The Capitol isn't happy. And what happens when the Capitol isn't happy? They get revenge.

This is the 175th Quarter Quell and in this Quarter Quell... Well, why not keep it a surprise? Here's a hint though: It is best to obey.

And obey they will.

-.-.-Prologue- POV Gamemaker ~ Julius Aberdeen-.-.-

Even in his sleep, he wears the same blood thirsty sneer.

Julius Aberdeen, the Gamemaker for this year's 175th Hunger Games, rolls over in his sleep.

Just an hour ago he finished the final touches to the Arena. He had licked his puffy lips and grinned.

It was a special grin, one which was so malicious he only reserved it for occasions like this.

The Quarter Quell was set, along with a matching twist.

Both were prize trophies he ached to add to his collection.

"Your tie is askew, Julius."

It isn't often Julius feels afraid but at this moment, a tsunami of fear washed over his large body.

A dry cough from this man almost sent him toppling from his chair.

President Orcal lingered in the middle of the room, staring at the ornamental ceiling.

"How are things going, Aberdeen?"

He tried to respond but an odd urge to cower under his desk was crippling him.

When he did manage a word, his voice gave the impression he had been eating sandpaper.

"Fine."

Puckering his lips in thought, President Orcal stretched his ivory fingers to trace the curves of a porcelain Mockingjay cluttering a coffee table.

"This is pretty, Julius."

Julius, who seemed to be more concerned with rearranging the pencils on his desk, rose his eyes to match the most powerful man in Panem's stare.

"The very finest from District One, Sir."

The President mummered something Julius couldn't quite catch, before turning back to the figure.

Caressing the ceramic he began to speak in a voice dripping with tension.

"I trust you've heard of the disruptions in Twelve..."

Hesitating, Julius answered: "Don't worry. They died from the flogging, Sir."

President Orcal chuckled dryly at the Mockingjay and wandered over to Julius' oak desk.

"I'm not happy, Julius,"

"I know, Sir."

"I don't want an uprising. Not like the one with that stupid Katnip girl."

Leaning forward, Julius could faintly smell the alcohol on the president's breath.

"Ah... It was Katniss, Sir."

"Whatever," He plants his pale hands firmly on the table. "You must make them pay!"

"I will, Sir."

"Yes, I'm sure you will try..." Resigned, he wanders towards a leather recliner, concealed in the shadows of the room; stopping to peer at photos and trinkets on the way. Most people, Julius included, found it strange that as he moved, his cheekbones seemed to cut through the stiff air. His pale skin sat oddly tight around the bones in his face and his lips were the palest blue. Julius was just about to ask if he needed the fire started when unexpectedly, he turned around and spotlighted Julius in a gaze that would rival Satan's. "But if you don't succeed, Julius..."

"Yes, sir?"

"If you don't succeed, you will be the one paying."

Five hours and two bottles later, Julius placed his pen on the table.

It was a mess, littered with rejected paper and empty vodka bottles.

'Such fools,' he thought, pouring himself another shot, 'Believing that they really stand a chance.'

Yawning, he tipped back the alcohol and stumbled, fully-clothed, into his bed.

Tomorrow, the reapings begin.

Tomorrow, twenty-four children will be chosen to die.

Julius Aberdeen, the Gamemaker for this year's 175th Hunger Games, smiles in his sleep.