Author's Note

When I was about 14 years old, my parents bought me Suzanne Collins's Hunger Games trilogy from a Costco book sale. It quickly became my favorite series to read, and I thumbed through the pages enough times to absolutely demolish my copy of Catching Fire and Mockingjay. Specifically, the page where Finnick dies is lying somewhere in a landfill after falling straight out of the shoddily-made paperback copy that little me abused with his greasy, stained fingers. I cherished the series for many years, then eventually forgot about it, as all teenagers eventually do.

A few months ago, I read and then subsequently watched A Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes. Instantly, it transported me back to my childhood and once again gave me a taste of what it was like to be a young boy pouring over the chapters of his favorite novels on the top of his bunk bed. It made me feel nostalgia in a way that nothing else ever quite had. I needed more, and so I read Oisin55's The Victors Project. If you haven't checked it out yet, I would do so immediately. It's easily the best fan-created piece of media that I've ever consumed and my project has, as of ten chapters, drawn a significant amount of inspiration from it. It's what inspired this work and I'm probably either intentionally or unintentionally drawing many themes, personalities, and story beats from it.

Worse Games to Play is therefore a love letter to everything that Suzanne Collins and Oisin55 have created. I don't expect it to be good. Hell, I barely even expect it to make it to chapter 50. But it's something that means a lot to me personally, and that's why we write.

I've tried to adhere to canon as best as I can while adding in my own personal fanservice. Any glaring errors in continuity are an oopsie on my part.

I hope you get something out of this.

Invictus

It was hot. Victor wiped his brow as he was led out of the tunnel onto a pedestal. It was very, very hot. His skin glistened with sweat as he climbed up to the marked spot, refusing to look up at his surroundings. A bead of sweat dripped off of his shaved head onto the limestone slab that he stood on. He felt the crowd more than he heard it, felt the wave of anticipation roll over him. No, not quite. Not anticipation. This was more than that. This was tension. This was fervent hunger. This was three years of fear, violence, and anger pouring out from every inch of every audience member's skin. Victor could hardly blame them.

Another droplet of sweat fell. It was blisteringly hot. Suddenly, microphone feedback rang through the area. A voice rang loud and clear over the stadium racket. "Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of Panem, welcome to the first annual Hunger Games!"

The crowd cheered and screamed, and Victor couldn't help but look up at the noise. As he raised his head, the sun poured into his eyes and he instinctively raised his hand to block the glare. He was rewarded with a sharp jab in the back from the rifle-carrying Peacekeeper standing behind him and quickly lowered it back down. The sight of the arena began to instantly overwhelm him. Built like an old colosseum, the arena floor was composed of patterned tile and coated with a thick layer of dust. Weapons were scattered across the ground – swords, maces, axes, and other brutal ancient devices. Nobody had seriously used any of these weapons for centuries, but hey – watching kids shoot each other would probably be somewhat less entertaining. He made note of a sword within a few steps of him to pounce on once the Games began, then looked back up. Despite the sheer number of people in the crowd (100,000? Maybe 150,000?) Victor could make out each individual audience member, each Capitol citizen dressed in their equally ridiculous outfits. President Ravinstill stood behind a microphone at the very edge of the seats closest to the action, projecting outwards towards his people.

While the president yammered on, Victor looked around at his fellow tributes, nerves frayed and shivering. The Capitol had insisted on each tribute entering the arena in nothing but a white tunic styled after an ancient, long-forgotten civilization. It was to represent the innocence lost in the rebellion, they claimed, but he suspected it was to make the bloodstains easier to see. While Victor filled his outfit out quite nicely – the forges of Two were excellent for bodybuilding – the same could not be said for most of the rest of the district children. The boy from Three stood to his left, almost entirely skin and bones and quivering so hard his tunic was slipping off his shoulders. Across from him and to the right, a small puddle of urine was forming at the feet of the girl from Six. Cannon fodder, he thought to himself.

He turned his head to the right to look at his district partner, Layla. She was a wreck herself, though she hardly had the insurance policy that he did, being the daughter of rebel conspirators. Her parents had helped hijack the Nut, attempted to blockade it from Capitol use, and had paid for it with their lives. Glancing over the rest of his competition, Victor noticed a common pattern. The boy from 7, son of a famous rebel pilot. Both tributes from 5, part of the children's brigade that tormented Peacekeepers across the district. 'Randomly selected tributes.' He snorted.

President Ravinstill continued his speech, extolling the forgiveness and virtue of the Capitol to allow the districts to keep existing after their rebellion. Victor thought back to what his uncle had said after the reaping in the Justice Building minutes before he had been shipped to the arena. "They chose you for a reason, Invictus. Somebody has to win."

He was right. There was no chance in hell that the Capitol was going to let the rebellion have any win, pyrrhic or not, after what they had done. No, complete and total victory was the goal here. His uncle's stern words rang in his ears. "Your parents were fools, but they're the reason you're going in there. They need someone brave, someone perfect, someone to be their champion. Someone to show the districts that loyalty will be rewarded above all else."

Victor had flinched, looked away at the mention of his parents, but his uncle was right. They were fools, plotting to break into the Peacekeeper's weapon supply and arm the rebels. He had stumbled across their plans the night before they were to be enacted. Victor knew that going to the Head Peacekeeper was the right thing to do, but he couldn't escape the feeling of dread in his stomach as he walked out of the Justice Building. Nor could he turn away from the look in his mother's eyes as she walked past him to the gallows, or forget the way their bodies swung in the breeze, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth until his uncle had come to take him home.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the countdown to the Hunger Games begin!" Victor shook his head as a large timer began to tick down. It was time to focus, to collect his thoughts. The audience began to chant along with it – "60! 59! 58!"

The pair from 1 would be one to watch, his uncle had said. They were non-rebels, just like him. Layla stood between them, but once she went down he would become the obvious next target. He chanced a look over at them. The boy was lean and tall with combed back brown hair and a cocky smile. 16, if he had to guess. The girl was similarly built, almost the same height as him with her golden locks glistening in the sun. Their matching blue eyes radiated confidence, even excitement. The picture of perfect champions, the two of them.

"30! 29! 28!" As much as it tempted him, Victor couldn't be the first one to strike. The first person to pick up a weapon would become an instant target. No, he would have to hold back and wait for the perfect moment to strike. Most of the cannon fodder likely wouldn't even budge off their pedestals, giving him the chance to grab a weapon and fight defensively. Once one of them made the first move he could–

"20! 19! 18!" What? That definitely wasn't eight seconds. Part of him still hadn't registered what was about to happen. No, they surely wouldn't actually go through with the Games. This couldn't possibly be happening. He hadn't even done anything wrong. He just did as he was taught. It wasn't his fault, he didn't deserve to be here. His mom had to understand that, surely she would understand that he had to do what he–

"10! 9! 8!" His uncle was right. He was going to kill them all, he had to kill them all, he was going to be the perfect champion and the perfect winner and he was going to be the pride of the Capitol and the heart of his district because he had to because otherwise–

"7! 6! 5! 4!" It was outrageously, horrifically, world-endlingly hot–

"3! 2! 1! LET THE GAMES BEGIN!" and then Invictus stopped thinking.

As expected, most of the tributes stood frozen on their pedestals. The boy from 12 started screaming, and several other tributes joined in. Victor reached down and picked up the sword he had seen earlier. A few other, bolder tributes also armed themselves, but nobody moved off their pedestal.

A minute passed. Maybe two. Then, panicked and with a wild look in his eyes, the boy from 9 took a running leap and shoved a dagger into the chest of the girl next to him. She stared at him bewildered, a red puddle forming at her chest, and a few beats passed before it seemed to dawn upon him that he had just murdered his district partner. Victor took his cue and quickly rushed to cut the throat of the boy from 12 beside him.

As blood seeped out of the young boy's carotid artery, Layla let out a long and shrill shriek beside him and the stadium began shouting and applauding, clamoring for more. The tributes scattered, picking up weapons at random and battling each other with unskilled, sloppy form. Chaos filled the air. The boy from 1 reached down, picked up an axe, and swung it directly into Layla's neck as she was still screaming. It wasn't a clean swing, and blood spurted out of the wound. He pulled the axe back out and was prepared to swing again, but was stopped by Victor thrusting his sword through his chest. Victor pulled his sword out as Layla toppled over next to him. He barely had a chance to glance down at her body before a spear whizzed towards his head, taking half his left ear off. As he roared in pain, the girl stepped in front of him, picking up a rapier with a grin.

"Not bad, two. Glisten was good, but he was careless. I won't be." She pointed the thin, needle-like blade directly at him and assumed a learned stance. The Capitol had forbidden the tributes from training for the Games beforehand, but that clearly hadn't dissuaded District 1.

"What's your name, girl?" Victor spat out while cupping his ruined ear. She remained silent, eyes narrowing with focus. "It doesn't matter. Only one of us is going home." They began circling each other as battles raged around them. The boy from 7 had cut down the boy from 9 and girl from 8 before being speared with a trident belonging to the girl from 4, who was then brought down to one knee by a shakily aimed arrow from the boy from 11. The whole arena seemed to avoid Victor and the girl from 1, however, as they continued their standoff. The crowd screamed their support, clearly hoping for a bloody fight. Suddenly, the girl lunged in with surprisingly fast speed. This time, however, Victor was ready, and he deflected her swipe with his sword before delivering an attack of his own. His steel bounced off hers, and the sound of metal on metal seemed to fuel the flames of the audience. The mighty warrior clashing against the beautiful but deadly princess - the Capitol couldn't have hoped for a more picturesque battle.

"You're good at this," the girl said. "Looks like somebody's been training too." In truth, Victor hadn't prepared for the Games beyond listening to what his uncle had to tell him. All the combat skills he had came from his time in District 2's citizen's battalion. After he had turned in his parents, his uncle had enlisted him in the battalion where he had been clothed, fed, and sheltered in exchange for his continued efforts in fighting the rebel cause. He had hardly seen any real action besides guarding prisoners, but the training had taught him how to fight. The rest was just his strong physique coming into play.

With one final swing, Victor knocked the girl's rapier away. It clattered to the ground as the audience cheered. "Finish her!" one particularly drunk viewer yelled. The girl made the mistake of taking her eyes off Victor for just a second, scanning the dusty floor for a new weapon, and he took the opportunity to kick her to the ground. She landed with a thud as he approached, sword in hand. He leveled his sword to her throat.

"You don't have to do this," she pleaded. "We can team up, kill the rest; I'll make it easy for you." Victor hesitated for just a second, steeling himself. The girl continued. "Please. My name is–"

Victor slowly inserted his sword into her throat. Her mouth continued to move, gaping and jawing at nothing as a river of red poured down her neck onto her tunic. He was right. The white made the stains clear as day.

"District rabble like you don't deserve names." He growled, just loud enough for the audience to hear. They went wild, cheering and screaming his name. "INVICTUS! INVICTUS! INVICTUS!" The arena reverberated with chanting. Victor had yet to take his eyes off the girl, however. She hadn't died, at least not yet. Her mouth remained ajar, gasping for air as futile as it was. Victor pulled his sword out to finish the job. As the life drained out of her, he saw a familiar expression. It was the one he had seen in his mother's face the day he had killed her and his father.

Hate.

And then Victor stopped being.

28 minutes later, Invictus stood atop a pile of corpses, ears ringing, holding a sword in each hand. He only now was coming to; the last few half an hour had been a blur to him as he slashed and carved his way through the rest of the tributes. The arena had only gotten louder and, in addition to cheering his name, were now showering him with gifts. Money, jewelry, and fine clothing rained down upon him as the hungry Capitol crowd began throwing anything they had, desperate to shower him with praise. A voice spoke over the loudspeakers as trumpets blared – "Citizens of Panem, the winner – no, the victor of the first ever Hunger Games… Invictus Amadeus!"

The games lasted 48 minutes. Invictus killed a total of thirteen boys and girls.

Eight days later, he turned 18.