Hello friends! Welcome back!

Today we'll get to look at what has been going on inside the Junta government in District 2, as there is much information which is simply unknown to Capitolites like the man who wrote the articles in the first prologue. Plus, there will be a little special piece at the end as well. You'll get character POVs, yay!


Prologue 2: The New Nation

Give me just one generation of youth, and I'll transform the whole world.
-Vladimir Lenin


Vermeule Green: 45M
Junta Minister of the Arts


Green Residence
Saturday Morning
9:30AM

"Are you sure about all this?" Megan questioned for what must have been the thousandth time since the coup. "Ever since Jason…" her voice broke, sadness holding her words in. "Anyway, you've changed so much since then."

"I'm fine Megan," Vermeule replied without so much as a hint of a facial twitch.

A small cry came from the table. Baby Jayla waved her hands about wildly, and Vermeule smiled at her. It seemed Jason had been right about the gender of Megan's baby all along. Sadly, he didn't live to see the child's birth, and that thought alone was enough to get Vermeule's fist to clench. As his knuckles went white, Megan addressed him again.

"I worry about you," she said. "You've been through so much this past year, from Frank, to me, to the baby, to all this Junta stuff, and that's not even mentioning… you know."

She still couldn't bear to speak his name, even after all this time. Vermeule knew the relationship between herself and Jason had been quite close when compared to the average in-laws. Yet, he still lacked a great deal of context.

Jason was a private person, exceedingly so. It was something Vermeule regretted now, that he hadn't pushed Jason to be more open and welcoming to others – and to his own family especially. Given the regular verbal abuse he received from his brother Frank, Vermeule was not surprised Jason had become more and more private the longer he lived. His younger son eventually gave up any attempt at forming close relationships at all.

He didn't deserve any of that, and he certainly didn't deserve to die in the Hunger Games as a result of his inner turmoil. Jason was a headstrong boy, and he saw the Games as his one and only escape from the fury and frustration he felt at home. Partially, that pain inside him was Vermeule's fault. Oh, he had tried to calm Frank's anger, but had he really tried as hard as he possibly could have? Certainly not. Vermeule had been irate at the time – losing one's wife during childbirth created those feelings fairly quickly – thinking all manner of verboten thoughts.

It was a situation which was difficult to parse, and there were no clear rational answers to the questions which emerged. His second son was born – that was good – his wife died in the process – that was bad. Did he wish Jason was never born? No, of course not. What kind of father would he be if he thought such things?

"I appreciate your concern Megan," Vermeule said at last, spending far too long simply staring into his mug of black coffee. He drank from it; it was cooling now. "But I promise you, it's not necessary. I'll be okay. There's much work to be done, and that will keep my mind off the difficult things for now."

Megan nodded quietly, looking at baby Jayla. The little girl smiled widely, a toothless smile, but the happiest Vermeule had ever seen in his life. Perhaps everything was not so bad. War was surely coming, and times looked bleak, but there was not only despair. There was also hope. There was something good in this world that was worth fighting for.

His granddaughter's chubby cheeked smile helped him stand.

"Will you be at the opening of the palace today?" Vermeule then asked, dragging the focus to more immediate issues.

"I'll be there. I wouldn't miss it for the world. You've worked so hard on it, all of you. We deserve a bit of hope today. I think it would help the rest of us believe what we're doing is worth it."

"Bring Jayla."

"I will."

"I love you. You're the only child I have left Megan. It means a lot to me that you're still here."

"I love you too," Megan answered, the ghosts of tears forming in her eyes.

Vermeule departed in a much warmer mood than he thought possible, given the circumstances. Megan was impossibly strong. She had been through so much in her short life, an abusive husband, a nerve-wracking pregnancy, and to top it all off the death of a close family member. Vermeule was happy he was there with her, able to sympathize with the many calamities she suffered throughout life, as he had suffered similar trauma.

He turned his mind quickly to other matters, not wanting to become embroiled in darkness just before his big speech. The unveiling of the palace was matched in significance only by the day of the Blackshirt coup in terms of most important events of the last year in District 2. They would prove to the Capitol they were not to be trifled with. A new palace for the Dictator and members of his cabinet to conduct business in seemed rather irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, but really, it wasn't at all.

The construction of a grand work such as this would serve to inspire the population, and to inspire the leadership as well. Vermeule himself had commissioned the structure, calling the best architects in the district to design it. Their work was spectacular. He had seen it already, and he could only imagine how the citizens of District 2 might view it. It would remind them of the resplendent President's Palace in the Capitol, only further convincing them that District 2 was at least an equal of the Capitol. If their home was a spectacular place worth defending, they would fight for it with relish.

Vermeule did not particularly like to think in those terms, wielding the people like he might have wielded a sword up until a few short months ago, but he understood this was only one of many necessities when dealing with politics. Cato taught him this lesson, and Vermeule learned it backwards and forwards, inwards and outwards. Politics was only the word used to describe the battle between elites. The people only chose which elite to follow.

He exhaled slowly, entering his heavily guarded escort SUV. The guards, he knew well. One was a founding member of the Blackshirts, the others had all joined quickly after, and Vermeule selected them personally, not only because their talent in combat was superb, but also because they could be trusted. He also enjoyed their company.

"All ready for the speech today Mr. Green?" The driver asked, ironically enough, his name was Driver as well, a tall well-built young man with a chin chiseled from stone.

"I am," he said. "As far as I'm aware, in fact, we all are. Cassie has to speak. Hopefully she prepared something and she isn't planning to go off the cuff again."

The guards in the vehicle chuckled, but they did so nervously, and Vermeule didn't blame them. He knew Cassie Dawson before she entered the Hunger Games. He signed off on her position as volunteer personally, but she had never seemed like a complete psycho as so many volunteers were. Cassie was level-headed, a planner, and very passionate about protecting 'her people,' whoever she deemed them to be.

That passion had turned, it seemed. Perhaps it was her time in solitary confinement, or maybe it was just the Games that broke her. Either way, Cassie was not the kind and watchful protector any longer. Her rage knew know bounds, and her already present passion only served to inflame that rage. She loathed the Capitol, and she loathed the Capitolites. She wanted nothing more than to kill them all personally – which was mildly concerning in Vermeule's mind – but that resentment also made her a powerful ally. Just so long as their focus remained on the Capitol, Cassie would not be a problem.

"It will be a good day gentlemen," he continued. "Something great is happening here in District 2."

There was a chorus of agreement from his guards, making Vermeule smile. It wasn't so long ago that District 2 was the most Capitol occupied district in Panem, but in only months, it had become the least. That was all thanks to Cato; he was loved by the people like no other man Vermeule had ever seen. He had lived long enough to witness his fair share of politicians, but Cato was something different entirely.

When he spoke, the whole world seemed to hold its breath, crowds went so silent you could hear a pin drop, and the thunderous roars of approval he received were unmatched. More than once, Vermeule had taken the opportunity to observe how the crowd was affected as he spoke, and each one of them held in their eyes a wonderous adoration, like they were staring upon the form of a god. In a way, they were.

Finally, they came to the new palace. It had no name currently, as Cato was set to reveal it during his speech later in the day during the unveiling ceremony.

Nonetheless, it was beautiful, built from soaring pillars of marble and glassy obsidian, the sunlight shone off its surface. Lines of pure gold were inlayed in the pillars, creating magical patterns which appeared almost alive. The grand flag of the NSJ – a blue cross on a red background, marked with a white lightning bolt at its center and a black mockingjay in the top left corner – hung proudly from each gap between the pillars. There was an even larger one beneath the dome which formed the main structure of the palace.

The dome was massive, the only word Vermeule could think of to describe it, towering high above the road below with small extensions at the back and sides of the building. These were the various rooms and offices, all attached to the central amphitheater. Vermeule could only imagine what the roar of the crowd would sound like beneath the great dome. It would be deafening.

He simply could not wait for the festivities to begin, opening the door and exiting the SUV before the vehicle even stopped, much to the dismay of his guards. Already waiting at the bottom of the steps were Cassie, the Junta's Minister of Intelligence, and Alexandros, the High Commander of the Junta's Army. Cassie appeared simultaneously bored and impatient, while Alexandros held an easy smile on his face, the magnanimity of this day having an effect on him as well.

"Took you long enough," Cassie grumbled as he arrived.

"There was a time when I would have awarded you with a week of hard labor for speaking to me in that tone," Vermeule shot back with a smirk.

"Well, you're not the Head Trainer of the Academy anymore, and I'm not a cadet."

"You're not excited for all this?" Vermeule wondered with a knowing grin. "Not even a little?"

"There is so much more work to be done," Cassie answered sternly, her face not showing an ounce of emotion. "This is only a distraction from bigger things, much bigger things."


Cato Arsinius: 52M
District 2 Dictator


Unnamed Palace
Saturday Morning
11:30AM

Cato's hands idly patted against his knees in uneasy anticipation. Today was the single biggest event in his short political career, and he wasn't exactly excited for it all. The palace, which he would later name during his speech had been built, the construction well-hidden from any sources outside District 2. Were it known, certainly every newspaper in Panem would be reporting on it.

This day held great significance, not only because it was the first major accomplishment of his tenure as Dictator, but also because it was truly way of proclaiming District 2 as an entity entirely independent of the Capitol. His speech – and those of the members of his cabinet – would only confirm that further. It was quite a grand thing, though it wasn't exactly free of tension.

He rode in the back of a stretched limousine, two Blackshirts clothed in formal garb sitting in the front. Their uniforms were something admirable, designed by Vermeule, who saw a way to make them look far more professional than the ragtag group of idealistic youths they were originally.

The crowd gathered in the palace would surely be massive, far larger than any crowd he had ever spoken to before, and they were already primed to hear his words. Vermeule, Cassie, and Alexandros would have already spoken by now, as the last of them was supposed to wrap up at half past eleven. Glancing to his watch, Cato saw that it was one minute past the deadline.

For this occasion, he too was dressed in formal attire: a lengthy black coat over a neatly ironed button-up shirt and tie. He wore a gold mockingjay pin on his lapel, the bird clutching an arrow between its talons.

The Blackshirts on guard duty at this occasion wore similar clothing, only their coats were shorter. They also wore professional military hats and sabers at their hips. It was all very impressive, but it only grew more so as the limousine rolled up in front of the palace.

Before the obsidian steps and gold inlayed columns, there was a red velvet carpet stretching out nearly into the street. The NSJ flag flew between each of the columns, and smaller flags were waved by thousands upon thousands of people out in front of the palace, gathered eagerly to hear the words of their leaders. There were so many of them, in fact, that small rope barriers had been constructed on either side of the red carpet, preventing them from obstructing the path.

The limousine came to a stop, the guard in the passenger seat hopping out quickly to open the door for Cato. Now exposed to the public, Cato smoothed his cloak and began walking toward the steps to raucous applause. There were shouts of admiration, calls of patriotism, and many other similar things, along with many two finger salutes.

Cato sent the people on either side of the carpet a polite nod, walking between the rope barriers as his guards began marching just behind him, one on his left, the other on his right. Ascending the stairs, Cato was not surprised to be seriously challenged. Each step was perhaps two or three feet long, with an increase in height of nearly a foot at each consecutive stair.

They applauded him all the way, a dozen more guards waiting at the top of the stairs with their sabers drawn and held up to their noses almost. The pomp bothered him somewhat, making him feel self-conscious, as though he weren't really in his own body and some other man was walking toward the gargantuan dome. Was this really necessary, or was it pointless and pretentious? Perhaps it was both.

Cato saluted the guards at the top of the steps, each one equally spaced apart. Much time had been put into all of this arrangement by Alexandros and his many officers. Then, he walked through the archway into the foyer.

Its vaunted ceiling towered over him, obsidian columns lining either side of the path, and yet more people were packed in between the walls and the barriers. Cato waved to them; he received a chorus of adulation in return. He could understand how people became so addicted to public appreciation then, something he himself had understood in his youth but lost touch with over time.

More saber armed guards awaited him on either side of the heavy doors ahead. With a flourish, they stepped forth and pulled the doors aside, revealing the side hallway he was to follow to reach the speaking platform. This hall was constructed of marble, though an ornate silver and gold mockingjay with spread wings adorned the opposite wall just before the corner and what Cato knew to be the staircase to the platform. Blackshirts waited for him there too, each pair of them whipping their sabers upward to their noses as he passed.

Slowly, he emerged onto the platform, members of his cabinet and other honored guests turning to greet him with applause. Below the dome, everyone seemed small, yet – somehow – he still felt like a giant standing before the enormous crowd waiting below. They had been organized into neat rows and columns, Blackshirt guards standing periodically around the rotunda with sabers drawn to their faces. The sound was like a hurricane, or perhaps it was like a thousand lightning strikes taking place all at once.

As they cheered for him, an orchestra stationed on an equally large platform to their right began to play triumphantly to signal his arrival. The power and life in the music was matched only by the presentness of the crowd. They existed in this moment, and only in this moment, their attention entirely focused on HIM. It was a magnetic feeling, one he yearned for more of, but he warned himself too – a small voice at the back of his mind speaking to him while he shook Alexandros's hand – not to become overly enraptured in the all-consuming emotion.

For a brief moment he was surprised, as, among the honored guests were not only the members of his cabinet – along with a few others, artists, distinguished military officers, and so on – there was also Mikaela Latour, her dark hair done up in an ornate bun, her body clothed in a shimmering red dress.

"I didn't think you would be here today," Cato spoke quietly as he shook her hand, kissing her on each cheek to allow them to speak for a brief moment.

"I changed my mind," Mikaela replied, the smell of honey on her lips. "In an effort to form unity."

As Cato leaned back from her, his eyes narrowed slightly in confusion. 'Unity?' What could she possibly mean by that? The only unity which existed between the NSJ and the FPS was an opposition to the Capitol. There was no other UNITY.

Shaking the fog from his mind, Cato turned to the crowd then, approaching the podium. It, just like everything else in this palace, was beautifully adorned with obsidian patterns. He supposed decorating the podium with gold would have been just a little too far. Certainly, it would make it stand out in this palace where nothing was adorned with gold.

He waited a long time, a very long time before the crowd quieted down, their cheers finally subsiding as they fell into an attentive silence. Cato waited still longer, looking over them as they stared and shifted uncomfortably. He could feel their anticipation growing greater and greater the longer they waited.

Unable to remain still and quiet any longer himself, Cato launched a salute at the crowd, they replied in kind with a shout, then another round of applause. This time though, Cato held his hands up to them, directing them to quiet down.

"Is not our homeland great?" He asked, his voice powerfully reciting his memorized words. "Is it not great that this grand structure could be assembled entirely with products from our own home district?"

He received an answer in cheers and salutes, though he quieted them again.

"You see, this is what our enemies lack," Cato said, pointing outward in no particular direction. "The Capitolites in their squalor do not have the spirit to create such a piece of architecture as this. For, they are weak. They are soft and languishing, lacking the vitality of a hardworking and honest people as lives here in District 2!

"Much has been said of us these past few months by propagandists in the Capitol, yet none of it is true. They lie about us, about who we are and what we stand for. They would have their own subjects believe we are mere barbarians, simple-minded men and women who seek only to take that which is not rightfully ours. They believe they have built their wonderful home in the Capitol, and that we do not deserve a home of equal caliber.

"Yet, we know what they do not – or rather, what they will not declare openly, but know secretly in their innermost hearts. We know that the proud warriors of District 2 – and citizens of other districts as well, but particularly those who are from here – have already established a culture of equal standing – if not greater standing! – to that of the Capitol!"

He paused a moment as the audience applauded much more lightly than they had previously. Cato swallowed, took a deep breath and formulated the words of his speech in his mind, working out their order and cadence.

"This building is proof of that!" He continued, spreading his hands widely to gesture to the dome around them. "It shall be called the Obsidian Palace – I'm sure you can guess why – and, speaking as someone who has seen the President's Palace in person, I can say that it does not compare to this.

"Unlike the President's Palace, however, this palace will remain an open hall for all manner of occasions. This is a home for all, not merely for myself or any other leaders. Beneath this dome, those who are homeless, lost, and hopeless may rest their heads at night. Here, the people of our district can be safe, well-protected, and warm.

"This proves we understand what the Capitolites do not. We know – WE UNDERSTAND! – that we are ONE! And, when we stand as one, a powerful whole, our victory is INEVITABLE!"

With that, there was a deafening roar from below; there were loud cheers, and there was much applause. Cato looked over them with what he imagined to be a proud expression, as he considered for a brief moment that they just might have a chance of claiming complete victory after all. He did claim their victory was 'inevitable,' did he not? Perhaps he wasn't wrong when he made that claim.


Mikaela Latour: 34F
Revolutionary Leader


Obsidian Palace, Main Common Room
Saturday Evening
7:30PM

"Oh, but you should have heard her suggestions," Alexandros said, a smile spreading across his face. "A cobbler! You're going to spend your life making shoes Alexandros?! Why not pursue something more practical that will make us more money? Why don't you try to find work as a lawyer? I explained to her that I didn't have any legal education, and that I couldn't get any as long as she refused to work. She didn't listen of course, so I made shoes."

"And you haven't been married since?" Vermeule questioned, the only other member of their group who had been married before.

"No," he answered with a sad shake of his head. "I'm afraid Judith was the only wife I'll ever have. Remarrying at my age is a hassle. I'd suggest you do it now, while you're still young."

"I'm afraid my wife was the only one for me as well," Vermeule returned, matching Alexandros's expression. "I can't really say whether I'll ever get over losing her."

"I'm sorry," Mikaela offered her condolences as they sat in comfortable leather seats in the live-in wing of the palace. "To both of you."

It was well-known to her now, after having spent a few months around Vermeule Green, that he was quite different to his son. He possessed an artist's eye, and a sensitive man's heart. Jason had been so hard, so cold – from what little she had seen of him. There was a hint of tragedy about him, a kind man who once trained kids for gladiatorial combat who lost his wife during the birth of his prodigious son, a boy destined to win the Games, before – in the end – losing his son too.

There was a hint of tragedy about all of them really, men and women who had each gained the whole world – or nearly so – only to lose it all in horrific fashion. Yet, here they were, stooping down to build up their broken-down lives along with the whole of Panem itself. It was a beautiful thing, almost poetic.

"How did she die?" Cassie asked Alexandros rather bluntly.

The most recent victor of the Games lounged back in her chair, appearing rather exhausted – though Mikaela posited that was because of the topic of conversation, not because Cassie was particularly tired. She was tactless as ever, her victory in the Games and subsequent imprisonment really taking a toll on her.

Mikaela had once been angry about her victory, especially when Cassie personally attacked her during their meeting to supposedly 'rebel' against the Capitol – something they found out only to mean elect anti-Capitol governors. She did not hold such antagonistic feelings any longer, despite the girl's victory over her own mentees. Cassie held no animus against either Murchad or Eydis. In fact, she only tried to help them at every turn. Her victory had been hard-fought and well-earned.

In her time in District 2, Mikaela had seen Cassie to be both intelligent and effective as the Minister of Intelligence. She had recruited a team of elite Blackshirt volunteers to carry out her orders, but she insisted on doing fieldwork herself. Cassie loved her word, perhaps too much.

"Cancer," Alexandros answered. "It was difficult for a while, but I learned to survive on my own again. Say, Cato?" The general then turned to the Dictator who stood at the minibar, pouring glasses of scotch into glasses with neatly formed cubes of drinking ice. "Why haven't you been married? You'd certainly make a fine catch for any woman."

Cato didn't speak for a moment as he topped off the final glass, taking hold of two at a time to avoid dropping them. He handed glasses to herself and Cassie first of all, then he answered as he handed the men theirs.

"I wouldn't burden any self-respecting woman with my problems," he replied, grabbing hold of his own drink before joining them in the leather seats, taking the spot on the couch to the right of Mikaela, his glass propped up against the arm of the chair. "I'm damaged goods. It just wouldn't be right to pursue commitment."

"Damaged goods?" Alexandros wondered. "But you're a great man, honest, dependable. Why wouldn't you try to find love? It would make your life a hell of a lot easier, let me tell you!"

"I am getting old too, you know. You said you wouldn't try to find love again, citing your age as your excuse, why can't I say the same."

"Pah! You're not old lad, you're only just a kid!"

"I'm fifty-two, Alexandros."

"Indeed! Listen, you've still got time. Don't waste your chance now, because let me tell you, building a happy relationship is more rewarding than anything else you could possibly do."

Unfortunately, Mikaela knew his words to be true. She remembered her days in the arena with Vicente. They seemed like only yesterday, for their vividness was unparalleled. It was just the two of them, alone in the world, trying to survive an impossible challenge. No matter how hard she tried to push those memories away, she always found her mind drifting back to them in quiet and lonely moments.

"Let's just raise our glasses and drink already," Cassie pronounced frustratedly. "To a very successful day of parading around and talking about things that don't matter."

Mikaela shook her head and smiled. Cassie's unfiltered response split the tension like a spear piercing the skin of a tight drum. The others chuckled as well, raising their glasses to drink together.

They spoke of many other things then, mostly practical concerns, from the state of the army, to the new film Vermeule was funding, to the attempts of the CSIS to break into their borders and establish intelligence networks. It was all very bland discussion, but it needed to happen. The only question Mikaela had was: why was she here for this?

She sought asylum here in District 2 to escape the reach of the Capitol. She would have been happy to continue her work in peace, writing and thinking while the PNC organized in the east, but Cato had continually asked her advice, showing far more interest in cooperation than she initially anticipated.

Perhaps she could convince him to sponsor syndicalist rebels? But, what would he ask in return? She didn't see his endgame, and honestly, she wasn't sure that he had one. Cato was willful and resolute, but his plans weren't exactly clear. What would he do if he managed to bring down the regime in the Capitol?

After some time, they departed, Vermeule returning home to check on his daughter-in-law and her baby, Alexandros needing to be up early in the morning for training exercises, and Cassie for her own reasons. Cato cleared away the glasses, putting away the bottle of scotch and washing the cups in the sink.

"You're still here," he observed indifferently, his tone of voice not signaling his mood in any way whatsoever.

"Yes," Mikaela answered, standing across the bar from him, watching as his scarred hands scrubbed at the cups.

He was meticulous in his work, clean and effective as in everything he did. His face bore the marks of concentration, again showing his desire to complete every task – no matter how miniscule – perfectly. Cato's hair had grown longer over the months, now hanging in a sort of limp part across his face; his eyelids drooped, heavy bags forming beneath them; his beard was scraggly and unkempt. The attire he wore during his speech was impeccable, professional, yet his appearance in everyday life seemed anything but. He looked to be holding onto his sanity by a thread.

"You look tired," Mikaela said finally. "You should get some rest."

"I have some documents to look over, businesses wanting regulations changed to better suit their desires," Cato replied, putting the last cup back in the cabinet before turning to face her again.

He leaned against the counter, the muscles in his triceps sticking out prominently due to his positioning. Mikaela found herself wondering about these businesses, what their goals and aims were, and whether they could be trusted.

"Why don't I help you?" She asked, her hand rubbing at her neck idly. "Maybe an extra set of eyes would make the process easier?"

Cato glanced at her, his blue eyes pinning her down for a long moment. She did not understand why he remained so still or so quiet. His duties were taking a toll on him, almost certainly. Cato had never been much of an extravert in the time Mikaela knew him, but now he seemed more withdrawn than ever. She wanted to help him, to maybe remove that depressed look in his eye.

"Okay," he said.

They went together to his office, looking over the papers. Mikaela provided her advice, explaining to him how each business owner was attempting to take advantage of him, and in what ways. He nodded along, usually taking her advice, and following her recommendations, but he spoke very little.

Eventually he asked:

"Why are you doing this?"

His face was awash with confusion, the shadows in the room playing over the left half of his face. It was like a painting, the sort of scene one would see in the work of a great master portraying a man tortured by his own thoughts.

"You just looked like you needed some help," Mikaela answered plainly, looking back to the papers again, simply trying to avoid Cato's hard gaze.

"To what end? What do you get out of any of this? Unity?"

He referenced her earlier comment just prior to his speech. Mikaela knew he would remember it, as he remembered everything else, but she hadn't expected him to bring it up so soon.

"I just want us to work more closely together," Mikaela lied. "That's all."

She cursed herself internally for not asking for his support for the syndicalist cause in the east. Why hadn't she just asked him? Surely he would see the practicality of such a move? Or he could see a rival attempting to supplant him as the face of Capitol opposition, she thought. This was all too confusing. Perhaps it was better after all that she did not ask for his support. It was wiser to play it safe now, to build trust between the two of them, before she pushed for him to back the FPS.

"Is that really it?" Cato wondered, still profoundly confused. "Why?"

Mikaela looked over him, wondering if her manipulations were wrong, or whether Cato noticed them. The Dictator was perceptive, not often fooled, but her deceptions seemed to go unnoticed by him completely. She idly toyed with a few strands of her hair, unable to meet his icy gaze. She probably looked guilty, but she could not manage to look at him.

"It can be lonely at the top," Mikaela replied. "I thought you could use a friend."

"So that's it? Nothing else?"

"That's it."

"Okay," Cato nodded, a small smile touching his face.

"Okay," Mikaela returned with a nod and a smile of her own.


Cassie Dawson: 18F
Junta Minister of Intelligence


Dawson Residence
Saturday Evening
9:00PM

It was nearly one year to the day since Cassie had tread on these steps. One year was a long time, and this particular year seemed more like five. Though, that was how history transpired, she supposed. There were periods of calm; then, there were periods of chaos, and they lived in one of those now. Those who emerged from the chaos would write history books, describing said chaos as they viewed it, and another period of calm would be established. It might last only a single decade, or it might last a thousand.

History ebbed and flowed like the tide, cycling from high point to low point, through periods of culture and barbarism. The cycles were so real they seemed almost to be laws of nature, written into the very fabric of the universe. The civilizations which gave name and voice to those cycles were practically alive, like great organisms constructed of the collective souls of their populations.

Here she was on her parents' doorstep again, just as she had been when she left for the Hunger Games. It was sort of surreal to look upon the home, and she knew she could have waited until morning to greet her family. She could have simply spent the night in one of the many rooms in the palace, as she was permitted to thanks to her position, but she wouldn't put this off any longer. She had waited too long already, first because she was in prison, then because she was 'too busy.' The second off those was nothing more than an excuse, causing her great shame, but she knew she couldn't face her family then – particularly her father.

She had finally gotten the revolt she wanted, a chance to strike back at the people she hated so much, and she had done so personally. It had been gratifying too, but her father would not appreciate her abandonment of the Capitol. Cassie knew this for certain. He would have joined the NSJ to remain in his home with his stones and quarries, but he would not have liked it. In fact, she knew he had joined, she saw his name among those who had changed their party affiliation, along with that of her mother.

Cassie exhaled deeply, setting her gaze firmly on the door. She closed her eyes, hand hovering inches from the wood. She knew what would greet her on the other side of the wall, inside her home, though she wondered if it really was her home any longer. Perhaps she could count on Hinson's support at the very least. He had always been supportive of her, regardless of what she did, and he had always loved her as if he were her trueborn brother.

Steeling her resolve and clenching her jaw, Cassie knocked on the door. She was uncomfortably reminded of the way she knocked on the doors of those she had to evict and transport to the Capitol. She didn't have to do that work, but she wanted to. Cassie would not sit by idly as men and women who worked for her did all the heavy lifting.

At first no one answered, and Cassie's heart began to relax its pace. She hated to admit it, but she hoped dearly that her knock would go unanswered, allowing her to push this back another day. She really did not want to do this. Yet, she had to.

She knocked again.

"Hang on just a moment, I'm coming!" The unmistakable voice of her mother called from inside. "Couldn't this have waited until morning?" She heard her mother whisper.

Cassie smiled briefly, imagining her mother's face. Having just completed a hard day's work, she would be resting with her father, each of her parents finally receiving some peace and quiet only to be interrupted by an impolite guest. It reminded her of how she would become so frustrated when she and Hinson were children dashing about and refusing to go to bed.

Her smile was wiped from her face the moment her mother appeared in the doorframe. Cassie was shocked for a moment, catching sight of a face she knew so well after so long. She was unchanged physically, though there were one or two more wrinkles on her forehead, but Cassie could see in her eyes that she was not the same woman she had known only a year ago. Yet, Cassie only saw that look for a moment before her mother recognized her as well.

Her jaw slackened, and her eyes glazed over, unsure of how to react to her daughter's presence. Cassie could relate.

"Hello mom," she greeted awkwardly, suddenly self-conscious of the fact that she still wore her uniform from the ceremony earlier today.

Still struggling to recover, her mother's hand went to her heart, and she struggled to speak, tears glistening over her eyes. Cassie swallowed hard.

"Avery?" Her father's voice came from the living room, his footfalls sounding as he approached the foyer. "Who's there?"

He emerged from the room in a state of relaxed dress, wearing loose-fitting shirts and a tank top. He wore no shoes. Her mother was moderately better clothed, but she too appeared rather unprepared for this meeting.

"Hi dad," Cassie nodded slightly in his direction, much to his shock.

Now it was her father's turn to be shocked. Though, his pleasant surprise did not last long, and his face began to turn beet red. Hoping to distract him, and avoid a sudden explosion of anger, Cassie quickly inserted an aside.

"Where's Hinson?" She asked, looking between her parents curiously, neither of whom had invited her inside the house yet.

"He's at his girlfriend's," her mother answered, while her father looked slightly placated.

"Girlfriend?" Cassie asked curiously. "When did that happen?"

"While you were gone," her father stated bitterly, with a gaze that cold freeze the fires of hell.

"I want to meet her," Cassie continued, forcing herself to sound pleased and ignore her father. "I'm happy for him."

"If you wanted to meet her, you should have returned sooner," her father said coldly.

"I was locked up in solitary confinement, in case you hadn't noticed. It's not like I could just show up at your door and drop in for dinner."

"No, but you could've returned once you were freed. But you didn't, and not only that, but you threw your support behind a madman!"

"You can't be serious dad! Cato has brought us the best six months of governance we've seen in years. He's thrown the Capitolites and their supporters out, making us free to choose our own path!"

"He's a killer Cassie, and a thug. He takes reckless action regardless of the people's will. He led a coup against our democratically elected Mayor and proclaimed himself Dictator! This is not the best period in our history, far from it; it might actually be the worst!"

Cassie's mother looked back and forth between the two shouting Dawson's with concern, but she didn't seem willing to wade into the verbal battle herself. Her mother was a decent woman, unendingly kind and peaceful, but she would never stick her head up above the crowd and seek open confrontation. She was simply too mild mannered, and that meant Cassie couldn't depend on her for help. If she wanted to win her father over, she would have to convince him herself.

"Then," her father continued, face still red with fury. "To top it all off, you went and joined him! You went out and happily wrenched little kids from their homes and boarded them up on trains to who knows where!"

"We didn't kill anyone who didn't deserve it dad," Cassie assured him, meeting his wild fury with a gaze of stone. "I know exactly how many people have died in the repatriations; I've catalogued them all. The numbed is seventeen – seventeen out of thousands we sent to the Capitol! – and none of them were children. How could you think I would do such a thing, your own daughter would become a bloodthirsty child murderer?!"

Her statement was not strictly true. She was not a child murderer, and the number of dead during repatriations thus far was seventeen, and no children had been killed. Yet, she was bloodthirsty. She wanted to kill Capitolites, and she wanted to kill many of them. Though, that could wait until the war eventually came.

"It's bad enough to tear children from their homes and send them off on trains! What happens at the other end of that ride? Do they get killed there, and are the deaths swept under the rug? Besides, even if you're perfectly reasonable, you've still allied yourself with a tinpot Dictator who cares nothing for the interests of the citizens of this district!"

"And yet the people love him. Dad, Cato is not insane, nor is he even a bad person. Everything he does, he does for District 2 and for its people, and so is everything I do."

Her father did not speak, he merely stood in the foyer breathing heavily. A cool breeze whipped by, catching Cassie's hair in the wind, a few blonde locks fluttering before her eyes.

"Do you want to come inside Cassie?" her mother spoke up at last. "It's chilly out there tonight."

"I'm fine, thank you mom," Cassie replied only cursorily glancing at her. "I only came by to say hello, and to let you both know that I'm okay. If you hate me now, that's okay, and if you never want to speak to me again, that's okay too. Just… whenever you're ready to talk, I'm waiting. Just call my office, and I'll drop everything to be here."

With that Cassie turned, taking the steps in front of the house down to the street where her car remained parked. Suddenly remembering something, she turned back quickly.

"Let Hinson know I want to see him," Cassie said with a smile, thinking of her brother. "Tell him to call the office whenever he's free."

Then, Cassie climbed into the sedan, the luxurious leather seats far too comfortable in that moment. She started up the vehicle and tore out into the street. She couldn't return to her room tonight. She needed to be alone for a while. There would be time for work later. For now, she needed quiet.


Ivan Barnett: 40M
District 7 Mayor


District 7 Town Hall
Sunday Morning
10:00AM

A knock came from his office door, and Ivan sighed. His new mayoral position had caused him much more trouble than he had initially anticipated it would. Leading the most unstable district in Panem while simultaneously working against the interests of the Capitol was deeply difficult. Since his election, he'd barely been able to leave the mayoral manor, trapped in nearly twenty-four seven by angry protestors.

To make matters more challenging, the local police force was actively resisting his orders. They were not outright acting against him, nor were they planning to lead a coup of any sort, at least as far as he knew. Yet, they were not doing their jobs either. The Peacekeepers were not enforcing order in the streets, putting down riots of various kinds, whether pro or anti-Capitol. They merely watched as the rioters smashed up buildings and set cars afire, arresting anyone who tried to defend themselves against the mob.

That left only his Blackshirts to aid him in his efforts, and their numbers were too few to turn the tide. He was left in a rather unfortunate situation then, with no control over his district and no hope of gaining any unless he managed to bring the Peacekeepers over to his side. They seemed incredibly reluctant to follow him.

He knew Peacekeepers had been mobilized en masse in the east, violently putting down syndicalist resistance, yet they were not mobilized for the same here. The Capitol self-evidently did not care about syndicalist resistance; they cared only to maintain the rapidly deteriorating image of total control. The Peacekeepers were an important aspect of this, for they were, to any decent observer, obviously thuggish. They were not noble enforcers of order against chaos. Rather, they were the enforcers of unnatural chaotic tyranny against the order of natural society. They ensured the weak would hold their place at the top through their division of the strong at the bottom, pitting those with competence and capability against one another rather than against the regime.

The knock at the door came again, interrupting his thoughts and causing him frustration. Though, he knew he must do his duty, and do his best to fix this shithole district.

"Mr. Barnett!" A young voice called on the other side of the door. "I need to speak with you!"

"Come in," Ivan grumbled, even as the door opened regardless of his words.

The one shouting at him was a fresh-faced young man wearing his Blackshirt uniform somewhat sloppily. He breathed heavily, probably having run all the way to the office.

"Sir, the Chief Peacekeeper is ready to talk," the boy said. "He's waiting downstairs."

"Why didn't I know about this earlier?" Ivan questioned as he leapt out of his seat to rush down the stairs.

"He just showed up a minute or two ago. He came unannounced."

Ivan shook his head and grumbled to himself as he descended the stairs, spotting District 7's Chief Peacekeeper, flanked by two other officers, all wearing white uniforms. The Chief was a stockily built middle-aged man. His hair was falling out, and he combed his hair to cover his bald spot.

"Mayor Barnett," the Chief greeted, his face radiating untrustworthiness. "So good to finally meet you. Why the long wait?"

The Chief knew full well why it had taken so long for them to meet. Ivan's initial requests for talks were met with cold denial. His Blackshirts were practically chased out of Peacekeeper's headquarters with clubs. He knew better than to continue to push for a resolution that seemed unlikely to come. Such actions were a waste of his time, and his time was valuable. There was too much work still undone for him to even consider spending his most precious resource on such a risky proposition.

Yet, here the man was before him, ready to talk – supposedly.

"I have other pressing matters, if you haven't noticed," Ivan replied cautiously, not wanting to insult the man, for he did need to ally himself with the Peacekeepers if he hoped to contain the district's chaos. "I wish we could have met sooner, but seeing as you are here now, I see no reason why we couldn't hold a brief discussion."

"Good," the Chief said.

A few minutes later, they were situated in a small sitting room, Ivan lighting up a cigarette. He delighted in the taste of the smoke, though when he offered one to the Chief, the Peacekeeper declined. Ivan did not know many who outright refused to smoke, even in social situations. The only man he had ever met who behaved in this way was Cato, though he rarely partook in vice of any sort. As far as Ivan knew, Cato lived a relatively monastic life, and he probably still did even as Dictator.

"It has come to my attention that you could use our help," the Chief began. "I am willing to provide it, conditionally."

"Before you name those conditions," Ivan interrupted. "Can I ask your name first? I haven't heard it before."

"Alder, just Chief Alder," came the short response.

"Name your conditions then Chief Alder," Ivan invited, ignoring the man's thick grimace.

"I know you are unlikely to withdraw your support for the NSJ," the Chief said, scratching at his thin hairline. "But, you're smart enough to recognize that this situation is untenable in its current state. You won't last a month, and with Reaping Day coming up, you might not last a week. That said, I think it is clearly in your best interest to tone down your rhetoric. You can still hold those ideals in private, even use them to determine public policy, but just tell the people something else. Say something about the glory of Panem – or whatever you like really. Just make them believe you've changed your tune, become a little less reactionary. That's all."

He spoke very placatingly, but he asked for much. Perhaps today the people did not want to hear about the ideals of the NSJ or the dangers of the current regime, but soon they would. They would one day comprehend his message, just as they accepted Cato's. Though, selling it might be hard. Times were changing, and the old order would not hold out for long. Eventually, the curtain would fall and all would see that Oz was not a wizard.

"Is there anything that you want, personally I mean?" Ivan questioned. "There must be some compromise we can reach, because I can't change my public stance, especially now. I'm in too far at this stage. I have to ride out the storm."

"Are you attempting to bribe me Mr. Mayor?"

"No, of course I'm not. I'm asking if there is any sort of exchange we could make."

"That sounds an awful lot like bribery to me," the Chief replied with a smirk.

"It's not, I can assure you," Ivan said, taking a long drag from his cigarette. "But my idea is something of a novelty. It hasn't exactly been tried before, but I can assure you, you'll want to hear it. I doubt you'll be able to resist, in fact."

"This still sounds like a bribe."

"Just listen, and then tell me what you think," Ivan smirked himself, blowing smoke from his lips and nose. "This fixes my issues, and it gives you something you surely wanted all along."

"Very well," the Chief said. "I'll hear you out."


And, at last, the second prologue is here!

Much has happened between the last release and now, not only in the story, but also out of the story. Life is progressing, and many interesting things have happened, some of them having to do with this SYOT community. What a weird place it is.

Anyway, we had a bit of a cliffhanger ending here. It will be resolved next chapter, but plenty of other cool stuff happened this time. I mean, a whole palace got built. D2 is making itself more and more independent by the day, but the Capitol is still not in a position to respond due to an extended state of disarmament.

My supposition is that there will be two more prologues, one for the Syndicalists and one for the Capitol – though the Capitol might take two chapters to get through, we'll see. Then, we get into tribute POVs.

I've already received some great ones, so please submit your tributes. I'd love to see some more. The submission form is still on my profile, as is the link for the blog if you're confused, or if you just want to check out some lore.

Thanks for reading friends!

-Lars