Sorry for the delay guys. As of right now, the only spots open are:

District 5 Tribute

District 6 Capitolite

District 7 Capitolite

District 10 Capitolite

District 11 Tribute

District 12 Capitolite

Fingers crossed we can fill those spots! After this is just the brief Capitol mentors intro, and then tribute introductions can start.

04 – MARTYRS (II)

Tully Wright, District 8, Victor of the 36th Games

"Good riddance, if you ask me."

"Gran-gran, don't say that."

"I'll say what I damn well want."

The young women gathered in Tully's living room collectively sighed. Ever since the announcement, Tully had been a nuisance in the household that none of the daughters wanted to deal with. Yes, it was good that the Capitol was getting a taste of its own medicine. But expressing this so openly was a death sentence, even for a victor, and all of the grandchildren were still eligible for the reapings.

Tully's words could rig the reapings someday.

"I'm just saying," Tully went on, "it's nice to see those sons of bitches scared for their own kids' lives for once. Been too damn long since they felt a some fear in their cushy little lives."

Lacey Wright, the eldest of the granddaughters, shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest. "I get it, gran-gran, but you really shouldn't say it out loud."

"Oh, what are they gonna do? Whip me? Execute me? Please." Tully rose from her seat with a weary grunt. "I saw worse every year."

"They'll hurt you through us, Mom," her youngest daughter muttered. Silence fell over the living room all at once, the women blanching at the thought of being targeted for something like this—as punishment for Tully. It had happened before, though it was back when Snow was in charge. But who was to say Crane wouldn't do the same?

"Then I'll throw an even bigger fit," Tully declared. "No one touches my babies and thinks they can just teach me a lesson like that."

There was never any reasoning with Tully.

Her schedule was going to be too full for her to slip up, they hoped. Even Tully could tell that much on their faces. For all the bravery and exhaustion they showed when the Games rolled around, they always got so scared when Tully was up to mentor. Scared she'd put her foot in her mouth, just like she always did, and ruin everything once and for all. She always had a habit for toeing a fine line between peace and persecution, but Tully didn't care. She didn't care when Snow was still around—and with the new president, she still didn't care.

When you were Tully's age, saw all the changes you did from so long ago, you noticed things better. When Tully started a sentence with, "Back in my day," it truly was a massive, significant difference she was talking about.

"Back in my day, we'd be beaten to a pulp for sleeping in on the reapings."

"Back in my day, they never cared about things like tesserae and all that junk."

"Back in my day, when you paid someone enough money they'd say whatever name you wanted."

"Back in my day, the benefits of winning were shit compared to now."

"Back in my day, the escorts and mentors were allowed to do whatever they wanted to us. You kids are lucky you aren't being tortured before they throw you into an arena with twenty-three other abused kids ready to lash out at the drop of a hat."

And now, with a new president at the helm, that sentiment remained true.

"Back in my day, the idea of someone from the Districts leading the Capitol was just a joke."

Granted, back in her day, affairs from the big names in the Capitol were less easily televised. It wasn't like the Hunger Games were a big spectacle until a good decade into it all, and Tully was one of the early generations to be awkwardly shuffled through the broadcasting to show off her assets to the Capitol for sponsorships. If you tried to expose your deadbeat Capitol dad back then, it never went beyond the room you slept in.

As her daughters and granddaughters all began to move about the mansion to prepare, it was Lacey who stuck around and stared at her grandmother. Tully just huffed as she crossed one leg over the other, blindly feeling at the side of the recliner for her kitting supplies. She was pointedly ignoring the girl, because in this household no one got things handed to them out of generosity—even questions of what was bothering them. They had to speak up and demand answers themselves.

Finally, Lacey sighed and tucked her hair behind her ear. "Gran-gran."

"Yes?" Tully drawled. The little sweater she'd been working on for Lacey's younger sister, a gift for her baby due any day now, was almost finished.

"You're going to mentor these ones properly, right?" Lacey gave her a hard stare. "You can't just use your hole sink-or-swim methods when the Capitol is involved."

"I can," Tully huffed, "and I will. Besides, I got a letter ahead of time from Crane. They're only taking one mentor per District—the Capitol brats are being taken care of by their own kind."

"Then mentor the one tribute properly."

Tully looked at Lacey down her nose. She barely missed a beat as she resumed her knitting.

"I can't show favouritism," Tully reminded her. "Even if they're the second coming of—of the best career ever to be born, they're still just a plaything for the Capitol. Better to let them figure out their own way than give them false hope by doting on them."

"You don't have to dote." Lacey's tone was so dry, even Tully could hear the unspoken, boomer, at the end of the statement.

Tully glared at Lacey as her hands finally stopped moving. With a flat tone, she ordered, "Go get your good clothes ready for the reapings."

Kano Watts, District 6, Victor of the 37th Games

The whiskey Balto poured out burned just like it always did. It was the same kind of whiskey as always, too, though the only difference was in label and shelf-time. Last year it had been labelled with Rivet. The year before it had been labelled with Port. This year the label read Elektra.

It wasn't a pact so much as a tradition among victors at this point. They were a close-knit community thanks to the constant support everyone needed, and sometimes they had to comfort family members who found their broken relatives OD'd in their bathrooms from morphling. Sometimes they were the ones who needed comforting. With a District known for its drug trade and disarray among citizens, it made a lot of sense that they banded together when they could.

Balto held up his shot glass and leaned against the mantlepiece. Alongside the ashes of other victors left in his care, the man considered a grandfather to everyone in the village, Elektra's were added in a freshly blown glass urn along the line-up. She was a talented glass blower, and her co-workers had made it for her when she suddenly passed last week.

"To Elektra," Balto declared. The mere half-dozen people left in the room of victors raised their shot glasses with him. "She was quiet and kept to herself, a victim of the Games just like any of us, but she was a strong soul who worked hard to give people the kindness they deserved."

"To Elektra," the remaining victors echoed.

The shot went down Kano's throat smoothly, but it left a bitter, warm taste that he never got used to no matter how many times they did this. He supposed it was an unfortunate hazard of the deaths that followed the Games. The less people left behind, the more alcohol the survivors had to drink in their comrades' honour.

The younger members among them kept refilling the shot glasses that were set back on the small coffee table between them. Kano licked his lips and let out a sigh. Just a month ago, Elektra had been sitting next to him for Port's farewell. Now he wondered who would be next. Himself, he hoped. He wasn't suicidal or intended to end things before the Quell this year, but Kano did enjoy the idea of just… not existing for a while. Being no one. Being nothing.

Compared to the other farewells, it didn't take long for them all to get tipsy and slur their words whenever they spoke of Elektra. Kano reclined into his seat tiredly, refused a tenth shot of whiskey; it was his turn to mentor, so it made sense that he didn't want to get himself absolutely wasted the night before. But it was tempting to throw all respect for the Games out the window, he wouldn't lie.

Elektra… She had wanted to be no one as well. Be nothing. Unlike Kano, though, she confessed to others that she would do what she did—and even when they tried in vain to stop her, it was hard to keep an old woman with no surviving kin or reason to continue living in this hell to stick around. Kano had held her hand in her home that day when she told him what she was going to do. It was all he could do. He may not have had intentions to follow through, but he knew the feeling. He'd be… hypocritical, he supposed, if he forced her to bear with it like the rest of them. Maybe that was why he withheld from drinking too much tonight. Maybe he wasn't ready to see her again in his drunken state, sitting across from him and smiling serenely like his own personal temptation to follow in her footsteps. He still had his nieces and nephews to look after following his siblings' passing. Elektra had to wait, and he had to ignore her as best he could by staying as sober as possible.

It was an unwelcome surprise, the knock at the door at exactly two in the morning. Some of them had passed out, snoring away on the couches in Balto's home that had long since posed as homes for "distant relatives" granted access to the Village. But Kano and Balto were wide awake, and they both sobered up at breakneck speeds when the mayor greeted them with two Peacekeepers flanking him.

Kano fixed his suit sloppily and cleared his throat while Balto fetched a glass of water for him. "Is something wrong, sir?" he asked, and his breath stank more than he liked.

The mayor didn't say anything. He sometimes attended these little wakes performed, considering it was his brother who was once honoured at these things. He was business as usual, no mention of the state of the men.

"President Crane," he began, only to pause and clear his throat as well. His hands shook at his side, a defeated look on his face despite his best efforts to remain noble like a mayor should be. "President Crane has ordered the reaping be conducted ten hours early. I need you to come with us to the stage so we can get… get the child on the train quietly."

Kano stared at him. His eyes slowly widened, and what little whiskey was left in his system practically left him in the cold sweat that streaked his neck. "P—Pardon?" he said.

The Peacekeeper on the right of the mayor waved a hand. "President doesn't want the Capitol to cheat their kids out of the Quell," she explained. "She wants this fair on both the Capitol and District kids. So we aren't announcing the results of a reaping for each District until the chosen tribute is in the Capitol and their partner is reaped as well."

.Kano flexed his hands at his sides. No, no, it made perfect sense. He should've been thankful that the president was giving them this mercy—bringing the Capitol to their level, leaving them no room to worm their ways out of the horrors ahead. But to take that final night from the families at risk? If Elektra had been here, she would've made quite the scene in her grief and demanded an audience with Crane.

He shook his head. Elektra wasn't here now. Kano was the mentor this year. And his starting time was bumped up ten hours. It was time to get to work.

"I understand," he said, voice even. "Lead the way, sir."

Janus Grant, District 2, Victor of the 40th Games

Lola was never happy to see him when he dropped by.

"What the hell are you doing here."

"Aw, is my star student surprised?"

"I'm calling security."

It wasn't like they ever got along, or that they particularly liked each other. But there was a certain nostalgia in visiting Lola in the Capitol whenever Janus could get permission to travel. Being one of the older victors, it was easy enough to build a rapport with Peacekeepers over the years and take "holidays" to visit old friends in the Capitol.

His holidays lately just happened to involve prodding at a thorn in his side.

"Don't be like that." Janus pushed open the door and let himself in, shoving aside Lola as he waltzed into her apartment. Lola, as usual, rolled her eyes and sighed so heavily that she could topple buildings under its weight. "Where would you be without me, Romola? Surely I deserve a cup of coffee for all I did."

"You didn't do shit."

Still a brat. Even the Capitol didn't change that.

"Spoken like a true entitled bastard," Janus drawled. He made himself at home on the couch as soon as he arrived in the small living area, feet up on the coffee table without a second thought. The fake fruit bowl rattled as it was shoved aside by his boot, and a foam apple fell out and bounced to the floor from the force.

He could hear her moving around in the kitchen, working lazily on his drink. For all the fight she put up on his arrivals, she at least humoured him and responded to his jabs like she always did. Janus wasn't entirely sure when he started to have fun teasing her like this, giving her grief for acting better than the rest of Two, but he had to admit it was one of the few things that kept him volunteering to mentor each year since her own Games.

She'd been a wildcard, and he got all the credit for playing that card before the bloodbath.

"I see you're still not mentoring any time soon," he called to her. The movements in the kitchen paused, but the clinking of cups was back again soon after. "Too good for us, eh?"

"Too good for you." She stalked into the living room and dropped his cup onto the table. "Feet off."

Janus sank into the couch and got comfier as he wiggled his feet.

"What do you want, Grant?" she finally groaned.

"I can't just come and visit whenever? I'm hurt." Janus picked up his coffee and took a sip. Ah, once again she deliberately gave him the kind he hated. Too bad he was used to toughing it out with bad tastes. "I figured with your lack of daddy until old Flickerman wrote you into his will, I was the closest thing you had to one."

She raised a brow at him.

"I was a great father figure," he went on.

"And yet I'm the entitled one," Lola muttered. She pinched her brow and shook her head. "Janus, it's almost midnight. Could you kindly fuck off and let me do my job before the Games start? As bumbling as it sounds, interviewing requires more research than you give credit for."

That would be so convenient for her, wouldn't it? Janus smirked at her around his mug and took a sip. All Lola could do in response was throw her hands up and scowl at nothing.

"Oh, hey, here's a scoop for you." Janus waved for her attention again.

Lola sneered. "I don't report the news, shitlord."

"I hear," Janus said, pointedly ignoring her, "that Marj is gonna try sue her old stylist. Finally got the proof she needs that he stole her work."

Lola seemed to pause for a moment at that. Janus watched her carefully, watched the way she crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her lips. Oh yes, Marjani's stolen work was a tough subject among victors. None of them ever liked when someone from the Capitol took credit for work outside the Games they tried to branch out into. Janus couldn't care, personally, but it was always so fun seeing people all restless over having what little identity outside of the Games left to them taken away.

"Oh, but I imagine they'd find some way to delay it. They always do. And Julius is a busy man, wouldn't you agree? He's made such a name for himself as our own District's stylist lately."

There was a mumble from Lola. Janus raised his brows and, facetious as ever, prompted her, "Speak up, dear, your old man isn't as sharp as he used to be."

"You're disgusting."

"I'm wounded."

"I'll happily confirm that for you."

He tutted her and sipped his coffee again. "No wonder the twins hate you."

"Can I help you, Janus?" Lola said loudly.

Janus finally let out a chuckle and shook his head. Ah, teasing this one was always the most fun. She always realised too late she could just ask him what he wanted more than once. Or if she asked him nicely rather than demanding to know why he was there at all.

He let his smirk slip into a neutral expression. For all the jokes, there was a genuine reason to be here tonight. "You won't come back still?" he asked her.

Lola opened her mouth. Shut it. She heaved a sigh through her nose. Lola slumped into the recliner across from Janus and rested her head in her palm, elbow propping her head up to keep eye contact with him as they spoke. It was the typical exhaustion you saw with people always in the spotlight.

"Not this year," she said, barely higher than a mutter. "Not yet."

Janus licked some coffee from his lips. "Your little puppy crush is going to send you to an early grave."

"That'd mean more if I hadn't already been threatened with one ten years ago."

"I'm just saying—Crane must have made an impact to have you work harder than anyone with only public opinion backing you." He swirled the coffee idly. "Does anyone in her cabinet trust you? Approve of you?"

"Malvolia. Barely."

"Better the Head Gamemaker than no one at all."

They sat in silence for a good few minutes after that. Janus finished off his coffee—and as soon as he did, Lola gestured to the linen closet where he could find a towel and some blankets to stay the night and shower. Janus didn't thank her, but he didn't quite poke at her either.

For all the teasing and prodding he enjoyed throwing her way, he hated that there was genuine concern underneath.

Thalen Reeves, District 9, Victor of the 44th Games

His day was absolutely ruined when the other victors blabbed about who would be mentoring this year alongside him. A casual remark, not without its smug undertones and teasing intentions.

"Heard your ex-wife's mentoring too."

Thalen didn't hold back the sour expression on his face as he set down his knife and fork. Dinner was no longer appetising. God forbid he have peace in his life even with that madwoman out of it.

"How quaint," Thalen growled. The other victors at the dinner table snickered and hid behind their drinks. It was a simple dinner for Thalen's birthday—how fortunate was he, born a day before the reapings every year? But they sure did enjoy making it a spectacle with him as the star. "Where did you hear that, Soju?"

"Oh, you know," the young woman who'd said it replied glibly. She was busy tracing the rim of her glass, the clear alcohol inside untouched so far. She was one of the newer victors, and she had an especially sadistic grudge against Thalen nowadays. It wasn't his fault she was too pathetic to be worth training back when it was her time. He was just honest with her when he told her he was interesting in seeing how pitiful her death would be. "Little bird told me, and all that. I'm far too pathetic to find these things out on my own, you know."

"Self-awareness is considered redeeming." Thalen pushed his plate away. The meat was going to go to waste, no thanks to these idiots. They should've respected him more. "How unfortunate that it's a wasted trait from you."

Soju smiled ruefully. "You do consider a lot to be wasteful, don't you, Thalen?" she mused.

"Wasteful like poor Tully's time, right?"

A round of chuckles. Thalen stared dryly at the man who'd said it. What was so wrong with Thalen's decision? Tully was a fool and an idiot, always wasting his time on her own opinions and demands. He always hated that—hated sacrificing his life for her own fleeting interests. The only thing they ever truly agreed on was their views on the Games.

Honestly, though, why did everyone blame him for the marriage falling apart? Tully was the one who wanted to do pointless things like walk down the street for no reason with him, bake him things because she wanted to experiment—and waste the precious food they had in the process. The last straw had been encouraging their daughters to take up those silly little hobbies that Thalen had no interest in humouring. If he'd had his way, they'd all be living on the farm and working hard to sow the seeds each season and harvest for profits.

Thalen huffed and rose from his seat. "I'd thank you all for the lovely dinner," Thalen announced, "but I see nothing to thank in the slightest."

More snickers. More disrespect. Soju called out to him, wishing him a mediocre night as he walked out the door.

They were all pathetic, petulant children. They got a taste of fame and they thought it made them better than their elders, almost like they were better than the people they lived with every day. Thalen could never stand it. He always hated the way they strutted pointless accomplishments around like they were prizes to behold. Who cared if Soju was an underdog? It never changed the fact that she was an urchin when Thalen was in charge of her, fresh off the streets and fighting with dogs for scraps. She was practically dead on arrival to him. And who cared if Mayes had the best vines in the area? The wine he made was still liquid shit worth less than the casual brews people made with their little stay-at-home chemistry kits when the Peacekeepers weren't looking.

Thalen was an accomplished man. Thalen was a hard working man. Thalen wasted no time in his efforts, and everyone mocked him for it. They were jealous of him—all of them, even that stupid seamstress he married back in the day.

As he walked out into the cold night air and fixed his jacket, Thalen stood under a street lamp along the streets of the village and searched his pockets. He didn't waste money on tobacco from others, grew it himself and rolled the cigarettes himself. The paper burned when he held it over his lighter, and he sucked in a deep intake of smoke as he watched, in the distance, Peacekeepers approach.

Now that was another good profession. If he weren't tied down to the Games the way he was, or even if he hadn't been raised to value the farm over all else, he would've joined their ranks. Then wasteful people like Tully and Soju would be dealt with quicker. This county needed people who didn't rock the boat, people who did what they were told, correctly, the first time they were told.

He didn't even spare a glance at the house he'd left when the Peacekeepers told him to follow. Thalen was never one to waste time.

Cullen Liddel, District 11, Victor of the 68th Games

"I have a good feeling about this year, Liddel." Crumbs clung to the man's cheeks as he spoke with a mouth full of apple pie. "This absolute curveball of a Quell is going to put Eleven on the map."

Cullen stared blankly at the mayor. He and all the other surviving victors of Eleven had gathered in the mayor's office just shy of the rather rushed announcement of the reapings being done earlier than normal. Not all of them were fully dressed—only Cullen, maybe one other, since he'd been told first that such a thing would occur tonight.

He glanced down at the apple pie he'd finished baking just as the mayor knocked on his door earlier. What a waste of perfectly fine apples.

"With all due respect, sir," Cullen deadpanned. "We're already on the map. There is… literally only twelve other areas on the map besides us."

"Yes, yes, but—" The mayor burped into his hand and chuckled. He shoved another slice of the pie into his mouth as he spoke. "But we're not the big time District! We're not Two or Four and no one ever wants to come here for tourism! Think of how much this beautiful place would flourish as an attraction for the Capitol!"

Mayor Rhodes had been in his position for a good ten years now. He was Capitol-born and raised, but apparently at some point in his rise among the political ranks of Panem he decided he wanted to turn the country into a whole "open-world tourist attraction" for the Capitol residents. Like the rest of Panem was a zoo and Rhodes its keeper. The other victors weren't fond of the idea, and Cullen wasn't either. Eleven was fine as it was—the younger victors had given the District the attention it needed to improve its living conditions, and the solidarity shown by Katniss Everdeen to their own tributes—Rue especially—had garnered attention from eco-friendly Capitolites.

Hell, Cullen thought, of all the Districts, it was Eleven that people adopted children from the most. Capitolites who detested the Games and wanted to spare some poor children, especially after the reveal that Seneca Crane and Caesar Flickerman had children of their own in the Districts; they came in droves every year, and every year the District worried about a few less mouths to feed and a far smaller number of graves to bury.

Mayor Rhodes wasn't satisfied with that, though.

"Sure, sir. How do you suppose we clutch a win this year?"

"Well, methinks the Capitol will be using Peacekeepers for their mentors." The mayor finally finished the last of the pie—Cullen's hard work ruined by the pig—and leaned back in his chair. "Needed more sugar, Liddel. Middling pie."

Cullen sighed and tried not to snap at the man. He learned a long time ago that Rhodes only ate for the sake of eating, rather than actually putting something he didn't like aside and letting others have a pick at it.

"Your point, Mayor Rhodes."

"Right. If we want to get an Academy up and running here and more traction among the Capitol, I think we should hinge all our bets on the kid from the Capitol that'll represent us!" The mayor chuckled and nodded to himself. It never mattered what the others said after this announcement. He was always satisfied with his own ideas and ran with them once they were spoken aloud. "The poor kid from Eleven will have to be neglected—just for this year, though! We can focus on them fully next year, but the chances will be better with a Capitol kid, right?"

One of the younger victors stood up and fixed her dressing gown. "I'm out," she sighed. "Good luck, Cull."

Cullen grunted. He needed it.

Another one left with the young woman, and the mayor just shook his head and tutted when the door closed. He looked back to Cullen—Cullen, who was somehow his favourite—and muttered, "They never understand our plans, Liddel."

"We'll see what we can do this year, sir," Cullen said instead of agreeing with him. He rose from his chair, and the others behind him did the same. Now that he was the oldest alive in the village, he was practically their de facto leader in all things Hunger Games. "In the meantime, please hold off on anything big until I come back."

"Always, Liddel, always. I'd be run out of the place without your guidance!" The mayor guffawed at his joke. The other victors looked at each other, not seeing the humour. They actually would drive him out of the District if he kept making these decisions for them, and the man just thought it was something to joke about.

As the exited the office, Peacekeepers flanked the small group of victors and led them on their way out of the building. They'd stick with Cullen, most likely, and escort him to the stage being hastily constructed in front of the Justice Building under the cover of night. Truly, both the Capitol and District children were being thrown out of the frying pan and straight into the fire with this hidden reaping. Whatever resolves needed hardening with sleep would remain flaky and weak.

Cullen twisted the ring around his finger anxiously. It was terrible, but he supposed the Games wasn't all bad. Once it was over, once the tour was underway and the victor shown their new reality, Cullen would be free to see people he cared about. For almost another year, he could at least pretend things were okay.

"You're awful happy to be going to a reaping," one of the Peacekeepers noted when the other victors left. Cullen twisted the ring again.

"You must be new," Cullen said. The other Peacekeeper nodded, confirming it. "After we go to the Capitol, I get to see my fiancé again."

There was a sound of understanding from the newcomer. And then, as if it was the biggest understatement ever, the Peacekeeper said, "That's one hell of a long-distance relationship."

"You have no idea."

Colt Forsythe, District 10, Victor of the 69th Games

Your name is Colt Forsythe. You won the 69th Hunger Games. Here are the things that have happened since your victory.

Apparently this was his routine every morning. He'd wake up, sweating and in a deep panic, still convinced he was in the arena—searching for the others he'd been allied with, frightened of the fates they could've met when he was asleep—and then a small device on his wrist would chirp. Once it chirped, voice would echo through his ears in a tinny hum, and it would introduce itself as his "assisted living implant".

He didn't always forget, apparently. Sometimes the implant would inform him of how long his longest streak without forgetting lasted. It was never longer than a few days.

"Okay," Colt whispered to himself. "Okay."

The last he remembered, he was still only fifteen and barely hitting his growth spurt. Puberty had been slow for him. So he figured the warning the implant gave him as he entered the bathroom was for good reason—as soon as he saw the man in the mirror, he assumed he'd walked in on his father suddenly. Colt apologised to the reflection, paused when he saw it move with him, and the implant went to work explaining all the details he questioned to himself.

You received the scar on your thigh from a bull following the conclusion of the 88th Games. The white tan line around your finger is from a ring you received from a man named Cullen Liddel prior to the 90th Games—it is stored in your top bedside drawer for safekeeping. Your left middle toe has been amputated due to gangrene last year. The scars on your chest are from the surgery you received in the Capitol during your rehabilitation following the 69th Games.

When his eyes reached the small, beeping green light on his temple, the implant informed him that this was its only visible trait on his body. A small slip of metal hidden by the shag of his hair that blipped, he found, in time with his heartrate. Colt hummed to himself. So he wasn't fifteen, then. When he asked for the date, for his age, he was surprised that he was close to middle-aged now.

He'd… lived a long life after the games.

"Why don't I remember?" he asked, glancing at the reflection of the implant.

You have suffered an acquired brain injury during the final stages of your Games. Collection was interrupted and unfortunately cost precious time that caused more damage to your brain. However, all haemorrhaging had been stopped by a gamemaker who had qualifications in brain surgery and kept you stable long enough to survive the trip back to the Capitol. You were unable to walk or talk for a whole year following your victory and the damage done to your brain has caused extensive short-term memory issues.

Okay, brain injury caused all that.

"Would I have better memory if they'd collected me sooner?"

It is believed so.

"Figures." Colt wasted no more time in the bathroom. He busied himself with looking through his closet for some clothes, settling on a simple ensemble to keep him warm for the day. When that much was done, he paused at the bedside table and glanced at the top drawer. "The ring… Is it important?"

It is your engagement ring. You are not obligated to wear it, as per Cullen Liddel's reassurances.

Colt frowned. It was a bit of a surprise, hearing that. He'd been pretty heavily in denial about liking other boys, last he checked, and now he was engaged to a man named Cullen? How much changed without him noticing over these last thirty years?

"I'll wear it," he decided. The band was simple, silver, and it was engraved with a simple message on its inside: I'll always wait for you. Colt furrowed his brows. Sheesh, this was cheesy as hell. He got engaged to that?

He slipped the ring on and pushed his hair out of his face. Colt worked his jaw as he glanced around the room some more; it was suddenly daunting, now that he had nothing left in the room to do and needed to leave. He wasn't sure what to expect when he went through the door and further into the house. Who he expected.

You live with an in-home nurse. Her name is Mila Turnbull. She is the victor of the 49th Games and your mentor for the 69th Games.

Oh, Mila! Colt felt the excitement rise in his chest. He recognised Mila! Man, she must've looked like an old lady now. His expression brightened as he took a step towards the door, but he was soon brought to a halt when the implant chirped again.

Please state your name, age, and where you are currently.

Colt frowned. He hesitated for a short few seconds.

"My name is Colt Forsythe. I'm…" He counted for a moment. "I'm forty-six years old. I'm in my home, I think?"

Do you feel safe, Colt?

It was an oddly empathetic question. Colt was taken aback again, but this time his hesitation was due to how un-robotic the question had been. Maybe this was how an assisted living implant functioned.

"I… feel safer than I did when I woke up," he decided. The implant didn't chirp again. It was more than happy to let him continue on with his day, apparently satisfied with the answer.

Colt didn't move immediately.

"Do I ever call you something?" he asked, uncertain. "I know it's weird to talk to a voice in my head but… I feel rude not calling you something like your name."

There was a pause. And then the implant kindly informed him, You have nicknamed me ALI, the shorthand of 'Alice', due to my acronym. I will respond to the name if you wish.

"Okay." Colt nodded and moved for the door. "Thank you, ALI. I appreciate it."

And that's the second half of the victors/mentors. I'll be seeing you next for the Capitol mentors!