Hi, everyone! So this is my first Hunger Games fic-of course, I own nothing of the actual saga/trilogy. Though, like all of us, I wish I did. I do, however, own a good portion of this here tale, as it is full of OCs. (I hope you don't mind...) Also I sort of made up District 4's culture and everything...just to make things more interesting.
Kay, you should know: I edited things! Yay! For old readers that happen to look back at this, there are a few little sentences that indicate newly decided things-like the fact that Mag and Hiram are Tobi's cousins. This has to do with a family history that I will detail in later stories about the Silverside family. For new readers, be aware that I will periodically edit chapters that have already been posted, just because it can take me a while to notice some of the little things.
Anyway, on to the tale! Enjoy!
I'm floating; rocked steadily by the gentle waves of the sea, face caressed by a warm, salty breeze that leaves a mist over my face. I'm alone—the only being in the universe, far away from District 4, Panem, the planet…the games. It's just me and the vast expanse of blue-grey water and white-blue sky. And I'm happy…peaceful. I hear fish singing from the sea foam and hum gently back to them, mimic the soft, musical whispers of the waves.
"…bi…Tobi. Tobi!" The voice jolts me from my meditative state, and I slowly opens my eyes. For a moment, nothing changes—I'm still alone with nothing but the crisp sky filling my vision. Then a face intrudes on the scene. My best friend and cousin's short, blond curls brush against her cheeks, a light scowl hovering over her brow.
"…Hey, Mag," I greet her softly. She scowls down at me, leans a little closer.
"You know, Tobi, it's awfully hard to bring in anything when our best sailor is lounging around on the deck," she complains. With a barely audible sigh, I sit up and push back a few white-blond strands of hair that have slipped from my braid.
"I'm not our best sailor," I correct casually, lean back on my wrists. Mag rolls her eyes, reaches down and pulls me to my feet as a scoff sounds to my left.
"Yeah right, fish bait," goes the smooth tenor. I turn to see a boy with the same coppery skin tone, dark blond curls and blue eyes as Mag leaning against the ship's railing, quirking an eyebrow at me. "You couldn't miss a catch with your eyes closed. Be grateful," he pushes off the rail and walks over to slap a hand on my exposed shoulder. "You were born with sea legs, fish bait…and it makes up for your utter lack of land legs."
"Shut up, kelp breath," Mag groans, pushes her brother in the chest. "You just wish you could trade your salamander feet for a pair of Tobi's fins." The boy—Hiram—rolls his eyes, turns around and heads off toward the captain's cabin.
"Whatever—just get off the deck before we pull in, guppies," he instructs. "The docks are going to be swarming with peacekeepers." Mag rolls her eyes, but we both feel our stomachs drop at the sinister implications of the casual comment as we head across the deck and down the stairs into the galley. Mag and I are both too young to be working on the King Fisher—District 4s top fishing vessel. The age of apprenticeship, legally, is 19, which makes sense: we don't want all of our trained sailors being sent off to the Games halfway through the season, leaving the boats short-manned. The only reason a fifteen year old and a 17 year old are allowed to work is because Mag is tall enough to be 19, and Hiram put in a good word for me. He's 21, and the first mate of the King Fisher…plus his dad (my uncle on my father's side) is Captain Morrigan, who owns the King Fisher-bought with money from his mother, Mags', victory in the 13th games. Mag is named for her. She loves the boat...but doesn't really approve of our early apprenticeship.
Under normal circumstances, our apprenticeship poses no real problems: District 4 is one of the luckier districts, rarely plagued by the white-clad peacekeepers. But today…well, today is always different. Today is reaping day, and everything changes for the next 24 hours.
Mag and I plop down at one of the galley's long tables, designed to fit the entire, boisterous crew of the King Fisher. I run my hands over the worn surface, remembering many a rowdy meal at this table. I sigh. Reaping day always makes me nostalgic.
"You girls jus' sit tight a minute, I'll getch ye a nice cup o' stew, warm the salt outta yez." The ship's cook, known affectionately as Catfish Joe, has long harbored the suspicion that too much brine in the bloodstream is apt to get someone reaped. None of us really understand where the idea came from—I think it's just Joe's way of coping with the helplessness we all feel at the reaping.
Within moments, Catfish Joe plops two steaming bowls down on the table, filled to the brim with his special King Fisher stew. The recipe is famous—everyone in the crew wants to know what's in it. The most we can ever figure out is seaweed and grouper; old Catfish will never divulge the rest.
By the time Mag and I have finished our meal, the King Fisher pulls into dock. My heart rate doubles, and I meet Mag's eyes for a moment as the boat rumbles to a halt. I feel distinctly uncomfortable at the sudden lack of motion—as Hiram is fond of saying, I don't have good land legs. After a moment, however, Mag and I reach our customary, silent agreement, and calmly stand to wash our bowls out. Joe lets us do it—he's familiar with the ritual—and when we're finished we walk halfway up the steps, sit down, and wait for the deck to clear.
When all the hustle and bustle of unloading is gone, leaving the deck mournfully silent, we dare to peek up over the top step. No one.
"Get on home, guppies," Joe chuckles, passing us on the stairs. "Say hi to that old octopus of yours, Tobi."
"I will," I grin. Joe and my grandmother have known each other for years—they grew up together back when the district kept all the girls landlocked. He used to smuggle her out on Trident Lagoon, on a rowboat he built himself. He's one of the last people to keep calling her Suki instead of her long, respectful title, Sukashiba.
After Joe disappears, Mag and I ascend the rest of the stairs and amble across the deck. I let my hand trail over the mahogany railing, gaze lingering on the rolling waves, before I clamber down the ramp and onto the dock.
As expected, the place is crawling with peacekeepers. Their clunky white uniforms stand out like bleached bone against the colorful stalls that line the docks as they bleed into the markets. The whole place smells overwhelmingly of fish and salt and spices. To some it is probably gag-worthy—I can see a few of the peacekeepers holding their hands to their faces to block it out—but to me it smells like home. I inhale deeply.
"Well, it looks like Dad and Hiram have left me already," Mag groans, hands on her hips. I look up at her with a small grin, pat her on the shoulder.
"Alright, Mag—go catch up with the captain. I've gotta grab some things around here, then I'm off to the Bobber." Mag nods, but she grabs my wrist as I turn to leave.
"I'll see you soon, Tobi," she says, locking eyes with me. I nod seriously. We won't see each other during the reaping—I have to stay with the other 15 year olds, and she'll go stand near the back with the older kids. The promise is simply another ward against the reaping; an empty guarantee that we'll both make it through, again.
"Yeah," I agree, clasping her hand with my free one. "You can come over afterwards and we'll go out on the peddles," I promise. Since we were children, Mag, Hiram, my brother Brook and I have loved to go out on the bay by my house in these strange paddleboats my father built years ago. It's become a tradition, every time the four of us make it through another reaping. Mag nods, disappears into the crowd, and I turn in the opposite direction.
I weave my way clumsily through the market, bumping into people and tripping over the fishing nets haphazardly strewn around the stalls. People ignore my bumbling passage, go about their business, as always. My first stop is a bright yellow and orange stall with a board above it reading simply "Super Duper" after a particularly ridiculed lure.
"Hello there, miss Silverside," the woman behind the stall greets me cheerily by my family name. I smile at her, saunter forward to look over her collection of shellfish.
"What's fresh, Flannery?" I ask her casually. She reaches forward, pulls out a giant lobster.
"Here—best of the day," she says, hands it to me, winks. "Only the best for you, little Silverside." I sigh, smile lightly. Flannery is one of the many who call me only by my family name, as opposed to my nickname, Tobi, or my first name. The Silversides have been around for a long time-no one remembers how long, just that it's a name to be respected.
"Thanks," I say, reach in my pocket and pull out the little canvas dry-pouch the holds the bit of money I carry. Before I can pull out the right coin, however, Flannery's hand covers mine, preventing the motion. I look up at her, confused, and the cheer has faded from her face to be replaced with tired sorrow.
"Not today, Silverside," she whispers. I nod, accepting her generosity. The rest of my dealings in the market place are similar. After just three more stalls, I've been given a good cut of re-introduced salmon, a reel of line and a half pound of seaweed for free. My final stop is a spur of the moment idea. It's a little out of the way, on the other side of the market from the Bobber, but it's always worth it. The Tangled Reel…a little stall owned by a man known as no more than Clam. He's an odd character, laced with scars, sporting an eye patch, but the nicest man in the district. He spends his days with his cat, Tuna, as his only companion, whittling beautiful trinkets out of fishbone.
"Hi, Clam," I say, lean on the counter and scratch Tuna behind the ear. He grins at me, his single, crazy green eye sparkles.
"Well hey there, Tobi! How're you farin'?" I stop petting Tuna for a moment, giggle when she nibbles my fingers for more attention.
"Well enough," I grin. "And you?" I scoop Tuna up and she offers a faint mrrow. Clam scratches his grizzly beard.
"You know how it is," he says at last. "Warm weather's fadin' out…the games are comin'…" he shakes his head. "It's about this time of year my fingers just can't seem to hold a knife steady." I shoot him a glance.
"I very much doubt that," I comment quietly, setting Tuna back on the counter. "Made anything new, lately?" I have seen almost all of his creations. I don't buy any—can't afford them—but they're beautiful to look at. A twinkle lights his eye, and he shuffles briefly away from the counter.
"I carved this little beauty out of a hammerhead's spine," he says excitedly. "I just finished 'er yesterday." He places a small bundle on the counter, unties the little felt wrapping. I stare for a moment. Before me sits a pale minnow, no bigger than the first two digits of my pinky, yet in perfect detail. A pair of sinewy wings stretches from back, so thinly carved they're almost see-through, complete with tiny, webbed veins.
"She's beautiful," I breathe at last. With a knowing smile, Clam takes my hand and presses the little figure into my palm.
"Take her," he says. I look at him, flabbergasted.
"I can't do that," I protest, but he cuts me off.
"Who better than you, little Tobiou?" I smile at the root of my nickname. It means "clear winged." Combined with my last name-a type of Flying Fish-it's a reference to the mysterious fish said to live in the bottom of the bay by the Bobber: The Clearwinged Silverside Flyer. No one's seen one for decades, but legend says that they all just moved to the bottom of Finnigan Bay on the day of the Rebellion. Grandma even says they'll come back, someday.
"Thank you," I finally say, back away from the stall. Clam nods, shoos Tuna down from the counter and begins closing up shop. The reaping is fast approaching.
"Happy Hunger Games," he says to my back as I walk away. "May the odds be ever in your favor, little Tobiou." I pause only a moment, stare down at the little fish in my hand, and head for home.
So...what do you think? I mean, like I said-lots of OCs. Pretty much a new populace for district 4...hopefully it made some degree of sense with the books. Anyway, good stuff is coming up soon, so stay tuned! Haha...and really, reviews would be VERY much appreciated.