AN: I'm doing another SYOT! The last one didn't go so great, but here's to trying again. Info is on my profile and in the AN below if you wanna skip to it.

Remus Aurelius, 57, President of Panem

But if the earth ends in fire
And the seas are frozen in time
They'll be just one survivor
The memory that I was yours
And you were mine

Remus Aurelius sits at his desk, thumb and forefinger on his brow. A fire burns in the corner, flickering blue and orange with the chemicals that are embedded in the wood. Fire is mostly a curiosity of the old days now, but Remus still finds something beautiful in the tongues that lick and crackle over the wood. The sound calms him as he thinks.

The cards are fanned out in front of him, crisp white paper stamped with black. Endless possibilities laid out in front of him, life and death carved in onyx letters onto the soft marble of the paper. One sheet plucked, a few words muttered, and the Districts plunged into chaos.

He shoos the Avox away and looks through the cards. They range from the benign and the standard to the ones that actually prick his interest. His eye is caught by a few words on one. In a show of the Capitol's great mercy in allowing the Districts to live, the Hunger Games will not proceed for this year. Hmm. He picks it up and flicks it into the fire.

To save, or to damn. He runs his fingers over the smooth white lines, dragging on a few that catch his fickle interest. To remind the Districts how the rebellion affected the youngest among them, reap only from five to twelve year-olds. Reap from the existing pool of Victors. Segregate by gender, by tessera or wealth.

He leans back in his chair, unsatisfied. Of course, many of these are suitably awful for a Quell. He's leaning towards the five year-olds one, now wouldn't that tear them apart. Still, it's not- different. It's still just the same pain, same push, same whip brought down on their wretched backs. A Quell should make them suffer and toss and turn for weeks, should drive families apart with he strain, the memory of it should hang in the air for weeks and twist their guts and darken their eyes with shame.

Even with his surgeries, it's doubtful that Remus will see another Quell. He's brushing sixty, and playing chess with the Districts isn't a game that guarantees a long lifespan. These Games need to be different. They need to be spectacular, need to bring delight to the Capitol and suffering to the Districts in the same stroke, need to be the ones to be talked about for years to come. They need to be extraordinary. Just like him. Just like-

There's a click behind him as the door to his room opens. There's only one person in Panem who would dare to enter his private chambers without knocking, and he greets her with open arms.

Narcissa Aurelius, First Lady of Panem and the greatest decision he ever made, strides into the room, neck held high, swathed in gold and furs. One arm draped in silk, the other bionic and made of gold-leaf stainless steel, embedded with rubies. She lost it in the rebellion. He stands up and takes her metal hand, their silent, unspoken communication flicking between them in everything from their eyes to their hold to the cards on the table.

Her eyes, violet and burning, score over the cards, and a single eyebrow arches. Have you chosen? He sighs, and shakes his head.

She sweeps into the chair, drawing her furs up around her, and puts a hand on his.

"Some of them are decent," he says, gesturing to the ones he's picked out. "But there's nothing-" he trails off, struggling to articulate himself. He knows she'll pick up on the feeling too.

She murmurs a reply, shifting through the cards.

"The point of the Quarter Quell is to make the Districts want to rebel all over again. That way it crushes them twice as hard when they can't." That was what he'd said when he had proposed the idea of the Quell, all those years back at the negotiation table. It keeps the horror fresh even when the bodies aren't.

"No," Narcissa says, and he stares up at her, bemused. He can't remember the last time they've disagreed on- well, anything.

"It's not enough to just make them suffer," she says, her voice taking on an almost breathless, succulent tone, lilting at the ends like the schoolgirl she once was. Her lips, rouged and full, roll around the words, drinking them in, slicing them fine and here, here is the woman Remus fell in love with. Here is the woman who managed to kill two dozen rebels as a Peacekeeper before the scum took her arm and still took two of them down with her when she was being tortured, who discovered a way to poison Eight's water supply, who almost single-handedly pulled off the Rape of Eleven and crushed the rebellion in the east. Here is the woman he married.

She scatters the cards across the table with her metal hand, and picks up a pen with the other.

"I'm bored of them just hating us," she says, crushing the words like jewels in her mouth and letting the juices flood and drip down her chin. Her hand works below, scrawling words on the back of a card. "Let's make them hate each other."

He sees what she's written, and loves her.

In order to remind the Districts of their choice to incite violence, the male and female tributes will be voted on by their fellow citizens.

AN: So, here we go! It's a 25th Quarter Quell, if you hadn't guessed. Rules and form are on my profile, and I'm looking forward to seeing your tributes. Submissions will close on the 20th of July, or when I get enough tributes.

Some questions, if you feel like reviewing this chapter

1. What did you think of Narcissa and Remus? Do they remind anyone else of Frank and Claire Underwood? Because I may have lowkey based them off them.

2. What did you think of the whole chapter?

Looking forward to receiving submissions!

-Amie