ryems01

[ryems01]

The 24th Sunrise Ch. 4

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Previous Chapter

I flip the page over, hoping there’s a time or place listed on the back. Instead, I’m met with a blank page.

“Hey!” I shout across the station, where the attendant that gave me the letter is walking away. “Wait up!”

I’m moving towards him, but it’s clear he isn’t planning on stopping for me to catch up, so I start jogging. I can feel my knees popping with the movement and my lungs are aching by the time I get him to stop.

“Where does he want to meet? When does he want to meet?” I gasp out between breaths.

He stares at me for a second, raising his eyebrows slightly as if I’ve asked something absurd. He doesn’t give an answer, just walks right past me. I’m thinking through exactly what advice I’ll give Plutarch on proper meeting etiquette when the attendant looks back and waves for me to follow him. 

I glance back at the train and can see Katniss and Peeta slowly exiting onto the platform. Two groups I assume to be their prep teams rush in and start shoving them in the opposite direction from Plutarch’s messenger. 

For a second, I’m frozen on the platform. District Twelve doesn’t have a great track record with stylists. Usually, things aren’t as bad if I’m there to push back on the more insane ideas. I know Plutarch knows this, too. Last time he insisted on meeting this quickly, my tributes ended up stark naked and coated in coal dust.

It’s only when Effie steps onto the platform and starts after Katniss and Peeta that I follow Plutarch’s messenger again. As much fun as it is to mess with her sometimes, Effie’s probably the only other person I trust to advocate for those kids. She isn’t perfect, but she’s started seeing our tributes a bit more like people over the years. 

I can see the exit ahead of me, the attendant walking right through the doors to the outside. When I follow through the exit, I have to shield my eyes from the blinding sun. Between the thick summer heat and our rush through the station, my lungs are on fire. 

Fortunately, the forced exercise seems to be over. I spot the attendant standing next to a sleek black car. He’s holding the back door open and gestures for me to get in. I’m thankful for the cool leather seats as I slide into the vehicle, the door slamming shut once I’m settled. The attendant rounds the car, gets himself situated into the driver’s seat, and then we’re driving towards who knows where. Looking at the attendant closer I notice there’s something off about his jaw. He must be an avox. Which explains why he hasn’t spoken since I stepped off the train. It also fits Plutarch’s style to send the simplest message ever with someone who physically cannot tell me more details. 

Plutarch, as I’ve come to realize over the years, has a strong flair for dramatics. It’s what landed him shooting reaping footage in the first place - always looking for the most dramatic shot. It’s what’s allowed him to progress into his role today as a Gamemaker. 

The recap of the District Twelve reaping suddenly makes more sense. As a Gamemaker, Plutarch is in charge of everything related to the reapings. He’s in charge of every camera team in each district to make sure they’re capturing the perfect shots, of stitching together the reaping footage if something were to go wrong live, and even choosing to get rid of footage after the fact for the recap. In short, Plutarch has managed to keep the footage of District Twelve’s unity in the official recap for this year’s games and he did it on purpose. He’s already started using Katniss as a tool for the rebellion.

I sit a little straighter against the car seat as I realize the full impact that this action alone could have on Katniss’s chances of survival. Snow probably has his beady eyes watching her every move now.

I come back to full awareness as we roll into the drive of Plutarch’s manor. The gravel is so white, I’m surprised it isn’t sparkling in the sun. I can see people moving through the front garden, likely more avoxes if the perfectly sculpted hedges and neatly trimmed lawn are any indicator.

We stop right next to the front steps. The attendant gets out and opens my door again. I hop out quickly before he starts waving me forward. He leads me into the house, through the lavish hallways, right past the paintings of Plutarch’s ancestors, and suddenly I know exactly where we’re headed.

My suspicions are confirmed when we turn into the library, Trajan Heavensbee still looming from his frame over the fireplace. The attendant stops here, dips his head in farewell and leaves me alone in the room. Clearly I’m supposed to wait here until Plutarch decides to collect me.

I walk over to the closest bookshelves, my head tipping back to get a better view of the higher shelves. Not a single speck of dust on any of the volumes. Running my fingers lightly over the spines, I walk over to the goat head-shaped knob I know Plutarch still hides his liquor behind. I turn the knob and the tabletop splits in two, a collection of liquor bottles rising to replace it. I grab a glass and am reaching for the bottle of whiskey when I see the bottle nearly shoved into the back. 

“Respite – respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;”

The bottle is in my hand, rosy liquid sloshing against the glass sides.

“Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost 

Lenore!”

There’s a weight on my chest making me want to smash the bottle against Plutarch’s dustless bookshelves.

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Instead, I slam the nepenthe back into its place at the back of the cabinet and snatch the whiskey. Hand shaking, I take a drink straight from the bottle. Then I take a second one. I can feel the burn going all the way to my stomach. Plutarch would probably ban me from his liquor cabinet  if he saw me, but it’s making the raven disappear and that’s all I really care about right now. My third and fourth make it into the glass clutched in my left hand. I return the whiskey, but keep the cabinet open.

I start wandering around Plutarch’s library again, trying to avoid anything else that could start the poem back up. Eventually, I settle into one of the plush armchairs spread throughout the room. I’m looking into my glass when I remember I’m supposed to be pacing myself more, now that I’ve agreed to help Katniss and Peeta. 

I manage to make the drink last a lot longer than usual, but there’s still no sign of Plutarch. It’s only when I finally decide to refill my glass that I hear footsteps coming from down the hall. 

Might as well grab that refill anyway. I have a feeling this won’t be a quick chat.

“Ah, Haymitch! Glad you could make it.” Plutarch announces as he rounds the corner into the library.

Like I had much choice in the matter, but I don’t say that out loud. I actually thought I’d have a few more seconds before he entered the room. I have the Whiskey lid held between my teeth, bottle and glass frozen in front of me as I watch him approach. Plutarch hasn’t actually looked at me yet. His eyes are so glued to the small tablet in his hand that I’m surprised he hasn’t tripped.

Breaking through the small shock, I finally pour liquor into the glass. Plutarch looks up at the sound and his face pulls into a slight grimace before immediately smoothing back out.

He pockets his tablet, arms waving in my direction. “Of course, of course. Help yourself.” He hesitates before gesturing vaguely towards his own mouth, “The stoppers can rest on the table pieces. I know they seem more fragile when the cabinet is open but, really, they can still hold some weight.” 

The corners of my mouth raise in a small smile. I replace the lid and bottle to their homes before turning back towards the armchair, sinking into the cushion with a sigh. 

“Seemed like more work,” I reply, shrugging my shoulders. “Besides, any marks I’ve left will be gone soon anyway. With how spotless this room is, I’ll be more surprised if someone doesn’t come in here with some glass cleaner and a rag before I leave.”

Plutarch takes a seat in the armchair across from me before conceding, “You’ve got a point.”

“What’s up with all the extra people running around here, anyway? Oh, and next time you want to meet up, send someone who can actually answer questions. Or add some details to your note. I basically had to run through the train station to keep up with your messenger.”

“Sorry about that. Sometimes they can get a little eager. Especially this bunch. Before they were under my watch, they worked in the underground tunnels on sewage detail.” He explains with a wince.

“I’ve had to bring in more hands since my promotion for this year’s Games. In addition to the reapings, I’ve been asked to lead the final eight footage, among a few other tasks. That is to say, I’ve seen a lot more of our dear President lately and the manor needed more upkeep than I’d maintained previously.”

At the mention of Snow, my spine straightens and I look towards the library entrance like the man will be standing there waiting for me. Of course, nobody’s there. I take a sip from the glass in my hand, thinking over what Plutarch has told me.

A promotion that has given Plutarch more responsibility in running the Games. More responsibility in the Capitol doesn’t always mean more security. I can still remember Snow, hunched over from sickness, informing Plutarch and I of the parade master’s demise. At the time, it didn’t seem strange. However, looking back on it now, I can see the role our ‘dear President’ likely played in that death.

Which is supported by Snow making frequent visits with Plutarch in his home. Almost like he’s being pulled into the President’s inner circle, where he can be watched more efficiently. Plutarch’s contact with the rebellion must be thrilled, thinking of all the opportunities this presents. To me, it seems more like Plutarch has become our own canary in the coal mine. A dead man walking should anything go wrong. 

This then prompted Plutarch to bring on more attendants. Creating an image of the typical well-off capitol citizen to keep any suspicion of rebellious activity to a minimum. 

As the pieces start coming together, the only thing I can think of is the reaping recap. How that footage of district twelve was kept in. That Plutarch wants to rope Katniss into his schemes even with Snow breathing down his neck.

Plutarch digs in his pocket for a moment before pulling out the small tablet he held earlier.

“Actually, that’s why I was so late getting to you. I had to check in on your new stylists.” 

The anger I feel building in my chest is blanketed by my shock. My new stylists?

“New stylists?” I blurt out, brain to voice filter vanishing. “What do you mean, my new stylists?” 

“I mean Cinna and Portia. Best pair of stylists I’ve seen in a long time. They’ll definitely help your tributes make a splash during the parade.”

My eyes narrow as I look closer at Plutarch. He never does something without a deeper motive.

“And…” I draw out, waving to him to continue.

“And…,” he hesitates, “we happen to share certain ideals…”

“I knew it!” I exclaim, standing from my seat, anger coming back tenfold. “I knew you were plotting something! You never ask me to meet this quickly after the train arrives. Not unless you want to rope me into some scheme to overthrow the government.”

I throw my hands up before pointing at him, whiskey spilling over the glass edge and onto the floor below. “You did keep that footage of the reaping in on purpose. To make Katniss look like some figurehead.” 

Plutarch has enough sense to look slightly abashed, but doesn’t back down to my anger. 

“It was too perfect to ignore. The people in the Capitol won’t know what they’re looking at. They’ll assume it’s just some local custom or tradition like the broadcasters. But the districts will understand. They’ll see that moment for the spark that it is.”

That fiery feeling in my chest is starting to leave me. It’s like someone’s dripping cool water down my spine instead. My knees start to feel weak and I sink back into the armchair. As satisfying as it is to be right, I’d give almost anything for Plutarch to tell me I’m wrong.

Plutarch slides to the edge of his seat to get closer to me. “Tensions are starting to rise. Surely you’ve seen it.”

I haven’t. While I don’t make much effort to learn what’s going on in Twelve, I think I’d hear any rumours about rebellion. District Twelve might just be too far removed from the others for the conflict to have reached us, but Plutarch doesn’t need to know that.

I see a gleam in Plutarch’s eyes as he continues, “All they need out there is a solid push to get started. Katniss could be that push. She does it so naturally, I’m not even sure she understands the effect she had at the reaping. She could help us put pressure on Snow from the outside in,” He almost whispers the final words. Like he’s afraid someone will hear us.

Which is when I hear more footsteps coming from down the hall. Plutarch hears them too and we both look towards the library entrance. The footsteps get louder and louder, until an attendant walks through the doorway carrying a rag and spray bottle. I turn back to face Plutarch, giving him a pointed look while the attendant starts wiping down the liquor cabinet. 

Neither of us says a word. The only sound, the faint squeak, squeak, squeak of the rag against the glass bottles is deafening in the silence. I almost want to grab the rag and throw it out the nearest window. Instead, I continue to stare Plutarch down as he does the same to me. 

When the attendant finally leaves the room, bottles deemed as dust-free as everything else in the room, I give my answer.

“No.”

“No?” Plutarch gives me a confused look. “No, you don’t want to give the districts hope?”

“No, I don’t want you to turn Katniss into your next figurehead. She’s not a symbol, she’s a person.” That fiery feeling in my chest is back and I cling to it desperately. Anger has always been easier than fear.

“That’s all we ever were. Scared kids shoved into an arena, hoping that maybe this time our actions will make a difference.” My chest heaves under the force of my breaths. Trying to bring in enough oxygen to compensate for the way my heart is racing.

“Look at Annie. At Johanna. How about Finnick or the countless others just like them.  Hell Plutarch, look at me!” I stand again and hold my hands wide. “Does this look like the kind of difference you want to make?”

I step closer to Plutarch so I’m towering over where he’s sitting in his chair. “Bringing Katniss into your little movement won’t make any difference. You’ll just turn her into one of us. From everything you’ve told me, it sounds like you’ve got some very important, very dangerous people watching you. Now more than ever, you’d just make her a target. She’ll become collateral in a war you started.”

Plutarch doesn’t say anything, just stares at me. I’m starting to think I’ve overstepped some boundary and he’s going to kick me out of the manor when he reaches into his other pocket and pulls out a watch. He flips it open to check the time.

“You hungry?” He asks, looking back up at me. He doesn’t seem bothered by my argument or by the way I’m hovering over him.

“Huh?” My face twists and my head tips like one of the stray dogs just outside the district fence. 

I’m so stunned by the question that I can’t think of anything else to say. Plutarch must take the ensuing silence as a yes, though, because he replaces the watch to his pocket and stands from his chair. I take a step back to avoid smacking my face on the top of his head.

“C’mon.” He’s walking towards the doorway and gesturing for me to follow, “It’s about lunchtime and the cook's been working on a roast since this morning.”

With a sigh I down the rest of my whiskey before placing the empty glass on one of the end tables scattered throughout the room. Then, I follow Plutarch through his home. 

We take turn after turn until we finally reach what I’ve learned is Plutarch’s dining room. There’s a long table placed on one side of the room, but the other side is bare of any furniture, except for a few tables shoved against the wall. The large space looks more like the square back home than it does a room in a house. It looks like a place for dancing after a wedding. I can almost see Clerk Carmine playing his fiddle at the front of the room. 

I quickly turn away.

Plutarch wasn’t kidding about lunch. There’s a large roast beef sitting in the center of the table. There are a few smaller dishes surrounding the hunk of meat. A bowl of leafy greens, sprinkled with small nuts and coated in a shimmering glaze, mounds of cream colored mash, an assortment of vibrant vegetables, and a small boat of brown gravy.

Plutarch sits and starts fixing himself a plate, gesturing for me to do the same. I’m reaching for the salad bowl when an attendant comes through the kitchen door with a bottle of wine. As she starts filling the glass beside our plates, I watch Plutarch start digging a dent into his mashed potatoes. Then, he reaches for the gravy and pours it into the depression he’s created, taking care not to drip any on the rest of his plate. 

I hear the door swinging shut behind the attendant when Plutarch looks at me. “Haymitch, I’m sorry about what happened to you after your Games.”

I nearly choke on a mouthful of veggies. Plutarch looks concerned as I start coughing, but continues as I start taking slow sips of the wine.

“I’m sorry about what’s happened to all of you, but I’d do it all again without hesitation.”

And that makes me freeze. He must see the way I’ve gone completely still because he’s quick to start explaining.

“Listen. It’s not always easy to see the difference you’ve made, but I assure you that every plan we’ve put into place has made a difference.”

He huffs out a breath at my disbelieving stare. “It’s kind of like this. Every time someone rebels, it carves a little bit more of a path forward.” He picks up his spoon and holds it so it’s hovering over the edge of his mashed potatoes. 

“So, Mags,” he uses his spoon to scoop a small section of mashed potato away from the edge. “Beetee,” another scoop from the same spot, but a bit further in. “Wiress,” another scoop, creating a small mashed potato valley heading for the gravy center. “You, Finnick, Johanna, Annie,” he takes another scoop for every name he says so there’s only a thin wall holding back the gravy flood. 

“Every one of you has carved a little bit more of a path for the next person. And one of these times, we’ll finally break through.” He drops his spoon to break the potato wall and the gravy floods across his entire plate.

The question then becomes how close to that gravy center are we? Would Katniss unleash the flood or would she just be carving another scoop forward? I’m still not convinced that the reward would be worth the risk. At least, not with my best friend’s kid.

When it’s clear I’m not going to say anything, Plutarch asks, “When you look around us now, what do you see?”

I turn my head to look at our surroundings. Large empty space, tables against the walls, decor spaced thoughtfully around the room, large crystal chandelier above the table. “Um…your dining room?” I reply, turning back to face him. 

“I see each of the twelve districts.” He gazes around the room. “I see districts Ten and Eleven in our meal. Seven in the table it’s been placed on, Eight in the fabric covering the chairs we’re sitting on. I could tell you exactly where every item in this room came from and every time it will be one of the districts.”

He fixes his intense stare back on me. I can tell he’s trying to stay calm as he says this, but the tension in his shoulders gives him away. He clearly feels strongly about the point he’s trying to make here.

Regardless, his voice is quieter as he continues. “The capitol cannot sustain itself. If the Districts fight against their chains long enough, they’ll win. They almost won last time.”

“But they didn’t win. They lost.” I quickly point out.

“Yes, they lost. And now, every year you bring two children here to be dropped into an arena. Don’t you see? Katniss is already collateral for a war she never fought.”

I look down at my plate. Part of me wants to accept what Plutarch’s saying. The part that promised Lenore Dove to prevent another sunrise on the reaping. The other part of me says that I can’t let this cause take someone else from me. Katniss might not have the best chance of winning the Games, but if she gets roped into Plutarch’s plan she’s as good as dead.

“I’m giving Katniss the opportunity to be a part of something bigger than just herself.” Plutarch nearly whispers.

It’s like the two halves of myself are fighting against each other. I want so badly to honor Lenore’s wish, but Katniss can’t be a part of making it reality. Ultimately, my desire to keep Burdock’s girl safe wins out and I let out the thought that’s lingered ever since the reaping. 

“I can’t let her turn into me.” I whisper back, eyes lifting from my plate to watch Plutarch’s reaction. “Katniss’s dad was like a brother to me before, y’know, everything. In another life, she’d be my niece. So, I hear you, I really do, but I’ve gotta keep her alive.”

Plutarch takes in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, before nodding his head slightly. I don’t trust the look that’s entered his eyes, though. Half disappointed and half determined. It occurs to me then, that maybe Plutarch only reached out to me as a courtesy and not for permission to use Katniss. 

He checks his stopwatch again before standing. “Let’s go to the living room, the parade is about to start.”

Our plates are still almost full, but Plutarch doesn’t seem to care as he starts walking back out of the dining room. The District One carriage is starting to roll out of the tunnel when we walk into the living room. Their costumes catch the light in a way that makes them sparkle. 

I walk over to one of Plutarch’s massive couches and plop down onto the plush cushion. My head feels light from the alcohol, but I regret not bringing the wine glass with me as the parade continues. There’s only been one other incident during the tribute parade since I’ve started mentoring, but it’s still hard to watch.

District Nine is rolling out into sight now, but all I can focus on is the feeling of wood beneath my feet. The way the wheels rattle over the road. How I can almost smell the sweat coming off the horses on screen.

I’m starting to look around for another hidden liquor cabinet when I see the glow coming from the tunnel. I slam solidly back into the present, all ghosts chased away by the flickering light that follows the district Eleven tributes. 

I can’t help but gasp when Katniss and Peeta finally come into view. My hand flies to cover my mouth as I jump to my feet and walk closer to the projection. 

They’ve finally done it. Some crazy stylist has finally decided to light my tributes on fire. This is it. Snow’s going to have to find two replacements for the arena this year. I don’t know how he’ll do it since my kids are being burned alive in front of all of Panem. I open my mouth to start yelling at the projection when I remember who chose these crazy stylists. 

I whirl around to face Plutarch, arm outstretched towards the projection. “What the fuck! What did your brilliant new stylists do?! They’re burning alive on live television!”

“They’re not, though.” Plutarch looks confused.

“What do you mean they’re not?” I turn back to the projection and he’s right. The fire I thought was consuming Katniss and Peeta isn’t spreading. It dances and flickers over their capes and headdresses, but it doesn’t move any further over their bodies.

The relief is so strong that I nearly sink down onto Plutarch’s carpeted floor. Instead I bend in half to place my hands on my knees, taking a few deep breaths. 

Now that I’m not panicking, I can hear the crowd going wild over my tributes. The sound of their cheers is being picked up by the broadcasters’ microphones. As much as I hate to admit it, Cinna and Portia have likely scored Katniss and Peeta a good amount of sponsors with their work.

“Brilliant isn’t it? Synthetic fire. Portia’s invention, if I remember correctly.” Plutarch shares from over my shoulder. “Ah, and with just the perfect touch of rebellion too.”

I stand straight again and turn to see Plutarch’s smug smile. “What, the fire?”

“No, they’re holding hands.” Plutarch gestures at the image.

They’re doing a close-up of Katniss and Peeta now, and it’s easy to see their joined hands. Their grip looks crushing, like the only thing keeping them from falling out of the carriage is each other.

“They’re presenting them as a team.” Plutarch continues.

They’re cycling through each of the districts now. Every pair stands as far from each other as possible in the small space. Allying with your District partner used to be pretty common. Then, a few years after my games, two tributes from the same District ended up being the final survivors. The resulting fight was pretty brutal. Since then, it’s been pretty taboo to team with your District partner, unless you’re part of the Careers.

By presenting Katniss and Peeta as a team, they’re basically refusing to be divided. They’re refusing to give the Capitol power over them by standing as a united force. Like when District Twelve united long enough to give Katniss her sendoff.

“Listen, Plutarch.” I turn so I’m facing him fully. I need him to understand, to stand down and leave Katniss out of whatever he’s planning. “I don’t know where you’ve extended your influence already, but you need to leave Katniss out of your plans. If you want to recruit another tribute to your cause, I won’t stop you, but I think we both know our actions have caused enough damage in Twelve already.”

Plutarch doesn’t say anything in response. He just stares at me with that same look of disappointed determination, and I know for sure now. He won’t listen to me. He’ll do anything he can to rope Katniss into whatever grand plan he’s created this time. He’s got hands and eyes in too many places for me to fend him off alone.

One downside to presenting Katniss and Peeta as a single force is that they’ll have to be with each other constantly. I know from experience it’s usually harder to influence a group than it is to influence a single person.

“I should head back. They’ll want to debrief after the parade and I should be there for them.” I announce.

Plutarch nods. “Of course, follow me.” 

He walks out of the room and back towards the front entrance. As we get closer, I see the same attendant as earlier, Plutarch’s messenger, waiting near the door. 

“Take care, Haymitch. If you ever need anything, just let me know.” He claps me on the shoulder before walking back into the depths of his manor.

The attendant opens the front door and ushers me through, out towards the car we arrived in. I quickly settle into the backseat and then we’re on our way to the Tribute Center. 

Capitol citizens have flooded the streets now that the parade is over. They blur into a cloud of color as we ride past them. Before I know it, we’ve arrived at our destination and I’m riding the elevator up to the District Twelve suite.

Laughter spills into the elevator as the doors open. Effie’s voice is accompanied by the soft clink of utensils on fine china. Dinner must’ve started.

I walk into the dining room to see my small team along with who must be Cinna and Portia. It strikes me how normal they look. Their hair isn’t colored, their clothes are fairly simple, they don’t have any venomous animals attached to them. I could almost see them walking around District Twelve. Almost.

I pull out a chair at the head of the table and sit down. One attendant places a bowl of mushroom soup in front of me and another comes around with a bottle of wine. I nod at the offer and they fill my glass with a deep, blood red wine. 

Plutarch and I never did get to finish lunch and it’s only as I start in on the soup that I realize I’m ravenous. I polish off the bowl before reaching for the glass of wine, taking small sips. I notice that both Katniss and Peeta have a glass of their own, but only Katniss seems to be drinking any. Before I decide if I should be worried about her, our bowls are being cleared away and the main course is brought out - more roast beef, go figure.

I’m taking a bite when Effie speaks up. “Haymitch, what did you think of their presentation?” She’s giving me a pointed look from across the table. “I thought it was perfect,” she answers before I can reply. “I was practically run over by people trying to learn more about Katniss and Peeta,” another pointed look. “Of course, I don’t know what angle you wanted to play, so I tried to go for vague and mysterious.”

She’s got a spark in her eyes now, a smile growing across her face. I can only imagine what she’s been telling people that make Katniss and Peeta look mysterious. “Oh, you’ll love this one. I told them, well, you know, if you put enough pressure on coal it turns to pearls!” Her smile splits into a full on grin, teeth and all. 

Despite Effie’s obvious pride at her clever statement, I can’t help but cringe a little inside at how wrong she is. She’s staring me down again and I realize the table has gone silent.

“That’s great Effie, perfect way to sell it. I really appreciate your help.” I smile back at her. 

I turn to face Cinna and Portia who are sitting together to my right. “As for the presentation, well, I’m just glad those two were able to stay in the carriage,” pointing towards Katniss and Peeta. “I’m also glad they didn’t burn alive,” my gaze sharpens as I watch Cinna and Portia for their reactions. “A bit of warning next time, maybe. I was about ready to jump through the projection screen to try and smother the fire.”

A few chuckles rattle out across the table. “That said, I don’t think I’ve ever worked with a pair of stylists who’ve managed to make an impression like you two just did. So, congratulations.”

Cinna reaches up to rub awkwardly at his neck. “That’s great to hear. We’ve got to give credit where it’s due, though. We wouldn’t have been able to be here without Plutarch recommending us for the job.”

“Ah, yeah. I heard he had a hand in appointing you guys. Best stylists he’s seen in a long time, I think he said.” 

Effie chimes in here, “Is that where you went? Why you weren’t at the parade? You were visiting Plutarch?”

“Um…I mean, yeah, I guess. I’m not sure I would call it a visit though. Ended up being more of a business call,” I answer. “Not sure it’s a visit if attendance is mandatory,” I mutter under my breath, reaching for the glass of wine.

“Oh, is he going to sponsor one of them?” She stops then, hand raising to her chin and forehead scrunching in thought. “No, I guess that wouldn’t make sense. Can Plutarch sponsor a tribute since he’s one of the Gamemakers?”

“That’s a good question, actually. I’m not sure. I don’t think so? It seems like it’d be a conflict of interest since he has more direct involvement,” I reply.

Effie looks like she’s still deep in thought, so I turn back to Cinna and Portia. “What do you have planned for the interviews? You’re not going to rig any explosives, right?” I chuckle out, only half kidding.

I should really be paying more attention to their answer, but my gaze is drawn back to Katniss. She’s switched her half empty wine glass out for some water. I have to hold back a sigh of relief. Just because Katniss doesn’t enjoy drinking now, doesn’t necessarily mean she won’t later, but it gives me one less thing to worry about at the moment. 

Peeta still hasn’t touched his wine glass. Probably for the best, honestly. I don’t get the impression either of these kids would be able to hold their alcohol. 

Any further musings are cut off by a wall of flame going up at the center of the table. 

And then I’m laying on my back, insides kept in place by gravity and my hand as I throw that last bomb over the edge of the arena.

But I’m not in the arena. I’m in the tribute center. A large cake sat in the center of the table swims back into focus. I can see the flame still flickering weakly at the base of the cake. 

I take a larger sip of wine. 

Katniss looks more wary of the cake than I feel.

“What makes it burn? Is it alcohol?” She looks up at the attendant who lit it. “That’s the last thing I wa- oh! I know you!” she exclaims.

Well, shit. That’s not good. Surely she doesn’t actually know the attendant right?

My gaze darts back to the girl. She’s smaller, with dark red hair, sunken eyes, and skin so pale she looks like a ghost. Her eyes are blown wide and she’s shaking her head slightly. Her shaking grows more violent before she quickly turns and flees to the kitchen.

I look back at Katniss, forcing a casual calm across my features. 

Effie chimes in then, “Don’t be ridiculous, Katniss. How could you possibly know an Avox?” She closes her eyes for a moment before opening them again, like a very slow blink. “The very thought,” she says quietly, like it slipped out before she could stop it.

“What’s an Avox?” Katniss hesitantly asks. Her eyes sweep over the four of us. The adults.

I make sure my eyes meet hers when I answer, “Someone who committed a crime. They cut her tongue so she can’t speak. She’s probably a traitor of some sort,” I need her to understand the danger she’s put herself in. Need her to work her way back out of it. “Not likely you’d know her,” I shrug. 

Effie starts instructing Katniss on proper etiquette when addressing an Avox, but I’m more focused on her reaction to my words. Something clears in her gaze, her confusion lifting, and tension leaving before returning twice as strong. 

She does know this girl. And she’s just admitted it in front of who knows how many hidden cameras scattered throughout the room. Association with a known traitor isn’t something Snow takes lightly. If Katniss doesn’t find a way out of this situation, and she somehow wins the Games, she’ll wish she’d stayed in the arena.

She’s trying to stammer out a response, but her mind isn’t working quick enough. Her eyes grow wider the longer the pause lasts and I know she understands what’s happening.

I’m starting to think through ways to pull her out myself when a snap cracks through the silence.

“Delly Cartwright,” Peeta announces, pointing at Katniss. “That’s who it is. I kept thinking she looked familiar as well. Then I realized she’s a dead ringer for Delly.”

Katniss sags a little in her seat before straightening again. “Of course, that’s who I was thinking of. It must be the hair,” she smiles slightly at Peeta.

“Something about the eyes too,” Peeta tacks on, smiling back.

I try not to interact regularly with people back home, but Delly has helped deliver my groceries a few times. Katniss, Peeta, and I all know that Delly Cartwright looks nothing like the Avox girl. But the others at the table, and the capitol spies watching us, don’t know that.

The whole table seems to take a breath. I close my eyes and take a few more to ground myself further. Cinna answers Katniss’s original question and says something about their fiery debut, but I’m not really paying attention. When I open them again, the cake is being cut and served and my wine glass has been refilled. 

I look again at Katniss and Peeta. Were they friends before the reaping? I didn’t get that impression on the train, but why else would Peeta jump to save Katniss so effortlessly? Is he just that nice of a kid or does he have his own reasons to keep Katniss alive?

We eat in relative silence before moving into the sitting room to watch the replay of the opening ceremonies. The tribute parade starts and then there’s Katniss and Peeta in their flaming glory. 

That’s not all that sets them apart from the others. They almost seem relaxed, stabilizing each other through their linked hands, whereas every other pair are stiff backed and separated. I can’t help but ask once I notice, “Whose idea was the hand holding?”

“Cinna’s” Portia replies instantly.

Plutarch’s words come back to me then, “Just the perfect touch of rebellion.” I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until I turn to face Cinna who's watching me with brows raised. I clear my throat, nodding slightly, “Very nice.”

I watch Cinna a little closer. So, he’s the one I’ll have to corner.

“Tomorrow morning is the first training session.” I turn to face Katniss and Peeta who are sitting on the couch. “Meet me for breakfast and I’ll tell you exactly how I want you to play it. Now go get some sleep while the grownups talk,” I say, gesturing towards their rooms.

I watch them go, Peeta almost swaying into Katniss’s space, like she has her own gravitational pull. It’s something I’ll have to circle back on tomorrow. Getting Cinna on his own is the higher priority right now.

I’m thinking through how I can lead Cinna away from the others when he solves the issue for me.

“Hey, Haymitch?”

I turn to face where he’s standing by the doorway.

He points a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing out of the room, “You have a minute?”

“Yeah, sure.” I follow him out of the sitting room, back through the dining room, and over to the wall of windows.

“So, I pulled this off Katniss’s shirt this morning and I wanted to double check with you before submitting it to the board.” Cinna pulls a small gold pin out of his pocket, depositing it into my open palm. There’s a mockingjay in the center, attached to a thin circle by its wingtips.

It’s Maysilee’s pin. 

I never got to see the pin in person, but it’s hard to mistake Tam Amber’s work.

“It’s her token, right?” Cinna asks.

I run my fingers lightly over the small metal bird before handing it back to Cinna.

“Yes,” I choke out around the weight that’s dropped onto my chest.

There’s about a dozen questions rising in the back of my mind. Where did Katniss get the pin? Where has it been this whole time? Is it really Katniss’s token? Should it be her token? But that weight is only getting heavier and I need to change the subject before I do something drastic like start crying.

I clear my throat to get rid of the choked feeling, “Congratulations again on today’s presentation. Usually we’re the team nobody wants to represent. How’d Plutarch find you guys, anyway?”

I watch the pin as Cinna slips it back into his pocket, silently grateful it’s out of eyesight. 

“Oh, um…I ran into Plutarch a few times during my apprenticeship. Well, our apprenticeship really. Mine and Portia’s. We’ve been working together since we got out of school.” He smiles wistfully.

“Anyway, Plutarch started keeping tabs on us, I guess you could say.” He glances around the room then, like he’s looking for something, before settling back on me. His eyes are sharper than before. “We all share a certain vision on how the tributes ought to be represented.” He pauses here, letting me absorb his words.

After a moment the sharp look leaves his eyes and he continues. “When the opening came up to represent District Twelve, Plutarch reached out to a handful of us regarding the position. Portia and I were the first to volunteer.”

“Well, we appreciate you jumping on the opportunity,” I respond.

This conversation is toeing the line between normal stylist-mentor chatter and treason. I mirror Cinna’s own movement as I look around for the cameras I know are there.

“I liked presenting them as a team. We should keep that approach going forward. It really sets them apart from the other tributes and apparently drew sponsors’ attention.”

I’m careful to keep my safety-in-numbers theory to myself. Cinna clearly has his own goals in enforcing Plutarch’s agenda.

“It could even draw the attention of sponsors in high positions.” I pause, making sure Cinna understands what I’m about to say. “Very high positions. Those kinds of sponsors bring a lot of pressure. A lot of expectations. They have a strong investment in the success of the Games. They don’t care about the cost.”

Cinna gives me a considering look before replying, “What was it Effie said? If you put enough pressure on coal, it turns to pearls?” 

I heave a deep sigh, closing my eyes and reaching up to pinch the bridge of my nose. “Diamonds.”

“Diamonds?” Cinna repeats, confused.

Head still down, “They say if you put enough pressure onto a piece of coal, it’ll turn into a diamond.”

I lift my head, dropping my hand back to my side, and look straight at Cinna. “You know what really happens if you put that kind of pressure on coal?”

Cinna shakes his head faintly.

“It crumbles.”

I don’t wait for a response. I leave Cinna where he’s standing by the windows and start back towards the sitting room. 

While I still don’t know much about Cinna and Portia, I know enough to be wary of their actions. I’ll be more than happy to work with them to turn some kid into a savior, but it won’t be this year.

I stop in the doorway to see Effie giving me a questioning look over the back of the sofa. Portia is beside her, continuing whatever conversation they were having before I walked in. I wave vaguely at Effie, assuring her we’ll talk when she’s finished, before walking further into the room. I settle into the couch on Effie’s open side, making sure to keep a cushion of distance between us. She turns back to Portia, satisfied that I’m not going anywhere.

Effie still confuses me sometimes. She’s kind and infuriatingly stubborn once she’s set her mind on something. She has a good heart. Every year, regardless of my own efforts, Effie does everything she can to help the kids that have been reaped.

At the same time, there are moments where her capital upbringing really shines through. Like when she lectured last year’s tributes on table manners until my ears were about to fall off. Half starved and fully aware of their chances, table manners weren’t exactly at the top of their list of concerns. 

Her heart is always in the right place, though. Over the years, I’ve thought about telling Effie more about the rebellion. Especially when Plutarch has recruited one of our tributes. But she’s lived in the capitol her whole life. She may feel bad for the kids she represents and want the best for them, but she believes the Capitol’s propaganda. She still truly believes that the Games maintain some balance. That they’re necessary. 

So, as much as I would deeply appreciate Effie’s help keeping Katniss from the cause, she’s just not ready to be brought into the light yet.

She’s watching me again. I look past her and realize Portia is gone, their conversation apparently finished.

I make sure Portia isn’t still in the room before meeting Effie’s expectant stare. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there today.”

She huffs a breath, almost a laugh but not quite, and I search my mind for something other than ‘Plutarch wanted to talk about starting a rebellion.’

“Really I am. Plutarch wanted to meet. One of his messengers met me as soon as I stepped off the train this morning. Honestly, he practically shoved me in the car,” I chuckle weakly.

“He wanted to know if I had any details about Katniss and her sister. He’s interested in expanding their storyline during interviews and the final eight, if she makes it that long.”

“And you were with Plutarch that whole time talking about Katniss and Prim?” She raises her eyebrows.

“Well, you know Plutarch. Once you get him started on video production, he’s almost impossible to stop.” I grin back at her. This much is true. Plutarch’s talked for hours about getting the perfect shot.

Effie’s expression smooths back out and I know she’s bought my story. “That’s true. Well, I’m not sure he can sponsor anyone, but his feature might still do Katniss some good. People love family backstories.”

She relaxes a little further into the couch before jumping forward again, “Oh! I completely forgot,” she reaches out for a small purse laying on the coffee table. She rummages around in it before pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. “I wrote down some names and phone numbers for you to follow up on.” She brandishes the paper towards me, eyes sparkling with pride at her accomplishment.

I reach out and take it from her. There are three names listed, their phone numbers scrawled underneath. I fold the page back up and place it in my pocket.

“Thanks Effie,” I say quietly.

“Make sure you actually call them. I swore to the kids I’d get you to close some deals, even if I have to drag you to the table at gunpoint.”

“Hopefully we can avoid that,” I huff out a laugh, “I’ll call tomorrow, promise. Right now I want to focus on training. We need to figure out what their specialties are in either defense or offense. Then, we need to make sure they keep those skills hidden from the other tributes. I want them going into the arena with an edge.”

Effie nods along as I speak. This isn’t the first time we’ve used this strategy, but I usually save it for when I know there’s actually something to hide.

“Even more important, though, is that I want these two together at all times.” Effie sits a little straighter on the couch. “That’s the strategy. Together, they’ll stand out from the others and, hopefully, keep each other safe.”

“Ooh, good idea. They were so cute during the parade, holding hands like that. Plus with the fire, I couldn’t look away! Have you talked to Cinna and Portia about this yet? They should keep coordinating Katniss and Peeta’s outfits so they’re presented together,” she’s speaking so quickly I can hardly keep up.

“Yeah, I’ve already talked with Cinna and he’ll tell Portia.” He’ll probably tell Portia about our entire conversation, actually.

The conversation lulls. It’s been a long day and there’s a heaviness growing behind my eyes, but I’m not quite ready to leave the couch. To go back to my empty room and face whatever’s waiting for me when I go to sleep.

“How’s Proserpina doing? You haven’t mentioned her.”

Effie looks shocked at the mention of her sister before she relaxes, expression going soft. “She’s doing great! She’s got this little boutique on main street just full of her own designs. Her two kids are adorable as ever. She actually thinks her daughter is going to follow in her footsteps - says she’s starting to draw her own designs.”

She’s shaking her head, a smile growing across her face as she talks about her family. I’m struck with how happy I am that Effie is removed from everything. That her family is still safe and that they’re so close to each other.

She wraps up a story about her nephew and pauses, looking at me again.

“Thank you.” 

“For what?” I ask, eyebrows scrunching.

“For helping them. For just trying, you know?” She looks pointedly at my hands.

I glance down to realize they’re empty. No glass in sight. I only now realize that I haven’t drank anything since dinner finished.

It clicks then. She’s talking about more than just Katniss and Peeta. Effie’s tried to curb my drinking many times over the years. She even hid all the liquor in sight one year, but nothing’s ever worked. My demons are always a little too close to the surface to stop. It’s easier to forget them if I have a glass in my hand.

Instead of replying to her comment, I stand up. My back pops as I do so, probably from the way I was slouching into the cushions. I touch her lightly on the shoulder before moving towards my room. “The real work starts tomorrow, Effie.”

[ryems01]

bingewatching will never come close to bingereading. there is nothing like blocking out the entire Earth for ten hours to read a book in one sitting no food no water no shower no bra and emerging at the end with no idea what time it is or where you are, a dried-up prune that's sensitive to light and loud noises because you've been in your room in the dark reading by the glow of a single LED. it's like coming back after a three-month vacation in another dimension and now you have to go downstairs and make dinner. absolutely transcendental

[ryems01]

The 24th Sunrise Ch. 3

Read on AO3 here

Previous Chapter

They’re staring at me. I can’t see them, but I hear them screaming, clapping, cheering. My hands are slippery with blood. I hold them tight over my stomach, trying to keep my insides where they belong.

My legs give out and I can see where the cage bars meet in the center. Like the top of the birdcages they take into the mines. The whole fixture is swaying back and forth, back and forth. I sit up and the eyes are back. Thousands of faceless figures standing before me. They’re not cheering anymore. The weight of their stares threaten to crush my chest.

I’m running. Running home, so glad it’s over. Everything can go back to normal now. Except there’s smoke in the air, and I see the inferno now. The eyes are pinning me down and I think someone’s screaming. 

But I’m in the meadow. I see the geese slowly waddling past where I’m sitting. And there’s Lenore Dove, walking towards me, a smile growing on her face. I can feel my own cheeks starting to hurt as I stand to meet her halfway and-

My head is killing me. I open my eyes but the light leaking from the bathroom is so bright I have to shut them again. I roll over so I’m facing the other direction and my stomach flips in protest. I definitely took it too far yesterday. I can feel my heart racing in my chest and I’m shaky from dehydration. 

I open my eyes again, this time with more success, and notice that I’m in different clothes. Last night comes back to me in flashes. Right, Peeta basically carried me to bed after washing me off and helping me into new clothes. I can still taste vomit in the back of my throat and across my teeth, which makes my stomach flip again. I swing my legs off the bed, walking over towards the bathroom where I promptly brush my teeth, and chug as much water from the tap as my stomach can handle. 

Walking back into the bedroom, I notice that the sun is just starting to rise over the horizon. I should really eat something before I start drinking again, but breakfast isn’t served for another hour or so. 

Sitting back down, I resolve to watch the recap of the reapings. I vaguely remember watching it live last night, but don’t remember any individual tributes. Watching the first few districts is a shock. The career pack this year seems more intimidating than usual. Mostly due to the fact that I can’t help but imagine Katniss facing off against each of them. Yesterday I was so afraid that she would be able to survive, so confident that she had a chance to win. Today, it seems more likely that both Katniss and Peeta will fail like every other kid I’ve sent into the arena. 

Yes, I’ve seen Katniss selling game in the hob, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she was the one who took the animals down. She might be relying on a friend or partner, like the boy who carried Prim away during the reaping.

I watch as Katniss is, again, brought up onto the stage. As the district responds to her sacrifice, I’m hit with that same feeling of unease. There’s something deeper going on here. I’ve seen enough reapings be altered when something unfavorable happens. The fact that there weren’t any cuts, only comments from the broadcasters, is unsettling. It almost feels like someone left that moment on purpose. Like they’re trying to draw attention to it. 

I can feel someone staring at me again. Like the ones from my dream, except this one feels different, more familiar, more urgent, angry. I know that if I turn around, there won’t be anyone standing there. But it feels like Lenore Dove is right behind me, stuck with me until I fulfill that final promise. The feeling lasts until I fall over the front of the stage and the broadcasters start laughing at my expense.

Unsettled, but not surprised, I watch Peeta as his name is called and he slowly walks up the stairs to stand beside Katniss. He’s taller than her, with more of a muscled build. But the way he carries himself, clearly afraid of what’s to come, might be problematic. 

I make my way towards the dining car for breakfast, the reapings having lasted long enough for the sun to make a full appearance.

Crossing through the threshold, I see Effie already sitting at the table sipping a cup of coffee. She barely looks up as I pull out one of the chairs across from her and sit down. I pile some food onto my plate and slowly start eating. I’m starting to think Effie will give me the silent treatment all day, when I reach for the nearest bottle of white liquor and she breaks her silence.

“Is today going to be a repeat of yesterday, then?” 

My hand hovers around the neck of the bottle as her eyes bore into mine.

“We go through this every year. You can’t help them if you keep drinking yourself into oblivion. In case you haven’t noticed, the tributes this year have some real promise. That one girl even volunteered! I won’t let you waste this opportunity,” arms crossed and chin slightly raised, she certainly looks determined.

I slowly lift the white liquor bottle, maintaining our impromptu staring contest as I bring it closer to me. Her expression darkens, but smooths back out when I reach over to grab the large glass of cranberry juice. Grabbing a cup, I measure out exactly one shot of white liquor before filling it the rest of the way with cranberry juice. 

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch. You and I both know reaping day is the worst.” 

“Oh, yeah? Tell that to last year’s tributes.”

At that, I have to break Effie’s stare. Last year’s kids were half starved when they were reaped. Next to no muscle on their frames. I knew they wouldn’t last five minutes in the arena, no matter what I did. Instead, I spent the week in the capitol trying my best to forget how I could count every one of their ribs.

“That’s a low blow and you know it,” and she does look slightly ashamed when I look back up at her. ���There was no chance of keeping them alive. There almost never is.”

Thinking back to the reapings I watched though, I can admit that Katniss and Peeta have more potential than most tributes I’ve mentored in the past.

I hear the whoosh of the door opening on my left. Peeta pauses briefly in the doorway before walking over. He pulls out the chair directly in front of me and sits down. One of the capitol attendants brings Peeta a glass of orange juice and a mug of hot chocolate. 

I turn back to Effie, a plan forming in my mind. 

“Besides, yesterday wasn’t that bad.” I lift my glass back up to hide a smile.

“You can’t be serious. Your behavior yesterday was positively unacceptable. Showing up late, falling off the stage,” her eyes are as wide as saucers. “I mean, really Haymitch. Do you even remember what happened last night?” 

And there it is, the perfect opening. I make a show of choking into the glass before dropping it back to the table.

“Oh, shit. Your panties aren’t literally bunched up somewhere in my room, right?”

Effie stands quickly before throwing her hands in the air, “Ugh! You’re unbelievable!”

She storms from the room, muttering curses under her breath, and nearly running Katniss over as she crosses the threshold.

I can’t help but start laughing, both at Effie’s reaction and the look on Peeta’s face. Katniss has paused and seems to be assessing the room.

I lift a hand to wave her over. “Sit down! Sit down!”

At the prompting, she finally enters the room and takes Effie’s abandoned seat.

Most of my symptoms from this morning have gone, with the exception of a slight throbbing at my temples. With Effie out of the room now, though, it should be quick work to get rid of it for good. I grab the bottle of white liquor and start pouring a bit more into my glass of cranberry juice while Katniss and Peeta continue to eat breakfast. 

The hopeless feeling I had while watching the reapings has fully retreated again, now that the two kids in question are sitting in front of me. I still need to find a way to figure out what they’re capable of. Katniss, to know if she really does have a chance of making it back to her mom and sister. Peeta, to know if he’s a threat to Katniss’s survival or if he’ll help me get her home.

Katniss, I’m starting to realize, is at least slightly impulsive. She also saves me from having to start the conversation by starting it herself.

“So, you’re supposed to give us advice.” Her words are short, angry. I can tell I’m not exactly the model mentor in her mind, and honestly who am I to blame her for this assessment. So far, all she knows is that I’m a drunk and I haven’t been able to keep a single other tribute from district twelve alive.

“Here’s some advice. Stay alive.” I don’t think about the words before I say them, a sort of hysteria looming over me as I start laughing again. Maybe Effie was right to limit the spirits in the morning or maybe I need another swallow to restabilize my mind. I grab the glass off the table again when Peeta responds.

“That’s very funny,” except, even in my current state, I can tell he isn’t amused at all. 

Peeta stands so suddenly that I don’t have time to prepare myself before he’s batted the glass out of my hand and onto the train floor. The glass smashes upon contact, spreading white liquor and cranberry juice moving towards the back of the train car.

“Only not to us.”

I’m not laughing anymore. I’m actually kind of pissed. 

Now, normally, I’m the kind of guy who goes around and hits kids. But, I need to see what these two are capable of. And with this perfect opportunity sitting in front of me, it’d be impossible not to push back to see what happens. 

So, I bring my fist back and punch Peeta square in the jaw. Hard enough that it sends him sprawling from the chair. It’ll definitely leave a bruise - good. He needs a different image from the scared boy standing on stage during the reaping.

I reach for the bottle of white liquor on the table and almost lose my fingers to Katniss’s knife, which is now buried in the table between my hand and the bottle. I look over at her in time to see the slight flinch in her posture. Her eyes stay on me, but she seems to shrink slightly, preparing herself for a hit like I gave Peeta. 

And I quickly decide that’s not the kind of mentor I want to be. I sit back in my chair, taking care to put a bit more distance between myself and the other two. 

“Well, what’s this? Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?”

Peeta stands back up and scoops some ice from the fruit display, starting to raise it to the mark of his jaw. Which would defeat almost the whole purpose of the punch to begin with.

I raise my hand out to stop him, “No. Let the bruise show. The audience will think you’ve mixed it up with another tribute before you’ve even made it to the arena.”

Peeta needs some sort of edge. He’s too nice on his own. He could’ve taken a swing at my face, but instead he targeted the glass. He could’ve left me in my room to deal with myself last night, but he stayed and helped. 

“That’s against the rules,” he hesitates before dropping the ice back into the fruit bowl.

“Only if they catch you. That bruise will say you fought, you weren’t caught, even better.”

I turn to face Katniss again. “Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?” 

I remember Burdock being pretty good at knife throwing, but I need to know if he taught Katniss.

She gives me a look before ripping the knife free from the table and throwing it across the room towards the far wall. Not only does it stick, she’s managed to wedge the knife directly between the two slats in the wall. The force of her throw has pushed the knife deep into the gap.

I stand from my chair and point the the end of the table. “Stand over here. Both of you.”

They move where directed and stand still as I move closer to get a good look at them. 

Peeta’s taller and stockier than Katniss is, though the careers would easily outmatch him. It’s clear that years helping his family with the bakery has provided a fair amount of muscle to his frame. 

Katniss is almost directly his opposite. Shorter and slimmer, Katniss would likely be overlooked as a tribute if she hadn’t volunteered. They’d miss the lithe muscle she has though, clearly a hunter’s build. 

Where Peeta might have a chance at holding his own against an opponent in close combat, Katniss would have an easier time moving quickly and quietly.

Neither one of them is overly attractive, but they aren’t going to push sponsors away either. Which is good. More attractive tributes usually have a rougher time of it after they win anyway.

“Well, you’re not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you’ll be attractive enough.” I can’t help but think that, together as allies, these two might have a chance to send the other home.

“All right, I’ll make a deal with you. You don’t interfere with my drinking, and I’ll stay sober enough to help you,” I shift my gaze to look directly at Katniss. “But you have to do exactly what I say.” 

Peeta speaks up from beside Katniss. “Fine.”

But Katniss seems less satisfied by the deal than Peeta.

“So help us. When we get to the arena, what’s the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone–”

I hold up a hand to cut her off. Of course she’d want to go into the Cornucopia. I think back on all the kids I’ve lost to the Cornucopia. It’s the perfect source material to imagine Katniss being cut down by that monster of a boy from District 2, Cato I think. 

I try to push the image away from my mind and replace it with more pressing issues. Like the stylists, for instance. I remember my own experience with the prep teams, being shoved into that room, naked and unsure what was going on until they started spraying us.

Technology has advanced a lot since my games and the general treatment of the tributes has also improved, but they’re not immune to repercussions should they lash out at the prep teams. I remember one girl a few years ago must’ve freaked out and hit a few of her prep team. She was still black and blue when she was sent to the arena.

I take a deep breath before responding, “One thing at a time. In a few minutes, we’ll be pulling into the station.You’ll be put in the hands of your stylists. You’re not going to like what they do to you.”

I pause and really look at the two of them, wanting them to understand what I’m saying.

“But no matter what it is, don’t resist.”

Peeta is kind of nodding in acknowledgement, but I can tell Katniss is gearing up to protest. 

“But–” 

“No buts. Don’t resist,” my voice is firm. And to make sure they know the conversation is finished, I leave the room and go back to my room.

Speaking of not resisting, Effie was right. They do have a lot of promise. Which means I need to hold up my end of the bargain and find some sponsors. 

There are clothes in the dresser drawers, nicer quality than anything I could’ve gotten at home. The train is slowing to a stop by the time I’m fully dressed in the capitol garments. I make my way towards the main train exit, wanting to leave as soon as we’ve completely stopped. It doesn’t happen very often, but every now and then there are a few prospective sponsors waiting to chat my ear off about sending a gift.

When I leave the train, though, I’m not met with future sponsors. I’m met with a capitol attendant, moving swiftly in my direction. He’s got a white envelope held in his hand and I can just make out the swooping cursive of my own name scrawled across the front. 

He comes to a stop in front of me before extending the envelope. I take it, giving a short nod of acknowledgement, and he moves back the way he came. Opening the letter, there’s only one line in the very center of the page:

‘We need to meet’

– Plutarch Heavensbee

Next Chapter

[ryems01]

Writing Tips

Punctuating Dialogue

✧

➸ “This is a sentence.”

➸ “This is a sentence with a dialogue tag at the end,” she said.

➸ “This,” he said, “is a sentence split by a dialogue tag.”

➸ “This is a sentence,” she said. “This is a new sentence. New sentences are capitalized.”

➸ “This is a sentence followed by an action.” He stood. “They are separate sentences because he did not speak by standing.”

➸ She said, “Use a comma to introduce dialogue. The quote is capitalized when the dialogue tag is at the beginning.”

➸ “Use a comma when a dialogue tag follows a quote,” he said.

“Unless there is a question mark?” she asked.

“Or an exclamation point!” he answered. “The dialogue tag still remains uncapitalized because it’s not truly the end of the sentence.”

➸ “Periods and commas should be inside closing quotations.”

➸ “Hey!” she shouted, “Sometimes exclamation points are inside quotations.”

However, if it’s not dialogue exclamation points can also be “outside”!

➸ “Does this apply to question marks too?” he asked.

If it’s not dialogue, can question marks be “outside”? (Yes, they can.)

➸ “This applies to dashes too. Inside quotations dashes typically express—“

“Interruption” — but there are situations dashes may be outside.

➸ “You’ll notice that exclamation marks, question marks, and dashes do not have a comma after them. Ellipses don’t have a comma after them either…” she said.

➸ “My teacher said, ‘Use single quotation marks when quoting within dialogue.’”

➸ “Use paragraph breaks to indicate a new speaker,” he said.

“The readers will know it’s someone else speaking.”

➸ “If it’s the same speaker but different paragraph, keep the closing quotation off.

“This shows it’s the same character continuing to speak.”

[ryems01]

The 24th Sunrise Ch. 2

(Contains SOTR Spoilers)

Read on AO3 here

Previous Chapter

I can feel the train swaying beneath me. The movement is barely there, but I can feel how it aggravates the wound on my stomach. I hear a door slide shut. They must’ve left milk and bread again, but I don’t think I could stomach any more if I wanted to. Something feels off, though. The metal floor isn’t pressing into my back. In fact, I’m almost comfortable, like I’m at home in bed. I reach for my knife reflexively, but don’t find it. 

I am on the train, I realize as my eyes open, but not the one from my memories. The day’s events rush back to me, then. My head is throbbing where I must’ve hit the camera when I fell. I run my hand over the sore spot, checking for blood, as I slowly sit up. Good news is, there’s no blood on my fingers as I bring my hand back down. Also, I don’t think I have a concussion. Looking around the room, my vision stays mostly steady. I’m slightly dizzy but that’s probably more from drinking than falling. 

Still, considering the sizable lump that’s formed, I’m surprised there isn’t more damage. I wonder if whoever brought me to my room gave me some sort of treatment before I woke up. Medicine in the capitol has advanced a lot over the past 24 years, so it wouldn’t be that shocking. 

I slide to the edge of the bed and start to stand up, but a sharp twinge from my midsection makes me sit back down. I must’ve wrenched my scar when I landed earlier. Over the years, the jagged line of scar tissue has given me fewer and fewer issues. However, on the rare occasions it does start to act up, my usual coping mechanism usually takes care of it. I stand up again, slower this time, and leave the room to find the nearest bottle. There’s nothing else I can do today to help these kids, so I may as well continue with my original plan. 

I only realize I don’t know who the second tribute is yet when I nearly run him over. At first, I think I’ve finally lost my mind. Otho Mellark is standing right in front of me, but of course that wouldn’t make any sense. This must be one of his sons. His youngest by the look of him. What was his name again? Rye? No, I think that’s the middle child. So this must be Peeta. He’s the spitting image of his father. I didn’t know Otho very well growing up, but we ran into each other often enough at school. 

Peeta must’ve been reaped after I passed out. I don’t know much about Peeta, other than his name and that he helps his family at the bakery. I do know he’s a dead man walking now that he’s on this train. He needs to be if I want to bring Katniss back home to her family. 

Peeta gives me a strange look and I know I’ve been staring for too long. I reach around him and grab a bottle of liquor off the table he’s in front of, not looking at the label. 

“I’m gonna go take a nap. Don’t bother me.” I say gruffly as I turn around and book it back to my room. I can’t save them both, I remind myself as the door closes behind me. Only one person ever walks out of the arena. I sit down on the bed, back against the headboard, and raise the bottle to my lips.

This year’s reaping bothers me more than usual though. Katniss, by volunteering to take Prim’s place, inspired action from District Twelve. Granted, it wasn’t exactly an uprising, but a show of unity on that scale while the cameras are rolling is sure to raise a few eyebrows. In particular, it was sure to catch Plutarch’s attention. He’s always on the lookout for the next, luckier, me. What he refuses to acknowledge is, none of the kids he’s roped into his schemes have had much more luck than me. Wherever PLutarch’s attention goes, disaster follows. Although, he’s taken a long pause after what happened to Annie Cresta four years ago. It’s hard to forget the half mad girl they brought on stage to present as the winner. Hard to forget what must’ve happened to her after she was extracted from the arena for such a dramatic change.

I can’t let Katniss turn into her. I can’t let her turn into me. If that means fending Plutarch off, delaying any possibility of a rebellion against the Capitol, and ignoring the promise I made to my girl, then so be it. They can find someone else to kickstart their movement. I owe it to Burdock and Asterid to at least try.

I go to take another pull of the bottle in my hands, which is a lot lighter than I remember it being, but my mind is really starting to get foggy now. I always forget how potent the stuff in the capitol is compared to what I’m used to. My limbs feel heavy and I think I might be swaying where I’m sitting.

Suddenly I’m almost laying down on the bed and the recap of the reapings is starting. The remote is in my hand, but I don’t remember grabbing it. 

When I look back up, I see the recap is almost over. Which means I’ve probably missed dinner and Effie’s gonna kill me. But have I actually missed dinner or do I just think I did?

Now I’m halfway to the dining car, but I don’t remember why I left my room. Something about dinner? Right, it must be time for dinner. Maybe Effie came and got me. Although eating is the last thing I want to do right now. My stomach feels like it’s doing backflips and I think I might be spinning.

Then I’m falling again, face first onto the floor. I’ve landed in some substance that reeks to high heavens, but I can’t force my limbs to work long enough to move away from it. My saviors, Katniss and Peeta, each take one of my arms and haul me onto my feet. 

“I tripped?” That smell from the floor has followed me to my feet and I raise my hand to try and block it out, but that only makes things worse. “Smells bad.” I vaguely register the look on Katniss’s face and think I must be a mess.

The spray from the water brings me back again. I’m in a tub and the shower head is spraying on me from above. Someone’s taken off my clothes and left me in nothing but my undershorts. At least that smell is gone now. Then, someone’s grabbing my hands and I startle before realizing Peeta’s sitting on the edge of the tub, trying to direct my hands under the spray of water. I let him as I continue to stare. 

“You look so much like your dad.” I try to make the words come out clear, but my tongue feels too big for my mouth and I can tell I’m not quite successful.

Peeta seems to catch them anyway. “I get that a lot. You knew my dad?”

“A bit, we were never close friends. Kinda hard not to know everyone in such a small District.” Peeta gives me a considering look before turning his attention back to my hands. 

Then I’m dry and in new clothes, Peeta supporting my weight as I stumble towards my bed. He places me by the foot and goes to pull down the covers. I don’t need this kid tucking me into bed though, like he’s the adult. So I do us both a favor and maneuver myself so I’m laying down properly, face smushed into the pillow. 

Peeta seems to hesitate before he turns towards the door, likely to go back to his own room. I feel like I owe him an explanation. Some reason for why a forty year old man needs help from a sixteen year old.

“It’s my birthday, you know.” 

Peeta turns around and gives me a confused stare. Between the pillow and the way I’m slurring, I’m surprised he’s heard me at all. Then his confusion turns to surprise. 

“No, I didn’t know that.” The words are soft, but there isn’t any pity in his tone. Good. I don’t need him to feel bad for me, I just need him to understand.

“You’d think it’d get easier after all this time, but it never does. It’s always the same.” My eyes are so heavy, now that I’m laying down. I can feel them drooping shut when a hand drops onto my shoulder, making them fly back open. 

I can see Peeta’s hand hovering above my shoulder. He must’ve broken the contact when I startled, but he drops it back down before responding, “I’m sorry. That’s bad luck.”

After all the ghosts that have come back to haunt me today, his hand is a small comfort. A reminder of what’s real and what isn’t.

“Not your fault kid, I’m sorry this happened to you too.” I can feel my eyes closing again, and don’t hear Peeta’s response before I’m asleep.

Next Chapter

[ryems01]

SOTR Spoilers!!

I'm re-reading the original hunger games trilogy right now, and I think one of the major differences between Haymitch and Katniss are the promises they make before the games.

Like, after Katniss is reaped, she makes a promise to Prim that she'll try to win and come back home. So, she goes into the games thinking carefully about what she does, knowing she might survive. Every time Katniss does something that looks like rebellion, it's in response to her own emotions - not thinking about the larger implications of those actions. But even when that happens, she usually tries to cover up the rebellious aspects of it. Like when she shoots the apple during training, she doesn't take advantage of the moment during the interviews - she helps to cover it up instead.

Haymitch, on the other hand, clearly loves Lenore Dove. He'll do anything for her. She says the morning before the reaping that there doesn't have to be a sunrise on the reaping. That if everyone worked together, they could end the hunger games. So, when Haymitch is reaped, he basically takes his death as a guarantee and shifts his focus to her wish. Especially after he meets with Snow in Plutarch's house. Snow basically tells Haymitch, you're gonna die in the arena, but your family and your girl will be safe. (With the condition that Haymitch doesn't keep calling him out, but Haymitch kind of loses sight of this condition along the way). So, Haymitch does everything he can to try and stop the games, not thinking about the repercussions since he thinks he's not going to survive. Jumping on Beetee and Ampert's plan to blow up the arena, leaving the Newcomers behind, even his second attempt later in the story is a last-ditch effort to hold up to Lenore Dove's dream.

[ryems01]

The 24th Sunrise

(Contains SPOILERS for Sunrise on the Reaping)

Read on A03 here

The reaping for the 74th Hunger Games from Haymitch's point of view.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Happy Birthday, Haymitch!” 

The haunting voice of my dead brother washes over me like ice water. I snap upright from where I was slumped across the kitchen table only to see Effie Trinket standing in front of me.

“Get ready,” she says, turning around. “It’s going to be a big, big, big day!” 

She must have grabbed my knife before waking me because I see her place it down at the end of the table. Just like that morning of the victor’s tour. Just like every birthday morning since the arena. 

“I can’t stay, now that I know you’re up. You know how it is, so much to prepare! Wash up, dress nice, and don’t forget to be in the square by two o’clock. Don’t be late.”

Effie has just opened the door to leave when she doubles back. “Happy Birthday, again, Haymitch.” I can hear the door close behind her.

Right. Today is my birthday. Today is the reaping for the 74th hunger games. Today marks twenty four years of celebrating by sending kids to their deaths. Twenty four sunrises on reapings I couldn’t stop. 

But time keeps moving. And Lenore Dove has condemned me to life with her last wish. So, instead, I ignore Effie’s instructions and convince myself I’m content with drinking into oblivion. Better to forget today ever happened than face that broken promise. 

I only realize I’m running late when I hear the mayor’s voice. Not from the speakers they’ve set up in the square, but from my living room. I brace myself against the table as I stand, the booze making me unsteady, and make my way over to the television. I can see the mayor beginning to recite the history of the hunger games, live on the capitol news station. Which means I’m really late. 

I take a minute to throw on a pair of shoes before leaving the house. Half my focus goes into moving as quickly as possible to avoid the peacekeepers who will surely drag me on stage if they think I’m trying to skip. The other half goes into not falling over as the ground moves beneath me.

Between the panic of being late and the haze that’s fully descending over my mind, I’m grateful for the seat I drop into upon climbing the stage steps. My head is drooping towards my chest, but I pick it back up at the sound of clapping. As I look out towards the crowd in front of me, I catch a shock of bright pink in my periphery. 

Suddenly, I’m back in the arena. Watching as those bubble gum colored birds tear at Maysilee. Except it’s not Maysilee sitting in front of me, it’s Effie. The only friend I have left. The only person I’ve allowed to get close over these twenty four years. I left my knife back at the house, but I reach out anyway to try and protect her. 

Except she pushes me back until I’m sitting again. With the extra space, I realize there are no birds. I’m at home in district twelve. And I’ve just knocked Effie’s pink hair out of place, which I’m sure I’ll hear about later.

I watch as she makes her way to the podium.

“Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!”

I don’t want to see her pull the names. To watch as she reaps another Maysilee, another Louella, another Wyatt, another Lou Lou. But there’s nothing I can do as Effie makes her way to the first glass bowl. 

She digs deep into the slips of paper. When she pulls one out, the crowd goes absolutely silent. All I hear are her heels striking the floor and my own heart trying to race out of my chest.

Effie reaches the podium, smooths out the slip of paper, takes a breath in and names this year’s female tribute.

“Primrose Everdeen,” she says in a clear voice.

Distantly, I can hear the crowd murmuring with displeasure. I’m too busy doing the math in my head. Twelve years old. That’s how old Asterid and Burdock’s youngest is as she walks towards the stage. 

Prim is just reaching the stage steps when I hear another voice call out from the crowd.

“Prim!” Her voice sounds tight, like she had to force the name out. Then it comes again louder, stronger, more desperate as Katniss Everdeen rushes to her sister. 

Katniss shoves Prim behind her as soon as she’s within reach and, for just a second, I swear I see myself standing in front of Sid. 

“I volunteer!” she gasps, staring straight at Effie Trinket. “I volunteer as tribute!”

And somehow, the thought of having to send Katniss into the arena is so much worse than sending Prim. Katniss, who reminds me so much of my best friend. Of my Sweetheart. Of myself. I’ve seen her selling game in the Hob in more recent years. She clearly knows how to wield a weapon and she’s smart enough to sell to the right people. With Prim, I could help her achieve that last wish, but she would never survive the Games. What makes Katniss so terrifying is that she might stay alive. And I wouldn’t wish the life of a Victor on anyone, let alone my best friend’s daughter.

“Prim, let go,” Katniss says harshly. “Let go!” 

I could always tell when Burdock was trying not to cry. He would get a deep wrinkle between his eyebrows. It isn’t until this moment that I realize Katniss has the same tell, watching that wrinkle get deeper as Prim clings to her from behind. 

Don’t do it Katniss. Don’t let him use your tears.

Thankfully, her savior comes from a tall Seam boy who grabs Prim, lifting her into the air and away from Katniss. Prim is thrashing, screaming, trying to get back to her sister, and I don’t hear what the boy mutters to Katniss. Whatever it is, it seems to help as that wrinkle disappears and Katniss climbs onto the stage.

“Well bravo! That’s the spirit of the Games!” Effie practically beams at Katniss.

I think the spirit of the Games is better reflected by Prim still trying to escape as she’s carried away.

“What’s your name?”

I think of that baby, held high in Burdock’s arms as she replies, “Katniss Everdeen.”

“I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don’t want her to steal all the glory, do we? Let’s give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!” 

Not a single person claps. Well, besides Effie but she’s always seen the games through the Capitol’s twisted point of view. 

Then, one person at a time, the crowd touches the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it towards the stage. And I’m thrown back into another memory. Into that day, surrounded by people, staring at those graves. Of saying goodbye to Wyatt, Louella, Maysilee, Ma & Sid. I can feel the heat from the fire. From the explosives I set off in the arena, from the inferno that took my family. Red starts to fill my vision as I feed Lenore Dove a gumdrop.

My gaze moves from the crowd to who they’re saying goodbye to. To Katniss, who has inspired such unity from the district. Which is being broadcasted on live television. Where Snow might see. 

No more. Not again. No one else.

It’s all I can think as I stagger over to Katniss and throw my arm over her shoulders. It’s clumsy and I think she might be holding me up as I struggle to say something to take the attention off of her.

“Look at her. Look at this one!” For once, I wish I hadn’t made such an effort to forget a reaping. 

“I like her! Lots of…” One more word, any word, “Spunk!” I finally spit out.

I’m so tired of being afraid all the time. Of having to distance myself from people just to protect them.

Then I spot the camera and, well, old habits die hard I guess.

“More than you!” I scream as that red fills my vision again, stepping away from Katniss and towards the camera.

“More than you!” I’m pointing now. At the capitol. At Snow, if he’s watching. Since this is all his fault. 

I open my mouth to yell again, but I’ve forgotten how unsteady I am without the support of another person. Instead of stepping up to the lip of the stage, I go lurching over the edge. I feel weightless for a second before my vision blacks out.

Next Chapter

[ryems01]

Signed prints available

[ryems01]

Most people, when they’re paired with a dragon companion, become fearsome warriors in the king’s army. Gerald and I are not most people.

“Gerald!” I scream from across the shop floor. “I know you took it, and it’s the only one I have left, so you need to bring it back.”

Passing by shelves of crochet plushies, knit garments, and quilted blankets, I walk toward my dragon’s favorite hiding place - the waste basket I keep by my work station. As I approach, I see tiny white horns and dark green eyes peer over the rim of the basket. 

“Oh, yes mister. I need to finish binding off this sweater and I can’t without that needle.” Finally reaching my work station, I can see the needle in question at the very top of Gerald’s hoard. 

‘He’s actually managed to gather a good amount of yarn, thread, and fabric scraps today,’ I think to myself.

Gerald stands in front of the needle protectively, every muscle of his tiny body tensed and ready to defend his hoard. 

“Please? Can I have it for just a few more minutes? I promise I’ll give it back to you when I’m done.”

Gerald relaxes slightly, but continues to stare at me warily.

With a deep sigh, I reach into one of my desk drawers for Gerald’s favorite bargaining chip, my 5mm crochet hook. Gearld’s green and blue wings flare open as he places his front legs on the edge of the waste basket, trying to get closer to the hook.

“How about this? You give me the needle so I can finish the sweater. While I’m doing that, you can hold on to this,” I say, waving the crochet hook slightly. “Once I’ve finished, we’ll trade ba-”

I don’t even finish before Gerald launches himself towards the crochet hook. Despite his speed, he’s very gentle as he grasps the hook with his claws and removes it from my hand. Returning to his small hoard, Gerald coils himself around the hook. He nuzzles further in and faint smoke trails rise from his nose.

“I’ll take that as a yes!” 

I reach slowly into the waste basket to retrieve the needle, but Gerald doesn’t show any sign of moving. Before I return to the couch where the unfinished sweater waits, I make a note to pick up more large eye sewing needles next time I’m in town.

so I have this little dinosaur trashcan (he's called gerald) and he eats my thread and fabric scraps while I'm crafting

but like now I can't stop thinking about a little dragon that lives with a crafter and scurries around their workspace while they are making and has a hoard of colorful fabrics and yarn and that needle that they know they just put down next to that piece of fabric like you see the vision??

[ryems01]

[ryems01]

Dylan Sprouse really just went to someone’s island to sell his turnips??!?

This is so wholesome, he seems so nice!

[ryems01]

Six of Crows: A Comic Adaptation

Part 1, Chapter 3

Pages 23–24

Previous Pages

Download the Chapter 2 Digital Copy

[ryems01]

[ryems01]

You were born into a family of demons who escaped hell to live a normal life under humans. Your parents told you never to use your demonic powers. That is until you’re kidnapped by a serial killer of your hometown who you decide to teach a lesson.

[ryems01]

“That power corrupts people,” they cried, “you’ll become a monster!” That was a hundred years ago, and you’re beginning to wonder when the ‘evil’ is going to kick in

[ryems01]

You get called over to the children’s section of your store. A father is surrounded by onlookers and is frantically asking questions and begging for help. He says to you “Look I know that my child is half human, but I’m trying to do my best. I just need the right soap and hairbrush!”

[ryems01]

You are the only human employee at a company staffed by a multitude of alien species. Your colleagues seem to be having a difficult time properly understanding who, or what, your guide dog is.