Welcome, welcome, welcome! Happy Hunger Games! Now, as one may tell, this is an SYOT! The tribute form is on my profile, so go on ahead and fill 'er out. Go on, I'll wait for you. *pauses* Okay, you're back. Good. Back to the announcement. So, just so y'all know, I'm not the only one writing this bad boy. My good friend littlekad16 is my co-author. (I DO know her personally, and honestly, we couldn't be more excited to do this!) So here's the rules: 1. ABSOLUETELY NO MARY-SUES! Any Mary-Sues will be fed to mutts before the Games start. 2. Only submit tributes via PM. Sorry, guests, but we don't take review submissions. Sorry. 3. Don't expect updates every day. We're busy and have lives beyond fanfiction (although it's not nearly as exciting at times.)! So, due to the rules, I have to put on an intro. I planned on it anyway, so without further ado (whatever ado is), heeeeeeere's the story!

SLAM! A heavy wooden door smacked the wall in the Head Gamemaker's office.

"CRANE!" came the voice of a man. He sounded angry-and this was not a man to get angry. "Explain yourself!" The man in question gripped the arms of his chair, gathering his nerve.

"Well, sir, the arena… It's not quite ready." Ottawa Crane swallowed, nervous of the reply.

"And that is why?" asked Snow coolly, standing over the man in the chair. His eyes locked onto Crane's, something that was terrifying to Crane, and Snow knew it. You didn't become the ruler of Panem for being Mr. Nice Guy. Oh no, you played rough. Got your hands dirty. And sometimes got rid of those pesky imbeciles that stood in your way. Crane cleared his throat.

"Just some technical issues, sir, nothing that we can't fix in a few days-"

"A few days? A few days, you said? Normally, that wouldn't bother me. But do you know what tomorrow is?" asked the President, leaning in towards Crane.

"Reaping Day, sir," Crane replied, starting to sweat a bit.

"Yes, Reaping Day. But it is also the day that we assert authority over our people. This is the day that they fear the most. Yes, the people in some of the Districts look forward to these Games, but that doesn't mean they don't fear them." He paused for a moment, allowing his words to rattle around Crane's skull. The scent of roses filled Crane's nose, and recoiled slightly at it. Snow continued. "We assert our authority to keep the people at bay. Controllable. Under my thumb. This how we keep order, here in Panem. It's the only way. If we release our grip-just a little bit, mind you-and everything fails. And you know why that can't happen." He paused again, allowing Crane to nod in reply. "And if we can't even put together a simple arena," he said, his voice rising, "then what does that tell the people?"

"Th-that we're w-weak," Crane replied shakily. He was sweating a lot now.

"Exactly. And that simply cannot be allowed. So fix it. You have by the end of today." Snow stood up.

"Yes sir, President Snow," Crane answered.

"Good," Snow replied coldly. He turned to walk out. "Oh, and if you fail? Don't expect your precious son to have a father to guide him when takes over," he said poisonously, holding out the word 'son' to emphasize his point. Without waiting for a reply, he left.

"Yes, sir," Crane said to the empty room. The scent of roses lingered in the air.