Ain't gonna let it bother me today

I been workin' and I'm too tired anyway

But it's all right 'cause it's midnight

And I got two more bottles of wine

Esquiria Pasquale, 32

Resident of District 1

Victor of the 5th Annual Hunger Games

I'm ashamed as I watch the caramel-brown liquor slosh around the glass cup. I've been staring at it, occasionally nursing a small sip, for the past hour. The ice cubes glitter in the plethora of pulsating dance floor lights, melting slowly and watering down my expensive glass of scotch. I bring the glass to my lips again and let the acidic liquid burn across my tongue and set wildfires down my throat. I hate everything about alcohol. Its taste, its texture, its price tag. There's one exception to my hatred. That exception is its alluring power to erase memories and make the night pass in a blur, something I really need right now.

My wandering eyes rove out to the dance floor. I see things in snapshots. Rainbow colored lights highlighting a sashaying girl. Two indiscernible figures grinding wildly on the dance floor. Bottles raised high, bottoms up. Capsules, small and white in color, are passed from teenager to teenager. My lip curls with disgust, and I down the rest of the scotch in one hearty gulp. I can't believe that this is what One has come to.

I grew up in the ashes of the rebellion. I was old enough to remember it when the bombs fell onto homes and hovercrafts blasted spitfire into seas of children. I was old enough to see a man, my father, with a gunshot wound through his heart, dying on a dirty cot while my mother frantically tried to stop the bleeding with her inadequate healing skills. I was old enough to remember and understand the yells of kidnapped and dying men, the screams of women being dragged into empty buildings by ravenous, victorious Peacekeepers, the whimpers of newly orphaned children. I hate the Capitol. And One has become one of it's lapdog, right behind Two in loyalty. Instead of being creative, intelligent artisans, my District is quickly dissolving into a society of vain, airheaded loyalists who would rather overdose on some unknown pills or die in the Hunger Games for a week of fame than actually be decent, caring human beings. I quickly order a glass of red wine. That stuff always knocks me out quicker than you can say "loyalists."

While I wait for my wine, my mind wanders. Of course I supported the Academy, how else have Kenyan and Soren made it back after it was instituted after the 10th Hunger Games? But I wanted it to be a program like Two's, all about loyalty and bravery and protecting the innocent. Instead, the Academy has become a satire of everything One is. The prettiest children are enrolled in an Academy to learn how to either become Games fodder or prostitutes, and being in such an institution is apparently an achievement. That makes me laugh whenever I hear something alone the lines of it.

The crystalline goblet sloshing with dark red merlot is deposited by a scrap of a girl with dirty blonde hair who looks longingly at the dance floor. I hand her a dollar tip and tell her to get her head out of her ass and stop staring at the dance floor, because if she doesn't want to overdose within the next two months she better not try to join one of those groups of slut gyrating on the dance floor. Oh, and I forgot to mention. Alcohol tears out the filter between my mind and mouth and throws it down the gutter, and it doesn't come back until I wake up the next morning with a nasty hangover. Hangovers. Another thing to hate about alcohol.

The girl looks at me like I'm insane. Of course she can't tell that I'm Esquiria Pasquale in the flashing lights and following bursts of darkness that the club exudes. She just thinks I'm some drunk old woman. She pockets the money and shuffles away, where she starts making a fruit martini. Her eyes quickly gravitate back to the dance floor, and I hiss, downing the rest of the chalice in under a minute.

Kids from One these days. Hmph.

Center of attention once again

They don't understand

They don't understand, no

Then they try to tell me who I am

But they don't understand

They don't understand, no

If you want

A perfect picture to believe in

Then you can't be looking for me then

Scylas Ondino, 25

Resident of District 2

Victor of the 15th Annual Hunger Games

Words never work with the other Victors. Headmistress Anniston is a steel hearted beast of a woman, and she doesn't like talking. If she has something to say to you, she'll say it will kicking you ass in a sparring match. Brick is a great guy to hang out with, but he's a, well, a brick. His head is thick and he can't fathom concepts like pain, fear, and love. Clay is just overall quiet and unassuming, and when he rarely speaks, its usually something trivial, like "Pass the liquor, please?" And Lucia's still too new. She's the one that needs support, and she'll probably turn out more in the likes of Clay if the prodigious amounts of time she spends with him mean anything. I have had almost 7 years to work through my issues, but they're still there. They'll always be there.

I fasten the tie tighter around my neck. It's a garish mix of pink and lime green. Grecia, my stylist, told me in solemn tones around noon today that Madame Pruma Kettleloope's favorite colors were hot pink and lime green. Why, Grecia is never wrong. That's why there is unsightly streaks of lipstick across my neck and chest, in those two aforementioned colors. I don't touch myself, think about what just happened. It is lipstick. I will not think about how it got there. I will not think about when it got there. I will not think about where it is, where her nasty, plumped up lips touched-

Ah, damnit, I've already broken my first rule. After a "cordial visit" with a "happy sponsor" or "old friend" or "innocent client", I do not think about anything that happened in that room until I've drank a jug of cheap rum and am locked in my hotel room in the Capitol with a burning hot shower on full blast. Then I can deal with the problems in the soundproof room. I can break things, and scream, and slice open the tops of my arms and thrash on the ground and scrub off the thick layer of skin they touched with hundreds of cleaning creams and gels in a sizzling, smoldering torrent of water.

I work through it in my head as I step into the elevator and press the ground floor level. I try to keep a straight face, trying not to cringe, trying not the twitch, as I think about the events of the past couple of days.

Grecia showed up at my house in the Victor's Village two days earlier with my outfit and an embossed, silvery card marked with the name of my client and her likes and dislikes, as well as looks and location in the Capitol. Sometimes, I get someone in the Districts, but that's rare. Grecia sits with me for the night; she's a kind enough woman and much more sensible than most of the Capitolites. She just loves fashion, she's not in it for the fame or anything like that. Or at least that's what she says. Sometimes I don't believe her.

Then, the next day, we do fittings and chat some more, and then she leaves me be to have the rest of my day till 6 to myself. I show up at the train station at 6 sharp. Grecia's always waiting for me, and sometimes Brick and Headmistress hitch a ride with us. The Capitol still raves over Brick's chiseled physique, and Headmistress usually is heading to the Capitol to talk matters of politics with Snow or get a new class in the Academy approved by the Council. But one day, I saw a silvery card peeking out of the back pocket of some strangely yellow jeans she was wearing, and she blushed and shuffled into another part of the train.

After riding the train to the Capitol, I settle down in my hotel and prepare for the night after, switching the shower settings to my preferences and ordering a jug of rum. Then I sleep, and in the morning I frolic around the Capitol, making public experiences and getting interviewed by the tabloids that infect the Capitol like outbreaks that plague the Districts. Then, at night, between 5 and midnight, I will head up to the special Victor's suite in the giant Caupona hotel. Each of the 75 floors has a Victor's Suite. I'm always held on the 15th floor as some sort of cruel joke.

I notice that the 11 button flickers to life as the elevator descends. The doors snap open once we reach the 11th Floor, and I prepare to deal with a fanatic Capitolite in bright robes and covered in a mountain of makeup. Instead, I am met by an even more dismaying sight.

After the war I thought we'd fight together

I guess we thought that's just what humans do

Letting darkness grow

As if we need it's palette and we need it's color

But now I've seen it through

And now I know the truth

That anything could happen

Mags Flanagan, 28

Resident of District 4

Victor of the 11th Annual Hunger Games

Scylas Ondino and I share an uncertain look. His tie is tied too tight around his neck, and it is a disgusting mix of lime green and blazing pink. His suit is rumpled and creased, as is his hair, and his eyes look twenty years older than the rest of him. He's tall and strong, thick barrel arms and legs and a six pack pressing against the purposefully tight confines of his tuxedo. Here is the first boy, to only boy, the only tribute, to ever score a 12. Here is the strongest Victor alive, and he is barely holding himself together as he stands alone in the brassy elevator.

I remain silent as I step into the elevator. We glance at each other as the elevator descends quickly to the ground floor. As it swoops downward, I manage to make my voice bubble out of the back of my throat.

"Scylas," I manage to warble out.

"Mags," he grumbles, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his right hand.

"R-rough night?"

"She wore lime green and pink lipstick," he hisses quietly, and I don't need to hear anything else. "You?"

"Normal." It is sad when normal is a 300 pound man whose skin is dyed tangerine and likes when I wear rompers like the baby blue one I am currently wearing. I've been with Claudius seventeen times over the past 11 years. I'm almost grateful when I get an old client like him. That means that there is less surprises, and less sickly curiosity and intrigue. I brush some invisible dust from my shoulder.

"Are you a Mentor next week?" Scylas peeps as the doors slide open.

"Yeah," I huff. "Oisin's too stubborn, and Waverley's still too inexperienced." I really do love Mentoring, but I am always pessimistic after my appointments. No one comes out of those hotel rooms all cheery and in tip-top shape. If you come out like that, then you're the Capitol that's just spent half their year's earnings to whittle away an intimate night with a Victor of your choice. "Are you Mentoring, Scy?"

"Uh-huh," he growls. "They switch between me, Headmistress, and Brick usually. Headmistress was Mentor last year, Brick the year before her. Lucia's too new to handle it all on her own, she'll probably just shadow me this year. And Clay isn't really a Career, you know, so yeah. He isn't really super effective."

The doors slide open, depositing us in the lobby. We walk side-by-side across the marble floored lobby and through the revolving glass doors. A squealing receptionist snaps a picture of us. That'll be hitting the tabloids soon. Around here, they've paired everyone imaginable that is a Victor. Why, they even accused Headmistress of cheating on her husband with Uriah. Matherton. That's just unbelievable.

We wander out onto the sidewalk, and stand there together. Our hotels are on opposite ends of the avenue. The balmy, humid late June air envelopes me like Waverley does whenever I'm having a flashback day, where I'm stuck back in the Games, stuck back with the screams.

"How are your tributes?" Scylas finally whispers.

"I have no clue."

"Agreed."

"We should look into that."

"We should."

Knowing the both of us, the first time we'll hear our tributes' names is when they're called on the stage.

Careers are always close. The common line of training and slaughtering and winning binds us like brothers and sisters under oath. I'm rather close with Scylas, but cold, empty air exists between us, contrasting the heat that the summer night exudes. It's awkward to be with someone after an appointment, nonetheless someone you know. The guilt, the shame, the disgust, it just starts registering about now.

We part wordlessly. Groups of Capitolites stagger past drunkenly liked preening peacocks, heading from club to club. They are loud and boisterous, those that keep their large stomachs bouncing, jiggling with bouts of giggles. Those that lay plastic under their skin and inject chemicals into their lips and cheeks attempt to smile with stiff, immovable faces at the banter. It disgusts me. They all disgust me.

After the rebellion, things were supposed to be different. Sure, the Capitol obliterated us in battle, but we only surrendered after it was clear that we would gain rights. Instead, the Capitol drafted the Treaty of Treason behind our back, tacked false rebel signatures on it, and ended the Dark Days. Our rights have been violated more than ever. Now, they slaughter 23 of our children each year, and the "lucky" 24th is prostituted and tortured endlessly. It's a terrible, mindless thing. The rebels made a mistake in respecting and trusting the Capitol.

You never trust anyone, especially the Capitol. I learned that the hard way. Now that's a story for another time.

A/N: Hello! I hope you liked the glimpses into the characters of our Career Mentors! Just to answer a question that some of you had, my SYOTs and 500 Years of Penance are in different universes, so their Victors only overlap with the canon Victors. We already have a whopping 18 submissions, and there is only no submissions for these 8 male slots: Districts 2, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, and 12! We need strong male characters, so please go submit! If we get all of the slots filled before November 4th with good characters, I will start the Games at that point, so if you still have to or want to submit, get your tribute(s) in sooner than later.

Did you like Esquiria, Scylas, and Mags? Thoughts on their POVs and the writing/length of this chapter?

Thanks for reading and submitting! Please review if you can. :) I will try and get out three more chapters like this about the 9 other Mentors before we start the Games. :)

Until Next Time,

Tracee