A/N: Pre-Games is beginning to wrap up; only a couple of chapters before it's prime time. So far, I've shown several sides of Sam as our central character – a couple of you have chimed in about how you see her, but lemme know what you all think of her as the protagonist: likes and dislikes, things to improve on, additions, etc. Appreciate all the feedback, guys!

The third day of training cast a pallor of seriousness over the tributes in the gymnasium. After lunch, each began to file out, one by one like the range cattle in District 10 headed to the mass-production slaughterhouses on the west side of the district. Crowded in the dining hall, the remaining tributes still milling about slowly died away to smaller and smaller numbers. Sam knew she'd be one of the last, what with girls going second in each district and 10 only preceding 11 and 12 – and the anxiety of the moment caved in like an avalanche, growing over the course of the afternoon.

Dallas had worked with her the night before on their own, as Cheyenne attended to Laredo separately. "You can make a snare, use a blade, throw a rope," the mentor had encouraged his uncertain tribute. "What can you do to make that all stand out?"

"Those have nothing in common," Sam had protested, more out of tension than lack of creativity. "It's not like I can snare an animal and then kill it. There're no animals running around in the gym. I ain't gonna be able to kill anybody, either. Obviously."

"How'd you learn to use a sword, then?" Dallas had looked to maneuver the girl into the correct line of thinking. "You couldn't hack somebody's head off. You just said it yourself."

"A dummy's not a person."

"It's meant to be one. There's no reason you can't snare one of those if you use a little of those brains you have. You want to give yourself a better score, show your best weapon? It's not any skill you have. It's all up in your head."

Sam let the words drip in her mind as the boy from District 9 went forth to his session. In a corner of the gym Storm sat alone – the two tributes had spoken briefly earlier, but both had sought to be alone as the hour turned again. Laredo had reclined against a table, completely at ease with the process – his physical form spoke for itself, and for the briefest moment, Sam envied him. What a relief it must be not to have to worry in such a time – to lack the anxiety and distress that plagued her frayed nerves, torn to the breaking point by these few days in the Capitol and on the executioner's doorstep. How he remained that same composure would follow him – or her – to the grave.

"Laredo Deets."

Just like that, Sam's fellow district tribute picked himself up and walked through the far door. Just a few minutes now…

Sam's memory flashed back to years prior – her as a small eleven year-old, still without the Games looming directly over her head. Jake, at fifteen, fought their presence on a yearly basis – yet while she found herself fractured by their every move now, he had pushed away their scythe with resilience and model leadership. Rather than complain about his problems, from family to larger means, he had spent his time helping his sister become the persons he had come to be today.

The eleven year-old girl sat atop a white horse on the prairie field as the cattle herd stretched out on the plain. Below her stood the boy, four years her senior and pointing to one of the younger cows grazing on District 10's feeding fields.

"You need to put some oomph into the throw," the boy pointed to the lariat the girl held tentatively on the horse's back. "It takes a little muscle. It'll go where you throw it; you just need to get it there, Sam. Can you do that? I'll be ahead; I'll get the cow once you've got it."

"Okay," the girl said timidly. "I just throw?"

"That's right. You'll be fine – just hold on! The horse will go where the cow will. Just hold on."

The boy ran ahead as the girl steadied herself, keeping an eye keenly on the brown-and-white spotted cow, unaware of anything out of the norm. Uncharted territory…riding a horse had been easy, and she'd mastered that early on. But doing the work of the district? Keeping the cattle moving, grazing, and doing what they were supposed to? That brought about an entirely new set of circumstances.

"Now Sam!" the boy shouted encouragingly. "You can do it, c'mon!"

The girl threw the lariat with as much force as she could, but yanked back far too quickly, fearing the cow would be able to escape her grasp. Failure was not an option! Yet she'd done it anyway as the rope fell short, nabbing instead the boy who had run too quickly before the animal, figuring for a proper throw. The lariat looped around his chest, catching him with an "oompf!" in mid-step and hurling him to the ground with a cloud of dust.

"Jake!" the girl screamed, jumping off the horse and running forward to the struggling boy. "Jake! I'm sorry!"

As the girl ran up, the boy leapt up from the grass and tackled her to the green carpet of the prairie. "I don't think I said lasso me!" he laughed as she giggled right along, slipping like an eel from his grasp. "You're just making all sorts of trouble, sis!"

"Hey, you ready?"

Sam blinked away from the memories, turning her head up and towards Storm's downcast gray eyes. Looking in them now, she saw a depth and emptiness she hadn't recognized the past two days – as if he had begun to realize the gravity of the situation now, deep in the belly of the beast.

"Yeah, I guess," Sam replied, the hint of a smile touching upon her lips. "I mean, it doesn't matter does it?"

"Sure it does," Storm answered. "Matters a lot. Right now, we get our first chance to tell our killers that we're not going to sit down and die. That we're going to fight to whatever ends gotta come. You, uh, know what you're doing?"

The memories played again in Sam's mind briefly as she considered the question: "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"Samantha Parker."

Both tributes' heads turned towards the open door, beckoning the girl from District 10's prairie fields into their cavernous steel abyss. Sam got to her feet, readying herself for whatever waited for her on the other side of the door before Storm stopped her.

"Sam…good luck, okay?" Storm said quietly. "The next time we're gonna be able talk…can't talk at the interviews, so…well, we'll be in the arena. You…take care, alright?"

"Yeah, Storm," Sam re-assured him, paused at the gateway to the gymnasium and the judgmental eyes of the Gamesmakers. "You too."

Games Control Room

"Do you find it odd, Commander, that we hand over the rights to life and death on scores and money? Random allotments of numbers that determine who shall remain to walk among the living, and who will rejoin their ancestors in the stars?"

"Odd?" Trajan Arterius had no trouble holding contact with the Head Gamesmaker's unnatural, electronic-lit eyes after that question. "You think your judging today was…odd?"

"Perhaps I phrased the question inappropriately," Rex set a glass of bourbon down on the display table in the empty Control Room, with the rest of the Gamesmaker staff having returned home after the day's duties. "In a procession that determines the very fate of twenty-three young people in large amount – the first view of their skill, their potential – the majority of my comrades paid more attention to a feast of food. I do recall the girl from our tenth district – a sad creature, really; you can see it in the loss within her blue eyes – and as she went about her prepared routine, quite skillfully, might I add, I found myself the only one paying attention to what she did. Do you think there is justice in that?"

Trajan tossed the question over in his mind. Rex was no man to play with such radical questions, yet he'd clearly shown to the Capitol military commander that he stood fearless of the consequences. Really, what consequences would there be? Octavian, watching over the Games from the presidential manor, loved him. The Capitol, and thus Panem, loved his high-intensity and ruthless style of executing these sadistic Games. Yet he questioned them?

"Permission to speak freely?" Trajan inquired.

"Of course. I am not a man to stifle what must be heard."

"I don't tolerate shoddy works in my ranks," Trajan commented. "I'll find any amount of patience for the creative, the imaginative, the flexible or unconventional. I can't take that same liberty for those who play with lives. My soldiers may wield guns and drones, while you and yours play within a limited series of confines – but I can't see the difference in terms of what's at stake."

"How strange it is that most do not share your view here in our alpine citadel," Rex took a drink before continuing, clinking ice about the glass. "If I were to ask those on our paved streets about the humanity of fate hinging on numbers flashed across a screen and accompanied with commentary by our illustrious Constantine Flickerman, they would laugh me off with uncertainty. It is only when you yourself have your hand in the jar of life, Commander, that you see what it's worth. These people from the districts – even these children, who our eyes watch over their tortured last moments, scared and alone – they understand the fragile balance of life on our blasted world, particularly under the hand of man."

"What do you mean by that?" Trajan posed. "We're not killing any of them frequently. They stay in line, we let them have their lives. Simple."

"Do you study your history, Commander?" Rex retorted, his face unmoving and steeled. "Before these very Games and their ninety-eight iteration?"

"It's not very critical to what I do. No, I suppose."

"You should. You can find answers for any question life poses you by seeing the actions of our ancestors. We all know the story of the Dark Days; Panem cast in warfare – terrible war, no doubt – via civil strife. But where are our roots? Buried through Panem for millennia – no! Those who came before us knew how to handle civilization far better than we did; those who inhabited the place once called North America stood hand-in-hand with others across our globe for progressive reform, for the rights of man. Yet even they destroyed themselves through nuclear fire and ecological apocalypse; they still found strife preferable to cooperation. If even the best of us through history could not help but annihilate themselves…then what chance do we have, Commander? There is a ghost in the machine – the illogical, animal part of each and every one of us that overlooks what should be done and craves for the short term benefit, whether that is food, water, accomplishment, or entertainment…or even wanton destruction. These Games are just a part – and that ghost in the machine infects everyone who loses themselves in them at the expense of what truly occurs. That ghost destroyed our predecessors, no matter the accomplishments they held high. It can destroy us just as easily, should we not heed its growl."

Trajan pondered the anecdote. He'd never paid attention to history – what use was that in maintaining military order in the Capitol's name? Yet even he knew the paradigm that the Capitol controlled with could not last forever. The districts maintained a decisive manpower advantage, and oppression had a way of rising up when least expected – the Dark Days themselves spoke of that truth, and only through luck and geological advantage had the Capitol triumphed then. Octavian ruled as a "president of the people of the Capitol" – he loved his circuses, his carnivals, his Hunger Games. Yet how much did the young president see the reality of his nation? For all his mystery, Rex had his hand on the pulse of things in Panem. Oppression had bred civil war through the Dark Days; apparently, nobody had learned that lesson. The animal brain had won out again.

"Where'd you learn of North America?" Trajan innocently steered the conversation towards less murky waters. "Not exactly a conversational piece."

"You simply need to know where to look," Rex smiled, a twisted motion that concealed whatever teeth lay within an unopened mouth. "Do the people of our second district know they cut and train upon the ruins of a city built upon a lake of salt? Do the citizens of the eleventh realize the history that paved the way for revolt and conflict beneath their feet? There are records concealed only by time all around us, Commander. It is by our own ignorance that we keep the past a mystery – and at our own unique cost."

Trajan nodded, lacking the words to move on. Rex presented him with a quandary – never before had the commander squared off with such an intelligent man, yet what secrets hid behind those firefly eyes?

"The girl from District 10," Trajan asked. "She any good?"

"She is," Rex raised his glass to his lips before hesitating and lowering it to his lap. "I believe she'll at least stand a chance in the arena. Bested at least half of the other tributes – lacking in confidence, but she is the determined type. I would…like to see her put up a fight."

"Did you give her a good score?"

Rex laughed with an undertone that spoke of disappointment. "The ghost in the machine, Commander. The difference between life and death is not my decision to make."

Training Center - Tenth Floor

Hours later, the orange night sky softly wound its way into the tenth floor of the Training Center. The bright white light of the television bathed the floor's living room in a synthetic hue that lit up Sam's eyes. Dallas and Agrippa sat on either side of her hunched form, with Cheyenne sprawled out over a nearby chair and smoking a long, broad cigar. Laredo had taken over the third and final chair in the room as his stylist, Gnaia, loitered against a wall and Augusta stood idly nearby. All had their eyes on one thing – the television, which sported a first-class look at Constantine Flickerman's mint-green hair.

"For our viewers who don't know," Constantine had been saying excitedly, as if opening birthday presents. "Each tribute's private session nets them a score between one and twelve. You are about to get your first look into our contenders and pretenders – who's got staying power, and who's the odds-on favorite to going home first."

"Sure don't waste time," Laredo commented sardonically. "He's acting like this is the end-all, be-all of the whole dern dance."

"Kinda is," Cheyenne blew a plume of smoke from her mouth. "Most sponsors are idiots. Half the time you just have to lie to them to get them to pony up, since all they seem to really pay attention to is this score. A few of the smart ones actually try and give a lick of notice. Not the majority."

"It's also a measure of potential in the moment of where it counts," Augusta sniffed at Cheyenne's negative remarks. "After all, if the tribute can't perform under pressure, just wait until the arena!"

Dallas shot her a look that could have killed devils.

"How about we just watch, Augusta?" the mentor slid a hand through his blonde hair, irritated at her unconcerned babbling and throwing a look at Sam. "You can say whatever you want afterwards."

Sam had pulled her knees up to her chest on the couch, hands tightly about her legs. She'd felt good about her performance in the private session, remarkably – to all the butterflies that had leapt up in her gut, she'd managed to give herself a shot. Sam figured it was worth at least a seven, which could contend, if not dominate. Granted, the Careers would all be in the nines and tens most likely, but that'd be close enough.

"Relax, Sam," Agrippa placed a hand on his tribute's shoulder with reassurance. "Nothing more you can do now. Either they liked it, or they didn't and you have nothing to worry about."

The girl couldn't put one small thing out of her head. As she'd gone about the routine planned in her head, a main course – some sort of giant fish and a cooked bird – had arrived for the intoxicated Gamesmakers, who had immediately put aside other concerns and tucked into the food. Only one had maintained his full attention on what she did for the entire time – the disturbing eyes of Phaeston Rex, who had managed to wedge himself in the back of her mind. Bad enough seeing him on television, but when he was the one judging you personally – and doing so with more attention than seemingly anybody had given her, with the exceptions of Dallas an Agrippa – Sam had felt generally uneasy. Although he had nodded and seemed content, who knows what that meant? His professional and intimidating demeanor and appearance when placed in the midst of all the ridiculous-looking fellow Gamesmakers had only heightened the tension.

"Now, getting to the action and the main attraction," Constantine chirped with enthusiasm, his eyes lit up like a child's. "Our first tribute, female, from District 1 – Royal! Scoring out…at an eleven."

Right off the bat, the silver-haired vixen had swept the field – Sam knew no one was going to beat that.

"Absolutely marvelous score," Constantine crowed, smitten with the bright number that hung on the screen. "Moving on to our next one, male, from District 1 –Fresco, grading out at a ten."

Oh, boy. Long night ahead…

"Io, from District 2, scoring out at a nine. Hadrian, male from District 2 –a ten! Hodgkin, from District 3…"

Names and numbers flew by. The Careers had indeed dominated, just as Sam feared – to round out their five stellar scores, Cascade from 4 had pulled down a nine, just like Io, the girl from 2 who Sam had never learned the name of until now. Gannet scored spectacularly low, grading out at a four – where was the justice in that? Troop, the tall and strange boy from 6, grabbed an eight. Storm's ally – and hers, she guessed – from District 7, Ash, took home an eight as well, which grabbed attention after everyone between Cascade and him (excluding Troop) had scored in the five-to-six range. Kevlar also scored a five; no real surprise there. Sam half suspected she'd never make it out of the Cornucopia to join their band of misfit allies – if she had accepted, at all.

"Nearing the end, folks, hold on tight," Constantine preached to the camera, his smile seemingly filling the entire screen. "Samantha, female, from District 10."

Sam braced herself for whatever was coming. Feast or not, the Gamesmakers had to have paid enough attention to grade her out properly, right? After all, her routine had gone smoothly, and she had felt it was enough to make at least a moderate impact. A seven was fine by her. Anything more, great. They had to have seen something.

"Grading out…at a five," Constantine acknowledged.

Silence hit the room like a mortar strike. Tears threatened to come rushing out of Sam's eyes like a tidal wave as she stared blankly at the screen, the bright number of her score taunting her like a schoolyard bully. Five? There was no logic in that, neither reason nor rhyme – had they really not seen? Not paid attention? What had these other tributes done that she had not?

Sam barely caught Laredo's score of nine, followed by hearty congratulations from everyone in the room to him. She stared out, past the clear windows and into the night sky – yet only the white, hanging five of the television screen stared back at her, mocking her short-sighted hopes.

As the others milled about Laredo, Sam looked about, her eyes threatening to overflow with tears. Only Cheyenne caught her gaze, looking back not with contempt, nor disappoint or even amusement. The mentor who Sam had written off as conceited and psychopathic simply looked on with sympathy.

The gaze upon a dead soul walking...

Losing the fight between her conviction and her emotions, Sam buried her head in her knees and let out a sob.