Proud and Defiant, Look What's Begun

Davey's heart hammers painfully against his ribs, and he can't seem to draw enough breath as he runs, almost tripping in his haste. The darkness is closing in around him, pressing in and stealing all of the air. He needs to get away—needs to find somewhere safe—needs to escape the endless screams. He climbs and climbs in the dark, desperate and afraid, until he finally reaches it. 

There are lights on in the room, not electric but old oil lamps that hang at intervals along the walls. It makes the light softer, a warm, flickering yellow instead of stark white. Everything else inside the room is a riot of color, murals on the walls and splatters across the floor. A row of finished and abandoned canvases is stacked in a corner. A large desk is covered in a haphazard sprawl of papers and charcoals and glossy ink pens. 

And there, in the middle of it all, a figure is bent over an easel. 

Davey lets out a shaky breath and pulls open the window that's always left unlatched. It barely makes a sound, but the painter startles and spins around. "Sorry," Davey says, voice hoarse. "Didn't mean to scare you." 

Lowering the paintbrush, Jack Kelly smiles even as his eyes soften sympathetically. He's not wearing a shirt - he never does when he's painting, conscious of ruining his clothes, no matter that he can afford to replace them a dozen times over - and his dark hair is ruffled in a way that says he at least tried to sleep at some point tonight. Jack is a picture of casual beauty, with golden skin speckled in colorful dots of paint over lean muscles. His honey-brown eyes sparkle as they fix on Davey, and the familiarity of the sight makes the jagged lump of emotion stuck in Davey's throat finally dislodge. 

"Like I got a problem with a pretty boy sneakin' in to see me," the younger man jokes. He jerks his head, encouraging Davey inside. With a timid smile, Davey clambers over the sill and shuts the window behind him. Jack drops his paintbrush unceremoniously on the floor and crosses the room to wrap Davey in a tight hug. "S'okay, Dave, we're okay," he whispers. 

It soothes the ache in Davey's chest as he clings to Jack's warm skin and burrows his face into the curve of his neck. It was just a dream. Just another stupid nightmare. They're alive. They're safe. They're home.

Jack rubs a hand along Davey's back in a reassuring gesture, just holding Davey and letting him collect himself. This is a common ritual for them by now. It's the reason both of them always leave their windows unlocked, giving the other easy access at any time. Even though it's been a year, they're both still haunted by memories they can't escape, and the only thing that softens it is the safety of someone who understands exactly what they're going through. 

Once again, Davey thanks every deity he's ever heard of that he has Jack in his life; he doesn't think he'd have survived this alone. 

Davey steps back, scrubbing a wrist across his eyes. "What're you painting?" he asks to change the subject. 

Jack nods, taking the cue. "Tryna make the ocean," he explains. Taking Davey's hand, he leads him over to the easel. "Not sure it's right, ain't never seen the ocean 'cept in your books. Whatcha think?" 

The canvas is mostly finished, a beautiful contrast of blues and yellows. Sand curves in a wide arch across one side, ending in a raised cliff of white rock at the corner, and the sand darkens as it reaches out to meet the foam-topped water. He can see the places where it's not done, patches of flat color without details or shadows, but even still - "It's beautiful," Davey says reverently. 

A soft pink blooms in the apples of Jack's cheeks and he rubs the back of his neck, a self-conscious tic. "Ain't done, obviously," he says. "Water looks too flat, gotta figure how to fix it, and I messed up this corner here," he points to the lower corner where the yellows and browns of sand seem to blur and swirl into each other discordantly. 

"You're getting a lot better, though," Davey says, flashing Jack a smile. "I mean, look at the cliff there. All those tiny plants and rocks. It's amazing." 

Jack chuckles. "Think I finally got the hang of this thing," he says dryly, flexing the fingers of his right hand. Without a shirt, the polished steel ring above his elbow catches the lamplight. It brings the ghosts of Davey's dream back to the surface: a large, serrated knife descending like an executioner's ax—a piercing, agonized scream—blood, so much blood, pouring from a missing limb and leaching life away with each pulse of a racing heartbeat. 

Exhaling, Davey reaches out and traces his fingers along the place where Jack's prosthetic arm attaches to what remains of his natural one. Just one more thing that was taken from them. One more scar that can never be erased. One more memory that sends them, sweating and shaking, into the sanctuary of each other's arms. 

Jack goes out of his way to prevent other people from touching the prosthetic, hating the way that the synthetic nerves don't feel quite the same, how the stunted sense of touch reminds him that this piece of him isn't really his. Davey is the exception. Davey has been by Jack's side as he struggled to relearn motions and gestures that once came naturally, fighting to make this new limb work like the old.

Dragging his fingertips down the length of Jack's arm, Davey takes his hand and lifts the too-smooth palm to his cheek. It felt strange at first, but now, the touch of a hand devoid of calluses and the constant coolness of skin that will never generate body heat is normal. When Davey leans into the curve of Jack's palm, Jack smiles and brushes a thumb over his cheekbone tenderly. 

"C'mere," Jack says, and Davey needs no more invitation than that to lurch forward and crash their lips together. 

Sometimes they're gentle, exploring each other with almost painful worship, but on nights like this, Davey can't help himself. He's desperate and dogged by memories, and he needs the firm, grounding contact. He needs this reminder that he's here, and all of the horrors that plague his dreams are only in his head. He needs to forget. 

Jack gives it to him without question, dragging Davey flush to his body, one hand still cradling his face while the other is fixed on his hip like an anchor. It doesn't take long before they start staggering to the doorway, the stumbling, grasping trip across the hall to the darkened bedroom muscle-memory at this point. They might not understand what their relationship truly is - how could they when the affection they show the world is just a mask that smothers the blooming possibility underneath? - but they know that this is something they can give each other.

They fall into bed, and Davey presses his palm to the perfectly unblemished flesh of Jack's stomach where, almost a year ago, an infected knife wound nearly took him away. Hands cradle cheeks, smoothed now that they're no longer marred by blistered chemical burns. Jack's thumb drags across where Davey should have a jagged scar on his jaw and grips the side of a thigh that was once warped with a sickening burn. 

It's a form of reassurance for them both, a way to remind themselves that the scars of the Games are only inside—that the memories of blood and pain and fear are in the past. 

The sky outside is the deepest part of the night that comes right before morning by the time they've collapsed, panting and sweating. Jack pulls Davey against his side, and now his touch is heartbreakingly gentle. "Mm, that never gets old," Jack murmurs into Davey's forehead, and Davey laughs. Jack splays his flesh palm on Davey's side, thumb sweeping over his ribs. "Wanna talk 'bout it?" he asks, softer. 

"The sex?" Davey deflects with a smirk. Jack snorts, the motion ruffling Davey's fringe. Davey sighs, sinking into the warmth of Jack's body even though the summer heat is thick and humid. "What's to talk about that you don't already know," he admits wearily. 

"Which one, the sex or the nightmare?" Jack shoots back playfully, prompting another chuff out of Davey. "I'se been gettin' it worse lately too," he goes on sympathetically. Davey knows that; over the last few weeks, there have been more nights than not that Jack has slipped in through Davey's bedroom window in the dead of night, climbing into the bed with shaking breaths or tears cooling on his cheeks. "Makes sense, I guess, bein' this time." 

Davey flinches, squeezing his eyes shut. "It's only two weeks away." 

In two weeks, it will be Reaping Day, the day that two new names will be chosen from each District to compete in the Hunger Games. Two new teenage boys from their home will be sentenced to fight in a televised battle royale for the prize of being allowed to go home at the end. Two new boys will stand in the place that Jack and Davey stood one year ago, facing down the fact that they will most likely be dead soon. 

And after that, Davey and Jack will be forced to take up the role of Mentors, to travel back to the Capitol with these boys and try to coach them on how to survive, knowing all the while that at least one won't make it. They'll be trapped into feeding these kids false hope and then watching them be slaughtered, and they'll have to keep smiles on their faces the whole time, even when they want to scream. 

"I don't wanna go back to that place," says Davey, the words breathed against a ribcage. 

"I know," Jack whispers, pressing a kiss to Davey's forehead. "I know, me neither, but we's gonna be okay. Got each other, right? I'mma be right there with ya the whole time." He pulls Davey closer and lets out a breath. "Get some sleep, Dave. I gotcha." 

Davey sighs, tilting his head to rest his cheek on Jack's chest, the sound of his heartbeat drowning out the rushing noise inside Davey's skull. It's the one thing that makes the nightmares go away, the one thing that pushes the darkness back whenever it threatens to consume him. Davey hooks a leg over Jack's, molding himself along his side, and lets himself relax. 

In the morning, they will put their masks back on and go about their lives—in the private sanctity of the night, they can just be together as who they are, two broken souls seeking what little peace they can find. 

"Davey?"

The plaintive voice draws Davey's attention, and he crosses the room to crouch beside the young girl. "You stuck?" he asks sympathetically. 

Nodding, the girl points out a word midway down the page. "What's this one?" 

"Let's sound it out, okay?" says Davey, encouraging. The girl scrunches her nose, and Davey laughs. "C'mon, Maggie, I know you can do this. I'll help. What's the first letter?" 

"I," Maggie says. When he prompts her, she squints at the word. "So, iye-"

"No, remember, I only sounds like I if there's an E after," Davey corrects. 

"Ih," she amends, glancing up questioningly, and Davey nods. Maggie takes a breath. "Ih-nn-vuh-sih-buh-ull."

"Good job," Davey says. "Okay, so if we string all those sounds together, what do we get?"

Maggie frowns in concentration, repeating the sounds over and over, getting a little faster each time as she gets more confident. Then, finally, her eyes brighten. "Invisible?" she ventures. 

"Invisible," Davey agrees. "Good job, Mags! See, I told you you could do it." Maggie beams, and Davey squeezes her shoulder. 

When he feels the fabric, he frowns, and Davey surveys the sleeve of her dress critically. The cloth is worn thin, the cuff a bit too tight now she's grown, and there are a few broken stitches at the shoulder seam. "Hmm, looks like you tore your sleeve here," Davey says, poking her through the hole so she giggles. "We'll grab Sarah before you leave, she can get you fixed up." 

Maggie's eyes brighten hopefully. Offers of patching up clothes from Davey's twin sister more often than not end in the kids getting a new piece of clothing instead when Sarah inevitably declares that the old fabric just can't be salvaged. It's her own subtle way to share their family's new wealth with their community. More than one kid in the room is wearing something Sarah's made in the last year. "Thanks, Mr. Davey," Maggie says with a timid smile, then licks her lips before she goes back to her book. 

Davey stands and looks around the room appraisingly. There are nearly a dozen young kids from the neighborhood scattered around his private library, some of them bent over books by themselves, a few paired up to share a book. A cluster of the youngest ones is sitting in a semi-circle around Jack, who is reading aloud to them. The sight sends a warm pulse of satisfaction through Davey. 

It might not be the most important thing, in the grand scheme, but the fact that he can give this to his District makes him feel good. 

For the last year, Davey's been building up his library, mostly starting with easier books - both because he was out of practice after years without reading more than street signs and machine labels, and so he would have them for his lessons. He started with Jack, spending days and days sitting together as he taught Jack, who never learned as a child, to parse out the letters. Once Jack started to grasp it, Davey reached out to the neighborhood and offered to teach any of the kids who didn't know how or were struggling in school. 

It surprised him how quickly it picked up, the children loving the chance to do something more enjoyable than work. Davey winds up with the younger kids during the daytime, while their parents and older siblings are working in the factories; the older ones usually show up in the evenings after they've finished their jobs for the day. Some don't actually care to learn, just listening to others read aloud in the comfort of the fancy Capitol-built house with the promise of a snack from Esther's kitchen at the end of it.

Davey doesn't care, either way, just grateful that he can do something to let these children feel like kids again for a little while. So many of them have been forced into adulthood too early, not even into puberty before they have to start working to support their families. If he can give them a few hours a week to relax and escape into the fantastical worlds inside the book pages, it makes everything worth it.

"Dave," Jack says, pulling him out of his musing. When Davey looks over, Jack jerks his head for him to come closer. "What's this word mean? Nay-ve?"

"Knave?" Davey asks, confused. He leans in over Jack's shoulder to see. "Oh, I think that one's pronounced nye-eve. Those little dots make it sound different."

"I thought those were just ink spots," Jack says with a laugh. "Never seen a letter like that before."

Davey chuckles, squeezing Jack's shoulder playfully. "Naïve. It means - uh, innocent, I think. Like a person who doesn't really know a lot about the world, or like they only know the good things but not the bad."

One of the kids snorts. "That's silly," he says with all the condescension of a seven-year-old. "Why would someone know there's good stuff but not bad?"

The answer Davey wants to give is right on the end of his tongue, but he bites it back. If there's one thing he learned during his stay in the Capitol, it's that those people are very naïve. They live in their luxurious houses and dress up in flashy clothes, utterly oblivious to the pain and suffering in the rest of the Districts. But Davey's already gotten himself into enough hot water with his criticisms of the Capitol; the last thing he needs is for the young, impressionable kids to start echoing his sentiments and get themselves in trouble too. 

"Well, what about your li'l sister?" Davey says instead. "Emma is only a baby. The only thing she knows is being home with your Nana and being taken care of and played with. She doesn't know anything about the bad things in the world, right?" The children all give ohs of comprehension. 

"See, so the princess is like Emma," Jack tacks on, "'cause all she knows is living in her fancy castle with people takin' care of her. She hasn't gone outside to see everything else yet." Davey smiles fondly, brushing a hand down Jack's shoulder, and the other man looks up to return his smile. Then he clears his throat and turns his gaze back to the book open on his knee. "The princess was young and naïve, but she was brave, so she put on her cloak and left the castle for the first time in her life," Jack reads, only a bit haltingly, and Davey feels his heart swoop proudly at how far Jack's come. 

Davey goes back to pacing a slow circle around the room, checking in on each of the kids as he goes and occasionally answering their questions about things happening in the stories. (And, on one occasion, fetching the dictionary to find a word he's never heard before so he can explain it to the curious girl.) It's simple and peaceful and satisfying, and it always helps to center Davey after the ghosts of the past start crawling over him again. 

"I thought I might find you two here." 

The entire room looks up at the Capitol-accented voice. Standing in the open doorway, Katherine Plumber looks every bit like she belongs in this pretentious, extravagant house. Her pale skin shines like marble beneath a dusting of gold powders, and her glossy auburn hair is folded into a long plait over one shoulder. A sweeping violet dress with a skirt flared over gauzy petticoats is a surprisingly sedate look for her, but the fabric alone still likely costs more than the clothing of every District child in the room. 

"It is a Wednesday morning," Davey responds pointedly. He's had a long-established schedule of running lessons on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. She should know that; she's interrupted his classes more than once in the last year. 

"I'm aware," Katherine says, and her usual plastic smile softens just the tiniest bit. "However, I'm afraid you boys have work to do." 

Davey grimaces. Whenever their Capitol ambassador shows up, it only ever means one thing. He exchanges weary glances with Jack, then stands up and cards a hand into his hair. "Alright, we're coming." 

"We gotta go?" Maggie asks, pouting, and several of the other kids look disappointed for the reading time to end. 

"Nah, you guys stay," Davey says firmly. "You can keep reading as long as you want. If you get stuck on a word, you can go find my dad, he can help you. Or Elaine or Thomas knows how to find things in the dictionary. And don't forget to stop and get a snack from my mom before you leave. I think she made apple tarts today." A wave of cheers goes up from the kids at the promise of warm treats. Davey smiles. "Alright, guys, we'll see you on Friday." 

The gathering calls out goodbyes to them as Davey and Jack follow Katherine out into the main room of the house. "Guess they's settin' up in my house then?" Jack says once they make it to the foyer. Katherine nods, and Jack grunts in annoyance. 

"Would you rather they set up here and chase your flock away?" Katherine replies, raising an eyebrow. 

Jack snorts. "Rather we get more 'an five minutes notice when your lot's gonna drag us off to play dress-up," he shoots back. Katherine gives him an unimpressed look. "Just saying," Jack says, shrugging unrepentantly. 

"This interview came up rather suddenly," says Katherine, and her expression doesn't falter from its default, but her eyes are faintly apologetic. 

They trail her out of the house and turn to go up Victors' Hill, where Jack's home sits just meters away from Davey's on the other side of a raised flower garden shared between Jack and the Jacobs matriarch. There's already a crowd of Capitol cameramen standing around, directing the District members they've recruited into hauling the gear into the house. Jack sneers at the sight, and Davey squeezes his hand in a silent agreement—leave it to the Capitol to continue to force the other Districts to do the labor even on their own projects. 

"Your class seems smaller than the last time," Katherine says conversationally, glancing at Davey. 

"More kids have to work this time of year and longer hours," says Davey. "Production quotas go up before the Games, all those Capitol folk wanting to buy fancy new screens to watch it on. And the families need the extra money so they don't have to risk taking out Tessara." 

He can't be positive, but he thinks Katherine might've winced a little at that. For all that she looks very much the part of her Capitol upbringing, Davey's learned over the last year that Katherine's rarely as aloof as she acts, and he suspects she might have a little sympathy for the Districts. At the very least, she's less oblivious about it than most. 

Before they can say more, they've slipped passed the camera crew into Jack's house. They are converting the sitting room into a filming stage, with lights and cameras arranged in a semicircle in front of the fireplace. Davey winces; he still has a hard time sitting close to a fire, too many memories of being trapped in the middle of a blazing wildfire in the Games. Jack seems to sense his nerves because he places a hand comfortingly on Davey's back. 

"There's my boys!" 

Of all the Capitol people Davey's ever met, the only one he truly loves and trusts is Miss Medda Larkin, their Capitol stylist. The woman commands the eye of any room she enters, even though she wears far simpler clothing than most. Today is a sleek navy dress that glides beautifully over her curves, and there are tiny silver beads in her hair to match the trio of crystals that sparkle at the corners of her eyes, bright against ebony skin. Medda smiles, and it's not the dazed, silly smile of most Capitol people; it's warm and kind and welcoming. 

"Medda!" Jack says excitedly, and he crosses the room in quick steps to throw his arms around her. Medda laughs, a bright, loud noise like the ring of the worship hall bells, as she hugs him back. 

When she lets him go, her eyes flick to Davey. "David Jacobs, you'd best get yourself over here and gimme a hug," she says teasingly. Davey grins and wraps his arms around her warmly. "Mm, it's good to see you again, sugar."

"You too, Miss Medda," Davey responds. "We missed you." 

The woman taps a knuckle to the underside of his chin and smiles fondly. "Of course you did," she says playfully. "Now come along, then, we're on a schedule here. Let's make you boys glamorous." 

Being dressed up like a child's doll is another thing that Davey's unfortunately gotten used to at this point in his life. He sits patiently in the lounge they've converted into a temporary dressing room, and barely gives it any thought as he lets Medda pick his clothes and style his hair and cover his face in makeup. "You been sleeping, sugar?" she asks, frowning as she sweeps a line of kohl along his eyelid. "You look tired." 

"Stayed up too late reading," Davey deflects with a wry smile. Medda narrows her eyes in a way that clearly says she doesn't buy it, but she won't push the subject with the Capitol crew in the next room. With an approving noise, she steps back to admire her handiwork. "There we are. What do you think, Jack?" 

"Pretty as a pi'chur," Jack responds with a tender smile. Davey ducks his head when he feels the heat crawl up the back of his neck. 

"Mm, I think so too," Medda agrees. She glances over to Katherine. "Are your things ready?" 

The redhead licks her lips, an uncharacteristic show of nerves that makes something lurch ominously in Davey's stomach. "What's going on?" he asks, eyes darting between the two Capitol women. "You're both acting strange. I thought this was just another interview." 

"It is," Katherine says hastily. Medda crosses over to shut the lounge door firmly, muffling the sounds of the crew working in the other room, and shoots the redhead a pointed look. "Or, well, perhaps not just any interview."

"Kath," Jack prompts, eyes narrowed.

Her smile has that rigid, false look when Katherine claps her hands together, and she cheerfully announces, "It's the interview where you'll share the news that you have promised to a Binding."

When she lifts a polished box from the table, opening it to reveal a pair of matching gold bracelets, Davey doesn't even have it in him to be surprised, really. A Binding ceremony, the eternal union of two souls to solidify their love and commitment to one another, makes sense with the act they've been portraying for the last year. Part of him knew this was the path they were on and that this day would inevitably come, even if this is much sooner than expected.

Jack, on the other hand, is furious. "What? No, we ain't doin' it," he says firmly. "You can't just throw this shit on us like it's nothing. All this other stuff's been bad enough, but this?"

"Jack," Medda says warningly, darting a look at the door and gesturing for him to keep his voice down.

"Let 'em hear," Jack snarls.

"You don't mean that," says Katherine, eyes narrowed. "Jack, the Capitol-"

"Fuck the Capitol!" Jack says. "This might all be some damn show to you folks, but this is our lives."

"Which might be over if we don't play along," Davey intervenes wearily. Jack's eyes dart over to him, brow furrowed and a tidal wave of emotion spinning in his eyes. Davey sighs and resists the urge to comb a hand through his hair, clasping his fingers in his lap so he doesn't ruin Medda's hard work. "We both knew this'd happen, Jack. Isn't it how all the love stories go?"

"I ain't Binding with someone who don't want it," Jack counters. "Ain't gonna force that on ya, Dave." He lowers his voice, the anger dimming, to finish, "Love ya too much for that."

Katherine twists the end of her braid around one finger. "This isn't a suggestion we're making lightly," she says, and her cheery Capitol facade is gone for the moment, expression strained and oddly vulnerable. "I know it's not fair, but you don't know how tense things are getting out there. With the Games approaching, people are restless."

"There've been more riots," Medda says frankly. Davey glances at her in surprise. "The Districts that rioted before, especially Queens, they've gotten worked up again with the Games coming. Brings up memories, I suppose. There have already been a few deaths and far more arrests."

"And that's causing - unease in the Capitol," Katherine adds. "The president's been trying to keep the rioting quiet, but you know how fast gossip travels. So people are talking, wondering if their lovestruck Victors are really just troublemakers. And this year's the Quarter Quell. You know what that means."

Every twenty-five years, the Hunger Games celebrate a Quarter Quell to commemorate the anniversary of the Capitol bringing the Districts into line. The Games mark this by changing up all of the rules for one year, pulling out all the stops in designing Arenas and creating challenges. The biggest change usually comes at the Reapings. At the first Quell, they'd surprised the nation by choosing female Tributes instead of boys; at the second, they'd drawn four names from each District instead of two.

"The president is hoping to shift the focus onto that, give the people such a show that they forget about you," Katherine says. "And once that happens..."

"No one will notice if we disappear," Davey finishes grimly.

Medda sets a hand on his shoulder reassuringly. "But a glamorous ceremony, the Binding of the young lovers that captured the hearts of an entire country, that will cause headlines. That will make people pay attention."

"There's no other way?" Jack asks, voice cracking with desperation. "Nothing else we can do instead?"

With a flicker of a smile, Davey meets his gaze. "C'mon, Jack, is a Binding really the worst thing we've been through together?"

Jack echoes the fragile smile, but his eyes are sad. "I never wanted you to give up your freedom for me."

"I gave up my freedom the minute I volunteered," Davey points out with a shrug. "But I didn't give it up alone; I've got you." Jack's eyes soften, fond but subdued. Davey glances at Katherine. "We'll do it."

"But maybe next time youse gonna hijack our lives, give us more heads-up, wouldja?" Jack spits tightly. Katherine winces ever-so-slightly and averts her gaze.

Davey sighs and licks his lips. "Kath, gimme the bands? If we're doing this, we might as well make it something really memorable." 

So instead of announcing that they've already made the promise, Davey takes matters into his own hands. They go through the interview like normal while Davey waits for the right opening. Finally, the interviewer - another nameless, faceless Capitol peacock - asks how their relationship is going, and Davey clears his throat uncertainly. 

"Actually, that's part of why we wanted to do this," Davey says. "Or, I did, anyway." Turning in his seat to face Jack, he doesn't have to fake the rush of nerves that whirl in his stomach. "Jack, you've been a gift from the gods for me. You've saved my life in so many ways. I don't know what I'd have done without you in my life this last year, and I don't want to ever find out what that would be like." Hands shaking, Davey pulls the pair of decorative gold bands from his pocket. 

None of it is a lie, Davey's true feelings laced along the edges of the romantic words the viewers will be expecting. And he can tell, as they take turns fastening the union bands around each other's left wrists, that the tears escaping down Jack's cheeks aren't an act either. 

An impromptu party springs up in the District market after the interview ends, the people of Manhattan coming together to celebrate the news. The Capitol camera crew linger to film as Jack and Davey are paraded around, drawn into dancing and games as the District rejoices at the happy ending for their proud Victors. Although Davey's heart warms to see his people so happy, flattered by so many people that want to see him happy, he's mostly just tired. 

It's a relief when the celebrations wind down in the late hours of the night, and they can finally escape to the solitude of their homes. Except a cameraman follows them at a short distance, and Davey can tell immediately what they're expecting. So even though he can see the questions in his family's eyes - they're undoubtedly not fooled by the whole affair - Davey bids his family goodnight at their door. 

Jack takes his hand and leads Davey to his house instead. It's not until the front door is bolted behind them that they both let their smiles slip away. Jack scrubs his hands over his face, while Davey sighs as the fatigue takes hold, swaying slightly on his feet. 

"Davey," Jack starts, and then he winces, obviously not sure what else to say. For lack of words, Davey just leans into Jack's chest and wraps his arms around him. Jack hugs him back, cradling Davey's head against his shoulder. "I'm so sorry," Jack whispers. 

"It was my choice," Davey says, shrugging. 

Jack's laugh is hollow. "No, it wasn't." And there's really no argument he can make to that one. The band on his wrist suddenly feels too tight; he remembers, as a child, thinking that union bands looked rather like handcuffs, and the comparison has never seemed more accurate. Jack kisses Davey's temple softly. "C'mon, been a long day. Should get some sleep." 

Davey lets Jack guide him upstairs to the bedroom, and all at once, it hits Davey that this will be his life soon. They might be able to stretch out their engagement for a while, but once the Capitol starts losing interest again, they'll have to go through with the Binding. There will be no escape after that, the ceremony tying their very eternal souls together in the eyes of the gods. This house will become Davey's too, and this will be his bedroom, and Jack will be his husband. Forever.

"Dave?" Jack's voice is uncertain, and he's instantly in front of Davey again, cupping his cheek in a palm with his eyes full of concern. "Hey, you okay? Talk to me, pal." 

"Why can't they just leave us alone?" Davey asks brokenly. There's a knot in his chest, pushing against his lungs until he can barely breathe. "Haven't they played with us enough already? And what are we supposed to do after this? We get Bound, that buys us some time, but what do we do the next time they start losing interest? Are we just delaying the inevitable?" 

"Hey, hey," Jack shushes him soothingly. It would be more convincing if Davey couldn't see his own fear reflected back at him in Jack's eyes. "It'll be okay, Dave, we'll figure it out. You and me, ain't nothing we can't do together, right?" Jack drags a cold thumb along Davey's cheekbone, wiping away the tear he couldn't hold back. "We'll figure it. Just - what can I do to help righ'now?" 

Davey squeezes his eyes shut and drops his forehead onto Jack's shoulder. "Nothing, let's just - go to bed." 

Making a soft noise of agreement, Jack presses a dry kiss to Davey's cheek. "Take the bed." Jack starts to move away, but Davey grabs his wrist. "S'fine, Dave," says Jack. "Couch is hundred times comfier than my bed at lodgin' ever was." 

"I'm not kicking you out of your bed," Davey counters. He tightens his grip when Jack goes to pull away again, and Davey knows the desperation must be showing on his face because Jack pauses with a frown. "You think I really wanna be alone right now?" Davey adds, and it feels like a small triumph when his voice only quavers a little. 

Jack scratches his neck nervously, but he nods. Tonight, there are no feverish kisses or grasping hands. They undress quietly and slip between the sheets. Davey doesn't let himself overthink it as he rolls to tuck himself against Jack's chest. Jack immediately wraps his arms around him, drawing him closer like he can shield Davey from the world. 

"I'm sorry, Dave, none this is fair to you," Jack whispers into the quiet bedroom. 

"What about you?" Davey replies. "It's your life they're controlling too." 

"Yeah, but I feel like maybe I'm getting the better end the stick, 'tween us," Jack admits, a bit self-deprecatingly. "You know how I feel 'bout ya." Davey's heart skips at the tenderness, and Jack rubs his flesh hand over Davey's spine. He can feel the smooth gold on Jack's wrist, warmed by his body heat, roll across his skin. "Youse the one gonna be stuck Bound with someone ya don't love." 

Davey flinches, clearing his throat anxiously. "I wouldn't say that, exactly," he murmurs against Jack's skin. He feels Jack tense at the words. Davey takes a breath and forces himself to go on, "I don't know if I'm in love with you, but I do love you, Jack, if that makes sense. You're important to me. And everything I said in that interview was true. I couldn't do this without you." 

The next long inhale Jack pulls in sounds a bit damp and shaky, and he curls himself further around Davey. "Youse too good for me," Jack says. "But I swear it, I'mma do everythin' I can to make you happy. It might not be the life you wanted, but I'mma make sure it's still a good one." 

"Nothing we can't do so long as we do it together, right?" Davey says, and Jack chuckles appreciatively. Smiling, Davey presses his palm flat over Jack's chest, feeling the pounding heart beneath his palm. The gold on his wrist catches the moonlight from the window, making it jarring and eye-catching to him even in the dark. "And, hey, could be worse," Davey tacks on mischievously, needing a break from the tension. "At least you're attractive." 

Jack barks a surprised laugh and tucks his face into Davey's hair. "Kloppmann ain't kiddin', you know, you got a smart mouth on ya," he teases. 

"You like it," says Davey, smirking. 

"Gods above, I do," Jack agrees. "I really, really do." 

The next few days are a whirlwind of chaos, with two more interviews and a filmed segment of Miss Medda helping them start on ideas for the Binding ceremony. The whole event feels surreal to Davey, as if he's acting out a part in a play instead of something from his own life. Although, admittedly, that's a feeling he's starting to get used to as well. 

Davey has barely seen his family all week, except when the Jacobs' are all dragged in for an interview about the Binding. It's not until Davey and Jack manage to join them for dinner one night that Mayer pulls Davey aside to check on him, and the whole story spills out. They keep their voices pitched low, always conscious that there might be cameras spying from somewhere, even in their home, but Davey can't stop the indignant tears that sneak out. 

Mayer cups Davey's face in his big hands, and it's still a novel experience for Davey to be able to look straight ahead and meet his father's eyes. The first thing Davey'd done on getting home was pay for a Capitol surgeon to come treat Mayer's broken spine, finally freeing him from the wheelchair. Davey had been three inches shorter than Mayer when he'd gone into the chair; now he's an inch-and-a-half taller.

"I know it's not fair, but you are strong, David," Mayer says in that calm, steady voice that always soothes him. 

"I'm tired of being strong," Davey admits softly. "I just want to be normal." 

Mayer's smile is sympathetic. "You have always been more than normal," he says. "My strong and brave son. You will always be more. I have always known you are destined to be more. It's not easy, but you will still win. The gods are with you." 

Davey frowns and drops his gaze. Of their family, Mayer is the only one who still firmly holds to the old faiths. He's the only one who still trusts that the powers up there actually care to guide and protect them. Davey stopped believing in that the first time he was old enough to really understand what was happening on his holo-screen every summer, and each cycle of Hunger Games that passes only makes him feel it more. 

If Mayer knows what Davey's thinking - which he undoubtedly does, he's always been able to read Davey so well - the patriarch doesn't comment. He draws Davey in and kisses his brow gently. "You've been through so much, David, I wish I could take some of this weight from your shoulders," Mayer says somberly. "But you're stronger than I've ever been. If anyone can make good of this situation, it's you." 

"I just-" Davey swallows, and his gaze darts across the hall to the sitting room, where Jack is practicing coin tricks with Les, a warm, affectionate smile on his face as he applauds Les' progress. "I wanted to - I think I might love him," because there's no point hiding it from Mayer, who no doubt already knows the truth Davey's scared to face. "And I guess I just hoped that if it ever came to this," Davey brushes his fingertips over the gold on his wrist, "it would be 'cause we chose it."

Mayer touches the bands on his own wrists - both wrists, to mark him as Bound. The circlets are far simpler, and the metal tarnished by time and wear; to Davey, that just makes them more beautiful. "I know at your age a Binding seems so final, but it's not the end. You will have time, and you will have to work hard for it, and you might find, somewhere along the way, you're already where you wanted to go. I know I did. Love never happens easily, but the gods won't allow this if it's not meant to be. Jack is a good man, and he loves you very much. He will be good to you." With a flicker of a smirk, Mayer adds, "Or I will have words with him." 

Davey laughs, and the ache in his chest eases just a little. 

In that way, it feels like no time has passed before Reaping Day is upon them. Neither Davey nor Jack sleeps that night, too wired up with anxiety to even try, so they retreat to the sanctuary of Jack's art room instead. Davey lounges on the floor in a nest of pillows, reading aloud to Jack, who is working on a new painting. 

The sun hasn't even cleared the horizon when a sudden loud noise makes both of them jump. Davey is instantly on his feet to defend himself while Jack flips the paintbrush around in his hand and holds it up like a knife. It takes Davey's startled brain a moment longer to realize the sound is someone downstairs hammering on the front door. "Who-?" Davey mutters, exchanging a bemused glance with Jack. 

The knocking doesn't let up in the time it takes for them to get to the door, and Jack cracks it open uncertainly. Davey's eyes widen when he recognizes the redheaded figure on the other side. "Katherine?" Jack asks. "What the hells-?"

"Let me in," Katherine whispers flatly. "I need to talk to you." Jack casts another confused look at Davey, but he releases the chain and opens the door all the way so the Capitol woman can step inside. She hastily shuts the door behind her with a snap. 

"Kath, what's going on?" Davey asks nervously. For all that she's trying to retain her usual collected appearance, her eyes hold something wild and frantic, and her already pale skin seems a shade whiter. Davey swallows hard, a pit forming in his gut. If something's managed to shake Katherine so much...

"I'm so sorry," Katherine says breathlessly. "I came as soon as I found out, they only just told me. They've been keeping everything about the Quell under wraps, even from us Ambassadors." 

"The Reaping?" Jack guesses grimly, and Katherine nods. "What're they doin'?"

Davey feels like he already knows the answer, in some intuitive way, even before she opens her mouth. "It's not a lottery," she says, and her green eyes are suddenly too bright, moisture pooling at her lashes. "This year, they're pulling the two most recent Victors from each District. They're - they - I'm so sorry." 

And there it is. Jack wraps Davey in his arms, but Davey can barely feel it through the shock that's turned his blood to ice. There's no escaping. There's never been an escape. 

They're going back into the Hunger Games.

By midday, the mag-rail train has left Manhattan. The moment Katherine left that morning, Davey'd hurried next-door to his parents' house to share the news. It was a tearful and agonizing conversation, but Davey's grateful he took the chance; the Capitol didn't allow them the usual farewell meetings in the District Hall like the last time, sweeping them straight from the Reaping onto the train instead. 

As the train pulled away, Davey watched as every single person on the platform raised a fist in the air. 

Davey and Jack retreat to the bedroom compartments, needing time alone to process everything. While they lounge together, Jack leaning against the wall to look out of the window and petting Davey's hair where he's using Jack's leg as a pillow, Davey reflects idly on how much this train ride is different from last year. 

Last year, Davey and Jack were complete strangers. Katherine was excited and carefree, chattering animatedly about the sights of the Capitol. Kloppman was bitter and halfway towards drunk. (Well, that part, at least, isn't any different this time.) Davey remembers the fear and rage and righteous indignation of being a sacrifice to save his brother's life. 

This time, there's still fear and rage, but there's also an overwhelming sense of defeat. Davey knows, without a doubt, that he will die in the Games this time. The Reaping was no accident; the rules were explicitly chosen to target Davey and Jack. The Gamemakers have probably been given orders to make sure the Manhattan Tributes don't survive it. This is the president's way of punishing Davey for his defiance—of putting an end, once and for all, to the Newsboys of Manhattan. 

Davey's only sorry that so many others - including Jack - will have to pay for it as well. 

"It won't work," Jack says abruptly, his tone low and angry. Davey blinks and looks up at him in confusion. "I know this is Pulitzer tryna get rid of us, stop the riots, but it ain't gonna work." 

Davey scoffs. "They're throwing us into a death trap they control," he points out bitterly. "I have a feeling it's going to work very well." 

"But it ain't gonna stop people from fightin' back," Jack replies. "They's gonna know this's his plan too. They's gonna know he's tryna shut us up." 

"Which means they're all gonna know he's scared," Davey says, awed as he picks up on Jack's meaning. "Because why else would he want us gone so badly? He's scared of people fighting back, and he's just showed his hand." He laughs breathlessly. "He's going to turn us into martyrs." 

"Like the fella from that book you read me," Jack agrees. "He died for the fight, and it made people fight harder." 

Davey sits up, facing Jack. "We've been keeping our heads down so he doesn't kill us," he says fervently, "but it didn't work. He's going to kill us anyway. So maybe it's time to say everything we've had to keep back for the last year." 

Jack's eyes light up fiercely. "It's our job, after all," he says with a dangerous grin. "We's Newsboys, right? So let's spread some news. Let the whole damn world know the truth." 

The spark of defiance in Jack's gaze nudges the embers in Davey's gut into a roaring fire. It also makes something else leap in his chest, that mingled attraction and affection for this boy surging forward, that emotion he's too scared to name. Davey doesn't think about it as he lunges forward to capture Jack's mouth in a searing kiss. 

From there, things go the way they always go between them, a wildfire of both care and desperation. It's like they're trying to drink in each other's fury, sharing it and drowning in it to keep their spirits up and their fear at bay. At the same time, their touches linger, memorizing every inch of skin with the knowledge that each time now, it might be their last chance to be together like this. 

When they finally collapse into a tangle, panting and exhausted, they still barely leave any space between them. Davey burrows his face in Jack's chest, and he toys with the gold cuff around his wrist that's a perfect match to the one Jack wears. It's almost funny that yesterday, their biggest concern was a sham Binding. Davey huffs a soft laugh, and Jack hums to prompt him. 

"Just thinking, a Binding doesn't seem like such a big deal anymore. You know, in comparison," Davey murmurs. 

Jack snorts derisively. "Sorry, sweetheart, should'a took your chance when ya had it," he teases, but his hand is warm and gentle when he sweeps it along the length of Davey's spine. Jack kisses the top of Davey's head. "No matter what," Jack whispers, his grip tightening, "we stick togetha in this. You and me, we's a team." 

"And if we're going down, we go down together," Davey agrees, and when his voice breaks, Jack doesn't comment, just holding Davey closer. 

There are no attempts at smiles when they reach the Capitol this time, no veiled ploy to charm the Sponsors. People openly stare at the Tributes being led to the groomers, cheering and calling out, but Jack and Davey don't meet their eyes, walking hand-in-hand with their chins held high. This time, they're not scared children in over their heads; this time, they are soldiers marching to execution without giving up on their cause. 

Even the groomers treat them differently, an aura of awe and uncertainty when facing the defiant scowls. Davey takes the grooming silently, letting the stupid peacocks scrub and polish as they please, until one takes his left hand and makes to remove the cuff there. "Touch my union band and I will kill you," Davey snarls coldly. The groomer snatches his hands back in alarm, and none of them try it again. 

Jack is already waiting in the clinical sitting room when Davey arrives. He's perched on a tabletop in a white robe, with a second one draped over his lap that he holds up when Davey enters. Davey smiles gratefully as Jack slides the robe onto his arms, and then he climbs up to sit at Jack's side, leaning into the warm weight of his body. Just to be sure, he reaches for Jack's left hand; the gold band is still wrapped securely around his wrist. 

"For someone that didn't wanna Binding, you sure seem fixed on them bands," Jack jokes with a grin, brushing his thumb over the matching gold loop on Davey's arm. 

"I want them all to remember what they're taking away from us," Davey responds fiercely. "I want those folks out there to see 'em and realize that they're stealing this chance from us with their stupid Games." His voice catches, and he clears his throat before squeezing Jack's hand. "And I wanna remember it too." 

Jack's smile falters, and his free hand comes up to cradle the back of Davey's neck, drawing him in to kiss his forehead. "It's their dumb Games that put that band on you to begin with," he reminds him weakly. 

"But it's my choice to keep it there," says Davey, meeting Jack's gaze. Those soft, honey-brown eyes are swimming with so much emotion it makes Davey's chest tight. "There's no act to keep up anymore, we don't have to pretend now if we don't want to. But I'm not taking it off. Maybe it didn't happen the way I wanted it to, but that doesn't mean I didn't want the chance to see if we could really make a life together."

Davey brushes a thumb over Jack's cheek, catching the tear that escapes. "It was never a question, Jack. I knew from the start I needed you with me for the rest of my life. I just - never thought the rest of my life would be so short."

Expression cracking, Jack pulls Davey against him, burying his face in Davey's shoulder as his body shakes with sobs. Davey clings just as tightly, hating the harsh scrubs of the groomers because Jack doesn't smell like Jack right now. He misses the scent of the heavy District smoke, the sketching charcoals, the oil paints, and the bitter coffee he drinks every morning. If these coming days are the last ones he's going to spend with Jack, he wants to remember his Jack. 

They're still wrapped in each other's arms when the door opens again, and this time it's Medda. The moment the door closes behind her, she's across the room, and she throws her arms around them both, joining the hug. Davey's a little surprised to hear her shuddery breaths, but his heart warms, and he hugs her back. 

It's several long minutes later before they extract themselves, all three of them sitting back and drying eyes on sleeves - or in Medda's case, on a silk handkerchief. "My boys," she says fondly, red-rimmed eyes panning over them. "This is not how I wanted to see you again." 

Jack gives a weak, watery chuckle, and Davey grimaces. "No offense, Miss Medda, but same," Davey agrees. "Not that we didn't miss you, but..." 

Medda smiles sadly, tapping her knuckle beneath his chin in that soft, reassuring way she always has. "You boys are too good, you never deserved any of this," she says firmly. "So what do you say we remind them of that? Make sure not a single person can forget what this is doing to you?" 

Davey and Jack exchange quick, tight grins. "That was our plan exactly." 

In the hall before the Opening Ceremony, there are no teasing jeers from other Tributes. Davey can only imagine that the majority of them are still too much in shock to bother. They must all feel the same way he and Jack do: thinking they'd escaped the Games only to be thrust back in, knowing that they're facing down a full deck of others who've already won as well. As bleak as anyone's chances had been the first time around, this time they're all fighting against people who've been through it and survived.

This isn't a room of scared kids thrust into the unknown—it's a room of hardened veterans being dragged back onto the battlefield. 

It feels strange to look across the room at the other Tributes. Last year, Davey had been the oldest, only months away from aging out of qualification. This year, it's the exact opposite; several of the Tributes look to be in their late twenties or thirties, especially from the outer Districts who don't have Victors near as often. There's a Tribute from Flushing who must be in his forties, at least, eyes heavy and a paunch at his waist. 

The only other Tributes that seem to be close to Davey's age are faces Davey vaguely recognizes from the holo-screens, boys who've won over the last couple of years. A boy from Queens who won the year before Davey and Jack. A boy from Harlem, two years before that. 

And of course, the two boys from Brooklyn, who are standing close together by their chariot. One is a stocky, dark-featured boy Davey remembers seeing snap another Tribute's neck with his bare hands in his year, five back. The wiry blond with the perfect aim, who'd won at the age of only fifteen, is the only other Tribute besides Jack that's a year younger than Davey.

There is no missing the fact that, while Jack and Davey are looking around the room, most of the Tributes keep casting glances the Manhattan Tributes' way, expressions ranging from awe to respect to fear.

"Least we ain't gotta listen to the Delanceys mouthin' off this year," Jack grumbles, unconsciously rubbing at the attachment point for his prosthetic arm. It had been one of the Delancey brothers - last year's Brooklyn Tributes and a pair of overall jackasses - to cut the limb off in the first place. 

"No one seems to be mouthing off at all, really," Davey points out, gaze casting over the room. It's unnaturally quiet except for the distant howling of the Capitol audience waiting at the end of the long corridor. 

"Pro'lly hard to feel cocky when youse going up 'gainst folks that done this before," Jack says, mirroring Davey's thoughts. "Ain't trained fighters 'gainst factory brats this time." 

Davey scoffs. "No, just a whole mess of folks who escaped once, and now they're gonna die for it anyway," he mutters bitterly. Jack makes a soft, distressed noise and slips his arm around Davey's waist. 

A distraction arrives at that moment as Miss Medda bustles over and clicks her tongue. "Don't you go messing up my hard work," she chides, tugging at Jack's arm to make sure the touch didn't smudge anything. "I want you boys looking immaculate out there." 

Looking down over his body, immaculate is not how Davey feels. The simple black briefs make his pale legs look unnaturally long and gangly. Elaborate and beautifully drawn designs of black and gold cover his skin from head to toe, ancient pictographs spelling out long-forgotten legends and prayers across his body. Davey's seen the ceremonial paints of Binding in his District plenty of times, although he never imagined it on himself, let alone in this setting. 

But if there's anything that'll remind those Capitol peacocks what he's losing, it'll be this.

Jack hooks his fingers with Davey's, careful not to touch the painted dots that extend from knuckle to nail. "Least I getta see ya like this once," he whispers, quiet enough only Davey will hear. 

"I feel ridiculous," Davey admits, flushing scarlet. It's hard not to compare, seeing how perfectly the paints stand out on Jack's tanned skin, sweeping lines highlighting the lay of muscles and the strong structure of his face. Jack looks like one of the gods that the art is meant to represent; Davey looks like a scrawny child playing pretend. 

"Hey, stop it," Jack says, interrupting his thoughts. "Ya look like everythin' I imagined and more." With a tentative smile, Jack ducks in to sneak a quick kiss before Medda can tut at them for possibly messing up the paints. (Surprisingly, she doesn't say a word, and Davey thinks she might be pretending she didn't see.) 

The blare of trumpets announces the beginning of the Opening Ceremony. Around the room, all of the Tributes spur into action. Pairs climb into their designated chariots, lined up in a row. Jack steps up into the rear chariot and offers a hand to pull Davey up with him. "You can do this," Miss Medda says determinedly, her usual charming smile replaced by tight lips and a fierce gaze. "You show them, boys."

"Make sure they don't forget," Katherine adds fervently, albeit far quieter. The chipper mask is back, but her voice doesn't match it, a hint at the person she keeps so staunchly hidden for some reason Davey still hasn't figured out. 

Then Kloppmann, who's been sulky and silent the entire day, snorts and casts them a wry smirk. "Give 'em hells, boys." 

Jack and Davey grin, nodding. The chariot lurches forward and then glides silently down the echoing corridor toward the wall of blinding lights and noise at the end. When Jack holds out a hand between them, Davey doesn't hesitate to lace their fingers together, and he can feel the metal of Jack's union band press to his skin. "For Manhattan," Davey breathes. 

"For the Newsboys," Jack replies with a playful smile.

Emerging between the towering rows of bleachers is just as overwhelming as the first time, with hundreds and hundreds of people screaming and watching as the Tributes are paraded in front of them like circus animals. Enormous holo-screens hover at intervals, projecting camera feeds of the various Tributes onto the screens for everyone to see. 

Davey glances up and is startled to see his own face staring back at him, wild and exotic beneath the ceremonial paints, a glowing, ethereal creature he almost doesn't recognize. The lines of gold exaggerate the long, narrow shape of his face, and the black dots circling his eyes make the blue seem brighter, somehow. Maybe Jack wasn't entirely wrong; Davey doesn't look quite as ridiculous as he feels.

There are no false smiles this time, no pretending to be charmed and flattered and sweet. Jack and Davey both lift their chins proudly, faces set like stone, and at the same time, they both throw their fists into the air. Davey thinks he's probably imagining it, but he would swear he hears a ripple roll through the crowd.  

"Oh my stars." Davey recognizes the voice of Denton, the Games' master of ceremonies, as it comes across the loudspeakers. "Well, I certainly think none of us were expecting this. Last year, Manhattan put on a tremendous display with their holographic news banner, a nod to the District's industry of producing holo-screens and other technology, earning them the nickname 'Newsboys of Manhattan.'

"This year, it seems, they've gone for a very different approach. As you all undoubtedly know, these boys are the first dual Victors, after capturing the hearts of us all with their star-crossed love story, and just a week ago, they announced their promise to be Bound. For those of you who've never seen it before, I believe this is what's considered the traditional Binding attire in outer Districts like Manhattan, a tribute to the god of union. It is-" Denton's voice falters for a moment. There's the soft sound of a clearing throat. "It is a marvelous display. Yet another truly memorable appearance from the Manhattan Tributes." 

Davey lifts his chin higher, tightening his grip on Jack's hand, and he glares up at the distant balcony at the end of the stadium. That's where President Pulitzer will be watching; that's where the man who brought this down on them will be observing it all with those cold gray eyes. And Davey is going to make damn sure that the president knows that this is what he gets for thinking he can silence the Newsboys.

Davey and Jack are both exhausted by the time they step into the elevators that will carry them up to their Capitol apartment at the end of the night. Their paints are mussed now from the long embrace they shared as soon as they were out of the chariot, and Davey's looking forward to washing the mess off and putting on real clothes. Jack leans against his side, brushing his thumb distractedly over Davey's where their hands are still joined, and yawns. They both just want to relax. 

Which is why it makes them both jump when someone abruptly grabs the elevator door before it can shut, holding it so they can slip inside. 

It's the blond Tribute from Brooklyn, only wearing half of the Peacekeeper's uniform they'd worn in the ceremony, leaving his thin, pale chest bared as well as the intricate tattoos that cover all of the skin from one shoulder to elbow. The darker Brooklyn Tribute follows him silently, fully clothed and arms folded. "Heya," the blond greets as the elevator doors close behind him. He holds out a hand. "Name's Racer, and the grumpy fella here's Spot." 

"Uh, Davey," he responds, shaking the offered hand.

Jack releases Davey to do the same - although not without a subtle grimace at being forced to let someone else touch his prosthetic hand. "Jack." 

"Duh," says Racer, snorting. "Like the whole damn country dunno who you is." Which, okay, that's fair. Racer chuckles and ruffles a hand through his curls, shaking them loose from the styling gels, and then pitches a shoulder against the glossy wall. "Nice paint job. You fellas sure like to put on a show, huh?"

Davey licks his lips, scowling. "We like to remind people that our lives don't mean less just 'cause we don't have the credits that Districts like yours do," he shoots back tersely. 

The dark-haired boy huffs a laugh, drawing everyone's attention. Despite his stature, Davey knows he's a couple of years older than the rest of them, somewhere in his early twenties. He gives off an aura of power and authority, even while he has to crane his head back to meet their gaze. "I like this one," he says simply, in a disarmingly deep voice. 

Racer's eyebrows go up, and he grins. "Trust me, that's some high praise from this guy," he intones. "He don't like anyone." 

"Why're you talking to us?" Jack asks suspiciously, taking a small step forward to subtly place himself between Davey and the Brooklyn Tributes.

Racer obviously recognizes the gesture because he holds up his hands placatingly. "Easy, loverboy, we ain't here to wipe out the competition early or nothing," the blond says. He glances to Spot, who nods curtly, before he goes on, "In fact, we were sorta thinking you two shouldn't be our competition." 

Davey's eyes widen when the insinuation hits him. "An alliance?"

"You two proved you ain't to be messed with," Racer says, and for the first time, there's something solemn beneath his playful smile. "Folks pay attention to you. They'd be dumb to cross you. And, well, me and Spotty ain't too shabby in a fight either. We figure, us four together, we can give 'em a real good show." 

"Why?" Davey presses. Spot raises an eyebrow questioningly. "Alliances always end in betrayals. Why would you want to ally yourselves with someone you admit you wouldn't want to mess with? And why should we trust you're not using this just to get our guard down?" 

This time, there's no smile left, and Racer's blue-gray eyes are full of fire and pain. Very pointedly, he holds out a hand and Spot takes it, lacing their fingers together. "'Cause you're not the only ones being forced to go up against someone you love." 

Jack hisses out a breath, his grip tightening on Davey's hand. "Gods, sorry. We didn't know." 

"No one does," Spot says flatly. "We prefer it that way. Ain't nobody's business, and it sure as shit ain't those Capitol freaks' business."

"But we're not about to just roll over and take this either," Racer says fiercely. "We might've volunteered the first time 'round, but that doesn't mean we came out without scars. And we finally got something good, now, something worth fighting for." Racer darts a look to Spot, and there's no mistaking the affection in their eyes. "So we're gonna put up a hells of a fight," Racer finishes, "and we figure if there's anyone else out there that's on the same page, it's you two." 

Jack glances back at Davey, the question plain on his face. Davey bites his lip, considering. These are professional Tributes, the sort who trained and volunteered to fight in the Games. He remembers seeing them in the Games, ruthless and efficient. This may be all some grand ploy. 

Except - well, except they'd have to be damn good actors to fake those looks they're sharing. It's the sort of look Davey's seen on the older couples back home, the ones who've been through hells and high waters together and come out the other side closer than they started. 

It's the same way Jack looks at Davey, sometimes. 

What good does an alliance do them, though? They all know there's no breaking the rules this time; there will be only one Victor at the end of all this. And it sure as hells won't be Jack or Davey, not with Pulitzer gunning for them. "You know, allying yourselves with us will just put you in more danger," Davey points out. "We've made some enemies pretty high up that're gonna make sure things are difficult for us."

Spot smirks dangerously. "Sounds like fun."

That manages to make Davey crack a smile, and he nods. Having allies might not be the best idea, but at the same time, it's not like Davey and Jack are going into this to win. If they're looking to prove the president wrong, then maybe joining forces with the last District anyone would expect them to is an excellent way to do it. After all, didn't this whole thing start when Davey treated a kid from another District as his own instead of as an enemy? 

"Sounds like fun," Davey agrees, grinning. Then, trading a teasing look with Jack, Davey spits into his palm and holds it out to the Brooklyn boys. "Deal?" 

Racer hikes an eyebrow up and then cackles. Spitting into his hand, the blond shakes Davey's energetically. "Deal. Pleasure doing business with ya." The elevator chimes a moment later, doors gliding open, and Racer tosses them a flippant salute as the Brooklyn Tributes get off at their floor. 

Manhattan District always gets the highest apartment in Tributes' Tower, an expansive penthouse with a spectacular view over the Capitol. It looks exactly the same as Davey remembers, all the way down to the vividly-colored furniture and holo-screen that takes up an entire wall. The banquet table is laid with food even though none of them have been here today. There's a crackling, holographic fire bathing the room in soft light. 

And there's no one else there. 

"Where's everyone?" Jack asks curiously as they cross the room. The doors to the other bedrooms are open, but there's no indication that Kloppmann, Katherine, or Miss Medda have set foot in the apartment yet. So if they aren't here, where are they at?

"Dunno," Davey answers, frowning. "Maybe they got Capitol stuff to do." After all, last year, Katherine had been out the whole night after the Opening Ceremony, circulating through parties. Miss Medda still has a business to run, so she might be doing that, but Kloppmann can almost always be found sprawled in one of the plush armchairs and sipping from his pocket flask. Maybe he decided to visit a proper bar instead?

Jack shrugs, stretching his arms over his head until his spine cracks. "Ain't gonna complain," he murmurs. "I'm sorta done with people for the day." 

"Should I leave?" Davey asks, smirking. 

With a snort, Jack throws his arms around Davey's waist and reels him in close. "You don't count," he says, propping his forehead against Davey's. "Never get sick of you." Jack sighs, his eyes fluttering. "Bed?"

"Bath first," Davey counters. "The paint, ya know." 

Jack's eyes suddenly brighten up mischievously, and he grabs Davey's hand. "Or..." he starts, pulling Davey along with him into the bedroom assigned to him. Jack throws back the duvet and then deliberately drags the back of his hand over the satiny white sheets. He grins in satisfaction at the dark streak of black and gold left behind on the fabric. Looking up at Davey, he smirks. "Do ya wanna completely ruin these stupid expensive blankets first?" 

It's such a silly, petty thing to do, but- "I mean, it is what you're supposed to do on your Binding night," Davey replies, grinning. "So, since we look the part..." Davey leans in and captures the laugh that blossoms on Jack's lips, and a minute later, they've climbed up onto the bed. It's a lazy, reverent exploration tonight, too exhausted for the usual fire and passion, and it's occasionally broken by laughter as they catch sight of the paints smudging over skin from their touch. 

When they finally collapse side-by-side, breathing heavily, Davey glances sideways at Jack and dissolves into giggles. The other boy's face is a mess, the precise and beautiful lines of paint now smeared and blended together by Davey's hands to leave his skin covered in brown patches. "We look ridiculous," Davey says, reaching over and drawing a finger across the line of black dots under one of Jack's eyes until they leave a streak down his cheek. 

"Ya think this's what all folks look like after?" Jack asks in amusement. "All smudgy?"

"Kinda kills the romance when we look like we rolled in mud," Davey replies playfully. 

Jack's gaze softens, and he rolls up onto one elbow, reaching across to trace down the side of Davey's jaw tenderly. "I dunno, still think youse pretty," he says. Ducking in for a quick kiss, Jack's eyes pan over Davey appreciatively. "I know it wasn't real," he adds, a hint timid, "but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't lookin' forward to doing this for real, a li'l bit. Being Bound to ya, seeing you like that, all gold and beautiful, and knowin' even the gods say I'se yours."  

Davey flushes scarlet and tucks his face against Jack's chest to hide his blush. "I kinda wish it was real too," he admits hesitantly, hedging around just how much deeper that feeling goes. He's still too confused by their double-life to give voice to those feelings, afraid of being wrong and hurting Jack. "Would rather we were doing this for real than just doing it to make a point."

Humming sadly, Jack wraps his arms around Davey and settles down again, pressing a kiss to Davey's forehead. "But we sure made our fuckin' point, huh?" he adds stubbornly. "Showed them folks this ain't just some game to us. We's real people with something real to lose, and they can't deny that no more." 

Davey nods against Jack's chest and squeezes his eyes shut against the sting of tears. It's easy to act fierce and confident in what they're doing in the moment, but now, in the quiet stillness, the fear comes back. The truth is, he doesn't want to die. He isn't ready to die. 

When they got out of the Games last year, Davey had been delirious with relief that he was going to have the rest of his life ahead; to see his sister Bind and have children, and his little brother become a man. To fall in love with Jack for real. 

Now, the best he can hope for is that when he dies, it means something. 

"Those Brooklyn guys were a surprise, huh?" Jack muses, interrupting Davey's inward spiral. "Ain't what I was expectin' from Brooklyn." 

"A lot nicer than the Delanceys were," Davey concedes, grateful for the distraction from his anxious thoughts. "Not that that's difficult." Jack snorts appreciatively. "I really wasn't expecting to find out they're a couple, though." 

Jack shrugs. "Yeah, but kinda makes sense, ya know? I mean, s'like you and me, right? Havin' someone who gets whatcha been through. Sorta didn't 'spect them to think like that, though, since they volunteered and all." 

"Guess even if you volunteer, actually killing other kids can mess with you," Davey says. (At the same time, a bitter, self-hating voice pointedly reminds him: five. Five Tributes who died by Davey's hand in the Games. The blood of five other boys stains his soul, and he can never let himself forget that fact.)

"Yeah, guess so," Jack murmurs thoughtfully. "Still, feels weird bein' allies with Brooklyn, don't it?"

Davey gives an aborted nod against Jack's chest. "Li'l bit, yeah," he agrees. "But if we wanna get people's attention, this'll be a good way to do it. No one would expect us to work together with Brooklyn, especially not after the way the Delanceys hurt you." Davey glides his hand up to grip lightly at the silver ring in Jack's arm. "So if we can work with Brooklyn, why shouldn't all of the Districts be able to work together?" 

The moment the words leave his mouth, Davey stiffens, and his eyes snap open. "Why shouldn't all the Districts work together," he breathes slowly. "That's it." 

"Dave?" Jack prompts curiously, angling back so he can glance down at him. 

Pushing up onto an elbow, Davey grins. "Districts working together is what started all of this," he says. "It all started when Smalls-" He breaks off, swallowing hard, and Jack rubs his side soothingly. He's comforted Davey after countless nightmares about the thirteen-year-old Queens Tribute. Connor Smalls was Davey's friend, and Davey vowed to protect him. Instead, Smalls bled out in Davey's arms.

Taking a deep breath, Davey shakes himself and continues, "It's when I treated a Tribute from another District like one of ours that people got riled up, right? When I ignored the fact Smalls was from another District that's supposed to be an enemy and gave him respect instead. So us working with Brooklyn is one thing, but what if it wasn't just Brooklyn?"

Jack's eyes widen as the idea sets in. "Other Tributes?" he asks, already nodding, and he shoves up on an elbow to be level with Davey. "Yeah, that'd - I mean if we could get some the others, ones that wanna show Pulitzer we ain't gonna jump through his hoops-" 

"Then maybe the Districts will see that if they work together like us, they are stronger than the Capitol," Davey finishes excitedly. 

"Davey, s'genius," Jack says, beaming, and he leans in to kiss Davey. "We can talk to 'em at training, see who we can get to join up. I mean, gotta keep quiet 'bout it, don't want the Capitol folks hearing, but that'd be the best time. No one will think twice if we're just talkin' with another Tribute while we's training in the same spots, right?" 

"Exactly, yeah, that's great," says Davey. His mind is already racing miles ahead of him, running through a mental roster of Tributes and debating which ones might be the most likely to listen. Obviously, the outer Districts would be the safer bets, the ones who've been the most hurt by the status quo. "We can do this, Jack," he adds, meeting the other boy's gaze and smiling. "We can make them see." 

Jack grins crookedly, reaching up to trace the curve of Davey's neck. "S'it weird I think youse even prettier when youse planning rebellions?" he teases, but there's a softer sincerity to his eyes. "This is why youse the brains and I'se just a blowhard. You got all the good ideas and fancy words, I just do whatcha say." 

Shaking his head, Davey twists and plants a kiss on the inside of Jack's wrist. "You're more than that. I could never do this without you, Jack," he says earnestly. "I'd never want to. You keep me strong, make me feel brave. You and me, together. That's how we get shit done." 

The rare curse makes Jack throw his head back, laughing, and he tugs Davey in for a warm kiss. "Together," he agrees. 

Davey smiles again, leaning his forehead against Jack's. Now that the adrenaline is starting to wear off, the exhaustion is creeping back in, and he sighs. "We really should bathe before we fall asleep. This paint is starting to itch." 

Jack chuckles and nods, lacing his hand with Davey's as they clamber off the bed. Once they're upright, Jack pauses and glances at the bedsheets appraisingly. The white fabric is completely ruined, so thoroughly smeared with stripes of paint that it will never possibly come clean. Jack and Davey exchange devious looks before they both collapse into giggles at their childish act of pointless revenge. 

Once again, Katherine returns in the early morning. Davey looks up from the window bench where he and Jack are curled up watching the sunrise, and he frowns. She's wearing a glittery red party dress with a gauzy yellow and orange petticoat peeking out beneath the hem; it makes her look like fire even more than her usual gold shimmers and scarlet hair. The part that makes Davey's brow furrow, though, is the open exhaustion on her face, the beginnings of shadows under her eyes visible even through her makeup. 

"Morning, boys," she greets when she sees them, but her forcefully chipper smile doesn't reach all the way to her eyes. 

"Uh oh, the word not good on the party circuit?" Jack asks, raising an eyebrow. 

"Hmm? Oh, no, it was good," Katherine says, shaking her head. "Very, very good." 

"So, we made an impression then?" Davey asks hopefully. 

Katherine comes over and drags one of the dining chairs closer to their window perch, sitting down heavily. "Very much," she agrees. She takes off her sharply-heeled shoes and stretches her toes. "Once again, the Newsboys made headlines. There was just - the talk was different this year. It wasn't just people being awed and amazed by you. Some people were sad, lamenting that the lovers are doomed to never reach their happy ending." 

Eyes flicking back to the sketch in his lap, Jack snorts. "Like some stupid fairy tale, like that one we read that had the star-crossed line, what's it-?" Jack nudges Davey, prompting him. 

"Romeo and Juliet," Davey and Katherine answer at the same time. Katherine sighs and adds, "It's an apt comparison."

"Sure, nothing makes for a better story than the young lovers that both wind up dead anyway, right?" Davey says sardonically, twisting his union band on his wrist. Jack humphs, but he drops his charcoal pencil to loop his arm around Davey's waist and settles his cheek on Davey's shoulder. "But if the parties went fine, why do you look so tired?"

Katherine chuckles. "I have been awake all night," she points out. "And it was a lot of activity and mingling. But honestly, there's a lot of work to be done. The Quell requires a lot more attention than a regular Game." There's a flicker in her expression, and she doesn't meet their eyes as she says it. Davey once again gets the feeling that she's hiding so much from them. 

Before he can press, Katherine stands and covers a yawn with her hand. "I need my beauty sleep," she says, smiling. "You boys have a good day at training. And - just watch out for each other, okay?" With that cryptic statement, she heads for her assigned bedroom, snatching her digiscreen tablet up from the living room table on the way. 

"That girl is up to somethin'," Jack murmurs when the door shuts behind her. Davey smiles at the way he and Jack are once again thinking the exact same thing. "I dunno what, but she got something else goin' on that she ain't saying." 

Davey hums an agreement. As much as he wants to figure it out, they've got more pressing matters to deal with; training for the Games begins today, and that means so does their recruiting. "We need to start planning," Davey says. "Figuring out which Tributes to approach, which ones are more likely to say yes. And we should talk to Spot and Racer first, too. Let them know what we're going to do." 

"In case they wanna back out," Jack says with a scoff. 

"Maybe," Davey agrees. "But I don't think so. They want to cause a fuss as much as we do. I don't think we need to worry about them backing out on us. They were willing to die with us before, I don't see them being less willing if we've got even more people at our backs." Davey glances sideways at Jack, and then, just because he can, he kisses him again. (He'll miss that, he realizes; Davey had been looking forward to a lifetime of the comfort he finds in Jack's touch.) 

Smiling, Davey holds out a hand for Jack. "So, whaddya say we go start a revolution?"

The training center for the Games is expansive, the size of a full city block back in Manhattan. There is every possible amenity available to the Tributes for their practice: an entire armory of weapons with training dummies and a target range; agility courses and a swimming pool the size of a warehouse; comprehensive computer databases at tables teaching various survival skills. Capitol officials in crisp training gear are staggered around the room, manning each station to answer questions and be sure the Tributes don't cause trouble with each other. 

Davey and Jack trade determined nods before splitting off into different directions. Licking his lips and keeping his pace steady, Davey crosses to the long-distance weaponry range and steps up to the empty lane beside the blond Brooklyn Tribute. Racer pauses with his bow drawn, casting a sideways glance and smirk over his extended arm. "Hmm, wasn't expecting to see the Manhattan loverboy at a weapon station," the blond teases. He releases the bowstring with a snap, and the arrow strikes the target dummy just below its eye.

"Yeah, well," Davey trails off, examining the nearby row of throwing knives before finding one he likes. He flips it over in his hand twice, getting a feel for the weight of it, and then hurls it at Racer's target. The knifepoint sticks into the target's torso with a dull thump. "I didn't win by giving out hugs," Davey shoots back, arcing an eyebrow at Racer in a challenge. 

(Five lives, that voice in the back of Davey's head sneers, and he shoves it back.) 

The blond laughs, nodding. "Well played," he says, clapping Davey quickly on the shoulder. Adjusting the tension on his bow, Racer glances around the room curiously, and then his lips quirk. "Divide and conquer?" he asks, jerking his chin to the agility course, where Jack and Spot are talking with their heads close together as they wait in line for their turn. 

"Figured we'd draw less attention if we weren't approaching people together," Davey concedes. "The Capitol folk tend to watch us more when we are." He looks around surreptitiously to make sure there's no one near them, then picks up another throwing knife and examines it distractedly. "Jack and I have an idea, and we wanted to give you a head's up before we do anything, in case you decide you guys want out." 

Racer nods, nocking another arrow and drawing the string back. "Doubtful, but I appreciate the gesture," he says cheekily. "Go on." 

Taking a breath, Davey trades the knife for another, checking its balance to keep up appearances. "We're going to recruit more Tributes," he says simply. "More who want to band together and show the world we don't have to go along with their sick Game." 

The arrow whistles as it cuts through the air, landing an inch below Davey's knife in the dummy's gut. "Like what, a big ol' pacifist protest?" Racer asks, raising an eyebrow as he reaches for another arrow. 

"You've heard about the rioting, right?" Davey says, and the blond grimaces. "People are starting to see that this isn't right. That we can stand up, and we're stronger together. We can show them that if the Districts all band together, it would make them stronger than the Capitol." 

"By us working as a team instead of against each other," Racer finishes under his breath. He twirls the arrow between his fingers thoughtfully. "You know it still won't do us no good, though, right?" he adds, meeting Davey's eyes. "We can swear some mighty peace treaty, but if we don't turn on each other, they's still gonna make sure only one of us comes outta there alive." 

Davey nods grimly. "We all know we're gonna die anyway," he says. "Even if I could, I wouldn't want to win. I can't go home without Jack." He pauses, giving Racer a meaningful look to imply, 'would you?'

"Fair," Racer agrees, and the nonchalance in his voice doesn't match the pain in his eyes. "Hells, I only got out last time by getting lucky. What's the chances I'll get that lucky again?" 

"Then if we're gonna die, why don't we make it count for something?" Davey whispers fervently.

Racer chews on the tip of his arrow, blue-gray eyes distant as he considers the idea. Finally, he casts another look over to where Spot is standing and raises an eyebrow in silent question. The shorter Brooklyn Tribute is watching them subtly, and when his eyes meet Racer's, Spot gives a shallow nod. Racer takes a deep breath and turns his attention back to Davey. "Alright, we're in," he agrees. "Let's give the president a good ol' 'fuck you,' huh?" 

Then he nocks his arrow, draws back, and looses it; the point sinks deep into the left side of the target's chest, straight through the heart. 

Jack and Davey spent their breakfast time bent over a digiscreen tablet, flicking through the list of Tributes to try and decide which ones felt safest to approach. It's not that they don't want to recruit anyone they can, but there's a chance some might take that information to the Capitol in the hopes of earning favor. Davey would rather keep their plans from the president as long as possible.

So once Davey's talked to Racer, he wanders across the room to the computer databases, where the older Flushing Tribute is poring over lists of edible plants. Davey stops at the table beside him. "Hey, it's Alan, right?" Davey asks curiously. The man looks surprised and suspicious, but he jerks his chin in agreement. "Nice to meet you. I'm Davey." 

"I know," Alan replies flatly—it's becoming a familiar response whenever Davey tries to introduce himself to anyone. "If you want the screen, you'll have to wait your turn." 

"Oh, no, it's fine," Davey says, shaking his head. "I just wanted to talk." The suspicion is stronger now, the man's eyes narrowed at Davey. "It must be kinda weird, being the oldest one here, huh?" 

Alan frowns, tapping the screen to scroll to the next page, this time about different breeds of mushrooms and fungi. "You wouldn't've even been born when I was in the Games last time," he says. "Was the year after the last Quell. Coming back every year to Mentor was one thing, but I sure as hells never expected to be here again." He casts a glance around the room, eyeing the other Tributes. "I'm forty-one years old, kid. Sendin' me in against you young things is just stupid." 

"Sending any of us in there is stupid," Davey hisses bitterly. Alan darts a look at him, shocked. "It's bad enough doing this to us once, but making us go through it all again, just when we thought we were safe..." Davey twists the gold band on his wrist, and he sees a similar pair of silver circlets on Alan's arms. "You got a family at home?" 

"A wife, and a son," Alan answers tightly. His head is bowed, and he's not even pretending to pay attention to the computer screens now, hands pressed to the table so hard his knuckles are white. "He just turned eighteen. I been scared sick every year it's gonna be his name picked. This's the last year he'd qualify, thought just one more year and we'd finally be safe. Now instead, he's gonna have to watch me-" Alan breaks off, clearing his throat.

Seeing his opportunity, Davey lowers his voice and dives for it. "We've all got someone at home we're leaving behind," he says. "But wouldn't you rather give him something to be proud of?" The older man raises an eyebrow questioningly. "I know there's been riots in your District," Davey says. "Folks wanting to fight back against the Capitol. And it's not just Flushing. The same things are happening in Queens and Richmond and Brighton. There was one in Harlem just last month." Alan's surprised by this last one; the Capitol was able to keep that one secret, and Davey only knows because of Katherine. 

"What's that got to do with me?" Alan asks. 

"Jack and I aren't going to play by the Gamemakers' rules," says Davey. "And we've got more Tributes that agree. People out in the Districts are starting to see that we shouldn't have to put up with this and that we're stronger together. We have the perfect chance to show them that. If we stand together, refuse to kill each other just because the Capitol wants us to, they will follow our lead." 

Alan shakes his head. "We can't beat the Capitol," he says wearily. "They control everything." 

"They don't control us," Davey says fiercely. "We are people, not playthings, and we make our own choices. I've chosen before not to let the Capitol dictate my life. I'm choosing it again." 

"You're gonna get yourself killed," says Alan. 

"Of course I am," Davey agrees. "It's the Hunger Games, we're being sent in there to die. All but one of us isn't coming back out. But if I'm going to die anyway, I want to die knowing I did what I believe is right. I refuse to let these Capitol bastards change me ever again. So yeah, I'm gonna die, but I'll die as Davey Jacobs instead of a Capitol puppet."

Dropping his gaze, Alan shakes his head again. "You're crazy." 

"Probably," Davey concedes, shrugging. "But I'm not alone. And you don't have to be either." When Alan glances up again, eyes swimming with uncertainty, Davey offers him a reassuring smile. "Just think about it. You don't gotta decide right now, just think about it. And - if you could not rat us to the peacekeepers, that'd be nice." 

Alan considers him a second and then nods solemnly. "I won't say anything," he says. "I'm not saying I'm with you, but I won't do anything to stop you either." He pauses, frowning, and adds, "May the odds be in your favor, kid." 

Davey grins and nods. "You too, Alan." 

"Well, that went 'bout as good as could be expected," Jack says dryly when they are riding back up to the penthouse at the end of the training day. 

They weren't able to talk to everyone they wanted to - they still had to put in a good show of actually participating in the training sessions, and some drills and classes are required for all Tributes - but they still managed to reach out to a good few. Jack lets out a weary huff, carding a hand into his hair. "The older one from Brighton's on the fence, but the skinny kid from Richmond, Finch, he said he's in. Anyone ach'lly say yes to you?" 

"The older guy from Queens said yes," Davey says, his heart jumping at the memory of that conversation. The man had squeezed Davey's shoulder and said, with grave solemnity, "For Connor, I will follow you." Davey'd had to throw himself into an exhausting agility course immediately after to give himself some space to get his emotions under control. "The younger one sounds like he might be in too, but he wanted to think about it. The old guy from Flushing didn't answer, but I think he'll come around." 

"So that's-" Jack frowns, counting them out on his fingers, "six of us fo'sure? And three more that's a maybe. That's a'most half so far, then."

"And it's only the first day," Davey says. "Not a bad start." 

Jack grins, knocking his shoulder against Davey's. "We can really do this," he says eagerly. 

Returning his smile, Davey bumps him back. "Course we can. Nothing we can't do together, remember?" 

The lift chimes and the doors glide open to let them into the apartment. Katherine is sitting at the dining table, picking distractedly at her food while her other hand taps at her tablet screen, brow furrowed. On the other side of the room, Kloppmann is sprawled in an armchair, fidgeting with his pocket flask. 

"Evening, boys," Katherine greets. Davey doesn't fail to notice that she promptly double-taps on the digiscreen to turn it off, the glass going dark. It's not the first time he's seen her do it. It seems almost any time they enter a room, she dismisses whatever she's doing on her tablet like she doesn't want anyone else to see. Davey prickles suspiciously. Katherine goes on, either not noticing or ignoring Davey's narrowed eyes. "How was training?"

"Good," Jack says, shrugging. "Exhaustin' but good. Don't remember it all bein' that hard." 

Kloppmann snorts. "Capitol life turned ya soft a'ready," he mumbles, eyes half-lidded and voice thick. 

Rolling his eyes, Davey scoffs. "Like you're one to talk," he retorts dryly. He still gets annoyed at Kloppmann's abrasiveness sometimes, but he's gotten used to it by now. Especially now that Davey understands what did it to him - the invisible scars that the Games leave on a person's soul - it's easier to not take his comments personally. 

Katherine, on the other hand, never lets him slide. Lips thinned, she glares across at the half-drunk Mentor. "Really, Nathaniel, would it kill you to be polite on occasion?"

"Yes," Kloppmann answers shortly, and he takes a long sip from his flask. 

"It's fine, Kath," Davey cuts in before she can press the issue. "He gets that way when he's drinking. Just let him pout in the corner, he'll snap out of it later." Kloppmann shoots him a withering look that Davey returns unconcernedly. Crossing to the dining table, Davey drops into a seat across from Katherine and reaches for the serving spoon in the nearest dish. 

"How's the party circuit?" Jack asks with a teasing smirk as he sits down beside Davey. 

Katherine rolls her eyes fondly. "I'll have you know I was in meetings all day," she responds. "There is a great deal of planning going on right now. Discussions about how the Quell is to be handled."

"Oh yeah?" Jack asks, raising an eyebrow curiously. Katherine gives him a look that very succinctly informs them it's nothing she's allowed to share. "Fine, keep ya damn secrets," Jack replies with a flippant wave of his hand. "S'all any us do anymore."

"That so?" Kloppmann chimes in from his armchair. He's sitting forward now, elbows braced on his knees, and he looks distinctly less intoxicated than he did a minute ago as he scrutinizes them. (It's something Kloppmann does sometimes, this miraculous sobering, and it makes Davey wonder if the man's usually pretending to be drunker so people leave him alone.) "You two got secrets too?"

Jack's lips quirk. "Wouldn't be secrets if we toldja, would it?"

Kloppmann pushes up out of his chair and comes to join them at the table. His gaze darts back and forth between the two Tributes, a shrewd, calculating look that Davey's rarely seen on his face. "You two's planning something, ain'tcha?" It's clearly a rhetorical question, so neither of them bothers to answer, tucking into their dinners instead. "Should'a known," the older man grumbles. "Never can just leave well enough alone."

"Right, because them forcing all us to go back in there to die is 'well enough,'" Davey bites off irritably. "Sorry we don't want to just bow down and accept it."

"Keep it up, youse gonna get ya'selves killed 'fore the Games even start," says Kloppmann. Shaking his head, he retreats to his bedroom, the door snapping shut behind him.

Katherine considers them over the top of her teacup. "He's not wrong," she says, gentler. "I'm not going to tell you to stop whatever you're planning, just - be careful, would you?" She takes a sip and sets her cup down on its plate with a click. "As long as you're not - it's not suicide you're planning, is it?" she asks suddenly, her gaze intense. "You're not planning to do something like you did at the end of the last Games?"

"No," Davey says honestly. "Not that the idea didn't cross my mind, but wouldn't want to give the president the satisfaction."

"Good," Katherine says with a nod. "I'd hate to see you give up so easily." She traces a fingertip around the frame of her digiscreen, her eyes fixed on some middle distance. "Try to stick together in there. Keep each other safe. You never know what can happen in the Arena."

"Why does it feel like youse plannin' something too?" Jack asks, eyes narrowing shrewdly.

Katherine shrugs, standing and picking up her tablet. "I'm simply doing my job." And, without another word, she disappears into her bedroom too.

Even though neither of them has needed to get up for work in the last year, Jack and Davey both still wake up at sunrise out of habit. They fall back into their usual pattern while in the Capitol, eating a lazy breakfast and lounging together on the bench set into the base of the enormous bay window. Today, Davey's attempts to read were quickly diverted when he caught sight of Jack's sketch, and he can't look away.

Jack is drawing them from the Opening Ceremony, both of them painted and fierce as they ride in the chariot. Their expressions are proud and defiant, fists in the air. It's beautiful, as Jack's drawings always are, but it's also clear that he's using far more care in this sketch. Davey watches with fascination as the features slowly come to life beneath the tip of the charcoal pencil.

On the page, the pair of them look right, a matching set that complements each other perfectly, like the two central gears of a machine that only work when they are fitted together.

Davey doesn't realize that his eyes are watering until a tear lands on the back of his hand, and he hastily wipes his eyes on his sleeve. Seeking comfort, Davey props his cheek on Jack's shoulder. Jack doesn't stop sketching, but he pauses to tenderly kiss the top of Davey's head before he goes back to detailing the patterns of the ceremonial paint. "Wish I had a gold pen," says Jack. "Don't look the same in gray." 

"It still looks incredible," Davey says sincerely. 

"Was incredible," Jack responds. "That's the sorta moment you remember forever. Ain't gonna let myself forget a single sec." And Davey suddenly understands the intent focus behind Jack's eyes—he's trying to preserve the memory down to the last detail, to make sure he can hold onto it for what little time they have left. Davey's heart hammers at the realization, and he's once again seized by the agonizing truth that he wanted the chance to have this for real someday.

Too bad there's no someday left for them now.

Both of them jump when a door opens, but it's just Miss Medda emerging from her room, wrapped in a silky, floral robe. "Morning, boys," she says warmly. As they echo the greeting back, she pours herself a large cup of steaming coffee. "Always up with the sun still, I see."

"Don't wanna waste a minute we got left," Jack says, and the ache in his voice reflects inside Davey.

There's a wild, reckless idea that has cropped up in Davey's mind more than once over the last few days, but this moment solidifies it into a concrete decision. Lifting his chin, Davey turns to face Medda properly. "Miss Medda, can I ask you for a favor?"

"Sure, sugar. What do you need?" says Medda.

Davey licks his lips and clears his throat. "Is there any chance you can find someone in the Capitol to perform a Binding ceremony for us before the Games?"

Medda's eyes widen, surprised and sad, but it's the hand on his shoulder that wins out for Davey's attention. "Dave, no, what the hells?" Jack snaps, scooting around to the edge of the bench and swiveling to face him. "I know we's tryna make a point to them folks, but this is more'an that. Binding - that's a forever thing."

"And how is today any different than if we'd done it a year from now?" Davey counters. "We were already planning for this in the future. Well, now we don't get a future." He swallows when his voice cracks, taking a second to collect himself before meeting Jack's eyes again. "I want this, Jack. I'm not doing this for show or to make a point. I'm saying this because I want it."

"Dave, you can't-" Jack breaks off, wincing. 

Reaching over, Davey curls his hand over Jack's. "I told you before that I wished I'd met you before the Games because I wanted more time to know you," Davey says. "And we got a li'l extra time, but not enough. I want more. And if the After is like the prayer books say, if Binding means even when we're dead, I want that time with you too." Jack takes a deep, shuddery breath, his gaze fixed on their joined hands, but Davey still sees the tear that escapes down his cheek. "It's you and me, Jack, together. I can't do this alone. If I'm gonna die, I wanna die knowing I'll still have my best friend with me. If you still want me." 

"Gods above, Davey." Jack's voice is thick and broken, his grip tightening on Davey's hand until it's almost painful. "I can't - I wanna - fuck, I know it's selfish, but I wanna say yes." 

"Then say yes, you stubborn boy," Medda interjects suddenly, startling them both. Although she's currently wearing a look of exasperation, her eyes are red-rimmed, and she's clutching her handkerchief in one hand. "Heavens and hells, Jack, what's to think about? You love him, he loves you, end of story." Glancing to Davey, she says, "I know someone, I'll go see her today and arrange something."

"Thank you," Davey says sincerely. The Capitol stylist slips back into her bedroom, no doubt to dress, and it leaves him alone with Jack in the cavernous penthouse.

"Davey, are you-"

Davey smirks and puts a hand over Jack's mouth, silencing him. "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want this," he says resolutely. "Now shush a sec, 'cause I'm gonna do that thing where I talk a lot but I wanna get it all out." Jack huffs an amused laugh, but he nods.

Dropping his hand, Davey carefully considers his next words. "It's been hard to figure out my feelings 'cause there's always been this voice in the back of my head saying it's just 'cause the Capitol. That maybe I was confusing my real feelings with the ones I was pretending for the cameras. And that made it hard to believe what I felt was real, ya know?

"But then this happened, and I realized that no matter where and why those feelings started, they're different now. And then this-" He reaches over to brush his fingers along the edge of Jack's discarded sketch, his eyes appreciatively drinking in every painstaking detail. "You said that night you'd wished it was real, and I realized I did too. Maybe it's not the way I hoped it would happen, but that doesn't mean I didn't want it to happen someday. I already planned on having you by my side for the rest of my life. And if we've only got a few more days - I'd rather we do it now than never do it at all."

"Gods, Davey," Jack gasps out, tears coursing down his face. "I don't even know-" He trails off, making a noise of frustration when he can't seem to find the words, and finally settles for leaning in and kissing Davey. Free hand cupping Jack's cheek, feeling the cool tracks of tears on his skin, Davey melts into the kiss. It's not until they pull back and Jack sweeps a thumb across Davey's cheek that he notices he's crying too. "You really want this?" Jack asks insistently.

Davey takes a deep breath, meeting Jack's earnest, brown-gold eyes. "I love you, Jack," and he's proud the nerves only make his voice shake a little as he lets out the words that he's been avoiding for a while now, even in his own head. Jack's eyes widen, and moisture pools at his lashes again. Davey brushes his fingers around the golden cuff on Jack's wrist. "Bind with me for real?"

"Davey, I-" Jack's voice sticks, and he clears his throat. "Yes. Fo'sure. Please." He manages a smile, timid and hopeful. "I love you. Always loved you."

Lurching forward, Davey kisses Jack again, trying to pour everything he feels, all the swirling, dizzying, chaotic emotions that are whipping like a hurricane inside his chest, into the contact. It's not enough. It's never enough. Will never be enough, in the end.

Davey stands, tugging at Jack's hand, and starts for the bedroom. They've still got a few hours until they're due in the training center, and Davey wants to spend those hours with the man he loves.

It's difficult to focus on the training as Davey's mind is torn in two directions: determination to recruit more Tributes to their cause and anticipation of the Binding provided Medda can find someone to help them. He's practicing knots at one of the stations, absentmindedly tying and untying the length of cord, when the older Brooklyn Tribute, Spot, lumbers up next to him. "Youse good at that," Spot says, eyeing the intricate anchoring knot appreciatively. 

"Everyone in Manhattan learns to tie knots," Davey responds, shrugging. "Have to make sure the crates don't slide around when they're being transported. Wouldn't wanna break somebody's fancy holo-screen." 

Spot snorts eloquently. He picks up a piece of rope and starts copying the diagrams lit up on the screens. "Talked to Hotshot this morning," he says with all the calm indifference of discussing the weather. "The younger guy from Harlem. Me and him's friends, sorta. He's in."

Davey startles and glances at the other boy in surprise. "Really?"

"He's got used to living the good life," Spot says, smirking. "Don't appreciate having that took away. A'ready paid his dues, he said, and he don't like being double-charged." Davey huffs a laugh at the metaphor. "Said he's gonna talk to the other fella from his District, says he's pretty sure he'll say yeah too."

That's seven yeses, now, and four maybes. Davey looks across the room to where Jack's sparring with a Tribute from Bronx. Jack catches his eye during a break in the fight to nod shallowly, and Davey's heart leaps. Eight yeses, then.

"You got a plan for once we's in there?" Spot asks thoughtfully, his gaze on his rope so they don't look like they're having a conversation. 

"Stick together, watch each other's backs, and keep each other safe for as long as we can," Davey says simply. 

"And what 'bout the ones who say no?" says Spot. "They's still gonna try and kill us. We just gonna let 'em, or we gonna fight back?"

Davey chews on his lip as he picks apart the knot to start over again. "We defend ourselves, but we don't aim to kill. We'll outnumber them. So we protect our people, but we try not to kill anyone. Knock 'em out if we have to, something like that." 

Spot hums to acknowledge it. "And the Gamemakers? You know they's gonna go after us." 

"I'm planning on it," Davey admits. "What better way to show the Districts out there that the Capitol is the real enemy? So when the Gamemakers strike at us, we just band together and hold out as long as we can. Let the people see that we should all work together against the Capitol." 

Holding his breath, Davey waits for the argument, waits for Spot to push back at the flimsy plan, but- "Sounds good." Davey glances at him, eyebrow raised. "What? I ain't stupid, we knew going in this's a suicide mission. Ain't gonna whine about it now. Just wanted to know what the plan is." Spot smirks triumphantly when his knot holds, and he tosses the length of rope back down onto the table. "See ya 'round, kid." 

At the end of the day, after they've finished with training and supper, after the others have gone to bed, Medda fetches Jack and Davey from their room. "Now try to keep your heads down," she says, handing them both hooded jackets. "You're not supposed to leave the tower, but I thought you would rather do this in a proper temple." She clears her throat. "You boys deserve as much." 

Davey reaches out and squeezes her hand in gratitude. His heart hammers against his ribs as he and Jack follow her out through a side exit in the Tribute Tower. They walk at a brisk clip, staying close together and trying not to draw attention to themselves from the few people lingering out on the streets. Thankfully, most of the Capitol folk are wrapped up in parties and celebrations at this time of night, retreated into clubs or homes. 

The Capitol's grand temple is unlike anything Davey's ever seen before, and he can't help but gawk at its beauty. Made entirely of polished white marble, the face is lined with sleek, spiraling pillars. Between those, towering, lifelike statues of the gods stand proud and regal. 

Medda opens the door carefully and ushers them inside ahead of her. The worship hall is no less breathtaking from the inside, with an enormous vaulted ceiling stretching far above them. There are holo-screens set high in the walls that slowly cycle through art depicting scenes that Davey recognizes from the prayer books his father used to recite to him as a child. 

Thinking about Mayer makes a pang shoot through Davey's chest; he wishes his family could be here for this. 

A woman is waiting for them on the raised dais at the front of the temple, dressed in the simple gray gown of a priestess. She looks nothing like the weathered old woman who leads the worship hall back in Manhattan. This priestess is strikingly pretty, her hair a shade of white that certainly didn't come from age, and her gleaming silver makeup stands out boldly on her caramel skin. Still, her smile is kind when they approach. 

"Welcome, noble Victors," she greets, spreading her arms wide and bowing her head. "It is an honor to meet you." 

"Thank you for doing this, priestess," Medda says to the woman. "I hope you forgive me asking yet another favor from you."

The priestess smiles warmly at Medda. "Of course, Miss Larkin," she says. "After all you've done for my daughter," she pauses to glance at a younger woman Davey didn't notice lingering against the wall, a girl with the same light brown skin who looks vaguely familiar for some reason, "you know that I am always at your disposal. Most especially for something this important and blessed." 

"Come, boys," says Medda. "Let's get you ready." 

Medda leads them to a small room off the side of the main chamber, followed by the priestess' daughter. "This is Aisha," Medda introduces distractedly, panning her eyes over the spread of makeup and paints on the long counter to be sure everything is there. "She is my apprentice, she'll be helping me." Right, that's where Davey's seen her before: in the grooming center when they'd been preparing for the Opening Ceremony.

"An honor, proud Victors," Aisha says with a timid smile and curtsy, a curtain of lavender hair spilling around her face. 

Davey can't manage more than a nervous smile. His stomach is twisting in knots as the reality of the moment settles over him. As if Jack can read his mind, the other boy takes Davey's hand. "You 'kay, Dave?" he asks softly. "We don't gotta do-" 

"No, I want this," Davey cuts in, meeting Jack's gaze and hoping he can see the conviction there. "Just a li'l nervous." 

Jack grins and lifts Davey's hand to kiss his wrist, the one that's still bare for now—but never again after tonight. "Me too," Jack admits. 

"But, excited too," Davey adds shyly. The words make Jack's expression light up beatifically. 

Medda clicks her tongue to get their attention, and when they look up, she's holding out a pair of black briefs to them both. "Ready?" she asks. 

Davey takes a deep breath and grabs the cloth. "Ready." 

Medda and Aisha both turn their backs to let them change into the briefs and then the stylists get to work. Having his body painted into the ceremonial makeup once was surreal enough—to have the gold and black lines drawn across his skin and knowing that this time, it's real, makes Davey's head spin so fast he thinks he'll faint. 

The process takes what feels like a lifetime, both women paying precise attention to making sure the designs perfectly match the pictures from the prayer book. By the time Medda declares them finished, Davey's so nervous he's almost sick with it. He looks sideways into the large mirror that fills one wall, and his heart leaps. The face looking back doesn't look like it should belong to him, this otherworldly, elfin creature of towering limbs and pale, ornamented skin. 

Then he turns around and sees Jack - a statue of beauty and power in his own right - staring at him like Davey's the most miraculous thing he's ever seen, and all of the anxiety in his chest settles. 

"We doin' this?" Jack asks. 

Davey smiles and nods. "We're doin' this." 

Medda escorts them back out into the temple hall. The priestess laid out her supplies while she was waiting, and she beckons them over with a reassuring nod. Polished marble cold beneath their bare feet, Davey and Jack walk over to stand in front of her. 

"Join your left hands," the priestess instructs. They turn to face each other, and as Davey slips his hand into Jack's, a sense of calm washes over him. This, Davey is sure, is where he's supposed to be. "Now kneel." 

There are two pillows on the floor, black silk hemmed in gold. Without releasing their grip on each other, the two of them kneel on the cushions. "Now, I know that the prayers and ceremony vary between Districts," the priestess says kindly, "so I hope you will forgive that it may be a little different than you're used to." 

"S'fine," Jack murmurs, voice a little hoarse. His palm is sweating, and Davey squeezes his fingers briefly. Jack's eyes flick up to meet his, and he returns Davey's small smile, the soft look at odds with the remarkable intensity of the ceremonial paint. 

The priestess's expression turns solemn as she steps forward and places a palm on both their heads. "Oh gods, look down upon us in this glorious moment, as we beseech your blessing," she says, gaze tilted upward. The sleek sound of her Capitol accent adds a strange gravitas to the words. "Honor us with your strength as we join these two souls in an eternal Bond." 

Fetching a long, silk cord from the table, the priestess kneels and begins to lace the cord across their joined hands. She slips the rope through the gap between union band and skin, first Davey's, then Jack's, over and over again in a tight zig-zag. "As this anointed rope draws two hands into one, so will these lives be tied into one," she recites while she works. "As these knots bind two into one, so too will these souls be Bound into one." When she finishes, there's a perfect net of gold cord weaving Davey's cuff to Jack's, encircling their hands and tying them together. 

"Now, who gives these two souls into Binding union?" the priestess calls, projecting her voice as if speaking to a full temple even though the only witnesses are Medda and Aisha. 

"I do," Medda says solemnly. She walks over to stand at their side, opposite the priestess, and sets a hand on both boys' heads.  

"You do, in love and grace, give praise that these souls be Bound beneath the eye of the gods?" the priestess asks. 

"With all the love in my heart, I give praise to the gods for this Binding," replies Medda. Davey's eyes sting to see the genuine affection on her face as she gazes down at them, and he knows that she means every word. He feels a swell of love for this woman who has opened her heart to them so easily, even though she has no reason to. 

"Then, with your blessing, I ask for the bands of union," the priestess says, holding out her palms expectantly. Medda pulls a pair of identical gold cuffs from her pocket, an exact match to the ones already on their wrists. The priestess accepts them, offering one first to Jack. "Do you, Jack Francis Kelly, pledge to give your whole soul to be Bound to this man, in life and in death?"

A single tear escaping down his cheek and leaving a trail through the paint, Jack smiles. "I pledge to be foreva Bound," he vows, as the priestess helps him fasten the ring over Davey's right wrist. The weight of it feels incredible, not so much a physical pressure but something inside of Davey's chest like the crackle of summer lightning shooting through his veins. His breath catches. 

"Do you, David Benjamin Jacobs, pledge to give your whole soul to be Bound to this man, in life and in death?" 

Davey has to clear his throat around the lump of emotion before he can speak. "I pledge to be forever Bound," he says and wraps the gold band over Jack's wrist, the priestess helping secure the latch since Davey can't manage it one-handed. Davey brushes a soft touch over the too-cool skin of the prosthetic before he withdraws, and Jack smiles affectionately at the gesture. 

"Then I, High Priestess of the Capitol temple, do declare that here, beneath the watchful eye of the gods, these two souls are Bound for now and eternity." 

Davey is used to waking up in Jack's arms by now after the last year spent crawling through windows at night, but this morning, when he blinks awake, it feels different. This morning isn't resurfacing from the darkness after a bad dream. This morning isn't clinging to a few more moments of freedom to feel his feelings without judgment because Jack is the only person who truly understands.

The room is dark, only a faint silver glow coming off the holo-display on the wall - it's currently set to a picture of a twilit forest, the digital leaves shuffling and whispering in the shadows. Exhaling slowly, Davey relaxes back into the warm weight behind him. He reaches down to touch the arm hooked over his waist, and his fingers slide from the steel circle above the elbow down until they're stopped by the golden cuff on the wrist.

The band of Binding.

Davey smiles into the darkness as he threads his fingers through Jack's, the bands on their wrists perfectly lined up. It still feels surreal, his brain swimming through a haze as it tries to grapple with the evidence right there in front of his eyes. An identical pair of golden bands, two each now, the physical embodiment of a much bigger truth. 

Jack hums blearily and tightens his grip around Davey's torso, drawing him back against Jack's chest. Davey melts into the comfort as Jack nuzzles the back of his neck and drops a delicate, chaste kiss on the skin there. "Dream?" Jack whispers, a thread of genuine anxiety beneath the rasp of sleep. His arms curl even closer like he's terrified that if he doesn't hold on tight enough, Davey will evaporate into the air. 

"No," Davey responds. He rolls in Jack's grip, turning under the tangled blankets until they're nose to nose in the shadowy room. Jack's hair is standing on end, and there's a streak of black paint below his ear that they must've missed while bathing. The only detail Davey can focus on, though, are Jack's eyes; the brown seems to glow beneath the weak lights, the tiny freckles of gold in them sparkling with tentative, fragile hope. "Not a dream," Davey says firmly and then presses forward to kiss Jack. 

His husband.

They kiss slowly and leisurely, but it somehow still leaves Davey light-headed. When he draws back to catch his breath, Jack's eyes are bright for a whole other reason, tears balanced at the corners. "I don't wanna get outta bed," Jack admits quietly. "Don't even care if this is a dream, I just wanna stay here foreva. Wish there's a way I could just hold onto somethin', make time stop..." 

"I know," says Davey, and his voice catches on the words. He understands completely. 

Once they get up, they have to go back to reality. Outside of this room, they'll be thrust back into a world where they are martyrs headed to the guillotine—where they will have to put on brave faces as they stare down the end. Beyond the heavy shadows of their bed, their too-short lives have a rapidly approaching cutoff, and every moment that passes brings them one step closer to death. 

But here, in the quiet sanctuary of darkness and warm skin, they can forget for a moment. 

Joining their hands between them, Davey once again admires the way it looks to see their union bands pressed together. Jack and Davey's wrists couldn't look less alike - one sturdy and tanned and freckled, while the other is thin and pale over prominent bones - but somehow, they just look right together. It doesn't make sense that the same cuff suits two such different arms, and yet-

"S'beautiful," Jack murmurs, so softly Davey isn't sure he even meant to say it out loud. 

"It is," Davey agrees. He flicks his eyes up to meet Jack's, his heart fluttering in his chest like a trapped bird. "We're Bound." Jack breaks out in a blinding grin, and Davey echoes it with a quiet laugh. "Looks like you're stuck with me now, pal," he teases playfully. 

Jack sniggers, and he releases Davey's hand to instead wrap his arm around Davey's waist, pulling him against his chest. "Poor me," Jack jokes sarcastically, burying his face in Davey's hair. They both giggle and curl closer together. "I love ya, Dave." 

"Love you too, Jack." 

Later, they'll have to deal with reality—the final day of training, the televised interview, the testing. In only two short days, the Games begin. After that, well, who knows how long they'll survive in the Arena? They only have days left now, a few days to try and create a legacy before the Capitol strikes them down. 

But right now, they have hours until they need to be up for training. For now, they can hide and pretend and sink into the glorious feeling of knowing that they are Bound, two souls woven together in the tapestry of eternity. There is nothing that can truly tear them apart now, not even death. So Davey sighs and burrows his face into the curve of Jack's collarbones, and basks in the peace of his husband's embrace.

People notice immediately. 

First is Katherine, whose eyes go wide when she comes out for breakfast and spots the new band on Jack's right wrist where he's lifting a piece of toast to his mouth. She gapes, glancing at Davey's arm for confirmation, and there's no trace of her Capitol mask left now. "How-?" she asks, awed. 

"We called in a favor," Jack says evasively, shrugging. Neither of them wants to out Medda's involvement without her permission, so they've agreed to keep it quiet until they've had the chance to talk to her. 

"For a Binding?" Katherine asks. She drops into the chair opposite them, staring at them in open wonder. "I thought you didn't want-"

"We didn't want to be forced into it. We wanted it to happen in its own time. But we're running a little short on time left, if you'd forgotten," Davey points out. "It was now or never, and never isn't an option." He smiles tenderly at Jack and laces their fingers on the tabletop. "The Capitol and the Games have stolen too many of our life choices so far. They weren't getting this one too." 

Katherine leans back in her chair, mouth parted in a small circle, and she lets out a dazed breath. Then her eyes soften, and a genuine smile curves across her lips. "Praise and blessings to you both," she says, reaching over the table to pat their joined hands. "I'm very happy for you." 

The sincerity in her voice surprises him, and Davey nods gratefully.

Kloppmann is far less enthusiastic when he ambles out near the end of breakfast. He's partway through his cup of coffee before he notices, and his brow furrows. "You do that to piss off the president?" he asks. 

"No, we did it because we wanted to," Davey responds. 

Kloppmann grunts and nods. "Good." And that's the last he says on the subject. 

A tidal wave of whispers breaks out when they reach the training center, the short sleeves of the training uniforms giving them no way to hide the bands from scrutiny. Tributes stare in disbelief, some of them with expressions of confusion, others awe, and a few with painful sympathy. Spot catches their eye from across the room and gives a shallow, approving nod. Racer, on the other hand, bounces over and teases them good-naturedly. 

Even the Capitol trainers, who usually remain so stoic and professional that it's unnerving, are staring openly. Davey has no doubt that word is already on its way to President Pulitzer, but he doesn't care. Davey and Jack are Bound, and that's something the president can't take away from them—one piece of Davey's life that he's been able to reclaim for himself. 

So Davey tugs Jack in for a quick kiss before they part ways to begin the day's training and quiet recruiting.

It surprises them both when Katherine announces as she leads them through the backstage of the interview theatre, that the Capitol has decided to interview the Tributes in District pairs. Davey can't fathom whose idea that was; it certainly doesn't seem like something the president would want, giving Jack and Davey this very public platform to reinforce their image as a couple united in their defiance. Maybe he thinks it will be a punishment to them, being forced to acknowledge, face-to-face, that they are going to lose each other soon. Perhaps he hopes it will discourage them from being confrontational with the pointed reminder that each word they speak will hurt the other as well. 

Davey smirks at that thought. Putting them together is the last way to make Jack and Davey back down. Pulitzer just made a dangerous mistake in underestimating their resolve. 

Medda prepares their appearances with careful deliberation, determined to make the strongest impact. They are paired in dark clothes with sleeves that end at the elbows, their union bands standing out all the brighter for it. Although she normally does very little their makeup, tonight she is a bit more daring. She doesn't go with the full Binding ceremony paints, but she reapplies the row of dots around their eyes, the gold runes on their temples, and the delicate patterns on the backs of their hands, a subtle nod without being outright. 

There's no question that she's planned this to put emphasis on their Binding, and Davey loves her more for it. 

Manhattan is always last in everything, so they listen to the other interviews from backstage while they wait. Some of the Tributes behave the same they would've in a standard Games interview, while most are clearly just going through the motions. The Brooklyn Tributes are far less cooperative. Racer answers Denton's questions frankly, not shying away from comments about his displeasure. Spot only says one sentence in the entire interview: "I already proved myself a Victor once, don't think I should hafta prove it again." 

Then, finally, the stage manager gestures the Manhattan Tributes forward. Davey instantly links hands with Jack, and they trade fierce smiles as they approach the edge of the stage curtain. "You folks all undoubtedly remember last year's spectacular Games that resulted in the nation's first dual Victors," Denton is saying grandly. "We were all captivated by the thrilling love story of the Manhattan Tributes who stole our hearts. Now, back fresh on the heels of their victory, I give you Jack Kelly and David Jacobs." 

Both of them take deep, bracing breaths, and then they step forward into the dazzling stage lights. Screams and cheers are coming from the audience hidden behind the blaze of light, but as they walk, the noise slowly begins to dwindle. It spreads outward like a wave; applause stutters, cheers turn to whispers. 

Davey sees the moment that Denton notices the union bands, the older man's eyes going abruptly wide, and his practiced charisma falters for a second. After a long pause of open awe, Denton manages to scramble his composure back together and replaces his cheery smile. "Welcome back, boys," Denton greets when they reach the seating area at the center of the stage. 

Jack offers a tight smile, while Davey can only jerk his chin in a faint nod. They both shake Denton's hand before settling onto the plush sofa, where Jack immediately wraps his arm around Davey's shoulders. Denton takes his seat and pans his gaze over them appraisingly, his vivid cornflower eyes calculating as he clearly rewrites his interview in his head. 

"Well, I must say," Denton says with a grin that warps the line of runes tattooed from his hairline to his jaw, "whenever I think I've started to figure you two out, you go and surprise me again." 

"Funny how that happens when youse dealin' with real people," Jack says wryly. 

Denton, shockingly, laughs. "Touché," he agrees. He sets his elbows on his knees, leaning forward with his hands laced together. "I think the viewers will revolt if I don't address the elephant in the room. The last time we saw you boys at the Opening Ceremony, you were only promised to be Bound. It would appear that's no longer true?" 

Nodding in agreement, Davey rubs his hand on Jack's knee, and there's promptly a cold palm curled over his fingers. "We didn't want to waste any more time," Davey says, meeting Denton's gaze levelly. "A week ago when I asked him, we had the rest of our lives ahead of us. Now, well-" He breaks off meaningfully and shrugs. "I wasn't about to miss my chance." 

"I, for one, am disappointed that we didn't get to see that," says Denton. "I think the entire country was looking forward to your Binding." 

"Yeah, well, we would've liked to done it right too, but we didn't have much choice," Jack responds. He grips Davey's shoulder comfortingly, tightening the arm around him just a little. "Wish I could give Davey the day he really deserved. And wanted Davey's folks to be there, and his brother and sister. Ain't right they wasn't." The sincerity in it makes something sharp lodge inside of Davey's chest, and he glances sideways to trade a pained look with Jack. 

Denton clears his throat as if he's uncomfortable, but the spark of enthusiasm hasn't faded from his eyes. "I'm sure that they are pleased for you," he says. Davey can't bite back the soft, skeptical noise, although he at least manages to keep it quiet enough that only Denton and Jack hear it. "At least we got to see your incredible display at the Opening Ceremony," the announcer presses on. "You boys never fail to put on a show." 

"Well, that's what this is, after all," Davey says, lips twisted into a grimace. "Isn't it? It's all just a show." Denton's brow furrows. Although Davey forces himself to keep his voice level, his eyes harden. "That's all the Hunger Games are, in the end - a show. It's not like there are lives at stake." 

The announcer visibly flounders for a second. "Sacrifice has always been a crucial key to the Hunger Games," he says, aiming for his usual charm, but there's still that glint in his eyes. It almost feels like he's intentionally goading them at this point. 

"Easy to say when you ain't the one sacrificin'," Jack says with a raised eyebrow. "Ain't like the Capitol gotta offer up Tributes every year, right?" Denton blinks and opens his mouth, no doubt to attempt some sort of mediation, but Jack talks over him to say, "But course, it ain't 'bout that. It ain't like we're bein' punished, 'cause it's an honor to die in the Games, huh?" 

"And we get to have a second chance at that honor, Jacky," Davey tacks on with a sarcastic smile, jostling his shoulder. "Lucky us." 

Denton swallows, but at the same time, something in his eyes flashes. It reminds Davey of last year, the almost approving look that Denton had given him when Davey vowed to fight against his fate so he could go home. Is it possible...? 

The announcer disrupts Davey's train of thought when he claps his hands and grins widely. "The gods have surely blessed your fates," he replies. "Speaking of fates - last time, your Totem was that clever trick coin from your brother. I loved that thing and your story about controlling your own fate. Have you brought that with you again?" 

"Not this time," Davey answers. "I know I won't be able to get it back to him. No, my Totem this year," he exchanges a quick look with Jack and gets an encouraging nod in reply, "is this." As one, they lift their joined hands to show their union bands, side-by-side. "If there's anything that will remind me of the home I'm dying for, it's this." 

Jack leans in and presses a tender kiss to Davey's temple. "Davey's the only home I got," says Jack, and even though his voice wavers, he meets Denton's gaze resolutely. "'Fore last year, I had nothin' but a shit job and a pretty boy down the street I was too scared to talk to. This," Jack brushes his fingers over their bands, "is my Totem because this," he drags a knuckle down Davey's cheek with a fond look, "is my home." 

Davey can't stop the quiver of his lips, and for a moment, the sycophantic coos of the faceless audience fade into the background. Cupping Jack's cheek, Davey kisses him. Jack's eyes are sparkling when they draw back, and the love in his watery gaze is breathtaking. 

The moment is broken by Denton applauding, and the audience follows suit a second later. "Beautiful," Denton says enthusiastically. "Absolutely splendid. And there you have it, folks. The newly-Bound Newsboys of Manhattan, Jack Kelly and David Jacobs."

"You two's sure tryin' your damnedest to make sure you don't survive this year, ain'tcha?" Kloppmann grumbles as he escorts them down to the hall for the Capitol testing. There, they'll show the Gamemakers' council what skills they are bringing to the Games, trying to impress them enough to get a score that will encourage Sponsors to root for them. 

"Don't be stupid," Davey responds, scoffing. "Like we were ever going to survive to begin with. You know even more than we do how bad the president wants us dead. The Quell Reaping was all a trick to get us back here. We know we're gonna die." 

Kloppmann grunts, but he doesn't deny it. "So you decided might as well piss him off more before ya go?" he shoots over his shoulder. 

"Pretty much," Jack agrees with a smirk. 

"Youse getting as bad as him, ya know," Kloppmann directs at Jack. "Mouthy upstarts, the both'a ya." 

"Awh, ya flatter me," says Jack, clapping a hand over his heart dramatically. When Davey can't stifle his giggle at the theatrics, Jack squeezes his hand and winks playfully. 

Snorting, Kloppmann shakes his head. He glances at Davey, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Youse gonna do that same trick you pulled in the test last year, huh?"

Last year, when called in for his demonstration to the council, Davey had pointedly refused to participate. "No reason to start playing along now." 

"You too, I'm bettin'," Kloppmann says to Jack. It's obviously rhetorical, so Jack just grins. "Gods, youse impossible. Just-" Their Mentor pauses right outside the hall doors, turning to fix them with a stern, shrewd look, and he lowers his voice slightly, "couldja try and not tick 'em off so bad you get yourselves killed straight outta the gate? Ain't gonna make your point if you ain't around to make it." 

Davey eyes the older man appraisingly, once again struck by the thought that something is going on that he doesn't understand. That there's more to this man than he lets people see. "Don't worry, we're not planning on dying right away," Davey says. "We might not be winning, but we're gonna stick in there as long as we can, if only 'cause it'll drive Pulitzer up the wall." 

Kloppmann gives a wry chuckle, fidgeting with the pocket where he carries his flask without pulling it out. "Fair 'nough. Go give 'em hells, then." 

The testing center waiting room looks exactly the way Davey remembers, a bland, white room lined with hard, plastic chairs. Half of the Tributes are already there. A few are staggered around the room, but a surprising number of them are sitting in a row along one wall. It only takes Davey a second to realize that they are all Tributes who have agreed to join them, with the Brooklyn pair at the end closest to the door, two empty chairs left open beside them. 

"Hey fellas," Racer greets cheerfully. "How's it?" 

Davey grins as his eyes pan down the line of Tributes. "Encouraging," he answers. Spot huffs a quiet laugh, smirking up at Davey. "Saved us a seat?" 

"Course," Racer says, patting the chair beside him. Davey sits, and Jack takes the chair on his other side. "Not a bad showin' so far," Racer notes, glancing down the row. Even as he's doing this, the Richmond Tributes arrive. The younger one, Finch, takes one look at them before he drops down into the next seat at the end of the row, on the other side of the Tributes from Queens. 

"Got a game plan?" Spot asks, raising an eyebrow. 

"For the testing?" Davey clarifies in surprise. "Not really. I mean, it's not like the Districts get to see it, so it didn't feel important." 

Spot shrugs. "Districts ain't the only ones we're sending a message to though, is it?" Davey opens his mouth and then snaps it shut, turning that statement over in his head. He's known that the other Tributes are with them on the idea of standing as a united front inside the Games, but he never considered that they'd do it even before. "You two just testing like normal?" 

"We're not testing at all," answers Jack. 

Both Brooklyn Tributes stare at him in shock. "So wait, you're just gonna do - what? Not show up?" 

"Nah, just tell 'em we're not gonna test," Jack explains. "Go in and tell 'em 'no' and then leave. It's what Dave did last year too." 

"You what?" the man on Spot's other side leans forward so he can see down the row, expression awed. Davey recognizes him as the younger Tribute from Harlem. "You mean you didn't test? But they gave you a ten." 

Davey smirks wryly. "That's why they did it," he admits. "I pissed them off, so they gave me a ten to make everyone else want to kill me more." 

Spot barks a laugh. "I like it," he says with a decisive nod. "Sounds good." 

"You mean you're gonna-?" Jack starts, then breaks off when a Capitol official steps through the doors. The woman in the crisp white uniform simply gazes around the room, counting them off to make sure everyone is present, and then she slips out. The door latches behind her with a loud click that makes Davey sure it's locked. 

A cold voice seems to descend from the ceiling, saying, "Sean Conlon - Brooklyn." 

Spot stands and nods, and then he strides briskly to the door set in the opposite wall that Davey knows leads to the testing center. "Is he seriously gonna refuse the test too?" Davey asks in surprise, glancing at Racer. 

There's an almost proud smile on the blond's face when he responds, "Spot don't do nothing by halves." Racer clears his throat. "And neither do I. It's a good idea. Give those Capitol bastards something to think about. They can't go giving all of us tens, folks'll know something's up." 

"So long as it doesn't provoke them into murdering us the moment the Games start," Jack points out with a frown. 

"And you don't think that'll look suspicious too?" Racer counters. "What're they gonna do, blow the pedestals right when the countdown ends? That'd definitely make people figure something's up." 

"Doesn't mean they won't find other ways to do it," says Davey. "Give us just long enough to get moving and then spring a trap." He bites his lip. "But at least by then, we'd be all together. It still gives us time to show that we're planning to work together in this." 

From above them, "Antonio Higgins - Brooklyn." 

"See ya on the other side, boys," Racer says, saluting them as he stands. 

"So that's the plan?" the Harlem Tribute asks, leaning across the empty seats so he doesn't have to shout. "Just walk out? Oh, name's Mark, by the way, but everyone calls me Hotshot."

"Nice to meet you," Davey says distractedly. "And yeah, I guess so, if you guys want to." 

Hotshot nods, and then he turns away to whisper the plan to the guy next to him. Davey watches in awe as the word gets passed down the row of Tributes, and several of them look his way to nod in agreement. Jack chuckles and sets a hand on Davey's leg. "Looks like youse even better at this rebellion thing than you thought," he says. 

"I guess so," Davey says breathlessly. 

There are eleven of them in total, including Jack and Davey. More than half of the Tributes joined together on their side, all of them marching to the doors with fierce, defiant expressions. It makes Davey's heart pound, a bizarre blend of pride and nausea at the understanding that these people are following him. That these people have placed their faith in him and Jack, and they're going to follow his lead, no matter where it takes them. 

Lost in his thoughts, Davey startles when someone slips into the open seat vacated by Racer. When he glances up to find Alan, the middle-aged Tribute from Flushing, sitting there, Davey blinks in surprise. "Alan, hey," Davey greets. The man's lips are drawn, a look of intense concentration on his face. "You okay?" 

"I want my son to be proud of me," Alan says, voice pitched low so only Davey can hear. "I want him to remember me and not think I'm a coward." His gaze is hard and piercing when he meets Davey's eyes. "You were right, and looks like lots of folks know it too." 

"Including you?" Davey asks hopefully. 

Alan takes a deep breath. "Including me." 

Davey grins and offers out a hand. "Welcome to the Newsboys." That makes Alan snort in amusement, but he shakes Davey's hand. Jack squeezes Davey's knee encouragingly, and he beams when Davey looks over at him. 

That makes twelve of them now. Twelve of the twenty Tributes who are refusing to bow to the rules—who believe that there is a better way, and it's time to stop allowing corruption to continue. Twelve Tributes to make sure the whole world knows their story. 

"Saw your interview," Alan says, propping his elbows on his knees so he can see both Davey and Jack. "Was somethin' special. That Denton didn't know what to do." Honestly, Davey's got a sneaking suspicion that Denton knew precisely what he was doing. It's just the why that Davey can't figure out. 

"And I, uh - I'm glad you two could do that 'fore we go in," the older man adds, nodding toward the cuffs on their wrists. He rubs at the thin silver bands on his own arms. "S'one the only things keeping me sane, knowin' that when it's her time, my girl's gonna find me 'gain." 

"Alan Kasprzak - Flushing." 

Davey and Alan exchange quick, tight looks, and the man stands, drying his palms on his pants. "May the odds," Jack offers, and Alan returns it with a tense smile. Still, the older man stands a little taller when he crosses to the door. 

"You were right," Jack says, slipping an arm around Davey. "He came 'round." 

"I had a feeling," says Davey. He sighs and leans into Jack's side. "Knowing there's someone back home looking up to you can be a pretty strong motivator." 

Jack presses a warm kiss to his temple. "Les is proud of ya, Dave. You know it." 

"I know," Davey says, nodding. "Just wish it didn't have to be for this." There's really nothing more they can say to that, so they lapse into quiet, absorbing the comfort of being close. 

One by one, the Tributes are called into the testing center, until, finally- "Jack Kelly - Manhattan." 

Davey cups Jack's cheek and pulls him in for a kiss, strengthening his own resolve as much as offering support to Jack. "I love you," Davey whispers against his mouth when they part, foreheads still touching and hands lingering. 

"Love you too, Dave," Jack says with that same gloriously beatific smile he always gets when he says it. "I'll wait for ya on the other side, 'kay?" 

"See you soon," Davey agrees. 

Jack sneaks one more quick kiss, then stands and heads for the door, leaving Davey alone in the echoing quiet of the empty waiting room. Just like last year.

Davey can remember it all vividly, the burning, acidic rage and frustration as he sat alone in this same chamber. It was a different kind of anger - furious that he was being forced to sacrifice himself just to keep his brother alive - but there's a part that's still the same. Davey didn't want to hurt the other Tributes, felt no reason that he should have to kill them except that the Capitol was making him.

(Didn't stop you from doing it, did it? the dark voice in the back of his mind reminds him. Five lives by your hands.) 

This time, mixed with that resistance to killing people who don't deserve it, there's a new kind of righteous fury. It's bad enough that all of these people have been forced through the Games once. To send them back, even after they've done what the Capitol asked and thought they were finally safe, is a whole new level of cruelty. All because the president is afraid of what might happen if the people challenge him. All because he's scared that if people actually listen to Davey and Jack, he might lose his power. 

So this time, Davey's not being defiant for just himself. He's going to stand up for an entire nation of people who are tired of being walked on and treated like less. A country of children who grow up in constant fear that it'll be their name that comes out of the lottery this year. A nation of parents who pray they only ever have daughters just so they can avoid the possibility of having to watch their child die on the holo-screen. 

"David Jacobs - Manhattan." 

Chin raised and spine straight, Davey marches into the testing center. It's the same as well, the large room laid with an assortment of tasks the Tributes can use to show off their skill, with a balcony above for the Gamemaker's committee to watch. Except for this year, strangely, there's only one figure up there. Davey's seen him on the holo-screen interviews, but he's even more unsettling in person. 

Mr. Snyder is the replacement for last year's Gamemaker, who died of 'mysterious circumstances' after the Games ended. The man is tall and imposing, wearing a sleek, black suit. His bristling mustache curls up slightly at the tips. Angular black tattoos on his face are embellished by scarlet gemstones inlaid in his skin that give him a menacing, feral look. 

"Mr. Jacobs," the man says, and his voice is slick as a snake, rolling over Davey like machine oil. "I must say, I expected insubordination from you and your partner, but it seems that you've spread your false ideals like a plague, haven't you?" 

"It's a false ideal to believe that hundreds of children dying for the entertainment of the Capitol is a bad thing?" Davey replies cooly, raising an eyebrow. 

Snyder leans forward, gripping the rail of the balcony with long, spidery fingers. "You've never understood the purpose of the Games, stupid child," he says with an expression of mocking sympathy. "It's not entertainment. It's a reminder of what comes from dissent. Do you know how many lives were lost in the Fall? How much destruction and pain it caused? Our entire nation was once as glorious and powerful as the Capitol until the Districts fell out of line. Now they reap their rewards." 

Davey scoffs. "We don't need the Games to suffer," he says. "A person like you could never understand the way it feels to grow up in an outer District. You live here, in your golden towers, and never have to work a day in your life. You sit here and get fat off the luxuries that our Districts are forced to produce for you just so we can afford to eat. So don't tell me that we don't already pay the price for something that happened before even our grandparents were born." 

"You are a fool," Snyder says with a click of his tongue. "And anyone who follows you will learn very swiftly that you are nothing but a troublemaker and a criminal." 

"Then why is the president so determined to kill me?" Davey shoots back. "He's afraid of me because he knows I'm right." 

The smile that spreads across Snyder's face is cruel and wicked, the embedded stones glistening slick as blood, and it sends a shiver through Davey. "Oh silly child, this isn't about you at all," he says. "This is just the fates—the will of the gods. They wanted to see you punished." He gestures toward the door. "So may the odds be ever in your favor, Mr. Jacobs." 

Returning the sneer with a dangerous one of his own, Davey answers, "And you as well."

Jack and Davey lounge together in their preferred window seat that evening, talking quietly and trying to ignore the low volume of the holo-screen in the wall that's playing an interview of the Gamemaker. The scores of the testing will be announced soon, which is the only reason it's on at all. Davey's curious to see how the Gamemaker handles so many people refusing to test. 

"Where's Katherine?" Jack asks curiously, glancing at the clock. 

Kloppmann, slumped in the armchair near the holo-screen, scoffs loudly. "Ain't her babysitter," he drawls and goes back to staring into the depths of his whiskey glass. 

"Weird she's not here," Davey says, ignoring the mentor. He turns more into Jack's side, making himself comfortable in the curve of his arm. "She's been gone a lot this year, don't you think? I feel like last year we couldn't get her to leave us alone, and now it's a surprise if we see her at all in a day." 

"Capitol folk," Jack murmurs, rolling his eyes. Then he smirks. "Think she's got a fella?" 

Davey laughs. "Really, you think that's why she's gone all the time?" he asks, amused. 

"I know if I had to choose 'tween a job and seein' you," Jack trails off deliberately, and Davey blushes, ducking his face into Jack's shoulder. The younger man giggles, kissing Davey's temple. "Makes more sense than any other ideas I'se come up with," he finishes. 

"Ya both are idiots," Kloppmann mutters. They continue to ignore him. 

Just as the anthem begins to play on the holo-screen, signaling the change in program, the penthouse door opens, and Medda enters, followed immediately by Katherine. "So sorry," Katherine says, a bit breathlessly. "Meeting ran late. Really, some people have no sense of punctuality." 

"Has it begun yet?" Medda asks, her eyes darting to the holo-screen. "Oh good, we didn't miss it." She and Katherine settle down on the sofa, and Medda glances over her shoulder at the boys. "You going to join us?" 

"We can see from here," Jack responds, grinning, and curls Davey closer to his side. Medda rolls her eyes fondly and turns back to the screen. Davey exhales and twines his hand with Jack's in their laps; truthfully, with the Games beginning tomorrow, they're clinging to what comforts they can find. 

On the screen, Denton smiles broadly while he explains the way the scoring works - each Tribute rated on a scale of one to ten by their skill levels. "However, this year, since we have a very different type of Tributes," the announcer goes on, "there is truly no point in scoring them, right? After all, you have already seen them in action. So instead, let's recap each Victor's most impressive moments. Starting with the most recent Victors-"

Davey's brain turns to static when the screen suddenly changes to show him on top of last year's Cornucopia.

On the holo-screen, his scarred face is panicked while Oscar Delancey uses Jack as a human shield. Davey's jaw locks, and in a flurry, he hurls his throwing knife into the back of the Brooklyn Tribute's hand, making Oscar drop Jack as he howls in pain. Jack's scream splits the air when Delancey swings down at him, that high, piercing shriek that haunts Davey's nightmares. Then, before Oscar can regain his balance, Davey shoves him off the Cornucopia into the waiting stampede of Bulls below. 

The screen switches, and now it's a view of Davey fighting the younger Delancey brother, a frantic struggle that ends with Davey spearing a blade up through Morris' heart. 

Now Jack, hand scrabbling over the ground until it finds a heavy gleaming knife (the same knife that later took his arm, Davey notes in some distant, detached part of his mind.) Jack rolls to pin his opponent to the ground before slitting his throat. 

Then Davey again, face twisted up in a furious, animal rage as he drives the point of a wooden spear down through the back of the Richmond Tribute that killed Smalls. 

"No," Davey moans, shaking with horror as he watches his crimes play out before his eyes. It's bad enough to have these moments assault him in his sleep, but this? To have them projected out to the world in a morbid highlight reel like they are a triumph, some grand feat to be celebrated? "No, no, no..."

Jack's hands suddenly cup his face, forcing Davey to turn away from the holo-screen and meet his eyes. "Don't look, Davey," Jack says firmly, his own face pale and his left hand trembling against Davey's jaw. "Don't look at it." Even as he says it, the Jack on the screen snarls, and there's a sickening wet crunch that makes the Jack of now recoil.

(Davey's heard Jack talk about that death before, a bloody fight right at the start of the Games while Tributes struggled to claim the Cornucopia. When Jack was tackled by another Tribute, the only weapon Jack could get his hands on was a large rock that was quickly given a new home in the other boy's skull. It's the one nightmare besides losing his arm that never fails to make Jack scream himself awake, and it usually leaves him out-of-sorts for a day or two after.)

The sounds cut off abruptly, the holo-screen going dark over the scene of Davey scrambling for a weapon while being strangled by a Bronx Tribute. "What a cruel, horrid thing," Medda seethes, and she actually throws the remote at the wall in anger. It cracks and falls to the floor in a rainfall of plastic and glass. "What an absolutely terrible-" 

"I can't-" Davey squeezes his eyes shut. His stomach twists and his lungs won't work. "I need-" His guts clench, lurching, and Davey shoves himself out of Jack's grip. 

Davey stumbles getting off the bench, sprinting through his bedroom to the en suite. He barely gets to his knees by the toilet in time for the contents of his stomach to resurface. Davey grasps the glossy porcelain as he vomits up everything inside of him with a force that feels like his organs are trying to escape as well. Wracked with seizures, his nausea refuses to calm until he's dry-heaving, nothing left but sour strings of acid hanging from his lips.  

By the time his stomach finally stops contracting painfully, dark spots are blotting his vision from lack of air, and Davey is quivering so badly he can't stay upright any longer. He slumps against the side of the bathtub, sobbing. It's only with the brush of damp fabric on his cheek that Davey notices Jack's voice over the sound of his choked breaths. Jack whispers soft reassurances as he gingerly cleans the lingering sick off Davey's face. 

When he's done, Jack pulls Davey into his lap and cradles him close. Davey sobs again and curls into Jack, burying his face in Jack's shoulder as he cries. "I'm so sorry, Dave, I'm sorry," Jack mutters nonsensically into the side of Davey's neck. "That weren't fair, they never should'a - I should'a stopped it faster. M'sorry, love, I'm so sorry." 

Davey shudders and holds Jack tighter, trying to offer comfort as well because he can hear Jack's tears. Like so many nights, they cling to each other when they feel like their minds are shattering to pieces beneath the onslaught of memories. 

It's the most merciless punishment the president could've come up with, forcing them to rewatch their darkest moments. Davey has no doubt the reverse order was chosen so they'd have no chance to turn away before it was too late. At least all of the other Districts will have the opportunity to turn the holo-screen off before it's their turn. No, this was staged to hit Davey and Jack the hardest, the president's way of reminding them that he is the one in control. 

And that for all of their talk of peace and unity between the Districts, it didn't stop Davey and Jack from killing before. 

(Five lives - five boys - five murders.)

"That sonuvabitch," Jack growls into Davey's skin, his fingers practically clawing into Davey's back with how hard he's holding Davey to him. "That dirty, fuckin' rattlesnake." 

"Doesn't matter," Davey chokes out without lifting his forehead from the curve of Jack's shoulder. "Doesn't matter 'cause we're still gonna win." He has to believe it; it's the only thing they have left anymore. Davey needs to believe that this plan will work because otherwise, he's losing everything for nothing. 

"We'll show him," Davey murmurs breathlessly. "They'll all see. We'll show him." Over and over and over again like a mantra, a desperate prayer that their lives count for something in the end, until his voice breaks back into sobs. 

Davey loses track of time as they sit together on the bathroom floor, wrapped so tightly around each other that it's impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. No one comes to check on them, obviously recognizing that they need their space—or maybe it's just because none of them have anything to say that would help. Maybe they know that there's nothing that could ease this hurt.

A few minutes after they finally run out of tears, eyes burning and chests aching, Davey carefully extracts himself from Jack's arms. Jack watches him, bloodshot eyes confused, but Davey just holds out a hand to help him up. If they're about to spend their last night together - at least their last private night - Davey doesn't want to do it on the hard marble floor. 

Davey pauses at the sink just long enough to rinse the bitter taste from his mouth, and then he walks with Jack into the dark bedroom. They undress silently and slide beneath the covers before immediately coiling together again. Tonight, there are no passionate kisses, no desperate, fiery touches. Tonight, they just hold each other as close as possible in the forgiving darkness. The only sound besides their breathing is the soft whisper of digital wind ruffling leaves from the scenic holo-screen in the wall. 

If Davey lets himself forget what's coming in the morning, the moment is almost pleasant.

"Hope this's what the After's like," Jack whispers against Davey's cheek, mirroring Davey's thoughts in that way he always can somehow. "Maybe they gots a good view of the stars for us, ya think?" 

Davey hiccups, a weak, aborted noise that can't decide if it's a laugh or sob. He brushes his knuckles along Jack's jaw before reaching down to thread their hands together between their chests. "Maybe," he agrees softly. "Or maybe it'll look like that place you told me, the one your mom talked about, with the land made of color and the giant moon." He exhales. "But whatever it is, we'll be together. You and me, right?" 

Jack manages the tiniest flash of a smile. When he presses that last few centimeters forward to kiss Davey, the movement makes their union bands click together. "You and me, togetha, all the way to the end."

The hovercraft that carries them to the Arena is black and armored, a military machine designed for efficiency more than aesthetics. Inside is polished steel, a massive, reinforced door separating the Tributes from the pilot crew. A row of seats runs down either side of the cabin, each outfitted with a complex array of straps and buckles that are there more to detain the Tributes as to protect them during transport. 

Davey sighs and squeezes his eyes shut as he listens to the hum of the engines. In the seat beside him, Jack twists his arm as much as he can beneath the straps to brush his fingers against Davey's. When Jack manages to link their little fingers together, Davey glances sideways to smile fondly—even as his heart aches because it's Jack's right hand, and he won't really be able to feel the contact. 

"Arm." The Capitol medic who's been making a round of the Tributes stops in front of Davey pointedly. She doesn't give him time to comply on his own, seizing his forearm and twisting even when his union band catches against the straps. The medic wastes no time in pressing an injector gun to the soft skin of his inner arm. Even though he's expecting it, the painful intrusion of the Gamemaker's tracking device being blasted through his flesh still makes Davey hiss. Uncaring, the medic glances at her digiscreen to confirm the tracker is online and then moves on. 

"Ar-" The medic pauses as soon as she grips Jack's forearm, her brow furrowing, and Jack laughs. 

"What, didn't they warn ya 'bout the robot arm?" Jack asks, smirking. "Good luck gettin' your li'l gun to shoot through all that metal." Somewhere from down the row, Davey hears a snort of laughter that he's pretty sure belongs to Racer.

The medic scowls at him disapprovingly and doesn't respond. Instead, she grabs Jack's other wrist, twisting it forcefully until she can press the injector against his left forearm. "Rude," Jack says through gritted teeth, flexing his hand to shake off the pain of the tracker settling beneath his skin. "Could've least said 'please' first." 

Davey bites back a laugh at this, casting an amused look at Jack. "Some people have no manners," he jokes in a faux-whisper. 

"You'd think they's raised in a barn or something," Jack replies, huffing. There are another few chuckles from the other Tributes. The medic doesn't respond, but her features are tight where she's injecting a tracker into Hotshot's arm. 

"Ain't an excuse," Finch tosses in from opposite them, grinning. "I did grow up in a barn, and even I know please and thanks." 

"Them cows learned ya good," Jack says approvingly, sending the other Tributes into snickers again. 

Finch shrugs and smirks. "They get real bossy if you don't listen. Ach'lly, they's bossy when you do listen too." 

"Sounds like my ma," Racer says with a giggle. 

"Your ma's a cow?" Hotshot asks in mock surprise. Racer makes a rude hand gesture, but he's laughing along with the rest. 

"Quiet!" the peacekeeper standing guard at the door snaps. 

Jack blows a loud raspberry at him. "Oh, shaddup, wouldja? We's dyin' soon, let us have a laugh while we got it. If it bothers you that much, pretend we ain't real like the rest you Capitol folks do." The peacekeeper doesn't respond except by faintly tightening his grip on his gun. Exchanging glances with Davey, Jack smirks triumphantly. 

"So how's that robot arm thing work, anyway?" the younger Tribute from Queens, Boots, asks curiously. He's a hulking dark-skinned boy a year or two older than Davey, with his hair shaved except for a narrow trail that runs down the center of his skull to end in a long tail. Most of the time he looks a bit intimidating, his squared features hard and unyielding, but right now, his eyes are bright with genuine curiosity. "Got super strength or somethin'?" 

"A li'l bit," Jack agrees, beaming. "Nothin' crazy, but got a pretty good grip with it." 

"Hurts like a bitch ta' get hit with," one of the men from Bronx says with a laugh. "Caught me in the shoulder when we was sparring. My whole fuckin' hand went numb a sec." 

It's a strange sense of camaraderie as the Tributes chat and trade banter, entirely unlike the last time Davey rode to the Arena. Last year, everyone was tense and withdrawn and quiet, not meeting anyone else's eyes and mentally sizing up their opponents. This year, more than half of the Tributes are talking playfully, alternating between peppering each other with questions and throwing around teasing remarks. Davey even sees the Brighton Tribute that turned down the alliance crack a secret smile more than once. 

As the medic and peacekeeper both shift uncertainly at the head of the cabin when another peal of laughter rolls through the Tributes, Davey hopes this story makes it to the president too. Let Pulitzer know that they refuse to go into this afraid the way he wants them to be. Let him hear that these men are going to enter the Arena as a team and as friends.

Unloading and escorting the Tributes at the Arena is a time-consuming and frankly excessive ordeal, each of them taken off the hover one at a time and flanked by a group of armed peacekeepers. The Arena entrance is a long, barren hallway lined with doors that have no visible markings, as far as Davey's been able to figure out. The lack of signs doesn't seem to affect the peacekeepers, who just shepherd him to one of the twenty nondescript doors without hesitation and open it with a palm scan. 

The room beyond the door is the same as Davey remembers: the blank white cube is broken up only by the enormous glass tube in the center of the room, a few feet in diameter, and stretching from floor to ceiling. Apart from that, there's no furniture, no ornamentation, nothing except a lone figure leaning against the far wall. 

"Hey, Kloppmann," Davey greets as he steps into the room. The door slides closed behind him with a near-silent click. It surprises him when the Mentor promptly pushes up off the wall and crosses the room at a brisk pace. Kloppmann's face is drawn as he lifts the bundle of fabric draped over his arm and shakes it out. "A jacket?" 

"Miss Medda made it for ya," Kloppmann says, holding it up pointedly. Davey's brow furrows, but he slides his arms through the sleeves. "Might be useful in there." 

Davey surveys the Mentor's face suspiciously. "Kloppmann, what's going on?" 

"Just doing my job," Kloppmann responds. "Someone gotta see you off, right? Medda's with Jack, but she wanted me to tell ya," he grips the collar of the jacket and smooths it down deliberately, "that she made this jacket special to keep ya safe." Although his tone is light, Kloppmann's gaze is sharp and calculated, boring straight through Davey. "And Miss Katherine, she wanted to say, hope you keep her close to your heart in there," the Mentor adds, tapping Davey's chest. 

Frowning, Davey touches the spot Kloppmann poked and startles when he feels something shift beneath the fabric. He can't tell what it is, but there's something thin stitched into the left breast of the jacket, trapped between the layers of fabric. Days of suspicions and questions snap together, and Davey realizes why Kloppmann's acting so weird. 

They really were up to some secret plan of their own. 

Davey licks his lips, and he darts a quick glance around the room. He can't see any cameras, but he knows better than most that just because he can't see them doesn't mean they aren't there. These rooms are never projected as part of the Games, but that doesn't mean the Capitol isn't still watching them right now. 

Plastering on a fake smile, Davey nods. "I will," he agrees. "Thank them both for me?" 

"Sure thing, kid," Kloppmann says. "Give my best to Jack." He grips Davey's shoulders, his bony fingers digging in sharply, and meets Davey's eyes. "And maybe if youse lucky, sun'll rise on something better for you." 

Davey swallows, trying to make sense of that cryptic statement, but before he can say anything, a loud hiss of pressurized air makes him jump. A panel on the large glass tube slides open, and Davey knows what that means. It's time. Kloppmann gives him a small shove. Davey hugs the jacket tighter around his body before he steps in to stand on the circular metal platform at the base of the tube - the tube that will carry him into the Arena.

"Kloppmann," Davey says, interrupted when the pane of glass abruptly seals over again, trapping him inside the perfect cylinder. Davey presses a palm to the glass, meeting the Mentor's shrewd gaze. "Thank you for everything you've done for us. For me and Jack. I know I don't always act like it, but I really do appreciate it." 

"Don't mention it, kid," Kloppmann responds with a tight smile, the lines around his eyes softening. "Just give 'em hells. And when you see-"

The door to the room opens again, and Davey's stomach turns over when three peacekeepers filter into the room. Two of them take up posts beside the door, while the third steps forward to square off with Kloppmann. "What's happening?" Davey snaps at the peacekeepers, but their blacked-out visors give away nothing. This isn't normal; this didn't happen last year.

Davey's heart lurches when the platform beneath his feet hums, preparing to lift him into the Arena. "No, wait, what're you doing?" he says desperately. "What's going on?" Davey throws his shoulder against the glass, putting all of his weight into it, but the panel doesn't give.

"Don't worry 'bout me, kid," Kloppmann says, eyes gleaming viciously. The center peacekeeper lifts his rifle, bracing it against his shoulder. Kloppmann barely spares the weapon a glance before returning his gaze to Davey and punching a fist in the air. "Newsboys uni-"

The end of Kloppmann's sentence is drowned out by echoing blasts of gunfire that tangle with Davey's scream. Blood sprays across the glass. With a malevolent hiss, the platform rockets Davey up into darkness before Kloppmann's body can hit the ground.

They killed him. He's dead. They killed him.

The thoughts cycle inside Davey's head, an endless whirlwind that repeats over and over until the words start to blur together. Against the darkness of the tube shaft, he can see it playing out before his eyes on a loop. 

(Kloppmann's face twisted with a blend of defiance and resignation; the blank, black visor of the peacekeeper's helmet as the faceless man sighted down his rifle; the holes tearing through Kloppmann's shirt as his body arched forward from the impact of bullets, so many bullets, far more than necessary; the abstract splatters of scarlet cast over the glass in front of Davey, lifeblood spilled like raindrops across the tube face.)

They killed Kloppmann, and it's Davey's fault. They killed him for trying to help Davey. And Kloppmann isn't the only one who was trying to help; Medda and Katherine are involved too. Gods, Medda was supposed to be seeing Jack off. What if they got to her too? What if they gave her the same treatment, murdered her in front of Jack's eyes in a pointed display? And what about Katherine? Where is she, and have they got to her too? 

Has Davey gotten all these people murdered just so he can make a statement? 

Davey yelps as the platform beneath him lurches to a stop. Although he doesn't remember doing it, his legs must've given out at some point because he's kneeling on the metal circle. It's probably the only thing that saves him from staggering off the pedestal to his death. His arms are wrapped so tightly around his middle that his ribs protest, his lungs fighting to pull in air to combat the rising panic. 

But there's something wrong - well, something else wrong, aside from everything else already wrong. The tube is supposed to carry him up into the Arena. He vividly remembers the feeling last year when the platform emerged into the blinding sunlight of the Arena; that moment of disorientation as he looked around and saw the playground that the Gamemakers had crafted for their deaths. 

Except the world around Davey is still pitch black. 

He's no longer in the tube, he can tell that much. Davey can feel the change in the air, the flow of it around him now that he's no longer encased inside the cylinder of glass. That's the only thing he can tell, though, because everything else is darkness. The black is all-consuming, suffocating, to the point that Davey can't see his own hands in front of his face. 

Ten...Nine...Eight...

The countdown is achingly loud, an echo that comes at Davey from every direction at once, and his heart twists. Is this their ploy? Are they going to make them fight to the death in the dark? No sight of the world around them or who might be coming or what trap they might unknowingly blunder into? 

Seven...Six...

Davey's heart is hammering so hard it's making him nauseous. Shaking, he curls his arms closer to his body and feels something hard dig into his ribs. His union bands, the edges of the gold circlets jabbing into his skin. The pain grounds him, a little, and lets him push some of his thoughts back into the moment. 

Five...Four...

Gods above, he's not prepared for this. In all of the plans and ideas they'd been working on over the last few days, he never anticipated something like this world of black. And where are the others? The Games have always begun in a center amphitheater, surrounding the Cornucopia that provides weapons and supplies to the ones strong enough to take them. 

Three...

How is their alliance supposed to join up if they can't find each other in the dark? 

"Jack!" Davey shouts. The only response he gets is an echo of his own voice, cold and flat against his ears. 

Two...

"Jack? Anybody? Hello?" 

One...

The gong sounds at the exact same time that the world suddenly goes white. Davey gasps and throws his arm over his eyes, shielding himself from the light. A part of him instinctively panics at being left so vulnerable at the start of the Games, knowing that they're always a bloodbath, but he can't hear anyone around him. Can't hear much of anything, really, just an empty, unnatural silence in the wake of the gong. 

Blinking furiously while his eyes adjust, Davey squints through his lashes and tries to get an idea of his surroundings. Metal. He frowns - that doesn't seem right - but the more his vision comes into focus, the more he sees of it. In front of him is nothing but sleek, plated steel. A solid metal wall, and a door. 

Straightening up, Davey turns in a circle, and he finds the same thing on every side. He's inside of some square metal room, with no distinguishing marks on any of the four walls, and in the center of each is a simple steel door with no handles. 

And Davey is entirely alone. 

Skin crawling, Davey takes a tentative step down off the pedestal. He walks toward the door in front of him, and as soon as he gets close, the sheet of metal glides sideways with a hiss. Automatic doors, then, proximity triggered. Davey stays close to the doorframe and peers around the corner to see what lies beyond. 

A hallway, as bleak and cold and metal as the room. Nothing defining, nothing to give any indication, except for the occasional shadows caused by secondary paths branching off either side. 

A pit forms in Davey's stomach as a sneaking suspicion sets in, and he darts to the door on the righthand side of the room. Sure enough, when it slides open, there's another empty hallway dotted with sporadic side corridors. The same beyond the third door and the same beyond the fourth. 

Exhaling wearily, Davey leans his weight into the doorframe and grimaces. A maze. The Arena is a maze of steel halls—a labyrinth with no indicators of where to go, no discernible features to help navigate. And if he's guessing correctly, judging by how he entered the Arena, every Tribute is staggered around the maze, alone in their own little blank rooms. 

Davey snarls and punches the frame of the door angrily. How is their alliance supposed to stand together when they have no way to find each other, no way to know where the others are at? It makes Davey wonder if that's precisely why the Arena was crafted this way, to keep the Tributes apart. 

Did Pulitzer find out about their alliance and do this intentionally to stop them from joining up, or was this the plan all along? Separate them all, leave them stranded and alone and afraid? Pick them off one by one in a less conspicuous way? And keep the star-crossed Newsboys of Manhattan from banding together and becoming that united voice of resistance they've come to represent?

Well, there's nothing for it. Davey's not going to find anyone by sitting here and fuming. With no indication of what hall is better, he simply decides on the one in front of him now. Davey squares his shoulders and starts walking out into the labyrinth.

Another disadvantage of this Arena that Davey discovers as he roams down identical hallways is that everything is made of metal. This means, as far as he's seen, no water and no plant life and no animals. Davey knows how to keep himself alive in the wild, can track and hunt and trap. Jack's taught him a lot about plants, about how to tell which are edible and which are poisonous. If there was water, Davey's sure he could follow the sounds of it echoing off the flat steel. 

Except there's nothing but silence.

How are the Tributes supposed to keep themselves alive in here? Or is that part of the plan too? A test of whether they can kill off their opponents before the hunger kills them? 

Davey doubts it; it would hardly make for an exciting show if they're all just stumbling around, starving, until they somehow manage to cross paths. Pulitzer's biggest priority, aside from eliminating Jack and Davey, is giving the people a memorable show that erases all thoughts of the fledgling whispers of rebellion. There's got to be more to the plan here. 

Whatever the plan, there's no escaping the hollow ache that's starting to form in Davey's stomach. The hunger isn't too bad yet, nothing compared to what he's dealt with in the past, but he knows it will only get worse. More pressing is the faint dryness in his mouth and throat, his thirst making its presence known. He can survive a few days without food, but water is another story.

Davey wanders down halls, glancing down each fork that he passes in hopes of seeing something different. With no way to navigate or keep track of where he's been, Davey just tries to keep walking straight as much as he can. There are a few places where he runs into a hall that ends in a T, with two branches stretching out from either side. Whenever that happens, he alternates sides - left the first time, right the second - in the hopes it keeps him moving relatively forward. 

Forward towards what, he has no idea.

There's no way to tell time, and the only indicator of how long he's been walking is the faint weariness in his legs. He's not as active as he was back when he worked in the factories, but Davey still spends a lot of time walking around the District, and he knows how far he can go before he starts to get tired. 

Of course, the fact that he's tense as a bowstring might be causing a bit of that exhaustion too. In the Games, nothing happening is a death omen. Whenever the action gets too slow, when the show starts to get boring, that's when the Gamemakers come out to play. That's what trapped Davey in the middle of a wildfire or led to a herd of Great Bulls being set on them. 

Davey doesn't want to imagine what sort of horrors could be hidden behind the blank metal walls. 

No sooner has the thought crossed his mind than an earth-shaking boom rends through the air, vibrating in the walls. Davey winces because he knows that sound. A cannon—the first Tribute dead. 

Heart clenching painfully, Davey twists a union band around his wrist as he keeps walking. Please don't let it be Jack. Please let Jack be safe. Davey knows they aren't surviving this, but he doesn't want his last moment with Jack to be the hasty, desperate kiss they shared before the peacekeepers ripped Jack away to usher him off to the Arena access. 

"If we go down, we go down together," Davey murmurs to himself like a prayer. 

Davey's so distracted by his thoughts that he almost misses the slight difference in the metal down one of the branching hallways. Startled, he backpedals for a better look. It's a subtle change, but a few meters down the lefthand hall, there's an arching groove visible in the steel. Is that-?

Inching down the corridor, Davey's halfway there when his suspicions are confirmed. A door. Just like the doors in the starting room, this one is simple and smooth, a gliding panel with no knob or hinges. Davey steps in front of the door, and it slides open silently, the plane of steel disappearing into the wall. 

The room beyond doesn't look like the one Davey started in; there is only one other door, directly opposite him. It's a smaller space, more a closet than a room, and the two side walls are lined from floor to ceiling with shelves. Shelves that are holding supplies. 

"Thank the Gods," Davey breathes out as he steps inside to survey the contents of the shelves. So that's how the Gamemakers plan to help them survive. Instead of the rampant violence of the Cornucopia, one central location for all essential supplies, it seems like they've staggered these little closets throughout the maze. Secret caches that the Tributes will have to hunt down, if they're lucky enough to find them in the first place. 

Davey sorts through the supplies meticulously. There's noticeably a surplus of weapons in comparison to anything else. Davey shifts all of these to the back of their shelves and out of his way, piling the large knives and swords and bows back behind the more useful stuff. The only weapon he takes is a sturdy utility knife in a sheath, which he can strap to his calf—you can never go wrong with a good knife in any situation. 

He locates a large, well-made backpack, and he immediately snatches this. Opening it up, he starts picking the things that might be helpful and packing them inside. Several bags of dried foods; a pouch with steel and flint; a roll of bandages; a small tin cup. 

A few things he deliberates over, weighing their worth. Loops of twine and wire get left behind - those are most helpful in traps and snares, but there's nothing to hunt in this metal cage. After a long, internal argument, Davey finally tucks the pair of sturdy leather gloves into the bag; there's no weather here to combat, but something to protect his hands might not be a bad idea in case of danger.

Davey's just starting to lose hope when he stumbles across the sleek metal cylinder on one of the bottom shelves. It sloshes quietly when he picks it up, and he can't help the breathless laugh of relief. Davey twists the cap off the top and looks at the water lapping the metal. Taking a moment to sniff, just in case, Davey takes a cautious sip. The water is shockingly cold, almost painfully so, but it eases the itch in his throat. 

Grinning, Davey allows himself one more mouthful before he secures the cap back onto the bottle and tucks it inside the backpack. A thorough search of the other side of the room reveals three more pouches of food and another water canister, which all go into his bag. 

Davey shrugs the bag onto his shoulders, and something in his spine unwinds at the familiar weight of supplies at his back. This is something he knows. Being lost in this place with nothing but the clothes on his back was frightening and overwhelming; now, he's prepared. So Davey squares his shoulders and walks out of the door on the opposite end of the room, into yet one more echoing corridor of bare steel.

There's a second cannon blast a good mile or two after Davey leaves the supply closet. Once again, his hands jump immediately to touch his union bands. He knows it won't do anything - it's not like they'll light up or crumble into dust if Jack dies - but it's still somehow reassuring. Davey tells himself that if it were Jack behind that cannon, Davey would feel it inside. They're Bound, their souls tied into one; surely, if one half of that is taken away, the other would notice, right? 

It's the only hope Davey has to hold onto right now because otherwise, the worry would drive him mad. 

Of course, the endless sameness is already doing an excellent job of that. Seeing nothing but the same stretches of indistinguishable flat metal is making him restless and irritable. He has no way to track progress - no way to even know what progress is in this place - and there's no sense of time or distance. Nothing but the same walls and the same halls and the same bleak white lighting. 

Finally, the silence is too much, and when Davey reaches a four-way intersection, he stops short in the middle. Davey glances from one empty corridor to another, then fills his lungs and shouts, "Hello!" He waits a moment, hearing the sound of his voice echoing down the metal pathways. "Hello?" he calls out again. "Anyone there? Hello!"

Davey pauses and listens hopefully, praying for an answering voice. All he gets is silence. 

Sighing, Davey makes his way down the corridor in front of him, and at the next intersection, he tries again. The only voice he hears is his own rebounding back to him off the steel walls. He repeats this for the following few intersections, clinging to the hope that he has to stumble across someone eventually. The Gamemakers will want them to fight each other, so the Tributes have to cross paths at some point.

In the fifth intersection, Davey takes a breath to shout, but before he can say anything, the world seems to tilt under him. Davey gasps and stumbles, crashing into the nearby corner and grasping at the metal to stay upright. The ground lurches under him, pathways blurring and shifting as they spin around him, and Davey sucks in a breath that burns like fire in his lungs. It's only when he doubles over, coughing against the itch in his throat, that he figures it out. 

It's not the world spinning around him; it's his head that's spinning from the inside. 

When Davey manages to ease his coughing for a moment, he holds his breath and listens. There, barely perceptible, is a faint hissing sound. He glances upward, spotting tiny vents in the ceiling, and the answer clicks into place. Gas. They're pumping the area full of some gas that's making him dizzy. 

Another gush of air pulses out of the vents, vaguely violet-red, and Davey's stomach plummets when he recognizes it. Acid-air. The same poisonous gas that Davey released in the last Games to escape from other Tributes when he'd been cornered. Davey vividly remembers the way it burned until he was choking on every breath and the blisters that coated his skin as the gas ate at his flesh. The way it distorted his vision, turning ordinary shapes into hulking monsters and filling his head with whispers of voices that didn't exist.

Davey promptly tugs the collar of his shirt up over his nose, holding the fabric there to serve as a filter, and he shoves off the wall to start walking. It takes a minute for the vertigo to abate enough that he can move without staggering, but the moment he can, Davey breaks into a run. His lungs fill with fire, each breath painful, and there's an itch on his exposed skin. Black spots dance at the corners of his vision, but he knows he can't stop. Stopping now is death. He needs to get to fresh air. 

Crossing through an intersection, he spots a larger surge of magenta air come down from the vents ahead, and Davey hastily backpedals. He picks another corridor at random and keeps running. Every other breath makes him cough, scraping up his throat like sandpaper, and he knows he's not going to make it much further. He needs, at the least, to drink some water and catch his breath. 

Davey tears through another intersection, but halfway across, someone else steps out into the way, and Davey can't stop fast enough to prevent a collision. The impact sends them both sprawling across the floor, and Davey gasps desperately to regain the breath that was knocked out of him. Squinting through streaming eyes, Davey glances around to see who the other person is just as a deep voice says, "Davey?" 

"Spot," Davey responds, grateful, before falling into another fit of hacking coughs. 

The Brooklyn Tribute crawls over to his side, and Davey realizes why he didn't hear Davey's pounding footsteps coming: there are balls of fabric stuffed into his ears like plugs. Spot plucks them out, pausing like he's expecting to hear something else, and then places a hand on Davey's back reassuringly. 

"Gas," Davey rasps out between coughs. "Can you-?" He breaks off but points up to the vents in the ceiling. Davey holds his breath to silence his coughing so it's quiet enough to listen for the hissing sound. 

Spot cocks his head, frowning, as the quiet drags out. "Don't hear nothin'." 

Davey's sigh of relief turns into another cough, but he at least can breathe steadily enough that he can sit up now. Shrugging off his backpack, Davey digs out the canister of water and takes a grateful swallow, feeling it soothe the scratching inside his throat. "Acid-air," Davey explains hoarsely at Spot's questioning look and takes another sip. 

"Ouch," Spot hisses sympathetically. He tips his head, surveying Davey's face and hands, and nods. "Doesn't look like it burned ya much." 

"Wasn't thick," Davey agrees. He offers out the water, but Spot shakes his head. "Just enough to make breathing not fun." Spot smirks. The patches in Davey's vision are shrinking down to black pinpricks around the edges now that he's got fresh air in his lungs. "What's with-?" Davey gestures to his ears. 

"Siren-song," Spot answers. Davey's brow furrows in confusion. "S'a high-pitched sound ya can't really hear good, but it messes with your head. Sorta type of hypnosis, I guess. Makes you wanna do stuff. Had to block out the sound 'cause I started feeling like wanting to scratch my skin off." The older man tugs a sleeve up to show a layer of bright red scratches covering his forearm, overlapping each other and a few of them bleeding. 

"Gods above," Davey curses in horror, and his gaze drifts to Spot's hands. His fingers are smeared with blood, bright red beneath the tips of his fingernails. "I've never even heard of that before." 

Spot chuffs and pulls his sleeve back down. "Lucky I 'member seeing it in a Games before. Hotshot's year. Kid walked himself off a cliff." Davey grimaces, and his stomach lurches at the thought. Spot squeezes his shoulder and offers a hint of a smile. "S'good to see ya, kid." 

"You too," Davey says, returning the smile. "Seen anybody else?" 

"Not yet," says Spot. "Heard someone couple hours ago, but whoever it was, didn't stop when I yelled for 'em. Figure it must'a been one the fellas that ain't with us." Davey nods, taking a long, slow breath to make sure he can do it. "Can you walk?" Spot asks. "We should pro'lly move it 'fore they try somethin' else." 

Tucking his water back into his bag, Davey nods again. Spot stands and offers a hand to help Davey up. The world only wavers a little under his feet, and Davey forces another steadying breath until it goes away. "Okay, so, that way's a no," he says, pointing back the way he came, "and that way," he adds, gesturing to the hall Spot stepped out of, "so, this one?" 

Spot glances down the hall appraisingly and shrugs. "Worth a shot." He picks up a small knapsack that must've fallen off when they collided and swings it over his shoulder again. "After you, boss."

Davey and Spot walk for a couple of miles before they have to stop, both of them desperate for food and water. There's no making camp or anything in this place, so they just settle down in the middle of an intersection where they'll be able to see in every direction. "Weird ass Arena, ya think?" Spot says as he tears open a pouch of dried meat strips. 

"They separated us," Davey says tightly. He sighs, twisting a union band around his wrist. "They did this on purpose to keep us apart. All of us. Pulitzer must've found out about the alliance, and they did this to make sure we couldn't join up."

"Ain't gonna stop us," says Spot. "We still gonna show 'em." 

Davey takes a slow, shaky breath. "They murdered my Mentor," he admits. Spot startles and glances at him in surprise. "Right in front of me. They waited until I was in the tube, ready to go up, and then the peacekeepers shot him." 

"Hells below. Why-?"

"To make a point," Davey says grimly. "To remind me that he's not above killing the people close to me to shut me up. And he knew that Kloppmann was on my side." He touches the breast of his jacket, pressing down until he can feel the hidden something beneath the fabric, the secret they might've died for. Davey doesn't dare check it yet while the Capitol cameras are undoubtedly fixed on him. He won't risk the Capitol seeing whatever is hiding there. "What if he killed the others too, Medda and Katherine? What if he goes after my family? I can't do anything to protect them from in here." 

Spot scoots closer to his side and grips Davey's shoulder. "Your family's safe," he says, quiet but firm. When Davey raises an eyebrow, the Brooklyn man meets his gaze levelly, and he opens his mouth before frowning and snapping it shut again. Finally, he clears his throat and says, "They wouldn't dare touch your family right now when the whole world's watching." 

Nodding, Davey lets that belief console him for the moment. "There's been three cannons," he says, shifting his focus back to the task at hand. There'd been one more cannon not long after they met up, one more Tribute to lose their life. One of their own? 

"Jack's alright too," Spot says, smirking knowingly. "He's a stubborn ass. Ya know he wouldn't let himself get killed without makin' sure you're safe first." 

Davey huffs a weak laugh. "We need to find them," he says. "We need to get everyone together. I'm not letting Pulitzer take this away from us. We will show them all." Spot just nods like it goes without saying and offers a strip of his dinner to Davey. 

They sit in awkward silence for a few long minutes until the Anthem suddenly cuts through the air, echoing off the flat steel walls. Davey jumps in surprise, looking around. Random panels of the walls have switched abruptly to holo-screens, and the District seal of the Capitol is hovering on the sleek glass plating. Davey's been wondering how they were going to do this without having a sky to project the fatality count onto. 

The first face to appear on the screen makes Davey swallow hard - the older Tribute from Queens, the one who allied himself with Davey in memory of Smalls. At his side, Spot bites off a small sigh of relief, and Davey can guess why; Districts always go in order, which means if someone from Brooklyn died, it would've been first. Racer is alive. Davey pats Spot's arm reassuringly and gets a tense smile in response. The second Tribute to fill the screen is the older one from Richmond, and then the younger one from Brighton. 

"See, toldja Jack's okay," Spot says when the Anthem plays again, signaling the end of the broadcast. Davey exhales gratefully, clutching at a union band until the edges dig into his palm. Jack's alive. Jack's still out there somewhere. 

"Get some sleep, Dave," says Spot, gripping his shoulder. "I'll take first watch, wake ya in a couple hours." 

Nodding, Davey lays down and uses his backpack as a pillow. He's exhausted, and his lungs still itch on occasion if he breathes too deeply. A quick nap sounds great right now. "Hang in there, Jacky," Davey whispers. "I'm gonna find you." Still holding onto his union band, Davey lets himself drift off.

It barely feels like Davey's fallen asleep before Spot is shaking his shoulder. Blinking blearily, Davey opens his mouth to ask Spot how long he was sleeping, but the Brooklyn Tribute hastily claps a hand over Davey's mouth. "Heard footsteps," he hisses, holding a finger to his lips pointedly. 

Davey's eyes snap open, adrenaline instantly chasing away the lingering traces of sleep, and he sits up to look around them. Now that he's listening, he can hear it too; the faint rhythm of soft footsteps echoing off the metal. Whoever it is, they aren't very close, but it's the first sign of life they've gotten since running into each other. 

"We need to know if it's one of us," Davey says firmly. At the same time, he draws his knife from the holster on his leg, just in case. He doesn't want to hurt anyone, but that doesn't mean he won't defend himself if he needs to. And maybe just the sight of a weapon will dissuade someone from attacking. 

Spot nods, already on his feet with a set of heavy brass knuckles on his right hand, sharpened studs along the knuckles. "I'm betta up close," the Brooklyn man says when he catches Davey's look. "Aim ain't greatest, but I can land a hit." 

Gathering up their things and slinging their bags onto their shoulders, Davey exchanges a quick nod with Spot. "Hello?" he calls as loud as he can, trying to project his voice down all four halls surrounding them. "Somebody there?" When the echo of Davey's shout fades, there is a ringing silence in its wake—the person stopped walking. "Who's out there?" Davey tries again. "This is David from Manhattan." 

"David?" a voice shouts back, tinted with surprise, and Davey's heart leaps. 

"Yes, who's this?" Davey yells. "Where are you?" 

"S'Boots from Queens," comes the reply, and Spot points toward the hall on Davey's right determinedly. "Fuck, it's good to hear a friendly voice," Boots says with a hint of a laugh. 

"Stay where you are, Boots, we're coming to you," Davey says, and he follows Spot's lead when the Brooklyn man heads into the corridor. "Just - keep talking." 

Boots laughs again. "Sure thing, man," he says. "Who's we? You got folks with ya?" 

"Spot from Brooklyn," Davey yells. "You seen anyone else yet?" 

"Got in a tangle with the big guy from Woodside," Boots responds. Spot pauses at the intersection, head cocked as he listens to the echoes, and then nods down the left-hand hall. "Tried not to fight him, but he was pretty determined. Got a few blows in. Then they set the room on fire, and we both cheesed it outta there. Ain't seen no one else since." 

They reach another intersection, and when Davey looks down the corridor on the left, he breaks out in a grin. Standing in the middle of the hall, Boots is looking a little disheveled, but he smiles when he sees them. "Gods above, never thought I'd be so excited to run into another Tribute," the boy from Queens says, laughing. 

"For sure," Davey agrees, and he and Spot half-jog down the corridor to meet him. "You injured?"

"A bit crispy, but I'll live," Boots says, nodding downward. The left leg of his pants is missing below the knee, and the skin on his calf is warped and red. "Blowtorches suck. You two good? Look like you was playin' with fire too." 

"Acid-air," Davey says, huffing as he crouches to put away his knife. "I really hate that stuff." Boots grimaces; he's no doubt familiar with the gas, considering it runs through underground pipes all over the country and Queens is a mining District. It's how Smalls knew how to save Davey from it last year, something that apparently all Queens citizens are taught to treat. 

Davey hesitates for a second before dragging Boots into a one-armed hug. "I'm glad you're okay."

Boots makes a startled noise, instinctively tensing before he returns to hug. "You too, pal," the boy from Queens says, faintly amused. When he steps back, Boots clears his throat. "Hey, don't mean to be a mooch, but don't suppose either you got a sip of water on ya? I ain't found none yet." 

"Yeah, of course," says Davey, immediately shrugging his bag off one shoulder so he can swing it around and dig inside. He hands out the silver canister and Boots sags gratefully. "C'mon, we should sit down, take a break. Rest up. It's my turn for watch." 

"You barely got any sleep," Spot counters, frowning. 

"And that's more than you've had," Davey replies and raises an eyebrow. "Take a nap and we'll get a move on. We've got others to find." Spot grumbles but sits down, back against the wall. Boots slumps down a foot away, stretching his burnt leg out in front of him.

Kneeling in front of the Queens Tribute, Davey rummages in his bag until he finds the roll of bandages. "Here, we should at least cover that," he says, gesturing to Boots' calf. "Protect it from infection." Davey doesn't give the other man a chance to argue before reaching out and pushing up the melted hem of the pant leg. With steady hands, Davey wraps the bandage in smooth loops down the length of Boot's calf and ties it off snugly. 

"You're good at that," Boots notes in amusement. 

"Lots of practice," Davey says, smirking. "My mom's a Healer back home, I helped out sometimes." 

Spot snorts. "Handy skill to have in here." 

"Tell me about it," Davey agrees. Scooting to press his back against the wall opposite the other Tributes, Davey settles down where he can both watch them and keep an eye for movement at either end of the hall. Boots stretches out on the floor, head pillowed on his arm. Despite his protests, Spot nods off almost immediately where he's slumped against the wall.

Tracing his fingers around the edge of a cuff absently, Davey hunkers down to keep watch over his people.

A soft, skittering sound makes Davey tense, straightening up and reaching for his knife. He cocks his head, listening. There's a strange tapping noise coming from up the corridor, nonrhythmic little clicks on the metal. It's way too quiet to be a person, and Davey's skin crawls in anticipation. 

"Spot, Boots, wake up," Davey says, moving over to shake the Queens Tribute by the arm. 

"Whassup?" Boots murmurs sleepily. Spot, on the other hand, is instantly awake; he's on his knees, and the knuckle-dusters are curled in his fist defensively. 

"I can hear something," Davey explains. "Not a person. Listen." They all fall silent, ears straining for the clattering sound that's getting closer. It's a wave of clicking, the noises tumbling over each other discordantly like raindrops. "What-?" 

Spot suddenly grabs Davey's shoulder, and the Brooklyn man's eyes are wide. "Wyverns," he hisses. "Grab your shit, now." 

"Wyverns?" Boots echoes Davey's confusion. "What the hells-?"

Down the hall, something lumbers around a corner, and Davey gawks. It's some sort of beast, unlike anything Davey's ever seen before, even in his books. The size of a cattle dog, the creature is thin and skeletal, leathery skin covered in large patches of thick diamond-like scales. Its back legs are stocky, the front legs slim and frilled, and each is tipped in enormous claws that clatter on the metal floor with every step. 

"Gods above," Boots breathes in horror. 

A reptilian head snaps to the side, one large red eye fixing on them, and the creature trills a deceptively sweet noise. At the same time, a second monster slinks around behind it, a long, serpentine neck lifted so it can peer at the Tributes over the first one's back. A cold chill races down Davey's spine because even though the creatures aren't large, those eyes are far too intelligent for an animal. 

"Run," Spot says. He slings his bag over his shoulder and hauls Boots up by the collar. "We gotta run. Now."

Davey snatches up his backpack and takes off at a sprint. The three of them pound down the hallway, and the increased tempo of the clicks tells them the wyverns aren't far behind. They run without any sense of direction, just trying to put as much space between them and the chirping monsters as possible. Each change of course is only decided by hands grasping at sleeves, tugging the others along as they zag through corridors blindly. 

Boots screams, and Davey instantly skids to a stop, glancing back to see what's happening. The lead wyvern is pinning Boots to the ground, head reared back to strike before Spot launches himself at the monster and punches it in the snout. At the same time, the second beast scrambles up the wall, giant talons carving gouges into the steel, and it leaps over the melee. The frills on its front legs snap open, and the beast glides over Davey's head. 

They're not frills—they're small wings.

Davey straightens as the beast skitters around to face him, and he adjusts his grip on his knife. The wyvern crouches, blood-red eyes fixed on him, and Davey waits. For a moment, they just stare each other down, man and beast. Then suddenly, the wyvern darts sideways, rebounds off the wall, and launches for Davey's throat. Still clutching his knife, Davey barely manages to throw his arms up to protect his face before the lizard tackles him to the ground. 

The force of the impact knocks the air from Davey's lungs, and white dots spark in his eyes when his head bounces off the floor. He must've caught the wyvern with his knife because it screeches, and warm liquid spills down Davey's arm. When the wyvern recoils, Davey takes the chance to get a foot beneath the creature, and he kicks it hard in the chest. It's just enough to get the monster off him, and Davey scrambles upright. 

"The eye!" Spot bellows from behind him. Davey can hear him grunting, obviously struggling with the other creature, but Davey doesn't dare take his eyes off this one to look back. "Get it in the eye!" 

Snarling, the wyvern prowls back and forth in the hall like a predatory cat, watching Davey. The frills along one arm are shredded, the leathery skin split and leaving trails of scarlet blood where the loose ends drag on the floor. Davey tightens his grip on the knife. The eye. He needs an opening to reach its eye, but getting that close without winding up with those huge claws in his gut isn't going to be easy. There's no chance of tackling it from the front. 

Davey smirks as the idea strikes. Time to take a page from the wyvern's book, then. Stepping closer to one wall, Davey charges to the opposite one and jumps. He plants one boot on the wall and kicks off, propelling himself in the other direction. The beast reels up on its hind legs, slashing, but the jump gives Davey just enough clearance that it barely scratches his leg before he lands heavily on the lizard's back. 

Struggling up to his knees while the wyvern thrashes beneath him, Davey manages to hook an arm around its neck from behind and stabs the knife down into a crimson eye. The monster shrieks, gnashing its teeth and writhing, but Davey holds on for dear life and brings the blade down twice more. Under him, the wyvern staggers, screaming, and then finally crumples. 

Davey shoves himself up and looks over to the other Tributes. Spot is standing on one of the first wyvern's wings, pinning it to the ground, while his arms are wrapped around its neck. The Brooklyn Tribute occasionally draws one hand free long enough to sink a blow with the brass knuckles into the fleshy underside of its jaw, preventing it from snapping at him or Boots, although though the spikes on his knuckles aren't enough to really pierce the scales. On the other side, Boots is on the ground and clinging to the second wing, wrestling to keep the claws from getting closer to his face. Davey sprints over and drives his knife down into the wyvern's eye, twice on each side, until it stops fighting back. 

All three Tributes stagger away and collapse, panting heavily, as they take in the carnage in the hallway. They're all covered in blood, gasping and disheveled - but they're also still alive. Davey leans back against the wall and checks the gash on his leg; it's long but not deep; he'll be fine. 

Gazing around at the carcasses of the wyverns, Davey lets out a half-hysterical huff of laughter. "Ya know, when I was a kid, I liked lizards," he says, glancing over at the other two men. "I don't think I do anymore." 

For a moment, the two Tributes stare back at him, and then Spot abruptly doubles over laughing. It surprises Davey, who has never seen anything like open emotion on the other man's face in the admittedly short time he's known Spot. After a pause, Boots chuckles too, shaking his head. "I fuckin' hate reptiles," he says vehemently. 

"You okay?" Davey asks, pushing himself up on shaking legs to walk over and crouch at the Queens Tribute's side. 

Boots scoffs. "Honestly, spooked me more than anythin'," he admits. He twists his bandaged leg, grimacing as he looks at the pair of puncture marks on the back of his calf. "Fuckin' thing hooked me while I was running." 

Davey examines the wound appraisingly. It's deeper than Davey's and bleeding steadily. "Doesn't look like it went deep enough to really get the muscle," he says reassuringly. "Gonna have to repurpose this bandage, though." He starts unwinding the bandage, knotting the torn ends back together, so he can wrap it tightly over the wound instead. "Spot, you good?" 

"Good enough," Spot agrees. Davey glances over to see the Brooklyn man checking a large gouge on his upper arm. Even as Davey's watching, Spot tears off the sleeve of his jacket below the wound with one hand and starts shredding the fabric into strips. "You?" he asks, looking up at Davey as he winds the cloth around his arm in a makeshift bandage.

Davey nods, turning his attention back to tying off the bandage on Boots' leg. "What were those things?" 

"Wyverns," Spot responds. He jerks Davey's knife out of the creature's eye socket and wipes it clean on his pant leg. "Another Capitol mutt," he supplies at their curious looks. "They's supposed to look like these monsters from old storybooks, but small 'nough to be pets. Only, ya can't breed the evil outta monsters. Made 'em too smart. We's lucky there was only two. If they get a proper pack goin', can take down armies." 

"How do you know all this stuff?" Davey asks curiously. "I mean, I've never even heard of these things before, but you even knew how to kill them."

Spot snorts wryly. "I started trainin' for the Games when I was six years old," he says. "Spent years learning 'bout anything I might ever fight. And in Brooklyn, they start teachin' ya the best way to kill straight outta the gate. Always find the soft spot. But then, eyes is a safe bet on pretty much anything. Never met anything that likes gettin' poked in the eye." 

Boots laughs airily, shaking his head. "'Poked,' he says," he intones in amusement. "Like sticking a blade through its eye is a li'l poke."

"Is compared to what that thing'd do to you if it got the chance," Spot points out. He passes Davey's knife over and then offers a hand down to Boots, pulling him up from the ground despite the fact the other man is so much larger than him. "Dunno 'bout you, but I wanna get away from these things in case they got friends." 

They only make it down two halls before Davey sees something that makes him stop short. He walks over to the entrance to another corridor, eyes wide, and brushes his hand over the steel wall. "Davey?" Spot calls when he notices the Manhattan Tribute isn't following anymore. "Hey, whatcha looking at?" 

Davey steps aside to let them see the scratches on the wall. It's jagged and shaky, but someone very deliberately carved an arrow into the steel, pointing down the hall. Above the arrow is a single letter scraped in sharp angles. 

 J
->

An ecstatic smile crosses Davey's face as he drags his fingertips along the shape of the letter. "Jack," he says decisively. "It's gotta be."

"He's giving us directions to follow him," Spot concludes, and he chuffs a soft noise. Adjusting his bag over his shoulder, he nods toward the hall. "A'ight, let's go find your boy."

It takes every ounce of willpower that Davey possesses not to run, forcing himself to keep to a brisk walk so he doesn't lose Spot or Boots. Still, his heart hammers in anticipation as they head down one corridor after another in pursuit of the arrows carved into the walls. There's a scratch at every intersection, telling them which hall to take, all of them marked with a 'J' so people will know who's doing it. 

Davey wonders how many other Tributes have been able to follow those markers to find Jack. Does he have a group of fellow Tributes with him like Davey does? Or what if someone else followed, one of the handful of Tributes determined to play out the Games like normal? Jack would've known that was a chance when he started leaving the markers—hopefully, that means he's prepared, just in case. 

"Davey," Spot calls out, and Davey stops, glancing back to the two behind him. "We should take a break," the Brooklyn Tribute says firmly. "Get some food and water and a bit of rest." Davey wants to argue, but then he takes in the pallor of Boots' skin and falters. 

"Right, yeah," Davey agrees. As much as he wants to keep going and get to Jack as fast as possible, Boots is clearly exhausted. None of them have had much sleep, and Boots didn't have any supplies when they found him, so he probably hasn't eaten or drank much since the Games started. "Yeah, I could use some food." 

The three of them settle down in the middle of another intersection, their backs together so they can watch the halls, and they share the rations from Spot and Davey's bags. "Where'd ya guys find this stuff?" Boots asks curiously as he gratefully accepts a packet of dried meats. "I ain't seen anything since it started." 

"They got hidden supply closets," Spot explains. "Doors is pretty camouflaged, dunno how many I might'a walked passed 'fore I noticed. Only found the one 'cause I stopped in that hall for a break and was staring at the wall a bit while catchin' my breath." 

Boots scoffs. "Well, now I feel dumb," he says wryly. "Didn't even think to look for somethin' like that. Figured they just made a Cornucopia in the middle somewhere, and we was just gonna have to stay alive long enough to find it if we wanted gear." 

"They've might've done that too," Davey muses. "I wouldn't put it passed them. A center of the maze with all the best supplies." 

"Hope our people find it 'fore the others," Spot says. 

"Hope if there is one, it got a big ol' fountain in it and we find it first," Boots says. "All the water ya could ever drink. That'd be great." 

Davey laughs appreciatively and passes his water to Boots. "They definitely went for something different with this Arena," he agrees. "Survival in the other Arena was so much easier than in this one. Last year, at least I knew how to find food and water and shelter." 

"Was rough my year," Spot says. "Weren't much in the way of food and water to find." 

Davey thinks back and remembers that Arena, nothing but huge rocky crags and ominous caves. The plant life had been scarce, and the few animals were either tiny rats or enormous rams with spiraling horns. He also remembers- "Didn't you nearly get knocked off a cliff by a goat?" 

Spot huffs, while Boots hastily tries to cover his giggles. "That goat weighed more 'an you do, smart ass," the Brooklyn Tribute says. "And I still beat in the end." He had, of course; Spot rather spectacularly got the ram by the horns and jerked hard enough to snap its neck. 

"Worst animal I saw was the Swarm Birds," Boot says, nose wrinkled. "Those li'l buggers almost fuckin' took my eyes out." Swarm Birds are another Capitol-bred creature, some horrid blend between hummingbirds and wasps. With needle-like beaks and talons, the fist-sized birds always travel in enormous packs so they can overwhelm anything they want to take down. 

"Great Bulls," Davey supplies when the other two look at him. "I'd heard stories, but those things are a hundred times scarier in person. They're enormous."

It's an odd sort of bonding as they trade stories about their times in the Games. Davey usually goes out of his way to avoid thinking about it, but it's different here. These men understand what it was like in a way no one else can - well, no one except Jack, who has been Davey's sole confidant in the last year. They still gloss around any of the actual deaths of other Tributes, but they share things about the Arenas and the traps the Gamemakers sprang to try and kill them. 

Two cannon blasts reverberate through the steel walls, one right after another, and their conversation comes to an abrupt stop. Davey's hand jumps habitually to his union band. Beside him, Spot's thumb brushes over a tattoo of strange runes on the inside of his bicep. 

"It's from the Old Tongue," the Brooklyn Tribute says when he catches Davey looking at it thoughtfully. Davey doesn't have to ask to guess what it's for. Racer has a whole collection of tattoos that span from his shoulder to his elbow, but Davey bets if he were to look closer, he'd find a match for Spot's among them. 

"I hate that there's no way to tell time in here," Davey says. "I never know when it's nighttime, so I can never guess when the list will come." 

"Scared to know who them cannons was for?" Boots guesses. 

Davey grimaces and nods. "Every time," he admits. "Then again, it was that way last year too, even before the announcement both of us could go home. Even when he was supposed to be my opponent, I still couldn't stand the thought Jack might've died." He exhales heavily. "Honestly, I could never make myself want any of them dead, even though I knew they were standing between me and home. I just - I can't feel good about kids dying for nothing." 

Boots hums in understanding, but it's Spot who says, "Me neither." Both Davey and Boots look at him in surprise. "I volunteered, but training is different than ach'lly doing it," Spot says tensely. "Ya know, they raise us in Brooklyn to want it. Fight and fight to be best so you can volunteer. And I was damn proud when I got ta' do it. 'Cept practicing with other kids like me wasn't the same as killing some scared scrawny kid from the farm or factory Districts who never stood a damn chance." 

"Ya realize Davey's one them scrawny factory kids, right?" Boots says teasingly, trying to lighten the mood. 

Davey chuffs a quiet laugh. "Yeah, well, I never thought I stood a chance either," he admits. "And a whole lot of good it's done me anyway. Now I'm right back here without a chance again." 

"Least ya got Bound," says Boots, gesturing to where Davey's still twisting a band around one wrist. "I always wanted to do that someday. Just - never found the right gal, ya know?" Spot nods, grinding his thumb into the tattoo on his bicep, and Davey wonders if that's his way of saying he wishes he'd had the chance to Bind with Racer. Before Davey can ask, Boots nudges him with an elbow. "Grab a nap, Dave. You look like you're gonna fall over." 

It feels wrong to think of resting, knowing that Jack is somewhere ahead if Davey can only catch up. At the same time, the exhaustion is weighing down on him, and Davey knows if he doesn't get some sleep, he's going to be useless if they get attacked or need to run. Davey sighs and stretches out on the floor, propping his head on his backpack, and he drifts off, knowing his team will watch over him.

Davey wakes to the sound of the Anthem, and he bolts upright, eyes panning around for a visible screen even while he's still trying to blink away the sleep. It's not all that hard to find, the light and color of the Capitol seal glowing brightly in the bland steel surroundings. Davey can hear and feel Spot and Boots moving around him, but he doesn't dare take his eyes off the screen for a second. 

The first Tribute that appears is the older one from Brighton. The second is the older one from Woodside. With a last blare of the Anthem, the screen goes blank and retreats into the wall. 

Davey exhales sadly. Both of those casualties were part of their alliance. That's fifteen Tributes total left, nine of them in the alliance. Spot must be thinking along the same lines as Davey because he says, "They was both ours." 

Shaking his head, Davey scrubs a hand over his face. "Whether they're part of the alliance or not, they're all ours," he counters. "We're fighting for everyone, whether they are willing to stand with us or not." Turning to face the other two, Davey takes a deep breath. "Did you guys get any sleep?" 

"Took it in shifts," Boots agrees. "I slept for a bit, then Spot." 

"We're good to go when you are, boss," Spot finishes with a determined nod. 

The three of them take sips of water and then divvy out strips of dried meat to eat while they're walking. It's still easy to follow the trail of arrows, carefully labeling each hall. They've only been walking for a little while when Spot suddenly says, "Hey, wait a sec." Davey glances over his shoulder to see the Brooklyn Tribute looking down one of the side halls with a frown.

Peering down the hall, Davey immediately sees what caught Spot's attention. At the far end of the dead-end corridor, there's a crumpled body at the base of the wall. "Hey, you okay?" Davey calls out, but the person doesn't move. There's a dark pit opening in Davey's stomach as he starts down the hall toward the figure. 

He's only partway there when he realizes it's not a person—it's a corpse. Or, more specifically, half of a corpse. 

"Gods, what happened to him?" Boots gasps out in horror. 

Davey crosses the rest of the hall, and his stomach turns over at the sight. It's the Brighton Tribute that died yesterday, and only the upper half of his body is on this side of the wall, face twisted in a rictus of pain and terror. "Looks like the wall came down on top him," Spot concludes grimly, nose wrinkled as he squints to where the man's torso stops abruptly against the steel. "Must'a been tryna get through and didn't make it." Boots lets out a string of curses under his breath, while Davey tries hard not to let his meager breakfast make a reappearance. 

Once he's taken a few slow breaths, easing his stomach, Davey turns back to the body. "Rest in glory, George, son of Brighton," he says, closing the man's eyes. Davey jerks his knife from his sheath and makes a small cut on the end of his thumb, using the bead of blood to draw an arc on the man's brow in a stunted echo of Manhattan's funeral rites. 

"We should go," Spot says quietly. "There's nothin' more we can do for him." At the same time, he picks up the discarded bag that must've fallen off the Brighton man's shoulders in his scramble, opening it and peeking inside curiously. "Here ya go," Spot says, tossing it to Boots. "Bit'a food and some more bandages, looks like." 

Boots winces, frowning at the blood staining one strap of the bag, but he nods and slings it over his shoulders. It might feel wrong, taking a dead man's things, but there's no point in letting good supplies go to waste in here. Davey inhales, steadying himself, and stands. "Let's go," he says, nodding toward the hall they came from. "We need to catch up." 

"Gonna have to be careful," Spot says as they start walking. "Looks like Gamemakers is closin' off halls. Must be tryna push us together. Well, that or steer us into traps." 

"They've gotta liven things up somehow," Davey says darkly. "This plan to split us up might have backfired on them. I imagine watching all of us wandering around lost isn't exactly the most exciting show." 

"Nah, but figure if we ain't gonna fight each other, Gamemakers is just gonna spring more traps and shit," Boots points out. "I mean, all them things they's set on just us, pro'lly doing the same thing to the others, ya know? Just - hopefully not more those damn lizards." Spot snorts appreciatively, and Davey can't help a small laugh.

By Davey's estimate, they've walked about three miles before they reach an intersection that makes his heart plummet. He scours every wall around it, but there are no arrows marking the way. "Why did they stop?" he implores the others. 

"Relax, Dave, Jack's alive," Spot says calmly. "We ain't heard no cannons yet today, remember?" 

"Was pro'lly running," Boots guesses. "Something chasin' him, it'd be hard to stop and make marks, right?" 

Davey nods, recognizing the logic in that, but it doesn't exactly ease his nerves. What was chasing Jack? Is he hurt? Davey props his forehead against the wall and forces himself to take a deep breath. Panicking doesn't do anyone any good. "Okay, which way should we go, then?" he asks, pulling himself back into the moment. 

"Keep going the direction we was," Spot says decisively. "They pro'lly didn't double-back, that'd make no sense. So we keep going same way, and maybe we'll pick up the trail again in a bit." 

"Right, yeah, let's go," Davey agrees. He needs to keep moving because it's the only thing keeping his brain from spiraling into worry. Even still, as they walk, he's tense and waiting, desperately afraid of hearing a cannon blast.

So when the echoing boom does come, Davey staggers with the force of his fear. Spot squeezes Davey's shoulder, a silent reassurance, and pushes him to keep walking. 

"Whoa, hold up, guys," Boots says a few halls later, reaching forward to snag Davey's sleeve. "Saw something." Davey draws back to look down the hall Boots is gesturing to, and it takes him a second to figure out what he means. On the left wall, down near the other end, is a long smudge of bright red. "Looks like blood, doncha think?" Boots says. 

"Might not mean anything," Spot says even as he's already heading down the corridor. "We's all got hurt, could just be someone leaned 'gainst the wall. Sure the three us's left plenty of bloodstains 'round." Davey glances down at his clothes, dark and crinkling with the wyvern blood, and can admit Spot has a point. 

When they reach the end, Spot examines the stripe of blood and looks around curiously. "Well, wouldja look at that," he says, awed. He points to the corridor opposite, where there's a second smear of blood on the steel, and a third just visible further down. "Looks like maybe your boy found a way to still give directions while running," he concludes. 

Boots laughs. "Shit, that's genius," he says. "Wouldn't have to slow down or nothin', just hit his hand on the wall while he goes. Damn, that fella of yours is smart." 

A grin blossoms on Davey's face. "I know," he agrees. "C'mon." Davey picks up his pace, heart hammering in anticipation. 

The further they get, the path now zig-zagging erratically, the spots of blood start staggering on either side of the corridor. "Why'd he do that?" Boots asks as they half-walk, half-jog after the trail. "Goin' back and forth would slow him down, ya think?" 

"Nah, there must be two of 'em," says Spot. "One runnin' down either side." Boots makes a noise of comprehension. 

Davey holds onto hope, telling himself that the blood on the left side of the corridor could definitely be Jack. His prosthetic hand wouldn't bleed, but his left one is still flesh. Whoever marked the other side, Davey's certain the left side is from Jack. It has to be.

Three hallways later, they round a corner and stumble across a bloodied corpse. Davey reels back, instinctually panicked before he realizes it's not a person. The creature is another bizarre mutation, almost spider-like but covered in hard scales and jagged ridges of spines. It's a sickly pale white, faintly translucent in the soft spots not shielded by ghostly scales so blueish veins are visible under the skin.

"Gods, that thing is nasty," Boots hisses out. "That must'a been what was chasing 'em. Don't blame 'em running. I wouldn't wanna tangle with that thing." 

Davey steps awkwardly over the splayed legs, examining the creature. Three of its legs are broken, jutting at strange angles. There are shallow scratches around its head like someone kept trying to stab it and the blade slid across the scales to nick the edges. Blood drips from its gaping mouth, sharp teeth behind a set of bony pincers. A deep hole is bored up through the side of its jaw, slipping between two rows of spines, but it looks like the fatal blow was to the eye. 

"I think they burned it somehow," Davey says, pulling his shirt collar up over his nose to block the smell of the faintly smoking gore. "They must've stabbed it in the face with something burning. A torch or something." 

"Racer," Spot says abruptly, and Davey looks up. The Brooklyn Tribute is lingering a few feet back, determinedly looking anywhere but at the monster, but his jaw is set firmly. "It was Racer, I know it. Seen him make somethin' like it before, he's good with wires and building things. Rigs a knife with electric current so it burns when it cuts." 

"Which means Racer and Jack are together," Davey finishes, grinning. "C'mon, this thing's still kinda warm. They can't be that far ahead of us." 

Boots stumbles around the spider-beast's legs, grimacing. It takes Spot a moment to follow, and he pointedly keeps his eyes up and his body pressed close to the wall as he edges passed it. When he finally reaches where Davey and Boots are standing, the Manhattan Tribute can't help but ask, "You okay there?"

Spot glares heatedly, folding his arms over his chest in a move that's clearly meant to look intimidating. "I just don't like spiders, a'ight?" With that, he pushes past the other two Tributes and starts marching down the hall. Davey and Boots exchange amused glances before they follow.

Two corridors after the spider, the marks on the wall switch back from blood smears to scratched arrows. They don't stop walking, passing around the food and water while they go so they don't waste any valuable time. It's got to be getting later into the day by now. There have been three cannons since they passed the spider - two together, one about an hour later, as best Davey can estimate.

Davey's anxiety is so heavy he's sick with it, fussing with his union bands to the point that they've left red marks on his wrists.

All day long, they've also been hearing distant, echoing bangs that make them jump each time. Davey's first panicked reaction was that they were cannons, but they were nowhere near loud enough for that. It took them until they actually saw it happening for them to figure it out: a massive steel barrier dropping from the ceiling to close off a corridor to their right. Each bang is another hall being sealed, another path taken away.

The Gamemakers are hedging them in, pushing them toward confrontations and traps, and they must be getting impatient because it's happening more and more frequently.

Another thud, somewhere not too far away from them this time, almost masks a different sound that makes Davey tense. "Footsteps," he says, grabbing the others by the shoulder to stop them. "Someone's running nearby." Glancing to the other two, Davey gets nods in return, so he clears his throat and yells, "Hello?"

"Help!"

The three of them take off running down the left corridor in pursuit of the voice still calling out frantically, and it doesn't take long to find the right place. The younger Richmond Tribute, Finch, is racing down the hall with a cluster of tiny glittering birds swarming around his head. He's swiping at them frantically, but it's barely keeping them away from his face and doing nothing to stop them from stabbing at his neck and shoulders with their needle-like beaks.

"Fuckin' Swarm Birds," Boots hisses as they all rush toward Finch.

Davey shucks off his backpack and throws it at Spot. "Gloves in the front pocket," he says, crouching to draw his knife. Spot nods and digs out the pair of gloves, pulling them on, and they charge into the swarm. 

Boots presses his back to Finch's, swatting away the birds while they keep each other's backs protected. Meanwhile, Davey slashes at the birds whenever they dive low enough, cutting at their bellies and wings. When one bird swoops toward Spot's face, the Brooklyn Tribute catches it in his hands, and the bird tries to jab him but can't get through the thick leather gloves. With a vindictive grin, Spot smashes the small bird against the wall, crushing it. 

It takes a few minutes, and they are all speckled with pinprick wounds that itch by the time it's over, but they manage to kill the tiny horde of mutant birds. 

Finch slumps against the wall, wiping at the speckles of blood on his neck, and he looks at them gratefully. "Gods above, I'se lucky you showed up when you did," he says breathlessly. "Only weapon I got on me's a crossbow," he gestures to the sleek metal weapon hung across his back, "and that thing don't do shit on things like this." 

"You gonna be okay?" Davey asks.

"Damn things got plenty bites in, but they didn't get me anywhere important," Finch reports. He lets out a half-hysterical chuckle. "Good to see ya, fellas. Mind if I tag along?" 

Spot smirks and offers a hand to lever Finch back to his feet. "C'mon, we's close to catching up with some the others," he says, nodding back the way they came. 

"You been on your own this whole time?" Boots asks as they start jogging. 

"Nah, was with Knots, the older guy from Woodside, for a bit," Finch responds, eyes hardening. "We tripped a trap. I didn't even hear the walls comin' down, but Knots shoved me outta the way. Gamemakers dropped these glass walls down, Knots was stuck 'tween 'em, and they flooded the fuckin' thing." Finch's expression twists up in a blend of fury and guilt. "I tried like hells to get him outta there, but that glass wouldn't break. He saved my damn life, and I had to watch him-" He breaks off, shaking his head.

Davey reaches out and grips the Richmond Tribute's shoulder sympathetically. At that moment, they get back to the corridor with the arrows scratched into the walls, and Finch's eyes widen. "Jack's been leaving directions for all of us to find him," Davey explains with a grin. "We've been following them for a day or so. We know he's got at least Racer from Brooklyn with him." 

"Sucks they can't slow down a bit and let us catch up," Boots says, huffing. "Figure Gamemakers would throw a fit, huh?" 

Finch grins, his face brightening hopefully. "Then if they can't slow down, why don't we kick it up? More the merrier, right?" 

"You in any shape to run?" Spot asks, eyeing the Richmond man. He's pale, with a hollowness to his cheeks that hints at hunger, and blood is dried on his exposed skin from the slightly inflamed bird bites. 

"Still hopped up on adrenaline," Finch replies, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. "That fighting got me pumped. Might s'well take advantage, right?"

The other three exchange glances and shrugs. Finch's not necessarily wrong—if they keep moving at the same pace as Jack and Racer, they'll never catch up. They need to close the distance somehow before the Gamemakers decide to close the path entirely. And Davey's heart is still racing from the Swarm Bird fight, a throbbing itch under his skin. "Sure, why not?" Davey agrees, and all four of them take off at a sprint.

After off-and-on bouts of running, the endless monotony of the halls starts to blur. They take it in short bursts, sprinting for a while until they start to get out of breath, then slowing to a walk as they pass around food and water. And always, they are chasing the arrows carved into the steel walls.

The anthem playing is what pulls them up short the next time, skidding to a stop in the hallway to watch the holo-screen for updates. There have been four cannons today. Four lives. (And any one of those could've been Jack, a dark voice in the back of Davey's head reminds him.)

Spot barely muffles the sigh of relief when it's not Racer's face to start the list of casualties. Instead, the Bronx Tribute from their alliance is the photo that appears on the screen, and Davey's stomach clenches. 

"Dammit!" Boots snarls, punching the wall beside the screen furiously. His expression is stricken as he braces his forearms on the wall with his eyes squeezed shut. "Ya know Tommy got a baby on the way?" Boots asks brokenly. "Just found out a month ago. He was gonna be a dad."

"Boots," Davey says, putting a hand on the Queens Tribute's shoulder, but all that does is set him off. Reeling back, Boots slams his fist into the wall twice more before he resorts to kicking it repeatedly, letting out a stream of cursing as he does. 

It takes him a minute to run out of steam, and he slumps to the floor, face buried in his hands. Davey glances at the others, lost for how to console their friend. They've been so wrapped up in the display, Davey didn't even see who the other three casualties were. Grimacing, Finch sits down beside Boots and puts an arm around his shoulders. 

Then, in the echoing quiet following the anthem's final notes- 

thump-thump-thump

Davey's eyes widen, and he glances at Spot to make sure he didn't imagine the distant knocking. The Brooklyn Tribute's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Hopeful, Davey steps up to the wall and bangs his fist against it three times. They wait, tense and expectant.

thump-thump-thump

Spot huffs a noise that Davey thinks is meant to be a laugh. Davey licks his lips and, almost terrified to wish, yells, "Jack?"

"Dave!"

"Gods above," Spot breathes out, awed. The shout was distant and faint, clearly a ways ahead and maybe around a few corners, but there is no mistaking it. Finch and Boots are both looking up now too, the latter's eyes red-rimmed but amazed. "Well, c'mon then, move it," Spot says, reaching down to haul them both up. 

Davey doesn't need to be told twice. Making sure he can hear the pounding footsteps behind him, Davey barrels down the hallway, still pursuing the arrows. Jack is up ahead. Jack is close. Jack is alive.

After three hallways, Davey can hear the throb of footsteps ahead as well as behind. He can't breathe around the slamming of his heart. Close. So close now. On the other end of the corridor, a figure skids around the corner into view, and Davey's heart stops beating entirely. "Jack!" 

The grin that breaks out on Jack's face is visible even from the far end of the hall. Neither one of them slows their pace until they're only inches apart, and they collide more than hug as they slam together and wrap arms around each other. Shaking, Davey clings to Jack, the familiar shape of his arms around Davey's back and the press of his face into the slope of Davey's neck bringing tears to his eyes. 

"I found you," Davey gasps out, half-hysterically. "I found you." 

"Ya found me," Jack agrees, arms crushing Davey's backpack into his spine almost painfully. "Gods, Davey, been so damn scared I wouldn't see you 'gain." 

Davey reluctantly pulls back enough that he can get a good look at Jack's face. There's a pair of scratches across one cheek, scabbed and clotted, but apart from that, he looks to be okay. Jack cradles Davey's jaw in his flesh hand, watering gold-brown eyes scouring his face with the same scrutiny. He scrubs a thumb over the small patch of chemical burn on one cheek, the dried wyvern blood on Davey's skin flaking under the touch. "Youse okay," Jack concludes gratefully. 

"And you're okay," Davey echoes. He surges forward, kissing Jack like a drowning man chasing air. For the first time in days, he feels right again as he sinks back into Jack's embrace. "I missed you, Jacky," Davey murmurs. 

"Missed you too." They let themselves have a minute longer, relishing the bliss of reunion before they finally part. Davey dries his eyes on his sleeve, then looks around at the rest of the Tributes. 

Along with Spot, Boots, and Finch, the group gathered in their corridor also now contains Racer and Alan, the middle-aged Flushing Tribute. Racer is standing close to Spot's side, their heads bent together as they talk in hushed whispers. Alan shuffles his feet a bit uncertainly, one arm cradled close to his ribs, but he offers a small smile when he meets Davey's gaze. 

"We should catch our breath for a sec," Finch says decisively. He has an arm around Boots' shoulders again, and the Queens Tribute is still a bit red-eyed behind his relief. "Then we can coordinate, figure what we gonna do next."

No one questions this statement, all of them settling down right in the middle of the hallway. Now that the shock of finally finding Jack is wearing off, a nagging thought surges up in Davey's mind. "Jack, Miss Medda was with you at the start, right? Is she-?" 

Jack's expression is stricken. "They arrested her," he reports. "Soon's I was stuck in the tube thing, a bunch of peacekeepers came in and dragged her out. Gods, she was screamin', and I couldn't do nothin' to help her."

Even though Davey's horrified, he still can't stop the small breath of relief. They didn't kill her. She might still be alive. At Jack's questioning look, Davey clears his throat and says, "Kloppmann's dead."

All of the Tributes around them - except Spot, who already knew - make noises of surprise and terror. Jack squeezes his eyes shut with a pained noise, exhaling a stream of curses under his breath. "They did it once I was in the tube too," Davey says because the fear and guilt have been eating him up inside for days now, and he just needs it out. "The peacekeepers, they - I was trapped in there, and I couldn't do anything except watch as they shot him and it's all my fault and-"

"Hey, no, shh," Jack cuts across him, instantly folding Davey into his arms again. Shuddering, Davey buries his face in Jack's shoulder and tries to fight off more tears; it will just dehydrate him. "Gods, no, none this is your fault, Dave," Jack soothes, one hand cradling the back of Davey's neck while the other rubs along his spine. "This is Pulitzer. He did it." 

"Nathaniel's dead?" This shaky question comes from Alan, and Davey reluctantly lifts his head to glance at the Flushing Tribute. The older man is pale, and it suddenly occurs to Davey that he and Kloppmann likely knew each other. That every other Tribute in the Arena this year has met each other before during their years of Mentoring. Kloppmann and Alan are close to the same age and would've gone through the Games only a few years apart, maybe. 

Judging by the stricken terror on Alan's face, not to mention the use of Kloppmann's rarely-spoken first name, they might even have been something like friends. 

It strikes Davey in a moment of sudden clarity. The Victors all must have gravitated toward each other, seeking the comfort of strangers who understand what they've been through. These people are all linked together by shared trauma. It explains Boots' anguish at the Bronx Tribute's death and knowledge of his personal life. It's probably what drew Spot and Racer together, a Mentor sharing the burden of the younger Victor. 

In the same way that their time in the Games brought Davey and Jack so close, these Victors have only had each other; a once-a-year connection every time they're forced back to the Capitol to relive the memories. 

The pain and fear inside of Davey's chest harden in a way that's familiar at this point, hopelessness dissolving into a burning, righteous fury. "Pulitzer had Kloppmann executed," Davey says fiercely. "They murdered him - another Victor, just like us. He's trying to scare us, to show us that even the Capitol's supposed champions aren't safe from retaliation if we oppose him."

"Why just him?" Boots asks, frowning. "You said they arrested the skirt. Why didn't they off her too if they wanna stop anyone helpin' us?"

"Because she's Capitol," Spot interjects darkly. "Old, drunk Victor from way out in Manhattan winds up dead, no one's gonna think anything of it. They can just say he drunk to death or killed himself. Wouldn't be the first time a Victor done it. But a famous Capitol lady like that, she winds up dead and people talk."

Jack sneers. "'Cause no matter what they done, Pulitzer still thinks Capitol lives is worth more than ours." 

"Then what do we do?" Finch asks nervously. 

"We keep fighting," says Davey, firm and defiant. "Because this is Pulitzer being afraid. If he didn't think we were a threat, he wouldn't bother. He'd leave us alone and let things play out however they do. Everything about this, the weird new Arena and the way they separated us, it was all an attempt to stop us. But he's scared, which means that what we're doing is working. He's scared, and he's on the defensive, and if we give up now, it's all for nothing. So, are you still with us?" 

Spot laughs, and a harsh, shark-like smile crosses his lips. Punching a fist into the air, he declares, "Newsboys united." 

Grinning dangerously, Racer copies him. "Newsboys united." 

And then, like one, Finch and Boots and Alan- "Newsboys united!"

Thrumming with adrenaline from their act of rebellion, the Tributes all get a second wind as they sit together in the hallway to plan their next move. "Who were the other casualties today?" Davey asks. "I didn't see the whole list." 

Jack clears his throat. "Tommy from Bronx, Peter from Woodside, the other one from Flushing - Mike, I think," Alan nods to confirm it, "and the younger one from Staten, I don't remember his name," Jack recites. 

"Ken," Finch supplies helpfully.

"So that means there's," Davey frowns, counting off on a mental roster, "eleven of us left, total." He gazes around the group, checking names off his list. "And the only one of our alliance left that isn't here is Hotshot, right?" 

The others nod. "Fuck, the fella must be a beast surviving in this death trap on his own so long," Boots remarks with a hint of awe. 

"Hotshot's scary when he wants to be," Spot says, smirking. "Smarter 'an he looks. Sure he's fine." 

"Still, we should try to find him if we can," Davey says. "Maybe backtrack along the arrows? If he's seen them, he'll be following them to catch up. If we head backwards, we can meet him in the middle." 

Jack nods. "Good plan." He stretches his arms over his head, wincing, and scrubs a hand on his face. "We should rest, get our strength back up while we can. Sleep in shifts. Sure the Gamemakers is gonna do somethin' soon now we's all together." 

As they coordinate sleeping shifts, letting the most badly injured - Boots and Alan and Finch - rest first, the others set up posts on either side to watch down the hall for danger. Davey and Jack settle in side-by-side, but they've barely gotten seated before Spot abruptly crouches in front of them. Glancing around, he frowns and lifts a hand to cover his mouth. "Gotta talk to youse two a sec," he says from behind his hand, voice low. 

"What're you-?"

"Cameras," Spot whispers, flicking his eyes upward pointedly. "Don't want them seeing what I'se sayin'." Davey's eyes widen in comprehension—Spot's shielding his mouth from view to prevent anyone watching from being able to read his lips. "Your crew, Kloppmann and the ladies, they say anything to you 'fore you got sent in? Give you anything?"

Jack's brow furrows. "How'd ya-" He breaks off, gaze darting up, and then cups a hand over his mouth. "How'd ya know?"

"What'd she say?" Spot says intently. 

"It was weird, I dunno what she meant," Jack confesses. "Told me 'sun's gonna rise on better days.'" 

Davey's eyebrows shoot up. Hastily clapping a hand over his mouth, he adds, "Kloppmann told me the same thing. And the way he said it - it was like it was supposed to mean something, but I don't know what." 

Spot, on the other hand, looks thoughtful. "Sun'll rise," he echoes. "What else? They slip you something?" 

"No, but," Jack's free hand reaches up to touch the collar of his jacket, "she made a big deal 'bout smoothin' down my collar, and I can feel something in there. And it-" He switches his hands, the flesh one over his mouth now, and when he lifts his prosthetic hand toward the collar, the fabric snaps to his fingertip with a muffled click.

"Magnet?" Davey says, confused. His brain stalls, trying to scramble together everything that he remembers about his last interaction with Kloppmann. Touching his chest, he can still feel the solid something between the layers of fabric, nearly forgotten in the frantic chaos of the Games. "There's something here, but I didn't dare get it out when I was on my own in case the cameras saw." 

Spot glances up and around before nodding. "Me and Jack'll block ya from view best we can. Think you can get to it from under the jacket where they won't see?" 

"I'll try," Davey agrees. He shucks off his jacket and drapes it over his bent knees like a tent. Jack and Spot immediately shift so they're kneeling on either side of him, a protective barrier around his legs. Jerking his knife out of its sheath, Davey feels tentatively along the inner layer of his jacket, trying to find the right spot by touch alone. When he finally feels the edge of the object, he takes a steadying breath, slips the tip of the blade into the fabric, and cuts a slit up the lining of his jacket. 

Something small and light falls out into his palm, and Davey resists the urge to lift it up to where he can see. Dropping his knife, Davey slouches enough that he can peek beneath the collar of his jacket to examine the object in his hands. It's a square of clear, flexible plastic, barely the size of his palm, with strange black and coppery lines creating an unintelligible design inside of it. 

"Whassit?" Jack asks curiously. 

"Not sure," Davey admits, frowning as he turns it over in his hands. Keeping the plastic square hidden under the tent of his jacket, Davey covers his mouth with one hand to go on, "It's some sort of little clear square. Plastic, and it's got - I think they're wires or circuits in it, but I've never seen tech like this."

Spot's eyebrows jump. "Lemme see," he says, and, with zero regard for personal space, slips his hand beneath the jacket alongside Davey's arm. He takes the square and, leaving the jacket draped over his arm, lifts the whole thing into his lap so he can look beneath. A short, devious bark of laughter escapes him. 

"What is it?" Davey asks.

"This, boys, is an ace up our sleeve," Spot says, and although his mouth is covered again, it's obvious he's smirking. His hands move under the jacket, and then he flips it to run his now-empty hands along the collar. 

"Where did-?" 

"Shirt," Spot answers shortly, and Davey realizes that the Brooklyn Tribute's shirt is now tucked into his waistband. Well, that's one way to hide something from view. Brow furrowed, Spot pinches the collar of Davey's jacket in his fingers. "Knife," he demands, holding out a hand expectantly. Davey sets the discarded blade in his palm. Spot cuts a hole into one end of the collar and parts the fabric with his fingers so he can peek inside. 

"Spot, what's going on?" Davey says, reaching over and grabbing the older man's wrist. "What aren't you telling us? How did you know about all of this?"

The Brooklyn Tribute considers him for a heavy moment and then slides closer. One hand cupped over his mouth, he leans into Davey's side, and his voice drops to barely a whisper. "You was right when you said folks out there's been listenin' to ya. And some them folks been makin' plans. This is one'a them plans." 

"And what, no one thought to tell us even though youse apparently using us to do it?" Jack asks harshly, eyes narrowed. 

"Couldn't risk it," Spot says. "They's been watchin' you and anyone near you too close."

"Kloppmann," Davey concludes with a sort of cold ache. "That's why they killed him. It wasn't just to make a point. They knew he was involved in this, whatever this is." 

Spot doesn't answer, but he doesn't have to. It's all slotting into place inside Davey's head, all of the hushed conversations and cryptic statements and hastily closed digiscreens. He's always suspected that Kloppmann and Medda and Katherine were up to something that they didn't want Davey and Jack to know about. Except it apparently wasn't just them—it's some kind of sprawling coordinated plan. A sidelong glance at Jack says that he's come to the same deduction. 

"Sorry, boys, but I'mma steal your jackets for a bit," Spot says, bundling Davey's up and nodding toward Jack pointedly. 

"For?" Jack prompts, even as he shrugs it off and hands it over. 

"Got an idea, but I ain't sure," Spot responds. "Know more once Racer looks this stuff over, he's the one good at this sorta thing."

Davey makes an exasperated noise. "What sort of thing?" he snaps. "You're still not telling us anything."

"Tell ya soon as I know," Spot says, shrugging. "They just told me to find you two, and you'd have the key. Now we gotta figure what lock that key goes to." His eyes soften sympathetically. "Promise, I'll letcha know soon's we do." With that, he hugs the pair of jackets against his abdomen and weaves around the sleeping Tributes on the floor to sit down beside Racer on the other side. 

Letting out an annoyed huff, Jack turns around to face down the hall again and leans his shoulder against Davey's. "So sick of everyone and their fuckin' secrets," he grumbles. His hand isn't covering his mouth anymore, but Davey notices he's deliberately keeping his head down, speaking to his lap. "Feels like all anyone does anymore is decide things for us without sayin'." 

"I know," Davey agrees. He rests his head on Jack's shoulder, lacing their hands together. "I'm sure they had a reason. But it's still frustrating."

"Whatcha think-?" Jack cuts himself off, and Davey can guess why. It's too dangerous to talk about whatever secret plot is going on around them, too much risk of tipping off the Gamemakers. Jack exhales and seems to deflate, leaning his head onto Davey's. "Gods, I'm so glad to see ya," he says instead. 

Davey smiles. "You too, pal," he replies, the silly moniker a habit by now even though they've never been just 'pals.' Jack brushes his thumb over Davey's in a tender rhythm. "I was so scared every time I heard a cannon. I was scared the last time I'd see your face would be on the holo-screen list."

With a distressed sound, Jack presses a kiss to the top of his head. "Like I'd dare," he says, and Davey can hear the playful smile in his voice. "After all the trouble youse put into keepin' me alive all this time, I'd never hear the end of it if I died. Thought I'd give you another chance or two to save my life since youse gettin' so good at it."

Chuckling quietly, Davey breathes deeply and relaxes against the warmth of Jack's body beside him. "You are a little bit of a damsel in distress," he teases. 

"Maybe I just like bein' rescued by you," Jack says, and for all that it's meant as a joke, it comes out unbearably fond. He brings his other hand over to cradle Davey's between both of his and the strange juxtaposition of a warm hand beneath and a cool hand above is familiar to Davey by now. "You started saving me ten years ago, and now I'm addicted."

Davey snorts, amused. At the same time, he tucks himself closer to Jack's side. "Well, I'm never letting you out of my sight again. Rescuing you all the time's getting exhausting. I figure that just means I have to keep an eye on you at all times now so you can't get into trouble."

"Ha, my plan worked," Jack says triumphantly, sending Davey into a fit of quiet giggles. The younger man squeezes Davey's fingers affectionately. "Ain't letting you outta my sight ever 'gain either. You and me, together, all the way to the end." 

"You and me," Davey agrees, determinedly ignoring the spark of tears that burn his eyes. "To the end."

Surprisingly, the Gamemakers actually leave them be long enough for both halves of their group to get a few hours of rest. Davey sleeps better than he has in days, the comforting thump of Jack's heartbeat against his cheek lulling him, and he wakes refreshed even though his sleep could only be qualified as a nap at best. The group shares a quick meal, divvying out dried meat and fruit from packets and passing around water. 

Davey takes advantage of the brief respite to check on everyone's injuries. The holes on the back of Boots' leg aren't infected, which is a relief, although the scabs have clearly cracked and bled several times from the strain of being on his feet so much. Spot's arm is fine, and although everyone in his group is peppered with Swarm Bird bites that have morphed into red, itchy bumps, none of them are dangerously inflamed. 

The worst of Jack's injuries is the scratches on his face, shallow but scabbed over cleanly. The only other real injury is the cut he made on his palm to leave the blood trails, now bandaged with a strip torn off his shirt. Racer's shoulder is swollen and tender - "got in a fight with a guy from Bronx, he managed to tug it outta the socket" - but it's been popped back into place. Alan is the one who's the most badly injured, one arm marked with deep, serrated gouges. 

"It was this spider-like creature," the older Tribute explains as Davey gingerly examines the wound. The edges of it are red, and patches of the scabs are tinged faintly yellow-green. Infected, then. "Bit me. Had my arm trapped in those pincers, couldn't get out. Think it would'a gnawed my arm clean off if Racer hadn't killed it." 

"How'd you do it?" Davey asks curiously, glancing over his shoulder at the younger Brooklyn Tribute. "We saw that thing. That stab wound had burns around it. Spot said something about electricity?"

Racer grins viciously, pulling a knife from his belt. There's a small metal box tied to the handle, bits of wire sticking out of the top and wrapped around the base of the blade. Eyes twinkling mischievously, Racer flicks a tiny switch on the box. Sparks of electricity immediately blossom at the end of the wires, dancing across the metal of the knife. 

"Toldja he was good at that sorta thing," Spot chimes in, smirking.

"Incredible," Davey says, eyes wide. He's decent with mechanics and electric work - he spent several years doing maintenance on the factory machines back home - and he's awed by the simplicity of the design. "Using the blade to complete the circuit. That's genius. Where'd you find a circuit box in here to do it?"

Racer flicks the knife off, giving it a minute for the charge to dissipate before he puts it back into the sheath at his thigh. "Tore it outta the wall," he admits. "There's all kindsa shit under these panels, if you can get 'em off. Gotta make all their traps work somehow, right?" 

Boots laughs. "Awesome," he says enthusiastically. 

"I like playin' around with stuff like that," Racer says, his grin pleased. "Making things, putting new stuff together. If there'd been any tech for me to play with in the last Games, I'd'a won it in half the time." 

"Should see the shit he comes up with back home," Spot adds with a chuckle. "Give this kid a handful of junk parts and he'll build you a damn death ray." 

There's a faint pink to Racer's ears, despite his cocky smile. "Ain't actually ever got the death ray to work. Still workin' on that one. Last try caught fire. But I did finish a cool thing to make a hover work on voice commands. That one was fun." 

"Damn, youse smarter than you look," Finch says. Racer scoffs and throws the empty packet from his breakfast at the Richmond man. "For real, though," Finch says, more sincerely. "I 'member watching your Games. Got the best aim I'se ever seen. And takes some skill to win that young." 

"Brooklyn boys don't make it to the Games unless they's good," Racer says, shrugging. "We gotta test for it. Top two scores get to volunteer. Most fellas don't even test 'til they's at least seventeen, so they got more time to train and get better. I didn't need more time." 

Alan huffs a soft laugh. "Bet you pissed off a lot of people doin' that," he comments. "All those kids that'd been training their whole lives gettin' beat by a younger kid." 

"Ain't too popular back home," Racer agrees with a smirk. "Folks don't dare mess with me 'cause I'se a Victor, and youngest one Brooklyn's had in a long time, but that don't mean they gotta like me. Don't care. They didn't like me much before either." 

"'Cause you never stop running your mouth," Spot chips in dryly. It's clearly meant to sound like a rebuke, but to Davey, it sounds almost affectionate. It sounds like the way Jack teases Davey. Grinning, Davey ducks his head on the pretense of tying off Alan's bandage. How people haven't figured out Spot and Racer are together is a bit of a mystery; anyone who watches them together for a little while should be able to see it. 

Jack glances at Davey, making sure he's finished with the bandages, and then he nods. "C'mon, fellas, we should move. Gamemakers ain't gonna leave us alone long."

They backtrack along the trail of arrows, hoping to run into Hotshot somewhere along the way. Davey can't bring himself to let go of Jack's hand as they're walking, not that Jack seems to mind. Amid all the chaos and fear of the approaching end, it's a comfort to finally be together. They're likely in more danger of traps now that the alliance is in a group, making themselves more of a target to the Gamemakers, but Davey feels stronger with Jack at his side again. 

After a few miles, Racer jogs up to walk beside them, and the blond flashes a grin. "Heya fellas," he says brightly. "Thought if you liked my other toys, you'd like this new thing I made." There's a pointedness to his gaze, even as his cheerful smile never flickers, and he pulls something out of his pocket. 

On the back of a flat piece of hard plastic, a strip of thin metal wire comes up from the middle to lay along the top. Attached to the end of the wire is a tiny magnet, and there are shallow markings scratched into the dark plastic base. "Cool, huh?" 

"Whassit?" Jack asks curiously. 

"Compass," Racer responds. Without breaking his stride, he turns in a circle, and the wire stays pointed in one direction even as the plastic plate turns with him. "So's we can navigate 'round in here." 

Davey stares at the makeshift compass, his heart beating a bit faster. He knows this is more than just Racer tinkering. The magnet must be the one that was inside Jack's collar, which means it was given to them for a reason. Is this the reason? Giving them the tools to find their way around inside the maze? "That's cool," Davey agrees. 

Beaming, Racer slips the compass back into his pocket. "Right? Now we can't get lost even if we gotta run, 'cause we can always tell which direction we gotta go," he says. Without breaking eye contact with Davey, he cheerfully adds, "Sun's coming up for us, boys." Then, with a wink, he falls back to walk between Spot and Alan. 

It takes all of Davey's willpower not to let his shock show as the words hit him in the chest. Sun's coming up, sun will rise—and now, the pieces that were slipped to them by their team let them build a compass. The sun rises in the east, and now they have a way to find east.

But what is waiting for them in the east?

Jack squeezes Davey's hand, and when Davey glances sideways at him, the younger boy gives him a look that says he's sharing Davey's thoughts again. It's reassuring at the same time that it's infuriating. What's going on with all of this? Why all the secrets and plotting? Why won't anyone tell him what's happening? And in the end, what does it even matter?

It's a long, tense, and uneventful morning of walking. (Or, at least, Davey thinks it's morning—he's had no sense of time since this whole thing started.) There's little conversation, all of them too focused on the task at hand and listening for the sounds of any approaching Tributes or impending traps. Apart from occasionally checking in on each other, making sure everyone's okay as they pass around the dwindling water supply, there's nothing for several hours. 

Well, nothing except the sporadic, distant sounds of more halls and passages closing off with a slam. 

"The quiet's making me jumpy," Jack hisses under his breath when another far-off thud makes him startle, staggering a step. "Not that I wanna get attacked or nothin', but why ain't they doing anything?"

Davey hums noncommittally because he doesn't have a good answer to that. He'd expected that now that their alliance is banded together, the Gamemakers would seize the opportunity to make their move. What better chance to quash the rebellion than to spring a trap now and eliminate them all at once? But they haven't done anything, and somehow, that scares Davey more.

Another loud noise makes them all flinch, but this time it isn't a hall closing. A cannon. One more Tribute dead. "Hope that weren't Hotshot," Spot murmurs, flexing his hands distractedly. In Davey's head, he can't help but run the numbers. There were only four other Tributes in the Arena outside of their group; a one-in-four chance that this cannon was for Hotshot. The odds aren't exactly great. 

Jack jerks on Davey's hand to stop him at the same time Davey hears it: pounding footsteps. Someone is running not far away. Davey exchanges a glance with Jack, but before he can shout for the person, a figure barrels around the corner into the corridor ahead of them. The man scrambles to a stop, breathing heavily. It's the older Tribute from Staten, and he promptly raises a bow, arrow drawn. 

"Down!" Jack shouts, and he half-tackles Davey into the wall, shielding him with his body. The arrow whistles as it cuts through the air, overlapped by the sounds of the other Tributes ducking out of the way. 

"Stop!" Davey yells to the Staten Tribute. "Stop, we don't want to fight you." 

"I don't care," the older man says in response. He draws back another arrow, and Jack tugs Davey down toward the ground as it strikes the wall, a harsh shriek of metal on metal. 

"You don't have to do this," Davey says, standing to face the other man again. "I know you don't want to do this." 

The man's hand falters as he tries to nock another arrow. "I want to go home," he snaps, voice cracking. "I got kids. I'mma do whatever I gotta do to see 'em again." 

Davey flinches when the man draws back, aiming, but then the Staten Tribute screams in pain. A sleek, silver bolt protrudes from his hand, pierced through his palm into the grip of the bow. Shocked, Davey glances back to see Racer lowering Finch's crossbow, expression tight. "Immobilized, not dead," Racer says firmly. "Them's the rules, right?"

Nodding weakly, Davey takes a deep breath and heads down the hall toward the Staten Tribute. The man rips the bolt from his hand, howling as the pain of it sends him to his knees. "Hey, hey, easy there," Davey says, hurrying the last few feet to crouch in front of the man. "I'm sorry." 

"Just do it," the man snarls. He grasps the crossbow bolt in his good hand and lunges, aiming for Davey's chest. Davey falls backward under the weight, gripping the man's wrist with both hands. "Do it or I will!"

"I'm not going to kill you," Davey grounds out between his teeth. "I won't do it."

A pair of hands seize the back of the Staten Tribute's jacket and hauls him off Davey. Jack drops him, letting the man crumple to the floor, and then retreats to help Davey up off the ground. "We're not gonna do it, pal," Jack says, glancing down at the man. "I'll knock ya cold if I gotta, but we ain't killin' no one."

"Why?" the man gasps out, half-hysterical.

"Because we shouldn't have to," Davey says simply. "This might be a game to the Capitol, but this is our lives, and we choose how to live them. They made me a killer once." Five lives, five murders. "I'm not letting them do it again."

The Staten man is still sprawled where Jack dropped him, his injured hand cradled to his chest, and there are desperate tears coursing down his cheeks. "We're gonna die," he says. "We're gonna die no matter what, so what's it matter?"

"It matters to me," Davey says. He shrugs off Jack's protective arm and kneels in front of the other man again. "It matters to me, and it matters to my family, and it matters to every single District person out there watching this right now. Every person like us who had to fight and slave for enough credits to eat, who lived in fear of their name getting Reaped, while these Capitol folk watched and feasted and laughed."

Davey exhales, eyeing the older man seriously. "It's fine if you don't want to join us. I know what it's like to be afraid, and I can't hold that against you. But just know, we're not your enemy. They are," he points up toward where there are unquestionably some cameras watching. "And we are going to fight them for your family's rights whether you stand with us or not, because all of us, every District person out there, we deserve better."

"I can't," the Staten Tribute chokes out, shaking his head. "I just - can't."

"It's okay," Davey says reassuringly. "We're just gonna go, okay? But - what's your name again?"

The older man blinks, bemused, and mumbles, "Harvey."

Davey nods and grips the man's knee in what he hopes is a comforting way. "May the odds, Harvey." Still looking confused and wary, Harvey jerks his head in a semblance of a nod.

Standing, Davey gives the man one more encouraging smile and then turns back to his group. The other Tributes are standing in a small huddle, all of them watching Davey with varying degrees of awe and determination on their faces. "Let's go," Davey says, gesturing back toward the hall they came from. 

The alliance reaches the intersection right as a soft mechanical whir starts, a split-second warning of some trap being sprung. Davey tenses, looking around frantically, and the scrape of metal is almost completely drowned out by a horrifying, agonized scream from behind. When Davey wheels around, it takes his brain a minute to process what he's seeing. Once he does, the wave of nausea and terror sends him to his knees.

Spears of metal jut up from the floor, a large grid that fills most of the hall. The Staten Tribute is trapped in the middle, his body pierced through in several places. He's awkwardly suspended midway up the shoulder-height poles from the force of the strike, and it'll only be a matter of time before gravity finishes the job. It's clear that the trap caught Harvey unaware—he must've still been laying where they left him for the spears to go through him the way they did, his body contorted oddly. 

And worst of all, he's still alive, spasming as he chokes out blood in place of screams, and the arm not stabbed through flails frantically. 

Davey is frozen on all fours, shaking, and he can't take his eyes off the sight. He can hear the others behind him, whispered curses and prayers and someone being sick, but it all feels strangely distant. It barely registers when someone tugs at the hem of Davey's pant leg, drawing the knife there from its sheath. Jack squeezes his way between the needle-like spears, having to turn sideways and hold his breath to fit between the rows of metal, but he keeps going until he reaches Harvey's head. 

"M'sorry," Jack says, voice thick. He cradles the man's skull in one hand. "Gonna help ya, okay?" Lifting the knife, Jack presses the tip to the underside of the Tribute's jaw. "Rest in glory, Harvey of Staten." Jack scrunches his eyes shut and shoves, the strength of his prosthetic hand easily forcing the blade through the soft tissue and up into his brain. 

Harvey's twitching stops. A cannon sounds.

It's a subdued and silent group that continues their march, everyone too shaken and lost in their own thoughts to bother with conversation. More than one of them has tears drying on their cheeks, and Finch is ghostly pale after having lost his stomach. Jack keeps his arm around Davey's shoulders, clearly trying to offer comfort, but Davey can barely feel it through the haze of shock inside his head. 

The trap - Harvey's death - was no coincidence. That was a planned, calculated attack by the Gamemakers. They killed Harvey purely because Davey wouldn't. It's a painful reminder that no matter what Davey does to fight it, Pulitzer and the Gamemakers are still the ones who get to make the rules here. Their alliance can refuse to kill, but in the end, all but one person will die. 

As the day wears on, they run into another problem: they are starting to run short on supplies. 

The hidden closets have proven to be incredibly scarce. Since they're backtracking over paths they've already been down, it's no surprise that the one cache they pass has already picked clean of food and water. The only useful things they manage to pull from it are defensive weapons for the people who don't have them yet, just in case they get attacked by another mutt. 

A few miles further, they reach the end of the trail of arrows. The group pulls up abruptly in the middle of the intersection, and all of them look to Davey for direction. "What now, boss?" Spot asks. 

Davey takes a steadying breath, struggling to pull his brain back from the haunting memory of the Staten Tribute's death so he can focus on this. They haven't found Hotshot, and without the arrows to work as a beacon, they don't have another way to look for him without just moving aimlessly. They need some other direction, some set path to follow. 

Glancing around at the group, Davey's gaze lands on Racer and stays there. "We need to pick just one direction and keep moving that way," he says firmly. "We can't just wander around looking for Hotshot. We can leave markers for him so hopefully he can follow, but that's the best we can do for now. It's just a question of which direction." 

Racer gives a shallow nod, and Davey sees him surreptitiously pull the compass from his pocket. After studying it for a second, he silently jerks his head to the right. Making a show of peering into each of the corridors, Davey stops in front of the hall Racer indicated. 

"This one seems as good as any," Davey says in faux nonchalance. Davey draws his knife and scratches an arrow into the wall, awkwardly carving a D above it, although managing the curve of it is difficult. The others don't question it, simply following when Davey starts walking down the corridor. 

The alliance walks for hours, marking each intersection as they pass through, until every one of them is dead on their feet. Sitting down in the middle of the next intersection, they take cautious sips of water and divide out the last of their food. Davey's head is swimming, his body wrung from exhaustion and hunger and shock, and he stretches out on the floor with his head pillowed on Jack's thigh. "Get some sleep, Dave," Jack says, gently carding a hand through Davey's hair. 

"Boots, Alan, you too," Spot says. "Racer, stand watch. Jack, Finch, youse with me."

"For what?" Finch asks. 

"Gonna search the halls around us for supplies," Spot answers. "Been a long time since we saw the last cache. We should check down each side hall we pass from now on, see if we can find a door. We ain't gonna make it much longer without food and water." 

Davey grudgingly moves his head so Jack can stand. "Don't go far. Stay in eyesight. We don't need to get ourselves separated now." Spot nods, then gestures for the other two to follow him into the hall to the left. Davey lays back, using his backpack as a pillow instead, and tries to relax. Alan and Boots are laid down near him, and Racer paces a slow circle around the three of them. 

It feels like Davey's barely closed his eyes when there's a soft, electric hum from beneath him. Bolting awake, Davey sits up just in time to see a wall slam up at the entrance to the hall where Jack, Spot, and Finch are. "Look out!" Racer yells, sprinting toward the closed-off corridor. The Gamemakers have trapped them down the hall, and Davey's stomach lurches with fear as he wonders what terrible new torture they'll unleash.

Except then there's a second slam to Davey's left, and then another behind him. It's as the fourth hall closes off that Davey realizes what's happening: Jack and the others aren't the ones being locked in—it's the intersection that's turned into a cage, closing the four Tributes inside. 

"Davey!" Jack's voice is muffled through the metal, and there's a distinct thudding of him hammering against the wall. 

"Stay calm," Davey says to Boots and Alan, who are both white with panic. 

A sudden hiss of air makes Davey look up. Not more gases. Please don't say they're flooding this place full of Acid-Air. Gods, Davey doesn't want to die from that. There are no pulses of magenta air coming down from the ceiling. So, most likely not Acid-Air, then. Of course, there are still dozens more poisonous gases the Gamemakers could use to kill them. 

"Davey, Racer!" Spot bellows from the other side of the wall. "What's going on?" 

"Not sure," Racer responds, leaning against the wall to hear better as his eyes pan around the room. "Can hear vents." 

"Can you get these walls down?" Spot shouts. 

Racer immediately spins to glide his hands along the corner of the intersection, fingers searching. "Try to find a seam," he yells, both to the Tributes on the other side of the wall and to Davey. "Some place we can peel the panels back and get to the wires." 

Darting over to the next corner, Davey smooths a hand over the steel. The rounded piece between the doors is sleek and uniform, one solid stretch of metal. His head spins as he moves to the next corner, fear making him hyperventilate until he can't catch his breath. 

Gods, why is it so hard to breathe? Is it whatever gas they're pumping into the room? It's starting to feel impossible to draw a breath, like no matter how hard he tries, no air will enter his lungs. 

The answer comes to him in a flash of horrified clarity. "They're pulling out the air." Davey means to yell it, but he doesn't have the breath, and his voice comes out as a weak hiss. 

Racer, who is still closest to the door between them and the others, staggers over and pounds the heel of his hand against it. "They're stealin' the air," he says as loudly as he can. A moment later, he slumps, bracing himself on the wall as he coughs. 

"Don't panic," Davey wheezes at Boots and Alan. Boots appears to have tried to drag himself toward one of the corner seams, but now he's slumped on the ground and heaving breaths. Alan sways unsteadily where he sits, his good hand clawing at his chest frantically. "Uses - more air." 

Using the wall for support, Davey makes his way to the last corner, searching desperately for someplace they might be able to peel back the metal. There has to be a place, somewhere, anywhere. Racer said that there are all kinds of wires beneath that control the traps. They just need to find a spot where they can get in... 

The shouting from the other side of the wall feels like it's coming from miles away. Dark patches blot out the edges of Davey's vision, and his lungs burn from the strain of trying for air that doesn't exist. He stumbles as he makes his way back to the wall where Racer is propped, having sat down at some point. Shaking, Davey falls next to him. 

"No - seams," Davey reports in resignation. Racer, wheezing, nods what Davey assumes is an agreement. The wall behind them is vibrating, the others apparently still trying to break through. Through the shadows, Davey sees that Boots and Alan are both laying now; Alan is shuddering, arms wrapped around his middle and mouth gaping, but Boots isn't moving. Davey's eyes burn. "Sorry," he rasps. 

Racer pats Davey's leg clumsily, tipping his head to offer a shallow smile, and hoarsely slurs, "Newsboys." 

Davey grins and drops his hand on top of Racer's. "Newsboys." Closing his eyes, he leans his head back against the steel wall as the darkness washes over him.

The breath that rushes out of him makes Davey spasm, gasping and shaking as his lungs scramble to remember how to function. Each breath that follows wrenches through him, burning and scratching until he falls into a fit of hacking coughs. There's nothing else in the world to him except the air, greedily sucking in shallow breath after breath even though every single one hurts. Air. He just needs more air. 

It takes a long time before Davey starts to become aware of anything outside of his respiratory system, his breaths finally evening out and pushing the shadows in his head back. His entire body aches, his head is pounding like a drum, and pinpricks of light cutting through the black of his vision sear into his eyes. "Easy, easy," a voice murmurs from very close. "Shh, just catch ya breath a sec." 

Davey's got no complaints against that idea. Slumping into the hard floor, he realizes there's a comforting warmth beneath his head. He squeezes his eyes shut and just focuses on timing his inhales. The longer he does this, the easier it gets. It also makes the rest of the world slowly come back to him, his ears no longer filled with the throb of his heartbeat, and his memories fight their way to the surface. 

"What-?" The single word is thin and hoarse, and Davey winces at the effort. 

"Youse okay, we gotcha," the voice says, and the sound of it soothes Davey. It's coupled with a hand on his chest, the comforting weight of a palm spread above his heart. 

"Jack?"

"Yeah, I gotcha, Dave." 

Davey relaxes gratefully. "How?"

"Panel in the wall, like Racer said," Jack explains. "Found the wires for the door, pulled 'em out. Gods, I thought we wasn't gonna getcha in time. You wasn't breathin'. Was so scared I lost you." 

Even though it saps his energy, his muscles quivering with exertion, Davey slides a hand up to touch the one on his chest. Jack instantly wraps his cool hand around Davey's, brushing his thumb reassuringly. Davey summons up a hint of a smile. "You saved me," he pants out. 

Jack laughs softly. "'Bout time I return the favor, huh?" 

Davey takes a steadying breath and opens his eyes, blinking the world into focus. Most of the stark overhead lights are blocked out by the figure bent over him. Jack is a mess, his skin flushed and eyes wild, but when he smiles, Davey echoes it weakly. "Hey."

"Hey, pal," Jack says with another chuff of laughter. Even upside-down, the warmth and relief on his face is beautiful.

"Racer?" Davey asks hopefully. 

There's a vague hum from off to the left. "He's okay," Spot's deep voice chimes in from the same direction. 

"Boots and Alan too," Jack supplies. "Alan ain't awake yet, but he's breathin'. Was close, but we gotcha." He squeezes Davey's hand. "Everyone's okay, Dave. Go back to sleep. No one's gonna be up to moving any time soon." Davey makes a faint sound of agreement, and he needs no further prompting to slip away again.

Davey wakes to the sound of the Anthem echoing down the halls, and he instantly bolts into a sitting position even though his muscles protest. There's a grunt from behind him and then Jack - who Davey was apparently using as a pillow - sits up, a hand settling in the small of Davey's back. It takes a minute to shake off the lingering fog of sleep, and Davey's memories crawl back to the surface. 

Spread around the intersection with them, the rest of the group is in various states of alertness. Davey breathes out a sigh of relief when he sees that they are all still very much alive, if a bit worse for the wear. There's also a new face among the group, and Davey's eyes widen. "Hotshot?" 

"Heya, Davey," the Harlem Tribute greets. His shirt is missing, repurposed into bandaging around his torso, and there are dozens of small scratches and cuts spanning the length of one arm, but he grins. "Nice to see ya." 

"How'd you find us?" Davey asks, surprised. 

"Heard these fellas shouting like crazy," Hotshot replies. "Your husband's a noisy bastard. Just followed the sound. Guess I got here a bit late to join the fun, heard you tried to see how long you could hold your breath." 

Davey snorts at the weak joke. "Not long enough, apparently," he says. "Good to see you. We've been worried about you." 

"Sweet talker," Hotshot teases. 

The Anthem ending pulls Davey's gaze up, but there are no visible holo-screens around them, three of the four corridors branching out of this intersection still blocked off. 

"Was only two cannons today," Spot says grimly. "Harvey and one other." 

It was almost me. The thought hits Davey all at once, and a shudder rolls through him. He came very close to being a cannon blast and a face on the holo-screen. Although he's known from the start that he's doomed to die in this place, the idea still fills Davey with an instinctive terror. If things had gone just a little bit differently, there could've been six cannons today, half of their alliance wiped away in one go. 

Whether Jack is thinking along the same lines or just saw Davey's shiver and is trying to comfort him, Jack scoots closer to wrap his arms around Davey. It warms him, and Davey lets his head drop onto Jack's shoulder for a moment, exhaling out the tension in his muscles. "How's everyone?" Jack asks. 

"Sore but alive," Racer responds from where he's propped against the wall beside Spot. "And sorta wishing I never took up smokin'. Ain't got the lungs for this shit." 

Spot snorts. "Toldja those things would kill ya." 

"Sure, among the million other things tryna kill me," Racer says dryly. "You just hate the smell." 

"That too," Spot agrees with a shrug. 

"You two sound like an old Bound couple," Boots notes in amusement. A brief flicker darts across Racer's face and Boots' eyes widen, but he keeps the revelation to himself. Davey can tell by Alan's face that he caught it too, while Finch and Hotshot just laugh at the tease. 

"You try dealin' with the same folks every year; it gets old fast," Alan chips in to break the moment. "You only did one year of Mentoring. I've been stuck dealin' with all these same Victors every damn year. That Gregory fella from Brooklyn drives me to drink, way he never shuts up."

Spot chuffs a laugh that makes Davey think he agrees with the sentiment. "Try havin' this punk for a neighbor," Spot adds, jerking his head toward Racer. "Always up all damn night tinkerin' with his toys, making noise and breaking things. I ain't had a good night's sleep since he moved in."

"I bet you ain't," Jack says, a sly smile crossing his face, and Davey bites back a laugh at the innuendo. Spot narrows his eyes at Jack, while Racer muffles his own giggle. 

"Everyone up to moving?" Davey asks, deciding to pull them back on track. "We still need to find more supplies, and with the numbers dwindling, the Gamemakers are going to get more aggressive." Although everyone grimaces, they stand and slip out of the only open corridor. They pass around the last of the water, everyone taking a shallow sip that does nothing to ease their thirst. 

At the next intersection, Racer double-checks their direction on his compass, and then they start heading east again. Davey still has no idea why or what they're headed to, but it's the only plan they've got right now. It at least makes them feel like they're doing more than just wandering aimlessly and waiting to be killed. 

There's no clue as to what is waiting for them in the east, but it's clear that there's a grander plot at work, and Davey has to believe that his team didn't put their lives on the line for nothing.

After a couple of hours of mindless walking, they're all starting to flag. None of them have eaten yet, their water ran out ages ago, and the ones who are injured are feeling it. Alan's arm is so numb and swollen from the infection that he can't use it. Finch is swaying with hunger and dehydration, having thrown up the day before. Spot's left hand is wreathed in glossy burns, which Davey learns is from ripping the wires from inside the wall when they were trapped. 

It's a grim realization as Davey looks around at their group. They're not going to last much longer. Judging by the weary, stubborn frowns on everyone's faces, they all know it too. If the hunger and thirst don't kill them first, none of them are in any condition to fight or run from a trap. 

One way or another, this whole thing is almost over. 

"Door," Racer rasps out abruptly, startling all of them. Davey's heart leaps when he looks down the hall Racer is pointing to, and he makes out the impossibly faint outline of a door in the wall. 

"Shit, your eyes are fuckin' amazing," Finch says appreciatively. "I can't even see that far." 

Racer snorts. "Sounds like you need glasses, old man." 

"I'm not that much older than you," Finch grumbles petulantly. His brow scrunches thoughtfully, and then adds, "Okay, so I'm a bit older." 

"Ten years older," Boots counters.

From the back of the group, Alan makes a disgruntled noise. "I don't even want to hear it. Racer's the same age as my kid."

The door to the supply closet glides open when they approach, and the sight of the shelves loaded with all sorts of things makes a wave of relief wash over Davey. Spot and Race start rummaging through the shelves on either side, and Spot emerges with a triumphant sound and a cylinder of water clutched in his hand. 

"Thank the Gods," Hotshot says eagerly. Spot twists the cap off and takes a mouthful, then passes the water along. They each take a deep swallow, groaning in pleasure as the moisture soothes dried throats. Racer tosses a second water to Davey, who stows it in his backpack for later. 

In all, they manage to find another dozen packets of food, two rolls of bandages, and even a palm-sized jar of healing salve. Davey helps bandage wounds, splitting the ointment between Alan, Boots, and Hotshot. The group splits packets of food between them, and while it's not much, just the little bit of food in their stomachs helps ease the ache of hunger. 

"What're you doing?" Davey asks curiously when he sees Racer playing with a small bundle of wire he found in the cache. 

"Never know when some wire might come in handy," Racer responds, shrugging. "'Specially in here. Might be able to help us rig traps or doors if we need to. Better than just grabbing it with your bare hands, right?" 

Spot scoffs, flexing his bandaged hand. "Worked, didn't it?" 

Racer smirks. "Hey, I ain't complaining. Saved my skin. Just saying, if something happens, door blocks us off or something, I might be able to use this to get it open again. Stuff like that." 

"Good plan," Davey says, nodding. "Let's rest up for a little bit, and then we'll keep moving. Racer, Alan, Boots, you guys'll be on first watch with me." Sure, it might've only been because they nearly suffocated, but they've still slept more recently than the others. 

The group settles on the floor, making themselves as comfortable as they can. Finch and Hotshot are slumped against the wall side-by-side, while Spot curls up on his side beside where Racer sits. Jack stretches out, laying his head in Davey's lap, and Davey smiles as he cards a hand into Jack's hair. "Wake me in an hour," Jack mumbles, the exhaustion already tugging at him now that he's laying down. 

"Get some sleep, Jacky," Davey responds fondly. The younger boy hums, already drifting off as Davey runs his fingers through Jack's hair. 

Davey leans back against the wall, gaze sliding over every worn-down member of their little group. It's close to the end now. Soon they can all rest for good. All Davey can hope for is that outside of the Arena, the world is seeing this and paying attention. He wishes he could know for sure whether it's working, but he's just going to have to go on faith.

Huh, faith. Mayer'd be proud of him. With that in mind, Davey's free hand taps his forehead and then heart, an old prayer his father taught him as a child tumbling off his lips in a whisper. It might not do any good, and Davey still isn't sure he believes, but if there was ever a time to try...

They only get a brief respite before the Gamemakers chase them off, this time by abruptly turning down the thermostat, sending a blast of glacial air through the corridors. The change jerks the Tributes from their sleep, instinctively recoiling away from the cold metal. "Rude wake-up," Jack grumbles as she stands, scrubbing a hand over the arm he was laying on to chase away the sting. 

Walking close together, the group starts moving again, still heading east. It only gets colder the longer they walk, gusts of chilled air coming down from the vents in the ceiling. After a while, there's a faint sheen of frost spreading in patches across the walls. Davey wonders if the Gamemakers are doing it in an attempt to turn them around and drive them back into the maze. Still, they keep their same path, and when they come to a walled-off corridor, they simply divert long enough to find another open one and keep going. 

It's once lips start turning blue that Davey gets nervous, looking around at the others uncertainly. He shucks off his jacket and hands it out to Hotshot. "We'll trade it off," Davey says before the Harlem Tribute can protest. "I can handle the cold for a bit while you warm your arms back up." And Hotshot, who doesn't have a real shirt anymore since his is currently shredded into bandages around his torso, bites his lip as he gratefully pulls the jacket on. 

Jack does the same with Finch, who is even skinnier than Davey and doesn't have any meat on his bones to protect him from the chill. When they start walking again, Jack wraps his arm around Davey's shoulders, pulling him closer to his side where they can share body heat. Davey goes to argue that Jack's going to freeze his fingers off, but Jack follows his glance and laughs. "That hand don't feel cold, remember?" he points out. 

It takes Davey's sluggish brain a second to realize it's Jack's prosthetic around him, the normally chilled synthetic flesh almost warm in comparison to the air. Jack's flesh hand is hidden in the waistband of his pants to keep his fingers from freezing. Letting Jack hug him against his side, Davey croaks a shaky, "Thanks." 

"Guys, do we wanna change directions?" Boots asks, hands tucked into his pits to keep them warm. 

"No," Spot interjects. The others glance at him in surprise, caught off guard by the firm negative. "Just - trust me," he adds. "They can't keep this up forever. We turn back, just gonna have to walk through all we done again. Better to just keep going one way." 

Davey knows there's more to it than that, but the excuse seems to pacify the others for now. Even though everyone is tired and aching, muscles burning with the cold, they can't stop until they escape the freeze. Men start staggering, shuffling steps on the steel that's growing slick from a layer of hoarfrost. 

Just keep moving, Davey tells himself as the chill sinks through to his bones, bringing with it a wave of fatigue. We just have to keep moving.

A cannon blast makes them all jump, and more than one person slips and nearly falls on the icy floor. Davey glances at Jack, eyes wide as the gravity of the situation settles over him. That was the last other Tribute. They are all that's left now. Eight men banded together against the Capitol in this deathtrap of their making. 

No questioning it now—it's almost over.

Davey gives Jack a meaningful look before he intentionally slows their pace, letting them fall back so they're only a few steps ahead of Spot and Racer. Davey tugs the collar of his shirt up over his nose on the pretense of keeping it warm, and then asks, under his breath, "Any idea what we're headed to?" 

"Nope," Racer responds, popping the P loudly. When Davey glances back, he sees Racer has both hands cupped over his mouth, breathing into them and rubbing his palms together to warm them.

Davey sighs. "What about the square? Did you figure out what it is?" 

"Pretty sure it's an EMP of some kind," Racer says. Jack makes a confused noise. "Uh, it's basically a bomb, but only for electrical things. Set one off, it'll fry every bit of tech nearby." 

"Could we fry whateva's makin' it so damn cold?" Jack asks, teeth chattering. 

Racer chuckles. "Yeah, probably. But we can only use it once, so better make it count." 

Distractedly, Davey tries to imagine what Kloppmann meant for them to do with an EMP. They could use it to disarm a trap if they have to, shorting out whatever is trying to kill them. Is that what it's for? To give them a shot to survive longer? But what good does that do, apart from giving them a little while longer to spread the message? 

Is a couple of extra minutes of defiance really something Kloppmann and Katherine and Medda would've risked their lives for? 

"How'd you guys get involved in all this?" Davey asks curiously, careful to keep his voice low. "No offense, but career Tributes from Brooklyn aren't what comes to mind when I think about this sorta thing." 

Spot snorts. "Going through the Games does a good job of changin' your mind, and I ain't been shy 'bout my opinions," he says. "Couple drinks, I ain't afraid to tell the Capitol folks at the bar where they can stick it. Got to the right ears, 'ventually, and they came to me." 

"Who?" Davey asks. He's met with only silence, and when he looks over his shoulder, Spot presses his lips together and shakes his head. Davey huffs irritably but turns forward again. He doesn't like it, but he can understand. If the Capitol manages to overhear that snatch of conversation, whoever these "right ears" belong to will be a target. No point putting another life in the crosshairs if they can avoid it. 

Jack curls his arm tighter around Davey's shoulders, shaking his head in annoyance. "Still nothing but sneakin' and secrets everywhere."

Miraculously, it does eventually get warmer again. Davey can't pinpoint exactly when it started because the cold has sunk straight through to his bones, freezing him from the inside. After a while, though, the frost on the walls fades. When he rubs warmth into his limbs, it actually helps, and gradually, his shivers abate. Davey knows he should be happy about it, but somehow, the reprieve just opens a dark pit in his stomach. The Gamemakers wouldn't just let up unless they had something else planned. 

Then the corridor they're walking ends in a wall. It's not the usual walls they've run into, the massive steel dropped to block off the arch of another corridor. This wall is sleek and flat, with no indication that there was ever another corridor behind it. Davey glances down the halls to the sides and sees that the plain wall stretches on as far as he can see in either direction. 

This isn't the Gamemakers blocking off the path from them. This is the actual edge of the Arena.

"What do we do now?" Boots asks.

All eyes turn to Davey, and he balks at the sudden weight of it. He knows that these people are following his and Jack's lead. Still, every time he's reminded of that, the crushing pressure of so much responsibility is mortifying. These people have put their lives in his hands even though it will cost them everything. And now, faced with this blank span of wall, Davey has nothing left to give them. 

"I don't-" Davey glances at Jack hopefully, but he looks just as lost. Spot shrugs when Davey looks his way, the Brooklyn Tribute's mouth twisted into a tense scowl. 

"We can't give up," Jack says finally. "Ain't nothin' left to do, right?" 

Davey's lips set into a hard line as reality sets in, the answer coming to him with a wave of grim determination. "This is where we make our last stand," he says. He looks around at the pale, shuddering group, and tries to inject some confidence into his voice. "We are all that's left. There's no one else; no one to stand with us and no one to stand against us. No one but the Capitol. 

"But we are not the Capitol's playthings. Our lives are worth more than the price of entertainment. And for every person out there watching this," Davey tips his head, glaring upward where there are undoubtedly cameras nearby, "you deserve better. The Capitol uses the Games to keep us in line, to keep us afraid, but you shouldn't have to be afraid. We are stronger together. Look at what we've done here! Together, Tributes from every corner of this nation, we've outlived and outlasted without having to kill for it because we have each other." 

His voice has risen to a near-shout by the end, but the adrenaline and rage push back the fatigue and ache just a bit. Davey gazes around at the others, and he's met with a wall of fierce expressions. "So this is where we go down fighting," Davey says. "We stand together against whatever the Capitol throws at us because we are not enemies, no matter what they try to tell us. We are allies. We are friends. And we are united." 

"Newsboys united," Jack tacks on with a vicious grin. 

"Newsboys united," Davey agrees.

And from all around them, rough voices echo, "Newsboys united." 

A mechanical hum begins inside the walls, the precursor to a trap being activated. At the same time, a series of heavy thuds echo from all around them, dozens of paths and corridors being blocked off until there's nowhere left to run. It almost covers up the sound of clicks and scuffling steps, dangers drawing closer around them in the unseen halls. 

So, it looks like the Gamemakers are ready to start. 

"Watch each other's backs," Jack calls. "Pulitzer might think we's nothin' but gutter rats, but we's gonna show him. Protect each other, long as you can." 

"Racer," Davey says. The blond lifts an eyebrow in silent question. "I think now would be a good time to see how well your new toy works."

The Brooklyn Tribute's grin is a harsh, menacing slash as he tosses a flippant salute. "Aye, aye, captain." 

As Racer crouches by the wall, immediately wedging his knife blade into the first seam he can find, the rest of the alliance forms a protective half-circle around him. All of them draw their weapons, a pitiful collection of utility knives and bludgeoning clubs. Finch lifts his crossbow, and Hotshot draws a compound archery bow. 

Davey flips a throwing knife pilfered from the last closet in his hand and looks around at them all. "May the odds, boys," he says grimly. 

Jack abruptly grabs Davey's arm and tugs him into a bruising kiss. "Love you, Davey Jacobs," he breathes when they part, foreheads pressed together. 

"Love you too," Davey says, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. He brushes his fingers over the union band on Jack's wrist, the metal still bitingly cold over the synthetic skin. "You and me, together." 

Jack nods, a smile full of fear and hope crossing his face. "All the way to the end. See ya in the After, pal." 

The sounds of approaching danger pull them back to the moment, and they break apart to face whatever is coming for them. Davey's stomach drops when he spots the trio of skulking, leathery reptiles prowling up the corridor in front of him. When he glances to the left, he sees a wolf-like beast with jet-black fur, ropey saliva dripping from dual rows of teeth. To the right, a pair of the giant, pale spiders, their joints clicking as long legs propel them forward. 

"Fuckin' lizards," Boots growls irritably at the same time that Spot hisses, "Fuckin' spiders." 

Racer cackles without looking up from the wires he's plucking at inside the wall panel. "Need me to come step on it for ya like I do at home, baby?" he tosses Spot's way. 

"Oh fuck you," Spot snaps without any heat. 

"I mean if that's what you wanna do with our last few minutes," Racer replies. 

Davey can't help but laugh as he adjusts his grip on the knife, bracing himself for the fight. "Is right now really the time for you two to have a domestic?" 

"Always," Racer and Spot say as one. 

The wyverns and wolf don't seem to be in any great hurry to attack, stalking closer without taking their eyes off the cornered Tributes. The spiders, on the other hand, are clattering noisily up the corridor, nearly crawling over each other in their haste. "Aim for the eyes or the joints," Jack advises. 

"And watch out for the pincers," Alan tacks on, rolling the heavy steel bar he's wielding in his uninjured hand. 

Davey tenses, trying to keep an eye on the wyverns prowling toward him and still watch the other Tributes in his peripherals. Hotshot snarls as he looses an arrow at the lead spider, and it lets out a piercing shriek when the shaft sinks through one of its six glossy eyes. The sound makes several of the Tributes flinch, and the other creatures use that split-second distraction to attack. 

The intersection quickly devolves into chaos as the Tributes fight back the Capitol's monsters. Davey can only process it in snapshots, his brain scrambling to keep up with the speed of the simultaneous fights. The wolf howls when Finch fires a crossbow bolt that sinks into its shoulder—Boots roars as he throws himself on top of the lead spider—Spot drops into a crouch and swings a club, snapping the front leg of the nearest wyvern like dry tinder. 

"Now would be a great time, Racer," Jack hollers through the noise, darting back when the wolf makes a swipe at him. 

"I'm working on it!" Racer snaps. 

A sudden, high-pitched pulse ripples through the air, disorienting man and beast alike. Davey cries out, clapping his hands over his ears. Thankfully, the wyvern he's been trying to keep at bay staggers as well. "Racer!" Spot bellows, although Davey can barely hear it over the ringing in his ears. 

"Wasn't me," Racer says, fumbling to grab the wires again. 

Davey locks his jaw, shaking off the feeling to focus on the lizard eyeing him. The Gamemakers, then. Apparently, they aren't content with just letting their zoo out to play and see what happens. Too bad watching eight people get mauled by genetic mutts isn't entertaining enough television, Davey thinks wryly. 

"Fuck, this piece is stuck," Racer says. "Hey, someone stronger wanna help me here?"

"Cover me," Jack says and then ducks out of the fight to drop beside Racer. Out of the corner of Davey's eye, he sees Jack reach into the open panel with his prosthetic hand. The harsh shriek of metal follows a second later. "Hurry," Jack grunts. "Can feel the 'lectricity zappin' my hand. Ain't gonna be able to hold it long." 

Someone screams, and Davey turns, panicked, in time to see Hotshot fall beneath the weight of the wolf that pounced on him. Before Davey can make a move to help, there's a skittering of claws on steel, and then his back feels like it's set on fire, burning lines stretching from his shoulder to the small of his back. Davey's scream catches in his throat, and he crumples, the wyvern that's sunk its talons into his skin on top of him.

"Davey!" 

Davey can't summon the breath to respond, struggling to inhale through the pain of the lizard perched on his wounds. He can feel the claws dig deeper, no doubt holding him in place so it can bite. So, this is how it ends, huh? 

With a sizzle, the world suddenly plunges into darkness. Davey has a startled moment of thinking that he's died before he hears the other Tributes making noises of alarm too. Racer must've gotten the EMP working then, frying the lights along with everything else. 

The wyvern on top of Davey shrieks, wrenching its talons out of him jaggedly, and Davey screams as it only tears the flesh more. As the lizard continues to hiss and wail, Davey tries to focus on his breathing. Gods, it hurts so bad. Then there's a large, calloused hand on the back of his head. "Breathe, Dave, youse gonna be okay," Spot growls over the sound of more screams in the background. 

"Racer, why's them wires lightin' up?" Jack's voice has risen an octave in alarm. 

"Shit, get back!" Racer yells. 

A split second later, a concussive blast rips through the air in time with a dazzling burst of white-blue light. Spot throws himself down on top of Davey like a shield, and his back lights up with pain from the impact. Davey only gets a moment more of consciousness to see torn steel and fallen bodies before the explosion of lightning and fire rolls over them both.

Pain. Pain and screams. Bodies drenched with blood. A wolf with its dual rows of teeth sunk into a pale throat. Hooked claws tearing through his flesh and muscle, trying to reach all the way in and carve out his insides. Lightning burning, exploding through the darkness. 

Davey wakes up screaming. 

Wait, is he screaming? Davey feels like he's screaming, but he can't hear anything. He can't see anything. When he tries to move, his body doesn't respond. Davey's trapped, nothing but a consciousness floating in an endless dark void, and oh Gods, is this the After? The After isn't supposed to be like this; it isn't supposed to still hurt. 

"David, you need to relax." The smooth shapes of the Capitol accent make him flinch, and Davey instinctively tries to recoil from the voice that seems to be everywhere at once. "Davey, listen to me. You're badly injured, you're in a healing chamber. You need to calm down, or you're going to hurt yourself more. Do you understand me?" 

Davey hears the words, but they don't make sense. Healing chamber? He's dead, why would a dead man need a healing chamber? And now that he thinks about it, that voice sounds familiar. Why does it seem familiar? 

Groaning, Davey forces himself to still, putting all of his energy into opening his eyes instead. The world beyond him won't come into proper focus, everything warped and blurred, but it's enough to make out a figure standing in front of him. A pale face wreathed in vivid scarlet. "Kath?" Davey grunts and his tongue feels too thick in his mouth that won't quite open.

There's a breathless noise that sounds halfway between a laugh and sob, and Katherine presses her hands flat to the glass between them. "Yeah, David, it's me," she says encouragingly. "You're safe, I promise. Just rest. You'll feel better soon." 

"You're - 'kay?" Davey asks, confused because now that she's in front of him, all he can think about is bullets tearing through his Mentor's body. "Klo'mann - an' Meds - I though'-" 

"I know," Katherine says somberly. "I know, and I'm so sorry, but I'm okay. I got out just before the peacekeepers came for me. I had no idea, I didn't even hear about it until I was gone." 

Davey blinks, his gaze gliding over the indistinct shapes behind her. "Where?" 

"We're in a Union safehouse," Katherine explains. "You were badly hurt, we need to get you healed up before we can make it all the way to the base. But I promise you're safe here. The Capitol can't find you. You're out." 

Out. What on earth does that mean - out? How can he be somewhere that the Capitol can't find him? Last he knew, he was in the - "'Rena?" 

"No, we got you out of there," Katherine says firmly. 

"We?" Davey asks because everything that she says just brings more questions that his sluggish brain can't process. 

Katherine nods. "Union. The people who believe in you, David. Those of us ready to follow you against the Capitol." 

Now that part really doesn't make sense. People to follow him? Well, the other Victors had been willing to follow him, he supposes. His stomach clenches. "Others?" he asks hopefully because if they got him out, they must've gotten the others too. "Jack? Spot?"

"You need to rest," Katherine says, and the way she dodges the question makes nausea boil in Davey's gut. 

"Jack?" he repeats insistently. Davey lifts his gaze to the world behind her, but he can't make out any other healing chambers there. Maybe beside him-? "Jack?"

Katherine sighs, slumping against the glass. "They got who they could," she says, her voice thick. "They only had moments to act, but they really tried to get everyone they could. We didn't know about the failsafe in the Arena's border wiring, it backfired and caused an explosion. A couple were buried in the debris, and there wasn't time to dig out all of the bodies." 

"Jack?" Davey presses, his tone now frantic.

"We only managed to rescue three of you," Katherine says, and she won't meet his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Davey, but they couldn't find Jack."

"No." Davey moans, squeezing his eyes shut as the memories wash over him. Jack had been right next to the wall when the explosion went off, he and Racer. They would've been right on top of the blast. But Jack can't be - "No, no..." 

"I'm so sorry," Katherine chokes out, but Davey can't hear her through the rushing sound in his head. He made a vow that he wouldn't leave the Games without Jack. If we're going down, we go down together. Except now Davey's here and Jack's-

It's only when Katherine raises her voice that Davey realizes he's wailing, his voice echoing back at him off the surface of the breathing mask. "David, I'm sorry, but you need to rest," she says. "I'm sorry." And then there's a cold, disjointed feeling spreading through his veins, sucking at his consciousness until there's nothing left but darkness.

Numb. 

Davey has experienced many different kinds of shock in his life at this point, but even that gray void after the last Games was nothing compared to the all-consuming hollowness that is settled inside of him now. He feels aimless and unattached, a ghost haunting his own body. Nothing feels real. 

Katherine tells him it's been four days. Four days since a rescue team dragged him from the Arena and spirited him away to this underground hideaway. He's been unconscious for ninety-nine percent of that time, rousing only in little gaps between rounds of medication, and he only remembers snatches of those moments anyway. It all feels like a dream, and he can't be sure which dreams are reality anymore. 

"There you go, all set." Davey blinks and glances at the healer as she ties off the bandage around his shoulder. "That should hold you until you get to the main base. Sorry we couldn't do better." 

"It's fine," Davey says, shaking his head. As someone - he can't remember who, exactly - explained to him during one of his gaps of consciousness, this safehouse isn't equipped for serious medical. Everything that they have is older models rescued from the scrap yards to avoid raising suspicions from the Capitol. The technology in the ancient healing chambers was enough to keep the Tributes alive and get them relatively back on their feet. However, they are still a long shot from fully healed. 

Davey looks sideways at the other occupants of the makeshift medical ward. Three Tributes out of the last eight to make it out of the Arena. 

Against the wall, Boots is still suspended in a healing chamber. The skin along his left shoulder and right leg is raw and puckered from where the chamber is slowly healing overlapping bite marks, while tubes siphon the mutated spider venom from his blood. On a bed beside Davey, Spot is scowling blankly up at the ceiling as a healer checks over the burns that mar more than half of his body. The Brooklyn Tribute only woke yesterday, and he hasn't spoken more than a handful of words, spending the majority of his time staring ahead and touching the bandage that covers his tattoo. 

It's a feeling Davey can understand. 

"David, are you ready?" Katherine's voice startles him out of his thoughts, and he glances over to see her standing in the doorway. 

The Katherine he's seen in the last few days isn't the same Katherine he's used to. Gone are the silk dresses and extravagant jewelry, replaced with simple, tactical clothing. There's no makeup on her face, and her cascade of wildfire hair is tied back into a simple tail at the base of her skull. Instead of the brittle, plastic smiles, there's a thin frown on her lips and a furrow of concentration in her brow. 

This is the person that's been living behind the chipper mask, the one Davey's caught random glimpses of but never really seen until now. 

"As I'll ever be," Davey responds, grimacing. He slides gingerly off the medical bed, grateful when his legs waver but hold his weight. Katherine appears at his side a second later, offering an arm for support. "Thanks," he says, accepting the help. 

"We'll make this quick, I promise," Katherine says as she guides him out of the medical room. "He just wants to meet you, and since we can't move out of here until the Capitol stops looking so hard..."

"It's okay, I get it," Davey says. 

That's not entirely true. Well, Davey understands the part where they are stuck in this safehouse for a few more days since the Capitol is still combing the nation for the escaped Tributes. Waiting for the heat to die down is something Davey can wrap his brain around. 

The part he can't make sense of is that this is just one small base among dozens, the sprawling branches of an organization of resistance fighters that want to take Davey's words and run with it, tearing down the Capitol as they go. That part is a little harder to process. 

The command room is cramped and lit by the glow of a dozen holo-screens. Rows of tables ring the center, people with grim expressions working intently at their screens. Davey doesn't miss the way most of them glance up when he enters the room, and he shuffles self-consciously. Not only is he half the age of some of them, but he's also currently wearing only loose medical trousers and his own body weight in bandages. And yet they're all here because of him.

Katherine pats his arm gently where it's wrapped around hers, and she gives him an encouraging smile. "Holo-comm the main base," she orders to the room at large, and processors hum as people start typing in commands and flicking through screens at dizzying speeds. There's a dull chime, and then a figure blossoms in the middle of the room.

"Commander," Katherine greets, inclining her head to the holograph. 

The man is older, closer to Davey's parents' age, he'd guess, and there's something kind in his eyes. It's hard to tell beneath the large mustache, but Davey's fairly sure the man is smiling. "Lovely to see you again, Miss Katherine," the man says, touching his bowler hat respectfully. Then his eyes turn to Davey. "And you must be the boy I've heard so much about." 

"David Jacobs, sir," Davey supplies, tipping his head in an awkward nod. 

"Of course you are," the man says with a chuff of laughter. "Pleasure to finally meet you, m'boy. Theodore Roosevelt, at your service. I'm glad to hear you're on the mend." Davey smiles tightly because he can't think of a good way to respond to that; on the mend physically, maybe. "I know your family will be thrilled to hear it too." 

Davey's head jerks up in surprise. "You've talked to my family?" he asks hopefully. Katherine assured him that they were safe and outside of the Capitol's reach, but she couldn't tell him more than that, hadn't been given the full details yet. "They're okay?"

"In a safehouse, just like you," Roosevelt says. "Our people got them out of Manhattan at the same time we were getting you from the Arena. The base they're in doesn't have good comm access, but as soon as it's safe to move again, we'll have them brought to the main base. They'll be here when you arrive." 

With a gusty exhale, Davey sways slightly on his feet, and it's only Katherine's supportive arm that keeps him upright. His family is safe. He's going to see them again. 

At least he hasn't lost everything. 

"Thank you," Davey says breathlessly, looking up at the holograph platform again. 

"Don't mention it, son," Roosevelt says. "We're all just doing what we can to make things right around here." He clears his throat, and his expression becomes more serious. "And truly, that's where you come in, David. The time has come for the old ways to die out. It's time for the old world to step aside and let the next generation lead the way. Our country needs to find a new path and better leaders. Union was formed on the idea that all Districts should be given equal value - an idea that we learned from you." 

"There have always been scattered pockets of resistance, but it was you that gave them a real purpose," Katherine says somberly. "The one who encouraged them to band together in the fight. You were right when you told the world that no one's fate should be controlled by another and that every life is just as important as the next, no matter what District they come from." She swallows and drops her gaze. "You taught me that." 

Roosevelt makes a noise of agreement. "The thoughts were already there, but you were the first person brave enough to say it," he says. "You were the first person brave enough to stand up and say that enough is enough. And David, people listened. You are the voice of the people; you're their mouthpiece. The world is listening, and they're prepared to follow your lead." 

"I can't-" Davey breaks off, shaking his head. He knew this was coming, in a way, knew that this was inevitably what they would ask of him, but that doesn't make it easier. "I can't do this. I can't lead." Without Jack, is the conclusion that goes unspoken.

"You're a natural leader," Roosevelt counters. "The people are already prepared to follow you. Union is ready. All you have to do is say the word." 

"And you don't have to do it alone," Katherine adds, softer. "I'll be right there with you, and so will Commander Roosevelt, and the entire Union council. We can do this, but we need your help. You're the one the people trust. The Commander and I, we're Capitol-born." 

"So what you're saying is you want me to be your mask? The face of the resistance because I'm just a District kid?" Davey concludes, scowling. 

"You're already the face of the resistance, David," says Roosevelt. "Every riot and rebellion that's sprung up across the country in the last year, those have all been done because the people believe in you and what you stand for. All we're asking is that you use that to make something happen. Imagine if instead of dozens of tiny, independent acts of resistance, the people of every single District banded together for one real movement?" 

Katherine squeezes his arm comfortingly. "It's what you were already trying to accomplish," she points out. "Showing all of the Districts that if they work together, they're strong enough to win. This is the chance to make that really happen. To make everything you boys fought for a reality. Please, David, we can do this, but we need your help." 

Stomach churning, Davey stares hard at the floor as he deliberates. This is never what he wanted. He was willing to play the part in the Games because he knew that it was the only shot of making something good come of his death. Martyrdom in the face of an already inescapable death is one thing, but this? Standing up alone as some brave, confident leader in an ongoing war? At least the Games had a timeline with a solid end. There's no saying how long this war could go on, how long he'll be forced to put on a facade to hide the hollow hopelessness inside his chest that's been given no time to mourn. 

Davey's gaze drifts to his union bands, and he brushes his fingertips over the tarnished gold. The one on his right wrist is marred with an ugly black scorch mark where the heat of the explosion burned and warped the metal. The bands are no longer beautiful, but that's oddly fitting now. A grand, romantic love story for the cameras that ended in tragedy, just like they always predicted. And now all that Davey has left of his best friend are memories and two fire-stained bracelets.

Jack Kelly is just one more brilliant, dazzling life that's been cut down by their broken world's system and the Capitol's cruelty. And that's what fills the chasm in Davey's ribs, despondency chased out to be replaced with cold fury. Davey doesn't want to do this without Jack, but he will do it for him.

Lifting his head, Davey meets Roosevelt's gaze with grim determination. "Okay. I'll do it. Use me as your figurehead, I don't care, just tell me what to do. Whatever it takes to bring Pulitzer down."