fourth time's a charm {justice}

It's all a riot. Cheering and congratulations, slaps on the back, pints thrown in the air, beer sloshing on the floor and soaking through to my socks, fingers wrapped around my collar and lips pressed against mine as I join in on the elation. Someone's hopped over the bar and started spraying the soda gun into the air as a few others stick their heads underneath the tap. The band has resumed playing, this time with a childish passion and offbeat rhythm. And someone's working a crown made out of bottle caps onto my head.

"Next round is on me!" I shout over the commotion, a surge of cheers rising again as the merriment continues.

It's pretty easy to get lost in a crowd this big and this loud. And I'm thankful for it. Beats sitting on some stage with a tie that Bambi slipped on just a little too tightly and smiling into a camera as they ask me how it feels to have another tribute from my district making it into the top eight. The top four. The finale.

"Do you wish you could've done this for your siblings? Or perhaps one of the Lumieres?"

I throwback a shot, slam the glass against the bar counter. I'm shouting for no reason, hands in the air, and I'm pretty sure this is the closest I've been to happiness in months. Obviously it's all an illusion, but alcohol- well, I've had enough of it to keep me from thinking too much.

At least until the din dies down and the young and overzealous journalists looking for their big break start pressing me for quotes and asking all sorts of questions I don't have the answers to. Or that I just don't want to answer.

"Justice, what are you drinking?"

"Whatever the bartender poured for me."

"Justice, smile!"

That's easy, though the flash leaves me blind for a moment while a few more people start asking questions.

"What did you say to Cynthia before the games?"

"Pretty sure I drank to her survival."

Which isn't a complete lie. I definitely downed a drink in her vicinity. Though to say it was in her honor or to her good health is an exaggeration. Sure, I've hoped everyone from One would come home, but I haven't invested too much in that idea since Pillar. And even then I can't say I put any amount of real effort.

"What do you think of her?"

"She'll win."

I finish what's left of my drink and stand, pens pressed to paper and a few cameras flashing in my face as I move away from the bar. I don't bother closing my tab. I'll be back in an hour when these people have moved on to bother Shelby or Teddy.

"No, no- I mean, do you think she's like you?"

"Like me?" I turn, brow furrowed and body swaying into a nearby bystander who's kind enough to stand me up straight.

"A career trained to kill who simply never found the taste for it?"

My blank gaze and expression apparently come off as a prompt for more of an explanation—"She said, 'Not all Careers enjoy killing...'"—which is the opposite of what I wanted.

"I know what she said," I cut him off.

I'm pretty sure I should answer him. But I'm not sure what he's looking for. And the truth of that question isn't really for me to say. Clearly what these people don't know is that the Careers who do enjoy killing are the anomalies. We're trained to kill, know dozens of different ways of ending a life, but really all we learn is how to wield tools, not killing. Not how to take a life, just how to stop a heart from beating.

Fighting has always been a means to an end. I simply fought so that the fighting would stop. Kellan and Kaiser were always stronger, always faster, always better. They always won the fights. And though I never enjoyed being called a pitiful excuse of a son, I fought as hard as I could for as long as I could until it was over. Blood in my teeth, chest aching, one eye starting to swell shut and it didn't matter that I didn't win. At least it was over.

"You told Scout Krigel before her death that you, 'never really wanted to be a Victor. Never even liked fighting all that much.'"

I take a step closer to him in an attempt to look intimidating as a fire flares up in my heart and starts pumping hot and fast through my veins when he quotes me.

"I thought you wanted to talk about Cynthia--"

"Yes, you see the similarities?"

I shake my head with a bit of laughter and take the makeshift crown off my head, tossing it at him as I starting pushing my way through the hoard of paparazzi.

"Mark my words," I say, using the doorframe to catch my balance. "Cynthia Rose Delgado will win."

"Wait, but--" he protests, trying to follow me. I turn and stop him with a hand extended; he runs into it.

"And I'm sure those similarities won't matter much. If she's smart, she'll hate me just as much as everyone else does."

I give him a slight shove, the force of it sending me stumbling backwards with a wide grin.

"Now stop pestering me and let me enjoy my day!" I say, smiling and shouting with arms to the sky as I make my way down the street.

"This is cause for celebration! Haven't you heard? District One is getting a new victor!"

And I'm sure she'll be far better than the last one.

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