Numerius Andronica (District 3 Escort)

I still can't believe I let my family talk me into taking this job. I've never been all that interested in The Hunger Games, even as a child. I understood what they were and why they were important — my teachers went out of their way to make sure of that on a regular basis. But that didn't make them interesting to me.

And, as I grew older — and found more enjoyable and worthwhile things to occupy my time with — my indifference towards the Games grew into full-blown apathy — which is what makes the fact that I'm now a part of them so … peculiar.

Like I genuinely cannot understand how I let myself get talked into this. …

Ok, so that's not entirely true. I understand how it happened. I just can't believe that I let it happen. I've never let my cousin talk me into doing anything in our entire lives — Not even small, stupid things like playing a game or pulling a prank. Yet, for some unimaginable reason, I allowed him — and to a much greater extent my parents — to talk me into taking a chance and seeing what happens.

And they got what they wanted. After weeks of gentle but incessant poking and prodding from my family — and with their full understanding that I had zero intention of accepting an assignment if one was offered to me unless Callidus also secured a spot as a mentor — I reluctantly agreed to enroll in the Academy.

And, if I'm being honest, I expected that to be the end of it. I didn't think for one second that there was a snowball's chance in hell he would do well enough to be offered a slot as a mentor. He's never been good at anything in his entire life. Why would this be any different?

So, of course, the impossible happened. Callidus excelled in the academy, at least by his standards.

He was nowhere near the top of his class or anything, but he did well enough to graduate in the top twelve. Which, as expected, earned him an assignment and forced me to make good on my promise to accept mine if one was offered to me — which, of course, it was. I was a spectacular student, and if I had been the least bit interested in showing off for the instructors, I could have easily ended up in a good district.

But I wasn't, so I didn't. Instead, I ended up getting assigned to District Three with Callidus — which I can only assume was my instructors' idea of a sick joke. Not that it matters, joke or not, what's done, is done. This is my district now — and I have a responsibility to represent it to the best of my abilities.

And I had every intention of doing just that — until I actually saw the dumpster fire I had been saddled with in person. There's just something about being the new face and voice of the Capitol for a dirty, smelly, squalor-filled district full of filthy-looking people that makes you want to gouge your eyes out. And don't get me started on what listening to this dinosaur of a mayor ramble on makes me want to do to my ears.

For the first time in my life, I genuinely envy the deaf and the blind. And I just know things are going to get sooooooo much worse before they get better.

"Would you stop scowling like that," whispers Callidus, a playful smile on his face. "People are going to think you're not happy to be here."

"Good," I reply, expertly mirroring the smile on his face. Though in my case, it's so obviously fake you'd have to be a moron to think it's not. "I'm not happy to be here, and I would hate for anyone to get the wrong idea about that."

He rolls his eyes at my response — that same stupid, shit-eating grin plastered on his face — before leaning half an inch or so to his right and whispering so softly that I have to strain to hear him as he says. "You really shouldn't say things like that. What would your mom and dad do if one of those microphones accidentally picked that up instead of the scintillating commentary coming from the mayor?"

"They would probably cry," I reply, rolling my eyes so hard they nearly roll into the back of my head in the process. "Not because of what I said, but because being tricked into a career as a Hunger Games Escort hasn't changed my opinion on the Games like they were hoping it would."

"Yet. It hasn't changed your opinion on the Games yet."

"You still think you can talk me into enjoying this?"

"Oh no, I gave up on that plan a long time ago," he admits, a playful glint in his eye. "I'm counting on the tributes now. I've been told there's nothing like escorting or mentoring a tribute to victory in the Games to rekindle one's passion for them."

"Then I have nothing to worry about. Because we both know that I have a better chance of being elected Emperor of the Universe than we do of finding a tribute capable of winning the Games in this shit-hole."

That retort earns me an admonishing glare. Which, to his credit, Callidus manages to hold for nearly two whole seconds before his composure shatters into a zillion tiny pieces, and he has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing.

I can't help but smile at this outcome. Despite being in my late twenties, I'm still a child at heart. And there's no better or more satisfying feeling in the world than getting one over on someone when they're being a pain in the butt.

Fortunately, at least for him, it doesn't look like I'm going to have the chance to enjoy my victory. Because within maybe thirty seconds, the mayor finally finishes up her never-ending spiel and motions for me to step forward — which I do so she can, I hope, formally introduce me to the crowd.

And, in a calm, clear, and blessedly concise manner, that is what she does. "It is now my pleasure to formally introduce you all to our new escort, Numerius Andronica."

"Knock 'em dead, cuz."

He punctuates that statement by playfully punching me in the shoulder, staggering me for a fraction of a second before I'm able to recover and slowly but surely begin to make my way across the stage. Hesitating just long enough to admire the massive and ornate reaping ball that has been mocked up to look like the bottom half of a plasma globe — with small, multi-colored electrical currents arcing every which way. And taking my place behind the suddenly imposing-looking podium.

Well, here goes nothing. …

"Good afternoon District Three. My name, as I'm sure you remember your mayor saying, is Numerius Andronica. And it is my … honor to be your new Capitol Escort." Good god, that was painful. I hope the rest of this isn't as hard as the introduction was, or it's going to be a painfully long day.
"Now we all know why we're here. So I won't waste any of your time with a long-winded speech about it. Instead, I'd like to get right to the part I know everyone has been waiting for all year. The selection of the heroic young men who will have the privilege of representing District Three in the One-Hundredth Annual Hunger Games and Fourth Quarter Quell."

Part of me expects someone to object. Not that they would have grounds to do so — the mayor has already covered all of the important technical stuff, and how much or little extravagance to place on the rest of this has always fallen to the discretion of the Escort in question — but that doesn't stop me from expecting someone to try.

But no one does.

So, after taking a few seconds to compose myself — or build tension, depending on who's asking. I slip around the edge of the podium and quickly make my way over to the ball with what I hope is an excited, or at the very least marginally interested, grin etched on my otherwise thoroughly bored and uninterested face.

It only takes me a couple of seconds to cover the handful of feet between my podium and the ball. Confirming my long-held suspicion that some — ok, most, escorts go out of their way to milk their walk for dramatic effect.

And while I know I have more important things to be worried about, like reaping my first tribute, I can't help but wonder why they feel the need to do so? Is it an ego thing? Do they think it helps their tributes? Or are they just so into all of this that they ... Stop it, Numerius! That is not important right now and you know it!

Ok, maybe it is important to me — but it's not important to anyone else. At least not at this specific point in time.

And, since that's the case — and no one particularly cares what I think anyway — it would behoove me, god I hate using that word — to do what they think is important even if it is incredibly lame and pointless. So that's what I'm going to do.

And, after taking a fraction of a second to admire the intricate details of the ball up close. I thrust my hand firmly and decisively into the sea of rust-colored slips of paper and rip one out from somewhere in the vicinity of the center of the pile. Then, with the slip held tightly between my index finger and thumb, I casually make my way back behind the podium and carefully unfold it so I can study the name inscribed within.

And, after reading the name quietly to myself a dozen times to make sure I have it right — which was probably overkill given the simplicity of the name — I lean in close to the microphone and announce in a calm, clear, and matter-of-fact voice …

"The name of our first tribute is … Oz Channer!"

A soft but persistent murmur accompanies my announcement. It's almost like the people in the crowd are just as curious about who this Oz kid is as I should probably be. No, that's not it. They're more interested than I am — and the longer it takes Oz to show himself — the louder and more animated they start to get.

Until, finally, the young man I can safely assume is Oz — manages to break through the mass of young men near the back of the half of the square and into the welcoming embrace of the central aisle. And, even though I loath having to do so, I have to admit that Oz is a rather impressive-looking young man.

He still has his flaws — the most obvious being that he apparently needs to wear glasses to see. And while this isn't necessarily an insurmountable obstacle in and of itself, it could become one if he loses them while he's in the arena.

But other than that, he really is as close to the total package as you're likely to get in a district like Three — at least from a physical standpoint.

He's tall, close to six feet if I had to venture a guess — and he has a head full of dark chocolate-brown hair that has quite obviously, at least to someone with an eye for this sort of thing, been carefully tousled to give it that playful, I just rolled out of bed look that so many people find attractive.

Couple that with his nearly flawless complexion — there are a couple of minor imperfections on his nose and left cheek — but they add far more to his charm than they subtract. A soft, playful smile — and that charmingly confident gleam in his eyes, and you have yourself one hell of a tribute. Again, at least by the disgustingly low standards of District Three.

I'm honestly a little excited to see how he does and what, if anything, my surprisingly competent cousin can squeeze out of him. The next few days should be interesting, provided he's not a complete boor. Or worse, an egghead.

Well, I guess there's no time like the present to find out if either of those is the case. And, after taking a deep, calming breath — I snatch up the microphone, slide around the side of the podium, and quickly make my way to the top of the stairs so I can greet my new tribute.

"Welcome, Mr. Channer! It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Thank you, Mr. Andronica. It's a pleasure to meet you as well."

"Please, call me Numerius. I insist."

"Only if you agree to call me Oz."

"Oh, I'm not sure I can do that," I respond. A playful smile on my face. "I mean, there are rules I'm supposed to follow and whatnot."

"What good are rules if you don't get to break them every once in a while?" He jokes. A massive, shit-eating grin on his face.

"That's a fair point," I admit, matching his smile with a playfully wry one of my own. "Though I'm not sure my bosses back in the Capitol would agree."

"Well, I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I got you in trouble." He replies, leaning in closer to whisper this next part in my ear, though he does it loud enough that everyone can hear him anyway. "So we'll just have to keep any rule-breaking that goes on strictly between us."
He punctuates that statement by playfully slapping me on the shoulder — a little harder than he needed to I might add — before spinning around and looking directly into the nearest camera. "You all can keep a secret, right?" He asks, the mock seriousness of his tone betrayed by the playful smile on his lips and the charmingly mischievous twinkle in his eye.

The Capitol is going to love this kid. Hell, I love this kid, and I hate everybody.

"Well, I hate to cut this short," I mean that, and it surprises the hell out of me. "But we are on a bit of a tight schedule, and we still have to find Oz here, a district partner.
"So, Oz, if you would please …" I motion for him to take his place on the star on the far side of the stage — which he does without further prompting on my part — while I quickly make my way back to the ball so I can reap him a partner.

I don't spend nearly as much time admiring the intricate beauty of the ball this time around. Instead, I simply walk up to it — gently slip my hand into the remnants of the hole I made on my first trip — give the sea of slips a couple of quick, powerful stirs — absentmindedly run my fingers over the newly unearthed slips as I search passively for one that "feels" like a winner — and then quickly make my way back behind my podium once I find the one I want.

"And the name of our second tribute is … Cypher Diamantis!"

This time my announcement is met by a small but audible yelp of fear from somewhere near the front of the square — followed moments later by an anguished wail that erupts from somewhere near the back. And, while both of those are perfectly normal responses, they also mean that most of the hopes I had of repeating the Oz situation with Cypher have been effectively crushed.

I say most because — despite my normally pessimistic nature — I genuinely do believe that I might be able to salvage something decent out of this if Cypher is willing and able to play ball. I wouldn't have felt that way an hour ago, but the massive amount of success I just had with Oz has forced me to … reevaluate my confidence in my escort-related abilities. At least when it comes to squeezing a good first impression out of a willing and competent tribute.

Unfortunately, it takes me all of three seconds to realize that isn't going to be the case this time.

Cypher, all five feet of him — and I'm probably being generous with that estimate — is bristling with anger.

A fact that stands in stark contrast to what you would expect from him at first glance. Anyone with half a brain would assume that his short, thin frame — soft, round, childlike face — flawless, olive-colored skin — messy, ash-brown hair — and innocent appearance means that he's a relatively normal kid.

But he's not. A fact that is made frighteningly clear to anyone who looks into his angry, brown eyes — which are burning with a barely contained rage that no one as young as him should have.

This kid is practically seething right now, and it scares the ever-loving crap out of me. Cypher is quite obviously going to be my problem child. The only question is, what kind of problem child is he going to be? The angry, silent, brooding type? Or the animated and outspoken one?

I guess there's no time like the present to find out.

"Welcome, Cypher. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"I'm sure it is, Numerius." He replies, his voice surprisingly curt and dripping with sarcasm.

Alright then — this should be fun.

"I know this is all a bit much for you, being so young and all. But —"

"It's not too much for me," he replies, matter-of-factly.

"That's … good to hear. Most kids your age have more trouble adjusting —"

"I'm not like most kids my age.
"Most kids my age are idiots. And I mean that literally."

Oh, for the love of — Is this kid trying to get himself killed? Because that's where he's headed with this crap.
I've seen Capitol androids with more personality and tact. I get that he's a kid — and that he's probably not great at dealing with and articulating complex emotions — but still. Does he not understand how …

You know what, I don't care. I've done my job. I reaped the little shit — it's Callidus's job to make him attractive to sponsors — not mine. I'm done.

"Well then, I guess that's that. Is there anything else you'd like to say before we wrap this up, Cypher?"

"Not really."

"Excellent!" I shout, motioning for Oz to join us as I trade places with Cypher so that I'm standing directly in front of the podium with my new tributes on either side of me. "In that case, allow me to be the first to formally congratulate both of you on being selected to represent District Three in this, the One-Hundredth Annual Hunger Games, and Fourth Quarter Quell!
"I'm sure that you'll both make your families, your district, and most importantly, yourselves, very proud.
"And I want to wish all of you here in Three, and those of you watching this broadcast around Panem, a happy and safe Hunger Games. And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

Oz Channer-17 (District 3 Male)

"You're seriously going to ask him to be your ally?"

"Why wouldn't I?" I ask. A look of genuine curiosity on my face as my friend, Genevieve, squirms in her seat — looking for the right way to say what she thinks she needs to say without offending Cypher — who she doesn't know and who isn't even in the room with us.

"Well, that's … that's a good question." She concedes, her concerns still etched all over her pretty face.

"Look, I know that Cypher doesn't seem like he would be an ideal ally — but that's why I have to ally with him."

"Do you … do you want to run that by me again? Because it sounds crazy."

I can't help but chuckle at that. Of course, it sounds crazy, and in all honesty, there's a good chance that it is. But I have my reasons for wanting to ally with Cypher — reasons that Genevieve —as smart as she thinks she is — simply isn't capable of understanding. Though, I'm not going to tell her that. It would be … out of character.

Instead, I conjure up a sweet smile and shoot it her way before leaning over — closing the already small gap between the two of us and wrapping her in a warm, comforting hug. "You really are worried about me, aren't you?"

"Of course I am," she replies, her bright-brown eyes brimming with tears, the first traces of which have already started to stream softly but steadily down her flawless amber cheeks. "You mean so much to me. I don't — I don't know what I'll do if I lose you."

"You're not going to lose me," I assure her, my voice low but brimming with confidence. Confidence some would call undeserved.

"How can you promise that?" She croaks, her eyes red and puffy as the tears she had once had a firm grasp on just moments ago now flowing freely down her face. "Especially when you insist on allying with someone you know will make keeping that promise more difficult than it needs to be?"

"Because I believe that I can win the Games without having to sacrifice who I am as a person," I respond, running my hand through her long, jet-black hair before cupping her chin and tilting her head up so I can stare deeply into her tear clouded eyes. "Do you trust me?"

"I do," she whispers, leaning up to capture my lips in a soft, hesitant kiss.

I return her kiss with a surprising vigor, pulling her in close and deepening it as she instinctively melts into my arms.

"If you two need a moment I can wait outside."

I thought I heard the door. I break off the kiss and turn to see my dad standing there, a neutral look plastered on his normally animated face as he waits patiently for me and a very flustered and embarrassed Genevieve to untangle ourselves.

"I'm so sorry Mr. Channer. We were just —"

"You don't have to apologize to him," I say, wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her in for a chaste little kiss that causes her already red face to deepen at least three shades.

"Ozzy?! Not in front of your dad."

"I don't care what you two do," he says, doing everything he can NOT to look at us as I continue to pepper Genevieve's cheeks with kisses. "You're basically adults — what you do in private is your business.
"However, I do need to speak to my son for a minute. So if you don't mind?"

"Of course not. I'll just step into the bathroom for a second and give you some privacy."

I offer her a longing look as she slips out of my grasp and quickly retreats into the safety of the bathroom, closing the door softly and leaving my dad and me alone in the main room. An uncomfortable silence filling it as he stands there, looking for the right words to say whatever it is he came here to say.

"So did mom have to go back to work or ..."

"That's not why I'm here and you know it," he snaps, the anger in his voice threatening to boil over with every syllable he utters.

"Then why are you here?" I ask, that same look of genuine curiosity from before now back on my face in place of the playful grin I had just a second earlier. "If you have something to say, please just say it."

"Don't even think about it."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me," he hisses, the anger in his eyes seeping out with his every word. "I saw how your eyes lit up when you saw Cypher — and I could see the wheels turning in your head as he and Numerius were talking. And I'm telling you now, don't try it. Just leave him alone and focus on yourself."

"Dad, I don't know what you're talking about —"

"Do you think I'm stupid?"

"Of course not. I think you're confused, maybe a little emotional. But I don't think you're stupid."

"Then cut the crap and listen to me. I know what you're planning — and he doesn't deserve that. He has enough issues to deal with without you adding to them. So leave him alone.
"If you don't, I won't hesitate to tell everyone who will listen what you're planning."

So that's how he wants to play this? Fine by me. "No one will believe you."

"Maybe not — but that doesn't mean I won't try."

"Whatever you say, dad.
"Now, I have an attractive and emotional young woman waiting for me in the bathroom, and I'd like to spend some time with her before I leave. So, if you don't mind ..."

Cypher Diamantis-12 (District 3 Male)

I'm actually glad my parents didn't come to say goodbye. I'm just not in the mood to deal with them and all the stupid crying and complaining I know they would be doing if they were here. Besides, it's not like we have anything to say to each other anyway.

What could they say? We're sorry this happened to you? We're sorry that we didn't love you more when we had the chance? We're sorry that we threw ourselves into our work and neglected you after your brother died? What did WE DO to deserve having ANOTHER son taken from us like this?

I don't need or want to hear any of that. Besides, this isn't supposed to be about them — it's supposed to be about me. I'm the one who has to deal with this — and that's easier said than done after my little slip up during the Reaping. And I'm not talking about my back and forth with that moron Numerius — that actually went better than I expected it too.

No, I'm talking about my moronic slip-up after my name was called. I can believe that I got scared — I am only human, and even the smartest and most composed of us occasionally slip up — that's not the issue, or at least not the most pressing one. No, the real issue is that I vocalized my fear — no matter how briefly — in front of the whole world. People heard me slip up, and I don't think there's anything I can do to undo that.

I've been beating myself up over this for the better part of the last ten minutes. I'm so deep in thought I don't hear the peacekeeper guarding my door as he opens it to allow someone to come in. It's not until a man I've never met before places his hand gently on my shoulder that I realize someone is in the room with me — and it takes every ounce of my self-control not to yelp once he finally makes his presence known.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he says, a look of what I'm sure is faux concern plastered on his face.

"You didn't. I was just — you know what, it's not important what I was doing. Who the hell are you?"

"My name is Ollie Channer."

Why does that name sound familiar? Hold on a second — "You're related to my district partner?"

"I'm his father," he admits, a look of pensive frustration quickly washing away his previous concern. "Look, we don't have a lot of time. I just came here to give you some quick advice before you go."

"And why would I want advice from you? No offense, but I don't know you — so why should I trust anything you have to say?"

"Because I'm trying to help you, kid," he retorts, his frustration becoming more evident by the second.

"I don't want your help," I reply, calmly. "What I want for you is to get out of here and leave me alone. Can you manage that?"

"You don't understand. My son is —"

"GUARD!" I shout, my patience for this crap finally exhausted."

"What is it?"

"This … gentleman and I are done. Could you please show him out?"

"No! You have to listen to me! I'm trying to help you!"

"No, I don't," and I'm not going to. And, after a couple of seconds of trying to scream something to me that gets lost in the scuffle between him and the peacekeeper, he's been dragged out of my room and I'm alone again — Which is how I want it.

I don't need his help — I don't need anyone's help. If I'm going to make it out of this mess alive, it'll be because of my intelligence and natural ability — not the useless advice of some dithering old man who was probably trying to help his son win by tricking me into doing something stupid. And I'm too smart to fall for something like that.

A/N: First off I'd like to give a very special thanks to HumanWiki and Formerly Chuck's for submitting Oz and Cypher respectfully. They were both incredibly fun to write and I can't wait to show everyone what else I have planned for them.

I don't have much else right now, we're knee deep in the tribute introductions and I hope everyone is having as much fun reading them as I am writing them. I should hopefully have the District 4 Reaping done within the next week, so be on the lookout for that. Otherwise, please drop a review and let me know what you think of Oz and Cypher, and I'll be looking for all of your smiling faces at the next update :D