By the time I get into my limousine and am on the way to the party, I've already been presented with no less than fifteen requests for me to model for various Capitol magazines and clothing brands by Fallon. I honestly don't even understand this Capitol fashion bullshit. And if I'm honest, I think most of the people here just look utterly ridiculous. In District 2, they teach us to look after and preserve the condition of our bodies, not to dye them different colours or inject gold under the skin. If I'm honest, they've always looked eery to me. They almost look like normal humans, but there's always some sort of unnatural twist to them.

My parents always told me that this night would be the highlight of my career—I think that was supposed to be their pathetic attempt at a pun— being at the center of attention of the Capitol's rich and famous, and officially joining the elite society of victor. The toughest club in all of Panem to get into.

We pass by rows of Capitolians lined up in the streets partying in celebration of my victory and waiting to catch a glimpse of my car going past to the Creed Family Hotel where the party will be held. They've all broken out the bottles of champagne, partying as if they've had their own victory. But they didn't have to kill people or run a risk of dying, I did. The solid gold laurel wreath that Snow had placed on my head about an hour ago is starting to feel heavier than I ever expected it to be.

I snap out of my trance as the vehicle comes to a smooth stop. Smile, I think to myself. Paint on a face like the Capitol people do their makeup, smile, and act like nothing's wrong. Just because the Hunger Games have ended, it doesn't mean that the show isn't over. In fact, I seem to be realizing more and more that this is a show that never stops.

I step out of the limo and hear people calling my name. Flashes are going off everywhere people screaming at me to look into their camera lenses so they can get a better shot. I oblige for a short while and stop to pose for some pictures. Not wanting to disappoint, I throw on my signature smirk and tilt my head at just the right angle to show off my best side.

I start to walk to the large hotel that has a red carpet set up leading to its main entrance. As I finally walk in the doors, I breathe in a huge sigh of relief. My fellow victors all stand to applaud me as I walk through the door, especially loud cheers coming from the District 2 tables. We represent the largest group of victors by a substantial margin; we've had more victors in the last ten years than 12 has ever had. To my surprise, I also get a decent amount of cheers from the District 1 and 4 tables as well, the other career districts.

Maybe they don't hate me for killing their people after all, I think to myself.

Maybe I've just overthought it. Everyone in the room here has killed people to get here.

For some strange reason, that thought comforts me because maybe, just maybe, it will let me settle the guilt that's threatening to eat me alive. The people in this room are in no position to judge me.

As the claps settle down I start to look for a familiar face in the crowd, one that I've desperately been hoping would be there. I panic slightly when I notice she's not sitting at either of the District 2 tables. Did she not make it? Is she too sick to travel? But sure enough, I spot the mop of grey hair and kind smile I've been searching for sitting with District 4. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my father get up to be the first to greet me, but I instead make a beeline for Grandma Sadie.

I engulf her into a hug, but I'm careful not to be too forceful with it. She reciprocates the hug and once her arms are around me, for the first time since leaving the arena, I feel safe. The muscles in my body relax and unclench as I melt into the hug. Her arms are dainty and frail, but warm and inviting at the same time. The faint smell of butterscotch candies hangs off of her clothes and a small, singular tear starts to work its way down my cheek.

There's so much I want to say to her. I want to tell her that she was right and go on a rant about how stupid I was, but this is neither the time nor the place for that. I'm not even sure I would know how to say it all anyway. I settle on simple, yet tried and true, "I'm so sorry."

We sit there for a moment, hanging onto the comfortable silence. After what simultaneously feels like an hour and not enough time, she lets go of me and wags her finger in my face. "Don't you ever go scaring me like that again."

I let out a small chuckle as I try to subtly wipe the tear from my face without anyone noticing. "I don't think you're going to need to worry about that," I assure her. I lock eyes with Grandma Sadie and I see her eyes soften even further as we come to a mutual and non-verbal understanding that I've realized what the Games truly are.

We're both pulled out of the moment by a small voice laced with a thick District 4 accent, "So this is the beautiful granddaughter you've told me all about."

I make sure Grandma Sadie gets back into her seat alright as I reach across the table to shake hands. "And you must be Mags. She's told me a lot of stories about the two of you."

"Only the good ones I hope," laughs Mags as I sit in one of the District 4 seats, hoping that whoever's seat I've just stolen won't mind. "We got into some real hijinks back in the day."

The two begin to regale me with stories of them at these sorts of parties when they were younger and I feel myself start to settle into the atmosphere. Maybe I can handle being a victor. I think I start to draw a few heads, being the new career victor who apparently doesn't want to talk to anyone but the old ladies and all, but I don't care.

"...and then, your grandmother fell into the fountain!" snickers Mag.

"Ah, well, only a little bit," she responds. A silent beat passes before they burst out laughing, there apparently being some sort of inside joke that's gone over my head.

Mags begins to look around the ballroom, searching for someone. "Where did that darned boy go?"

"Right here. Sorry, I had to use the restrooms," the blonde boy apologizes to Mags, approaching her from behind with a goofy grin on his face. I remember his Games. Everyone from 2 was going wild when he took out our tributes, not out of anger, but in admiration. In my last few years at the Academy, they made us study his tapes over and over and over again, telling us that this is exactly what we need to do to win. A poster child, the golden boy of the Games.

Mags gives a small grin and pats the boy on the chest. Mags, and even my grandmother, seems to be fond of him which puts me at ease because I trust their judgement in character. "It's fine, dear." Mags assures him as she motions to me, "Meet Octavia, the newest victor."

"Oh, you can just call me Tavia," I say. "Or Vee. Whichever one you like better."

"I see you've come to join me as part of the old lady crew," he says which earns him a swift hit to the chest from Mags.

"As much as I could chat with you all night, dear, we'll have plenty of time on the train. You should go introduce yourself to everyone," says Grandma Sadie.

"Oh, Finnick," says Mags as she puts down her drink. "You should go with her."

Finnick and I make slightly awkward eye contact, but he agrees and gets up from the table with me nonetheless.

"So, you're the infamous granddaughter I've been hearing all about," says Finnick. I can tell Finnick is trying to read me, or at least get a sense of me, because I can see the curiosity in his eyes.

"I guess," I shrug as I try to search his face for a sense of where he's going with this.

"I hang out with Mags a lot at these things so naturally, I spend a lot of time with your grandmother as well. Wish she was my grandmother," he says, raising his eyebrows as he takes a drink. "It's nice to get away from the hormonal female fans for once, which reminds me shouldn't you be drooling over me too at this point? I mean I have most girls at hello." There's the Finnick Odair I expected to meet. Flirty, confident, and all-around a womanizer.

But there's something more to his words. It feels like this is a test. "Maybe you should update your moves, yours are getting a bit old," I reply sarcastically.

Whatever the test was, I seem to have passed it. At least for now. Instead of being annoyed that I'm making fun of him, he plays along with the sarcasm. "Mhm, yeah what would you suggest would work better next time, since you're the expert?"

I pretend to think for a moment and purse my lips. "I don't know maybe start by saying, 'hi my name is Finnick Odair and I have chocolate'. You know, to appeal to the hormones and all."

"I'm surprised you know what chocolate is, coming from an academy and all. I heard they don't let you have dessert."

"They don't," I say. "But I may or may not have snuck into the kitchen to steal some once or twice."

"Huh, okay. Chocolate. Maybe I'll try that next time." A wink punctuates his sentence, but I can tell that he's just playing around. I roll my eyes at him, and I'll admit, I do it with a small smile on my face.

"Do you flirt with the old ladies too," I say with a flat but sardonic tone.

"Oh, yeah. How else do you think I got them to like me so quickly?"

"You are a lot funnier than I expected you to be," I say honestly as I fold my hands over my chest.

He quirks an eyebrow at me. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"Partly."

"Well, you're a lot shorter than I expected."

Before I can come up with another retort, a shrill voice—Capitolian no doubt—rings through the air. "Finnick!" I don't know why he'd ever be interested in anyone with a voice like that, but to each their own, I guess?

"Well, duty calls. I'll definitely see you later." And with one last wink, he's gone, disappearing into the crowd with the woman.

Finnick leaving opens the floodgates of victors coming up to greet me. The first up is the unmistakable duo of Cashmere and Gloss: the first pair of siblings to ever win the Games back-to-back and the newest family dynasty within the victor community. They're unmistakably gorgeous. Both of them have features so chiselled that they look like magnificent marble statues.

"Hi! Nice to officially meet you. I'm Cashmere and he's Gloss," Cashmere says as she and Gloss extend their hand out for me to shake. "But you probably already knew that," she says with a giggle that comes off as a little backhanded—even if I did already know that.

"We've heard all about you from Brutus," says Gloss.

Cashmere launches into a conversation about modelling stuff, filling me in on all the ins and outs. Using victors as models is a relatively new concept, not something that my father ever had to deal with and certainly not something my grandmother ever did. To be perfectly honest, the women chosen for that tend to be from 1 more than anywhere else, but some of our younger men have been known to do so as well. Eventually the conversation somehow turns to looks and we get onto the topic of the "enhancements" the Capitol gave us. "How are things feeling...there," says Cashmere as she motions to my general chest area.

I feel a small blush grow on my cheeks, feeling a bit awkward about the conversation being brought up at all and even more awkward talking about it in front of Gloss. "Uh, still weird," I say. "I'm still getting used to it."

Both nod slightly as if I were talking about something as casual as changing my hair colour. "Don't worry about it," assures Cashmere. "It took me a few weeks to get used to mine. I was better off than Gloss though, they gave him new teeth and he couldn't eat normally for months."

Cashmere places her hand on his chin, signalling for him to smile. Of course, his teeth are perfectly straight and white with not a single blemish or chip. The longer I stare, the more perfect they look and the more unnerving it gets.

"Is there anything else they did to you? You look pretty much the same otherwise..." says Gloss as he looks me over.

I shake my head. I've been lucky enough to come out the other end of the process not looking too different. The siblings take off not long after that, leaving room for the familiar faces from 2 to approach though my father is notably missing from the group.

First up is Enobaria, or as I've affectionately termed her, 'The Great White Shark'. She gives me a handshake with an extremely firm grip might I add. We may or may not have had a couple of disputes when we were younger in the Academy. What can I say? I was twelve and I wanted to pick a fight with the fiercest person there to prove my worth. That just so happened to be her. And there may have been a few quips here and there made by me about her teeth. Oops.

"Congratulations," says Brutus, shaking my hand. "Your hard work and dedication in the Academy has certainly paid off. You've made everyone back home proud. Including me." Spoken like a true District Two. A small part of me swells with pride; hearing those words from him means more than any gold laurel crown could. The approval I've always wanted. But the pride quickly turns to guilt and then into resentment as my brain catches up with my heart and I find myself face-to-face with the person most responsible for indoctrinating me. In a funny way, I also find the anger hard to hold onto. What happened to me is normal. So many kids in 2 go to the Academy, and then onto the Games. How can I be angry when I survived?

The conversation with them all starts to blur by as I process my own feelings, but there are enough people in the conversation for my quietness to go unnoticed. That is until Otto, Venezia, Enobaria, Brutus, Lyme, and Trenton bring up the topic of the Academy. Knowing this isn't going to go well, I take another champagne flute—my fourth or fifth since the start of this conversation—off of an Avox's tray as they pass by. "...I was thinking Octavia might be a good fit as another knife-throwing trainer. But starting a new stealth curriculum could be interesting," says Venezia.

Something gets the better of me and I blurt out, "Oh, I'm not coming back to the Academy."

Several wide eyes stare back at me in disbelief.

Oh shit.

"...you're taking a break?" asks Brutus, hoping to clarify what I mean.

"No. I'm not coming back. Like, ever."

Jaws go slack as the stares intensify, though I swear there's a tinge of amusement in Lyme's eyes.

"You can't do that," spits Enobaria. "Every victor works at the Academy, how do you expect to be a good mentor? You're disrespecting every student, every tribute, every victor, who came before. It's selfish. And don't even get me started on the people who'll come after you."

"What's disrespectful," I say, pointing my finger at her. "Is raising children for slaughter."

"We're raising champions," Enobaria retorts.

I roll my eyes and the words, "bite me," escapes my lips. As soon as I say it, I know I've messed up. Royally. That's the wrong thing to say to a woman with surgically pointed and gold-plated teeth. The silence in the circle is deafening. "Right, well, I guess I'll see you all on the train," I say as I slip away and change my champagne flute for a new one.

I'm starting to have a newfound understanding of drunkards like the infamous Haymitch and my father. Speaking of which, I decide to make my way to the bar where I get the pleasure of meeting a very drunk Haymitch Abernathy, one of my father's most notorious drinking buddies. He reeks of the smell of alcohol so badly that it tickles the back of my throat, causing me to spin into a coughing fit.

My poor lungs are still pretty bad from all of the dust and smoke that I inhaled. Brutus told me that they quite literally had to scrape it out of my lungs when I got out. It should go away in time, as long as I don't go into anything like extreme cold or extreme heat, but in 2, that's not going to be a problem.

Haymitch and I carry a casual conversation until the man of the hour himself, my father starts to approach. I'll have to do it eventually, so I might as well get my chat with 'daddy dearest' out of the way. "Magnus," I say, greeting him shortly and curtly. Haymitch and Chaff immediately pick up on my use of his first name and fail at subtly scooting down the bar and away from the two of us.

"Look at that, my little girl, all grown up. Winning her own Games!" he exclaims loudly, spilling his drink as he flails his arms wildly. He puts an arm around me to give me a side hug. "You killed soooo many of those kids, aren't you so proud?" he slurs. My face instantly pales and my tense jaw shifts to the side as everyone in the vicinity stares on at us. "She killed eight children! Eight!" he exclaims.

"I think that's enough, Magnus," warns Haymitch lowly.

"Well, I think seven would have been enough."

For once in my life, I don't have a retort. I feel small and tiny next to him as the guilt sinks in. Because I know he's right.

I'm pulled out of my thoughts when I hear my grandmother's voice cut through. She's placed herself in between me and my father, creating a barrier between the two of us. "Magnus, that's enough," she says sternly. "Go," she waves to me, allowing me to slip out.

The rest of the night goes by at an increasingly blurring rate thanks to the alcohol and I think I manage to shake every single sweaty hand of every living victor. I finally manage to sneak away from the party and take a break from the atmosphere on one of the balconies.

I look down at the busy street at the crowds of people standing outside the building, hoping to get into a party where the guest of honour doesn't even want to be there. The guilt of surviving over my fellow tributes suddenly rises in my throat. I didn't deserve to win. Maybe the Capitol shouldn't get their winner either. 

I'm brought out of my thoughts by Finnick's unmistakable voice calling over to me. "Sugar cube for your thoughts?" I jump a bit because I can usually hear people sneak up on me—one of the few true perks of being a career.

Sure enough, I whirl around to see Finnick holding out a sugar cube to me. I hesitate for a moment but decide to take it and pop it into my mouth. The sweetness is a little overwhelming and my face puckers momentarily. "Do you just eat these things all the time?"

He pops two cubes into his mouth in response. "What can I say? I'm sweet."

I roll my eyes but give no response. I'm not particularly in the joking mood at the moment.

A beat goes by before Finnick is the one to speak up once again. "So, dad issues, huh? We could start a whole 'nother victor club for that. That was pretty bad back there."

"Wait until you meet my mother," I say flatly. "She's worse."

"Ouch."

"Look, now's not a good time, Finnick." He must not have heard me because he proceeds to lean on the balcony next to me.

His voice grows serious and different from the voice I'm used to hearing from him in interviews. It's much softer; there's no biting edge to it or innuendo. It's like with this one gesture, Finnick's demeanour has changed him into an entirely new person. And it makes me incredibly uncomfortable. "I think now is the best time, actually."

I finally turn to face him. "Really?" I say sarcastically, trying to bury the emotions I just showed him by brushing him off. Weak, the voice in my head tells me. I hope that joking around will get him off my back and away from the deep topics—and change his voice back to the one with the air fakeness while we're at it.

But of course, he doesn't. "Listen, you've managed to piss off a good chunk of the career victors in record speed—which I applaud. They try to make you push everything down and ignore it. But what you're feeling right now, I guarantee they felt too. But how you deal with it, what you do with yourself now, that's up to you." The eloquence of his words leads me to the glaring realization that I—and likely everyone else in Panem—have sold Finnick short when it comes to the intelligence category.

I give a big sigh and the words start to flow out of my mouth. "Ever since I was a little girl all I was taught was how to kill. My mother wanted a victor, not a daughter. After I volunteered, at the part where I'm supposed to get a misty-eyed hug and an 'I love you,' she told me if I lost I'd be put in some shallow grave somewhere so that she'd never have to think about the shame I've brought her." I don't even bother to see the expression on Finnick's face because I can tell by his muscles going rigid that my words have affected him.

"I served my purpose. I won. But what am I supposed to do with the rest of my life? I quit the Academy, and if I'm not training anymore, what am I supposed to do with myself now? I'm a career past her prime with no prospects but being toted out on display once a year to the Capitol."

"There's a lot more to life than these Games, Octavia. That's something I had to learn for myself. I know the guilt you're feeling right now is probably crushing you, but you survived these Games, but don't let everyone who died for you to get here die in vain. Make something of yourself."

"You know, you'd make a really good motivational speaker," I say, looking up to him. I hadn't even realized that my own eyes had started to get misty.

"That's a new one," he chuckles. My laugh has a slight sniffle in it which Finnick seems to take notice of. "Here, take some tissue," he says, pulling a tissue out of his sleeve.

I chuckle at the sight as I accept the tissue. "Wow, a magician," I say dryly. "Maybe you should open with that next time."

"I'll keep trying," he jokes. "You'll crack eventually."

Finnick and I continue to joke the night away, his wisecracking attitude and sarcasm is almost on par to rival my own, and my mind allows me to wander away from the guilt.  Even if it is just for a moment, I allow myself to forget.