To guard means to waste time. Surely I could have done something more productive, like sleep? Even that would have been harder than guarding, and I love a good challenge. No one will attack us or raid our supplies, Cato has seen to that. Speaking of Cato, he and Marvel should be our full-time guards, anyway. I didn't volunteer for these Games just to sit around and slouch against a tree, and they're only being lazy and sleeping for hours on end, Marvel's snores keeping me awake for hours. Clove and I are in charge, for now. We arranged things, like supplies, and set up camp, with minimal help from Cato. And by "for now", I mean until a couple members of our pack die. I can only hope that one of those unlucky people won't be me, but I know that it won't because I have been trained for this. It seems that only one good thing can come from this: there is absolutely no way that the revolting Katniss Everdeen will get down from this tree. Not as long as my heart is still beating. Sure, I might not be the best with a bow and arrows, but I could skewer her through the heart with my blade the moment she removes herself from this tree. I imagine the pleasant scenario in my head and replay it a few times, just for self-contentment.

One yawn.

Of course she'll never get down from that tree. I'll have her on my blade in a heartbeat once she falls. Of course, I'll have to consider that she's quick, but I am stronger…

Speaking of stronger, whatever happened to the scrawny little thing from Eleven? She'd be such a simple kill, no harder to break than a fragile diamond that has been dropped. Oh, what I would give to get her on my kill list. A smirk automatically appears on my lips, the way it always does when I am victorious at the Coliseum, and when I volunteered for the Reaping, confident and cocky and glowing—everything that a beautiful warrior should be.

Two yawns.

The Katniss girl certainly was horrid-looking at her Reaping. She disgraced her poor, pitiful little blond sister by volunteering, as well as herself. I could have speared her in a matter of seconds at the Bloodbath if she'd been a part of these Games. Getting back to Katniss…who knew that a female could have so much hair…and such a ridiculous name? Ugh. The stylists sure fixed her up, all right.

Three yawns.

Guarding is boring. Right now, I am imagining myself back in that golden dress, which was the very epitome of beauty, though it was a bit…revealing. I'll have to go do something about that and argue with the Capitol about how clothing can be such a disgrace to women…

My eyes gently flutter closed, and suddenly I face the misty blackness of sleep. And then I slip into a dream, for the first time in two months. I was taught that only silly little children dream, and I was to avoid it as much as I could. But the bubble-headed District One people know nothing. There is no way of preventing dreams. Or is there?

And then I hear something. A luscious and melodic tune, coming from some sort of odd contraption that looks like it has been bathed in gold. Well, can contraptions bathe?

Stop with the nonsense and the open-ended questions, Glimmer. You'll go ask Cashmere after you leave this hellhole. Not that she'll know anything, of course, but she is your idol. However, it's still strange that she always attends "cocktail parties" every few nights. I suspect that she isn't actually attending them…

And then, there is that noise again, coming from the contraption, which some sort of human-like thing leans over and gently plucks the strings, one by one, as if she is weaving like the District Eights that I have only seen on television.

And then I recognize the sound.

Music. We don't have much of it in District One, where most of the wild has been replaced with modern and fanciful things. Those joyful noises were all I ever was, and all I ever will be. Lazy days at home turned into joy and dancing, though I never admitted it to my mother, who would likely frown at the mere mention of something as ridiculous as that. My profound love for music is completely genuine, compared to that little District 11 girl's childlike obsession. She doesn't understand. She will never be able to understand. You see, in District One, we live by numbers. The further down the line a District is, the less respect they receive from us, the first and ultimate union. I couldn't help but notice that, in past Hunger Games, District Two has never particularly liked us. And I suppose that is why: because we are officially in first place, the ones who always are awarded the gold medals, and they stand in the middle, always having to settle for silver.

Of course, numbers have always mattered to us, the self-conscious ones who will squeal if a nail is broken and who are even so gullible to the point where some believe the fanciful tales told by traveling Peacekeepers about how the sun never appears in District Twelve, and so on and so forth. The Peacekeepers back home can be cruel, since that is their job, but many have become victims and companions of some of the women here. Another District One legacy: every time you get the chance, be alluring. A batting of the eyelash here, a pursing of the lips there. Anything you can do to attract attention.

I particularly favored one of the Peacekeepers, Actaeon, whom I never failed to entrance. He'd always purchase little gifts and vie with the others for my attention. This, to me, was the best type of manipulation. You act, and receive free items in the process. I made off like a bandit back then, after my days of training at the Coliseum, which was the fancy name given to our Training Center. This was where the classy District 1 kids, who seemed like nothing more than pretty faces, would reveal their ravenous bloodlust and let red spatter the ornately decorated walls. Of course, the imperfections were promptly removed by Avoxes. It wasn't uncommon to find one of the fire-haired specimens lurking in the important buildings of our District. But after a while, their hair looked just like raw meat that was begging to be speared to a few of the trainees, who were still shaky with spears and such, so some kids would just go straight up to Avoxes and skewer them straight through the stomach. Some would miss and cause the unlucky Avox, who would not have a chance to run, consistent pain. It was like hunting animals, in a way, though none of us have ever experienced that in District One. We have nothing but fanciful machinery and opaque, sparkling diamonds, which aren't always useful.

After all the Avox deaths I have witnessed, it got me thinking: none of these people could ever live up to their names, which all describe either regal items or graceful things. But then again, who in District One could possibly live up to their name when most of its inhabitants are either brutal killers, trained since they could toddle to live as the very images of fame and glory, or factory workers who operate clunky machinery all day? I'm certainly glad that I didn't have the option of choosing the latter. After all, my family always wanted the best for my siblings and me.

Suddenly the human-like thing is back, suspended in the air, fingering its instrument. It does not face me. Then a complete choir of sound joins the thing, little striped yellow dots swarming in the distance that create a melodic humming noise. I smile in delight and race toward the thing, eager to see what those striped lights are. I open my mouth to speak and extend my hand in the direction of the thing, and then it whirls around. What I see is the very epitome of death, and I bring my hand back to my side. I wouldn't dare to touch this thing.

Death smiles, or forms what I think is a smile on its twisted face, and reaches for me. I back away like a terrified animal. For once, I am not the hunter. I am the hunted, and I need to leave this place before it catches me.

My dream fades just as Death grips the back of my dress. I am on the brink of awakening, a smile somehow plastered on my face, and I hear melodic voices singing together.

"To the lake," they croon. "To the lake!"

I reach for the voices, so happy that they've come. One sounds like Clove, and Marvel seems to be harmonizing with her. And then, I hear something else: a little girl, trilling the highest note in her song. With my eyes still unopened, I am uncomfortable. She's ruined their melody, my allies' melody! Suddenly, my eyes open, and I realize that the noise is not a child's shrill song. It's District Four, and she's screaming at the top of her lungs. I wonder why? I also don't know what happened to Cato, Marvel, and Clove. They've vanished.

Out of the blue, little striped yellow lanterns appear, just like the ones in my dream. I don't know what they are, but they're making that humming noise again.

"Friends!" I say, disoriented. I move toward them, and as I reach out to welcome the yellow light's embrace, something painful pierces my body. Then there is another sharp stab, and another. And I am on the ground now, twitching and screaming, just like District Four was. Calling for help won't do me any good, but I make a pitiful attempt to yell for a rescuer.

It doesn't work.

Now I am a prisoner of nature, and I feel like I am strapped to the ground. My cheek makes contact with the soft brown earth of the forest. It feels like a hundred of Clove's throwing knives have been carelessly inserted into my body, causing me a great deal of pain. But I do not whimper, I do not cry. Clove did not murder me. Instead I listen for the noise that is sure to come, the humming that has caused my downfall. And the last thing I hear is the glorious and buzzing symphony of insects swarming around me. I give myself to the music, trying to make something beautiful out of pain, as my mother told me I should do when I was younger. You cannot escape death, you cannot run away from it. You have to move forward.

As I exit myself to continue on to who-knows-where, the minimal morning light shines on my dead body and illuminates my hair. I brush my hand across my mortal face as I pass by, and what I see is magnificent. I am one with the sun, and I shimmer, I glisten…

…I glimmer.

And all that glimmers isn't gold.

Some footnotes: This oneshot might have some errors, and will likely be edited because it was written pretty early in the morning. If you find any, please let me know so I can weed them out and make the story as stable as possible.

Additionally, I hope you found my perspective on Glimmer's death interesting. I read a couple of fan-made maps, and apparently I am now a citizen of District 1/2/3. x) So this is my accolade to District 1, and Glimmer!

I also know that Rue seemed like the only musical one, but hey, even Careers like music, although they're trained to kill. This is my very first oneshot, and I'd love for you to click that blue 'review this chapter' link below. It would mean everything to me! Thank you very much, and you can definitely expect a couple new stories, as well as more story updates, from me pretty soon.

Thanks again & happy writing!

~ ForeverFoxface