cw: mention of cannibalism in the second section, nothing graphic or described though

Constantine Athanasios

Victor of the 70th Hunger Games

He/Him

Though he would rather not admit it, something about the Capitol laboratory doesn't quite feel like home.

He'd done everything he could to remedy this - had arranged his furniture a different way, had organized his notes in drawers that the President hadn't provided for him, had changed which way the statues were facing. But nothing was quite like the laboratory he and Anansi had begun in. Nothing was quite right.

Maybe it's Anansi's absence making him this way, nostalgic and displaced. He knows he's never been very good at handling things without him. Knows that memories start surfacing without the safety net of his lover's amnesia.

Or maybe it's the Reapings being tomorrow hanging over his head, his very own sword of Damocles. Maybe it's the knowledge that soon enough, he'll be responsible for the ruin of twenty-four more lives -

(as if four hadn't been enough for him)

- all at the command of the man who had ruined his. Maybe it's the guilt finally getting to him, wrapping its cold tendrils around his heart, and maybe Constantine finally understands what it's like to feel something so human.

But that'd be ridiculous.

The Reapings tomorrow are here to set him free, and he knows it. That's why he'd begun in the first place, collaborating with the enemy and selling his soul to the Capitol - it was to find his freedom, to find power amidst the storm of his life. To become the director of a new tragedy, in hopes that it would erase his own.

The Reapings tomorrow will be a salvation. It's as simple as that.

A noise startles him out of his thoughts - his phone is ringing, blinking a little red light. He picks up, and Anansi's voice fills the speakers of his laboratory.

(Constantine relaxes, just a bit, at the familiarity.)

"Con, hi!" His boyfriend greets him, warm as sunlight like always. "How are you holding up?"

Constantine allows himself a small smile. Despite Anansi being the one who is halfway across the country now, missing out on his grand premier, he asks him if he's alright. He's not sure what he's done to earn such compassion, but he accepts it gladly. "I'm doing alright, thank you," he responds, making sure not to sound as cold as he does with his Capitolite staff. "I do miss you. But I expect you have more to complain about than me."

"Nah, you're the one who has to do all that work without my wonderful mind," Anansi chuckles. "You've got the short end of the stick."

(Constantine knows it's one of his many jokes, but it still rings true.

How is he supposed to give Panem the show of its lifetime without his muse? It doesn't make sense, and neither does his plans when he re-reads them in the evening with a glass of bourbon in hand.

When Anansi was there, he could sort through Constantine's madness, find the potential in his frantic scribbles and nonsensical blueprints.

Now, there was no one.)

But Constantine would rather not share those insecurities with Anansi. His love had enough on his plate, and he didn't need Constantine's forlorn longings on top of it all. After all, Anansi seems to handle the distance without any difficulty, his usual grin plastered on his face, so why can't he?

(Because there was always something missing from Constantine's mind, a piece of the puzzle that had been lost in the arena. Maybe it'd been destroyed alongside the bones in his left leg, or maybe it simply disappeared when he'd decided that his life would always matter more than anyone else's.)

"I suppose I did," Constantine only says, hoping to change the subject. "In other news, do you have any ideas on how you'll mentor your tributes? I know you've never had mentoring duty before."

There's a small beat of silence, and then Anansi speaks up again, though his voice is softer, more vulnerable. "Well, how did you get me out alive?"

(The answer is known all-too-well by the both of them:

Constantine had fixed him, made him better, the most prolific killing machine the world had ever seen. A prototype worthy of the Capitol's arsenal.)

Sensing that Constantine isn't going to answer, Anansi continues. "I mean, we all know what you did. Shit, I even helped you with those plans. No, I'm asking if there's any advice you'd given me."

The rest of his sentence is unspoken - any advice other than search and destroy. But, of course, Anansi can't remember that Constantine had been hopeless when it came to guiding him through the Games, because he'd begged him to fry his memory to a crisp, and his emotions along with it.

"I don't know, Anansi," he finally says, and his voice breaks a little at the third word. "I don't know what it takes to win."

Another moment of silence follows his admission, this time thick with an emotion Constantine would rather not acknowledge. "That's okay, babe," Anansi responds, carefully, but gently. "You don't have to. Listen - who cares about kids from Three? There's a reason we left that place, for fuck's sake. We don't have to win this year. We've done enough of that this past decade."

"Yeah. You're right." Constantine knows that Anansi's trying to reassure him, but for the first time in many years, it falls flat when confronted by his realization - he has no idea how he managed to get out alive. He remembers every action that'd led him out of the arena and into a victor's throne, unlike Anansi, but he doesn't understand how he'd earned the seat, how it had been him and not the beast from Two that'd shattered his leg or the brave girl from Ten who'd stood up strong against his knife."Anyways. I hope your day goes well, I'm afraid I have to go for now. Finishing touches for the arena and all."

It's not true, of course, Constantine's deadline was two weeks ago, but he can't listen to Anansi ask him questions he cannot answer and face the fact that neither of them should still be standing here, alive and breathing. That Constantine was one of the weaker tributes of his Games and that Anansi couldn't have even gotten past the Bloodbath had he not been turned into something better.

Anansi catches the hint, of course, caring in all the ways Constantine could never be. "Shit, yeah. I'll leave you to work on that, see you on the other side!"

Constantine mumbles a farewell in return, and then the call ends, leaving him alone in his palace of metal spires, sterile white and marbled tiles.

He should go to bed.

It'll be a long day tomorrow.

As it turns out, the night doesn't offer Constantine any additional comfort. Curled in his bed, even wealthier than the one he used to sleep in back home, satin sheets and pristine pillows strewn about, he can't get his mind to quiet down.

He stares at the ceiling, where some chandelier costing more than his entire victory salary hangs, listening to himself breathe -

(did you know an adult breathes an average of 12-20 breaths per minute?)

- wondering how it would feel to have those numbers dwindle. Wondering how he will feel watching those numbers dwindle through some screen and knowing it'll be once again his fault.

(But oh, at least this time he'll be the one on the other side of the screen, instead of diving a knife into someone's thoracic cavity and listening to it squelch.

At least he'll be on the side of the ones playing God, this time. At least he'll be the ringleader and not a terrified animal hoping to give a good show.)

…

He's not going to fall asleep like this and he knows it.

Fueled by the frustration of tossing and turning for hours on end, he gets out of bed a little brusquely, and lands roughly on his left leg. A flash of pain crawls up his muscles and he grunts in pain. It's funny, he supposes, that he'd been able to turn a human into a living weapon but had never been able to completely fix his leg. It's the smaller things that are harder, it seems.

Limping a bit, he reaches for his cane and makes his wait out of his room, looking for fresh air that could clear his mind. He still hasn't grown completely used to living in the Heart of Panem, but he remembers the mansion having a balcony nearby overlooking the Capitol streets.

He ventures into the hallways populated with paintings and statues from the old world. The moonlight filters through the windows, half covered by velvet curtains. He'd thought he'd seen the height of luxury when he'd moved into his Victor's house, but his new residence made him realize that he'd only seen the tip of the iceberg.

Finally, he finds the spot he was looking for - a stone balcony with an artful view on the city down below. But as he enters, he realizes that someone else is already there, the soft amber glow of their cigarette giving them away.

He tries to turn back as quietly as he came, but too late: "Con! It's nice seeing you here. Care to join me?" Sol Zolotov's voice is amused, like always, as if she knew something others did not.

Truth be told, out of the numerous people who live in the Heart, Sol's company is one of the least disagreeable, and he'd also rather not anger the Vice President so close to the Games. "Well, why not." He smiles quickly, and steps onto the balcony to join her.

"Want a smoke?" she asks, offering him her cigarette.

Constantine shakes his head. "No, thank you." Unlike Sol, who takes great pleasure in maintaining a collection of vices, he's never been one to ruin his body simply for the feeling it gives.

(Truth be told, he's far more interested in fixing it.)

Sol grins and puts it back to her lips, the tip flaring up with color as she draws a puff. "More for me."

"May I ask what you're doing out tonight?" He asks her, though he's not entirely surprised to see her out at this hour. He's not quite sure if the man even sleeps, or if she keeps herself awake with angel dust or maybe sheer will alone.

Sol just shrugs, light and graceful in all her gestures. "Oh, you know. Observing the city. It does look beautiful at this hour, doesn't it?"

Constantine takes a minute to take in the sight before him - blinking neon lights and the stream of cars driving through illuminated streets. It looks a bit like Three, except the sound of laughter and partying floats up to them occasionally. He nods in quiet agreement.

"Tomorrow's your big break, isn't it?" Sol asks after a small pause.

"Yes. I suppose you can call it that."

(Though it's not quite complete without Anansi, is it?

Nothing ever is.)

Sol takes another drag and lets a swirl of smoke escape her lips. "Nervous?"

He's not sure if nervous is exactly the word for what he's been feeling. That word has a jittery connotation, one of a child before an exam. No, what he feels is anticipation, creeping into his mind and keeping him awake, on high alert. What he feels is the knowledge that tomorrow his plan to become the artist of destruction and not the canvas will finally be underway.

When Constantine doesn't answer, Sol laughs softly. "You know. When my brother got arrested, I wondered to myself if my bloodline was just fucked up. If the hunger was hereditary, and I was bound to end up the same way. I don't think so, though. I think we just got used to the taste."

After being in the Capitol for a decade now, Constantine knows what she's talking about. The Zolotov family has been plagued with the legacy of their eldest son for years now - a serial killer who had eaten its victims, and then shortly executed upon getting caught. He also knows Sol's rise to success hasn't been easy now that her family name was synonymous with death, and that no one dared to speak of her brother around her.

"I'm probably not making sense," Sol says, and he swears he can hear her voice break imperceptibly. "What I'm trying to say is that I don't blame you for being a Gamemaker. For continuing the tradition that almost killed you. That when something terrible happens, it changes a person, transforms what they long for."

Constantine frowns, and he opens his mouth to respond, but Sol cuts him off. "I'm probably not making the best comparison," she chuckles. "I don't hunger for flesh or anything like what my brother dearest liked indulging in. But you know… hunger for other things. Power. Drugs. Control. Whatever. I'm sorry." Sol shakes her head, and Constantine can see her eyes shine bright with tears in the city lights. He's never seen her so fragile. "I don't know what I'm saying."

"It's alright," he assures her, but his tone lacks warmth. He knows that comfort is not one of his many talents, but it doesn't hurt to try. "I think I understand what you mean."

(That whatever flaws plagues them both are a result of what was inflicted on them, instead of something inherited, something obtained at birth.

That their life is to blame and not whatever genetics lay in their cells.

It's a comforting thought, but Constantine doesn't remember a day when he wasn't this way.)

(Or maybe he doesn't remember a day before his Games.)

Sol smiles, but it's weak and her expression wavers. "That's kind of you to say, Con." She inhales deeply, and seems to regain that characterial god-like composure. "You'll make a great Games, I promise. And if you need anyone's advice, well, I'm available."

With that, she steps out of the balcony and enters the main hallway, disappearing into the moon-dappled corridors.

Constantine would like to believe in what she told him, and maybe it's true for her. Maybe whatever ambition fuels her and whatever she inhales at parties is simply a way for her to forget whatever she must've been witness to in her family.

But he's not sure that it's true for him.

–

Constantine is freshly eighteen, trembling in the corner of a room, scalpel in his hands clenched so hard his knuckles turn white.

He knows that there's only eight people left, including him, that by now the Capitol must be sending out cameras to interview his parents and ask them if they think he'll be coming out of this alive.

He also knows that they must have no hope for him left anymore, not after seeing him cower for days on end while far more ferocious tributes slaughtered each other. He barely has any hope left for himself, so how can they?

He keeps his eyes on the door, and the clock above it. The hands tick their way around, slowly, forcing Constantine to calm his breathing, using them as a metronome for his heart. The hours pass, but he's not sure how many days have. He's not sure if it really matters.

When the girl from Ten enters the room, it takes all of his willpower not to vomit, fear spiking through his entire body. He can't die now, he can't die without going back to Anansi, without accomplishing his project, without creating something to be proud of.

He can't die now because he was not made to die he was made to thrive he was made to survive anything he was made to live he was made to live and there's only one way of accomplishing that -

He hardly notices himself rising to his feets before he launches himself at the girl and digs his blade into her stomach. She makes a noise, tries clawing him off with the desperation of a wounded animal but he stays firm, stays strong until she stops squirming.

And then it's over. A cannon fires, and there's now blood all sticky on his hands, but nothing else proves that something changed.

Did her life really matter so little, in their isolated arena where everything was permitted. Did her life really amount to nothing.

Would there be nothing to prove that he was gone if he died?

Would there be nothing?

In the end, the fear of becoming nothing wins over the fear of pain that had kept him hidden in that corner for so long. In the end, the fear of disappearing turns him into an animal like the others, hunting for lives with a weapon in his hands.

It'd taken him longer than the ones who'd taken lives in the Bloodbath, but he got there eventually. All it took was for him to see death to know that he did not want to end up that way.

Her body had twitched as her heartbeat stopped, a streak of blood and saliva dripping down her chin. A disgusting sight, something primitive and broken and not right.

Constantine did not enjoy the view of a broken body. Did not enjoy seeing how fragile it really is, despite it being the species that had won over its planet years ago. Did not enjoy how he could easily crush it, him, some weak and stupid teenager desperate enough.

He did not want to see his body fail him that way.

It's with that thought in mind that he found another, and another child to slaughter. It's with that thought in mind that he watches the life fade away from them, his own doing, and reminds himself that that's exactly what he'll become, some flesh puppet with its string cut, if he doesn't fight his way out of here.

And so the time passes, this time with no steady beats of the clock to guide him. And so the numbers dwindle, a cannon at a time, until it's only him and the boy from Two left. A trained killer and a terrified boy, who wins?

It's a simple story, really. After an hour that feels interminable of searching for the other, they bump into each other turning a corner. Two acts first, bounding at him like a feline, pushing him to the floor. Constantine's world goes flying and his head crashes down with a flare of pain.

What's worse comes after - Two brings down his mace on his left leg, once, twice, thrice, until his bones can't be told apart anymore. Constantine screamed and screamed, but in the chaos, he still lodged his scalpel in Two's neck.

And so he was declared the Victor of the 70th Hunger Games, laying on the floor with his leg bent at an angle that should not exist, his body ruined forever.

But still alive.

Still alive.

–

Constantine awakes in a cold sweat, and despite the sun's position in the sky showing that he's slept, feeling less rested than he thought was possible. His leg aches, uncomfortable but not unmanageable. He most likely slept in a position that strained it. He'll swallow some pain pills and his day will be fine.

His day will be fine because he'll finally be the master of his fate, finally be the one rolling the dice, finally be the one in control. His day will be fine because he can function without Anansi, function without his other half. His day will be fine because it has to be.

The Reapings begin at ten, and judging from his quick glance at his watch, it's only eight. He has two hours to prepare, then. Dress in his finest clothes, worthy of the Capitol he now belongs to, pour himself a glass of water and take a seat in front of the television in his laboratory.

He'll then sip carefully from his glass, as if meditating some acute wisdom, as children line up on his screen to meet their fates. An assistant will sit next to him, taking notes at everything he says, ready to do immediate research on whatever unlucky soul is picked from the bowl.

Then, Laurent will most likely come and visit him, some stupid smile hanging off his lips and a half-baked threat at his disposal.

(As if Constantine was going to chicken out now. As if a man as pathetic as Laurent could scare him, who'd survived things Laurent couldn't even imagine.

As if Constantine would give up on his dream to reclaim those things and finally become the maestro.)

He knows it all by heart, he'd observed the previous Gamemaker's process the year before. Perhaps she wasn't the best example to follow, considering her two brilliant ideas (the firearm Games of the 75th and the lack of weapons in the 79th) are universally known as failures and had earned her an execution via firing squad a few months back. But every Gamemaker followed this procedure, more or less.

It could almost feel like a normal day for him.

Half-heartedly, he eats breakfast by spreading some luxury jam onto a piece of toast, washes his face, does his hair. He most likely won't be appearing on television today, but just in case, he applies some makeup to assure the dark circles under his eyes disappear.

No one needs to know that the Doctor Athansios doesn't sleep. Then rumors of guilt and regret would start circulating, and the last thing he needs is for those fears to be acknowledged by the general public.

He dons a suit that the Capitol had bought for him years ago. Something impersonal, something he would never actually wear on a date with Anansi or anything else unique to him. He forgoes his usual earrings or rings, too. He doesn't need to look like himself today.

He simply needs to get his job done.

Someone knocks on his door, and peeks her head through it. It's Nicosia, his assistant, ready to begin the preparation process. She smiles, bright and serviable. "Whenever you're ready, Doctor Athanasios."

Usually, he'd assure her that "just Constantine is fine", but maybe it's best to keep a degree of separation for this part of his career. Instead, he nods politely. "I'll be out in a second."

He takes one final look at his phone, and sees a message in his inbox.

It's from Anansi, most likely the last message they'll be able to send each other before the Reapings begin and they'll have to cut contact to prevent any bias in mentoring.

Constantine almost expects it to be a heart-wrenched thing, but in Anansi's fashion, it's just a cheeky encouragement:

Give 'em hell, Con.

That he will.

Yeahhh sorry for all that homosexuality. Um otherwise we basically have a full cast and intros r next so fuck yeah!

Q: based on blog who r u most excited to meet

Fanks thats all