Important! Please read! I think I may have come up with a better title! I mean, "The Hetalia Hunger Games of Panem" sounds generic. So, I decided to change the name. Maybe.

The name I thought of is, drum-roll please, "To Kill a Mockingjay".

If you like it than the one that is in place now, please tell me, that way I can change it. I hope you like it! Enjoy!

Instead of fighting him off and explaining the situation, hoping he won't turn me in, I break down, sinking to the ground and balling into my hands. I tremble with the tears and fright. 'If he discovers me, then I'm doomed! I can't be with Germany, I'll be sent back home if they even let me live, Germany might die and I won't have a chance to say a final goodbye, I'll never see Germany again…' The fears tear at my mind as they circulate in a tireless loop in my head. The tattered blue dress I still have on is now stained a darker color from all the tears I'm spilling.

Greece's fuzzy paw lands gently on my head. I look up into his comforting face, finding a worried and confused expression there. "What's wrong?" he asks, bending down beside me, the dress draped over one of his knees.

Something hits me then and there. I'm going to have to have someone on my side. 'I can't keep my gender a secret for long. It's bound to come out if Germany and I are the only ones fighting to keep me here. Not to mention the fact that the stylists have free-reign of my body, clothed or not. Mr. Greece is going to find out sooner or later. It might as well be now.' "There is something I need to tell you…" I begin. I have no idea why on earth I decide to trust him, but I do. Unfortunately, while I'm explaining the situation, it all comes out in a rush.

"I'm really a boy I'm just disguised as a girl because Germany is my best friend and I wanted to be in the Hunger Games with him because I couldn't bear it if he died alone and I figured that if I went with him he'd be a little safer because I'd be there at least to help him fight so please don't make me go away I don't want to leave Germany—"

A fuzzy paw clamps over my mouth, forcing me to pause. "Whoa there, little kitten. Not so fast; I can't understand you. Now, start from the beginning. And go slow." His paw lifts from my mouth, giving me a moment to breath. Several times I have to stop myself, reminding my tongue to go slowly.

"I'm not a girl. I'm really a boy. Back in District 11, Germany is my only friend. And for years, I was always scared that Germany's name would be picked for the Reaping. So every year, I would put on my one dress and put my name in the girls' Reaping basket. I figured that if he went, I would go too. And if I went and he didn't, then he wouldn't be any worse off. But this year, his name was drawn. Of course, I volunteered, but I didn't even think about what it would be like, trying to hide my gender. Germany always says I act before I think… Anyway, I beg you Mr. Greece. Don't send me back. It's not the death penalty I'm worried about, or the criticism or anything like that. I'm scared that Germany will die in the Arena without anyone to call a friend. If you think I should die for this, then let me die in the Arena. But please, don't do this to Germany. I'm his only friend, too."

Tears pour silently out of my eyes as the silence stretches on, Mr. Greece only staring at me with something that could be shock, it could be wonder, and it could be pity. I plead with my eyes for him to say yes, for him to help me, but as the silence stretches on, I don't hear him say anything. I only hear the sounds of our breathing, my tears hitting the metallic bottom of the train car, and the train streaking by Panem outside.

Suddenly, he stands up, bringing the flowing gown with him. He seems to dig around in one of the drawers in the make-up stand, coming out with three pieces of rubber. He sets to stitching them into the fabric, a serious look replacing the care-free one he had on just minutes before. "Well, this does change things, doesn't it?" he mumbles, his hand going into the dress and coming back out again with the needle countless times. I can only sit there in anxiety and confusion. Mr. Greece hasn't made any move to turn me in. In fact, he seems more worried about the dress!

I think just a few minutes have passed, but to me it feels like hours. Of sitting on the floor, my hands curled into fists and my stomach in knots. Without warning, he puts his needle on the table, ties off a knot in the fabric, and turns to me. His eyes rake over my body, and if judging something like measurements. Then he smiles, bringing up the dress for me to see. The chest of the gown juts out now of its own doing as do the hips. 'So that's what the rubber was for…But what is it supposed to do?'

Mr. Greece must read my mind. "I've added padding the breast and butt. It should help hide any sign that you're a boy, at least until we can get a proper fix in place. No, what do you say we stand up, huh? Stop those tears?" He lends me his paw to grasp, and I shakily stand, the tears almost starting afresh. Finally, someone who cares enough to fight for me! Without thinking, like always, I rush up and grab Mr. Greece around the middle, saying "thank you, thank you," over and over into his waist. He pats my head, and I think I hear him chuckle softly. He pushes me away, hands me the dress, and leaves the train car without another word.

I thank God, incredibly grateful that Mr. Greece understood; that he didn't turn me in. As I slip on the dress, I'm surprised at how perfectly it fits. He didn't even take my measurements, but the fabric clings in all the right places, making my waist look tiny and my hips and chest larger. After I slip on the beautiful garment, I study my reflection. If I hadn't known the person in the mirror, I would think that she was a beautiful, young girl with a small chest, just big enough to be barely noticeable. She looks strong; a force to be reckoned with in the Arena. I can't believe that Mr. Greece has managed to pull it off.

I actually look like a girl.

I hear a brief knock on the door and in steps France, his arms thrown wide and gesturing widely to the contents of the train car, as if it's some spectacular museum. A camera crew files in behind, their black mechanisms on their shoulders. They are dressed as ridiculously as France is; some of them have weirdly-dyed skin, and when they stand in order to the side of the car, they look like a human rainbow. Their hair is standing up on end with little streaks of gold lacing their locks, so that when they gaze around the car in amazement, it looks like what they see literally shocks them. They stand against the glass window wall, and I notice that the train has stopped. I can't see out of the window, but I don't know if it's from some curtains being drawn or the train having entered a dark place.

I stifle a giggle as Mr. France loops his arm around my shoulders, grinning at me. "Well, don't you just look spectacular!" he gushes, putting me at arm's length to get a better view of me. I think I see his eyes linger at the fake breasts, and I'm afraid he knows, but it might just be a trick of the light, because he quickly averts his gaze to my eyes. "It's time to get going. The Parade starts in about," he checks his watch which gleams with gold and jewels, "thirty minutes. We've got to get you out of here!" He pushes me to the door, the camera crew broken out of their trance and following my every step. Instead of leaving the train car, a door opens in the glass wall, the seams appearing form nowhere. I shield my eyes as a blinding light bursts into the small train car. When my eyes adjust, I have to catch my breath.

I'm looking at a large room, the walls a smooth kind of white stone that has flecks of black swirls in it. From my time in District 12, I think it's marble. A horde of electric lights hang from the ceiling, some encased in bulbs of blue, some in red, and other in different colors, giving the place a feeling of another world. And you would almost think it is, by the look of everyone else in the cavern. All the other tributes are here, and they are all in costume, with their make-up on and everything. Make-up brushes fly everywhere, and the air is choked with the heavy scents of perfume and powder. I'm trying not to gag on the stench when France's hand appears on my shoulder.

"Listen, kid," he says lowly, "the Gamemakers have decided that neither I nor the two Victors can give you advice. We're not allowed to discuss anything with you, besides where to go and when and what to eat, things like that. They tell everyone it's because they want to people of Panem to be able to see the Tribute's true personality, but we all know that's not true. They just don't want us scheming with you to take over the Capitol, which they suspect Haymitch and Katniss of doing.

"Normally I wouldn't be doing something like this for someone like you, but I'll make an exception." He straightens up, smiling coyly at me. "You be on your best behavior now, you got that?" France asks. It would look like he was just giving me friendly advice to anyone else. I nod, not capable of doing anything else. France nods back, disappearing into the crowd.

Before I can go off in search of Germany, a soft paw lands on my head. I look up to see Mr. Greece staring down at me with Lichtenstein by his side. "Touch-ups," is the only explanation he gives me as he takes my hair, which is still down to my shoulders, in his hands. He yanks and tugs this way and that, and it takes all I have not to squeal in pain. He probably doesn't realize how rough he can be. Not to mention that my head is tender, especially around my curl.

When both he and Lichtenstein are finished, the small girl hands me a hand mirror. I take it, inspecting my hair. It's rather simple and plain at first glance, but once you really look at it, the design is more intricate than I could have imagined. Some of my hair extensions fall to my shoulders, but the part that would be the bangs is looped behind my ears, keeping it out of my face. But, as I look closer, I notice that the little strands that are pulled back are knotted into intricate braids. I've seen this kind of design on television, in Katniss's braid. My trademark curl is still free, bouncing away beside my face. And tucked in the fake locks is a small, ornamental bird with black and white wings. It looks like it's made of silver and onyx. I look at Mr. Greece confusedly. He just shrugs. "Mockingjays are in," is his only explanation. He grabs Lichtenstein, hauling her over to a crowded corner with the other stylists.

Immediately, I try to go in search of Germany. But, of course, I can't. Instead, my way is blocked by a Tribute. He's a tall man, at least two or three heads taller than me. Around his slim neck rests a knitted scarf or gray wool. The ends come down to about his chest. I shudder involuntarily. His thin lips are stretched into a smile, but it doesn't go anywhere near his eyes. Instead, I get the impression that he wants to kill everyone here.

His hand reaches out to me as he speaks. "Hello there. My name is Russia. Who might you be?"

I gulp nervously, my clammy hand extending to meet his thick one. "My name is Italy," I say, my voice shaking a bit. The only person I've seen who is as big as Russia would be Germany, and even my blonde friend doesn't really compare.

"It's nice to meet you, Italy. I come from District 9."

"11," I reply, trying to avoid his purple eyes. They unsettle me, and my knees are starting to shake a bit.

"Where is the boy Tribute from your District?" he asks, once more flashing me a sadistic grin.

"I was actually looking for him. If you'll excuse me…" I gently push past him, trying to be polite about it, but failing miserably. I think he tries to call me back, but I'm too far away and the crowd is far too noisy. I scan the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of Germany, but I'm too short. Instead, I make my way to the end of the line of chariots, sidling up beside the one with the number 11 on it. Two horses are in front, both a chestnut sort of color. One of them has a white stripe on the muzzle, the other a black patch on its front right knee. They both regard me strangely, as if gauging whether or not I'm their friend. I lift up my hand to the one with the white stripe, letting its nose bump gently against my palm.

I'm startled when I feel a hand land on my shoulder, pulling me away from the horse. I turn to see a girl about my age, but her hair is gray like Russia's. She has a flat chest and a slightly familiar face, though I don't know where I would know her from. She doesn't give me time to think it over, for she leans into my face, hissing, "I saw you get close to Brother Russia. Don't even think about getting any ideas or I'll take you down." With that, she spins, stalking away towards her brother. She doesn't even give me time to say that I wasn't doing anything.

But, once again, I don't have time to think about her for long. In the trail that the girl makes through the crowd, a small boy steps into view. He's wearing a suit that almost looks like he's on fire, so I think he's from District 12. He looks to be about twelve, with blond hair and bright blue eyes. A blue cap with a white ribbon hangs down from his head, bounding and flopping as he moves cheerily though the crowd, smiling at everyone he sees. He doesn't look like the typical person from the Seam, but I know he is. Day after day, I used to go outside and play with him, picking up that same hat every time it fell to the ground…

I start running towards him, desperate to reach him before the mass of people converges again and blocks him off. His back is turned, but when he hears me running, he turns, his eyes widening in shock as he recognizes me. It's not a surprise that he didn't know I'm here, and vise versa. None of the tributes got to see the Reapings in other Districts, so we don't know who we're up against. But, even as I'm running towards him, my hearts cries out that they chose my brother to compete.

"Sealand!" I cry, rushing towards him and engulfing him in my arms. He clutches e back, still rigid with disbelief. "My brother…" I mumble into his hair as I hold the person I haven't seen in years.

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And the plot thickens! Dun-dun-dun! I hope you enjoyed it!