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95th Quell Announcement
Oct 19, 2023 23:38:32 GMT -5
Post by gm bourgeois decadence [aya] on Oct 19, 2023 23:38:32 GMT -5
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You stir in your hazy sleep. A soothing robotic voice announces: 60.
Your eyelids are so heavy. The air on your face is chilly, dry, and sweetly fragrant. A soothing robotic voice announces: 50.
Your head is one with the pillow. Swaddled in the warm embrace of the comforter, you rest easy knowing you have a full night's sleep ahead of you still. A soothing robotic voice announces: 40.
You cannot remember a bed more comfortable than this one. You cannot remember any other bed besides this one. Where did you fall asleep? What were you dreaming about? A soothing robotic voice announces: 30.
A jolt surges through your body. Are you running late? Were you supposed to get up by now? It would be bad to fall back asleep, wouldn't it? The robotic voice no longer sounds soothing when it announces: 20.
Where did you fall asleep? Where are you? Your cocoon of silk sheets may be soft, but there is something sinister about such luxuries. Comfort is suspicious. You know better. The robotic voice crackles your eardrums when it announces: 10.
A second jolt surges through your body, too jarring to be a hypnic twitch. Your eyes snap open; this is the same ceiling you've been studying each sleepless night these last few weeks. Dread oozes down your spine. The robotic voice hates you. 9.
You squeeze your eyes shut. When you open them again, nothing has changed. 8.
Get up, you beg yourself. Get up. 7.
This isn't happening. 6.
You're not ready. 5.
It's not fair. 4.
It's too early. 3.
Too soon. 2.
No. 1.
You hold your breath and wait for the countdown to finish. It doesn't.
The TV screen in your room flickers to life, the Capitol seal searing your retinas in the dark, even in subdued grayscale. The robotic voice is replaced with a human one, lacking warmth in comparison.
Two nights before the scheduled start of the 95th Annual Hunger Games.
3:12am.
3:12am.
You stir in your hazy sleep. A soothing robotic voice announces: 60.
Your eyelids are so heavy. The air on your face is chilly, dry, and sweetly fragrant. A soothing robotic voice announces: 50.
Your head is one with the pillow. Swaddled in the warm embrace of the comforter, you rest easy knowing you have a full night's sleep ahead of you still. A soothing robotic voice announces: 40.
You cannot remember a bed more comfortable than this one. You cannot remember any other bed besides this one. Where did you fall asleep? What were you dreaming about? A soothing robotic voice announces: 30.
A jolt surges through your body. Are you running late? Were you supposed to get up by now? It would be bad to fall back asleep, wouldn't it? The robotic voice no longer sounds soothing when it announces: 20.
Where did you fall asleep? Where are you? Your cocoon of silk sheets may be soft, but there is something sinister about such luxuries. Comfort is suspicious. You know better. The robotic voice crackles your eardrums when it announces: 10.
A second jolt surges through your body, too jarring to be a hypnic twitch. Your eyes snap open; this is the same ceiling you've been studying each sleepless night these last few weeks. Dread oozes down your spine. The robotic voice hates you. 9.
You squeeze your eyes shut. When you open them again, nothing has changed. 8.
Get up, you beg yourself. Get up. 7.
This isn't happening. 6.
You're not ready. 5.
It's not fair. 4.
It's too early. 3.
Too soon. 2.
No. 1.
You hold your breath and wait for the countdown to finish. It doesn't.
The TV screen in your room flickers to life, the Capitol seal searing your retinas in the dark, even in subdued grayscale. The robotic voice is replaced with a human one, lacking warmth in comparison.
"In order to remind the Districts that our fragile peace can be broken at any moment, without warning, the 95th Hunger Games will begin... now."
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