SOTF-TV Version 1: Prologue

#1

"You know, there's this whole like... hype system around what actually happens at the start of SOTF-TV. Nah, nah, I don't mean the opening briefing, that's a ratings spinner, people love watching that. That's always the same shit, but you know, it's interesting to see how the kids take it all. Course if noone does anything too drastic it can get boring, but the numbers always shoot back up when the thing itself starts.

Nah, what I'm talking about is the whole 'phase' before that. Actually getting hold of the kids that are gonna be ...uh, the 'stars of the show'. They never air that, they never show exactly what goes down, and you wind up getting this whole mystique over just what happens. Know why it's not broadcast? It's cause it's boring. Nobody ever came to my door in the deep of night dressed in dark clothes and abducted me. Nobody waylaid a schoolbus like seems to be the most popular yarn, otherwise no kid would ever go on a school trip.

They turn up to your school or your house, and they say you've been picked. You don't get to argue, not unless you feel like posing a counterpoint to an assault rifle. They find their names in advance, and then they grab 'em. Some people say they like to try and grab the kids they think'll make the best viewing, but really, I doubt it. There's a hell of a lot of production that goes into all this, they don't have the money nor the people to stalk out the games that much in advance. They pick a random school and they pick some random names.

Me? I told you, story ain't anything more interesting than that. Some mook in a suit showed up to my classroom and chatted with the professor there, had a couple of guys with like, full SWAT team gear on with him. Then this guy in a suit came to the front and told us all he was an exec for SOTF-TV, that he was taking some people for the next series, that some of us were gonna be famous...

And he read out a list. My name was second to last.

I was too scared to freak out. Not too scared to puke though. I left that room covered in my own vomit, shaking like a leaf.

And about a week later, my name was known worldwide.

Some turnaround, eh?"

Jared Clayton - Documentary 'The Write Off'

~*~

The atmosphere of the briefing room was a study in contrasts, as the sixty-six students sat in chairs with straps holding down their arms, while, behind them, a live studio audience a thousand strong cheered and applauded. The students were seated in two clusters, one from each school. Though divided in origin, the uncomfortable shuffling and whispering, the occasional tears and shrieks, were quite bipartisan. At the front of the room was a large purple curtain, theatrical in appearance, and already spotlit.

"Attention: Quiet in the house," boomed a male voice from the speakers throughout the room.

Instantly, the audience went quiet, as did most of the students. A few, though, continued to cry, seemingly unable or unwilling to restrain themselves. The audience ignored them. A drumroll came over the speakers, building until the curtains snapped open, revealing a large television screen. On the screen was a map of an island.

"Good evening, contestants," the speakers said. This was a new voice, quieter and calmer than the one that had demanded silence earlier, with a smooth, precise intonation. It was a voice the audience knew well, belonging, as it did, to Patrick Buckley, current opening announcer for SOTF-TV. A cheer rippled through the crowd. A girl on the Detroit side of the room screamed.

"Welcome to the sixty-fifth season of SOTF-TV. I'm sure you all know our premise, so I'll spare you the endless reiterations and be succinct about it. Kill or be killed. All but one of you die.

"Only, this time around, that isn't true. You have been grouped into thirteen teams, selected at random. Each of you will receive, in your issued daypack, a bandanna showing your allegiance. All surviving members of the winning team will be allowed to return home. That aside, the premise is the same as always: kill those who oppose you, and live to the end."

The image cycled to a shot of thirteen different bandannas, each displaying a different color and symbol.

"You will have to find your teams on the island; we can't be doing all the work for you. You will be required to have a team bandanna visible on your person at all times. Should you be without one for over five minutes, your collar will be detonated. Should someone steal your bandanna, you will not be held accountable.

"After this briefing, you will all be rendered unconscious via gas in the ventilation."—a gasp arose from the crowd—"Oh, I mean the contestants. No need to worry, esteemed audience; you will be completely safe behind a shield.

"Now, there are a couple of other little rules you should know. Each team has a mentor assigned to them. That mentor will be able to broadcast a single piece of advice, encouragement, or information each morning, to any of their team members that they choose to allow to hear it. These mentors are the pick of the crop. They'll definitely increase your chances of survival, except for the poor saps on the Green Team.

"Oh, and also the loner. Loner, you're on your own. You've got the boring cream bandanna. You have to kill everyone to survive."

The picture was of a black silhouette with a cream-colored bandanna on its forehead.

"I will be giving you all an update every twelve hours. According to our calculations, you should all regain consciousness around noon. Pay attention to the announcements; they tell you who's died, who's killed, and which areas are danger zones. As usual, stay in a danger zone and your collar will explode."

One of the contestants was sobbing loudly. Someone in the crowd wolf-whistled.

"Another small thing: should any of you manage to kill ten of the other contestants—and teammates do not count for this, not that you should be killing them anyways—you get a ride out of here.

"Your daypacks contain everything you'll need for this exercise, including many fine products from our sponsors. We've also thrown in some spare clothes for you, since none of you get to keep your school possessions. Sorry about that; it's just too much of a bother to deal with picking out every little thing that could cause trouble."

The picture on the screen was of a blue canvas backpack.

"And, with that, I believe we are set. You all know the drill. Be smart, and you just might make it home. Good luck, and give us a show.

"And let the games... begin!"

With a whir, a glass shield lowered, separating the contestants from the audience, which had begun to cheer uncontrollably. The contestants were active again, some attempting to escape in a frenzy, others staring at their laps in resignation. The gas began filtering out of the floor, though, and soon there was no movement at all. Armed men entered, and began unbinding the contestants for transport.

It was time for the season premiere.