The speaker pauses for effect, grinning as though he’s just relayed the punchline to the funniest joke he’s ever heard. His youth is readily apparent; even through the veil of confidence and ease with which he addresses the camera, one might assume he’s of an age with his audience. His hair is long and brown, slicked back and tied into a loose ponytail. The glint of studio lighting plays off his skin, a segmented scar cutting from cheek to nose to brow, a smattering of freckles.
“Now listen up, cuz I’m about to save you a whole lot of trouble. A lot, lot, lot of trouble. It wasn’t long ago at all that I was standing exactly where you are now. Lost, afraid, a bomb around my neck and orders to kill or be killed. And you were where I am now. Safe and sound, kicking back to watch the greatest season of SotF yet."
He smiles again and sweeps back a stray lock of hair, then mirrors the action and repeats it once more, flashing a hand missing one finger and half of another through the frame.
“So I know what you’re thinking, because I was thinking it then too. That I had to be the unluckiest kid in the world. And you know what? I was wrong. I realized that and I took my opportunity, and, well, just look at me now. That’s the secret that’s gonna bring you back to safe port: that I was the luckiest. That you’re the luckiest.
“What do you want in life? Money? Fame? Maybe you just want to settle down somewhere quiet. Play your cards right here, and you’ll have no more worries for the rest of your life. Or maybe you’re just looking for revenge on someone. I certainly won’t stop you there."
He pauses once more, his smile gone. When he resumes speaking, his words pick up in both pace and volume.
“But you gotta seize it, understand? How much, I dunno, fuckin’ season 34 merch do you own? Don’t waste your once-in-a-lifetime shot. Figure out what your angle is. Find your thing, stick to it. Find each other. Remember that y’all are a T-E-A-M. Team, team, team. You guys better make the most of that fact, because doing your best isn’t good enough. You gotta do everyone's best. I repeat, doing your best isn’t good enough. You gotta do everyone's best. And, I’m contractually obligated to repeat one more time, doing your best is not good enough. You gotta do everyone's best if you’re gonna get through this as something I wouldn’t scrape off my shoe.
“Now go out there and make those 70 other fuckers the unlucky ones. I’ll be in touch.”
The screens open on a tropical and sunlit beach but as the camera steadily moves it makes its way down the beach and into a fog-filled cave. It quickly travels through the darkness of the cave until it reaches a hastily constructed wooden cross, lit on either side by wooden torches, casting dancing shadows across the damp rock walls. As the camera rests on the cross the ground beneath it suddenly shifts as a figure digs its way out of the dirt. As they shake the excess sand off their body the figure is revealed to be Claudia Ghoul.
She gives the camera a devilish grin and a wink.
"Miss me?"
Her skin is a deathly shade of white and her face painted to resemble a Calavera. Long black hair falls out from under a dark red bandana to settle around her shoulders and is accessorized with skull charms, and beads, while white contacts make her eyes shine in the dark. The dark clothing she has on is tight and ripped and high-heeled leather boots make her seem even taller and lankier than she already is.
"If you don't already know me, the names Claudia Ghoul, or perhaps Captain Ghoul in this instance. I'm a best-selling musician and if you're seeing this then I am your mentor for this season of Survival of the Fittest!"
Claudia throws her arms out in an encompassing gesture.
"Now you're probably wondering what exactly I can do for you, sitting there thinking to yourself, 'But what are her credentials?' and if you have those questions I say that you shouldn't fear. I won't let you be dragged to the depths by the others in your class."
She is clearly enjoying herself as every statement she makes is punctuated by sweeping hand gestures.
"You see I've been watching Survival of the Fittest ever since Season One, I've seen every competitor come and go, I've seen all the scenarios and all the tactics that could be used against you or you could use. I also have first-hand experience of being involved in a season as I was a mentor during Season 66. So if you ever find yourself stuck and wondering what to do just remember that I've probably seen it happen to someone before now and give your friend Claudia a call. I'll be able to point you in the right direction and give you all the help you need.
"I'm sure you guys will all go out there and kill it. I have total faith in all of you to make this another awesome season!
The screens lit up, and there upon them, red-eyed, black trails running down her cheeks, was Emmy Soon.
"Hey everyone. It's uh, it's Emmy. Emmy Soon. We went to school together.
"I am so, so sorry.
I don't understand why they decided to put you in there and keep me back here. I don't understand what makes me special or deserving, and I am just—" Her words were cut off by a heavy sob. She took several seconds to compose herself, rubbing at her eyes with her forearm. "—I'm sorry. Maybe they just picked me out of a hat, or... or... it doesn't matter. I'm sorry.
"Hate me if you want to, I get it. You can yell, o-or cuss me out, or whatever you want. If you don't want me to speak to you, just say and I won't bug you again. I—I can't imagine how it feels like and—and please believe me that I-I'm not sitting here laughing it up. I didn't know anything about any of this. And... and I get it if you think I'm lying, but I'm not. I swear that I'm not."
There was a long delay before she spoke again, just sitting there on screen, sniffling, trying to keep herself composed.
"I don't want to help you guys to kill each other. I know it's Survival of the Fittest but I can't. I just can't."
She looked away. When her eyes returned, they were more dry, calmer.
"But I can try help you stay alive. I will try. I promise you. I'll do everything that I can, whether that's escaping or—whether it's escaping. Try and stick together with the team but...but don't toss people out just because they're on another team. You've all got allies and friends, and—and for what it's worth, you've got me.
"I know you might not want to trust me but if you're willing to listen, I'll do my very best.
"And... I'm sorry."
Another sniff, heavy with tears. The transmission ended.
The woman speaking is young—probably around the same age as the students. She sits on a chair behind a low table, leaning forward and resting her elbows on it, her chin cradled on her intertwined fingers. She's immediately familiar to anyone who followed the last season of the show, though far more collected and tidy than in most of her appearances there. She looks directly at the camera, almost through it.
"I'm Jewel. Maybe you know why I'm here. If not, nice to meet you. I'll make this part quick.
"Back in December, I was sitting where you are. Now I'm here. A lot went into that, a lot of people died for it, but I won't jerk you around: there was a lot of luck involved."
She shrugs, a small movement of the shoulders that does not alter the position of her hands.
"Fortunately, you're already lucky yourselves. After all, you have the best mentor in the game.
"My mentor was shit. Absolute trash. She did nothing for me or my teammates, didn't know or care how to help. And, you know, the surprising thing is, that's not unusual. It's better this time, but not perfect. Most of my colleagues, they know one piece of the puzzle at best. But I know theory and I've seen this from both sides, and recently. I have tricks up my sleeve nobody else will see coming.
"That's why I waited until the very last second to record this. Everyone else is already done, so they'll have to spend the first day playing catch-up."
A smirk and a wink, either to the students or the beleaguered camera operator.
"Okay. Let's get down to business.
"The first thing you need to do is decide what you want out of the game. Start thinking about that right now. Know this: I'm here to help you. Everyone else is promising to help their teams win and survive. Me? I don't give a shit about that unless you do. I'm here for you, as people. I'm here to help you get what you want, no matter what that is."
She straightens up, allowing her hands to drift down and rest on the table, but doesn't miss a beat in her speech.
"The game is difficult and dangerous. You're probably going to die, even if almost everything goes perfectly. I'm a resource, but I can't carry you. Moreover, to make the most of what I have to offer, we need to communicate. Your job, as soon as it's safe after you wake up, is to tell me what you want, or else what you want from me. Lay out what you're after, and I'll get to work. If you change your mind, don't forget to clue me in. I won't respond unless you ask me to, but I'm listening. It's fine if you want to play coy—I sure did—but I can only assist you based on what you let me know.
"You want to win? I know a lot about the game. I know old seasons. I know what works and what doesn't. It's an uphill battle, but we'll fight it together.
"Looking for kills? I've been around the block a time or ten. I know how to win fights. I know when to cut your losses. I know how the other predators think, and I know what to watch out for.
"You want to make a splash? I've got your back. I know drama. We'll make you a star. They'll never forget your name.
"Looking to get someone else out? I respect it. Loyalty is important. There are a few ways to go about it, but it can happen, a lot more now than ever before. And, you know, I had a hand in that, too.
"Want to escape? Not my wheelhouse, but I'll do my best. I know where the lines in the sand are. I'll make sure you have every advantage I can wrangle.
"I get to contact you about once per announcement period. I'll do so on my own initiative when I think best unless you specifically ask me to wait for your prompt or unless you request a reply. Oh, and if you want me to pretend you don't exist, to never talk to you, to trust that you have it under control, no skin off my back. Just tell me.
"From here, I can do a lot for you. You want an alarm clock? Give me a time and I'll wake you up. You want moral support? I'll share whatever I can. I'm not allowed to feed you directions, but if you have specific things or people you're looking for, I'll get as close as I can when helping you out. You need something researched? I've got an internet connection. Need a lookout? I can't tell you directly that someone's coming for you, but if I just so happen to start chitchatting, you might be wise to watch your back.
"Almost every mentor in the past two seasons has been a useless lump. People died over it. I want that to never happen again. I want to make the role matter. I want everyone else crying because they wish they were on our team."
Throughout this, her tone turns more and more cheerful, as a smile spreads across her face.
"There's only one rule: do not, absolutely do not, fuck over your teammates. No team-kills. No betrayals. I'm here for all of you, but if you force me to play favorites, let me tell you, whoever's responsible for that situation isn't in my favor.
"Remember: decide what you want early and put your everything into getting it. Tell me what you want, and I'll do it. This is going to be tough and painful and scary. Brace yourselves. You're in SOTF now. These are the most important days of your life.
On the screen, the scene opens up to a bearded male with shaggy brown hair, wearing a black sweatshirt overtop of a faded blue t-shirt bearing the logo of the early 90s band 'Soundgarden'. He is standing behind the bar in what looks to be a fully-stocked and darkened lounge area, complete with taps, a various array of fine liquors and mixers topped with bar pouring aids. The man isn't looking at the screen but instead at the room he finds himself in. "Someone's got a sense of humour."
Turning back to the screen, he opens his mouth to say something, but stops as one of the taps catches his peripheral vision. Closing his mouth, he leans down, retrieves a glass, and opens one of the taps, pouring himself a tall glass of a cool, frothy amber liquid. Once he finishes his pour, he lets the beverage settle for a moment, picks it up, and tips it towards the camera with a sad smile. "When in Rome, eh?"
After taking a long sip of the beer, he flicks a bar coaster down from seemingly out of nowhere, and sets it down in front of him. Leaning forward on the bar, he nods at the camera.
"Hey kiddos. My name's Malcolm Hodges, and for better or for worse, we're in this together." It's a fact that he doesn't seem happy about; rather a little melancholy. He continues, his tone casual and conversational rather than authoritative.
"A little about me, for as much as any of you give a shit — I've been working on this very show since all the way back in season six. I work with the picture editors, with the story editors, the producers, and all of those cameras that you're going to be seeing around, odds are I've had my hands on each and every one of them." Malcolm's voice takes a sarcastic bent to it. "Which is great, right?"
Clearly, he doesn't expect anyone viewing the recording to think so.
"Except," he stretches the word out, "it doesn't answer the question that I'm sure you all have and that is: who is this guy and why the heck is he our mentor?"
Sighing, he casually reaches over and picks up the beer, taking another sip from the glass. By now, the sides of the glass are sweating due to the temperature of the beer. Looking at the glass, Malcolm nods in approval. "Ahh, delicious."
He doesn't set the beer down, studying it as he speaks.
"One too many of these got us all into this mess, but that's ancient history, isn't it?" He seems aware that the kids might disagree. "It doesn't matter why we're here, it just matters that we are." The beer returns to its spot on the table and his casual expression turns serious.
"Look, I'm not some crazy military tactician type, I don't have an agenda that I'm pushing and I certainly don't profess to be any better than any of you at trying to survive. What I can offer you is a bit of an insider's point of view."
Another sip. The beer is obviously offering him liquid courage.
"I've seen a lot of kids come and go through this game. I've watched countless people try any number of things to escape what seemed like an inescapable fate. If you're going to try something, odds are?" While obviously uncomfortable, Malcolm's pause for effect indicates that he's far from a poor speaker and knows how to hold an audience. "I've seen it."
Up until now he has been leaning forward on the bar, he now slouches back and sighs again. This obviously weighs heavily on him.
"Maybe that'll be of some use; I don't know. I hope so."
His words are sincere, his confidence in himself wanes. His voice turns conversational again and he traces lines in the moisture on the glass as he stares absently into the beer.
"It seems strange, actually. For the last fourteen years, the lives of SOTF contestants and my own livelihood have been tied together, and like most people I didn't give it a second thought." He grimaces, knowing how little confidence that inspires. "So as I sit here, addressing the lot of you of whom I'm directly responsible for helping out?"
Exhaling heavily, Malcolm takes another sip of the beer, closing his eyes as the liquid tumbles down his throat. He opens them again to curse. "Fuck."
The briefing has started to feel like confessional.
"It's a little different to really, truly give a shit. I lose my job, big fucking deal. I get to go home and backpack through Europe to find myself or some bullshit. You all lose and you're dead."
Up to this point, Malcolm has continued to stare into his beer, but now his voice gets quiet, serious. His gaze goes towards the screen once more. Leaning back forward, he pauses with each word, giving it the appropriate amount of gravitas.
This time he looks down at the surface of the bar, perhaps seeing a vague shape of his own reflection in the dark, polished tile. The gravitas turns to a near-whisper. "For the first time, I won't. I promise."
Blinking for a moment, Malcolm straightens back up and his voice finds a mixture between casual and serious once more. The time for reflection has passed and he now knows it.
"The first and most important lesson I can give you is this: anyone wearing a different coloured bandana is someone you can not trust. Doesn't matter if it's your brother, your cousin or that pretty boy that you've had a crush on since grade eight whose name you draw little hearts over in your notebook."
His tone is playful but the expression on his face is anything but.
"Doesn't matter. If everyone still standing when the game ends is wearing green, blue and silver, it's over. We ALL win."
Pausing, Malcolm lets that sink in, nodding as though to answer the inevitable queries that some of the students might have that he won't be able to hear. He continues tossing out hard truths.
"So any petty bullshit you've got with your teammates? Work it out early and get over it. Petty bickering doesn't amount to much when you're dead."
Tapping the side of his beer glass, which is still about half-full, he tries about as hard as he can to inject some rah-rah into his speech, which truly isn't much, though he obviously means what he says. This is someone who knows that he isn't the best man for the job, but he's all they've got.
"I'll be in touch as the game goes on. Remember; we're in this together. I'm going to try like hell to make sure that I see as many of you as possible at the end, and if we can pull that off?"
An impossibility, he thinks, but one that he dreams about defeating. Malcolm smiles the same sad smile as he picks up the beer glass and raises it in a toast towards the camera.
"Well, the first round's on me."
Nodding, he throws the glass back and downs the remainder of the beer within the glass. Taking a moment to swallow and savour every drop, he places the glass back on the coaster and slides it to the side. Malcolm leans in and looks straight at the camera, the fear in his eyes visible for only a split-second before the video finishes.
"Good luck, ladies and gents. We're all going to need it."
“I’m pretty sure these people want me to open this with ‘ahoy, matey!’ I, um, won’t do that. These are your lives on the line. I want you to know that you can take me seriously.”
The screen turns on to show a woman who doesn’t look that much older than you do. She’s dressed in costume — a black and white striped t-shirt partially covered by a black gilet, baggy pink trousers, an eyepatch over her left eye, and a skull-and-crossbones tricorn covering the top of her pink fluffy hair. A part of her didn’t really seem to fit the image she was in; her outfit and the jaunty music playing indicated what she was supposed to be, but her body language — slouched, slightly reserved — didn’t quite match up with the rest of it. Her voice was thick; high-pitched, clear, but betrayed by an accent you can’t quite recognize. Somewhere north? Maybe from Maine? Something like that.
“So, um, Hi! I’m Stephanie. Or Steph, if you wanna be casual. You can follow me at-”
She pauses. Thinks about it for a second. Scratches the back of her head.
“Actually, um, you can’t follow me, but anyway...”
She stops again. Takes a moment to take both the eyepatch and the tricorn off.
“I am Stephanie Cahill. If you don’t recognize me, I’ll fill you in. I was once the winner of the show you’re now on. I’m also the only person out of all us mentors who can say that and be telling the truth about it.”
She blinks a bit. Looks up at the ceiling for a second, then back at the camera.
“Except for Jewel, of course. And Ben, but they’re different. I was in this game five years ago, and by the end I was the only person in my class left standing. I was not helped by any twists like Ben was. I did not get the offer to leave the game early like Jewel. I, um, can’t really promise anything for sure, but I’d like to believe that gives me some insight on what you can do to survive this.”
There was a little bit of a smile on her face, but it had left now. Her stare at the camera felt stronger.
“Point one of my, um, special insight: I can’t give you any advice on what you can do to survive. At least, um, not anything that’d be useful to you. This game has been played 66 different times. It’s been won by 68 different people. I’m one of them. I’m not all of them, in case that’s, um, not obvious.
What I’m trying to say is that no-one person has won this game twice. Each winner has won this game in a way that’s wayyyyyyyyyyy different than the winner before them. If I try and make you win the same way I did, then, um, you probably wouldn’t really make it far, sorry. I’m me. I’m, um, not you. I need to figure out what to do so that you — not me, not anyone else — can maybe live through this.”
Her gaze breaks. She scrunches her mouth a bit. There’s a long pause, and then:
“Does that… make sense? I’m not sure if I was really clear there. Sorry. I know you can’t respond to this so I don’t know why I’m actually talking about any of this, but-”
She shook her head. Looked at the camera again. It didn’t feel the same as before, but you could vaguely feel the same sort of energy.
“So, as members of my crew, I as the... — God this is embarrassing, I’m so sorry. I as the captain, am going to give you orders. Do exactly as I tell you. When you wake up, take a long, hard look at yourself. Figure out who you are. Figure out what exactly you can do. Figure out whatever path you can take to go through this game, and do your best to see it through. Once you’re on it, I’ll do my best to give you advice. Tell you what I know so that, um, maybe the path you take will lead you out of here. I… can’t really promise you anything more than that, and I can’t promise that I won’t accidentally lead you off the plank, but I’ll do my best.
“I’ve played this game before. I won for a reason. I don’t know what that reason is yet, but if I can get you all out of there…”
One last pause — a big, deep breath from Stephanie — before her gaze returned to the camera, back to the strength it was at before, only a few seconds before the video cuts out.
“...Then maybe I can say it was a good one. Good luck, everybody.”
On the screen, there appeared a man of Indian descent and athletic build, appearing to be in his late 20’s or early 30’s. He was dressed simply but stylishly in a dark blue button-down shirt with the top couple of buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to below the elbow, dark-wash designer jeans, and brown loafers, his hair worn in a loose braid draped over his shoulder. He was in what appeared to be a comfortable, well-lit living room, seated on an expensive-looking gray suede sofa with his legs crossed and hands folded on his knee, smiling genially. His voice was low, but not especially deep, with a vaguely northwestern English accent, and he spoke with the easy projection and cadence of someone used to addressing an audience.
“My name is Shiva Lanthier. Some of you may know me; for those that don’t, I understand that this isn’t the time for long formal introductions, so I’ll just say that I am both an activist, and a competitor like yourselves.
“That leads me right to the point: I will be your mentor for this season of Survival of the Fittest. There are limits to what I can do for you, obviously, but I promise to do my best to be a guiding hand. I’m no stranger to high-pressure competition, and I’m confident that together, we can make a wonderful team.”
Shiva seemed to fidget slightly, as though he’d rather be up and pacing around than seated. He paused here to take a glass of water from the side table next to the sofa and took a sip before focusing on the camera again. “I’ll be here for you if you need advice or encouragement. Remember, though, that I can’t play the game for you, much like a coach can’t take over for their players. Please take my words to heart during the game, and I’ll do everything I can to point you towards victory.”
Shiva settled against the back of the couch, one hand coming to rest on its arm; he tapped his fingers rhythmically against the upholstery. After a moment, his easy smile returned. “I want you to know that I believe in each and every one of you. You have what it takes; you just have to put forth the effort and keep your heads on straight in order to win.”
He nodded at the camera, acknowledging the people watching behind it. “I think that does it for now, so I won’t drag things out. I’m rooting for you, and the people at home are too. Let’s make everyone proud.” With that, the video cut out.
