Chapter Text
When your consciousness comes back, the first thing you’re aware of is the restraints on your arms. It’s funny, actually, that anyone could think you were a threat, but you lie very still, giving the illusion that you’re still asleep.
There is someone milling around you, and a needle in your right arm. But the thing that surprises you the most is the fact that you’re alive.
What a fucking joke. Did they think that letting you die would be admitting defeat? The least they could do is let you die, for fuck’s sake, because you really don’t have it in you to fight anymore. You’re no tribute, no victor. You’re not even a fucking warrior; you’re just a girl who knows too much about herbs and berries and how to work a knife.
Kyle, you think. I need to get to him.
To kill him, really. That’s your plan. If you can cut his suffering early, then that’s a win in your book.
You fall back under before you can properly concoct a plan.
—
The next time you wake up, you’re completely alone. This gives you the chance to slip your hands out of the restraints—they’ve tied them loosely, interestingly—and to roll off the padded table, wincing as you make some noise. The ache in your back and the lack of proper vision is making it hard to actually be stealthy.
You only make it down a few doors in the hallway before familiar voices are floating about, and you quickly press yourself against the wall to prevent yourself from being seen. Kyle is nowhere to be found.
“I told you,” Johnny is saying, “it’s a bad idea—”
“And I told you, it’s not up to you.” You’d recognise that gruff tone anywhere. You peer around the doorway, seeing Johnny, that Games creator that you met once in the Capitol, and Price sitting around a table together. Price looks particularly disheveled. “Just focus on recovering, John.”
Johnny sneers at your mentor. “Yeah, well, if one of you coulda been nice enough to let me know about this fuckin’ conspiracy, then I won’t be annoyin’ you here. I’m just sayin’, the least you could do is look for ma sister!”
“We are,” the Games creator says placatingly, playing mediator, “I’ve sent out a special order for her retrieval.”
“You should kill her,” Price says, flatly. “It’s better than having her being used as a pawn.”
You step into the room with a bravado you do not have. “Where’s Kyle?” you demand.
Price looks over at you, something calculating in his gaze. You know he doesn’t like you, but he does like Kyle. He’s always liked Kyle better, probably because he was the better tribute anyways, but with your dumb luck, you managed to stick around. You know he cares little for your wellbeing, but you both care about Kyle. That’s all that really matters.
“You done eavesdroppin’?” he says, finally.
“Don’t change the topic,” you warn. “Answer the question.”
Johnny looks at you. He frowns, displeased, and this is one of the few moments you’ve ever been so intimidated by someone else since your first Games. “Did you know about this? This plot to destroy the fuckin’ arena?”
Johnny is a victor from District 2, a true-bred Career. He won through sheer strength. He won when he was sixteen, taking down a boy twice his height who was eighteen with his bare hands. You still remember seeing the moment on live TV. You had slept with nightmares for weeks, the phantom feeling of his hands on your throat.
You have never spoken to him before, even though the two of you were in the Third Quarter Quell together. Kyle delegated himself to socialising with the Careers, and weirdly, he had hit it off with Johnny.
“No,” you say, after realising he was waiting for an answer. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but I need to know one thing first. Where’s Kyle?”
“Sit down,” Price orders. His tone leaves no room for disobedience.
You sit. Then Price turns his gaze to Johnny, glare intensifying. Johnny hesitates, before sitting down with a huff beside you.
“Don’t say anything, because I’m about to explain the situation. Don’t interrupt, don’t ask any questions, not until I’m through. Nod if you understand.”
Your fist clenches, but you nod. You’ve never won an argument against Price before, and you doubt you’ll start today.
He explains, devoid of any emotion. There was a plot. Something about overthrowing the government, using the Games as an opportunity to break out the Victors who could act as symbols of motivation, whatever. None of that matters. But even though Price knows what you want to know, he decides to take the long route there. He talks about revolts occuring across the entire country, about how this had all been an elaborate plan years in the making, and how crucial you all were to the plan.
He stops, making sure that you’re following. Johnny opens his mouth to say something, but you cut him off. “Keep going,” you command.
Price cocks his head to the side. Then he continues. He talks about how you’re on a very round-about route to District 13—the District which, you know distinctly, has been blown up to the fucking sky—and that now all you should be worrying about is recovery and rebuilding muscle.
You wait for him to move on. He doesn’t.
“I think it would be a good idea to get some food,” the Games creator says, weakly. “Shall I go get some?”
“Where the fuck is Kyle?” you ask, voice raising.
“At the Capitol.” Price hums. “Probably. All we know is that we didn’t take him with us.”
You don’t understand. Kyle is his golden boy. Kyle is the one that the public loves, Kyle is the one who knows how to put on a fucking show. All you do is swear, have some sort of intimidation factor, and have the creativity to come up with half-decent ideas that you and Kyle manage to execute with efficacy, allowing the two of you to win the Games together. If they want a symbol, Kyle has already become the poster boy for ‘poor kid turned hero’. He’s the ultimate underdog, and everyone roots for an underdog.
So the question is, why you and not him?
“I don’t understand,” you say.
“They probably didn’t think the fuckin’ plan through,” Johnny grumbles.
Price understands you though. “Kyle has no substance. People listen to you.”
“They think I’m a fucking joke,” you hiss, “some sort of wacko who likes to talk big and then hide in trees. Kyle has people’s support. He has their heart. People have been willing to die for him—just ask that Victor from 4!”
“Rayna died for him because she knew the plan,” Price replies, crossing his arms across his chest. “We had to keep Kyle alive, otherwise you wouldn’t work with us.”
“You need a symbol. I’m not a symbol.”
Price jerks his head towards Johnny. “That’s okay. We have him.”
Johnny blanches. “What?”
“You’ve been actively rebelling since you won your Games,” Price states, tiredly, as if he’s already had enough of dealing with the two of you. “People have been saying this whole thing was your concoction. Not that it was, but it worked out well. They’ve got a symbol to fight behind.”
“Okay,” you say, “but did you consider if the Capitol kill Kyle? You think I’d work for your fucking coup then?”
“You said it yourself. Kyle is likeable. The public needs some reassurance; they’ll probably prop Kyle up as a propo or something within the next week.”
Rage swells. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” you hiss.
Price looks at you, straight into your eyes. You’re expecting vindication, some sort of retaliation for all those times you complained that your mentor was some washed out old man who knew nothing but drinking, but all you see is exhaustion. He looks as tired as you feel.
“Get some food, some rest.” He looks away. “We’ll get to work soon.”
Johnny flits his eyes between the two of you, incredulous. “What, so we just take everythin’ lyin’ down?” When you don’t reply, he shakes his head, muttering under his breath. Louder, he directs to you, “Yer heid’s full o’ mince, did they give you somethin’ real woozy or somethin’? Yer the fuckin’ Snake of District 12, fer fuck’s sake, please show some of that snakeness sometime soon.”
You’re tired. All you can see when you close your eyes to blink are rapid images of Kyle being strapped down, tortured, hurt, completely violated for information he doesn’t know. Or maybe he does know. God, they didn’t even tell you and you’re meant to be the smart one.
“Get some rest,” Price repeats.
You stand up. There’s a semi-empty bowl on the table and you eye it.
Price clocks the movement, but he doesn’t say anything. That’s as good as permission as you’ll ever get. Swiping it from its position in front of Johnny, you wind your arm back and nail it straight into Price’s chest.
Leftover broth makes the bowl slide down the front of his shirt. Price’s face twitches, but otherwise he shows no displeasure.
Johnny whistles. “Okay, that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
“Fuck you,” you say directly to Price. He just wipes down broth that had splashed out into his beard, giving you a blank stare. The creator coughs, choking on something in the background.
“Johnny, let’s go.” You turn to leave. Johnny’s head is on a swivel, going from Price to you, then back to Price.
Then, when you’re out of the door, he stands up, and follows.
—
A week goes by and nothing happens. Johnny refuses to be their symbol—a Mockingjay, or something, one of the features from his first Games—and instead he seems to trail behind you, recognising that no one outside of Price dares approach you.
This lady called Laswell had tried to get you on board, but you had given her a calm look and said, “If you value that blouse, you’d get out of range of me and my soup.”
A week goes by, and you’re starting to feel the antsy nerves of having done nothing at all. Only you and Johnny are the Victors around; you hear that Neil and Dana had been killed on extraction, and that Farah was still hanging on in the ICU. Simon Riley is also supposedly a Victor that had been saved, but he’s like a ghost, completely nowhere to be seen, even when you actively go looking for him.
Instead, you find yourself in the fitness room, getting on the treadmill to erase your thoughts. You slowly turn up the incline, increase the speed, and all you can think about is the burn in your legs and Kyle running alongside you.
Keep your hips forwards, he says, don’t clench your fists too hard. It’s meant to be relaxing, jeez. You look as if someone’s trying to chase you down to kill you.
You had replied, That’s because that’s the most likely scenario, and he had laughed. Now, though, all you do is bask the memory of his voice.
You’re nearing the end of day eight of radio silence from Price when Johnny comes into the fitness room, which is usually deserted when you come around at the hour you do, and he stands at the entrance with a look on his face. You pull out your earbuds to hear what he has to say.
“You should come to the cafeteria,” he says, finally.
“What’s wrong?”
His expression is almost sad. “You should come.”
You hop off the treadmill, jogging to cool down. You grab a nearby towel to dab at the back of your neck, following Johnny as he leads you to the cafeteria. He’s uncharacteristically quiet.
In the cafeteria, a small group of people are gathered underneath the local TV. Their eyes are glued to the screen, and because of how tall some of the men are, you can’t see what they’re so enraptured by. But as soon as one notices you approaching, he’s making space for you, and he’s hissing at his friends. They turn and see you, faces turning ashen, and they silently make way for you to move to the front.
Johnny stands behind you, unusually close. You see the screen, and almost lose all feeling in your legs.
Kyle sits on a deceptively looking armchair, something that’s supposed to scream luxury and comfort but is in fact not comfortable at all. Opposite him sits Zak, the show host that interviewed all tributes before they were sentenced to die.
“Is there anything you want to say to the Mockingjay?” Zak is asking.
Everyone around you stiffens. You just watch every movement Kyle makes, down to the micro-expression.
“That this needless violence needs to stop,” Kyle says, genuinely invested in what he’s saying. “There are families being displaced, orphans being made. You and I both know what it’s like to be disadvantaged—we need to stop thinking about delusions and start thinking about reality.”
“What about to the Snake?” Zak chuckles, obviously expecting Kyle to smile, but all it does is intensify Kyle’s frown. “I mean, what about a direct message? We all know about your love story, so please, don’t spare the details. If she were listening, right now, what would you say to her?”
The camera cuts from the wide shot to a close-up of Kyle’s face. He looks directly into the lens. He’s silent.
“Here, a bouncing board, mayhaps,” Zak continues in the background, “because we all know the rumours. They say the whole mass destruction was one of her devious plans, something I’m sure we all know she’s capable of. We saw her with that maneouvre with the Careers in the last Games, of course. What do you say to that? What would you say to the snake who was orchestrating everything? All this pain?”
You see everything. The pain. The sheer mental fortitude it’s taking for Kyle to even look remotely okay throughout the interview.
It’s the struggle that makes your breath catch though. He doesn’t want to say it. You see it.
“I would say,” he says finally, with great difficulty, “that if she were the one who was behind all this destruction and death, that she’s no longer the woman I knew and loved. That she’s become a monster on this hungry grab for power, and that if there’s the woman I know and love still in there somewhere, that she needs to come back. Fight against all of it. She would know that this is all wrong.”
There’s a moment of silence to let the message sink in. Then, a woman stands up, screeching, “Traitor! He’s one of them!”
Something akin to sleazy meat is thrown towards the screen, quickly spurring on rage from the rest of the audience. Johnny is grabbing you, hauling you out of the way before you’re collateral damage, but you can’t tear your eyes away from Kyle. From the way he forces himself to smile, as if satisfied with a job well done, and your heart breaks.
—
You barge into Price’s office, knocking over something in the process but uncaring. You snatch the bottle of whatever he’s drowning his sorrows in away from him, ignoring his sound of protest. “I want a rescue mission for Kyle, ASAP.”
Price sighs, raking a hand down his face. “That’ll be hard, sweetheart.”
“I’ll do whatever you want.” You swallow. “Write up strategic plans, train troops, hell, I’ll even groom Johnny. But I want Kyle to be top priority, no matter what.”
The Games creator clears his throat nervously. You then notice that Price hadn’t been drinking alone. “We can’t exactly launch a full-scale exfiltration for a single person—”
“Then you can kiss your Mockingjay goodbye,” you reply.
The creator freezes. Price tilts his head again, but this time, he’s pensive with a small smile. It’s not a kind smile, nor is it a nice smile, but it’s one that reminds you that he’s also a previous Victor. One that had infamously manipulated everyone in turning against one another so all he had to do was kill an already dying tribute and get named Victor.
This is a man that gets what he wants, even if it means stripping the other person down to their bare bones. You’re like his first and last victim; twelve-year-old Yanis who just needed someone to protect him, but ended up killing four other Victors, sobbing himself to sleep about it, and committing suicide when it was only him and Price left. Price had accepted the title of Victor with a fucking smile.
Price will always get what he wants. It’s about time you thought about what you wanted instead of futilely trying to stop him.
“John,” the creator warns.
“Deal,” Price says anyways, standing more steadily than a man who’s drunk should be able to. “I want three propos by the end of the month.”
“I’ll give you five if you can give me a list of names to put on a team by the end of the week,” you bargain, offering him back his bottle of alcohol.
His smile widens. He doesn’t take the bottle back. “Sold.”
—
“I don’t fuckin’ understand,” Johnny says two days later, “are you all even speakin’ English? What the fuck is upstage right? And fuck you too—I am speaking firmly!”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Johnny, please—”
“I thought you said we weren’t going to play along,” he complains, picking at his costume. He plays with a flap on his thigh, clearly uncomfortable with the whole get-up. “Why is it that now we’re doin’ whatever they say?”
“Can someone tell the Mockingjay to turn about eighteen degrees to the right?” a stage director yells, interrupting you before you can reply.
“I’m right fuckin’ here!” Johnny hollers back.
“Johnny.” You think of Kyle. You’re doing this for Kyle. “Look at me. Ignore them. Look at me. ”
Johnny does, reluctantly. His blue eyes are as piercing as the day you met him, even more so because the accents in his costume bring it out even more. You feel like you’re looking at some representation of a deity instead of good old Johnny MacTavish, but you suppose that’s the feel everyone’s going for.
“There’s no way back to where we were,” you say calmly. “There’s no going back to lives as Victors. I know that as much as you might’ve hated it, it was routine. You got into that arena, played gladiator, became entertainment for the vultures, and then you got to yell profanities about the President and not get your lead lopped off because the people loved you.”
“Now wait a second—”
“You can’t do that here. There are no people to love you here. The people here don’t see you, John MacTavish, they see the Mockingjay, the boy who lived amongst the birds for weeks without going crazy. They see someone who defies the expectations, a symbol for freedom and rebellion.”
You let him take in your words. “I wasn’t a gladiator,” he says, weakly.
“You were their plaything,” you reinforce, and he winces at the reminder. “You killed their prisoners in an arena for fun to avoid getting your family hurt. But you refused to kill kids, killing the announcer in retaliation.”
“They killed my cousin,” Johnny says quietly.
“But then you refused to kill the kid after that,” you pointed out.
“Because I almost ripped the fuckin’ head off of the President and said he would die if he ever laid hands on my family again.” Johnny shakes his head. “I don’t know where this is goin’, lass. He found me funny or somethin’, that’s why I’m still alive.”
“And they never sent a kid your way again. Johnny, that’s change. People noticed that. They realised that you held some power, even if it was all a façade, and now they think you have the power to change the world. You need to wield that. That’s your weapon.”
Johnny sighs. “Just give me a sword, will ya? Makes life so much easier.”
“You won’t win this war by slicing your way out of it,” you assert. “You’ll win it by using that voice of yours.”
“People hate the accent,” he says, shrugging.
“They love the accent,” you correct. “Now get back up there and use some of that MacTavish charm, alright?”
He looks at you, and you know you’ve won him over. But Johnny is also empathetic, almost terrifyingly so, and he smiles sadly. “You must really love him,” he says.
You frown. “What?”
“I know you hate doing this,” he gestures vaguely to himself and the space around him, “convincing people to do things. Using people to get what you want. You think it makes you like Price.”
You don’t refute him because it’s true.
“I’m not arguing with you there. But I think there’s a fundamental difference between the two of you. You do it out of love. For that lad in the Capitol, eh?”
You shake your head. “Get on stage, MacTavish.”
“Yes ma’am,” he salutes, smile turning cheeky, “I’ll do you proud. I’m going to upstage right this fucker so hard that they won’t care about how firm my fuckin’ tone is.”
You try to smile at the humour, but you can’t. Even when Johnny fucks up his lines another four times, cracks a million jokes in between that gets even the stoic cameraman to smile, you can’t find it in yourself to feel happy. Because Kyle is out there, being hurt, and you’re living in luxury in comparison.
You need to get him back. Johnny’s just the first step.
—
They tell you Farah is out of intensive care and that she’s now in rehabilitation sometime further down the week, but you’re too busy clenching a fist into the list of names Price has given you as a ‘thanks for your hard work with the Mockingjay’.
The list is short, with only four names of those who had volunteered. The first name though, is the only one you recognise.
Simon Riley, it reads. How bizarre. You thought he was busy holing away in his wallows to even know that this recruitment was happening.
But still, four names is far too low. You need to do something about Kyle’s image. They still call him a traitor behind your back, because you can’t help but turn the air around you cold whenever you hear anything bad being spoken about your co-Victor. All the District 13 residents have now learnt to never badmouth him in front of you, but that also makes it hard to discern who you want on the team and who you don’t.
Before you can make any moves though, Kyle pops up on the TV once more. This time, his clothes are even more luxurious with a fabric that shimmers a million colours at different angles, causing minor outrage in the bunker at the obvious care he’s being given.
But you don’t see the clothes or the makeup, you see his eyes. Try as they might, they can’t hide his massive deep eyebags, nor the lack of life in his eyes. Whenever he smiles, it’s too tight, and you want to reach out to press your fingers against the corners of his lips to get him to untense.
He’s laughing about something with Zak, something about the current fashion trends. Apparently Kyle’s got this reality TV show going on for the residents of the Capitol where he rates daily fashion choices, and Zak jokes about coming on as a guest star.
“Oh definitely,” Kyle says, “you should. Karov was talking about broadcasting my show to all the Districts now that it’s been such a hit with the locals.”
“What a fucking joke!” someone yells. You can’t even disagree.
“I’ll make time for you, any time you want,” Zak promises. “With ties like that to the President, how could I ever say no?”
Johnny appears beside you. “Hey,” he says, leaning closer to whisper, “Price’s got something.”
“Tell him I’m busy,” you reply.
“He say’s it’s regarding the golden boy,” Johnny says, uncomfortably.
You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. He hasn’t been told who the ‘golden boy’ refers to, but he’s smart enough to guess. On screen, Kyle is barely keeping it together as he excuses himself to cough, hacking up enough of his lungs that even Zak is concerned for his wellbeing.
“Just a bug,” Kyle dismisses. You see a flash of red in his palm before he tucks it away, out of sight. “What were we discussing again? How ruffles are back in season?”
You turn away. You can’t watch this. “Lead the way,” you tell Johnny, who looks anxiously over the crowd of raucous viewers. They hate him even more now, and you’t even do anything about it.
At this point, you could expect some people to even drop out of the proposed rescue mission. In that case, you’ll just have to take Riley, and hopefully Farah, and the three of you will have to make do. Although it isn’t an army, you’re pretty sure Riley counts as one himself with that war machine-like mindset he has.
When you arrive at what seems like a tech room, Price doesn’t look up from where he’s bending over a desk, saying, “Took you long enough.”
“What’s so important?” you demand. Everyone else in the room discreetly shuffles away from the two of you as you stalk towards him. “Kyle’s live right now.”
“Exactly,” Price says. “He’s live right now, and we’ve got a way in.”
Instantly, your animosity disappears. “How?” You decide to change tactics because neither you nor Price know anything about coding. “What are we going to do with it?”
“Say thank you to Alex here,” Price gestures to one of the men sitting down at a nearby desk, “he’s the resident expert. Apparently he learnt from the guy who created the firewall and he was chipping away at it since he got moved here. We’re able to hack their channels and release some of our footage.”
“Pick the second propo,” you say instantly.
Kate Laswell frowns, moving to stands beside the two of you. Since you had threatened her admittedly good-looking blouse, you haven’t talked to the Director of District 13 since. But she has no hostility in her gaze as she turns to look at you, questioning, “Why number two? I liked number three best.”
“It’ll be more effective,” you say, and then don’t elaborate.
“We’ll listen to the Snake,” Price agrees. “Keller, did you hear that?”
“Loud and clear,” Alex on the computer replies, giving you a thumbs up. The screen in front of you switches from lines of code to Kyle’s broadcast, from where they’ve moved on from fashion trends to the poor situations in the other districts.
“I know, poor things,” Kyle shakes his head, “I don’t know what I can do to help them. I’ve been donating, of course, one hundred percent of the earnings from my show, but that’s not enough.”
“They’re using him to twist the narrative,” Laswell mutters, “discrediting our symbol and our people.”
She doesn’t need to say that they’re targeting you, the mysterious Snake who’s seemed to have her hand in every jar possible, but everyone knows it.
Still, at least they’re not targeting Johnny’s image yet. It must’ve been Price’s idea, to use Johnny as the figurehead, because all they’ll do is slander you and focus all the energy on you. Once your propaganda finally gets out, people will see a fresh image on a familiar face, and they’ll be more inclined to listen to someone they know has been established as trustworthy.
You don’t want to say it, but Price’s plan is going to work. It makes you wildly discomforted and comforted at the same time.
“I’m ready whenever,” Alex on the computer announces.
“Wait,” you say quietly. Price holds up his hand to halt the process accordingly, looking away from the TV to look at you.
You wait until the shots cycle through and it lands of Kyle’s close-up, the one where he stares directly into the screen. “Now,” you order hastily, and Price quickly snaps his hand down to signify the command.
Not a few seconds later, Kyle’s face swaps out for the triumphant music of your propaganda. Johnny stands in the midst of a battlefield, cradling the skull of an infant, in a CGI created ruins of District 12. The mourning on his face is genuine, and when he looks up to stare at the camera, it’s all fiery and passionate like the Johnny he is.
The screen cuts to Kyle. “Johnny?” he breathes.
The propo flickers back on. Johnny says his only two lines, delivery subpar, but there’s a certain quality to his stutters and his forlorn gazes across set that makes it that much more human. Then, off-script, Johnny looks past the camera and at you, who isn’t on screen.
He reads what you mouth. A sinister smile spreads across his face, and then he looks directly at the camera with newfound confidence.
“You might be the eagle, Karov,” he says, “but I’m the Mockingjay. And with a snake in my corner, we both know who’ll win this fight.”
Kyle reappears. Alex curses, snapping his fingers across his keyboard with rapid movement, but that’s all you needed. Price is still looking at you, but you’re looking at the screen.
There’s a moment of conflict on Kyle’s face, before everything clears and his smile disappears. He looks more unhappy, but you see it: the glint in his eye, the life that he embodies. You know Karov sees it too, because he hisses for the camera to get cut, but Kyle launches himself forwards to grab a hold of a camera.
“They’re coming,” he says, “they’re coming for you. Dawn—”
He gets bodily tossed to the ground, camera crashing down alongside him. A crack appears in the middle of the screen. “Get out—” Blows land on his back, and blood splatters from his mouth. “—I love you—”
The livestream cuts out. Everyone is silent.
You’re the first to move, finally looking away from the screen. Price is smiling, nodding to himself, and you lock eyes for a brief moment.
Understanding passes through in that split-second. Maybe you and Price are more alike that you like to think you are.
“Let’s move,” Laswell orders, recovering, “we heard the boy. The Capitol will be coming for us, and I’m sure as hell not going to take a warning like that as if it’s hearsay. I want everyone in the bunkers as soon as possible—someone get me my commander!”
You and Price naturally gravitate to the edge of the room now that it’s spurring into motion, and he gives you a nod of respect when you finally have your privacy. “That was a good move,” he admits. “I liked the snake reference.”
“None of you would’ve watched ‘till the end,” you say, “Johnny’s acting is just way too shit. I needed to deliver a message though, and it worked.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“No,” you agree, “but I only need it to happen once. Now. My team?”
Price hums. “We can move out in a month or so. More will volunteer now that the kid’s sacrificed himself on live television to warn us about impending doom.”
“This week,” you assert. “No later.”
“Look, it’ll take time to convince them that this isn’t a hoax and hopefully after the attack does arrive then it’ll speed things up, but telling them to risk their lives for someone they considered a traitor isn’t really a good idea—”
“They’re torturing him. Giving him pain, starving him, keeping him awake—I see that exhaustion. Price, that doesn’t come from bad sleep, that comes from no sleep.”
“I know.” Price’s voice turns quiet. “I know.”
“He’s running a fucking reality show for fuck’s sake,” you hiss, “you think they give him time to sleep between psychological conditioning, enhanced interrogation techniques, and playing domestic household with the fucking billionares? We’re heading in at the end of this week, no changes.”
Price is silent for a long moment, before he finally nods. “Okay. This week.”
This is the first time you’ve won, but it doesn’t feel like a victory. Nothing will until Kyle is safe and sound not more than two meters away from you.
And so you swallow, nodding back. “This week.”