The Fight Is In Your Blood
.: Prologue I :.

Sick, sad world.

Incensed, President Coriolanus Snow shook himself. He couldn't get those damn words out of his head, and it was driving him wild. What did he care about sick, or sad, or the world? He was all of those things, and he wasn't having problems.

But Seneca Crane had used that phrase in an impassioned speech two days ago, and Snow knew the bastard had meant it. The Head Gamemaker truly thought that the Hunger Games (his Hunger Games, the ones he had worked so hard to restore and revolutionize) were disgusting, evil. He'd fire Crane on the spot, if that wouldn't have inspired riots in the Capitol. Somehow, the guy had quite a following; thousands of people were insisting that he was the best Gamemaker since the first.

Snow rubbed his eyes, smearing thick white powder across his cheek. If he had anyone to pass the presidency down to, he would do it immediately. The entire business was too tiring, too complex, too much for a man who was quickly approaching eighty years old. It had been fun, back when he was twenty-five and Panem was his for the taking. But now, well, if there was yet another scene, he honestly wasn't sure whether he'd be able to handle it.

The answer was that he needed someone who could take over should he find it necessary. Yes, technically there would be a vote, but the majority of Capitol citizens were vapid and dull and would select any candidate who was shoved in their faces. And the best Victors, the ones who spent most of their time in the Capitol but were certainly not considered residents, would have no vote, so their intelligence couldn't screw with an important campaign.

He could choose a Gamemaker, such as Seneca Crane — holy shit, why was that man always on his mind? — but Snow truly didn't think he was trustworthy enough to continue the Hunger Games. What if Crane took it upon himself to end the pageant he obviously viewed as barbaric and a detriment to Panem's society? (Yet more phrases he'd used in that wonderful speech of his.)

The High Senate was always a possibility, but who among the Speakers would really make an adequate president? Nobody he could name, and he knew all of his most important advisers.

He fingered the rose in his lapel and sighed. Over the years, he had done so much to ensure that he was the only person who would ever be considered as the President of Panem, and he was beginning to regret it. He had completely forgotten that sometime along the line, he would need a successor.

The smart thing to do would be to call a meeting and listen to each and every Senator argue some sort of ridiculous point about the Games or the Districts or the imminent rebellion (for nobody with any sense could deny that one was approaching), then pick the most eloquent to serve as President. But he did not want to deal with that, especially not considering the upcoming Hunger Games. Just thinking about them caused his heart to beat faster, and not as a result of excitement. He was nervous: scared that he wouldn't be able to keep the tributes in line, petrified that some idiot would spark a rebellion. More than anything, Snow hoped that the Districts' revolution could wait until after he was dead.

Finally, there was a sturdy knock on the door. The voice of Archa Range, Snow's personal Peacekeeper and the leader of all Presidential security forces, echoed throughout his spacious office.

"Presenting Mister Seneca Crane, Head Gamemaker, Panem's First Class. Has this person been granted your permission to enter, President?"

Snow forced a smile and opened the door himself. "Yes, Archa, thank you. Come in, Seneca."

Crane bowed quickly, then straightened and lowered himself into a chair without waiting for the president's bidding. "I have the plans for this year's Games, sir."

At least now Snow had something to focus on other than his impending demise. "Let me see, then. Turn the projector on."

The other man nodded respectfully and clicked the remote. A hologram appeared, bright and glowing, on a metal table in the center of the room. It was a traditional arena, though the valleys dipped below water level and the mountains were absolutely enormous. Two lakes dotted either side — in both, there swam a squid weighing thirteen metric tons, dripping with poisonous ink and adorned with razor-sharp teeth — and a gushing river flowed between. Sparse plains made up the rest of the domain.

"The tributes will be here." Crane pointed to the middle of the projection. A large oak — the single tree in the arena — was the center of the pedestal circle. Scattered in perfect spirals were backpacks and small weapons: a bow with only two arrows here, a slingshot there, a nice pair of knives closer to the tree. Dangling from the oak's branches, tied with thick and loosely-knotted strands of thread, were the real supplies: fruits and swords and spears and jackets. The largest of these were so high that a tribute would need to climb to collect them. Those would be for the Careers; the others wouldn't have the time if they wanted to escape alive.

"Where is the Cornucopia?" the President questioned.

"We agreed unanimously not to have one this year, sir. It was too easy for the tributes from One, Two, Four, and whoever else joined their alliance to simply pack all their things away inside, then take casual turns sitting guard. The Cornucopia was open on one side only, so nobody could sneak up on it. It wasn't interesting, and it definitely wasn't fair."

Snow fought the powerful urge to roll his eyes. Why now, of all times, was Crane so obsessed with fair? "I'm sure the Capitol citizens will be distraught when they realize there is no Cornucopia."

Crane shrugged, looking supremely unconcerned. "With all due respect, they'll get over it."

"If you say so," Snow decided. What was it to him if the people turned against the Head Gamemaker? Maybe he'd finally have an excuse to just assassinate the damn guy. "Did you bring the list of tributes?"

"No," Crane declared. "And as a matter of fact, we won't be receiving one this year. We're not fixing it."

He gaped. "I won't tolerate this, Mr. Crane. We selected the boy from District Five months ago, right after his rebel parents were trapped in their burning house."

"And that is not enough punishment for a starving family, President? No, he will be safe unless he is randomly drawn. Panem knows the child must have the most tesserae slips in his District."

Under the desk, Snow clenched his right fist. "You may not argue with me about this! I am your President!"

"Yes, sir. And I am your Head Gamemaker, and if I quit right now you will have quite a dilemma on your hands. And as a matter of fact, in my contract, it clearly states that I have sole authority over any Games-related questions or obstacles, including but not limited to arenas, tributes, training, sponsor systems, mentors, and escorts. As this falls under the tributes category, it is not only my decision but also my right to tell you that under no circumstances will the Capitol be fixing the Reapings as long as I am in charge."

President Snow was growing tired of Seneca Crane's proclamations. The last one, which had been made in full earshot of Panem's High Senate, had taken several straight hours of smoothing over. "If you insist," he said at last, still gripping the tiny vial. "But be warned: one mistake and you will regret the consequences."

Happy SYOT!

I'm pleased to announce that the deadline to submit a tribute has arrived! If I have already spoken to you concerning a character, or if you have reserved a spot, this is still valid and I am waiting for your PM. But if I haven't, I'm not in need of any new ones.

I have almost finished sorting out Districts and escorts, and then I have to fix up the blog. You can hope for the second half of the prologue by this weekend.

Thank you for all the favorites and follows already, and I hope you all enjoy the story of the Sixty-Ninth Hunger Games!

Joyana