Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stephanie Brown - District Six’s sole female victor and a badass in her own right before she managed to outlive twenty-three other kids - was bored.

It really blew her mind how banal the life of a revolutionary could be. No stirring speeches, no daring escapes or explosive chases. Her mom would be the first– 

Stephanie quashed that thought before it could fully form. She couldn’t even think about Mom or she was going to lose it. 

These days she never knew who was watching. The Games had taught her that cameras were everywhere, but she’d learned the hard way that the Games were only the start. She’d found eight cameras and twelve bugs on the first floor of her Victor mansion alone and she was no longer willing to bet against the Capitol in assuming she’d found them all. 

So playing the wily, charming childkiller it was until Bruce and Lois said otherwise. 

The leaders of the League had laid out the plan for her in the wake of her victory, but for all they used words like ‘essential’ and ‘strategic,’ Stephanie knew her job was mostly to wait and let the older Victors take the more dangerous missions. 

“We’ve been building towards this for twenty-five years,” Bruce had sworn to her. “Your part is coming, but until then, let our agents do their jobs.” Fancy talk for ‘sit around on your ass, little girl,’ Stephanie thought grumpily. 

Then she stopped herself. Bruce always treated her with respect, the same way he did Artemis - crisp, clear, respectful of her boundaries, and always willing to listen to her thoughts. And as a rising mentor, she was starting to understand the older Victors’ urge to preserve what shreds of her childhood remained. 

She just had nothing to do. Boredom made everything worse, including her isolation.

Steph felt a sick sense of relief as the clock ticked down to the train’s arrival. This was the Reaping - what kind of sick piece of work looked forward to that? But her supposed mentor (Six’s only other Victor) was, as usual, nowhere to be found, and the thought of having someone, anyone, to talk to besides that creep or the dead-eyed, sallow-faced populace of her hometown had her almost losing her mind with relief.

The chimes at the station sounded as what could only be the train tripped the proximity sensors at the border, and Stephanie fought the urge to beam or burst into tears.

The silver hovertrain had barely come level with the platform before one of the doors was opening, and a red haired blur was moving towards her.

“WALLY!” Stephanie shrieked, absently noticing the cameras watching from the door he’d just exited but unable to care because he was here. She couldn’t help laughing as her friend and fellow Victor swept her up and spun her around, both clinging to the other with every scrap of strength they had.

When he finally set her down with sparkling eyes and a smile to kill, she asked the question he’d set up for her as clearly as if he’d handed her a script. “How are you here?”

Wally winked with the eye facing away from the cameras. She’d gotten it right then. “Officially I’ve been commissioned to distract folks from the absence of your creepy-ass mentor. And unofficially, I might have snuck into the wrong bed, hypothetically of course–”

“Of course,” Steph deadpanned, then ducked his attempt to get her in a headlock. 

“So,” Wally continued with mock sternness, “I might have pulled some favors to get out of the Capitol until that misunderstanding dies down.” He darted in, inhumanely fast as always, pinned her against his chest, and whispered in her ear, “And un-unofficially, there was not a chance in hell I’d let you do this alone.” 

Stephanie stifled a sob in his chest and stayed there until she had her face back in order. She had thought she’d have to do this alone. She’d won on her own, she’d lived the last five months on her own, and no hourly texts from Bruce and Dick, Jason, and Tim could quite fill the absence she felt next to her. 

She took a steadying breath and came back up with a teasing grin. “Are you sure District 5 can spare that gorgeous face? Will anyone be able to function without your sparkling personality?” Yeah, she was maybe laying on the sarcasm a little thick, but it was all a show anyway.

Wally winked, perfectly angled for the camera to catch the sharp line of his jaw, but the signal only for her. She resisted the urge to beam at the pride in his eyes. “I’ve done so much free babysitting this year that Barry owes me some babysitting of his own. He’s got Virgil and the tributes this year because I have a mentor to mentor,” he finished with a grin, tapping her nose as if she was five instead of fifteen.

“Hey Livy!” he called over his shoulder, and the hawkish Capitolite beside the primary camera zeroed in on him. “Brown’s going to give me the grand tour while you lot set up. What time will the preps be at her place?”

“Nine,” they called back in a gravelly rasp. Stephanie tried not to react to their frankly eerie black and gold gaze. The ‘hawkish’ descriptor was a little too accurate. “Pre-Reaping shooting starts at ten hundred. Don’t be late,” they warned direly.

Wally waved carelessly. “When am I ever?” Stephanie couldn’t help giggling at Livy’s roll of their raptor eyes and their ever-so-brief look of longsuffering. Wally nudged her forward with a playful hip bump. “Alright Brown, lead the way.” 

Stephanie towed him off the platform, heading for her favorite shortcut. 

“We’re not going street level?”

At that frankly ridiculous suggestion, she tossed him an incredulous look. “This is District Six, dumbass. We walk down the drag and we get mugged for whatever we have on us.”

“Even though we’re Victors?”

“Because we’re Victors.”

“Oh.”

Stephanie rolled her eyes. Yeah, oh. She knew what she was doing, Wally. “And of slightly less importance, no Peacekeepers would be caught dead patrolling down here, let alone planting or monitoring cameras. It’s downright disgusting for a couple stretches, but as long as we keep it quiet, we can speak freely.”

Wally slung an arm around her shoulders and gently knocked his head against hers. “You’re smarter than you look, Stephaninny.” He accepted her elbow to the ribs with minimal drama.

“–And Jason and Tim just finished a week-long cold war over whatever-the-fuck,” Wally recounted, his voice echoing a little through the tunnel. “Al– Bruce was so done with them by the end of it.”

Stephanie stopped walking, trying to keep it together at the jarring discord of Alfred being excluded from even a story about the Waynes. Her voice shook a little when she said, “Avoxes are human beings, Wally. Alfred is a human being. We have the same privacy down here that we have in our heads - we should use it.”

He rested a hand on her shoulder in silent apology before pulling her into a side hug. “Well said.” 

Stephanie rested her head against his shoulder. The Wayne family butler - rendered mute by the Capitol for some act of treason no one was brave enough to explain to her - was the kindest person Stephanie knew. He’d refused to let her slip away in the wake of losing Mom, stuffing her full of soup and bolstering her with kind but firm signs and written notes. Drop by drop, word by word, he’d helped her build up a will to live again, and she owed him more than she could ever repay. He more than even Bruce or the boys had given her hope. 

Probably sensing the direction of her thoughts, Wally gave her another squeeze. “In that case, let me tell you about the glitter bomb incident…” And he launched into a story of the latest prank war to plague the Waynes’ longsuffering butler that had Stephanie in tears of laughter. 

“–And the front door opens and it’s Artemis standing there, and these idiots have the brilliant idea to immediately implicate her in it. So she’s standing in the door absolutely covered in bright pink glitter, and I’m telling you, Steph, the two of them did not stand a chance.” 

Artemis’s introduction to the story accompanied a truly dopey smile that had Stephanie almost retching because how dense did you have to be to be this in love with someone and not realize it?

Well, she was just doing her duty to the Victors of Panem. “You see her a lot?” she asked in what she hoped was a casual voice. 

“Artemis?” he shrugged, oblivious to any hint of suggestion. Steph didn’t know why she bothered with subtlety. “I see her a couple times a week and at every League meeting. She trains at a dojo not far from the Penthouse so we see each other more than some of the others.” Fancy that. “When our…schedules line up, she’s been teaching me some new holds and combos.” 

Stephanie valiantly resisted the urge to capitalize on the innuendo or, barring that, bang her head against the sewer wall. How Dick had put up with this for so long was a mystery. But she was never going to get a better opportunity to poke at him, so she took a deep breath. Slow and steady. Casual. CASUAL. “You know, Wally, it sounds like you see Artemis whenever you can. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Behind her she heard a squeak, a splash, and a string of curses her mom would have– 

Stephanie cut off that train of thought. She turned around slowly and used every ounce of her self-control to not to cackle at his predicament. He was trying, rather futilely, to figure out where to wipe his hands and face when the front of his shirt was also covered in mud and a whole lot worse. 

She raised an eyebrow at him without mercy. “You and Artemis are friends, right?”

“Of course we are,” he snapped at her without heat. “Why on Luthor’s green earth would you think we weren’t?”

Stay casual, stay casual, stay casual. She shrugged. “Maybe because the only times you lose your balance are when she’s around or when she comes up in conversation?” She looked down at the step he’d missed with great meaning.

Wally was unimpressed and still so very dense. “Brown, you literally brought me into a sewer. I did not lose my footing because Artemis and I are just friends. The walkways are just slick.”

Jackpot. He’d just admitted, entirely unprompted, that the distinction of being just friends with Artemis mattered to him. By the rules of the bet, that made commentary fair game.

Stephanie looked down at him hoping that everything about her expressed how stupid she found him. “‘Just friends?’ Are you sure?” Wally froze on his way back to the landing and gave her an unreadable look.

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” he said slowly, “but I can assure you that there is nothing between Artemis and I but friendship.” 

He gestured her forward to get them going again, but not before she caught a complicated little expression playing on his face, the emotion in his eyes refracting with vulnerability. “But yes, un–” He caught himself with a cough, and Stephanie stifled a scream of frustration. “She and I are friends, and we’ll never be more than that.” 

This time Steph did roll her eyes, and she was lucky he couldn’t see her face because if she did anything that could be interpreted as interference, she was never winning that bet and losing to Dick was unacceptable. 

The rest of the day flew by in a haze of smarting, perfect skin, morphling-glazed eyes, and Six’s sour, hollow apathy. Her mentor had never shown, praise Luthor and all his saints, to the relief of Stephanie, Livy, and the entire crew. Wally’s entrance had elicited a stir that melted away as soon as it had come. The crew clearly couldn’t tell if conscripting him had gotten them any more than some glitzy filler shots or more than ten minutes of crowd engagement. 

Now, ten hours out from the Capitol, she was curled up on some couch in the back of the train, her toes tucked firmly beneath Wally’s thighs. He was about four pulls short of ‘three sheets to the wind,’ and Steph… Steph was doing her level best to come down from the shakes of her latest nightmare. 

Wally wrapped a warm hand around her ankle in an absentminded, steadying comfort.

Stephanie swallowed once, then again when that didn’t quell the bile rising in her throat. “Neither of them is likely to win, are they,” she asked softly.

Wally’s eyes went more distant, and his grip tightened on the bottle. “Likely not,” he admitted, chasing the grim admission with a sharp swig. “Back-to-back victories from the same district aren’t unheard of, but it’s usually to complete a set.” 

The last word was practically sneered. Cocooned as she was in fuzzy blankets, she still shivered. Whatever demons were crawling around in Wally’s head right now weren’t ones she’d touch even on a normal day and hour. 

“Honestly? I think a Career’s going to take it this year,” he admitted lowly, a ghostly figure in the dark with his pale skin and bright hair. “Probably a Four or something. Artemis and Vic back to back gave some breathing room to the outliers in 72 and 73. Which gave us you and Virgil.” 

His voice held nothing but the wonder and love of a new parent for their baby, without a single trace of irony. Which was good, because if he had put even a dash of teasing into his tone, Stephanie would have kicked him. “But the odds are swinging back towards the Careers this year,” he continued, oblivious to her reflection. “Artemis and Kaldur have told me some of what they went through in training, and a good chunk of it is learning how to eat, sleep, and shit on camera and somehow make it all look glamorous. The ones that make it as far as the Games even learn how to make kills look exciting.” 

He rolled his eyes. “The Capitol has too much fun watching them to ever give them bad odds. I wonder every year if maybe they have the right of it.” 

The last comment was said softly to his bottle, but Stephanie heard it loud and clear. She nudged him with her toes. “Why don’t the other districts develop programs? What’s standing in the way of Five building a star power facility like Four?”

“Oh Kent tried,” he answered tightly. “But building something like that requires momentum and then a critical mass of expertise to make it self-sustaining. He was a mentor for forty-five years, and it still took him sixteen years to get his first tribute out. And even then, Leslie was never exactly…grounded, so he was still functionally on his own.”

He took another swig. “Kent accomplished more in forty-five years than any other mentor in the history of Panem. And he did it by himself. Not even the best mentor in Two has gotten three tributes out.”

“Who–?”

“Slade. Slade Wilson,” Wally specified, accompanying it with an eloquent shudder. “Artemis loves that guy like an uncle, but between you and me, he’s intimidating as fuck.” 

He cocked his head in thought. “You might meet him this year, actually. He only comes to the Games these days to wrangle sponsors for Two or support his Victors when they’re mentoring. And since Artemis is a mentor this year, it stands to reason he’ll be there for the duration.”

“Support his— I thought Artemis’s mentor was Dinah Lance.”

“Good memory.” Wally's proud grin was bright even in the dimness of the pre-dawn train carriage. “Slade was Dinah’s mentor and Artemis’s dad’s mentor before that.” 

He shook his head with a small grin. “Two’s are weird, but you can’t not respect their weird little family ways.”

Something in his words seemed to lift him up a little. If Stephanie had to guess (with the single brain cell and half a second it took to reach this conclusion), thinking about Artemis had woken him at least partially from his depressive funk. With a little more awareness to him, he was able to grope for a pillow and toss one to her, somehow not smacking her in the face in the process. “Get some sleep, kid. I’ll keep watch.” 

“Not a kid,” she muttered into her pillow-and-blanket cocoon. But when she pressed his thigh with her toes, he patted her ankle right back.

Chapter Text

M’gann couldn’t read minds, but she knew the second the rebellion started in earnest. 

It began with a volunteer. 

A dark-skinned teen had shouldered towards the front of the hollow-eyed crowd in Twelve, dark eyes frantic as he cried out to the little boy drawn in the Reaping. A burning, animal urgency lit though him at the Peacekeepers’ resistance, until a cry of, “I volunteer!” tore from his chest. 

His exclamation practically echoed in the ringing silence that followed.

M’gann had watched him freeze, dazed by what he’d just committed himself to, before he set his jaw and muscled his way through the white-armored guards towards the stage. 

And he stood above the exhausted population of Panem’s smallest and poorest district with grim acceptance simmering in every fiber of his body, a wildfire to their cooling ashes.

“My name is Duke Thomas,” he said into the escort’s microphone, fear clear in the clench of his fists but his eyes…his eyes burned. He set his jaw in seething, searing defiance and declared, “Billy is my brother.”

And something extraordinary happened. 

One person after another in the grey, lifeless audience kissed their middle three fingers and raised them to him in a kind of salute. The recordings cut away almost immediately after, but M’gann knew what she’d seen. 

The listless, ground-down population of District Twelve - impoverished even by District standards - had gained a spark.

M’gann had felt the shift, seen the cliff they were tipping over, and took a deep breath. She’d tapped her secondary phone, saying only, “Ivy? It’s time,” before disconnecting the call.

Thirty minutes later, the Gamemakers had contacted every mentor to inform them of the hospitalization of Miss Harleen Quinzel and the subsequent shift in the designer lineup. District Twelve had drawn the short straw and would be getting designer newbie Pamela Isley, but they assured all the escorts and mentors that each stylist was of the highest caliber and would display every tribute to their best advantage.

Some part of M’gann had thought they would always be in this liminal space between planning and revolt, that all the plans they’d made would never actually be put into play, and that the country would remain a pile of tinder just waiting for a spark.

She didn’t need to be a mind reader to guess this could be that spark.

“Wally’s smart,” M’gann reasserted to her fretting friend. “All we need to give him is the outline, and he’ll figure out the rest.” 

Artemis gritted her teeth but nodded small and crisp.

Ugh. M’gann would have found their denial routine funny if it wasn’t such a bore by now. There was only so many times one could watch two lovesick dumbasses being willful lovesick dumbasses before it got old. There were far more important things to worry about.

Plus her money was as good as gone, so there was no point being invested in that stupid bet anymore. 

M’gann fought the urge to scowl. It turned out two idiots in denial could continue being lovesick idiots in denial even in the face of a perfectly orchestrated moment alone in the quiet of the falling snow. She had traded so many favors to make that happen, and what had she gotten for it? An empty wallet, a depleted black book, and Dick’s everlasting smugness. 

Well, M’gann wasn’t going to be involved at all moving forward. Lovesick idiots could stay lovesick idiots for all she cared.

The incoming train began slowing, but Wally didn’t wait for anything as mundane as a full stop before he was pulling open the door and making a beeline for her, clearly noting Artemis but too committed to their customary greeting to stop.

He swept her up in a spinning hug. “Megalicious, it has been too long! Have you reconsidered our tragic love affair?”

“Sorry, Wally, I’m still taken,” she replied fondly. “Now put me down.” 

He sighed dramatically as he set her back on the ground. “Oh, the pain is never ending. I am consigned to walk forever in darkness at the light of my life leaving me behind for another. You could at least put me out of my misery,” he ended with a salacious grin, tapping his cheek with great suggestion.

M’gann rolled her eyes, unable to take his antics seriously. But at the shift of Artemis’s boots, she realized the potential she had at her fingertips. 

Really, her choice was obvious. She crooked a finger at Wally, and he obligingly brought his cheek within range. 

She left a respectable kiss mark on his cheek, thankful that she’d gone for a darker lipstick than normal that morning. When she drew back, Wally sighed, pouting mournfully down at her. “Con’s such a lucky guy.”

“You’re damn right he is,” Artemis muttered not so quietly.

“Aww, are you jealous, Arty?” Wally asked, M’gann forgotten the second he got a reaction from Artemis. “You wanna give ole Wally a smooch too?”

“Hardly,” she snorted. “Just agreeing that M’gann is way too good for you.”

“Still, you agreeing with me must mean the world is ending. Also…” he drawled, drawing the sound out, “I couldn’t help but notice you only turned down giving me a kiss.” 

He leaned into her space. “How about if I kiss you?” 

Artemis’s duskier skin concealed blushes a lot better than Wally’s fair, freckled complexion, but M’gann knew what she was seeing. Her tone was surprisingly even when she bit back, “Wally, the day you get to kiss me is the day the world is, as you put it, ending.”

A throat cleared behind M’gann tore them from their frankly disgusting repartee, and M’gann wasn’t sure whether to applaud or shake Stephanie Brown for such perfectly played interference. The younger Victor, trailed by tributes like lanky, dull-eyed ducklings, seemed to bring Wally back to reality. 

He still didn’t move from his position next to Artemis. 

“Megalicious, I’d like you to meet Stephanie Brown, the newest member of our hallowed fellowship. Steph, this is M’gann. When I’m…unavailable, she’s going to be picking up the slack and teaching you how things are done around here.”

M’gann heard Artemis’s knuckles pop at the reminder of Wally’s other tasks. Still in the dark on that particular topic, Stephanie Brown gave M’gann a smile designed to both set people at ease and set them up to underestimate her. “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss M’orzz,” she beamed quite charmingly. “I’m sure I’ll learn a lot from you.” 

Oh, she was a sly one.

“Not that we don’t appreciate the welcome committee,” Wally cut back in, his words to M’gann but his eyes on Artemis, “but what’s the occasion?” 

M’gann and Artemis exchanged a look that both Wally and Stephanie caught, the new Victor looking between the older three for further clues. “There’s been a Volunteer,” M’gann answered for them both. Then with as much meaning as she could convey without tipping off any eavesdroppers, she added, “...from District Twelve.”

Wally stilled. Stephanie’s eyes were flicking from one Victor to the next, that clever mind putting together pieces even if she didn’t understand their significance. M’gann didn’t miss the looks she was shooting Wally in particular, clearly trusting Five’s Victor without question to explain the situation to her. 

It was very sweet. 

He nodded slowly back to M’gann, having gleaned enough information from what they were not saying that he could make his moves accordingly.

“Play it safe,” Artemis warned him in a low voice. “We’re waiting on the signal for the next meeting, but for now, before anything else, be safe.”

“Aww, are you worried about me?” he cooed, his facade of teasing much thinner and his tone very close to genuine.

Artemis rolled her eyes but still leaned in towards him like a plant turning to the sun. “What I am is cautious, Wally. Something you wouldn’t know shit about.”

M’gann tore her eyes away from their banter and nearly blew the entire thing at the look on Stephanie Brown’s face. 

Once she had her face under control, she shot the younger Victor a nod because, credit where credit was due, she’d come closer to breaking M’gann than anyone ever before. The blonde grinned a little at the acknowledgement before turning back to their pair of idiots with all the weary longsuffering of a little sister.

M’gann concealed her own grin at the look. “We’ll ride with you to the Training Center,” she interrupted them in her own little interference, because if she wasn’t winning the bet, neither was Dick.

M’gann tapped away at her tablet, muttering cryptographs under her breath to keep herself on task. Lois had messaged her less than an hour before asking for a list of all the things that needed to happen before the start of the Games now that Phase 2 had been initiated. There were messages to send, sleepers to notify, meetings to set… 

…And paperwork. A never-ending docket of paperwork. 

She grumbled under her breath. Paperwork. For an uprising. 

M’gann hadn’t known what she was expecting from the Justice League (okay, she did, but high-speed chases and daring break-ins might have been pushing it a little), but the amount of paperwork necessary to an insurrection was truly insane. But the weirdest part was that that wasn’t the weirdest part of her life. 

No, the weirdest part of her life was that M’gann had somehow become the personal assistant to the leading members of the Justice League, making her the de facto project manager for said uprising.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the number 11 flicker out on the screen to be replaced by a 12. She hurried to turn the sound back up.

“-And last but not least, the male tribute from District Twelve, Caesar. What do you make of this? The last time we had a volunteer from the outer districts was, what, thirty years ago?”

“Thirty years is right, Claudius. That lucky participant was District Eight’s female tribute in the 44th Hunger Games. She met an unlucky end in a Gamemaker snare, but she did make it to the final eight and took out a surprising chunk of the competition for one so small.”

M’gann grit her teeth. Da’ina Danyelz had been in her mother’s class. She’d volunteered to spare her chronically ill older sister, and the producers couldn’t even be bothered to remember her name. Typical.

“So you think we can expect a good showing from this…Duke Thomas?”

“Final eight at the very least. This kid’s got moxie!” 

“For the record, Caesar uses that word to describe at least one tribute in every Games, so I don’t know how reliable that designation is.”

“But, Claudius, I’m always right.” The raucous sound of a live studio audience answered his quip. Turning back to business, Caesar explained, “Every tribute marked for their moxie has brought something spectacular to their Games. Seven’s Aspen Douglas in the 62nd made it to the final four after executing all four tributes from Districts One and Two with only a hand ax and a machete–”

M’gann turned her face away so she wouldn’t see the replay. She’d see plenty more violence in the coming weeks. She could spare herself this.

“That was quite the fight, I will say,” Claudius admitted.

“Excellent technique on all sides, great use of the terrain on Aspen’s part.” 

“Do you expect something this showstopping from Duke Thomas? What do you think he in particular will bring to these Games?”

“It’s hard to say, Claudius. Tributes like him are always a bit of a wild card. But I know that whatever his plan or his abilities, he’s going to put on a great show for us.”

Caesar Flickerman turned back to the main camera to close out their segment. “The Opening Ceremonies air tonight at 7:00 PM Capitol Time. Tune in for the first look at this year’s players and remember to stick around for the after-ceremony breakdown by none other than Aurelia Beaumont. Back to you, Julius.”

The first of the chariots rolled out, and M’gann retreated to the mentors’ booth, sending one last reassuring smile to her tributes.

Stephanie gave her a welcoming smile that M’gann didn’t believe for a second. The younger Victor didn’t trust her, and M’gann was fine with that: that kind of caution would serve her well. But no matter her misgivings about M’gann, the girl still pushed out the seat next to her and tilted the screen so they could both watch comfortably.

“Are you settling in okay?” M’gann asked, knowing she wouldn’t get an honest answer but still compelled to check in.

“I’m doing fine,” the girl replied, her eyes on the screen and her tone even. “It’s a lot, but I’m handling it.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” 

The blonde did not prolong the conversation, and they slipped into silence as they watched the first of the chariots roll down the avenue. 

Four’s chariot was rolling out, their tributes in shimmering, pearlescent body suits designed to look like scales, when Stephanie broke the silence. “What kind of appointment is Wally on?” she asked, her voice pitched low and her mouth barely moving.

M’gann looked down at her perfectly manicured nails that would look so good clawing Luthor’s eyes out. “It’s Wally’s business,” she finally managed. “He’s the one you should ask.”

Stephanie rolled her eyes in the most normal expression M’gann had seen from her yet. “That’s exactly what Dick said.”

She blew out a breath. “Whatever they are is painful for you all to even think about, so whatever it is must be very…not good,” she finished lamely. “I don’t want to bring it up with him if it’s going to cause him a lot of pain.”

“He’ll help you in any way he can, even if that means explaining the appointments,” M’gann assured her, beyond sure of that fact. “He’ll help you and be honest with you because he loves you and he’s got your back. Understand?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the girl nod stiffly. Desperate to change the subject for both their sakes, M’gann pointed back to the screen. “How is it being on this side again?”

Her honesty about Wally seemed to have won her a drop of Stephanie’s trust because the girl actually answered. “It’s weird, but better than the alternative. At least I never had to dress as a syringe. I would have been dead in the water before I started if they’d pulled that shit with me.”

M’gann stifled a snicker. “It’s certainly not the most creative option I’ve seen from Hatter. But at least it’s lightyears better than what Twelve usually gets.”

“Right, but isn’t there a new designer for Twelve? I got the notification on the train.”

M’gann shrugged delicately. “I guess we’ll see how she does. Twelve’s next.”

The promised chariot rolled out. Darla was perched on Duke’s shoulders, both kids clad in yellow and black, with a long cloak of thousands of golden feathers spilling down from Darla’s shoulders to partially encase Duke in cascades of golden fabric and feathers. The cloak’s hood was wired into the rough shape of a bird’s head arching up and over Darla’s curls. 

“A canary,” M’gann muttered with grim appreciation. “Interesting choice, Ivy.”

“What about canaries?”

“Miners have to be vigilant about odorless natural gasses,” she explained to the younger Victor, thankful she’d asked Artemis the same question years ago. “Either a single spark can bring the mountain down around you or you could be slowly suffocating until it’s too late to move away. So they take a canary down with them, and the canary will sing and sing no matter how deep down they go.” 

Her voice was cool and controlled, but she felt almost distant from herself when she finished, “It’s when the bird goes silent that miners know to get out.”

The younger Victor nodded slowly, analyzing the array before her with new eyes and a shrewdness that M’gann felt an odd sort of privilege to see at work.

Duke and Darla were puppeting the bird, coordinating their movements to lift the wings one after another, first in a wave to the audience on each side and then in a coordinated flapping that drew perfunctory applause. 

After they’d gone through what was clearly a preset combination of movements, Darla said something down to Duke, and then as one, they lifted up both wings in a tableau that would have signaled the end of an act…if the crest of the bird hadn’t burst into flames.

Screams and sounds of shock erupted in the crowd as the flames roared down the cloak and across the wings fast – too fast to be natural, some distant part of her noted – until the entire structure had become an otherworldly figure of flames and golden feathers.

M’gann’s eyes went wide. With the wings of red and gold flames raised high in triumph, there was no question what they were seeing.

The canary of District Twelve had become a firebird. 

From a dim, distant corner of her mind, M’gann watched as Duke and Darla guided the fiery wings in swoops and waves, sending the Capitol audience into paroxysms of delight. The audience was practically frothing at the mouth, screaming Twelve’s tributes’ names for a chance for a wave from one of those wings of flame.

A silenced voice of impending doom becoming a symbol of hope and renewal…Ivy would go down in history for this. 

If they survived to recount it. 

In a low, uncertain voice M’gann guessed was a rarity, Stephanie finally asked, “Is this normal?”

“No,” M’gann admitted. “Nothing about this is normal.”

Chapter Text

“Stephanie, I’d like you to meet Julia Wittenstone. She’s been a very good…friend of mine since my Games.” Wally’s smile was as sunny and charming as ever, but Steph still caught an edge of something behind his words. 

It had been like this all morning - meet weirdo Capitolite, watch Wally turn on the charm, try not to snap at them over their wandering hands, say goodbyes, and repeat. Each potential sponsor they met cooed over Wally’s kindness to a lonely little Victor like her, and every single one touched Wally like they were owed part of him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Wittenhouse,” she smiled with all the charm she could muster.

“Oh dear, none of that! ‘Miss Wittenhouse’ makes me feel old.” The woman’s voice was that of an older woman, but her face was as supple and lush as a twenty-year-old, her eyes an unnatural electric blue. “Please call me Julia, dear, everyone does. Your mentor here is one of the few allowed to call me Jules, but it might take you a while to earn that privilege.” 

“What can I say? I’m special like that,” Wally said, punctuating it with a wink to the older woman. She actually blushed at that, flapping a hand at him with a tinkling laugh. “Now, as much as it pains me to be parted from you, Jules, I’m taking Stephanie on the rounds.” He gave her another wink. “Don’t forget about me now.”

Julia didn’t let them leave without first planting a kiss on both their cheeks, Steph’s considerably more perfunctory than the one she gave to Wally. 

As they walked away, Wally said in an undertone, “She’s married to one of the financiers of a production studio. She has inside intel on the supplies ordered and costs incurred for the Games, which gives us an idea of what to plan for. Never underestimate accountants, Steph,” he grinned, and it was almost his normal fifty watt smile but…something was missing.

Before she could dig more into that thought, he declared, “Here’s a man you definitely have to meet!” and drew her over to a narrow-faced man with dark pink hair and gems outlining his eyes. “Cassius, my friend, you’re looking well.”

“Mister West, always a pleasure,” he said in a nasally voice, his eyes dragging down Wally’s body with a neutral look that still gave Stephanie the shivers. “And who’s your companion?”

Stephanie could tell he knew exactly who she was, but something about maintaining a power over Wally seemed to be important to him.

A very bad thought was forming in the back of her mind. 

“Cassius, this is Stephanie Brown, Victor of the Seventy-third Games and a mentor I’ve been mentoring. You know how Six’s mentor is,” he explained in an undertone. “She’s on her own, and if left to fend for herself, they’d tear her to pieces. You know how it goes.”

“Your generosity should not go…unrewarded,” Cassius murmured back, placing a hand on Wally’s bicep in a gesture that would have looked comforting if Steph hadn’t seen the hunger behind his eyes.

Wally was scarily unfazed, placing his own hand over the other man’s and squeezing back with a wink. “When I need it, I’ll be sure to call in that reward.” He patted the other man’s hand. “Pleasure talking with you as always, Cassius.”

He nodded back curtly, eyes never leaving Wally. “West.”

Wally tugged Stephanie away by the hand.

Steph’s bad feeling was back. 

As the names piled up, the cracks in Wally’s mask became clearer. Sure, he’d smile, but he also had to work to not twitch at their not-so-covert touches and instead grin, wink, and flirt with the people touching him like they owned him.

Finally Steph could stand it no more. With the hand hooked through his arm (she’d laughed when he’d presented it to her like the world’s most ridiculous gentleman), she squeezed his upper arm three times. He immediately made their goodbyes to the couple they’d been talking to and towed her over to a table of brightly colored drinks. 

“What’s wrong?” he said in an undertone, his face in that perfect mask but his hand covering hers comfortingly. “Are you okay? What do you need?”

She grabbed a glass with what she hoped was water and immediately regretted it. The cup showed all too clearly how badly her hands were shaking, so she set it back down. “I needed a breather,” she said as steadily as she could, “and I thought you could use one too.”

He slung an arm around her shoulders with a crooked grin. “Kid, I’ve been doing this for eight years. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Stephanie ground her teeth together. If her suspicions were founded, she really, really did need to worry about him. He zeroed in on something in her expression and visibly changed tactics. “Want me to walk you through my rules of operation? You’ve probably picked up on them, but getting them clearly stated might help.”

She nodded quickly at the topic change because she was very close to chickening out of bringing up her suspicions. But strategy? She could do strategy.

“Rule number one? Never promise anything,” Wally stated casually, and maybe Stephanie was only seeing what she expected to see, but those three words seemed to hide a lot of emotion. “Implicit or explicit, they will call in every promise you make and every debt you incur, so until you have exhausted every other avenue to get what you need, promise nothing.”

“But didn’t you–”

Finally he gave a real smile, albeit a quietly smug one. “The only thing I promised was to make them deliver on their promises.”

Stephanie hated to break that look on his face, but she had to know. “Will I need to do…all of this?” she asked with delicate but insistent emphasis.

“I’d expect so, yes–” Wally started, but Steph cut him off.

“All of it,” she pushed, meeting his gaze squarely and trying desperately to communicate her suspicions telepathically.

Understanding hit Wally like a freight train. He looked like his breath had been knocked out of him before his face locked down to rigid, brittle neutrality. He took a couple deep, slow breaths before he met her eyes again.

“No,” he finally got out. “No, you won’t. Never, I swear on my life.”

Then he slumped a little, like a puppet with a couple of his strings cut. He tipped his head forward to press their foreheads together. “I can’t promise that you won’t,” he whispered, his mouth barely moving. “Some of those decisions are– are out of our hands. But I will do everything in my power to keep it from getting to that point.” 

His grip tightened in an involuntary shudder. “I won’t let you do any– any of the– the worst of it.”

Stephanie could feel her hands begin to shake. “But if it helped you–” She cut herself off at the flinch that spasmed through Wally’s body before he shut it down with ruthless, practiced control. He leaned back a little to look her in the eyes.

“No,” he said firmly. “Let– Let me do this, okay? So you don’t have to. Promise me?”

Even at the worst points in her Games, Stephanie had never wanted to vomit, cry, and run away as badly as she did right then.

She bit her tongue until she tasted blood before she nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

There was no way she could miss the painful, heady relief that shook through Wally’s body before he stepped further back, his charming mask back in place as if it had never disappeared. Seeing that hurt almost more than the confirmation of all her suspicions.

“Also, you’re hanging with M’gann tonight. I’ve got an– appointment,” he explained, his stumble imperceptible if she hadn’t just gotten confirmation of what said appointments entailed. “For now, are you doing okay?”

Stephanie nodded, not trusting herself to open her mouth. Wally gave a little sigh of relief. “It’s a minefield to navigate, but you’re brilliant, Steph, and I mean that.” He tugged her shoulder gently to pull her into a hug. “I’m really proud of you, kid. Let me know when you feel ready to head back in.”

“Not a kid,” she mumbled, but the inside joke had firmed up her spine and given her back a little resolve. She could stand a little stronger, a little more sure, no matter the storm raging in the back of her mind.

Wally booped her nose proudly. “Then once more into the breach, my friend.”

She gave him an incredulous look. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s from something Artemis was reading the other day–”

Hours later, Stephanie was still thinking about that promise, loathing herself for making it and loathing even more the thought of Wally off… She grit her teeth to keep from snapping as Edward Nygma droned on.

“Where’s the drama? Where’s the pizzazz?” His whiney voice grated, and Stephanie just wanted to stuff a sock in his mouth. Preferably a stinky, used one.

“In the same grave as the kids I killed,” Stephanie muttered before her brain could catch up with her mouth. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see M’gann roll her eyes, as well acquainted with Victors’ gallows humor as she was. But Steph must not have been as quiet as she’d thought because the rest of the table stilled at her comment. 

She ducked her head a little. “Sorry. Carry on.”

“I know you’re West’s…protege, but please, keep all comments to yourself until the end.” This ridiculous man seemed miffed that his genius wasn’t being given the entirety of everyone’s attention.

Rather than snap back the way she wanted to, Steph tried to distract herself by watching M’gann. It was a good distraction: her mentor for the evening was casting longing looks at her coffee cup, but Leadership kept making updates too fast to allow her a break from typing. Every time they’d slow, she’d make a movement towards her cup, but then someone would bring up a point and she’d be right back to typing. 

Steph decided to put her out of her misery. 

She ghosted over to the safe house’s tiny kitchenette and only had to open a few drawers to find what she was looking for, ripping the paper off as quietly as she could. Bruce and Dick’s lessons in moving silently seemed to have paid off: she was able to get within arm’s reach of M’gann before the older girl noticed her, visibly startling at her appearance. 

Stephanie held the straw out as a peace offering. The redhead blinked and then gave her the same crooked, affectionate grin she gave Wally every time she saw him. But before she could take it, she was pulled back to typing. Steph took mercy on her, sticking it through the hole in her thermos and moving the whole thing within easy reach of M’gann’s mouth. The older girl shook her head with suppressed laughter, but she began sipping her coffee through the straw, her typing still not faltering. 

Others in the room had spiked their caffeine with the contents of several freely-offered flasks, and others had gone straight for the hard stuff. Stephanie had waved off both when offered to her because if she had substances of any kind, she was going to snap in half and then snap every member of Leadership in half. It was only her self-control between her and her temper, because Wally was off–

She cut herself off, but now that she was out of distractions, the thought couldn’t be uprooted. Wally could probably talk her down, but he was off doing gods knew what (or having gods-knew-what done–). A fine rage that felt like panic began humming down every muscle in her body until she felt like an instrument perfectly tuned to violence. 

It wasn’t fair. 

It wasn’t fair. 

Wally was safety and hope after the nightmares, and he was marching straight into the mutts’ den on these people’s orders. 

“And with Mister West’s contributions–”

Nygma’s mouth kept moving but Stephanie didn’t hear anything over the buzz filling her ears at his words and their implications. She fought to breathe steadily, to hang on to composure. But in that moment, she was sure of one thing and one thing only.

She despised Edward Nygma.

Sound gradually filtered back in as she took in air slowly and did what she could to slow her racing heart. But the timing couldn’t have been any worse. He’d moved on to bitching about the boy from Twelve they were gathered there to discuss.

“I do wish someone would get through to the boy and make something a little more civilized out of him,” Nygma sighed. “But I suppose that’s the price to pay for working with such unrefined talent.”

“Oh my god, shut the fuck up.”

The silence was ringing.

Oh. She had said that.

Still, she’d managed to shock him into silence. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

Too bad she hadn’t shut him up permanently. “You’re an arrogant piece of shit with no idea what you’re talking about, so shut. The fuck. Up,” she snapped back.

For a brief second, she felt like she was suffocating under Leadership’s gazes. But Steph gritted her teeth and held her head high. She was Stephanie freaking Brown, and she’d gone through too much to be put down like a little girl instead of the Victor that she was. 

Fuck it. Let’s see if they kick me out for this. 

“I survived the Games. Your qualifications are being a Capitol prick.” She looked down her nose at him and said as if to a particularly dimwitted person, “You sit in your little pod designing traps and tricks that you’ll never experience, then judge those of us who have faced them and play god with the bravest, most selfless person in the world who’s facing them so his little– little brother doesn’t have to.” 

She’d almost blurted out what Wally was doing to spare her. She put all those feelings behind her glare at him. “That kid is worth ten of you. What have you done for this conspiracy that’s ever put you in real danger, Edward?” 

His mouth tightened at her blatant disrespect, and she knew she had him. No matter his talk of revolution and equality for all, he was still Capitol and she was still District. She pushed her advantage. “He volunteered,” she declared, almost out of her chair with the force of her anger. “You’re sitting in safety criticizing a kid who Volunteered.” 

“He’s older than you are, Miss Brown,” Edward said with a touch of amused but warning condescension that set Stephanie’s teeth on edge.

“She’s still right,” M’gann countered quietly, but her words still carried. 

Silence rippled out from where they sat. 

Stephanie got the sense that it was rare for the older girl to speak up, let alone to disagree with Leadership. But she was clearly respected, since more and more of the conspiracy members looked to Nygma with the same question in their eyes.

When he floundered a little at being challenged, Steph pushed him further. “Explain to me how you’re any better than the Gamemakers in playing with his life, Nygma. Inquiring minds want to know.”

In the ringing silence that followed, Bruce cleared his throat. “Be that as it may,” he began, “a cost must be paid for change to begin.”

Steph felt ice run down her spine, while Nygma conversely relaxed. “I’m glad someone is listening to reason,” he said, relieved but very snippy about it. He turned entirely to Bruce. “Why such undisciplined children are being allowed into the League is beyond me.”

Stephanie held herself perfectly still because if she didn’t she was going to scream and not stop screaming until the Games were over. Then she made the mistake of meeting Bruce’s eyes. 

Betrayal rose up like acid in her lungs at the neutral, closed-off face of his most emotionally distant. Painful warmth spread through her hands and face like skin recovering from near-frostbite, and she almost couldn’t breathe at the rage beneath her skin.

Instead of screaming in his face like she wanted, she said with perfect, savage simplicity, “Fuck. You. All.” She didn’t wait to see her words land and instead turned on her heel and stormed out the door.

Dick followed her out. Because of course he did. 

Bruce probably gave him one of those looks that only Dick could interpret and suddenly Mister Oldest Child had his marching orders - follow her and get her back in line like a good little girl. 

He at least made his presence known as he trailed her. Steph knew he could move as silently as anyone in the family, but he at least had the courtesy (or self-preservation) to put sound to his steps to let her know he was there. 

“You know?” 

His voice was quiet. His question didn’t need an answer.

She ground her teeth together, dying for something to punch or shatter. “About Wally? About–” 

The words died in her throat before she could say them, and she spun on her heel to pace some more.

He huffed a thin, exhausted laugh. “I should have known you wouldn’t need much to put it together,” he admitted quietly. “You might be the smartest of us all, Steph.”

“So it’s real,” she asked, not really looking for an answer. “What he- what he has to do. What Luthor and those assholes make him do.”

Dick’s silence had her whirling to look him in the eye. What she saw was the same kind of fine rage she felt down every fiber of her body, and that was enough to push her question into the open. “Will I have to–”

Stephanie’s stomach dropped at Dick’s silence and the implication of everything he was not saying. “There are some Victors that are off limits,” he stated quietly. She shivered a little at that less-than-encouraging start. “Everyone from Two. Anyone under fifteen. Me.” 

His last admittance was both hollow and devastated. He continued, “But some are more popular than others. Like–” Like Wally, Stephanie finished silently. “And yet, even if Luthor gave him a choice, I think– I know Wally would still do this.”

“Why?” Stephanie wheezed, feeling like she’d been kicked in the stomach “What reason could he possibly have to– to– to do any of that?”

“Well for one, it keeps the attention off others. You and Virgil and M’gann can fade into the background if he’s firmly in the spotlight.”

Stephanie felt the tears she’d been fighting back all day threaten once again to make an appearance. That matched with the promise Wally had gotten out of her. He was doing this partly so she didn’t have to. She was shocked at the steadiness of her own voice when she asked, “And Bruce just lets this happen?”

“You think he has a choice?” he asked back softly.

When she didn’t say anything, he drew closer, stepping into her field of vision. “If Bruce goes any further along the line he’s already toeing, he risks Jason being Reaped. Maybe even Tim if Luthor’s really pissed. 

“I was a warning, Steph,” he explained with quiet, urgent devastation. “A reminder that as a citizen of the Capitol he’s untouchable, but we’re not. He risked more than he realized in adopting us, and he’s had a sword hanging over his head ever since.

“He isn’t like the Gamemakers, Steph. I can promise you that much. I know he seemed distant in there, but he would never go that far.” 

There was understanding in his gaze, but it did little to soften his unspoken warning to not push him on this. “If you can’t trust him on that, then trust me.”

Stephanie paced back and forth until she had herself under control enough not to cry or scream into the night. “And Nygma?”

“Yeah, that guy’s a piece of work,” Dick grinned back with false lightness. “The revolution will be televised, and he’ll get credit for the production.”

At her furious, fuming silence, he explained: “He has connections even Bruce doesn’t. He’s embedded deep within the Gamemaker network, and he has influence over the direction of the Games. Believe me, it’s to the chagrin of the entire League that we need him. But his influence, Wally’s info, Bruce’s funds, and now a central figure to rally around– everything’s finally coming together.”

He lifted his arm for her to tuck herself under - which she did, a deep-rooted part of her brain recognizing the weight of his arm on her shoulder and the smell of his cologne and hair products as safety. “We’re at a turning point, Steph. I understand you don’t like him - and believe me, I am right there with you - but we need to be able to trust each other moving forward. You said things in there that Leadership needed to hear, and I’m really proud of you. But can you work with us on this?”

Stephanie sighed and tipped her head into his shoulder. “I can.” In a small voice that her first instincts cringed from, she admitted, “Thanks for putting up with me.”

This time he gave her a noogie with wry affection and a teasing grin. “There’s no ‘putting up’ with family, Steph. Unless it’s Tim’s caffeine habit.”

She laughed a little hysterically. “They’re this close to sedating him and he still has no idea.”

“Hey, we do what we must,” he grinned and pulled her into a true hug.

Before she could stop herself, Steph whispered, “Wally shouldn’t have to,” before burying her face in his chest.

Dick rested his head on hers, his arms tightening around her. “No. He shouldn’t.”

Chapter Text

The cannon sounded, and M’gann didn't look away. 

One of her tributes was dead within minutes, and like every year, she chastised herself for feeling less than she should. 

Seven tributes, hollow-eyed and painfully young, had been slaughtered in sprays of blood and cracks of bone before the door to Mentor Central opened with a bang. Wally nearly fell through, eyes glassy and smile crooked. 

His appointment had been a bad one then. M’gann bit her tongue before she did anything so cruel as give him a pitying look. 

She still ground her teeth at this setback. They needed Wally incapacitated the way they needed Luthor uncovering the League before they were ready to move. No matter Wally’s habit of flirting with every person in existence (including her, and she was taken, thank you very much), he had a treasure trove of connections and the charm and calculation to make the most out of them all. Those connections could be the key to keeping their Firebird alive. And if he couldn’t function to work them…

M’gann dug her nails into her palm. They would make do and they would get through this, just as they always had.

The redhead’s smile slipped when he registered they were already thirty minutes into the Games. “Aww, I missed the start!” he pouted, stagger-sliding down into a squashy chair. “Nothing like a dose of gore to remind us how addictive hope is.” 

He hiccuped, fumbling in his pockets for a flask. “Better than anything on the market, that’s for sure.”

Every Victor in the room looked down or away. Members of the conspiracy or not, everyone knew (but never openly acknowledged) that those who died in the Arena were the lucky ones. Everything in this fucked-up world of theirs came at a cost, and the price some had to pay– 

M’gann turned back to the Games and didn’t look away. Children were dying in front of her, but better they die horrific deaths here than step out of the Arena and into the hell Wally and some of the other Victors faced.

If—no, when they succeeded, kids would be able to grow up without such brutal choices weighing down their futures. They would have futures.

But for now, twenty-three children and teens had to die so their Firebird could rise.

Wally’s rush of appointments slowed to a trickle after that first one but didn’t come to a complete halt. 

It seemed the gore of the first days of the Games topped other Capitol…interests, for the most part.

Thank whatever gods were out there that he had the whole support group for this shitshow. Dick had a rotation going of Virgil, Stephanie, and himself keeping Wally company that M’gann could have set a watch to. Wally, as always, was oblivious to the routine, bringing out a real smile and a joke for the younger Victors no matter how deep into his head he was getting. And when they inevitably reached the point that Dick, Virgil, and Stephanie together couldn’t pull him out of his head, M’gann had three contingencies ready, all of them involving Artemis.

M’gann again thanked all the little gods that they hadn’t needed her yet because Artemis was gone almost as much as Wally, chasing sponsors for her tribute with Slade Wilson looming at her back. 

M’gann almost shuddered. She had seen Slade Wilson smile the other day, and not one of the dangerously amused looks he bestowed on Capitol audiences. It was a small one, proud and sure as he watched his (niece? granddaughter?) protege. She shook her head to clear it. Twos were weird.

What was weirder was how much Wally enjoyed it. Though M’gann couldn’t really say she was shocked. She also couldn’t begrudge him that best-case scenario which was getting along with his future in-laws.

Still didn’t make the sight of Slade Wilson rolling his eyes at one of Wally’s horrible one-liners with a genuine half smile any less jarring.

She turned away from her musings and back to her screen. Her surviving tribute - Za’ara, age fifteen, from the neighborhood two over from M’gann’s, with more mettle than anyone had previously thought - was making her way towards a water source.

M’gann chanced a glance left. Stephanie Brown stared at her monitor, her face set with a familiar sick, grim resolution. She clearly hadn’t dared to hope. But that never stopped the hurt when you lost them both.

It was always the hope that did mentors in. That was the real malice at the heart of the Games: you could have this, you could see one of your kids survive a gladiatorial arena. But you won’t. Because even the joy and relief of one of your tributes surviving comes at the cost of the other’s life.

No one really won the Hunger Games. 

She dug her nails into her palms until she felt blood start to pool around them. The League had to end this. When they got their Firebird out, they would put an end to this horror show once and for all.

Something flickered in the corner of one of her screens. This one was following Duke and Darla as they trekked through the woods a couple klicks away from the Cornucopia. Duke had snagged a backpack somewhere in the frenzy of the first hour, and with one hand on the strap and the other holding Darla’s, his eyes were constantly scanning the forest around them. 

Five years of watching the Games from this side gave M’gann a half second warning of the Gamemaker trap.

The fireball that whizzed over Duke’s head was still a shock.

“Go, go!” Duke yelled, pushing Darla in front of him, shielding her from behind as well as he could while they were both running for their lives. 

The first one had clearly been a warning. And the headstart it gave them was being slowly but surely whittled down: as the kids sprinted through the foliage, zigzagging as well as they could while still staying together, the fiery projectiles were landing closer to their positions, one coming close enough to singe Duke’s jacket. 

Sure, Twelve made an impression in the parade, M’gann thought hysterically, but do the Gamemakers really have to rub it in?

Two burning projectiles shot forward in quick succession, forcing Duke to switch directions, nearly breaking an ankle on the turn as he tried to shield the girl. 

The Twelves crossed some Gamemaker border, and the fireballs stopped. But the forest was still on fire behind and around them- M’gann was stupid, they were herding them into a trap–

Duke and Darla burst through the trees and straight into a clearing with a hunting party of Careers. 

All five froze in a tableau of bloody anticipation.

“Darla,” Duke said in a low voice barely audible above the babble of the creek. “Fly away.”

“But–”

“Go.”

Darla sprinted for the nearest tree, and the boy from Seven (Lathe, M’gann reminded herself) took off after her. He was gaining on her when she hit the trees and scaled one faster than M’gann thought was possible. But by the time he made it up the first tree, Darla was already two trees ahead of him, practically flying from branch to branch in the upper canopy. He watched her go with clear, begrudging respect.

On the ground, Duke had swung his backpack forward as a rudimentary shield, catching one knife that was meant for his head before yanking it out and throwing the backpack at the One. The momentary loss of sight gave him the split second he needed to tackle the other boy to the ground.

The boy, well-trained though he was, clearly hadn’t expected to be charged by a kid from the outliers, but he recovered well, deflecting Duke’s momentum in a grappling roll and trying to turn it into a pin. But Duke had a knife in his off hand, and the second of reorientation was all he needed. He plunged the knife into the other boy’s arm at an awkward angle, but it was enough for him to lose his grip on Duke and with it his chance to walk away from the fight. 

Duke Thomas plunged the knife into the hollow of his throat.

The Twelve was on his feet before M’gann could blink. The wet gurgling of the One’s dying breaths sounded in the otherwise silent clearing. 

She was sure that if Duke been operating on less adrenaline he would have been shaking. The babbling of the creek was cut off by the sharp bang of the cannon.

“Damn,” he said with caustic mocking. “Thought you Careers would put up more of a challenge than that.”

The remaining Career’s (Danae’s) screen sense was too good and her martial training too strong to allow her to walk away from a comment like that. Which was the point, M’gann knew. Keeping her focus gave Darla longer to get away.

The branches of the tree Darla and Lathe had scaled shook as the boy scrambled down in controlled swings from branch to branch. He landed on the ground and yanked his axe from where he’d buried it deep in the trunk of the tree.

Danae glared sideways at him, never fully taking her eyes off of Duke. “You’re supposed to be chasing the girl.”

“You try leaping from branch to branch after a kid half your size,” he spat back. “I’d have fallen and broken my neck. She’s gone.”

Duke gave a small, shuddering sigh of relief. When he looked back up, his gaze was steely. He wasn’t going to give up the fight before it started, but his goal of protecting Darla had been fulfilled. He could fight without fear for her or concern that she’d try to interfere.

He stooped to grab his knife, clearly doing his best not to vomit as he yanked it from the One’s throat with a sick squelch, and patted down his sides for additional weapons. He found another knife, this one as long as his elbow to his fingers. A dirk, M’gann’s inner Artemis supplied. Good for combatants not strong or trained enough for a sword. Mid- to close-range, extends your reach. Good for slashing. Now, a blade in both hands, he stared down Danae and Lathe, his body braced as he watched for the first move.

Lathe lost patience first, lunging at Duke with that wicked, long-bladed axe. Duke dodged, but just barely, the head of the axe coming close enough to graze his stomach. But Danae was already moving, and Duke’s stumble back put his leg directly in the path of her shortsword.

She pulled the sword from his thigh (M’gann could see bone–) in the same motion as she brought her knife down. Duke had stumbled back at the pain, but he managed to get his dirk up in time to block her downward strike.

Lathe dove in, attempting to bring down his axe on Duke’s head, but the Twelve boy pushed Danae up and away and his momentum took him down after her. The axe missed, and Lathe’s forward momentum carried him forward to step directly on Danae’s ankle. She screamed in pain and rage, and Duke took his opportunity.

He rolled off her and into the swift-flowing creek before either Career could react. 

It was deep enough and the current fast enough that Duke was yards away before Danae struggled to her feet. She watched him go grimly, wincing a little as she tested out the ankle Lathe had stepped on. 

Her expression darkened, and her face as she turned to face him was livid. “That was my kill,” she bit out. “What was the deal? Handicap me and he backs your play later?”

“Danae, I didn’t– I’m not working with him. I never talked with him in training, you know this.” Now Lathe was panicking. “I tripped. You have to believe me!”

Again, her screen sense showed as she weighed her choices. She had lost the ability to take out one of the stronger outlier tributes, but there was still a show she could put on and a story she could tell the Capitol audience.

Her grey-green eyes were cold as she picked up her sword and faced him. “Teams trust each other, Lathe. And I don’t trust you at all.”

The boy had the reach and a feral, survive-at-all-costs edge, but Danae had training and patience. M’gann had seen too many of these showdowns in her short life to weigh the odds in Lathe’s favor. 

Sure enough, he lunged, desperate to escape the narrative he’d stumbled into. Even with a bad ankle, Danae was a whirl of motion as she dodged left, ducked under his axe, and put a deep slash through his femoral artery. The wound gushed blood, but Lathe didn’t have more than a second to absorb it before she was driving her sword deep into his stomach. 

He coughed wetly, blood trickling out of his mouth, before his eyes rolled up and he collapsed to his knees. Danae would get the stat for the kill no matter what, but she still stepped behind him and slashed open his throat. 

The cannon sounded, and she stared down at him, her face speckled with blood. Her voice was cold as she said to him, “And that’s how we do it in Four.” 

This girl would clear the field of any other year, the dispassionate, removed part of M’gann’s brain noted. No matter that her pupils were dilated and her knuckles white; to the eyes of the Capitol audience she was cool and in control as she cleaned her face in the creek and wiped her sword clean on Lathe’s jacket. She slid the sword back into its loop on her belt and began making her way to the Careers’ encampment. 

Once she’d made it a good distance from the clearing, she began to let more of her pain show, wincing as she put weight on her bad ankle and limping more the longer she stalked on.

By the time she’d reached the foot of the encampment hill, her face was set in stubborn refusal to let any more pain show or, gods forbid, cry.

“It’s Danae,” she called out before starting up the slope. “Don’t shoot me.”

“Where are the other two?” Artemis’s girl (Bola, M’gann reminded herself) called back.

“Rave’s dead.” Danae’s face was set as she limped towards her district partner, nothing but grim, steady pain at the injury showing on her face. “We ran into the Twelves. Lathe took off after the girl and we got separated.”

The rest of the pack nodded, though M’gann noted that the corners of Bola’s eyes pinched as though she too could see through the lie. But she still tossed Danae a ration pack before turning back to her conversation with the others.

On the other side of the camp, Danae crumpled to the ground next to her district partner and chugged the water he handed her. “Tonight,” she murmured behind the cover of the bottle. “We’re splitting.” 

La’gaan tapped her foot with his but gave no other acknowledgement that he’d heard.  

The next morning M’gann was finally getting to the point of accepting that she was awake and reaching peace with that when the intercom for Arena announcements clicked on.

At the sound, every mentor in the room split from their conversations and ran back to their stations. The Gamemakers wouldn’t announce a feast this early in the Games, and new additions never boded well for the tributes. Whatever was coming could change the direction of the entire competition.

The main screen being broadcast to the nation split to show both tributes from Two, both from Four, and little Darla alone in a tree. Danae and La’gaan were miles away from the camp, but they froze in the middle of the forest at the click of the intercom. The Twos were still in the Career camp with the girl from One, frozen in the middle of cursing out turncoat Fours; and Darla was tucked in a sleeping bag, secured to the trunk of a tree by her belt. Why were these–

M’gann’s heart skipped a beat when it became clear that Claudius Templesmith was not inviting the tributes to a feast. 

The Gamemakers were introducing a rule change.

If tributes from the same district were the last two alive, they would both be declared winners.

M’gann almost couldn’t hear him repeating the rule change over the ringing in her ears. 

But not even that could stop the sight of Darla’s delicate face lighting up with brilliant, dizzying hope as she cried out Duke’s name.

Chapter Text

The little girl, tucked into the tree’s embrace like a woodland fairy, looked as if she was about to take flight at the possibility of leaving with Duke.

She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with fear at her slip. But when minutes passed and nothing came, her face hardened and she set to work packing what few supplies she had. And she took off through the trees.

Stephanie was reeling. She tugged Wally’s sleeve. “Can they do that?”

On his other side, Artemis was staring at the screen, frozen in shock. Wally answered softly for them both, “They’re the Gamemakers, kid. They can do whatever they want.”

The main screen remained split long enough to show Darla bounding from tree to tree and Danae and La’gaan dropping everything to strategize. 

Then it cut to show the Twos as they turned together to stare down the girl from One.

Artemis pushed back from her station and strode from the room, her face carefully, perfectly blank.

Wally’s was a lot easier to read. His eyes echoed a pain Steph didn’t understand, and his mouth was twisted in sympathy as he watched her go.

He seemed to come back to himself when he realized Stephanie was watching him. He cleared his throat and slouched a little more intentionally next to her.

“Artemis was close with her district partner,” he explained in an undertone. “They grew up together - best friends since childhood, practically family, that sort of thing. And she wouldn’t have left the Arena if he hadn’t died.”

His jaw tightened even as his neutral mask stayed steady. “A rule like this could have kept her oldest friend alive.”

Steph absorbed that and then kicked his ankle gently. “She probably wants to beat something up right now. You should go help her.”

“Are you volunteering me to be Artemis’ punching bag?” Wally exclaimed, a hand to his heart. “Me? Your mentor? Unbelievable. Unconscionable.”

He was out of there in less than three minutes.

Steph counted.

She sidled up to her other mentor, for the first time grateful to have another experienced figure to lean on because Wally would have been useless while Artemis was in a state like this.

M’gann’s sidelong look told Steph that she was wise to her machinations; Steph grinned at her, unrepentant. The older girl smiled and winked back.

Careful to speak softly, Steph asked, “Was the rule change our idea?” 

“No, but you can be sure we’ll take advantage of it.” The older girl’s expression was open and pleasant, but her tone was grim. “No one likes to see a twelve-year-old die.” 

They watched Darla bound from tree to tree, tracing her way back to the clearing where they’d gotten separated. Steph kept her eyes trained on the little girl because it was either that or the showdown happening at the Career camp, and Steph needed to cling to Darla’s hope right now or she was going to slide into a pit of her own Games memories and not be able to crawl back out.

In less than an hour, Darla had passed the clearing and begun ghosting along the creek. Those keen eyes were seeing something Stephanie couldn’t, but whatever she was doing was clearly working because the locator map all the mentors could see showed her moving steadily towards Duke’s location.

(Also the girl from One was dead. She’d managed to take the Two boy down with her at least, slicing open his forearm with a poisoned knife before he cut her throat. Steph didn’t want to think, didn’t want to remember–) 

A hand reached up from the reeds to grab Darla’s ankle, and Steph almost screamed bloody murder along with Darla. The cameras panned down and zoomed in to show a muddy Duke, almost perfectly camouflaged among the reeds at her feet. Darla nearly burst into tears at the sight of him but instead steeled herself and turned on the charm.

“Well hey there, neighbor,” she drawled a little damply, reaching down to clutch the hand he extended to her. “You ready to ditch this joint?”

“Oh, you know me,” Duke grinned, and even through the layers of mud coating his face, Steph could tell something was deeply wrong. “I’m up shit creek without a paddle, like always.” 

Darla squeezed his hand and held the back of her other hand to his forehead. Worry glared from her face like a glowing neon sign. 

“You’re burning up,” she said softly before a healer’s steely decisiveness hardened her face. “Let’s get you cleaned up and then we’ll hide for the night.”

Beneath the carefully layered striations of mud, Duke’s leg was– Stephanie almost gagged. Her esteem for Darla rose exponentially as the little girl poked at the starburst of angry red around the wound site, carefully rinsing more and more pus and muck out of the wound itself, her face getting grimmer and grimmer as she worked.

“It’s bad, isn’t it,” Duke said softly. 

Darla shrugged. “I’ve seen worse.” Steph suspected that she had seen worse…but that all of those wounds had been fatal. 

Once Duke was as clean as could be, she placed her hands on her hips and looked down at him with a smile. “Well, if you’re done playing in the mud,” she teased, “I saw an outcropping of rocks not too far from here. I think there’s a cave we can camp in for the night.” 

Rather than speaking, Duke nodded to her, screwing up his eyes at the movement. She pushed down her worry at the sight before smiling brightly and confidently for the cameras.

Artemis was back later that afternoon, in a far better mood than when she’d left. It wasn’t hard to guess what (or who) had tipped the scales. Steph was happy for her. The steely-eyed Victor normally radiated ‘resting bitch face,’ but anyone who’d seen her around Wally or her niece knew that she felt things very deeply. So seeing her more relaxed, the spark back in her eye that she got from arguing with a certain redhead, was a relief.

Then Roy Harper sat down at the station next to her.

Steph wasn’t personally acquainted with the Victor from Seven, but she’d heard Artemis curse out a fucking Harper under her breath enough to guess who was the source or cause of her fury.

And if he was stupid enough to get on Artemis Crock’s bad side, Steph couldn’t say much for his general level of intelligence. So him picking the worst possible time to approach her wasn’t all that shocking.

Without looking away from his monitor, he inclined his head in her direction. “Crock.”

“Harper,” she all but growled.

There was a taut silence as they both worked at their stations, Artemis clearly doing her best to pretend he didn’t exist.

“How are–” 

“Fine.”

Silence again.

“They’re–”

“Fine.”

Harper could only hold back his own temper for so long. “Will you just talk to me? What do I have to do to get a fucking update?”

“You stay the fuck away.” Oh, this must be the temper of Artemis Crock that Stephanie had only ever heard of - the cold fury that every Victor except Wally backed away at. “You have no idea what you’ve done–”

“Then explain it to me!” 

Her grey eyes might as well have been white-hot coals with hot they were burning. Finally she said in the clipped tone that meant she was speaking in code, “An innocent life is on the line. The odds are already not in her favor, and they’ll be even worse if others get involved.” 

She stared him down and said very slowly, “Do you understand me?”

The other Victor had gone pale beneath his tan. He nodded jerkily before standing abruptly and striding from the room.

Stephanie looked back to Artemis. Her face was blank but her clenched fists were shaking against her console. 

Wally (unsurprisingly) had been watching the same exchange, and he took the moment of stillness to amble over and lounge against the edge of her desk.

He said something under his breath to her that made her roll her eyes and shoot a quip back up at him. Her head tilt as she looked up at him was such a clear sign of her affection for him that Stephanie despaired (not for the first time and certainly not for the last) of Wally ever putting the pieces together. 

The two of them were both so engrossed in each other that they failed to notice either Stephanie watching them or M’gann pulling up the seat next to her and offering her popcorn. Steph took a handful and scooted her chair over a little to give M’gann a better view.

“I’m not kidding!” Wally suddenly exclaimed, his grin genuine and his tone teasing. “Slade actually said that.”

Artemis’s eyeroll was devastating, but her tone was her brand of affectionate. “You’re such a liar, West.”

“Okay, maybe he didn’t use those exact words,” he grinned cheekily, “but I read it just fine.”

“No one can read Slade that well.”

“Oh please, of course I can read him! You Twos think you’re all so broodsome and mysterious, but I can read you just fine.”

She leaned back in her chair with crossed arms and a raised eyebrow. “Can’t you?”

“I can, in fact. You…” and he drew the sound out with a look of such smugness that even Stephanie wanted to smack him. “...You want to kiss me so bad it’s scrambling your brains.”

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” she deadpanned right back.

“What, kissing?” He waggled his eyebrows at her. “I’m not one to kiss and tell–” She rolled her eyes, “–but I can say that no one walks away from ole Wallman unsatisfied.”

She grunted back, trying to sound unimpressed, but color was beginning to creep into her face. “As revolting as that image is, no, that’s not what I was talking about.”

“Oh? You have something better in mind?”

“Yeah, like an end to this conversation,” Stephanie muttered under her breath, grinning when she got M’gann to break, the older girl desperately trying to stifle her laughter in her hand.

Instead of answering, Artemis rose from her chair with slow, lethal grace, forcing him to tilt his head slightly to look at her. She leaned into his space and gave him her huntress smile, all cold, sharp, and carnivorous, and really, seeing how much that look turned Wally on was just disgusting. The man was practically her brother, for heaven’s sake. “You sure talk a lot about kissing me, West,” she all but purred. “Are you sure your obsession with me isn’t scrambling your few brain cells?”

Ugh, they were revolting. And Steph couldn’t look away.

To his credit, Wally recovered quickly: “Who am I to deny this specimen to anyone? The world needs me, princess.”

“A real hero.” Sarcasm dripped from every word, but he conversely grinned up at her. 

“I know, right? So maybe,” he drawled, leaning up and in until they were practically nose to nose, “one day I’ll save the world and then rock yours.”

Artemis’s eyes flared, and she placed a hand on his chest with deliberate, spiteful relish. Something sparked in his eyes when she began walking her fingers upwards, and then roared into a fire when she placed a deliberate, gentle hand on his throat. And when she tilted his head up and exposed his neck further, his eyes went hazy. 

Steph made gagging noises to send M’gann into a giggling fit again. They were in public, for Luthor’s sake. Screw kissing, these two needed to get a room. 

Artemis leaned in to whisper something Stephanie couldn’t pick up; but if she had to guess, it was something along the lines of, Only in your perverted dreams, West.

Then she leaned back, looking down at him with hooded eyes, removed her hands from him slowly and deliberately, and walked away without a backwards look.

M’gann returned Steph’s look of weary exasperation. The bet had better be worth it.

Steph was never underestimating a twelve-year-old again. Somehow tiny Darla Dudley - five foot and change, not even ninety pounds soaking wet - got Duke Thomas - four years older, a foot taller, and about a hundred pounds heavier - up from the stream, down into a cave, and into a sleeping bag by herself, all before the rain began pouring down. When Duke himself had quipped about this feat of hers, she’d made some smart comment back about this being what medics did.

“I want to be a doctor someday,” she’d shrugged, quiet but proud, “so I can treat anyone who needs it.” 

Stephanie caught Duke squeezing her hand at that, and the kid took the signal to go further, wiping his brow with a wet rag. “I know I’m still little, but I help the matron when other kids are sick. I like making other people feel better.”

“Is that what you’ll do as a Victor?” Duke asked, leaning into the cool rag even as his body shook with fever. “Study to be a doctor?”

Darla took his pulse as she nodded. “I’ll give kids their shots, set broken bones, help with headaches and colds. Probably help deliver babies.”

Duke screwed up his nose at that, to which Darla burst into laughter. “Come on, you like the babies!” she teased. 

“Yes, but not all fresh and juicy,” he fake cringed, making her laugh even harder. “Listen,” he grinned. “I just want to cuddle the little ones and make sure they grow up safe and happy. Is it so bad of me to not want to deal with the gross part?”

“So the diapers, spit-up, and snot are not gross to you?”

“I will have you know that babies show their love by spitting up on me,” Duke replied primly. 

Something shifted in his gaze as he stared at her, his dark eyes going glassy with fever and tears. “I would have volunteered for you too if I could.”

Darla leaned in to hug him tightly, her own eyes brimming. “I know. But if I was going to be in the Arena, I’d want to be with you. We’re gonna win this, Duke - together.” 

She cuddled up against him, tucking her head under his chin and (knowingly or unknowingly) giving a camera the perfect shot of the two of them huddled together. She heaved a sigh, blinking rapidly. “You’re a good big brother, Duke.” His arms tightened around her in response.

They were rewarded with the sound of a parachute. 

Darla tucked Duke into the sleeping bag a little more tightly before she dashed off to retrieve their gift. Inside the basket were nestled a covered pot of soup, some tablets Steph recognized as fever reducers, and a small spray bottle that Darla lit up at. She dashed back to the cave, readjusting the camouflage around the cave’s opening before moving over to Duke.

“Constantine sent us soup!” she beamed. “And this thing–” she held up the spray bottle “–is an antibiotic spray. I can properly clean and disinfect your wound now.”

That had been four hours ago.

Now the sun was setting and the temperatures were dropping, but the rain kept pouring and Duke’s fever was only worsening. Darla had filled up her empty canteen with rain water and forced him to drink in little sips, but as with the soup, he hadn’t managed much. Even Steph knew that nausea on that level was not a good sign. And the last time Darla had checked his wound, her too-young face had tightened at the ugly red that had joined the shiny inflammation. 

Something was going to have to change, and fast.

But the audience’s attention was not going to be on Duke’s deteriorating condition anytime soon. As the tributes settled into whatever shelter they’d found for the night, a special banner had appeared across the main broadcast screen announcing featured interviews with Caesar Flickerman. 

Steph curled up on the couch in front of the main television, cocooning herself in a blanket against whatever propaganda was about to be shown. When Wally collapsed down next to her, she elbowed him. “Do you know what this is going to be?”

“I know it’s something involving Artemis. She mentioned a summons to the main studio earlier today when we were sparring, which– thanks for that, by the way,” he joked, elbowing her in turn. “I’ve got some gnarly bruises now because that woman doesn’t understand the concept of pulling her punches.” Which you love about her, you dumb fuck, Stephanie thought affectionately.

She settled for elbowing him back, and they descended into a duel of elbows that was only broken off by the sound of the Panem anthem. They both straightened back up like a teacher had called them back to order, but not before throwing one last elbow each at the other.

“Welcome, viewers, to a special edition of View of the Victor! I’m your host, Caesar Flickerman,” the colorful man started cheerily, pausing for the studio audience’s applause. “Tonight we have two special guests to comment on the most recent Hunger Games twist. Announced earlier this morning, two tributes of the same district will both be crowned Victors if they are the last two alive. Here to offer her perspective, it’s District Two’s Artemis Crock!”

The studio audience erupted in applause as Artemis strode out, her sleek silver dress making her eyes in turn look like molten silver. She gave a teasing little half smile as she waved to the audience that Stephanie knew was an act. She looked both charming and deadly, the very picture of a femme fatale.

Steph risked a look sideways at Wally and nearly groaned aloud. For someone so good at playing the room, he was incapable of hiding his emotions when it came to Artemis. 

Any of his emotions. 

God, the man needed to look in the mirror. 

She forced herself to face forward again. But she’d been caught up in her inner rant - over how stupid those two were and how lucky they were to have someone like her working to get them together - to listen to the opening quips and jokes Artemis and Caesar were making. She tuned back in in time to hear:

“–your fathers were both Victors, famously close even amongst Two’s already-tight-knit Victors Village,” Caesar was saying, showing a picture from what must have been thirty years ago showing Luke Mahkent and Lawrence Crock, arms slung around each other’s shoulders on the red carpet. “So you and Cameron grew up together, is that correct?”

“Yes, Caesar, that’s correct,” Artemis smiled. How the Capitol audience couldn’t tell it was false was a mystery to Stephanie. She looked like she was mulling over the many different ways she could tear his throat out with her teeth. “We grew up together, attended the same classes, trained together under our dads. He was my best friend.”

“What would this rule change have meant to you if it had been introduced in your Games?”

Stephanie could read the twist behind Artemis’s eyes as clear as day. It would have meant everything, that look said. To both of us. 

Instead the blonde tilted her head in thought. “It would have meant an easier showdown at the end, I can tell you that much,” she quipped, pulling laughs and some loud whoops from the audience. “It would have meant an ally on the podium with me afterwards.”

“You and Cam wouldn’t have fought over the glory? You would have shared the spotlight?” Caesar teased, and even from half a city away, Stephanie could sense Artemis’s rising irritation.

Wally leaned into her. “Five bucks says she wants nothing more right now than to grind his face into the floor.”

“No bet,” she grinned at him. “She wants to do that all the time anyway.”

“Sure,” he conceded, “but Twos never turn on their district partner. ‘District Two sticks together until the end’ is literally beaten into them. She wouldn’t entertain the idea of turning on her partner even if her life was on the line. Caesar’s comment goes against everything she is.”

Stephanie nodded thoughtfully. She had to believe that one of these days he would finally put it together or she was going to scream. One of these days…

On screen Artemis settled for a bland, slightly wry smile. “Cam was my best friend. Getting to experience the Capitol together as Victors would have been–” She shook her head slightly. “It would have been a dream come true.” 

She huffed a rueful laugh that was unsettlingly honest for the normally flinty-eyed Victor. “But I don’t think the Capitol could have handled us together.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The mischief we would have gotten up to, the pranks we would have pulled? Caesar, you wouldn’t have been able to sit down for a week without triggering glitter bombs or paint traps. Your wig would have gotten at least one makeover in the first week of our victory.”

Caesar gasped and clutched his wig to his head. “Not my baby!” he pleaded dramatically, sending the audience laughter to new heights. Wally’s mouth twitched up in a small, fond smile, and Stephanie honestly wanted to shake him.

“Any final words for our viewers back home?”

“Even though the new rule no longer applies to Bola, I still think she is the strongest tribute on the field today. I see myself in her, and I believe she’s going to win.”

“Artemis Crock, everybody!”

Once she’d been applauded off stage, Caesar turned back to the main camera. “Before I welcome our next guest to the stage, I’d like to ask the viewers at home: how far would you go for your best friend?” 

He looked around, luring the audience in like the consummate performer he was. “Would you sail the world for them? Give everything you own to help them? Win the Hunger Games for them? Here to give his answer is District Four’s very own Kaldur Rahm!”

“Oh, this is not going to be good,” Wally groaned softly.

Steph frowned, mentally rewinding through years of Games memories until she landed on the cool, imposing Four’s. “I remember his Games,” she said slowly. “He took his partner’s necklace with him, didn’t he?”

He nodded, uncharacteristically solemn. “She was the love of his life. He apparently made her a promise, so he’s carried it with him ever since.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “It’s even odds whether or not he brings the necklace out with Caesar.” 

The part of Stephanie that schemed and strategized hoped that he brought it out. That kind of story could mean the difference between life and death for his tributes. 

But the part of her that hoped in secret for a better world prayed he kept it to himself. The Capitol had already taken so much from them all. They shouldn’t have the love of Kaldur’s life too.

Caesar and Kaldur verbally dueled a little - the host bouncy and excited and the Four dry and heavy on the irony - before Caesar got around to his main point.

“We’re all dying to know,” he leaned in. “What was it your district partner said to you before she died? Whatever it was changed your fighting style drastically.”

Kaldur’s mouth tilted up in a facsimile of a smile. “She made me promise her something.”

“And what was that?”

His pale eyes visibly hardened. “She made me promise that I would win. That I would win for her and for our District so that even orphans like us would feast on the generosity of the Capitol.” 

As the studio audience applauded, Steph shook her head in wonder. Kaldur’ahm might be the greatest twister of words she’d ever seen. For those in the know, his message was clear: with her dying breaths, his partner had made him swear to overthrow the Capitol so orphans like them would no longer be hungry or powerless. But all the Capitol audience heard was a compliment to their generosity. It was a masterpiece of misdirection and irony, all sold by the impenetrable straight face he showed the audience. 

Steph wondered if he’d give her lessons.

“So you were both orphans?” Caesar prompted, and Kaldur nodded back.

“Tula and I grew up together in the Third Terrace. Our whole lives we fought side by side to be something more than just poor orphans.”

“And that led you to the Games?” 

He nodded again. “That led us to the Games. I trusted no one more to watch my back at home or in the Arena. We supported each other our whole lives, and I still sometimes find myself looking over my shoulder for her because that’s where she always was - watching my back.” 

He looked down at his hands and the rope of seaman’s tattoos twining up his arms.

“But she is at peace,” he said quietly, the burden of old grief clearly both familiar and steadying. “Tula fought with honor and died with dignity, and it’s an example we in the Districts can all aspire to.” The words were designed for the Capitol audience, but Stephanie heard the double meanings.

She needed to learn how he did that.

“Well said,” Caesar praised, leading the audience in applauding Kaldur’s statement. “Any final words for the folks back home?”

“District Four has a pair of winners this year,” Kaldur emphasized. “Danae and La’gaan deserve to take that stage together, and I hope you’ll join me in supporting them on their way to victory.”

Caesar applauded, drawing the camera back to himself. “And with that, we are at the end of our show. Tune in tomorrow morning for more exclusives with our very own Mentor Corps. Thank you, and good night!”

Wally turned off the sound before the anthem could play. “Go to bed, kid. I don’t know the next time you’ll get a chance.” 

“Not a kid,” Stephanie retorted, ducking in for a quick hug. He acquiesced and ruffled her hair for good measure.

“Still a kid to me, kid. So do as your mentor says and get some sleep.” Stephanie stuck her tongue out at him but began to dutifully amble towards her pod. 

But something flickered in the corner of her eye, pulling her back around as surely as metal to a magnet. Duke and Darla were tilting their heads as if listening to something, and she tugged Wally around to look at them. He fumbled with the remote as he turned the sound back on.

“–lations on making it to the final six,” came the echoing voice of Claudius Templesmith. “Each of you has something you desperately need. Sunrise at the Cornucopia a banquet will be provided.” 

That? That was not good.

Chapter Text

“Each of you has something you desperately need,” Claudius Templesmith announced. “Sunrise at the Cornucopia a banquet will be provided.” 

Almost as if he could see Danae and La’gaan shaking their heads in refusal, he went on, “You might think you can scrape by without your district’s gift. And you’re free to take that chance.” M’gann swallowed a sound of derision. None of them were free. “But be warned,” he almost crooned, “our generosity will not be extended a second time.”

The intercom clicked off, and out of the corner of her eye M’gann watched Wally push Stephanie towards her pod. That was good. The younger Victor hadn’t been good about sleeping. 

Then all of her attention was held by what was playing out in the cave. Duke was clutching Darla’s arm, dark eyes bright with fever and panic as he forbade her from going. M’gann couldn’t tear her eyes away even to see who was walking up behind her.

Wally leaned over the back of her seat. “The kid’s going no matter what,” he murmured down to her. 

She hummed a little in response and kept her eyes trained on the kids. As brainless as he liked to play, Wally was smart. It was one of the things M’gann respected most about him.

Duke was getting less coherent in his feverish state, and the only thing that calmed him down was Darla ducking in for a hug. Excellent move, M’gann thought. Pacifies Duke and pulls support from the audience. And sure enough, they were rewarded by the sound of another parachute.

Darla darted out from the cave.

The camera switched to a shot of her outside in the drizzle looking down quizzically at a vial of some clear, unknown substance. She cracked the top, and when smell wasn’t enough to identify it, dabbed a touch of it on her tongue. Her face screwed up. “Ugh, it’s sweet.”

Some pieces fell together in Darla’s mind that M’gann did not understand. And that expression - that hardened visage of brutal commitment - had no place being on a twelve-year-old’s face. But this was the Hunger Games, and little Darla Dudley was proving herself to be a more than proficient player. She shoved the vial deep in her pocket and maneuvered the crock of soup that came with it into the cave without spilling a drop.

“Constantine sent us more food!” she chirped to Duke. “I guess he’s backing you up on me not going.” She plunked the crock down in his lap before he could reply and thrust a spoon into his hand. “I found a little patch of berries on the other side of the rocks. I’m going to go pick some for our dessert.”

It was an excellent piece of misdirection. She’d overwhelmed Duke with touch, words, and proximity, and made her escape with the empty crock before he could question her.

True to her word, she picked as many blueberries as she could and then mashed them with the spoon she’d snuck out with her. She uncapped the vial and poured the whole thing into the berry mash, stirring it until it was as incorporated as possible.

Then she steeled herself, scooped up the pot, and bounced back into the cave. “Duke, you didn’t eat!” she cried, big eyes turning reproachful. “Let’s see if berries sit better with that fever of yours.”

She began feeding him with the spoon. His eyes widened at the taste. “These are sweet.”

“They’re sugar berries,” she feigned nonchalance. “We pick them in the Meadow back home.”

“They’re like syrup–” Duke stumbled over his words. “–Sleep syrup–” Realization burned in his eyes, but Darla already had a hand clamped over his mouth to force him to swallow.

His expression as his eyes rolled back in his head was a frozen mask of betrayal.

Wally squeezed M’gann’s shoulder and ambled off to find his pod. She remained in front of her terminal, a lone sentinel to Darla’s care for Duke, and watched the little girl tuck the brother she’d drugged into the sleeping bag and place a cool cloth over his forehead. Then she stuck a knife and some dried fruit in her pockets and slipped from the cave, adjusting the camouflage as best she could to hide the entrance.

Even with the Capitol’s high-end nightvision cameras, M’gann could barely see her flitting from one tree to the next as she made her way slowly to the Cornucopia. When she eyed the field and made a quick sprint for the structure, M’gann understood her plan.

She settled back in ‘her’ couch and set an alarm for an hour before dawn.

She was up and partially caffeinated when the other mentors began to trickle back in. Stephanie in particular was bedraggled and a little wild-eyed, and before she realized what she was doing, M’gann was offering the girl her mug. The blonde took a swig, mouth screwing up at the bitterness apparent even under layers of cream and sugar.

“I can look pitiful too if that’ll make you share your coffee, Megalicious.”

The girls both glared at Wally, Stephanie in affront and M’gann in warning. “Do you remember what happened the last time you tried to ‘share’ my coffee?” M’gann smiled nastily. “I’m quite happy to repeat the experience.”

“She nearly took my hand off,” he explained to Steph. “And more’s the pity - I would love nothing more than to share a little coffee kiss with my dear star-crossed love.”

M’gann rolled her eyes. He was so lucky she liked him. “You’re neglecting that I had the opportunity to actually share it with Steph rather than having it snatched out of my hand.”

“And yet you don’t even share your coffee with Connor, the lucky sod,” he retorted with his best pout. “You like Steph more than your boyfriend, M’gann?” 

“I like her a lot more than you, you lazy jerk.” She looked sideways at Steph and winked at her. And Steph nodded back, the corners of her mouth pulling up in a small smile. 

It was nice having a little sister again. 

The sky began to lighten, and they settled in to watch the remaining Careers get into position in the surrounding woods.

A ray of sunlight broke over the lake, and the earth in front of the Cornucopia split. Gears rumbled as a table covered with a pristine white tablecloth holding four bags marked with different numbers lifted up from the earth

The instant the table locked into place, a small, dark figure darted out from the Cornucopia, snatched the small bag marked ‘12,’ and sprinted for the cover of the woods. The camera cut to Danae and La’gaan cursing the kid from the opposite side of the field. They’d lost the opportunity to isolate and take out at least one competitor, but before they could curse her or themselves any more, Barry’s girl darted out from the cover of the woods.

She sprinted across the field to the table and was buckling on the backpack marked ‘5’ by the time the Fours were in motion. She saw them beelining for the table, snatched the bag marked ‘4’ and sprinted away.

“Go!” Danae yelled, her attention split between sprinting for the table and Bola barrelling in the same direction, and La’gaan didn't hesitate. He put on an extra dose of speed, slowly closing the gap between him and Five. 

She zigzagged through the woods, making use of her superior agility and not allowing him the advantage of his bulk and momentum. The girl caught sight of something in the trees, and M’gann watched almost in slow motion as she steeled herself and pretended to trip. She went sprawling in the leafy undergrowth, and La’gaan pressed his advantage. 

The gap between them began to close.

The girl scrambled to her feet and hit a dead sprint. The bigger boy was closing in on her when she planted her feet and leaped forward, stumbling and rolling a little on the landing. 

By the time M’gann realized what was happening, it was already too late for La’gaan. The ground gave way beneath his feet with a snap, and he plummeted down into a pit lined with sharp spikes. 

M’gann didn’t need to see what happened. The sound of wood punching through flesh, the squelch of blood and soft tissue, and the rattling wheeze of a punctured lung told her everything she needed to know.

The cannon sounded at his death, and Barry’s girl breathed out in shuddering relief. She crabwalked even further from the pit until her back was against a tree. She breathed slowly and deliberately, trying to get her adrenaline under control. 

When she was a little calmer, she picked herself up, dusted herself off, and slung the 4 bag over her shoulder. She took another deep, calming breath before picking her way through the trees, her steps much more careful this time.

The cameras cut back to the fight at the Cornucopia. Both Bola and Danae had slashes on their arms and torso, but it was clear to anyone with even a fraction of knowledge that Danae had stamina on her side. No matter the cuts Bola had landed in the early stages of the fight, Danae wasn’t slowing down. If anything, she was speeding up.

M’gann chanced a glance at Artemis. The blonde’s jaw was set, her grey eyes carefully blank. She was clearly refusing to give anyone watching the satisfaction of watching her lose it at the death of one of her own. 

Danae dodged a downstrike, and with her half second of advantage, she pivoted to get behind Bola and stabbed her through the back. 

This was what stayed with you about the Hunger Games. Not the politics, not the showmanship. It was the sounds: the raw, pained wheeze of a teenager attempting to draw their last breath, the exhale almost punched out of them when a sword was yanked from their back. 

Blood ran from Bola’s mouth, and she collapsed to the ground.

Danae stood over her, breathing hard. The spray of Bola’s blood across her cheek began to mingle with her sweat and trickle down her cheek in a jagged path like lightning. When the cannon sounded, she cleaned her sword mechanically and shouldered the large bag marked ‘2.’ And she began a slow, pained march in the direction she’d last seen her district partner going.

The cameras cut again to the entrance of the cave where Darla was bent over her knees wheezing for breath. Before she’d even fully caught her breath, she moved the screens enough to slip into the cave and fell down at Duke’s side.

With sure hands she pulled a slim box from the pouch and opened it to reveal a full syringe. She tapped the syringe a couple of times, her hands practiced in a way M’gann hadn’t seen from her yet, before finding a vein in Duke’s arm to inject it and steadily depressing the plunger. When the syringe was empty, she pulled it from his arm, bandaged the injection site, and promptly went to pieces.

M’gann’s cynical side said the Gamemakers would show this moment no matter the survival of the Firebird.

Duke woke up less than six hours later. Darla was curled up next to him, her head resting on his leg, and M’gann watched his emotions run the gamut from rage to heartbreak to sickening relief before he decided to let her rest.

The bloodshed of the morning had provided enough footage and shock value to satisfy the Capitol audience (and spare the remaining tributes) for the rest of the night. Duke and Darla took the time to rest and eat the feast Constantine set, complete with a full Capitol dining service.

“We’ve got a day’s worth of water left,” Darla noted, shaking their bottle. “I’ll go to the stream.”

But when she arrived, the streambed was as dry as if it had never seen water. Back at the cave, Duke grimaced. “The lake is probably the only water source left. We're in the endgame.”

“Time to go?” Her eyes were grave.

“Time to go.”

The next morning, the only sign that Duke had been at death’s door less than a day ago was a slight stiffness to his left leg. At this point, M’gann shouldn’t even be surprised at the miracle cures the Capitol had dreamt up. She settled for resenting their refusal to share with anyone in the Districts. The mortality rate in Eight was lower than the more agrarian districts like Ten and Twelve, but everyone still knew someone who had died of causes drugs like those would have prevented. 

She ground her teeth. The League’s time was coming. They just had to be patient.

“How long do you think it will be before the– the finale?” Darla asked, her movements through the woods far quieter than Duke’s.

He shrugged. “A day or less?”

“So we should gather some food for tonight?”

“That would be a good idea, yeah. Show me what to do?”

After a lecture that left M’gann even more impressed with Darla’s ingenuity and knowledge, Darla vanished deeper into the woods while Duke stayed close to the tarp she’d laid out. He went back and forth through the brush, picking what dandelions and berries he could find and dropping them back at the tarp to keep his hands free.

He was digging his knife into the softer wood of a pine to carve out chunks when the silence of the woods split with the sound of Darla screaming his name. He dropped the pine and sprinted back for the tarp. 

Darla spun around at his return and launched herself at him. “You’re okay,” she sobbed. “I was so scared! You didn’t eat any, did you?”

Duke was stunned. “Eat what?”

“These!” She held up some glossy blue-black berries.

“No, I didn’t have– Darla, I thought they were blueberries.”

“They’re nightlock!”

“Is that–” Duke’s words died in his mouth at the sound of the cannon.

Darla held herself stiffly as if that would disguise the trembling in her lip. Without a word, the two went searching for whoever it was.

Barry’s girl was curled up behind a bush, the blue-black staining her lips the only sign of what had happened. “That’s why we don’t pick nightlock,” Darla said quietly. Duke looked queasy. 

Then something in his eyes shifted. And he said, almost as if he didn’t realize he was speaking aloud, “She wasn’t that much older than you. She was just hungry.” And that fire M’gann had seen in him at the Reaping roared back to life. 

“Darla, go get some wildflowers,” he directed with the same cool, quiet tone with which he’d sent her flying into the woods all those days ago. She looked up at him questioningly, but whatever she saw was enough to make her nod and stride off into the underbrush.

Duke knelt down next to Barry’s girl (and M’gann should remember her name, especially now, why didn’t she remember–) and dampened the cuff of his jacket. With it, he dabbed away the dark juice staining her lips and gently wiped away the foam at the corners of her mouth. As gently as possible, he rolled her from her side to her back and began combing her hair into a reddish halo around her head.

“I’m coming back!” Darla called ahead, and it was a good thing she did because Duke startled badly, displacing the girl and putting her hair in disarray. He placed a hand on her shoulder with a muttered apology. The realization a second later that apologies would never be necessary with her broke his steady exterior, and his eyes began to well up.

Darla bounced up, her arms full of white flowers, glossy ivy, and some fan-like ferns, as he finished combing the girl’s hair back into place. With her bounty set down, the little girl sat back on her haunches and watched Duke work. 

The longer he worked, the harder his face became. 

He knew the hovercraft to retrieve her body wouldn’t come until they left. And he has a point to make, M’gann thought, feeling oddly shaky.

Ferns spread out from her in a triumphant fan, speckled with the glossy ivy and clusters of white flowers. The girl lay in the center, eyes closed and hands folded over her chest. With green ivy and star-like white flowers woven through her vibrant hair, she looked like a woodland spirit. 

With the daisies and remaining small ferns, Duke fashioned a bouquet and tucked it into her hands.

There can’t be more he means to do, M’gann thought. This is already treasonous, what more could he–

He laid his hand across her brow like a benediction. “We could have been friends in another universe,” he said quietly, but the mics picked it up loud and clear. “Maybe we could have been allies in this one. I’m sorry we didn’t get the chance.” And he bent his neck and kissed her forehead before rising to his feet with a grimace at the stiffness in his legs.

With Darla’s hand in his, he kissed the middle three fingers of his other hand and raised them to the sky with blazing eyes. At his side, Darla did the same. 

She was the one to tug him away to begin their tedious march to the lake. But before they could get more than a few steps away, Duke stopped to pocket some of the berries. “Maybe Danae will think the same thing,” he said, and it was almost a good lie. M’gann would have been worried if she hadn’t seen that fire, that thirst for life and for justice still burning in his eyes.

Darla scooped up what food they’d gathered in the little crock they’d brought from the cave, and they began their march back to the lake. They traded the crock back and forth as they went, eating what they’d gathered in a tight, considering silence.

They were less than a mile from the lake when Darla stopped and tilted her head to listen. She dropped the crock and tugged Duke to start running with her. Duke let her pull him along, trusting her without question, but kept throwing glances over his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever it was she was hearing. 

The mics finally picked up the crashing her keen ears had caught as they sprinted through the underbrush.

One of Duke’s glances made his eyes widen. Danae was right behind them. “Go!” he roared, and he and Darla put on an extra dose of speed. 

The Career still pulled even with them with, but something wasn’t adding up: her face was red, and her breaths heaving. She’d clearly been running for a long time. 

M’gann gasped and didn’t breathe out when she saw why.

The muttations racing for them were clearly derived from some kind of monkey, a baboon if she had to guess, but they were three times the size of an average baboon and feral. The teeth displayed as they shrieked to each other were the size of M’gann’s hand and designed for tearing, and okay, she could see why Danae hadn’t bothered to fight. The seconds Darla’s keen ears had bought the Twelves had given them a fighting chance in the race for the Cornucopia.

Danae was first to scale it, collapsing with wordless wheezing the second she made the top. Despite being significantly smaller, Darla was right behind her, climbing light and sure. But Duke– He didn’t manage to climb more than a couple feet before one of the mutts got its fangs into his leg.

He screamed, and Darla whirled around. She pulled out the knife he’d stuck in her pocket after foraging and threw it at the mutt, hitting it in the eye and sending it falling back into the feral monkeys below. The interruption bought Duke the precious seconds needed to finish climbing. No matter their unnatural agility, the muttations couldn’t get enough momentum to clear the smooth, curving edge of the Cornucopia.

On opposite sides of the structure, Danae was on her side trying to get air back into her overtaxed lungs, and Darla was pressing down on the wound the mutt’s teeth had torn in Duke’s calf. Blood was pulsing out beneath the makeshift dressing despite the little girl leaning her whole weight down on the wound.

“I need a stick,” she panted. “Or an arrow– or, or something. Duke! I need to tie a tourniquet or—” Or you won’t survive, M’gann filled in.

Duke fumbled with the backpack that had somehow made it to the top of the Cornucopia with them. “There’s a– I think there’s still cutlery in here.” Fingers slippery with blood couldn’t even rattle the zipper, and he shoved it into Darla’s hands. With his hands free, he pressed down on the wound with what strength he had and a bitten-down groan. 

Darla dug through the backpack frantically, her too-young face breaking into delirious relief when she pulled out a cloth napkin and butter knife that had come with the ridiculous full service meal they’d been sent the previous night. With bloody but steady fingers she tied the napkin right below his knee, secured the butter knife with a second knot, and began to twist. 

Duke screamed. Tears poured down Darla’s face the tighter she winched it, but she didn’t falter. When blood was no longer leaking from under the bandage, she undid her belt and cinched it around the tourniquet to hold it in place. Then she collapsed back against the curve of the horn, her bloodied hands shaking.

After a few breaths, Duke propped himself up on his arm. His hands were equally bloody, and his eyes were wild. “Darla,” he said, “are you–”

Something tackled him to the Cornucopia, nearly succeeding in smashing his head against the metal.

Danae had recovered enough from their mad sprint. The fight was back on.

As the two teens rolled and traded blows, M’gann caught Danae’s gaze shift to Darla for a fraction of a second. That unwitting glance told M’gann everything she needed to know. Danae wasn’t intending to leave the Arena. District Four’s wondergirl had found her limit: she was going to kill Duke and die along with him, solidifying the little girl’s victory and giving herself the opportunity to go out on her own terms.

No matter her exhaustion or her plan, Danae still wove and twisted like an eel trying to get Duke in a lock. He got in glancing blow after glancing blow, twisting as best as he was able to keep her from getting any leverage on him.

Neither teen was in good condition two weeks into the Hunger Games, but they still fought like mad, each desperate to outlive the other there in the final showdown. Duke was full of fire, but he had one still-healing leg, a tourniquet on another, and dangerous blood loss. Danae had a bum ankle, body armor, and years of training. It wasn’t surprising when she managed to get on top of him and slam him back into the horn. 

Her knees kept his arms pinned to the metal as she leaned her bodyweight down onto his windpipe. Duke was writhing, trying to buck her off, but she wouldn’t let up. 

Then in a feat of core strength and desperation, Duke rocked his legs up, tipping Danae further on to his throat but allowing him to get a knee between him and her chest. Something like adrenaline gave him the strength to push her back far enough that his other leg could kick her in the chest. She tumbled back, wheezing. He’d managed to catch her in the solar plexus.

She tried to rise to her feet, but now Duke was the one with the edge. And mad with the panic of the moment, he shoved her back. His eyes widened the second she tipped out of arm’s reach, but it was already too late. 

She plummeted with a scream into the pack of monkey mutts.

As they began to tear into her (M’gann was going to lose everything she’d ever eaten–), Duke all but fell to Darla, tugging her to him by her hand. “Cover your ears, baby,” he said, shaky and teary-eyed as he pulled her to lean back into him. “That’s right, good job. Now, can you sing for me?” 

He placed his hands over hers as she began singing a lullaby M’gann didn’t recognize. And the Firebird sat with tears streaming down his face, the screams and pleas of the girl he’d consigned to brutal death splitting the night and his little sister singing as his only tether to hope.

M’gann was shaken from sleep by gentle hands and a reverent whisper of her name. 

It wasn’t enough to quell her Victor instincts, and she went for the knife under her pillow before unyielding hands pinned her wrists to the couch.

Once the initial adrenaline wore off, Connor asked quietly, “You with me?” She went boneless with a nod and a stifled groan.

At her cracked eye, he nodded, apologetic but firm. “We’re in the finale.” That was all he needed to say, and she was rolling upright, groping for the coffee her gracious, gracious man had brought her. “It’s not a good one.”

She gave a very Artemis-like growl. “When is it ever?”

Before she could do more than try and fix her hair between gulps of coffee, Connor guided her to the floor by the couch and took the choice out of her hands. Those strong, surprisingly dexterous fingers combed through her hair with a quiet reverence that never failed to bring M’gann’s heart up into her throat and began a quick, neat braid down from the crown of her head.

“Danae survived the night,” he shared in that soft, steady voice that pulled tension out of her body like poison sucked from a wound, the repetitive tug on her hair keeping her present. “The body armor did its job, but there’s…not much else left of her,” he finished delicately. M’gann felt bile rise and took another gulp of coffee to cover it. Connor rested a hand on the juncture between her neck and shoulder, his warmth steady and comforting. 

This was not their bedroom, M’gann reminded herself. This was Mentor Central in the endgame of an unprecedented Hunger Games, and she could not relax into him and cry the way she wanted to. 

“Artemis thinks the mutts will be recalled at dawn,” he continued. “Then all Duke has to do is get down from the Cornucopia–” A tall order for a teen with a tourniquet, blood loss, and dangerous dehydration, M’gann thought bitterly, “–use his knife, and he and Darla can get out of there to medical attention. Then–” 

“Con!” Artemis snapped somewhere in the distance. “Quit flirting and get over here.”

M’gann didn’t need to look to know her love was rolling his eyes. She felt a tug as he finished tying off her braid and, when he said in a whisper only for her, “She is one to talk,” she had to stifle a snicker.

Even with Connor’s warning, she almost lost all that precious coffee at the sight of what Danae had been reduced to.

Darla slid down the opposite side of the Cornucopia, landing with light, sure feet. She waited until Duke slid down and it was a good thing too because she was there to catch him when the leg with the torniquet gave out under him on the landing. They hobbled around the Cornucopia like the world’s most tragic three-legged race to the bloody, mangled meat that was all that was left of Danae.

“I can–” Darla began, but Duke immediately shook his head.

“I won’t put that on you,” he said softly. “Help me down.”

With Darla’s help, Duke bent down next to what was left of Danae, turning ashy from the pain. But his knife flickered, the pool of blood around Danae expanded rapidly, and the cannon sounded. Everyone in Mentor Central breathed that sick, pained sigh of relief at the mercy kill.

M’gann watched as Darla tucked her little body under Duke’s arm, lending him her strength to get back up to standing. They hobbled away from Danae’s body and stopped at the shore of the lake. They stood silently for a moment, the peace of the moment settling in. But the longer they waited for that announcement they were promised, the more uneasy they became.

Darla broke the silence. “It’s taking them a while. Do you think–”

The click of the announcement system sounded. 

“Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games,” came the voice of Claudius Templesmith, and M’gann experienced something like if deja vu gave her vertigo where she knew what he was about to say before he said it. “The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor.” There was a burst of static and then nothing more.

M’gann felt her heart pounding and her hands begin to shake. 

Duke and Darla recoiled from each other, and the screen split to show both Duke’s flicker-quick expressions of horror, rage, and cold assessment up and around and Darla’s wide-eyed look of betrayal followed by abject fear.

They stared at each other for a moment, and M’gann felt the entirety of the country frozen at the display before them all. Was the Boy Who Was On Fire going to kill his district partner? Was he going to sacrifice himself to ensure her victory? The choice was in his hands, and everyone knew it.

Then Darla’s lip trembled, and Duke’s decision was made. He flung his knife as far into the lake as he could, turning back just in time to catch the little girl flinging herself at him.

“Duke, I—” she cried, and he pulled her closer, making himself a shield for her against the world. 

“I know, DeeDee, I know,” he soothed, rocking her as much as he could. He was hanging onto consciousness by a thread, and everyone in Mentor Central knew it. “You’ve been so brave, baby, and I’m so proud of you. I’m so, so proud. I love you so much, baby, you know that right? I love you with every cell in my body.”

“I love you too, Duke,” Darla said through her tears. “I wanted– I wanted to leave here with you.” 

“I know, baby, I did too. I wanted to leave with you and meet all your friends and live happily ever after together. It’s not fair,” he trailed off hoarsely. “It’s not fair.” 

Something was building behind his eyes, the bleak helplessness of before dissipating against a mounting stormfront of discharge and utter destruction. He muttered something down to her that the cameras and mics couldn’t pick up.

M’gann watched as he clearly came to some kind of decision. He got down to Darla’s level – and the watching Victors hissed or cringed at the way he almost blacked out from the pain – and he gripped her by the shoulders. He leaned in close, whispering something in her ear too quiet to be picked up by even the Capitol’s mics, a hand concealing his mouth from lip reading. 

When he finished, he sighed and kissed her forehead. “I cannot– I will not leave you if that’s what you can expect.”

“What are you saying?” Darla’s tremulous question gave voice to what every viewer in Panem was thinking.

His tone was cold, but the pain in his eyes was burning him alive. “I’m saying they need a Victor. So they can have both of us or neither of us.”

And he pulled the nightlock berries from his pocket. 

M’gann felt like all feeling had left her limbs, leaving her trapped in a paralyzed body with a pounding heart and frozen lungs. This was treason, this was the biggest ‘fuck you’ ever dealt to the Capitol, this was live–

Tears started spilling down Darla’s face, and he swept her up in his arms as heaving sobs wracked her little body. Then with a tremendous breath almost too big for her, she raised her head, swiped her knuckles across her eyes, and held out her hands. Duke let a few berries tumble into them, leaving his other hand empty between them, his pinky extended.

“D’s forever, right?” 

Darla squinched her face against the tears and linked her pinky with his before nodding, big eyes tear-bright but face and feet set as solid as bedrock.

With their pinkies still linked, Duke looked up at the sky, and M’gann couldn’t breathe. He and Darla raised the berries to their mouths.

The cannon fired—

—but it was the cannon to signal the end of the Games, Claudius Templesmith stumbling over his words in his rush to announce Duke Thomas and Darla Dudley as the Victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games.

The ensuing silence in Mentor Central was louder than anything M’gann had ever heard. 

But then, maybe everyone was talking and the blood roaring in her ears was just drowning it all out.

This was it. M’gann took a shuddering breath in, feeling like she hadn’t breathed for hours. 

This was it.

Her eyes snapped to Wally, Dick, and Artemis, and they all nodded back, the same melange of fear, wonder, adrenaline, and nausea-inducing uncertainty in their eyes that she was feeling.

This kid– this kid was either too bullheaded to realize what he had just done or stubborn enough to not stop even if he did. Either way, there was no going back from the blow that had just been dealt to the fabric of their world. 

The fire had been lit. 

M’gann wasn’t sure if it would warm them or burn them all alive.