PROLOGUE

The room still smelt of roses. Not the presence of the butcher, the baker or the candlestick maker could change that. Even the grimy, unwashed, coal dusted stench of stale alcohol that drifted off District 12's Haymitch Abernathy could smother it. And Paylor couldn't stand it. But she couldn't get rid of it either. So she contented herself with having her own genetically altered lily poking innocuously out of her top pocket, just under her medal of victory.

Two rows of medals were the only things that decorated her ordinarily plain, black uniform - Two orders of Coin, an order of District 8, two orders of the Winter Revolution and ribbon medals for the rebellion of District 8, the fall of Panem and the Capture of the Capitol. Above them all sat the gold-leaf red enamelled Order of the Mockingjay.

The First General Secretary's eyes narrowed as they darted around the stubbornly elegant lines of the former President Snows office. Not at all to her taste. But necessary, the only place to hold anything not quite, sanguine, enough to make it to the Presidium. Just 13 representatives for 13 districts, her Secretary of Communications, the General Field Marshal and her new head of the CCRA. Whose name she couldn't remember. But who looked dangerous none the less. All wore the starched, fresh-pressed uniforms of their own district, from District 1's cold silvery grey to District 13's uncompromising black. And all had a companion.

In the days since the revolution, there had certainly been some, misgivings. People had gone missing, true. But it was all for the good of the State. Yes, for the good of the State. First General Secretary Paylor gazed round at them nonchalantly. Yes. Yes indeed. She had them all where she wanted them. Now all she would have to do was to get them to bite. She took a cigarette from its case and lit it with a sharp flick of her lighter. And she paced, still observing them. Not one said a single word.

"Soldiers." The term had stuck since the revolution. "Brothers, and Sisters, in arms. What you hear of today, shall change the course of Panem's history." Their eyes begin to glow with revolutionary fervour. She smiled grimly. They'd had their carrot. Now it was time to introduce the stick.

"But, where has there been failure, in achieving our glorious ideals?" Confusion. "Why do we still suffer setbacks where there should be achievements? Why do we still have to endure the sheer ignominy of District 2's struggles? Who is responsible for such shortcomings, soldiers? Who is responsible?" Her voice had turned deadly soft, dangerously so. The table remained silent, respectfully. To speak now would be to denounce an entire district and to destroy an entire reputation. Killing two Mockingjays with one stone.

"There is only one way to avoid failing what we have spent years struggling to achieve, we, the Presidium of Panem shall fail in securing the safety and security of the State. There will be no second chances! If there is anyone who sees themselves fit to address these shortcomings alongside me, soldiers, they must stand up to take the mantle of responsibility. And for those who do not feel the need to join in the ongoing struggle for the protection of the State, there will be trouble. Punishments will be meted out. There will be certain, displeasure." Paylor fell silent. Observing each delegate's reaction to the officialised lashing they'd just received.

With shaking hands, District 5's Vasko lit a fat cigar. District 9's Brenna reached nervously toward her inside pocket. Even Haymitch seemed to snap out of his liquor induced stupor enough to look startled. Only two seemed unyielding. Her new head of security and District 2's Gale Hawthorne.

Everyone knew his story, former lover of the Mockingjay, spurned because of her affections for Peeta, destined to be kept away from her. But in Paylor's mind, separation wasn't necessarily a bad thing. He dwarfed the majority of the delegates, his dark hair and olive skin standing out against the taut, pale faces of the others. His eyes were sharp, eagled grey, and almost permanently narrowed in some sort of fierce disapproval. There was a cruel, arrogant slant to his features, condemning anyone who even tried to usurp his position. He was District 12 originally, of course, but his ingenuity and resourcefulness had seen him hop up the ladder to a more comfortable spot as a delegate for District 2. Handsome, Paylor supposed, smartly dressed, and with a penchant for more than a few mistresses wherever he went. And, if necessary, that would be his downfall. But the last thing she needed was to cause another scandal.

She gave a short hiss of smoke, and inhaled deeply. Breathing in the grass and gunpowder smell of District 8. No time to waste. She drew the cigarette from her lips and shed the ash into the glass ashtray. There was a soft fizz of fire on glass. "Soldiers, I pray you did not think you were so removed from the harsh reality of Panem that you were beyond criticism. We should all have been expecting this, it was only a matter of time before our own counter-revolutionary laziness caught up with us, and now, unless we act, we shall pay for it. So let us get down to business." Her tone was brusque, clipped. No smiles or voices answered her. Just the nervous reactions of 16 delegates.

"Soldier Hawthorne. I presume that your District has not been proving too much for you lately." It was a thinly disguised sneer, a provocation. District 2 had been one of the last to surrender, and Gale was the youngest, though by no means least experienced, delegate. But he would react, he couldn't help himself. It was his nature. "Not at all, General Secretary."

"First, General Secretary." Her new head of the CCRA corrected him primly. Paylor half concealed a scowl. She too had planned to reprimand him for his loose talking. But there was no time for nuances. She gave a sneer.

"First General Secretary," Gale continued, "While I myself have experienced no troubles surrounding my District." He emphasised the 'my' with a smug smile. "I do believe there have been several indiscretions concerning Vasko in District 5. Vasko?" Vasko's pale face dropped a shade.

Sweat began to bead. He dabbed his face nervously with his handkerchief, fat cigar shedding ash onto the carpet. "Not indiscretions, First General Secretary, just a small slip-up…"

"Small?" Gail was enjoying this.

"A slip-up, concerning the…" The next set of words came out as a badly organised jumble of English.

"Concerning, what? Vasko." Paylor this time.

"The peacekeepers."

"The what, Vasko?"

"The peacekeepers, First General Secretary! There was a slight slip-up involving some radicals and peacekeepers at the Olsmarsh Power Station, nothing more!"

"Who Vasko, who was it?"

"Just some former peacekeepers," He was practically pleading now. Or as close as one could get to pleading and still remain dispassionate. "Headed by Jay Renault."

Silence. In any other place, the gossip would have deafened the sound of the name. Jay Renault. He'd been causing trouble for a while now, slinking through the shadows, stealing, spitting in the face of the state. It was time to bring him down a peg or two. Paylor smiled then, an idea dawning on her. It was time to bring them all down a peg or two.

"Brothers and Sisters," the table grew cautious at the sudden warmth of her tone. "I do believe I hold to me the solution to Panem's problems. Even the mightiest tree has an axe ready at its foot, and we must be the ones to remove that axe from our roots, this thorn from our sides. Soldiers, we must crush these, radicals. We must shield the people of Panem, who trust in us to defend them from their own revolutionary zeal. We must protect the State!"

She was shouting now. The whole table began to buzz, to simmer inwardly. "Soldiers, I propose to you, the 76th Hunger games." There was an abrupt silence. Another Hunger games? Disbelief seemed to be a running theme through this meeting.

"No."

She turned then. "Haymitch, these radicals are a threat not only to us, but to the people of Panem. Do you not remember the night the Capitol burned? The execution of President Snow? Was it not you who voted alongside the Mockingjay to hold another Hunger games in Coin's honour?"

Their reserve condemned him. Yes he had voted for another Hunger games, but that had been another time, another place. Another leader. "First General Secretary, it doesn't seem right, what about…?"

"What about the civilians, Haymitch? What about the State?"

He fell quiet. She nodded sharply at her new head of the CCRA.

"So are we all agreed?"

They nodded waveringly. "Plutarch?" Her secretary of communications could scarcely conceal the gross depth of his excitement, the twisted smile that writhed on his lips. The Head Gamemaker was coming out in him. His head twitched in an edgy nod. She lifted the receiver.

"Bring it in." There was a sharp rap on the door. A short, red haired Avox slipped in through the door, laying a battered metal casket in front of Paylor, before leaving, door pulled tightly shut behind him. There was a low hiss of air in the seal. The box was battered, smeared with the countless fat fingers of the old regime, but on top, unmistakeable against the black sheen, was the gold logo of the Capitol. Underneath, the words 'esuritio ludicrum' .

Hunger Games. She lifted the lid. File upon file, each one hand typed upon vellum, each one stamped with the gold eagle brand of the Capitol, each one signed by six signatories. Six, very dead, signatories. She withdrew a single file. A single file branded, 'Terms of the Games.' She looked up at the expectant faces of 16 delegates, and wrote across the top of the page. Matter of State Security.

"The proposal of the 76th, and final Hunger Games, against 22 enemies of the State for crimes against the great State of Panem. The final solution."

She scrawled underneath. For the good of the State. First General Secretary L. Paylor

District 1. District 2. For the benefit of the State. G. Hawthorne

District 3. District 4. District 5. Vasko examined it briefly, his eyes rising to meet Paylor's. Without looking down, he scribbled For the State. I. Vasko

District 6. District 7. District 8. District 9. District 10. District 11. District 12. Haymitch hesitated, the ink pen hovering just above the paper. The rest of the delegates' eyes bored into him. For Panem.

Head of communications. Marshal of the Army. Her new head of the CCRA didn't even bother to look as she signed, liquid fate pouring out of the nib of the same gold fountain pen that signed every paper before it. Be it death warrant, or not. Paylor's eyes lit up. They'd just sealed the fate of 22 counter-revolutionaries in one afternoon. Not bad for a day's work.

Her new head of the CCRA stood up then. They turned to her, watching, waiting to see what she would do. "First General Secretary." Her accent was bizarre, high-pitched and lilting, her vowels seemed odd, her tone clipped, hissing her s' and rising with her words. "I do have one recommendation for this plan."

"Speak it then."

"We make Katniss Everdeen a mentor."