The other victors scream and cry, but he merely leans back in his armchair and reaches for the remote. He grins up at the ceiling for a moment before hoisting himself up to grab the good brandy from the kitchen. Surely this occasion is worthy of that bottle of '53 that has sat in his cupboard ever since he moved in.

Liquid honey with a bit of burn - just the way he likes it. Fifty-three was a good year indeed. The first glass is gone too soon, and the second and third quickly follow. He considers finishing off the bottle himself, but instead puts it back in his pantry. He'll want a drink to celebrate when he comes back. Seventy-five, he's sure, will be a good year as well.

The man has no way of knowing it, but he is the only victor who sleeps soundly that night.

A single glance in the mirror gives him a plan for the coming weeks. The muscles he worked so hard to earn in training are still there, obscured by a layer of soft padding that years of an easily life have allowed him. At his victory parties, the district women had asked to run their hands down his arms and chest. Their Capitol counterparts hadn't asked, but they had worshiped his body all the same. Something would have to change if he wanted the same attentions this year.

Weight training follows long morning runs. Afternoons consist of hand-to-hand, spear throwing, and sword fighting. Strategy occupies his evenings. Strength, speed, and smarts: the three S's. Thirty years after he first heard it, his trainer's mantra still resonates.

He wonders, sometimes, if the others realize what an incredible opportunity this Quell provides. He doubts it. Though they all were driven to stay alive, the man knows that only a few simply dreamed of winning.

In the sweetest of his dreams, he bests the others in the Arena, of proving that his victory was far more than chance. The twins from One shouldn't be too difficult. It will be almost beneath him to end the pitiful tributes Eight, Nine, and Ten will provide. Four will be more of a challenge. Odair is the obvious choice, and he's as strong and smart as they come. Besting him will be the greatest prize of all.

Weeks of hard training have banished the fat from his body, and when he stands on the Reaping stage, he is proud to feel the cameras on him. He hopes that the women watching can make out the rippling muscles in his arms as he and his district partner receive Two's applause.

For him, the next week is much like the ones that preceded it. He grows stronger during the days and plans at night.

When the lips to another world open, he is ready. The elevator begins to ascend, and the faint scent of salt reaches him before he catches his first glimpse of the sea. The man smiles. He is home.

.oOo.

A/N: Thanks for reading! This fic will be rated T for violence, language, and sexual references in later chapters. Each chapter will be much like this one - a short oneshot that attempts to describe a character without using the name. Did you catch who this was about? I'd love to know if you figured it out! This chapter was written using the prompt 'training' from Caesar's Palace.