THE CAREER

By E. Krieg

Disclaimer: I, in no way, own the rights to the Hunger Games

Chapter 1

Astra

My eyes snapped open as the faintest pink glow eliminated the horizon outside the large window in my room. I quickly tore off the silky sheets that were pulled up over my legs and slid myself off of my large bed.

I blinked groggily, clearing my blurry vision. My small nightstand clock struck five o'clock and a quiet alarm went off. I smiled. "Beat you again," I said to the clock, standing up and walking over to my closet.

I opened the large, oak, double doors to the closet, suddenly engulfed in thousands of colors and fabrics, but walked past all of the expensive clothing to a dark green tank top and dark brown pants. This was an unusual outfit for someone with such a high living standard in District 2 to wear, but I wasn't an ordinary person from District 2.

I've been training to be a member in the 29th Official Hunger Games ever since I was eight, and I am seventeen now. That's one thing that most people don't know about District 2; our Hunger Games tributes are chosen at a young age based on strength and skills and are training everyday to go into that arena. If they are not originally chosen, they volunteer to go in the selected person's place.

I was chosen when I was eight, along with a boy named Easton, who is a year older than me. One of us is going to win the Games, or at least we're supposed to.

I pulled on the tank top and pants, fix a brown belt around my waist, then go look at myself in the mirror. "Morning Astra," I say to my reflection with a small smile. Hastily, I weave my thin, light blonde hair into a braid, and then study myself; my flawless tan skin, deep brown eyes, athletic build, hard arm muscles. I can't help thinking about the fact that tomorrow my face will be on televisions all across Panem. I shudder.

To clear my thoughts, I silently fly down the stairs, careful to not wake my parents, and grab an apple from the bowl on the kitchen counter at the base of the stairs. Without breaking pace, I grab the sword and sheath that lean against the front door and head outside, attaching the sword's sheath to my belt.

As I cross the fairly large lawn behind my house, ringed by large oak trees, I think about the Games. There will be 23 other kids whose only goal is to make sure I end up dead. And as an added bonus, there will be challenges that the Game Makers are sure to end up giving me in the arena.

When I finally reach the large shed that my family has set up as my training area, I notice that someone has beaten me there. "Morning Ms. Hoefflin, you're late," the boy, one year older than me, says with a smile.

He's tall, a couple inches taller than me, with shaggy black hair and blue-gray eyes. "It's five in the morning Villie, be happy that I got up at all," I reply, my voice edged with laughter. He is my best friend after all; living next door to me since I was 5 and being the only person I talk to besides my parents.

Villie rolls his eyes. "Well, come on then," he says to me as I take the sheath off of my belt. I won't be needing it. "I'm not running 4 miles on my own." Villie's my unofficial trainer for the games. Everyday we go out running, practice my sword fighting, and practice all of my survival skills. I smile and together we start our run through our large town, the whole time thinking about the fact that this will be the last time I train with Villie, for tomorrow was the reaping.