Chapter 23: John Gatwick

A/N: It's been a while but District Ten finally have their second Victor! Question is, how did he win the Games? Read on to find out more!

Katniss looked down at the boy's photo, unsure of what to think of him. He seemed strong, almost a Career. But she could vaguely remember that he had one of the lowest odds going into the Games. "Know anything about him? He looks strong."

"He wasn't," Peeta told her. His eyes were fixated on John's arm. "He only had one arm going into the arena."

Katniss frowned. "What?"

"You can't see it, but his left arm is a prosthetic one." He tapped at John's left arm, covered and hidden underneath his sleeve and a wool glove. "Capitol gave it to him after he won. Besides that, he was known for having epilepsy. The odds really weren't in his favour."

"And yet he survived," Katniss said slowly. "I wonder how."

"If I'm not mistaken," Peeta muttered, trying to think of all the Games his father had told him about. "He won by allying with some other kid. That kid did all the killing for him."

"So he took advantage of him?" Katniss said, scowling.

"In a way, yes. But hey, technically, I took advantage of you in our first Hunger Games and we took advantage of Finnick in the Quell," Peeta pointed out.

Katniss shrugged. "Eh, I guess so."

John Gatwick

District 10

Aged 16

2 Kills

John hated life in his district. The strong farm odour that never seemed to be even close to going away was sickening. It could sometimes even trigger his epilepsy. Ah, yes. Epilepsy. That thing that made him feel like a freak in Ten. He received less pay because he couldn't cut as much meat as the other, he was too busy recovering from another minor seizure and besides, he could only cut with one arm. He had no friends since most people didn't want to be seen being with him, the district laughingstock. His parents rejected him. They didn't want to take care of a boy who wasn't likely to make it past the age of eighteen. It was only a matter of time before the factory owner fired him and he was left unemployed and forced to starve to death. He often wandered the streets, looking rather lost as he searched for a cheap meal. Often, he would pass by the Victors' Village, where the famed cowboy legend lived. Ringo Alvarez. Such a cowboy was unheard of in District Ten, or as some locals dared to call it, Texas and Mexico. The old legends and stories told around bonfires of horse-riding legends were just that. Legends and myths. These days, all the people of District Ten did was produce meat for the stupid Capitol and live in run-down huts or old ranches. But Ringo, he reignited the myths. He sparked a bit of hope, that a boy from District Ten could survive the Games and be a bloody brilliant cowboy in the process. His horse-riding antics were simply a joy to behold. John had always wanted to ride a horse, just like his friends, but he never could. Too poor to buy a horse. Instead, the only animals his family owned on their farm were two cows for milk and some chickens. You could ride a cow, but why would you? That would look stupid. John sighed as we walked along the dark alley squashed between two horribly polluted meat production factories. Such luxuries would never come upon him. Just then, he heard a light chuckle. He didn't even hesitate. he knew exactly who it was He turned and charged headfirst into the ringleader of a prominent gang. The boy, only eighteen and still eligible for the Reaping, stumbled backwards. He groaned in pain, clutching his chest and wheezing. John spat on him and continued walking. That headbutt was a tiny one. If he had used all of his full force, the leader would be dead. But murder wasn't his game. Especially not when the risks involved included a peacekeeper strangling you slowly to death. As he exited the alley, he stopped, staring blankly ahead of him. His eye started to twitch horribly as his teeth chattered. Shit! he thought. Yet another seizure. A cattle rancher passed by, pulling along a cattle with him. He paused and gave the shivering John a disapproving look. "Bloody kids these days," he snarled, swiftly moving on. John regained his composure, a little flustered, but he was used to this. He only wished District Ten would just accept him as one of their own, instead of straight-up labelling his as an outcast without much purpose in life. He had one. He wanted to be an engineer! It seemed stupid. He wasn't from Three or even FIve. Such a job was out of the question here. But there he was, spending long, sleepless nights in the library, reading up books on engineering. One thing that stood out was the wide selection of bombs presented in the books. The way their effects were described in the books, it fascinated him. Imagine, the Capitol going boom right in front of him! He smiled at the thought. That would be perfect.

Sadly, life could be oh so cruel sometimes. The 23rd annual Reaping for the Hunger Games was the ordinary. John was the only boy around who wasn't trembling. If he was picked, then so be it. Of course, he hoped he wouldn't be, but was it really such a bad thing? He wasn't going to get very far in life anyway. He cringed when the Treaty of Treason was read out. Such a terrible treaty. Which psycho would possibly even think up of such a cruel idea? The fact that it was the new president, that bastard Snow, who read it, made it even worse. He spoke with a calm voice, but John wasn't stupid. he could very clearly pick out the contempt in his voice, the way he emphasized several choice words. He hated the Districts, that much had been revealed, when curfews were made mandatory, unless you were a noble from One, of course. Wages were halved and prices quadrupled. John never realised how much he craved food until then. The hungry, sleepless nights were awful. The labour he had to do without any calories? Oh, impossible! The extra peacekeepers for food control? He wished he could headbutt them all! He stared drearily as the perky escort pulled out a girl's name, chattering excitedly as he sentenced yet another innocent little child to her almost certainly painful death. "Hay Martinez!" Cue the screaming. Bring forth the wails. John knew the sounds all too well as a girl from the fifteen-year-olds section dragged herself up to the stage, her eyes devoid of life. He sighed. Such a pity. A good living soul wasted for some snooty knobheads' sick entertainment. He waited for the boy's name to be called out. The escort pulled out a name. "John Gatwick!"

He claimed he wasn't nervous. He was wrong. As soon as the escort called out his name, it was as if his entire world fell apart. He stood, broken, stuck in yet another seizure. The other boys stepped away from him, and the peacekeepers had to drag him, still twitching uncontrollably, up to the stage. "Seizure," one of them explained. "The little brat has epilepsy."

"Epilepsy!" the escort said, clapping his hands excitedly. "How lovely!" It was clear she knew next to nothing about John's condition. John wished he could roll his eyes but he wasn't out of it yet. Only after the escort told them to shake hands did he finally come tumbling back to earth. He shook Hay's hand, both of them trembling and fighting back tears, and he slipped into the Justice Building, wondering if anyone would even bother to say goodbye.

The one positive of being Reaped was that he could finally meet his childhood hero, Ringo Alvarez. He'd heard people say that Ringo had once spoken in a very distinct accent, one that had slowly faded away over time. John couldn't think why. Had he spent too much time with those squeaky Capitol citizens? Nonetheless, here he was, standing in front of him, donning the iconic ranch outfit that he'd worn into his arena, complete with the bullwhip and a cowboy hat. He looked oddly depressed, his eyes sullen and if he looked closely, John could even see a couple of white hairs. "Well, you two have gotten yourselves in a bit of a pickle, eh?" he laughed without humour, his voice tinged with sadness. Hay sniffled, wiping her eyes. Unlike John, her family had come to visit her, their final moments together tearful and longing. Lucky her, he thought, almost snarling with envy. His family were probably celebrating one less mouth to feed. Panem wasn't a fair place.

"So," he said, breaking the momentarily awkward silence. "Any advice for us?"

"Run from the Bloodbath," Ringo told them, his voice reduced to pleading. "Please, I've seen way too many kids run in thinking they're fast or something, but no. It doesn't work that way. You'll die if you try."

John frowned. "But we need supplies, right?"

"If you're fast, you can run in and grab the nearest item to you, but no more. Don't make the same mistake Tanner from last year's Games did." Ringo sighed, biting his lip. He was far from the glorious cowboy everyone in Ten idolized. It was as if the brave Victor had died in the arena and was replaced by a hollow shell.

"How about weapons? What do we train with?" John asked.

"Knives," Ringo told him. "Most of the Victors won with knives, from Sapphire and Shocker all the way to Scipio and Draco. It's also the most common weapon around. But don't run for it in the Bloodbath. Especially not you, John," he motioned towards John's stump of an arm, sighing deeply. John scowled. He didn't need his arms! If anyone tried to kill him, he had the perfect headbutting technique to kill them in one blow. Then again, what was a headbutt compared to a sword or even worse, a taser like Nikola's? Yes, he thought of Nikola's taser as being the most powerful in the Games. He'd even made a replica using scrap material from garbage dumps. Nikola was his second favourite Victor, not least because of his brilliance. Maybe he could ally with the Threes and make use of their engineering skills?

"How about alliances?"

"Have an ally if you need to, but again, most Victors prefer to go solo. It worked for me, at least." Ringo winced, his eyes glazing over for a split second, as if the mere memory of his Games pained him.

"We're going to have to kill somebody, won't we?" Hay murmured quietly, shivering slightly.

It was as if the life had been sucked right out of the train carriage. Ringo hung his head in shame, muttering under his breath. John stared glumly ahead, another seizure overtaking him. He knew the simple fact to be true: no Victor had ever managed to win without at least one kill. Even the more gentle Victors like Gwen and Woof were branded as murderers among the District people. Because it was true. Hiding through the entire Games without any kills wasn't possible. Woof had tried, he failed miserably and had to kill lest he be killed himself by the Gamemakers' mutts. "It's possible, a pacifist victory. But it's very, very unlikely. You will have to murder at least one poor little tribute..." Ringo trailed off, tears brimming in his eyes. "I'm not sure if you really want to be a Victor. The guilt, it swallows you whole. You know Shocker?" John nodded. Shocker's insanity in the arena was common knowledge. The broken shell he had become soon after was too. "He's always crying, screaming for help. Every year since Switch's victory, he begs for me to kill him, to just end it all. I've got nightmares every day. It's something you could never possibly recover from. You never forget." He swallowed, choking back a sob. "And the worst part is, one toe out of line, and everyone you know will be dead. And of course, every year, you have to get to know the tributes, only to watch them die a horrible, painful death." There was no more holding back. Ringo was crying buckets now. John and Hay exchanged nervous glances. Did either of them really want to win anymore?

He ripped off his cow costume the minute he stepped off his chariot. He didn't care that he was naked except for a pair of underpants. It was ridiculously embarrassing! His parade costume coupled with the seizures triggered from all the bright lights and noise had combined perfectly to create one heck of a disastrous Tribute Parade for John. When he walked across the other tributes, all of whom were gawking at him, Hay shouted, "I don't know him!". She was blushing furiously, but John didn't care. Hay had refused his proposal for an alliance anyway. They were going to avoid each other in the arena. Might as well start the avoiding now. He stormed into the elevator and punched the '10' button.

"Hold on!" someone exclaimed. The tiny, bespectacled boy from Three wriggled his way in, pressing the '3' button and staring warily at John. "Hello, what's your name?"

"John Gatwick. District Ten," John replied quietly, not quite sure what to make of this surprise conversation.

"I'm Linux Schroeder. District Three," the boy replied. "You fancy an alliance?"

John blinked, confused. He wasn't having another seizure, thank goodness, but he didn't need to have one. He stared blankly at Linux, trying to comprehend his surprise proposal. Of all the tributes, why him? He had one arm, epilepsy and terrible survival skills. He was useless! "Why?" His voice was almost a whisper of confusion.

"Nikola said so. I think Ringo told him you're into engineering and stuff." He grinned. "Like that's so cool! I didn't know you Tens even knew a damn thing about engineering!"

John managed the weakest of smiles. "Well, I guess I'm just different. I liked Nikola's taser."

Linux grinned. "Yeah! That was simply genius! Ringo was pretty awesome too. Riding a horse to victory? How cool is that?"

John's smile faltered at the thought of his broken mentor, wallowing in despair. He pushed the thought aside. "So, are we allies now?"

Linux nodded eagerly. "I think we'll be a great team! Just imagine, winning it the way Nikola did, with technology! That'll be bloody brilliant!" The young engineer boy was still giggling and laughing by the time he exited the elevator at his floor. John liked Linux. And he was right. They were going to be a great team. He thought that Linux would be the last person he'd want to hurt in the arena, well apart from Hay, of course, District loyalty and all that kind of stuff. The irony of this, though, would haunt him for countless decades to come.

The Training days were a million times tougher for John. What could he do? He couldn't attempt the climbing station, which was mandatory for all except him. After all, it was pretty clear that he could not climb with one hand. His knife-throwing skills would be fairly decent, if he didn't have a seizure right as he was about to throw the knife, prompting the impatient girl from One, Paris, to snatch the knife from his hands and have a go herself. The most he could do was focus on survival stations with Linux by his side. The boy was a joy to have around, always cracking jokes like Axel, trying crazy antics like breaking the record at the edible plats station like Switch, shifting his glasses every now and then like Nikola. In John's opinion, Linux was very much a good candidate for the role of a Victor. "You know, we could go for a new Hunger Games record," he suggested, nonchalantly tying a snare.

John frowned. "Uhh, Linux? You do realise that the only record I might break is for being the worst tribute in the history of the Hunger Games."

Linux gave him an encouraging smile. "I don't think so. Not with me!" He jabbed his thumb towards his chest in a proud gesture, earning a light snicker from John. John had to admit, his smile was infectious, just like Switch's had been, before she stopped constantly smiling on TV. These days she only smiled half the time. The other half was spent looking troubled. The price of victory, I guess, John thought. Even the happiest of Victors could be shattered. He stood no chance at victory, and even if he did win, his life would feel like a living hell. Not him, a guy living in one of the most depressing districts in Panem, filled with the horrid stench of animal dung and rotting meat. He would be broken as easily as Ringo. But then, at least Ringo would have some company in that lonely village.

He continued working with Linux, trying to brush up their survival skills. The fire-starting station especially piqued Linux's interest. He furiously rubbed the pieces of wood together and his eyes lit up in sinister joy when sparks began to ignite. "Fire..." he uttered softly, his voice devoid of any control. A wicked smile began to spread on his face and John backed away instantly. Linux put out the fire at the trainer's request. "Fire, I like fire," he told John.

"Yeah, I could see that," John said, still a little pale and keeping a safe distance from Linux.

"Fire, it's just so fascinating. I like starting them and watching them burn..." Linux trailed off, his smile now almost inhuman and ghostly. He rubbed his hands together giving John a malevolent look. John immediately muttered that he had to use the bathroom and sped off towards the nearest toilet. As he entered, he momentarily forgot why he was there. Then he remembered. He wanted to be away from Linux, at least for now. That boy was a pyromaniac, and John prayed the arena wouldn't have a forest fire or something like that. (A/N: Yes, walking through a doorway does trigger memory lapses. It's called the Doorway Effect. The more you know, eh? Anyway, continue reading :))

John wished his score had never been revealed. A weak, pathetic score of three. Three! Even Hay had managed to cough up a five! Ringo tried to assure him he wasn't dead until he was, that he still had a chance, but John knew the odds were far from being in his favour. The best hope he could have was for Hay or Linux to win. Then he wouldn't feel as bad. If a third consecutive Career won, it could be game over for the outliers. Sure, Crystal was not a normal Career, but Careers were Careers. One and Two were pulling ahead fast, the other outliers falling behind rapidly. They couldn't win again. Linux managed to get a six, not bad for a thirteen-year-old with ongoing mental problems. It might just be District Three's year. But now that his score was there for all to see, surely no one would bother sponsoring him? He sighed, staring at the ceiling. He hoped his death would be quick, not like some of the ones that had befallen past tributes. The death of the girl from Eleven in the tenth Games was especially horrid. John could only hope a quick stab was all he ever got. "You're not going to die!" Ringo said firmly, his eyes desperate and crazed. "You can't give up! It's not over!"

John looked at him blankly, another seizure incoming. He wasn't sure what to tell his legendary cowboy mentor. That he was sorry? That he should try to pin his hopes on Hay instead? That all his efforts were for nothing? The seizure ended and John whispered, "Ringo, maybe you should stop trying."

Ringo glared at him, a tear rolling down his cheek. "Give up? I can't do that! Someone has to come home! Just one boy or girl has to come home safe and sound and see their families and friends again..." He sniffled. "It's the least I can do. Bring one innocent child back home. I'm a District disgrace if I don't."

John shook his head. "We still love you, Ringo. You and Bucky..."

"Bucky's dead!" Ringo sobbed. "Delilah's a delightful horse, yes, but the best horse in the world, the one that made life in Ten at least slightly enjoyable, he's dead! Just like those kids I killed, never going to come back!" He buried his face in his hands.

John gritted his teeth, a sudden determination filling him. "I'm coming back. I'll win."

Ringo looked up. "That's what they all say. you might be the one, but I don't know..." He trailed off, lost in his thoughts. John cracked his knuckles. Those tributes won't know what hit them.

Bartomeus was getting battier by the minute. His interviews with the Ones was a lot less perverse than last year's, but the questions were getting stupider. "What's your favourite food?" he asked Paris, who rolled her eyes impatiently and told him it was spaghetti. Then she told him to ask some real questions. The boy from One, Karat, who was surprisingly not a noble, rather a factory worker trying to help his family, was asked about what he thought of Paris and all the Victors from One. Bartomeus pressed him for answers, and by the time the buzzer rang, hadn't gotten much information about Karat himself. As a non-noble, Bartomeus probably didn't want to show Karat much respect, which John had to admit was unfair. Every tribute should get an equal chance to shine on stage. The pair from Two, Bayonet and Sten, both told Bartomeus to shut up and let them do the talking themselves, a reaction he didn't respond very kindly to. A five-minute break had to be introduced as Bartomeus ranted at Sten, screaming insults at him. John smirked. His reaction was actually funny. The way his plump cheeks went red and his voice got even squeaker than he thought possible, it was laughable. Even Hay couldn't suppress a soft giggle. The interviews soon resumed and when it was Linux's turn, he chatted excitedly about flamethrowers and all the other tech that was being designed in District Three, even though Bartomeus had asked him about sports. John felt a pang of envy. He wanted to design that tech! That was what he wanted! Sadly, such a thing had never been possible in a place like District Ten, and would likely never be. The other interviews rolled on, proving rather tiring to watch. John had to stifle a yawn as Hay came up on stage. Bartomeus had barely made any attempts to engage the other tributes, and with Hay, it was no different. Awkward silences and long pauses made up the majority of her interview, one that ultimately went down as one of the top ten worst interviews in the history of the Hunger Games. John was seething. Hay deserved much better, and everyone knew it. Bartomeus should at least try to encourage or lift her spirits. Instead, all he said was, "Yeah, you're probably just another piece of cannon fodder."

The buzzer rang and it was John's turn. This time, though, he had a plan. Before Bartomeus could welcome him, he had begun to talk. "Look, we both know you're not gonna interview me much, so here's the rundown. I'm John Gatwick from District Ten. I have only one arm and epilepsy. But I'm coming home, and you know why? Because Ringo deserves a friend. Not one from the Capitol or the other Districts, but from home. From District Ten. A neighbour in that desolate, empty village. So there, I will win the Hunger Games, and that's that. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to use the bathroom. Go ahead and interview Plowess, the girl from Eleven, if you've already forgotten, but make sure you do it right." Without waiting to be dismissed, he huffed and marched off the page, smirking when he turned and saw Bartomeus' dumbfounded expression. Perfection.

When he first saw the arena, he grinned. A beautiful birch forest with mushrooms, the ones he knew were non-poisonous, growing all around. Perfect, he could survive the arena! The countdown began. Sixty. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight. He glanced around. Bayonet was two pedestals away, eyes fixed on a scythe in the middle of the Cornucopia. The shivering, crazed girl from Four, Aruba, was on his right, turning her head around wildly, teeth chattering. John felt bad for her. She needed professional help, not a ticket to a hellhole with a guarantee of death. He couldn't see Hay, but he had to hope she would be alright. Linux was five pedestals away, turning his body away from the Cornucopia. John took that to mean he was the one getting the supplies. He readied his right arm. He would need it soon enough. The closest backpack was about ten metres away, placed beside a knife. John figured he'd try to get both somehow. After all, they needed a weapon in the arena, right? Twenty seconds left. He took deep breaths. Focus, he told himself. Do it for Ringo. For your District. Show them they were wrong. Five, four, three, two one. John charged into the clearing like a bull, scooping up the backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. Just as his fingers closed around the knife, though, someone tackled him to the ground. Shit, not so soon! He didn't want to die in the Bloodbath! And he certainly didn't want to be the first to die! He gave his attacker a good, hard headbutt and plunged his knife into the person's chest. Then he saw who it was and let out a small scream. It was Aruba. The crazed, terrified girl lay motionless on the ground, her eyes wide in terror, mouth opened to let out a scream that never came, a knife firmly plunged into her chest. And who had killed her? John. Only thirty seconds in, and he was already joining the long list of Hunger Games murderers. Pulling the knife out of Aruba's chest, he made a mad dash for the woods, trying to quell the tears forming in his eyes as he passed by the dead bodies of the boy from Seven and the girl from Nine. Murders. Committed by him and other children. Right there and then. Stop it, he scolded himself. Don't think about it. He barrelled through the woods until he heard a low whistle. Turning, he saw Linux behind a particularly thick birch tree. He seemed calm, given the circumstances. "Hey, John," he called out. "You doing good?"

John nodded. "I got a backpack and a knife."

Linux's gaze averted to the knife and he gasped, but thankfully didn't comment on it. He simply took the backpack and examined its contents. His eyes widened. "This is perfect! Oh, I've got a plan!"

John looked over. The backpack contained a bottle of water and a whole variety of nuts, screws, bolts, and other gizmos. He could make something with it, as could Linux, but what? Another taser like Nikola? Well, that wouldn't exactly work against a spear or a bow and arrow, would it? "What can we build?" he asked.

Linux gave him a cheeky smile. "A flamethrower, of course!"

A seizure overtook John. A flamethrower. Had Linux gone mad? Was he really that much of a pyromaniac? And besides, he didn't have a guidebook! How could he possibly build such an advanced weapon? "A flamethrower? Really?"

Linux nodded excitedly. "I can make one! And I saw some fuel at the Cornucopia! And listen to this-" Once he'd finished explaining his plan to John, John's insides churned, a queasiness welling up inside of him. But he had to admit, the boy was a damn genius. The plan was brilliant. All they needed was the flamethrower.

"Let's do it, then."

As eleven cannons boomed and the hovercraft took away all of the dead corpses from the Bloodbath, John scoured the area for the Careers. It seemed that they had all gone hunting. Once the hovercraft had lifted the last body, one he recognised with a pang of sadness to be Hay's, John beckoned Linux forward. The pair ran into the Cornucopia clearing, snatching along several fuel canisters along the way. The Careers had dumped them to one side, clearly not realising their usefulness. He concealed a smile. They weren't as smart as they thought they were. The next challenge was climbing the Cornucopia. Linux could do it easily. John, however, couldn't. He reached out and it took Linux a full ten minutes before he was successfully able to lift John up to the roof of the golden horn of plenty. Linux looked out of breath, panting and rubbing his arms. "Dude, you're super heavy. You know that right?"

John rolled his eyes. "Well, at least I've got muscles."

Linux chuckled. "Yeah. Ready to end this, John?" He readied the now completed flamethrower, shining in the bright sunlight of the arena.

John took one last glance at his arena. The beautiful birch forest. The birds chirping. The tributes lurking within. All of them were going to be dead soon enough. He nodded. "Ready."

Linux grinned and shouted, "Fire in the hole!" A massive ball of red hot inferno burst out of the flamethrower and landed among some trees. Instantly, that section of the forest was engulfed in flames. Two cannons boomed. Linux kept firing. John could only watch helplessly as soon, the entire forest was set ablaze with blazing, furious flames. He thought of the tributes, their terrified faces, and how they were being burned or suffocated to death. A horrible way to go. Their screams and dying wails, caught in the wind, would forever haunt him. You never forget, Ringo had told him. His words rang true as even more cannons boomed. The number of tributes dwindled to just four. John choked back a sob as he watched the boy from Six come into the clearing, horribly burnt, only to collapse and die. The boy was covered in dark soot, his clothes were burnt off and ugly red and black patches decorated his singed body. Linux, however, was laughing. The mad pyromaniac was actually cheering the fire on. "More fire!" he squealed, continuing to blast the flamethrower. It was then that, with a sickening gut feeling, John realised the biggest threat to his life wasn't the fire. It was Linux. If Linux won, he would be free to blaze through his District like a madman. And he might very well win. All it took was the pull of that trigger. He didn't want to, but he knew he must. The boy was too crazed, too powerful to keep alive. With a deafening roar, he charged headfirst at Linux and headbutted him off the Cornucopia and straight into the hungry flames below. Linux didn't even scream. He had died from the initial headbutt. Boom! The cannon sounded, signalling the start of another one of John's seizures. As he blacked out, he could vaguely hear the final cannon sound and the trumpets ring. But that wasn't important. He had killed his best friend in the arena. A thirteen-year-old boy. He deserved to go down the same path as Shocker. He was no Victor. He was a savage barbarian.

Oakette watched the screen, pale as a ghost, as John's victory was announced. It didn't matter. The flames, that boy from Three, she was scared out of her mind. Through her screens, she had witnessed all those horrific deaths from the blazing inferno, so hot that even the cameras melted. All the screams, the injuries, the gruesome deaths of the pairs from Two and Eight, in particular, it left her clinging onto Ash for the next three hours. But Linux was right about one thing. John's Games were a Hunger Games record-breaker. It had broken two records actually, the first one being the one for the shortest ever Games, a record that would later be beaten by the sporty yet terrified boy from Four, and the second one being the most terrifying Games Oakette had ever seen. She shut off her TV, intending to call Ringo later to let John into the Victors' alliance. But first, she needed a bloody drink, or ten.

Katniss and Peeta had their minute of respect for John, but it was clear there was nothing left to be said. They had to move on. Peeta flipped the page. The next Victor was a skinny girl with olive skin and long, flowing hair. She had a dead, sullen look in her eyes as she stared almost blankly ahead at the crowd. Katniss frowned. "She looks like that girl from Three in our first Games, Gadget."

Peeta didn't respond, he only stared at the name scribbled on the notebook. Katniss gasped. "Gadget Schroeder."

VICTORS

District 1-Sapphire Huntington(4), Onyx Hibonite(9), Franc Montgomery(14), Crystal Montgomery(21)

District 2-Ragnar Sveinsson(5), Reyna Boudicca(6), Draco Hadley(10), Scipio MacAllister(17), Freya Carson(22)

District 3-Nikola Johnson(13)

District 4-Marina Bluebell(1), Mags Flanagan(11)

District 5-Shocker Crimson(8), Switch Kim(19)

District 6-Ford Hamilton(20)

District 7-Hassan Greenwood(2), Jill Wilson(15)

District 8-Woof Casino(16)

District 9-Gwendolyn Whitfield(18)

District 10-Ringo Alvarez(7), John Gatwick(23)

District 11-Orchid Bloom(12)

District 12-Axel Millar(3)

A/N: So there we have it! John makes it out alive, but very much traumatised! As for Linux, well, I felt bad for him but there was nothing that could be done :( Anyways, hope you enjoyed and stay tuned for Gadget!