I do not own Hunger Games or any of its characters.

Mentoring

"Aren't you supposed to mentor us?" the female tribute asked. "That's why you're here, isn't it?"

"Yeah, all you've done is sit there and stare at your hands," the girl agreed.

"Alright," Trever nodded, staring at the girl. "You want advice? You are going to die. You're short, you're not overly strong, and you're pretty, so they'll remember your face and they'll target you. If you're unlucky, they might do worse than kill you first." He turned to the boy. "And you, on the other hand, are stupid. And like a stupid person, you're going to go for the cornucopia, and you're going to be slaughtered. And there is literally fucking nothing I can, or will do to help you.

"I could get you sponsors. I could have them send you medicine, or soup, or water. But I'm not going to. And you know why? Because neither of you will be alive long enough to get it. So, I'll give you advice one time. You want to live? Hide. As soon as that cannon sounds, you fucking run your ass off away from the others, and you fucking hide. If you get a chance and someone's sleeping, you grab a sharp stick and you aim for the neck, and then you fucking hide again. You will never win by fighting, you will never win by outsmarting anyone, so you fucking hide and you fucking stay there until everyone else dies. If you survive past the first three days, I'll get you sponsors to send you food. Beyond that, you're on your own."

"So you're not going to train us?" the boy asked.

"What do you want me to train you to do?" Trever asked. "To fight? Takes years. Make traps? Months. You want me to teach you to kill? To know how, I'd need months, at best. To be good at it, years. But even then, I can't teach you to actually do it because in order to kill you first have to be broken. You have to first be so fucked up mentally and emotionally that you simply don't care. I can't teach that. And even if I could, I won't."

"Why?" the girl frowned.

"Because it's hell," Trever said. "Living as a killer is hell. Every night I have nightmares. I would be dead now, if someone hadn't intervened, and part of me hates them for it. Let me tell you something the Capital never will. If you win, if you survive the Hunger Games, a part of you will die. You will never be okay again. You will live with the scars of your Hunger Games for the rest of your life. You will have nightmares and you will be afraid forever. That will never go away. That trauma will live with you for the rest of your lives. Being a victor isn't winning, it's a punishment. You spend the rest of your lives in hell, and every year, you have to send two more children into the hell you went through, knowing that they'll probably die."

Both of the tributes remained silent this time.

Trevor looked back down at his hands again, where he was clutching a small blade, three inches long and with no handle, simply a small tang. It was ebay to hide, but it was plenty to kill the two of them, and as soon as Trevor had realized he had drawn it, he'd begun to clutch it hard enough to cut his hands, using the pain to keep himself under control. Finally, however, he felt himself breaking and stood, walking quickly to the next, empty train car, where he promptly drove the blade into the wall of the train.

Trever snorted derisively, shaking his head as he sat along in the hotel room the Capital had gotten him, watching on the television as the female tribute he'd spoken to fled from the cornucopia at the sound of the cannon while the boy charged it. And then, just as he reached it, the District One male drove his sword through the back of his chest. And then, a few moments later when nearly half of the tributes were dead, the female tribute from District Two waved the other careers over and began to lead them after the female tribute that had fled, just as Trever predicted. And it was a short hunt. It took only twenty minutes to find her in a tree, and once they had, she panicked, trying to climb higher, only for a branch to break, dropping her to the ground where she died on impact. Trever sighed, pressing a button on his phone. A moment later, the feed of the Hunger Games was replaced by Snow.

"Trever, how are you liking the games so far?" Snow asked.

"Send me home, Snow," Trever growled. "I'm starting to slip."

Snow nodded once and vanished from the TV. For a long few minutes, Trever sat in silence, waiting. Finally, the door, which Trever had left unlocked for them, swung open and a Peacekeeper stepped into the doorway. Before he could fire his tranquilizer gun, Trever's hand had snapped up, the blade he'd struggled to keep hidden on the train stabbing into the Peacekeeper's chest. He staggered backward, and another stepped into the doorway, placing a pair of tranquilizer darts in Trever's chest instantly. And a few seconds later, Trever was unconscious.

Trever stared at the weapons before him. He didn't think he was ready for this. It was risky. Too risky. But it was needed. If she was reaped, she had to be ready. He looked up as, at long last, she walked into the small clearing.

"Who won?" Trever asked.

"Annie Cresta," Johanna said. "The girl from District Four. An earthquake broke a dam, and she was the strongest swimmer."

Trever nodded. "I don't want to do this. You need to know that. But...if you get reaped..."

Johanna stared at the weapons for a moment before nodding. All were made of wood, none of them sharp, but Johanna knew Trever. It wouldn't matter if they were sharp or not. But still, she nodded.

"Put the knife down, first," Johanna said.

Trever frowned, then looked down, seeing he was, in fact, holding the carving knife. He stabbed it into the stump the wooden weapons were arranged on and stepped back, and Johanna walked forward, picking up a pair of knives.

"Will you teach me all of them?" Johanna asked.

"Yes," Trever nodded. "First lesson, hold them the other way."

Johanna looked at the knives, the blades extending out of the top of her hand, then flipped them over. Trever picked up the other pair of wooden knives and walked away from the other weapons. They began to train slowly, carefully. Johanna wasn't skilled, but that was to be expected. She was a good person. She had a defiant streak in her, but she was a good person. Slowly, as they trained, they cycled through all of the weapons he'd carved for them. And as the sun set, Johanna left having been unknowingly witness to a miracle. Trever hadn't tried to kill her once. He hadn't even felt the urge to, much less try without realizing it. And then the same was true the next day, and the next. By the time a month had passed, Johanna felt comfortable around him even when he held a knife, or was making traps, or was standing behind her. Trever, for his part, couldn't understand it. He had murdered his mother, his sister, his family's puppy, and had never even known he'd done it. But now, with Johanna, he had no impulse, no compulsion, to kill her. She was safe. She made him feel safe.

Trever screamed as he woke. He grabbed his knife, lashing out at the ghostly face hovering before him, but it was gone. His head whipped around, taking in the trees, the bushes. He wouldn't let them get the drop on him. He wouldn't let them kill him. He had to get home to his mother, his sister, his stories. He wouldn't die here.

"Trever?"

Trever spun his arm pulled back to loose the knife at his opponent, his next victim, only for her to catch his arm.

"Trver, it's me!" Johanna shouted, her other hand holding his as he struggled to reach her face, to blind her so that he could silence her before she drew in more tributes. "It's Johanna!"

Trver's eyes flicked over Johanna's face before the empty, emotionally dead expression began to melt away as the strength slowly left his arms. Finally, recognition, and then sorrow, began to filter into his expression. The knife fell to the ground and Trever's knees sagged before Johanna eased him to the ground where he began to cry. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him against her, and he tucked his face into her shoulder.

"Were you sleepwalking?" Johanna asked.

Trever nodded mutely.

"Let's get you back to your cabin," Johanna said, lifting him gently.

Slowly, she guided him through the trees, her hand in his keeping him grounded. Finally, they had reached the cabin and she led him in and to his ground floor bedroom, sitting him on the bed.

"Get some rest, Trever," Johanna urged him.

She turned to leave, but his hand clenched suddenly. She spun, but he wasn't attacking her. He was staring at her with a terrified, pleading expression. She swallowed hard, then nodded, gently guiding him to lie down before lying beside him. He curled into her instantly, both of his hands clutching one of hers, and she swallowed hard before gently brushing her free hand over his hair.

"Rest," she instructed gently. "I'll be here when you wake up."

For a long while, Trever lay there, trembling but awake. Finally, however, in the wee hours of the morning, he drifted off. Johanna lay there as well for a long time before finally also drifting off. Hours later, Trever opened his eyes, staring at the hand clutched in his. He pulled back a little, looking up at Johanna's sleeping, peaceful face. His hand reached up, pausing to hover just below her chin, but then reached up, gently brushing some loose hairs back from her cheek before moving down to hold a finger under her nose, checking to make sure she was breathing. Once he'd verified that she was alive, he carefully got up without waking her before heading outside to a pile of wood, beginning to whittle again. He wasn't sure when he'd whittling had become a hobby, but it was relaxing. If he had to be his own therapist, it might have been because he was using a blade to create instead of kill. Or maybe it was just because it occupied his mind and distracted him from his memories. Whatever the reason, it calmed him, and after about three hours, he'd carved the rough outline of a bird, though it would take him days to detail it, especially with his time interrupted with training Johanna.

"You're awake," Johanna said as she walked out of the cabin. "What's that?"

"It's going to be a bird," Trever answered. "Doing this calms me sometimes."

Johanna nodded, kneeling down. "It's amazing."

Trever smiled. "Thank you." He set it down, passing her a pair of wooden axes. "You ready to train?"

"Yeah," Johanna nodded. "Against you?"

Trever shook his head. "I'm not stable enough today. You'll be working on form and speed today. Use the trees as targets for now."

Johanna nodded, heading out to train while Trever spent a bit longer carving his bird before heading inside to make them a breakfast of bread and berries. Johanna was probably used to more food than that, since their District wasn't as poor as Twelve, but Trever didn't need much to survive on, so he didn't have as much as other people might. However, in all the times Johanna had eaten at his house, she'd never complained about the food, or anything, really.

After a bit more training, Johanna walked back over to join him for breakfast. After they'd eaten, Trever felt more settled, and joined her for training. Johanna had gotten good with small weapons, but truly shone with axes. Probably due to having grown up in the logging industry, she was a natural at using axes, and she was quick. Under Trever's guidance, she'd grown fast and efficient, but even so, there was one glaring problem. Johanna wasn't a killer at heart. It was the one thing Trever couldn't teach her. And if he had his way, it was something she'd never have to learn. Not her. She was the one person who made him feel safe. She was the one person who kept him sane. She was his anchor.

Finally, as the sun began to set, they headed back to the cabin for dinner. This time, he cooked them a stew. They ate in a comfortable silence, but once it was finished, it was time for Johanna to leave. She glanced at Trever, able to see that he was worried about his nightmares.

"I'll be back early in the morning," Johanna promised, taking his hand. "I promise."

Trever nodded, smiling weakly, and Johanna hugged him before leaving. Trever set to work on his bird for a couple more hours before finally going to bed.

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