A/N: Thanks for the kind words, caramellachoco! Appreciate all reviews that can help me get better.
Names, faces, tears, and children turned with the passage of time over the course of the train ride and the afternoon as scenery of Panem flew by. Sam felt numb as district after district gave away a part of their future two at a time, watching sons and daughters depart with little to no chance at the prospect of return for the most part. Some came old enough to be starting real work in their home regions, with the experience to have a shot at contention; some young and frail enough to look like day-one outs at the hands of a tribute bloodthirsty enough to slaughter without remorse. Throughout the coverage of the Reapings, entertainer Constantine Flickerman's voice gave life to the backgrounds and prospects of the children who would face off in whatever horrors the awaiting arena of the Games could provide.
"I remember when I met his father, Caesar, during my Games," Dallas remarked at one point of the showing, helping Sam and Laredo understand the man who would bring the games to the televisions of Panem. "Too loud, but he gave me some credit I didn't think I had. Constantine's done a great job filling in his shoes. He'll give you both a leg up in the eyes of sponsors, no matter what you say."
"Well, I hear he's enjoying retirement quite well," Augusta crowed in agreement. "Caesar is an icon. His son is just as skilled – give him some time and he'll be as much a household name. This is only his eighth Games, after all – and already he's found a place in every Capitol citizen's heart."
"He sounds full of himself," Laredo scoffed at the commentator, bored by the proceedings and itching for more action than the train ride could provide.
"The word is confident," Augusta corrected.
Several of the tributes stuck out in Sam's mind as she watched quietly, letting Dallas take over with talking. District 1's pair of sleek assassins, a silver-haired vixen named Royal and a copper-skinned boy called Fresco (although Sam took most names from other Districts to be odd – she figured even her own district's came across the same way to them – there was no way anybody could take the nomenclature of District 1's people as anything except abnormal. Royal? Fresco?) The most physically imposing boy Sam had ever seen, a District 2 tribute named Hadrian, stormed up to the stage as a volunteer, overpowering the light from the cameras with his frame. District 4 came in with the oddity of the day; the typically Career district submitted a thin fourteen year-old girl named Gannet who looked better off staying on the fishing boats of the oceanic district. None stepped forward to replace her; the girl's green eyes looked hopelessly on to a field of potential tributes that had let her down.
The "middle" districts that always seemed to grind their wheels in the Hunger Games produced few tributes of note. District 6 produced a very quiet and tall boy named Troop who seemed resigned to his fate, while 8 set forth a hysterical girl named Kevlar who screamed as she was called, forced up to the stage by the unrelenting arms of a Peacekeeper. Finally, the outlying districts came into focus.
Cladius Templesmith, the old yet charismatic announcer for the Games, scrunched his eyes to the Reaping in District 10 as Sam waited for his and Constantine's judgment. The entire train car seemed on edge as the pair analyzed the early event.
"10's been in a bit of a rut recently, haven't they Claudius?" Constantine laughed, adjusting his shoulder-length mint green hair. "Is this the year they're going to break out of that?"
"Difficult to tell," Claudius replied by rubbing his chin, his old voice still clear and passionate despite years of speech. "You see the male tribute here; he's got the look of a powerful one."
Laredo smirked at the assessment.
"You can't really get a good grasp of these things from the Reaping alone, but I'd wager on a fair chance from them. The outlying districts, they're never going to be favorites – but you never know with these things, they could be set for a surprise."
"That's better than nothing," Dallas nodded to Claudius's analysis. "He can't get into too much detail as to skew the betting pools that always shake up in the Games, but he sounded at least optimistic. Gave you some praise, too, Laredo – can't underestimate what every word means to a sponsor."
"That's your job, right though?" Laredo tossed his head in Dallas's direction. "Get sponsors? Send in supplies?"
"Yeah, but if Claudius wants to make my job easier, I'm all for it. You should be, too."
"Whoa now, I ain't complainin'," Laredo smiled, flexing a bicep. "I'll give you a good score to toss around with them rich folk."
Dallas looked Sam's way as the girl sat quietly through the proceedings. "Sam? You've been quiet ever since you got on the train."
The former victor had seen this type of tribute before – the one who still sat in shock from being picked even after hours of train ride; who needed some shaking up to get their head in the game. Sam reminded him of many of the tributes who'd passed by he and Cheyenne's way, picked only to be swallowed up by the ferocity of the Games. It always hurt, but nearly twenty years of this had hardened Dallas's skin against getting too attached – and although he'd give everything he had to help Sam out, privately he didn't feel as if she was great material to come out swinging, even this early in the occasion. She had enough physical charm for stylists to make something of, and maybe enough cute naïveté to win over one or two sponsors – but getting a top training score and smashing the interview were things that it looked like Laredo had the early and obvious edge in.
"It's just some of these other kids," Sam answered truthfully, resting her head on her hands as a dark-haired, olive-skinned boy from District 12 named Storm concluded the tribute list. "Like that guy from 2. How do we beat someone like him?"
"Who's 'we?'" Laredo fired a look her direction, his eyebrows showing amusement.
"Us. You and me. District 10," Sam replied with a perplexed look.
"Dunno what you're talking 'bout. Just one person coming out of that arena."
Dallas ignored Laredo. "They're big, but sometimes the Careers take things too straightforward – relying on food that's provided rather than scrounging and surviving, or missing subtle clues on how the arena's laid out. With someone like Hadrian there, you've got a better chance if you can out-think him and use the environment to your advantage. Play smarter, not harder."
Sam caught his advice, but her attention had been drawn by her fellow tribute. Laredo's words spooked something deep inside her – that she knew that now she was alone. Whatever she'd felt before, she had at least figured Laredo and her were both from the same district and could work out a mutual plan to stay alive for the early parts of the Games; maybe even outlast some of the others. His thoughts proved otherwise: if she wanted some help, she'd have to make a friend with someone from the other districts.
And making friends was far from her best skill.
"To all you viewers, we've got a special treat," Constantine was saying as Sam mulled over the circumstances. "Our second-year Head Gamesmaker himself, Phaeston Rex, is here in the studio to give his take on what we saw on day 1 of the 98th Games – Phaeston, a pleasure."
In his inaugural year, Phaeston Rex had never shown himself on camera – and in Sam's first look at her de facto executioner, she felt both shock and a creeping dread. Rex lacked the colorful hair of the types like Augusta and Constantine, and bore no skin alterations or strange stylistic markings across his body. His hair remained a shiny, slick slice of silver – complementing his rounded facial features in a natural way. In fact, for a Capitol citizen he looked positively normal – except for one trait that worked its way so deeply into Sam's soul that she nearly gasped.
The Gamesmaker's eyes shone with a radiance like the stars at night – not with the same calm and tranquility as each of those shining points of light, but with an artificial three spokes of bright blue that bored a hole straight through the television screen. He seemed to look through the camera, straight into Sam, and his words emphasized the unnerving aspect of his gaze.
"The pleasure is all mine," Rex shook Constantine's hand with little vigor, his eyes maintaining their stony radiance.
"Now, I know you can't tell us anything about the arena itself even though we're all dying to know," Constantine laughed brightly at the poor pun, his photogenic face the perfect foil for the icy demeanor of Rex. "But let's get to the Reapings today. What's your early take on how things shake out?"
"They are an unconventional set for an unconventional year," Rex grinned ever so slightly, placing the fingertips of his hands together as if presiding over some master scheme. "You can point out some novelties from this group. District 4's lack of a volunteer on their female side is…curious at best, but it does shake up the typical heavyweight competition."
"Absolutely, I was shocked no one leaped into the fray," Constantine nodded quickly.
"Additionally, a close relative from any former victor is always intriguing – especially from an outlying district. The odds may be…evened somewhat this year."
"I noticed that, Phaeston. For our viewers who didn't catch that during District 12's broadcast or recap," Constnatine dove into full analysis mode. "12's male tribute, Storm Hawthorne, is the nephew of 78th Hunger Games winner Rory Hawthorne. We have a family connection this year."
Dallas looked up, having missed that announcement earlier. "Year before me; I remember watching that one. I've spoken often with Rory during our time in the Capitol. I hope he's going to handle this alright."
Sam felt a twinge of pain for whoever this Rory Hawthorne victor was – going in as a tribute to the Games was bad enough, and a mentor likely faced even more pain year after year of deaths. But having to mentor a family member? She didn't feel as if she could imagine a worse fate, especially from a region like District 12 that represented even worse poverty and grit than did the likes of District 10.
"Now, you've made your mark last year in spicing up the Games with certain flair," Constantine turned his attention on the screen back to Rex. "How would you describe that yourself? Your personal style, your touch?"
"I bring outside-the-box creativity and ambition to a familiar situation," Rex seemed fully in control now, hitting his stride in the interview with each powerful, well-measured word. "Where the Games may have stagnated in times past, my flavor has been one of…originality."
"What's he mean by that?" Sam looked up at Dallas, worry filling her gut. Whatever "originality" meant from the creepy Head Gamesmaker, it didn't sound charming...or at all promising.
"We'll talk it over at dinner," Dallas rebuffed the question, glancing over at a clock on the wall.
"Yes, yes," Augusta perked up, having remained quiet through much of the later Reapings. "Go, you two, make yourselves presentable and tidy up. Dinner will be in an hour in the car to our left – your rooms are two cars down for yours, Laredo, and three for yours, Samantha."
Sam's room shared much of the same glamor as the lounge car, with a full, soft bed larger than anything she had seen even amongst the well-to-do like her family in District 10. A bathroom inlaid with chrome and marble radiated luxury, with a shower surrounded by granite walls and a glass sliding door that immediately secured Sam's attention. Nobody had showers in District 10, even the comparatively wealthy such as the Parkers – well, maybe Mayor Navarro did, but certainly nobody else. Sam spent a full five minutes simply looking over the options on the shower buttons – from foams to water pressure and temperature to soap scents. Was this really all the Capitol had to do with their wealth? Buy shower scents?
Sam's mind floated back to Clay and his poor family, with him having to take out tesserae every year to do his part in supporting them – just a little of the resources that paid for this shower alone likely could have supported him and his family with food for a month, or more! The luxury was great – and Sam certainly was not one to pass up the opportunity when afforded – but the sickening waste of it all was disturbing, to say the least.
Still, Sam contently spent nearly a half hour in the shower, doling out copious amounts of scented shampoos until she emerged as an amalgamation of sweet and flowery aromas.
She lost her Reaping outfit for a simple violet short-sleeved shirt and a pair of comfortable pants; no need to make an impression on anybody here. To Sam, the battle lines were already drawn for the members of the train. Augusta was no help to anybody but herself; Laredo was much the same, except he'd have the chance to kill off Sam inside the arena and certainly had the physical tools to do so. Cheyenne…was an enigma, albeit an extremely unpleasant one. Dallas provided the only spark of commitment, of the slightest bit of hope that Sam could pick up anything useful between now and the horn that sounded the start of the Games around the Cornucopia several days from now. She'd need to get him on her side no matter the cost – to ensure she had something of a supply route from sponsors, if any wanted to show her favor.
Dinner went surprisingly well, although the group never ended up finishing the discussion over the Head Gamesmaker. Cheyenne managed to stay civil through two courses of rich foods Sam had never seen the likes of before offending Augusta by taking painkillers in plain sight, leading to an argument that ended in Augusta's early retirement for the evening. Sam could already see that the mentors and tributes were dividing into "camps" – Cheyenne outwardly preferred Laredo's brawn to Sam's quieter approach, while Dallas patiently answered questions and responded with as much as he could. Sam valued that she could harness one connection – but her hopes of balancing her apprehension in the coming days with a fellow district tribute of like-mindedness were all but dashed. Laredo looked too much the part of the physically tough brute who would cut his way through opposition regardless of the cost – whatever he had done in his childhood to get that way, Sam figured she'd end up on the wrong side by trying to get along with it.
"Breakfast at 8 tomorrow," Dallas motioned as an end to dinner as he and Cheyenne cleared out. "We're going to be coming into the Capitol in the late morning. If either of you have any last questions before we get there, think of them tonight and ask us tomorrow."
"Ask him," Cheyenne muttered as she left. "I'm not a morning person."
The two mentors departed, leaving the pair of tributes alone in the dining car. Sam picked at a napkin as Laredo glanced about, contemplating leaving – which he soon did.
"I guess," Sam tried a final time. "I'll see you tomorrow?"
Laredo looked over his shoulder at her, said nothing, and departed.
That was that.
Sam sighed and left for her room, but sleep was not to come. She changed into a lavender night gown, but spent the next hour tossing and turning, watching out her window rather than getting the rest she needed. Had it only been around half a day since boarding the train? The rush of the day's events and the confrontation with fate had left Sam feeling as if she'd walked several dozen miles. She flipped and turned in the soft bed, disregarding the luxurious comforts of her surroundings for the millions of thoughts racing through her mind. With a start, she tossed off the bed sheet and got up – looking for somewhere, anywhere, to truly be alone.
The timepiece on the hallway wall read half past midnight, but Sam didn't care. She stumbled through the dark car, walking further and further towards the rear. The final car of the train was exactly what she was looking for – a glassed-in coach with soft couches and plush chairs; it starkly reminded Sam of home. The ceiling above shone with constellations and an eggshell crescent moon. Sam took a seat on the rearmost couch, bringing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms about her legs.
Maybe Cheyenne had a point. For all the intricacies and luxuries of the Capitol – no matter how exquisite their showers were – everything about the train felt wrong. To be surrounded by technology, by wealth, by the best that Panem could by…yet to have all that in exchange for hurtling towards death by entertainment? What was the point of all the luxury, then?
Back of the drinking dipper, then three fingers up, Sam thought, reviewing the last night she had with her brother, finding the North Star – was that just the previous night? She held out her hand, picking out the constellation and then tracking the stars across the sky as the train hurtled along – right on cue, the North Star. It had been the first one she'd learned from her brother, the one she'd always remembered could point her towards home. District 10...the only home she'd ever known lay far across the open expanse of plains and grasslands. Somewhere far behind was District 10, where Jake would be going to sleep knowing he could do no more, where Clara and Clay would have to be strong for each other as they watched her efforts to survive in the Games. Where her father never even realized what he could have meant to her.
If tears are going to come, come now. Yet no tears flowed from Sam's red-streaked eyes, tired from a day of fear and anxiety. There was nothing more to be done, no last wishes to be had. The Games had just begun, but her game, the great game she had called life, had turned the page to its epilogue. No more needed to be said; only the rest remained to be read.
Watched over by the friendly night sky, somewhere far between the districts of that place called Panem, Sam fell asleep – safe under the stars for one last night.