Welcome to this SYOT!

Forest of Death: The 54th Hunger Games

Prologue

Head Gamemaker Savanna Heron smiled to herself as she stood in the office, waiting for the president's aide to summon her. She was confident that her Games would be right up his alley.

The President was a man of refined tastes. His hair, prematurely whitened as the Snow that was his name, was always immaculately brushed, his beard trimmed to perfection. Avoxes, their uniforms crisp and eyes properly downcast, awaited his every move. The President was not averse to luxury he simply saw sophistication in small natural things, like the elegance a polished curve could give to the leg of a chair, and the patterns of light and dark as they filtered through trees in a painting.

Or the delicate curl of green leaves against the virgin white of a freshly plucked rose.

Savanna's Games were going to be very natural. He would like them. In fact, he would love them like he did his roses.

The president wore roses everywhere, and it was the overwhelming scent of them that alerted Savanna to the door opening. She would not have noticed otherwise, as the tread of Snow's Avoxes was light, and his door hinges seamlessly oiled. As it was, the scent of roses struck her nostrils as the door swung open, and President Snow's aide, Egeria, stepped out.

Savanna stood, dusting off her red slacks, and pursing her bright ruby lips nervously. The fiery-looking gems inlaid along the gold tattooing that framed her face flashed as she came up, broadcasting an aura of power and command.

"The President will see you now," Egeria said.

Savanna smiled and walked through the doorway, her footsteps noiseless on the thick rose-colored carpeting.

The President turned in his chair, smiling a smile that never reached his eyes. Everything about this man was silent and cold, in a way no amount of luxury or heady rose perfume could cover. A vague shiver of unease ran over her but she ignored it. She was head Gamemaker for more than just her creativity or ruthless brilliance. She knew how to play the game.

"Ms. Heron," the President said, voice smooth. He always talked like nothing interested him, and that was what made him so...unpredictable. He was as skilled as she, Savanna knew, in his playing.

"How delightful of you to have come to me. You wish to discuss this year's...extravaganza, I presume."

The way he hesitated on the word 'extravaganza' gave Savanna a clue. He wanted these Games to be grand, and yet the whole affair was rather tiresome to him. At least that was what he wanted her to think, and she'd play along. "Quite right," she said. "We have the arena prepared, and I thought perhaps you would enjoy a few hints, a sort of preview if you will to this year's..." she paused dramatically, "Hunger Games." Then she smiled. "Or, might I say, extravaganza."

"Ms. Heron," the President said, leaning forward, "you know I like them to be a surprise to me, as they are to the tributes." He saw the brief flash of uncertainty - or was it fear - in his gamemaker's eyes. It satisfied him. He liked to play with people. It was all a part of the game. "Then again," he amended, leaning forward expectantly, "I love special previews. Go ahead, Ms. Heron. Intrigue me."

"I believe I can do that, sir," Savanna said, smiling more confidently as the frisson of fear she had felt faded, leaving her awake and excited. "You want your games exciting. You want them lengthy. You want them visually pleasing. And most of all, you want the populace entertained. There is a science to all of this, and I believe I have found a formula my unfortunate predecessors overlooked."

The President nodded, but inside he was not impressed. This he knew already. Every Gamemaker, every Games, thought itself somehow special. Yes, they were all unique, but so is a barfing unicorn. Unique things weren't always pleasant. He wondered if maybe she was thinking of introducing carnivorous butterfly mutts in an arena built to be his own mansion. That would be awful. It would just be a sparkly bloodbath of cartoony violence. Gamemakers always wanted mutts, indoor arenas, and extravagant colors, but that wasn't what Snow wanted.

Snow wanted pain.

Mutts killed too quickly, indoor games were to comfortable, too familiar to the cushy capitolians. Snow believed that man was the most vicious thing on earth, and that the most vicious environments were already part of nature. That's why he'd had to threaten a lot of his Gamemakers just to get himself a natural arena, and they never did it right. The Games were often too predictable. Choreographed, almost.

Snow wanted the districts punished. He wanted them to be in an agony of suspense, unable to do anything but sit and watch and pretend to enjoy it as kids tore each other apart.

Yes, Snow wanted pain.

Tolerantly, he waited for the ridiculously energetic, made-up woman before him to continue. He was already trying to think of suitable threats to get her to not make the arena a giant cake or something equally ridiculous, when she surprised him.

"The Games are always too overdone, too forced, and too predictable," she said. "The arenas are usually beautiful woodland environments, which I believe is best, but no one ever just lets the tributes fight it out. They always hurl mutts at them. Where is the drama in that? It is much more entertaining to watch a tribute slowly change as they gasp for survival, or the helpless terror they feel when it is an intelligent man and not beast pursuing them. These Games will be those Games. I propose to launch the tributes into an environment that is 100% natural, but will tax everything they know. They will have to fight for their lives the entire time, and they'll be fighting each other. This forest will provide innumerable hiding spots - don't you just love those shots of injured tributes cowering directly beside the trail as the career pack walks past three feet away? I'm going to make the victor work to live. I'm going to make the others have just enough hope to fight death until they physically die. There will be no giving up. Those that give up will be found by those that fight, and we know what will happen to them. These Games, sir, will be real. Will be visceral. Will be exciting. There you have it."

She leaned back, flushed with excitement and eyes alight with passion for her work.

"You mean there will be no mutts?" he asked.

"Oh, no," she said. "A few is fine. I'm just not going to inundate the arena with them. There will be a few, to drive the tributes together and such as the game progresses, just they will be well thought out and not too extravagant. The focus of these games will be the tribute rivalries, the tension of alliances, the struggling to survive. I'm going to make you more than root for them. I'm going to make you feel for them."

President Snow raised his eyebrows approvingly.

"Thank you Ms. Heron. I'm holding my breath for the Reapings. I want to see these fortunate young ones," he said as she rose to leave. Once her back was turned he nodded to himself. That was what he wanted. Perhaps they would actually have her again next year, he thought. It had been a while since a Gamemaker had, well, survived to do a second games.

First, he would see and judge this forest of death she so vividly described.