Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games. Suzanne Collins does. No profit is being made off of this. This is just fan work made for fans, by fans. And as always, anything you recognize belongs to the fabulous Suzanne Collins. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: Please submit your characters via PM. Any submitted through review will be ignored. The tribute form is on my profile.

Tributes are not necessarily first come, first serve, if I really like or dislike a tribute I may switch it up a bit. If you submit someone, and I like them, but I already have someone in that spot, I'll probably just change the district. Also, I have every right to change anything about your tribute, from their district to their hair color (although I will probably try to keep them close to what you fill out in this form).

If you submit multiple tributes, please try to submit at least one bloodbath—I really need them, and if I don't get enough, I'll just pick from the other tributes.

Please:

1. Do not make your character a Sue. If it is, it will definitely not be accepted.

2. Feel free to submit more than one tribute!

3. PM me any questions you have!

Thanks!


Dead End: The Labyrinth Games

:: Chapter One : The First Hunger Games


I gasped, my eyes wide with shock, unable to take in the scene before me, a scene painted in such vivid detail that it would be sure to haunt my dreams. My mind raced, desperately trying to process all that was going on around me.

I saw the ranks of soldiers slowly advancing, dark shapes silhouetted against the fiery backdrop, the fire glinting off the cold metal of their weapons. Their cruel faces, shadowed by the unforgiving light, seemed otherworldly, but a mask hiding the feral beast beneath, hungry for spilled blood and waiting to be unleashed.

I leapt into the fray, giving no regard to personal safety, pushing and shoving my way forward. I waded through trampled bodies, covered in gore and lying in pools of blood, slowly congealing. They may once have had lives, but now they are nameless, but a casualty of the battlefield to lie forgotten on the ground.

Paying me no heed, one of the soldiers lifted his gun, priming it expertly, his steely eyes fixed on what seemed his next kill, and an easy one at that. He released the trigger, the shot ringing clear in the night. My body, too weak to resist, crumpled lifelessly on the ground, my prone form twisted in odd angles.


In the ruins of a place once known as North America laid the nation of Panem. This nation was born when droughts, fires, hurricanes, tornados, and rising seas brought North America to an end. A glorious Capitol surrounded by thirteen districts, it lived in perfect harmony until the Dark Days. Civil war broke out and disaster arose—twelve districts were defeated and the thirteenth obliterated.

The citizens of Thirteen had been dead for almost a year, the rebellion they helped to spawn crushed to dust and the perpetrators gone to heel, dead or long forgotten.

The tenuous treaty with the hostile districts was wearing thin and both sides were readying for war, the call for arms long sent and answered for. The Capitol was in turmoil, and the fate of Panem balanced on a knife's edge.

So a new president was chosen to take up the mantle, President Magnus Snow, and a treaty, the Treaty of Treason, was created to keep the peace within Panem. In return, one year after the Dark Days, the Capitol promised a special reminder of why they must never be repeated, and thus Magnus decreed the start of what he termed the "Hunger Games", a brutal fight to the death between tributes from each of the twelve Districts, two for each Capitol citizen killed during the rebel uprising. Twelve Districts, twelve trades, each to cater to and serve Capitol whim.

Two Gamemakers were assigned to each district as mentors, one male, one female, with one mentor to watch over each tribute, twenty-four in all.

Back in the Capitol, the rest of the Gamemakers were discussing plans for the arena. The room rang with the sounds of heated conversation as each tried to be heard over the other, until one could only discern snippets of thought from amidst the rising volume of voices deep in conversation.

Hours later, as the sun began to set, they reached a final accord. Preparations for the Arena were started not a minute later, and so began the Capitol's reign of terror.

Now the day had finally come for the Capitol to fulfill their promise, and the districts dreaded it, but they were soon to realize that it wasn't taxes or more oppression, it was the Hunger Games.

"It's my pleasure to welcome the host for the first ever Annual Hunger Games. And now, without further ado, give it up for Pompey Tunstall!"

People cheered. Cameras flashed. The anthem played. And Panem took a collective breath.

The man called Pompey stepped on stage, dressed in a tailored green suit that shimmered under the lighting, his hair dyed chartreuse to match. The crowd quieted in anticipation as he began to speak.

He smiled, but he was nervous. He knew the speech by heart, but he could forget. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He was ready for this.

Families crowded around the screens as they flared to life, waiting, wondering. The TVs were brand new, placed in every home and in the District Squares. The face of Pompey Tunstall appeared on screen, the cityscape glimmering silver behind him. The ground seemed to move—there were that many people.

"Citizens of Panem," he said. "Welcome to the first Hunger Games."

He stopped speaking, knowing that most people would be whispering about what these "Hunger Games" were.

"Each year, two children aged twelve to eighteen will be reaped from each district to participate in the Games, which will give us twelve girls and twelve boys in total. However, someone can volunteer for these chosen tributes, though it is the tributes' final decision on whether they will allow the other to go in their place."

"A system for food distribution has also been instituted within each district, with slips of credit called tesserae. People with more tesserae will have a greater chance of being chosen for the Games."

"To increase the chances of survival, there will be supplies located in the Arena, with the tributes standing about twenty feet away on metal plates. Items will increase in value as tributes near the Cornucopia, and wealthy citizens may also sponsor their favorite tributes."

"Each tribute will be positioned at an entrance to the maze, with the choice being to run away or enter the maze. A force field has been installed around the perimeter of the Arena to keep the tributes within boundaries, and it will be reinforced daily with electricity."

"The twenty four brave souls will be coming here to the Capitol—to fight for honor, glory, and prestige. We here would like to remind Panem that it is not the Districts being punished, per se, but those who would harm us all for the sake of independence. Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor," And with this Tunstall stepped off stage, thunderous applause in his wake as he disappeared backstage, no doubt to prepare for his next appearance. He had done well though, and would will be pleased.

Gasps could be heard as the districts stared wide-eyed at him. The screen turned black, and people everywhere ran off to find their families and loved ones, many in tears.

The Capitol citizens sitting in the audience began to murmur in excitement, and the president's bloodless lips stretched in a smile. This would be a bloody and glorious Games.


The head Gamemaker ran a hand through her hair and sighed. It had been a busy day, preparing for the Games. The Arena was finally finished—the mutts chosen, the traps ready. It should be perfect. Now all that was left were the tributes.


The Peacekeepers, their numbers doubled since the rebellion, roughly grabbed at the younger children, hiding behind their mothers' skirts or clinging to their fathers' calloused hand. Cameras sat high above them on the rooftops, though the people below were oblivious to their presence.

They knew that it has something to do with the census, but what did the Capitol want with the lists, upon which had been printed the name and age of every child in Panem?

Far away in the Capitol, government officials sat at their desks, sheets of paper in front of them, their fingers flying as they struggled to copy down the speeches being dictated to them. Last minute adjustments were made and details finalized, each slip placed in an envelope with the corresponding District number. The heading on each envelope read "The Hunger Games".

The Hunger Games, a political weapon to punish the districts for their rebellion. The Capitol called it a pageant, but that could not be further from the truth—the Games were a plague upon the people.


It was Reaping Day, the first ever, and the District children woke up dreading it. Today, two from among them would be chosen, and even as they prayed for their own salvation, hoping too that their friends and family, all their loved ones, would be spared, their thoughts were bleak.

But the sun rose steadily in the sky, and their parents called them to breakfast. None of them had much of an appetite though, knowing full well that it might very well be the last time they would see their family again. They bade each other teary farewells, and headed off to the Square with their friends.

But it was silent, the air thick with tension as they savored their last moments, taking in the familiar sights, ones they had seen many times before this, but until now had paid no attention to, this time seeing with a sort of finality, a closing of a chapter of their lives.

They clustered together in the town square, corralled off by age like animals to the slaughter. On the surface, everything seemed fine—the children had no wish to give the Capitol any more reason to punish them, and so remained silent, but beneath the surface, tensions roiled. Their eyes were glassy, swimming with unshed tears, their scrunched noses rapidly turning red, but the sound of quiet sniffing and muffled sobs cannot be stopped.

The parents show equal distress, their fists clenched until the knuckles had long turned white, their pale cheeks betraying the fact that they clearly wished to be elsewhere. Their minds were filled with regrets, things they wished they had done, things they wished they had said but now might be too late to say or do.

Two glass balls sat on stage in the center of each district. Each child's name had been written on a slip and placed into the corresponding orb—if their name was drawn, the child would be forced to leave everything behind and become a tribute.

It had been explained to them that each district must offer two tributes, one male and one female between the ages of twelve and eighteen to compete in an Arena in a battle to the death, and that the last tribute standing would be then crowned Victor.

In contrast, the people of the Capitol were rejoicing, delighting in the festivities that would accompany this time of the year. They settled in front of their televisions, a bowl of popcorn nearby and a warm blanket—or lover—tucked in beside them.

These were people who clearly revel in their wealth, who were fortune's favorites, installed comfortably in the very lap of luxury. In their desire for entertainment, however one sided, they condemned to death twenty-three more, gambling upon the very stakes of life and death, yet they could not care less.


The tributes opened their eyes. Twenty feet away was the Cornucopia. Supplies were scattered everywhere, deadly weapons and packs of food piled high around it, throwing shadows at their feet.

The tributes' blood chilled, their spines tingled, and fear gnawed in their gut. But the Careers were tense, poised to run as soon as the gong went off, their eyes scanning over the weapons. This was the Hunger Games, and the more blood and gore, the better.

The gong rung out, the sound loud in the silence of the Arena. All hell broke loose as the tributes leapt off their plates and sprinted away in different directions, some towards the Cornucopia and others disappearing into the maze.


Welcome to the first Hunger Games, the first year of betrayal, loss, and murder. But there is something they had never expected, never intended to be born of these Games. Love. Twenty four tributes go in, but only one can come out. But these kids were more than just pieces, they were people, each with their own stories. This is the story of what twenty four tributes did for the ones they love.

This is a story of ends, not means. A story of cunning, not brute force. A story of betrayal, not love. This is the story of the Hunger Games.


Rules:

1. One winner.

2. No rebellion.

3. No suicide.

Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor.


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