A/N: I've been playing with this idea for a while, and I just decided to go with it. THG is all from Katniss' POV, so it makes sense that she doesn't know absolutely everything about everyone...but sometimes I wish she did. This story is an attempt to quell my hunger for character back-stories (pun intended).

Disclaimer: The Hunger Games and all of its characters are owned by the lovely Suzanne Collins. I'm simply borrowing them for the time being.

Gloss

One more kill.

He had counted the cannon blasts carefully, kept his eyes trained on the sky when he heard the music and saw the Capitol seal shine overhead. It wasn't typical of someone with his training to be so observant of the other tributes, but Gloss had spent his time in the Capitol memorizing faces, skills, training scores, and anything else that would be of use to him in the arena. It made him a more adept killer, in his opinion. His former allies, his district partner and the partners from 2 and 4, had spent their time crashing through the arena, killing anything that moved.

It worked for a while, he'd give them that: the Gamemakers were obviously enjoying the blood bath and he knew that the 15 tribute slaughter at the Cornucopia would be the topic of discussion for years to come. The landscape of the arena wasn't like anything he'd ever seen in District 1, it was something like a conan or a canon, a word he had learned in school but couldn't quite remember. Gloss had spent more of his life training to compete in the Hunger Games than doing schoolwork after all, so he wasn't too surprised. He just knew that the arena was mostly flat and littered with cliffs and drop-offs that led to beds of sharp rocks below. The blazing sun always seemed to glow a little bit brighter after a kill and he figured it was because the Gamemakers liked the way the blood looked when it spilled across the rocks.

There were caves here and there, like the one he was sitting in at the moment, the one that he used to share with his former allies until it got down to the final eight and they had all turned on each other. The boy from 2 had suggested they divide all the supplies, split up, and give each other a fair chance. He had barely finished his suggestion when Gloss' district partner stabbed him in the throat and set them all off. Every camera must have been on them then in that tiny cave, blades flashing, blood flying, the canon blasting four times in quick succession before it was only Gloss and the girl from 4 who was struggling to stay on her feet while she slowly bled out from the gash in her stomach.

It had been two days since then, two days since he had kicked their bodies out to be collected by the hovercrafts, and everything in the cave was still covered in their blood. There was no reason for him to leave when all of the Cornucopia's supplies lay stacked beside him. Gloss was fine with staying put; a large hook was stuck through his leg, the last thing the boy from 4 had ever done in this life, and Gloss wasn't as quick on his feet as he used to be. It was hard to look at, but he dare not take it out and risk bleeding uncontrollably. They'd fix it in the Capitol once he won.

As if on cue, he had heard the cannon fire, signaling that he was one kill away from glory, fame, everything he had wanted when he volunteered at the reaping.

All he had to figure out was who his final opponent was: the girl from 6 or the boy from 9. If the tribute had died of thirst, it would have likely been the boy. The girl was young and small, but she was fast and clever. The only time he had seen her in the arena was when she had run away from the Cornucopia and disappeared off the nearest cliff. Gloss thought she had fallen, died, smashed to pieces on the rocks below, but her face hadn't appeared in the sky that night or any night after that. But if the boy from 9 had somehow caught her, he could have easily killed her; he was big for someone from one of the poorer districts. He killed his fair share on that first day by the Cornucopia, only escaping when the boy from 2's spear missed him by an inch.

There was rustling outside the cave and Gloss' head immediately snapped towards the sound. He took one last gulp of water from the canteen and then tossed it aside before finally standing and walking towards to mouth of the cave. The sun was high in the sky and heat was almost suffocating; it was the Gamemakers' way of framing the final showdown of the games, to ensure that it would be as excruciating as possible. Gloss didn't mind, of course, not when more blood and more sweat brought greater glory.

It was the boy from 9 after all. He was standing about a hundred yards from the mouth of the cave, naked save for his underwear and covered in dirt and blood. Gloss felt his nose wrinkle in disgust. He was covered in blood as well, of course, but he would never be as barbaric as to strip down and crash through the arena like a savage. It was embarrassing.

"It's just you and me," Gloss heard the boy call. He sounded drunk, but Gloss knew he was weak with hunger and thirst. It was a miracle he had even made it to the cave in the first place.

Gloss flashed one of his signature smiles, knowing the camera would be focused on him. "Not for long."

He was slower than he used to be, but still faster than the half-dead boy from 9. Gloss had halved the distance between them, dagger out, before the other tribute even realized he had moved. Surprisingly enough, he seemed to pull himself together at the last second and slashed his arm through the air, knocking Gloss' dagger out of his hand and across the face of the cliff.

Gloss ducked a second swing that was aimed for his head and dove for the fallen weapon. The boy from 9 had gotten a decent training score, but his punches were predictable and easy to block.

Suddenly Gloss felt the air fly rapidly from his lungs and he realized that the boy had tackled him to the ground, something Gloss had never seen him do before. With a jolt in his stomach, he realized that he had miscalculated: the tribute boy's desperation had broken his predictability, and all Gloss could do was wildly wiggle his fingers towards the dagger that still lay just out of his reach.

The boy from 9 lifted himself off of Gloss slightly to reach for the dagger himself and Gloss forced all his weight to one side, sending them rolling away from the dagger. It wasn't until they stopped, Gloss still pinned underneath the other tribute, that he realized they were only a few feet away from the edge of the cliff.

Weaponless, the tribute boy released his grip on Gloss' wrists and wrapped his fingers around his neck instead, cutting off his air. The boy was screaming now, and it was clear from the blaze in his eyes that he had come completely unhinged.

Spots appeared in Gloss' vision, but he refused to let fear cloud his thoughts. It wasn't going to end like this. He refused to die by the hands of this animal, refused to be a disgrace to his family and his district. He had been training all his life for this moment.

Just one more kill.

The world around him was starting to go dark and the screams were getting softer, but Gloss was able to concentrate all of the strength he had left into one final attack. Two of his fingers shot out and he buried them into the tribute's neck, just below his Adam's apple. Surprised and unable to breath, the boy from 9 loosened his grip on Gloss' neck as a loud choke escaped his throat. In one swift motion, Gloss grabbed the tribute by the arms, lifted his knee, and rocked backwards, throwing the boy from 9 off of him.

There was a sound of cracking rock and Gloss turned his head just in time to see a wild movement of limbs before the other tribute disappeared off the side of the cliff.

He lay still, panting wildly, trying to take as much air back into his lungs as possible. A few seconds passed before he realized that the cannon hadn't sounded and he was filled with dread that he might have miscounted.

But then he saw it: eight pale fingers, gripping the edge of the cliff for dear life.

Gloss felt himself smile widely. He took his time getting up, making sure to keep the citizens of Panem at the edge of their seats until the very end. Then he leisurely strolled to the edge of the cliff and peered over, staring into the terrified eyes of the boy from 9.

"Didn't see you there," Gloss said smugly. "How's it hanging?"

He flashed a smile into the open air, pausing to give the Capitol citizens a chance to laugh at his good humor.

Gloss expected the boy from 9 to curse him, spit at him, scream, something. He didn't expect him to let out a dry sob. He didn't expect him to meet his gaze with a pathetic look in his eyes.

"Please," he whispered. His grip was slacking, his fingers sliding closer to the edge despite his best efforts to hold on. "Please don't-"

Gloss didn't let him finish. He couldn't stand the desperation in the other tribute's voice, couldn't stand the pity in his eyes. Without so much as blinking, Gloss lifted his boot-clad foot and slammed it down on the tribute boy's hand. There was a howl of pain before the other tribute let go and Gloss watched him fall, hundreds of feet down, into a crumpled heap on the rocks below.

Canyon. That was the word.

The cannon sounded, but Gloss couldn't avert his gaze from the mangled body below him. It was twisted, contorted in a way that he had never seen before. He kept his eyes on it, even when the hovercraft appeared and lifted it into the sky.

Blood didn't scare him. He was covered in blood after all, hardly any of it his. But there was something different about the other tribute's body, limp like a rag doll on the rocks below. It was a hard image to shake.

It was over. He had won. He had brought honor and glory to his family and District 1, just as everyone had expected. But he couldn't help but think about how close he had come to failing. He couldn't help but wonder what it felt like to be smashed against the rocks, broken into a million little pieces.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victor of the Sixty-third Hunger Games…"