Gilbert Mikhail, President of Panem:

Straightening my tie in the mirror, I listen to one of my assistants recite my speech as though to magically transfer it into my head. I tend to speak better off the cuff, but they're trying to do their best to help me. I'm trying to do my best to help them too, even if they don't know it quite yet.

People have trouble understanding what I say when I talk about my vision for Panem. They assume that being President means I'm an all-powerful despot who just can't wait to steal their money and stash it in my dragon hoard, bathing in champagne and eating sugary tea cakes in a gold-tiled bathroom while they and their families starve. The truth is that it doesn't work the way they imagine.

I had some fairly progressive policies, even before I rose to my current position, and I was so idealistic that everything would turn out right the first time. I was having a swell go of it until it dawned on me that there were challenges still to face, the first being public support. Just because I was willing to relinquish a life of luxury in favor of a more fair and equal future for all of Panem didn't mean other people in the Capitol would. When I was interning at the office of Former President Kirkwood, I first encountered what would become my biggest obstacle in inciting reform.

I had watched as Panem's hundred-strong senate assembled in a marble courtroom, and people in shiny rings and gold sandals and maroon wraps with mink trim snapped their fingers at me and made unreasonably degrading demands. "Fetch me a bit of chartreuse," one had said, "And bring it to me on a silver tray, and serve it to me one one knee with your head bowed or I'll have you made an avox, boy!"

The senators have never liked me, and I have never liked them. The last thing I wanted to do was try to curry favor with a bunch of stuffy old people who chewed with their mouths open. They always talked poorly about me, said that I had slept my way to the top, but that wasn't at all what happened. I am simply a person who climbed the government ranks through a mixture of hard work, smoooth negotiation, and dumb luck. President Kirkwood liked me because I had asked a lot of questions when she came to my school for a lecture. She offered me a summer job to fetch and carry for her, and I was her confidante about government matters, working behind the scenes up until her death, at which point she proclaimed me the next President of Panem.

I was surprised more than anybody, but I have a knack for giving speeches, so people began to respect me as I learned. Once I learned that my friends from university were in line for government positions, I was thrilled. I thought that maybe I would finally have a clear shot at serius change, but the senators just got more agitated.

Now, Lucent, Jess, and I are all just waiting for them to die off. I suspect their numbers will begin to drop in the coming years, but as much as I hate them, I would never kill them off. I don't like the whole culture of brutality that surrounds the Capitol, and it makes me feel so guilty to be complicit in death.

Take Langston Arquette, for example. His 399th Hunger Games were a colossal failure that provoked outrage I had never seen before. People, both District and Capitolite, rioted in the streets that something had to be done about the Head Gamemaker, and the Senate was afraid that a full-scale rebellion would take place. Reluctantly, I had agreed, and ordered that Arquette was to be shot in secret, then informed the public in a press release that he died of a sudden onset of lung illness. It gave Lucent her dream job, sure, but I was sad it had to be under such morbid circumstances. I would much rather have promoted her after he retired instead, but the pressure was too great.

The Hunger Games are upsetting to watch, and to officiate also, but they're a relatively small price to pay in exchange for the senators staying calm and not suddenly implementing more oppressive legislation. It's going to take decades to actually impact Panem in a meaningful, enduring way, so for now I get to stay looking like the bad guy.

I've become the person outer district citizens blame for their suffering, and I can't fault them for that. Half the things I say are patronizing, but condescending to them is the only way the senators are willing to openly lend credence to me, and it's a necessary evil that I need to perpetuate in order to get things done. It's not easy, but it beats you down after a while, when it feels like no progress is actually being made.

"Mister President?" A young assistant hands me a black leather portfolio with some prewritten talking points. "Mister President, you're on in five." I run my hand over the soft peaks my personal stylist put in my hair earlier as I check for the third time that my shoes are tied properly. Lucent and Jess knock lightly on the doorframe, entering my dressing room without waiting for a response.

Lucent laughs as Jess attempts an awkward shoulder hug, sucking in his stomach so he doesn't rumple either of our suits, and she hikes up her dress and fusses with her pantyhose. "I should not have worn these," she grumbles. "They've already got a run and they're itching like crazy."

"Luce, you do have your speech, right?"

"Of course." She holds up a portfolio identical to mine. "And Jess has his. We're ready to go whenever you get your self-critical ass up from that chair." She swats at my hand, scolding me gently for messing with my skin to make sure my acne is sufficiently hidden under a generous layer of makeup.

"Mister President, Mister Head Peacekeeper, Madam Head Gamemaker, we're a go in ten...nine...eight…" warns my assistant.

"Thank you." I flick an invisible mote of dust from my collar and walk with my friends to the heavy cherrywood doors that the Peacekeepers hold open for us. Lucent and Jess find their seats of honor as I situate myself in my place at the podium. I give the microphone a dull tap to make sure it's working, and chandelier lamps glitter on, dazzling me in an explosion of white light as an applause goes up in the amphitheatre, rippling around from my most fervent fans to the senators at the tail end, and once people have settled back into their chairs, I lean forward slightly, clear my throat, and hover over my microphone, hands gripping the sides of the lectern in what I hope makes me seem decisive, and not like somebody whose skin gets sweaty when he's anxious about speaking in front of the entire country.

"Good evening, fair Panemian citizens," I begin. A reverent silence cloaks the room, and all of a sudden, the crowd is enraptured.


Hey y'all! This was sort of a filler chapter, but it was a super fun one to write and I hope it helped you get to know the President a little better!

~LC :)