Atlas Aurelius [District 1]

Atlas Justinian Aurelius. It's an appropriately grand name for a member of the grandest district in Panem. Can't say I know anything about what it means or where the hell my mother got it from, but I think it suits me.

And really, the Aurelius family tree boughs are so laden with Careers and athletes and the like, I think it's easy to see why they chose it. I was born with the family-trademark blonde hair and hazel eyes, and like my fellow denizens of One and the generations of Aureliuses before me, I've trained my physique into what you could expect from a man of my upbringing; lean, cut muscle, broad shoulders, narrow waist, thick arms. I've always preferred cardio and calisthenics over weightlifting, however, so I'm not quite as monstrously built as some of the other males living around me; more of a swimmer's build, like you might see in District 4... Well, if Four was less of a bumblefuck-nowhere backwater (no pun intended).

Incidentally, it's made me not such a fan of shirts. Or pants. Or clothes in general, really, because who would want to hide this caliber of artistry and perfection? District One is nearly as vain as the Capitol, and I'm no exception; I've experimented with hair dyes and ornamentation and tattoos just like everyone else; so far only piercings and the lattermost of that list have stuck (and not necessarily because of the nature of the metaphorical beast).

Wait, you want me to describe my ink? I'd really rather just show it to you. The collection's gotten large and ecclectic enough that trying to tell people about it has gotten a bit repetitive... But if you insist. Honestly, none of them are more significant than thinking 'that would look cool'. Top to bottom, I guess; I'm not a big fan of shirts in general, but even when I make the compromise the series of circles of varying size and shades of blue is still visible, since the first (the one with a four-point star inside it) starts at the base of my skull and dots my spine until it terminates at my lower back. My right shoulder is just something I doodled in school --in case you couldn't tell, school wasn't really my 'thing'--, some nonsensical collage with a lion's head, and birds, and lightning and waves... At some point fireworks came into the mix, I think I was drunk when I got those done on my chest. The birds on my abdomen were entirely intentional; I think it looks classy. Mom was complaining about all the ink I was getting, I wasn't about to stop so I let her pick my next one. The blue bands around my wrists and ankles, well... I had to do something to balance it out, all the work on my back and shoulder was throwing off my feng shui, yanno?

I have a few more, but you'll have to buy me a few drinks to find out where they are. (wink)

Sorry, what were you saying? I wasn't listening. Because who has the time to listen to idle chit-chat when I could be doing something more productive? Common misconception, just because I'm a social butterfly doesn't mean I'm listening to every word coming out of your stupid face. What could possibly compel anyone to think I give a shit about who wore what to whose party?

Oh, right.That whole 'sociability' thing. It's amazing what people will tell you when you put on a vacant smile and pretend that you care, tell them what they want to hear, promise not to tell anyone but you just have to know what juicy secret they're dying to tell you.

I'm pretty sure that's called a 'honeypot'.

Because, really, what could be less threatening than a smiling, scatterbrained, curly-haired prettyboy of a former Career with a disarming grin and an airheaded disposition? I'd be lying if I said the act wasn't a little infuriating at times, when dealing with those who talk down to me believing I'm stupider than they are, but they'll get theirs eventually.

But I'm not as stupid as you might think.

I don't think even my mother knows exactly what a genius she raised; I love her to death, but she isn't exactly the brightest crayon in the box. But, then, that's what everyone thinks about me; Dad's a little sharper, but a few too many blows to the head training Careers and Olympians has made him a little... weird. They're just two of the handful of people I don't really have anything against. Not because they popped me out, per se, but it's pretty hard to be malicious to a pair like them.

But I digress.

Remember how I said I'm not as stupid as I might lead you to believe?

I love seeing the looks on people's faces when they figure that out entirely too late. Because, as it turns out, being a social butterfly isn't too far removed from being a social engineer; people will tell you their weaknesses without even realizing it. What, did you think the Peacekeepers know how to strike where it hurts just by luck, or perhaps crack investigators? No, certainly not; they're practically robots, their way of thinking is too one-dimensional. And nobody trusts Peacekeepers anyway...

I can't quite tell what I like more; the slow burn, wheedling information out of a target about some illicit activities, or the payoff when the authorities drag them away in chains... Or when they offer something to let them go for as long as they make it worth my while.

So why not become a Peacekeeper, you may ask, if it's power I'm after; well let me ask you this, how much do you feel like being kicked around at the Academy, and getting yelled at and stepped on by people who think themselves your betters for twenty years of your life? (laughs) No, I don't fucking think so. I like my freedom, the fact that it comes at the cost of others' doesn't concern me.

I'll smile at you, you'll smile at me, and you'll never know that I've stabbed you in the back until it's too late.

Contrary to appearances, District One babies aren't born from test tubes after some faceless scientist works their Capitol-technology sorcery to select only the best traits any two parents have to offer.

They're born that way naturally.

I'm no exception, though it's probably fairer to start with Caelus and Terra Aurelius. They're the type of married couple that gives you cavities from all of the sappy sweetness oozing off of them when you look in their general direction. My parents are, like... disgustingly cute.

Eurgh.

But, yeah; small wonder seeing how smitten they are with each other that they went and made me, and I was born into this snugglefest of attention and doting affection and praise abound. As far back as I can remember, they were telling me I was the best, and I believed them; I never had reason not to. Dad trained Careers and Olympic athletes for a living; a few too many blows to the head had made him a little bit... odd. But it didn't make him any less competent, and when he put a sword in my hand when I was just old enough to walk, I felt invincible. I had the blood of champions running in my veins; Careers, athletes, you name it and we've probably got it.

And in spite of that fact, people are somehow surprised that I turned out as egocentric as I am.

Of course, I figured out when I started school that I wasn't the biggest and baddest of them all; Dad saw no issue with it when I came home roughed up after a fight (I was a rowdy little kid and picked as many fights as the next boy), but it upset Mom enough that I started looking for less... conventional means of holding the upper hand.

It wasn't my style to train every day and topple the most intimidating kid on the playground; that would lead to far more ass-beatings than it would be worth and defeat the purpose. But no one, especially not other kids, would suspect a golden-haired, cherub-faced little 10-year-old of conniving to stab someone in the back.

So to speak.

Blackmail, as it turns out, is effective against any opponent if you play your cards right; granted, it got my ass kicked more than a couple times while I was still riding the learning curve. But with time and a little practice, I discovered that the more fiercely my prey tried to retaliate, the more afraid they were of whatever it was I had against them. It no longer became a contest of whose body was stronger; only whose nerves. My parents were none the wiser, and Mom in particular went right back to her coddling, cooing ways with me believing I'd taken her words about fighting to heart.

Not so much.

By the time my Reaping years rolled around, I was far more interested in the machinations of the people around me than the Hunger Games; let the strongest volunteer themselves to their deaths or to their victory where they'd be more useful to me in any case. Not to say that I let my own skills slack; mainly because vanity (and my dad) wouldn't let me, but also because one of the many things I discovered growing up was that it tended to be useful knowing how to fight when you're threatening people larger than you with blackmail.

The game of navigating social webs became just that, a game; at first, I was satisfied just being able to lord that power over other people. Trying to see how big of a fish I could reel in.

I think I may have bit off more than I could chew when I met him.

I was about 20 years old, two years out of the Reapings and growing increasingly bored with dangling threats of revealing someone’s affair or illegal activities to their significant others or friends or family. The game wasn’t challenging anymore, so I decided to aim higher; I decided to pick a Peacekeeper target. And I was ambitious, too; it wasn’t enough to wring some rookie dry, I decided I wanted to dig up some dirt on the Head Peacekeeper. As it turns out, Peacekeepers on guard or patrol have an abundance of downtime and boredom when they’re on duty; if someone’s brave enough to approach them, they can be chatterboxes, especially the newbies. (And they stick out like sore thumbs, too; people-watching can be a wealth of information when you know what you’re looking for.) The Head Peacekeeper, as it turns out… was fantastically boring and straight-laced. What I didn’t expect was for word of some ditzy blonde asking about him to reach the man in question.

They waited until I struck up a conversation with another pair of rookies standing guard outside the Justice Building in the town square; there was no big, showy arrest, just a couple of their colleagues walking out of the building saying the Head Peacekeeper wanted to see me.

It was the most terrifying moment of my life.

The Head Peacekeeper was diligent, it seemed; while I’d been digging on him, he’d been digging on me, trying to find out exactly how much of a threat I wasn’t.

I thought I’d met my match; in retrospect, he was in an entirely different league.

But I digress. There was no wordplay, no vague insinuations or threats, or physical confrontation; he simply stated that I could be useful, it seemed, to the Peacekeepers.

“And what’s in it for me?” I’d asked.

The Head Peacekeeper smiled at me, and now that I think of it he probably thought it was funny that I had the gall to ask for something in return of he probably could’ve nailed me to the wall for, however innocuous it was.

“Power.” He’d said with a shrug, “And whatever else you can glean from it.”

“And what’s the catch?”

“I choose your targets.”

However despicable it made me, being of use to the Peacekeepers while having no loyalties or debts to them, I was sold. Besides, I’m not stupid enough to think that even if I had wanted to refuse, I would’ve gotten off scot-free for snooping.

And I really couldn’t do that to my parents, ignorant and blissful about my personal life as they were.

I gotta say, the work is far more interesting even if I don’t get to pick all of my targets; have you ever seen a squad of Peacekeepers tackle a guy to the ground, who they couldn’t have caught without you? Of course you haven’t, because if being a mole was that easy there would be a lot more of them. Four years of that have gone by since I was first brought into use by the Peacekeepers… and as before, it’s started to get a little bit dull.

I’m looking for my next big fish.