I'll return from darkness and will save your precious skin
I will end your suffering and let the healing light come in
Sent by forces beyond salvation
There can be not one sensation

The only sound in the air was deafening, suffocating silence.

The walls were thick, the doors well-oiled, and the floor a solid stretch of concrete. There were no creaking floorboards to be had, no carpets to rustle one's toes through as one would in one's home. For this was not a home: it was a fortress. One so deftly built even the fluorescent lights above emitted no detectable hum. At the front of the "window room"—ironically named, for the bunker had no true windows—a screen played live footage of District 4 on mute. There wasn't so much as a buzz from the television.

Of all the rows of chairs before the screen, only one was occupied. Barely—it was a wisp of a man that filled the front seat, his small frame dwarfed by the standard metal chair provided to the bunker. He'd always been short, but age had shrunk him further, and the trying times of the war had sucked the fat from his stomach as it had with every other citizen of the Capitol. His emaciation, however, was not entirely natural; as the president of Panem, he'd managed to maintain a level of healthy eating others had not, though it wouldn't do for the people of his beloved city to see their leader addressing them, smiling and plump, when they themselves were wasting away.

The president was no stranger to the aesthetic surgeries that had so delighted his precious Capitol before the freedom to indulge in frivolities had been torn away. On the very day of his election, seven long years ago, he had walked into the most renowned tattoo parlour in Panem with a series of requests. The fourteen seals of their country, one for each district and the Capitol, to be etched permanently into his arms, seven on one, seven on the other. For he was the man elected to unite a then turbulent Panem, and through his own blood, sweat, and tears, he swore he would.

He looked down at his arms now, hidden beneath the sleeves of his suit jacket. In one hand he held a cigar, embers burning bright as he had another puff, but his other hand was free, and he used it to slowly slide back first the jacket sleeves, then those of the shirt underneath, until his arms were bared to the world.

The fourteen seals were gone. Only three remained amidst a sea of round, red scars.

He looked back up at the screen. A newscaster, papers in hand, was mouthing words as live footage continued to play behind her. A Capitol naval fleet was swarming a warship off the coast of 4. Despite the muted sound, the news was clear in the headlines that played in big, bold letters at the bottom of the screen.

DISTRICT 4 SURRENDERS

The president of Panem reached up to remove his cigar from between his lips. Perhaps it was this movement that caused his mouth to twitch into a semblance of a smile. He certainly couldn't have done it himself; after six hard years of war, he'd forgotten how.

He lowered his cigar until it hovered above his right arm, overtop the image of six fish leaping away from a three-pronged hook. It was one of three seals that still remained intact.

And now, it wasn't.

A sharp gasp filled the silent room, accompanied by a faint sizzling as the burning end of the cigar pressed deeper into his skin. Even after eleven such acts, he couldn't stop himself from grimacing. It still hurt, but the pain was good. Pain was necessary to cleanse a nation.

Onscreen, the Capitol fleet reached the warship. Men and women in black scaled the ladders draped over its hull to find district citizens waiting for them, kneeling on the deck, hands above their heads.

The commander of the fleet gave a command. As one, the soldiers raised their guns and fired.

The president watched, cleansing his body as Panem itself was cleansed.

The camera switched to a similar scene, this time a team approaching 4's main town centre. Flocks of people milled about in the streets, panicking as the soldiers swung clubs and shouted orders. No guns for the everyday citizens, undoubtedly guilty of cooperation with the rebels, but necessary to get Panem's economy back on its feet. Only pain and punishment for them—a reminder of a past never to be repeated.

The president lifted the cigar from his arm, observing the newest burn in his collection. The room was filled with his strained breaths.

His lip curled at the sound. Anyone who heard would think him weak, and that was not a judgement he could afford. Not anymore.

The sleeves of his shirt came down quickly, his free hand reaching for the television's remote, finger hovering over the unmute button.

At once, noise returned to the world in all its overwhelming and chaotic glory. The newscaster's voice came through the speakers crystal-clear, giving a detailed account of 4's takeover while sounds of screams and gunfire played in the background. Moments later, a violent bang! assaulted his ears.

That hadn't come from the television.

The president turned in his chair to find the door to the window room had been thrown open. A young woman was standing there, framed by the two brutish security guards who'd been charged with standing watch.

"Forgive the interruption, Mister President," one of the guards said. "She said it was important."

He ignored the words, eyes focused on the woman inhaling deeply to recover her breath. She didn't look familiar, but the pin on her suit was a gleaming pigeon encased in a circle of silver. Once the signature badge of Communications had been a Mimus mutationis, or a "jabberjay" as the mutation engineers had affectionately dubbed them, but after that experiment went disastrously awry, they were encouraged to change their look. The president would not stand for anyone wearing an advertisement of the Capitol's failures.

Now, however, he wouldn't have cared if the woman had flown in with wings and a beak. His heartbeat sped as he stood up. "What is it?"

The woman, cheeks flushed and hair in a disarray, managed only a few fragmented sentences. "Your phone . . . was off. Ran . . . to tell you . . . we've made contact with . . . Eleven."

On his arm, the new burn prickled. He swallowed the anticipation clogging his throat and nodded. "Lead the way."

The bunker had been designed to hold five hundred of the Capitol's most important citizens in the event of a nuclear attack from 13. Even when they'd signed the secret treaty to go underground, the president had remained where he was; placing too much faith in the districts was what had torn Panem apart in the first place. As time continued with no sign of betrayal from 13, and with the tide of the war turning in their favour, many had left the bunker to rejoin their families and resume their duties. Only the president had remained, as well as his personal guards and a small team of Communications officers who kept him in touch with the rest of the country.

Up until now, that had only entailed giving preplanned speeches to citizens of the Capitol and captured districts. Though his first strategy had been diplomacy, the rebel leaders had refused to speak with him. Even after the Capitol began retaking their land, one district at a time, their pride had been too great to grant him an audience.

Now the general of 11's forces was watching him with a carefully constructed expression of neutrality as he took a seat in front of the computer monitor.

"General Arvense."

"Mister Nubila."

He focused on lighting a new cigar, bowing his head so she wouldn't see the clench of his jaw. "President Nubila."

"You're no president of mine."

He wasn't the only one struggling to control himself. Already there was a note of rage seeping into her tone. She tried to remain aloof, using the fan in her hands to act casual just as he used his cigar, but he could see the hatred in her eyes, no matter how she attempted to hide it.

Hatred—and fear.

He remained composed, expression indifferent as he raised the cigar to his lips. Inwardly, his heart was racing, and his head was spinning. The pain from the burn had subsided; now he felt only a prickle on his left arm, right around the spot where the last intact district seal had been inked into his skin.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?"

"You wanted to talk. Let's talk."

The sheer ridiculousness of the statement almost made him want to laugh. "What is there left to talk about?"

"I heard about what happened in Four. You may be pulling the media's strings, but I know it was bloody on both sides. I'd hope, seeing as you call yourself a leader, you'd want to avoid more unnecessary deaths."

He couldn't stop himself from asking his next question. "Are you prepared to surrender?"

11's leader frowned; such bluntness was unwelcome in politics. But then, this wasn't politics: this was a conversation between a beaten shell of a rebel and the man who had broken her. Arvense might paint a pretty picture, clad in a deep purple general's suit, her nose thrust in the air overtop the fan she carried, but the truth was, this wasn't a conversation. It was a plead for mercy.

"What I am prepared to do," Arvense began, closing her fan with a snap, "is negotiate a set of terms under which the armies of both parties will lay down their weapons and—"

"No." Damn protocol, and damn subtleties. He was done; he wanted this war to be done.

"No?" Arvense echoed. "And here I thought Panem's president actually gave a damn about his people."

"Oh, I do. I give a damn about the people you took arms against. I give a damn about the people you, and Nine, and Ten, and Four left to starve. Those are my people."

"We're all part of the same country."

"A pity you didn't realise that six years ago."

Her eyes narrowed to a glare. The mask had come off now, and the talons were unsheathed. "The conditions of living in the districts were deplorable. They still are deplorable, and it is your responsibility to do something about it. I'm merely suggesting—"

"Yes, you are 'merely suggesting.' Because that's all you can do." He leaned forward, cigar forgotten in his hand. "How many bombs do you think we have left from the devastation of Thirteen?"

"We are the centre of Panem's food production. You'd never—"

"How many sectors in your district have already been reclaimed by the Capitol? How many Peacekeepers wait outside your poorly-defended borders now? How many of your soldiers are still fit to fight after we released the Vespula mutationis? Or the, ah, what was that colloquialism you used? Ah, yes, the 'tracker jackers.' How quaint."

He could almost feel the heat of Arvense's anger through the screen. Genetic engineering had been a masterstroke by Capitol scientists, and, aside from a few hiccups, had served well in helping turn the tide of the war in their favour. In particular, the "tracker jackers" had succeeded in crippling and killing hundreds of Eleven's people, including Arvense's now deceased daughter.

The rebel leader's knuckles were tightening around the end of her fan. "Are you trying to threaten me, Mister Nubila?"

"No, Miss Arvense. A threat implies a warning, an act I mean to intimidate you with, but by no means plan to enact. I can assure you, that is not the course of action I intend to take."

"Mister Nubila—"

"Miss Arvense. War isn't a game you can quit when you're in fear of losing. If you hurt people, if you cause suffering, then you'd better be prepared to win. Otherwise, there will be consequences." He leaned back in his chair, puffing on his cigar. "And you have caused a great deal of suffering."

The words hung in the air as neither he nor Arvense spoke. Her chin was thrust forward, and her fingers looked set to snap her fan in two, but there was sweat on her brow and despair in her eyes. She'd lost, and she knew it.

He left the screen on, content to keep the connection going as Arvense struggled to clear her throat. Finally, she spoke again.

"When can I expect the attack?"

"Within the hour."

"If my people surrender—"

"They may still die. They've caused a lot of harm. Many of our soldiers have friends and family that would have been alive were it not for them."

"The reverse is true as well."

"Perhaps. But we didn't start the war. We're simply here to finish it."

Arvense's eyes dropped from the camera to the desk before her. She placed her fan on its surface, just out of his field of vision. Her fingers continued to linger on it.

"Will I be gunned down as well?"

"Would you have had me shot, had you won?"

"No." Arvense met his eyes once more; her fear was all but gone, replaced by an all-consuming rage. "I'd have made you wish I did."

"I thought as much. So I shall see you soon, in person, I suppose."

"Fuck you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Fuck. You."

Arvense raised her hands from the desk. The fan was no longer in her grasp. Something else was.

The gunshot rang out, sharp and loud over the computer speakers. Flecks of red dotted the camera, marring his view. He couldn't clean them away, but he could see just enough to watch Arvense slump out of sight, revealing the blood-splattered wall behind her.

A door opened behind him, slower and quieter than earlier. The same woman from before emerged from the control room, where she'd no doubt been monitoring the call. Standard procedure to make the sure all went well, though she only saw the video; listening in on the president was strictly forbidden. Arvense, however, had not needed sound to make her last point clear.

The woman swallowed. Her cheeks were no longer flushed from exertion. Now, she looked a bit pale. "Sir . . .?"

"Get the commanding officer of the Eleven unit on line one," he said, barely sparing her a glance. His eyes were focused on the computer's bloody scene. "Tell him Rosa Arvense is dead. His orders are to start the last invasion."

"Yes, sir."

He heard her footsteps retreat. She'd started to close the door when he added, "And tell him to take as many rebels alive as he can."

The door stopped moving. There was a deep intake of breath, then came another, squeakier, "Yes, sir."

He kept watch on the screen as the door was eased shut. Nothing moved on Arvense's side of the world; no one had come to investigate the gunshot. It was just him, him and what remained of her. She'd been a brilliant opponent, wearing him down for six years, nearly beating him before the rebels suffered the loss of 13. Arvense had never been a fighter herself, but she'd had a mind for war that had rivalled his own.

Now that mind was in pieces, shreds of it stuck in the blood seeping down the wall behind the screen.

Once again, he rolled up his sleeves. The cigar seared his left arm, making him clench his fist and grit his teeth as he held it there for longer than ever before. Painful, yes—still, surely not as painful as Arvense's cleansing had been.

When the deed was done, he stretched out his arms, bathing them in the glow of the computer screen as he took in the sight.

Where once there had been fourteen intricate seals, each carefully inked in their own respective colours, now there was a line of scars and burns. Only one remained intact, that which he'd had etched into the skin on the back of his right hand: a bird of prey, its wings outstretched, a cluster of arrows clutched in its talons, a capital "C" emblazoned in the medallion beneath it.

He smiled then, truly smiled, and placed his cigar in the ashtray by the monitor. There was no need for it anymore. The world had finally been made right.

World on fire with a smoking sun
Stops everything and everyone
Brace yourself for all will pay
Help is on the way

Note: Thank you for reading. This began as a personal project, but I've recently become enamoured with SYOTs, and have decided to incorporate the format into this story. Considering this is the origin of the Hunger Games, however, it will be a bit different than other SYOTs. As I post more chapters, these differences will become clearer, and I hope I've adequately explained things on my profile as well. If you have any further questions, please let me know. This is a learning process for me, and it may be slow going at first, but I aim to try and update every Monday and Friday, if my schedule permits it. Thank you again for taking a chance of this story, and if you are interested in submitting, you can find more information on my profile.