"There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment." - George Orwell, 1984
The Capitol
Over seventy stories high, the building towered about the rest of the street, a gigantic monument of glass and steel. It's many windows gleamed angrily in the late morning sunshine and a flag with the Capitol seal fluttered either side of the door. Above the huge sliding double doors an inscription was wrought out of curling pieces of iron: "ducunt volentem fata, nolentem trahunt". The passers-by paid no attention to the building. It was simply the Ministry of Information.
To law-abiding citizens of the Capitol it was just a building they passed on their way to work or school or the shops, it had no impact on their lives. It simply existed, to what purpose they didn't bother to wonder. There was no need to concern themselves with things that did not concern them.
Inside the building on the 76th floor a man sat in a small rectangular room. Everything about him was average. He was average height, average build maybe verging on a little chubby. His hair was a nondescript sandy colour, greying slightly at the temples, his eyes were an unremarkable watery blue behind little round spectacles. Even his face was forgettable, the sort of face no one would ever notice in a crowd or remember even if they did. His clothes were as bland as the rest of his appearance, a badly fitting suit in shades of beige and charcoal.
He was tapping away at a computer keyboard, surrounded by banks and banks of computer screens. To his left a sleek black phone sat at his elbow and a pair of headphones were clamped firmly over his ears.
"Channel One," the man said in a high, reedy voice, clearing his throat with a little cough.
To his left a screen flickered into life. It showed a picture of a young girl, twelve maybe thirteen years old, being torn apart by two older boys, both armed with vicious looking knives. The girl was screaming and gore was splattering the faces of her two manically grinning murderers as they hacked away at her with their daggers, all to the backdrop of dramatic music and delighted gasps from a studio audience.
The man pressed a button and the screen went black again. Just a replay of last year's Hunger Games. Nothing wrong with that.
"Channel Two," he called into the stillness of the room.
On the second screen along an image appeared of a stage. Two high-backed chairs were set upon it and in the chairs reclined two men, the interviewer and his guest, a gamemaker judging by his uniform.
The man shifted slightly in his seat and turned up the volume to hear what they were discussing.
"So what you are basically saying is that the arena was more difficult to set up this year?", the interviewer was asking, one perfectly plucked eyebrow arching delicately towards his hairline.
The gamemaker smiled and leant in closer. "That's exactly what I'm saying, sir", he stage-whispered offering his host a conspiratorial wink. "Obviously I can't say much more than that..." He paused allowing the other man time to agree with him. "What I can tell you is that we're in for a real treat this year. That I can guarantee!"
Again, the man switched the screen off. Nothing untoward on Channel Two either. So far everything was looking good. If things stayed like this maybe he would get to lunch on time and all the pies wouldn't have gone from the canteen for once. He allowed himself a second to hope before turning back to his work. Best not tempt fate.
"Channel Three." - A fashion programme speculating about the probable design of this year's chariot outfits.
"Channel Four." - Children's television programme entitled: "How to survive in the area!"
"Channel Five." - A chat show featuring some doctor or other giving his opinion on the Games.
The man flicked through the channels in quick succession, his mind only half on the job in hand. More than half his thoughts were already occupied with other things. His lunch, his lunchtime assignation with Melinda from accounting, had he left the iron on when he left for work that morning?
"Channel Six." - A panel of middle-aged women gossiping about the merits of the current Head Gamemaker and the attractiveness of said gamemaker's eyes and other features.
"Channel Seven." - A history of the Hunger Games arenas over the ages.
"Channel..." He stopped, his mind flicking back to something he had just heard. He couldn't be sure what, but it was there, nagging at the corners of his mind like a persistent itch. He had missed something.
In his mind a war was raging. On the one hand there was a juicy steak and kidney pie and Melinda from accounting. On the other, even more work and another lonely meal of rubbery sandwiches from the dispensing machine.
He could easily just pretend he had never seen whatever it was he had seen, check the last few channels and head down to the canteen. After all, he didn't even know what he had seen. Maybe he was just imagining things.
But even as he thought it, the man knew he would never do that. It would mean failing to do his job properly, and in the Ministry of Intelligence failure was not an option. The last employee who had missed something, even though it had only been a single sentence, had been detained and interrogated by the peacekeepers for sympathising with dangerous terrorists. Even now he was still being held in some obscure prison somewhere, probably in solitary confinement.
The idea of peackeepers bursting into his room in the middle of the night and dragging him out of bed to be interrogated and probably arrested made up his mind for him. "... Five," he finished.
The screen directly in front of him flickered back into life.
"... body temperature drops below 28°C. The body's systems start to fail – the heart rate drops, the breathing becomes shallow or stops altogether, the blood pressure drops. The patient loses the ability to speak or think properly. Cellular metabolic processes shut down. Walking becomes almost impossible and the patient begins to show irrational behaviour. The patient becomes unconscious. Major organs begin to fail and the patient dies."
On the screen the man could see a table surrounded by high-backed chairs. Debaters occupied each chair, most of them currently frowning in disgust. The man speaking was clearly a Capitol doctor. His lab coat was made of sheer red material and his hair stuck up in spikes coloured to match. An ugly expression crossed his face as he leant forwards across the table to emphasise his point.
"In the final stages of hypothermia patients creep into small enclosed spaces, a primitive burrowing behaviour. It is the body's last response, a self-protective behaviour, and the body's desperate attempt to keep itself alive. When watching the Hunger Games, we sit back and watch children lose control over their own bodies, the indignity of not being in control in their last moments. We watch them die of completely preventable causes and do nothing. And this is what we show on our televisions. This is what we show our children? Each year, how many tributes die of hypothermia? In cold arenas maybe even up to half. These deaths..."
The man flicked a switch and the sound was muted on the screen. Excitement was buzzing through his veins. He had found it. After all the hours of searching through the television channels for anti-Games opinions, he had found someone. His bosses would be pleased. Maybe he would even be rewarded. One thing was for certain, he would not end up in solitary confinement like his erstwhile colleague. Maybe he would even be able to take Melinda out to a fancy restaurant.
His hand strayed to the sleek, black phone. "Sir, Channel Five. Recommend operation Trojan."
The screen in front of him went blank and crackled with static. The words 'We apologise for the interruption. Technical issues have interrupted our broadcast. The scheduled programmes will continue shortly.' flashed across the screen.
The man smiled and leant back in his chair. Things were out of his hands. He had done his job, it was up to someone else now. The best thing for him to do was to go down to lunch. He'd get a pie and tell Melinda all about what he'd found.
As he left the room, the man couldn't help smirking slightly. He didn't know what was about to happen to the unfortunate doctor, but he was prepared to bet it wasn't going to be anything good.
Author's Note:
The quote over the doors translates roughly as 'The Fates lead the willing one, the unwilling one they drag' - Seneca the Younger, aka Lucius Annaeus Seneca.
They say practice makes perfect and everyone has to start somewhere... So this is my first attempt at a SYOT (There was one on this account before but that was with my sister when this was still a joint account). Any feedback, positive or negative, would be a great help.
The deadline is Tuesday, 30th June at midnight GMT. If I don't get enough/any submissions, obviously I'll have to extend it. The form is on my profile.
Anyway, welcome to Danse Macabre, I look forward to seeing what tributes people come up with :D I hope you enjoy... :) Tea xx