I woke up to the sound of voices. Many voices. Hundreds even. And other sounds, of scuffling, fighting, swords clanging and punches thrown. I rolled over and fell onto the cold stone floor, and realized I had been sleeping in an actual bed, or rather a cot of sorts.

"Easy there." The much less distant voice in the doorway close to me made me jump, and I sprang to my feet, my hand going to my belt for a knife but not finding any there. "Where's my stuff?" I demanded, my eyes darting around the room in search of my backpack and jacket.
"Calm down, Violet, you're still injured, you need to rest." I made to lie down again by firm hands, and I looked up to see a vaguely familiar face. "You… you're the guy who attacked me in the woods." He nodded shortly, moving me so I shifted, and he started rewrapping a bandage around my arm.

"My name is Zeke. Zeke Morgan. I'm one of the assisting trainers here at Academy, as well as a student." "Why am I here?" I mumbled, my face remaining stoic, expressionless as pain shot through my arm every time he touched it.
"Well, Violet, I don't normally pick fights with lone strangers in the woods, but when I do I always win. Very easily. You, on the other hand, while I did still beat you, were a challenge. Something I haven't had in a quite a while. And seeing how you were exhausted, injured, maybe even delirious… I'm curious to see your full abilities once you've got your strength back and a bit of training here with me."

I raised an eyebrow, and couldn't help noticing the large bandage around his thigh, where I had wounded him. "Why would you care about training my abilities?"
"Obviously because you could win some serious glory for our district by winning the Hunger Games, of course. In a year or two. I'm volunteering this year; it's my last year and I'm far at the top."

His prideful smirk irritated me.

"Hunger Games, pride, glory, big whoop. I've spent enough time running for my life, thanks, I don't want a televised, creative version with other people involved." His cold, calculating dark eyes studied my face for a moment. "Who are you? Where do you come from?"
"I'm Violet," I said calmly, "And I'm from, uh, District 5."

He raised an eyebrow. "Why do I get the feeling," his voice was calm as he casually tapped the hilt of a knife in his belt, "That you're lying to me?"
I swallowed, watching his eyes steadily and not dropping my gaze. "Why do you care so much about who I am?" I asked him after a moment's pause.

"Don't try to avoid the question with me, "Violet," I know you're lying to me. And why do I care? I don't think you understand. When I found you last night, I could have turned you in to the Capitol authorities, and you'd be imprisoned or shot for encroaching on District 2 property. And you sure looked, to me, like some sort of runaway. You should be on your knees thanking me, not lying to my face."

My eyes narrowed to catlike slits as I stared back up at him, saying nothing. Then without a word, he stabbed a needle into my arm. I fought back, pushing his face away and ripping the needle out, but then he suddenly struck me across the face and pinned my shoulders down. "Lie still," he said in annoyance. I watched stoically as the syringe filled with my blood. "Alright, "Violet". You won't tell me, I'll just have to find out. I'm the son of the Head Peacekeeper of District 2, I've got access to pretty much any file, code, or computer I please."

I turned my head slowly, watching him go to a lab table across the room and begin a blood analysis. A computer screen turned on, and from what I could see, it was downloading information from my blood and comparing it to every file of every citizen in the country of Panem. After several minutes of silence, he slowly turned around to look at me.

"Would you like to explain to me why there are four people in this country with your exact DNA?" "Since when do Peacekeepers have kids?" I said snidely, ignoring his question.

"Skye Lockhart, District 7, occupation: wood sorter. Crystal Venn, District 1, occupation: jewel polisher. Maria Levette, District 4, occupation: net weaver. And Blaze Smith, origin unknown, occupation: Capitol prisoner."

I watched as he tapped on the final name and began reading my file aloud. "Parentage unknown, birthdate unknown, approximately fifteen years of age, brown hair, blue eyes, tan skin, slender build, 5'7", marked by numerous scars located on the limbs."

He took a glance at me, confirming everything he read out loud.

"Escaped from Capitol orphanage, found and imprisoned eight years ago for the murder of two families, but escaped a week later. Escaped to…District 1, was recaptured for grand theft, breaking and entering, and physical assault on numerous citizens. Moved to the Capitol's strongest prison, escaped a month later… her chamber guard not found until his head washed up from the river two weeks later, wow you're a fiesty one." He chuckled before continuing.
"Escaped, then rediscovered in District 4, high on diamorphling…. moved to underground asylum… Isn't that the one no one monitors? Like where they can do anything to you?"

He turned around, and his expression briefly showed a flash of alarm at the sight of the demonic glare I had been giving the back of his head. I looked away from him in disgust, and I released my clenched fists to find blood on my palms where my nails had dug in.

"So you're basically Panem's most wanted, the hero of every criminal out there." "Shut up before I give them another reason to arrest me." I expected another look of alarm, but instead, he smirked at me. How could he find any of this funny? "Now give me my stuff, let me go, and nobody will get hurt."
"Get hurt?" he echoed with a sharp laugh. "You're a legally insane criminal who's been sentenced to death by now no doubt, how can you think I'll let you go?" "Who knows," I said darkly, sliding off the cot and scanning the room for my belongings.

I finally spotted them and tried to grab them, but Zeke got in my way. "With all you've done, why have they kept you alive so long? Why haven't they just killed you? I know you must be important to them somehow, surely…"

"Would they really contain someone important in a strait jacket for weeks on end? Would they really torture someone important so mercilessly?" I pushed up my right sleeve in an almost violent motion, revealing the mass of scars that marred my skin. "I'm covered in these. They're only a small remainder of what they've done to me. Would they really abuse someone valuable? I can't imagine why."

He stared at my arm for a long time in silence. "Is your real name Blaze, then, or is that another fake?" His voice was softer now, as he stood perfectly still, watching my arm as he appeared lost in thought. His voice echoed in my head, as this was the first time in years I had heard my real name spoken out loud. "That is my name," I admitted finally, dropping my gaze, "As far as I know, at least."
"Who were your parents, Blaze?" I was at a loss for words now, not just from hearing my name but also because I didn't know how to answer. "I don't know," I said quietly, after another pause. "The earliest memory I have is of being kept in a Capitol cell."

I turned away from him, staring absently at myself in the mirror on the back of the door. I was a wreck. My long brown hair was a hopeless mess of tangles, my face and skin were covered in scratches and cuts from the woods, my hands were still pinkish-purple, and I was injured in more places than I could count. My eyes looked tired, but they still blazed, with the stubborn, negative energy that they always had.