A/N:

I'm not Suzanne Collins. I don't own The Hunger Games or anything you recognise in this story.

Anything you don't recognise and aren't from canon are my ideas, specifically my OCs.

I'm not making any money off of this, it's completely non-profit, I'm writing it for fun, however many ways I need to say this...

No,w the legal stuff is out of the way- enjoy!

Love, SwanRue! :)

Chapter One

I sit up straight in bed, wiping my eyes free of the tears which continue to collect around them. Another nightmare. I try to convince myself it's not real. But it is, at least, it was. My memory flashes back, my mother shrieks my name then my brother's, he cries as I pick him up and hold him tight. And that's when they fall. Kenna reaches his little hands out to grab one of the silver parachutes, he clasps his fingers tight around it. Then it happens. Screams erupt as explosions fill the air, the gates break open and adults stream in, mother runs towards us. Kenna drops the cannister and I run, he screeches as I trip, landing flat out on the hard floor. It blows. Gravel flies everywhere and my cheek is bleeding, but that's not what's worrying me. I can no longer hear Kenna's cries.

"No!" I shout, still struggling to revive myself from the memory, but it keeps creeping back, the yells, my yells. His body, crumpled and singed, bones bent backwards and gravel penetrating every inch. He had stood up after I fell, just in time to catch the full front of the cannister, that, moments before, he'd been holding. I trip backwards over more body parts that litter the floor, and then I see her. My mother. Eyes still wide and worried as the blood from her skinless scalp drops into them.

I sit up, my eyes darting around my living room, half expecting someone to jump out of the shadows, but no one does. I am alone. There is no one left. I straighten myself out on the blood stained white sofa and feel my rag-doll cheek, I sewed the cuts back together myself, and consequently the effect isn't quite perfect. But I don't care. I turn on the T.V. half way through the morning news announcing many more on the "confirmed dead" list. I wince.

I leave the house, running as hard, fast and far as I can, I'm soon stopped by the rebels, I look up at them and they let me go. I keep running. Each day I run further, because each day it hurts more and there is nothing I can do but run till my physical pain meets my mental pain. The rain starts to fall and I stop, grateful for the hydration it gives my body, I go to the side of the road and lie down in the mud. The rain hides my tears.

I head back through the rain as it pounds down on my skin. It would be so easy just to die now, to never have to get up again. And a part of me knows that no one would miss me, but another part contains a will to live so strong, that how ever hard I try, I just can't seem to do it. My body won't let me die. Well, not voluntarily at least.

I smash the door shut and groan. I strip off my drenched clothes and dry my body off with a towel, I look down at the dog tag my father gave me and collapse to the floor. "Caela, listen to me" I fight the memory, knowing it'll just make it worse, but it's too strong. My father takes my hands in his, his palms are sweaty and his tone urgent. "You need to learn to survive, no one will help you now." He doesn't cry, he just stares and stares. "You need to be able to feed yourself, keep yourself warm, and more than anything, stay in the game." He continues, ignoring my protests. "Caela, for what I have done they will punish me, but that won't be enough for them. They will find some way of hurting you too, don't let them take the only thing I have left." I cry into his arms and he holds me, tight, he takes off the tag that sits around his neck and places it around mine. My eyes grow tired and my senses low, as I drift off to sleep I hear him whisper "May the odds be ever in your favour."

I shriek, the memories are ripping apart the little sanity I have retained, my father's face on the news, the gunshot, the blood. I hyperventilate, my heart quickens, my hands are shaking, his last words resonate through my head "May the odds be ever in your favour." But what does he mean? I know very well that these words are the slogan for the Hunger Games, I have watched it ever since I was born, my father being on the Game makers board. Personally I have never particularly enjoyed watching them, the idea of children killing each other to survive didn't particularly appeal to me. But they are over. Now the rebels have control of the country, there are no more Hunger Games! Unless? No, they are done. I lower myself into the bath and soak there, watching as red blossoms in the clear water. My cuts have reopened. My head spins as the blood continues to flood out, I pull the plug and myself out of the bath and stare at my body in the wall size mirror. I am covered in cuts and burns, the most prominent are the two on my left cheek, like dark red war stripes.

I dress the wounds carefully, considering the new shape that my medicinal running has given me. My body is thin and wasting away, with the lack of nutrition, but there are definite signs of sculpting. I drag my dark, wet hair into a ponytail, I was never one for the capitol's crazy hair colours, and ever since the take over a month ago I stopped wearing the red contacts which tinted my blue eyes purple. There's no point in them now, no one cares.

I walk across the hall into my parents bedroom, opening my mothers project wardrobe. She had once been a stylist for the Games, where she met my father, but once they married mother quit to look after me and Kenna. The wardrobe is full of clothes suitable for physical activity, I take out some leggings and a vest top and get dressed. Lying on their bed I stare out, my exhausted brain bringing back memories of my father. I'm nine and my father's rummaging around in his office, I wait excitedly on his bed, he comes out grinning and holding a piece of black leather that has been rolled up into a cylinder. My face drops a little, unimpressed. He opens it out. Inside lies 7 silver knives, in size order, shinning in the sunlight, 12 darts, a short sword, a long sword and an axe. He lays them on the bed and as I 'umm' and 'ahh' over them, he brings out a gold bow with silver arrows.

I hit my head hard. That was 6 years ago, there's no use bringing back old memories, it won't bring him back. I walk up to the office door and tentatively open it, sensing movement the lights turn on and I climb up the flight of stairs. Being in the job he was in, father's office isn't quite like the average office, it is large, taking up a whole floor of our..my house. Deadly looking weapons glitter on the closest wall and on the wall opposite is cover by target boards. Kicking a practice dummy out of the way, I take up a knife and throw it effortlessly. It soars 20 feet before it thuds into the bulls eye of the smallest target board. I smirk. Throwing knives is the only thing I have ever beaten my father at, he would always pretend to be upset by his inferiority to a young girl, but really I knew he was proud.

I sit down on a little blue sofa, next to the only TV in the room, huddled up in one of my father's jackets. The dummy lies in the middle of the room shredded to pieces, the aikuchi sword didn't take to it kindly. I start to drift off, my mind exhausted by the flashbacks.

I'm standing on the ground, encompassed by a glass tube, I bang on the sides, shouting for someone to let me out. No one comes. Instead the ground starts to lift up, a circle as big as the one I'm standing on opens above me and the cold air hits my face. I can hear a voice talking, but I can't tell what it's saying, the platform continues to rise, my head peaks above the gap in the ceiling and the light blinds me.

I wake up. Sweat has drowned my body and I blink furiously against the office lights. As my senses slowly return I notice the little TV flashing blue and white as a woman's voice announces that there is an important announcement for the Capitol citizens. I moan groggily and sit up straight as the face of President Paylor hits the camera, the time on the corner of the screen reads 4:30am. This is an important announcement.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the Capitol and of Panem," she begins, my attention slacks a little. "It is my duty to inform you of a motion that was passed before the death of our former president, President Coin." My eyes flit up at the tone in her voice and I scan her face. She is tired, exhausted in fact, her face looks resigned and upset, what is so important that she has evidently spent all night discussing it with her government? That it is to be announced at half four in the morning? My eyes narrow.

"This year, 24 capitol children are to compete in the 76th, and final, Hunger Games."