Note: This is an alternative take on Hunger Games. I change things at random, so the setting, aesthetic, and time period are different and completely fictional. It's closer to a positive-seeming utopia that came about through the manipulation of the American people. Contrived, but I think the setup is politically jargon-ed to be almost believable. Long reviews would help me greatly, thanks.
In the fall of 1962, what is now referred to as the Cuban Missile Failure kick-started a chain of nuclear attacks between the United States of America and the Soviet Union. The following devastation soon killed a full twentieth of the world's population, turning several hundred miles of industrialized land into neigh-unusable radiation contaminated land. Stock markets worldwide crashed, with billions spent on immediate cleanup, medical aid, and research into irradiation removal. However, in the decades that followed, the developed world worked together on a scale never seen before, eventually producing and using a radically efficient radiant cleanup method. The United States, aided by most of Europe and Asia, rose exponentially quickly back to power. Russia, left allyless, deteriorated into obscurity and poverty despite radiation cleanup. The rising United States, mistakenly learning from the tense circumstance leading up to the Cuban Missile Failure, resulted in a stable, yet highly controlling and un-democratic government.
Despite running on inherently an anti-American policies and values, the raised living standards from foreign aid carried the people into civility and docility, resulting in record-low levels of crime and civilian unrest. Due to the historic rise in Americans working in the more pressing fields of food and power generation, a nation which once developed advanced philosophies and values regarding politics and art eventually lost almost all ideological progression. Nationalism became nearly nonexistent. Declining interests in politics and books and increasing escapism in action-centric entertainment overtook the nation. This is how the annual events of the "Hunger Games" took off, a once safe nationally televised competition that devolved into a brutal and savage lethal fight between dozens of volunteers aged 12-16 with only a pair of survivors at best. By the 14th Hunger Games, volunteers, two from each state, would sign them and their families for government benefits in the risk of participating in a death game with a max survival rate of 2%. Each game would take place in a largely customized arena with weapons and items scattered around. By 2038, the Hunger Games had been running for 29 years.
My bed vibrates to wake me up. A thin line of drool, the only downside from my subsidized sleeping aids, drip off my face as I sit up. Faint footsteps plodded towards me from the hallway outside, pausing only to knock on my door twice in a nonverbal 'good morning.' I mentally sighed. This lack of communication was my mother's way to show her disapproval since we fought over my decision to enroll into the 30th Hunger Games two days ago. Ever since I did this nothing was even for the worse; the opposite was true. Just for breakfast, today we had real fresh eggs and sausages delivered to us with a looping manual on cooking playing on the kitchen monitor. Far superior to the artificial, dense pre-packaged beige masses we used to eat. I admit, it wasn't too bad but there are no replacements for real eggs. I thought about father again, who disappeared for reasons I was never told. Mom was always a little unstable after it happened, though I was too young to remember anything. I stumbled to the door after dressing, doing my morning routine with a faint sense of dread. Through the window, the glowing summer light and birds felt as lighthearted as a scene could be, the opposite of what was about to come.
"Mom." What conviction I tried to say it with dissapeared when she turned around with that look on her face. "There's a million other enrollees in Florida. I'm not going to get picked."
"You don't know that. You don't know that!" Already she was hysterical. If I ever met my father, I would ask what he saw in her. "You want to be picked, don't you - I've seen you watching recordings of the 'games' over and over again." She never would call it by the full name, finding it too horrific.
"Times are - no, have already changed. I really don't understand what you find so wrong with the Hunger Games." Her face twitched a little when I said the whole name. "Everyone, me included, volunteers for this. We all agree to do this. Nobody's forcing me to do this, it's not some dystopian regime."
"No," she shook her head, "no. You're wrong. Why doesn't our education educate you on past values and history? You never wondered why we have so few channels on the TV or books about politics or history? Our government banned these, trying to-"
"Enough! Mom, nobody cares about books. What do you see in reading hundreds of pages of text? Frankly, I don't understand that. Nobody does. You and the rest of your generation spouts nothing but conspiracy theories about the government, because you're jealous you didn't live this well when you were young. Am I wrong?"
An alert sounded from the kitchen monitor - it was time for us to leave, me for school and her to the agriculture sector. "I'm through with this Kaya," she hissed at me. "After the choosing tomorrow, you are not putting yourself in danger again. I will decide if eggs and beef for a year isn't worth this risk" She slammed the door on the way out. I never did understand the fear and disdain older people had for the Hunger Games. Did they never watch a full game? As the people alive in the arena dwindle and the adrenaline for fighters and audience alike increase, I could feel everyone's fighting spirit. They truly lived before dying, a feeling I only got by continually watching old broadcasts of past Hunger Games. I grabbed my tablet, filled with the work I needed for school and headed out. No more than thirty feet outside our apartment, the silent-motor train doors opened to transport me to school.
I thought about what my mother complained about. Sometimes I did try to understand her, but I just can't. We really do learn everything important. By the time people leave high school most are ready for work many of the important fields. What else should we learn in school but the tools to provide a society? I know people already certain they want to go down the path of agriculture, electricity generation, building maintenance, medical treatment, infrastructure… what else could a society ask for? The young are trained when they leave school to work, and crime had decreased a hundredfold since last century. People could do what they want, marry whoever they wanted, and move to any state if they had enough money. Virtually everyone lives well in a clean building, even if the morning eggs aren't very good.
Tomorrow was the day of the choosing, just after the last of today's job aptitude tests. The results given back to us showed how what we thought we wanted to do matched our affinity and ability to do it. Many people that wanted to become jobs like Hunger Games commentators instead became article writers analyzing each match or even counterpoint writers, arguing with other people's conclusions. Both of these are sold in bundles together as the most popular text entertainment by far. In general though, people ended up gravitating towards electronics management or construction of some sort. Since those are generally automated, people are just needed to make sure everything is functioning with a small team of people capable to fix machine errors in every city. Rarely, a handful of people would be picked for much more difficult specialized jobs like electronics improvement or state positions. I'm not even sure what people do in politics because like everyone else, I don't pay attention to boring things like news. I had usually been pushed towards the education field which I agreed with, but recently the results had been directed me towards analyzing Hunger Games matches. I wasn't too sure on this, as even though my best writings in English had been hypotheticals about the games I still think I'd rather teach than write. People typically gravitated towards me if they didn't understand something properly and the lecturer's extra-help sessions didn't actually help.
The day after was much like the day before. My mother and I continued to squabble endlessly about her conspiracy theories about the government and my attempts to quell her worrying. Since results for job aptitudes came back the day before and being in 10th grade, our futures seemed to be solidifying and half of the first block of classes allowed students to talk about their feelings. As with every other year it was very happy with people always pretending to be shocked at their results, which felt like an annoying cliché of sorts by now. The group I hung with were an even split between city expansion and transportation management, with one kid being selected for medical research which surprised no one that knew him. At the end of the day, we said our goodbyes and swore to watch the Hunger Games together like last year. I only half heartedly agreed, because every time we did watch them together one smartass always tried to imitate professonal analyzers of the game obviously without ever reading them. Still, it's the highlight of my year and nothing beats trying to predict the winner in a game with 50 two person teams, not that anyone was ever right. I made a mental note to actually tell Alex, the smartass, to shut the fuck up and learn your shit for once when I would see him again.
After school I rushed home to my room's monitor for what I saw as the real benefits in enrolling for the Hunger Games: access to every camera recording for all Hunger Games rather than the standard TV broadcast clip of edited cuts. Data like timelapse maps with fighter positions and lists for every game with each contestant death in order. Perspective shots of the maps and all the analysis of every match for free. Beautiful stuff. For some reason, I never figured out what winning got for the winner, other than survival. Their name and state would be paraded around for a month, but not else was clear because the winners disappeared from public view seemingly forever. A few of the matches weren't very interesting, just two years ago was an arena set in a blizzard-like environment with most of the items being heat-conservation centric. I did like the concept, but it's not hard to see why it wasn't popular to watch people freeze slightly slower than everyone else. The 20th anniversary matchup was one of my favorite matches since it was so simple yet so untraditional - each team started off equally far apart in a huge circle with items of varying usefulness scattered in between them. The twist? Only a few dim light bulbs were in the whole map, with flashlights a rarity. The match went on for 2 months with random events like sudden brightness and random shifts in water levels alongside other weird things. My favorite kill? The third to last, where someone dangled a flashlight from a tree and set up an elaborate 'watchtree' nearby, eventually dropping onto and stabbing an unlucky fighter.
God, the choosing. The countdown reached 1 minute. I thought about the rest of my school and how people would react if any of them were chosen. Would any of my friends care? Would they really care? I'm not sure how I would feel if anyone I knew got picked. I could understand feeling sadness or joy equally, but in the end I know it was always their choice. My blood started to rush as I think about getting chosen. The broadcaster counts down, "Ten!" What if I really did get chosen? "Nine!" Would I react well? "Eight!" What mental preparations would I make? "Seven!" Can any of the theorycrafting of the matches I did help me? "Six!" Calm down. I haven't been picked yet. "Five!" Breath. Breath. "Two!" Shit, only two seconds left? "One, Zero!" I held my breath, almost passing out. "The first contestant… is Charlie Ann Drew, from the Tampa district!" I let out a huge sigh of relief. It makes sense not to happen, since one divided by twenty million is like, basically zero. My mother was sure to rush in at any moment to cry with relief, and to be honest I would probably join her. "The second contestant…" Oh god. My heart was about to explode. "is Kaya Orsan Jackson, from the Orlando district!"
My mother was shaking me to wake up. I had fainted from the stress. "You, you, I told you." She slumped against the wall, clutching me at her chest. "Why… why?"
Before I could respond, the front door opened and a group of suits stepped in, headed by who I assumed to be some important guy, wearing a grin ear to ear. "Congratulations," his smile stretched farther, "you have been picked for the 30th anniversary Hunger Games!" I remember his name now. Brendan Fraser. He was the head of the Hunger Games operation and had the final say to any decisions his committee had on changing anything. The last time I saw him in public was a recording from the early 21st century shaking off reporters. He held out his hand, which I accepted with my shaking pale hands.
My mother whispered, "Don't. Please don't." I was a little embarrassed, but I did understand her.
Whirling around, I did the best show of fake confidence in my life right there and then. "Mom! Listen! I'll win. I guarantee it. Charlie and I will win the 30th Hunger Games." I didn't have a choice anyway. I had to do it. Her face only grew sadder, as if she felt negative implications even in winning.
Brendan Fraser cleared his throat. "Tiana, honey… what are you so sad about? Look how confident my boy Kaya here is! I'm sure he'll do just fine."
Wait what? I questioned, "How do you know my mom?" Implications and possibilities rushed through my head. Someone this important knew my mom?
"Anyway! Time to go." He roughly guided me out the door and into the train. "Listen, do your best. I'll see you on the big screen." He winked, and walked into the next train car. What just happened? Is he like that with everyone? Everyone else followed after him and closed the door, leaving me to sit in silence. What felt like hours passed while thoughts raced in my head. Did it really happen? It felt like a bizarre dream. I never knew such anguish was in the world. I wouldn't ever see eye to eye with my mother on the Hunger Games, but perhaps I understood her a little better now. And speaking of her, what did Brendan Fraser know about her? I fell asleep for what felt like minutes but what could've been hours as the train stopped, gently jerking me awake. The doors opened and in stepped contestant Charlie Ann Drew, followed by Hunger Games committee spokesperson Brad Armstrong and another group of suits, who promptly left him in the car with me, filing into the opposite train car.
"Ah. That happened." His voice was deep and smooth, and he was wearing this weird pepper shirt with various pepper types on it with their respective scovilles, whatever those are. He had a short beard that wasn't on the picture shown on the announcement and seemed anywhere from 12 based on his height to 22 based on his voice.
After staring at his shirt for probably a second too long, I tried to respond. "What… just happened? I think?"
He looked at me like I just said what I said, and noncommittally grunted, sitting across from me. "Shit. Why me? Now we're definitely going to die…" he muttered, while looking down. This was not very encouraging. He looked pretty tough though, so I did my best to comfort him.
"Well, you're not alone." Great, now I revealed I'm even more insecure than he is. I have to fix this. "So, uh, d'you wanna make a plan or anything?"
He fixed his face on me, a bizarre mix of fear, anger, and excitement behind his eyes. "Please. I'd love to, but I honestly remember jack squat from last year's match. It's pretty much up to y—"
"That's okay, that's okay." I cut him off. It really was, since I knew a couple of kids that never bothered even watching any broadcasts, and watching last year's would prove handy. "Here, so last year's arena setting was a thick jungle with wide strips of flat desert running inbetween it. What do you think about surviving this setup?"
Without pausing, "You can see down the strips of desert. With a good pair of binoculars, someone could carefully watch down the whole strip to see people crossing to other parts of the jungle." I started to respond before he continued. "Also, people can hang near the edge of the jungle to ambush people crossing that they can see coming from the desert parts."
Good. Whether he realized or not, those are tactics people used last year. "Right. One of the special events they had was a desert sandstorm at sunset and another was disabling the speakers broadcasting ambience at night. What do you think people would do about this?"
"Well, the sandstorm would make crossing slow but safe, and at night, people would have to be very careful about sound. Actually, the hidden events they had played with these ideas didn't they?" This was good. He had good sense for a general sense of what people would do in multiple situations.
"What do you mean?"
"They caught everyone that didn't find hints off guard. The sandstorm areas would have brightly lit gifts dropped into them and soon after, the winds would die down for a bit. At night, fake sounds would play near people to keep them up and lose sleep."
"Right! So you do remember a lot of last game." I was surprised how accurately he recalled everything. "That's exactly the idea they use every year, the arena counters conventional logic. Sometimes they'll even have unstated weird conditions, like the 23rd match's absurdly lethal abundance of guns. You've seen some of the 20th anniversary game right?"
"I told you, I only watch everything as they're broadcasted."
"Dude, you are missing out. Still, I think this'll help us. The whole map is dark except for a few dim lights with items near them. What will people d—"
"Hearing is much more important than seeing, and I'd wager that nobody really wants to go near the lights because of the sheer risk. Maybe some crazy people, but they probably died. What are the other items?"
"Items are scattered fairly frequently, but there is short brush scattered at random that is hard to walk through. The top items, I think, are the lasers, flashlights, and preloaded crossbows. Going down, there were rope, knives, tasers, lanterns, food, and hundreds of liftable cement blocks everywhere."
Charlie grinned, probably anticipating the match scenarios, and asked the crucial question. "What things did people make with the cement blocks?"
Damn, that was fast. At first, judging by the thermovision cameras, only a handful of people realized the cement blocks were the best resource by building walls. "One lucky girl had made two pillars with a long rope in between them she held constantly. When anyone bumped into the rope, she used a laser she had to pinpoint the fighter while her partner shone a flashlight from farther away so the girl could stab the intruder." Seemingly unimpressed, he motioned with his hands to continue. "Wyoming's remaining guy built a huge pillar going up several feet through a weird tower system. He brought a bunch of food with him alongside the taser he found, but ended up falling off in his sleep and dying after days with broken legs."
"Seriously? That's insane! I love it." He seemed to be genuinely having fun discussing the matches, and I was glad. Nobody usually cared to talk about the fights over just watching them.
"I told you, you were missing out."
"What were the events and other conditions?"
Oh boy. This one was pretty weird. "Well, fighters were told about the darkness, flat land, lack of weather and animals, and increased item drops."
"Alright, what else?"
"What they were not told about included the sudden rises and falls in water level, sprawls of shrubs and trees everywhere, noise echo of the arena, and rare flashes lighting up everything. That girl I mentioned earlier? The Massachusetts overseer used their only move to flash light over the arena, conveniently alerting their fighters about to fall for her trap." He nodded, already knowing what would happen next. "Better armed, they lethally shot her and her partner. By staying in one place basically since the start of the fight, they had no opportunity to get any written hints about the hidden events." I was going to continue with other encounters, but the train stopped, interrupting me.
Charlie spun around, the pepper on the back of his shirt scrunching into a red mass. He suddenly exclaimed, "We're here! The headquarters!" The iconic huge, gleaming blood-red and bone-white building stood there as an imposing figure. The train doors slid open, and we were escorted along the sterile smooth path by silent guards.