The wind rustled the hair of the thirteen-year-old boy standing on the green, grassy hilltop. The boy’s mouth was drawn in a frown, his eyes peering seriously out from underneath an unruly mop of brown hair. He was wearing a yellow T-shirt, blue jeans, and black leather boots, all of which were faded by wear and the sun. He shoved his hands in the pockets of the slightly-too-large trench coat he wore, staring almost remorsefully out into the setting sun. His parents called him Wilbur, and his mother had given him her surname, Soot, although his blood was not of her own. He was a solemn, quiet boy, and had never been much trouble to take care of. His mother had found him, abandoned out in the fields, with a small card nestled in the basket that had been lovingly hand-woven by presumedly the child’s former mother. She’d gently lifted the baby onto her shoulder, peering down at the small, plain card to discover that the child’s name was Wilbur and that he was two years of age. What a terrible thing to do, to abandon a child this young, she’d thought, lovingly stroking the baby’s soft curls. She’d adopted the baby and taken care of him, gently nurturing him into his teenage years. Now the boy turned at the sound of his name, blinking away the stray strands of hair that billowed mercilessly into his face. “Mother?” he asked, peering down over the edge of the hilltop. “What is it?” He began to make his descent down the hill, towards the homely cottage that lay nestled in a mossy hill. “Well... the Games were about to start, and I was wondering if you wanted to come along with us to see.” his mother told him. “No, thank you,” he replied quietly. “I think I’ll just stay here.” Wilbur had never liked the Games, and he’d missed every opportunity to see them ever since the first time his mother had taken him to see one. He shuddered at the thought and took off his leather boots, placing them by the door with his mother and father’s. He silently crossed the room and tromped up the stairs to his room. Wilbur’s room was small and simple, with soft yellow walls and a small fan hanging from the ceiling. He sighed and collapsed on the brown bed at the center of the room, pushed up against the wall, (I am cutting out this part because I don't like it and it could be triggering, but basically he discovers he has growing wings, self h@rms because hybrids are h in this world, gets dumped into the arena when his mother and father discover he's a hybrid, and then is healed by Philza, who is a doctor.) The doctor had wings. Huge, black wings tattered and torn from what could only be arena fights. “Hey,” he said softly to Wilbur, ignoring his mother. “You’re going to want to eat something. You picked a bad time to mature, kid; the Games have just started.” “Why is this happening to me?” Wilbur asked desperately, looking up at the doctor. PHILZA, read the small metal pin attached to the doctor’s white shirt. Philza had no answer for him. “I’m sorry, kiddo,” he said softly. “But once your wings have grown in, there’s no stopping them. You’re going to the arena.”
Art is mine, I'm somewhat better at writing than drawing :')
