Chapter Text
The hovercraft smelled of blood and metal and smoke. The hum beneath his feet was too smooth. Too clean. Too...controlled for the situation.
It was wrong.
Finnick was yelling again. Something about Katniss. About Annie. About the arena. About the tree and damn force field. Haymitch couldn’t track all the words. They slipped through him like water through a sieve, because all he could focus on was one truth:
They didn’t have them.
They didn’t have Katniss.
They didn’t have Peeta.
He clenched his hands into tight fists, pressing his nails against his palms hard enough that he felt the sting of the half-moon impressions.
Pain helped.
It anchored.
It kept him from shattering under the weight of the mess that had gone down.
Plutarch was talking.
Fast and urgent.
Desperate.
Trying to make explanations out of failure.
“We got what we could. The timing - there was only a window - Johanna dug her tracker out, she bought us the moment - we didn’t know Snow would scramble the retrieval pattern - they were in the arena before we could get to her.”
Haymitch turned slowly. His voice, when it came, felt like it was dragging up from somewhere ancient and dead. “She was the point.”
Plutarch flinched, and looked down. “I know.”
“All of this...” Haymitch gestured aimlessly. “All of this was to keep her alive and get her out of the damn arena.”
Plutarch didn’t look up. “I know.”
Haymitch turned away, unable to look at him. “And Peeta...he...” His voice broke on the name, shamefully, like a kid. A drunk. A failure.
Plutarch had the decency to look ashamed.
The walls pressed in. The air turned sharp and acidic in his lungs. He forced it out in one long exhale, suppressing the scream that was dying to come out. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop, if he let himself give in.
Ghost nipped at his ankles.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood their wondering, fearing.
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token...
Finnick had dropped into one of the bolted chairs, burying his face in his hands, muttering prayers or curses or maybe just her name. Johanna was pacing like a caged animal, blood smeared across her temple, her hands trembling too hard to be rage alone.
“They were right there,” Finnick rasped. “We were almost at the tree. Then Brutus and Enobaria - I tried- I swear I tried -”
"I know." Haymitch didn’t blame him.
Or Johanna.
He didn’t blame anyone but himself.
He’d sent them in.
He’d made the calls. Whispered the plans. Arranged the allies. Promised them he’d get them out.
Promised her.
Stay alive.
Haymitch didn’t sit. He couldn’t.
His kids were gone.
No, not gone. Taken.
Back to the Capitol. Back to Snow. Back to the people who turned flesh into theater. Who could mold pain into propaganda like it was art. And the star players? The Girl on Fire. The Boy with the Bread. Symbols. Weapons. Victims.
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
He should have seen it coming.
He should’ve -
The ghost of a girl with braids suddenly flashed across his mind.
“My name is Louella McCoy. I’m from District Twelve.”
He knew what they were capable of.
The nightmares they could conjure for the sake of saving face.
Damn it.
Peeta would protect Katniss. He always had, and he always would. But Haymitch knew what the capitol did to people who had hearts like Peeta’s. And Katniss would fight until she had nothing left - until she’d burned every last ember of herself trying to keep Peeta safe.
“We can spin this,” Plutarch said, his voice way too calm. “Their capture might be more powerful than their rescue. It will galvanize the districts -”
Hell no.
“Shut up,” Haymitch snapped. “You talk like they’re pieces on a board. But they’re not yours to play with. You didn’t live near them, and hear them scream every night because of nightmares. You didn’t see the way she flinched at thunder. You didn’t watch him paint, trying to find something - anything - that didn’t hurt. Both of them just...wanted peace, and that’s gone now. Forever. They’re not martyrs. They’re not symbols. They’re kids. My kids. I got them into this. I mentored them. I promised -”
Stay alive.
He couldn’t finish.
He couldn’t think.
He hadn’t promised them safety. He hadn’t been foolish enough to think he could pull that off. But somewhere in the rot of him, he’d hoped. Maybe this time, one of them would make it out. Maybe both. Maybe this would be the last round of death and dirt and nightmares he’d have to shepherd someone through.
But they were trapped in the Capitol’s hands now.
In his hands.
His mercy, which Haymitch knew was nonexistent.
And he knew what that meant.
They’d be broken. Used. Not just tortured—no, that would be too simple. They’d be turned into something unrecognizable. Puppets. Propaganda. Snow would skin them alive and use their faces to sell lies.
Peeta with his steady hands and soft eyes.
Katniss with her fire and fury.
They would tear them apart from the inside out.
“We never should have kept them in the dark,” he muttered bitterly.
“You know we couldn’t have told them. It was too risky.”
“Well, look how that turned out," Haymitch snapped. "She was the mockingjay - the-the heartbeat of the revolution. She should have known what she was beating for.”
“Snow will torture them for information, and we ensured that they won’t have any to give.”
Haymitch fought down the urge to attack, curling his hands into tight fists again. “Small comfort,” he snarled.
Plutarch didn’t say anything.
A flicker of regret crossed his expression.
“Snow won’t kill them,” he said softly. “You know that.”
“And you know there are worse things he could do to them than kill them,” Haymitch replied, his voice low and tight. “Killing them would be a kindness.”
Plutarch had the decency to nod, and look down.
“I’m sorry,” Finnick’s voice cracked weakly through the silence. “I’m sorry, Katniss. I’m so sorry.”
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore.
He was back to being 16, staring at the five graves, and hearing Burdock sing. He was back to wandering the streets of 12, half aware, looking for his lost love.
"We'll figure this out," Plutarch said softly. "Thirteen will have a plan. We can get them back."
Haymitch shook his head. "No. Not the Katniss and Peeta that went into the arena."
He sank down against the wall at last, his legs folding awkwardly beneath him. Useless. He felt old. Older than he ever had. And for the first time in years, maybe even decades, he let himself cry.
For them.
For the ghosts that still haunted him.
For the new ghosts that would haunt him as he continued to fail and lead others to their death.
And for the part of himself that had dared to believe that this time, this time, they might win.