A/N I'm not used to doing trigger warnings, so I'm not sure if I'm doing this right. But this chapter does feature a Victor coping with PTSD, and The Capitol trying to aggravate it. Also some swearing.

On a side note, thank you for everyone who submitted tributes so far. Only 11M and both from 12 don't have a reservation at the moment.

Officially, Caesar Flickerman only had two jobs to do during the Hunger Games. He interviewed the Tributes the night before the Games, and he interviewed the Victor after the games. It was a running gag on late night talk shows that Caesar became one of the wealthiest people in the Capitol working two nights a year. It was a tired joke, one not even the most dismissive and cynical Capitolite could take seriously.

Caesar, personally, had a certain amount of fondness for those jokes. It took him back to the beginning, when he was a young man struggling to fill his uncle's shoes after Lucky Flickerman died from a morphling overdose. Days when he had the eyes of the entire nation, waiting to see if he would fall the same way. Mountains of pressure, with everything on the line. He had two jobs and no real power. Nothing but his charm, wits and desire to prove himself. He never felt more alive.

Of course, times had changed. His role had expanded. He was the "Face of the Hunger Games" the one sought out for interviews and commentary on everything from the Reapings to fashion choices on the arena outfits. Behind the scenes, his status as the one reliable face among a sea of backstabbing and jockeying for position led him to taking a sort of parental role among the new stylists, escorts and the like.

It was good work. Fulfilling work. Work that needed to be done to ensure the Hunger Games, and thus, the nation functioned.

But for Caesar, those two jobs were the highlight of his year. Those two nights. Interviewing the Tributes Before and the Victor After. Those were the nights he lived for. Giving each tribute the best possible introduction to the Capitol and welcoming the Victor into the fold.

So, as he sat in front of the crowd, mildly roasting public figures who were out of favor, Caesar felt his heart beating as wildly as it had so long ago.

Time to transition to the main event.

"But enough of that. We all know you're not attending to see my tired old face."

The crowd tittered, as expected. Some protested, shaking their heads and shouting their love for him. But Caesar saw it. The shift in the audience. People leaning forwards, side conversations drying up. The attention of everyone in the massive theater drawn towards the stage. Towards Caesar. Anticipating his companion.

Caesar held the crowd for just a second. Enough to let the sound die down, the tension rise. Then, with a snap, he gave them his trademark grin.

"So why don't we invite our guest of honor in, already? Citizens of Panem, I give you your Victor of the Seventy Fourth Games: Cato Gunnerson."

The loudest thing in Panem wasn't the sound of the cannon, the roar of a hovercraft, or the blast of the bomb that Destroyed District Thirteen. It was the sheer wall of sound as the Capitol welcomed its newest Victor.

Cato met the crowd's greeting with a grin and a slow wave. District Two didn't have the reputation One did for stage training their tributes, but Cato clearly knew what he was doing as he sauntered to the stage. The bad boy who cut through seven tributes didn't flinch like outer district Victors tended to. He owned the stage as he reached the seats.

Caesar nodded and smiled warmly to the newest Victor as he approached. Decades of interviewing Victors had taught him how overwhelming the end of the Games and the response of the Capitol could be. It was his job to make the transition from Tribute to Victor as smooth and painless as possible.

At least in a normal year…

This year, Caesar had a mandate from up above. That their new victor had become withdrawn and morose following the games. The flames of rage and hatred that had captivated the Capitol were gone.

It was Caesar's job to reignite those flames.

As Cato flung himself into the chair, the crowd continued to cheer. It usually took a bit of time for them to calm down enough for the interview to start. Caesar liked to take the moment to observe the Victor, and how they were holding up. Up close, Caesar saw Cato had layers of makeup coating his face, a style Caesar only saw on Victors when the stylists were trying to cover up bruises or dark circles under the eyes. Cato took a drink from the exquisite crystal glasses kept within easy reach, and Caesar could see the tightness of the muscles at his throat. Caesar tried to catch his eye and give a comforting smile, but Cato's gaze darted away.

So, Seneca was right about him. That was troubling.

Finally, the audience settled down to a dull roar. Caesar once again flashed his trademark grin to the crowd. "How's that for a hero's welcome?"

Cato gave a humorless chuckle. "Sure was… something." The audience echoed his laughter, magnifying a simple remark into a roaring joke.

Caesar continued. "I only hope our welcome matched the enthusiasm of District Two. Two Victors in three years." Cato shifted slightly but didn't respond. "So, how did your mentors bring you into the fold?"

At least that elicited a genuine snort. "The first thing Brutus said to me was I didn't break his kill record like I promised. Lyme reminded him it's only the last one that matters."

Good. Both Cato and the crowd was engaging with him. Caesar knew what he needed to do next, even as a pit fell into his stomach. "Well, we all know how proud he is of that record. Still. Seven kills. That's impressive by any standard."

Cato's mouth tightened into a thin line. "I know."

"And not just any kills. Such brutality." Cato's expression was frozen on his face. His gaze shifted away from Caesar, resting on a slightly scuffed spot on the stage. "It seemed to give you an edge, even against your former allies in the end. Was it hard fighting Marvel after working alongside him for the entire Games?"

"Not really. It was me or him." He answered dully.

Caesar forced himself to press on. "It wasn't just your allies you needed to deal with, though. The tributes from Twelve made quite a splash before the games, and you cut through them-'

"Yeah. I did." Cato was starting to breathe more heavily.

Caesar's instincts screamed for him to back off. Let the topic go and come back to the Twelves from a different angle, if at all. Talk about something easier and show them Cato's humanity. Avoid hurting him more than the Games already had. He was familiar with Cato's home life, his unpleasable family. He knew which topics to avoid.

But that wasn't what the Head Gamemaker wanted. And it wasn't what the President wanted.

So Caesar continued, leaning in. "It was completely unprecedented. The parade, their scores, the confession."

"Yeah, well look what good it did them." Cato's replies were getting louder, faster. "They're dead, and I'm not."

"It isn't often that District Two is the one with something to prove."

"That's-"

"The underdog."

"Bullshit! I was-"

"Were you intimidated?"

"Of those hicks?!"

"But you showed them."

Cato rocked slightly in his seat. "I did." He growled.

Distantly, Caesar could hear the hush of the audience. They were being drawn into the show, just as Caesar meant them to be. But he kept his focus on Cato. "When you met the girl, the special one, the one who outshined you at every turn-"

"I KILLED HER!"

Smash.

Glass shards scattered all over the stage. Cato lurched to his feet. His breaths were heavy, his eyes wild. "I FUCKING KILLED THAT BITCH! AND HER LAPDOG! I KILLED ALL OF THEM!"

He stumbled forwards. Advancing on Caesar.

"IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT TO HEAR?!"

Caesar was frozen. This was what the Head Gamemaker had wanted. For him to provoke Cato. But now, face to face with him, Caesar was aware for the first time how much Cato toward over him. How his muscles still burgled under his fine suit.

How easy it would be for Cato to snap his neck the way he did the girl from Twelve.

Then, the moment broke. Cato was suddenly swarmed by Peacekeepers who Caesar hadn't even seen advancing. Several grabbed him by the arms as one snuck up behind him and stabbed a syringe into his neck. Cato's struggle ceased, and they dragged him off the stage.

Caesar was left behind, heart pounding harder than it ever had been in his entire life. How close was Cato to attacking him? What would have happened if he had?

Would the guards save him, or would they have watched him die?

Caesar glanced back towards the crowd. In the decades Caesar had worked, he had never heard them so quiet. Distantly, he saw people in the front rows staring in shock. A little girl with glitter in her hair crying him the arms of her parents.

But it wasn't them Caesar needed to look to at the moment. His gaze rose to the highest point. The Presidential Box.

There was Snow, with his chosen retainers. This night, Caesar saw mostly Gamemakers sitting with him. There was Plutarch Heavensbee, the Assistant Head Gamemaker, whispering furiously to his partner Flavia. Iresse and Violette Crane, the Head Gamemaker's nieces, staring at the stage in shock and horror. Irisse in particular as the new Head of Tribute Affairs, looked like she was the one staring death in the face.

Then there was the Head Gamemaker himself. He was smiling.

It was a grin that told Caesar that everything that just happened was right according to his plans. Maybe better than his plans. Caesar had been told to reignite Cato's fire, and Cato had to be dragged off-stage not even five minutes in. It was a spectacle, and if there was one thing Caesar knew about Seneca Crane, he loved a good spectacle.

Finally, Caesar couldn't avoid it anymore. He looked towards the President himself.

President Snow's face was impassive. He surveyed the scene completely dispassionately, as if it was a play or movie he was about to decide the fate of.

Then, a nod and a quick wave of the hand. A sign to go ahead.

Caesar allowed himself a small sigh of relief before turning back to the audience.

"Cato Gunnerson, everyone!"

At that, the tension was broken, the crowd cheered and clapped like normal. Like Caesar hadn't had a killer screaming inches from his face a moment before.

Caesar was nothing if not a professional. He said a few words about their newest Victor's enthusiasm, then (again, looking to Snow for permission), moved to leave the stage.

It certainly wasn't the end of Caesar's day. He had barely left before he had reporters in his face, demanding interviews and commentary on the events that just transpired. But for once, Caesar responded with a brief smile and a request to contact his handler later. His stepped briskly, not running but close enough. Finally, he reached his private green room, and locked the door.

There was a mirror opposite the entrance. Caesar looked into it. He saw dyed hair, expensive flashing suit, and a face that had been so altered by cosmetics and surgery it no longer resembled the face he was born with.

Caesar had always been loyal. Had done everything he'd been asked to do. Said the right things, promoted the right tributes. He had influence, perhaps more influence over the public than anyone outside of Snow himself. And he had used it for the good of the Capitol. Because he'd seen what happened to people like his uncle who didn't.

For a few moments, he thought none of it was going to matter. He would have done everything right and still ended up as dead as his uncle. As the girl from Twelve. As every Tribute he'd interviewed who didn't come back.

In a few minutes he'd go back out. Give Panem his trademark smile. Work to schedule a makeup interview with the new Victor (sedated this time, of course.)

Tell himself everything he had done was necessary for a safe Panem. Try to convince himself he believed it.

And above all, forget that in the place that craved excitement and novelty, even the Face of the Games could be disposed of.

But now, all Caesar could do was sink to the floor and sob.