Inspired by a conversation my Hunger Games obsessed friend and I had during the movie. My suggestion was originally just for fun, but then I read the epilogue to Mockingjay, and the idea morphed into this. So enjoy.

Disclaimer: No way I own. Would this concoction come from anybody with a stable mindset, hmm?

I've come a long way from frolicking in the Meadow with my older sister. A long way from unwittingly and happily playing above a graveyard. I've come all the way to the past just to escape the daunting, post-apocalyptic future.

Because no longer am I the innocent child who is content to believe in life as being one big, sunny field. By this point, I've read the book that lists the victims created by the Hunger Games, obviously or otherwise. I've heard the horror stories of my parents' youth. I've lived my own as I grew.

Which one? I ponder to myself after facing each foe, blinded by the inner demons I refuse to let surface, Which one of you leads to the Capitol's creation? How many of you deserve to die as penance?

It's almost a challenge to stop myself from speaking up whenever we plan to save the world. What's the point? I wish to say. Your children's children's children's children will end up killing each other in an arena for entertainment someday, anyway. None of this actually matters.

But it does. I know that what happens now might dictate what will proceed, and that's why I came here in the first place. To change. Or to at least try. Maybe, just maybe, my difference will be enough. Perhaps I can end my parents' pain before it even begins. It's a slim chance to go on, a fool's errand for sure, but I tread forward nonetheless.

My brave, brave father taught me to hope. For a better future. For a better tomorrow. I inherited his heart.

A heart that managed to snag my stubborn, huntress of a mother. She was the archer who sculpted my skill into the efficiency I use today. I inherited her fire.

Trained by criminals was simply part of the act, the alias, the idea that this was really my world. I sympathized with Captain America more than I let on. I understand what it's like to be in an era where I don't belong.

In this time period, there is no such creature known as a mockingjay. Yet. So I use the identity Hawkeye instead.

Besides, Mockingjay was my mother's title, one that it aggrieves her to recall. It's best if I finally step out of my parents' shadows and make a name for myself.

Yet no matter how far I distance my path from their legacy, it seems I was destined to encounter my own tribulation. I didn't mind the work I did, so long as it was done on my terms, by my own hand and choice. Having been forced into acting as Loki's hapless henchman, though? Disgusting.

Sometimes, I'm still astounded I managed to escape with my proper mind intact.

Everytime the pressure of his reign would strain too much, I recited a song, repetitively, desperate to keep a grasp on my true self. Lyrics I had once taken for granted soothed the evil scepter's influence into a dull thrum, allowing me a tiny amount of sanity as my solace.

Deep in the meadow, under the willow.

A bed of grass, a soft green pillow.

They made me feel safe. Untouchable by harm.

Being controlled by Loki reminded me of when I decided to explore an old coal mine shaft in my childhood. And of the lecture I received for my careless misjudgement from Mom afterwards—she had lost her father in a fatal explosion, I remembered guiltily, and though I had been a mere kid then, I felt I should have known better.

I wonder if my experience with mind control was akin to the grandfather's whose name I bore, as he spent his last moments on earth. A swirling darkness you can't escape invades the senses; finding yourself trapped and incapable of doing what you chose; helpless to move except how the avalanche carries you.

Or maybe it was closer to what my father went through at the hands of the Capitol. The brainwashing that nearly led he and my mother's relationship into ruin. I now understand why.

And the anger at what they did to him is still fresh, raw with oozing puss, partially fueling the intense hatred I hold for Loki.

A deep, justified loathing which enables me to stand atop this Manhattan tower and take down as many beastly, alien warriors one-by-one. I'll kill however many is necessary. However many it takes to win.

Because in the end, everything is just a game.

Some with higher stakes than others.

My arrows sail through the air and hit the targets directly without fail. I string my bow quick and with confidence, never faltering to give my enemy a chance to strike.

Precise. Unflinching in the face of danger. Just as my mother taught me.

So basically, Clint Barton is secretly the son of Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen, who traveled to the past in order to avenge the future sufferers of the Capitol's reign. Yep. That's how my mind works. Scary, huh?

Italics belong to Suzanne Collins. Like I said, I own nada. Please R&R!