The Assassin (Finnick Odair X OC)

Chapter One: The Reaping

Chapter One: The Reaping

I wake up as the sun rises, wasting no time in leaving my house and starting the long walk to the main village - the location of the reaping. I have nothing with me other than a small ceramic pocket knife wedged into my combat boots.

I'd bought that knife as a last resort once I learned that peacekeepers can't detect it. It was hidden on a weapons table in District Eight, a strange place to be selling weapons. Not many people know of the extensive black market system in that area, chosen for the constant trade between them and District One. Eight makes the raw materials for most clothing - which is a plethora of fabrics - and then they send them to One for refinement. Only then can it be transported to the Capitol.

This is my last year in the Reaping.

My boots stumble over a stone and I nearly fall headfirst. I quickly steady myself on the unpaved road and continue walking. The near-fall makes my short black hair fall out of the loose ponytail that I had it tied it, and I leisurely raise my hands to comb through some of its knots. I suppose that I should look presentable.

I'm glad that this is it. I'm rarely at home and, in all honesty, there's no chance that I'm picked. Most people at my age have their name in the bowl seven times - one for every year since they were age eleven - but I only have it in once. When I was fourteen, I did a favor for the mayor of my home district - District Four - and, instead of asking for payment, I told him to only put my name in once. Since then, my name has never been added any more additional times.

Sure, there's a slight possibility. Eleven year olds have been picked, and their names are in once.

The ground goes down suddenly, giving me a distant view of my destination. I can barely make out a collection of blond people dressed in some sort of blue.

I glance down at my outfit. I tried my best to fit in and, even though I'm seen in the village only once a year, I think I did a good job. Other than my combat boots, which I need in case anyone decides to jump me in the square, I have a cotton blouse on and a high waisted baby blue skirt. The skirt is light and swishes with my every step, almost covering my tattered boots. It's my reaping outfit, the only outfit that I own where I really look like I'm from District Four.

My eyes flick back up to where I'm going before I allow my head to turn to the side. I'm passing the Victors' Village, a collection of mansions where the winners of the games live. Currently, we have two living victors: Finnick Odair and Mags.

Neither of them look to be home.

At this point, I begin to see stone faced people. I immediately copy their expressions, forcing myself to look solemn and nervous - neither of which I truly feel. No, I'm feeling happiness. This is my last year of attending this fucking game and boy am I happy to be done.

Most people are in pairs and are walking slowly, not wanting to get to the square early. I couldn't care less and this attitude allows me to easily pass various families.

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My head lifts for the first time as as I walk away from the sign-in table, pressing down on the small wound.

The Capitol feels the need to draw our blood. Why, you may ask?

The public reason is that they need to make sure that we are actually us and also to keep a constant record of all of their citizens. But the real reason is that, in the thirty-third games, someone's identical sister went in place of their sister. The gamemakers only realized once she died in the arena and, in an effort to make sure that it didn't happen again, started drawing blood and making sure that the tributes' blood matched their other years.