Victoria Pencey sighed as she hit rewind again. A quick glance at the clock revealed it to be two in the morning. Great. She had been staring at this bloody highlight reel for nearly eleven hours. 117 years of material, and a sum total of zero inspiration.
She was the only one awake in the house, Rhydian having finally gone to bed after an afternoon and evening of bravely tolerating her madness. Even Shiva, the six-pound cotton ball of energy she fondly referred to as a dog, was out cold, curled up in her lap. She stared out the window, wondering if she was the only one awake in the whole world. Most of the lights glaring through the starless darkness came from signs and electrical towers, not from skyrise windows. Her mind automatically reverted to the mind game she had been so fond of as an insomniac child: what if she was the only one alive in the whole world? What would she do then?
She was snapped back into the present by the familiar beeping tick of the countdown as the tape hit its beginning. She had listened to that same tick over twenty-five thousand times that day, as it had remarkably not changed at all since the first games. She made a mental note to consider such a change, as she was willing to bet much of the population found it just as irritating as she did, though perhaps that was the eleven hours talking. Her steady hands twisted her long, thick dark caramel hair into a makeshift bun, as she did by habit when concentrating.
It was decided.
This would be the last time she watched this video, and she was going to get something out of it, something original.
At only nineteen, she had debuted last year as the youngest Head Gamemaker on record. She had been touted as some strategic prodigy, destined to turn the Games on their head. She promised to deliver, made the public love her.
The only problem was, she failed.
Entirely.
Last year's tragedy had left ratings at an all-time low, as well as the country's confidence in her. She was cornered, left with no choice but to make this year's games as memorable as any Quell. And for that to happen, she needed ideas.
She had been full of ideas once, spent hours filling notebooks with elaborate arena maps, scale diagrams, gory plans. All of those notebooks were gone now, though. She was burned out. She was twenty years old and already burnt out. Hence the highlight reel. She had held out hope that watching the heroics and dramatics that had fueled her juvenile fantasies might produce some sort of spark in her mind, some great notion of how to make kids kill each other for sport. She was more than desperate.
Victoria didn't make it through another time. She probably dozed off somewhere in the late 60s, not even able to pry her eyes open for the third Quell and the rebellion that followed. Her dreams were feverish in nature, flickering images of bloodied young men atop mountains of bone, children ripping at each other's necks with their sharpened teeth. Some of the images were real, most augmented.
A child lay dying in a stream, blood mixing with water in a deep crimson trickle.
District Four's Albacore Entzing, Victor of the 48th Games, vaulted over a wall and flew straight at her, morphing into a wolf in midair and staining her visions with a crimson haze.
Twenty four children stood on raised platforms, their faces shifting between those of frightened teenagers and those of wild beasts. They didn't move. They were caged. Isolated. Everything pulsed with crimson energy. Isolate them. Cage them. Stain them crimson.
Her eyes snapped open automatically.
She practically ran to her office, knocking the dog off of her lap as she leapt off of the sofa. Her fingers danced across the keyboard as she typed out a frenetic e-mail full of incomprehensible ideas. She would have to clarify later, but right now she just needed it out. Out of her head, down through her hands, onto paper. Things disappeared from her head. She never remembered her dreams. She needed to get it out now.
Having slammed the send button with all the force of a raging rhinoceros, she slumped back in her chair, grinning. The capital liked a long game? She'd give them one. Victoria Pencey was back. And so were the Hunger Games.
A/N: Hi. I'm somewhat awkward and can't write great author's notes, but please don't let that turn you away. Please submit, the tribute form should appear on my profile. Thank you so much,
-Mae