YEAR 2159 - ALEJANDRO MCKANT

The President's office was a room of dark ideas and unsure intentions, infused with the swollen dirtiness that one would expect of a man who really didn't have to bathe much to gain his respect. The Capitol's designated leader was a guy who called himself Water, though the people of Panem all knew that that was simply an alias. Walter Grenritch, a man with a nasty combover wallowing in grease, each and every hastily-combed strand glistening with both sweat and a special hair serum that was undoubtedly a product plug for something.

He had matching yellow teeth, crusted with the remnants of white plaque buildup, and every time he smiled, it reminded you of something dead. Of a person who tried too hard, or didn't know what he was doing right away. This Watler Grenritch, the designated president, was a man who hadn't memorized the blueprints. And Alejandro could have sworn that he just had a jar of ideas that he kept hidden in a shelf inside that old, oaken desk he was leaning over. A cup labeled 'plans', overflowing with torn-up shreds of yellowed paper, colored the shade of honeysuckle, that he could just shove a hand inside of a yank out his next plan for action.

He was one of those men whose hand Alejandro McKant would only take a hold of if he had to. And even then, he knew that he mind would only be coursing through the number of explanations as to why the president had such a greasy substance coating his wrinkly palm. Any man or woman who stood in the president's office on this day was a representative of one of the political parties that composed Panem. Save for their sons, of which Alejandro was one. Bring Your Son To Work Day was a classic item in the Capitol - have a relative manipulate your work and possibly be an even worse detriment to your future; it was a stellar opportunity, don't get it misunderstood. But on today, of all other times, BYSW was an occasion that should have been postponed.

Every talk that rocketed through the room felt like a bullet whizzing over Alejandro's head, and he just wanted to smoke. The thoughts in his mind fluttered to overbearing pictures of heavy glass bulbs and a lighter, the bulb filled to the fullest with ivory crystal rocks, glistening, shifting with Alejandro's swift movement of the hand, clear smoke like steam wafting from the tube's long neck, making the hairs on the surface of Alejandro's neck spring to life. The conversations where he sat consisted only of death. Death here, death there, death, because at this pace, it was coming for him. A spark of panic rustled and groaned from the sheer core of his chest. Alejandro smoothed a hand over his sweat.

Dad: "Then we'll make them kill each other! Sir, a mass execution won't —"

"Are you raising your voice at me, Mr McKant? Because your son —" a fierce push forward of a greasy finger had Alejandro glaring at the president when he shouldn't have, because pointing, regardless of who you were, was stinkin' rude, "— is right there, right within the area of a blood splash. We shoot you now, not only does he get to watch, but he gets to feel it."

Alejandro's father had his thigh pressed to his son's shoulder, he was standing so close. He watched his father's eyes soften, the corners of his mouth wrinkling in distaste, and even his mustache appearing to furrow in some sort of fright at president Grenritch. His father almost sat back down, but he didn't, no matter how loudly Alejandro was mentally screaming at him to be quiet.

Alejandro let his eyes settle near the collar on his father's glistening suit, where a pendant of a fiery alligator-like creature snarled at him, white teeth shining with a detailed image of saliva, speckled with red met, the remnants of a devoured creature that lay, now, within the creature's stomach. The pendant was large — big enough that, as Alejandro stared at it, he could imagine the thing wriggling to life and wrestling from its position to gnaw feverishly on the stubble that made the sparkle appear over his father's neck. Oh, dear, daddy was sweating now. Alejandro stifled a warm sigh. It was better to keep disdain like this to himself.

Insults shot through the room and ricocheted from corner to corner,and Alejandro's eyes caught a gleam inside them, reflecting the blue in them, shining with something like a betrayed innocence as his gaze fluttered over Grenritch's thumb as he fingered his automatic weapon. It sat just before Alejandro on the desk. The black metal was intimidating, sleek like a new car, reeking of the smell of the President and his father's sweat. At last, Grenritch dragged his big doe eyes from Alejandro's father.

It was another man challenging the president now, shouting things like "don't let them make an arena," and other pointless things of the sort that didn't make a difference to Alejandro's lifestyle either way. As he studied the man and his small counterpart, Alejandro's fingers picked nervously at the skin at his wrist from beneath his suit cuff. Itch, itch, nervous twitch, and as his teeth bit together, a symptom of withdrawal, he could only feel happier that Mr. Flowers' son looked like he might have even worse problems.

Really — Alejandro wouldn't lie. He wasn't a judgmental douche. The kid looked messed up. Angular face, a bulb-like oily nose with more grease per square inch than all of the grease on the president's head. His eyes were powdery, like chalk, the sites of his eyes seeming to bleed into his light blue irises. He had large, knob-like ears and his ears were a straight and tired like. He had brown hair like old pepper. He looked just like his father.

A breathless voice shoved itself from the depths of a gulping windpipe blurted from a pair of slimy lips that were thin like worms, with a serpent's fork of a tongue poking out and moistening the horribly chapped flesh as the pure image of panic did acrobatics over Mr. Flowers' face. He seemed about ready to scream and rush from the room in a terror whirlwind. "Then make it a game, make it — make it a game," he urged the president. Walter blanched momentarily. It was his turn to lick the sweat from his mouth.

"A game?" The president queried. Exhaustion peddled in his voice.

"A game, yes."

"Why, what do I need... with a game, Mr. Flowers?" President Walter looked exasperated. His hand folded itself in half, and the wrinkles creased hardly over his palm, shivering, quaking as he brushed it over the indentations of sweat atop his forehead, and his voice shook. It looked like nobody would ever learn what he had wrong with him besides a dictatorial mentality.

The weird kid's father shook within the confines of his suit. He used a single finger, almost a talon-like appendage of his, to shift the collar of his undershirt for a short burst of the cool air that suffocated the room. "Reap the players — participants, whatever. Younger than 10 years; older than twenty." The childish 'Okay?' was hidden from his spoken words, but it shook in time with the waver of his hand as he brought it down to his side and rattled the small pamphlet of papers in his grasp. Alejandro watched his motions steadily as the politician pulled up his arm again. His crusted fingernail was pointing at Alejandro, scratched and bitten all to hell. "You can start the reaping with him."