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Some days Caesar thinks he is going crazy.
On days when the cameras are all off, (at least the proper cameras, because someone is always watching) he likes to look in the mirror at his face. his skin looks irritated, even underneath the dye, and his hair is limp with grease and gels.
Weeks ago he had spoken to them all.
Weeks ago every last one of them had been alive.
Now there was only one.
Those conversations he had with them were nothing now. Just part of the cheap entertainment of their death, the masquerade of fame, of this being a gift.
The only one left was this brute of a man who sobbed for hours straight when they pulled him out of the capitol. He had been holding the body of the person he had struck in his arms, and he refused to let them go. The boy was still alive technically, but the Capitol killed him the second their victor passed out.
Everything was about the boy, the victor.
But there was the 23 too.
Caesar could see them still, but apparently he was the only one.