A/N:
Hello everyone! I am positively thrilled that you have clicked on this story. I love writing for fanfiction and reviews mean a lot to me *HINT HINT*.
I hope you enjoy this rendition of the 58th Hunger Games. Most of the characters are OC, with some oldies here and there, property of our beloved Ms. Collins
Also, IF you are impatient for the next chapters to come (and I will try to be diligent with updating, I promise), I have a completed story featuring the 61st Hunger Games. I think it might be feeling a bit lonely over there on my profile page. Go check it out!

Annnywhoooooo, Enjoy!

TTE

~1~

It is hot the night before Reaping Day. The whir of industrial fans and clouds of sticky steam from the dye vats greet me as I return from the night shift soup line, a bowl of lumpy soup in each hand. Feeding the night shift workers is a new thing: an attempt by the Capitol to keep the district happy. District 8, the location of Panem's textile mills and factories and home to some of Panem's most oppressed, has always had a reputation for being a bit unruly.

I don't need the soup. My mother and father are lucky enough to have some of the better paying jobs; designer and overseer respectively. We are some of the small population of the district who can feed ourselves. Most others have to take on factory shifts like their lives depend on it- - -which they often do. I don't need the soup, but Kearsey does.

She is leaning heavily on a conveyor, picking out foreign matter from the spools and spools of yarn rattling by. There are circles under her eyes and her long blond curls are stingy with moisture, but she looks beautiful all the same. She always looks beautiful.

I tell her so when I finally reach her, sliding both bowls of soup in front of her, then resume my post: turning the various yarns in the neighboring vats.

"No, Tom, please eat," she protests halfheartedly, knowing that I wouldn't.

"It's for your brothers," I reply. The dye is hot and has left my skin dyed burgundy to the elbows.

Kearsey's family is one of the less lucky ones. Both her parents work all day in the mills, and Kearsey, the eldest, is needed to work just as hard to feed her three young brothers, who are all not yet old enough to work more than 8 hours a week. As soon as she had turned thirteen, Kearsey began taking on night shifts. And as soon as her brothers each turn thirteen, they would, too.

It was only recently that I had begun to pick up slack for Kearsey and her family. I started working night shifts with her, and handed those extra wages right into her reluctant but grateful hands.

I care for Kearsey more than anyone, and love her family as I do my own. I am more than willing to work late to help her. Who needs sleep, anyway? And tonight especially, with the Reaping so close, what teenager can sleep at all?

I can tell Kearsey is nervous about the reaping. She's no good at hiding her emotions. She's babbling.

"Are you tired yet, Tom?" She asks. "I found this trick that if you puff up your cheeks it helps you stay awake. I showed it to Millie and she looked so funny doing it. People were giving us weird looks. I wonder what they learned in school today. You'll have to show me later, okay? I hope my bothers got to bed on time, they always swear that they do but I don't always believe them. I'd hate for them to be tired tomorrow, but they'll be so glad for some extra soup, won't they...and I can pick up my tesserae..." She drifts off into silence for a moment, then suddenly, she blurts, "What am I going to do if you're picked at the reaping?"

I turn quickly and she's standing there on the verge of tears, her fingers still moving robotically over the spools.

"I won't, and neither will you. Quit worrying." I say firmly but I'm not as certain as I sound.

She's quiet, but I know she's still worrying. We're both thinking about it. Everyone is. After a while she comes over the help me, briefly, with the vats. It is only my first week on the vats. Before, I had been working the conveyors in a different part of the warehouse. But I seem to be doing just fine with the vats. I'm even keeping up with the veterans.

"How do you pick stuff up so fast?" she asks. "You're like this with everything. Like you've been practicing for years."

I shrug.

"Smarty-pants," she teases lightly, and we try to laugh but it feels forced. My eyes itch, but no matter how tired I am, Kearsey is surely more so. I squeeze her hand, burgundy like mine, and she rests her head on my shoulder.

~.~

It's four in the morning when we punch out our time cards and head home. We walk through the heat in the pre-dawn gloom and I hold Kearsey close to me. The upcoming reaping has increased the tension in the narrow, tenement-lined streets. So much so that it can be felt, like electricity, in the air. It's like this every year. Extra peacekeepers are sent in to keep potential riots under control. Worried parents cry out for justice and the lives of their children in the streets. We watch white-uniformed patrols go by. In a nearby ally, someone is shouting. We hear wailing, dogs bark. A grubby old man sleeps slumped on a doorstep, "Down with the Capitol" is scrawled on a cardboard box at his feet.

"Oh no, they're going to shoot him for that," Kearsey whispers.

We walk quickly over, and I turn the box to hide the words from view. "At least now they won't kill him in his sleep," I say.

We reach Kearsey's tenement and she embraces me on the doorstep. Her blue eyes shine with the tears she's been holding in all night. We always found it neat that both of our eyes were the same exact shade of blue.

"See you tomorrow," I say, kissing her once.

"Go get some sleep," she replies.

"You, too."

I want to say more, words of comfort, anything. But I know words won't be strong enough to alleviate the terror of the Reaping. It eats away at my insides. The burning possibilities. What if it's Kearsey. What if it's me.

~.~

I'm almost to my own building when a peacekeeper strolls out of an ally in front of me. He's a stranger. A temporary recruit from the Capitol.

"We're you headed, son?" He's big with small, angry eyes. His weapon hangs loosely from his shoulder. I wonder if it's loaded.

"Home, sir. It's right down there," I reply flatly, pointing.

"You working the night shift?" He asks suspiciously.

"Yes, sir."

He steps closer and sniffs, as if he can detect a lie by smelling it.

I hold my ground and stare right into his eyes. It's a challenge, a dare. It's not the first time that I've been stopped at night. Sometimes peacekeepers just check to see that you're not a rabble-rouser. Sometimes they just want a scare. Sometimes a fight.

"What's your name, son?" He asks finally.

"Tom Annic, sir."

"You nineteen yet,Tom?"

"No, sir. Sixteen."

It's the truth, but the peacekeeper snorts in disbelief. But after staring me down for the good part of a minute, he decides to let me go. Although I guess I look old for my age he apparently doesn't see me as a threat. He, after all, is the one with the gun.

"Well, you better get to bed," he orders gruffly. "You've got a big day tomorrow."

I'm relieved to go. I make it to my building in less than a minute, climb the narrow stairs to the third floor. I open the door to our small flat quietly. Both my parents are asleep. I fall into my bed without undressing, exhaustion taking over, and I'm asleep before any harrowing thoughts about the day to come can stop me.