Collic Lockfall, 19, District 12:
Collic Lockfall sat alone in the hollowed quiet of the Victor's Village, staring out at the lifeless street as the rain drummed against the windowpane. His house, like the others, was larger than anything he had ever imagined living in back in District 12. But despite its grandeur, it felt oppressive, as if the walls were closing in on him with every passing day. The air inside was stale, thick with memories he didn't care to revisit, yet they clung to him, relentless.
At eighteen, Collic was the oldest tribute District 12 had seen in years, but his victory had been anything but glorious. The Capitol had paraded him through the districts during the Victory Tour, forcing him to smile, wave, and recount his win — every agonising detail. He had hated every minute of it, knowing that behind the cheers and applause was a deeper, unspoken resentment. They didn't cheer for him. They cheered for the Games, for the spectacle of children killing children.
He clenched his fists at the memory. His hands still ached sometimes, phantom pain from the brutal hand-to-hand fight that had secured his survival in the final moments. He had beaten his last opponent, a girl from District 7, to death with his bare hands. The blood had been so thick on his skin that it took days to scrub it off, but it never really left him. Even now, he could feel it, cold and slick between his fingers.
The Capitol had turned his brutality into a legend. The boy who had won by sheer strength and endurance, outlasting traps, the elements, and alliances. But Collic knew the truth. It wasn't strength that had kept him alive — it was luck. A poisonous plant had wiped out most of the remaining tributes in the final days, and Collic had avoided it by sheer accident, starving in the trees while the others gorged themselves. The girl from District 7 had been too weak by the time he found her. He'd killed her because there was nothing else to do.
Collic's jaw tightened as he stood up, pacing the length of the room. His first year as a mentor. The thought made his stomach twist. He'd have to watch two more kids from District 12 get sent into the arena, knowing full well what awaited them. He had no idea how Yarro had done it all those years, sending tribute after tribute to their deaths. Yarro Mildvale, his mentor, the only person who seemed to understand what the Games really did to a person. Yarro had won long before Collic was born, but even after decades, the toll of his victory had never left him.
The Capitol hadn't made a big show of Yarro's death. It wasn't the grand affair reserved for the beloved Victors or those from wealthier districts. Just a simple, rushed burial in the Victor's cemetery, his coffin barely in the ground before the rain started. Collic had been the only one there, alongside a tired-looking undertaker. Yarro had once joked about the day he'd die, saying Collic would be stuck burying him in the mud. It wasn't far from the truth, and as Collic had helped shovel dirt onto the coffin, he couldn't shake the bitter laugh rising in his throat. Yarro would've found it hilarious.
Collic returned to the table and sat heavily on the chair, the wood creaking beneath him. The candle in front of him flickered, casting long, twisted shadows on the walls. He had drunk too much, again, but it wasn't enough to drown out the thoughts swirling in his head. He thought of the conversations he'd had with Yarro late into the night, back when they still had time. Yarro had spoken of the 74th Hunger Games, the one where the tributes from District 12 had almost been the final two. The boy had killed the girl, his best friend, and gone mad soon after. Yarro believed something was wrong with the Games, that the Capitol was hiding more than just their bloody spectacle. But Collic had never really listened — too drunk, too caught up in his own misery to care.
Now, though, he wondered. Yarro had grown more paranoid before his death, convinced the Capitol was systematically erasing the older Victors, the ones who knew too much, or couldn't play the role anymore. Maybe it was just the ramblings of an old man who'd seen too much death. Or maybe it was something more. Collic didn't know, and honestly, he didn't want to. All he knew was that Yarro was gone, and he was left to mentor tributes he would eventually watch die.
The storm outside intensified, lightning illuminating the room in flashes of blinding light. Collic barely flinched, his gaze fixed on the candle's wavering flame. There was no escaping the Games. Not for him, not for anyone. He had been thrust into this life, dragged through hell and forced to wear a victor's crown that weighed heavier by the day.
He hated the Capitol, hated the Games, but most of all, he hated what he had become. Collic Lockfall, the Victor of the 95th Hunger Games, the mentor, the drunk, the killer.
And as the wind howled through the cracks in the window, Collic realised that, just like Yarro, he was already dead. The only difference was that he was still breathing. For now.
Authors Note: This is an SYOT, please look at the form on my profile to submit your tributes to it, and may the odds be ever in your favour.
