President Argent was never one to outspeak; a woman who kept quiet unless addressing the newest Capitol news or announcing a new law. But not today. Today was the announcement of the Quarter Quell.

Her nails were a brilliant purple, freshly painted. She blew on them furiously as to dry them before the announcement. She was only eleven when the Quarter Quell announcement; a little girl. But this year, she will be the President, the announcer herself. Her nephew would carry the box with the card, she would take 125 in her long purple nails. She'd read it, the Capitolites would clap and cheer uproariously, and she'd saunter off of the long white stage, her heels clicking along. That's exactly how it would go; it'd be perfect.

When the moment came, her nails had finally dried and she'd just received her caffeinated drink, without enough time to drink it. She stood up, smoothing her skirt (which matched her nails). "President Eleven Argent- you're on in fifteen," the crew came over the radio in a monotonous voice. Her heels clicked along- just as she'd planned -as she took her time towards the crisp white stage.

"Presenting the lovely president of Panem, ladies and gentlemen, it is the beautiful Eleven Argent!" President Argent ran down the stage, her purple dress flowing around her knees. Her white high heels were indistinguishable against the stage. Cheers came from all around- hands reaching for her. She held her head high as she took quick steps towards the end of the stage, where her nephew, Quintus, stood with a little black box containing cards for a thousand years. He was dressed in all black; virtually unnoticeable next to President Argent.

The president drew her hand sharply through the air. The silence was instant. She drew in a long breath as she opened the small black box. She drew out the 125 card with great care. She clutched it between long fingernails, read it over, and held it to her side.

This was going to be exciting. "To represent that this is the one hundred twenty-fifth year of our annual pageant, the Hunger Games, and the fifth Quarter Quell, there will not be a change because of the Quell, there will instead be a permanent change. In this year, and every year forward, we will include two tributes from the Capitol to signify that absolutely no one is safe. After the recent discovery of an active District Thirteen, two tributes will be included from District Thirteen when possible. These tributes will be chosen in the reaping, as normal," President Argent said in a loud clear voice, trying to make her (admittedly quite boring) speech as interesting as possible. The end part had been scrawled across the card in pencil instead of the neat print as the other cards had been.

Either the crowd had had their breath taken away or they were bored because they were silent. No one spoke, no clapping, no cheering, just an eerie silence that jarred the president. She wanted a reaction, she wanted gasps and horrified screams. Instead there was silence. No one even sighed.

And then it went as planned, despite the uncalled-for silence. She sauntered off the long white stage, her almost-radiant white high heels clicking along. Everything was perfect, but why hadn't there been cheering? Clapping? Why hadn't there been even a single breath? Why had the entire crowd stayed silent? They were supposed to cheer, clap, scream. Anything but silence. Silence was horrible. At least there hadn't been chatter and laughing, as the President recalled from the last Quell reading.

One thing was certain- this wasn't the end. There must be something more. Somehow the President would persuade the Gamemakers to haunt the year's arena with terrifying phoenixes or train a certain part of the arena to each specific tribute's fears. This surely couldn't be it, this was not special enough to be a Quarter Quell, even one that was to be permanent. These Games had to be more special than a simple twist. Of course, it wasn't easy to sacrifice Capitol children, even the President knew that, but it was just so boring. The Capitol almost deserved it to make up for the simplicity of the twist.

Eleven Argent was going to make something happen.

By the time the President finished her walk off the stage, twisted through the hallways, and kicked off her high heels, her drink was cold. She didn't send it back, just drank it. It was sweeter this way. Perhaps she'd order all of them cold. It made it better somehow.

Fire-breathing phoenixes would make these Games better too.