Forged from the Sun: 150th Hunger Games - SYOT Open -
How do you convince an enemy to see you as human? If the tributes of the 150th Hunger Games succeed, they may stand a chance against the government that oppresses them.
01: The Sixth Quarter Quell
Three hours until the announcement of the Quarter Quell and already the Capitol's streets are crammed with eager citizens in their best and brightest attire, the clamor reaching even the president's office on the highest floor. None of them are aware that the Hunger Games has the lowest priority in the president's mind. When Rakhsna promised that the viewership ratings and sponsorship would far exceed the last four Games, he'd only received a brief, approving nod and the strained smile of a man who had at least five other thoughts in mind by the time Rakshna finished his pitch.
Sorush Caledonia may seem decisive in the moment he denounces a political rival as a traitor to the country, or when he stands on stage and announces the start of the next Hunger Games, but Rakshna has known him since childhood. Knows, too, that the doubts in his mind are less than reality, merely figments of his imagination that have grown all too wild with the passing years.
For the next three minutes, however, Rakshna really needs Sorush to focus. He sits him down and away from any electronic devices, even turns off the screen projecting the latest coverage of the pre-Games fervor. Sorush casts him an impatient scowl, but Rakshna pretends that he hasn't seen it and places a heavy lockbox on the table. He has been told it can withstand anything short of a volcano and a nuclear explosion, which is fortunate. Rakshna doubts he could come up with an idea for a Quarter Quell that would satisfy the masses. He hasn't succeeded even once at captivating the audience during a normal Hunger Game.
"Here," Sorush says, tossing Rakshna a small silver key. His flat grey eyes turn immediately towards his desk, but Rakshna's stern grunt keeps him from returning to his work for the moment. Sorush glances at the box, regarding it as one might a disgusting bug splattered on a windshield: annoying and obtrusive, but ultimately of little importance. "You hardly need my help to open a box."
"No, I need a president who can feign interest in a national peacekeeping event long enough for it to actually have an effect on the populace."
Rakshna inserts the key as he scoffs, his tone derisive and supremely rude. Any other Head Gamemaker might have already been forced to run the gambit of apologies and platitudes or risk execution. Sorush merely exhales a frustrated sigh.
"Draw one."
The rows of envelopes might be contained in an indestructible box, but even they cannot withstand the passage of time. The corners are crisp, but the paper has lost its sheen over the years. In another hundred, perhaps they will have turned brittle and yellowed. Perhaps Panem will no longer need them by then.
Rakshna will never say these thoughts out loud, no matter how good a relationship he has with Sorush. To the Sorush of the past, perhaps, but not anymore.
The Sorush of the past loved the Games more than Rakshna, but the Sorush of the past did not have a head filled with creeping thoughts of betrayal around every corner, of every person approaching him to be harboring murderous intentions.
The Sorush of today selects the first envelope in the front and hands it to Rakshna, not even curious about its contents.
Then his eyes soften, and Rakshna is reminded of the down from the dove mutts in the 141st Hunger Games, the ones that self-imploded when they neared a tribute. Sorush's 'Ah, what a pity,' echoes through his head.
But, Sorush is not a dove and Rakshna will never let him become one.
"It says, 'Households with two or more children must nominate one to enter the reaping.'"
The smile on Sorush's face is flat, but the creases at the corner of his mouth tell Rakshna that it is mostly genuine.
"Good, now you can stop worrying about the ratings." Sorush rises from his seat, less in a hurry but still insistent on returning to his desk. Rakshna lets him walk away. "I will uphold my end, of course. Something along the lines of 'to remind the nation that wars force us to make the most unfair and painful of choices.' I'll run it by Estelle later."
It is a dismissal. One that Rakshna does not need to abide by if he doesn't want to, but there isn't anything else he can say now that Sorush has returned to his work. Eliminating his political rivals during the Games is all he has been able to think about for months - it's the perfect time to do so, when the nation will be hyper-focused on the Games and couldn't care less about the death of a politician. He has spent sleepless nights trying to ferret out the men and women who might try to usurp him in the same way he usurped his predecessor.
Rakshna can do nothing except stand at his side and support him. Pestering him with the Games will do nothing except distract him, and who knows if his fears might actually come true? Rakshna, perhaps, has picked up some of his paranoia over the years. But he won't risk it. Won't risk Sorush's life simply because he thinks he is right and his friend is overreacting. And maybe he isn't, after all.
"I will call fifteen before we are due on stage," Rakshna says, taking the box and the envelope with him. Sorush dismisses him with a careless wave, his mind already focused on the next task. He doesn't worry about the Games because he has Rakshna to handle them.
Although Rakshna doesn't do a great job, and he hears people gossip about seeing his head on the execution block in a few years, both he and the president know that as long as Sorush Caledonia lives, Rakshna will have this position as Head Gamemaker. The ratings can plummet for all Sorush cares. As long as there are no riots in the streets, nothing needs to change.
And that is why, when a smiling Gamemaker approaches Rakshna, he gives the woman a clipped response that he is too busy for a discussion over tea.
"But, Mr. Edelman, it would just be a quick proposal, only–"
"Do it at our staffing after the announcement," Rakshna snaps, eyes narrowed as he turns the corner and leaves the Gamemaker in the middle of the hallway.
They both know that she will not bring it up at the staffing. Ms. Yates's idea cannot be discussed in public, most definitely not in front of the other Gamemakers. Sorush leaves him to police the Games, and so believes that there aren't any traitors in their ranks, that all are absolutely loyal to Rakshna. Rakshna has never told him of the sympathizers he allowed to join the team. Even if he did, there is always the reasoning that he did it to keep them close and track their plans.
In truth, Rakshna can fulfill neither party's wishes and simply keeps himself in this limbo for – a reason he doesn't even know, himself. Ms. Yates and her people, whoever they might be, wish for a Panem without the Hunger Games. A Panem without the Hunger Games, however, would be a Panem without Sorush Caledonia.
Rakshna has done many horrible things in his life already. Each year, he sends over two dozen children to be treated as less than cattle before being viciously murdered. He helps Sorush plot the deaths of those who would oppose them even more often. He dangles the hope of cooperation before the sympathizers' eyes, but never truly extends his help.
It doesn't matter how far his old friend has strayed from his original path and it doesn't matter how many people he has to disappoint. Rakshna will never betray him. Not if the world turns against them, not even if it would save his own life. That is the one thing he cannot do.
As he stands in his office, with its spotless cold grey walls and broad window panes, Rakshna allows himself a real sigh that carries the weight of everything he cannot voice to his friend.
"We have come so far. It hasn't been easy. Since we are here now, we cannot turn back nor can we throw away all that we have sacrificed to make this happen," he remembers a younger Sorush saying in this very office. "I know this isn't the job you wanted, but who else can I trust in this seat?"
He was right, of course. Head Gamemakers have colluded against their presidents in the past and will continue to do so long after they are gone.
Rakshna places the box on his desk and leans his back against it, watching as the clock on the far wall ticks off the seconds until the announcement of the sixth Quarter Quell. It's an oddly appropriate one, for being the first and last Quell that they will probably see in their lifetime.
This SYOT is open and accepting submissions for tributes and mentors (who will have a special subplot in the Capitol that runs concurrent to the Games)!
The rules are four submissions per person, accepted by PM only. I will take reservations, but please give an estimate of how many days (no more than 7 allowed) you will need when you request one. You can find the form and list on my profile. I'm considering a sponsorship system, so if anyone wants one of those feel free to speak up and let me know.