Reunited: Against the Odds

Chapter 1

I sit in the control room alone, eyes fixed on the large monitor mounted on the left wall. After yet another successful Games, twenty-three more teenagers have been killed. Not only killed, but slaughtered. By a variety of weapons and techniques, some killed by a simple swing of an axe, some slowly put to their death by burning in flames. Holding my head in my hands, I feel another wave of guilt course through my body. Sometimes I do regret the job of being Head Gamemaker. The ringleader in the circus of death. Watching the tributaries fall. All because of the rebellion against the Capitol approximately twenty years ago. That war can never be forgiven. I look back up, staring at my reflection in the clear, now empty screen. My face is firm and unforgiving, just as I was when starting my job sixteen years ago, after the first Hunger Games completed. A few strands of dyed red hair remain in my naturally auburn hair, reaching down and meeting my eyebrows. Within a few days, I will need a haircut, which can easily be given by one of the trained Avoxes. There are an abundance of them, the majority of which are past criminals. Their tongues have been cut out, and their purpose is to serve. 

I hear the sound of footsteps nearing, and I look to see the face of Charlotte Frost walking towards me in the reflection of the black monitor screen. Not only is she one of my co-workers, but she is a friend. One of the Gamemakers, she assists me in the creating of each unique Hunger Games, along with the nine or so others. She was the victor from many Games back. The victors have the option to go back to their home district and live in wealth and loneliness, or they have the opportunity to work in the Capitol and live in fame and notoriety.  "Still finishing cleaning up here, I see," she says with a small laugh, walking towards me. "Are we bad people?" I question, turning the rolling chair to face her. "Of course not. We were not the ones who rebelled," she says, looking around at each of the screens with her icy blue eyes which so clearly define her last name. Yes, the rebellion that took place around twenty years ago. I was about seventeen then, and was almost drafted for the war. If the war had lasted any longer than a year, I most likely would have, probably not being where I am today. That meaning, alive. 

I sigh, taking out one of the tapes of the Sixteenth Games. It shows only the highlights of the Games. That is, the murders of twenty-three unlucky tributaries. The arena had been a fantastic tour through the world, the world that the teenagers would never get to experience. I contemplate playing it another time, staring at the label.

"Timothy, put that away," Charlotte says, taking notice of the tape. "Don't depress yourself even more about it," she says, taking the tape from my hands. 

"I'm depressed either way. Why does it matter to you anyway?" I question, reaching my hand for it, though she puts it in the back pocket of her blue jeans. 

"Watching it is reliving the past. Not watching it, you actually have a chance to live in the world that is happening now," she says matter-of-factly, and much to my dismay, I have to admit it. I had barely talked to the new victor, Jennifer, ever since she arrived, mostly confined to this horrid room. It was habitual; I didn't want to see the face of not only a murderer, but someone I've tortured. Even looking at Charlotte do I feel a small sting, knowing that all of us living here are murderers. Well, all but one of us, as far as I know. 

"Come on, let's go get some breakfast," she says, beckoning for me to get up. "You must be starving. How long have you even been down here?" she asks, pulling me up, fixing some of her lengthy blonde hair.

"...Three hours," I mutter, and she takes in a sharp breath before she grabs me by the arm, leading me outside of the control room.

"I'll have the Avoxes make you waffles, pancakes, whatever you want," she says, sounding like my mother. The only difference being that Charlotte doesn't completely hate me for what I do. Or maybe she does, but that's only overcome by her pity for my horrid state of well-being.