Hello, everyone. This story is a bit new for me, because I've never written fanfiction about the Hunger Games before. So we'll see how this one turns out, it's more like an experiment than anything else. But I do also plan on continuing this story regardless of whether or not others like it.

This is the story of the Hunger Games, the story of the girl on fire and the boy with the bread. The story of the downfall of Panem. It sticks to the plot fully, so it is definitely canon. The catch is that this is the Hunger Games from the perspective of a tribute in the 74th Hunger Games. It is the untold tale of a tribute from District 8, and the hardships they suffered through just to sustain themselves. I hope you all enjoy it, because I'm pretty pleased with it myself!

(And yes, Objections is still being continued. I'm just having a little fun, is all.)

Although I wished I owned it, I own nothing of the Hunger Games, it strictly belongs to Suzanne Collins.

All right, here we go, please enjoy! And may the odds be ever in your favor!

"Life is life, fight for it."

Prologue

When I am finished working, I am exhausted.

I let out a much needed groan after I walk out of the sweatshop. The first thing I notice is the way my breath crystalizes into the thin, cool air, immediately vanishing into the evening sky. I stretch out my hand and lift my palm to where the hot mouthful of air had just disappeared, yearning for the heat that had escaped my body. I hope impossibly that if I were quick enough, I could somewhat trap the warmth in my fingers, using the last of my body heat to keep me warm for the rest of the journey home. But my unsuccessful effort does not prevail, and I am only left swishing my fingertips in the icy air, freezing my skin to the bone. It is a particularly freezing day even for District 8, and I am left with nothing but a small jacket to shield me from the frosty wintertime wind. What a cruel reality.

The next thing I notice are the delicate crystals descending from the ominous clouds above. They are light, gentle, beautiful yet dangerous. My cold hand is still outstretched, capturing one of the wonders in the middle of my palm. It disintegrates almost immediately, leaving a bitter liquid running down the edges of my fingers. It is undoubtedly snow, judging from the way my hand shivers involuntarily after making contact with the glassy, bracing water. I make note of this and begin my walk to the main corner, worrying that the new flecks of snow aren't the opening performance to a considerable snowstorm.

The sky is a faint lavender color, gradually growing auburn at the bottom of the crease where the sky meets the land. The foliage that covers the harsh landscape is sewn by icy droplets of sleet, and if it weren't for the black haze of smoke whispering out of the factory chimney, it would almost remind me of the winter wonderlands they talk about in child fairy tales. But it is only the landscape of one of the pawns of Panem, filled of starving families and murders around every corner. It is simply nothing but a wasteland of snow and smoke, so I almost laugh at the thought of it ever becoming beautiful or divine. I shake the child fairytales out of my mind once more. Panem is most certainly the opposite.

I remember I don't have time to stop and 'appreciate' the view. It's 8 PM, and my family will be pondering where I am. Once I am a minute or two late, mother immediately assumes my corpse has been instantaneously seized by the Bodysnatchers. Although it does disgust me to imagine my family weeping over the news of my death, I also can't help but wonder what they would do if I really had passed away. The thought instantly leaves my head as soon as I conjure it up. I can't imagine what it would be like without me. My family obviously needs someone to support them, and I have no choice but to rise up to the position. So I just straighten my thin jacket and continue sauntering away from the workshop, praying one day I will never have to leave my family in such poor conditions. All I can guess to hope for is living long enough to feed everybody, at least until my younger sister gets old enough to sustain our household.

Our part of District 8, usually referred to as the Haze, is always crawling with employees heading out of their occasional twelve to thirteen hour shifts. All men, women, and children with hunched shoulders, swollen knuckles, many who have long since stopped trying to scrub the black dust out of their broken nails, the lines of their sunken faces. They've stopped trying to redeem their worn appearances ages ago, when hope of ever looking unchanged after work the factories is all gone.

We sit in the crowded, husky quarters for hours on end, each trace of youth in our skin fading away in the misty lights. The conveyor belts run constantly, ticking slowly with unfinished materials that need the fingers of our laborers to mend. The items, mostly clothes, run back through the other side of the machine, looking impeccable in both design and quality. Anything less results in an immediate job expulsion. And the limited number of jobs just adds to the overwhelming pressure. Occasionally I prick my fingers on the thread used for mending, but I have no choice but the stuff my bleeding hand into the hem of my shirt and vainly attempt to soak the red liquid quickly enough to continue working. In the factories there are no bandages, no assistance, and most certainly no compassionate people keen enough to help. We fight for ourselves here, risking our jobs is just too much of a gamble no one's willing to take.

I turn around to take a last lingering look at the factory, at least for today. The bulky, stonework building kisses the sky, blocking the view to the North of the field. There is a crowd of people, all rushing and begging to move through the two main doors. It's always problematic getting out in time until they deadlock them, mainly because of the number of workers who need to get home to their own hungry families. I guess I'm just lucky because I left earlier. I did, however, get permission to leave first. Anyone else who tries to take it easy and leaves early earns twenty lashes, something I had to grotesquely learn from past experience. I jam my eyes shut, just for an instant, recalling the horrific experience of venomous whips tracing my back and sensing the metallic aroma of my own blood running down my hind. I hastily open my eyes back up and notice every person is nearly out of the building.

I should get a move on. Tomorrow is the day of the reaping, and there is no time to dawdle.

(Thanks for making it this far. I should acknowledge the fact you guys still have no idea who the main character is, but all of that is coming up in the next part. I mostly wanted you all to notice the writing style and beginning plot before getting too ahead of myself. That way you can back out easily if you want to. I'm fairly happy, so please stay tuned for more parts! And as always, a good review always does some justice!

- ToBuildAHome)