Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new story... and this is called Sheep Led to Slaughter, and it's my new Hunger Games SYOT. I have had some unlucky running-ins with a few of these stories, but there's been a point in my life now where I am physically ready to write one, no matter how long it takes, even if it is the only story I have to write for however long. There'll be about six or seven introductory chapters for OC characters, and then we'll move onto the tributes. Enjoy the first chapter, Chapter #1: A Lambasted Morning.

*UPDATE* SO, the SYOT Awards for the SYOT Alliance forum in 2019 took place today and I was nominated and WON best story of the year, best subplot - which will be one focusing on the Capitol OC cast alongside the tributes, something you don't want to miss, as well as best sponsor gift given to a tribute, best bloodbath character, as well as best Interviewer and best Head Gamemaker! *shakes hands excitedly* YOU GUYS! That's unbelievable! :D Thank you so much for your support. To any new readers, I hope this has you stick it out till the end!

Lance Viel: Victor of the 79th Hunger Games P.O.V

The sounds of drums in the deep cause him to awake. Lance Viel, victor of the 79th Hunger Games, jolts off of his position on the cold, tile floor. He places a hand to his head, groggily. What... what time is it? He cannot see his own hand in front of him, it's so dark. When he removes his hand from his head, it comes back feeling slick and sticky. Is that... is that blood?

He can't even recollect in his memory that last time he's seen blood, it's been that long. Twenty-one years at least... and now just in time for the 100th Hunger Games, the 4th Quarter Quell he's going to crash onto the floor and nearly break his skull. Lance tries getting to his feet, something twisting and his muscles screaming in protest. He crashes back onto the tile floor with a resounding slap, he hissing through clenched teeth. Something is just not cooperating today.

Since standing is seemingly not going to be the best option, he gets on his elbows and knees, crawling forward in the dark, blindly. Last time he did something like this, it had been twenty-one years ago, and there's a spear in his leg as he's crawling towards the landmine so he could chuck it behind him at the other tribute chasing after him. This should be easy, finding a light switch. He shouldn't have any trouble... right?

He keeps moving until he bumps into something. Cabinet. Once again. Desk. Once again. Refrigerator. Lance cusses to himself, rubbing his head. More coagulation of what he believes to be blood clings to his fingers, yet he cannot feel the beginning of a bump on his head. Last he checked, Lance goes to bed without taking a sip of alcohol - quite a first, he gives himself that - and now he's waking up in his kitchen, due to the feel of the tile floor, bleeding.

Lance hopes it's blood. He doesn't know what he's going to do if it isn't blood.

His hands grasp the solid, yet rounded feel of something smooth. A countertop! Due to being in the Victors Village, the Capitol spares no expense. Granite countertops, a lounge with a piano in the center, a warm fireplace, a moving staircase that could turn into an escalator... Lance cannot imagine living anywhere else in the district. Much better than the two bedroom, one bath, thousand square foot condominium he and his three siblings are squeezed into with their decrepit aunt. However, he has no reason to complain.

In District One, least there isn't a single citizen who can say they live in squalor, unlike his other compatriots who live in District 12 with nothing but ashes and rags to cover themselves at night.

Heaving himself upwards, hands gripping the piece of furniture, he struggles to his knees. Resting his head against the wall, he feels around with the top of his head for the light switch. Something juts out that does not feel like the blender or a strange obtrusion pointing outwards, so it must be the light switch. Using his left hand, he flicks the switch, and light bathes the room in a halcyon haze.

His worst fears, yet happiest assumptions are proven true, as he looks back from where he awoke. There's a puddle of blood in the center of his kitchen. However, the blood doesn't belong to him, or at least Lance believe it isn't his. There's also a dead animal in the center of his kitchen. He turns his head to the side, askew somewhat as he narrows his eyes at the sight before him. Yep. It's a dead animal, a sheep... poor thing.

However, the better question is why there's a dead sheep in the middle of his kitchen. Lance looks down at his body, a blush settling on his cheeks. Not only did he wake up covered in blood, presumably this sheep's blood... he's naked to top it off. His body, which is starting to slightly fade muscle wise, is unclothed from the top of his head down to the tips of his toes. How come he didn't notice that before?

Lance turns his body around to rest up against the counter, sighing heavily. The reason why his legs don't seem to cooperate is that there's a pretty good bite on his right calf, turned sideways some, blood still dripping out of the wound. What in the literal hell happened last night? As far as he's aware, he still didn't drink anything, and none of his other victors held a party or tried having him do anything asinine or out of character. After all, it's reaping day today. Lance is not going to mess something like this up without giving it a good thought.

His eyes widen.

Shit.

It's reaping day, and here he is, with a dead animal in his kitchen, bitten in the leg, and naked. What else could be erroneous about the scene, exactly, he intones to himself amusedly.

As he sits there, the pain starting to come back to him now, it hits him. Here he is, just a few hours ago, taking in some high level Capitol drugs - maybe it had been cocaine... he cannot for the life of himself distinguish between the two. Coke, sugar, baking soda, flour, heroin... they're all the same somehow or other. White powder to ingest - and then decides to steal a sheep from his next door victor's backyard and cook it himself in the middle of his kitchen. He probably does this because who needs to use a butcher when a victor who's known for a meat cleaver is right there?

Naked, he still cannot explain. Did he use his clothes to try and smother the poor animal?

His clothes aren't around the kitchen, and he does not want to put them on if they're soaked in blood. The sheep must've bit his leg and then he passed out from the wound, or either not having been hurt in such a long time, and then the animal dies due to their own blood loss. The meat cleaver he used is lying in its own puddle a bit away from the animal, as if Lance had thrown it away from him once he had been done using it.

Lance places a hand up to his forehead, breathing heavily. He can definitely say that this is the first time he's ever done something this stupid. Just wait until the rest of the victors from the Career pack gets a load of this.

He's going to have to, someway or other, get to the town square and stand on the Justice Building with the other victors. It mustn't still be too late, no one's woken up and no one's barged in yet. He's going to have to try and fix his dark brown hair into something presentable - Lance is sure it looks as if a muskrat is hiding out underneath the oak locks - and find some damn clothes.

However, Lance speaks too soon. The very next second, someone comes bursting through the front door, a woman's loud and commandeering voice booming out around the house.

"Lance Viel, where in the hell are you?" she shouts. He closes his eyes, smiling to himself.

There's nothing better than the angry voice of Kevia Janelle screaming at you at whatever o'clock in the morning. He hears her slam the door shut, high heels clacking off like typewriter keys onto the tile floor, and she's heading in his direction.

"Don't come in here!" he shouts, mustering the strength to try and get to his feet, collapsing again. When he's unable to persuade her, as the familiar wave of her blonde hair comes into view around the corner, his hands shoot straight to his crotch to cover up what no one else should be seeing.

Kevia Janelle, the victor of the 84th Hunger Games, makes an estranged sound from her throat when she sees the spectacle in front of her. "Oh my god Lance... I don't know what's worse. You naked, or the dead sheep."

"Gee, thanks, Kevia. You do a lot for my self-confidence."

She pinches the bridge of her nose, turning side face so her head is resting against the arch of the doorway, head nestled into the wall. "I suppose I don't even want to ask what's going on in here. Did you try and kill one of Emmett's sheep last night?"

"Maybe..." Lance chuckles to himself.

"Were you high?"

"More than likely."

"And is that why you're naked?"

"Doubt it," the victor responds. "I probably had someone over."

"Knowing you," Kevia turns her head to the side some, starting to get the smell of blood in her nostrils, the sight of a hairy Lance Viel now forever engraved in her mind. "That wouldn't be a surprise," there's a pause, where she fiddles with something on her dress that she's wearing. "However, forget the dead sheep and forget Emmett, he's not the one who needs to be with me at the reaping. It starts in half an hour and I was told to come and find you."

"I can't stand," Lance says.

She blinks, swallowing heavily, probably regretting the next decision she makes. Kevia turns, eyes staring straight ahead at the wall. "What do you mean, can't stand?"

"The lamb bit my calf," he points to his leg. Again, worse injuries in times' past, but Lance is no stalwart eighteen year-old again. He's a vivacious Career of District One now; things are expected of him. Yet, and Lance wears this like a badge of honor, he manages to fail the checklist, fail his district, fail the president - he's not too upset about that - and Panem in one fell swoop. "I tried getting up earlier and I couldn't."

"Are you expecting me to try and help you with that?" Kevia blinks again, her face not changing emotions.

"I kind of was hoping so..." Lance trails off.

"Forget it. I'll just say you died. President Calhoun will take that, knowing his dislike for you." She turns to go, high heels clicking and clacking.

Lance searches his mind, something, anything to try and stop his fellow victor from walking out of his house. He doesn't show up to the reaping, Calhoun will napalm the entire village to oblivion. He does not stand disrespect for the tradition of the Hunger Games, a ritual deep seeded in his own family. Lance remembers wanting to volunteer, having been selected instead when the volunteer male that year dies of contracted STD's a few months before. He's thrown into some ring of ferocious wolves that are the other tributes, and he comes out a survived man, a changed man, but a learned one too.

Something to get Kevia to stop... what could he use?

"Please, Kevia..." he begs, whining almost. God, he hasn't whined like that since he had been probably five or six.

"Lance, I'll just get the Peacekeepers to help you up."

"If you don't help me up right now, Kevia... when I see Calhoun, I'll tell him about the necklace you stole from his wife."

The noise ceases down the foyer, he picturing the female victor turned twenty degrees exactly, head distended, jaw locked, until she turns her head to glare back in his direction. Her heels clank against the tile some more, and she is back into the fold, arms crossed over her chest, glaring.

"You wouldn't dare."

"I so would," Lance smirks. "Just imagine his face when I tell him you stole his wife's emerald necklace. His great grandmother gave his wife that necklace and you just snatched it away after a party. Why... I think he'd be the one to kill you on the spot, versus me missing a reaping."

Kevia bites her lower lip, shifting off somewhat. He can see the way her eyes gently appraise over his body, although trying to be discrete about it is not going to help her. She's never been discreet... that's why her affairs are known all over town. Lance witnesses the battle that plays behind her eyes, an entire conquest of truth versus deception, saving her skin versus saving her fellow victors... and he's ensnared her in the palm of his hand. Like he's always done, and Lance is proud. Kevia is too easy for him, like a puppet that collapses due strings being cut, a laxness in the joints, an elixir of freedom in the gaps where flesh meets the vacuum of space.

She stirs uncomfortably, one hand going to clench the side of her leg, in the same exact spot where Lance had been bitten.

"Fine... but you keep yourself covered."

"No promises, sweetheart," Lance grins.

"You expose that filthy worm between your legs to me, I'll cut if off," Kevia glares.

"You're bluffing."

"Try me..." and then she cannot keep it up any longer, marching up to Lance, extending her arm out. He grabs it, and she helps lift him up to the floor, his spot luckily blood free with the dead lamb. One hand covering his nether regions, the other wrapped around Kevia's shoulder to support him, she and Lance hobble over towards his room. "Lance, I hope the Quarter Quell twist is not a thing where victors go into the arena, because you're completely out of shape..."

"Says the woman who can't even do a backbend anymore," he snipes back.

They reach his bedroom, Lance pushing open the door while he stumbles inside. Kevia stands on the other side of it, Lance having shut the door when he entered to get dressed, at least the best he can.

"So... what are we going to do about the dead lamb in your kitchen?" Kevia asks, scratching her head.

"I could actually cook it..." Lance suggests.

"You're morbid."

"Says the victor who killed nine people in her Games."

A pause, Kevia rolling her eyes all the while. "How's the bite? Do you need me to clean it for you?"

"No..." comes Lance's voice, the sound of a dresser opening and shutting, the withdrawing of some curtains coming behind the closed bedroom door. "It looks like it wasn't that deep..."

"You owe me one."

"Sure."

"I'm serious," Kevia's voice has the solidified tone of a slab of stone, rigid in demeanor, and it shall never move lest an earthquake disturbs its presence.

Lance pauses, filling the void with his empty breath. "Fine. What do you want?"

She smiles at the door wickedly. "President Calhoun's coat brooch. The one he wears for his interviews."

There's no silence on the bedroom side. "You're insane! Besides, that's a guy's ornament!"

"So? I still think it looks cool," Kevia shrugs.

"You're an animal."

"Says the guy with a dead sheep in his kitchen..." she bites down on her nails.

"A poor sheep led to slaughter..." Lance says, trailing off.

The remainder of the sounds coming from behind the closed door is him zipping up his pair of dress pants, buttoning a shirt, and seemingly turning on some water to splash his face. He stares at himself in the mirror, blue eyes staring into blue eyes, and on and on this cycle goes, a forever loop of azure, an infinity where the sky goes on and never meets its end.

"A poor sheep led to slaughter..." he whispers again, chills rising from his arms. He grabs a towel off to the side, wiping his face.

That's what he's doing right now, in essence. Kevia dragging him off to be killed by some sort of firing squad. To stand on the stage with the other tributes and let them be annihilated, where the gun is placed between their eyes and they never see the danger coming. A pig senses when it is about to be shot... he's seen the footage. A sheep? They amble their way into the hacking saws... the tributes run like hell to the bloodbath to be carved down by a vicious Career.

There's no going back, Lance realizes, throwing the towel down onto the counter. He marches over to the bedroom door, hobbling somewhat from the gait, the lamb's bite having not actually being that severe where he's lame. Or it's all an act... he's going to let Kevia try and figure that out for herself.

It's time for a new batch of lambs, the Careers included. A batch of sheep led to the slaughter, with the cold, muted barrel placed between their eyes.

The sun is sitting on the horizon of District One... and with it comes the dawn of the 100th Hunger Games.

The 4th Quarter Quell is here.

So... if you wish to submit a tribute or more to this story, please follow these guidelines! It makes the process so much easier for me.

Here is the criteria needed for your tribute.

Name (First and Last)

District (First preference, second preference, and third preference)

Age

Gender

Appearance

Family

Personality (Be specific) (This includes likes and dislikes, sexuality preference if any, etc...)

Weaknesses (Minimum of three; be specific)

Strengths (Minimum of three; be specific)

Weapon of Choice

Reaping Reaction if Reaped

Would this tribute volunteer? Why?

Token

Private Gamemaker Session

Preferred Range of Tribute Score (1-4, 5-8, 9-12)

Any Allies or Alliances?

Preferable Placement?

Cause of Death

I am going to have submissions open starting today, and they will not be over until probably December 21st... or I'll wait a bit and do December 26th (I'll be shooting for that ideal range. If your tribute has been already submitted to another SYOT currently in progress, you cannot use them. However, if said tribute is in a story that has been discontinued, you are more than welcome to use them. Tribute submissions will only be accepted by PM, no submissions via reviews will be taken. I will have the statistics of submissions broken down on my profile in the 2nd section, updated daily! The same criteria for submission will also be there too. I'll take two submissions top by you guys, so not to overwhelm the story with only four or five submitters tributes, fairness sake. It is not a first come, first serve basis: I'll pick the best tribute to fit each spot.

Thank you guys for submitting if you choose to do so! I will update the story three more times from this one that will not have the tribute list, but the fifth update will include the tribute list at the end. I hope you guys enjoyed Chapter #1: A Lambasted Morning (get it?) and I will see you all for Chapter #2: The Joker's Palace. See you on the flipside!

~ Paradigm