The Fourth Annual Writer Games: Canon

Task Five - The Enemy

"Let not the Tributes ever forget they are being watched. Let not the Tributes ignore the fact that the Gamemakers hold the control, the Citizens hold the power, and the Arena, above all, holds life itself. Howsoever this is to be accomplished, let it be so." Book of Panem, XXV.I. - XXV.III.

President Snow comes to visit, trailed by Caesar Flickerman and Julius ending the pack. His hair is just beginning to turn, carefully concealed by hair dye until eventually he will let it grow grey as his skin grows youthful. Caesar lets him into the Gamemakers Suite, and Julius interjects occasionally to throw in a tidbit of information as Caesar draws Snow's attention to the work they've been doing. The work Orvan's been doing. President Snow murmurs his assent, really only there to get out of the palace for a bit, to see if the workers below are doing their jobs. The Gamemakers, well, there's nothing that could be done until the Games concluded, so very rarely did Snow ever intercede on the matters of the Suite. Except for Haymitch, but that was another story.

He watches the live hologram of the arena, pins marking where each tribute is. He clucks his tongue. "I actually liked some of them."

"Pardon me, Mr. President?"

"The one's who are gone. Dead. I have to say they made some entertaining watching. I only wish the Games' power would extend to, say, the unsavory family members of some of them. But that is not how these things work. It is not how they should work." He turns away from the table. "I expect another briefing tonight."

When the President leaves, the previously undiscovered tension sinks out from the room too. Orvan, who had been standing with Clautilda, nods his head. "Okay then. Back to our normal business."

Caesar takes his leave, following Snow, but Julius stays behind.

It is Clautilda who speaks. "I have to say I'm not quite sure how I feel when the President admires tributes I also admire. I don't quite know what it says about me."

"That you're human?"

"No, no. Snow's a bit too...he's a bit too piercing for me to want to reflect him. But I do. I wanted to see all the one's succeed. I had high hopes for a lot of them. Stories without their proper endings. That's how it goes though. This year it just seems to be starting a bit earlier, that's all."

In front of them the four who died the previous day are reflected with their faces on the tabletop:

District 2, Pandora Underwood [written by katelynmckelle],

District 9, Lena Barkle [written by Clove_Thenardier],

District 11, Andromeda Abdul [written by lostwithmyfriends], and

District 11, Porat Hadar [written by canaria_ aka crescendos aka Jay aka Morgan].

"After all the years you've been here, Clautilda, I would've thought you'd see so many go by that it didn't matter."

"Sure, but each one gives a show. Without the tributes, there is no Games."

--

Hello all, and welcome to Task Five! How time flies! Next task is Quarters, which means this task is the LAST ONE where rankings/ballots matter. This will also be the final task to have the GM save for the lowest as well as the final task to vote for sponsors. Next task, we go into byes. So write your hardest and show me what you've got!

THE TASK

Whether you found food or water or not, you're alive. Somehow. Ignore that, though. The last task ended around midday of the third day of tributes being in the arena (the time parameter stretched to that time). This afternoon, it is not what is there, but what is not that is the challenge for your tributes to face.

The time parameter: Starting from noon (ie. Where last task's time ended) up until JUST BEFORE the faces in the sky.

What happens: In the dusty, ashen, afternoon, your tributes are finally granted reverie. Though the last day was filled with thirst and hunger, besides that there's been barely anything happening. No fires will be coaxed. No mutt will appear. But as your tributes wait, watch, hunt, or spend their time however they please, it begins to dawn on them that...well...shouldn't something be happening? Shouldn't there be something? Anything? Wind? A skitter of bugs? But there is nothing. No wind curls up, no rain is deposited, no fire appears. It is quiet. Too quiet. And my friends, sometimes quiet is the worst thing of all.

What you must do: While normally tributes can hear the rustling of dead brush, or can watch the bugs skitter around, for this task, all of that is gone. The bugs and rodents have hid away. The wind and rain are gone. And at this stage in the game, each tribute in their own way begins to get restless. While there is no mutt, your task is to write the paranoia (for lack of a better word) of believing there is a mutt when there really is none.

This period of utter silence takes place over the span of four hours in the middle of the time parameter.

I want to see what happens when your tributes become truly and utterly convinced there is a mutt lurking (and after all, the Gamemakers haven't been the nicest—it's understandable!) and ready to kill. This is a sort of vague task. You can take it a lot of places. But in contrast to last task which was the mental strength/psychology of 'literally starving', this task is entirely about the pure psychological. It's psychological horror. You know when you're watching a movie and the music picks up and you know something is going to happen but you don't know when? That's what this task is about. That's what the mutt is this Game: that there is no mutt at all.

Show me what you've got.

BALLOTS/DEATHS

No in-entry kills are allowed whatsoever. That would ruin the quiet! Instead, you get TWO BALLOTS. You must use these.

FIVE people will have the chance to go up, with three going up, and two being eliminated.

WORD LIMIT

??? What's a word limit???

SPONSORS

Congratulations to Moire Holiday and Maur Verrill for gaining this task's sponsorship. For Moire Holiday, though you do not know it, you've gained many fans and admirers both in the Capitol and from your own District. And who can't feel pity when they see your own District partner betray you like that? Your strength and resilence is admirable, and as such your generous sponsors have raised enough money to send a palm sized container of tapenade (you know, the fancy stuff your stylists and people from the Capitol eat), though it's much more nutritionally packed than typical. Along with that is a bottle of what looks like water, but upon closer inspection is bubbly. Alcohol? In my Games? Use it to sterilize wounds, or use it to forget about things for just a moment. Your sponsors want you to feel loved, and they want you to feel just a touch of luxury in a barren wasteland. For Maur Verrill...you've suffered much, but your lapse on sanity is almost...endearing to those who watch. They want to see just a bit more of you. For that reason, they've pooled a significant amount of money in order to provide you with a palm-size tin of medicine concocted specifically for your hand wound, or, well, your stump wound. Use it wisely.

DUE DATE

:)

Guess what? My parents are coming down for two weeks! As I cry about the entries I myself have to write, I'm going to be spending as much time as I can with them since I won't see them until Christmas otherwise. For that reason, your entries are due Monday, August 6, at 9pm ADT. Enjoy. And also, you can hand in early if you even want to!

As always, may the odds be ever in your favour.