Prologue

"This reminds me of a puzzle."

Nettle Reinhold – Private Detective

The Capitol

"They executed him."

Nettle tried not to wince when his wife's tea cup slipped from her fingers. The delicate porcelain shattered upon impact, the sound echoing around the room like a gun shot. Her hands flew to her mouth, unable to hide her surprise.

He leaned forward slowly, his eyes conveying all the emotions he wasn't allowed to show. "They executed him, Violet."

She reached out to take his hand in hers, but Nettle was already walking towards the door, his own tea long forgotten on his desk. He glared at the Avox standing in the corner, his hands trembling at his sides. "Out. Now."

The Avox hurried past him, not once looking up as she closed the door behind her. Nettle pressed his forehead against the wood, waiting for the girl to be out of earshot. He nearly jumped when he felt Violet's arms around him. "What should we–"

"You must leave," Nettle said, his heart breaking at the very thought of losing her, "take Mordred and leave the Capitol."

Violet grabbed his shoulders and forced him to face her. "Not happening, Nettle."

"It's no longer safe here, you must bring our son to safety," He pressed, his hands on either side of her face.

She shook her head. "And where would we go? To the Districts? Beyond? Don't be ridiculous, Nettle."

"If you stay here–"

"They might not even trace it back to us," Violet reasoned, her eyes watering at the sight of her husband so distraught. "If we run now they'll know."

Nettle sighed forcefully through his nose, his frown deepening. "We can't risk the life of our son like this–"

"You should have thought about that before allowing Deimos to completely disrupt our lives," Violet argued, her words harsh but her tone gentle, "we knew this was a possibility."

"They killed him," he said, his voice breaking, "they killed him."

Violet raised her hand to his face, softly caressing his cheek. "He was a Head Gamemaker, Nettle, it's happened before."

Nettle closed his eyes. He knew that. Better than anyone, too. While the Head Gamemaker before Deimos had retired, the man before that – Gaius Dove – had died in a terrible hovercraft accident. A truly terrible tragedy, that accident. Thirteen people dead. Thirteen important people dead. The curious thing was, Gaius Dove had never even been on that hovercraft when it mysteriously crashed.

Gaius Dove had been murdered in a dark alley, near a grocery store.

A twenty-five-year-old Nettle Reinhold had witnessed the whole thing.

The forty-five-year-old Nettle Reinhold was going to pay the price.

His time was up.

"Deimos shouldn't have accepted the job," Nettle said, closing his eyes, "he should have stuck to the plan and –"

"It was a perfect opportunity to get closer to Descole and he took it. You can't be mad at him for that."

Nettle scoffed. "He's dead, Violet. There's no one left to be mad at."

"You would have done the same," she said, frowning, "you would have jumped at the chance."

"You have to resign," He told his wife, his expression tense, "you have to leave."

Violet shook her head. "You know I can't just leave. I have work to do. I have responsibilities. I –"

"They just murdered the Head Gamemaker, what tells me you're not next on the list."

"I work as a mutt designer, honey," she said, "I'm not even sure my boss knows my name."

Nettle turned his head to look at her. "President Descole knows everything about everyone, don't think he doesn't know you."

There was a knock on the door, but they both ignored it. "Nettle, we can't just give up."

"I'm not giving up," he said, sending her a pointed look, "but you must. For our son."

"Nettle Pavel Reinhold, it wasn't your father that got murdered twenty years ago, was it?"

Someone knocked on the door once more, but the Reinholds weren't done with their conversation. Nettle knew that she had a very valid point, but it didn't change the fact that they couldn't drag their seventeen-year-old son into the whole affair. Someone had to step back. "Mordred needs to be brought to safety."

"And so do you," Violet exclaimed, throwing her hands around her husband's neck, "so do we."

He held her close, his chin resting on her dark hair. "We're never going to agree, are we?"

"Not if your intention is to sacrifice yourself for us," she said, pinching the skin on his neck, making him wince.

"I don't want to die," he muttered, smiling softly.

"Great, finally something we agree on," Violet whispered, hiding her face in his shirt.

When the door opened, neither noticed the figure standing in the archway. It was only after the person coughed that they acknowledge their presence. "Excuse me, Lady Reinhold?"

Violet sighed and reluctantly let go of her husband. "We're busy, Poppy."

The green-haired assistant gulped and looked behind her, clearly uneasy. "I'm terribly sorry, my lady, but there is someone downstairs that wants to see you."

"Who?"

Poppy hesitated. "I – I'm not allowed to say, miss."

Nettle felt his blood run cold. Something was wrong. He shared a worried look with his wife, before bringing his attention back to the assistant. "Mordred. Where's Mordred?"

"I'm not allowed–"

He took a menacing step forward, all trace of worry replaced with pure anger. Angry at her, angry at Deimos, angry at himself. "Where. Is. My. Son?"

Poppy gulped. "He's downstairs, sir."

"We have to –"

The gun shot was so loud Nettle would hear it for the rest of his life.

The rest of his life.

Morado Altava – Head Gamemaker of the 37th Hunger Games

The Capitol

"The President is dead."

Morado stared at the newspaper on his desk, leisurely sipping on his sugared coffee. Three days had gone by since his predecessor Deimos Allen's execution. Three days had gone by since President Descole's body was found in the Reinhold residence. Three days had gone by since the job of Head Gamemaker had been thrust upon him.

The situation could not have been worse.

The President was gone – but so was his killer. No murder weapon. No witnesses. No cameras. No proof. Just one big hole in Descole's head.

Nothing more. Nothing less. The Reinholds had completely vanished.

"Mister Altava?"

Morado didn't look up from his desk. "That's me."

"Thank god," said the voice, getting closer, "and here I thought I'd entered the wrong office."

"Rest assured, then," Morado said, reading the headline once more, "What can I do for you?"

The man chuckled. "You could start by looking at me, Mister Altava."

Morado bit back a sigh – and was very glad he did – because the moment their eyes met, he realized his mistake. Standing in front of him was an old man. White hair, white beard and white suit. Vice-President Delmona.

No – President Delmona.

The situation could, in fact, get worse.

Morado nearly chocked on his coffee. "Mist – Mister President, I'm terribly sorry about this I–"

"Now, now, Mister Altava, no need for an apology," Delmona said, smiling gently.

"Please sit, sir," Morado said, offering the elderly man a seat.

Delmona smiled, but shook his head. "Ah, thank you my boy, but it won't be necessary. This will be a very brief visit. "

Morado nodded, wondering if he'd already done something wrong. "Of course, sir."

"I'm here because we're in the same boat, you and I. Both our predecessors died, one way or another. On the same day, no less. We're both new to our jobs and we both want to do it well, don't we?"

"Indeed," Morado answered, not sure where the conversation was going.

Delmona continued. "That's why I'm asking you to – how should put it – to calm things down for a bit."

"Sir?"

"The Hunger Games, Mister Altava," Delmona explained, raising an eyebrow.

The Gamemaker was lost. "I don't know what you mean, sir."

"I mean that the Capitol has seen enough violence, Mister Altava, and that it needs a break."

What did he mean? Was he asking him to postpone the Hunger Games? Was he asking to stop the Games altogether? The confusion on his face made the President smile. Not a menacing smile, not like President Descole. The old man was softer.

Too soft.

"You want me to stop the Games?" Morado said, hesitating on every single word.

Delmona laughed. "Oh goodness no, not at all. They exist for a reason, don't they? We can't have the District think the Capitol is getting weak, can we?"

Morado was swimming in the pools of confusion. "Mister President I –"

"Change the rules, Mister Altava, change the rules of nature."

He gulped. "The rules of nature?"

"I'm getting quite tired of 'may the strongest survive', you see? A change is in order, don't you think?"

"May the weakest survive?"

Delmona chuckled darkly. "May the smartest survive."

Author's note: I couldn't resist. I just had to try this thing, so here's my very first SYOT. The tribute form is on my profile, so please, send me some tributes! :) (However, I only accept tributes that are DM'ed to me, I'm sorry Anons)

Thanks so much for reading!