Survivor's Guilt
Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins.
Summary: Everyone knows that the Games are the easy part, especially for a District One victor. A brief look post-games through the eyes of Gloss' first victor.
A/N: This is my first Hunger Games fanfic. Please be gentle in your criticism
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Being born in District 1 isn't bad, he supposes. Of course, he hasn't been able to compare it with any other place, seeing as how movement between districts is all but illegal, but still.
He watches the Games every year, and hears enough about other districts to be a little curious, but not enough to really feel bad about the imposed restrictions.
The other districts – with the exception of 2 and 4- don't tend to have volunteers very often, which he thinks is a shame. He's very grateful to be in a district where it's pretty much guaranteed that no one who doesn't want to goes into the Games.
He can't imagine what it must be like every year in those other districts, dreading the Reaping, knowing that the odds are definitely not in your favour.
Almost six months ago, he stood in the same square as everyone else, waiting impatiently through the Treaty of Treason, until Demaris Foxworth –an extremely tiny woman with olive skin and a shock of deep red hair flowing down her back like a river of blood- pulled the first name.
She always calls the girls first, and usually the reaped tribute doesn't even have time to twitch before a voice-or two, or three- volunteers.
This year, the female volunteer had been Incandessa. She'd been in his maths class for only a year, but he remembered her. It was hard to forget a blue eyed redhead in their district known for its blonde, green eyed children.
He'd studied her as she'd stood proudly on the stage, and had thought that yes, she had a chance of winning. He hadn't spent more than four years at the Institute- his parents had sent him there more for the prestige than anything else, even though he'd always done well- but from what he'd seen, she'd been a natural with all sorts of weapons.
He'd remembered doubting at the time that any of the other tributes could match her beauty. She was bound to get a lot of sponsor support, maybe even as much as Cashmere had for the 64th.
As Demaris had moved over to the boys' bowl, he'd felt a disorienting wave of nausea which he couldn't quite place until the diminutive woman spoke.
"Blaze Caldera!"
His name.
He has no memory, even now, of how he got on to the stage. The next thing he recalls after his name is called is the puzzled look in Incandessa's eyes- she's too much of a professional to let her Career mask slip any further- as they shake hands.
(Later, as he watched himself during the recaps, some part of him marvelled at how his face had slipped into a mask of nonchalance as he confidently took the stairs to the stage, both he and his district partner giving perfect smiles to the camera- hers sweet but chilling; his a tiny smirk that the Capitol reporters immediately label mysterious and sexy. He guesses that Institute conditioning is hard to shake.)
The knock at his door shakes him out of his reverie.
"Blaze! Come on, kid, it's freezing out here! The preps are going to be here in less than three hours. Don't tell me you're still getting your beauty sleep!"
He rolls his eyes even as he walks to his door. Gloss may be his mentor, but that doesn't negate just how annoying the man can be.
When he opens the door, the taller man takes one look at his face and drops the joviality.
"What's wrong?"
And that's the thing, as much as Gloss annoys him, the guy fought tooth and nail for him to come home.
He'd been a little surprised, to be honest…Phoebus hadn't volunteered, which meant that Gloss hadn't been under any obligation to mentor him.
He still remembers his wait in the Justice Building, the thought finally sinking in that he was going to die.
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He can't believe it. No one volunteered for him. Someone always volunteers. He's got to be the first male tribute reaped in District One since the 2nd Quell.
He's got training, yes; but he hasn't been anywhere near the Institute in the last two years. His parents phased him out just before he would have graduated to the Senior level.
A Four could probably take him out at this point.
Blaze wants to scream, to cry, and to throw something because of how unfair it all is. He's never wanted to be in the Games. He understands that they're necessary, of course-he's far from stupid-but his future was pretty much planned out.
The sound of the door opening grabs his attention, and he turns slowly, expecting the tearful face of his mother.
When he sees Gloss' perfectly symmetrical but decidedly unhappy face, he forces himself to stand still and draws himself up to his full height…which isn't much, but Victors deserve respect. The blond man is quiet for several seconds, before he speaks.
"You're not supposed to be here."
"No kidding. Sir," he hastily tacks on, appalled at his own lack of self-control.
Instead of looking offended, Gloss merely nods.
"Phoebus and his family will be dealt with. I figured you should know."
"Yes, sir."
"District One hasn't had a winner since Cash. I plan on bringing one home."
Blaze forces himself not to show any of his emotions on his face. There's no need to embarrass himself more.
"Incandessa's a lucky girl."
Gloss pins him with a glare.
"I'm not mentoring her. I choose you."
"…sir?"
"We'll talk on the train. Your family wants to see you."
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He hadn't been kidding about the mentoring bit.
Blaze is still surprised at the support he'd gotten.
The man had given him the quickest and most thorough refresher course in image training and tactics he'd ever thought possible.
Of course, like anyone who had made it past the second year at the Institute, he had a passing proficiency in a few weapons and had his favourites even it was only the ones who made it to the end who were really encouraged to specialise.
Gloss and Cashmere had excelled at spear and knife throwing respectively.
Phoebus had been the best they'd ever had at a bow and arrow.
Blaze's ultimate weapon has always been his speed and stealth, especially since his build was more wiry than brawny and as a result, tended not to favour big and bulky weapons that would only slow him down.
The Pack had ended up underestimating him of course, all except Cassandra.
The District Two female haunts his dreams, and he'd killed five tributes- six, if he counts the mercy killing he gave his district partner-but none of them show up nearly as often as the aggressive axe wielder.
"Blaze? Blaze, kid, listen to me," Gloss says, his face turning serious.
Blaze can't seem to meet the man's green eyes, and he hears his mentor try to stifle a curse.
"You need to stay focused. I know it's hard, trust me. The tour is going to be worse. I'll give you meds so you can sleep, though, so don't worry. I'll be there with you every step of the way."
"I don't want to sleep." The words are barely audible, but Gloss flinches just as if he's shouted them.
"I know," the older man says softly. He grips Blaze's shoulders and gives him a gentle shake. "Listen to me. You're here. You're safe for now."
And that's annoying, isn't it. He won, and all he wants is to be left alone, but he's got his victor's duties to fulfil eventually, just the same as any 1 victor and only the fact that he happened to be born a brunette in a district full of blondes had kept the Capitol from being terribly interested in him. He hadn't been exotic looking like Dessa. Heck, he isn't even that tall…he's got to be the shortest One victor ever.
He supposes he should be grateful.
"Blaze, you with me?"
"Yeah. Sorry."
Now, Gloss' face is angry, but even as messed up as he is, Blaze can tell it's not directed at him.
"You'll get through this. You're a survivor."
"No, I was lucky. Dessa should have won," Blaze mumbles.
"No such thing as luck, kid. And if Incandessa was supposed to be here, she'd be here."
Blaze fingers his new ear absentmindedly. He's surprised they grew it back for him, but perhaps he shouldn't be. They do like to keep their favourite toys looking good.
"Stop it," Gloss stresses, and Blaze immediately drops his hand, shaking himself mentally as he does so.
They're silent for a while. Then, "I was heading over to Cash. She got back last night and said she feels like entertaining family for breakfast. You wanna come? She's making pumpkin pancakes."
Something that's a cross between a sob and a laugh jumps out of Blaze's mouth before he can stop it, but mercifully, Gloss doesn't react, just stands there in the crisp autumn air, waiting patiently for his answer.
"I…okay. As long as you're sure she wants to see me." It comes out quieter than he means it to.
He's not exactly proud of what happened the last time he and Gloss visited, and he may have as much blood on his hands as everyone else in the village, but the Institute didn't have enough time to turn him into a truly cold blooded killer, so yeah, it kind of scares him that his automatic answer to Cashmere's gentle teasing had been to fling a kitchen knife at her throat.
She'd barely managed to dodge it even with her Career reflexes, but he'd been so shaken up that he'd promptly vomited all over her expensive looking carpet.
Gloss waves away his concerns. "Of course she wants to see you. Besides, you did her a favour. She'd been trying to decide whether or not to replace that rug for months. You helped her make the choice."
Blaze glares at his mentor, but sees nothing except amusement in his eyes.
He sighs.
"Okay. Let's go."
Gloss claps him on his shoulder and waits for him to pull on a jacket.
As they walk to Cashmere's house, he calms down a bit. This is life now, so he may as well get used to it.
He's got no choice.
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Well, there's the end of my first Hunger games fic; I hope you enjoyed it. I'm not sure if I should do another chapter or not, just let me know what you guys think. Constructive criticism is welcome, as always.