I do not own the Hunger Games. The tribute belongs to her respective submitter.

I rise from the dream slowly, thought by thought, leaving behind a fragmented mess of half-remembered violence. Azure's broken face. Ocean water running red. Fenby's opened neck. Sebastian's face in the sky. People shuffle around me, speaking in low tones because they think I'm still asleep. The lights burn through my eyelids and I draw a sharp breath, but keep my eyes closed because I don't feel like engaging in conversation quite yet.

"She's recovering nicely."

"Agreed. The tan is a nice touch."

Tan?

I sit up and stare at the two orderlies loitering at the foot of my bed. They jump, startled by the sudden movement.

"What do you mean, tan?"

The fat one rubs her sausage hands together nervously. "We- we took the liberty of dyeing your skin a few shades darker." When I don't respond, she sheepishly adds, "You know, to give you a golden glow! It's all the rage nowadays. Makes you look more athletic."

As if I care about looking athletic.

"Also," the other one says, hiding a smirk behind her bright pink fingernails, "it hides your sunburn."

I look down at my arms. There's an IV sticking out of my left elbow and my skin is definitely darker than I remember, though "golden glow" is a bit of a stretch. It's a bit too orange, but at least it looks almost natural. It could be worse, I suppose.

I could be dead.

"What day is it?" I ask, trying to discern the angle of the sun through the window. It looks like late afternoon, maybe early morning.

"Why, it's today, silly," the fat one says.

The non-fat one rolls her eyes. "The Game ended earlier today. You've only been sleeping for a few hours." Her eyes light up as she remembers something. "Speaking of which, your interview is in three hours. Your prep team will be in shortly."

I sink against the pillows, and the orderlies leave me to my own devices.

Three hours. I'll get to relive my time in the arena, whilst dealing with pointless questions and pretending to feel remorse for those who died. I can't think of any better way to spend my evening.

The stage lights are bright, but not blindingly so. My face feels heavy under a mask of makeup. The stylists spared no expense, and I feel like a painted doll.

"Well, Miss Toulley." Caesar's teeth glimmer brightly, lips pulled back in the kind of smile that brings sharks to mind. "You certainly surprised us all."

I sneer internally, though I outwardly offer him a warm grin. In the most sickly sweet, yet believable tone I can manage, I ask, "How do you mean, Caesar?"

His smile falters for a second, but, ever the showman, he recovers equally fast. "Well, your training score was rather low. And you were competing against many other capable tributes!"

I chuckle, and it isn't a nice sound, but the audience doesn't notice. They laugh with me like the sheep they are. "I guess you're right. But, much like age, training scores are just a number." Resting my chin on my fist, I add, "They don't mean much out of context."

Caesar gestures to the huge television screen sitting above our heads. "Well, then, let's get some context!"

The lights dim, the audience claps, and a few whistles spring up here and there. I wonder how far they had to search to find these sycophants.

A few select reapings are shown, including mine and all of the other Career's. Sterling, Nieve, Solaris, and some other fan-favorites are shown, too. Then, the training scores, including my rather low 5. Apparently, most of the sponsors were betting on Adonis and Azure. Go figure. The rest were almost evenly split between Sebastian, Amalithe, Fenby, Solaris, Sterling, and Jorah, whilst virtually ignoring everyone else. I fell under the category of "everyone else".

All twenty-eight tributes are shown as the clock runs down. Then it hits zero, and everyone leaps for the Cornucopia at once.

Sebastian corners the boy from Thirteen and snaps his neck, the first death of the Game. Funny how the kid's life was only worth a bow and some arrows.

Apatura, being the especially sadistic creep he was, goes after Padoa, laughing like a maniac. Jorah comes to her rescue, and the boy from Six dies with a dagger in his heart. It reminds me of how I killed Nieve, and a pang of something like regret, something weak, stirs in my gut. I ignore it.

Jorah and Padoa run off to join Sebastian and me, leaving the Cornucopia unguarded. Most everything good is taken within a few minutes.

Adonis kills Barnabas, and Lapis kills Steven. But Vespera surprises everyone by killing Ionette on accident, thinking that the girl was one of the Careers. Vespera doesn't take it well.

A few hours later, Azure kills Nix, though judging by her apprehension, I'm fairly certain she only did it under Adonis's prompting. He was as toxic as they come. It's a good thing neither Sebastian nor I decided to fight alongside that cretin. He probably would have killed us in our sleep.

Apparently, something odd happened with the sponsor gifts, because one note almost got Evaine killed and the girl from Zero received some bread, then received a note telling her not to trust the gifts. Huh. I never got any gifts, other than at the feast, though I suppose the bread from Etsy's bag counts. Though I had none of it, since Sebastian ate it all before I could have any. Maybe that's why...

No. He was a deeply flawed, dangerous individual and it was right to leave him.

Up on the screen, Sebastian and I decide to leave the two from District Seven, because they were weak. Somewhere else in the castle, Vespera strings Rion up in a trap, then dispatches the sniveling girl with a broken sea urchin spine. A few people in the audience gasp. Apparently, few people realized that Vespera was that crazy, though they've already seen this fight, so none of it is really a surprise to them. Maybe they just like reacting to things.

My heart slams against the inside of my ribcage as the cameras switch to early morning, following Sebastian and me as we edge along the lagoon. Back at the castle, Lapis notices our movement, and like the idiot he was, comes out to investigate. I dig my fingernails into my palms, preparing to relive my first kill. Watching myself murder the boy is more difficult than I expected. The memory stings.

Then, the unlucky Valorie falls to Fenby, though it's more of an accident than planned murder. It put a rift in their alliance than never quite healed.

Kyrie falls to his death after the gamemakers apparently decided that he and Zea didn't have enough shit to deal with already.

Sebastian appears on the screen once more, and I see myself in the background. Etsy stands beside a hole in the ground, where her district partner fell in, and Sebastian promptly sends her to join Solaris at the bottom of the pit. She dies a few moments later. I still remember the exact pitch of her scream, and how it rang in my ears for days afterward. Who knows, maybe it's still ringing, and I've just gotten used to it.

Later that same day, District One and District Seven got into a huge fight, leaving Padoa dead. Shortly afterward, Amelithe kills her own district partner. The crowd boos, apparently since killing your district partner, no matter how crazy, is off-limits.

Then, Sebastian appears on the screen, sprinting after Sterling and the girl from Nine, leaving me to fight Fenby all by my lonesome. I win, of course.

Sebastian kills Alina, and in turn, Sterling kills Sebastian.

So that's how he died.

Later that evening, Vespera snapped and tried to kill Nieve, but Nieve held her own and the girl from District Five died, instead. Julian is torn apart by crab mutts, which I remember well. Amelithe ambushes Evaine. Stark kills himself, but takes out Amelithe in the process, leaving Zea to fend for herself. Azure and Jorah catch up with Sterling and Solaris. It doesn't end well for Solaris, and since his is the sixth-to-last death, they announce the feast as soon as his cannon sounds.

Sterling meets Zea in the castle halls, and runs her through with a spear. I watch myself run away, feast spoils in tow. After I leave, Sterling tries and fails to fight off Azure and Jorah, though he manages to place Jorah firmly in Nieve's sights, whereupon she kills him with burning oil.

And then the finale. Azure and Nieve scuffle a bit on their way to see me, but they both live long enough for me to kill them. Azure fights and fails, and I smash her skull in.

As Nieve and I face off, a few people in the audience start cheering for their favorite, though most call my name. It's shamefully gratifying.

Screen-Venera runs Nieve through with the dagger, and a huge cheer goes up from the crowd. I flinch and try not to roll my eyes. They've seen every single frame of this already. This is no surprise.

Still, when the lights come back on and Caesar asks me how I feel, I tell him that I feel like a winner.

And the bastard laughs with the rest of them.

Mother and father are waiting for me at the station. I can't make out their expressions from this distance, but I like to imagine that they're smiling for me.

When the train stops and I hop off onto the platform's swirling brickwork, I see that, although mother looks pained, father actually is smiling.

Bitterness flares in my gut. My survival isn't important to him. He's only happy because he thinks that, as the father of a victor, he can take it easy from now on. After all, I now have more money that he ever will, along with a steady annual income ensured by the government of Panem. I'm like his personal piggy bank.

Of course, I'll give him my winnings. A small portion, at least. Refund all of the years of training and then some. I suppose I owe him that much, if only so he'll stay off my case.

As I approach them, mother's eyes never leave me. It's a good thing she chose waterproof mascara this morning, because her eyes are red-rimmed and her cheeks are wet with tears. I awkwardly shove my hands deeper into my coat pockets. I don't think I've ever seen her display this much emotion at one time, and I'm not entirely sure how to deal with it.

She reaches out, and I'm so stunned that I don't have time to pull away before she wraps me in a hug.

"I thought I'd never see you again," she murmurs, pressing her lips against my ear. My hair muffles her already soft and fragile words. "I love you, Venera. I'm so glad you're home." She squeezes me a bit tighter, then lets go and takes a step back.

Through my utter surprise, I realize, with an echo of disgust, that I could very well get used to this. Father is an unflinching bastard and that won't change any time soon, but a normal mother would be nice. Even a slightly-more-normal-than-before mother would be an improvement.

Father places his hand on my shoulder and tightens his grip. "We knew you could do it."

Like hell you did.

I say nothing, and after a few moments of my dead-eyed stare, he lets go.

A little sheepishly, he says, "Your new house is awfully nice. Would you like to see it?"

I bite down hard on my tongue before I can say anything I'll regret. The fact that he's seen my house before I have makes me irrationally angry.

With a semi-forced nod, I follow him and mother to the car. I actually do want to see what I won at the expense of four lives.

My new house is big and empty. No one has ever lived in it, but someone spent the time and effort to take care of it during the eighty-one year interim. Thanks to whoever that was.

The back windows look out upon a ridge of distant mountains, a river, and a lot of trees. Someone took the liberty of installing a beehive in one of the adjacent yards, way off at the edge of my property. Probably Griffin, since he likes disgusting things.

In total, there are five bedrooms, two bathrooms, one kitchen, one living room, one dining room, three walk-in closets, a basement big enough to live in, and an independent outbuilding that I'm sure my father will fill with masonry equipment by the end of the year. Not to mention the five acres of relatively untouched land, all to myself. And technically my parents, but mostly myself.

It's much nicer than my old house.

Sebastian's mother glares at me from the other side of the pit, blue eyes overflowing as her son's casket sinks into the earth. With her little black dress and veil, she pulls off the bereaved mother and grieving widow quite well.

I don't pity her. I don't pity her son. He made his choice, but he didn't have the power to redeem his family name. Now, his mother will have to live out the remainder of her miserable life alone and in disgrace because of his failure. It's sad, sure. But it's also none of my concern.

Leaning close, Enobaria asks, "Would you like to say anything?"

I shake my head, even though he's the reason why I'm still alive. In a twisted way, he showed me that I was strong enough to do it on my own. If he hadn't lost it, I probably would have stayed with him, and he probably would have killed me at his earliest possible convenience. Not that I can blame him, of course. It's just the way the Game works.

It seems odd to thank him for falling apart in the arena, but I silently thank him anyways, wherever he may be.

There isn't much else I can do.

I awaken with a start, heart racing, and the nightmare starts to fade. Every dark corner of my big, expensive room seems to roil with the dead tributes, shuffling around and sending hateful glares at me because I'm the one who killed them. And even if I didn't, they're dead because I'm alive. So maybe they have a right to hate me either way.

I pull the covers up over my head. It's always worse at night.

It is only after three weeks and endless coaxing that Enobaria finally tells me what was wrong with the sponsoring system. Apparently, the head gamemaker thought it would be fun to disallow mentors from spending any money on their own tributes, whilst granting them the ability to spend money on other districts and lie about the gifts' origins.

The head gamemaker correctly assumed that most of the mentors would attempt to sabotage other districts. Enobaria sent the note to Evaine. Griffin sent the pills to Adonis. Azura sent the bread to Etsy. Each gift was intended to either incapacitate or kill the intended tribute.

She called this the "Axiom", referring to her belief that humans are cruel once you get down to it.

From what I've seen so far, I think she's right.

Condensation accumulates on the sides of the glass, and I make a show of watching the droplets roll down into the white tablecloth. My supposed date is awfully boring, and he keeps staring at my rack for socially unacceptable lengths of time, as if there's an interesting television show broadcasting from my cleavage. The guy's a total creep. Honestly, I'm starting to understand why victors usually only date other victors.

We met at one of the more posh social gatherings in District Zero, mostly attended by talentless hacks who are famous for no logical reason. He was one of the few people either brave or dumb enough to speak to me, and I mistook his confidence for intelligence and refinement. Now, I'm paying for it. We have no shared interests, almost no shared values, and I'm pretty sure he only has one thing on his mind. I hope he's prepared for disappointment.

When the waiter arrives with our check, my date smirks and makes a thinly-veiled reference to my winnings. Not only is he a pervert, he expects me to foot his half of the not-too-negligible bill, too. Obviously he has no idea how to treat a lady.

"You know," I say, interrupting his monologue about some obscure and likely irrelevant economic practice, "the last guy at least brought me flowers." He finally tears his eyes from my boobs, and I can feel the ice crystallizing in my words, molecule by fed-up molecule, before I even open my mouth. "What's your excuse?"

He splutters and squirms in his seat, probably sifting through his fantastically pompous vocabulary for a word strong enough to convey his utter loathing for a disrespectful wench such as myself. Whatever.

I pay for my food - only my food - and pull my shawl around my shoulders, which, much to his disappointment, covers everything below my collarbone. "I'd say this was fun, but then I'd be lying. Have a nice life."

I leave him at the restaurant and I don't look back. I don't need to waste my time on fools.

The night is cold and the city is bright. District Zero's light pollution blocks out all but the strongest stars, though the extensive skyline more than makes up for it. Despite the late hour, thousands of cars flow through the roads below, dots of white surging through the city's veins, pulsing with the stoplights. A living creature, ready to devour the unwary.

I lean my elbows against the railing. Inside the glass doors, a bunch of drunk actors, businessmen, politicians, athletes, and victors are schmoozing, talking about their successes and perpetually trying to exert dominance over the situation via one-upmanship. It's infuriating.

Luckily, my appearance agreement mentioned nothing about actually interacting with the other guests. I just have to show up and stay for four hours. Three down, one to go.

Behind me, the sliding glass door opens, then shuts. I turn to see a rather handsome young man, dressed like every other guy at the party, though his hair color is conspicuously natural. Of course, I've seen his face countless times in recaps, as well as a few times in person, though we've never formally introduced ourselves. He was one of the victors I studied in-depth before volunteering, and it's a little surreal being in his presence.

Darius Maverick walks up alongside me and stares out at the city, holding a glass of champagne. "You looked a little lonely out here, so I figured I'd join you."

"But the people in there are so interesting," I say, keeping my voice flat. A blast of bass rattles the concrete under our feet, and someone inside laughs far too loud. "How could you deprive yourself of such scholarly conversation?"

"Because they're also very drunk. And even though it's entertaining, once you've seen the eight types of drunks, you've seen them all."

"Eight?"

He nods, and takes a sip of champagne. "Yes. I've studied the topic extensively, and I've come to the conclusion that everyone falls under one or more of the following categories: fun, sad, angry, tired, sycophantic, dumb, serene, and horny."

I almost smile. "Oh? And which are you?"

He sighs. "Either tired or dumb, depending on the day. Usually dumb." Throwing a glance over his shoulder, he says, "But the idiots in there are all sad, angry, and horny. Not the best combination, so I figured I'd get some fresh air." He whips his wrist out of his pocket and looks at his watch. "For the next fifty-eight minutes."

"Probably a smart choice," I say.

He says nothing, and we fall into a conversational gap, but the lack of words is far from uncomfortable. He respects the value of silence, and I like that.

We remain as such until one of the shitfaced hostesses opens the door to the best of her impaired ability and commands us both to rejoin the party. "Come on," she slurs, half of her bright makeup smeared beyond repair. "You guys can't spend the whole nigh' out here. Really." She grabs Darius's sleeve, and I'm one hundred percent certain that she's only interested in him.

"Apparently not," he says, unable to suppress a mocking grin. He looks to me, and his eyes soften. "Catch you later, Toulley."

I raise my hand to wave goodbye, and he disappears into the apartment.

Now, deprived of any decent company, I once again want to go home. Forty-two minutes, and counting.

Enobaria leans back in the plush seat, gaze fixed on the dirty, claustrophobic streets of District Three. People line the roadways and alleys, and I find myself searching for any faces that look similar to Nieve's, maybe her mother or a sibling. None of the gaunt, spiteful faces seem familiar, though, and I breathe an internal sigh of relief.

"Victory tours are stupid," I say, twirling a lock of hair around my finger. "I don't want to be here, and they don't want to see me. They already know what I'm going to say, anyways. Glorious Panem this, glorious Panem that."

"You're here to remind them why their tributes lost."

"That will just piss them off."

"Maybe. But that's the way it goes."

"'The way' is stupid."

Enobaria cuts me a warning glare. "Shoulda thought about that before you volunteered."

"Maybe I should have," I say, gnawing on my hair.

Maybe I should have.

"That one is mine." Darius points to one of the bigger boats in the harbor, and I hold my hand above my eyes to block the glare of the sun. It's sleek and well-designed, but not too flashy. Seems like something he would buy.

We walk down the dock, dodging a group of running children and ignoring a few odd stares from fellow boaters. They probably recognize me, and they surely recognize Darius, since his likeness is plastered across all of their training centers, held up as a shining exemplar of Careerdom. And seeing two victors out in public is fairly unusual. More likely, though, is that they don't want anything to do with two bona fide murderers.

We stop in front of the boat, which he apparently named "Harbinger", and he starts untying it from the dock.

"Can you sail it?" I ask.

He rolls his eyes, coiling the rope on the sun-bleached wooden planks. "No. I bought a boat just to stare at it."

I run my hand along the shiny chrome railing. "In all fairness, it is rather nice to stare at."

"This is true." Hopping into the boat, he turns to me and offers his hand. "Care for a ride?"

I know the game he plays. Narrowing my eyes, I ask, "What's the fare?"

"For you, I'll cut a deal. You merely need to confess your undying love for me."

"Sorry, Darius." I step onto the boat, ignoring his outstretched hand, and it rocks with my added weight. "I only want you for your body."

He sets his mouth in a line and pretends to think it over. "I guess that will have to do." He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me a little closer. "So, where to?"

"How about somewhere quiet?"

He offers a sly grin. "I think I know a place. It's only a little ways up the coast, and we'll even back before dinner."

"How many people will be there?" I ask, completely aware of all the eyes currently trained on us.

"Absolutely no one. And it's one hundred percent legal, so no peacekeepers."

I raise an eyebrow. "Who'd you have to bribe to find a place like that?"

"Excuse you. I found it on my own. As you know, victors have a lot of free time." Casting his gaze to the horizon, he adds, "Too much, maybe." His smile returns. "But that's beside the point."

He starts singing, quiet though surprisingly on-key. "As I was walking down Paradise Street, a pretty Young damsel I chanced to meet." Planting his foot on the dock, he pushes the boat away, then returns to the helm and guns the engine. "Da da, da da, something, something something." We pull out into open, sparkling water, and someone on another boat waves. We wave back. Darius keeps singing. "I'll give you fair warning before we belay, don't ever take heed of what pretty girls say."

I don't hide my smile. "Truer words were never spoken." He laughs, and as we sail parallel to the cliffs, I rest my head on his shoulder.

This is my victory. It is enough.

And that concludes the story. Congratulations Venera, and thank you, Teddy, for giving me such a wonderful and versatile tribute! The obituaries have been posted, and the blog has been updated for the last time.

Thanks for reading, and Happy New Year!

For those of you who don't know, I'm launching another SYOT called "Lockdown". Submissions will officially open when I post the prologue sometime in the next few days.

So long, Sand Castles. I knew thee well.