Trigger Warning: A character with PTSD has a flashback in this chapter.
Margaret "Mags" Flanagan, District 4
"Breaching slowly, across the sea,
One mast - a flash like the stinger of a bee -
To take you away, a swarming fleet
Is gonna take you from me." -
The victor of the First Hunger Games wanted to be somewhere else.
After Aeneas Gentileschi had killed his final opponent, he'd thought that the Capitol were done with him. But now someone had come up with the brilliant idea of providing mentors for the tributes and, after the experiment with Capitol students had been equal parts failure and success, someone had suggested that each district's past victors did it. After all, they already knew how to win.
Because District 2 had three victors and only two tributes, one victor got to sit out. As much as Aeneas hated to become involved in the Hunger Games again, he was in much better shape to mentor a tribute than Mars.
So that was how he ended up sat in front of a fourteen-year-old girl named Lydia who was very likely to die. She was strong for a girl of her age but Aeneas knew there would be boys who were far older, far stronger.
Still, if she won, he wouldn't have to come back next year.
"What should I do?" Lydia asked, shakily.
Aeneas had the sense that he was about to sit a test that he definitely had not studied for enough.
"Run straight in there. Get to the weapons first. Make the first move."
That was how he'd won his games. He couldn't think of any other way. He couldn't think of how to kill kids who weren't too young and scared to fight back or child soldiers crippled by a recent war.
He hadn't watched a single Hunger Games since he'd won.
The victor of the Second Hunger Games was having second thoughts,
Jet Beaumont had wanted so badly to stay at home with his garden and his model trains but Alabaster had insisted he try mentoring at least once.
"You never know," Al had said, "Your tribute might be pretty."
Vanity was pretty. A little too pretty. And a little too comfortable with flirting with her scarred and socially-awkward mentor, a man eight years her senior. Her age made Jet even more uncomfortable. Why would he be interested at all in a girl who was barely sixteen?
"What should I do in the interview?" She asked, batting her eyelashes.
"Just be yourself, I guess," Jet said, absently.
How would he know? He'd never been interviewed in his life.
The victor of the Third Hunger Games was full of hope.
After his victory, Surf Depthell had become even more of an outcast in his district. He'd thought that winning the Hunger Games, beating the odds, would win him their approval but it had only done the opposite. People resented him for being the Capitol half-breed who'd survived where nineteen of their full-blooded District 4 children had died.
But now the Capitol had been so generous as to grant the victor's district a prize, Surf knew that, if he brought a child home and a year's worth of riches to his district, all the blood he'd spilled would be worthwhile. He would be a hero.
Now he just needed to mentor a victor...
The moment he walked into the carriage, the girl screeched and charged at him with a butter knife. Big mistake... Surf dodged the blade and caught the girl in a headlock. It was easy. The girl might've been eager to kill but she was small and scrawny.
"I admire your aggression, Margaret," Surf said, calmly, "Maybe you should've taken a moment to wonder how successful trying to attack a victor would be."
He handed the girl over to a peacekeeper who could restrain her and turned his attention to the boy.
"Avery, right?" He asked.
The boy nodded, a little stunned.
"Do you know how to use any weapons, Avery?"
"The trident." Avery said, quietly.
Surf frowned. He was glad the boy could use a trident but he'd been hoping for someone a little less shy. As for the girl... She had potential but she'd need a lot of work.
"I think we should all address the elephant in the room," Surf declared, "My father was a peacekeeper. However, he was injured and honourably discharged before the fighting began and had absolutely no role in the arrest or punishment of any of District 4's major rebels."
The boy nodded, shooting nervous glances at his district partner. The girl hissed at him, fury in her eyes. It occurred to Surf that maybe the boy's nerves mostly stemmed from being reaped alongside a local legend. Everyone in District 4 knew about Feral Flanagan, the daughter of two rebel leaders. The girl had been orphaned by the war and lost her mind, skulking around the streets like a piece of vermin and scavenging for food.
"You're both very lucky," Surf continued, "Because of my Capitol heritage, I have connections that none of the other mentors have. I know what the sponsors are looking for. Avery, you'd have a really good shot at earning sponsors if you just showed a little more confidence. We did really well last year with Coral and Mizzen, both of whom had a similar skill set to you. All you need to do is deliver a decent interview. Be as polite as you can. The Capitol will assume that you can't be civilised so you need to prove them wrong."
"Okay," Avery smiled, nervously.
"As for you, Margaret," Surf turned to the girl, still struggling in the peacekeeper's grip. He didn't know if she'd agree to an interview or even if she was capable of speech but he wanted to help her as much as he could. He knew what it was like to be an outcast, angry at the world but still hoping to find a way to fit in. "Just be yourself. You're never going to be their ideal tribute so you shouldn't bother. If you can get sponsors, that's great. If you can't, you'll need to survive on your own. Something tells me that won't be a problem."
Margaret stopped trying to break out of the peacekeeper's hold and smiled.
The victor of the Fourth Hunger Games was out of his depth.
Nathaniel Bloom had acquired legendary status for being the only victor with no kills. But he wasn't the kind of legend the kids needed.
They stared at him, eyes wide and expectant. He knew their names - Branche and Leif - but he had to make a constant effort to keep them human in his head. The moment Nate blinked, the poor kids became his parents. They become bloodied chunks of meat, skin flayed from their bodies. The smell of blood lingered. It pooled on the floor, gluey on the soles of his shoes. Still warm. The murderer was still there.
"Don't..." He began to say.
Don't what, Nate? Is there anything you can say to stop these kids from dying?
Is there anything you can say to stop the blood and the screams?
His hand moved to his throat, unconsciously. To the place where the murderer had rested his axe.
"Aren't you adorable, kid? I might not kill you. What are you going to do, tell the peacekeepers? Go on, beg for mercy."
"D-don't kill me." Nate begged. "Please..."
Branche and Lief stared at him, confused. The small part of Nate's mind that wasn't swept away on a wave of bad memories realised that, maybe, being too adorable to kill was a possible strategy. But he just couldn't get the words out.
All he could do was beg the nightmares to release him.
The victor of the Fifth Hunger Games could not be bothered.
Brock Eska hadn't even learned either of his tributes' names. Why should he? He knew that they were both going to die. They were both small, frail and half-starved. Maybe if Eleven hadn't done so well the year before, they'd have a chance of grabbing a pitchfork and taking the competition by surprise like he'd done. But after Reaper had come second, everyone would have their eyes on Eleven.
"Do you have any advice?" The boy asked.
"Yeah, don't get killed." Brock downed his beer and tried to drown his family of ghosts, certain that he wouldn't let any of his tributes join them in haunting him.
The victor of the Sixth Hunger Games was having a good day.
Romulus Diodato circled his tribute, a quarry boy named Igneous, and examined his muscular build. He'd seen boys like this before, in the tapes of past Hunger Games he'd watched to prepare for his new job. They always put up a good fight.
"You would be well-suited to close-range fighting," Romulus said, "Do you have any weapons training?"
"No, sir," Igneous barked.
"I doubt it'll matter. You're the strongest tribute in these games. Never forget it. If you can't convince yourself you're a victor, you'll never convince the Capitol. I want to hear it from you. Are you a victor?"
"I am a victor." Igneous puffed out his chest.
Romulus smiled to himself. This year would bring another victory for Two, he was sure of it. Igneous was a little rough around the edges but he had fire in his eyes and strength in his body.
And now that Romulus was in a position so central to the Hunger Games, he was sure he'd be able to set up a school to train tributes for the Games. The moment he returned home from the Capitol, he was going to search the community homes for the toughest kid he could find. They would be his first pupil.
This games would be a practice run. Still important to Romulus' ultimate goal, but not the end of the world if Two lost. When his trained tributes started volunteering for the games, that was when Romulus would get really competitive. For now, he was just going to learn the ropes.
The victor of the Seventh Hunger Games knew that there would never be another him.
District 1 had been the second district to surrender during the war. Because of that, they hadn't been hit so hard by the Capitol's vengeance. District 1 tributes were usually fit and healthy, well suited to endurance. But they weren't fighters. Most of them worked indoors, making jewellery.
Emerald Kiesler had known that he was special when he'd volunteered. He'd been the star athlete of his school's sports team. He could throw a javelin with deadly accuracy and he'd fought believing that he had nothing to lose.
Now he knew better. Now he knew how much he'd lost.
His district hated him. Even his tribute, the boy he was supposed to protect, glared at him. Sometimes Emerald pretended that he didn't understand why, that it made no sense why Jet - his ugly, awkward, introverted neighbour - was so beloved and he - District 1's more handsome, more charming, more impressive victor - was a total pariah. But he couldn't deny the truth. He'd killed his district partner. He was a district traitor. He'd done what a girl from Seven had actually killed herself to avoid doing.
The worst part was, Emerald had loved his district partner. He'd just loved life more.
The only way he was ever going to redeem himself was to use every weapon in his arsenal, every bit of charm and cunning and power, to bring a victor home to his district.
"Do you know your district partner?" He asked his tribute, Royal.
"No," Royal sneered, "Why? Expect me to kill her?"
"No," Emerald said, "I'm hoping that you'll win and I'm hoping it'll be as easy for you as possible."
The victor of the Eighth Hunger Games didn't even know the games were still on.
Mars Roscuro had lost track of time playing with his soldiers...
The victor of the Ninth Hunger Games was half confident.
Saloven Field was confident that he'd be able to get his tributes out of their shells for the interview. He had a way with people and he was the only mentor still young enough to be a tribute himself. Ever since he'd heard that the tributes would be interviewed before the games last year, he'd spent hours in front of a mirror, practicing what he'd have said had he been reaped a year later. He wasn't sure how interesting the Capitol would have found the life of a field-hand but, with a few jokes up his sleeves, he knew he'd have had all the sponsors in the palm of his hand.
Sal knew how important an opportunity to be on TV was and he was determined not to let his tributes waste it. Sure, Bran had cried for the last hour but there was definitely a compelling story behind those tears. If there wasn't, Sal could make one up. Etha was already beginning to open up about her experiences working as a barmaid. Sal was already fascinated and he knew what it was like living in Nine.
Neither of the tributes from Nine had lived long enough to give an interview last year. Sal knew that his district was a complete mystery to the viewers and Etha was bound to make a good first impression.
She was pretty as well. Maybe if she won, Sal would take her out on a date.
She'd have to win, though.
Even though Sal felt confident about the interview, he was less confident about the arena. Neither Bran nor Etha were fighters, not like the kids that usually won. He knew they'd both need a strong alliance to win.
Sometimes, alliance was everything. Sal would probably tell his tributes that when Bran stopped crying.
The victor of the Tenth Hunger Games had disappeared off the face of the earth.
All that was left of Lucy Gray Baird were a few memories and the songs sung by the mockingjays of District 12.
And the Hunger Games, how they were now.
Lucy Gray had been the only thing that had saved the Tenth Hunger Games from being a complete and utter catastrophe. Had she not been there, the Eleventh Hunger Games may never have gone ahead.
The victor of the Eleventh Hunger Games was relieved she'd made it.
Who knew that a scrap of a girl from the streets could have so much fight in her? Who knew that she could keep herself fed and watered using supplies snatched from other tributes and a handful of gifts from sponsors? Who knew that a girl who'd never spoken a word in her interview would even get sponsors in the first place?
Surf Depthell had known and he'd played his cards exactly right. His tales of the feral child from the streets, able to survive anything, had won over every sponsor willing to listen to him.
Margaret Flanagan had known for sure. How else would she have been able to survive while tributes twice as popular as her had starved until they were weak enough for her to slide a knife between their ribs? Being in the Hunger Games wasn't that much different from her daily life.
Surf rushed to congratulate his tribute - his first victor - the moment she'd been led out of the arena.
"Well done, Margaret!" He'd said, "You did it! I knew you'd win."
The girl looked into her mentor's hazel eyes, Capitol eyes. Just like the eyes of the peacekeepers who'd dragged her parents away from her. But that wasn't Surf's fault. She could tell that the peacekeeper's son just wanted to protect her.
But he'd have to stop calling her Margaret.
"My name is Mags." she croaked, the first real words she'd spoken to someone in eleven years.
I'm so glad to get the the Eleventh Games. It's a big turning point because this is where the past victors become mentors and celebrities. Most of this chapter was just checking in with the victors, some of whom are a lot more competitive than others. I hope you liked my version of Mags. She's got a pretty similar backstory to a lot of these early victors. They've all been shaped by the war in different ways. We have to make it all the way to the Eighteenth Games before we get to a victor who was born after the war ended.
Next chapter, a certain district will get their first victor. They'll be a familiar face to those of you who've read The Bride and The Widow.