They have been forgotten, left to rot down here in the dark. Since the rebellion ended more and more people keep ending up down here in this dungeon. Waiting while the Capitol decides what to do with them.
It was a year ago when the Capitol began to think of ways to punish the rebels. It wasn't enough to just punish. They wanted their punishment to mean something, they wanted to tear the rebels apart, to stop them even thinking of rebellion. To stop future generations from thinking of rebellion.
Most of the rebels expected to be executed, but the Capitol were cleverer than that. Killing them wouldn't work. Execute the rebels and they die martyrs, still fighting for their cause. The rebels die, their rebellion lives on. Every spark of rebellion had to be stamped out. Extinguished completely and utterly.
He was one of the first. They dragged him to a room full of medical attendants where a man in a lilac and charcoal suit explained what was going to happen, explained that they were going to cut out his tongue to prevent him poisoning other people with his rebellious ideas, that he would spend the rest of his life a slave to the Capitol, never leaving, never able to see his family again.
Then the medical team took over. The pain was excruciating. And the blood. So much blood. He remembered looking at it pouring down his chest and splashing onto the sterile white floor. It's amazing what the human brain focusses on to try and survive. Concentrate on the minutes details, block out everything else.
He had thought there was nothing else they could do to him after that, nothing they did would ever compare. But he was wrong.
When they announced these Hunger Games, they brought a television set down to the cells where they kept their slaves, their avoxes, locked up when they weren't working. Armed peacekeepers guarded it to stop the prisoners from smashing the screen. Anyone caught not watching was instantly killed.
At first the former rebels thought it was a sick joke, designed to get inside their heads and torture them. It wasn't until they watched the so-called 'reapings' that they realised it was for real. They saw their families, their children chosen to die. Not one of the kids wasn't related to the rebels in some way.
That night the cell was full of the sound of broken sobs. From across the passage and through two thick steel doors he could here the sound of women wailing. Clearly it wasn't just the men being forced to watch the Capitol's barbaric revenge.
His daughter had been chosen as the female tribute for District Four. She was only 14 years old, still a child. All he could think about was her tear-streaked face as she clung frantically to her younger brother, not wanting to leave him on his own. The peacekeepers had smashed her brother over the head with a truncheon so he collapsed in a heap in the mud and dragged her away still screaming and crying.
The image of his son lying in a pool of his own blood while his daughter was dragged away by armed peacekeeper haunted his every waking second and returned to plague him in his dreams.
The next evening they were forced to watch the tributes be paraded around the Capitol on chariots, dressed in ridiculous costumes. The children from District Twelve were n***, covered in coal dust and wearing mining helmets. One of the District Twelve rebels broke down in tears and had to be forced to keep watching by some of the other prisoners, to save him from being killed by the armed guards for refusing to watch. It turned out the girl was his daughter.
For days they heard nothing, saw nothing of their children and he began to hope this was all some extravagant form of torture after all. That even the Capitol would never go as far as to murder innocent children. He was wrong.
That evening they were forced to watch a cheerful, excited reporter telling the nation about each of the children, their strengths, their weaknesses and giving them a score out of 12. Anyone who scored a 12 stood a good chance of winning. His daughter only got a score of 3.
He cried himself to sleep that night only to be tortured by dreams about the rebellion and everyone who had been killed, except all their faces had changed into the faces of his children. He woke screaming and covered in sweat.
The next horror the Capitol had lined up for them were interviews. They called each child and made them talk about their families, the Games and their strategy. Were they planning on hunting down the other kids? How good were they with weapons? Had they killed anyone before and were they looking forward to the Games? Watching his little girl stumble her way through the interview with shaking hands and a quivering voice was the worst thing he had ever been forced to endure. All he wanted to do was reach out and hug her, keep her safe, protect her from the bloodthirsty audience already baying for her blood. But he couldn't. He was forced to watch helplessly, unable to do anything to protect her.
Even then some of the prisoners didn't believe the Capitol would go through with it, not really. It was all a joke designed to scare them, they said. Even if they did go through with it, it would be one year. There was no way they would make these Games annual, no matter what they claimed. The children would refuse to kill each other, the Games would fail.
The next morning the television screen showed a beautiful, wide meadow covered with lush green grass and dotted with flowers. In the middle was a huge golden horn full of food and weapons, surrounded by 24 podiums. On each podium stood a child. Above the horn a giant clock began to count down 60 seconds.
In terror one little boy tried to leap off his podium and run away. He didn't get far. The moment he set foot on the grass land mines around the podium blew him sky-high, covering the other tributes in splatters of blood and gore.
No one was in any doubt after that. The Capitol meant for all but one of these children to die.
They watched in stunned horror as innocent children turned into monsters and butchered each other for a handful of supplies. The huge boy from District Two killed the beautiful girl from District Nine, the quiet, awkward girl from District Three brutally stabbed the boy from District Eleven, the boy from District Four clubbed the boy from District Twelve...
Half way through one man turned away and refused to watch. The peacekeepers shot him and left his body lying where it fell. No one else dared to look away.
By the time the tributes had dispersed fourteen of the twenty-four were dead.
His daughter survived another four days until she encountered the boy from District Two. He was brutal and skilled, far stronger than the little girl. She didn't stand a chance. Her terrified screams were cut suddenly short as his sword drove into her chest.
Sat in a dark cell staring at the television screen, her father felt his heart shatter into a million pieces.
That was a year ago. In his dreams he still hears her screaming, sees her running from her murderer and is powerless to help her. And it is all about to begin again.
When the door opens and the television set is wheeled into the room again, he realises suddenly that they were wrong. This is never going to stop. The Capitol want blood, they want revenge, they want the districts to live in fear. It doesn't matter if they murder the innocent, it doesn't matter if a hundred years pass, the Hunger Games will never stop.
All he can think about as the screen flickers into life is his son. His little boy, somewhere out there in the crowd. He turned 12 last week.
Hello and welcome to the second annual Hunger Games ;)
Ok, this is my first SYOT. I've read loads but this is my first attempt at writing one so...
This is not a first-come, first-served, I'll pick the tributes I think have the best personalities etc. The deadline is 1st March... If I don't have any tributes I will extend it :D Please submit one if you feel like it.
I am planning on writing 3 prologues, one probably on Sunday and one on 1st of March, hopefully with the tribute list.
The submission form etc. is on my profile :)
Quote in summary from 1984 by George Orwell.