Nothing is mine, except the plot-line, which was inspired by this prompt. The Hunger Games is not mine, Caesar Flickerman is not mine. I don't know if my timeline is correct, but I did the maths and I think it should be about right. Nor do I claim that any of this is a headcanon, although I have accepted it as such. Some OC occur but are not vital. I could not think of any other characters that would fit so I created my own and might [okay, yes I did] have named them after The Fault in Our Stars and Percy Jackson characters. Whoops.

Any references to Harry Potter, The Fault in Our Stars, The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, Divergent, Sherlock or Percy Jackson was not intended and might not occur, but you have now been forewarned.

All mistakes are my own- I will re-upload it once my beta has checked it over. She is quite busy and does some writing herself. Mostly The Hobbit, TloTR and Sherlock.

If you wanna check her out her pen-name is: Middle-Earthling.

550 Minus 1

Prompt by Real or Not Real [hunger- games- headcanons. tumblr. com]

#136 Caesar Flickerman

#136 Caesar Flickerman, the interview host, had more cosmetic surgery than most members of the Capitol; he was, after all, on camera for most of the year, and the whole world was watching. But underneath his gorgeous clothes and near perfect physical appearance, tattooed onto his chest, stomach and upper thighs, were the initials of each and every Tribute he interviewed and watched die in the Games, year after year after year.

Caesar Flickerman, co-host of The Hunger Games, was not a shallow, typical, Capitol-bred man. In fact, he wasn't Capitol-bred at all. He was much too dark-skinned for that. Unlike most victors over 60, he refused the offer of bleached skin, although President Snow insisted on yearly face-lifts et cetera. He was lucky enough to have found a team of Aesthetic Surgeons who "kept him" in his early to mid- 40s instead of trying for a younger look each year.

Like every victor before him, Flickerman could not escape the Capitol. He was not a free man. Luckily he saw a job opportunity which would keep his dignity intact and was hired two years after application. In those two years, he embarked on a Victory Tour for the 24th Hunger Games and did his duty of coaching the 25th Hunger Games, as well as the 26th. He could not do his job and be a coach, so he had to wait for a victor. Luckily the 26th Hunger Games provided a 17-year old victor. He would be able to stay free from the women in the Capitol due to having to coach and Caesar could begin his job.

It wasn't his dream job, no. Even if he had known that he would have the opportunity to apply for this job he most probably wouldn't have applied if there were but another option.

After all the previous Host was sent to an Insane Asylum due to oppressive grief and guilt.

Not that he was so good, or so emotionally distant that he was fit for the job, but the alternatives would shred his dignity and he was from a fairly proud family.

Being the co-host to the Hunger Games was so emotionally wrecking that when Augustus Lancaster found out that Caesar would replace him, he requested that Caesar be brought to him for a meeting. Augustus Daniels more or less bared his should to Caesar, and in turn Ceaser bared his in return. There are some things you can't share without ending up friends, and baring one's should is one of those things.

Caesar Flickerman, from District 11. Reaped at the age of 13. Score of 7/10. Won by hiding in trees and throwing knives.

The Flickerman Family shared a duplex. The family consisted of Caesar's Mum, Dad and Aunt. He had two older sisters, Hazel and Hermione who were 16 and 17 respectively, as well as an 18 year old nephew, Uriah. He also had three younger sisters, Thranduil, Galadriel and Arwen. Caesar also had a baby brother, Percy, and a baby nephew, Beorn.

So, to keep President Snow from threatening his beloved family he hosted the despised games. At least he could put his sharp wit into use, and alter the crowd so that they liked his favourites- giving them a better chance for sponsors.

And so it began. The 27th Hunger Games hit him hard. The girl from 11 was his favourite sister, Arwen's, best friend. Her name was Annabeth Jackson. Her speciality, like all from his district, was agility. Although, a family of boys had taught her some hand-to-hand combat skills. She got a score of 8- impressive and was in the Top 5. She was killed by eating a poisonous bug that was disguised as a mulberry. He saw it from a mile away and had to pretend to be more fascinated than horrified. He described the Bug to the audience whilst screaming for her to get distracted.

That night he drowned himself in Whiskey, only to be woken with President Snow's Thugs looming over him, a threat clear in their eyes. He was a popular media figure and was not to have more than two alcoholic drinks, and no drugs.

However, he had to find a way to process the inevitable, yearly grief and guilt. So he went to his friend, Augustus' ward, and they brainstormed all night, coming up with noting that would help him and satisfy President Snow's guidelines. He left in the early hours of the next morning which forced him to use winding routes of back alleys to avoid the media. It would be hard to explain his current situation in any way that would satisfy them.

As he walked down one of these darkened alleys, wrapping his arms around his almost-useless coat against the wind, he took refuge behind a dumpster to warm his hands and ears. As he turned around he finally got a look at his surroundings, he was standing beside a wall next to a shop window. A Tattoo Parlour. Tattoos were quite unpopular, and he had never seen any before so Caesar took a step closer and peered through the window relieved that he had chosen black instead of gold for his first year as a host. He watched, fascinated as a man… a victor, a newer coach sat down and bard his right shoulder blade. He now recalled the coach, he had won the year before he himself had won- must've been young as he only looked 18 now. A victor from District 2, he'd deduced by the shape and build of the man.

A few seconds later, with the coach sipping water, the tattoo artist cleaned the needle and got to work. She's clearly been doing this for years as the process was done cleanly, quickly, and effectively. Although not painless, by the wince the man gave when she started and stopped. When she was done she slathered the reddening area and stepped away to find gauze and cling-film.

In those few seconds, he could finally see what she had tattooed upon him.

Molly H

Molly? H? Molly H…oh…oh. It dawned on him. Molly Hooper, District 2, reaped at the age of 15. Rated at a 6/10. Her speciality had been spears but a ruthless Career from one had decided to kill his allies as they slept- jarring the usual pattern of the Games' beginning. Luckily her counterpart saw and executed him on the spot. He won the games…Jim Moriarty did.

Then as the coach stood up he saw another 7 names; so he'd tattooed his losses on his shoulder blades in a calligraphy-like font. He'd had only 2 winners in the last 4 years. Seemed about right. He chastised himself at the last thought; the statistics might be right, but the game is sick.

An impulsive sort, Caesar darted into the parlour where the woman told him to sit opposite the coach who then stood up. They nodded in recondition of each other and he left, disappearing into the cold air.

A few minutes later and he had a 2cmcubed tattoo. Initials of his first, hard loss. A.J. [Annabeth Jackson]. It was in simple type-machine font on his back. She slathered the reddened area, and he found he didn't mind the needle as much as he thought he would. Another 10 initials came on his back a list which ran from his left shoulder-blade to the small of his back. A few millimetres underneath each initial before the next one was tattooed on. As the process went on, he silently wept for each of the fallen tributes. Allowing himself that 120 seconds to think of them. Their reaping, their reaction, their families, their districts, their interviews, their costumes, their carriage-ride, their score, their death.

An emotional wreck, the tattoo artist slathered the last of the initials and left him with a bottle of water to send the amount to his newly-opened tab. Ten minutes later he had breathed deeply whilst counting to 100 slowly, then dried his tears, washed his face and buttoned his shirt back on. He would make sure to wear thicker shirts in case the light shone on his back and the tattoos were revealed. President Snow would not mind these tattoos as long as they remained out of the public's conscience.

48 years later, after the 74th Annual Hunger Games he was left with not 528, but 527 initials. He felt lighter somehow, and he chanted to himself- only 2 more years, only 2 more years.

In the back of his head, a relieved voice echoed, "550 minus 1".