I, it's normally in subext, would like to take this moment to pledge that I do not own Assassin's Creed or their characters; nor do I own Hunger Games and it's fantastic plot. But, if I did, I would put all the mean people in the world in the games and then laugh as Ezio and Altair rip them to shreds… :D

Altair

He had never accepted it; the way his life was now headed. He didn't want this... career; he didn't want to do this. He watched people outside his window and the envy that he felt for them was unbearable. And putting that to one side to face the same shaped and faced mannequin. The same sword, the same hidden blade, the same old tactics, the same underhand rules he went over. The same slap around the head when he did something wrong, something minor that is. He had scars down his back when he did something "drastically" wrong.

It wasn't that his father, Umar, enjoyed beating his son, Altair saw the fear in his eyes whenever he missed, slipped or tripped. He didn't want his only son to die... but he certainly didn't want him to fail. That would look very bad in front of the sponsors.

But, anyway, he had never accepted that this was his life from now on. That one day, soon, he would have to be a tribute to a frail boy or a lanky shaken man; enter the Games with his District girl and then train and show people what he was made of. He would have to act like he gave a shit about the other people in the world. He would have to make sure that he made an alliance with the other Career's or anyone intelligent and then mark himself off from them so he didn't feel guilty when he stabbed them in their sleep.

It wasn't the killing that he thought he wouldn't be able to do; please the eventuality of this made everything in his life easier; even the prospect of killing. It was the klaxon that scared him.

His cousin didn't get the opportunity to train or prepare very well. He didn't get a tribute because Altair was too young. Every time that the klaxon wailed Altair would jump in his mother's arms, her head resting on his and her hand covering his. His little shoulders shaking as he saw the dark locks on the top of his cousin's head bobbing in the water and then... then the Finale caught him and ripped open his body. The canines sinking into his flesh and clothes and bone as he screamed for relief; twisting away from it, trying to claw his way out. The District 3 girl had found him, killing the hound and holding his good hand, her sweet voice whispered a prayer under her breath. Tears streaming down everyone's face... the dirt moving away from theirs. She frowned as Calion whispered something to her but she lifted him and turned him to the closest camera. His dim lighted eyes caught Altair's as he whispered, "Its fine."

Blood dripping down from the gapping hole in his shoulder and his neck and his forehead... Altair turned away and shook with sobs silently until he heard the klaxon; and then he bit down on his tongue to stop himself from screaming.

The girl hadn't won; her compassion had cost her, dearly. Forcing her to lie in Calion's blood next to him, her throat slashed twice.

Since then he had learnt that the emotion got you no where but dead...

When he woke that morning he knew, by the way his mother had touched his face gently then ran that it was the Reaping but more importantly... it was today. He threw his legs over the side of the bed and threw up; his head down and his hands shaking. The short black hair that covered his head seemed to recede from stress as his father walked into the room and stood there for a few seconds before whispering.

"Get ready, get a shower, do what you must this morning for this afternoon-."

"I know, Umar, I know." He said, turning away from him and walking out of the room, hastily.

Maria

She woke up softly, staring out of the window peacefully. She'd get these few minutes of silence every day; where she would lie on her side and watch the birds flying around the trees; the sun streaming in and the soft wind skipping between the gaps of the trees. Then the houses that lined up away from hers and if you squinted past the lakes; you could see the poorer homes that her mother and the committee were trying so fruitlessly to help.

Their little huts filled the marshes and ponds that we failed to cordon off; most of their possessions were kept in boxes and crates made of willow that floated off of the densely.

But they didn't; they had the nice house in the centre of the district, letting everyone around them believe that they earned it; that they were special; that they were perfect.

Aside from the sunrise, nothing was perfect. And in five seconds she'd be reminded just how imperfect she had it. It was her father that bustled into the room, nosily, ramming into things and pushing things out of his way. His wasn't drunk, he was just clumsy.

She closed her eyes as he drew closer to her bed, careful not to shut them tightly. For fear he would know that she was awake. But it didn't matter to him whether she was or wasn't, he pulled her up by the scuff of her neck, not her dress, her skin; yanking her from the bed as she squealed in pain, whacking her nails across the side of his face and wriggling to be set free. It did her about as much good as paper would in a knife fight.

Her punched her in the throat, at the bottom so that if it bruised no one would notice; he's abusive not stupid. Shaking her into submission, she should have just let him at the first but she couldn't help herself.

"STOP!" Her mother's voice rang out but he ignored her, even as she ran into the room but as she got closer he shot her a look that sent her shrinking back into the wall.

"Get yourself ready; even if your name isn't drawn we want you looking pretty for the Capitol." He mocked, stroking her chin. Then he addressed her mother. "Get her a dress for tonight; if she's lucky, I've got men that want to meet her."

Then she was dropped and whacked into the ground, feebly lying there until he left, laughing. Her mother watched her and danced back and forth for a few seconds before running out of the room and vomiting in the bathroom.

Not for the first time, Maria found herself wishing that her name would be drawn.