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First, they took them to District 13.
Which wasn't supposed to exist.
And took them deep . . .
"Uh, how far down are we?"
"Far enough the bombs can't reach."
. . . underground.
They fed them, they cleaned them, they clothed them.
Which was all very nice.
And then they took away . . .
"You're serious?"
"Yes, sir."
. . . their goddamn alcohol.
"Not even a little?"
"No, sir."
At first he laughed.
"Son, I've probably been half-drunk longer than you've been alive."
"I'm sorry, sir."
Then he challenged.
"Listen then, let me the hell outta here. You've got your Mockingjay. Nobody needs me. I've served my purpose. I'll just go be drunk and freeze to death happy in the woods."
"Negatory, sir. We can't risk you giving away our location. Too many lives at stake."
And of course, . . .
"Your life is gonna be at stake if I have to walk around this damn place sober."
"Is that a threat, sir?'
. . . finally, . . .
Heavy sigh.
"Kid, no, it's not, alright?"
. . . he gave in.
"Could you just give me some coffee to steady my nerves then?"
"Negatory, sir. There's no coffee here either."
"Ah, Jesus, I'm in the lower levels of hell-"
Mostly.
What he had said was true.
He had pretty much been blackout drunk, regular drunk, half-drunk, or full drunk . . .
". . . here to drink."
. . . since winning his own Hunger Games.
"Finally, something I can help you with."
For the last twenty-plus years.
To drown the screaming.
To drown the visions.
To drown . . .
". . . Annual Hunger Games, Haymitch Abernathy!"
. . . the past.
District 13 was heavy on the military.
On the order and structure.
Heavy on the discipline.
They had to be.
If they didn't, . . .
". . . rations, stealing rations is strictly prohibited . . ."
. . . they'd be found out.
Targeted.
And annihilated.
They knew.
Or worse, almost starving to death.
It had happened before.
To them.
And now . . .
"There is no District 12."
"What? What the hell are you talkin' about, Gale?"
. . . to District 12.
So they had to be what they were.
Underground.
Deep.
Safe.
Secure.
And . . .
". . . are we?"
"About a mile and a half into the Earth's crust although . . ."
. . . really deep.
So not only was Haymitch Abernathy drying out . . .
". . . -se, just give me something, anything, please . . ."
. . . he was drying out . . .
". . . I die, you wouldn't crumble me into the beef stew."
. . . way . . .
". . . Katniss, is she alright?"
. . . way . . .
". . . anywhere if she doesn't have her bread boy, trust me . . ."
. . . underground.
And that . . .
". . . drop of literally anything . . ."
. . . didn't help things . . .
". . . let me die, I'm begging you, nobody would miss me . . ."
. . . at all.
And drying out, in any environment, wasn't easy.
Particularly deep underground.
Like a . . .
". . . -damn mole!"
He experienced episodes of uncontrollable rage where he destroyed everything in his room.
". . . out of here! You can't keep me in here, I'm not a prisoner, let me out, goddammit . . ."
Episodes of abject despondency, where he pushed himself into a corner, knees up, hiding his face in his hands and his hair, sobbing like a child.
". . . had to. And I couldn't save them! Not one! In all the years, not one! Not one . . ."
Episodes of agitation where he simply could not, could not, sit still. Scratching at his skin, pulling at his clothes, recoiling at the taste of the bland, military rations.
". . . swill! It's inhumane! I thought the Capitol was evil, huh, but you people . . ."
His dreams were vivid sometimes he actively hallucinated until he didn't know up from down, left from right.
Reality . . .
". . . save you! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
. . . from fantasy.
He suffered sweats, he suffered tremors.
He suffered nausea and fevers.
Blinding migraines and uncontrollable vomiting.
His heart pounded, blood feeling like it was going to burst right out of his veins.
He panted like a dog in summer, suffered muscle cramps so severe he screamed.
He fell to the floor in seizures and convulsions.
He became extremely exhausted but could not sleep.
Apathy, depression, and extreme, intensive mood swings walked hand-in-hand, from moment to excruciating moment.
When they could, the technicians maintained a steady influx of fluids, heavy in nutrients.
Folate, thiamine, dextrose.
The Bs, the sugar.
Cell regulators, energy transporters.
Blood sugar regulators.
They IVed him when they could, replaced the IVs when he tore them out.
Strapped him down tight.
And left him to . . .
Bastards.
. . . recover and face reality.
All the essential stuff Haymitch had done his absolute, self-medicated self to destroy.
Kill himself if he could.
Forget himself if he couldn't.
They made him take them.
Even doled out the most minimalistic amounts possible of Acamprosate to take the edge of the worst of the withdrawal symptoms, ensure he live, dammit, until the life-threatening symptoms eased.
Not for him, nobody cared about him.
But for the Mockingjay.
She was attached to him, he had been her mentor.
Pathetic an attempt as that had been, at least at first.
The Mockingjay had already lost her grounding.
The boy.
She was already difficult enough to deal with.
Another ally from home gone, a familiar, would only serve to drive her farther off course.
And they needed, they all did, her focused and working.
It was the only way to destroy the Capitol, Snow, once and for all.
That's what Heavensbee had said, convinced Coin of.
So they kept Haymitch Abernathy alive . . .
". . . -nks, you're a real peach . . ."
. . . almost against his will.
Nobody came to visit him.
Who would? He has spent years, literal decades after Snow killed his family to punish him, driving everyone else away until there is no one left.
Plus, drying out is nasty business and even gracious, beautiful old Mags is gone.
Peeta.
Who knows where Effie is, possibly somewhere being a psychedlically well-mannered prissy rainbow.
Katniss, now in the clutches of President Coin, her own unique brand of ruthless danger.
And so Haymitch Abernathy has no one.
As he has always stubbornly been.
Some walks you have to take alone.
Until one day, . . .
"How are you feeling today, Haymitch?"
. . . he looked around.
Like crap.
And found . . .
"Sober."
. . . he could think again.
Great.
Kind of.