Chapter Text
The 68th Hunger Games are generally accepted to be the worst in Panem’s history.
Even the first decade, thrillingly boring as those Games were, without an identity as the Capitol wrestled to understand exactly how the Games they’d made were meant to function, were still broadly accepted to be fundamentally interesting affairs.
The 68th Hunger Games were nothing, a failure on all counts—almost all counts; the general consensus seemed to be that the arena was excellent. An inhospitable wasteland, it was unlike anything past Gamemakers had developed, full of spikes, concrete blocks, and devoid of most life. People couldn’t look away. The first hour reports from the Control Room showed the highest viewership since the Second Quarter Quell.
By the fifth hour, everyone had tuned out, the 68th Hungers Games had come to an unceremonious end.
Kaiser Troy looked at the stack of papers in front of him, nearly half a ream meticulously stacked on the decadent mahogany roundtable. The top page read “The 68th Hunger Games Autopsy” in a thick, serifed font. He refused to touch it.
It was not unusual for victors to meet the President. It was unusual for victors to meet the President under these conditions. Snow was thinner in person, unexpectedly so. Every announcement, proclamation, poster, showcased a man larger than life, the Beating Heart of Panem itself. President Snow was certainly tall, much taller than anyone Kaiser had ever seen in District 6, but he was also thin, gaunt, approaching gangly. He sat opposite Kaiser.
“Very few know this,” President Snow began, “but following each and every Games, the best and brightest of those involved in their creation come together to dissect every piece, where they were right, and more importantly, where their predictions were wrong.” His voice hung on every word, awaiting a response.
Kaiser Troy said nothing. He wasn’t stupid; he knew others were disappeared for less. His status as victor brought some level of security, but victor of the worst games in recent memory was hardly a bulletproof vest.
“I have been president for 53 years.” Snow continued, with no affect to suggest he noticed Kaiser’s refusal to speak. “In those 53 years, the Autopsy has only ever been more than one hundred pages once. Do you know when that was?”
Kaiser drew a slow breath. He spoke in a measured tone, flat, “The Second Quarter Quell.”
Snow hesitated for a beat. A noose would’ve been more comfortable. Kaiser’s hands rested in his lap, anxiously scratching at the fabric of his pants. “Correct. The Second Quarter Quell’s Autopsy was exactly one hundred and three pages, because there were twice as many tributes, twice as many interactions to track.”
Kaiser looked down at the block of papers in front of him. He was reminded of the arena, filled with house-sized concrete blocks, dyed black and scattered in irregular grids. He was lost amongst them when only four hours, twenty-seven minutes, and twelve seconds from the start of the games, the cannons fired thirteen shots and announced their end.
“The Autopsy for the 68th Hunger Games is three hundred and four pages long.” Snow’s voice ripped Kaiser back into the present. “The people in the Capitol are not happy. The people in the Districts are not happy. I am not happy.”
Kaiser Troy stared ahead silently.
“Someone needs to bear responsibility for such an abject failure, don’t you agree?” Snow asked.
Kaiser opened his mouth for the first time since sitting down. He closed it before he could say it was Snow’s fault. He took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and said a single word. “Yes.”
“You’re smarter than you look.” Snow said with something approaching a smile. It was off-putting in its artificiality. “District 6 never ceases to amaze me. I want you to read that Autopsy. I want you to pour over every last detail of your Games’ failure, and I want you to determine who bears the responsibility of the mess I have to clean up. It will give you something to do between stops of the Victory Tour.” Snow chuckled to himself before rising from his chair.
Kaiser stared at the pages silently. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. His hands shook as he touched the edges of the stack.
“You can read, can’t you?” President Snow asked incredulously. It was the most emotion he’d shown the entire meeting.
Kaiser sheepishly shook his head.
“My God, don’t the schools in District 6 do anything right?” Snow muttered to no one in particular. “Fine, I will assign you a tutor. She’ll meet you at the station. Get out of here.”
As if on cue, three attendants entered the room. Two immediately went to Snow, the third hurriedly moved Kaiser from the chair and out of the room.
Kaiser looked at the third. He was a middle-aged man, well kept, drowned in perfume. He didn’t quite seem to fit in the Capitol, especially not in the Presidential Palace. “Who’s God?” Kaiser asked.
“I’m to escort you to the train station,” the attendant replied.
Kaiser’s hands held the Autopsy with white knuckles.