Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.

-Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The floor beneath him was granite and angular. White and black panes of stone were arranged in mosaic to form an eagle carrying arrows, scrabbling across the floor in shards of obsidian and marble.

Caesar Flickerman neatly placed his steps over the top of the eagle, ignoring his inbuilt urge to tread around Panem's greatest sigil of power.

Above and around him, shadowed by balconies and lit in areas by small windows, the rest of the hall was built with stone and clad in mahogany and obsidian- every furnishing was either black or deep brown. Rustling in the evening sunlight were huge red banners, draped from every balcony, with the black sigil of Panem at the top and the white of President Snow's administrative sigil on the bottom- the eternal dove, carrying a rose in its beak and a blade in its talons. Caesar lifted his hand and drew it past the silk, relishing in the feel of decadence. It wasn't like he didn't own the fabric; he had spent a lifetime surrounded by silk. But touching President Snow's belongings satiated some part of his psyche, especially when he wasn't sure how long he would be alive to interfere in the President's world much longer.

An armed escort to his left made a frustrated sound and Caesar quickly retracted his hand from the banner.

"Sorry," he said with his trademark toothy smile. None of the gun-carrying guards lifted even a hint of a smile underneath their half-visors.

The escorts, four of them, were all from the Capitol Guard. When they had arrived at Caesar's apartment at the Waterfront, he was certain he was to be taken to the Re-Education Center; he had almost considered running. But instead of being black-bagged and knocked out, Caesar was half-pushed into a lavish limousine and then driven straight to the Presidential Mansion. No question would loose an answer; Caesar, master of words, had been faced with an impenetrable wall of silence.

So, he had thought when even his most winning smile and cajoling tone failed to raise even a glance from the Guard, it's not re-education; it's execution.

Only a few hours ago, Caesar Flickerman had watched as the cameras of the Arena cut out; even to those with the administrative privileges of a Level 7 staff member like himself. For an hour there was only speculation and reruns; Caesar had been smartly informed by phone that his services were not required in the recording booth, despite his desperation to spin the radio silence into something with more potential. And then, an hour later-

Well.

The feed had cut back. There was no audio, but there was image. It was of seven tributes in a strange room, banks of computers surrounding them. A camera, seemingly positioned in the corner of an elevator and remotely controlled, followed the grainy image of a tribute as he tapped furiously on a keyboard, looking back expectantly to the elevator as if someone was in it. Then, one pushed at the ceiling; light flooded the camera feed, and by the time the exposure had re-adjusted, the tributes were gone from the room.

Abruptly, the Capitol TV feed had cut to black, then to a test card; Caesar had started furiously making calls about who was broadcasting the footage, but none of his sources could tell him.

Caesar was on the verge of leaving his house and breaking into the recording studio, but then- Then. The feed cut back again.

Bits and pieces of footage, ruined by static and interspersed with cutting to a test card here and there. It was timestamped for only an hour ago; timestamped for an hour ago, exactly. Cesal and Emil, clearly bloodstained despite the black and white footage, crashed through the ceiling of the footage and down, rolling away as almost-undiscernable bullets chewed up the floor. A test card for Capitol TV, a long monotone for twenty minutes, and then-

Caesar had stopped pacing and yelling down a phone in favour of sitting on the edge of his huge couch in a mix of anticipation and horror.

The now-familiar strange room was empty, but bullets had rent the floor and blood stained the ground. The square of light coming from the ceiling was suddenly obliterated by shadow.

And then the camera started moving, the room moving in the other direction, but both diagonally moving downwards. Steel beams crashed around the camera, and then it plunged downwards, down past one floor, then another, then so many so quickly they became a blur, and then there was debris everywhere in the field of the camera, light and shadow and then overwhelming light, light like a fire, and then-

The feed cut out again, and this time Caesar was in no question of what had happened.

The arena had been destroyed.

None of his sources in the arena would take his calls; after an hour or so, he gave up. His in-Capitol sources could tell him nothing. Eventually, Caesar gave up, had his Avox mix him cocktails with significantly more alcohol in them than usual, and waited for the Capitol Guard.

And now he was in the Presidential mansion, flanked by four guards. He expected to be taken to the main Reception Hall, but instead the guards took a left at the end of the huge lobby and down to a lavish but far more secure area of the mansion; one that Caesar, after a lifetime of living in the Capitol, had never known about.

Right, right, left and down to the end of the corridor. One of the Guard knocked on the huge doors.

"Come in," a faint but eminently familiar voice said. Caesar swallowed involuntarily. The Guard opened the doors, waited as he crossed the threshold, then closed the doors behind him.

Caesar stood in a hall; it was, perhaps, larger than the lobby, and perhaps larger than even the Reception Hall. The walls were clad in flawless white marble, but there were no windows. Spotlights illuminated objects on plinths and in display cases, but everything else was in shadow. The objects ranged in size and type; by Caesar's hand in a display case lay a scorched, larger-than-life marble head, of a long-faced, austere man wearing a top hat that Caesar did not recognise. In one corner of the room, lights illuminated an old and partially destroyed helicopter on a plinth; huge hand-painted numbers on the side, smeared and scorched along with the rest of the helicopter, read '13'.

"Admiring the Hall of Antiquities?" A voice resonated through the room. Caesar forced himself to turn slowly as he tried to source the voice in the shadows- President Snow walked from behind a plinth, gloved hands holding a tatty book he flicked through as he spoke.

"I thought this was just a rumour," Caesar replied. He winced slightly. "I actively dismissed those rumours as faulty information."

"Certain information is kept from the public," Snow responded, "For their own good. Take this." He held up the book. "An ancient text from the First Age, before Panem; it was written as dogma for radicals, by a man named Saul Alinsky. Have you heard of it?"

"-No."

"That is because I decreed it was not for public view. In the hands of the wrong people, this text could help incite rebellion."

"Even without it," Caesar said carefully, "Rebellion may be incited regardless."

Snow regarded Caesar a moment; for a second, Caesar worried he had stepped too far in trying to normalise his presence to Snow, but the President started to smile carefully. Caesar wasn't sure yet if that was better than having the President frowning.

"You didn't ask the obvious question, I note."

"I didn't wish to undermine your premise of authority, sir."

"On television, I respect and encourage that. In private, I would encourage you to ask the question you are thinking."

Caesar stepped forward neatly, fingers brushing over the glass of a display case. "If for the good of the public you restrict rebel dogma; why does it remain here?"

"Because it remains useful to those maintaining peace." Snow turned a page of the centuries-old book. "Rule one- power is not only what you have, but what the enemy thinks you have. Something you have ensured for me over many years as the Games' figurehead."

"A role, I hope, you believe I have fulfilled?"

Snow closed the book and placed it back in its display cabinet; glass closed over it automatically the second his hand retracted. "Ah. And now you so carefully bring us to the real question on your tongue."

Shit. He had gone too far into his habits as an interviewer, and Snow was no naive tribute. "-My apologies, sir, my intent was not to push-"

"It was entirely your intent, Flickerman. I had wondered how long it would take before you pushed for the answer; if you're wondering, I had expected you to be far more your persona."

"With respect, sir," Caesar said, brushing back a stray hair from his wig, "I am not my persona."

"No," Snow said with an interested tone. "You are not." He stepped forward again, this time absently admiring the display case in the center of the room. It was small, and the scorched, rectangular device upon it was tiny, but it had been given the central position in the room, clearly elevated above the rest. "Why do you think you are here, Caesar?"

What was this, Twenty Questions? Caesar formulated an innocent answer as quickly as possible. "The events on television seemed- unusual, so I trust that you want me to soothe the public about their nature."

"It would not be a poor assumption. What you're really wondering, however, is whether or not you're here to be punished."

Caesar's blood ran cold. Speaking to the President was always done between the two of them in riddles; the truth could not be touched upon so inelegantly. This was unusual. This was terrifying.

"-I, ah, did not want to sound so-"

"Caesar." Snow cut him off as he stepped to stand only a display case away. "You aren't here to be punished, so stop stumbling over your words. You are standing in one of the most high-security, need-to-know basis vaults in the country- you think I would place a television presenter in here just to execute them?"

"No, sir."

"Your reason for being here is this- Head Gamemaker Seneca Crane, Games Head of Technology Lexus Valerian, Games Communications Director Josiah Lyman and the majority of the arena staff are dead."

Caesar blinked. "-I'm sorry, sir?"

"To the public, you will report their deaths as a terrible and tragic accident, made by Crane and Valerian's negligence." Snow regarded Caesar carefully. "In private, I want you to know they died by Presidential order to the Capitol Guard."

This couldn't be right. Caesar had been certain that the arena had been destroyed on the television, and none of the staff had returned his calls, but-

"-Every person in the arena? All of them?" Caesar couldn't help the nervous laugh that punctuated his voice. "Didn't anyone try to run?"

"Lyman headed an evacuation of the majority of the staff. They were apprehended at the border and executed before they could reach Panem."

Caesar didn't understand. Hundreds of people dead, the President was telling him about it, and he still didn't know why he was here.

"You understand, I am certain, that the tributes had formed a revo alliance."

"-Yes, sir?"

"The rest of the staff were, if not complicit, actively permitting rebellion and running from the Capitol. They were enemies of the state. You understand this? I know many of the staff were in the entertainment industry such as yourself." Snow's voice betrayed no emotion in killing hundreds. Thankfully, Caesar's voice didn't either; the alcohol he had drunk in the past few hours had significantly calmed his nerves on that front.

"They were enemies of the state. I understand, sir. You said the- majority of the staff?"

"Yes. Plutarch Heavensbee returned early this morning, far prior to the raid, with a broken nose. According to him, he ran into a door." The President seemed unconvinced; Caesar was entirely unconvinced. For Plutarch to have escaped the massacre was suspicious to say the least. Snow gave a vague snort. "And, I'd suspect, he's about to try and run you into a door."

"...Sir?"

"You have served me well as Master of Ceremonies, Caesar, and I reward those that serve me well. Effective immediately, I, Coriolanus Snow, President of Panem, appoint you, Caesar Flickerman, as the Head Gamemaker of the Hunger Games."

Caesar's head lifted slightly in shock. This was not punishment. This was promotion.

"Now. Six of the revo tributes died in the explosion- but we recovered one alive. Seneca and Lexus put out the delayed footage of the arena's destruction before we could stop them. I want to put this entire incident behind us, and behind the Capitol, as quickly as possible. What would you advise?"

Oh, this was just perfect. Caesar had thought that in order to undermine the President, he would have to push the public to revolt from his seat on television; but now, the President in his paranoia of Heavensbee had handed him the keys to the kingdom. He could destroy Snow's seat on power from the inside. He smiled, straightening.

It was time to begin.

"Well, sir, first of all- I would advise that we crown our Victor."

Hello, all, and welcome to Ivaylo.

This SYOT is the direct sequel to my previous SYOT, Jacquerie; they are an AU in which the 74th and 75th Games pass without incident, and in the 76th seven unlikely tributes form an alliance to escape. This is about to be the 77th.

If you clicked on this with the interest of the 'Open SYOT' label, this is indeed open. However, previous characters will be returning in chapters, and will be driving the plot while I intertwine characters into the mix. This is not a typically formulated SYOT, and as such the characters I am looking for are different. I am not looking for twenty four tributes- I am looking for three tributes, two Capitolians, and an Avox. Each character has a starting line of what is required of them; full details can be found on my profile. You can submit for as many of the six as you like, but this is not first-come first-served; I will be choosing based on character-building merit and how well they fit the plotline. The submission deadline is the 13th of June.

Now, Jacquerie updated daily, but I'm not certain that I can continue this with Ivaylo; as such, I will be updating twice-weekly on Mondays and Fridays.

Thank you for reading this far, and I am overjoyed to welcome you all to Ivaylo.

May the odds be ever in your favour.