First Fanfiction, creative criticism welcome.

Regulation Disclaimers: I am not, nor never will be Suzanne Collins. All Characters and Places from the Hunger Games series are hers.

Hope you enjoy.

The Man from Another Land

The Forest is silent and still.

That's good.

Weak autumn light breaks through the waving branches of orange or bronze leaves, casting sparkling rays that can only be seen from a fair distance below them.

They remind me of my current situation with President Snow; how safety is in reach, you could see it, touch it, smell it, and feel it. But, however hard you try, however close you get, it is always intangible, untouchable, and too distant.

I return to my chores, hoping it will take my mind off the Capitol's grasp on my life. On everyone's life. It's a hard task when the Victory Tour is coming all too quickly.

Gale's snare work perfectly, despite having to be constantly reset by my own, rather cold and stupid, fingers. But I won't let the temperature drop affect my performance. It hasn't in all those years I had to feed my family.

Walk. Find. Release. Reset. Repeat.

A comfort reveals itself as I while away my time freeing game, giving me time to think about the sweet days before Gale began working in the mines, before the Hunger Games. Before Snow came to visit.

Before the complications of my relationships with Gale and Peeta.

This is what I think of now? The President has promised to punish my family, the few friends I have, and Haymitch. Why am I pre-occupied with just two of them?

I need someone to talk to. Someone who isn't and can't be biased. There goes Haymitch.

Prim is probably too young, despite the maturity she's gained in the past year. And if I explained about my problem, I'd have to go into the details of Snow's visit. She would only worry.

Cinna briefly crosses my mind as well, but he is far away in the Capitol. And he never actually gave me a number a call, although the line would likely be tapped anyway.

I still don't trust my mother enough to tell her about my issues. She'll probably react just as Prim would.

So that leaves me with the dead animals in my game bag, and they don't seem to be paying attention.

Slinging a rabbit in with the rest of them, I reset and then move onto the next trap. I realise that it will be the last on my round. That's good; my fingers are starting to go numb.

But at my final stop, something is out of place. Quite literally, as the entire snare has pulled apart and left scattered up the path that leads past another gap in the fence of District 12.

I am instantly wary, and a tad annoyed.

This is my sanctuary someone has waltzed into, where my thoughts are my own and not just a reason for execution. And the food they have stolen has been caught for the Hawthorne Family, as a deterrent of hunger and a bargaining chip in the Hob. True, the food parcels only last so long, and the people still starve. But there is an unspoken law amongst the same people that trapped game is the property of the hunters. So someone has completely disregarded District etiquette, ruined a perfectly good snare and buggered off with another man's food.

I'm not sure why I feel so strongly when there is probably enough meat for Gale's family already, but my frustration is getting the better of me. I take off down the path with an arrow ready in my bow.

It is truly easy to follow the offender, as they have left parts of the snare all up the path, not to mention the disturbed leaves and snow littered in their wake. Whoever they are, they aren't experienced woodsmen.

Although the further down the path I get, the thicker the trees become, the less the leaves are disturbed and the footprints deepen considerably. My fingers twitch uneasily. Every fibre of my being is telling me something is wrong, but is equally urging me on to find the culprit.

I finally see him after maybe five minutes of tracking. He's just a few metres up the path and carrying a wild turkey.

He doesn't look too dangerous. He's limping, quite badly, on his left foot. Although it may be worsened by the fact the canvas bag he carries on the same side is rather heavy, if size and bulk is anything to go by.

On the opposite side hangs an elongated knife, far larger than those I use to skin a kill or to cut the meat. It must be sharper as the scabbard looks very thick at the tip.

His hair is long and filthy, matted with sweat, dirt and blood. But it is dark, just like people from the Seam. On the other hand; his skin is burnt red by the sun and most likely pale naturally. He must have been out here for days, and probably in the desert surrounding the ruins of District Thirteen for his skin to burnt.

As I study him, a loud snap emanates from beneath my feet and I realise I have trodden on an uncharacteristically dry stick. Its very presence is odd when I think of all the snow surrounding it. That's when I realise the thief has stopped moving. He must have put it there to let him know if someone, like me, was following. That would explain the other dry sticks I see in his jacket pocket as he turns around.

As he swings round on his good leg to face me, the knife is pulled from it scabbard and rises to above his head. The bad leg doesn't seem to get in his way as he charges towards me.

And now, of all times, I freeze and study him properly. His leg isn't his only injury: his face is covered in bruises, notably the left side of his forehead and the accompanying cheekbone. Cuts have also been etched onto his skin, some down the opposite side of his head and others on his bare forearms. They range from shallow scratches to a deep wound on his right arm, which I can see because of the makeshift bandage (probably his right shirt sleeve, which is missing) that is a dark crimson. It's a wonder he can still lift his weapon.

There is a smear of dried blood running from one of his nostrils right the way down his neck. This is covered up by the thick bristles that defiantly show the cracked lips.

He is tall and thickly built, though less so than Cato or Thresh, but still capable of serious damage. However, his clothes show he is more civilised than the former. For some odd reason, he's rolled up his camouflage jacket's sleeves, despite the cold weather. The shirt is an outrageous violet colour that can still be seen under the stains and its tattered condition, protected from view, though only slightly, by a beige waistcoat. That garment has somehow avoided dirt and damage. His trousers, which probably used to match the waistcoat in colour, were caked in mud up to the knees, and sodden at the hem of the trouser legs. I couldn't see his shoes, but taking his current condition into account I wouldn't be too surprised if they were missing. There was a necktie around his head to keep his hair out of his eyes.

But it is his eyes that mark him as a person similar to me. Behind the green and blue is fear and hunger. He must have been wandering for days.

So when I fire my arrow, I aim for his leg. Just to cut it, so he will stop.

He falls clumsily, but with no cry of pain or discomfort. It's safe to say he's not from the Capitol.

I run forward, stopping only to kick his knife away, only in case he still feels threatened. To show I mean no real harm, despite having fired at him, I throw down my bow and quiver next to it.

"I'm going to help you. Do you understand me?" I say in the most gentle voice I can muster as I kneel down beside him.

In response, he just wheezes and nods his head tiredly. I take that as confirmation.

I bite my lip before trying to garner more trust.

"My name is Katniss Everdeen. I live in District Twelve." The words seem to form themselves. "What's your name? Where do you come from?"

He suddenly sits up, coughing. Then he spits out the mucus that has been clogging his throat. What a lovely introduction.

"My name is Omega." He splutters with an accent unlike any in Panem. "And I come from a land called Braytaan."