A/N: Okay, this is my first story, so if I did something wrong just let me know... and I apoligise in advance! This story is how the Hunger Games came to be. In the books, it says that the Hunger Games were started as punishment for a rebellion...this is the story of that rebellion and how it came to be.
The revolution hadn't gone well. In the stories, there's always this very brave and courageous group of people, and when they rebel - against all odds - people start ignoring them, mainly because they're afraid to be exicuted if caught in contact with the tratiourious people. The people that the current leader makes out to be monsters that are tring to kill your children and take away your lifestlye. But in the end, the little brave group that fought for what they believed in always wins. Maybe I should blame the loss of life and revolution on the people who told us those delusional stories to give us courage. I won't though; it was actually all my fault. Well, wait. Maybe I should start from the begining.
At first, it was a typical day. I woke up at 3 a.m., got dressed in the government-regulation-uniform. The clothes that I have to wear are mostly the same colour. Light gray button-up long-sleeved blouse, slightly darker long gray jeans with a white belt, white socks, white canvas shoes, and a ribbion, slightly darker than the jeans, to tie my regulation-hair back with. The hair that I have to have is blonde and very straight. It has to be parted in a perfectly straight line, right down the center of my hair, and symetrical on both sides, and it has to be exactly long enough to reach my waist. No, calling the government a bunch of control-freaks wouldn't be an over-estament. In fact, it would be an under-estament. The ribbion isn't really regulation, though. We – the girls – are allowed one accessory to our outfits. And the accessory has to be government-approved. And once we pick one out, that's what we're stuck with till the day we die. And, we have to wear it everyday. I managed to talk them into letting me have a ribbion for my hair. But since I choose that my accessory is a ribbion, they got to pick it out. It's so bland. But I shouldn't be complaining. At least I get a little something to add, even if it sucks.
So anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah, getting dressed. So I had just gotten up, and gotten dressed. I was now sitting in my spot and thinking. We each have a spot on the floor, with a sleeping bag, pillow, and red duct tape marking the border and glass walls enforcing them. I like to get up before the others, because, 1.) Then I don't have to start the day to that rude Klaxson bell that's used as an alarm clock for the entire district. 2.) I can have some privacy. 3.) It bothers the government that I decided to do my own thing, and I like to prod at the govenment, but I'm careful not to take it to far. They're afraid that if we get to much idividuality, that we might get revolutionary ideas.
We live in little groups, the infants and toddlers, (0-5 years), live in one room with the widows, who care for them. The girls (6-10 years) live with the single women. The teenager girls (11-17 years, which is when we turn of age) live with the female government-appointed Assistants. With the boys it's simialar, except that the Assisstants are male, and both genders of toddlers are mixed, to be seperated in the other groups.
Well, since I have two hours to spare until breakfast, I'll explain the floor plan and our lifestyle. So, there are six compartments in each row, for a total of five rows. Each compartment is six feet long, tall enough to reach the cealing, and three feet wide. Our clothes, - three sets of the previously mentioned stlyes, plus a dark gray dress for formal occasions – are hung up on the left wall, vertically. There isn't really a door for our compartments; the right wall, the one facing the aisle, kind of just...dissapears when we're allowed out. My word for it is dissovling. The aisles are two feet wide. This area just described, and the one I am currently sitting in (in our story), is Housing Room C. There are two doors leading from it; one off the front aisle, the next off the back aisle. My compartment is the one in the exact center of the room, number 15-C. That's my number for everything; no one here calls me by my name, just "15-C". That number is also stitched onto the shoulder of both arms and the back of my shirt. I think that the only place my name is known is in the files. I don't even know it, and no one else here knows theirs, either. We get it when we turn 17 – of age – and the government makes it up for you. Your parents, whoever they are, don't have a say. They don't get to raise us, either. Sure, we're born in hospatials, but our parents never see us, and after we're born we're whisked away to one of the Inspection Rooms. There, some members of the Government Child Inspection Agency look us over, - and they still come every year, to inspect us all lined up in front of our compartments – and if we don't meet the requirements, we're either killed or modified. It depends on if you have any "potential" or not. I think that I've pieced together the requirements, because we all look the same. You'll see what I mean in a second. Here they are:
Requirements for the girls: 1.) Blonde, straight-as-a-stick hair. Modification used: Permanent (as in forever, not just the month-long kind) hair dye, permanent straightener used on hair. 2.) Pale blue eyes. Modification used: Colored contacts if glasses are needed, or dye-injections. 3.) Sharp, straight nose. Modification used: Plastic surgery. 4.) By age 17, you stop growing at 6 foot. Modifictaion used: Special drink that makes you stop growing once you reach 6 foot, or you get streatched until you're six foot. If you're lucky, you might even survive!
That's all that I've figured out. Casey, one of the Assistants that has a soft spot for children, as opposed to the Knower, - called that because she seems to know what we're doing, when we're doing it, and exactly why we're doing it at all times – also is the Filer for the girls, and whenever she's the only one who's baby-sitting us, (I hate that word, don't you? We're not babies!) she'll tell us stuff. She told me what I looked like before I was modified. Dark chocolate brown eyes, black curly hair, button nose, and very small. I also cried a lot. Casey said that I would have been killed, but one of the Child Inspectors stood up for me. That Child Inspector died a few days later under mysterious cerumstances, ones that the government refused to investigate. Casey has absolutley flat-out refused to tell us our names and origins, or anything that big. Just little stuff, because she understands our thirst for information.
I remember starting slightly at the sound of the bell. About five minutes after the bell, the wall dissolves and we're let out to line up in front of our compartments. On either side of me are 14-C and 16-C. 14-C is my best friend ever, but 16-C is my worst enemy, besides the government. But don't you dare ever tell them I said that, okay?
A/N: So...how was it? Good - or bad? Please review! *gasp!* do you see that down there? It's an acceptance letter to Hogwarts! With your name on it!...(for Harry Potter freaks)... or... it could be a buttom that transports you to Ellesmera...(for Inheritence Cycle freaks)... or... it could also be a bow! With arrows!...(for Hunger Games freaks)...or...maybe it's a button that if you press, you'll be claimed by your godly parent!...(for Percy Jackson freaks)...or, wait, here's the best part! It could be all of those! *gasp!*...(for people like me, who are all of the above freaks! but please don't spoil anything for the Inheritence Cycle, i'm only on book three. Julia - damn you, julia! - already told me that Brom is Eragon father...I WILL GET MY REVENGE...), but here's the thing you have to know...for all of the above - whichever one you choose - it's oddly shaped like a review button! Go, now, before someone else gets to it! Smash it with the cursor!
Anyway, do I really have to be that imaginative to get you to review? Just, please people, REVIEW! Here, I'll make a deal with you; (if you don't want your review to apply to the following, them just say so in the review, kay?)
5 reviews or less - I update when I get around to it... which, considering my schedule, will be maybe next year.
10 reviews - I update in the next two months. (August)
15 reviews - I update in the next month. (July)
20 reviews - I update next week!
25 reviews (or more...0.0) - I update ASAP, maybe this week!
PLEASE, REVIEW, EVEN IF YOU THINK THAT IT'S A PIECE OF (*insert curse word of choice here, i was thinking maybe sh-t.*) Maybe, if the reviews I get are enthusiastic enough, I'll still update fast, regardless of the number. Maybe...just maybe...