Author's Note: Hello, welcome to my latest Fanfic! If you've read my last story (Seventeen At Seven), and are wondering why I'm posting a new story, I'm putting that on hiatus for now. I've been kind of busy, and am not too sure how to end it. I might come back to it, but I'm not sure.

So anyways, if you're not here for Seventeen At Seven, welcome (again)! This is my first Hunger Games fanfic, and I'm scared because I don't know this fandom really well. I'm not too sure how this will turn out... but I do hope it'll have a real ending. It should, if I stick to my storyline well. This story is intended to have a prelogue, 9 chapters and an epilogue.

While I'm here, I might as well explain my inspiration (you can skip this if you want). I once had a Hunger Games dream, where I actually lived through one. I somehow lost and supposedly died, yet I was reunited with other tributes after the Games. The dream went on, but I remember waking up and asking myself, "What if all the tributes were kept alive by the tracker in their arm until they were taken away by the hovercraft?" This lead to, "Why would they need the tributes alive?" I self-answered this, thinking about Lavinia, the Avox. I imagined her running away, because she knew the dreadful secret of kept-alive, tortured tributes. This seem too farfetched from what we know of Lavinia, so I thought about her companion when she ran away. I've always wondered why Capitol teens would be on the run.

So this is her story.

Prologue

I wake up on a dark day. My alarm clock has been ringing for the past few minutes now, but it was the shock it radiated that made me face the day. As I arise from my nightmares, I remember that I had set the electric shock to rouse me on cloudy days when I wouldn't have wakened myself. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Jets of cold water burst at my fragile, porcelain skin at every angle as I step into my shower. I shiver as I pull the lever to end it, and wait for the warm air below my feet to dry me.

Dressed only in my robe, I wander over to my walk in closet, filled with clothes I will probably never wear. I choose a simple green attire, with blue accessories. Green and blue have been popular since the 70th Hunger Games, when Annie Cresta wore a stunning gown of green and blue net-like materials to her interview.

I pace over to my dresser, and pick up my brush. My hair isn't a mess, but it's soothing to comb through my crimson red hair the way my grandmother used to. I stare intensely at the photo I see everyday- the one of my dad, uncle, grandmother, and grandfather.

It's an old photo. My dad was probably about my age. He stands next to Grandma. With his trademark smile, he looks to have never aged. That's what plastic surgery does, of course.

Grandma is in her late forties; with her slightly greying hair, you could tell. My grandmother was against trends. She never altered one part of her body- no tattoos, alterations, or dyes.

Grandpa is standing next to her, clearly content. There's no reason he shouldn't have been- he had my grandmother, and two growing sons. A smile like this nowadays is a rare sight needing to be captured.

I'm forced to look through the camera's lens to the final family member. Aside from his white wispy hair, not much has changed. His slits for eyes have remained the same. I can't help but notice how the skins on his lips are tightly stretched, and how he holds a rose between his fingers. It looks as if my uncle had traveled back into time, just to appear in this faded photograph. I flip over to the back.

The Alban Family. From left to right: Flake, Antonia, Parnell, Snowdon.

If photographs could update themselves, it would say "The Alban Family, torn apart. From satisfied to lifeless: Advisor Flake, President Snow, known drunk Parnell, Antonia (deceased)." Because that's just how it is.

I cover my parted lips, which threaten a sob. It's too late. I make a choking noise, softly crying into my hand. I swiftly wipe off my tears before they can do damage to my make up. I eye the girl in the mirror- 16, young, and soon to be brave.

It's me. My name is Lavinia Alban. I am President Snow's niece. And this is my story.