GAMEMAKER
The mutts are ready. They stand, tranquilized, on metal plates similar to those of the tributes', but much larger. Ranging from the size of an eagle to that of a mammoth, they are carefully arranged by our mute Avoxes so that the plate they will emerge into the arena on is not adjacent to that of the tribute they 'belong' to. Really, though, every living thing in that arena belongs to us- the Gamemakers and the President- who gave them a second chance at life after the rebellion.
M7: AXIT SENID
I stretch, feeling surprisingly well-rested after a sleep full of night terrors. They chased me, with fangs and fire. I shudder at the fading memory. At least the terror that lies before me is one I can fight back against with my knives and my speed.
I stretch and begin to put on the crumpled clothes that I wore before I was forced into the horrible tree-ish interview costume. Before I can even slip out of the luxurious pajamas I'm currently wearing, my door bursts open and my stylist, Avania Flinsy, breezes into the room. "Whoa!" I cry, "What are you doing here?" She doesn't even seem to hear me- she's too busy looking at my clothing-strewn floor.
"Look at this room," she mumbles, "messiest place I've seen since…since the Victory Tour celebration four years ago!" She glares at me as if I killed her mother or something. "Well, let's get you prepared for your big day!" she squeals, tossing her blue hair. She adjusts her pink glasses on the bridge of her nose and pulls out a package. "The prep team already has you adequately treated, so…" she scrutinizes my face, "go wash yourself off from that interview."
I come out of the bathroom, toweling off my shaggy black hair to find Avania staring harriedly at a watch. "All right, grab a bathrobe," she growls, "since we're on a tight schedule and you take horribly long showers." I follow her instructions and trail, still dripping, after the woman onto the sleek hovercraft. As we board, I see Wyndle climb into an identical hovercraft right next to mine with Isedia bustling after her. That woman absolutely hates me, but she loves my female counterpart.
The ride is spent in absolute silence until the windows darken to black, which is almost two hours after it takes off. Avania tears open the parcel she's been balancing carefully on her lavender-clad lap. She grimaces, but at least she doesn't become spasmodic- that was her reaction when she discovered a tiny, undetectable tear in the chariot costume- which, as it has been for the past over-fifty years, was a hideous, fake-looking tree. It's safe to say that Wyndle and I are sponsor-free. Neither of us made a splash at the interviews, either. The nymph outfits we were wearing made it sort of hard to sit down and focus on Aurelia Flickerman's questions. Before she can decide to try and 'fix' the outfit in the parcel (I'm pretty sure that's illegal anyway), I grab the package and dart into the tiny bathroom on the hovercraft.
F7: WYNDLE SYNE
I shrug into the loose-fitting tunic that my eccentric stylist gives me. It's mostly gray, but it has shimmering hints of green and brown that emerge and disappear as I turn. The leggings that come in the package are purely black with slightly tougher section of cloth on the knees than over the rest of the fabric. I pull on a leather jacket over that, which is an unattractive brownish-gray, the same color as the shells of the tree-beetles that plague District Seven. Thin socks go over thick leather boots that require a lot of lacing, tugging, and adjusting to make comfortable. The stylist that's with me now is not my normal one, a kind man called Fray. This woman is neon- there's no other word that fits her- and extremely talkative. She grabs my pale hair and pulls it into a low ponytail, making my head feel tight and painful. I scratch at my hairline, but the substitute stylist slaps my hand away. "Don't mess it up! You want to look good in the arena!" Well, no, I don't really, but whatever. I squeeze my hands together for a while, trying to not think about my itching head.
Instead, I try to focus on my allies' faces- blind Lucius and concerned Kohle. Of course, that just leads my train of thought to the arena, and that causes my stomach to twist into aching knots. I go back to thinking about my hair. Eventually, I cannot bear the pressure anymore and I reach up to rub at the offending area. My stand-in stylist hisses at me and reaches towards my spindly hand, but the hovercraft shudders to a halt before she manages to hit me again. Instead, she falls over herself and lands in my lap. I push her off of me anxiously, forgetting in my hurry to see what's going on that the windows are blacked out.
The hatch pops open suddenly, startling me and making me stumble backwards. The stylist forcefully grabs my arm and maneuvers me to the hole. I'm totally frozen in place by a beam and it lowers me into the Launch Pad area. I tense up as I see the beam descending on me, which turns out to be quite unfortunate. A man in a white coat approaches me with a huge needle full of a sickly green material. He grabs my arm and finds a vein, shoving the syringe deep into my arm. I would twitch away, but I'm frozen still. The stuff in the needle isn't as liquid as it looks, and a lump forms on my arm. Finally, the beam releases me and the pain, freed by my movement, lances through my arm. As I walk around the small metal room, it dissipates.
"Why is this place so small this year?" my stylist complains. The doctor turns around on his way into the hovercraft, looking slightly irritated.
"Have you not been reading the official bulletins for Hunger Games employees?"
"I haven't been a stylist for years- I'm just stepping in for this girl's sick attendee. What are these bulletins?"
"The Capitol is cutting down on launch space and fitting the arena outfits in the hovercraft in order to cut down on resources used on a place only used once." My stylist nods in understanding.
"Umm... I'm going into the freaking center of death in about half an hour… can we not talk about this right now?" I snap. I've got a right to be moody. One of my allies is blind and the other has serious moral qualms. We're all about to hit the television screens, some of us with our gore and death. I just hope I can stay sane through the arena, whatever it may be. And that mutt of mine, whatever that might be!
M8: SCAR MATTHEWS
The neon-blue lightning bolt tattoo on my stylist's face is a pretty good distraction as Lala bustles around the tiny Launch Pad. I fidget in the rickety wooden chair provided for me and consider tossing the Peacekeeper out of the cushioned chair he sits in. After a week of perfectly kind treatment- well, besides the obvious, I mean- the Capitol is showing its true colors once again. Instead of prettying me up and treating me like royalty, they deem it proper for me to take the uncomfortable tiny seat and prepare for death on my own when I'm off the cameras. If I get back home… when I get back home. I cannot afford to think pessimistically. When I get back home, I will start something against this terrible treatment of the district people. We're tossed around like bolts of cloth in the factories back home.
Lala shakes her platinum blond hair out of her eyes and wobbles her way back over to me on bright pink high heels. "You'll do fine, Scar," she rasps, "You're strong, and I've heard that you have sponsors." She winks, a tiny gesture that manages to relax me more than anything else could at this point. I can do this! I'm fast and powerful, and I've got a great group of allies. Gabriel. Alice. Delilah. We all trust each other with our lives. I've seen a group of friends turn on each other in these bestial Games, but we are too trusting of each other. I have complete faith that we will stick together till the end.
The Peacekeeper rises angrily from his chair. "You just revealed classified information!" he barks. He grabs Lala's arms and begins to haul her back up to the hovercraft. "I'll take care of the tribute from here!" As Lala is dragged up the ladder and the freezing beam begins to descend on her, she tosses something at me. My token, a hand-woven bracelet that Strawberry made for me in her daycare class, slides to a halt at my feet. It's fitting. One of my last untainted memories in the normal world is of my beloved sister. I will see Strawberry again. I know I must. Lala is gone now, and the Peacekeeper turns back to me. "You're ready for the plate?" he gruffly says, "Only ten minutes until that gong." I don't even get a chance to answer. He grabs me by the collar of my assigned jacket and shoves me onto the metal circle lit by a single humming light bulb.
It is ten minutes until the death blood begins to flow. Our plan is a pretty simple one. I'm fast, so I'm going to run into the dreaded Cornucopia and grab some supplies; I'm aiming for as much as I can grab and still get away safely. Gabriel will dash away with Delilah and Alice, and I have to find them when I turn away from the golden horn.
My beloved family will see me again. I know they will, on the screens, but I make a silent promise to myself as I stand on my fateful plate. Noah, if he still lived, would be proud of me as I followed his instructions in the arena.
My family will talk to me again. They will once again embrace me. I will run again with my track team. I will not do anything that will hurt me mentally in these next days. I will protect my allies and myself.
I will live. These Games will not kill my essence of self.
F8: ROSE TRINITY
My mentor affixes the butterfly token on my silvery tunic. I can't help think of Laura and Penny as it sparkles in the dim electric light. Will they be screaming in grief by the end of the day as my corpse is lifted into the hovercraft, or will they simply be sitting in anxious wonder as my mane of red hair disappears into the forest? I narrow my eyes as I consider my options. The Cornucopia is totally out of the question. I'm not especially fast or strong, and I'll have to survive on my own.
My grandpa would have said to focus on my strengths, but what do I really have? I'm not above average at anything except considering all the possibilities. I can throw major rocks, but I hurt my back a few years ago and I can't lift heavy things easily anymore. I don't think watching all the death around me will hurt me as much as it will the other tributes, but I'm not taking the beast tribute risks by allying with the others. It's the mutts I'm more worried about. I've seen stray dogs run over by Peacekeeper vehicles before and creatures stuck in the cloth machines; they send a pang of hurt and pity through my heart. Is that wrong, to care for the animals and seem to feel less for the humans? It makes me feel like I have as few morals as the Capitol itself.
The stylist, a rather eccentric but still genuinely caring man called Farrin, pats me on the shoulder. "Be strong, Rose. You'll be great! I've worked on you for a while now, so don't get killed and mess up your pretty face!" He laughs merrily. I fake a smile to avoid hurting his sensitive feelings, but his statement just adds to my inner turmoil. The Capitol has to get its priorities straightened out.
Farrin steps away from the metal plate and considers me. "Perfect. The outfit seems to be designed for hard wear, so expect some serious terrain obstacles. I don't see any heat technology, so the temperature probably won't get hypothermia cold." I thought hypothermia was just for water, but okay then… I remind myself to not get off-topic. I need to think optimistically about these Hunger Games if I want to get home safely. Actually, nobody comes home safely. The Games hold too much mental trauma and victors often have irreparable scars or missing limbs.
"Five minutes until you go up," Farrin checks the timer on the slaughterhouse wall. I gulp nervously. I've decided to run, but I'm still not sure what I'm running from… or to. I cannot run from my fiercest enemy, the Capitol, as the tracker lodged in my arm shows, but I can run from my family, from the Careers, from the awful mutts the Gamemakers have created from the tributes' blood.
I allow the man to pull my hair back with a strip of leather identical to the material of my jacket. Will my family be respectful of me when I get out of the arena, alive or dead? Will they be irritated? Mourning? Indifferent? The last one is definitely the worst. They've seriously just ignored me since Grandfather died.
"Four minutes until you head up," Farrin squeaks from the shadows of the Launch Pad. His smile, unnaturally bright, grins like a skull at me. I try to halt my trembling knees as my time ticks down.
F6: ROSI JENNS
I might have slugged that Peacekeeper when I got reaped, but after that my whole tribute image went downhill. My mentor, an ancient woman with a horrible nervous twitch in her left eye, couldn't get me to act for the interview at all, so she gave up and told me to be honest but not mean. I'm not naturally cruel, just panicked sometimes. So I was myself, but that was a flop in the eyes of the Capitol citizens. My stylist tried to play up 'my natural beauty', but that was defeated by the image of the girl who just wanted to go home. That's all I am now, really.
I think I scared off my potential allies during training. I accidentally kicked the girl from Five, Mallow, in the face when we were training together at the martial arts station, and she avoided me ever since. I don't know what happened during her session with the Gamemakers, but all the skills she had with a hammer only earned her a three as her score. I got a four, but it wasn't my fault that I had night terrors the night before!
"Three minutes till launch," my stylist says. She waggles her bright orange eyebrows at me excitedly and I feel like smacking her. Why is she so happy about seeing twenty three kids die? How is that possible? I know Ghabbie and my brothers are terrified right now. I'm only fourteen, and I've had no training. Worst of all, I have no allies to keep me safe. The two I wanted to ally with, Mallow and Mikhail, wouldn't take me as an ally. Mallow, because I kicked her in the face; Mikhail isn't taking any allies at all. It hurts to see Gabriel with his allies, but I can't help that.
"How are you feeling, Rosi?" Hakiana says. She seems like she's trying especially hard to be nice to me. I guess she realized how much her last statement disturbed me. I twirl a piece of my blond hair around my fingers as I consider the question.
"Well, for someone for whom the odds are very much against, I'm doing great. I'm not starving and I'm not worrying about what my life is going to be like. I'm just panicking about what is going to happen in a few minutes and what I'm gonna do about it and what my family and friends are about to be forced to go through!" I snap bitterly.
"Oh, you poor thing!"
"That's coming from the person who just seemed so happy about launching me to my death!" I feel angrier than ever before. Hakiana purses her lips.
"I think you'll do fine. No- seriously!" she says when I begin to say she's just saying that to make me feel better, "You're determined, fast, good at analyzing things, and a powerful martial artist. You have a great shot of making it out of the arena."
I can't detect any fake feelings or sarcasm in her voice, so I smile. "Thanks, Hakiana."
"No prob, kiddo. Two minutes till launch."
Two minutes until this metal plate I'm standing on rises into that accursed arena. Three minutes until the gong reverberates through the twenty-four pairs of ears. And then the death begins.
M6: GABRIEL GROW
My dad's last memory of me won't even be in the lush visiting room of the Justice Building. He never recognized me the day of the Reaping. His last memory will be of the night before, when we were both exceedingly upset at each other. He was mad because I had been out past ten working, and I was upset because, well, the only reason that I wasn't home earlier was because I was trying to get money for our little family to eat. Now, he'll see me in the arena. If I make it back home, he'll always see me as a victor, not the son he used to know. If I don't make it back home, then who knows what will happen to him?
And Ella. Beautiful Ella, with her ferocious hugs and lovely singing. She'll try to take care of Dad, but soon the memories of me would overwhelm her and she would have to stay home. There'd be no more visits to the Tree. I remember my visit with the girl before the train.
There were so many people who wanted to visit me that I was 'forced' to choose who I wanted to say good-bye to. When I stepped into the waiting area, I was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of girls standing there. I searched for my father, but he was nowhere to be seen. The only other person I wanted to talk to was Ella, and she was standing at the front of the crowd with her arms crossed. When I wrote only her name on the piece of paper the Peacekeeper gave me, the other girls gave a collective groan, but there was nothing they could do about it. Ella and I sat in the little- well, not really little- room and she cried into my shoulder.
"Gabriel, you've got to come back!" she pressed a small charm into my hand as she said the pitiful words. I recognized it immediately; it sits in her window, visible form the street if you look close enough. The little horse is now warm and safe in my pocket, my hand wrapped around it as my stylist, Casper, silently makes a few last-minute adjustments to my arena costume.
"One minute until the launch," he says in his monotonous voice. It's a very calming voice, but the message of the words overrides the soothing tone. I could be dead in the next five minutes, my father alone and Ella broken.
I can't waver now, I must be strong. For Ella and my beloved father.
"Thirty seconds," Casper intones.
I fidget. Suddenly, the plate turns, clicking into place on some sort of lifting device. I almost stumble off of it.
"Ten seconds until you go up," says my stylist. He grins wickedly, the only expression I've seen from him, ever. With his dark skin and features, he appears as a sadistic demon. For a flash, I'd rather be in the arena than underground with him.
"Five. Four. Three. Two. One." The plate rises, giving me the feeling of being in an open elevator. I feel cool breezes on my skin and I shut my eyes tightly to gain my bearings. Light assaults my eyelids, managing to hurt even my shielded corneas.
For Ella. For my father.
The famous voice of the announcer, Claudius Templesmith II, booms around me. An odd, animalistic noise sounds behind me at the sudden voice.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, let the One Hundredth Hunger Games begin!"
I suppose I should do some kind of disclaimer: I don't necessarily have the same beliefs or attitudes as I did when I was a young teen in 2012, so no guarantees that this story is entirely politically correct? I mean, I don't think I was ever an asshole, but I probably didn't know how to talk about things like identity, gender, mental health, or appearance. So yeah. This story was written in 2012, take it with several extra grains of salt.
Idk why I'm saying this here. Oh well!
Happy Hunger Games!