A/N: This story will revolve around my District 4 Victor OC, Ceres Rythe, and her experience in the Hunger Games. This is the first story, which will cover over her, well...story, and then the following ones will revolve around the events of The Hunger Games, Catching Fire, and Mockingjay. The story will be rated T for teens, but may go into M for Mature as the story goes along. After all, the Hunger Games does get very bloody and gorey, and I'm not one to shy away from that...and maybe some smut, too. And yes, there will be romance in this.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games trilogy, nor am I profiting off of this story. The Hunger Games belongs to the fantastic Suzanne Collins. I am writing it for the sole purpose of my own fun and enjoyment of writing. The only characters I own are my original characters.

PROLOGUE

in the net

The spear is raised high above my head, tip pointed downward as my eyes move carefully across the blue surface. I am waist deep in the salted water, though the tide drags itself across my torso from time to time. My breathing is controlled. If I were to be honest, I would say that my arm was beginning to ache from being in this position for so long; my wrist quivering and my fingers going numb. But all I have to do is spare a glance at the boat several yards away from me and I know there is no turning back. My father is watching, as he settles and adjusts the net far from me. I cannot and will not disappoint him. With a loud sigh, fighting back the ever growing urge to sink deeply into the water, I look back down. My feet are carefully balancing on a set of rock formations that extend from the mainland, toes curling over the course, hard surface. If I were to take a step forward, then I would sink into the deeper waters. I swallow. My father has taught me many fine tricks to keep me from stumbling over myself, as well as to concentrate upon the fish around me; to feel, to see, and to sense. I inhale. I trust he won't lead me astray. My eyes briefly flicker back to the boat.

He is still watching.

I release a shaky breath.

A scaly form brushes against my calf. I fight the urge to visibly perk, as to do so would scare the fish away, so I find myself inhaling and exhaling steadily. I am still again, my hands flexing tighter around the hilt as I brace for the impending strike. The fish wiggles through my legs and ahead of me, unsuspecting. I hold my breath. Once it is within adequate distance, I exhale. My spear impales through the fish's side, as its body gives a last jerk as if to free itself, before it begins its deathly spasms. A triumphant smile catches across my face. Raising my spear and the dead fish overhead, I wave my free hand upward; my father raises his in return. Pride has overtaken my senses. My first fish! My first fish on my own! My brother will brag that he caught his first fish at five, since I am seven, but as of now I cannot bring myself to care. I adjust the spear in my hand, ensuring that the fish is safely ensnared. Once this is done, I dive down into the water, fish raised high, and my free hand paddling towards the boat. My father does not bring the boat closer, so I swim the long distance; bobbing in and out of the water.

My father is not a bad man, mind you; he simply expects me and my brother to be pushed to our limits, to ensure we aren't … weak? Is that the right word?

When I reach the boat, I am panting. My father takes the spear from me and places it down on the floor of the boat, and then he helps me up. My hair smells like seaweed and it clings tightly to my crusting face; as the sun had been beating down on it for hours. My mother will have to use salve on it again. My toes and fingers are encrusted with sand and seaweed, and there is definitely something in my ears. For good measure, I tilt my head and begin to shake.

"Good job."

I pause, enjoying the compliment. "Thank you, dad," I say, looking at the fish. "What kind is it?"

He peels the fish from the spear. "It's a Redeye," he says, as he tucks the dead creature into a grey satchel. "We'll keep this one for supper. Your mother can cook it into something nice…maybe a stew…"

He trails away, his eye looking out towards the water in one of his moments of quiet. My mother says that he does this when he needs to collect his thoughts, or when he is having a "bad day." You see, to me, this man is just my father and one of the many fishermen in our District. But to the Capitol and all the other Districts, he is Rheon Rythe, the Victor of District 4. Although I am young, I know what the Hunger Games are, as my family goes out to watch it every year – as, my mother says, it is our solemn duty. My mother tries to avert my eyes, to shield me from what the Tributes do to each other, but in the end I always watch. It's not out of pleasure, I think; more curiosity. I sometimes watch the Games and try to imagine my father's face, younger and less wrinkled, among the others. He is not particularly tall or muscular or strong, but I am told he survived out of wit and resilience. Truthfully, I have no set answers, as my mother always slaps my hand whenever I try to bring it up, and I seldom have the courage to ask my father in the rare moments where we are alone.

I look up at my father, taking in the man who leaves me every year to help the Tributes in the Capitol, and who returns more wrinkled and grey than before. Like the tide, the Capitol pulls drags him into the ocean, and then hurtles him back to shore. His face is squarely shaped, with wrinkles and lines around his eyes and lips, as if someone sat down and spent careful care to draw them is. His eyes are sunken in, though to be truthful … he only has one eye. His right eye is the color of the sea around us, but it is almost always dulled and muted, as if the life has been drained away. The other eye is glassy, because it is glass. My mother tells me he lost his eye in the Games, and that he denied any fancy resources from the Capitol. Instead, he opted for a glass one. I don't know why, and my mother hates it when I ask questions.

But as it were, my mother is not here, and this is probably the only time I will be alone with my father in a while. Usually we are accompanied by my brother, or I am left at home. (Technically, he should be home, as well, since a Victor has the luxuries the working class do not, but my father is not a man so easily held down.) But in any case, tomorrow is the Reaping, which means that the Capitol's oddly dressed Escort, Ivoree Greenscape, will be coming to take two of our own. The Victors will be going back to the Capitol with them, including my father. I do not know when we will be alone again, so I opt to claim the now before it slips away.

"Dad?"

He grunts.

"Does your eye ever hurt?"

I decide to start my questions slowly, rather than leaping immediately into the queries that swim busily through my mind. Based on his arching brow, I presume this was the wiser move.

"Sometimes," my father says, as he pulls the net from the water and onto the boat; a gaggle of fish ensnared in it. "It's a dull kind of pain, but it could be worse. I could be—"

"Dead." I start helping him pull the net up. Admittedly, I know he does not need my help, since he is stronger and older, and I am young and scrawny. But I want to help … and I figure if I help him, then he might be more willing to share some answers. "Did you like fighting in the Games?"

"Ceresea."

It's Ceres, I think, but I do not say. His voice is scolding, but I continue. "I overheard some of my classmates saying they're going to Volunteer this year. They say it brings honor their families. Why would someone want to fight in the Games if they don't like it? Did you Volunteer, too?"

He sighs.

My father is not a man driven by anger or by irritation, but I can tell he is growing weary with my queries. His brow is crinkling, setting a greater set of lines into his face. A part of me considers retracting my previous questions, to leave the matter alone, and to mostly leave him alone. But it is so rare that I am alone with him, with neither my mother nor brother there to pester us. Both would ridicule me for pestering him, but it's something I can't help. If I am going to learn about my father's experience, I want it to be through him, not through stories or archives.

When minutes tick by as we sit quietly on the boat, I believe that the talking has expired. He has returned to his quieted state –

"No, I didn't Volunteer, and no one Volunteered for me."

My disappointment immediately subsides, replaced by a newfound curiosity and excitement. I sit upright. I have heard of many people in our District Volunteering, partly for glory and partly for vanity. It is no secret that some of the stronger folks are groomed at a young age to prepare for the Reaping, even though it is technically illegal. So it startles me that my father did not Volunteer, and that no one Volunteered for him.

Rheon starts to paddle the boat back to shore, while I tie a knot in the net.

"Did you want to be in the Games?" I ask.

He mulls over my question. "It doesn't matter. I won."

I beg to differ on the former. "I would've Volunteered for you."

His eye goes cold and jaw clenches. "If you saw what I saw, you would rethink that…now help me with the net, no more talk of the Games, or else I'll tell your mother you were more trouble than you're worth."

I have more questions, but my father's threat makes me go quiet. Once docked, we spend the reminder of the time collecting the fish together and tying the boat back up. His expression is more stone-faced than usual as he does this, and I cannot help but feel mildly guilty for having caused him such strife. But all the same, some of my questions were answered, and I intend on unlocking more.

My father looks over the sandy dunes, hand over his eyes against the sun. As a Victor, my father has luxuries that most do not have; food, supplies, and comfort. He does not need to fish anymore, or do any form of work. But my father is not a man to lay around the seaside house and do nothing, so he opts to collect and gather fish, and then pawn it off to other fishermen, who in turn sacrifice it to the Capitol or sell it in their own markets. It is not a glamorous lifestyle for a Victor, but it is one my father favors; I believe it keeps him sane.

"Does the Capitol know you fish?" I ask, even though I know the answer. I merely want him to talk to me.

"It doesn't matter."

Rheon says no more after that, so I sigh in defeat. "Who's taking the fish today?"

"Neleus Odair and his son."

I feel my eyes tighten. "…not him."

Cruel thoughts slither into my mind, as my knuckles clench at my side until they are pale and shaking. I do not have time to say another word before I see two figures approach from the sand-beaten path. I see the Odair family. Neleus Odair is a tall man, with copper red hair and a scruff to match; he is young, and his eyes are dark. Neleus' son resembles his father, with tanned skin and coppery hair. Finnick goes to my school, but he can more often be found by the docks; diving like a dolphin through the water, fish all but in his mouth. My jaw clenches. He thinks he's a better fisherman than me.

He's right, my brother says when I express my jealousy.

Finnick makes an honest living off of fishing, whereas my family does it more as a hobby. I wonder if this brings him some sort of demented satisfaction; as if he is better in more ways than one. But it is not as though the fish comes when we call; we work hard for it. Nonetheless, Neleus has no qualms with taking fish from my father, as it means he can bring double the load, and gain full credit for it – though I often suspect if the District knows, but stays quiet about it.

"Neleus," my father greets.

"That's quite a load you have," Neleus compliments, regarding the net full of fish. "Did she help?"

"I did," I say, noting how Finnick smirks. "I caught one with my spear today."

Neleus spares me only a brief glance. "Impressive. By the end of the year, I imagine you'll be able to catch more." He redirects his gaze to my father, and they begin to discuss business.

I cannot help but note the dismissive tone he adopts, but I do not take it to heart. After all, Neleus is here to collect our fish, not sing my praises. Though that would be nice...

My thoughts are rudely interrupted when Finnick is suddenly sauntering directlly towards me. Finnick is a year older than me, but he acts as though he is one of the adults; proud and confident, able to speak however he pleases. "How many times did you trip trying to catch that fish?"

My face flushes. My memory collects unfortunate happenings of myself falling into the water as I blindly tried to spear a fish, with Finnick laughing in the background. He and my brother seemed to enjoy watching me mess up. "One day I'll be a better fisherman than you, Finnick," I say, deliberately ignoring his question. (For the record I did not slip, I merely stumbled over a few times.)

He snorts. "Maybe you'll be good, but you won't be better than me."

I glare into his eyes. "Just you wait, Finnick. I will." Rheon and Neleus are too preoccupied to care what we are saying, so I lean over until we are almost nose to nose. My fists are balled at my side. "I will find a way to prove to you I'm better. And stronger."

Finnick smiles, visibly trying to withhold a laugh at my display of power. "I was catching more fish than you when I was four, so you being able to catch only one now at seven...not all that impressive, Rythe."

I open my mouth to retaliate, but I am silenced by the abrupt quiet of our fathers. They are no longer talking about fish or business. Both have grown solemn.

Neleus hands a satchel of fish to Finnick, whilst he hoists the other over his own shoulder. His green eyes are mindful as he looks at my father, then briefly at me. "Good luck tomorrow," he says, to Rheon. "Bring back stories from the Capitol."

My father smiles, but it is brief. "May the odds ever be in our favor," he says, in a tone that breaks from its usual mold to sound mocking. "Keep an eye on my family, Odair."

Neleus nods. Turning, he places a hand upon his son's free shoulder, and patted it. "Finnick. We need to get to the market before nightfall..."

Dusk is already upon us, I think, as I feel the final bit of heat from the sun on my face.

Finnick nods obediently to his father, and Neleus releases his hold upon him. With his father distracted, Finnick inches closer to me, and speaks quietly in a tone that is meant to tease. "Five more years, Rythe. Maybe by then you won't be bait when your name is thrown in."

I blindly smack his arm as he walks away, my face reddened and burning from both the sun and my irritation. Neleus gives Finnick a questioning look, but Finnick is just...laughing. What a smug jerk.

We go our separate ways. The Odair family departs one way, and my father takes me another. We will go home as we usually do, where my mother will prepare the fish I caught today for supper. We will sit together as my brother rambles on about something unimportant. I can already foresee into the tedious evening, but truthfully, I am not thinking about just that. I am thinking about the Reaping tomorrow and about Finnick's last retort.

Bait. I replay the word in my head. Am I bait? Granted, I am short (as is he!), but I know that I will grow taller, and stronger. Simply because I have the advantage of my father being a Victor, with life made easier without constant duties, does not make me weak. No, that doesn't sound right. I think I am contradicting myself, but I refuse to let Finnick be right. If I were to be Reaped, I would be ready - taller, stronger, smarter, older...everything a Victor is expected to be. By that point, I will be catching twice as many fish as Finnick Odair.

Before I can stop myself, I am imagining what I would look like standing on the stage – having been Reaped, or having Volunteered in the place of some poorer, weaker soul. I imagine standing victorious in the Arena, a spear raised high above my head. (I am not covered in blood in my imagination, but I know in real life I would be.) I imagine returning home to District 4 as the Victor. I can see Finnick Odair bowing his head to me, wait...no, on his knees, bowing at my feet. You won! he'd praise. I underestimated you, Ceres Rythe - you truly are better. And then he would present me with a spear of fish. Take this offering of mine! I am unworthy!

I smile.

One day, I think to myself as I look up at my father's glass eye, I will prove myself. I'll be stronger than my brother, than Finnick – better than maybe my dad.

Maybe I can prove myself through the Games…and maybe I can win. But the thought stops short. More so than proving myself, I wonder what it would be like to watch myself fight. What would it be like to watch the Tributes around me die? What would be it like to aid in the slaughter? Would the Capitol be entertained?

We are at our home now, atop the hill on the seaside; a distance from the town. "Dad?"

Rheon grunts.

I force myself to imagine what I would look like, covered in blood - the bodies of Tributes surrounding me. "Why does the Capitol enjoy watching people die?"

I expect him not to answer, but to my surprise he does. "Because it's a game."

I look up at him, pausing in my steps as he makes his way into our home. For a moment, I simply watch how he moves; the limp in his right leg, the way he is hunched over as if in pain. My father played the game. The Capitol has a sick game, I think. But games can be won, and I know I can do it.

One day, I repeat. One day I will win.

(a/n): I am absolutely terrible about writing the first parts to, well, anything. Admittedly, this turned out better than I expected, but still. The next chapters will be jumping ahead a few years, and will go more into depth about who Ceresea is, her family, her (problematic) relationship with Finnick, and more! Please, if you are able, leave constructive reviews! Even if it is full criticism, I don't mind - I can always take something from it! Thank you all!