“We hold another Hunger Games using Capitol children,” says Coin.
“Are you joking?” asks Peeta.
“No. I should also tell you that if we do hold the Games, it will be known it was done with your approval, although the individual breakdown of your votes will be kept secret for your own security,” Coin tells us.
“Was this Plutarch’s idea?” asks Haymitch.
“It was mine,” says Coin. “It seemed to balance the need for vengeance with the least loss of life. You may cast your votes.”
“No!” bursts out Peeta. “I vote no, of course! We can’t have another Hunger Games!”
“Why not?” Johanna retorts. “It seems very fair to me. Snow even has a granddaughter. I vote yes.”
“So do I,” says Enobaria, almost indifferently. “Let them have a taste of their own medicine.”
“This is why we rebelled! Remember?” Peeta looks at the rest of us. “Annie?”
“I vote no with Peeta,” she says. “So would Finnick if he were here.”
“But he isn’t, because Snow’s mutts killed him,” Johanna reminds her.
“No,” says Beetee. “It would set a bad precedent. We have to stop viewing one another as enemies. At this point, unity is essential for our survival. No.”
“We’re down to Katniss and Haymitch,” says Coin.
(…) I weigh my options carefully, think everything through. Keeping my eyes on the rose, I say, “I vote yes…for Prim.”
“Haymitch, it’s up to you,” says Coin.
A furious Peeta hammers Haymitch with the atrocity he could become party to, but I can feel Haymitch watching me. This is the moment, then. When we find out exactly just how alike we are, and how much he truly understands me.
Effie tried to be independent, tried to live on her own, tried to find her place in this new world order but even she knew it was a losing battle. Nothing was the same. The Capitol was a painful reminder of what she had and who she was. This was not her home, not anymore. They’ve taken everything from her, tortured it out of her and when she walked the streets those people smiled at her while politely averting their gaze from the scars she couldn’t hide, turning a blind eye to what had been done to her, a major feat since her imprisonment became public knowledge during the Rebellion.
She couldn’t go on pretending.
Effie tried to call Haymitch - the only person who would not hide behind a mask or treat her with false civility – but as usual, his phone was disconnected. With a quiet resolve, Effie packed her bag and took the train to Twelve. She had no idea what she would do at Twelve but she figured she would cross the bridge when gets to it.
If she expected him to be surprised by her presence, she was wrong.
“Took you long enough, Effs.”
She didn’t want to cry, so Effie began to fidget. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and avoided his gaze. Haymitch watched that uncharacteristic gesture with quiet amusement. Enough, she chastised herself. If she wanted something she would have to be brave enough to face him and ask for it.
“Can I stay?”
They fell into a routine. Haymitch has a habit of falling asleep all over the house. He would drink far too much he would pass out over the table, on the couch or even on the floor and every morning she would rouse him up with a cup of coffee without fail.
She knew he checked on her every night, mostly when she had already fallen asleep. She didn’t know why. But maybe that gave him a peace of mind so she let him. One day, she decided to stay up and true enough, she could hear him staggering down the hallway, pushing the door to her bedroom quietly.
She sat on the edge of her bed with a magazine in her hand. Effie cocked her head slightly to the side, a slight hint of a smile on her lips. Mostly she pretended to look confused.
“Is everything okay, Haymitch?”
He leaned against the doorway, bringing the glass of whiskey to his lips. “Just making sure you weren’t sleepwalking in your heels,” he told her seriously.
That made her laugh. “I’m fine, goodnight, Haymitch.”
“It’s just that I didn’t understand when I met you. After your first Games, I thought the whole romance was an act on your part. We all expected you’d continue that strategy. But it wasn’t until Peeta hit the force field and nearly died that I —.” Finnick hesitates.
I think back to the arena. How I sobbed when Finnick revived Peeta. The quizzical look on Finnick’s face. The way he excused my behavior, blaming it on my pretend pregnancy. “That you what?”
“That I knew I misjudged you. That you do love him. I’m not saying in what way. Maybe you don’t know yourself. But anyone paying attention could see how much you care about him,” he says gently. — Mockingjay, pg. 155-156