Eyes open. No sleep, no awakening, yet no fear. I lie in between my sheets, inhaling their familiar smell of salt and the sea which linger throughout my home. Out the window I see the failing darkness of the night being consumed by the daybreak; the ever present horizon dividing the sea and sky is obscured by grey clouds. I sigh. The storm last night would have left the fish frantic and I feel a yearning to run to the wharves, jump into my family's small trawler and join my father in the hunt. A love of the sea was in my blood – it coursed through the veins of my district, with fishing being not only our industry; many of us only felt truly at home when the constant motion of waves were underneath us. However, today I turned from the window, looking up to the ceiling above me, my arms outspread. Children were not allowed to work today, by order of the mayor. Instead we were to be penned like animals the town square for the Reaping, whilst two of us were sent off to fight for our life.

The Hunger Games they call it, Capitol's stronghold against the once rebellious districts. It was a tortuous construction and yet it had fulfilled its purpose for over 60 years, keeping control, maintaining power and, of course, providing entertainment to the citizens of Capitol. In other districts families lay awake for nights before today, hoping that their children would be spared for another year, and yet in my sea loving home the lead up to the annual event was a long process of training and success. Breaking my gaze from the ceiling, I kick off my blankets, revealing my naked body. I sit up and look down. Every inch of me is golden from the long hours I have spent in the endless sun of District 4, on my father's fishing boat, and the constant physical labour of hauling full fishing nets aboard my father's ship and spearing the larger prey has left me undoubted toned. It was probably this factor that led them to select me, to train me. I swing my legs over my bed and leave the warmth of my bed behind for what may be the last time. Though I am facing death today, I have no fear in my bones. Walking over to the small mirror on the wall in front of me, my own face greets me – my sharp nose, high cheekbones and bronze coloured hair; and my sea-green eyes. I shut them, and recite slowly in my head the same words which had been spinning through my mind the past few weeks – I am Finnick Odair. I am 14 years old from district 4 and I am a Career tribute.

Early on in the Hunger Games' history Capitol's most favoured district 2 had come to a realisation that in order to win the games, tributes should be trained for combat, to hunt and kill others. See, although Capitol had in their hand an invincible weapon against the districts in the form of the Games, they had cunningly made them enticing to win as they gained benefit for not only the victor, but the entire district in the form of reward; food, holidays and ultimately, favour. So, merely 6 years into the games, District 2 created their tactic. Taking strong children out of school and placing them in accelerated courses, the district encouraged these children to volunteer in the place of selected tributes, taking into the arena additional strength and skills, giving them a deadly edge over their opponents. The tact was a risk, being technically illegal, but it was overlooked by Capitol once the Games makers realised the entertainment in practiced tributes, as the 6th Hunger Games contained an intensified bloodbath, and the most thrilling final battle to date. District 2 won the Hunger Games 5 years running before the process had spread to District 1 and my own home. Then one sly comment made by the host of the 11th Hunger Games was made about tributes whose career has been to kill, and the idea of Career tributes were born.

I think about how I came to such a life, the small tap on the shoulder, my parents being informed of my selection. It was during the summer months of my eleventh year, the day is still clear although it was 3 years ago. Most parents were proud their child had been chosen, it was amongst the subjects most bragged about in the district after the amount and size of fish caught daily. My father reacted in such character, slapping me on the back, telling me he was proud of me for keeping up the good name of Odair; and yet my mother stood behind him, white as a sheet, staring blankly into my face. In the night that followed I was restless; I remember the heat, I remember my mother's face. I couldn't sleep as the natural insulation of District 4 houses was failing under the unusually long heatwave. My whole body was beaded with sweat before I left my bed to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen - when I found my mother in a chair, crying softly whilst holding her swollen, pregnant bulge. She had always been a calm woman, a true pacifist in my father's words. She never showed her negative emotion to others, she only threw herself into work on the trawler when she was overwhelmed; and yet here I found her crying. I still don't understand this moment, where the heat was forgotten to me as I as mesmerised by my strong mother's faltered will. That night I did not disturb her stupor, but merely watched the aching escaping her mouth, in coherence with the sighing of her shoulders. Up and down. Constant. The memory is one that I play over and over, I question it every time I am in tribute training. I feel as though I will never know why my mother cried that night.

As my thoughts drift back to the present, I quickly turn from the mirror to my open window, and note the greater presence of light breaking through the grey clouds, falling over the distant seashore. The water was its usual deep green, waves rolling slowly in, and their gentle beat constant like a drum. I shiver with anticipation. It was a small hike, it would cut my time fine to get to the Reaping, but I was a desperate boy. Just maybe...

"FINNY!"

I feel a small body crush against my legs before I can reach my conclusion to throw on some swimming shorts. A small child grabs hold of either leg and forces her small head through my legs, looking down I see the ginger bob of my younger sister.

"Finny, it's morning!" she announces, her warm and bubbly personality always having extra vibrancy in the morning. Wriggling around my legs, she turns her head to look up at me. Her light green eyes catch mine and it's only then do I realise that I should have locked my door.

"Awwwuh, Finny where are your clothes?"

Embarassment seeps in. I quickly scramble my brain for an excuse or distraction. I take the first idea that comes to me –

"Argggggh!" I say, picking her up and throwing her over my shoulder, her high pitched giggles piercing through my sluggish, morning ear drums. "Pirate Finny needs to get a ready for an adventure matey!"

I make my way toward the door, and drop her lightly on the on the wooden floor. Whilst she regains balance I quickly make myself respectable with a towel slung over my bed post.

"Finny, can I come on the adventure?"

Her eyes are bright, her mouth tight. I know she is trying extra hard to suppress another laugh. Taking her will not add much time, I consider. I could carry her most of the way since she is so light. I watch her face examine mine, seeking for an answer. I can't help it, I smile.

"Yay! Thank you Finny!" she replies as she runs down the hall to find some suitable swimming clothes. As she disappears into one room, the head of my mother appears from another.

"Going somewhere?" she asks suspiciously, raising her right eyebrow. I hadn't intended on telling her, but I could never lie to her when she gave me that look.

"Maybe?"

I felt a twinge of doubt until she laughs and says, "Only joking, don't be long Pirate Finny, you've got to be back in town for eleven." Disappearing into her room, I think of her crying silhouette three years ago. How different she was that night.

Grabbing my swimming shorts, I find my sister sitting on the step outside the house, already in her small set of bathers. Looking up at me she smiles and jumps up from her seat.

"Ready?" I ask.

"True pirates are always ready for anything!" she replies, reciting the line perfectly from her favourite children's tale.

"Well then come on little miss!"

I start walking in the direction of the sea.

"But Finny" she mumbles, and I turn to see her looking worried.

"What is it?" I ask, concerned.

"I'm not a miss, I'm Pirate Fern!" she blurts out. I grin at my little sister, so confident and so young.

"Let's go then Pirate Fern." I take her small hand in mine, and we start to walk together. In my head, I laugh. If only all those girls who pine over me at school could see my now.

I am Finnick Odair, and in this moment I am a pirate.

Author's note: Hi guys, if you've read this - thank you so much. (: It's not my first attempt at fanfiction, but it's the first story I've published online. This was my NaNoWriMo project for 2010 and I've got around 5 chapters written so far, I never completed it, but it's about time I did. Please comment, i'd love to know what you liked and how I can improve. Natually, Collins is an amazing writer and all credit is to her.