Ok, so this is my first fic ever. I have never really thought about giving fanfiction a go, but after this story just popped up in my head, I couldn't resist. I am in love with the Hunger Games books, and after seeing the film I became fascinated by the character of Seneca Crane. The question of why he let Katniss and Peeta survive really stuck with me, and because I so wanted to shake him awake and make him see the Capitol and the concept of the Games for what they really are, I came up with a why of my own :)

Also, I am not a native speaker of English, so do bear with any grammatical errors or typos that might still remain in the text.

Lastly, needless to say I don't own the Hunger Games, or Seneca, as much as I would love to :D It all belongs to the amazing Suzanne Collins, and I'm merely playing in her backyard. Naturally, I don't own the lyrics and titles of the respective songs I am using as chapter titles in this story either.


Behind every choice, there's a reason. Behind every end, there's a beginning. Behind every present, there's a past.

Two years before the 74th Hunger Games. The Capitol.

Seneca Crane has got it made. In every aspect of his life, he enjoys the best the Capitol can offer: the looks, the luxury, the ladies, and now even the 'top job', the most aspired position in the Control Room of the annual Hunger Games – Head Gamemaker. He's pursued his career practically all his life, and it has never so much as crossed his mind to doubt or question, much less defy, the strict rules and controversial traditions of the Capitol. To Seneca, the Games have always been more about exciting television entertainment and carefully constructed visual art rather than pointless slaughter of innocent children, since as a privileged citizen of the Capitol he's never had to live with the fear of ending up in one of the Games himself or watch a loved one having to face that dark prospect. But as the 72nd Hunger Games begin and a ghost from the past pays Seneca a visit, the new Head Gamemaker is forced to explore the other side of the coin as well, and decide just how much he is willing to lay on the line for the sake of a good show.

Defying the Capitol means certain death. Refusing to means having to live with the consequences. And for the first time, he can't decide which is worse.


Prologue

In The End

It all comes back to me in the end

The corridor is empty. The lights are out. Only the faint gleam of the moonlight that shines through the skylight windows on the ceiling fights the all-consuming darkness. One of the two Peacekeepers escorting me motions me to step out of the elevator, and they fall into step with me as I walk towards the double doors at the other end of the corridor. The thirty-second walk seems like a lifetime.

Whatever's waiting for me behind those doors, I know it's not going to be good. In all probability, President Snow is going to personally strip me of my title and the little reputation I might still have left, humiliate me publically and maybe even try and torture any information out of me he thinks might be valuable. And when he finally comes to sign my death sentence and order my execution to be carried out, he will have made me the perfect warning example.

The Head Gamemaker who showed mercy. The message is simple: gamemaking plus humane thinking equals GAME OVER.

I guess in a way I always knew my job would eventually get me killed. That as far as the Capitol's concerned, a disappointing Gamemaker is just as easily disposable as each of the 24 Tributes from the Districts. It didn't stop me from signing up for it, though. I was so cocky and self-confident, and so blissfully blind to the true, twisted nature of the entire concept of it, that even though I knew death was pretty much the inevitable outcome, I always figured that rather than the destination, what actually mattered more was what would happen on the journey. I was determined to make sure that instead of a single inevitable lapse in judgment that would no doubt land me in the death row sooner or later, I would be remembered for all the magic and genius I could conjure up for the entertainment of the people of Panem until that. They would come to know me as the Gamemaker who created some of the greatest, most exceptional and unforgettable arenas in the history of the Games.

That's what I spent my whole life aiming at. Always the 'great' things. Never the right ones.

I come to a halt at the doors. I know I have nothing left to lose, and I briefly consider fearlessly confronting the President, giving him a piece of my mind and giving him the finger by going down swinging. But that wouldn't really make a difference, would it, and it certainly wouldn't serve anyone else's best interest. So I will stick to my story of basing all my decisions exclusively on the aim of creating good, thrilling television entertainment 'til the very end. Which, when you think about it, is actually pretty much exactly what I was doing: giving the people the show they wanted, the grand finale they'd talk about for years, and the only outcome they would accept. If Snow wants my life, fine, he can have it, since he's pretty much had it all along anyway. But I'm not going to hand him any more of those of others on a plate, because God knows I'm already responsible for the loss of way too many lives as it is. I seem to have finally come to realize it myself as well.

The Peacekeepers open the doors and I walk through, expecting to find myself face to face with the President inside. But the room's empty. And the shiver that runs down my spine tells me it's exactly how Snow wants it. In the middle of the room stands a small table, but before I manage to take a closer look, I hear the doors closing behind me, and though I turn around and tentatively pull one of the handles, I already know they're locked and that I won't be leaving this room. Not alive, anyway.

I turn back to take in the space once more and step closer to the table, which, I now notice, has a crystal bowl standing on it. A crystal bowl filled with berries. For a split second, I just stand there and stare at it. And then I completely freeze and experience a strong, invisible pressure around my windpipe, as comprehension dawns on me. Not just any berries. Nightlock.

Despite the sudden, crushing weight on my chest, I can't help sneering. Point taken, I muse. Well played, Mr. President. Milking the irony to the fullest. And to top it off by graciously allowing me to do the honours myself? Yes, the joke's on me, alright.

But the thing is, I'm not sorry. I'm not sorry for making the choice I'm being crucified for, the 'mistake' I'm paying for with my life. It was the only thing that made any sense, letting both of the Tributes from Twelve live. It was the only way for these Games to have a winner and yes, it was also goddamn good television. Besides, it was public demand, the happy ending for the initially tragic love story. People wanted them to get that, needed them to get that. So I allowed it. Whether it was for the audience's sake, the two Tributes' or my own, I don't know. But I did, and I'm not sorry for sticking my neck out and now consequently having to face the music by doing so. I don't regret following my own instincts, listening for the first time in a long, long time to that haunting gut feeling some people call one's conscience. What I do regret are the times when I could have, but didn't. When I should have, and didn't.

But crying over spilt milk doesn't change a thing, does it.

I pick up one single berry from the bowl and hold it up. I wonder what it feels like. Dying. And whether there's anything on the other side. Anything or anyone.

Guess I'll just have to find out.

I raise the berry to my lips. My life flashes before my eyes...