AN: This is going to be my first, and hopefully only, author's note. I don't know why I'm writing this; I really don't. The idea just came to me one night while I was trying to go to sleep. It's sort of a case study on a district we don't know enough about, told through the perspective of a single character in a breaking-the-4th-wall-manner. So I guess it's also a case study on this chosen character and his close knit -though undeniably odd- group of friends. It's not the typical sort of story found in this archive, but I don't think it's too off-kilter either. However, you guys are the real judges of that. Reviews would be nice, especially con-crit. Also, I do not own The Hunger Games. Suzanne Collins does.

Chapter 1- District 9: An Intro

Ah, my lovely home of District 9. You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. If you live anywhere else, you probably think I'm being overdramatic. But if you live here, you understand. Heck, you've probably embraced it.

Nine is in charge of hunting, providing meat to the Capitol and the other eleven districts. It's laughable, really, that the main occupation of our district would get a person in any other district locked up or even killed. Anyway, because of that, the district is filled with rugged, highly skilled hunters. And, because of that, we send some of the toughest, grittiest tributes into the Hunger Games, giving us an impressive victory count, paling in comparison only to Districts 1, 2, and 4.

The social hierarchy in District 9 is divided into two groups: Hunters and Others, with a Peacekeeper squad thrown in for good measure. Basically, the Hunters are the ones who hunt (obviously), the young children who are being taught to hunt, and the older men and women who used to hunt, but are now retired. The Others (including yours truly) are, well, everyone else. Shopkeepers and their employees. The mayor. Countless homeless people who roam the streets.

Then there are the criminals. An assorted cast featuring Hunters and Others alike, these guys, along with the general dirt and grime, are the ones who gave District 9 the title of "The Armpit of Panem". It's flattering, at least in my opinion. How many other districts get nicknames? Oh, wait, there's District 13, "The Wasteland". Then again, Thirteen was blown to bits, so "district" should be taken with a grain of salt.

You'd think that the Hunters would look down on us Others, but they don't. If anything, the Hunters need us. Sure, they catch all the meat, but who cuts up that meat? The butcher. Without my buddy Zigmund down at the weapon store, how would they take down those animals to begin with? And after a long, hard day of hunting, when they want a refreshing drink and some time to let loose and relax, who do they come to? Why, me, of course.

Let me guess your next question, "That's great. Who are you then, hot-shot?" Well, how kind of you to ask.

I'm Nigel Preer, but I go by many names. There's Nigel, the standard. Then there's "Nige", said by people who are way too comfortable around me and "Nigel, you idiot!", which is reserved for my mother. And lastly, one that I take pride in, "the bartender", although that isn't completely accurate. I own the place too. My father handed it down to me when I turned 20, which was about a year ago. Dad decided he had had enough and retired. He says to pass it on to my son, which is a problem because I'm not really one for kids. Or marriage. Or any type of sexual or romantic relationship. It might have something to do with the fact that I'm just so unattractive…

Sorry to be so blunt here, but it's true. I'm downright pale, with a lanky build, complemented (or not) by a slight frame (it was years before my parents stopped referring to me as "the runt"); unruly black hair that has never met a proper wash; a thin face with high cheekbones; and brown eyes shielded by inadequate, thin-rimmed, constantly-slipping-down-my-nose glasses.

So, you might ask, how did a pale, awkward, near-sighted bartender end up in rough-and-tumble District 9? The world may never know.

I remember a day seven years ago, back when I was fourteen. The 50th Hunger Games had recently ended, and Haymitch Abernathy from District 12 was on his Victory Tour. All of Panem was shocked that he had won. Only one other person from Twelve had won the Hunger Games before, and cynical, soft-spoken Anatole Parsons didn't seem a likely candidate for mentor of the year. So, how did this sixteen-year-old boy from District 12 win the Hunger Games, and a Quarter Quell no less? That was what everyone wanted to know.

Anyway, Haymitch had come to District 9, and after all the Victory Tour festivities were over, my father and I went back to the bar, despite knowing fully well that no one else would show up that night. And who else should come in but Mr. Abernathy himself? His hair was a mess, his face pale and drawn, a far cry from the charismatic, appreciative victor seen earlier that day. I was sitting on a barstool, my father cleaning a glass behind the bar. He glanced up but said nothing.

Haymitch sat on the stool next to me. "A drink, sir?" he asked. My father nodded, still silent. Haymitch turned to face me.

"Well," he said, "You look like a proper Seam kid. With gray eyes, you'd blend right it."

"Um, thank you," I replied softly, a bit unsure.

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "That wasn't a compliment, son."

I scowled at him, my annoyance feeding my bravado. "I'm only two years younger than you. You're in no place to call me 'son'."

He smiled. "You've got spirit, little man. It would be a shame if you were to get reaped."

I shrugged. "That's never going to happen to me."

He stared at me, his gray eyes piercing. "I thought the same thing."

Dad chose that moment to drop Haymitch's drink. "You ever had beer before?" he asked gruffly.

Haymitch shook his head. "Nope. First time."

My father, in the way that only Anthony Preer could, said, "It won't be your last."

Haymitch shrugged indifferently and downed a gulp. His face scrunched up at the taste.

I raised an eyebrow with a self-satisfied grin. "Dad, can I have some?" I asked.

"Isn't it a little late for you to be drinking, Nigel?"

"Haymitch is doing it."

"Fine, fine, but don't get mad at me when you can't sleep tonight." He passed me a bottle. Haymitch's eyes widened with surprise.

"Really, sir?" he asked my father, "You're giving a drink to a fourteen-year-old?"

Dad just smiled. "This is District 9, boy."

Apparently lost for words, the victor went back to his drink, and about an hour later, a blissfully drunk Haymitch Abernathy stumbled out of my dad's bar.

What I had told him that night was correct; I never did get reaped. You know, most people who meet victors say that they learned a lesson from them, but, to be honest, I think Haymitch might have learned something from us.

I'm putting my story out because it needs to be told, regardless of whether anyone wants to hear it or not. I'm not trying to prove anything, so feel free to judge me for yourself.

Oh gosh, I sound like such a blowhard.