Writer Games | Masquerade of Martyrs & Family Ties

Task Eight: Surviving Today /F - Annalise Lutz

Marcus Aureli, novice tabloid reporter, was having a rough day.

He had expected his job  at the Capitol Eye to be many things: tedious, perhaps, or pointless. He  wouldn't have been surprised if he got an assignment on something  irrelevant even by the Eye's standards, perhaps on someone's toenail  art. It wouldn't be the first time that happened, if his coworkers were  to be believed.

One thing hadn't planned for, however, was the cold.

"My first decent assignment," he muttered quietly, "and I have to sit outside in the rain. Figures."

He swiped at his running  nose irritably, squinting at the trim white house overlooking the park  in which he sat. The sidewalk was clear- no one wanted to be out in the  nasty weather. Marcus held up his Optilight-90 camera with his left  hand, frantically clutching the umbrella with the right. He scanned the  windows of the house, searching for movement, any movement at all. One  finger tabbed the Zoom In button, causing the expensive little gadget to  chirrup, focusing in on the drop-streaked glass.

Marcus, I need high-quality investigative journalism, his boss had said. Marcus remembered leaning in closer, eyes widening. His big break had finally arrived.  This newest victor, Annelise Lutz. Nobody knows anything substantial  about her. They've interviewed her family, her friends, everyone. Except  her. Ever since she got the victor's house six months ago, she moved in  without her family and has barely left since. People want to know how  the girl's been handling herself after the Games. Find out. Get a  picture or two. Have the article on my desk at the end of the week. Got  it?

He had understood  perfectly. After a couple of pointless phone calls, he was off, ready to  catch some secretive photographs of the reclusive victor. Technically  illegal, but this was the Capitol. Pigs would fly before a tabloid  reporter was convicted of invasion of privacy.

A flash of movement in one window caught his eye. He smiled, holding the camera up to his face.

"Finally..."

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The dreams had begun the night after I came out of the Games.

I remember the nightmare  well: I was running through a collapsing tunnel, rocks raining down  upon my head. My backpack was weighing me down, and behind me, my family  screamed as their shelter collapsed in slow motion. I woke up in a cold  sweat that night, flailing wildly at the medics repairing my wounds.

The doctors had told me  the dream was brought on my traumatic experience and a concussion  sustained in the Games. They gave me sleeping pills, told me they would  give me dreamless sleep until my head injury healed.
The night after  that, I dreamed of a grinning, dog-headed beast that followed me into  the city, chasing me until I fell into a dark, cold pond and drowned.

So it went for six  months. I would take two pills, or three, or four, without the slightest  improvement in results. Every night, I would wake up after a couple  hours fitful sleep, trembling and sweating, trying not to cry into my  pillow. I changed beds four times, trying to find the one that would  give me rest. Even moving out of my old house didn't seem to do the  trick; that night, I felt gas choking me as terrible music grated on my  ears.

I was dying. I had  survived the Games. I had survived the killers, and the traps, and the  psychological warfare. Still, I was dying. And my own mind was killing  me.

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Marcus stared at the  tiny, slightly pixelated screen eagerly. Here she was: the mysterious  victor, capable of surviving terrible odds, evading lethal dangers, and  creating an explosive trap disguised as a beautiful painting. He  remembered that part especially well; the Gamemakers had been furious  that the girl's family had gotten TAC fluid into the arena. He'd done a  piece on their tersely worded position on the incident.