Timon Xenocrates; District Eight

Timon Xenocrates is, by far, very typical of the area that he was raised in. Taller than his own father, and yet thin as a wire, Timon has spent much of his life hardly lifting a finger. He is pale enough to nearly glow in the dark, contrasted with messy black hair and hollow eyes that reflect his natural lack of humor, care for himself, or care for those around him.

Timon's small and narrow frame also, by some chance of luck, came with long and nimble fingers that have proved excellent for pulling knots apart and fixing backfires and glitches that happen with the sewing machines in the factory. For this purpose those nimble fingers are also finely decorated with numerous pale and raised scar tissue that have made rough palms all the more sensitive over the years.

If you were to stop and ask just about anyone in the District what they knew of Timon Xenocrates, chances were that you not hear good things. With his chin held high and nose pointed towards the air, this poor, broke boy tends to rub everyone the wrong way. It's not so much that he honestly believes himself at all superior to the rest of the world, but more so that his mother has always made a point to educate him. This was an opportunity that he would not have otherwise gained if his mother had not been a school teacher in the District. Still, from a young age Timon had happily taken advantage of what his mother has been willing to offer him, and whenever an opportunity to study and learn provides itself, he takes it. He is one of the few of his year who can both read and write at their age level, but more than that, Timon loves math. Yes, that sounds weird, and quite honestly it is incredibly so, he's a logical minded kid who see's more friendship and reliability in numbers than in the people around him who have a tendency to go off and get killed on television for entertainment value.

He's a bitter boy at best, this much is clear. It was around the time that Timon became old enough to become a part of the reaping that he realized just what fate could very well be facing him cold. When this realization really settled in for him, Timon stopped caring for those who were around him, he buried himself in the books his mother offered and equations that half of the time were probably wrong and left him dizzy after hours.

Despite having many awkward stages when it comes to attempting to pull himself out of his shell and face other people, Timon is a very analytical person. Humanity and morality confuse him more than anything. He understands the purpose of the Hunger Games. He likes to think, honestly, that he understands everything. Of course he's probably wrong, but at least believing that he knows what is really going on, well, it helps him get by. That's all anyone is really trying to do anymore, anyway, right? Timon see's the world as a bunch of hopeless souls trying to see one more day. But he knows at the base of it all, he's surrounded by broken souls that have lost too much that the closest they can get to really caring about the youth in their District comes in the form of crossing their fingers and hoping that the kids they are related to don't go in. It's not even so much about caring if that kid lives or dies anymore, the way Timon see's it, it's all become a matter of not wanting to comfort the parents. In the end, it's all about the grown ups.

Like many, many people his age, Timon never knew his father. Yes, it sounds crazy, but District Eight is one of the strictest districts that the Capitol runs. Every corner that you turn there is a Peacekeeper, they are all kept to their schedules, and the slightest finger even hinted at slipping out of line is cut off. His father had a rebellious soul, and in these days, a rebel never stands a chance. The plan of running away had hardly been thought out before his father was met outside of his factory by ten Peacekeepers, marched to the town square, and hung before everyone who passed by. He was only six himself, and he barely remembers watching his father be made an example of. Needless to say, however, it did leave it's mark on his subconscious.

That would be about the time that Timon realized logic far outweighs morality. It was never clear if his teachers hated or loved him, though it was incredibly obvious that he had a knack for being a pain in the ass. Timon loved to call his teachers out when he thought they were incorrect, more often than not he was the one who was wrong but that's just minor details if you asked him. At least he was trying, which was more than half of those other kids around him could even hope for. He spent more of his childhood clapping erasers and cleaning his classroom's than anyone could keep up with. When the time came for him to leave school and begin working, his teachers could not have been happier.

When Timon began to work in the factories, he was hardly good at it. He would whine at night with his fingers stuck in warm water over the swollen knuckles and numerous pin pricks that were far from comfortable. These were things, of course, that the District could not speak of lest a Peacekeeper call you out on it. And, despite his aura of superiority and his preference for logic, Timon never cared to start any trouble. Like most people around him, he was only ever trying to get by for one more day.