Author's Note: There are still a lot of spaces open for new Tributes, so please go onto my profile to see the empty spaces and the Tribute Form. If you want to submit a Tribute, please PM it to me. I can't wait to see all of your Tributes!:D You can submit two if you like for me to see which one is better or if both are really good, then you'll have two Tributes!
"When he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun."
-William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
Prologue
The bright, blinding ray of sunlight rakes through the ruins like a knife threading the stiff air; the harshness of light creates long shadows amongst the fallen, worn buildings. Dust dances and spins relentlessly through the midst of air, collecting on the sandy, glittering ground. There are at least a handful of cracked, yellow skulls sprawled all over the ground, black eye sockets vacant and empty. As a stuffy breeze works its way through the wreckage of old ruins, sand gathers up and swirl wildly in the wind, escaping from the scene. The merest touch of the sand and eroded buildings burns the skin; the glowing orb of the sun has baked the ground below it.
In the deepest centre of the ruins is the District One male. He stands, graceful and lithe, in the mist of drifting dust and sand, silent as a shadow, and as slick as a panther. Sand begins to settle onto his greasy mane of black curls which cascade swiftly over his sharp, angular features like dark snakes. His narrow, ascetic face is expressionless and void of emotions as he stares dully at the bleeding corpse on the ground at his feet.
As quick a slithering snake, he steps back away from the corpse, afraid to get her drying blood onto his shoes. The dead girl was his District Partner. Her name is neither relevant nor significant to him as she is no longer a threat. She is now gone, not able to earn the Victor crown anymore. She's now no longer a threat to Slate; it's the District Seven female that is a threat.
For days on end, Slate hasn't seen the District Seven female. She has just disappeared into thin air during the Bloodbath, taking away into the scorching desert with at least an axe and a heavy bag. Slate can remember her vaguely, as she never piped up interest in him. She was tall and slim, but there is an appearance to her that doesn't seem to be rather intimidating or frightening. So, assured with this knowledge, Slate wanders through the ruins...
This will be his final hunt…
Beyond the mess of destroyed buildings is a span of sandy hills, not a trace of a single green plant in sight. This desert appears to be so peaceful and remote, so it will be difficult for him to take out the District Seven girl if she has hidden herself efficiently – unless the Capitol ushers her out of her hiding place.
A cannon erupts across the entire arena; its sound eerily haunted with a hint of misery.
The District Seven female's head snaps sharply up towards the sound of the cannon. It's time, she thinks reluctantly but determinately. It's time for her to come out of her isolated – but safe – haven. It is now only her and the one of the District One tributes.
She wistfully wishes that the other remaining tribute is the female, because according to her observing during the training days, she doesn't like the male. He appeared to be sadist and silent to her, his eyes hidden behind a veil of black hair. He had scared her; his every movement was silent and slick like shadows, his bulky build intimidating and menacing, his small smirk cruel.
Scurrying out of her hiding place amongst the prickles of bushes, her dirty arena clothes tear as the thorns claw desperately at her. Oakley groans in exasperated pain as she slowly rises up onto her feet once she is out in the scathing glare of the sun, her every joint are stiff and glued together after days of being crouched in the small space beneath the bushes. Blinking against the sun, her azure eyes slowly adjust to the new light. She could swear that the sun in this desert is intended to blind her.
Rounding her shoulders, she stretches herself momentarily before picking up her axe and ditching her nearly empty bag, she walks across the hills of sand, towards the ruins of the town. When she was dumped into the arena during the bloodbath, she scarcely scanned the Cornucopia to see what the place is like as she was too busy trying to get all of the supplies she needed to survive. She can easily recall the bloodbath still. She remembers how it was chaotic and filled with blood-curdling screams, the crimson colour of blood gushing through the sand in rivulets.
And now, she's returning to that place. But she doesn't have a choice. If she doesn't meet up with the other remaining tribute, the Gamemakers would shoo her in that direction.
Also, it's probably best to this done with…
Oakley rolls her eyes and arches her head towards the clear, blue sky which resembles her sister's smiling eyes perfectly. In a sarcastic voice, she shouts out to the sky, directing her words to the Capitol, "TIME TO GET YOU YOUR LOVELY VICTOR!"
Slate swirls around, his eyes widening in remote shock. The bellowing is from the right direction. A cruel, sick smile graces his face as he strides briskly towards that direction, his mace heavy but snug in his palm.
The sun seems to be getting a lot hotter and brighter as he saunters through the desert, in search for the District Seven female. Maybe the Gamemakers are getting impatient… They want to have their acclaimed Victor now. Well, they will have to wait, as Slate is planning to have one last, long torturing session with his new victim…
"Oh, District Seven, just wait till you meet me and you'll envy all of the other Tributes," Slate murmurs, his voice deadly and serious.
They approach each other when the sun has turned on its hottest and brightest volume. The temperature in the arena is now suffocating and powerfully scorching. Oakley's brown fringe is glued to her forehead with sweat, moisture visible on her skin. Slate's breathing has become heavier and shallower.
The Gamemakers are impatient to get their 97th Hunger Games Victor; Oakley can easily figure that out.
For a moment, they stand there, facing each other from more than ten feet apart, observing each other carefully and slowly… Disappointment consumes Oakley as she watches Slate. It's him, not the District One female, oh shoot. She knows that this makes the situation even worse and harder for her. She must not let him defeat her.
He is only in the Games to win the fame and money. Meanwhile, she is in the Games to survive. He volunteered; he asked for this. She was reaped; she was forced for this.
So, with no choice left, he has to die. She can't feel any pity or sympathy for him, because he wanted this.
With an mad battle cry, Slate instantly springs into action, his eyes flaring and burning with a deep passion in them. He darts forward on his two, uninjured legs, moving with a pure gracefulness that it seems that he is sliding across a floor of oil. Oakley hesitates just for a moment, watching with wide eyes as Slate raises his massive mace. He's a lot bigger and stronger than her, so does she actually have a chance in this?
Just before Slate can swing his chained mace at the girl, Oakley lurches backwards, narrowly avoiding the fatal blow. Slate grunts in frustration, snapping his eyes up and interlocking them with Oakley's ones. Urged by a sudden stubbornness, Oakley laughs at him. It's easy to anger the District One male, and that's his weakness, so Oakley is going to use that for her advantage in order to survive.
Jerking up the mace, Slate narrows his black eyes. "Don't get me angry, District Seven. If you anger me, you'll suffer through a terrible, long death."
"Oh really? Oh my gosh, I never knew that!" she shouts out in a sardonic manner.
Being mocked by a lower District tribute infuriates Slate even more. He lunges forward, swinging his mace wildly and madly. The air whistles as the mace shoots towards Oakley. A little gasp ripples from Oakley's lips; she ducks her head just in time for the mace to swing across the air above her. Slate makes another aim, driven by rage and a sadist desire, this time Oakley easily dodges the blow as she darts to his left side.
Stop playing, Oakley, just kill him, she thinks. Squinting her eyes at him, she creates a new aim at his open chest. Slate sees her pausing, so he raises his mace, preparing himself for a dangerous hit to her shoulders. However, Oakley beats him to it; in a lightning speed she swings the deadly axe through the air, the blade glinting dazzlingly, and rakes it across his chest, opening a gaping hole which pulses blood.
Slate's hands unlatch themselves on the mace, and the weapon flies down to the ground at his feet as he doubles over. A large 'O' forming on his pale lips. The blood is flowing from his chest too quickly, he will die too soon.
"You bitch," he rasps in a furious, yet vulnerable, voice. "It was meant to be me who was going to be the Victor…"
Oakley doesn't waste any of her pity on him as she listens to his gasping of grief. "Well, I'm not going to be the Victor either."
Before Slate or the Gamemakers could do anything to stop her, Oakley drops the axe and reaches into her pocket, bringing out the wicked-looking knife that she saved for herself. Tipping her head towards the sky, she bellows out, "You're not going to have a Victor this year! How would you feel about that?"
And she suddenly slashes her own throat with the knife, releasing the blood that pulsate throughout her body. She drops to her knees. Her hand lashes up to her throat, coming away with crimson, stained blood. Her azure eyes roll back into her skull.
She wanted to give the Capitol no Victor, because that would make them very unhappy. And that was all she wished for in her life.
There is no last standing tribute as both Slate and Oakley drift away into nothingness…
The President is outraged.
Her eyes are a cold, steely grey masked by disbelief and anger as she watches the television screen. Just before the District Seven girl killed herself, Thorns was tapping impatiently and rhythmically on the mahogany desk – but now she is frozen like a marble statue, her cheeks twitching. It's unbelievable. This never ever happened before…
There is no Victor for the 97th Hunger Games.
No tribute was alive.
The Hunger Games was never meant to be like that… Having only one child alive was supposed to give the Districts hope, and hope is worse than pain. Without hope, the Districts would rebel and try to take back what rightly belongs to them… But as the President of Panem, Vera Thorns simply can't allow this to occur. She has to stay in charge; she has to keep her tight, almost tangible grip on the Districts. The Districts will to be broken and weak.
Thorns can vaguely hear the screams of pure anger coursing through the Districts. She can feel her heart hammering at a high pace in her chest. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
She has to do something to disentangle the threads that would lead to a new rebellion. Standing up briskly, the President scans the room; she is in her bedroom with the red, fluffy carpet sprawled over the wooden floor, the walls a deep shade of crimson. She switches the television off, abruptly cutting off Julius Templesmith (the eldest son of Claudius, the most previous and famous announcer of the Hunger Games) when he is in the middle of a breakdown, tears streaking down his face as he nervously tries to sugar-coat his lies to the audience. Thorns rolls her eyes, at last the sound of his high-pitched and purely ridiculous accent has vanished.
Her high heels click and clank noisily as she marches to the door, grabbing a fur coat on the way. It's her duty to punish the ones who have made a grave, big mistake… And they'll pity Lucifer for only being banished to Hell.
Angelina Goldsworthy, the Head Gamemaker, is almost paralysed from the grave shock that has hit her after it was announced that neither Oakley nor Slate survived. There is no Victor… It's unheard of in the history of Panem. Every single Games had their own Victor, but the 97th Hunger Games doesn't have one. And this was her first year as the Head Gamemaker.
What did she do to cause this? Should she have killed Oakley by setting a group of mutts onto her? What if Oakley didn't have weapons, and Slate would have won? There would've surely be a Victor. She solely made a mistake, it's not her fault.
What will the President Thorns do to her? Is she going to torture her? Make her watch her children die?
Thorns is well-known for punishing the criminals. One of her signature skill of killing somebody is wrapping a long stem of sharp, rose thorns around the neck of the victim and strangling them to death…
"Angelina, are you alright?"
Angelina doesn't crane her neck to glance at the too-familiar voice; she's practically frozen in her exact spot.
"Angelina, look at me. Angel!" Strong, firm hands latch onto her trembling shoulders and jerkily turn her around. Involuntarily, she blinks against the light and slowly her gaze interlocks with the hazel eyes of Chance. He stares at her with wide, concerned eyes. "Are you alright?"
"Alright?!" Angelina finally snaps apart; it is like her pieces of her body are breaking into pieces like glass shattering, and the shards are scattering all over the floor, some lost forever. "How can I be alright? THERE IS NO VICTOR!"
Slowly standing up, Angelina pushes Chance away and faces the Gamemakers, all squashed into the room. "What did we do to cause this? WHAT DID WE DO?!"
It is only silence that responses to her. The Gamemakers all watch her; some amused and smug, some terrified, others expressionless. But none of them convey a trace of sympathy or worry for her. None of them care if she's going to die in the hands of the President.
But there is one person who does care. "Angel, you need to get out of here. Go now before the President is here," Chance urges her, shoving her roughly in the direction towards the doors. She sharply looks at him, feeling betrayed by the fact he's leaving her to escape on her own, but once she catches a glimpse of outright fear and panic in his eyes, she nods reluctantly and turns to run away.
Flanked by a group of at least eight or nine Peacekeepers, President Thorns enters the Gamemakers' large office, her eyes as hard as steel.
In the office, there are over three dozens of Gamemakers, most of whom are General Gamemakers. All of them are squashed into the room and seem to be arguing. Thorns raises an eyebrow, amused. The room is a mess of chaos: There are sheets of paper all sprawled over the floor with the pictures and names of the tributes, the walls are stained with red wine, shards of glass scatter all over the desks and floor, one black table is tipped over onto its back, the curtains are ripped down.
And the Gamemakers are all arguing and screaming at somebody in the centre. Surely it's Angelina they are screeching at…
The President has never ever seen anything as worse as this before. The Gamemakers all got on well, or so she thought. And seeing the mess they disrupted has surprised her for a minute. This goes far to prove how having no Victor is extremely bad.
"EVERYBODY SHUT UP! RIGHT NOW!" Thorns bellows so loudly and audibly that the room relapses into a deadly silence. She smirks, but her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen."
The Gamemakers part way in the throng to allow entry for the President to walk through. Her face is a mask of disdain and contempt as she peers through the faces, most of which are unfamiliar to her. They all avert their eyes from her icy ones, as if they can't even dare to look at them for a second. Once Thorns comes face-to-face with Chance, the Mutation Head Gamemaker, she instantly realises that Angelina is nowhere in sight.
Suppressing a frown, she smiles sweetly at Chance. "What's going on here?"
"Well, um, you know, we don't have a Victor…" He pauses, "And that is causing trouble for us."
"Oh, of course, not a surprise then," Thorns says in a sweet, sugary voice. "I'm here to talk to Angelina. Have you seen her?"
At this, Chance swallows, his Adam-apple bobbing nervously up and down. "I don't know…"
Thorns' sweet smile immediately falls from her face like a curtain slipping over her features, and she glares with hard, steely eyes at Chance. "I know you know where she is. You are her lover." She flashes her finger up, silencing Chance. "Don't even bother lying! She has been having an affair with you behind her husband's back."
His entire face turns into a mask of white, like he has just seen a ghost. He splutters pathetically, "Er, w-well… I-I have n-n-no idea where s-she is."
"Liar," hisses a voice from behind Thorns. The President swirls around; her stick-straight black hair swishing through the tense air.
A man dressed in a smart, black tuxedo stares expressionlessly at Chance, but there is a little glint in his eyes. The other Gamemakers are all staring in wonder as the stranger steps forward, meeting Thorns' steady gaze. He seems not to cower under Thorns' icy, callous eyes.
"Who are you?" Thorns demands. She hates no knowing who this man is as he appears not to be threatened by her. How come she never seen him before?
"I'm Varys Norbert," he replies coolly.
She waves her hand dismissively. "Why did you call Chance a liar?"
"Because he's lying. He full well knows where Angelina is."
Thorns raises an eyebrows sceptically, glancing over her shoulder towards Chance to shoot him a glare. "Oh what a surprise," she says sarcastically. "So, do you know where she is?"
Norbert grins derisively, and his teeth gleam like shark teeth. "She is in the basement. There are tunnels there. I have a feeling she's going to be gone in just a couple of minutes…"
Thorns furiously pivots on her heel to face the Head Peacekeeper; his face stoic and motionless, his white uniform as crisp as a dry leaf. "Get over ten Peacekeepers and go and get Angelina. Once you got her, bring her to the Death Chamber."
The Head Peacekeeper curtly nods, and with that he disappears from the room with two other Peacekeepers. There are quiet ripples of whispers coursing throughout the crowd. The Death Chamber is where criminals and rebels are taken to, and all never come back out.
Thorns turns back to Chance, her face grim as ever. "You're coming with me."
They grabbed the Head Gamemaker just before she could escape. And took her to the unwelcoming Death Chamber…
A Peacekeeper pushes the glass door open and shoves Angelina in, slamming the door behind her. Whimpering, Angelina peers up through her heavy shroud of blonde hair, gasping when her eyes land onto her children and her lover, Chance, all tied up in chairs. A clanking of high heels slowly approach her, but she doesn't dare look up at the person.
"Are you in pain?" the familiar voice asks in a sugary tone. Angelina doesn't reply, why should she? This is the President. She doesn't care if Angelina is hurt. However, due to the silence that responded to the President, Thorns' tone suddenly transforms into a bitter, acid one. "Look at me!"
Obeying her command, Angelina cranes her neck up so her eyes fall onto the cruel woman. Her eyes are blinded by the vivid, bare light bulb that swings on its loose string on the ceiling. But as Thorns bends down onto her knees, Angelina can make out her raven black hair that falls like silk over her shoulders.
"What you did was very, very bad," Thorns says patronisingly, adding in a sound like 'tsk, tsk.'
"I'm s-so-so sorry," Angelina sobs. Tears pool up in her eyes, making her vision blurry.
"Sorry is just a word. It doesn't do anything to clean away your mistakes, so saying it is not going to help you."
Angelina sobs even more. "Please, p-please, I beg you just let my daughters and Chance go."
"They're going nowhere. If you have been more careful, then they would have been safe," Thorns reasons in a cold, piercing voice.
"But they did n-nothing wrong!" Angelina wails. "My girls are just children!"
"Yes, I know. They're just children, but the tributes that you killed were children as well. They had parents. They had a mother, like your daughters here have you."
"You forced me to kill them! You told me that if I don't, my life would at risk!" Angelina screeches out like a cat yowling.
Thorns regards her coldly, her grey eyes sweeping over the features. "How dare you blame me!"
"She's saying the truth!" Chance yells out, his voice combined with fury and fear. Thorns leaps up to her feet, eyes flaring as she slaps Chance across the face, her nails raking across his skin. Blood trickles down his face.
"Shut up, you're not allowed to speak," the President hisses. She straightens up, smiling before a light comes across her eyes like a bulb has lit up inside her skull. "Actually…I think it's time for Angelina to watch you…die."
Chance stares up at her, gaping. "B-But you s-said I-I'm going to turn i-into an Avox-"
"Hah," Thorns laughs, sounding insane for a mere second. "You should never believe my lies…"
Angelina watches in horror as Thorns strides to the metal table propped against the left wall, she slips on dense, thick gloves. Then Thorns carefully picks up a long stem adorned with sharp thorns. The stem resembles a barbed wire so accurately, because the thorns are long and dangerous-looking. Angelina's daughters both cry out and squirm in their ropes. A gasp bubbles up inside Angelina as she helplessly watches the President saunters, with a smirk on her face, towards her lover.
"Shush, shush," Thorns presses her forefinger against Chance's lips before he can part them open to muster up something to say. Walking around Chance, she turns to look Angelina in the eye. "Your husband is lucky not to be here, because it will be your lover to take the fate of death in front of your own eyes."
And with that, Thorns yanks the rope of thorns over Chance's head and pulls at it, strangling him at the throat. Chance makes a horrible yowl filled with prominent pain; he struggles uselessly in the ropes that tie him against the chair. The light bulb above Angelina's head is dangling and swinging swiftly, casting off stretching shadows in the corners. All Angelina can hear are the screams of Chance, the terrified wailing of her daughters, and the mad cackle of Thorns.
Then abruptly, Chance's hands fall limp, his eyes turn glassy and glazed, his chest stop heaving with each breath. He's dead. The blood on his throat is thick and dark, appearing like black fluid in the tinted light.
Angelina suddenly wails, stricken by grief as she stares helplessly at her beloved one.
Thorns smirks, the smile looks cruel and evil on her face. "Now, it's the girls' turn."
"No, no, no!" Angelina shrieks out. "NOT THEM! PLEASE!"
"Hey, hey, calm down. I'm not going to hurt them," Thorns says. Her tone purposefully sounding reassuring and gentle, but Angelina knows her better than that. With her last effort and strength, Angelina strings up onto her feet; however her legs are stiff and tied together so she hobbles towards her daughters, placing herself in front of them.
Thorns sighs exasperatedly. "Get out of the way, Goldsworthy."
"No," Angelina rasps out threateningly. There is no way she is going to allow Thorns lay one finger on her children. Thorns can have her own fingers to herself, or Angelina will have to bite them off.
Despite the intimidating threat Angelina is casting off, Thorns steps towards her and swiftly lashes out, she slaps the woman across the face, hard. The Head Gamemaker staggers backwards, tripping over. Her cheek is in savage pain; she is very certain that there will be a red mark on it later…if she stays alive.
Angelina climbs to her feet, desperate and frantic, unfortunately she is too late. Thorns, in a lightning speed, opens the eldest girl's mouth and grabs hold of her tongue. The tongue is wiggling in a wild panic in her fingers like a worm. Taking out a sharp blade from her nearest pocket, Thorns begins to saw at her tongue. Angelina cries out and hobbles forward, only to be kicked away by Thorns. Once the President got the loose tongue in her bloodied hand, she moves onto to the next girl, jerking her mouth open impatiently and sawing at the red tongue. The eldest girl's eyes are wide and frantic, the blood gushing from her mouth like a river. Angelina can never imagine the pain her daughters are in…
Turning onto to the mother, Thorns plucks the second tongue from the other child's mouth and waves the two crimson tongues in the air, blood flies into the air in droplets. "Don't they look like red slugs?" she comments, observing the two bloody pieces curiously. A frown furrows itself onto her forehead, and she dismissively tosses the pieces aside. "Ew, just touching them is gross."
"You bitch."
Thorns' eyebrows shoot up in mock surprise. It can only be Angelina who blurted that out, as her daughters are now mute forever. But for the first time, Angelina doesn't care what Thorns would do to her. It's like she has transformed into a whole new person; all of her fear has diminished and replaced by stubbornness and bravery.
"Did you just call me a bitch?" Thorns slowly asks her.
"Of course, it's true. We all think you're a bitch," Angelina snarls, spittle flying from her lips.
Thorns smirks derisively. "I'm glad they think so, because I don't need to be liked. Anyway, enough of chattering – it's time for you to die."
The word 'die' makes Angelina flinch just a slightest. Thorns marches towards her, her high heels clanking audibly on the marble floor, the knife she used to cut out the little girls' tongues out is still bloody and stained in her hand. Angelina glares at her defiantly.
Thorns holds out her bloody knife, the red fluid dripping off the tip of the blade. "You have slit this across your throat, just like what Oakley did."
The Head Gamemaker was incredulous and speechless. "What!" she finally splutters out. "Are you telling me to kill myself? Why?"
"Because you allowed your Victor kill herself." Thorns watches her with steely, pale grey eyes, her fingers are smooth and flawless as they grip onto the knife. "Go on, do it. I don't have much time."
Shocked, Angelina glances towards her daughters. "Please don't let them see at least…please."
"No, they're watching," Thorns says bluntly.
The tone in her voice indicates something, making Angelina realise that she has no choice. She has to do it. In front of her children, no matter how cruel it sounds. She has to do it or Thorns will do something to make her obey. Fingers shaking, she slowly and tentatively reaches up for the knife. Thorns, a Cheshire grin on her face, watches her. The knife goes up to Angelina's throat, shaking from the vibration of her fingers. The woman glances towards her two daughters, both squirming in their chairs, shaking their heads and opening their mouths with nothing coming out like fish gasping in the open air.
"I'm sorry. Please remember that I love you both more than anything else." And with that, she pulls the sharp knife across her smooth and unscarred throat, welcoming blood to the air.
Author's Note:
Hello guys! Here is Luce, with her awesome author's note, lol. Anyway, this was the prologue for Into the Light. I hope you enjoyed it, because I worked hard on it!
For each chapter I'll be including a Sponsor Question (or maybe two, we'll see) on things like this story or about you (don't worry, they're not that personal). Yes, you're wondering about the Sponsor list, but in fact I'm not going to put up one, because you can pick whatever you like! For each question that you answer you'll gain £10, but for the Extra Special Questions, you'll get £20. But also, these questions mean that you'll have to review which helps me know who is reading the story and who is not (those who are not, then their tribute will have to die in the bloodbath, because that's fair for the ones who are reading the story).