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Fourth Dispatch: It's Not What You Think. Voice.
Dear Fellow Residents of Luceti,
Wouldn't it be entertaining to put on some Games here in Luceti? Not that the Cultural Fair wasn't amusing, or any of the other activities going on here -- but true gladiatorial games. The pitting of one creature against another! Think of the thrill and drama and the release that goes along with that sort of entertainment! And here in Luceti we are ideally suited for a very exciting Games indeed.
Who would you sponsor or volunteer for this entertainment? Or would it all be...
[There is a pause here.]
Pokey-mans? I find human beings MUCH more interesting to watch, personally.
Wouldn't it be entertaining to put on some Games here in Luceti? Not that the Cultural Fair wasn't amusing, or any of the other activities going on here -- but true gladiatorial games. The pitting of one creature against another! Think of the thrill and drama and the release that goes along with that sort of entertainment! And here in Luceti we are ideally suited for a very exciting Games indeed.
Who would you sponsor or volunteer for this entertainment? Or would it all be...
[There is a pause here.]
Pokey-mans? I find human beings MUCH more interesting to watch, personally.
[Voice]
[action -- SIX O'CLOCK.]
[Bother. Bother bother bother bother bother BUT STILL -- he wouldn't dare. Not here. Not with so many flying people and heroes and such about! And the Malnosso so carefully watching her, their favored daughter!
So when six rolls around Effie walks very confidently -- at least in appearance -- into the Battle Dome. She is wearing a tasteful jewel-tone blue day dress with matching pumps. Very comfortable. Her hair is done up tightly beneath a silver wig ornamented with large, silk iris blossoms. Perfect.
She is unarmed.]
Hello? Glaring, angry man? Yoooo hoooooo
[She doesn't sound happy.]
[action -- SIX O'CLOCK.]
What she's wearing though...]
Guess I should have specified that comfortable usually means something you can run in.
[Because he's wearing loose jogging pants and a t-shirt, his bow slung over his shoulder.]
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You wanted a demonstration.
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[She gives him a VERY CRITICAL up and down look. Okay, so he's a rather quirkily good-looking man, but dressed like THAT?]
A homeless tennis player.
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Unless you like getting nice clothes covered in sweat and dirt.
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A girl I know told me not to come here, you know.
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[He smirks slightly at that.]
Oh really? Who told you that, and why?
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I don't see how that's any of your business. But I think, as to the why...
[A pause.]
She thinks I'm valuable.
[action -- SIX O'CLOCK.]
Valuable.
So obviously, since you're here, you disagree with that. Kind of insulting to the person you spoke to, isn't it?
[action -- SIX O'CLOCK.]
Not at all! I consider myself eminently valuable! I simply do not break my word!
[action -- SIX O'CLOCK.]
[He heads over to one of the rooms, one that he's already set up with a basic training scenario he's used before.]
[action -- SIX O'CLOCK.]
Are you going to tell me what you're doing? Or should I guess?
[Her words were much braver than her heart, or her stomach.]
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Just a glimpse into what it means to kill and fight for your life. And proof of my capabilities.
[So he has an ego? So what?]
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[There go the arms -- folded across her chest, again. Except this time it's more self-protective than stern.]
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[And that's when the first shot is fired, striking the side of the building close to them. Clint unhooks his bow, reaching for the first arrow.]
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Wh--what? I'm....NO.
[action -- SIX O'CLOCK.]
The shots are coming faster and harder now, and there's the sound of approaching boots.]
Better get moving. These guys don't care if you can't fight. Might even say that they find it entertaining, watching people who can't fight die.
[action -- SIX O'CLOCK.]
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But for a few moments, all he can think of is every innocent he's seen killed, every person who's laughed about it.]
Is that what they say? The people you so enjoy watching fight? Do they beg for their lives while you laugh and drink cocktails?
[action -- SIX O'CLOCK.]
"It was for the good of us all," her father insists, putting down the phone and folding his arms, a grim smile on his face. Her mother pats Effie on the head.
"Good job, darling. Always Report. You've clearly been listening in school."
In the apartment next door, the baby is crying again, but this time, instead of soothing it, its parents are rushing about and calling to each other in sharp, low voices. There is a thump. The baby cries more loudly.
"Always Report is one of the first things they're taught in fifth form," her mother goes on, proudly informing her father. "Effie, what's the other Big Lesson?"
Effie doesn't answer. Why don't they pick up that baby? It's wailing, now.
And then there is the sound of Peacekeepers' booted feet, tromping up the stairs. Kicking down a door. Even her parents quiet down at that sound: the not-so-secret Police.
Next door, she can hear a woman begging and a man crying. There is shouting, a commotion, and the man's crying stops even as the baby's continues.
"Look, Effie," her mother says in a no-arguments tone. "Fashion Police is on! It's the new episode." Her parents turn to the TV and tune the rest of the world out.
But Effie can't. She watches the stylists and their models walk the runways, but she can only hear a dragging sound in the hallway outside the apartment. Booted feet, still tromping. A baby, still crying in an otherwise-empty apartment, even as the sound of the marching boots fades away.
Will someone get that baby?
Her father turns up the volume; crowds cheer on the television as new fashions are revealed in sparkling pyrotechnics.
The next morning, the baby isn't crying anymore.]
[action -- SIX O'CLOCK.]
And that feeling, that is one that he knows very well.
He glances back at her, the wide eyes and shaking and unseeing expression and sighs, the blind anger bleeding out of him as he stops the sim and the soldiers and buildings fade away into bare walls.]
It's over.
[action -- SIX O'CLOCK.]
Pure rage. It needs an outlet, and it needs one now.
She rushes Clint, little fists balled up to flail at him nonfighting-lady-style. Her wig is askew. The irises flutter to the ground.]
I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!
[action -- SIX O'CLOCK.]
That's fine. Never asked for you to like me. You aren't the first, you won't be the last.
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