It was the end of the Dark Days. Six people sat around a worn table trying to determine the fate of their country. They all wore what might have once been very fancy clothes, but the worn seams and patched holes told a story of disrepair that was echoed in each of their faces. The majority of the argument was taking place between four of the people, the two women and two of the men. The other two men sat silently with their own thoughts.
"We MUST rebuild" the woman with deep wrinkles from multiple piercings declared. Only 2 small earrings remained of the fortune she used to wear. "All of this fighting will have been for nothing if we can't regain our old lives."
"Yes, that must be a priority, but what is the point of rebuilding our old lives if we can't prevent another rebellion?" stated the older man with faded tattoos on the sides of his face. "We can NOT let the same mistakes that let them build this resistance happen again!"
The woman answered back "We destroyed the 13th District, the rebels no longer have an army and they have seen what we can do. They will not fight again."
A second man chimed in. His hair may have been green at one point, but his grey roots had grown out so much that only the tip of his hair had color. "Yes, we have removed the bulk of their military, but the rebellion spanned nearly ALL of the Districts. We cannot assume that they will stay defeated. We must find some way to appease them so they will not WANT to fight again."
The second woman spoke up. She had so many different artificial colors in patterns on her skin, it was impossible to tell whether the dark coloring under her eyes was due to stress or color implants. "So what would you have us do? Feed them our food? Let them sleep on our beds? Do you think that is what they truly want? No! They will not rest until they have our blood!"
The green-haired man argued back "I heard the stories of how even the upper Districts had people starving to death. I heard that safety was not even discussed in their work places. Do you know the mortality rates for District 12 alone? They were more likely to die before the rebellion than they were during the peak of the fighting. We cannot expect them to return to those conditions"
The tattooed-man turned to him in disgust "you sound like a supporter! Do you know how many Capital citizens they killed? Do you know what was done to their prisoners? Do you know HOW they won the battle of District 10? They left out food that was contaminated by pox! Not only did they kill our soldiers, but the disease spread to the nurses and doctors and their families. We lost thousands of our people. Think of the weeks of agony all of those innocents endured before succumbing to the disease before you talk about the rebel's conditions!"
The pierced woman chimed in "Even if we agreed to share our food and improve their workplaces, what do you think would happen then? Do you really think they harvest enough food to feed themselves as well as us? What would you have us tell our children? Yes, we won the war, but now you must learn how to tend a field and feed yourself while the rebels get exactly what they want? No! We cannot bow to their demands. We won, not them! They must be taught that we are stronger than them, BETTER than them."
The colored-woman looked around the table, her gaze lingering on the green-haired man, and said, "so we agree that we will not give the rebels what they want. So then how will we prevent another rebellion? We do have their leaders, so an example can be made. But we must do it carefully, otherwise they will merely become martyrs for the cause."
The tattooed man answered back, "well, it's obvious we can't simply have a public execution. No matter how we go about it, it will only fuel more resistance. We can't simply let them rot in their cells either because then how will we set an example? The rebels will think that there were no consequences to their actions, and that is not acceptable. Basically, we can't kill them, but we can't let the live!"
The colored woman looked at him and said, "wait. say that last sentence again."
He obliged, curiously "we can't kill them, but they can't be allowed to live?"
Her eyes lit up as she said slowly, "we can't kill them. WE can't kill them. So what happens if they kill themselves?"
The table was quiet for a minute as everyone digested what she had just said.
He finally replied, "It would be perfect, it would make it seem that the rebels were merely blood-thirsty and willing to turn on each other without a second's thought. But how exactly do you plan on orchestrating this?"
She scoffed, "It's easy. How do you get two starving dogs to fight? You throw them a bone. Stop feeding them and in two weeks they'll be willing to do anything for a simple loaf of bread."
The blue-haired man looked at her in disgust, "Oh yes, and lets air it for the whole world to see!" Sarcasm dripped from every word. "I can see the advertisements now! 'Come and watch the Hunger Games, the latest entertainment! Watch starving rebel leaders fight for a simple loaf of bread while thousands laugh at their fate!' I know! we could even get people to bet on who will win and give the winner a golden loaf of bread as his trophy. Yes this sounds like a wonderful plan, it won't fuel more fighting at all."
She snapped back, "enough! We have heard enough from you. It's obvious that you care much more for these rebels than anyone should. If you say another word I will personally see that you are arrested for conspiring with the enemy!"
The pierced woman put a hand on the other woman's shoulder and said, "there's no reason to be threatening each other. His motives may be wrong, but he does bring up some good points. If we do this we are showing that we are just as savage as they are. We don't want that, they need to see us as their betters, as their benefactors even. What if, instead of having them fight over one piece of food, we make the winner well off for life. Instead of starving them, let us feed them and show them how better our way is. Then they can fight for who will earn that glory. We will be acknowledging their pain then, not mocking it."
The tattooed man chimed back in again, "you know, that's a thought. Why not show them all of our lifestyle? Not just the food, but the clothing, the rooms, the fashions... everything that makes us Capital citizens. We could bring in all of the big-name stylists, cooks and announcers and make an event of it. We can make it plain to the whole world how we are the civilized ones here. Once the fighting starts, the contrast between savagery and civilization will speak for itself. A public execution that paints the executioners in a good light? People will be talking about it for years!"
She answered back, excitedly, "and who says that this has to be the only time? We could ask for contestants every year. Surely, if the conditions are as bad as we've heard, there will be people eager to risk their lives for a better life. We could remind the world every year of our power and superiority."
The blue-haired man opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the colored woman warned him, "I was not joking about my threat. You will not say anything more."
The pierced woman glared at her before saying "we will NOT threaten each other. If he has something to contribute to the conversation then we will hear him." She turned to him and nodded, "speak."
After a quick glance at the colored woman, he looked back down at the table before saying quietly, "you expect the leaders of the resistance to fight their friends for their own gain. They were willing to die for each other during battle, so why would they fight now? If you must go through with this plan, then appeal to their honor. Do not merely offer them a better life, but also better the lives of their District. That, they would fight for. That's all they were ever fighting for."
The colored woman glared at him and exclaimed, "And now we are back to feeding the Districts from our own pocket! How is this any different from earlier when you said we had to appease them?"
The other woman stated, calmly "we can afford to feed one District for a year. We do not have to promise more than that. It would also give people more reason to volunteer for the Games. If a District gets used to being better fed, then they will not want to give up that luxury at the end of the year."
At this point a third man stood up angrily and leaned on the table, glaring at the other people. He, unlike the others, had no outward signs of previous wealth. He hadn't bothered patching the holes in his worn jacket and he hadn't shaved for weeks. Throughout the conversation he had been fiddling with a small bracelet on his arm. He had begun paying more attention when they discussed executions and he had become visibly agitated when the talk had moved to incentives for the Games.
"How can you talk about helping these people?! You do remember who they are, right?" He spat out with hate laced through every word. "These are the people who ordered the destruction our homes, our livelihoods, our families! And you want to dress them up and treat them like pets! Do you really think that they are going to play along? These are the people who killed our friends, our parents, our children!" His voice cracked on the last word and he paused for a moment, closing his eyes and gripping his bracelet.
When he opened his eyes, everyone could see the raw pain and anger that was barely being controlled. He glared around the table, meeting each person's eyes, before stating in a low voice, "They ordered our children's death, now they should feel our pain."
A shocked silence rung around the table after his declaration. Only the fourth man seemed unruffled by the direction the debate had turned. He was the oldest person in the room with only a large jeweled ring to show his wealth, but he radiated power. He stared at the man in contemplation for a long moment before stating, "what an intriguing idea."
The colored woman gasped and turned to him, "surely you're not seriously considering we execute children!?"
He answered back calmly, "now now, remember. This isn't an execution, it's a Game. Think of the possibilities. There will always be men and women willing to risk their own lives for their cause, but the lives of their children? If we choose one or two children from each District, we would never have to worry about a wide-spread revolt again. How many people would truly be willing to risk the torture our dear colleague is feeling now? And if a few known dissenters just so happen to have the bad luck of their child's name being drawn...well, I'm sure our message will be clear."
The tattooed man spoke next, "Drawn? We're picking names instead of asking for volunteers? How is forcibly taking children from their homes not going to induce riots?"
"They will not fight because of one simple word. Hope. There will still be a winner. There will still be a chance that their child will come home. And this champion, as well as their family, will be treated like royalty for the rest of their life. Add that with a year's worth of food for their District and there will probably still be volunteers. Which we will accept with open arms of course, but we need contributions from all of the Districts for this to truly work. Tributes, if you will. If this is done correctly, with just the right combination of fear and hope, then we will have full control of the Districts for forever."
The pierced woman asked the next question, "But what of the rebel leaders? What should we do with them now that they will not be participating in the Game?"
"Ah, a very good question, but who says they can't participate? After all, there is a very good chance that some of their children will have very bad luck. Why can't the new tributes be mentored by their parents? After all, the rebels do have years of fighting experience. Let's see them use it against each other for a change. And afterwards... I'm sure a few accidents could be arranged..."
He looked at the green-haired man next, waiting for a complaint. The man sat looking at the table with his mouth tightly drawn and tears in his eyes. He merely shook his head when asked, "do you have any contributions?"
The well-dressed man looked around the table once more before declaring, "Very well, it has been decided. This war council is adjourned and let the planning for the first annual Hunger Games begin.
Four councilors stood, bowed their heads and said, "Yes, Mr. President" before filing out the door. They left with looks of acceptance, grim determination and vengeance replacing the hopeless looks they had going into the meeting. They had a plan, it was time to implement it. As the door to the room closed, a single man with faded blue hair leaned on the table and wept silently.