I. A New Empire

But I don't wanna think about it now
I know I won't get out if I fall in
So I don't want to think about it now
It's dark in my imagination

10 A.D.D.

"Snow always lands on top," Coriolanus mutters to himself as he sets aside the vial of rat poison. He fiddles with the syringe in his other hand, careful not to directly touch the needle, and sighs. I wish it didn't have to come down to this…

He slides the vial off the desk and into his coat pocket. With a smirk, Coriolanus carefully secures the cap back onto the syringe. He lays it flat on the table then walks out of the room, turning off the lights before he goes.

In less than five minutes, Casca Highbottom will walk into that very room and inject the syringe Coriolanus tampered with into his wrist. He'll think it's morphling- the bastard has never been able to live without it- and he won't feel a thing as the venom enters his veins and destroys him from the inside out. Highbottom's death will be dismissed as an accident, President Ravinstill will make some address about how morphling on the streets is being laced with rodenticides, and that will be that.

None will suspect young Coriolanus Snow. The apprentice to Head Gamemaker Volumnia Gaul and beloved mentor to Lucy Gray Baird, Panem's tenth victor, would never do such a thing. Well, perhaps "beloved mentor" is a bit of a stretch. Coriolanus cheated to secure Lucy Gray's victory, and while his little "vacation" in Twelve marred his reputation for reputation for a while, none of that seems to matter anymore. The official recording of the tenth Games was destroyed, and Gaul managed to get him an honorable discharge from his service as a Peacekeeper, so it's safe to say that Coriolanus is once again in his prime.

He's a young king in the eyes of his fellow Capitolites, esteemed enough that nobody would dare accuse him of killing Highbottom unless they wanted their head sliced off. The lady he purchased the poison from, Vita Ferncliffe, swore on her life that she wouldn't tell a soul about the exchange. Assuming she keeps her word, there's a high chance Coriolanus will soon be able to say he's gotten away with murder.

Serves Casca Highbottom right. He was human scum, sending Coriolanus off to Twelve through means of blackmail and duplicity for the sake of his own ego. He was an obstacle, always devoted to preventing Coriolanus from reaching his full potential- for that reason alone, he had to go. The way he took pleasure in setting Coriolanus back was abhorrent, even if he had the excuse of a grudge against his father.

Highbottom had once told Coriolanus after a particularly grueling exam at the Academy, "You know, Coriolanus, you're just like Crassus."

He didn't know how to respond. His father died when he was still a toddler, and the only reputation that succeeded him was his legacy as a cutthroat tyrant.

Coriolanus later learned of the way his father abused Highbottom, and while he wishes he could sympathize, his father's actions shouldn't be proper justification for treating Coriolanus like trash. Maybe Coriolanus is a hypocrite for deeming Highbottom's abuse worthy of murder, but it was the only way to gurantee his own upwards trajectory. The Snow family name has already taken enough hits- he can't afford to be the reason it actually fades.

He walks past Highbottom on his way back to Dr. Gaul's office. Coriolanus offers him a wave. With a slight chuckle at the irony, he calls out to Highbottom, "Have a good day!"

He's not met with a similar pleasantry. Instead, Casca merely scowls at Coriolanus and continues his journey, blissfully unaware that he's en route to his own demise.

He pushes open the door to Dr. Gaul's office and takes a seat in the cushioned chair across from her desk, reclining slightly. The professor looks up at him and smiles. "You're a bit early for our lessons today, Coryo. Is there anything going on that you'd like to talk about?"

"I simply reckon that today won't be too productive," he admits to her. "Remember that suggestion you gave me about ol' High-off-his-bottom?"

She takes a moment to laugh at Coriolanus' nickname for him before returning to her typical stoic expression. "You don't mean to say that you—"

"Killed him?" He says with a sly smile. "Directly, no, I didn't. That's much too messy- you know me."

"But indirectly?" Gaul inquires.

Coriolanus sits up straight. "It really is a shame, Dr. Gaul."

"What's a shame?"

"That rat poison somehow got inside his morphling supply," he says, shaking his head in a mocking fashion. "Panem truly is losing a great one today."

Dr. Gaul doesn't react strongly to his admission of murder. It makes sense, considering she's the one who constantly jokes about sending him six feet under. Unlike Coriolanus, however, she was far too craven to actually pursue what she wanted. Highbottom has constantly been credited with Gaul's most prominent innovations: it's no wonder she doesn't mind him being dead.

"Well then." She presses her lips into a line and folds her hands on the table. "It's funny; you've never had much, Coriolanus. If there's one thing you have had, though, it's the audacity."

She may not be his favorite person in the world, but Coriolanus recognizes her usefulness. He's still grateful that she got him away from the cesspool that is District Twelve, and that she aided him in taking out Sejanus in the process.

Even bloody awful people have their benefits, similar to how even virtuous people have their vices. Dr. Gaul may have been a dreadful teacher, but now that she's taking Coriolanus to the top, he doesn't mind. And Lucy Gray may have been his one shot at having feelings for someone besides himself, but at the end of the day, she was a distraction.

Coriolanus Snow is bound to achieve greatness, and nothing can get in the way of that. There's no such thing as a friend or a foe. There's just people he can use on his rise to the top, and people he's used and can leave to rot.

12 A.D.D.

Being Dr. Gaul's right hand man definitely has its perks. Still, Coriolanus can't help but want more.

(That's always been his problem- whatever he has, it's never enough.)

He sits cross-legged in his velveteen swivel chair as the Twelfth Games come to a close. On the screen in front of him, Silas Santisi from Two's sword clashes against Everest Verdeflor from Seven's axe. As the boys continue their futile attempts to knock each other down, Coriolanus can't help but let out an aggrieved sigh.

Is it wrong to be bored right now? he asks himself, though he knows the answer is a resounding "yes." In his defense, though, the Games deserve an ending more theatrical than two brutes repeating the same combat moves over and over.

"What's wrong, Coryo?" Dr. Gaul asks, taking note of his groan.

He pouts, frustrated by her use of his childhood nickname. "This is too damn monotonous. If you were a Capitolite watching these two fight while playing a drinking game, wouldn't you be bored?"

"What do you mean?" She tilts her head to the side, insulted by Coriolanus' words. "This is the most important part of the Games. It's when a Tribute turns into a victor. I reckon the entire nation is holding their breath as we speak."

"Yes, I'm sure everybody is thrilled to see the exact same two-person fight end the Games as always," he refutes, twirling at a strand of his hair that's fallen astray. "Say what you want about the end of the Tenth, at least it was interesting."

The past two years have made it abundantly clear that Volumnia Gaul isn't used to being questioned, much less challenged. That doesn't particularly surprise Coriolanus- a woman her age with such impressive status is bound to have very few adversaries- but it doesn't prevent him from being one of them. Sure, he's never been directly antagonistic towards her, but he dreams of letting his anger out someday.

"The Tenth Games were an anomaly," Dr. Gaul says with a sharp exhale. "This is how the Games are supposed to end, with a grand duel where nothing else matters."

"And you don't think people are going to be sick of seeing this year after year?" Coriolanus ponders. "I certainly am!"

"It doesn't matter how they feel," she shouts in response. Her wooden pencil snaps as she clenches her fist. "The Games are supposed to be a punishment, not a performance."

That's the crux of his problem with Dr. Gaul. She sees the Games as retribution towards the Districts, whilst he firmly believes they have the potential to be more. He begged and pleaded for last year's Mags Flannaganto be treated like royalty and sent on a tour around all the Districts, ending with a grand Capitol Banquet. He worked tirelessly to ensure she'd have a mansion built in Four for her to live in until she dies, and that packages of food would be sent to the seaside District monthly for a year in celebration of her victory.

In Coriolanus' eyes, the Districts need more reasons to care about the Games. Most of them see the Games as a byproduct of the Dark Days, not particularly invested in whether their Tributes live or die. If winning Tributes are rewarded, the Districts will care more. Already in Four, people seemed to be waiting for this year's installment with bated breath.

He learned in school that the reason the Games end with a victor instead of twenty-four caskets is to give the Districts a false sense of hope. Without a victor, without that hope, the Districts would be bound to rebel somewhere down the line, portraying the Capitol as tyrannical and cruel. Their optimism can only survive if said victor returns home as a god. The Districts can be successfully distracted if they're given something, or rather someone, to root for.

(Not to mention, it's far easier for the Capitol to manipulate somebody they've pampered if they feel indebted.)

"They can be both," Coriolanus fires back, biting his tongue before he can say anything further. No need to get in trouble.

From the corner of the room, a high-pitched voice calls out, "He's right."

"Knock it off!" Dr. Gaul scowls. "See what you've done, Coriolanus?"

He crosses his arms and muses, No, actually, I don't see the issue.

"Pay attention," she snaps at him. "Silas is about to win."

He rolls his eyes and returns his attention to the screen, watching as the Two boy straddles Everest's fallen body. Silas smiles, rage in his eyes and blackness in his heart. Without blinking, he plunges his sword straight into the Seven boy's throat.

"Get a cannon ready," Dr. Gaul instructs Coriolanus.

As Everest bleeds, Coriolanus' hand hovers on top of a round red button. Dr. Gaul zooms in on the scene in front of them, capturing the bloodied body in high definition.

"Not yet…"

Everest twitches and groans as Silas twists the blade, blood dripping down the side of his neck and onto the forest floor.

"Not yet…"

The Two boy dislodges his blade from Seven's flesh and stands tall over him. He takes a deep breath and laughs triumphantly. He lifts his boot and presses its heel on Everest's throat. A spurt of crimson sprays onto Silas' shirt, and Everest's eyes roll over in the back of his head.

"Now!"

Coriolanus presses the button. A booming noise instantly erupts from the speakers.

"Presenting the victor of the Twelfth Annual Hunger Games, Silas Santisi from District Two!" Lucretius Flickerman announces.

Coriolanus sits back further in his seat, not bothering to applaud with the rest of the gamemaking room.

Someday, this'll be different.

17 A.D.D.

He stands, fidgeting with a vial of poison in the doorway of Dr. Gaul's office, the January sun not yet in the sky.

Coriolanus wishes it didn't have to come down to this.

(That's a lie; he doesn't particularly care. He can pretend though.)

Maybe in another life, she would've listened to him and he wouldn't have to do this. Maybe in another life, Volumnia Gaul would see the Games as an opportunity instead of a repeated tragedy.

Coriolanus sighs. It really was bound to end this way, wasn't it?

He'd wasted far too much time feeding Dr. Gaul his ideas, far too many hours suggesting elaborate arenas and supernatural muttations, when she was never going to listen to him anyways. He doesn't understand why she won't, and he doesn't think he ever will. They're from two separate generations, after all, and that means two separate mindsets.

It's fine, though. Coriolanus will be a much better Head Gamemaker than Dr. Gaul ever could've been.

He feels his left hand go sweaty as he digs through his satchel in search of the keys for Dr. Gaul's office. He digs through his satchel with sweaty palms, searching for the keys to Dr. Gaul's office. Coriolanus wonders, Maybe I shouldn't be doing this…

No self-talk is going to sway him, though. He's dead set on doing this. He's been planning it for quite some time. Backing out now would be craven of him, and Coriolanus Snow is anything but a coward.

(His father, Crassus, was a coward. For him, the creation of the Games was little more than a joke. It was his final assignment in university, to come up with a punishment for the Districts that was so vile, it would never be legalized. He swore up and down that he'd never actually do such a thing to the Districts, as tempting as it was. It was all theory, just an assignment, and shouldn't be taken seriously.

Coriolanus knows, though, that deep down inside, Crassus wanted to punish the Districts year after year. At least Coriolanus has the dignity to take pride in cruelties instead of pretending they're mere hyperboles.)

Vita Ferncliffe didn't ask Coriolanus any questions last night when he handed her the money. She didn't ask him any seven years ago when it was Highbottom's time to go. Instead, Vita offered Coriolanus a wry smile before unraveling her fist to reveal a small vial of poison.

"Use it carefully," Vita had warned him, the same way she did last time.

And once again, Coriolanus simply nodded. "Don't worry. I know what I'm doing."

Last time, he was lying. But now Coriolanus knows how to kill.

As fond as he is of the Games and the resulting carnage, he prefers to keep his own hands clean. Blood is sticky and has staining tendencies, and bodies smell foul from the moment they begin to rot. Poison on the other hand, is simple. It's easy to clean up, and more importantly… it doesn't leave a trail.

Or at least, it didn't last time. Nobody suspected Coriolanus as Casca's murderer. No- his death was written off as a suicide. Coriolanus suspects the same thing will happen once Dr. Gaul is finally gone.

He decides he'd best quit stalling and pulls her office keys out of his bag. Coriolanus chuckles at the small bronze object in his hand. If only she knew what'd happen when she gave this to me…

Only the stars know why Dr. Gaul trusted her unscrupulous assistant with her key. They'll be the only one to know he killed her.

Coriolanus takes a deep breath then slides the key in the slot on the door's handle. He twists it to the side, a faint click signaling that he's succeeded in unlocking the door. Even though the office is empty, he doesn't dare make a sound as he pushes the door open. Any noise too loud will activate the security cameras. The whole point of killing her is that he's not supposed to get caught. How can he fill her shoes from the grave?

The lights in the hallway are just bright enough that they illuminate Dr. Gaul's office through the crack in the door. Resting on the center of her desk is her large silver mug and a tea-bag. Coriolanus knows by now that Dr. Gaul brews herself a cup of tea every morning. How sad that this will be her last.

He flicks open the cap of his vial to reveal a small silver needle. Using his spare hand, Coriolanus lifts the tea bag to the needle, puncturing the paper wrapping and allowing the poison to seep inside. Once he's poured a decent amount, Coriolanus removes the needle and wipes the excess liquid on the desk. He sets the bag down where he found it, then smiles in relief.

However, he's not done yet. To have Dr. Gaul drop dead in her office when she's in perfectly good health would be too suspicious, hence why he's prepared a red herring. He reaches into his bag to retrieve a nearly empty bottle of painkillers and places it in one of her cabinets. Coriolanus knows that the first thing she does every morning is drink her tea, so she'll never see it. The coroner, on the other hand? A nearly empty bottle of painkillers and poison in the blood stream makes for an easy suicide diagnosis.

Coriolanus doesn't stop smiling when he leaves her office. In fact, his grin remains plastered on his face for the rest of the morning, until he gets a knock on his door and an exasperated announcement that Volumnia Gaul has killed herself.

It's easier than he ever thought it would be to fake a tear.

It's even easier to convince his colleagues that he should become Head Gamemaker in her absence. He tells them again and again, "I knew her best. She taught me everything she knows!"

That's true- not that Coriolanus actually values anything Dr. Gaul has told him. He has his own vision of what the Games should be, and anybody who tells him otherwise can join Highbottom and Gaul six feet under.

22 A.D.D.

His sixth Games are an even bigger success than his first five, if that's even possible.

Everybody cheers Coriolanus Snow's name as he leaves the stage after his interview with Lucky. Five minutes later, his ears are still ringing.

"I was honestly worried they wouldn't like everything," his assistant and former classmate Lysistrata Vickers says, sitting beside him on the greenroom sofa. "It was pretty far from conventional."

She makes a point, though Coriolanus' reign as Head Gamemaker has already proven there's no such thing as "conventional" when it comes to the Games anymore. Each arena is more grandiose than the last, chock-full of twists and turns that leave the entire country speechless. The Twenty-Second Games were no different. People loved how the tropical rainforest arena sent Tributes into spirals of delirium and existential dread. However, the lack of a victor will surely leave some District-folk unruly.

It's not his fault. Perry Saperstein from Seven bit off more than he could chew during his final battle, set on the rooftop of a jungle temple. After ten days, both him and Saxony Warwick from Eight were fairly exhausted. Their swings were messy as they battered one another senselessly, the two of them dropping to the ground within seconds of one another. Perry's heart stopped after Saxony's, but both of them were relatively hopeless cases.

The Capitolites enjoyed it, however. They praised Coriolanus for creating an ending to the Games unlike anything they've ever seen, as if he had any say in it. However, he gets the feeling the District-folk won't be as pleased. After all, a victor represents hope, and without hope, there's nothing. It's fine, though. Coriolanus Snow is practically invincible now that he's in charge of the Games. Any flames of rebellion can quickly be snuffed out by Peacekeepers. All he has to do is simply give them the word.

"If you haven't noticed by now, the commoners are a bit sadistic," Coriolanus replies to Lysistrata. "While I'm sure some are disappointed they no longer have a victor to dote on, none of them will ever say no to more bloodshed."

"Fair enough," Clemensia Dovecote, Coriolanus' other assistant and former classmate says. "Excellent work, you two!"

"Oh, I couldn't have done it without you, Clem!" Lysistrata immediately coos.

The two of them have been dating a bit over a year, and it makes Coriolanus sick. He's never quite understood the concept of love, and he doesn't plan to anytime soon. His romance with Lucy Gray was merely for the rewards it would reap him. Any bond formed without opportunistic intentions doesn't make sense to him.

(What he felt for Lucy Gray was the furthest thing from opportunism. What Coriolanus felt for her was visceral and real. Now that it's been over a decade without her, Lucy Gray lives in his head as an idea instead of an individual. Whatever romanticized version of her he's dreamt up isn't real, and therefore he'll never love again. The only desire he knows is opportunity.)

"I'm glad you're also happy," Coriolanus says before the girls can continue flirting. "Moments like these… I just hope that Dr. Gaul is proud of me."

"I'm sure she is," Clemensia responds. "I bet she's a bit jealous, too. You know, your Games are far more popular than hers ever were."

Trust me, I know, he says to himself. If only Dr. Gaul had listened when he said the Games needed to be a spectacle. Then she could've had a piece of his success instead of rotting in a coffin. But Coriolanus doesn't mind not having to share.

"The only question is…." Lysistrata begins, her voice as cheery as ever, "how do we top this year?"

Coriolanus chuckles, even if her question is meant to be genuine. He isn't too worried; the three of them are always able to go above and beyond the possibilities.

"We could make a popularity contest out of it," he sarcastically suggests. "Whoever is the most popular kid in their District gets sent here. Just imagine, Hunger Games… all stars edition."

He nods, laughing at his own joke.

"Wait, but that's actually a fun idea," Clemensia interjects. "I think they'd really get a kick out of it in the Capitol if all the Tributes were voted in or something, even as a punishment."

"Isn't that especially cruel to the Districts?" Lysistrata says, questioning the two of them. "Forcing them to pick somebody to possibly die, I mean."

"Since when do you care about being nice to the Districts?" Clemensia teases her. "The mutts you made last year resembling their friends and family don't exactly scream kindness."

"Okay, you're right…"

"So, are we actually going to do this, then?" Coriolanus asks, his eyes widening. "How would we break the news to the Districts?"

The three of them pause for a moment to think before Clemensia gasps in realization. "Maybe we don't do it next year—"

"Why not?" Coriolanus cuts her off.

"I'm getting there," she scoffs. "Perhaps for the twenty-fifth Games though… We can advertise it as some sort of special anniversary Games. Maybe we could even bullshit something from the Treaty of Treason saying that every twenty-five years, the Games have some sort of twist?"

"I'll talk to President Ravenstill about it," Coriolanus says with a smile.

If life's a rollar-coaster, Coriolanus Snow is incapable of going any direction besides up. So long as he lives, there will never be a year he doesn't outdo himself.

25 A.D.D.

The envelopes were a genius idea on Ravenstill's part.

Two and a half years ago, when Coriolanus first proposed that the Games have a special twist, Panem's President was thrilled. He bought a collection of ornate envelopes and labeled them by increments of twenty-five. He told Coriolanus that Head Gamemakers would be allowed to think of any twist they so desired, provided they could reasonably connect it to the Dark Days. They'd type it out on paper and put it in the corresponding envelope so that they could present it to the country via telecast as if it were a surprise.

Is it corrupt? Most definitely, but so is annual child murder. What's one more sin on the Capitol's outstretched arms?

Tonight, Coriolanus stands on stage to open the envelope revealing the twist for the twenty-fifth Games, the first of Panem's "Quarter Quells," as Lysistrata dubbed them. Her, Clemensia, and Coriolanus think it's hilarious that what started as a joke has now become a tradition.

As usual, Lucky introduces Coriolanus to the crowd with immense compliments and praise, heralding him as a savior to the nation and the man behind the Games' immaculate success. He's right, by the way. Every year, Coriolanus doesn't think the Games could be more of a hit- yet they are, and the people love them. The people love him.

(Oh, how Coriolanus Snow has always wanted to be loved. Oh, how Coriolanus Snow was cold at night in his grandmother's house, no parents to tuck him in and tell them they adored him. No lover who cared about him unconditionally and in spite of herself. It's always been Coriolanus and Coriolanus alone, but when people cheer his name until their voices go hoarse, he finally feels as though he's worth something.)

"You're far too kind, Lucky!" Coriolanus says, flashing his teeth to the crowd. "You are absolutely ravishing tonight."

"Thank you, Mr. Head Gamemaker," the master of ceremonies swoons. "I don't want to take up too much of your time though. I hear that you have a very special announcement for us."

"You'd be correct." He nods, positioning himself behind the podium with his envelope firmly secured in his hands.

Lucky walks off the stage to his own round of applause, leaving Coriolanus to wait thirty-seconds before the clapping dies down, so that he can make his announcement.

"Greetings, ladies and gentlemen!" Coriolanus proclaims, a microphone amplifying his voice. "It has been my absolute pleasure to serve as your Head Gamemaker these past few years."

He waits for the audience to fall completely quiet before quickly adding, "And don't worry— I'm not retiring!"

Garrulous laughter roars through the air. Coriolanus subtly chuckles in response.

"But!" he begins once again. "This year's Games are going to be different than anything you've ever seen, and that's all because of what's written in here."

Coriolanus holds up the golden envelope, a wave of "oohs" and "ahhs" soon following. He continues, "Very few people are aware of this, but the Treaty of Treason stipulated that every twenty-five years, the Hunger Games are to have a twist, making them even more special than usual."

Again, the audience emits surprised gulps.

"These special Games are known as Quarter Quells, and our first one just so happens to be occurring in just six months!"

Their screaming and applause is so loud, Coriolanus' head begins to spin. Just wait until they learn what this twist is.

(A part of him wonders if they'll even like it. Maybe Coriolanus was a moron to listen too intently to Clemensia and Lysistrata. Maybe they're planning to betray him the same way he betrayed Dr. Gaul.)

"Now, I have no idea what the twist is, but it just so happens to be written in this envelope," Coriolanus begins to tear at the thick paper. He pulls the notecard out, then reads it to himself, feigning surprise on his face.

"Very interesting," he hums. "Would you all like to hear the twist for Panem's very first Quarter Quell?"

Again, he swears he'll go deaf from applause.

"That's what I thought you'd say." Coriolanus coughs twice, then proceeds to read from the paper. "As a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every District will hold an election and vote on the Tributes that will represent it."

As soon as the audience digests the twist and starts to clap, a wave of relief washes over him. Of course they loved it. This is you we're talking about.

"I'm glad to see you're as excited as I am," Coriolanus says. "I'll work on making adjustments to my arena plans immediately. For now, may the odds be ever in your favor."

He waves at the audience and exits the stage, collapsing on the first comfortable surface he can find. Coriolanus looks up at the ceiling and smiles to himself.

If only Casca Highbottom could see him now.

If only Volumnia Gaul could see him now.

(If only Crassus Snow could see him now.)

This moment will go down in history as one of the defining events in Coriolanus Snow's infamous empire. May the stars have mercy on anyone who tries to get in his way.

Dark In My Imagination - of Verona

Yeah I don't know what this is either, and I'm the one who wrote it.

Sike! I know exactly what this is…

Welcome to the newest installment in ladyqueerfoot's wild ride. This time we are taking it way back to May 2020, when I decided to write the First Quarter Quell, but lowkey flopped. At least I am good at writing now. Thank you to bestie RB for beta-ing this prologue and making me better at writing. Yes that's right, we're in my having a beta era now. Let's be honest, it was about fucking time.

For those of you that don't know me, hello my name is Linds and I enjoy causing problems on purpose and writing rat on rat violence. For those of you that do know me, why are you still here?

Yeah, yeah… we're doing the whole partial SYOT thing. Subs are open until May 25th, and I have more information on what the fuck this project is in the form document, which is linked on my profile.

Fuck this shit, I'm out,
Linds