It was late at night when Zios Dragoon finished his letter to President Snow. He rubbed his weary eyes and closed the high-tech laptop shut. Raising his mug to his lips at an attempt to swig down some more coffee, he learned that his cup was empty with a look of dismay on his face. This instance had occurred about seven times already, and realizing that he would have to send the letter in the morning due to the creeping sense of fatigue working its way up his spine, Zios breathed a sigh mixed with accomplishment and discontent. The wizened man opened his bag, meticulously placing his laptop, notes, and a few assorted items inside. Rising from the chair with a groggy groan, he wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and made his way to the door with a limping gait. Scanning the room one last time to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything, Zios shut the door, locked it, and clambered down the hall.

He passed by the offices of his fellow gamemakers, but his was much more grand with his prestigious title of Head Gamemaker blazoned on the oak door. As he walked, his footsteps made staccato beats against the tile floor and he felt the sense of accompaniment. Shrugging of this vague presage of danger, he continued on his way, eventually reaching the main door of the establishment. Heaving the giant front door of the Games Department open, Zios Dragoon slipped out into the night, letting a knife of moonlight into the building's foyer. The moonbeam was soon cut off as the door slammed shut, in a rather definitive manner. Looking back at the building, Zios shook his head, the emotional context of the games more clear in his old age. Zios learned that you couldn't survive the position of Head Gamemaker by being a ruthless commander; you had to be careful and watch your words, and certainly pay attention to every fine detail of the game. It was notions like these that filled his head as he limped down the steps with his almost as ancient cane for assistance.

True to the rumors, Zios was older than President Snow, and the two had known one another for over twenty years. Zios's father Ares had been an excellent Head Gamemaker and the position was passed down to his son when he died of natural causes long ago. Zios had been Head Gamemaker for eighteen years now, and as of late he had started to decline in his practice and increase in his stupor. Zios Dragoon was aging, and fast. He knew his fate was inevitable, but if you do a good job then Snow lets you off easy. There had been a string of unsuccessful gamemakers before his grandfather, Rydelle. The nation had filtered through five Head Gamemakers within eight games and Snow's father had finally found his recipe to perfection with the Dragoon family. Rydelle produced Ares who produced Zios and for the last thirty-two years the Hunger Games had been managed by careful and cunning hands.

Zios believed his friendship with Snow was escaping him. His mental decline was obvious, Zios had to wait until he was nearly fifty to become Head Gamemaker and now at age sixty-seven, Zios was starting to dull. Snow was not oblivious to this, and Zios believed that for his services he would be let down kindly opposed to the macabre ends that are depicted by tales of games before the Dragoon family took over. Zios had just finished writing his old friend and employer a letter, hoping to ease the concerns of the arena and the dubiety of the games. The letter was saved on his laptop, and tomorrow morning Zios planned to write it out and hand it to him in person, when they met for the pre-games banquet at Snow's estate. Almost to his luxury car, one that wasn't sold to the public, Zios breathed heavily from the walk, his physical limits were shortening as well. Reaching out to grab the handle of his car, Zios never heard the shot.

Crashing to the ground instantly, Zios crumpled in a heap at the foot of his car. The bullet had lodged deeply into the side of his skull, and the blood starting seeping out quickly. His snowy white hair and grey cloak were stained with shades of cerise and the Head Gamemaker was dead before he had hit the ground. The laptop had broken when it hit the pavement with Zios's loss of control, and the letter to the President was erased from existence.

Dolora Prewitt was sound asleep in her comfortable king size bed secluded in the midst of her manor. She wasn't snoring, but a deep sleep controlled her that was suddenly shattered like glass does when victim to a hammer. The telephone rang, its steady buzzing making Dolora startle in her sleep and almost jump out of bed. She threw back the purple velvet sheets and her matching kimono scrunched up as she adjusted her body to an upright position. She picked up the phone on its fifth ring.

"Miss Prewitt?" the voice on the other end asked, one she did not recognize.

"This is she," the woman sighed, thinking her sleep had been interrupted by some midnight telemarketer.

"This is President Snow," the voice stated coldly.

Her heart stopped, the President never spoke to the other gamemakers. He dealt directly with the Head Gamemaker, who relayed his messages to the others. Dolora made silent prayers, trying to remember any error she had made in the past few weeks.

"Oh Mr. President, good evening," she tried to sound cheery, hoping she was in his favor.

"Well its past evening, and it certainly isn't good," the President replied.

"Might I inquire as to why?" Dolora didn't know where civility met disrespectful.

"Zios Dragoon was shot tonight; he died before he hit the ground. It brings me great sadness to bring this news to you, but I feel as your president and employer it is only right I do so. The pre-games banquet has been postponed to deal with this crisis and I trust we shall all work together to make this the finest set of games...in memory of our dear departed Zios," the President relayed the news, pausing before he included the apparently compassionate vignette.

Dolora felt like she had been cut down. Zios was dead? There was no way, not when the games were so close. Who was going to fill his position? There was so much going on in her mind that she forgot to say something back to the president.

"Miss Prewitt?" the President said once more.

"Sorry," she breathed, "Sir," she added. "Is there going to be a funeral?"

"Tomorrow, the arrangements have already been made and I regret that I will see you at the Rose Gardens to bury him. It will take all of our strength to pull off these games now," the President sounded sincere, "Goodnight Miss Prewitt."

"Goodnight Mr. President," she said. The phone line went dead and Dolora slowly placed the phone down on its receiver. She did not go back to sleep.

The Rose Gardens were full of attendees that morning. Cameramen plagued the verdant sanctuary, capturing every move for the capitol to see. Caesar Flickerman was making a live report while the guests tried their best to mingle and discuss the brilliant life of Zios Dragoon. Some of the notable guests included Flickerman, who had just begun his career two years ago. The capitol ate him up and his charm and wit moved an audience to tears and laughter all within one sentence. Barnabas Templesmith was present, he had just retired from the games announcing business and this was the first year that his son Claudius would be announcing the games. Claudius possessed a high forehead, and he and Flickerman were already becoming close friends. President Snow was of course present, it was his garden after all. White roses hung from the bushes, accompanied by variations of pink and red, ranging from light shades of pearl to deep hues of crimson. The gardens provided a perfect place for a funeral.

Funerals work differently in the capitol. Bodies are not buried, but put on public display at somewhere nice and sociable, like the Rose Gardens or the Sky Tower. After the wake, everyone left and the mortician took the body to one of the many mausoleums, where they were stored in their casket in a sort of filing cabinet system. The procedure was simple, but different from traditional styles of postmortem fashion. People didn't wear black to funerals either. Everyone came in their best collections of exotic clothing and celebratory hues. Neon colors were rampant amongst the raiment of the guests, except for President Snow and Archibald Greaves. Snow had a simple periwinkle suit with a white tie and white shoes, while Greaves was donned in his classic all-white ensemble. The two looked out of place in this crowd of eccentric clothing. It was a sight, to be in the wrong when you wore relatively normal clothing, but what is normal in the capitol?

Dolora Prewitt was standing with President Snow, her purple gown matching her lavender hair. She wore a black fur coat around her dress and a soft application of lipstick the same color as her hair graced her lips and similar eye shadow and mascara around her eyes. Everyone filed past the body, murmuring goodbyes and grievances and departed as the cameras rolled. Nothing was private in the capitol, not even your death. President Snow watched with a keen eye as he witnessed every individual expel their misery and move along. When the last of the crowd died down, Snow gathered the game makers and a few other individuals together.

"If you will follow me into a deeper part of the garden we can view the last will and testament of Zios Dragoon," the President instructed everyone to accompany to him to a certain place that was fringed with white roses. The gamemakers were cluttered together while two women, one young and one old stood off to the side.

President Snow unfurled the withered parchment in his hand and coughed before he began, "To Verna Billingsley, I leave my estate. She was the closest friend I ever had and I trust her with all the faculties I used to possess. A word of parting, do not despair for me but continue to live on in the bright manner I knew you for." The older woman smiled and her eyes became misty as she realized the extent of Zios's gift. Holding a white handkerchief to her eyes, she dabbed away tears and Snow continued.

"To Glamour Glitzing, I leave the extent of my fortunes. Every penny I possess that doesn't find form in land or item shall be given to Ms. Glitzing. As the one who showed me there was nothing to fear and everything to admire, I give her this." The younger woman smiled appreciatively and gave a tight squeeze to Verna, the older woman next to her. The two women appeared gratified at the wealth coming their way.

"As to my gamemakers, one of you must now fulfill the role I have left behind," President Snow paused for effect, "That of Head Gamemaker. Now, as of the time of my death, if the following name still bears a title of life to go with it and an occupation as a gamemaker of the Games Department, then I appoint,"

President Snow's eyes widened for half a second as he read the next words in his head, and then looked up at Archibald Greaves coldly and quietly. "Dolora Prewitt." Snow read the words in a fading tone. Archibald looked down at Dolora, who clasped a hand to her heart in disbelief. She didn't see it then, but Archibald's eyes seemed to flicker with hatred, and cold malice budded in him that day, like a noisome weed riddled with thorns. Archibald Greaves furrowed his brow, came to a dissembling resolve, and was the first to congratulate Dolora. The other gamemakers, obviously stupefied, shook hands with Dolora and she almost forgot to smile at them. Snow dismissed the gamemakers that had no tie to the will, including Archibald Greaves, along with Verna and Glamour. That left President Snow and Dolora alone in the Rose Garden.

"Miss Prewitt," Snow began, "I am going to let you know that the stories told of days when the games were rather…anticlimactic, that the government, mainly my father, orchestrated the timely demises of the Head Gamemakers. I hold no view different than my father, and although I haven't had to, I will cut you down if the prelude to my Quarter Quell leaves a sour taste in the mouth of the nation. You have been given a duty, unprecedented but demanding of your full attention. You will make sure these games go smoothly with the absence of Zios or I will do for it you. Are we clear?" The Presidents words were icy and unforgiving.

"Crystal," Dolora said brightly. The confidence on the outside drastically differing from what she actually felt on the inside, Dolora almost cried out the looming question. Why did Zios pick her? Archibald was obviously prepared for the job. She just couldn't think of what she did to bring her into Zios's favor.

"With this in mind, I will let you know, not I, nor any other element of the government was responsible for the death of Zios Dragoon," Snow said.

"You're saying he was murdered?" Dolora asked skeptically.

"Zios was a friend of mine, and the plans for this year's games are polished to perfection. I would not take his life when he was proving so useful," Snow made his supposed friend sound more like a tool.

"Walk with me," Snow ordered.

The pair reached the entrance to the Rose Gardens, and Snow turned to face his companion.

"I think you'll do just fine," he looked her up and down, his chestnut beard blowing in the afternoon breeze that was whipping up. "Be at the Games Department first thing tomorrow morning, you'll be taking a trip to the arena. You need to see what you're responsible for after all. Upon your return you'll be given Zios's old office and a new assistant. Flickerman wants an interview from whoever won the spot, which would be you, around two o'clock in the afternoon and then there are the reapings to watch. You've got a lot of work to do Dolora; I'd suggest finding a good psychiatrist." President Snow smiled gravely, his aura of dark power masked by the cheery façade. Dolora smiled back and after a brief awkward moment, she slipped out the gate to the Rose Gardens and out onto the street.

"Oh, and Dolora!" President Snow called, "I'm aware your son is sick."

The words killed Dolora's alacritous getaway and her breath stopped traveling up her throat. Her lungs tightened as she turned and with dry lips she managed to conjure up a reply,

"He'll be better soon."

"I'm sure he will," the President bid her goodbye and with those bone chilling words, disappeared into the sanctuary of the roses. Feeling contempt and jealousy for Zios all in the same breath, Dolora could only think one thing. He must be glad to be dead.

Well, I thought I would take the liberty to expand the plot of Dolora Prewitt and the life of the Gamemakers, particularly Zios and Dolora. With the Head Gamemaker murdered by someone who isn't President Snow and the capitol in a frenzy over the homicide and the upcoming games, Dolora is in a tight spot. Plus, Snow knows Matthew's sick, which will play in later, along with the assassination of Zios.

I was feeling a bit bored with the reapings, feeling they were becoming repetitive. I sat down and intended this to be the District Eight reapings, but I couldn't type anything up and I want to do the tributes justice. Well, be sure to visit the forums, vote in the poll, leave a review, and keep reading! Reviews are what make me want to write more, so they are always appreciated! Thanks to all who even take the time to just read and the district eight reapings will be up sooner than you think.

Additionally (I know, bit of a long A/N) after putting my Mario Apprentice story on hiatus, I have also elected to put my Mole fiction on hiatus as well. I want to hone my writing skills and make this story the very best it can be, so expect more frequent updates due to the sole dedication to this story.

Happy Hunger Games and May the Odds be Ever in Your Favor :D

-AdmiralBobbery