AN: It occurs to me that people have possibly written this before; however, I think I might actually be able to do this justice, and I've wanted to write this story for ages, so here you go. I hope you enjoy it. (Also, I am writing this mostly based on the books, though I may borrow elements of the movie that agree with the books.)
Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games or any part of its franchise, books, movie, or otherwise.

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Chapter 1

The rays of dawn coming through the uncurtained windows - that was what always woke me up. Well, we had curtains, but they were so ratty and full of holes that most of the time we just didn't bother. Nobody in the house liked to look at them. Or remember a time, five or ten years ago, when the curtains were okay, and the family was as okay as I'd ever known it.

Things change.

I pushed myself off the hard palette on the floor, careful not to disturb my sister, Pomona, or my old grandmother, who took the corner because she said it was coziest for her. Pomona and I both knew that she just hated having space behind her; she was always watching her back. After what had happened to my father, I guess we couldn't blame her for that. So she got the corner, and usually did end up being the coziest, since Pomona always cuddled into her, and my grandmother always got the nicest blanket, along with the one threadbare pillow we had left. It was rare that I slept with a blanket at all, save in winter, and when I did it was a rough, grey one almost as threadbare as our curtains.

I touched the simple white t-shirt I wore and frowned. It was clinging to me all over with sweat. Why would I sweat? And then I remembered: tomorrow was Reaping Day. You'd think I'd've gotten used to it, since this was my 7th year of eligibility, but it was just the opposite. Since I'd turned 12, every year the Reaping brought more and more dread. But usually my hatred of the Capitol made me strong, kept me balanced. Why was this year different?

"Thresh," a voice called softly. Pomona sat up on the palette, rubbed the back of her left shoulder. She was tall, almost 6 foot, with the same dark brown skin and hair as me, and golden-brown eyes, like almost everyone in our district. Years ago some girls had taught her about dreadlocks, and ever since then she wore her hair in them, hardly even bothering to cut it. I just took out my father's old razors every month or so and shaved my entire head. She looked like me, in facial features as well as in musculature: We were both very strong - not always a common trait in District 11, but it served us well.

"Good morning," I said. I pulled the t-shirt off and threw it into the wicker basket my grandmother had made for our hamper. I went to the small, broken chest of drawers we owned and opened the one in the middle, where I kept my clothing.

Pomona eyed the glisten on my chest from the sweat. "You were sweating."

"Yeah, well. It's hot outside." It was the beginning of the hottest months of summer, and temperatures had ratcheted up to the 90s.

Pomona just shook her head slightly, and I knew she wasn't convinced. I didn't even sweat on the days that were 120 degrees and everyone was told to stay indoors.

I pulled on one of my work shirts, then turned around and pulled off my shorts, put on undergarments and work pants. Modesty wasn't something we bothered about much. We only had two rooms, and one of them was the bathroom, which had barely enough room to stand up in between the toilet and sink, at least for me. Baths we took in a huge bucket with water warmed from the fire. The houses everyone lived in were one room only, and that was the only kind of house I'd ever seen. Pomona, though, told stories about the richer people in the district, how sometimes their houses had two or even three stories, with multiple rooms on each story. I was never sure whether to believe her.

Pomona sprang to her feet and opened her drawer just as I finished buttoning my pants, her eyes trailing up to the battered wind-up clock hanging from the wall. "4:57! Yikes, we're going to be LATE!" She pawed frantically through her drawers, coming up with her own work shirt and pants, which were identical to mine.

"Work isn't till 6, remember?"

"5:30 if you want to eat. Duh." I rolled my eyes. Of course I knew that.

Grandma was used to waking up in an empty house, and usually didn't wake up till the sun was bright, so Pomona stooped down and kissed her softly on the cheek as I grabbed the massive sunhats we wore in the fields. I handed Pomona hers, put mine on, and we both stepped into our sandals and headed out the front door for the half hour walk to work.

Walking at our fastest pace, we made it just in time to each grab a small bowl of tasteless, going-cold gruel from one of the farm owner's children at a fold-up table they owned. I stared at the childish hands that passed me my food, then went with Pomona to sit on a patch of grass and eat. After a few more had been served, there were no more bowls. Workers were streaming into the grassy field now, but there was nothing left to eat, and they didn't ask. Instead, they gathered in groups and talked. As usual, I maintained my silence. Pomona, too, sat silently, staring out over the endless fields, although I knew she'd rather be talking to some of her friends. But she always insisted that the morning was for family.

Then work: Today we were planting fields and fields of cotton, and when we were done that, we were to go around to each new seed with watering buckets, going back and forth, back and forth to the only water source close enough, an old, deep well. You learned, when you'd been here awhile, to only sprinkle a small amount of water on each seed, because if you slopped out half the bowl, you'd only have to do more walking to get more water. You learned what the bare minimum was, and you did only that.

Pomona, at 19, got paid full adult wages for her work. Since I was 18 and not through my Reapings yet, my wage was substantially smaller, though even Pomona didn't make much. But I felt luckier than I had when I was younger, because nobody under 16 ever got paid for field work. The farm owners always told us it was illegal for under-16s to work fields, and if they got caught with job money the owners could be shot. It took me awhile to figure out that this was a lie. They just didn't want to pay anyone they didn't have to, and they knew that we couldn't refuse to work, because if we wanted jobs there as adults we had to start young. I'd started at age 10, because I was already tall and strong for my age. Pomona was 13. Some kids, whose parents had more money, could afford to wait longer to get jobs. But there weren't many of those, and they never lived near us.

I was careful with the planting, the watering. I paid careful attention in classes when it came to fields and the crops planted in them, because I'd always known I would be a field worker. My father and mother had both worked in fields, and so had my grandmother, back before she got too hunched and weak to handle the work. We could be asked to sow, water, feed, reap, or harvest any kind of field-grown plant, and we needed to know all the stages plantation went through, and what each seed and plant looked like when it was ideal and ready to be planted, picked, or otherwise harvested. Even during planting, we were expected to use all the seeds we knew would grow, and only throw away seeds we could tell were completely warped. The farm owners went around and checked, and if you did it wrong you could be in for hours in the chains, inside a small windowless hut - or worse, with a whipping from the head owner himself, one of the only people I knew who was stronger than me.

I had worked in fields of cotton, wheat, corn, hay; I'd even done some rounds in tobacco fields. District 9 grew grains exclusively, but they grew theirs for the Capitol; we grew it for the districts, and so we needed to know as much about grains as them. I often thought it was unfair, that we had to do all sorts of other crops, and then, added to that, all the grains that another district did. But when I considered not having food, I accepted it. Angrily.

Anger was a constant undercurrent running through me – I felt like it always had been. I hated being pushed around like a slave, I hated all the farm owners, and I especially hated the pampered Peacekeepers, with their crisp white uniforms and their stockades and whipping posts and guns. And the Capitol… well, I could never talk about them, unless I was completely alone. Pomona didn't like the Capitol either, but she was always terrified of what would happen if I was overheard. "They'll hang you!" she'd say each time I made a comment, clinging to my arm desperately, with her short fingernails digging into my flesh. So I finally learned to stop. The last thing we needed was to lose another family member.

The day was 14 hours, with just a short 15 minute break for lunch. We could have up to 5 stand-up breaks to drink water or use the bathroom, which could take no more than two minutes for water or three for the bathroom (we were timed). Lunch and breakfast came out of our salaries, but it was better than eating nothing. It was always meager, even with Pomona and I always paying for extra. We knew we needed it to keep the muscles we'd worked so hard for. So while everyone else was eating two pieces of bread with jam, Pomona and I had groosling sandwiches that even had a very thin layer of white fatty spread on the inside. Neither of us knew what it was called. She talked to her group of friends, while I sat alone. Then we both drank as much water as we could hold and got back to work.

At the end of the day, it was dark out and we were always exhausted, but there was the walk home to come. We trudged the half hour, casually chatting about our day. Well, the chat was mostly one-way, because Pomona could talk forever, but I'd learned it was usually better to keep my mouth shut. It was that or risk Pomona talking frantically about hanging.

We'd always come home to a fairly nice supper. Tesserae bread, as many pieces as we could eat while considering how long the rations had to last, with small pats of butter Grandma paid for with her seamstress work, and if we had any stray animal left we'd eat that too. If they came into the fields, grooslings or other small animals, it would be a fight to see who could get there first with something sharp. I kept my folded knife in my back pocket, and Pomona was fast, so she'd grab a groosling and when I got there I'd slit its throat, which gave us undeniable ownership. Tonight we actually had a wing left, so we split it between three of us and talked at the small table that come with the house. Like everything else we owned, it was worn and old, but it was sturdy, and Grandma smoothed and polished the top as best she could.

And after workdays like that… well, who had the energy to stay up late? I always got on the palette first, once we were sure there was no stupid mandatory Capitol television to watch. The reminder about the Reaping had played a week ago, and yesterday, so we were expected to remember that we needed to be there. Well… that I needed to be there. Pomona was already safe. But I still had to go to one, final Reaping before I could know I was free from the clutches of the Capitol.

Sweat was already drenching another white t-shirt when I finally fell asleep.