Labyrinth Games

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Part I

The Beginning

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"The District Eight tribute for the 68th Hunger Games is… Jasper Cozine!"

At first you don't know what hit you. You're still oblivious to what's going on around you and all the eyes now glooming at you with empathy. Then the slightest light shines in and you become faintly aware of what has happened. You're now just among the stars, floating in perpetual darkness blissfully, yet nullifying the last threads of sanity from breaking. But eventually your state of joyous and ignorant nirvana wears off and you come crashing down. Now you're aware of your surroundings but still denying what you heard.

Then comes to you like, like uh… Like a freight train. You need to get away. You need to distance yourself as far away as possible. You tell yourself this is just a hell of a nightmare and you're going to wake up. But you're not. This is reality, no dream, and you need to walk the mile and face the executioner's axe. It's over now; your death sentence is set.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I should start previously this day…

-*-

Reaping Day, the day when all hell breaks loose. I wake up from a nightmare of Reaping Days past, knowing that all those gruesome duels could be me. Of course it was highly doubtful, yet somewhere buried in a deep crevice you know it's possible. Everything is possible.

The pungent smell of cracking paint filled my nostrils as I got up. I lifted the patch work quilt off my sweaty body and stood up. I waved my arms in the air to stretch any morning pains. I bent over and grabbed my toes feeling the satisfying crack of cartilage. I tried everything just to flush the thought of Reaping Day out.

Sounds drifted in my room like sudden rain storm. A conversation could be heard only to dry up in the blink of an eye. That was Reaping Day for you, joyous yet indefinitely morbid.

It wasn't even my generations fault. We did not fight in a war. We did not fan the flames of rebellion and discontent. But we still pay for it. Yet it has obviously since there is barely any mention of anarchy. I guess with a show of power then we just shut out mouths and fall suit in line. With that attempt at rebellion we signed a contract that'll be paid in full until time runs out.

I walked over to the door and placed my hand on the grubby dull handle. Mid action I stopped my fingers and lowered my head to the chipped wood. I didn't have to take this. I could simply walk away now and leave this behind. This piss poor excuse for a government could be a distant memory; all I have to do is stay in my room.

Yet I continued.

There she was. My mother, her eyes fixed upon the bowl and whisk in her hand. The slight peach color on her tan skin accented her black hair that was graying at the frays of certain strands of hair perfectly in the hazy shadows of early morning. She looked up, half heartedly smiling, trying not to think of the day ahead.

"Hello Jasper," she half-whispered, you could tell the friendliness in her voice was not exactly sincere.

"Hello mother, I said and took a seat at the table.

A metallic clang sounded as my mother dropped a plate of rolls in front of me. I stared at them, becoming increasingly aware of how hungry I was. I pinched the roll tightly in my fingers and watched a stream of butter roll out and drip onto the plate. I took a bite, the warm flavors filling me with delight. I often had rolls for breakfast, but for some reason today seemed extra special.

I guess I was too ravenous to realize the voice trying to reach me from across the table until I felt the sharp smack! on my hand.

"Ouch!" I barked, looking up to see who hit me.

My older brother Rone sat at the other end of the table, the sort of twisted smile was painted on his face like always.

"Good morning brother," Rone yapped, over expressing the smile on his face and letting out a fiendish snicker.

"Did you smack me just to say that?" I squawked, now rubbing the irritated patch on my hand.

"Nope, I've got something else to say. Now Jasper, take a guess."

"I don't know; It's Reaping Day if that's anything."

"You got it, sort of. This is my first year of ineligibility. Don't worry, in two years you'll be ineligible too!"

"That was quite self centered, Rone. Don't you remember this is also Huard's first year?"

"That was not self centered."

"Rone, it was pretty self centered."

"Mother, was that self centered?"

Mother called back, "That was rather self centered Rone."

"You guys never agree with me…" moaned Rone.

"Because we're all out to get ya' Rone," stated mother as she dropped a plate of rolls in front of him. He shot her a look and then dug in.

Then my little brother Huard walked in. He had a haggard look on his face and a hand on his bushy hair with stray tails of hair curling out of his head. His eyes switched from to the dusty floor, to me, to mother, and finally back to the floor, now showing extra exasperation on how tired he was.

"Hello Huard," I said.

"Ughh… " he groaned and took a seat to the right of me.

I stared at Huard. I could feel complete sympathy for him. The first time you have to line up to see if you are unfortunate enough to compete in the Hunger Games is pure hell. You see the march of feet in front of you; you hear the echo and scuffle of feet from behind. You're caught in total disarray as you line up and you feel stranded. You're surrounded by thousands of faces, all grim and somber, yet you feel alone in a hungry tide that's dragging you out to sea. I wanted to say something to comfort him, but that would only upset him.

My mom tapped me on the shoulder snapping me out of my daydream. I turned around to see my mother clutching a piping hot plate of rolls and had that light smile on her face like she had.

"Jasper, could you take this out to your father. He woke up and went straight to the fields, skipping breakfast. He just always seems to be so filled with… angst on Reaping Day." I grabbed the plate and headed for the door.

As soon as I headed out the door I turned around to see our house. It was definitely not the definition of gorgeous, nor was it ramshackle. With a pretty descent standard of income and especially good one for farmers we had every corner of house at least in descent condition. Back when I was twelve and Rone was fourteen we were struggling to make ends meet and we each had probably had at least ten tesseraes out. Then we got lucky. One day when plowing the fields my father was plowing the fields we discovered oil. Oil was once called black gold, well now it should be called black platinum. It was the only thing that saved us.

I looked around the flat rolling land. I saw no sign of my father. I quickly ran to the side of my house and saw his silhouette out by an old scraggly tree.

As approached my father his features came into sight. He had his always sober face on, yet today it was solemn and somber. His leathery and dark skin seemed pale to in comparison of its natural shade. His low cut shirt just seemed to hang off him more than usual.

I walked up to him without him even realizing I was there, like he was in a trance. When I was about five feet from him he showed recognition by nodding his head.

"Hey dad, mother told me to bring this out to you," I said, holding out the plate.

"Thank you Jasper," he said, taking the plate. His lip curled up as he took a huge chunk out of the roll but he didn't show his usual satisfaction.

Father looked up at me, took a in a deep breath, and then started, "Jasper, did I ever tell you 'bout my brother?"

"Father, I know who Uncle Micah is. He even lives just down-"

"Not him Jasper! I once had another brother, his name was Abel. I was about fifteen, give or take a few years. Abel was twelve. He was chosen to compete in the twenty years ago to this day in the 48th Hunger Games. I should have volunteered for him! He was twelve! Twelve! He didn't even last two days!" I was beginning to be able to read my dad's mixture of sadness, distraught, and disgust like a book. He was nowhere near an emotional man, but this was bringing it out of him.

I looked down. I didn't want to see him like this, so weak. I didn't know what to say. Comforting wasn't my forte, especially when it came to parents. This was to say the least, awkward.

I finally came up with something. "Father, you remember Grey, don't you?"

He closed his eyes and pinched his lids, probably to cool himself down and nodded. He turned from a red color back to his regular shade.

"The 64th Hunger Games, four years ago. Grey and I were both only thirteen. He was chosen to go to the Hunger Games. He was a hilarious guy and book smart, but he wasn't built for the Hunger Games. Grey didn't even last thirty minutes."

"And that's why the Hunger Games are tough on me! That could be you or Huard, getting impaled, or stabbed, or… or… or starving! What a horrid government that makes the adolescence fight to the death for nothing. What a… what a… oh Jasper. I'm so sorry," my father stood up from under the tree and grabbed an old hat he had resting upon a branch. The old had had a long rim and stretched back and was rather long. My father had it with him all the time. He placed it on his head so that it tilted slightly foreword. "Well, I better get back to work. Thank you for the rolls," and with that he walked off.

I started to follow him to a tool shed, but then he turned around. "Jasper, I don't want you or any of your brothers working today. Just- just take the day off."

I didn't know what to do. Today was not the best day to meet with friends, if I did that conversation would be morbid. Usually when I had any other free time I had to work on the farm, which farms were what District Eight were known for. Our television was rarely used for things besides the Hunger Games. All I could think of was lay under the old scraggly tree. I lowered myself down and laid my head on the trunk.

The leaves of the tree showed great patterns of light on body, every dark shade showing the outline of what hung overhead. The knotted twisted roots protruded out of the ground like tombs looming over a grave yard, making it quite uncomfortable on my back.

I looked around, the fields of grain seemed to wave back and forth on the flat rolling land, all seeming to sing to me a silent lullaby. I closed my eyes just for a second. I quickly reopened them, feeling myself beginning to lull to sleep. But I couldn't fight it. I was exhausted. I was miserably exhausted. My sleep last night had been quite shallow. I just had to close my eyes, just for a moment. I needed to rest up because I had a big day ahead of me. I closed my eyes, yet I fell asleep, and stayed asleep for four hours.

-*-

I felt a jab at my right shoulder. I could not remember what happened or what day it was. My eyes flashed open in quick blinks.

Blink.

I saw the fuzzy outline of a young boy, small physique.

Blink.

I saw I was under a tree, a particularly ugly tree.

Blink.

The boy was Huard. He has a nervous and concerned look on his face. His hand flicked in front of my face to check for any sort of recognition. Again he went in for a jab.

"Huard, I'm awake. You can… hughhh… stop that," I told Huard and rose to my feet. Huard's face was so contorted with worry wrinkles you would think he was sixty. He had on luxurious clothing.

It quickly came back to me that it was Reaping Day. I had forgotten that trouble, yet know it's returned.

"Jasper, come on! We've gotta leave in a half hour!"

I nodded my head to show I was awake enough to understand him. I placed my hand on the tree trunk and let out a yawn, then began to walk to the house.

My mother greeted me as soon as I walked in the door with a fistful of crumpled clothing and the phrase, "Put it on." The clothes were nice, yet standard for special occasions like this. They were probably hand-me-downs from Rone. I slipped into a bathroom and changed. Quickly I observed myself in the mirror. They were baggy on me, but they'd do just fine.

I stepped out the door. Everything seemed somewhat regular, yet the mood was much darker. My mother was scolding Rone for god knows what. Huard had a small conversation going with my dad. Yes, everything seemed perfectly in place, but that feeling of uneasiness remained.

Seeing that I was ready, my mother motioned us to the door and we all filed out.

-*-

The urban area of District Eight was actually quite beautiful. It was set up on a cross between two main roads with side roads and allies all along every the two roads. The outside on the outside were large and were the more important shops such as a department store, a grocery store, a hospital, the court house. The inside shops were the ones of shop owners with moderate money. At the very core were the rich shops and the town square with the most divine architecture and gardens I've ever seen. A lot of trees and gardens lined every street. Every brick seemed to just compliment just compliment every other brick in the town so that everything seemed to fit in seamlessly. Usually this was a happy place, but today it was grim.

When we entered the town my family got separated in the waves of the twelve thousand people that lived in District Eight. I slowly pushed and clawed my way to the town square where I silently signed in and took my place in a group of seventeen year olds, most of whom I recognized from school. Though there were thousands of people the area was eerily silent.

I turned around. Behind me I could see Huard, just as scared as I was the year I was eligible to be reaped. Every single twelve year old had that same ghastly look, all waiting somberly for what might happen.

The clock bell banged cacophonously politely telling anybody talking to shut up. At the very front was a large temporary stage adorned with festive decorations. In four seats at the front was the District Eight mayor who only god knows his name, the quite eccentric and generic escort Chike Pwitter, and the two tribute trainers Eugene Golightly and Cortona Surtax. They were the only two remaining Hunger Games champions, but we had another one who won in the first ten events. The fat and graying mayor of District Eight struggled to get up and began the story of Panem's history. It was no different from years past and it just fostered the tension.

Then the tribute trainers stood up to give short speeches. Eugene gave his first, taking more time then he should have. Eugene was often noted as one of the worst Hunger Games champions. He won about fifteen years ago and was in his thirties. He won because he stumbled upon a cave in a swampy terrain with a fresh pond and bushes that bared berries. The swamp water was poisoned and because of the lack of clean water all of the tributes got dehydrated and drank the water, setting up their demise. But not Eugene, he stayed in his cozy little cave and won just by pure luck, the stupid bastard. Cortona won honestly two years ago and was actually seventeen like me. Her golden hair looked radiant in the dim glow given off by the cameras. She kept her speech short, probably to keep on schedule knowing Eugene would be a glory hog.

Chike stepped up to the podium. She prodded the microphone a few time and cleared her throat. Her long blonde hair was highlighted with blue streaks. I wonder why anyone even does anything like that! She begins with a common opening line in her thick capital voice, "Happy Hunger Games and may the odds ever be in your favor!"

She smacked her lips to make a pop noise. Then she quickly pursed at us, shielding herself so the cameras wouldn't see. This was her first year and she was probably expecting more.

"Okay ladies; let's get this show on the road!" She walked over to the girl's large glass bowl with small paper slips in it. She dug her hand deep in there and came up with a paper slip.

There was an uncomfortable silence following her hand emerging with the slip. To the side of me a man whispered, "Now whose day will she ruin?"

You didn't have to wait. Immediately after Chike yelled, "June Cox!"

If someone had to go June probably would have been my choice. She was an obnoxious brat and eighteen, so she lived at least for a bit. I saw her march up to the stage, yet I felt no sympathy.

"Any volunteers?" Nobody stepped up for June. I was not surprised. "Well hooray for our newest tribute. June we wish you luck!" There was a scramble on stage as Chike raced over to the men's bowl. Somewhere in that bowl was my name, somewhere in there was my death sentence. I just had to wait nervously of what might happen. Her fingers dropped in the bowl and trapped a slip against the glass wall. She plucked it out and put in front of her face. "And the District Eight tribute for the 68th Hunger Games is," she unfolded the piece of paper. At the time everything seemed to be perfectly normal for a Reaping Day, yet right then something went horribly wrong.

"Jasper Cozine!"

Author's note: I proof read it once, but I'm sure I missed some stuff. I'll go back later and fix it. And remember, please review. =)

P.S. I just realized I don't think the proper term is 'Reaping Day.' It's the reaping or Hunger Games. Just let that slide for nowand if it really isn't the proper term I'll Fix it. ;)