Gonna warn you ahead of time; there's some disturbing imagery at the end of this one. Just a disclaimer/heads-up for this chapter.

Sam awoke to a clear sky and bright morning light on the second day of the Games, mentally slapping herself for sleeping in as she noticed the clock read nine-thirty. Capitol citizens already began to appear in the streets from her view on the tenth floor of the Training Center, giddy and anxious about catching as much of the event as they could. Little did they – or Sam – know that already on the day, one tribute had died and Firth and Clara had slipped death's grasp by the skin of their teeth.

Floral bath salts and shampoo scents drew Sam away from her zombie-like state of sleepiness, clearing her mind for a full day of working to bring Clara home alive. Responsibility weighed on her shoulders like a heavy cross, forcing her to take some time before she returned to the Control Center. At least two of her contingent were there already – Cheyenne and Agrippa had stayed the night, serving as the two to be on-hand in case anything cropped up – so Sam felt confident she could take her time. Although her need to keep Clara safe pressed in like a pack of jackals, she constantly reminded herself to take care of her own needs as well. If she couldn't perform, she was useless to her friend.

One way to keep herself fresh was by calling home. Jake had promised to keep watch over her house while she was away, and her telephone wouldn't be having any other callers. She punched in her own number into her bedroom's phone, letting the track ring three times before Jake picked up.

"Hello?" her brother asked groggily, not expecting the call.

"It's me," Sam greeted him, wiping the last remnants of sleep from her eyes.

"Hey Sammy. Is everything okay? Sorry, stupid question."

"I'm just tired. I can't even talk to Clara now that the Games have started…and our boy died yesterday."

Jake let her last words hang before replying, choosing his reply carefully. "I saw on the footage here. I know you did all you could – don't blame yourself, sis."

"I'm not. I mean, I don't. I'm just tired."

"Clara's cousin, Cal, came by yesterday," Jake changed the subject, moving away from Waco's gruesome end on the business side of Nyx's cleaver. "He wanted to know if I'd heard from you on how you and Clara were doing. Couldn't tell him anything, unfortunately."

"Oh, Cal," Sam had almost forgotten about the kind boy she'd met down by the forest and the lake in the spring. "He's nice. Tell him I'm fine and we're doing everything to get Clara back home."

"Heh. You should get to know him more…seems like a good guy."

"Oh, I don't think so," Sam laughed nervously at her brother's subtle suggestion. "Besides, Clay and I are…yeah."

"Oh."

That doesn't sound good, Sam thought. "What's that mean?"

"Nothing," her brother hastily retreated. "Just remembering stuff I have to do later for Dad."

"Jake, c'mon," Sam pleaded. "What's 'oh?'"

"Um," Jake paused. "Are you and Clay…mutual friends with a redheaded girl?"

The comment flew over Sam's head before she realized the meaning. "No. Why?"

"Oh. He's been watching the Games with this girl down in the square. Looks like they know each other pretty well. I just thought…"

Sam felt a furious wave of fire shoot through her insides. "I'll talk to you later, Jake."

"Sammy, wait-"

She threw the phone down, feeling enraged with a side of jealousy. Clay knew she cared for him – even if she'd never actually said anything, he had to know. All they'd done together…all the years, and now with Clara in the Games – and he was watching along with some random other girl? How could he be so callous?

He has other friends, a voice of reason answered Sam's thoughts in her head. You're not the only person he knows. Relax. It's probably platonic and you're worrying about nothing, as usual.

Yeah. Platonically in her pants, another voice spoke up. He's betrayed you. You go home and he'll use you.

Don't listen to that. You've known Clay for years and he's always been good to you. Don't chuck it away based on Jake seeing something and not understanding your friendship.

Sam still felt angry as she stormed to the elevator, stopping just long enough to shove a croissant in her mouth. She ignored Rory Hawthorne's hungover hello on the way down, shooting him a look of daggers as she tromped off into the urban sunlight. She hadn't felt this mad since Clara's Reaping, now fully locked in a battle of voices in her head that spoke equally of misunderstanding and backstabbing. The prospect of speaking to Rex as soon as she entered the Control Center didn't even seem all that bad by comparison.

The Control Room itself had only half the prior day's attendants at work in the main circle – by Capitol standards, it was still early. Preprogrammed software and drones could handle the business of the morning before most viewers really woke up to the action.

Jetty walked up to her as she entered, wearing a furtive smile and eager to begin the day. "Hey Sam, before you get busy, I wanted to talk about-"

"Not right now," Sam grunted, more interested in punching Jetty in the face than talking to her.

"Okay, okay," Jetty backed off and walked away towards District 4's suite, casting a confused glance back at her.

Rex stood idly in the Executive Suite as she entered, watching proceedings of the arena on several personal screens. He ignored her for a moment as she gazed about the wood-paneled room, taking a sip of a bourbon-filled glass before turning to acknowledge her arrival.

"Would you be looking for something, Samantha?" he inquired in a formal tone.

"I, uh," she paused at his look, both nervous at approaching the powerful man and taken aback at his electronic eyes that drilled into her face. She'd seen them aplenty since her time here in the Capitol, but being so close and alone with him made it all that much worse. "I'm supposed to give you a message."

"From Commander Trajan?" he presumed correctly. "I assume he wants you to tell me of my impending arrest?"

Sam gaped. "How…how'd you know that?"

"You do not get to where I am by being uninformed," he took another sip, clinking ice around in his glass and indicating towards a chair. "Please, take a seat."

She sat nervously, plucking at her ponytail and keeping her eyes down. His quick and blunt assessment of the situation had caught her off guard, forcing her to re-evaluate her strategy of talking to the man. She'd wanted to keep it quick and simple – as if conveying a message of arrest would be anything but – yet he'd turned the tables on her in a snap.

"Then you know none of us can truly trust our esteemed President Octavian," Rex spoke up. Sam assumed the room was sound-proofed; if not, the Head Gamesmaker had absolutely no fear. "He is caught up in his juvenile fantasies of playing dictator; torn between excessive indulgence and fickle popularity. Concordantly he sees these very Games – and you yourself, Samantha, as you know doubt felt going to see Commander Trajan – as nothing more than toys to be thrown about at every tantrum from the child of his soul."

"Tell me…" he went on, leveling his gaze at her. "How have you seen your time with the man?"

Sam anxiously glanced towards the door. What did he want? "I…I don't really trust him."

"Mmm. And he doesn't trust you," Rex finished for her, speaking slowly. "Or your colleagues. Or any of us in this Control Center…or Panem, even. No doubt he tossed you to the Commander as a physical bone to please his appetite…which the military man does not have. Do you find that pleasing?"

Inhale, exhale. Rex was drawing more out of her than anybody had ever managed to do – all with his unbreaking stare and a few selective words of strength. "I, uh, I just want to try and get my remaining tribute home."

"Ah yes, focusing all your energy on pulling your tribute – Clara, I believe I caught – from the ruins of the dead city of Chicago," Rex mused, raising his eyebrows as he spoke of the arena's design. "It's certainly a quandary this year; the old metropolises are still decidedly lethal places full of remnants of a past we have long since abandoned. I trust you your intent. I believe you…because I know you, like I, can see past the subtleties of vanities. It is a shame how Octavian wastes your talents on such simplicities as his own ego and thirst for pleasure. Don't you wonder…why he doesn't take you seriously?"

"Well…I'm just a girl. Maybe a victor too."

"But you are more than that," Rex leaned forward, setting his glass down. "The Hunger Games are not mediums of control or entertainment, Samantha. They may fulfill those purposes, but they separate the wheat from the chaff of the districts. You proved yourself superior to the foes you bested…you shone as a representative for not only District 10 as a whole, but all the poorer sectors that went seven years witnessing only defeat at the hands of their wealthier cousins. You overcame that. You have…without your own intent…become something of a standard for those districts to aspire to."

"I'm no symbol," Sam rejected his appeal that attempted to slither past her defenses. "I'm just trying to do what I have to."

"Let's take stock, shall we?" Rex leaned back, holding out his hand and counting his fingers. "District 12 has two drunkards as victors. District 11 has no heroes other than Chaff, a reckless incompetent, and Thresh, a silent shade of gray who long ago threw aside any pretense of believing in others despite his appealing, honorable nature. Your own district, until you came along, had a tobacco-addicted failure and a second victor who, for all his strengths, has always shied away from the spotlight."

"Cheyenne's not a failure," Sam said quietly. "She helped me through."

"Except she did not," Rex cut her off. "Your other mentor, Dallas, did the lifting for you – and a rather poor job at that. You never garnered much in sponsorship; rather, you won on your own. That is beside the point, so let us keep counting down. District 9 only has one current victor; Tania, who is so forgettable that most viewers do not remember that District 9 competes. District 8's Cecelia is kind-hearted and Rush means well, but neither are particularly capable. District 7 incorporates Johanna's always-unpleasant brand of disagreeableness and Locust's standoff attitude towards anyone not from home. District 6 may have three living victors, but all anyone can remember are the two recently-deceased morphling addicts who were the standard-bearers for years. District 5 never produces anything of note – it was surprising how far their tribute got last year. Finally, District 3's Wiress has lost her grip of reality, and while Alpha may be strong and capable, he is certainly not sociable. Thus, every district not named 1, 2, or 4 has only one current victor to look up to as a fresh-faced paragon of victory and resilience…"

He paused to take another sip of bourbon before reaching the inevitable conclusion. "You."

Sam was shocked at the quick way he'd dissected nine of the twelve districts without even taking the time to think. Still worse was that he was right – outside of the Career districts, there were no heroes to look up to. District 10 had long since embraced the fact that Cheyenne was worthless as the face of the district in the Capitol. Like Rex had said, Dallas had alternatively never shined as a star, choosing to work with a quieter and supportive role. But what was she, then – just the most recent victor of the Games, nothing more. She wasn't anything special; no more than the Threshs and Johannas of the world.

"I don't really know where you're going with this," Sam headed him off before he could keep pushing his line. "I don't have anything better than them."

"But you do," Rex countered. "You are the face of victory at a precipice in Panem's time. You know, don't you – that before long, only one of either Octavian or I will still be standing. After my arrest, the Capitol will not wait forever before drawing battle lines. You will have a role to play as well, Samantha…and you may very well find that Octavian will not give you much of a choice as to your part."

The Arena

After the encounter with the mutt early in the morning, Clara and Firth had avoided any action for the rest of their day. The city's downtown was as quiet as ever, only broken up by cracks of lightning interspersed like clockwork. One bolt had smashed into the top of the tallest skyscraper, igniting steel plates that glowed like white beacons in the ashen sky.

Clara had done quite well in finding supplies. Per Bolt's inference, the two tributes had gone searching for materials and consumables within what few ancient buildings still were capable of supporting entrants. One in particular had been a boon; although food had been impossible to come by, fully-sealed bottles of water still existed aplenty. Clara wondered on the quality of drinking liquid that had been sitting around for hundreds of years, but Firth assured her it was fine. Other areas had yielded a long length of rope, some twine, two more glass bottles Firth claimed would make Bolt happy in creating more fire weapons, and a broom. The boy from 4 had taken the broom handle off, instead attaching a shard of metal found in the street to its end as an impromptu polearm. It wouldn't be extremely effective, but it would take down an unaware tribute.

By now, however, Clara's stomach rumbled with pain. She had eaten only two strips of meat and an energy bar since the prior day's breakfast, and without sustenance to keep her going, she doubted how long she could last.

"They have to have food in this place somewhere," Clara complained as she and Firth made the slow trip back towards the highway and their de facto base of operations. She wore a jumble of water bottles around her neck attached to some length of the rope, with more stuffed in the sack and the rebar pole as a quick weapon if she needed it. "They can't just leave us out here with nothing."

"If we can find water, we can find food," Firth looked hungry himself, grabbing his growling stomach from time to time. "Maybe one of these places has some that's been sitting around forever. I bet that'd be delicious."

"Ew," Clara made a face. "It'd probably be covered in bugs."

Firth stopped, considering what she'd said. "That's a damn good idea, Clara."

"What? Ew is a good idea? I don't think so."

"No, bugs. I saw some in the cave that had the broom, but I didn't think about it then."

Clara looked as if she'd seen a murder. "Eating bugs? Are you insane?"

"It's good protein," Firth waved her away with a smile. "Don't tell me you're scared of eating bugs."

"I am scared of eating bugs!"

"That's the Hunger Games, ladies and gentlemen," Firth called out to the world. "Watch a girl from District 10 eat insects."

Clara began to laugh, but movement at the end of the avenue they were on stopped her cold. She quickly got down into a crouch as Firth sized up the activity.

"Mutt," he said quietly, squinting his eyes for a better look. "And by the looks of it, the Gamesmakers gave us food."

"What is it?" Clara asked, unable to get a focus on it.

"Some kind of a dog-cat thing," Firth answered. "Two of them, in fact. We're going to have to be careful, but this is a boon. Plenty of meat on that."

Clara didn't object this time. Poorer families from the Slaughterhouse Ward in District 10 ate dog all the time – often the unwanted puppies of the ranches that strayed off into the slummy wards and prowled about for scraps and vermin. Once they grew up, they made decent meals for desperate people.

Firth jogged down the street with Clara on his heels, dropping his bag he'd found on a street corner and indicating for her to stay. "Stick with the stuff. I'll off these two mutts and we'll carry one back to Bolt and Willow down at the cars."

"There's two of them," Clara protested. "You don't need a hand?"

"Won't be a problem," Firth said confidently. "I'll just be a minute."

He picked up a chunk of concrete, leaving Clara and drawing closer to the two hyena-like striped mutts that prowled about at the end of the avenue. Quickly Firth hurled the block at the lead mutt, striking it on its hindquarters and charging forward with his spear. He'd underestimated their power; the mutt not struck rebounded on its haunches and leaped a full twenty feet in a single bound, catching Firth's spear handle in its jaws.

"Firth!" Clara screamed, grabbing a concrete block herself and running after him as he battled the hyena.

The other one scampered to its feet, eager to help its companion in downing prey. Clara intercepted it with her piece of concrete, clubbing the animal in its face with a well-placed throw. It shook off the attack, staring her down and leaping forward with a yelping cry of rage. She took a step back and brought her rebar pole to bear, swiping at the hyena as it dove in. The animal took the blow to the face and dove to the side before snapping its jaws around and ripping off half her pant leg.

Clara shrieked at the close call, adrenaline flooding her system as the mutt's bacteria-infested teeth just missed slashing into the flesh of her leg. A piercing yelp nearby alerted her to Firth's victory as he moved to help her. Before he could reach her, however, the second hyena navigated around Clara's pole and struck paydirt on her arm.

She screamed in pain as it shook her arm about, drawing bright red blood in bunches and biting down with enough force to hew right through the muscle. Clara grabbed her pole again, whacking the mutt on the side of the head with as much force as she could muster. It pulled back, leaving saliva dripping from her wound and preparing to pounce again. Before it had the chance, Firth's spear came soaring in. Thwack! The bladed end of the weapon impaled the hyena straight through its cranium, leaving the body to fall over dead.

"Clara!" Firth exclaimed, kneeling down and grabbing her injured left arm. "Oh boy. Come on, we can't stay here."

"Just…get me a bandage or something," she gasped through the pain. Whatever bite the hyena had left, its residue seared like a hot poker through her arm and veins.

Firth ripped open the top of one of the water bottles, forgoing concerns about hydration and pouring the liquid on her arm. Blood rippled off into the ash, creating ugly scarlet mud that mucked about in the gray snowy lumps. He removed his windbreaker, ripping off a part of the fabric and making an impromptu bandage before securing it about Clara's forearm. As the bleeding stopped, he looked on with concern.

"Drink some of this," he shoved the water bottle at her. "Then we have to hurry before anybody shows up."

"No, we all need water," Clara protested. "Give me the bags and drag that thing back."

"Clara, just drink it," he said. "I'll get the bags and the body. Hold the spear; let's try not to get in any fights on the way back from here."

She hesitated to remind him that it had been his idea, but she would have done the same thing. Meat was meat – with little food, it beat eating bugs. The wound hurt ferociously, however – and Clara had to wonder just how badly she'd been hurt. Even one misstep in the Hunger Games could spell death.

The Capitol

"So, where are we going?"

Sam followed Finnick up a narrow dirt path following the rise of one of the Capitol's surrounding mountains. The two had partnered with Dallas, Cheyenne, and Johanna Mason from District 7 all day, figuring out ways to maximize their alliance's potency. Jetty had taken over District 4's handling of Scylla, leaving Finnick to work with Firth's band of tributes exclusively. Now he and Sam were on a different sort of mission – switching from strategizing to mutual cooperation in securing sponsorships as night fell across the Capitol.

"The house of the Capitol's most famous artist," Finnick replied as the two made their way up the path. "He has a place – a manor, sorry, the man's ridiculously picky – that looks over the city. Very wealthy."

"What's his name?" Sam asked impatiently. After Clara's injury earlier in the day courtesy of hyena mutts, she had anxiously kicked herself back into her work.

"Salvador. He's eccentric as hell; obsessed with recognition and approval. Guy has a taste for…the unusual."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Finnick turned with a grim expression. "You'll find out what you get there. I'm sure he'll have a little show for us…he knows we're coming. I set up this appointment yesterday; he won't know you're joining me, however, so this might be a little strange."

Strange was certainly one way Sam would describe the manor. Unlike any of the buildings down in the Capitol proper, the house was colossal and built of an architecture unseen anywhere else in Panem. Curved façades and bright colors shown out from terraced roofing and concave walls, complemented with bright gardens full of the strangest plants Sam had ever seen. Odd lime green sunflowers the shade of Augusta's hair and the height of Vespasian loomed over rubbery crimson grass that threatened to overwhelm Sam's visual field.

"And here we are," Finnick sighed, as if expecting a trial ahead. "Don't even have to knock. One, two, three, who's excited?"

The door burst open as if guided by his words, accompanied by twenty bright ribbons that streamed out at the two. An attendant dressed in a black suit with an atrocious violet tie ushered Finnick and Sam in, herding them like sheep deep into the monstrous house. The place was titanic; Sam found herself looking at painting after painting of grotesque imagery lining the walls. Some seemed born out of a different universe – with headless men reaching around with arms of rubber or ascending never-ending staircases; others showed bizarre melting imagery of stationary objects under a collapsing sky. Still others were far more gruesome: scenes of real people, likely Capitol prisoners, forced into absurd poses and gruesome executions. Throughout it all, the haunting sounds of a piano rang over the halls.

"The master is inside!" the attendant chirped as he reached a giant cherry door, opening it up for the two. "Please go in."

Sam found herself confronted by a giant auditorium, expanding with hundreds of seats facing a large wooden stage. A spotlight shone onto it, highlighting a grand piano and a red-suited man hammering away at the keys.

"Is that him?" Sam whispered to Finnick.

"No. Looks like an Avox…I have a bad feeling where this is going."

"La-dee-dee-dah," a bright and high-pitched voice sounded over the auditorium in time with the Avox's piano strokes. "La-da-da-dee-daaaaaah, no, no on the minor chord!"

The Avox played furiously, seemingly driven faster and faster by an invisible slavedriver. The man's voice hollered above it all, sounding off in time with the music and occasionally lashing out with admonishments to the man.

"And hit the coda, yes, yes!" the voice shrieked. "Laa-dee-dee-dee-daa-daaaaah, no, no you embarrass me before my guests! Again! Again!"

The Avox looked up helplessly, as if pleading his case before hopelessly hitting the piano keys again. Shockingly, as soon as he returned to his work, the man forced out two strokes before a gunshot sounded out. Sam and Finnick both dove to the floor as the Avox fell over, a bullet hole sent straight through his head. Bright streamers fluttered out from the stage as a man in a bright purple suit floated down on strings from the ceiling, the spotlight following him all the way.

"Welcome, welcome, to Salvador Ray's manor of the arts!" the man crowed, falling to the stage and throwing up his arms as if impressing an entire auditorium's worth of guests. "And the finale! Yes, perfect!"

Sam tossed Finnick a frightened look. The man – Salvador – had confused shooting an Avox with the grand finale of some horrible musical routine designed to impress the two. Whatever he was, she was certain she wanted to be as far from it as possible. Finnick shook his head – there was no going back now.

"Mister Odair, always a delight to see you return," Salvador jaunted up to the two, throwing his suit to the floor and revealing a bright orange vest below. His face seemed like an image of monsters; half his chin sagged with an overdose of chemicals injected below the skin, pulling down his cheek and temple. The other side of his face bore a sapphire tattoo of a rose, reaching up from the neck and blooming over his forehead. Musical notes littered as black ink across each cheekbone, with the sagging ones looking more like drooping buds than the guides of symphonies.

"Always a pleasure to be in the company of the master of the arts," Finnick replied, donning the seductive smile Sam always spotted him wearing in the company of Capitol citizens. How he managed to juggle two entirely different personas – the relaxed-yet-practical sense he'd displayed when planning in the Control Center as compared to the spontaneous display of charm and manner he showed to the Capitol – made Sam wonder just how deep his roots here lay.

Salvador looked delighted by the appreciation. "Yes yes, and you have brought a most-honored guest…our sweet little butterfly from District 10! The colors you wear…"

The eccentric man leaned down to look Sam in the eye as if preparing her for one of his grotesque paintings. "A shame I cannot get my hands on you, sweet butterfly …your charm radiates out from your lithe, thin curves up to your royal blue eyes."

Sam felt naked in front of his gaze, her heart accelerating to rapid rates. The man ignited a sense of creepiness unbeaten by anybody she'd ever met in her life, from his bizarre pet name to the oddly specific way he complemented her unassuming appearance. "I…don't think we've met?"

"Met? Met?" Salvador screamed as Finnick grimaced. "Why – I am Salvador fucking Ray! Artisan of Panem! Developer of-"

He halted quickly, as if realizing he was seeing Sam for the first time. "But you are new, a distinguished new guest, of course. And you come here for the all-important sponsorships, yes yes…then follow me, yes follow me!"

Salvador pranced towards the stage, throwing two chairs under the spotlight and unceremoniously dumping the dead Avox's body off the piano stool, which he took as his own seat.

"See how the crowd loves a performance!" he shouted to no one in particular. "Now I shall see what you have for me, Mister Odair and my sweet butterfly…then I shall close with the grand finale! Begin, begin!"

Finnick pushed Sam's hand down, indicating that he'd handle the majority of the speaking duties. "Salvador, got quite the team for you this year."

"Ah yes! Teamwork! How integral for competition…yet the arts are so best appreciated as minds alone!"

"Good thing competition is the key," Finnick turned the conversation. "And a personal touch. My son and Sam's friend from her home are working together with a strong girl from District 7 and a genius from District 3. They've already adapted to the ruined city this year's arena is in – and let me tell you, it's a work of art. Not quite as good as your own, but the Gamesmakers and Phaeston Rex have done a fantastic job."

"Yes, yes, my friend Phaeston," Salvador acted as if he hadn't heard Finnick, making Sam wonder if her fellow mentor only spoke to get the eccentric artist talking. "I had dinner with him and my friend our President the other week…spotted grouse with a side of chardonnay. Quite unappetizing, but done so well…with flecks of gold lace intertwined in the muscle of the cooked grouse. It was so carnal in a way, yet so dignified."

"Absolutely," Finnick continued. "What's really-"

"Certainly! I met that raging bull Vespasian from District 2 this morning here," Salvador ignored Finnick's approach again, far more content to speak about himself. "An absolute monster, yet such a creative patchwork of man and machine! I cannot figure out which he is more…and I donated to him, of course, as I will to you. But Mister Odair and my sweet butterfly, tell me, tell! You will see here my most recent and finest piece before it even goes on display at the conclusion of the Games…I want your reaction, yes!"

He pranced off to the stage's curtain as Finnick leaned over to Sam. "Whatever you do, say it's great."

"What if it isn't?" Sam asked nervously, eying the cooling corpse of the Avox.

"Say it is anyway. He's sponsoring us; that's all we need. And it's better than not saying so."

"Taa-daa!" Salvador hurled open the curtain with gusto. "I present...Tartarus!"

Sam struggled to hold back her dinner, concentrating as hard as she could on not passing out from sheer disturbance. Salvador's "art" was a collaboration of five human bodies. Sam suspected they had been Avoxes he'd bought off of Octavian – or worse. Each was pictured in a different pose, all with some means of death linking them together. A hangman's noose looped around one's neck, its other end attached about the waste of a second who sported a harpoon through his navel. The entire thing was the brainchild of a psychopath.

"Brilliance," Finnick lied with exaggerated excitement, his eyes betraying the same disgust Sam felt. "Might just be your greatest piece, Salvador. I see how you've tied in death and life in one great mix."

"Absolutely, absolutely," Salvador crowed, happy with Finnick's assessment. "And you, my sweet butterfly…your impressions?"

"It's…marvelous," Sam gasped through her overwhelming sense of anguish. "Just…fantastic."

"Yes, yes," Salvador bellowed. "My two artistic disciples from the districts, so attentive to the minds of higher states! I must have you two return soon for my next musical extravaganza…but now, on your way! On your way!"

Salvador pranced around as the spotlight followed him, serenading Finnick and Sam as they hurried away with fake smiles from the auditorium: "Laa-dee-daa-daa, dee-daa-daa, dee-daa-daa!"

The two made it outside her house as quick as they could. Sam stumbled a step, dropped to her knees, and threw up every trace of dinner she had inside her.

The things I do for you, Clara…

A/N: I intentionally made Salvador a nightmarish artsy psychopath with a side of creepy. He's a blast to write, yeeeee!