Here we go! The last chapter! I hope you've enjoyed it!
I'm going to be out on a slight (two week) hiatus come Thursday, but after that, I'll be back to writing! And hopefully I'll get some more of Letters to a Dead Girl written, if anyone still reads that. If you haven't, go check it out! There'll be some Hayffie in there eventually, I swear!
I do not own the Hunger Games.

She doesn't know how long she can continue to do this. Every year, she picks names out of a giant bowl, and the children she picks are led to their demise. They are paraded around, told that they have a chance of going home, and then killed on live television.

She is the angel of death.

This revelation brings tears to her eyes, and she covers her face in her hands to contain the choked noise that threatens to escape.

Her last Tribute is dead. Yet another year has gone by, and she has assisted in killing two more innocent children. Her world has stopped yet again, but all around her life goes on. The Capitol citizens continue to bet, the other Tributes in the Arena continue to pick each other off one by one, and Haymitch Abernathy will be sent home tomorrow.

She will be left alone once again with only her conscience to keep her company. And that is some lonely and miserable company.

She is pulled out of her thoughts by something nudging her shoulder. She doesn't want to uncover her face, because a few tears have escaped, and she doesn't want anyone to see her cry. She doesn't have the right to cry. Not even in front of Haymitch. Especially notin front of Haymitch.

"Come on, Sweetheart. It's not like you weren't expecting it."

His voice grates on her nerves so badly, and his offhanded way of talking about what has just happened makes her want to throttle him. But she also knows that he is right. She was expecting it. Deep down, she knew that it was inevitable, but she let her hope overtake her sense. And came out heartbroken yet again.

Another of those choked sobs makes its way out of her throat, and this time she is unable to control it being audible.

She can't help but be angry with herself. She has no right to cry. This is her job, this is what she wanted. She applied for this position eagerly. She knew that it would bring her fame and fortune.

How could she have been so blind, so selfish?

He watches her sit there, looking like nothing more than a frightened child herself. Inwardly, he groans.

Damnit, why does he have to feel bad for her? She is the last person in the world he should be feeling bad for. She comes to the District every year, bringing the Capitol stench with her, and draws the names of innocent children who will be sent to the slaughter. He does not want to feel bad for her.

And yet, he does. Somehow he just can't help it.

He nudges her shoulder. He is to the point where he is ready to spill the drink on her just to get her to emerge from behind her hands. He knows she will yell at him, but he is prepared for that, in exchange for her acting normal again. He wants her to yell at him.

"Come on, Sweetheart," he says. "It's not like you weren't expecting it."

At this, she lets out a small sob, and his heart sinks. She really is upset.

He is no good at comforting women. His small bits of experience with real relationships has shown him this quite clearly. He is much better at making them angry with him.

So he does what he does best. Leaning over, he very carefully "accidentally"spills some of the drink he poured up on her.

She gasps and jumps up, surprised by the sudden coldness running down the side of her leg. She has forgotten all about not wanting him to see her crying. Instead, she is glaring daggers at him.

'Finally,' he thinks to himself. 'This is more like the Effie I know.'

He is even more satisfied when she launches into a rant at him. She yells at him for everything she can think of the yell at him about. His abysmal manners, how he doesn't even seem to care about the children they bring here, how he doesn't try to help them at all by sealing the sponsors she works her tail off to find when it isn't even her job.

He sits back and listens, trying not to smile. He is simply too relieved that she is back to her normal self. He does make a mental note of the fact that tears are still running down her face, smudging her makeup and revealing more of her natural face than he thinks he has ever seen before. But then her rant switches gears, and he finds himself intensely uncomfortable.

Suddenly she is talking about the Capitol. And not in the way he is used to hearing. Usually, she only speaks good of the Capitol, which makes sense, because it is her home city. Usually she is so gushingly bubbly about the city that it makes him want to puke even more than his steady diet of alcohol does.

But there is no gushing happening now. What is happening now is more anger than he thinks he has ever seen coming out of her tiny person. He doesn't think he has ever known so much rage to come out of her, even when he has done something incredibly stupid and ruined chances at sponsors. When she yells at him for that, there is no hatred in her voice. But now, he hears nothing but hatred. And it is directed at her very own Capitol.

She yells about the corruption. The corruption of the government, the corruption of the system, the corruption of the Games. She yells about the destruction of innocence, and all for entertainment. She yells about her own job, about having to pick the names of those who will be slaughtered every year, and pretend to enjoy it as she does it.

There are tears running down her face the entire time she yells, and he sits, mesmerized, having never even dreamed that this bubbly, pink, Capitol woman could be so intelligent or have so many harsh feelings toward the place she is supposed to call home.

He is more than contented to sit there and listen to the rant. Not only is it refreshing to hear her yell about something other than him, but finds himself actually interested in what she has to say. In someone else's views on the situation at hand. But when she starts in on President Snow, that's when the realization hits him like a ton of bricks.

Bugs.

The whole penthouse is probably bugged. In fact, he knows almost for sure that it is. A President like Snow would never risk people speaking ill of him or the government in his very own Capitol. Someone as frightened as he is of an uprising would surely have all the floors of the Training Center bugged.

He has to do something. He has to shut her up before she gets herself in trouble with the President. As much as she gets on his nerves on a regular basis, he can't bear the thought of her being punished for speaking what he knows is only the truth.

Before he gets the chance to think, he has jumped up. She falters slightly when she sees how close together they are, and before she can react he has kissed her.

It's not the most pleasant kiss he has ever had. She is still angry, and it's rather wet, because the tears are still falling fast and heavy down her face. He can taste the lipstick she is wearing, and she has stiffened at the unexpected contact.

After several seconds have passed, he breaks the kiss.

'Watch what you say,' he mouths to her, and she is too shocked to do anything but nod. She is still riled up, and he can feel her trembling in his arms. Again, his body reacts before his brain, and he pulls her against him in a tight embrace.

At the kind gesture, she breaks down completely and begins sobbing against his jacket. His hand moves up and down her back in a soothing manner, and she clutches fistfuls of his jacket as she sobs away all the feelings that have been gathering throughout the Games she has escorted. She lets go, and it hurts, all of it coming out at once when she has fought so hard to keep it in.

He sinks down to the couch with her still in his arms, and he holds her until she begins to calm down. She relaxes against him, and after a long while has passed, he realizes that she has fallen asleep.

He still doesn't care. He tells himself that, as he leans back against the arm of the sofa with her resting gently on top of him. But he is beginning to have a very hard time convincing himself, as he feels her gentle breathing.

He only has one more night before he is sent home for another year. He can at least sit here and be there for her. Goodness knows she has been there for him enough, though he barely realizes it.

Sometimes, even the strong must fall.