Doing my best as District 13's least favorite intern — mostly sabotaging paperwork and accidentally leading rebellions. I make bad decisions so you don't have to. Fanfiction, headcanons, and other entertainments provided here. Open for Requests.
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The funny thing about hiring a housekeeper to save your life is that sometimes it actually works—which is bad news for Haymitch Abernathy and his long-standing commitment to liver failure.
Rot, as it turns out, is much easier to maintain when nobody keeps scrubbing at it.
The funny thing about hiring a housekeeper to save your life is that sometimes it actually works—which is frankly both suspicious and deeply inconvenient for Haymitch, whose retirement plan involves dying sometime soon of liver failure, full-up with a bottle of something undeserved. The terrible thing about hiring a housekeeper to save your life is that it forces you to acknowledge it can still be saved, which is a premise he has been drinking himself out of for the last twenty-something years.
But now, both his tributes have returned alive.
And that has consequences.
As he knew it would. It always did—Haymitch knew that better than most—but the particular consequence of both tributes coming home alive was that the entire district had somehow decided that it was his doing—as if he had done anything beyond shoving two traumatized children towards their impending deaths in slightly more efficient fashion than usual—and he should be rewarded for it. And it started so reasonably: hampers of cold beef and cured ham, crates of expensive liquor, the occasional basket full of things he didn't want. Then presumably when they'd run out of things to send, they'd sent a girl instead—dispatched to the door on mayor's coin with a mop and a mandate, young enough and pretty enough that he could tell immediately what the mayor's coin was paying for. Haymitch had tried, briefly, to get rid of her.
It hadn't stuck.
The woman was immune to everything—slammed doors, barked insults, and a handful of bribery attempts he's not proud of. So he'd surrendered the downstairs entirely and barricaded himself upstairs with his white liquor while she worked below, presumably committing acts of violence against the rot and mildew that had been his close companions.
That had been five days ago.
He hadn't left his post since.
He leaves it now only because he's run out of liquor—which is, in the long and inglorious history of surrenders, perhaps the least dignified reason yet—only to regret it immediately.
The house is full of light.
In a grotesque act of historical revisionism, the curtains have been washed back to their original colour. Sunlight floods through them and through every open window in thick, invasive streams, illuminating the polished floorboards usually buried under empty bottles, and the kitchen counters have been scrubbed clean of every respectable layer of dirt and mold and grime.
And it reeks of lemon polish.
“Smells like a dog shat in the meadow,” he grumbles.
She appears from the kitchen like the house conjured her, all loose curls and yellow frock bright enough to blind a man.
“It smells elegant!” she protests.
“It smells like a flower shop threw up in here.”
“It’s cheerful. I like it.”
“I don't care,” he says. “Get rid of it. And burn those mismatched throw pillows while you're at it,” he adds, squinting at the sofa. “Where did you even find those?”
“I bought them.”
“You bought that?”
“Well—I suppose you bought those.”
“I bought those?” He nearly pops a vein when she nods. “With what money?”
“With my—”
“—the shopkeeper opened a monthly account in your name—”
“The shopkeeper what—”
“—and it was for a good cause! His little girl is sick, you see, and the mayor told me you wouldn't mind me purchasing things in your name that we need for the house.”
“We—” he repeats, “—do not need floral throw pillows. We have never needed floral throw pillows. Return them in the morning.”
“They were only worth seven scrips!”
“That's seven scrips that could've gone towards liquor. You've set my cirrhosis back by a week for some nasty cushions. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
“I am! They're very pretty cushions, and they give the house some character.”
“The house had character before you came.”
“No. That was mildew.”
“It was almost my only companion. That’s what it was. And in the twenty-four years I've been here, it never tried to spend my money on throw pillows.” Haymitch opens his mouth to continue, thinks better of it, and closes it again with gritted teeth and a vein threatening to burst somewhere behind his eyes.
He slams his empty bottle down on the countertop, collects three more from the cupboard where they're lined up like condiments, and makes his way upstairs.
The door slams shut behind him.
He has maybe three hours of peace. He spends them the way he spends most hours—horizontal, working through his second bottle and then his third, while the light goes amber through the curtains, and the victor’s village does what it always does, which is nothing. He is comfortable. He has almost managed to forget there's anyone else in his house.
And then the screeching starts.
Haymitch freezes.
The noise comes again.
Wood violently scraping against wood.
Followed by a heavy thump.
Followed by humming.
God help him, there's someone humming.
In his house.
He stares at the ceiling.
The ceiling stares back.
Another screech.
Something large and heavy being dragged across the floor—directly outside his bedroom.
He waits for it to stop. It doesn't. He pulls the pillow over his head.
This helps for approximately four minutes.
He tries reasoning with himself—she’ll be done soon; she has to be done soon; no reasonable person makes this much noise past evening—but it doesn't help because she's not a reasonable person. He tries sleeping. He cannot sleep. He counts all the bottles on his nightstand. He stares at the water stain on the ceiling.
The humming continues.
He almost makes it.
Then—the sound of a bucket toppling over.
Another screech.
Another.
Finally:
“For the love of—”
He shoves himself upright, head swimming with movement, and storms out.
He immediately wishes he hadn't.
The hallway has been destroyed. Every piece of furniture has been displaced—a side table pushed against the wall at an angle, a dining chair abandoned halfway down the corridor, an old blanket chest moved so far from its original location he can see the darker rectangle of the floorboard where it used to stand undisturbed for years. The windows at either end stand open to the evening air. The floorboards are dark and wet, and the chemical smell of floor polish is sharp on his tongue. Several piles of old bedsheets and blankets sit in a heap on the top of the staircase, grey with disuse, and in the middle of it all—a bucket, a mop, two scrub brushes lined up with neatness amidst the surrounding chaos. The corridor stretches ahead of him, slick and strange and barely his. And she is at the far end of it, her back turned, still working.
Humming under her breath.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asks.
She looks up at him.
“I’m cleaning.”
“You’re cleaning,” he says. “Right now—right this moment.”
Her brow furrows.
“Yes.”
“At six in the evening.”
“Yes.”
“Well—don’t.”
She stares at him for a second.
“Did I disturb you?”
“Take a wild guess.”
“Oh,” she says. “I've been trying to be quiet.”
“Try harder,” he says. “Or better yet—don’t clean here right now. Don't clean here at all. I'm perfectly fine with that.”
“I'm not. The mayor pays me to clean here.”
“I’ll pay you not to.”
“That would defeat the whole purpose; besides not being the right thing to do.”
Haymitch grits his teeth.
“Listen, kid,” he says. “I don't care about the floors. I don't care about the furniture. I don't care if the entire second floor collapses into the first. What I care about is that my head feels like somebody's mining coal behind my eyes, and you've spent the last twenty minutes dragging half the house up and down the hallway. So either find something else to do or come back later. Tonight, tomorrow, never—pick whatever. I'm not fussy.”
“But you might be asleep later.”
“That's the idea.”
“It'll wake you up.”
“I'll live.”
“But you'll be disturbed even more than you are now, and besides I've already started.” She wrings out her mop. “I’ll be done in an hour, and in fact if you went outside for a little while, I could do your bedroom too and get everything finished at once.”
“Absolutely not.”
“But you know I've got to do it sooner or later, and if you let me do it now, I'll leave the upstairs alone for a whole week after.”
Haymitch pinches the bridge of his nose.
“An hour,” he warns.
She rearranges her expression into something sincere with suspicious speed. “I swear.”
He turns sharply, intent on putting as much distance between himself and this conversation as possible, and immediately catches the bucket with his boot.
And then it topples over, sending a wave of dirty soapwater rushing across the floorboards and down the freshly cleaned staircase.
The bucket rattles after it loud enough to wake the dead.
“Two hours,” the girl amends quickly.
Haymitch stares at her.
And then he stares at his soaked boots.
And then he walks away.
…
There are few indignities greater than being kicked out of your own house.
He had woken at noon to the smell of something aggressive and chemical riding through the floorboards. He had stumbled downstairs, squinting against the light, to find his house turned into a warsite. The kitchen had been scrubbed and every surface sprayed with something that burned his eyes from twenty paces away; and the rest of the house was next, she had informed cheerfully. The windows stood open but it made no difference. The smell had settled into the walls, the curtains, the very air itself—and he'd been too drunk and too hung-over all at once to argue. The result was that his house was now unfit for human occupation.
And he was human enough, regrettably, for the distinction to matter.
So the backyard it had been.
He had dropped into the chair beside the porch some time ago and stayed there, because the alternative was standing, and standing had become an act of ambition.
He sits there now, the sun beating on his neck. It's all wrong—too bright, and too direct—and the air is thick and still and smells of cut grass and something else green and wet and rotting in the heat. His skull is doing something unpleasant behind his eyes. His knees ache. His stomach has lodged several formal complaints about all the biscuits he'd eaten in the last hour and the liquor he'd used to wash them down. And somewhere on the back of his neck, several winged things have decided he's lunch.
He slaps at them.
They come back.
He swats the mosquitoes away from the plate of biscuits sitting on the chair beside him. Peeta had dropped them by this morning while he was still asleep. The girl had reheated and placed them beside him as consolation for being kicked out of his house.
He takes another swig and the bottle feels easier to lift than his head.
The light shifts through the overgrown grass and catches the empty bottles lying in the weeds beside his chair. The grass brushes against his boots. The garden sprawls beyond the porch, dark and airless and overgrown. The flowerbeds have sunk into themselves, the stone path is almost gone now. Thorned vines have climbed the fence, and twisted hard around the slats. The roses have grown wild, their blooms small and ragged, their stems tangled in the weeds around them. Tall grass leans against the porch steps. Dandelions push up through every crack they can find. The whole thing smells sour in the heat—something green and old and wet slowly baking in the afternoon sun.
He should go inside.
But the house is uninhabitable and standing is an effort.
He remains in his seat.
Then the weeds swear.
Or the girl does, from somewhere inside them.
Haymitch opens one eye.
His hand reaches for another biscuit.
“The boy's trying to kill me,” he says.
She laughs.
“With biscuits?”
“With diabetes.”
“That does sound serious.”
“It is,” he says. “I haven't spent twenty-four years of my life destroying my liver just to let diabetes take me away.”
“You poor thing.” The sound of leaves rustling follows. “He's very kind to drop these biscuits by, all fresh and warm.”
“Yes, well," he says. "It's Peeta."
As if that explains everything.
(It does.)
“Papa used to love those fancy cakes he made. Brought one home every payday, like clockwork.” She appears in his periphery, cheeks flushed, and stops before the glass window to inspect her reflection with seriousness. “Can’t eat them anymore though,” she says, “which is just as well, because we can't afford it either.”
He hums.
She plops down on the chair beside him. “He was so shocked and confused when I answered the door though—the poor thing. You're so tight with him—and the girl too. I’d figured you'd have told them by now.”
Tight.
He's not sure that's the word he'd use. He's not sure what word he'd use. They drop by sometimes—the boy more than the girl—to check whether he's alive. And when he's too drunk to argue, he lets them in. The whole thing is ridiculous and unnecessary. A man falls asleep face-down in his vomit one time and suddenly everyone thinks he needs a keeper.
But Haymitch isn't a strong enough man to turn away whatever the boy brings him.
And so the boy keeps coming back.
“They haven't visited since,” he says.
Which is a rare stroke of luck. He’s not quite ready to publicize his defeat just yet.
“You should invite him here more often. He's from such a big family. I imagine it must get lonely living in such a big house.” The girl reaches for a biscuit. “I can cook dinner and whatnot. If we're very lucky, he’ll bring some of those tarts he makes. We could invite the girl too, I suppose.”
“I suppose.” His lip twitches. “Try not to injure yourself with enthusiasm.”
“It's not that I'm unwilling! I just don't know her. She used to visit our shop once a year for Prim’s birthday. She was a bit scary.” She flashes a sheepish smile. “But I'm sure she's a very nice person to know.”
Haymitch takes a long swig from his bottle.
“Right,” he says.
“The garden is going to take loads of time, by the way,” says she. “The soil's gone wrong, the roses have grown wild, and there's weeds growing all over the stone path. I don't even know where to start.”
“I do. Don't.”
She ignores him.
“The flowerbeds will have to be cleared up first. Then I'll have to figure out what all's even worth saving at this point. The grass needs cutting. The shrubs need trimming. The vines have to come off the fence before they bring the whole thing down.”
“I don't understand why bother at all.”
“Because I want to do a good job. The mayor's wife was so kind as to find me this job; I don't want to disappoint her. Besides, it'll look pretty. A house ought to look pretty if it can! It'd just be such a waste of a good gardening space otherwise.”
He snorts.
“I don't plan on sitting here enough times to notice,” he says, taking another swig. “And besides, pretty doesn't do much.”
“Yes, it does.”
“No, it doesn't.”
“It makes people happy. And besides, things don't have to be useful to be worth keeping.”
“Useful is generally a safer bet.”
“Well, I disagree.”
“Shocking.”
They exchange a glance.
“You'll like the garden when I'm done with it,” she promises.
He remains quiet.
She dusts the crumbs off her clothes before returning to work.
Haymitch watches from his seat.
She starts with the flowerbeds closest to the porch. Haymitch watches her crouch down and begin pulling weeds by hand and dropping them in a growing pile beside her.
It's a complicated process.
Every so often she has to brace one foot against the edge of the flowerbed and tug with both hands to get a stubborn root out of the ground. More than once, she loses the fight and nearly falls backwards into the dirt.
By the time she moves on to the next patch, there's soil under her fingernails, and dirt smeared across the sleeve of her dress.
A root catches her next.
She braces both feet against the flowerbed and pulls.
Nothing.
She tries again.
Still nothing.
Haymitch takes another sip from his drink.
The root remains unmoved.
“You're getting your ass kicked by a plant.”
“I'm not.”
“You are.”
The root wins a third round.
Haymitch nods.
“Humiliating,” he says.
“It would come out if the ground wasn't so hard.”
“The ground seems fine.”
“The ground hates me.”
“The ground has excellent taste.”
She shoots him a look, still pulling with all her strength.
The root gives way without warning.
She stumbles backwards and lands squarely in the dirt.
Haymitch laughs into his bottle.
“You're enjoying this far too much.”
“And why shouldn't I? It's the first useful thing this garden has produced in years.”
The bottle empties in his hand and he sighs.
Watching her lose so spectacularly to something is almost adequate compensation for being evicted from his own house.
But the mosquitoes have returned to avenge their dead kin and his spine hurts from sitting up straight.
“How much longer?” he asks.
“For what?”
“This.”
She looks around. “The outdoors?”
“The outdoors.”
“Oh, you mean when will it be safe to go inside? That you can go anytime you like! The smell should've gone away soon after the first hour.”
He stares at her, dumbfounded.
“Why didn't you say anything?”
“Well, you'd already come outside, and you looked so comfortable. And besides, a little sunlight is supposed to be good for your health. I didn't want to say anything.”
“You—”
He gets up from his chair.
She looks back at him quietly.
“You're a menace,” he says and goes away, shutting himself inside his bedroom.
He stays there for the rest of the day.
It's late evening when she knocks on his bedroom door.
Haymitch ignores it.
He lies back in his bed and stares at the ceiling and waits for it to go away—which it does. Five minutes pass.
And then something that isn't quite curiosity but lives in that neighborhood gets the better of him and he opens the door. There's a tray on the little stand outside—a bowl of soup, still steaming, with a heel of bread balanced on the rim. He looks down the hall, and then at the soup.
Nobody.
He brings it inside.
The soup is watery and oversalted, and the bread is slightly stale, and the whole thing is barely warm by the time he gets to the bottom of the bowl—which he does faster than he means to. He feels like a thief sneaking inside his own home as he listens for footsteps before opening the door, setting the empty bowl on the tray, and bolting the door shut again very quickly.
It's replaced by a fresh tray the next morning—undercooked buns and a questionable attempt at coffee.
He finishes that too.
No one ever mentions it.
a/n: i hope you guys loved reading this as much as I loved it! please like, comment, reblog, follow—all of that! it'd mean the world to me.
and if you'd like to be notified for future parts, drop a comment below and I will @ you everytime I post. thank you for reading!
The funny thing about hiring a housekeeper to save your life is that sometimes it actually works—which is bad news for Haymitch Abernathy and his long-standing commitment to liver failure.
Rot, as it turns out, is much easier to maintain when nobody keeps scrubbing at it.
you are the first person who brought up the topic of Haymitch being white in the adaptation!!! I was so angry but it seemed like no one cared anymore, but if the canonically white character was replaced by a black one, there would be a wave of discontent "the little mermaid" and "snow white" are examples of this, which once again proves that people never cared about canonicity, this shit has a completely different name
#peoplesaytheyaren'tracistswhenitcomestowhites
and yk let's not even talk about the people who didn't say a word. let's all shine a light on the hypocrites who did speak up about it, understand it's wrong, and will still go and watch the movie when it comes out. when you talk the talk, but can't follow through, you're actually worse than those who didn't speak against it at all, because you benefit from the discussion when it's convenient, and then shelve it away forever. the only way to stop this bs is to make it hurt for them—impact their profits... but that will never happen because people want to be politically correct on the internet, but not enough to actually put their money where their mouth is.
so yes, I'm mad at the racists, but I'm even more mad at the performative people horrified for maybe two weeks before they are again raving about how they can't wait to watch the movie.
i'm so sick of people going "you hate gale because he is a radicalized, emotionally manipulated teenager who faced great trauma" like no, i hate gale because he's annoying, bro. don't do me like that.
hey so this is insane behavior. it's legitimately never that serious. i can hate a character just 'cause his hair is blue and not pink, because it's just a character and I'm not harming anyone by having a strong preference against it. if you're this sensitive over what's clearly a tongue in cheek post, i strongly advise you to gtfo off the internet and touch some grass.
im not even gonna actually put on blast whoever said that since, i repeat, it's never that serious, but sincerely, get some help.
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Peeta Mellark’s role in the rebellion is often undervalued, cast as the emotional foil to Katniss’s pragmatism or Gale’s radicalism on here. But this view overlooks the strategic depth of his resistance. Peeta’s defiance isn’t loud or violent—it’s rooted in emotional autonomy, which, in a system built on fear and control, is very subversive. From the start, Peeta challenges the Capitol’s values. Giving bread to Katniss at risk of punishment. Confessing his love on television before the Games. Choosing connection over self-preservation in a system designed to strip people down to their most primal instincts. He reframes their story from bloodsport to tragic romance, challenging the entire premise on which The Games operate, that when it comes to survival, people become no better than animals.
But he retains his humanity and exercises emotional autonomy by refusing to play along with what the Capitol expects from every tribute— to fight for their lives while disregarding everything else. In doing so, he forces the Capitol audience to see them as human beings, not just district savages killing each other for entertainment. And if I see anyone undervaluing his contributions or portraying him as dead weight, or as someone whose role in the rebellion was coincidental or anything less than deliberate, I’m going to scream.
bringing this back because the ali hazelwood discourse has brought such an uptick in wild takes that frankly reek of illiteracy and lack comprehension that some of y'all need a reminder. but let me preface that even if her opinion is "wrong" to you, it's despicable that people bullied her, and sent threats over it for more than a month.
touch grass, seriously.
but also, peeta wasn't useless. if you take him out of the story, there is no story, because there is no berries incident, which yk, sparked the whole revolution. may i remind you katniss was ready to kill to go back home, and might have too if it had been anyone other than peeta? if he hadnt saved her life first, she wouldn't even have got that choice. you don't have to hate gale for him. gale is an interesting character too, and you can like him better. but peeta is one of the strongest characters in the hunger games. he's the first in the series to express anti-capitol sentiments. he performs small acts of kindness (like giving her bread at the risk of personal harm). he goes through absolute hell, losing his own sense of self, which was most important to him, and still recovers. he volunteers for her, and even indirectly encourages her towards gale in the quarter quell, because, unlike gale, he prioritises her happiness over his desires. but some of y'all want the same possessive, short-tempered, morally grey YA lead in every book, and simply flocked to the character who most closely imitated that standard, and it shows.
peeta : suffered an abusive childhood, low self-esteem, survived two hunger games, was willing to die multiple times throughout the series, lost his leg, was captured and tortured by the president and his men, his entire family died, lost his entire memory/sense of self, practically had nothing left to live for.
gale : lost his father at thirteen, had to risk his life every day to provide for his mother and all his younger siblings, watched the genocide of his people and was powerless to stop it, was whipped publicly until he almost bled out and died, was manipulated and exploited by a president who saw his trauma as a weapon she could use.
people who zero reading comprehension : “those boys only cared about katniss! she had a revolution to lead and they just dragged her down and focused only on kissing! the books would have been more nuanced without romance!”
me? no. I found him annoying at different sections but I never hated him. I began to resent him a long time ago after getting on tumblr and getting the whole “if you hate gale you just don’t understand him for this reason or you dislike him because of this [awful] reason”. I hated those takes.
I never agreed with the idea that he was an terrible, heartless person or inherently bad, but I also hate the way his fans defended him, like disliking him was a moral failing or a blindness or flaw.
I didn’t even dislike him until getting on tumblr.
I hate gale because he's annoying and I don't need a good reason or a moral failing or media literacy (or lack thereof) to hate gale... I'm just a gale hater.
i'm so sick of people going "you hate gale because he is a radicalized, emotionally manipulated teenager who faced great trauma" like no, i hate gale because he's annoying, bro. don't do me like that.
He was so condescending!! Like I get it, you grew up fast, but why are you taking it out on my best friend Katniss? She gets it, don’t talk to her like she’s your child bride or whatever.
I dont hate him for his war time decisions, (even though I don’t exactly love them!) I hate him because sucks at empathy, while taking everything personally and he doesn’t even have the decency to be interesting!
I think it’s infuriating that he simultaneously looks down on Katniss for not “getting” the evils of the capitol like he does,, while also being mad at her for shit the Capitol puts her through.
Also,, if my best friend since forever,, my ride or die, that I had an obvious but still secret crush on was sent to a televised murder championship,,, I would not feel betrayed *by her* for anything that happened on that tv show. Like truly It would have been so fucked up if Katniss refused to get close to peeta out of like, loyalty to gale or something.
“Damn this delirious boy who is maybe dying of blood poisoning, who I also feel indebted to, has kind of become my responsibility. Im getting the impression that the fucked up puppeteers of this situation are more likely to keep us from dying right now if I give them some sort of performance. But I couldn’t… since this is all being televised I should probably not attempt to better my situation, or god forbid find comfort in physical affection, that would be a slight to my bff, who is being forced to watch. Which we can all agree is just as bad as being forced to participate!! Maybe I can give peeta a kiss anyway, as long as I remember that this is all about Gale at the end of the day.”
and this, coming from gale, who would've already seen on television how peeta saved her life when she was hallucinating from the tracker jacker venom, getting fatally injured in a death arena, and was so mean to both of them for what? she didn't even owe him anything because they were nothing more than friends before the games, so there was no betrayal. he's older than both of them, and still wildly immature, focusing on the wrong things... and this last bit is not a valid criticism because it's just ✨ vibes ✨ I get, and I don't have much defense for it, but something about gale and his self-absorbed nature when it comes to his feelings just reminds me of the incels crying about male loneliness epidemic everywhere, and I just can't unsee it. The whole scene where Katniss asks him if the bombs were his, and he finds out she found out about prim, all those conflicts after the first games because she dared to make choices for her survival over his feelings, and the entitlement at some points... just, yeah.
All I can say is, if you think there wasn't enough time to make Haydove into a shippable couple, Pixar had us all sobbing over the love story of Carl and Ellie in Up within 8 minutes.
Time or space to tell a love story isn't the issue, the writing is.
i wish more people would understand that the hunger games is not a romance series. lenore dove’s writing was there to show how authoritarian governments control the people, and kill anyone who stands in their way.
I wish people would understand a huge part of the story does rely on the romance. If you can't root for it, it's so annoying to read through it because she appears so often. It was a choice from the author to have romance in the dystopian world, so it's a perfectly valid criticism that the book did a poor job of it. It's almost like you can have a character have more than one purpose in a story.
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You get to spend every day with our leader? (That's nothing special Coin is one of us, she is with us at all times and is found among the people) but still holy Coin! What's it like?
It's such an experience! President Coin has this incredible ability to enter a room without making a sound and still make you feel like you've done something wrong. I once dropped my clipboard just because she looked in my direction.
It wasn't even my clipboard. I don’t know whose clipboard it was.
It disintegrated under pressure.
She rarely speaks to me — except once, when I accidentally triggered the fire suppression system outside her office and she said, and I quote, “Why are you like this?” — which, honestly, is the closest thing to mentorship I’ve ever had. But hey, being in her presence is very motivating. In the same way a countdown clock is motivating when you're trapped in a locked room with no air vents. Inspiring stuff.
1 hour until my shift ends, and my shift as a lifeguard in the pool begins. Coin bless. Shitty work day, the inmates made so much fucking noise and the latrine overfilled again so it smelled ALL DAY. Why do the social deviants have to make so much noise? Soldier Brown says the latrine should be fixed by next week which is good.
Have you had to deal with any latrine overflows/pipe leaks?
That sounds like such a tough job... There was this one time I filed a report about a minor pipe leak. Turns out I accidentally triggered the emergency flood protocol.
The lower archive was evacuated, two tech officers slipped on the same puddle in succession, and someone submitted a formal complaint about “moist revolutionary conditions.” I’m still banned from touching any plumbing-related paperwork since then, let alone latrines. Still, better than the time I tried to “help” maintenance by rerouting a pipe myself. I flooded the comms room and shorted out three consoles. We lost contact with District 7 for six hours. President Coin is still mad about that.
"Dreams of your hair and your stare and sense of belief
In the good in the world, you once believed in me" like this isn't Katniss spiraling about Peeta.
i'm so sick of people going "you hate gale because he is a radicalized, emotionally manipulated teenager who faced great trauma" like no, i hate gale because he's annoying, bro. don't do me like that.
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Alma Coin blesses your work! It's so much more complicated then mine, I just guard 13 from social deviants and delinquents, its such a simple job. What's all the paperwork like?
Oh, the paperwork is just a bunch of misfiled requisition forms and forms about misfiling requisition forms. But my job is mostly just to fetch coffee, try not to spill it, and pretend I know what a “tactical resource allocation grid” is.
Just yesterday, I stapled my own hand to a report while trying to impress the munitions clerk.
(She was not impressed.)
President Coin walked by, sighed so hard the lights flickered, and muttered something about conscripting houseplants instead. I'm still not sure if that was a threat or a promotion. Anyway, I salute your service, truly. Guarding against social deviants sounds way above my clearance level. I once tried to detain a suspicious individual—turned out it was just a coat rack. I panicked and saluted it for three minutes straight.
I'm stupid but I only just thought of this: did haymitch keep the whole rebel plan a secret from katniss because he didn't want her to have to deal with the emotional fallout if it failed?
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