Hi Everyone, I'm Element54, but you can call me El. I'm really excited to be sharing this story with you! I've been working on it for a long time and am so glad to finally be able to make my fan fiction debut.

I took a lot of liberties with the characters in this story, as even the main character Annie wasn't fully developed in the books. But I do try to mimic Mrs. Collins amazing storytelling and even the way she writes (please forgive me, I'm not used to writing in present tense). I know this first chapter is kind of slow but I hope you all will give this story a shot and maybe write a review and tell me what you think of it. So anyway, I hope you enjoy the story :)

Part I: The Siren

Chapter 1

A buzzing sound wakes me up from a pleasant dream. I dreamt about lost islands and castles under the sea, another life where people are free and live in complete euphoria. Many people around where I live have neverending nightmares. Not me. For me, dreams are the one place where I can escape reality—even for just a little while. But it never lasts.

As my eyes flutter open, I suddenly remember why I had set the alarm in the first place. I jolt out of bed and shut it off. I quickly gather a scrap piece of paper, a pencil, and my father's empty wine bottle that I had done my best to wash out thoroughly. I tiptoe to my sister's bed, trying not to wake anyone else up and nudge her on the shoulder.

"Wake up, Little. Remember what I promised to do with you today?" I whisper.

"I didn't think you were serious!" She moans, half asleep, then rolls over.

"Shh! Yes, I am very serious. We can't miss it!" I practically yank her out of bed and force the clean clothes on her.

The walk to the beach isn't far. Most of the houses in District 4 are located close to the beach for fishing. The Coast. That's what everyone calls it.

"There it is," I say, pointing to the stunning yellow sunrise lifting over the gray coast.

"It's beautiful," Misty says, seemingly coming out of her stupor.

We walk up to the cliff overlooking the vast ocean. I choose to sit on one of the large rocks overlooking the cliff.

"Go ahead," I tell Misty as I take the pencil and paper out.

"Umm, well, we need to tell them who we are first." She says, finally woken from her stupor.

I listen to what she says and change or add to it before I write it down.

"Oh! How about you put your song in it?!" She interjects.

"Sorry, Misty. I haven't finished it yet. Anything else?"

Misty nods. She leans toward me, her voice a faint whisper. "Can you please send help to help us with the peacekeepers?"

I look at her, taken aback. I had never thought of Misty as the rebellious type. I shake my head. "You know I can't write that."

"Or maybe just 'Send help'."

"Little, it's not worth the risk."

"Ok." Her expression admits defeat.

"Come on, let's send it." I jump from my rock and look at the magnificent sky. The sun was at its most vibrant point in the sunrise. Orange came surging over the shoreline. The ocean soaked in the color and was overcome by it.

I sign my name and hand it to Misty to do the same.

"You have such pretty writing." She says with a smile.

"Thank you." Even though I don't seem to use it for very important endeavors. I roll the paper, place it into the empty bottle, and put the cork on.

"Where will the letter go?" Misty asks, entranced by the electric orange sky.

"With luck, to Panem's lovely neighbors. I'm sure they want to hear about us."

"I wonder why no one seems to talk about them."

"Me too." But I don't wonder, I know. Becoming too curious of the outside world is dangerous. The Capitol doesn't tell the districts about any other nation out of fear of them becoming jealous, wondering why we don't operate the same. Or at least that's how it is in District 4. No doubt many other nations lacked the ever-so-wonderful Hunger Games. No, it was safer not to tell anyone what they were missing. I know nothing of surrounding lands other than distant history relating to the foundation of Panem.

That's why the districts are kept so separated. One would find out all the things another had, and madness would erupt. We are only given a vague idea of what the other districts are like. We see certain images of the other districts but have no idea what it's like to experience living in them. The most I hear about the other districts is from The Hunger Games. Or the Victory Tour. District 4 is one of the wealthier districts. Which they probably hold against us. I've seen the tributes from 11 and 12. Most of them are malnourished and weak in the games.

But I've also seen brief footage of some other districts during the Victory Tours. Poor? Yes. But not nearly as oppressed as District 4. There were few signs of Peacekeepers in sight. And they seemed much more relaxed. Rules didn't look to be as strict. And between starving and oppressed there's less of a difference than most people think.

I turn back to Misty.

"Or it'll go to the mermaids," I tell her.

"Mermaids?"

"Yes, you know, from the stories. Creatures that look like humans from the waist up but have a glimmering fishtail instead of legs. Some say they're sirens that sing sailors to their deaths, but I think that's a much darker variation. For everything beautiful, there is another mirrored evil. But anyway, sirens are myths. Only mermaids are real."

Misty crosses her arms. "Mermaids aren't real."

"How do you know?"

"I've never seen one."

"Just because you haven't seen something doesn't mean it's not real." I pick up the bottle. "Together on three. Ready?" She takes the bottom end of the bottle and we both throw it into the ocean.

"What if it breaks before reaching the mermaids?" She leans against me as I stroke her hair.

"If it breaks, then a small piece of you and me will become one with the ocean. Imagine centuries from now picking up a piece of sea glass that once was part of the soul of Little and Annie Cresta."

Misty sits up and makes a face at me, upset at my constant use of her nickname. She's babied, just as the youngest child often is. We used to call her Little Mist, but somehow the name just shortened to Little. Everyone else stopped using it, but I still sometimes—oftentimes—use the nickname Little. It will be sad when the name doesn't fit her as well. Even though her six—year—old frame is small now, Misty won't stay small forever. Someday soon she'll be in the reaping where I can't protect her.

We sit there watching the sun shift upward until I finally cut our time. "We should head back. Mama and Dad want to have a breakfast buffet this morning."

"Ok."

Walking back, I notice a lone figure further down the beach. He has tanned skin and sandy blond hair like many other District 4 natives, but I can immediately recognize him from his posture and the way he walks. Finnick Odair. I hope he hasn't spotted us because I have no desire to speak to him.

Finnick Odair is loved by everyone in all of District 4, except me. He won the 65th Hunger Games at the age of 14: The youngest tribute ever to win. He won by being a bloodthirsty Career. And he currently has a swarm of lovers attracted by his dashing looks. No one seems to see him as the stuck-up, twisted, liar that he is. I can never say so though. Even I know the source of my apathy toward him. I know it's the fact that we used to be friends before he left for the games that triggers my resentment every time I have to look at his face. Not just friends, I used to have a crush on him. His decision to volunteer was betrayal. I felt played when I realized who he really was after he came home.

Suddenly, he turns, and I think he sees us. Great.

"Hey!" I hear someone yell behind me. A female Peacekeeper runs toward us. I make an effort not to move one step backward. Even that could be called evasion of authority for which the penalty is 20 lashes. I hold Misty's hand firmly at my side, trying not to let my hands shake. Suddenly, I am worried that the peacekeeper saw our bottle. A letter to foreign nations sounds incriminating enough. It was supposed to be a game, and I knew it wouldn't make it to other nations. But honestly, no one would believe that. No one would care to believe that. We threw it in a few minutes ago. Could she have seen it?

"You are not supposed to be here. This beach is reserved for fishing work only." She says furiously. She's in her suit but doesn't have her helmet on. I can't decide if it's more or less intimidating.

"I'm sorry. I assumed very wrongly that because it's Reaping day and there is no work, it was okay to-"

"Well, you did assume wrong! And if you can't follow the rules— I oughta take you in—" She steps forwards and I feel Misty tense.

"Hey, Mirella, how is it going today?" Finnick says casually, as he strolls over. I didn't even see him coming toward us.

"You are not supposed to be here either!" She cries indignantly.

"I know. I figured out my mistake, and I'm sure Annie here does too." He pats my head. I nod dumbly in response.

"There are penalties for this!" She waves a finger at just me, not Finnick.

"Come on, get in the heart of the holidays. I don't believe Annie here has a record of crimes. Maybe just once you could let it slide. For the sake of celebration. Besides, we are sure to never make this mistake again." He smiles, harnessing his charm at her. Mirella smiles but then drops it and replaces it with her firm expression again.

"Fine. Don't let it happen again."

"Mirella, you have my word." He places a hand over his heart.

We hurry off the beach and back into town.

"Thank you," I say to Finnick when we reach the Coast. Thank you. The bare minimum of politeness.

"You should be glad it was Mirella. I have quite the effect on her. Anyone else would've taken you straight to the block." He stops, glancing at Misty. "But I was able to convince her, so it doesn't matter. What were you doing at the beach?"

"Watching the sunrise," I say in a quiet voice. The reason seems foolish now.

He pauses a moment before saying, "Me too."

"Would they have let you get away with it?"

He shrugs. "I seem to be overlooked for some things."

I pause for a moment, not sure what to say. "Well, I need to get back."

"I'll see you at the Reaping. Try to spot me, might take a while." He says with a cocky grin. He is a Victor. He'll be on stage every year. "And I couldn't miss you either." He winks at me. At first, I'm not sure what he means, then I realize it's probably a weak flirt. I inwardly roll my eyes.

"Are you still in the reaping?" He asks.

I look in the direction of my house, eager to leave. I never did love useless small talk, especially with Finnick. I try to be patient.

"Yes. This is my last year."

Finnick's brow creases. "You aren't volunteering, are you?" While some districts like 1 and 2 are known for having kids train their whole lives and volunteer in the games in the hope of fame and riches, District 4 could go either way. Some years, we have Career tributes like Finnick, and other years we don't.

"No. I would never make it a minute."

"Good. Annie—" He leans closer, his voice taking a deeper tone. "Never let anyone volunteer. No matter how sure they are that they will win. It's not all that it's thought to be." I jerk away from him. I was probably too obvious.

He claps his hands together. "You need to get back. So do I. I'll see you at the reaping."

I watch Finnick saunter away. Somehow, he manages to display his arrogance even in his steps. I roll my eyes and turn to Misty.

"Let's not do that again."

She nods in agreement.

The breakfast was wonderful. Mama prepared shrimp and scallops for the buffet. These foods are reserved for special occasions. I hate that she considers the reaping a special occasion. But it's the Capitol that demands we make an event out of it.

My family thinks the Hunger Games is far too terrible to celebrate in the way many other people do. I can sometimes hear the exasperated screeches of our neighbors when our tributes are killed or when a tribute from another district is crowned victor. Although, I know my father has his favorites during the games. However, when I see the tributes on screen, all I think is how horrible it is to lose 23 of them. And how much guilt the winner must feel. It's hard not to pick favorites though, they seem more like the characters in stories than real people.

We all change into our best outfits. I wear an emerald green dress with a single strap across my left shoulder. The color brings out the green in my eyes. A bow attaches to the strap. I wish I could rip it off because it keeps brushing against my face. I try wetting it with water, but it still sticks up more than it should. Mama helps Claire into her shirt while I slip on a dress over Misty's head.

I see Amon ferociously messing with his hair and help him with it.

"Thanks," He says.

"No problem," I reply, with one last brush of his hair to one side.

"Nervous?"

I nod slowly, not feeling up to lying. "You probably can't help but feel a little relieved though. You're safe now." I say. Amon is nineteen. His name isn't in the reaping anymore.

"No actually. It's worse this time. The thought of being safe while everyone else is in danger is terrible." I look up at him curiously.

"It's not like you can do anything about it. You never could. You have three younger sisters, Amon. It's not like you can volunteer for us."

"I know. I hate feeling powerless."

I breathe a sharp intake. I can't say anything because he's right. He is powerless. Against the Capitol we all are. And they never fail to remind us.

"I wouldn't trade them for the world." He says, his gaze directed at Misty and Claire. Our mother died when I was three. I was told that it was a sickness left untreated. My Dad remarried when I was five. I was hesitant to accept his new wife. But I love her. She is as much of a mother to me as the caring goddess' in the myths taking care of humans. And I adore Claire and Misty.

"Neither would I." I walk over to Claire. "Are you ready?" She nods in response. "Don't worry, I was nervous my first year too. But it's one little card in a myriad of them."

"I'm okay. I'll be fine." She says, trying to act sure of herself. But I think she's just trying to convince herself. She's got a backbone though. I think I'm more nervous for myself.

"Are we ready?" My father asks. The rest of the family nods in solemn agreement. And then we're off to the reaping, ready to commemorate the 70th annual Hunger Games.