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HG: The Hanging Tree, Chapter Seven - The Phantom Librarian
Spewing out too many words since November 2003
fernwithy
fernwithy
HG: The Hanging Tree, Chapter Seven
Haymitch has just been assigned D12's old escort, Ausonius Glass, a particularly unpleasant man.


Chapter Seven
Glass tries to force another script into my hand as we're herded up to the balcony of the Justice Building, but I manage to get on the far side of Lepidus from him, and pretend not to see it. I give Gia's speech. I try not to look at Moran's family, but I can't help it. They're glaring at me. For a second, I lose track of what I'm saying -- I'm back in the arena, trapped by three bigger boys, all Careers, and I remember thinking that Moran was the weak link, the easiest mark, because he was too confident. Then I remember slicing into his flesh.

Kavan Carroll's family is next over, under a huge picture of him. He was sitting on top of me, completely immobilizing me. If he'd taken one less second to gloat, I'd have been dead, but he hesitated just long enough for Maysilee to kill him. He collapsed on top of me.

Behind me, I hear someone clear his throat. Glass is looking at me with vast distaste.

I finish the speech.

The mayor of District Four, Keith Trillo, is actually fat. People in the Capitol are wild to stay skinny and everyone I've ever met in the districts before is skinny because they can't eat much. I've seen pictures of fat people before, but never actually met one. I feel like he should be congratulated, but I decide that it would probably be rude. Mom always said to never talk about what people's bodies look like.

He presents me with the plaque. The plaques are now stacked almost a foot high back on the train. I have a feeling they're just going to stay in a stack, maybe up in the attic. Or maybe I'll put them up. I've met some halfway decent people. Maybe I can write their names on the backs.

"Now," he says, "I know you've been collecting up recipes, and our friend Mags will give you ours, but we've got an ingredient your friend might find hard to come by inland." He holds up a small plastic dish full of what looks like green slime. "Seaweed. You'll never want your bread without it again." He grins.

I take the seaweed. Seeing it up close and personal doesn't make it look less slimy. "Thank you. Can't wait to find out what this tastes like."

"Well, you're just about on top of your chance to find out. District Four, you give a proper goodbye to the victor, now!"

The audience applauds on this command. I look out into the crowd, wondering if Gia is hiding there someplace, but on second thought, I guess it's not very likely. The raft wouldn't have gone faster than the train, and they were waiting until after we left to take off.

I am led back into the Justice Building. It is about the opposite of District Six -- one high glass wall looks out onto the sunny ocean, and a fountain sparkles in the light. Most of the interior structure is built of some kind of translucent plastic, molded into waves. Embedded lights change their colors, and there's a quiet shushing sound piped in. It's very pretty. It doesn't change the fact that I can see tarpaper shacks marching down to the sea about a mile from here, with clotheslines strung between them. But it's pretty. White birds circle over the water, and a humid haze makes the sunlight seem almost tangible.

I guess it's okay for Gia to live here, if she has to live in the districts. It doesn't seem as bad as the others.

A hand wraps around my upper arm, the grip much stronger than I would have guessed. Glass gives me a wicked smile. The tattoos on his face (which are actually worked around embedded stones of some kind) make every expression look vaguely threatening. "Prep," he says.

"I know the drill."

"And we're going to get to know one another a little bit."

"Great."

He shoves me into an elevator that travels up through the color-changing waves, and does not let go of me the whole way up to the top floor, where we're deposited in a white hallway lined with blue doors. He pushes me through one of them. My preps are nearly shaking in their shoes as they start the routine.

Once I'm pinned down at the skin and nail care station, glass pulls up a stool and sits in front of me, way too close. Igerna has to pull my arm way off to the side to file my nails.

"Just so we're completely clear, I am not here to be your servant," Glass says. "Nor am I here to keep you all warm and snug at night."

"I'm crushed."

"I am here to keep you on script. Your job, for which you are being paid quite handsomely, is to speak for the Capitol and keep the people entertained. I'm not sure that Pelagia Pepper was ever entirely clear with you on that."

I don't answer.

"If I hand you a script, you will read it. You will smile when you do it."

"But his teeth…" Fabiola squeaks.

Glass glares at her until she looks down and starts scurrying around the dental station. He looks back at me. "You're not paid to live in obscurity. Your life belongs to the audience. They don't want to be lectured or implicitly reprimanded by your behavior. They want to have a few good laughs. They will want to root for their favorite pairings for you. They will want to know your favorite breakfast food, your most painful secrets -- provided that those secrets are entertaining -- and your most embarrassing screw-ups. On the last, I suspect they will not be left wanting. From everything I have observed about you, and everything your mentor told me, screw-ups will be a regular occurrence if you're not being constantly reined in. I do not intend to be your babysitter."

I wait for Igerna to let go of my hand, then make the most vulgar gesture I know at Glass.

He slaps it away. "And no matter what, you're going to be having the time of your life. Parties. Clothes. All the money you can spend on yourself. Girls. Boys, if they're your thing… though I'd advise against it seeming exclusive. Girls are your primary fans in that regard, and you will not disappoint them." He reconsiders. "Though I imagine some of them would rather enjoy the thought of you with a suitably attractive boy from time to time."

"Not really my thing."

"Up to now," he says, "your 'thing' appears to be mooning over a traitor ten years older than you are, and ignoring every other offer. Some of your more maudlin fans imagine you to be in mourning for your lost arena love. Most are just wondering if you know what you're doing at all."

"Maybe I don't want to end up with relatives all over Panem."

Glass makes a disgusted noise. "You can't possibly have reached sixteen without knowing how to prevent that." He reaches into the purse he's carrying and tosses out a string of foil wrappers. It lands on my lap. "There," he says. "That should take care of it. Most of these girls will know exactly what to do with those."

"I don't even know these girls!"

"What in the world would you need to know them for?" He waves this away. ”At any rate, the standoffish attitude stops now. You're not out here to offer a lesson on sobriety and chastity. You're going to be seen having fun, not looking like you're on some sort of… religious pilgrimage. I've instructed Lepidus to start dressing you like you're at a party instead of a funeral." He wrinkles his nose. "There are men in the Capitol who spend their days sitting on sharp rocks at the lake shore, gouging themselves with their fingernails. So far, they have been more entertaining than your victory tour."

"I've seen other victory tours. Not everyone -- "

"There are different expectations of different victors. You set the expectation at the banquet following the first viewing. Your character was made quite explicit, and the audience quite enjoyed it. People expect you to party."

"I wasn't partying. I was trying to drown out pain from an axe wound."

He snorts. "You keep telling yourself that. But I assure you, there is not one fan out there who cares about your precious pain." He finally leans back out of my space. "You'll also avoid the 'smart' talk and book lectures. I suppose there is a small group that might find that entertaining, but they aren't your target audience. Your target audience wants the boy who fought his way through the arena with a knife and a pretty girl at his side. They are not book people."

"Why can't I just find my own fans?"

"Because that is not your job." He rifles through some papers. "That established, your schedule is set out decently enough for the remaining districts. Tonight, you will meet several District Four victors. This is a loyal district, so I do not recommend engaging in any seditious talk with them. It will get back to me, and I will make you quite sorry."

I don't answer, but I decide to see if Medusa has another knife. I don't want to be in this man's presence unarmed.

He stands up. "I can see by the look on your face that you find me something of a disappointment. I don't blame you. I'm sure there were many quite tangible benefits to working with a woman of Miss Pepper's somewhat loose character, none of which will be part of our relationship. But you may find yourself somewhat freer to express your true nature now." He turns to go.

"Glass?"

He looks back over his shoulder.

"If you ever so much as mention Gia to me again, I'll slice your tongue out and feed it to you. Just so we're completely clear."

He wrinkles his nose. The lines of his tattoo move into a predatory pattern. "You are nothing. Do you understand that fully? Winning the Games means you were in the Games, and that means you're nothing but a traitor. I was in the Green Tower when it fell. A child myself, in care while my parents worked. I crawled over the bodies of more children that day than have died in the Games since. You district brats adopt your wounded stance all you like. I know what you really are. You should all get down on your knees to thank President Snow for being so lenient. He crawled out of there as well, you know. There is no amount of pain that will suffice to pay for what you did."

He leaves without saying anything else.

I don't know what I'm expected to say to this pronouncement. I suppose my great-grandfather could use a good strong talking to about being on the side of a war that once dropped a bomb in the Capitol, after five years of fighting, and accidentally hit a school. He should have known better. Or told the bombers from Thirteen that they should have known better. Or something. I don't feel particularly responsible for it. Personally, I'd think that bombing Thirteen -- children included -- into radioactive rubble would be more than sufficient payback, but what do I know?

My preps are quiet as they finish up the routine. When Fabiola does my teeth, she tentatively says, "You'll, um… get used to Ausonius. He can be intense, but he… um… " She smiles faintly. "Well, you'll get used to him. We all worked with him for years before Miss Pepper came." She looks down and starts working intensively on some stain at the back of my mouth.

Lepidus arrives to dress me, and I can tell by the look on his face that I'm not going to like it. In place of the comfortable sweaters and silk shirts, I only have a pair of pants made of what might actually be leather, and a vest. No shirt under the vest. And there's jewelry.

"Really?"

He nods. "And Igerna will make you up."

"Make-up?"

"It won't be like this at the Games. He always left Duronda alone when he had the tributes to dress."

"Oh, good. So it'll be my friends, just before they die."

He doesn't meet my eyes. "Here. You probably want to powder your legs before you put the pants on. Maybe we should wax…"

In the end, he opts not to wax. I somehow get myself into the ridiculous outfit. I'm glad I've put on a few pounds, or I'd look like a skeleton that someone was trying to hold together with leather straps. It doesn't leave much to the imagination as it is. There's a special little pocket on the outside, just the right size for one of Glass's little foil packs. Lepidus gives me one without comment, and I tuck it away.

We go down to the banquet.

For the first time, there's a full complement of glasses at my place, and a pitcher of something in front of me that smells minty on top, but full of promise under it.

"That's a mint julep," an older man says beside me. "Our local drink. Packs a little kick."

"Oh. Well…"

"Try it," Glass orders. "Don't insult your host."

"Oh, it's no insult," the man says. "It ain't to everyone's taste, of course…"

"Oh, it will be to Haymitch's." He looks between me and the man I'm talking to. "Do you know who this is?"

He looks familiar, but no one ever looks the same in person as they do on television, which I'm guessing is where I'm supposed to know him from. I shake my head.

"You're talking to the oldest living victor, Rogan Lally. Second Games."

"The year before your Duronda," he says. "She was a sweet thing. I was sorry when she passed, though I hadn't really seen her since Benit Preeto took over for me as a mentor, and Rivie Jasso over there took over for him after his… accident. Did you know Duronda?"

"She sometimes came out and talked to people," I say. I personally never met her, but Digger did. And of course, I almost hanged myself from the same tree she used to get off this ride.

"Aw, she was a pretty thing when she won. And we had ourselves some times in the Capitol. Mags!" he calls. "What year was it when you and Duronda played that prank with the whipped cream on old Candria Light?"

A middle-aged woman with curly black hair wanders over. "That was Saffron Abatty's year. I remember -- she was on screen when it happened. That was the year it was always raining, and she was yelling about being sick of being wet." The woman comes over and sits down across from me. She extends her hand. "Mags Donovan," she says. "Seventh Games. Welcome to our disturbing little club."

"I was just pouring him a mint julep," Rogan says.

"Are you sure about that? You know how it was with Benit."

"This boy ain't Benit. He's just a partier, and you ain't partied in District Four until you've had a julep or two."

He pushes the mint julep at me. I drink it. It tastes sweet and minty, like the mouthwash Fabiola makes me use when she cleans my teeth, but whatever's under it is strong. It goes straight to my head. I finish it and pour myself another. Mags slips me the bread recipe, which is free of bird symbols, and I put it into the pouch.

By the time the food comes, I am having a very pleasant conversation with Rogan, Mags, and two of District Four's other victors, Rivie Jasso and Hennesy Doolin. There are two more out there, plus the dead Benit Preeto, and it sounds like everyone in District Four wants to go to the arena. They almost always team up with Districts One and Two, which is pretty stupid, since One and Two almost always kill them.

"I say that every year," Mags agrees, downing her own drink. "But do they listen to me?" She shakes her head. "You'll learn. You do everything you can for those kids, then they get in the arena, and don't do one damned thing you tell them."

"And then what?" I ask. "You just… forget about them?"

"Not even one of them," Mags says. "I remember them all. You will, too."

When dessert comes, I don't even really remember what we already ate, though I know it was some kind of sweet-tasting seafood with spicy red sauce. There's dancing after. District Four is an inner district, and it's more like the Capitol. I have to dance with girls and boys both. I stop with the juleps, and switch to straight bourbon. I wonder if I'm going to teach one of my friends to kill one of my dancing partners next year.

The music goes slow for a while, and I lean against a brown-haired girl whose name I didn't catch. She pulls me around in a few rotations, then leads me out to an alcove. She finds the little pocket and the little foil-wrapped thing. Glass was right -- she knows exactly what to do with it.

Things get fuzzy after that. I know I go looking for a bathroom and throw up, and for a while, I lie curled up on the cold tile floor, sweating. I get it into my head that I can smell Digger in my sweat, and I start apologizing to her over and over. I hear a high-pitched laugh somewhere, but I never find out where it comes from. Then there's a gray time. I think Mags Donovan helps me up and gets me moving, but I don't know when she gets there, or when she relinquishes me to someone else. There's a car, and flashbulbs, and then there's the train, and then I'm out of it until someone batters on my door and tells me to get up for prep, before we get to District Three.

My preps give me a few pills to get rid of the hangover and the sour stomach. I think one of them also wakes me up a little bit. The television is on while they clean me up, and I'm the main story -- lurching drunkenly around the District Four Justice Building, hanging on a girl wearing too much make-up. They even get a shot of Mags dragging me back to the main hall.

Igerna snickers. "They didn't show her lighting into Glass. Too bad."

"She lit into Glass?"

"Slapped him right across the face -- probably cut her hand on those little jewel things in his tattoo, but she had her say."

"About what?"

"I don't know. Something about you drinking."

"What did Glass say?"

"That you were a grown up and he didn't force feed you." She shrugs and gets to moisturizing my hands. "Then she lit into that girl you were with."

I try to remember the girl, in some way other than the shots on television. I mostly remember a lot of groping, and that she made a lot of noise. I try to imagine what Mom would have to say about this. I can't do it, because I can't even imagine having done it if I'd known she'd be here and have something to say.

We get to Three late in the afternoon. I remember to pretend that Sigh Tomby was my ally, and praise him in my speech, even though our interaction was limited to me sitting beside him while he died from poisoned water. I am glad to see Beetee in the Justice Building -- I haven't seen him since he gave me a tour of the national library while I was in recovery -- but he hasn't been invited to the banquet. He gives me a recipe with one hastily drawn bird on it, and suggests that I would like to order a new music player soon.

District Three is an anonymous city built up on the wastelands across the lake from the Capitol. The ground is almost blindingly white, and by the time I get to the banquet, I'm so sun-dazzled that I can barely see my way around. The Justice Building is filled with wonderful little gadgets, and I am promised time to play with them later, but of course, I don't get around to it. The drink here is a perfectly dignified white wine. It does the trick as well as anything else, and I don't remember much past my fourth cup. I think I manage to not get into any girl trouble, as there's none reported on the news the next morning.

Glass smugly tells me that he knew I'd be happier if he just let me be myself.

We stay the night on the train in Three. I'm not sure why. Plutarch comes to see me. He looks disgusted, but can't very well say why. He just hisses, "You're not helping us."

I wander up and down the train. Glass has taken his own quarters; Gia's are closed off for searching in the Capitol. I look through the window and see her clothes in the wardrobe.

It's not hard to break the seal on the door. I go in and smell her things -- the soft scent of her perfume, the shampoo she uses… or used to use. I guess she'll use the same lye soap the rest of us in the Districts use now. This doesn't seem fair. I see the book she was reading, her ladybug hairpin still holding her place. I open the book. She left off on a page where the amateur detective is captured by the serial killer. I guess she'll never know how it works out. I take the hairpin and put it in my pocket, then, on second thought, grab the book. I decide to finish it for her. It doesn’t take long.

I fall asleep on her bed, and wake up to a cacophonous search. Glass manhandles me to prep and tells me to stay where people know I am.

I go to prep, where the ladies have stopped gossiping altogether. The television is on. For two districts in a row now, I've made the list of worst-dressed public figures. A comic troupe does a dance wearing what they "predict" to be my future costumes… gradually vanishing bits of tight cloth that end up with a boy who comes out on stage in nothing but spray paint. I really hope Lepidus isn't watching. I don't want him to get ideas. Another comic has put together a whole routine about me, slurring his way through a satire of the Games, implying that I only got through on luck, which favors drunks and idiots. We watch it all the way through.

I go to my car, and worm my way into the tight suit Lepidus has laid out for the District Two festivities. It's bright red, and has a matching hat. I'm reasonably sure I'll make another worst-dressed list, but on the whole, I guess I can't take that very seriously coming out of a city where people wear feathers around their privates.

Glass gives me a speech for District Two that makes fun of Crispus Bidwell for being dumb enough to attack me. I ignore it and ad lib the sort of thing Gia would have given me, about how Bidwell was extraordinarily strong, and must have been clever to get as far as he did. Glass's script is probably more truthful, but the truth isn't all it's cracked up to be.

After I'm done, Glass grabs my arm so tightly that it hurts and drags me to the district prep area. "I told you I'd make you sorry," he says.

I shove him back. "Don't ever put words like that in my mouth. If you want to catch me screwing up, that's fine. I do it enough. But don't ever do that again. I'm not going to badmouth other tributes."

"You seemed fine with it on Caesar's stage."

"They were still alive then."

He raises his hand at me, and I grab a mirror from the dressing table. I smash it against the wall and hold a jagged piece up.

He stops. "You wouldn't."

"Yeah?" I wave it at him. "Did you forget how I got here?"

I think it may actually come to a fight. Glass doesn't look ready to back down, and I actually want to cut him.

There's a knock at the door.

"Busy," Glass snaps.

The door opens. The man who steps in is dressed casually, as he was in the Capitol, and the look of distaste in his eyes when he looks at me hasn't changed one bit… though the distaste in his eyes when he looks at Glass is even worse.

"Threatening a victor, Glass?" Albinus Drake says dryly. "That's a hell of a way to end up with your insides on the outside." He turns to me. "Don't tell me you're putting up with this crap, Genius."
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Comments
mirandabeth From: mirandabeth Date: January 24th, 2014 12:15 pm (UTC) (Link)
Ugh. I can't believe I'm actually having fond feelings for Drake right now!

The thing I love most about this chapter is that Glass might be a complete bastard, but he makes SO MUCH SENSE. I'm sure he's quite right about how the common denominator sees Haymitch, and what's going to sell in terms of entertainment. I'm sure they'd much, much rather be able to write him off as a clown. It's not right, but it's true.

Also, go Mags! :D
fernwithy From: fernwithy Date: January 25th, 2014 01:40 am (UTC) (Link)
He's not wrong, and he's my worst nightmare of what site producers on reality shows could be like. On the other hand, Haymitch might well have been able to cultivate a different fanbase, if he hadn't been more or less shoved head first into the bottle. (Not that he fought it very hard. Grr.)
From: (Anonymous) Date: January 24th, 2014 12:27 pm (UTC) (Link)

I Never...

Thought I'd be so happy to see Drake again. Haymitch probably feels the same way.

What a damn, damn shame about Glass' attitude (not the hating the districts part, the part about forcing Haymitch to be "entertaining" for the audience). Because the drinking would totally have started up again all on its own.

And Haymitch could have really enjoyed himself at that banquet. The Victors sound like a nice, friendly bunch, for Victors. Really glad Mags gave it to Glass, even though it won't make any difference on either his attitude or the situation.

Seriously relieved that Haymitch has an "ally" on hand now. It won't make any difference with the drinking either, but does Drake know about the speech(es) that started this fight? Because I'll bet that he'd respect Haymitch for the not making fun of the District 2 Tribute that he killed, in District 2.

Sara Libby
fernwithy From: fernwithy Date: January 25th, 2014 01:42 am (UTC) (Link)

Re: I Never...

I think Haymitch really could have enjoyed himself with the D4 victors and with Beetee -- sober -- but he started drinking and didn't stop, and depressants, well, depress. Especially when you're suicidal to begin with.

Drake is an odd ally, and I doubt he and Haymitch will ever like each other much... but yeah, he's an ally here.
sonetka From: sonetka Date: January 25th, 2014 05:05 am (UTC) (Link)
Well, at least we know Ausonius's thoughts on yaoi :). Sorry, just whistling in the dark there, this was a pretty grim chapter -- and horribly convincing. Of course, looking incompetent, drunk and stupid is good for Haymitch in one way, and one only: it keeps him alive. As smart as he and his friends are, I wonder if a sober Haymitch who still had Gia would really have managed to make it through the next few years alive, as clever as he was.

I'm also wondering about the girls who throw themselves at Haymitch -- he's pretty well-off now, and if they did have his baby, wouldn't it be a status enhancer? Of course, the child would run a huge risk of being reaped in the future, but I wonder how many teenage girls would really think that far ahead if there were any status (or child support! do they have that here?) to be gained in the interim, especially if they were very poor.
fernwithy From: fernwithy Date: January 25th, 2014 06:10 am (UTC) (Link)
I think the girls are straight-up groupies, not after anything but the temporary thrill of being with a famous boy.

It's a good point about him not making it through alive if he'd been more himself most of the time. The drunkenness was real, but it was also a hell of a mask.
From: queen_bellatrix Date: January 25th, 2014 05:40 am (UTC) (Link)

Typos and Thoughts

I manage to get on the far side of Lepidus
from him, and pretend not to see him. I'm wondering if you maybe meant that second him to be an it, in reference to the script, so there weren't repeating words?

bombers from the Thirteen I think you just meant to have Thirteen here?

and vest.
I think you missed an a before vest, here.:)

or I'd look a skeleton I think you maybe missed a like before skeleton?

"She sometimes came out talked to people," I think you missed an and before talked?

He raises his hand me, Missed a word before me, there, though idk if it's to or at or toward.:)

In terms of continuity with the other fics, in chapter Thirteen of GM, you say that Mags games were the Eleventh, not the Seventh.:)

I like how you showed here how an actively hostile escort can cause so much trouble. I especially liked that with Glass shoving the boos down his throat, he had no chance to arrange a face-to-face in Three to teach the code the way Chaff asked in Rites, not only because it's so plausible for an addict, but because it's uncontrollable mishaps like this that must've delayed the rebellion for so long. Without the code in Three and Gia's vanishing, there communication network's frighteningly small.

The way Glass is undermining Haymitch's ability to have an impact could almost be appreciated for its sheer skill if it weren't so damn incidious. Make everything about a personal conflict between them, and Haymitch will miss the larger implications, as is evident by his lack of response to Plutarch's fuming (I'm actually in agreement with Plutarch; this disturbs me.). And of course, Haymitch's addiction makes it so much easier. It's now so clear that Gia discouraging him from the groupies had as much, if not more, to do with how hormones cloud the mind and senses, along with the fact that so many of them would encourage him to drink, as it did with her stated reasons. Glass's perversely good to exploit all that. And his invasion of physical space; Duronda must've been a woman of intense self-control, because if he got in my space like that, I'd be doing exactly what Haymitch does at the end of this chapter.

I also love the splitting of duties between escorts and mentors, though I can't tell how much of it (the mentors dealing with the Arena, and the escorts mostly being the ones who confer with the stylists and preps) is just Glass being...intense, as Medusa so skillfully phrased it, especially with Lepidus's comment a few chapters back about Haymitch being the boss. I would ask if Glass is just taking advantage of terrified preps and a new mentor, but that doesn't seem to be the case with Medusa's comment about Duronda, unless she was rather a mouse?

I have to echo everyone else in saying that I never thought I'd be glad to see Drake, but I am. And that last sequence between Haymitch and Glass, along with Haymitch's threat about Gia, was breathlessly intense.

The things that struck me most about this chapter were the small ones; Haymitch thinking about how he never would've done what he did if his Mom were there, and the way he sought refuge among Gia's things. Just really evocative ways of showing how much losing his support network left him off-kilter.

Glass's entire diatribe about the District people and what they did was an absolutely perfect example of the sort of hatred Snow would try to foster. I was reading somewhere the other day about how we were living in "gated communities of the mind" and had stopped seeing one another as people, and instead as symbols of some part of the culture/our past defeats. Glass just epitomized that mentality here, and his comment about Snow being in the Green Tower, with its implication of friendship or at least a bond fit so well. Of course that's the sort of person Snow'd send.

Loved the victors from Four, especially Mags, and am very much looking forward to seeing Haymitch and Glass continuing to carve out their dynamic; there was definitely a part of me that was intensely disappointed that mirror shard didn't come in to play, though I know it's best in the end, because the payback would've been tremendous. It's going to be very interesting to watch Haymitch at the games doing his best to subvert Glass and be a decent mentor.
fernwithy From: fernwithy Date: January 25th, 2014 06:14 am (UTC) (Link)

Re: Typos and Thoughts

Oops, I checked Mags's games number from Narrow Path... I guess I had a conflict there. In my head, the NP number is the one sticking, so I guess I'll stick with Seventh.

The booze mixed with the hormones -- added to his not-entirely-stable mental state -- must have been a powerful mix. While he's responsible for his behavior, I also put a large amount of responsibility on an adult who knew those things about him and deliberately put not just one stumbling block, but a whole path full of rubble in front of him.

In canon, the thing that struck me about Haymitch was how completely alone he was in District Twelve before Katniss and Peeta came along. The isolation alone would be destabilizing. Add everything else? It's a wonder he wasn't completely bonkers.
From: (Anonymous) Date: January 25th, 2014 09:51 pm (UTC) (Link)
What a nice treat to find on a layover? The only typo I found was a glass with a lowercase g, which I think should be capitalized, I just can't find it at the moment which one it is
fernwithy From: fernwithy Date: January 26th, 2014 07:29 pm (UTC) (Link)
Oops. I'm not spotting it, either. Oh, well. That's what I get for using a real word as a name!
From: (Anonymous) Date: January 26th, 2014 08:17 pm (UTC) (Link)
Oh, it's here:
Once I'm pinned down at the skin and nail care station, glass...

-mirandabeth
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