A/N: New story.. R&R with any ideas, criticisms etc!
I shift through the stacks of paperwork on my desk, filtering each layer with a slick, manicured finger. Secrets. The very thing this stack possesses. Snow, the Games, the rebellions. Each sliver holds its own story that is bubbled and tainted by the big man himself; pocketed in a deep closet with the rest of his self created nightmares. The weight of life under the weight of control. The precise vision of the Hunger Games themselves.
"Seneca Crane to Rose Room. Your last interview awaits," a voice coos to me over an unseen speaker.
My leather shoes grab the glossy floor as I make my way to my long awaited position. The broad study I walk through creates a scene that is the picture image of this job. The secretive whispers. The smutty stares of envy disguised as indifference. The quiet swish of the larger than life chairs as they swivvel; a precedent of required respect.
Cracking open the opaque glass door, I stride into the room of unseen horrors. President Snow in his full glory, investing his valuable time into something so seemingly ordinary. White roses are known for their ability to reflect perfection, and as it appeared, that is acutely what this man was striving for with this old tradition. To perfect the Games to total control; a mass execution for entertainment.
"Have a seat, Mr. Crane. I believe we have several matter to discuss," Snow hissed.
His face reflected such a strong beam that I had to put on a facade of confidence. I rooted my body into the chair, readying myself for the bullets I would have to dodge.
"I agree. I am told that you have a very important position that may soon be in my hands," I speak with a hint in my voice.
"Ah, yes. Head Gamemaker. Quite the title I do say. To what lengths do you think a man may go to acquire it, may I wonder?"
I rub the ever slight stubble on the tip of my chin and lean back in my plush throne. The expectations were apparent. I was to drop out of all family matters. Make myself adjacent to determination. To ready myself to complete the most daunting of designs.
"Send the paperwork down to my office. I know what I need to do. I think we can safely say after our past few meetings that I am ready to get to work."
"Excellent," President Snow replied, "I'll have it sent right down. Thank you for your cooperation. Now, as your first act of initiation, I will personally present to you your goals and requirements. A history of the games is also in order. Please meet me in the auditorium in precisely 25 minutes. I will be waiting."
Snow slithered gracefully out of his chair and steadily marched to the door. He turned around.
"Oh, and Crane? One step and Alexandria becomes unknown."
I nod in understanding. When he finally exits, I gulp a breath of air. My drive, my love. Yes. She is the reason behind my unbeknownst terror of Snow. Her life is resting indirectly in my hands; in the delivery of my crimes.
I walk briskly back to my office, through the grandeur and aristocracy of the President's mansion. Dragging my feet through the feeling of compressed gelatin, I reluctantly open the door to the oh-so-familiar workspace I've been allotted the past three years. I take my seat and sign the forms, putting my life in the hands of my work. The door swishes open and the man that appears introduces himself as my attendant. I glide across the red velvet walkway to meet him. This is the end of my safe, desirable life. I am now Head Gamemaker for the 74th Hunger Games.