A/N: Like to take the time to thank my reviewers; particularly cynicz and caramellachoco, who've been so dang good ever since "Dust." Every review helps – so people who aren't reviewing but reading (the stats say most of you…) while I thank you for your continued following, please let me know what I can improve on and what you like/don't like/abhor/want to sacrifice me to Ba'al over. Only through feedback can I develop and help deliver a better story and series to all readers.

Gah that sounded so formal. On a less formal vein, I can't believe I'm at chapter 14 with no Games yet. I keep meaning to hit the fast-forward button because I have a pimpin' arena in mind, but I also want to build the character dynamics. Catch-22.

Sam, her fellow mentors, the stylists, and Augusta sat around the large dining room table deep into the heart of the night. Cheyenne and Augusta had worn off some of the rust, at least arguing without caustic words anymore. Still, no real progress was made onto a coherent strategy – although Sam had revealed that Waco and Clara wanted to team up, the wide gulf of traits between the two led to all sorts of problems in determining how to present them to sponsors.

"I still don't know where you were going with the costumes," Dallas had been questioning the choice of chariot outfits ever since the two tributes went to bed. "I understand there's room for…some sort of rebirth theme there, but we're talking about a crowd that, if they know District 10 at all, it's beef and pork."

"They understand art," Gnaia countered. Sam hadn't heard her speak much before now – as she had been Laredo's stylists, the two had had little interaction before this point. "It's the surface that counts."

"The people will love them," Augusta chimed in. "Don't you worry."

"I don't know, just," Dallas shook it off. "I don't know how you try and market that. I don't really have your optimism."

"Honestly, I can just sell the girl on sex appeal," Cheyenne muttered over a cup of coffee. "Way easier than last year."

"Hey!" Sam interjected, angry at Cheyenne's remark. "Clara's not just a sex object."

"Would you calm down?" she retorted. "It's brand awareness, not a freakin' morality pageant."

"Hate to say it Sam, but she's right," Dallas nodded. He looked tired over a frosted roll that sat lonely on a plate. "Clara's pretty. We can catch some of the male demographic with that."

"What kind of age cohort, you think?" Cheyenne added. "20-34?"

"I'm concerned they won't have enough money," Dallas countered. "We can try, but I'd say 65+ for physical marketing. Maybe the 50-64. The younger middle-age guys are out of the question for her, unless she scores a nine or better in training. They're much more pragmatically-inclined. I couldn't land a single one last year."

"I can't believe what I'm hearing," Sam spoke up, aghast at the casual way Cheyenne and Dallas tossed around Clara's looks like a utensil. "She's still a person."

Augusta piped up before she could continue on. "Samantha, dear, why don't you get some sleep? You look like you could use some rest before a big day tomorrow."

Looks from around the five told Sam that her response wasn't a question. She got out of her chair loudly, pushing it back into the table with a rough shove and headed off towards the bedrooms. As she passed into the hallway, she stopped and sat down, tucking her knees to her chest and letting out a long, slow exhale. It was something Jake had taught her after she'd come back from the Games – to take a few moments in the thick of a sticky situation to recover and collect her thoughts. Rather than compile stress, he'd taught her to deal with pent-up emotions. It had resulted in a lot more teary sessions in recollecting horrific memories, but Sam admitted that it felt better than holding everything in.

Cheyenne didn't make it easier; however, speaking up just as Sam went out of sight. "Can somebody honestly talk to her? She's freaking out about everything. I cannot deal with that without some seriously strong drinks, and all we have right here is coffee and wine."

"Dallas and I will calm her down," Agrippa assured her. "Tomorrow, sometime before her interview with Constantine. If she's too wound-up, she won't be any good."

Inhale. Exhale. Sam wanted to punch something – so she was just a thing too; just like Clara, to be objectified and paraded about. She figured she would have learned it from her own experience as a tribute, but it hit home with far more force coming from voices she trusted.

Sam plodded down the hall towards her vacant room when Waco popped out of his, looking in need of a friend.

"Hey," Sam greeted him quietly and with a soft smile. "Can't sleep?"

"It's too bright," he confirmed.

"I know. The lights never really go off," Sam nodded, although she suspected it was far more than that. She hadn't really noticed Waco much before now, but the boy was small. He was neither the muscled behemoth type that came out of District 2 nor even the lanky kinds from the middle districts. He was simply young and unprepared for the kind of sacrificial alter that the Hunger Games were. Rather than showing the fearless and brawny attitude of many of the male competitors, fear and anxiety were written all over his face.

Sam felt bad. She'd spent all of her energy to the point on Clara, completely ignoring Waco. She'd found it easy to forget him and to treat him like just another part of the Games – and all that while she objected to Dallas and Cheyenne's unattached strategizing of Clara's appeal.

You hypocrite, Sam.

She walked into his room and turned down the ambient lighting, shading out the window and casting an evening look to the décor before trying to start a conversation. "Look, um…since we have a little privacy, is everyone treating you okay? I know it's been a lot to digest over the last two days, and the other guys can be…kinda frantic."

He nodded slowly, taking a seat on his bed. The shadows of the dark room cast an unnatural pallor over his high cheekbones, making him like gaunt and lean. "Some of the other kids don't seem so happy."

"Anybody in particular?" Sam inquired.

"Most of them are bigger than me," he admitted honestly. "Most are older, too."

"It's not about big or small, young or old," Sam tried to help him relax. "One of my allies was the smallest girl in the arena last year. She did more than I ever could."

"The one from 4?" he asked, to Sam's nod. "What was it like when…"

"When she…died?" Sam forced the question. "I miss her a lot. I met her little sister on my tour in the winter. It brought me back to all that…it still hurts. But I think she found a little happiness from our alliance, even when we were all scared. It's scary, I know. Last year I was just the same way…just a lot of crying in that room Clara's in now. But I'm still here…don't ever give up on yourself, Waco. I won't give up on you."

"I'm not. I mean, I won't," he said. "I just don't really have a lot to look forward to."

"Think about when you win," Sam tried to cheer him up. "Then you and your father never have to worry about anything like being hungry again."

"My Dad doesn't really care about me. He didn't even come to say goodbye."

Sam felt a rock drop in her gut. She'd tied in parallels between her and the small boy from the Dairy Ward, but the similarities were getting creepy. "Well…I'll have a new neighbor in the Victor's Village at least, then. Someone else to share the joy of Cheyenne. Yay!"

He laughed, eliciting a happy feeling in Sam. "Is she that bad?"

"She grows on you. At least she stopped smoking…but Dallas is really nice. Once you come back, he'll help you through anything you need…and I'll be there, too."

Sam felt dirty for her empty words. She knew very well she intended to get Clara through the Games alive, yet here she was telling sweet white lie after lie to ease Waco's nerves. Was this how the Games were for mentors? A constant series of interwoven fallacies meant to relax the guilt of sending kids to certain death…year after year after year? She already despised herself after two days of mentoring. Add a half-dozen years and she'd be a nervous wreck, splurging on hard liquor or tobacco just like Cheyenne.

Like mentor, like protégé. How fitting.

Still, it had done its trick: Waco seemed visibly relaxed. "Well…thanks, Sam. Thanks for coming by. I think Clara needs you more, though. She's been up all night too. I've heard her through the vent."

Oh boy, Sam thought. That didn't sound good at all. "I'll make sure she's okay. You just get some sleep…tomorrow's important."

She trotted out of his room and rounded the corner to the last hallway, stepping up to the first door. Clara was quite clearly awake – and upset.

"Clara? It's Sam."

"Go away!"

Not good. Clara had fortunately left the door unlocked, letting Sam hit the access button and open the sliding door into the wall. Inside was a disaster zone.

Blankets and sheets lay strewn about the room, tossed about like detritus from a tornado. Pieces of ceramic – Sam couldn't even guess about what that had come from – formed a minefield near the door to the bathroom. Clara herself huddled on the floor next to her bed, her arms wrapped about her knees and curled up in as small a position as possible. She hung her head down into her legs as Sam entered, determined not to make eye contact.

"I don't want…" Clara tried to say something, lost in between tears and rushing emotions. "I don't…"

"Clara, it's okay," Sam hurried to rectify the situation before it spiraled out of control. See, Dallas and Cheyenne, this is what you get when you get too ahead of yourselves and think you understand everything. We're all still people. We all still have feelings.

"It's not okay," she whimpered. "I made a mess."

Sam pulled her in for a hug, wiping a tear-streaked piece of hair out of her eyes. "Don't worry about things like that. It's hard. I know."

"I wanna go home, Sam," Clara sniffed. "I'm scared and I hate this place and the people are weird and I don't wanna die. I just wanna go home."

Clara let loose another fit of tears into Sam's chest. Sam finally opened her eyes inside for all the things she'd missed during her Games – this was what the Games were about. It wasn't some entertainment device or even trying to leverage political control in the petty spats of power that Octavian and Rex engaged in. This was the raw and naked truth of Panem, laid bare for her to see in its most wretched form. The Hunger Games, at their core, were about destroying people – reducing them from whomever they had been into either fearful and frightened victims or cold-hearted mercenary killers.

I was the latter, Sam thought. Who does Clara become?

Just days ago, Clara had been her usual bright and bold self – frightened of nothing, willing to confront anyone in District 10 over a slight, and more than happy to pick up Sam when she needed a lift. Now she had collapsed on the floor of a room in the Capitol, a shell of her past life that had already faded long ago in the mirror. If she won, she'd never get it back.

It was odd to Sam. Odd – odd that Panem and the Capitol had built themselves on destroying the many for the indulgences of the few. Was this how humanity had always been? Always ready to sacrifice those who had never mattered to a smattering of elite, all too willing to toss aside heaps of chaff to find one kernel of interest – itself only shimmering until it expired of usefulness? This wasn't civilized. This was a den of devils.

"You will go home," Sam found herself having to be strong again, as much as she herself wanted to get away from this hell. "You will. It'll be hard and you'll hurt on the inside, but we'll both go back to the forest and the pond after all this is over."

"I'm just letting everyone down," Clara cried. "I'm supposed to be a tribute and tough and I'm just losing it everywhere."

"No, no," Sam soothed. "No one's let down by you. Your family's proud of you. Clay's proud of you. I am too. The whole district is. We all need to let it out sometimes."

"But this isn't like me, I never do this…"

"Shhh," Sam smoothed her hair over her head. "It'll be hard, but you'll make it through. I'll be here for you every step of the way. I'll keep you safe."

Lies born of weakness. You already failed her.

Sam flipped her eyes around, inhaling sharply. Where had that thought come from? It hadn't been in her typical voice, no – instead, Nihlus had seeped into her mind, infecting her with a poison of accusatory shame. She'd never heard him say those words, but it had been his tone as clear as day in her head. Was she going mad?

The worst part about it was…he was right. She had failed here. Clara was falling apart on the floor because she couldn't keep her mouth shut, because she had decided to ignore the warnings of a much more powerful foe. Now she was paying for it – by watching her friend dissected into a soup of unrestrained emotional energy.

With some effort and time, Sam worked Clara back to her bed and pulled the blankets back up. She grabbed the window remote, taking the view away from the city of sin below and bringing up a picture of a wind-swept grassy plain under a sea of stars. It was the best she could think of for her homesick friend – the only way to give her a passing moment of peace.

"When I was here last year," Sam hung on to Clara's hand as if she'd never let go, willing her to go to sleep. "Just after the parade, the girl from District 1 looked at me like she wanted to kill me. The boy from our district, Laredo…he didn't like me much, so we had kinda a chilly dinner. When I went to bed, I just stared out the window and didn't know what I was going to do. I couldn't see the stars – hadn't figured out this remote yet – and I didn't know if I would ever see home again. I didn't know anybody and it was all so different."

"But I started to meet people the next day. I met Storm and Gannet, who were with me in the arena and made even the worst of times there bearable. I figured out how to work with Dallas and Cheyenne. It got better, little by little – even when it seemed like it was just all falling in. It'll be okay, Clara. We'll go home together again."

Clara pulled the blanket up, turning on her side. "Mm. You'll be a good mom one day, Sam."

"Gee, thanks," she laughed softly. "Now I feel old."

She stuck around until Clara's breath came out slow and measured, fading off into sleep. As Sam turned to leave her room, the dark thoughts entered her head once more.

Take a good look at her before you kill her, Miss Parker.