Determined

(adjective; processing or displaying resolve)

Francisco Clandestine, Gamemaker, Engineer and Technician

. . . . . . . . . .

"And what about the girl from Six?"

"What about her?" I ask, watching the pitch indicators on the screen.

"She didn't have any allies."

I know that it's pretty much Rainshadow's job to sit next to me and point out my mistakes, but it can get really annoying. She blinks innocently.

"Projection," I decide finally, grinding the words out and sounding almost bored. "Like the ghosts, but the other tributes. Fighting around her."

"Can we get it done in time?"

"Not if you don't shut up for a few minutes. Here, you try to get the pitches right. I'm getting the visuals to scan from Lavender." I stand and head for the door. "Just do it, so we can keep our jobs."

"You're not concerned about your job," she teases, dark blue eyes shining to match the rest of her appearance. "Everyone knows you're out for Lavender's."

"I won't deny it," I answer, and the words come out in a drawl. I can't help kind of smiling a bit. "I know what I'm doing."

I leave, head for Misty's office first, because I don't feel like tracking down the Head Gamemaker, and the only person guaranteed to know where she is at any given time is Misty.

Her office is the polar opposite of mine, with all the non-harsh lights on, door wide open, sunlight streaming in through the windows. I really don't get the poetic types, but I liked working for her more than I do for Lavender. Maybe I just don't like having a teenage girl in her first year as a Gamemaker, almost ten years younger than me, in charge. Or maybe Misty's just sane enough that she wouldn't have announced a crazy idea for night four of the Games with almost no warning.

I glance at the flashing stats and storm model on the screen that's pulled up. "Know where Lav is?" Great, Thespian's nickname-using is rubbing off on me. Soon I'll be comparing people to tributes like him, too.

"She should be in her office, Francisco," Misty says, turning to face me.

"Great. Thanks." I turn and set out again.

I get a very different greeting from Lavender. "What?"

"Nice to see you, too. I need the tribute visuals for tonight."

"Fine." She pulls the papers out from under a montage of other items on her desk and hands them to me.

"Now, was that so hard?" I ask her, like I'm talking to a little kid. She glares at me, and I know I'm not going to get an answer, so I leave, determined to actually get something done on-schedule.

Rainshadow looks up when I come back into the editing room, and says, "I think the pitches are fine, but the radio transmission is a bit off according to this." She gestures to a text box on the screen and I watch it for a minute.

"Eh. It's okay."

She shrugs. "Whatever you say."

I scan all of the tribute visuals, pull up clips from earlier in the Games and adjust the dimensions accordingly, edit the color scheme to be the sort of pale blue we decided on, the wispy air of the ghosts. I have to export all of it to get it into the stop-motion editor, and, slide by slide, create the battle. I don't know how much of it we're actually going to need, just how fast these tributes work, so I create about fifteen minutes worth of "footage" and then just loop it, export again to the transmitter and save.

At one point when I'm giving it a final run through, Rainshadow looks up from the voice-editor―working on the overlap for the Alliance of the Mockingjays, I think―and says, "Could you stop being the dark and silent type for a minute?"

"What?"

"And at least pretend you're trying to be social―"

"I'm sorry?"

"Maybe say something for once…"

I'm not even sure how to answer, and she's talking so quickly besides that I'm not even sure I heard right. What comes out is, "Like what?"

"'Speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again.'"

"What in Panem is that supposed to mean?" I demand, because really, this is getting dumb.

"You need to read up on your quotes."

"I would if I weren't busy with all of th―"

Thespian walks in. "And how are things here coming along?" he asks, pretending he can understand what's on our screens when he looks at them.

"Fine," I answer immediately, scowling.

"You remind me of Lav more and more every day. And Kizzy."

"No," Rainshadow puts in, "I don't think Kizzy's the right comparison. Maybe one of the Careers?"

"What about Eight?" Thespian suggests.

"Or―"

"Am I the only person here with a focus span?" I ask, unintentionally hitting a few buttons on the control panel. I have the feeling I'm probably glaring at them, but that's normal, even if the amount of talking I've actually done today isn't. "We still have work to do," I say, calmer.

In a few minutes, Thespian leaves, and Rainshadow doesn't push the talking issue again. I've sort of learned that if you want work done, and done right, you have to do it yourself. So I do a lot over the next few hours, and check over everything at least three times when we send it to the new server set up for tonight.

When the information's out of our hands, and there's nothing left we can do, I lean back in my chair, remember to exhale for the first time since this morning. The fact that even this part of the final battle is ready should be considered a miracle. I have a headache from staring at the screen so long, but some part of me is glad enough that it's over.

But it's not over. It's never over.

. . . . . . . . . .

"You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view…"

Harper Lee