A/N: Hello everyone! I have an idea for a Hunger Games fanfiction. I'm posting this chapter to gather feedback on whether or not I should follow through with it. The style is a little different than most fanfiction you might find.

So please comment on it and be honest. I want all feedback good, bad and ugly. Tell me if you would like to see this character in action!

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games Trilogy. Though nearly all the characters are of my own creation, there will eventually be reference to some familiar names and faces. (If I continue.)

Chapter 1

I remember that summer in District 10 had been hot. It was a deep, muggy heat that weight heavily on your chest, which threatened to fill your lungs with the same soupy air that surrounded you. It was never the heat that had bothered me, it was that treacherous moisture.

I stood underneath a spindly old tree, hoping to gain some shade from its meager branches to cool off from the day's work. I had been tending to the cattle for the past several hours, taking them to certain designated grazing spots and cleaning up after their messes. I was a mess of dirt, sweat and dung. It was an average working day for me.

I pulled the brim of my Pa's old hat further down my face to protect myself from the sunlight that seeped through the branches. I listened to the sound of the buzzing crickets, who seemed to be just as bothered by the weather as I was. Their high-pitched shrill sounded like tiny screams of heat-induced agony. I didn't blame them; I felt like screaming too. I stirred slightly as the sound of footsteps began to drown out the crickets.

"Hey Hay," A male voice called. I didn't have to look up to know who it was. It was Weston, another worker on the farm.

"Haya, Weston. Hay-ya," I scoffed slightly, knowing he never would change. "Greeting me like that just sounds…"

"Redundant," Weston finished for me, having heard me say the same thing over and over again in my feeble attempts to correct him. "I know, I know."

Weston was a dopey kid, with eyes as brown as fresh mud and hair as blazing as the sun. Its orangeish -yellow tone was almost blinding to look at directly. He was a head shorter than I was, and when he would smile up at me, he exposed the big gap between his two front teeth.

"Does Belfield know you're taking a break?" He was referring to Mr. J. Belfield, the owner of the piddley stretch of land where we worked. Belfield was the closest farm to the center village of District 10; I had worked for him every summer since I was thirteen. He would pay my hard efforts with some of the produce from his crops, or a jug of homemade wheat beer. My family was always glad to have the extra food to eat or barter. Nevertheless, the workload was heavy, and I often would find myself taking frequent breaks.

"I was just catching my breath."

"For ten whole minutes?"

"I had a lot to catch," I said with a shrug.

"You know what Belfield will say if he sees you," Weston warned.

"'This is why I should have never hired a girl to do a boy's job, women tire too easily,'" I quoted, puffing out my chest, trying to imitate Mr. Belfield's baritone voice. From an outsider's perspective, it would have seemed that Belfield was a sexist curmudgeon. However, he really was a nice man; he just enjoyed giving us slackers a hard time.

"I'm surprised he hasn't threatened to fire me yet."

Weston laughed. "Naw, I don't think Belfield could find another worker, boy or girl, who can swing an axe as hard as you, or be able to heard cattle in as quickly as you do."

"Don't forget the how many hay bales I can move by hand," I reminded him, basking in my own pride.

"What are you two doing?"

Weston and I jumped up in fear. (It's funny how people used to be able to sneak up on me like that.) We turned in unison to find Hal Belfield standing behind us. At the age of twenty-three, Hal was the oldest son of Mr. Belfield, he was a character that stood tall and proud; his fingernails were caked with dirt and his hands were dark and calloused- the sign of a true worker. It was quite the valued trait in District 10. His hulking frame towered before us, challenging us to dare lie to him.

"Resting," I said, truthfully. Hal was a decent person, despite his terrifying size. That being said, I did not want to discover his angry side.

"Y'all better be back to tending those cows in…ten seconds before I give you something worse to do," he said, pointing to the non-existent watch on his wrist.

"Can't be much worse than being covered in shit," I said, pulling at my overalls.

Hal shook his head, refusing to look either of us in the in order to contain the smile that Weston and I knew he was hiding. "Cows, now." He said in a forcibly flat tone.

"And you, "he continued, pointing to Weston "You can go home now." Hal untied a small satchel from his waist belt. "Today's payment." He said gruffly.

I groaned inwardly. Weston would leave work earlier than I, because of his age. The older you got, the more hours you had to put in.

Weston took the small pouch with a hardy thank you. Hal nodded.

"I'll be back for you later," he said to me, "Make sure you get those cows rounded up before dusk,"

"I always do," I said with a sniff. With a final glance, Hal turned and headed back to the barn.

I watched as he walked away before I headed back to my own duties with the cattle. Instead of heading home, Weston would always linger around, and would follow me like a wounded puppy. I would always put up with it though, because I saw him as the little brother I never had.

We walked through the field together, approaching the grazing cows. I picked up a stick as we neared them.

"It'll be fall soon, once this heat breaks." Weston said as he rifled through the pouch that Hal had given him. He pulled out a single blueberry from the pouch and popped it in his mouth. He made a face. "Ugh, that was a bitter one."

"Quit your belly aching, at least it isn't hickory nuts," I said. When the summer season began to shift into fall, the Belfield's hickory trees would be ready for gathering. The year before, I had been paid with hickory nuts for nearly a month. Even after all these years, I still can't stand the sight of them.

Weston just shrugged and we continued our walk in silence. Once I reached the nearest cow, I lightly tapped it with the stick to edge it westward, towards the barn. Belfield had trained those cows well, as they always moved along without a hassle.

"School, should be starting soon,"

"Mhmm," I grunted, tapping another nearby sow. She let out a soft moo before trudging along.

"That means the Reaping will be soon."

I did not respond to him them, and instead had let out a sigh. That year was the start of the 21st Annual Hunger Games, and the final year that I would have to participate in the Reaping. I felt a sense of relief; at eighteen, I only had to go through the spine-chilling experience one more time. Weston, however, had another two years after me.

"How many times did you have to put your name in?" He asked quietly.

I stared at him, not wanting to make him feel worse about his chances. My family had been better off than his own had; I only had placed my name in two extra times. I had no desire to know what he had to put in.

"Let's not talk about that," I said, moving the heard forward. I took another deep breath, telling myself that this would be the last year I would ever have to worry about being picked to participate in the Hunger Games. I thought everything was going to be all right.

Oh, how wrong I was.

A/N; Haya is a little unconventional, but I think that's why I like her.

Please review! Should this work be continued or scrapped?