SOTF-TV Version Two Prologue

#1

Marcus Nylund was hungover.

It was a stupid ritual that he was suckered into every season, when the prep was all ready and assembled, the mentors selected, signed to NDA’s and rostered. When the kids were selected, the preparations for grabbing them set into motion, the location wired for sound and camera and checked, double checked, and triple checked for termites or other disasters that could ruin a shot. Routines and checklists that had been whittled down to a science and oiled to a fine-tuned machine gradually ended, until there was a full two day lull between preparation for the season and showtime.

And then the crew got drunk to celebrate.

Every season, Marcus promised himself up and down that he’d stop. He was turning forty next year, didn’t have the fortitude for the tequila and loud music that the younger interns and technicians had the stomach for. And every season, he found himself with a hot water bottle on his head, the kids’ excited early morning chatter and his wife’s soothing tones hammering at his skull.

So when Marcus strode through the doors of the SOTF studio, he did so with wrap around sunglasses on his ice blue eyes, a baseball cap over his salt-and-pepper hair, and an empty bottle of water clutched gingerly in his grip, to minimize crinkling.

Shannon, his personal assistant, met him at the door with her clipboard, her pantsuit pressed and neat in a warm red. Efficiently, she took the bottle from his hand, replacing it with a travel mug of what he assumed to be tea (it was always tea), and handing him a clipboard to hold in his other hand.

“Donald here yet?” Marcus rumbled around the gravel in his throat, sipping at the liquid while studying the results of the live camera test.

“He showed up a half hour ago. He’s going through the second sector - said there was an audio feed hiccup.”

“What kind hiccup?”

“Something about static?” She shrugged. “He wants to talk to you when you get settled in. Everything’s coming in nice and easy.”

“Good, okay. Messages?”

“Standard ‘rallying the troops’ bullshit. There are a few sponsors coming in on the second day to do a walkaround, but Mary’s sweet-talking them into delaying it until day 3.”

Marcus nodded, sipped again, nodded again. “Good morning, by the way.”

Shannon smiled back. “Not so, for you. Crew party?”

“As always. Tell Donald to meet me in the war room. I’ll need to see camera 3 and 16 myself - we may need to get the ground crew out there, reposition them.”

As Shannon walked away, Marcus stepped into the large room filled with desks, monitors, and chatter - dubbed the ‘war room’ by the employees - and surveyed his kingdom.

He’d been the floor producer for SOTF since the second season, when an independently funded livestream of African wildlife went viral on the web, bringing him and his crew at the time to the attention of the executives. They’d offered him a lucrative position, limited creative control, and the experience to change the world. An offer that he’d seized and held tightly onto for the remaining 14 years he’d been with them.

As floor producer, it was his job to manage every aspect of the show that the viewers would see: from commentary to audio and sound, from commercial breaks to what scenes the action took place in. Since taking the job at 25, he’d never taken a sick day, didn’t go on vacation, and aside from the four times a year he drank too much, was always at the peak of his game.

He descended the metal steps, taking the sunglasses off of his nose and sliding them into a breast pocket as he continued to review the camera tests. Slight blips on 3 and 16, a burst of what looked like static at around 4am last night in one of the indoor locations, all minor things that could be handled with a tweak from the war room or an adjustment of cameras on the ground.

A curse from the open door of the “oval office” - a windowed conference room that overlooked the war room, where Marcus normally made his den - had his attention, glancing towards it to see Donald working away at his monstrous machine. Donald had been working for Marcus since he was 17 and fiddling with live camerawork. Considered a wunderkind that could’ve done anything he had wanted, Marcus scooped him up to both design and coordinate the camera placements in Africa, as well as monitor them from a remote location. His modifications to the camera design were the reason that SOTF was able to run so flawlessly.

Donald had once taken a vacation, and Season 62 had occurred.

Marcus tapped on the doorway, stepping through and knowing to wait until Donald was finished his train of thought before interrupting. After a few moments of furious typing and clicking, Donald removed his sunglasses, rubbed his eyelids, and turned to look at Marcus.

“Bad news or good news?”

Marcus shrugged. “Surprise me.”

“Okay. 3 and 16 are not going to recover for the rest of the game without a bit of groundwork. They’ve got a loose audio wire which separates the ambient noise track with the live video feed, meaning we can’t undercut or adjust it for the black box pickup. Coupled with that, we’re going to be missing chunks of the sequencing which means that it’ll be near-fucking-impossible to build again when it comes DVD time.”

“Okay,” Marcus replied, waiting patiently. This was their routine: Donald would find a problem and speak about it as if the world was going to end, Marcus would wait it out before figuring out a solution. It had been this way ever since the show’s ratings had begun to fall.

“The good news is that it shouldn’t take more than a few hours to fix - six at most - so a DZ-and-drop can do it.”

Marcus rounded the table, glanced at the screen. “They’re both in the same zone?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll fix it then. Are they static?”

“Eyup. The tracking ones all work - we just need the ambience for the wind and birds and shit for later cuts.”

“Alright then. If no mics in the area are damaged but those ones, we can make do for a little while. Ambient noises is more the editing team, anyway.”

“Fuckin’ a.” Donald sighed, leaned back in his chair, swivelled it towards Marcus. “Once more into the breach, huh?”

Marcus took a long drink of tea, shrugging. “Yeah.”

For a time, everything was black. Even as the students regained consciousness, there was no light. Some mumbled or shouted. Some cried. Some sat silent. They knew what was happening. They'd each been told, in front of their class or their parents or when walking alone through a hallway in school. They were to compete, to fight to the death on SOTF-TV.

They were to be stars.

Slowly, the lights came on, illuminating the area progressively, like a movie theater as the credits started to roll.

The room was a large rectangle, bisected by a pane of heavy-duty, bulletproof glass. On one side, the students sat in chairs, facing a stage. Their hands were bound behind them, their legs loosely secured as well. On the other, arena-style seating was filled to overflowing. The audience was silent; a security crew stood by to remove anyone disruptive. All around the room's periphery, cameras whirred, capturing the audience, the face of the students, the purple curtain on the stage. The lights stayed full for an uncomfortably long space of seconds. Prior to the broadcast, music would be edited in, and right at this point would come its climax.

"Attention, please," a man's voice said. It was loud, harsh. Most of the students quieted. A few did not. "Quiet in the house."

Now, a drumroll was audible. At its peak, the curtains snapped open, revealing a podium upon the stage, and, behind it, a man. He was clean shaven, with short, greying black hair. He wore a suit. Because of his positioning behind the podium, where he stood on a raised platform, it was difficult to tell that he was just under five and a half feet tall. Behind the man was a massive screen, and upon that screen was an aerial photograph.

"Hello, everyone," the man said. He was Patrick Buckley, and he'd handled the opening ceremonies for SOTF for nearly a decade now. His voice was smooth and controlled, and at his greeting, a cheer ran through the audience. He silenced it with a wave of his hand.

"And," he said, "a special hello to our VIPs in the front seats. Welcome to SOTF. You are to be our entertainment for the next few days. This is the most important moment of your lives. For many of you, this marks the beginning of the end. For one or two of you, however, this will be the moment which catapults you to greatness.

"You know how it works. Kill or be killed. Survival of the Fittest.

"I'm sure many of you are familiar with the amendments to our traditional setup enacted last season. The bulk of them will be carrying through, with a few changes. So, allow me to quickly explain."

The screen flashed to an image of different stylized animals in bright colors.

"Each of you will be assigned to a team, most of which contain five members. This team may not be changed. The people you are grouped with are your allies, your assets. They are the only ones you can trust, because they are the only ones who can survive with you. The teams will fight to the death. When only members of one team remain, they will all be allowed to go home. It doesn't matter whether it's one person or all five of you. You may remember that, last season, two teams got close to sending multiple members to Endgame. I'm hoping to see that actually come to pass this time.

"You will each wear a bandanna revealing your team allegiance, and a collar filled with explosives. Should you fail to wear your bandanna, or should you defy he directions you are given, the explosives will detonate. Aside from that, we'll share teams of killers and dead from time to time. You will be knocked unconscious and placed in our arena"—the satellite photograph returned—"and will have to find your allies on your own. Best to do so quickly, if you want to maximize your odds.

"You're not in this completely alone, of course. Each team is assigned a mentor, and each of them may consult with each of their wards once per twelve hours, timed based on our announcements. And, while we're on that note, it is my pleasure to introduce our new game announcer, Ms. Rhiannon Durrett. Some of you may know her better as "Ritzy Daggers". Let's give up a hand for her, and for our talented team of mentors."

The screen darkened, and spotlights came up. It was difficult to say when the figures had filed into the room, but a line of men and women stood in front of the screen, a few paces behind Buckley and the podium. Close-ups of their faces were broadcast on screens closer to the studio audience, but out of sight of the captive teenagers. The audience screamed its approval. The group stood, some shifting awkwardly, some smiling.

A few seconds later, the spotlights died. On the screen was a new picture, a Hispanic girl wearing a black coat. Around her left arm were tied ten colorful bandannas.

"Of course, those of you who watched last season remember that you don't have to play with your team if you don't want to, as one of our winners proved. We are, once again, offering freedom to the first student to achieve ten kills. Do bear in mind, you have to be first to the marker to go free, and any kills on your assigned teammates do not count."

The screen flashed again, showing a photograph of a large grey backpack.

"You will each be assigned a daypack containing food, a weapon or tool of some sort and an instruction manual if appropriate, various gifts from our sponsors, and some spare clothing. Any other belongings you brought have been removed. They'll be sent to your families. Families, hang onto this stuff. I'm told the memorabilia market is booming these days.

"That should be all you need to know. Be smart, be strong. Work with your teammates. You can make it out of here, and your life is looking pretty grand if you do. Best of luck, and give us a good show.

"Let the games begin."

And Buckley raised his hand from behind the podium, pulling a gas mask over his head. Throughout the room, a hiss was heard, gas pouring from vents. A few students struggled. Most accepted their fates. It didn't really matter.

A few minutes later, all was quiet and still. The audience filtered out. It would be quiet for a few hours, as the children were transported to their battlefield.

Then, things would really get rolling.

Special Rules

Attention, handlers: for SOTF-TV Version Two, we're having a few different rules than usual. They are all being officially announced and explained here, for your convenience.

Team Victory: Should multiple characters from a single team reach Endgame together, they may all win, and thus survive. However, it is important to note that, should the winner be determined by rolls, any characters rolled must die, even if one of their teammates is determined the eventual winner. This is to keep up fairness and unpredictability; it prevents a character with teammates in Endgame from having too notably higher odds of survival.

Ten-Kill Release: The producers are offering release to the first contestant to achieve ten kills. Should a character hit ten kills, they become eligible for removal from the game, should their handle choose. To remove a character from the game, please contact a staffer. We will ensure that an IC post from us, confirming this and removing the character from the game, is posted within three OOC days. Until the staff post has been made, a character with ten kills is still subject to rolls, and, if rolled, must still die. After the staff post is made, the character's story must be wrapped up within their next post. All characters are still subject to activity at all times. This is the same method which was used in TV V1, but we're explicitly codifying it here. Should a character achieve ten kills and die, the reward will not be offered to a second character to hit ten. The producers aren't that generous. This rule exists to allow handlers to take the time they need to wrap island stories, while at the same time representing the risk being on the island poses and incentivizing speed should they wish a notable killer to survive.

Escape: Should characters successfully enact any part of an escape, they are still subject to rolls and activity until or unless staff states otherwise. This is an area we'll play by ear, but will generally default to the realistic choice; unless a kid is somewhere where they can't be killed, they'll still be subject to rolls.

Bandannas: Students must wear an official team bandanna in a visible location at all times. Should a student not be wearing a bandanna for over thirty seconds, their collar will begin to beep. The rapidity will increase over the course of five minutes, after which the collar will detonate. The only exception comes if a bandanna is stolen, in which case the producers tends towards mercy. However, note that they pay close attention and are not stupid; any attempts to game the system will result in collar detonation. In practice, if you are unsure about the results of any course of action re: bandannas, please consult a staffer for a ruling.

Collar Deaths: For any collar-related deaths besides Danger Zone detonation, please consult the staff at least three days prior to the death deadline for approval, including a draft and explanation of the desired death. We're trying to make sure that collar deaths are handled consistently this version, and wish to have enough time to provide handlers with guidance when it comes to representing collar-related deaths. Danger zones are an exception because their mechanisms are constant: a ten minute timer of escalating beeps followed by detonation.

Abduction Details: Students for Season Sixty-Six were all removed on the same day (December 15th, 2020). Where and how, however, was not consistent. Some students were taken from their homes before school, while others were taken from class. Which method was used was the result of research from the producers; the kids were grabbed wherever they were less likely to resist and cause trouble. If your kid's parents would have resisted in any potentially-effective fashion, then they were taken at school. No exceptions. The TV operatives use force only if required and the minimum in those cases. All kids are taken to a van and then knocked out via gas, to reawaken during the prologue. If you have any questions about this, please contact staff for assistance.

Mentors: Each mentor will be able to address each of their students once per announcement cycle this version. Each is controlled by a single staffer, who is also responsible for reading all the kids assigned to the team they're mentoring. They will be the best staffer to approach for general issues or mentor related specifics, as they will be familiar with your character. In the case of the Hyenas, contact Outfoxd for all mentor related queries, and any other staffer for other matters.

The assignments are as follows:
Amber Eagles - The Homeless Beard
Bronze Bears - Deamon
Cobalt Jellyfish - Rattlesnake
Cyan Stingrays - MurderWeasel
Ebony Whales - TheRedVelvet
Golden Hyenas - Outfoxd
Honey Badgers - TheRedVelvet
Ivory Sharks - Rattlesnake
Jade Rhinos - The Homeless Beard
Rainbow Parrots - Namira
Rose Foxes - Namira
Scarlet Panthers - Deamon
Silver Scorpions - The Homeless Beard
Tan Bats - MurderWeasel
Violet Wolves - Namira