Chapter Text
“Star-Crossed Lovers?” Haymitch loudly and contemptuously twirling the cassette in his hands: a bright sticker on top, a combination of purple and green.
He waves the cassette in front of Effie’s face just to annoy her, and she sighs in frustration, snatching it from his grip and placing it back on the left half of the table, next to the other twenty-two. A careful stack, corners aligned, precise lines: one for each former Victor, an extra one for the “star-crossed lovers,” and none for District 12, because two of its Victors are sitting in the next room of the train and the third is right in front of Effie.
And Effie is very, very grateful that it’s Haymitch here, next to her, with the burden of mentorship on his shoulders, and at least not back in the Arena. Is it selfish that she feels relief because a young man will go into the Arena instead of her old friend (and occasional lover)? Yes.
But, well, Effie Trinket is a rather selfish woman, so she just shrugs at Haymitch’s remark.
“Recordings of their Games are sold as a set,” Effie mutters, gathering the rest of the extra recorded cassettes into a cardboard box. “After all, they’re the most famous pair of married Victors.”
She pushes the box away with her foot, nodding for the Avox to take it. She has long grown accustomed to the tongueless servants of the Capitol, but she still looks away every time, trying not to think that these are people, too, who once had a life not limited to serving and being unable to speak. Trying not to think that every time she makes a mistake — a word said in front of the wrong people, an incautious look or movement — she could end up in the servants’ place.
So Effie doesn’t think about it; she has learned to do this well: not to doubt what’s happening (at least not out loud), to agree with a smile, to praise the president, to glorify the Games, and care for the tributes she delivers to the Capitol to die.
At least the last of those she does sincerely.
“More like the most famous pair of divorced Victors,” Haymitch sarcastically corrects, reaching for the bottle of whiskey on the table, and Effie has to emerge back from her own head and return to reality.
She swats Haymitch’s hand, takes the bottle away, and says in a sharp, high voice, “Oh, no! You are not drinking. We have work to do.”
Haymitch glares at her from under his brow, in his pitiful look of a drunkard who’s just been denied a drink. Effie presses her lips tightly, staring back at him stubbornly, hands on her hips.
“We have a job that needs to be done,” she repeats, waving a hand toward the door, her voice dropping to a low hiss. “There are two children in there who think they’re ready for what awaits them. Who think they know what the Games are because they won last year.”
Effie claps her hands before throwing them out to the sides, exasperated:
“But are they ready? We both know they aren’t, Haymitch.”
She raises her thin, manicured fingers to adjust the silvery curls on her wig — if someone looked closely, they would notice their slight tremor, a masterfully hidden anxiety. Haymitch knows her too well not to notice, so he sighs, getting heavily out of the chair, and shuffles after Effie. It’s time to call in their Victors.
“How will they cope with this?” Effie hesitates before the door.
She has walked through it many times, meeting new Tributes every year, greeting them with smiles so bright they seemed to try to drown out, to soften the surrounding horror. It almost never worked, and when it did, it was on the verge of being fake. This year is the first time the people behind the door are someone she already knows. And it’s harder than she thought it would be.
“They have a lot of rage,” Haymitch replies after a pause.
Dully, grimly — he knows well what he’s talking about.
Then he unceremoniously pushes the door open. “We’ll channel that rage in the direction we need.”
\
Pietro’s hair falls over his forehead in a dishevelled mess as he sits on the sofa, elbows resting on his knees, as if he’s still trying to catch his breath. Half an hour ago, he and Wanda were roughly dragged onto the train by Peacekeepers, who said that this year, farewells were cancelled. Not that they had anyone to say goodbye to — everyone in District Twelve knows that the Maximoff twins have no one.
The tragedy that occurred when they were ten is quite commonplace for their District — a mine explosion. It inevitably happens every few years because working conditions in the mines are dangerous, and because no one truly bothers about the people from Twelve. Cheap labour, slaves of a system that is designed to destroy us, their father once told the twins when they were small.
Pietro suspects that this very remark (or, rather, dozens of similar ones, said in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and to the wrong people) was what truly killed their parents. They’ll never know for sure, but it’s what inevitably changed them. It’s what forged the rage within them.
It’s what makes Wanda pace furiously around the living room now, walking in circles and clenching her jaw — a habit they share, just like their identical facial features, the sharp lines of their cheekbones, the curve of their noses, the shape of their eyes and lips. Everything about them is sharp, pointed angles, knobbly knees, and protruding collarbones. Hunger in Twelve spares no one, especially when you grow up on the streets.
They had less than a year to get used to the safe, satiated life of Victors, with stockpiles of food they didn’t know what to do with and nightmares they didn't know how to deal with. But this fragile equilibrium, this building of a secure space from scratch in their house — they had it.
And then it was ripped out from under their feet by the announcement of the Quarter Quell conditions.
Victors returning to the Arena again.
Broken things that will be broken again for the audience’s entertainment.
“This is so fucked up!” Wanda snarls, running her fingers through her hair and pulling, furiously, painfully. “They tried to kill us and they’re just going to do it again, it’s…”
Her words trail off, and when she runs out of air, Pietro completes her sentence as easily as he always has, because he doesn’t need to read minds to know what Wanda is thinking:
“Unfair.”
She turns on her heel, pointing a finger at him, and throws out a sharp:
“I wasn’t talking to you!”
Then, still furious, but more betrayed, painfully:
“Why did you do it?”
Her voice trembles on the last word.
Wanda is justifiably (as she believes), but senselessly (as Pietro thinks) furious at him. Half an hour ago, he volunteered for the 75th Hunger Games, taking Haymitch’s place and stepping onto this train as a Tribute, even though he could have done it as a mentor. What Wanda doesn’t know is that it was discussed beforehand, behind her back, because there is only one person out of the three Victors in Twelve who knows how to work behind the scenes of the Games, and it’s not one of the Maximoff twins.
There is only one person who is so deeply immersed in the uprising that he must be outside the Arena. And that is Haymitch.
But even if it were otherwise, even if they didn't have to worry about weaving intrigues behind Snow’s back and making calculated, dangerous bets — Pietro would still have done it. It’s a simple, unequivocal fact that isn't up for debate; where his sister is, he is too. It’s a bond that they didn't let the Games break, and they aren’t going to let it happen now.
“I’m not going to leave you,” Pietro says simply, and Wanda sways on her feet as if those words hurt her more than anything else.
Love can sometimes be terribly, terribly painful.
“I can handle this,” she says stubbornly. “Do you understand?”
He understands, he knows she can, but the thing is, she shouldn’t have to, and she won’t. Not while Pietro has the ability to do it, if not for her, then at least right beside her. So he just stares at Wanda, keeping his gaze steady, watching her hands clenched into fists, but still trembling, even though she tries to hide it. Always his priority. Always his younger sister.
“You know, I’m twelve minutes older than you,” Pietro drawls slowly, smiling crookedly.
She snorts, half-laugh, half-sob. “Oh?”
And then Wanda approaches so quickly that her shoe hits the train floor loudly, and she hits him in the chest with her fist, her eyes glistening with angry tears, even as she stubbornly snarls instead, venting her rage, and hurt, and injustice, and betrayal. And most of all — fear. Pietro allows her this for a long moment before catching Wanda by the wrist, pulling her toward him into a firm, ruthless embrace instead.
When she falls heavily onto the sofa next to him, she finally allows herself to cry.
\
“Forget everything you think you know about the Games,” Haymitch says loudly, pacing the floor, the view outside the train window blurring into a single muddy-green colour as they pull further away from Twelve.
Wanda cannot shake the feeling that she’ll never return there.
She is silent, frozen in Pietro’s embrace — motionless and numb. The full realisation that she’s returning to the Arena only hits her now, and there is still anger inside her — so much anger, but right now it’s muffled. Wanda thinks of how she wakes up almost every night to the phantom sound of the cannon, announcing the death of Tributes in the Arena. She also thinks of how she will hear that sound again in a week.
“Last year was child’s play.”
Rue-Rue-Rue-Rue.
She thinks of the girl who died in her arms, of the bread from Eleven, and of the armfuls of wildflowers around the tiny body.
She thinks of Pietro, of the horrible, bloody wound on his leg, the metallic smell of blood, the mud on her hands. The adrenaline as she ran from the Cornucopia, clutching the medications in her hands.
Pietro nudges her in the ribs with his elbow and she hisses, automatically responding in kind, and just like that, it pulls her out of the fog in her own head. Like the snap of fingers. Because the silly elbowing between a brother and sister is something so trivial, yet so instinctively familiar from childhood, that she simply can’t ignore it. Pietro knows this too, and he reaches for her palm, lacing their fingers together. It’s a grounding, familiar gesture; it reminds her that he’s alive, he’s next to her, that they escaped the Arena together.
Together they will return there.
Wanda holds Pietro’s hand as if she is never going to let go.
“This year you’re dealing with all experienced killers,” Haymitch emphasises.
She really needs to focus on what her mentor is saying, but she can’t do it, not now, not instantly — and maybe that will kill her later. But the threat of death actually serves as poor motivation for Wanda, because sometimes it’s just like this: you face death, and then it no longer scares you. At least, not your own death.
However, Wanda has someone she cares about more than herself.
So she allows her thoughts to wander for just another moment, while her mentor speaks about a woman from District Two — Enobaria, what a weird name — who won her Games by biting out the throat of her final opponent. In the recording of her Reaping this year, her teeth are specially sharpened, filed down. It soberises Wanda instantly.
“It’s time to talk about your allies, children,” Effie whispers, reaching out a palm to pat Wanda and Pietro on the shoulder in turn.
Pietro smiles back at her — he truly can’t be angry or annoyed with Effie, even when she calls him a child, because, well, she also wears a silvery wig, specially created to match his hair colour, and she’s the only person, besides him, who tolerates Wanda’s terrible morning temper. For this alone, he’s immensely grateful to her.
This woman from the Capitol, who has spent so much time with the Victors that she’s learned to understand them. To know where and with whom to keep silent, who to chatter to; when each of them celebrates their birthdays, or if they celebrate at all. Maybe she doesn’t manage it perfectly, but at least she tries to understand these broken people with their burdens of trauma and sharp edges that must be navigated. And that means something.
Effie Trinket is, in fact, an amazing woman.
“Do we really need allies?” Wanda grumbles under her breath, and Haymitch interrupts her with a short, sharp: “Yes.”
She doesn’t like the idea. Not at all. The remaining Tributes are either old enemies or old friends (she doesn’t know which is worse) — and the thought of being in an Arena where everyone already knows everyone is frankly an unpleasant thought. Terrifying, even.
At least, Wanda has the consolation that she’s not tied to anyone but her twin, which means watching the death of other Tributes won’t be painful; but who is she deceiving with that, it will be, if only because it’s all a horrible, unjust situation in which all 24 of them have once again become hostages of the Games. Still, Wanda is shamelessly, selfishly glad that she doesn’t know any of these people well enough to have managed to love them.
Wanda doesn’t think she could bear another ally’s death on her hands — Rue was so scared when it happened, and so small — no, thank you. This is the real reason why she genuinely doesn’t want to form alliances in the Arena again, even though she understands that it’s necessary for survival in a place where her skills are no longer a surprise to others, and no longer something special.
Wanda thinks about the echo of the uprising in other districts; about the new, much more dangerous and uncompromising Peacekeepers sent to her own district; about how Snow’s decision to throw all the Victors into the Arena is such an obvious hint that at least a few of them are also involved in the Revolution that’s igniting. So — allies.
The angle shifts. The actors step onto the stage.
“District Three, Agatha Harkness, 45th Hunger Games,” Haymitch sighs, looking at the television screen with an unclear expression.
It is a longing for someone he seemed to know but no longer does. For someone he is about to lose. It is also a calculating look — he is watching her like an extraordinarily interesting puzzle.
The woman on the screen is about his age, but her appearance is not spoiled by drink like Haymitch’s: a few strands of her hair near her right temple are grey, but otherwise, she still looks young. She is beautiful, Wanda thinks absently. Almost profanely, forbiddenly beautiful: long waves of auburn hair, sharp lines of her cheekbones, lips lined with a cherry-purple lipstick in a charming smile.
“How old is she?” Wanda blurts out before she can think.
Pietro immediately slaps her hand and hisses indignantly, “Don’t even think about flirting with her!”
Effie shakes her head with annoyance and admiration simultaneously, the corners of her lips turning up in an amused smile. Haymitch laughs loudly.
“She’s fourty-four, dear. Is that what you’re worrying about?” he asks, finally stopping laughing.
He looks at her with amusement and disbelief.
“What?” Wanda raises her hands in a defensive gesture, her cheeks flushing as she reluctantly admits: “She’s pretty. And maybe I like older women.”
Pietro slaps a palm to his face, muffling a muttering, “She’s twenty-seven fucking years older than you.”
Then he shoots Wanda a severe, annoyed glare: the way only brothers do when their sister has the audacity to admit someone is beautiful and stare. Haymitch snorts one last time before his face turns more serious.
“She’s a killer. Second in the rankings. Eleven deaths,” he says categorically. “Want to be the twelfth on her list? That would be ironic, sweetheart.”
Effie mutters behind his back:
“More like another death on her wife’s list, if you dare to flirt with Agatha. By the way, her list is counted in dozens.”
Wanda swallows loudly, and her face pales, any signs of easy sympathy vanishing instantly. Pietro clenches his jaw until his teeth grind.
“Ex-wife,” Haymitch corrects lazily, and by his tone, it’s a quarrel they’ve been having for a long time, perhaps for years.
Effie swats him on the back of the head, hissing angrily: “Rio denies it. She still calls Agatha her wife. And there was never an official divorce!"
It’s absurd how they are arguing about this now, as if it’s the most important thing in everything that is happening.
Haymitch pushes her hand away and tilts his head back to look at Effie’s face, mocking her openly: “Well, Agatha calls her ex.”
Effie’s mouth opens in disbelief, accusingly pointing out: “You don’t even like Agatha! You barely tolerate her!”
It’s not true, but he allows everyone to believe it.
Pietro coughs annoyingly: “Can we please get back to the subject?”
The air in the room becomes heavier, the lightness vanishing from Effie’s face again, as if she is only just remembering that this isn’t a friendly gathering in someone’s living room. She got so used to the fact that nothing bad could happen to the Victors anymore, because all the bad that could happen already had. It is cruel, but it is an undeniable fact, and she doesn’t want to admit the thought that things can and will get worse.
It is still hard for her to accept this reality, in which so many people she knows and loves are returning to the Arena and are going to die. Haymitch sighs, and Effie knows he is thinking the same thing as her.
“Agatha won her games using Capitol technology, lies, and the principle of betrayal,” he almost recites like a list of sins, pausing for a second before reluctantly adding: “She will be a walking target. Snow hates her almost more than the two of you.”
“The audience and sponsors adore her,” Effie adds over Haymitch’s head, leaning her palms on the back of his chair. “That’s an advantage.”
She almost reaches out to run her fingers over his shoulder, but stops herself.
“Agatha is helpful,” Haymitch nods, reluctant respect and contempt simultaneously, and he clucks his tongue annoyingly: “And genius.”
Pietro exchanges a look with Wanda and opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, Haymitch continues: “However, she will get in the way of your best ally.”
Wanda throws another look at the screen, where the recording of Agatha’s Reaping this year is playing on repeat. She wants to ask Effie to turn it off, because somehow, even with the knowledge of the danger this woman carries, Agatha still draws her eye. But Wanda doesn’t say anything out loud about this attraction anymore. She also doesn’t ask Effie to change the recording.
Pietro leans forward, looking at Haymitch enquiringly:
“Who is our best ally?”
And, oh, what a perplexing answer that question has.
They won’t like it, and Haymitch knows it, so instead, he waves his hand dismissively: “I’ll get to her shortly, there are a few other people you need to pay attention to.”
Effie finally replaces the cassette; now it is the announcement of District Four, the next one. Still, Wanda cannot let go of the conflicting thoughts about Agatha Harkness, so she waves her hand, giving Effie a gesture to stop the new recording.
“Wait, didn’t you say Harkness is a traitor?” Wanda asks again. “And you still want us to make an alliance with her? I feel like you’re trying to kill us.”
Then it’s Pietro, who speaks almost simultaneously with his sister: “How can we trust her?”
“You can’t,” Haymitch snorts loudly and amusedly, because this is an old, bitter joke concerning Agatha Harkness’s trust and alliances.
It lasted over three weeks, the longest Hunger Games in the entire history of the Games, but they weren't boring. One might think that after such a long time, even the most interested spectators would start complaining and saying they were bored, and ratings would drop.
However, this didn’t happen in the 45th Games — Agatha made them a shining (literally and figuratively) and truly unforgettable show.
Three alliances that led to her victory and eleven deaths — the second-highest kill count among all participants in the Games. She won by charming with a smile and innocence, luring people into traps, and lying. Killing, and then using her allies’ resources so she wouldn’t starve.
Not that she had to worry about food: gifts and supplies literally rained down on her, money was added to her mentor’s account every hour. Spectators bet on who she would invite into her next alliance. And she played along — whispering to the cameras as if she were speaking to the audience live.
Agatha smiled gently and timidly at the other Tributes. But behind their backs, she audaciously winked at the hidden cameras and dramatically tossed her hair over her shoulder. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
The Arena itself seemed to be made for her — an abandoned amusement park, with a sign flickering right above the Cornucopia.
The Witches’ Road.
It was easy for the fourteen-year-old girl from District 3, who grew up surrounded by electricity and technology, with a brilliant mind and an even brighter arrogance, to win by using the environment to her advantage. And wires and mechanisms in that Arena were countless.
Electric sparks that flew when her traps were activated — various shades of blinding purple — the audience called it magic.
Thin fingers, covered in scratches and burns, connected the wires that electrocuted a pack of children, her final alliance — a coven, as the Capitol called it — who turned against her at the last moment, suspecting danger. Too late.
In the final seconds that led to her victory, Agatha watched six other Tributes die simultaneously: grotesquely horrified expressions, bodies convulsing, the smell of fried flesh and ashes. When it was over, she clapped her hands dramatically, winking at the camera.
Agatha Harkness built her victory on lies and the Capitol’s technology that should have killed her.
So now, as the Maximoff twins look at him, awaiting an answer, Haymitch honestly says:
“Agatha would rather die out of pure stubbornness than be honest.”
Wanda sneers, poorly concealing the anxiety in her voice, but she is betrayed by her trembling fingers as she reaches for her brother: “Is that supposed to reassure us?”
Haymitch looks at her like she’s an idiot, replying in that disappointed tone that parents use when their children make a stupid mistake, failing to see the obvious: “It’s supposed to prepare you.”
He sighs: “But what I can tell you for sure is that Agatha Harkness is not interested in winning.”
Pietro frowns: “How can you be so certain?”
Then Haymitch shrugs, and it’s short, painful, and honest: “Because she has no one to go back to.”
Effie sighs heavily, stepping aside, turning her face to the train window. She sees no need to expose others’ trauma and losses — the Capitol will do that during the interviews anyway, hitting all the Tributes’ vulnerable spots.
“Haymitch,” she insists, and her voice is firm, even though her back is turned to them.
He tightens his lips in a crooked imitation of a smile, pure bitterness, and for a moment, such unadulterated grief flashes across his face that it stops Wanda and Pietro from questioning him further. So instead, they move on to the next cassette.
“Lilia Calderu and William Kaplan,” a weak smile touches Haymitch’s lips. “Lilia is my best friend and my former mentor, but… she’s an old woman, she’s well over seventy. She’ll slow you down.”
He grimaces as if these words bring him pain.
He doesn’t tell the children in front of him that he had another mentor — they really don’t need to know that. Haymitch has to do everything to make them survive, but that doesn’t mean he has to open up his whole soul to them. It also doesn’t mean he’ll give away one of the few vulnerabilities of the other woman who pulled him out of the Arena alive.
He owes her. It’s a disgustingly strong loyalty that only exists between a mentor and their tribute. Mentally — and never out loud — he calls it family.
Pietro reaches out to pat Haymitch on the shoulder, and he shrugs off the hand, sneering; however, this gives him the strength to continue: “Unfortunately, or fortunately, William won’t enter any alliance without her, and he — you need him.”
Wanda purses her lips, looking at the boy who looks barely older than her: a dazzling, charismatic smile, a shirt with too many unbuttoned buttons, ink-black curls that fall onto his face and he tosses them back with a careless gesture.
Pietro’s voice next to her is contemptuous as he leans back on the sofa and crosses his arms, trying to look bored, though in reality, he’s just trying not to look at the boy on the screen for too long:
“Seriously? He looks like a fucking model.”
And, oh, that hurts more than it should. If Haymitch had his usual glass of whiskey on hand, he’d slam it on the table, but now he just growls irritably:
“That fucking model, as you call him, will bring you every sponsored gift possible. The public loves him.”
In a twisted, horrible way, but for now, they don’t need to know that.
A golden trident, the most expensive gift in the history of the Hunger Games; the Capitol’s golden boy, too — the most expensive. They dressed him in a lack of clothing and in other people’s hands, and it cannot be called love, but Haymitch still calls it that. It’s easier than explaining the dirty backstage of former Victors’ lives to the children in front of him, because, after all, there is hope that maybe they’ll never have to face it. He can at least hope for that.
Haymitch first points a finger at Pietro, then at Wanda, his voice clear, unapologetic: “You might be twins with a sentimental story, but if you’re not in his alliance, then all sponsor gifts will go to William.”
Effie sighs: “The audience and sponsors love him. He’s charming,” and then Haymitch snorts, squinting at Wanda and muttering: “…unlike you, girl.”
Of course, Wanda bridles at Haymitch’s caustic comment — it’s a predictable reaction from her as her eyes narrow with annoyance and she defiantly crosses her arms: “I can be charming, you know.”
She looks at Pietro for support, but he just smiles, clearly enjoying the whole situation too much, his eyes gleaming as he laughs, looking at his sister before placing a hand on her shoulder, his voice full of tender sarcasm:
“Oh, yes, you’re charming.”
She squints suspiciously, and of course, of course he lives up to her expectations — it couldn't be any other way — so Pietro adds with a wide smile, clearly loving to tease: “Until you open your mouth. And start cursing like an old man.”
Wanda rolls her eyes at her brother’s comment, swats his hand away, snapping: “Oh, shut up.”
“Just admit it, sis. You’re as charming as a wet cat,” Pietro laughs and dodges her with a satisfied yelp, like a small child who knows very well they’re getting on someone’s nerves and is thoroughly enjoying it.
“Hey!” Wanda protests indignantly, her cheeks slightly flushing with embarrassment: “Oh, like you’re the epitome of charm.”
Pietro merely shrugs, still smirking smugly: “At least I don’t scare people away with my angry glares and grumpy look.”
Wanda huffs, crossing her arms and trying to look offended — she knows her brother is just trying to annoy her, and as irritating as it is, she can’t help but find their quarrels a little funny, even as she replies through gritted teeth, stubbornly trying to hide how the corners of her lips twitch up in a smile.
“I don’t have a look. And for someone who’s supposedly the charming twin, you’re terribly annoying.”
Pietro snorts loudly and is about to answer her, but it’s Haymitch who roughly interrupts them both, rolling his eyes:
“For God’s sake, you’re both annoying. Cut out this shit. We’re not here to fight over who’s the most charming.”
They grumble in unison but fall silent, knowing Haymitch is right, that they should be trying to form alliances and prepare to survive the Games, not bicker with each other like little kids. It’s a cruel, bitter reality, and they don’t want to return to it, so for a moment, they both still fool around: Pietro fidgets in his seat, shoots Wanda a look and rolls his eyes before sticking his tongue out at her; she shoves him in the side, and he lets out a protesting squeak before swatting her hand away.
Then Pietro sighs, and all the lightness seems to slip through his fingers as he reluctantly admits:
“Okay, okay. You’re right. We have more important things to do than argue.”
Haymitch gives a dry nod, his gaze focussed on Wanda as she looks back at the screen, where William is still standing, smiling charmingly at the camera and waving. She watches this intently, and her features transform into the same expression she gets when she’s thinking something over, and Haymitch leans forward, suddenly looking more intrigued than annoyed. This girl has a good eye for detail, even if she’s often blinded by emotions; he has to give her credit for that.
“You’re thinking about something,” he notes directly. “What is it?”
Pietro looks at his sister too, wondering what she’s thinking, and she hesitates for a moment, but still doesn’t take her eyes off the screen, saying slowly:
“I was just thinking… I mean, the guy is handsome, and the crowd loves him. But he’s from District 4, right? That's the Career District, and he might look friendly and sweet, but…”
Her voice is tentative, as if she is treading on territory full of traps, walking it blindfolded, which is partly true, because she and Pietro are at a disadvantage here, not knowing much about the Games of this year’s Tributes, or their personalities and characters.
They are left to rely on their own intuition and the pieces of information their mentor provides — which is not entirely objective, because Haymitch sees these people through the prism of years of friendship — or their escort — which is an even less reliable source, because Effie, well… she’s Effie.
Pietro finishes Wanda’s sentence for her, picking up her thoughts as only he can: “But Careers aren’t known as the most reliable company. What’s to say this guy won’t betray us at the first opportunity? What if he’s just pretending?”
Haymitch leans back in his chair, rubbing his jaw, considering their words. He is glad they are actually thinking; critical thinking is one of the most important things in the Arena, and it’s also something that is often underestimated. Fortunately, the children in front of him have plenty of it; they are suspicious, almost paranoid in some ways, but that’s good.
That’s what will keep them alive, even if it scares them.
“Oh, he’ll definitely be pretending,” Haymitch calmly confirms Pietro’s words, and before he can say anything, he holds up a palm, gesturing for him to wait before he adds: “But his performance isn’t for you; it’s for the audience and the sponsors. He needs to be charming, so that’s what he is.”
What he says makes sense. They’ve seen William portray himself on screen, and it’s clear he’s playing a role, and Wanda doesn’t like that, because pretence and fake people make her sick, but suddenly she finds herself in a situation where she will seemingly be surrounded only by such people. Great.
“Alright, so he’s putting on a show,” Wanda concedes reluctantly. “But that still doesn’t change the fact that he’s a Career. They’re not exactly pleasant people.”
Haymitch suddenly rolls his eyes, snorting loudly and sarcastically: “You’re not exactly a pleasant person.”
Wanda opens her mouth in indignation, but then Pietro chuckles next to her, and she turns away from Haymitch to shoot her brother a death glare.
“…that’s what I meant,” Haymitch grumbles under his breath, and Effie smiles softly behind him, shaking her head, because they are all so ridiculous yet so much hers, and God knows she doesn’t want to lose any of them.
Haymitch sighs, rubbing his face tiredly: “Listen, these Games are different. Everyone here is a trained killer, including you two. Absolutely everyone in this year’s Arena is dangerous.”
This stings even when said in a calm tone, and it hurts more than it scares. Wanda’s jaw clenches, a short nerve twitch on her face, a heavy inhale as Haymitch reminds her of her ruthless nature. Of the ability to shoot someone with an arrow in a second without thinking, and of how it’s become her instinct. Wanda isn’t proud of it, but she also knows Haymitch is right. Surviving the Games made her more than capable of killing when necessary.
“I understand that everyone here is dangerous,” she replies reluctantly. “But Careers are a different level of deadly.”
Haymitch nods, because Wanda is right, but not entirely. She’s still looking at this year’s Games through the lens of her own, and that’s perfectly justifiable, but it’s also something she’ll need to change. Because although Careers have a different level of deadly, they aren’t always the most dangerous in the Arena, and they certainly aren’t this year.
“Yes, they’re dangerous, and that’s why you and Pietro need allies to get through this shit,” Haymitch says gruffly. “And you’re not going to like your next ally.”
Wanda looks at him suspiciously, and Pietro frowns, his expression tense.
Haymitch continues, nodding indifferently toward Wanda: “By the way, this person is a direct disproof of your theory that the most dangerous Tributes are from the Career Districts. Guess what District she’s from?”
The corners of Wanda’s lips twitch up in an ironic smile as she replies dryly: “Let me guess, District 12?”
Pietro guesses: “District 11?”
Haymitch rolls his eyes.
“You’re hilarious,” he mutters to Wanda in an unimpressed tone, and then turns back to her brother: “And he’s right.”
The video on the TV changes, and instead of the handsome boy from District 4, there is now a woman, and the caption at the bottom says she is from District 11. Her hair falls a little below her shoulders in ink-black strands, and she’s dressed in a simple green shirt and leather pants, looking... ordinary. Without any pathos or attempt at charm, as many Tributes before her did.
She doesn’t look like someone trying to gain the attention of the audience and sponsors, as if she already knows what they like, or, far worse, knows she absolutely doesn’t need them.
Wanda tilts her head, studying the woman on the screen intently: a calm, almost neutral expression, but there is something disturbing in her soft features that triggers an instinctive sense of danger, a simultaneous desire to keep looking and to look away.
“She doesn’t look like a Career,” Wanda notes in a suspicious voice. “But she also doesn’t look like the typical Tributes from other Districts.”
“You’re right. She almost looks like…” Pietro begins to speak, then trails off, trying to find the right word, but it’s hard, because he just can’t form his impression; it’s a thought that slips away from him, an association he can’t make.
“Like a person who isn’t afraid of death, but at the same time, doesn’t seek it?” Haymitch offers, tilting his head.
He’s genuinely curious about what the children — because he’ll always consider Wanda and Pietro children; not his, but also his, and it’s simultaneously contradictory and simple — will think about this woman without knowing her history, name, or at least nickname, so Haymitch doesn’t turn on the video’s sound. He lets them form their opinion from the first look.
“She won the 50th Hunger Games,” he says calmly. “That was the previous Quarter Quell.”
Wanda frowns, as if trying to remember something, a thought swirling in the periphery, but she can’t quite catch it, and it irritates her. She’s heard about the 50th Games but can’t recall Victor's name that year. Past Victors are rarely spoken about in their District: in Twelve, it’s just Haymitch, and people from other Districts are usually forgotten when the Games are over and life returns to its usual rhythm. There are other priorities, like working overtime so you don’t starve to death.
“They increased the number of Tributes in her Games. Instead of 24, there were 48,” Haymitch adds.
It’s a nightmare scenario — twice the usual number of Tributes, meaning not two, but four children returned home in coffins, to grief-stricken parents and a heavy minute of silence in the town square. Wanda suddenly realizes why she hasn’t specifically heard about the 50th Games in District 12, because it’s something unspeakable, easier to keep silent about than to acknowledge out loud.
Wanda anxiously bites her lip: “And she won?”
“What, she doesn’t look like someone who could win then?” Haymitch asks ironically, raising an eyebrow.
Wanda nods absently, not even thinking, just agreeing. It’s one of those moments when she’s silent, devoid of her sarcastic comments, just thinking, truly analyzing. The woman on the screen looks calm, too calm, in an unnerving and simultaneously magnetic way.
“After she won, they gave her the title Lady Death,” Haymitch says quietly.
Oh.
It’s a title that suddenly makes so much sense, the small details become more obvious, and the woman’s indifferent expression seems more unsettling, and Wanda feels the cold grip of dread and anxiety. Because no one would give that name to someone who could be defeated. No one would give that name to someone who could be survived. It’s a name for inevitability, for a sheer force of nature; it’s a name that symbolizes an executioner.
The silence hanging in the room also seems inevitable.
“What’s her real name?” Pietro finally says in a quiet, muffled voice.
Haymitch sighs, his expression more tired than grim: “Remember how I was telling you about your ally from District 3? Agatha.”
They both nod back at him, but it’s only Wanda who catches the hint almost instantly, sharply turning her gaze to Haymitch, her eyes wide. She connects what she heard earlier: Agatha, whom Wanda called beautiful; Effie, who told her not to flirt with her if Wanda didn’t want to end up on her ex-wife’s kill list.
Agatha, whose ex-wife is also participating in this year’s Games.
Rio.
Lady Death.
Everything suddenly fits together perfectly, but it doesn’t help, and it doesn’t make it easier; on the contrary — Wanda feels like she’s been punched in the stomach. She doesn’t know why this surprises her the most, but for a moment, she just stares at Haymitch with a mixture of shock and disbelief. Somehow, Wanda can suddenly only think about Haymitch and Effie’s silly quarrel and the soft, friendly intonation with which Effie said Rio’s name, which doesn’t fit someone called Lady Death at all.
“You can’t be serious,” Pietro blurts out so quickly that he swallows his vowels.
Wanda almost chokes on the air before slowly pronouncing each syllable: “Are you telling me Agatha’s ex is the fucking Lady Death?”
Pietro murmurs quietly to himself: “…that actually makes sense.”
Because isn’t it? Now it’s a perfect picture, all the puzzles put together. Agatha, known as a brilliant killer in her Games, adored by the public. Agatha, who is second in the rankings for the number of people she killed. It seems obvious that no one but the person who is first in that could have been her wife.
Haymitch laughs gruffly, telling Wanda: “Oh, Agatha definitely was fucking Lady Death.”
“Oh God, I didn’t need to know that,” Pietro groans, making a face like he’s about to throw up.
His sister’s face flushes red at Haymitch’s blunt remark, and she looks at him, embarrassed and trying not to look at the screen and not to visualize anything in her head.
“Please don’t put that image in my head,” Wanda protests, trying (unsuccessfully) to look disgusted.
After a moment, she involuntarily snorts a laugh, because Haymitch’s directness is terribly accurate and ridiculously funny; it’s also ironic how someone Wanda instantly took a liking to turned out to be married (divorced? it’s all so twisted in her mind) to the other most dangerous person in this year’s Arena.
“I mean… that’s definitely a powerful couple,” Pietro jokes weakly, and Wanda rolls her eyes and shoves her brother with her elbow, shaking her head: “You’re an idiot.”
Despite that, a slight smile pulls the corners of her lips up, and Pietro responds with the same one: “I have to admit… that’s actually kinda badass.”
They exchange looks and then both snort, a little nervously, and Wanda can’t help but feel a reluctant mixture of awe and admiration. It’s horrible, of course, but their reality is already horrible, isn’t it? Besides, there’s something undeniably impressive about the idea of two deadly killers falling in love with each other. She shakes her head, trying to shake off these thoughts, because now is not the time to start fantasizing about some pair of murderers who will either become their allies or, well… kill them.
“Yeah, definitely badass,” she agrees dryly with her brother and turns back to Haymitch, trying to focus on the task at hand, but still unable to fully shake the slightly stunned expression on her face.
Haymitch snorts, and he’s clearly amused looking at her and clearly remembering how Wanda instantly called Agatha beautiful when she was introduced on screen. And how Pietro instantly understood his sister’s tone, nudging her in the ribs and telling her not to flirt with Agatha. Behind his back, Effie hides a smile in her hand, because this is the first time in her life someone learns about Agatha and Rio separately, and only then about their marriage. It’s almost ridiculous to watch Wanda’s reaction now.
“They were a good couple,” Haymitch sighs, almost nostalgically, and then his lips curl a little as he clumsily uses the youthful word the twins used: “…definitely badass.”
Then his face grows more serious as he returns to discussing strategy, his voice harsher and more clinical: “You need both of them as allies. Considering you also need William, and he comes packaged with Lilia from his District, and Agatha, respectively, comes packaged with both of them…”
Wanda feels a little dizzy as she tries to connect all these ties, both pre-existing and those yet to be formed, but then Haymitch adds:
“That’s too many people for one alliance. So, you’re splitting up.”
“No,” it leaves her lips faster than she can think; it’s an automatic thought, the only possible option, because in the end, she and Pietro are twins, and one doesn’t exist without the other; they have never been apart for more than a few hours since childhood, except during last year’s Games, which almost ended tragically.
“You want to split us up?” Wanda asks again, her voice grows cold and the tense lines of her face show the expression of the girl who already won in the Arena, having almost lost her brother.
Pietro looks no less concerned than her, and he throws an almost betrayed look at their mentor, shaking his head sharply: “No way. We did everything we could not to be separated our whole lives. What makes you think we’ll agree to do it now?”
Haymitch sighs heavily, looking even older than his age, and, Gods, he knows this is painful for both of them, but as their mentor, he also knows it’s necessary. A large alliance in the Arena is always a threat; they will either be hunted by other Tributes, coordinating their efforts, or they will have to hunt other Tributes, and that’s certainly not something the twins will agree to.
Besides, there’s the factor of the disgusting truth that if you gather all the most interesting Tributes in one place, it won’t be as fun to watch as the audience and the Gamemakers would want; and they will want a show.
“Think about it. You need to put on a show, and the perfect way to do that is to continue last year’s theme of your bond,” Haymitch says quietly, yet his intonation is firm and unapologetic: “What could be better than twins forced to separate and then find each other? The whole country will be rooting for you.”
He doesn’t add that it will also perfectly divert attention from what’s going on behind the scenes. The rebels can’t openly lead the Revolution, not yet, because the plan is complex, and they need cover to execute it. Something that will undeniably draw all eyes and ears to itself. Haymitch can’t say this out loud, not here, not on the train to the Capitol, where they could be bugged. So, all that is left for him is to hope that the twins will understand the unsaid, what remains between the lines.
Wanda and Pietro exchange a long look, as if having a silent conversation with their eyes, and Wanda’s jaws clench, thoughts swirling with sharp protest, denial, and she wants to scream, she wants to cry and be angry, because she already almost lost Pietro last year when they accidentally got separated, and it’s just unfair.
However, the Games have never been about fairness, and Wanda is smart enough to admit that Haymitch is right.
That doesn’t negate the fact that she is also emotional enough to be frustrated and angry, reluctantly agreeing out loud: “Then we split up, what’s next?”
It sounds like a punch, it hurts to say, and she tries to move on to the further discussion of strategy as quickly as possible, just so she doesn’t have to think about the fact that she’s going to lose her brother, even if only for a short time. Some part of her will always protest against this.
Some part of her will never forgive the world for this.
Pietro’s expression is grim as he looks at Wanda, trying to read her reaction, the emotions expressed in the tense features of her face, before giving a subtle nod in her direction, turning to their mentor again: “…How long will we have to stay apart?”
Haymitch nods slowly, exhaling — it’s relief, and it’s also gratitude that the twins understand so much, even with minimal information about the rebellion. Essentially, he’s throwing them into the eye of the show, into the eye of hell itself, saying almost nothing, only hoping they can handle it. After all, they don’t have much of a choice.
He coughs: “The plan is that you’ll spend about two days apart, and then find each other. Of course, the Arena is unpredictable, but…”
Effie looms behind Haymitch, her hands on his shoulders, and her gaze at the twins is full of sad tenderness as Haymitch quietly adds: “I guess I can count on you to find each other like no one else, right?”
Wanda nods silently, not trusting her voice. She swallows heavily, feeling a lump in her throat and an aching pain in her chest as her heart is burdened by the inevitable separation, and she can only hope that this won’t end in inevitable loss.
It’s a necessary sacrifice, but it still hurts.
Pietro, conversely, has a resolute gleam in his eyes as he says firmly: “Don’t worry, we’ll find each other. We always could and we always will.”
A light, faint smile appears on Wanda’s face at his words; it’s trembling and fragile, but she still smiles, her gaze softening with quiet love as she repeats: “We’ll find each other.”
Pietro’s expression is still a little tense, but he smiles crookedly at his sister, forcing out a half-joke: “Maybe a couple of days apart will make us even more annoying when we reunite, huh?”
Despite everything, Wanda snorts with laughter, instantly covering her mouth with her palm and shaking her head at her brother’s comment, because trust Pietro to find a way to make her laugh even in such a horrible situation.
“God, you’re such an idiot,” she murmurs affectionately.
She reaches out and slaps Pietro’s arm, but her touch is gentler than it seems, and she scoots closer, leaning her shoulder against his, Pietro’s foot tangling with her ankle. Even though they agreed to split up, they both still want to maintain this familiar, easy interaction between them for as long as possible.
Haymitch shakes his head, looking at both of them, with a bitter, searing tenderness in his eyes. They softened him against his will, but it still happened, because here he is, mentally swearing to keep them alive. He pulled these two children out of the Arena last year, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do it again. It’s unfair to interrupt this moment between them, but Haymitch does it anyway, clearing his throat.
“So, about how you’re going to separate,” he says quietly, seriously, announcing the plan: “Pietro, no offense, but Wanda is better with weapons than you are…”
Pietro opens his mouth to object, his expression childishly offended and indignant, but then Wanda shoves him to shut up and not interrupt, and a smug smile slowly spreads across her face.
“William is a brilliant killer, but Lilia is the weak link, and Agatha depends on the terrain to be deadly,” Haymitch continues. “So, Wanda, you are with those three.”
Wanda nods, because it makes sense, and she can understand his reasoning, even if she doesn't like it; despite her stubbornness, she can’t argue with logic.
“Got it. I will do my best to help them. And then I will reunite with my brother,” this is a determined, unapologetic tone, and her chin is held high.
“Good,” Haymitch nods in relief, turning back to Pietro: “You’ll be responsible for creating the conditions for Agatha. She’ll need to get the electric wire from the Cornucopia, but she won’t be able to do it herself at the start of the Games.”
He doesn’t tell the children what this is for, or why it’s critically important. That Agatha’s mission is not to kill as many opponents as possible with electric traps, but to blow the damn Arena to pieces. Again, this is not something he can say out loud here, and it’s not something he can even tell them, because too many people already know the details of the plan, and the fewer, the better, especially considering that the twins will be under the close scrutiny of President Snow due to their victory last year.
Haymitch sighs, looking at Pietro, his gaze dropping to the prosthetic where the boy's leg used to be, which couldn't be saved due to infection last year: “It’s dangerous for you to be alone, so, as absurd as it may be, the most dangerous person in this Arena will be your ally. You need Lady Death.”
Effie claps him on the shoulder, quietly correcting: “Rio.”
Effie doesn’t like that title, always saying that it doesn't really suit Rio, that she’s something more, something better than that. However, that doesn’t change the fact: Rio Vidal is the woman who won the previous Quarter Quell, where the Tributes were doubled — thirty deaths out of forty-seven on her hands.
Pietro’s gaze is fixed on Haymitch, his expression solemn as he feels the importance of the mission he is being entrusted with, and he still nods, accepting his role unquestioningly. However, that doesn’t mean he can restrain a quiet whistle, because the idea of working with someone as powerful as Rio feels both terrifying and exciting.
“Lady Death, huh?” he says, trying to sound casual, but there’s a hint of nervousness in his voice: “Fine, but why would she want to be in an alliance with me? What can I offer her?”
Haymitch looks at him long and hard, as if he’s an idiot; then slowly, as if speaking to a child: “Because you will be looking for Wanda. And she’s in an alliance with Agatha.”
Pietro still looks at his mentor for a moment, not immediately catching the implication, and then Wanda suddenly snorts next to him, and Haymitch smiles crookedly at her.
“You’ll lead Rio to her ex-wife,” Haymitch rolls his eyes at Pietro, his voice sarcastic: “A double family reunion.”
It takes another moment for what Haymitch meant to sink in, and when it does, Pietro looks stunned, muttering in disbelief: “You can’t be serious.”
Pietro looks at Wanda out of the corner of his eye, who is humming something to herself, pondering the idea, as if trying to calculate all possible scenarios and potential dangers. Haymitch thinks with amusement that it’s futile, because Agatha and Rio are not the type of people you can predict even alone, and together they are a mess. However, he doesn’t say this out loud, allowing Wanda to think, because that’s how he can earn her trust and be sure she will listen to his instructions next.
“Isn’t that risky?” Wanda says after a moment in a quiet, cautious voice: “We don’t know anything about her; she might not want to cooperate.”
Haymitch shakes his head, emphasizing: “You might not know Rio, but I do.”
She looks at him unimpressed, expecting a normal explanation, but instead, Haymitch snorts: “Trust me, Rio wants Agatha. At any cost and by all means.”
The corners of Wanda’s lips twitch up in a smile, and she is already getting used to Haymitch’s constant hints about this pair’s dynamic. At the same time, Pietro’s face twists into a grimace as he understands the implication behind Haymitch’s words; he shakes his head, trying to expel that image from his head.
Wanda smiles slightly at her brother’s reaction, finding his discomfort a little comical. She can’t deny that she’s amused by Pietro’s expression, and the very thought of trying to broker a reconciliation between two deadly estranged lovers seems a little… comical.
“How do you know she wants Agatha that badly?” she asks her mentor curiously, tilting her head; for a moment, her gaze slides to Effie, but she just shrugs, as if the answer to Wanda’s question is too obvious to state out loud.
Haymitch sighs deeply, running a hand through his hair, trying to find the right words to explain the situation without revealing too many personal details:
“Rio and Agatha were married for 15 years before their relationship ended… very complicated. But it’s obvious that a strong bond still exists between them. Rio still wants her wife back.”
“So, we have to get them back together, is that what you mean?” Wanda mutters with bitterness in her voice, and Pietro fidgets uncomfortably in his seat, because the idea of playing matchmaker for two dangerous killers who were previously in a relationship is the last thing he wants.
“You need both of them as allies. Just separately,” Effie says quietly.
She looks at the cassette with the Games’ records, on which Agatha’s and Rhea’s names are together.
“The problem is,” Haymitch sighs, catching himself wanting a drink right now: “That at the Reaping ceremony, Agatha publicly promised to kill Rio.”
Wanda’s eyebrows shoot up, and for a moment, she looks absolutely confused as she asks: “Wait, but they were married?”
Haymitch closes his eyes:
“Oh, dear girl, they were.”
Effie behind Haymitch lets out such a bitter sound — a muffled, painful sob — that Wanda’s shoulders flinch.
For a moment, she thinks about what it's like to know all these people personally, to know their stories, habits, and manner of speaking — and then she’s grateful she doesn’t know it. It will be easier, Wanda assures herself mentally, but it doesn’t cancel out the horrible, nauseous feeling inside.
Wanda also suddenly, terribly, dislikes the idea that her brother has to be in an alliance with someone Agatha is deliberately trying to kill. She tries not to think about what an absolute mess it will be when their alliances unite.
Instead, she purses her lips, her voice defensive, when she asks Haymitch: “Is it absolutely certain that Pietro has to make an alliance with this… Lady Death? Wouldn’t it be better if it was me?”
Wanda doesn’t use Rio’s real name, as if trying to depersonalize her, as if she’s horrified by the very thought that this is a real person, just like her, someone she could become.
Wanda is also arrogant in her disdainful intonation — the way only children who have abruptly grown up but have not yet become adults do. This arrogance could lead Wanda to the grave, and Haymitch will have to point that out to her later. Maybe when she is less annoyed and at least tries to listen to him.
Right now, Haymitch sighs, looking at her desperate defense of her brother, who wasn’t asking for this defense, but receives it anyway. Revolutions begin with love like hers. He knows this, because the Maximoff twins are the resistance movement’s strongest bet, their greatest hope.
“You’d remind her too much of her wife,” Haymitch finally says.
He thinks about them — dear God, of course, he thinks — it’s hard not to think when he knows both of them.
Haymitch knows Rio a little better than Agatha, a closeness born of what the children who grow up in the poorest districts and face death sooner than they should have in common. Lilia and Rio were his mentors in the 51st Hunger Games, because at that time District 12 still didn't have Victors.
He knows the gap between Rio’s teeth when she smiles those rare, wide smiles, all teeth and squinted eyes. She smiled like that at him when he crawled out of the Arena alive.
Agatha is more complicated. Sometimes he feels like he still doesn’t know her and never will.
Haymitch first met her on his Victor’s Tour, when he arrived in District 3 already harshly drunk. She splashed a glass of water in his face and pushed him onto the stage with a sarcastic “good luck.” It was his only speech he delivered without stumbling between words and without embarrassing himself — out of pure anger at her. Agatha clapped him approvingly on the shoulder after that.
They always quarrelled like cat and dog, and Haymitch genuinely believes she tolerates his existence more than she actually feels affectionate towards him. But it’s always like that with Agatha, so he learned to accept it as affection.
Haymitch will never be her Billy (she truly cares about that boy), just as Agatha will never be his Rio. But he doesn’t want her death.
Neither Agatha’s nor Rio’s.
Star-crossed lovers, the darlings of Panem, who the Capitol later chewed up and spit out in bloody chunks – what the Capitol always does to Victors, changing them beyond recognition.
Who they were and who they became are things so diametrically opposed that from a certain angle they might seem simply be just the other side of the coin.