ghosts that we knew: A mockingjay fanfiction

19

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Chapter 19

Haymitch

It is very rare that I get to take a break.

Between the taxing tasks of helping to lead a revolution and continuing to mentor-or should I call it babysitting at this point?-the Girl on Fire, I've got my hands full.

Today, however, Coin has let me off the hook, which is how I found myself curled up in my room's ratty old armchair, drinking what could easily pass as rat poison and reading one of Thirteen's redundant newspapers like some intellectual.

I suppose it's for the best. Keeping busy usually means keeping me out of trouble. I swish the acidic white liquor around in my mouth for a few moments in hopes that it'll dilute the sting as it goes down. I shouldn't complain, considering that these are smuggled goods, slipped under the table to me from Plutarch who receives my insider details as a Mentor as payment, but it doesn't stop me from swallowing and hissing as the barely-consumable liquid sets my insides on fire.

The only thing stronger than this liquor is my fear. It mounts with each passing day that goes by without a rescue mission.

Katniss' now-constant whining may be irritating, but I would be lying if I said it wasn't justified. I expressed interest in Katniss' cause to Plutarch and Coin and it's how I ended up in this chair today as opposed to working.

Weeks have passed since Peeta's most recent interview, and Coin has yet to even acknowledge Katniss' endless stream of requests to bring him here from the Capitol. I think of Effie Trinket, another innocent at the mercy of President Snow, and take another shot of white liquor in her honor.

At this point, it's all I can do. Raise a glass, and hope for the best. There isn't going to be a rescue mission, not unless it becomes necessary to aid the rebellion. It is a fact that we all must face.

The sober, more rational man inside of me wants to rip the pathetic drunkard from his seat, grasp him by the collar, and remind him that sitting on his ass, drinking himself into oblivion, and moping is not going to help anyone. That the only way to get anything done around here is to take action. That a seventeen-year-old pregnant girl has a better grip on this concept than I do.

The drunkard is too busy, however, finding familiar pleasure in the pain of becoming wasted in solitude.

Coin sent me home for the day under the false accusation that I am "working too hard". In actuality, the plan was to quarantine me to my room with an entire day to drink myself into a stupor and forget that I ever sided with Katniss' arguments and asked for a rescue mission yesterday.

Of the many traits that make Alma Coin an admirable leader, her ability to work herself into an impressionable state of denial is one of her finest, most underrated qualities.

After Katniss had given yet another standstill performance in her propo, it became obvious to everyone in the room that she had somehow managed to get her deft little hands on the footage of Peeta.

Our otherwise brilliant leader's tactic was to pretend that this fact was false. She compensated for this by pushing Katniss on her duties harder. Katniss, however, was having no problem with pushing right back.

I found the whole thing to be amusing, in a way. It's always a battle of the wits when it comes to those broads. Their only real threats, when it all boils down to it, is each other. Katniss can end the rebellion, and Coin can end anyone on the long list of people Katniss is trying to protect by beign the Mockingjay. They both hold each other's worlds in their hands, ready to close their fist and crumple them at a moment's notice.