Twisting, turning, growing, shrinking. The walls are closing in—no, they are only shifting. A shadow passes over the corridor, and a scream sounds from far away. The descent into madness has only just begun. Welcome to the 127th Hunger Games.

Blitz Maverick, 31, District 1 - Victor of the 114th Hunger Games

He stumbles into the room, some nameless girl's lips attached to his neck.

He barely manages to push the door closed, not even bothering to turn on the lights, as they frantically stagger toward the king bed. He's supposed to be at a meeting with the other victors in a half hour, but he figures a quickie's never hurt anybody before.

The young woman pushes him backwards onto the mattress with a giggle, pressing her hands to his chest and fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. She's just beginning to lean toward him when the room is engulfed in fluorescent light.

"What the f—" He sits up at lightning speed, so quickly that the girl nearly trips on her heels as she lets out a shriek of surprise. "Veneera?"

The other woman is standing by the light switch, arms crossed and a frown tugging at her perfectly-plucked eyebrows. "Hi, Blitz."

He sends the girl away with muttered words and a flick of his wrist. She sighs but doesn't resist, slipping out the door and shooting Veneera a reproachful look as she goes. Once the door closes behind her, Blitz sits up on the bed and attempts to flatten his mussed ebony curls. "Care to explain why you're in my bedroom, Veneera?" he says exasperatedly.

She only quirks an eyebrow, her full lips twitching upwards as she flicks her impeccable auburn hair over one shoulder. "I wanted to talk to you."

"Then why not do it in a less... stalkerish way?"

When she smiles, her teeth shine like the blades of her beloved knives. "Well, any other way would be a bore, don't you think?"

Blitz sighs, knowing that arguing with her will only add to the frustration. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he addresses her again. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

Her smile grows impossibly wider. "I want to mentor with you."

Octavian Slater, 25, District 2 - Victor of the 120th Hunger Games

"You want to mentor with me?"

He shrugs. "Well, yeah. You're one of the best living victors in the district's history."

Cinder narrows her eyes at him. "Kid, I'm fifty years old. Outdated."

"So?" he says. He's always been stubborn. Spoiled, even. The son of a victor and a Peacekeeper, his life has been stable from the day he was born.

"So, why not ask someone younger?" Cinder suggests. "That Cleo girl was impressive, and she's only a few years older than you. Hell, why not ask your mom—"

"Cinder, we're in a dry spell!" he argues, trying not to lose his temper. "I'm the most recent victor, and it's been seven years. Seven! You mentored me and I won, so I want you to mentor this year."

Most districts don't have the capability for a mentor system, but with District 2's constant inflow of victors, it's a luxury they can afford. The most recent victor is offered the chance to mentor, and should they choose to accept the offer, are allowed to select another victor of their choosing to co-mentor that year's tributes. District 1 apparently has a similar system, but Octavian doesn't know much about it.

It's his first year accepting the offer. He had a good feeling about this one. And he wants Cinder by his side.

"Cinder, please," he says, grey eyes wide. "Just one year, it's all I ask."

The older woman looks at him for a long moment, then sighs as she runs a hand through her short salt-and-pepper hair. "Fine, kid. But don't get used to it."

Octavian pumps his fists in the air. "Cinder, this is our year."

Bit Strata, 43, District 3 - Victor of the 101st Hunger Games

Bit looks at Elec, bored. "You think this is our year?" she echoes. "Elec, we haven't seen a victor since you in the hundred-third. We are literally the only two victors alive."

The man rolls his eyes. "Yeah, for now," he says. "You're on your way out, Bitsy. We need another victory. I don't want to have to do this on my own."

She stares at her cousin, a pang of sadness slicing through her chest. She almost wishes she didn't tell him about the illness, because it's all he ever seems to think about now. Then again, who else was she supposed to tell? No living family other than him, and no other victors to confide in. She's long-since admitted to herself that she's a rather lonely individual. "Has anyone ever told you that you're incredibly naïve for a forty-year-old?"

"I'm optimistic."

"They're interchangeable."

"Better than being a pragmatic eighty-year-old at heart."

Bit sighs, rolling her eyes and standing from her chair. "You can hope for a victor all you want, El," she says, "but don't get all heartbroken when it doesn't happen."

With that she pads out of the parlor and out the front door, heading across the street to her own home. She pretends not to hear the muttered, "Bitch," from her cousin as she leaves.

Nettie Reed, 21, District 4 - Victor of the 124th Hunger Games

Juggling grocery bags, she climbs the stairs of her home in the Village, careful on the last one—she still needs to fix that loose stone—as she enters the house.

"Mom," she calls, her voice bouncing off of the nearly-empty walls. Her mother always complains that her house doesn't feel lived-in enough, but Nettie always shuts her down—"I'm a minimalist, mother,"—with a shake of her head.

She frowns when there's no familiar lilt from upstairs, no smell of lobster from the kitchen. "Mom?" she calls again, this time with a question in her tone.

"In here, Nettie."

It comes from the dining room, uncharacteristically soft. Nettie's frown deepens as she sets the bags down in front of the door, brushing a brunette curl away from her face as she stalks toward the sound of her mother's voice. Instinctively she fiddles with the switchblade in the pocket of her jeans, ready for anything as she rounds the corner to see her mother, seated amongst Nettie's fellow victors, Gil, Marina, and Aegea, and across from somebody she thought she would only ever see on special occasions.

Her eyes narrow.

"What's the president doing here?"

Joule Solaris, 53, District 5 - Victor of the 90th Hunger Games

"She's here to make an offer."

He looks at Baryon incredulously, still refusing to sit down. "What kind of offer?" he asks his husband.

Baryon shrugs. "I don't know. Ask her."

Joule looks again at President Cordelia Revere, sitting in his arm chair as if she owns the place. Which, technically he supposes she does, but still. She looks back at him cryptically, her thin lips pulled into a tight smile and her thin, jet-black hair falling ramrod-straight over her shoulders. He doesn't like the way her golden eyes gleam in the afternoon sunlight.

"Hello, Joule," she says, her voice smooth and crisp. Rehearsed.

"Madam President," he says as respectfully as he can, bowing his head slightly. "How can I help you?"

Her lips stretch even wider across her pale face, giving her a rather ghastly appearance. "I'm so glad you asked, Mr. Solaris."

Beatrix Cabman, 36, District 6 - Victor of the 106th Hunger Games

"Hell no."

"Bea!"

"What?" She whips around to face her mother, green eyes flashing dangerously.

"You can't speak to the president in such a way!" her mother scolds, and Bea scoffs incredulously.

"Mother, did you not hear what she said?" She turns back to the president as an idea dawns on her. "Does Somerled know about this? He's a victor, too, so you must have told him! What did he say?"

President Revere doesn't even blink, standing straight as a board in her all-crimson pantsuit. Bea doesn't like the way she watches them, as if she can see into their deepest thoughts. She suppresses a shiver.

"Ms. Cabman, I implore you to consider my offer," Revere says coolly, her voice unwavering. "I don't need an immediate decision. Just... sleep on it."

Elmer Dogwood, 46, District 7 - Victor of the 99th Hunger Games

"You don't have time to sleep on it," he snaps, downing another shot of alcohol before slamming the glass onto the table with unnecessary force. "Either we have a deal, or we don't."

"Elmer, what you're asking of me is—"

"I know what I'm asking of you, Polonius."

"Then surely, you must—"

Elmer glares at the Capitolite, effectively shutting him up. He swears, these people get more stupid by the minute. "You're the goddamn Head Gamemaker, Polonius," he growls, leaning in closer to the man. The jagged scar running from the inner corner of his eyebrow, diagonally across his now-clouded eye, and all the way to his jaw seems to have the desired intimidation effect, because soon enough Polonius is nodding frantically.

"Fine, fine! I-I'll see what I can do. But I'm not promising you anything!"

Elmer leans back in his chair, replacing his scowl with a leisurely smile. He calls for another drink, his eyes not leaving the man in front of him. "I knew you'd come around," he drawls as another shot glass materializes before him. "I'll see you very soon, old friend."

Polonius's face grows slightly purple, almost matching his hair, before he slips out of his chair and power-walks out of the bar. Elmer chuckles to himself, shaking his head and downing the shot.

Suddenly Magnolia is beside him, frowning at him like he's crazy. "What was that about?" his fellow mentor asks.

Loden Jacquard, 56, District 8 - Victor of the 89th Hunger Games

"Nothing, it was nothing!"

Loden sighs, out of breath as he leans against the doorway and watches his sister, who waves him off as if she wasn't just having another coughing fit. It's gotten worse, he's noticed. Deeper in her chest. More rattling. It's bad enough that she's bedridden, but now the cough has progressed?

He's getting scared.

"Don't you have a meeting to get to?" asks Poly, her voice hoarse.

Loden shrugs. "They can wait. Not like there's another victor lying around that we need to talk to."

And it's true. District 8 is one of the only districts with a sole surviving victor. It's District 8 along with 5, 11, and 12. It's embarrassing, really, but generally unsurprising. It's also rather unsettling that he's grown so old. He knows that he doesn't have much time left, himself. District 8 needs a new victor, and soon.

Another fit of coughing snaps Loden out of his reverie, and he gazes at his sister with concern in his eyes. "I'm really starting to worry about you, you know."

Amara Caulfield, 26, District 9 - Victor of the 116th Hunger Games

She rolls her eyes. "I'm fine, Gar. I'm not a kid. You don't need to worry about me."

Garrick lets out a long-suffering sigh, as if she's inconveniencing him. As if she didn't just walk in on him hogging her kitchen. "Amara, I'm not an idiot," he says. "You've been away for longer periods of time. You're losing weight. You're defensive and you're irritable and—"

Amara scowls at the older man, rubbing her eyes and probably smudging last night's makeup even worse. "You know, calling someone defensive and irritable will only make them more defensive and irritable."

And it's true. She is extremely irritated by Garrick right now. He seems to think that just because he's ten years older than her he's her father or something. She may be an orphan, but she doesn't need a parental figure. She's done just fine all her life, thank you very much. What harm do a few extra nights at the Capitol clubs even do, anyway?

"We need to focus on these Games, Amara," Garrick continues as if he didn't hear her. "Polonius Redfern says that he's doing something different this year, something less physically challenging. So that means what, something more mentally challenging?"

"Who. Cares."

"See, this is why we haven't had a victor in twelve years. Because you don't care!"

"And why should I?" Amara retorts, suddenly fuming. The ignorance of some people is astounding. "This district has done nothing for me. I grew up on the streets, penniless, parentless, working in fields twenty-four-seven just to pay for a loaf of bread. I'm so sorry, Garrick, that we can't all be the mayor's son!"

He shuts up at that, and for a moment Amara thinks she's won. But then his eyes turn cold, his gaze steely. "Feeling sorry for yourself will get you nowhere," he says, his voice disconcertingly steady. "You have a life right now that people can only dream of."

She huffs, shooting him her best glare. "Well, maybe I don't want it."

Herd Fowlman, 30, District 10 - Victor of the 115th Hunger Games

"Oh, come on, you know you want it!" he says, eliciting a giggle from the infant that currently lays in its crib. Herd's smile grows as Ajax reaches his tiny, pudgy hands up toward the rattle his father dangles over him.

"Will you stop torturing the poor child?"

Herd turns, the smile not leaving his face, to see Sable leaning against the nursery's door frame. Her dark, ringlet curls frame her freckled face beautifully, a soft smile playing at her lips.

"Oh, come on, we're having a great time!" he protests playfully as his wife pushes away from the door, walking toward him with leisurely-crossed arms. She comes to rest against his chest, and Herd's arms immediately wrap around her tiny frame. He's always loved how perfectly Sable fits against him. Ever since they were children, growing up in neighboring ranches, he's wanted to hold her like this.

"We're gonna miss you while you're away, you know."

Herd leans down, presses a kiss to Sable's forehead. "It's only a few weeks, you know that. I'll be back before you even realize I'm gone."

She smiles up at him, and his heart flutters. "Merona and the kids will be here soon, won't they?"

"Yeah, probably. We should start dinner."

It's been the same every year since Merona's won. As Herd and Merona are the only living victors of District 10, they've been mentoring together since he was 19 and she was 17. It's only a coincidence that Merona is Sable's childhood best friend, and as a result, there is always a dinner hosted between the two victors' families the night before the Reapings. Every other year it alternates between homes, and this year it's the Fowlmans'.

Out of the blue, Ajax giggles from his crib. Her looks down at Sable, who looks up at him, and then they burst out laughing.

"Looks like someone else is getting hungry, too."

Juniper Shea, 49, District 11 - Victor of the 95th Hunger Games

"We can't let that happen, though!" she exclaims, nearly pacing a trench in the floor. "We can't let them all go hungry!"

"Juniper, please—"

"I thought I had enough funds!"

"Prices are going up—"

"So what, you want me to just cut off the supply to the orphanage? The hospital?"

Her brother sighs, shrugging desperately. "I don't know what to tell you, June. It was easier when Cane was still around, but you can't split funds anymore. You're the only victor left, and that means less money to put toward the things you want."

Juniper laughs humorlessly, presses the heels of her palms into her eyes as she tries to fight the tears burning her eyes. What's she supposed to do now? All her years of funding, of donating, of helping her district, are being cut short. What is she going to tell everyone? How is she going to tell everyone?

"June, it's okay," her brother tries to reassure her. "They'll understand. You've been nothing but kind and generous to them. They couldn't hate you if they tried."

"You don't know that!"

"I do. But, if it helps... well, you need another victor. Someone who can help you with the funding. Whoever you end up mentoring this year, they need to win."

Juniper considers this. After Cane's unfortunate death a little over a year ago, she's been stuck with all of the victor's duties to herself. Not that she minds, of course—what kind of victor would she be if she didn't use her money and status for good?

What her brother says is true. District 11 needs another victor.

"You're right," she says with a single nod. "It's the only way to save them."

Ora Collier, 50, District 12 - Victor of the 93rd Hunger Games

"There's always another way."

President Revere shakes her head, her face still completely stoic. "I'm afraid, Ms. Collier, that in this instance there is not."

Ora sighs, runs a hand down her face. "Do the other victors know?"

"Some, yes."

"And are they on-board?"

Revere purses her lips, the first sign of emotion since she showed up knocking on Ora's door. "I'm afraid I can't disclose that information."

Ora snorts. "Figures."

"Ms. Collier," continues Revere, clearing her throat and crossing one skeletal leg over the other. "What I'm offering you could be a chance to make history. To change Panem as we know it, and for the better. Isn't that something you'd like?"

Ora narrows her eyes at the woman before her. With all of their technology, it's very possible for Capitol citizens to appear younger than they really are, but something tells Ora that Cordelia Revere is just as young as she looks—which is much younger than herself. And here she is, speaking to her so patronizingly, as if Ora is the child.

And so she makes her decision.

"Thank you for the tempting offer, Madam President," she says, splitting her face with a smile that doesn't quite reach her blue eyes. "But I refuse."

Revere nods stiffly and rises from her chair without arguing. "Very well, Ms. Collier," she says. When she smiles, thin-lipped and golden-eyed, she appears almost feline. "I will see you very soon. Have a wonderful evening." And without another word, she turns and she leaves.

Ora sighs, collapsing back in her chair and pressing her fingers to her now-aching head.

Let the Games begin.

Hello!

Basically I started an SYOT a while back, but then life came and punched me in the face and I was literally gone for like eight years, so I decided to scrap the old one and restart with something completely new!

Anyway, I've got things way more organized this time. I have a clear picture of what the arena will look like. I used Google Forms instead of a simple copy-and-paste method. I'm planning on setting up a site/blog for the story. Life's good.

So yeah. The link to the Google Form will be on my profile. I tried to make it as painless-yet-detailed as possible, so hopefully that works out.

This will not be a first-come, first-serve SYOT. I'm making the submission deadline December 31st, unless more time is needed. However, if I receive what I believe to be an extensive amount of submissions, I may choose to cut it off early. We'll see what happens!

So, good luck everyone, and may the odds be ever in your favor. I'm really looking forward to seeing all of your lovely tributes!