Chapter 10 : The Aftermath
"Eleven."
Haymitch said the word like he was tasting it, rolling it around his mouth while the television cycled through tributes' faces for the third time. The champagne Effie had insisted upon sat untouched on the table—or mostly untouched. My glass had been drained twice, the bubbles doing nothing to quiet my racing thoughts.
Katniss sat rigid on the couch, her eleven glowing in Capitol gold beneath her image on screen. The highest score from an outer district in over a decade. The mark of a tribute worth watching, worth hunting, worth killing first.
"They gave her an eleven," Haymitch continued, "because she shot at them. She shot at the Gamemakers, and they rewarded her for it."
"Is that good or bad?" Katniss asked.
"Yes." He finally set down his glass. "It's the best and worst thing that could have happened. Best because sponsors will be lining up. Worst because every Career in that arena is going to make you their primary target."
The television showed my face next to hers. Six and eleven. The forgettable volunteer and the girl on fire. Nobody watching would guess which of us was the greater threat—and that was exactly the point.
"They won't ignore you now," I said. "Not for a second."
"I know." Her voice was steady, but her hands had curled into fists. "They'll come for me at the Cornucopia."
"They'll try." Haymitch leaned forward, eyes sharp despite the alcohol in his system. "But they'll have to get through twenty-four tributes to do it. The bloodbath is chaos. By the time it clears, you need to be gone—both of you."
Effie appeared from the communications room, practically glowing. "The calls haven't stopped! Three major sponsors already pledging support, and more waiting! This is unprecedented for District 12!"
"Good." Haymitch didn't look at her. "We'll need every one of them." He turned to me. "Your six is exactly what we wanted. The Careers scratched your name off their list the moment Caesar read it. You're background noise."
"Perfect camouflage."
"Until you're not." His gaze was knowing. "When you move in that arena, make it count. You'll only surprise them once."
The television finally cycled past our faces, moving on to analysis and predictions. Caesar Flickerman's voice filled the room, speculating about alliances, rivalries, early deaths. Professional entertainment dressed in the language of sport.
My first life had been comfortable. Safe. I'd watched horrors unfold on screens and felt nothing but distant discomfort. Now I was inside the screen, numbered and measured, my worth calculated by strangers who'd bet on my death.
Strange how much clearer everything became when you stopped watching and started living.
Haymitch sent Effie to coordinate sponsor meetings, then pulled us both into the smaller sitting room. Privacy here was relative—cameras watched every public space—but he positioned us in a corner where microphones would struggle.
"Tomorrow is interviews," he said quietly. "Your last chance to shape how Panem sees you. Right now, they see an eleven and a six. The dangerous archer and the nobody volunteer. We need to complicate that picture."
"Complicate how?" Katniss asked.
"Your score makes you a target. His score makes him invisible." Haymitch looked between us. "But what if the target and the ghost are connected? What if attacking one means facing both?"
I understood immediately. "The partnership angle. We sell it."
"Exactly. You're not two tributes from District 12—you're a team. Kill one, and the other comes for you. It won't stop the Careers from hunting, but it might make them hesitate. Might make them sloppy."
Katniss's jaw tightened. "I don't want Nolan dying because of my score."
"He's dying because of the Games, same as you. The only question is whether you die together or apart." Haymitch's voice was harsh, but not unkind. "I've watched twenty-four years of tributes go into that arena. The ones who survive longest are the ones who have something to fight for beyond themselves. Be that for each other."
The silence stretched. On the Reaping stage, I'd volunteered for reasons I couldn't explain to anyone here. Katniss had volunteered for Prim. Now we were bound by circumstance, by strategy, by the simple fact that neither of us wanted to die alone.
"Partners," Katniss said finally. "Until the end."
"Until the end," I agreed.
Haymitch studied us for a long moment. Something in his expression shifted—not quite hope, but perhaps the ghost of it.
"Get some sleep. Tomorrow we work on making Panem believe it."
The rooftop garden was supposed to be locked after curfew, but the door opened when I tried it. Either an oversight or a deliberate kindness—I didn't care which.
Capitol air tasted different from District 12. Cleaner, somehow, filtered through invisible systems that scrubbed away anything unpleasant. The city sprawled beneath me in patterns of light, buildings reaching toward stars drowned out by their own glow.
I retrieved bread from storage and ate it slowly, feeling my body's constant hunger. The healing factor demanded fuel, even when I hadn't healed anything. Baseline maintenance for a system I still didn't fully understand.
Footsteps behind me. My Blind Spot sense had already registered Katniss's approach—no threat, just attention.
She sat on the ledge beside me without asking. Her interview dress had been replaced by simple training clothes, her hair loose from its usual braid.
"Can't sleep," she said.
"Thinking about tomorrow?"
"Thinking about Prim." She stared at the lights. "When I volunteered, I didn't think past getting her safe. Now I'm here, and she's there, and if I die tomorrow, she'll watch it happen."
The words hung between us. I thought about my own first death—slow, clinical, surrounded by strangers in white coats. Nobody had watched. Nobody had cared enough to be there when it ended.
"You won't die tomorrow."
"You don't know that."
"No. But I know you're not dying in the bloodbath. You're too fast, too smart, too angry." I looked at her profile, sharp against the Capitol glow. "And I'll be watching your back."
"Your six means they won't watch you at all."
"Exactly. While they're focused on the eleven, the six will be working." I smiled slightly. "By the time they notice me, it'll be too late."
Katniss was quiet for a moment. Then: "Why did you really volunteer? The lamb stew answer is funny, but it's not true."
The question I'd been dodging since the stage. I could lie again—I was getting good at it—but something about the darkness and the lights and the proximity of death made lying feel wasteful.
"Because I spent my whole life waiting for something to happen," I said. "And nothing ever did. I just... existed. Safe, careful, afraid. And then one day I realized I wasn't living, I was just not dying yet." I paused. "When they reached for that name, I decided I was done waiting. Whatever happened next would be mine."
Not the whole truth. Not even close. But not a lie either.
Katniss studied me with those gray hunter's eyes. "That's the most honest thing you've ever said to me."
"Probably."
"It's also insane."
"Definitely."
Something almost like a smile crossed her face. She turned back to the lights, and we sat in silence until the cold drove us inside.
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