President Gaius Snow smiled as he stood on the balcony, the breeze rippling his freshly cut graying black hair. The doctor had hesitantly instructed him to wait outside while the baby was delivered. There was not enough room in the small bedroom for him. Tullia had chosen to give birth to their son in the room which Gaius had been born. It was dwarfed by all the other rooms in the palace, but Tullia loved it. The room next door had been fashioned into a nursery for their son.
Gaius' mind was elsewhere, though. Outside the splendor of the Captiol, war was being waged. The Districts were pushing against the might of the Captiol. Gaius knew that the war would be won by his side; they only had one more rebel base to crush. District 13.
But the Districts needed a punishment, Gaius thought, one different from complete obliteration. District 13 could be done away with; it would be better if nuclear weapons were on low supply after the rebellion. But the others Districts, they were all needed to keep the beast of Panem alive.
District 1 was the eyes, District 2 was the bones, District 3 was the brain, District 4 was the gills, District 5 was the liver, District 6 was the limbs, District 7 was the lungs, District 8 was the fur, District 9 was the mouth, District 10 was the horns, District 11 was the stomach, and District 12 was the fuel. Without these things, Panem would stumble, fall, and perish. But there were other ways of punishment. The death of a select few. But executions wouldn't do. A few hundred more rebels killed would do nothing.
Gaius turned as the glass doors opened and the doctor stepped out.
"Your son has been born," the doctor said shakily. "Tullia is waiting."
Gaius pushed the doctor to the side and walked into the room. Tullia, smiling, was sitting in the large bed, holding a blue bundle. Gaius knelt by her side and stroked the baby's head with his thumb.
"What shall we name him?" Tullia whispered.
"Coriolanus," Gaius muttered. "After your grandfather."
And as Gaius stared upon his newborn son, little Coriolanus Snow, he had the perfect idea of how to punish the Districts pop into his mind.
...
"You want me to do what?" Cicero Avitsio asked, totally shocked.
"Design an arena," Gaius said, leaning back in his large leather chair.
"Are you sure we have the resources?" Cicero inquired. "The war has decimated our supplies, and our workforce is crippled."
"Build. An. Arena," Gaius growled.
"May I ask for what purpose?"
"I will send you plans. They have not been fully formulated yet."
"Alright, sir," Cicero muttered. "Where will this arena be built?"
"In the northern forests, just outside the farthest reaches of District 7," Gaius commanded. "You will also be given 25 skilled designers, hundreds of workers, and unlimited supplies. I will send you a letter by midday tomorrow, Cicero. Now leave me."
Cicero followed his orders and marched out of the office of the President.
...
Cicero was sitting stiffly in his small garden. His wife attempted to comfort him, but it was to no avail. She wanted to read the letter, see what bothered him, but he could not let her. His eyes drank up the words again. They looked like harsh burns on a sheet of pale skin.
Dear Cicero Avitsio,
You wished to know what I want you to do. You are the most gifted designer in all of Panem, but you do not have much of a stomach for war or death. Because I did not want your bile on the new carpet of my office, I have decided to draft a letter to you explaining what I will do with the arena you are to build.
2 children, one male, one female, between the ages of 12 and 18 from every District will be chosen to participate in a fight to the death. The last girl or boy standing will be declared Victor and will be glorified and given the riches of an average Capitol citizen and fame much beyond that. This bloody competition will be televised across the entirety of Panem. They will watch their children die. It will be a competition to punish the Districts for their rebellion. It will last indefinitely.
I will need an arena, several miles wide and long, to be built to house the 24 children as they battle to the death. You and your team will be able to come up with ways for the tributes to get weapons and such. A design center has been provided for you, on the corner of Avacary and Roope. Tomorrow, you team will be waiting there. I have faith in you, Cicero. This competition will not disappoint.
Farewell,
President Gaius Decimus Snow
Cicero crumpled the letter and swallowed before holding his wife close to his chest. He would be working late for the next several weeks.
...
Cicero arrived at the design center, a large, ovular cement building that towered over the residential buildings around it. He walked through the automatic doors, and his team of 25 was waiting for him.
There was only one room, which had a ceiling four stories above their heads. Hundreds of screens and stations crowded the giant room. It was a designer's greatest dream. A large team and a huge work station.
The 26 of them sat at a giant table in the middle of the chamber. Cicero sat at one end. His second in command, named Marilla Esse, sat at the other end. The 24 others sat on the other two long sides.
"So, we have much work to do," Cicero announced. "I assume President Snow has sent you letters outlining our job?"
25 heads nodded slowly, and Cicero took a deep breath in.
"The job is surely gruesome, but it is necessary to punish the Districts for their actions. They have acted out and wasted thousands of lives for a useless cause. They must be reprimanded, and reprimanded harshly. This is the only way, in President Snow's eyes."
The table nodded, and then Cicero picked up a remote. The biggest screen flashed to life, and he pulled up a virtual map of Panem. He zoomed in on a spot just outside the border of District 7.
"This spot of evergreen forest is where our arena will be located. President Snow has sent hundreds of workers up to the area, and they are waiting for our basic blueprints. We must begin immediately, if we are to meet the President's deadline of eleven months from now."
And they began to design, at that moment. Hundreds of trees were to be cut down, to make a triangular clearing in the center of the arena. Dirt would be added to raise the clearing up, like a stubby plateau. Ringed around the edge of the clearing would be 24 pedestals, where the tributes would stand, and in the middle the weapons would be thrown about. Some wanted a structure to hold them, like a building, while others wanted them to be strewn about. They put aside that issue and added two small creeks and a pond to the blueprints. Then Marilla thought of something.
"What if we had beasts?" she asked. "Maybe not all the time, but we could add them at some point. To add excitement. It is a television program, after all. President Snow had a private conversation with me; he plans for it to be entertainment for the Capitol as much as it is punishment for the Districts. We need to add an entertainment facet to it."
"I like the idea of creatures," Cicero said, noting it. The group worked for hours, and Cicero went home late. He knew that this process would be tiring, almost excruciating.
...
It had been five months since President Snow had instructed Cicero to design the arena. He was currently on an armored hovercraft with Marilla and two other main designers named Galla and Philo. Snow had given them the title of "Gamemaker." He had also named the competition the Deadly Games.
The hovercraft slowly descended. The hovercraft glided over an active lumbermill. Cicero could see some workers cowering as they flew over. Probably war broiled workers, used to ducking whenever the sounds of a hovercraft engine permeated the sky.
Eventually the hovercraft crossed over a tall electric fence that encased District 7, and then it landed on a runway. It puttered to a stop, and Cicero, Marilla, Galla, and Philo stepped out.
The creaking of machinery and the hammering of nails rang through the air. Up ahead, about a quarter mile away, the half finished dome of the arena hung in the air like the claws of an angry beast. Once it was completed, the dome would seem to be invisible, but it would keep the children inside. If they tried to escape, they would be electrocuted and killed.
In four months, the Deadly Games would be announced. In six months, the choosing of the players, or tributes, as President Snow called them, would occur. And a week after that, the Deadly Games would begin.
They rode in an armored vehicle to the arena. Workers were slaving nearby, but the Capitols ignored them, their fancy clothing and exotic looks out of place in this place.
They drove to the clearing, where the structure that would hold the weapons stood. It was a small silver step-pyramid with holes in several places where weapons and supplies would be placed. Smaller weapons, like daggers, and more supplies would be scattered around the base of the step-pyramid, and bags with minimal supplies would be scattered in successive rings around the step-pyramid. Trees rose around the clearing. They visited the brooks, visited the pond, and visited two new additions; a hilly region and a small chasm that arched along the west, curved side of the arena. It was coming along nicely. It would be finished before three months was up. After that, it was all about beautifying it, setting up the entertainment aspects, and preparing the Capitol for the arrival of tributes. Everything was on schedule.
Cicero and the others left several hours later, riding back to the Capitol in the sleek black hovercraft.
...
Cicero sat in the auditions room. 45 people were trying out for two spots as "news anchors" of sorts for the Games. A particularly plump woman, with a screechy voice, was quickly dismissed. Cicero, Marilla, and the six entertainment designers argued over their picks, and then two people were chosen.
"Faustina LeBoreaux and Toulouse Edwards!" Marilla announced, and the chosen stepped forward, smiling. Faustina was a tall, skinny woman with hair dyed the color of orange juice and a bubbly persona, and Toulouse was a gruff, muscular Capitol with a thick voice and an endearing smile.
"And now, auditions for the escorts!" Marilla groaned tiredly. The doors clicked open, and about sixty carbon copies of Faustina crowded into the audition room.
"Panem help us," Cicero muttered.
...
A month away from the Reapings, as the picking of the tributes had been dubbed by Marilla. The Deadly Games were soon to begin. The layout had been set.
First, the Reapings. Then, they would be brought to the Capitol. They would be cleaned up. They would ride in chariots as a welcome to the Capitol. They would have interviews. Then they would train for 3 days and be evaluated on the 4th day. Then they would be sent into the arena.
Cicero felt like decades had passed, but it had only been 10 or so months. Soon, his work would have to begin again; after the Games, the second Games' arena was to be built. Cicero realized he had locked himself in a tiring, never ending cycle.
Everything was aligned. Everything was ready. He was coming home earlier; his wife was happy. She was pregnant. Their baby was due in 4 months. He fell back into normal life, for a while.
And then it was time for the Reapings.
...
A/N: So hey! I am being crazily ambitious and I am starting a series to catalog all of the Hunger Games, 1-73! There is probably no way I will get all 73, but I will definitely finish this one! I hope you enjoy this prologue/background about how the Games came to be. Reapings should be up soon! Enjoy!
-Tracee