A/N: My logic of including a spoiler in a summary is the fact that mostly everyone browsing a Hunger Games category on a fan-fiction site has read the book, seen the movie, or trolled the internet for information.

I'm really sorry if I ruined something for you, but frankly I don't see how that could be… unless you've been living under a rock. Aside from that, there are spoilers about Haymitch. Unless you've read "Catching Fire" and "Mockingjay" I don't advise you to go further!

The tiny girl from District 11 is dead.

Despite my better efforts, my throat catches and I feel the sting of liquor leech into my nostrils. I cough and disguise it by pretending to choke on a large swig. Surrounded by other mentors and a handful of sponsors, I can't afford to look like this shakes me. But it does.

We will know half a second before Katniss knows, watching on these glossy huge screens that cost more than all the food that can be scraped up in either 12 or 11 combined.

Well, she's not dead, not yet, but with the wound she's taken to her gut there's no possibility of survival. Not if her mentors and I scrape up all the sympathy we can from the sponsors. There is nothing we can send in there that will save her life.

There are pretty finger foods on the table I'm sitting in front of. Trying to distract myself from the feelings that are coursing through me, threatening to make an appearance, I take a canapé made with goose liver and chives. They eat the most ridiculous things here, but after years of being 12's only mentor I've acclimated.

Besides, I promised my tributes I'd stay sober, and sober I'll stay in public. Tonight in my room I'll be drinking, killing off the stash of Ripper's white liquor that I smuggled into the Capitol.

Their stuff, it's not quite strong enough.

Glancing around the room, I see Chaff, one of 11's mentors. His face has gone ashen even under his dark complexion. He's trying to carry on a pleasant conversation with a female sponsor wearing teal leather and matching diamond earrings, but there's no way they could have missed what just happened on the screen. It's too huge and there are multiple, smaller televisions scattered throughout the luxurious room. Effie Trinket looks faintly disturbed, and she's got one of the best poker faces I've ever seen. It's only helped by her pronounced makeup.

Angry red blood is seeping onto green grass by the time Katniss makes it to Rue's side. She had to kill another tribute, the one who put his spear through Rue. She is yelling, frantically asking if there are more threats, over and over again. Rue has to repeat herself several times before Katniss stands down.

By now everyone is riveted. The desperate tone in my tribute's voice has demanded their attention. It's captivated mine and I can't tear myself away.

But I would rather be doing anything but watching. Really, I want to drink myself into a stupor. Or better yet, I want to smash all the filled serving plates and wine glasses until they call Peacekeepers to take me into custody for the night. Isn't that the thing I am known for- rash, drunk judgement? It's madness, the slaughter of this little girl.

I have to remind myself I'm not there. I'm watching edited images on a screen. I can't smell the tang of blood. Feel the cushioned tread of grass under my feet. I have a disconcerting sense of déjà vu that is not remotely tied to alcohol, and the worst bit is a fair few of the other mentors must know it. I bet some of the sponsors do too. Maysilee Donner and I were one of the more heart wrenching alliances. No, we never played the lovers angle as Katniss and Peeta do: there was nothing like that between us.

We were Seam, we were from 12, and we were the underdogs who stood a chance of winning. I am glad I didn't have to kill her.

But the weight of her hand clasped in mine as she died, the gurgle of lifeblood from her skewered throat, and the strangled choking sounds she made as her eyes permanently closed- these I will take to the grave. They are things at the top of a rather long list I tenaciously try to drown out.

I can't quite process the idea that now Katniss will have similar things to deal with. Identical things, really, except these two girls came from neighboring districts. I only feel a hollow, knowing ache as she clasps Rue's hand and leans down, matted brown hair falling to cover her face, to catch Rue's last words.

Steady on, girl, I think.

My brain seems to switch off as Katniss begins to sing, softly at first, and then more loudly. I didn't know she could sing, and certainly not sing like this. Maybe the stories about her father were true. She chose a lullaby. It's an old one that parents in 12 sing to get their kids to sleep. I think I know that much, even though I don't have kids. I wish I could step through the glass of the television screen and treat Katniss Everdeen like a kid. I want to embrace her and wipe the gore from her hands, tell her everything will be fine.

I take another cool look around the room again.

A lot of the audience is in tears, their hands holding canapés frozen halfway to their mouths. They will finally stop eating for the drama that is unfolding before them. I don't mean the mentors- the majority of their expressions is grim. Chaff's dark eyes meet mine and I look away.

Still, I feel his gaze resting on me as I polish off the dark colored liquor in its little glass.

It tastes of raspberries, burns on the way down, and sets my belly on fire. No, it's not strong enough, this stuff.