pickledtribute (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pickledtribute) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
milliways_bar2012-05-05 08:09 pm
pickledtribute) wrote in milliways_bar2012-05-05 08:09 pm
Entry tags:
(no subject)
After getting drunk with Red (and mocking her outfit cheerfully the whole time) Haymitch went back to the Capitol. The next day the trains took the mentors home - only one train had two living victors.
That was not the train to Twelve. The train to Twelve ended in a solemn and mostly-sober presentation of the caskets to the grieving families, accepting their thanks (somehow without making a painfully snarky comment in return) and their poorly hidden looks of derision (also somehow managing to not make a snarky comment in return).
And then he was alone.
For a whole year. No doors, no break from the unrelenting grim reality of the Twelfth District.
Today, all of the children between the ages of twelve and eighteen were herded into pens. Two names were chosen. No one volunteered. The unrelenting cheer of the handler was almost painful to the point of making him want to snarl. Can't do that, not on camera, not if he wants to avoid Snow's attention.
So he visits the bar car before going to take a closer look at what the Reaping balls have brought him this year.
Actually, it seems he'll be visiting the bar, period. He eyes the room, warily. A whole year. A whole year. He isn't entirely sure this isn't a hallucination. A particularly unkind one.
That was not the train to Twelve. The train to Twelve ended in a solemn and mostly-sober presentation of the caskets to the grieving families, accepting their thanks (somehow without making a painfully snarky comment in return) and their poorly hidden looks of derision (also somehow managing to not make a snarky comment in return).
And then he was alone.
For a whole year. No doors, no break from the unrelenting grim reality of the Twelfth District.
Today, all of the children between the ages of twelve and eighteen were herded into pens. Two names were chosen. No one volunteered. The unrelenting cheer of the handler was almost painful to the point of making him want to snarl. Can't do that, not on camera, not if he wants to avoid Snow's attention.
So he visits the bar car before going to take a closer look at what the Reaping balls have brought him this year.
Actually, it seems he'll be visiting the bar, period. He eyes the room, warily. A whole year. A whole year. He isn't entirely sure this isn't a hallucination. A particularly unkind one.