Kasumi Karakara, 21

Victor of the One-Hundredth, Forty-Ninth Hunger Games

The Victors' Village is eerie now that it's almost empty. Victor's Village now, Kasumi thinks ruefully as she stands at the gate. It's dark by now, and Kasumi blends into the night in all black.

The only light to be seen is coming from an upstairs window on her house. Her siblings must still be awake.

Across the street, Dixie's house is dark. She can almost pretend that Dixie has just gone to bed.

As Kasumi stands there, the light in the upstairs window goes out. Whoever was awake isn't anymore. She looks up into the sky, only a sliver of a waning moon looking back at her. It's the only thing that manages to peek through the smog in the air.

Finally she drops her gaze back to the Village, staring down the long line of empty houses. The ghosts of the tributes she couldn't are haunting the lane, reminding her of her failures.

She sits on the front step of Dixie's house and looks at nothing. If she turns around, she'll see Dixie's empty house and the first floor window. If she sees the first floor window, she'll remember coming into Dixie's house in the morning with soup and finding her dead on the floor.

Somehow, she should have known. She should have gotten Dixie to a doctor. But one had already seen her, and sent her home to recover.

(People in Six don't recover.)

The air smells like burning (the air smells like home). Kasumi breathes in deeply and remembers that it's the air that killed Dixie. It's the air that kills most people in Six. If the drugs, gangs or Games don't get you, the smog will before you turn fifty. Dixie was doing good to have made it sixty—most people in Six aren't so lucky.

It just goes to show her that even with the best medical care caps can buy, Dixie still succumbed to smogness. In fact, four of the six District Six Victors have died of complications with smogness. That was why Alexei died at forty-seven. That was why Aspen secluded herself in her house for the last years of her life, hoping to escape the air. Carsten was the luckiest of all of them, making it all of the way to seventy-two before he finally died. And, of course, there was Aksel…and no one talks about Aksel.

Really, it's why none of their tributes ever win. Weak lungs. Bad diets. And then there's the drugs…

Kasumi puts her head in her hands, because she knows the same fate is awaiting her. Everyone in Six knows it—everyone knows that they'll die to pollution if the streets don't get them first. Even the Hillies (which Kasumi refuses to accept she is a part of) can't get the care to save themselves. Because, well, if Dixie can't find someone who can save her, no one can.

A cool summer winds blows through Kasumi's hair. It's almost time for another Games. This one marks six years since Kasumi was Reaped. She only has a couple of weeks left before she'll be on a train ride to the Capitol, solo for the first time.

(It won't be the last time. Kasumi wonders if there will ever be a last time—if another tribute from Six will ever win again.)

Kasumi doesn't know why she's pretending to be surprised. This was always going to happen. Dixie was always going to die. Dixie was always going to leave Kasumi alone.

For not the first time, Kasumi curses Arthur Singlewave's name. If it weren't for him, Kasumi wouldn't be going into another Games alone. If it weren't for him, the Victor's Village wouldn't be quite as empty as it is now.

She also doesn't know why she keeps thinking about it. Warren's dead. Warren has been dead for four years, and it's not like he's coming back. It's just…he got so close. He got so close it gave Kasumi hope. District Six never makes it that far, and that year both of her tributes lived to the Final Eight. Just two years after she'd won…well, Kasumi had managed to delude herself into thinking that District Six might have a good couple of years.

Then two years of straight Bloodbaths changed her tune, and Kasumi is back down to her lowest. And now she doesn't even have Dixie to lean on.

Kasumi brushes off her suit coat, straightens her black tie. She doesn't know who she's doing it for. Maybe it's for Dixie, as if she's still watching.

It had been so sunny during the funeral. The weather was so nice it felt disrespectful. Capitol officials had come out of the woodworks for it, and Kasumi had been made to speak. Some of the words were hers. Some of the words were the Capitol's, and Kasumi finds she doesn't care nearly as much as she used to. Sixteen-year-old Kasumi would have never spouted Capitol propaganda at Dixie's funeral. But Kasumi isn't sixteen anymore. By District Six standards, she's hardly even young anymore.

She still remembers when she was fresh out of the arena. The year before a Quell, and Kasumi was so certain she was bringing someone home soon. She was going to make history, do what no Six Victor had ever done before. She was going to bring a kid home before decades passed.

It's still possible, a voice in her head reminds her. It's only been six years. There's still a chance she'll do what none of her predecessors ever could.

Kasumi snorts and says, "Yeah. Fat chance," to no one.

Besides, no one really wants to live this life. None of those poor kids that get Reaped know what's waiting for them on the other side. Sometimes, Kasumi wonders if she wouldn't have been better off letting the boy from District Two kill her too. He would probably enjoy being a Victor, being the object of the Capitol's affections. Kasumi's name is in the news again in light of Dixie's death. All of the Capitol wants to know how she's dealing with it, because didn't she say once that Dixie is like the mother she never had?

Another warm breeze blows through the Village. Kasumi stares down the lane again at all of the empty houses. There's never been more than two Victors living here at once. And there never will be.

She glances at her watch and sees that it's after midnight. Finally she gets to her feet and heads into her own house, leaving Dixie's empty home alone in the dark.


Rhett Riley, 26

Victor of the One Hundredth, Forty-Third Hunger Games

(TW for mentioned suicide)

So, it finally happened. Celinda drank herself to death.

Rhett's still dressed for the funeral when he ducks into a bar. He has enough caps in his pockets that he could follow her if he so chose. So, here he is, five shots of tequila in and still unable to stop thinking about her.

Every time he closes his eyes, he's back in Celinda's bedroom. The whole house had reeked of alcohol, and Rhett hadn't seen Celinda for days. If he was being honest, he thought she'd just wandered off on a bender and would stumble back into the Victors' Village in a couple days. That's usually what happened when Celinda went off the map.

Finally, though, Rhett had decided to check and see if she was home yet. The house had been in disarray—vases smashed, plates shattered, stains on the carpet. Rhett had found Celinda upstairs in a puddle of her own sick. She was dead, and she was cold. So Rhett wasn't just a little bit too late.

Rhett orders another shot. He kicks it back immediately, despite the burning in his throat and the pounding in his head and the concerned look on the bartender's oddly familiar face. "What are you lookin' at?" he snarls.

The bartender gives him a look and moves further down the bar, leaving Rhett alone. Rhett watches him for a moment, trying to figure out where he knows him from. The name tag on his shirt reads Troy, and Rhett certainly doesn't know anyone named Troy. But he's definitely seen that man somewhere. Or maybe he's just drunk and imagining things.

He sighs. The bar is practically empty. It is a Tuesday night, or something. Rhett hasn't paid any attention to the days of the week since he found Celinda on the floor of her bedroom.

It wasn't a suicide. Rhett is sure of it. If it was, Celinda would have left a note. She wouldn't just leave Rhett without saying goodbye.

Rhett is also sure that that is bullshit—that Celinda didn't give two shits about him, no matter what he did for her. Celinda knew how much he cared about her, and she didn't care. As soon as Celinda started drinking, she stopped caring about anything. She stopped caring about her fellow Victors, her tributes, her health. None of it mattered.

And Rhett knows what she saw in the Games. He knows what she was hiding from, and he knows what an incredible job alcohol does at keeping the nightmares away.

Someone drops onto the stool beside him. "Thought I might find you here," Tierra says, voice neutral.

"Go away, Tierra," Rhett mumbles. He flags down the bartender to bring him another shot, because he's still thinking about her. If he downs enough alcohol, his thoughts will go quiet and Celinda will get out of his head.

"Don't bring him anything," Tierra says to the bartender.

The bartender only shrugs and leaves them alone.

"Asshole," Rhett mutters. He drops his head to the grimy bar top, resting his forehead on the wood.

"What are you doing here, Rhett?" Tierra asks.

"What does it look like? I'm drinkin'. Or I was, 'til you interrupted me."

Tierra is silent for a moment. "Drinking was Celinda's thing, Rhett. Why won't you let the alcoholism die with her?"

Rhett doesn't know what comes over him but he tries to hit Tierra. Of course, the six shots of tequila have stolen his balance and coordination, and all he accomplishes is tumbling off of his stool. The floor is even more grimy than the bar.

"Are you done?" Tierra asks, unimpressed.

"Fuck you, Tierra," Rhett says, and all he can think is that Tierra is insulting the only friend Rhett had left. He needs more shots. He's still thinking. "I can't believe I'd almost forgotten why I don't like you."

Tierra laughs. "That's cute, Rhett. Why don't you get up so we can have a real conversation?"

"Does it look to you like I feel like havin' a real conversation right now?" Rhett says. "Personally, I find the floor to be very comfortable."

"Get up, Rhett."

"No."

"Don't you go turning into Celinda on us now!" Tierra suddenly yells. The other patrons in the bar don't even look up. "Look, Rhett, we all get it. You had the hots for Celinda, and you'd died she wouldn't have missed you. But you need to get it together, because none of us want you to die on us too."

"You just don't wanna have to mentor again," Rhett says accusingly, crossing his arms over his chest like a child.

There's a beat of silence before Tierra says, "That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about."

That piques Rhett's interest, and he climbs back up onto the barstool. "Go on."

"I was going to offer to mentor with you this year," Tierra says. "I haven't done it since you won, but it will be a…welcome change of pace."

"What about Salen?"

"Salen wouldn't be caught dead going to the Capitol to mentor," Tierra says, sounding bitter. "You know we barely got him out of the house for Celinda's funeral."

Rhett massages his temple. "Can you please stop bringing her up?"

For once, Tierra looks sympathetic. "I'm sorry, Rhett. I know she meant a lot to you. Now, I'll never understand why, because that girl was nothing but drunk, crass and she treated you like shit. I would've given up on her a long time before you did."

"I didn't give up on her," Rhett says. "I just…got complacent."

"What do you mean?"

"I thought she'd just gone off on a bender," Rhett says quietly. "I thought she'd stumble back into our lives, and I'd clean her up and try to make her promise to stay sober for this year's Games. She'd promise, and then when it actually came down to it, she'd be drunk off her ass and our tributes would die. Just like every year."

It's so fucking sad, Rhett thinks. That was just how it always went—Celinda would say she stay sober, and then inevitably wouldn't, and Rhett would have to mentor two tributes at once.

"You really wanna mentor this year?" Rhett asks.

"Sure."

"Good," Rhett says. His heart hurts, because Celinda's not there. Celinda's never going to be there. But at least he'll only have to mentor one tribute this year. The thought makes him feel awful, because Celinda always tried. She would try to stay sober, and she just never managed it. She doesn't deserve Rhett sullying her memory like this, immortalizing her as a terrible mentor who couldn't stay sober to save someone's life.

(But she was a terrible mentor who couldn't stay sober to save someone's life. Rhett knows that, and he also knows that he loved Celinda. Maybe not in the way Tierra thinks, but he loved her. He only wanted to help her, but Celinda wasn't really someone you could help. All he could do was keep her from burning herself out for as long as he could.)

Christ. He needs another shot.


Ave Samenfield, 43

Victor of the One-Hundredth, Twenty-Sixth Hunger Games

There's a new page in Ave's notebook. For the first time ever, the page does not belong to a tribute. Well, that's not entirely accurate. It belongs to someone who started as a tribute and became a Victor.

Solaryn Duke-Dare is written at the top of the page, but no one ever called him Solaryn. He always complained that it was a terrible name, and would only answer to Sol. Ave found it endearing, and they could bond over being given bad names.

Ave never took his last name, because he thought it was stupid, too. If he could have, he would have taken Ave's last name. The Capitol was against either of them changing their names, because it was difficult for branding purposes. They couldn't even hyphenate.

So, he was just Sol. That's the first thing she has written on his page. It's filled with many other things, far more than any tribute to date. But that's to be expected, because Sol was Ave's husband, and all of those tributes she knew for a week before they died.

At the top right of the page, she usually writes what the tribute died of. It's just a small note, just to make sure that the tribute's final moments aren't forgotten along with the rest of them. Ave believes each tribute is far more than their placement and their kill count.

Sol is much more than that, too. He is much more than a Victor with far too many kills to his name. And he is more than the accident that killed him.

After everything, Ave still can't believe he fell off of a fucking ladder and died. It's wrong for someone like Sol. He should have gone out swinging, not changing a lightbulb.

Ave sets the notebook aside and looks across the coffee table at Jay. "So, I'm sure you know what this means," she says.

Jay only nods, because he does know what this means, and it's not a good thing.

"You're going to need to mentor this year," she says, and Jay only nods again. "I know it's been a long time, but with Sol…" She trails off, because if she doesn't, she's going to start crying. She didn't manage to keep it together during the funeral, but at least that was what the cameras expected of her. She didn't speak, because she knew she wouldn't be able to keep it together long enough to get two sentences out. After a moment, Ave collects herself. "You're the only option we've got left."

"I know," Jay says finally.

He hasn't mentored since Sol won over twenty-five years ago. Ave assumes he was under the impression he never would have to do it again. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and if there are two living Victors from a District, that District has two mentors.

"How are you doing, Ave?" Jay asks.

"Well, I'm certainly not excited about this year's Games."

"That's not what I'm asking about."

Ave looks down at the notebook on the arm of the couch. "I'm okay, Jay. Really."

Jay looks dubious, but apparently decides not to press the issue. "How have the Games changed since my last mentorship? I'd like to be prepared."

"I dunno, really," Ave says. "It feels like the only thing that changes year to year is that there's a poor new kid in the mentor room."

She thinks of Ashe Illyrian, and how small she'll look surrounded by the other Victors on the first day of the Games. She thinks of Macy Barker, and how she's still so young even four years after she won. She thinks of all of the kids she's watched grow up since her first year as a mentor.

She thinks of how many of them she's managed to outlive.

"It's still a lot," Ave says. "Even after twenty-eight years. It never gets any easier."

"I remember that much," Jay says. But he doesn't really get it, does he? He only mentored for ten years, even if the final year was a quell where each Victor mentored four kids each. "Are you sure you're doing okay, Ave?"

"Like I said, Jay, I'm okay," Ave answers. "I'm…coping."

"Really? Because you look like you haven't slept in days," Jay says. It's just an observation, not an insult, but Ave takes a tiny bit of offense anyway.

Of course, her anger doesn't last long. It never lasts long. "It's lonely in the house without him. Our bed is so cold…"

Jay is looking at her with sad eyes, and Ave wants to tell him to stop pitying her. After all, he's the one who lost the child he raised because he killed her mother. Really, she doesn't understand how he ever thought he would get away with that one. Any kid would be freaked by that thought.

"I think I'm going to go to bed," Ave says, which is code for going to lay in her bed and stare at the ceiling.

"It's only seven thirty."

"I'm going to go to bed," Ave repeats. "I'll see you tomorrow. Or whenever."

Jay nods again and says goodbye. As soon as he leaves, Ave stops keeping it together. She doesn't break down, but she stares at Sol's side of the bed for an uncomfortable amount of time. It's wrong to sleep in the bed without Sol in it. She ends up sleeping in one of the guest rooms down the hall.

Well, the room she picked isn't a guest room. She's pretty sure it's a room meant for a child. That was one thing she and Sol never got around to doing. Of course, it was not for lack of Capitol pressure. As soon as they got married, the whole Capitol wanted to know what was going on in their bedroom and whether they had any kids on the way.

Ave was against having kids from the beginning, but as soon as she won the Games, she knew she would never let it happen. The children of Victors seem to get Reaped a disproportionate amount of the time. She couldn't risk it, even if she had thought about it a couple of times. Sol would have been a good father.

Ave isn't sure she would have been a good mother, but she knows Sol would have been a good father.

But it doesn't matter anymore. None of it matters. Sol is dead, and he's never coming back.

Ave leans back against the pillows and pretends she's asleep.


Chance Rovaeny, 29

Victor of the One-Hundredth, Fortieth Hunger Games

In the wake of a slew of untimely Victor deaths, the Capitol needed a distraction. Something to make people happy again. That was how a Capitol official had ended up in Chance's living room, saying that he and Alec had been together for a long time, hadn't they? The proposal had been filmed on the beach, so it wasn't like it was a surprise or anything. Alec understood, and Chance understood, so here they are.

The ceremony was fine. Chance thought he would be a lot happier on his wedding day, especially if he was wedding Alec, but the entire affair is a Capitol distraction. There's been too much sadness in the news recently, so the Capitol decided to trot out two of their Victors who are still alive to remind everyone of the Capitol's benevolence. It makes him sick, honestly. But he's still playing the part Lanai wants him to play, so he went along with it.

It's all damage control. It's been a bad year for the Victors, and the Capitolites must be falling over each other in their grief. He saw on television that they'd had a special funeral for Sol Duke-Dare in the Capitol in which neither his body nor his wife was present. It was all so the Capitolites could mourn the death of a beloved Quell Victor.

And it's not like Chance believes that Sol fell off a ladder and died. He was becoming more active in Lanai's work, and somehow he must have slipped up. So the Capitol offed him, just like they'd done to Brice Kylar.

Of course, Chance doesn't believe that the target was Brice, anyway. Anyone with a brain knows that they were targeting Ashe Illyrian. And thank Panem they didn't manage it. Brice was far more expendable than Ashe. That thought sounds bad, too—that he's gotten to the point where he measures the acceptability of someone's death based on how useful they were to the cause.

Chance kicks himself and wonders when the fate of the other Victors became more important than his husband. They're supposed to have their first dance soon. He straightens his tie with one hand, the other clasped in Alec's. At least, he got away with dressing himself. He and Alec are wearing matching suits, but Chance is wearing one of his signature silly ties. It wouldn't be Chance and Alec's wedding if Chance didn't wear one.

He looks at Alec and thinks that he's lucky he's marrying someone he loves. He knows some Victors didn't get that luxury.

"Hey, we should go check on Arthur," Alec says. "He looks…unhappy."

"Arthur is always unhappy these days," Chance says. It's been six months since his messy breakup with Copper, and Chance is hopeful Arthur is finally getting over it. He'd overheard Arthur saying something about a girl he'd been flirting with. So maybe Arthur is finally going to start living again.

Arthur hasn't done much of that since he won three years ago. Chance knows that everyone recovers from the Games differently, and that people never recover at all. But Chance is confident in Arthur's ability to get back on his feet, even if it takes a long time. A…really long time.

"Chance," Alec admonishes. "You know that kid needs us."

Chance acquiesces and allows Alec to pull him toward the bar. Arthur is sitting on a barstool, staring dejectedly at the countertop. At least he isn't drinking.

"Hey, Arthur, how's it hanging?" Chance says, clapping Arthur on the back.

"I'm fine," Arthur says. "Congrats, by the way."

He doesn't sound very celebratory. None of this feels very celebratory.

"Thanks," Alec says. "We're glad you're here."

As if Arthur could have gotten out of it. Being a Victor from Four, he couldn't have gotten out of attending the wedding if he tried. In fact, the Capitol had insisted he be a part of the wedding party, and he'd ended up being Alec's best man. None of them were particularly overjoyed with the arrangement, but Chance has learned to go along with the things that don't cause him any particular joy.

It's the only way he's managed to survive the last fifteen years. And he feels bad about what he does, his work at Faustus. But after he was Reaped, and then Alec was Reaped, and the Academy didn't offer up any volunteers to save them…well, Chance has made it his mission to change that. It's wrong that they train their children up for slaughter, but at least they're volunteering for it. It protects the rest of the District from being ripped apart by the Games. It's not right, but it's acceptable until things change.

Because things will change. Chance cannot keep mentoring a pair of sheep to slaughter once a year until he dies. Now that he and Alec are married, the Capitol is probably expecting them to find a way to have children. Surrogacy, or adoption, or something. And Chance has seen far too many Victor's kids get chopped up in the Games to be okay with that.

Chance sighs and tries to tune back into Alec and Arthur's conversation.

"So this girl you like, what's her name?" Alec is saying.

"Aquila," Arthur says. "She's nice. Likes art. I think she likes me too."

"Hey, that's great," Alec says. "I'm happy you're doing better, Arthur."

"Yeah—"

"Now, it's time for the new couple to have their first dance!" the announcer says on a microphone, and Chance thinks that it would have been nice if they'd informed the new couple of that.

Chance and Alec take to the dance floor to the sound of a song Chance has never heard. After they got engaged, the Capitolites got to vote on various parts of the wedding: the color scheme, the food, the music. The only thing Chance got to choose was his tie.

Still, he's with Alec. He loves him, and that's what matters. When this is all over, they'll have a vow renewal, where they get to choose every piece of the wedding. All they have to do is help Lanai spur on her rebellion, and one day, they'll get the happiness they deserve.

Chance catches Arthur lurking on the outskirts of the crowd. After everything they've all been through, Chance knows they deserve it.


A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who submitted! I had to make some very hard choices and I'm sorry if your tribute didn't get in. Do make sure to check the whole list, as I had to move several tributes to different districts.

district one:

male: maestro davian II, 17 / zevoros

female: eike belladonna, 18 / sakuradreamerz

district two:

male: alastor cousteau, 18 / dospacito

female: cannon kalvario, 18 / ladyqueerfoot

district three:

male: lev muyskens, 15 / averyrandomauthor

female: aderyn kabel, 16 / averyrandomauthor

district four:

male: fetu osmo, 18 / illegalcryptid

female: cascina armas, 18 / team shadow

district five:

male: fergus pickard, 12 / very new to this

female: sparka hernandez, 15 / very new to this

district six:

male: thespy bruss, 18 / dospacito

female: desdemona "des" lacroix, 16 / auroramiri25

district seven:

male: rogan rellad, 18 / son of arryn

female: katarina bellikov, 18 / paradigm of writing

district eight:

male: roland richardson, 18 / alexfalton

female: elspeth "elsie" kirth, 14 / evilpencilbox

district nine:

male: jasper adair, 13 / team shadow

female: briar marston, 14 / daydreamer66

district ten:

male: denver prewitt, 15

female: hildy stowe, 15

district eleven:

male: diggory keane, 17 / dospacito

female: kyrum albrecht, 17 / gomex

district twelve:

male: colson mccallister, 18 / goldie031

female: zorya stroud, 12 / evilpencilbox