He had experienced many life altering moments in his time - too many for one person. And he remembered them all so clearly that he could call upon any memory and watch it play through his mind like one views an old video again and again.

Some memories he relived every day. Others he hid so far back in his mind it was almost as if they were not there. (But they were and always would be).

The day he met his son was a one he often revisited in his thoughts.

The 80th Hunger Games were taking place that year. He was in the Capitol mentoring tributes with Haymitch, appearing at frivolous Capitol parties, and maintaining the image his old mentor had created for him. He was no longer one of the star-crossed lovers from District 12, but now the heartbroken guy the women of the Capitol loved.

(Sadly, acting was never needed for either of these roles. He only wished it was all fake).

He returned to the Training Center late that night. Their first tribute had died at the Cornucopia and the second had been killed by the Careers that evening. It always pained him, watching helplessly while the two kids died. As much as he knew he should not, he grew attached to every one of them. Haymitch had ordered a seemingly endless supply of liquor to their monitoring room, and both had drank their regrets and fears and worries away.

He saw a woman with something in her arms waiting near the front door, leaning against the wall, partly hidden in the shadows cast from the streetlights. As he staggered up the few steps to the entrance, he could tell she was older than him, enough so to be his mother. She looked familiar, like someone he had seen long ago, and his fuzzy mind tried to draw a connection.

"Do I know you?" He somewhat slurred, squinting his eyes at her, as if that would make things clearer in his drunken state.

"No, you don't," She replied in that Capitol accent he was all too familiar with (unfortunately), "But you knew my daughter, Ceteria."

He had known a Ceteria - two years ago. Met her when he - under Haymitch's suggestion - was trying to move one, trying to forget (with no success).

"Oh... yeah. You look just like her."

"She died a few days ago," The women said.

"Oh." He was unsure why exactly she was there, telling him about her daughter's death. He had barely known the girl. "I'm so sorry." He accidently made it sound like a question.

The woman was silent, and he did feel sympathetic toward her even in his confusion. Searching his mind for something to say, he found nothing. Alcohol always impaired his usual eloquence.

"I know a lot of people who die," He offered, but realized how unhelpful it was (although truthful).

"I'm sure of that. And I'm also sure you're probably wondering what I'm doing here."

He nodded. She extended her arms, holding out to him whatever she had been holding. It looked like a bundle of cloth.

He tentatively reached out for it, asking, "What is it?" But as soon as the question was out of his mouth, he knew the answer, saw the face. It was a small child, a toddler.

"This is your son, Marcellus."

(He had never sobered up as quickly as he did then).

"Are you sure?" It was a stupid question. He was sure the boy was his son. The blonde hair - even the face - was his.

"Completely."

"Why are you telling me this now?"

"My daughter was sick before she died. I'm sick too. He needs you to take care of him."

He looked down at the child wrapped in blankets in his arms. The little boy opened his eyes and they were the same shade of blue as his (and it was like the kid was his clone, not his son).

The woman turned and began to descend the steps. He panicked, not expecting her to leave him so suddenly.

"Wait!" She paused. "I don't know how to take of child."

"No one does at first," She told him with a small, sad smile, "You'll learn."

And he did. (With a lot of help).