Disclaimer: Anything relatable to The Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins and her publishers.

Summary: Mags Flanagan existed in a world before the Hunger Games, when she is reaped during its 11th Year, what awaits her in the arena?

Author's Note: I love these books. I love Mags. So this story was born.

Do I remember a time before the Hunger Games? Not really. I was born during the uprising, when everything in the Districts became paralyzing, when everyone became discontent. I was born as my District raised torches and refused to work and rallied with the other Districts in Panem. I was swaddled by my mother and sung to sleep by my father as the people around us took up arms to attack to the Capitol a couple thousand miles away.

The first five years of my life were crippled with fear and doubt at the future of Panem, but I didn't remember them that way. My father was a fisherman and maybe he would have taken a part of the uprising had I not been a little baby, but he chose not to. My mother, he and I lived in a small cottage near the edge of the sea with a few other families. We were pariahs to our neighbors, unwilling to fight against the unfairness of President Snow and the Capitol, but as my mother would later tell me, there was no choice, not with me.

Knowing my future, I wish my parents would have fought, would have fought hard and long even though I was a baby, but in my heart I know it wouldn't have made a difference. The Capitol's power was too much even for thirteen districts full of hundreds of thousands of people to come against it. The natural barrier was too strong for them to penetrate it. Then the darkest days truly came and our punishment laid out in the Treaty of Treason.

My first memory was of my parents discussing the new instatement of a pageant called "The Hunger Games", I didn't realize then that that should have been a clue as to how the rest of my life might end up. I was sitting in the small sitting room of our cottage, playing with a rag doll, and I heard my father cursing in the connected kitchen, "It's sick and barbaric!" he hissed at my mother.

I saw my mother nod solemnly, "Do you expect any different?"

"What is it even going to be like?" He asked, "They give us six months to prepare for our children to be sent to the slaughter? To fight to the death? We have to watch that?"

I heard my mother sniffling, "The only consolation is we still have another seven years till we have to worry about Magnolia."

Dad slammed a dish on the ground, "Mags is not going in. There is nothing they can do."

I saw my mom put a restraining and comforting hand on his arm, "Aaron, there is nothing they can't do."

The first Hunger Games began six months later, and despite it being the first, the Capitol took to the bloodshed and sport of it easily. People in the District disliked it, but we grit our teeth and tolerated its existence. Mother tried to shield me from it as much as possible, covering my eyes during the gorier scenes, but even she knew she couldn't protect me from it for long. So it became a yearly festivity, Districts one and two won more often than other districts, but District four had our first victor four or five years in; that's when they started work on the Victor's Village.

In our own form of descent of the Capitol we all had hard physical training in school, beginning as soon as we begun, working and studying in combat, different use of weapons and survival techniques. The physical labor of our District that it took to sail, fish and haul were beneficial to us too, especially because even the youngest members of the district were able to work. I don't know when it happened, maybe it was just a way to cope, but becoming a Victor became a highly desired quality, with people even beginning to volunteer.

I remember walking to my first Reaping with my friend Clara, "I don't understand volunteering"

I shook my head, "I think it's pride and ego. Some people really excel in the physical training, maybe they feel like it will be a good thing for the district."

Clara started to weep, something I had been holding in all day, "I am sorry," she whispered, "I am just so scared."

I nodded solemnly. I tried to take out tesserae in an attempt to get some extra food and not overwhelm or burden my parents but they outright refused. My father still was angry about the very existence of these games. Seven years later the fire in his eyes hadn't died whenever we talked about them.

I patted her arm gently, "We all are scared, Clara, we all are. Just think though, there are thousands of slips, and we each only have one. The likelihood of us being called is so small."

We stepped up and signed in, and were herded into the pens in front of the justice my left I could see the water, the waves gentle crashing onto the beach, the salty smell filling my nostrils and the sea breeze calming me. If I just looked that way, if I just thought about the nice warm swim I had that morning, if I could just do that, if I could just pretend I was weaving a basket, making a fish hook, I could get through this day.

Melinda Glammer steps up to the microphone on the stage and taps it gently. She is wearing a seagreen dress that's fluffed out at the bottom in a poof, her bodice is an alarming dark blue color and she wears bright pink stockings on her legs. To her credit, if there is any, her hair matches the color of her dress bottom.

I turn to Clara, "I guess matching isn't in fashion in the Capitol this year"

Clara snickers and knocks her hand against me.

"Welcome! Happy Hunger Games!" Melinda bellows into the mic. "May the odds be ever in your favor!"

I look around me, everyone in their finery looks unbelievably bored, scared, confused out of their wits, even the older boys and girls hate this aspect of celebration, part of me believes that even the ones who volunteer despise it a little, but they believe they are bringing our District honor. Maybe they do in certain ways because of parcel day and things like that, but when I see those people in town I don't think of them as heroes, I think of them as murderers. They did what they needed to of course to survive, even the ones who volunteered.

Our mayor stands up and begins to read the Treaty of Treason, and describing the Dark Days, which most, if not all the people in the square were alive for part if not the entirety of it, but in the seven years since the start of the Hunger Games, they repeat it every year. I stare at the sea while he drones on, imagining myself in the water, in the arms of my father as he tosses me into the waves, the sight of my mother weaving a basket on the beach or rowing the boat out to us.

Clara nudges me, "Mags" she whispers

I look up, Malinda is clopping over the the girl's ball. I must have spaced out so much I didn't even notice her give her usual "Ladies first,"

Clara squeezes my hand tight and I squeeze hers. All our worst nightmares are in this moment, whether or not we train, whether or not we have won twice already in the short history of the Games, this is the culmination of our worst fears, our parent's worst fears. This is the worst punishment the Capitol could devise, to keep us in its vice like grip year after year after we just tried to take care and stand up for our rights as citizens.

Malinda's hand dives into the ball, cupping the slips of paper, and bringing them up, rustling them around, prolonging the already excruciating moment. She finally, blessedly grabs a slip of paper and walks back to the microphone, teetering on her heels. She unfolds the slip slowly, smoothing it out. I want to scream at her and curse at her for taking her time, thinking that we are all waiting in happy anticipation, eager for the next tribute to be chosen, in reality we are all sick with anticipation.

Malinda cleared her throat, I shut my eyes tightly, my grip on Clara's hand undoubtedly causing her some pain, I took a deep breath in, "Prenulia Greenwell" her voice rang out.

All the air flew out of of my body and relief coursed through me so viciously I felt like I was going to pass out. I was safe, I was safe. I wouldn't be sent to the slaughter. I was safe. Clara began to weep in relief and covered her mouth, keeping her head down as I watch Prenulia walk toward the stage. She staggers, tripping over her own feet and I try to place her.

She isn't in my grade, not even close to it. The crowd is murmuring, and Prenulia has her face tightly masked, as if she doesn't feel a thing about it. I hear a girl near me whisper, "She's eighteen, her birthday is next month"

I sigh, as awful as it is for a twelve year old to be picked for the Games, it is a different kind of unfortunate feeling for an eighteen year old to be picked. There was such a strong amount of hope for her, she was almost done, almost out, almost free of this torturous affair. She stepped onto stage and fixed her glasses onto her face, while Malinda called out for volunteers. None were forthcoming and so Malinda moved on.

Malinda took the same amount of time for the boy's ball, extending the ceremony far more than was necessary. I caught my breath, even though I wasn't at risk this time. She walked back to the microphone and I glanced back at Prenulia. She was just of age when the first Hunger Games started, she had escaped every year and I could see on her face, the hatred building in her eyes, the frustration.

For the rest of my life I would think of her face whenever I thought of the Hunger Games, the hard impassive mask with hatred brewing within. She had all the reason in the world to hate the Games. She had a boyfriend, I think, they were going to be married when both of them escaped the reaping this year. I wonder if her lover would volunteer to be her District mate in the Games.

"Brenett Ragford!" Malinda called out

A young boy, who was fourteen began the walk to the stage. He, unlike Prenulia wore his heart on his sleeve. The tears rolled down his face as he walked up to the podium. He looked shocked, the picture of weakness to Pernulia's indifferent mask. The reaping wrapped up quickly and Prenulia and Brenett shook hands and then were escorted into the Justice Building.

We were free to go after that, I walked back to my parents after squeezing Clara's hand in reassurance. My Dad hugged me tight, crying into my hair softly, I melted under his kindness and concern, I knew how much he had sacrificed for me, and I knew he was so upset and scared about this today, maybe more than even me. "Let's go to the beach, love, your mom packed us a nice picnic."

My mom nodded and extended her hand toward me. I knew these Hunger Games would be worse than the last because I would be watching them knowing it was possible for me to one day be in them.

Those games were particularly hard to watch. Brenett was killed in the bloodbath on the first day, but we watch Prenulia fight through the arena-a prehistoric jungle with large lizard creatures called dinosaurs. Prenulia stuck to herself and had good instincts, she was the oldest Tribute and stronger than most of the others but she died after stepping on a poisonous root which took two days to kill her. We waited in District 4 to see if she would make it, there were only three people left including her and we weren't sure if the other two would kill each other first before her. But we saw her, ravaged with pain and visions, overcome by weakness and tears, die, crying out for her mother and father.

The Hunger Games were a part of our lives briefly for no more than two months each year, and we spent the rest of the months pretending it wasn't going to happen again...pretending like we weren't going to be reaped or sacrificed again.

That is life in District 4, that is my life. Or at least it was until I turned sixteen.

Author's Note: Please review!