word count: 2892
genre: angst/tragedy
warnings: blood and minor character deaths
i feel like people are gonna come for my soul after this oneshot, also you might be able to get an update next week, as this was supposed to come out yesterday but i forgot.

he is tired. he has always been tired. he stands on his floor, the Capitol above him, directing his movements, like he is a puppet, and they are his master.

he supposes that this is true, as he has given up a long time ago. they are always cruel, as when he was chosen as the male tribute for district ten. when he had to slaughter innocents, just for freedom outside of the Games.

he remembers the train ride to the Capitol. he tries to talk to the other tribute from ten, but she only stares at him, refusing to speak to him. probably assuming that he will be dead, anyway.

—————————————————————

one smiles at him. they are gathered around a campfire. the first two and the second are up for defence. both tributes from three are there, and the female from eleven.

they are gathered around, casually chatting about how they will kill the others in the Games. The other male from one is most likely to win, out of sheer strength, though the other from his district will give him trouble.

he feels like he should know these tributes names, but he doesn't and he doesn't bother to learn them. giving them names seem to be more trouble than they are worth, as he will have to kill them later on.

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"i trusted you." one croaks at him. he had chosen the weaker one, but the clever one from district one, for his target.

one is hanging by his fingers, which he kicks out from under them, they fall. the trap is set off, the cannon barely hearable above the explosions he had placed for one's demise.

—————————————————————

the Capitol tells him that he should train the new ones from ten. he will not bother to learn their names, as ten rarely has winners, and they will be dead soon enough.

but ten has more capable winners, so they will not need him. they will not need a brute, who backstabbed his own to get victory. he is no better than district one and two.

so here he is, the Victors Village, where people can die of natural causes, living like kings after the Games, but that— this life is not for him. if he leaves, he will die because the Capitol does not like people who win who try to escape Panem. they will die.

he knows that, but he stares across at the bland walls of his house, that seems so neat and organized. he is not organized, or neat. he is a mess. he will not let the Capitol become him, he wants to go back to himself.

so he rips away the white wallpaper. he rips the cameras too, he does not like them watching him, to make sure he will not escape.

he rips the floor too, dark syrup coming out of it, like blood.

—————————————————————

three hugs him, smiling at him. three has hazel eyes and brown hair.

then he is trying to halt the bleeding of three, but he cannot. he knows that three is dying, but he still says that he will be alright, he will stop the bleeding, he will be okay.

three knows that he is dying though, and he is okay with that. he, however is not okay, he cannot lose a friend, he cannot lose him.

three tells him it will be alright, but both know that he is lying.

he doesn't know what else to do for three, (Impulse—), so he holds his hand, they both know it is too late for him.

the cannon goes off, and he wails as three's eyes become unfocused, as he has slipped away to somewhere he cannot go.

he takes the sword from three's back, what had killed him, he swears that who ever had done this would die.

he leaves, three, though unwillingly. he doesn't want three to be carried off by that hovercraft, but he has to. he knows that he will avenge three, no matter how many days it will take.

he will do anything for revenge, even if it means losing himself along the way.

—————————————————————

he is now on floor ten, awaiting the two new tributes from his district. he does not know why the Capitol has decided that now it would be a best time to train, as the tragedy of what he did still fresh in the districts minds.

they will always hate him, even his own district and his fellow Victors, for what he did. his hands will always be coloured red, no matter what he tries to do.

it is the same when they come out, and they see him. the female pales, as her sister was apart of the massacre that he had wrought, and the male snarls at him, tells him everything that he will do to him.

he wishes he can tell them how much he hated that, hated the blood on his hands, that he wants to die, that he should have been the one to die instead of one, but the Capitol will know.

he is just a puppet. he has no voice or say in the matter, he will always be the figurehead of the massacre, for that is what he was, what he will always be.

he is a monster. they tell him.

he knows that it is true. he knows it. he also knows that he will never forget those faces, the faces who haunt his dreams, who asks him why did you kill me. why did you kill me. WHY DID YOU KILL ME. WHY DID YOU KILL ME.

—————————————————————

they are gathered around the campfire again, the only person that they are missing this time, though is the one he killed. he is still guilty, he always is.

one wasn't supposed to die, but he killed them anyway.

the first tribute from three is next to him. they talk a bit, before three smiles at him, not knowing that he was the reason one is dead. they will hear about it anytime soon, so he commits threes face, with his red eyes and blond hair and smile to memory.

the anthem plays, showing that twelve, including one died. the remaining tribute from one is furious, how did he die? but nobody except him knows, and he will never tell them.

—————————————————————

he talks about how to play your strength and weaknesses to the new tributes, who always stare at him as if he killed their grandmother, which he supposes he did, as nobody will forget all the blood on his hands.

they describe it as a massacre, though he feels that the word is too small for what he has done. what he has done for revenge for his two closest friends in the game.

he is getting tired of wearing the cold mask of the Games, but he cannot take it off and reveal his true colours, they will just hate him more than he already did.

he cannot take the mask off, it has almost become him now, nothing like the person he was before these dreaded Games chose him, before he became a murderer and a monster.

life was so simple before he had been picked. though he doubts that he will never know or meet three's tributes.

—————————————————————

he tends the sheep, on the month before he is chosen. he has to be busy or else the Peacekeepers will...

move along, they tell him, as if his thoughts had summoned them. it is almost time for the tributes to be announced.

he hopes it will not be him, but he has never been lucky, never will be lucky.

so when his name is announced, nobody stepping up for him, he only chokes back a sob, raises his head, and steps towards the podium.

he does not cry.

he reinvents himself right there on that damn platform, breaking himself and than building himself back up.

so he watches the other tribute, the girl, walk up, all confidence and wicked sharp edges. she wasn't going to back away from this, she will probably win. (she will die from one's hands, though he doesn't know this yet)

—————————————————————

eleven has brought back a few spoils, some herbs that you could chew up before spitting out on your wound, that would heal it quicker, she says. she also brings back fruits that are safe to eat, as well as a few deadly poisons.

eleven does not show this to one or threes' tributes, but he sees this. he says nothing, though. he won't give away her advantage, not yet. something more noticeable, is that her searching has stained her pink cardigan (he doesn't understand how she managed to get it past the Peacekeepers) a variety of colours.

It's pretty on her.

eleven laughs, as one of threes' cracks a joke. he allows himself to relax with his friends allies, allows himself to crack jokes for their leisure. this has been the most happiest he has been since he has started.

—————————————————————

he holds eleven's head underwater. she struggles weakly, her oxygen depleting quickly. oh so quickly. he waits, soon she struggles no more. he still holds her down, until her body becomes light, until he feels her pulse, which there is none.

her cardigan has slipped off during the struggle, though it surprises him that the colours staining it does not seem to be washed off. then again, he has no idea where she went to get those herbs.

he cleans his face and hands of where eleven had scratched him trying to flee from him. he only feels hollow after her death, another light that he has stolen from the games. from the world.

she didn't deserve going into the games. none of the others did. she is in a better place now. (hopefully)

he should not think of them now. they are dead, and he is living. this is their difference. (humanity slipping away)

—————————————————————

it is only the threes' one, and him. one is constantly curling his fists, before uncurling them. he is angry. no, he is furious.

he thinks one of them did it.

one is right, of course. he has done this. there is only nine of them left out of the twenty four that have started. it only the third day, surprisingly. than again, the games have been quite fast now.

what will happen next? who knows. it will be bad, he knows, it will result in lots of death wouldn't it.

he can't explain how he knows this, but he knows that soon all of it will end in tragedy.

he drifts off to sleep, feeling a bit unsafe, thinking that he will have to part ways from the Careers, and soon. before it was too late for him.

—————————————————————

he wakes up, with a sense of impending doom. well, he always had had impending doom, it was just more this time.

one is awake, but threes' tributes aren't. he checks both of them. only one has a pulse.

he glances over at one. (three's dead.) he says, nodding at the blond.

one snarls angrily. (they must've struck again. i'll kill them all.)

three awakes at the snarl, looking around in confusion. he understands what has happened though, as he scrambles over to his other tribute. (no no no no no)

he notices something about three, the dead tribute. he notices the trickle of blood leaving his mouth. he has a sinking feeling, which is only confirmed when he checks where eleven hid her poisons, where one of the deadly herbs is missing.

this is eleven's revenge.

a cry of pain draws him away, as he sees one, without his sword. he does not have to look far to see where it is. stabbed straight into three's back.

—————————————————————

he watches as the tributes enter the arena. the only sound is the whispering of trees. nothing is on their side, as the Capitol is seething, it is roaring for bloodshed, for death, for when all the tributes will die.

than it will start anew.

he wonders how long they will survive for this time, as nobody has won since he has, and nobody wants to remember what he did for survival. for his friends. or were they.

the lines were drawn, the crowds cheered, and now the 64th Hunger Games began.

—————————————————————

the announcements play, as he is in a tree, (three left. two left. two left.) the Feast they announce. It has been brought back to his surprise. he has not been paying attention.

he doesn't necessarily need to go to the Feast, but he knows the rest will, so he can go and finish the job.

three's blood is still on his hands, still surrounding him, it is all that he has thought about for days.

everything that has been taught to him has come in use, he learns. he has lots of blood to his name, something that will never be forgotten for.

it was time. it was time for him to win. not that he wanted to. but it was better than dying. or maybe dying was better.

the lines were blurred at this point. there was nothing left for him to think about now. he just has to win for them. (they won't be proud though. who would be proud of the monster that those dreaded Games have created)

—————————————————————

ten's tributes were killed like lambs to the slaughter. the female died first, running to the Cornucopia. the same thing he told her not too, that she'd be dead quicker than a blink.

she still did it anyway.

the male tribute died by the Careers.

the other Victors gave him cold looks, he hears their whispers constantly, while it would have bothered the old him, it does not both the new him. the monster that the Capitol had created. (what a monster, he didn't even prepare them!) (he just wants them to die, doesn't he?) (he's enough of a monster to do that.) (he massacred everybody in his Games, i can't see why he won't do that to our tributes!)

he wishes he can feel something to them, but mainly he feels nothing. he's felt nothing since he won.

—————————————————————

he distantly remembers that he has dreamt of something that night, but he doesn't know what. that is a blessing he doesn't receive often, though he has an awful enough time sleeping.

he is the last to reach the Cornucopia. the other tributes, four and seven. he is surprised that they are still alive, and all of them know that this wouldn't be a fair fight, even two on one. he is ruthless, merciless, he wouldn't stop until they were dead.

four and seven are on opposite sides of the Cornucopia, waiting. he approaches slowly, well aware that they know that he knows that they are here.

(waiting waiting waiting.)

Strikes.

(now.)

they clash swords, seven, four, and himself.

a dance to the death.

than the ground shakes, he remembers the natural disaster, though it usually never happened during the Feast--

it could be an earthquake, right? no, that was used last game. they would want something else. sinkhole? no, the Capitol would complain, it would be too boring. he ducks rough slash from four's sword.

it may have been dangerous to be thinking whilst fighting two people, but he would gain an edge.

landslides and avalanches he quickly dismissed as well as volcanic eruptions. there weren't any hills or mountains that could cause this.

tsunamis and floods were dismissed, any air disasters as well, there wasn't any wind or clouds that could signal anything.

what was worrisome was that the heat was rising. no fires, though. the Gamekeepers could have something to do with it.

he stumbles, four prepares her sword, ready to execute him.

he doesn't remember anything else.

—————————————————————

the other Victors are now skipping his turn when it comes to it. he does not know if he should feel disappointed. he doesn't know if his feelings should be muted either. he doesn't miss teaching the tributes.

they never listened to hi, did they. if they did he could have guaranteed the survival for the night.

he doesn't make an appearance anymore, either. there is nothing left for him, all the districts want his blood. or most of them, don't. he makes paper cranes, remembers, grieves, and continues.

the cycle continues. and continues. and continues.

something snaps him out of it. he can not place what it is that has snapped him out of this cycle, but it is much better than all the sadness that he builds up around himself. he has a spark of-- what?

he reaches to grab a pencil and a paper, letting the pencil touch the paper. he draws, creating a blueprint, something he gave up on. when he finishes it, he gets the sense that it is late. what he has, though, is good.

he gets an itch-- to build. he will build again. he will make a name for himself, not one that the Capitol made for him.

this is his beginning. (not the end)

—————————————————————

he holds the sword, stained with so much blood. dark red, as dark as it could go. the announcer says something, but he cannot hear it through the ringing in his ears. than --

(Congratulations, 'Zedaph' Victor of the 60th Hunger Games.)

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