{ contingency plan ; dom n-shot }
Dec 9, 2015 0:56:34 GMT -5
Post by aya on Dec 9, 2015 0:56:34 GMT -5
As her own tradition mandated, Dom Copperview did not sleep on the eve of the final day. She'd already given her final direction to the atmosphere unit — heavily utilized during these games, considering the fog and the Aibells. They had been one of Kinkade's better flights of fantasy, though working out how to electromagnetically shape the fog particles (each molecule actually a lightweight carbon fiber cage surrounding a single iron atom) without cooking the tributes had fallen to her. It hadn't been an easy undertaking, to say the least.
She'd added one of the mist monsters to her trophy collection. A triangular tank sat square in the middle of her desk, a curious silvery sphinx pacing the three corners of its enclosure. Even though Dom was privy to her programming, she couldn't keep herself from anthropomorphizing the collection of molecules playing puppet to the small electromagnetic generators hidden within the glass. She was fond of her new pet. Watching the companion of her first ten to fall since Yaa Valarro did enough to take her mind off the impending dawn.
For the first time in years — no, decades — Dom Copperview had no idea what was coming for her. She'd been defending the notion of Rhodes's continued survival for days now. Directing the District Eleven hulk toward Staite the day before had given her the opportunity to kill one of the birds chirping on her shoulder, seeing as President Snow was somehow still unconvinced that District Four had been receiving special treatment at the behest of Leon Krigel. As if Dom gave a fuck what bearing Kinkade's inappropriate relationship had on her Games. Still, having both Krearns and Staite in the top eight had done little and less to support her claim.
And truly, she'd meant for the District Four girl to take him out. He'd spared himself with a well-placed blow through the eye socket exactly half a second before Dom resolved to fire all of the melee trainers that had been hired in the last three years. If one more weapon went through one more eye on her watch, she'd fire the rest.
Allowing Rhodes into the top four had been easy enough to make a case for. Flickerman and the other media outlets had lunged at the prospect of a third victor from District Eleven in a row — unheard of from the Career districts, much less a district like Eleven. If the downfall of the Queen of Bones did not hold their interest, if they ran out of different ways to laud Septys for avenging his slain partner, they had a dozen things to say about Harbinger Rhodes, two score about his brother's mercurial Day 8 drowning at the hands of Dom's last victor, half a hundred about District Eleven and Katelyn Persimmon's tactical genius.
Bah. Katelyn would fall as Arbor Halt had, not that Copperview was particularly moved to topple her. Once they were out of her arena, caring about victors was beneath Dom Copperview's pay grade. And others' victors were outside her realm of interest.
Unfortunately, the president did not share her views on the matter. Since before the feast, Snow had been pressuring her to waste the agriculture district. She'd ignored him, calling his demands ridiculous — perhaps not the seasoned Gamemaker's smartest political move, but few things riled her more than other people telling her how she ought to be doing her job.
As she'd grown older, more experienced, contending with the political landscape that surrounded the Games — that lay at the heart of the Games, if she stopped deluding herself for a moment — exhausted her. She'd paid more mind to it after seeing her mentor come under fire (literally) over Arbor Halt's victory and subsequent miracles. She'd narrowly managed to survive her first two Games's District Twelve victors by sheer force of will and a comprehensive bid for the upcoming Quell that blew every Games prior out of the water. Her willingness to participate in politics burned up in the trying years between the 57th and the 60th, not that she'd ever cared much for dealing with people who weren't first and foremost her playthings.
Yet here she was, over a decade later, once again forced by Warren and Charlie, Murdoch and Paul to play politics with the man who ran those games. Dom Copperview's emotions ranged from mild displeasure to total indifference, but all the same, it was hard not to hate them for it. If she was the sort of woman to settle, she'd take solace in the fact that she was the only one of her contemporaries from those days still considered relevant — for however much longer that would last. She'd appreciate that her tenure as Head Gamemaker was the longest and most prolific in the history of Panem.
But if she was the sort of woman who settled, she wouldn't be lounging about in her high-backed leather chair, green eyes trained on the ceiling map projection as the four remaining dots were slowly lead toward the Basalt Columns. They were on track to arrive all at once and right at dawn, as she'd intended: T-minus 01:37:41 for Krearns, 01:38:13 for Tenley, 01:39:01 for Septys Lexig, 01:39:23 for Rhodes. If one slowed or headed in the wrong direction, the atmosphere team would gently nudge them back in the right direction, per her instruction.
Everything was in order. There was nothing left to do but wait.
She sighed, folded her arms on the edge polished mahogany of her desk, rested her head across them. An hour and a half to kill. An hour and a half before she saw three more deaths — minimum. Should Rhodes walk — hobble — away from the stage she'd set on the giant's staircase just to hinder him, well...
She lifted her head, sat back in her chair, eyes settling for a moment on the voulge mounted on the wall that faced her. Despite the collection of mementos she'd kept over the years, it was the only weapon she held on to. She'd passed on the glaive that Julian had carried a glaive all the way through to his victory, passed on the one that Yaa had taped one to the stump of her arm, even preemptively passed on the impressive scythe Beretta had constructed out of her slain Balor.
Dom had always been fond of polearms. She loathed this one. Some things will always elude you, no matter how badly you want them. She'd said as much to Capricious King a mere two days prior. The voulge served to remind her of that lesson every time she lifted her head from her work. Sometimes, no matter how you stack the odds, even Gamemakers are left at the mercy of the arena.
Underneath her desk was a nondescript black backpack — straight from sponsorship — and filled with supplies discreetly pilfered from the Training Center. Domiduca Romulus Copperview might be stubborn enough to gamble her career and her life for the sake of her pride and integrity, but no one who'd spent as long at the top as she had was foolish enough to stick her neck out without an exit strategy.
Armed with equipment, a map, that voulge, and two decades of experience toying with every single way the wilderness could kill, even in the worst case scenario, Dom liked her odds.
