District 2, Panem.

Vespasian Chest, winner of the 38th Hunger Games

Vespasian watched the crowd dispassionately. The sea of brown and black heads muddling, all talking amongst themselves. Like the happy people they are.

But he and the other victors, they were elevated. Others would die -quite literally- to reach their elevated level, but truth be told they had no idea what the repercussions would involve. Of course, often they didn't know- it wasn't as if the victors could go around proclaiming the flaws in their psyches as a result of their games since they would be killed- but sometimes Vespasian despaired at their naivety. No one ever spoke about killing, what it was like to really kill another human being.

The escort stepped forward and spoke. He didn't listen, too caught up with watching the other victors. Eumachia was a few metres away, her shiny black hair done up in a simple knot. She caught him looking and smiled briefly at him, and his heart thundered in his chest. But then too soon her attention was back on the escort, who was calling out a name - already? -

"Octavia Reuben!"

"I volunteer!"

A tanned girl with blonde and red hair moves up to the platform. There was a reluctance to her movements, a sigh in her eyes and there was no pride in her shoulders. They were all minor subtleties, probably overlooked by most, but he saw them. Not good. Someone who didn't want to volunteer. Not doubt peer pressured. Of course, people won from the outer districts, people who were reluctant, but he worried. A sad career, an unwilling career was not promising in any way.

He looked up at her face properly - and he'd seen her before somewhere. The unusual hair gave it away. He'd seem her in the training centre a few times. Quiet, kept to herself. Unlike the other trainees, who were social and boisterous. He didn't like her chances one bit. You needed something to come back to. Needed something to hold onto in the cold nights in the arena. They never told you that. They never said, only volunteer if you have someplace to call home. Some place, some one who you need to see again.

He didn't know her name, and neither did the escort.

"What's your name, darling?"

She opened her mouth sheepishly, and for a moment he was confused until his ears caught up -

"Lightning Dust."

Vespasin's face grimaced and there was an awkward ripple of laughter. Christ, what a name. She stuck out like a sore thumb with a name like that. He presumed her parents had no sense or taste. Eumachia's brown eyes twinkled amusedly at him and he smiled back, such an automatic reaction. He could never help but smile at her when she looked happy like times like these.

Lightning recoiled slightly to the reaction from the crowd, but the escort placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Well. That's certainly not an everyday name."

She nodded shyly.

Vespasian both pitied and hated her simultaneously. You needed to want victory. You needed to want victory, need it with every breath, every cell of your body. The price was too high.

The price of victory. He looked over at Eumachia again. She'd wanted victory, and she'd won. He himself had wanted victory and here he was. And he'd held Julia's face in his mind, his girlfriend with the brown hair and dark eyes, whose smile he'd thought of and imagined when he stabbed his district partner, or slit the throat of that girl from ten... He'd thought of her so many times. Every time he killed. Every time he closed his eyes. Every time he fought back.

"And now for the boys." The escort again brought him out of his musings. A hand was reached into the glass bowl and a slip of paper was taken.

"Galba Trinstone."

Whoever Galba was, they didn't move a muscle because someone was calling out already -

"I volunteer!"

His eye was drawn to the tall boy striding down the aisle, eyebrows drawn in concentration. He was not an attractive tribute - his face too long, which didn't match his curly hair - but he looked proud. Which was good. Vespasian approved of proud tributes. It meant they felt it was an honour.

It wasn't, really, victors would tell you that, but it did good to believe.

"What's your name sweetheart?" The escort asked. If there was one thing Vespasian had leaned, it was that the escort was very fond of cutesy greetings and the like.

"Quentin Moreland."

Another unusual name, he noted. Certainly more socially acceptable than 'Lightning Dust' anyhow.

He'd seen Quentin before, he knew. At the training centre. He was a fine tribute, Vespasian supposed. Came from a good family as far as he could remember. That was important. It wasn't so much your skill in the arena that kept you alive, although that was important- it was how well known you were, and how much people liked you. The more popular you were, the more sponsors you got and the less likely the gamemakers were to send something unpleasant your way. Coming from a good family created more of a support base in your district and compared to the other tribute… well, the odds seemed, at this moment in time, to be more in Quentin's favour than Lightning's.

His eyes faded as he rembered his own family. They'd been pleased, honoured, proud, clapping his name to the stars when he returned. Just like Julia. He could still remember the way she'd looked at him, and that kiss in front of the cameras, hungry and sweet.

When they'd broken up, it had been extensively covered in the magazines. "You're not the same anymore." Julia had hissed, right before she'd walked out of his life. And he'd wanted to reply, of course I'm not. I've seen hell. I've murdered children. But his tongue had been silent and stubborn.

Julia leaving had not caused his heart grief, but he had needed a rock. Someone to cling to when the nights grew terrifying. They all needed someone like that.

His eyes drifted back to Eumachia, clapping and smiling at the tributes.

They all needed someone, just like how he'd wrap his arms around her when she came back from the Capitol crying.