An eerie clicking sound echoes down the long hallway. It follows a certain rhythm, a well timed CLICK-CLACK, CLICK - CLACK, CLICK - CLACK. The source of the noise passes by an analog clock, and its ticking is added to the stillness. A never ending streak of TICK - TOCK, CLICK - CLACK, CLICK - TICK, CLACK - TOCK floods the lonely corridor.
At last, the sound finds its destination - a tall, shiny steel door. The woman can see her reflection in its remarkably clear, freshly polished surface, standing in the stark lighting of the hallway, before a white washed wall. Her surroundings are just as lifeless as she is, a tall, expressionless woman in sharp Capitol uniform. Her hair rests in a tight, perfect bun atop her head, shining with gel. Her eyes are a hard grey - unlike those of some district citizens. Not sparkling or filled with emotion, but instead cold, hard and untouchable. She wears a straight, grey pencil skirt to match, along with a cleanly tucked white polo and newly shined black heels. Everything about her appearance is hard and precise - not a finger unmanicured, not a hair out of place. Most notably, she carries a clipboard full of neatly stacked papers.
TICK. The clock strikes exactly four o'clock. The woman lifts her hand and knocks purposefully on the door. A silver panel slides back into the wall, revealing a dimly lit room with a large desk, monitor, panel covered in blinking buttons, and an inconspicuous and shadowy desk chair. The woman steps forward cautiously, suddenly aware of a heavy stench -
Roses.
"Sir." She addresses and unseen figure. She breathes deeply. "The war is over. Thirteen has been taken."
A long silence.
"Excellent," a deep, almost whispering voice replies. The chair in the center of the room turns, and a man's face is clearly seen. Elderly but well pampered, with barely perceptible wrinkles. Years of leadership behind pale blue eyes. A sort of expression that suggests accomplishment, pleasure, and something else...
The woman searches his face. Then she sees it.
Vengeance.
He pauses for a moment, then continues. "I must see it."
The woman crosses the room and pushes a series of buttons, pulling up a piece of live footage. The man gazes into the monitor, drinking in the sight of the fallen district. Piles of demolished buildings lie everywhere. Stone, brick and glass cover the dead and wounded. Small fires have sprung up in certain places among the ruins, causing long worms of smoke to rise from the destruction. The man's smile grows even wider, the flames flickering in his eyes, creases forming around them. The woman watches in silence.
"Send a reporter out immediately," he orders, "And see Lydia in television about a public appearance." The woman nods and hurries out of the room, her heels click- clacking faster and faster. The man turns back to the monitor and, with a few key strokes, an image of a group of men appears.
They all wear black, white, or grey suits and ties, along with neatly slicked back hair. A few have carefully trimmed beards, some with subtle patterns shaved into them. They are all crowded around the screen.
"President Snow," one addresses him. "Is there any word about our progress?" The president still wears the same satisfied smile. "My friends, thirteen has been taken."
The president has always been a man of few words, but these are among the most significant words he has ever uttered. The general mood of the meeting instantly brightens, and the men grow smiles similar to Snow's. "So now everything returns to normal?" "No." President Snow states clearly. "Nothing will ever be the way it was. Thirteen is destroyed now, but they have not fully payed for what they've done. We gave them everything they needed, treated them as equals, and they betrayed us. They encouraged other districts to join them; , any of them did. Now everyone must pay the price." The men have become solemn, nodding grimly. "Come right away," he instructs. "We will discuss how to restore order."
