Twenty Four Shades of Blood [A Hunger Games Fanfic]

Nightmare - 8

The stark white room goes silent as the long thin shadow of Titus Vos slides across the blinking lights of the control panel.  All that can be heard in the pause is the faint bleeping from the large 3D map projection showing the current locations of the remaining eight tributes. The heels of his dark red patent leather shoes click across the linoleum tiles as he passes the rows of Gamemakers hunched over their glowing screens. As he stops before the hologram, the blinking lights throw his face into sharp relief, all lines and shadows.

A woman, hair dragged back into a shining knot atop her head, glances up and notices with a small shudder that his face looks vaguely skull-like.

Titus watches the eight lights blink on and off in front of him, each a circle with a gender symbol and district number inside. Not so very long ago, there had been nine, and then one had winked out of existence. Inside the control room, not an eyelid had batted except for the woman with the shining knot of hair. For a moment, as the image of the little girl flashed up on her screen, she’d felt something stir inside – a strange, new sensation.

Pity.

She’d thought of her own little girl; the two must have been of a similar age.  Somewhere out in the districts, another family had been hacked at, leaving a gaping wound that could never be repaired. For the first time in her pampered life, the woman had felt, in some tiny way, what the mothers of the tributes must have felt.

Then the moment had passed, and her fingers had once more danced over her keyboard, sending the message to the pilot of the arena hovercraft. As she’d returned to the task of sorting through sponsor messages and pathetic bribery from the citizens, she didn’t even spare a thought as the shining silver machine that had carried Ellie to the arena not so long ago, departed to bring her back with the spark of life extinguished.

It’s just a job, and it pays well. Emotion is not part of the job description.

After all, people die in the Hunger Games. They have to, it’s their own fault. That’s what the whole thing is about.

Now, she glances back at the gaunt frame of the Head Gamemaker as he taps his long fingernails on the chrome edge of the holographic table. It’s the latest in fashion for the men of the Capitol to grow their nails long, then file them into sharp points that click and clatter over every surface they touch, tinny drum solos with every tap. A little impractical, and some of their wives are probably rather cross, but since when has practicality mattered when you can be the cutting edge? Some have even gone so far as to imbed gems or rings in the buffed surfaces. Titus is not one of them. His are painted dark, bloody or black with no sparkles, no glitter.

Suddenly the silence flies apart as Titus rakes the points of his fingernails down the metal, filling the air with a juddering screech that seemed to bounce and echo on and on long after his hand had stopped moving. Everyone in the room twitches involuntarily, their eyes flicking to him.

He waits until the silence is absolute again, then turns to face the rows of faces before him.

“I’m bored,” he announces, in a cold flat voice. The clicking of his heels resumes as he begins to pace slowly up and down in front of the map. In front of him, the heads of the other Gamemakers swivelled from side to side, watching his every move with unwavering attention. They’ve all learnt from observation that when Titus Vos speaks to the room, everyone listens. Even the hardest among them still shuddered when they thought of the day he’d caught the woman watching her screen while he addressed them. He’d made sure she’d never look away again, that was for sure.

He pauses, but he’s not waiting for a response from his team.  They sit in mute and expectant silence.  It doesn’t last for long.

“These have been the most dull Games we’ve had in years!  The people aren’t impressed – have you seen the ratings?  Every day they drop another few points. The Hunger Games is the proudest tradition of Panem and yet people seem to be more enthralled by whatever Snow-awful trash they’re producing on the other channel! What the hell is wrong with you people?”