Harold shook himself from his reverie, held the scarlet tie up in front of his chest, and analyzed it in the mirror. It wouldn't do—it was too close to the color of blood. There had been problems last time he gave an interview wearing a red tie. He had been called a “Merchant of Death,” as if he was some sort of arms dealer. No, he couldn't wear the scarlet tie. That left the dark blue and forest green. After a few seconds of thought, he decided on the green. He had worn the blue tie to his last meeting and didn't want to be seen repeating himself. Green was also the diplomatic choice. He didn't want to appear to favor any of the finalists. Thankfully, the Jade Rhino's had crashed out much earlier in the season meaning, so he didn’t have to delve into something so informal as stripes or, worse, other patterns.
Looking over himself in the mirror, Harold knotted his tie into a Full Windsor. His hair was meticulously cut, perpetually neat—he even used a little bit of gel to keep it in shape, not that he’d ever admit it. His stubble was kept down to a respectable level, just enough to be interesting but not considered messy. His suit was crisp and freshly ironed; the tailor had delivered it to him earlier that day, along with five alternatives. He’d gone with a pale grey, nothing too fancy. At the end of the day, he was still running a business—best to leave the flash to the on-screen personalities. Patrick could have the loud suits; he excelled at that sort of showmanship. It was why his tenure hosting the opening ceremonies had been so long—the man showed no signs of flagging, unlike old Dahnke.
Harold glanced at the painting hanging behind his desk as he adjusted his cufflinks. The painting depicted the class of the first season of Survival of the Fittest. He was on his way to replacing it. It was something that had belonged to his predecessor. He had nothing against the man, but having an object in his office that wasn't directly linked to what he had done with the show felt like a blight. He had commissioned a painting of Season Sixty-Five's participants, split into their teams. A direct link to his legacy on the show. He would keep the Season One painting in the office, of course. But it wouldn't have the place of pride—no, that would go to the concept that had been brought in under his reign. A much more fitting image to represent him.
The interview he had was about something else he hoped to bring into Survival of the Fittest to help it expand. There was a more-than-solid foundation present in the key demographics. It was time they expanded to more niche sectors of the market and broadened their appeal. He hoped what they had planned for Season Sixty-Seven represented just that. It would be much more focused and themed; no more would the show feel so slapdash. The intercom on his desk buzzed.
"Your two o'clock is here, sir."
"Wonderful. Show them in." He lowered himself into his chair and rested his hands on his lap. It was time to outline his vision for the future of Survival of the Fittest.
~*~
"Hey, kids." Ritzy’s voice, as broadcast throughout the Resort, had more tin to it than normal—a product, she was told, of the storm. The techs assured her that the effect would be a bit odd, but attention grabbing. The verdict was still out on whether it would be dubbed over in post-production. "This is it. You're here. The grand finale. The climax. The big wah-zoo."
She clasped her hands over her face, took a deep breath, and blew a raspberry upon release.
"Here's who didn't make it:
"Anzu Sakomoto was already bleeding out, but she went and shot her own collar in a hissy fit, effectively blowing her own head off. It left her much more of a mess than if she’d just had a little patience.
"During the same firefight, Bella Bianchi was shot by Corin Albanesi. Tears were shed all around—well, mostly blood, but some tears too.
"A few doors down, Norma-Jean Torkelson got sliced up by her own teammate’s sword. Zoe Walker didn’t get to revel in her ill-advised success for very long, though; Cathryn Bailey came along and gunned her down.
"In the last bit of action before the finals, Ms. Bailey also got into a shoot out with Tucker Hopkins, Isabel Santana, and Lucia del Pirlo. Santana killed Hopkins, del Pirlo killed Santana, and Bailey left del Pirlo to watch her walk out alive before bleeding out.
"And with that all said and done, who do we have left? Who’s still in the running for the grand prize?
"Why, the Cobalt Jellyfishes' Cathryn Bailey, for starters. Slow on the ball when it came to killing, you're still able to recognize that just because you couldn't race to ten, that doesn't mean you can’t brute force your way out. But you’ve gotten yourself pretty torn up in the process. Can you hold it together to take it all the way home?
"Of course, the violence is only one way to make an impression—just ask Anastasia Arcadia, from the Amber Eagles, who has been, above all else, a showman. Whether it's your gross-out antics or your half-baked soliloquies, you’ve kept the viewers—and our—attention. It may have been enough to keep out the real world, but can it win you the big one? Or are you all bark and no bite?
"For all the bombast of our first two contenders, some say less is more, a philosophy the Silver Scorpions' Corin Albanesi exemplifies. We've seen you strike out on your own, despite all your efforts towards keeping others on your side. Under nobody's thumb, you've cracked down piece by piece. And you know what we see inside that hard outer shell? I think it’s the qualities of a winner."
"On the opposite hand, we have Dougie Sharpe, from the Cyan Stingrays. Quiet, whipped by anyone with two x chromosomes, and now all alone. Failure. You said it yourself, Sharpe. Even your mentor said all you had to do was not lose. You don't have to win. But you can't lose. You think you can manage that, sport?
"And that leaves the turbulent twosome, the distant duo, the Golden Hyenas: Yagmur Tekindor and Jackson King. These two had teamwork so good they didn't even have to meet to work in tandem. Maybe Ross as a mentor rubbed a little good luck onto both of ya, huh? That would explain about as much as anything else. Let's just hope that whole team-killing deal skips a generation.
"But, that's all for the future, kids. Right now, anyone not in the Casino needs to schooch their asses over there in a hurry. Every other location is a danger zone, effective immediately. Good luck, and happy holidays from your favorite people at SOTF."
DAY FOUR: SATURDAY, DECEMBER 19, 2020, 7:00 AM
Weather: It's impossible to stay outside for too long, as the snowfall has become a complete blizzard. With strong winds and hail beginning to drop, it would behoove anybody still exposed to the elements to find shelter as quickly as possible. Current temperature is -8F/-22C.