A/N: Sorry about taking so long on this update; just been a terrible week. If this chapter is the suck, that's why.


Warm summer wind rippled the evening grasses of District 10's plains, tossing Sam's brown locks about her face. She clutched her knees with both hands, her eyes pointing down into the soft, loose dirt. A pale full moon shone down from above, bathing the landscape in a haunting white light. She felt it a fitting backdrop for the eve of the Reaping – where two children wouldn't be selected, but simply announced. They had their fates sealed.

How could she expect to mentor tributes this year, after having failed Clara the year before and now facing the likely prospect of watching more people she knew die thanks to Octavian's edict? It was madness.

The epitaph of Clara's headstone looked back at Sam mournfully, speaking words the late blonde girl could never again say. Sam had no tears for the memories, no mourning left to do in the spirit of sadness – she merely looked down at the stone solemnly, letting her eyes wander across the crags and nooks of the rock.

"Clara," Sam moaned, leaning her forehead into her arms. She could have used her best friend by her side, telling her she'd be okay – instead, all she had was the wind and the night.

"I'm sorry, Clara," she lifted her eyes slightly, just enough to see the headstone's words peaking back. "I'm sorry I couldn't bring you home. You deserved better than that – to have to be at the end of a choice. But…if you're listening…I don't know if I can go through this again. I have to, but I can't tell another boy or girl they're going to be okay when I know it's not always that easy. I'm scared about who I'm going to let down…who I have to watch die."

"Please, Clara, if you can still hear me somewhere," Sam looked upwards at the stars. "Just…keep an eye out for me, okay? You're still my best friend."

Sam let her head slump forward and her body fall down, reclining into the familiar prairie dirt. She curled her fingers about a clump of earth, feeling the granules run along her skin. The night sky spread out like an artist's canvas before her, laden with white oases of stars between the vast seas of darkness. When she squinted hard, Sam believed she could just make out Clara's face.

The familiar dots of the drinking dipper piqued her interest towards the constellation she'd grown up with. Sam traced the cup of the dipper up to the North Star, letting her eyes stay still on Polaris. The star had always brought her home…but now she needed more than that.

Let me bring someone else home, as well. I can't fail again.


The Capitol – Trajan's Residence

Trajan had hosted some odd visitors to his humble home in the Capitol – little Samantha Parker from District 10 and the eccentric "artist" Salvador Ray had been notables – but the current one had to set a record.

He didn't trust the software that called itself Nihlus – not after its District 10 component, calling itself Cronus, had decided to break off and start organizing rebellious activity that had culminated in the detonation of a bomb several months ago. More importantly, the…thing…that sat across the long dining table wasn't even human. Trajan hated the notion of speaking to little more than a computer, no matter how much like a person it styled itself.

Yet the words the compound intelligence spoke were compelling – provocative, even. It had required a noise-cancelling drone to make sure nobody snooping around would listen in, but it was well worth it so far.

"So where is Rex is being kept?" Trajan pushed into Nihlus's argument, taking a sip from a glass of water.

"In the Detention Sprawl," the enigmatic opponent replied without a touch of emotion. "He is in the deepest level, near the cells that hold the surviving family of former President Snow and the former Gamesmaker, Crane. It is easy to break into once the guards are…distracted."

"So why does he want my help so much?" Trajan countered. Nihlus had explained the survival of Rex and the man's strategizing, planning for a return even while under arrest in prison. It was an interesting theory made even more appealing given Trajan's personal disdain for Octavian – but one could not be too careful in such uncertain times.

"Your Centurious, most specifically," Nihlus raised an eyebrow, as if intrigued that the military leader hadn't seen the connection. "They are loyal not to the Capitol, but to a man…to you. That is a powerful force. It ensures that Octavian's subtle machinations cannot manipulate them into…disastrous outcomes. You and I both know the Peacekeepers are an unreliable and weak force of marginal police. They are not soldiers – and it will take muscle to punch a hole in Octavian's grid of paranoia. The move must be made during the Games, when the nation will be distracted. I am sure you can see the value in such."

Trajan kept an eye on Nihlus – what wasn't the intelligence telling him? It all seemed too perfect and easy – breaking Rex out of prison during a high point in the coming Hunger Games, moving about the underground tunnels, and assaulting the Presidential Mansion directly to assassinate Octavian and place the former Head Gamesmaker as his replacement.

"So what's your angle? Why are you so eager to help out Rex?"

"Why?" Nihlus chuckled, his coal-black eyes lighting up with amusement. "Why…why, why…why indeed? You see, Commander, I am more than just the…synthetic compound…you see me as. I have enough…urgh, human, within me that I do take a liking of…games. My Father will provide me what I want should we succeed – and conveniently, what you and the rest of the nation should want, as well. It is good when our needs converge so, is it not?"

Bastard, Trajan thought. He'd certainly concealed something. "Alright. Let's say you're being truthful – I want something in return."

Nihlus smiled, a sadistic thing. "Human, too. Naturally."

"Your rogue element," Trajan hammered an index finger on the table, leaning forward in his seat. "That…Cronus, or whatever that part of you that broke off in District 10? I want it exterminated. Dead. Removed – it's a cancer. Whatever you call that bit of you that decided to go off on its own and start spreading chaos, I want it gone. That's my stipulation – you agree to that, and you'll have my services."

"Gone?" Nihlus laughed with comedic tone. "Gone? My, Commander…I would have thought you would have found a way to rid yourself of that pestilence by now. But very well…I will eradicate the viroid. It is an inefficient piece of software, too long separated from any center of control. 'Cronus' will be removed before the Cornucopia gong sounds in this year's Games."

Nihlus smiled before continuing: "Of course, Commander…your little, how should I say it, terrorist problem is entirely up to you. I can cut off the head…but not remove the whole."

Trajan bristled at the snipe. "I don't need you to do me any favors, machine. Just take out Cronus; I'll handle the rest."

"Of course. As you wish."

Nihlus bowed low, excusing himself with the end of the negotiations. He let the door to Trajan's home slam behind him, walking briskly up the street and into a side alley. He held up an arm in the waning light of day, watching a bulging vein in his muscle retract into his flesh. A surge of color flushed into the skin, removing the pale tone with a darker, yellow-hued veil. Nihlus's skin morphed like a chameleon's, etching new tones and patterns across his body in seconds.

"Oh, Commander," Nihlis whispered to himself, out of range of anyone's hearing. "How little you understand that the best thing about me is just how much of me there is."

He smiled, coughing into a fist as he rotated his skin tones back to their former Caucasian flare. "So we all will say good-bye to Cronus, it seems…" the man paused in his mock soliloquy, adjusting in a sharp, pointed accent to his voice. "…and hello to Thanatos!"


District 10

The morning awoke Sam under a hazy sun. A high, flat cloud cover bathed the day in a dismal setting of pale gray. The dust of early summer pervaded everywhere, blowing weeds down the avenue of the Victor's Village. Sam rubbed at her eyes, pulling her curtains shut to ward off the light. She wanted to do anything but confront the Reaping again – to throw her lot in with guiding another pair of tributes towards salvation or death. More than likely, she knew it would be the latter.

It took incessant knocking on her door from Jake to rouse Sam into a state of awareness. She knew she needed to be up quickly to make the Reaping time of 10 AM – and most children would be up already, braving the anxiety of the moment in fear that they were the elect. This Quarter Quell brought all sorts of new fears into Sam's head. The fact that an entire district could win terrified her more than it reassured her – it promised far more dangers from other tributes outside of the Careers. With everyone potentially able to team up with their district partner, the stakes had been raised drastically.

"Now, Sam, c'mon," Jake shouted at her door.

She grunted a bitter acknowledgement, going through the motions of showering and tossing on a simple royal blue dress. She knotted a basic white ribbon in her ponytail, taking a long look in the mirror. The girl staring back wore bruised streaks of stress under her eyes, exhausted from two years of emotional turmoil. She still bore every physical sign of the youthful teen she was, but being dragged between Rex, Octavian, the Games, and everyday life in the Districts had shredded her self-confidence and stability. Her blue eyes shone just a little less vividly; the corners of her mouth hung just a little lower.

Sam broke off from her thoughts as she heard Jake approach: "I'm coming, I'm coming."

She opened the door, catching her brother taking a step back. Jake showed a meager smile as he sized her up, patting her lightly on the shoulder.

"You all ready?" he asked.

"Yeah," Sam said hesitantly. She'd never be ready.

"Alright," Jake replied, moving to grab her in a hug. "You look beautiful. I'll see you when you get back, okay?"

Sam breathed in heavily as she shared the hug, gripping Jake as if it would be the last time. "I'll miss you."

"Me too. Love you, Sammy."

"Love you too, Jake."

Sam let him go, giving just as much of a smile as she could as she left the house. Something about the exchange spooked her – as if she wouldn't be seeing her brother the same again.

The expanded Peacekeeper force had heavily fortified District 10's town square by the time Sam arrived. Two rocket batteries sat atop the Hall of Justice, flanked by machine gun nests and sniper-wielding soldiers across the other rooftops. Thousands of children had already filed into the square, with many more filing in line through the proctors taking blood samples for identification. Flocks of adults and other non-participants already ringed the square, with the huge majority scattered about the periphery of the central streets and dirty avenues. The dust scattered everywhere, kicking up clouds of the stuff that irritated Sam's nose and provoked her into a sneezing fit.

Cheyenne had her left leg slung across her right on stage as Sam climbed up the rear steps to join her. She had figured Dallas wouldn't be showing up.

"Samantha, dear, you look just lovely," Augusta spoke from Sam's left, spooking her in surprise. The Capitol escort wore candy-pink hair with an even more outrageous dress suit of grape purple, transforming the woman into an unsightly collage of offenses to the eye. She puckered her lips in disapproval at Cheyenne, who was hard at work drowning her simmering bitterness in a glass of whiskey and wearing an extremely loose pair of khaki overalls.

"Thank you," Sam tried to smile, managing some sort of feeble grimace instead. "You, uh…look great yourself."

"You're such a shitty liar," Cheyenne belched before Augusta had time to react, drawing a look of disdain from the escort. "Stop it, because you're not going to get any good at it."

"Um…yeah, hm," Sam bit her upper lip, tossing her eyes between the two as Augusta sniffed loudly in disgust and walked towards the microphone to prepare. "Is Dallas…staying back this year?"

"No, unfortunately," Cheyenne bemoaned, taking a long swig. "He wouldn't listen. I made him restrict it to joining us at the train, but…shit, why would you want to come willingly? Praise the President and pass the ammunition, huh?"

"I…have no idea what that's supposed to mean."

"Me neither. Maybe I'm tipsy. What a kick in the nuts."

Sam sat quietly for a moment before posing the question she desperately wanted to know the answer to: "Who…what do you think this Quell is going to do?"

"What's it going to do? Shit on everything, probably," Cheyenne waved the question away. "But nah, I'm sure they'll pick some people who have some sort of ties to somebody. Hell, the President said they were picked ahead of time, right? Gotta be two important people. At least we can get the entire team out this time…but hell, that'll be fun against the likes of District 2 or 4. We're probably fucked. Oh, and then I can't wait to see what kind of nasty twist they'll toss in to shit on everyone in the arena…75th had a bunch of catastrophes if I remember right, and I've heard the 50th was some sort of freakish paradise where everything was deadly. Yeah, I ain't being rosy, but what's the point of that?"

"You don't think we have a chance?"

"No. This is how this stuff works, Sam. Districts like us…we get one or two nice things, like Dallas and I or you, and then we go a generation without anything else. It's like some stupidly bad cycle."

Augusta cut off their conversation further as she began her usual spiel. Sam wiped at her eyes, rubbing away anxiety in an effort to pull herself together. Any of the thousands of eyes that stared up from the square could land in the train in under two hours – but who would it be? Who had the Capitol chosen already to fight to the death?

Who could be that unfortunate?

"Don't you love it?" Cheyenne broke in halfway through the Capitol's annual video presentation. "They say 'a widow, an orphan, a motherless child.' That's supposed to be a consequence of the rebellion. Look out at that lot. You know what I see? Widows, orphans, motherless children. Guess one hundred years didn't change anything."

Sam didn't reply. She fell just as much in that category as any other child did – she hadn't even known her mother. Maybe the Capitol's advanced medical technology could have saved her so long ago, but the primitive medicinal practices out in District 10 could barely keep a man kicked by a cow from dying.

Just like Dallas now…

"Ah, outstanding as always," Augusta crowed at the end of the video, jostling Sam from her thoughts. "And for this year's Quarter Quell – celebrating the first one hundred years of the Hunger Games and a century of peace – we have two lucky tributes already selected! Mayor Navarro, the slips please…let's begin with the boys this year."

Sam flashed her eyes across the crowd. Little bits of note stuck up here and there – a crying girl of maybe eight, an elderly man leaned up against a wall, a flash of red hair. Wait – read hair? Sam narrowed her eyes as she picked out the owner – the same girl, the same thing that had taken Clay! The girl seemed to make eye contact for just a fraction of a second, a smug grin plastered across her face.

Maybe she'll get picked. I'd be happy to watch her die.

A pair of baggy overalls covered an exceptionally tall man towards the front of the square, busy preoccupying himself by picking his fingernails. Sam squinted to figure out who it was before the man's lifting of his head told her all she needed to know. The coal-black eyes spoke of some new horror ready to burst forth from a sadistic smile.

"Here we are!" Augusta drew Sam back to the present and away from Nihlus's presence at the affair. The escort opened up a small slip of paper adorned with black ink, whipping it out before her like some sort of stationary flourish. She coughed to clear her throat before announcing in a loud voice, "Callum Bowie!"

Oh, God, no. Sam felt her stomach churning as she watched Cal step slowly towards the stage, his face wearing an expression of shock. Out of anybody she could have picked in District 10, Cal would have been at the very end of the list. He'd suffered enough with Clara's death – did his family need another painful reminder? She looked over towards Nihlus, who had resumed picking his fingernail – this time with a slight nodding of his head, as if counting time to some peppy tune.

Bastard's enjoying this.

Cal shot Sam a despondent look as he climbed the steps of the Hall of Justice, ascending the platform and being greeted sharply by Augusta. He mumbled out his name, barely able to speak with the weight of the moment. Sam found her eyes drifting down to her feet – she couldn't stand to look him in the eye; not after the way they had parted months ago.

"Now to the girls!" Augusta moved quickly, as usual ready to hurry away from the dust of District 10. She whipped the second slip in front of her, ripping open the seal with a display of gusto and holding it before her face.

The escort fell silent. She scrunched up her eyes, closing the slip of paper and opening it once more. Sam leaned her head out to try and catch a glimpse, only managing to see Augusta thrusting her tongue into her cheek. Something clearly had gone awry. Sam looked back towards Nihlus, only to see that the enigmatic man was gone.

Augusta cleared her throat again, trying to come to terms with what she read. She paused a final time for effect before reading the second slip with a notable sense of uncertainty: "Samantha Parker."