Prologue: That Special Time of Year

One Week Before Reapings

Summer Coxell, Head Gamemaker

All our hard work has finally paid off.

Frankly, it's more the work of my colleagues than mine. They created most of the ideas, all I really had to do was approve or reject them. Sure, now and then I did end up contributing a useful idea- like one of the main gimmicks of the arena- but most of the time I just supervised my coworkers, listening to their conversations, settling arguments, and helping those who were struggling. They were the minds behind the arena, I just coordinated them.

Which makes how precarious my position is even more ironic.

You see, every time something has gone wrong in a specific year's Games- whether it was flaws in the design, a "rebellious" tribute winning, or simply that they were "too boring"- the Head Gamemaker would "retire". Most of the time, they were found dead in their homes under mysterious circumstances. Everyone knows who the culprit is, but no one wants to call them out on it, because they don't want to be the next on the chopping block.

So, this games must be exciting, yet uneventful. Unforgettable, yet by-the-numbers. Seemingly impossible to top, yet merely setting up the stage for the next Games.

With that series of contradictions, I'm beginning to wonder how Head Gamemakers even last one year. I still had a week before the Reapings, and I'm already panicking.

One of the workers, a young man named Terry whose last name I didn't remember, peers out the door, and then falls back in a state of exaggerated shock.

"He's coming!"

"Who's he? The president?" This coming from the youngest person here, an eighteen-year-old woman named Garden Flowers (yes, really). While she's sweet as could be, has a keen eye for design, and possesses a body most men would feel weak upon seeing, nobody can deny that she's a bit of a ditz.

"No, Santa Claus is coming. Of course the president!" Terry yells back.

"Everyone, in positions!" I yell, but it's a pointless statement. Everyone else has dropped whatever they were doing, and they all move towards the ornate double doors, ready to greet the President.

That just leaves me. Of course I'm the last one ready, I think to myself. Breaking into a jog, I make it to my spot just as the huge doors swing open with a groan.

Standing in the space the door once occupied is the President of Panem, Mr. Vincent Wainwright. He's a tall man, about thirty, with a skin complexion similar to milk. As for his face, he has a pair of piercing green eyes framed by gold-rimmed glasses, a crooked nose (legend says he was part of a notorious Capitol gang known as Detonation before rising to power), and a perpetually frowning mouth, packed with more teeth than that of the average person. He was clean-shaven, not a hint of mustache or beard adorned his face. As for the rest of him, it was nothing to linger on. Stilt-like legs, a diamond wedding ring on his left hand, expensive clothes covering up the rest of him.

Despite his appearance, he was nowhere near as insane as our last President, a man named Mr. Snow. I wasn't a Gamemaker back then, but the elders who still clutch at memories of him say he was nothing short of a lunatic. The worst part of it was that he was a smart lunatic, and knew exactly how much he was capable of getting away with. He'd assassinated possible political rivals, murdered several dozen Gamemakers who displeased him, caused nearly half a million District starvation deaths over his reign… the list goes on.

However, President Wainwright is not nearly so radical. While he isn't afraid to kill anyone who displeases him, mostly Gamemakers and rebellious District officials, he also increased rations and relaxed labor quotas on all the non-rebelling Districts. This pleased the Districts immensely, and the scant traces of rebellion that had remained dissipated less than three months later. Since his reign started, there haven't been any rebellions, or even talks of one, for almost ten years. It's better for him, better for us, and better for them, all at once.

He kept the Hunger Games going as a symbol of the Capitol's power, but other than that, he's staying pretty hands-off, leaving the Districts alone unless they fail to meet the quotas. Then he steps in, but I have no idea what goes on while he's visiting the Districts, for I've never left the splendor of the Capitol.

As expected, he speaks first. "Is the arena ready yet?"

As the head Gamemaker, I'm obliged to be the person who responds. "Almost, sir. We just need to make a few tweaks to the landscape.

He frowns. "You're behind schedule."

Desperate to change the subject, I speak again. "Would you like to see what we have so far?"

"Can't hurt." As soon as he says that, he's striding towards the main screen, where a holographic projection of the arena is displayed in real time. He checks all areas of the arena, making sure that there aren't any areas where nothing exciting will ever happen, mostly areas that are either near impossible to reach or are so barren and void of anything that no tribute in their right mind would ever stay there any longer than necessary. Based on all the nodding and the fact that his frown is gone, something tells me we've done our job to make the arena as interesting as possible.

"It's pretty good," he says, before turning to a smaller screen that showcases the arena's "gimmick," if you know what I mean.

At this, he nods even more. He even smiles a little. I haven't seen him this happy since six months ago, when he'd gotten very, very drunk and witnessed a fistfight between two women over another guy.

"Simple, but effective," he says. "I like everything that's planned so far. I can have the gimmick made for the arena before the reapings start."

With that, he turns away, walking back to the entrance he came from and disappearing. Finally, I can allow myself a bit of hope.

No matter the cost, I have to make these games spectacular.

Vincent Wainwright, President of Panem

These games look like they're going to be interesting, if nothing else.

The arena I was shown was pretty clever and intricate, the twist even more so. However, I'd said that many times in my first nine years in office, and no matter what, next year was almost always better.

I say almost, because last year, the winning tribute was, to put it lightly, a wreck. He'd come from District 9, which many Capitolites considered a write-off right from the start. He'd only scored a five in training, and it wasn't because he wasn't trying. He'd only survived due to a freak accident at the end of the Games. There had only been three tributes left- him, the girl from One, and the boy from Four. Once all three had made it to the Cornucopia, both the others had left him alone, realizing he wasn't a real threat. However, during their duel, they'd caused such severe damage to each other that even the boy from Four, who eventually triumphed over his opponent, was in no condition to fight. He'd been killed by the victor, his only kill of the entire games.

As expected, the (former) head Gamemaker resigned after that year. Even though I'd offed a head Gamemaker, I left him alone, realizing that year was the exception and not the rule for him. However, it ended up not mattering, because he'd committed suicide by gunshot two months after retiring.

The tributes, of course, have yet to come, the reapings being a full week away. They're the variable that can make or break the Games. No matter how good an arena is, a weak or bland crop of tributes can sabotage the Gamemakers' best efforts to liven things up. However, interesting or powerful tributes can salvage a mediocre arena.

This sets up a wild internal debate for me: should I rig some of the reapings for non-Career districts to spice things up a bit? Or should I leave them alone and hope some powerful outliers come into the mix on their own?

Eventually, I decide to let the reapings progress naturally this year. Last year, even with several rigged reapings, had been a disaster nonetheless. Also, it'd be better to keep the Districts placated, at least until next year.

Unlike my predecessor, I follow the philosophy that if the Districts are kept reasonably well-fed and don't have to work themselves to the bone to meet the arbitrary amount of goods we supposedly need for ourselves, they have no reason to rebel. So far, it's worked. Even the rowdier Districts, like 6 and 12, haven't even attempted a large-scale rebellion since shortly after I took office.

All I could do was hope this year's Hunger Games would not be the tipping point.

Burton Goldfinch, Capitol Citizen

I'm walking at a quick pace down the sidewalk.

Having just left my day job as a commercial director, all I'm thinking about is getting home so that I can see my wife and children again.

The atmosphere was charged, almost electric, on the set today. The actors all put more oomph into their roles than usual, the script writers never moved slower than a brisk jog as they moved from set to set, even the set designers seemed excited, chatting animatedly with each other in between the many takes.

I didn't have any idea why until my friend and colleague, Jessica Porter, mentioned it over a hasty lunch: the reapings for the Hunger Games were just a week away.

I'd instantly gained some respect for the President when he'd announced, the day he took office, that he wasn't discontinuing the Hunger Games. Even if he is getting way too chummy with the Districts while simultaneously shorting us of what we desired in the process, he still left the Hunger Games in place.

The Games, if nothing else, make for some good television.

As I burst through the door, I'm practically attacked by my ten-year-old twin daughters, Daria and Janice.

"Daddy, we're so happy you're home!" They both squealed this at the top of their lungs.

"I know! But right now, Daddy has to go make dinner, OK?"

They sigh, but detach themselves from my legs. This doesn't happen often, but when it does, it's a terrible, cruel time for all of us.

My wife, Zinnia, is sitting still in an easy chair, covered in blankets staring off into space. The television isn't on, even though she adores every pre-Hunger Games show there is. She's just lying there, dead to the world.

She hadn't always been this way. At around age forty, she decided to go for her first body-altering surgery, claiming she looked old and beat-down compared to everyone around her. While she still looked beautiful to me, I gave her my consent. However, during the surgery, several complications cropped up, and while it was still successful, it had a dreadful side effect. About once a week, she'd feel unrelenting pain everywhere, and the painkillers she'd been given a prescription for only helped so much. She'd zone out, trying to ignore the agony, as wave after wave of it racked her body. She'd be like this for about half a day, then, as soon as it passed, she'd be back to her regular, lively self.

Right now, she was in the midst of one of these painful stretches. Which meant I had to cook and clean and do all the things she normally took care of.

Half an hour later, something that could pass for split-pea soup is on the table. I pour bowls for the girls and myself, then bring a bowl into the living room for my wife.

As she takes miniscule sips of the hot liquid, all I can do is hope for it to pass soon, and hope she'll be alert to watch the Games with me. Daria and Janice can see bits and pieces of it for now, but I don't want them seeing all the gory parts yet. When they're thirteen, they can watch a full Hunger Games, I'd told them. We hardly ever watch them live- mostly me and Zinnia just record each segment and watch it the next day, so we can screen it for Daria and Janice before letting them watch select parts.

Zinnia loves the Games, and it'd feel wrong to watch them all by myself, without her being able to experience the event she loves so much.

For her sake and mine, all I can do is hope that the pain passes for her, and that we can watch the Games together, side by side, holding each other.

Just like always.

Author's Notes:

-This is an open SYOT! Feel free to submit, but I'll only take three tributes per author. The form is on my profile.

-I will ONLY accept submissions done through PM. If you are a guest and would like to submit, leave a review to reserve a spot (Only one spot per person can be reserved at a time), and I will hold it for you for up to 7 days. That should be more than enough time to make an account and PM me your tribute. The spot reserving will work the same way for those who can PM me initially, although in that case, I'd prefer that you PM me which spot you would like to reserve.

-The next chapter will be written when I get my first completely full district. May the odds be ever in your favor!

-EDIT, AUGUST 8th, 2019: If you don't really care about these tributes' backstories, feel free to skip to Chapter Twenty-Five (it's labeled as Chapter Twenty-Four because I don't count the prologue as a chapter number). Trust me, I will not judge you for doing so.