A/N: The first half of this is just to tie up a loose end for my long-term readers (People who have read my last story, too.), but everyone will understand what happens, don't worry. ;)
The second half is just to be fair and show that, from the moment you press send on that tribute form, the tribute is mine and therefore not at all safe. And it's also to be fair. Sort of. ;)
But, apart from that, this is the end! It has been an honour writing for you and having you as wonderful readers and I will miss you all very, very much.
Until next time!
Outside the President's Office, the Capitol
Just After the 225th Games
"Come in!" calls the voice on the other side of the door. Genisius Oronof, gamemaker-in-training, is lead into the office of the most important man he will ever meet by his father, the current head gamemaker. "Ah, Oron," says the president, "May I congratulate you on a fantastic games. What did you want?"
"I wanted to apologise," replies Oron, "for the awful mistake my son made before the games, sir. I am currently re-thinking his position as my apprentice."
"What mistake is this?" the president remarks, eyeing young Genisius carefully.
"He invited non-gamemaker personnel into the Gamemaking Centre without permission from any senior members of staff. Luckily, I sorted it, but this error cannot be made again."
"Who did he invite?"
"The 'new arrival'?"
"Why, the crowd loved her! It was an excellent twist, Oron. Plus, I think your son has learnt his lesson." He pauses "Actually… Yes, I think that, this once, it was a good mistake. Yes."
"If you think so, sir…"
"When did you say you were going to retire, Oron?"
"Well, I'm getting old, sir. This was my last games."
"And who did you choose as your successor?"
"Lucius Walker. He has proven himself to be a very loyal worker, sir, and helped me to design that latest arena."
"Have you told him yet?"
"No, not yet, sir. I was planning on telling him at the victory tour – hand everything over then."
The President lifts the telephone on his desk and asks if Lucius Walker can be sent up to see him. After a few minutes of silence, he appears.
"Sorry it took me so long, sirs, I was dealing with the small matter of the family of the late Mindora Gaspine." Lucius bows as he talks "What was the reason for which you wanted me?"
The President replies first. "I would like to ask you if you knew that Oron Oronof here is retiring this year."
"I have heard rumours, yes, sir."
"He has said to me that he would like you to take over from him."
"He did? Oh, it would be a great honour, sir!"
"Yes. Sadly, I do not think that this will be necessary. Instead, I would like to appoint his son, Genisius, as new Head Gamemaker. What do you think?"
Lucius looks lost for words for a second, hen regains his composition.
"If you think that it is wise, sir," he says, carefully, "I can only agree."
"Good. In that case, Genisius, you shall be handed the title at the victory tour later this year. I look forward to the occasion.
Genisius rises, speechless, shakes the President's hand and is lead out of the room by his father, who is trying to look happy (for his son)as well as composed (for the President) and shocked (for Lucius).
Genisius has a good position, and may even last in that position until the next quell, if he's lucky, but I doubt he'll be speaking to Lucius as a friend for many years to come…
The Justice Building, District 7
The Victory Tour of the 225th Games
Well, this one's going to be awkward.
That's the only thought I can register as I prepare to speak to the whole of District 7. When I close my eyes, all I can see is the face of the girl from this District; her green eyes as they fill with terror; my hands as I slit her throat; her limp body on the floor as I glance back and run.
No, not awkward: painful.
"Ok, sweetie, let's go out," coos my escort, Poppet, a large lady with a very Capitol sense of style who has been District 3's escort since before I can remember. I take a deep breath and try to suppress the urge to rip her throat out as I step out onto the stage.
My hands automatically fiddle with my dress as I walk up to the microphone.
"Um, hello, District 7," I say into it. Oh, I hate this. I wish they'd stop looking at me like that. Oh yeah, I'm meant to be smiling, aren't I.
Just as I am about to start into my rehearsed speech, a scream erupts from the audience. I shrink back in shock and clap my hands over my ears.
Too late. Images fill my head. Memories that I know will never leave but try to forget anyway.
Suddenly, I feel hands around my neck. My eyes flick open and I'm reaching for the compartment in my metal leg in an instant. Before I can think, I have a knife in my hand and I'm fighting with the girl on top of me. Around us, all is chaos. Peacekeepers are everywhere, trying to control the frenzied crowd and rabid girl.
"You!" she screams, "You murdered Shayli! You monster! You don't deserve to live while she's dead! No! Get off me!"
In the struggle, she somehow manages to get hold of my knife, and, before I know what's going on, she drives it into my throat, which explodes with a fiery agony.
"There, you monster! Die through the throat like Shayli!"
A cannon goes off. Was it stating my death? It takes me a few seconds to realise that it was a gun, not a cannon, and that the girl has gone.
"Mackenzie!" calls an older voice, "No! Mackenz-"
Another gun. I can just make out two bodies on the stage, the crowd in panic and lots of blood, no longer just my own before I have to close my eyes from the pain.
My last thought before I give up trying to breathe is that the girl who attacked me was right.
I am a monster.
A/N: Sorry, Imp97.