Chapter Text
The Victors grabbed each others hand, not caring if they were shaky, sweaty or steady. They were in this together.
Raising there hands up, the 24 of them becoming a chain of resilience. They didn't stop holding hands when the lights went out.
They didn't stop when the peace keepers came.
They didn't stop until they were forcefully torn away from the other Victors.
Peacekeepers forced them into elevators, "escorting" them to their floors district by district.
Once safe in their apartments, the peacekeepers left. The Victors weren't fools, morons or idiots however. They knew the peacekeepers were guarding the doors, there was probably even more of them then usual.
They all saw the commotion they started in the Capitol, a small Victory-- one most ignored.
Instead, in the apartments of each Victor, those going into the quarter quell made a promise, statement or wish to themselves, friends, mentors or district partners about what wouldn't happen in the arena.
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"Gloss, I can't do it," Cashmere said, real sadness in her voice, not the faux stuff from the interview.
Hearing this, Gloss turned to face his sister. For a second they just looked at each other, before Gloss ran over and smothered his sister in a hug.
The pair stayed like that for a while, neither willing to break the sanctity of the hug.
"I don't think any of us can," He whispered in her ear.
The words settled over them like a blanket as they embraced.
They hoped that there would be no violence between the Victors.
Hope was the strongest force in the world, the question, however, was 'Would it prevail?'
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"They aren't going to kill us," Brutus stated.
He stood in the middle of the apartment, stoic and steady, as if he was a general.
In a sense, he was. Every Victor had been a solider that managed to survive the battle. But District 2 trained like soldiers. Acted like soldiers.
But that statement made the room full of soldiers freeze. Because they knew he was right.
Lyme was the first to interrupt the frozen silence of the District 2 Victors.
"How would you know?" She questioned, voice rising. None of the Victors move, only stare at the pair of elder Victors. They knew what it was, a general against a general.
It's a moment until Brutus speaks again.
"I looked at them. They're my friends, I know what they look like," He put bluntly. He was never a man of many words.
None of the other Victors looked pleased, especially those who won via extreme violence. They were District 2, they were Victors. They should be ruthless, merciless.
Enobaria stood up, running her tongue along her teeth. She had gotten her teeth sharpened after the first time she'd been sold. Playing up the bloodthirsty District 2 Victor, something she would never escape.
But she used them as defense.
Walking over to Brutus felt right, even if all her fellow Victors bore holes into her back with their eyes. She stopped at the side of the older man, her father figure in a sense or at least the closest thing she had to one, turning to face the group.
She didn't care what the others may think, she wasn't going to be Snow's mindless monster again.
A deep breath filled her lungs with air before she turned to look at Brutus, who was already staring at her, his eyes with something she couldn't quite place.
The pair locked eyes and a wave of understanding came between them.
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Wiress and Beetee sat together, staring out of the window. It wasn't the best view but it gave then something to do as they thought. The pair were both stuck in their own thoughts.
They sat in silence as the hours ticked by. It was a comfortable silence, unexpectedly broken.
"Thinking?" Wiress questioned. She didn't speak much anymore, not after her games. The mirrors drove everyone mad, including her. Thankfully, to a much lesser extent. What made her like this however...
Beetee turned to face her, examining her for a second before turning back to the window.
"What's going to happen tomorrow," Beetee said somberly.
Wiress nodded. They were in on the rebel plan, though not all their friends were. Many Victors didn't know. It was saddening but necessary.
"No kill?" Wiress asked worried before looking at Beetee.
Beetee looked into her eyes for a moment, then returned his gaze to the window. The silence seemed to stretch the longer he didn't respond.
"No, I won't kill anyone. Not unless it necessary," He answered stoically, hiding the hurt from his voice. He did not explain what he considered necessary, though Wiress already knew.
Wiress knew he was hurt, they all were. She rested her head on his shoulder to comfort him.
They would go to sleep later.
Right now, they just needed each other.
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Finnick was sitting on Mags lap.
Actually, he was sitting on the bed in between Mags legs as the older lady couldn't hold up his weight anymore. Still, he felt like a little kid again. The kid he was back before he won the games.
If he had cried into her shoulder, that was no one's business but theirs.
She whispered to him as he calmed. Her voice once strong yet gentle had turned weary and weak after all these years.
They stayed like that for a while, resting in each others embrace. Like a mother comforting her child.
Mags began showing her tiredness, so Finnick got up.
As he stood, she laid down and made herself comfortable on the large bed.
He moved to leave when Mags suddenly grabbed his wrist. Her grip was weak but he put up no fight as he had no reason to escape. She pulled him in closer.
"They are victims too," She whispered in her thick accent.
He nodded.
She let go.
He kissed her forehead and pulled up the covers. Something she used to for him.
Mags gave him a small smile then waved him off as if to say 'go sleep, you silly boy'.
So he did. Or at least he left the room.
Closing her door, he made a promise.
He knew Mags wouldn’t kill anyone. Not just because she couldn’t in her old age, but because they were her friends. But they had grown to be more like family to her.
As a favor to Mags, he wouldn’t kill anyone. Not unless he had to.
He planned on returning to his room, but there was a stop he had to make first. Annie's room.
He didn't enter. Just standing in front of the door, reminiscing.
They'd already said they're farewells, this was just for him.
Pressing his forehead to her door, he remembered.
When the Victors had played up her craziness to save her, "Poor mad Annie Cresta" became very popular among the Victors
Every moment together, away from prying eyes. Stolen kisses, feather light touches, cuddling. Even little dates when they could.
He stayed like that, trying to remember every little thing until his legs ached.
Pressing a hand to the door was a final goodbye.
Returning to his room, flopping onto his bed and pulling up the covers were the easiest things he'd done all day.
Before he fell asleep, he made another promise. A promise to Annie. To survive.
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Porter had stepped out for a minute, to do something or another.
The Victors turned tributes didn't care. They simply sat on the maroon couch in silence.
Porter was their Mentor as she had been for both of them decades ago. Something none of them had ever thought would happen again.
The slience was suffocating, even as their minds raced. Neither would do anything to stop it.
Not until the male tribute leaned forward to grab Porter's abandoned wine glass, which was still half full.
"Elio don't," His district partner, Tadi, said sternly. She wasn't going to let him get drunk before the games, that would only end in disaster.
The man paused, then tried to be discreet while reaching for the glass.
Tadi saw and gave him a hard stare. She was getting tired of his obsession for alcohol. But he just glanced at her before trying again.
Just as his finger grazed the glass, her voice booms. "Elio, don't," Tadi scolds him, voice raised with a sense of finality.
To his credit Elio does stop. But he stares at her, defiance in his eyes. She glared back, anger visible in hers.
His hand was so close to freedom, but he relented falling back onto the couch. Despite his compliance, Tadi stood up, her anger clearer as she moved to face him.
"Do you really want your friends to hurt you? Or worse you to hurt your friends?" She almost shouted.
Her words stayed between them for a moment before he reacted. He didn't care about himself much, his extreme alcoholism was only one sign of it. Wordlessly, he went over to grab the open wine bottle. Instead of taking a swig, he maneuvered his way to the bathroom.
Tadi eyed him suspiciously, but followed him after grabbing the wine glass. He made plans, that's how he won, hopefully he still made good plans. If he didn't he would win an earful and probably his death.
The bathroom was large and extravagant, like all things in the Capitol. But they didn't care for the extremities or beauty of it, especially not in the moment. Elio took his place in front of the porcelain toilet and in one swift movement, started dumping the wine.
Tadi was surprised, recoiling in shock. Still, she made her way to the sink and poured out the wine. In a fit of celebration or perhaps anger, she smashed the glass against the wall. Thousands of glass shards bounce back, scattering themselves across the bathroom.
Elio startles but continues pouring until nothing left. Then, following his District partners example, he smashed the wine bottle against the toilet.
Millions of glass shards litter not just the bathroom, but themselves and even parts of the floor outside. They don't care.
Instead, they stare into each other's eyes. The inevitable crashing into them, they were going to die. Even so, the pair surged forward, lips crashing in a passionate kiss.
He didn't think he could kill anyone if this feeling existed. She wasn't going to kill anyone because this feeling exists.
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The tremors had set in much worse than before.
Each Hunger Games they would try to sober up, though it never really worked. After the three month announcement of the Quell, they didn't even try.
Today marked one week of sobriety for the pair. One of the younger Victors had forced them away from their morphling a bit before the reaping, an attempt to keep dignity for their District. Neither of them were happy about it, though the morphling would have been taken if they'd been reaped anyway.
The week of sobriety came with heavy withdrawal. Tremors, vomiting and brain fog were the worse. The brain fog clung to them desperately, making the pair spacey.
Despite this, they knew the rebel plan.
They would try their hardest to get it to run smoothly. But it wasn't like they could kill anyone, even if they wanted to. So, they'd use camouflage instead.
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Blight looked like he had aged 10 years in the few days between the Reaping and now.
Since the Reaping, he'd been thinking.
Johanna, on the other hand, had been angry, trashing the apartment each night.
However, tonight the pair sat on the couch together. Johanna hadn't even tried to destroy the apartment, she was sitting on the warm brown couch just staring into space with a slightly annoyed expression.
District 7 was apart of the rebel plan. Which Johanna had simplified to "Keeping Fire Girl and Bread Boy alive."
Blight had explained that, that wasn't exactly what they were supposed to be doing, but by the third time he gave up.
Tonight that wasn't the problem, he could tell. After her family had been killed, he had become a father of sorts to the young Victor.
So, after Johanna had stared into space for almost 20 minutes, Blight decided to do something. Plopping down next to her, making as much movement as possible had been his plan. It worked perfectly. The second his butt touched the cushion, Johanna scowled his way.
"What's on your mind?" He prodded softly, shifting to get comfortable.
Johanna didn't answer. Not for a few minutes. The question hung in the air, annoying and ever present as Johanna thought of an answer.
"I don't want to go back," She said, a slight tremble in her voice. A temporary break in the anger. Blight regarded her sadly for a moment, "Me neither."
He put an arm around Johanna, bring her closer. They stayed like that for a while, sitting with each other.
This was the calm before the storm and everyone knew it.
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Cecelia had spent the last half hour alternating between staring at Woof, who had refused to leave her side and subsequently fell asleep on the couch, and trying to write a letter.
Her will.
She'd made the letters to her children and husband during the three months before the reaping. She never thought she'd have to use them, but she ended up finalizing them on the train.
Yet she was having so much trouble writing her will.
District 8 never had much chance in the games, especially now with an almost completely deaf old man and a traumatized mother.
She didn't want to go back.
Something worse was that in Woof's brief moments of clarity, he knew what was happening. But instead of helping himself, he tried to help her. Her father figure acting like a father, yet she couldn't stand it.
She wasn't foolish enough to think he would win, but she didn't want any of them to die. Especially in the place where each came to be so broken.
With a slight shake of her head, she focused back onto her will. The scratching of pen on paper was becoming a familiar sound after all these letters, she wrote her will.
Giving everything to her husband, ordering the destruction of any Hunger Games memorabilia in the house and asking them to keep the letters.
It wasn't much, but she felt it to be enough.
Folding it neatly, she sat next to Woof on the couch. The contact thankfully didn't wake him. Settling next to him, she knew he didn't stand a chance.
Despite this, she vowed to take care of the old man, as he'd done for her all those years ago for her.
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Miller had been passive about everything during the days leading up to the Games. Every single thing. Only showing emotion during the interview.
Sillia wasn't having it.
"You have to survive," She told him.
He didn't respond. Not emotionally nor physically. Instead, the words rolled around in his brain. The first thing that came to mind was the fact that he was rather expendable.
An impatient hum came from the woman, reminding him that he was forced to respond.
But there was nothing of value bouncing around in his skull.
Looking up at her with a bored expression was difficult–he broke after one look.
Her eyes regarded him as if he were the best thing in the world but didn't know it. He didn't want to imagine his own dull eyes staring back.
"You are going to survive," Her voice strong as she rested her hands on her hips. The stance was firm, determined, forceful.
The words that leave his mouth are a surprise to them all. "You're going to survive to."
they both know Snow would never allow anything like that again–it's become a big problem for him after all. But it's nice to pretend.
"We're doing it my way." Sillia left to go to her room.
He wasn't going to fight it and it seemed they weren't going to fight anyone else either.
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They were laying on the floor. An odd position to find elder Victors in, but they refused. None questioned it, their mentors moved around them opting to step over them for plates, jumping onto couches and tiptoeing around them instead of bothering them.
"Your interview was a guilt trip!" Strend chuckles. His District partner, Devika, smiles back, laughing slightly. That might have been the goal, but she didn’t think that she did all that good of a job.
"Nothing could beat bread boy though."
The statement floated in the air as their laughter and smiles died. Both knew the attempts to stop the games were fruitless, but the Capitol outcry each Victor had built up during the interviews had done something. The final addition of Katniss being pregnant was finishing blow.
"I can't believe this is happening," Strend comments, solemnly though fear is not absent.
"It was bound to happen eventually, Snow had been getting fed up with Victors for years," Devika retorts plainly.
A dry chuckle escapes the man. He's in agreeance with his friend, as he so often is. She brings with her the ugly truth of the Capitol which she isn't afraid to share between Victors.
Neither made a sound for a while nor did their mentors. The quiet was unnatural but necessary.
Either Victor took time to think. Strend about his wife and kids. Devika about how she could not let the Capitol take her death as it did her life.
The quiet remained for so long, the mentors had left before another word was shared between them the tributes.
"Don't be a butcher," Strend broke the silence, his voice desperate.
"I wasn't planning on," Devika answers, saddened by the reality of what is to happen tommorrow.
"Me neither."
With that, the silence returns.
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Seeder thought herself to be far too old for this Game. Though, she shouldn't be complaining seeing as Mags was 80 and had volunteered. But Seeder was the third oldest Victor to participate in this wretched Quell. Yet here sat, on the edge of her bed accepting her fate. Because, there was simply nothing else to do. The Quell was to happen no matter what, the deaths of many would follow.
Chaff had refused to accept this. He'd always been a fighter, she thought to herself, the quiet remark holding too much weight.
Chaff was beyond frustrated. Of course he'd done this. His agitation made his itch for alcohol stronger, but he refused to succumb to the urge. He wanted there to be something more that he could do. Or something he should have done. But he knew Snow would never stop the Games. Still, he had faith in the rebellion, they would use the Capitol's outrage during the Games, it was the one thing they could do.
Seeder had accepted that nothing else could happen. But she wasn't just an old lady, he told himself, the words stayed in his mind for far too long.
Despite their grievances with one another, they promised to stay together.
With a sigh, Seeder collapsed onto her bed. If only this could just be a bad dream.
A thunk resounded as his skull hit the solid wall, his hand grasping around nothing as it longed for the familiar weight of a bottle. He wished this wasn't real.
Despite their differences, the pair agreed– the plot was too important for forced fights and needless deaths of Victors. Especially for the entertainment of President Snow.
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They were cuddling on her bed. The fiasco of the interviews still fresh in both their minds.
Despite their closeness, both their minds were elsewhere.
Katniss kept being brought back to her plan of keeping Peeta alive. It had one step, keep Peeta alive. But what about the Victors. They were experienced killers and were famed throughout the Districts. She clung desperately to half-baked plans, hoping that anything would be helpful.
Peeta had a similar dilemma. His thoughts churned and stewed in his head, but nothing became a real plan. How he would protect his 'pregnant wife' in the arena. The only criteria was to make sure she didn't do anything stupid, which could prove difficult.
Slience grew as the pair rested, though never uncomfortable. Instead it was a warm blanket atop them as the cuddled. Holding each other as time dwindled and the inevitable ticked ever closer.
Their respective feats of creating plans proved futile, as the Games were never certain. Not even within the arena. It made sure safety was never fully guaranteed.
A small comfort would have been in her ability to outsmart and maybe even kill the other tributes.
But this time they know. The tributes have families, friends. Their beloved throughout the Capitol, throughout Panem. Last year, they could pretend they were all just obstacles, their families, their lives weren’t important. The same obstacles are in the Games this year, but they have lives. Not just faceless kids who didn’t deserve to die but still did. They are Victors, murderers, survivors.
They didn’t want to kill any of them, but would if it meant keeping the other alive.
That was what both Katniss and Peeta wanted, to keep the other alive. So they promised themselves to do whatever it takes. Taking comfort in the knowledge they would keep each other safe.
A shared hand squeeze was the last thing they remembered before sleep carried them gently to dreamland.
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As the Victors slept, something was brewing. Under the surface, far from the Capitol in a dead District. A select few knew of the rebel plan. But none, not even the Victor’s themselves, were aware they’d all made the same plan.
Not that it would cause any issues, right?