Dr. Volumnia Gaul was furious.
Not peeved, like she had been when her chainsaw bear experiment had been scrapped; not angry, like she had been when President Ravenstill had threatened to defund her lab as a result of said chainsaw bear experiment — no, she was positively fuming.
Her week was not going well. Well, swell, it all went straight to hell.
It had started at the reaping, perhaps the most important part of the Games. There was a reason why the media team put so much pomp and circumstance behind the reaping, the only part of the Games that most of the district rabble watched. To them, it was a reminder that none of them were truly ever safe, least not the youngest and most innocent of them. But in order to get the Capitol audience to truly buy into the Games, there needed to be some semblance of equity, of entertainment. Sure, most of the tributes would be helpless little lambs to the slaughter, but some districts, especially the ones that required strength in daily life, would generally reap sacrifices that would up a good fight. It was no fun if the audience felt like the Games were predetermined, after all. So when the ninth set of reapings had occurred and the districts had pumped out an endless string of weaklings, crybabies, and all-around pathetic little mice, she had nearly blown a gasket.
Some tributes were always going to be terrible. She hadn't expected anything out of 3, 6, or 12, for example. Those districts existed to provide cannon fodder for the rest of the cast. But when 1 had brought up two hideous blemishes (far from their usual beautiful and strong tributes), 4 had mustered up a sickly little sea-worm and an exceedingly flabby clownfish, and 7 had delivered two flimsy saplings, she knew that she was in for a rough year. Even 2, which could usually be counted on to pump out an athletic specimen or two, had grossly disappointed. Apparently their little academy, named after the Capitol's shining educational establishment, had decided to bide their time for a year, allowing two pitiful nobodies to take the bullet. She'd have to put more pressure on their oh-so-serious boy's club. What was the point, after all, of letting them break the rules and train subject after subject if they weren't going to share their toys with her?
She'd punished the districts for their insubordination, of course. More fuel to the flames kept the engine burning. Withholding water from the drought in 9, for example, would convince the wheat farmers that perhaps they ought to take the Hunger Games more seriously. Unfortunately what was sown had already been reaped, and as Head Gamemaker she had to work with the pieces she was given. New additions would have to be made. The implementation of food and water at the arena's metaphorical Cornucopia would allow tributes to keep up their health and spirits in what Dr. Gaul suspected would become an increasingly long event. The weapons would need to be changed as well, to prevent the audience from growing bored of the killing style. The past two Victors had won by sword. A third would simply not do.
Not that her changes had mattered. Those stupid, self-destructive animals. Before the horns had sounded and the Games even begun, like moths to a flame, the tributes from 3, 5, 7, 11, and 12 had all ran off their platforms and been shot by Peacemakers, as they had been foolishly instructed to do. At the sight of it, Dr. Gaul had screamed and raged at the television. The tributes had reportedly formed some idiotic suicide pact while in the train together, agreeing to die rather than partake in the Games. Sheep. Like it would do them any good. Minutes after they perished, Gaul had given the order for their families to be executed.
Still, it all could have been salvaged if the Games had been exciting. A strong Victor could make even the most tedious of affairs marketable after the fact, as the previous Games had proved. Tragically, the remaining tributes offered little in the way of entertainment. The bloodbath was the tamest yet, with only 4 total kills. The Twos seemed more preoccupied with hogging the spotlight and impressing the audience than actually winning the Hunger Games, which resulted in their early deaths from a sneak attack by the boy from 10. The rancher wielded his lasso like a third arm and Dr. Gaul momentarily had hoped that she had an underdog on her hands before he tripped on his own rope and had his head caved in with a rock by the boy from 9.
There weren't any kills on the second, third, or fourth days of the Games. The remaining tributes instead seemed content to camp out in the stands, hoping that starvation would hit their opponents before themselves. Enraged, Dr. Gaul had petitioned President Ravenstill to let her send her lab experiments into the arena to ah… pick up the pace, as it were, but he had refused her on the grounds of possibly posing a threat to the Capitol. How dare he; she was 75% certain that no citizens would be harmed.
On day 5, the emaciated little boy from 6 stumbled across the girl from one while prowling the stands for more food. His primal instinct gave it, as it always did, and after ten long, clawing minutes he had strangled her to death. Finally, some action. The ratings, long at rock bottom, began to slightly peak upwards. Perhaps this Games could avoid being a complete failure after all. Unfortunately for both Dr. Gaul and those that tuned in for a big of excitement, the boy sat down, rationed his now doubled food supply out, and took a short nap. Nobody came to take advantage. Ridiculous! A tribute sleeping out in the open, and nobody coming to kill him. It made a complete mockery of the Games. She'd execute him that moment if she could.
Tick tock, the clock ran by as day six and seven passed. The tributes from 1 both perished, the girl pushing the boy down a flight of stairs over the last cracker, then passing out from starvation soon after. Indeed, the grim reaper that had taken so many during the war seemed to come back, with more tributes starving to death than being killed any other way. By the eighth day, only the boys from 6 and 8 were left. Expecting some kind of showdown, the Gamemakers had readied the trumpets for an eventual victory. They should've known better. An agonizing two more days passed before the boy from 8 finally keeled over from starvation, leaving the twerp from 6 the official and completely undeserving Victor. Great.
She'd uncharacteristically brought him to her lab to examine, to try and salvage some miraculous reason why he had won the Games. Anything, even the slightest hint of a reason for why he came back over 23 other tributes. Dr. Gaul was into observing human nature, and there had to be something about this child that made him stand out in that aspect. Travis Duster. A ridiculous name.
But her tests and surveys had been conducted in vain. There was nothing special about this boy. Nothing at all. The Games was a complete flop, being remembered as one of the worst in history. Ratings were the lowest they would ever be, peaking in the low 10,000s. People were starting to question the necessity of the Games, the reason behind them. And this simply wouldn't do.
Next year would have to be bigger, be better. She'd put out a statement to the mayors in each district, strongly recommending they ensure a worthy tribute. Her spies had already picked out several promising specimens. A political agitator in 11. An aspiring genius in 3. A songbird in 12.
She'd go bigger, go better. She'd hire some klutz from the television to lighten up the mood and detach the tributes from reality. Perhaps she'd bring in some students from the Academy (the real Capitol one, not the cheap imitation from Two) to help out. Twice the test subjects meant a greater sample size. Oh, there was much experimentation to be done indeed.
By the end of the week, Dr. Voluminia Gaul had significantly cheered up. There was work to be done, snakes to feed, cages to clean. Sheep to trick, bones to pick, and it would all go merrily, merrily around.
Plus, she'd convinced the President to finally approve the chainsaw bears.
—
Travis sat down on the dirty sidewalk as he watched shuttle cars pass by, carrying herds of unwashed masses zooming towards their jobs at factories, or the massive train systems that supported all of Panem. He pulled out his cardboard sign and a small hat. Begging wasn't easy, but the slight recognition given to him as a Victor meant he was usually able to make enough for a small loaf of bread, or perhaps a bottle of water. The few hundred dollars slipped to him by that curious short Dean had lasted a few days, but no job wanted to take a chance on an orphan with no known address or work history. The money had lasted a few days before some gang had stolen it, likely for drug money.
His parents were long gone. He'd never even met his father and his mother had sold him for a few coins to buy liquor when he was 7. The contracting company had used him for a few days, having him crawl into tiny spaces and unscrew a vent here or there, before tossing him back out. He was used to being on the streets. It was where he belonged.
His sunken eyes took in his surroundings. A gray skyline marred by smog-pumping, grotesque factories reigned over a dull, yellow-gray cityscape. He almost wished he was back in the arena. At least there he'd had food and water. Plus, the people trying to kill you were more honest about it.
Travis stretched his tattered jacket under him and prepared to go to sleep. Nothing beat the hunger like being unconscious. As he closed his eyes, a gentle rain began to pour over him, as if the clouds were quietly weeping too.