Y'all wanted another one huh?

Waverly Newhart of District Thirteen, Victor of the 110th Hunger Games, 21

April 115 ADD

I must hate myself, Waverly bitterly thought as he scrolled through the programmes and shows on the holovision. Like, really hate myself.

The show, neatly named 'W. Newhart, D13. 110,' gave him more anxiety than he ever would've wanted to admit. He had lived through those Games, outlived it's other twenty-seven competitors and had the Victor's Crown hung up in his home at District Thirteen's Victor's Village to prove it. Keepers only knew that he should've found the thing a walk in the park.

Yet here he was, hesitating to click it like he did every year.

He shuddered for a moment, briefly thinking it was morally corrupt that the people of the Capitol could click on any of the past Games and relive them whenever they wanted. He supposed it was, yet here he was doing the same. So, really, how much better was he?

I'm glad Coin led us all back up to the surface, because without it, who would I be?

The thought was sardonic but it was the same one he thought annually as he eventually pressed play. It was easier to blame the nameless leader of the past, for she couldn't defend herself nor punish him. Waverly was glad that the reruns came with detailed scene pickers - it made choosing the only interesting parts to him easier and less painful. Not even the Keepers could make him rewatch his Games in their entirety. Not again.

Waverly always started with the reapings, wanting to be reintroduced to the tributes of his Games. Although it had only been five years since, he found their faces had begun to merge together if they weren't Polaris, the boy from One, Lindelle, the girl from Seven, Diego, the boy from Ten or Radian, the boy from Three. Their faces had remained crystal clear in his head, each detail being remembered. They, as his victims, got to torment him night after night. Of course, he remembered his district partner Solara, but she was someone he desperately tried to forget. He had, after all, failed to protect her. People at home had tried to tell him that he had no chance to; that the Bloodbath had been too unpredictable to even give him that possibility.

Waverly ignored them. He remembered the promise he had given her, the one that remain unkept and would do forever more. "We'll be the final two, me and you," He had said to her, knowing even then it was one he couldn't keep. He was stupid to have promised a twelve-year-old something so unachievable. "A Thirteen Victor!"

He watched the reapings lazily, old memories being pushed to the front of his mind as he looked at his former fellow tributes all alive and well. He had very happily let them fade into the clutches of time, only remembering parts of them here and there. The chariots and the interviews were much of the same; vaguely Waverly could remember the pangs of anxiety and fear, then the satisfaction when he realised the Capitol liked him. It seemed more obvious when he watched it back - the way the Master of Ceremonies, Thyone Rosaroe, clung onto his every word.

Then came the Bloodbath.

Waverly Newhart, District Thirteen, 16

Bloodbath of the 110th Hunger Games

Waverly had barely any chance to look at his stylist before the glass door closed, sealing him away from the world. The only way out, alive at least, was to outlive twenty-seven others. His stomach churned as the elevator began to slowly lift.

Synthia, his stylist, flashed him the saddest smile she could muster before turning away. If Waverly looked hard enough, he could see the tears that threatened to ruin her delicately painted face. That made everything even more real, as if the lift wasn't allowing him to rise to his likely death in the Bloodbath; apparently making an impact on a Capitolite's life had made things worse.

Sometimes he wished he didn't make friends so easily.

It took Waverly a second for his eyes to adjust to the pitch darkness. If he guessed, he was probably underneath the arena, rising through the earth before taking his place in the ring around the Cornucopia. The speed of the elevator was slow, torturing him with the knowledge of what was to come. Of course the Makers would do this, making us even more scared about our slaughter. He knew he needed to stop thinking so bitterly - it would be hard to keep his mouth shut when he won.

Waverly closed his eyes for a second, letting his mind realign itself with where he was - where he'd be. The arena. The arena where he'd fight until he won.

When his elevator stopped, Waverly expected to see the bright light of the summer day, expected to see the golden mouth of the Cornucopia and tributes to his side. He expected to see the Careers readying themselves, placing dibs on weapons that littered the Cornucopia; he expected the Outliers to want to run away as fast as they could. Instead, all he saw was the same darkness. For a moment, he looked around to see if he could see anyone else but was met with the earthen walls of dirt outside the glass container.

This had to be some sort of mistake, right?

Waverly looked up at the top of the tunnel. Where, usually, there'd be an open hole, instead he found a glass top. He chewed his lips, wondering what it meant for the Bloodbath. A faint pounding above him indicated that the timer had begun - whatever the Capitol had planned for the Bloodbath, it would begin underground, it seemed.

Maybe this is a good sign for the Games, He thought sardonically, chewing the inside of his mouth, Maybe Thirteen'll get a win.

He counted down the numbers - 15, 14, 13, 12 - and said soft, secret goodbyes. Goodbyes to his parents who he may never see again. 11. 10. 9. Goodbyes to his sisters and brothers that would only ever remember him, scarcely knowing him. 8. 7. 6. 5. Even goodbyes to those in his class, from those he barely knew to Wiren and Yva. 4. 3. 2. Waverly even said goodbye to his old self, knowing he either died in the arena or abandoned everything he thought he knew about himself.

1.

As the gong that signalled the beginning of the games sounded, the glass covering the top of the elevator opened. Unceremoniously, dirt began to pour and pile itself into his container. It felt cold to the touch, as if it were trying to freeze him in place. The intended effect had been achieved for a few seconds; Waverly had wasted some precious seconds as his body was shocked by everything that was happening. The Games, the encroaching soil, how cold it was. When his mind snapped back to survival, he thought of only one possibility. Up. I need to go up.

Shielding his face with an arm, Waverly tried to look up. Fleeting glimpses of sunlight was all he needed to begin to try and climb the pile of soil that had accumulated at his feet, shoes struggling to find a footing. He held his breath, feeling stupid on not knowing if he needed to or not. The alternative is a mouthful of dirt, He told himself. Don't want that to stop me.

The dirt was heavier than Waverly had been expecting. It pooled quicker too, as if the Gamemakers had packed the are above the tubes so tightly with dirt that it'd fall with ease. He didn't put it past them. Though he had never swum before, Waverly tried to replicate the movements he remembered watching in Capitolite movies at the Training Centre; clawing and pushing the dirt out of his face. He could feel the panic rising in his chest as he continued to push himself up, the process being arduous and hard. The warming jacket he wore seemed to have no effect, it letting the coldness of the dirt freeze his muscles from time to time, leaving him contorted.

I'm not fucking dying like this.

With more franticness in his movements, Waverly thrashed his way to the surface. He ignored jaded thoughts on how stupid he looked, instead focusing on survival and survival only.

His breath was irregular and far too shallow by the time he pulled himself out of pile of dirt. Waverly moved to put his palms on the ground, taking the brief second to catch his breath. He knew his mentor would be cursing him for indulging in such an idea but, seeing as the other tributes had faced the same ordeal, he figured he could take the chance. No sooner than his splayed fingers touched the hauntingly cold dirt, he began to feel himself sinking. He was sure the look of shock on his face said it all as he began to kick his way to the metallic platform the Cornucopia stood on.

The strangled noises of other tributes returned him to the reality of the arena; to his right, the girl from Five was struggling to keep herself up. First her foot had been dragged back under by the falling dirt, then her waist which left only her abdomen to fight for survival. To his left, the boy from Twelve tried to hoist himself up in an attempt to save himself. It was futile - he was so small Waverly was surprised he had made it up the first time - and it seemed he too recognised that; in a matter of seconds, he let his body go limp and be pulled under. If he wasn't so determined to keep the breakfast he had crammed on the hovercraft ride over, Waverly would've gladly been sick.

He had little time to think of that, however. As he looked back to the Cornucopia, he saw the other tributes that had pulled themselves successfully from the dirt make a beeline to the awaiting weapons and supplies. Careers like Polaris and Elegance from One made a quicker, more nimble beeline. Harcourt from Two had less grace than his allies but his imposing stature made up for it. Waverly saw two tributes turn and run when they saw how close they were to him. Both from Four were missing and he could see the pair from Seven climbing out of the dirt.

His legs moved better than he would've thought they could, allowing him to easily snag a small pack and the tiny, pitiful sword that led next to it. Oh well, a sword's a sword. Part of him wanted to go further into the Cornucopia so he could grab better things. He didn't need to feel the airy weight of the pack to know it had nothing truly substantial inside. The ones on the outside were usually reserved for those who had some sort of outdoors experience. Waverly, from District Thirteen that had been forcibly packed into a mega city, had no such experience.

He bit his lip as he trusted that inner voice and turned from Cornucopia, running to a sparse treeline that guarded the behind of starting area. None of the Careers had seemed to notice him - them instead making sure the two from Seven had made it out fine - which gave him ample time to set a decent pace.

Until he ran into the small boy from Three.

Ignoring the pained screams of other tributes dying to the weapons of the surviving Careers and the muffled yells of those being buried beneath dirt upon dirt, Waverly raised the sword without hesitation. He could do this; he could kill. Twenty-seven obstacles for me getting home. Let's have one less. Radian looked just as young as he had done at the reaping; the boy from Three was the youngest of them all at thirteen. His eyes had a sad quality about them, as if they were accepting of the fate that had been given to him. Waverly cursed himself mentally, looking away before glaring back at Radian. I will be seen as a threat. He closed his eyes momentarily, remembering his intentions, before bringing the sword down on his shoulder, foot kicking his body back into the dirt. With any luck, Radian would be buried alive before he succumbed to his injury.

Waverly Newhart of District Thirteen, Victor of the 110th Hunger Games, 21

April 115 ADD

Waverly still felt the panic and fear he did in the Bloodbath as he watched it back. He was silently grateful that it seemed to focus more on him as the Victor; he had fared well. Small annotations on the screen told viewers they could watch the raw, aired live versions with a few taps of the various buttons. He decided against it; he remembered how many tributes' screams had been cut short with their mouths becoming full of dirt. He remembered that President Augur had expected him to smile victoriously, acting as if he were proud he had survived what they could not when he rewatched them.

He stopped the video at the annotation informing Panem of Radian's death - about his placement of sixteenth.

"You should stop watching that."

Waverly didn't need to look behind him to know who the voice belonged to. Ahrys, his wife, was ever patient with him. She endured his terrors, his fearful relapses as he imagined he was still in the arena - she even helped him keep his sword skills sharp. Her dedication was half of the reason he married her so early at only nineteen. The other half was so he could have something warm and inviting to remember when the cold grasps of victory came clawing at him.

"I wish it was that easy," He said, embittered that he felt compelled to re-watch it again and again.

When he felt the sofa dip next to him, he instinctively moved to rest his head on Ahrys' shoulder. The rest of Panem could see him as the coldblooded, determined killer from Thirteen that'd do anything to come home; Ahrys could see what had become of the true him.

The subtle squeeze of Ahrys' arm as she wrapped it around him comforted Waverly more than he'd ever let on.

Axis Amppett of District Five, Victor of the 114th Hunger Games, 18

April 115 ADD

The Victor's Ball had been one of the biggest events of the Capitolite calendar, Axis had been told. After the Games themselves in July and August and it's Crowning and the Victory Tour in January, the Ball was a favourite. District Five's escort - and her newfound teammate - Fantasia had told her as much. This year, it would be themed after her and her District. What a 'District Five' theme would look like, Axis couldn't even guess. She imagined it would be all electrical as an homage to her District's industry.

If that were the case, mostly likely it'd look stupid. She'd said as much to Fantasia on the train ride to the Capitol from District Five, much to the escort's dismay.

"No, no, no! You'll love it!" Fantasia had said, some certainty to her voice that Axis found misplaced. "It'll be simply gorgeous! It's all to honour you, after all."

Axis tried to ignore the obvious, scathing thoughts of how fucked up the whole thing was; a ball to celebrate those who had outlived twenty-seven other children. For a while, she indulged in them and found herself angry - enraged at the Capitol for what felt like a smack in the face. Another pageant to remind all the Victors that they still owed the Capitol their lives. As the distant mountains of Two backdropped the skyline, Axis had half a mind to jump out of the train and make a life for herself out there. She supposed it wouldn't be too much unlike her arena. Sometimes she found herself missing the peaks.

Then she remembered the advice she had gotten from one of the older Victors, Ceres Walton from District Nine. The aged Victor had told her not to think too hard about it all - to save herself a lifetime full of unanswerable, painful questions and just live the lifestyle for what it was. She, after all, still had her life. Axis had found the advice poignant, mostly because she had stabbed Ceres' promising potential Victor to death just days before.

"We don't hold grudges over what our tributes do in the arena, nor what we ourselves did," Ceres had said with a sad smile when Axis showed hesitation talking to her, echoing what the Capitol presenters had called a general pessimism epidemic in District Nine. "We all know what it was like."

Even as she sat in her room in the tribute tower - her new room, the Mentor's room - Axis still shuddered at how matter-of-fact Ceres had been. To busy herself, she stood and walked to the floor-length mirror.

She looked beautiful - her stylist, Reine - had made sure of that. Axis wore a deep, emerald ballgown that hard far too much on the bottom for her to walk comfortably; so much so that she had been given two avoxes who were to lift the train from the floor to help her. Whilst her corset had some support, the skirt of the dress was near exclusively tulle, bubbling out to create a silhouette worthy of a Victor. If she indulged in some of her childlike thoughts, Axis imagined herself as the fairy in the games she and her brothers used to play when they were younger.

The details of the dress didn't stop there, though Axis had been more than impressed with the basic look of it. Neatly stitched in embroidered thread were vines and leaves that sprawled across the corset, joining at the sheer lace sleeves to emulate vines and ivy wrapping around her. To top it off, gold lace and gold metal strips encircled her head, connected by a seemingly too delicate necklace. Reine had called it a 'Medici Collar,' citing a queen from the Old World. Whatever the style was, Axis knew it made her imposing, befitting of Panem's newest Victor.

She looked in the mirror as she brought her Victor's Crown to her head, letting it rest on her straightened and styled hair. The last time she had worn it, she had debated on the morals of her win - the battle of murderer versus victor. With the ensemble together, she firmly decided she was a Victor.

The Victor of the 114th Hunger Games.

...

Keepers, Axis felt like she was being buried alive; felt like she was slowly suffocating and everyone around her, Victors and Capitolites alike, simply watched. She hadn't expected the Ball to be so suffocating. The Crowning Ball had been much easier and, arguably, she had been more of the focus then than she was now.

She had done everything that was expected of her; she had danced with President Augur, exchanged pleasantries with some of the highest of Capitolite society and she even had a lengthy discussion with Mnemosyne Tanana. Everything had been done so perfectly, yet she felt a ghostly, tightened grip around her throat. This is a test, She had thought to herself on more than one occasion, A test to see how well I'll do.

After a while of forcing herself to dance with the older Victors who's stories were beginning to fade from the public's immediate memory, she excused herself to the quieter balcony. Looking over the Capitol's skyline had been a refuge Axis had taken early on last year. It oddly reminded her of home in District Five's main city; tall towers, strict cleanliness and a sleek aesthetic that made things easy on the eyes.

"Mind if I join you?"

The voice behind Axis had made her flinch, hands instinctively going to her waist to search for a sword that wasn't there. Instead, her fingers grasped tulle. The owner of the voice, Ceres, smiled apologetically as Axis nodded, taking her own place next to her. She looked beautiful too, Axis thought to herself, like a regal Capitolite.

"You look beautiful," Ceres continued. "Reine really does know what she's doing."

Axis exhaled and smiled. Compliments that night had felt thinly veiled and insincere - Ceres' sounded genuine. "She does." Her voice was quiet, much quieter than she had meant for it to be. "She called me a queen of fire."

She didn't need to see Ceres' face to know such an adornment was dangerous - the Capitol wouldn't allow another budding Katniss Everdeen, even if the name had been given just because of her hair colour.

"Well, with your crown you certainly look like one." It was then that Axis had noticed none of the other Victor's wore their crowns or tiaras like they had done at the Crowning Ball. She supposed it was to accentuate her as the reigning Victor. "I saw you were talking to Mnemosyne. Enjoy her company?"

There was some humour in Ceres' tone, a little hint that Axis' awkward and power-heavy conversation was of the norm.

"Enjoy is a strong word," Axis said after looking around. She had learnt from older Victors to not be so careless about what was said in the Capitol. "She told me I had a hard victory and that I should be proud."

Ceres flashed her a quizzical, almost bemused look. "Oh, my dear, you have one of Ms. Tanana's nicer victories."

Axis wanted to snort. She doubted there was such a thing as a 'nicer victory' but, to indulge in conversation with the older woman, she raised an eyebrow. "Nicer?"

"Well you've made it out of the arena not too badly hurt, correct?" Ceres asked, tone indicating she was expecting an answer.

She knew what Ceres meant - not hurt physically, no, but rather mentally. Mnemosyne Tanana had a reputation for making her mark on her Victors' mental health.

"I suppose - not as badly as some of the others." Axis briefly looked around, remembering some of the stories she had since heard of her fellow Victors. A silence lingered, heavy in the air between the two Victors. "Do you really think mine was nice?"

Ceres hummed knowingly. "Shimmer Edenrose is one of the only of her Games who didn't rip their own eyeballs out - the 106th was a terribly ghastly year. Camelot Chella from Six won the year after; his Games built on that and saw self-mutilation as a survival tactic. He chose to lose his left hand. And then, of course -"

Axis watched as Ceres' eyes wandered behind them through the glass doors and landed on Thirteen's only Victor, Waverly Newhart. He danced with a pretty, slender woman that Axis had remembered was his wife.

"- Waverly of the 110th began his Games by being buried alive. Well, I'm sure you watched the Games and don't need me to go into the details of how harrowing that Bloodbath was but yes, my dear, you have one of her nicer victories."

There was a sincerity in Ceres' voice, one that seemed to beg Axis to take solace in that fact. Had it not been for the only interaction she had with the first victor of the restarted Hunger Games, the Mother of the Modern Games herself, she may have believed her. Instead, Aglaia Edenrose had told her that it was either brutality in the arena and an easy life after, or an easy arena and brutality after.

Axis had decided she belonged firmly to the latter and had waited on bated breath for how she'd be punished further.

Another prologue!

This time, we meet Waverly who's been a brainchild of mine for a while. Originally a submission for a SYOT I never ended up sending him to, I decided to give him more life here. We also see some more of Axis, particularly as she comes to terms with some of the other aspects of being a Victor.

Since this is set in the same universe as my other fic (go check it out!), an Edenrose sneak or two were needed.

This fic is still open for tributes! Please check my profile for the current submissions and interests!