Victor to none

[wastheexample]

Victor to none
Rating: PG13 for swearing and violence.
Words: 4,002
Warnings: Spoilers for all three Hunger Games books. It probably won't make any sense if you haven't read them, either.
Summary: A few fragmented looks into Haymitch's 16 year old life, before, during and after the 50th Hunger Games.


District 12. Where you could starve in safety. Truer words were never spoken. But if you were smart, you could at least skirt by. Haymitch Abernthy had decided a long time ago that he was smart enough to deal with all the issues that came with growing up in the Seam.

He’d been smart enough to take up tesserae for his family. For himself, his mother, andhis little brother Earvin after their father had died in the mines which took so many lives in the Seam. He’d been smart enough to get work in the Hob, butchering up the kills any who dared to go past the fence brought in. He got strong, learned to be handy with a knife. He had been smart enough to not advertise where he got extra money to feed his family. He’d been smart enough to watch the Peacekeeper’s movements, to ensure he was never caught.

He had not been smart enough to avoid the reaping ball. So it was in the waiting room he sat, knowing his family would be there soon to wish him luck on his way to what had to be his death. His chances were low on a normal reaping, but in the Quarter Quell, with double the tributes? His chances had gone from slim to nothing.

He thought about his fellow tributes, Calla, the thirteen year old girl, Seam-born, like him. Then there were the merchant kids, the strong (and in Haymitch’s mind, somewhat stupid) Dill, and one of the Donner twins. Maysille? Yes, he was sure that was her name. What chance did they have? The only victor District 12 ever had, Aster, had died. An old man by then, keeping himself to the Victor’s Village and chasing out anyone who dared come nere. Insane, they said. Haymitch wondered if that was the fate of all victors.

His mother had come in first, eight year old Earvin at her heels. She cried, she hugged him close. He told her to go to the Hob, make sure they gave her whatever pay he was owed. It might last them for a short while. Both of them knew it wouldn’t last forever. That eventually, they would have to rely on his mother’s work to get by. It wouldn’t be enough. Not even when Haymitch became one less mouth to feed.

Earvin had cried even more, clinging tightly to his older brother, knowing what the Reaping meant, but being young enough to hope there was a chance of Haymitch escaping his fate. Haymitch had sat Earvin on his knee, quietly told him he was the man of the house now, and it was up to him to make sure their mother had food to eat. Haymitch knew, with a sinking heart, that in a few years time; assuming the family survived that long, Earvin would have to take tessearae himself. It was a bleak future to think about, one he’d hoped he could have protected his brother from.

Teary eyed and exhausted, his family were taken from him to be replaced by the only other person Haymitch ever spent any time with. Betony was a beautiful, smart, sneaky girl. Dark hair, grey Seam eyes forever creased in jest of something or other. Haymitch was never quite sure how he’d convinced her to go out with him. Whenever he asked her, she simply told him she felt sorry for his stupid face.

She had quite a way with words, did Betony.

“Hi, loser,” she said, moving to sit down beside him, her usual smirk not quite as convincing today.

“Hi yourself,” murmured Haymitch, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. “You knew the odds were against me this time. My name is in that ball a lot of times.”

“I know. It doesn’t make me feel any better, though,” she fell silent, as if at a loss for something to say. “You’d better come home.”

Haymitch gave a sad laugh.

“I think the odds are even more against me for that, Betony,” he said. “Think about it. Double the Careers. I won’t stand a chance.”

“So? Outsmart them, you’re not a complete moron,” she replied, scuffing his hair, before pulling him into a tight hug. “I don’t care how you do it. Just stay alive and come home.”

He returned the hug, and remained there for a long while, unwilling to let her go.

“Don’t ask me to make promises I can’t keep,” he said at last.

Betony sat back, before pulling out a band from her hair, wrapping it around his wrist.

“Fine. If you’re going to be stubborn and stupid about it, you’re going to have to borrow this,” she said. “And I expect you to bring it back to me. If you don’t… If you don’t…”

She grabbed his shoulders, pulling him into a fierce kiss. Everything she had went into that, and he returned it gladly. When she pulled away, her eyes were hard again, staring right into him.

“If you don’t, I’ll kick your ass.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” replied Haymitch, a small smirk creeping across his face.

As she was lead away by the Peacekeeper, Betony shot him a look over her shoulder.

“I mean it, Abernathy,” she said cooly. “Stay alive.”

~~~~~~~

The food awaiting the tributes on the train to lead them to the Capitol was astounding. More food than any of them, especially Haymitch and Calla; struggling for scraps in the Seam, had seen in their lifetimes. They set on it like a pack of ravenous wolves, eating with their fingers, quickly, as if it could be taken away at any moment. Euphemia watched them with narrowed eyes, their escort for the Games, a woman who made it clear she was Capitol-born from the way she spoke to the ridiculous outfits she wore..

“There will be more food when we get to the Capitol, you silly things,” she trilled. “There’s no need to eat like that.”

“Sorry,” said Calla, her mouth full. “But it’s just so good.”

“I’m glad you like it,” their escort giggled, watching them all. “My four fine young tributes. Perhaps District 12 will have some luck in the area this year after all.”

“Speaking of,” said Maysille, putting down a leg of goose. “Who will mentor us now that old Aster is gone?”

The other three tributes paused in their eating, this question had been on their minds, too. After all, without a living victor, who would mentor the children of District 12 now?

“…Well. No one, my dear,” said Euphemia, a little taken aback.

“You mean someone won’t just step in?” asked Maysille. “A victor from another district? Anyone?”

“I’m sorry, but it doesn’t work like that,” replied Euphemia. “District 12 has no living victor, so you have no mentor.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Dill asked, eyes narrowed.

“Who’s supposed to get us sponsors? Tell us how do survive this?” piped up Calla.

“You’ll just have to work it through on yourselves,” said Euphemia, giving the girl a gentle pat on the head. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’re all smart children. You’ll work through it in no time, and as for sponsors, well. I’d like to say I’m a dab hand at that.”

“Then we’re all saved. Lucky us,” muttered Haymitch from his corner. “Golly gee, we’re ever so lucky to have you looking out for us, Euphemia”

His sarcasm wasn’t noted.

“Yes, you truly are,” she beamed. “Now, all of you eat up, and remember to get to bed early, it’s a glorious day waiting for you, tomorrow.”

She bustled out, oblivious as the tributes picked at their meal. The feast suddenly far less appetising than when they first got onto the train. Haymitch remained in his corner, ignoring everyone. It was better that way, why get close to them now, when in a few days, they’d be in the arena. Fighting for their lives. Eventually, Calla piped up once more, breaking the silence.

“You don’t really think we’ll have no help at all in the arena, do you?” she asked, clearly fighting back tears. “Just because we don’t have a victor doesn’t mean we’ll be left alone, it’s not fair.”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” replied Haymitch. “Life isn’t fair.”

“Could you at least pretend to be a decent human being?” snapped Maysille, throwing him a glare, before soothingly rubbing Calla on the back. “We’ll be fine, I promise. We’re District 12, we’re born tough.”

“No, we’re born starving, unless you’re lucky enough to live in the merchant section,” shot back Haymitch. “And why should I be nice to her? Will her thinking I’m her friend make her life in the arena any easier? We’re all being pitted against each other to the death, you can’t put a gloss of sunshine and rainbows on that.”

“It doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try,” replied Maysille, taking Calla by the hand. “Come on, let’s go watch the world go by past the window.”

“Girls,” replied Dill with a snort. “Well , once I get to the arena, I’m going straight into the fighting. If I’m going to die anyway, I’ll do it on my terms.”

Haymitch rolled his eyes, turning away to look through the window.

“Yeah. You tell yourself that.”

~~~~~

She reminded him of Betony. Sitting out in the arena, watching Maysilee sleep, Haymitch realised this is what made him decide to stick with her. Sure, her saving his life helped sway the decision, too, but their allience could break off at any time. But Haymitch found he didn’t want to. Maysille was strong, and smart, and funny. Just like Betony. It was like having a little piece of home with him. Someone to watch out for. To protect. After all, back home his only drive in life was to protect his family, it made sense he would find someone to fill that need here. It was what made him feel alive, protecting others from this cruel, dangerous world.

Dill had gone first. Just as he wanted, he’d been dragged into the bloodbath at the Cornucopia, and never got out. At least he’d died on his own terms. Haymitch let out a sigh as the Capitol’s anthem blasted through the quiet of the evening. He glanced up at the night sky, giving Maysilee a gentle nudge. She awoke with a start, hand around her dart gun instinctively, before realising where she was. Silently, she followed Haymitch’s gaze to the sky, watching the parade of dead kids, faces emblazoned against the stars. When Calla’s face appeared last, she let out a sigh.

“Who do you think got her?” mused Haymitch quietly.

“Probably that psycho from District 1,” replied Maysille. “She seems intent on cutting a bloody swath through all of us.”

“She lasted longer than I thought she would.”

“Same,” admitted Maysille, if a bit reluctantly.

She was quiet, for a while after the faces had left, leaving the night sky as beautiful as it had been every night. Then, eventually, she broke the silence.

“So what are you really looking for, Haymitch?”

“I told you, the end of the area.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Yes it is. You should listen more.”

“Ass. I mean a more specific answer.”

Haymitch continued to look to the sky, as if he expected more tributes to show, or a gift they knew would never truly come, or perhaps…something else.

“If I die here, my family will starve,” he said simply. “I know I have a snowball’s chance in hell in winning this thing, so I’m giving myself a third option.”

Maysille stared at him, processing what he’d said, before glancing around. She knew the cameras would be watching, the adoring public glued on their every action, their every word. She dropped her voice.

“You’re trying to get out?”

“Yup”

“They’ll kill you.”

“Probably.”

“…You’re a crazy person”

“Definitely,” he shot her a smirk. “And yet, you’re still here.”

“Yeah...well,” Maysilee looked at the ground. “Maybe I want a third option, too.”

Haymitch sobered, watching her for a while. Perhaps things weren’t as easy in the merchant section as he thought.

“Guess we’re more alike than I thought,” he murmured.

Maysilee shrugged, lying back down turning her back to him, settling back to sleep.

“Guess so.”

~~~~~

Running from the District 1 girl. The carnivorous squirrels. Holding in his intestines. Struggling to find rainwater not polluted with ash after the volcano blew. Holding Maysille’s hand while she died. Dodging the axe. Scattered memories weaved through Haymitch’s mind, drowning him. Maybe this was what being dead was like. After the last few days, it was almost a welcome relief. He thought, perhaps, he could just lie here, like this, for the rest of time. Yeah. That’d be nice.

Unfortunately, conciousness came to flood his mind, pulling him out of his sleep. He opened his eyes, struggling to focus on his surroundings, before realising he was no longer in the arena. Instead of lush forest or high hilltops, he was surrounded by ventilator machines, bright lights. Everything clean and clinical. He was in a hospital bed. His hand automatically went to the wound the District 1 girl had left, the wound he was sure would have been his fatal blow. Instead, he found nothing. Not even a scar. Cleaned of all injuries, as if they’d never been. But that must have meant…

Had he won?

Before he could think more on that, he noticed someone was watching him, stood at the foot of his bed. Dark skinned, tall, one arm ending in just a stump. Haymitch vaguely recognised him as the victor from the 45th Hunger Games. Chaff, was it?

“You have landed yourself in a heap of trouble,” he said, eyes remaining on Haymitch. “If I were you, I’d watch my back from now on. You don’t know when someone’s going to try and stick a knife in it.”

Haymitch frowned. But he was out of the arena. What harm could possibly come to him now?
“…Who am I in danger from?” he asked, still groggy, sitting up slowly.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Chaff said, his expression softening slightly. “I’m sorry. You’re in for a hell of a time and you don’t even deserve it. Come talk to me, next year. I’ll give you some pointers.”

Haymitch felt that streak rise up in him. The rebellious hateful one that got him into far more trouble than it should.

“I don’t need anyone’s pointers,” he said sulkily. “Especially not random people coming to me with creepy warnings.”

Chaff let out a laugh, but it died within moments.

“I’ll see you next year, Haymitch,” he said, starting for the door. “And…congratulations. I’m sorry that your victory is going to be a hollow one.”

~~~~~

There had been cheering, of course, when he came home. It had been a long time since District 12 had a victor, and to win against such odds, he was the pride of the District. But all Haymitch could see were the families of those who weren’t coming home. Maysilee, Dill and Calla. They should have been here. This was all wrong, all very, very wrong.

Two weeks after he’d returned, life settled into something like normalcy. His family moved with him to the Victor’s Village, starvation never a problem for them now. Even Chaff’s warning had started to slip from his mind. Surely, if the Captiol were going to punish him for what he did, they would have done it by now, right?

And so, he lay in the garden of his new home, staring at the sunkissed sky. Maybe now life was finally looking up for the Abernathy’s. About damn time, too. Betony eventually decided to interrupt his bliss by plopping down next to him, dropping a handful of grass onto his face. He coughed waving them away.

“Oh, gee. Thanks.”

“Just a little gift, from me to you,” Betony smirked. “Hail the conquering hero.”

“I don’t feel all that much of a hero,” replied Haymitch with some honestly.

“I bet Donner would disgree,” mused Betony, fingers going up to her hair band, playing with it without even realising it.

Haymitch frowned, pulling himself up on his elbows.

“…Are you jealous of Maysilee?”

“Pft, no,” Betony smirked, pushing him back to the grass. “Who else would want a loser like you but me? No one, that’s who.”

“Light of my life, have I told you today how much joy you give me?” said Haymitch dryly, allowing a small smile to cross his face, the first he had since he got back.

“Yes, but I like to make sure you meet a daily quota of at least five,” she chuckled. “You know, to keep things fair.”

She pressed a kiss on his forehead, stretched, and stood up.

“Come on, loser, your mom says dinner’s read-”

She was cut off by the scream. Haymitch sat bolt upright, he was the only victor in the village, there was only one house that scream could have come from. His own. He scrambled to his feet, racing down the garden towards his home, Betony hot on his heels.

“Get out of here, get somewhere safe!” he barked.

“Like hell,” Betony spat. “I’m not letting you face anything alone.”

Knowing he hadn’t the time to argue with her, Haymitch ran into his house, stopping dead at the sight before him. Earvin…little helpless Earvin was lying face down on the tiles, blood pouring from his back. A Peacekeeper stood before him, the whip in his hand covered with blood and strips of flesh. On the floor beside him lay his mother, eyes open and vacant, one hand stretched out to her youngest son. She would never reach him, though. The bullet hole in the side of her head made sure of that. Haymitch stood, wide eyed, trying to understand what was going on. Trying to make sense of the scene before him. Earvin turned his head towards the door, letting out a soft whimper that could have been the start of Haymitch’s name.

Another gunshot silenced him forever.

“What the HELL do you think you’re doing you bastards!” Betony had made it to the kitchen, and found rage where Haymitch found horror.

“This family have been found dealing in the Hob,” replied the Peacekeeper, flicking a pointed look towards Haymitch. “Not even victors are above the law.”

Haymitch knew it wasn’t because of the Hob. Of course it wasn’t. It was because of what happened in the arena. This was his payback for the forcce-field. For making the Capitol look like fools. His voice was caught in his throat. This was his doing. All his.

“They had to to that or they’d of STARVED,” Betony charged forward, throwing a swing at the Peacekeeper nearest to her.

He knocked her down with the butt of his rifle. The pained sound she made as she hti the ground was enough to pull Haymitch out of his stupor.

“Leave her alone, she hasn’t done anythin-” a Peacekeeper grabbed him from behind, wrestling him to the ground.

Haymitch tried to fight back, but weeks in the arena had taken it’s toll, most of the strength he’d had going in had ebbed away. No matter how much he struggled, he couldn’t free himself from the Peacekeeper’s grip.

They made him watch as they whipped her. Over and over again, well after she stopped screaming, well after his own screams grew hoarse in his throat. When they finally stepped away from her bloody form, one of the Peacekeepers stepped towards him, giving him a grim smile.

“President Snow sends his best regards,” he said, before slamming the butt of his rifle into Haymitch’s head, plunging him into darkness.

~~~~

He ran to the merchant section. He knew they the second he awoke in that bloodied kitchen; three forms unmoving, that they were beyond hope, but this was where the victims of the Peacekeepers had always gone, to be tended to by the apothecarist and his daughter. Perhaps…perhaps they could do something. Anything. Maybe a bullet had missed…maybe. When he stumbled into their home, covered in blood, grey seam eyes wide and terrified, the father frowned. There was a finality about him, as if he had expected this to come.

“They’re…” Haymitch struggled to get his words out, finding them caught in his throat. “There’s so much blood. I don’t know what to…”

“I’ll go,” the father picked up a bag, starting for the door.

The daughter started to dutifully follow, but the father ushered her away to a side room. Odd. Haymitch had heard that whippings was what the girl excelled at. No one could treat them better than her, she had a real gift. Why would she be left behind? Wouldn’t she be better off going with him? Unless…

Unless there was nothing to treat. Haymitch’s heart sank, finally succumbing to the knowledge they were gone. There was no hope for them. He took in a shuddering breath, trying not to cry. He wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not where someone could see. A trill whistling from the corner of the room interupted his thoughts. Haymitch turned to blink at the songbird, hopping about in its cage, this happy little creature still whistling its tune in the depths of his despair.

“It was Maysilee’s.”

He glanced up to see the daughter walking into the room with a bowl of warm water and a flannel, putting it beside him and giving him a pointed look. Numbly he picked the flannel up, trying to get the worst of the blood off of him. Maysilee. Of course, they were best friends, weren’t they? He’d seen them clinging to each other at the reaping. Silly little merchant girls, terrified of being torn apart. Suddenly, Haymitch found himself in a room with the one person in the world he really didn’t want to be with. Unaware, the daughter watched him for a while, before deigning to speak again.

“I saw what you did for her in the arena,” she said. “Thank you for that.”

“For what?” asked Haymitch coarsely. “Not being able to save her either?”

“No,” she replied. “For not leaving her alone to die. You didn’t have to go to her, but you did. So thank you, for that. She didn’t deserve to die alone.”

“She didn’t deserve to die at all,” it came out in a whisper, his hands dropping to his sides.

“I don’t think anyone does,” the girl responded, leaving him alone to his thoughts.

~~~~

Later, he went home. Of course, there was nothing that could be done. The warning Chaff had given him had come to be. His mother, his brother, Betony, all gone. Someone had come in to clean the blood from the kitchen, removed the bodies. Haymitch stood in the middle of the cold, empty room feeling more alone than he had in his whole life. This was his fault. Every single thing. If he’d just played the stupid game like everyone else…

He’d of died. And his family would have slowly starved to death. He didn’t know which end was worse for them. His hand tightened on the bottle of white liquor he’d picked up from the Hob on the way back to the Victor’s Village. He figured if the Peacekeepers wanted to whip him for it, they could just come for him. End his miserable life here.

Of course, they didn’t come. He was left alone, with only the bottle for company. Maybe it would do him some good. Give him one night, just one, where he could pull himself away from his horror, something to anaesthetise himself from the world. Just for one single night. With a wracked sob, he sunk to the floor, taking a long drink from the bottle. Sinking into the blissful quiet it brought to his mind. Closing himself away from the world and it’s cruelties.

It would be twenty five years until he knew sobriety again.