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I had this awesome idea while rereading the Hunger Games.
The Fox darted in and out, dancing through her home of trees and bushes. She twirled and spun, taunting the Makers of her home to drive her out. She stumbled in her dance when a innocent, pure voice called out.
"Katniss?" The Baker studied an object—not bread ready to be served to sullen-eyed crowds, but a berry. As dark as the night is.
The Fox stared at the peculiar creature—older than her, but much more innocent. Softer. She kept staring, and her upturned nose sniffed at the dark berry. Her unblinking pools of amber studied the berries. They were poison, the Fox knew. Foxes know, foxes are sly.
The Fox crept closer to the pile when the Baker drifted into the next hollow. Waiting for his uneven footsteps to confirm that it was safe. Out of pure curiosity, the Fox picked up the dark berry. Her death in one bite, a good plan for suicide. The Fox stuffed serval berries into a small bottle—one of her small sponsor gifts—and capped it. She might be using the bottle later, on her or on someone else.
A twig snapped, letting out a loud noise into the once still forest, and she flinched. The Fox's gaze flew to wear she heard the noise, and a blonde lumber into the clearing as soon as the Fox dove soundlessly behind a bush.
The silly Baker kept picking poison, picking his death.
The Fox slipped away from the Baker, but she didn't slip away fast enough to see him raise the innocent looking berry to his lips. Boom! One more cannon, one more down, one step closer to the crown.
(The Fox also knew that three were left. The Fire, the Hunter, and the Farmer)
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The Hunter hated wheat fields. His golden hair was dulled in the relentless rain, and stuck to his neck. He was tracking the Farmer in the expanse of wheat near the Cornucopia. Plants that once promised life will now cradle a death, water once meant for purity will run with the color of blood. A death not of the Hunter. A death of the Hunter's humanity.
The Farmer came like a demon—swooping up from Hell to capture his love. The dark skin contrasting with his lovers fair one. The green eyes open and housing an alien emotion—fear. Her screams penetrating the air, holding a scared feeling so light it killed all the dark in her—hope. The Hunter was ready for revenge. Revenge for the Knife, and revenge for him. The Farmer will pay in blood. Lots of blood pouring and mixing with the falling rain.
(The Hunter knows there are three left too—he sees the Baker in the sky. Smiling down, and he just smirked and muttered, "Lover boy.")
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The Fire might've been sad. The girl stood in the midst of a hollow, surrounded by the trees that watched the Baker die, the mockingjays that cry a farewell sing, and golden sun that kissed the Baker goodbye. The Fire doesn't feel sadness, she felt disappointed. Like the Baker was a kind soul, and he was her last hope on that cold, rainy day—but he wasn't her lover. A lover wouldn't say to the many crowds before her. He was just a tool, a tool to get to the top.
The Fire does feel some remorse at the sight of the hovercraft taking the kind soul not to heaven—but a dark box of mahogany. His gold hair reflexed the sun, another sign of purity. Her dark hair just absorbs the goodness of the sun, but doesn't return it. Like her dark soul—only her and her sister were of importance. Selfishness.
In one last try to find closure, the Fire lifted three fingers to her lips and kissed them. Extending her arm forward. A forgotten gesture meaning goodbye to a loved one. One she did for the Flower, when her parting was near. One she does now for the Baker, the lover, the boy with the bread. Her last hope was gone, and she could do nothing about it. Though others will insist she could've done something.
It wasn't her fault the Baker was scaring off the game, it wasn't her fault she sent him away (it was for the best of them right?), it wasn't her fault he didn't spend time at the edible plants station. It wasn't her fault! But why did she feel so guilty?
(The Fire didn't know that it was the Fox's fault. But neither did the Fox)
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The Maker of this Game stood above clean, white room—his kingdom. Not a speck of blood could be found in the neat expanse, unlike the Game they made. In this Game there was blood, lots of blood. Currently two giants circled each other, one dark as night and one as light as the day. But their souls were polar opposites of their looks. The Shadow and the Light, the Farmer and Hunter. It was like a fairytale, they were fighting. Good against bad, and over a girl. But a dead girl.
Sword clashed with rock, there was an obvious victor from the start. The Hunter had a sword, and a longing to avenge the Knife. It was the gleam in his eye, the sheer wrongness of slicing the dark shadow into tiny pieces. The delicate cuts done by the same jewel encrusted knife the Knife had favored.
Below the Maker's glass outcrop, the subjects of the his kingdom gathered in clusters, discussing what would become of the Hunter, Fire, Farmer, and Fox. Clad in white (innocence), but they had blood on their hands as much as the Hunter did. The Maker smiled, this was his kingdom.
Though it wasn't really his. The glass and concrete kingdom was on lone to him. By a ruler who was as cold as ice, and just as sharp. This kingdom was not even a kingdom, but a province to serve the King—the Snow. He ruled the unreal, colorful city that lay outside of the stainless steal walls. He ruled the Game the Maker had created. He ruled the little works of the Districts to the scientists below him. He ruled him, the Maker was an artist, but he was not free.
(But he did know that one shot of a bullet would set him truly free)
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The Hunter was drenched in blood. It was everywhere: in his hair, eyes, clothes, boots, planted to his skin. The red substance was a mix of his and also from the whimpering dark shadow in front of him. The Hunter didn't let the demon die (that would be to merciful), but kept cutting into his dark skin until the Farmer was more blood than skin. Nothing fatal, but enough for pain.
The Hunter grinned at the cameras, a gesture that would haunt Capital kids for years to come. He raised the knife (his lover's favorite weapon) and brought it down, hard. It priced the shadow's skin, but the Farmer didn't scream. He only flinched, and that didn't bring much satisfaction to the Career. He wanted tears, screams, pleads for death. Pleas for death!
He kept stabbing away, more blood mixing with the downpour. More red than gold, more good than bad. He wanted screams! In the Hunter's anger, he didn't realize that he brought the knife down to close to the heart. Boom!
The Farmer showed up in the night sky. A face uncut, a face with the slightest trace of a smile.
The Hunter wanted the Knife to see him. He would give anything to feel her lips on his again.
(The Hunter didn't know that he got his wish later on)
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The Fox was willing to give up. She say the Farmer's face in the sky, his unblinking eyes, and dark skin. She knew that he was the painless way out, she knew that the Hunter was cruel as well as the Fire was. Foxes know. But she was a fox (cunning, sly, ambitious), with healers hands.
The Fox let some strands of hair fall into her eyes, as she diligently ground up her herbs she picked into fine powers in the cold cave. The Fox's teeth chattered at how cold the night was, her thin jacket wasn't enough to trap in the heat. A laugh gurgled from the depths of her stomach. Then she was full blown laughing. Laughing at the pure irony of it all. She stole, she cheated the Careers, but she didn't get a blanket! One simple blanket!
Soon the red head was rolling on the stone cold floor—laughing. She laughed harder and harder as she slipped into insanity. Deeper and deeper, the rain drowned out her cries of happiness. The night passed, the stars looked down at the Fox with unblinking rays. Judging her laugher, calling her insane.
(And they weren't quite wrong)
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The Maker decided it was time. He called to his subjects from his glass balcony of his rented kingdom. He was ready to end this Game, end it—for now. He called out in faithful tones reminding them of their privilege of working for the Game before asking them to serve the final blow. He asked Lady Reyna to gather the dog mutts and drive them to the Golden Horn. He asked them to ready the sound of death. He asked them to not eat or leave his kingdom until a they were finished. He asked of Dogs to drive the Fire and Fox to their death. He asked them to give the Hunter a small advantage. He asked them to end this Game, and to end it well.
(It did end well for some, but not all)
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In a "dead" District people clad in gray stare up at the screen. They have all their hope set up on the Fire, the Fire just live to start the Inferno. To Spark, and the leader of the kingdom of gray steps forward to address the mass of people carrying hope. She lifts her head—filled with gray hair that matches her clothes—she talks in a smooth voice that masks the cunningness. She convinces the subjects that the Fire will win. That she will start the Inferno. That she will set them free.
She talks and talks, about hope, freedom, and fear. Yet few know that she is not a forgiving ruler, that if she wins she will enslave the people who does not love her. She will rule with an iron fist, and that is why her is called Iron.
But her voice is filled with fake kindness, and with each word the faces of the people light up a bit more. Their heads filled with lies of freedom, lies of fortune. Lies of hope. For hope is a lie.
The Iron stands to lift her glass to a toast of freedom, when a dark figure kisses a cool blade. The knife soon flies through the air. None sees it flying strait toward Iron. No one. But then the queen slumps to the ground, still clutching her glass. The deep red liquid of riches spills when she hits the ground. A blotch of red grows steadily on the queen's back, not wine. Blood.
And with that all hell breaks loose in the underground kingdom.
(And a day later bombs start to drop)
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The Fox was scared of the dogs. They reminded her all the tributes, of all the faces she'd seen dead. And when they came for her she ran. She ran as fast as she could to the nearest tree, and groped for a foothold. By then she could feel the dogs breath on her legs. She kept climbing higher and higher. Foxes do climb. She kept so, until the branches threatened to break. She was safe—for now.
But foxes are also curious, they're ready to find as much knowledge. She's wants to know, she has to know. So the Fox jumps from tree to tree. Sometimes loosing her footing, sometimes holding on to dear life when she jumped short. But as much as she tried to shake the dogs off her tail, they were still under her. Her red hair was out of its messy bun and was a getting tangled into the branches. By the time the Fox had reached the Golden Horn a sheen of sweat covered the girl's body, and her hair was more brown than red.
(But at the horn was something special, it was the Fire and Hunter fighting)
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The Fire got there too late. The dogs kept driving her closer to the Golden Horn, and she kept trying to run fast enough so she won't feel the hot breathe on her heels. The Fire skidded to a halt. Even though she was covered in sweat, twigs, and scratches, the Fire felt no annoyance, just fear. A six foot, blonde haired, strong tribute stood across the hollow. She looked back, the dogs circled around the hollow—ensuring that no one escaped.
The Fire had one silver arrow left, a hunting knife, and a empty beaker that once held the Baker's life giving medicine. The Hunter had a collection of knives, (though she didn't know that), body armor, and a long sword. The Hunter saw the Fire, gave a sadistic smile, and charged—sword in his large hand.
Then time slowed down.
And the Fire was back in the the woods. She was back in her home District. With coal dust under her fingernails, an empty stomach, and a wooden bow. She gave a serval deep breaths; in, out, in, out, in, out. In one fluid motion she drew her bow, aimed it to the chink in the Hunter's, took a deep breath, and let the arrow fly.
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The Hunter saw the Fire, and he couldn't help but smile. She only had one arrow left and he had body armor. It wasn't a fair fight, but was the Games ever fair?
The night prior after the Farmer left this Hell, the gorged himself of the food that fell from the silver parachutes. The silver objects fell with such grace, that the boy broke down in tears. The grace reminded him of the grace of the Knife. How she would throw a knife with that suck grace that it was a silver blur. Before burying it in the chest, then the silver blur was a red spill.
Focus. The Hunter charged. He held his sword, but in his right hand there was a jewel encrusted knife. The one the Knife favored. (The Hunter knew how to throw knives, 10 years at the Academy didn't just change him into a monster, he learned to master lots of weapons there). In one fluid motion he had wound up and let the knife fly. It was a silver blur.
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The knife knocked the breath out of the Fire. She only felt as if she had been impaled and she was. A silver knife with a sapphire on the handle was sticking out of her chest. And the pain! She had never had felt much pain in her life. The pain of knowing she failed had exceeded the pain of the knife. Breathing hard, the Fire knew that the cameras were on her. "Prim," she gasped, "stay strong. I love you. . . Gale. . . Take care. . . Of my family. . . Mom. Prim. Gale. I'm so sorry. . . I. . . Love. . . You." And with that the Fire grabbed the silver knife, and pulled it out.
And with that the Fire was quenched. She never started an Inferno.
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The Hunter knew he had failed when the arrow went clean through his eye. He wasn't dead yet—he realized while lying on the ground—but the pain was awful. It was like he was being burned alive. He knew he had failed, he knew he had failed his family, his District, his nation, his love.
As if being called the Knife appeared and started walking to him. Her raven colored hair was not in its dying position of a tangled mess, but was now a smooth curtain of ebony. Of darkness. Her gold flecks danced in her green eyes. He could feel her smooth muscles when he was gathered into a hug, and her lips weren't chapped when he kissed them. She pulled him up from the ground—his soul splitting from his body—and they soon walked away from the pale monster who has being lifted up by the hovercraft.
His soul finally free. And he got his wish, he got to kiss those pick lips one more time.
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The Fox jumped when the trumpets rang. She had watched the whole scene from below, the monster who had died, and the fire who was quenched. She was nervous when she was being picked up from the hovercraft.
Then she began laughing. She won!
Against all odds had she beaten the two competitors. She had defied the Capital, she had become a Victor without killing. She had won. Cunningness was a foxes best friend. It had let the Fox win.
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Around Panem there was different reactions.
In the Capital there was shocked gasps and bets cashed in. There were discarding of fire dress and fox eared hairstyles quickly done. There were joy for the people who bet on the Fox, and annoyance as people gave up their precious credits to the District Five betters.
It was all shallow emotions of happiness and disappointment. It was all just a Game, right?
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In District Two there were cries of anger and hastily snuffed cries. There were training cadets learning all the tactics of this year's new Victor. Studies of cunningness and slowly shaking heads.
They've lost a monster, but they had more. Because it was just a game.
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In District Five there was shouts of joy and cries of pure happiness. They had brought one home! There were dances in the city square and fathers playing fiddles. There were bonfires and dancing and festivities. One family was crying out of pure joy and relief and one family tried not to hold hatred that a child came home that wasn't theirs.
They all bury the worries of next year under the singing and drinking. It may have been a game but it was a cruel one.
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In District Twelve the was sadness. The hollowed eyed children and adults had such an alien feeling during these games. Hope. Hope that they would bring home one Victor. Hope she wasn't coming home in a wooden box. But that hope was crushed.
There was sobs and shouts of anger at life. There was a boy sneaking off to the woods to cry alone and a girl who couldn't stop letting the tears flow. There was a mother who was a waking corpse.
There was a District that didn't forget the Fire's last words. Because they all knew it wasn't a game.
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And in a gray clad kingdom there was sobs. Because they knew the Inferno would never be light , they knew it was unless. There were heads rested on shoulders and tear streaks. There was mothers gathering children into hugs and lies told about hope. There was hope sucked out of the air.
Hope may be strong than fear, but it is easier to crush. Because it wasn't a game, it was a tool.
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The president reclined on his sofa. He stared out the foxfaced girl, the one who defied death one too many times. He signed, the world was so hard out there. But he was glad this year's Game ended well, because after all it was just a game. After all there are much worse games to play.
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"As a reminder to the rebels that their rash actions caused destruction of their land as well as their families, one one child will be Reaped, but his or her parent will go in with them. And there will only be one Victor."
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The Fire never started a spark.
The Baker never lived.
Panem never had a second rebellion.
The Games never ended.
All because one foxfaced tribute didn't eat a dark blue berry.