Bastion Steele, 19, District 1.

It takes a shot of whiskey to get him up this morning, and another to have him enter the shower. He's still not used to the hot water that runs from it. He stares down at his feet, his body is too perfect. Not a cut nor scar can be seen on it, the Capitol has made sure of that. Too bad they could not fix his eye, a glass replacement rolls softley in the crevice that is empty as a pit.

The eye got taken from him from by Capitol too, in the form of a petite girl from District Six. She took his eye, he took her life. Not a fair trade, but at least it was one, all the other scars traded to him from the arena disappeared once the Capitol took hold. The young man wishes they had not taken them, he wants something to remind him of those that passed.

He chuckles, as if his nightmares are not enough. He took seven lives in the arena, helped with seven more. He balls his knuckles into a fist. They shake ruefully. Volunteering wasn't anything like they told him it would be. They didn't tell him it would mean he would have constant bags under his eyes, they didn't tell him he would wake screaming to an empty house and they made no mention of the cost it would take to have another humans life.

It was just self defense he tells himself. But was it really self defense when he hunted down the 12 year old from District Six? Was it really self defense when he lopped off the head of the 14 year old boy from District Eight when he begged for his life? They would of killed him he tells himself. But the 17 year old from District Nine that looked pretty as porcelain, and as thin as a twig, would she of really been able to go after him?

He hangs his head in his hands. These are hangman's hands. These hands have dealt death and come close to it themselves. He pictures the cut that used to run across the palms of his hands, a straight line from a swords blade. He used his hands so it would not be his neck, blood ran through his fingertips as he took the blade from the boy who was almost victor. His mind makes the clear water run red as it slips through his fingers.

He shakes the image out of his mind, he will have to mentor a boy this year, he cannot tell him about the pain that come from winning. It is not expected in one, he is surrounded by victors that take pride in their titles. He feels no pride, only shame. Maybe he should of let the boy kill him.

His body may not have the scars it used to but it still packs the muscle he put on training for the games, his eyes may not have the same youthful look to them, but it has been dubbed 'smokey' and 'mysterious.' Never regret.

He's been told he's lucky, victors used to be sold to the highest bidder in the Capitol, until the President put a stop to it five years ago. He's been told the Capitol citizens would pay a high price for him, with his fearsome looks and high kill count. But what victor in one does not?

He tugs as the skin around his thumb, a nervous habit, and watches as he rips too much off. Blood trickles out of the cut, washing away with the hot water. He closes his eyes and rests his forehead on the cool tiles in front of him. He's seen too much blood in his life, he sees it spill everytime he closes his eyes.

This was not how he imagined his life at 19, isolated from the public with his elevated status, shunned by other victors for his mental state and preparing another child for the slaughter. He is still only a child himself, a child who has see too much. And done even more.

Authors note: I promise you that these characters in the pre-reapings will become more important as the story progresses! Next chapter is District 1 reapings (after the full tribute list that will come out on the same day.

I hope I don't disappoint anyone with the way I write the tributes, I've been putting a tonne of effort in trying to get them right.

As always, let me know what you think.

Until next time… May the odds be ever in your favour.