A Circus of Eagles [An HG Fanfic]

Arena

'The arena for the First Capitol Games promises to be a classic, signalling both the ending of an old era and the beginning of a new one in chilling style. What's more, it cost little to create as the space itself existed previously. We merely had to design a few adaptions. Given the circumstances we can hardly claim to be proud of it, but we will admit that it is perhaps a fitting arena for the first of our kind to grace this scenario. In true Capitol style it is both purposeful and stylish and our Committee members heartily approved of the design, believing it to be absolutely to their requirements...'

~ Extract from a press release on the upcoming First Capitol Games by P. Kleio and K. Farris

***

This is a place which captures time.

One year lies next to another, cold and unmoving and blanketed in a thin layer of dust, a half-forgotten memory marked by a single stone slab. If there is a pattern it is invisible. Some of the slabs crumble, worn down by the indeterminate passing of what passes for time here; the rising and setting of a weak sun that barely graces the horizon before sinking despondantly.

There were technical problems. At night the arena is naturally brushed in a thick, knee-high fog. The Gamemakers have had problems with fog before (see Standing on the Edge, case study of the 91st Hunger Games) and this caused many arguments within the Gamemaker suite. The fog remains, the problem solved by specially-designed cameras, and in the morning it seeps into the ground and vanishes, to return at the stillness of the next night. The space itself is vast but plain, with only a few worn trees to break the monotony of the silent stone markers. It would take four hours to cross at its largest point. In places the ground peaks into a small hill or drops into a valley, and it is on these unmarked patches that the grass grows thickest. Thorn bushes caress the oldest of the markers. For the most part the land lies undisturbed.

For the most part. In the exact center of the arena a space has been cleared, a circle wide enough to fit twenty six stone pedestals. On the front of each is a number daubed in day-glo paint, enough to show up in the dark; it is in the dark that they will first be seen. There are three ones. The highest number is a ten, perched between a six and an eight. It will be down to the tributes to work out what they are.

In the center of the semi-circle is a Cornucopia design, formed out of moss and rock. Come the fall of night, when the fog rolls in and partially obscures the ground, it will be filled with weapons, supplies and food. Now it is empty, a trap for the breeze that ruffles the grass and creeps around the stone markers.

Take a look at them.

Each is around the same height and breadth, shoulder high and wide enough for two people to crouch behind without being seen. At first glance each is identical. And so they are. It is what has been carved on them that belies what lies below.

Damp has got into these carvings and some are soaked with moss. Some are worn by the weather and almost illegible. A few are newly carved and the lines are crisp and clear and sharp. All bear the same information.

In the top right hand corner, a symbol. These vary wildly: a tree, a turbine, a pit-wheel, among others. Here and there, not as frequent as the rest, are curved drawings that could be atoms. And, very rarely, on the slabs unmarked by anything else, an eagle.

In the top left hand corner, a number. No lower than twelve, and no higher than eighteen, though the keen-eyed may spot the unlucky nineteen on occasion. Though all of these markers are unlucky.

In the top-center, another number. A placing. 24th. 16th. 8th. 2nd. There are no 1st. They are for a different place, somewhere with towering memorials and showered in glory.

And under that, a name.

This is a place for the dead.

And today, death comes to it.

Let the Games begin.