Aetius Valter, 54, The Capitol.

A mirror is perched on the table beside his work, looking into it he sees one of the most powerful men in Panem looking back. The reflection smiles when he doe. The man waves at his reflection, and the reflection waves back. The mans dark hair is flicked with slivers of grey and his emerald green eyes look tired. The eyes are too green, modified in the Capitol when the man was younger.

He clenches a tanned fist, training his eyes up his reflection, he spots largely muscled arms. The man is an anomaly in the Capitol, a powerful man that has no pot belly or sagging cheeks. Instead muscles in the way younger men hope to be. He feels pride in his appearance, but more pride in the position he he has attained for himself. Again, he smiles into the mirror and it is too easy to see the handsome younger man he once was.

An envelope sits on his desk, he spotted it the moment he walked into his office but took his time before opening it, placing his bags on the floor near his tough leather boots and taking off his coat, it hangs loosely on the back of his wooden chair, scraping gently on the dark paneling of the floors.

He sits, staring at his reflection. His hands shake gently, partly in fear and partly in anticipation, in which this letter holds the key. He takes a deep breath, his adam's apple bobs in a large motion as he swallows his nerves before he picks up a crimson letter opener. It is shaped like a curved sword, he got gifted it after the victor of last years games Bastion Steele killed seven tributes with the weapon.

It was a gift from the President herself, though she did not deliver it to him nor did anyone on her behalf. He simply found the gift sitting on his desk the morning after the games were completed. The man suppresses a shiver at the memory, it is the same woman who has written the letter in front of him.

He slides the sword around the fold in the envelope, cutting effortlessly through the shining wax seal that has been placed upon it, its as sharp as the victors sword. Opening it delicately with nimble fingers he pulls out a letter made from heavy paper. He opens it carefully, like he was handling a loaded gun and reads the words out loud, his deep voice shaky.

Mr Valter,

I would like to congratulate you on yet another successful year of the games. Since you were first appointed resident participation in the games has gone up 110% and the average time watched in each session has gone up 87%. Those are successful numbers in deed.

The man lets out a breath he did not know he was holding as he stares at the perfectly calligraphed writing in front of him. He allows himself to feel triumph for a moment before his eyes skim ahead to the next line of writing. It sinks lower than the tunnels that the Avoxes clean underneath him.

However, despite this I personally have become tired of the same old tropes shown in the games. My personal challenge for you this year is to give me something different, give me something tempestas.

Tempestas. An old word for storm. He slumps forward onto the desk, running his hands through his hair he knows he must give the president what she wishes. Hurriedly grabbing for his bag he pulls out concepts he has been given for the arena, the first one he balls up straight away, throwing it into the bin by his feet he slams a clenched fist into the desk. The sound echos roughly around him.

He pushes the next design onto his desk, his eyes lighting up as he studys it more. Reaching for the phone hanging on the wall he dials the numbers of the creator. Just as the man picks up he glances back at the bottom of the letter.

Don't let me down,

President Crimson.

No, he will not let her down the man vows. Not in a thousand lifetimes.

Author's note: This is infact a SYOT, the tribute form and available spaces can be found on my profile :) Planning on updating at least once a week. Please only submit tributes through PM not reviews. Heads up! The more you comment the longer your tribute will live.

May the odds ever be in your favour.