I do not own the Hunger Games series or the Matrix. But I do promote their awesomeness through fanfic. I'll own up to that.

Rated M for lots of swearing and cussing, drug use and alcohol abuse (because, hey, it's Haymitch), plus Johanna's mind is a dirty, dirty place to visit. Enjoy. I know I will.

The MATRIX: The One

1 - Katniss gets some bad news

"What the fucking fuck, Haymitch?!"

The scruffy man waves a hand irreverently between us as if my exhalation were some kind of foul odor. "Calm down, sweetheart. I just call 'em like I see 'em."

"Well, I call bullshit."

He snorts.

I cross my arms.

We glare at each other over the chipped Formica tabletop. He gives an I-don't-give-a-damn shrug and swirls the dregs of the moonshine in the recycled Jim Beam bottle. "Then congratulations to you. Good luck getting your sister out all on your own."

Rat-shit-sucking bastard. Oracle my ass!

"I think that concludes our little consultation," he declares, reaching behind him and grabbing an open plastic Tupperware off the cluttered counter. "Take a brownie."

The container clatters onto the table between us and the displaced air carries with it more than just the scent of cocoa and flour. "Those are pot brownies."

"Yeah…?"

I scowl. "I'm not taking one of those."

"Of course you're not. Take five. You need to come down a notch."

"The hell I do! Maybe I like this notch."

He arches a shaggy brow. "No shit. But what're you gonna say to Finnick when he sees that look on your face?"

"That you're an asshole."

"No, sweetheart. Not that look. The other look."

I blink, feeling a little lost, a lot angry, and shitload of betrayed.

"That one."

Oh.

"You gonna be the one to break the bad news to him? Fitting, huh? The girl he sacrificed a lifetime with his darling wife for just so he could pull you out at the tender age of twelve, and you ain't even willing to try to—"

"Shut up."

He tips the bottle back, liberally swishes his mouth with the liquor, and then swallows. Belches. Grins.

Disgusting.

I sigh. I take a brownie. "What was the guy's name again?" I don't need him to repeat it. I know the name. I know it well. I just need to be sure I'd heard him right because the odds are just too damn fantastic for me to believe he'd really said what I think he'd said.

Haymitch smirks. I glare off to the side at his assortment of plastic refrigerator magnets so I don't have to suffer through the sight of him. He spells the name for me. Offers to write it down.

I shove the brownie into my mouth, flip him off, and march out of his 1960s reject kitchen.

"How'd it go?" Effie asks, abandoning her daytime talk show to totter behind me as I make a beeline for the front door. Just because I'm female does not make us fashion friends.

"Piss off."

I turn the corner and my friend, my mentor, my savior grins so widely his cheeks dimple. "I hope you at least got some sugar out of it."

"Can we get the hell out of here?"

He reaches for the door handle just before I do, wraps his long fingers around it, and blocks us in.

"Finnick—"

"Hey, I don't want your secrets. What was said was for you and you alone."

My shoulders droop. Thank God I don't have to report Haymitch's assessment to him. It would kill Finnick. "Fine."

"Here," he says, digging into the hip pocket of his leather jacket. I hold out my hand automatically. Yes, I trust him that much. He drops a pair of paper-wrapped sugar cubes into my palm. "Brought my own, just in case."

Maybe it's the pot in the brownies, but I'm actually smiling as he shoulders open the door and leads me down the graffiti and garbage-littered hall.

When we get back to the car, I slide into the backseat next to Beetee. From behind the wheel, Johanna lifts a brow at me in the rear view mirror. Finnick takes shotgun and asks if anyone wants donuts – "There's a bakery on the way."

Bakery.

Shit.

I reach for my phone.

"The hell, brainless?" Johanna complains. "You gonna take orders? You know this shit don't work like that."

Fuck off, I mouth at her just as a man on the other end picks up.

"Operator."

"Gale, I need you to run a search for me."

"Let 'er rip, Catnip."

I close my eyes and pray for patience. "I need the status and schedule for a guy." I spell the name and then, just to confirm it, I force myself to say it aloud, "Peeta Mellark."

Yup. Short chapter. But the REAL beauty of it is that more can be posted. What a great system, eh?