Snapshots <A Study in Victor AU's>

Curtis Grant,Victor of the Sixty-Second Hunger Games

They always left him alone when he was drinking. Curtis Grant. District Seven’s sole victor. Half a man. Not that that had stopped the girls from throwing themselves at him. Hey, he’d left an arm an ear and a gallon of blood in the arena, not the important bits. But he was glad that people could tell when he was brooding, that they gave him a wide berth when he was drinking. Even the other victors did. He could see Mace and Opal sitting at a table a couple feet away, occasionally throwing glances his way.

Probably worried that he’d cause a scene like he did the year before. But he wouldn’t.

He was too busy calculating what he owed in child support and griping about it. But then, who hadn’t gotten Lethe Turner pregnant at least once? This was clearly not his fault. Well, not entirely anyway. He sighed and rubbed his eyes with his real hand before looking at the screen and watching the recap of the finale again. The girl would probably never look at snow the same way again.

Curtis downed the shot and demanded another. Another female victor. Hopefully she’d be better with the cameras than the redhead from last year. God, Patricia’s a bitch. Although I might just be saying that because she wouldn't give me the time of day. No, no, scratch that, Lethe’s a bitch for talking shit about me to her. And I’m drunk. He started laughing, drawing a couple looks from around the room, but he ignored them. He was used to people staring.  He'd been steadily going downhill for a couple years now.   

He’d found out that his mother had died a few months back, but he had found it hard to care. She’d been a user and an abuser and he had vehemently denied her any of his money. His siblings had gotten enough though, even if Cynthia was turning out like their mom, Colin wasn’t speaking to him and Cecil was afraid of him. And his siblings had never really gotten over how much better he’d treated Bran in the arena than he ever did them. He still missed the kid too.What a way to go out, killed by your own sister. Well, he’d put that bitch in the ground himself, screaming bloody murder as he hacked her to bits. Not that it had made talking to their family about Bran any easier on the victory tour. 

He sighed and stared at the bottom of his shot glass.

At least the Capitol had their ice queen now.

Fine by him.

Next year’s quell and tributes were Margaret Dubois’s problem, not his. He’d done his job.

Maybe now he could get a little rest.

Razor Creel, victor of the fifty-eighth hunger games

“Remember all the sadness and frustration, and let it go. Let it go.”

“Mr.Creel?”

Razor sighed and turned to look at the girl. He’d already forgotten her name, annoyed with her very presence. She’d been sent out by Victor’s View to do an article on him for his ten year anniversary. Ten years? When had that happened? She’d been grilling him about his experiences in the games, about hunting the tributes from twelve, killing Aenor and Lethe, about the latch crab and the granadillos and Saskia. It always came back to Saskia. He’d fallen silent when the girl had asked about her, staring at the picture he had on his mantel, a still frame of her, taken from the training scores montage.

“It took me years of therapy to stop hearing the voices.” He finally said, breaking the silence.

He’d made quite a stir, all those years ago. Some people had thought his actions during the last few days of the games had been an act, but once he’d gotten back, they knew something was seriously wrong. It just wasn’t normal to be hallucinating the voices of your dead father, your dead almost-girlfriend and your still alive older brother. They claimed it was a combination of malnutrition and infected wounds, but he knew better. He’d snapped, that was all there was to it. The games weren’t healthy for anyone, and he’d been borderline unstable before them.

“Is that why you don’t actively mentor anymore? Is it for your mental health?”

Razor shrugged.“

"No, but Cricket and Julian are gung-ho enough. They don’t need me. Besides, I’m a deacon now. I have other responsibilities.”

“But there hasn’t been a victor from district two since Ms. Antoinette. Some would say that you were better. And yet they don’t ask you to step in.”

Razor shrugged again.

“I may not be district two’s favorite son anymore, but I’m the oldest. They respect that at least.”

“But why won't you?”

A sigh of exasperation escaped his lips.

“Because I got tired of sending idiot careers off to their deaths when they should be acting like normal kids and not peacekeepers. When they should be living their lives, okay?” The interviewer’s eyebrows raised and he shook his head in disgust, glancing down at the cross he wore around his neck.

“Those are very…strong words Mr.Creel. Some would say...anti-capitol. Have you always felt this way? You were the ideal career for a while.” Razor laughed. “No, I didn’t. But Saskia Hamilton…opened my eyes.” Flower boy. For the first time in my life, someone was being genuine. Someone cared about me. And it was someone that by everything I had been taught came from a place that didn’t matter. District nine. Only careers were supposed to be important.” Razor shook his head and picked the picture up off of the mantle.

“She saw something in me, ironic as that may sound, and it made me think that maybe, just maybe there was more to life than being a career. Other things worth living for. I spent years looking for the answers, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the prevailing mentality in this district, in all the career districts is sick and twisted. Funny how it took a blind girl to make me see.”

He placed the picture back onto the mantle and shook his head. “You can cut whatever you need to; I know they’ll make you. Nobody wants to hear a former career talking about why he’s decided to hate the games.” Razor chuckled ruefully and stood with his back to the young woman, staring at the image of the girl from nine. "Ive got some other questions here..." He heard papers being shuffled."You've remained one of Panem's most eligible victor bachelors for years, have you not found the right girl yet?"

Razor turned slowly and gave the interviewer a dangerous look."I found the right girl," he said harshly before turning back to the mantle.

 "She died ten years ago."

Tears were forming in his eyes, and he wanted to curse the damn magazine people for dredging all of this up.

“I'll always love you Saskia," he said under his breath so that the interviewer couldn’t hear him. 




















I love you too.