Three years before

In an instant, my heart shattered. Standing in the perpetual smog that surrounds the factories looking up at the massive screens erected in front of us that played every waking nightmare 24 teenagers were forced through was an annual occurrance for everyone in the District. That year, I saw it through a new perspective.

Still shrouded in smog, my family and I, wearing our polished rags that did little to hide the poverty that plagued our family every so often. Even if my mother, a strong woman who helped bark orders to and from adjacent my father in the factories, claimed the rain was starting to drizzle, I knew it was tears. My father placed a hand on me in that instant, looking up at the screen and sighing as he did so. He was always more open to his emotions but still a quieter man than my mother. I blinked away the tears after the gong rang and saw Rufus Dagmar dive into the melee.

17 years old, the tallest tribute from District Eight at six foot three, but long and gangly without much muscle mass, but with such 'DAZZLING!' eyes and ever so gentle hands. Bets on him run across the sides of the screen as he dives for a backpack, 48-1. They're the best bets a male tribute from District eight has had in the start of the hunger games, the number five as his score flickering at the bottom.

I wince as he dodges a thrown spear that lands in the girl from District three. She's the third one down of the games, and I see Rufus try to run to an open passageway. After the first five minutes, I start to think he has a chance in the atypical arena, opening my mouth to cheer before the sixteen year old from District 2, the victoress' brother, slide tackles him to the ground and bashes a club over his head.

I turn away, burying my head in my mother's dusty dress, hiding myself from the glare the camera has on me. I'm probably on screen right now, but I don't risk checking myself until I'm one hundred percent sure that all tears are gone. The three of us wince as the bloodbath saunters onward with five more deaths, horrendous sounds echoing through the tight quarters of the town square.

"Well, Well!" I hear the ever so annoying Hunger Games announcer speak up. "The bloodbath has finally subsided, and the casualties are being picked up as we speak! Such a productive beginning. And thus ends mandatory viewing for the first hour. Thank you guys for joining us, but stay tuned for mentor commentary and building analysis!"

"Perky little fucktard," I whisper shakily, my voice obscured by mom's dress. I hug around her chest tighter, burying my face in her shoulders. "Rufus…"
The District population in front of all of us finally is escorted out of the town square with vicious motivation from the peacekeepers. My father reaches over to my mother, gingerly explaining that we have to be filmed walking away, or giving final thoughts-whichever flows nicely for the camera folk. "Let's just, we need to move," mother says with the same conviction that carries her through the day. "Herbert, I don't think. We shouldn't go but-"
"I understand," my dad quietly says, wrapping his scarf around my mom's shoulder. She shivers slightly and turns away from the camera, gently releasing me from my hug. "Woof, son, we'll be going home now. We have a bit to talk about."
"I'll stay," I reply quickly. The words fall out my mouth a little more coldly than I expect to, but after today I don't think I can control myself. My parent's tall frames leave my sightline trailed by one camera member as I assume they make way home. I try to head into a bakery but a capitol camera man tries to stop me. "Bugger off, I just want to eat," I say, shoving my hand into my pocket.

In a moment I feel the weight lifted off of my shoulders as I enter the bakery. One of the workers catches sight of me, and tells her daughter to put it on a tab for the Dagmars. I frequent the bakery often, with Rufus, usually with a caramel covered swirl.

I sigh as I head out the backdoor, both caramel swirls in my hand as I gently close the door behind me. District Eight is a cramped District, one of the most that I've seen on television, and it's easy for me to get lost wandering the alleys. I find breaches in the fences where they sloppily cut across alleys, and they let in some wild dogs. One of them runs up to me as I pass by one of the smock factories and looks up at me eagerly. On walks with Rufus, I was taught to deal with scrappy dogs, but as I enter a defensive stance the dog looks at me strangely.

I lower myself to his level, holding out a portion of my caramel swirl for it as it wags its tail eagerly. It woofs in excitement and I manage to break a smile. "That's a lovely word. You've got my name down already," I say halfheartedly. The dog, a real son of a bitch if you ask me, plods around my person eagerly, nuzzling the back of my legs in affection. I continue walking through the alleys, only to be turned around by the shouts of anxious peacekeepers patrolling the wider streets. "Stay here, okay, I don't want you getting into trouble," I tell the dog. It hides behind a discarded tarp as the peacekeepers begin to wander down the alley I'm in.

Mandatory viewing is called, by the lack of brightness it must be night already, and I make my way to the square. "RASCAL!" one peacekeeper with a booming voice shouts at me, grabbing my hand.

I resist slightly, but he tightens his grip and begins to drag me over to the square. "No attendance during mandatory viewing is grounds enough for five lashes, resist more boy, it's rising to fifteen!" He finds the other caramel swirl in my hand and shouts once more. "Sticky fingers huh?! That's enough for twenty five if I'm right young sir!"

I'm beginning to open my mouth to object when I hear another voice counter his. "Let go of him," the man says. I recognize the raspy voice as the one of my mother's bosses, the nicer of the three. "My brother runs one of the bakeries, and he's one of their customers. I can have them ring him up and vouch for him."

The peacekeeper looks angrily at me, then at my mother's boss, then shoves me to the ground, muttering something about verifying bullshit to his boss and throwing the dirt on the factory. "I recognize you," my mother's boss says.

"Thank you for that, sir," I cough out. I pull myself up on my feet, dusting the dirt off of my pants as I match up with him. Like my brother, I'm particularly tall for my age, but just at five foot six, so I don't have to look up as much to look at my mother's boss.

"Your mother, she doesn't happen to work at one of my firms," he asks, escorting me inside.

"She works as one of the conveyor line leaders, getting the goods to where they need to be, sir," I cautiously say.

"I'll call her tonight, you'll stay for the night, most of the houses are awfully far away from our factories, are they not?" Briefly he introduces me to his wife and son, who treat me with complacency as I sit on his rather plush chair. I introduce myself as Woof Dagmar, and the boss' eyes immediately flicker with an idea. "Dagmar...your brother, was he on screen hours ago?" he asks tenderly.

It's all I can do not to crush the caramel swirl in my hand. "Yes," I choke out.

He respectfully nods and turns the television away from my sightline. "My cohort had a talk with your mother a while ago, you really need the money. I'll tell you this. We have a crew of conveyor belt cleaners, your brother might have been one of them. I'm thinking that you could very well join them. Pay isn't much, we're still reeling in from the taxes after Spindelly's victory."

I seem to recall what Rufus said about working, how well it could bring you home if you need to, how money means stability in this world and how we'll be saved. It takes a simple nod of my head, and hopefully Rufus' words won't go in vain.

Hey guys, Hopps here
It's a new project, I know, but I've really been wanting to write a fanfiction about Woof's games, considering he's one of the more neglected figures in THG fanon overall.
Tell me, what do you think of him? He wasn't really fleshed out, besides eating poisonous bugs and being senile. So I'm Hoping to catch him at his prime
Hopping out
Hopps