Story Title: Annie's Story

Genre: Romance/Adventure

Summary: "A bitter taste settles in my mouth. Of course Finnick has no faith in me, of course there's no chance I'll win this..." The story of Annie Cresta, Finnick Odair and the 70th Hunger Games.

Pairings: Annie/Finnick, slight hinted Annie/district partner

Rating: T, but includes events some may find disturbing, blood and gore. (This is the Hunger Games after all!)

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games or any of Suzanne Collins's pre-imagined characters or events.

A/N: Hey everyone, this is an Annie Cresta's Story (as you've probably guessed) and it is set in the 70th Hunger Games. I'll be tracking Annie from her reaping to her victory and a smidge beyond. Of course, the lovely Finnick will feature and there will be some romance for all you Finnick/Annie shippers! Anyway, this story will be canon compliant in as much as we know about Annie Cresta, although I've decided she shall not become completely bonkers during the Games. She might have 'moments' but she won't have her real issues until after the Games methinks, although I haven't really decided yet. Also, since we don't know much about Annie and her Games, most of the characters in this story are OCs and therefore belong to me. I had great fun creating all these characters.

This story is now complete, with a epilogue and bonus chapter. There's also a WIP companion story to this fic from Finnick's pov, and sketches of characters for this story on deviantart. See my profile for details.

Anyway, enough chatter, and on with the story. Please review, reviews make my day! x

CHAPTER ONE - REAPED

I want to dive.

I want to leap out of the window into the sea below and swim down, down, down, until my throat hurts and my chest is burning. I want to see nothing but blue, to taste the salty water on my lips, to feel it sting in my eyes.

But I can't.

I'm trapped in this tiny room with its tiny barred window and peacekeepers at the door. I'll probably be dead within a week.

I never expected to be reaped. In district 4, we usually get volunteers before they even pick a tribute. I've had my name in that stupid glass bowl for 6 years now and never before has Violet Lovedaie even stuck her hand in it. The year before last there was no male volunteer but of course, that didn't affect me. I remember the kid's face – the one who was picked – when he heard his name. He'd looked like he was about to vomit. Everyone had sort of moved away, as if being too close to him would bring them bad luck.

I expect my face, and the actions of those around me, were pretty much the same.

"Annie Cresta," Violet Lovedaie had chirruped, lifting the piece of paper high above her head. I had heard a cry of shock and the beginnings of sobs from where the adults stood – Ava – but then I guess someone had shushed her. Just as well, since public displays of grief are not tolerated by the Capitol.

"Annie Cresta?" Violet had repeated when I didn't respond. Someone had given me a gentle nudge and then I was on my way, up the central aisle, all eyes, all cameras, on me. The peacekeepers, flanking me at all sides, kept me moving at a brisk pace, ferrying me up onto the stage. As I had mounted the steps, Violet had come to greet me, a huge smile plastered to her face and I'd noted with a vague sense of satisfaction that she had lipstick smeared across her teeth. Over her shoulder, I'd seen district 4's only surviving victors: Mags – who is so old she was alive before the start of the Games – and the almighty Finnick Odair.

Mine and Finnick's eyes had met for the briefest of moments, his narrowed with sympathy, before Violet had grasped my arm so tightly it hurt and spun me round to face the crowd.

I remember a bitter taste settling in my mouth.

Of course Finnick has no faith in me, of course there's no chance I'll win this.

"Annie Cresta!" Violet had announced triumphantly, interrupting my thoughts and pushing me forward a step.

I remember staring numbly into the faces of the teenagers whose lives I was effectively saving – at least until next year anyway. There had been pity in their eyes, of course, but mostly relief. I couldn't blame them though. No one wants to die.

Violet Lovedaie had smiled at the crowd, the pallid purple curls fluttering lightly in the breeze at odds with her iron like grip.

"And now for the boys." She'd let go of my arm then and sauntered across the stage to the other glass bowl. I'd waited for someone to volunteer – I'd heard a group of older boys at school discussing the possibility just last week – but no one did. Her hand and those hideous purple nails had swirled teasingly above the paper slips for a few minutes before she selected one.

"Ethan Marborough." Her smile as bright as the sun on water, she'd scanned the crowd for his face. I had watched him as he'd made his way up to the stage, his eyes hard, his mouth set in a grim line. He could win, I remember thinking. I'd seen him at sea on the our biannual trips to deeper water to hunt whales. I was only there because they'd needed a strong swimmer to help with the nets from below but he was there because he can hit a whale right between the eyes with a harpoon from twenty or thirty metres away...

I slump on the small sofa they've provided for me in my tiny prison and put my head in my hands.

I'm so going to die.

...

So there it was, first chapter. Short but they'll get longer, I promise.

Drop us a line, let me know if you got the urge to read on. If not, any suggestions?