A/N: Hello all! First off, this is a tentative title. This is my first THG fanfiction, but I've been writing Harry Potter FF for about a year! I'm sorry if this is a bit of a slow introduction, but I'm hoping this will pick up fast! I've been planning this since before Mockingjay…I'm not 100% sure how accurate or loyal this will be to the canon, but I'll try. I haven't decided whether or not it will bug me if I change some facts. Anyways, this is a fairly short chapter…actually…really short! Please review and let me know what you think! I know this won't be much to go by, but I'd love to hear your opinion, even if it is just the first chapter.

Regarding updates: I'm going to try my very hardest to get updates out soon. I usually only like to focus on one story at a time, but I've been itching to write this one…so since I'm juggling two stories, I'm thinking about one update a week, maybe two…but that might be a stretch! I love writing, but I'm a senior in high school. Life is hectic, and any free time is absolutely sacred. So again, I'll try. I promise. But I don't know just how on top of things I'll be able to be. More likely than not, I'll get really passionate about writing every Saturday night, and I'll crank out a couple updates

Life as we knew it was surely coming to an end. There was no other way to describe the turbulence that had hit Panem, and even the Capitol. My good friend Cinna had been confirmed dead. It rattled me, and made me fear for my own life. Apparently being a Games' stylist wasn't enough to ensure your life…but then again, Cinna hadn't taken caution. He hadn't wanted to, at any rate. I guess I was proud of him. Sad, but immensely proud for the stand he had taken.

I wondered how it was in the districts. It had been a long while since I'd been in my home of 12. Once I'd found my calling in fashion, I jetted to the Capitol. I proved myself. I'd been living there since. People accepted me, because I altered my Seam self to fit their grotesque standards. Sometimes, it really did disgust me—just how malleable I could be. But I'd given up my heritage, my roots, in exchange for safety and my passion and flutes of morphling.

And how I missed my friends! My family was nearly non-existent, but they'd practically disowned me when I told them how I wanted to spend my life. And Haymitch. His name brought a chill to my heart. I missed him. There was no denying it. We'd met in the Seam. I'd sell fine cloths and sewing materials in the market, and sometimes when my inventory boasted rare silks, I'd trade them in the Hob. Somehow, Haymitch always knew where to find me. The year he was sent into the arena was difficult. It nearly drove me to insanity, seeing him fighting for his life and ending others. I scraped whatever money I could find from my measly sales to sponsor him, because surely my mother or father wouldn't freely donate. All I wanted was my friend back. I ached for his presence. All I wanted was to have a street side chat about our best trades, or what treats the baker had made today. When he'd won, I had felt like a great weight had been lifted off of my body, and I was free.

But he was never the same. Though he was still young, the Games had aged him. He took to drink soon, and spirits were his constant companion. I tried to relieve the evil liquids of their burden of friendship, but he was pushing me away, for reasons I never figured out. It was painful.

Maybe that was part of the reason I'd left. My heart had been confused. I knew I wanted to design and sew and create. But I'd grown up in the Seam, and then it seemed to be rejecting me. The family I was raised by paid no mind to me, and the one person I desired was distancing himself from me. So I left. I packed up my materials, and my few personal belongings. I said my goodbyes. But the most heartbreaking was voiced to Haymitch. It became apparent he still cared, even beneath his drunken stupor. He was furious when I said I wanted to go see the Capitol, to see if they'd want me. He yelled, cursed. He spat and threw empty liquor bottles. I remember specifically how wide my eyes were, watching his rage. When he'd finally calmed down some, I'd given him a hug (which he did not return), and left. I never saw him since, but I did know that most people in the district believe me to be dead. They thought I was dead because of my connection to Cinna. But they'd spared me, miraculously. Or maybe it would've been better if they'd just offed me. The only real friend I had left was Finnick Odair, the first tribute I'd ever truly cared about. By the time he came about, I'd been doing the stylist gig for about ten years.

For the first few years I spent in the Capitol, I studied fashion at a school. Then, at the age of 18, I began the real deal. People were hesitant to employ me at first, but after making a name for myself, I was accepted as a Hunger Games stylist. I was bumped from district to district over the years, but Finnick was the first one to stick with me, to truly endear me. And it wasn't just because he was utterly gorgeous. I worked my hardest to help him succeed. I didn't just contribute my designs. Finnick Odair became the first tribute since Haymitch that I sponsored.

But now, with all the uncertainty looming everywhere, I had a firm sense of what had to be done. Now, after all these years living life as a "traitor," as Haymitch might say…I knew just what I had to do. It was commonly believed in the districts, that 13 was still thriving. I believed it too. Years spent living in the Capitol taught me to never believe any illusion that Snow might set in place. I might play along, but I'm still a foreigner. Someone who might have a slight hint of a Capitol accent, but will never be full-bred, superficial and Captiolistic.

I was going to 13.