Merrick Stanley was a man dictated by his vices. Drinking? Started that at thirteen. Gambling? He'd lost more at the Lucky Old Sun than he could count. Sex? Well, he wasn't entirely unattractive, and the men's and women's factory quarters were only a few minutes away from each other. In truth, the dam operator's questionable choice of recreational activities were hardly out of line for other young adults his age. District 5 wasn't exactly the most exciting place for a freshly-turned 18-year-old to celebrate, and the pubs and casinos were a comforting respite from the dullness of everyday life. Still, when the escort pulled his name out of the reaping bowl, Merrick couldn't help but feel like he was being punished for his sins.
After crying himself to sleep (and although he'd never admit it, wetting himself slightly), Merrick woke up in the Capitol. He could hear the roar of the crowd cheering as the train pulled up to the station. His escort knocked on the cabin door asking him to indulge them, and Merrick obliged. As he stepped out of the train into the heart of the city, he was nearly blinded by the glare of the sun reflecting off the buildings in front of him. All around him, Capitol citizens dressed in outrageous and flamboyant costumes whooped and shouted for his attention. He felt sick to his stomach, and after the District 5 escort quickly shuffled both tributes into the Tribute Center, Merrick found the nearest trash can and began profusely vomiting.
The sickness didn't last long, however. When they entered their luxurious apartment, Merrick's eyes were drawn to the massive feast laid out upon their table. Whole roast chickens, grilled and steamed vegetables, bread and pasta galore, and all the cakes and sweets one could ever taste were all within arms' reach. Before their escort could even begin the tour of their living quarters, Merrick attacked the table with a ferocious hunger and began gorging himself upon everything he could. The escort, rolling her eyes and gritting her teeth, took the time to show his district partner around instead. An hour later, sated and full, Merrick passed out in his seat.
He missed training entirely. Why bother, when he knew he was going off to his death anyways and there were so many luxuries to be enjoyed? Instead of practicing his swordplay or knot-tying skills, Merrick experimented with the multitude of options in the bathroom (they had a hot shower!) and the food service. While his peers toiled and sweated through their tight latex shirts, he sat in front of the television on his ever-so-comfortable couch laughing at the morning cartoons. The parade and interviews went about the same. The tall, skinny boy dressed as a giant windmill did not exactly spark inspiration, and while speaking to Lucky he just came off sullen and uncaring. From all outside perspectives, Merrick was completely and utterly resigned to his fate, and his training score and betting odds reflected that. Clocking in at an even 5 and a 90:1 chance of winning, the odds were certainly not in his favor.
Stepping onto his pedestal for what he believed would be the last few moments of his life, Merrick made an attempt at a brave face that came off as more of a grimace. Dressed in thin, tight spandex, his belly bulged out as a result of his brief period of indulgence. Knees quaking, he stood on the pedestal as it lifted him up into the open.
It took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the light. When they did, he sharply inhaled. Surrounding the tributes was just a forest — a regular, normal-looking forest. A sparkling, bubbling stream of water passed from the Cornucopia deep into the forest. The somewhat unimpressive arena scared Merrick far more than a nightmarish one. Remembering the horrors of the 11th Games, his mind sifted through images of being torn apart by ravenous beasts and horrors beyond his comprehension. No, it would be much better to take the easy way out and run into a Career's sword. The clock started counting down, and he gulped.
Before he knew it, the Games were upon him. The clock hit zero and he tried to will himself to run straight into the Cornucopia to his death. Upon jumping off his pedestal, however, he realized that his body wouldn't let him. Instead, his legs seemed to be propelling him into the thicket, taking him to Gods knew where. He tried to force his traitorous limbs to listen, but they refused. They just kept running and running until he stumbled over a hedge and knocked himself out on a rock.
When he came to, it was night. Head spinning and terrified, Merrick carefully sat up and looked into the sky. The sound of the death montage playing had woken him up, and he stared at the many faces flashing through the sky. One of them was his district partner, whose name he'd never bothered to learn. He felt bad about it, but his feelings of shame were drowned out by those of terror, and more pressingly, thirst.
Merrick slowly crawled to his feet using a nearby tree for support, then scanned his surroundings. It was almost too dark to see, with only a sliver of moon for light, but he managed to make out a nearby opening. He noticed that he was covered in leaves and dirt — the unintentional camouflage must have saved him from the bloodbath. Without purpose or really any idea where he was going, Merrick began to wander around the arena.
The next 48 hours were mostly a blur. Dehydrated, hungry, and wounded, Merrick bumbled around in the forest searching for a source of water. By some miracle, no tributes ran into him. A small part of him held out hope for a sponsor gift, but he knew that whatever meager donations he had managed to earn wouldn't be enough to afford even a cracker. After what felt like hours, he stumbled upon a small brook and greedily began slurping water from it. Thirst quenched, Merrick began the search for food. He didn't have to look far. The brook opened up to a larger stream nearly bursting with fish. A few minutes of fruitlessly snatching showed him that he would have to be more creative, so using a bed of nearby long grasses, he devised a rudimentary net. A few more minutes and he finally had a catch, fat and plump, sitting in his net. Resisting the urge to tear into it then and there, Merrick built a small fire and roasted his first success. As he gnawed on the bones, he started thinking about what he should do next. He had virtually no idea how many tributes were left or where they were, but he could tell that his time was running out. Sensing that staying near the stream was his best bet at staying alive, Merrick followed the flowing water downstream.
Over the next few days, he tracked the twisting and winding stream until he had mapped the entire arena out in his head. He'd managed to steer clear of almost all the other tributes and only had to hide from the Career pack twice. The odds just happened to be in his favor. He did have a brief run-in with the boy from 10, but after a small scuffle, each of them decided they valued their own life more than taking the other's, and they sprinted away from each other. Knowing that he had at most a few days before the Gamemakers tired of his antics and sent the Career pack in his direction, Merrick set his plan into action. Following the stream, he traveled back to the highest point of elevation in the arena, unzipped his spandex suit, and began defecating into the water.
The cameras immediately panned away from the foul act. Most of the Capitol believed the boy had gone delirious or mad. Only a few understood what he was doing. His many-day journey had unearthed the fact that the entire arena's water supply led back to this source.
Merrick's plan had one flaw, however. He could release an entire body weight's worth of excrement and it still wouldn't be enough to fully contaminate the stream. Luckily for him, his friends and family back home were watching — and more importantly, the casinos and pubs that he frequented were as well. Not wanting to lose such a loyal customer, they had set up a collection bin when the Games began. Now, they finally had something to use it on. Galvanizing the locals, District 5 was able to send in a massive barrel filled with byproduct from their nuclear power plant. The collective minds of all their best scientists had been able to turn the previously untouchable waste into a relatively harmless and, more importantly for Merrick, crystal clear fluid. When the parachute came down, he knew exactly what to do. Being careful not to inhale any of the fumes, Merrick gingerly carried the package to the side of the stream, drank his last fill of the water, then kicked the bucket in entirely.
It didn't take long. The Career pack had long taken the source of water for granted, and within a few hours were vomiting up blood and passing out. Merrick arrived at their camp to see bodies strewn across the ground and the boy from 10 crudely finishing the girl from 4 off with a chokehold. The two locked eyes as the cannons boomed, squaring their shoulders to face each other.
There was no running this time. The fight was brutal, dirty, and ruthless. The boys clawed and bit and raked each other's eyes until they were both a bloody mess. Merrick was the larger boy, however, and managed to overpower the boy from 10. Pulling him by the hair, he managed to drag him over to the ever-present stream and hold his head underwater. Half a minute later, the boy stopped struggling and the trumpets sounded.
The life of a Victor was one that suited Merrick quite well. The constant stream of income fueled his worst habits, and more often than not he could be found gambling or whoring his money away. The district, once grateful for the Parcel Days his victory brought, quickly grew tired of his antics, and Merrick Stanley mostly faded into the background, remembered less for his victory and more for his ever-growing double chin.
As the years passed, Merrick became rather well known by the other Victors for his lack of inhibition. Others may have been comfortable in the Capitol, but Merrick was the first to be truly happy there. The citizens that he had once found pompous and ridiculous were now the companions that he surrounded himself with as he drank and gorged himself to his heart's content. He would find any excuse to return to his paradise – weddings, funerals, and even the Games. While most mentors dreaded their yearly pilgrimage to the Capitol, Merrick grew to adore it. It was pretty easy to ignore the dying children with a belly full of the finest wines and an escort in each arm. Of all the crying, desperate children that entered his care, he only managed to save one – a boy that would resent the idea that Merrick had anything to do with his survival. No, the Victor had much more important matters to attend to, many more parties to attend.
For four decades Merrick let his vices overtake him, living in gluttonous indulgence and ecstasy until one day it finally caught up to him. A routine check-up at the local doctor revealed a loss of twenty pounds and a growing yellowish patch on his skin. A further appointment with an oncologist confirmed his worst fears: hepatocellular carcinoma, also known as liver cancer. Despite their best treatments, stage A progressed to stage B, which then rapidly moved on to stage C. The doctors had never seen anything like it, but Merrick knew what was happening. A few years ago, the supposedly safe nuclear waste product that his district produced was found to be an extremely potent carcinogen. While factory workers wearing the proper protective equipment were mostly safe, the janitorial staff that had been tasked with disposing of it (and had not been provided any PPE whatsoever) had developed tumors at an alarming rate. Merrick had done his best to be safe, but the small amount he had breathed in and come in contact with must have been enough. Never mind the years of annihilating his liver, this was fate speaking through karmic justice. Refusing treatment, District 5's first winner chose to go out in peace, quietly passing in the night with only a few chosen friends present.
Some victors are obsessed with legacy, choosing to carefully cultivate their reputation and leave behind an image of greatness. Others care more about forgetting the Games ever happened, leaving their past behind and disappearing into blissful obscurity. Merrick Stanley, on the other hand, was more straightforward with what he wanted: complete satisfaction of everything he'd ever wanted. After his victory, everything he ever did was in the name of fulfilling his desires. It was an honest, if indulgent way of living, and while the other Victors didn't exactly respect him, he never made any enemies either.
Merrick won the great game of chance that was the Hunger Games, and spent the rest of his life furiously enjoying himself until he died. If the rest of the world had anything to say about it, he didn't care. He was happy, and that was all that mattered.
