Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games trilogy; Suzanne Collins does.


Andronicus Nolan

District Two

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"Congratulations," a faceless boy whispers, shell-shocked.

It's nothing to be proud of, I want to say. I'm weak, I know it and I'm ashamed to pretend otherwise. I nod half-heartedly it and mutter a quick thank-you.

"I want to be just like you when I grow up," the faceless child grins at me. "Father says I'm brilliant. He says I'd better be because I have the best tutors in all of Panem. I'm learning to fight now. Mother doesn't approve, of course, but I already am better, education-wise, than all the other kids my age. I'll volunteer when I'm seventeen, like you. I'll defeat all my opponents quickly and savagely and I won't even grace their undeserving bodies with a single glance when I'm done! I'll kill them all and be a Victor. You will mentor me, won't you? I mean it won't really matter because I'm strong but it would be -"

"Shut up," I finally growl, closing my eyes and walking away.

"I'm sorry!" It catches up with me, worried tears barely held back by sheer determination in its green eyes. Green eyes. "I didn't mean to -"

"Get away from me. I never want to see your pitiful face again." It hurts to see the pretense of bravery abruptly shattered and the tears dripping out of his green eyes.

"I..."

"Get away," I whisper, dropping my hand to the hilt of my sword threateningly.

"You're bluffing!" The boy uselessly shoves his red - red - bangs out of his green eyes and uses a pale hand to cling to my arm. "You're good. I want to be like you. You would never..."

"You don't know me," I state coldly, cutting a superficial, but long gash on his arm.

"Yes!" He gasps breathlessly, excitement shining in his earnest, green eyes. "I can prove it, too! Father took me to every one of your battles! Just ask him!"

"How old are you, boy?" I regret the question as soon as it leaves my lips but I can't take it back.

"Nine, almost ten. I can fight, I'll prove it!"

"You haven't seen all of my battles. Not the ones that mattered the most." I crisscross the gash with another one. "You wouldn't stand a chance."

"No. You're wrong."

I press the blade to his neck, hearing him breathing in quickly, in panicked gasps. Each breath drives the tip slightly deeper in his throat. "You don't know me at all." I remove my sword and leave the boy standing there.

"You're just scared! I saw your face after you won! You're just a coward. You looked like you were going to cry! Were you? I'll kill like you and win like you, but I won't ever be you; I don't want to be."

To think I felt sorry for him. Without looking back, I toss back a throwing knife, assured of my accuracy.

"You missed!" He cries out gleefully, the knife deeply embedded in his shoulder.

I wasn't aiming to kill him. Three inches down, it would've pierced his heart, three inches to the right, it would've gone through his neck.


The mayor clears her throat and steps up to the podium, quickly speed-reading through the Treaty of Treason and retreating back to her seat. Impatient and unprofessional. She doesn't deserve her position. She pretends to have everything under control whenever Capitol people come over, when in reality, the Peacekeepers do her job. They're stationed practically everywhere while the mayor hides.

"Hello and welcome to the Sixty-seventh Hunger Games!" Dottie Dimple squeals, her surgically implanted dimple dancing across her drawn-up and pointed cheekbones. I watch it in morbid fascination.

She prances to the mayor and takes the whole stage, beaming at the crowds. Dottie proudly reads her long list of our District's Victors; just promoted last year. "I'm so glad to see you all here. Ahem." She takes the long way around the stage and finally is at the corner where the girls' ball is placed. Her butt jiggles when she walks. I watch that too. Dottie has to walk in a full circle to get from one orb to the other. "Raylene Landry."

A little girl delicately walks from the fifteens' to the stage, her chin raised high. I know her sister, Felecia Landry. Bossy brat, Raylene is.

Felecia's two years older than me, a real sweetheart. She's a bit puzzling, greedy to the extreme, but the sweetest thing. Lecia hates me but she has the decency to put up an indifferent front. She loves her attention, like all other girls. She hates chocolates, adores lavenders and bubbles. Flattery will get you nowhere, the little bitch. Lecia is engaged, an arranged marriage. She pretends to be so thrilled that it takes all her self-control to keep from smiling. She's a great liar. No matter how hard she tries to push me out of her life, she knows it won't work. She's falling to pieces but is too proud to admit that. The most I can do is to cheer her up. I love her. I fell out love when I was eleven; I only fell in love with her looks. Lecia loves me too, even if she never says; I'm her "annoying stalker," after all.

"Would anyone like to take Miss Landry's place?" Dottie trills, her high-pitched, accented voice ringing through the quiet air.

I look up at Cloelia interestedly; Lecia always said she would never speak to someone like Cloelia. Cloelia would probably say the same to her. Their personalities absolutely clash, not to mention their ranks. Raylene is the cuter, bolder, and bossier of the two sisters. Felecia is the reasonable, poised, and perfect one. They're both pretty demanding, I'll admit, but Lecia actually has something to back up her words while Raylene doesn't. Both are reasonably rich but blackmail and bribery only go so far. Lecia has connections. She can make the whole town turn against you if she wants. She knows every single poison in the world and has access to them all, even the rarest. She has a gorgeous body that she has no qualms about using. She can handle a silver, jeweled dagger that's nearly twice as long as her effortlessly.

"Cloelia Sukie," Cloelia hisses out her name, wearing an expression of pure disgust. She's easier to read then she likes to think.

Dottie smiles, fluttering her hand at Raylene as if swatting at a fly.

I almost laugh. Raylene is indignant and horrified but her emotions are carefully disguised as polite serenity. Her lips are curled up in a fake smile and her hands are re-folded on her lap. She's going down the steps now and if you didn't personally know her, you'd never even notice the expression of hatred hidden in her dark brown eyes. When she raises her hand to stifle a mocking laugh, I notice a similar expression in Cloelia's blue eyes.

And then, she completely loses it. Cloelia snarls at Raylene, teeth and all, and for a quick second, I'm afraid that she'll attack her. I sneak a glance at Felecia, astonished because she's gone shades paler and her mouth is hanging open. The Lecia I know would never, not even in death, would display a single genuine emotion to anyone. I stare at her for a moment longer and then look back at the stage.

Oh. That's all I can think for about a minute. The surprise and disbelief on my face is probably making my expression blank, which doesn't at all hurt my chosen persona. Because Raylene Landry, prissy and elegant, is bolting back to her line and almost quivering in startled amazement. Because Dottie Dimple - newly promoted Capitol escort from the Capitol who is loved by most Capitolians living in the Capitol where President Snow lives in the Capitol - has a limp, twisted and bruising hand cradled to her chest. Cloelia has a smug smirk firmly in place as Dottie storms to the other Reaping Ball. Stupid. Unbelievably stupid.

"Dieter Ackman," Dottie reads stiffly, dropping the slip to the floor. "Any volunteers?" she screeches out, impatient.

I hurriedly perfect my indifference and walk up to the platform, biting back the urge to run. I hate their stares. I hate how they appreciate me for who I'm not. I hate how they think they know me but don't.

I curl my hands into steady fists. "My name is Andronicus Nolan and I volunteer as a tribute in the Sixty-seventh Hunger Games."

I turn to face the crowds, keeping my eyes glazed over and unseeing. The anthem suddenly blares out and my hands instinctively reach for something to grab at. There is nothing but air. I look down at them in frustration and feel a prickle of unease. Someone's watching me and she's not in the crowd. Cloelia. I catch her gaze and she stares back, her expression unreadable. I remember not to blink but my eyes involuntarily drift down at her hands. Automatically, I lift my hand slowly to hers, trying to silently remind her to shake. It's been a tradition for as long as I can remember, maybe even required.

Cloelia stiffens but manages to stop herself from pulling back. I can see the gears turning inside her head - she really has to work on that - as she contemplates her choice. She finally raises her hand and shakes mine meaningfully. It's all for a show of unity.


A/N: Another unrealistically quick update. The next chapter will come easily - guess why - and maybe the one after. The first half of Four will be easy, the second half not so much; Five, Six, Eight, Ten will be hard; Eleven in the middle; Seven, Nine and Twelve will be easy. After the first 22 chapters - ooh, a lot - everything will ridiculously easy if I stay in the mood.

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