Fan Fiction (Shorts)

Xion Academy For Boys

“Why do I have to go?” he asked.

“It’s your birthday present. Why wouldn’t you want to go?” his mother replied with a smile.

“But I like the school I’m going to now,” he said, ready to start whining.

“Don’t you dare start young man, Xion academy has better facilities. It’ll make you better and more ready when the time comes,” his father quickly joined in on the conversation.

“But I heard they will make me do things, things I dont want to do.”

“You need to toughen up boy. I’ve already pulled some strings to make sure you have a place in the 74th games.” His father then turned to him and looked him in the eye. “I paid a lot of money for this.”

Sighing, he nodded in reply. If his father had paid a lot of money, he should go and try to make his parents proud. And since he was finally thirteen, he told himself to start acting like a responsible adult.

The following day, he put on his new black and silver custom tailored suit. And before he entered the car, he shook his father’s hand, and gave his mother a kiss.

“We will see you during the weekends, O.K honey?” his mother said as she smiled broadly at him.

“Bye,” he replied, sliding into the backseat and waving at them as his driver drove further and further away from the gigantic mansion he called home.

Xion Academy was a one hour drive from home, in the heart of District 2. It was a huge school, with superb and detailed stonework, one of which he had not seen before.

As the car pulled up the driveway, a woman in black ushered him into the academy and led him straight to the headmaster’s office. After waiting briefly, a man walked into the room and took his seat.

“Before you start classes, we need to give you a test,” the headmaster, a balding middle-aged man, spoke.

“Sure. I’m ready. What do I have to do?” he asked confidently.

“Follow me,” the man said as he got up. Quickly following after him, he found himself walking along hallways and down staircases. By the time he reached a small room, he started to wonder how big the academy was.

As the headmaster pointed to a glass door in the marble walled room, he said, “Behind this door is an arena.”

“You want me to fight someone?” he asked excitedly.

“I want you to make sure that THAT someone doesn’t get up again.”

“What do you mean?”

“The person you are to face is a no good-er. You know what to do with these kind of people, don’t you?”

He finally understood what he had to do, but he still wasn’t sure. Was he being asked to kill someone?

“You want me to kill him?”

“There are nicer ways of putting it. Let’s just say we want you to terminate him. Good luck.” And with that, the headmaster left the room.

Unsure on what to do next, he slowly headed to the glass door and pushed it open. Taking a step into the big arena, he spotted his opponent.

His opponent was a tall, rather skinny man. His eyes were bloodshot red and when he turned to face him, he looked very ready for a fight.

Hesitating on his next move, he eyed the skinny man.Then taking a quick glance around the arena, he spotted weapons laying on the ground near him, and glass panels a storey higher, that made him sure he was being watched.

Straightening up, and putting on a brave face, he picked up two long blades and charged towards the man. To his surprise, the man didn’t charge back, but he ran instead. And being that he was younger and in better shape, he caught up with him and pounced onto his back, pinning the man on the ground immediately.

Then, as he placed his blades below the man’s throat, ready to slit him dry, the man pleaded, “Please boy, don’t do this. I have a son at home, just like you.”

For a brief moment, he hesitated. He thought about his father and his mother, and then he looked up at the glass panels. And as though he could see through it, he imagined the people in it nodding at him to finish the job.

“Please boy, you are not a killer,” the man said, trying to hold his head higher up, away from the blades.

“How do you know?” he asked with a laugh.

“Because… because…”

“Wrong answer,” he said as he pulled the blades across each other, slitting the man’s throat before he could finish his answer.

In all honestly, he didn’t want to hear what the man had to say. He was rather afraid of the truth, because all his life, he was told what to do and how to do it. He never knew who he really was, just that he was made to kill and to bring his family glory.

As he stood up from body of the man, lying in a pool of blood, he hoped that someone would reassure him that he was doing the right thing, and when the voice over the speaker spoke, he got what he had hoped for.

“I’m proud of you Cato.”

“Dad?” he asked immediately.

“Yes. And your mother is here too. Lets celebrate shall we?”

Smiling to himself, Cato didn’t care if all he knew was murder, because it made his parents proud.

Fan Fiction (Shorts)

Snow’s Princess

This year was the start of a new kind of fear. And it was not the fear he was used to feeling.

Ever so often, Coriolanus would come face to face with his mortal enemy, the fear of losing. But every time the elections came around, he tramples on the very account of fear with his power statements accompanied by the cheers and applause from the people of Panem.

But this year, this was the least of his problems. He was the vice president of Panem, and he had nothing else to fear but the reaping.

The reaping, for those who lived in The Capitol, was a celebration, as the Hunger Games was commonly addressed to as an extreme sport of glory. Coriolanus grew up with that idea in mind. And when he was a boy, he always longed to be chosen for the games. Unfortunately for him, he was never chosen.

And though this year’s reaping may seem no different to many people, but it was different for him. Because this year, his princess comes of age. His princess was now old enough to have her name placed in the reaping.

Oh, to think he would be a proud father to have his daughter be chosen, you are wrong.

You see, Coriolanus’ daughter was special. She was a small, frail, petite girl, who had to live most of her life in her bedroom, inhaling from an oxygen tank. The moment she came into his world was the moment her lungs started failing. And as much as he wanted a strong beautiful baby, he was presented with a dying child, who had miraculously managed to live up to the age of 12.

Over all these years, Coriolanus became the protective father. Constantly paying for a chance of a real life for his daughter. But no matter what he did, there was barely any hope of her leaving her room.

This year, she might be forced to.

How on earth was his daughter going to survive the games when she could barely breath?

Coriolanus pleaded for the President’s exception on his daughter, but the no exception rule was hammered into his head, nearly jeopardizing his status.

“No exceptions! Do you see me pulling my son’s name out of the reaping?” the President said.

“But sir, my daughter can’t even leave her room.”

“Then she would be better off dead, wouldn’t she?”

With that, Coriolanus had to bear the streaming tears and demands of his wife in which he could never meet.

“You’re just going to let her die?”

“No exceptions! We do not have a choice!”

The both of them had to accept the rules sooner or later.

Still, the dilemma remains. If his princess is called to be a tribute, what would he do?

With his head throbbing, there he stood on the platform, next to the President. It was a late afternoon and the crowd that had filled the stadium were already cheering.

Coriolanus watched closely as the President dug his hand into a bowl of glass balls. The deafening sound of the crowd made it harder for him to concentrate as the President pulled out a ball and handed it to him.

As he stared blankly into the ball and the digital name hovering inside, Coriolanus slowly read, “Jasmine…”

The crowd went silent as they waited for him to continue.

“Jasmine Snow.”

It was a long and painful moment of silence. There were murmurs from the crowd, as nobody knew how to react.

“Ah, brilliant! That would be interesting!” the President so cold-heartedly spoke.

“Wouldn’t it be now Coriolanus?” The President turned to him, signalling him to respond.

“Yes, indeed. I am a proud father,” Coriolanus lied.

With distinct pain in his voice, the crowd’s oblivion led to an eruption of cheers.

Yes, the people loved him for his bravery at sacrificing his child. But he didn’t love himself.

When he came home that night, Coriolanus sat by his sleeping daughter’s bed side, weeping and begging for forgiveness.

What kind of a father was he?

As he held on to her small hand, Coriolanus’ only wish was for a chance to take her place, but that was impossible. It was then that her eyelids fluttered, and her lips began to softly mutter.

“What is it princess?”

“Daddy…”

“Yes princess?” Coriolanus fought back the tears as he leaned closer.

“I’ll make you proud.”

Her words penetrated his heart like a stake to his soul.

“I know princess. Rest now,” Coriolanus choked on his drying throat.

His worst fear had won. He now knew what he had to do.

Once his daughter had fallen back to sleep, Coriolanus headed to his office to retrieve from his safe a metal box, in which he kept a collection of untraceable poisons.

Picking up a green bottle, Coriolanus filled a syringe and hurried back to his daughter’s side.

As he watched the heart rate monitor beep, careful not to have his eyes fall on his innocent, precious daughter, he slowly injected the poison into her system.The beeping monitor finally met its end after a few seconds. It was that easy. But bearing the crushing pain in his chest wasn’t.

She was gone. Her pain was gone. So were her worries and troubles. He was her father. And as much as it was killing him inside, he had to do what he had to do. He had to save her. And he did.