Chapter Text
You woke to the sound of your younger brother, rapping at your door. Because who else could it possibly be? Biting back a groan you lifted the scratchy sheets off you, swung your legs to the cold metallic floor and adjusted your eyes to your District's harsh lights. Something you don’t think you’d ever get used to. You pull open the metal door and just as you expected, Milo is there. Donning Thirteen's glaringly white medical uniform as always, though his eyes look a little more alert than usual and…excited?
“…What?” You finally ask after a beat when you realise he’s not going to tell you what’s got him at your compartment door so early.
“Rebels.” He hurriedly murmured. “I’m working early shifts at the hospital now, remember?” You stared blankly back at him. It was easy to forget the contrast between your life and his. While you spent the day running drills with York he spent his time helping people, actually making a difference. He rubbed his jaw with his knuckles, he was fidgety. “They’re all kinds of messed up. Um, you remember the videos we had to watch in class?”
You nod slowly. You were 21 years old, deemed a soldier by the District now but there was a time before when you had to sit in strategy classes. In them you would go through techniques on how to develop emergency defence plans, theory on the Capitols weaponry and yes, absorb videos of the Games for purely tactical purposes, but also to alert you of the Capitols propaganda. Well, at least that’s what you were told.
As a soldier you're not really given the privilege of asking questions.
Milo continues. “There's the Victor who won by electrocuting all his opponents that one year in a special unit—he has bad burns on his legs. They won’t tell us what happened but it’s from something electrical too. ”
He takes a breath, “And there’s the kid from four, though he’s obviously not a kid anymore. He’s not injured though, physically.” You pause a moment, remembering the blurry image of a lean fourteen year old with a trident. “Odair?” You ask. Milo nods. “There’s someone else as well, a girl, might be from last year's games. They’re not telling us a lot about what happened other than the fact that they broke out of a Quarter Quell and their previous Victors.”
“Is there anymore coming?” You interrogate, shifting on your feet to lean against the door frame. Last week a flurry of people from District Twelve arrived after being bombed by the Capitol. Okay well maybe not a flurry, more a cluster of people with olive skin and grey eyes. Thin, starving and frightened. Reminding you of all the world of the pox outbreak. Some had shaky hands, just like yours when you tried to get your Mother to eat. That’s what the pox did to people, their appetite decayed and then they began to wither too.
Milo shook his head firmly, crossing his arms causing his uniform to crease slightly. “No, no. I don’t think so. I doubt anyone else survived the arena.” You studied his face for a second, there was something else he wasn’t telling you.
“Let me guess…Coin wants these Victors to be trained?”
He shrugged. “That’s what people are thinking. I mean, what else is she going to do with them?”
Milo had a premonition for being annoyingly right. You were called into Command during the middle of teaching drills to a group of sixteen year olds outside in the thick mud. Stepping into Command in said mud was slightly mortifying but you had looked worse. As the steel doors slid apart you placed one sodden boot in front of the other. Your eyes were greeted by Commander Boggs warm brown ones, you eased slightly, as long as Boggs was in the room it was never that bad. He protected you in a way. Coin was positioned at the head of the table, her eyes crystal clear and unwavering. She made you uneasy in a way, her stony gaze made you feel like she was foreseeing something you were unable to. Either side of her were two men you couldn’t recognise, one older and fatter with a cunning gaze you weren’t entirely sure could be trusted or not. The other younger, middle aged maybe? With a broader build, slightly crooked nose and an eye that was scrutinising you through stringy blonde hair.
You swallowed.
Coin addresses you, not bothering to even clear her throat. Her words are like shards of ice, sharp and straight to the point.
“The newcomers to our District are to be trained.”The man with blond hair appears to shrink at her words, his head falling down, a curtain of shaggy blonde hair hiding him.Coin doesn't or at least pretends not to pick up on him.
“They’ll be more in advanced training with their previous combat experience.” There’s no lilt to the end of her words, no room for rebuttal or reflection. It’s an order. You are a soldier. Still you argue, “Soldier York would be far more suited to-“
Coin holds up a slender hand.
“Soldier York will be taking over training the younger units.” There’s no note of finality, there’s a crescendo.
Bullshit. She must have done something out of line. Rumens York was advanced, still in her prime considering that she had to be at least middle aged judging by her no nonsense attitude and hardened face.
Something in your heart stung at the fact you were taking a position that would have been better suited to her.
You set back your shoulders and nod, unfortunately the movement caused a piece of mud to plop down onto the floor. From the periphery of your eye you see Boggs stifle a grin. Coins gaze permeated you now, the fatter man moved forth to whisper something inaudible into her ear. You stayed looking ahead though you felt the creep of another’s eyes on you. You risked another glance at him. You knew him from somewhere. Wrinkles were etched onto his face intertwining with each other in some spots. His jawline speckled with grey and white hair. Unwaveringly he stared right back at you. He opened his mouth, a gap between his teeth briefly showing as it looked like he was going to speak. Coin got there first.
“You may go now, Soldier.”
You nodded and turned on your heel.
Fortunately for you, your new unit wasn’t exactly full steam ahead on the first day of training. You had a few from your own District and 12. But that was it. No Victors—yet, they were still cooped up in the hospital, being nursed back into humans. That's what Milo had told you. This meant you could take things easy today—easy as in leading them in running drills in the sopping rain until your allotted time was up. You nodded briefly to each one of them as they headed back below. Names would be learned later when the others arrived, you reminded yourself as you trailed them back down, your boots hammering against the floor. You checked the inside of your wrist where your schedule was printed, you’d always wondered how the ink stayed so…impermeable. Even when sweating or running through a rainstorm it stayed stagnant on your skin, it was kind of annoying actually. You wiped some perspiration off your skin to read where you were next headed before your head bumped into something solid and…soft? Glancing upwards you realised it was the man from Command yesterday. And you had just bumped into his chest. Great.
He blinked at you for a minute, as if someone had just removed his invisible glasses.
“Should watch where you're going-“
He placed a warm palm on your shoulder, gently guiding you out of the way. Dazedly you watched him for a second, his jaw was firm and set. He had somewhere to be.
You cringed slightly at yourself but turned your head back around.
“Why do I know you?”
You hoped your voice sounded indifferent rather than curious.
He slowed down his steady gait and narrowed his eyes at you, “Haymitch.” He spoke thickly, when you still stared back at him blankly he sighed and said, “50th Games.”
50th Games. That year was a Quarter Quell too. You had definitely watched it in class…then it came back to you. A scrappy teenager who was holding his guts in…running toward the edge of the arena. The memory of the clip blipped from your mind and you were met with the same pers-no, not the same person. Haymitch Abernathy had changed.The boy before was sprightly despite being deluged in blood, he still had something to hold onto. Now all that was left was a rugged shell. You learned about that in class too. What the Capitol can do to a person's mind. Make you see things differently, strip you of hope. Haymitch was observantly watching you, almost waiting for a reaction. When he got none all he left was a clipped, “See you ‘round Soldier ”
He spoke the last word as if it were an insult.
Your words died on your tongue, a bitter mixture of an apology and a goodbye. It was too late for both of them anyway.
——————————————
District 13 had been a joke so far. No alcohol to a certain extent Haymitch could understand, no coffee however was another thing entirely. He needed an excuse for the constant twitches he was getting in his hands. Not to mention everywhere he turned he was faced with a stark reminder of his girl. The dove-gray jumpsuits constantly swam around him, making him a regular fish out of water. Jumpy, paranoid that each face might be reflective of hers. But like most coincidences Haymitch decided to take it as a sign that she would want him to be here. That was about the only thing that kept him trusting Coin—for now.
It didn't help that Haymitch for the majority of his time here had wasted it in Command with Plutarch and her, they didn’t really need him. But he sure as hell didn’t trust them to take into account Katniss’ wellbeing. They were both ruthless in their own ways, driven by the necessity to overthrow the Capitol. He couldn’t save Katniss from a lot of things, but he could at least try by entailing their conversations and sticking up for her when needs be. He made his choice, he had to do what he couldn’t do for Peeta. He’d been here for what, a day already ? The familiar ache in his head was begging to be drowned out by booze. Plutarch and Coin whispered a dozen little plans about a dozen little things, no actual details on what they were going to do. Sure, every so often they’d ask his input but that was it. He did however lift his brows when they mentioned training the ones rescued from the arena.
Plutarch, noticing his dislike and being the smooth talker he was, stretched his hand in gesture to Haymitch, as if it were something that terms could be negotiated on. Haymitch wasn’t an idiot. He knew Heavensbee got what he wanted in the end, nearly always.
“We wait until their recovered first- train them up into-“ He looked expectantly to Coin, she finished his sentence,
“Soldiers.”
Plutarch nodded, “Right, so we put them through 13’s training scheme, get them into routine again. We’ll let the Victors train with the ones who will actually be going into combat. Let them think they're going to be the ones fighting in the Capitol. In reality, we’ll use them for a series of propos- propaganda videos- have them sent out-“ He flicks his hand in gesticulation now, clearly getting excited.
“-to locations near the Capitol, send them to some Districts, get some heartfelt scenes. Think of unity, strength through weakness. Then we bombard the Capitol and Districts with the clips. It’ll spread like wildfire.” He says almost gleefully. Haymitch tries his very best to not look at him like he’s raving mad before speaking.
“And what d’you think our beloved Victors will say when they realise you’re not going to let them fight?” He cocks his head. “You think they'll do what..I dunno…just sit pretty for your pictures?” He shakes his head in amusement.
Coin gets there before Plutarch. “We can deal with that when it comes. For now, we need them to be stable enough to at least shoot the propos.” She emits a low sigh. Boggs walks into the room, whispers low into her ear. She nods. “Send her in.”
Haymitch presses his tongue against the back of his teeth in agitation, Plutarch on his own before had been bad enough, but with Coin? Double dosage of trouble. He could almost taste it coming.
He had expected the soldier to walk in to be raunchy and level headed, not trodden in mud with a determined look that was anything but believable. Haymitch wouldn’t say he’d be one to stare but he would allow this time to be an exception. For after all, you did have mud all over you. The way it splotched on your cheeks made it appear to look like soil, as if you’d just raised straight up out of the earth. He wasn’t entirely sure if that was an exaggeration or just a really good comparison because he had never been as awake in ten years as he had been in the last second. You met his eye and it took every fibre of his restraint to not look away. Part of Haymitch enjoyed watching you tear your gaze away, even if it was only to focus on Coin instead.
Coin addresses you, clear.
“The newcomers to our District are to be trained.”
A deafening silence ran through Haymitch's head.
Newcomers. God, it had been so long since he heard that. Newcomers. He slung his head down. Focusing on pressing his thumb against his index. He caught a glimpse of the sleeve of his jumpsuit. Identical, identical to the tributes of 6 in his Games, the four broken doves trailing him, they probably would for the rest of his life. Miles, Atread and Velo. And Wellie.
Haymitch's throat might as well have been filled with sawdust. He never did understand why he was here instead of any of them—mainly instead of Maysilee. She would have kept her promises and not failed every single fucking year. She wouldn’t have been dredged down by his death, she would have moved on to bigger things while here he was, unable to hear a mention of any stupid word they used during their Games without having a physical reaction. Christ.
Haymitch dared to look up only when he heard the incessant murmurings of Plutarch. He met your eyes again. You. Who were you to spur that word out of Coin's mouth? No, you hadn’t provoked it. Coin had no clue either. It was just a word that he and the others had given meaning to. A name stirred to resemble a foolish flitting chance for hope that had departed upon arrival. It had never felt more real then, a chance that they would actually do it.
After you left Haymitch couldn’t stick around. Hastily scraping his chair back into the desk he began to wander the halls of District 13 from that day onwards. Mulling over memories. He couldn’t bear to think of all the promises he still had to fulfil, not yet and certainly not here. Another world completely encased in metal and four walls. Life in Twelve or parading around the Capitol was never amazing, but at least he could always see the sun.
He made Plutarch annoy Coin enough to give him access to outside. Dutifully Plutarch delivered him an access pass that morning. Haymitch tucked it in the front pocket of his jumpsuit and restrained from bounding through the corridors to see the light again.
He had just reached the stairs when he saw you again, you moved quickly with your head craning down over your wrist and landed with a soft thump against his chest. Momentarily paralysed he just stood for a moment, the scent of you engulfing him.
A memory of him and Lenore, deep in the Meadow under a willow tree after a downpour. The thick sweet smell of the air afterward…
So when you met his eyes his first instinct was to touch you, of course it was. As if you were a reincarnation of her and—no, you weren’t her. No one was. His words came out thick and bubbled from the back of his throat.
“Should watch where you’re going-“ He allowed himself to place a palm on your hand in guise of moving you out the way, but really he was just checking that you were real. You weren’t her. Lenore Dove only came to him during heavy drinking sessions or at night.
He began to walk, faster now, craving the sunlight.
Of course you had to reel him back with a question,
“Why do I know you?”
He came to a slow stop, turning around. You didn’t know him?
He shouldn’t be so surprised, he couldn’t phantom Coin projecting the Games on a screen like they did back home.
“Haymitch.” He said stupidly before realising that you weren’t asking him for his name. He exhaled in a poor attempt to cover up his mistake. “50th Games.” He practically saw everything click into place in your eyes, which appeared softer and younger in the dimmer light of the corridor compared to the harsh fluorescents of Command. A little nagging part of him wondered what they’d look like in the sun. When you continued to stare at him with those eyes he turned around, before he forget his manners—not that he was much of a stickler for those anyway, allowing a quick “See you ‘round, Soldier.” He made himself say the last part. He wasn’t about to acknowledge you as anything
other than one of Coin's soldiers. He wasn’t going to let that happen.
Only this and nothing more.
As he walked outside, the humid air of wet grass hit him and he thought of you bumping into him again. The way your hair looked from above. Then he thought of Lenore Dove and the Meadow. Fuck.