Stare Down the Odds, May They be in Your Favor

"And the second Hunger Games Tribute from the Manhattan District is...Les Jacobs!"

Davey's entire world freezes, a cold dread pouring down his spine and settling into his bones like the ache of deep winter nights. He can't hear anything over the pounding of his heart in his ears, his breath locked in his chest, and everything feels distant and foggy. No, this can't be happening. Anyone but Les.

His own words from the night before, whispered with conviction to the sweating, quivering child too scared to sleep, come back to echo hauntingly in Davey's skull. Don't worry, Les. This is the first year your name's even in there, and you're only in there once. The odds of being picked are next to nothing. You'll be fine. I promise.

It doesn't make any sense. The chances of Les' name being picked must be something like one in ten thousand, at least. Not like Davey, who can't even count the number of times his name has been entered in the last six years since he came of age. More than the yearly required entry, he's had to take out tessera several times since his father's injury, the cost of bare rations to feed his family another entry into the raffle. It would've made sense if it was Davey's name picked, but Les?

There should've been no chance, and yet the other boys in the square are glancing toward the front rows where the youngest stand, all wearing that mixed blend of pity and relief Davey's so familiar with. The guards are elbowing their way impatiently through the crowd, shuffling the other twelve-year-olds aside to reach the shaking figure that hasn't budged.

"No," Davey breathes, horrified, as a peacekeeper seizes Les by the shoulder and begins to shepherd him toward the stage. This can't be happening. Davey shoves blindly at the people near him, creating a path toward the center aisle. "No, wait, Les!"

"Davey?" Les' trembling voice breaks through the echoing silence in the square, and the boy rips his shoulder out of the peacekeeper's grip to look back hopefully. Davey steps into the aisle, but he only makes it three steps before a peacekeeper moves deliberately in front of him. Davey tries to push him away too and receives the butt of a rifle in the stomach for his efforts.

"Les, no, stop! Let me go!" Davey shoves back against the peacekeeper trying to herd him back to his spot. No, not Les. Anyone but Les. Anyone... "I volunteer!"

A ripple rolls through the crowd as every eye locks on Davey. Ignoring the open-mouthed stares of the other boys in the square - even the peacekeeper holding him back has gone still - Davey lifts his chin and tries to inject as much confidence into his voice as he can. "I'll go in his place. I volunteer as Tribute."

"Well, I never-" the redheaded woman from the Capitol says, sounding just as surprised as everyone else looks. It's no wonder; except in Districts like Brooklyn or Bronx, which are notorious for training fighters, no one ever volunteers for the Hunger Games. Especially not a scrawny maintenance boy from Manhattan in his last year before he would age out of qualification. The Capitol woman clears her throat and manages to regather her sunny demeanor. "It appears that we have a volunteer. Come up here, dear."

Davey pushes the peacekeeper out of his way and scrambles forward, falling to his knees in front of Les. "Get back to Sarah," he whispers, cradling his brother's pale face in his palms. "Take care of each other. I love you."

"Davey, no!" Les says, openly crying, and the sight breaks Davey's heart.

They don't get any more than that before the guards are hauling Davey back to his feet and ushering him toward the stage. He's trembling so badly he's nauseous, but Davey sets his jaw and marches as steadily as he can to the stairs. Whispers follow him, disembodied voices murmuring in wonder and sympathy as he approaches the front of the square.

There are only two other people on the stage, apart from the squadron of peacekeepers on guard duty: the redheaded Capitol ambassador, who is bouncing slightly on her toes, and Manhattan's other Tribute, a boy Davey only knows by reputation who is giving him the same awed and horrified look as the rest of the District. Davey resolutely doesn't meet the gaze of either as he mounts the stairs. It's only four steps, but Davey feels like he's fighting gravity the whole way, marching uphill through knee-deep mud.

"That's right, come stand here." Davey finally focuses his gaze when he steps up next to the redheaded Capitol woman. She's new to the job this year and younger than she looked from the audience, probably only a few years older than him. Like all of the Capitol people Davey's ever seen, she's done up in fancy fabrics and makeup. Gold flakes shimmer across her cheeks, and there are ribbons of gold woven into her cascade of bright red curls so that when the sun catches it, she looks like living fire.

It's equal parts fascinating and ridiculous—but then, that's Davey's opinion on most things regarding the Capitol.

"What's your name?" the woman - Davey thinks she introduced herself as Katelynn something - asks, smiling up at him. Even in her absurdly heeled boots, she's shorter than him, and there's something false and plastic about her expression as she touches his elbow.

"Davey." His voice breaks, and he swallows hard before he continues, "David Jacobs."

Something flashes across the redhead's face, and Davey would almost swear it's sad, but it's gone as fast as it came. Turning back to the gathering, she announces grandly, "Lovely. Can we get a round of applause for Manhattan District's first ever volunteer Tribute?"

No applause comes. Instead, slowly, fists rise into the air. One by one, every boy standing in the square lifts a fist over his head in a sign of solidarity. Davey can't stop his eyes from watering slightly, staring out over the unanimous support of thousands of boys he's never even met.

Meanwhile, the peacekeepers are shifting, looking around uncertainly like they don't know whether to intervene or not. The raised fists have expanded outside of the square now, to the parents and sisters and other onlookers who are clustered around the outer perimeters to watch. No one is technically doing anything wrong, but it's easy to tell that ten thousand fists in the air have got the peacekeepers on edge.

The Capitol woman doesn't seem to know quite how to respond either, her scarlet lips parted in awe for a moment before she clears her throat. When she summons up her smile again, it's brittle at the edges. "A wonderful display," she says, clapping her hands shortly and bouncing back to her spot in the center of the stage. Standing between the two Tributes, she holds out her hands in a sweeping gesture. "Manhattan District, I present your Tributes for the 74th annual Hunger Games: Jack Kelly and David Jacobs."  

Davey clutches the windowsill with white knuckles, refusing to look around at the sitting room where he's been locked away. He's never actually been in the District Hall before. He's never had a reason to, before today. The view he'd gotten of it as he was led to this room was utilitarian hallways of painted brick and rooms cramped with filing systems and computer monitors. The sitting room is clearly meant to be comfortable - a carpet rolled out over the hard floor, plush chairs arranged in a loose circle, and an empty fireplace grate in one wall - but the sight of it all only makes Davey's stomach turn.

It feels like a weak attempt at comfort, like moving the livestock into a nice stable before the slaughter. Let the little lambs sleep in the soft hay before they are sacrificed.

Snarling, Davey grabs the nearest thing - an odd stone bookend shaped like a creature he doesn't recognize - and hurls it across the room as hard as he can. It shatters against the far wall, chunks of glittering stone raining down onto the rug and leaving a streak of white on the paint. I'd like to tell you where you can stick your patronizing comfort.

Davey's still breathing heavily a few minutes later when the door opens. His eyes don't get a chance to process the figures in the doorway before something collides with his waist hard enough to send him staggering back into the window frame. Davey doesn't hesitate to throw his arms around the quivering bundle, combing his fingers through messy curls in a soothing gesture.

"Davey." Sarah's voice cracks on the single word, and then her arms are around him as well, the three Jacobs siblings tangled in a shaking embrace. "Gods, Davey, what-?" Sarah cuts herself off because she knows exactly what he was thinking. Of course she does—no one in the world understands him the way his twin sister does.

Davey carefully extracts himself from the jumble of limbs to meet his sister's gaze. "You would've done the same thing if you could," he counters, and the grim set of her lips confirms his comment. At the same time, Davey can't help but be a little relieved that the Hunger Games are restricted to boys. It's a small comfort knowing at least one of his siblings will always be safe from that risk.

"Ya can't go, Davey," Les says, his fingers hooked into Davey's shirt like claws. "They can't make ya, please! Can't ya just - we could run away, outta the Distr-"

"Don't talk like that," Davey says firmly, raising his voice over the younger boy's panicked rambling. His gaze darts to the door, where he knows that there will be peacekeepers standing guard. The last thing they need is for Les to get himself charged with treason; he may only be a kid, but that sort of talk is the kind of thing that could land their entire family on the whipping post.

"You can win this, Davey," says Sarah, resolutely. "You can. You're smart, way smarter than anyone else, and you're fast. So you run, and you plan, and you outlast them all."

"And you're good at makin' things," Les adds, eagerly hopping onto Sarah's train of thought. "All the things you fix at the factories. And you make snares and traps for hunting."

Davey nods, swallowing hard. It's clear they're grasping at straws, but he's willing to grasp with them—to pretend that he didn't sign his death warrant the moment he opened his mouth. "Right, yeah, of course," he agrees. "You'll see, I'll be back in no time."

The door opens, a peacekeeper filling the frame menacingly in his navy uniform with its shiny brass fastenings. "Thirty seconds," he announces from behind the blacked-out visor of his helmet.

"Be safe, Davey," Sarah says, immediately pulling him into a bone-crushing hug.

Davey tucks her head beneath his chin, burying his nose in her hair and breathing in the familiarity of her, warm skin and sunshine and the coarse lavender soap she makes and sells. "Whatever you do, don't let him take out tessera," he whispers because he might have to pretend this isn't goodbye with Les, but not with her. She knows him too well for that. "Please. Don't let him put his name in there more. Take care of each other. I love you."

"I love you too," Sarah replies, but her voice catches, and her fingers dig into his back. Davey has to squeeze his eyes shut tightly to ward off the tears before he can extract himself from her arms. As Davey kneels down to talk to Les, Sarah turns away to wipe her face, but not fast enough that he doesn't see the streaks of tears running down her blotchy cheeks.

Les promptly seizes Davey's hand and presses something into his palm. Davey glances down in surprise; a little silver coin gleams against his skin, the edges of it worn soft by time and constant handling. "Les, I can't-"

"Ya gotta take it," Les says determinedly. "Good luck, remember? 'Cause that's what ya said. That coin makes ya win, and you said so long's I got it, I'll always be safe."

That's a very loose paraphrase, but the sentiment still hits Davey square in the chest. Blinking back tears, Davey tucks the coin into his pocket and tugs Les into his arms. "Thanks, buddy," he says. "This's great."

Les clings to his shirt. "You gotta come home," he says, his tiny body hiccuping with sobs. "Please, Davey. Ya can't die. Promise you'll come home? Please, promise!"

And Davey can't stop thinking about the last promise he made to this boy and how horribly wrong that went. So he presses a kiss to Les' temple, and instead says, "Love you, Les. I'll see you soon. Until then, you gotta take care of Sarah and Mom and Dad for me, okay?" He draws back, loosening his tie and transferring the loop of black fabric to his brother's much smaller neck. It hangs clear down to his belt, but he'll grow into it one day. Davey tries not to think about the fact he'll never see that day. "You gotta be the man for a little while, okay?"

Les swallows hard, lifting his chin in a gesture Davey recognizes with a fond sadness—it's the same thing Davey does when he's trying to be brave for everyone else's sake. It looks wrong on such a young face, and it spears sharp through Davey's chest to realize that he's watching the death of his brother's childhood in this very moment. At twelve years old, Les has to be a grown-up now. "I'll take care of 'em," Les says resolutely. "But just 'til ya get home."

Davey smiles. "Atta boy, short stack," he says, and ruffles Les' curls affectionately just to see that exasperated smile flit across his brother's face one last time.

"Time's up," the peacekeeper says dispassionately. Les makes a panicked noise, grasping at Davey's hand, but Sarah puts an arm around his shoulders and steers him toward the door. Davey turns away, gaze going back to the window because he can't bear to watch them walk away for what will be the last time. That's not the memory he wants to keep.

The door closes behind them with a definitive click, and Davey grasps the windowsill for support. His legs are shaking, pain and fear and indignation coursing through him in rapid succession. This room is no better than a mausoleum, an empty shell filled with the ghosts of every innocent child to pass through on their way to pay for the crimes of a dead generation. Davey is considering giving it a good and proper trashing - because there are still so many more breakable things in here - when the door opens again.

"Oh, David."

"Mom? Dad?" Davey's breath leaves him in a rush as his gaze lands on the pair in the doorway. His mother, her hair piled up in a messy knot and the rims of her eyes red, is flushed with exertion as she helps to push the clunky wheeled chair through the door, over the little lip of the carpet. His father, meanwhile, awkwardly maneuvers the wheels to bring himself closer, and his face is gaunt and desperate.

"David," Mayer Jacobs whispers brokenly.

Davey crosses the room in two quick steps, dropping to his knees beside the wheelchair to put himself level with his father. "I didn't-" Davey doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't have to; the set lines of Mayer's jaw advertise the pain he's forcing down. Truthfully, Davey hadn't expected to get the chance to say goodbye to his father at all.

"Of course I came." Mayer twists to lean across the armrest - even though Davey knows how much it hurts him to turn his back that far - and cradles Davey's face in his big, callused hands. "My brave, strong boy."

"Oh, my baby," Esther says, her eyes welling with tears that the pure Jacobs stubbornness won't let fall. She sinks to her knees next to Davey, carding a shaking hand through his hair.

As Davey glances back and forth between his parents' devastated faces - and how painful and exhausting must it have been for Mayer to get out of the house and all the way here, in his condition - he chokes on his own sob and says the only thing he can think of: "I'm sorry."

"Don't you ever be sorry," Esther says fiercely. "Not for this. You're doing a brave, brave thing, sweetheart."

Mayer drops one hand from his cheek to grasp Davey's shoulder. "All these years you've been taking care of this family, and especially since I got hurt," he says, in that somber, steady tone of his. That tone has been soothing Davey since birth, first against the monsters under the bed, and then from the monsters of the real world. "And now this? David, we will never be anything but proud of you."

And somehow it's that single sentence that destroys all of his carefully constructed determination. Davey breaks, his attempt at remaining strong for everyone else's sake crumbling into dust around him, and the tears hovering behind his eyes rush forward. Esther immediately draws him into her chest, and Mayer wraps his arms around them both. Sheltered in the familiar scents of his parents - laundry soap and cured leather, bread flour and the sharp bite of aftershave - Davey falls apart.  

Manhattan District has long since disappeared beyond the windows of the mag-rail train, the crumbling brick and steel buildings giving way to limitless expanses of untamed wilderness. There's no other civilization to be seen. Apparently, in the old times back before the Fall, cities stretched to every horizon, bleeding into each other. Now only small clusters remain habitable, the individual Districts surrounded by wildlands and connected only by trains that most residents can't afford.

Davey leans his forehead against the cold glass, staring out but not really seeing anything. He never dreamt he'd see another District in person, let alone the Capitol, but he can't bring himself to care. He feels numb, the emotional morning leaving him hollow and empty, everything outside of him viewed through a haze of shock.

The train compartment they are in - a dining carriage - is opulent in the extreme, dripping with the usual Capitol flash and glamor. Gleaming surfaces and crystal accents catch the weak sunlight coming through the windows, bathing gold light over furniture that surely costs more than the entire Jacobs' house. There are tables laden with foods that Davey's never even heard of, brightly-frosted pastries and candies and treats. Although Davey hasn't eaten all day, he can't bring himself to touch any of the food, the sickly-sweet smell turning his stomach.

Two seats over, the other Tribute, Jack Kelly, hasn't made a motion toward the food either. He's staring into some vague middle distance, his fingers drumming a frantic rhythm against the tabletop. It's the sort of thing that would typically annoy Davey, but he can't be bothered at the moment. Neither of them has spoken since being ushered from the waiting rooms of the District Hall to the train, managing nothing more than stilted grimaces of acknowledgment as they were cheered by their District while boarding.

The Capitol woman - whose name is apparently Katherine, not Katelynn - is more than making up for their silence all by herself. She fills them in on all of the beautiful sights of the Capitol that they'll get to see once they arrive and the lush apartment that has been assigned to them for the week of training that leads up to the Games. Davey's not really paying attention, her chatter nothing more than white noise in the background, until she abruptly clicks her tongue disapprovingly. "There you are," she says, setting her teacup down on its fancy porcelain plate with a clack. "Took you long enough to make an appearance."

Curious despite himself, Davey lifts his head from the window to glance over his shoulder at the compartment doorway. It would be impossible not to recognize the man, since his face is all over the District every year at this time, although age is definitely taking its toll. Nathaniel Kloppmann is Manhattan District's only living Hunger Games victor, although he's now more well-known as a reclusive drunk. He only emerges from his cottage once a year to fulfill his obligation as Mentor, before retreating back to his Capitol-bought liquors.

Kloppmann staggers into the compartment, his bespoke suit rumpled, and falls heavily into a vacant chair at the table. "What's the rush?" he asks, only slightly slurred. Davey supposes he probably has to remain at least partially sober while there are going to be so many cameras on them. Not that it stops him from removing a flask from an inner pocket of his jacket and sipping it. "S'been a long day, I needed a nap."

"You are meant to be helping these boys prepare," Katherine chides, lips pursed.

"For all the good that's gonna do," Kloppmann says with a huff. "Never has before. Ain't matter what I say."

"Youse s'posed to teach us," Jack Kelly says, and his hands finally still, palms pressed flat against the table hard enough to bleach his skin. His hoarse voice has taken on a hard edge, his brow drawn. The repressed rage in his tone prickles Davey's spine, stirring the low embers of his own indignation back toward life. "Give us advice to help us survive in there."

Kloppman snorts. "You want my advice, kid? Accept the fact you're gonna die soon, and enjoy the hell outta the coming week of fame and luxury on the Capitol's dime."

"Nathaniel!" Katherine protests indignantly.

"Sorry, princess, but that's the truth," Kloppmann says with an unconcerned shrug. "Gutter rats from the outer Districts just don't win, plain as that."

"You did," Jack points out.

"They ever tell you how I won?" Kloppmann asks, and his face has taken on a vicious, bitter look as he leans his elbows onto the table. "You two wasn't even born the year I was in the Games. Did a frozen Arena that year, nothin' but ice and snow goin' on forever. More than half the Tributes died of frostbite and hypothermia. Only reason I won is 'cause I hid in a li'l cave when I thought I was gonna die - didn't wanna give the cameras the satisfaction of watchin' me turn blue. Was buried under three feet of rocks and ice when a storm hit, and great spears of ice fallin' from the sky killed everyone else."

Katherine narrows her eyes at the older man imperiously. "Every Tribute has an equal chance of winning," she counters. "That's the whole point. No District is given special treatment, and no one can predict how things will go in the Arena."

Kloppmann scoffs derisively, and Davey grudgingly agrees. "Yeah, sure, the Tributes from Brooklyn and Bronx and Harlem, the ones been training from birth to fight in the Games, they got no advantage at all over these scrawny factory brats," the Mentor drawls, the sarcasm so heavy it's tangible. "Sure, maybe they luck out, and the cocky punks get taken out by something natural - infection or starvation or thirst. But if I was a bettin' man, I wouldn't put money on either these kids lasting more than two days."

"You're right," Davey says, his patience snapping, and he meets the man's gaze. "Nothing that you're saying is any help. So maybe if you don't have any advice to give, you should just go back to your booze."

Something sharpens in Kloppmann's eyes, ferocious and pained. "A'ight, kid, you want my advice? The Games might look like they're about survival skills, but beneath all that, you gotta remember one thing: it's a show. Your best shot is to give them something worth watching, make people like you, root for you. The only chance you got of surviving in the Arena is gettin' Sponsors on your side, 'cause when youse starving or sick and need supplies, they're the ones that'll save your life.

"Now, Pretty Boy here," he continues, gesturing to Jack with his flask, "you got a shot of that. Gonna get a couple of people curious just by looks, 'specially once they get you cleaned up. If you can flash a smile, play pretty and charming for the cameras, you might not do terrible. But you," he says, glaring at Davey, "well, you'll have some folks on your side for the volunteering thing. Capitol folks love a sob story. But you gotta be willing to play that up, play the part. Be sweet and endearing and proud to stand up in your brother's place."

"Oh, go to hells," Davey snarls angrily, slamming his fists down on the tabletop so the china and silver rattle. "I'm not going to pretend like I'm happy to be here. Like this is some great honor. The only reason I'm here is so my little brother doesn't have to be. All of those people, they'd all coo and moan about such a poor little kid dying so young, like it's not real. Like he's not real. Well, he is, and so am I. I'm a kid who's gonna die for people's entertainment, and I'm not gonna act like that's anything but horrible."

Kloppmann stares back at him, unimpressed. "Mouthy one, ain'tcha?" he says dryly. "I changed my mind. Forget lastin' two days—you ain't gonna last an hour."

Furious, Davey shoves away from the table hard enough that his chair tips and clatters loudly to the floor behind him. "You're just as bad as them," he spits at Kloppmann, and then storms out of the compartment without a backward glance, ignoring Katherine's startled exclamation.

It takes him a few minutes to find the compartment that's been assigned to him, and Davey promptly locks himself inside. The place is bigger than the bedroom he shares with both siblings at home, a bed big enough to sleep all three of them laid with an ungodly amount of pillows. The sight of it makes Davey sick, his frustration from the District Hall swelling to the surface again and joining up with the rage hammering in his chest.

He doesn't realize he's shaking until he tries to step toward the bed and his legs nearly buckle beneath him. Davey shoves the mountain of pillows off onto the floor, curls up on a corner of the bed where he can see out of the window to the sprawl of trees and shrubs, and fumes at the injustice of it all. 

It's dark when Davey stirs awake, unfamiliar shapes of furniture lit only by the pale moonlight filtering through the window. Panic surges in his chest, his tired brain not recognizing where he is, before the memories slowly filter back. Right, the mag-rail train to the Capitol, to compete in a televised fight to the death against nineteen other boys. Davey groans, squeezing his eyes shut against the truth settling over him and wishing he could go back to sleep, where things were less awful.

Davey's eyes feel like they're coated in sand, and his body aches from sleeping propped in the corner of sloped metal walls. He unfolds his too-long limbs, stretching out, and his spine gives a series of pops that shake his bones. As much as he wants to go to sleep again, he can feel restless, burning energy crawling beneath his skin. The anger from before has faded, leaving only fear and nerves in its place. Not to mention, his stomach is twisting in knots to remind him that he hasn't eaten all day. While it's hardly the first time that's happened, it's not a comfortable feeling, and starving himself now won't do him any good in the days to come.

The need to be moving propels Davey out of the compartment and into the corridor. Thankfully, at this time of night, there isn't much risk of running into anyone else. The doors to the other sleeping compartments are all closed, so he assumes everyone else is in bed. Tucking his hands in his pockets, one fist closing around the silver coin still hidden there, he sets off toward the front of the train.

Just like the dining compartment and sleeping quarters, the rest of the train is far fancier than it has any need to be. It stretches out in a long series of carriages, all of them furnished in luxurious settees, overstuffed armchairs, and tables polished until they are practically mirrors. There is a whole compartment that seems to be devoted to drinking, rows of shelves on the walls holding crystalline bottles filled with liquids in a rainbow of colors. Another appears to be for smoking, with large windows that slide open to reveal grates and small tables set with rolling papers and matches.

When he reaches the dining car, Davey finds that the serving trays are still loaded with pastries and sandwiches cut into tiny shapes and fresh fruit. Once again getting the feeling of being an animal fattened up before the slaughter, Davey grudgingly fills a bowl with berries and bread rolls. The little pastries are tempting, purely for curiosity's sake, but he doesn't dare risk it. As someone who's lived his whole life off basic rations - hardtack, bone broth, and what little meat he could poach outside the District boundaries - he doesn't think he could stomach the sweetness if they are any bit as rich as they smell.

The front of the passenger compartments is only two carriages further, and Davey makes a lazy about-face, headed back in the other direction as he munches on his bowl of berries. Even just these fruits, ripe and juicy and flavorful in a way that can't be natural, are so sweet it makes his throat feel coated in molasses. The bread, on the other hand, is soft as clouds and practically dissolves on his tongue. As he passes through the dining cart again, Davey grabs several more, tucking them into his pockets when he runs out of room in his hands.

He still hasn't settled when he reaches the sleeping compartments again, so Davey keeps walking toward the back. There is a library carriage that catches his interest; books are a rare commodity in the Districts, the sort of frivolous expense that can't be justified by people who can barely keep food on the table. Davey enjoyed reading when they learned it in school, and there are more books in this single room than he's ever seen in his life.

The next compartment catches him slightly off guard, more brightly illuminated than any of the others. It takes him a second to realize that it's because the ceiling is transparent, a curved arch of glass that lets the quarter moon pour into the room. Staggered with wicker lounge chairs, the carriage smells strongly of earth from the exotic plants arranged in painted pots all over.

Davey's eyes drift up, and he freezes in awe. Beyond the glass, the sky is an endless blanket of violet silk dotted with millions and millions of diamond stars. He's never seen the sky like this, always muted by the lights of Manhattan's factories and warehouses. It's so - infinite.

"Helluva view, huh?"

The voice startles Davey, and he skitters backward, pressing his spine to the frame of the door in an instinctive move to keep his back protected. A second later, he makes out the shape of a figure in the shadows, and he lets out a breath. "You scared me," he hisses irritably.

Jack Kelly's smile is nothing more than a flash of teeth in the dark. "Noticed," he remarks, sounding amused. "Good thing ya got them lilies to protect ya." Davey glances down at the potted plant he's half-tucked himself behind, white flowers the size of his hand curling out around antennae-like feelers. "Ain't gonna last long if flowers is your best defense."

"Like I'm gonna last long anyway," Davey counters acidically. It's hard to tell, but he thinks Jack winces, and Davey feels a pang of regret. It's not fair to take his frustrations out on someone who's stuck in the same boat. 

Clearing his throat, he surveys Jack curiously. The other boy is stretched out on his back on the floor, arms folded behind his head as he stares up at the sky beyond the glass. Davey doesn't think they've ever really spoken, Jack a year younger than Davey, but he's seen him around the neighborhood often enough. Jack always seemed to offer a smile when they pass each other, that easy confidence of his making him naturally friendly even to strangers. 

And of course, everyone in Manhattan knows the rumors about Jack Kelly, about the day Kelly Sr. horrifically snapped, leaving young Jack orphaned and alone. Even with the dark history that dogs him, Jack's made a name for himself in the District with his charm and good looks.

Kloppmann isn't wrong—Jack's definitely got a better chance of getting Sponsors than him.

Davey shakes those thoughts away and turns his attention back to the moment. "You couldn't sleep either?" he asks weakly.

"Dunno how they 'spect us to," Jack says with a snort. "'Sides, it's too damn quiet. I'm used ta' sleepin' in a room with a dozen other folks."

Davey thinks longingly of his bedroom back home - Sarah's soft snores that she always denies she makes, the lumpy mattress Davey shared with Les, who tosses and turns in his sleep, jabbing Davey with needle-sharp elbows all night. "Yeah, I know what you mean," Davey says sadly. He considers for a second, licking his lips, and then, "Mind if I join you?"

"Pull up a floorboard," Jack responds, patting the open stretch of floor beside him. Davey slips around the various potted plants to sit down, tucking his legs up against his chest. He sets down his bowl of berries and offers out one of his pilfered bread rolls. Jack accepts it with a grin, sitting up to face Davey with his legs folded. "These things are amazing, right?"

"I didn't know bread could be so soft," Davey agrees, tearing into the roll enthusiastically. He lets the bite melt on his tongue, enjoying the sensation. "It's sad, though, thinking about all that food just sitting there. There's only four of us on this train, but there's enough food there to feed my whole block."

"And it'll pro'lly all get tossed," Jack says, grimacing. "S'disgusting. Kids back home starving, and the Capitol's just throwing food away. Course, dunno why I'm surprised. Ain't like any of them ever gone to bed hungry in their lives, so why should they care?"

Davey scoffs, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "If the folks in the Capitol cared about the lives of other Districts, we wouldn't be on this train in the first place."

A heavy silence falls between them, and after a minute, Jack stretches out on his back again. Davey mirrors his position, his churning stomach no longer concerned with food, and stares up at the endless sky. They both lay there, lost in their own thoughts for a long time, until Jack tentatively bumps his elbow against Davey's. "That was real brave, whatcha did," says Jack, voice somber. "Volunteering like that."

Davey swallows around the sharp pain in his chest. "I wouldn't have been able to live with myself, letting Les go into the Games if there's something I could do to stop it. He's my baby brother."

"Still brave," Jack says resolutely. "Dunno if I could'a done it. Course, I don't got a brother, so-" Jack shrugs, and they sink back into the quiet. Davey closes his eyes when he can feel the burn starting at the corners, forcing himself not to think about his family at home. Exhaling slowly, Davey's eyes drift to the sky again.

It's oddly peaceful, calming the frantic rushing sound that's taken up residence in his head ever since the moment Les' name was drawn. Just him and Jack, alone in the dark conservatory carriage, surrounded by infinite sky and stars. They don't know each other, but they're bonded by something that Davey will never share with another person: the rapidly approaching mortality waiting for them at the end of the train ride.

"We should pro'lly go ta' bed," Jack says without much conviction. "Busy day tomorrow." Davey hums an agreement.

Neither of them moves, and the sun rises to find them both still laying on the hard tile floor among foreign plants and a small pile of day-old bread.

As much as he doesn't want to be, Davey grudgingly has to admit that he's a little awed by the Capitol. Everything is so bright and colorful and alive in comparison to the monotone factories and tenements in Manhattan. Gleaming lights and polished surfaces; holographic display screens projecting news channels and advertisements and simulated scenery; towering skyscrapers that seem to spear all the way up into the clouds.

The people are all so colorful as well, their appearances altered to give them vibrant, exaggerated features. The gold-flecked makeup and hair that their Capitol ambassador sports are tame next to the people Davey sees in the streets—a woman with a tidal wave of pale pink braids that hang to her knees; a man with sleek, green hair and narrow lines of what look like real silver embedded into his face to emphasize his bone structure.

The Capitol groomers are all equally brightly-colored and flashy, decked out in sequins and feathers and gauzy fabrics that make them look like exotic birds. Yet they gawk at Davey, in his threadbare shirt and slacks, like he's some bizarre creature at a zoo. Murmuring sad, pitying sounds, all of them tut under their breath as they subject him to an intense - and horrifyingly thorough - grooming.

Finally, Davey's left to wait in a large clinical room, sore and shivering. His skin is scrubbed raw, his hair washed and cut, nails and teeth painfully cleaned and polished. He sits naked on a cold metal tabletop, hunched over his folded legs to preserve some sense of modesty, and fidgets with the only thing he's still got: the silver coin from Les.

(He'd all but screamed at the groomer who made to throw his clothes away, scrambling to retrieve the coin from his pocket. The groomers had stared at him in wonder and revulsion, but they didn't argue. Totems are a tradition in the Games, allowing a Tribute to bring one thing from home with them into the Arena, and they wouldn't dare deny him that.)

The door opens, and Davey's head jerks up anxiously as Jack Kelly shuffles into the room. He's likewise nude, his hands folded protectively in front of his crotch, and he's clearly been subjected to the same cleaning routine. His skin is red from scrubbing, his hair shortened so it doesn't fall into his eyes, and the faint shadow of stubble is gone from his jaw. Davey hurries to avert his gaze, trying to give the boy some privacy, but he can't help noting that Jack's undoubtedly far more built than Davey, the definition of muscle visible all along his body from the manual labor of the warehouses.

Neither of them speaks until Jack takes a seat on the second table, crossing his arms in his lap to shield himself. "Forget the Games, that was terrifying," Jack mutters dryly. The amused snort slips out of Davey before he can stop it. "Whatcha got there?"

Davey looks across at the other boy, licking his lips before he holds up the coin so Jack can see. "My brother gave it to me," he admits. "For luck." Jack nods, picking at his cuticles distractedly. "Did you bring a Totem?"

"Nah," Jack says, shrugging nonchalantly, but he doesn't meet Davey's eyes. "Didn't have nothin' worth bringing." Davey winces; right, with Jack's history, it's not likely he's got much in the way of sentimental trinkets.

Before either of them can say anything to break the tension, the door to the room opens again. The woman in the frame stands with the ease and grace of someone used to commanding the attention of a room. Therefore, it surprises Davey to find that the only Capitol-esque adornments she seems to have are a trio of little silver gemstones glinting at the corners of her eyes, bright against ebony skin. Clothed in a bustled dress of pale violet, the woman clicks her tongue as her gaze pans over them.

"Gods, you poor shivering things," she says, shaking her head. "Awful manners, those groomers. Let's get you something warm." Crossing the room in brisk steps, she opens a cupboard and pulls out two large bundles of white fabric. She holds one out to each of them, and when Davey tentatively takes it, he sees it's a plush robe. The woman politely turns her back, letting the boys put on the robes in relative modesty.

"Thank you, ma'am," Jack says when they've both tied the robes around themselves.

"None of this ma'am nonsense," the woman says, facing them again with a warm smile. "We're gonna be getting to know each other really well over the next couple days. You boys can call me Miss Medda. I'm the one who's going to make sure that after the introductions tonight, nobody will ever forget your names."

Davey smiles weakly. "Manhattan is always the last District," he points out. "No one's paying attention by the time we come out."

Miss Medda smiles broadly, a hint of mischief in her eyes. "Oh no, sugar, because you know what else comes at the very end? The grand finale." She pulls out a digiscreen tablet and taps the glass, bringing up a holographic display between them. "And you boys are going to be grand."

The Opening Ceremony is the first big event of the Hunger Games, the first chance for viewers to see all of the Tributes together. It's a simple thing, more pomp and circumstance than actual substance, but it generally sets the tone for the days to come. Each of the Tributes is costumed in something to reflect their District and paraded out into the square to give the audience an idea of who the competitors are.

It's also the first time the Tributes have really seen each other apart from the televised Reapings, and Davey can't help but fidget as he gazes around at the nineteen other boys lined up in the atrium. Davey's one of the oldest, but more than half of them are built better, obviously used to manual labor in their home Districts. The most noticeable are the Tributes from Brooklyn, a matching duo in gleaming golden armor to represent the District's history of military training grounds. They are loud, brash, and confident, making none-too-subtle mocking jabs at the Tributes from other Districts as they linger near their chariot at the front of the line.

"Pair of punks, huh?" Jack remarks with a scoff from his spot beside Davey. The boy looks polished and at ease, his hair combed back off his brow and the sleek white shirt Medda's dressed them both in bringing out the gold of his skin. Leaning back against the side of their chariot, Jack crosses his arms over his chest and glares at the Brooklyn boys. "Heard they're brothers," he says, scowling. "And both volunteers. How fuckin' sick is that?"

"They volunteered against each other?" Davey asks, horrified.

Miss Medda clicks her tongue loudly. "Forget about them, boys," she says. "They're just the appetizer; you're dessert. Now, up and in place, so I can get this finished."

Davey's eyes dart to the carefully folded length of fabric in her arms. "Is that it?" he asks, curious despite himself.

"Les pièces de résistance," Medda announces with a sly smile. She holds it out to let both boys run their hands over it, and Davey marvels at how weightless it is, the silvery-white silk light as air on his fingertips. "Fifty feet of holo-streaming fabric, specially designed just for this."

"I still don't get it," Jack admits, eyeing the stylist appraisingly. "Manhattan's just factories, we just put things together and stick 'em in boxes."

"And what's the primary thing that your District assembles and distributes?" Medda says, raising an eyebrow. It's clearly a rhetorical question because she immediately continues, "Vid-screens, holo-displays, everything that the Capitol uses to spread information. All news and announcements and speeches are done through the screens that your District builds. It's only possible because of the work that kids like you do in those factories."

"What a fitting idea," their Capitol ambassador Katherine murmurs, the excitable redhead sounding vaguely mesmerized as she gazes at Medda.

A small smile steals across Davey's face as the pieces slot together in his head. "So in a way, we are the news-bringers of the world," he says, awed.

"Precisely," says Miss Medda, nodding. "Every announcement from the President, every headline - hells, the Games themselves - are only able to be shared with every District because you create the screens it plays on. Hence," she holds up the fabric pointedly. "So, if you'd turn 'round so I can get this set?"

Exchanging glances, Jack and Davey both step up into the chariot and take their places. Medda fastens one end of the gossamer fabric to hidden clasps along the backs of their shoulders, then moves to lay the rest of the material out behind them in a near-invisible train. "The rest will unroll as you move," she says. "Trust me, boys, people will notice you."

"Gotta admit," Kloppmann speaks up from where he's been silently lingering at the edges, a hint of admiration in his voice, "it's something no one's done before. Hells of an idea, lady."

"I know," Miss Medda responds with a smile. Walking around to the front of the chariot, she fusses one last time with the boys' hair and clothes, smoothing down flyaways and straightening collars, before she gives a decisive nod. "Perfection. Now, just remember, my work will only carry you so far. So be big, be proud, be strong. And a li'l smile wouldn't hurt either," she adds, tapping Davey's chin. He promptly stops biting his lip and offers a shaky smile in response. "Good boy."

"Thanks, Miss Meds," Jack says, grinning fondly.

The blare of a trumpet heralds the beginning of the ceremony, and Davey's heart jumps into his throat. "Alright boys, make your District proud," Miss Medda says, stepping out of the way of the chariot to stand between Kloppmann and Katherine. "You can do this."

Nerves hammering against the inside of his skull, Davey is seriously starting to doubt that he can do this, but he doesn't get a chance to argue before the automated chariot lurches into motion. Even from this far down the corridor, they can hear the audience outside shouting and cheering as the first chariot glides into view. Davey grips the edge of the cart with white knuckles, focusing determinedly on not fainting as they inch toward the glow of the thousand lights and cameras that will be waiting for them beyond the entrance.

"Hey, look," Jack says, nudging Davey with an elbow, and he jerks his chin back over his shoulder. Davey glances back and can see the length of fabric stretching out behind them, so sheer it's almost invisible as it floats in their wake like a banner. He is once again amazed at how light it is, not even feeling it tug at his shoulders where it's fastened, and he quirks a small smile. "That Medda's something, ain't she?" Jack comments in amusement, grinning, before he turns back to the front.

"And finally," a voice booms from within the grandstands, "the Tributes from Manhattan District: Jack Kelly and David Jacobs."

The light is dazzling as the chariot passes under the archway and carries them onto the long road through towering stands. Cameras hover at various intervals, tracking the progress of each chariot, and enormous holo-screens are staggered along the stadium seating to display the Tributes. Davey glances up at one screen and is startled to see his own face, a towering giant of pale skin and wide eyes. "Smile," Jack reminds him under his breath, and Davey awkwardly slants his lips into something like a smile.

"Now this is an interesting design," the announcer is saying from their hidden booth. "As we all know, Manhattan is primarily an electronics production District. In the past, many of the costumes we've seen have centered on the coverall uniforms of the factory workers, so this plain white is- my stars! Would you look at that?"

Over his shoulder, Davey can see glimmers of color darting along the sheer banner behind them. Jack laughs and points up toward one of the towering display screens. The camera has panned back from their faces to show an aerial view, and Davey grins at seeing Medda's idea come to life. Words are scrolling along the banner, all of them in varying sizes and fonts and colors, a living marquee of headlines from the past.

"Oh, now that's clever," the announcer says approvingly. "Oh, very clever, indeed. You see, Manhattan District is the sole builder and distributor of holo-screens, and I believe that's what they're trying to capture here. Look at that, absolutely stunning."

Davey startles when he feels a hand on his, and he glances sideways at Jack in surprise. The other boy grins and holds out his hand between them. "C'mon, them folks'll love it," Jack says. Davey only hesitates a second before he sets his hand in Jack's. Grinning, Jack raises their joined hands over their heads, a united sign of triumph and solidarity, and just as he predicted, the shouting redoubles around them.

"Well, folks, I think we've got a surprising dark horse in this year's ceremony," the announcer says gleefully. "Here's Manhattan District, which is already celebrating its first volunteer Tribute, and now they've come out with this spectacular display. These are two boys who are aiming to show that they are here, they are aware of the history on their shoulders - literally on their shoulders, ha, a very smart touch - and they are not going to be ignored. I dare say these are two boys to watch in the coming days."

The announcer continues to prattle on as the chariots carry them the rest of the distance down the pathway, and Davey's head is spinning from overload. There's so much light and noise and chaos that the only thing that feels in any way solid and real is Jack Kelly's calloused hand threaded with his. On the holo-screens, which seem to be giving additional airtime to the Manhattan chariot now, Davey keeps catching glimpses of words highlighting themselves on the banner behind them, golden edging around individual words of the headlines making them stand out.

Courage. Family. Strength. Tradition. Bravery.

Davey smiles. That Medda's outdone herself, and he can't help but feel like the word choice isn't a coincidence—it's a statement. Grinning, he punches his other hand into the air as he looks directly into the nearest camera, hoping that his family and his people back in Manhattan see it. He keeps his fist raised, just like they did for him when he volunteered, a gesture of strength and unity with his home, heart racing with the adrenaline of this moment that feels like the tiniest hint of defiance. Let them all see that no matter what the Capitol is forcing him to do, Davey Jacobs knows who he is and where he comes from.

At his side, Jack laughs. When Davey glances over, the other boy is staring at Davey admiringly, his eyes bright. Jack dips his chin in agreement and then raises his fist as well.

It's a habit to be awake at the crack of dawn, so it doesn't shock Davey when he stirs back to consciousness with the very first rays of morning sunlight, despite his exhaustion. He gives himself a few minutes longer to lay and enjoy the near-nauseating comfort of the sprawling Capitol bed in his assigned room, large enough to sleep his entire family with blankets that feel like warm cream against his skin. Kloppmann might be a grumpy, unpleasant drunk, but he was right about one thing: the Capitol definitely does lavish the Tributes in comfort for the days leading up to the Games.

That luxury continues in the bathing room - a private one all to himself! - with its shower that feels like fresh summer rain and a proper bathtub that he can submerge his entire body in and towels that are kept warm and soft in their own cabinet. Davey's sure he's never been so clean in his life when he dries and dresses in a simple tunic and trousers from the closet; even the plainest ones he can find are softer than anything he's ever owned.

When he pads silently out into the main room of the floor designated to Manhattan, the lights are still low and the room is quiet. There are a half-dozen other closed doors along the walls, the bedrooms for Jack and Kloppmann and Katherine and Miss Medda. In the center, there's a sitting room with a brilliantly red sofa and a holo-screen that fills the whole wall, and behind that is a dining area with a banquet table laid with plates even at this hour. Davey takes two steps toward the table before a flicker of movement draws his gaze to the far wall.

There is a low bench set into one of the cavernous windows, and Jack Kelly is perched on the cushion, legs pulled up as he works at something in his lap. He doesn't seem to have noticed Davey's entrance, his gaze focused on his hands, and he looks oddly serene in the soft glow of the dawn light. Davey hesitates for a second, debating with himself before he clears his throat quietly. Jack jumps and blinks owlishly before his gaze lands on Davey, and then he grins. "Oh, hey," Jack greets. "Sorry, didn't wake ya, did I?"

"I was already up," Davey answers. Jack doesn't seem bothered by his presence, so Davey walks across the penthouse to lean against the wall beside the window. "Used to getting up for work, ya know?"

"Same," Jack agrees with a small smirk. "Tried to sleep in 'cause I know I ain't got work to do, but my head just wouldn't shush so," he trails off with a shrug.

"What're you doing?" Davey asks curiously. From here, he can see that it's a pen Jack's twirling distractedly between his fingers.

Jack looks down at his lap and chuckles. "Just doodlin'," he says flippantly. "Helps me clear my head, ya know? And I mean, this place got paper just sitting 'round—proper, clean, white paper. This stuff here'd cost me a whole month's work to afford back home. Figured I might as well take 'vantage, ya know?"

"Can I-?" Davey asks, nodding to the pad of paper Jack's cradling in his lap. The other boy nods and holds the half-finished drawing out; it's a view of the Capitol from the window of their apartment, the layers of smooth black lines depicting the varied depths of the beautiful, abstract construction around them as the growing sunlight casts heavy shadows across it all. "You did this?" Davey asks, awed. "It's really good."

"It's just a doodle," Jack says, shrugging again, but there's a faint smile on his lips now. "Ain't used to working with such good supplies, really. Back home, I'm doin' good if I can get my hands on old packing paper and some charcoal. And sometimes the bakery'll pay me to do some designs when they gotta make a fancy cake for holidays or something."

"Jacobi's?" Davey asks, gaze jumping back to Jack in surprise. He's seen those cakes before, the ones they make for Remembrance Day and the Harvest Festival, always decorated with frosted images that look like real paintings. "You make those?"

"Most times," Jack agrees idly. "S'fun, playing with the colors and stuff, and the extra money don't hurt neither."

"That's so amazing," Davey says, handing the drawing back to the other boy. "You're really talented. I had no idea."

Jack chuckles. "Why wouldja? Ain't like we know each other or nothing." There's almost a touch of bitterness to his tone, but then Jack grins, and it's gone like it was never there. "'Sides, it's no big deal. Just a hobby. Not like folks like us really got time for hobbies anyway, right? Just something I like doing when I can't sleep."

"I usually just end up cleaning," Davey says with a wry smile. "Our house is never short of things to take care of, and it's sorta calming, I guess."

Laughing, Jack folds his legs in front of him so that the other half of the bench is open, a clear offer. Davey climbs onto the bench, drawing his legs up to his chest as he gazes out at the city below them, a dazzling haze of color and light even at this time of the morning. "Ain't a bad view, huh?" Jack muses, half to himself. "I've never wanted to live here, don't think I'd like all the noise and people, but there's still something pretty about it all."

"Kinda, yeah," Davey agrees.

"When I was li'l, my mom used to tell me stories about these magical places," Jack says, grinning. "They sounded like fairy tales, but she always said way back before the Fall there was cities that weren't all crowded like this. Cities way far out in nowhere, where the land was flat and open and goin' on forever. Places full of color that don't come from screens, but from the actual plants and dirt and water, and the buildings were made out of the land. And at night, the stars was everywhere and the moon was so big it was bright as the sun." Jack's smile is soft and wistful, his eyes directed at the window even though Davey can tell he's not really seeing it. "Can ya 'magine living in a place like that?"

Davey considers it thoughtfully, his mind struggling to generate an image from the outlandish descriptions Jack gave him. "Doesn't sound possible," he admits. He thinks of that night on the train, of the endless expanse of sky and stars above them that made Davey feel so impossibly free. "But if it were, I bet it was pretty."

"Damn beautiful," Jack murmurs, nodding. He twirls the pen through his fingers, staring at the spinning metal like it holds the answers to the universe. "Always said I was gonna run away and find that place someday," he admits with a wry smile. "Was convinced it was out there if I could just get outta the Districts to go lookin'. But then everything happened with my folks and just," he trails off with a weary shrug.

"I'm sorry," Davey says softly. "About your parents. That must've been awful, I can't even imagine."

Jack sighs. "Lifetime of breaking his back for someone else, it just broke him, ya know?" he says, voice barely more than a hollow whisper. "Dunno, maybe it's good I'm here. Chance to go out before the factories done the same to me. Least I ain't got a family to take down with me."

"Jack," Davey starts, but he finds he doesn't have any words for once. How do you comfort someone in that situation? And what does it really matter, if they'll both probably be dead in a matter of days? Hesitantly, Davey reaches across to set his hand on Jack's wrist. "For what it's worth, I think you're stronger than that."

The pen instantly stills in Jack's hand, and a second later, he looks up at Davey, his dark eyes a maelstrom of emotion in the weak light. "Ya think?" he asks, a tremulous thread of hope in his tone.

"Definitely," Davey agrees without hesitation. "Living through stuff like that makes a person stronger, sometimes. That you can still live and work and smile and be nice, I think that says a lot." His smile turns a little self-deprecating, and he adds, "And you've been so kind to me through this, even though you got no reason. It's - thank you. Without you, I probably would've lost it by now."

A hint of a smile flickers across Jack's lips. "Let's just call it long-overdue payback, huh?"

Davey's brow furrows, confused, but before he can ask, the door to the apartment opens, and Katherine enters. Her fiery hair is folded into a thick plait that's draped over one shoulder, tiny golden flowers studded along its length, and she's wearing a surprisingly sedate pantsuit of deep navy. She sighs as she shuts the door behind her, a brief moment of exhaustion showing on her face before she spots the boys and jumps. "Oh, hello," Katherine says, her usual bright smile immediately snapping back into place. "Early start, boys?"

"Youse one to talk," Jack replies with a raised eyebrow. "Thought you Capitol types all slept 'til noon."

Katherine shoots him an imperious look, smoothing a hand back over her hair. "Not when there's so much work to be done," she says, the vaguest hint of bite beneath her typical politeness. "This isn't the easiest job, you'll know. I was out all night, circulating the parties to see what people were saying." She smiles brightly again. "And boys, you were all anyone was talking about."

"Oh good, glad we make for good gossip," Davey says dryly.

"As you should be," Katherine says, her narrowed eyes on him now. "The more people talk, the more people Sponsor. You know they've already given you boys a name? They're calling you the Newsboys of Manhattan."

"Newsboys?" Jack echoes with a smirk.

"It's a historical title," says Katherine. She presses a button on the wall, summoning the service staff to lay the table for breakfast. "From times long before the Fall. There were men called Newsboys who were the heralds of all information in the world. It was from them that the people learned of everything new.

"Now, a title, that's something we can work with. We can build from this, give the public an image, something to really get invested in. But for that, we need to strategize. Plan and coordinate. Which means we need everyone." And she crosses to rap on Kloppmann and Medda's bedroom doors while Jack and Davey exchange bemused glances. "Up, everyone. We've got a busy day ahead of us!"

Somehow, despite the three days of intense physical training and the looming dread of the Games themselves, this night is what's got Davey most nervous.

Tonight, the Tributes do their televised interviews. It's a chance to introduce themselves to the viewing public on a personal level, to be charming or heart-wrenching or confident, whatever they need to be to win the support of Sponsors that could mean the difference between life and death in the Arena. Except Davey's never been good in front of a crowd (or just with people in general, really), introverted and anxious in a way that always comes off as angry or stern. Frankly, he doesn't stand a chance of winning anyone's favor.

"I can't do this," Davey whispers, fighting to keep his lunch from making a reappearance. He's in the dressing room, going through one final inspection before he'll join the queue for the stage, and he doesn't care about showing his fear right now because there's only one other person here to see it. "I can't go out there. I'm gonna be sick."

"Hey now," Miss Medda says, lifting her hands from straightening his collar to cup his jaw. "You can do this. It's just a few questions. Just smile and be yourself and you'll be just fine."

Davey snorts derisively. "Be myself? That's a good way to make sure I never get a Sponsor," he says dryly. "No one's gonna like me."

"I like you," Medda counters, arching her eyebrow at him. She rubs her thumb below one of his eyes, undoubtedly fixing the line of kohl she drew there, and then steps back to admire her handiwork. "And if worst comes to worst, just keep your answers short and toss in a smile or two. You're handsome enough, those fierce blue eyes should fetch plenty of women for your team."

Heat crawls up the back of Davey's neck, and he laughs skeptically. "I don't think even your miracle-working can manage that one," he says, shaking his head. "Besides, even if it were true, everyone will forget about me the moment your other project steps on stage." Davey caught a glimpse of Jack earlier, and it would be a fair assessment to say he'd swooned a little.

Medda's smile twists, something secret behind the shape of her lips, as she sweeps one last dusting of powder across his cheeks. "I know your strategy is to make people underestimate you, but maybe you should stop underestimating yourself," she says sagely.

Before Davey can respond to that, Kloppmann pokes his head through the curtain. "Jacobs, c'mon, youse up."

"Break a leg, sugar," Medda says, tapping the underside of his chin with a knuckle, and then she's shepherding him out into the hall.

The backstage area is a hive of activity, people rushing in every direction to keep the show running, and Kloppmann steers him by the elbow to the very edge of the stage curtain. One of the Tributes from Queens, a thirteen-year-old named Connor Smalls, is just leaving the stage after his interview. The boy casts a quick, friendly smile up at Davey as he passes; they met during training, and Davey was instantly taken with the spunky little kid who reminds him so forcibly of Les.

"And our next Tribute is one I think needs no introduction," the Games announcer, a flamboyant man called Denton, says in a faux-somber tone. "I don't think any of us will be forgetting any time soon the moment that Manhattan District had its first ever volunteer Tribute. So without further ado, David Jacobs."

It takes a small shove from Kloppmann before Davey can unglue his feet from the floor, and he stumbles a few steps until he can steady himself again. The stage lights are blinding, and Davey can't see anything but pure white beyond the edge of the stage. Locking his jaw and raising his chin, Davey crosses the (miles and miles of) open stage until he reaches the chair opposite the announcer.

"Welcome, David," Denton says, standing and offering a hand. "It's a pleasure to have you."

"Thank you," Davey says stiffly, shaking the announcer's hand. His skin is almost disgustingly smooth and unblemished against the dry calluses on Davey's palm. "And, uh, call me Davey."

Denton gestures him into the chair, and Davey sits, conscious of his posture and trying to give off an impression of confidence. He doesn't feel like he's succeeding. That's probably not so terrible considering his strategy so far has been to make the other Tributes - who will be watching from backstage - underestimate him, disregard him as no concern so they leave him alone and he can outlast them.

"So, Davey," Denton says and, beneath the glossy makeup, his smile is warm and oddly reassuring. There's a line of runes tattooed down one side of his face, a strange ancient language that Davey's never seen before that's only fully visible when he blinks. "First time in the Capitol—how are you finding it?"

"Big," Davey answers without thinking and hears a rumble of laughter from behind the wall of white lights. He clears his throat, embarrassed, and hurries to elaborate, "Everything here is so much bigger than Manhattan. I'd never seen a proper skyscraper before, but our quarters are on the twenty-fifth floor, and it's incredible to see the world from so high up, you know?"

"What's been your favorite thing so far?" Denton prompts, nodding like he's genuinely interested.

Play the part of the small-District boy in over his head. Not hard because it's most definitely true. Davey bites his lip, thinking for a second, and then admits, "The bath."

Another ripple of giggles follows this, but the nod that Denton gives him is encouraging. "They are a wonder, aren't they?" the announcer says with a smile. "Speaking of wonders, you boys from Manhattan were quite a spectacle in the Opening Ceremony. How did that feel?"

"A little scary," Davey says, blushing. "Everyone staring, ya know? Was sorta - unreal. But our stylist is really smart, and her idea was amazing." He licks his lips and adds, "And it was nice to not have to wear coveralls."

Denton laughs brightly. "Folks have started calling you the Newsboys of Manhattan," he says. "What do you think about that?"

"Yeah, someone told me what that means," he responds. "It's an honor, getting called something so important from history. Course, I don't do a lot of spreadin' the news myself. I just fix broken stuff in the factory so the other fellas can do their work."

"Oh come now, don't sell yourself short," Denton says, a hint of sincerity beneath the playfulness. "You've certainly been the cause of enough news yourself recently." Then his expression turns more serious, and he props his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. "Now, we all know how you got here," he says, and Davey's chest knots up. "Manhattan has never had a volunteer Tribute before you. The boy who was originally chosen as the second Tribute, Les Jacobs - is he family?"

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Davey nods. "My baby brother."

"How old is he?" Denton asks over the murmurs from the audience.

"Twelve," Davey says. "He just turned twelve last month, four days before the cut off for the Games qualification."

Another rolling hum from the crowd and Denton gives him a sympathetic smile. "There's only ever been three Victors below the age of fourteen, although some have made it close. So when his name was chosen-?"

"I couldn't let him compete," Davey says firmly. "Les is incredible, and I don't know if there's anything he can't do when he sets his mind to it," a scattering of coos, "but I don't think I'd have survived sitting at home and watching him compete. I'd have had a heart attack. I'm enough of a wreck when he skins his knees." The awhs redouble at this, and it lights a spark in Davey's stomach; if these people really cared, they wouldn't force such young children to be part in the first place.

Denton fixes Davey with a piercing look, his silver-gray eyes sharp. "And I'm sure he'll be just as worried about you," he says. "Did he give you any advice before you left?"

It feels wrong to share such a personal story, but Davey knows it's in his best interest to play up the part of the loving big brother. Reaching into his pocket, Davey pulls out his silver coin. "He gave me this," Davey says, holding it up where Denton can see. "I gave it to him when he was younger as a good luck charm."

Very pointedly, Davey rotates the coin between his fingers to reveal the trick; the exact same engraved profile of a man on both sides. Denton's eyes widen, and then he laughs, beaming. "Can't lose if you know the outcome either way," Davey says with a bashful smile. "I might've used it a couple times to win treats from other kids at school."

A smattering of charmed laughter comes from the crowd as Davey slips the coin back into his pocket. "When I gave that to him," Davey explains, "I told him that it's a sign that he can always make his own fate—that he can choose the outcome of his story. So he gave it back to me to protect me in the Games, to remind me that I need to win so I can come back home to him. And for his sake, I intend to."

Something flashes in Denton's eyes, fierce and approving, and he nods. "Well, I look forward to seeing that," he says. Standing, he gestures to Davey. "And there you have it, folks, Manhattan Tribute Davey Jacobs."

Davey stands on wobbly legs, giving an awkward half-bow to the invisible audience behind the dazzling lights. He shakes Denton's hand one last time and then forces himself not to run off the stage.

On the holo-screen in the backstage lobby room, Jack Kelly looks every bit the handsome hero that a Games Victor should. He's always been attractive, with his broad shoulders and square jaw and charming smile. The sleek blue shirt Medda dressed him in contrasts beautifully with the subtle tan of his skin, the sleeves rolled up to bare his muscular forearms and give him a casual look that suits his nonchalant confidence. Medda did little with the makeup, like with Davey, only powders to hide the shine of his skin and a dusting of gold along his cheekbones that brings out the honey tones in his dark eyes.

Davey is grateful he's sitting down because he was already feeling distinctly lightheaded from nerves before he laid eyes on the wonder that is Jack Kelly in his element.

Jack dances smoothly through Denton's questions, the perfect balance of sincere and self-assured. He deflects attention from questions about his past, talks enthusiastically about seeing the sights of the Capitol, and somehow convincingly makes it seem like he's honored to be participating in the Games. "Now really, Jack," Denton says, playful, "there's no one at home cheering you on? A handsome lad like you must have a dozen sweethearts waiting?"

"Uh, no, no sweethearts," Jack says, and he ducks his head slightly, rubbing the back of his neck in an endearingly self-conscious gesture. Davey can tell it's an act, but the tittering audience is clearly eating out of his palm.

"I don't believe it," says Denton with a knowing smirk. "Surely there's someone."

Jack licks his lips and smiles shyly. "Not a sweetheart or nothing, but there's this fella," he admits and somehow actually manages a blush. "I've been a bit over the moon for him since we were kids. He don't know, o'course."

"Well, here's your chance to tell him," Denton says jovially. "Let your boy know, and then you'll have more motivation to win, so you can get home and see him."

Which is when something sad rolls down Jack's face like shutters, his eyes dimming and his smile very clearly faked now. He drops his gaze and picks at his fingernails. "Uh, nah, 'fraid it ain't gonna work that way," he admits in a shaky attempt at bravado. Denton cocks an eyebrow curiously. "See, the thing is - that fella I like came here with me."

A tidal wave of gasps swells in the audience, but Davey can't hear them over the throb of his own heartbeat. There's something cold and hard lodged in his chest, and his stomach churns with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. What the hells is Jack playing at?

The eyes of the other Tributes in the room turn to Davey, and he struggles to keep his composure under their scrutiny. What can Jack possibly have to gain from this lie? They barely know each other and have only really spoken in the last few days since they were chosen as Tributes. So where does he get off fabricating some stupid unrequited love story between them?

On the screen, Denton clicks his tongue sadly, and he reaches out to pat Jack's knee. "I'm sorry, lad, that's some awful luck," he says. Then he stands and turns to face the audience. "And there you have it, everyone, Manhattan Tribute Jack Kelly." Jack stands, forcing on a compellingly hollow echo of his usual confident smile, and he waves farewell as he turns to leave the stage.

Davey's head is pounding as he shoves to his feet and leaves the waiting room. He finds Jack in the hall, Kloppmann at his side, obviously on their way to the room. Snarling, Davey shoves Jack hard into the wall. "What the hells was that?" he growls furiously.

"I was helpin' ya," Jack snaps back, pushing Davey away from him just as hard.

"Doncha get what he's done?" Kloppmann interjects, stepping between them. "He just made ya sound like something desirable. People care about ya now. Fella tryna save his brother, that's cute, even if you ain't the most charmin' sort. But add in the star-crossed lovers from Manhattan? That sappy, bittersweet shit's the sorta thing Sponsors fall over themselves for. Jack's little stunt might'a just saved your life."

"I don't need your charity," Davey spits at Jack angrily, and then he spins away from them both. He can't leave the amphitheater on his own, but that doesn't mean he can't find a place to be alone for a few minutes. Storming down passages, he finally finds an alcove behind the electrical room and tucks himself against the wall.

Where does Jack Kelly get off making up some mythical romance between them? It's absolutely ridiculous. No one back home will believe it, of course. But now all of those stupid Capitol folks out there, the ones who are looking forward to pouring their credits into this morbid gameshow like it's not a matter of life and death, are going to see him as some sort of damsel.

And why would Jack want to do anything to help him anyway? They might both be from Manhattan, and sure, they get along in the few chances to talk they've had, but at the end of the day, they are rivals. When they step into that Arena the day after tomorrow, there are no allies or friends or neighbors. The Hunger Games can have only one Victor, which means that one way or another, at least one of them is going to die.

A dark voice in the back of Davey's head morbidly half-hopes they wind up having to kill each other; that'd be a fitting end to those sick Capitol freaks' little imaginary love story.

The tension in the room is tangible, the remaining Tributes all scattered around and none of them speaking to each other. Their final day of training centered on individual practice, and now they're waiting for their private evaluations, where they will attempt to impress the Gamemaker's committee and be scored on their abilities—their last chance to make a good impression on the Sponsors before the start of the Games. All of them are dealing with the stress differently; the older boy from Harlem is pacing a sharp line, the smaller kid from Bronx is bouncing his leg at lightning speed. On the other side of the room, Jack is staring into some vague middle-distance and biting his thumbnail.

Davey ducks his head, going back to rolling his Totem back and forth along his knuckles. He hasn't spoken to Jack since the interviews, nearly twenty-four hours of stony silence now. Not that they've had many opportunities for chatting with the private training sessions, but still. He can feel Jack casting the occasional glance his way, but the other boy makes no motion to approach.

Davey is still angry about the fake love story, but at the same time, he feels like maybe Jack did him a favor. Not by making him seem desirable, as Kloppmann said, but by reminding Davey that he can't be friends with Jack. At the end of the day, they're opponents. At the end of the Games, at least one (but more likely both) of them will be dead.

"Connor Smalls - Queens," the cold, mechanical voice announces over the speaker.

Davey's gaze flicks to the youngest Tribute, pale and shaking as he stands and visibly swallows. When the boy is passing, Davey whispers, "You can do this, pal." Smalls pauses to give Davey a tense, grateful smile, and then he lifts his chin and marches toward the door at the end of the room.

As Davey's eyes pan across the room, he sees Jack watching him, his expression twisted into something incomprehensible. Jack offers a flicker of a smile when he meets Davey's gaze, nothing more than the corner of his mouth twitching upward before he goes back to chewing on his nail. Davey swallows hard and drops his gaze.

It's not fair that he has to see Jack as an enemy. The other boy isn't a bad person. Sure, he can be a little cocky and blunt - not that Davey has much room to talk about the latter - but he's also charming and compassionate and patient. They've gotten along great in the few times they've been able to sit and talk when they aren't focused on the upcoming Games. Davey thinks that maybe if they'd actually had the chance to properly meet back in Manhattan, they might've even become friends.

Honestly, Davey doesn't want to see anyone in the room as his enemy. Not Jack. Not Smalls. Not even the Delancey brothers from Brooklyn, no matter how rude and arrogant they are. Davey would have no reason to hate any of these kids if he wasn't being forced to by the Capitol; if these rich people up in their gilded city didn't steal children from their homes and make them fight for the sheer spectacle of it. These people who've never known a hard day's work in their lives; who think that makes them better than the other Districts; who think that gives them the right to treat the lives of the District children like nothing more than playthings for their entertainment.

"Jack Kelly - Manhattan."

The disembodied voice hooks Davey out of his thoughts, and he looks around the room in surprise to find that the only Tributes left are him and Jack. Across the room, Jack takes a long, slow breath and pushes up out of his chair. He hesitates before turning to the door, and his eyes flick over to Davey again. "Good luck," Jack says, voice quiet and hoarse, but there's a genuine conviction in his eyes.

Swallowing hard, Davey nods and finally breaks his silent treatment. "You too," he says with a nod. Jack manages another tiny glimmer of a smile, then slips out of the door, leaving Davey alone in the echoing quiet.

This isn't fair. None of this is fair. It reminds Davey why he's really here, sacrificing his life so that he wasn't forced to watch his brother - who is still only a child - be murdered by other unwilling contestants on a televised show. They are all paying the price for the choices of people who died long before they were even born.

"David Jacobs - Manhattan." Locking his jaw, Davey tucks his Totem back into his pocket and rises. He will not take this lying down, to hells with what Kloppmann says about playing the part.

Through the door, there's a short hall devoid of life or decoration, and then a set of double doors let into an enormous training room. Displays are arranged in a semicircle around the room, racks of weaponry and an agility course and a line of targets. And on a raised balcony set into the wall, the Games' committee members are talking and tittering amongst each other like a dozen colorful peacocks, none of them even sparing a glance as he enters the room.

Davey lifts his chin and walks into the center of the room. Then, instead of reaching for a single weapon, he simply stands and watches them and waits.

It takes the Capitol people a minute or two to even notice that he's not doing anything, which only makes his blood boil more. First, a woman with a pair of golden spectacles perched on her nose glances at him and frowns. She taps the arm of the man beside her, who whispers something to another. Slowly, the committee finally looks his way, their expressions varied from bemused to annoyed.

A man steps forward from the group, and Davey recognizes him immediately from the televised interviews he's seen leading up to the Games: Mr. Weisel, the Head Gamemaker. He's wearing a suit of velvety brown fabric, and he narrows beady eyes at Davey. "You may take your turn, Mr. Jacobs," Weisel says coolly.

"Oh, you're actually going to pay attention now?" Davey shoots back sarcastically. Several Capitol people's eyes widen, murmuring to their neighbors in surprise. Heart pounding, Davey sets his jaw defiantly. "Thank you, but I refuse."

"You what?" Weisel asks, and there's an edge of warning in his tone now.

"I refuse," Davey repeats firmly.

Weisel raises an eyebrow, and his bushy mustache seems to bristle. "You realize that you are being scored on this?" he says rhetorically. "This is your chance to show what you are bringing to the Games."

"And I refuse," says Davey. "I'm not here to play along with your little charade. I'm not here to give you people a good show. I am here so that a boy whose life is barely beginning doesn't have to be, and I don't take back that choice, but that doesn't mean I have to pretend that this is anything but a cruel sham."

"Excuse you?" one of the committee members blusters, obviously offended. "The Hunger Games are an honored tradition."

"No, they are a way for the Capitol to keep the other Districts afraid," Davey snaps, and his hands curl into fists, his nails biting into his palms hard enough that he knows it will leave marks. "These Games are a way to punish the Districts for the Fall, but the people who revolted and caused that are all long dead. We have done nothing wrong, but you are making us fight and die for crimes we didn't commit. And you sit up there, grinning like this is just fun and games; like this isn't life and death for children."

Weisel clears his throat. "So you will not participate? You plan to accept the repercussions of not following the rules?"

Davey's smile is daring as he meets the man's gaze. "Give me a zero, see if I care," he says fiercely. "But I don't have any intention of rolling over and pretending what you're doing to me - to all of us - is an honor."

The committee members are murmuring amongst each other, exchanging their awe and disgust, but Weisel never takes his cold gaze off Davey. Then, finally, the Gamemaker nods. "Very well," he says. "If that is your choice, you may leave, Mr. Jacobs." His expression tilts into a wicked smirk. "And may the odds be ever in your favor."

Jaw clenched, Davey turns on his heel and storms through the other door, the committee members' whispers trailing in his wake.

That righteous indignation is still burning through Davey's veins hours later when they are sitting in the lounge of their quarters to watch the announcement of the scores on the large holo-screen. Katherine and Miss Medda talk in low voices, while Kloppmann is sprawled in an armchair with his flask once again in hand. Jack drums his fingers against his knee in a hectic rhythm as, on the screen, Denton reminds them all of the rules.

"The Tributes are scored on a scale of one to ten," the announcer says with a smile, "depending on their displayed level of ability. While this doesn't always reflect on how well they perform in the Arena, it usually gives viewers a good idea of where to place their bets. So, without further ado, the scores. First up, Oscar Delancey of Brooklyn: nine."

Denton reads his way down the list; the other brother from Brooklyn gets an eight, while the majority of the others average around six. The older boy from the Bronx gets a seven, while the younger only gets a four. Smalls gets a five.

"Jack Kelly of Manhattan," Denton reads, and they all lean forward attentively. "Eight."

"Good job, sugar," Medda says, gripping his shoulder encouragingly. Jack grins, letting out a relieved breath.

"Eight is good," Katherine says excitedly. "We can definitely work with an eight."

"And finally, David Jacobs of Manhattan," Denton says. His eyes dart to the holo-display on his desktop and his expression flickers. He pauses for a moment, surprised, and then he looks up to the camera again with a bemused smile. "Well, I'll be, you don't see this often. Ten."

The room erupts into noise, Medda and Katherine both talking at the same time, while Davey can only stare at the screen in shock. Ten? How did he get a ten? He didn't even participate. "Congrats," Jack says softly.

"Congrats?" Kloppmann echoes, frowning. "Are you kidding?" He meets Davey's gaze, eyes sharp and exacting. "What'd you do in there?"

"Nothing," Davey says emphatically. "I - I didn't do anything."

"Nothing?" Katherine asks, brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I literally did nothing," Davey says. "I refused. I just went in there, told them I wasn't going to do it, and left. I don't know why they gave me a ten, I thought I was gonna get a zero."

Kloppmann's eyes narrow, but his expression is resigned. "You and that damn mouth. Do you realize what ya done?" he says. "You defied them."

"Then why'd they give him a good score?" Jack asks in confusion.

"Because now he's got a big ol' target on his back," Kloppmann answers. "They just labelled him as the one the rest of ya should be scared of. Which means ev'ryone's gonna be aimin' to take him out soon as possible."

The others are all talking again, but Davey can't hear them over the sound of his pulse in his ears. He called out the Capitol, and they responded in the cruelest way possible. They're using the very system Davey criticized against him. Rage and horror fight for dominance in his chest, his stomach twisted up in knots, and he stands shakily.

"I'm going to bed," Davey murmurs, and he escapes the room before they can say anything more. Falling onto the blankets, he digs out his coin and clutches it tightly. So much for any chance of going home to his family. Davey squeezes his eyes shut against the tears and clings to the tiny piece of home he has left.

"Can't sleep eitha?"

Davey blinks, jerked out of his thoughts by the voice, but he doesn't turn to the doorway. As much as he's wanted to hold onto his righteous fury, after the long day, Davey's mostly just exhausted. Despite that, he can't sleep, which is why he's sitting on the lavish window bench in the main room of their quarters, shrouded in darkness except for the perpetual glow of the city below.

"I just - I wanted ta' say I'm sorry. 'Bout the interview. Should'a told ya what I was gonna do. So, I just - sorry."

Exhaling heavily, Davey draws his legs up to his chest so that the other half of the bench is open. Jack obviously recognizes the invitation for what it is, crossing the room on silent feet and curling up opposite Davey. When Davey finally looks over at him, Jack has his arms looped around his knees, chin propped on them, and the lights from the city send sharp shadows up his face. The anxiety beneath his neutral expression is visible even in the dim lighting.

"Why'd you do it?" Davey asks. Jack's eyes flick to his, eyebrow raised in question. "The interview, the stuff you said. Why?"

"Told ya, I was tryna help," Jack says, shrugging. "Youse a good guy, Davey, but you get all stiff when youse nervous. I just - wanted to help folks see youse more than that."

"But why?" Davey presses, frowning. "We're - I mean, in the Games, we'll have to - ya know."

Jack's gaze darts back to the window, but Davey gets the impression he's seeing something entirely different. "'Cause if it gotta be one of us, should be you," Jack says, and his tone is firm, resolute. "Not sayin' I ain't gonna try and survive. But if it comes to it, if one of us gets to go home, it's gotta be you. You got family, folks that'll miss ya."

The sincerity and conviction in his voice make something in Davey's chest tighten. He knows about Jack's parents, of course, but it's never really occurred to him until now that Jack is alone. That he has no other siblings or relatives. That he's spent more than half his life in the boarding home with the other Manhattan residents who have nowhere else to go.

"You really don't have anyone?" Davey asks before he can stop himself. He flinches as soon as the words leave his mouth. "I'm sorry, that's not-"

"S'fine," Jack says, lips inching up on one side. "S'kinda nice talkin' to someone, really. Bein' just me, not Charmin' Jack Kelly." Davey's brow furrows, surprised by the admission. He can always tell when Jack's putting on airs for the cameras, but it never occurred to him that maybe Jack's been doing it far longer than that. That maybe Jack has been pretending to be confident and happy and okay for years.

"And no, ain't got no one," Jack continues, unaware of Davey's epiphany. "I mean, I got some friends, and folks from work and all, but nothing real, ya know? Nothing like you got."

The weight and sadness in his voice are crippling, and Davey finds his eyes burning—not just for Jack, who has no family, but for his own family, who will be home clustered around the holo-screen in the morning, desperately hoping they aren't about to watch Davey die. Seeking some semblance of comfort, Davey slides his feet until they are sitting alongside Jack's, a small warmth of contact. Jack's lips twitch toward a smile again, and he leans a leg against Davey's.

Davey casts around for something to ease the painful tension in the air between them. With a teasing smile, he adds, "Not even a mysterious sweetheart?" putting emphasis on the silly title the announcer had used.

Jack huffs a laugh, and his eyes jump to Davey's face before darting away again just as quickly, probably still embarrassed about the interview. "Been a bit busy," Jack says with a playful smirk. "Lodgin' ain't free, ya know. Too busy working to go 'round turning heads."

"Won't have to worry about that if you win, though," Davey points out. Being a Games Victor comes with a house, built specifically for the winner and whatever family they might have, and enough rations and credits to never want for anything for the rest of your life.

Jack scoffs, shaking his head. "Wouldn't do me no good," he says. "I'd pro'lly just wind up like Kloppmann." Davey snorts. "Nah, better the money go to someone who deserves it," Jack says. "Would serve yuor family good. Get the kid fed up, schooled proper. And you could get a real doctor ta' come fix up your old man's legs."

Davey looks up in surprise. It's not like his father's injury was some big secret - when a factory accident injures that many people, that kind of news spreads across the whole District like wildfire - but it's shocking that Jack knows about Davey's dad specifically. There were a lot of people hurt, and plenty died, so Mayer was lucky, all things considered. They even said he'd probably be able to walk again someday if they can ever save up enough money for a proper Capitol surgeon to come treat him.

Letting out a slow breath, Davey drops his chin onto his knees in a mirror of Jack. "Yeah, that'd be nice," he admits. It would be nice to know his family would never have to go to sleep hungry again. To get his dad's damaged spine fixed so he's not stuck in that chair for the rest of his life. To have enough money that none of them would have to set foot in the dangerous warehouses and factories again; so Sarah can find someone good to share her life with, and Les can get a real education.

All Davey has to do to make it happen is not die. Survive the Games and beat the nineteen other teenage boys fighting for their lives for the amusement of others.

"I'm scared." The truth slips out without Davey's permission, barely more than a broken whisper, but in the heavy silence, he may as well have screamed it for how loud it resonates between them.

A split second later, "Me too." Then Jack scoots across the bench, settling himself in beside Davey. Like all things in the Capitol, the bench is bigger than it needs to be, so there's just enough room for them to sit side-by-side, pressed together from shoulder to ankle like a seam. Davey leans into the warmth of Jack's skin against his, drinking in the support.

Davey looks up and meets Jack's eyes, nearly black in the darkness, and sees the fear reflected back at him. They don't need to convince anyone right now, don't need to put on a show for the Capitol viewers or Sponsors or their people back home. Right now, they can just be what they are: terrified kids who will have to march to their execution in the morning with their heads held high.

Feeling his eyes burning again, Davey squeezes them shut and presses his forehead to his knees, shoulders shaking. Jack's arm drapes around his shoulders in the very next breath, and they curl into each other. Davey can feel Jack trembling just as much as he is, and there are definitely sniffles that aren't Davey's. So he wraps his arms around Jack because if there's anyone in the world who's going to understand what he's feeling right now, it's this boy.

Tomorrow they will be warriors. Tonight, they just soak in the last bit of comfort and safety that they might ever know.

Sunlight burns Davey's eyes as the lift emerges from below ground into the Arena, and he's forced to shield his face against the brightness. It takes a minute for his vision to adjust, and he drops his arm to squint around. There's a large central plaza of open stone flooring with an abstractly shaped shelter of polished metal in the middle. Supplies are spilling out of the shelter—crates of food and medical cases, rows of weapons laid out on tables. The Cornucopia.

Davey turns his head, getting a better look at the Arena as a whole. Beyond this central room, jagged ruins of stone and steel pierce the sky. It's like the empty lands outside the borders of the Districts, ancient structures of glorious wonder fallen into rubble and reclaimed by nature. Cracked paths wind between the hollow shells of buildings, vines crawl up the walls and through gaping window panes, and treetops blossom from collapsing roofs, branches spearing out through brick. It's oddly beautiful, in a haunting way.

Ten...Nine...

The beginning of the countdown snaps Davey's attention back down to the plaza. He can see the other Tributes arranged in a circle around the area, several meters between them each on the metal platforms that carried them up into the Arena. Some are stretching their muscles, some scowling with calm focus, and a few simply look ready to faint.

Eight...Seven...

There's no way to see Jack, over a mile away and hidden from view by the hulking Cornucopia, but Davey knows that they always place Tributes from the same District opposite each other—a tactic to make it more difficult for possible alliances to join up. Smalls is four spots to his right, looking so impossibly young among the other Tributes.

Six...Fi-

A sudden explosion makes Davey duck, covering his ears against the sharp echo of the detonation off the stone walls. All of them crane their heads in awe, and from his spot, Davey can see the streaks of red and black smeared over the ground and walls three pedestals to the left. The violent gore makes the warning they were all given before this started a reality: don't step off the pedestal until the countdown ends, or you will be immediately disqualified. Apparently, someone hoped to get a head start. Or maybe they were just that desperate to not compete.

Four...Three...

The countdown continues without pausing, oblivious and unfeeling toward the death of the boy. And why should it? What is one boy among twenty? One less boy between me and home, Davey thinks darkly, ignoring the guilty lurch in his stomach. The Tributes to either side of him are dropping into ready positions, feet planted and ready to launch forward the moment they can.

Two...One...

A loud gong reverberates off the stones and steel, and Davey takes off at a sprint. He's never been the most athletic kid, always too long and lanky, more brain than brawn, which is how he ended up in his repair work job. While the other boys his age haul around boxes and crates in the warehouses, Davey fixes up the machinery when it breaks, sharp eyes finding damaged circuits and dexterous fingers replacing cracked gears. Running, though, is something he can do.

In his peripherals, he can see other Tributes racing along next to him. They're all headed for the bounty promised at the Cornucopia. Davey can't fathom why; after a lifetime of watching the Games every year, he knows that the first twenty minutes are a bloodbath based on seizing control of that spot. So instead, Davey skids to a stop at the nearest stray supply stash. There's a backpack, loaded with gods-know-what, and he slings it over his shoulder.

He's just considering turning and making a run for it, escaping into the ruins to regroup and let the others thin the herd, when his eyes land on a roll of black tactical fabric in the grass a few yards ahead. The gleaming handles of a perfect set of throwing knives catch the synthetic sunlight tauntingly. Davey's no good with weapons or fighting, but knives are always useful, and he's got decent aim so the long-distance weaponry could work to his advantage.

Swallowing, Davey darts for the knife set. He's only a foot away when something solid barrels into his side, throwing them both to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Davey yelps, kicking out and rolling to extract himself from the other boy's grasping hands. A blow to the face stuns him, knocking his world off-kilter, and Davey staggers. "Nice try, Manhattan," sneers a gravelly voice that Davey recognizes as one of the Tributes from Bronx District, a hulking behemoth of a boy.

"Fine, it's yours," Davey says, holding up his hands in a vague surrender sign and taking a step back. As he expected, the Bronx kid follows. Not getting out of this one without a fight then. Davey might be able to sprint for the ruins, and there's a chance Bronx won't follow, but there's a much stronger chance he'll take the opportunity to stick one of the throwing knives on the ground between them in Davey's back.

"Thank ya, Ten," Bronx drawls, smirking. "Think I'll have ya skull too."

A cannon blasts overhead, signaling the first Tribute death. When Bronx's eyes dart up, momentarily distracted, Davey takes his chance. He lunges around the boy's side and slides below a swinging fist. Bracing himself on the stones, Davey kicks the boy hard in the back of the knee. Bronx falls with a bellow like an angry bear that doesn't completely mask the sharp crack of something inside his knee.

Davey rolls, avoiding Bronx's flailing hands, and manages to grab the edge of the knife pouch with his fingertips. He makes to stand, but Bronx gets a handful of Davey's jacket and yanks. Davey tips, hitting the ground hard and barely retaining his grip on the knife pouch, and in the next second, Bronx is on him. Meaty hands close around Davey's throat so tight he gags, and Bronx leers as he presses Davey into the ground.

The world is going dark around the edges, his head spinning, and Davey does the only thing his panicked brain can think of: his shaking fingers jerk one of the knives free, and he jabs up. Bronx's hands withdraw, his body reeling back, and Davey can see the knife handle protruding from the right side of his ribs. As the bigger boy yanks the blade free, Davey skitters backward across the ground. Taking his chance, Davey grabs the rest of the knife pouch, the backpack, and he runs.

An arrow clatters off the stones by his head just as Davey slips down one of the narrow pathways, and he doesn't dare stop. He can barely breathe, his neck throbbing every time he inhales like it's still being compressed. One arm aches, sore from catching his weight when he fell, but other than that, he seems to be uninjured. So Davey runs until he can't take another step, and then runs for another mile after.

When he feels like he'll faint if he goes any further, Davey finally slows and looks around. The ruins of buildings are more spaced out farther from the center, with open stretches of grass or large clusters of scrubby foliage between. Davey walks for a bit, peering into buildings and up at trees in search of a safe place to hide out for a bit. His heart leaps when he stumbles across the skeleton of a building, a shelf of floor left behind four stories up and only accessible by scaling the overgrown vines woven through the steel beams in the walls. That'll work.

Davey tucks the knives into the backpack, secures it firmly over both shoulders, and starts climbing. There are a couple of tense moments when vines crack and break under his weight - and he's never been so grateful that he's naturally scrawny because it makes him lighter than most - but he manages to reach the ledge and pull himself up. Davey presses himself back against the cracked wall where he can still see out and lets out a breath. For the moment, at least, he's safe.

For the moment, at least, he's not the death behind any of the (seven? he thinks, or maybe eight) cannons he's heard so far.

Catching his breath, Davey pulls the backpack off to check the contents, but he stops with his hands on the zipper. He hadn't noticed until now, preoccupied with running for his life, but his left hand is streaked with blood. It's mixed with his sweat, smeared and running down his fingers, and tacky where it dyes his pale skin a bright maroon.

The Bronx Tribute. Davey was so concerned with escaping, he didn't even think about it, but he stabbed that guy. Davey, who has never so much as slapped a person in his life, just drove a knife into another kid's chest. That's the Bronx kid's blood on his hand, blood that came from a wound Davey inflicted. A chest wound, right between the ribs. The knives aren't extremely long. Was it long enough to hit anything important? A lung? The heart? No, wait, wrong side for that...

Is the Bronx kid one of those cannons that fired?

Davey drags his sleeve roughly over his eyes, wiping away the tears that are welling there. His stomach churns, threatening to rebel, and he breathes slowly through his nose to steady it. He can't be sick—that's just a waste of calories and will just dehydrate him faster. 

So even though it grates against everything he is, Davey shoves the thoughts away. He scoops up a handful of dirt and scrubs his hands together, the dust sopping up the blood so he can brush it off his skin as much as possible. Time to get to business. 

There have been no more cannons by the time Davey climbs down from his hideaway a little while later. He stayed long enough to catch his breath and sort through the supplies in his backpack. Altogether, he lucked out; the bag contains a few packets of dried food, an empty canteen, an oiled leather pouch of matches, a sizable ball of twine and wire each, and a dark, waterproof tarpaulin.

Priority one now is to find water. The food pouches will hold him for a day or two, and he should be able to craft snares with the wire and twine, but he needs water more. Dehydration is one of the main natural killers of Tributes, and Davey can't remember a Games where it didn't take at least one life.

Davey keeps off the paved trails as much as possible, not wanting to be out in the open in case he crosses paths with another Tribute. He troops through waist-high grass and bushes, staying in the shadows of the ruins where he can, and walks in the opposite direction of the Cornucopia. The Arena is unnaturally quiet, with minimal sound of birds or animals, and no wind in this simulated environment to even stir the leaves on the trees. It sets Davey's nerves on edge, and every little noise makes his body tense, sure it's another person coming to kill him.

If the Arena's sun can be trusted, it's sometime past noon when a building gives way to a large clearing, and Davey spots a shallow pond. His heart leaps, and he has to stop himself from dashing to it. Instead, he crouches in the brush and scans the surrounding trees and buildings for any Tribute that might be staking out the place. It'd be a good tactic, especially for someone with a strong enough ranged weapon, sniping any competitors that might be drawn to the lure of fresh water.

Davey doesn't move for ten whole minutes, carefully searching for a sign of life, before he decides it's safe. Still, as he digs the canteen out of his backpack, he also pulls out one of the knives, just in case. Davey runs in a crouch to the water's edge, and he could almost cry with relief looking down into the clear blue water. He can see immediately that it's not a pond but a spring, the water bubbling up clear and fresh from below the ground.

Giddy, Davey scrubs his hands on the grass a few more times to wipe away any lingering dirt or blood, and then he plunges the canteen into the warm water. As soon as the canteen is full, he screws the cap back on and tucks it into his bag, then bends over and scoops handfuls of water into his mouth. He's never felt so grateful for water, the moisture soothing some of the discomfort from his still-tender throat. Part of him wants to stay here, camp the place so that he doesn't risk losing a water source, but he isn't armed well enough to hold the spot if another Tribute comes along. He's not a fighter, and he won't survive long by pretending to be.

Run. Plan. Outlast.

So Davey gulps down one last mouthful of water, rinses his face and hands, and then stands. He shoulders his pack, still clutching his little throwing knife, and sets off into the foliage again.

The afternoon passes without incident, apart from one moment when Davey hears what he's sure is another person pushing through the brush nearby. Davey hunkers down and waits, listening, but the sound is gone almost as quickly as it came and he's left alone in the silence again. Still, he adjusts his course just a little, slanting away from the direction of the noise, just to be sure. He spends the rest of the day hiking through brush and clambering over collapsed heaps of stone. He stops once to eat one of the packs of dried meat strips and sip from the canteen.

When the sun sets, Davey starts hunting for a place to spend the night. He surveys several tree hollows, and skeletons of buildings, and a cave formed by a fallen wall. Finally, he finds a large perch of forked branches up an enormous tree, somewhere that will keep him safe from both animals and humans alike, and his dark tarp will blend well. Davey scales the tree - suddenly grateful for a childhood of climbing trees with his sister - tearing his nails against the rough bark, and then he tucks himself down into the bench formed by three thick branches. It won't do much to protect him from the elements, but he's got a decent vantage out over the area in case someone approaches.

Davey is just getting ready to settle down to sleep when the Games' anthem suddenly blares from everywhere at once, and Davey instantly looks skyward. The seal of the nation is illuminated in the night sky, betraying that it's actually a dome of holographic panes. He knows what's coming, knows that they're about to list off the day's casualties, and his heart is in his throat as he climbs up through the tree cover for a better view.

The first face to appear above them is the boy from Bronx that Davey fought (and the confirmation makes Davey blanch, acid roiling in his stomach.) Then both boys from Woodside, one right after the other. One from Harlem. One from Flushing. Both of Staten. One from Richmond. One from Brighton. Then, with one last blare of trumpets, the sky goes dark again.

Nine. Nine dead Tributes. Almost half of them gone already. Eleven left. Just ten more boys between me and home.

And at the same time, he can't help but breathe a sigh of relief because none of those faces in the sky belonged to Jack Kelly. He shouldn't want it - and logic tells Davey that every day they're both alive is just one more day they might come face-to-face and have to make that terrible choice - but there's still a piece of him that's glad. Jack isn't dead. They've both survived this first day.

Davey scales back down to his spot, but he's halfway down when he spots a tiny glimmer of light from the corner of his eye. When he looks around, he can't see anything in the trees around him. It takes a minute of searching before he sees the pinpoint spark of light again just above him and his gaze zeroes in on the tree trunk. Is that-?

A camera.

Of course. Davey knows the Arena is full of them, the lenses planted across every square yard so that the Gamemakers will have a view of anything exciting that might happen. It still surprises him to actually find one, the circle of black glass no bigger than his thumbnail and camouflaged against the tree bark almost perfectly. Davey wonders if the tiny light means this camera is on. Are they watching him? Are the tittering Capitol people waiting for him to do something interesting, something that'll make him worthy of the ten the Gamemaker gave him?

Or - and the thought makes his chest seize - are his family seeing him now, sitting at home around the holo-screen? Are they clinging to the fragile hope that he's survived the bloodbath first day of the Games? Are they sending up prayers for protection to gods that none of them really believe in anymore?

Not taking his eyes off the camera, in case he loses it in the darkness, Davey props his weight against the branch he's sitting on and digs his Totem out of his pocket. He rolls the coin through his fingers for a moment before he carefully flicks it into the air and catches it against the back of his hand, the way he taught Les to do it when he first gave him the coin years ago. Davey winks and smiles, hoping that his family sees it and that they know he's thinking of them.

Retreating into his perch, Davey uses his backpack as a pillow and wraps the dark tarp around his body to hide him from eyes or the elements. He's still clutching his Totem in his palm when the exhaustion sweeps in and carries him off. 

A loud blast in the distance jerks Davey awake in the early hours of the morning, and he flails, grabbing a branch to stop himself from falling out of the tree. He frowns, rubbing a hand over his face blearily, as his brain struggles to shake off the fog of sleep and think. What was that noise? It wasn't thunder. One of the platform mines, maybe? Did someone accidentally trigger one somehow? Or a building collapsing? The answer comes to him all at once, and he exhales like the air's been punched from his lungs.

Right. A cannon. One more dead Tribute. Ten left. Nine more between me and home.

Shaking those thoughts away, Davey eats a small breakfast of dried fruit cubes and surveys the terrain around his hideaway. The sun hasn't risen yet, and the Arena is bathed in layers of shadows beneath the gray pre-dawn sky. As much as this spot was an excellent place to hole up for the night, he doesn't like the idea of staying there long term. The tree branches shield him from view, but they also obstruct his view of the ground, which potentially gives others a chance to sneak up on him unseen. He needs to find another place, preferably something a little more defensible and less difficult to escape from in case of an emergency.

And with those clouds boiling up on the horizon, he wouldn't say no to something with a bit more of a roof either.

Climbing back down turns out to be harder than getting up was, the footholds not as visible from above. Halfway down, a branch suddenly breaks beneath his weight. Davey falls almost ten feet with a startled yelp, crashing down onto his side on the hard ground. Pain explodes through his shoulder and hip where they hit the rippling dirt and protruding roots. 

Stunned, Davey lays there for a long minute before he can get his breath back. He struggles to a sitting position with a groan and probes his aching joints experimentally. Not broken, just seriously bruised. Wouldn't that have been his luck, wiped out not by another Tribute but by his own clumsiness? Davey gives himself a moment to rub the aches away before he clambers back to his feet. Taking a steadying breath, Davey reorients himself and starts walking. 

It's another day of hiking through the collapsed ruins of the pretend city, a knife in one hand and ears straining for any glimpse of life in the surrounding wilderness. Near midday, a sharp blast of noise sends Davey ducking into the brush. It's definitely not a cannon this time, not the echoing clap of sound from overhead being projected into the Arena. No, this is closer, an explosion somewhere ahead of him. He once again wonders if there are mines in the Arena—maybe those same explosives from the platforms are hidden around for an unsuspecting Tribute to trip without knowing. 

There's another blast shortly after, vibrating in the ground, and Davey grimaces. Guess he's not going in that direction anymore, but that means he's going to be heading back toward the center of the Arena. Come to think of it, that's probably what's really happening; it's not some Tribute stumbling across sudden death, it's the Gamemakers steering him back toward the others.

Davey sighs and adjusts his path, moving parallel to the explosions that he heard. They might not want him going further away, but that doesn't mean he has to go closer either. 

The storm clouds swell on the horizon, dark and heavy in a way that says it won't be long before they let loose. So Davey starts scouring for a covered place to hide when the storm sets in, searching through trees and collapsed buildings for any kind of hollow or cave-like structure. The explosions don't stop, the occasional blast going off in the scenery to his side and firmly keeping him from straying away from the center more.

Then, suddenly, an explosion hits far closer than the others, and Davey scrambles frantically out of the way as the ruin of a building tumbles toward him. Stone and steel rain down from above, and he shields his head with his arms as he sprints out of the path of destruction. A second later, a bolt of lightning spears down from the sky and splits an enormous tree down the middle. The light is so bright it blinds Davey for a minute, and he barely gets his vision back enough to see the trunk tipping into his route. The severed half of the tree cracks the stones as it lands in a shower of broken branches, and then, just to top it off, tongues of flame start to lick up over the wood.

"Fuck!" Davey hisses, darting backward, but another building crumbles at his back, and he's forced to run the other way to avoid being crushed. The fire is spreading in every direction, devouring the scrubby grass and bushes greedily, and it takes only seconds before Davey is surrounded. Panicked, he finds the most unobstructed path he can and takes off running.

The heat is oppressive, pressing in on him and making his breath thick in his chest. Fire reaches for him like grasping hands, trying desperately to latch onto his clothes and skin. Sparks land on his cheeks and neck and hands, tiny pinpricks of searing pain dotting his exposed skin, and the smoke threatens to strangle him. Davey sprints through the obstacle course of toppled trees and skeletons of buildings, pushing himself to outrun the flames. He just needs to get far enough to escape the fire, and he'll be safe.

Directly beside him, a tree explodes. The concussive force throws Davey sideways, and he slams into a tree trunk, breathless and ears ringing. His head is spinning, and one leg is screaming in pain when he finally gets upright again, but he forces himself to keep running. He can't stop now. He won't go out like this. He just needs to get a little further, just needs to get ahead of the fire.

It's the sizzling sound more than anything that tells Davey the rain has started. He can't feel the drops yet, but he hears the flames hiss when touched by the water. It takes a minute for the rain to pick up enough that he starts to feel the drops hitting his skin and he gasps out a delirious thanks when the downpour begins in earnest, beating the fire into submission. He's soaked through, burnt palms stinging and leg threatening to buckle, but the flames are dying down, and he can see salvation ahead.

Davey doesn't let himself stop until he is well away from the glowing coals of the wildfire. He leans against a wall to catch his breath and reaches down to rub the sore spot on his leg. It's only when his fingers hit something hard that he finally looks, and his stomach lurches. 

There's a chunk of splintered wood protruding from the side of his thigh. It must've happened when the tree exploded. He barely felt it, his veins humming with adrenaline, but now that he's stopped, the pain redoubles. It threatens to send him to the ground, but he grits his teeth and braces his weight against the wall. 

Every instinct in his body is telling him to rip the splinter out, to get this horrid, painful intrusion out of his body, but he forces his hand away. His mother is a healer in their District, and Davey's helped her with patients enough times to pick up some knowledge. As much as it hurts, removing that splinter is only going to make him bleed worse. He's going to have to leave it in until he's got a way to stop the bleeding. 

Digging through his backpack, Davey settles on the lengths of twine. He wraps the string around his thigh above the wound, just tight enough to slow the blood flow a little, and then pushes himself off the wall. His leg feels like it's full of needles, but it supports him, so he locks his jaw and starts limping. 

The storm is showing no signs of easing, and he's already soaked through, cold and shivering. He needs to get somewhere sheltered where he can warm up and treat his leg. There's really no choice but to stick to the path, for now, his leg barely holding him on even ground, and the best he can hope for is that the rain has driven all of the other Tributes into hiding as well. At the least, the downpour has reduced visibility enough that someone would have to be close to see him anyway. 

Davey almost misses the little hollow formed by a chunk of wall propped against a fallen log. It's half-covered in crawling vines and weeds, barely three feet tall, but when he leans down to look inside, it's deeper than he expected and the ground is dry. Grateful, Davey drops to his stomach and wriggles his way into the space. He digs the waterproof tarp from his bag and drapes it over the entrance to the hollow, awkwardly securing it with the knotted vines. It's not perfect, but it keeps most of the water and wind away and will help him blend in better.

Rolling onto his side, Davey takes several long, slow breaths through his nose before he glances down at his shrieking leg. His canvas pants are stained with blood all around the wound, and so is the chunk of wood. As he tears the fabric a little wider to get a better look, he guesses that the wood must've been burning when it hit him because the skin around the edges is red and glossy. 

Davey pulls his backpack around and sorts through his supplies for anything he can use to treat it. There are no medical supplies, not even a rag he can use as bandaging. Davey reexamines every item for a chance he can rig it to help him. He can't leave the twine on there much longer without risking more damage, and the wire isn't going to do any good either. The plastic pouches left from his food packs are useless. He's got his canteen, still a third full, but cleaning the wound is pointless until he's got a way to stop the bleeding. The only other things he's got are the throwing knives and-

The matches. 

"Gods help me," Davey moans, squeezing his eyes shut. He's seen this done once before, but it's not a trick he hoped to ever use, let alone on himself. Grimacing, he glances at the blood seeping out from the edges of the wound. Well, it's not like he's got a plethora of options here; it's down to cauterization or just praying it scabs over before he bleeds to death. 

There are a few scrubby bits of bush and twigs and dry moss along the back of the hollow, shielded from the rain by the shelf of stone, and he gathers them together into a pile. Shifting his body so he'll protect the small collection from any possible drafts, he strikes a match and holds it to the little sticks. The leaves and grasses smoke, curling in on themselves, but finally, the flame starts to catch on the twigs. It's a pitifully small fire, barely the size of his hand, but even just that tiny bit of warmth feels nice against his rain-chilled skin.

Davey grabs one of the throwing knives and tucks the blade into the flames. Leaving it to heat up, he turns his attention to the piece of wood still protruding from his leg. No time like the present, he reasons. Jamming his knuckles into his mouth to muffle any noise, Davey closes his other hand around the splinter and yanks it free. White sparks blossom behind his eyes, and he swallows a scream.

When he can finally breathe, blinking away tears, he examines the wound. It isn't horribly deep and not even an inch across, but the flow of blood is enough to be a problem if it's left to go for too long. He grabs his canteen and pours some water into the hole, rinsing away the lingering dirt and wood particles. Hopefully, it's enough to prevent infection because that'll kill him more painfully than a Tribute would. 

Davey looks over at the knife, watching the tongues of yellow and orange flick hungrily around the sharp steel. The edges of the blade are starting to glow red, so he tugs his sleeve over his hand and picks up the knife. Inhaling deeply and tossing out a desperate prayer, he jams his other wrist between his teeth and presses the flat of the blade against the wound. 

The pain is agonizing, his brain going white as he seizes up. He bites down on his wrist hard enough to feel the bones shifting beneath his sleeve and it only half-muffles his screaming, his ears ringing with it. His stomach churns with nausea, the scent of burning flesh only making it worse, and he has to swallow obsessively to keep from being sick. Still, no matter how much he wants to, he won't let himself pull the knife away, holding the burning steel to his skin until it finally starts to cool, the heat leached from the blade and his nerves seared away.

Dropping the knife, Davey wipes his streaming eyes to recheck the wound. The skin is violet-red and ripples like bubbling wax, but the burns have formed a seal over the hole. Even after he slices away the loop of twine that's been cutting off the circulation, only the smallest beads of blood form at the edges of the wound.  He sobs gratefully. It worked.

Davey flounders for something he can use to cool his aching skin before he settles on a sock. It's something he can afford to lose if he has to, uncomfortable as it might be. Better to lose a toe from cold than the whole leg. Pulling off the wool, he rolls to hold it out from beneath the shelter of the stone wall. Once it's thoroughly wet from the rain, Davey uses it to clean the blood and ash from around the wound. Davey soaks the sock in rainwater one more time and then leaves it draped over his leg as he lays down facing the tiny fire. He's exhausted, the traumatic morning draining every ounce of energy from him, and his eyes flutter.

It's not like he can go anywhere until the weather clears up anyway. 

This time it's the hunger that wakes him. Davey blearily scrubs a hand over his face, his stomach knotted and his leg throbbing. The sound of the rain has faded outside his hiding place, and the little fire has burnt down to ash. Davey reaches down and lifts the dry sock from the side of his leg, eyeing the wound. Some of the redness has died down, and it's stopped bleeding entirely, leaving just a large patch of warped scarlet flesh wreathed in bruising. His thigh is still aching and tender, but the burning pain is reduced to a dull pulsing ache for now.

Levering his weight up on an elbow, Davey opens his bag and pulls out the last packet of food and his canteen. He frowns at his supplies. He's going to have to go scavenging soon to find more food, and he desperately needs to find another place to refill his canteen. Davey props his head on his backpack and chews the strips of the dried meat as slowly as possible, trying to trick his brain into thinking he's eating more than the handful of jerky, and distracts himself by planning his next step.

He could always stick close to this hollow, hunt in the nearby trees. It's a good hiding place, all things considered, except for the fact that there's no secondary exit in case he does get spotted. Well, probably less camouflaged during the daytime, when the dark tarp will stand out against the stones that are a pale gray-white when dry. No, he should find another place where he can blend into the environment better. Maybe something shaded, probably more among the plants than the buildings.

Of course, gathering more supplies takes precedence over the shelter. A safe place to hide won't do him much good if he starves first.

Davey finishes the food all too quickly, and he sighs, resigned. No point lingering, especially now that it sounds like the rain is gone. He takes one last small sip from his canteen and then stows his things back into the backpack. His bloodstained sock crackles and crunches as he tugs it back onto his foot—gross as it is, it's better than freezing his feet off. Finally, he retrieves the knife - blade coated in blood and ash and dirt - from where he abandoned it last night. Crawling out of the hollow, Davey hisses through his teeth as he stands. The scab on his thigh pulls as the muscle flexes beneath, but his leg supports him, and that's the best he can hope for at the moment.

It takes a minute to reorient himself, checking his direction against the late afternoon sun. The last thing he wants to do is head inward, but the Gamemakers have made it pretty clear that they aren't going to let him wander further out and he's not ready to test their patience again. So Davey wipes his knife clean on the damp grass and starts walking toward the center. He doesn't plan to head all the way in, but there are still plenty of miles between him and the Cornucopia, plenty of space to search for food and shelter.

After about three miles, the clap of a cannon reverberates through the air. Nine Tributes left. Eight until home.

Davey finds a cluster of bushes growing in the shadow of what was once the archway to a building and the sight of the little red berries makes his heart leap. He picks a handful and rolls the berries over his palm, making sure he recognizes them—he's not about to eat something that might be poisonous. Thankfully, they're just sunset-berries, the same kind that his mother grows in the garden at home. 

Davey grabs the empty plastic pouches left from his packaged meals, and he picks as many berries as he can find, filling the bags to the top and then tying them off with pieces of twine. A final handful goes straight into his mouth, and he grins as he savors the familiar, bitter-wine flavor. Now if Davey can just find a place to trap some meat, he'll have a proper meal. Loading his pockets full of the rest of the berries from the bush to snack on, he starts walking again. 

The sound of running water catches his attention after another mile, and Davey diverts his course to find it. He climbs through the brush for a few minutes and finally stumbles across a ribbon of water that carves a path through the ground. It's not very large, maybe a foot across at its fullest, but the cold water feels good on his hands when he plunges them into the current. Davey scrubs his hands and face, and then he cups a few handfuls of water onto the burn on his leg. It stings, but he's not about to risk infection. 

Once his canteen is refilled, Davey drinks as much water as he can stomach and then stands to survey the area. This might not be a bad place to set up camp for a while. He's deep into trees and bushes here, so it should be easier to camouflage himself, and it's never a bad plan to know there's a water source nearby. So Davey starts walking, searching the environment for a good place to spend at least the night. 

Davey walks vaguely downstream, keeping the water within earshot. Eventually, the stream widens into a pond near a cobblestone path, and Davey pauses, deliberating. It's nice being near the water source but not if it's close to the road where he might be spotted. 

Of course, on the flip side, if he can find a place high up here, he'll be able to see others coming. He still doesn't have any good weapons, but maybe he can build a trap by the water... He's always been good at constructing traps and snares for hunting, he could rig up something to injure another Tribute at the very least, giving him time to escape to safety. 

A shout from nearby makes Davey duck instinctively, and an arrow sinks into the tree trunk exactly where his head was only a split second before. Davey looks across the road in panic, and he can see figures up on the ridge of rock there. His heart jumps into his throat when he recognizes the one with the bow as one of the brothers from Brooklyn. "Son of a bitch," the other snarls. "Get him!" 

Turning tail, Davey sprints back into the trees. His leg screams at the exertion, but he can't stop, can't slow down when he hears pounding footsteps and voices behind him. Multiple voices, at least three as far as he can tell. Davey darts through the tangled underbrush, trying desperately to lose the others in the foliage. Of all the Tributes to stumble across, it had to be the ones that are best trained to do this—the ones who've spent their whole lives learning to win the Games. 

There's no logic to his path, nothing more than a desperate need to lose his followers, except his leg is starting to waver beneath him. The Tributes chasing him are closing in, gradually eating up the small lead he managed. He can't keep this up for long. He needs a place to hide. 

After a minute, the trees begin to thin, and he finds himself in a cluster of ruins. Davey scans the buildings hopefully, and he spots a shelf of stone far overhead in one of them, similar to the place he hid when he first fled the Cornucopia. There's a jagged and uneven ladder of slender branches and climbing vines that have grown through the stones. Taking a deep breath, Davey charges over to the ruins. 

Dried vines crack beneath his weight, and he stumbles more than once, but Davey keeps climbing, breath catching in his throat as he hears the voices grow closer. He's nearly reached the top when the Tributes break through the trees into the ruins. "There!" one of them yells. An arrow strikes the stones an inch from his hip, and Davey scrambles. He has to leap for the shelf, barely catching and tugging himself up over the edge. 

"You're trapped now, Ten," a Brooklyn Tribute jeers, and then Davey hears the vines crunching. There's a thud, cursing, and then more crackling twigs. 

"You're too heavy, stupid," another voice says when there's a second thump of a body hitting the ground. "None us gonna be small enough to climb that flimsy shit."

"Look, it's like ya said," a fourth voice says, and Davey's stomach plummets because he knows that voice, but there's no way, it can't possibly be - "He can't go nowhere. Let's just wait him out. He can't stay up there forever." 

"This wouldn't be a problem if you hadn't fuckin' warned him," the first voice says, and there's a sharp sound of a punch landing. "What the fuck was that?" 

"I tripped, asshole. Didn't do it on purpose. Didn't even know that's who ya was aimin' at." 

A scoff. "Yeah, sure. Don't be stupid; you ain't gonna win points with your loverboy in this place. Do somethin' like that again, I'mma gut ya myself." 

"Oh, fuck off." 

"Watch ya'self, Manhattan." A snarl. "C'mon, set up camp. It's gonna be night soon." 

As the steps start to disperse, Davey creeps forward to the edge of the stone lip. He peeks down over the ledge and hastily counts the shapes. Four Tributes: the two Brooklyn brothers, one of the boys from Harlem, and-

Jack glances up, and his eyes meet Davey's for a second, a flash of guilt and apology on his face. Then Jack drops his gaze and turns away to join the others. Davey swallows hard and retreats back into the far corner of his shelter. He's always known it would come to this eventually, that there are no real alliances in the Arena and everyone turns on each other by the end, but Davey can't completely fight back the feeling of betrayal. 

Worse than Jack being his enemy is seeing Jack with these bloodthirsty monsters that thrive on the Games, the very people he talked so bitterly about just days ago. Davey grimaces. Well, it's not like the Arena doesn't change them all. 

Tucking himself back into the inner corner of his hideout, Davey wraps his jacket tight around his body and closes his eyes. He's gone and done it now. Jack was right; there's no way he can survive up here for long. Those berries will only feed him a day or two, and he's only got maybe four days worth of water in his canteen, less if the sun bakes him up here with no shade. He doesn't have any weapons beyond the throwing knives to pick off the Tributes down there, and he can't guarantee he could even hit them from this far anyway. He can't climb to other ruins to try and escape, the gaps too big even if he thought his leg would handle the effort.

His eyes start to itch at the corners, but Davey bites his lip and forces the tears back. Crying will dehydrate him faster. Still, it doesn't wipe away the emotions. He's well and properly screwed. Taking a deep breath, Davey digs out his Totem and rolls it over his knuckles, losing himself in thoughts of the home he's never going to see again. 

The alliance of Tributes below is loud and boisterous, clearly unconcerned with attracting attention. They've built up a massive fire now that night's fallen, and Davey thinks longingly of the warmth as he huddles beneath his tarp. His dinner of berries and water was hardly satisfying, his stomach still feeling hollow, and his leg is burning again, the scab cracked from all of the running. 

All in all, he's miserable—or, at least, more so than usual. 

When night falls, the blare of the anthem makes him look up. The flickering projection lights up the dome, momentarily pushing back the darkness. There are only two Tributes today: one from Brighton and the older one from Queens. After that, the sky goes black, and the world quiets again. 

Davey swallows, leaning his head against the rough stone wall at his back. He made it more than halfway, at least. That's got to count for something. (The dark voice in the back of his head reminds him that it doesn't, not in an all-or-nothing competition.) Still, not bad for a scrawny maintenance kid with a big mouth. He bites down on the inside of his cheek to hold back the tears again.

Maybe the kid who jumped off the mine during the countdown had the right idea: take yourself out before someone gets the chance to murder you. Davey thinks of the Tributes below him, the trained killers (and Jack) waiting to pick him off at the first opportunity. If his only choices are to let them kill him for sport or to stay up here until dehydration or sun exposure gets him, maybe it would be better to go out on his own terms. A jump from this height isn't a sure thing, but he still has his knives...

A faint beep catches Davey's attention, just the softest trill of noise in the open expanse of night. He doesn't think he would've heard it at all if the Tributes below hadn't finally fallen asleep, their loud laughter and jeering gone quiet. Curious, Davey sits up to look around for the source of the noise. The beep comes again, just a little louder, and he swivels his head up to see-

A tiny silver parachute attached to a sphere drops into his lap. 

Awed and confused, Davey picks up the glossy metal orb. Silver parachutes like this come from Sponsors, gifts air-dropped in for Tributes from their fans. But who in the hells would be wasting their money sending a gift to him? Especially now, with him trapped and all but dead already. 

Davey releases the catch on the capsule and pries it open. Inside are a small plastic jar and a slip of paper. Davey picks up the paper and flips it over curiously, checking for a name or a message from whatever Sponsor sent the gift. The only thing on the square of paper is the District seal of Manhattan. 

Emotion clogging his throat, Davey twists the cap off the container, and his heart leaps when he catches the familiar scent coming off the paste inside: healing salve. His chest feels like it's being crushed in a vice as the reality of it settles over him. Sending a gift to a Tribute isn't cheap, and there's no way anyone back home could afford it. Not by themselves. 

Davey fights back the tears as he fingers the scrap of paper with the symbol of his home. How many people back in Manhattan must've pooled their credits together to pay for something like this? Davey's never heard of anything like it happening before, can't imagine what it is about him that compelled these people to join forces and spend their hard-earned wages on him.

There's no way there's not a camera pointed at him right now—the Gamemakers wouldn't miss the added drama of a Tribute receiving a gift. Davey holds the paper up above his head, showing off the seal of Manhattan, and silently mouths, "Thank you." 

Tucking the paper into the inner pocket of his jacket, Davey turns his leg so he can reach the clotted scab on his thigh. He dips a finger into the paste and carefully spreads it over the burn. It stings for a moment but then a comfortable cool sinks into his skin, numbing and easing away the lingering ache of the injury. Davey could sob from the relief of it. He uses just enough of the salve to cover the wound and then carefully stows the rest of it in his backpack, just in case. 

The pain finally retreated, Davey curls up beneath his tarp and lets himself sleep. 

Loud voices from below jerk Davey awake, a flash of panic rolling through him before his brain catches up and he remembers where he's at. The Tributes on the ground are arguing about something, but Davey can't be bothered to really pay attention. Stretching his leg, Davey pries the hole in his pant leg open to check on the wound, and his eyes widen. 

The gouge is completely scabbed over and almost half the size it was yesterday, with rippled scarring around the edges already. 

Awed, Davey brushes his fingertips over the scab and is amazed that it barely hurts at all, a faint tenderness instead of the burning throb from before. He grins, sending up another silent prayer of gratitude to his people at home. At least now if he manages to find a way to escape, he knows his leg will hold up better to running and climbing. 

"Hey, Ten," one of the Brooklyn boys jeers from below. "Ready to come out and play yet? You must be gettin' pretty lonely up there. Hey, maybe your loverboy will give you a kiss 'fore I bash your brains in?" 

"Oh, fuck off with your loverboy shit," Jack snaps irritably. 

To hells with taking himself out of the fight. He can't, not after his people have put their faith in him like that. He's Manhattan, he's a Jacobs, and he's damn well going to go down swinging. Davey won't let these Capitol bastards up in their golden towers have the satisfaction of seeing him break. He will not let his little brother's last memory of him be watching him give up and take the easy way out. 

Feeling angry and defiant, Davey crawls to the edge of the stone shelf on his belly and then holds one hand out over the lip in a rude sign. He keeps it there long enough to hear two of the Tributes snarl furiously - and he thinks he might've heard a soft snort of amusement too - before hastily retreating back into his sheltered corner. 

"You think you're funny, Ten, but we gotcha surrounded," the other Brooklyn boy mocks. "And we're gonna find a way to get up to ya. Betcha I can get up one these other walls. Be real fun to snipe ya with my bow." 

"Like shootin' fish in a barrel," the first Delancey adds with a cruel laugh. 

As much as Davey hates to admit it, they might have a point there. He can't tell from here, but odds are that there is more than one of the cracked ruins that are still climbable. If they get up where they've got a vantage point, Davey has nowhere left to hide. He needs to find a way out of here, and soon. 

The Tributes huff and go back to their campfire, and Davey can hear them cooking food. His stomach growls loudly, reminding him that all he has to eat is the little sacks of berries. He picks at them slowly, trying to imagine that he's eating something more filling. Mind over matter, right? It doesn't actually help, and he's still hungry by the time he finishes a whole sack, washing it down with a large mouthful of water. 

The sun is on the other side of his shelter now, leaving him with no shade, and he is already starting to get too warm. Davey strips off his jacket and stuffs it into his backpack, and then forms a makeshift tent for himself with the tarp. The dark fabric keeps the sun off him, but it also absorbs the heat, and the air gets muggy and hot. At this rate, he's going to burn through his water supply in one day just trying to keep from overheating. 

Davey sighs, his mind slipping into plans. How can he get away from here? He could attempt to make a running jump to another ruin; except the closest one just happens to be on the side where his wall is at, blocking his path. Besides, the Tributes below would undoubtedly hear it. Maybe if he tries when they're asleep? He knows from last night that they take turns keeping watch through the night. Better chance to sneak passed one person than four. But will he survive until night or will the Delanceys find a place to climb up and shoot him before then?

A soft clatter makes Davey jump, and he lowers the tarp, looking around wildly. What was that noise? As his eyes search around for a source, another clatter comes, the dull thunk of stone on stone, and he sees a small pebble bounce off the wall and roll to a stop by his feet. Have the Tributes found a way up already, testing to see if they can hit him from there?

Davey pans his gaze around the nearby structures, and a flicker of movement draws his eye to one of the pillars of stone, far in the opposite direction from the Tributes' camp. There's a figure armed with a crudely made slingshot tucked into a hollow in the bricks, and Davey's heart leaps when he recognizes them. Smalls. 

The youngest Tribute grins briefly when he catches Davey's eye, and then he points down. Davey follows the gesture, eyes narrowed as he scours for anything that the boy could be pointing to, and finally, his gaze lands on an old metal pipeline visible at ground level, protruding slightly from the dirt and running parallel to the tree line. 

Bemused, Davey glances back to Smalls questioningly. The boy mimes throwing something in the direction of the pipeline and then forms his hands in an expanding circle that Davey can interpret easily: explosion. He's saying that throwing something at the pipeline can cause an explosion. And the Tributes' campsite, where he can see at least two of them sitting, is not terribly far from the pipe. 

Davey's eyes widen, and he hastily folds his tarp into his backpack. Digging out a throwing knife, he inches closer to the edge of the stone shelf for a better vantage point. This is his best chance of distracting the other Tributes long enough to escape—that dark voice in the back of his head says he might even manage to kill one or two of them, or at least injure them. Davey flicks his eyes over to Smalls, exchanging nods with the kid to make sure he's ready too, and then Davey raises the knife over his head. 

He's always had decent aim, but this is a little different than throwing stones at animals to scare them into his snares back home. Davey knows he's probably only got one shot at this, one chance before the Tributes catch on to what he's doing or spot him exposed on this ledge. One chance, no mistakes. Taking a deep breath, Davey focuses on a nearby area of the pipe that looks like it's partially eroded from rust and throws the knife as hard as he can. 

The explosion is so much bigger than Davey expected, metal shrapnel blasting out in every direction and the concussive force of it slamming into him even all the way up his tower. He clips the edge of the little wall, and then he's freefalling, a disorienting moment of panic and terror before he lands awkwardly on a chunk of the wall below. The impact makes his ribs scream, and he doesn't have a chance to get his bearings before he's falling again, the stone shelf he's on tipping and crumbling. Davey finally slams into the ground, stunned and breathless. 

He can't hear anything over the ringing in his ears, but he can faintly see figures scrambling. The air is full of thick, ugly violet-red smoke, and when Davey manages to draw in a breath, it burns through his lungs like fire. He gasps out in pain, struggling to get his numbed limbs functioning again. Every breath is agony, the gas choking him from the inside, and his head starts to spin as black spots spread across his vision. 

Davey manages to get to his feet, stumbling, but his vision swirls, colors and shapes blending together. He starts moving, his only objective at the moment getting away from that noxious smoke so he can breathe again. His legs waver under him, and he keeps staggering into things. There are blurred, distorted forms blossoming in front of his eyes, hulking monsters and armed figures, and then, suddenly, there's a face inches from his. 

"Get outta here," Jack hisses. His eyes are bloodshot, a patch of blisters spreading up one side of his face, and the collar of his shirt pulled up over his nose, but his hand is warm and firm on Davey's shoulder. The other plucks the neck of Davey's shirt and tugs it up toward Davey's face. "Go, run. Can keep 'em off ya trail but you gotta move." 

"Jack?" Davey whispers, confused, but the word scrapes through his raw throat and sends him into a fit of hacking coughs. "Why-?" 

"Fuckin' hells, Dave, just go," Jack wheezes out, half-hysterical, and he turns Davey by the shoulder and shoves him forward. "Run, Davey. Run!"

Davey can't figure out what's happening, his brain foggy and strange shadows warping his vision, but he can understand the command. Run. Get to safety, far away from the Delanceys and the burning gas in the air. So although he can barely walk a straight line, the world seeming to lurch and pitch beneath his feet, Davey holds his shirt collar over his mouth as a filter and forces himself to move. 

The crumbling ruins once again give way to the towering forest, and Davey threads his way through the trees and underbrush. He's out of the gas here, but his lungs are still filled with flames, and every few breaths make him cough, the taste of copper on his tongue. Everything shifts and warps in front of his eyes—the trees turn into grasping claws, and the ground tosses like waves on the water.

The dark figures are murmuring to him now, jeers and encouragement and insults and words in languages he doesn't even understand. Some of the faces he recognizes; he sees his father, the old woman from the grocer who always snuck Les a treat, Miss Medda, and the Bronx boy Davey killed, blood dripping from his eyes and mouth. Other faces are just ghostly, amorphous monsters.

Davey can hardly see anymore, the shadows crawling over his eyes, and suddenly something jerks his foot out from under him. He can't even scream as he hits the ground hard, the last of the air forced out of his aching lungs, and his body won't move. Every muscle shakes, no strength left in them, and he can't get back up off the forest floor. 

"Sleep," one of the voices whispers in his ear, a voice that sounds a little like his mother, and Davey gladly follows it into the darkness.

Someone is humming, a low, gentle lullaby of some sort coming from nearby. It's calming and lets Davey focus on something other than the pain filling every inch of him. He can breathe a little easier now, lungs less like fire although his throat is still raw. His memories are muggy, coming in blurred snapshots of falling and burning and the shadowy creatures that were gathered around him. 

Davey takes a breath and then pries his eyes - which also feel dry and itchy - open to look around. Above him is a canopy of leaves, sunlight visible through gaps in the branches. He pitches his gaze sideways curiously, searching for the source of the music, and his brow furrows when he finds a figure sitting cross-legged at his shoulder. "Smalls?"

The young boy blinks and looks down at Davey, smiling. "Hey, youse awake," he says. "How's ya feelin'?"

"Better than I did," Davey admits with a soft huff. The memories are starting to clear a little, and he groans. "What was in that pipe?"

"We call it Acid-air in my District," Smalls explains. "It runs in those pipes all over the place, the whole country. My gramps says they used'ta carry water in those pipes, but when there was a big rush of folks tryna escape the Districts, Capitol started pumping them full of that gas, to stop people leaving. Breathe too much of that, youse dead 'fore you can get much passed the border." 

"No kidding," Davey agrees, swallowing with a grimace. 

Smalls winces. "Yeah, sorry, didn't have a way to warn ya first," he says with an apologetic smile. "But s'okay, 'cause I knew how to stop it burning. Here, now youse awake, drink some more of this." He offers out a little tin cup, and Davey sniffs at the goopy green mixture inside. "It helps, promise," Smalls adds at his frown. 

Groaning, Davey pushes himself up into a sitting position and does as he's told. The drink is thick and sludgy on his tongue, nothing more than finely shredded plants of some sort soaked in water, and he almost gags as he forces it down. "Ugh, what is that?" he asks, coughing and handing the cup back. 

"Riverroot," says Smalls. "Tastes nasty but it stops the gas burnin' your throat, and it helps pull the poison outta ya." Davey raises an eyebrow questioningly. "We all learn 'bout this stuff in my District," the younger boy goes on, "'cause sometimes when they's diggin' new mines, folks'll hit a pipe. So everyone gotta know how to help folks that get burned. Riverroot helps ya on the inside, and the leaves on it help the blisters on your skin if you get it wet." 

Davey runs his fingertips experimentally over a cheek, and he can feel little hardened patches on his skin. He'd been so focused on the fact he couldn't breathe that he hadn't even registered that his skin was burning too. "Thank you," he says gratefully, smiling at the kid. "You saved my life."

"Course, we's friends," Smalls says, shrugging. The simple statement hits Davey square in the chest, that this kid would think of him as a friend even in this situation. "You been real nice to me," the boy continues shyly. "Most everyone else's been mean or made fun of me 'cause I'm so li'l. But you ain't like that." 

An alliance is not something Davey ever considered when coming into the Games. No matter what, alliances always fracture and turn on each other. There can only be one winner, and eventually, that always leads to bloodshed. 

But this tiny boy who is still so young and fresh-faced, so kind and genuine and innocent, tugs at Davey's heartstrings. Smalls reminds him of Les, and Davey finds that he wants to hold on to that comforting familiarity a little while longer. It'd be better in the long run if he just thanks Smalls for the help and they go their separate ways, but-

"Course, we're friends," says Davey, smiling. 

Smalls returns it with a blinding grin of his own, his face brightening. "Ya know, you look funny with a beard," Smalls says playfully. 

Davey laughs and runs his hand along his jaw. His facial hair doesn't grow as fast as some of the boys his age, but he's still got a decent layer of coarse stubble blooming after the last few days, except for a little patch where the gas must have burnt it off. "Yeah, not sure I like it either," Davey admits with a wry grin.

"It's weird," the younger boy says frankly. Then he turns his attention to the little fire, scooping up a handful of cooked meat. "Hungry? I caught a squirrel." 

"Thanks," Davey says, accepting the food. The meat is dry and stringy, but after living off berries for a day, the squirrel is practically a feast. Digging in his bag, Davey pulls out one of the pouches of berries and opens it between them. "They're a little squished," Davey says with a chuckle. "I think I landed on them at some point. But they still taste good." 

Smalls grins like Davey just presented him with sweets, and they eagerly tuck into their dinner. By the time they've finished, Davey feels better than he has in days. He sips from his canteen, sharing it with Smalls when he sees how cracked the boy's lips are and guesses that he doesn't have a flask of his own. When Smalls lifts his arm to drink, his sleeve slips up and reveals a clotted scab on his bicep, inflamed red around the edges. 

"What happened there?" Davey asks, brow knitting. 

"That kid from Flushing, the skinny one with the spots on his face, he got me with a knife," Smalls says with a frown. "But I got up a tree and got away. I'm good at climbing."  

"I bet that's a place where being li'l is nice," says Davey, grinning. "You're light, so the branches probably don't break as much, huh?" It's not like being skinny isn't what saved Davey before, his lack of muscle mass making him the only one light enough to get up the ladder of brittle vines.

Smalls echoes his smile. "It's how I been survivin'," he admits. "Staying up in trees, gettin' around up there off the ground where folks can't see me." 

"That's really smart," Davey says, and the pleased smile widens on the younger boy's face. Biting his lip, Davey pulls his bag toward him again. "Here, lemme help," he says, grabbing the container of healing salve. Smalls looks curious but holds out his arm without question when Davey gestures. Davey carefully spreads a bit of the paste over the cut, maybe using a bit more than he should but it's worth it for the wave of awe and relief that crosses Smalls' face. 

"Wow, that stuff's good," Smalls says, twisting his arm to examine the wound. "It don't hurt at all now."

"It should help you heal," Davey explains. "Helped me heal a hole in my leg." He shows Smalls the scarred patch on his thigh, mostly healed by now. "A tree exploded. I caught a piece of shrapnel." 

"Oh, those explosions was you?" Smalls asks. "I heard 'em yesterday. Thought someone was tryna rig the mines from the Cornucopia, but there was a lotta smoke for that and was in the wrong direction." 

Davey chuckles because he'd thought the exact same thing at first. His mind turns back to the campsite explosion, the metal shrapnel and the Tributes who'd been so close to the site. "Do you know if any of those guys got hurt when the pipe exploded?" he asks. 

"I saw the guy from Harlem go down," says Smalls, nodding. "He got hit by a chunk of metal, and if that didn't kill him, it pro'lly slowed him down enough the Acid-air did. Think those jerks from Brooklyn ran off, didn't see them. And the guy from your District took off fast too, he's pro'lly okay. I'se only heard one cannon so far." 

Davey hates himself for the glimmer of relief at hearing that; he shouldn't want Jack alive, especially after he allied himself with the Delanceys. But then Davey thinks of that image of Jack encouraging him to run and escape. Was that a hallucination like the other faces he'd seen because of the gas or was that real? 

"You and him," Smalls says, and his smile is a bit mischievous, "the other guy from your District, you guys really in love?" 

The question catches Davey off guard and heat crawls up the back of his neck. Laughing, he kicks at the boy's knee playfully. "Shaddup and eat your dinner." 

They don't talk about it, neither of them acknowledging it or making some conscious decision, but Davey and Smalls stick together after that. It just seems wiser for the time being, and while Davey likes having the kid around, he can tell Davey's presence makes Smalls feels safer too. 

There are only eight Tributes left now. The only Tribute to die that first night is the boy from Harlem that was allied with the Delanceys. The second night, there are no deaths, and it makes Davey's skin itch. There's no way the Gamemakers are going to let that last for long, and he's scared to find out what they do to attempt to spice things back up. 

Davey and Smalls keep moving, hiking in a vague circle around the center of the Arena, not daring to test the Gamemakers by straying farther out but not about to head inward to face whoever has claimed the Cornucopia. Between the two of them, they manage to keep fed, and they sleep folded together beneath Davey's tarp to stay hidden and warm. It gets colder over the two days, temperatures dropping from summer heat to a humid chill, the constant threat of stormclouds boiling on the horizon. 

They're hunting for food on the third day, both of them hunkered down in bushes on either side of a clearing that they've laid with snares. It's a tactic they've used before; Smalls will startle the animals toward the traps, and if they happen to make it across the clearing safely, Davey's on the other side to scare them back inward. Still not foolproof but it's kept them fed so far considering their lack of better hunting gear. 

Crouching, Davey peers through the branches of the bush and can see the pair of rabbits that are their target today. They're snuffling at the ground, only a short distance away from where he knows Smalls is hiding, but even though they're in perfect position, Smalls is silent. Davey frowns, gripping the handle of his throwing knife as an ominous shiver rolls up his spine. 

"Davey!"

He's moving in an instant, breaking his cover to sprint across the clearing toward Smalls' terrified scream. When Davey shoulders through the undergrowth and branches, he finds a wiry boy - Davey thinks he's one of Richmond - grappling with Smalls on the ground. Davey darts forward and tackles the boy, both of them landing in a tangled heap. "Smalls, run!" Davey shouts over his shoulder before the Richmond boy elbows him hard in the face, stunning him. 

Davey flails, his knife knocked out of his hand by the impact, and he desperately tries to keep the other boy from getting a good grip on him while he blinks away the spots in his vision. Richmond gets enough leverage to punch Davey across the jaw, and Smalls yelps his name again. "Leave him alone!" Smalls shouts, his voice cracking indignantly, and then the boy joins the fray too. 

Seizing the moment of distraction, Davey manages to wriggle free and looks around frantically for his knife. He can't see it, but he finds a crude, handmade spear that he guesses must belong to the Richmond kid. Smalls screams again. Davey snatches up the spear and, without a second of hesitation, drives the point down into the Richmond boy's back. 

The Tribute from Richmond slumps sideways with a cut-off moan, but Davey's attention has already moved on to the tiny figure cowering beneath. "Smalls, you okay?" Davey asks, kneeling at the boy's side and shoving Richmond's body away. "C'mon, Connor, talk to me." 

Smalls' voice is almost drowned out by the cannon blast that splits the air. "Davey?" 

"Hey, hey, it's okay, you're okay," says Davey, breathing out a sigh of relief. Then he moves to help the boy sit up and freezes. Half-hidden by the splayed arm of the dead Richmond Tribute, the silver handle of Davey's throwing knife is sticking out from Smalls' ribs. The Richmond boy must've snatched it up when Davey dropped it, must've used it to lash out and defend himself. Davey's own weapon turned against his friend. "No." 

"Davey?" Smalls repeats, weaker than before. Tears blossom in his eyes, and his lips quiver. "M'sorry, I tried, but he surprised me, and I was scared. M'sorry. I should'a-" 

"Hey, no, hey, you're okay," Davey scrambles, feeling tears well up. "You did great, pal, you didn't do anything wrong. And you're gonna be fine, I promise. I said I'd take care of you, remember? I'm gonna take care of you." Smalls shudders and coughs, and Davey's stomach turns at the ribbon of blood that splashes from the corner of his mouth. Already halfway into his backpack for the jar of salve, Davey is suddenly paralyzed. The cream might be strong enough to heal surface injuries, but if he's coughing blood... 

Smalls must read the truth in Davey's expression, and he tries to muffle a sob. "Save it," the younger boy says, shaking his head. "Case you need it later." 

"I promised I'd protect you," Davey says, and his voice is thick. 

"S'okay," says Smalls. He reaches out weakly and grabs Davey's hand. "S'okay. Was gonna happen sometime, right?" Davey chokes, swallowing around the lump of emotion lodged in his throat. Smalls coughs again, a damp, hacking sound that sends more blood spilling over his lip. 

Fighting to keep his tears back, Davey carefully scoops Smalls into his lap, cradling the boy against his chest. "Shh, you're okay, I gotcha," he whispers reassuringly. "I gotcha, pal. You're gonna be fine."

"Thanks, Davey," Smalls mumbles, resting his forehead on Davey's collarbone. "For bein' my friend. I'm glad youse my friend." 

"Me too," Davey says. "I'm so glad you're my friend, Connor." Davey can't stop the sobs now, and as the boy's breaths turn shallow, Davey rocks him gently, and whispers choked reassurances. The motion feels achingly familiar, so similar to the way he soothed Les after a nightmare, and the comparison only makes it hurt worse. It's less than a minute before Smalls takes several long, shuddery gasps, and then his body goes slack in Davey's arms. "No," Davey moans, pressing his fingers to the boy's throat even though he already knows what he will find. Or what he won't find, rather. "No, no, no, no, please." 

Davey clings to the tiny body, wracked with sobs as a second cannon cracks through the sky and the reality sinks into him. This little boy, barely older than Les, just died in his arms. And for what? What has he done to deserve the painful, terrifying death he endured? What about his family, who will have just watched their child get murdered by another boy just desperate to go home? The family who will have to mourn for however long it takes for the Games to end, when the Capitol will finally ship his body back for burial?

A furious, agonized scream tears out of Davey, echoing through the forest, and he couldn't care less how much attention it attracts. To hells with these cruel Games and senseless violence. Nothing about this is fair, and they all deserve better. Smalls deserved better. Davey can't stop what's happened, but at the least, he can do something to honor this innocent child's life. 

Davey lifts Smalls in his arms and carries him back to the clearing where they were hunting, what feels like hours ago now. Laying him carefully in the soft grass, Davey uses his sleeve to clean the blood from Smalls' pale face. Davey jerks the knife free and rearranges Smalls' jacket to hide the wound. Like this, Smalls almost looks asleep, his face soft and relaxed. 

Standing, Davey starts to gather up the snares, pulling them apart to get back the twine and wire. He doesn't know about burial rites in the other Districts or if they are different, but he can acknowledge the boy with the rituals from Manhattan at least. Back home, the charm is usually made of steel rings and white rope. It feels massively insufficient as Davey shapes the wires into a circle and weaves the twine around it, knotting it into patterns he's seen too often already. 

Davey swallows hard when he finishes the mourning charm, the clumsy shape sad and pathetic but the best he can manage in this situation. Exhaling slowly, Davey settles the charm on Smalls' chest and folds the boy's tiny hands over it. "May this charm guide you safely to peace," he recites, not caring that he can't stop the tears. 

Grabbing his discarded knife, Davey pricks his thumb and drags the pad in a slow arc across Smalls' brow, leaving a scarlet streak. "May the blood of those who love you grant you protection. And may-" Davey pauses, frowning; the final step requires drawing the Seal, but Davey can't remember exactly what the Seal of Queens looks like, even if he had something with which to draw it. He flounders for a moment, and then inspiration strikes and Davey reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket. 

With a sad smile, Davey slips the scrap of paper with the Seal of Manhattan his people sent to him beneath Smalls' hand. "And may the spirits of your District - of our Districts - welcome you into eternal freedom." Davey leans down and softly kisses the boy's forehead, which is already starting to turn cold. "Rest in glory, Connor Smalls, child of Queens and Manhattan." 

Davey stands, lips trembling but heart full of rage. Planting his feet, Davey punches a fist into the air defiantly. "For Smalls!" he yells, letting whatever cameras are nearby catch his voice. He stays there for a long minute, an unmoving pillar of solidarity. His eyes are dry, no tears left in his body, by the time he lets his hand drop. Davey pauses, taking one last look at Smalls' serene face, and then he gathers up their supplies - just his supplies, now - from where they stashed them near the clearing. 

Only a few feet from the clearing, he comes across the crumpled body of the boy from Richmond that attacked them. Davey wants to be angry, wants to hate this boy who killed Smalls, but what room does he have to judge? They're all just trying to survive, to get home to their families. After all, Davey hadn't even paused in killing the Richmond boy either, just like he killed that boy from Bronx days ago. 

Davey crouches and slips the spear free from the boy's body. Rolling him onto his back, Davey folds the Richmond boy's hands over his chest. Davey doesn't have the time or supplies to make another charm, but he cracks the scab on his thumb to mark the boy's forehead with an arch of blood. "I'm sorry," Davey says, closing the boy's eyes. "And I forgive you. Rest in glory, child of Richmond." 

Straightening, Davey shrugs his backpack onto his shoulders more comfortably and begins walking. 

It starts raining just before nightfall, and Davey spends a near-sleepless night huddled beneath his tarp on hard rocks. He doesn't bother to look up when the anthem plays, already knowing what he's going to see. Two cannons, two deaths. Six Tributes left. 

The sun has barely risen when a trumpet blare startles Davey from his doze, and then he almost immediately stops paying attention. Trumpets mean a message from the Gamemakers, nearly always an announcement about a supply drop that Davey has no intention of going after. Any time that happens in a Game, every Tribute runs for it, and it devolves into a bloodbath. 

Run. Plan. Outlast.

Except, there's a part of Davey that isn't sure he wants to outlast anymore. Does he really want to keep going with this searing ache in his chest? Does he really want to prolong the inevitable any longer while this all-consuming agony burns him up from the inside? Maybe it's best to end it now, to go down fighting like the animal this place is turning him into. He's already got so much blood on his hands, why not add more so that someone else doesn't have to? He can carry more of that burden so whoever survives this sick game of chess won't be stuck living with that, and Davey can take this horrible guilt with him to the grave.

Shaking his head, Davey starts packing his things into his backpack when the voice rolls through the sky. "Attention, Tributes," the Gamemaker's voice echoes across the Arena. "There has been an update to the rules. Going forward, there can be two winners so long as they are Tributes of the same District. I repeat, if both Tributes from a District survive, they can both be declared Victors. May the odds be ever in your favor." 

Eyes wide, Davey feels his heart stop in his chest. Two Tributes from the same District can win. Two Tributes can go home. "Jack." 

Gods, how is he supposed to find Jack? The last time Davey saw him was back at the site of the explosion three days ago. There's no way to know which direction Jack went, and with so much time, he could've changed directions a dozen times by now. For all Davey knows, he could be on the opposite end of the Arena. 

But if Davey can find him, if they can stick together and survive, they can both go home. 

Setting his jaw in determination, Davey turns and starts walking back in the direction of the explosion site. He's a decent tracker. Maybe, if he's lucky, he can pick up Jack's trail somehow, follow it to wherever Jack's gone. All he knows is he needs to try. If there's a chance that they can both survive this, that they can both go home, he has to try. 

Davey hikes with a single-minded focus, pushing himself on faster than he could when Smalls was with him. He walks for as long as he can, driving himself to his limits, and then he stops just long enough to drink and rest his aching feet before moving on again. Davey can't afford to waste time—he has three days worth of distance to make up. That first night he camps in the underbrush, curling himself into a tiny ball to hide as he snatches a few hours of sleep once the anthem comes and goes without another Tribute's death. He's moving again the moment the sun rises, eating as he walks to conserve time. 

At his pace, Davey covers enough ground that he thinks he must only be a few miles from the explosion site by the evening of the second day. Davey debates about continuing, pushing himself through the night, but his empty canteen convinces him otherwise. His water ran out just after noon, and his mouth is dry. He needs water, and soon, or he's going to make himself sick. 

Davey thinks back to before the Brooklyn Tributes found him, remembering that stream he found in the trees. There is no way he can make it all the way there, but the water was coming from the southeast. If Davey goes due east from here, maybe he can intersect with the river. Davey orients himself away from the setting sun, hoping once again that the simulated sky isn't wrong. 

It's dark by the time he hears the sound of running water, and he exhales in relief as soon as it reaches his ears. He picks up his speed eagerly, half-sprinting toward the noise. The river that becomes visible through the trees is far broader than the stream it leads into, still shallow but several feet across and fast, white foam on its surface where it crashes against stray rocks. Davey falls to his knees, scooping handfuls of frigid water into his mouth greedily. 

When he's drunk all he can stomach, Davey fills his canteen again. He takes a moment to wash his hands and face in the water, cleaning off the blood dried on his skin with a grimace. He pointedly doesn't let himself think about where the blood came from, although it still prods at the hollow ache he's been carrying in his chest for days. 

Refreshed, Davey starts walking alongside the river, following it downstream in the direction of the explosion site. He's hoping that the odds of crossing one of the few remaining Tributes are low enough that he can risk walking in the open. Besides, it lets him move faster, and time is of the essence. 

Just as Davey is reaching the point of exhaustion, ready to make camp for a couple of hours- "Davey?"

Davey's heart leaps into his throat as he spins around, eyes panning his surroundings for the source of the voice. "Jack?" he calls out hopefully. A rush of relief staggers him when he sees a figure extract themselves from a hollow in the rocks on the opposite bank, the face painted with mud but still undeniably familiar. 

Davey immediately starts picking his way across the river, hopping on stones when he can and ignoring the cold seeping into his boots when he can't. The current is fairly strong here, threatening to tug his feet out from under him, but Davey braces himself and keeps moving until he reaches the other shore. "Jack, thank the gods," Davey gasps out, dropping onto his knees. 

"Hey, Davey," Jack greets, offering a shadow of his usual heart-stopping smile. He looks a mess, covered in mud to blend in with his hiding spot and hunched in on himself. There are scabs on his face from the blistering, and his cheeks are slightly hollowed, showing he hasn't eaten in a while. A short, patchy beard clings to the spots of his jaw that aren't burnt, and his tangled hair hangs down toward his eyes again. 

All of that aside, he's the most welcome sight Davey's seen in days, and he drags Jack into a crushing hug. 

Jack huffs a laugh and then returns the hug with one arm, sighing in relief. "Good to see ya too, pal." 

"I'm so glad you're okay," says Davey. "I was so scared I wouldn't be able to find you." 

Jack's smile brightens just a little. "When I heard, figured if you was gonna look, you'd start last place I saw ya," he says. He shifts and then hisses through his teeth. It's only now that Davey notices Jack hasn't removed his other arm from where it's curled around his side. 

"What happened?" Davey asks. He reaches for Jack's arm without waiting for a response, pulling it away and squinting at his side in the dark. It's hard to see, but he can just make out a tear in Jack's shirt, and beneath that, a ragged wound curves around the side of his stomach. 

"The Delanceys. Oscar got me," Jack explains, wincing when Davey prods the gash experimentally. "Gots a machete. Damn lucky that's all I got 'fore I managed to run off. They, uh, didn't believe I wasn't helping you escape." 

"Were you?" Davey asks curiously. He can still remember the distorted image of Jack urging him to run from the campsite, and before that, a snatch of conversation implying that Jack had shouted to warn Davey before the Delancey with the bow could shoot him. 

Jack ducks his head, free hand scratching the back of his neck self-consciously. "That'd be a pretty dumb thing to do in here, doncha think?" he says, but it's a weak deflection at best. 

Davey's heart warms, still endlessly awed by this boy who is too kind for his own good, and when his cheeks burn red, Davey's thankful the darkness will hide it. "Yeah, well, you can be a li'l dumb sometimes," he replies playfully. Jack laughs, glancing up at Davey through his lashes. "C'mon, we should find somewhere to make camp. It's cold out here, and we need to look at that cut."  

"There's some cliffs back that way I was eyein' earlier," says Jack, gesturing over his shoulder away from the river. "Gots caves in it. Might be able to find one big 'nough." Davey nods, then pulls Jack's arm over his shoulders and helps him to his feet. Jack is obviously in pain, bent in on himself as he presses on the gash in his side with one hand, but he doesn't complain as he hobbles beside Davey across the rocky ground. 

It's not terribly far to the row of sheer cliffs Jack mentioned, and Davey pauses to look along the rocks appraisingly. He spots several shallow indents in the stone before he sees one heavy with shadows. Hoping that means it's deeper, he points out the cave a quarter-mile down. "Think you can make it that far?"

"Me? M'fine," Jack says with a forced smile. Davey offers him a brief return smile but doesn't argue it, just tightening his grip where his arm is wrapped around Jack's back. They hike down the ridge of towering rocks, and Jack's breathing is shallow by the time they reach it. Davey leaves Jack leaning against the cliff face as he ducks in to check out the cave, and tension bleeds out of his shoulders when he finds it empty. 

"C'mon, this'll work," Davey says, crawling back out to help Jack down. The entrance to the cave is short, and they have to go onto all-fours to get through, but it opens up more inside so they can sit up straight. There's just enough room for them and a small fire, but Davey is too tired to go out searching for firewood right now. 

It seems Jack is just as exhausted, flopping heavily onto his back on the ground with a groan. "I can't see enough to really treat this right now," Davey says, pushing up the hem of Jack's shirt and squinting in the weak moonlight sneaking through the cave entrance. 

"S'fine," Jack murmurs. "Ain't bleedin' anymore. Just hurts a bit."

"I still want to rinse it out," Davey says. He shrugs off his backpack and digs out both his canteen and the jar of healing salve. "This might hurt," Davey warns before he pours a bit of water onto the wound, scrubbing his fingers against the scab to hopefully wash away any mud clinging to it. Jack's jaw locks, and he inhales sharply through his nose, muscles jumping beneath Davey's touch, but he keeps himself still and lets Davey work. 

"Okay, this'll help, I promise," says Davey. Dipping his fingers into the salve, he spreads the cool gel over the gash. There's not much left in the jar, and by the time Davey's gotten the entire wound covered, the jar is practically empty. 

Jack exhales, muscles uncoiling as the salve presumably begins to ease the pain. "Fuck, that feels nice," Jack says, and his faint smile is just a gleam of white in the shadows. "Just been usin' Whisperleaf petals to stop it bleedin', but that stuff stings like a bitch." 

"It'll feel even better in the morning," Davey says, carefully rolling the hem of Jack's shirt up on that side so it doesn't stick in the salve. He pulls out his tarp and unfolds it, draping it over Jack. "Get some sleep, you're exhausted." 

"So's you," Jack counters. "C'mon, no one gonna find us in here. 'Sides, it's cold." He holds up the side of the tarp expectantly. Davey deliberates, glancing from Jack to the cave entrance. Jack has a point—the entrance to the cave is small enough that someone would have to be actively looking to find them, especially with no light. And he really is tired, a bone-deep weariness from pushing his body far beyond its limits. 

Sighing, Davey peels off his wet boots - it means his feet will be cold, but better that than trench foot. Davey wraps his jacket around his chilled feet and then slides beneath the tarp. There's no denying it's warmer here than sitting alone on the stones, their bodies pressed together so they both fit under the cover. Davey is used to sleeping close to others, sharing a bed with Les back home and with Smalls while they were traveling together, but it feels different with Jack. 

Jack rolls onto his side, facing Davey. He pillows his head on his arm, and his breath is humid against Davey's skin. "S'real good to see you 'gain, Davey," Jack whispers, voice already heavy with sleep. With a hazy smile, Jack shifts his leg to rest on top of Davey's feet, sharing a bit of his body heat to protect Davey's cold toes, and the gesture warms Davey's heart more than anything. "Glad youse okay." 

Turning onto his side as well, Davey faces Jack in the darkness. "You too," he admits. He traces his eyes over Jack's features. The shadows are so heavy in the cave that he can't see anything more than the faint impressions of his face, and like this, Jack looks the way he did before the Games. Davey can't see the scars or the pronounced bones or the patchy stubble. He just sees the boy with the soft eyes and square jaw whose smile makes heads spin.

They might only have met just over a week ago, but Davey grew used to Jack's presence in that time, the way he can switch from humor to genuine in a second. The way he uses jokes to ease Davey's tension but doesn't hold back his own feelings either when they're alone. He likes Jack, despite their differences, and Davey considers him a friend. Davey never wished ill on any of the other Tributes, wishes none of them were here, but he can't deny that he's especially fond of Jack, this mysterious, sad boy with the charming smile and mask of confidence and mind full of beautiful pictures. 

"I missed you," Davey whispers into the night, but Jack is already asleep.  

Davey bolts awake, a scream lodged in his throat, and he flails, scrambling backward until his spine is pressed to the hard wall and smacking his head off the ceiling in the process. It takes him a minute to remember where he's at, his breathing sharp and shallow, and he bites back the sob that wells up in him. Drawing his legs up to his chest, Davey buries his face in his knees. 

"Hey, Davey, you okay?" Jack's voice is soft and reassuring, but Davey still flinches when a hand settles on his shoulder. "Hey, s'okay, youse okay. What's wrong?"

Taking a long, steadying breath, Davey forces the memories of a pale, bloodstained face and a limp body in his arms to the back of his mind. He lifts his head and swipes his wrist across his cheeks, just in case. "Sorry, I'm okay," Davey says, and his voice only shakes a little. "I didn't mean to wake you up." 

"Was a'ready awake," Jack says, his deep brown eyes searching Davey's face in concern. There's something there, something knowing, and Davey thinks Jack must have some idea of what's really wrong. Then Jack smiles softly, breaking the tension in the air. "Just didn't wanna get up, was warm." 

Davey chuckles softly. There's pale-gold sunlight creeping through the cave entrance, telling him it's just past sunrise. He's still tired, the few hours of sleep not enough to make up for the days of endless walking, but it's enough that he can at least focus again. His gaze drifts to Jack's face, dirty and hollowed from hunger. "We should eat," Davey says. "Breakfast will help warm you up." 

Jack grins. "I could eat." 

Scooting away from the wall, Davey grabs his backpack and retrieves the pouch of dried rabbit meat. It's cold and stringy, cooked that last night he was with Smalls, but Jack's eyes widen eagerly when he sees it. "Here," Davey says, handing a few of the strips to Jack. 

"Youse amazing," Jack says, biting into a piece and moaning. "Haven't ate nothin' this good in days. I been sorta short on supplies since the Delanceys run me off, just been eatin' what berries and plants I could find that ain't poisonous. Gamemakers ain't been generous with the edible stuff in here." He props his back against the wall of the cave, chewing with an expression like he's drowning in bliss. Biting into his own breakfast, Davey slides around to get a better look at Jack's side now that the sun is up. 

The scab is smaller than the day before, the corners pinched into pink scarring, but the skin around the edges is red and inflamed. "I think it's infected," Davey says, grimacing. When he straightens up, he notes a faint flush to Jack's cheeks, and a bead of sweat on his temple even though he was complaining about being cold. "Damn it, we need medicine."

"S'fine, Dave, don't worry 'bout it," Jack says, shaking his head. "S'just a cut. Had worse. I can tough it out." He reaches out, squeezing Davey's forearm reassuringly. "Should focus on getting our strength up, get food and water and stuff. Ain't gonna stand a chance running up 'gainst the other Tributes if we're fallin' over." 

As much as Davey wants to argue, Jack is right. They need to build up their supplies and ready themselves for whenever they inevitably run into another Tribute. So after they finish their breakfast, they sneak out of the cave and start hunting through the nearby forest for food. It's a long day of searching, and they never stray out of earshot of each other, just in case. Still, they manage to find a fruit tree where they fill Davey's backpack with sweet yellow globes, and Davey uses Smalls' handmade slingshot to shoot down two little birds. 

They make multiple trips back to their cave, dropping off supplies, and by the time evening comes around, they're well-stocked with a day or two of food and enough firewood to last them through the night. While Jack lays down near the wall, more exhausted than he's willing to admit, Davey builds a fire close to the entrance of the cave so the smoke can escape. 

Sitting down beside Jack, Davey sips from his canteen and then offers it over to Jack. "Your fever's worse," Davey says, frowning, and he presses the back of his wrist to Jack's burning forehead. 

"M'okay," Jack says, but he leans into Davey's touch. His cheeks are covered in pink blotches, and shivers roll through him every few minutes. "Just tired. Be better when I get some sleep."

Davey screws up his eyes, feeling tears sting at the corners. It's not fair, being given this chance for both of them to go home only to have an infection threaten to take Jack anyway. "You better not die on me, Jack Kelly," Davey says fiercely. 

Eyes fluttering, Jack laughs. "Can't die with you watchin' out for me," he says, grinning. "You already saved me once, like I'd dare try it again."

"What?" Davey asks, confused. He racks through his memory, trying to think of a time that he might've saved Jack, but there's nothing. In fact, if anything, Davey nearly got Jack killed by blowing up that gas line. 

"Ya know, I meant every word I said in that interview," Jack says, and although his voice is slightly slurred from exhaustion, he forces his eyes open to gaze up at Davey. There's something deep and unfathomable in his honey-brown gaze that makes Davey's chest feel too tight. "Liked you for years but I was too scared to say it. What would a guy like you think 'bout a guy like me? I'm just some dirty orphan from the factories, kid of a drunk and a killer. Knew you'd never want a fella like me."

"Jack, what-?" Davey's brow furrows, wondering if Jack's fever is even worse than he thought.

"I saw it happen, ya know," Jack continues as if there was no interruption. "When my old man lost it. Wasn't the first time he took swings, but it was worse that time. This awful blank look in his eyes like he was a'ready dead inside. Beat the shit outta me, and when my ma tried to stop him, he killed her. Just punched and punched 'til she stopped fightin' back. And I was so scared, didn't dare move, just laid there pretending I was dead too. Didn't dare move 'til after he put the rope 'round his neck.

"Ran off, didn't know where the hell to go. Didn't have no other family, was all beat up, scared folks was gonna think I had somethin' to do with it. Peacekeepers a'ready didn't like me, I got in trouble lots, and everyone knew I hated my old man. So I just ran and ran, hidin' for days. Was getting worse, starvin' and hurt. Then one night it's rainin', and I found this li'l shed in back of a garden, and I hid myself inside, behind everything I could find." 

Davey's eyes widen as a faint memory from years and years ago comes back to him-

His mother sends him out to the shed to get a bundle of dried herbs to help settle Les, who's teething again and crying from the pain. When Davey lets himself into the shed, he immediately knows that there's someone inside, even if he's not sure how he knows it. He looks around but can't see anyone, nothing except a smudged red handprint on the corner of his mom's work-table. 

Heart pounding, Davey grabs the bundle of herbs for his mother and retreats. He should tell his parents that there's someone in the shed, in case they're dangerous, but he can't stop thinking about that bloody print. Whoever it is, they must be hurt bad. So once his parents are distracted with taking care of Les, Davey sneaks a bit of food from the kitchen and sprints back out to the shed in the rain. 

There's still no sign of another person inside, but the hairs on the back of Davey's neck prickle warningly like he's being watched. Davey sets the food on the table and then goes to his mother's cabinet. He pulls out a bottle filled with a syrup of boiled flower petals and sets it down next to the food. 

"This stuff's Whisperleaf, it helps stop bleeding," he says into the quiet shadows. "My mother'll be out in the morning, so you might wanna go by then, but you can stay here for the night. Might wanna try the boarding house on Duane; heard the guy there's nice if you need help." And then Davey goes to bed without a word about the visitor, who is gone by morning without a trace.

"And when I was hidin' back there, waitin' to die, you come in and bring me food and medicine," says Jack, his eyes soft as he looks at Davey. "You didn't say nothing 'bout it after, never brought it up, like helpin' a total stranger like that was just a normal thing. And I couldn't stop thinking 'bout ya. 

"All I known my whole life was my old man's fists and bruises on my ma for tryna protect me, then suddenly there's this kid with the pretty eyes offerin' help and not asking for nothing in return. And the more I saw you 'round, more I saw that's just the sorta person you is. Really the kinda person who helps folks just 'cause it's right. And that's when I knew you was someone special, someone too good for me, but it didn't stop me wanting you anyway."

Jack suddenly descends into coughs, the effort of talking so much when he's already tired wearing him down, and Davey rubs his shoulder soothingly as Jack struggles to get his breath back. Once he does, Davey holds out the canteen, helping him drink from it. Exhaling slowly, Jack slumps back against the hard floor. Davey brushes a hand gently over Jack's sweating brow, and Jack sighs, leaning his cheek into Davey's palm. 

It honestly never occurred to Davey that it might have been Jack hiding in the garden shed that night. He was only a kid, eight years old and already too busy helping out the family even at that age. The mystery of the stowaway in the shed had been pushed from his mind for more important things. It feels stupid, in retrospect, that Davey never put the pieces together between the bloody handprint in his shed and the beaten orphan boy that showed up on the nearby boarding house steps a few days later. To Davey, it had always been just a puzzle he had no time to finish, a faint curiosity that only stirred up in that hazy point between awake and asleep. 

Leaning down, Davey presses his forehead to Jack's. "I didn't let you die then," Davey vows, a fervent whisper that ghosts warm over skin, "and I'm not gonna let you die now." 

It's another nightmare that wakes Davey in the morning, although this time he manages to not skitter away in terror, only jerking awake with a shuddery gasp. Almost instantly, there's a hand on his arm, the calloused palm smoothing over his skin reassuringly. "S'okay, Davey, just a dream," Jack murmurs hoarsely, clearly still waking up himself.

Davey takes a couple of long, deep breaths to steady his racing heart and then turns his attention to Jack. The flush in his cheeks is worse, more pronounced by the fact his skin has gone pale underneath. Despite the faint glaze in his eyes, Jack's focus is entirely on Davey, watching him with concern and sympathy. "You okay?" asks Jack, not removing his hand from where it's settled on Davey's wrist.

"Yeah, just a bad dream," Davey responds, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes with his other hand. "I'm fine. How are you?"

"Ya know me, I'm a'ways fine," Jack says with a playful smile that's undercut by a shiver. Frowning, Davey moves around to his other side and lifts the tarp aside to check on Jack's wound. It's healing well enough on the surface, but the redness has spread, tiny little lightning bolts spearing out under his skin. Davey's stomach clenches at the sight. The infection is in his blood and getting worse, and fast. This isn't the sort of thing that can just be toughed out anymore, especially not in a place like this with little food and water to keep his strength up.

Jack grabs his hand, pulling it away from his side and brushing his thumb over Davey's knuckles gently. "You said 'Connor' in your sleep," he starts, and Davey flinches, averting his eyes. "That's the li'l Queens kid's name, right? Smalls? I know ya liked him. Saw he went a couple days ago. You wanna talk about it?"

Talking about it is the last thing on Davey's priority list at the moment, but he finds the words tumbling from his mouth, unbidden. "He died in my arms," he rasps weakly. "Smalls saved my life. He's the one that showed me how to break that pipe and get away from the Brooklyn guys. And then he found me after, took care of me. We got attacked by another Tribute, and Smalls tried to help me instead of running away like I told him to. And I couldn't protect him. I should've protected him, but I didn't, and he died in my arms. He was barely older than Les, and I let him die."

"Hey, hey," Jack says soothingly. He grits his teeth against the pain in his side to sit up and cups Davey's face in his palms. His thumbs sweep over Davey's cheeks, wiping away the tear that escaped. "It wasn't your fault, Dave. Least you made sure he wasn't alone. That's the best we can hope for in here." Davey nods, but he can't shake that image, can't shake off the memory of Smalls' terrified, resigned expression when he realized Davey couldn't save him.

In the next second, Jack wraps his arms around Davey, and the older boy falls apart. He ducks his face into the curve of Jack's neck, clinging to his jacket, and cries. Jack just holds him, one hand rubbing up and down Davey's spine as he whispers soft reassurances that Davey can't hear over the sound of his choked breathing.

It takes several minutes for Davey to pull himself back together, and although he knows he shouldn't, knows that they have more important things to deal with than Davey's grief and guilt, he lets himself linger in Jack's embrace a minute longer. Finally, Davey straightens up and drags his wrist across his eyes. "Sorry," he mutters, embarrassed.

"Don't be," Jack counters instantly. "I'm sorry you had to go through that. He seemed like a good kid, and it ain't fair what happened. I'd be more worried if you wasn't upset 'bout it. Youse a good person. You care 'bout people. S'one of the things I a'ways liked 'bout you.

Davey chuckles, although it sounds more like a hiccup, and dips his head on the pretense of wiping his eyes again so Jack won't see him blush. "And what good's that ever got me?" he shoots back sarcastically.

"Well, I dunno about you, but it sure done a lot for me," Jack says with a small smile. "And your brother. And I bet lots of folks back home 'ppreciate it too." Davey thinks of the Sponsor gift that so many people from Manhattan must have contributed to so they could afford it, of the little scrap of paper with the Seal of Manhattan on it as a sign of support.

Feeling his eyes start to burn again, Davey swallows and clears his throat, forcing his mind back on track. "We can't stay here much longer," he says. "There's only six of us left, the Gamemakers are going to start pushing us inward soon, forcing us to where the other Tributes are."

Jack snorts. "Yeah, guess us campin' out here ain't exciting enough for the show," he says dryly.

"The last time they decided I was getting too far away from the action, they blew up some ruins and started a wildfire on me," says Davey, and Jack's eyes widen, alarmed. "I'd have been cooked alive if it hadn't started raining when it did. I don't really want to see what they'll do if they think we've been here too long."

"Good point," Jack agrees, grimacing. "A'ight, what's the plan?"

They hike for hours, although they have to take frequent breaks to let Jack catch his breath. He continually protests that he's okay, that he doesn't want to slow them down, but he's getting paler as the day goes by and Davey knows he's fading.

It's agonizing to watch Jack slipping through his fingers like this when Davey could help him so easily if they were home. He's helped his mother with these things before. He's well acquainted with the types of tonics and poultices that would treat an infection like this. Davey keeps an eye out for the familiar plants as they move, desperately hoping to find them in the wild, but it seems like the Gamemakers intentionally left them out because there are none even in the places they should naturally flourish.

When the sun starts going down, they find the skeleton of an old building, three walls still standing with a fallen tree partially replacing the fourth wall. Davey helps Jack climb into it and then makes him lie down, wrapped up in the tarp while Davey builds a fire. It's probably a risk having the fire as big as it is, but Jack started shivering just after midday and hasn't stopped.

"C'mon, Jack, hang in there," Davey pleads, wiping his clammy brow with a sleeve. "Just another few days, please. It's almost over, it's got to be. We can make it." 

"M'good," Jack mumbles. "Don't worry 'bout me. S'like you said, right? I'm tougher 'an I look."

"Absolutely," Davey agrees because he needs to hold onto this hope. "Be strong for just a little bit longer, and you'll be fine. They'll heal you before we go home." 

Jack smiles. "Home," he echoes. "Never thought I'd be so 'cited to see that heap of dirty factories again."

"And you'll never have to work in them again," Davey adds. "You won't have to worry about paying for boarding. You - you can do your drawings. You'll be able to afford all the paper and pens you could ever use."

"And paints," Jack says wistfully. "I'se never been able to paint 'fore. Wanna try that. Make stuff with color, ya know?"

Davey nods, thinking of the beautifully decorated cakes he's always seen in the bakery windows, never knowing they were done by that charming boy from the boarding house on the next block. "You could paint that place you were telling me about," he says, brushing his fingers along Jack's cheek. "The one where the land is made of color, and the moon's as bright as the sun, and the stars never stop."

"Could paint you," Jack almost whispers with a timid smile. "But I dunno if even the Capitol got paints the color of those eyes." He sighs and leans his cheek into Davey's touch, his eyelids drifting down. "Youse the prettiest fella I ever seen, ya know that?"

A lump forms in Davey's throat at the conviction in Jack's voice even when he's so weak. He doesn't understand it, doesn't know what this boy who is so confident and handsome and outgoing could ever see in a wiry maintenance kid like him. They barely even knew each other before the Capitol cast them as opponents - still hardly know each other - and yet Jack is so convinced of Davey's goodness. Even went out of his way to help Davey, to protect him from the other Tributes where he could.

Davey flinches at a faint noise, instantly bolting to his feet and drawing his knife defensively. "Dave?" Jack asks blearily, but Davey gestures for him to be quiet. Creeping forward, Davey scans the shadows beyond the entrance to their hideaway for any sign of movement. A moment later, the sound comes again, and his eyes widen when he recognizes it, nearly dropping his knife from shock.

Heart hammering, Davey climbs over the sloped tree and can immediately spot the bright patch of silver on the leaf-strewn ground. He glances around quickly to be sure there's no one nearby, and then he darts over to grab the Sponsor gift. It's bigger than the last one, and he pries the lid off hopefully.

Inside, there's a metal tin that's warm to the touch and a strip of paper. It can't possibly be Manhattan again—to scrape enough credits to afford one is incredible, but two? Impossible. Davey flips the paper over, and this time he finds words, written in a sharp, angular hand.

Play the part - K

Kloppmann. He's sure of it immediately, can remember the Mentor telling him the same thing multiple times before. Davey swallows hard, a knot forming in his chest. There has to be a reason their Mentor would bother to send this, especially considering his general dislike of Davey and his big mouth. It's not hard to guess. There must be something going on outside of the Arena, something in the Capitol that's shifting the Sponsors' and Gamemakers' views on them.

The message, for all its simplicity, tells a much bigger story: if they want to keep the viewers on their side, Davey and Jack need to play up the roles in which they've been cast.

"Davey?"

Davey straightens up and looks back at the voice, seeing Jack leaning against the tree trunk like he's about to try and climb out. "It's fine," Davey says hastily. Hugging the gift to his chest, he hurries to their hideout and clambers back inside. "Lay down, would you? You need to rest."

"Ya scared me," says Jack, frowning, but he lets Davey shepherd him back to the makeshift bed. "Thought we was gettin' attacked. What-" He breaks off, his eyebrows shooting up when he sees the silver orb tucked under Davey's arm. "Is that-?"

"Yeah," Davey answers, sitting down beside Jack. He lifts out the warm tin and twists the top off, and his annoyance with Kloppmann dissolves into dust when he gets a good look at what's inside. "Looks like someone thinks you're getting too skinny," Davey says, grinning at Jack and showing him the steaming stew in the tin, thick with cubes of meat and vegetables.

Jack laughs, his eyes wide, and he breathes deeply. "Gods, that smells good," he murmurs.

"C'mere, let's get some hot food in you," Davey says. He deliberates for a second, Kloppmann's message at the forefront of his mind. Play the part. So instead of helping Jack to sit up against the wall, Davey scoots around to sit behind Jack and props his upper body against Davey's chest, cradled in the V of his legs. Jack gives him a questioning look, but Davey shakes his head minutely, and Jack seems to understand.

"You gotta eat too," Jack says firmly when Davey picks up the tin of stew.

"You need it more," Davey argues. He can feel the faint shivers in Jack's muscles where they're pressed together, and the heat radiating from his sweaty face is warm against Davey's neck. "We've still got that bit of bird in my bag, and the fruit. I'll eat that."

Jack shakes his head, grabbing Davey's wrist when he makes to lift the stew to Jack's lips. "Hey, no, we share," Jack says. "Youse already too skinny to begin with." Davey huffs, ready to protest, but Jack's grip softens on Davey's skin, sweeping his thumb over the tender underside of his wrist. "Please, Dave. I can't stand losin' you any more than you wanna lose me," he practically whispers. "It's both us or nothin'."

Tears sting in Davey's eyes at the determination and affection in his voice. Davey takes a deep breath and nods, dropping a hasty, dry nudge of lips against Jack's temple that will look like a kiss to any nearby cameras. "Alright, fine, you win," he concedes and pointedly takes a sip from the tin. The food burns all the way down to his core. After days of thin rations, even the bland stew is a shock to his system. "Now, will you eat, please?"

With a satisfied smile, Jack nods. Davey carefully lifts the tin to Jack's lips. He gulps the stew and moans, licking his lips eagerly when Davey pulls the tin away to let him swallow. "Fuck, that's best thing I ever tasted my whole life," Jack says with a thready laugh.

They drink the stew slowly, taking turns, although Davey deliberately takes the smallest sips he can get away with to be sure that Jack gets much more of the warm food than him. Even still, it's the first time Davey's felt properly full since entering the Arena as they pick out the lingering bits of tender meat and soggy vegetables on the bottom of the tin. Jack is slowly slumping into Davey's chest, the warm meal lulling his already exhausted body into a doze.

Setting aside the tin, Davey brushes Jack's hair aside and presses his wrist to Jack's forehead. The fever is still burning hot, his skin tacky with perspiration. Davey squeezes his eyes shut against the threat of tears. "C'mon, you should sleep," he says gently. He slips from behind Jack, lowering him carefully to lie down.

Play the part.

Davey takes a steadying breath, and then he lays down beside Jack. Rolling, Davey wraps himself along Jack's uninjured side and drags the tarp over them both. Jack hums, lacing his hand with Davey's where it rests on his chest and tipping his face, so his chin touches the top of Davey's head. "Feels nice," Jack mumbles, already half-asleep.

It feels strange and alien to Davey, entirely unused to sleeping with someone this way. Davey's shared a bed with people before, of course - has even shared a bed with Jack - but never like this. Never with such an obviously romantic undertone, even if it is just for show. Although the rational voice in Davey's head is telling him that this is best for Jack, not only because it will help keep him warm but because it'll keep Sponsors on their side...

Davey settles his cheek more comfortably on Jack's ribs. "Yeah, it does."

Davey is already awake, warming their last bits of bird meat over the fire for their breakfast, when the blare of trumpets echoes through the Arena. Brow furrowed, Davey pauses to hear better. "Tributes," the Gamemaker's voice says from above. "Each of you desperately needs something. There will be an airdrop at the Cornucopia at exactly noon, providing precisely the thing each District needs most. May the odds be ever in your favor."

"Don't you dare," Jack says immediately, his voice still rough from sleep. When Davey glances over, the other boy's face is set resolutely beneath the flushed cheeks and glossy eyes. 

"Jack, it's medicine," Davey counters, knowing it with absolute certainty. It's the one thing they need more than anything right now, the one thing that can give them a real chance of surviving this. "It's got to be. Medicine for your infection." 

"I don't care," Jack growls. He pushes into a sitting position, teeth locked up against the pain. "It's gonna be a trap, and you know it. Supply drops is always a trap. The others are just gonna stake out the spot and kill us if we try. Don't you dare even think it. Promise me." Davey opens his mouth to argue, and Jack snaps, "No, Davey, promise me you ain't gonna do it." 

"I'm not letting you die," says Davey. "That's what I promised you." 

"And how's it do us any good if you get killed tryin'?" Jack says fiercely. "Them Brooklyn guys is still teamed up, ya know they'll be together. You don't stand a chance 'gainst them both by yourself. Please, Davey, I can tough it out, but if you get yourself killed, I'm good as dead too, and ya know it." 

Davey winces, recognizing some truth in that. Jack isn't strong enough to defend himself in his state; if Davey dies, it'll only be a matter of time before another Tribute picks him off, if the infection doesn't kill him first. Jack seems to see the surrender in Davey's gaze because he leans forward, planting his elbows on his knees, and pleads, "Promise me." 

Davey exhales slowly, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Fine," he says. "Alright, fine, I won't go." 

Jack relaxes like the weight of the world's been removed from his shoulders. "Thank you." 

Despite his words, Davey can't stop thinking about the supply drop. He knows as he helps Jack to eat his breakfast and gulp down the last of the water from Davey's canteen that Jack isn't going to last much longer like this. His strength is fading too fast, to the point that Davey doesn't even think about them moving on from their current shelter today. Even if Jack can walk for a while with Davey's assistance, it makes them vulnerable to attack because Davey won't have his hands free to fight. 

"Hey, Davey," Jack says, pulling Davey's attention back to the present, "whatcha gonna do after? When we go home? Youse never said whatcha wanna do."

"Me? I, uh-" Davey pauses, his brain stalling with the realization that he's never given the idea any thought. Before the Games, his entire life was geared towards doing whatever he had to do to keep his family fed. And since the moment Davey volunteered as a Tribute, he's never seriously considered the idea that he might win. That he might survive this and go home and have a life after the Games. "I don't know," he admits softly. "I've never - I really don't know." 

There's something terribly discerning in Jack's eyes like he can understand exactly all the words Davey can't say aloud. "Well, if ya could do anythin', whatever ya want, what'd you do?" he asks curiously. "Don't matter 'bout credits or whatever, just somethin' you wanna do 'cause you wanna."

Davey rolls his lucky coin over his knuckles thoughtfully, turning the question around in his head. What would he do? It's like Jack said that morning in their Capitol penthouse: it's not like people like them have time for hobbies. Davey has never done things just for the joy of it or for entertainment, everything devoted to helping his family stay afloat. Even in his hypothetical fantasies, Davey's only ever thought about how the money from winning the Games would help his family. 

So without that responsibility, what would he do with his time, just for himself?

"Books," Davey says decisively. "I liked them when I was in school, but I've never got to read outside the classes. So I'd buy books, all the books I can get my hands on, and read every one of 'em. And - I dunno, maybe I'd build a library with them all. Ya know, a place where kids from the District can come and read if they want. And I could read for the little ones, and help teach the ones that dunno how or have a hard time with it." 

Jack smiles, a glint of wonder in his eyes. "Bet you'd be good at that. Teachin', I mean." Licking his lips, Jack adds more quietly, "And hey, maybe you could teach me while youse at it." 

Surprised, Davey looks across at Jack's uncertain expression. "You can't read?" 

"Not much. Never learned," Jack says, shrugging in a way that's clearly meant to look nonchalant. "I mean, I started learnin' when I was a kid, but it never made sense. And then I stopped goin' to school after my folks - anyway, didn't have time for schoolin'. Had to earn my keep, ya know?"

It creates a dull pain in David's chest as he realizes all of the things Jack must've missed out on, growing up the way he did. For all that Davey has thought miserably about his own hard life over the years, it's still so good in comparison. Sure, Davey had to stop going to school a few years ago when his father got hurt, turning to spending his days piecing the dangerous factory machines back together to scrape up enough credits for food. 

But at the end of the day, Davey goes home to a family, to people who love him and appreciate him and support him. He has people to help out when things are tough; to pick up the slack when needed. There's never been a day of his life that Davey's felt like he was all alone in the world. 

"Okay, you're my first student then," Davey agrees. 

Jack's smile widens. "Fo'sure?" Grinning, Davey nods. Jack spits into his palm and then offers his hand out between them to shake. 

"That's disgusting," Davey squawks, recoiling. 

The comment makes Jack laugh. "C'mon, all the stuff youse seen, and youse scared of some spit?" he teases. He nods toward his extended hand pointedly. "It's just doin' business." 

"It's gross," Davey counters, but after a moment's hesitation, he reluctantly spits into his palm and then shakes Jack's. The other boy beams, looking distinctly pleased with himself. "Gross," Davey repeats and dries his hand against his pant leg. 

"Youse so funny," Jack murmurs, shaking his head fondly. He leans his head back against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut, and his jaw is clenched. 

"Jack?" Davey asks anxiously. 

"M'fine," Jack says, but it sounds thin. "Just got dizzy a sec." 

Davey surveys Jack's face nervously, heart hammering in his chest. Before he can decide what to do, a rustle in the leaves above makes him jump. He's on his feet before he hears the tinny beep and his jaw drops. "Was that-?" Jack murmurs, brow furrowed. 

Knife drawn, Davey peers out of the entrance to their shelter. Sure enough, there's a little silver parachute on the ground just beyond the tree. Davey makes a quick check and then darts out to grab it before retreating into the shelter. 

"Anotha one?" Jack asks, awed. 

"Apparently," Davey says, and he crosses to rejoin Jack against the wall. Twisting open the palm-sized orb, he finds a tiny box and another slip of paper. Davey picks up the paper, and when he turns it over, there's another note in the same angular script. 

Naptime - K

"What's it?" Jack asks curiously.

Davey opens the little box, and his stomach turns over. There is a single pill inside, stark white against the sleek metal box. Davey can guess immediately what the capsule does, and the plan unfurls in his head in a rush. Making a mental note to kiss their Mentor if they get out of here, Davey licks his lips. There's no way he'll be able to get Jack to take it if he knows what it is - but Jack can't read, can't see the clue printed on Kloppmann's note. 

"Medicine," Davey says, holding out the capsule. "To help your fever." 

Jack's eyebrows skyrocket even as he frowns suspiciously. "Someone sent us that?" he asks in disbelief. "That must cost a fortune." 

"But it will help you, give you more time," says Davey. "Give us more time without worrying about the airdrop." The lie feels bitter on his tongue, but he forces himself to keep any of it from showing on his face. Davey reaches across to cup Jack's cheek, knowing it's a cheap ploy to exploit Jack's feelings this way, but it does exactly as he hoped and Jack melts into his touch. "We can do this, Jack," Davey says with all the conviction he can manage. "It's like you said, just tough it out a little more. We can go home." 

"We can go home," Jack echoes, looking up at him through his lashes. "Okay." 

Davey presses the pill into Jack's palm, relieved. "We're out of water," he says apologetically. "I can go look for more." 

"S'fine," Jack says. He tosses back the pill, swallowing several times convulsively, and then falls into a fit of coughing. Davey braces him supportively, rubbing a palm along Jack's spine as he gets his breath back. "Ugh," Jack groans hoarsely. "Got stuck on my tongue. Tastes so bad." 

With a weak laugh, Davey pulls Jack against his side and rests his forehead on Jack's hair. "Sorry," he murmurs. "But you'll feel better soon. Just get some rest. It's not safe out there with the other Tributes all out. Can camp here while they fight each other." The words have barely left his lips when a cannon blast splits the air, making them both jump. 

"Wonder which one," Jack says softly. 

"Three," Davey breathes. Only three more Tributes between them and home. Only three more kids who will have to die for nothing. Davey shakes his head and forces the thought back. He can't afford to think like that right now, not just for his own sake but for Jack's. They have a real chance of going home here, and the idea that he might see his family again makes Davey almost sick with longing. 

"A'most there," Jack whispers like he can read Davey's mind. "Not bad for some factory brats, huh?" 

Davey laughs. "We're not just factory brats though, remember? We're the Newsboys of Manhattan." Jack smiles against Davey's shoulder. "We really showed 'em, huh?" Davey goes on. "Everyone who thought they could stomp on us just 'cause we're poor, all those people who thought some kids from the outer Districts could never do anything amazing. We proved them wrong."

"Did it together," Jack says, laying a hand on Davey's knee, a breath away from Davey's fingers. "Couldn'a done it alone, but you? You make me feel brave, ya know? Like I ain't so scared to take on the world so long's youse here."

"Me too," Davey agrees and slides his hand to cover Jack's. It's not a lie, either. At the beginning of the Games, Davey's only hope was to survive a while, to bring a little pride to his family by giving it his best shot. But now, with Jack by his side, Davey feels ready to fight. Prepared to do what it takes to get them both home; to show the Gamemakers that their attempts to keep him down didn't work and that the world shouldn't underestimate someone just because of where they come from.

With Jack by his side, motivating him to stay strong, Davey feels like he's got what it takes to win.

Jack groans and leans further into Davey's side. "Fuck, m'so tired," he mumbles, and the words tangle together.

"It's the medicine," Davey says reassuringly. "It's going to make you tired, but you'll feel better when you wake up. You just need to sleep it off. C'mon, lay down." He eases Jack down onto the little bed, tucking his backpack beneath Jack's head as a pillow. Jack grabs at his fingers with an imploring look, and Davey can't deny him, especially with the guilt of the lie so heavy in his chest. So Davey stretches out at his side, letting Jack curl an arm around his shoulders and hooking one leg over Jack's.

"Youse gonna spoil me," Jack says with a small smirk, his fingers tracing idle patterns on Davey's shoulder blade. "Fella could get used to this."

Davey huffs a laugh, ducking his head against Jack's chest so he won't see the blush. "Shaddup and go to sleep," Davey retorts playfully, "before you say something that makes me change my mind."

Jack chuckles. "M'kay," he agrees blearily.

Davey closes his eyes and waits, listening to the sound of Jack's breaths slowing into sleep. He doesn't dare to move until he's sure that Jack is fast asleep, and then Davey carefully extracts himself from Jack's side. Jack looks so peaceful in sleep - at least if Davey ignores the blotches of red on his cheeks and the sporadic shivers. Taking a deep breath, Davey leans down and kisses Jack's forehead.

"I'll be back, I promise," Davey whispers into his skin. "I'm not losing you now."

It's nearly midday, and Davey can tell he's getting close to the Cornucopia when the scenery around him starts to shift, the greenery giving way to towering stone ruins. He's made good time, leaving all his supplies behind except for two of his throwing knives, wanting to travel light and planning to be back in a few hours anyway. Davey slows his pace when he reaches the point where it's more stone than trees, keeping close to walls and listening carefully for the sound of footsteps.

The loss of cover makes a chill trickle down his spine, the clear pathways through the ghosts of buildings too open and vulnerable. He feels exposed. Every pebble clattering over the ground or every tree branch scraping stone makes him jump, sure it's another Tribute waiting to ambush him.

A low hum from above sends Davey ducking into an alcove, squinting upward. His stomach leaps when he sees the hover glide overhead. The airdrop. Davey stays tucked into his hiding spot, waiting for the sound of the hover to fade into the distance, not willing to risk moving while he can't hear well enough to check for nearby steps. Gripping his knife, Davey keeps walking in the direction the hover went, knowing it will lead him to the center.

The Cornucopia comes into view through an archway ahead and Davey's heart hammers at the sight. There's a large case on the ground just outside the entrance, and with the top swung open, he can see three large black bags nestled inside. Three. One for each remaining District. That means whoever was behind the cannon this morning was either Bronx or Flushing. Which means the brothers from Brooklyn are still out there and teamed up—probably staking out this spot, the one with the bow ready to pick off anyone who risks the open expanse between shelter and the airdrop.

Davey's barely thought it when he sees a figure burst from the ruins a few meters to the left, sprinting for the Cornucopia. Even from this distance, Davey can recognize the kid from Flushing, the tall skinny one with pockmarks on his cheeks. The one that first attacked Smalls, a dark, vengeful voice in the back of Davey's head hisses.

The boy has a shield of some sort held in front of him, a row of sticks lashed together. Davey grimaces, wishing he'd thought of that. It surprises him when the boy keeps running and running, and yet there's no attack. No arrows raining down on him from the ruins. Miraculously, Flushing makes it all the way to the Cornucopia without a single assault, and he snatches up one of the bags before turning tail and retreating toward the ruins, the shield now draped over his shoulder to protect his back.

Davey stares in awe. Does that mean the Delanceys aren't here? Otherwise, why wouldn't they have attacked? Did they just decide that the scrawny kid from Flushing wasn't worth the trouble? But no, that'd be stupid at this point. There are only five of them left, so why would they risk it?

Waiting and watching, Davey keeps himself pressed to the edge of the archway. He stays still for long minutes, his grip on his knife so tight it's making his hand ache, but nothing happens. No motion, no other figures, nothing but a vast plain of open grass.

Davey swallows hard. He can't just wait here forever. There's no saying how long that medicine will keep Jack asleep, and if Jack wakes up to find Davey gone, he might do something stupid. He will do something stupid. Taking a deep breath, Davey sends up a desperate prayer and starts running.

The open field between him and the Cornucopia seems to go on forever, his breaths snapping in and out of his lungs as he pushes himself as fast as he can go. It never seems to get closer, a mirage always just out of reach, and every second he's out in the open is one more second he might die. Might doom them both, him and Jack.

And then, finally, he skids to a stop in front of the crate. The bag on the right is marked with a bright, white Manhattan seal, and his heart jumps into his throat. This is it. This is their salvation. Davey reaches for it, breathless, just as he sees a shadow tear around the side of the Cornucopia from the other direction.

Davey barely gets his arms up to defend himself when he's tackled to the ground, one forearm catching the knife aimed at his face as his own blade flies off into the grass. The Brooklyn brother - Davey still can't tell them apart - snarls and tries for another stab, pinning Davey with his weight as he swings the knife downward. "You're dead, Ten," he growls, breathing hard, and he looks wild and manic, dark, hardened blisters covering his face and neck, his eyes flashing with rage.

Panicking, Davey grabs onto the other boy's wrist and fights to keep the knife away from his chest. He can't stop thinking, at the same time; where is the other one? There are two of them. So why isn't the other one here to finish the fight?

"Your loverboy thinks he's so smart," Brooklyn sneers, making another drive for Davey and managing to carve a long, jagged line across his jaw. "Sneaking 'round helping you escape. After I kill you, I'mma take him your head. Let him see ya one more time while I gut him like an animal and watch him bleed out nice and slow."

Davey manages to get a leg up beneath Brooklyn, and he kicks him hard in the stomach, breaking the other boy's grip. It gives him just enough space to grab the knife tucked into his boot, and when Brooklyn lunges at him again, Davey sinks the blade through the other boy's ribs. The Delancey's eyes widen in shock, glancing down at the knife handle like he can't make sense of it. He makes one last, poorly-aimed swipe at Davey before he crumples into the grass.

Not waiting to find out if the boy's actually dead or not, Davey snatches up the Manhattan bag, and then, after a second's hesitation, grabs the Brooklyn one too. The other brother's clearly not here to get it, and this one probably won't be alive long. Slinging a strap of each bag over his shoulders, Davey sprints back into the ruins.

Davey is exhausted by the time their shelter finally comes into view. Heart hammering from adrenaline and a painful stitch in his side, Davey hadn't let himself slow for miles after leaving the Cornucopia, not even after a cannon blast cut through the afternoon sky. When he finally had to stop running, he'd still kept up a swift pace, desperate to get back to Jack. He's tired and aching and breathless, the cuts from Delancey burning his skin, and his throat raw with thirst, but he smiles when he sees the ramshackle collection of broken walls and slanted tree.

Scrambling over the trunk, Davey could almost cry with relief when he sees Jack still asleep on the makeshift bed. His face is twitching, eyes rolling beneath their lids; apparently dreaming, or maybe it's the pain of the infection breaking through even his sleep. Davey drops down to sit beside him, laying the bags on the floor at his hip.

Davey tugs the zip on the Manhattan bag and pulls out the plastic case inside. When he pops it open, there's a small injection gun inside, a medical device Davey's heard of but never seen. It's fast and efficient, sending highly synthesized medicines into the body to eliminate illness with brutal potency. The doctors in the outer Districts can't afford these kinds of things, relying on old-fashioned medicines from plants and poultices. Davey pulls out the injector and the vial of clear liquid, loading it into the chamber with shaking hands.

"Jacky," Davey says, reaching out and brushing the sleeping boy's cheek. "Jacky, wake up." Jack hums, a bleary confused noise, and leans into Davey's palm. Davey cringes when he feels the heat of Jack's skin, burning hot beneath the layer of tacky sweat. Maybe it's better to do this while Jack's asleep, let him rest through the start of the recovery until he feels a little more lucid.

Lifting away the tarp, Davey pushes Jack's shirt up. The redness has spread to cover half of his abdomen now, thin spidery lines crawling across his skin like poisonous vines. Davey grimaces as he searches out a place for the injection, feeling how Jack's ribs are more pronounced than Davey remembers from their first day in the Capitol. Settling on just below his collarbone where there's still some muscle and meat to him, Davey doesn't give himself a chance to second-guess. He presses the nose of the injector to Jack's skin and pulls the trigger.

Jack's startled gasp almost masks the sound of compressed air as the injector pushes the serum into his chest. Davey immediately drops the injector and eases Jack onto his side as he falls into a fit of coughing. "I'm sorry," Davey says, cradling Jack's head in his lap and rubbing soothing circles over his spine. "I didn't know it'd hurt that bad."

"What-?" Jack breaks off, coughing, and it takes another minute to get his breath back. He touches the injection site on his chest, a reddened circular welt with a pinprick of blood in the center, and frowns. "What'd ya-" Jack goes stock-still as his eyes land on the injector lying abandoned on the stones. "Fuckin' hells, Davey."

"I wasn't letting you die," Davey counters firmly. "And see, it's fine. I'm back, and now you'll get better. We can do this, Jack."

Teeth gritted, Jack pushes himself up to face Davey. When his gaze casts over Davey's face, he blanches. "The hells happened here?" he asks frantically, grabbing Davey's chin to examine the gash along his jaw. "This ain't fine."

It stopped bleeding at some point on the way back, but Davey was so worried about Jack that he hadn't bothered to clean the dried blood off his skin. "It's a scratch," Davey says dismissively.

"That ain't a scratch, dammit," Jack snaps, his gaze fierce as it locks with Davey's, but although his voice is angry, his eyes are just scared. "Looks like someone tried ta' take your damn head off. Was it the Delanceys?"

"One of 'em," Davey admits. "I dunno - the other one never showed. And we don't have to worry about this one anymore." Licking his lips, Davey looks down at the smears of blood on his left hand.

Jack lets out a heavy breath, folding Davey's bloodied hand in both of his. "You promised me you wasn't gonna go." Gaze flicking to the bed and back, his brow draws down suspiciously as he puts the pieces together. "That - the pill, it weren't medicine. S'why I was so tired. Ya knew it, didn'cha?"

"I'd guessed, yeah," Davey says steadily. "And I'd do it again."

"Gods above, you could'a died!" Jack says furiously.

Davey lifts his chin, not backing down. "And without this medicine, you would have," he snaps back. He exhales, his expression softening slightly, and he lays his other hand over Jack's. "It's like you said, Jacky: both of us or nothing."

A flash of surprise crosses Jack's face, and then he deflates slightly. "You stupid, stubborn idiot," he mutters, but it comes out fond. "Ain't gonna be the Games that kill me; youse gonna give me a heart attack first." Freeing one of his hands, Jack brushes his fingers along Davey's jaw, frowning as the dried blood flakes away onto his fingertips. "We should getcha cleaned up," he says. "Can't have you gettin' infections too."

"We're outta water, but I heard a stream not far from us on my way back," says Davey. He makes to move, but Jack's hand tightens around his. Davey smiles. "I'll be right back, I promise."

"Yeah, promised you wasn't gonna go for that airdrop too," Jack retorts, but he releases Davey's hand.

Davey cups Jack's cheek in a palm, ducking in to press a dry kiss to his forehead. "I told you, I'm not leaving you behind," he says. "And you need water too. Gotta get you healthy." Grabbing the canteen from his backpack, Davey pulls his last throwing knife out and slips back out of the shelter.

It's only a mile to the narrow creek he passed coming back from the Cornucopia. Davey fills the canteen and then scrubs the blood off his face and arm. The one on his forearm where he blocked Delancey's first blow is the worst, a serrated line dangerously close to his wrist, but even that has stopped bleeding. The one on his jaw isn't deep, it just looks bad because the skin is torn ragged at the edges, and because head wounds always bleed worst.

Canteen refilled, Davey drinks as much water as he can and then sprints back to their shelter. Jack is sitting up inside, still a bit groggy as he prods a small fire into life. He lifts a large rock when he hears Davey approach, clearing intending to throw it at an attacker, before relief washes over his features. "I got water," Davey says, clambering over the tree trunk.

"Got better than that," Jack says with a grin. He tugs the black bag marked for Brooklyn closer and lifts out a plastic tub filled with a gray-blue cream. "Looks like we ain't the only ones that got a bit roughed up," he says, twisting off the cap.

"Healing salve?" Davey asks in awe. He drops down at Jack's side, breathing in the familiar scent of the gel. "You know what this means? Means the other Brooklyn guy must be hurt, if this is what they needed most. It means-" His voice lodges in his throat when Jack abruptly cradles his face in both hands.

"Shush a sec, wouldja?" Jack says with a small, teasing grin. "Don't care 'bout them. Care 'bout you. So lemme take care of you for once, huh?" With one hand, he scoops some of the gel onto his fingers and smooths it along the gash on Davey's jaw. The feeling makes Davey's lungs catch, that brief moment of stinging before the numbness sinks in and washes it all away.

More than that, though, the thing that steals Davey's breath is the intent focus on Jack's face as he tenderly massages the healing cream into his skin.

Jack's dark eyes are narrowed, the tip of his tongue pressed to the back of his top teeth in concentration. He looks rough and drawn, heavy shadows beneath his eyes and blotches of fever-pink still staining his cheeks. His hair is a tangled mess, caked with dirt and sweat so that it stands up in clumped waves at the front. The right side of his face is marred by half-healed blisters that make his skin hard and rippled.

The fact that Jack is attractive has never been lost on Davey, but somehow, right now, the dirty and disheveled boy staring at Davey like he's the center of the universe has never been more beautiful.

Without giving himself a moment to overthink it, Davey hooks a hand behind Jack's neck and pulls him into a kiss. It's not gentle, more a crashing of lips than anything, and Davey would feel embarrassed by his lack of finesse if Jack didn't immediately moan and surge up into the contact. Jack slips a hand into Davey's hair, tugging him closer, and Davey swings a leg over Jack's lap, so they're pressed chest-to-chest. A hand slides beneath the hem of Davey's shirt, fingers still cold and tacky from the healing salve, and Jack traces patterns at the base of his spine.

It's only the need for air that makes them break apart, just far enough to gasp for breath. Jack's clammy forehead leans against Davey's, one hand cradling the back of Davey's skull while the other settles on his waist. "Davey, wha-?"

Davey ducks in and kisses him again to cut off the sentence. "Jack, can we just - not think about it for a minute?" Davey asks, his voice barely above a whisper. The inside of his head is a raging hurricane, thoughts and feelings and fears chasing each other in circles until he can barely see straight. Kissing Jack is the first thing to silence his racing mind in days, and he doesn't want to lose that by over-evaluating everything. "I just want to feel."

Jack's thumb brushes a soft sweep over the corner of Davey's jaw. "Yeah, okay," he agrees quietly. When Davey opens his eyes, he catches the briefest flash of hurt in Jack's eyes before he masks it with a smile. He dips in and kisses Davey, a slow, tender gesture. "Mm, you got no idea how long I been wantin' to do that."

Davey laughs, shaking his head. "C'mon, let's get some water in you," he says, reaching for the forgotten canteen. "You need to rest. We'll have to move on in the morning."

The Gamemakers don't give them until morning. In the early hours before sunrise, the sky that deepest shade of dark, Davey's jerked awake by a keening bellow. Jack bolts upright, already reaching for Davey's shoulder to wake him. "You hear that?" Davey asks, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. 

"Bulls," Jack says quietly, his grip tightening briefly on Davey's arm. Another bray splits through the night air, louder than the last, and they both launch into action. Stuffing their supplies haphazardly into the bags, they flee the shelter. "This way," says Jack, grabbing Davey's wrist. "Run!" 

The howling picks up behind them, more than one now, and Davey's heart hammers in his chest. He's never seen a Great Bull himself, only heard stories about the mutated beasts created during the War of the Fallen, ferocious and bloodthirsty creatures twice the size of a normal bovine, with razor-sharp horns and hooves like cinderblocks. Davey has seen what happens to a person who gets on the wrong side of one, though; a pack of hunters had come across one while poaching outside the District boundaries, and of the five, only two men made it back. Bodies gored and bones crushed, neither survived their injuries, bleeding out within hours. 

Neither Davey nor Jack is paying any attention to where they're going, just trying to put as much space between themselves and the stampeding beasts. Although Davey's worried about Jack, not sure how he'll hold up to the exertion after days of fever, he doesn't seem to be lagging any. They weave through the trees and bushes, squeezing through narrow paths when they can in a desperate attempt to waylay the broad-shouldered animals that won't fit in small places. 

Davey gasps for air, his lungs burning and a stitch in his side that feels like a knife between his ribs, but he can't let himself stop. It seems like they've been running for hours before the sound of bellows starts to get further away again, moving off to the north. The boys keep going a while longer, tripping over their feet in exhaustion, until the noises fade far into the distance. 

Tucking themselves into a hollow of trees, Davey doubles over and braces his hands on his knees, sucking in greedy breaths. "You - okay?" he wheezes out between inhales. 

Jack, who has fallen to sit with his back against a tree, nods. His face is flushed, every few breaths turning into a cough. "That - sucked," he chokes out with a shallow smirk, clutching his side. 

Davey staggers over, kneeling clumsily next to him. Smoothing one hand reassuringly over the other boy's back as he struggles to steady his breath, Davey lifts the hem of Jack's shirt and squints at the wound. Even in the darkness, he can see that the redness is retreating, less than half the size it was when they went to sleep, and his stomach leaps. The medicine worked! Davey breathes a sigh of relief as he presses a palm over Jack's waist, feeling the telltale lack of heat that means the fever is finally broken.

Shrugging off his backpack, Davey digs out the canteen and takes a grateful swallow before passing it to Jack. "Gamemakers are getting impatient," he says, rubbing the heel of his hand against his ribs to soothe the stitch. 

Jack snorts. "Shame we ain't killing each other off fast 'nough for 'em," he mutters dryly, and Davey chuckles. They lean against each other, giving themselves a chance to catch their breath. Davey's legs are screaming from too much running, between his sprint for the airdrop and now this. Propped against Jack's shoulder, Davey reaches down to massage the aching muscles in his thighs. "Only two left, right?" Jack asks. 

"One of Brooklyn and the tall kid from Flushing," Davey answers with a nod. 

"No wonders they's gettin' impatient," Jack says, shaking his head. He exhales, dropping his head back onto Davey's shoulder. "We should keep close to center 'fore they try somethin' else like that."

"And we need to find more food," says Davey. "Only have two of those fruits left." 

Jack pats Davey's leg idly. "A'most there, pal." 

Davey curls his hand around Jack's, ignoring the fact that they're both sticky from sweat. "Almost there." 

They stay in their hideaway for a little while longer to recover. Just as the sky begins to pale with the ghost of sunrise, they start off again. Eating the last of their food as they walk, they finally decide to split off to look for more food; Davey's the better hunter and has more chance of getting meat on his own, while Jack has a surprising knowledge of edible plants and berries. "Don't wander too far," Davey says. "Stay within earshot." 

"You too," Jack says. He squeezes Davey's hand and smiles before they move in different directions. 

Davey arms himself with Smalls' slingshot and a pocket full of small sharp rocks, creeping cautiously through the underbrush in search of birds for long, silent minutes. He misses the first one, the shot going wide and scaring the bird away. Huffing, he moves a bit further into the trees and finally spots another small pigeon. Davey loads a rock into the sling, drawing back and aiming carefully- 

Boom! 

The cannon blast cracks through the air like thunder, and Davey's shot goes awry. The bird took off at the sound, but Davey's attention isn't even remotely on the hunt anymore. "Jack!" he screams, turning on his heel and sprinting back in the direction he came. "Jack!" 

"Davey!" Jack's answering call sends a tidal wave of relief through Davey. He shoves through the trees and bushes until he finally sees Jack, and he doesn't hesitate to practically tackle Jack into a hug. "Gods, was so scared," Jack breathes into his neck, clutching Davey to his chest. 

Davey clings to him a minute longer, waiting for his shaking to abate before he finally draws back. He combs his eyes gratefully over Jack's face, reassuring himself that he's safe, and Jack's clearly doing the same when he reaches up to brush his fingers along Davey's cheek. "Never mind, no splitting up," Davey says firmly. "Not even out of eyesight." 

"Agreed," Jack says, and then he tugs Davey into another tight embrace. His chin settled on Davey's shoulder, he adds in a whisper, "One left." 

Only one other Tribute left. They're almost home free.

Stepping back, Davey lets out a breath. He takes the chance to pan his gaze over Jack one more time, and a streak of color catches his attention. He grabs Jack's wrist, brow furrowed, to get a better look at the smudge of violet-blue staining his palm. Davey holds Jack's hand close to his face, sniffing at the patch, and his stomach turns over at the familiar sickeningly-sweet scent overlaying the musk of sweat. "Where'd you get this?" Davey asks frantically. "You didn't eat any, did you?" 

"Course not," Jack shoots back. "I ain't stupid. Know Dayshadow is poisonous." 

Davey's brow furrows. "Then why'd you pick some?" 

"Thought they might be useful," says Jack. "This stuff kills fast. Thought we could put the juice on your knife or somethin'. That way even if you just get a scratch in..." He trails off pointedly, and Davey's eyebrows go up in surprise. 

"That's a really good idea," he admits. 

Jack grins. "I have 'em sometimes," he teases. "Gimme the canteen so I can wash this stuff off?" 

Davey takes a quick sip and then passes it over, watching Jack pour water into his palm and then scrub his hand clean against his pant leg. They both drink eagerly, not bothering to be too conservative with it—with just three of them left in the Arena, it's not likely this is going to go on much longer. 

The Games, impossibly, are almost over. 

"C'mon, I dropped them berries when I heard the cannon," Jack says, nodding over his shoulder. "Let's grab some 'fore we move on." 

They weave through the brush until Jack finds the berry bush again, branches heavy with ripe, round berries. Davey pulls out one of his old plastic food pouches, long since emptied of the sunset-berries, and he tugs his sleeve down over his hand to pick the Dayshadow. Tying off the bag, Davey nods. "Let's find something else to eat," he says, stowing the pouch in his pocket. "We should be ready." 

It's midday when the sound of the Bulls' braying spurs them into running again. The noise seems to be coming from all around them, herding them in one direction, and Davey knows instinctively where they're headed. There's only one place for a dramatic final showdown. 

The towering stone ruins only make the sound worse, echoing off the hard surfaces and down the narrow pathways until it feels like the Bulls are everywhere at once. Davey keeps his knife out, the blade smeared with Dayshadow berry juice, and his other hand in Jack's so they don't lose each other in the winding corridors. It feels like no time at all before the open grass circle of the Cornucopia appears in front of them. 

"Up," Jack says, nodding toward the abstract metal structure ahead of them, and Davey nods. Their best chance of survival right now is a good vantage point, putting them high up out of the reach of the Bulls and, hopefully, high enough to see the last Tribute if he comes. 

Halfway across the field, pain explodes through Davey's calf, and he drops with a shout. Davey glances back to see the shaft of an arrow protruding from the muscle, and his heart sinks. "No, Davey, c'mon," Jack says, crouching at Davey's side and reaching for his arm. "C'mon, we're so close." 

"I toldja I was gonna get you, Ten." 

Both of them look up at the jeering voice to see the second Delancey brother standing on a shelf of stone at the edge of the circle, his bow held loose at his side. His shirt is gone, torn into bandages that wrap around his chest, blood dried on his skin beneath. He smirks at them, hopping down the broken path of stones to the ground, and then he fits another arrow into his bow. 

"Toldja I'd have a good time snipin' ya," the Delancey sneers, voice twisted with amusement. "You and your loverboy both." 

The arrow looses from the bow, flying straight for them, and Jack launches into motion. Shrugging off his bag, he swings it around and manages to catch the arrow in the dense fabric. The point of the bolt still comes out the other side, dangerously close to Davey's face, but it's enough to stop it from hitting him. 

"We gotta move," Jack breathes frantically. He drops the bag to pull Davey's arm over his shoulders, heaving him upright. 

"You're not getting away from me, 'Hattan rats," Delancey says, already nocking another arrow. He lifts the bow, drawing back the string as he aims for them. 

A sudden deep roar grabs all of their attention as a massive boulder of black fur with barbed horns the size of swords comes barrelling out of the ruins toward them. Delancey immediately pivots, loosing the arrow at the creature. Davey bends, ripping the arrow shaft from the back of his leg with a bitten-off shout, and nods to Jack. "Go," Davey says firmly. 

Davey's leg is on fire, and he's sure that if it weren't for Jack's arm locked around his waist, he would never have made it. They run for the Cornucopia, somehow managing to cross the remaining distance as the beast behind them growls and snuffs. Jack laces his hands together, boosting Davey up onto the shortest end of the sleek metal shape, and then jumps to climb up after him. Breathing hard, Davey starts to scramble up toward the taller end of the Cornucopia when he hears Jack call out in alarm. 

"Give it up!" Delancey has thrown himself up onto the shelter behind them, and he jerked Jack's leg out from under him. Now he clambers upright, hauling Jack up with him, and hooks one arm around Jack's throat while the other clutches a large, bloodstained machete at the ready. "You're stupid if you think I'm lettin' you two get away from me now." 

Davey looks around desperately, seeing three of the Great Bulls closing in to circle the Cornucopia. One - presumably the first one that jumped out at them - has one arrow in its neck and another in its eye. The Tributes are surrounded, with nowhere to run that won't end in death, and Davey knows it. 

"Ya know, this whole thing's a fuckin' sham," Delancey says, and now his voice has taken on a hysterical edge, the hand holding the knife shaking slightly. "Me and Morris, we were always competitive, ya know? Always tryna be better than the other one. I'm older, I volunteered first. Wasn't s'posed to be both us, Morris was gonna go next year, but then he fuckin' volunteers too. My own damn brother." 

Jack's face is red as he struggles for air, clawing desperately at the arm around his neck. Stomach churning, Davey searches frantically for a way to distract Delancey. "You both could've gone home," Davey points out. "Why'd you split up?" 

"He fuckin' turned on me!" Delancey howls furiously. "Soon's that announcement ended, he attacked me. Said no way were we both goin' home—no way was he givin' the old man the satisfaction of saying he only won 'cause I was there to help him. Games only got one winner, and he was gonna prove once and for all that he was better than me. Tried to stab me in the fuckin' heart, the sick bastard!" The hand with the knife gestures to the bandages wrapped around his ribs. "Only got away 'cause I bashed him with a rock, knocked him out. And I should've just killed him there, I should've. But he's my brother. 

"And you know what? I get outta here, the old man's still gonna hate me. Gonna call me a coward 'cause I couldn't kill him. A disappointment, a disgrace. I'm better off dead than going home. But if I'm gonna die, I ain't going down without takin' one of you with me. No way am I lettin' the cissy fuckin' peace-and-love couple be better than me." 

Davey's heart hammers in his chest, terrified and lost as to how to fix this. The only weapon he has is the poisoned throwing knife, and that won't do him any good here with Delancey using Jack as a human shield. Davey meets Jack's eyes, panicked, but to his surprise, Jack's gaze is determined. Still fighting against the arm around his throat, Jack pointedly taps the back of Delancey's wrist where it's fisted beside Jack's neck. An opening, a single, tiny spot where Delancey is unprotected by Jack's body, if Davey can move fast enough to do it before Delancey sees it coming. 

Davey nods, and Jack sets his jaw. Jack abruptly stamps one foot down on Delancey's, the movement making the Brooklyn boy look down with a snarl, and Davey throws his last weapon. The blade slices across the back of Delancey's hand. 

Howling in pain, Delancey shoves Jack away from him, sending him sprawling on his stomach across the brushed steel. The Brooklyn Tribute doesn't waste a moment, bringing the machete down in a wild, desperate strike. Jack tries to skitter out of the way, but it's not far enough. The blade comes down, and the air is split by a high, agonized scream. 

Before Delancey can regain his bearings, Davey charges forward and slams his shoulder into the other boy's side. Delancey stumbles, eyes wide, and two staggered steps send him over the edge of the metal structure. Even the eager bays of the Bulls and the stamp of massive hooves don't drown out the Brooklyn boy's shrieks until, after a moment, they stop entirely. 

A cannon blast echoes through the Arena.

"Jack!" Davey says, terrified, and he drops beside Jack's curled body. Jack is tucked into a ball, cradling his arm against his chest, and Davey's stomach turns over in horror; the limb ends abruptly just above the elbow, a ragged stump that's steadily dying the steel beneath him scarlet. A trail of blood leads to the lip of the Cornucopia, the rest of the limb lost over the edge. "Jack, gods, no." 

Davey pulls off his jacket, ripping clumsily at the torn-up sleeve until he has a long strip of fabric. Reaching down, he wraps the remnants of the jacket around the stump to cover the wound and staunch the bleeding. Then Davey coils the strip of cloth tightly around Jack's bicep several times, pulling it as tight as he possibly can until the fabric bites into his skin, and knots it. "That should slow the bleeding until they come for us," he says, combing a bloodstained hand through Jack's hair soothingly. "Just hang in there, Jacky." 

Jack shivers violently, his pupils blown so large that they eclipse the brown irises, and Davey can immediately recognize the signs of shock. At least it seems to have dulled the pain—with an injury like this, Jack would be unconscious by now if it weren't for the numbing haze of shock. Jack shudders but jerks his head in a shallow nod. "Brooklyn?" he gasps out.

"Gone," Davey says. He looks around curiously, and the clearing is empty, the Bulls gone—called off by the Gamemakers, no doubt. It's just them now, the two of them left alone in the middle of the Arena. "It's over, Jack, we did it. We won. We're going home." 

Jack manages a flicker of a smile around his gritted teeth. "S'over." 

Davey shifts, propping Jack up to cradle him against his chest. "We did it, Jacky," he says breathlessly, stroking Jack's hair and cheeks and anything he can reach in an attempt to comfort him. "We did it." 

Except, whenever the Games end, the anthem immediately starts playing, the dome of sky filling with artificial fireworks to celebrate the Victor. The Arena is still hauntingly quiet around them. 

A trumpet blares and an ominous pit opens up in Davey's chest. "Attention Tributes," the Gamemaker's voice comes from overhead. "The previous rule about two Tributes from the same District being allowed to win has been overturned. There can only be one Victor. May the odds be ever in your favor." 

"No," Davey breathes, his fear shifting almost instantly to rage. How dare they? How dare these Capitol bastards dangle this hope in front of them only to tear it away at the last second? All for the sake of a good show; of watching the supposed lovers make the ultimate sacrifice? The furious shout builds up in his chest, and when he screams, it's a noise of rage and hurt and betrayal. It's a feeling like when he cradled Smalls' body, boiling over with the injustice of it all. 

"Dave, just do it," Jack murmurs into his shoulder. "S'okay." 

"No, it's not okay," Davey snaps. "It's not okay at all. They said we could both go home. Both of us. They can't take that away from us." 

"Yeah, they can," Jack says with a resigned smile. "Ya know they make the rules. And if it's one us, gotta be you." 

Davey shakes his head, cradling Jack's cheek in his palm. "No, I'm not going without you. We're going home together. I'm not gonna kill you, Jack." 

Grunting, jaw locked against the pain from his still-bleeding arm, Jack pulls back enough to twist and face Davey. "What's I got to go home to?" he counters. "Got no family. Ya think I wanna go home, just me alone in a big old house? You've got your family. You can take care of them, be happy. Me, I got nothing." 

"You've got me," Davey bites out, frustrated tears welling in his eyes. Something beautiful and tragic blooms in Jack's eyes, and his bluing lips curve into a shaky smile. "I can't go home without you. I won't. Please." 

Jack sighs, leaning in to press his forehead to Davey's. "What choice we got? You don't do it, I'mma die anyway. We just stay here, I ain't gonna make it, not with this arm. If you - if you ain't gonna end it for me, can ya just stay with me 'til I go? Feels good, bein' with you. Ain't so scared, havin' you here." 

Choking on a breath, Davey presses in to capture Jack's mouth. It's a kiss full of pain and longing and fear, two people desperately seeking comfort before the end. It feels just like that night curled together in the penthouse window, or that train ride beneath the endless stars. "I won't let them do this," Davey vows when they part for air. "They don't get to just change the rules like that." 

He slips his hand into his pocket, meaning to grab his lucky coin, but his fingers brush a small plastic pouch instead. Davey pulls it out in shock; the packet of Dayshadow berries that they'd picked in case they needed to lace another weapon. "We can all make our own fate," Davey whispers, hands trembling. "We can show them that they aren't the only ones who get to change the rules. That we can still make our own choices." 

"Davey, what-?" Jack asks, frowning. 

"They say the Games can only have one Victor," Davey says, and a fierce resolve hardens inside his chest. "Well, what if we decide otherwise? What if there's no Victor?" Jack's eyes widen. "If there's no Victor, there's no Games. Without a Victor, this is just a pointless slaughter. And we show them that we don't have to go along with a broken system." 

"Davey, don't do this," Jack says, his remaining hand closing over the pouch in Davey's hand. He's pale, soaked in scarlet from his arm, and his eyes are starting to lose their focus, but he doesn't look away from Davey. "Don't do nothin' stupid. Please. You can still go home to your folks. Don't give that up." 

Davey shakes his head, lifting his chin determinedly even as his voice cracks with emotion. "No, I'm not letting them do this to us. Remember? It's both of us or nothing." 

"That's not how I meant it, and ya know it," Jack argues, the statement losing some of its ferocity when his words come out slurred. 

Jerking his hand out from under Jack's, Davey tugs the packet open and pours a small handful of berries into his bloodstained palm. "I'm not going home without you, Jack," he says flatly. "I'm doing this. Don't let them win. Don't let them turn us against each other. Please." 

Jack's gaze lingers on Davey's face, searching and reading the emotions there. Nodding and drawing a shallow breath that sounds like a struggle, he holds his palm up between them. "Ain't no home for me without ya," he says grimly. 

Davey dumps the rest of the berries into Jack's hand and tosses the pouch aside. Then, because he can, he leans in and drags Jack in for another kiss. This one is soft and sad, a promise and a goodbye. "I'm so, so glad I got to know you," Davey whispers against his lips, no longer able to stop the tears from escaping. 

Jack doesn't look any better, tear tracks carving paths through the thick smears of blood and dirt on his face. His lips quiver, but he summons up a soft smile. "I love you, Davey Jacobs," he says. "I don't - don't say it back. I just wanted ya to know that 'fore the end. I love ya." 

Eyes welling, Davey kisses him again, a tight ache of loss in his chest right next to the fire of his righteous indignation. They pull back after a minute, never losing eye contact. Davey's free hand goes to his pocket and pulls out his coin. He holds it up pointedly, knowing the cameras that are unquestionably fixed on them will see, and then he and Jack exchange nods. 

Taking a deep breath, they both lift their palms toward their mouths.

"Wait!" 

The voice that blasts from above comes without the preface of trumpets, a sudden, frantic sound. Davey grabs Jack's wrist, both of them freezing as they wait with bated breath. There's a long pause, and then the Gamemaker's voice comes again. "I present the Victors of the 74th annual Hunger Games: Jack Kelly and David Jacobs." 

A breathless, disbelieving noise slips out of Davey as he meets Jack's awed eyes. Overhead, the anthem plays, and the midday sky is full of colorful sparks, but it all feels strangely distant. Davey and Jack both drop their handfuls of berries at the same time and lean into each other. Davey wraps his arms around Jack, clinging to him, as Jack's hand fists in Davey's shirt and he buries his face in the juncture of his neck and shoulder. 

They did it. They won. They're going home. 

The sound of the hover coming, a low buzz in the air, feels unnatural after all this time wrapped in only the sounds of nature. Davey can see it over Jack's shoulder, the large black ship that appears above the trees and lowers itself into the open field of grass. "C'mon, Jacky, let's go home." 

They both scoot down to the lowest side of the Cornucopia and then slide to the ground. Davey's leg buckles under him, the jagged arrow wound in the back of his calf exploding fire through the muscle, and his breathing is sharp as he pulls himself back up. Jack is leaning heavily against the side of the Cornucopia with the stump of his arm cradled to his chest, pale and shaking from blood loss. He looks a breath away from fainting, eyes screwed shut, sucking in shallow, fast breaths between blue lips, but when Davey places a hand on his shoulder, Jack's honey-brown eyes open. 

It takes a minute for Jack's gaze to focus, a small furrow in his brow from concentration as he struggles to think straight, but he finally manages a stilted nod. "M'good," Jack rasps. "S'go." Davey pulls Jack's left arm over his shoulders, and the two of them lean into each other for support as they limp toward the hover. 

Capitol medics rush to them from the open hatch, disgustingly pristine in their perfectly white uniforms. They don't say anything when they reach the boys, just start pulling them in opposite directions. "No, Jack!" Davey yells, fighting against the medics manhandling him in the direction of the hover. He doesn't want to let Jack out of his sight—doesn't trust the Capitol not to find some way to go back on their word. He needs to stay with Jack to make sure they're both safe. 

"Davey?" Jack asks, his voice weak and quavering. The medics have shoved him down onto a hovering stretcher, clicking large straps and buckles across to hold him in place. Jack cranes his head, trying to keep Davey in line of sight. "Wait, no, Dave," Jack whines in a panic, attempting to reach out for Davey but his wrist is secured to the edge of the stretcher. 

"Let me go!" Davey growls, thrashing desperately against the medics' grip as they haul him onto a stretcher of his own. "Let me go! Jack!" Rage and fear make his stomach churn when he sees one of the medics press an injection gun against Jack's neck, and in a matter of seconds, Jack goes still. "What'd you do to him? Jack!"

Davey feels a sharp, painful sting to the side of his neck, and before he can try to jerk free, darkness sweeps through his vision, and he slips away. 

The world feels strangely weightless, Davey hovering in a warm, comfortable nothingness. It doesn't hurt, but it doesn't exactly feel good either. He can't make his body respond, his limbs numb and his skin tingling with that weird, scrubbed raw feeling like after the Capitol grooming session. Something presses in on his body from every direction, thicker than water and holding him in place in this world with no gravity. 

Davey's memories surface and his breathing speeds up as panic sets in. The last thing he remembers is the Capitol medics tearing him away from Jack, injecting something into Jack that made him go frighteningly still. Davey gasps, scared, and he struggles against the pressure desperately. He has to find Jack. He has to get out of here. He needs to find Jack. 

"Whoa, whoa, don't move, Mr. Jacobs." The voice seems to appear from nowhere, faintly muffled to Davey's ears. "You need to relax, you're not even supposed to be awake." 

Davey finally manages to blink his eyes open, a slightly blurred figure filling his vision. The man's white uniform blends in with the endless whiteness around him, his face all the darker as it hovers in front of Davey's face. There's some sort of thick, clear gel all around Davey, distorting everything around him. He can only see at all because there's some type of mask sealed airtight to his face, leaving a narrow gap of space between glass and skin that swirls with a steady pulse of fresh air. 

"Where-?" The mask is secured so tightly to his head that he can't even move well enough to speak, the word coming out slurred through a locked jaw. He feels trapped—frantic and afraid and completely defenseless. 

"You're in the Capitol medical ward," the medic replies in a voice that's clearly meant to sound reassuring. "You're in a healing chamber, Mr. Jacobs, and you need to stay still. You'll hurt yourself if you try to move too much. I'm going to give you something to help you go back to sleep, okay? Just relax and let the chamber do its work." 

"Wait," Davey says insistently. "Jack?" 

"He's healing too," the medic says, already reaching for a panel of buttons at the edge of Davey's peripherals, "but you both need to rest." 

"Please," Davey moans and he feels tears spark at the corners of his eyes. "Jack?"

The medic pauses, a flicker of surprise on his face, and then he nods and steps to the side. Davey can see a large glass tube opposite him, and there's a nude body suspended in the clear liquid inside. Although Davey's never seen one in person, he's heard about these healing chambers before, a device where people sleep through an accelerated healing process. Now he understands why his body feels so weird, his skin prickling as the medicated gel spurs his cells into repairing themselves.

Davey's eyes glide hopefully across the other figure. Even though there's a sleek breathing mask attached to his face, Davey still recognizes Jack through the glass, his familiar features lax with sleep. A narrow tube filled with something dark red seems to disappear into the crook of an arm, and a second clear one is inserted into the side of his stomach. Other than that, he looks healthy, every scar and blemish removed from his tanned skin, and his ribs no longer pronounced. 

There's only one lasting sign of the Games on his body: Jack's right arm stops abruptly just above the elbow, the end sealed over with a cradle of smooth silver plating.

"Jack," Davey exhales in relief. He's alive. They're together, and they're alive. Eyes flicking to the medic, Davey adds, "Thanks."

The medic's eyes widen for a moment, and then he smiles. "Of course," he says, dipping his head. "Now sleep. We need you both healed up in time for the Victor's Ceremony." He presses a button on the panel Davey can barely see. Something cool spreads through Davey's veins, numbing him from the inside, and he keeps his eyes on Jack until the moment the shadows pull him back under. 

There is no time to regroup after being released by the medical team, and he doesn't see Jack again either, the other boy apparently transported out for one last medical procedure before Davey wakes up. Davey is promptly swept off to the groomers again, who set out to erase the remaining hints of his week in the Arena so that he looks like a worthy champion for the cameras. 

It's a shock to Davey to see the miracles the medics already worked on his body while he was sleeping. His skin is smooth and unmarked, even scars from before the Arena cleaned from his body so that his pale skin looks like polished ivory. Gone are the hardened blisters along his cheek; gone is the rippled burn scar on his thigh. No trace remains of the arrow that tore through the back of his calf. They had him on a constant stream of water and nutrients inside the healing chamber, and it erased the cracks in his lips and the hollowness of his cheeks. 

Davey looks healthier than he's ever looked in his life, even though something inside of him feels like it will never heal. 

While the groomers do their work, shaving his jaw and trimming his hair and carving away days of grime from beneath his nails, Davey feels oddly detached. Nothing has seemed real since he first woke up in that medical ward. Part of him keeps expecting to find he's still in the Arena and this has all been a dream. He goes through the motions, following where he's told to go, but it all feels so empty. So trivial. 

Davey sits alone in a dressing room after the groomers finally leave him alone, draped in a soft robe while he rolls his coin distractedly across his knuckles. There's a spot of blood on one edge of the coin and a voice in Davey's head wonders who it came from; him or Jack or any one of the other Tributes whose blood Davey has on his hands. The thought makes him scrub his palms against the fabric of the robe, even though he knows the groomers have washed every last trace of the Arena off his body. 

No, the blood that's on his hands now is the kind that can't be washed away. 

The door opens, and Davey looks up hopefully. It's not Jack who steps through the door, but Davey still smiles when he sees who it is. The silver gemstones at the corners of her eyes sparkling, Miss Medda shuts the door behind her and then opens her arms. Davey doesn't hesitate, jumping off the chair and crossing the room in two steps to fall into her embrace. "Oh, sugar, it's so good to see you," Medda says, and her voice sounds thick as she wraps her arms tightly around him. 

"You too," Davey says, and, for the first time since exiting the Arena, tears well in his eyes. It's all of it, crashing over him all at once now that he's someplace that finally feels safe. The fear and anger and helplessness and shock all swell, pouring out of that gaping hole inside of him that he doesn't think will ever close. 

"Shh, there, sugar, I gotcha," Medda says softly, tucking his head into the curve of her shoulder and petting his hair. "I gotcha." So Davey clings to her, the only person from the Capitol who never treated him like something strange to be ogled or like something lesser to be pitied. He holds onto the first person from the Capitol to see him as a human being, and he falls apart. 

Davey has no idea how long passes before he can breathe again—it could be minutes or days for all he knows. He reluctantly pulls out of Medda's grip and wipes his eyes on the sleeve of the kitten-soft robe. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, embarrassed. 

Medda cups his cheeks in her palms, fixing him with a stern look. "Don't you go apologizing," she says. "You been through all the hells and back, and there ain't no shame in being sad about that. It's not a bad thing to have feelings." 

"It is when you're being followed by cameras all the time," Davey points out, glancing surreptitiously around the room. 

"They're not watching you in here," Medda says, squeezing his shoulders. "So you go ahead and get out whatever you gotta get out." 

Swallowing, Davey nods. "Thank you," he says gratefully. "I'm okay now." 

The look Medda gives him says she doesn't buy it, but she doesn't push. "In that case, let's get you all prettied up," she says, tapping a knuckle beneath his chin and smiling. "Time to show the whole world just how incredible our Newsboys of Manhattan are, right?" 

"I just wanna go home," Davey admits softly. "I just want this all to be over." 

"I know," she replies, her eyes sympathetic. "Soon, I promise. This one last night, and you'll be on that train tomorrow." 

One more night. Davey can do this. He survived the Games. He can survive one more night of the Capitol's flash and glam if the reward is being with his family again. 

"Have you seen Jack?" Davey asks when Medda starts to shepherd him toward the wardrobe. 

"Only a little," Medda says. "That's where I'm headed after this. Have you?" 

"Once," Davey says. "In the med ward. But he was asleep." 

Medda pauses, brushing his cheek with her fingers and giving him a knowing smile. "He misses you too, sugar." Davey flushes bright pink, and it draws a laugh out of the woman. "How 'bout we make you extra lovely tonight, just for him?" And when the red crawls up into Davey's ears, Medda laughs, warm and bright, and drags him toward her row of mirrors. 

It's surreal to be standing in the green room of the amphitheater again. Davey was here less than two weeks ago, doing that awkward and nerve-wracking interview before the Games. It was here that he watched Jack's interview, and heard Jack spin a story about being in love with his fellow Manhattan Tribute. 

Only, it was maybe less of a fabrication than Davey knew at the time. 

Davey feels like a different person than the terrified, hot-tempered kid who lashed out at Jack. He's still scared about what waits for him on that stage. He's still furious at the Capitol for forcing this horrid thing on them. But right now, Davey's just tired. Tired of putting on a show, tired of playing the part, tired of being watched every second of every day. He just wants to go home. He just wants things to go back to normal, even though part of him knows that that will never happen. 

The door opens, and this time, Kloppmann is the one to step inside. Their Mentor looks worn and frazzled, his thinning hair standing up more than usual and shoulders stooped. His eyes, though, are more alert than Davey's ever seen them, intent and focused even above the heavy shadows. "You and that fuckin' mouth," Kloppmann grumbles in greeting. 

"What now?" asks Davey wearily. 

"What now?" Kloppmann echoes incredulously. "Defying the Capitol once wasn't good enough for you, was it? Had to go and do it one better in front of the whole damn world? You have no idea the amount of chaos you've caused, and not just here. There's rioting in the Districts." 

"What?" Davey asks, startled. "What's that got to do with me?" 

Kloppmann's eyes harden. "It started in Queens," he says deliberately. "The night the li'l one died. Folks got worked up, started rioting, attacking the peacekeepers and beating down the doors of the District Hall, all of 'em with a fist in the air. And it's been spreadin'. Ain't just Queens no more, heard there's been some in Flushing and Brighton and Richmond too. Do you see what you've done?" 

It seems he doesn't expect an answer because Kloppmann barrels on before Davey can even open his mouth. "The president is furious. Youse been nothin' but a thorn in their side this whole time, playin' the hero by volunteerin', then defyin' them with the testing, and now this? You just called them out in front of the entire fuckin' nation. You inspired folks to fight back, showed 'em the Districts can work together against the Capitol, and then you forced their hand with that berry trick." 

"They lied," Davey hisses through his teeth. "They changed the rules at the last second just because it suited them." 

"And then you tossed the fuckin' rulebook out the window," Kloppmann rebuts. "You know what happened to the Gamemaker? The one who made the call to try that 'two from a District' ploy in the first place? They found him dead, morning after the Games ended. Dayshadow poisoning. Peacekeepers are saying it was suicide, but we both know that ain't no accident." 

Davey's stomach plummets. If the president is willing to take out his own people for how the Games turned out, what will he do to Davey? His thoughts must show on his face because Kloppmann nods. "Exactly, kid. You thought there was a target on your back before, but you ain't seen nothin'. So here's what youse gonna do: youse gonna act it up like the whole reason you did it was love. That you only suggested that berry thing because you couldn't handle the thought of living without Jack. Got me?" 

"Why-?" 

"Because right now lots of people are thinking it was just about rebelling against the Capitol," Kloppmann cuts over him. "And that's the last idea the president wants spreading. So keep your head down, act sweet and shy and so desperately in love that folks believe you were willing to die for it. Make folks really believe it. Because a protestor and loud-mouth, that they can forget about, and you bet your ass, soon as they do, you're dead. But a love story for the ages? That'll keep people's attention. And it might be the only thing that keeps you alive." 

Wrapping his arms around himself, Davey squeezes his eyes shut against the indignity of it. The Games are over. He was supposed to be free. Supposed to be able to go back to his life and his family and stop playing a part and just be himself. Except this - now he'll never be able to drop that mask. He and Jack will spend the rest of their lives being the star-crossed lovers of Manhattan. The very thought is maddening, and Davey has to force back the furious tears so he doesn't ruin Medda's makeup job. 

"Can you do it?" Kloppmann asks gruffly. "'Cause it's not just your life on the line here, kid. You give the president enough reason, he's gonna take it outta all us. Us and your family and anyone he can think of just to punish you. Ya hear me?" 

Davey takes several long, slow breaths to rein in his emotions again. "I hear ya." 

"Good," Kloppmann says, nodding. He seems to hesitate a moment, and then he claps Davey on the shoulder. "I gotta say though, kid, you sure proved me wrong. I never would'a thought you'd survive it, but youse made of tougher stuff than I thought." 

The faintest smile tilts the edge of Davey's mouth as he meets the Mentor's gaze. "Was that a compliment?" he asks teasingly. "Because it almost sounded like a compliment." 

"That fuckin' mouth," Kloppmann mutters, but the annoyance in his voice doesn't reach his eyes. "Can't wait for this all to be over so I ain't gotta deal with you no more." 

Davey laughs under his breath. As the Mentor turns for the door, Davey reaches out and grabs his elbow. "Wait, Kloppmann," he says quickly. The older man glances back at him, raising an eyebrow expectantly. "I just wanted to say thanks for the gifts. You saved our lives in there." 

Kloppmann's brow furrows. "Gifts? That wasn't me, kid." 

"What?" Davey asks, confused. "But they - they were signed 'K' and the first one, it said 'play the part.' That's the thing you've always said to me. If it wasn't you...?"

"No clue," the Mentor says, frowning. "All I know is it wasn't me. I had other things to be dealing with, busy doin' my job and rubbing elbows with these Capitol twits. I sure wasn't droppin' my credits on you punks."

Davey's mind reels, trying to process that information. He'd been so sure it was Kloppmann who had sent the stew and the sleeping pill. If it wasn't their Mentor, then who was it that helped them in the Arena? 

Kloppmann lets out a heavy exhale, fidgeting with his pocket like he's going to pull out his flask but he doesn't. "Best make sure youse ready for this," he says. "Interview's gonna be startin' soon."

No sooner has he said it than the door to the waiting room opens and their Capitol ambassador Katherine sticks her head into the room. Her red curls are piled up in an extravagant twist of braids speckled with gleaming diamond pins, and she smiles warmly at Davey. "They're ready for you, David," she says, gesturing him over. 

Davey takes a deep breath and exchanges a quick, meaningful nod with Kloppmann. Crossing to the door, Davey lets Katherine loop her arm through his as she guides him through the maze of corridors behind the stage. "You look very handsome," she says, gaze panning over him appreciatively. "Like a true Victor. A hero." 

"I don't feel like it," Davey admits because while he doesn't trust Katherine as much as he does Medda, he still likes her. Her energy and exuberance are a bit overwhelming at times, but she has always treated him kindly, and there's something genuine to her that occasionally sneaks out from beneath the silly glamor of the Capitol. 

"You should," Katherine says firmly. "You did something very honorable. And very brave." She squeezes his wrist reassuringly. "Just - be careful out there tonight, okay?" 

Davey glances sideways at her. There's a faint tension beneath her expression, that same brittle, plastic smile Davey remembers from the Reaping. "I will, thank you," he says and pats the hand on his wrist. 

They've reached the edge of the stage, the same spot behind the curtains where Davey stepped out for his first interview what feels like a lifetime ago. She's barely dropped his arm when he hears a soft, "Davey?" from behind, and he spins around hopefully. Miss Medda is shepherding Jack over with a hand on his back, and Davey's heart leaps at the sight of him. 

Jack looks incredible, healthy and beautiful and golden in his pure white outfit to match Davey's. Everything is healed, his face shaved and hair trimmed neatly, and Medda has applied the shimmer of gold beneath his eyes to brighten them again. Then Jack smiles, something achingly tender, and it spears straight through Davey's defenses. 

Without a word, Davey half-sprints across the distance and throws his arms around Jack. They cling to each other, and Davey sinks into the warmth of him, listens gratefully to the steady in and out of Jack's breaths. It's the first time that this whole thing feels real to Davey, the truth settling over his shoulders as Jack's fingers claw into the back of his shirt. 

They did it. They're safe. They're out of the Arena. The Games are really over.

It's several long moments later when they finally step back to survey each other, eyes drinking in features. Davey's gaze slides down, and he pauses when he looks at the hands closed around his. Two hands. 

"Freaky, huh?" Jack asks, obviously noticing Davey's stare. He tugs at his rolled sleeve, pulling it up to reveal a small band of silver embedded in his skin, wrapping all the way around his arm just above the elbow. Davey reaches over, tracing his fingers over it curiously. "Almost looks real." 

"A prosthetic?" Davey asks, surprised. 

Jack flexes his fingers, the movement deceptively realistic. "Guess there wasn't no growin' back a whole arm," he says with a sad twist to his smile. "This one works almost like normal, but I ain't quite used to it yet. Still feels funny." 

Davey cradles the hand in both of his, examining it with awe. It really does look like a normal hand, with creases in the knuckles and faint protrusions of bones in the wrist and perfectly trimmed nails. The only way Davey can tell is by running his fingertips over the skin, the flesh unnaturally silky and faintly cool to the touch. 

"It doesn't matter to me," Davey says firmly, meeting Jack's eyes as he threads their fingers together. "You're still Jack Kelly, and that's all I care about." 

That warm and blinding brightness fills Jack's eyes, and he pulls Davey into his chest again. "I don't deserve ya," he murmurs into the side of Davey's neck. "But damn, I don't ever wanna letcha go." 

"That's fine because I'm not letting you go either," says Davey.

Their moment is interrupted by the loud blare of the show's introduction from the stage, an enormous swell of applause as Denton walks out to take his place. Davey and Jack reluctantly pull apart, and Medda gives them both a quick once-over, smoothing wrinkles from clothes and fixing a strand of Jack's hair that's fallen onto his brow. "Remember, boys," she says, giving them both a deliberate look, "you're the pride of your District. You're thrilled to be Victors. And you are hopelessly in love." 

Davey can see Katherine nod a shallow agreement, and he realizes this wasn't just Kloppmann's advice. Their whole team is laying out this plan, building up an alibi to keep them safe from the Capitol's retribution. Clearly Kloppmann wasn't exaggerating about how much danger they are in, perhaps more danger than they faced even inside the Arena. 

"And now I present to you all," Denton announces grandly from the stage, "your Game's Victors, the star-crossed lovers, the Newsboys of Manhattan: Jack Kelly and David Jacobs." 

Slipping around to Davey's other side, Jack holds out his left hand, his flesh hand. Davey takes it, lacing their fingers together, and they trade reassuring smiles before they march out onto the stage side-by-side. 

The interview itself is nowhere near as terrifying as what comes after. 

In the end, Davey actually remembers very little of the interview, letting Jack and his endless charm take the lead. Davey's role, for the most part, is the blushing, lovestruck kid who can't believe his luck - which isn't difficult when Jack keeps sending him looks like he hung the moon. So Davey mostly stays quiet except to answer the questions Denton directs to him, smiling shyly when he says that he's just so grateful for this chance to be together and that he could never imagine a future without Jack in it. 

The moment they leave the stage, they're promptly swept away to the grandstand at the center of the Capitol, to the balcony overlooking the chariot run where they held the Opening Ceremony. Kloppmann shoots Davey cautioning looks as the groomers give them another hasty touch-up, but Davey doesn't need the reminder to watch his tongue this time. He knows who is waiting for them on that balcony. 

Trumpet flares cue them, and Davey instinctively reaches for Jack's hand to steady himself. This is it. One last televised moment of Capitol flash and it will finally be over. 

Jack must read his mind because he squeezes Davey's fingers. "Almost done," he whispers. 

The backstage manager gestures them forward, and Davey takes a deep breath. Through the door, the world is blinding, with a million lights and cameras trained on them. Davey can hear yelling and cheering, but the audience filling the stands seems oddly distant. As they take their places, Davey finally dares to look over at the balcony's other occupant. 

Davey grew up seeing the man's face on the holo-screens, but it's nothing to the experience of seeing him in person. President Joseph Pulitzer is tall and severe, everything about him shaped in sharp lines, from his perfectly cut suit to his meticulously trimmed facial hair. His graying hair sweeps back off a high brow, and the only Capitol embellishment he wears is the golden threading that details beautiful, elaborate designs in his waistcoat. From the other side of a holo-screen, the president had always given off an aura of nobility and confidence. In person, it's an oppressive cloud of superiority, the bearing of a man who knows that every word he speaks will be obeyed. 

Which is, perhaps, why Davey feels his heart stutter when those cold, gray eyes lock with his own. 

The Victor's Ceremony thankfully doesn't require them to speak because Davey is a little worried that if he opens his mouth, he may be sick. President Pulitzer continues to address the cameras for a few more minutes, giving a speech about honor and tradition that sails over Davey's head with no impact. Then another Capitol assistant steps onto the balcony, a padded tray bearing two thin, golden ringlets. Pulitzer picks up one and carefully sets it on Jack's head, then takes the other. 

"Congratulations, Mr. Jacobs," Pulitzer says, quietly enough that the cameras around them won't hear. Davey ducks his head slightly to allow the president to set the ringlet on his head. "You are a man of truly unbelievable character." 

The words, dripping cooly off the president's lips, sound distinctly like a rebuke, and it stirs the embers inside Davey's chest again. "Thank you, Mr. President," Davey replies, keeping his voice level, although he can't stop the faintest note of disdain from slipping out. Jack squeezes his hand warningly. Davey forces on a faux smile, and continues, "I only did what I believed was right. It's an honor to know you approve." 

Cold, hard anger flashes through the president's eyes, but it's gone a moment later when he turns back to the cameras. "Your Victors," he announces, gesturing for them to step forward. The applause redoubles, and Davey lifts his chin, proud in his brief moment of defiance. 

Davey might have to play up the act of the lovestruck boy who only challenged the rules so he wouldn't be separated from the man he loves, but the three of them on this balcony all know it's only partly true. Davey took on the Capitol and won. He's shown this condescending man that he doesn't get to dictate Davey's life just because he's the one with the money and power. 

The world might not know, but Davey does, and so does Pulitzer, and that's good enough.

Davey bolts awake, shoving aside the covers that make him feel trapped and tangled. He skitters backward until his spine is pressed to the wall, breathing heavily while his eyes adjust to the darkness. It takes a minute for reality to settle over him, and Davey exhales, shaking. Right. He's in his bedroom in the Capitol penthouse.

He should feel safe, but instead, his skin crawls with anxiety. Scrambling off the bed, he escapes into the main room of the apartment. It's still late, the room lit only by the glow of the city coming through the window, but the open space lets Davey breathe a little easier. He turns for his usual perch, and a shallow smile crosses his lips when he finds it already occupied.

"Mind if I join you?" Davey asks quietly.

Jack jumps in surprise and then glances across the shadowy room. His tension eases when he spots Davey. "Do I ever?" he replies with a smile. He folds his legs up to his chest, clearing a spot for Davey to climb up opposite him. "Can't sleep?"

A dismissive answer jumps to his tongue instinctively, ready to brush aside the concern, but he pauses. This isn't someone he has to be strong for—this is Jack. If there's anyone who will understand, it's him. "Bad dreams," he admits. "And I can't - I dunno, it's weird, but sometimes I just feel like I need to get into a bigger place."

"Feel trapped behind doors," Jack adds with a knowing look. "Me too." He sighs, dropping his head back against the wall behind him. "Ya'd think after all this, I'd wanna stay safe inside, but all I wanna do is get somewhere outside. Away from walls, where I can see all 'round me, ya know?"

Davey nods a silent agreement. "Too bad we can't see the stars here, huh?" he muses, looking up through the window, but the sky is bleached to ash by light pollution.

"Tomorrow night, maybe," Jack says. "Be on the train home then." Davey's heart skips at the reminder. They leave midday tomorrow and should be home by the morning after. Just over twenty-four hours from now, they'll be setting foot in the District that Davey genuinely thought he'd never see again. He'll see his family.

"Bet youse excited to see your folks," says Jack, once again predicting where Davey's mind has gone.

Smiling, Davey reaches into the pocket of his pajamas for the coin he still keeps with him at all times. "So much it makes me sick," he admits. "I thought - I mean, I didn't think I'd see them again, you know?"

"The li'l one's pro'lly all excited too," Jack says with a grin. Davey thinks if he smiles any wider, he'll hurt himself. He's going to see Les again. He's going to get to see his little brother grow up. The realization makes ecstatic tears sting the corners of his eyes, and Davey has to swallow back a hysterical laugh.

Jack slides his feet across until they touch Davey's, and he smiles when their eyes meet, warm and understanding. "You should teach me that trick some time," he says, nodding toward Davey's hand. Davey glances down to where he's rolling the coin back and forth across his knuckles distractedly. "Might help me get better workin' this thing," Jack finishes, lifting his right hand.

"Does it hurt?" Davey asks tentatively.

"A li'l, sometimes," Jack says. "Not the arm, but my arm." He massages his bicep, grinding his thumb into the muscle above the metal ring. "Not as bad as it was, but still feels weird."

Davey holds out a hand imploringly and Jack, after only a moment of hesitation, sets his hand on Davey's palm. Leaning forward for a better look, Davey traces the lines and shapes of Jack's new hand. It looks almost identical to his other hand, all the way down to the skin color and curve of his nails. Except there's a smattering of freckles on Jack's left forearm, but his right is entirely unmarked and missing the fine, dark hair.

When Davey brushes a fingertip across his palm, Jack's fingers twitch. "You can still feel, right?" Davey asks, sweeping his finger back the other direction, down the crease that curves below the meat of his thumb.

"Mostly, yeah," Jack agrees. "It don't feel like before, not like this," he sets his other hand on top of Davey's. "Sorta like, I can feel I'm touchin' something, but can't feel all it. Like, if you was touchin' something with a glove on."

"It's not as warm as the other one," Davey notes. The difference is more evident with his hand sandwiched between both of Jack's. There's a steady heat radiating from Jack's palm into the back of Davey's wrist, but the other hand is a consistent, comfortable cool.

"Can't tell," says Jack, shrugging. "Don't feel that bit." Davey's eyebrows go up. "Can't really tell if things is hot or cold with that one." He shrugs again. "Can't complain much, though, still better than not havin' one at all."

The comment makes Davey's stomach lurch, his mind filled with memories of Jack's piercing scream and pools of blood. Shivering, Davey slides across the bench and wraps his arms around Jack. "I'm so glad you're okay," he whispers.

"Thanks to you," Jack replies, clutching Davey just as tight. "I never would'a made it without ya."

"Let's call it payback," Davey says. "After all, I wouldn't have survived if you didn't trip and yell just in time to stop me getting shot." Jack huffs an amused noise into his shoulder. "So we're even."

Jack finally pulls back, cupping Davey's cheek in his palm to brush a thumb along his cheekbone. "Dunno if we's ever gonna be even, pal," he says, smirking.

"Guess it's a good thing we've got time to keep trying then," Davey answers, returning his smile. Jack's eyes brighten, the faintest tinge of pink blossoming on his cheeks. Davey brushes Jack's hair back off his forehead, and the ambient light reveals the gray smudges beneath his eyes. "We should get some sleep."

When Davey slides down off the bench, Jack grabs his wrist to stop him. The other boy looks nervous and shy as he gazes up at Davey through his lashes. "I just - can ya-" Jack exhales, shaking his head, and suddenly Davey knows what he's trying to ask.

"Come with me?" Davey asks, nodding toward the bedroom door. "I got kinda used to your snoring." 

Jack snorts, rolling his eyes, but he smiles. Davey threads their fingers together and pulls Jack behind him into the bedroom. The enormous mattress doesn't feel quite so overwhelming when Jack crawls under the blankets with him. Jack seems uncertain, on his side facing away from Davey with a foot of space between them, the forced closeness of the Arena no longer destroying the barriers between them. So Davey licks his lips and then rolls, molding himself along Jack's spine and curling an arm around his chest. 

"Toldja you was gonna make me get used to this," Jack jokes in a whisper. At the same time, all of the tension drains out of his body. Jack arches his neck until Davey's cheek is resting on his skin, and he reaches to draw aimless patterns along Davey's arm. "Keep this up, I ain't gonna be able to sleep without ya." 

Davey laughs, a warm blush flooding his cheeks. "Shaddup before I change my mind." 

For all that they're thrilled to finally be going home, the mood on the mag-rail is oddly sedate. Kloppmann retreats to his room with a bottle stolen from the drinking carriage not long after they leave the Capitol. Even Katherine, who is usually talking endlessly about something or other, is unnaturally quiet, seemingly lost in her thoughts. Davey finds himself wishing that Medda was with them, her warm charisma always easing any stress from the air; she stayed behind at the Capitol to see to her business but promised that she'd see them soon.  

Jack, only thirty minutes into the journey, stands and holds out a hand to Davey in a silent request. Davey takes it without question, letting Jack guide him through the line of carriages. They don't stop until they reach the compartment lined with shelves of books, where Jack pulls Davey close with a soft smile. "Ready to get started on readin' every book in the world?" 

Davey looks around at the rows and rows and rows, wholly bewildered by where to begin. "What about you?" he asks. "I'm sure there's paper and pens on this train somewhere." 

Smile flickering, Jack shrugs. "Nah, s'alright," he says, a transparent attempt at nonchalance. "Ain't quite got the hang of this thing yet," he holds his right hand up between them. Davey's heart breaks at the realization—Jack's one solace, his one hobby and joy, and it's been taken away from him. Davey takes the hand and presses it to his cheek, placing a gentle kiss on the inside of his wrist. Jack's smile comes back, just a little. 

"S'gonna take practice, and I'm just sorta tired," Jack goes on. He glances at the books and then back to Davey. "Read to me? I never heard any real books before."

Davey nods and drops Jack's hand to approach the shelves. As his eyes coast along the spines, he isn't surprised when he doesn't recognize any of the titles. The schoolhouse in Manhattan only had a grand total of eleven books, and two of those were prayer books. So he picks one at random. 

"Not in here," Davey says, nose wrinkled as he looks around the enclosed carriage, lit only by overhead lamps with no windows. It's probably meant to feel warm and cozy—to Davey, it's just claustrophobic, that feeling he always seems to get whenever he's indoors now, an instinctive, animal part of him telling him he's cornered and needs to escape.

Jack doesn't question it, and Davey knows it's because he feels it too. "C'mon, got an idea," Jack says, reaching for Davey again. He doesn't fail to notice that Jack always reaches for him with his left hand now, avoiding using his new prosthetic whenever possible.

Three carriages later, the enclosed spaces open up to blinding sunlight and the scent of earth, and Davey exhales gratefully. The conservatory compartment looks different in the light of day, less magical and otherworldly, but when Davey looks up at the endless blue sky, something in him uncoils. Jack tugs him over to a spot of the floor that's shaded from the sun by a large bush covered in clusters of tiny pale purple flowers. "Lilacs," Jack supplies when he sees Davey examining the flowers. "Smells good, huh?"

"How do you know so much about flowers?" Davey asks curiously, sitting down and folding his legs. 

Jack shrugs. "I like 'em," he says simply. His smile fades a little. "My ma liked 'em. We used to go out in the forest when we wanted to get away from the old man a while, and she'd tell me 'bout 'em. 'Bout which berries and mushrooms ya could eat, for days we'd stay out for hours, and what flowers got meanings. It kept me alive after they died, those couple days I was on my own, and-" He trails off, but Davey knows immediately what he was going to say. And in the Arena.

Laying down, Jack rests his head on Davey's thigh. "So, what's the book called?"

Davey flips it over to squint at the cover, brow furrowed at the unfamiliar word. "I, uh, don't know this first word," he admits. "I think it's some sorta name. Ay-sop. Or maybe ay-ee-sop?" Jack snorts in amusement. "But the other word's 'fables.'"

"What's fables?" Jack asks.

"They're like the old legends, I think," Davey explains. He opens the cover, savoring the feel of the smooth pages beneath his fingers, and turns to the first story. Sneaking a quick glance down to see if Jack is ready, Davey clears his throat and starts reading. He's not very fast, out of practice and stumbling over new words that he has to sound out. Still, Jack listens intently, gazing up at Davey with wide eyes and a smile as Davey reads the tales about animals getting into ridiculous predicaments.

It feels like a precious stolen moment, like that night beneath the stars, just the two of them alone and separate from the rest of the world. Jack is curious and attentive, not afraid to ask questions or comment on the silly things the animals do. Davey spends as much time laughing as he does reading. It's one of those simple things that makes him wish they could've been friends without the Games, that they could've known each other without the hidden scars the Arena left on them.

It also reminds him that they almost lost this, that the Capitol very nearly stole this away from them at the last minute. Davey shifts the book into one hand so he can lay the other on Jack's chest. A small grin dashes across Jack's face, and he uses his left hand to trace the bones of Davey's fingers.

"Ain't them animals learned?" Jack asks, bemused. "That fox been trickin' all them over and over, and they just keep listenin' to him." 

"I don't think the stories are supposed to all go together," Davey answers with a laugh. "I don't think it's the same animals in all of 'em." 

"They's still dumb," Jack says, prompting another laugh. 

"We can go pick a different book if it bothers you," Davey says.

Jack's hand jumps up to stop Davey from closing the book. "Nah, it's fine," he says hastily. "Just think it's funny. You can keep goin'." 

Davey smiles knowingly and smoothes down the page. "'Kay, where was I?" 

When afternoon shifts closer toward evening, Davey and Jack make their way back to the dining carriage. Katherine is sitting alone in an armchair, nursing a steaming cup as she pores over a digiscreen. She glances up when she hears them and hastily taps the screen, making it go dark. "Hello, boys," she greets brightly. "Where've you been hiding all afternoon?"

"Reading a book," Davey offers. 

Katherine smiles. "I do love a good book," she says. "That's what you want to do when you get home, isn't it? Collect books?" 

Davey's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Yeah, I was thinking 'bout it," he agrees. "Kind of surprised you knew that." 

"Of course I know that," Katherine says. "Do you think I wasn't watching? Your public image is my job, it's my responsibility to know everything that goes out about you." 

"Dunno how ya do it," Jack says thoughtfully. "Learnin' all that stuff, working so hard to make someone look good, knowing they's pro'lly gonna die soon." 

Something tight flickers across Katherine's face, another of those split-second cracks in the Capitol mask before she summons her sunny smile back into place. "Well, lucky for me, you didn't die," she points out. "And not just one of you, but both of you. An excellent first year for my new career, being involved in creating the Newsboys of Manhattan. People will be talking about you for ages."

"Yay, good for us," Davey mutters dryly. "Glad we could not get murdered, wouldn't want to tarnish your reputation." 

"Because there were so many other people in the Capitol looking out for you," Katherine snaps, suddenly caustic. "Do you know how many hours I spent convincing Sponsors to bet their credits on you? Do you even understand how much of an influence that has on the Games? If a Tribute's numbers get too low among the betting pools, it gives the Gamemakers more of a leash to try tricks like the wildfire that nearly killed you.

"And not just that, but do you know how difficult it was to pitch the 'two from a District' idea? Weisel thought I was insane when I suggested it. It wasn't exactly easy to convince him that playing into the lovers' angle would help boost support. And now, if someone finds out it was my idea..." She suddenly looks away, taking a slow, steadying breath. 

Davey stares, awed. He's never seen so much emotion from Katherine before - at least not any emotion that wasn't giddy excitement - and the effect leaves him breathless. It takes him a moment to process her words, and his chest seizes up with the realization that she was the one who made it so both he and Jack can go home, whether she intended that final result or not. And now, with the Gamemaker dead, she would be next on the executioner's block if the president finds out. Davey swallows. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean - I mean, I didn't know." 

When Katherine looks up to meet his gaze again, her expression is softer. "I know," she says. "All I'm trying to say, David, is that you've put yourselves in a peculiar situation, and perhaps it would be a good idea to keep some allies on your side." 

Jack slides his hand over to cover Davey's, his eyes grim. "Are we - do you think we's really in danger?" he asks uncertainly. 

Katherine considers him, her vividly green eyes sizing them both up. "Not right now," she concedes. "Not while the whole nation is watching so closely. But that's exactly why you need to be most careful right now. Everyone's eyes are on you, and if you give people any reason to turn on you, give the president a chance to dismiss you and discredit you, then at that point, well..." She trails off with a frown. 

"Why do you care?" Davey asks. Katherine's eyes dart to him, her lips thinning. "I mean, it's like you said, everyone's always going to know you were the one behind the Newsboys. That won't stop even if we die. So why do you care what happens to us? Why risk your safety like that?"

For a moment, Katherine hesitates, a new weight and intensity to her gaze. Then she shakes her head and clears her throat, the mask sliding smoothly back into place. "Like I told you, it's my job," she says, picking up her drink. "That doesn't end just because the Games are over. You boys are Victors, and that lasts for life." She stands, tucking her tablet under her arm, and flashes them both a smile before she slips out of the carriage. 

"She's up to somethin'," Jack says as soon as the door closes behind her. "Dunno what it is, but there's just somethin' different about her. She ain't like the other Capitol folks."

"Maybe it's just because she's young," Davey suggests half-heartedly, but even he doesn't believe it. There's something very different about Katherine, different even than the woman who cheerfully prattled to them about the sights of the Capitol on the train two weeks ago. 

All of his life, Davey's seen the people from the Capitol as silly, mindless peacocks, all bright colors and flash with no substance. Miss Medda was the first to challenge that view, and now he's starting to think he misjudged Katherine as well. If she really suggested the change to the Games' rules to Wiesel, who is now dead for it, she's genuinely put her life on the line for them.

Jack sighs, picking disinterestedly at the food in front of him. "Not feelin' very hungry no more," he says. He drops his fork and pushes back from the table. "Think maybe I'mma lay down a bit." 

"Mind some company?" Davey asks because eating is the last thing on his mind right now too, his thoughts too heavy for something so mundane. 

And Jack smiles. "Never." 

A panicked gasp rips Davey from sleep, promptly followed by a flailing arm that catches him in the back of the head. Startled, Davey scrambles upright, and it takes him a second longer to process what's happened. "Jack, shh, you're okay," Davey says, hastily dropping back onto the edge of the bed. Enormous in the darkness, Jack's eyes dart to him. "It was just a dream. You're okay." 

Jack shudders, comprehension dawning across his features, and then he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Fuck, yeah, just a dream," he echoes. He's still shaking, his breathing not quite steady. "Ain't real, just a dream." Then Jack drops his hands to rub distractedly at his arm above the silver ring where his prosthetic attaches.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Davey asks tentatively. 

The smile looks more like a grimace when Jack meets his eyes. "What's there to talk 'bout ya don't already know, right?"

Davey winces, knowing precisely what he means. The Capitol might have taken away all the scars the Games left on their surface, but the lingering damage underneath is far worse, and nothing will take that away. He wants to say that it'll get better with time, that maybe someday the nightmares will fade into distant memories, but he doesn't know if that's true. So in lieu of anything helpful to say, Davey reaches for Jack's hand. 

The lines of Jack's mouth soften, and he curls his fingers around Davey's. "But thanks," he adds. "For askin'." 

Nodding, Davey bites his lip. His gaze jumps to the round window in the bedroom compartment wall, and he grins. "C'mon, I think I know something that'll help," he says, jumping off the bed to tug at Jack's hand. The other boy follows, a knowing smile on his face as he tails Davey down the row of carriages back to the open conservatory room. 

Davey lays down in the middle of the floor, and he doesn't have to prompt Jack before he's joining him, stretched out beside him on the cold tiles. The night sky is boundless on the other side of the curved glass, with only a few cottony curls of clouds blocking the view. It's a new moon, and the millions of stars shine brighter in the absence of any other light. "I'll miss this when we get back," Davey admits. "I'd never seen the stars before, not like this." 

"It's a helluva sight," Jack agrees. His knuckles brush Davey's where their hands rest between them, and Davey links his fingers with the too-cool ones that remind him he's on Jack's right side. "Maybe sometime we can sneak outta the District, find a place out in the forest where we can see without the factory lights in the way." 

"Yeah, we should," Davey says because now that he's seen this, he can't imagine going the rest of his life without it. "And we should - could we bring Les with some time? I think he'd like it." 

Jack chuckles. "Bet he would. If ya can get him to hold still long 'nough." Davey laughs appreciatively. Sighing, Jack drags his thumb across Davey's knuckles, the texture of the smooth pad like silk on his skin. "What Katherine was sayin'," he starts, more seriously, "ya know she's right. Might be outta the Arena, but the Games don't never end, do they?"

Davey bites his lip. It's true. They might've survived, but they'll never really get away from the Games. Every single year, they'll be called back to serve as Mentors now, just like Kloppmann. They'll have to see more boys from their home be thrown into that nightmare, try to give them hope and advice, knowing the whole time that they likely won't survive. Dozens and dozens of kids will be slaughtered in front of them, over and over. Yearly trips to the Capitol to drag up the memories they just want to erase.

It makes Davey wonder if maybe surviving the Games is more punishment than dying in them would've been. 

"I feel like maybe I get why Kloppmann's the way he is now," Davey says. 

The laugh Jack gives is hollow and humorless. "Yeah, think I wouldn't mind drinkin' enough to forget for a li'l bit too." 

"We'll be okay," says Davey, and he's trying to convince himself as much as Jack. "At least we don't have to go through it alone, right?" 

Jack hums a distracted noise. When Davey glances sideways at him, he can see Jack's brow furrowed thoughtfully and his lips pulled into a tight frown. "Can't never be alone anymore, really," he notes. "S'like she said: we ain't Jack and Davey no more, we's the - what's that thing they keep callin' us?" 

"The star-crossed lovers of Manhattan," Davey supplies dryly. 

"Exactly," Jack says. "Fuck, I never should'a said nothin' in that stupid interview. You should be able to be with anyone, and now youse stuck with me. Can't find no one you love 'cause if ya do, they's gonna-" He breaks off and clears his throat. "M'sorry, Dave. You don't deserve it." 

"If you hadn't said what you did, we'd both be dead," Davey reminds him. "I couldn't have made it on my own." 

Jack snorts. "Yeah, you could'a," he argues. "I'm the one went and got myself sick, was so damn weak you was stuck takin' care of me. Risked ya damn life for me 'cause it." 

Davey turns onto his side, pushing up onto an elbow so he can see Jack's face. "No, Jack, I wouldn't have survived," he says firmly. "You don't get it. After Smalls-" he grimaces and has to swallow hard before he can continue. "After I lost Smalls, I was angry and reckless and empty. And there was a part of me that just wanted it to end. I wanted to die." Jack's eyes flash, his expression stricken. "Finding you, the hope we could both go home, that's the only thing that made me want to keep fighting."

"I know ya don't love me the way I love you," Jack practically whispers, his eyes averted.

Licking his lips, Davey considers his words carefully. "No, I don't," he concedes, and the statement makes Jack flinch. When Jack tries to pull his hand away, Davey tightens his grip. "But I could. I like you, Jack, a lot. You're my friend. After I really got the chance to talk to you, to know who you are, I kept wishing I could've known you before all this because I wanted to have more time to know you. And now we've got that. So, yeah, maybe I'm not in love with you right now, but I think I could be someday. And I'd like to try."

Jack's eyes brighten hopefully, and for a moment, it's like the stars overhead are reflecting in his dark eyes, a beautiful, expansive landscape of night sky. "Wish I'd toldja before the Games too," he admits. "'Cause when my name got pulled, all I could think was I was gonna die, and I never got the chance to thank ya for savin' me that night." He huffs wryly. "Course, then you volunteered and damn near broke my heart."

After a second of hesitation, Davey ducks down to press his lips to Jack's. It's not like the kisses they shared in the Arena, not the fierce, desperate fire of two kids facing down the end. This kiss is soft and tentative and tender; a beginning to something new.

"For what it's worth," Davey says with a glimmer of a smile, "of anyone I could be stuck with the rest of my life, I'm glad it's you."

Laughing, Jack tugs Davey down to lay beside him again, and Davey pillows his head on Jack's chest. "Thanks, pal, ya know how to make a fella feel special," Jack jokes, but his touch is gentle and affectionate as he drags his knuckles down Davey's bicep, curls his fingers around Davey's hand where it sits on his chest. "Guess worst comes to it, least we got a good friend outta it, huh?" 

Davey chuckles, squeezing Jack's fingers. "A great friend," he agrees. He shifts his head so that he can see the stars still, and feels the steady thrum of Jack's heart in his chest. Alone in this space of infinite sky, just him and Jack, Davey thinks he really could be okay with this for the rest of his life. 

Through the windows of the mag-rail, Davey can see the District platform coming into view, and it's absolutely packed with bodies. It's as if every single person in Manhattan is there, waiting to greet them as they come home. The sight makes Davey's heart hammer, and some instinct makes him lean closer to Jack's side for support. 

"Gods, never thought folks'd be so happy to see me," Jack says with a breathless laugh. 

"Welcome to the joy of bein' a Victor," Kloppmann drawls sarcastically. He's sprawled in a nearby armchair, fiddling with the cap of his flask. "Youse famous now, boys." 

Davey is only half-listening, his eyes scanning the crowd hopefully. He sees faces he recognizes and a thousand more that he doesn't, but there are only a few faces he wants to see right now. "They'll be there, Dave," Jack says, lowering his voice, and his hand settles warm on Davey's back. "They'll be waitin' for ya. Promise." 

Even though the mag-rail trains are lightning-fast, it still feels like those last few meters take a million years. "Remember," Katherine cautions, pulling out a reinforced case as the train begins to slow, "there will be cameras out there. The Capitol wants to see their Victors welcomed home." Davey can read the subtext: don't let their act falter while the whole nation is watching. Then Katherine snaps the case open, and Davey grimaces. 

The Victors' crowns. The matching pair of golden ringlets sit side-by-side in a nest of silk, the polished metal reflecting the morning sunlight. Davey'd genuinely hoped to never see the stupid things again. A voice in his head jeers that this simple metal ring is enough wealth to have easily fed his family for a year. So many credits poured into a useless accessory when they could've done so much more good elsewhere. 

Still, when Katherine approaches him, Davey grits his teeth and lowers his head so she can reach. The cold metal feels hard and unyielding where it rests against his skull, an impossible weight to carry even though the gold is feather-light. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the window and doesn't recognize the face there, this person with too-clean skin and too-styled hair and too-nice clothes. Davey jerks his gaze away, stomach churning. He doesn't look like himself—he looks like a Capitol person. 

All it does is remind him that he's Capitol property now, forever their polished little toy soldier. 

Davey closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, steadying himself and pushing down the rage and indignation. He can't think like that right now, not while there will be people watching. Those thoughts have to be kept to the privacy of darkness, to those special, quiet moments of peace. For now, they still have to put on a show for the cameras. 

The train finally stops, and Davey's heart jumps into his throat. "Ready?" Jack asks, holding out a hand. He almost doesn't look familiar either, beautiful and regal, but his eyes are still the same soft honey-brown, his smile just that tiny bit timid at the corners. It soothes the ache in Davey's chest to know that in this, at least, he's not alone.

"Ready," Davey says, lacing his fingers with Jack's. 

It's a tidal wave of sound as the train doors glide open, hundreds of cheering voices coming at them like a wall. It feels like the Capitol all over again, the endless blur of faces beyond the white lights. So many people he's never met, screaming his name, and Davey just wants to escape. 

Jack squeezes his hand, and Davey takes the cue, stepping onto the platform at his side. When Jack lifts a hand and waves, grinning, the noise of the audience redoubles. It takes Davey a moment longer to copy the gesture. Mostly, he's distractedly scanning the faces in the crowd, searching, searching...

"Davey!" 

The voice hits him like a physical impact, and Davey forgets all sense of performance, of putting on an appearance. Davey instantly drops Jack's hand and falls to his knees just in time for the sprinting boy to collide with him, knocking the wind from Davey's lungs with the force of his hug. "Les," Davey breathes, tears already welling in his eyes as he clutches his little brother to his chest. 

"Davey!" In the next moment, there's a second pair of arms wrapping around him from the side, the smell of Sarah's lavender soap pressed to his shoulder. Then more arms on the other side, his mother's usual blend of medicinal herbs with baking flour. A hand, large and callused and bracing, settles between his shoulders, and the last knot inside Davey's chest unfurls. 

His family. 

There are tears openly coursing down his cheeks by the time the Jacobs family finally stops clinging to each other. "I knew ya'd do it," Les says insistently, his eyes bright and earnest. 

"Of course I did. Had something of yours I had to return," Davey replies, and he digs the silver coin from his pocket, holding it out. Les grins as he takes it, running his fingers over the edges that have been smoothed by time. 

"Oh, yeah," Les says suddenly, and then he pulls something from his pocket too. As the strip of black fabric unfolds, Davey's heart catches in his chest: his tie, the one he'd given Les right before he left. Les tugs the knot down loose enough to loop the fabric over Davey's head, almost snagging it on the crown for a second. "I took care of Mom and Dad and Sarah for ya, just like I promised," he says solemnly. 

Lips quivering, Davey drags his little brother back into his arms. "Thank you, pal," he says. "You did good. I'm proud of you." 

"And we're so proud of you," Esther adds, petting Davey's cheek gently. Then her eyes flick to Jack, hovering awkwardly while he lets the family reunite. Jack's eyes go wide when the woman abruptly throws her arms around his waist and pulls him into a tight hug. "Thank you so much, you wonderful boy," she says, voice choked. 

"Oh, I, uh," Jack stammers, surprised, but he returns the hug. "Um, youse welcome?" Esther laughs, stepping back, and she has to stand on her toes to cup his cheek in her palm. The tenderness of it clearly throws Jack for a loop, a warm blush turning his ears pink as he flounders for a way to react to the woman's gratitude. "I just - couldn't 'magine coming home without him, Mrs. Jacobs," Jack finishes shyly, and Davey can tell it's only partly a front put on for the cameras set up around the platform. 

Esther smiles softly and drags him down to kiss his cheek. "You're family now, Jack, call me Esther." 

The cheering masses all gaze up at them expectantly, and Davey feels a flash of panic when he realizes they're expecting the Victors to speak. His mouth is dry as he stands again, distractedly dusting off his trousers. He's not good in front of a crowd, would be happy to never be the center of so much attention again in his life. Then Jack's hand slips into his, and the other boy gives him an encouraging smile that sends a soft nudge of calm through him. 

"Thank you," Jack calls out to the crowd, and the applause fades down so the people can hear better. "The support from all'a you, it's incredible. Makes a fella proud to call this place home." 

"And we're proud of where we come from," Davey continues, those faint sparks of defiance flaring in his chest again. He can't say exactly what he wants to say, not with the eyes of the entire nation on them, but there's still a point he can make. "We've showed the world that we are more than just a poor District. We are a family. All of us, the love we bring together, it makes us strong. We're proud to be Manhattan."

Jack grins, a little bit fierce, and he suddenly punches his free hand into the sky. "Manhattan!" 

"Manhattan!" Davey echoes, throwing his own fist high. 

Thousands of voices scream it back, fists flying into the air in a staggering wave that swells to consume the entire crowd. "Manhattan!" 

Their new home feels wrong, this large and luxurious space already constructed for their family by the time Jack and Davey even set foot back in the District. The street, Victors' Hill, is a sad and sparsely populated road that looks down over the District Center. Three houses line the street, Kloppmann's on the northern side, while the Jacobs' and Jack's sit side-by-side on the south. 

It still makes Davey uneasy to walk around this cavernous house, the surplus of space making it feel strangely hollow. The floors are made of polished wood and soft carpets, and the walls are painted in warm colors. The Jacobs' meager belongings have been moved over, as well as added to with furniture that's so expensive Davey's almost afraid to touch it. Each of them has their own bedroom, which Davey finds more unsettling than anything, struggling to sleep in the too-soft bed and the too-quiet room. 

His new home feels like being back in the Capitol again, a painful reminder that he can never escape. 

The one nice thing about this house that Davey loves is the room built especially for him: a personal library. Every wall is made of shelves, just waiting to be filled with books beyond the single row of books provided by the Capitol. He felt impossibly guilty when he logged into the digiscreen tablet, shopping through a list of books that each cost as much as two weeks' salary from the factory, but it hadn't stopped him from ordering a stack of them to be delivered. 

Davey thinks he'll never get used to this, the fact that he doesn't need to worry about having enough credits to feed his family anymore. (The Capitol had even offered the services of a full-time cook, but Esther shooed them off, her Jacobs pride stung by the idea of not being the one to make food for her children.) It especially feels innately wrong every time he looks out over the city below them - a tragic metaphor not lost on him, which makes him think the Capitol chose this location with that in mind - and sees the people down there still struggling to get by. 

He doesn't dare risk it just yet, not while he knows the Capitol is still watching his every move, but Davey plans to give back to his people, to sneak extra food down to the families. It's only right, especially knowing that so many of them chipped in credits they couldn't spare to lose to give him that healing salve in the Games. Sarah is enjoying the luxury of owning a sewing machine, no longer having to repair clothes by hand, and she confessed that she wants to offer her services to the factory wives so their children will always have sturdy clothes to wear. Les, still somehow blissfully innocent in so many ways, doesn't bat an eye when he goes down into the city center to play with other kids his age, coming home dirty and smiling from a day of turning daily chores into games with his friends. 

Sighing, Davey thumbs distractedly through the book he's picked up, turning pages without reading any of the words. It's late, the world outside dark, but he can't sleep. Every time he closes his eyes, his heart races from the fear that he will wake up to find this comfortable bed isn't in Manhattan but in the Capitol. The anxiety closes in around him, crushing his lungs, and he throws himself off the mattress. It's only four steps to the window, and he climbs out onto the fire escape, scaling it up to the rooftop patio. 

Here, with no walls to smother him, he takes a deep breath. Even the distance isn't enough to erase the scents of the city, the billowing black smoke from the coal furnaces in the factories, and it tastes better to him than fresh air would. It feels like home, more than this house ever will. Davey stretches out on the tiled rooftop and folds his arms beneath his head, closing his eyes and pretending that he's staring up into an endless sky of stars. 

It's been two weeks since coming home from the Capitol, and Davey still expects every morning to wake back up inside the Arena again. Any loud noise from the warehouses is a cannon blast inside his head, making him wonder for a moment who is dead this time. He can't bring himself to get near the beautiful fireplace in their sitting room, the crackle of a pleasant fire sending his heart into his throat as he's tangled up in memories of a raging inferno trying to devour him. 

And as much as he loves being with his family again, wouldn't give that up for the world, there's always a pain in his chest knowing that he's not the same Davey they remember anymore. There's a piece of him that's been irrevocably altered, twisted and mutated by the Games, and he can never get that back. His family tries to understand, all too aware of what he experienced from watching it play out on the holo-screen, but they can't fully know. No matter how hard he tries, he will forever be a little bit separate from them now. There will always be a bit of him that feels different and outside and alone. 

A piece of him that's now a stranger in his own home.  

Davey doesn't know how long he's laying there, lost in the endless spiral of his thoughts, before a sound jerks him back to reality. His every muscle tenses, expecting an attack even though that makes no sense. A second later, he recognizes the sound, and he relaxes. The soft clattering gets closer, rising until he glances over to see a face appear over the lip of the roof. 

"Hey, Jack," Davey greets and his voice feels unnaturally loud after so long in the quiet. 

"Mind if I come up?" Jack asks. Davey shakes his head, and Jack promptly climbs over the ledge, crossing over on bare feet to lie down at Davey's side. "Thought I'd find ya here when you wasn't in your room." It's a common thing, now, having Jack Kelly tap at his bedroom window on nights when he can't sleep. 

"Needed some air," Davey responds with a shrug, and Jack hums in understanding, hearing the subtext. "Why're you up?" 

Jack huffs. "Was tryna paint. Mostly just made a mess." 

Davey glances sideways again, seeing the speckles of color that dot his hands and arms. There's far more on his right hand, smudges that dye his fingers a dozen shades. Davey winces. "Still having a hard time?" he asks sympathetically. Jack grunts. "You'll get there, Jacky. It's just gonna take some practice." 

"I know," Jack says and sighs wearily. "Just frustratin', ya know? Used to be so easy. Drawing was easy as breathing, my hands just sorta always knew what to do. And I can get close sometimes, but this hand just don't wanna work the same. Fingers don't bend just right, gotta hold pens diff'rent. Drives me crazy." 

"You'll get it," Davey says again. There's an instinct in him that wants to say sorry, to commiserate with Jack, but he also feels like he's already said it a million times and he knows Jack's tired of hearing it. Tired of people pitying him for losing the thing he's good at, for being forever changed and his body distorted in this way. So instead, Davey just takes Jack's hand and says, "I know it. I believe in you." 

Looking over and meeting his gaze, Jack smiles warmly. "Well, I'll be okay, then," he says, squeezing Davey's fingers. "Wouldn't wanna make you a liar." 

Davey laughs. "Thanks for that. I've got a rep to protect, you know." 

"Oh, course," Jack agrees playfully. "Youse a Newsboy. Folks ain't gonna believe your news if youse a liar." 

Snorting, Davey shakes his head. "Too bad the only news I'm allowed to spread is already lies," he says darkly. He's seen them on the holo-screen, clips from the Games and from the interviews, always just moments of him saying things that make him sound honored to have competed in the Games. They've carefully edited and trimmed things, removing anything that showed his glimmers of defiance. 

And although they have shown Smalls' death and Davey's grief immediately after, the clip is pointedly ended before Davey performed the funeral rites and stood up in solidarity - and apparently incited revolts across the entire nation. 

The Capitol isn't sharing any information about that, but Kloppmann and Katherine have told them what they heard. It sounds like the peacekeepers got the riots stamped down within a day or so, but there was a lot of damage. They burnt down the District Hall in Richmond. In Brighton, a whole fleet of transports was destroyed. It was worst in Queens, where a mob of furious citizens attacked and killed a battalion of peacekeepers. No one's allowed to talk about it though. The president doesn't want the other Districts to get ideas. 

Davey sighs. "I hate that they can control what I say," he says. "That I have to smile and talk about how blessed I feel when all I wanna do is scream because I can't close my eyes without seeing all the blood on my hands." 

With a sad noise, Jack tugs Davey's hand, and Davey instantly rolls to bury his face in Jack's shoulder. Jack wraps his arms around him, cradling Davey as he fights back sobs. Davey is always careful to try and keep his emotions in check around anyone else, not wanting his family to see how destroyed he feels inside, but it's different with Jack. He doesn't have to pretend with Jack because there's nothing about the black on Davey's soul he hasn't already seen. 

A quiet voice in the back of his head reminds him that he almost wouldn't have gotten this, would've had to survive this horrible emptiness alone, and he fists his hand in Jack's shirt. It feels wrong - he wouldn't wish this darkness on his worst enemy, let alone his best friend - but he's still so grateful to have Jack here with him. He doesn't know how he would've survived this on his own. 

(Of course, then another voice in his head helpfully chips in that if it weren't for Jack, he wouldn't have survived the Games in the first place.) 

Jack once again gives him the impression that he can read minds when he whispers, "We's gonna be okay, Dave. We gonna get through this. Together." He presses a soft, tentative kiss to Davey's hair. "I know it, 'cause I believe in ya." 

Davey smiles, his heart warming. He pushes up onto his elbows, gazing down at this man who holds him together even as he's falling apart himself—this man that Davey thinks he might be starting to fall in love with for real, fiction blurring into truth. So Davey leans in and kisses him, shy and hesitant. "Together," he agrees.  

There's a part of Davey that will never be free, will never truly escape the Hunger Games, but with Jack by his side, they might just survive it.