It was over.

That edition of the Hunger Games had ended, and Haymitch wasn't sure if he was impressed or grateful. Most years, he couldn't get out of the Capitol fast enough. His tributes were usually pairs of scrawny, frightened children, all different sizes and mannerisms, but they always amounted to the same thing: a pubescent rat running for its life.

Truth be told, he'd been certain history would repeat itself that year. Neither Isidor nor Effie seemed impressive at first glance. Isidor looked like a mangy, angry dog, while Effie... She was a mouse. Honestly, Haymitch had figured Isidor would last longer between the two. And he did last quite a while, finishing in fourth place. Somehow, Effie came in first.

Now he was on the hovercraft, walking down the corridor to the room where his tribute might be found. Just because she'd won didn't mean she was unmarked though. Hell, she'd lost an eye in all that... Anyway, she was fresh meat, and the Capitol never put a defective toy in its citizens' hands. No, that would never happen. Effie didn't need to know that though—not right now.

Entering the room, whose door slid open with a shrill creak, everything inside looked very clinical. The walls were white, almost glowing, the air was icy, and the space contained only a small blue bed and some medical supplies: bandages, heart rate monitors, etc... Sitting on it was Effie. By Panem, she looked sick. Of course no one leaves the arena looking their best, but the way she was now, the girl looked like she was being eaten alive from the inside: staring at the floor, sunken cheeks and pale skin, lifeless eyes, messy blonde hair.

He sighed, walking over to the bed and sitting down. With a mixture of hesitation and pure strangeness, Haymitch placed a large hand on one of the girl's thin shoulders. "Hey, sweetie," his voice came out in a soft murmur as she turned to look at him. "They put a prosthetic in for you, huh?"