The Assassin Game

The Legendary Series Part II of VIII

''"It's 4:00 a.m. when they come for me. I am already awake, strung out on the fear that they will come, and the fear that they won't. When I finally hear the click of the latch on the dormitory door, I have only a second to brace myself before they're on me."  -Kirsty McKay, The Assassin Game''

General Rules
1. These Hunger Games are going to be different than other Hunger Games, in the sense that the tributes must fit one of the following prerequisites: Furthermore, due to these Hunger Games having a special twist, the current limit is  one tribute per user. However, this number will increase depending on the demand of the users. It should also be noted that tribute's created specifically for these Hunger Games will be slightly favored over pre-existing tributes (which may be critical since everyone only has one tribute).
 * Previously killed a person (intentionally)
 * Exceptional stealth
 * Exceptional manipulation
 * Exceptional hiding abilities
 * Exceptional speed and agility
 * Exceptional camouflage skills
 * Exceptional talent with knives or other small bladed weapons
 * Or a tribute specifically created to be an assassin

2. Please try to stay active. I understand if you're busy, but at least try to comment once a week. I do highly encourage and recommend sending your tributes advice after every day in the Hunger Games

3. I will update most frequently on the weekends, although I may update sometimes during the weekdays. Depending on my schedule, some updates might be small, but I will try to update at least once every two weeks.

4. I will be using vulgar language and attempt to make scenes rather gruesome or dramatic; if either of these make you uncomfortable, I would advise not participating in these Hunger Games

5. Feel free to correct my writing in the comments, especially if there's a spelling or grammar issue. Please do not edit this page without my consent. Constructive criticism is also highly encouraged and appreciated

6. Please try to follow the template I provide as closely as possible. I don't mind if you include other fields, but please include all the ones I require.

7. Since thse are not a typical Hunger Games, I will not write the reaping, chariot rides, group training, or private training sessions. The story will immediately start when the tributes enter the arena.

Template
Name: (first and last name)

Age: (twelve to eighteen)

District: (Capitol or Districts 0-14)

Gender: (male, female, non-binary, etc.)

Personality: (should be in a sentence format, but list of traits also accepted)

Backstory: (should be in paragraph form)

Weapons: (preferably one or two, but three is accepted)

Appearance: (preferably both a lunaii and a real life image; writing a description is optional)

Sexuality: (heterosexual, bisexual, homosexual, asexual, etc.)

Prerequisite: (please refer to the general rules)

Strengths: (preferred, but optional)

Weaknesses: (preferred, but optional)

Reasons for Winning: (preferred, but optional)

Notes About the Assassin Game
New information will be added upon request or when more information about the Assassin Game is needed
 * These unofficial Hunger Games will still be taking place in a Hunger Games setting, specifically occurring alongisde the 146th Hunger Games.
 * These Hunger Games will still be run by the Gamemakers, but will not be televised. Due to this, training scores and sponsoring gifts will not be available to the tributes.
 * However, the assassins will have mentors who will be able to directly communicate to them via electronic watch; therefore, assassins are able to receive and follow advice, but they may choose to ignore it.
 * The selection of the assassins was based on the Capitol's report of each eligible person. There was no reaping to select the assassins; instead, each one was abducted in the middle of the night.
 * The assassins will receive an explanation for why they were abducted upon entering the arena.
 * The arena will not consist of or any mutations or any abnormal weather conditions, as the Gamemakers want all the kills to be at the hands of other tributes.
 * Each tribute will receive a large backpack with food, a filled water canteen, a map of the arena, and three additional items for the mentor to determine.
 * There must be at least one death a day. If the assassins disobey this rule, additional assassins will be transported into the arena.

Alliance #1
Kalani Firth (#1), Harry Torres (#10), Fjord Holt (#14)

Alliance #2
Byeoleun Andir (#2), Pell Tanner (#3), Mathilde Plutus (#7)

Alliance #3
Lolita Delrose (#4), Macy Rayle (#9)

Alliance #4
Gantt Harris (#5), Jekovah Harvick (#8)

Loners
Acacia Guinevere (#6), Ryder Locklear (#11), Alessandra Dymott (#12), Kienna Rosekale (#13), Solavirum Opregte (#15), Kevin Durant (#16)

Acacia Guinevere - Assassin #6
I knew this was going to happen. I knew he was going to kill me. As soon as I walked away from President Vasili, leaving him with his mouth agape, I knew he was planning my demise. All the presidents of Panem seem to have a constant tradition: kill anyone who poses a threat to the Capitol. And that’s exactly what I am, isn’t it? A threat. To most, I appear merely as a seventeen year old girl residing in the Capitol. In some societies, my wavy, aqua hair and sharp red lips might make me stick out like a sore thumb. But in the Capitol, I’m typical, ordinary, normal. However, to the President, I’m a threat to his integrity to his nation and his loyalty to his wife. To prevent any unwanted uprisings or riots, I needed to be out of the picture. He chose to permanently dispose of me so that the information I gathered never reaches the public.

I wonder if he regrets it, getting rid of me so easily. Is he going to be in the room as the Peacekeepers mutilate me or put a bullet in my head? Is he going to be the one holding the knife or pointing the gun? Will he even remember me? I remember hearing stories from parents of deceased children. Some of them lost their child due to sickness, while other lost them in the Hunger Games. Nonetheless, they all shared similar thoughts. Most lived with deep regret for outliving their child, and they all claimed to continuously ponder about the things that could’ve changed to prevent their child’s death. But maybe the rules are opposite for illegitimate children. Maybe their biological parents want to kill them for the sake of their public image.

When I hear someone approach me, I force my muscles to relax and slow down my breathing; the longer I appear to be asleep, the more time I have to formulate a plan to escape this predicament. However, I’ve been hooded since my kidnapping, preventing me from having a thorough understanding of my surroundings through sight. By using my other sensations, I’ve been able to create a cognitive map of this relatively empty room. I’m sitting in a metal chair, nailed to the ground, directly facing a door. Every time someone enters and exits the room, there’s a faint ping, possibly meaning a keycard or password is required to access this room. I don’t what’s beyond the door, but I don’t need to think about it until—if—I reach that point.

The captor yanks the hood off of my head, uncomfortably pulling at my hair during the process. I keep my eyes closed with my mouth slightly agape, attempting to feign sleep. “You don’t need to pretend to be asleep; I know you’re awake,” the captor says flatly. “Just open your eyes, it’ll be easier for both of us.”

I consider remaining in a lax state, but the captor’s tone already seems weary and unsympathetic; it would be more beneficial for me to remain on his good side. Grudgingly, I open my eyes, evaluating the muscular man in front of me. Alluring green eyes, wavy dark hair, and a toned body—even with an oversized shirt, I can still see the muscles in his forearms—are his most prominent features. Topped with perfectly chiseled facial features and a captivating smile, he appears more like an underwear model than President Vasili’s bitch.

“Thank you,” he says, pleased. “You’re the first person today to comply with that order.” In my peripheral vision, I notice his hand start moving towards the back pocket of his jeans, reaching for something I can’t see. When he pulls out a switchblade, I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stiffen and I aggressively fight against the rope tied around my wrists and ankles. He rolls his eyes. “Oh c’mon, now you’re just being dramatic.”

“So what? You’re just going to kill me?” I scream. I’m about to dislocate my wrist from tugging at the constraints so vigorously. “Doesn’t that seem a bit anticlimactic?”

“Oh, I’m not going to kill you,” he says calmly. He crouches down in front of me, cutting the bonds around my ankles. I debate kicking him in his jaw, but I refrain from making such a rash decision; I’ll need mobility with my arms if I want to escape. “I’m just the escort.” He slowly moves behind me, delicately cutting the bonds around my wrists. “And I’d prefer to have you walk to the other contestants, but I’ll gladly carry you if you cause any trouble.”

“Contestants?” I raise my eyebrow, turning around in the chair to face him. The knowledge that other captives are here provides a mixture of relief and discord. Although I want to flee as soon as I have the opportunity, I can’t leave knowing there are others here being held against their will; it’s simply against my nature. “For what, exactly?”

“All that information will be disclosed at the gathering,” the captor explains. He strides towards the door, unlocking it with a passcode as he continues speaking. “And if you have any questions, someone will gladly answer them, so long as they’re within reason.”

“So would I be able to ask them if I can leave?” I ask, sarcasm dripping from my tone. Slowly, I stand up and stretch my limbs, conveying that I pose no threat. “Or is that not ‘within reason’?”

“If you continue making sarcastic comments, I won’t hesitate to tase you.” He stands in the open doorway, gesturing for me to follow him. “Now, c’mon, I don’t want to be late.”

- - -

Despite my captor’s attempts, the two of us are the last people to arrive at the meeting area, greeted by the stares of my fellow “competitors.” A long, glass table rests in the middle of the room with eight chairs on either side—one for each of the “competitors”—and a larger chair at the head of the table, where a middle-aged woman sits. Judging by my escort’s subtle shift in posture and the other captors’ stolid appearance in the woman’s presence, I conclude that the woman is the head organizer behind this unethical operation. Although I don’t know exactly the purpose of this “operation,” I’ve detected multiple cues to suggest nothing good is going to come from this meeting.

“Welcome, Acacia Guinevere,” the woman says. Her white teeth strikingly contrasts with the dark red lipstick she wears; her eerie smile sends a shiver down my spine. “Please, take a seat.” Reluctantly, I sit down in the last available seat across from a pale girl with white hair; my escort stands closely behind me, similar to the other guards in the room. “Good! Now that everyone’s here, I can officially commence this meeting.

“I guarantee all of you have questions regarding your reason and purpose for being in this meeting, preparing to compete in a. . .”—she fiddles with her fingers, searching for the word—“. . . competition to the death, so to speak.”

“So the Hunger Games?” interrupts the—arguably—most peculiar-looking, white-haired boy sitting at the table. Upon closer examination, I notice his hair must be dyed; it appears to be fading near the roots, uncovering a natural brown color. “But we weren’t reaped; we shouldn’t be here.”

“You’re somewhat correct; none of you were reaped for the Hunger Games,” the woman says. “However, you’re all supposed to be here. Each of you has been closely examined and selected from a wide pool of candidates, and you’ve been deemed the deadliest assassins—or potential assassins—of Panem between the ages of twelve to eighteen.” She momentarily pauses, allowing the revelation to register in each of our minds before moving on. “The purpose of this competition is to determine who is the deadliest assassin for someone eligible for the Hunger Games, which we need to know for the upcoming Quarter Quell.”

“What’s the twist for the upcoming Quarter Quell?” Although I didn’t see who asked the question, I assume it’s the blonde-haired boy sitting nearest to the women, as he eagerly leans forward. In my peripheral vision, I see the white-haired girl roll her eyes, unamused by the boy’s enthusiasm.

“Unfortunately, I cannot disclose that information to you,” the woman states. “Besides, the twist will only affect one of you; the others will all be dead.” The bluntness of the statement briefly takes me by surprise before I realize I’m listening to a Capitol citizen; Capitol residents are known for their frank honesty. “If you choose, you can use this as motivation to win the competition.”

“And if that doesn’t suffice to serve as our motivation?” asks a pale girl with striking black hair. The more I stare at her, the more her appearance resembles a vampire. “Is there any reward for winning?”

“I would expect leaving with your life, earning a distinct title, and learning about the twist prior to the rest of the population would be enough of a reward,” the woman retorts. “However, I do understand that some of you have more. . . materialistic desires. Therefore, the winner will receive the same monetary prize as a normal victor and any additional prizes they wish; essentially, anything you want will be accessible if you win.”

“So when do we start?” asks the black-haired boy with white highlights in his bangs, an abnormal smile spreading across his face. Despite the innocence of the words, the tone coupled with the homicidal smile suggests arrogance and egotism.

“The competition will begin shortly after the end of this meeting,” the woman announces. I feel my blood run cold; I didn’t expect to be thrown into this life-threatening situation so quickly. “However, before you can start, I must cover two important aspects: the rules and the arena layout.

“Similar to the Hunger Games, there are no official rules regarding how you choose to kill one another; whether it be poisoning or trapping or slaughtering, so long as you continue killing one another. You have the opportunity to create alliances, but remember that only one competitor will survive.” Unsurprisingly, the woman shows no emotion as she talks about murder; then again, she’s been raised in a bloodthirsty environment, allowing her to be unfazed by death. “However, there is one condition that must be fulfilled: Each day, at least one competitor must die. If a day goes by without a death, more competitors will be transported into the arena. If the lack of killing becomes excessive, the Gamemakers and I will not hesitate to terminate the problematic competitors.” She doesn’t bother to glance at me; both of us understand that the comment was directed towards me. “Nevertheless, we do not intend to interfere with your survival in the arena, unless it is necessary for the advancement of the competition.

“The arena, itself, will be separated into two distinct sections: an overgrown woodlands and a vacated metropolis.” The glass table glistens as she begins speaking about the arena; after a momentary delay, it creates a hologram that thoroughly displays the woodlands and metropolis environment. “You will be directly transported to the arena via this train, which will send you to the center of the city.” I didn’t realize we were on a train until she mentioned it, but as I glance around, I mentally kick myself for not noticing the obvious cues. “From there, you can do whatever you want. However, I want to point out that, whether you choose to reside in the woodlands or metropolis, you will not experience any dangerous mutations or abnormal weather conditions. Just remember that the only threats in the arena will be your competitors.”

“I have a question.” Instinctively, I raise my hand to catch her attention. “How, exactly, are we supposed to kill one another when we don’t have weapons?”

“Ah, you’re jumping ahead,” the woman says, an apparent tsk underlying her statement. “That was the next—and final—component I was going to explain.” She pauses and clears her throat. “Since the competition is about to begin, each of you will be given a large backpack that contains the following items: a variety of food, including granola bars and fruits; a filled water canteen; and a map of the arena, which contains detailed areas of nontoxic food and water sources. Each of you will also receive three additional items in you backpack—typically weapons or useful supplies—that were selected by your assigned mentor. Although you will not receive any sponsoring gifts in the arena, your mentor may offer advice occasionally and additional food will be supplied when needed.

“I believe that covers everything you currently need to know about the competition,” the woman concludes. “Are there any questions?” I glance between the different contestants, waiting for someone to ask a question. When nobody asks a question, the woman continues, “No questions? That’s excellent!” Her eager smile sends another shiver down my spine. “Escorts, would you please grab your contestant’s bag?” The woman gestures towards the escorts; they leave the room one by one in perfect uniformity.

“In the meantime, I will give each of you a watch,” she continues, pulling out a box of watches from underneath the table. “The watches serve two purposes: to keep track of your vital signs and to inform you about your opponents.” As she explains the watches, she carefully slides one across the table to each of us. I hold the watch in my palm, inspecting the cubic, digital screen and the nylon strap. When I touch the screen, it lights up and displays a variety of apps. “When you aren’t using the watch, it will act as a typical watch, providing the current time and your location.”

The escorts reenter the room, each carrying a large backpack and a weapon. I visibly relax when I see my escort carrying a pair of kama, my preferred weapon; nonetheless, my nerves spike when I notice that other tributes are receiving more terrifying weapons, such as tridents and swords. The tanned, brown-haired girl besides me even receives a scythe, a weapon she seems to be familiar with judging by how she holds it in her hand. I wonder if everyone here has been trained by their given weapons, and, if they have, I wonder how many originated from a Career district.

“Does this mean we’re starting?” asks a brown-haired girl with sharp cheekbones, her posture and tone suggesting she’s pissed. I don’t know if she’s mad because of the circumstances or because she received a knife for her primary weapon.

“As soon as the escorts and I exit the room, the competition will officially commence.” The woman stands up, glancing over us one last time before moving towards the door. “Good luck, assassins,” she says, stopping in the doorway. “I look forward to working with the winner when the time comes.” With that, she leaves the room, followed by the escorts.

The competition has begun.

General Table
Green  = Perfect condition; Light green  = Presumably in good condition (the tribute hasn't been mentioned for a day);  Yellow  = Unknown condition; Light red  = Small injury (will heal with time); Red  - Injured (typically requires medicine but could also represent starvation or dehydration); Dark red - Fatal injury (requires insta-relief); Black - Deceased