This is it, the final moments of the 80th annual Hunger Games. The suspense creeps over the entire country and grips it sternly, just as President Snow likes it to, in these crucial final hours. Within the time that remains, four more will meet their bloody and gory end, while one more will continue on to a life of fame, fortune and glory. The five that currently remain are Gerome Washingbeard VII, Blake Cooper, Queen Bee, Sydney Ivashhov and Anne Foyer. Each has ployed a different survival strategy, all of which have been successful until this point. My name is Alfred J. Pennyworth, and I was the butler of Bruce Wayne, last of the Wayne dynasty. Here in District 2, both of our other tributes remain: Anne Foyer, and Sydney Ivashhov.

Using some of the money that was left to me by Thomas and Martha Wayne after their deaths, I will send a silver parachute into the heat of the bloodbath. Without a second thought, I know what I will send. At this point in the games, weapons are illegal to send, so I decide to send a bundle of District 2’s specialty pastry. They are called “Stonehenges,” and what it is is a collection of forge baked bread centered around a hot butter and fudge dip. Giving the tributes this will surely give them hope that someone supports them. Being tributes of the career districts prompts a lot of hate from the other districts.

I begin to walk towards the town square where the Hunger Games mailing office is. The area is buzzing with the jumbo televisions blaring the sound and live feed of the games. As the buzzing spectators see me coming, a division forms. The crowd grows silent as I approach with the package, and it’s as if they can sense its importance. I lay the package on the desk of the postal office, and a large bill adjacent to it. Once more, with silence following me like a tail behind a lion or a fierce tiger, I pace and swagger back to the hill of Wayne Manor. Without a tear shed or a cry stifled, I mourn for Bruce, and without need of asking around, I know I am the only one to do so.

A raging stampede of the remaining tributes on the horizon prompts my instinctual curiosity. What are they running from, I wonder, and is it still coming? I prepare to leap from my tree and glide once more under the cover of dawn’s darkness, and as I turn back I see another wave of blue. I assume it is just another dying tsunami, but at the slight touch of the wave to a tribute’s ankle, she falls to the ground. At this point, I realize the wall of blue isn’t rolling; it is hopping. What lay before me is a wall of deadly, toxic, however beautiful legion of poison dart frogs. The tribute from before is gone, overtaken by the ocean of indigo and cerulean. The sun begins to rise from the east, the opposite side from where my deadly foes charge from. An army of frogs is what they are called, and the name is somehow funny at this time.

I expand my pitch black cloak of darkness, and with one great leap and dive I am soaring above the trees once more. With the warm and humid breeze in my hair, I begin to feel confident about my strategy. Caught up in my own smug thought, I avoid crashing into a tree at the last second. As I glide past it, I look out towards the ocean. It seems much closer than it was last night, and then I realize; it too is an army of the dreaded dart frogs, and it is quickly heading my way. I try to scan the area and find a branch to turn around on, but the closest one I can find is very close to the oncoming legion of deadly amphibians. I waste no time landing and then taking off. A few frogs have already started on the tree I’m on when I take off.

Just as I begin to believe I am in the clear, I feel a slight tingle on my ankle. Assuring myself it’s just my imagination, I continue gliding. Once more, I feel the slight tingling sensation, but this time I am positive it is real. I glance back and to my horror, a poisonous frog has gripped onto my ankle. Spastically, I flail my legs and kick it off, but not before I feel a small little pinch. Have I simply hurt myself while I was removing the frog? Or has something much, much worse happened?

Darkness comes like a wave rolling onto the beach, and soon I am engulfed in its warm, protective embrace. Sunlight loses the battle for the day, and retreats down under the line of the horizon. It’s been almost a day, so I decide to finally rest. Against what I would have presumed, I drift easily into sleep. With dreams of back home in District 2, I walk into my bedroom at home, and see Alfred huddled in the corner. I can’t see around him, and when he turns to me, he is covered in blood. I look in horror as the girl from District 1’s head once again rolls off. I scream, and awaken with a gasp. I am surprised I haven’t fallen out of the tree, and begin to settle back into sleeping position, when a faint clicking catches my attention.

This is an irregular clicking, picking up the tempo and pace as it continues. I look around the tree, and see line after line of trees being cleanly folded to the ground, some left alone, as a giant wall of blue steamrolls past them. The clicking sound I had heard is the snapping and splintering of the trees, and I am met with a tough choice; I can stay here and hope for the best, or hopelessly try to get further ahead of the surge. Having watched the Games many times before, I know the Gamemakers just want another bloodbath and reunion of all the tributes at a certain point. This tsunami isn’t meant to kill me, but to bring me back onto their silver tray for the Capitol’s feast of blood.

I decide to try and outpace the colossal tidal wave. I slip on the electric gloves that go with the cape, and leap from the tree. My katana is laced through my belt on the uniform, and I glance backwards to make sure it is not slipping. Gliding amongst the treetops, I take a quick peek down below me and sure enough, see two tributes running through the jungle in my direction. One looks up and clearly sees me, but is too out of breath to exclaim anything. Once we have all reached the clearing, I perch in a tree observing the scene diligently. The tsunami wave is tapering off, but tributes still spill into the field. I hear a strange rustle from my tree, and turn around to see a boy tribute climb to my level of the tree. I remember him as the boy from District 12. Without thinking, I slam the heel of my boot into his forehead and knee him in the throat. He falls out of the tree, grabbing at his throat, and finally he hits the ground with a quiet thud. Once more, a depressing cannon sounds. The bloodbath has begun, and it will turn this open canvas into a beautiful, red painting.

Splinters in my hand are the least of my problems as my feet dangle what must be 30 feet above the surface of the Earth, but for all I care it could be a mile; I’ll be dead either way if I drop. A large, insignificant puddle along the leaf-littered jungle. Come on, I try to motivate myself, you’ve done harder than this before! I can hear the branch starting to crack and falter under my weight. I look down at my uniform for the games. I notice a small red button on the side. Risking it all, I push it. Now I only have one hand keeping me on the breaking branch; one hand between me, and the painful clutches of death. The red button activates a fanning mechanism on my uniform, and I move for just a split second which breaks the branch to about halfway until it’s shattered. Just as I begin to feel that all hope is lost, a small beeping noise reaches my ears. I look up to see the instrument of my salvation. A sliver parachute has landed on the branch above me, and it pops open in front of me. Along with a video camera for which I am not sure of the meaning, a cloth flutters out too.

The branch is now on the very last splinter of wood before it shatters. Then I realize: I have seen this type of cloth before. It’s called memory cloth. It is usually just a normal cloth, but if you can put an electric current through it the molecules realign and make it rigid. This allows you to glide without losing much altitude. Just what I need! I thank my mentor, Harper Hayes and grab the cloth along with the lightweight current gloves. I can only put on one, since my other hand is hanging onto the tree, and put the cloth down my uniform. Just in time it seems, the branch snaps and I fall backward. I activate the gloves with a squeeze, and before I know it, I am gliding among the tree, and soon I circle back to the tree with the camera and the silver parachute. I notice a note has been attached to the sliver parachute as I gracefully land on a more stable branch a few feet lower.

“Record a message to your friends and family at home,” the note reads, “and may the odds be ever in your favor.” Immediately, I know what to say. I don’t have any parents, they died in a forge fire back when I was just a boy. Since we were the richest people of District 2, they hired a butler named Alfred before they died. Alfred has been my closest friend and I consider him to be my family, even though we have no blood relation. My message will be to him. It will also be to the people of District 2, to let them know that I will win the Games. Soon, the other tributes will know defeat, and I will be living in the Victors’ Village amongst the other victors of District 2.

A shimmering glow shines on the surface of the reflective water. After I pull myself out its warm and weightless comfort, it is clearly late in the afternoon since the scarlet red sun is hovering just over the horizon. With my uniform dripping with salty water, I lug myself up onto the smooth shoreline. Ready to collapse, I know I have to find shelter and a safe place to spend the night. I don’t care how far it will be, though my thighs are burning and my eyes are close to shutting. Despite these setbacks, I feel as though I can still swing my katana with ease. I feel somewhat disappointed as I shuffle away from the now empty cornucopia, having left with only the katana. No throwing knives, shurikens, or any other means of long range combat. Due to this large disadvantage, I should find shelter someplace small, compact and dark. No one will be out of range, and I will be out of sight as long as possible.

An hour must have passed by the time I reach a small burrow in the ground. I have a terrible feeling, since it does not look natural. It resembles a deadly snare, and knowing this I proceed with utmost caution. As I venture into the dugout, I keep my sword poised by my shoulder, casting its silvery light along the corners of the cavern. Out of the corner of my eye a large bug crawls along the wall of the cave. I turn to face it, and am greeted with a horrifying sight: it is a whole wall of tracker-jackers. Slowly backing away, none begin to stir. A quick glance behind me assures me I am almost out of the cavern. My back foot reaches ground level, and I’m about to pull myself up… when I trip on a tree root. Shaking the cavern, I have only a second to react before the tracker-jackers swarm. I find a large boulder next to the cavern and before the large hive can emerge from their chambers, I roll it into place blocking off the exit. I am safe… for now.

Backing away, I attempt to assure myself that none will escape. Having woken up from that experience, I pace myself into a quick and steady jog. Nightfall has begun to set, and it is only a matter of time until the terrors of the night emerge from their nocturnal slumbers and attempt to tear the flesh from our bones. After just a few minutes, I find a large tree and begin to climb up. Trying with a feverish determination, I attempt to find a good footing. Thinking I have found a stable branch, I put my full weight on the branch to climb further. Just as I grab the branch above me, the branch snaps below me. I am stuck dangling, 30 feet above the ground.

Silence: a color only those who have learned its meaning can see. I am surrounded by it, and it will be how I meet my end. I won’t go out screaming, probably not out at all. The glass tube I am restrained in elevates me up and into the arena. Since it is too bright to be able to make sense of anything, I squint, adjusting my eyes so I can be ready quicker. My silver and metallic plate begins to rise slowly, and I focus hard on what my objective will be. After scoring a 10 out of 12 on my Gamemaker trial, they’ve surely placed a katana right in the middle: they want me to give them a bloody start. After a period of time that feels too long to measure, my plate is a ground level or… sea level?

The sun gleams off of the wavy ripples of the water. Half of the tributes including myself have started on the water, while across from us there are people standing on beach. In the middle lies the golden cornucopia, which is golden in two senses: one, it is literally colored gold, and two it contains the weapons of my salvation, worth more than gold. My eyes, now having full adjusted scan around the ring of inevitable death, to reveal my main competition: a boy from District 7, a girl from District 3, and a boy from District 1. Trying to balance on my plate, I turn around and see nothing but jungle. Good, I think to myself, I can hide in these like I showed the Gamemakers. As I turn back, I see the one minute we were originally given on our plates has dropped to 20 seconds.

Once more scanning the cornucopia, I spot the katana. It is right in the middle.

“Ten, nine, eight, seven,” counts down the deep voice of a Gamemaker, “six, five, four, three, two, one.” I do my very best dive off of my plate, and do a lightning-fast breast-stroke to the cornucopia. Only now does the twist arise: the cornucopia has been submerged into the depths of the sea. I look under the water, and sure enough, down has gone the cornucopia. Coming up one last time before my dive to the depths, I suck in all of the air I can hold, and rocket to the bottom. I open my eyes, and can just make out the slim and silver blade of the katana. I finally grab it when my foot is tugged on by the girl tribute from District 1. Just mustering enough strength to keep going, I grab the light katana, and swing. In one, clean motion, only the torso of the girl from District 1 remains. Both parts if her, her head and her body float to the top of the water. I feel highly conflicted though, not something I expected. Though I can easily swim up, my body feels weighed down by the metaphorical weight of the murder I have just committed. As I reach the surface, gasping for air, three cannons can be heard. Who else has died? I’ll find out tonight, when their faces are highlighted in the sky.

My footsteps echo down the empty hall, two tributes have come into here before me; none have returned to us. The walls shimmer with an orange glow from the vivid torches perched along the corridor. I am followed by shadowy companions, and am accompanied by nothing but my hopes and fears. I have never actually seen what goes on inside the Gamemaker sessions. The scores for each tribute are nationally televised, with a 1 being the lowest and a 12 being the highest score. It is now that I have to decide my strategy for the upcoming games, so I can impress the Gamemakers with my skills. As the final columns of the corridor roll on behind me, I enter the observation area through a gate-like opening. It is pulled upwards, and I am admitted into the room.

“Bruce Wayne, district 2, come forward,” echoes around the chrome-plated room. To my right is the glass wall that separates me from the creators of my possible fortune. I wave a bit to them, unsure of what exactly I am supposed to do. My eyes become explorers of the vast room in front of me, and three things stick out to me: a slim and long blade called a katana, some throwing knives and a smoke bomb. I have an idea. My showcase begins with me throwing the knives down the range, which is followed swiftly by the silver blur of my katana. After I receive an average but dull applause from the Gamemakers, I decide it’s time for the final act. Smoke bomb in hand, I bow, and slam it onto the ground. A snow-white cloud swells, and soon becomes a curtain for me to make my exit. A snakelike hiss escapes the bomb, and I quickly dash up the wall and lay in the rafters, out of view. As the smoke clears after about ten seconds or so, the Gamemakers lose it; my applause can probably now be heard back in district 2! After what seems like hours the applause dies down and I roll out of my nest in the rafters and land masterfully on the padding of the floor. More applause lingers as I walk away.

A new door slides open on the other side of the room, and inside is nothing but comforting darkness, and I fall into its clutches like a blanket on a cold winter night. I hear the mechanical sliding of the door along its track, and finally it collides with the wall that will now be the boundary of the next tribute’s trial. As my eyes adjust to the dimly lit hall, I can make out many incisions of animals along the wall, all on fire for some reason: a burning jabberjay, a flaming tiger, a fiery fox, and it continues this way until I reach the hall’s end. I have to squint because the sun is so bright at the end of the corridor. I look around at the capitol and know it will not be the last time I see sunlight outside of an artificial arena, and bloody brawl to the death. I am ready to win.

Amid a warm, May day, we all gather in the grey-scale district’s center square. The scent of burning metal and sweat can probably be smelled in the next district over. I look around and see each resident of district three here, excluding those in the forges and masonry mills. Each person seems petrified, and the shadow of fear begins to cover their brighter emotions. Though my district is not known as a career district, I would still die (quite literally) to be reaped and put into the games.

The annoncer of our district, District 3, Romulus Crow steps up the iron plated steps, and with a golden stride in his step, sits with a sense of entitlement upon his vibrant throne of ripe leather and vibrant fibers. The next annual procedure is the showing of the propaganda called the Treaty of Treason. Then come the words I have practically memorized in anticipation: “In penance for their uprising, each district shall offer up a male and a female between the ages of 12 and 18 at a public “reaping”. These tributes shall be delivered to the custody of the Capitol. And then transferred to a public arena, where they will fight to the death until a lone victor remains. Henceforth and forevermore this pageant shall be known as The Hunger Games.”

Romulus steps up to his usual spot on the stage, and seems to sniff the air as he raised his head and stone-grey hair towards the sky. “I’d like to take a moment,” he seemed to bellow at the crowd, “To welcome you all to the 80th annual hunger games!” Cheer erupts from the game-makers over in the corner of the square. The rest of us remain silent, and I’m sure this silence is shared throughout Panem, minus the actual career districts. Finally, he reads the girls. “Anne Foir!” I know her, she used to go to my school before I went to the all exclusive school of the League of Shadows. “and she will be joined by…” dead silence, “Bruce Wayne!” I must not have heard him right- did he really call me? My joy cannot be contained!
“I will bring honor to our district!” I yell triumphantly, and I am engulfed in a sea of approving cheers. I will become the victor of the 80th annual hunger games, and no one will get in my way. Be ready, tributes, and heed these words: you can run, but you can’t hide.