Chapter Text
When Coriolanus Snow was voted President of Panem, he wasn’t surprised, of course not. He deserved to be there. Being President one day was always his plan, and it never should have been as difficult as it was. That was the quietly humiliating part of it all. Even if he had ended up exactly where he was supposed to, the fight it had taken was something vicious.
Society never looked too closely at the Snows, he had their legacy and good standing name to thank for that. And why should they? They had behaved perfectly naturally when everything was lost in the bombing of District 13. They had behaved perfectly naturally when his father died and took any hope of recovering their fortune with him. They had behaved perfectly as their private lives crumbled, and Coriolanus Snow did not for a second let his posture sag or his mask slip as he clawed his way through a life that he should have glided through.
His intelligence and academic prowess had earned him scholarships and propelled him through the Academy, and during the 10th Hunger Games his graduation year, his work with Dr. Gaul had led to him (rightfully) earning the Plinth Prize and finally getting his family back to equal footing. Though it wasn’t enough, and it was not for forever. His cousin Tigris was still stitching hems at the foot of that ridiculous and lazy Fabrica Whatnot, his Grandma’am was still slaving over her roses and fighting a battle with her own mind that they could not afford medication for. But, they were able to pay the taxes. They had a fresh meal each day, and on special occasions they had two. Coriolanus excelled in university, and of course he did. He studied political science, and he studied intensely under Dr. Gaul. He worked internships with gamemakers, some paid and some not.
And when he graduated top of his class in university, he’d smiled gracious smiles, he’d schooled his voice into something resembling modesty and thanked his professors. That night, he’d let himself breathe. Laugh with genuine joy because that path in front of him that was so humiliatingly difficult before felt doable now. The world felt wide open to him for the first time in his life. He remembers his grin splitting open his face when he left that stage with his university diploma and the highest honors and the jealousy of his classmates and knowing it all was his, as it should be, and wrapping his shaking arms around Tigris (hoping she didn’t notice his shaking), and breathing.
For the first time breathing, and it all felt so easy. The air moved so simply, into his lungs and out, it glided and glided. And when Clemensia Dovecote threw her arms around his shoulders and laughed “we did it, Coriolanus,” into his ear he had wanted to tear the hair from her head because she had been breathing like this her whole life. She didn’t know what it was to fight for air, and he shouldn’t know what it was. He should have been gliding through life like she’d glided into his arms, he should have graduated with high honors like it was obvious he would and it was of little consequence anyways because it meant nothing. His future should have always existed whether he’d fought for it or not. Like Clemensia’s had. But it hadn’t always existed, and he was thrilled and thankful and shaking and taking his first breaths, and trying to act like everything was normal and a given. Of course Coriolanus Snow graduated high honors, who else?
And breathing was so easy, and addicting, and it made his fury easier to tamp down. So instead of ripping the hair from Clemensia Dovecote’s head, he’d wrapped his arms around her waist and spun her in a half-circle, breathing “we did it,” into the top of her head like he had been breathing his whole life.
So when 10 years later, at the age of 32, he was voted the youngest President of Panem, Coriolanus Snow was not surprised. He was just breathing, and following the path his life always should have been.
-
It was April, winter was still clinging to the Capitol. Snow had fallen last week, and the frozen ground had yet to let it thaw, keeping the streets icy and white. The view from his office was beautiful, though he hardly ever glanced over it the way he used to. His first year living in the President's mansion he would stand at the windows for hours, staring over the Capitol. It was so beautiful, and the scars of the war didn’t litter the city like it did for so many years after it had ended. That had been one of his first acts, as president. Scrubbing the city clean of any messes. Messes meaning destruction left behind from the rebels. Ravenhill had left them there to serve as a reminder of what they had gone through, everything they had lost in the war. Coriolanus also thinks it was left to keep hatred for the districts at a high. But, from his perspective, that was never something the Capitol would struggle with. No one would forget the war so easily, they did not need their streets damaged and dirty to remember.
His eyes were pouring over a message sent to him from Commander Kilo Knotman who was currently positioned in District 12. There was unrest in 12, but then again there was always unrest in 12. Poorest of the Districts, coal miners, and full of stray rebels. Fighting against his peacekeepers was common to hear from his Commander in 12. Yet, this missive from Knotman was not to notify him of continued fighting against his peacekeepers but of strange activity.
Knotman described several reports of guns going missing from the armory at the peacekeeper base at 12, reports of peacekeepers breaking up strange unexplained backdoor meetings at some local bar, and most importantly of all a group of coal miners being intercepted while attempting to flee the district. Now, concern isn't exactly what Coriolanus felt. Concern implied that it was a problem. People fleeing the districts wasn’t something unheard of, it had been tried before. But that's just it, tried. Coriolanus felt an amused smile tug at the corner of his mouth. There was no escaping from your district, no escaping from Panem. It was so silly of them to think there was a place in this world where the Capitol couldn’t reach you. But District 12 wasn’t anywhere near one of the smarter or more civilized districts like 1 or 2, so it didn’t shock him that they’d have such foolish ideas of grandeur.
That being said, a group actually making an attempt to escape meant that in District 12 they were growing towards something resembling bold. Even if they got intercepted and even if they would be found no matter where they go, he couldn’t have them thinking this kind of direct insubordination would be tolerated. While one attempt to flee from a few people in a minor District really shouldn’t warrant attention from the President, Coriolanus would still take action. He could have them hanged, the rebels were, as of now, rotting in the jail in 12 while Commander Knotman awaited word from himself on how to proceed, as this wasn’t something that had been attempted during Coriolanus’s time as President. Still, he wondered whether hanging was the right way to deal with this.
He stood from his pale granite desk, lifting his suit jacket from the back of his chair and slipping it over his shoulders as he went. He strode out the closed door of his office, past the desk of Valeria, his wide-eyed receptionist whose head shot up the moment his door opened, where Coriolanus stopped to inform her that his chief of staff should be waiting for him when he returns.
This wing of the President’s mansion is alive at this point in the day. Smartly dressed advisors and officials filled the hallways, weaving in and out of offices lining the walls, conversing with others who wore badges, uniforms and pins dictating their achievements and positions, representing all the reasons they deserved to be in this place, standing on his floors, working under him. They cleared his path, some bidding him good morning. He greeted some of them by name, some of them his eyes passing over inconsequentially.
The private wing of the mansion is much quieter, it always is. He passes a few avoxes, some carrying what looks like fresh laundry, some empty handed yet moving with purpose towards whatever task they’ve been assigned, their footsteps silent as they pass by him, eyes down and giving him a wide berth. He enters the dining room, where Tigris is waiting, dressed in a simple pale blue day dress. The table has been set with its usual white lace tablecloth, silverware laid out and a vase of white roses at the center. Tigris, sitting with her back rigid and straight, looks up when he passes through the doorway, a smile coming across her face, yet not reaching her eyes.
“Good morning, Coriolanus.” Tigris greets. They have lunch together nearly everyday, though not dinner or breakfast. Somedays Tigris claims to be too busy for lunch, though he has people who work with Tigris which keep him informed to her actions and whereabouts should he ask, and even when they tell him she doesn’t seem more busy than any other day, he lets her pass on their lunches. He doesn’t want it to feel too much like the truth. The truth being that if he wasn’t practically forcing these daily lunches, she probably wouldn’t see him at all. This wasn’t something new, though. Tigris had been pulling farther and farther away from him for years. He can’t remember the exact moment things between them changed, maybe there hadn’t ever been one. She just doesn't understand what it is to lead a nation. She doesn't understand what it takes or how hard he fought or all the difficult decisions he has to make.
“Tigris,” Coriolanus says as he sits, “how’s the design you were working on? You couldn’t figure out which stitch might work best for it?” He prompts, hoping he was right and that it was the stitching of the dress that was bothering her. Really it could be quite tedious when she rambled on about her designs, but at least it reminded him of home.
“Yes. It’s all fine now,” She says, eyes on her plate as she begins to eat. “I found a simple ladder stitch to be most effective.”
Coriolanus tries for the kindest smile he has. “Well, maybe I could see it, you know you never show me your sketches anymore. Maybe you could put them to use.” Her face shutters, as if she knows what he is about to say. “Tigris,” he tries “Be a stylist in the Games this year. You always wanted all of Panem to see your designs, what better opportunity?”
“No. I’ve told you. I don’t want to be a part of your Games.” She says stiffly, poking at the fresh fruit on her plate. He bristles at the word ‘your’. They weren’t his Games for god’s sake, he wasn’t the one who’d created them nor was he the reason they existed. Was he the reason they were the spectacle they were now? Yes, and for that he was proud. But of course, this was just another thing Tigris didn't understand. “Besides, I already put my sketches to use. Over half of the city wears my designs. Panem does see my work.”
She says this to him like she has something to prove. She doesn’t. He knows she is incredibly talented, half his wardrobe was made by her. But she’s a Snow, and snow lands on top. She should be designing bigger things, better things, more important things. She deserves it. “I know, but you deserve more than this, you could have your work on television!” This shouldn’t be a conversation they have 10 times a year, and yet here they are. What number are they at this year, 4, 5?
“I design every suit Lucky Flickerman wears! I’ve personally made more than half of them. He’s on television, and he wears my suits, so there.” He tries to interrupt, but she stops him with a hard look, finally meeting his eyes for the first time since he’s walked in. “I do plenty, and I’m happy with the work I do. I don’t want my name on something I’m not proud of.”
He huffs at that. “Being a stylist in the Games would be an honor,” he sighs “yet you’re the only designer in Panem who sticks her nose up at it. You deserve this,” she cringes away at that, and he doesn’t pause to wonder at it, “more than anyone in this city. Think of the things you could create! You could design for any of the districts you wanted, I mean surely you’d want 1 or 2, but any of those tributes would be lucky to have you.” She scoffs out a dry laugh.
“They’d be lucky to live, Coriolanus.”
“I cannot believe you,” But he can, this is the conversation they have 10 times a year, so really, the shock has worn off by now. “Honestly, I mean, don’t you remember what they did to us in the war-”
“The Games aren’t about the war anymore, and you know it. They aren't about anything at all. It’s all just senseless.” Her deep blue eyes are hard and cold, her pale hand closed around a cloth napkin, knuckles white. He rests a hand over hers, she looks away from him to the wall opposite her. She’s brilliant, really, she could understand it if he made her, but she never wants to listen to him. Not anymore, anyways. She doesn’t understand anything about human nature, about what makes the Games so important. The reason they’re necessary.
He sighs, patting her hand awkwardly. He can’t believe they’ve forgotten how to touch. Him and Tigris. How to exist around each other.
-“It’s okay, Coryo, I’ll keep you warm. Just hold on to me, okay?” She whispers into the dark of the room. It’s so cold, so cold, his feet are numb and his fingers burn with the chill. Her hands, barely bigger than his, wrap around his pale shaky fingers. It feels like ice is seeping into his chest even if the room is dry. Her cold mouth is pressing into the top of his head. -
He doesn’t say anything back to her. They finish eating in silence, only the scrape of cutlery and the shadows of the occasion silent avox keeping them company. It starts to drizzle, he notices, eyes trained out the wall of widows at the back of the room. Soon, Tigris stands and says she needs to get back to work.
- They’re freezing, and somehow Tigris can always make him feel just a little bit warmer. It’s like she’s got a little sun in her chest, he thinks. -
“I’ll see you tomorrow then, Tigris.” He says, walking her towards the door. She nods, glancing in his direction.
“Yes, right.” She smooths her dress as she walks, hands falling emptily to her sides afterwards. “These last few days have been very busy though, I might not be able to make it. I’ll let you know.”
- “We’ll be okay. We’ll be okay, I promise.” She chants it like a prayer as she rocks them back and forth, her arms moving to wrap around his shoulders while he clings to her dirty dress. They will be okay. He’ll make them okay someday. -
He bites the inside of his cheek, pressing his hand into his pocket until his fingers meet the cool metal of his father’s compass. “I’ll send a car for you, anyways.” he says as she walks out of the room and towards the door.
She nods. She hears him. He hates it. “Goodbye, Coriolanus.”
-“I love you, Coryo.”-
“Have a good day, Tigris.”
-“I love you more, I’ll prove it.” She smiles against his hair. She’s shaking from the cold, too. -
The door shuts behind her.
-
When he returns to his office, his chief of staff is waiting for him, like he asked. Clemensia Dovecote was always his academic rival in the Academy. Not, really, of course. He’d always been far above his classmates, but she’d been the only one to come close to him and stay close in grades. He respected her work ethic and intelligence. Her focus, her determination. She understood, too. She understood the difficult life they had both chosen. When they’d continued their good-natured rivalry throughout the university and through political science classes, he'd been glad to have her around as a peer. He liked hearing her opinion. So when he’d been elected, he’d turned to her to be his chief of staff, his most trusted advisor. She’d accepted it gladly, and with a sharp grin that made him calm knowing she’d be at his side.
“Rough morning, then?” Clemensia asked as he strode through the door, raising an eyebrow at his prickled state. He brushes off the comment with an eye roll, retrieving the missive from Commander Knotman which he’d left sitting on his desk.
“Take a look at this, and tell me what you think.” He says as he passes it into her outstretched hand. She scans it quickly, the corner of her mouth tugging down a bit.
“Hm, well, it’s not like they’d have gotten far anyways. Seems like the situation was kept under wraps, and those guilty have been detained.” He waits, he knows all that, it says so in the letter. “What's bothering you? Seems to me the only thing left is to have them hanged. It’s only 12, after all. Hardly anything to worry about. Why can’t Knotman handle this?”
Coriolanus sighs, pulling his jacket from his shoulders. “I don't want to leave it to Knotman. Yes they wouldn’t have gone far, but they still attempted to flee from Panem, that is a serious offense. It’s treason. Also there is still the matter of the missing guns.”
Clemensia looks bored. “Hence the whole ‘being hanged for their crimes’ and wait,” She frowns, looking back down at the paper still in her hand. “It says the missing guns were collected from the group upon capture.”
“No,” He begins, walking around his desk to retrieve another missive from Knotman dated two weeks prior. “Four guns were reported missing, and three were confiscated from the group fleeing north.” he finishes, gesturing to the paper in Clemensia’s hand. “One is still loose somewhere in 12.”
“Okay, I'll give you that but I still don’t see how this is something for the President to be dealing with. Let Knotman deal with it, I’m sure he’s very capable.”
“No, no. This does fall to me. They need to know that they’re not overlooked in 12.” He stops her as she starts to interrupt him. “Yes, alright, they are overlooked in 12, but that stops now. Double the security in 12, I want more peacekeepers, more cameras, more weapons, and a fence around that woods. No one moves there without me knowing. The rebels will be hanged and their families punished.” Coriolanus states. “And,” he turns from Clemensia’s mildly shocked face towards the window and its rain soaked glass “I will be attending.”
“You’ll - what? Attend the executions?” Clemensia balks. “In 12? You want to go to 12 to watch the executions?”
“Yes. I will. Besides, I visit Districts 1 through 4 quite often.” Coriolanus stares at his own reflection in the polished glass of the window.
Clemensia’s face appears next to his in the window. “But not 12, never 12. Coriolanus, you can’t possibly be serious. That District is… brutal. What is going there to witness the executions going to do any - ah.” He waits for her to understand. “That’s just it, there’s no real point. You want to startle them. Show your face and make a scene.”
“They need to know the Capitol is watching them.” He turns away from the window and sinks down into his desk chair. He folds his hands over the cool surface, beginning to make the plans in his mind. “ I’m watching them.”
-
He departs for District 12 two days later. Commander Kilo Knotman has been informed that he will be in attendance for the executions, which he has made clear to the peacekeepers under his charge. The Mayor is also told of his visit, and told that he will be remaining in District 12 for a few days. But all of them are instructed to keep his presence a secret. The train into 12 isnt too long, thanks to the technology of the Capitol constantly developing.
The train hums quietly as Panem passes by the large window to his left. His train car is empty, but lavish. There's a table on the opposite side of the car full of food, though he hadn’t eaten much. It was lunch time, and he wasn’t used to eating it alone. He doesn’t know why it bothers him so much, honestly he eats every other meal alone. Maybe he just likes seeing her eat. It’s been a very long time since he and Tigris didn’t have a full plate, or even half of one, but sometimes he can’t help the relief that expands in his chest when he walks into the dining room to see a full meal waiting for him. When Tigris greets him everyday for lunch, he can’t help scanning her frame just to be sure she’s not the skinny malnourished girl she once was, she was healthy, she was okay. He thinks he’ll never get used to the pride he feels when she doesn’t shove food down her throat the second it’s presented to her, she just eats, she just breathes, she’s not starving. She’s okay.
His eyes pour over the reports in front of him. They're overviews of the work done in 12, reports of how many workers they have in the mines, their hours and wages, the work they do. He’s familiar with this, he reads these kinds of reports for all the Districts but he wants to be sure he hasn’t missed anything. He also reads through files he had requested from Knotman, which were the information from the rebels and their families. He’s not completely sure how to punish the families of the rebels yet, but one of them has a young son and the reaping is only a few months away.
They arrive half past noon in District 12, and he goes straight to the home of the Mayor. It’s a shabby thing, the furniture is all incredibly old and faded, the wallpaper is peeling at the high corners of the rooms, and the hardwood floors are scuffed and creak under his dress shoes. Still, he accepts the house tour from the Mayor who is sweating a little under Coriolanus’s eyes. He’s presented with his room which seems to be the nicest in the house, and instructs his assistant Valeria, who had come along with him, to have his things brought there.
He’s told repeatedly what an honor it is to have him here, and how they hope he continues to visit. His eyes roam over the worn suit jacket hanging over the Mayor’s shoulders, and tries not to cringe as he knows it must be his best suit if he’s wearing it in Coriolanus’s presence. The seams are stretched, what must have once been a decent shade of navy faded to a dull gray blue, edges of the fabric fraying. He meets the Mayor’s daughter, a 20 something girl with an acid sweet smile and a whining voice. He hates her immediately.
The executions take place early the next morning. He dresses in one of his more simple black suits, one designed and made for him by Tigris, she’d given it to him as a gift when he’d been elected 2 years ago. He decides wearing black is the respectful choice, and doesn't want to appear too overdressed in the poorest of the Districts.
As he rides in a nondescript black van, flanked with vans full of peacekeepers in front of and behind it, he adjusts the white rose pinned to his lapel. Hangings were an old practice, an old method of execution. When he first assumed presidency, he thought he might do away with them, have executions be a bit cleaner, just a simple gunshot to the back of the head. But, then he decided it was the gruesomeness of a hanging which people needed to witness. They did not need an execution to be easier to watch, that would not convey the message. So, though they were quite disturbing, the hangings would stay.
The crowd was already gathered in the town square when he arrived. His peacekeepers kept the people in organized groups, all neatly lined up and facing the large wooden stage. Heads turned to watch the 3 black vans come to a stop, and he waited until Commander Knotman pulled open his door. The sun was blinding, but he kept his eyes forward and focused on the faces of the citizens of District 12.
The whisperings broke out immediately. The words “it’s President Snow” passed through the crowd like a wisp of wind. Some kept their eyes trained on him like they doubted he was real, some turned their wide eyes to those next to them, putting their heads close together to make sure others were seeing what they saw, to try and understand what he was doing here.
They drank in the sight of him, and he could feel the unease radiating off of them. He walked directly onto the stage, back perfectly straight and his shoulders back, face completely schooled and masked. He didn't look at them yet, listening to their shuffling feet, their rapid whispers, letting himself breathe it all in for a moment and then moving to the microphone.
“Good morning, District 12. I’m glad to be here with you all, though I do wish it was under different circumstances. The acts committed by the rebels we are here to punish today were treason, and will be treated as such. The rules enforced in each of the Districts are there for your own safety, and to keep Panem from falling into chaos.” His voice was clear over the speakers in the square, his words carefully chosen. The whispers had stopped, and none of them seemed to be breathing. He thinks they were waiting for him to reveal the true reason he was there. He would. “The Districts are safe. The Capitol strives for your prosperity above all, that is why we govern you. Do not think we have abandoned you here in 12. We are watching. Do not be foolish, District 12.”
Some dropped their eyes to the ground, some stared directly at him. He met their eyes, and he spoke with finality. Some looked shaken, like they fully understood his words, and others looked twisted up in their anger. He didn't care what they felt as long as they heard him. Knotman began to read the charges of the criminals, and Coriolanus moved to stand on the side of the stage. The rebels were marched forward, bags over their heads and hands chained.
Someone in the crowd was weeping, but it was hushed, like they were trying to quiet their cries. A man in the front row was visibly shaking, clenching his hands into fists at his sides, his eyes welling. A woman was cradling a baby, tears pouring silently down her pale cheeks, eyes trained on the man on the far left as they slipped the noose over his throat. She pressed her hand over the back of the child’s head, and looked like she was fighting to take each breath. She would be okay.
Knotman finished reading the charges, and the names of the guilty. The whole square seemed frozen for those few seconds. And then, the trapdoor fell from under the feet of the guilty with a loud bang and someone screamed. Coriolanus thinks it may have been the woman with the baby, but he didn't know, his eyes remained focused on the swinging bodies of the now dead rebels. The rebellion in District 12 would die with them, he would be sure of it.
-
Though the executions were done, he would stay in District 12 for a few more days. Just to be sure everyone saw him, and understood the message. He oversaw the installation of 50 brand new security cameras around the District, and worked with Knotman to create new schedules to accommodate the 45 extra peacekeepers he was permanently assigning in 12 starting tomorrow. Next, they discussed the full searching of the homes of the rebels to attempt to locate the missing gun. Coriolanus had instructed Knotman to have the rebels interrogated while they were still alive, but they hadn’t been able to glean any information about the location of the gun. Then, he met with a construction team he’d had sent from District 2, and approved the design for the fence they would be building for the next week around the woods on the outskirts of District 12. Finally, he went to both the major coal mines, met with the supervisors working there.
That evening he was eating dinner at the Mayor’s table, all the meals were supplied by the Capitol, thank god, he had no interest in whatever the Mayor’s kitchen would have made. The Mayor and his daughter (what was her name again - Mayfair, was it?) were both incredibly dull people. All they had to offer was overdone flattery towards him, and boasting about their accomplishments. What accomplishments they had achieved in District 12 he had no idea, specifically because he had taken to tuning them out and sorting through his schedule in his head instead. At least then this time felt enriching in some way.
They had stopped trying to engage him in conversation after a while, whether because they ran out of flattery or achievements to boast about (the ladder wouldn’t shock him in the slightest), and instead Mayfair was droning on about some petty squabble with her boyfriend. The only reason he began listening to this was to internally laugh at the fact that some poor young man was stuck with this girl.
“And he keeps on going back to see that awful Lucy Gray, and I can’t even imagine why he was with her in the first place, daddy, she’s not even that pretty, and she can barely hold a tune, but everyone here seems to think she’s the greatest thing to ever happen to 12.” She paused to take a breath and Coriolanus thinks this might have been the kind of entertainment he’s missing from his life.
“Forgive my interruption, but who is Lucy Gray?” He asks, his curiosity getting the better of him.
Mayfair startles at him speaking, and her mouth falls open a bit when she realizes he's speaking to her. Her father cuts in when she takes too long to respond. “She’s a performer down at the Hob. Her and her family live down by the Seam.”
Mayfair jumps in again once more at the chance to talk about Lucy Gray. “She performs, but she’s no good. No good at all. She and her little ‘family’-” Mayfair makes air quotes and twists up her face when she spits out that word, “are all rude, and strange, and her dresses are absolutely ridiculous. She’s got no class. None at all.” Coriolanus hopes Mayfair isn’t implying that she has class. “I’ve got no idea why Billy Taupe ever ran with them or cared about her in the first place.” She says with a whine creeping into her voice.
He wonders if he’s supposed to know who Billy Taupe is. But, then as she continues to complain about Billy Taupe caring about ‘that silly Lucy Gray’ (he wonders how many adjectives she'll have used to describe Lucy Gray by the time this dinner is over), he assumes Billy Taupe must be the boyfriend.
“Anyways they’re singing tonight at the Hob, and Billy Taupe wants to go, but no way, I can't stand hearing Lucy Gray’s mediocre voice all night long, I think it’ll just kill me daddy, it’s terrible.” Her father hums as if he’s listening, but Coriolanus thinks he might be the one arranging his schedule in his head now. He suspects the Lucy Gray slander is a common conversation topic.
Coriolanus considers Mayfair’s words that Lucy Gray and her family are performing tonight at the Hob. He remembers the name ‘Hob’ from studying all high-profile places in District 12 on the train Ride from the Capitol. It’s a bar near the center of the town, it’s also where peacekeepers reported seeing shady deals taking place, and where many brawls break out between citizens and peacekeepers. He wonders at how it might shake them to see their President standing in that very bar and smiles a little to himself. He thinks he’ll go and see a show tonight.
-
He asks Valeria to go and purchase a ticket for tonight’s show at the Hob, but 30 minutes later she returns to tell him that apparently it’s free entrance for the shows. He can’t believe that they’re not charging money for their performances, even if they’re as awful as Mayfair says, this is District 12, surely they could use the money. He changes into one of his favorite suits, another one designed for him by Tigris, an intricate deep navy blue with barely noticeable swirling rose designs over the lapels. A pearly tie matched the white button down he had on underneath. He makes sure he looks every inch the President that he is. Then, it’s time to leave.