A/N: Bonjour, and welcome to my first Fan Fiction, now I am sure that at least one of you are wondering what the word impecunious means, so basically a quick translation, it means poor. *sighs* I've literally named my story poor :/ Oh well, lets hope that it is at lest a little better than poor... Oh and P.S. The start of this Fan Fic might be a little bit similar to the start of The Hunger Games, but I couldn't think of any other way of doing it, but I promise by the end of this chapter things will start to get a big more original.
Disclaimer: I don't like doing disclaimers so this one can count for the whole story, but nope I do not own any of the characters that I so greatly ship with many other characters or any of the ideas that Suzanne Collins has so wonderfully created, and PS if I did I would be living in a mansion, not a little cottage. Anyway, on with the story ;)
The Impecunious
Chapter 1 – The Woods
My eyes begin to open, slowly taking in the harsh, blinding light that is shining through the window opposite to my bed. One of the first things I notice is that my bed is lacking it's usual heat, what's left is only the rough canvas cover of the mattress, but I know what's missing, or who for that matter, it's Prim. She must of climbed into bed with Mother. Of course she did, today is the day of the reaping, and more importantly it's Prim's first reaping.
I look down to where her feet are, and by no surprise I find the worlds ugliest cat guarding her. He has a mashed in nose, half of one ear missing and his eyes are the colour of a rotting squash. Prim named him Buttercup insisting that his muddy yellow coat matched the bright, beautiful summery flower. He hates me, and quite frankly I hate him back. Honestly I don't regret trying to drown him when Prim brought him home that one summer evening. He was a scrawny kitten, crawling with fleas, his belly was completely swollen with worms, so much so, that I remember one time he literally puked the things up. I didn't help that with him being here it meant that I had one more mouth to feed, but Prim begged for him to stay, so I had to agree. But it turned out OK. My mother got rid of his worms and flees, and it turns out that he's a natural a killing mice. Even the occasional rat. Sometimes when I clean a kill I feed Buttercup the entrails. He has now stopped hissing at me. But of course that is the closest we will ever come to love.
I swing my legs off the bed and slowly raise my hand to summon my hunting boots over. I know it's lazy of me to do so, and that I should get up and pick them up, but it's just so much easier when it is this early in the morning. I slip the boots on, almost sighing at the feeling of the supple leather that has moulded to the shape of my feet.
Once I am fully dressed and my hair is tied up into it's usual braid and I've made sure that I have my forage bag, I stealthy slip outside, into the coal dusted air of District 12.
Our part of District 12 is nicknamed the seam, and it is usually crawling with coal miners heading out to the mornings shift. Men and women with hunched shoulders, swollen knuckles, many of whom have stopped trying to scrub the coal dust out of their broken nails and their sunken faces. But today the cinder streets are empty. Shutters on the squat grey houses are closed. The reaping isn't until two. Might as well sleep if you can.
Our house is almost at the edge of the seam. I only have to pass a few gates to reach the scruffy field nicknamed the meadow. Enclosing District 12 and separating us from the woods is a high chain-link fence, topped with barbed wire loops. It is supposed to be electrified twenty four hours a day as a restraint to the predators that live in the woods; pack of wild dogs, bears, lone cougars – that all used to threaten our streets. But here in District 12 we would be lucky if we get two or three hours of electricity in the evenings, so the fence is usually safe to touch. Even so, I always take a moment to listen carefully for that tell tale hum that means that the fence is live. But right at this moment it's as silent as stone. Concealed by a clump of wild bushes, I flatten out onto my belly and slide under a meter-long stretch that has been loose for years. There are many other weak spots in the fence, but this one is the closest to home.
As soon as I am in the trees, I retrieve a bow and a sheath of arrows from a hollow log. Inside the woods the predators roam freely, but there are added concerns such as venomous snakes, rabid animals, and no real paths to follow, which could make it very easy to get lost. But there is also food if you know how to find it.
Even though trespassing in the woods is illegal and poaching carries one of the severest of penalties, more people would risk it if they had weapons. But most of the citizens here in District 12 are not bold enough to head out with just a knife. My bow is a rarity, crafted by my father along with a few others that I keep hidden in the woods, carefully wrapped in waterproof covers. My father could of made good money selling them, but if the officials found out he would have been publicly executed for inciting a rebellion. Most of the peacekeepers turn a blind eye to the few of us who hunt because they're as hungry for fresh meat as anybody is. In fact, they're among out best customers. But the idea that someone might be arming the Seam would never have been allowed.
In the autumn, a few brave people sneak out of the seam and into the woods to harvest apples, but they make sure that they are always in sight of the meadow, always close enough to run back to the safety of District 12 if trouble arises. "District Twelve. Where you can starve to death in safety." I quietly mutter to myself. Then I quickly glance over my shoulder. Even here, in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you.
When I was younger, I scared my mother to death, with some of the things I would blurt out about District 12. Eventually I understood that this would lead us into trouble. So I learnt to hold my tongue and to turn my features into a mask, so that no one could ever read my thoughts. I did my work quietly in school. Make small talk in the market. Discuss little more than trades in the Hob, which is the black market, where I make most of my money from. Even at home, where I am less pleasant, I avoid discussing tricky topics. Like the reaping, or food shortages, or the Hunger Games. Prim might begin to repeat my words, and then where would we be?
In the woods I see the only person whom I can be myself. Gale Hawthorne. I can feel the muscles in my face relaxing, and my pace quickening as I climb the hills to our place, a rock ledge overlooking a valley. A thicket of berry bushes protects it from unwanted eyes. The sight of him waiting there brings a smile to my face.
"Hey, Catnip," Says Gale. My real name is Katniss, but when I first told him, I had barley whispered it. So he had thought I said Catnip. Then this crazy lynx started following me around the woods looking for handouts, it became his official nickname for me. I finally had to kill the lynx because he scarred off the game. But I got a decent price for his pelt.
"Look what I shot." Gale holds up a loaf of bread with a arrow in it, and I laugh. It's real bakery bread, not the flat dense loaves we make from our grain rations. I hold out my hands and summon it to me, making Gale laugh at the stupid reasons I use my powers for. I pull out the arrow, making it disappear back into Gales quiver, and I hold the puncture in the crust up to my nose, inhaling the fragrance that makes my mouth flood with saliva. Fine bread like this for special occasions. I almost have to hold back what would have been a very grim sounding laugh.
"Mm, still warm," I say. He must have been at the bakery at the crack of dawn to trade for it. "What did it cost you?"
"Just a squirrel, I think the boy, Peeta? Was feeling extra generous this morning," Says Gale. "He even wished me luck."
I almost say that Peeta is always generous and kind, but I decide not to. "Well we all feel a little closer today, don't we?" I say, not even bothering to roll my eyes.
He laughs, "And our hatred for the Capitol grows even stronger." He says putting a fist into the air. I just smile at him.
Suddenly he falls into a Capitol accent as he mimics Effie Trinket, the maniacally upbeat woman who arrives once a year to read out the names at the reaping. "I almost forgot! Happy Hunger Games!" He plucks a few blackberries from the bushes around us. "And may the odds-" He tosses a blackberry in a high arc towards me.
I catch it in my mouth and break the delicate skin with my teeth. The sweetness explodes across my tongue. "-be ever in your favour."
A/N: So yeah, that was chapter one, I know that it was not really that good, and did not vary from the book in any sort of way, but I promise the next chapter defiantly will. And I should be updating again sometime this week, possibly even later on today, I don't know, we'll see. But for now, reviews are very much appreciated and so are follows and this story being added to your favourites list. In fact I might even do a review for a review, and so on. And I so greatly wished that this first chapter would be 2,000 + words, but sadly not, maybe next chapter. Any way goodbye for now. :)
~ Cheyenne xx