Author's Note: Welcome to a future where Thresh won the 74th Hunger Games. The Capitol has evolved into a corrupt yet powerful entity in the years past, and the Games have raised the stakes along with it. This story is the sequel to "From Dust to Dust," in which District 10's quiet yet determined Samantha Parker scored an unlikely victory in the 98th Hunger Games. Now finding herself a victor, she must deal with the memories of her terrifying past while confronting an uncertain future of fears, tears, and love. Through it all, the Capitol does not sleep – and some of the brightest eyes are on the girl from District 10.
The Hunger Games, Panem, Finnick, Haymitch, Gale, Johanna, and etc all belong to Suzanne Collins. Please review! Every constructive criticism helps me become a better writer and improve this story and series. If you have any questions or suggestions, please let me know!
District 10
Winter was cold on the prairie.
Snow had rained down hard from blankets of gray cloud cover that bathed District 10 in a melancholy sea. The last season of the year never did good things for a region based on animal husbandry and ranching; barns prepared with cubic miles of hay and feed stood stocked to the brim with cows, horses, pigs, and sheep. The green grass of the prairie and the dusty roads of the interior town had long since turned into a continuous sheet of icy white. The frozen air pervaded every nook and cranny, seeping into travelers outside to the bone.
Samantha Parker wrapped a powder blue fleece blanket around herself tightly, trying to ward off the depressing light that scattered in through her bedroom window. The mountain of sheets and blankets she had draped on her bed did a much better job of shielding out the cold than had the camel-skin blanket she'd skinned and cannibalized in the 98th Hunger Games six months earlier, but there was no beating winter. It came, it stayed, and no one could force it to leave before it was ready. Not even a victor.
Sam's spacious house in the Victor's Village did a better job defending against the elements than most of the wooden hovels of the district. She kept it in good order and housed her older brother Jake most of the time, keeping the siblings free from the weather. Not that they really needed it – the Parkers were a wealthy family compared to the majority of District 10's citizenry. Sam's spoils of winning the Games were an unneeded, if welcomed, luxury.
Her morning peace was quickly shattered.
A loud "Dammit!" shouted from the downstairs of the house – certainly not Jake. The oak door to her room was thrown open, giving way to a very disgruntled woman in her late thirties. The woman's high cheekbones and messy black hair understated her status – Cheyenne Clinton had been one of Sam's two mentors during the previous Games, having won herself back in the 76th running of the event. Now, however, she was content yelling at her part-time protégé.
"Why the hell did you let me drink so much?" Cheyenne blabbered into the room, idly staring out the frosted window. "I feel like I got run over by a steer."
"Maybe you should think ahead for once," Sam murmured into her bed, smashing her face into her pillow and letting her brown hair fall over the sheets. "Maybe you should quit drinking and let me sleep."
"That's a horrible idea. You should be ashamed," Cheyenne swatted the air. "This is a crappy day already and it's not even ten."
"I bet Dallas would like to help."
"I bet he would. He's so much nicer than you. Why does everyone say you're sweet?"
Cheyenne slammed the door and left for the house of Dallas Grissom, District 10's third and only other victor. He had shared a much tighter bond with Sam in the 98th Games than had Cheyenne, patiently teaching her the subtle skills to survive and doing his best to round up sponsors. Sam hadn't realized it at the time, but he and Cheyenne had done considerable work to ensure her survival after she'd escaped from the opening Cornucopia bloodbath at the start of the contest. Their efforts had made her a hit in the Capitol, portrayed as an innocent thrown into an ocean of killers, yet capable enough to forge the alliance that had staved off loneliness in the arena.
That wasn't too far from the truth.
Sam hated to admit the things that still plagued her – not in physical form or bodily hurt, but torturing her mind and playing through her thoughts. The sneer and ferocity of the tribute from District 1, a silver-haired vixen named Royal who had been seconds away from delivering a horrific death to Sam before she'd been literally shorn in two by a colossal cephalopod mutt. The quiet friendliness and comfort of the girl tribute from District 4, a small girl named Gannet who had never belonged in the Games. Sam had taken to her like a little sister, and their alliance in the arena –and her death at the hands of a brutish beast of a boy from District 2 – still forced Sam into shudders. It had been a horrible thing.
Worst of all was Storm. Storm Hawthorne had been District 12's male tribute in her Games, an olive-complexioned boy with an idealistic disgust for everything to do with the Capitol. He'd been smitten with her at first sight, and she'd grown from an initial dislike of his methods to general friendship to something more. Sam couldn't forget the kiss they'd shared on the final night of the Games, where he'd made her feel truly alive and hopeful.
Then he'd been taken away from her. Just like that, all that warmth was snatched away and thrown aside forever by the worst Panem had to offer.
He'd made her promise to find someone else, to love and live without the memory of him plaguing her thoughts. Sam found the prospect hard, and in practice it was worse. Remembering his arms around her, his voice bringing her through the worst of times in the arena – every time she thought of it she was weighted down by survivor's guilt. He was simply a memory now to most of Panem; to her, he would never pass away.
The Victor's Tour would force her to confront all those horrible memories in person soon. Situated six months after the prior Games, it took the victor through every district and the Capitol in honor of their accomplishment – really, just a parade of the Capitol's power. Sam still had a few days before the unfortunate day would come, but she felt sick at the thought. It'd be horrible to see those accusing eyes looking up at her, wondering why she was there and their tribute was not.
It was a question she asked herself frequently. For two months she'd fallen into a heavy depression, reliving every moment in her head. Dallas had called it post-traumatic stress disorder, some sickness Sam had never heard of. He'd helped her out along with her friends, Clara Bowie and Clay Lamar, and her brother. She felt better now, but the lingering thoughts did not leave.
Footsteps downstairs alerted her to a visitor. Had Cheyenne come back already? No, it was probably her brother.
"Gimme a minute, Jake," she called out as she opened the door, slipping a royal blue robe around her shoulders.
"I actually haven't seen him in a while."
Sam looked up with a start. Standing at the top of the staircase was Clay, his square-jowled face and stocky body considering her with intrigue. He ran a rough hand through his short dark hair, walking up to the door and taking a look at her bedroom. His coarse skin reflected his upbringing – unlike Sam, Clay was the second son of a poorer family, understanding full well the fragile line between survival and starvation in the downtrodden District 10. He'd had to work for everything he had.
"Matches you," he indicated her robe, its sapphire cloth nearly meeting the same hue as Sam's bright blue eyes. "I dunno how you keep your place so neat with your…guests."
"What'd she leave?" Sam instinctively asked.
"Couple of bottles, and a smashed one, by the front door," Clay jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I don't know why you let her over to your place."
"She's my mentor. Or was," Sam defended Cheyenne, though she didn't know why. "I guess still is. Besides, she's part of the reason I'm even still here."
"You're the reason you're still here."
Sam tied her hair back in her usual loose ponytail, rolling her eyes. "I had plenty of help. Let's not pretend otherwise."
"You've got to stop beating yourself up sometime, Sammy," Clay said. "But c'mon, it's not the kinda day to be depressing. Well, it is outside, but who cares about that."
"Can I at least get dressed?"
"Psh. You're so slow."
Sam slipped off to her second-story bathroom, taking a long look at herself in the mirror. The heart-shaped fifteen year-old face with the blue eyes that looked back at her seemed so alien now. It was soft, warm – two things people told her she was, but she vehemently disagreed with. She was a proven killer. A murderer. Every victor was, no matter what they thought.
Clay was raiding her pantry as she trotted downstairs, helping himself to a block of cheese.
"Do you really have to do that?" Sam asked exasperatingly. "Look, I have to go buy a few things anyway today, so I'll go buy you your own cheese."
Sam wasn't actually angered by him. She had more than enough money now than she knew what to do with and was happy to share with the comparatively poor Clay. His family wouldn't like it if they'd found out – his parents, like many of the poor in District 10, resented the wealthier ranch owners like Sam's father. Despite her friendship with Clay, they lumped her right in – especially after she'd killed off her fellow district tribute in the Games, a particularly dim boy named Laredo who had come from a downtrodden family of butchers.
"That'd be good," Clay laughed. "But I don't need cheese, since I just ate some of yours."
Sam opened the front door to deep snowdrifts, but something else quickly pulled her attention away. A low, thunderous sound echoed over the frozen landscape, starting soft but growing quickly into a loud roar. Sam's mind pulled up the first memory it could with the unnatural sound.
Royal stumbled forward on the desert earth, Sam's blade miraculously lodged in her back. The tentacled mutt snarled in anger and grabbed the silver-haired tribute from District 1, picking her up with ease and shaking her about. The mutt unleashed a thunderous battle cry of rage and triumph as it wrapped a second arm around Royal's shoulders, hooking under her skin with needle-like arm teeth and pulling apart with all its might. Royal exploded in a crimson starburst of blood, her body torn like paper-
"Sam! Snap out."
She blinked her eyes to Clay's concerned expression as he held her by both shoulders, staring into her eyes.
"You weren't really looking too good," he said. "Are you okay? You sure you want to go out?"
She shook the memory away. "Yeah, yeah, it's fine. I'm fine."
The real creator of the deep roar thundered into view from her house in the Victor's Village, however – and it brought an unequally unsettling feeling.
A gray Capitol hovercraft bristling with guns and flanked by four military air drones plowed its way through the gray sky, heading to the town square.
Three Months Earlier – The Capitol, Special Projects Division
Head Gamesmaker Phaeston Rex enjoyed returning to where his rise to fame had begun. As leader of the Research and Development arm of the Special Projects Division in the Capitol, he'd had unfettered access to the best equipment of modern civilization – not to mention a nearly unlimited budget to continue the technological progression and prowess of Panem's military and authoritative might. More than a decade in these sterile white labs had honed his brain into the finest scientific and logical mind in the nation. Even though he had retired from the position to captain the Hunger Games – now heading into his third season after the resounding popularity of Sam's victory in the 98th competition – he still found time for his love of scientific creation.
It was here where the roots of his arena mutts and military drones were laid.
Rex's unnatural, electronic blue eyes flitted around the colossal white lab like fireflies. The edifice was easily the size of a large warehouse, laced with equipment that would baffle most people. It was said that a scientist in R&D had access to more information on the networked intranet than a citizen of any of Panem's districts could learn in their entire lives – and such a decisive power gap kept the Capitol firmly in control
After all, as Rex knew, information was power. Information began and ended with him.
The gray-haired Head Gamesmaker was an ambitious man at his core, albeit one who never strayed from his numbers and cold logic. He had partnered an unorthodox friendship with the skeptical and pragmatic commander of the Panem military forces, a veteran officer named Trajan Arterius. They shared in common a close tie to the sitting president of Panem, Octavian – a petulant and young ruler who governed more through material whims and spontaneity than he did through strategic brilliance.
Rex hated that. How irrational. In the Gamesmaker's words, it was the finest case of the "ghost in the machine" - the illogical animal brain that overrode the calculating brilliance of men like him. However, having the respect of Octavian paid off in controlling power. Rex was not stupidly idealistic and unable to see that.
"I was informed you had something for me," Commander Trajan shook Rex's hand, the powerfully-built officer's trademark flat vocal tones sounding particularly pronounced in the sterile scientific air. "I'm not a fan of labs like this."
"You will be impressed, Commander, labs or not," Rex gave him the subtlest of smiles – an expression the Head Gamesmaker often wore like a stain of varnish. "I instructed you several months ago to work on information security in the districts. How does the task go?"
"It's not something you implement overnight," Trajan lamented with his usual disdain. "I have budgetary concerns, manpower issues, and a decisive lack of camera drones I was promised by this very department. President Octavian is more concerned with his animal gladiator games than he is with domestic security."
"A shame where he puts his research priorities," Rex admitted. To keep Capitol citizens entertained and occupied during the offseason of the Hunger Games, Octavian had begun a series of pit-fighting extravaganzas in the alpine city using genetically-engineered animals. Rex had heartily endorsed the idea – he used it as a money-making baptism by fire for his own arena mutts, selecting the best fighters to copy and unleash on unsuspecting Hunger Games tributes. He'd done just that the prior Games with the aquatic octopus mutt that had extinguished Royal's life and nearly taken Sam's at the climax of the tournament. To a man like Trajan however, it had to seem a waste of money.
"So how does that help me?" Trajan got to the point quickly.
"I have a tank over here you may want to look at. Inside contains the answer to your resource shortages," Rex pointed out, leading the way past rows of computers. "It's occupant has been under development since I was working here. Only now has he panned out completely."
"He?"
"I prefer to humanize my projects. For good reason, this time."
Rex stopped before a ten-foot tall tank filled with bubbling blue fluid. Trajan didn't understand the purpose of what floated within, but the form was unmistakable. The creature – mutt, he supposed, although it was a stretch to say that in these circumstances - within would be familiar to anyone.
"It's adaptive intelligence far exceeds our own. Endoskeleton and exoskeleton; the latter concealed by the layers of skin," Rex explained before his tank. "Expanded heart and larger lungs; hence the height. It promotes greater oxygen transport through the body for greater physical stamina. Slightly larger brain than a human being, but for good measure. We've managed to…combine machine with nerve on this one. Hard-wired its neurons directly into a networked system. However many we make, they can all share data as software. Grow. Adapt. Think as one."
Trajan whistled. The creation before him was not just a horrible mutt – it was beautiful. Not in the physical sense, but what Rex had done was create a work of art from gene sequences. He'd conveniently solved all his information security concerns at the same time – no matter what Octavian could praise him for, Rex followed through with the actual results. It made grading which superior he preferred to report to much easier.
"This your only one?" he asked the Gamesmaker. "Hate to throw a prototype into the field."
"We have the…blueprints, if you will," Rex assured him. "Go ahead and send him out for testing. Scientists here will map its data; test its networking and information transmission."
"You sound like you have a suggestion."
"I do," Rex nodded. "Why don't you take him for a spin in District 10?"
