.

iii. aftershocks
✦ ✧ ✦
consequences of a significant and usually unpleasant event


raptor voinov
eighteen / / victor of the ninety-ninth games

These days, there's a lot for him to be uncertain about.

As it turns out, having an identity crisis after killing six people isn't something that can be over and done with in two months. No, Raptor still has no clue what he's supposed to do with this fucked-up life of his, and none of the options are very appealing.

He tried drawing. Eirian was good at that, but he also had all ten of his fingers. With one hand and two other fingers forged from steel, it was very likely that Raptor would do a piss poor job, but he was even worse at it than he expected. Only having one working eye also probably didn't help.

Everybody he sees tells him that he's "special," and he wishes he could say he has no idea what they're talking about. But yes, that is the correct word to describe somebody who swan dove off a building for basically no reason. He just wishes it wasn't an excuse for doctors to check up on him twice a week.

He should be grateful that he's alive, but honestly being asked "How is our special and handsome boy?" is a fate worse than death.

"He's fine," Raptor says. "Any idea when you're going to take this stupid helmet off me?"

Because yes, he still has the neon green cap all but glued to his head, so he doesn't accidentally mess up with his stitches and make his brain pour out of skull, not that that's how it works. Yes, that's right — Raptor's learned a little bit about anatomy. He figured it's a good idea to know about all the ways he beat himself up and why it's a miracle he somehow didn't die.

(Being concussed sort of makes learning hard.)

(Whatever.)

"That's what I came here to do, actually," the doctor responds. Jeez, why doesn't anybody tell Raptor anything? All he can ever do is sit around and brood in his mansion and wonder where it all went wrong when his mom was raising him. Sometimes his dad comes around but it's always damn awkward with him — what's Raptor supposed to say to the guy who could've tried way harder to give a shit about him growing up? Yeah, yeah, Mom cut off all communication and burned his letters, but there has to have been more he could've done.

It honestly doesn't matter — Raptor's just sick and tired of being treated like a glass doll. When does he get to have a life again?

(Did he ever even have one in the first place?)

The doctor wraps her hands around Raptor's helmet and fiddles with a few mechanisms. As she pulls, it feels like he's a suction cup being removed from a wall, the pressure around his temples getting stronger and stronger until pop! he no longer feels anything.

The doctor proudly displays the helmet in front of him like she's some sort of a magician."It's gone."

"Yeah, I noticed."

"Go ahead and check yourself out in the mirror. I want you to see the scar."

A strange request, but Raptor obliges, ambling away from his kitchen table and tip-toeing through his house until he gets to the bathroom. He's still getting used to his prosthetics, but he manages to open the door with his less fucked-up left hand then shoves himself into the room. He hits the light switch with his elbow then turns around in the mirror to — "Holy shit?"

Really embarrassing how Raptor spent two whole months with that fucking helmet on his head, but it just now occurred to him that he hardly has any hair on his head. Like obviously they shaved his head before they did fucking brain surgery, obviously.

Even though some of his hair has grown back, Raptor can still see a thick brown scar curving over the left side of his head and down to his nape. His stitches may be completely blended into his skin, but there's still light markings from where they were. It's so stunningly clear that he's broken when he looks like this, and that any attempts to repair him won't achieve their desired purposes. Raptor can't even find it in himself to admit that the scar is sorta cool.

He makes his way back to where he was, then sighs at the doctor. "It sure is a scar; I'll give you that."

"The surgeons in the Capitol did the best they could considering you were such a tough—"

"I know!" Raptor shouts, waving his metal hand in the air. "I was so difficult to take care of and it's such a miracle that I'm alive. I've heard it a hundred thousand times. I get it — I fucked up real bad." She gives him a disgruntled expression which only makes him more angry. "You don't need to coddle me. I'm eighteen and a half years old."

"But you live alone and that's concerning because—"

"Do I look like I'm in danger? I hardly ever do anything!" He wants to tear off one of his prosthetic fingers but he knows he can't. Like physically, he's incapable of doing it. "None of you doctors seem to even care about me. What's it matter to you if I die — which I don't want to do, for the record? What are you even gaining by me being alive?"

"It's our job, sir. We need—"

"To leave me the fuck alone. I just wanted my helmet off and now that's happened; thank you so much. Don't bother coming around and harassing me until it's time for the reaping — I'll go to that and I'll go to the Capitol and try, to the best of my abilities, to make sure the next kids from here don't fuck up the way I did."

Raptor taps his foot aggressively, snarls escaping his lips like he's a dog bound by a muzzle. Like a hunter, he stares down the doctor as she gathers all her stuff, then points to the front door. When she steps outside, Raptor sneers, "That's what I thought."

The door clicks and Raptor's posture immediately loosens, his entire body now filled with aching pain and mounting dread. This isn't a new thing. He takes deep breaths, tries to inhale his problems and exhale solutions, but the world around him spins. Hot tears run down his face as he trips over his own feet, eventually coming in contact with the back of his sofa and forcing him to fall down to the floor.

He puts his head in his hands and wordlessly screams.

There really isn't any hope for me, now is there?

"What do you mean, I'm not mentoring?"

Raptor sits across the stark white coffee table from Vito in the older victor's living room. It's identical to Raptor's, tall gray walls and a silver chandelier in the center of a plush navy couch and two maroon leather chairs, only it looks more lived in.

"I mean exactly what I just said." Vito awkwardly scratches behind his neck. "They're not letting you mentor for the Quell. Honestly, I thought you'd be happy with—"

"I'm thrilled," Raptor deadpans. He leans over and butters a scone, not making eye contact with Vito because then it means he'll have to talk more. Once again, he doesn't know what he's supposed to say. Is it a good thing that he's not going to be vaguely responsible for another person's life? Probably, but it still stings.

"It's not personal," Vito says, preparing a scone for himself as well. "We never let new victors be responsible for one kid all by themself in their first year. You'll just be shadowing me and… I believe also Enobaria, but don't quote me on that. It wasn't even supposed to be my year, but Petra said she's too emotionally invested in one of the potential cadets and it'd probably be wise of somebody else to take her place, so I'm back again."

"Wait, it's not personal?" Raptor blinks in disbelief. "I thought I couldn't mentor because I'm so…" He takes a bite of his scone, struggles to find the word, and ultimately just gives up "… me?"

"You don't need somebody else to tell you that you're different. I know you feel like it, but I promise this is just how things are done around here."

"You're right. I don't want to hear that."

He lets his singular eye wander around, tracing the scar across Vito's nose from one cheek to the other. It's no secret that Vito did that to himself, just a few minutes after gouging out his own brother's eyes. He later went on to say that he was trying to hurt himself and thought he was staring into a mirror. It's the kind of behavior Raptor sees the worst parts of himself in.

(Vito once said he felt the same way during Raptor's arena escapades, and he didn't know what to say after that.)

He whispers, "Vito?"

The other boy takes a small nibble of food, then tilts his head upward. "Yes?"

Raptor sighs, already regretting the words that are about to leave his mouth. "How did you make it so people stopped being so afraid of you?"

He swears Vito starts to shake, like a tiny piece of his soul is cracking after he's clearly spent so long trying to glue himself together. Raptor knows that the two of them have wildly different scenarios despite going down similar dark paths during their respective Games. People always liked Vito — Raptor can't say the same about himself.

"I don't think I ever did," he admits to Raptor. "I still get looks when I go out in public sometimes."

"But that's just some people. With me, everybody always acts like they're walking in a minefield."

"It's only been two months since you came back. It's hard for them to forget all that you did so quickly."

"Will they ever forget?"

Raptor already knows the answer to that; they won't. He killed his own District partner ( h̶i̶s̶ b̶e̶s̶t̶ ̶f̶r̶i̶e̶n̶d̶) in cold blood and then went on a murderous rampage. He destroyed himself and couldn't even give Two a worthwhile moment of victory. He's the exact opposite of what people here want when they think of a victor, and every moment Raptor exists is a reminder of that.

Vito lies against his couch then yawns. "Raptor, you don't want me to lie to you."

"I don't."

"I think though, that you need to work on finding closure despite what people think."

He's right — since when has Raptor even cared what people thought of him in the first place?

(He's always cared.)

"How do you suggest I do that?" Again, he refuses to make eye contact. Raptor already knows the answer.

"Maybe you should reach out to Berengar's family?"

That doesn't mean he wants to hear it.

He tenses his jaw and sharpens his eyebrows. "Why would I do that?" Raptor feels around the chair behind him, trying to find a pillow or something else he can throw. "He ruined my life, Vito. You saw it!"

"No Raptor, you ruined your own life." A condescending voice fills his ears. It's one he still would do almost anything to forget. "Even before I met you, you were always like this."

"Not true," Raptor whispers to the floor, then projects his voice towards Vito again. "He made me like this. None of what I did would've happened if he'd just left me alone all those years ago."

"But then where would you be?" Despite being practically screamed at, the older victor's voice is soft. "If you never met Berengar, you never would've trained the way you did. What would you do with your life then?"

"The same thing I'm doing with my life now." Raptor feels his good hand start to shake. "Nothing…"

"Here." Vito lifts himself from the catch and stands by Raptor's side. He hesitates for a moment, then puts his hand on Raptor's shoulder. "You don't need to seek them out now. That's the thing about winning, you now have all the time in the world to do whatever you want."

"You're right."

Yet at the same time, finding a purpose still feels so foreign and far away to him.

Raptor's dad comes over for dinner every Friday night without fail. He brings fancy sandwiches from the local delicatessen and even insists on setting the table. On those evenings, anybody looking in through the Victors Village windows would think they're witnessing a perfectly normal father-son dinner.

It'd be a ruse.

"Sometimes I still hate you," Raptor admits one night, trying not to play with his food too much.

His dad sighs. "I understand. I hate myself for not trying harder."

The dining room falls into awkward silence as per usual. Raptor wonders if this is as painful for his dad as it is for him. He wonders if these dinners are ever going to stop hurting.

"Yeah." Vito told Raptor that he doesn't have to ever forgive his father for leaving. It's the same thing he told his boyfriend Jules who had to deal with a shitty uncle after he won. Raptor's not sure he even knows what it means to forgive somebody who was a stranger for most of his life. He hardly even knows his dad's personality, what he's passionate about and what makes him tick.

Done with his sandwich, Raptor's dad starts to get up from his seat so he can wash his plate. "I just want to be a good person in your life."

"I know." He's hardly had a bite of his own sandwich — he just keeps picking at it. It's weird for him to eat in front of his dad, but then again it's weird for him to do anything. When he returns from the kitchen, Raptor stares at him, trying to ignore the fact he thinks he's about to cry. "I think I'm just stuck. I don't know what to do with myself. Everything here is a reminder of what I could've been and it makes me sick."

"Who says you have to stay?"

That's all it takes for the gears in Raptor's head to begin to turn. That's right — winning means he's able to travel to any of the other districts, or even the Capitol, though he doesn't think he'd be wanted there. Maybe the reason he can't heal is because he's in the same place that hurt him over and over again.

But at the same time… "Where else would I go?" He hasn't met any of the other victors outside of Two since they'd all left the Capitol by the time Raptor woke up and it goes without saying that he just doesn't have any friends in general.

But maybe that's a good thing. It'd be a lot harder to go somewhere else if he had much to leave behind.

"Three, maybe?" Raptor's dad suggests with a soft smile. "I know there's a lot of colleges there, and maybe they'd let you in because you're a victor."

"I'm dumb as rocks. We both know it."

"I wouldn't say that. You did survive over a week with more injuries than I can even count, so it must've taken some degree of intelligence to treat them."

"All the books I read about that said that it's a miracle I didn't die though." He reaches behind his head and traces his scar with a metal finger.

"I'm glad you didn't die."

"I know. You always tell me that."

"The point is, I think maybe you can learn more about that." Dad nods. "You said the books you read were interesting."

"They made my head hurt."

"Everything makes your head hurt."

"That's true."

But maybe his dad has a point. Going to school and learning about medicine might be interesting. Ironic though, considering Raptor was built to hurt people. He isn't supposed to want to learn about healing them.

"Just look at a few brochures," his dad suggests. "You can even find them online. I think school in general could be really good for you."

Raptor shakes his head. "Maybe yeah, I'll check that out."

And then he triumphantly takes a bite of his sandwich. He knows that this was a significant moment for him — there's something in his brain that just clicked and it's not like his nerves severing or anything bad like that.

This is how he fixes the mess that his life became. He can go to school. He can learn and he can become good. At this point, good might just be the only thing Raptor can want to be.


cordura faux
twenty / / victor of the ninety-seventh games

Amidst a sea of aristocrats dressed to the nines and the repetitive spinning of slot machines, Cordura Faux is a queen. From her throne in the back of the casino, she watches the most affluent people in the country take risk upon risk purely for the sake of getting even richer.

Two and a half years ago, she would've been puzzled by their greed. She'd have wondered, if they already have everything, why do they want even more? Now though, Cordura understands them perfectly — there's never such a thing as having too much and if you disagree, you should start wanting more.

She's lucky that she doesn't even need to work for it anymore. Instead, she sits back, relaxes, and smells the money these Capitolites are betting, knowing it'll soon be hers.

(But really, it wasn't luck. Cordura fought tooth and nail for eighteen years only for her name to be drawn from the reaping bowl. As soon as she left Eight though, she knew there was no chance in hell she'd ever be going back unless it was in a coffin.

It doesn't matter how many ribs she snapped or how much blood worn like makeup it took to get to this place in life. If anyone deserves it, it's her — nobody has any reason to argue against that.)

(Nobody alive, at least.)

"Miss Faux," a woman dressed in a regal gown with golden frills says, rudely interrupting Cordura from her glorious introspection. "I have a complaint I'd like to file."

She wants to tell the woman to fuck off, that this isn't any of her business, but Cordura knows that she can't. The only reason she's allowed to stay in the Capitol is because she carries herself like she was born here. She mustn't lash out like an uncouth District-born.

That anger was reserved for the Games. She's over it now, or so she must claim to be.

"What is it, doll?" Cordura coats her words with honey. "You know I don't tolerate injustice in my casino."

Her casino — lord, she's never going to tire of saying that.

"Somebody has been using a trick coin." The lady vaguely points to her left, presumably at the table where people are playing a game of sevens. "The man with bright blue hair."

Cordura nods. "A trick coin you say?"

"Yes, I did just say that."

"How disrespectful…" She gets a closer look at the man, takes in his purple velvet suit and watches him pour from a silver flask into his mouth. The dealer at the table seems to ask him a question, after which he flips a coin and dramatically reacts to whatever it landed on. "We're going to need to take a closer look."

(Trick coins have been increasingly popular in the Capitol and Cordura only has herself to blame. She brought one as her token in the Games, a gift from her late sister, but she didn't think she'd have to use it.)

"Who would've thought it'd come down to the two of us," Anders asks, his tone undeniably scathing. "I didn't think you had it in you after I killed your little girlfriend."

Even though her district partner doesn't directly say Maisie's name, the plain fact he's referring to her makes Cordura's stomach churn. He's almost right — there were so many times when she thought of throwing in the towel. It started when Maisie died and it certainly didn't get better when Allegra and Verlin went next.

She may have only known them for a few days but they might as well have been her family and Cordura hadn't really had one of those for over a decade. Now that she's the last one standing, it's her duty to wreak havoc on everyone who crossed them.

(Cordura used to hate when people acted cruel; thought violence was a mask for cowardice. That was before she took a sword to the Two boy's throat and cackled as his head rolled down to the floor. Served him right for taking away Allegra. That was before she butchered the One girl like she was a cow Cordura never could afford to eat. Served her right for taking away Verlin.)

(And Anders? He ripped Maisie away like a rag-doll. It's only fair Cordura returns the favor.)

"Go to hell," she spits out. Her throat might just be the end of her. She's been in this fucking desert for ten days, the green sun nearly burning her alive and the bright pink sand making her feel like her head is spinning. That, and she was stabbed in the neck semi-recently.

She won't let that stop her. Anders is in just as poor condition as she is, maybe even worse — he's missing a foot and his entire torso is wrapped in bandages. There's no way he can fight like this.

He still thinks he's capable though, crawling on the ground with a knife between his teeth. He looks like a nightmare — his long brown hair matted with blood and his eyes just as green as the sun. Cordura misses Anders' strike and cackles. Obviously unamused, he says "What do you say we play a game, actually?"

"The fuck?" She raises her brows in confusion.

Anders Zanetti, the Demon of District Eight wants to end the fucking Hunger Games like this?

(Luckily, Cordura's always been good at games.)

"Do you still have that coin you were fidgeting with on the train?"

Cordura nods, trying not to think of the blood spilling from the cut on her throat. Of course she does — it's the only sentimental thing that she owns. She still remembers the desperation in Muslin's eyes when she was gifted it, the way she repeated how sorry she was as her father dragged her away, a gun in his hand.

She later learned that Muslin used the coin to trick Father. They'd run out of food and it was a coin toss, head or tails to decide which daughter would live, and Muslin picked tails knowing both sides of the coin were heads.

"Flip it. Heads you kill me, tails I kill you."

She'll never know what was going on in Anders' head that day, and she doesn't really want to either. While Cordura would've appreciated a more glorious victory, it was a good enough one for the Capitol — enough to make them love her.

(Granted, they were also just thrilled about not having an organ-harvester as their victor.)

She saunters off her throne and quickly looks back at it in all its glory. Golden metalwork and a cushion with a pattern of maroon and creme-colored diamonds. It's not just perfect in general, it's also plain perfect for her. The lady walks toward the card table with fervor as Cordura closely follows.

Once they arrive at their destination, she points to the blue-haired man and hisses, "I know that you cheated, you sick cunt!"

"Really?" The man wiggles his eyebrows. "You're so bitter about losing that you sent the manager over here?"

"You cheated! I saw your trick coin."

Unamused, Cordura looks at him. "Let me see your coin."

"Ms. Faux—" The man starts to shake, guilty as charged. "Ms. Faux. I didn't— I didn't mean to cheat! I just— I have a family to feed and—"

"How do you 'not mean' to cheat?"

"Well, I did mean it. I just— please don't kick me out! I've already lost so much!"

Cordura glances from side to side in search of a guard. "Somebody remove this gentleman from the premises of my building," she shouts. "Quickly."

"You can't—"

A man dressed in a white suite with black accents doesn't hesitate and runs over. He grabs the cheater by the wrist and scoffs, "you should've played by the rules."

He's then dragged away, so Cordura clasps her hands together and smirks. "I'm so sorry about that ma'am. Let me know if you need anything else, and thank you so much for stopping by Grand Casino Faux."

She will never be able to comprehend why there's still the same sort of idiots here that existed back in Eight, assholes who put their whole families up on the line and still had the guts to cheat and complain when it didn't work out for them. It's just proof that foolishness runs in every bloodline, regardless of where somebody is born.

At least the fools here pay her well.

As Cordura walks through the casino to return to her throne, all eyes are on her. People kneel as she walks past them, fan their faces when she so much as breathes in their directions.

(She wonders what her father would say if he saw her now. Too bad she killed him, so she'll never know.)

"I'm sorry for the brief interruption," she says to one patron. "I do hope you can still enjoy your evening here."

But she doesn't really care whether or not they do. She doesn't care about anybody in this place, just what they can offer her. Because, when push comes to shove, Cordura Faux is but an illusion of herself. She has her lavish wardrobe and her casino, but when all that's stripped away, there's truly nothing there.

(She longs to be complete, yearns to be anything but this massive puzzle with missing pieces.)

(She wants to be loved and for it to actually mean something.)

But how can she be sure somebody loves her and not her riches? That's the issue — she can't.


calsin verrillo
sixty-six / / victor of the fifty-second games

The sun is hitting the ocean at the perfect angle and there's not a single cloud in the sky. It's usually not warm like this in November, in fact it was raining the past three days, but somehow the universe collectively decided that it'd do everything in its power to make sure Calsin has the best birthday possible.

All his loved ones are gathered on the beach beside him, their raucous laughter filling the salty air. It's hard for him to believe that almost fifty years ago, his feet were in this exact same sand, and he was praying to the sea that he'd live through the Hunger Games and make the world a better place.

Calsin can confidently say that he did exactly that.

He smiles as he watches his nephew, Robin, give their spouse, Vasi, a piggy-back ride. Their children, Aethia and Alcide, have only recently learned to walk, but they chase after their parents like they're capable of running a marathon. Calsin's other nephew, Venus, cradles his newly adopted son, Neptune, in his arms, staring dramatically into the sunset like he's in a western movie. Four's three youngest victors sit on the dock, their toes splashing against the ocean.

As much as they seem to be having fun, Calsin's joy is tenfold. He's the luckiest man in the world since he's sitting next to his husband Adrian and his best friend and pseudo-sister Nim. Next to her is her wife Enora, her daughter Shae, and Calsin's actual-brother Sevillin. They're equally lucky to be spending time with him.

The years have been kind to him ever since his victory. He may have helped burn the Lotus Academy to the ground as soon as he got home, but he was still able to achieve his goal of making a training facility in Four that's equitable and just. The Conservatory of Ruthlessness, Ambition, and Performance — because if Calsin and Nim can survive a civil war, they can name the place that trains Four's youth an acronym for "crap." Yes, those things are definitely correlated. That's how the world works, trust him.

(He misses Crista and Cressida more and more with every passing day. At the same time, he knows they're watching over him in heaven with stars in their eyes.)

"So, I have to say I'm in my 'late sixties' now, huh?" Calsin surveys his small audience. He thought he'd feel worse about getting so old, but he doesn't mind aging if it's with his family beside him.

Sevilin nudges him. "At least you're not almost seventy."

"I think sixty-nine is a great age to be," Shae offers. "I mean it's sixty-nine. That's hilarious."

"Shae, please." Enora puts her head in her hands. Meanwhile, Calsin can't contain his laughter — his face turning red and his cheeks puffing out.

Nim's reaction is similar. "She's twenty-eight, my sun. Let her make the same dumb jokes me and Sin did."

"They're not dumb!" He gasps. "Nim and I were hilarious at twenty-eight and we're still funny now."

"Funny looking, maybe."

"Hey, Calsin doesn't look that bad." Adrian puts an arm around him. It feels just as safe as it did forty-six years ago when Calsin refused to admit he had feelings for the guy. Maybe it's just that he thought somebody like him was nothing but a dream.

"Wow. You're such a romantic," he jests.

"What can I say, I save my kindness for the one who's most deserving of it."

"Okay, now you actually sound like a sap." Calsin lifts up his chin and presses a gentle kiss on his lips "It's embarrassing."

"Yeah um, hello!" Sevilin shouts. "There's people watching, you know. For example, me. I'm watching."

"Can't you just let me be happily gay-married on my birthday?"

He points to Alcide and Aethia. "Think about the kids!"

"Please, their parents are just about as gay as it gets."

"Robin would take that as a compliment, you know," Shae says. "Besides, weren't you gay yourself, back in the day?"

"I still am!" Sevilin squints. "Just no longer actively gay."

"He was doing a bit," Nim whispers.

"Mom, I'm well aware of that. It's just…"

"Really funny to mess with him," Calsin finishes her sentence. "That's right, Shae. You and I, we just see eye to eye."

"At least somebody under the age of forty appreciates you."

"Yeah, exactly!" Sevilin exclaims. "Robin and Venus think you're ridiculous, and I'm sure Vasi does too."

"It's because he is," Adrian mumbles. "Respectfully, of course."

Calsin will never understand the "uncool uncle" allegations from the two of them. If you asked him, he's just about the coolest uncle imaginable — he won the Hunger Games, for fuck's sake. When Robin and Venus' other parent, Varsen, died, Calsin gave them a way to channel their anger. They both also won the Hunger Games because of him.

Literally what else do they want from him?

Calsin ambles out of the sand and heads to the dock — at least his other successful mentees, Ninian, Danube, and Adrian (yes, a different one), respect him. Somebody has to do that around here.

He walks with his chest puffed out, his posture more impeccable than it's ever been. Robin briefly glances at him and asks, "the fuck are you doing, Uncle Sin?"

"Being appreciated for who I am." He looks over his shoulder at the people he was just speaking to and winks. "Does that make sense to you, Robby?"

"You need to calm down, dude. Are you drunk or something?"

"Drunk on the fact it's my birthday, yes."

"Is that a new strain of crack?" Vasi pops out from behind Robin.

"What did I tell you about making crack jokes in front of the kids?" He leans down and pats Aethia on the head. "Pretend you didn't hear that, okay?"

"Crack!" The young girl giggles.

Robin sighs. "Don't tell your brother that!"

But when she runs off, Calsin gets the feeling that's exactly what she's about to do. He'll have to wash the kids' mouths out with soap next time he and Adrian come over to babysit. Though, knowing Robin and Vasi, there's a damn good chance any soap in their house smells like weed. Honestly, good for them. Calsin was the first person to ever roll a joint with Robin when he was seventeen, the night before their Games.

Family bonding, am I right?

"I know it's been a few years but I still can't believe you have kids," Calsin admits. "Seriously, who'd imagine you as a father?"

"Apparently Vasi did." Robin glares at them and shoves them. "Anything for them or whatever."

Vasi whistles. "I just thought it'd be really funny, and I'm always right."

"Such is life." Calsin nods, then gestures to Ninian, Danube, and other Adrian. "I gotta say hi to— I guess they count as my children now?"

"Whatever you say, old man."

As nice as the party was, Calsin found himself relieved when it ended. Not for any particular reason, it's just hard for him to be in front of so many people at the same time and be expected to entertain them all. Popularity can truly be a curse.

Less time with everyone else also means he gets more time with the love of his life. There may be a few strands of gray in his dark, curly, hair, but Adrian's still as handsome as he was the first day Calsin met him. There's something so novel about spending time in the dark on the rocky shores of Havenside together — it makes Calsin feel invincible.

He smirks. "Another year of us, huh?" The only light is coming from the stars above and he can hardly see his hands as he opens a can of the same cheap beer he drank as a teenager. It tastes like dog water — not that Calsin's had dog water before — but it's about the nostalgia.

"Sometimes I wonder how many we have left," Adrian admits. Calsin can't see him, but he knows that he's right by his side. He knows he'll never leave. "Not to be a downer or anything. You know I love you."

"You know I love you more."

"Moron."

"Probably; but being one's gotten me far in life, hasn't it?"

"I just think…" Adrian's voice trails off. Calsin watches the outline of him take a swig of beer. "I know that the Conservatory means everything to you. It's your life's work and all that. But—"

"I know I overwhelm myself, if that's what you're talking about." He leans close to him and brushes back some of his curls. "It's just that — I had some of the worst moments of my life here in Four. I'm happy they've turned into some of my best. I just want more memories."

"What I mean is, I think you should retire." Adrian's voice is so soft, it almost blends into the wind. "Nim already did, and look how happy she is. The Conservatory is going to be fine without you."

But will it really? The second Crista handed the Lotus Academy to Shane Odeen, the place turned into something terrible. It turned into Calsin's darkest nightmare, and he doesn't want that to happen again.

It'll never happen, he just can't help but worry. It's why he's still working here.

"Who would even take over?"

"That's not my decision," Adrian says, resting his head on Calsin's shoulder. "I know you'll kill me for even suggesting this, but maybe Robin would do a good job?"

He almost cackles. "You really think?" Calsin loves the kid but at times he thinks they're the only person who can out-stupid him.

"He has a good heart, you know. I see a lot for you in them."

"He'd hate you for saying that."

"I see even more of Sevilin in him." And if Adrian weren't Calsin's favorite person, it'd be his eldest brother. No words will be enough to describe the way he's so glad to be with him again. "All three of you are relatively similar, to be fair."

"And then there's Venus the Penis…"

"You can't call your nephew that."

"I can call him whatever I want."

Venus is such a weird guy, bless his heart. If Adrian had suggested he'd run the Conservatory, Calsin would've thought he's losing his mind.

He presses a kiss to Calsin's cheek. "Just think about Robin. For me?"

"Maybe you're right about this whole thing. I do miss you an unbearable amount whenever I'm in the Capitol."

"So take me with you this year." Usually, that's the last place Adrian would want to be, but it could be cute. "Make your last time mentoring something special. Maybe even bring back a victor?"

"I'd love that. I have no idea who's going to win the election for volunteering, but surely I can work with them."

"If you can work with Robin and Venus, you can work with anybody."

"And then it'll just be us." Calsin lifts his bottle and Adrian meets him with a clink. "I think yes, I do like the sound of that."

"So do I."

"Well of course you do, idiot. You suggested it."

"I'm not an idiot. I'm just trying to be sentimental—"

Calsin shuts him up with a kiss. He'd rather choke than admit that there are tears in his eyes and it happens every time their lips meet. Adrian's just that damn special.

He pulls away, the same mysterious glint in his eyes that Calsin fell in love with. "Happy birthday, love."


Hello, chat. Back again with a chapter of all time.

Today we met victors. I will do some clarifying now. First, if you want the Raptor lore in full, read his story called Numquam Satis and if you want the Nim lore, read her story called General Welfare. Second, Vito, Cordura, Robin, and Vasi originally existed in other stories that are now done called In The Core, Floccinaucinihilipilification (which I legit spelled right the first time!), Gilded Cage, and In The Clear. If you want to learn more about them, you can and their original stories are super great. Third is that Raptor was created by Void, Nim was created by RB, and Sin was created by Dyl.

Fourth is that Calsin Verrillo originally escaped the arena in the fifty-second Games in my story called A Common Defense, but he did not win. Because this verse is technically an AU, I can do what I want and therefore he won. This is because as an escapee, he probably would've died at some point and I love him and want him to fulfill his dream of building a new Academy in Four. Nim's fic doesn't feature him as a Victor because he wasn't one there, but he is here okay. If you want to like… see the first few months of what Calsin would've been like if he won ACD, I have a story called "What Could've Been" that basically is what happened. Shout out to Sinny-boy. I love that guy.

Okay cool. Submissions are still open – gimme kids please. Thank you Erik for beta-ing. Again, gimme kids.

Linds. Laugh. Love.