Once and For All, Watch What Happens

Ash. Nothing but ash.

Davey picks his way carefully over the collapsed husk of a building, the structure shattered and the wood bleached white from the heat of an unnatural fire. If he squints hard enough, he thinks he can pick out the shape of what a few pieces were once: a part of a doorframe there, a bit of furniture here that might've been a table, a pile of rock that was most likely a fireplace. Honestly, though, that's probably more his imagination than anything, a way for his desperate mind to grapple with reality.

The entire District of Manhattan, Davey's home, has been reduced to nothing but ash.

"It's gone." Davey gazes out over the miles and miles of gray rubble, trying to match this graveyard with the District in which he grew up. The Blaze fires spared nothing, from the enormous factories and warehouses to the little homes and market stalls. Something crunches under Davey's boot, and he flinches back. There, protruding from beneath what must've been a fallen rafter, is a soot-stained bone.

"Oh, Gods." Davey staggers back several steps, wrapping one arm around his stomach while he presses the back of his other hand to his mouth in a frantic attempt to not be sick. "Oh, Gods, the people."

Rationally, Davey knew what must've happened to the citizens of Manhattan when the Blaze - chemically synthesized incendiaries that can cover enormous areas and immediately burn at three times the heat of a normal wood fire - went off. There was no notice, no warning; they wouldn't have even known to flee until it was already too late. Davey could imagine what would've happened to his people, but assuming it and seeing it with his own eyes are two completely different things. 

"There were thousands of people here," Davey snarls, glancing back at his companions. "Hundreds of thousands of innocent people left to die. Burned alive. Murdered." 

Spread out as they tread carefully through the debris, the rest of his group wear expressions ranging from horror to fury. Most of them look uncertain of what to say or how to comfort him. The only one who doesn't is the stocky man from Brooklyn with a fierce scowl that distorts the rippled burn scars all over his left side. Spot Conlon steps forward and grips Davey's bicep firmly. "If this ain't an act of war, dunno what is," he growls out in his ragged baritone. "Pulitzer's declared war on his own people. So if he wants war, let's give him one." 

Davey takes a slow, steadying breath, absorbing the reassurance of Spot's presence. In the last three weeks - at least the parts of it they've been conscious for - Spot has become his rock, a near-constant companion who understands what Davey's feeling in a way no one else alive can. So Davey nods and gives Spot a brief, grateful smile before he turns his focus to the others. "Okay, let's do this."

From between the other two men, Katherine Plumber nods approvingly. The Capitol ambassador doesn't look much like the woman Davey met just over a year ago. While she's still strikingly beautiful, with porcelain skin and scarlet hair and eyes like clear-cut emeralds, all of the fancy clothes and flashy makeup have been traded out for efficiency. She wears the same simple, tactical clothing as the rest of them, her long hair securely knotted at the back of her skull. 

Katherine's lips are pulled into a thin, white line as she gazes around at the charred husk of Manhattan. "Where should-?" 

"I know exactly where," Davey interrupts grimly. Without waiting for a response, Davey turns on his heel and starts walking. He's lived in Manhattan his entire life, and even without the familiar landmarks, he knows this place better than his own reflection. Muscle memory carries him along rubble-strewn paths, across what would've been the market square, and out around the block of shipping warehouses that are now nothing but piles of splintered wood. After the old bakery, this street turns into a row of houses, and there, fourth from the corner-

Davey stops on the edge of the property, a gaping, bleeding hole opening inside his heart as he stares at the razed remains of his childhood home.

A delicate hand on his arm pulls Davey out of his thoughts, and he glances sideways to find Katherine watching him sadly. He can see all the words flitting behind her eyes, can read the way she wants to apologize and offer comfort, but instead, she clears her throat and says, "Henry is ready when you are." 

Licking his lips, Davey nods and straightens up, wincing when the movement pulls at the still-healing muscles along his spine. The Union healers might've gotten him back on his feet, but they couldn't fix everything, and being clawed open by a mutated lizard takes a lot of work. Davey turns his back on the corpse of a house and finds the group watching him expectantly. 

Aside from Spot, there are two others whose company Davey knows he's going to be getting accustomed to. Henry is a swarthy young man who used to work in the Capitol's broadcasting and now does the same for the resistance group, Union. Davey's already done two broadcasts with him in the week since he arrived at the main headquarters of Union. The man is kind and practical, far less impersonal than any Capitol camera crew Davey's dealt with in the past. 

The last member of their little expedition is a former peacekeeper from Brighton, although out of uniform, he's about the least intimidating peacekeeper Davey's ever seen. Albert da Silva is pale and thin, with orange-red curls blossoming from beneath the brim of his cap. The man is only a few years older than Davey, and he carries an air of cavalier nonchalance, but there's no mistaking the way his eyes are always dissecting their surroundings strategically. There's a good reason they've assigned Albert to be Davey's personal bodyguard whenever he's outside the base.

"You ready?" Henry asks, expression tight as he adjusts the camera on his shoulder. 

Davey smooths down the front of his shirt nervously. "As I ever am," he replies. Davey is not a public speaker, and he's never been comfortable in front of an audience. If he had his way, he would gladly never give another speech for the rest of his life. Too bad motivational publicity is the only thing he can do to be even remotely useful in their world right now. 

Clearing his throat, Davey waits for Henry's nod before focusing his attention on the camera lens. "Three days ago, Manhattan District was just like yours," he says harshly. "A place full of people working to survive and take care of their families. This place was struggling but alive. Now," Davey crouches and grabs a handful of the ash beneath his feet. He straightens and lets the soot filter through his fingers deliberately. 

"President Pulitzer ordered a Blaze strike against a District full of innocent people," Davey says. "They did nothing wrong. They weren't hurting anyone. And the Capitol just exterminated an entire District like we're nothing more than vermin." His throat catches, and he takes a second to find his voice again. 

"This wasn't a fleet of warriors on a battlefield, it was a village of families. Right here, this was the home I grew up in, built by my great-grandfather with his own hands. All around me, this area would've been nothing but family homes." He gestures to his right. "That house there was the Williamsons, they had five children. The next house over? The Kellers, only Bound two years now, and they were expecting their first kid.

"When the Blaze fell, these people had no chance to escape. There were only minutes before the fires were everywhere, and the entire District was trapped. Men and women, old and young, everyone. These people were just trying to live, and the president had them all brutally murdered. And why? To make a point." 

Davey sets his jaw, swallowing hard around the lump of emotion in his throat. This is what he's here for—this is the one way he can actually help. Running his mouth is what got Davey into so much trouble in the first place and started all of this. Now, Davey runs his mouth in a desperate attempt to give the downtrodden District folk hope. 

He is, as people have started calling him, the Mouth of the People.

"Pulitzer launched this attack without warning and without provocation," says Davey, fierce and defiant. "He sentenced nearly a million people to a painful death to make the rest of us afraid. And in doing it, the president's just proved, more than ever before, that he sees our lives as worthless. He didn't waste a thought before slaughtering hundreds of thousands of men and women and children. We are nothing to him. 

"And this is why we need to keep fighting. A leader who doesn't value the people he leads isn't a leader—he's a monster. We are people, and our lives are important. Just because we come from the Districts instead of the Capitol doesn't mean that our lives are worth any less. Stand with me, people of the Districts, and stay strong. The odds will turn in our favor. We will win this together." 

Davey nods, and Henry flicks a switch on the camera, lowering it from his shoulder. "That was really good," Katherine says, stepping up to his side with moist eyes. It's only when she offers out her handkerchief that Davey realizes there are tears on his cheeks too. He flashes her a tense smile as he accepts the cloth, drying his face. "Gods, this is so terrible. I never thought he'd-" She breaks off, grimacing, and shakes her head. 

"It's one thing when they attack people who're fighting back," Spot snarls lowly, "but these were just normal folks." 

Gaze lingering on the mound of ash next to where the Jacobs' home once stood, Davey's stomach clenches. "I taught their older kids to read," he confesses. "Margaret and Matthew Williamson. Matt was thirteen, and Maggie would be nine this year. She was getting so good at it. A month ago, I was teaching them to read, and now they're-" Davey chokes, burying his face in his hands as the anguish blasts through the haze of shock in his head. 

It's a horrifying reflection of what his life has become that there's consolation in the fact that Blaze burns so hot and fast that they wouldn't have lived long enough to suffer.

"We should go," Spot says, gripping Davey's shoulder bracingly. "Don't wanna be out here in the open if the peacekeepers come 'round looking." 

"And we've got a story to share," says Henry, patting the camera with a vicious scowl. 

Davey nods, wiping his face on his sleeve. "Let's go." He keeps his chin up as their group walks back to the hover, waiting at the border of the District. It's only when he reaches the bottom of the boarding ramp that he pauses and glances back at the District where he was born and raised. 

Sprawling waves of ruins and rubble spread out in front of him. Factories are charcoal, homes are cinders, and the people are nothing more than soot and bone. Even as he watches, the wind swirling off the hover engines kicks up billows of ash and casts it into the air. Soon the debris will be gone too, storms breaking down what's left of the wood and washing the cinders into the earth. 

Swallowing, Davey turns his back on the graveyard that was once his home.

Back before the Fall, there were far more than ten Districts. Those were the days when the Districts took up so much land that they bled into each other. Districts were pressed right up against one another, and instead of the individual Districts, the nation was one enormous, sprawling tangle of cities and lives. 

When war tore the country apart, a lot of Districts were eradicated, the ferocity and damage of battles destroying vast stretches of land. What little remained of the old cities were left to rot. Nature greedily reclaimed the space until all that was left were the ten isolated Districts of now, helmed by the Capitol. The Lost Districts, as they're commonly called, are now nothing but distant memories for only the very eldest of the District folk.

As the hover sweeps low over the open plains of scrubby grass and brush, Davey can't help a wry smile. These places that were exterminated because of the original rebellion are now the home of the new resistance. Union has small bases scattered around the country, safely hidden away inside the forgotten spaces that keep the Districts apart. In a way, the Fall created the perfect chessboard for the whole thing to happen again. 

Davey twists his hands together, frowning at his skin that's been tinted gray by ash. He never imagined when he was growing up listening to elders whisper about the Fall that his home would become yet another Lost District. 

The near-silent hum of the hover fades further as it slows, and it dips down through the foliage toward a broad sweep of blunted mountains covered in snarls of trees. Albert guides them effortlessly through the narrow paths between trees and sheer cliffs until the land opens back up into a wide valley. There's a row of other hovers parked along one side, although they're all cloaked, and Davey can only pick out the faintly distorted shapes in the scenery because he knows to look. 

A small gray building stands at the far end of the valley, nothing more than a wide square of plain concrete. This is where they head the moment they've left the hover, and the guards posted at the door nod briefly as they enter. Just inside the doors, a room to one side is filled with holo-screens and monitors—the base's security center, keeping an eye on the area in case a Capitol patrol comes too close. Another wide door on the other side is a lift that carries them down to the base proper. 

Ninety-five percent of the Union base is hidden below ground, an enormous bunker made up of several floors. This base is considered the main headquarters, in an old Lost District that Davey's been told was once called Bowery, and it's the largest base by far. The first time Davey'd entered it, ten days after his rescue from the Arena, he'd been completely dumbfounded by the size of this place, large enough to house a dozen Manhattan factories and all carefully concealed underground. 

The moment they step out of the lift, they're greeted by a slightly portly man with a bushy mustache. "Commander," Davey says, dipping his head in acknowledgment. Commander Theodore Roosevelt is the Union leader, a Capitol refugee like Katherine, and although he's a firm leader, he's a kind and compassionate man that Davey feels no qualms about following. 

"I'm glad you made it back safe," Roosevelt says with a sympathetic smile. "Was it as bad as the reports?" 

"Worse," says Katherine, lips tight. "Completely gone. The Blaze didn't spare anything." Her voice cracks, and she swallows before finishing, "Including the people." 

Roosevelt curses, taking off his bowler to card a hand through his thinning hair. "I'm so sorry," he says, eyes landing on Davey again. "I wish we'd gotten more warning, but the Capitol is keeping things locked up so tight, off the frequencies-" 

"I know," Davey says and shakes his head. 

"You should get back to your family," Katherine says, touching Davey's arm gently. "I'll handle the debrief. You should be with them right now." 

Davey smiles at her gratefully, nods to the others, and sets off deeper into the base. It still feels like a maze to him, having only been here just about two weeks now, but he manages to make it into the living quarters without getting lost this time. He follows the numbered rows until he reaches room ninety-two, and taps the code into the keypad beside the door to let himself inside. 

The apartment assigned to the Jacobs family is efficient and straightforward, just like all of the others in the base. An open room that serves as a sitting room ends with doors for the two bedrooms. On the sofa, Mayer Jacobs looks up at the sound of the door. He's on his feet as soon as he sees it's Davey, his eyes wide with concern. 

"It's gone," Davey says hollowly. He lifts a shaking hand, showing off the stains on his skin where the remnants of their family home filtered through his fingers. "All of it. It's just - gone." 

Mayer is across the room in three steps, folding Davey into his arms, and Davey falls apart in his father's embrace. 

Late into the night, Davey sits on the sofa with his legs drawn up to his chest and his digiscreen tablet balanced on the couch arm. He tried to sleep, and he is so emotionally drained that it should've been easy, but sleep never came. Not wanting to wake his siblings, who all share the same room just like they did back home - their real home, not the Capitol-built one they lived in after Davey came back from his first Hunger Games - Davey retreated to the quiet sitting room. 

Now, he can't stop flipping through news feeds on his digiscreen, rewatching stories from the last few weeks. 

Peacekeepers fire on villagers in Staten, and as the people flee in terror, the camera catches a glimpse of a woman who trips and is promptly trampled to death by the other scared District folk. 

In Queens, a line of folk arrested by the peacekeepers for suspicion of treason is marched in heavy cuffs and collars toward cages that line the front of what used to be the District Hall, which burned down in a riot weeks ago. The people are battered and bruised, but their chins are lifted high even as the peacekeepers herd them with rough shoves and blows. The oldest, a woman with white hair and deep lines in her skin, limps painfully. The youngest, who can't be much older than ten, is shaking with fear behind the streaks of blood from a broken nose, despite his attempts to look unafraid.

In Harlem, a protest group stands proudly in a market square. The volume's off, but Davey knows what they're chanting—it's the same thing shouted at every one of these rallies, his own words shaping on others' lips. A moment later, several canisters are fired into the crowd by the ring of peacekeepers, and the air is filled with violet-red smoke. The protestors scream until they can't anymore, coughing as they choke on the Acid-Air. Within minutes, all that remains of the protest is a heap of bleeding, blistered corpses. 

"You've gotta stop doing this to yourself." 

The voice startles Davey, and he's instantly on his feet, knife in hand. A moment later, the fact that he recognizes the voice breaks through the haze of panic, and he slumps onto the sofa again with a sigh. "Why are you up?" he asks wearily, tucking the blade back into the sheath at his thigh. 

"Could ask you the same thing." 

Davey raises an eyebrow at the figure crossing the room. For most of his life, his twin sister's face was more familiar to him than his own. The last couple of years have aged Sarah, carving lines into her brow and forming a weight of responsibility in her blue eyes. Like everyone else, their new existence has changed her. Her long brown tresses have been cut away into a short men's style, and her hand-sewn floral dresses are replaced with utilitarian clothing.

Gone is the young woman who sewed clothes for the poor District kids and made soaps that always smelled of lavender. Sarah, like Davey, is a soldier now. 

"Couldn't sleep," Davey admits because there's no point lying to her. Sarah can read him better than anyone alive. The only one who could understand him better is gone now, and the thought makes Davey touch the tarnished gold bands on his wrists. 

"So you thought torturing yourself with horror stories would help lull you to sleep?" says Sarah, giving him a dry look. She sinks onto the sofa cushion beside him, close enough that her knee brushes his. "Watching these things over and over isn't going to help, Dave." 

Davey huffs and pulls his legs up to his chest again, wrapping his arms around them. "It reminds me what this is all for," he says softly. 

His sister exhales and presses herself closer. "You know what this is for. You're watching these because you feel guilty." 

"Of course I do," Davey says with a hollow, humorless laugh. "These people are dying because of me. They're all dying because they think I'm going to make the world better, that I'm gonna save them somehow. And what am I doing?" He swipes a hand over the screen, flicking to the next feed, and sees his own face staring back up at him. The Union broadcast team worked their magic within just a few hours of his return from Manhattan, hacking in and streaming his speech to the nation for several hours before the Capitol managed to shut it down. 

"That's what I'm doing for them," says Davey, bitterly shoving the digiscreen at her. "I'm doing a lot of talking but not actually doing anything to keep them from dying." 

"You're giving them hope, David," Sarah says sternly. "You're reminding them why we keep fighting." 

Davey scoffs. "Yeah, a whole lot of fighting I've done for them." 

Sarah cuffs him around the back of the head, making him jump. "Don't be stupid, it's not a good look on you," she chides. "You almost died a few weeks ago. You're still healing. If you went out and tried to fight, you'd just get yourself killed. Do you know what that would do to all those people who believe in you?" 

"I'm fine," Davey says dismissively. 

Raising an eyebrow, Sarah lifts a hand. "So, if I slapped you on the back right now, it wouldn't make you fall over?"

As much as Davey hates to admit it, the fact is that his back isn't completely healed yet. The Union healers managed to repair the worst of the damage where a Wyvern beast clawed through the muscles of his back so deep it scraped bone. Unfortunately, their resources are limited, and their healing chamber tech is outdated. The rows of stitches stretching from his left shoulder blade to the small of his back have finally been removed. However, the top layer of muscles beneath is still slowly knitting themselves back together the old-fashioned way. 

Davey eyes her dubiously because he wouldn't put it past her to do it just to prove her point. "No?" 

Shaking her head, Sarah settles on wrapping her arm around his shoulders instead. "You noble idiot. We both know you're in no shape for fighting." Her gaze hardens slightly, and she frowns. "Unless you're trying to get yourself killed." 

"Why would I do that?" Davey asks furtively. 

Sarah eyes him sadly. "We both know why." Her other hand settles over his, where he's still tracing his thumb over the latch of a union band. "Jack would want you to live, Davey. And getting yourself killed now will just make everything you two've fought for - and everything he died for - count for nothing." 

The words punch straight through Davey's armor, a knife blade into his heart, and the tears spring up unbidden. "But I'd see him again," he whispers, voice thick. He clenches his jaw in a vain attempt to keep his lip from quivering. "Gods, Sarah, I miss him so much." 

With a soft, reassuring noise, Sarah draws him closer, and Davey accepts the comfort she's offering as he fights back more tears. The wound inside his chest hurts a thousand times worse than any of the physical injuries that nearly killed him. Healing chambers and salves can't fix this one. It's too sharp, too fresh. 

For all that they'd only known each other just over a year, Jack Kelly will always be an irreplaceable part of Davey's life. They went through too much together, their first round of the Hunger Games more than enough to bind them together. It was more than that, though. Jack quickly became Davey's strength and his courage—his best friend and, for one short week, his husband. 

Except in the chaos of Union rescuing them from the Quarter Quell Arena, Jack didn't survive. 

Sarah cradles Davey to her chest, practically folding him into her lap even though he's so much taller than her. "I know, Davey, I know," she murmurs into his scalp, rocking him when he can't hold back the sob any longer. "I know, I'm so sorry. But you're gonna be okay. You're not alone. I'm here." 

"I don't know how to do this without him," Davey admits shakily, finally giving voice to the things he hasn't dared say. "I can't - I don't want to. It's not fair. I just want it all to be over."

There are no words Sarah can give to that, and they both know it, so she just whispers aimless reassurances as she hugs him. They both know that Davey never asked for this crushing weight of responsibility to be thrown onto his shoulders. The hopes of an entire country rest on him just because Davey was reckless enough to open up his mouth and say something. It's cost him nearly everything in his life now, and the only reason he stays to help Union is that he has nothing else left but this fight anymore. 

He can't even go home because, without Union, his family doesn't have a home now. 

"I know you're scared," Sarah says, combing fingers through his hair gently. "And I know you're tired and hurting. But you've always been the bravest and the strongest person I know." Davey makes a derisive sound, and she pinches his ear in retaliation. "I mean it," she insists. "After Dad got hurt, we would've fallen apart without you. You're the one who fought so hard to keep us all fed, and you took care of Dad, and you worked so many hours just so Les wouldn't have to go into the factories. You saved our family, Dave, and Momma and Dad will tell you the same thing."

"Getting a job isn't the same thing as leading a revolution," Davey says with a wry laugh. 

"Isn't it?" Sarah replies. "No one thought we'd make it after Dad got hurt, but you proved them wrong. You made it work. And that's the same thing you're doing now. Whenever people say we can't do something, that we're not rich enough or strong enough or brave enough, you prove them wrong. So if you say that we can do this, that we can rebuild this country into something where everyone matters, then I'm gonna side with you every time." 

Davey gives another watery laugh and grudgingly pulls out of her embrace so he can dry his face on his sleeve. "You're biased," he says. "You're family, you have to believe in me." 

Sarah smirks. "Are you kidding? I'm your twin. If there's anyone who knows all your weaknesses, it's me. It's how I've been beating you up since we were babies." Davey snorts another laugh at that. "I wouldn't trust you to carry breakable things because we both know you'll just trip over your feet. And I wouldn't trust you to darn a sock without making the hole even bigger. But this? I know you, Davey, and I trust you in this." 

His eyes are burned red, too tired to spare any more tears, but Davey still feels that telltale prickle at the corners anyway. "Thanks," he says, and the single word feels woefully insufficient, but it's all he has. Sarah smiles, and he knows she can hear what he can't find the words to say. After all, nobody knows him better. 

Davey squeezes her hand and chuckles to break the tension. "You know, you should be doing the speech-giving. You're good at it."

Laughing, Sarah shoves his shoulder playfully. "I am, aren't I?" she agrees. "But I think my speeches only work on you. So how 'bout this? You give speeches to keep everyone else's spirits up, and I'll do the same thing for you." 

"I'll take it," says Davey, his chest warming with affection for the sister who will always have his back. He's lucky to have such a supportive family, and he's always known it. Plenty of people aren't so fortunate. Jack wasn't, a voice in Davey's head reminds him, and it hurts the way it does whenever stray thoughts about Jack sneak up on him. To hide his wince, Davey draws Sarah in and kisses her forehead. 

"C'mon, idiot," Sarah says fondly, standing and holding out her hand expectantly. "I think you've had enough digiscreen for the night. Bedtime." 

Davey chuckles, rolling his eyes, but he lets her pull him up off the sofa. She's been training with the base soldiers, and she can drag him to his feet without effort now. "Okay, Mom," he intones sarcastically, earning him an elbow in the ribs. 

"Someone has to make sure you take care of yourself," Sarah says. "We can add 'sleeping regularly' to that list of things I don't trust you to do." 

They both muffle their giggles as they slip into the dark bedroom, not wanting to wake Les where he's snoring away in his bunk. Davey can hear Sarah getting into her bed as he peels off his outer clothes and transfers his knife in its sheath to the hiding spot between the mattress and the wall where he can still reach it. (He knows, rationally, that he doesn't need it here, but he can't make himself break the habit. It's the only thing that helps him feel less vulnerable nowadays, as much as he loathes it.) 

Slipping beneath the covers, Davey closes his eyes and listens to his siblings breathe until it finally, mercifully, lulls him off to sleep. 

Davey should know by now that there's no such thing as an easy afternoon off for him anymore. 

It's been a week since the visit to Manhattan, and Davey has taken refuge in the apartment that Spot and Boots, the only other Tributes to make it out of the Arena with them, share. For all that they're so different, the three Hunger Games Victors have gravitated toward each other, and Davey's endlessly grateful for their presence. They won't ever be a replacement for his missing best friend, but they're probably the closest thing he'll ever find. 

Spot, especially, understands how Davey feels; he lost his lover, Racer, in the escape from the Arena too. The Brooklyn Tribute hides his pain better than Davey does, a naturally stoic person. Sometimes, though, when they're alone, Spot will talk about Racer to the other two, the only ones left who know about the Brooklyn pair's very private relationship. 

The three of them are lounging in the sitting room, celebrating that Boots is finally healed enough to get around on his own. The Queens Tribute was mauled by a pair of genetically-mutated spiders in their final showdown in the Arena. It took weeks of constant stasis in a healing chamber for them to filter the venom from his system. Now the only remnants of the injury are the scarred bite marks that cover his right leg and left shoulder. 

"Least it wasn't Spot got bit by the spiders," Boots teases when he finishes showing off the scars. "He'd've had a heart attack 'fore they could even touch him." 

"Oh fuck off," Spot replies, kicking the other man in the knee. Davey dissolves into giggles. The Brooklyn Tribute is an intimidating figure and gives off an impression of fearlessness, which is why it was all the more amusing to find out that Spot is deathly afraid of spiders. 

"Hey, it worked out good for us all, right?" Boots counters. "Youse afraid of spiders, I'se afraid of lizards, and Davey's afraid of fire. We all traded." Davey laughs again because it's true. There's a certain sort of morbid poetry in it that each of the three was left scarred by something that another fears. 

Spot scowls, but there are faint creases at the corners of his eyes that betray his amusement. "Keep it up, I'mma put ya back in med." 

The comm speaker in the wall suddenly crackles to life, making them all jump. Davey's hand is on his knife before he even thinks about it, and in the corner of his eye, he notices Spot's done the same. "Hey, guys, Davey with ya?" 

Davey's shoulders relax when he recognizes the voice. "I'm here, Crutchie. What you need?" 

"You better get down here, fast," the speaker answers. "It's Pulitzer." 

Davey trades nervous glances with the other two before he's on his feet. "On my way," Davey announces as he's crossing the room. He can hear the other Victors following, but Davey breaks into a sprint the moment he's out the door. He runs all the way to the main command center of the Union base, tossing apologies over his shoulder as he darts through hallways and nearly collides with people on the way. 

The command center is an enormous amphitheater of a room, an arc of desks laid with monitors and terminals. This is where the tech team runs all of the communication between bases and monitors the Capitol broadcasts for any hints at their next moves. A towering holo-screen takes up the far wall, currently showing a still shot of President Joseph Pulitzer. 

"Davey," Katherine says as soon as he enters the room. Her usually ivory skin is sickly pale, and her eyes are wide in alarm. 

"What's going on?" Davey asks, a pit forming in his stomach. It's not the first time that Pulitzer has broadcast propaganda to the nation, giving regular speeches trying to defame Union as criminals, but Davey can tell this is different. Everyone in the room has paused what they're doing to look at him, and the staring makes Davey's skin crawl. 

Behind Katherine, a young man with tousled light-brown hair clears his throat. The man from Woodside is just a few years older than Davey and a genius at hacking, and he swiftly took over as head of Union's comms department. There's almost always a blindingly warm smile on his face, which is why his tense frown makes Davey particularly nervous now. "Ya might wanna sit down," Crutchie says grimly, and he taps the digiscreen. 

The larger-than-life figure of President Pulitzer looks disarmingly calm and composed on the holo-screen, perfectly put together and not a hair out of place. His fingers are steepled thoughtfully in front of his chin, and his steel-gray eyes narrow slightly. "I have spent a great deal of time talking to the people of this country, reassuring them that this treasonous menace that calls themselves Union will be eradicated before they can ruin our way of life," he says coolly. "But this time, I speak directly to them. So to you criminals that call yourselves heroes, this message is for you, and most especially for your leader.

"David Jacobs, you have sown nothing but discord and pain for the people you claim to represent. You have spurred people into committing acts of violence, to breaking laws, and every person who's been arrested or killed in these acts is because of you. What do you hope to accomplish with all this pointless death? Are you so determined to make some grand statement that you don't care how many lives are wasted in the attempt?" 

"Twisted sonuvabitch," Spot snarls from behind Davey, he and Boots having caught up at some point. "He thinks he can turn it so we's the bad guy?"

"Shh," says Katherine, flapping a hand at him as the president goes on. 

Pulitzer leans forward, planting his elbows on his knees and fixing the camera with a pointed look. "So this is me asking you, once and for all, to end this pointless violence," he says in a tone of faux sincerity. "Stop this madness and stop letting people die for your own ideals. This isn't the way to make change happen, son. No one else needs to die. And I'm not the only one who thinks so." 

As the camera begins to pull back, the briefest flicker of a smile flashes across Pulitzer's lips before he schools his features back under control. The camera view continues to widen, revealing that there's another chair beside Pulitzer's. Davey has a moment to be curious and confused by this new tactic before the second person's face becomes visible, and his entire world stops spinning.

It's a blow to the chest, and Davey's legs go out from beneath him. He would've ended up on the floor if it weren't for the supportive arms immediately at his back that guide him into a seat at the row of monitors. His brain feels like it's short-circuiting as his gaze pans over the figure in the chair. Dressed in crisp, white clothing, tanned skin radiantly unblemished and healthy, the young man's golden-brown eyes are grave as he looks into the camera. 

"Jack," Davey breathes incredulously. It can't be. Jack died three weeks ago in the Arena, but there he is on the holo-screen. Except Davey realizes he didn't actually know that Jack died. They only ever said that they couldn't find him beneath the rubble left behind by the explosion, and it was assumed that if the blast didn't finish him off, the Capitol would've. 

Even though he's astonished and disoriented, unable to comprehend how this is possible, Davey's heart still pounds deliriously. Jack is alive.

"Davey," Jack says softly from the screen, and the familiarity of the sound rolls over Davey like a warm bath. Jack clears his throat before he goes on, "I know you think youse doin' the right thing, pal, but ya gotta stop." 

"What?" Boots gasps in shock at Davey's shoulder. Something cold blossoms in Davey's ribs. "Did he say-?"

"This ain't what we thought we was getting into, Dave," says Jack. "I thought we was doing the right thing too, but we were wrong. You can't just run around shouting how things isn't fair and think that's gonna make it right. We were wrong. You want folks to treat you like youse something, then maybe should act like it. Youse out there doing a hells of a lotta talking but you ain't doing anything, and it's getting folks killed. Youse getting all them folks killed, and what good's it done anyone?" 

Davey swallows hard, shaking his head. "This can't be real," he murmurs, gripping a union band around his wrist so hard the edges dig into his skin. 

On the screen, Jack sighs and seems to deflate slightly. "Please, just think 'bout it. Me and Pulitzer been talking, made a deal. If ya give it up, break up this Union thing, then anyone out there can come back to their Districts. They can all come home and get back to their lives. No more fighting and no more folks dying. Can all be over."

"Traitor," Spot snarls furiously. Davey's brain hums, refusing to process what he's hearing. It can't be real. Jack wouldn't turn on them. Jack wouldn't turn on him.

"I stand by my word," Pulitzer says solemnly from the holo-screen. "If you dissolve this Union of yours, all of those people you've misled will be allowed to return to their homes. They will not be arrested, and they will not be punished. All you have to do is step down, David, and this whole thing will be over." 

"Please, Dave," says Jack, softer. He lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck the way he always does when he's nervous, and when his eyes return to the camera lens, they are wide and imploring. "I love ya, but this is a race they's gonna win. So, for me, pal, please-" Jack's voice breaks, and he drops his gaze to his lap miserably. 

"I'll be awaiting your response, Mr. Jacobs," Pulitzer drawls. "You have twenty-four hours." 

The moment the screen cuts to black, the command room is full of noise. People are shouting at and over each other. Roosevelt is questioning Crutchie and Katherine about details of the recording, precisely what time it was initially broadcast, and whether there's any chance that the Capitol can use it to find them. Meanwhile, Spot lets loose a tirade of irate cursing. 

"Fuckin' traitor!" the Brooklyn Tribute growls. "How dare he? After everything we done! Capitol washes him up nice, and suddenly he plays buddy with the president? That four-flushin', lyin' scab!"

Davey isn't listening, lurching out of the chair and over to Crutchie's desk. "Replay that last bit," he says frantically. Crutchie gazes up at him in confusion. "That last part Jack said, replay it. I need to see." 

Crutchie glances up at Katherine and Roosevelt questioningly before he slides a finger along the bottom of his monitor, rewinding the broadcast. "There!" Davey says, snagging his wrist to stop him. On the holo-screen, Jack is frozen midway through the act of scratching his neck bashfully. "There, I knew it, that's it," Davey breathes out with an incredulous laugh.

"What is it, Davey?" Katherine asks gently, and there's a tone in her voice like she's trying not to spook a wild animal. 

"Don't you see? Look!" Davey says insistently, pointing to the screen. "His wrist."

"There's nothin' on his wrist," says Boots, confused. 

"Exactly!" 

Spot makes a soft noise of comprehension. "Took off his union bands."

"Jack wouldn't do that by his choice," Davey says, touching his own. "He wouldn't, no matter what. And there, he's using his right hand to rub his neck." It's not visible through the sleeve, but Davey knows that beneath the fabric is the silver attachment ring for the prosthetic arm, the one lasting physical injury from the first Hunger Games. "Jack never uses his right hand for anything he doesn't have to because-"

"He hates how the prosthetic feels," Katherine finishes along with him, eyes widening in understanding. 

Davey nods emphatically. "He uses his left hand for everything now, which means if he used his right hand for something, it was deliberate," he explains. "He meant for me to notice. And he meant for me to see that he doesn't have his union bands anymore. He's trying to tell me that this isn't really him."

"That's a bituva stretch, ya think?" Boots asks skeptically. "I mean, that's some deep code if he's tryna tell ya something. You sure that ain't just coincidence?" 

"Jack is smart, smarter than everyone thinks he is," Davey snaps, suddenly fierce. "Folks think that he's not smart 'cause he didn't get schooling, but they're wrong. I never would've been able to come up with all of this without him. I know Jack better than anybody. I know what he's capable of. And he knows I know that. He knows I'd see and understand what he's saying."

Because he knows I know he wouldn't betray me, Davey adds in his head, but it feels too private and sentimental to say aloud. 

"You think Pulitzer's making him say those things somehow," Crutchie concludes, raising an eyebrow. 

"How?" Spot asks suspiciously. "I've met Jack. He don't exactly just give up easy. Don't think he's the sort to flip to save his life, and you said he ain't got family to threaten, and Pulitzer can't get to you. Ain't exactly the sorta guy with a lotta pressure points." 

Davey drags a hand through his hair, poring over the conversation in his head. It's true, Jack's been willing to die for the cause - and for Davey - plenty of times before. Jack wouldn't do something like this unless it was something important. If Jack gave him a clue about the union bands, maybe he slipped something else into the broadcast, something else subtle that might explain...

Gasping, Davey's head snaps up. "Race." 

"What?" Spot barks, eyes narrowing dangerously. 

"That's what he said, right after," says Davey, glancing at the screen again. "This is a race they'll win." He turns back to Spot. "The rest of the time he's called it a fight, except right there, after he gave me that sign. It'd make more sense - 'this is a fight they'll win' - but he said race." Davey licks his lips, swallowing hard. "We thought Jack died in the explosion, but he survived. What if he wasn't the only one?"

Every muscle in Spot's body visibly tenses, his jaw locked and his fingers curled so tight around his biceps that his nails bite into the flesh. There's a long, heavy moment before Spot clears his throat. "Racer," he says in a tone of forced calm. "You think they got Racer too?"

"They could be using him as leverage," Katherine offers tentatively. "Maybe even more than just him, there might've been other Tributes who survived that we didn't know about. Maybe they've told Jack that unless he goes along with it, they'll kill the Tributes."

"He's trying to protect our friends," Davey says earnestly. "So he's playing along to keep them safe, but he made sure to give me a sign, so I know it's not real." Spot is trying to hide it, but there's a glimmer of hope in his eyes, and it fuels the fire in Davey's gut. "And now we know they're out there, and that means we're going to get them back."

News about the broadcast spreads about the base like wildfire. By the time Davey makes it from the command center to the Commander's office on the next floor, everyone is already whispering about how the other half of the Newsboys of Manhattan has betrayed them to the president. Davey snarls every time he hears it, and he wants nothing more than to shout at every single one of them, but Katherine grips his arm tightly and gives him a warning look that makes him bite his tongue for now. 

Several members of the council are already waiting for them in the Commander's office by the time they arrive, murmuring to each other restlessly. It's no surprise they're there; with news about the broadcast spreading, the ones who've heard would inevitably look to the Commander for answers. Davey doesn't pay them any attention as he storms into the room. 

The moment the door to the Commander's office shuts behind their group, Davey rounds on Roosevelt and the council. "We are going to get Jack out," he says fiercely. "I won't leave him there."

"Of course," Katherine agrees, holding up a hand placatingly. "But we have to be careful about this. We can't just go charging in; we have to be smart." Davey opens his mouth, ready to argue, but the Capitol woman talks over him, "Think about it, David. Why is Jack still alive? He's alive because Pulitzer thinks he's useful. He thinks he can use Jack to influence you and Union. And if he realizes it's not working-" 

"Then he got no reason to keep him alive no more," Spot finishes. "Just like he's only keepin' any the others alive to make Jack do what he wants, if that's what he's really doing." 

Something curls dark and cold beneath Davey's ribs as he processes this. "So basically unless I do step down, Pulitzer's gonna kill 'em all before we can get to them." 

"Maybe not step down," Roosevelt says, frowning. "But so long as he still thinks it might work, it'll buy us time. Maybe if we can convince Pulitzer that it's starting to work, that it's wearing you down, we can use that to our advantage." 

"How do we do that?" Davey asks. 

Roosevelt takes off his hat, twirling it between his fingers with a concentrated scowl. "Send a reply broadcast where you don't necessarily back down, but you hint that you're scared. Make them think you're starting to cave." 

"Plead with Jack," Crutchie offers from where he's been silently leaning against the wall. Everyone glances at the man curiously. "Ya know, act like you're real shook by Jack turning on you. Act like you're tryna convince him to change his mind too. That'd make it look like you're ach'lly scared, right?" 

Davey squeezes his eyes shut, turning the thought over in his head. It wouldn't be too hard of a part to play, in reality. Davey is scared, and now that he knows Jack's alive, the idea of him being anywhere but at Davey's side digs into him like a physical pain. "But we are going to find a way to get him back," he says firmly, looking up to give the others a pointed glare. "I don't care if I have to do it myself, I'm not leaving Jack there. Racer too, and anyone else they got."

"Yes, of course, we just need to be sure we don't rush this," Roosevelt cautions. 

Indignation surges up in Davey's chest. After everything that he's given up for this rebellion, after all the sacrifices he's made so they can use him as their glorified mascot, now they're telling him the one thing he asks for will have to wait. They expect him to sit back while Jack - who helped him start this whole thing - is suffering at the hands of a man who would like nothing more than to cause both of them pain by any means possible. 

To hells with that. These people need him, and Davey's not above using that leverage for this one thing.

"It's as simple as this," Davey says, eyes narrowed. He's aiming for calm and resolute, but there's an edge to his voice that makes it darker and fiercer. "If I lose Jack, you lose me. So either you help me go for him, or I leave and do it myself, and you can find yourselves a new mascot."

Several people raise their voices at the ultimatum, their protests overlapping each other, but Katherine interrupts them with a sharp hand gesture. "We'll get him back," Katherine says, crossing over to grip his shoulders reassuringly. "I'd never ask you to leave him, David. You're my friends, and I want you both safe." 

Her sincerity makes emotion stick in Davey's throat, and he swallows. It's a little surprising to him when he thinks about it, but he realizes that the Capitol ambassador really has become his friend at some point. When they first met, he loathed her and everything she stood for, her bubbly naivety and typical Capitol ignorance. She was just one more brainless peacock that couldn't understand the horrible fate brought down on his shoulders. 

Except it turned out that she was never as oblivious as she acted, or at least that it didn't last long. Somewhere along the way, Katherine started to treat him and Jack as people. And apparently, in the middle of all that, she joined a resistance motivated by the ideas Davey started. If someone told him a year ago that the chipper Capitol ambassador would become one of his closest friends, Davey would've laughed in their faces, yet here they are. 

Reaching up to squeeze one of the hands on his shoulder, Davey gives her a grateful smile. "Thank you."

"We need to get our plans in place first, though," Roosevelt says decisively, even as he offers Davey a kind, sympathetic look. "Because when we break into the Capitol to get them out, Pulitzer's going to see it as an open declaration of war, and he's going to sell it to the people like that too. So we need to be ready when we do this because once we do, there's no going back. It's going to be open war at that point." 

Davey sighs, carding a hand into his hair before scrubbing his palms over his face. He hates it, but he understands where the Commander is coming from. As much as Davey wants to storm the Capitol right away, there's no way that Pulitzer won't retaliate immediately if they succeed. Perhaps even if they fail, just to spite Davey, the way he eradicated Manhattan as punishment. Union isn't quite ready for a full-on war, and the people of the Districts are even less so. 

Pressing his eyes shut, Davey grips at a union band, feeling the ragged scorch marks that mar the gold. I will get you out of there, Jack. I promise. One way or another, I'm getting you back. Davey takes a deep breath and looks up. "Okay, then let's start planning." 

Organizing a nationwide resistance effort is complicated and exhausting work, and by the end of the day, Davey is left feeling like they've accomplished so little. They gathered the entire Union council and spent hours poring over information and reports, laying out strategies and steps that need to be taken. In reality, Davey knows that they've done a lot of necessary groundwork. Still, it all feels woefully insufficient whenever he remembers that Jack and any others that survived are being left to Pulitzer's devices until they can finish. 

The only reason that Davey agrees to end the council meeting is that they need to record his reply broadcast. They are coming up on the twenty-four-hour deadline, and none of them want to risk finding out what retaliation might come if they miss that. It's Henry's idea to stage it in one of the smaller utility rooms, the background of scratched walls and old, disused equipment giving off the impression that Union is operating out of worse conditions than they are.

"If there's anything I learned working for the Capitol, it's that underselling leads to overperforming," Henry says with a wry smirk, giving the room a once-over. "If you give people low expectations, it's easy to exceed them." Then he casts a glance over his shoulder at Davey. "Course, you know all about how that works, huh?" 

Davey manages a half-hearted laugh. It's true, that had been his primary tactic in the lead-up to the first Hunger Games. He went out of his way to make himself seem inconsequential so the other Tributes wouldn't see him as enough of a threat to care. "Clearly I'm not very good at it, though," Davey points out. "That plan sort of backfired on me when the Gamemaker gave me a ten." 

Henry chuckles. "Eh, practice makes perfect, right?" He steps back, adjusting a dial on his camera, and nods. "Alright, ready when you are." 

"You sure you really want to run this live?" Crutchie asks where he's checking over the holo-screen monitor set up beside the camera. 

"Think it'll make too big a risk the Capitol can track us?" Davey asks nervously. 

Crutchie licks his lips. "Not that. I've got this thing set up through so many back doors and channels they'd get lost trying. Was just more worried - well, you can't do another take if you broadcast live," he says. "You ain't worried 'bout sayin' something wrong?" 

Leaning against the doorframe, Davey frowns. "Honestly, yeah, I am," he admits. "But if we don't sell this good enough, Jack and any of my other friends they've got in there are gonna die. Doing it ahead, being able to edit it and fix it, that makes it too - I dunno, practiced, doncha think?" Henry hums an agreement, exchanging glances with Crutchie. "I figure doing it like this, it's gonna seem less like we're planning it. Like we're running outta time, and I'm panicking." 

"Because we are, and you are," Spot intones dryly. Davey shoots a sarcastic look in his direction but doesn't refute it. "Think you can pull this off?" 

"I have to," Davey answers simply. Stepping in front of the camera lens, framed in a mess of outdated, discarded monitors and equipment, Davey takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He needs to make this perfect. If he doesn't do a good enough job, it's going to get Jack killed. So Davey wraps his brain in that idea, gives himself a minute to sink beneath the endless terror of so many lives in his hands, drown in those feelings that keep him up at night... 

When he opens his eyes again, he must look sufficiently anxious because Spot nods approvingly and Crutchie winces. "Okay, go ahead," says Davey, and then swallows when his voice cracks. Henry and Crutchie both start tapping buttons, checking that everything is up and running, and then Henry gives the signal that they're live. 

Davey forces his focus to the camera lens, making an exaggerated effort of sucking in a breath and straightening his spine. "President Pulitzer," he addresses the camera stiffly. "This is David Jacobs, head of Union. I received your message, and I decline your offer. I will not back down. I won't-" His voice breaks again, and he clears his throat. He's well aware he's got a reputation for being emotionally impulsive - one he can't deny he's rightfully earned - and he leans into that now. "I can't stop now. Not after what you did to my home and my people. I don't care-" 

Swallowing hard, Davey glances down when he feels his eyes start to burn. It takes him a second to collect himself, the memories of smoke and ash lingering close to the surface, before he can look up again. "And Jack, I don't - I don't even know what to say," Davey goes on, softer and with a distinct quaver that isn't entirely an act. He drops his gaze and makes a show of tracing his fingers around the edges of his union bands. 

Davey can't reveal that he knows Jack is being coerced, needs to make Pulitzer believe that Davey fell for it; at the same time, he can't be too openly defiant because then Pulitzer will just give Jack up as a lost cause. "I don't know how you can ask me to - Gods, Jack, how could you-" Davey stammers. His eyes are wet when he manages to direct them at the camera again. "Please, Jack, don't do this to me. We're supposed to be in this together. You and me, remember? I don't - I can't believe you really mean it. This was your idea too. I need you to help me.

"And I'm sorry you got left behind," Davey barrels out on sudden inspiration. "I'm sorry we didn't save you. I never should've - we should've done - Gods, I dunno. Just know, if that's what this's about, I didn't mean for you to get left." The tears that escape now are one hundred percent real, a genuine truth folded inside the lie, and Davey huffs as he hastily wipes them on his sleeve. "I love you, Jack, but I can't just give up on our dream. So just - remember that, please? For me? Because I don't want to do this without you."

Scrubbing a hand down over his face, a feigned attempt to compose himself, Davey plasters a stubborn frown back onto his lips. "So there's your answer, Mr. Pulitzer. Thanks, but no thanks."

Davey nods decisively and gestures to Crutchie, who promptly hits the button to cut the feed. Davey can't be sure whether the broadcast catches his weary sigh before the recording stops, but he's not terribly concerned either way. "Not bad," Spot comments from where he's watching, propped against the corridor wall with his arms folded. "You're getting good at this acting thing." 

Davey makes a derisive noise. "It's easier when it's not an act," he points out, wiping his face with his sleeve one more time, just in case. "You're sure that went to the Capitol?" Davey adds to Crutchie. 

"Straight into their main broadcast channel," the man responds with a devious grin. "Trust me, he saw. Every person in the Capitol that had their holo-screen on saw." 

With a tired laugh, Davey slumps against the tower of equipment beside him. "You're a genius, Crutch, anyone ever told you that?" 

"Once or twice," Crutchie agrees with a smirk. "But I don't mind hearin' it again. Folks back home never thought me worth nothing 'cause the leg," he gestures to his right leg, which is nothing more than a severely outdated prosthetic replacement from the knee down. "Showed them, huh?" 

Spot chuckles appreciatively. "Guess the tree folks didn't have much use for tech, huh?" Crutchie is from Woodside, a forest District that's workforce is dedicated to orchards and logging.

"They didn't think so," says Crutchie, preoccupied with tapping through screens on his monitor. "Stuck me in the District hall to manage keepin' track of the numbers and ledgers. Never figured I used the access to hack my way into Capitol systems and figure out how they worked." 

Davey grins and shakes his head. "Leave it the Capitol to keep underestimating us District folk." 

"Alright, this's all finished up here," Crutchie declares, nodding. "Feed is cut and locked down, access been transferred to other District channels. Ain't no way the Capitol gonna figure where this came from. Now there's nothing else to worry 'bout 'til he responds." He glances up at Davey and frowns sympathetically. "Should get some sleep, Dave," he says. "Been a long day, and we got lots more work to do tomorrow." 

As much as the idea of resting chafes at him, Davey knows the other man's right. "Yeah, probably," he concedes. "Nothing else you guys need my help with?" 

"We got this," Henry interjects. "Me and Crutch just gonna pack this stuff back to the comms center, then we're turning in too. You go ahead, boss. We'll see ya in the morning." 

Davey bids them both goodnight and starts down the corridor, Spot immediately falling into step with him. "You okay?" Davey asks, glancing at the shorter man. Spot raises an eyebrow in silent question. "Don't play dumb, you know what I mean." 

Spot grunts and rubs his thumb over the tattoo on the inside of his bicep the way he does whenever this subject comes up. The shape of the Old Tongue rune is distorted now by the burns that warped Spot's skin, but the meaning is still there. It's a match for one of Racer's tattoos to subtly symbolize their relationship. 

"Scared to believe it," Spot admits quietly. "What if we's wrong, and that wasn't what Jack meant? I don't wanna think it's true and find out it's not. Be like losing him again, ya know?" 

Nodding, Davey bumps against Spot's shoulder in a silent show of support. "I know exactly what you mean," he says, and that's all that needs to be said on the topic. 

"Wanna drink?" Spot asks when they're nearing his quarters. "Snuck a bottle from Albert's stash, smells like good stuff." 

Davey snorts in amusement, but he doesn't hesitate to agree. After a day like today, being able to forget for a while sounds like a most excellent idea. 

It's obscenely late by the time that Davey makes it back to his quarters, only a bit unsteady on his feet. He slips inside, trying to be as quiet as possible so he doesn't wake his family. It takes his fuzzy brain a moment to realize that there's already a light on in the sitting room. Esther Jacobs is sitting on the floor at the low coffee table, mixing bottles of boiled leaves and powdered root with flawless familiarity. 

"Momma, why aren't you sleeping?" Davey asks, frowning. 

"Med is getting low on healing salves," Esther responds without breaking her concentration. "That last patrol that got attacked went through a lot. I wanted to get our supplies back up before the next group comes back, just in case. Can't waste time making the poultices when there's lives on the line, better to have them ready beforehand." 

Davey licks his lips, a tiny flicker of guilt sparking in his chest. "So, you weren't waiting up for me?" 

Esther finally glances up at him, eyes soft. "Well, that too." 

Shuffling in embarrassment, Davey considers the spread of supplies on the tabletop. "Need a hand?" he asks. 

"That would be lovely, thank you, dear," Esther agrees. Davey drops down to sit opposite her at the table, folding his long legs up beneath him. "You remember how to make this one?" 

"Whisperleaf, clover, merriander, and coda berries," Davey recites easily, even through the faint hum that's tinting the edge of his thoughts in a soft haze. He's helped her with this since he was tall enough to see over the edge of her workbench. The most common blends are deeply ingrained into his memory by now. 

"There's my clever boy," Esther says proudly, and Davey fights back a blush. He's really getting too old to still be so pleased when his mother praises him. At the same time, the part of him that feels dark and irrevocably changed - the part that haunts him at night and calls him a monster - is just grateful that she can look at him and still see something good. Esther slides the box of dried clover toward the middle of the table where he can reach better and smiles. "Thank you." 

"Nice to be able to do something helpful for once." The words slip out before Davey can stop them, his tongue loosened by the liquor, and he winces. 

Esther, observant and shrewd as always, doesn't call him on it. "Now you know how I feel," she says. "I'm no good with all the fancy digiscreens or at the actual fighting, but healing is the one thing I can do to help here. I can't do anything to keep all of you safe, but at least I can patch you up when you come back." 

Relieved that his mother doesn't fight him on the subject the way Sarah does, Davey relaxes and opens up. "We're gonna need a lot more of that soon, I think," he admits. 

"So I've heard," says Esther. They lapse into quiet for a moment as Esther carefully measures out a spoonful of the berry juices to add to her bowl. "David, you know I'm going to ask so you might as well just say it." 

Davey smiles ruefully. "I know," he agrees. "Just - don't even know where to start, really. Everything in my head is so jumbled." 

"Of course," Esther says, in that calm, light tone without judgment that always makes it so easy to be honest with her. "How about we start with: how are you feeling?" 

That tugs a dry laugh out of Davey. "That's probably the most confusing question, really," he says. Focusing his attention on carefully grinding the merriander leaves into fine dust, Davey licks his lips and sighs. "It shouldn't be possible to feel so happy and so terrified at the same time." 

Esther chuckles, flashing him a smile across the table. "Try having children," she counters. "That's how I felt when each of you was born. I loved you so instantly, and I was so scared of doing wrong by you it kept me up at night." 

"You're a great mom," says Davey, reaching over to touch her hand fondly. "Best mom I could've asked for." 

Smile slipping into something softer, Esther lifts his hand to brush it against her cheek. "And you are my good, brave boy. Any mother would be proud to raise a man like you." 

Flushing, Davey ducks his head. "Don't let Les hear you say that," he teases to break the tension. "He thinks he's your favorite." Esther laughs indulgently. Going back to working the mortar, Davey tries to parse the tornado of feelings inside his head. They settle on the same thing they keep coming back to: "Jack's alive." 

"I know, I heard," Esther says, nodding. "I knew you would not be kept apart for long, not with how tightly Bound you are." 

Davey lets out a shaky breath, gaze drifting to his union band. The one on the right is so heat-scarred and tarnished that it no longer reflects light, the gold muted and matte. "I'm scared," he says. "Pulitzer has him. I have no idea what he could be doing to Jack. He could be hurting him, and I can't do anything to stop it, but I can't lose him again."

"So don't." Esther states it so simply and straightforwardly that Davey looks up at her in surprise. Her expression is set in that way he recognizes from when he was a child, that stern ferocity that usually meant he'd disappointed her and was about to get a telling-off. For all that Esther's half-a-foot shorter than him and weathered by time, the look never fails to make him shift nervously. 

"You are David Jacobs," Esther says firmly. "You are courageous, and your heart is strong as mountains. You have survived the Hunger Games twice, inspired a world to stand up for themselves, and forced the Capitol to bend their rules for you more than once. As far as I can see, there's few things you can't do. So you want Jack? Then you'll get him." 

The laugh that escapes is half-hysterical. "It ain't that easy, Momma. I gotta think about Union, and they've got all these plans they gotta make. I can't do anything until they figure it out, but they're taking so long, and I don't want to wait because what if we run out of time?" 

"They aren't listening to you, make them listen," says Esther. A small, almost mischievous smile curls her lips. "You made a whole country listen. A few rebels shouldn't be too hard, right?" 

"But they're right," Davey says. "If I go after Jack, Pulitzer's going to attack that much harder. He's already burned Manhattan to dust. What if he does that to everyone?" 

Esther's eyes narrow shrewdly. "If that's what he wants, he could do that anytime, and there's nothing we can do to stop it," she points out. "Just like we couldn't stop what happened to our home. But he hasn't because what's a leader with no one to lead?" Davey opens his mouth, then snaps it shut when he realizes he has no good response. "The president will do what he does. But he has already taken so much from us. Will you let him keep Jack too?" 

Davey gazes back into the bright blue eyes that he inherited, stunned into silence by the quiet fire in them. Maybe it's not just the color of her eyes he inherited, then. Esther's conviction spurs his own to life, and Davey lifts his head a little higher. "No. No, he doesn't get to take Jack from me." 

"Good boy," Esther says approvingly, and immediately, the ferocity dims back down to a pleasant warmth, her expression kind and motherly. "Hand me that jar of reed oil, would you, love?" 

The council meeting is in full swing when Davey arrives the next morning, the members gathered around the large conference table with its holographic display in the center. All across the walls, more holo-screens show charts and data, while the biggest one is broken into squares that are streaming feeds of the heads of the other Union bases. People look up when Davey enters, and he nods in acknowledgment. 

As the others get back to their discussion, comparing numbers between the bases to coordinate where reinforcements will need to be sent, Davey slips into the chair next to Crutchie. "Hey, how ya doin'?" the blond asks, looking up from his personal digiscreen; he's got it with him at all times, monitoring the broadcast feeds for anomalies. As far as Davey can tell, the man never stops working.

"Good as can be expected," Davey replies with a wry smile. "And just a li'l bit hungover." 

Crutchie snorts. "Can't really blame ya there," he says. "Not after the day you had." Davey glances to where Roosevelt and Katherine are bent over a holographic display of the country. Beside them is the leader of the Union military forces, a Flushing peacekeeper named Ike, who joined Union because his twin brother Mike was one of the Quarter Quell Tributes who didn't make it. "I miss anything important?"

"Not really," says Crutchie. "Was just supply counts before this, figuring where we need to send supplies most. The base out in Ellis had their last shipment of food intercepted by a peacekeeper patrol, they's running thin on rations." Davey winces; that's a thing that happens on occasion when the Capitol manages to catch a stray signal on their network. "Now it's just assigning battalions to diff'rent bases, so we's prepared to jump into the Districts and protect the people when Pulitzer decides to attack." 

Davey exhales, scrubbing his hands over his face. He understands how important this is, and he doesn't want to be impatient because he knows that their entire purpose here is to save the Districts, but anxiety crawls under his skin like insects. Every hour they wait is another hour that Jack is in Pulitzer's grasp. Every extra hour it takes before they move is one more hour that Jack might be killed. 

"They's workin' fast as they can," Crutchie says sympathetically. When Davey glances at him, the other man nods toward Davey's hands on the tabletop. Davey realizes he's been fidgeting with his union bands again, a nervous habit he can't break. For all that it feels like a lifetime with everything that's passed, the reality is that he's only been wearing them two months now, not long enough for their presence to be completely familiar. 

"I know," says Davey, sighing. "Don't stop me being scared." 

Crutchie nods. "Think it'd be weirder if ya wasn't scared," he points out with a smirk, and Davey laughs. Crutchie is an expert at lightening any moment, and Davey's grateful for it. 

They settle back to listen, and Davey tries to follow the coordination efforts as best as he can. For all that he's been thrust into leading a war, in a way, Davey's not a natural fighter. The little experience he even has with fighting comes from the Hunger Games, where it was more personal defense than anything. Coordinating and strategizing hundreds of soldiers all across the country is a bit outside his scope of understanding. 

A great deal of the conversations go over Davey's head, but he does everything he can to keep up. Whether he chose it or not, this is his world now. The others have told him he doesn't need to come to these types of meetings, but he refuses to be left out of any part of this. Besides, being dismissed for this only makes him feel more like the figurehead he knows he really is instead of an active member.

"As far as the Capitol-" It's Katherine's voice that draws Davey's full focus back to the meeting, and he straightens up in his chair. "I reached out to my contacts inside the Capitol for information. Only one of them has been able to get back to me so far, but it's a start." She glides a hand over her tablet, transferring the image up onto one of the holo-screens on the wall. 

Davey's brow furrows in confusion at the block of text printed in a strange alphabet of glyphs that he doesn't know, although a couple of the runes look a little familiar. "What's that?" 

To everyone's surprise, Spot is the one who answers. "It's the Old Tongue. Language that all the countries in the world used, way back when there was more'an just us." Davey doesn't miss the way Spot touches the tattoo on the inside of his bicep, and he suddenly understands why Spot recognizes the language. 

Katherine nods. "We've been using it because so few people know it. That way, people won't be able to read them, in case the messages are discovered. Or at least it will take them long enough to translate that we can take precautionary measures." 

"So what's it say?" asks Davey. 

"Nothing good," Katherine admits with a grimace. She taps the digiscreen, and new glowing letters overlay the old glyphs, this time in the common language. Davey's stomach drops as he reads it. "They're trying to keep it quiet, but it appears the Capitol is already gathering forces," the ambassador explains. "We're not sure what their target is." 

"One of the Districts," Ike says somberly. "If they'd found any of our bases, they wouldn't waste time before attacking and risk us getting away." 

Davey feels rage and indignation crawl up his back, his knuckles white where he grips the edge of the table. "They're going to do to another District what they did to Manhattan," he says with certainty. "I didn't back down, so they're going to wipe another District off the map." 

"It's very possible," Roosevelt concedes. "It seems their most likely course right now." 

"Then we need to hurry," Davey says fiercely. "We need to move our plans up. We can't wait longer." He catches the uncertain glances cast among the others, and Davey slaps his palm down on the tabletop as he stands. "No, I will not sit back and watch him do what he did to Manhattan again. I couldn't save my people, but I'm not gonna let him do it to someone else too. And if you're really here for the sake of our country like you say, then you won't either."

"It ain't that-" Ike starts, but Katherine cuts him off with a wave of her hand.

"No, David's right," she says. "We're all saying that we can risk the casualties while we get ready for the big fight, but isn't that exactly the mentality we're trying to get rid of? Every life is worth something, and letting another District die to save the rest of them just negates everything we're fighting for. We need to stand for everyone, without exception."

Davey's heart jumps, a wash of gratitude for the Capitol woman filling his chest, and he nods. "Exactly," he says. "So what are we going to do to make sure this doesn't happen? Can your friends inside the Capitol figure what place he's gonna hit? We can send our people to back them up, or evacuate them out to bases if-"

All of the holo-screens in the room suddenly flicker. The images blink and scroll, then buzz with static. "Charles, what the hells-?" Roosevelt barks in Crutchie's direction, but the younger man doesn't get the chance to respond before the screens all suddenly snap back to life, the same image mirrored over every single surface.

For a moment, Davey thinks it's the same broadcast again as he takes in the scene of the two figures sitting side-by-side. Pulitzer is, as always, the picture of composure. In the chair beside him, Jack is healthy and beautiful, dressed in silken white clothes lined with gold. Still, there's something dark and hollow to his gaze, the golden shimmer of makeup along his cheekbones not masking the shadows beneath his eyes completely.

"People of the Districts," Pulitzer says gravely, and it feels like his voice is everywhere, coming from every one of the dozen screens in the room. "It is with the greatest sadness that I address you today. For months, our country has been plagued by the terrorist group that calls themselves Union. They have been amassing forces all across the country and leaving trails of death and destruction in their wake. All of my attempts at diplomacy have been met with abject refusal." 

The image changes to one of Davey, a clip from his response to Pulitzer recognizable by the backdrop of disused equipment. On the screen, Davey narrows his eyes slightly and lifts his chin. "President Pulitzer. This is David Jacobs, head of Union. I received your message, and I decline your offer. I will not back down."

When the screen flicks back to Pulitzer, the president is giving a good impression of weary resignation. "These terrorists refuse to listen to reason, no matter how many lives are lost in the process," Pulitzer says. 

At this, the holo-screen is filled with images of violent murders throughout the Districts, Union soldiers always present in each of them. The video is impressively cut together, glimpses of Union soldiers opening fire followed by images of District folk falling under a hail of bullets. It all comes together to make it look like Union is the one killing everyone, not fighting to defend the District folk being slaughtered by peacekeepers. 

If Davey didn't know better, he'd almost believe it too. 

Pulitzer is back on the screen now, frowning. "So at this point, I am forced to tell you that our country is now at war," he says levelly. "I have exhausted all options for ending this fight peacefully. Our only remaining course is to eradicate these terrorists by force." 

Beside him, Jack leans forward and props his elbows on his knees, expression tight but earnest. "I know you all don't expect seein' me here," he says solemnly, "but truth is, I been tricked by David Jacobs much as the rest of you." Davey flinches, telling himself it's just an act, that Jack's just doing it because Pulitzer is making him. It doesn't stop the spear of agony and betrayal in his chest, though. 

"For all you who think he's some sorta hero, youse wrong," Jack goes on. "He ain't doin' this for you. He's doin' it for him. He wants to make his point, and he don't care who gets hurt in the process. I thought he cared 'bout me too, but when he made all his plans for escaping, I was never part of that. He used us, used all us Tributes to protect himself long enough for his Union buddies to find him, and then he left us to die. Those us who wasn't already almost dead from the explosion-" Jack breaks off, swallowing hard, and makes a vague gesture with his hand. 

The image on the screen changes and a wave of horror rushes up inside of Davey's stomach. All around him, he can hear the gasps of shock and rage, but all Davey can focus on is the face on the screen. It's Hotshot, the Harlem Victor who allied himself with Davey in the Arena, eyes open and vacant, with a bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

"No, that ain't right," says Spot. "He was - he was already dead before the 'splosion even went off. Hellshound got him in the throat. I saw it happen." Except the photograph on the screen is a close-up and only shows as far as his chin, hiding the injury that actually killed him. 

The screen changes, and this time it's Finch, the Tribute from Richmond, exactly the same; face slack in death with a gunshot in his brow. Then Alan, the middle-aged Tribute from Flushing, skin pale and gore streaked across his face from a bullet to the temple. Then-

"No," Spot breathes in terror because the face on the screen is Racer. The red bullet wound stands out boldly against his pale forehead, and his gray-blue eyes are half-lidded and empty.

Jack returns to the screen, looking ill and exhausted. "His people murdered them," he says darkly. "They could've taken 'em with, could've saved them, but instead he had 'em killed. The rest us, he left to die. I only survived by a miracle, and it took the Capitol healers weeks to bring me back. And that's why I'se here now, to tell ya the truth: David Jacobs ain't your salvation. He'll use you, and when he don't need ya no more, he'll let you die. And he needs to be stopped." 

"These coming days will be dark," Pulitzer picks up the dropped thread, eyes solemn, "but we will stand together against this threat. I will not allow this menace to destroy everything we fought so hard for after the Fall. We will prevail." He taps his fingers first to his brow and then his chest in an old, customary prayer sign. "May the odds be ever in our favor." 

Screens blink again, flickering from black to static a few times before they return to the normal images that they held before the broadcast. 

A crushing, echoing silence fills the room as everyone absorbs what just happened. Davey's brain is numbed over from shock as Jack's words reverberate inside his skull, overlaid with images of his dead friends. It takes him a minute to realize that someone is saying his name, and he startles when there's a hand on his shoulder. 

"David, look at me," Katherine says firmly, her Capitol accent making the words strangely melodic even with their insistence. Her other hand cups his cheek and forces him to turn his head until he meets her gaze. "Look at me, David. You know that wasn't real. I need you to focus." 

"But he-" Davey wants to believe her, wants to convince himself again that it wasn't really Jack, but that message didn't sound like the one from before. That wasn't thinly veiled allusions and pleas. That was open, vicious animosity. That was a betrayal so much worse than Davey ever believed Jack was capable of, even as an act. And with all of their friends dead, what's compelling Jack to keep playing along with Pulitzer?

Shaking his head, he tries to push those thoughts away and focus on something else - anything else. Davey glances at Crutchie. "How'd he find us?" Because he's never seen a broadcast just take over Union's systems like that—normally they only catch Pulitzer's broadcasts because Crutchie's team is actively monitoring every channel. So how did Pulitzer manage to target and hijack their systems?

"That wasn't streamed just to us," says Crutchie, fingers tapping across his digiscreen at lightning speed. "That broadcast was played everywhere. Every channel in the network, a whole nationwide override. That would've played on every single workin' screen in the whole country."

"Gods above," Roosevelt hisses out under his breath, scrubbing his hands over his face. 

"Ain't no questions 'bout it now," Spot growls. His eyes are red-rimmed and full of fire, even though his skin is clammy and he's shaking where he stands. Davey can't even imagine what's going through the Brooklyn man's head after having the hope of Racer's survival dashed so horrifically. "Pulitzer wants war, and he just made sure the whole world knows it. And he's doin' his damndest to make sure folks think we's the bad guy." 

Davey scoffs weakly. "What else are they going to think after that?" he asks, half-hysterical. "Jack just told everyone that I'm some sort of monster. All this time, everyone's seen us standing together, and now he's saying I betrayed him. That I had our friends murdered. If my own husband is telling them, of course they'll believe it. Fuck, after watching that, I almost believe it." 

The slap, not hard enough to really hurt, surprises Davey into silence. He gawks at Katherine, and she returns his glare heatedly. "Now would be a very good time to shut up and listen to me, David Jacobs," she says sharply. "That was not really Jack, and you know it. You know him better than anyone. So focus because we've got a lot of work to do." The redhead straightens up, gazing around the table with sparks in her eyes. "Well, don't just stand there. The president just declared open war on us, so we don't really have any more reason to wait, do we? Let's break into the Capitol."

Davey stretches out on his back, shifting when a small rock prods at his healing scars, and stares up at the blanket of darkness overhead. Trees shield half of the sky, branches and leaves blocking out his view, but there are no external lights on at the base for safety so he can still make out stars in the gaps between. Inhaling deeply, Davey tries to take himself back—another night beneath the endless expanse of stars and surrounded by the scent of fresh plants. 

At least, until the crunch of earth beneath boots manages to pull him back. 

"You know, I came out here so folks would leave me alone," Davey says without turning his eyes away from the sky. "It's bad enough I can't go anywhere without Albert shadowing me." 

"Rude," Albert chips in from where he's lurking several meters back, words tinted with amusement. "I'm just doin' my job."

The footsteps come closer until a shadow looms over Davey's shoulder, nothing more than a bulky silhouette against the darkness. "Tough shit, 'cause I wanna be alone too," Spot says dryly. He drops down to sit on the dirt beside Davey. "And youse in my seat."

"Yeah, right," Davey says skeptically. "You don't seem the sitting-under-the-stars type." 

"Fair," Spot agrees. He lays down, pillowing his arms under his head, and mirrors Davey's position. "So, what is the appeal, anyway? All this just staring at the sky stuff?"

Davey swallows. "Jack loves the stars," he admits. "The first time we ever really talked to each other, we were on the train to the Capitol. There was a carriage that was all glass, filled with strange plants. I'd never seen the stars before. You can't see them in Manhattan. Or, well, couldn't. Seeing that for the first time while thinking I was about to die - it made it all feel small. Like, how could this," he gestures to himself, "matter in comparison to all that?" He finishes with a vague gesture upwards to the open sky.

Humming, Spot seems to consider that for a moment. "Fuck, that's depressing." 

The comment tugs a surprised laugh out of Davey. "Yeah, I guess so," he agrees. "But I was depressed too, so it felt sorta - nice." He sighs, searching out familiar constellations of the gods and myths in the stars. "You didn't need to come check on me." 

"Who says I'm checking on you?" Spot replies. "Really did just want some peace and quiet. All the planning and yelling down there's makin' me crazy. Needed to get out. But I-" The Brooklyn man pauses, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I know my head ain't on right righ'now, and I pro'lly shouldn't be alone. And I figure youse the only one gonna get it enough to not bug me about it. Don't feel real yet; I ain't ready to deal." 

Davey winces, biting his lip. Right, of course, how could he forget? Spot just had his fragile hope that Racer might still be alive cruelly destroyed on every screen in the country. Davey has been so wrapped up in thoughts of Jack, he pushed everything else into the background. Now it comes back in a blistering wave of guilt. 

"I know it doesn't help," Davey says softly, "but I really am sorry. I really thought - or maybe I was just hoping-" He trails off with a helpless huff. "I'm not gonna push it if you don't wanna talk, just - are you gonna be okay?"

"Someday, maybe, yeah," says Spot. His voice is a bit thicker than usual, but Davey doesn't comment on it. "But not 'til after I see Pulitzer put in the ground." 

Davey reaches over and squeezes the Brooklyn man's forearm in silent agreement. He can understand how Spot feels. The desire to see Pulitzer taken down for what he's done is what drove Davey to take his position in Union in the first place. Davey spent weeks burning with the thought that Pulitzer's sick games had cost Jack his life. Now, all Davey can think about is what horrible things Pulitzer might've done to turn Jack on him (because maybe it's denial, but Davey still can't make himself fully believe those are Jack's words.) 

"Ya know, we was never all that fussed about Binding," Spot says, startling Davey back into the moment. "Seemed stupid, ya know? All that fancy nonsense to say something we already knew. We knew we was stuck together, didn't need some jewelry and prayers to make it truer. But now, all this..." In the corner of his eye, Davey sees the other man gripping his bicep distractedly. "Kinda wondering if you had the right idea. Should'a done it when we had the chance." 

There's nothing Davey can say to that, so they lapse into quiet. Davey brushes the pad of his thumb back and forth over the scorch mark on his union band lazily, feeling the scrape of it on his skin. "What does your tattoo mean?" Davey asks abruptly. "You said it's from the Old Tongue, right?" 

Spot makes a vague noise in response. For a long minute, Davey thinks the other man won't answer, and then, "Says 'forever.'" 

It's so simple and sentimental, and Davey smiles. "I like that." 

There's something comforting and calm in Spot's presence, the two of them just existing together to stave off their own darkness. Whenever Davey's mind starts spiraling down the slippery slope of despair and worry, he'll hear Spot shifting beside him, and it's enough of a reminder to bring himself back. They lay for a while in the dark, staring up at the sky without seeing, before Davey sighs. 

"We should get back in," he says reluctantly. "Lots more planning tomorrow." He stands, dusting himself off, and holds out a hand to pull Spot up too. The movement makes Davey wince, tugging at the healing muscles in his back. "I'm fine," he says when he catches Spot's look. 

"Yeah, sure," Spot agrees with a snort. 

"Okay, as fine as I can be, all things considered," Davey amends, prompting a soft huff of laughter from his companion. As they start walking back toward the compound and Davey's waiting bodyguard, Davey nudges Spot with his elbow. "Hey, I just - thanks," he says. "For all of it. And if you need anything, you know I'm here, right?" 

Spot chuffs. "How's you both so good at speeching and terrible at the same time?" he jokes, but when he knocks his elbow against Davey's, he knows the sentiment is returned. 

Davey never would've expected to become such good friends with a Brooklyn Tribute, but he can't deny that Spot's friendship is one of the few good things to come from all of this. Laughing, Davey shakes his head. "Shut up." 

It takes them two more days of feverish planning to organize their infiltration plans, which gives the other bases just enough time to prep their defenses. 

In that time, two more District riots are violently taken out by peacekeepers. Pulitzer gives out daily broadcasts, endlessly reinforcing his commitment to exterminating Union, but he does them without Jack now; Davey tries not to think too hard about what that might mean. Katherine's contacts inside the Capitol provide them with a location of where Jack's supposedly being held, and they lay out their attack with the assumption that he's still alive. 

On the morning of the third day, Davey joins the group of Union soldiers gathered in the main lobby of the base. It's a long hover ride to the station closest to the Capitol, and then the infiltration party will make their way into the Capitol at night. The council fought him about it, but Davey insisted on joining the party. He doesn't miss the way the soldiers cast strange looks his way, but he doesn't care. That's his best friend - his husband - they're going to rescue, and Davey isn't about to be left behind. 

"How you doing?" Spot asks from Davey's side. The Brooklyn Tribute looks entirely at ease in the heavy tactical gear, rifle slung across his back. Davey, on the other hand, feels strangely constricted in the layered body armor. He's too used to doing all of his fighting stealthily and fast, and the body armor makes that impossible. 

"Ready to get this over with," says Davey, grim. "Ready to have him back." 

Spot nods in understanding, not looking up from double-checking his gear. "We're gonna get him," he vows. "Don't worry. We're gonna get him." 

"Davey!" 

Startled, Davey turns around to find Sarah squeezing between two soldiers. She barrels over and pulls him into a tight hug, and Davey hugs her back more from instinct than anything. "What're you doing here?"

"Like I wasn't gonna see you off," Sarah responds, but there's something odd in her voice, something flat and determined. Before Davey can pull back to ask her what's wrong, there's a sharp sting to the back of his neck. Davey rips himself out of her arms, reaching up to touch the tender spot with wide eyes. 

"What the hells-?" Davey glances from Sarah's guilty expression to Spot, who is clutching a medical injector gun in his hand. There's already a chilling numbness spreading down Davey's spine, and he recognizes it with a blend of horror and rage. "No, don't you dare," he snarls, the fury not at all masked by the faint slur. 

"Sorry, Dave," Spot says, and he even sounds it beneath his firm scowl. "But youse too important to risk." 

"No, I-" Davey's legs waver, the tranquilizer steamrolling its way through his system, and he staggers. Immediately, Sarah and Spot are at his sides, holding him up. "Don't do this," Davey pleads. "Don't-" His grasp on consciousness is slipping, no matter how hard he fights it off. 

It takes him a second to realize he's on the floor now, cradled against Sarah's chest, and she's carding a hand through his hair soothingly. "I'm sorry, I am," she murmurs. "But I'll bring him back, I promise." 

Terror rushes into Davey as the implication clicks into place in his head, but before he can draw the breath to protest, the shadows blanket his vision and he slides away. 

Davey wakes up panicking, even though his muscles are still so heavy that he's trapped in his own body. The most he can manage is a restless twitch and anxious moan. Instantly, a cool hand strokes his brow, brushing his hair from his forehead. "Shh, David, you're okay." 

Mom. Mom is here. Why here? Where is here? 

"It's okay, sweetie, you're safe," Esther says gently. "I'm going to help you wake up now, okay?" The next second, there's the click of something opening, and then a sharp, acrid scent fills Davey's nose. 

Davey gasps, the bitter herbal smell pushing a rush of adrenaline through his system that drives back the clinging darkness, and his eyes snap open. It takes his gaze a moment to focus before he can make out his mother's face above him, and beyond her, the flat, gray ceiling of their living quarters. "Mom, what-?" The memories come back in a wave, and he bolts upright so fast he almost knocks heads with Esther. "Sarah!" 

"I know," Esther says. 

"They drugged me," Davey says furiously. "They tricked me. Are they-?" 

"They've already reached the Greenwich base," Esther confirms. "You've been out for a few hours." 

Davey's eyes dart to her. "They were planning this," he realizes. It was a coordinated effort between Sarah and Spot; she distracted him so Spot could inject him without a fight. "Did you know?" 

"Sarah told me just before she left to meet you," Esther admits. "But I didn't know that she was planning to take your place. I only found that out when the medics brought you back, and by then, she was already gone." Davey lets out a curse under his breath, and Esther cuffs him around the back of his head. "Language, David." 

"Sorry," Davey says out of habit. "I just - how could they do something like this?" 

Esther takes his hand in both of hers. "They were right to," she says, and Davey looks up at her, feeling betrayed. "David, everything that you're doing here hinges on you. Like it or not, you're needed here. I know you want Jack back, but you're not a soldier, and even if you were, you're still injured. It's better to leave this to the people who've trained for this sort of thing." She scowls. "Although you can be sure that I'm going to give Sarah the hiding of her life when she gets back." 

"They had no right," Davey growls. "It was my choice. I'm sick of people taking away my choices." 

"I know, baby." Esther's weathered hands cradle his, sweeping her work-callused thumb over his knuckles. She sighs and leans in to press a soft kiss to his brow. "The comms team is monitoring. Your friend Charlie said you can go join them so you know what's going on."

Davey's gaze flicks up to her, and his heart leaps. He's immediately on his feet, even though standing so quickly makes the world pitch a little around him. The moment he's capable, Davey sprints down halls through the base, a staggering, awkward lope as he tries to compel his half-asleep muscles to do what he wants. The path to the command center is second nature now, and he stumbles into the room of monitors with his heart racing. 

At the center table, Crutchie glances over his shoulder and offers a tight, nervous smile. "You're just in time," he says, nodding toward the chair beside him. "They're leavin' for the Capitol now." 

Davey rushes over and drops into the seat by Crutchie, his ears straining to make out voices on the radio feed. For now, it's just the captain giving out instructions. From the sounds in the background, they're in the hover already. "Can you put me through?" Davey asks when the briefing falls quiet. 

Crutchie looks uncertain, but he nods. "Don't say nothin' stupid," he says. "Ain't a private channel, everyone gonna hear ya." 

"I'm okay with that," Davey says. Crutchie smirks and taps a dot on his monitor, then nods to Davey. "Sarah Jacobs, I swear to every god, I'm gonna kill you." 

Crutchie snorts. "I said, don't say nothin' stupid." 

Muffled laughter comes from the other end of the radio line, soldiers trying to mask their amusement. Then Sarah's voice, simply, "I know." 

Davey sighs because of course that's all she'd say. Nothing to be done about it now, they've passed the point of no return. "Just so you know, same goes for Spot," he adds. "But all of you be safe out there, please? We don't wanna lose anyone else." 

"Of course, sir," the captain responds somberly. 

"Alright, folks, radio silence," Crutchie says, giving Davey an apologetic look. "You're approaching District borders, don't want them pickin' up stray signals. Once you reach the coordinates, activate broadcast feeds. We want all the info we can get. May the odds, team."

It's a long, tense quiet as the radio feed cuts out. Crutchie observes his array of monitors, one screen tracking the hover's progress while others are scanning Capitol channels for any hint that they've been detected. Davey is a ball of anxious energy, jogging his feet beneath the desk as he stares at the blinking dot on the screen creeping slowly across the satellite map image toward the Capitol. 

Now all they can do is wait. 

It takes several hours for the hover to reach their destination thanks to the circuitous route they follow to avoid any peacekeeper barracks and charted patrol paths. Finally, close to midnight, the signal for the hover comes to a stop a hundred meters to the east of the Capitol city border.  

One by one, squares of live video feed blossom to life on the enormous holo-screen that dominates the wall of the command center, each coupled with a new buzz of sound. It's disorienting to make sense of, shuffling images of the soldiers deboarding the hover and checking gear. The sounds are discordant and overlapping, with different cameras all picking up the same things over and over. Each square has the surname of the soldier printed in the bottom corner, and it doesn't take Davey long to find the ones labeled 'Jacobs' and 'Conlon.' 

Seeing Sarah in full tactical gear through the camera mounted on Spot's helmet is jarring and unsettling, more so because she doesn't look at all out of place among the others. Davey can see her meticulously checking her rifle and gear in practiced motions. He knew that she's been training with the soldiers, but it's different to see it for himself. Somewhere over the last few weeks, she really did become a soldier.

The radio waveform on Crutchie's monitor flickers, and a woman's voice, clipped and professional, says, "Union One ready and moving." 

Crutchie taps the mic button on his digiscreen to respond, "Acknowledged, captain," without ever looking away from the streams of information on his monitors. 

"How many times have you done this?" Davey asks curiously to distract himself. The camera feeds show the soldiers lifting away a large grate that masks a tunnel, ancient pathways that run beneath the entire country. In the times before the Fall, the mag-rail trains used the underground rail system for transport between Districts. So many collapsed during the war that it was easier to rebuild the lines above ground than trying to clear and excavate the entire thing. 

"Only do this on big ops," Crutchie answers. "So, five or six, I think. Don't usually have to run all these open comm channels, but considerin', ya know..." He trails off, but Davey can pick up on the subtext. This is the biggest operation that Union has launched against the Capitol - apart, maybe, from breaking Davey out of the Arena - and they need all hands on deck. 

"I'm just here to watch the cameras," Crutchie adds, tone lighter in a blatant attempt to ease Davey's nerves. "They got the strategy stuff all figured out already. These guys know what they're doin'." 

Davey pans his gaze over the grid of broadcast feeds, feet pedaling anxiously again. "Gods, this is awful," he huffs irritably. "Just waiting. Not being able to do anything." After two rounds of the Hunger Games, Davey's instincts are geared to hate the quiet, sedentary moments. It was always just a prelude to something terrible happening. He tries hard not to compare that to the situation now. 

"Welcome to my life," Crutchie says drolly. He keeps one eye on the screens, but it seems he's gotten everything else in order because he stops tapping out commands. "I'se gotten damn good at sittin' back and watchin' by now." 

The comment comes out flippantly, but it still makes Davey wince sympathetically. "Your leg?" he guesses. 

Crutchie hums an agreement, one hand slipping below the table to rub distractedly at the stump of his thigh above the prosthesis. "Atrophin," he supplies. Davey balks. The atrophin plague was a parasitic infection that dissolved and devoured a person's muscles from within, slowly and painfully. "Wiped out a third my District before the Capitol miraculously found a cure." 

"But they cured that ages ago," says Davey, frowning. "I remember my mom talking about it. That got cured when she was a kid after it hit Harlem." 

"S'why I said 'miraculous,'" Crutchie says with a snort. "District that produces military equipment, them you don't wanna let die. But the Orchard District? They just quarantined those us got sick and was ready to let nature do its thing. Only gave us the cure when they realized it'd already spread too far, was gonna take us all out, and then who'd harvest all their fancy fruits?" He scoffs and shakes his head. "In the end, I was one the lucky ones. Infection started in the leg, so the rest of me wasn't passed savin' by the time they got us the cure. Rest my family weren't that lucky." 

Davey curses, scrubbing a palm over his face. "Gods, I'm sorry." 

"Me too," Crutchie agrees with a sad smile. "But doin this," he nods toward the screens, "it helps." 

They lapse into silence again, attentively following the team's progress through the array of camera feeds. The disused tunnels are shadowy and damp, with slick black mold coating the walls and making the place even darker. Even just the scuff of boots seems unnaturally loud, echoing off the concrete and brick, and relayed to the command center over the dozen mics. More than once, soldiers have to climb over rubble in sections of a tunnel on the brink of collapse. 

"They're sure this tunnel's clear all the way in?" Davey asks nervously. 

Crutchie nods. "Scouted it more than once now," he agrees. "Wanted to make sure Kath's contact was right it was useable 'fore we sent our team." He casts a sideways glance at Davey and grips his shoulder. "I toldja, we know what we're doin'." 

"I know, sorry, just-" Davey trails off with a helpless shrug, eyes on the holo-screen. On one of the cameras labeled 'Davenport,' he can see Sarah from behind, marching along beside Spot.

"She'll be okay, Dave," Crutchie says reassuringly.

Davey swallows and nods, letting it drop at that, but it doesn't do anything to quell his fear. He wasn't so worried when it was him going into the Capitol - and some mocking voice in the back of his head recalls Sarah's observation that Davey's not much for self-preservation lately - but watching his sister and friend head into the lion's den is agony. 

He's lost too much already, and if this goes sideways, not only could he lose Jack, but now he could lose his sister and his closest friend too. That's not the sort of pain he's sure he can survive intact. 

The captain at the head of the group suddenly throws up a hand to stop them. "Union One at destination," she announces over the comms. Then to the team, "Remember your orders. Priority one is getting any prisoners out of that facility. You do not wait, and you do not deviate. This is a grab and go, folks. Recon at the transport. If you do not report in by the appointed time, you will be presumed MIA." 

She gives them a moment to let this sink in, and Davey leans forward, gripping the gold band around his wrist tightly. The captain nods and then gestures two others over to help her move the tunnel grate aside. She climbs out first, rifle raised and scoping the street where the entrance lets out into the city, and she keeps watch as the others filter out behind her. 

As soon as the last of the team is out of the tunnel, they fall into formation and start moving. Davey knows the plan, and he tracks their directions in his head as they go. According to the Capitol insider, the tunnel lets out less than two blocks from the location where Jack is supposedly being held. The streets are empty at this time of night, although the endless arrays of holo-screens and lights provide them little cover. 

The team makes quick work of the pair of peacekeepers standing guard outside the compound doors, stealthily taking them down without giving them a chance to raise the alarm. Not that silence really matters because now comes the part where they lose all element of surprise, and Davey braces himself for it. A soldier darts forward and attaches a small circular disc to the door, just below the handle, and the rest of them turn their backs. With a beep, the disc explodes. 

"Go, go, go," the captain urges, yanking the broken door open. Soldiers pour into the building at the same time that an alarm goes off, the shrieking claxon deafeningly loud in the command room as it blares from every camera feed simultaneously. 

From that point, it's hard to follow all of what's happening as the team breaks off into pairs and charges down halls. Gunfire sounds as they encounter the building security staff, but no one hesitates in pulling the trigger as they press forward. Davey hears someone cry out in pain, and he can't tell who, but whoever it was must not be too severely injured because none of the cameras drop to the ground. 

Although Davey is scanning all of the screens for a glimpse of Jack as the pairs clear rooms, he can't help but pay more attention to Sarah's camera. She and Spot are paired, and they move with surprising efficiency for all that neither of them has real military experience. They're at the end of their first hall and turning into the second when a voice barks over the comms. 

"I'm in the security office," a male reports. A moment later, the building alarm cuts off, and Davey's ears ring at the absence. "Got camera feeds in the building." On one of the holo-screen squares, Davey sees the array of videos that show different sections of the building. A download bar is visible in the upper corner as the soldier initiates a copy of the server memory as he was ordered. "Looks like two captives in the west-2 hall, one in south-4, one in north-1. Hard to make out this one, no lights inside, but might be one in this room in north-5." 

Several soldiers comm in, relaying which sections they're closest to and are going to search. Sarah's voice comes at one point, "We're close, we'll check north-5 on the way to 1." 

It only takes Spot and Sarah another minute and three more dead peacekeepers to find the hall labeled north-5. They check rooms as they go, shooting locks and door handles off when needed. Finally, Spot opens a door to reveal a pitch-black room. Both of them flip on the flashlights at their shoulders, and when the image comes into focus, Davey's stomach plummets. 

There's a figure cowered in the far corner of the room, curled with their back pressed to the wall. They are pale and frighteningly emaciated, with thin white medical clothes hanging limply off their body, and a hard, white mask covers the lower half of their face. The moment the flashlight beams fill the room, they look up in horror. "Racer," Davey and Spot both gasp out at the same time. 

The young Brooklyn Tribute shudders and attempts to push himself even further into the wall at his back. He can't move his mouth with the mask - no, muzzle, Davey realizes with a twist of nausea - but he's immediately moaning and whimpering as he tries to retreat. As Racer squeezes himself back into the corner, Davey can see there are white casts of some kind on his hands as well, encasing them up passed the wrist in the same hard carbon, so his hands are trapped flat and immobile.

"Racer, Gods," Spot breathes, and his rifle hits the ground with a clatter. On Sarah's camera, Davey sees Spot half-sprint across the small, cramped room, and he falls to his knees in front of Racer's huddled shape. "Racer, baby, it's me," Spot says shakily. "It's Spot. Youse okay. Gods, I thought you was dead. I gotcha."

(Davey only partially notices when a voice over the radio comms announces, "Got two here in west-2, we're heading back to recon, could use some extra protection.")

Racer's eyes are squinted almost shut against the flashlight on his face, and he continues to shiver. There's nothing but panicked desperation in his gaze, trying to make himself as small as possible.

"Hey, Racer, look at me," says Spot, and even over the camera mic, the fear in his voice is evident, eclipsing the initial relief. "Tony, c'mon, s'just me." He reaches out, and Racer flails, slapping his hands away with a frantic noise. The motion must hit the flashlight on Spot's shoulder because the light dances around in a wild arc, and Racer suddenly freezes. 

Gray-blue eyes wide, Racer tentatively reaches toward Spot. Through Sarah's camera, they see him paw awkwardly with his casted hands at the flashlight on Spot's shoulder. It takes a couple of attempts before he can direct the beam up toward Spot's face, casting it in harsh, sideways shadows. Racer gives a broken little sound and collapses against Spot's chest. 

"It's okay, Tony, I gotcha," Spot murmurs reassuringly. "I'm gonna getcha outta here, okay?" 

Racer pulls back and starts batting at the muzzle, the carbon surfaces scraping together loudly, and he gazes at Spot imploringly. "Yeah, c'mere, let's get that off ya," Spot says, pushing up onto his knees and reaching for Racer's head. It takes him a minute of searching to find the latches for the muzzle's harness, and the release is so small he has to use the tip of his knife to disengage it. 

The moment the muzzle falls free, Racer takes in a deep, shuddering breath and curls against Spot's chest again. "Sean," he gasps out, dazed and incredulous. So close to the mic on Spot's vest, his voice is unnaturally loud and hoarse from disuse. "Sean, I can't hear. Can't hear nothin'. My ears, they took - I can't hear." 

"Oh, gods," Spot hisses. "Youse okay, Tony, I'mma getcha outta here." He glances over his shoulder at Sarah. "Watch my back, he ain't gonna be able to walk on his own like this." Sarah nods, and Spot scoops Racer into his arms. The blond yelps a startled noise before he tucks himself tighter against Spot's shoulder. The command room is filled with the sound of Racer's juddery sobs coming through the camera mic.

Davey winces and takes a steadying breath, fighting against the wave of sickness threatening his stomach. The Racer that he first met in the Capitol a few weeks ago was loud and confident and clever, all lazy swagger wrapped around cool resolve. Davey doesn't even want to imagine what took him from that to this shivering, terrified skeleton—although the muzzle and darkness give him a vague idea.

But he's alive, and that's better than they thought he was for the last couple of days.

Before Davey can give too much thought to it, a new voice cuts above the others. "N-B-2 located," someone announces in a crisp bark, and Davey's head snaps up at the codename. 

It takes him a second to find the right feed, gaze darting across them all until he spots one midway down the holo-screen that shows a large, blindingly white room arranged around a healing chamber. There's a body suspended in the clear gel, face obstructed by the breathing mask, but Davey's heart leaps because he'd know that figure anywhere, even without the fact that the right arm ends above the elbow in a sleek, metal attachment plate.

"Jack," Davey whispers, voice catching, and he leans forward against the desk like it will somehow help him get closer to Jack. 

"Status report," Crutchie demands into the comm line. 

One of the soldiers crosses over to the healing chamber, and Davey catches a glimpse of the chamber readouts as the soldier looks them over. "Very heavily sedated, but vitals are stable. Disengaging stasis now."

"Good," the captain's voice comes now, panting with exertion but firm. On her feed, Davey can see her embroiled in a firefight with a few peacekeepers. "Get him out of here and report to recon. Now." 

As the soldiers acknowledge, Davey slumps in his seat, a sudden wave of exhaustion sweeping through him. Crutchie squeezes his shoulder and grins. "They got him, Dave," he says encouragingly. "They got him. And looks like your sister and Spot's already back to the tunnels." Davey follows his gaze, and sure enough, Sarah and Spot, with Racer bundled in his arms, are trekking back through the dark tunnel toward the hover. "They did it. They're comin' home."

Davey watches the soldiers lifting Jack's unconscious body out of the drained healing chamber, and he's so helplessly relieved that he doesn't even care that everyone in the room will see; he buries his face in his hands and cries. 

Despite the fatigue that seeps all the way down to his bones, Davey can't rest. He spends the next few hours in a state of constant restless energy. After Crutchie promises to keep him updated on the rescue team's progress, Davey takes off into the base to find ways to burn off the itch of anxiety under his skin. He throws himself into menial tasks where he can, anything to stay moving and feel useful.

Katherine finds him in the kitchens helping the staff unpack and organize the latest delivery of rations. Although there's a pinched line of concern in her brow, she smiles. "They did it," she says in place of a greeting. "They had to split into two groups, smaller hovers so they can avoid detection better. Jack and your sister are on the first one, and they're on their way back from Greenwich base now." 

"Whoever your contacts in the Capitol are, may all the gods bless them," Davey vows sincerely. 

Katherine's smile turns just the tiniest bit sly at the corners, and she steps close to whisper in his ear, "I'll give Denton your thanks." 

Davey nearly drops the crate he's carrying, eyes widening as his brain helpfully supplies memories of the colorful Games announcer who conducts all of the televised interviews and commentates for the Games. "You're joking."

Eyes dancing across the room, Katherine hooks a hand around his elbow and nods toward the door. Davey deposits his supply crate on the closest counter and lets her pull him out of the kitchen. Neither of them speaks until they reach the council conference room, and she shuts the door securely behind them. 

"This information can't leave this room," Katherine says intently. "Only a few people know. We've been keeping the information confidential so we don't put him at risk in case there's a leak in Union somewhere. Some of the others didn't want you to know, they think you're too - emotionally compromised," she grimaces apologetically at the term, "but I think you deserve to know."

Davey frowns, her implications sinking through. "They think I'm gonna get worked up and say something stupid," he concludes. 

"You are the public face of Union," she points out. "You are the one being broadcast all over the channels. There is an inherent risk in that of you letting slip something, even by accident. But I trust you, and it's not fair that you're supposed to be a part of this council but they still keep you out of some things."

Taking a deep breath, Davey pushes that anger and frustration aside for another time. Instead, he says, "But Denton? Seriously?"

"He's the one who recruited me," Katherine admits. "Before I was an ambassador when I was just studying to work in broadcast like him. It's actually why I became an ambassador. Before everything with you, Union was trying to build up a network of Capitol people who could travel to the Districts without raising suspicions, so we had a way to communicate with the people and coordinate them."

"That's why you were always acting," Davey says, pieces slotting into place inside his head. Her brow furrows in question. "I could always see it. You always acted all chirpy and Capitol-y, but there was this weird fakeness to it sometimes. Like there was a different person just wearing a mask. That's why, isn't it?"

Katherine smiles ruefully. "I had no idea what to expect when I got to Manhattan," she confesses. "And then there you are throwing yourself into the fire to save your little brother, and I just - I suddenly understood what Denton tried to tell me. That the Districts are full of good, incredible people who were suffering for no reason, in ways I couldn't imagine. We never planned to push Union into the spotlight so soon, but you, the way you spoke out, it gave us the leverage we needed to get the people really involved." 

"And that's why Denton goaded me in the interviews," Davey goes on, awed. "I knew it. I knew he was doing it on purpose, trying to provoke me into saying things against the Capitol."

"Like I said, the way you weren't afraid to speak out was a great motivator for the people," the Capitol woman says. "There's a reason they call you the Mouth of the People." 

Davey wrinkles his nose. "I still hate that name." Katherine laughs, soft and warm. Davey cards a hand into his hair, struggling to realign his worldview around this new piece of information. 

That explains how Union was able to gather so much about the Games and the plans in the Capitol. Denton would be deeply embroiled in a lot of that as the face of the Capitol broadcast system. Any news would pass through him at some point, even just stuff that was purposefully kept from the broadcasts. It was probably him who knew enough about the Quell Arena to let Union plan the breakout. 

"That's why I thought those Old Tongue runes looked familiar," Davey says with a soft laugh of comprehension. "His tattoo." The announcer has a line of runes tattooed down the left side of his face, a single line that stretches from his hairline to his jaw. "It's Old Tongue, isn't it?"

Katherine smirks. "It says 'truth and integrity,' apparently," she replies. "So few people in the world can read the Old Tongue anymore that no one knows. Everyone else thinks it's just creative shapes." 

Snorting in amusement, Davey shakes his head. He doesn't get the chance to say anything more before the digiscreen in his jacket pocket beeps, and he whips it out hastily. A text comm from Crutchie blinks on the screen. 

>They just passed Brighton. ETA one hour.

Davey's heart jumps into his throat, and he jams his digiscreen back into his pocket. When he glances up, he sees Katherine doing the same thing; apparently, Davey's not the only one who's been asking for updates. "Come on," Katherine says with a knowing smile. "We can wait down in med for them." 

Both of them walk at a brisk pace, hurrying to get to the med ward even though they've still got a while before the hover will arrive. The ward is buzzing with activity when they get there, people scrambling to make sure that everything is in order. Davey knows that the plan was to split the group into two for the return, the injured coming back first, while the second group will follow a day later.

"David," Esther says, emerging from a closet with her arms full of bedding. "There you are. Lend us a hand, would you, dear?" 

Davey immediately jumps into the familiar busy work, grateful for something to occupy his time and take his mind off watching the clocks. The healers are laying beds and organizing supplies, spreading out what they know they'll need based on a report sent by the captain that lists the team's injuries. Katherine doesn't bat an eye at joining him, and the part of Davey's brain that will probably never stop thinking of her as a Capitol person is stunned for a moment, but he gives her a grateful smile as she passes him another stack of linens.

The busy work manages to keep Davey sufficiently distracted until the clatter of heavy boots and voices draw the attention of everyone in the medical ward. A handful of soldiers stumble into the room, a few supporting others who are injured, and it only takes Davey a moment to pick out a familiar face. "Sarah!" 

His sister breaks away from the others to throw herself into his arms, and the twins cling to each other. "I hate you so much," Davey gasps into her short, choppy hair. She smells like grime and sweat and gunpowder.

"I know," Sarah answers. "But it's okay. We're all okay." 

"You're not hurt?" Davey asks, stepping back to survey her. 

"I'm fine," she assures him. "Worst I got was a bruise from tripping over a rock in the tunnels." She squeezes his hands. "I mean it, Dave, we're all okay. And we got him, just like I promised." 

Davey's stomach flips over, and he casts a glance around the room hopefully, but the only figures occupying the seats and beds are soldiers. "They got him in his own room," Sarah says, tugging at his hand. "C'mon." 

"Is he awake?" Davey asks as she leads him out of the central medical ward and around the corner to a corridor of separate rooms. 

"Not yet, they kept him sedated," Sarah says. "They wanted to keep him out until he was somewhere safe, ya know? And Mush was saying he wants to run some tests because he was hooked up to a lot of tubes in that healing chamber, and they don't know what was in all of them yet." She grips his hand tighter when Davey makes an anxious noise. "But he's alive, Davey. He looks good, really." 

A Union soldier is posted in front of the door at the end of the hall, but she simply nods and steps aside, opening the door for them to pass. Davey barely thinks to murmur a quick thanks to her as he slips into the private medical room. 

These rooms are smaller than the main medical ward, designed to house singular patients, usually those who are so badly injured that they need extra attention or the ones who have contracted an illness and need to be quarantined to avoid spreading it. A single bed fills the center of the room, and an array of holo-screens mounted on the wall are tracking every vital piece of information about the patient in real time. 

Davey's eyes, though, are only for the occupant of the bed. If he didn't know better, he'd never think that Jack was essentially a prisoner of war for the last month. He looks peaceful and healthy, his tanned skin unblemished, and no signs of hollowness to his cheeks that might suggest hunger. Obviously, the Capitol was keeping him in a better state than they did Racer. Davey imagines it's because they wanted him to look good if they needed him for more broadcasts. 

Healer Muschato, nicknamed Mush for short, glances over his shoulder from where he's surveying the holo-screens. "Hi David," he greets, inclining his head respectfully the way so many people in Union do, no matter that it makes Davey uncomfortable. "He's doing good," he adds, nodding toward the bed. "The Capitol was at least good hosts, 'cause they've kept him damn healthy. They gave him anotha sedative not too long ago, so he'll pro'lly be out a few more hours, but he's good." 

"Thank you," Davey says gratefully. He approaches the side of the bed with faltering steps and reaches out to flatten his palm over Jack's chest. There's a thin square of plastic there, a heart monitor that Davey can see beating away on the screens, but he needs to feel it himself. Closing his eyes, Davey tracks the slow, steady thump beneath his palm, and days of tension uncoil so fast it leaves him swaying on his feet. 

"I'm staying," Davey says, glancing up at the healer. It's not even remotely a question, and the healer knows it, just nodding in acquiescence. 

"If anything happens, or soon as he starts wakin' up, tap that comm-link on the wall there," Mush says, and then he leaves them alone in the medical room. 

Davey traces his fingers along Jack's features, outlining the shape of his face and the sweep of his collarbones and the lay of muscle on his left arm to reassure himself that this is real. His gaze falls on the flat, steel disc that caps off Jack's right bicep, and he frowns. "They took his arm," he says coldly. 

Sarah's hovering just a few feet behind, giving him some space, but she says, "It was probably stored in there somewhere, and they just didn't see it to grab it." 

It makes sense, and Davey doesn't blame the retrieval team. They were on a strict time limit, and it's only logical that their first priority would've been getting Jack out, not searching for a piece of tech that can be replaced. Still, Davey can't help but feel indignant on Jack's behalf, angry that the Capitol would take back the part of him they'd already taken from him once. 

"Get some rest, Davey," Sarah says, setting a hand gently on his shoulder. "You're dead on your feet. You should rest up so you're in better shape when he wakes up." Davey is about to protest that he's not going to leave so he can take a nap when Sarah drags a chair out from the corner, nodding toward the seat. "I'm gonna go let the folks yell at me before I gotta go to the debrief," she adds. 

"I'm still mad at you," Davey says when she turns to go. "What you did, that was cruel." Sarah drops her gaze apologetically. "But thank you for bringing him back to me." 

Sarah smiles warmly. "We're Jacobses. We take care of our family," she says. They embrace one more time before she leaves the room, shutting the door behind her with a click. 

The moment they're alone, Davey scoots his chair as close to the side of the bed as he can, his knees knocking painfully against the support bars beneath it, and he folds Jack's remaining hand between both of his. "I got you, Jacky," he whispers to the unconscious man, voice thick with emotion. He's too exhausted to cry, his eyes burnt out and tired, but it doesn't stop the knot in his throat. "I got you back, Jacky. And I'm never letting you out of my sight again. You and me together, just like we promised."

Davey pushes up on his elbows to press a lingering kiss to Jack's forehead and then settles down into his seat. Keeping Jack's hand wrapped in his, Davey lays his head down on the tangle of fingers and closes his eyes. He's been awake and charging around like a ball of terrified anxiety for almost twenty-four hours straight now. Maybe a quick nap isn't such a bad idea. 

He's not sure whether Jack can hear him, but just in case, right before nodding off, he whispers, "I love you, Jack Kelly. And swear it on my life, I'm never losing you again."

In the end, Davey only gets an hour of fitful sleep before his brain roughly shoves him back to consciousness. He gasps for air around the ghosts of his nightmares, and his gaze pans over Jack to reassure himself the other man is still there. Tightening his grip on Jack's hand, Davey sighs and slumps back in the chair.

He needs to talk, needs to get these horrors trapped inside his chest out, and there's only one person he's ever felt comfortable sharing this darkness with. 

"I don't know if you can hear me, Jack," Davey says softly, "but I just - I miss talking to you. You're the only one who ever really understands, you know? You make me feel safe." He exhales and props his elbows on the edge of the mattress. "Did they tell you what he did to Manhattan? I went to see, and it's so much worse than I thought. Everything is just - gone. Burned to dust. 

"I can't stop having nightmares about it. It's just - All the people we knew, all the families and the kids, burning. And I can't help feel like it's my fault. I started all this, and I know Pulitzer did it just to punish me, and if I'd never opened my mouth, Manhattan would still be alive."

Dipping his head, Davey presses his forehead to their twined fingers and swallows around the knot in his throat. "You know, in the first Games, I kept a count of how many people I killed. There were five - Timothy from Bronx, William from Richmond, Gregory from Harlem, and the Delancey brothers from Brooklyn. I killed five kids just like us, and I never let myself forget that.

"But since then, I've lost count. How many more lives are my fault? And it was already bad enough when it was the rioters and protestors out in the Districts, but then he Blazed Manhattan. That's almost a million people, Jacky. I got the blood of more 'an a million folks on my hands, and I gotta think - doesn't that make me even worse than Pulitzer now?"

His eyes are still too dry for tears, but Davey doubles over in harsh, racking sobs that claw through his chest like razors. It feels like it takes hours to get his breathing back under control. By the end of it, Davey's exhausted and lightheaded, ready to pass out. 

"I need you, Jack," he breathes against their hands. "I need you to tell me I'm still doing the right thing. Because on that broadcast, when you said everything I was already thinking - I can't live with myself if it's true. I need you to believe in me because sometimes I don't believe in myself anymore." 

And then, the same way he's always done whenever the darkness gets too heavy, Davey crawls up onto the bed and tucks himself against Jack's side. He has to be careful, squeezing himself in beneath Jack's arm without disturbing any of the IVs attached to him. Finally, Davey settles his cheek on Jack's ribs and lets the sound of a steady heartbeat trick him into thinking it's just like any other night.

Davey drifts without ever actually falling asleep again, zoning out for a few minutes before the smallest sounds jerk him back to reality. Outside of the med room, he can hear the rest of the base going about their business, but no one comes in to check on him or Jack. Davey's not surprised; Jack is the picture of health in comparison to the soldiers that rescued him, so obviously they need the most medical attention. Not that Davey minds. He's not exactly in the mood for dealing with people right now. 

No sooner has the thought crossed his mind than Davey's digiscreen chimes to notify him of a comm. Davey considers ignoring it for a minute - whatever work Union needs from him can wait until Jack wakes up - but he grudgingly sits up and grabs the tablet from the side table. A text comm is blinking in the corner, and Davey opens it curiously. 

>SConlon: check in with me when you wake up?

Heart jumping, Davey hastily sends out a video comm request. It only takes a minute for the comm to connect, and a video feed opens up on Davey's tablet. On the other side of the screen, Spot looks exhausted and worn, but he manages a weary smile. "Hey, sorry, didn't mean to wake ya," says Spot. 

"I was already awake," Davey responds, shrugging. "Can't sleep. How are you? You're okay? And Racer?"

"We're gonna be okay," Spot agrees. "Racer's a bit banged up, but they got him tubed up on food and water, so they figure he'll pull through quick. Been keepin' him asleep much as they can, let him heal a bit more that way." Spot swallows, his gaze darting away for a second. "He's in rough shape, but he's gonna make it."

Davey exhales his relief, and a wave of giddiness follows in its wake. "He's alive." 

And Spot flashes a quick smile, his features softening. "He's alive," he echoes gratefully. The Brooklyn man cards a hand through his hair. "How's Jack?" 

"Still sleeping," Davey says. "They wanted to make sure he stayed under until he was somewhere stable. Mush said he'll wake up sometime in the next few hours. I was kind of surprised they didn't send you and Racer back with the first hover." 

"Figured since neither us was actually injured, was better," Spot explains. "'Sides, it meant we could get some water and medicine in Racer soon as possible 'stead of having to wait 'til we got back to base." He lets out a ragged breath. "I mean, the kid's always been skinny, but fuck, Dave, he don't look like he's ate in weeks. And they had him in a Gods-damned muzzle like a fuckin' dog." 

Indignant rage swells inside Davey's chest. Was that what Pulitzer did to punish them? He threw Racer into a blacked-out room with no food, a muzzle on his face, and his hands bound to the point he couldn't use them. And the way Racer'd recoiled in terror when he thought it was the peacekeepers coming for him... "I heard it on the radios," Davey admits. "What Racer said about his ears."

Spot's face tightens darkly. "Yeah, they're done for. He won't tell me what they did to him, but the medics say there's no fixing 'em. Some part inside's broke and it's not the sorta thing that can be healed." 

"What about replacements?" asks Davey, brow furrowed. "They make cybernetic replacements for that. Would those work for him?" 

"Pro'lly, if we could get our hands on 'em and find a surgeon good enough to do it," Spot says wryly. Davey winces in understanding. Resources like that aren't exactly something that Union has readily available. The only place you can get things like that - like the prosthetic that replaced Jack's arm or the surgeon who repaired Mayer's spine - is in the Capitol. 

"I'm sorry," Davey says sincerely.

Spot shrugs. "He's alive," he repeats, and there's no missing the wash of warmth and relief that slides over the older man's face. "That's better than I was thinkin' for the last week or so. I'll take it." He clears his throat. "Oh, speakin' of folks we thought was dead-"

Davey straightens up, eyes widening. "Did they find others?"

The background starts jostling in a way that tells Davey that Spot is walking somewhere. "Looks like Pulitzer wanted folks thinking all the Newsboys was dead 'cause Racer ain't the only one he lied about. Must've doctored those photos to make 'em look dead. They found Finch, that scrawny guy from Richmond," Spot says. "I'd letcha say hi but he's in surgery. Got a couple broke bones, but the healers think they're gonna get him fixed up alright soon as they can set them. And then there's one other person, here. Just a sec." 

The video blurs and distorts as Spot passes over the digiscreen. As soon as the figure on the white cot becomes visible, Davey feels something wrap tight as a noose around his ribcage. Long black curls are shorn almost to the scalp, and above hollowed cheeks, there are pale scars where there were once sparkling diamonds, but the woman still smiles when she holds the screen up for a better look. "Miss Medda," Davey gasps out incredulously. 

Last he knew, the Capitol stylist had been arrested by peacekeepers, and dragged away to an unknown fate for her part in Union's plot to help Davey and Jack escape the Arena. She hadn't been assassinated right away like their Mentor Kloppmann was, but Davey's been too scared to hope. Now that she's there in front of him, relief would've taken his legs from under him if he wasn't already sitting. 

"Hi, sugar," Medda says fondly. Her voice is hoarse and thin, but her shadowed eyes brighten with affection. "It's so good to see you again." 

"You're alive," says Davey, a knot of emotion lodged painfully in his chest. "I was so scared. I thought-" He breaks off when his voice cracks, dragging a wrist over his eyes even though he still can't muster any tears to ease the burn. 

"I know, sugar, but I'm okay," she says. "And I'll see you soon, I promise. And I want you to know, I'm so, so proud of you." 

The burn in his eyes wells up anew, and Davey offers a shaky smile. "I can't wait to see you again," he says. "I've missed you so much. And you still give the best hugs of anyone I've ever known." 

Medda laughs warmly. "I've plenty of hugs saved up for you then," she vows. "You and Jack both. I missed you too, honey, and I'll see you in a few days." She blows a kiss at the screen before handing the tablet back to Spot. 

"Thank you," Davey says to the Brooklyn man. 

Spot chuckles. "Wasn't doin' it for you. That woman told me if she didn't get to talk to you when I comm'd, she'd take it outta my hide. She's damn scarier 'an anything I ever faced in the Games." Davey can hear Medda's laugh ring out from behind Spot. "I'm gonna go check on Racer again, but we'll see you soon. Hang in there, boss." 

The video feed cuts and Davey relaxes with a slow breath. Smiling, he looks over at Jack's sleeping face and squeezes his hand. "They're okay, Jacky," he says. "We didn't lose all of them. They're okay." 

Davey only gets a few minutes to relax before another comm chimes on his screen. This one makes him frown, but he obligingly taps the video comm. The screen fills with an image of the council room, the Union council seated around their usual table. "David," Commander Roosevelt greets, nodding to the screen. "We're debriefing. I know you're dealing with personal matters right now, but I thought you might want to be involved." 

"Thanks," says Davey, nodding. He can see a few of the other council members making sour faces - and it brings to mind Katherine's remark that there are people on the council who think he's not fit for the position he holds among them - but he couldn't care less right now.

"So far, the Capitol hasn't put out news about the raid," Roosevelt announces to the room at large, stroking his bushy mustache thoughtfully. "We expected them to use it as an opportunity to turn public opinion on us, make us look like violent criminals, but there's been nothing yet." 

Katherine clears her throat. "My guess? The president doesn't want the people to find out that we beat him. He's been trying to make us look like disorganized anarchists. Us being able to execute a well-planned, successful attack inside his own city - that just makes him look weak." 

"Because he is," Davey says fiercely. "He's underestimated us, just like he always does, and that's what's gonna bring him down in the end." 

"Glad to hear you're back on board, Mr. Jacobs," one of the council members, an older man from Brighton, says drolly. "You weren't so keen last time we spoke." Davey's jaw tightens furiously, and he's suddenly very grateful that he's on the opposite side of the base from these people. If he could reach through the digiscreen, he might just clock the man in his smug face. 

"I've given up everything for this cause," Davey snarls with ill-repressed rage. "I've nearly died more than once, I've faced down Pulitzer, and I've watched my home - my people - be burned to ash. I've sacrificed almost everything in my life to take up this job I never asked for in the first place, and I've done it without a fight, and I've done it well. So I dare you to judge me for not wanting to lose what little I have left." 

A ringing silence follows his outburst, and Davey sees the figures in the council room shuffling in their seats awkwardly. The Brighton man is looking at his hands like they are abruptly the most interesting thing on the planet. Katherine is flicking through something on her digiscreen, but she glances toward the camera just long enough for Davey to see the small, satisfied smile that dashes across her lips before she's abruptly business again. 

"In any case," the Capitol woman says, "we should turn our focus to the next step in the plan." Davey knows all too clearly what his part in the plan is; he will continue his role as the Mouth of the People in earnest, but now, instead of encouraging them to keep hope, it's to urge them to fight. He's known this since the beginning, so he simply sits back and listens to the rest of the council meeting with only a few comments, watching the digiscreen without ever taking his hand from Jack's.

This time Davey does manage to nod off for a minute before he's woken again. It takes his sleep-addled brain a second to figure out what woke him, but once he does, he bolts upright hopefully. Jack shifts under the blanket, eyes rolling restlessly as he groans.

Davey holds onto his wits just long enough to reach out and jab the comm button for Mush before he gives Jack his undivided attention. Hopping up to perch on the edge of the mattress, Davey cradles Jack's cheek in one hand. "Jacky?" he prompts softly. "Jack, can you hear me?"

Jack grunts, and after a moment, he manages a slow, dragging blink. They're unfocused and disoriented, but when those familiar gold-flecked brown eyes land on Davey, he chokes a sob. "Hey pal, welcome back," Davey says, struggling to talk through the emotion stuck in his throat. "How you feel?"

Something hardens in Jack's gaze, and he moves before Davey can react. Snarling, Jack lunges forward aggressively. The momentum sends them both tumbling off the bed, all of the air crushed out of Davey's body when Jack's weight lands on top of him on the hard floor. Med ward machines shriek as the wires and tubes attached to Jack rip loose, but neither of them is paying attention to that. 

Jack straddles Davey's chest, hand closing around Davey's throat with a twisted, furious growl on his lips. "This's your fault!" Jack seethes, eyes sparking. "Ya killed 'em, all 'em. Why?!"

Davey doesn't even have the thought to fight back, still scrambling to make sense of the situation. His head is spinning - from shock, from lack of oxygen, from bashing it against the floor. This can't be happening. This is Jack. Jack would never hurt him. 

Except, then Jack leans forward, pitching more of his weight onto the hand at Davey's neck and completely cutting off his air supply. Davey's animal instincts kick in, and he flails, scrabbling to shove Jack off him. Jack might only have one arm, but he's always been stronger than Davey, broad and muscular in contrast to Davey's lean figure. And right now, Jack's in peak, healing-chamber-perfect condition while Davey's running on fumes. 

Gasping for air, Davey tries to buck his hips, and he grips Jack's arm with both hands in an attempt to push him away. "Ja-" Davey rasps desperately, but he doesn't make it farther than that before he runs out of oxygen. Black spots are gathering in his eyes now, and Davey claws weakly at Jack's grip. 

As soon as Davey's hand covers Jack's, the other man freezes, brow furrowed. His eyes dart from Davey's hands to his face and back in confusion. Something twists inside his gaze. Davey can't make sense of it through the fog filling his head, but he sees when something in Jack shifts. "Wha - Davey?" Then all at once, Jack retreats, shoving himself away and skittering several feet backward. 

Davey sucks in a frantic breath, curling onto his side as he works to make his lungs cooperate. Meanwhile, Jack hunches in on himself, fingers knotted into his hair. "No, no, no, why?" he moans, eyes screwed up like he's in pain. Davey can only gawk at him through streaming eyes. "What did - my head, ah! I don't-"

The ward door blows open with a crash as Mush tears into the room with two other medics on his heels. Davey barely has a chance to see the healer and the medical injection gun in his hand before Jack is moving again, lurching out and grabbing the healer's wrist. "M'sorry," Jack babbles as he tears the medicine out of Mush's surprised grip. "M'sorry, Dave." Jack's gaze lands on Davey one more time, eyes a chaos of emotion, before he presses the injector to his own throat and pulls the trigger. 

"Gods above," Mush hisses as Jack slumps into an uncoordinated heap on the floor. The other two medics are crowding Davey, checking to make sure he's all right, but Davey can't take his eyes off Jack. Mush kneels and takes the younger man's pulse with a frown. "He's okay, it was just a sedative," Mush says when he catches Davey looking. 

"What-?" Davey starts, but the word slams through his aching throat like a boulder being pressed through a straw. Coughing just hurts more, spasming his tender neck muscles, and he doubles over. 

"Easy, sweetheart, easy." Davey startles to realize one of the two healers is his mother, her hand smoothing over his spine as he gasps for air. 

"I'm so sorry, Davey," Mush says, expression stricken when Davey finally manages to look up at him again. The healer is white with panic. "We - we should get you out of here. I shouldn't have-" 

Esther hooks an arm around Davey's back. "Take care of Jack," Esther instructs calmly. "I'll take care of David." Davey's legs shake underneath him as Esther hauls him up, supporting most of his weight as she steers him toward the door. Davey can't tear his eyes away from Jack's face, slack and unassuming, as Mush gestures for the third medic to help him lift Jack back onto the bed. 

What the hells did Pulitzer do to Jack?

The small medics' office feels strangely stifling even though there are only two of them in there. Davey sits in the hard chair as his mother conducts a thorough inspection of his neck. He can't stop trembling, his body thrumming with a blend of adrenaline and shock. His throat still feels like it's being crushed, a phantom pressure that shortens his breaths to shallow panting.

Esther tips his chin up with a finger, and then she clicks her tongue as she smooths something cold and oily over his throat. "This'll help with the pain," she murmurs. "And this," she presses a packet of frozen seed into his palm, "will help with the swelling."

Davey nods silently - wincing when even that small movement jars the throbbing muscles in his neck - and holds the chilled pack to his throat. Esther's eyes are sad, and she brushes his fringe off his forehead before ducking to press a dry kiss there. "It'll be okay, love. We'll figure this out."

Before Davey can respond, the door to the office opens, and Katherine barrels in, a flurry of red curls falling loose from their stiff knot. Her eyes are wide and panicked when they land on Davey, and she's across the room in two strides. "Davey, are you okay?" She doesn't give him a chance to answer before she seizes his wrist and pulls it aside so she can see. "Oh Gods."

"He'll be fine," Esther says reassuringly. Davey tugs his hand free to press the frozen pack against his throat again. "Nothing broken, just deep tissue bruises. The medicine will kick in soon to start healing it. He shouldn't talk for a few hours, and he'll be sore for a couple days, but that's it."

"What happened?" Commander Roosevelt asks, following Katherine through the door. Directly behind him is Crutchie, limping on his prosthetic leg. 

"We're not sure," Esther says, lips thinning. "Jack seemed fine before, but we were more worried about patching up the soldiers. We ran basic scans but didn't find anything. Muschato is going over them again to see what we missed." 

Roosevelt strokes his mustache thoughtfully. "And if there isn't something? Is it possible that Mr. Kelly acted on his own volition?"

Davey opens his mouth to interject, but Esther speaks over him. "Honestly, Commander, I don't think so," she says. "The way he reacted-" She frowns and crosses to the holo-screen on the wall. Tapping it, she brings up the security footage of the med ward where Jack is sleeping. She swipes a hand so the footage rewinds, and then starts it right as Jack lunges out of bed onto Davey. 

"Gods above," Katherine breathes, horrified, as Jack pins Davey to the ground with a vicious snarl. 

On the holo-screen, Jack stiffens, his gaze twitching, and from this angle, Davey can finally see what caught his attention. It wasn't their hands that distracted Jack; it was Davey's wrists. His union bands. 

The Jack on the screen flings himself back, recoiling from Davey like he's been burned, and then claws at his head. "See, he stopped before we arrived," Esther says. "It was like he didn't realize what he was doing. And the way he was clutching his head, like it hurt him-" 

"Someone tampered with his head," Katherine concludes, and she sets her hand on Davey's shoulder in a hollow gesture of reassurance. 

"I found it," Mush declares breathlessly, muttering an apology as he elbows around the Commander into the room. "What we missed the first time. I found it. Or them. There were two, but we broke the one getting it out. Gods, I was thinkin' if we'd find anything, it'd be from whatever meds they were pumping him full'a, but this? No wonder we didn't see it. Things are tiny, was embedded one in each temple." Mush holds up a clear plastic box with something small and metallic inside. "Crutch, I ain't picking up any signals off it, but can you-?"

"Yeah, gimme," Crutchie agrees, grabbing the box and dropping it on the tabletop. He pulls his digiscreen from his pocket and holds it over the box. One hand runs scans and searches across the screen faster than the rest of them can read, and the blond bites his lip in concentration. "S'not giving off external signals. Not transmitting out. Looks like it's not even powered on. If it was doin' anything, must've turned off when you pulled it out. Or maybe when you broke its match."

"So, we have no idea what it was doing to Jack?" Katherine asks. 

Crutchie cards a hand into his hair and scowls. "I could try and turn it back on, but it'll take me a bit to figure out how it works," he says. "Could see if one of the guys in tech could help me. For now, looking at these specs-" 

He swipes a hand, and the image on his tablet transfers to the holo-screen on the wall, a photograph and an x-ray side-by-side. The metal thing looks almost like an insect to Davey. A tiny circular disc in the middle is ringed with thin steel arms ending in microscopic hooks, presumably to hold it in place. 

Katherine gasps aloud, her hands jumping to cover her mouth. "Oh Gods, no."

"Miss Plumber," Roosevelt prompts. 

"Sorry, I - I've heard of these before, just rumors, but I didn't know they'd ever actually built one," she says, face pale and voice shaking. "The president has a man he uses for - persuasion. An expert at torture and manipulation. And he's already very good at it, but he had an idea for a device to help him."

Davey opens his mouth to ask, but his throat stings and reminds him he's not supposed to be talking. Instead, he points to the screen and raises an eyebrow questioningly. 

Licking her lips, Katherine nods. "They called it the Spider," she says tightly. "It was just an idea when I heard about it, so it might be different than the original design now that it works. But from what I heard, the plan was to use a combination of chemical stimulants and Siren-song frequencies to - influence a person's thoughts."

"Siren-song?" Esther asks. 

"It's a bit like hypnosis," Crutchie chips in helpfully. "An electronic frequency outside human hearin' that essentially syncs up with the brain. Combine that frequency with a message, and it sorta slips it in under the radar. Like gettin' a song stuck in your head, you know how it just sorta appears and you don't know where it come from? S'like that."

Roosevelt clears his throat. "The Capitol used it after the Fall to settle the riots that kept happening. They would project it at the District mobs to convince them to stop. It wasn't strong enough to actually stop them, but it was enough to nudge the idea in, to make them hesitate long enough for the peacekeepers to disarm them. Or, more often, eliminate them."

Davey takes a deep breath, realization settling in. That's where he'd heard of Siren-song before. In the Quarter Quell Arena, Spot was affected by a blast of Siren-song that compelled him to claw his skin off. The Brooklyn man scratched bloody gouges into his forearm before he managed to shake off the impulse.

"But Siren-song is a very limited process," Roosevelt says. "It only lasts as long as the frequency plays. As soon as it's turned off, the persuasion fades. Are you saying this device is intended for a more long-term effect?"

"If this thing does what Miss Katherine's sayin' it can," Mush says solemnly, "then yeah, in theory, you could use it to plant an idea in someone's head. Keep it running all the time, keep that idea chipping at ya. And folks are always more - persuadable when they're worked up. So if they were giving him stimulants that'd keep his adrenaline going, it'd be like keeping his brain in a constant fear state." 

"And they used it to implant the idea that Davey is his enemy," Katherine finishes. 

Davey drops his head into his palm, struggling to steady his breathing. He's spent all this time thinking that he'd lost Jack, that he'd never get him back. Now Davey finally has him back, except he's not the Jack that Davey lost in the first place. Pulitzer still managed to take him away. 

Davey chokes on a sob, gripping his union bands. No, it's not fair. He didn't come all this way just to lose Jack all over again.

"No." The rasp of a word blasts through Davey's aching throat and steals his breath, forcing him to double over to catch his breath again. 

Esther strokes his back softly, and when he sits up, she presses a glass of water into his hand. "Small sips, it's going to hurt to swallow," she advises. 

Davey nods, taking the smallest sips of water he can to soothe the throbbing in his throat, but it still jars the abused muscles. After a few cautious swallows, he gestures to Katherine's digiscreen and holds out a hand expectantly. The Capitol woman frowns but passes it to him. Davey hastily types out his words and swipes a hand to throw them up onto the holo-screen. 

it didnt work. jack broke threw

"It's true," Esther says, her palm still settled between his shoulders. "We saw it on the footage. Jack seemed to fight through whatever was making him attack David. Like he woke up, in a way. And then he sedated himself before he could go back under."

"Siren-song is only a surface-level persuasion," Roosevelt offers. "It's not easy, but most people can shake it off when they know it's there. And of course, the persuasion stops when the frequency does. Now, this Spider thing, we have no way to know how much stronger it is, but it's still theoretically just a form of hypnosis. The idea is planted, but Mr. Kelly's most likely still himself underneath it." 

Davey's face sets as he taps out a new sentence. which means i can get him back

"How are you holding up?"

Davey doesn't take his gaze off the security footage, watching as Mush conducts yet another series of tests on Jack's unconscious body. A hand settles on Davey's shoulder, and he instinctively leans into the contact. "He's gonna be okay, Dave," Sarah murmurs. Davey exhales and nods. "Your throat still bad?"

"A bit," Davey wheezes. The medicine took down a lot of the swelling in the last few hours, but the muscles are still bruised. He can at least talk again, even if he can only manage short sentences at a low volume without sending himself into coughing fits.

"We've gotta get you better," Sarah says with a hint of teasing. "Not much of a Mouth of the People if you can't talk." Davey huffs a soft laugh. "He's still in there, isn't he?" Sarah asks, her tone more somber. "Underneath whatever they did to him?"

Davey nods again, and he touches the burn mark on his union band. "He saw," Davey taps the band pointedly. "And remembered."

"Because no matter what Pulitzer did to him, Jack loves you," Sarah says, stroking the back of his neck gently. "He's loved you since we were kids. That's not the sort of thing you can just erase." She leans in and kisses his temple. "You'll get him back, Davey. I know it."

"They won't-" He grimaces as his throat spasms. "Won't let me see him." Davey squints through the screen at the rows of restraints that span the length of Jack's body, keeping him pinned firmly to the bed. "Couldn't hurt me, but they said no." 

"They just want to make sure you're safe, Davey," Sarah says. "And him too. Momma said fighting off whatever was in his head hurt him. They just want to keep you both from getting hurt." Davey drops his head, taking a shaky breath. 

A loud moan drags their attention back to the screen. In the bed, Jack thrashes weakly against the restraints, his eyes blown wide in panic. "Don't touch me," he snarls, voice slightly slurred as he fights off the lingering sedation. "I ain't - I ain't tellin' ya. Lemme alone. Tell Pulitzer - go to hells." 

"Whoa, hey, easy there," Mush says, holding up his hands placatingly. "I ain't with Pulitzer, kid. My name's Paul Muschato, I'm a healer with Union. We got you out of there. You're safe." 

Jack stares at him uncertainly. "No, no youse lyin' again. Ain't real. None this's real. It's the tricks. Fuck you, Snyder!" he bellows abruptly, bucking against the restraints. "Fuck you and your fuckin' brain tricks. It ain't real, I know it ain't real." 

"Hey, you're okay, I promise," Mush says. "We got the chips out, the thing that was making you believe things that weren't real. It should be gettin' easier to figure out what's really your thoughts. And hopefully now that it's out, it won't hurt when you fight off the thoughts that aren't yours like you did before." 

Brow furrowed, Jack glares up at the ceiling, deep in thought. "Before?" He licks his lips. "Before, I was - Davey!" Heart leaping, Davey leans closer to the screen. "No, those are tricks. He a'ways makes me see him. Makes him say things - s'not Davey. Not real." 

"I gotta-" Davey shakes off Sarah's hand and sprints for the door before she can stop him. Barreling down the hall, he darts around the guard at the entrance and lets himself into the med ward. Both occupants of the room look up at him in shock, but Davey's eyes are only for one.

"Davey, this isn't-" Mush starts, but Davey cuts him off with a wave of his hand. 

"I've got it," Davey says hoarsely, giving the healer a sharp look. When Mush doesn't move, Davey narrows his eyes. "Go."

Mush glances between the two men for a moment and then lets out a heavy breath, inclining his head in a faint bow. "Yes'sir. I'll be right outside if ya need me," he says. "But the restraints stay on or I'm callin' the Commander. No arguments." He waits until Davey nods before leaving the room.

"Davey?"

Swallowing hard, Davey meets Jack's gaze. The room suddenly feels claustrophobic and cold as Davey stares at those familiar eyes filled with an unfamiliar distrust. "Jack," Davey replies, voice scraping his throat. Jack winces, and his eyes dart down to the violet-black bruises on Davey's neck, a perfect shadow of a handprint on his pale skin. 

"This's a new one," Jack says shrewdly. "Whateva your game, just stop." 

"Not a game, Jack," Davey tries again. He takes a small, cautious step closer to the bed. "We found you. We got you out." Licking his lips, he takes a few short breaths to soften his throat. "I know they made you - see things. Think things." Davey's eyes dart to the small red marks on Jack's temples, x-shaped incisions from where they removed the Spider devices. "But that's gone. I promise."

Jack shakes his head and sneers. "Why you think I'd I trust ya?"

Davey paces slowly to the edge of the bed, watching as Jack tenses with every step closer. Lifting a hand, Davey traces his fingers over the rim of a union band. "You attacked me, but you stopped when you saw this," he says, forced to lower his volume even more to manage the longer sentences. "Why?"

Trembling, Jack stares at the band with wide eyes. "It never - youse never had that 'fore," he says. "You took mine. And when you hurt me," Davey flinches, fighting back a sob at confirmation of a theory he never wanted to be true, "you never had 'em. Said they was a lie. A fake. 'Cause you never loved me, not for real. Was just for the cameras, 'cause folks wanted the story."

"I would never - Jack, no," Davey says, shaking his head insistently, and he squeezes a union band tight against his wrist. "I love you, Jack. And I thought you were dead, and these reminded me all this is for you. That Pulitzer took you away, and I couldn't stop until he paid for that." Davey chokes on a sob, coughing into his elbow when it sears through his throat, and he drags his wrist over his eyes. "But you're not gone. And I'm sorry it took so long for me to find you. I promised I wasn't letting you outta my sight again. You and me, together, all the way to the end, remember?"

"I can't-" Jack shudders, blinking tears from his eyes. "If this ain't real, it's too mean. I can't live this, please, just stop."

Davey swallows hard, the fear and pain in Jack's eyes spearing through his chest. "I'm real, Jack, I promise. It's not a trick. You're out of the Capitol. They can't mess with your head anymore. It's really me."

"Prove it."

Casting his gaze around the room, Davey searches his brain for something that will help. He drags his thumb over the scorch mark on his union band. "The morning after our Binding," Davey says, locking eyes with Jack again, "we had a forest on the holo-screen, to remind us of those nights we snuck outta the District to see the stars. And we didn't wanna get out of bed because it felt so good to just - feel like us, for a minute. You still had a black smudge of the Binding paint below your ear. And the first thing you said to me when we woke up, you asked me if it was a dream."

"'Cause I couldn't believe ach'lly having you, being Bound to you, was something I could have for real," says Jack. Shivering, Jack twists his hand under the restraint and stretches his fingers out imploringly. Davey immediately slips his hand into Jack's, gripping it tightly. Jack's breath catches. When he looks up again, his eyes shine with unshed tears. "Dream?" he whispers, full of heartbreaking, fragile hope.

"No, Jack," Davey says firmly. Stepping forward, he reaches out his other hand. Jack watches nervously as Davey stretches out and cups Jack's cheek in his palm. With a bitten-off noise, Jack slumps into the contact, and the tears finally spill over. "No, Jack, not a dream. I promise. I'm here, pal. You're safe. It's real."

The entrance elevator of the base grinds as it slows to a stop, and Davey shifts his weight anxiously. It feels like the doors take forever to glide open. As soon as they do, a wave of giddy relief rushes through Davey, and he grins. He's moving before the conscious thought strikes him, and he half-runs across the landing. 

"Miss Medda," he gasps out, skidding to a stop in front of the woman. She's dressed in pale medical scrubs, leaning heavily on the soldier at her side, but her smile is warm and kind. 

"C'mere, sugar," Medda says, opening her arms. Davey falls immediately into her embrace, hugging her to him. "Oh, sweetheart, it's so good to see you."

"I'm so glad you're okay," says Davey, clinging to her. She's thinner than he remembers, a sign that she wasn't being treated well in the Capitol, but she's alive. "I was so scared they killed you."

Medda shushes him gently. "I know, but I'm okay," she says. "And you're okay." She steps back, cradling his face in her palms and looking him over. "They wouldn't tell me in there if you were safe. If you survived the Arena. All that time, I was worried you could've gotten hurt, but I should've known better. Nothing takes down my boys." 

Davey huffs a laugh at the fondness in her voice. "Not with you at my back," he agrees. "C'mon, you need rest." Glancing at the soldier, he nods. The soldier steps up and takes Medda's arm again, supporting her. "I'll come check on you again when you get settled in, okay? I just - got work I gotta do."

"Of course you do," she says. "Don't worry about me, sugar. You go save the world." Medda taps a knuckle beneath his chin the way she always has and then lets the soldier steer her toward the stairs. 

Clearing his throat, Davey turns his attention to the rest of the group in the elevator. A dozen soldiers are piling out, most of them uninjured if a little rough. Among them, Spot walks out with Racer limping at his side. Davey beams. "Racer, hey."

Racer chuckles. "Hey bud, if youse gonna swoon over me, gonna have to write it down," he says, his voice ragged and overly loud but still recognizably teasing. "My ears are a bit busted."

Davey laughs and shakes his head before pulling Racer into a hug. "I know you can't hear me, but I'm so glad you're alive," he says, and he casts a glance over at Spot to include him in that. Davey pulls back and looks Racer over. He seems a little better, less pale and hollowed out, but he's still frighteningly skinny, and Davey can feel him trembling. Worst of all, there's a dark, haunted shadow in his eyes that he's trying to hide behind the cavalier smile. 

Racer pans his gaze over Davey, and his smile softens to something a little more genuine. "Hey, s'good to see you, Dave," he says, clapping him on the shoulder. "Glad you made it outta there." Davey nods in agreement, gripping Racer's frail shoulder. "Okay, sappy moment over. Where's the tech rooms in this place? 'Cause I gotta build me some ears. This eerie silence thing is not working for me." 

Spot grabs Racer and shakes his head. With a pointed look, he gestures toward the pair of medics waiting nearby. "Oh c'mon," Racer whines petulantly. "I don't wanna rest. I'm sick of sitting. I gotta move." 

"Don't care." Spot narrows his eyes and gives Racer a little shove toward the medics. 

"Ya know the funny thing I learned, not havin' hearing?" Racer says in a mock thoughtful tone. "It doesn't really make a difference when it comes to this fella. He ain't a talker. Nah, he does this thing where he just sorta frowns and moves his eyebrows. You notice that, Dave?" 

"And having no hearing makes you talk more," Spot replies, rolling his eyes, while Davey stifles a laugh. "And louder." He pushes Racer toward the healers again. When Racer scowls, Spot tugs out his digiscreen and types out something, holding it up for Racer to read. He waits until Racer looks back up to his face. "Go, please." 

Racer huffs and throws up his hands in exasperation. "Ugh, fine. One more day. Then I get my toys back." He takes a half-step toward the healers, then pauses. Turning back, he grabs the front of Spot's shirt and drags him into a kiss. Davey can't stop his eyes from widening in surprise at the open affection; the pair have always kept their relationship a closely-guarded secret. "When youse done with all your leader business, come find me," Racer says when they pull apart. 

A smile dashes across Spot's lips, and he kisses Racer one more time. "Promise," he says, nodding. "Now go." 

Racer grudgingly lets the medics shepherd him away. Directly behind him, another pair of healers are escorting a hover-stretcher, and the figure laying there is- "Finch?" Davey asks, stepping up to the stretcher.

The Richmond man blinks blearily, and then the corner of his mouth tips up. "Davey? Hey." 

"Hey, good to see you," Davey says, touching the man's arm. "You okay?"

"Nothin' I can't shake off," Finch mumbles. He's partially sedated, judging by the slur, and there are carbon splints fastened to every limb, evidence of broken bones that haven't healed yet. Still, he summons up a lazy grin as he gazes up at Davey. "Good ta' see ya, boss." 

Davey laughs and pats the man's shoulder - one of the only parts of him not in a cast. "Go rest up, Finch. We're gonna take care of you, okay? I'll come by and see you again later." Finch hums and lets his head sink back into the stretcher pillow, eyes already fluttering. "He's gonna be okay?" Davey asks the healer on the other side of the stretcher. 

"He will be," she says, giving him a sympathetic smile. "Nothing permanent, it'll all heal, it's just going to take a little while. Until then, we're going to keep him comfortable as we can." 

"Thank you," Davey says sincerely. He touches Finch's shoulder one more time before letting the group head for the hall. Davey turns back to Spot, and he pulls the Brooklyn man in for a hug before he can protest. "I'm still mad at you," says Davey. "But I'm glad you're back." 

Spot chuffs a laugh, patting Davey's back. "I know," the older man says unconcernedly. "C'mon, Crutchie comm'd, said Commander wants to chat now we're all back." 

They make for the stairs, but a voice calls out and stops them. "Wait, Mr. Jacobs, sir?" 

Davey glances back, surprised, to find a boy jogging across the landing. He's young, probably a bit younger than Davey, with a soft, baby face and chaotic brown curls. It looks strangely juxtaposed against his soldier's uniform and the tired weight in his eyes. 

Setting his jaw, the boy clears his throat. "Sorry, sir, I just - I wanted to meetcha for myself," he says, a bit bashfully. "I been out at Greenwich base, but I wanted to come meetcha now I got the chance."

"Okay," Davey says uncertainly, offering out his hand. "And, uh, just Davey, please." 

The boy nods and shakes his hand. "Elmer Kasprzak, sir."

Davey's eyes widen as the name strikes him as familiar. Elmer must see the recognition in his gaze because the boy gives a tight smile and nods. "You're Alan's son," says Davey. Now that he knows to look, he can see the similarities to the middle-aged Flushing Tribute. A burr of guilt lodges in Davey's chest at the memory of the man who followed Davey to a painful death. "I'm so sorry for your loss. I wish we could've done something - I should've saved him." 

"Oh, I don't blame ya, sir," Elmer says hastily. "Was President Pulitzer that done this. I know how much the Games scared my dad. He still got nightmares, ya know? Even after all that time. And it's Pulitzer that made him go back in there. Pulitzer is the reason my dad's gone." The boy grimaces and clears his throat. "That's why I'm here, why I joined Union. 'Cause my dad believed in you, so I do too."

The fierce sentiment hits Davey hard, and he swallows around the knot in his already tight throat. "Thank you," he says gratefully. 

"Your pops was a brave fella," Spot says somberly. "Real tough. Went down fighting." 

"And he did it for you," Davey adds. "To make you proud. He talked about you a lot, about how much he loved you."

Elmer's lip quivers, and he scrubs his hand over his eyes. "Thank ya, sirs," he says, voice thick. "Means a lot." Straightening up, he claps a fist to his chest and inclines his head. "I gotta go, gotta meet the captain to get assigned barracks, but I just wanted to say thanks for bein' his friend in there. And that I'm gonna follow your lead." His mouth quirks into a small, playful grin. "Newsboys united, right?" 

Davey laughs. "Newsboys united," he agrees. When the boy turns to leave, Davey finishes, "Hey, and Elmer? If you ever need anything, you can come find me, okay? Even if you just wanna talk. Your father was a good man, and I'd really like to get to know you too." 

"Yes'sir," Elmer says brightly. "Thank ya, sir." With one last salute, the boy hurries down the stairs toward the soldiers' quarters.

"Brave kid," Spot remarks idly. 

"Takes after his father, I guess," Davey responds with a sad smile. "Just wish he didn't have to go through all this. He shouldn't have to fight to honor his father's death." 

"I know," the Brooklyn man says. He grips Davey's shoulder reassuringly. "C'mon, should head to the Commander's office."

Katherine and Crutchie are the only ones in the private office room when Davey and Spot arrive. "Everyone get here okay?" Katherine asks immediately. 

"Yeah, they're taking them all down to the med ward to rest," says Davey. 

"And Miss Medda, she's okay?" Katherine asks. 

Davey smiles, remembering how closely Katherine followed Medda around during their time in the Capitol. The first year it had been something almost like awe and hero worship; the second year, they had been practically inseparable. Although, in retrospect, Davey imagines that might've had something to do with planning Union things together. 

"Yeah, she's good," Davey assures her. He takes the seat next to her at the table and pats her hand. "She's a tough lady. Some good rest, and she'll pull through." Katherine exhales in relief. 

"Davey," says Spot, sitting on his other side. His expression is tight. "Now there ain't folks around, show me." 

"Show you what?" Davey asks. 

"Crutchie comm'd me, told me what happened with Jack," the Brooklyn man says. "Show me." 

Davey flinches and shoots an indignant look at Crutchie. "Don't gimme that. He needed to know," says Crutchie. "Better he finds out from us than in the middle this meetin' with other folks watching." 

Grimacing, Davey resignedly tugs down the collar of his high-necked tunic, revealing the large, handprint bruise across his throat. Spot curses under his breath, carding a hand into his hair. "It's okay," Davey says, pulling his collar back into place. "He's coming out of it." 

"And that thing they put in him, it was Siren-song?" Spot asks, glancing between them all. 

"But cranked up to eleven," Crutchie says grimly. "Never seen anythin' like it. I mean, you know how Siren-song is. This was like six weeks straight of it." 

Davey frowns, gripping his union band. "He's coming out of it," he repeats firmly. "It's gonna take some time, but he'll get there. He just needs to see that this is real, that he's in a place where he can trust what he's seeing and hearing again." Davey swallows as he thinks about that morning, comforting Jack as he struggled to come to terms with reality. "I got him back. He's here. That's what matters right now." 

Smiling tensely, Spot bumps his shoulder. "Hey, I know. I get it." He gives a soft, humorless laugh. "We might've got 'em back a little banged up, but they're here, and they're alive. The rest we can work on."

The office door opens, and Roosevelt strides in, Ike, Mush, and an unfamiliar man with dark skin and thick glasses on his tail. "Welcome back, Mr. Conlon," Roosevelt says, nodding to Spot as he takes his seat behind the desk. Spot returns the nod in acknowledgment. "Now that everyone's here, it's time to discuss where we go next."

"Has Pulitzer-?" Davey starts, but Roosevelt is shaking his head before he can finish the question. 

"He still hasn't come out and said anything about the rescue," the Commander says wearily. "I don't know what he's waiting for, but it seems like he's playing it close to the chest. If he doesn't want people to know that we broke our people out, it might be a good idea to share the news ourselves." 

Davey swallows and nods. Another broadcast, then. "Okay, when?"

"Soon," says Roosevelt. "Before Pulitzer gets a chance to find his own way to spin things. But for this, I think it would be more effective if you didn't do it alone."

The implication isn't missed, and Davey scowls. "Jack? No. He needs to be resting."

"It's just a few words, David-"

"No, it's not!" Davey snaps fiercely. "You don't get it. You don't know what it feels like. It's not the words, it's everyone watching. You don't get what kinda pressure that is. And we've been living our lives in front of cameras since this all started, and we never get to breathe. We never get any privacy. It's stressful and painful, and it gets inside of your head. Jack is already hurting. I am not letting you put him through that again, and especially not now."

Roosevelt looks taken aback, exchanging glances with the others in surprise. Katherine clears her throat. "We'll table that idea for now," she says diplomatically. "First, let's make sure Jack is even capable of something like that before we start planning it. Mush?"

The healer frowns, scratching his chin. "I mean, he's definitely doing better," he supplies. "A little. Davey got through to him earlier, at least. He still doesn't trust anyone else though, that's for sure. But medically, at least, he's great. Mentally, well-"

"It's gonna take time," the man with the glasses speaks up, frowning. 

"I don't think we've met," says Davey, narrowing his eyes at the newcomer. 

"Oh, right, sorry," the man says hastily. "Uh, most people call me Specs. I'm a - well, I guess I'm what counts as a therapist nowadays. A healer for the mind," he elaborates at their confused looks. "I try to help heal the things medicine can't. Trauma and memory problems, nightmares, things like that."

Spot chuffs a soft noise. "Sounds like you got your work cut out for you 'round this place. Plenty of that to go 'round."

Specs smiles sadly. "Yes, well, I'm just doing what I can. And of course, some cases are harder than others. With Jack-" He grimaces and takes off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It helps to know where the trauma started to know how to fix it, but there's a lot of footage to go over, and it's not been easy to watch."

"Footage?" Davey asks, glancing around at the others. 

"The team pulled the security footage from the place where they were holding Jack and the others, 'member?" Crutchie supplies. "Copied the server, and it had some backlogs of recordings on there. Specs and Ike have been watching 'em to get more info on what was goin' on there."

Davey looks up in horror. "You mean recordings of them torturing him?" 

"Not just him," Ike says, knuckles white on the tabletop. "Everyone they had in that place."

"I'm not going to go into details, 'cause frankly you don't wanna know. But I feel like you should at least know the basics if we're gonna put together a plan for how to handle this," says Specs, suddenly businesslike. "But if any of you don't wanna hear, I completely understand."

"If you'd like to step out," Roosevelt offers with a gesture to the door, his gaze lingering on Davey and Spot. 

"No, I need to know," Davey replies immediately while Spot shakes his head. 

Specs nods. "As far as the device they implanted in Jack, Crutchie has been working on reverse-engineering it."

"It seems to work just like Katherine was saying," Crutchie jumps in at the prompt. "There's a transmitter inside that puts out a Siren-song frequency. Judging by the power source in it, it was definitely designed to be left on all the time. There's no external sensors, so it doesn't look like there's even a way to turn it off without removing it. 

"But the message isn't embedded in the frequency, or at least it wasn't in the one I've got. Might've been in the one they broke. But most likely, it was probably played from the outside, which means they could change it whenever they wanted." 

"We weren't able to isolate the words," Specs says, frowning. "The recording audio isn't good enough for that. But there's a soundwave in that frequency range in the background of the footage, so we know they had one running. Pretty much all the time, too. The only time it ever stopped was-" He bites his lip, tapping on his digiscreen, and an image blossoms on the holo-screen. It shows a small room, the footage tinted by night-vision, and there's a pale figure curled up in the corner with their face hidden in their arms. 

"That's the place they had Racer," Spot says, eyes narrowing. 

"They used it on both of them," says Specs. "Probably a lot of people, really, but so far in the footage, I've only seen the two. It's a sensory deprivation chamber. When it's closed, there's no light, and the walls are sound-proofed. Usually, this sorta thing has a controlled air system that neutralizes most smells. Sometimes they have a latent static charge in them that numbs the skin a bit too, so the sense of touch is muted. Or like they did with Racer, they bind the hands so they can't be used to feel." 

Davey's stomach clenches painfully, and Spot lets out another string of curses. Ike clears his throat. "It's a military technique," the soldier supplies. "They used it on folks suspected of treason to make 'em talk. Leave 'em in there long enough, they'd start goin' crazy from it, start spilling everything just to make the quiet go away."

"But Racer was - gagged," Davey says because he can't bring himself to actually say 'muzzle' aloud. "If they were trying to make him talk, wouldn't that defeat the purpose?" 

"Only if they were ach'lly tryna make him talk," Ike says. "Looks like they were more concerned with just hurting him. Makin' a point." 

"Either that or it was to motivate him to talk more," Specs offers. "Take away his ability to talk for so long that when they finally let him speak again, he'd feel compelled to talk as much as possible to make up for it. People are social, we get a bit crazy when we can't be. I've seen cases of people who were isolated for a long time being compulsively unable to stop from saying everything that crosses their mind because they're scared of the silence coming back." Davey thinks of Spot's teasing before that Racer talks so much now, and his chest seizes up.

"How long?" Spot asks tightly. "How long were they in there?"

"On average, about a day at a time. So far in what I've seen, longest Jack was in one was four days," Specs answers. He swipes a hand over his screen, removing the image from the wall. "And for Racer, it seems like it's where they kept him when they weren't treating him elsewhere. Longest stretch so far was about eight days."

"Would it have affected Racer as bad?" Davey asks, gripping Spot's shoulder supportively as the Brooklyn man presses his face into his hands. "He can't hear."

Specs winces and looks down at his hands, not meeting Davey's eyes. "He could the first couple times," he says. "He lost his hearing about two weeks in. And after that - honestly, it was probably worse. Without his hearing, his other senses would've gotten stronger to accommodate. The lack of light alone would've been uncomfortable, let alone having his hands casted so he couldn't find things by touch."

"His ears," Spot grounds out. "How'd that happen?"

"Surgery," Specs responds. "They physically severed the hearing organs. And he was-" The spectacled man pauses, glancing at Spot uncertainly. Spot grimaces but nods him on. "He was awake for it. According to the reports, they gave him a very strong paralytic, he wasn't able to move at all, but he was still mostly conscious, and he would've felt it."

Spot shoves away from the table, standing up and pacing to the other end of the room. They can hear his ragged breathing as he faces the wall, hands in his hair as he tries to calm himself. Davey's torn between comforting his friend and learning more. Ultimately, he decides Spot needs the space to collect himself, so Davey licks his lips and turns back to the others. 

"So Jack, that was the only time he wasn't being affected by the Siren-song?" Davey asks. 

"Yes, they seemed to reserve that for their other - treatments," Specs explains. "The rest of the time, as far as I've seen, they alternated between-" He bites his lip and rephrases. "The reason he was kept in a healing chamber so much is that he needed it."

"It's another common torture strategy," Ike says grimly. "They'd beat a person down 'til they were almost dead, then throw them in to heal up so they could do it all over again."

Davey squeezes his eyes shut and presses the back of his wrist to his mouth as his stomach lurches dangerously, forcing long slow breaths through his nose. He's seen Jack severely injured before, remembers the agony of watching Jack's life trying to slip away in the first Hunger Games. The thought of Jack being taken to that point over and over again-

"Other than that, it was mostly emotional," Specs finishes. "Mental. They made him watch when they tortured others. The Capitol woman and the other two Victors and others that I can't find any relation to."

"With the Siren-song going the whole time," Davey concludes. He remembers Jack's words when he attacked Davey that morning. This's your fault! "Telling him that I was the one behind it."

"Presumably, yeah," Specs agrees. "I'm sorry. I've seen some pretty nasty stuff in my life, but this whole set-up is the cruelest thing I've ever seen."

"There's a reason the president uses Snyder," Katherine says, speaking up for the first time. She's ghostly pale, her hands trembling on the tabletop. "He's the best at what he does."

Spot glances around, coming back to the table in quick strides. "Snyder?" he asks, echoing Davey's surprise. The Brooklyn man's eyes are red-rimmed but full of fire. "You mean the Gamemaker?" Davey can remember the man, the Gamemaker of the Quarter Quell Arena with the cold, sadistic smile emphasized by the blood-red jewels embedded in his flesh. 

"It explains why the Arena was designed the way it was," says Katherine. "Mind games are his specialty. Open violence is what you were all expecting. So what better way to throw you off than to leave you isolated and alone?"

"And you didn't think to tell us that before?" Spot asks sharply. 

Katherine flinches. "I couldn't. We were all being watched too closely, you know that. And it wasn't information I was supposed to have in the first place. It's not exactly common knowledge. The president wouldn't want people knowing he has an expert torturer on hand."

"So, how did you know?" Davey asks curiously, his own suspicions creeping forward. "If he worked so hard to keep it a secret, how'd you find out?"

"Do you think I was just enjoying free food at those parties I was always at?" Katherine replies. "I was working. Flattering the right people, getting in close with people close to the president. I got the trust of people in his inner circles, and at those parties, after a couple drinks, folks start gossiping." 

"And of course, we also have informants inside the Capitol," Roosevelt adds. Davey thinks of Denton, the Games announcer who has apparently been helping Union. He was close enough to the president to know where Jack was being held, so surely he knew who was holding him and what for. 

"But what they did, everything they did to Jack, you think he'll recover, right?" Davey asks, looking to Specs hopefully. 

Specs frowns, sliding off his glasses and cleaning the lenses with his shirt. "It's gonna take a long time," he says. "And with this sort of trauma, people rarely heal all the way." Davey hums in understanding because he can relate to that—he's not sure he'll ever stop having nightmares about the Hunger Games, and that feels like nothing compared to what Jack went through. "But we'll work with him. In the end, whether or not he recovers comes down mostly to him." 

Taking a deep breath, Davey nods. It's hardly great news, but it's what he was expecting. "Thank you," he says. "For helping with all this." 

"Of course," Specs says. "And just so you know, my door's always open if you wanna talk. Either of you," he adds, glancing at Spot. "Sometimes it helps to just get it out." Davey tries to return the man's smile, although he's not sure he succeeds. Nice as the offer is, Davey doesn't think he'll take it. There's only ever been one person Davey feels comfortable talking about these things to, and he's currently down in the med ward. 

"Now that that's been addressed," Roosevelt says, folding his hands together on the tabletop, "we need to plan our strategy for moving forward. I want to have a basic idea before we present all of this to the council. Ike, have you gotten the reports in from all of the bases? How are they doing in preparations?"

Hands shaking, Davey pauses outside the med ward to take a steadying breath. Mush told him that Jack seems to be doing a little better, but Davey's still scared about what he might find on the other side of that door. Especially after everything he heard in the Commander's office. 

Davey lifts his chin and pushes the door open gently. Jack is lying in bed, pale straps still stretched across his torso to keep him from getting up, but at least they took them off his arm so he can use that. His eyes are shut, but at the sound of Davey's footsteps, they snap open. The moment his gaze lands on Davey, Jack gives a full-bodied flinch. 

"No, no, no," Jack breathes out, emotions pinwheeling through his gaze so fast Davey can't make sense of them. 

"Jack, it's just me," Davey says soothingly, holding up his hands. "It's just Davey. I-" 

"Stop, please." Jack's breath catches, and he squeezes his eyes shut, turning away. His left hand flexes convulsively on the bedsheet as he takes several long, forced breaths. "Dream?"

"Not a dream," Davey replies firmly. At the same time, his chest seizes at the raw panic in Jack's expression, softened only a little by Davey's answer. Is this how it's going to be from now on; his husband terrified by the very sight of him? It's worse knowing why. Knowing that Jack's reactions are wholly justified after everything he's been through.

Davey swallows hard around the lump in his throat, guilt lodged sharply in his chest. "I'm sorry, I'll go," he says, stumbling back a step. "I shouldn't have come-"

"Wait," Jack says, looking up, and he half-lifts his hand like he's going to reach out. He's pale and quivering, but his gaze settles on Davey's wrists - still held out to his sides - and some of the tension bleeds out of Jack in a gusty exhale. "Don't go. Sorry. I just - keep forgettin'. Don't feel real, ya know?" 

"Don't apologize, Jack," says Davey, frowning. He carefully lowers his hands but doesn't move any closer. "Gods, no one's gonna blame you for it after what you've been through." Jack makes a noncommittal noise, his gaze drifting away. "I mean it, I'll leave if you want me to," he adds. "If you don't want to see me, I get it, I can-" 

"No, don't," Jack interrupts, shaking his head. He blows a breath out through his nose and finally meets Davey's eyes. "Toldja, just forgot for a sec. But s'not a dream," his eyes dart to Davey's union bands and back, "and I like havin' ya here. Like not bein' alone." 

Davey nods slowly, some of the pain easing inside his ribs. "If you're sure," he says, and there's no hiding his relief. He would leave if Jack wanted him to, but truthfully, Davey wants to be close. After the events of the day, the only thing on his mind is seeing that Jack is really here and alive and safe. "Can I-?" Davey gestures toward the bed, and Jack, after a pause, dips his chin in agreement. 

Moving carefully, Davey crosses the room in small, slow steps as he watches Jack for any sign of discomfort. Jack visibly tracks the motions, but he doesn't recoil when Davey reaches the foot of the bed. Davey offers a nervous smile and props his hip against the frame. "It's good to see you," Davey admits. "I know this has gotta be so hard for you, but I just - it feels so good seeing you again." 

A flicker of a smile twitches at the corner of Jack's lips. "Is that you sayin' you missed me?" 

"So much I thought it would kill me," Davey says sincerely. Jack blinks in surprise at the conviction. Everything that Specs and Ike told Davey about what Jack was subjected to in the Capitol spirals through his head in a hurricane, and Davey bites back a sob. It was bad enough to hear in the moment—thinking about it now while actually staring at the man in question makes it burn through him like Blaze. "I'm so sorry, Jacky." 

Brow furrowed, Jack looks at him again. "What you sorry for? I'se the one attacked you." His eyes linger on the high collar of Davey's tunic, lips pinched. 

"I'm sorry you had to go through everything you did," Davey says earnestly, the words tumbling out of him in a rush. "I'm sorry I didn't look for you sooner. I should've started looking as soon as I woke up. They figured you were dead, but no one knew for sure, and I just didn't - I should've looked. Just to be sure. Maybe I could've found you before-" 

"Gods, Dave, you crazy?" Jack asks, cutting over him. "No shit you thought I was dead. That fuckin' explosion went off right in my face. Even the healin' chamber almost couldn't do it. I should'a been dead." 

"But you weren't," Davey insists. "You weren't, and I should've done something. If I'd been faster, I could've stopped it. I could've got you out, and maybe Racer'd still be able to hear, and Fi-" 

"Wait, what 'bout Racer?" Jack interjects. 

Davey sighs. "He still can't hear anything," he explains. "If I'd looked for you right away, maybe we could've got to you before-" 

"He's alive?" Jack asks incredulously, eyes wide. Davey returns the stare in surprise. "I - I watched you kil-" He breaks off, dropping his gaze, and swallows hard. "I watched him die." 

"You mean you watched me kill him?" Davey guesses, a hard knot lodging in his ribs that makes it hurt to breathe. Jack winces but doesn't respond. Cursing, Davey scrubs his hands over his face and forces himself back on track. "Racer's alive," he says instead. "He's in the main med ward. When you're feeling up to seeing people, he wants to see you. If you're okay with that." 

Jack lets out a long breath. "Thought he was dead," he murmurs, awed. 

"Finch's alive too," Davey adds. Jack's head jerks up attentively. "And Miss Medda. We got them out when we found you, they're here now." 

"Medda?" Jack asks hopefully, and moisture gathers on his lashes that he hastily wipes away with his wrist. "Gods, can't believe - ya sure this ain't a dream?" 

The smallest smile tips Davey's mouth, and he reaches for Jack's hand. The other boy watches him hesitantly but lets Davey take him by the wrist without a fight. Davey sets Jack's palm on the back of Davey's wrist. "Not a dream," he says, pressing Jack's hand against his union band. 

Jack huffs a soft noise and closes his fingers around Davey's wrist. The bones are so thin that Jack's fingers nearly encircle the entire thing, his fingertips resting on either side of the latch that holds the gold cuff shut. "Not a dream," he echoes. Brushing a thumb over the band, he frowns. "Wonder what happened to mine. Pro'lly got melted. Yours got pretty scorched, huh?" 

Davey considers for a moment, biting his lip before he extracts his hand from Jack's grip. Flipping the latch, he takes off the band on his left wrist - the less tarnished of the two - and then carefully fastens it around Jack's wrist instead. Jack stares in disbelief at the gold settled against his skin.

"We can share," Davey says with a smile. "We're Bound, so what's mine is yours, right? So until we can get new ones, we'll share these ones." Jack looks up at Davey, so much confusion and uncertainty in his eyes that it makes a sudden thrill of nerves shoot through Davey. What if Jack didn't want this? What if Jack doesn't want to be Bound to him anymore? Bound to a man he's half-afraid of? "Sorry, I - if you don't want-" 

Jack's hand swiftly closes around Davey's fingers before he can withdraw, holding on so tight it's almost painful. "Thank you," he says, voice catching. Tears pool in his eyes again. "This, I - feels good, having a band. I 'member this feeling. Feels right, ya know?"

Thinking of Jack's explanation for why the sight of the union bands surprised him so much in the first place, Davey curls his other hand over the band on Jack's wrist. "And now you can always check that this's real," he says. "'Cause when you look and see this, you'll know you're not in that place anymore." 

Jack takes a deep breath that shudders through his entire body. "M'scared, Dave," he admits. "M'scared I can't - what if I'se too broke? Everything feels all messed up. There's all these things in my head, and I got no clue what's real and what ain't. What if that don't go away? Am I ever gonna be me 'gain?" 

"You will always be you," Davey says fiercely. "No matter what they did, I know that under that, you're still the man I fell in love with. Even with that thing in your head, you still shook off that Siren-song because the man underneath it knew. You're still you, Jack. And I'm gonna be right here to help you figure it out, okay?" He reaches up and cradles Jack's cheek in his palm, swiping at a stray tear with his thumb. "You and me, we're a team, remember?" 

"All the way to the end," Jack finishes, leaning into Davey's palm. "How can ya still want this?" he asks, quieter. "You didn't never want it in the first place, and now-" 

Davey presses a finger to Jack's lips, making the other boy fall silent. "Don't do that, Jacky," he says. "I know they tried to tell you I don't, but I love you. You're my best friend. You're smart and creative, and you care so much." He perches on the edge of the bed, twisting his weight onto one hip so he's facing Jack more directly. "These last few weeks without you have been hells. I couldn't-" Davey pauses, swallows, and then finally admits, "I didn't wanna keep living without you." 

Jack's gaze jumps up to Davey's face, eyes wide as the implication hits him. "Dave, don't say - you got your family and all this Union stuff." 

Scoffing, Davey shakes his head. "The only reason I joined Union is for you," he says. "Gods, Jack, when they were asking me - I'd just lost you. And I was alone and scared, and suddenly the whole world wanted me to be important, but all I wanted to do was hide. I wanted to go somewhere where people weren't always watching me. I believe in all this, and I want us to win, but I never wanted to be in charge, and I definitely never wanted to do any of this without you.

"I promised you that when we go down, we go down together," Davey goes on because he's started, and now he can't stop, desperate to finally release all the horrors inside to the only person he's ever been able to. "And I broke that promise. I was alive, and you weren't. And the only thing I could do that made it hurt less was make sure Pulitzer got stopped. That's why I stayed, that's why I started working with Union. Because Pulitzer had killed my best friend and I wanted him to pay. I needed to make him pay." 

"Davey." Jack's voice is a soft, broken plea. Tear tracks gleam on his skin, and his hand trembles in Davey's grasp. His honey-brown eyes swirl with a cacophony of so much emotion Davey can't even imagine trying to decipher it all. Davey strokes his thumb along Jack's cheekbone reassuringly, and Jack melts into the touch with a shiver. 

"Can I-" Davey pauses, biting his lip as he tries to find the best way to ask before he settles on the direct approach. "Can I kiss you?" The corner of Jack's mouth tips up, and he nods against Davey's palm. Heart leaping, Davey leans in and presses his lips to Jack's in a soft, chaste kiss. Jack groans and reciprocates as much as he can with his torso still strapped to the bed. 

"Now that I remember," Jack murmurs when they part. Their foreheads are still touching, Jack's eyes closed, and the words are breathed against Davey's skin. "Not a dream." 

A watery laugh slips out, and Davey gives Jack one more quick kiss. "Not a dream," he agrees. He's exhausted, the emotional tidal wave of the day seeping his strength from his body, and he can see Jack flagging too. Reluctantly, Davey sits up. "I should let you sleep. You need to rest and get better." 

"Wait." Jack's hand closes around Davey's wrist, sudden panic in his eyes. A second later, he blinks and glances away, grip loosening. "Sorry, just - neva'mind, youse gonna wanna sleep somewhere betta-" 

Davey's eyes widen when he realizes what Jack was going to ask. Smiling, Davey says, "Actually, is it too weird if I stay? I'm still not used to sleeping alone, it freaks me out." The wash of relief on Jack's face is answer enough, so Davey toes out of his shoes. He frowns at the restraints on Jack's chest, but when he reaches for the release, Jack grabs his hand. 

"No, leave 'em," Jack says firmly. "Just in case." 

"Jack-" 

"No, Dave, please," Jack interrupts. "Don't trust my head. Not yet. Just - I'se already hurtcha once. Please. Leave 'em. Wanna make sure youse safe." Davey scowls, but he nods and retracts his hand. The faint throb in his throat from moving his head reminds him that Jack might have a point; he's doing better right now, but there's no saying that it'll last. "And can ya - this side?" Jack gestures across to his right side. 

Licking his lips, Davey obligingly moves over to the other side of the bed, laying down in the space where Jack's arm should've been. He curls himself along Jack's side, head pillowed on his ribs. Jack shifts his bicep to make more room for him, and Davey can feel the hard edge of the steel attachment point against the back of his shoulder. 

Jack relaxes, tension rushing out of his body in a long exhale. "'Kay, now youse safe," he murmurs, more to himself than anything. "Harder to reach. You can get away." Davey's stomach flips over in understanding; Jack wanted him on the side furthest from his functional hand so Jack wouldn't be able to get a good grip on him if he tried to attack. 

Davey squeezes his eyes shut against the sting of tears, nuzzling into the familiar curve of Jack's chest where he's spent so many nights in the last year. When he splays his hand over Jack's sternum, Jack immediately covers it with his own, tangling their fingers. Davey's right arm and Jack's left, both wearing gold union bands that are tarnished but still whole. 

"Missed this," Jack says, clearly already halfway to sleep judging by the slur. "Even when - missed this, having you sleepin' with me. Warned ya you was gonna make a fella get used to this." 

A soft laugh slips out. "I missed this too," Davey replies warmly. "And I promise, I'm not losing you again. I'll be right here every night if you want me." Jack squeezes his fingers to acknowledge that. "Get some sleep, Jacky. I'll be here when you wake up." 

Humming blearily, Jack tilts his head, so his breath ruffles Davey's hair. "Love you." 

Davey finally gives in to the breathless sob hovering in his chest, and he smiles into Jack's skin. "Love you too."

The council room is slowly filling when Davey arrives. He casts his gaze down the table until he sees an empty spot beside Katherine and heads for it. As he walks, he can feel the stares from other council members. Davey pointedly ignores them and slips into the chair beside Katherine.

"How's he doing?" the Capitol woman asks in place of a greeting. 

"Better," Davey answers. It's been a long few days with Jack restricted to the med ward bed at all times. He's still hit with sporadic flashbacks that make him lash out defensively, and Davey's not sure there's been a single time Jack's slept without being woken violently by nightmares. At the same time, it seems like Jack can come back around a little easier each time, and if Davey's there to remind him of the union band on his wrist, Jack usually remembers fast enough.

"Mush says he's cleared medically," Davey goes on, brushing his thumb over the burn mark on his cuff. "I'm gonna get him moved to a real room, so he doesn't keep waking up in a medical ward and thinking he's back in that place." 

Katherine sets her hand on his arm, squeezing reassuringly. "And how are you doing?" 

Casting a sideways glance at her, Davey offers a small smile. "I'm okay," he says. "Tired. And it's hard, seeing what he's going through. But he's here." He pats her hand where it's still resting on his sleeve. "I bet he'd like to see you if you have time. I think it helps him, seeing people he thought were gone. Helps him know those memories weren't real." Medda had gone to visit Jack yesterday; it had been a tearful afternoon, but Jack also properly smiled for the first time since his rescue. 

"I'll make time," Katherine says resolutely. 

Their conversation is cut off when Roosevelt enters the room, hitting the button to slide the doors shut behind him. A private meeting, then. Something important he doesn't want to get out to the main populace yet. Davey sits up straighter, watching the Commander apprehensively. All around the room, others are doing the same. 

"We just intercepted a partial message between two peacekeepers' stations," says Roosevelt, gravely. He nods to Crutchie, who hastily swipes a hand over his digiscreen to send it up to the largest holo-screen at the end of the room. It shows a waveform, and Crutchie frowns as he taps the play button. 

"-to the base," a man's voice says, heavily overlaid with static that partially drowns out words. "They want us heading out for Queens first thing in the morning. Gonna teach those rats a lesson when they get blasted into dust, huh?" There's a dark chuckle, and then the audio cuts out. 

"We already suspected that the Capitol was planning another attack against the Districts," Roosevelt says, "but now we know their target. Ike is communicating with the Ellis base to begin preparing a defense of the District, but they are already understaffed there, and they're not supplied for this sort of thing. We need to send reinforcements out there and fast." 

Another councilman who's also from the Capitol clears his throat. "If we're already at risk there, why send our people in at all? We can't afford those kinds of losses." 

"So you'd let Pulitzer murder an entire District instead?" Davey snaps harshly. "Again? Let a million people die because you don't want to risk our people who are here to fight for exactly this sorta thing?" 

"I'm thinking for the long run," the man says, eyes narrowing shrewdly. "You aren't old enough to understand these things. This isn't just another one of your little fights, this is a war. There will naturally be some casualties." 

Davey stands and slams his palms against the tabletop. "There were casualties in my 'little fights,'" he snarls. "Kids. I watched them die! And kids is exactly who's gonna die if we just sit back and let Queens burn. It's who died when my District burned too. But you wouldn't understand that, it's not like it's your home at risk."

"David," Roosevelt chides wearily as a chorus of protests and whispers spiral around the table. 

At the same time, Katherine stands and turns Davey to face her. "Davey, you've got to calm down," she says, voice pitched low so the others can't hear. Even though her expression is urgent, her hands are warm and bracing on his shoulders. "I'm with you, I am, but this isn't helping. This won't make them take you seriously." 

Davey scowls and flicks his gaze to the wall. He knows most of these people already don't think of him as anything more than a novelty, a silly child with delusions of grandeur. They think Davey's too emotional for the real work. Exploding like that definitely doesn't give them any reason to think otherwise, but he can't help it. The idea of another District being destroyed... Davey can almost taste the ash of Manhattan on his tongue from the thought alone. 

"I'm fine," Davey murmurs brusquely to the Capitol woman, and he shakes her hands off. Facing the table again, Davey sets his jaw. "We will not just let the people of Queens die without trying to help them," he says flatly. "The whole point of Union is to bring the Districts together to protect the people. Every soldier that's fighting for us here, they are here because they want to protect our people. And Queens-" His voice breaks, and he swallows hard before he can continue. "Queens was our first ally. My first ally. Queens was the first to stand up and fight back. We owe them this."

From midway down the table, a voice rises above the general whispers. "Thank you," a woman says with a solemn frown. "Queens believes in you, Mr. Jacobs, we all do. And as for me, I'm here because I-" She winces and takes a steadying breath. "I knew Connor Smalls."

Davey can't help the pained wince at the sound of the boy's name. Connor Smalls, the young Queens Tribute from his first Hunger Games who saved Davey's life and became his friend. The thirteen-year-old died in Davey's arms, and it was when Davey honored the boy's death that all of this started in the first place. It was seeing Davey treat a Tribute from another District as his own, even in a place where they should've been enemies, that inspired the Districts to begin fighting back. 

"Connor was a good boy," the woman from Queens says. "I worked with his oldest sister, and he came around the shop a lot when he was young. Always eager to help. His death is a crime, and my District stands with you in his honor." 

Although there's a hard knot in his throat, Davey manages a scratchy but sincere, "Thank you." Davey straightens his spine and locks eyes with Commander Roosevelt. "We are going to defend Queens." 

"Now listen here," another councilman speaks up sharply. "You do not get to simply make decisions for all of Union." 

"Union exists because of me," says Davey. "I know you all think I'm just some kid with a big mouth, but I helped make this, and I have as much right to speak as you. Union started because I spoke up against something wrong, and leaving Queens to die is wrong." 

"Commander, we have enabled this child's ego long enough," the councilman from the Capitol says. He turns his narrowed eyes on Davey. "First you pressure the Commander into launching a dangerous mission into the Capitol for your personal gain, and now this? I think you overestimate your importance. Union was around before you, boy, and we would continue without you." 

Davey bristles furiously. "Yeah, Union was around before me, and what the hells were you doing all that time? Hiding in the shadows and making all these plans and doing nothing to actually stop the bad things going on. And if I hadn't spoken up and given the folks out there in the Districts a reason to fight, that's exactly where you'd all still be." 

"Enough!" Roosevelt's voice cracks through the room, and an immediate hush falls. It's the first time Davey's ever heard the Commander raise his voice, and it seems to startle everyone else just as much. Sighing, Roosevelt takes off his bowler hat and twirls it between his fingers distractedly. "This is not helping," he says, shooting flat looks at Davey and the other two councilmen. 

Licking his lips, Davey drops his gaze. "Sorry, sir." 

Roosevelt nods to acknowledge him. "Randall, William, I advise you to give David the respect he deserves," he says sternly. "This is a council, and regardless of age or experience, he is your equal. I might also add that David is a Games Victor, twice over now, and that alone demands respect for all he's sacrificed snd endured."

The second councilman nods contritely, while the first one from the Capitol merely pinches his lips together with a look like he tasted something sour. 

"The matter of sending aid to Queens was never a question," Roosevelt continues. "I've already given the order, our men are preparing to depart in about six hours now. They will reach Queens after sundown, so they will have the night to prepare before the peacekeepers arrive. Their first priority will be to evacuate as many of the children and elderly to the Ellis base as possible before morning." 

Down the table, Davey hears the councilwoman from Queens murmur a prayer under her breath. Several other council members are whispering amongst each other, but Roosevelt ignores them as he checks something on his digiscreen. "Claire, I need you to reach out to your contacts in Queens," the Commander directs at the woman from Queens. "They need to start organizing the evacuation, but quietly. We can't afford a panic." 

"Understood, sir," the Queens woman says with a stiff nod. "If you'll excuse me." She stands and heads straight for the door. 

"David, if you could inform the healers that we need them to prepare as well," says Roosevelt. "As many supplies as they can manage. We will need everything possible on hand." 

"Yes'sir, of course," Davey agrees. Truthfully, he's grateful for a chance to escape the council room. He can still feel others staring at him, and he needs to catch his breath before he loses his temper again. 

"I'll come with you," Katherine says, jumping to her feet. "I've helped in the med ward before, maybe I can be of some help now." She hooks her arm through Davey's as they leave the room, half-steering him toward the exit. 

Davey casts a sideways glance at her as they walk down the corridor. "Trying to make sure I behave myself?" he asks wryly, not actually offended by the thought. He knows that she's just trying to help. In his time in the Games, it was her job to make him look good, and it seems to be a habit she hasn't broken. 

Katherine laughs haughtily and rolls her eyes. "Are you joking? I was just looking for an excuse to get the hells out of there," she says. "I know that what we're doing here is different, but sometimes that council room feels a lot like being back in the Capitol: a lot of old men blustering about and believing only they know what's best for everyone."

Curious, Davey surveys her profile. "You sound like you didn't like living in the Capitol," he notes in confusion. Katherine hums a noise that sounds an awful lot like an agreement. "But it's the Capitol. I've seen the way your people live." 

"I know," she says, sighing, and her hand tightens slightly on his arm. "And I know I've no reason to complain, seeing the way that things are in the Districts. I just - I grew up with a lot of pressure on me, from my family and from others. Demands and expectations and a great deal of men who tried to dictate my life—how I should look and behave, what career I should choose, even with whom I should Bind. Doing this, joining Union, feels like the first decision about my future I've ever been able to make on my own." 

Davey's brow furrows thoughtfully. He'd always imagined that life was easy and perfect for all Capitol people, that their inherent wealth and luxury meant that they were free to do as they liked. It seems that even in the Capitol, things are not always so simple. As Davey glances at his friend again, he wonders if this is what caused the hidden brittleness to her smiles - what drove Katherine to find something more in life even though she'd seemed to have everything she could possibly want. 

"Well, if my opinion counts," says Davey, "I'm pretty sure you're smarter than all of the guys in that room combined. I'd trust you to make decisions more than them." 

The Capitol woman huffs a laugh, and a pleased smile tilts her lips. "And my decision is, as it has always been, to follow your lead," she says, nudging her shoulder into his side playfully. "And, you know, the Commander believes in you too. He's told me that this new world we're building will belong to the young, to the people like you and me. That when this battle is won, the old generation will have to step aside and let the young lead."

Davey squeezes her hand on his arm gratefully. "Thanks, but I don't want to lead. When this is over, I just want to have a life again." 

"And you deserve that," Katherine says warmly. "So come on, then, it's time to go win ourselves a battle." 

It takes several hours before Davey can slip away, roped into helping out in the med ward. The healers are powering through preparing as many supplies as they can, packing bandages into crates and brewing poultices with focused intensity. As much as there's somewhere Davey would rather be, the methodical and familiar work gives him a chance to calm and steady his mind. Not to mention an opportunity to feel useful—he's trying not to let it get to him, but the councilmen's jibes have gotten under his skin. 

His mother is the one who finally tells him to leave, her expression soft and knowing. "You could use a break," Esther says kindly. "There is not much more to do while we wait for the brews to cool. If we need more help later, I'll comm you." 

"Thank you, Momma," Davey breathes gratefully. He presses a quick kiss to her brow before slipping out the back door of the med ward. From there, it's a short trip down the hall to the private med room. He raps his knuckles lightly on the frame before pushing the door open. 

Davey's surprised to find that the room is crowded. Spot and Boots sit in chairs along the wall, while Racer is perched on the edge of the bed beside Jack's hip. Everyone except Racer glances up at the sound of the knock, and Davey offers a bemused smile. He doesn't miss the way Jack's eyes dart to the gold band on his left wrist before he glances back up to return the smile. 

"Hey guys," Davey greets, stepping in and shutting the door behind him. "Looks like I'm late to the party." 

"Eh, well, that happens when you're off bein' all important," Boots teases. Davey scoffs under his breath; apparently, in the eyes of the council, he's not nearly as important as they like to make the people think. "We figured Jack could use the distraction, bein' stuck in here for days."

"And Racer has been playing with his toys," Spot says with a smirk. "Wanted to give it a test-run."

With a faint grin, Jack taps Racer's shoulder and then nods toward Davey. Racer glances back and beams. "Davey! Heya, how's it?" he says in a half-shout. Spot waves a hand to get his attention and mimes turning a dial. "Oh, too loud again?" asks Racer, lowering his voice to a volume that almost makes him hard to hear. "Sorry. But come check this out."

Curious, Davey steps around to the side of the bed so he can see what Racer is doing. A metallic skeleton of an arm is attached to Jack's right bicep, with visible steel bars and joints wrapped in countless wires. "Ain't finished, obviously," Racer says, twirling a screwdriver between his fingers. "Wanted to get it all wired up and calibrated 'fore I start putting on the outsides, but it's not shaping up too bad so far." 

Jack smiles and lifts the arm, the hydraulic elbow giving a faint hum as he does, and then he curls each finger in one by one. Davey can't help but echo the grin on Jack's face. "That's amazing," he says breathlessly. 

Racer flicks his gaze down to the digiscreen resting on Jack's thigh, and then he looks back up to Davey smugly. "Is, isn't it?" he agrees. Davey's brow furrows, and he glances down at the digiscreen to see text glowing across the screen, although he can't read it upside-down. "Oh, got it rigged to show what folks is saying," Racer says in response to Davey's confused expression. "Got tired of watching folks try to mime shit at me, even though it was kinda funny sometimes. This thing don't always come out with the right words, but it helps." 

"Thank you, Racer, this is incredible," Davey says, warmth blossoming in his chest as he watches Jack slowly moving the new hand through a series of shapes and motions. 

"It won't be as good as the old one," says Racer, but there's a decidedly pleased smirk on his face. "Least not for now. I don't got the right supplies here to make it so he can feel pressure much, and I won't be able to put the coating on it that looks like skin. Can make a better one when this's all over and I got the time and tech. But I figure least for now, this is better than nothing, right?" 

"What about your ears?" Davey asks. 

Racer's nose wrinkles. "Started on 'em, but it's lots harder," he admits. "And it ain't like I can just hook it up and test it like I can with this thing." He taps the screwdriver against Jack's wrist. "Least all the inside bits is already in place for him, the stuff that connects it to his brain, so I just gotta make the attachment, ya know? But that Crutchie fella's tryna hack in a Capitol med server, see if he can dig out some specs for me to work with. Shouldn't be too hard once I got those."

"I'm glad," Davey says sincerely. 

"Apparently, so's everyone else. All think gettin' my hearing back gonna make me less loud," Racer says and snickers. "Stupid folks dunno I'se always been loud." 

Spot snorts. "Ain't that the truth." 

When Racer sees the words light up on the digiscreen, he shoots a sly look at Spot. "Don't go actin' like you hate it," he says. "I got it on good authority that you think I'm adorable. Which is why the first thing I'm doing when I can hear again is finding the nearest priestess and Bindin' the shit outta you. Could do it now, but I wanna hear ya say it." 

Davey's eyes widen at the open declaration, and he glances between the two of them in surprise. Even though Spot is trying to affect a look of exasperation, there's a shadow of pink spreading up the back of his neck. "Lucky me, then I'm stuck listenin' to you yammer on forever," Spot says dryly. 

The words scrolling across the tablet make Racer laugh. "Damn lucky."

"Uh, Racer," says Jack, touching the man's shoulder to get his attention. He holds up the prosthetic hand and gestures to the thumb, which is curled in and whirring softly. "Thumb's stuck." 

Racer frowns, glancing at the digiscreen to make sure he caught the words right. "Gah, stupid joint," he grumbles, grabbing a smaller screwdriver from the pile of tools on the blanket in front of him. He snatches Jack's hand toward him and sticks the screwdriver into the thumb joint, muttering to himself under his breath just loud enough they can all hear him cussing at the outdated tech. 

"So, how'd council go?" Spot asks. "Figure it was high level news 'cause I wasn't invited this time." 

Davey scowls, scratching his union band distractedly. There are no open seats, so he pats the end of the bed questioningly. Jack nods and draws one foot up a bit so there's room for Davey to sit on the mattress. "Not great," he says grimly. "Roosevelt doesn't want it getting out quite yet, doesn't want people panicking, but we found out Pulitzer is going to attack Queens." 

Boots sits up sharply, eyes blowing wide in alarm. "He's what?" he asks breathlessly. 

Shooting a sympathetic look at the Queens Tribute, Davey clears his throat. "We caught a peacekeeper transmission. They're attacking in the morning. The Ellis base is already working on getting as many people out as they can and building up defenses, and Roosevelt said we're sending out reinforcements to help." Cursing, Boots pushes to his feet and starts for the door. "Boots, you can't, you're barely healed-" 

"It's my home," Boots says fiercely. "Tell me you wouldn'a done the same thing." 

Davey winces because it's true. If they'd gotten any forewarning about the attack on Manhattan, Davey would've been on the first hover out, injured back or not. "Then be safe," says Davey. "Please. I don't want to lose another friend." 

"Thanks," Boots says. Dipping his head, he turns and half runs out of the door.

"Wish I could help," Davey says, sighing as the door clicks shut behind their friend. "I'm so tired of not being allowed to do anything to help. Feels like I'm lucky the council even lets me outta my room nowadays. Had their way, they'd probably keep me in there except for broadcasts. Probably even for that." 

Spot exhales. "It's almost over, Dave. Things keep goin' like this, ain't gonna need to be motivating people no more. They're all raring to go, and when they go, you'll be right there fighting alongside us." 

"Kinda surprised you're not going with Boots," Davey admits. 

"Someone gotta babysit this idiot," says Spot, nodding toward Racer. "If there ain't someone watching him, shit tends to blow up or catch fire." Although he laughs at the comment, Davey can read the subtext: Spot can't bring himself to be away from Racer. Davey can understand that feeling. He darts a quick glance at Jack, and the younger boy smiles when he catches the look.

For some reason, the gesture sends a whirlwind of butterflies through Davey's stomach. It feels like things did in the beginning when they returned home from the first Hunger Games and were tentatively exploring what their relationship was now. The nervous flirting and sidelong looks, the uncertainty hidden beneath the overt affection they were forced to use in public. 

It's stupid to feel so giddy from simple moments like this considering they're Bound, but at the same time, it lights some flicker of hope inside Davey.

Davey carefully closes the bedroom door behind him, heart hammering. It took a lengthy argument with Mush, in which Davey once again resorted to pulling rank to make the other man listen, but Jack is finally out of the med ward. They've assigned him a small barracks room of his own - for Jack's safety as much as anyone's, the Commander assured him - nothing more than a bed with drawers beneath and a stiff wooden chair.

Still, as Jack glances around at the cramped room, his lips sketch a faint smile. "Reminds me of the old lodgin' house back home," he says. "Only without the snorin' old guys." 

Davey chuckles. "Give it a few hours. The walls aren't super thick." That tugs another smile out of Jack. Davey shuffles his feet anxiously, not sure what to do with himself. He doesn't want to just presume that Jack wants him here. Jack's out of the med ward, which should help him not wake up thinking he's still in Snyder's prison. Davey knows the pristine whiteness reminds him of that lab with the healing chamber where he was kept in between rounds of abuse. 

And of course, there's the fact that Jack still flinches most times when he sees Davey. It's a subtle thing, nothing more than a tensing of muscles, but Davey knows Jack well enough to spot it. Every time, Jack will freeze, glance at the union band on his wrist, and then slowly uncoil. 

Maybe Jack just wants a break from being triggered by everything. Maybe he wants to be left alone, somewhere safe where he can process. 

Davey clears his throat. "I should let you get some sleep." 

"Don't go." The response is instantaneous, Jack spinning to hold out his hand imploringly. (Racer took the prosthetic one back so he could finish it.) A moment later, Jack withdraws nervously. "Sorry, you pro'lly got important stuff you gotta do, huh? S'okay, I'mma be alright. Just gonna-" 

Determined, Davey crosses the room in slow, deliberate steps that give Jack plenty of time to retreat if he needs. Jack holds his ground, eyes hopeful. "Nothing's more important than you, Jack," says Davey, threading his fingers through his husband's. "I just - I wasn't sure you wanted me around." 

Jack sighs and leans his forehead to Davey's. "It's easier when youse here," he admits. "Rememberin'." He nudges his nose against Davey's affectionately. "'Cause ya know, you look a li'l different now. The 'you' they made me see, the one that's not real, he always looked the same. Looked the way I 'membered ya. But now - your hair's shorter." 

"Sarah says it makes me look more mature," Davey says with a wry grin. "Keeping it short enough I don't get those stupid flippy curls around my ears. She thinks it'll make people take me more serious." 

"I liked the flippy curls," says Jack, shrugging. Davey smiles because he knows this—Jack used to play with them often enough, teasing Davey by toying with the hair until it tickled Davey's ears. Jack extracts his hand from Davey's grip to reach up and trace his fingers along his jaw. "And you got a scar here," Jack continues. "And here." He swipes his thumb across Davey's eyebrow. 

Grimacing, Davey leans into Jack's palm. "I got a lot more scars than that," he confesses softly. Jack makes a questioning noise. "Union - we don't have the best healing tech here. Nothing like the Capitol. I didn't come out of the Games quite as unmarked this time around." 

Jack's eyes widen in realization. "You screamed," he gasps out. "I remember - I wasn't close 'nough to see, but I heard you scream, and I couldn't get to you for some reason. I don't 'member why, s'all blurry." He meets Davey's eyes hesitantly. "Dream?" And it's the first time he sounds like he wants to find out his memory is a lie.

"No, that one was real," says Davey, smiling sadly. "It was one of those lizard things. Wyverns. You were helping Racer with the bomb and it jumped on my back." 

"Show me." It's probably supposed to come out as a demand, but Jack's voice cracks and turns it into a plea. Davey cringes, not wanting to show off the mangled mess of his body. Especially not to Jack, who's always been so effortlessly beautiful, even before the Capitol stylists got their hands on him.

Then again, this is Jack, who has seen every darkness inside Davey's head and still wants him somehow. Davey's seen some of the new scars Jack earned in the Capitol, invisible as they might be; the least Davey can do is share his own. Licking his lips, Davey pulls his shirt over his head and turns so Jack can see.

"Gods above," Jack curses, running his palm the length of Davey's spine. Davey knows what it looks like—has seen the rippling lines of scarred flesh that stretch from one shoulder to the small of his back. It's nowhere near as horrible as it should be, considering, but it's still far from pleasant to look at. As Jack smoothes his hand over it, Davey can feel every bump and knot where it catches against Jack's soft skin. 

Jack is quiet for so long that Davey starts to fidget before Jack steps closer and wraps his arm around Davey's chest. With a shudder, Jack draws Davey back against his front and buries his face in the side of Davey's neck. "You could'a died," he breathes, voice thick. "You could'a died, and then everythin' I went through - I never would'a knowed." 

Davey knows exactly what he's saying: if Davey had died, there wouldn't have been a reason for Union to rescue Jack. They might've just left him there, believing all that time that Davey really did betray and abandon him. Davey decides it's probably better not to point out that if Davey had died, there would've been no reason for Pulitzer to keep Jack alive at all. Davey's death might've saved Jack from the weeks of torture. 

Turning back around, Davey pulls Jack against him. The other boy sags gratefully, tucking his face against Davey's throat and curling his arm around Davey's ribs so tight it almost hurts. "It's okay, Jacky," Davey murmurs, cradling Jack to him as he shudders. "It's okay, I got you. I'm here. We're both here."

"I don't wanna forget again," Jack whispers brokenly, a sob catching in his throat. In the next breath, Jack pulls back just enough to lean up and kiss Davey. The gesture is firm and possessive and desperate, and Davey pours himself into it just as much. 

This part of their relationship, at least, was never complicated. Davey and Jack always understood the comfort they take from each other's bodies, even when their hearts were still confused about the rest of it. So they only stop kissing long enough to shed clothes before falling into the narrow bunk in a tangle of limbs. 

Back home, they used to reassure themselves by tracing skin that should've been marred. Now, Jack's hand explores the mass of scarring on Davey's back and side, and the tiny shrapnel marks that speckle his chest and arms. Davey brushes the hardened skin above Jack's prosthetic attachment point, and the bruising inside his elbow from the various medical feeds, and the half-healed surgical incisions on his temples. 

It's calming in a different way, a reminder that while they might be battered and broken, they are both still alive, and, more importantly, they're together. 

"Please don't ever leave me again," Davey says into Jack's shoulder much later when they've collapsed bonelessly. Davey burrows against Jack's side, wrapping himself as tightly around the other boy as he can. "I don't care if you say you don't want to stay in Union. We'll run away. I'll leave right now if you want. We'll go find that place your mom used to tell you about, the one with the land made of color. Just - I can't do this alone anymore." 

"Shh, I gotcha," says Jack, sweeping his hand along Davey's side comfortingly. He presses a soft kiss to Davey's mussed hair. "I'mma stay long as you want me. And we's gonna stay here. Youse right; Union is us. We started this, you and me, and we's gonna finish it."

When Davey is jerked abruptly from sleep, his first thought is that Jack must be having another nightmare. He hears a harsh gasp from beside him and feels Jack's movements as the other boy pulls away sharply. "Jack?" Davey asks, sitting up and turning. Jack's spine is pressed to the wall, wide eyes damp and lips parted into a startled O. It's only when Davey notices that Jack's chest is heaving but Davey can't hear his gasping breaths that Davey realizes the sound that woke him wasn't from Jack. 

A loud, droning alarm is ringing through the entire base. 

"Oh no," Davey gasps, an ominous shiver rolling down his spine. Shaking off his fear, Davey pivots his attention back to his husband. "Jacky, it's okay. You're safe, I promise. Look at your wrist." 

Jack tenses, but he shoots a quick look at his arm. A small furrow blossoms above his nose before he processes the gold band and what it means. "Dave?" Jack asks breathlessly, glancing up in confusion. "What's happenin'?" 

"I dunno," Davey responds. Scooting closer, he offers out his hand. After a second's hesitation, Jack takes it. "You okay?" Davey asks, rubbing his thumb over Jack's knuckles soothingly. "Talk to me, Jacky."

"M'okay," says Jack. He exhales slowly, and his shoulders ease down a little. "Just scared me. S'loud." He glares upward vaguely like he's trying to direct his frustration at the sound, and there's something adorable about the gesture that makes Davey smile. "What's that noise?" 

Davey licks his lips. "The base's emergency alarm. Something's wrong. Something bad happened." He glances down at their discarded clothes—somewhere in that mess, Davey's sure there's a litany of comms coming through to his digiscreen and demanding for his attention. 

Clearing his throat, Jack inches away from the wall and squeezes Davey's hand. "Okay, let's go then." 

"You sure?" Davey asks, surprised. There's still a faintly wild light in Jack's eyes, shivers rolling through his frame. 

"Fo'sure," Jack says determinedly. "We got work to do, right?" Without giving Davey a chance to protest, Jack stands and extracts his pants from the scattered pile of clothing. Davey shakes himself and jumps up to join him, awkwardly scrambling into his clothes from the day before. He might not like it - wants to be able to stay and take care of Jack and be sure he's safe - but this is an emergency. Whatever's going on is bigger than them. As Jack said, they've got a job, and it needs their attention right now.

Still barefoot, they sprint out of the room, Jack grabbing Davey's hand so he doesn't get lost in the unfamiliar place. The halls are lined with people peering out of their doors, white-faced and shouting questions to each other. Davey and Jack barrel passed them, ignoring the frantic questions. There's only one place to get answers. Charging up the stairs, Davey leads the way with a single-minded focus. 

The command center is a hive of chaos when Davey skids to a stop inside the doors, Jack almost colliding with him from behind. Several members of the Union council are lined up around the semi-circle of tables in varying states of dress, clearly torn from sleep too. Only Commander Roosevelt seems to be fully dressed, sans his usual bowler hat, as he stands at Crutchie's side. 

On the enormous holo-screens that take up the far wall are video feeds of destruction and fighting. 

"Commander, what's going on?" asks Davey, bolting over. 

Roosevelt looks impossibly old and worn when he meets Davey's gaze. "It was an ambush," he says grimly. "The peacekeepers attacked early, while we were in the middle of trying to evacuate. They must've found out we were coming somehow." 

"The comm message," says Jack, frowning. He's pulled himself together impressively well, the only hint of his earlier panic in the dull redness around his eyes. "That's why you sent your folks, right? They must'a meant for you to hear it. Fake messages, stories that ain't true—that's sorta Pulitzer's thing, doncha think?" 

The Capitol councilman that fought with Davey the day before turns and shoots an incredulous look at Jack. "Wait, you're-"

"Jack Kelly, yeah," Jack shoots back, barely sparing the man a glance before directing his attention back to Roosevelt. 

"You've let this boy loose in the heart of our operation?" the councilman blusters at the Commander. "He's been in Pulitzer's pocket for weeks. How do we know he's not the reason the Capitol knew we were coming?" 

"How dare-" Davey starts, but Jack beats him to it. 

Growling, Jack fists his hand in the front of the man's shirt. "Pulitzer's men been torturin' me for weeks, 'cept when he was busy makin' me watch him torture my friends," he seethes dangerously in the man's face. "So go ahead and say it again how I'se workin' for that rattlesnake." 

At a warning look from Roosevelt, Davey grabs Jack's shoulder. Jack huffs and releases the councilman, stepping back to Davey's side, but he's still vibrating with anger. "That's your story," the councilman says snidely, smoothing down his rumpled clothes. "But we watched you turn on Union on a national broadcast. Are we just supposed to accept your word?" 

"We don't need his word," says Roosevelt, his voice taking on that firm, authoritative tone Davey recognizes. "We have proof, Randall. I've seen the video evidence that Mr. Kelly is telling the truth." 

Jack's eyes go wide, and he shoots a startled look at Davey. "They copied the servers from that place," Davey explains in a whisper. "It pulled the surveillance video as well." 

"Mr. Kelly has sacrificed a great deal to protect both our nation and the people he cares about, far more than most of us," Roosevelt continues. "I assure you, he has my absolute faith in this. You will take my word, or I'll ask you to leave. I won't have you continue to question the loyalty of these boys who've given everything to get us to this point." 

The councilman makes that same pinched, lemon-sour expression, but he nods. "Yes, sir." 

Roosevelt turns back to Jack in a blatant dismissal of the councilman. "I think you're right," he says as if there was no interruption. "This wasn't a slip-up; they let that bit of the transmission out on purpose. It was a trap all along." 

"How many?" Davey asks, afraid to know the answer. 

"We can't be sure yet," the Commander responds. "They didn't Blaze the District, which is a small relief, but there've been bombs and firefight. A couple places were gassed with Acid-Air, although we're not sure whether that was intentional or if the explosions just damaged the exposed pipework around the mines." Jack bites off a pained noise, no doubt remembering their own encounter with the poisonous gas in the Hunger Games. "There's been - a great deal of casualties, far more than we could've expected." 

A knot of guilt lodges in Davey's chest; he'd pushed for this, pushed for them to send their people right into a trap. "Were we at least able to get some people out before it started?" 

"Almost ten thousand, last count," Crutchie chips in from the desk in front of them. He doesn't take his eyes off the screens before him, monitoring a dozen things at once, but he's clearly had one ear on the feeds and one on their conversation. "Haven't got an official count, lost contact when the fighting started, but I know there was already a whole 'nother batch of hovers on their way to Ellis by then so it's pro'lly a bit higher than the last numbers they sent me." 

Davey looks up at the holo-screens on the wall, video streams from soldiers and surveillance cameras in the District as soldiers struggle to hold off peacekeepers. Rage boils in his gut, watching innocent District folk being mowed down in the crossfire as they try to escape, and Union soldiers losing their lives trying to protect them long enough to flee. On one screen, a tenement building explodes, flames curling out the windows as chunks of brick go flying in every direction. 

"We can't keep doing this," Davey says decisively. "We can't keep just waiting for the next one and defending against Capitol attacks because the attacks aren't going to stop. Pulitzer's not going to stop until he eliminates us, no matter how many Districts he has to attack to do it. We've gotta stop this now before we don't have enough people left to do it." 

"You think it's time to go on the offensive?" asks Roosevelt. 

"I agree," Katherine interjects, slipping into their group. Her simple black sleep clothes are wrinkled, and her hair spills in tangled waves around her shoulders. "Pulitzer knows we're just going to keep defending the Districts when they get attacked, and he's going to use that to his advantage. He'll do this over and over until he's thinned us out so much we have no choice but to surrender." 

The Commander strokes his mustache thoughtfully, eyes lingering on the holo-screen. "You may be right," he agrees. "We'll gather the council. We need to discuss this. Charles, could you-?" 

"Sending the comm right now," Crutchie says before he can finish. Davey hears a handful of chimes as the digiscreens in several of the council members' pockets alert them to the incoming text comm.

"Thank you," Roosevelt says. He nods to the rest of them and starts for the door, and the council members that are present follow in his wake. 

As they're walking, Jack takes Davey's wrist and pulls him off to the side, so they are a few paces apart from the others. "Dave, what you was saying 'bout the cameras when I was in that place," he whispers urgently. His eyes are wide and imploring, and Davey knows precisely where this is headed. 

"I haven't seen any of it," says Davey. "I don't think I could've stomached it even if they'd let me watch." 

Jack exhales gratefully. "Good. I can't - don't wantcha seein' me like that." 

Davey slides his hand up in Jack's grip until he can lace their fingers together. "Then I'll never watch it," he promises. "And if it helps, only a couple people have seen any of it. They just watched enough to know what was done to you so they could make sure you got the med treatment you needed." 

Nodding, Jack's expression morphs into relief. He lifts their joined hands to kiss the back of Davey's, right above his union band. "Thank ya."

The mood in the council room is tense and somber. Half of the council members are still in states of disarray, wearing either their sleep clothes or, like Davey, rumpled clothes from the day before thrown on in haste. Davey fidgets, flexing his bare toes on the cold tile, with Jack beside him. He's sitting on Jack's right now, a natural defense on his unprotected side, and Jack presses his leg against Davey's beneath the table in silent support since it's too awkward to hold hands across his body. 

On Jack's other side, Katherine watches her digiscreen intently, the video feeds playing on mute as she tracks what's happening. She's pale, an almost sickly gray as she stares at the devastation with a blend of fear and horror. She mutters to herself under her breath, but it's too quiet for Davey to hear. 

"Pulitzer led us into a trap," Roosevelt announces, and the already quiet room falls silent. "They let that piece of radio comm slip intending for us to hear it. Pulitzer knows that our weakness is the people of the Districts. He knows that threatening them will always make us come running, and he exploited that." 

"Which is why we shouldn't have sent our people in there in the first place," Randall, the Capitol councilman, interrupts. "It's only left us more vulnerable-" 

"Absolutely not," Roosevelt cuts over him sharply. "We couldn't just step back and let those people die without trying."

"But the peacekeepers only attacked because we were there," Randall insists. "If we had held back, he might not have attacked them at all." 

The Commander shakes his head. "That's not a risk I'm willing to take. True, Pulitzer might not have attacked. He might also have simply Blazed the District because we didn't do what he wanted us to. It would destroy the Districts' faith in us if they found out we knew and did nothing. How can they trust us when we say we're here to help them, and then we let a District burn?

"Regardless, what's done is done," Roosevelt proceeds. "What we need to focus on now is the future. We need to decide how to move forward. Clearly, the way we've been operating so far is not going to cut it anymore. We can't simply keep defending the Districts against attacks, taking losses each time and gaining no ground." 

"It's time to ach'lly do something," another councilman - Davey's fairly sure he's from Woodside - says fiercely. "You don't win a fight by just sittin' back and takin' blows." 

"Do if you wanna wear the other guy out," a woman from Harlem counters. "Let them keep throwin' punches until they run outta steam." 

Jack scoffs. "That only works if you got the strength to hold out while they's swingin'," he says. "We's already been kicked 'round so much, pretty good chance Pulitzer got the power to knock us on our asses before he runs outta steam." There's a ripple of murmurs around the table, plenty of people tossing looks at him, and Jack sighs. "Fuckin' hells. Yes, hi, I'm Jack Kelly, and no, I ain't really working for Pulitzer." 

"You saved our Victor's life," a man opposite them says, his eyes solemn and earnest. "I've heard you suffered a lot in the Capitol to keep Patrick Finch alive. Thank you. The people of Richmond won't forget it." 

Surprised, Jack licks his lips and nods. "S'what we's here for," he says awkwardly. "He's one of our Newsboys. We look out for each other." Davey squeezes Jack's knee beneath the table reassuringly. 

"And Mr. Kelly is right," says Roosevelt, steering the conversation back on track. "We simply don't have enough people or resources to keep holding off the president's men for much longer. Like Liam said, it's time for us to act. We need to strike now before we lose too much to stand a chance." 

"An attack on the Capitol?" a woman gasps incredulously. "We don't have the strength to do that." 

"Not with just our soldiers, maybe," says Davey. "But with the people of the Districts behind us? That was the whole point when we started all this, that the Districts all together are stronger than the Capitol. Even if it's just the young and able, that's gotta be at least tens of thousands more people on our side." 

"Who's to say they'll follow?" another man asks. "Standing up to defend our homes is one thing, but actively marching on the Capitol - that's a lot bigger. Ya really think folks are just gonna sign up for that?"

Davey clears his throat. "They will if I ask them to," he says, trying to sound more confident and less terrified than he really feels. This power he seems to wield has always scared him, and he's never been comfortable with the idea that millions of people are willing to follow his word. Now, though, it's exactly what they need. He's been running his mouth to keep their spirits up; now, it's time to stoke those sparks into a bonfire.

Glancing up at Roosevelt, Davey says, "Another broadcast. I'll tell folks it's time, that we're gonna take the president down once and for all. Now or never. They'll come, I know it." 

The Commander nods. "I agree. The people listen to you. They are growing tired of the attacks and the losses. They're most likely already just waiting on your word." He pauses, and then adds, "And I know this is a lot to ask after all you've been through, but Mr. Kelly, I believe your help in this would be beneficial. If you can show the people that you're on our side, that the two of you are still a united front..." 

"Course," Jack says immediately, jaw set. "Folks deserve to know what he done, why I said the stuff I did. Don't want folks thinking any the Newsboys got doubt, 'cause then they's gonna doubt too, right?" 

"Thank you," Roosevelt says sincerely. "I know being in the spotlight is difficult," the Commander pauses to shoot a quick, sympathetic look Davey's way, no doubt remembering their last conversation about broadcasts, "but the people need you. Union needs you. So thank you." Clearing his throat, he straightens. "For now, we'll continue to monitor the situation. We will need to regather before we make our move, but there's nothing we can do until the attack ends."

None of them can go back to sleep, so the majority of the council remains hovering listlessly in the council room. They activate the holo-screen to watch the footage coming in from Queens, conversation solemn and quiet. After a while, a few others wander into the room since it's no longer an official council meeting, mostly family and partners of council members. The guards who were posted at the door slip in to watch. Spot walks in with Racer at his side, and Sarah appears a couple of minutes later to sit silently on Davey's other side. 

"It's time, ain't it, boss?" Spot asks, glancing around the room at the tense, determined expressions. "Fightin' time?" 

"Fightin' time," Davey agrees. "We're gonna take the fight to Pulitzer." 

"Good," Spot says with a curt nod, and that's all he says on the subject. 

Racer follows the conversation on his digiscreen and huffs. "Good thing I almost got that arm finished then, huh?" he says in a whisper that still carries. He smirks at Jack. "Can't send ya into a fight with one hand; youse bad enough with two." 

Jack tries to look offended, but there's a spark of amusement dancing in his dark eyes. "Fuck off." 

"What was that? Didn't hear ya," Racer says, cupping a hand around his ear like he's trying to hear better. "'Thank you, Racer, youse my hero?' Awh, you're welcome." Spot smacks Racer around the back of the head. "Ow, what was that for? Just tryna make conversation." Still, he seems to catch the hint that people want the quiet to absorb what's happening, and the blond turns his attention back to his digiscreen instead, fussing over mechanical schematics. 

The sun rises before the fighting stops, golden rays pouring down through the smoke to highlight a scene of carnage. Bodies litter the streets, civilians and soldiers and peacekeepers alike. Hundreds of buildings have been reduced to rubble, while others are steadily burning. The holo-screens capture images of makeshift med wards constructed haphazardly around the District, people scrambling to tend to those who've survived. 

It's a slideshow of destruction, and Davey can only keep telling himself that it could've been worse. At least some survived and will have the chance to start over. It's still not fair or justifiable in any way, but it's the only thing he's got.

Around the room, people finally begin to talk to each other, but in the tone of one standing at a family member's deathbed. No one's voice rises above a whisper, heads inclined together as they speak. Davey fidgets, scrubbing his palms against his thighs anxiously. There's work he should be doing, the most important speech of his life to be planned, but he can't bring himself to move. It's all too much to take in at once, and he feels like he needs time to be alone and process before he can handle it. 

Too bad time isn't a thing they're ever given. 

The holo-screen crackles loudly, shattering the silence like a gunshot, and everyone jumps. A blitz of static flickers on the glass for a moment before solidifying. Davey is utterly unsurprised to find the president's face filling the screen, the severe, gray features and expression of false melancholy hauntingly familiar by now. Jack flinches harder than the rest of them, his chair scraping harshly on the tiles from the motion. 

"Jacky?" Davey asks nervously. 

Jack's eyes are squeezed shut, and he rubs his wrist over his chest firmly, making the gold cuff rotate as the clasps snag in his shirt. "Dream?" Jack asks under his breath. 

"Not a dream," Davey assures him, setting a palm on Jack's leg. "You're here with me. He's far away, he can't get you, I promise." Jack lets out a breath and nods, hand dropping into his lap to curl his fingers over Davey's. 

"I come to you this morning with the gravest of news," Pulitzer says from the holo-screen. "The organization known as Union has once again escalated their attacks on our country. This time, it's the District of Queens who suffered. An attack on the peacekeeper bases in Queens has resulted in thousands of deaths, citizens spared no mercy in the Union mercenaries' raid."

The holo-screen fills, once again, with footage of the attack on Queens. It's spliced pieces, pointedly only ever showing the District folk being killed without a glimpse of who fired the guns. "And why this senseless violence against a helpless District, you might ask?" Pulitzer says as his face returns to the glass. "They had a very specific target in mind, and I'm afraid to say that they succeeded.

"Just yesterday, Jack Kelly was sent to Queens as a special envoy," the president announces grimly. Several eyes dart toward Jack, who is glaring at the screen in shock and rage. "Since forsaking the dangerous influence of David Jacobs and Union, Mr. Kelly has been traveling to Districts to reassure the people and see what we can do to help. He arrived in Queens last night, and then early this morning, he was kidnapped by Union."

"Oh, ya twisted sonuvabitch," Jack hisses. "He think folks is really gonna believe that? I ain't never set foot in another District, how-"

On the screen, Pulitzer continues, "And this attack strikes me all the more personally. I regret sending this brave young man into such danger after all he's done, but more than that, another member of Mr. Kelly's personal entourage was my own daughter." 

A chorus of whispers breaks out around the room again, people turning to each other questioningly. "Daughter?" Spot asks, frowning. "Since when Pulitzer had kids?" A glance around the room shows everyone wearing the same expressions, either incredulous or horrified that Pulitzer would invent such a bizarre lie. Katherine is practically white with it.

"I've tried so hard to keep her safe," says Pulitzer, "and let her grow up as a normal child instead of as the daughter of the president. It's been difficult to watch her grow into an incredible young woman, first as a Games ambassador and then a Capitol envoy, and not tell the world. So, David Jacobs, I beg of you, do not hurt my daughter. And my darling Katherine, I promise, I will find you and bring you home." 

The president's expression twists into a glimmer of a smile before the broadcast cuts out, but no one is paying attention to the holo-screen anymore. Every eye in the room hangs on Katherine, a silent tableau. The Capitol woman is ghostly pale, hands shaking on the tabletop, but her eyes are bright with fury. 

The moment breaks when the pair of soldiers in the room spring to their feet, guns raised and trained on Katherine in an instant. Jaw set, Katherine slowly lifts her hands and folds them behind her head. "Kath?" Davey asks uncertainly. He doesn't want to believe it, but the way she's acting isn't reassuring. He needs to know. "Is it true?" 

Katherine glances sideways at him, and her green eyes glimmer with fire beneath the tears. "It's not what it sounds like," she says firmly. A pit opens up in Davey's stomach at the confirmation. 

Jack shoves backward and out of his chair, putting more space between them. "Youse Pulitzer's daughter?" he growls incredulously. "You - all this time - after everythin' we-"

"Stand slowly, ma'am," one of the soldiers says without lowering their gun. Katherine grimaces, expression resigned, but she stands up from the table and steps around her chair so they can easily reach her. The second soldier darts forward and wrenches Katherine's arms around behind her back, fastening them tightly with a set of heavy mag-cuffs. "Come with us." 

"I've always been on your side," Katherine says, meeting Davey's gaze. "You know I am." When the soldier tugs at her elbow, Katherine goes without a fight, letting them steer her out of the room.

Davey's brain races, the buzz of the council room going over his head as he sorts through all of the facts inside his head. 

Katherine is Pulitzer's daughter. Except, no one has ever known that fact before today. Davey didn't even know the president had children, and a glance around the room says no one else did either, not even the councilman from the Capitol. Davey wants to think it's some convoluted lie meant to destroy them from within, but Katherine didn't deny it. 

But why would Pulitzer bring it up now? Katherine's been missing from the Capitol for weeks. If Pulitzer was really concerned about her, really thought she might have been abducted, then why did he wait until now to address it? 

No, he must've known all along. Pulitzer knew she's with Union, which means if he let this news out now, it was for a reason. Just like he used this lie to cover up the fact that they rescued Jack, he's using it to expose her. He must know it will make Union turn on her, make them question if she's spying on them. 

(Is she spying on them? Has she been feeding information to the president all along? Is that how the Capitol always seems to be one step ahead of them? Has Pulitzer just decided he doesn't need her anymore, and he's letting Union tie up a loose end for him?)

Davey jumps when a hand settles on his wrist, and he blinks out of his thoughts to find Jack staring at him worriedly. "You okay? Said your name a couple times," Jack says. 

"Yeah, sorry, just thinking," says Davey, turning his hand over to curl his fingers around Jack's. 

"Ya mean how something 'bout this ain't right?" Jack asks. 

After a brief flicker of surprise, Davey feels something uncoil in his chest. This is familiar—he and Jack always seem to be thinking on the same wavelengths. "You see it too?" Davey asks hopefully. 

Jack chews at his lip, brow furrowed. "Was thinking, ain't too smart outing your spy. Kinda defeats the point of a spy, right?"

Energy surges in Davey's gut, excited to know he's not the only one who can tell there's something wrong. "Exactly," Davey agrees. "If Pulitzer really had a spy in Union, the last thing he'd do is say their name on national broadcast and throw that tool away in the middle of the fight. There's something else going on here." Davey licks his lips and stands. "I gotta talk to Roosevelt." 

"Dave?" Sarah asks from behind him, and her brow creases with questions when he looks back at her. Beside her, Spot and Racer both glance up at him curiously. 

"I'll be back," Davey responds, "but I need to see the Commander." He starts for the door, ignoring the stares from the rest of the council room, and he isn't surprised when Jack falls into step with him. As they walk, Davey slips his hand into Jack's. "You okay, Jacky?"

Jack offers him a tight smile. "With everythin' going on?"

"I meant after seeing Pulitzer," Davey amends. 

There's no missing the catch in his breath, or the way Jack's hand spasms in Davey's grip. "It's okay, Dave, just surprised me," he says. "More worried 'bout all this Katherine stuff." Jack glances sideways and smiles ruefully. "But my head ain't doin' the mix-up thing, if that's what youse asking." Davey grimaces because that was what he was asking. "I know where I'm at. Not a dream." 

"Not a dream," Davey agrees, relieved, and he lets it drop at that. 

A small mob waits outside the door to the Commander's office, people shouting over each other as they demand to get inside. The trio of soldiers standing guard at the entrance looks annoyed and weary, forcing people back whenever they try to break passed. Without letting go of Jack's hand, Davey sets his jaw and elbows his way to the front of the group. 

"I need to speak to the Commander," he says flatly when he reaches the closest soldier. 

"Join the club," the soldier snaps in response, nodding toward the crowd. 

"Don't be an idiot, Julia," a second soldier cuts in. "You know who that is." The soldier meets Davey's gaze. "Go on, sir." 

Davey nods gratefully and slips around the soldiers to the door. Behind him, the mob surges up, loud and angry, and the soldiers shout back as they try to control them again. Davey flattens his hand against the scanner by the door, and it glides open to let him in. 

Roosevelt looks up from his desk, expression tight. There's a handful of soldiers in the room, and the faces of several base leaders look down on him from the holo-screen on the wall. Davey scans the room and frowns when he doesn't find Katherine. "Where is she?" he asks sharply. "I thought you'd have her here." 

"If you'll excuse me," Roosevelt says to the holo-screen and then taps a screen on his desk that makes the faces of the base leaders disappear. Sighing, Roosevelt sits back in his chair. "Miss Plumber is in a holding cell."

"But it's a trick," Davey says emphatically. "It has to be. You know that, right? If she was really working for Pulitzer, why would he out her like that?" 

"David, I agree with you," the Commander responds. "I don't want to doubt her loyalties, and it does seem highly suspect that Pulitzer chose now, of all times, to reveal it so publically." 

Davey narrows his eyes suspiciously. "Did you know? That she's Pulitzer's daughter?" 

"No. I knew she came from a well-established family, of course, and I knew she must have connections in the government," says Roosevelt. "No woman could know so much about the president's inner circles without being well-connected. But I never imagined those connections were the president himself." 

"If ya don't think she's a traitor, why you got her locked up?" Jack asks. 

Roosevelt's lips twist in a wry smirk. "You saw the riot outside my door, right?" He sighs and cards a hand through his thinning hair. "It's for her own safety as much as anything. You and I might not doubt her, but most others are not as well acquainted with her. Whether we like it or not, it does look suspicious, especially to the District folk out there who already don't trust those of us from the Capitol. I had to do something to show I'm taking this seriously, or they'll start to doubt me too." 

With a huff, Davey scrubs his hand over his face. As much as he hates to admit it, he can understand where the Commander is coming from. Some people already have reservations about the fact that their resistance against the Capitol is being organized by a Capitol person. To find out that another Capitol person high up in their leadership is apparently the daughter of the president they want to overthrow can't be an easy pill to take. 

"I know you're close to her," Roosevelt continues sympathetically. "And I don't want to think she's betrayed us either. But frankly, right now, we don't have the time to deal with this. On the off chance she did somehow leak our plans to the president, he's going to know we're moving on him. We need to act fast, now more than ever." 

"I want to talk to her," says Davey, meeting the Commander's gaze. "I need to hear it from her. We deserve to after all Jack and I've been through with her." 

The Commander exhales heavily. "Yes, I suppose so. Helen will escort you to her cell. But remember, David, we are on a timeline. The council will be meeting again soon to finalize our plans." 

When Davey nods tersely, a soldier steps forward and inclines her head respectfully. "Follow me, sirs," she says. "Best we take the back door." She types a code into a small digiscreen mounted on the wall, and a panel slides open to reveal a private elevator. Davey's eyes widen, and he casts a glance back at the Commander, but Roosevelt's attention is already back on the screens on his desk.

The elevator lets them out somewhere deep in the base, farther down than Davey's ever gone. It's pitch black, and Jack makes a small, panicked noise in the back of his throat, but as soon as the soldier steps out of the lift, lights flick on overhead. They illuminate a long, blank hallway lined with archways blocked by black glass, each with a digiscreen access tablet beside it. 

"Is that-?" Jack breaks off, his voice a blend of horror and rage. Davey immediately knows what he's thinking: the blacked-out room where Snyder locked him and Race.

Scowling, Davey draws Jack against his side protectively. "Are these sensory deprivation chambers?" Davey asks the soldier harshly. 

Helen's brow furrows. "What? I dunno what that means. They're just normal cells, just got black glass so folks can't see in or out. Keeps 'em from seeing anything we don't want 'em to, and keeps 'em safe in case someone upstairs with a grudge finds their way down, 'cause they can't tell if there's anyone there." 

"Are there others here?" Davey presses, frowning at the doorways. "How many people are trapped down here?" 

"Only a couple," the soldier says. "I dunno for sure how many. Couple of peacekeepers that found us on a patrol. A lady that snapped and started attackin' folks." She gives Davey a flat look as she leads them down the hallway. "It ain't like we're going 'round locking people up, sir. But like it or not, sometimes you gotta do it to keep everyone else safe. It's this or kill 'em." 

Without another word, the soldier stops abruptly in front of a doorway. She types a code, a very long string of numbers and letters that Davey can't imagine how she remembers, into the digiscreen. Instantly, the black glass turns clear, and they can see into the room beyond it. 

It's at least well-lit, which eases the knot in Davey's chest a little. The cell is small and square, with nothing more than a bed and toilet. Katherine is stretched out on the bunk, but she bolts upright when the glass clears. "Davey, Jack," she says, rushing to the doorway. She looks exhausted, her hair and clothes disheveled, and the mag-cuffs still circle her wrists although they aren't connected. 

"I'll letcha talk," the soldier says and then walks several meters away to give them privacy.

Katherine flattens her palms on the glass, staring through at them with wide eyes. "I - I wasn't expecting you to come." 

"We need to know the truth," Davey says, trying to keep his voice steady. It's hard, looking at the face of his friend and remembering the bolt of betrayal he felt when she didn't deny the president's claims. "Pulitzer said you're his daughter."

Pushing off the glass, Katherine makes a derisive noise, running her fingers back through her tangled hair. "Sure, and that's the first time in my life he's actually said it," she says fiercely. "Go figure I'm only related to him when it's convenient." Katherine sighs and sits down hard on the edge of the bed. "I'm illegitimate."

"Youse what?" asks Jack, shooting a bemused look at Davey at the unfamiliar word. 

"It means my father doesn't claim me," the Capitol woman explains. "Never has. My mother, she was a performer on the broadcasts. A singer. And the president's mistress, until she dared to give him a daughter instead of a son." 

Davey frowns. "Why would that matter?" 

Scoffing, Katherine rolls her eyes. "The presidency is handed down through powerful Capitol families, but think about it: when's the last time it was held by a girl?" Davey opens his mouth and then pauses, brow furrowed when he realizes he can't answer the question. "Exactly," Katherine says. "I've lived there my whole life, I know how things work in the Capitol, so trust me when I say that anyone who even suggested it would be laughed out of the room. So to Pulitzer, since I'm no use as an heir, I'm not worth the trouble." 

"But how does no one know?" Davey asks. "You can't just have a kid and make the whole thing disappear." 

"You can when you're the president," she responds. "His affair with my mother was a secret. When he found out she was with child, he paid her a lot of credits to keep quiet, and she did it because we all know what happens to people who cross the president." Davey winces at the insinuation, dropping his gaze. "I grew up with no idea who my father was until my mother died when I was thirteen." 

Exhaling, Katherine drops her gaze to her hand as she fidgets with a gold band around her thumb. It's a simple piece, no gemstones or engravings, but she's always worn it as long as Davey's known her. "When they brought me to the president's office, I was so confused. Even in the Capitol, it's not like most people have actually met the man. 

"He was kind, told me that he'd known my mother and felt it was his duty to help her child. He's never actually admitted outright that he's my father before today, you know that? It was always just an allusion, a hint never confirmed. But he told me that he would make sure I was taken care of so long as I could behave and do what he asked of me."

"Behave?" Jack asks dubiously.

"Keep my mouth shut," she elaborates with a grimace. "More or less. Couldn't let people suspect that my money came from anywhere but my inheritance. After all, people wouldn't trust the daughter of their political rival, but the orphan child of a famous broadcast singer? I was a charity case, and no one thought twice when I became friends with their kids and visited their homes." 

Davey huffs an incredulous noise. "So you were a spy."

"It just wasn't Union I was spying on," the Capitol woman agrees. "I just - I didn't really have another choice. I didn't have anyone else." She takes a deep breath and seems to decide she can't sit still any longer, pushing up and starting to pace a line across the tiny cell. "So when he or the council wanted information about someone, it's my life that got shuffled around for it. I was told which girl to be friends with or a boy to fancy so I could learn what I needed to about their parents. Even what I studied at school was picked to get me into a job where I would be most useful to the president." 

Davey's eyes widen as a snatch of conversation comes back to him. "Blustering old men telling you what to do," he echoes, meeting her gaze. "That's what you meant." 

"I told you," Katherine says with a sad smile, "joining Union is the first choice I've ever really been able to make about my own life." Her laugh is airy and half-hysterical. "Honestly, in the end, the best thing Pulitzer ever did for me was send me to spy on Denton."

"The Games announcer?" Jack asks, surprised. He scoffs. "Seriously? Pulitzer's so paranoid he thought that guy'd turn on him?" 

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Davey touches Jack's arm to get his attention. "Actually, Denton is a Union spy." Jack shoots a startled look at him. "He's the one who helped us find out where they were holding you so we could get you out of the Capitol." Letting Jack process that, Davey turns to Katherine again. "You said Denton was the one who recruited you for Union. Did he know? That you're Pulitzer's daughter?" 

"He'd guessed," she affirms. "He knew my mother from her performing days, they'd been friends. He'd always suspected it must've been someone powerful to get her to disappear quietly off the stage the way she did, but she never told him exactly who. I guess, in the end, it wasn't hard to put the pieces together." She lets out a watery laugh. "Denton's actually the one who told me. I mean, part of me had wondered, but I was always too scared to ask." 

Halting in her pacing, Katherine takes a deep breath and seems to steel herself. "When Denton first mentioned that things outside the Capitol weren't the way I thought, I thought he was crazy. That the president must've been right about him. Except it was hard to trust the president either. I wanted to know for myself instead of just trusting the words of others. 

"So when the ambassador position in your District opened up, I asked for it. Told him I'd seen the way the respect for the Capitol was waning and wanted to make it right. To make sure that people appreciated the man who took such good care of me." She scoffs, shaking her head. "Honestly, it was just as much a chance at being free from under his watch as it was a way to get answers. And the rest, as they say, is history." 

Davey's heart pounds in his ears, struggling to process everything. He never wanted to believe that she'd lied to him, and this story - crazy as it is - fills in those gaps. It's a lot to take in, but there's a light of hope burning in Davey's chest now. 

Katherine steps up to the glass, lifting her chin to meet the eyes of both boys. "I don't care what the rest of them think, but you believe me, right?" she asks, a faint tremor belaying her attempt at composure. "I'm your friend, and I would never betray you. You know that, right?" 

Taking a deep breath, Davey turns the pieces over inside his head, and then, "I know." 

A breathy sigh rushes out of Katherine so hard she sways with the force of it, planting her hands against the breath-fogged glass to keep her feet. "Thank you." 

"We're gonna getcha outta here," Jack says firmly, scowling around the hall. "You ain't done nothing wrong. And that Roosevelt, he knows it too. We can getcha out, you don't gotta-" 

"It's okay, Jack," Katherine interjects, and although she's the one in a cage, her tone is reassuring. "I understand. The rest of Union, those people don't know me like you do, it will take a lot longer to convince them. We'll deal with that after. Right now, there are bigger things at stake. Focus on that."

"We can't just leave you down here," Davey protests. 

"You can, and you will," the Capitol woman counters resolutely. "Union needs you to lead them. The country needs you. I know you've never had a problem being divisive, but that's not what they all need right now. Go finish the fight. As long as I know you two believe me, I can wait." She bites her lip, and then adds, tentatively, "Although, if you see Miss Medda, if you could tell her I'm sorry?" 

"Kath, I-" 

Down the hall, the soldier's radio chirps, and it makes them all jump. The soldier glances over grimly. "Time to go," she says. "The Commander needs you." 

"Go, it's okay," Katherine says over the top of their protests. "I'll be here when you get back. So stay safe, please?" 

The soldier grips Davey's shoulder, trying to usher him away from the door, and Davey glares at her. "She'll be taken care of," he says without a hint of a question. "There better not be a hair out of place when I come back." Although something flashes in the soldier's gaze, perhaps indignation that he's suggesting they might not treat their prisoners well, she nods. 

"See ya soon, Kath," Jack says. "Promise." 

"I know," Katherine says, giving them a warm smile. She blows them a quick kiss. "Oh, and boys? When you see the president, tell him to go to hells." Davey laughs, but before he can respond, the soldier keys in the digiscreen code, and the glass turns black.

There's just enough time before the council meeting will begin for Davey and Jack to dart back to their quarters and get properly dressed. 

After Jack changes into a fresh set of soldiers' garb, they walk down toward the Jacobs' apartment so Davey can dress. Jack fidgets with the short sleeve of his shirt, the fabric ending mid-bicep and leaving the sleek metal attachment for his missing prosthetic visible. When he catches Davey watching, Jack smiles ruefully. "Never thought I'd miss the stupid thing," he admits. "It felt weird, but it's better than feelin' all - exposed." 

"Yeah, I prefer it when I'm the only one your secret parts get exposed to, too," Davey jokes to lighten the mood. Jack barks a laugh and finally stops fussing with his sleeve, and Davey smiles triumphantly. 

Davey keys in the code for the door, and they slip into the Jacobs' quarters. It's strangely quiet, only Davey's father and little brother inside. Les' face brightens when he spots them, and the gangly teen sprints across the room before skidding to a stop in front of them. "Hi, Jack," he gasps out breathlessly, and the fact he doesn't launch himself at Jack is a surprising show of restraint. 

Something sad twists across Jack's features as he gazes down at the boy. Les wasn't allowed down to see Jack in the med ward - no one wanted him to see Jack in that condition - so this is the first time they've seen each other since Davey and Jack left for the Quarter Quell. "Hey, kiddo," Jack replies, and his voice catches. "When'd you get so tall?" 

Les beams and lifts his chin. "Dad thinks I'mma be even taller than Davey," he says, shooting a teasing grin at his brother. His expression sobers when it shifts back to Jack, so much older and wiser than his thirteen years. "They wouldn't lemme see you when you got back. Said you were hurt and needed to get better first. Are you better now?" 

"Gettin' there," Jack agrees with a grimace. Davey can see the way Les is fidgeting, hands fisted up in the sides of his pants to keep them there, and he knows what's going on. It seems like maybe Jack does too because he holds out his arm and says, "Bet a hug'd really help, though." 

In a flash, Les throws his arms around Jack's waist, squeezing the life out of him. Jack smiles as he wraps his arm across Les' shoulders, letting the kid bury his face in Jack's shirt. "Missed you too, kiddo." There's no missing the moisture that wells in Jack's eyes before he closes them.

Davey turns away, letting them have a moment, and directs his attention to his father. Mayer is perched on the sofa, hands still steepled together where he was contemplating them before the boys arrived. "I wasn't expecting to see you again for the rest the day," says Mayer. "Figured you'd be busy." 

"We are," Davey concedes with a wince. "I just wanted to get some clean clothes." He gestures pointedly to his still-bare feet. Mayer huffs a small, amused noise. Ducking into the bedroom in search of clothes, Davey adds over his shoulder, "Where's Mom and Sarah?" 

"Sarah's down at the barracks," Mayer answers, raising his voice so Davey can hear him from the next room. "And your mother's loading the med hover that's heading out soon." 

Midway through pulling on his pants, Davey stumbles at this news. He catches himself against the stacked bedframe with a grunt. "Wait, what?" he calls through the door. Jerking his pants up to his waist, he snatches up a shirt and a pair of socks. He leans around the doorframe to see his father. "Med hover? I thought they were sending reinforcements." 

"There's a lot of injured people out there, David," Mayer points out grimly. 

"Yeah, no, I know that," Davey agrees distractedly. He tugs his shirt over his head, turning that thought around in his head. It makes sense. The people of Queens are shattered right now. There's no doubt they need medical care, and they can't possibly have the supplies or manpower to do it themselves. Davey just has a hard time reconciling the thought that this hover won't be full of soldiers; it's full of civilians. People like-

Davey opens his mouth, but before he can ask the question, he darts a glance at Les. His little brother is chattering eagerly at Jack, hanging on his wrist. There's no reason to scare Les if he doesn't know. Frowning, Davey looks to his father, and Mayer nods with a grimace. 

Mom.

His mother will be one of those civilians on the hover, shipping out to Queens to heal the people of the broken District. A knot lodges low in Davey's chest. Swallowing hard, Davey finishes straightening his clothes, shoving his feet into his boots. 

"We should go," Davey announces. "Council meeting." 

Mayer nods and stands, wiping his palms on his trousers. "Of course." He opens his arms, and Davey doesn't hesitate to hug his father tightly. "You're going too, aren't you?" Mayer whispers into his shoulder so Les won't hear. Davey jerks his chin in a shallow nod. "I thought so. You know I'd be with you if I could." 

"I know, Dad," Davey reassures him. The surgery might've repaired Mayer's spine enough that he can walk again, but it in no way means he's up for strenuous activities like fighting. "Besides, someone needs to watch Les. I'll feel better knowing he's here, safe." 

Davey reluctantly steps back and clears his throat. Like an olive branch, he says, "I wouldn't say no if you wanted to put in a prayer or two for us, though."

A glimmer of a smile dashes across Mayer's face, recognizing the gesture for what it is. Mayer is the only member of their family to still have faith, who still believes in the old gods that watch over them. Setting a palm on Davey's head, Mayer swipes his thumb across his son's brow in a slow, purposeful arc. "Every second, until you return."

Mayer turns his gaze to Jack, and he steps closer carefully, watching for any sign of fear or retreat. Jack's eyes are uncertain, but he doesn't move when Mayer reaches out to drag his thumb over Jack's brow as well. "Be safe, my sons," the man says in that low, somber tone that always reassures Davey on some instinctive level. 

Jack looks startled at the term—it's far from the first time Mayer's called him a son, but Davey wonders if that fact survived Jack's fragmented memories. Or maybe Jack didn't think himself still worthy of the label. Mayer obviously sees it because he gives Jack a sad smile and then pulls him in for a hug as well. "I'm proud of you both," Mayer says softly. "Take care of each other. I will see you soon, and may the gods watch over you."

Council is already in full session when they arrive, every screen alive with vid-comms and diagrams and numbers. There's a visible pause in the chaos when Davey and Jack step into the room, eyes darting to them from all around and voices breaking off mid-sentence. A beat, and then Roosevelt clears his throat. 

"Ah, good, David, Mr. Kelly," the Commander says, gesturing them over. "I was talking to Charles about your broadcast, and-" 

"We're doing it from Queens," Davey interrupts. He flinches at the sudden wave of scowls and whispers. Then Jack slips his hand into Davey's, squeezing reassuringly, and Davey lifts his chin. "No more hiding, for any of us. If I'm going to ask the people to fight with me, then I'm going to be with the people when I do it." 

Jack makes a soft, agitated noise before he speaks up. "We gotta show everyone that Putlizer's lyin'," he says insistently. "That he lied 'bout what happened in Queens, and 'bout what happened to me." 

"We can do that without sending you into danger," Roosevelt says uncertainly. "There are still pockets of fighting there, it's not safe for you to-" 

"No!" Davey half-shouts, and immediately winces at his own outburst. Taking a steadying breath, he shakes his head and continues in a calmer voice, "No, I said no more hiding. We're passed that point. Pulitzer might stay locked away safe in his tower while the rest of the world fights, but not me. Not us. We are fighting so that every life is equal to another. Jack and I won't let ourselves be an exception to that rule." 

The moment hangs, long and tense, as Davey stares down the Commander. He can feel the eyes of every other person in the room on them—the eyes of every other base leader on the holo-screens as well. All of Union, hanging with bated breath to see who will break first. 

After a long moment, Davey clears his throat. "We're not asking for your permission, Commander," he says levelly. "We're going. But I'd appreciate your support." 

Roosevelt deflates slightly, hard edges smoothing over, and a faint light sparks in his eyes. "And you have it, m'boy, you know that," the Commander says. "Besides, this is our final push. There's no point holding back now. I suppose you'll be on your way as soon as possible?"

"I heard there's a med hover leaving later," Davey agrees, tension unwinding from his shoulders now that the confrontation is passed. "We'll go with them." 

"Then you'd better hurry," Roosevelt says, checking something on his digiscreen. "They're leaving as soon as they've finished stocking up." Davey nods, trading glances with Jack, and turns for the door. "Oh, and boys," Roosevelt adds, making them pause to look back. The Commander's bushy mustache nearly conceals his smile, but nothing can mask the warm furrows at the corners of his eyes. "May the odds."

Inside the cargo hover is cramped and muggy, with too many bodies squashed together in too little space. The seating area in a cargo hover is only meant to hold a small crew. Currently, more than half of the medics and healers from Union headquarters are trying to catch what few moments of rest they can before the work will begin. They cram themselves into any spot they can find, folded down in the aisles between the minimal seating. It's a quiet, heavy dread that hangs in the air around them all as the hover carries them silently through the afternoon. 

Davey grimaces and shifts, trying to resettle into a more comfortable seat on the patch of floor he's claimed at the edge of the bay. The steel wall is cold and unyielding against his back, pressing onto the knotted length of scar tissue, and he muffles a wince as he tilts his weight more against a shoulder to ease the pressure. Apparently, the noise wasn't as silent as he hoped because there's immediately a hand on his arm. "You 'kay?" 

"Fine," Davey answers habitually, glancing sideways. Tucked into the curve of the hover's hull beside him, Jack is a ball of tension. He's putting on a good show of being calm, but Davey can feel the tightly bunched muscles along his side. On Jack's other side, he's flexing his new prosthetic hand - picked up from Race before they left - in a distracted rhythm. Even in the enclosed space's dim lighting, Jack's eyes dart in methodical patterns around them—casing the area, alert for danger. 

Sighing, Davey sets his hand on Jack's knee, rubbing the spot reassuringly. "I'm okay," he repeats when Jack frowns. "It's just my back. The scars. They get a little tender sometimes." Davey stretches as he says it, gritting his teeth at the feel of the muscles flexing awkwardly. With everything that's happened, it's hard to remember that it's only been weeks since the injury. 

Jack's expression twists in sympathy. He seems to consider for a moment, then spreads his bent knees. "C'mere," Jack says, patting the floor between his legs. Davey hesitates, biting his lip. "It'll be softer, yeah?" Jack insists. Then, quieter, he looks up at Davey through his lashes and adds, "And I like havin' you close. Feels safer." 

Davey can tell when he's being played, and he huffs a quiet laugh. "Don't give me that look, you know I can't say no to that look." Still, he obligingly scoots over to sit in the V of Jack's legs. Leaning back, Davey relaxes against Jack's chest and drops his head back onto a shoulder. There's no denying, it's definitely nicer than the hard wall, the warmth of Jack's body taking pressure off the scars. 

"You did this for me once, didn't ya?" Jack murmurs thoughtfully. "I was sick, I think. I remember you holdin' me like this. Dream?" 

"Not a dream," Davey confirms. "In the first Games, when the knife wound on your side got infected, and your fever was really bad." 

Jack exhales a small sound of relief—it's the same little grateful noise he makes every time he finds out a memory he's unsure about is real. Wrapping his flesh arm around Davey's side, Jack props his metal arm on his knee. "The stew, right?" says Jack, more certain now. He settles his cheek against the top of Davey's head. "And I was so cold, but you kept me warm." 

"I was so scared I was gonna lose you," Davey says. He pulls Jack's metal arm down to curl around him, too, lacing their fingers together. The stand-in limb is nowhere near as advanced as the old one, so Davey knows Jack probably can't feel any of it except his wires informing him the limb's being moved, but it's still reassuring. After the last year, the contrast of Jack's hands - one always warm, one always cool - is familiar, even if the one is nothing more than a steel skeleton hidden inside a leather glove right now.

"I like that memory," Jack says softly. "It was warm and safe." 

Davey smiles, tipping his head so his cheek rests against the side of Jack's neck. "This feels like that, too," he says affectionately. "And I promise, when this is over, we're going to sort through all your memories together, okay? I'll help you figure out which ones are real." 

"Get rid of the dreams," Jack says with a shallow nod. It's become their code word, a way to distinguish which memories are real and which ones were twisted or implanted by the Capitol's brainwashing. 

"Exactly," Davey agrees. "We'll get far away from all this and start over." 

"But Union, don't they want ya-" Jack starts, confused, but Davey shakes his head. 

"I'm not gonna stay and lead," says Davey, voice firm. "I've never wanted that. We'll win the fight, and they can rebuild. We've given enough, Jacky. I'm ready to just - not have to be this person anymore. I'm tired of being a Tribute and a Victor and some sorta mascot of the people. 

"I've spent so long now just thinking about who I am to everyone else, how folks see me and what I have to be for them. I know I'm not the Davey I was before all of this, but I don't know who I am now without this stuff anymore either. I want - I wanna figure that out." 

Jack hums, curling his arms a little tighter around Davey. He doesn't try to argue the point, doesn't insist that Davey is still the same person he's always been the way other people do, and it's such a relief Davey feels dizzy with it. Of course Jack understands. Of course Jack knows how it feels to have his sense of self destroyed and rebuilt the wrong way around.

As if he's thinking the same thing, Jack smiles against Davey's temple and says, "Sounds like maybe I ain't the only one who got their head a bit scrambled." 

Davey bites off a shallow, half-delirious laugh. "Yeah, think you're right. You'll help me figure it out too?" 

"Chance to get to know Davey Jacobs all over 'gain?" Jack intones playfully. "Sign me up." Davey chuffs, burrowing his face in the curve of Jack's throat to hide his blush. "Ya know, so long's that Davey still wants this busted-up Jack, at least." 

"Jack." Davey squeezes Jack's hands tightly, feeling the strange contrast of soft tissue and unrelenting metal beneath his grip. "I don't care what Davey I am, I'm always gonna want you." Jack sighs, relaxing slightly. "So when this's over, we'll run away. Take our family," Davey glances further up the hover, where his mother is nodding off with her head propped against someone's chair back, "and get away, and start over fresh. We'll figure out who we are, together."

"You and me," Jack whispers like a prayer. "All the way to the end."

Sunset paints the sky in shades of blood, turning columns of smoke a sickly, muddy scarlet. From above, the district of Queens is a landscape of destruction. Entire city blocks are reduced to rubble, and sporadic fires still burn, flickering orange spots against the stone and steel. Even the mountain range that edges the mining district was not spared, landslides carved through the rocks and trees burning. 

From the windows of the approaching hover, it looked terrible—from the ground, it's a million times worse. 

Davey can feel his heart pounding as he walks down the ramp of the hover, gazing around at what was once a market square in pure horror. The half of the square not being used as hover parking has been turned into a makeshift medical ward, nothing more than cots and blankets and bodies laid out in rows on the ground while overwrought healers dart from injury to injury. All around them, the sounds of pain and grieving tangle in the air: screams and crying and coughing and pleas.

A hand on his arm makes Davey startle, and he glances down to meet his mother's eyes. Like everyone deboarding the hover, Esther has a rag wrapped over her mouth and nose, filtering the dust and smoke from the air as she breathes. In Davey and Jack's case, it also grants them a small amount of anonymity, a chance to help without being swamped by people looking for their heroes. 

"I know it hurts, love," Esther says gently, her gaze darting sadly over the battered people, "but we need to be strong for them." Davey takes a shaky breath and nods. 

Esther hefts a large bag of supplies in her arms and starts for the ramshackle med ward without another word. Davey doesn't get a chance to examine the hurricane of emotions in his head because a moment later, a harried medic shoves a crate of supplies into his arms and shoos him toward the med ward. 

On his way back to the hover, Davey passes Jack carrying a crate of his own. Even with the frayed rag covering the lower half of his face, the younger man cuts a striking figure. The simple black soldiers' uniform sits well on his frame, highlighting the width of his shoulders and chest. Despite the stifling heat, only one sleeve is pushed up; the other stretches all the way down to the leather work-glove at his wrist, carefully keeping his new, entirely-metal prosthetic from view. 

Jack is indistinguishable from any of the dozen other soldiers nearby, and Davey only recognizes him because he's so familiar with Jack's features. It's the same way he can tell, by the little furrows at the corners of dark eyes, that Jack offers him a tight-lipped smile as they pass each other. Davey knows Jack must be uncomfortable right now, surrounded on every side by noise and people after so long isolated, but Jack just lifts his chin and keeps moving. 

A few feet from the hover, Davey looks up at the sound of a shout inside the ship. There are raised voices, scuffling sounds, and then a man's voice calls out, "Healer Jacobs!" 

Esther, just passing Davey with another pouch of supplies, turns around with her brow furrowed. The grappling gets louder, approaching the hover ramp, and then there's a petulant, "lemme go!" that sends shards of ice into Davey's heart. He's already moving in long strides when two figures appear at the ramp, an older medic and a struggling teen boy. 

"Les!" Esther calls out, her voice a blend of rage and panic, and she sprints passed Davey. "What in the gods' names-?"

"Found him stowed away in the cargo hold," the medic says, his tone annoyed. "Kid was hiding in the back corner."

"Lemme go!" Les huffs, tearing his arm free from the medic's grip. The older man lets him go, content that his mother will handle him. Les straightens up, smoothing his rumpled shirt, and lifts his chin defiantly. This only lasts about three seconds before Esther grabs him by the arm and steers him down the ramp, dragging him off to the side and out of the way. 

"Les Michael Jacobs," Esther snaps, and she tugs her facemask down to fix the full force of her glare on her youngest child. At her side, Davey flinches internally—he recognizes that tone, and if he weren't also panicking at the moment, he'd almost feel bad for his brother. Being on the receiving end of Esther's ire is not a pleasant experience. "You had better have a damned good explanation for yourself." 

Les winces but stands firm. "I can help. You guys need all the help you can get, and I can do this. I been learnin' all this stuff from you. I can help." 

"Gods, Les, it's not safe here," Davey says sharply. "You're supposed to be back at the base where it's safe." 

"I'm not a baby no more," Les snarls. "I ain't a li'l kid, so stop treatin' me like it." 

Esther cuffs him around the head non-too-gently. "Then stop acting like one. Sneaking around and throwing a tantrum, I mean, really. Does your father know you're here?" Les' gaze cuts sideways guiltily, and Esther cuffs him again. "Your poor father is probably having a heart attack right now, wondering where you've gone!" 

"I had to!" Les protests, frustrated tears gathering in his eyes. "All you treat me like a baby, but I ain't. Everyone else is helpin', Davey and Sarah get to help, and I can too. I ain't a kid, and I ain't useless!" 

"Sweetheart, no one said you're useless," Esther soothes. She reaches out to cup his cheek in her palm, and even though Les is as tall as her now, he still melts into her touch. "But I needed you to watch out for your father." 

Les' chin wobbles, but his gaze is steady. "Dad's safe at the base. These folks is dyin', Momma. They's dyin', and I can help. Lemme help." 

Davey blows out an agitated breath, carding a hand through his hair and turning away so his family won't see the open fear on the visible half of his face. This immediately grows worse when his mother says, "Okay, love." 

"What?" Davey asks, and he spins back to face his mother in alarm.

"Well, there's nothing for it now," Esther points out. "He's here, nothing to be done about that until the next hover goes back to base, so he'd best make himself useful while he's here." She shoots a warning look at Les. "But first, we're going to have the captain send a comm to your father, and you can explain to him why you ran off and scared him half to death." 

Les pales, swallowing nervously, but he nods. "Momma," Davey objects, but he bites off the rest of his sentence when she turns her glare on him. 

"I'll handle your brother," Esther says shortly. "You get yourself back to work. You've got a job to do here." 

Davey makes to do as she says, but his heart clenches as he looks down at his little brother. With shaking hands, Davey pulls Les into a hug. The boy is just short enough to tuck his head beneath Davey's chin. "You be safe, you idiot," Davey says into the young boy's curls. "You stay here with Momma, and don't you dare go wandering off."

Les makes a soft, panicked noise, his skinny arms tightening around Davey. "You be safe too. I'll take care of Momma, promise." 

That drags an amused huff out of Davey—of course Les would think that's what he meant. "I know you will," he says. He steps back and searches his brother's face, looking for the little kid he remembers beneath the stern features. Davey ruffles the boy's hair just to bring that childish pout up again, softening Les into something familiar. 

"C'mon, you, let's go comm your father," Esther says. She squeezes Davey's hand, exchanging a brief, tense look with him before she wraps her arm around Les' shoulders and steers him back into the hover. 

Davey sighs and drops his face into his hands, struggling to calm his frantic heartbeat. The brush of a hand on his shoulder makes Davey jump and skitter away, reflexively drawing his knife to defend himself before he recognizes his attacker. Jack's eyes are wide above the cloth on his face, gloved hand hovering uncertainly. "Sorry," Davey exhales, hastily returning the knife to its sheath on his thigh. "Sorry, I didn't hear you come up."

There's still a hint of alarm in his eyes, but Jack nods and takes a small step closer. "Was that - did I just see Les?"

The noise that leaves Davey's lips is harsh and manic, an incredulous laugh that morphs halfway into a sob. "Apparently, he snuck on board before we left base. He was tired of getting left out, I guess. Gods, of all times and places - I mean, I know he's not a kid anymore, I can't protect him from all the bad things, but he still shouldn't have to see this." 

Even for Davey, who's witnessed his fair share of horrific things in the last couple of years, it's horrifying to see the people of Queens reduced to this. They are far from a prosperous District, but they've always been a strong, hardy people. It takes a sturdy back to cleave metal from the hearts of the mountains. 

Now, they are nothing more than rows of broken and battered souls laid out in the streets. Children wail in pain from gruesome injuries; people cling to the bodies of their dead relatives; so many more are out digging through the rubble, desperately searching for more survivors, for the families and friends and neighbors not yet accounted for.

And all of it caused by a single man who didn't hesitate even to throw his own child to the wolves. Yet another District decimated just to make a point. 

A child screams, and Davey looks over, anguished. The boy can't be more than seven or eight, chest and arms marred by glossy burns. He's flailing in his mother's grip as she tries to soothe him enough that the medic can clean his wounds. 

A helpless noise catches in the back of Davey's throat, and he squeezes his eyes shut before they can start to water. "Fuck," he hisses, pressing his fingers to his eyes like he can physically force the tears back inside. "Sorry, I just - need a second." 

"Catch your breath," Jack says, settling his hands on Davey's upper arms. His thumbs sweep in a soft, lazy metronome, and Davey lets himself lean further until his head drops onto Jack's shoulder. As much as Davey wants to stay here - wants to fall apart in the security of Jack's arms - there's no time for that. The people hopelessly trying to keep their families alive need him to be better. 

So Davey gives himself a minute to steady his breathing, clearing his head until the tears stop trying to escape, and then he straightens up. Jack gives him a sympathetic smile, his eyes a little red around the edges too. "Good?" Jack asks. Davey makes a half-hearted noise but nods. "Good, 'cause your ginger shadow's been staring. Think he wants ya for something." 

Surprised, Davey glances back over his shoulder. Albert, the Union soldier assigned to be Davey's bodyguard outside the base, is lingering by the ramp of the hover, easily distinguishable by the orange curls protruding from beneath his cap. The soldier waits until he meets Davey's gaze before he approaches. "Boss," he greets, dipping his head in a lazy nod. "Cart's loaded, Henry's got his things. We's ready to go when you are." 

Right. They aren't just here to help with med relief. There's one more crucial thing that needs their attention first. Davey grabs Jack's hand to steady himself and nods. "Okay, yeah, let's go."

Perched near the mountains' base on a low rise, the District Hall of Queens was ruined even before the Capitol's attack. The building was burned half to the ground in one of the earliest riots, and the District didn't have the funds to properly rebuild, and of course, the Capitol wasn't about to foot the bill with the imminent threat of it being destroyed again. Instead, there is a smattering of small, ramshackle sheds in its place, shelters hastily thrown together to give the District Hall workers a spot to do their jobs. 

This elevation grants them a good view of the District below, the market square almost directly in front of them down the main road. With the sun sinking, the fires that are still burning glow like beacons in the gathering darkness. It's a distinct contrast to the stark white pair of spotlights set up for the broadcast.

And even from up here, Davey can hear the occasional screams and wails that surge up from the makeshift hospital. 

"Hey, Boss?" Henry is clearly attempting to look composed and professional, but there are tense lines carved into his face and aching sadness in his eyes. "We're all set up here. You guys ready?"

Davey takes a slow, steadying breath. "As I'll ever be," he responds, and Henry manages a small smile at the familiar answer. Davey glances sideways, squeezing Jack's hand. "You?"

It's painfully obvious that Jack is struggling, tense and jumpy at being surrounded by so much noise and movement. He flinches at loud noises, and he squeezes his eyes shut tightly when they hear a scream from below, haunted by memories both real and false. Still, Jack swallows and sets his jaw determinedly. "Let's show 'em all what he done," he replies. 

They move over to stand in the glow of the spotlights while Henry grabs his camera. Jack, after a pause, tugs off his gloves and shoves them into his pocket. He rolls up his right sleeve, baring the metal prosthetic—simple steel plates give the arm a vague shape and protect the delicate insides, but the endoskeleton of steel bones and complex wiring is still visible in large gaps.

"Want folks to see it," Jack says when he catches Davey watching him in awe. "Show 'em Pulitzer took it from me, 'cause ain't like someone would wear this thing when they got one like I used'ta." 

Davey's heart constricts at the reminder of the cruelty; all of the needless pain that Jack's been through, even just from losing his arm the first time, and the agony of being given a chance of almost feeling normal again only to have that snatched away as well. But those thoughts are too heavy right now, and he can tell Jack is uncomfortable at having shared that, so Davey clears his throat. "Don't let Racer hear you say that. He worked hard on that thing."

Jack huffs a thin laugh, and his shoulders ease down slightly. "S'fine, Racer can't hear, 'member?"

That drags a chuckle from Davey. He looks over at Henry expectantly, and the cameraman nods. With a deep breath, Davey takes Jack's hand and says, "Okay, let's do this." Henry presses a few buttons on his camera, settles it more securely on his shoulder, and gives Davey a thumbs-up to show it's live. 

"People of the Districts," Davey starts solemnly, well-practiced in this by now, "early this morning you were shown a broadcast by the President. He told you that Union attacked the District of Queens, aimed to kidnap Jack Kelly," Davey pauses to cast a sideways glance at his husband, squeezing his fingers in silent reassurance, "on a diplomatic mission. You deserve to know the truth.

"Union was in Queens, but not to attack. We'd intercepted a transmission from a Peacekeeper patrol that said they were going to launch an assault on Queens." Davey glances to the assistant at Henry's side, a young teen with one eye that everyone calls Kid Blink, and the boy hastily taps at his digiscreen. It's connected to the video stream, and Davey can hear the peacekeeper transmission play over the top of the camera feed. 

When it finishes, Blink nods to prompt Davey. "We sent out our people to try and evacuate as many of the citizens of Queens as we could before the attack, and prepare those who remained to fight and defend their home. The Peacekeeper attack arrived early and bombed the District before starting a firefight on the ground." 

Blink holds up a finger to pause Davey, jabbing his digiscreen again. This time, Davey can faintly hear the sounds of shooting and screams, no doubt footage pulled from the morning's attack. They let that play for a minute, and then Blink swipes it away and nods to Davey again. 

"Union lost a lot of good people trying to protect the citizens of Queens," Davey says, throat catching, "but it's nothing compared to the devastation that the District suffered." Blink taps his screen but makes a gesture for Davey to keep going—Davey can only guess they're running his audio over the top of other footage. "So far, the death toll sits at about a quarter of the population of Queens, and we are still actively searching for more possible survivors among the ruins. 

"Explosions collapsed buildings, killing the people inside. Another explosion ruptured an Acid-Air line, flooding a section of the District with poisonous gas. Fires are burning through whole city blocks. A landslide buried homes near the mountains. All this death and destruction, purely because the people of Queens stood up for their freedom." 

The lump of emotion in his throat finally wins, and Davey's voice cracks. He dips his head, swallowing hard to will it away. It surprises him when Jack clears his throat and starts, "And I wantcha to know, I was never here on no trip for the President. Since the Games ended, I'se been a prisoner in the Capitol. Me and a couple other Tributes - Tony Higgins from Brooklyn and Patrick Finch from Richmond - we was pulled out the Arena by the Capitol. And then we was tortured." 

Davey looks over at Jack. The younger man's jaw is set firmly, but there's an anxious, terrified light in his eyes and his hand trembles in Davey's. Still, Jack licks his lips and pushes on. "Pulitzer's men beat and broke me, and then healed me up to do it again. And when that wasn't working, they made me watch 'em bust up my friends. Everything I said in those broadcasts, I was only saying it 'cause there was guns to my friends' heads."

When Jack's eyes well, Davey grips his hand tighter and takes over. "After Union learned - after I learned - they were still alive," Davey explains to the camera, "we infiltrated the Capitol to save him and other prisoners." 

Blink's hand flutters as he flips through things on his screen and then taps something. A video starts playing, and Davey realizes which one when he hears a clipped voice say, "NB-2 located"—they're showing the Union soldiers' footage from the rescue, the moment when they found the ward where Jack was suspended in a healing chamber. 

"Pulitzer tried to tear us apart, has tried at every step to break all of us down, because he is scared," Davey says fiercely the moment Blink gives him the signal. "He's terrified because he knows that with all of the Districts together, he doesn't stand a chance. We are strong together, and we will not be beaten down again. Pulitzer has tried, but he always fails. Well, I say he's out of chances. It's our turn now." 

"So let's take the fight to him," Jack says. When Davey glances at him, Jack's wearing an echo of that old, cavalier grin - We's Newsboys, right? So let's spread some news - and it stokes the fire in Davey's ribs. "Let's show him that he don't get to make the rules for everyone else no more. That folks from the outer Districts ain't worth no less than folks from the Capitol." 

"We've been fighting our whole lives just to survive out here in the Districts," says Davey. "We are all fighters and survivors. This time, let's fight for more. Let's fight for the chance for something better. So this time, Union is bringing the fight straight to Pulitzer's door. It's time to end this, once and for all. And I'm hoping," Davey stares straight into the camera lens, "that you will join us."

There's a brief, tentative pause, and Henry is just reaching up to shut off the feed when Jack abruptly throws his fist in the air. "Newsboys united!" he yells, the spotlights gleaming off the polished metal arm. Davey looks over and finds Jack watching him with a blazing spark in his gaze. 

Beaming, Davey punches the air as well. "Newsboys united!" he echoes, not taking his eyes off Jack. 

And then, from the scattered soldiers and District folk on the ridge around them, "newsboys united!" 

Eyes burning, Davey doesn't wait to make sure the camera is turned off before he pulls Jack into a crushing hug.

Davey clutches the digiscreen with white knuckles, watching the looped broadcast playing on the glass. He has to admit, it all came together really well. The fragments of clips from other broadcasts and the soldiers' footage that Henry's assistant spliced in add a new level to Davey's ramblings, a weight and solemnity he couldn't achieve from words alone. 

A small video square blooms into life in the bottom corner of the screen, muting the broadcast. In the smaller window, Crutchie grins. "It's working," he announces. "I've been listening to the teams in other Districts. Folks are fighting back. Everywhere. And I'm not talking just the very outer Districts, I mean everywhere. The only folks not preppin' to head to the Capitol are the folks already inside it." 

"You did it, Dave," says Henry, clapping Davey on the shoulder. 

Davey manages a breathless laugh and nods. This is it, everything that they've been fighting tooth and nail for all this time. All of their work coming together in this, an entire nation of people standing up together for the right to live. It felt like nothing more than a vague, distant dream, but the sudden and frightening reality of its approach makes him shiver. 

"Did good, boss," Albert says, and there's something knowing in his expression that makes Davey think his attempt at containing his internal panic isn't working very well. The ginger soldier nods to the digiscreen in Davey's shaking hands. "Why doncha gimme that? Go take a break, catch your breath while we get all this shit packed up?"

Grateful, Davey sketches a weak approximation of a nod and foists the screen at the soldier. Albert gives him an understanding smile and jerks his chin toward the edge of their little rise. A lone figure stands there, partially shielded by one of the little shacks, staring out over the twilit District. Davey wraps his arms around his chest and walks over, taking care to step on a pile of crackling leaves as he approaches in a subtle warning. 

Jack's flinch is nearly invisible, and he looks over as Davey steps closer. "Hey," the younger man says, the corner of his lips twitching upward. "Sorry, didja need me? Was just - gettin' some air." 

"Thought I'd join you, actually, if you don't mind," Davey answers. Jack's features soften, and he waves a hand to the spot on the ledge beside him in invitation. "You okay?" Davey asks. 

Jack gives a noncommittal hum, and for a minute, Davey thinks that's the most he'll get from him. "Makes no sense, ya know?" Jack starts abruptly. "Sometimes, I wanna be 'round people. Makes me feel normal, ya know? Like it's all real. And I think - I remember I used to like it, I think. People and crowds, all the noise and talking. But then sometimes," he casts a glance over at where the crew and soldiers are bundling away the broadcast gear, "sometimes, my heart just-" He gestures to his chest with a vague, annoyed sound. 

"It starts pounding so hard you can't breathe," Davey finishes. Jack looks up at him, earnest and hopeful. "Because there's just too much, and you can't keep track of it all. And it would be so easy for something bad to happen, and you don't see it or hear it in time over everything else." He grimaces and shrugs. "Yeah, I get it." 

"So - that ain't just me?" Jack asks quietly. 

Davey shakes his head. "Not just you," he affirms. "We used to talk about that feeling back home. It happened sometimes. Things would just get to be too much for one of us. Had to take off, get outta the city because the only way to feel safe again was to be outside, just us, watching each other's backs."

"The stars," blurts Jack, eyes widening. "Right? There was that - a place with trees and the quiet and stars. Can see it in my head. Dream?"

A fond smile crosses Davey's face. "Not a dream. You showed it to me, this clearing in the forest just outside the District border. It was far enough out that we couldn't hear all the factory noise anymore, so that's always where we went to be alone."

"Fireweed and yellow primrose," Jack says. When Davey looks over, the younger man is frowning in concentration, flexing his right hand in a distracted rhythm. The hydraulic joints hum softly at the motion. "That was - those flowers grew there. Ma taught me. We used to go there to hide from the ol' man." He scoffs and shakes his head. "Why can I remember that shit, no problem, but everythin' else is all tangled?"

The frustrated question is rhetorical, and they both know it. Snyder didn't care about twisting any part of Jack's memories apart from the ones related to Davey. Jack tried to explain it to him once. Without the Siren Song influence, the last year of Jack's life is layered, Reality and Not stitched together in a fraying patchwork quilt. Sometimes Jack can pick at the threads and find the right one, but other times the seams are too well blended to separate.

Davey's chest aches, and he brushes his hand against his husband's. Jack flinches away instinctively, but before Davey can withdraw, an apology already on his lips, Jack hooks their fingers together. "But this, this is real," he says, squeezing Davey's hand. "The rest is fuzzy, but I know right now is real. The stuff in my head is a mess, but this, I feel it, ya know?" 

And Davey - whose head is full of countless nights where horrific dreams were soothed away by the simple familiarity of a body curled around him - smiles because he knows exactly what Jack means. 

A sudden low pulse of engines makes both of them jump, and a chorus of alarmed voices erupts from the nearby crew and soldiers. The hover soaring over the city is almost invisible, a razor of black amid the smoke-clogged night sky, and a flicker of something metallic plummets downward. There is barely a moment for Davey to recognize the chill of anticipation eeking down his spine before it happens. 

The concussive blast of sound crashes into them even from miles away. Thrown back in a wave of sound and light, Davey slams into the corner of the shack. His back blazes in sudden, explosive pain from the impact, and-

-his nerves shriek beneath the weight of the wyvern perched on his spine, claws sinking deeper and deeper through muscle and tissue. The world around him is nothing but darkness and screaming and agony. Talons dig and tear, trying to rend him in two. And then the light, the tidal wave of white and blue and fire, over and over and over-

"Davey!" 

Davey tries to move, to fight off the monsters and get to Jack's side, but the lightning searing out from his injured back is agony, and his limbs don't want to cooperate. His hands flex convulsively in the dirt, not getting any traction, while the world around him keeps spiraling in noise and color. Steps are coming closer, the thunder of them vibrating in the ground-

-as the creatures close the circle around them, descending voraciously on the trapped Victors. The sounds tangle, claws and paws and talons tripping over each other in a discordant rhythm. Davey steels himself to fight, to protect the people who placed their faith in him. Voices rise, shouts and cries and warnings, but it does nothing to stop the attack. There's nowhere left to run, no escape, just the inevitable as the monsters get closer and closer to tearing apart Davey and everything he's ever known-

Grasping paws shove him, rolling Davey onto his back. He cries out when the movement cascades lightning down his spine. His legs are numb apart from the pain, mingling patches of tingling fire creeping across the rest of his body.

Davey's breath stutters as a surge of adrenaline kicks up. He will not go down without a fight. He flails, lashing out to claw at the creatures looming over him. It's weak and poorly aimed since he can't see, but he manages to get a sharp cry from one of the monsters. Floundering, Davey fumbles for the sheath on his thigh and swipes out, earning another distressed noise. 

Davey only has a moment to thrill in the tiny victory before something slams hard against his temple and washes the world away.

It's the panic that comes back to him first. There's no context, no thought behind it, just sudden, blinding anxiety that rips him out of the darkness. He can't see, but the world around him is a chaos of noise, shouts and sobs and screams. Davey tries to lash out, to defend himself from whatever must be attacking him, but instead, he's met with a crippling rush of pain that seems to explode out from his core. A desperate whimper escapes him as his muscles give up the fight. 

"Whoa, whoa, hey, easy there. Youse okay, Dave. I gotcha. Promise." 

His whine shifts into a relieved exhale at this, soothed by the voice murmuring warm against his temple even while his sluggish brain tries to connect a name. The voice is safe, Davey knows that much. The voice is safe, but it's clear the rest of the world isn't. Not with all of the noises of misery, with the smell of smoke and copper flooding his nostrils. And of course, the pain. It throbs out in waves from his back, sending a million stinging needles into his limbs. 

Another attempt at moving tears a shrill whimper from Davey. "Hey, shh, don't move, youse just gonna hurt ya'self worse." The voice is coupled with the bracing squeeze of a hand on his shoulder, a thumb sweeping like a metronome over the curve of muscle. 

Davey tugs his drifting focus back in, grasping for the immediate surroundings. He seems to be sitting up, judging by the way gravity pulls at him like an anchor, but his weight is propped against something firm and warm. The familiarity of it settles him immediately. Davey listens to the steady thump-thump, feels the soft gust of air across his brow, and hums. 

"Ja'?" His tongue feels several times too big for his mouth, the sounds tripping over numbed lips, and Davey scowls at his uncooperative body. 

There's a faint chuff of amusement, and the hand on his shoulder squeezes gently again. "Yeah, pal, it's me. I gotcha, promise. Just relax and get feelin' better, 'kay?" 

It sounds like a grand idea, and Davey very nearly caves to the suggestion. It would be so easy to just let himself sink into the comforting embrace of Jack's body and get away from the noise and scents and ache. Except, there's a voice in the back of his head telling him there's something else, something more going on that he needs to know. How can he be safe when he can hear so much agony around him?

"Wha'-" The word scrapes his throat, prompting a cough that spills lighting through his entire body. When Davey finally catches his breath again, he finds himself cradled even tighter into Jack's body. It stings and requires too much effort, but Davey shifts his arm enough to snag a fistful of Jack's shirt in his tingling fingers. "Wha' 'appn'd?" Davey manages to slur. 

Jack makes another soft, shushing sound. His hand has moved from Davey's shoulder to cup the side of his jaw, keeping Davey tucked into the curve of his neck. "Youse gonna be okay," Jack says, breath humid on Davey's skin. "Ya clipped your back when you fell, but healers say you didn't break nothin'. Just smacked them nerves that ain't all the way healed yet. I know ya don't feel it, but youse gonna be okay. I'mma make sure youse okay." 

His back? Oh. Oh. That makes sense. Or at least, it explains the crippling pain radiating out from his spine and the numbness in his hands and feet. Distractedly, Davey wonders if his father felt any of this after the factory accident that left him paralyzed. 

The thought of Mayer brings something else to the surface, and Davey sucks in a breath. "Mom?" he says plaintively. "Les?"

Jack's grip tightens just a bit, his inhale faltering for a split second. "It's gonna be okay, Davey," he says. "Just rest, and it'll be okay. I gotcha." 

That doesn't sit right, triggers the lingering anxiety back to life. Davey can't remember what happened, can't think through the haze that clogs his brain like cotton, but he knows there's something wrong. His family is in trouble. Right? He can't say how he knows it, just that he does, somewhere deep inside. 

"Jack?" Davey breathes out, hand spasming where it's coiled in the rough fabric of the soldier's uniform. 

"Don't move, youse-" Davey yelps as his back seizes, muscles clenching up angrily, and his hearing whites out for a second. Jack's still talking, his tone high and panicked, when Davey can make out anything over the throb of his heart again. "-what I toldja. Hold still. Gods, youse gonna break ya'self if you don't settle, pal. Please."

His body fights him at every breath, and Davey's tenuous grasp on his consciousness fades more each time. "Les?" Davey presses because he needs to know. The sharp dagger of terror in his chest is a million times worse than the pain in his body.

Jack presses a dry, chapped kiss to Davey's brow, holding him tighter. "He's a tough kid, Dave. As damn stubborn as you. So you let ya'self get better, and he's gonna too."

That voice in his mind screams that it isn't an answer, that there are a million more questions, but Davey can't hold on tight enough anymore. He clutches at the thin reassurance in the words - tough kid; get better; he's gonna - and surrenders to the gathering darkness.

Hunched over in his chair, Davey stares vacantly at the still image on the digiscreen. It's nothing more than a photograph, slightly blurred and angled strangely by the haste it was taken, but he can't look away. A small, pale body swathed in bandages lies on a med cot. Les.

The image is the closest Davey can get to his little brother right now, the younger boy being treated in a different Union base. Those who were injured the worst in the attack at Queens were shipped to the nearest base for immediate care, while those like Davey - who was injured but not dangerously so - were spread among other bases further out. Now Davey is left sitting in the Greenwich base leader's office, clinging to the frail hope that his brother will survive.

The chair beside him slides out, and a warm hand settles on Davey's shoulder. "He's gonna be okay," Jack says softly. "You heard the healer. They got the worst of it healed up in the chamber. He's stable. Just gotta let him rest and get better." 

"He wasn't supposed to be there in the first place," Davey protests, hoarse and tired. "He should've been safe." 

Jack hums. "Takes after you then," he says. The attempt to lighten the mood falls flat, and Jack sighs. He slides his hand down Davey's arm until he can curl his fingers around Davey's. "Youse supposed to be resting too, ya know." 

"I'm fine," Davey mutters dismissively. Sure, he hurts, but it feels trivial in comparison. The swelling in his back has gone down a little, enough that he can sit up and even walk with a bit of help, but he aches all over. There are still sporadic patches between his ribs and his toes where his body feels like it's fallen asleep but is waking up, pins and needles stinging deep into his muscles. 

"We both know that ain't true, so don't waste your breath lyin' to me," Jack counters flatly. "Even if you hadn't smashed your back up, I know how bad the headaches feel after one of those wakin' nightmares." 

Davey winces, squeezing his eyes shut. The nightmares are something they've both experienced before, those moments when the memories get so strong they overwrite reality. Trauma echoes, Specs had called them, a fear trapped in the mind that repeats itself when given the right trigger. Guilt churning in his gut, Davey risks a glance sideways.

Although they've made a half-hearted attempt to clean up, Jack is still a mess, his skin streaked with dirt and ash. A trio of ragged scratches curve around the corner of his jaw and stretch down onto his throat. There's a long tear in the shoulder of his shirt, revealing glimpses of the linen bandage beneath that's wrapped around his collarbone. Wounds that Davey caused, trapped in the throes of a nightmare and lashing out at a perceived monster.

He's only grateful that his aim was so bad—and that Albert knocked him out before he could do worse. 

"Stop it." Davey blinks, meeting Jack's stern gaze. "I know that look, Dave. Stop blamin' - fuck." Jack breaks off irritably at the grinding noise from his prosthetic, his attempt to reach out stopped by the joints damaged in the bombing. Huffing, Jack lets the useless limb fall into his lap but scoots his chair closer to Davey's until their knees knock. "Stop blamin' yourself. It wasn't real. Ain't like I'se never took a swing at you when those nightmares happen."

It's true—in one of his very first episodes, not long after returning home from the Games, Jack lashed out and broke Davey's nose in his panic. Davey shakes his head. "Yeah, but I'm not the one with a head full of memories of being hurt by you," he points out bitterly. It was the only thing Davey'd been able to think about when he realized what had happened. Jack is already haunted by the false memories implanted by the Capitol and still flinches if Davey reaches for him without warning. 

Now he'll have a memory of Davey attacking him that isn't a fake. 

"Don't do that to yourself," says Jack. "Hey, I know it wasn't real. I know you didn't mean it. Ya know why? You were scared. The thing they made me see there, the one that wasn't real, it was never scared." He leans in, pressing a dry kiss to Davey's shoulder before resting his forehead there. "It's okay, pal, I know I ain't the only one that got bad dreams." 

Davey swallows back the sob that tries to escape, burying his face in Jack's hair. He smells like smoke and sweat, like fear and misery. "Fuck, it all just keeps going wrong, Jacky," he whimpers. "I don't - I dunno how much more of this I can take."

Jack makes a soft, soothing noise, gripping Davey's hand tighter. "S'almost over, we's gonna be okay. All of them folks is already headed for the Capitol. We's gonna join 'em and end this. And then we's gonna take Les and - and get back to your family."

The faint stumble in the sentence says everything that they've been avoiding addressing out loud. Union soldiers have been out scouring the ruins of Queens all night, but after this many hours, the window for survivors is closed. Anyone still out there who was injured enough to need rescuing won't have lasted this long. 

And Esther Jacobs is still unaccounted for.

Davey is saved from sinking into a downward spiral by the door to the office gliding open. The leader of the Greenwich base is well into middle age, with a proud, commanding air and years of hard work under the sun etched into the lines of her face. She has a fierce, no-nonsense expression that's currently underwritten by the weight of exhaustion. "Sirs," she greets with a respectful incline of her head on the way to her desk. 

"How is it out there?" Davey asks. "Any news?"

"Lots of it," the base leader replies wearily. "Exactly what you'd be expecting in this situation. Lots of folks dyin' and plenty of folks survivin'. Bases are loaded to the gills with folks. Supplies are gettin' thin. But we're hanging in there." She doesn't mince words or bother with platitudes, and Davey appreciates that; it helps him stay focused on the details. "Hovers are getting ready. Will you be up to it?" 

No, honestly, Davey is about as far from ready for this as he can be. His body is still betraying him, the pain in his back a constant ache, and he can't be sure his legs will even support him at the moment. The lingering migraine throbbing between his temples makes him want to retreat into a dark, quiet corner. 

Worse than all of that, though, is the maelstrom inside his mind. He and Jack currently inhabit the top of the president's hit list. Thousands of more people have already died within the last day, and that number will just keep climbing. His father is stuck back at the Bowery base, no doubt waiting for news. Sarah has already shipped out with her unit, on the way to the Capitol with the other soldiers. Odds are high that neither of them knows that Esther won't return to them or that Les is dangerously close to joining her.  

All of this, these years of pain, boiling up to this moment.

Davey locks his jaw and lifts his chin, trying to inject as much authority and confidence as he can into his voice. "Let's go. It's time to end this."

The small encampment is almost painfully quiet, the only sounds coming from the soldiers preparing their gear. After the council strategy meeting's chaotic shouting, Davey hates to admit the tense silence is a welcome change. It feels wrong to be grateful for the anxiety hanging thick in the air, but at the same time, it gives him something to focus on, a tangible path forward. 

Honestly, keeping his brain centered on the task at hand is the only thing to keep Davey going at this point. 

"Dave?" Davey looks up to find Jack in front of him, nose wrinkled and a plated vambrace clutched awkwardly in his prosthetic hand. "Could you?" Jack asks, holding up the armor piece hopefully. "Kinda hard to do buckles with only half my fingers behavin'." 

Davey takes the vambrace, and Jack offers out his forearm. "At least we got your elbow mostly working again," he points out in a weak attempt at positivity. They had spent the hover ride from Greenwich to the encampment west of the Capitol with Davey working on Jack's arm, trying to clear out as much of the debris that got into it during the bombing as he could. He managed to clean up the elbow joint enough to move, although it makes a coarse grating sound every time, but his two outer fingers are still stubbornly stuck in a curl. 

"Good thing I'se used to usin' the other hand instead," Jack returns with a laugh. "Would just ditch this one, but I don't like having my side exposed like that." Davey can't help but agree with that—at the least, the metal limb can serve as an extra layer of protection. 

"There we go," Davey says, securing the final latch on the arm brace. They're only lightly armored, both of them preferring the stealth and mobility of the thinner gear than the bulky protection of the soldier's uniforms. Besides, they're meant to be recognizable. Davey double-checks the fastenings on all of Jack's armor, ensuring everything is cinched properly. 

"How's your back?" asks Jack, reaching out to do his own check of Davey's armor. 

"Sore, but better," Davey answers. "The tingles in my legs aren't as bad." 

Jack hums, his hand settling on Davey's waist. "Good. Still wish you could take a bit to rest." It's a familiar complaint at this point, a conversation they've already had several times over the last few hours. Davey honestly should be resting, the risk of actual nerve damage still all too present, but changing the world operates on its own timeline. 

As evidenced when the unit captain calls out an abrupt "Ready position, folks." 

Jack grabs Davey's hand, giving it one more reassuring squeeze before they fall into line with the unit of soldiers. "Alright, you know your orders," the captain - who Davey's learned has the unfortunate surname of Bumlets - barks. "While the Districts keep Pulitzer's eyes on the gates, we go in through the underground. Union base says this tunnel is cleared, but we may encounter obstacles. Priority one is protection." At this, the captain nods toward Davey and Jack. Davey tries not to flinch when the entire squad glances at them. 

"Our goal here is to get Jacobs and Kelly inside and close to the president," Bumlets continues. "You keep them going by any means necessary. There is no retreat here, folks—the only way we stop is death. Understood?" 

The soldiers chorus "yessir" immediately. An elbow jostles Davey, and he glances sideways. "We got your back, boss," Albert says, the confident tone underlaid by a fond smile. "Been keeping you safe for months; I ain't about to ruin my good record now." 

Davey manages a smile for his bodyguard, clapping the redhead on the shoulder affectionately. "I'm glad you're here." He might've begrudged his constant shadow sometimes, but there's a comfort in having the familiar face at his side. 

"Promise I won't knock ya on the head this time," Albert says with an awkward chuckle. 

That tugs a laugh out of Davey. "Don't pretend you haven't wanted to do that for a while," he teases. 

Albert snorts and slings a companionable arm around Davey's shoulder. "A'ight, true. Still, been an honor annoying the shit outta you, boss." 

The sentiment hits Davey hard, and he swallows back the sudden bout of nerves. It's a truth they all know on some level—the odds of any of them coming out of this hail-mary venture are alarmingly low. Thankfully, the captain shouts an order for them to move, and Davey's able to push the emotion back into the far corner of his mind with the rest of them. 

A weary veteran; a scared older brother; a mourning son. Davey doesn't have time for any of that right now, and if he lets it catch up to him, he's going to fall apart. Luckily, he's gotten very good at compartmentalizing. 

The access hatch down into the tunnels is nothing more than a lopsided circular hole in the undergrowth, laboriously uncovered by the soldiers. They have to jump down into the tunnel one at a time, and expectedly, the drop takes Davey's legs out from under him. Jack and Albert are there to catch him before he can fall, and they each drag an arm over their shoulders as Davey waits for the spasming waves in his raw nerve endings to clear. Even when he can stand on his own again, Jack keeps an arm around him, supporting his weight as the group begins the trek down the tunnel. 

Dark and dank, the tunnel still shows ancient signs of its purpose in places that haven't been eroded by the Fall or by nature. It's twice as tall as a man and wide enough for them to walk six abreast without scraping the walls, at least in the parts that are still whole. Mag-rail runners stretch on beneath their feet like an old hunting trail, the metal rusted and half-buried in the rubble. 

The only light comes from the flashlights mounted on the soldier's helmets or shoulders, dancing circles of light that bob over the walls and ceiling in a formless dance. It's strangely claustrophobic, despite how large the tunnel is, and Davey forces steady breaths to keep his nerves in check. "Feels like the maze," Jack murmurs under his breath, once again echoing Davey's thoughts. "'Cept, ya know, dirty."

"Still think I prefer this dirty one," Davey whispers back, and Jack hums an agreement. 

They've been over the plans, so Davey knows that they have a long walk ahead of them. There's no knowing what exactly awaits them at the end of the line. Crutchie gave them a general idea of where the tunnel will let out, but no one can say what will be waiting for them, whether it'll be a clear section of the street or right into the middle of a peacekeeper patrol. The anticipation is a stifling weight in the air. 

Davey aches, his legs occasionally wobbly under him, and the muscles around his spine twitch. He sweats beneath the layer of body armor, light as it may be, and his heart is hammering with so much more than just exertion. And yet, he's able to keep his mind blessedly blank, zeroed in only on placing one tired foot in front of the other. 

He's reassured by one simple truth: one way or another, this whole thing is about to be over.

The vibrant, colorful streets of the Capitol are empty as a tomb. Every other time Davey's been inside the Capitol, the city was flooded with bodies and light and motion until it was overwhelming. It had required an escort to part the crowds enough to even walk, and it had been almost impossible to hear himself think over the noise. Now, the silence is so loud it feels like a physical thing, a looming, smothering presence that suffuses the air. 

"Gods, this is eerie," Jack murmurs at Davey's elbow, his voice so soft Davey doubts any of the others could hear it. 

While Davey agrees, he's also grateful for the vacant streets. One of his fears in this mission was coming across masses of citizens. The peacekeepers are one thing, armed to the teeth and ready to take the Union soldiers down without hesitation. But the citizens, those naive, defenseless peacocks whose worst crime is wilful ignorance—Davey was dreading what might happen if they were forced to fight their way through them. 

He hates the citizens of the Capitol - hates that they have always been able to look upon the Games as nothing more than entertainment without empathy for the participants - but that doesn't mean Davey wants to kill them. 

The captain guides their way swiftly and efficiently through the streets, sticking to back alleys and side streets as much as possible in a thin attempt to avoid detection. Davey has no doubt that they will be caught soon; the president keeps all of the Capitol under surveillance, so it's only a matter of time before they're spotted on one camera or another. They just need to get close enough. 

Passing through a side street, Jack grabs Davey's wrist abruptly. Davey glances at the other man to find him staring at the far end of the road. There, visible in a gap between buildings, the Capitol's grand temple is a beautiful masterpiece of white marble. Davey's heart skips as he's filled with a rush of memory, and when he looks at Jack, his husband is wearing a heartbreakingly fond smile.

"Not a dream," Jack whispers, and Davey echoes his smile. "Remember that one pretty good." 

Davey fights back a breathless sob, disguising it as a cough, and he squeezes Jack's hand. In his head, Davey makes a vow to himself: if they survive this, they will have a proper Binding ceremony, the one they should've gotten the first time. 

"Incoming," Captain Bumlets hisses, shattering the moment. Immediately, everyone jumps to attention, resettling their grip on their weapons. Davey draws his gun and takes a breath to steady himself. He's been trained on how to use one - it was a requirement by the Commander before they were willing to send him out of the base for broadcasts - but he doesn't like them. Unfortunately, his preferred knife won't do much good against peacekeepers with rifles if it comes down to it.

They hear the peacekeeper patrol a long minute before they see them, the steady clomp of boots on polished stone echoing loudly down the streets. Bumlets gives the unit instructions via a series of silent hand gestures that Davey doesn't know, but he follows obediently when Albert tugs him toward the wall of the alley. The redhead and two others place themselves in front of Davey and Jack while the others fan out facing the mouth of the alleyway, tensed and waiting. 

The first three members of the peacekeeper patrol go down before they realize what's happening, mowed down in an organized wave of bullets. By the time the rest of their patrol is attempting to raise the alarm, the Union soldiers push forward to the end of the alley and open fire. Davey clutches his gun with white knuckles, he and Jack sheltered behind their guards, and he winces at the staggered cries of pain that come from the fight. 

Although it feels infinitely longer to Davey, the firefight is over in minutes. The captain barks an all-clear, and Davey steps around Albert for a better look. There were more than two dozen peacekeepers in the patrol, but Union had the element of surprise. Bumlets and another soldier are moving through the fallen bodies, double-checking that the peacekeepers are all dead, while the rest of the soldiers tend to their own injuries. 

Davey hears Bumlets offer a sincere, "Sorry, son," that's promptly followed up by a gunshot and the sickening squelch of viscera. At Davey's side, Jack tenses and looks down, grimacing. His prosthetic hand flexes, the functioning fingers curling and uncurling, and Davey wonders if Jack is thinking of a time he had to do the same thing to a Tribute in the Quarter Quell. Davey holsters his gun and brushes his hand against the back of Jack's flesh one reassuringly.  

"Status report," Bumlets barks. "Da Silva?" 

"Package secured," Albert replies, glancing at Davey and Jack in confirmation. 

The captain nods. "Sergeant?" 

Another soldier stands from where she was talking to a man on the ground. "One fatality, two down," she recites. "All other casualties are minor." Davey takes a step toward the fallen figures, and in his peripherals, he sees Bumlets coming over as well. 

One Union soldier is laid to rest, a gaping wound in his neck where a bullet tore through his carotid. Another is panting hard through clenched teeth, hands pressed to a bleeding wound in his side, and a third is grimacing as a soldier carefully prods at her shattered knee. "Sorry, sir," she grits out breathlessly. 

"Don't be," Bumlets says somberly. "You've done the people proud. Thank you for your service. May the odds be in your favor, friends." 

Davey steps forward, crouching down to meet the eyes of both soldiers. He grips the shoulder of the first soldier and takes the hand of the woman, squeezing gratefully. "Thank you," he says earnestly. 

"Honor to serve, sir," the first soldier says, and the woman nods. The man grins through bloodied teeth and glances between Davey and Jack. "Now go win our country back, sirs." 

Managing a responding smile, Davey grasps them both once more before he straightens up, although Jack has to help him to his feet when his lower back spasms and nearly takes his legs out from under him. The captain signals to the unit, and they fall into formation around Davey and Jack as they march on without the fallen soldiers. They're a block away when they hear the first gunshot. Davey winces, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he processes it. 

"It's okay, boss," Albert says quietly, nudging Davey with an elbow. "We knew what we're getting into here, just like you. Better that than letting the Capitol use us for info on Union." Davey knows that, but it doesn't make it any easier. On his other side, Jack takes his hand and threads their fingers together. Davey knows they're both thinking the same thing, running through the long list of ghosts that trail in their wake. 

A second gunshot echoes up the street like the toll of a temple bell.

Gripping Jack's hand and ignoring the sting of tears, Davey lifts his chin and keeps walking.

Even frightfully quiet, the Capitol's main square is a cacophony of light and color. The streets are vacant, the residents taking shelter in their homes, but the endless barrage of advertisements and holo-displays still fill the air. Rippling holographic banners drape down the fronts of buildings, and shop windows flicker with projected images of their wares. It casts an eerie, dissonant hush across everything, the kaleidoscope of colors not paired to matching sounds. 

One entire edge of the square is dominated by the stadium entrance, the same one used for the Hunger Games opening ceremonies. Beyond the open archway, Davey can make out the familiar shape of the long path between sweeping tiers of seats. Twice, Davey and Jack rode a chariot down that endless road. Once, they stood side-by-side on the balcony as they were crowned Victors. 

It was the one and only time Davey spoke to the president face-to-face—it's only fitting this is where they end it as well. 

Davey instinctively fidgets with his knife's thigh-holster even as he takes a steadying breath. "This is it, folks," he calls to the unit, his voice breaking the unnatural quiet. "Time to let the world know we're here." 

"You heard him," the captain barks, reaching for the comm-link in his ear. "Comms and video on. Make sure if Pulitzer's dumb enough to cut us down, that everyone sees him do it." The rest of the soldiers hurry to follow his lead, activating the video-comm links on their helmets. "Union base, you read?" Bumlets asks. 

"We read you, Union One," Crutchie responds through the comms. Davey's lips quirk fondly at the familiar voice. "That's right, give us a smile, Newsboys. Video feeds are live in three, two-"

A burst of static floods the square as every holo-screen flickers, and then suddenly, Davey sees his own face blink to life on several of them. Multiple cameras are being streamed, pulled from any of the various soldiers around him, showing the square and Davey and Jack from a dozen different angles. It strikes Davey in the chest hard enough to steal his breath, the towering videos of his face once again projected into the Capitol streets. 

Only this time, for the first time, he chose it.

"You've got incoming," Crutchie announces briskly. "If you're gonna say something, better say it fast, Davey."

This is it.

Davey squeezes Jack's hand, still threaded with his, and glances sideways at his husband for confirmation. Jack sets his jaw, and his eyes flash with that fiery determination that started all of this. The corner of his mouth ticks up, and Jack nods. 

This is it.

Davey looks ahead into the camera lens on the captain's helmet, seeing his motions mirrored across an array of screens in his peripherals, and lifts his chin. "President Pulitzer. This is the Newsboys of Manhattan, and we're here to speak to you on behalf of Union and the citizens of the Districts as a whole. More than once, you've accused me of refusing to speak with you and rejecting attempts at diplomacy. You control the news that reaches the people. You tell them only your truths. Well, no more."

"So here we are," Jack jumps in smoothly. "Standing right here in the middle your District, with the whole country watching. You wanna talk? Let's talk. You really want diplomacy? Want all this fighting over? Then come down here, and we'll work it out. No lies, no secrets, where everyone can see it." 

The pounding footsteps make the Union soldiers around them shuffle their feet in preparation. "This is your last chance to end this without more bloodshed," Davey challenges. "There's an army of District citizens at your every gate ready to fight for their rights. We want to negotiate an end to this before more people die. If that's what you want too, come meet with us. Or you can send your peacekeepers in to kill us and show your people how you really feel about diplomacy." 

Peacekeepers filter into the square from multiple directions, rows and rows of navy uniforms and blacked-out visors. They're all armed, guns raised and ready, as they form a perimeter around the square. "Don't fire," Davey cautions, entirely for the cameras because the Union soldiers already know their orders. They're not about to start the fight with the whole world watching. 

"We ain't here to fight," Jack says, drawing Davey's attention back to the broadcast. "We's here to stop the fighting, and we ain't leaving 'til we do, one way or 'nother. Choice is yours, Pulitzer." 

Davey can't fight the faint curl of his lips as he finishes, "We'll be waiting for your response." 

With a nod, Davey gestures to the captain. As Davey and Jack drop down to sit on the polished cobble road, the Union soldiers all take a knee. Their guns are kept out but pointed down, loose in their grips as a sign of passivity. Davey can pick out flickers of nerves and uncertainty in some of their soldiers' eyes, but none of them break from the image of a neutral party. 

Letting out a breath, Davey leans into Jack's shoulder, as much a reassurance for both of them. Jack moves like he means to wrap his arm around Davey's back before he remembers and thinks better of it. Playing it off by brushing his hand soothingly between Davey's shoulder blades, light enough not to press on the scarring, Jack drops his hand back to his lap. 

"We're gonna be okay," Davey whispers, twining his hand with Jack's. Davey tries to put conviction in it, but it falls flat.

Jack lifts Davey's hand and presses a kiss to the back of his wrist, just above his battle-worn union band. "Either way, we do it together," Jack says firmly. "You and me, all the way to the end." He smiles, gaze warm when he meets Davey's. "Still 'member that one." 

Davey huffs a weak laugh. "Together," he agrees. He leans more of his weight against Jack, savoring the moment's reprieve while they have it. "All the way to the end."

Eighty-nine minutes.

That's how long the stalemate in Capitol Square goes on, both sides frozen and waiting. Davey watches every single minute tick by on the timepiece above a shop window, counting each minute that passes without the president responding. Every minute that the world is watching and waiting to see which side blinks first. 

At the eighty-ninth minute, a motion from Albert draws Davey's gaze across the square. One of the peacekeepers has lowered his gun, one hand to his ear in a way Davey recognizes as someone focusing on a comm. After a moment, the soldier drops his hand, slings his rifle across his back, and steps forward. 

The Union soldiers all stiffen, a thrum of tension rolling around the circle, but none of them forget their orders or break position. The peacekeeper walks steadily across the square, empty hands held out to his sides in a gesture of peace. When the man is within a few yards of the ring of Union soldiers, Davey and Jack stand to face him. 

"Mr. Jacobs," the peacekeeper says, projecting his voice across the distance between them. Jack huffs a soft noise at being ignored, but the peacekeeper doesn't spare him a glance. "The president would like to speak with you." 

"Good. Where is he?" Davey responds. He knows he should be terrified right now, public enemy number one standing in the middle of a firing squad, but the surrealness of the moment wraps him in a strange, calm confidence. It's the same feeling he got when he decided to take a handful of poisoned berries over sacrificing a friend. Or when he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the other Newsboys as the Capitol tightened a noose made of monsters. 

It's the calm acceptance that if this moment is his last, he will still die as Davey Jacobs, above all things.

"I'm to take you to him," the peacekeeper says. 

Davey can't bite back a small, derisive laugh. "Pulitzer knows our terms," he counters. "If we're negotiating a cease-fire, we're doing it publicly. Jack and I made a promise to the people of the Districts, and we don't intend to break it. So you can tell him again that if he wants to talk, he can get down here and do it himself." 

The peacekeeper shuffles uncertainly. "Can't do that. It's a security risk." He nods toward the Union soldiers pointedly. 

"And yet we's the ones had the guns pointed at us all this time," Jack says with a raised eyebrow. "You got over a hundred folks in here with fingers on the trigger aimin' at our heads. Ya think we dunno what 'security risk' looks like?" 

"Our men know their orders," Davey says. "We're not here to fight. Even if we were, pretty sure the odds would be in your favor here." Davey hears Albert snort at the turn of phrase, and a small smile catches his own lips. "We are here, risking our safety for the chance at peace. We're not asking him to disband this little army here. He can bring more of you, for all I care. We're just asking that he show the country that he cares enough about their lives to try."

The peacekeeper shifts, clearly nonplussed by the rejection. Davey shakes his head. "So, unless you're coming to tell us Pulitzer's on his way," he trails off pointedly and sits back down. He can tell Jack is fighting a grin by the way he's biting his cheek as he joins Davey on the ground. Around them, the Union soldiers make a show of relaxing their stances, murmuring amongst each other casually. 

Back stiff, the peacekeeper makes it four steps back toward his post before he pauses. His gloved hand jumps to his earpiece again, the actual words of his low rumble not recognizable from this distance. Then he turns back around and lifts his chin. "Mr. Jacobs, the president says he will see you so long as your men drop their weapons." 

Davey glances at the captain and gets a grim nod in reply. Touching his earpiece, Davey confirms, "Union base, we're still live?" 

"And hanging on your every word, buddy," says Crutchie. 

"Okay, folks, you heard him," Davey says, looking around at the Union soldiers. Immediately, the soldiers set their guns on the ground, deliberately sliding them away so they're not easily within reach. Davey does the same, pointedly releasing the clip from his handgun before he tosses it out of their circle. "Does Pulitzer feel safe enough now to come talk to the dozen unarmed men?" 

Although the peacekeeper's face is hidden behind his black visor, his annoyed twitch gives away his feelings about that dig. He taps his earpiece and then nods. "The president will be here shortly." 

"Well, ya know where to find us," Jack says dismissively. A few of the Union soldiers don't bother to mask their chuckles at the comment. Without another word, the peacekeeper turns on his heel and marches back to his station. 

"I see a ground shuttle incoming," Crutchie announces on the comms. "Less than five minutes out from you." 

"Hey, Crutchie?" Davey says. "I didn't get a chance to say it before we left, but just in case things don't go our way here, thanks for being such a good friend through all this." 

"You too, Dave," Crutchie responds. "Now stuff your goodbye nonsense and go finish this." 

Davey barks a laugh at that, and several of the Union soldiers echo it. When Davey glances at Jack, his husband immediately stands and offers his hands to help Davey up.  It takes more effort than Davey would like to admit, his abused muscles rebelling against so much movement when they should be resting. After a second to let the spasms fade and be sure his legs are steady beneath him, Davey nods. "You good?" Jack asks softly. 

"Good," Davey confirms just as quietly. He can't say for how much longer he'll be upright and moving, but for the moment, at least, he can survive. "Let's do this." 

The crowd of peacekeepers part, forming a pathway, and a sleek hover shuttle glides through the opening. "I'm gonna kiss you," Jack says abruptly, catching Davey off guard, and then leans in to do just that. Davey can't help the grin as he reciprocates. "Sorry," Jack says bashfully when he draws back enough to breathe, forehead still pressed to Davey's. "But, ya know, just in case." 

With a brittle laugh, Davey ducks in for one last quick kiss. "I love you," he says earnestly. "You know, just in case." 

Jack smiles, eyes warm as he squeezes Davey's hand. "Love you too, pal." 

Turning forward, they take their first steps out of the relative security of the ring of Union soldiers. Davey can feel their eyes on his back, but they know their orders—they were to get Davey and Jack to the president and no further. So the pair of Tributes stride purposefully across the square toward the shuttle, where Davey can see a crisp, elegant figure unfolding from the seat. 

The first time Davey met Joseph Pulitzer, he'd been struck by the aura of calm, inherent arrogance surrounding the man. On that spotlit balcony above his kingdom, Pulitzer conveyed the air of a man of his station—their world bent to his whim, and everyone knew it. Even after Davey's defiance at the end of the Games, there was no mistaking that when it all came down to it, Pulitzer was the one in charge.

Perhaps it's just the change of scenery, the bleak, vacant square opposed to the raucous stadium, but the man that steps from the shuttle has none of that majesty. Pulitzer is still dressed crisply, not a hair on his well-manicured face misaligned, and his gray eyes are sharp as shards of broken glass. He just seems - smaller, somehow. Depleted. 

Or maybe Davey's projecting. 

Hands clasped in the small of his back, Pulitzer stalks forward to meet them in the middle. "Thank you for agreeing to speak with us, Mr. Pulitzer," Davey says politely. Davey's always been accused of being too emotional, of reacting too passionately - and rightfully so, he knows - but never let it be said he doesn't at least try to be civil.

"Yes, well, you didn't leave me much choice, did you?" Pulitzer responds coolly. 

"Well, after all those times you claimed you tried diplomacy and it didn't work," Davey says, arching an eyebrow, "it made me wonder what might happen if we actually did give it a shot." 

Pulitzer sneers. "And how many did you kill on your way to this grand gesture of diplomacy?" 

"How many did you kill when you bombed Queens?" Davey shoots back. "Or when you Blazed Manhattan?" Jack tightens his grip, and it's enough of a reminder that Davey can pull himself back, swallowing past the knot of emotion in his chest. "We're here to prevent more lives from being lost," he finishes. 

Jack clears his throat. Stress vibrates through every line of his body, and Davey knows how terrified he must be to face down Pulizter again, but he does an impressive job of masking it. "Look, you can see how things are goin' outside your walls, right?" he says, straight to the point. "In here, in this square, odds are in your favor, sure. But outside?" He smirks, a daring slash of light. "The folks of the Districts are done. We came here looking for freedom, and them folks out there are gonna get it or die trying."

"And all those lives are worth it, is that what you're saying?" drawls Pulitzer. "All those people ready to die. What good will that sacrifice do you all in the end?" 

"What good will it do you?" Davey replies. "What will your people here in the Capitol do when there's no one left to harvest their food and make their luxuries? When they're forced to work and struggle and survive just like we do? Do you think those people huddled in their houses right now will thank you for letting them starve?" 

"Don't pretend you'll grant anyone mercy in this," snarls the president. "You would see this place burned to the ground. Don't act like you're doing this for these peoples' sakes." 

Davey tenses, a tightly coiled blast of pain spearing through his core. "I think, Mr. Pulitzer," he bites out, tone flat and dangerous, "you'd better be careful about accusing me of burning homes. It might be a joke to you, but I'm the one who had to stand in the ashes and bones of my people."

Surprisingly, Pulitzer is the first to look away. He adjusts his cufflinks and sniffs imperiously. "Then what do you hope to achieve from this? What is your grand plan?" 

"Simple," Jack interjects. "Equality for all Districts, including this one."

"So you would have us all scrounging in the dirt?" Pulitzer says coldly. 

Jack smirks. "Is that you admitting youse left the Districts 'scroungin' in the dirt?'" he tosses back, eyebrow raised in challenge. 

"Face it, you don't have a lot of options here," says Davey. "We can keep fighting. Either we win but lose a lotta folks doing it, or you kill all of us 'rebels' and hope you can survive with what's left of your country. Or you can agree to work with us, help us make this place better for everyone, and save a whole lotta lives in the process." 

"You won't let me live," Pulitzer jeers, eyes narrowed. "Don't lie and pretend you'll keep me alive to negotiate with you."

"Don't wanna, personally," says Jack, expression dark as a stormcloud. "After what you done to me?" Pulitzer's expression doesn't flicker, but Davey notes that he's deliberately avoiding Jack's gaze. "And I'se just one on a long list of folks you tore down. But it don't matter 'cause that ain't who we are, who the Newsboys are. Thought we showed you that before? We ain't like you. We don't just get rid of folks for bein' inconvenient." 

"Or to make a political statement," Davey adds. "Which, by the way, Katherine's alive and safe, not that you've cared to ask. Your little ploy to get her killed didn't work. We weren't about to hurt the woman who helps keep Union running. She says hi, and that you can burn in hells." Pulitzer's eyes widen, something sparking deep within them, although the emotion, whatever it was, is snuffed out before Davey can make sense of it. 

Davey forces down his smile, letting himself sink back into the solemnity of the moment. "You turned me into a murderer once before, Mr. Pulitzer. I'm not doing it again. We're not killing anyone unless we have to. Please don't force our hand." The older man is still staring at Davey suspiciously. "We're ready to die for this cause," Davey says, gesturing around at the armed militia still standing at the ready. "Are you?"

The moment hangs, tense and cloying, a phantom that clogs the air and makes it hard to breathe. Davey's palm is sweating where it's clasped in Jack's shaking hand. Anticipation takes up so much of Davey's focus that he doesn't even feel the pain of his battered body anymore, the entire world zeroing down to this singular fragment of time. 

Something cracks in Pulitzer's winter cold eyes, and the man deflates just a little bit more. "Call off your people," he says. "It seems we have a great deal to discuss about the future of this country." 

A breathless, incredulous noise slips out of Davey, and he sways on his feet, suddenly faint as the suspense of the exchange breaks like an elastic band to leave him untethered. Behind them, he can hear the Union soldiers cheering victoriously. "Thank you, sir," Davey says, extending a hand to the president. Pulitzer looks as though the motion physically hurts him, but he grits his teeth and dutifully takes the offer.

As Jack shakes Pulitzer's hand as well - awkwardly since he has to use his left instead - Davey reaches up to touch his comm. "Union Base, this is Davey. Tell all units to stand down. We did it." 

"Sir, yes, sir," Crutchie responds, his grin audible across the radio. In the background, Davey can hear more muffled celebrations. "Good job, fellas." Davey lets out a soft, half-hysterical sigh as the order goes out over the comms, Crutchie's voice announcing a full cease-fire at all locations—that Pulitzer has surrendered. 

Turning back to the waiting soldiers, Davey and Jack both throw a fist in the air. The whoops from the soldiers redouble, and the video displays around the square are nothing more than a blur of spiraling color as the cameras on their uniforms are whipped around. At the perimeter, the peacekeepers lower their weapons at a signal from Pulitzer. 

"Traitor!" 

The furious bellow cuts through the noise in the square like a whip crack, a sizzling, animalistic screech. Davey glances back and gets a glimpse of a solitary figure, face a horrific mask of rage too red to be blood, rounding the shuttle with their arm raised. In the next second, Jack throws himself at Davey, wrapping around him like a shield as the momentum sends them to the ground at the same time that a gunshot splits the air. 

For a minute, Davey's world is pandemonium. His back screams at the abrupt movement, and a sharp bolt pierces up through his kneecaps where they slam into the ground. Among the sounds of shouting and more gunshots, the rasp of metal on stone seems unnaturally loud as Jack catches their weight on his prosthetic arm to prevent them from face-planting on the cobbles. 

It's only when the shots stop that Davey hears the panic-fast breaths against the back of his shoulder. Jack makes a strangled sound as his arm tightens across Davey's chest, and Davey can feel the tension and fear rippling through his body. "Jacky?" Davey asks breathlessly, trying to crane his head back to see, but Jack won't relax his grip. "Jacky, talk to me. Are you okay?" 

When Davey twists his head the other way, he catches something in the corner of his eye that makes him freeze. There's a body splayed on the ground feet from them, gasping for air as the pale waistcoat turns dark. "Fuck, Jacky, it's Pulitzer," Davey says, tugging at the wrist on his chest. "He's shot." 

That, it seems, is enough to startle Jack back into the moment. The younger man glances over to follow Davey's gaze, and then his grasp loosens as he pulls them both up onto their knees. Davey immediately drags himself to the president's side, pushing aside his jacket to check the damage. There's a scarlet hole low on his ribs, blood staining the fancy fabric in an expanding circle.

"Get a medic!" Davey shouts into the square. "He needs a medic now!" Turning back to Pulitzer, Davey glances at the man's face. "Stay awake and don't move." Davey only debates it for a second before he looks over his shoulder. "Jacky, you're stronger than me. I need you to keep pressure on this." 

Jack is pale and shaking, but he follows the order without question. Placing his flesh palm over the wound, Jack levers forward to press down with his full weight. Pulitzer chokes on a moan, blanching further as he coughs weakly. "Just hold on," Davey says. The bellows around the square feel oddly distant as Davey touches his fingers to the president's pulse point, tracking the thready rhythm. "Don't fall asleep and keep breathing. Slowly." 

"Why-?" The sentence trails off, Pulitzer's eyes rolling up for a moment. He coughs, and it flecks bright red spots across his lip. Still, Pulitzer's gray eyes are as keen as ever when they fix on Davey. "Why are you-?" 

The president seems to run out of breath there, but Davey doesn't need to hear the end of the question to know what he's asking. "Why are we helping you?" he confirms. Gazing down at Pulitzer, a vivid, agonizing similarity shows itself. Back before Union and the Mouth of the People, when Davey was just a scared Hunger Games Tribute, he'd cared for a little boy as he died of a wound that pierced his lung and caused blood to decorate his lips as he struggled for his last breaths. 

This is how Connor Smalls died under Davey's care—a boy who was only ever in that situation because of the man in front of Davey now.

"Because I might hate you," Davey says resolutely, "but I still refuse to watch a person die if there's a chance I can stop it. You didn't break that part of me." 

Something lights deep in Pulitzer's eyes, some flash of emotion or realization, but Davey can't tell what it is. In the next second, Davey's being shoved aside by peacekeepers, a pair of medics with a hover-stretcher taking his place. Davey watches in shock as the president is swept away without another word to them.

A warm shoulder presses to his, and Davey exhales as he leans into the familiar body sitting beside him. They're both trembling as the adrenaline starts to filter away, bone-deep exhaustion taking its place. He barely glances up when pounding boot steps come toward him, preceded by a frantic, "Boss?" 

"We're okay," Davey says. Albert comes around to crouch in front of them, Captain Bumlets a half-step behind. "What - what happened?" 

"Some fella - wasn't even a peacekeeper, just looks like some Capitol fella - guess he didn't like Pulitzer surrendering," Albert answered. "Gods, thought the guy was gunning for you. I'd've been real pissed if I kept you 'live all this time and then lost you at the finish line." 

Davey quirks a grin at the soldier, recognizing the joke for what it is. "Thanks, Albo." He shivers, glancing in the direction the medics disappeared. "Pulitzer, you think he-?" 

"He's gonna be fine," the captain says resolutely. "This's the Capitol. They'll have him in a chamber in seconds. Don't you worry 'bout him. Now, c'mon, sirs, we're done here. Let's get you somewhere safe before anyone else tries something stupid." 

Jack staggers upright with a groan, and it takes both him and Albert to get Davey onto his feet. The tremors leftover from the excitement aren't helping the pain in his back any, and he leans heavily into Jack's side as they head back toward the cluster of Union soldiers. It's as they round the abandoned hover shuttle that Jack abruptly tenses, stopping mid-step. "Oh Gods."

Startled, Davey follows Jack's gaze. There's a small group of peacekeepers lingering near the shuttle, and between them is a body on the ground, so riddled with gunshot wounds that it's almost unrecognizable. Almost, were it not for the glitter of rubies inlaid on the slack, broken face. Comprehension steals Davey's breath—it's Snyder, the Gamemaker and the president's 'persuader' - and the man who tortured Jack for weeks.

"Jacky, he's gone," Davey says, looking at his husband. Jack is still staring at the body, shuddering worse than before. Davey reaches out and forces Jack's head to turn until their eyes meet. "It's over. He's gone. He can't hurt you anymore." Imploring eyes pan over Davey's features, looking for something—looking for confirmation it's true, maybe. Davey nods in response to the silent question. "Not a dream. You're okay, Jack. We're okay. It's over." 

The sudden rush of hope and relief that sweeps across Jack's face is as heartbreaking as it was the first night after he was rescued from the Capitol. Tears spill over as he drags Davey into a crushing hug, burying his face in the side of Davey's neck. Davey clutches him just as tightly even as the pressure hurts his spine, the reality of it all washing over him. 

"We did it," Davey chokes out, half a laugh and half a sob. "We did it. We won. It's over." 

And there, clinging onto each other in the middle of a swirling vortex of soldiers and peacekeepers, in the hollow square of the Capitol with blood still spreading across the cobblestones, Davey exhales a smile. 

"It's over."

There is nothing easy about rebuilding the world from the bottom up. 

For all its complexities and toils, there's a certain simplicity to war. Fights and battles, and the harsh line of us versus them. Casualties and death. Wins and losses. 

In comparison, the effort of finding a way to start over again is a million times more challenging. 

"You must be completely mad." 

The tension in the room is tangible, and it only spikes with the indignant protest from the far end of the table. Despite this, Commander Roosevelt doesn't falter. "The old days are out," he says levelly, "and that means the old leadership as well. It's time we step aside and let the new generations lead." 

Joseph Pulitzer bristles. "So after tearing this country to pieces with war, you want to hand the scraps over to a bunch of inexperienced children like them?" 

Davey scowls when the former president gestures toward him. "I'll have you know Jack and I are stepping down as well," he shoots back. Pulitzer's eyebrows jump at this. "I agree with Roosevelt. We led during a time of fighting. The fighting is over, and we need new people for new times." 

"It'll be impossible for any of us to lead with a clear, fresh mind toward building something new," Roosevelt says. "None of us would be able to completely shake this, this mentality we've been leading with, and I think you know that, Joseph. This country needs a clean slate. A new beginning."

"Then why are we here?" Pulitzer snaps, waving his arm in a sweeping gesture around the private office. The movement makes him wince, hissing a breath in, and he presses his palm to his ribs briefly, where the freshly-healed bullet wound sits beneath his clothes. Shaking his head, he glares across the table at Roosevelt. "Why not just hand the reins over to the children if that's your plan?" 

The commander takes off his bowler hat, spinning it distractedly between his fingers. "Because they are, as you say, children," he replies. "They are inexperienced. We need to give them at least a framework to start from, a template to fill and grow through. They don't have our experience with managing the finer details of the economy and resources. That's what we can give them." 

"Think 'bout it, Joe," Jack chips in, the faintest smirk on his lips. "When you took over as president, things were already set up for ya, right? Your pops'd built up things since the War of the Fallen, had figured out a lotta the stuff. Then you step in, take what he gave you, and made it more. More of a bad thing, but still." Pulitzer scoffs at the jab. "Sounds to me like that's what Mr. Commander here's doing too. Gettin' the throne all set up so someone else can step in and make it more." 

Roosevelt smiles, nodding in acknowledgment. "Exactly, thank you, Mr. Kelly." He turns back to Pulitzer. "If you don't want to be involved, you're welcome to leave. We won't force you, and we'll make do without your help. But the simple fact is that you have been at the head of this country for several decades now. No one knows the status of the economy and the infrastructure the way you do right now. It's up to you whether you will lend that knowledge to our future or if you'll sit by the side and let your experience go to waste." 

"I still think this is madness," Pulitzer says flatly. He leans forward against the table, palms pressed flat to the glossy wood so hard his fingers turn white. The suspense in the room weighs down for a long minute as he seems to consider, brow furrowed in concentration. 

"If I do this, I want a condition," the president says. Roosevelt nods to prompt him forward. "All the groundwork in the world will mean nothing if it's given only to people who don't understand what it means. You want your new generation, fine, but make sure that they have an advisor who knows what they're talking about so your charitable little children don't bankrupt the world." 

Davey glances at Roosevelt, curious about the man's response. He can see some logic in it, of course. It was a large reason why Davey was only partially involved in leading Union—he might have the people's ear, but he didn't understand the logistics of housing the tens of thousands of refugees or the strategies of moving about a military.

But there's also the niggling worry that these advisors could be used to influence and corrupt the new leaders, to stick to the old way of doing things instead of embracing the new world they're building. 

"Ain't a terrible idea," Jack offers aloud. "None of us, of course, none the folks who've already been leading. But maybe folks who've worked in the District halls, ones who know the numbers behind their people and all. Gonna need them sorta folks to help make sure things get spread out 'tween all the Districts anyway, right?" He looks over at Pulitzer. "That a compromise you can live with?"

Pulitzer stares at Jack, something deep and piercing in his slate-gray eyes. Jack doesn't break his gaze, moving to cross his arms before remembering he only has one again. Davey instinctively shuffles closer to his exposed side. At the same time, Jack settles for hooking his thumb into his waistband with a challenging slant to his lips. Finally, Pulitzer dips his chin. "You have a surprisingly good head on your shoulders, boy." 

Roosevelt nods. "Then we're agreed?" 

"Also, whoever is placed in charge of the Capitol should be more experienced," Pulitzer counters. "Nothing good will come of putting one of these young District children here. Part of my agreement to stand down was that my people here would not be punished and thrown out to support all the others. The person placed in charge here should know how to achieve your distribution plans without leaving the people here to starve." 

"That I can agree with, in a fashion," says Roosevelt. "It was always our plan to have each District led by someone who lived there, who is part of the community and knows the people. And as the center of wealth, the Capitol needs someone who can understand that part of things." An amused grin crosses the commander's face. "Thankfully, I think we've already someone in mind who fits the bill. Young and bright, but with plenty of experience in leadership." 

Davey lets out a small huff of laughter, exchanging a look with Jack. When Pulitzer glances their way, Davey smirks and says, "Only makes sense, really. After all, isn't it customary in the Capitol for leadership to be handed down from father to child?"

For some, the journey back toward normal is even more convoluted, those who cannot simply return home and get on with their lives. So many lives have been irrevocably altered, homes and worlds and ways of life torn so far apart that there is no coming back. It's difficult enough building a new normal for those with a place to call home; it's harder still for those with nowhere left to go.

Exhausted from yet another day of what feels like endless council meetings and circular arguments, Davey barely has the energy to spare a quick greeting to the Union soldier on duty before letting himself into the Capitol apartment. Most of the Union council and security are housed in Tribute Tower - the only place big and empty enough to hold so many people on short notice - during the negotiations, but Davey and Jack refused to stay there. That's when Miss Medda stepped in and offered the use of her home, the apartment stacked neatly on top of her business. 

Davey wants nothing more than to head for their room, and the pinched lines on Jack's face say he's thinking the same thing, but they're distracted by a shout. "Davey? Jack?" Sarah appears in the doorway of the sitting room, eyes bright and eager. "Oh good, it is you. C'mere, I want to show you something." 

"It can't wait 'til morning?" Davey asks wearily, even as he moves to follow her. He recognizes that glint in her eye; there's no changing her mind when she's got that look.

"No, I want to be able to present it tomorrow," Sarah responds. Crutchie perches on the sofa inside the sitting room, and the low table in front of him is covered by a trio of digi-screens and a few stray, handwritten notes. "I wanted your guys' opinion before Charlie and I take it to the council."

"Don't let her trick you," Crutchie chimes in, grinning. "This is all her. I just provided the tech support." Sarah smiles warmly, a faint spray of pink blooming on her cheeks, before she gestures Davey and Jack into chairs and drops down into the vacant spot at Crutchie's side. 

"Okay, so, I know you've been saying one of the biggest issues the council is stuck on right now is housing people, right?" Sarah says, suddenly business. "Getting the people from Union back into their Districts, for those who can." 

Jack huffs an irritable noise. "No one wants to take in the extra folks. All say they're struggling as it is. Like these folks didn't already live there before joining Union, but what do I know? And it's gonna take time to get the money and supplies outta here to help the Districts, apparently." 

"Yeah, moving things like that isn't easy," Crutchie intones. "I helped sometimes with coordinating the supply runs. The amount of credits it costs just to ship a hover of food from one District to another is sharp." 

"Which is one of the reasons we also can't just leave people camped in the Union bases indefinitely," Sarah adds. "Since they're out of the way and hard to reach, sending supplies there isn't practical." 

"Not to mention," Crutchie finishes, "that there's a lotta Union folk that don't want to go back to their old District. 'Specially the ones that lost family or homes during all this. We're having a hard enough time getting the Districts to take back their own people, let alone bring in people from other Districts too." 

Davey sighs. "What else are we supposed to do? The Districts can't really support an influx of new people. Katherine's offered to house people in the Capitol as much as they can until we figure it out, but a lot of folks from the Districts aren't gonna want to come here. Especially right now when it's still so fresh. They wouldn't feel safe." We don't even feel safe goes unsaid, a conversation they've had before—after all, there's a reason they have Union soldiers posted as security. 

Sarah's gaze drops to one of the digi-screens, and she frowns. "And then, of course, there's those of us who have no home to go to." When Davey leans in to see what she's looking at, he sees a roster of Union members lit up on the glass. The section header on the list catches Davey's eye, heart lurching. 

Beneath a bolded line that reads "Manhattan" is an abysmally small list of names. Just the Jacobses, Jack, and those that left to join Union in the year before the Blaze. The entire population of Manhattan is now barely over three hundred people.

Swallowing hard around the knot in his chest, Davey glances at the other digi-screens curiously. "So, you said you had an idea?" he prompts. 

"Charlie has been helping me run the numbers," Sarah says with a nod. "We've run down the costs of housing people in the Union bases for another year. On top of that, we've added up the costs of what it will take to build up the Districts to support the additional population."

"Some of these places, it's gonna take a lot of work," Crutchie chips in grimly. "Queens, obviously, but some of the poorer outer Districts are also in a bad way. Flushing already had a housing issue 'fore all this, lots of folks sleeping in the streets. And Woodside never really recovered from the atrophin plague, and then a fire during the riots wiped out a chunk of the orchards and logging yards." 

"Places like that, it's going to be so much rebuilding they're basically starting from scratch," Sarah says emphatically. "So we took those numbers, and then we ran 'em against what it would cost to actually build a District from scratch." 

"A new District?" Jack echoes in surprise. "What, like rebuilding Manhattan?"

Sarah shakes her head firmly. "No, not Manhattan. Something entirely new. A fresh start, where anyone from any District can settle down and start over. Something built on the idea that it's meant to be a home to any District, from Queens to the Capitol. Everyone."

Sarah slides the largest digi-screen across the table at Davey and Jack. It's an aerial map of some kind, showing an enormous stretch of open wilderness. The outer boundaries of several Districts are highlighted around the edges of the screen, and a red circle is drawn dead-center in the empty greenery. "And we were thinking it should go here." 

Startled, Davey glances up at Sarah to confirm she's serious before looking down at the map again. He zooms out a little to get a better idea of where it is. Labels pop into life on the glass, naming each of the nearby Districts: Brooklyn, Harlem, Brighton, Woodside. All the way at the very top, there's just a tiny bit of the Capitol's southernmost border. "You think we should build a brand new District out in the middle of all this?" Davey asks incredulously. 

"Right in the middle," Sarah agrees with a grin. "Think about it. Isn't half of the problem with the country now the way everything is so spread out? It's so hard to get between the Districts because they're so isolated. It's kept us apart for decades. But this place, not only is it already central among half of the Districts, but it can serve as a hub. A middle place for trading things between the other Districts, to travel through—a neutral place without history." 

Crutchie leans in to tap at the screen, and suddenly it's overlaid with dozens of colored lines. "Mag-rails and transports all coming and going," he says. "A centralized place to store and move and give aid to everyone else. Would definitely help balance out the power from the Capitol, too. Make this place the heart, ya know? Not in charge of everyone else, but involved. Connected."

"It's-" Jack pauses, tipping his head to the side as his gaze pans over the spread of papers, even though Davey knows Jack's moving his eyes far faster than he can actually read. It's more a tactic to give himself a moment to collect his thoughts. "Honestly, it's kinda genius," he says, huffing a bemused laugh. "I mean, fits with the whole idea we're buildin' something new. New world, right? Less like a lot of single places, more one place spread all over. Kinda like they say it was before the Fall."

"Davey?" Sarah prompts. It's said lightly, curiously, but he can feel the weight of her anticipation as she watches him hopefully. 

Davey scans over the displays and research and calculations all laid out across the table. She wasn't kidding when she said they ran the numbers—population records, supply rosters, budgets and figures Davey's never considered before. This must've taken so much time and work to put together, the sort of thing expected of a politician, not a seamstress-turned-soldier. 

And the image suddenly crystallizes in Davey's head in a moment of blinding clarity. He teased Sarah in the past that she should be the one leading, that she was the one who was better at the inspirational speeches and buoying broken spirits. If there's anyone capable of stepping up to the task of running the beating heart of their new world...

"I think," Davey says, giving the display one last glance before meeting his sister's eyes, "your new District needs a good name before you go in there and show the council how brilliant you are." 

Jack and Crutchie laugh, while Sarah flushes with pleasure. "Not Manhattan," she says resolutely. "And not Union."

"Not Union?" Jack asks, eyebrow raised. "Seems like a good name for a place that's supposed to bring folks together, right?" 

Davey shakes his head, immediately recognizing where Sarah's thoughts are headed. "No, Union needs to go," he agrees. "Union is a name for fighting together, for banding together against an enemy. We need something new, something that's a reminder of what we fought for and what we've won." 

"To be equals," Sarah muses. "To have the same chance. To decide our own fates and make our own choices." 

"Freedom," Jack offers. 

Then Crutchie, in a voice so soft it's almost a whisper, says it: "Liberty."

All four of them freeze, gazing at each other in surprise as the word settles in the air between them like a physical presence. "Liberty," Davey echoes, heart skipping in his chest.

"Liberty," Sarah says breathlessly and turns her focus on Crutchie. "Charlie, you're a genius!" Then, to everyone's shock, she lurches forward and kisses Crutchie hard on the lips. No one looks more surprised than Crutchie, but the moment she starts to pull back, he presses forward into the contact with an eager noise. 

"Uh, did you know 'bout-?" Jack asks Davey in an undertone, gesturing between the two, and Davey shakes his head.

Crutchie and Sarah are both blushing scarlet when they part, and Crutchie still looks wide-eyed and awed by the whole thing. "What-?" 

Sarah gives a mischievous little grin and shrugs. "Sorry, I got tired of waiting for you to ask," she says. "I know we had other things to focus on, and you were being a professional, but the fighting's over now. And honestly, I've wanted to do that for months now."

Davey and Jack exchange bemused looks. Crutchie clears his throat, glancing around dumbfounded, before turning his attention back to Sarah. "Right, okay, in that case," Crutchie says with a decisive nod. He licks his lips, tosses a "please don't hit me" to Davey, and then pulls Sarah in for another kiss. 

And even though Davey is still shocked by the whole affair, when Jack dissolves into the first genuine fit of giggles he's had since being rescued, it's impossible not to join in.

There are certainly times that feel more triumphant than others, moments in between all the debating and arguing and politics, when it really sinks in that they've changed the world - and its people - for the better. 

Davey might be used to the endless staring by this point, but that uncomfortable itch on the back of his neck still creeps up every time. Of course, the setting certainly doesn't help this time, either. 

"I know you probably don't trust me," Davey says emphatically, "and some of you probably even hate me. And I'm fine with that. I know what I've done and what I've stood for maybe doesn't make sense to you. But I'm still here asking for your help because there are a lot of people out there that will die without you." 

Around the room, the Capitol medics level him with an array of suspicious and curious looks. Davey tries not to balk under their stares, and he longs for Jack to be at his side, but not in this place. With its too-white walls and rooms lined with healing chambers, the medical building is hard enough for Davey to handle.

Of course, it's not like they sent Davey in alone. "All of you took an oath when you became medics," Katherine says, her steady, diplomatic tone familiar after so many council meetings together, "that you would do whatever is in your power to heal and preserve life, without judgment or prejudice. That's what we're asking you to do now.

"Whether you agree with the way the world is changing or not, the fact of the matter is that there are a lot of people who are hurt and dying. The bombings in Queens took a lot of lives and injured thousands more. Union is helping as much as we can, but we don't have the skills or supplies that you do, and many of these people are too injured to safely move." 

"Please," Davey finishes. "The people right now who are hurt and dying, they're innocent people. They're families. Children. We can't make you do this. We won't force anyone. But people will die without your help, so I have to ask. Forget however you feel about Union and about me. This isn't about me. This is for them. So please." 

The silence is tense and heavy, but it only lasts for a moment before one of the medics slips between his neighbors to step forward. He's on the other side of middle-aged, with dark skin and hair plaited into complex knots, and he meets Davey's gaze sombrely. "You wouldn't remember me," the medic says, "but I was a medic on staff for your victory in the Games. You woke early, still in the healing chamber, and you were barely lucid. I remember, even though you were hurt and scared, the only thing you cared to ask was whether your partner was safe." 

Davey stares at the man in surprise. His memories of that interaction are hazy and thin, more dream than reality. The only thing that he really remembers is, "You stopped to let me see him before you went back to work." 

The medic's lips quirk up a bit. "I've patched up more than a few Victors in my life. You could say I've made a career of bringing strong-willed District kids back from the brink of death. I see no reason to stop now. Point me toward your hover, and I'll gather my supplies." 

Relief leaves Davey light-headed. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

It seems one volunteer breaks the floodgates, because abruptly a dozen other voices speak up, bodies moving toward shelves to collect supplies. There are still plenty of medics that linger around the edges or leave the room, frowning and dismissive, but Davey doesn't care. At least half of the staff is preparing their gear, talking amongst each other to check that they have what they need, and that's so much more than he dared to hope for. 

"Davey, we should go make sure the hovers are ready to leave," Katherine says, taking his arm. "Medics, we will be meeting in the central square, so come once you're ready. And thank you again, sincerely." 

Then there are times when things are less optimistic, moments that serve as a stark reminder that not everything can be fixed easily. There is still so far to go, and some people will never be happy, no matter how much progress they make. 

"You're a filthy liar!" 

The shout startles Davey as it echoes throughout the hall. Everyone in the area pauses, looking around for the source of the noise, and Davey is surprised to see the man coming straight toward him. Davey doesn't recognize the man, dressed in the casual fatigues of a Union soldier, and he frowns at the fierce anger directed at him. 

"Are you talking to me?" Davey asks, instinctively tensing when the man gets close. 

"Yeah, you," the man replies. The name Edwards is stitched onto the breast of his uniform. "Thought you were supposed to be our champion, make the world better." 

"That's what we're trying to do," says Davey. 

Edwards sneers. "Then why the hells is Pulitzer still alive?" 

Davey recoils more at the shock of the question than the waves of cold fury rolling off the soldier. "He surrendered," Davey stammers. "We won the fight. That was our goal." 

"How can you pretend you're making things right for us District folk and then let that scumbag live?" Edwards says. "After all the things he's done? All those folks he killed? And you're just gonna let him get away with that?" 

"Hey, c'mon, step off, buddy," a different soldier interjects, stepping up beside Davey. It's this movement that makes Davey realize they're gathering a small crowd, people stopping to watch the argument. A few of them are hovering behind Edwards, clearly demonstrating their support for what he's saying, and Davey's heart rate spikes anxiously. "Don't start this here. Move along."

"Not until he answers," Edwards shoots back. He fixes his glare on Davey again. "So, whatcha gotta say? All that talk, and now you're just gonna be best friends with Pulitzer?" 

Davey bristles. "Of course not! He burned my District to the ground. He had my husband and my friends tortured. You think I don't want to see him punished? But that's not my choice to make. He's imprisoned for now, and he's gonna face a trial, and the judges'll decide what to do."

"Bullshit," Edwards says. "Don't act like you couldn't've done it if you wanted. We been following you all this time 'cause we know what you can do, 'cause we believed you were actually gonna make things right." 

"Murder isn't the way to fix things," Davey snaps emphatically. 

Edwards scoffs. The people gathered behind him are nodding along, and the ring of watchers whisper amongst each other. "You saved his fuckin' life! Didn't even need to do anything, his own damn people wanted him gone too, but no, you jumped in 'cause you just love playing hero." 

A cold chill runs down Davey's spine. "Being a hero had nothing to do with it. But I've watched too many people die in my life. You're a soldier; you ever killed someone?" The man jerks his chin in a shallow nod. "Then you know that feeling, you know how it breaks something inside you can't put back. So don't you dare ask me to put more blood on my hands like you don't know how much it hurts." 

"Least for once, you'd be killing someone that deserved it," Edwards grumbles bitterly. 

The world shatters, and the next thing Davey knows, there's an agonized howl in the air and arms hauling him back. Edwards is clutching his face, blood dripping between his fingers. "Fucking hells," the second soldier curses, stepping in between the two of them. Panicked and angry murmurs are barely audible beneath the chaos. "Get him outta here," the soldier says to someone over Davey's shoulder. "I'll deal with this ass." 

It's only when Davey runs out of breath that he realizes the pained noise was coming from him. Hands pull him away, steering him from the scene, and Davey lets them manhandle him. He can't think through the ringing ache in his head, a piercing shriek of agony that thumps in time with his heart, as the callous remark tears at that gaping black abyss inside. 

Davey doesn't make it to the end of the hallway before he falls apart. 

Because there is a task ahead of Davey that's even more painful than trying to heal and put the country back together: healing himself and his family. 

Some of it is physical.

People are talking, but Davey hears them like they're at the far end of a tunnel, voices thin and echoing and indistinguishable. He should be listening, he should pay attention because he knows it's important, but he can't. He can't hear anything over the hammering of his heart. 

Sleek glass and white, carbonized metal.

A hand on his shoulder startles Davey out of his head with a jerk. The grip tightens, reassuring and bracing. Shaking off the fog of memories, Davey glances back up at the medic. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

If the Capitol medic is annoyed at repeating herself, it doesn't show on her face. "The damage you sustained to your back and spine will eventually heal on its own, but likely never all the way. If you leave it to heal naturally, there is no promise that the nerve pain you're feeling will ever go away."

Davey swallows hard, rubbing the heel of his hand over his thigh. The skin beneath prickles, sharp bolts of lightning shooting down the side. It's not as bad now that he's not up and moving, it gets easier to handle when he's been able to rest, but it always comes back. Twisting is always a dangerous gamble that sometimes just aches and sometimes causes his legs to buckle. He knows what the medic is saying—if he doesn't let them help, this pain could stick with him for the rest of his life. 

But the alternative is... 

Davey looks up at the empty healing chamber, and the memories slam into him with the force of a mag-rail. For all that these machines are meant to help, for all they've done to repair him in the past, all of his experiences with them are linked to terror. The fear of waking up after the first Games afraid they'd taken Jack away; the agony after the Quarter Quell when he really had lost Jack. Not to mention the implications of the healing chamber on Jack's imprisonment, a device used to rebuild his body so they could inflict more pain.

"Davey, talk to me." Sarah's voice is firm and calming, her hand never leaving its place on his shoulder. "What's in your head?"

It's the way his next inhale stutters that makes Davey realize how close he is to tears. He clears his throat and drags his wrist over his eyes. "I just - I know I need to," he says thickly. "I do." It's his best - his only - chance of living without the constant low-level pain and weakness. The longer they wait, the worse his chances. All of the healing chambers at the Union bases are reserved for the injured District people who can't be moved, but these chambers in the Capitol are largely empty and unused right now. "I'm just-" 

He can't bring himself to say it aloud, admit just how terrified he is, but he doesn't need to. Sarah rubs his shoulder. "I know. Okay. Will it help if I stay?" 

Davey thinks of the possibility of waking up alone, trapped and surrounded by nothing but Capitol medics—but having his sister there, her familiar presence a stark juxtaposition to the scene. He nods desperately. Then a second thought makes him hesitate. "But Les?"

"Is back in his own healing chamber at Ellis," Sarah responds. "Dad's there with him by now. Soon as you're healed up, we'll head there together, okay?" Davey feels painfully selfish for it, but he nods and reaches up to squeeze her hand. "Okay. We should comm for Jack."

"He can't be here," Davey stammers out, glancing around the med ward. "It'll - his nightmares-" 

Sarah hums. "He still needs to know, then he can decide. If he wants to stay, I'll be here, I can keep an eye on him too. And I'm sure he can go with Charlie or Spot or Katherine when he needs to get out for a while. But it's gonna be a couple days, and he needs to know." 

Davey takes a long, shaky breath. He knows he's just making excuses now, putting it off out of fear. The sooner they start this, the sooner it's over and they can leave the Capitol behind. Davey looks up at the medic. "Okay, let's do this. I just need to comm my husband." 

The medic nods. "I'll start prepping the chamber." 

Most of the damage, however, is emotional.

Davey wakes to someone shaking him by the shoulder, and it takes his sleep-drunk brain a minute to remember where they are. The cramped barracks rooms in this Union base are even smaller than those at the main base, and the air feels muggy and stale from the surplus of bodies. A space meant for two is currently housing five—five people soaking in the horrid weight of anticipation that's been hanging over them since the medic brought them here hours ago.

Except that anticipation has cracked suddenly, and Davey's heart jumps. He sits up from where he was using Jack's leg as a pillow, and his gaze instantly flicks to the other end of the room. The narrow dormitory holds a single plain cot in either corner. When Davey fell asleep, Mayer was sitting on one bed with Sarah nodding off against his shoulder. Now they're both crouched beside the second bed. 

"Les?" Davey gasps out hopefully. He doesn't even bother to stand, shuffling on his knees across the few feet to the end of the bed. 

Les looks impossibly small and fragile, stretched out on the thin mat. He's dressed in only a pair of loose trousers pilfered from who-knows-where, his own clothes destroyed in the bombing. Ruddy lines crisscross over the right side of his waist, betraying the thicker scars that continue down around his hip. Similar clusters of scars stand out around one shoulder, across his forearm and wrist. The left side of his head is shaved, revealing the jagged pale line that stretches from his crown to in front of his ear.

It was the same as with Davey, as the medics explained it; scars could be fully erased, but it took more time and resources. It involved creating and grafting fresh skin that the healing chambers could then meld over the old. In the end, healing the internal damage, and having the time to heal as many people as possible, was the priority. 

Davey doesn't care. He just marvels at the steady rise and fall of his little brother's pale chest. After nearly being crushed to death beneath a fallen building, the worst Les will have is scars—scars that can even be removed in the future, if he wants, when their world isn't so frantic to survive. 

On the bed, Les huffs a bleary noise. Mayer reaches out to brush the curls from his brow, and the aching void of shadows has retreated from the man's eyes for the moment. "Hey, little man," Mayer says softly. "You're okay. I've got you." 

Les sniffles and tips his head into his father's palm. His hands and feet twitch, clearly struggling to wake up from the sedation. It was six hours ago that the medic informed them Les was ready to be removed from the healing chamber, fully healed this time as opposed to the desperate triage healing he'd gotten the first time. An hour later, they moved him out of the medical ward to make room for others, the family relegated to a quiet, out-of-the-way room. 

And finally, with a sleepy sound, Les' eyes flutter open. "Dad?" he slurs, glancing up. 

"Yeah, buddy, it's me," Mayer responds with a breathless laugh. "How're you feeling?"

"Tired," Les grumbles, nose wrinkled. His gaze darts around, brow furrowed, and he asks, "Where're we?"

"At a base, somewhere you can rest and get better," their father says reassuringly. "It's okay if you're tired. You can go back to sleep. I'm just glad to know you're okay." 

Les hums and nods, but the lines in his brow don't soften. "But I-" He falters, and his hand flutters against his hip. No one knows how much of it Les will remember and how much of it will be blotted out by the shock and pain. 

Davey knows, though, and can recount in vivid detail everything the healers told him: the pelvis shattered beneath the weight of concrete, the metal rebar that gouged his shoulder, the ragged head wound that would've killed him if it had hit at a more direct angle. 

When Les' breathing picks up sharply, Mayer immediately leans in, cradling the boy's cheeks in his big palms and murmuring soft, soothing noises. "It's okay, buddy, you're okay." 

Les ignores him, hand pressing more firmly into his hip bone, and he shuffles on the cot restlessly. Davey recognizes the spasmodic unfurling of memory in his little brother's eyes because he's been there. How many times has Davey woken only for the cold rush of reality to sweep back in and drag him under like a riptide? Seeing that on Les' face now, Davey can't bite back the broken sob. 

The sound catches Les' attention, and he jerks his head to see where it came from. His eyes catch on Sarah for a moment before moving on to Davey, and his lip quivers. "Davey?"

"Hey, shortstack," Davey offers, harshly swallowing back the knot in his throat. He rubs a soothing hand over Les' calf, the closest part of his brother he can reach. "You okay?"

Les doesn't respond, his gaze moving on around the room. After passing over Jack, his eyes comb around again hopefully. It's a tangible shiver in the air when his search finishes and everyone knows what's coming before Les can even take a breath. "Momma?" 

Mayer bites off a shaky, pained noise, bowing his head in a vain attempt to stop his children from seeing the raw ache on his face. Jack wraps a supportive arm around Davey's shaking shoulders while silent tears course down Sarah's cheeks. Mayer curls one of Les' hands in both of his, clinging to the boy almost desperately. 

When several long seconds pass in silence, it's Sarah who finally breaks it. "Mom's not here, Les," says Sarah, voice hoarse but gentle. 

"She - she's hurt?" Les asks, weakly pushing up onto an elbow. "She gonna be okay?"

Davey winces. Sarah clears her throat. "No, she's gone. She's not - she didn't make it." 

From there, frantic denials turn very swiftly into wailing. Mayer moves in a flash, with more life than they've seen from him in days. Moving onto the bed, Mayer bundles Les into the safety of his arms. He clutches Les to his chest, muttering aimless reassurances as the boy cries. Sarah's brave face finally cracks, and she buries her face in her hands while Davey retreats against Jack. 

"But I promised," Les sobs frantically. "Was s'posed to - I promised." 

And the memory hits Davey like a knife in the gut: an anxious hug on the edge of a battlefield and a boy's shaky oath. I'll take care of Momma, promise. The anguish surges up in Davey again, this time not for the loss of his mother but for the words he knows will haunt his little brother for the rest of his life. 

It's unfair, really, how poorly promises seem to turn out for the Jacobs boys.

And a lot of it is scars that will never go away.

Tranquil. That's the only way to describe the scene. The darkness is just beginning to thin, the air warming with the first promise of sunrise. A few enterprising birds whistle as they rouse, a disorganized chorus ringing out from within the trees as they start their day. Below them, wildflowers spill out around the roots in a riot of color, dew clinging to leaves and petals. There's no noise around that doesn't come from nature, nothing visible to shatter the moment of serenity. 

Nothing that is, until the faint squeak of a door. 

Davey twitches and barely manages to resist the urge to glance back at the approaching steps. He waits with bated breath, trying to keep his muscles relaxed and not betray the fact that he's anticipating several possible outcomes. It's been long enough that he's probably safe, the episodes rarely last this long, but there's always that chance. So he pretends to keep watching the trees, a worn blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape, and he waits. 

"Dave?"

Jack's voice is soft, hoarse, and shaking. Davey can't fight back the relieved breath, recognizing that tone, and his tension uncoils. Looking back over his shoulder, he sees Jack shuffling his feet in the grass a few feet behind him. Jack is disheveled, skin pale except for the black stains on his hands, and his eyes are uncertain as he gazes down at Davey. 

"Dream?" Davey prompts, hopeful. 

Jack licks his lips, hesitant, and then shakes his head. "Not a dream."

Smiling warmly, Davey pats the spot beside him in invitation. Jack crosses the space in a few hasty steps and sinks down to the grass, drawing his legs up and mirroring Davey's position. Davey lifts a hand into the gap between them, careful not to touch, in a silent question. When Jack nods, Davey loops both his arm and the blanket around Jack's shoulders. 

"Did I hurt you?" Jack asks tremulously. 

Davey only considers lying for a second before, "You caught me in the shoulder, but that's it. Wasn't hard; I don't think it'll even bruise." Jack shudders and nods in understanding. As much as Davey wants to shield Jack from this extra bit of pain, they have rules against it. No lies and no secrets. "Your one arm might be strong, but with the normal one, you still hit like a cissy," Davey teases to soften the moment. 

It drags a thready laugh out of Jack, which was the goal. Jack sighs and nuzzles his face into Davey's shoulder. "M'sorry." 

"Hey, don't," Davey chides gently. "You know the rules." 

This time Davey feels the laugh more than hears it. "Don't apologize for nightmares," Jack recites in a monotone. "I know, I know." He tucks himself impossibly closer to Davey. "Youse cold. You been out here the whole time?"

"No, I've been in and out," Davey says. "Grabbed the blanket, had some food."

"You coulda gone to your old man's, ya know," says Jack. "Don't gotta sit out here in the cold." It's something Davey's done before on nights when Jack's episodes are bad, and it's best to make sure he doesn't stumble across Davey. Mayer doesn't even really react anymore if he wakes up to find Davey dozing fitfully in his sitting room chair. 

"And miss this?" Davey responds, nodding up toward the tree cover. It's coming to life, the birds growing more and more active as the sun climbs over the horizon and turns the edges of the leaves gold. "Besides, it's late enough, I wasn't going to be able to fall back asleep." 

By how Jack opens his mouth and then promptly snaps it shut, Davey can tell he was about to apologize again and then caught himself. Davey bites back a smile, pressing a kiss to the top of Jack's head where it's still propped on his shoulder. Jack clears his throat and says instead, "Did some sketches."

Davey brushes his fingers over the back of Jack's black-smeared hand. "I can see that," he teases. Then, softer, "Need help sorting them?"

It's ritual by this point. Whenever the nightmares hit Jack hard, he sketches. These drawings aren't the beautifully detailed ones he does when he sits down with a pencil to capture the world around him. The charcoal sketches are harsh, heavy-handed images amid looming shadows, the distorted landscape of his memories translated onto paper in black-and-white. Jack will pour out the world of terrors in his head until he calms and can think straight again. 

Then, together, they will pick through the images to separate the real ones from the ones implanted by the Capitol. 

Jack exhales and burrows closer to Davey. "Nah, maybe later. Think I got 'em mostly right myself. Can we just - stay here a bit?"

"Of course," Davey agrees, shifting so he can wrap his arms and the blankets more securely around Jack. At the same time, he breathes a sigh of relief. If Jack wants comfort from Davey, that means his nightmares were most likely the real kind. It's always easy to tell when Jack's nightmares feature the Capitol-crafted doppelganger of Davey because it tends to make Jack skittish for a few hours. 

It seems that with practice, Jack's brain is recognizing and slowly expunging the fake memories. 

They sit together in the burgeoning morning, soaking in the moment of peace and reprieve. It's only after several minutes that Davey feels Jack tremble, breath catching as he tightens his grip on Davey's leg. "Jacky?" Davey asks anxiously. 

Jack lets out a painful, choked sob. "Every damn time, I'm so fuckin' scared I'mma-" His voice breaks, and he has to swallow several times to continue, "I'mma wake up and find out this part's the dream." And, with a wounded noise, Jack falls apart. 

Tears stinging his own eyes, Davey bundles Jack to his chest. All he can do is murmur reassurances as he holds Jack through the tears. The sad truth is that they've had this morning a dozen times, and they'll have it dozens of times more. 

No matter which one of them is torn, screaming, from sleep, there's nothing that can be done to make it stop. No enemies to fight, nothing they can defend from or protect against. No care and healing to make the pain go away. In the end, after years of bloodied fights and death, the only adversary they can't defeat is their own minds and memories.

All they can do is be there for each other until the pain falls back to prepare for its next attack.

But at least, together, they have the chance to try again—to not just survive but to live.

The grand temple of Liberty District is smaller and less elaborately decorated than the one in the Capitol, but no less beautiful. In place of holo-screen portraits are painted-glass windows. Although there are no gilded edges to everything, there's a purveying sense of warmth and comfort. This is a place not to pay homage to the gods but to feel among them, welcomed and embraced in this new world. 

"As this anointed rope draws two hands into one, so will these lives continue tied into one."

A cool draft blows across Davey's bare back, and he shivers, only wincing a little when the motion tugs at the line of scars that distort his skin. The hand curled around his own squeezes gently, a question and reassurance, and Davey smiles as he returns the gesture. Across from him, Jack is somehow more beautiful than the way Davey remembers from a year ago. The black and gold paints still gleam on his tanned skin, his honey-brown eyes reverent and his smile adoring.

"As these knots bind two into one, so too will these souls remain Bound into one."

It's the sadness, Davey realizes after a moment. Last time there'd been a looming sadness beneath Jack's gaze, the knowledge that they were facing down what seemed an inevitable end. That this choice was being made as a now-or-never. That their vows of life and death would be tested far too soon. 

The sadness is gone, this time, leaving only wonder and love in its place. 

"Who gives these two souls into renewed Binding union?"

"I do," Mayer says solemnly. Although his voice is thick, that familiar low tone resonates wonderfully in the large hall. "With my heart and spirit, and with the heart and spirit of my Bond, Esther and I give these boys to be Bound eternal before the gods." 

As Mayer passes the union bands to the priestess, his eye catches Davey's for a moment. Tears cling stubbornly at the man's lashes, but he smiles fondly and strokes his hand over Davey's crown one more time before he heads back to the row of seats. 

The temple is large, but the audience is rather small, only taking up the front cluster of seats. Mayer sits between Les and a chair left empty for Esther. On Les' other side, Sarah's settled in the curve of Crutchie's arm. Medda and Katherine, arm-in-arm. And the remaining Newsboys - Spot, Race, Boots, and Finch lined up in a row. 

The perfect, private ceremony Davey always dreamt of, just their family and friends.

"Do you, Jack Francis Kelly, once again pledge to give your whole soul to be Bound to this man, in life and in death?"

This go-around, they were actually able to choose their own union bands, something they felt suited them better than the heavy golden cuffs. The band Jack slides around Davey's wrist is sleek platinum, simple and unadorned. This time, instead of the weight of significance, when the priestess helps Jack fasten the catch, all Davey feels is the sense of returning to a place he was always meant to be. 

"Do you, David Benjamin Jacobs, once again pledge to give your whole soul to be Bound to this man, in life and in death?" 

It's only when Davey accepts the band from the priestess that he catches a glimpse of the only decoration they chose to have added to their union bands—six simple words, etched in delicate script along the inside of the band: all the way to the end. 

This time, the tears are only happiness. This time, the end of the prayer vow dissolves into cheers from people who care about them. This time, Jack laughs when Davey reels him in for a searing kiss, their knotted hands pressed awkwardly between their chests. 

Finally, this time, they are Bound not just to die together but to live.

And in the end, isn't that what they were fighting for all along?