The Hunger Games: The Cry of Temperance

The Odds

The day had finally arrived. The air, having been tense the moment they embarked their reluctant journey, had only grown stronger. A restless night had preceded the day before the Games, given the circumstances that each tribute was to face. It gave them an ultimatum, though it wasn't completely ambiguous as they had already known the moment their names had all been chosen. The last warning, even though they had no voluntary control: do what you need to, to survive.

Killing should never have to be in the back of a child's mind. But these children are not unfamiliar to the sight of grisly slaughter or even the grueling constraint of what hunger can do. At the very least, many of these children knew that their lives were at stake– and if they were to come out on top, this could be the difference between life and death for their families. The faster they finished these Games, the faster they could return to their family. But only one of them could return.

The morning had been rough. Tributes were ushered out of their rooms, all of them afraid as they stepped foot out into the frigid air that succumbed to the temperature of their individual apartments. Their mentors– those who even had them, from the preceding Games, along with their stylists who were to get them ready for the big show.

They were all dressed accordingly within the dressing rooms of their designated area. Each tribute was given the exact same sort of attire– almost pure evidence to what this arena might have entailed. A new feature that had been incorporated after the Games before them, in comparison to the clothes that they started off with when they first were reaped.

Cargo pants that were lined with a groove belt– completely strapped in as it enveloped the entirety of their waistline. It held their pants up tightly as it shouldn't have been the biggest of their worries. In its complement, a cotton shirt had been tucked into their cargos as well as a thinly-lined fleece hunting cape of some sort.

Each district held its respective colors– and with a new rule in place, they were not allowed to bring any sort of jewelry or anything similar to a memento. After the incidents in the last Games, there had been a strict rule that all Gamemakers had to adhere if they wanted to proceed with their show. Though, these rules still were installed, but not everyone claims to have known them.

The plane had finally departed from the apartment building, having ascended through the air swiftly as the Tributes were all locked into their respective seats. Each tribute performing a different display of emotion as they remained where they sat. Some were terrified, others held onto their composure, and a minority refused to share. But what connected them together was this unpredictability of how this next hour would go. The moment the plane arrived, there was no more going back.

With the Peacekeepers that were aligned on the plane, there was no last line of defense that they could pull. Even if they got past them, who was trained enough to properly function a hovercraft like this? The children by Six couldn't do this themselves, solely given because of the way that these children were simply just kids. They most definitely had the willpower to take down these Peacekeepers, as twenty-four of them had remained seated and could take the straps off before takeoff. But even if they were caught, they could be killed even before the Games or in the Games. Perhaps it would best if they prolonged their time a bit more before everything was to dishevel.

"Your arm." A staff member, who seemed highly reminiscent of the Peacekeepers aside them, stood abroad. Their hands outstretched as the tributes complied– an 1.2-inched catheter injected straight into the forearm of them had allowed a bright flare to have illuminated the inside of their arm. Once the catheter was out, it was almost like there was never any injection to begin with. The pain subsided quickly, and in its stead was the miniscule feeling of an inch in their arm.