The sunlight slashed through the half-drawn curtains, an unforgiving blade that sliced across Quartz's face with spiteful relish. He groaned, the taste of cheap wine and stale smoke thick on his tongue, and tried to lift his head from the silken pillowcase.

It felt like his skull had been filled with concrete. The remnants of last night were strewn about him, a grim portrait of decay: shattered wine bottles lay on the carpet, their crimson contents staining the fibers like blood; an overturned tray of white powder smeared across the mahogany coffee table; an uneaten plate of fruit buzzing with flies.

The air reeked of excess. It was pungent with alcohol and sweat; and beneath it all, a bewildering sweetness he couldn't place, as if the ruinous decadence had a scent.

Quartz's gaze shifted to the bed, where the curve of a woman's shoulder rose and fell beneath the tangle of sheets. Her hair, dark and glossy, spilled across the pillow like an oil slick, her face turned away from him. Who was she? Her name had escaped him.

He wasn't sure if he'd even bothered to ask.

Quartz grabbed lazily at the nearest clothes; a shirt rumpled on the floor, slacks stiff with forgotten spills, once-polished boots now bearing the scuffs of careless nights. He moved like a man underwater, sluggish and effortful, his limbs and mind like mortar. No matter how hard he scrubbed his pale flesh at the sink in his ensuite, the stink of lust and indulgence clung to him, refusing to let him forget his sins.

As he moved about the room, the woman in the bed shifted, but didn't wake. Quartz didn't look back at her as he left the room, the thud of his boots against the floorboards the only sign he'd been there at all. He lived in this space, physically, but he'd rather not conflate it with his old life. He was a completely different person now.

And besides, what would there have been to take?

Quartz bumbled down the staircase, not meeting the gaze of the portraits that glared down stoically from above. They all depicted real heroes. War veterans, district martyrs, President Thorn himself. Quartz had done nothing of note in comparison. He hadn't invented anything or changed any laws. He would never have any real influence. He would always be the stocky, square-jawed rogue with a bad buzzcut, plucked from obscurity to fight in the arena because he had to. Nothing to be proud of there.

At least if he had volunteered, like the District 1 boy who had won from the year before, people could be proud of that. At the very least, the Capitol would love it. But no. He had to settle for being perfectly mediocre. The definitive dud of Distract 2's victors.

The kitchen greeted him with the same detached sterility as the rest of his house; flawless marble counters too pristine to feel like home, glitzy and high-tech appliances that gleamed like the trophies the Capitol had given him. Quartz rarely used them. He didn't cook or eat very much these days anyways. Food didn't taste of anything, really.

Quartz rooted through the cabinets, feeling a flush of longing for cold, hard whiskey. His hand closed around the good stuff, a rare pre-war sample - a gift from his Victory Tour. He took a swig. It stung his throat instantly, but muted the ringing in his head, which was more important. As he drank, Quartz felt the bubbles of anxiety in his stomach begin to pop and dissipate, before a familiar voice cut through the haze of his hangover caused him to stop.

"Where did you meet her? She's very pretty."

Quartz reacted instantly. His spare hand shot out like a rattlesnake, fumbling and grabbing at the nearest weapon, a butcher's knife laying expectantly in its rack. He brandished it in the direction of the noise's source, keeping his back to the wall. Slowly, Quartz turned toward the corner of the room, where the shadows clung stubbornly to the nooks, even as sunlight poured in through the embroidered curtains.

The voice's owner stood there, leaning against the kitchen counter with the same effortless poise Quartz had always envied. He wore a dashing coat over his smart and sensible attire, his presentation evoking and commanding respect. At just twenty-one, Shale Cotter had cemented himself as something of a prince charming amongst the triad of District 2's victors; he was hale and handsome, and a perfect gentleman - though admittedly, he seemed far wiser and sadder than his youth should permit.

As it was, Shale's expression and stance proved hard to read; somewhere between curiosity and disappointment. It sank straight into Quartz's gut and didn't leave.

"She was less bite than the previous one, too. She cursed like a miner, Thorn bless her." Shale eyed his old tribute. "I have to say, you've seen better mornings."

Quartz sank into the nearest seat, his head spinning as the room tilted around him. "Shale," he croaked, his voice thick with equal parts guilt and irritation. "You can't just - I might have -"

Shale cocked his head. "Hurt me? I appreciate your concern, but I think I could hold my own. I'm more worried about what you'd do to yourself, quite frankly. You've been this way for months."

Quartz stared at his old mentor. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Shale didn't move. Didn't blink. "Checking in," he said simply, his voice flat. "We're neighbours now, so it isn't as far-fetched a visit as you'd think. That's what we do here, believe it or not. Look out for each other."

"Yes, well, I'm fine. Just went a little harder than usual," Quartz said, his voice hoarse.

Shale didn't question it. "Telemachus wanted to know how you were doing."

And there it was. Of course he sent you, Quarts thought.

"Couldn't be bothered to pay a visit himself, then?" he asked, failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Shale pursed his lips. "Telemachus has many responsibilities, as you well know. Responsibilities he had expected to share with the two of us. But it appears that with you snorting and drinking whatever you can get your hands on, and leaving me to tidy up after you, he can't rely on either of us. Hardly fair, is it?"

Quartz said nothing. The Victor of The Sixth Annual Hunger Games was Telemachus' unwavering disciple and right-hand man, who would never say a word against his superior. He couldn't be objective. He was also absolutely correct in his assessment.

Shale shook his head despondently. "Honestly, I figured I'd find you in a mess, but I didn't think it'd be this bad."

"I'm just having fun," Quartz said irritably, taking another swig of his drink. "You both need to relax."

"Relax?" Shale's expression darkened. "This isn't supposed to be fun. You have a job now, Quartz. A duty. Your life isn't just about you any more."

"Yeah, as you always remind me."

Shale folded his arms, his brows knitting together in frustration. "I only remind you because you keep trying to forget. We're symbols, Quartz. You, me, Telemachus - we represent something bigger, more important. For everyone."

Quartz leaned back, the chair creaking under him. He let out a mirthless, mocking laugh. "I'm a symbol? Okay. Of what, Shale? The value of knowing how to swing a sword?" He threw his hands up. "Who cares?"

"Don't be so obtuse," Shale retorted, his voice measured. "People look at you, and they see hope. They see proof that someone like them can rise above their circumstances."

"Hope," Quartz repeated, rolling the word around his mouth like it tasted rotten. "And what about me? What about what I want?"

Shale stepped closer, his tone softening but no less firm. "Not everything is about you."

"So I don't matter, then? That's it?"

Shale's lip curled. "Are you seriously that selfish?"

Quartz gave a careless shrug of his shoulders, and suckled his liquor straight from the bottle. It tasted better, more comforting, than ever.

Shale pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, I get it. You think none of this matters. That your future is servitude and mentoring and whatever fun you can squeeze in between. But the truth is, every time someone sees your face on the screen, it's a reminder. That even in their darkest moments, they can still come out the other side. More than that, they can come out of it stronger. They can still win."

Quartz bit his lip. "And what if they can't?"

"I don't understand."

"What if they'll never win, if this is as good as it gets?"

Shale's jaw tightened, but he didn't break eye contact. "I do not believe that to be true."

With a sigh, Quartz looked out the window. Thin, wispy clouds were rolling lazily against a baby blue sky. He wished he could be that. Inanimate and thoughtless.

"I can't be these things, Shale. I can't be everything that everyone needs me to be."

"People don't need you to be perfect," Shale told him. "They need you to show them it's possible to keep going. That all their hard work will be worth it, in the end."

Quartz set the whiskey bottle on the counter with a thud, his hand trembling slightly.

"Worth it," he said, his voice even quieter now. "Worth what, Shale? The people who hate me for killing their kids? I saw them on the Victory Tour, the way they looked at me." His voice caught on his next words. "I can't feel guilty about it, you know. I try and try and I feel nothing. Do you know what that's like to live with? Knowing that you're evil? Knowing that you're this?" Quartz gestured at himself, dirty and bleary-eyed and raw. "If that's what it takes to make people feel better for five minutes, then no, in the end, maybe it isn't worth it."

For a moment, the silence hung heavy and solemn between them, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator.

"You're coming with me," he said with a calm finality.

Quartz blinked stupidly. "What?"

"You need perspective," Shale replied, already moving toward the door. "Come on. I'll show you something worth living for."

Quartz glanced at the stairs "What about -"

Shale waved a hand dismissively. "She'll be taken care of. Let's not waste time."

The firmness in his voice indicated that this wasn't a request. With no room for refusal, Quartz reluctantly shoved the whiskey bottle aside and followed Shale outside, where a sleek, silvery car stood by, its motor running quietly. The chauffeur leapt to attention and began making a fuss, preparing the vehicle for the two of them.

Quartz looked at his former mentor. "It was already waiting?"

Shale didn't meet his eye. "I wanted to be prepared."

"That was presumptuous," Quartz muttered.

As the car hummed along the winding road toward town, Quartz stared out the tinted window, watching the jagged cliffs and soaring peaks that scraped the sky far, far away. Shale stared at them too, misty-eyed and strangely sentimental.

Nearby, The Fort loomed above the city, imposing and impenetrable. At its base, away from the city, lay sprawling ruins of old construction communities, the ones that had been blitzed and blown to smithereens by rebels during the Dark Days. A ghost town. It felt haunted and cold.

Quartz turned away. "Can we speed up, please?"

The engine immediately revved, its wheels spinning as it darted toward the city.

Marbletown, the beating heart of District 2, gleamed in the sunlight. It was exemplary of the people that lived there, a mixture of strength and civility, echoing its inhabitants' pride and devotion to their beloved Capitol, and to each other. Quartz knew the place as if it were the back of his hand; he recalled every chipped stone and lightless alley, the labyrinth of taverns and inns they created, the city's secrets and hidden memory.

He could still recite a list of the best spots to pickpocket, the easiest shops to steal from. It had kept him and his friends fed, after his parents had been conscripted. When they didn't return. It was on these very streets that Telemachus had found him, filthy and hungry. A child the war had left behind, like so many of them had been.

The car rolled to a stop outside the city centre.

Shale nudged Quartz, shaking him from his reverie. "We're here."

The last time he had been in the square, it had been very different. The whole district stood in rapturous and respectful silence as Quartz had recited his officious and patriotic victory speech. Today, it thrummed with movement, buyers and merchants bustling like ants amongst the stalls lining the pathways. People chatted earnestly with big, belly laughs while children sprung to and fro, playing tag and other games as boisterously and noisily as they could.

The two of them got out of the car, and Quartz trudged behind Shale, his shoes thumping against the stones. "So, what am I looking for?"

Shale motioned to the scenes unfolding in front of him. "This."

Quartz rolled his eyes. "What, I'm supposed to pretend all of this is… genuine?"

Shale shot him a sidelong glance. "They're not pretending. Look closer."

In the center of the square stood a massive table piled high with goods: crates of sunny grain, baskets of plump fruit, mouth-watering loaves of fresh bread, and jars of honey that shone like liquid gold. The Peacekeepers supervised the distribution, their presence an unspoken reminder of their power, but the atmosphere wasn't oppressive or threatening. On the contrary, it was jubilant.

Quartz frowned. "It's just handouts. Right?"

"No," Shale corrected him. "It's Parcel Day. Do you see?"

Quartz's gaze wandered across the square.

Nearby, a young girl cradled a weathered doll, her sunken face lighting up as her father handed her a small, ribboned bag of sugar.

Opposite her, an elderly couple sifted through a basket of apples, their eyes disbelieving as they traced the rosey-red flesh.

In the doorway of the Justice Building, a scruffy teenager sunk his teeth into a warm, seeded loaf of bread, his eyes watering at the sheer goodness of it.

All around the square, people had brought wheelbarrows and piled them high with the fresh bounty that the Capitol had sent them, their smiles splitting their faces.

"This," Shale said quietly, his voice cutting through Quartz's cynicism, "is what it's about. Parcel Day reminds people that they can rely on us. That the Capitol rewards us, and them, for our sacrifice. That it wasn't all for nothing."

Quartz swallowed, trying to ignore the lump in his throat, when a new voice came from below him.

"Hey, are you Quartz?"

He looked down. A little boy stood in front of him, mouth agape in astonishment. He couldn't have been more than eight years old, and his eyes shone with admiration. Quartz hesitated, then nodded, and the boy's face broke into a wide grin.

"You won the Games," he said in a hushed tone. "My Da says you're a hero."

A hero.

Quartz glanced at Shale, who stood silently, watching. The boy's words felt heavy and unearned, but Quartz forced a smile, unsure of how to respond, what to do with the praise.

Suddenly, the murmur of the crowd began to shift. A ripple moved through the square as more and more heads turned in his direction. At first, he thought it was a coincidence - one fleeting glance, or two, inconsequential. But soon, he felt their gazes settling on him, their recognition lighting up like sparks in dry brush. One person whispered his name, and then another, until the murmurs swelled and became a unified chant.

"Quartz? Quartz Bernardi?"

"Is that really him?"

"That's him, mommy! The Victor!"

A man in his forties stepped forward, taking Quartz's hand in his own. He felt how coarse they were, shaped by years of hard grafting, and his voice was just as steely and unwavering.

"I gotta thank you. I work all the hours Thorn sends, so we won't need the tessera. But not this year I won't. 'Cause of you." He looked Quartz dead in the eye. "Thank you."

"I didn't -" Quartz stuttered.

Before he could process the words, others followed.

A young mother clutching a cooing child to her chest, her large, hooded eyes watery with tears. An elderly woman with wisps of grey, thin hair, grasping his hand with surprising strength. They all sang his praise and their gratitude, their voices thick with emotion. As if driven by a collective, unspoken agreement, the crowd surged toward him, not threateningly, but reverently. Joyously.

Some clapped for him, others called his name; and many simply reached out, wanting to touch him, to prove to themselves that he was somebody real, tangible.

Quartz tried to step back, instinctively wanting to shrink into himself and away into nothing, but there was nowhere to escape to. The weight of their appreciation pressed against him, frenzied and wholesome. All he could do was stand there and bask in it, regardless of how he felt.

A meek, sandy-haired girl slipped out from under the crowd in front of Quartz, offering him a yellow daffodil that looked as sensitive and delicate as she did.

"For you," she said shyly.

Quartz took it. It was freshly bloomed, and so small. So innocent.

"Thank you," he said softly. The little girl beamed and darted away, melting into the crowd again.

Quartz turned to Shale. "You set this all up, didn't you?"

"I didn't, actually," he responded with a shake of his head. "But I think you needed it."

"Did you need this?" Quartz asked. "After yours?"

Shale smiled. "We all do. I think you just needed an introduction."

It went on for hours. Quartz's lips began to twitch from smiling, his wrist ached from shaking hands, but he didn't tire of it. In the Capitol, the sycophantic and painted faces had blurred together and repulsed him; but not here. He remembered them now, their imperfect babbling and earnest sweetness. Where they had come from. Their stories, and what they wanted from the future. It was all engraved in his mind by the end.

And as the sun began to sink sleepily in the sky, and the crowd thinned and petered out, it smothered Marbletown in glowing rays of amber and gold. Quartz had never seen it before - he had never looked. It made him feel less cynical. Less defiant.

Shale's voice was in his ear again. "This is what you did," he said. "The rest of these supplies are going out to Tyne, Sunfair, Mount Hew. The hamlets by the Bare Forests. Nobody will go hungry this year. Nobody will have more slips. Not a single one."

Silent tears rolled down Quartz's face, though he fought to stay stoic and stony.

"This is the only beginning," Shale continued, his tone shifting slightly. "We're going to run the barracks, the three of us. Together. There won't be any more war orphans or children living on the street, because for the first time, they're going to have community and opportunity. They can be whatever they want to be, and make their own choices." Shale turned to him. "We can make a difference, Quartz. You can make a difference."

More than ever, Quartz did understand. He finally understood. It was as if his sight had been restored to him. The voices of his fellow countrymen left an echo lingering and resounding in his chest, their words like ghosts that flew in the evening breeze.

For the first time in what felt like weeks, Quartz allowed himself to breathe deeply, his lungs full with something other than smoke, or liquor, or regret. He wasn't sure what it was. Couldn't describe it. But it was good. It was real. And he didn't want to lose it.

Quartz still wasn't fully sure if he believed he could do this. Not yet.

But today, he'd felt what it meant for others to believe in him.

He was going to try. For them.

Minutes later, the car door shut with a soft thunk as the two young men slid into their seats, the supple District 10 leather creaking beneath their weight as they got in. Shale leaned forward, his voice firm and instructive as he consulted the attentive driver.

"To the barracks, please. You know the way."

Quartz shot a glance at him, taken aback. "The barracks? I'm not going home?"

Settling back, Shale adjusted his coat curtly and precisely, but didn't meet his eye. "I have some people I want you to meet," he said, the words tinted with resolve and expectation. "Don't panic, Quartz. We're not throwing you in the deep end."

Quartz nodded, letting himself trust, as the vehicle purred to life. The city whirred past once more, its fading, pale lights casting fleeting, fragmented patterns across his face.

This will be good, he thought. It would be good for them - Telemachus and Shale, his new brotherhood - and it would be good for him. To grow. To move on. And it would be good for the others, the ones that Shale had spoken to him about. The faceless mass of children he had never met, who hadn't yet escaped the half-life Quartz had lived.

Quartz fingered the daffodil that the girl had given him, its dainty petals trembling slightly. He was going to save them. Whatever it took, he was going to save them all.

This was his chance to rebuild, to change. To matter. To be somebody for someone.

And yet beneath his rising determination, his ambition, lay a gnawing unease. One that didn't want to go away. Quartz willed himself to ignore it. He forced it downward.

Because he didn't want to go back. He had had his fill of that. The chaos, the filth, the savagery. He had already been there; on the streets, in the arena. Not any more.

Once was enough.

In the distance, a black iron gate swung open, a pair of lofty eagles beckoning him forth, their eyes keen and piercing, just as they had been almost nine years ago when Telemachus had brought him here. Promising to make him tougher. Stronger. Better.

Move forward, Quartz thought. Only forward.

Forward is enough.

He never looked back.

A/N: Not gonna lie, this chapter stumped me for a while. I hope you enjoyed it regardless.