quietly, an air of reluctance around her. “I don’t know, I just thought I’d be home by now.”

Atlas stares at her. “You knew what this was when you volunteered,” he says. “You should’ve waited a year if you were unsure.”

“I wasn’t!” She defends, and her words are firm. “It’s just a lot different than what they teach us.”

“What are you chatting about?” Pearl shouts from the cornucopia, where she’s watching over Quintus. He had slept through the whole night and into the day, waking briefly from a night terror before slipping back into unconsciousness. Sawney expects the antivenom only delays the inevitable instead of preventing it, but the careers are still hopeful for an eventual recovery.

“There are tributes down there!” Keres calls back. “Do you think we should go hunt?”

Pearl cheers, and Sawney wrinkles her nose in disgust at the girl’s excitement, looking away from the careers to her own console. Firtha had been leading them further east for most of the day, but they’re walking at a slow pace, a stroll at best. Even Sawney walks faster than them, and she’s no better than a newborn foal. 

They don’t do much apart from walk, stop for a drink and a bite to eat, and then start walking again. Sawney doesn’t know how the other mentors do it, and it’s Amy she’s watching, half bored to death. When the girl from Ten starts scaling the mountain to the cornucopia's plateau, she lifts her head up to watch.

The careers, bar the still sleeping Quintus, had climbed down a half hour earlier, and were trying to find the pair of girls, and so there were no obstacles for her as the girl’s head peeked over the top, red with exertion. Still, she’s careful, creeping out onto the plain in small, quick steps, eyes fixated on Quintus’ form the entire time. 

The screen splits, one half her digging quietly through supplies, the other her district partner. Sawney remembers the wound he’d received at the bloodbath, and isn’t surprised to see him dripping with sweat, pain etched on his face. “Do they have medicine?” She asks Haymitch.

“No,” he says. “Not for anything that bad.”

Sawney frowns, confusion forcing her to watch, to figure it out. ‘ Lilith’ , the screen tells her, is hurriedly shoving packs of food into her bag, one eye always on Quintus’ still form. He won’t ever wake, this much Sawney knows, but her heart still thuds a tune of worry as she watches the girl scavenge what she can.

It’s only a few minutes before she turns her attention to the pile of weapons, shining in the sun, calling her over. When she reaches for them, it’s a gold scythe she pulls into her hand, turning it to and fro in an inspection. She makes an imposing figure when she stands, using the scythe as a walking stick as she wanders over to Quintus. Sawney thinks she’d swing it right into the boy, but she does nothing but stare. 

“Just do it!” Demands Johanna from her seat. Her own tributes had done nothing for days, and Sawney thinks Johanna’s given up on any mentoring to watch the games. Privately, Sawney also wants the girl to get it over with, has always hated this part.

On the screen, she tightens her grip on the scythe and swings it through the air experimentally, left, right, up and then down, hard, into Quintus’ torso, who doesn’t even wake from the blow. It’s a good thing, because the wound leaves a deep, oozing crater that gushes blood onto the ground in rhythmic spurts.

When his cannon sounds, she’s already halfway down the cliff, panting, escaping off to where her district partner waits.

The footage switches to Firtha, whose head is craned in the air, listening, and then to the careers, less than a hundred metres behind the pair of girls, gaining on them, and then to the trio in the west.

“Ignore it,” orders Anise when Teresa flinches to a stop at the cannon. “It doesn’t matter.”

Teresa stared at her, aghast. “Someone’s just been killed -”

“It’s the games,” she snaps over her shoulder. “What do you expect?”

And then the camera is switching again, to Keres stalking through cacti, Pearl and Atlas on her heels, Ismene a stones throw ahead of her. Ada’s further ahead, and she’s still talking, covering up any sounds the careers make, and it’ll be the death of her.

Sawney watches with baited breath as Keres signals Atlas to move ahead of her, to strike, and he does, throwing his spear to catch Ismene through the neck. When she falls, her cannon blaring almost immediately, the speartip lodges itself into the dry ground, her head cocked up awkwardly, and Sawney winces sympathetically. 

Keres hadn’t waited a second, running after Ada, who’s sprinting away desperately, words forgotten. Three doesn’t have academies though, and Keres launches herself at her with muscles formed from years of training, the two sprawling against the ground in a grapple. Hopelessly, Ada reaches up to claw at Keres’ face, scratching over her eye. The career laughs and bats her hands away, bringing up one of her long knives to plunge into Ada’s eye socket, who goes limp beneath her.

Beetee throws his hands up as his screen goes black, a cry of frustration echoing through the room. Sawney, however, can only think of his failure as one less obstacle in her tributes’ path. It’s a weak triumph, and the memory of the client that killed her mother flickers into her head, unbidden, her own tributes so young.

The boy would’ve been prettier on his knees , he’d said, and she remembers the feeling of his cock between her lips, so ripe for the taking, remembers the move of her snapping jaw that sealed her mother’s death. It hadn’t been difficult, dismembering him, lunging for his throat like Enobaria, falling to the ground as he smashed a plate over her head. It was one of the most brutal fights of her life, second only to Star, ending before she could rip his jugular out by the arrival of peacekeepers beating her into submission, sinking a needle into her own neck. 

When she’d woken up, restrained to a hospital bed, Haymitch had been sitting at her bedside, a perfect mirror of after her games. Like then, she’d known the news, that she was in trouble again. She misses her mum something fierce, in an indescribable way she’ll never get over, but she’s glad she’s dead. Being alive to see Sawney marry Finnick is a fate worse than death. 

---

Finnick spends the better part of a half hour scooting his desk up to slot next to hers. 

She thinks he’s doing it purposefully slowly, moving an inch a minute, pushing the table with only his feet, making a mockery of her as he approaches, the oncoming dreaded one. When it’s over, when he arrives, he flops into his seat next to her with a blinding smile.

“You should be more upset,” she tells him, eyeing his straight teeth with envy. “Your wife bites.”

He looks at her, one of his seductive faces, the one he uses on blue-skinned women frothing at the mouth for a lick of attention, and doesn’t say anything. It makes Sawney snort, and she realises she could learn to like Finnick. It would never be the same as home, but he occasionally made her laugh, knew when to leave her alone. 

“Why are you even up here?” She asks instead of playing along with him.

He pouts, because she knows he likes to tease her, and says, “we’re allies. Isn’t that right, Haymitch?”

“Yes,” grunts Haymith from next to Sawney. He’s half asleep, chin tucked into his chest, arms crossed.  

“Yes!” Finnick repeats. “I have an idea!” 

When Sawney doesn’t ask what it is, he swings a kick at her shin. “Oh- fuck! What do you want?”

“You could just come with us, Haymitch!” He declares, arms in the air, as if he’s discovered a secret, thriving fourteenth district they could all run off to. “I could sleep with Annie, you with Sawney. Nobody would know.”

“I know this is funny to you,” says Sawney slowly. “But marrying you is the worst fucking thing I’m ever going to do in my life, Finnick.”

He pouts like a child, but entertaining him is more interesting than watching Firtha teach Amy even more knots, so she doesn’t argue further. He realises she’s allowing him his fun when she raises an eyebrow, and he grins. “You could bring your goose, even,” he says, and this makes Sawney smile something real, something verging on sweet.

“He also bites,” mumbles Haymitch. “And he’s my goose.”

“He’s our goose,” says Finnick, eyes lighting up when Johanna turns around. Sawney hates her for a second, wonders why she can’t marry Finnick instead of her, leave her lonely district far behind.

“Annie would kill it,” she says unhelpfully, and Finnick frowns at her until she relents as far as she can. “Maybe.”

“No, she wouldn’t,” reassures Finnick when Sawney scowls. “She’s only ever killed a cat, Johanna, and it was one time.”

Sawney barks a laugh that has Cashmere shooting their group a look of disdain, and she whines a noise of amusement as she thuds her side into Haymitch, settling into him. “I always wanted a cat,” she says. “I think I told you, maybe, I don’t remember. There’s this little black cat near the Hob, and I think she’s just had kittens. I was gonna take them home.”

An unpleasant feeling rushes through her and she forcefully tucks her head under Haymitch’s chin, who allows her, as Johanna and Finnick argue over their heads about the amount of innocent animals Annie’s murdered. She went off the deep end during her games, and never seemed to come back out. 

She wonders how Finnick can love a mad girl enough to defend her over something so cruel, and thinks of gentle hands spreading salve over the grazes on her scalp, of arms curling around her when she wakes, shrieking, and pushes the thought far from her mind. 

---

Down to the last eleven tributes, the careers increase their hunting tenfold, the cornucopia and their dead allies long forgotten.

They forge a path west, towards the trio, not even stopping to sleep when the sun sets. Unlike the careers, who’ve had three square meals a day since the games started, the trio has only had a few handfuls of picked berries, drinking straight out the river on all fours when they need to. They have to stop every hour or so to regain what little energy they have, and bunked down on the floor around midday, completely spent.

When they wake on the fourth day, Sawney isn’t surprised when the careers are barely a league behind them. 

Keres is leading the charge, determination etched into her brow. 

“If we haven’t found her yet, maybe she’s gone north,” says Atlas, and Sawney realises they’re hunting Teresa, the hulking girl their only remaining threat, that they’re unaware of her allies.

“She’d be dead if she went north,” replies Keres. “She’s out here.”

When Emin calls for a rest an hour later, they’re too close to starvation to talk and it’s Teresa that hears the careers, the clunking of their full packs in the now silent arena, surely a product of the gamemakers’ interference. 

“I can hear people,” she says, standing from her seat on the ground.

For once, Anise looks worried, turning her head to Emin for guidance. None of them can hold their own against a career on a good day, and definitely not in the state they’re all in. Teresa turns her head to the distance, the vast expanse offering no sanctuary to hide, and Sawney can almost see the cogs turning in her head.

“Can you swim?” She asks. 

“Barely,” says Emin, but it’s enough for Teresa. 

She looks torn for a second, hesitating before she unbuttons her trousers, sticking her hand inside them and rummaging around. Only Emin has the decency to look away, Anise watching Teresa’s movements with a keen eye. When Teresa eventually pulls out a small knife, barely the length of a finger, she points at it with an exclamation.

“I knew it!” She crows, careers forgotten in pursuit of personal vindication. “I knew you were going to kill us!”

Shrugging, Teresa offers her a wry smile. “Not anymore,” she says, and looks down at her tightening hand, face sobering. “See there?” She points to a patch of sparse trees, and Emin nods. “Go hide in the water. Hold your breath as long as possible.”

“No,” denies Emin, and his voice comes out strangled. “I can’t let you kill yourself for us.”

A beat, and then Anise opens her mouth. “You’re still a total bitch,” she tells Teresa, who ignores the thickness of her tone. “But I don’t think you’re a coward.”

“You have to win,” says Teresa, and there’s no argument for her survival from Seven. Sawney had always hated this bit, the goodbyes, when tributes accepted their deaths. 

“We will,” Anise says, and turns to drag Emin by the sleeve, who’s dangerously close to tears. Teresa watches them go, and they’re barely in the water by the time the crack of a stick signals the encroaching careers.

Teresa spins, and the camera switches to an angle behind Atlas’s shoulders. Sawney watches as Teresa rears her arm behind her back, teeth bared in a snarl, releasing the knife on its way forward.

It lodges into Atlas’ throat, and his cannon sounds. 

Pearl shoots an arrow into Teresa’s chest, and she falls to the ground. It’s a slow, bloody death, drowning as blood floods into her lung, and Sawney has to look away. Rose had died the same way, and the gurgling sounds from Teresa are the exact same, but there’s nobody there to lower Teresa’s head into water now, to hold her hand and drift her off to sleep. 

When her cannon blares, Sawney looks back at the screen. Pearl and Keres hadn’t waited to leave, to head back east, abandoning the two from Seven. 

“Nine left,” says Pearl. 

“We can get three at once,” says Keres, and her smile is bloodthirsty, her teeth glimmering with saliva, and Sawney’s heart thuds in her ears.

They’re going after Amy.

Notes:

i dont want to write abt the game i want to write about sawney n haymitch damn it! i'm BORED and am beginning to speedrun them as i'm writing and i literally cant help it so expect the rest of amy's games to be a bit poopy
also there is so little amy and mitch in this its actually funny to me but i just hate writing them. like sawney's lived so rent free up there for the past few years i woke up from a DREAM abt her the other night to edit a chap at 4am i love her to pieces. the children tho... no thnx they're only there for sawney's progression yar. also can u all tell i kinda love keres cos i do im guilty of humanising careers shoot me idc

Chapter 18

Her sleep that night was nowhere near any semblance of peace.

Effie had come in to relieve Sawney and Haymitch of their posts in the late afternoon, and Sawney had had her first shower since the games started, standing next to a menacing Brutus under the sprays of the communal showers designated to resting mentors. 

He was snoring above Sawney and Haymitch now, his raspy breaths closer to hacksaws dragging across wood. It reminds Sawney of just how career he is, probably feeling safe enough to snore in his own games. A saving grace in the form of the loudest noise in Panem, it gave Sawney the chance to speak to Haymitch in relative privacy, their words muffled.

The mentor rooms were small, fitting only a bunk bed and a door to an ensuite, but Sawney didn’t find herself cramped. Half lying on Haymitch, his breath ghosting against the shell of her ear, she found herself surprisingly comfortable, even with the knobs of his collarbone digging into her windpipe. Still, she moves to prop her chin on his chest, looking up at him in the dark.

Eventually, after a minute of her wiggling her jaw, he grunts. “What?”

“I’m just looking.”

“Have I grown a third eye or something, sweetheart?”

Sawney hums at him, a low, reverberating thing. He knows her well enough by now to know this isn’t some light chitchat, that she’s about to tear her chest open to reveal her beating heart, her deepest sorrows, and adjusts himself, rolling them over. They end up half on their sides, Sawney pressed tightly between the wall with Haymitch facing her, seam eyes half open. 

“I could be married with four of his kids running around,” she whispers, “but it still won’t be this .” 

It’s the closest she’s gotten to saying it, to voicing whatever feeling thrums through her blood when she thinks about them. She’s still half sure it’s platonic, half sure she doesn’t know how to love as fiercely as the fondness in her heart, but her words still stand. 

“It won’t,” he agrees quietly, and he’s looking at her like he can see right through her, as if he can read her very soul. Look at this fool, she thinks. He’s already ruined her for whatever life Snow is forcing upon her.

They’re having a moment, Sawney knows this, one where they read each other's minds and understand each other’s substance so fully, so nonjudgmentally. When she opens her mouth to say something, anything, Brutus snores again and she closes it with an amused smile, and it shatters around them.

When she does sleep, she dreams of being old. It’s a privilege in Twelve, and she can feel the envious looks cast her way as she walks through the merchant section to the village. Her leg is perfectly fine, healed by magic, and she only realises she’s dreaming when the door to her house won’t open, thumping against something. It’s just stuck , she thinks, as if this happens all the time, slamming it open over and over, each time gaining a few inches, enough to squeeze her body through the crack that eventually forms.

On the floor lies Haymitch, dead, half-eaten by goose mutts sent from the Capitol.

---

The fifth day of Amy’s games starts with the river drying up.

Firtha is unfazed, continuing to stick her knife into cacti and bleeding them dry, the only other water source in the arena. She’s wickedly smart, and the thought of it sends an unnamed frisson up Sawney’s spine, half fear, half excitement. If Finnick was true to his word, if she truly held no ill will towards her tributes, it would help them go far.

They’re still heading east, Firtha occasionally pulling her compass out to change directions minutely, giving no explanation. Around lunchtime, they stop, the three of them sitting on a large boulder.

It’s a light meal of dried fruits from Firtha’s pack, and Sawney knows their hunger isn’t sated. Still, the girl doesn’t complain about sharing the food she’d had to kill for. 

Amy’s hair, a forever frizz, had been steadily sneaking out of its careful plait the last few days, and when Firtha pats the ground in front of her, the girl moves over without complaint. “I could braid yours soon, Mitch,” she teases as she begins to separate the strands, running her hands through the tangled knots in Amy’s hair in an attempt to tame them. “It’s getting long enough.”

“You’d look right pretty,” giggles Amy. Mitch rolls his eyes, but Sawney can tell he’s fighting off a smile. 

“My brother’s hair used to be long enough to braid down his back,” says Firtha, not taking her gaze away from the back of Amy’s head. “They cut it off for his games, though, the bastards.”

“They cut Sawney’s, too,” says Amy, and Sawney makes a little noise of surprise. This was true, they had. She’d protested and tried to bite at the hands of her prep team as they lopped off the bottom half of her hair, but she hadn’t thought it was important, something worth remembering once the killing started.

“I thought they had!” Mitch says, delighted. “I remembered it being a lot longer when she visited the - when she traded.”

Snorting, Sawney shares an amused glance with Haymitch. Mitch is talking about the Hob, which is even more surprising, because she doesn’t remember ever seeing him there. He must’ve been too busy clinging to the skirts of his mother, hiding behind bundles of fabric.

“Does Four do fancy braids?” Amy asks, and Firtha pauses. Her hands were in the middle of beginning a simple, three-strand braid, and she hums, glancing at the sky. Whatever she sees is deemed good enough, Sawney thinks, because she drops her hands from Amy’s head, starting the process of detangling again. 

“Do you want one?” She asks, but she’s already beginning resplitting her hair into three small chunks at the crown when Amy gasps a yes, please, folding them over before picking more up, again and again, until she’s arduously working with six strands, her hands moving too fast for Sawney to figure out the pattern.  When she’s finished, Amy runs a hand over the braid, and Sawney watches her fingers hunt for every groove of it. She looks in awe at Firtha, who smiles slightly.

“Come on, I’ll show you,” she offers, reaching up to undo her own hair. Sawney watches as she turns around and redoes her own hair blind, slowly this time. 

“Look,” says Haymitch, and she turns from her screen to him. He nods at the main screen, where she sees the pair from Ten.

Since pillaging the cornucopia and slaying a male career, Lilith’s sponsor funds had been steadily increasing, now a tribute the Capitols want to watch, but it’s still not enough money for the medicine she desperately needs. She’d done nothing but try to nurse her partner, Ripley, back to health, a fruitless attempt that was ultimately just a waste of her precious materials. She had been spoon feeding him crushed apples and sips of water for two days, talking to him occasionally, doing nothing but guarding him.

“You’d die if I chop it off,” she says now. Ripley is red faced, sweating and looking past her, unseeing. When he twitches, she starts, carefully reaching a hand down to brush his hair off his forehead, and he calms slightly at her gentle touch. “You’re going to die anyway, huh? You fool.”

The camera switches, and Sawney can see the small outcrop of rocks they’d been hiding under for days, sees the light spilling in, gleaming on her stolen scythe. Lilith sighs, a heavy thing, and her shoulders slump. “If I go back after, nothing will be well ,” she says. She’s begun crying, and Sawney realises with a shock that she’s going to give him mercy, relieve him from the alien eating through his blood, his body. “I won’t be well, Rip. How can I ever talk to your mama again? I-”

Her words die in a choke, and she turns her head from Ripley, pressing a hand to her mouth firmly, as if she’s trying to silence her sobs for him. They knew each other before, this much Sawney can guess, and she frowns, thinking of slitting the throat of Katniss or a merchant kid or Haymitch , and knows she could never do it. 

“Oh, what have they done to us,” Lilith whispers, and reaches to clutch at Ripley’s sweaty hand. When he doesn’t react, she drops it, sniffling. “I don’t even wanna win, you know. You hear that? I don’t want to go home if you’re not there waiting for me.”

Sawney wants to look away, wants to forget the sight of her pleading, but the gamemakers refuse to switch the cameras to another tribute, even when she bends over, sobbing. Her forehead almost touches the ground, her body shaking with tears.

Edith sits alone at the desk for district Ten, the other mentor having given up on Ripley days ago. A handkerchief is gently dabbing at her eyes, and Sawney sneers. “Why are you crying?” She spits. “You wouldn’t know loyalty if it hit you in the face.”

Blanching, Edith looks over, first to Sawney and then to a cackling Johanna. Sawney refuses to shy away from the glare Edith gives her, even when Haymitch places a hand on her puckered shoulder. No other victor had the ability to make Sawney brim with so much rage, though, and she shrugs him off, tipping her chin up at the woman. She doesn’t respond with words, only a fierce sniff and a pip from her throat, whipping her head to the screen. 

Nobody reached to comfort Edith, defend her against Sawney’s words; the woman was Capitol down to the bones, a traitor. The only life she’d taken in her games was her district partner’s, stabbed in the back with the very knife he’d given her. It was poetic, a far cry from the only two other district Ten females Sawney knew of. They both knew respect, even when Betty was so close to winning her games.

Movement on the screen made Sawney look back, where Lilith had begun to stand, walking in a crouch over to her only weapon. The sheer size of it, almost as long as her, was made that more apparent as she picked it up. Long gone was the intimidation she once struck holding it, now replaced with an amateur awkwardness when she turned, thumping it into the wall. She ignored the small spray of rocks that splintered out from where the blade carved a gouge into the stone and turned to Ripley.

There were only three she had to take, but each footstep was so slow, so reluctant, walking her district partner to his death. Sawney had thought she’d just drag it across his throat with her eyes squeezed shut, but she retakes her seat next to him, crossing her legs beneath her. 

Clenching her jaw, she takes his hand in her right one, her left moving up the shaft of the scythe to rest her knuckles just beneath its blade. Only when she closes her eyes does she speak, soft whispers that the camera doesn’t pick up, and it makes Sawney's eyes widen in shock.

Panem holds no place for gods other than Snow, but Sawney’s seen elders in the district pray, clasping their hands together and looking to the sky. She knows to look away, pretend she doesn’t see their small rebellions, to give them the peace to bow their heads, but she can’t tear her eyes from the screen. She’s always wondered what they’re praying for; freedom, food, for their children to not to be reaped, the simplest things one can want. Now, though, she has no clue. 

Her lips stop moving eventually, and she sits there, silent, until they open again. This time, Sawney can hear. “Forgive me,” she says, before lifting her left hand and dragging the tip of the scythe through his throat, whimpering. 

He lays there, drowning in his blood, long enough that Sawney thinks he’s never going to die, that Lilith will keep her eyes closed forever, but his cannon goes off eventually. It makes Sawney jump, but even Haymitch doesn’t have it in him to laugh at her. 

The cameras linger on the pair for too long, on their intertwined hands and Lilith’s tears, before they switch back to Sawney’s own tributes. Suddenly, there’s Firtha, dancing, wiggling her hips and clapping her hands as she trots through the desert. 

“Speed your ass up!” She sings, and it gives Sawney whiplash, looking at the blonde’s grin. 

Mitch groans, trudging his feet, and the camera switches to the tribute map, Caesar narrating everyone’s positions. The two from Seven were a day’s walk from the edge of the arena, Twelve and Firtha halfway to the eastern edge. Pearl and Keres were past Lilith, at the base of the mesa, walking in the flatlands to the east. Sawney watched as their dots moved, twice the speed of her tributes, and was somewhat amazed at it. They were careers, so she shouldn’t have been surprised, and wondered if the gamemakers were manipulating the terrain to make their paths to others tributes easier.

“How long until they’re on them, do you think?” She asks Haymitch, who hums, thinking. 

“Before morning, maybe,” he replies. “If we’re lucky, maybe tomorrow.”

“So this evening,” she says bitterly. Haymitch purses his lips.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he sighs.

“Could we warn them?” She asks, because her hope hasn’t run dry. It’s stupid at this point, and she knows she’s fighting a battle she lost long ago, but she can’t stop now. She doesn’t wait for Haymitch’s answer, leaning forward and tapping on her screen. “We could send them something. A note?”

Haymitch, who she knows is only by her side to be there when they die, tilts his head to the side. “Haymitch, please,” she says, close to a beg, and he inhales, uncrossing his arms to scroll down the list of gifts and selecting one. When asked, Sawney once again types a message into the blinking box and waits with bated breath as they confirm it.

The beeping on screen announces the arrival of their parachute, and this time it takes too long to fall to the ground, its idle path through the air irking Sawney. It lands right in front of her Firtha, who picks it up and deftly unlatches it. 

Her eyes slide across the note and she pauses before pocketing it, ‘please keep them safe-12’ hidden deep in her clothing. “Your Sawney’s being funny again,” she lies. “Top eight, she says.”

“What’d we get?” Mitch asks.

“Bread,” she replies, taking one of the rolls out. It’s one of 2’s specialties, soft white dough topped with sugar and spices, a display of wealth. Firtha looks at it carefully, pressing her thumb and cracking the glazed shell of the bread. “Eat whilst you walk. We’re not stopping for lunch.”

She throws them each one of the rolls, and slings her pack to one shoulder to tuck away the parachute and canister. “They’re going to be interviewing back home,” she says as she chews on a bite of her own food. “You got any crushes you want waxing poetic about you?”

“Mitch’s only crush is on you,” teases Amy, laughing as she dodges Mitch’s flying arm. Firtha giggles as she catches him when he trips over a rock.

“Be careful,” she laughs, ruffling a hand in his hair. “It’s my job to keep you safe.”

It’s disjointed, her words pointed and intentional, and Sawney breathes a sigh of relief.

---

Separately, Sawney and Haymitch are led out the room by peacekeepers.

They’re headed for their interviews, the ones they take of family as the games draw to a close, and Sawney spends the entire time struggling not to glare at Caesar, to keep the bite out of her words.

“It’s fierce competition this year,” he simpered, and Sawney stilled her hands from scratching the skin off his face.

When it was finished, her escape is quick, and she outpaces the peacekeepers escorting her back to the mentor room. Outside, she pauses, eyes caught on a rooftop seen through the hallway window. 

There’s a garden on it, green and luscious, illuminated only by the twinkling lights she assumes the owner had strung up on the railing. It’s dark, and she’s scared to go back in the room, to watch the careers gain on her tributes. She would never say it to Haymitch. She couldn’t.

Sawney wasn’t stupid, she knew they were doomed from the second Effie reached her fingers into those damned glass bowls. No amount of prostration and pleading would’ve ever saved them, and she curses the time she spent struggling for them instead of simply being with them, existing in their sphere. She’d missed the early mornings and late nights, the laying out of their clothes and smoothing of their hair all for some measly funds they’d never reap the benefits of. 

She’s being unfair to them even now, drinking in the sight of rare greenery, and wrenches herself away from the window, turning to go back in. 

When she enters, Haymitch is already on his feet, watching Keres’ dodge Firtha’s flying knife.

She stumbles her way over, crashing into the corner of Chaff’s vacant desk, ignoring the pain radiating through her hip as she frantically searches over the screens in the room. Firtha, on the main screen, is facing off Keres and Pearl on her own, standing between a hidden Mitch and Amy, clustered behind a boulder on her own console.

Sawney’s mind reels, trying to make sense of it. She’s just seen them fifty - no, sixty minutes ago, when the careers were well over two leagues away from the trio. They were nowhere near each other, and it hits her suddenly. She replays the image of the map in her mind, of the careers in the flatlands, followed by the footage of them surrounded by shrubs . The gamemakers had lied, lulled Sawney into a false safety so she had no choice but to attend her interview.

“Just- stop fucking moving!” Keres shouts as Firtha rolls out the way of her swinging axe. It sticks itself deep into the ground, and Pearl closes in as she tries desperately to unlodge it from the dense sandstone.

The arrows in Pearl’s quiver are useless at such close quarters, but the muscles of her back ripple as she grabs Firtha’s ankles with a cry and drags her closer. Firtha swipes loose dirt into the girl’s eyes, and she releases her with a shout, reeling back and barely evading the swipe of Firtha’s knife as it slashes through the air. 

Keres’ axe comes loose suddenly, as if the earth simply released its grip on the weapon, and she stumbles backwards, almost falling over. She’s free now, though, to turn herself back to the fight, and Sawney freezes. Firtha can’t fight off the two by herself, and is barely holding her own against Pearl as the two grapple. 

Pearl ends on top, bringing her fist up to slam into Firtha’s face, and Sawney watches with dread as the girl tries her hardest to buck the career off, as her face gets mangled into a pulp, head banging against the ground. Careers don’t dither with their kills, don’t waste time with punches, and she knows Pearl’s violence is birthed from some kind of spite, the thorn of Firtha rejecting the careers probably making itself known.

Keres only joins when Firtha screams, an unholy thing, reaching up to snap Pearl’s head back by her ponytail and dragging her down until she’s forced to move, to relinquish her hold on the top position. Firtha fiddles with her belt, and her hands shake too much to fish out a knife from its holster, to kill Pearl where she’s got her by the head, and Keres footsteps ring like gunshots through Sawney’s head.

She’s tightening her hand on her axe, half in a movement to bring it down in Firtha’s head when Mitch cries out a warning, and Sawney falls to her seat as he shoots up from his hiding spot.

Keres’ axe thuds into the centre of his face, bisecting his nose, and Sawney slams her fist into the table when his screen goes black, when his cannon sounds. 

Still, she can’t tear her eyes away, not when Firtha lurches at Keres’ back, the two of them toppling to the ground. When she bares her teeth, her front two are missing, blood dripping out of her mouth onto Keres' tunic as she tightens her hands around her neck, Amy appearing to clutch at Mitch, crying out.

The arena is silent now, manmade, Amy’s screaming and Firtha’s snarls as she chokes Keres the only sounds Sawney can hear. Pearl is quick to recover, slinging an arm around the front of Firtha’s neck as she places her in a chokehold. Firtha’s hands barely falter around Keres throat, and Sawney can see the blood vessels bulging in Keres red forehead. 

When Amy pulls out her own knife, Sawney almost covers her eyes, places her head in her hands, but she forces her eyes to focus as the girl runs at the trio, hollering, enraged. She’s ignored by Pearl, the little thirteen year old no threat to her, and Sawney gasps with her as Amy stabs the knife deep in her lower back, dragging it from the left side to the right. 

Crying out, Pearl falls backwards where she tries desperately to right herself, to stop Amy. Only then does Firtha relinquish her grip around Keres’ neck, shoving Amy away from where she’s encroaching on Pearl, whose legs flop uselessly on the ground as she tries to crawl away.

Wild eyes rove over Amy’s face, stopping at the knife in her hand. She comes back to her senses suddenly, visibly, and stumbles to stand, dragging Amy with her. “We have to go,” she says, over and over, tripping through the dirt and sand as she half-carried Amy away, her arms tight around her torso.

“No!” Amy screams, a horrible thing that tears out her throat and makes Sawney shiver. 

When Amy’s elbow catches Firtha in the jaw, the girl still doesn’t waver, grappling with Amy, forcing her into an easier position, slung over her shoulder like a sack of grain. Amy pounds her fists against Firtha’s back as she breaks into a run, as fast as she can, away from the careers and Mitch. 

A shuddering breath forces its way out of Sawney’s throat as she collapses forward. There are no tears making their way to her eyes, no itching in her nose, only a wave of fury that comes to fruition as she slams her hands to the underside of the desk, shouting in frustration when it doesn’t budge. She almost pushes the console off the desk, but pauses when she sees what’s on it.

Keres isn’t following them. Instead, she’s on the main screen, pressing her hands to Pearl’s back, who’s moaning in pain, her cheek on the ground. Bruises are already blooming around Keres’ throat, and Sawney watches them move as she gulps, her hands doing nothing to stem the bleeding as it oozes between the cracks in her fingers.

“Help!” She cries, barely intelligible,  looking around the arena. “Help her, please!”

No amount of money can fix Pearl, though, and Sawney watches as Cashmere runs a hand down the side of her face, defeated. Her brother is nowhere to be found, had left his station almost the second Quintus had been bitten by the mutt, and she’s alone. 

A cannon sounds, and Sawney wrenches her gaze to her screen, seeing nothing but Firtha, still running with a struggling Amy. It’s only Pearl, lying in red-soaked sand, Keres still holding vigilant hands to her unmoving form. She’s crying, snot running down into her mouth, ignoring the cannon as she tries to stem the bleeding. 

Sawney turns away, because Keres’ emotions had already gotten to her once before, and presses her forehead into Haymitch’s shoulder, a cat seeking attention. He jostles her as he moves her, curling his arm around her shoulders and tucking her head under his chin. 

“I could’ve missed it,” she whispers numbly, and he pauses in stroking a hand over her head.

“You didn’t, though.”

“I know,” she says, and her words come out regretful. Her eyes are still dry, and she’s surprised that there’s none of usual dramatics, no outburst of smashing the bar in and wailing cries, but tries to take it as a positive. One misstep, and Snow would probably order a swarm of flesh eating bugs to take out Amy. 

Keres eventually moves, when the blood on her hand dries and starts flaking off, standing on her feet like a baby learning to walk. Dazed, she walks to slump on the ground twenty metres away, watching as a netted claw takes Pearl and Mitch up into the sky, the last remaining career.

---

The camera doesn’t return to either Keres, or Firtha and Amy for a few hours, idly switching between Lilith and the two from Seven. There’s only six remaining tributes, and all of them are too loaded with grief to do much but walk aimlessly.  Lilith prowls the rocks with her scythe, occasionally cleaving an animal in half, whilst the two from Seven drag their feet further west. 

“They’re almost to the waterfall,” says Johanna, her voice raised, determined. Seven is the only district still fully standing, and Sawney is almost green with envy, wants to leap over her desk and scratch at Johanna’s mouth until she stops smiling. 

But she stays still, eyes flickering over to the main screen as Keres stands. She plasters a scowl on to her face, reaching into her jacket pocket to retrieve a knife. It’s her final weapon, the others she had long-gone, forgotten at the cornucopia or taken with the bodies she’d felled. This time, when she walks, she’s no longer a stumbling husk, now stamping one foot in front of the other in the direction Amy and Firtha had run off to.

On Sawney’s screen, they’re lying together, Firtha curled around Amy’s small body, barely visible in the light of the rising sun. They didn’t get far, ultimately collapsing together a mile from where Mitch had been slain, and Firtha had held Amy until the girl had spent herself of her tears, her own eyes never closing as Amy fell asleep, far from safe in a small clearing.

Keres would be on them by the time the sun fully rose, and Sawney soaks in the sight of Amy’s face, angelic in her sleep. It’s a nice way to go, she thinks, peaceful, maybe, a far cry from Mitch. Sawney’s mind keeps skittering back to it, to his shouts and the killing blow, splitting the face she’d once cupped in her palms in half. 

When Firtha unfurls herself from Amy, it’s to dig through her pack. She pulls out her compass, reading the east it shows, because it’s always been east with her, and nods, standing to rid a cactus of its water and fill up her jugs.

Half a mile away, now. Keres slashes thorny branches away from her face in reckless abandon, far too loudly, and a career bent on revenge was always the worst. She’d probably cut out Amy’s spine in payback, and Sawney can picture it swinging from her hand, cringing at the thought.

“Amy,” whispers Firtha after she’d repacked her bag and snapped the clasps closed over her chest. She’s kneeling next to Amy, slightly shaking her with one hand, her lips inches from the girl’s ear. “Wake up.”

She stirs eventually, grumbling and groaning and scowling at Firtha with a ferocity that makes her wither back. Sawney remembers how Aden was after Rose died, refusing food and hurling insults at her for half a day, and watches as Amy glares. 

“Fuck you,” she snarls, flopping back to the ground. Less than quarter of a mile away, Keres spits blood on the ground as she storms forward. 

“Amy, please,” sighs Firtha. “We have to go.”

“Go by yourself,” she snaps back. “You’re not my ally anymore.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she scoffs. “Mitch was my friend, too.”

This has Amy whirling her head around, venom dripping from her mouth as she points a finger in Firtha’s face. “No he wasn’t! You’re only here for the easy kills.”

At Amy’s words, Firtha purses her lips, anger etched into the crease of her forehead. “I promised your mentors one of you would get out,” she says firmly. “So you’re going to get off your ass and you’re going to go back home, do you hear me?”

The camera switches, and Sawney can hear Firtha’s raised voice as it focuses on Keres’ face. A smile twists menacingly at her mouth, her fist clasping her blade even tighter as she quietens her footsteps. Another switch, and Sawney can see the arguing duo, their backs turned to Keres, who ducks to avoid a branch, creeping closer.

The cameras cut as she steps out into the clearing, feet away from them, the mentoring room plunging into complete darkness.

Notes:

;D
jokes aside, i've written 40k words in less than a fortnight and it's turned my brain into blubber. sorry for doing this on a cliffhanger but the next chapter may take longer to come out, but im also really excited abt writing it so we'll see.
also this is the end of amy's games and we're into the final quarterish of this fic so expect me to be soppy as we reach the finish line. sawney has been in my brain for almost half a decade (ew) so i'm deffo procrastinating

Chapter 19

Notes:

posting this less than 24 hours later sorry my ass is a big fat liar

Sawney didn’t move for a few seconds.

Surely there was a generator that would boot up the screen any moment. Amy and Firtha would appear hand in hand, laughing over the still body of Keres, and the blackout would be forgotten almost immediately, never to be spoken about again, merely a blip in the power lines.

When the room does fill with light, though, it’s not from the ceiling or the glow of screens coming back to life, but a contingent of peacekeepers barging into the room, the flashlights of their weapons casting large shadows up the walls.

“Hands on your heads!” A male voice shouts, and Sawney obeys the order almost immediately, then blanches, indignant, is half-tempted to put her arms down again, freezing when a gun is suddenly pressing into her lower back.

The protests of other victors, of Brutus and Edith, rush through her ears as her blood runs cold. She’s never been in close quarters with a gun before; only new peacekeepers waved them about in Twelve. Usually, they used batons to subdue fights, threatened hangings if they couldn’t calm a crowd, but it’s such a rare thing she’s only ever seen them from across rooms or town squares. 

The barrel is cold, and she can feel goosebumps sliding up her back, suppressing a shiver at the foreign feeling of the gun’s metal. “Haymitch?” She cries, trying to turn her head behind her in an attempt to see him, but a peacekeeper roughly forces her to face forward as he clips a collar into place around her neck, followed by thick cuffs around her wrists. They dig in painfully, pinching the thin skin above her veins, and she can see the other victors in the room being given the same treatment. 

“What’s going on?” Enobaria asks, but no one answers, and Sawney is forced to step forward as the gun presses into her spine, another peacekeeper tugging on her shackles until she steps into place. A semblance of a line is forming, and Sawney tries to crane her head to look at a commotion by the door, but then someone’s pointing a flashlight in her face and she can barely see two inches in front of her, disoriented. 

“You are being escorted to the roof,” a peacekeeper says, her voice firm and raised loudly over the whispers circulating the room. “If you do not act in accordance with our instructions, you will be shocked, sedated, and imprisoned.”

“Why?” Sawney asks, barely above a whisper, barely loud enough for herself to even hear. The peacekeeper abusing her with his flashlight hears though, and clips her across the temple with his gun. She shoots a glare his way after a few seconds, after her head stops ringing and the room around her stops spinning, and dark grey eyes copy her move, narrowing through the slits in his helmet.

When she’s told to, she begins to walk. The hallway is pitch black, and she dares a peek outside the window, inhaling sharply. There are no lights in the Capitol, that much she can see, and her mind races as she’s guided to walk down the corridor at a fast pace.

Rebels , is her first thought, and a thrill shoots up her spine, overpowering whatever fear their weapons had struck in her. The only time the Capitol had ever gone dark was during the first rebellion, everyone knew this, but she struggles to remember the history lessons from school. Bombings, blackouts, and then what? No victors existed in the Dark Days, and the only reason she can think of for the severity of the situation is Snow protecting his own capital, or capturing them to torture out information. 

Torture runs through her mind as they enter on the roof, and Sawney flinches away from the air whipping her hair into her eyes. Two hovercrafts are perched, barely fitting, on the roof, their blades spinning in blurring circles, and a peacekeeper starts separating out the victors, seemingly at random, sending some to the one on the left and some to the right.

Sawney pays it no mind, distracted, until she sees Haymitch being herded towards the right hovercraft and a hand pushing her in the other direction. “No - wait!” She screams, and watches as he turns his head, barely pausing his walking before a hand forces his head to turn away. “Haymitch! Haymitch !”

And she’s not thinking more than ten seconds into the future, only about him being tied to tables and fed poisons and being carved with knives until he sacrifices their little rebellion plot, sacrifices himself to execution. She’s facing a choice between the unknown or living an existence without Haymitch.

Killing the peacekeeper is the easiest thing she’s ever done. 

It’s quick, the snap of her cuffs around his neck, crashing his temple into the side of the hovercraft, barely glancing at the concave curve she’d created on his helmet before she starts running to the other side, to Haymitch. 

She’s shocked before she gets more than three feet from her crime, falling to the ground and seizing uncontrollably, her jaw clenched tightly shut as pain radiates through her body. When it ends, she has two seconds of staring into hard, grey eyes before her own are rolling into the back of her head. 

---

“Come on,” she coaxes, cooing a high pitched noise to the corner of the room.

She’s crouched, one hand splayed on the ground to keep her balanced, the other one holding out a pitiful offering of a crumb of bread to the mouse she’s talking to. He’s a small grey thing, barely big enough to fit in her palm, but he’d been one of her only companions for the last few days. Rarely did he approach her, bar one time when she’d been able to stroke a shaking finger over the soft hide on his back, before scurrying off to wherever he came from. Whenever she showed affection, he’d shy away from her, hiding until her next meal arrived. Sawney had taken to calling him Haymitch. 

After the roof, she’d woken strapped to the most godawful, uncomfortable slab of stone that her captives deemed fit enough to be a bed. She’d raged, because even in Twelve she had a mattress, before being quickly sedated again. 

It had been a few days, she knew that much. In the beginning, she’d tried to figure out the day by the arrival of small meals, never more than a few slices of bread and cheese, but they were so irregular she couldn’t make sense of it. She’d tried to move on to guessing the days through how many times she went to sleep, but a blaring noise sounded every single time she felt herself drifting off, forcing her to stay awake,

She’d given up quickly, because she didn’t even know how many days she’d been knocked unconscious, instead spending most of her time lying in her cell and staring at the ceiling. The cement tiles were cracking, in need of repair, and she assumed she was being held in one of the districts, maybe One or Two, but couldn’t bring herself to care about it.

Nobody would talk to her, blank faces staring back when she asked about Amy, or Haymitch, and once even Finnick. No one even reacted, not even a muscle twitch or averted gaze, the slide of her meal through her bars her only answer. It was rather lonely.

She’d spent what felt like days fretting over the fates of those she knew, thinking of hangings and public humiliation, of dead bodies in dark arenas, and forced herself to think about something else. 

It was always Haymitch she came back to, purposefully avoiding any subjects that would send her into a tizzy, into banging her head against the floor or shaking the bars of her cell, screaming. Without his constant presence beside her, she found herself viciously lonely. She wants so desperately to be done with this desire she’s discovered, for the small voice of it to grow big enough to eat her and be done with it. It never does, and she’s half sure Haymitch is already dead, that she’s going slowly mad without him.

“Come on, honey,” she whispers, egging on the black eyes that stare back at her. She wiggles the crumb of stale bread she holds, trying to make it appealing as possible, but even the mouse isn’t that stupid. It makes a small noise, a peep she barely hears, before running to hide in the other corner. 

“Do you want some cheese?”

Her only other companion; Brutus. 

She’d been tempted to try and slice her throat against the sharp edge of her sleeping slab when he’d first spoken to her, what she thought was days ago, but was glad she hadn’t. He’s surprisingly friendly, and Sawney found herself quickly endeared to him, chatting through her bars to him about nothing, of food she enjoyed and her new mouse, nothing incriminating.

The first time they’d come in to torture him, she had cried, thought him dead for hours until he eventually moved. 

The sounds he made were ungodly; long, drawn out screams that rattled around in her brain for hours, cries of desperation and loud, wrenching sobs that struck terror in her. He was the biggest, most dangerous victor alive, but seeing him curled in on himself as masked men injected substances into his arms made her reach out across the gap quickly, their unlikely friendship began by giving him her food. 

Now, she only sighs. “No,” she calls back. “I don’t think Haymitch is in the mood today. I tried him on cheese this morning but he ran away.”

“Do you think they’ve poisoned him?” Brutus hisses, and Sawney rolls her eyes, running her hand over her head. The Capitols keeping them here had shaved both their heads, and hers had already begun to grow back in a soft, bleached down. Occasionally, Brutus would have bouts of hysteria, of paranoia that had her shying away from him, and she shrugs to the air now, ignoring today’s arrival of it.

“He probably already ate,” she says instead of denying him, because Brutus could run his mouth like he was being paid for it. Once, they’d argued about the cameras in their cells for what she thought was at least three hours. Brutus had been drugged, she thought, and was whispering, crazed, about how it kept moving what wall it was on.  

She knew from experience that the cameras didn’t move. Her own was placed in the corner opposite her shower, a unique form of cruelty. She’d thrown her top over it the first time she’d wanted to clean, but had stopped doing it after her cell had opened and they’d beaten her blue on the shower floor. What they thought she was going to do in the five minutes it took to bathe was beyond her, and so Sawney had taken to tormenting whoever monitored her as revenge.

On days when she didn’t curl into the corner and try to hide her body from its view, she showcased each item of food to it, chewing obnoxiously loudly as close as she could get to it, mouth open and spraying crumbs through the air. Once, and only once, she’d been in a foul mood and had bent over in front of it in the middle of a shower, farting in its general direction. 

“Are you okay?” She asks Brutus, settling into a lying position on her stone slab. It’s cool, and her eyes drift closed of their own accord, something she regrets immediately when the incessant noise begins. She shoots up, screaming into the air. “I’m not fucking sleeping! I get it!”

Her tiredness had long since passed into delirium, into seeing faces outside her cell she knew were dead and buried. She’d long stopped looking at Brutus when she spoke to him, fearing the phantom of Prim that had stood, unrelenting, for days, staring in at her. Sawney hopes that if she ignores her long enough she’d get bored and leave.

“They haven’t come for me today,” he replies. Thank fuck , she thinks, because they hadn’t given her any pillows to smother her ears with when he started screaming.

“That’s good,” she says.

She flinches when Brutus slams himself against the bars of his cell, the clang of the metal too loud in the otherwise silent hallway. “They’re planning something!” He barks. “They’re going to kill us, Sawney. We have to escape tonight.”

“We’ve tried that already,” she says dryly, because it was one of the first things they’d done. 

The first time, Sawney had tried to squeeze through the bars of her cells, barely larger than two inches wide, whilst Brutus had tried to bend his apart, but they’d been quickly caught and sedated. The second, and final, time, Sawney and Brutus had spent hours running their hands along the walls for the crack Haymitch kept appearing from, thinking they could fit through it themselves, but had come up with nothing. Sawney was convinced Haymitch was another hallucination, his furry body only existing in her mind. 

“We could tell them about the rebel plot,” he cries, and this time she does turn her head to look at him, spinning round fast enough to give her whiplash. Prim stares back, her face melting quickly into a kaleidoscope of Aden’s, and then Mitch, and then Amy, and she squeezes her eyes shut, only opening them when she knows she’s staring firmly at the ceiling. 

“What do you know about the rebel plot?” She asks accusingly, because she only knew of her silly plan about Firtha and her tributes. She knew nothing about what had occurred in the Capitol, and wanted to know what Brutus knew.

“Nothing,” he admits after a pause. “But they don’t know that! We could lie and they’d have to let us go.”

Sawney spares an exasperated look at the camera. “Well, what do we want to say?” She’s entertaining herself at this point. 

“We made the bombs,” he proposes in a superior tone, and Sawney barely manages to cover her mouth before she chuckles. 

“Or we know who made them,” she suggests instead, and hears his responding noise of agreement. “That we’ll only tell them their identity if they let us go.”

“They won’t agree to that,” he argues. “It’s much too extreme a reward.”

“Okay,” she says. “We’d like mattresses then, yeah? One each.”

“And a night of sleep.”

“ Peaceful sleep,” she adds, one finger poised in the air as if Brutus can see her. “What else do we tell them?”

“I don’t know. It’s your turn, anyway,” he tells her and she frowns, because it’s his, but says nothing in refutation. 

“We know the…the location of…” she says, her words trailing off. She’s got nothing.

“The rebel headquarters!” Brutus finishes, and she can hear him pounding his fists against something, excited.

“Yes!” She cries. “ And that we know the password.”

“Our reward will be freedom, and-”

“Haymitch!” Sawney exclaims, hurrying to pick up her discarded piece of bread as she spies a streak of grey running past her. “Brutus, Haymitch is back. Throw me your cheese!”

“I don’t have any cheese,” he says, and Sawney can hear the lies in his voice, his sudden possessiveness over it annoying. 

Staring at Haymitch’s small, adorable face, Sawney can’t bring herself to argue with Brutus. “Hey, baby,” she coos, making small noises with her lips, slapping them together like she did with street cats, although she can’t remember where anymore. Small round ears perk up at her, and she knows she’s got him.

Haymitch’s feet make small tapping sounds as he scurries over, sniffing the bread before running over to the other side of the room when Sawney twitches her finger by accident.

She pouts at him, lowering herself closer to the ground. Mice were an unknown to Sawney, but she was sure she was scary, towering over him. “I don’t think he likes me,” she tells Brutus sadly.

“He hasn’t come to see me yet.”

Sawney smirks, raising her eyebrows at Haymitch. She’s dropped her hand, figuring that he was never going to go for the bread, but he doesn’t leave. “I’m your favourite, huh?” She whispers to him, and imagines that the blinking of doe eyes is his ‘yes’.

The creak of the metal door opening down the hallway makes Sawney shoot up, Haymitch forgotten.

The female down the hall wails, her cries heard for a few seconds before the door shuts again, silencing her. Footsteps echo menacingly down the hallway, and Sawney ignores Brutus’ frantic pleas for help in favour of squeezing herself between her toilet and the wall.

It’s a tight fit, her limbs contorted painfully as she tries to make herself as small as possible, slotting her head between her elbows. She’d found out quickly that the press of her flesh against her ears barely muffled the sounds of Brutus’ torture, but it was better than nothing. 

They never entered her cell, for which she was grateful. She would’ve thought they’d forgotten she was even in there if it wasn’t for the arrival of food and the blinking red light on the camera. Brutus was never willing to tell her what exactly they injected him with, and she dreaded the day when she’d found out, when keys would turn in her cell and they’d drag her out of hiding place. 

She imagined it sometimes, when trying to drown out the sound of Brutus, imagined them trying to take her. She’d go kicking and screaming, there was no question about it, and dreamed of managing to kill a few more peacekeepers before they managed to stick the syringe in her arm. The peacekeeper she’d already killed had been pathetically easy to overpower, even cuffed as she was, and she doubts the ones in the crumbling district she was in would be any better. 

Maybe it’s why they left her be. They must’ve been too scared to face her until they’d depleted her of any reserves, until she was begging for mercy and too weak to lift her arms to fight back. It’s how the Capitol works, she knows this. 

Eventually, the sounds of Brutus seemed to quieten down. 

Still, she doesn’t dare to lift her head from her small sanctuary until she counts a few hundred seconds. It could be a trick, and she’d open her eyes to see them grinning down at her, invading her cell with their Capitol weapons. She debates never lifting her head, shivering in her spot for far longer than necessary, before remembering Brutus exists, that he needs her help to come to.

This is their usual plan, the one they’d devised the first time they came for Brutus; he gets tortured and Sawney lifts her head out of the sand to check on him. It’s foolproof. 

“Brutus?” She whispers, her meek voice echoing around the room. It usually takes him a while to answer, she knows this, but still waits in fear for his answering groans every time.

She counts to thirty in her head, before trying again. He still doesn’t answer, and she finally wrangles her head out of the knot of her arms, vaguely surprised when no one stands before her. This happens everytime, and she’s sure her sanity is wearing very thin.

“You okay?” She says, louder this time, pulling herself from her place and crawling across the cement floor to the bars of her cell. She doesn’t look up to check on him, pressing her back against them as she settles, crossing her legs and clasping her hands together between the flesh of her thighs. “Okay, well, if you’re not going to answer, I’m going to tell you a story.”

It’s a familiar warning, because she does this every time too. Her attempts at comfort rarely land where she wants them to, but Brutus has never complained about her stories of childhood, of crushes on her fellow classmates, of humiliating moments in her life. He never repeats them back to her, never teases, the little secrets she shares held safe between them.

“Once, I cut my fingers open,” she starts. “I’d smashed a mug by accident and they bled everywhere , Brutus, all over the floors of my house and everything. It had been my favourite mug and all, you know…”

The story is long-winded, full of winding paths and tangents and utterly nonsensical. If Sawney had been listening, not telling, she would’ve started speaking just to silence the person.

Still, Brutus is silent. 

She tells another, about her goose. “I found him chained to a house…”

And another, quickly descending into territories she knows will rouse Brutus from his slumber. “I felt her bones breaking beneath each hit,” she’s spitting each word. “I didn’t care, though. She needed to die or otherwise…”

Her cheeks are wet when she finishes, and she knows he won’t answer her. “Brutus?” She tries, her voice cracking, and feels in her bones this is the time for her to be brave, to suck up her fear for a few minutes. Turning around is the hardest thing she ever does, the hair standing on the back of her neck immediately. Prim is inches from her cell, hands curled around her bars, listening to her stories, and Sawney shudders, tries not to retch, as she cranes her neck to see into Brutus’ cell.

Prim moves with her, constantly blocking her vision, her cherub cheeks long since carved into a gauntness that scares her, her eyes bloodshot, lips cracking. “Prim, please!” She cries, as the girl stands with Sawney, taller than she ever was in life, moving faster than Sawney can to block her vision. “Let me see, please!” 

Her desperation isn’t great enough to reach through the bars, to shove Prim to the side, and it’s selfish. The vision of Prim is terrifying, but the reality of her hand phasing through her skin is worse. Sawney wants to lie to herself just a little bit longer, to tell herself she’s a mutt sent by the Capitol, that her torture is a dead girl instead of whatever Brutus has, that Prim still exists somewhere other than her head.

Sawney doesn’t realise she’s screaming until she chokes on a glob of spit, the coughs forcing her to her knees, hands sliding down the metal bars with twin burns. Prim stares glassy eyes into her own, and Sawney squeezes them tightly shut, coloured lights appearing behind her eyelids, infuriating her, “Brutus! Brutus, answer me!” Her voice is high pitched, too piercing in her ears, and she huddles to press her hands against them, to block out the sound of her begging. “Brutus!” 

Her hysterics go on too long, until she’s gasping for breath, drowning in her own tears, and she’s thankful when she feels a familiar pinch from the collar they’d never taken off her, when her mind goes blissfully blank. 

---

They’ve replaced Haymitch with a mutt. 

She’d woken under bright lights, a harsh change from the flickering bulb of her cell, and had fought to calm her own racing heart, had fought to stay hidden. She was restrained, and when she turned her head to the left, she’d had to swallow down a scream.

He had been sleeping when she’d first seen him, head propped up awkwardly by his hand, slumped into a straight backed chair by her bedside, no longer her little grey mouse but a man. Luckily, Sawney had been here before, and had begun tugging against her restraints, screaming loudly until they’d sedated her once more.

She’d tried it again when she woke the second time, and had paused when she ran out of breath. That never happened, which means it must be a test, that she had to face this not-Haymitch to pass and be released. 

It was a simple thing in her head, but the more he spoke, the more she found herself shying away from him. He was shockingly sober, the first warning sign, smelling of a soap, the second, and talking about District Thirteen, the third. 

“Sawney, pay attention,” he sighs, but she refuses to turn her head to look at him. The biggest warning, the one blaring in her head, was the one telling her that Haymitch should’ve died after the rooftop. 

“No,” she retorts, testing the strength of the restraint tying her wrist to the bed. It won’t budge. “I’m not listening.”

“I’m not starting again, honey,” he says, dry, a big liar, and his pet name does make her turn her head, raising one daring eyebrow at him. 

“Do it,” she taunts, and he does. 

The two from Seven were on a mission to blow up the arena, to destroy the electrical hub hidden at the bottom of the waterfall, and Firtha’s task was to distract the cameras long enough for them to do it. The victors and remaining tributes were rescued by the rebels and taken to Thirteen.

“I don’t believe you,” she says after he tells her for the third time, her voice ragged, weak. “Haymitch would’ve told me.”

His face twists, something like sadness, or maybe pity, and Sawney can tell she’s finally lulled him into thinking she might be coming around when he leans in, brushing a hand over her forehead. “I’m telling you now,” he says gently, and she rears her forward to smash into his face, biting the air viciously as he staggers backwards. 

The door slides open to reveal more people, their bodies a blur as they move to tear the fake Haymitch away from her. He’s shouting at them, but she’s louder, and her panic turns into something frighteningly real when she recognises one of the strangers, someone the Capitol wouldn’t be able to fake.

“Sawney,” they say, hands encasing her wrists as she struggles against them, “you’re okay. Haymitch isn’t lying to you. You’re safe here.”

She’s crying, discovering the pillow beneath her head damp as she shakes her wildly from side to side, sobs wrenching themselves from her throat. Sawney refuses to look away, to let the man out of her sight, and feels any anger dissipate as she cries. 

When Andy’s hands loosen from around her wrists, she doesn’t try to fight back.

Notes:

traumatising sawney ends NOW!!
but fr this chap is a little weird. i tried going down the serious route but it wasnt really working and haymitch the mouse kind of wrote himself. plus, i rarely get to write sawney in a comedic way so i thought id make sleep deprivation and murder fun for the day.
this was almost 5k and took me abt two hours to write so everyone say a HUGE thank u for me being released from the torture of writing amy's games and finding inspiration in brutus
EDIT- i broke my fucking hand at work and cant type on laptop so we're all gonna have to wajt for the next chapter okay sorry queens
edit 30/8/25- HEAVILY in thg hell rn but im spending more time rereading this than writing + i lost my entire plan for this fic somehow so we're kind going in blind i feel like a toddler learning the alphabet im so sorry its taking ages

Chapter 20

Notes:

if u saw me post this already, no u didnt

She’d only met Plutarch Heavensbee once.

It had been during her victory tour, and she’d been so high she’s surprised she can still drag up the memory from the recesses of her brain. It was the night before she’d bitten that man’s cock off, during yet another Capitol party.

It was one of the most decadent ones she’d ever been to, by far the most overindulgent affair she’d ever had the displeasure of partaking in. Banquet tables of food Sawney had never even seen before groaned under the weight of plates, rows and rows of pastel drinks in ornate glasses waiting to be chosen and sipped lining others. She remembers being alone, Haymitch’s final warning to behave echoing in her ears after she’d finished with her client.

Defiance had been running in her veins when she’d chosen a new man, as if choosing a Capitol of her own volition would spite Snow. He’d been handsome, slender, dark brown hair styled into delicate swooping curls that ran down his back. Anything else, she doesn’t remember, only the taste of her one true rebellion souring in her mouth.

After, she’d been revolted, had picked up a glass of something that had almost immediately made her run to puke into a bush around the side of the mansion.

Plutarch had been there, whispering into Finnick’s ear, guilt written over his features for all of two seconds before he smiled at Sawney, slid a hand around Finnick’s waist. He’d greeted her, she’d curled his lip at him in disgust, just another of the vile men who made their living off people like her dying, and stumbled away.

But here she is, still confined to her medical room in Thirteen, watching as he stands over her bed.

Thirteen had been pumping her with sedatives and drugs since she’d headbutted Haymitch two days ago. They made her hallucinate things, birds flying in the windowless room, snakes slithering across the floor, water flooding in through the door. She’s convinced herself that Andy had been a hallucination, and whoever’s in charge had been sending people through her sliding door to try and make her believe their claims of rebellion since. She was getting sick of it.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Plutarch asks, his words stressed and slow. 

Sawney, still strapped to the hospital bed and exhausted, glares at him until he sighs and rubs a hand down his blotchy face. “Where’s Haymitch?” She croaks instead of giving him an answer. The most important thing to her was figuring out if Haymitch was a mutt, which would mean she was truly imprisoned in the Capitol somewhere, or if he was the real thing. If he was himself, the new most important thing was to be figuring out why the revolution was torturing victors in their basement. 

She thinks whoever decided that sending Plutarch in to console her was a good idea is a fucking idiot. He throws his hands in the air when she does nothing but stare at him, an aborted motion he ends too quickly for Sawney to laugh at, and eyes her with contempt. 

“I’m not talking until I see Haymitch,” she says slowly. “Or do I have to beat it into your thick Capitol head? I don’t believe you.”

“We are afraid,” he says, “that seeing Haymitch will jeopardise your progress since-”

“Progress? What fucking progress!” She shouts, the clanking of her restraints echoing through the room. “I’m only here because you locked me in a room and -”

They hadn’t taken the collar off her neck yet, and it was the main reason she wouldn’t listen to a word anyone had to say to her. They could preach about trust and rebels and liberty all they wanted, but when the pinch of sedative being released into her neck happens again, she knows it’s all lies.

The drugs cause sedation, not sleep, so when she wakes she’s still trapped in fuzzy, dully aching misery. She’s half sure she’s imagining Haymitch in the chair next to her until he ties something around her limp wrist, his warm hands brushing her skin. His nose is swollen, a glimmering purple, a remnant of her attack.

“Are you a mutt?” She whispers, and he freezes for a second, glancing at her with a stricken look. He shakes his head, and it’s enough for Sawney. For now.

“That’s your wristband declaring you insane,” he says, laying her wrist back down on the sheets. He digs in his pocket, dangling some keys in the air before her, just out of reach. “And this is your freedom. You listen, you say you understand, you don’t attack anyone and you can have them.”

“Or?”

“Or they send you back downstairs,” he sighs, and Sawney tugs at her restraints.

“I understand, Haymitch, please,” she keens. “Don’t make me go back, I understand.”

“Tell me what you understand first,” he says firmly, laying both hands on her flailing arm. Sawney tries to twist her own to grab the keys from his hand, but he pulls it away with a low hum, a warning. “What do you understand, honey?”

“That the arena blew up and I’m in Thirteen,” she repeats what she’s been told for the past few days. “I am a rescued victor and I killed a rebel.”

“And?” He presses, and she shakes her head wildly, feeling tears blotting the corners of her eyes. “And? Sawney, what else do you understand?”

“They saved the tributes,” she says.  She sobs, this time curling her hand around to try and grab one of his, to have some comfort. He takes it, squeezes her fingers. 

“Come on, honey,” he whispers. “I want to get you out.”

She whimpers, but he doesn’t give up, continuing his questions, and Sawney doesn’t answer until her breath stops coming jagged, ripping out her throat. 

“Amy is dead,” she snarls, and he pulls her out of the restraints seconds later, clutching her to him in a tight embrace.

---

Sawney’s recovery is a slow, numbing process. 

Trapped in her bed for days, years, centuries maybe. Dead, but not allowed to die; alive but as good as dead. Haymitch himself is in seclusion to dry out, deemed unfit for display, and she’s so lonely that anyone, anything, no matter how loathsome would be a welcome visitor. Sawney would even take Finnick over counting her ceiling tiles. 

She’d worked out, on the second day, that they’d give her morphling if she went into hysterics, and she does it occasionally, throwing her food against the wall and snapping her teeth at her doctors. It courses through her veins, easing the pain and lightening her body as if she’s on a cloud. It takes four days for them to figure out she’s doing it on purpose, and switch her medication to something she doesn't think is a narcotic; it’s only side effect is confusion. Dazzling, striking confusion that leaves her swaying in place, trying to remember her lefts and rights and who’s dead and who’s alive. Still, she's glad for it; she hasn't stooped so low to get hooked on morphling yet.

She plans to stay in the bed until she rots into the sheets, pretending that on the other side of the door is her previous life, that her mum is waiting with a pile of sewing that needs to get done before they have dinner. It would be a warm, hearty stew, the one she’s never been able to recreate, and Sawney would’ve saved up enough wages to get butter with their bread. 

Grief consumes her, as do most things, and she finally leaves the room on the sixth day, bored of her own misery and her silent hallucinations. When the door slides open under her hand, she’s surprised, expecting to have been locked in the room, and tiptoes down corridors, waiting to be dragged and tied back down to her bed. No one comes, and her blood itches to burst. She's slept long enough, and she’s hungry for something, for anything. 

She wants Snow’s head.

She finds Haymitch instead, curled in his bed. The memory of herself after her games flashes in her head, of her outbursts and drinking and violence, of strong hands trying to piece her back together. Nobody is in Haymitch’s room, the lights turned off, but she enters anyway and settles in a chair by his bedside to stay. When she turned lucid, she decided quite quickly that no mutt could replicate the infuriation Haymitch sparked in her, and so she lays her head down to rest on his bed. 

---

It didn’t take long for Sawney to decide she hated Thirteen.

She was far too used to Twelve, to the lush greens and browns, to live in a strict life of grey. Her day was planned out for her, stamped on her wrist every morning. Try as she might, the ink wouldn't bleed, or smudge, or be scraped off, and so she had no choice but to follow it diligently.

It wasn't much of hardship, after she’d gotten over her displeasure at being told what to do; she was legally insane in Thirteen. Her routine consisted of nothing but free time to mope and her scheduled lunch in her room, following Haymitch around like a lost puppy as if he’d ever been some paragon for mental stability. 

It’s surely why they’ve been thrust together, the two crumbling victors of Twelve hidden away. Sawney doesn’t mind too much, and spends most of her time in the room next to Haymitch’s, stewing. 

After her initial relief to see him, to have comfort in something she knew, they’d argued.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She’d uttered the seventh night. They were still in the same room, facing each other off from separate chairs. 

“If it had gone wrong, you didn’t know anything,” he said. He’d been lounging, head tilted back, drifting off to sleep, but Sawney hadn’t cared.

“Liar,” she spat, leaning forward in her seat, the motion quick and violent. “Tell me the damn truth, Haymitch.”

He cracked one eye open and shrugged. “We didn’t want to worry you,” he said evasively. 

Sawney narrowed his eyes at Haymitch, who she knew was avoiding something, hesitating. He’s no idiot, and she could tell the second he realised she wasn’t going to give up on her pressing, because he sighed. “Tell me,” she demanded.

“I didn’t want you to know,” he said, finally dropping the good natured act. He raised a hand in the air when she began to rise from her seat, continuing. “You couldn’t do it, and you know it.”

“I could’ve,” she said. “Don’t you trust me?”

He squinted at her briefly, before a small, sardonic smile crept onto his face. “It wasn't about trust,” he answered, and Sawney almost didn't resist the temptation to leap over and smash his head into the ground. “I wanted you safe, because the first thing you would've done is open your big mouth and tell everyone.”

Sawney’s not an easy woman, she knows that, knows she butts heads and bites for no other reason than boredom, but she's not stupid. A rebellion, even the small one they’d shared, meant the possibility of freedom, of no games. Betrayal curls heavy in her gut, and she stares, hurt, at Haymitch. 

“You think I would've blown this to make a point?” She asks, and can see the second Haymitch regrets his words in the small twitch of his eyes and the roll of his shoulders, ignoring her brain screaming that it’s just his withdrawal speaking. 

“I wanted you safe ,” he stresses. “If you didn't know anything, there was nothing Snow could’ve punished you for.”

“But you did it Haymitch!” She shouts. “He’d kill me just for knowing you, and you know that. He’s wanted me dead ever since I won my games, I’m not falling for your shit.”

“I’m not fucking lying, honey , and we all-”

They run each other into the ground, eventually, going in circles until they’re both wrung out and exhausted. Neither of them give up, snarling and spitting familiar fallacies that get them nowhere. It ends with Sawney storming out, sleeping in the hallway with her knees tucked into her chest, a living reminder of the evening. When Haymitch thuds the door into her the next morning, they skirt around the topic completely, sharing the occasional glare.

Eventually, finally , her doctors seem to realise that Sawney won’t improve anymore, that she was going to fight them sick or healthy, and she’s taken to the depths of Thirteen, to a meeting in the command center. 

Her introduction to President Coin and her cohort is nothing extraordinary. She refuses to speak, and so they do all the talking for her. In the end, unsurprisingly, the Capitol’s undoing had been through their own hubris.

Thirteen had been exploiting Snow’s excessive need for brute force for decades, sending a few of their own away each year to infiltrate peacekeeper troops. Like a boat tied to a moor, they lay in wait for the signal, watching the progress of the two from Seven until they turned upon their forces, raising guns at Capitol troops they’d worked alongside.

Most of the districts joined, rioting alongside the rebels until hovercrafts arrived. Some were from Thirteen, bringing them to safety, but the majority were Capitols descending with guns and bombs. They tell her evacuation is  a slow process, with hovercrafts under constant threat of being shot out of the sky, some having to abandon the cover of clouds to switch to hijacked trains or cars. Nobody from Four, Five, or Ten had made it to Thirteen yet, but they had high hopes of survivors. Apparently.

They’ve sat Sawney at a table, and people keep talking . Talking, talking, talking, but she’s more interested in Alma Coin. Plutarch is talking about the career districts, a tinny sound in her ear that she tunes out in favour of staring at the president. Her hair, a dull grey, hangs so uniformly around her shoulders that Sawney is convinced it’s a wig. It doesn’t endear the woman to her anymore, her vanity making Sawney’s lip curl.

She’s a soldier here, greeted with the designated title even despite her wristband, heavy on her wrist. The slim piece of plastic is as good an excuse as any to sit in silence, letting their words wash over her and her eyes blur until the room is a world of grey slush, like trodden snow. Plutarch’s fat, pale face bobs with every word he says, but Sawney sits resolutely still despite the threat of laughter trying to escape her. 

When he starts talking about utilising the victors to sway more over to the rebel cause, maybe even putting her in front of a camera, Sawney simply stands and leaves. Staring at the perfect line of Coin’s hair gets boring after a while, and the memory of her cell below Thirteen still stings sharply. Now, she didn't have to deign to fulfill anyone's wishes.

She dithers outside the door, unsure of where exactly she is. The man that had escorted her to the meeting room was standing, waiting just outside, hands clasped behind his back. Behind her, Sawney can still hear through the door. 

“I told you she wouldn’t agree,” says Plutarch.

“She will. She must.” Coin.

Running, the idea of it, of taking off down the hallway and making for the surface, or to delve deeper and find Brutus, flickers in her mind briefly, but Sawney squashes it down. She’s tired , and she’s lonely, and fully deserving of her wristband as she makes for the elevator at the end of the hallway, back to her room.

---

It’s less than a week later when they stamp a new timetable on her. It’s a small change, meaningless in the grand scheme, but her lunchtime has changed from in room to in hall. 

“I don't get it,” she tells Haymitch, who’s still lying in bed. The dryness of Thirteen has sent him into a debilitating withdrawal and, even with the medicine they give to help, he’s suffering for it.

He doesn't raise his head from his pillow to speak, but Sawney doesn't think he wants her gone. There's a few chairs still in his room, even though she’s been the only person to visit, and she moves one to his bedside, gently placing it to the floor. “Maybe they're made me all better now,” she jokes, and he grunts, slanting his eyes towards her, and they narrow slightly, a familiar sardonic look that she chooses to ignore. “The drugs I have are amazing . I can barely think straight.”

This is true; her thoughts are a jumble in her mind, slipping out of reach and forming into unrecognisable lumps. The confusion remains, on good days; she’s violently hysterical on bad ones. They’d cut her nails down after the third doctor she’d scratched, and they’re soft little nubs she’s taken to running her thumbs over.

“Give some to me,” says Haymitch, and Sawney laughs, even though he’s serious.

“I'm sure that's punishable by death here.”

“Maybe you'd finally shut up, then,” he says, not unkindly. 

“Do you want me to bring you any food back?” She asks, enough this is also probably punishable by death. Most things are in their new district. 

“I want to know what's going on,” he says, ignoring her. 

Sawney wrinkles her nose slightly. “What, like, gossip? ‘Cause I’m not sure anyone's in the mood to be shacking up.”

“No, not gossip , Sawney, intel, ” he sneers, sluggishly moving to sit. She’d been trying to bait Haymitch for days, to drag him from his bed, and she tries desperately not to look too smug as he rubs the sleep off his face. “I want to know what’s going on."

“I bet you do,” she says bitterly. “It’s nice to know what people are doing, isn’t it?”

For a moment, Haymitch is quiet, but his eyes twitch to the side. And then - a slight roll of his shoulders, barely noticeable, a tilt of his head as his eyes plead with Sawney. Her tongue finds itself clacking on the roof of her mouth, the sound slapping in her ears, before she scowls. 

“Fine,” she says simply. “But if people are shacking up down here I’m not telling you anything.”

Haymitch huffs a laugh, nodding at her. Without another word, she stood and left his room.

---

Not recognising anybody was odd. Usually, even in the Capitol, Sawney’s brain would say she’d seen so-and-so before, or that she recognised their hair, but Thirteen was so distinctly foreign that Sawney felt dazed, and dull, and lost. The tan skin of Four, the dark hair of Seven, the twangy voices of Eight- these she recognised, but she didn’t know anybody.

Carrying her tray of food, just as grey as the district keeping her, she felt foolish, distinctly like a schoolgirl, as she wandered aimlessly down rows of tables. Most were chock full of people, and she could see a few give her second looks, craning their heads to check she was, indeed, herself. She wonders if they're aching to get a look at Sawney Carter, Victor, or the girl who killed one of their own.

She’s walking tall, scanning the room to find even a peak of familiar brown Seam hair, or even the blonde of the merchants. She wants to eat a meal with Twelves fiercely, wants to share jokes with Andy and press her hands to the round stomach of Katniss. She wants to find out who else made it out of Twelve, but the prospect of survivors, even though she’s been assured many times, is looking dimmer and dimmer as she turns in her spot, searching, lonely.

“Sawney!” A voice calls, and she whips her head round. 

Never in her life had she been so happy to see Finnick Odair.

As she makes her way over, she takes in his company; a few strangers from Thirteen, a few rescued victors and - a tribute . Sawney stutters to a halt a few feet from the table, trying not  to stare at the girl from Ten, sat on the far end to Finnick, trying to forget the glimmer of admiration she’d had when watching her games. Finnick, luckily, pulls on her sleeve until she settles in next to him, opposite Johanna and an awkward looking Enobaria. Sawney is surprised to see her, had assumed she’d been chucked in with the rest of the careers downstairs, but remembers her sharp teeth glinting in the light of a Capitol party, whispering rebellion in her ear.

She’s not sure what Enobaria is doing here, whether she’s serving her own agenda or if she’s somehow turning a blind eye to the entire thing, collecting information in an attempt to try to save her own skin when the Capitol inevitably wins. Sawney wonders, the thought curdling like sour milk in her head, whether Brutus had even bothered trying to pretend, if he’d be seated opposite her now if he had. She’s disgusted she even cares.

“We’re matching,” she says after a long moment, fingering the wristband around Finnick’s wrist. 

“He’s only lovelorn,” says Johanna, and then she rears her head back in a laugh that almost makes Sawney flinch. “You are matching!”

There’s a brief silence, an intake of breath, before Sawney turns her head from Johanna back to Finnick. He’d always had a monopoly on information, after all, and that’s all she’s here for. 

“You look horrible ,” she gasps, finally taking in the puffy bags under his bloodshot eyes and the pale waxiness of his skin. 

“My prep team isn’t here,” he tries to joke, but his smile catches oddly on his face, and Sawney remembers her meeting with Coin. Nobody from Four has arrived yet, and Sawney makes an aborted pitying sound in her throat. Finnick hears, narrowing his green eyes to study her with a quiet intensity that raises the hairs on her neck. “How’s Haymitch?” He spits his words out, but she’s not sure if he’s brimming with anger or jealousy, and finds herself unsettled with how quickly he’d become upset. 

She huffs a sound that she hopes he’d mistake for a laugh. “ Sober ,” she says, and this time the twitch of his lips is real. “Anything new?”

“Where have you been?” Johanna asks sharply, ignoring Sawney’s questions. Briefly, she’s sad, because Johanna talking to her means she’ll be forced in their company longer than she has to, before a frisson of annoyance makes her frown. 

“None of your business,” she snaps back.

“Well,” she continues, “I got told you died downstairs. So either I can suddenly see more ghosts than usual, or I’ve been lied to.”

Finnick, to Sawney’s right, lets out a small cough. Johanna turns her gaze to him, and Sawney can feel his thigh pressing up against hers as he squirms in his seat. Looking distinctly like a kicked dog, he mutters, “I thought you’d like some good news.”

“Hey!"

“Have you seen Brutus?” Enobaria asks. Finnick freezes beside her, and she’s vindicated in knowing he does know everything, even here.

Sawney looks at Enobaria, watches her face closely, watches the way her frown is carved into her cheeks. She can do nothing but duck her head forward, staring at the lump of supposed food on her plate. It’s really ghastly, the stuff they’ve been served, but Sawney’s had worse, thinks of stale bread and cheese, of dried nuts, and fruits, and river water. She exhales a laugh, feeling wholly deserving of her so-called insanity as she drops her head into her hands, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Dimly, she registers Enobaria talking, the hard tone of her voice reaching deaf ears. Then, finally, she says, “Yeah. They killed him.”

The metal table hurts her elbows something fierce, no amount of adjusting giving the bones any relief, and she’s so caught up in her discomfort she almost misses Finnick’s words.

“Brutus isn’t dead.”

She snaps her head up and, just for a second, locks eyes with Enobaria, and is sure they’re wearing matching expressions of shock. Something raw gurgles in her chest, and she can do nothing to stop the rasping wheeze that forces its way out her throat. 

“It’s not funny twice, Finnick,” warns Johanna, and she’s right.

“Coin said-”

“What?” Sawney snarls. “What did she say?”

Finnick eyes her with distaste. “You’d find out if you weren’t so rude,” he says, curling his lip at her. “It’s no shock you couldn’t even make it through one tour before he killed your family.”

Something cracks inside her, like dried out twigs on the forest floor, and anger bubbles up inside her chest. Her eyes burn, and her throat constricts for a second before she’s grabbing her metal tray and swinging it to connect, hard, with Finnick’s face, uncaring of the splatter of food down her front.

This time, when they tie her wrists to the rails on her bed, they place her in the same room as Haymitch. He finds the whole thing amusing, of course, but when they inject her with morphling he scowls, obviously jealous. Sawney’s viciously smug, even in her cloud of drugs, and she’s tempted to tell her doctors that this is the best punishment she’s ever experienced, thank you very much.

---

Finally, Thirteen decides to put her to work.

It’s easy enough, butchering animals in the kitchen. Only when their blood runs over her fingers, or her knife tears through a tendon does she shudder, and retch into the bin, and continue working. This , she thinks, is her punishment, to be forced to bring a knife to skin once again.

It’s two days of tearing apart meat before she’s called to another meeting. The room is almost empty when she arrives, only a serene looking Plutarch and Coin waiting for her. Once, all those years ago, she’d been called into the headteacher's office for punishment after wrestling with another girl in the middle of a lesson. You’ll get yourself killed, he’d said. You’ll never amount to anything this way.

She thinks it’s largely the same thing today, a lecture, and squares her shoulders, tilting her chin upwards defiantly. “Finnick deserved it,” she says before they can greet her, and Plutarch snorts, shaking his head.

“That’s not what we want to discuss,” says Coin, motioning to an empty seat near the pair.  The command center is a long room, bathed in swathes of grey metals, and Sawney’s shoes tap loudly as she walks towards them, confused. She takes her seat, and the urge to fiddle her hands together is too strong, and so she clasps them tightly atop the table, unmoving. 

Coin smiles at her, her grey eyes light. Sawney feels like she is being patronised, spoken to as if she was no more than a dumb child, and furrows her brows. Still, she holds her gaze. 

“The districts need someone to rally behind,” says Coin, breezing past any pleasantries that Sawney would’ve undoubtedly ignored. “We touched upon it last time, before you left, and you never gave us an answer.”

“I think my answer was quite clear.”

Coin was just another force Sawney had to contend with. Here, the difference was that she is under no obligation to blindly bend to the president’s every need, to be another piece in their game. It was a luxury she’s never before been afforded, and the simple option of defiance delights her.

“We’re simply asking you to rethink your decision,” says Plutarch. He has the same slimy, soothing voice from the last time she’d seen him, and Sawney sneers in his face.

“If you wanted me to be some spokesperson, you shouldn't have locked me up,” she spits. 

Sawney waits for something, anything, even a shred of guilt on one of their faces, but Coin stares back as impassive as ever, unimpressed. “You killed a rebel,” she says, “and you served your punishment. I thought you, of all people, would understand the concept of justice.”

“You know nothing about me!”

“We know you’re kind, and selfless,” says Plutarch. “We know that you want Snow’s head. You can have that if you help us.”

Sawney inhales sharply, her nose twitching at the stale air of Thirteen. He’s right, of course - many days had been spent dreaming about maiming Snow. Their offer was ripe for the taking, something as hopeful as the spring sun, but it soured in her gut. “You’d have to offer more than that,” she says, and stands. “You imprisoned me for killing someone already. I don’t trust you not to do it again.”

---

Thirteen was never wholly quiet. There was always a conglomeration of distant voices, feet clanking down stairs, the hum of machinery built into the walls, the scrape of metal against metal. As the day passed, it would increase steadily, workers and families meeting for lunch, the sounds of weapons being made following Sawney constantly.

The infirmary floors were different, muffled, each room emitting a different hiss of medicines being released, different beeping tempos coming from medical apparatus. Still, it was calmer, and the quiet thumps of Sawney’s feet on the floor were loud.

Visiting Firtha had been something she’d put off since the second she found out where she was being held in recovery. Sawney wasn’t sure if it was from fear or indifference, but the girl had become a larger void in her head, slowly seeping into hidden recesses of her brain she’d long forgotten.

Firtha’s room, with its bed and stark greys and whites, was the mirror image of Sawney’s own, right down to the same hard-edged angles of the ceiling. It occurred to Sawney that it might’ve been pretty, in the same way pre-war buildings were imposing cement structures, neat and tidy and a sight to behold, but she merely thought it hideous.

Firtha was a pale lump in her bed, hair a tangled mess tied atop her head, and her eyes had locked onto Sawney’s figure the moment she entered the room. She looked less like the hero turned victor Sawney had been picturing her as, and more of a barely-living person, like the husks of people that slept in the streets of Twelve.

“Hullo,” says Sawney awkwardly, in the way you do when you show up uninvited and empty-handed. She wishes, stupidly, that she’d stolen a slice of bread or something, anything, to offer Firtha as a peace offering. “Can I come in?”

Firtha squinted her blue eyes at Sawney, flicking them up and down her body before snorting derisively at her. Maybe this was all she’d get, anger and hatred. She deserves it, that’s for sure, thinking of Firtha’s brother’s body falling to the ground in a heap, forgotten immediately. 

“Do I have a choice?”

“No,” says Sawney slowly, because she didn’t leave her room for nothing. “Maybe. Do you want me here?”

“You killed my family,” spits Firtha, “and then you set those kids on me as if it was my duty to keep them alive. I want to see you dead.”

Sawney thinks either Firtha must be crazy or thick in the head, believing that. “I didn’t even want them near you,” she says incredulously, and walks to lean against the end of Firtha's bed. The girl glares something wicked at where Sawney’s hand rests on the metal rails, as if it had personally offended her, and Sawney puts it in her pocket. 

“You were cruel to let it happen, even still,” says Firtha. 

“You chose to do it.”

“I wanted to kill them,” she hisses, eyes ablaze. “I wanted to make you suffer the way you made me, I wanted-”

“Bullshit,” snaps Sawney. “If you wanted me to suffer you would’ve ignored the entire thing, joined the careers from the very start.”

Firtha studies her, eyes flickering down to Sawney’s hidden hands, and Sawney knows she’s caught her out. “Maybe,” she agrees. “But I would’ve saved myself a lot of trouble if I’d just slit their throats when I had the chance.”

The words are a slap in the face, throwing Sawney off kilter for all of two seconds before she lets out a sharp laugh. She remembers her own games, of plaiting hair and playfully dunking heads in riverbeds, of how she wished she’d never even looked Aden’s way. She’d wanted desperately to turn back time and leave him wandering at his pedestal, to save herself from the onslaught of memories every night.

You couldn’t just pull off a Sawney Carter without it marking itself in your bones, without the children nestling in. 

“Fuck you!”

Sawney realises that she’s still laughing, quiet giggles turning Firtha into some lost, confused thing. “Sorry,” she smiles, “but you’re fucking deluded if you think that’s the truth. I watched you on that screen, girl, I’m not stupid.”

“Get out,” mutters Firtha, her voice edged with irritation. “I don’t want you here.” 

There’s a long silence, the kind that only came when all the things you wanted to say were too ugly to speak.

“I do feel bad for your brother,” says Sawney with an ambiguous twist of her lips, settling lightly on the end of the bed. “But I would kill him again in a heartbeat if it gave any of my tributes even another hour to live. If I had one, you’d do the same.”

“We are nothing alike,” denies Firtha, but Sawney’d seen how the fight had bled out of her shoulders, she too quick to burn and blaze out. “They meant nothing to me.”

Sawney looks down to Firtha’s lap, at the short piece of rope laying innocently between her crossed legs. A knot was tied in the center, loose and lazy, as if it had been done by a child. Quickly, Sawney reaches out, and there’s a brief struggle before Sawney manages to rip Firtha’s arm out from under the covers.

“Get the fuck off me!” She shouts, attempting to yank her wrist from Sawney’s grip. The machines beep wildly, and Sawney isn’t surprised when the door opens after a few seconds and she’s pulled away from the bed harshly. Soldiers, or maybe they’re just doctors, wrap crushing grips around her biceps, holding her in place a few feet from the bed. 

“Then why’d you let that happen?” Sawney asks, her voice steady, accusing. She doesn’t feel bad when tears slip out of Firtha’s eyes, hot and heavy, refusing to back down despite the wave of sympathy crashing through her.

In her lap, half covered by her last remaining hand, the stump of Firtha’s left arm is a violent, bright red, scarred and swollen. 

Notes:

i am NOT apologisng for the hiatus this time i broke my fucking hand. came back to change the title <3
there was a fabulous scene at the end of this chap that i had to remove cos it didnt fit in the plan and im kicking myself. ive written 2 chaps into the future and i still cant find a place for it im going nuts i need the slow burn to end asap
(also dw haymitch the mouse WILL be making an appearance soon)

Chapter 21

Notes:

am winning the hating d13 competition by the way (RELEASE ME)

It never fully registered just how few people from Twelve were rescued until Sawney gets moved into the barracks. 

When hovercrafts and trains from Five start pouring in, a slow drip that turned into a flood in the span of a few hours, she and Haymitch were unceremoniously kicked out of their quarters.

“You’re both well enough,” a doctor had said, “and others need the room more.”

Credit where credit was due, Thirteen was nothing if not efficient, and they found beds for the pair of them within the hour. The barracks a mess, people fussing around in uncontrolled bouts of frenzy - Five was closer to the Capitol than any other of the evacuated districts, and it feels momentous. The panic is born of hope, rather than fear, but Sawney still gets annoyed when nobody has quieted down after an hour, the room still full of murmurs. She recognises no voices, no faces, and wonders if her district even exists.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, she thinks as she presses her ear into the thin pillow she’d been given, desperate for just a few moments of peace to slide her eyes shut during. The bed next to hers has become a temporary command center for a mother’s meeting, and Sawney has easily figured out the entire life stories of the three women chattering away there. They, unlike the rest of the room, refuse to speak in hushed tones, and had moved on quickly from the news of Five onto gossip. 

It was vaguely entertaining, in the way a Capitol soap sometimes managed to capture Sawney’s attention. So far, they’d mentioned poor old Finnick’s eyes thrice, who she assumed was in the same section as them, and the prospect of new men arriving from Five. They were all from Thirteen, this became abundantly clear, and Sawney assumed all three of them were infertile, sharing that wanton desperation for a child Sawney had never seen before arriving here.

Eventually, Sawney gives up her long slog in the direction of sleep, slowly sitting and leaving her bed, aching for some shuteye away from the women. The barracks are dark now, and it’s a small struggle to navigate through the maze of bunk beds.The space is barely lit, dull orange lights spaced few far between in what Sawney can only presume is an effort to reduce power. The sheer amount of new arrivals probably upturned Thirteen’s entire system.

She finds Haymitch eventually, after a few minutes of aimless wandering, and grunts in annoyance as she slips into the bed beside him. 

It’s a horrifyingly tight squeeze, and she ends up half on top of him, an elbow digging into her gut and his breath coming in puffs of too-warm air on her temples. “Thought you hated me,” he mutters, because they had indeed gone back to fighting about the rebel plans the second Haymitch had sobered up to string three sentences together.

“Get over yourself,” she whispers back, and that’s that. She imagines she’d be bringing up his betrayal until they were both in their graves, but a lifelong uneasy truce was better than them getting nowhere.

---

When she wakes, she’s given her timetable and, as usual, she’s sent to the butchering block for the day. Sawney’s pretty sure it’s an attempt to wear her down until she’s thin enough that all she can do is agree to what Coin wants. It’s clear to Sawney that she was going to agree, eventually, and that time would come around even sooner if Coin stopped playing her sick little game. For now, Sawney won’t back down from where’s stood. 

It’s a long day; a new shipment of meat had come with Five, tens of chickens needing to be bled in preparation for plucking and skinning. It’s hard work, and Sawney’s clumsy fingers slip through the wet down of feathers countless times, and it takes everything within her to not throw the blasted carcasses across the room. It’s so aggravating, so painstakingly finicky that her mind doesn’t once wander to darker places, and it makes her feel smug.

A canteen worker, originally from Eleven, brings Sawney a plate of food halfway through the day and the two sit together in comfortable silence as they eat.

Exhaustion is all she has the capacity to feel by the time she’s finished. It settles in her wrists in dull, aching pains so similar to the rolling waves of tension that used to spread through her shoulders and back after a long day in the mines. It’s a welcome feeling, earned from hard work, and she’s blissfully serene when she returns to the barracks.

She seeks out people she knows. The room is sparsely occupied, stragglers returning from their days, and it’s easier to look at each person individually in the light of day. As she reaches the halfway point of the room, long past where her own bed is, Sawney begins to feel a little dejected, unsure if anybody from Twelve is even here, but she continues. 

When her eyes breeze over dark, braided hair, Sawney thinks she’s mistaken. But, as she moves closer to the figure, the curve of Katniss’ back becomes familiar. 

She lifts her head from her lap, somehow sensing Sawney from the other end of the aisle, and carefully watches as she approaches. Katniss’ mouth softens from a straight, hard line into something more open, resembling a smile. It’s only been two months, if that, since they’d seen each other, but Katniss has definitely popped since then, her bump noticeable. 

“Hi,” says Katniss when Sawney nears. She scooches up to make room for Sawney on the cot, and she joins her, craning her neck to not hit her head on the upper bunk.

“Hi,” echoes Sawney, the corner of her mouth tugging up as she reaches forward to embrace Katniss. It’s awkward, and she’s sure Katniss hits her head on the top of her cot, but it’s nice. When Sawney pulls away, she casts a glance at Katniss’ stomach. “Bet they love you here.”

“Far too much,” she murmurs, bemused. “They treat me like a little flower.”

Sawney let out a chuckle, leaning backwards to rest against the metal bedframe. She’s pretty sure her arse is directly on Katniss’ pillow, and knew the stench of her butchering would probably rub off on it. “What’ve they got you doing down here, then?” She asks, because she’s sure Katniss wouldn’t appreciate hearing about the pillow situation.

Katniss sighs in exasperation, shaking her head. “They’ve stuck me with my mother in the hospital,” she bemoans. “I’m pretty sure I’m doing more harm than good. I mostly just stand around.”

Sawney pictures it in head, the vision of Katniss’ bedside manners making her grin. “I’m butchering,” she says. “You know, I’ve done enough of it to be good. How’s Gale?”

A silence settles between them, and Sawney feels wrongfooted, as if she’s been left out of the circle of sharing. Katniss avoids her gaze to inhale deeply, and then exhale, a long breath that shudders in the air. “...He’s in Twelve,” she says eventually.

“Oh,” she mutters hesitantly. “Did he not…?”

“No, no, he made it out,” says Katniss, blusteringly, sending what Sawney thinks is a horrible attempt at a smile her way. “They sent him back after some training to join the fight.”

“I thought Twelve got evacuated.”

“Not fully. The Capitol bombed it for a time, and then, well, abandoned their troops,” she explains. “They’re fighting to get out. I’m not sure how well it’s going, but they shipped most of Twelve back to help. Familiar grounds, I suppose.”

“Gale’s as good as it gets, fighting wise,” says Sawney. He had always been a straight shot, and Sawney bets he’s fine treating peacekeepers as game. “How are you with it?”

“I wanted to join,” she says. “I should be out there, I know I’m one of the best."

“You’re pregnant.”

“You could go,” says Katniss, and her words are edged with something Sawney can’t place.

Sawney stares at Katniss in surprise. She could, but, “I’m insane,” she says, dumb. “They want me to go on the television, they say it might help. Coin thinks I could be a rallying force.”

Seam eyes stare at her with an intensity that makes her shift against the railing. “You don’t need to be on screens to be a rallying force,” she eventually says. “This whole thing is because of you.”

“Katniss-”

“No,” she interrupts, not unkindly. “I hear them talk about you down here. Some hate you, some admire you - they watched your games. I watched them. I’ve seen what you can do with that heart of yours. You need to use it for something.”

What the hell was she supposed to say to that? She knew she couldn’t lounge in Thirteen forever, knew other victors were being used for propaganda, that her time would come. She just didn’t want it to, wanted to lie in wait until the whole rebellion breezed into the past. “It’s not that easy,” she whispers.

Katniss lets out a dry chuckle, reaching to interlace their fingers together. “I’m having a baby,” she says. “I need you - you… I’m scared. You, of all people, should get to rest, but-”

“You want me to kill Snow,” she says, and waits for the blow to fall. 

But Katniss only nods as if she was reluctantly pleased. “If you want to,” she says. 

“I don’t trust Coin,” says Sawney. “I think she’s going to get rid of me after.”

“Maybe,” says Katniss, “but you have to face whoever wants you dead and stop running from them.”

“Okay,” she whispers, and Katniss clenches her hand tightly. “I’m not sure I’ll be good enough to make any change.”

This makes Katniss laugh, a quiet thing. “You’ll be great, or nothing,” she says. “There’s no inbetween.”

Sawney says nothing, just stares at Katniss with a cocked head. At the way her hand twisted tightly in the thin blanket beneath them, at the crease of her forehead begging her to help. 

“I’ll try my best,” she murmurs. “Name your baby after me?”

Katniss laughs, the rarest thing in the world, and Sawney knows it’s a resounding no. For now.

---

Every single day in Thirteen is the very same, like a bad joke you hear so uncomfortably often that you can no longer summon a forced smile. 

The next morning, as she wakes, Sawney tries to sink deeper into her blanket and pretend not to notice that a new day has come. Her body can’t do it. Her soul can’t do it. She can’t master the strength to leave this rotting cell she called the self. She slowly begins to feel as though she’s driving herself mad all over again.

She grows frustrated at the thought of being stuck in front of a camera, of showing her entire being to Panem in the slim hopes of winning a revolution. I’ll be useful, she tells herself as she stays in bed as breakfast starts, I’ll get up soon. I’ll join the fight.

She feels disgusted at herself, at her inability to move and make do. But when she finally goes to breakfast, one of the first things she sees is a mother eating with her daughter, her grey hair frizzy, cheekbones protruding like the tops of two plums. She wonders what her mum would have looked like in a few decades, if her jowls would start sagging or if the greys in her hair would frustrate her, ever vain. Whether she’d still stroke Sawney’s hair away from her face, or if the joints in her fingers would ache when sewing. 

It angers Sawney, that this nobody from Thirteen would have the gall to laugh with her mother during a war. That she’d dare flaunt it for all the displaced districts to see, throwing her head back as her mother says something to her.

She didn't make it much farther that day, retreating back to the barracks to spend time with Haymitch the Mouse.

---

It takes another day and a half for Sawney to get her head out of the sand.

She’s in a short fit of hysteria, her knife having sliced too roughly through the tough gristle of the animal on her block, sending her straight back to pounding Star’s face into the ground. The sounds she’d made rattle menacingly in Sawney’s ears; her wet breaths and anguished warbles, the crunch of her eye socket as the bone gave out. 

Her breaths still shudder out of her when she comes to, keeled over on one of the metal stools in the room. Desperately, she wants to be outside, to spread her toes in the wet dirt of the ground, to feel the cool bite of air on her face. She wants, with a hunger so foreign it unsettles her, to grow old. Not in the way she used to want it, for the sole reason of swaggering around Twelve with wrinkles and a hunched back, but for the freedom of it, to get over whatever feeling it is that refuses to release her.

You age out of the games the second you turn nineteen, everyone knows this. You turn nineteen and join the workforce, churning out coal in the mines ‘til your back breaks, and even then you press on. Every waking moment of your life is for the Capitol, death your only real escape. Sawney had thought, once, that winning her games would be an escape. She’d believed in it foolishly, that she’d be forgotten to live out her days in the village once she won. 

But, no. Snow wanted to take everything from her. 

Marrying Finnick would’ve been the worst fate possible for her, she’s certain of this. Isolated in Four, she would’ve probably ended up killing herself. She’d tried to before, in the weeks after her mother’s death, had stood with a knife to her wrist, its sharp tip breaking the skin easily. But when it came to it, to the point where she had to push the blade deeper, the pale skin of her wrist had looked so defenceless she couldn’t do it. It would be quick, two smooth motions, but she’d been so paralysed at the small droplet of blood dropping to the white linoleum of her bathroom that she’d completely given up on the idea. 

So she’d cleaned the small cut she’d made, and continued on to send children to their deaths.

Sawney had been wickedly successful at muffling the aching memories of Amy, of the tangles of her hair and her gummy smile. But she’s in a mood, and they rise, unbidden, haunting her. No one has the patience for grief, especially not during a revolution. After a while, you’re supposed to keep it to yourself. Shove it under the bed or the back of the closet, leave your hospital room and get to work, pick up the knife again.

It felt like cowardice, leaving the room they’d given her to do her butchering, walking the halls of Thirteen aimlessly. She was sick of death altogether, and the idea of Brutus still lying in a cell births a new kind of anger, a new righteousness that makes her set out on a path.

The clothes in Thirteen are starchy, made of a grey material that scratches her skin and crinkles loudly with every movement. It takes walking down three hallways for Sawney to grow paranoid and, tucking herself into an alcove, begin stripping it all off until she’s bared in her underwear, half freezing. 

She’s glad for the medical bracelet on her wrist, finally, because if she’s caught sneaking down to their dungeons she has an excuse to fall back on. If she starts hollering, a half naked crazy lady won’t raise too many questions. Hopefully.

The plan in her head is barely more tangible than a thought; go as far down as possible. It’s easy, really, creeping barefooted along cement floors, tiptoeing down metal stairs, again and again and again. She can feel herself grinning madly, each soft touch of her toes on the ground another inch to unfurling the cracking insides of Thirteen, to prove- what? 

Her foot slips off her next step as she loses her train of thought, slapping loudly against the floor. She can’t remember, suddenly, and she thinks it’s a side effect of the new drugs they’ve put her on; to calm you, she’d been told by one of Thirteen’s doctors, a man so blitheringly idiotic Sawney’s sure he’s her new form of torture. He pumps her full of things sometimes, but she’s learnt to sit and watch the coloured liquids flow from the tubes into her arm, to cooperate. 

What the fuck am I doing?

She dithered on the landing of a stairway, struggling to rationalise her current actions. She can’t remember where her clothes are, nor the route she’d taken to end up where she was. She could either turn back now, or she could continue.

This time, her footsteps echo loudly in the emptiness of Thirteen, and she walks down and down stairs until a door appears. It’s one of those big, thick ones she hates, and presses her whole body into it until it gives silently, all but tripping into a brightly lit hallway.

A soldier is standing guard on the other side, and they stare at each other for a few seconds. Wordlessly, she raises the arm with her wristband and the soldier looks at her incredulously. Sawney doubts anything exciting ever happened in Thirteen, so gave the woman the benefit of the doubt that she was not, in fact, mute, but simply struck dumb by the sight of Sawney’s barely-clothed breasts.

“Hello,” she says with a toothy smile. “Can you take me to your president, please?”

---

They took her to the infirmary instead, where she’d been given a shot of something that she’s loathe to agree calms her down. She returns to Haymitch’s bed in the evening, resolute in her decision to talk to Coin. It will happen, even if she has to force her way into the command center.

She’s brimming with anticipation, enough for her shoulders to tense and her legs to jitter.

“Stop fidgeting,” murmurs Haymitch, because every small twitch of her leg sends her foot kicking into his. “Go to sleep.”

“I’m talking to Coin tomorrow,” she tells him. She’s already staring at him, so sees the second his brows furrow and he opens his eyes. He stiffens slightly, probably caught off guard. “I’m going to be whatever she wants me to be. I’m saying yes.”

“Because you want to, or because she’s pressuring you?”

Sawney laughs a little. "Both, I guess. No, I want to. I have to, if it will help the rebels defeat Snow." She knots her fist in his shirt tightly. "It's just… she tortured me. Who knows who else is down there? Finnick said Brutus is still alive.”

Haymitch regards her with curiosity, silent. “What?” She asks when he doesn’t answer, refusing to be stuck in the motions of one of his classically Haymitch long pauses.

“You know, honey, you’re one of the most important things she can have for the cause,” he tells her. “It’s an agreement, yes, between two people?”

“Obviously,” she says with a frown. “Just spit it out, Haymitch.”

“If she wants you so badly, you tell her what you want first. You could demand anything and she’d have to agree to it.”

Sawney thinks this over. She was important, she supposed, but then again so was every other victor. “Why doesn’t she choose herself for it? Or Johanna. She’d be good.”

“Nobody likes Johanna,” says Haymitch. “She’s mean and cruel, and everyone knows that.”

“So am I.”

He shakes his head, reaching a hand to brush over Sawney’s forehead and the soft down on her scalp. “They don’t know that. To them, you were ready to give your life for a bunch of twelve year olds. You were rebelling from the very first moment they got you on camera.”

Volunteering for Amy -Amy- had been a moment of rashness, of anger and selfishness. She hadn’t wanted to see the fallout of a child dying. Sawney remembers the way she’d spoken to Effie on that stage, the very first time, and her lips twitch.

“Maybe,” she agrees, and Haymitch laughs at her. It’s a little too loud, but she looks at the lines it carves into his face, crinkling by his eyes, and doesn’t give one fuck. Haymitch could wake up the entire bunker, she thinks, if only I get to see that one more time.

In the morning, when they stamp the day on her wrist, she’s not surprised to see 08:00 - report to command, dyed on her skin, right after breakfast. She looks at Haymitch’s, and sees the same written on him. 

The porridge they serve is thick, and although it sits comfortably in her stomach, her nerves threaten to make her retch it up as they walk to command. By the time they get there, Coin, Plutarch, all their people, and even a few victors are already waiting. Sawney’s eyes pass over Finnick and Beetee to the two open chairs near the head of the table, where Coin is sitting.

It’s slightly intimidating, but Sawney refuses to be cowed as she sits, waiting for Haymitch to take his place. 

“Have you reconsidered?” Coin asks, and Sawney wants to punch the smug curve of her lips off her face. 

“Here’s the deal,” she glowers, “I’ll be your person, your rallying cry.”

She doesn’t wait before pushing her sleeve up, revealing scrawled writing on her wrist. After filching a pen off some Thirteen that morning, she’d sat scribbling ideas onto her arm. Things she wanted. “I have some conditions,” she says, flicking her eyes up from her wrist. “First, I kill Snow.”

The room erupts, and Sawney realises that the seemingly non-issue is a bigger deal than she’d previously thought. Finnick is demanding that he gets to do it, whilst Plutarch is nodding silently, and Beetee is saying that it’s a first come, first serve situation. “I get to kill the president,” she repeats loudly. “Second, you take me downstairs to get my mouse.”

“Your mouse?” Coin asks flatly.

Sawney bares her teeth in a grin. “And while I’m down there you release the people you captured and grant them immunity.”

Dead silence. Sawney feels heat rising in her cheeks, not out of humiliation, but the sheer amount of eyes on her. “You release them and they receive no further punishments,” she says. “And I want it said in a public announcement, the entire district hears it.”

“Absolutely not,” says Coin, her voice clipped. “If and when they get released, they’ll be tried with the other war criminals.”

“You will let them go!” Sawney demands, her voice rising as she stands harshly from her seat. She leans into Coin, mere inches away from her face. “You will do it today. You will hold yourself and your government accountable or you can find somebody else.”

Her words hang in the air, a dead weight, and Sawney’s sure she’s about to be refused, that Coin was going to put her back in with those she wanted freed. But, then - “I don’t see why not,” says Plutarch. “It’ll look good, given the circumstances.”

Sawney’s close enough that she can see the miniscule movement of Coin’s skin as she clenches her jaw. “Anything else?” She says, but it’s not the yes Sawney wanted.

“Say you’ll do it,” she hisses, and Coin does. Sawney moves back, standing straight. “Next, I want to go to Twelve.”

“We’re not sending you into an active warzone,” denies Coin immediately. “Especially not in your condition.”

This, Sawney wasn’t surprised by. She’d saved it, the only point on her arm she’d let Coin have some leeway in. “Then you train me for it,” she offers. “You train me and, when the time comes, you send me in. And you will continue to let me fight if I see I need to. You will take my opinion seriously and you won’t be the only person to decide.”

For the first time ever, Sawney sees Coin’s lips curve into a real smile as she nods. “Will that be all?”

She nods hesitatingly. “I want to go outside, even if it’s just an hour a week.”

Coin checks the watch on her wrist quickly, before rising in a smooth motion. “I don’t see why not,” she says, already walking round the table to leave. “I’ll schedule the announcement during reflection.”

Thank fuck for that. Reflection is the most inane, mind-numbing activity she’s ever had to do. “When can I get my mouse?” Sawney asks when the door shuts behind Coin. There was a limit to being taken seriously before she got placed in seclusion, and she thinks yapping incessantly about a rodent went right with stripping to her underwear in public. 

“I can take you, if you’d like,” offers Plutarch. 

“Where are they?” She asks. Sawney doesn’t care much for listening to Plutarch talk, even if what she’s being told is bringing enough life back in her to dance around the room. Her newfound energy is a welcome change from her recent maudlin lounging.

“Probably in the lower levels,” says Plutarch’s assistant, a reedy woman that seemed to lick up every word the man said. Sawney eyes her with disdain, and the silver tattoos on her cheeks shine in the harsh lights as she tips her head backward to stare back at her. 

“Who’s down there? Other than Brutus?” Sawney asks. She feels foolish, as if she’s laying at the feet of this woman and begging, but she seems like the sort to know everything about everyone. She’s also not Plutarch, who Sawney trusts about as far as she can run in heels. 

“Cashmere, Edith,” lists Plutarch, “a few gamemakers, Caesar-”

“He can stay there,” says Sawney. Frankly, Edith could as well, could rot away in her cell, but it felt wrong to leave her out if she was including Brutus. 

“I didn’t fancy letting him out either,” says Plutarch with a wry smile as he holds the door open for them.

“Is it quite fair to leave him, though?” His assistant, Fulvia, asks, and Sawney and Finnick say ‘yes’ in unison.

She turns to give him a glare, to tell him this wasn’t a group outing, but he’s half-dressed, sporting a hospital gown and a doe-eyed gaze so pathetic that she decides not to. Anything was better than him wallowing in his bed about Annie, after all.

Sawney hooks her fingers onto Haymitch’s sleeve as they board an elevator, a tight squeeze even without Beetee, who Sawney doubted cared a smidgen about anybody downstairs. Unlike Finnick, he was smart enough to not need entertainment, and had bid them all goodbye in the hallway.

Plutarch pulls a thin chain from around his neck, and a key dangles in the light for all of two seconds before he’s sliding it into a little slot on the wall. The doors close and Plutarch presses a button. The elevator starts moving, and Sawney raises her head to watch the numbers flicker and change rapidly; ten, twenty, then thirty floors before it begins to hurt her eyes. She didn’t even know Thirteen went down so far, and a blush rises on her neck as she pictures herself attempting to climb down all those stairs yesterday.

The door opens into a small antechamber, where a pair of soldiers guard a red reinforced door. 

Before they open their mouths, Plutarch sends a beaming smile at them. “Good morning!” He greets them. “We’ve been sent with permission from President Coin to release a few of the people here.”

For a moment, Sawney is sure they wouldn’t be allowed entry, but one of them nods their head. “Let me call to check,” he says, which is reasonable enough. He moves to a nondescript telephone on the wall, and Sawney’s eyes linger on the gun swinging in the holster on his hip. She hasn’t seen one in Thirteen yet, and doesn't doubt that it would’ve been turned on her if she’d succeeded in the few escape attempts she’d tried to make down here. 

She can hear crying from the other room - the wall just thin enough to pick up the sound of a woman wailing. She coughs and wonders, distantly, if it could possibly become anymore uncomfortable.

The man takes only a few minutes on the phone, before placing it back into its receiver with a clank. “Come with me,” he says. “A team will come later to release whoever you decide.”

“Why not now?” Sawney asks abruptly. 

“Some inmates are violent, unwilling to cooperate,” he says, turning to eye her. “Others are fearful. They won’t come out when we’re here.”

The door pushes open easily, and the stench of stale piss and caustic antiseptic hits Sawney in the face. She wrinkles her nose immediately, and can hear Fulvia making a disgusted noise behind her. “Take me to every cell,” she demands, and the guard does. 

The first few they pass are empty, but the first person they see is a cowering man Sawney vaguely recognises. She thinks she’s seen him on a screen before. “Gamemaker,” the guard spits, and Sawney turns to Plutarch.

He looks grey in the face, but still shakes his head at her. “Tobias Dovecote,” he says. “Horrible man.”

It continues; a murderer, a gamemaker, a traitor. Not everyone here was taken the night the Capitol went dark, and Sawney feels her skin prickling with disgust as she shakes or nods her head, an executioner. Cashmere glares from behind her bars, Edith crawls across the floor begging, a stylist from Six shrinks against the wall as if she’s anticipating an attack. It’s grueling, and she tunes out the rest of her entourage quickly. 

“Effie,” gasps Sawney when the guard takes them further down, to the cell the wailing had been coming from. The woman is unrecognisable without her makeup, her skin a sickly hue of green beneath the flickering lights. She croaks a sound when she sees Sawney, crouched at the bars, and Sawney reaches a hand through them as she slowly inches closer. “Oh, Effie.”

“Sawney?” She asks, her voice a hiss of air, and she grasps Sawney’s hand in both of her own, and Sawney can feel the grease sticking to her obviously unwashed skin. The woman bursts into a dramatic heave of sobs, the kind Sawney would usually pin on her usual flamboyance, and she reaches her other arm through the bars to embrace her.

“They’re gonna get you out today,” she promises. Effie smells even worse than she looks, the aromatic, comforting scent of her soap long gone, and it makes Sawney shudder. “You’re going to be fine.”

It takes a while to convince Effie of her freedom, and even longer for the woman to stop crying, but Sawney can’t blame her this time. A week was long enough for Sawney, and she doesn't doubt that she’s made of stronger stuff than Effie. If she wasn’t in a hospital room in the next few hours, Sawney was going to hunt down Coin. 

Brutus is still in his cell, alive, when they get there. It gives Sawney pause, seeing him living and staring out from where he’s hunched next to the toilet. He’s lost weight, his muscular form now dangerously lean, and Sawney can see his collarbones moving beneath his skin.

He greets her as if the day they’d let her out had been a mere few hours prior, and she shakes off any trepidation she has. “Where’d they take you?” He hisses from his stone slab. “Did they manage to get any information?”

“No,” she says. “But they said I could let you out, if you want.”

“They’ve poisoned you,” he accuses, and Sawney tells him he’s wrong. “Liar! You’re lying! They’ve sent you here to trick me.”

Sawney sighs, trying not to look too exasperated. Brutus, even on a good day, was possibly the most paranoid person she’s ever met, and she had learnt quickly that she simply had to ignore everything he was saying if they were to get anywhere. “Have you seen Haymitch today?” She asks, ignoring the splutter Finnick makes.

“I killed him!”

“No you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t,” he admits after a pause. “But he keeps asking for my cheese. I wish he was dead.”

“He’s too cute to kill,” she argues. “I’m going to look for him.” Everything in the cells felt wrong - too clean, too quiet, too white, and turning around to her own one suddenly feels like an insurmountable task. “I’m going to look for him,” she repeats, and she’s pretty sure she’s trying to convince herself. She casts a glance at Haymitch - the human. “Stay here. He’s shy.”

The door to her cell opens loudly, in a screeching way that probably scares off any mouse she hopes to bring to rescue, but she doesn’t stop, walking quickly to sit on her slab. She didn’t move, frozen still, and a painful headache is coming on, tangling her thoughts, pounding behind her eyes . She closes them tightly, flattening the palms of her hands against the cool stone. It doesn’t help, and her heart thuds faster and faster in her ears.

“Sawney,” she can hear, and it’s Haymitch trying to soothe her. She wrenches her eyes open to look at him, a dark silhouette against the radiance of the hallway. 

“I’m fine,” she snaps, and he says nothing, watching her. God, does she want a drink. I’m so fucking tired and I’m so fucking sick of this stupid fucking place…

She’s so caught up in lamenting her exhaustion she almost passes off the twitching piece of grey in her periphery. Almost. The turn of her head is so fast it hurts, stinging, but her pain is forgotten as she gets a look at big, black beady eyes staring at her. 

“Hi, baby,” she coos, slowly inching off the slab into a crouch on the floor. One hand braces underneath her, the other reaches out as she makes little, encouraging noses to Haymitch. It’s almost embarrassing, doing this in front of an audience, but she can’t bring herself to care as her mouse skitters closer, and closer, and closer until she snaps out her hand around his body. 

Triumphantly, she turns to the door beaming, holding Haymitch aloft in two hands.

That night, Sawney carefully places Haymitch the Mouse in a cage beneath the bed. She makes for Haymitch’s bed, scared she’s going to crush her mouse with the dipping mattress as she sleeps.

---

Ten arrives the next day. 

It’s her final day of butchering before she begins starring in propos, and so she decides to savour each and every last moment of peace before she’s stuck in front of a camera. Sawney’s rather good at it now, slicing through muscle and cutting the animals into thick chunks of meat to be prepared for meals the next day. 

When sounds start invading her room, those of running feet and cries, she grasps her knife tightly. A frisson of fear runs up back as she makes her way to the door separating her from the kitchen, rolling the cracks and stiffness out of her shoulders. She almost pounces on the woman from Eleven when she swings the door open.

“That’s not for me, is it?” She jokes, nodding at the knife Sawney’s pointing her way. “Come on, Ten’s shown up. We’ve got more work for you.”

The canteen is bustling, more than usual, and it’s a testament to the district’s strength when Sawney immediately recognises the rippling muscles and sunbaked skin of Ten’s cattlemen. Soldiers direct them into groups; families, rebels, and those with animals. Carcasses are strewn haphazardly over tables, with more being hefted off shoulders to join. The air is filled with laughter, relief, and it’s infectious enough for a faint smile to appear on Sawney’s face. 

This is what she’s agreed to fight for. 

She’d been encompassed in a single-minded pursuit of revenge, of killing Snow, but it was more than that; her one and only enemy would always be the games’ survival. So lost in her anger, she’d forgotten that the only true vengeance fitting for Snow would be to eradicate the games, to take down the fences surrounding the districts.

Notes:

SUCH a spoiler but i need u all to know they were supposed to snog two chapters ago and they still havent :DDDDDD its driving me insane and im the author but i keep getting too caught up and have to push things to the next chapter