District 10

Clara's foot tapped against the wood floor of the Justice Building as she waited in a small chair. Two weeks; that's all it had been since the Capitol had ripped her best friend from here in District 10, yet now they just wanted to interview her about Sam. All sorts of probing questions that she was obliged to answer yet didn't want to: When did you first get to know her? How would you describe her and your friendship in your own words? What have you made of her survival into the final eight tributes? What odds would you give her of becoming a victor?

Do you think she'll betray her ally from District 12?

Clara knew her answers could be the difference in securing a wealthy person's sponsorship in the Capitol, but what business did they have trying to get that information? Sam was her friend, not an objective thing useful for placing bets and wagers. She wasn't some animal in a cage fight, but a person. Why couldn't they see that?

Bastards.

The oak door opened with a start and Clay walked out, looking more than a little shell-shocked at the fanfare of cameras.

"What'd they ask you?" Clara piped up instantly, running a hand through her blonde hair, made up for the occasion.

"Basic stuff. Kind of person she is, my thoughts on her success so far, that kinda thing," he brushed away the interview details. "Nothing I wanted to tell them, but don't really have a choice, huh?"

"It's stupid," Clara bemoaned. "You think they'd already know this, what with their happy band of Peacekeepers and all the stuff beforehand. They have to come here, too?"

"They do every year," Clay shrugged, as if it was a routine thing. "It's just that we never have anybody in the last eight. Lucky for us that Sam got there...her brother's in there now. Doubt that'll be fun for him."

"You act like it's so casual."

"You think I like it?" he scoffed. "I thought Sam was dead meat on day 1. Sorry to be a downer, I like her as much as anyone…but c'mon, there's big kids and all in the Games. I'm shocked enough she's actually killed people, much less that big oaf from 2. Just being realistic."

Clara fretted and stuck her hands into the folds of her dress. "Let's get out of here. I don't wanna stick around with those leeches in there."

"You know, it's probably not a great idea to think out loud sometimes," Clay mused sarcastically. "Free speech isn't really something we have a lot of. But yeah. I don't really wanna stay here either."

A pervasive layer of cloud cover topped District 10, casting the dusty town square in a dark pallor even in the late afternoon. The summer brought plenty of daylight and it'd stay bright enough before the homes and buildings with electricity began to glow for the night, but the entire district seemed in a depressed state. The great screens in the square that carried 24/7 coverage of the Games had a spotlight on Constantine and Claudius's coverage of the announcement of the feast of the next day; Constantine's mint green hair seemed especially animated as he enthusiastically discussed the ramifications and who would live or die. Smaller screens broadcasted individual footage of each remaining tribute, including one that followed Storm and Sam around. Sam had garnered considerable support within the district, but the class structure could never be truly defeated – some of the poorest citizens of District 10 resented that a wealthier tribute was the one representing District 10, while the comparatively poor Laredo had met his end between her kukri and the Capitol's aquatic mutt.

"What's she doing? I don't wanna watch," Clara asked spitefully as they departed the square.

"Um…pitching rocks into that big flooded canyon, apparently," Clay looked up at the screens. "I guess that's how you have fun in the arena. With that…other guy."

"What, are you jealous of him?"

"No! Yes. I dunno, she yells at him half the time. She never did that to me. You have to know how I feel about her."

"It's just the stress," Clara said. "She'll be back to her bubbly self when she gets home."

"You really think that?" Clay asked the hard question. "You think she just transforms without any repercussions from the nice sweet girl with the ribbons in her ponytail to someone who's already killed twice, watched the little girl she was looking after get eviscerated by the thug from 2, and will have to deal with losing that…guy from 12 she's following around and killing the Career guys and that sadistic girl from 1 – who, mind you, had no trouble killing the girl from 2 at the Cornucopia? You think she just becomes sweet again after something like that? Oh yeah, she just has to deal with all the poor people like my family who don't even like her now that she waxed Laredo."

Clara picked a fingernail to avoid the question. Clay was right, undoubtedly – no matter what either thought of Sam, no matter how many excuses they could put aside (and rightfully so) for her actions in the arena, she'd always be scarred by the events that were unfolding.

"How can you blame her for killing Laredo?" Clara finally brought up, looking to vent.

"I don't," Clay said. "Of course not. It's Sam; she saved him from getting mauled by that…whatever that is that was swimming around with a mercy kill. That guy seemed like the dull tool in the shed, anyway. But we live in a district that's got some pretty serious wealth gaps, Clara. When he's poor and he dies, yet she's wealthier and she's still alive after District 10 has been stomped for the last decade…well, they're gonna have questions."

Clara didn't see the difference. "That's stupid. So the Parkers have some money. Big deal. She's a person. She's from District 10. Why's that not enough? We have hope for once."

"It's easier to think that when we're her friends," Clay explained. "But these other people who work over at the slaughterhouse or at the dairy plant, they don't have much. They see it just as another Capitol thing. Rich versus poor. It's not how it should be, but it's how it is. People are only going to see what they want to see; try to show them what there is, and they'll cling to their beliefs."

"Whatever," Clara wanted to get off the topic. Her family, the Bowies, also had money, after all. "I guess we'll just have to look out for her more when she gets back."

"If," Clay reminded. "I hope she does, but the competition's still tight. I don't want to get all my hopes up just to have them get slammed."

"Oh you're nice," Clara grimaced. "What a friend. What're you gonna tell here then when she gets off the train?"

"I'll say I always knew she'd come back."

"You're such a bad liar."

The Capitol – Games Control Room Executive Suite

"I spoke with Octavian yesterday. Do you know what it is he wished to discuss?"

Rex took a seat across from Trajan at the great wooden table of the Control Room's Executive Suite. In here things were not so busy – while his associate took care of business back in the blue-lit, technology-laced Control Room itself, here things were far more subdued. Cherry paneling lined yellow-lit walls, with a grand chandelier of crystal and jasper hanging from a jade-specked ceiling.

"I'd presume the Games," Trajan took his seat, offering up the logical reply. "It is what's going on. What you do."

"A rational mind would think so," Rex affirmed. "But he did not. He spoke of wine. Told me of an import from historical Dauphine, in the former nation of France. That it survived the pre-Panem extinction crisis is miraculous, I will agree – but there is little to be learned in wine, unless holistic health benefits are your interest."

The Head Gamesmaker clinked a crystal glass of ice down on the table and poured himself bourbon before continuing. "It is an interesting thing, how the human mind works. Logic is discarded for emotion. Octavian's petulant interests reflect that: he is a man content with his sport and charm. Doubtless he is the correct leader then for a Capitol full of ultimately human people; I question whether such wisdom applies to districts that confront far more black-and-white choices."

"That's why he has subordinates. You and I," Trajan commented. "We carry out the work."

"Quite an inefficient system. It dilutes the message the further down the chain it is carried, injecting human biases and personal beliefs. It is not pure. It is dirty, unclean. Irrational. It's a systemic virus of self-replicating bigotries in such a nation that we govern."

Rex took a drink and lifted his gleaming, electronic eyes to meet Trajan's stony look. "He mentioned you. Likes what you do in the districts and here in the Capitol. As you keep the districts under control and subdued, he believes you guide them in the right choice. He is correct, undoubtedly – but his reasoning is not. He is not a man concerned with the why; only the how. He lives in the present. It is not too different than my fellow Gamesmakers, really."

"They too, like the Capitol and its citizens that we live amongst, live in the present. They are not rational men like you and I; they simply see things as they are, rather than why they are. Take the female tribute from District 10 who I spoke to you about during tribute training. She graded well enough that I would have given her a distinctly high score. She showed less about what she is then she did about who she is – and thus why. That is a far more important question, and conclusion, if we are to see things logically."

"Yet she received a five – and here she is now in the final eight in these Games. Citizens on the street will say a combination of luck and fortuitous opportunity gave her this chance. They do not know there is no luck – she was always strong enough to win, despite her strength coming from the brain rather than the brawn. It was simply unseen. Logic clouded by vapid emotional constructs. We like our muscled behemoths and beautiful women; we don't like the diminutive girl from the backwater district who has the brains to compete with anyone."

"You can't say it's luck when it's a sculpted Games," Trajan countered, reflecting his bias against the event itself. "You design the arena, craft events, throw out obstacles and dictate who lives and dies. Everything in it is geared towards individual results. There is no choice in this matter; there is no luck. In everyday situations it's different."

"Right you are about choice in the arena," Rex nodded, taking a drink. "There is no choice. My predecessor, Seneca Crane, was once told by the previous president, Snow, that we hold the Games for hope. To give the districts something to hope for…tell me, do you agree?"

"No," Trajan responded flatly. "It's a control mechanism and an entertainment device, and a poor one at that. There's far better ways to exercise control then to take children and throw them at each other in a game of death. It breeds resentment, not complacency."

"If Octavian was a smart man, he would listen to you," Rex said. "But he is not such a smart man, you see? The Games are an entertainment modicum for a Capitol – and a president – that does not understand how human existence operates. Once more, they fail to see the why – they see the what, in that the districts do not rebel, and have not since the Games were established. Yet that's not the why. It's not hope these Games generate, nor control."

"Hope is interesting. It is the pinnacle of human myth; full of strength for believers, yet showing their greatest weaknesses to the minds of reason. In times of prosperity such notions are cast aside. Once more, let's use the female tribute from District 10 as an example. She has hope, does she not? You could say she is the quintessential standard of Snow and Crane's hope; from a district that never wins, and as a young girl without physical brawn or extensive survival training. Yet she persists – for what? For hope that she can return home. So human."

"Yet it is also a weakness. See how she considers every opportunity; how she deals with her allies. How her younger ally from District 4 was killed, and the effect it had on her mental state. That same hope and faith is slowly killing her, bit by bit. If she survives – and I would not count her out, like many betting types have – she will never be whole again. Is that the hope the districts want?"

"Why not just end the Games, then?" Trajan asked. "Seems pointless to me. Not practical at all; waste of resources."

"Well, because it is good sport; because small-minded people like Octavian rule Panem," Rex explained. "We are not a nation guided by logic, Commander. Do you remember what we spoke about the last time we met – the ghost in the machine? The animal brain that overrides logical belief and reasoning? There is your proof. We are a nation of believers."

How did this…unnatural…man get away with speaking such things? Trajan didn't understand that part of it all. Rex was not an idealist by any means; simply a man who had destroyed most of the emotion within himself – his "ghost in the machine," as he so subtly put it. That extremely logical, left-brained approach unnerved Trajan, yet it was by far a more powerful sort of thinking than the spontaneous, short-term leadership approach that President Octavian tossed around.

"You think that's a bad thing?" Trajan inquired, piquing the Head Gamesmaker's mind . "After all, you seem to show reverence to this hope – to this girl from District 10. That's the second time you've mentioned her."

"She is a quandary," Rex took another sip of bourbon. "I would have liked to have met her. I feel she is the smartest tribute on a broad scale of knowledge. Whether or not I will get that opportunity is up to her ability in these last days inside the arena."

"Why not rig your game," Trajan pointed out. "Should be easy enough."

"Hope, Commander." Rex smiled with the corners of his mouth. "You let things play out; you give that smallest choice, even if it is not really choice as human beings with brains of emotions perceive it. It's the delusion of hope."