Marcus Aureli, novice tabloid reporter, was having a rough day.
He had expected his job at the Capitol Eye to be many things: tedious, perhaps, or pointless. He wouldn't have been surprised if he got an assignment on something irrelevant even by the Eye's standards, perhaps on someone's toenail art. It wouldn't be the first time that happened, if his coworkers were to be believed.
One thing hadn't planned for, however, was the cold.
"My first decent assignment," he muttered quietly, "and I have to sit outside in the rain. Figures."
He swiped at his running nose irritably, squinting at the trim white house overlooking the park in which he sat. The sidewalk was clear- no one wanted to be out in the nasty weather. Marcus held up his Optilight-90 camera with his left hand, frantically clutching the umbrella with the right. He scanned the windows of the house, searching for movement, any movement at all. One finger tabbed the Zoom In button, causing the expensive little gadget to chirrup, focusing in on the drop-streaked glass.
Marcus, I need high-quality investigative journalism, his boss had said. Marcus remembered leaning in closer, eyes widening. His big break had finally arrived. This newest victor, Annelise Lutz. Nobody knows anything substantial about her. They've interviewed her family, her friends, everyone. Except her. Ever since she got the victor's house six months ago, she moved in without her family and has barely left since. People want to know how the girl's been handling herself after the Games. Find out. Get a picture or two. Have the article on my desk at the end of the week. Got it?
He had understood perfectly. After a couple of pointless phone calls, he was off, ready to catch some secretive photographs of the reclusive victor. Technically illegal, but this was the Capitol. Pigs would fly before a tabloid reporter was convicted of invasion of privacy.
A flash of movement in one window caught his eye. He smiled, holding the camera up to his face.
"Finally..."
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The dreams had begun the night after I came out of the Games.
I remember the nightmare well: I was running through a collapsing tunnel, rocks raining down upon my head. My backpack was weighing me down, and behind me, my family screamed as their shelter collapsed in slow motion. I woke up in a cold sweat that night, flailing wildly at the medics repairing my wounds.
The doctors had told me the dream was brought on my traumatic experience and a concussion sustained in the Games. They gave me sleeping pills, told me they would give me dreamless sleep until my head injury healed.
The night after that, I dreamed of a grinning, dog-headed beast that followed me into the city, chasing me until I fell into a dark, cold pond and drowned.So it went for six months. I would take two pills, or three, or four, without the slightest improvement in results. Every night, I would wake up after a couple hours fitful sleep, trembling and sweating, trying not to cry into my pillow. I changed beds four times, trying to find the one that would give me rest. Even moving out of my old house didn't seem to do the trick; that night, I felt gas choking me as terrible music grated on my ears.
I was dying. I had survived the Games. I had survived the killers, and the traps, and the psychological warfare. Still, I was dying. And my own mind was killing me.
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Marcus stared at the tiny, slightly pixelated screen eagerly. Here she was: the mysterious victor, capable of surviving terrible odds, evading lethal dangers, and creating an explosive trap disguised as a beautiful painting. He remembered that part especially well; the Gamemakers had been furious that the girl's family had gotten TAC fluid into the arena. He'd done a piece on their tersely worded position on the incident.
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Writer Games | Masquerade of Martyrs & Family Ties
ActionWriter Games: Masquerade of Martyrs: last updated February 3 2015 Writer Games: Family Ties: last updated April 14 2015 Reuploaded with permission from AEKersey 2019