gamemaker august reverie // fin

august reverie
twenty-six
gamemaker

He was from the bottom of the Capitol cup, the dregs. The constant whine of machinery, the weight of opulence crushing at the expense of everyone else. Ink-stained fingers aren't worth anything in a place like this, only the oil-smeared faces and limbs of effort. August wasn't made for effort. His bones ached from the weight of everyone above him - bones like his were built for dreaming, not working. Who said that dreams couldn't come true? 

He forgot the effort of pushing through it all. School, that never seemed like a chore, only repetition, a soundtrack onrepeat, a motif. It was worth it for the end. He remembered the excitement when his Capitol-headed documents came through the door, began with the words "We would like to welcome you to the Gamemaker program --". Ripred, that felt like a long time ago. Such a shame that his family hated him for it. His notepad, leather-bound, his ink-stained fingers the only reminder. 

Potential, that swum around like sharks, biting those who reached out for a touch; it leaves a person bloody and wounded. August was not made to fight for glory; he sat and watched. Counted the mistakes of previous games, counted the laurels how people grew and fell. How they held power and how they lost it. The twins were his first year -- the finale was not perfect, the year after the career took the crown, after that it went down, down, down. Games never seemed to go to plan, even when those who experienced it first-hand came back to lead it. Antoinette failed to contain the 50-odd tributes.

Not surprising. Disdain stained his thoughts; a tribute is never good enough for running a game -- they were just the lucky ones that made it out alive at the end. They should never be allowed anywhere near running the games; particularly Antoinette – who let the crazies in anyway?

Yet, he was in awe with the lot of them, the lucky ones who knew who how to get that final hit, the hearts of the fans and allows their owners -- the GM's, that's their real name. Did the link not make anyone's mind, only pushing buttons for enjoyment, for pain. Reward, punishment. Behaviour, replication. It all seemed so easy yet.. it was anything but. The only way that they allowed certain tributes to win, not the favourites to; conditioning works both ways, after all. The captors and the captured grow to understand each other.

Understanding though, that is never something that August had an affinity for, analysis and dreams more his preference. No one ever has emotion in this place when everything is just simple cause-response. Button pressing seems so far away from anything relating to anything real any more. It's been too long since he last watched the real program now, on the massive screens. He's too used to the simple markers on the screen from trackers, infatuated with the idea of love, of danger and fear. The rising heartbeat, the slow methodical collapse into death followed by the cannon shots.

He loved the spectacle, always will. Doesn't everyone, when they hold the trigger finger to something like that? Power makes people forget about being at the bottom, even though he'll always be at the bottom of the pile. His fathers words still echo true; "You were never made for greatness," spiteful look on his face as that letter looked at August on his lap. If only he could go back and show that he fitted in up here, making entertainment for the entire nation. If only he could show his little leather bound notepad from his sister, full to the brim with ideas and notes and dreams.

And how much he missed them. There was no place for emotion here, no place for anything but work. His family, well they fell away at the mark. There was only so far along that they could come along with him; he waved goodbye, their faces filled with tears, and in his fathers case, anger. He gave everything up to climb from the bottom; oh how he wished to climb to the top of the mountain where the oxygen was thin.

It's where everyone choked. August thought he'd be the one to breathe with no difficulties. What a idealist view.

{ --- }

The phone rings. August hated how shrill it rang, the way the phone moved across the desk. Most of all was that he feared it, what it said only ever held bad news. Report to the office. Reprimand. Report to the office. Demotion. Pushing the open journal to the edge of the desk, and taking a sigh; "What do you want this time, can a man not get some peace?" And for once, the voice was not one that he recognized -- it seemed too perfect, too official. "Report to the head office. Immediately." Confusion, that was an emotion, a feeling that was foreign.

He never missed it.

"Are you sure?" The undeniable tone of the reply, the unbelievable words that follow; "President Snow requests your presence." The phone line crackles into death; his heart almost shuddered to stop at the same speed. A dream, a mistake. August picked up his journal. Possessions of August's life were few in between. Even such meeting would not have abandoned that.

"President Snow, it is an honour," Head bowed to respect, to fear. "To what do I owe this to?" He looked up, and those eyes pierced into August's gaze. "Your... track record is not perfect, Mr. Reverie. But your ideas, from what I have heard are quite unusual," Snow's eyes work to the little journal grasped in his hand. "I'm offering you Head Gamemaker of the 77th Hunger Games. I hope that Ilsa's still proud of you. Younger siblings always look up to elder ones, don't you think?" He stood up and extended his hand.

"Don't you dare touch her," the words barely coming out in a whisper. "I think, Mr. Reverie," smile filling his face, "I think we have a deal."