He laughs at her, spitting blood from between his teeth, and he advances toward her when the announcement is made - because of course they can't both win, that was a fraud built to give the two idiots from Twelve the idea they could both win.
She can see the two fucking star-crossed lovers' bodies behind him and she grimaces, shaking her head.
"You won't kill me," she hears, and he's taunting her, the fucker, as though she cares about him, as though she cares about anything -
She throws the spear and it hits him, hard.
He stares at her and she keeps her face impassive.
She watches him die.
The cannon fires and she's alone; she's finally, finally the winner.
She smiles, wider than she ever has before.
She's won.
*
She doesn't sleep alone, that night.
There are thousands of men who want her - more than before, more than ever have, and she revels in it, laughs, and she's drunk on a thousand things, on endorphins and sex and winning, the glory of finally having won.
It takes a year for this to stop, a year filled with the glory of being a Victor, the Victor, and then - and then she has to train her tributes; and then she has to watch them both die, brutally, because they were too cocky, had too much faith in themselves.
She watches them die - and she wonder, she wonders if this is all worth it, if she should have won at all - because she killed people like her tributes were killed; without remorse, without even the slightest hint of regret.
She looks at herself in the mirror.
She is beautiful. She is a Victor.
But - this is all there is to her life. She is nothing more than a murderer, than a beautiful face for the Capitol to use.
Marvel is her last kill, fittingly enough.
He laughs at her, spitting blood from between his teeth, and he advances toward her when the announcement is made - because of course they can't both win, that was a fraud built to give the two idiots from Twelve the idea they could both win.
She can see the two fucking star-crossed lovers' bodies behind him and she grimaces, shaking her head.
"You won't kill me," she hears, and he's taunting her, the fucker, as though she cares about him, as though she cares about anything -
She throws the spear and it hits him, hard.
He stares at her and she keeps her face impassive.
She watches him die.
The cannon fires and she's alone; she's finally, finally the winner.
She smiles, wider than she ever has before.
She's won.
*
She doesn't sleep alone, that night.
There are thousands of men who want her - more than before, more than ever have, and she revels in it, laughs, and she's drunk on a thousand things, on endorphins and sex and winning, the glory of finally having won.
It takes a year for this to stop, a year filled with the glory of being a Victor, the Victor, and then - and then she has to train her tributes; and then she has to watch them both die, brutally, because they were too cocky, had too much faith in themselves.
She watches them die - and she wonder, she wonders if this is all worth it, if she should have won at all - because she killed people like her tributes were killed; without remorse, without even the slightest hint of regret.
She looks at herself in the mirror.
She is beautiful. She is a Victor.
But - this is all there is to her life. She is nothing more than a murderer, than a beautiful face for the Capitol to use.
And after a while, she crumbles.
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