goldwing, ii. mattio.

Nero put off his search for work again today. Family friends, mainly the Peacekeepers who have pulled strings for the past decade to stay with him and his brothers, and members of the community who pity their loss handle the majority of living expenses. Their cheques last for the month, and it's really all he and Nikolai need to survive on their own. Five years later and the loss of his brother still stings. Dmitri was one of the first, and the Capitol's revenge persisted still, totally six groups of twenty-four. One hundred and forty-four of them, and only six made it out alive. His brother wasn't one of them. In fact, he became the first example of the fallen, the first strike of the first victor.

"You can't take him away!" Nero pushed at the handful of Peacekeepers he did not know as they dragged his brother away under the guise of a new game. "He's on your side! He caught criminals for you, what are you people doing!" Pleas of a fourteen-year-old were met with no explanation, no apology, no words at all. They were just taking orders, his allies told him.

Spite sits in his mind still, taking aim at anyone that he could blame. The Peacekeepers (with the exception of those who take care of him and his brother,) the Capitol that chose Dmitri of all men, the District that failed to stand on the right side of history and paid the price. Hell, even the brief glimpses of Adder Ames that he has in his dreams. They deserve to be punished. If he manages to his Ames in the flesh, he wouldn't think twice about taking his hands around her neck until she ceased to exist. The first few victors that the Hunger Games produced made him feel the same way: Adder, Samiyuq, Babe. It wasn't until the fourth victor, Mohamed, and his fellow tributes' refusal to fight that the link between victor and Dmitri's murderer was severed. Death was bound to happen, he sees that now, but Nero can't forgive them. It remains in his head day in and day out, watching his brother bleed out from his gut in fuzzy black and white. The opportunity to say goodbye was nonexistent, and he can't move on.

How was he supposed to be the protector and provider for Niko, his brother four years junior, if he couldn't protect him from what put their brother in jeopardy? He couldn't rig the Reaping in his favor. All he can do is prepare him for the next two years, just in case.

It's why he put off the job hunt again today. He took notice of the flyers stamped around the district, advertising Terra Montague. The victor of the most recent games. The offer to meet her, and learn from her, was too big to pass up. She figured out how to win, and she's one of five currently who were able to do so. If anyone could teach Nero Kostas how to protect his brother, she could.

Many from District Two did not appreciate her presence. They harassed her on her first day in the area from the moment she stepped foot off of the train. Nero kept his distance from the hollering crowds. Their anger barely scratched the surface of reality. District Two has seen the Hunger Games from a winner's lens since Adder won, and while many hated her for what she did, it established the precedent early on that District Two's kids must be victors; anything else is a failure.

Nero lurks in the back of the room, watching as little kids practice what Terra teaches. The joy that the children take from it irks him. Sure, he wanted to learn and wanted Nikolai to learn, but not as a sense of entertainment. Survival is no laughing matter, yet the twelve year olds who can barely remember the days of the Rebellion find it comedic. Trauma radiates from the television screens in the District Square rather than waves of bombs and gunshots raises cracks in the streets' cement. Terra's old enough, she remembers it more than likely. Her face doesn't contain the joy that Two's children have.

He takes notes on a pad of paper as the children begin to shuffle outward. His wrist shakes, nervously writing down his questions. His handwriting used to be neat and in order, but over the past few years it deteriorated, along with his interest in most other things. What once had the promise of calligraphy is now claw marks with every stroke. Parents pull their children away, giving dirty looks to Nero as if he doesn't belong. Too young to have kids. Too old to take Terra's classes. Just a desperate fan.

He keeps his head down as she walks around the room, inching closer to him. The scratches on his paper become illegible with time. He couldn't seem too eager or else she might dismiss him entirely for wasting her time. She's on a schedule, after all.

"Can I help you?" She says in a low voice. Nero's eyes look just above the spiral of the notepad. She's looking directly at him.

Despite thinking about what to say through the entire class, the words on his page blur and he's at an entire loss.

Words tumble out one after the next, and Nero tries to make it cohesive at best.

"These classes, they feel all for show." It's been advertised as a Capitol event, so it must be for some strategic gain. But Terra Montague wouldn't teach it if she didn't have to. There's better things for a person from Ten to do. "Show me how I can really save my brother. Save all these kids."

She wouldn't stay here forever, either. She'll be gone on the next train out, probably to never return. One class wouldn't be enough to provide and protect Niko, or any of these kids.

Nero watched as the words popped up on Terra's teleprompter, hoping for a worthwhile response.