The Hunger Games: Galaxies District 1
Ouran Academy. Only those with excellent pedigrees and those from filthy rich families are lucky enough to spend their time at this elite private institution. Or so they say. Then there's me: Haruhi Fujioka. A commoner. Scholarship student. Whatever you want to call it. On a daily basis, I find myself amidst the eccentric elites of society, the children of the business moguls, and those descended from royalty.
But, even all of that wealth and influence means little when the time comes for the Reaping, and the annual Hunger Games.
The Gods that control our worlds decreed that, each year, each District, or world, if you will, must give up one tribute of each gender, between the ages of 12 and 18, to compete against others from different worlds. Refusal isn't an option, unless you want your entire world destroyed, of course. The rumors are that there was a 13th world, but that was a thousand year ago, and it no longer exists. Now there's only the 12 of us. Each one a world separated from the other.
Honestly, District 1 should be a blessing for me. The Gods require that, for our world, we only sacrifice two children from the upper echelons of society, thus ensuring the Gods get to see pedigree involved with the other riffraff of the worlds and districts besides ours. Standing with those damn rich people in the ornate, golden stadium, where their parents waited on bated breath for the chance that their own child would be picked… I've watched it on TV, of course, because we have to, but I never imagined I'd be on this field, or that my Dad would be one of those in the stands, tearfully dabbing their heavily made-up eyes with an embroidered handkerchief.
Unfortunately, my enrollment into Ouran automatically guaranteed me a spot in the Reaping as well. So here I stand, on the line between Ouran and Lobelia, wearing my typical, expensive uniform, sweating as the sun beats overhead. The girls around me are already weeping, and the boys look serious. The Host Club, especially, is going to have to be on its A-Game in the next few weeks. The Hunger Games are always a tough time for us. We keep the TVs on, in the corner, because it's required, but we try and distract the girls from the horrors unfolding on the screen.
Nobody from Ouran has been picked in the last six years, although our most recent District 1 Victor was from Lobelia, around twelve years ago. But there has to be at least six hundred academies from around the world crammed into this stadium. There's no guarantee that any of us will be the ones to be picked.
I try to look for the others, but the only one I can see clearly is Mori. As usual, he looks positively bored with everything going on around us. I can see the back of Tamaki's head, but he's standing straight as a board. I wonder if his mother is watching, if she knows that her son might be Reaped at any moment…
The usual greetings are taken care of. It's a woman this year doing our Reaping, a priestess who represents the Gods of the other world. You wouldn't know it, looking at her, though. Underneath the fancy, ornamental robe she's required to wear, she looks very plain. I can't help but wonder what the rich ones around us think about it. Surely they can tell the make-up is cheap and the hair is incredibly amateurish. They probably do that on purpose, to really make the opulence of District One stand out…
And, of course, I've missed the beginning announcements. She must've said something strange about this year's Games because there's frantic whispering around me. But I really just can't be bothered by it. My name's only in there once, just like everyone else. Soon this will all be over, I'll probably get roped into some futile consoling exercise to stop the rich girls from their panic attacks, and then Dad and I can go home and enjoy a nice, quiet meal together. Finally, as the Grand Hymn echoes across the speakers, I can re-focus.
"As per custom, the ladies will go first," said our speaker. What was her name again…? Why can't I remember it…
Ah. There's the tension. Even I can't help but feel it pushing on me a little bit. Of course I don't want it to be me, that goes without saying, but the thought of someone like Renge or one of our customers being put in the arena… that's just too tragic to think about. They wouldn't stand a chance. Hopefully, whoever they pick, it's not someone who's just going to shrivel up and die three seconds in, like that girl last year who—.
There's a split second where I recognize that someone, somewhere, has called my name. And, somehow, I feel a sense of nausea and impending doom. And then the reality hits me… right about the time it hits the rest of Ouran. The shrieks and yells begin, and then the bawling. Every single yellow-dressed girl is in absolute tears, looking at me… and I'm shocked to see that some of the Lobelia girls look devastated as well. I think I can vaguely hear my father calling for me but I…
… I… I'm the tribute? Me? But… but that can't be… I'm not one of those rich bastards, I'm just lower-middle class. I can't fight, I have no skills… nobody is going to sponsor me…
But I don't have time to think about this. They're coming for me. Those men clad in white uniforms, with their black-visor helmets that hide their face and only reflect my wide, terrified eyes. And now I'm being lead toward the stage. We're near the front, so the journey doesn't take long.
Tamaki. I can hear him screaming now. But, no, I must keep a strong face. I can't look at him. I can already tell what's happening. He's being restrained, probably by Mori, Honey, and Hikaru. Otherwise that idiot would run right out here, try and take my place, and get himself shot. And there's muttering all around me, from the other schools especially. And for a moment I almost laugh. I'm still wearing the male uniform. That's really gotta be confusing them…
It abruptly occurs to me that I'm on the stage, looking across the stadium, at the thousands and thousands of heads on the field below me, at the parents and people around me. There's still muttering, sobbing, screaming, and yelling. The lady doing our Reaping introduces me to the world, and I realize I'm now being broadcast across at least 11 other worlds as well. I don't know what to do… what do the girls usually do from our District? Oh… right… they cry. I don't want to do that… so… I guess I'll just… smile? That seems safe.
Almost instantly the stadium goes quiet. I don't think they know how to respond to a smiling tribute. I haven't seen one my entire life, leastwise not a girl. Maybe one or two boys, but… oh… right, we still have to pick the boy. If he's weak and fat, perhaps the son of one of those fast food companies, maybe I'll have a shot at winning…
"District 1's male tribute for this year is… Kyoya Ootori."
… How are things in Heaven, Mom? I can't believe it's been eleven years already. And, well, not to worry you or anything… but I'm beginning to think that I may see you sooner than either of us would have hoped…
Short explanation time on how this whole ordeal is going to work!
The games themselves are still in progress, so for now I'm only doing the intro stuff. All events that take place in the Districts will be in their appropriately-titled stories in the proper crossover section. Once that's all taken care of and it collapses into one story, I'll put the title at the end of each District Introduction Section (or just click on my author name to find it yourself).
The entire story is being decided solely on a complicated series of dice rolls, to prevent bias on my part and to make it so even I have no idea how this is going to end or who is going to win. There is only one exception to this, which I'll explain in the next chapter of this District because that's the one it applies to.
Let me be clear: this is not going to be an "everyone bands together and fights the evil powers and they all survive" story. As of writing this paragraph, eight tributes are dead. So if you see your favorite character selected… well, don't get mad if they don't make it through.
That's all for now. May the odds be ever in your (favorite characters') favor.