Created this as headcanon for my stories two years ago. Inspired by Mauradercat and Oisin55, I decided to give it a try. Let me know what you think.
Chapter 1: Maximus
They're herded inside a room. Batons prod them forward. Tight shackles have been placed on their wrists and ankle. It's an office of some sort. Six metal seats line the front of a grand desk. Peacekeepers wall the entire room, rifles locked and loaded. Thirteen total, counting the six who led them in. He recognizes two of the guys here. Neither make eye contact. They're instructed to sit. The room is as dark and secretive as the reason they are here. The six wait in dutiful silence, knowing better than to speak first. All eyes are on the man of the hour, who's currently enjoying a midday snack of tea and scones. One by one, he nibbles on the powdery pastries and sips ever-so-lightly from his teacup. A full four minutes passes before he begins. A young Avox tap away the crumbs with a monogrammed handkerchief. ARS. Of course.
"A welcomed surprise to see you all here," he greets each of us with a nod. As if they had much choice. Soft appreciation is given before the speech continues.
"As you may know, the First Annual Hunger Games will begin in approximately," he takes a quick glance at his wristwatch. "Eighteen minutes and counting. Are you excited? Nervous? Ready to honor your waiting Capitol?"
On cue, they nod their heads and smile.
"You may be wondering, 'Why am I here?'," the young noble speaks, briefly distracted by another serving of scones. "Yes, yes, you protected the heart of Panem from death and destruction. My greatest gratitudes for that. But now I request just one last act of patriotism. It's simple really. Don't you agree?"
"Certainly."
"Of course."
"Yes, I agree."
"Wouldn't have it any other way."
"Yes. A simple request."
"Mh-hm."
"Excellent." President Amandus Rinaldolfo Snow is an interesting man. Boy really, a year younger than the Tributes sitting before him. Pretty, filled cheeks, wide eyes. Unnaturally so. After President Praevalida Snow and General Quirinus Snow, peace be with their souls, fell in combat, Capitol officials scrambled to find a replacement. Rumor has it they couldn't come to an agreement and elected the boy only as acting president. Loyalists were concerned having such a young leader. But he wasn't. He was a natural in politics, and in brutality. The restorations, the crackdowns, the public executions. Peacekeeper presence increased. Taxes and quotas doubled. District travel was made illegal, electric fences and armed guards for anyone brazen enough to try it. A year after the war and the teenager had the respect he demanded.
He was his mother's child.
He had to do something to make the public forget him partying his way through the war.
The Hunger Games was his last creation. He fought tooth and nail for its legislation. After some gentle persuasion and a few sudden illnesses, it was passed. Details were sparse, told only to the Loyalists. "An annual gala where the now twelve districts would battle for honor and sacrifice". The intellectuals reasoned exemption from this "gala". They had terminated their ties to the rebellion. They had signed The Loyal Surrender. Shouldn't they be excused?
They were not. Instead, they reached a compromise. Training facilities were built in the order of surrender: six months before the Games for Four, nine for One, and one full year for Two. Gifts for their service. But there was a catch: two willing volunteers required, save special circumstances. Compromise the deal and the titles would be stripped. District Thirteen fresh on their minds, they were afraid. One and Four in particular. Panem needed Two's industries. It could do without lipstick and prawns. So the deal was sealed. The Loyalists reluctantly sent off their children trained by the Capitol's best. The Rebels, getting the news just three weeks prior, were rounded up and selected at the televised "Reapings".
District Two, receiving the greatest advantage, called for their best and brightest. The mayor knew just who to ask. He urged the powerful Zoratas to send their son to fight. The war veterans were nervous but beaming with pride. The mayor personally asked them to honor their district. With his parents' blessing and older sister's envy, off he went to train.
"Perfection. Gem. Maximus. Fiorenza. Ferran. Ora. You are here for a reason. I arrived to your districts and hand-picked you from the throngs of average folk. Your skill and obedience made you stand out. You outshined your competition! You rose to the occasion like a fledgling ready to fly! How you impressed me so. And I noticed it, oh yes I did." Amandus's monologue continues, teacup swinging through the air, spilling hot liquid on the poor Avox next to him.
"My mother and uncle would be honored by your service. Make my selection worth it. Cheers!"
Generous things of champagne are thrown their 're commanded to drink. The others down their glasses. He eases two sips.
"Off with these hooligans! To the Arena we go!"
Peacekeepers grab them from the chairs and they leave. The screams of the awaiting crowd reverberate through the metal walls of the underground hideout. He tries to ignore the deafening sounds, the shackles embedded into his skin, the gun pointed towards his back, the not-so-Loyalist treatment they've received since getting here. It doesn't work.
Goosebumps sprout on his exposed arms and chest. Suddenly, inexplicably, he is afraid. It's not that he doubts himself. He is a Zorata. Respected in the Capitol, revered in Two. If he's to believe the boy's words, one of them will win. That's still five people against him. Five is a lot. Five is plenty chances to screw up and die. What if his training wasn't enough? The Four boy has noticed his trepidation, cocking a patronizing eyebrow upward.
Calm down Maximus. You've been through worse. Remember: This is for your family. This is for your country. Just another war effort.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
Doors open to a different scene. The sterile background of Amandus' lair has changed. Layers of faded brick and stucco are slapped upon the walls and ceiling. Cracked seating jut out from the hasty construction. A holding cell.
The others are here, dressed in the same used war boots, tanks and trousers as the Loyalists. Pilot Baltimore Anderlee from District Six. Cooper Greystorm from Twelve. Lt. Maldonado's little girl. The Liliums. Even Agent Wozniak, Five's greatest spy, here in the flesh. The Capitol's Most Wanted.
The sudden arrival causes quite the commotion. Four are held back. Two openly weep. A slur is shouted and spit lands on their shoes. They know.
With their heads held high, they're placed far away from the rebels and wait in silence. Sweat builds on his brow. It's unbearably hot, the ceiling doing nothing to block out the heat. Their section has food and other amenities. The only sign of their elevated status. Rows and rows of Capitolites are here. Rowdy, loud, drunk off their entitled asses. Peacekeepers are having a hard time containing the rabid crowd, one man almost flipping over the very high brick walls separating the divine from the damned. Camera crews are in all parts of the Arena, recording every second of the commotion. Then, the crowd falls dead.
Amandus is on a balcony. His Flavor of the Moment is in tow.
"Greetings Panem! I am enamored to see my country so alive!"
His voice is deeper than what it was in the lair.
"Now, the rules. Each Tribute will fight one-on-one with a competitor of your, the Capitol audience's, choosing. The match ends when a Tribute falls. Only one may win and receive the title of Victor. A tournament of ultimate sacrifice, and ultimate bravery. Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you to...The Hunger Games!"
The crowd roars. The gate opens.
Let the Games begin.
Fiorenza is first. Maximus nods to his former comrade. She doesn't nod back. Heavily padded Peacekeepers release the chains and bring her out to the tiny dirt field. Her kill is the petrified Private Daytona Strauss. Computer specialist during the war. An unfair fight. Machetes are given to the girls. Both sides used them in the war. At least they tried. Fiorenza is still as a rock. Daytona is trembling. A gong sounds.
Fiorenza betrays her former stance and dives in. Daytona holds her on at first, screaming, shouting, and panting but blocking the bigger girl's moves. Yet with each clash, she gets sloppier and sloppier. Maximus watches the girl. Fiorenza's fast and relentless, perfect for rushdown. He's seen her on the battlefield and in training. She's good. For a girl. Hopping around her prey, it takes one misstep for it to end.
Fiorenza strikes. A weapon flies. A throat is slit. A cannon sounds. The battle is over.
Thirty-three seconds.
The crowd goes wild. Baltimore has to be subdued. Daytona's body is dragged out of the field. Fiorenza is disarmed and taken back to the cell. Avoxes rush to heal and hydrate her. She doesn't make eye contact with anyone. She is silent but shaking.
Maximus is next. He stands up on his own, prepping his body as much as the chains allow. Two Peacekeepers a few years older than him escort him out. Tenere and Romano. They live two doors down. Great set of guys.
"Good luck Maxi," whispers Romano as he sends off his childhood friend. "Kill that rebel dead."
Easier said than done. Officer Trellis Walker is quite the man. He's the tallest Tribute here, a good five inches on the eighteen year old. Muscles atop muscles, towering height. The physique of a logger. This grown man could probably cut down all of District Seven in one go. Maximus raises an eyebrow. The Capitol chose him as his opponent? He wasn't sure whether to be flattered by their faith or offended by their stupidity.
"Prepare to die Zorata." The boy's words hit him the same time as his sword. All of his doubt is kept tightly behind his mask as he parry his swing. The rapid attack both catches him off-guard and pisses him off. Who said the match would start on his terms?
Not only is Trellis fast, he is strong. He wields the weapon like it's a third arm, swinging the sword with ease. Each strike sends Maximus back more and more. He's trying to back the boy in and he's succeeding. And falling right into his plan. Maximus is a reactive fighter. He lets his opponent do the work for him. They strike, he counters. Move forward, fall back. They tire, he kills. As expected, it's working. The logger's even cocky with it.
"Look at you, selling your soul to the Capitol and still getting your ass handed to you by a real man. You are an embarrassment to your country and an embarrassment to your Loyalist friends over there."
Friends? He barely knows them. Blocking his upper swing causes his sword to graze his fighting arm. Only a shallow cut. You would think he chopped the warrior's head off by his triumphant grin.
His diatribe continues. "I remember you in my district. Your people were ruthless, cutting down our men like they were saplings. Three of my cousins died in the war. My girl lost an arm cause of it. How dare you! How fucking dare you. This is for them. I have to win. I will win."
Trellis' breaths are heavy and his moves are messy. He's losing momentum. Good. Any second and this boy will shut up for good.
The warrior looks into the logger's eyes. Anger. Smug. Fear. Desperation. He tries one last jab.
"Fighting against the rebels in this hell. Did you really win the war?"
"I won this fight."
Maximus sidesteps to the left the same time he charges for the right, his side wide open. It's quick. One up the torso, one through the heart.
One minute and fifty-one seconds.
He'd feel sorry for former Officer Trellis Walker, who is currently sprawled out on the ground like a used rag, had not the vile mixture of blood and perspiration landed in his mouth. The Avoxes should have something to wash that out.
The battles go on like so, brief intermissions in between each. The matchups are a lot fairer than what Amandus advertised. Gem loses her footing twice. Eight lands a nasty one on Ferran's thigh. Everyone here had some role in the Dark Days. They know how to kill. Few, however, want to. Most hesitate, the cock of a gun goading them to fight. These are their comrades. Friends. Family for the Liliums. Both from Three try to escape. Eleven's boy commits suicide in an act of defiance. The crowd loves it.
The Rebels who do fight put their all into it, unleashing every single emotion they've felt since losing the war. For them, it's personal. For the Loyalists, it's business.
Or that's what Maximus tell himself. As the fights drag on, they start to wear on the boy. Things get different. Bloodshed of the present mix with images of the become one. Is that a rebel Tribute or a fallen comrade? Why is he in chains? The rebels have him hostage again. He needs to get out of here. He needs to get out.
Focus Maximus, focus. The war is over. Relax. The war is over. The war is over. We won. The rebels can't hurt you anymore.
Perfection and Ferran notice and whisper something childish to each other. He ignores them. In due time.
Round Two. Only six rebels left. Child's play now. Agent Wozniak is a better spy than he is a fighter. The flowing wound on his arm doesn't help any. Seventeen seconds.
Round Three. Just the Loyalists. Perfection poses a challenge. He has technique but he's too showy. A chant has broken out in his name. The crowd's favorite. Capitolites love pretty things. Maximus catches the blond in the throat while he smirks at an adoring fan. Now they chant his name. Guess he didn't live up to his. Five minutes and two seconds.
Fiorenza wins her fight with Ora, but the matchup leaves her near death. Purple-robed men, Game Conductors they're called, declare that she is too injured to fight Ferran. Leaving Maximus the honor. Joy.
He's much different than his last three. His swordwork is incredible, playing a good keepaway but striking with every opportunity. The fishing district came to win. Alas, it is the fishing district. His wielding can't save his speed and footwork. Just as quickly he comes onto the warrior is how quickly he is dead. For some strange reason, the kill isn't so satisfying. Three minutes and eighty seconds.
Fiorenza is released back onto the field, healed but hurting. They're a sight to behold: battered, bruised, limping about the place. Just two kids who want to go home. Time goes by. He adjusts his bootstraps. She toys with the sword. They stall, neither fighters wanting to do this. They listen to the chants.
"Fight, you swine. Fight!"
"Chop her head off!"
"Kill him, kill him, kill him!"
District Two versus District Two. They live for this stuff.
His eyes fall on Amandus, looking down from his throne.
'Fight, my boy,' he mouths to him. He raises his goblet to drink. He raises his weapon to fight.
He is here for a reason. He is a Zorata. They fight. They win.
He allows Fiorenza to start. The force of her shatters upon him. All the strength that's left in her is mounted in each attack. She wants to make this quick. So does he. They're locked in combat, the quiet, sweaty bubble a force field from the chaos that surrounds us. The other battles have taken their tolls. She's fast yet not as fast as before. He counters yet not as well as before. Mid-lunge, she stumbles and falls face first into one of the many pools of blood. It could be Ferran's. Or Ora's. A fallen comrade from the war. He hesitates and just about gets a finishing blow. He evades it just in time for it to pierce his side instead of his heart.
The sounds, the blood, the heat. I'm losing it out here.
What do I do? What do I do?
I look into Fiorenza's eyes to compare. She never makes eye contact. Ever. The short conversation on the train ride here replays in his head.
"Do you regret this?"
"Regret what?"
"You know. This. I have a little brother and sister at-"
"No. I've killed before. So have you. What will a few more deaths mean to me?"
Years at war, one year of training, and those are the only words he's spoken to his "district partner".
Killing those kids. It's eating at her. It's eating at him too.
But he doesn't it show. Let her be emotional. His mask is set.
He waits, and waits, and waits. The moment her shoulders slump, he charges forward. She doesn't know what hit her. The swords lock twice. She's pinned to the wall. His fist meets her cheek. His knee slams down on her wrist. Bone cracks. Her weapon is to the side. She's on the ground now, unarmed,barely conscious.
He looms over the bloody girl. The entire stadium is screaming his name.
Sword held high, Maximus gives his district partner one last look. With her better eye, she stares him down as tears roll down her beaten face. His too is wet. Fiorenza Campana was from District Two. His comrade. A good girl from what I could see. He don't want to do this.
But he must. A soldier never disobeys orders.
The sword sinks into her heart. Trumpets blare. Confetti falls. Amandus declares Maximus Zorata the first Victor of the Hunger Games. Peacekeepers hurry to drag the crazed boy behind closed doors. Maximus motion towards his childhood neighbors. Neither make eye contact
Eight minutes, forty-four seconds, and a lifetime of regret.