I am the fithteenth tribute of the annual 55th Hunger games, and I can certainly say that the odds are not in my favour. My name's Huck, aged seventeen. I dread that I've been plucked away from my dear home back in District Eight forever, but I have to fight. I can't be thinking about such things right now, I have to focus on deeming myself a worthy victor.
I try to avoid countless numbers of citizens barging past me in the complete opposite direction as to I'm walking. Numerous faces which I've never layed my eyes upon. None of them are familiar. District eight's streets are always overflown with the usual grim citizens going about their daily routines, at least that's what I assume. I have seen so many disturbing sights in this district that's it's unimaginable.
I clench the strap of my bag and pull it up to a higher position on my shoulder. The closer that I can supervise my bag, the more safeguarded it becomes. Us district eight citizens are mere victims of merciless theft. You'd think that even the scum of this district would show a slither of remorse towards their countless victims, but no. All of the thieves in this district are merciless, the bizarre motto that they hold close to them is "Steal or be stolen from." I myself am a victim to such crimes, what deems me a target is the simple knowledge of the fact that I have a job. Jobs are scarce in district eight, I once heard a rumour of a family which was in deep need of a job but were unsuccessful of finding not even one! The family ceased to exist only a couple of weeks later. The sad thing is that most of the citizens here pitied them as they all must of perished in such a inhumane way. Starvation.
I finally reach my destination which I had been fighting through the oncoming rapids of people to get to. The factory. As shameful as it would sound, the factory is the sole provider of my family's income. My family is small, I only have two other people to provide for, excluding myself. My mother's name is (MUM's NAME), most of my relatives and friends say that I get my looks from my mother. We both reassemble the same features, hazel eyes, dark brown hair, a big boned body structure, the list could go on for hours. My sister, Lacie on the other hand looks almost nothing alike to me and our mother. Lacie gets most of her features from our father. I don't remember much about my father as he left my mother when I was only young, but I definitely recognise his nose, eyes and his hair colour as I see them almost every day on Lacie's small canny face.
I knock on the factory's front door three times, then I pause briefly for around 15 seconds, then give the door another 3 knocks. This is the secret signal that us factory workers must use to notify the peace-keeper guards employed by the factory. The reason as to why we have to have such security is because only recently a factory was broken into and completely raided. Not even a roll of fabric remained. This might of been a jackpot for some, but for the dear employees of the factory, it was a nightmare. They surely must of lost their jobs and their main source of income. If such a disaster were to happen to the factory which I work in, then the least that I can say is that my family will have a reason to plunge from the skies into the unknown river of dear district eight peasants.
The cold stainless steel door swings open in front me, permitting me my entry to the factory
'Morning,' said a bulky figure underneath 55 pounds of thick, white, cold armour. I swiftly brush past him without any bother but ultimately I'm greeted with the same old grimy sweatshop. Rows upon rows of filthy oil-stained sewing machines with their usual prisoners in a deep concentration of perfecting their carefully sewn items of clothing. Hats, scarves and gloves. That's what our factory specializes in. Almost all of the factories which lie in District 8 have a specific product in which they'd specialize in. Thankfully, our factory is one of the less-strict sweatshops in comparison to others as our clothes are only shipped off to neighbouring districts, they're not worth of becoming capital products. Eventually, I make my way to the end of the factory. The boiling room, it's primary use is to remove all of the gritty and dark stains which fall upon any the clothes we make, this is where I work with 3 other district 8 citizens.
Firstly, there's Albus. Albus is an elderly man in his mid 70's but nevertheless, he's one of the important people in my life, also he's one of few survivors of the dark days. I've learnt a lot from Albus as we've been working together for a vast number of years. Very rarely, if the factory inspectors aren't on patrol Albus would tell us an old story of what Panem was like before the dark days. I feel a mixture of emotions when he passes down one of his tales but I guess that's only what's expected to be felt during his inspiring stories. Secondly, the boiling room is also home to a young, lanky and literally bone-skinny man. Although he pretty much retains a secretive appearance, it's evident that he's had a rough start in life. A large thick scar runs down his face starting at his right eyebrow and eventually ending towards the start of his neck. Although he isn't a social able one, he once told us his story of getting trapped underneath an old-fashioned machine in one of district 8's cotton mill factories. If I can remember correctly, his name was Connor, I think. Lastly, there's the last person to be identified to be one of my partners in the boiling room. She's one of my best-friends in the whole of district 8 and she's also one of my closest companions. Her name is Millee, she upholds a strong, independent appearance. Thin blonde hair caresses her perfect face. Underneath her hair lies a pair of the most beautiful eyes that I'd layed my eyes on. Amber, a mixture of red, brown, orange and orange. The most beautiful eye colour that one could wish for.
'You're late! Do you know how stressful it is to work this boiling room with only 3 people?!' Yelled Millee as I began to take off my coat. When it comes to me and Millee, there has always been some sort of secretive relationship which we share. I call it love but Millee refuses to believe such immature feelings. "Love doesn't exist, not in a District like this" she claims.
'I know, I'm sorry.' I blurted out quickly. 'It's just that I got caught up in the typical stream of people on my way here, it can't be helped so let's just let this one slide!'
'You're lucky the inspectors haven't arrived yet, if they had seen you arrive late again then this'd be the last we'd see of you! Just put down your stuff and give me a hand, will you?' she nagged. At that moment I rushed over to one of 4 copper wheels and begun turning it. "SLOWER!" Millee screams and at that moment the boiling room released a thunder of sound. Suddenly the two huge boilers and pipes engraved in the walls begun rattling with the sudden gush of hot water.
"Good work!" Albus mummered as we begun to unbind ourselves from the brass wheels. "Only 32 more tank-fulls to release!" he finished.
I'm proud to announce that I've been working in the boiling room for approximately 9 years and 152 days now. I was induced into this factory when I was roughly around the age of 6. At first, my primary job was to carry heaps of oil in buckets all over the factory from the factory's oil tank. It was a gruesome job, I used to return home every day, clothes drowned in oil. My mum said it'd be a nightmare to wash my clothes. As time grew, I eventually got promoted to manufacture gloves in the sweatshop but the factory inspectors though it'd be best if I started to work in the boiling room at a young age so that I'd be used and well-built for it for many years to come.
"So, are you dreading, Huck" questioned Millee.
"Dreading what exactly?!" I replied. Millee leant over me and pressed her index finger on the tip of my nose and then rose it to my eye "The reapings, of course. What else is there to dread?" she exclaimed.
"Well, considering your little brother isn't taking out a tessera yet, no. I am not dreading this years reapings." I replied
"So, there's still a sly chance that you might get picked. Have you forgotten that not only Nate's name is in there but yours is too? You're seventeen this year so your name is in there, what? 6 times?" she explained
Suddenly, a heart-thrilling slam echoed though the factory to the boiler room, "GET TO WORK, NO CHITCHAT!" bellowed one of the factories' inspectors. After this incident, all four of us pretty much worked throughout the whole day in silence. It was only after midnight, closing time when me and Millee spoke again.
"So, the same rule still applies to us, right?" Millee questioned me, "Of course it does, I don't want Lacie to be sent to her death and I doubt you'll want Nate to either" I replied with a serious tone. Each year me and Millee form a rule with each other that if either of our siblings unfortunately get picked to be reaped, we'll volunteer. Although, as Lacie is a girl, this means that Millee will volunteer for her and so will I if her Nate is reaped. I've known Millee my whole life, we've lived next door to each other for as long as I can remember, I can trust her.
Okay, so that's it for the first chapter! I hope you like it because I've enjoyed writing it! Please rate and review, don't be too shy c: If you have an interest in where this fanfic is going then I can assure you that there'll be a second chapter shortly!
Thank you for reading!