sooo, halfway this year I've been working on another AU (yes, I've been sucked in by the writing gods) and held it until after the release of SOTR so as to align the stroyline with canon. I've been slightly inactive because of irl quests, but i'm planning on releasing this one this month as it is my birthmonth, so here's something off of it just for intrigue (and because it's haymitch's birthday!)
“Katniss! Just in time. Hay’s looking for you,” Leevy shoves mint tea on her hands and directs her to the familiar old door of district head writer Haymitch’s private lounge. As usual, his feet are propped up on the wooden table, toes tapping to soundless music, a glass of white liquor on his right hand, and Katniss’ scraps of paper at the other.
She scowls at the image.
“... long live the sovereign—” Haymitch reads, “may their reign be as eternal as the surveillance drones humming sweet lullabies above our beds,” He reads her words with mirth, taking a sip of brandy then crumpling her paper. Katniss scowls deeper and snatches the wrinkled article, a ball of paper purely inked with her personal rage.
Haymitch guffaws. “You should know, I thought I had to wheel Plutarch on a stretcher after he read that.”
“That’s unfortunate, he hasn't seen my new draft yet.” she rolls her eyes in mock concern.
He sighs. “Look sweetheart, as much as I like your little fires, it’s Plutarch’s nod that will get you the money.” Her scowl turns to a rueful expression.
“Plutarch wants sugar, not fire. Anyone can build a fire. Sugar sells.” He points.
Katniss stares him down. He’s the one who shoved her first scribbled words into print, back when she was seventeen and hungry. She has been working as a commissioned writer for ‘The Propaganda’ ever since she found out a small pen can feed her family.
Katniss has never been much for conversation, a fact she freely admits. So instead, she took to scribbling her thoughts down—at first, just something to do in the woods when game was scarce. It became a quiet habit, just like her father’s scribbles on their family book. In winter, when she was seventeen, the frost didn’t bite as hard when her first article earned her a few coins from Haymitch, then an amateur writer. Like hunting, writing became a small, unexpected joy—and a way to keep food on the table. Now at twenty-three, writing shaped her anger on the unfairness of politics and life itself into curvy scribbles. A rage that should be played, should be sweetened, or whatever Haymitch scolds her.