»The President
Buried in the heart of the Capitol was the Justice Center to end all Justice Centers, housing the biggest political figures of any given time since the birth of Panem. The title of President had been handed to the wealthiest and the greediest men; those who also happened to be the best actors their generation had seen. Romulus was not different from his predecessors. There were no under-the-table deals that had propelled his rise to power, no murders and no trials by fire. Whenever reporters would ask him for his opinion, the same answer would be given— “You just need to want it enough.”— and be offered nothing more than that. Humble beginnings were not a part of this one man’s story; he was born into a political family, groomed to be an adviser to the President. His father had been one, and so had his father’s father; but the golden-eyed boy dressed to the nines had different ideas behind a crooked smile.
Panem was the world now; the only civilization left standing after a mysterious end-all things, and he just happened to be running the heart of it all. His Panem was the perfect umbrella scheme, representatives in every District, unafraid to take action and unafraid to throw the President’s name around freely. His Panem was one of the most totalitarian that the people had seen so far; but no Capitol folk had anything to complain about— the quality of the goods transported from the Districts had increased and stabilized in one steady flow, the men in charge of the Games just tripping over themselves to outdo the last in their line. The new Gamemaker, someone who Romulus had recognized only by the name Gilbert, was a man he had high confidence in to make the Tributes’ short stay in the arena a living hell. Drag out the suffering, minimize the liberty that mentors had over the gifts which would be thrown into the arena; anything that would keep the children of the colorful Capitol happy.
The Games would be dwarfed compared to the Quarter Quell which had just passed, but Romulus figured it would be quite all right. After the former set of Tributes had surprisingly been completely totaled within three days of the start at the Cornucopia, no man or woman expected anything like it for the succeeding Games— in fact, there were extra precautions made to ensure that one person would survive.
Whoever would; the President had many, many plans in store for them.
The tanned man of considerable stature had exited his French doors which led to a balcony from which he made his announcements concerning the Games, the sun shining bright on this beautiful Capitol day as a dark cloud seemed to hang over the assorted youth who stood in their District squares and watching the live telecast of this glorified Presidential figure with perfect teeth and animal-like eyes. Romulus went over the rules as a small insignia on his suit had captured the attention of many: a she-wolf suckling two infants. The President raised his arms in a way that could be considered welcoming— but really marked the start of the rest of 24 select Tributes’ lives.
“And remember,”
he began in his affected Capitol accent,
“only one will survive.”
Because the odds, he knew, were never to be in their favor.
