The lobby was Paul’s pride and joy as official media relations manager of SOTF—the set up jab before the knock out punch of the War Room. He’d fought long and hard with Marcus Nylund to get a press area in the War Room so that he could show off the belly of the beast, as he called it—the buzzing hive behind what millions of people saw every day on their Satellite TVs.
The lobby itself, though, was no slouch: brightly lit; coloured in artistic splashes of purple, green, and lilac; and decorated in the posters of all sixty-five DVD releases of the previous seasons in moody, dark colours. On the far right of the back wall, an empty frame was displayed prominently, the words “Season 66 Winner(s):” engraved onto a brass plaque beneath it.
Paul beamed at his guests as they surveyed the room, and began his opening oration. He preferred to call it an oration, though Marcus Nylund called it “a load of horseshit.”
Paul didn’t like Marcus Nylund much.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you stand in the lobby of the official building of Survival of the Fittest, a television show that needs no introduction. Out of many prospective candidates, you have been chosen to tour our facilities in the hopes that you’ll seek—and discover—many opportunities to serve as partners, compatriots, and shareholders in our journey to push the envelope of television entertainment.
“I don’t need to tell you about the show itself, or the numbers that the program attracts. I will merely point you towards its facilities. Here at Survival of the Fittest, we house nine hundred employees ranging from packaging to editing to marketing, and every single step in the process from imagination to creation to implementation to transportation occurs right within these walls.
“As of last year, Survival of the Fittest has been primarily enjoyed stateside,” Paul continued, aiming his many teeth in the direction of a strikingly gorgeous Asian in a trim three piece, “but we are currently setting our aim even higher, far beyond our already substantial success. Even now, we’re beginning to gain footholds on an international stage, propelling the iconic SOTF brand to even greater heights.
“Now,” he carried on, beginning to walk backwards in the practiced, smooth gait of one who’d done this many, many times, “I understand that many of you may have misgivings due to the criticism that persisted throughout the last few years.”
Paul chose his words carefully—this had been written by a team of four writers, and fairly recently. He liked to play with the script when it came to the opening message, but when it came to delicate matters of company image, he preferred to let someone else’s neck be on the chopping block.
That meant reciting the script, line for line, word for word.
“But, as is demonstrated by our acclaimed Season 65, and our so far extraordinary Season 66, we here at Survival of the Fittest feel that our success and our innovation top any setbacks. However, we realize that there may be doubters among you.”
He stopped at the dual sliding doors that Marcus Nylund had hissed and spat and raised hell over him installing. Dual sliding doors, Marcus had argued, “made no goddamn sense for his work environment” and “served little purpose besides adding pomp where pomp was unnecessary” and “only added to noise pollution and distraction to the workers in the War Room”.
Paul had disagreed. He remembered his disagreement as valiant and true—heroic, even—when he patiently and eloquently explained to Marcus Nylund that the sliding doors added panache and flair for a dramatic, dynamic entry.
In reality, his disagreement had involved spittle, flailing limbs, stammering.
But he’d won.
“Allow me, ladies and gentlemen,” Paul said, relishing the moment, “to alleviate any doubt that remains.”
Turning, he flung the sliding doors open, and the lobby became filled with noise. Monitors took up the entire Northern wall, filled with cameras and rough edits of footage that was being shot live, sliced and picked apart, and sent to editing with less than a half hour turnaround. The floor was covered in workstations manned by men and women with headsets on, standing or sitting while typing and talking furiously, their hands occasionally reaching for drinks or food that they kept handy on trays beside their desks. Fresh-faced young men and women darted in between the stations, dropping off drinks, picking up empties, taking orders that were often mouthed and hand-gestured due to lack of time.
Among them floated Marcus Nylund, like a sharp-eyed spectre, clear of eyes and clear of mind. He leaned towards a workstation, laid a hand on its operator’s shoulder, spoke a few words. He signed documents, took a call, pointed emphatically at monitors. He moved about the floor, a general among his troops, barking orders and offering guidance.
Silence, reverence, awe stole over the gathered potential investors, and Paul had yet to experience a tour where it hadn’t. Paul’s smile became impossibly wider, more teeth seeming to sprout from his mouth and filling all available space.
“Welcome,” he said again, with relish, “to where the magic happens.”
~*~
This time, when the speakers crackled to life for the announcements, a quiet, slow, but clearly audible clap was the first sound broadcast. It was followed by a few long seconds of silence, calculated to let the mocking congratulation sink in just right.
"Well," Ritzy finally said in a drawled, cheery tone, "you lot managed to kill fifty other kids in two days. If I was a math geek, I'd tell you the percentages about that, but I think you all understand the point I'm getting at."
Ritzy leaned forward towards the mic, clearing her throat to make her voice deeper, more serious.
"It's down to the wire now, kids. We've got some slim pickings here due to how brightly you've burned on the first two days, but don't fade away just yet. Me and you, we still got a job to do. So, to spare no more time, let's get to it.
"We have an assortment of danger zone deaths to give the day an explosive start. Louise Luna and Dee Dixon were a couple of turkeys and died in the bowling alley, while Aidan Adelman floundered like a dead stingray in the aqua-museum. And so, hopefully, the generation of alliteration draws a little closer to its end.
"Just to ruin both the danger zone and alliteration streaks, Naomi Skye died due to lack of precipitation—I mean, dehydration. Way to be a total buzz kill, man.
"Colin Pigeon decided that maintaining his cool was for the birds, and tried talking down to Ashley Namath, aka crazy chick with a weapon number four. It ended as well as expected.
"Brendan O'Toole took a much less verbal and much more physical approach to the OG crazy chick, Jewel Evans. It was kinda like David vs. Goliath with a height switch, and O'Toole fell down hard after getting a few hits in.
"Alice Young wanted us to know that she just wasn't a little girl anymore, and proved herself a grownup by stabbing James Houlihan a whole bunch of times. Message received, Ms. Young, loud and clear.
"Pia Malone wound up trapped in one of Vahka Basayev's... traps. Nailed it. Anyway, he was sad, she was sad, he ended up killing her, I presume he'll probably get her name tattooed on his ass if he gets out of this joint. Aaaah, young love.
"Jewel Evans is a restless woman. Noted pain-in-the-ass Asa Rosen was brutally axed in the head by Evans, and we all think it's been a little more quiet around here since. It's nice.
"While you all were probably asleep, Cathryn Bailey made sure Nina Riddhi never woke up again. Used the ol' smother with a pillow trick. A true classic.
"Fed up with this game, Bella Bianchi signaled to the sky and went back to her home planet. Haha, that's not true, but she did beat the shit out of Paisley Hopkins.
"Finally, Lukas Graves ran himself into an early—What's that? Oh. Fine. I've been informed I have made too many bad puns for the day..."
Ritzy made a teeth sucking noise, loaded with annoyance.
"Lukas Graves shot himself.
"Anyway, that's all for now. All the danger zones from yesterday are still in effect—That means the Nature Walk, Space Bam Alley, Aqua-Museum, Lernean Beauty Parlor, and Sunshine Tower in case any of you forgot. As an added bonus, we're also cutting of the Cabana Cul de sac, Lana'i Hotel, Bamboo Boardwalk, and Aloha Daycare Center. Have fun with that. Ciaaao."
DAY THREE: FRIDAY, DECEMBER 18, 2020, 7:00 AM
Weather: The weather is much calmer now that the sun has come up. The snow from last night did stick and snow is still pouring down, albeit gently and without any windchill, making the outside much more bearable than the past couple days. However, the snow will begin to pick up again around noon, and a heavy snowstorm is expected come nightfall. The temperature is 30F/-1C.
#1 Sarah Bourne (Deamon)
#2 Marcus Redder (SansaSaver)
#3 Lily Ashburg (Jdelgado)
#4 Ashley Namath (TheRedVelvet)
As always 3 days for cards, same for DZ's, and an extra 7 to get the deaths done. We realize this has been a long time coming, and staff just wants you to know we really appreciate you all for being patient with us, and hope you enjoy the rest of TV2.