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Chapter Text

It was always painful to see the realisation dawn on a new Career Victor. Seeing the understanding that their life as they knew it, beyond the Games, was over. That was what his mentor, Jocelyn (winner of the 49th Hunger Games) had told him when he had realised what was going to happen to him.

He just wished she'd told him before Cashmere volunteered.

Because now he could see it himself, in his sister.

Cashmere looked like a deer in the headlights as an older man, someone Gloss didn't know or care to know about, felt her up. His hands sliding all over his little sisters body, her looking at him with terrified eyes even as an easy smile stayed on her face -

He couldn't interfere. He knew he couldn't. This sleazy so-and-so had paid for the privilege of having the newest, prettiest victor hanging off his arm for this event, and Gloss couldn't stop him from touching his sister's chest and ass if he wanted Cashmere to be safe.

Not happy, but safe.

So he looked away.

He could feel Cashmere's betrayed eyes on him even as he downed shot after shot, the alcohol burning down his throat the only distraction he could take from what he knew was happening behind him. Out of the corner of his eye he could still see her - glimmering golden dress that was only opaque around her nipples and rear, tapping golden heels, long blonde hair perfectly curled down her back - but it didn't matter.

Shot after shot. Tequila Slammed, Bloody Mary, Silver Bullet. Down the hatch.

He could hear the bartender trying to cut him off, but a single glare from Gloss had the man scrambling over himself to keep bringing more alcohol.

It had only been a year since his games. They knew what he could do, and they did not want to be on the other side of it.

And when he stumbled his way into his Capitol-assigned rooms, drunk and hiccuping, he could see Cashmere curled up on his couch. Tears streamed down her face, and her golden dress was replaced with a fluffy pink robe.

"Why didn't you tell me?" She asked.

"I didn't have chance." Gloss responded, before running to the bathroom to throw up.

If only they knew that things would get worse

Chapter Text

Alexander McCabe, District 2's male tribute for the 65th Annual Hunger Games.

Enobaria looked approvingly up and down his physique - buff, muscled, striking.

The only problem was his face.

Alexander could have been a proper contender, but all eyes were on Finnick Odair from 4. That kids bronze hair and green eyes were the talk of the Capitol, swarms of adoring fans on social media talking excitedly about the upcoming parade.

Alexander could not hold a candle to that kid. Despite his by all accounts attractive physique, his face was far from what the Capitol deemed beautiful.

The only way he'd be able to gain any good will in the Capitol would be by helping that Finnick kid, and even then if it came down to them two, the game makers would kill him.

Why did she even care? It had been 3 years since her games now, and all 4 of her tributes, no matter how promising, had died.

And still, somehow, Enobaria hoped.

When Alexander got that 10, she dared to hope that he would gain some sponsors.

When he absolutely aced that interview, she thought he might be in with a chance.

But then he just had to go and threaten that 4 kid. It was a clever plan, especially since the Cornucopia hadn't provided food, but threatening the fan favourites life? That was just asking for death.

It surprised her that he got as far as he did, coming in fourth place as 4's trident rammed straight through his stomach, causing his body to fall limp in the water. And she could hear the confrontation between 4, 1 and 11, but it didn't matter.

Another two down. 6 mentees she had failed. Killed.

Alongside the ones she killed in her games.

Ugh. She needed a drink.

Emotions.

What bullshit.

Chapter Text

Beetee was lucky. He had a use beside his physical body that saved him from the worst of the Capitol's eye.

Not that he was particularly attractive in the Capitol's eye. He wasn't ugly, by any means, but luckily for him there were more stunning Victors before him that had held the limelight.

But he had seen others after him falling into it.

Eira Johnson from the 33rd was one of them. The District 11 girl had been from a merchants family - never before had to sell herself to survive. And yet here she was in the Capitol, the same dull eyes that Zane Duffy (District 2, 25th Hunger Games, First Quarter Quell) and Bailey Daniels (District 1, 18th Hunger Games) had despite the glowing thousand-watt smiles on their faces (that didn't reach their eyes, indicating falseness).

And more followed. Emmett Solace of 1, Victor of the 36th Annual Hunger Games. Delilah Robinson, 7, 39th Games. Alice Harris, 1, 40th. Daniella Marshall, 7, 41st. Each brilliant smile accompanied by dead eyes, shelved into the category of sex-slave.

Beetee kept records, of course. His mind ran at a mile a minute, and any important information had to be recorded so he could return to it. So tucked into a corner of his lab, covered in random scribbles so that no suspicion would be raised, was a notepad of his tributes and their potential uses by the Capitol.

The 44th Annual Hunger Games was coming. His tributes this year were Apphia Singh, and Levi Brooks.

Both were remarkably intelligent, 18 and 16 respectively so they were reaching the end of their education anyway.

Apphia was pretty, with big dark eyes that were framed by long eyelashes. They reminded Beetee's of a cows eyes - gentle and sweet, innocent even, but her mind was sharper than a fox. She could play into that - her innocent features that made her look younger than she was. It would be a flawless strategy - easy acquisition of sponsors, all too willing to sponsor her in the hopes they'd get in her bed.

Levi looked older than he was, with a lean figure that was perfectly framed by the thick squared glasses adorning sharp green eyes. He was all angles, with a handsome face that looked it's best when he was playing stoic. The dimples that appeared when he smiled set off the stoic angle a lot, but playing the distant and stoic genius role would be an easy sell to the capitol. Sometimes they liked an emotionally inept genius.

It would work of course. Beetee knew that, just like he knew that the earth wire prevented the live wire from exploding. It was so obvious how to make it work. He could tell them how to ace the interview, introduce them to people who had employed the same tactics he could tell them too, bring at least one of them out the other end.

But this was his 17th set of tributes. He knew what awaited them.

So he led them wrong. Apphia played the mysterious wise woman card, not interesting to the Capitol at all when Celia Cole from 4 played the alluring siren angle immediately after. And Levi was the snooty genius, not playing stoic at all but playing arrogant and pigheaded. Beetee told him they liked to see arrogant people being beaten down and turned to something better - not necessarily a lie, but not the whole truth.

Levi died in the bloodbath - Celia's spear slicing straight through his stomach. Apphia died from mutts, those big cow-eyes filled with tears as they tore her body to shreds. Beetee noted down their deaths, noting how it had saved either of them from a life of sexual slavery and pain.

On to the next.

Chapter Text

Finnick hated this.

His tributes this year, Umiko Mohammed and Cove Mather, were both decent tributes - both from the makeshift career academy 4 had assembled, strong, well fed. The 43rd Victor - Kara, he thought her name was, but he wasn't sure - had claimed Umiko as her favoured already, leaving Finnick with Cove.

Umiko had the best chance. She was 18, skilled with both range and close combat, and incredibly fit. Good constitution, good stamina, impressive muscles... She was an ideal victor. Cove, on the other hand, was what the Victors had taken to calling Cannon Fodder - when there was clearly a favoured tribute that the District was rooting for.

Cove knew he wasn't coming out of that arena alive. And that killed Finnick.

Well, that and the fact the kid wouldn't stop wandering off.

"Cove?" The freshly-20-year-old Victor called out, leaving the elevator at the roof. He'd traveled every floor, ignoring the gazes of awed tributes and confused Victors alike, looking for his wandering tribute. He didn't know what he would have done if Cove had managed to find a way out - to run and hide. But luckily, Cove was here, on the roof.

It was raining - it clearly had been for a while, Finnick noted briefly, as Cove was soaked to his skin. His eyes were red, like he'd been crying, and his hands were trembling.

"Jesus, Cove," Finnick sighed, flicking his own wet hair out of his eyes as he walked towards him. "You scared me to death!"

"Sorry," Cove didn't look at him, eyes focused on the skyline. "I just... I couldn't... Tomorrow..."

Shit. It was one of these conversations, huh? The night before the games, another moment of realisation that it was all gonna end soon.

"You know you still have a good shot, right?" Finnick elbowed him, "You're strong and resilient. You could survive this. Get up high, scavenge for food, pick em off from above with some handmade weapons."

But Cove shook his head. "It won't work. It never does." And he turned to Finnick, face crumpled. "She'd just kill me anyway."

Finnick didn't have a response. Cove was right, of course - Umiko had been trained for this. There was a reason Cove had been the chosen volunteer - he had thought he'd been prepared for it, for death, but it was always much more daunting when you're actually faced with it, Finnick mused.

"So what's your plan then?" He asked. "Find something to take yourself out painlessly?"

"I'm just going to run into the Cornucopia." Cove smiled weakly, lips trembling even as he smiled. "Someone will kill me. I've not made any alliances. I just... I wish I could see the sea again. One last time."

And Finnick didn't know what else to do but hug him, squeezing him as tight as he could even as Cove sobbed in his arms. Because this was a child talking about children killing him, about running into somewhere dangerous just for it all to be over.

Finnick hated this.

"Can you do me a favour?" Cove eventually pulled away, wiping at his face even as the rain washed away all evidence of tears. "I, um... my mum isn't well, and I wanted to buy her a blanket or something this year since she's always cold but-"

"I'll look out for her," Finnick's voice was firm, "I promise."

"Thank you." Cove whispered, and Finnick ushered him inside.

"Come on, get warmed up and get to sleep. You've a long day tomorrow." Finnick pointedly didn't mention that Cove would likely be dead at the end of it, and Cove ignored his omission, simply entering his room quietly and leaving Finnick outside.

And the next day, Finnick watched Cove run straight to the Cornucopia, only to be skewered by District 2's girl. She grinned as the sword slid through his chest, Cove falling to the floor as she yanked it out.

The cannon would sound at the end of the Bloodbath, but all Finnick could see was those watery blue eyes, filled with tears, crying about the fact he'd never go home and never see the sea again.

Finnick hated this.

Chapter Text

Byron Duffy, Victor of the 29th Hunger Games, knew his tributes weren't making it this year.

He was 61 by now, had mentored 45 sets of tributes, and had only been able to bring two home. The Victor of the 38th Hunger Games - Porter Millicent Tripp - was his first. So badly damaged that even the Capitol couldn't fix her entirely, leaving her in a brace for the rest of her life. This constant reminder of the brutality of the Games had allowed her to live in relative peace, as the Capitol didn't want to see that level of imperfection. The Victor of the 72nd Hunger Games, Cathleen Sawyer, was his second - she had been in a merciful arena, unlike some of his tributes. He had been ecstatic when she had won, elated to finally have someone to mentor with.

She didn't end up actually mentoring. She was too pretty, ended up being sold for gain like a prized animal. When their tributes for the 73rd needed sponsors, she slipped out without a word, returning bruised and limping with notes clutched in her hands.

He regretted bringing her back. He cried when he realised what he had doomed her to, cursed himself for not listening to Mags who had told him what would happen, for not listening to Finnick's impassioned plea to let her die in the arena. He had given her good advice, pulled the right sponsors, played the right cards, and she was paying for it for the rest of her life.

And now he had two other children who he supposedly had to do the same thing for. Who looked up at him like Cathleen had, with trepidation and awe. Amber Bingham and Aaron Upton, one with a face like a fox and the other with the eyes of a wolf.

They stood no chance. The career pack for this year were brutally solid, Cato and Clove being impressively lethal and Glimmer and Marvel being astonishingly beautiful. Not to mention all the sponsors would be fawning over District 12 - the flames still raged in Katniss Everdeen's eyes every time Byron closed his.

They were doomed.

It didn't make it hurt any less when Aaron was stabbed by Glimmer, the knife in his stomach surely was less painful than the teary gaze he shot at the cameras. And then Amber, intelligent Amber who Byron couldn't help but imagine worst case scenarios for, ate nightlock, and Katniss found her corpse, taking the berries from her body.

It was almost ironic, that the same person who spared her life was the one to find her dead.

And as District 12 fought with District 2, Byron stumbled his way into the training centre bar, signalling to the bartender to send him the strongest thing he had.

He had known what was coming. He had known.

The hope that had been present when Cathleen had won had been all but stamped out last year, but it still hurt.

And as he felt Cathleen's comforting presence beside him, her own drink in hand, he shed tears that he hadn't shed for a minimum of 40 years, throwing drink after drink down his neck until Amber's puffy, poisoned face was blurry in his mind.

Chapter Text

Claire Owen, Victor of the 42nd Hunger Games, looked dispassionately at her tributes.

Hope Hodge, 14. Eyes puffy from shed tears, tinged with pink, face riddled with acne and wonky teeth. The only thing that made her stand out was her bright red hair, but her pale skin didn't match the vibrancy of her hair. She was fucked, plain and simple. Claire couldn't get attached to her.

Gavin Devine, 16. A better chance already, with warm brown skin and curly black hair. The afro wouldn't last long in the Capitol - it would end up straightened within an inch of its life, if not permanently altered to sit as flat as possible. Maybe they'd just shave it off and prevent the growth again, but either way, he was pretty enough to get sponsors if she played the right personality card.

She just had to figure out what that was.

"You're fucked," she said bluntly to the crying child, ignoring Gavin's angered glare as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. "Don't bother with training. Run straight into the Cornucopia and get yourself killed. It'll be easier. Enjoy what time you have left."

"Don't be such a bitch!" Gavin had yelled at her after he had walked Hope to her room, spending at least 20 minutes in there in an attempt to comfort her. "What did she ever do to you, huh? Why are you being so cruel? You're here to help her, for fucks sake!"

"Hmph. I have mentored 52 tributes, Devine." She wrinkled her nose. "Not one of them have come back. I know what Victor material is, and she isn't it."

"Maybe your track record reflects more on you than them," Gavin had hissed at her, fire in his eyes. "Jennifer Webb brought back Isaac Lynn, and Isaac Lynn managed to bring back you before he died. You're the only one who's consistently failed - you don't get to be cruel. You don't know Victor material - you haven't brought back a fucking Victor!"

And Claire would respond, would argue with him, but he had already stormed off.

She tried to advise him, after this, as he was the more promising tribute, but he refused to listen to her. Despite her attempts to get him to go lone wolf in the Games, he made an alliance with Hope in the training rooms, gently taking her through the survival skills section and ensuring she knew her berries and animals. He helped her train with a knife, even as he himself trained with a sword to defend her. Brielle Baines from 3 joined their little alliance, the 12 year old every bit as snivelly and sniffly as Hope, even as Gavin desperately tried to keep both of them alive.

It didn't work. Brielle died first, one of the Careers shoving her into some machinery in the factory-based arena they had been flung into. Claire watched as she was pulverised, crushed like a can, her screams only lasting for a short time even though Gavin tried to pull her out.

Hope, stubbornly, stayed alive until the last minute, due to Gavin's brutality. He slaughtered everyone they came across, usually older than himself as he clearly had a weak spot for children, until one of the patrolling mutts grabbed her and tore her head off before he could react. He had used his sword to bash the creature into glorified tin, howling with rage and grief as every working part of the mutt was destroyed. When they came to grab him in the hovercraft, he was still battering the metal remains into unusable junk, and they had to pull him off it kicking and screaming. He had injured more than one member of the removal team, and Claire had watched how he was forcibly sedated with distant eyes.

When he had awoken, she was leaning against the wall, a cigarette hanging loosely from her lips. She had smirked soullessly when he looked at her with betrayed eyes.

"I told you, I know what Victor material is."

Chapter Text

Cassandra Denton, 16, and Bo Donovan, 17.

Johanna's tributes for the 72nd Hunger Games.

Because of course she had to go in immediately after her games to mentor. Marsden, the person who had mentored Johanna, had fallen ill and was being tended to by a doctor in the Capitol currently, and most of the other Victors were old enough now that they could get away with begging off, whether for their families or for 'illness'.

Johanna just thought it was incredibly convenient timing that they had all fallen ill, or their families had.

So here Johanna was, Cassandra and Bo both looking to her for help when Johanna had no idea what to do to drag them out. Never mind the fact she was already grieving her family's deaths, or that she had no friends in the Capitol. No, she had to pull them out of there with her socially inept ass.

Or at least that had been what she had planned to do, until Finnick Odair had introduced himself to her at the parade. He had sauntered up to her, all smiles and dimples and flirty remarks, and Johanna resisted the urge to slam her fist in his face. He had asked her to accompany him after the parade, and she hadn't had time to argue as he dragged her into his rooms and dropped to his knees.

"You have to let her die." He begged, a full 180° from his previous flirty facade. Johanna was caught off guard as he held her hand in his, pleading with her to kill Cassandra.

"You know what happens to us Victors if we win, especially if we're desirable. She's too pretty to survive - you have to abandon her. Help him if you can - he's not remarkable at all except for his strength, he'll be able to live in relative peace. But you have to leave Cassandra, or she's going to be sold."

And Johanna had agreed, on the condition that he helped her drag Bo out as much as he could.

Finnick took her through the process of mentoring, of abandoning a tribute without actually letting them know. She was kind to Cassandra, encouraging her to play to her strengths in the evaluations and giving her the most basic advice possible in the most sincere tones. Stay away from the Cornucopia, I'll try to help you out where possible. And then you simply don't.

Tributes in the arena don't know their mentor has abandoned them. They just assume that the sponsors are attached to different people.

And Cassandra died three days in, of starvation, pretty blonde hair smudged with mud and blue eyes staring vacantly at the sky.

Finally, Johanna could focus on Bo.

Aqua Hodson and Ajax Bright, Finnick's tributes, were both still alive, but Finnick seemed to have abandoned both of them as most of his money went to Bo. He confided in her that his tributes had the same problem as hers - that Ajax was too pretty, and Aqua too normal. They were currently allied with the careers, so they didn't yet know that Finnick had abandoned them. They never got the chance either, Johanna noticed, as both of them were skewered in their sleep by District 2's girl as numbers started to dwindle.

And then Bo died.

Finnick had pulled all the stops to try and drag him out, like he had promised to Johanna. Johanna had even seen him being led away by an old man, returning with hickeys on his neck and a handful of money. He had handed it to her with a flirty smile, even as Johanna's eyes stayed firmly on the marks on his neck.

But Bo didn't live.

The 'Garden of Eden' themed arena had been the death of many tributes, but the knowledge of the forbidden fruit aspect of it was still unknown to many of them. And Johanna watched with a sinking heart as Bo bit into the apple, only for the ground beneath him to open up and send him into a pit of magma.

A cannon sounded.

Finnick's hand rested on Johanna's shoulder.

"There's always next year," he grinned grimly, eyes belying his true emotions even as he hid it in front of his patrons.

And Johanna looked at the screen, looked at the charred corpse the hovercraft was lifting out of the arena, and fought the urge to vomit.

"Yeah," she mumbled, "I guess so."

Chapter Text

Cecelia had children. 

She held her baby girl in her arms, named her Mary after Cecelia's mother and tenderly stroked her chubby cheeks. She held her twin sons, named Jack and Josh, let them sleep in her bed until they were simply too big for it. She made sure her children never wanted for anything - food, toys, warmth - and loved them with every fibre of her being. Without a second thought she would throw herself in the line of fire for them - back into the Games, in front of a bullet, in front of the tribute train.

It was the year of the 69th Hunger Games. 

Jack and Josh turned 4 this year, Mary 6.

Her tributes were Vivian Ray and Brenden Hickman.

She was 13. He was 14.

Despite the 6 years it had been since Mary had been born, each pair of tributes had stabbed her in the heart even more violently. Because one day, it could be her kids. 

Vivian shared Mary's curly brown hair, even if her eyes were green instead of brown. Brenden had Jack and Josh's cheeky grin, even if it was tinged with despair at the minute while he tried to cheer up the girl.

"Look at all this food!" He grinned wickedly, "bet I can eat more than you!"

"Bet not!"

And they descended upon the food table, practically inhaling it, oblivious to Cecelia's inner torment.

She could only imagine what the mothers of these children were going through. The fathers too, of course, but Cecelia had experience from the mothering front. She had pushed three children out into the horrible world, in an act of pure selfishness now she looked back at it. But she had never experienced a love so pure, so devoted, not even to her dear husband who had to look after them. Like she had said previously, she would do anything for her children to avoid them being in the Games.

She didn't know how to tell Vivian that her mother had clearly thought the same, flinging herself on the train tracks in a desperate attempt at derailing it.

Maybe it was better Vivian didn't know, she thought to herself, watching the 13 year old bask on a couch, hands on her swollen stomach. She had no chance - too small and frail to be any threat in the arena. It was true even small tributes could win, but Vivian was malnourished and came from 8. 

8 worked in textiles.

If she had been from 11 she would have had the skill to climb trees. If she had been from 4 she would have been able to tie impressive knots and weave rope. If she had been from 10 she would have known where enough arteries and veins are in other animals that she could maybe be a threat despite her small stature. 

But she was from 8. All she knew was how to stitch and create fabric. She had no muscle mass, no survival skills, and no hope.

Cecelia watched with a heavy heart as Vivian and Brenden were dressed up for the parade. Vivian was dressed all in silver, a big round hat on her head to create the illusion of the point of a needle. She was not impressed, but neither was Brenden, who was dressed like a spool of thread.

"This is ridiculous," he groaned, and Cecelia grinned wryly.

"It's just for an hour," she comforted them, feeling like the worst person in the world for being unable to convince their stylist to give them better outfits.

Even the peacekeeper outfits from last year were better than this.

It didn't come as a surprise when Vivian got a four in training, or when Brenden got a five.

It was surprising when Brenden came to find her the night before the games, silently slipping into her room and scaring the crap out of her.

"Vivian made a scarf for her mother," he handed the pink item over to Cecelia, the woman's heart sinking as she realised what the yarn she had given to Vivian was used for. "She didn't want to ask you to give it to her, so I came instead. I think it's hitting her now. Will you give it to her?"

And Cecelia blurted out the truth, that Vivian's mother had died on the train tracks, that the bump the tributes had felt wasn't the train changing tracks but the woman Vivian had lovingly crafted this scarf for. Brenden listened in silence, and Cecelia couldn't help but ask, "Should I tell her?"

She shouldn't have asked. He was 14, a child himself, about to go into a death match. She was the adult in this situation, she was supposed to provide the comfort and assure them they'd be fine, that they'd get out, little white lies even though only one could win...

Brenden shook his head solemnly. "It won't change anything," he murmured, "I think you did good keeping it from her. The idea of going back home to her mother is the only thing keeping her going. They're all they have. She's alone now."

And Cecelia wanted to cry. She clutched the pink yarn in her hands, watching them tremble as she tried to find words to help this young boy, who was so mature for his age and so resigned to his fate.

He grinned sadly at her, and a tear trickled down her cheek. "I'll tell her you agreed to pass it on. Thank you, for all you've done."

The thank you for lying to Vivian went unsaid, and Cecelia watched with trembling lips as he quietly left to his own room.

When Vivian crawled into Cecelia's bed that night shaking, she said nothing, simply holding her frail body close.

And when she died the next day, a simple fall from a tree that resulted in her head cracking against a rock, Cecelia held the scarf tight, burying her tears in the soft yarn.

Chapter Text

Oliver Swan, Victor of the 69th Hunger Games, was a horrible mentor.

He knew it. Just like he knew this year, the year of the 73rd Annual Hunger Games, was not going to be any different.

Calantha Rennie, 15. Blonde with fair skin - popular in the Capitol, but the District 1 girl had that angle covered.

Robin Monaghan, 16. Dark skinned, dark haired, reasonably handsome face but District 2's kid was much more proportionally handsome.

They were fucked.

Of course, Oliver could do his job. He could do what he was told to do, tell them all the right things and try to bring them out the other end.

But Oliver hadn't felt anything in years.

Maybe it was the trauma of his Games that turned him into this lifeless shell, incapable of feeling or thinking. But he was chasing the high of emotions that he just didn't feel anymore.

So these tributes met the same fate as the last.

He belittled them, cruel words pouring out of his lips before he even stopped to think. He was so mean that the Girl was in tears, and the Boy hit him across the face. He insulted everything about them, from their faces to their outfits to their skills.

Eventually, they left Oliver alone with the escort, skirting around him whenever possible.

They did passably in training. Calantha scraped a six while Robin managed an 8. Oliver didn't acknowledge it, even as they talked over strategy.

"Any words of advice?" Robin raised an eyebrow, challenging Oliver.

"Die." Oliver watched his face, hoping for the kid to break. Maybe that would make him feel something. Guilt maybe, or regret.

"Go fuck yourself."

Hmph. Not today, it seemed.

Oddly enough they did passably at the interviews. Calantha had persuaded her stylist to go for a classic beauty style instead of the over-the-top Capitol one, subtle gold shimmers on her eyelids and lips drawing attention to her fair features. The white of her dress, coupled with golden accents and gold heels, made her practically glow on stage. She looked like an angel.

"You're going like that?" Oliver had asked, face twisted in disgust. She had slapped him across the face, gold false nails scratching his cheek to the point that blood trickled down his face.

"You're a bastard," Calantha had hissed before she went up. "Fuck you and everything you stand for."

Robin had raised an eyebrow when Oliver turned to him. "Don't look at me," he smirked, "you asked for that. Maybe next time don't be a world-class dick. You're worse than the Capitol people. At least they treat us like pets. You treat us like dirt."

You're worse than the Capitol people.

Those words echoed around in Oliver's head, even as Robin walked on stage with an easy grin. He had a similar style of clothing to Calantha - all white and gold - the simple tux highlighting his lean frame. The District 9 tributes were in unusually good form this year.

And Oliver had done nothing to help them.

You're worse than the Capitol people.

He finally felt it. After 4 years. Guilt, it churned in his gut. He wanted to be sick.

You're worse than the Capitol people.

"Any words of advice?" "Die."

Fuck. He really was a piece of shit.

He woke up late the day they left for the arena, finding a bottle of wine on a silver tray in his room.

Thanks for nothing - Calantha + Robin

He did try. Robin and Calantha banded together, the tributes from 12 ("Nancy Fawcett and William Dent," Haymitch had slurred out to him) joining their little makeshift alliance. Not that they were much help. The girl accidentally ate poison berries two days in, and the boy managed to drown in a lake the same day.

The fires started after that.

Every three days flames would consume the entire arena, in a circular pattern like the hour hand on the clock. If you were fast enough, and close to the Cornucopia, you could stay either ahead of it or just behind it.

But Calantha and Robin were on the outskirts, meaning that the only way they could save themselves was to run through the flames and get behind it.

Oliver sent them as much burn cream as he could, but it didn't help.

Calantha died on day 6, burnt to a crisp. Robin was killed by a Career, too injured to fight back. The burn cream Oliver had spent so much money on was used by the Careers, and eventually, Harold Galloway from 1 won.

Maybe, Oliver thought as he poured a glass of the wine they had left for him, the white and gold was a self-fulfilling prophecy. They did indeed look like angels on that interview stage.

He didn't even notice the cracked seal on the bottle, the poison putting him to sleep before it took his life.

Chapter Text

The 61st Annual Hunger Games.

Jasmine McIntyre and Kale Bradbury were the tributes assigned to Gregory Lawson, the Victor of the 48th.

He looked them up and down, eyes critical, before nodding his head.

"You'll do," he stated simply, leading them into the train.

"One of you will get out," he sat on the couch, "the other of you will die. I can only save one of you, and you know this." He leant his elbows on his knees, watching the two of them critically. "You can either tell me who to focus on, or I make that decision during training. You won't know until the arena."

It was cruel, yes, Gregory knew. To hit them with the choice of life and death on the first day. But he had found that it helped.

The one who wasn't chosen was prepared to die. Which meant that Gregory could focus all his money, knowledge, power on the more promising tribute. Sometimes, even the one that the two of them chose to survive, was abandoned. Gregory was a practical man after all.

In the 50th Games, when he'd had 4 tributes to mentor, the older three had told him to try and get Terry Hartley out. Terry had been 12, weak and scared. He had told them he would, but he abandoned the kid. He had instead focused on 16 year old Edith Gibbs, believing she had the best chance of winning. It was lucky she had been wandering the arena with Terry, as she didn't know about the abandonment. She surely would have cursed him out if she had known.

Not that it had mattered anyway. All four of them had died, regardless of Gregory's best attempts.

Luckily, he seemed to have a more pragmatic pair this year, as Kale spoke.

"Focus on Jasmine," he had his eyes closed, silent tears trickling down his face. "They'll like her. She's pretty. I'm already weakened anyway."

It was true. Kale had a prosthetic leg - an accident caused by a cleaver when he was a child. He was fast enough with it - he could move naturally, but it was still a weakness in the arena. Jasmine looked like she wanted to argue, but Gregory interrupted before she could.

"Alright. Jasmine, you are my main focus. Should you die before Kale, I will turn my attention to him, but you are my priority. And to start with, you're getting a fringe."

Jasmine looked substantially younger than she was, with pretty brown hair and pale blue eyes. Her skin was fair and blushed easily, and if Gregory could play into the childlike innocence angle, he could get her a lot of sponsors. So her stylists cut her a fringe, curled her hair ever so delicately, made her look as young and sweet as physically possible. Pink coated her cheeks and eyes, her interview dress reminiscent of something a fairy-tale princess would wear, and her shy smiles and sweet giggles had the sponsors pouring in.

"She's good at this," Kale sighed, messing with the tie of his suit. "I hope she wins."

"You made a noble choice," Gregory bowed his head in respect, "Not all my tributes make the best choice for me to follow."

"It was obvious." He whispered, but was called on stage before Gregory could respond.

Kale made sure Gregory couldn't try to help him. He dashed into the bloodbath, flinging a backpack at the fleeing Jasmine, before taking a knife in the back. The cannon sounded, and she ran, the cameras catching the glinting of tears falling down her face.

It was far from the traditional arena - a spiralling tower stretching high into the sky, but luckily Gregory had enough sponsorship money to keep Jasmine alive. The outside of the tower was barren, devoid of life, so she had run into the tower. But what was inside was even worse.

She managed to flee her way into a safe room, hiding the first night inside a vent. She didn't always get out unscathed - mutts patrolled, and not every safe room was safe the next day - but she managed to get high enough in the tower that the Careers were taken out by mutts and she won.

She returned back to him - crying, shaking, and alive.

"I got out," she whimpered that night, his arms wrapped around her in an attempt to shield her from the horrors she had seen. The rooms of the train held no comfort for her - not when she had hidden in such small, cramped places from certain death.

"You got out," he murmured, patting her head gently. "You're safe now."

She wasn't safe, he later found out. Gregory may have been smart, but he couldn't protect her forever. And when she came back from her first client, 17 years old and crying, he held her like he did the night she came back, cursing the world.

Chapter Text

The second Katniss Everdeen volunteered for her sister, Chaff knew it was over for his tributes.

Not that they were necessarily doomed to start with. The 12 year old was far from his first choice, but she was smart and quick, light on her feet. She may not survive, but she'd get far if she stayed out of sight. The boy was a far better candidate- tall, strong, physically fit. Thresh was easily the best candidate 11 had in a while, which only served to make Chaff more upset when 12 stole the show.

Not that it was Everdeen's fault. Chaff had seen the panic, the sheer despair on her face as she shoved her way through to her sister, the words falling out of her mouth before she'd even processed them. Chaff couldn't begrudge her the opportunity to save her sister - but it did mean that all eyes were on 12.

Rue and Thresh never stood a chance. Not against the star-crossed lovers.

Rue was sweet, innocent and naive in a way that reminded Chaff of his sister when she was a child. Thresh was stoic, barely speaking or acknowledging anyone's presence, but he was good at heart. Chaff could tell by the way he looked at Rue, kept as many eyes off her as possible. The big boy and the little girl, doomed to either kill each other or be killed.

Chaff knew Thresh would die for Rue to return. Chaff also knew that Rue would have to run and hide to survive at all. Thresh could survive on his own - he could hold off the competition. His sheer build alone would put most tributes off actively seeking him out.

But Rue needed sponsors. She wouldn't last long without them. And all their attention would be on was the Girl On Fire.

"It's almost funny," he confided in Haymitch, "The first time in a while my tributes have a chance, and yours have to come out swinging."

"Don't bet on it," Haymitch snorted, nursing a bottle of vodka. "She's got about as much personality as a dead dog, and he's got charm but no fucking survival skills. It's anyone's game."

But Chaff knew different. Haymitch was as sober as Haymitch could get. He believed in his tributes, and for Haymitch to believe, they had to be special.

But he hadn't expected Katniss to ally herself with Rue.

He had written the girl off as a lost cause, especially after she was knocked out for a couple of days. Rue, dear sweet kind Rue, helped her as best she could, although Chaff didn't know why. And when Katniss awoke, she didn't immediately attack like Chaff thought. In fact she was gentle, kind, sharing fresh food and taking care of Rue as best she could.

The plan was genius, and Chaff held out hope that Rue could survive allied alongside Katniss-

And then there was a spear. A cannon. A song.

Some tears. Some flowers.

A funeral sign.

Rue was dead. Chaff mourned her briefly, before he turned his attention to Thresh.

But he didn't miss the bread.

He didn't miss the rule change, the romance, the kisses, the confessions. He didn't miss her hesitation, or his gentleness.

And then the feast came.

Thresh didn't need much, Chaff knew, but the allure of receiving anything in the arena was too powerful to skip. He saw Katniss drug Peeta, watched the panic in his eyes fade away before she left. He met up with Haymitch in the Tribute Centre lounge, nodding in respect.

"Nice work," he smiled.

"He'd never let her go." Was the response.

"Soft touch." Chaff grinned, "You're fond of them."

"Shut up."

Then there was a girl, running out of the Cornucopia.

A sprint, a fight, a knife.

And Haymitch closed his eyes, the despair rolling off him in waves as he realised he'd sent Katniss to her death-

Thresh.

Thresh pummeled 2's girl against the Cornucopia, letting Katniss go free after a short interrogation. He was too kind - Chaff wouldn't have done the same. He'd have given her a quick death, but any leverage in the arena was good leverage.

Thresh didn't like to feel like he owed anyone.

But Thresh knew Rue. They had been close, in 11. Reaped together against all odds.

He didn't want to go home without her.

But Rue had liked Katniss. Katniss had protected Rue. In Thresh's mind, letting Katniss go was like giving Rue a second chance.

So Chaff watched silently as Thresh took 2's pack, knowing damn well he had doomed himself.

He looked away as Cato killed him, knowing full well Enobaria was celebrating downstairs.

"I'm sorry." Haymitch raised a bottle, and Chaff toasted it, the two downing their respective alcohols.

He relished in the burn, tossing the bottle to the side and listening to it shatter.

"Let's hope your Girl on Fire can take the heat."

Chapter Text

24 years.

48 lives.

His first pair. Daisy Glover, 13. Brent Dale, 15.

She died in the bloodbath, her neck sliced open by District 2s male as she tried to run.

He died on the first day, having been idiotic enough to light a fire in the night time.

Sarah Goddard, 18. Choked to death by District 7s female on the 5th day. Lee Short, 15. Fell off a cliff and died on impact.

Robin Warner, 17. Had her throat ripped out by a living mushroom on the first day. Stanley Wade, 16. Ate a mushroom with hallucinogenic properties and accidentally wandered into the career encampment high off his ass

Skye Houghton, 17. Breathed in pollen that caused her to seize violently and cracked her head against a rock on the third day. Jackson Smyth, 16. Drowned by District 4's boy in the healing fountains, an ironic death and a long one.

Courtney Sharpe, 18. Accidentally blew herself up before the Games even started, her prosthetic leg not agreeing with the upwards motion of the lifts. Tyler Finch, 14. Mauled to death by some kind of leopard tiger hybrid.

Noelle Gough, 13. Mario Chandler, 12. They died together, getting unusually far as their arena was based on jewel mines and they knew roughly how to survive them from school trips down to mines. Unfortunately, those school trips didn't cover muttations that were shaped like babies with sharp jewels for teeth. That was a tough death to watch.

Micah Swift, 18. Drowned in an ocean rip. Zeke Cairns, 14. Also drowned, although this time it was in the bloodbath and District 1s girl was laughing as she submerged his head.

Greta Storey, 17. Ross Cullen, 18. Slaughtered in the bloodbath - her with a spear through the chest and him having his head caved in by a rock.

Scarlet Parkes, 15. Fell from the floating island in the centre of the arena. Noah Logan, 14. Murdered by District 2s boy, not in the bloodbath, but still in the first 3 hours.

Renee Barry, 15. Patrick Best, 12. Both incredibly malnourished and from the Seam - no wonder neither survived the bloodbath. She took an arrow to the neck and choked on her own blood. He begged for his life, and District 1s girl toyed with him for a bit before ending it.

Emily Montgomery, 18. Actually survived until Day 2, but District 1's girl was offended at how pretty she was and decided to ruin her, taking her captive during the bloodbath. Her face was mangled beyond belief when she finally kicked the bucket. Pierre Hood, 14. Decapitation in the bloodbath.

Skylar Shields, 12. Was killed by a tree muttation on the first night. Miller Casey, 15. Knife in the back by District 2s girl.

Rebecca Oakley, 18. Had a throwing knife land in her eye, and had to wait another ten minutes before another knife hit her heart. Timothy Parr, 13. Couldn't handle the graveyard themed arena and went crazy, before one of the shambling corpses killed him accidentally by pushing him into a river. He couldn't swim.

Riley Lacey, 14. Mayson Seymour, 14. Best friends, allies together from the get go. Pity they didn't die together, their bodies were on opposite sides of the Cornucopia. She died from District 1's boy, caving her skull in with a hammer. He died to 4's boy, a spear through his stomach.

Mia Ashworth, 17. Killed in the bloodbath, District 2's male throwing a knife in her throat before she could even muster the strength to step off her platform. Roy Woodhouse, 15. Wasn't far behind her - the same boy killed him as he fled to the forest.

Monica Stanton, 15. Killed by Titus on the third day, her blood mingling with the red of the river as he ate her face even with the knife still sticking out of her skull. Wilson Waite, 14. Choked on the blood rain, and accidentally fell into the red river, drowning.

Natalie Lake, 13. Decapitated by District 2's girl in the bloodbath, her skull being kicked away like a football before she moved on to killing Leonard. Leonard Wilcox, 16. Saw it all happen and took the sword to his stomach anyway.

Sage Kidd, 15. Died in the bloodbath, frozen as District 4 launched a spear at her head. Tristan Newell, 13. Choked to death by a muttation.

Gemma Tanner, 12. Made too much noise coming down from a tree and District 2's girl shot her with an arrow, the girl swinging from a branch like a macabre pinata due to the rope still tied around her waist. Seth Roe, 18. Tried to commit suicide but the gamemakers killed him via his tracker to prevent it.

Carly Davenport, 15. Slaughtered in the bloodbath, her body cleaved in 2 by 1's sword. Nick Howes, 17. Drowned in the flash flood that Haymitch believed Finnick had paid for with his own body.

Raina Crossley, 14. Shoved into the acid ocean by 3's girl and had her body melt away, only her bones delivered back to her parents. Marvin Buck, 16. Knife to the heart in the bloodbath.

Nicole Brand, 14. Fell from a tree and accidentally impaled herself on a branch, dying shortly after. Peter Nunn, 16. Ate the forbidden fruit and spontaneously combusted.

Nancy Fawcett, 14. Ate poison berries two days in, and died in agonising pain as her stomach swelled before finally exploding. William Dent, 13. Drowned in a lake that same day, trying to clean Nancy's blood and guts off him.

Katniss Everdeen, 16. Peeta Mellark, 16.

Survived.

Katniss Everdeen, 17. Peeta Mellark, 17.

Survived.

Hope was not something Haymitch had known for a while. He had delivered too many messages, bought too many mothers and too many fathers urns and coffins, to be hopeful. Their faces haunted him whenever he fell asleep, not even the burn of the booze able to flush their faces from his nightmares.

Daisy. Brent. Sarah. Lee. Robin. Stanley. Skye. Jackson. Courtney. Tyler. Noelle. Mario. Micah. Zeke. Greta. Ross. Scarlet. Noah. Renee. Patrick. Emily. Pierre. Skyler. Miller. Rebecca. Timothy. Riley. Mayson. Mia. Roy. Monica. Wilson. Natalie. Leonard. Sage. Tristan. Gemma. Seth. Carly. Nick. Raina. Marvin. Nicole. Peter. Nancy. William.

Katniss. Looking down on him as she woke him with cold water. Fire in her eyes as she filmed propo after propo. Tears in her eyes as she flung herself into his arms, crying about potentially losing Gale and Peeta.

Peeta. Arms full of warm bread rolls, freshly baked, as he entered his messy house. Eyes full of pain as he spoke words that didn't fit his voice. Eyes wide and panicked as he thrashed in 13's hospital wing, believing Katniss to be violent and cruel.

Katniss, who's eyes still burned with a fiery love as she introduced Haymitch to his grandson.

Peeta, who's eyes were soft and gentle as he played tea parties with Haymitch's grand daughter.

Sure, it had taken a long time to get here. Haymitch had thought Katniss was dead in that tree, and Peeta was dead when he lost his leg.

But these two fueled each other, fighting through impossible situation after impossible situation, until even Haymitch's jaded heart began to heal.

And now, sat here with a plastic tiara on his head and a tiny pink teacup held between his fingers, Haymitch briefly wondered what his family thought about this. In whatever afterlife existed.

"Cheers!" The three year old girl cheered, lisping on the s as her two front teeth were missing. And he, Katniss, Peeta and the boy all cheered their tiny teacups, drinking water dyed with a little pink food colouring that was clearly 'cherry blossom tea' according to the girl.

Well. He was finally happy. And he supposed at the end of the day, that was what mattered.