60…

I clutched the red and white sphere in my hands so hard that I was afraid the low-quality tin orb would break. My last salvation, my last chance at survival, was my well-trained second in command: a positively non-threatening Butterfree.

I knew the risks when I signed up as a trainer: One entry for your license and starter, one for each capture, two for a first evolution, and three for a second. Another for every year as a trainer corresponding to how many years you had been training, and a number of slips corresponding to the order of badges, and which ones you had. All in all, I had been training since I was ten, the legal age, and was now fifteen. Fifteen being the number of entries made automatically for me. A full team of six, plus a seventh - my starter - that was killed during my first year. Twenty-one entries total. Three of my team evolved twice, two of them once, and the third was un-evolved. Forty chances in thousands for my region.

My vice, however, was badges: I had foolishly collected all eight for my region. One for the first badge, two for the second… An extra thirty-six entries. Compared to some of the stronger trainers here, seventy-six slips was nothing. Then again, I haven't even added up the tesserae that my family had collected in my name over the years, which were of an unknown number and one entry per person. I looked over at the Kanto tributes who were limbering up. Their hundreds of entries seemed almost on purpose judging by their cool, collected demeanor as they watched the clock.

45, 44, 43…

I had wasted the first fifteen seconds of the game tallying up how many times I had been entered! What was I doing? I looked towards the Cornucopia, trying to focus on a potential target. Right in front of me on the scorched earth was a large knife in a sheath. It was useless for any trainer who packed a pokémon with claws, but would be priceless for me. Slink would be great for near-endless rope, but unable to cut anything fast. I had been told by my mentor that I should refrain from releasing the delicate bug until I was deep within the woods, that the Butterfree would be torn to bits in seconds and I would be left without valuable rope, poisons, and the occasional sleep aid.

I had already decided that he would come out immediately. I wanted that knife, but there was a small box of a half-dozen Ultra Balls in a transparent plastic sack only a few yards ahead of it. The sack was valuable, but the Ultra Balls would be worth their weight in gold. Catching game was the first thing any trainer thought of, but I could train something up as a team-mate quickly enough with Slink's slight psychic coaching. Many tributes would bring in psychics for trainer harassment, but very few thought of them for training. I had only seen three tributes in my life who trained up small teams during the league, but two of them won outright. The third was in the final eight.

13, 12, 11…

I caught myself drifting off again, and forced myself to watch the clock. I was practically vibrating out of my shoes at this point, trying to find anything to distract myself. The knife. The sack. The Ultra Balls. I shifted my weight forwards, ready to run. Even if I just got the knife, I would be in great shape. I could grab it, bolt for the caves that dotted the cliffs-

My thoughts were interrupted by an explosion almost opposite me. Someone had released their pokémon just a moment too soon. As most of the other trainers turned to face the explosion, I was able to focus on the clock.

2, 1, 0

And just like that, the 35th Annual Hunger League had begun.

I took off for the bag, pressing the button on my pokéball and screaming, "knife!" A click of mandibles was all I needed to know that Slink understood. I slid to a halt next to the clear plastic bag, grabbed it, and bolted. Before I could build up decent speed a vine caught my legs and threw me on to the ground. The rocky dust was sucked in to my lungs as I gasped for breath, feeling myself being hauled backwards for a short moment before the vines went slack. I made sure to look back for a brief instant to see what had happened: an Ivysaur was being barbecued by a Magmar.

Its trainer was elsewhere in the fray, but the pokémon locked eyes with me for a brief moment. It looked back at the fray, then to me, and gave a short nod. My first stroke of luck in a very long time. I nodded back, scrambling to my feet and making for the cliff face as quick as my feet could carry me. I threw the sack on to my back, and Slink alighted there, just as planned. A thick haze of purple powder trailed behind us as we retreated. Besides a poorly aimed Ice Beam that caused goose bumps to scramble up my arm and a knife that Slink had to yank me to the left to avoid, we were otherwise uninterrupted by the fray behind us.

Twenty-four competitors, three from each major region, were fleeing deeper in to the canyon-based arena as I was. Or murdering each other behind me. All could have been anywhere from ten to eighteen years old, but the youngest this year was decently old at fourteen. A boy, a girl, and a wildcard taken from whatever entries were left over. My legs kept good rhythm underneath me as I ran over this useless information in my head. One trainer-pokémon team was already eliminated due to their false start. Which meant I had twenty-two other trainers and their pokémon to contend with, avoid, trick, trap, and hopefully kill.

Strangely, ever since my name had been pulled and I had decided against the existence of a God, I lost all qualms against murder. My transformation - my evolution - was triggered by the Reaping. The choice of Slink had been deliberate. I realized how very important rope was immediately, as my mentor could not stress enough how important it would be to find a Caterpie, Bellsprout, or anything else that could spit string or grow vines. Slink could do the former, and had the bonus of poisons, sedatives, and some psychic prowess. He had even impressed the Gamekeepers when he demonstrated the ability to save me from a potentially lethal fall by clinging to my back and flapping as hard as he could. We had made out way to the roof of the twenty-foot room and jumped to the laughter and applause of the Gamekeepers. This, along with the our clever - but not so unique - poison trail had earned me a six out of eight, a fantastic score. In short: he was not a killing machine, but had every piece necessary to make one.

Another Ice Beam crackled by my ear and snapped me back to reality just before I toppled over the edge of the cliff.

There was no stopping me at this point. I hadn't noticed how close the giant canyon had become. It must have been a quarter mile wide, at least, and caves dotted the higher cliff face on the other side. The rocks were many different earthy tones in dozens of layers leading down the canyon, and a powerful river surged along its bottom, hewing the arena ever deeper. If it weren't for my imminent death, the canyon would be very pretty. It was almost like a painting. The arenas were always things of dangerous beauty, but I pulled myself away from the sight long enough to spin around and throw my hands out towards the wall moments before I slid in to oblivion.

The yell of fear that issued from my lips was horribly loud, but I felt Slink grab on and pump his wings as hard as he could. I felt my descent slow considerably, but my hands were already torn up from the brief seconds of scrabbling at the canyon's edge. I would survive this, though. The adrenaline was already numbing up my hands as I kicked my feet in to the rocks, begging for purchase. I was lucky that my growth had been stunted; my light form found a place to cling easily. I scrunched my eyes up tight, not daring to look down. Slink, however, was tugging at my back. He wanted me to look. At what? My death? One last beautiful sight before I die?

I opened my eyes, unfortunately looking straight down through my arms. To my great surprise, however, there was an outcropping probably twenty yards below me. The cannons wouldn't sound until the bloodbath was over. Unless they counted the bodies I would wind up buying a whole afternoon of time. They all must have thought that I had plummeted to my death. I recuctantly released my bloody grip from the cliff. Slink flapped hard until we landed on the outcropping with a thump.

"Good job, Slink," I congratulated my bug softly, reaching out a bloodied hand to pet him. I hesitated, noticing the brownish blood dripping down my wrist for half a second before Slink blasted his silk over my palms. It was a technique we had practiced, and one our mentor had coined: sticky string-shot gloves. In seconds, and with a fair bit of stinging, a thick pair of mittens had been sprayed over my hands. I looked at them for a moment. Something was wrong. My hands were terribly itchy underneath them. "Can you take these off? It doesn't feel right."

Slink cocked his head, but landed on my outstretched arm and began to pull at the silk. In seconds, I realized why my hands itched. The insides of the mitts were covered in blood, dirt, and easily a dozen shards of rock. When I looked at my hands, however, the injuries seemed very clean. No deep cuts, just some scraping. Healthy red blood began to seep back out. I nodded to Slink who misted on a fresher, thinner coat. As I flexed my fingers and turned my hands, I took a moment to recap the last few minutes of my life.

I was alive, first of all. That was a very good sign.

My wounds were minimal, cleaned, and bandaged. My luck had been phenomenal: some strange force had stayed the Magmar's fiery attacks and left me a ledge to perch on.

I had a knife, a bag, and a box of Ultra Balls. Checking the bag on my back confirmed this. I popped the box open and dumped the contents in to the bag, tossing the cardboard box and bits of plastic in to the faint breeze. I had to shake a particularly clingy bit of wrapping off my sticky white gloves.

My stylist had equipped me with my basic travelling get-up: brown jeans, stiff black hiking boots, a desert camouflage vest and a white t-shirt (the front of which was already dirty). Completing the outfit was a belt that held up my pants - which I had a feeling would be useful in a few days' time as a tourniquet or a noose - and a bandoleer imbedded with six magnetic discs. I took Slink's Pokéball and stuck it to the topmost 'holster' where the powerful magnet might as well have soldered it on. As an afterthought, I fished the sheathed knife out of my bag to examine it. It was more of a tool than a weapon: the back was serrated, the tip was hooked suspiciously like a bottle opener, and the butt of the blade contained a compass. It was better than I could have hoped, though. It went directly on to my belt.

It was a miracle that I survived this long, to be honest. I wondered who else would survive as I took a seat. The three trainers from the Kanto region would survive, of course. They trained hard and volunteered at eighteen if they hadn't been reaped by then. One of them had stuck out to me in training: a lithe and fit young man with an agile Squirtle who had spent most of their training days on obstacle courses. The Sinnoh region had offered up a trainer with a Mamoswine that had a huge amount of fear factor to it. My fellow Johto trainers had nicknamed me 'wildcard' due to my odd selection and that I was, well, the wildcard tribute. They seemed sociable enough in training. The Magmar suddenly clicked in to place: the boy tribute had owned him. Maybe they hoped an alliance could form, or maybe we made an alliance that I couldn't honestly remember. I couldn't recall Hoenn's tributes at all.

The lesser regions all had difficult to pronounce names that had yet to be Americanized after the dust from the war had settled. The few natives who survived were forced to care for the prisoners that came soon after. Japan became to Unova what Australia had been for England: a place to throw traitors, thieves, and killers. And as their punishment, the League was formed. Co-existing with the already standing Pokémon League, the Hunger League was meant to punish what used to be Japan's largest and most frivolous industry. If you wanted to be a trainer, you would run the risk of competing. But it could all be avoided if you did as you were told, went to school, and contributed to society in a way that Unova found useful. Training was an extravagance that was exclusively Unovan now. Everyone else ran the risk of paying the ultimate price.

I was shook from my thoughts sometime later by cannon fire. It struck me as having happened almost too quickly. It couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes. One shot, two, three, four, five, six… Six shots? Only six had died in the blood bath? Well, five, technically. The first death had happened right before the League began. There were eighteen rowdy competitors left, including myself. And who knows how many pokémon. The cannons had fired a moment too soon, however, as another competitor made the same mistake I did.

A Pikachu tumbled in to the abyss in front of me, shortly followed by a trainer. She slammed on to my ledge and was carried by the momentum over the lip of it. Her hands found purchase at the last possible second, leaving her dangling as I had been moments before. The screams of the small rodent echoed through the wide canyon before they were silenced by a dull thump on a much lower ledge.

I looked at the fingers poking over the edge. The woman grunted and groaned as she tried to pull herself up. I cautiously moved towards her, careful not to get too close to her hands. She could reach out, grab my leg, pull me over, haul herself up, and I would be dead. She had hit the ledge pretty hard, though. Maybe she was still too dazed, or injured. We locked eyes for a brief moment. Simple and brown, but pretty. I realized that I was looking at the fourteen-year-old who had been reaped from one of the lower regions. The youngest in the tournament. Her ashen skin was pale with fear, her knuckles completely white on the ledge, and her life was completely in my hands.

"Help me," she groaned, her feet trying in vain to find purchase beneath her, "please…"