36th Hunger Games: Robin Miller, District 9, age 18
He's not big, and not small, just about average. Not good looking, but not ugly either. Always able to blend into the background, to hide in plain sight. It worked for last year's victor, and it's really the only thing he's got going for him.
They announce that this year, after the two days of training and being scored, the tributes will have a chance to show the Gamemakers something in private to help raise their betting scores. He slips into the room unnoticed, sidles along the wall to under their balcony, and waits for them to notice he is missing. Leaps up and, with sudden inspiration, snatches away a hunk of ribs dripping in sauce from the food platters they have in front of them, and starts eating until they notice. It takes them nearly the full ten minutes, and he's not entirely surprised when he is scored a 9 out of 10.
When the Games begin, he makes the most of his only skill, carefully tailing the volunteer pack so that he's never in their path. Close enough to strike if he wanted, so that the Gamemakers leave him alone. They think he's planning to move in when the time is right. As far as he's concerned, the right time is after they've fought one-another to the death.
Sure enough, not long after the field is whittled to him and them, an argument springs up and the fighting begins. Two tributes survive, both terribly wounded as they crawl apart to try and recoup. Gossamer balls up her tattered jacket against the remains of her nose and now-empty eye socket, staunching the flow. Barnabas uses one of his knives and a strip of clothing to tie a tourniquet around the wreck of his leg. Both of them look to the darkening sky, hoping, pleading with their mentors and those who would sponsor them for a life-saving gift.
He waits until the parachute is level with the tree-tops before revealing himself, stealing away whatever gifts of healing one of the volunteer mentors dredged up, and calmly walking back into the forest before they can react, not looking at either of his dying foes.
Neither of them live to see sunrise.
~xXx~
There's nothing wrong with wanting to live, as far as he is concerned. For eleven months of every year he is happy. He goes for a walk along the grain fields in the mornings, and spends his afternoons in his workshop with his carpentry hobby. Evenings are for curling up in a comfortable armchair with a book, or a good TV show and just letting life get on. He never wanted or needed anyone else, and as long as he kept playing by their rules they left him alone.
Unlike many of the other victors, he hasn't been agitating his district for rebellion. The hot-heads did all that themselves while he stayed safe and out of the way in the Village. It's not his fault that the Gamemakers messed up and ended up with a rebel figurehead, so he shouldn't have to pay the price for it.
He hopes that with all the attention focused on the "star-crossed lovers", and on the pretty young pets of the Capitol like Cashmere and Finnick, he can just disappear into the depths of the Arena and, like most of his life, be ignored.
Unfortunately for him he's not a good swimmer, and by the time he makes it to the strip of land nearest his platform Brutus is waiting. He never had any mercy.