Slivers of dawn seeped through the worn, makeshift curtain in the Abernathy bedroom long before Haymitch would've like to rise, though he knew there was no getting back to sleep now.
It was reaping day, of course, so it was likely half of District 12 was already bustling in restlessness by this hour of the morning. And though Haymitch's odds weren't usually low, this year marked the Second Quarter Quell of the Hunger Games – it's 50th annual showing, meaning the reaping was to be somewhat out of the ordinary.
This year's alterations had been announced weeks before, which Haymitch paused to recall.
The Capitol channel had been broadcast across the country early in the morning, and the familiar, unsmiling face of President Snow appeared, large and taunting, on every screen in Panem. The districts knew what to expect: Snow was there to announce this year's change in the reaping.
It had happened once before, on the 25th Hunger Games, where the districts had been required to select their own tributes, yet it felt as if every person watching this much-anticipated broadcast was just as unbeknownst to the information as the next.
Haymitch's heart had begun to hasten as President Snow cleared his throat, beginning his spiel.
'Ladies and gentleman, as you all know, this is the fiftieth year of the Hunger Games. And it was written in the charter of the Games that every twenty-five years, there would be a Quarter Quell, to keep fresh for each generation the memory of those who died in the uprising against the Capitol.'
Haymitch and his younger brother, Elden, had used to bet on how long President Snow would flirt on the outskirts of situations before finally elaborating, as he did this plenty on national television, and on this particular occasion more than ever. But they hadn't laid money on this. The air was too heavy to even crack a smile.
'Each Quarter Quell is distinguished by games of a special significance. And now, on this, the fiftieth anniversary of our defeat of the rebellion, we celebrate the second Quarter Quell as a reminder that even the strongest cannot overcome the power of the Capitol.'
A dead, heavy sense of mystery still hovered in the air as Snow rambled on, and Haymitch recalled the drop of his stomach just as the final words slipped the President's mouth.
'On this, the second Quarter Quell Games, the amount of tributes reaped will be doubled, as a reminder to the districts that for every Capitol citizen who died during the first rebellion, two rebels gave their lives.'
Despite the few-thousand other possible tributes that inhabited District 12, the thought of this year's doubled reapings had haunted Haymitch since it had been announced.
Shivering in some invisible draught, Haymitch rose from his sheets, attempting to keep the squeak of the floorboards to a minimum as he crept to the kitchen. His mother had never been quite the cook, leaving Haymitch to acquire somewhat of a knack in making supper, at the least, edible.
Slowly and cautiously, he drew open the cabinet above the grimy, blackened sink, quietly retrieving a deteriorating, wooden chopping board, before placing it gently on the countertop behind him and grabbing a knife from the rack beside the sink.
His weakest skill, when it came to mornings, however, was attempting to open the ancient fridge without a groan, or a squeak, or some exhale of discomfort. The thing was practically crying for a replacement, though the Abernathys knew not to expect to afford such a luxury for a while, yet.
Haymitch's hand gripped the cold metal of the refrigerator handle, and with one anxious movement, he yanked it open, hastily gathering the small container of berries, the raw rabbit a neighbour had brought in the previous day, and the oatmeal, which he had repeatedly – with no apparent response – reminded his little brother not to keep in the cold. Not that it would hurt, just that the small, brittle shelves of the Abernathy refrigerator barely held yesterday's gatherings, let alone a large portion of oatmeal, and were honestly weeks away from clattering down entirely.
As if summoned by the distracted whirr of his brother's thoughts, Elden Abernathy emerged, weary-eyed, from the doorway, his expression one of irritable confusion.
'What are you doing?' he murmured, his voice hoarse from sleep.
Haymitch let out a silent sigh, placing the food items in his hands onto the counter and approaching his thirteen-year-old brother with a reassuring hand to the shoulder.
'You should get some rest, Elden. We don't need to go to town today, besides the reaping, and that isn't until this afternoon,' he murmured, sure as not to wake his poor mother.
She hadn't been doing so well since the passing of his father, last year. 'The man was never fit for the mines,' she'd say, 'much too weak of the heart.' Although it wasn't his heart that had failed him, but his lungs. Haymitch knew his father had always been strong of heart.
Elden sighed, turning back towards the doorway connecting the kitchen to the bedroom, before hesitating suddenly.
'Haymitch,' he muttered again, 'don't worry about the double tributes thing, okay?'
Haymitch's thirteen-year-old brother had read his mind, and it made him feel a little more vulnerable.
'I wasn't. I'm not worried.'
It wasn't entirely a lie. He definitely had just been thinking about it, his mind running over the bitter memory like an ulcer under the tongue. But he wasn't entirely worried, so to speak. More... slightly concerned.
In theory, the doubled participants of this year's Hunger Games didn't increase, nor decrease anyone's chances. There were more Careers – tributes from District 1, 2, and 4 – to ratio the large number of other tributes. There was likely a larger arena, equipped with more dangers to accommodate more people. The odds of any individual selected remained the same. Which, however, as Haymitch allowed himself to admit, didn't calm him much, as the District 12 odds were and always had been horrid.
'Elden,' Haymitch murmured, feeling squat, now that his thirteen-year-old brother had almost reached his height, 'it'll be alright, y'know. You're thirteen; your name's only in twice. And we're not in any extra times, this year.'
The more impoverished residents of District 12, including Haymitch and Elden and their mother, inhabited a dull, dust-covered area called the Seam, and sometimes traded a few more slips of their name in the reaping for tesserae - basically extra rations. And although this was the first year Haymitch had worked to feed the family without his father, they were doing okay, compared to some of their closest neighbours.
'Now go back to sleep, and I'll cut you the biggest piece of meat, alright?' Haymitch told his brother, giving him a pat on the shoulder and returning his previous place behind the kitchen counter.
Elden nodded, in somewhat better spirits, making for his bed with a yawn.
Kid's good at hiding his worry, Haymitch thought, his mind now focused on the knife in his hand as he sliced is cleanly and quickly through the rabbit, making sure to keep his promise by leaving the last piece just a little larger, if he even is worried.
He then lifted the chopping board to scrape the meat slices into the bucket on the ground besides him, before placing it back down on the counter and moving on to the berries, which were sourced from the forest, making them generously large, due to their adaption to the wild.
Haymitch had no idea who in District 12 was brave enough to venture down there, into the trees fenced off from the edge of town, let alone to sell their findings at the Hob. It occurred to him that he'd have most likely kept them for himself, should he have ever been so lucky. He took a moment to appreciate this unknown donor for a sacrifice he'd never have been able to make.
Haymitch turned slightly to run a little water over his knife, washing away the taint of raw meat, before tearing through the red-coloured berries and sprinkling them over three chipping bowls.
His agility with a knife had not gone unnoticed in the district, and had, in fact, earned him a paid job slicing food at the market on weekends. He was aware that his age – sixteen – made it easy for them to pay him ever so little of a salary, but he didn't mind so much. Any money he could put towards his family was good money, especially in District 12, the poorest of the districts.
But the market would not be running today.
The reaping wasn't until two o'clock this afternoon, and yet here he was, chopping berries before the sun had even fully made its way up.
Haymitch couldn't help but be anxious – his name had been put in five times this year. But again, as he had reminded himself for the last couple of weeks, that was only five in thousands. What were the odds?
Raw rabbit taunted Haymitch's nostrils as he ever-so-quietly pushed the back door open, the bucket full of it swinging in his right hand.
He refrained from cooking indoors in the mornings, afraid the smell would wake his mother and Elden, which had lead him to make use of his father's old, outdoor firepit. And ever since, he designated at least one morning a week, every week, collecting the thinnest sticks he could gather, on this side of the woods, and this week's had been yesterday, as the section beside the ashy, black pit that he had designated to twigs was crammed full.
Haymitch took a seat on the portion of cut log beside the firepit as he approached, then began to thread the rabbit, piece by piece, onto a twig, one for each, before placing them across the metal rods which he had formed to resemble a grill over the flames.
Then came to the most tedious part: lighting the fire.
While he'd have loved to be able to make use of just a small packet of matches, such materials were about as rare in District 12 as a diamond in a coal mine – a phrase which he loved to say, due to its association with District 12's sole industry: coal mining.
Instead, over the years, he had made use of a combination of his father's old spectacles – well, one lens, as the other had been shattered and the frame bent out of shape – and the sun in order to ignite a flame.
It was tricky to the inexperienced, however Haymitch had been doing this for many a year, now.
Carefully, he pulled the lens from the pocket of his nicest shorts – a pair with only one blackened coal stain – and held it at such an angle that the sunlight streamed right through it, sending an almost-immediate flame into the mixture of ashes and dry leaves that padded the bottom of the pit.
The smell of cooking meat made his stomach ache with desperation, although he knew it wouldn't be ready for minutes yet.
***
The morning trudged by in a manner so painful Haymitch couldn't bear it.
A million times, he could've sworn it was almost two o'clock, but as he looked up, the sun had not even reached its peak.
But now, as the district-wide alarm – summoning all to the town square – blared, he wished he had valued the morning a little more.
Four District 12 children were about to be thrown into the pits of death – literally. Only one – of forty-eight possible victors – would make it home. And there was a slim chance District 12 would take the cake.
The small village had only housed one victor, in all fifty years of the Hunger Games, whom nobody knew a single thing about except that it was widely understood they had passed away a while back.
It was somewhat humiliating, living in the district constantly mocked for its weaklings. Haymitch hoped, deep down, as selfish as it sounded, that this year's pickings stood at least a small chance. That they were at least final-eight material. But he didn't decide, did he?
No, the large, glass reaping balls, filled with little paper slips and positioned dauntingly up on the podium in the town square did. The eager fingers of Euphemia Trinket, District 12's bright, colourful Capitol representative, did. It was all down the goddamn odds.
Oh, how he hated those odds.
As Haymitch moved to join the queue for the admission desk, his hopes sinking with the stern expressions of the other boys and girl around him, he sought immediate refuge in a glimpse of a beaming face he knew well.
Etta Hyacinth was the only soul in District 12 Haymitch deemed worth spending time with outside of his family. He despised the place, but his girlfriend – as he was proud to say – made it all somewhat worth his while.
'Haymitch!' Etta cried, beckoning him to join her in the quickly-moving line.
Haymitch shot her a half-hearted grin, suddenly distracted by the absence of his brother's presence beside him. He turned to look down the line in anxiety, his heart thumping as he scanned the very back over and over, searching desperately for a sign of Elden's reassuring grin.
But today, the queue was packed so tightly, he struggled to see a thing, and it felt like a bad omen.
'Haymitch? Are you alright? You're white as snow!' Etta exclaimed suddenly, tearing him from his line of thought.
'Huh? Yeah, I'm—'
'Next!' called a loud voice, and Haymitch felt a strong body shove him forward to face a frustrated-looking government official, who reached for his hand over the admission desk with a yank.
'Haymitch Abernathy,' Haymitch informed the official confidently, who pricked his finger with the little device, pressing the blood-leaking tip to the designated box on the paper below, before gesturing for him to move away.
'I know who you are,' the official spat, and Haymitch felt both irritated and a little intimidated as he walked away.
This was typical sign-in procedure at the reaping. It also helped the government keep track of the population, so it sort of 'killed two birds with one stone,' as President Snow would say.
From there, Haymitch began to move toward the left half of the youth of District 12, and, being older than most, made his way close to the front of the group.
The children of the district were organised by age and gender on reaping day; girls to the right, and boys to the left, with the youngest of each – twelve years old – at the very back of the pack, ranging all the way up to the eighteen-year-olds – the oldest age one could be reaped – lining the front like a barrier.
Haymitch never minded this system, until the day his brother turned twelve, and he joined the group centring the town square. Now all he felt was worried.
As the clock struck two o'clock, the mayor of District 12 stood up off his seat, approaching the podium with an authoritative grunt.
'Nearing three-hundred years ago, the country of Panem rose from the ashes of what was once North America.'
Mayor Breccia's deep, bellowing voice echoed even further when boomed into a microphone than it naturally did, which led to several of the younger children, huddled around their parents, to block their ears.
Haymitch rolled his eyes – this story was mandatory every year. Most learned to zone it out, after a while.
Mayor Breccia continued to ramble on about the history of the country, the many disasters it had faced, and the war, which led to an uproar in the districts and, eventually, the destruction of District 13. But Haymitch didn't care to pay attention until the Games began to be explained.
'In penance for their uprising, each district shall offer up a male and a female between the ages of twelve and eighteen at a public 'reaping.' These tributes shall be delivered to the custody of the Capitol, and then transferred into a public arena, where they will fight to the death until a lone victor remains.'
Breccia's introduction to the Games was even duller than usual, though Haymitch could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
'However, this year marks the fiftieth anniversary of the Hunger Games, and therefore the second Quarter Quell.'
This wasn't new information, though murmurs rang through the tense crowd, causing the Mayor to shift impatiently.
'As usual, take the Games as your annual reminder: lift a finger, and every last one you will be destroyed much like District Thirteen,' Mayor Breccia interrupted the chatter.
District 13 had been the thirteenth and final district surrounding the outskirts of the Capitol, although during the first rebellion, over fifty years prior, it was bombed as a punishment for its crimes, leaving nothing but dust where its buildings once stood.
Mayor Breccia's words were nothing to laugh at, although their repetition each year made them less and less daunting, and more something Haymitch knew off the top of his head. Like poetry.
He had always hated poetry.
Now would usually be the point in the announcements in which the district's previous victors were commended, however, as the Capitol loved to remind them, District 12 had none remaining.
Mayor Breccia cleared his throat, directing the district's attention up to the large display screen centring the square.
What was just a wide-shot of all of District 12, gathered for the reaping, now zoomed uncomfortably close to a recap of the familiar broadcast: President Snow reciting the catch of this year's Quarter Quell.
'On this, the second Quarter Quell games, the amount of tributes reaped will be doubled, as a reminder to the districts that for every Capitol citizen who died during the first rebellion, two rebels gave their lives.'
The words, though familiar, didn't hit any less hard.
As the broadcast cut back to the live footage, Mayor Breccia gave a small cough to regain attention, glancing over at an unimpressed Euphemia Trinket, who tapped her foot impatiently, and somewhat impressively fast.
Haymitch took this moment to take her in: average height, bound in excessive jewels and, in his opinion, an extremely ugly purple dress, which stretched from her jaw to her ankles, with many fancy twists and turns along the way. Her shoes were not visible, however he noticed her extraordinary hair, which, blue in colour, was fasted up into two, bow-like loops. A fringe fell loose from the style, yet it was seemingly gelled down like glue to her pale forehead.
Despite the headache Euphemia Trinket was to look at, Haymitch had never minded District 12's Capitol representative. He found her surprisingly upbeat, despite the situation at hand.
'Happy Hunger Games!' Euphemia cheered, her voice producing feedback from the microphone which indicated that the technology despised her almost as much as the rest of the district did. 'It is such an honour to be here in District 12 today!'
Silence from the crowd. Euphemia, despite crestfallen, as she probably expected somewhat of an applause, powered on.
'Anyhoo, as always... ladies first!'
Haymitch felt is stomach clench instantly. He knew this was coming, he just hadn't expected it to be right now. But he'd never truly be ready for this. No one was. He felt his hand clasp for Etta's, though as he suddenly remembered, his only refuge was bound behind a rope across the centre aisle.
He inhaled little air in the time Euphemia fished around in the glass bowl, despite it being the female tributes drawn first. For all he knew, he could lose Etta in this very second, and the thought teased at the anxiety building in his stomach.
Euphemia's heels were loud on the stage as she trotted back towards the podium, carefully unfolding the slip in her long-nailed fingers and clearing her throat.
'This year's first female District Twelve tribute is...' Euphemia took a dramatic pause, pursing her lilac-lined lips, 'Zinnia Verne!'
Her voice was more like an exclamation than a sympathetic tone, beaming a grin so bright Haymitch hoped it was fake. But for all he knew, it probably wasn't; the Capitol feasted on the misery of the district's.
He knew only vaguely of Zinnia.
He knew that she lived in the Seam, only a few houses down from him. He knew she'd once delivered a rather malnourished rabbit on her Ma's behalf after his father passed, although he had not a clue where she'd had the money to get one.
But apart from that, he didn't know much else. However her location of residence was made obvious anyway by the state of her as she emerged from the crowd: long, brown hair - likely counting weeks, now, without washing, a perishing, blue frock, swishing above her knees at an obviously too-small size, and scuffed leather shoes, with holes so large, they took up more surface area than the actual leather, Haymitch thought.
Heads turned in anticipation she emerged, making her way up onto the creaking, wooden stage, step by step.
She's fighting back tears, Haymitch thought, she shouldn't cry up there. She'd make a fool out of herself.
But Zinnia Verne did not cry.
In fact, she held it together better than her mother, who screamed out her name in despair until two armed Peacekeepers escorted her from the outskirts of the square.
Haymitch's heart jolted a little as Euphemia fished for a slip once more.
This was the part nobody was used to – two of each gender being reaped. Usually they'd be announcing the male tribute by now.
'The second female District Twelve tribute is...' Euphemia paused for dramatics, once again – or maybe to properly unfold to piece of paper – 'Maysilee Donner!'
Haymitch craned his neck in search of the second tribute. He didn't really know Maysilee, either, but he remained curious as to this year's chances of winning.
His eyes finally met the girl, the crowd parted around her, feeling a pang of sympathy as she clung to two trembling blondes – whom Haymitch recognised as Clara Manon and Maysilee's twin sister, Marigold Donner – in despair. But, almost as quickly as her shock had set in, it appeared to settle, and Haymitch observed curiously as Maysilee Donner made her way to the stage, breathing slow and deep.
Smart girl. Everyone knew not to cry at the reaping. There was no worse way to lose Capitol sponsors.
Maysilee was, perhaps, easy on the eyes. Her blonde hair had been braided, just in one front section, whilst the rest hung loose, halfway down her back. Her fringe had been since destroyed by her anxious, fiddling fingers – which reached to fix it immediately, as if reading his mind – although she still presented well in a deep, red, waist-tie dress, which brought out the colour in her cheeks quite nicely, he thought.
Lost in his mind, he hadn't even realised Euphemia had approached the second glass bowl, or that she was already trotting back once more.
'The first male tribute for District Twelve is...' Euphemia had already unfolded the paper this time, and was likely just being theatrical again, 'Quince Everly!'
Haymitch's eyes scanned the crowd once more for the third tribute – or victim, as would be more suited a title – to this year's Hunger Games, desperate for someone who looked as if he at least had a sliver of a chance.
It was cruel, to disregard the female tributes in such a way, and he knew it, but the Hunger Games weren't about caring for people's feelings, they were for winning, and win, Quince Everly might just.
He was a tall, surly thing, coal-blackened of cheek and raw of flesh, no younger than seventeen years old. He looked strong and agile, and Haymitch watched, his sliver of hope expanding, as this boy - his expression annoyingly calm - pranced up to the stage like a show pony.
Okay, so the boy to potentially be District 12's first victor was heavily self-centered. But what did it matter to him? All Haymitch had to do was sit at home and watch.
'And now, our final District Twelve tribute for the fiftieth annual Hunger Games is...'
Haymitch jumped in surprise, once again forgetting the doubled tribute-count this year, and barely had time to think before Euphemia Trinket announced the fourth and final tribute.
It's alright, Haymitch reminded himself quickly, you and Elden together are only seven out of thousands. Seven out of thousands.
But it wasn't Elden whose name echoed off of Euphemia's green-lined lips. It was his.