Disclaimer- I do not own anything involving the Hunger Games, all rights are reserved to Suzanne Collins.

Ah, how time flies in the years after crushing a rebellion. To think, it's already been fourteen years since the Rebellion of the Mockingjay. That was too close of a call, that uprising. The Hunger Games were nearly destroyed, and we lost the strongest politician Panem has ever seen: Coriolanus Snow, my uncle. The man was absolutely brilliant. If only he'd had the capabilities to crush a hostile organization without dying in the process.

It hasn't been easy, running the Capitol after the Revolt of the Mockingjay, as people have come to call it. The first couple of years were brutal, and having to rebuild Districts 11 and 12 was quite a pain, as was stamping out the last embers of the fire started by the one who started everything. Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire. That title turned out to be quite ironic, seeing as she burned at the stake for her crimes. Perhaps it was for the best that the revolt had so nearly succeeded. To see victory so close, and then have it be snatched away by me at the last moment was just what we needed to quench the flames of rebellion.

I swivel around in my chair and look at my computer. The Head Gamemaker has finally sent me the file on the new muttation for this year's Hunger Games. Good, I had been waiting for a while. This should prove an interesting spectacle for the people of the Capitol. The man is lucky that I'm a patient person, otherwise his life would be forfeit; the file was due yesterday. I stand up and look at myself in the mirror. I'm not exactly what most would call a looker. My hair is shoulder-length and blood-red. I'm also not the most portly of people, standing 6'6" and weighing only 143 pounds. My complexion is white. I am not pale; this implies that my skin is capable of retaining a darker quality. My skin is paper white. My eyes haven't the slightest amount of color unless I'm in a particularly sore mood, in which the irises go an icy blue.

There's a knock at my door and my eyes do exactly that. I pick a red rose from the vase next to the mirror. I must admire my late uncle Coriolanus on his choice of flower. The rose: elegant, yet able to draw blood if not paid attention to. I personally prefer the red rose over the white. Red is the color of blood. I glide over to my desk and press a button, opening the door.

"President Brent." It's my secretary, Ben Mosely. "It's the Head Gamemaker, Riteus Quinn. He wishes to have an audience with you."

I walk around my desk and sit down. "Then might I ask why he hasn't included this in the file he just sent me?" I ask without looking at Mosely. Instead I am looking at the grain of the cherry my desk is made of, my elbows propped and my fingers tented. "Tell him his request is granted and that he is to be in my office in eight minutes."

"Well, that's just it, sir. He wants you to come to Colony Nine."

My head snaps up and I stare Mosely directly in the eyes. He's a thin man with darker skin. His eyeglasses are small, round, and dark, and there isn't a hair on his head. He wears the same olive suit and cranberry tie every day with the same old cream-colored shirt. He recoils as soon as I look at him. "The fool turns in his file a day late, which is incredibly risky. Now he has the audacity to request that I travel to District Nine for an audience he requested? This man doesn't value his life very much, obviously." I stand up and look at Mosely straight through his glasses. He has good reason to be afraid. The secretary before him made the mistake of opening my door unannounced. If there is one thing I cannot stand, it is people who don't mind their manners. In short, the ground beneath my window smelled something awful for a couple of days. "He had better have a damn good reason why he's calling me, Locius Brent, the President of Panem, out to District Nine a week before the Hunger Games!"

Mosely swallows and says "I believe it has to do with the muttation he's working on, Mr. President."

"You believe, or you know? Choose your next words carefully; I don't want to go through the trouble of getting another new window."

"I believe, sir. He wouldn't tell me anything else; he just said he wishes to have an audience with you. That and the muttations aren't ready for transport."

I sit down again and swivel around to face the window. "You said he didn't tell you anything else. You then went on to say that the muttations aren't ready for transport." I swivel back around to see Mosely with a terrified look on his face. I stand and say, "You are incredibly lucky that window cost me a hefty sum to replace. As for Quinn, tell him that if this muttation doesn't completely amaze me, this will be his last Games. I want to be on a train headed for Nine in eighty minutes."

Mosely bows, utters out a quick "Yes Sir", and stumbles out the door. I lazily press the button on my desk, closing the door and leaving my room in a dark lighting. I sigh and rub my temples. I cannot believe how soft I'm getting. I take a tiny scalpel out of a compartment in my desk and knick my finger. I take a drop of blood onto the scalpel and deposit it on a scanner. I put my finger in my mouth and suckle it, drawing out the excess blood. The coppery taste is wonderful. The scanner buzzes and reads: Blood Alcohol Content: .007. Good, I can afford a drink. I tap a few buttons on the dashboard on the left side of the desk, and immediately a glass of brandy rises up from inside my desk.

I take my drink in hand and swirl it around a bit. I take a sip and press a button next to the door opener. Two Peacekeepers come in immediately. "Escort me to the train," I command, and they follow my orders exactly.

Playing the puppeteer of this country is ever so enjoyable.