Hello everyone, my name is Paradigm of Writing and welcome to my new Hunger Games SYOT, Vermillion Shorelines. It has been awhile since I have dabbled in the fandom for an SYOT and left many things bitter and turned out with a lack of progress, hence my dropped SYOT's Death Under the Sky and Fracture Between Two Hearts. However, I have decided to do something entirely different in changing up the formula... I am going to go super far into the future rather than try an original pre Catching Fire Hunger Games, and make my own Quarter Quell... Quarter Quell of the 200th Hunger Games, the eighth Quarter Quell with quite the surprising twist that I won't reveal until we get to the arena. The amount of excitement currently stirring within me is going to cause me to explode one day, I swear. If you wish to create a tribute first, go to the bottom and then read the chapter. I will not accept any submissions by review, PM only, please. I am also going to write this in third person present, which I feel is where my writing shines the most, gives me the most room to write action sequences, and a few of my best WIP's were in this style as well. Please enjoy the first chapter of Vermillion Shorelines, #1: Calculations.
Head Gamemaker Ian Fletcher P.O.V
9 x 9 = 81. 8 x 8 = 64. 7 x 7 = 49. 6 x 6 = 36.
I am thirty-six years old. Why do I feel so old, then? Why do I feel as if there is unfinished business going on in my life. 9 x 9 = 90. Wait. No it doesn't. 9 x 9 = 81. 9 x 10, however, that equals 90. There we go. All is right with the world.
"I know you can hear me..." a voice whispers beyond the void, dark and vile, it claws outwards like sickled tree branches or witches' claws which desperately hope to grasp onto otherwise intangible forces. Hope. Love. Lust. Life. Creation. Death. 9 x 9 = 81. Computation is a backwards thought, but it does not bother Ian Fletcher, it shall never both Ian Fletcher.
The Head Gamemaker curls up in on his side, one arm hugged close to his chest while the other sits underneath his skull, the sense of feeling receding and vanishing far too quickly for his liking. A hand placates itself on his shoulder, and Ian awakes with a feverish launch, sweat pouring down his mopped hair, darkening its naturally halcyon-like tint.
He recalls a few of the last number calculations in his head before looking at who decided to wake him up, rather rudely he might add. A solemn face stares back at his, but there's a gentle kindness to it as this mirrored complexion knows him better than anyone, despite all the complications and law breaking that there is going on between them.
"I'm up..." Ian breathes raggedly, noting the sudden lack of touch in his left arm. "I'm up."
"You alright?" His heart wants to fall apart at how gentle her voice is, and he curls up inside somewhat. Her delicate gaze passes over him and he's surrounded by warmth, a motherly love that only she can replicate.
Ian swallows heavily, his Adam's apple coarse against his pale throat, the lump of muscle and tissue groaning desperately for an escape, akin to a rock. "Fine. Just... thinking about numbers again."
His companion scoffs, and then walks over to the mirror and dresser in the right side corner of the room. He has never seen someone more beautiful. 186th Hunger Games winner March Larson of District 7 raises a bemused auburn eyebrow, her hollowed out cheekbones going to the carpet so he is unable to see whatever devastating effect he has on his wife.
"You realize what today is, don't you?" she asks.
Her victory replays over and over and over in Ian's mind. He's four years older than her, as March won when she was eighteen, to his twenty-two. Ian Fletcher is nothing more than a mere newbie to the Gamemaker circle, the last rung on the totem pole with a chipper complexion, bright eyes, and an ambitious pride that collapses entire civilizations. However, he's now fourteen years along this tract, and there's nothing left than the bare minimum. Nothing more than the essentials. Sometimes Ian wonders if he's even truly there anymore, but the type of job he runs can do that to a person. He's wholly human and wholly a monster. If only...
6 x 6 = 36.
March sits down on the bed, clutching his hand. Her win is messy, and still sometimes she sees her district partner's face reflecting in the mirror before she slits his throat with the blade of a gladius she receives days prior in a dirty skirmish with the Career male from District 2. "It was him or me," she tells herself over and over again, wishing for the pain to stop surmounting in her arm from an old stab wound. "Had I not done it, he would have... and had he killed me, I would have never met Ian..."
She twiddles a lock of auburn hair around her left pointer finger, pulling part of her bottom lip underneath a stained row of teeth, almost so preciously coated in amber they look like a set of blood dripping blades. Ian notices that her expression is one of prompting, but he's thinking about calculations and everything is lost. "Hmm?"
March performs a one-eyed roll, which she's learned from years and years of practice. "You know what day it is?"
"August 19th," Ian smirks.
"Day before the Reapings."
The Head Gamemaker's smirk disappears back into the frowns of his pale face, and he throws off the covers. He's up at the dresser, pulling open drawers and suddenly panicking. No... no, no... no... this isn't supposed to be here already. I thought I had another weak to prepare! Shit. Shit... dammit, this sucks! This really sucks. Okay, breathe! 9 x 9 = 81. 11 x 11 = 121. 1 x 1 = 1. 0 x 0 = 1. Zero divided by zero is nothing, as you cannot divide by zero and it causes the entire world to explode.
All March can do is sit and watch her husband fly through getting dressed as if he is some wired kid who has met the luxury of coffee. Ian Fletcher is off by two minutes and forty-three seconds, and with this setback, he is late for his meeting with the president where she unveils the Quarter Quell card to Ian and Ian only, and the two shall share this dirty little secret for a week before sharing it... as times have changed and the president wants this one unveiled so the tributes can let their destructive personalities do their dirty work for them.
Ian stops to busy himself with a tie, simple and a dark maroon... he thinks of nights where the covers are empty because March is throwing up in the toilet at the memories and what he sees is the dark maroon of failed pregnancies and the sad reflection lost in his wife's eyes. His own eyes pass over the mirror, which he is hoping to avoid, but as in any natural circumstance, it is the human's predestined nature to look at disaster headlong before it kills them.
The Head Gamemaker is thirty-six. 6 x 6 = 36. The fact is true. There's no experiment. He stands at a rough 5'9, towering over colleagues with a shaky voice to counteract his somewhat mediocre height. His wave of lemonade hair is slicked down with sweat, strands clinging to his forehead like grappling hooks on the sides of canyon walls, where one misstep leads to death and more of the dark maroon that haunts his every single move. The hue of failure is evident in Ian's hazel eyes, where they are going through the memories of a stern talking to after the 199th Hunger Games. Some Career... maybe the girl from District 4 or the male from District 1 is supposed to be victorious, yet Ian creates an accidental fluke in the arena that the smart and surprisingly quick male from District 6 catches onto and causes an explosion in some other sector which sends the Career sky-high. The president is furious, the president demands there be reparations, and the president demands that Ian learns to desire perfection and not settlement. Just because something looks perfect, does not mean it is. 8 x 8 = 64.
His moment to stare in the mirror gives him a few seconds to look at March, who is now getting up from the bed to help finish tying Ian's tie. March Larson, aged thirty-two. She's a mother of absolutely nothing but Ian's self-confidence, and wishes to never bear children despite claiming she wants children over bottles of wine and fancy Capitol pasta dinners. She's lost a good portion of the muscle earned in District 7 and stays primarily on the trains going from district to district, or out on a private beach which Ian has begged for many years ago. March's auburn hair is dulled in the shades of the closed blinds, her radiant diamond eyes flashing out similar to beacons in the night sky.
Ian absolutely loves her.
It is one of the reasons he shows up to work in the morning. March Heffner is the reason he wakes up in the morning. He'd rather look at her than stare at a white ceiling for hours at a time. 6 x 6 = 36. 1 x 1 = 1. 5 x 5 = 25. 6 x 6 = 36.
And because Ian Fletcher loves March Heffner, he does not give her a kiss as he walks out of the door, now promptly four minutes and fifty-six seconds off schedule, and no matter how many computations he can muster or calculations Ian can whisk up in the blink of an eye, he is off kilter and now everything in the Games will suffer because of it.
6 x 6 = 36.
Let the 8th Quarter Quell, the 200th year of the Hunger Games...
Begin.
And this is where I leave you! This was the first chapter of the new SYOT, #1: Calculations of Vermillion Shorelines. Did anyone catch the hint about the arena in the description of either one of our two characters? If you did, you are very, very keen. Alrighty, let's discuss the major components of this story.
First thing is first. Tribute submission can only be done by PM's, no reviews of tribute submissions will be accepted for hassle and the time. This is a submit until the due date type of deal, so no first come, first serve. Submission is open from today, Sunday, May 21st, till Friday, June 17th. The story will then be updated after I decide my tribute cast list, and the reapings will begin. I plan to post the first reaping within a two week window from that date.
Here is the criteria needed for your tribute.
Name (First and Last)
District
Age
Gender
Appearance
Family
Personality (Be specific) (This includes likes and dislikes, sexuality preference if any, etc...)
Weaknesses (Minimum of three; be specific)
Strengths ((Minimum of three; be specific)
Weapon of Choice
Reaping Reaction if Reaped
Would this tribute volunteer?
Token
Private Gamemaker Session
Preferred Range of Tribute Score (1-4, 5-8, 9-12)
Any Allies or Alliances?
Preferable Placement?
Cause of Death
...
If the tribute you submit is already being used in another SYOT, you may not resubmit that same tribute as that is unfair to the author of the other SYOT. If the SYOT you submitted to has been discontinued, that is a different story, and you can reuse the tribute. Everything and everyone else should be original.
Now, when it comes to submitters, if I pick your tribute, reviews are generally appreciated during the twelve reapings, and especially at your district chapter. Come training and further into the story, your review is a heavy precedent in how the game will go for reasons I cannot explain or go into as of yet. If you are unable to ever get the time to review, which can be the case, PM me the circumstances and I will accommodate accordingly. Ones who make themselves prevalent and show interest in the story will, with probable reasoning have a higher preference to win, though sometimes a character with an author who does not review that is pure creative genius can rise to the top as well.
The stats for submissions, broken down by district, is on my profile, the 2nd section of my profile. It is each district, number of male and female submissions. At the bottom, it is total submissions over all twelve districts. Also there is starting date for submissions, final date for submissions, and how many days till the deadlines. The criteria necessary for tribute creation will be underneath that in my profile as well in a separate section.
Thank you all so much! I will be updating this story at a minimum of three more times until the reaping chapter to bump this story up in the archive for others to see it. If you know fellow readers on this site who wish to a part of this story, let them know and have them check this piece out. I know that this SYOT will be a blast.
I love you all and see you on the flipside. May the odds be ever in your favor, ladies and gentlemen! Bye!
~ Paradigm
