District 13 was in uproar.

Even that seemed far too much an understatement.

They'd noticed, of course they'd noticed, when the revolt began.

The military had even immediately gone to aid those fleeing, those vacating Panem by the dozens, by the hundreds, by—

Well, by as many as physically possible.

But they hadn't gone after the Capitol, not immediately.

It took less than an hour for it to be noticed.

George began screaming at one hour at the dot, shouting and haranguing and doing everything he could to get people's attention.

He was still under watch, after all, his meetings still restricted to soldiers, but the soldiers weren't mindless drones—

They'd grown up in District 13.

They knew all about the Dark Days.

They were more than eager to destroy Panem.

And now, now when the revolution was happening…

It didn't take them much, to begin demanding answers from their president themselves.

George was dragged into his office seventy-three minutes after the first shouts of rebellion, the first news of the dropped barrier.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm demanding answers!"

"Demanding—you demand nothing! You're still a prisoner until you tell us all you know!"

"Oh, that seems fair—what, I tell you everything and anything and in return you get to sit on your hands and stare at your weapons while my neighbors risk their lives? Doesn't seem fair to me."

The President snorted, but he wasn't dumb—they weren't alone in his office, and the general consensus of District 13 was turning against him quickly.

"We are making sure our defenses are in place."

"I thought that was what the last century was for."

"Yes—the last century. We have a much reduced ability to innovate in our weaponry compared to Panem; it is vital that we know how they'd improved before we risk any of our materials."

"People are dying now, sir."

"People are always dying."

"Not like this. This is different, and you know it. Send out your drones—attack back—do what you can. Or are you just as much a monster as President Gaius?"

The soldiers shifted.

The President did not.

"You are not in charge, here."

"Are you?"

"What?"

"You have as much of a military dictatorship as Panem, I'm not denying that. But—well, Panem's not doing so well right now. I wonder when your 'lessers' will rise up against you?"

"I am not—" The President stopped, glared. The soldiers kept shifting. "We are going to attack back."

"Are you? Or do you like having the big bad enemy? Is it a nice tool to keep people in line, keep you in power?" George had been in District 13 for some time, after all. He'd picked up on things, on unfavorable comparisons.

"I don't have to listen to you."

"No, you don't." That was true enough. "But can you afford not to?"

What the President didn't know, couldn't have known, really, was that one of the soldiers had twisted on his radio before he'd entered the office, was allowing the conversation to be heard by every other military man.

George had been here for quite some time, after all.

Even while being watched he'd made friends, made connections.

The President didn't know.

Or, rather, hadn't known.

The radio crackled, a new voice came in. "This is General Forrest. I am ready to attack now."

"This is General Grovel. I am ready to attack now."

"This is General Miller. I am ready to attack now."

"This is—"

"Shut that thing off! Now!"

The soldier did as he was told.

"I will not accept this blatant dereliction!"

"Can you afford not to?"

The President, it seemed, was done. He gestured to his own guards, uniformed differently to the soldiers who had brought George in, who were still holding his chains—loosely, so loosely—and they pulled out their guns.

George realized a few things very, very quickly.

First, he was not leaving the room alive.

Second, the President was soon to lose his position.

Third, he needed as many people as possible to know how those two things happened.

He twisted to the side, yanking as quickly as he could out of one soldier's grip so he could reach the other's radio. He twisted it on, turned to the other—

There was gunfire—

The first soldier dropped dead—

The door burst open—

George realized he'd been shot, been shot twice in the torso and likely wouldn't be alive much longer given the gush of blood—

Soldiers were streaming in—

He was dizzy, now, moved to sit, could barely believe he was still standing—

He turned.

Looked at the President.

At his face, a white facsimile of what it used to be.

The President, George was sure, wasn't evil.

That didn't much matter.

At the end of the day, he'd made one too many wrong decisions.

Hopefully whoever came next was slightly more adept, slightly better at quick decision making, slightly less hotheaded.

It was too late, now, for the President—George watched as a splotch of red grew from his chest.

It was too late, too, for George—the splotch was the last thing he saw.