Inception: The Beginning
Presidential Mansion, The Capitol
"These are the final plans, I presume?" asked the president as the new Head Gamemaker handed him a heavy manila envelope.
"Yes, sir," Head Gamemaker Ian Crowley replied. "Now there's just the matter of that pay raise you pro—"
"Sit down," the president interrupted, gesturing for a burly peacekeeper to push the Gamemaker into a chair. "We might discuss your salary later—if this year's Games prove to be satisfactory. You know that I do not tolerate failure."
"Yes, sir," Ian repeated stiffly. His mind recalled last year's Games, a complete fiasco. It had taken him weeks to clean up the mess that the old Head Gamemaker had left behind before his untimely death. And then there was the outraged public to deal with, the riots in the districts that had to be repressed…no, failure was not an option here.
The Gamemaker's mind snapped back to the present as the president opened the folder, taking out a sheaf of papers clipped together. ARENA BLUEPRINTS, the cover read. Delicately, the president flipped open the packet, carefully watching his subordinate's face for any sign of fear. To his surprise, the Gamemaker's face remained impressively calm, coolly staring back at him. The president looked back down at the papers.
"Is this a joke?" he demanded, lifting up the packet for Ian to see. The entire first page was filled by a simple, black and white diagram of a human brain. "I understand that the budget cuts were hard on the Games Department, but—"
"I would suggest turning the page, sir," Ian replied, his voice mocking.
"Was that an order, Crowley?" asked the president, his voice dangerously low.
"No, sir, just a suggestion," answered the Gamemaker, winking at the glowering president.
Fuming, the president turned the page, his eyes darting back and forth furiously as he flipped through the packet. Almost instantly, his scowl disappeared, replaced by one of his sly little half smiles, his eyebrows arching higher with every page he read.
The president finally finished reading, grinning from ear to ear—the closest Ian had ever seen him to laughing.
"Quite clever of you, Crowley," remarked the president, sliding the packet back into the folder. "Tell me, how close are you to finishing the arena?"
"We've just got the file encrypting left to do," replied the Gamemaker. "Of course, we could finish much faster if a certain Head Gamemaker received the pay raise he's been asking about for the past six months…"
Games Center, The Capitol
Ian Crowley paced up and down the floor of his office, a huge chamber at the very top of the Games Tower. Expensive paintings adorned the walls, and the room was furnished with a hardwood desk, several plush chairs, computerized screens floating randomly around the room, a minibar stocked with expensive wines, and an enormous rug made from the furs of a now extinct species of leopard.
But right now, Ian had no time to enjoy any of those luxuries. He was worrying over the most important part of the Games: the importing of tributes into the Capitol. Once in the city, they were safe, but out in the countryside, they were vulnerable—to the rebels, to the beasts, to the escaped tributes from last year. No, Ian would not rest assured until every one of his precious tributes was safe in the Capitol.
"Mr. Crowley?" a voice cut across his jumbled thoughts. The Gamemaker spun around and saw his assistant, Aidan, standing at the elevator doorway, a stack of folders in his hands. "The tributes from District One have arrived."
"How many times have I told you not to sneak up on me like that?" roared Ian.
"Sorry, Mr. Crowley," replied Aidan indifferently. Aidan always enjoyed freaking Ian out, knowing that Ian would keep him because he got through his work twice as fast as the Gamemaker's previous assistants.
"Bios?" asked Ian, having finished venting his rage, and Aidan threw two of the folders at the Gamemaker before disappearing back into the elevator. Crowley caught both of them and opened the top one. DISTRICT ONE—MALE TRIBUTE the cover page read. Underneath it, it smaller lettering, was the name CHANDLER KENNEL, as well as a photo of a handsome blond boy, who Crowley assumed was Chandler.
Skimming through the packet, Crowley picked out a couple of interesting facts about the boy. He had been abused by his now-dead father, he had apparently saved a girl from a mugging once, and he appeared to enjoy screwing around with peoples' minds. Standard psychopathic Career, the Gamemaker thought to himself.
Then it was the girl's turn. Crowley took out the packet from the bottom folder, noticing the face of a pretty blonde girl on the cover. CARAMEL BURGUNDY, the name read.
Like the boy, the girl had been abused by her father, a Peacekeeper. On the other hand, her mother was a former victor, having won the Games about twenty years ago. But what stood out the most to Crowley was the girl's talent in biology, or, more specifically, animal dissection. Another sadist, thought the Gamemaker, We always seem to get these freaks from One.
"One down, eleven more to go," the Gamemaker said to no one in particular. And then he resumed his pacing.
Subterranean Archives, The Capitol
"Here you go, Mr. President," squeaked the tiny librarian, Winston. "It's all yours."
And with that, he slammed the steel door shut with a loud CLANG. The president could hear several bolts being slid into place, a metal grid grating over the door as it fell into position, and a creaky lock being turned, all on the other side.
The little fellow doesn't like being down here, noted the president. Not that he could blame him. The mysterious tunnels carved deep into bedrock, winding off into a foreboding gloom, unnerved even the president. The entire place had a sinister feeling to it, as if it were abandoned. Somewhere in the distance, a small animal, perhaps a rat, scuttled on the floor. Its claws made eerie clicking noises. Water dripped in from countless leaks in the weathered ceiling.
Despite the drawbacks, the archives still had their benefits. Most notably, as being an easy way to hide a complete, unbiased history of mankind from the ignorant masses, as only the president and Winston were allowed down here. Forget the fabricated garbage the president broadcast as propaganda—none of it would be found down here. What the citizens saw and believed on their televisions, was, in fact, a far cry from reality. If the public ever caught wind of these archives, there would surely be a riot.
Right now, however, the president had a goal in mind and would not be deterred by any obstacle. Picking up a lantern, the president climbed down a short flight of stairs and headed for the tunnel on the far right. MODERN HISTORY: DARK DAYS—PRESENT, the plaque above the entrance read.
The Dark Days, the president thought to himself as he entered the bookshelf-lined tunnel. The districts, tired of living in a constant state of servitude to the Capitol, had, unsurprisingly, decided to rebel. That worked out quite well for them, thought the President. The Capitol, with its superior forces, had been able to defeat the rebels. Although the districts put up quite a good fight, killing many of the Capitol's soldiers in the process, in the end, they surrendered, especially after they saw—or thought they saw—what happened to Thirteen, annihilated by the Capitol's bombs.
Then came the Hunger Games, the punishment the Capitol had imposed onto the remaining twelve districts for their disobedience. Maybe they were afraid of ending up like Thirteen, but for the next seventy-four years, the districts remained quiet as they sent off twenty-three of their children to die every year.
Of course, something had to go wrong sooner or later. And it did, right after the seventy-fourth Hunger Games, when Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark made history by becoming the first two tributes to ever win the same Hunger Games. It turned out that the districts hadn't been just quietly tolerating the Capitol's abuses after all. They had just been biding their time, waiting for a spark to set off another rebellion. And Everdeen had given them just that spark. With the help of District Thirteen, which had somehow managed to survive the bombings, they rose up again, even stronger than before.
Still, the Capitol's might managed to overwhelm the rebellious districts. With the help of loyal District Two, they managed to crush the rebellion. The Districts, while massive, were not united. The Capitol took advantage of this by playing them against each other, and, while they were distracted, routed them in a final sweep. Katniss Everdeen, defeated and humiliated, was brought back to the Capitol in chains. A tape of her execution was in the archives somewhere, thought the president. But now was not the time for entertainment. The president was here on a mission, and was not going to be distracted.
And now, over a hundred years later, there was more talk of rebellion. The president would have to do something about that. And he decided that that something would be this year's games, bloodier and more magnificent than ever before.
When the president was sure that he had found the right section, he scurried up a metal ladder built into the side of the twenty-foot high bookshelf. About two-thirds of the way up, he heaved himself onto a narrow metal walkway, trotted forward a few steps, and came to a stop next to a thick, leather-bound book about eight hundred pages long. THE SECOND REBELLION, read its spine. The president carefully dislodged the massive volume and quickly went back the way he came, eager to get out of the archives.
So this year's arena is the human mind. You know, kind of like Inception but less confusing and more insane and brutal.
The entire Games will be taking place inside the tributes' heads, while they're placed in a coma. Special machines will link all of the tributes' dreams together, placing them in a special arena. Other machines will keep the tributes alive while they're knocked out. Should a tribute die in their dreams, they will wake up. And then be killed. Again.
More details about the arena will be revealed later, right before the Games begin :).
Right now, tribute submissions are CLOSED. Thanks to everyone who submitted, but I have more tributes than I need right now. Don't worry, I'm still using them, but not as tributes. Maybe as mentors or rebels? A tribute list should be up sooner or later.
Review? Please? Feedback and advice would be appreciated. And it might help your tribute survive ;).