A/N: This story is written around the time of the 100th Hunger Games, but without the rebellion involving Katniss ever happening. The chapters are all written through the POV of three different characters: Nato, Raven, and Lucya. The narrator's name is written at the start of each chapter.
CHAPTER 1 NATO
The ocean water swirls around me as I dive into the depths. The net and spear weigh me down, but years of practice have made me an expert. I open my eyes. The salty water used to sting my eyes when I was a kid, but now I feel nothing more than a slight uncomfortable sensation. The water is shallow here; the shimmering schools of fish weave in and out of my sight only once in a while and I can just touch the sandy sea bottom with my feet. If I want to make a good catch, I'll have to swim out farther into the ocean.
I kick out my strong legs and propel myself against the current; further into the water. I spear a couple of fish here and there, but I want to save room in the net for the much more popular marine animals that could only be found further away from shore. I come up for breath. In front of me, the ocean stretches out infinitely. The sun is just rising over the horizon. I shield my eyes and turn back to take a look at the village. The wooden houses dot the seaside, and I can make out people beginning to go around their business. I can see my own home, built right on the water. No, I think. I'm home right now. Right here. And I plunge back into the water.
I swim out into the ocean, and, by the time I reach my favorite fishing spot, the sun has almost completely risen. Its red rays illuminate the scenery as I fish. I manage to catch two whole schools of multicolored catfish with my net. They're certainly popular in the Capitol; I might be able to sell them to the Handlers for a good price. After spearing a few shellfish off the ocean floor, I am content with the morning's catch. I knot the net and swim back to the village.
I reach the dock and pull myself onto the wooden boards. An old grey fisherman nods at me and smiles his creepy, toothless smile. I sneak a glimpse into the bucket next to him. No catch, as usual. In District Four, you basically outlive your usefulness by the time you turn thirty. The best fish are far out into the water, and older men and women don't have the strength for it. So District Four needs to have children; even though close to nobody wants to have them in fear of the Games. That's why my little brother and I were born. Not because our parents wanted us; because they needed us.
I smile at the man and throw two red catfish into his bucket. He looks at me in disbelief, as if this is something new, not something that happens every morning. "Thank you, Nato," he says, stroking the wet scales of the fish. I smile and drag the net of fish to my family's wooden cabin, built directly on our own deck jutting out into the sea. I faintly remember my parents building it with their own hands. My mother was pregnant with Atlas, and I was just six years old. Of course, that was all before the epidemic and my mother's untimely death. Since then, the boardwalk was just a cruel reminder of her. But we couldn't just get up and leave. It was the last piece of her that remained.
I knock on the cabin door. Atlas opens it, flashing his brilliant white teeth and looking up at me with his big blue eyes. He throws me a rag. "Dry yourself off, Nato," he teases. "Dad just swept the floor like five years ago." I grin and wipe myself off with the rag. I dry out my wavy brown hair and then squeeze the water out of the rag and into the ocean to the left of our little dock. "And put some clothes on," Atlas says, snickering, and runs back into the house.
I follow him, sighing. Of course I wasn't fishing naked. But to his perverted eight-year-old mind, the khaki shorts are practically the same thing. I see my father sitting in a chair by the window overlooking the sea. His green eyes haven't been truly happy for 8 years, and his brown hair is starting to gray at the roots. His arm is in a wrap of dirty bandages, and the scars on his face are still visible. He never told us how he got the injuries, but I can only imagine that it was something in the types of a bar fight. My father is a good man and a strong fisher, but ever since my mother's death alcohol has been a bit of an escape.
And so the past year has been terrible for us. My father no longer fishes with me, out in the depths of the ocean. Atlas tries to bargain with the Handlers as much as he can, attempting to sell the fish I catch for greater prices. So this year is also the first year in which I ever had to apply for tesserae. At only fourteen years old, my name was going to be in the reaping bowl 21 times. And later today I will find out whether or not I'll be heading to the Hunger Games arena.
My father gets up from his chair and looks at me. "Nice catch today, Nato." For a second his lips quiver up, but his eyes remain cold, green stones. People tell me I have his eyes. I honestly hope I don't. "I'll take the fish," he says, walking up to me. He grabs the net, and I am reluctant to let go. I don't know why. I let go, though, not wanting to cause any problems. He looks at me, and I make sense of the fact that his temporary smile was actually a painful grimace. "I'll go down to the square with you this year," he says. "I'll sell off the fish to the Handlers after the Reaping." There are small beads of tears in his eyes, and I am caught off guard when he wraps me in an embrace. "Thank you, Nato. For everything this year. And I'm sorry," he says, and I don't know what to do with myself. "Good luck," he whispers, letting me go.