Name: Nobody Westing

Age: 17

District: 8

Gender: M

Appearance: Nobody isn't incredibly remarkable in any particular way. He isn't especially attractive, nor especially ugly. He couldn't be described as tall or short, skinny or fat, dark or light. Nobody is simply average. His scraggly hair is that common shade of mosey hazel that can't seem to decide whether it is brown or blonde. Over his hair he always wears a tight grey beanie that he can't stop playing with, always tugging it to try and cover his ears. His dark brown eyebrows are definitely on the thicker side as they hang over his almond-shaped grey eyes. His skin is pale, flushing easily with any prolonged exposure to the cold or warmth.

Personality: Nobody isn't quite sure who he is. He isn't sure if he is mean or kind, funny or serious, meek or fierce. While the other tributes seemed to fall into the rhythm of who they were without even trying after Tabula Rasa, Nobody struggled skyrocketing from one extreme to another. In fact there are only two things Nobody is sure about himself, the first being that he is incredibly dryly sarcastic no matter what his current persona is, the other being that he is a one-man walking demolition team. Wherever he seems to go havoc seems to tag unrelentingly on his heels; equipment breaks, lights fall, or people get seriously injured. This either amuses him or devastates him depending on his current state of mind. Either way, Nobodys' found that things go smoothest for everyone if they don't go near him.

Best/Worst Memory: The one memory that remains in Nobody's brain is a peculiar one. In fact he can't comprehend how it could be his best and worst memory. He's not even sure it's his. The memory is of a woman lying in a unmade bed, her eyes are closed and her skin is flushed. Nobody has no idea whether or not she is dead. Her blondish brown hair piled into a bun atop her head, a few stray hairs framing her aging face. Two infants lie in her arms. They were ugly infants with their red skin and slimy bodies. They move their little hands clasped in tiny little fists, the baby on the right brushes the one on the left's face and he stopped moving his hands falling to his sides limply. A few girls run around the woman frantically like a flock of unsettle hens, yelling commands that never reached Nobody's ears. On the other side of the room a door opens and a man with a scruffy beard peers in, his strikingly blue eyes filled with worry. One of the girls throws herself between him and the bed, her back is to Nobody so he has no clue as to what what she says to the man, but quite apparently it's bad because the memory shatters with the man pinching his eyes shut and screaming with such a pain that it doesn't sound human.

Reaction to Being Reaped: Nobody looked over his shoulder confused at first as everyone started to look at him and his face filled the screen. He wasn't used to having people notice him. It was kind of scarier than being reaped. When it became evident there wasn't some type of mistake he swallowed hard and trudged up to the stage trying to look strong. He failed. When the escort offered him the microphone, politely asking him if there was anything he wanted to say to his district, Nobody said the only thing he felt really described his situation. "Crap. I'm fucking career bait."

Weapon of Choice: Nobody has a tendency to break weapons, after the seventh sword snapped in training Nobody was asked to leave, so due to his lack of experience with any, Nobody doesn't have a preference. He figures he will just grab whatever he can get his hands on in the bloodbath without dying painfully.

Token: His grey beanie of course. There isn't much of a reason behind his choice other than it's cozy and keeps his head warm.

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The first thing Nobody was aware of in his new life was the florescent light that stung his eyes like tiny daggers. Sharply he turned away from the light instinctively, suddenly he found himself toppling backward his entire body weight colliding with the ground sending a fierce explosion of pain through his body. He let out a small groan before looking up and realizing that he'd been sitting on a flimsy wooden stool that now lay broken at his side. Nobody propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at his hands, through his pale fingers he saw that he clutched a single scrap of paper.

Unfurling his fist he saw just seven words scrawled hastily in black ink, 'Describe your fondest memory, and your worst.' Nobody found the words strangely haunting as his grey eyes skimmed the crumbled paper once more trying to remember how he had come to be holding the piece of paper or more importantly who he was. To his utter confusion he found his mind was completely and utterly blank save two memories and neither made any sense to him.

The first scene is of a woman lying in a unmade bed, her eyes were closed and her skin was flushed. Nobody had no idea whether or not she was dead, with nervous hesitation he looked harder. Her blondish brown hair was piled into a bun atop her head, a few stray hairs framed her aging face. Two infants lay screaming in her arms. They were ugly infants with their red skin and slimy bodies, Nobody noted with a hint of disgust.

A few girls run around the woman frantically like a flock of unsettle hens, yelling commands that never reached Nobody's ears. On the other side of the room a door opened and a man with a scruffy beard peered in, his strikingly blue eyes filled with worry. One of the girls throws herself between him and the bed, her back is to Nobody so he has no clue as to what what she says to the man, but quite apparently it's bad because the memory shatters with the man pinching his eyes shut and screaming with such a pain that it doesn't sound human.

The second memory that still rests in Nobody's brain is perhaps even more peculiar than the previous, in fact it was so peculiar Nobody found himself wondering if he was a crack addict. The memory stimulated fear in him even now as he sat alone in the darkened room, sending rivets of the overpowering sensation through his body. The memory was of a dark forrest riddled with a dozen flashlight beams broken only by the thick brush of the wood. Nobody was sprinting through it, struggling not to trip over the thick shrubbery that seemed desperate to entangle his legs. Nobody turned his head to one side and saw an all too familiar teenage boy running beside him with a panicked expression on his face. Nobody stared at the boy in horror.

It was himself.

If having an out-of-body memory had scared Nobody, then he would never have been prepared for what happened next. Suddenly the memory erupted with the earsplitting noise of gunfire and Nobody watched his arms fly above his head as his body shook with the impact of the bullets before collapsing in the brush. In the memory Nobody knelt beside himself, his heart racing in his chest as he leaned over his bloody body, blossoms of blood riddled his back and he reached and turned himself over. "Are you okay? Dammit please be okay!" The words left the mouth of whomever's body Nobody's memory was possessed.

Nobody stared in horror at his dazed face that slowly shook his head with a grim acceptance, "No. I'm not. I'm dying. Just keep fighting and everything will be okay." And with that Nobody stared at himself in strangled terror as the light fade from his eyes and he felt his body go slack in his arms. Nobody was dead.

Nobody was barely aware of the last scenes of the memory played out, the person Nobody had been with when he died turned to face the lights and raised their hands above their head before Nobody heard another bullet ring out and the memory went dark.

Nobody sat in stunned silence for a long minute after the memories faded. None of this was right... it was all wrong, with a sudden urgency he pinched his eyes shut searching for an explanation if some type- anything really. His mind was completely empty, void of anything besides the two delirious memories. He pounded his fist into the concrete floor in frustration and fear. Nobody was dead, he was a ghost.

Suddenly a door was swung open on the other side of the room, a man in a white military uniform towered there looking down at him, his face hidden behind a black visor that reflected in the bright light. "Mr. Westing it's time to go to your stylists." He said in a cold, monotone voice that sent shivers down Nobody's spine.

Nobody gritted his teeth and glowered at the man distressingly, "Stylists? This had better seriously be some kind of sick joke." He hissed trying to mask his fear with venom, a tactic that seemed very familiar to him.

The man that stood before him only shook his head, almost in a display of pity, "No, Mr. Westing, all of this is very real, perhaps the most real thing you will ever experience."