The day of the Games dawned bright and clear. A pristine shade of light blue streaked across the cloudless sky, and the sun shone brightly, peeking through the windows of a certain Hunger Games tribute's room.
England yawned as sat up in his fluffy bed, staring at the golden beam of sunlight that shined on his face. Even though this could very well be the day he died, the Brit had a certain joyous feeling in his stomach. Last night, he'd fallen asleep smiling, then remembered why. England had gotten a perfect twelve on his private assesment with the gamemakers, the highest of all twenty four tributes. He had thought that he would do poorly, considering that the dummy he'd speared against the wall was represented as Panem, the man who personified this sadistic nation, and who was glorified by most of its citizens. But then again...he would be a labeled target.
After taking one last long, hot shower, slathering many scented oils and soaps on himself, brushing his teeth, and dressing, England headed downstairs, where the tributes were all packed in the lobby, looking up at Effie Trinket. She was rambling that each tribute would be guided to their inividual launch rooms, where they would be sent up into the arena from, in two hours. They were free to spend their remaining time as they wished.
Being quite hungry, England went to have breakfast, which also might be his last proper meal. The Brit spared no extravagance. He piled his plate with bacon, sausages, eggs, toast, hashbrowns, potatoes, and took a large glass of tea. Despite the fact that these were some of his very favorite foods, England had difficulty eating, feeling like he was forcing blocks of dirt down his throat. He settled on just the crumpets and bacon, and of course the tea, hydration was important. England wasn't the only one taking this oppurtunity to put some food in his belly. China was strolling about the dining room, sampling every food that was offered. America was shoving large amounts of bacon and eggs into his mouth, leering at the other tributes like the arrogant prick he was.
Finally, England set his plate aside, and went out into the lobby. Russia was just sitting on a sofa, gazing mindlessly into space as Belarus smiled creepily at him, and Ukraine sobbed that she wasn't good enough to be in the Games. Japan was silent, pacing around the garish lobby with his head down. Wy was dabbing her paintbrush into a pot of berry juice and painting the walls, earning herself several annoyed glances from the hotel receptionist. England leaned against the wall, watching the other tributes and digesting his breakfast. He wondered what Sealand was doing. Maybe some last minute training, like Germany and Prussia. But England wasn't going to do that and risk other tributes finding out his secrets in the final moments.
At last, after a while of England trying to get his nerves under control, and pacing numerous times around the lobby, Effie announced it was time for launch. At once, twenty four different stylists walked to each tribute, England getting Willow, the women who had styled him for the parade. She grabbed his arm, and led him to the back of the hotel, a bare, dingy place with no windows or light, and pushed open a sleek black door. Inside was a long, white, lighted tunnel, leading to the launch room, which was really more like the last stop before the slaughterhouse. England wondered how many other tributes had faced their final moments in a tunnel with some random stylist, knowing they would probably never see their loved ones again.
As the tunnel widened into a plain, completely white room with a clear cylinder in the middle of it, the force hit England like a ton of bricks. In less than five minutes, he could be laying on some barren arena floor, lifeless as a ragdoll, with some helicopter picking him up and shipping him back to the Hetalian village in a plain, wooden box. The Brit was dimly aware of himself breathing heavily in long, drawn out breaths. His legs quivered, and his hands shook uncontrolably, as Willow guided him to the cylinder, the plastic around it lifting so that England could step on the metal plate.
"Remember," Willow began, "avoid the others, and try to get to a good place with water."
"Right." England nodded curtly, his mouth barely opening.
"Two minutes until launch," A smooth, cool female voice announced through a loudspeaker, audible in every launch room. Heart poudning in his ears and blood pounding through his veins, England stared around his launch room again. It was bright and white, like a resting place before death. Also, it would never be used again after today. Launch rooms were like napkins, used once then thrown out. Willow smiled at him encouraginly, a gesture which England could not return, as every muscle in him was stretched tighter as a stiff rubber band. It took nearly all of England's willpower not to go into hysterics as the plastic cylinder began to close down around him, and the plate he was standing on began slowly mocving upwards through a black tunnel. After about thrity seconds, the plate came to halt and the cylinder lifted.
This is it. England thought. Around him he could see a field of grass, just like one would find in an ordinary back yard. To his right was a line of trees, leading into a forest. In the distance England could see a white, snow capped mountain, and the distinct scent of salty air drifted from behind England, indicating the presence of a body of salt water nearby. All twenty four tributes were arranged in a circle, in the middle of which stood the golden Cornucopia, shaped like a horn that food could be served in, and flowing with things that could easily make the difference of life or death in the arena: food, clothing, shelter, supplies, and weapons. Different items were scattered around the tributes as well, decreasing in value the further away they were from the Cornucopia.
Hungary stood on England's direct left, and Wy on his right. The tension filling the air between all the tributes was so thick one could cute it clean in half with a knife, like a hunk of soft cheese. Everyone's eyes were trained on the Cornucopia, determined to get the supplies that could save them. England stared down at his green shirt and pants. Going to the Cornucopia would be suicide, but he needed supplies, everybody did. As the last few second trickled away (tributes were required to wait sixty seconds before being released from their plates) Cladius Templesmith, the announcer's, voice rang throughout the arena.
"Ladies and gentleman! Let the sixty-sixth annual Hunger Games begin!"