Hi guys and gals! I just want to introduce myself: I am an aspiring writer and I'm mad about the Hunger Games, which is a great shock to you, I know. *winks*
Still, I want to warn you, if you haven't read the book (or book two) this story may be a bit difficult to understand.
It takes place before and during the 25th Games, the first Quarter Quell.
I hope you like it, enjoy!

Disclaimer: I. Own. Nothing. Therefore, I dis-claim. This applies to every chapter of this story.


I wipe my brow and squint my eyes against the reasonably warm sun, looking out over the freshly ploughed fields of district 11.
We are just one of twelve districts, the thirteenth completely wiped out during the rebellion, 25 years ago. Each district is a characteristic source for the Capitol, like certain foods, raw materials or other products. We are agriculture, maintaining orchards, crops, fields of grain and cotton, stuff like that.

Everyone who lives here works, from child to elderly, but almost no-one reaches the age of 60 here, it's more likely to die of malnutrition. The children help after they've had school, which is mostly education about agriculture itself. And, of course, the daily crap about the Capitol and how it came to be and how good it is for the people.
Nothing's said about the abuse we receive daily from the hands of peacekeepers, nothing's said about the fact that nearly all our food is transported to the Capitol and other district, leaving almost nothing to feed ourselves with.

I chuckle darkly, quite ironic actually, being the main food source while we're starving ourselves.
Well, it's not like the Capitol cares, they show as much with the strict reign of the peacekeepers.
There's a fence around the district, about thirty-five feet high and topped with wicked coils of barbed wire. Around the base there are metal plates to prevent people from digging underneath it.

We're more prisoners than farmers sometimes.
There are even watchtowers placed on even intervals, manned with heavily armed guards. Not to mention the entire army of peacekeepers that patrols around the district every day, punishing people for the slightest crime. Just looking at them weird can earn you a whipping.
I drag the plough probably reaching the hundredth mile today. Sweat pours down my forehead, my mouth parched and my head thumping. It has been a tiring day, which was common during, well, the entire year.

I feel like a machine sometimes, working all day and when it's summer a good part of the night too, going home to collapse on my bed and confirm that my snoring brothers and sisters are there again, just to get up early and start the routine all over again.
It's worse in the summer, the weather's even warmer, reaching hot when we're unlucky.. The peacekeepers are always the worst when it's summer, I don't know why. I guess the weather makes them grumpy, patrolling all day long out in the heat, monitoring us as we blister our hands and feet.
At least I don't have to carry the heavy sacks filled with crops or fruit to the storage or help them load the stuff into the train any more, I ensure that I never get close to that metal monster again.

Well, they have a better use for me in the trees anyway.
I'm pretty tough, if I may say so myself. At least stronger than most of the girls my age. My muscles are sturdy and long, I can hold out hanging onto branches and climbing trees for an entire day without getting too tired, whereas most people needs at least two breaks each day.
This doesn't work out in my favour however, the peacekeepers just keep me longer up in the trees. I don't really have much to go home too either, so I don't mind the work that much.

Yes, I have my brothers and sisters, but we barely talk. And if we do, well, it's mostly about the food shortage and the hard work.
I'm the oldest of six, with three younger sisters and two younger brothers. All of them are working long days in the summer, at the orchards after school, climbing trees like I am. Now, in the winter, it's less, they only have to help seed the fields, which doesn't go on far into the night.
We all know one thing though, we hate it, the life we have. We just don't talk about it, that's as good as a death sentence. Utter one word that defies the Capitol and the next thing you know there's a bullet in your head.

I caught the oldest of my brothers, Joshua, stealing once, before we could sign up for tesserae. I scolded him till my tongue was sore. The risk he was taking! I could still remember the look of agony on his face when they found out and took him to the square to be whipped.
The image of his mutilated flesh was seared into my mind, I could never forget that day. He almost died, just inches away from death when they took him to one of the healers. He has never been the same since. The scars on his back cripple his movements, he can't climb the trees any more, he can barely even lift a sack of flour.
If he hadn't been able to harvest wheat he'd been doomed. Lucky for him, holding a scythe and swinging it around to cut the sturdy stems of wheat is a thing he can manage.

Still, we never have enough food. We can all cook, and use even the most primitive means to fill our bellies. But still I need to sign up for the tesserae. Last year Joshua signed up as he turned thirteen, I wouldn't let him enter his name at twelve, I tried to stop him from doing it last year too. I found it was an impossible task to convince him that he couldn't do it. At least I could convince him to only sign up for himself.
As his three year older sister, my name is in there forty-one times. Compared to most of my age I'm unlucky. (as our slightly insane tribute-escort would say: 'the odds aren't in your favour!') With the fact that our parents died when I was nine years old our income is below minimal, but nobody cares.
Still, the odds are in no-ones favour here. Everyone has to participate, from age twelve to eighteen. At least my family is still safe, except for Joshua, whose name is in there four times.

But this year is different, I'm not sure how though. President Frost will tell us today. And that's why the whistle sounds earlier today, everyone is expected to watch the announcement. This year is the first Quarter Quell. The first time the Hunger Games will be 'more exiting' because of some sort of alteration.
I lift the plough from the ground and begin carrying it to a shed. I dump it on the ground, not even bothering to clean it up properly.
From all around me men, women and children make their way to the square. I'm lucky I don't have to spread seeds for crops, that way I don't have to walk that far to reach the more urban area of the district.

I flex my cramped fingers and stretch my back, despite my endurance a break is always welcome. Nobody really looks at me, and I know why.
They say my parents had a very important role in the uprising during the Dark Days, and I've noticed the way they look at me and my brothers and sisters (or rather don'tlookat us).

They're afraid.

Afraid that the peacekeepers punish them if they even look at me. I fact, I wonder why they let me walk around. Do they want to make an example out of me? Do they keep me around just to show the people that they are 'merciful', or is it a warning? Do they like to watch me and my family wither away slowly because of the lack of food?
I don't know, I don't care. I don't want compassion so I don't mind the whispers and the fear. The fate of my family rest on my shoulders alone, and I refuse any help.
I hate the people though, because they're so easily manipulated, cowering in their houses to avoid the wrath of the Capitol, cheering the peacekeepers on as they whip countless 'criminals'. It's sickening.

But I show nothing of it, I ask no questions and just do what I'm asked, I can't afford to die. My family needs me. I never show my emotions, something that even makes the most caring people steer clear of me.
I wouldn't be surprised if people think I'm heartless, because maybe it's better like this. It hurts when my own sisters are afraid of me and my indifferent, cold demeanour. But I still fight for them, having relinquished the hope of approval or praise, because they don't understand.
I just hope they never do.

I make my way through the wooden shacks that are scattered all around me now, finding one of many paths through the area. If there's a fire (which is not uncommon) an entire neighbourhood goes up in smoke in a matter of minutes.
The peacekeepers have some kind of stuff they spray over the houses to prevent that from happening though. The Capitol won't like their main source of food burning to the ground, would they?

I quickly check the sagging shack that I call home and find the two youngest of my sisters, Valeria and Julia, sitting on their beds. If the makeshift mattresses on the ground can be called beds.
"Where are the others?" I ask them.
They look at me with those empty eyes, those aren't eyes for eight-year-olds to have, but I guess mine are even worse.
"Not here yet." Julia says.
It's sometimes hard to tell them apart, even for me. Valeria is just a little bit more childlike than Julia, who, in turn, is a few inches taller.
I sit down up the mattress and scoot up next to them, silently throwing an arm around their shoulders. They lean into the embrace, despite their fear for me.
Like that we wait for Joshua, Cessia and Fabian to arrive.

They walk through the door a few minutes later, their dark skin filthy from a week heavy labour and lack of proper washing.
At home we don't have a television, so we were forced to go to the square and watch the announcement in public. I help Julia and Valeria to their feet, holding their hands and guiding them out of the house and to the main square. I glance behind me to confirm that my three other sibling are following, Fabian holding hands with Cessia and Joshua slightly limping.

These moment are rare, and they make me feel all weird inside. We barely get the chance to see each other all at the same time, often the only time that happens is during the Reaping, and that day is my least favourite of the year.
Today is, in a way, not much different. The Capitol forces us to listen to an announcement about the Hunger Games, gathering us on the square.
The only difference is that there was no-one leaving and never coming back, not yet anyway.

We reach the square and find that there already a fairly large crowd gathering around the huge screens that will show us the announcement.
It's not long before the national anthem plays, the screens displaying the seal of the Capitol.
The president enters the stage, followed by a young boy holding a wooden box. When the anthem ends she starts speaking in her strange Capitol-accent, showing her silvery, nearly sparkling teeth.
She tells us about the Dark Days from which the Hunger Games were born. She tells us about the laws that dictate that every 25 years there was to be a Quarter Quell, a glorified version of the Games to refresh the memory of those killed by the district's rebellion.

She then opens the box that the boy is holding, revealing a collection of yellow envelopes with numbers on it, the first one marked with a '25'.
She opens the first envelope and reads its content out loud, "As a reminder to the rebels that their children are dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district will hold an election and vote on the tributes who will represent this year's Hunger Games."

She closes the envelope and descends the stage, the boy following behind her. The anthem plays again and when it finishes the entire square is silent.
The silence is so agonizing that I wonder why my head doesn't explode. I'm not sure what I had expected to happen but it wasn't this, not in the least.
This... this is worse than having your name drawn randomly from the reaping ball, this is pure cruelty. Forcing us to choosewho goes out there to die?
I'm tempted to scream, hit the nearest peacekeepers, incite another rebellion, anything.
But I hold my ground and watch the reaction of the others.

Disgust, fear, shock and disbelief cross their faces all in one instant, leaving them empty and with even less hope than before.
They can trust no-one any more, everyone has to vote, everyone has to betray someone, everyone has to write a death sentence.
I squeeze Julia's and Valeria's hands reassuringly, but all I feel is empty. I walk home in a daze, not even checking if the rest is following, and weeks pass by in silence.
People don't even speak to each other now, still trying to comprehend what all this means.

Somehow it makes me feel less alone, we are all in the same mess, and everyone treats each other the same, cold and distant, I am no longer an exception.
I try to stop wondering who it will be, a painful feeling of dread has already settled in my stomach, I fear it will be me. But then who? Which one of the boys will it be?
I don't know, I don't know them, I don't know what motivation people will have to pick someone, I do know that I'm the opposite of popular and if I had to choose... I'd pick the girl that nobody knows, nobody loves. That way the sense of loss when she dies is less worse...

But I'd feel guilty, I'd be disgusted by myself. But if I had to choose between guilt or loss...
I just wonder who I will choose. I don't know people good enough to like or dislike them more than others. Maybe... maybe I could pick someone nobody would pick, that person would be safe even with my vote, right? Or maybe I should choose someone who is strong, someone who has a chance.

From that moment on I try my best to overhear the few conversations that occur between people, to get an image of who to choose.
It is hard, since I never really learned people's names. I get the hang of it soon enough, sneaking around, even spying on the peacekeepers when I get the chance. I keep in the anger and disgust when I find them betting on people and ignore the fact that my name has come up a few times already.

I try to avoid the topic at home, at least four of us are still safe. Joshua is at risk since he is useless in the eyes of many people, I can only hope for some tiny spark of compassion for his situation, some distant feeling of dignity that prevents them from sending a crippled boy into the arena.
Well, I never had much hope anyway, so I teach them how to trade, I ensure they sign up just for their own tessera, to reduce the chance of them being picked in the coming years. I help them improve their cooking skill and teach them harvesting tricks, I learn them sewing and carpeting, I learn them to rely on themselves instead of other people.
Like me, I think sometimes, but I tune out the thought fast enough.

Days, even weeks go by without leaving a trace, the Reaping closing in steadily and with an unhealthy speed.
Every day means I'm closer to death, I have already accepted it is going to be me. And every day I feel more like I am choking.
It's like time has made a huge leap and it's already the day before the Reaping. I try to fight down the sense of panic, but my hands shake and I mess up everything I do today.

I know my brothers and sisters notice my behaviour, but strong as they are, they don't mention a thing.
A good part of the day I'm harvesting apples, throwing the red globes into baskets underneath the tree I'm in. But today nothing goes right and I miss half of the time. If someone were to check up on me they'd find a pile of bruised apples outside of the baskets, something that'd surely be enough to give me some kind of punishment for 'destroying property of the state'.

Well fuck Panem, then!I think, but I don't say it out loud.

After a while I give up and let myself fall from the branch I'm sitting on. I land on my feet but my knee is positioned awkwardly underneath me, sending a jolt of pain through the muscles in my right leg.
"Shit." I curse under my breath and raise, stretching the leg.
It's sprained, great.

I limp to the pile of apples and begin throwing them into the baskets, ignoring the stares of others who work nearby.
I tune out the painful stabs in my knee when I move it and continue harvesting apples, climbing trees and carrying the baskets back to storage.
At the end of the day I can barely walk and when I take a look at the knee the joint is a purplish blue and swollen. I curse underneath my breath, quickly covering the injury when Cessia walks in. She doesn't need more worries.

She looks weary and pale, despite her dark skin colour. We always look weary, but today she is worse than usual. Maybe it's because of the tension, everyone is blunt and high-strung today.

It's no wonder, today we have to vote.


Thanks for reading and if you have the time and desire, please do review!
Next up: The reaping