𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨 , 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙪𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙜𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙨

𝗶. 𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘆 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗺𝘆 𝘀𝗼𝘂𝗹

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶
[𝗶. 𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘆 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗺𝘆 𝘀𝗼𝘂𝗹]
𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩 , 4500

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

𝘿𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙘𝙩 𝙀𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙖𝙥𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 pollution years ago. In past times, it was regarded as the most bewitching district of all of Panem, enticing highly materialistic Capitol tourists with it's magnificent fashion and charming individuals.

All it took was one unjust murder of a twelve year old in a callous display of dictatorship and power that the autocratic government liked to call The Hunger Games. A way for The Capitol, an advanced metropolis, to exercise political control over the rest of the nation through an annual event feared by the impoverished and craved by the entitled.

When the time came, every individual of the ages twelve to eighteen would worry themselves sick over a hysterical lottery system in which there would be a chance they would be selected to partake in a televised battle to the death purely run for the entertainment for the Capitol citizens.

District Eight had had it as easy as they could have, considering the circumstances, as the victors picked always found themselves at the very end of the age-limit.

Until one year, the year of the 55th Hunger Games, a young boy was picked. Sweet, innocent, twelve year old Elliot Briggs, beloved by everyone in the eighth district and an infamous character to be pedestaled in future education.

His brutal murder was the catalyst of the downfall of District Eight.

Nowadays, the air was choked with ashy grey, engulfing and devouring the buildings whole, coating them with mouldy, black dust. The neglected structures were crumbled and broken, just like the people.

For a fashion district, the only garments being produced in the monster like factories infecting the land were Peacekeeper uniforms. Everywhere else had shut down, the colour that was once splashed over everything had crippled into dark shadows, leaving only the odd sequin in and amongst the rubble.

Besmirched, contaminated wind snaked round the corners of the district and swept into the red hair of Wren Steele. It was a bitter and foreboding breeze as it kissed the crevices of each area for there was tension in everyone.

For 68 years, this day, this date was feared the very most. The Reaping. Parents spent the entirety of the previous night tossing and turning, dwelling on the fate of their children.

Anxiety swum relentlessly in Wren's stomach. In just an hour, she'd be lined up with the other kids, prisoners in their own home, and one ill-fated child, too young, would be plucked from the bunch and entered into a sadistic death match.