So, a while back I swore that I would never upload a fic that wasn't Merlin related. And, I'm going against all that I stand for by posting this. LOL. I'm taking an advanced writing class, and I had to write a fic for it with this prompt: "I stood in anticipation, waiting for the name to be drawn." Haymitch is my absolute FAVORITE character in Hunger Games. I LOVE him. Anywho, I swear I'm not abandoning all of my Merlin writing. And, I'm still not over the ending. I don't think I will ever be. I've had writer's block for like AGES, which is why I haven't really been posting any fic. If you want, I'll try to update my stories soon, though. Oh, and I'm currently beta-ing a LOT. So, if you need a beta, PLEASE MESSAGE ME. Thanks! :)

It's Never too Late

Her tinkling voice giggles as her gorgeous hundred dollar gloves delve for the tiny slip of paper that will be as good as a death sentence for whoever's name is drawn. Since she is only the host of District Twelve's reaping, the Games are only a matter of entertainment for her. That and part of her job.

I notice the first of the two girl tributes who are already on stage, tears in their eyes.

Maysilee Donner.

My eyes take her in. Blonde hair, blowing in the slight breeze. Slim figure, shaking ever so slightly, if you take the time to notice such an obscure detail. Big blue eyes, staring out into the crowd, searching.

'For what?' My mind asks.

A tear rolls down her cheek, seemingly of its own accord, but she brushes it away as if it is a crime to cry.

Maysilee and I aren't exactly friends, but I know her enough to wish she hadn't been picked.

I run my hands through my own dirty blonde hair, wishing the whole ordeal would just end as soon as possible. Then, I can go home to my mother and our small household. And, I'll be able to stop worrying about the reaping for another year.

I'm pulled back to the present by the women's shrill voice. "Haymitch Abernathy," she calls out.

My world freezes, and I swear my heart stops for a split second. It's as if I am paralyzed.

'ME. It's ME.' My mind spins in dizzying circles as I try to process her words.

Somehow my legs begin moving, as if they have a mind of their own or are set on default mode.

A woman's high-pitched shriek pierces the mugginess my mind wallows in.

My mother.

"No! You can't take him! He's my son." She cries out, as if her words alone can change the situation, when we all know that they can't.

Two guards move to pin down her arms as she tries to reach me. She scratches at their faces, seemingly unable to control herself.

"Mum," I whisper, my mouth suddenly dry, my tongue feeling thick and heavy in my mouth.

I force myself to stop looking over my shoulder, and walk the last few steps to the stage, knowing that there's nothing I can do for her, now.

I find myself looking over at Maysilee and into her deep, blue eyes, framed with long, dark lashes.

Not that I'm taking notice. No, that sort of thinking will just make it harder for me once the Games begin.

I must keep my emotions in check.

She gives me what I think is supposed to be a reassuring smile. But, her blue eyes are wide, and she just looks scared to me.

I tilt my chin up, the initial shock wearing off, replaced by my usual sarcasm, and try to take mental notes of the other two tributes.

My mind is already calculating, manipulating; finally my competitiveness can come to some use.

The other girl tribute, standing right next to Maysilee, has dirty blonde hair which falls in a jerky way to frame her face. She obviously isn't from one of the wealthier families in town.

I look her up and down. 'Must be from the Seam.'

The other boy tribute is already on stage, as well, since he was called before me.

Before this whole nightmare happened.

His hair looks black in the sunlight, but it's probably just a really dark brown. I try not to become intimidated by his imploring hazel eyes.

My eyes flit over Maysilee's face once more, to rest on the host woman's profile.

That's when I realize that I never even bothered to learn her name. She's always just been, "the host woman" to me. I guess I never thought it was something I needed to learn.

And, it wouldn't have been. Not under normal circumstances.

But, these aren't normal circumstances. Normal circumstances would involve only 24 tributes getting picked for the Hunger Games instead of 48. Normal circumstances wouldn't include the fiftieth anniversary of the Games. Normal circumstances wouldn't promote me getting picked.

In normal circumstances, the odds would be in my favor.

I'm thrown out of my thoughts, once more, by the host. I think she's saying something about how the crowd should congratulate us tributes. I don't know. My mind is still reeling from shock.

I've never hated my fellow citizens of District Twelve as much as I do when they begin clapping. I want to slap them. Hard. But, my mind seems to get a grip on everything, and I force myself to think of how to defeat the real enemy – the Capital.

My brain scrambles for something snarky to say about the president, the Hunger Games, anything really, to get my mind off of things. A chance for me to lash out with my anger. But, nothing comes to mind. I swear under my breath and finally resign myself to just staring into space, completely expressionless.

They may make me play this game, this very deadly game. I may have to die. I may have to do a lot of things. But one thing I refuse to do is play by their rules. Mine will work just fine.

I shake the other tributes' hands unenthusiastically, and my feet shuffle as I begin to walk off the large platform, on the others' heels. Before I know it, I've said goodbye to my mother, the only real family I have, and have been hustled onto the imposing, foreign train, which will be my transportation to the dreaded Capital.

I know my bedroom is rather large, but it feels far too small to me. Everything's so warm and stuffy. Claustrophobic, even.

I notice an assortment of drinks and snacks, resting on the solitary table in my confinement, and my eyes are immediately drawn to the bottle of liquor.

The food doesn't interest me, but I need something to rid my mind of the plaguing thoughts. Something to help me forget about everything.

But before I lose myself to the alcohol, I try to gather my wits about me and form a somewhat shaky plan.

I wrap my fingers around the smooth glass.

I'm drawn back to the present, over twenty years from then, as I realize my hand is bleeding from squeezing my bottle too tightly.

I know those days are long over, that I've already won the Games. That it's all done with. But, the thoughts still haunt me by day, and my nights are still dominated by nightmares.

I detract the broken glass from my hand and sigh. It won't be easy, getting Katniss out of there alive. But, I'm going to do everything in my power to ensure that she does.

I may never have saved Maysilee in the end, something that I will never be able to forget. But, that doesn't mean I will be too late for her.

For my little fighter.

For Katniss.

- MF