To Die Is An Art:

The Head Gamemaker was hurried down a long hallway, flanked on either side by peacekeeper guards, dressed in full combat attire. Though the concrete walls of the hallway were far apart, the guards pressed closely against their charge, too closely for his liking. Seneca did not see why security had to be so strict when he was only going speak with President Snow, something he had done many times during the most recent Hunger Games.

The President had summoned Seneca Crane to his presence only a few hours after the conclusion of the Games. Seneca thought he had a vague idea of how the meeting would go. The President would sternly reprimand him for his actions concerning the games, and ramble on for a while about how the Capital must be held above the districts, and how hope is a dangerous thing. Then, Seneca would apologize profusely for his breach of conduct. Simple. He began to mentally rehearse his apology.

"I am deeply regretful of my actions. I can assure you, sir, that it will never happen again. However, there were factors I could not influence in these Games. "

That was silly. Of course he could have influenced it. He was the Head Gamemaker, and from his lofty post in the control room, he could do virtually anything to influence the Games. Snow was smart, Snow was calculating. He wouldn't fall for that line.

Seneca was re-considering his phrasing when the party abruptly drew to a halt in front of a pair of intricate gilded doors. Without speaking a word, the peacekeepers yanked them open and shoved the startled Gamemaker inside.

Shocked by how harshly the peacekepers had treated him, their superior, Seneca grunted and brushed himself off. He smoothed his black and red tunic and looked around.

The room was small, and poorly lit, but also featured marble floors and the fancy architecture that was so typical of the Capitol. The most important feature of the room, however, was that President Snow was nowhere to be seen. Instead, in the center of the room was an intricate golden table, with an elegant glass bowl perched on top. Not quite knowing what to expect, Seneca approached the table and peered over the rim of the bowl.

Nightlock.

It all clicked together into Seneca's mind, like a particularly good idea for an extremely deadly Arena. However this was not someone else's death he would be plotting, it would not be someone else's life he was taking. Suddenly the roles had been reversed, and he was at the mercy of another's superior cunning.

Wanting to believe that he could still get out of this, the Gamemaker ran back to the ornate doors, pounding on them desperately, hoping to break free or be let out. If anyone heard him, they did nothing, but even as he hammered at the doors, Seneca's mind told him that he would never escape the room. He dropped his hands. Of course. How stupid to think he ever had a chance.

Hope is a dangerous thing.

He wanted to fall into despair, to sink to his knees, to give up. But Seneca knew Snow was watching from somewhere. In a way, this was a meeting, albeit a cruel and one-sided one. He turned around and strode back over to the table and the deadly, pitch-black berries, so demure lying there in the glass bowl.

The irony of the berries was not lost on Seneca. Even before the District Twelve tributes, Katniss and Peeta, had made their stand, the berries had exhibited their lethal power when the District Five girl had fallen victim to them in the last throws of the Games. But as soon as Katniss had taken out the berries and offered them to Peeta, Seneca realized, it had been over. In the eyes of the President, at least.

Seneca thought he had been doing what everyone wanted. It was something he had been doing for as long as he could remember. If you didn't do what was expected of you, you didn't last long, even in the Capitol. But these games had been different, and even those in the Capitol had cheered for the "star crossed lovers" of District Twelve. Except for Snow.

No. I don't like an underdog.

Snow had warned him to be careful. In retrospect, Seneca realized that by that time he was already treading on thin ice, and that he should have watched his steps better. But he hadn't, he been careful at all, and he had even gotten a little too caught up in the games. Even has Head Gamemaker, he had to remain detached, instructing only where the traps should be placed and the mutts unleashed. It had been his job to make sure they died in a way that would evoke a reaction from the viewers, he was to entertain them. He was not to care about the tributes, as they were only that. Tributes, to be sacrificed Capitol. But he had cared. Seneca had seen the spark in Katniss when she shot the arrow at the pig, he had seen the fire reflected in here eyes in the Games, and when the moment of rebellion came, he embraced it.

Yes, Seneca had thought he'd been doing what people wished him to do. But he was also doing what he wanted, which presented a conflict. And that wouldn't do. Seneca was one who had enjoyed the benefits of being part of the Capitol elite, and one of Snow's right hand men. But, really, he was not above anyone else. To Snow, he was just as expendable as the tributes in the arena.

If he had done as Snow wanted, he wouldn't be in this room. But if he wasn't in this room, Seneca realized, he would have already begun planning another area of death, again, serving the Capitol's needs. So it didn't matter, because no matter what, the Capitol dictated his every move, and there was nothing short of a full on rebellion that could stop that.

He was going to die. That was certain. The only question was how. It seemed obvious at first, eat the Nightlock. He'd be dead in an instant. But Seneca wasn't going to do that, not if he had another option. President Snow had placed those berries there, and that was how he wanted Seneca to go out, just like some helpless tribute. Seneca, however, was no tribute. He was the Head Gamemaker, and he knew how to do his job, he knew how to kill. Not that he was proud of that fact. At first it had seemed like nothing, simply standard protocol, what the Capitol demanded. His job. But then the tributes of District Twelve had come into the picture, and President Snow had gotten even more threatening. Then Seneca's eyes had opened to the scheme. Still, Seneca was good at what he did. People enjoyed his games, and even if they hadn't enjoyed the most recent ones, he'd at least gotten a reaction from everyone, even Snow.

Seneca Crane was going to go out with a bang. Katniss and Peeta had not done what he had expected them to do, and in turn he would not do what Snow expected, either. He was in this room because he, too, had rebelled; he was in the room because he was, to President Snow, an anomaly, something that could not exist in his world. His last dying act would not be one of submission to Snow and to the Capitol ideals, not after everything that had happened. What would be the point?

Seneca looked up at the ceiling. Four support beams ran across it, about twenty feet up. A plan formed in his mind, and his hands went to his black vest, pulling down the zipper behind the red stripe. He slid it off, and felt its weight. No, it wouldn't do. The material was too thick to make use of. He dropped it to the floor, and with a sigh, he unbuttoned his red, silken shirt. It was made of a much thinner material, and, almost regretfully, Seneca began to tear at it, ripping it into long strips of fabric. When the expensive garment had been shredded, the Gamemaker preceded tie the strips together, knot after knot. It grew quite long, a rope of red silk spooling out in front of him. After he had used up all the material, Seneca gathered it up, and walked over to the table.

Climbing onto the gilded tabletop, Seneca contemptuously kicked the bowl of berries to the floor. The glass shattered, sending shards skittering across the floor and leaving the dark berries to roll aimlessly around. Seneca balanced himself on the table, and flung the makeshift rope into the air. It arced high, looping over one of the support beams. He coaxed that end to come back down to his level, and tied it to itself, so that the rope could not come down from the beam. He tugged on the rope slightly, testing it. It seemed to hold.

Holding the free end of the rope in his hands, Seneca looked over the side of the table. Now was when he had to calculate this exactly. As long as his feet didn't touch the ground, he'd be set. He did some quick math, then pulled the red fabric into a noose around his neck. He tied it tightly, as he wanted it to do its job properly. Once again he checked the strength of the makeshift rope. It still held.

This was it. Seneca Crane, the former Head Gamemaker of the Capitol, stood shirtless on top of the golden table, with the red rope of fate knotted around his neck. There was not even a hint of fear in his blue eyes as he stared up at the cameras that he knew were invariably watching from above.

"To die is an art," he said, smiling, before stepping off of the table.

A/N: I don't always write HG fics, but when I do, I'm really late and they're not even about main characters. I'm sorry u_u. But there are already so many amazing fics about them out there, that it wouldn't matter much. However, this is something I wanted to write for a long time (but I'm lazy so I only did it recently). When I read the books, it seemed that it was to be assumed that Seneca was hanged. However, the movie obviously implied otherwise, and this was the compromise I came to in my mind about it. I hope you enjoyed it, and I'd really appreciate it if you gave a review. Thanks!