Here is Chapter One...thanks again to Shrrgnien for her awesome work.

:)

Disclaimer for all future chapters: I do not own, nor ever will own either the Hunger Games or the Percy Jackson and the Olympians series. Sadly.

And finally ...Enjoy!

Chapter One- Surprises

Tribute—even the term denotes a sacrifice. Everyone here is fighting for their district, their freedom, their lives. Each tribute must expose themselves to the Capitol's scrutiny and, in the end, even the winners must obey the audience's whims and desires. Every one of them has been reduced to an animalistic fury, and now, staring at the blood-spattered faces and gore which has already been reaped, I realize one thing.

They have already sacrificed themselves.

The winners of these games are treated as royalty, lavished with glory and honor. Their names are called by thousands, remembered in history. They deserve no such honor. I've seen enough wars, enough soul-shattering sacrifices, to know this by now. The dead are the ones to be commemorated. I glance around at the fallen. The heroes.

One tribute, whose hair has been matted with her own blood, is laying face down, limbs twisted and broken by her side. An ugly gash is opened on her side, and her blood is pooling, staining the dirt around her. Her eyes are lifeless and glazed over. I imagine her family, who were forced to watch her death, knowing they could do nothing to stop it.

But I can.

A colossal Career with bulging biceps looms over the body of a young boy. His permanent scowl is now decorated with crimson smears—the blood of his victims. The boy's chest heaves, and he struggles desperately to try to free himself from under the Career's meaty foot, but he is utterly powerless to stop the final blow, which is delivered to his face. Another death. Another family in mourning.

The display is sickening.

The Career's head snaps up, his eyes frantic with bloodlust. Crazed. It's a look with the deranged intensity I've seen sometimes in rabid animals. Alarmingly, this gaze focuses on me, and a small smile tugs at his scarred lips. He has been training for this his entire life, trained into a killing machine. Lethal. The boy didn't stand a chance.

My own gaze is settled at a point just above the Career's left shoulder. Even as he lumbers towards me, muscles rippling and fists clenching and unclenching, my focus is entirely devoted to that one spot.

After all these years, the glint of a silver bow and quiver is unmistakable. The bow is of similar design to my own (which I have been forbidden to summon, as that would be something of a giveaway) and in that moment I am certain that it is meant for me. Whether it was placed there by god or Gamemaker, I neither know nor care. My eyes flicker to the behemoth, who is still consumed with fantasies of my death. He is dangerously near now, almost within arm's reach, but he is of no concern to me…Or he wouldn't be, if I could summon my bow. Or a lightning bolt. Or something along those lines. Unfortunately, as I am just remembering, I can't.

I very nearly break the no-cursing-in-ancient-Greek rule.

"If you turn around now, I won't hurt you." I speak in a calm, even tone. It's a tone any Hunter would recognize; the tone Artemis uses moments before eradicating a boy from existence. I hope she appreciates the irony.

He laughs, evidently finding my statement hilarious. "Oh, and what exactly can you do to me?" He rolls up a sleeve of his jacket, which all the tributes are clothed in. I don't know whether it's intended as a joke or a comfort object, but somehow some god had managed to get my trademark leather jacket into the tribute outfit. Exposed on his arm is a large, irregular scar, which has devastated the tissue around it. It's a display, designed to frighten his victims. It doesn't work.

"This."

I had my firm orders; no powers, no abilities, no Greek battle cries. Nothing a normal mortal wouldn't be able to do. The Capitol was filming my every move, and to ensure that my immortal family had their fun, I could not reveal my origins. It was essential.

I smile for a split second. It's really a cruel exhibition—letting him know I will win this, and there is nothing he can do to stop me. His sneer falters as I catapult myself off the ground and use his broad, muscled shoulders as an impromptu springboard to vault myself over his head.

As I fly airborne, the drum of his heartbeat, steady and strong, reverberates in my ears.

One beat.

I dive towards the ground, and perform a neat, calculated handspring. My opponent turns around, eyes wide with first confusion, then realization.

Two beats.

I land on the balls of my feet, and reach for the bow. It all but sings when I touch it; definitely an immortal weapon. The first satisfying flickers of terror dance across the career's face.

Three beats.

He knows it's too late…he can't stop what is about to happen. Not at this range. I set the arrow in place and pull back on the bowstring, reveling in the balance of the weapon. I will not miss.

Four beats…his last.

I let my grip slacken. The arrow soars, cutting through the air. It penetrates the Career's skull, directly between his eyes. My smile returns as another cannon blast echoes through the air, and my prey drops to the ground.

Six dead.

I can almost feel the camera's intense glare as I casually step over the Career's body. No doubt the audience is in a frenzy over our little confrontation; at least their appetite for sacrifices has been sated for the time being. I glance to the east, only slightly concerned by the utter silence which has descended upon the Cornucopia. I am alone. Alone, surrounded by the bodies of the mostly (I recall the Career I have just killed, and flinch in disgust) innocent. Pacing around the area, giving a wide berth to the deceased, which I'm sure will soon be collected by the infernal hovercraft, I gather items which would be essential for my hunting session. These include a camouflaged backpack, twin hunting knives, and a throwing knife with a deadly serrated edge, which I tuck under my belt.

I pause mid-stride, aware of a stray thought which had been gnawing at the edge of my contemplations, demanding attention.

Ultimately, are we—the gods, and those who serve them—no different from the Gamemakers or the Capitol themselves? I stop dead, overcome by a feeling of affliction and sorrow.

No, I refuse to believe that. We had a right…didn't we? And these Gamekeepers…the Capitol…they were monsters.

The whispers of a thousand ghosts from my past speak in unity, but I can't tell what they're saying.

I shake my head, and tighten my grip on the weapon in my hand. Now is not the time to get lost in the catacombs of my troubled history.

"The catacombs of my troubled history"? And here I swore to myself that I would never start talking like Zoë…

In the end, I decide to abandon pondering my very existence and focus on more important matters. Like hunting my prey. I decide to head towards the pine forest, just for the sake of the comfort. I have a thing for pines, after all.

Har, har, har. I feel sure that I know who's behind the choice of tree, and Apollo will be in trouble when I get back. And yet I still can't help but smile. The sun god knows how to cheer people up, that's for sure.

And armed with a bow- I know I'm invincible.

…

I wander the worn paths in the forest floor, watching the plentiful mockingjays (a creature the Muses have a special preference for) spiral and spin in the air, whistling their cheerful tunes with abandon. My pace lacks urgency, for I have the advantage that I can wait. I will tire much more slowly in the forest, and I am safer here than anywhere else. Of course, the fighting hasn't started in earnest yet, and seventy-five years of Hunger Games show that those who start out cocky end up dead. I decide that the priority is to find food and water. In a real wood, this would be easy, but everything here is artificial, and I start to worry that it may have a negative effect on the strength I gain from the forest. It doesn't hinder my well-honed instincts, thank the gods, and I manage to find a small clearing, inhabited by some plump rabbits, dining without a care in the world. For a moment, suspicion flares; this is too easy. They could easily be mutts, and the last thing I need is to be killed by bunnies. How humiliating would that be? I can almost hear Grover's voice now: See? I told you rabbits were big bullies!

That's enough for me. I'm killing these damn rabbits. Minutes later, three of the thoroughly non-mutated creatures are attached to my belt via a string that was included with the backpack.

As the artificial sun starts to hide behind the mountains to the north (Seriously? The sun is setting to the North? What in Hades is wrong with these people?) I seek out a possible place to sleep. Everything in me rebels against this; I'm stronger at night, my instincts are sharper, my reactions faster under the moonlight. Still, perhaps I'm being overly paranoid, but I'm sure that the Gamekeepers would find it odd if I continued on through the night, seemingly unaffected by the lack of light or rest.

After a few miles, an unexpected noise breaks into my semi-mindless roving: the muffled yet distinctive sounds of a girl crying.

I change my route accordingly, following the cries like a trail of bread crumbs, until I stumble across a small clearing peppered with bluebells and a collection of pale yellow flowers which bathe in the last remaining light of the day. The scene is deceivingly peaceful, and considering the nature of the Games, I am immediately suspicious.

I approach the quavering creature, bow raised and expecting an attack at any moment. The young girl, who can't be older than 14, is curled into a tight ball, hands clenched over her ears, head buried in her knees. Soft sobs are escaping her mouth as her diminutive frame trembles in terror. In typical half-blood fashion, my ADHD brain notices that the white cotton shirt under the black jacket is slightly untucked, looking almost like a duck's tail.

I lower my bow. I simply can't kill this girl. Not like this, not in cold blood. It's a line I'm not willing to cross.

You'll have to kill her eventually anyway, Thalia, I try to tell myself. Do it now; at least it'll be clean and quick, better than if you leave her and the Careers catch up to her.

I know that. But I can't bring myself to release the arrow.

"What's your name?" I ask, the tenderness in my voice surprising me. It's a tone I've never heard in myself before.

She raises her head, revealing dark, caring eyes awash with tears. She stutters and clears her throat.

"P-Primrose Everdeen."