Chapter Text
It could only ever be an anticlimax.
Thing is, real life has to come back in - so come back, it does. It doesn't feel possible, but living happens around them and they start to slowly patch themselves back together and work out what happens next.
Mycroft insists he needs data, before anything else happens. Takes everybody off into his office, with Anthea, one by one - including Killian, who’s only a little spooked at being asked about every single person he’s ever met in his entire life, especially the friends he still half-has back home in Four.
Bond turns up for a while, doesn’t talk to anybody else, buggers off again afterwards.
Killian does what he said he would: he just hangs about.
There’s something very weird about hoovering. About being normal.
Or, whatever passes for normal, anyway - Regina’s still so tired she goes off for a nap in the middle of the afternoon, while Finnick’s in the middle of being quizzed. Killian ignores the sound of her smashing something - several somethings - and the fact that when she comes back, she’s definitely cried just as much as she’s slept.
There’s no word from Sherlock. Or about Sherlock.
“I have to do something,” Regina says hollowly. “I know Mycroft doesn’t…”
“Aye, love - but give him time?” Killian tries, to which Regina doesn’t answer.
Killian cooks dinner, as the day runs long; Anthea only comes out to get her and Mycroft more tea, wrapped up in her thoughts when she does.
Everything feels echoey.
The sun’s setting by the time Anthea properly emerges: “I am going home, and if I am disturbed before midday tomorrow, I will not be held responsible for my actions,” she announces, so polite it makes Killian faintly nervous. “I will be returning at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Robin will be joining me. You will wish to watch the evening news.”
The woman disappears before anything else can happen; Killian can’t blame her.
Mycroft takes a little while longer, eventually poking his head out from around the door. “Any word?” he asks Regina, without preamble; she shakes her head. “Understood. I will be unavailable for some time. Kindly do not disturb me.”
“Mycroft…”
“I know,” he interrupts, before Regina can tell him - again - that she wants to join the Queens. To find Sherlock. “I am aware, and I promise you, I shall not be much longer; please, allow me time. There is a great deal to consider before we undertake actions that cannot be undone.”
Regina looks at him for a very long time. The two of them talk, without speaking; Mycroft turns away, closing his bedroom door behind him.
“Love…”
“News,” she interrupts, and turns on the television; it takes a few minutes - too many pictures of Sherlock, him and his violin on the interview - but they get around to it in the end, a newsreader, all bubblegum pink and blue, pretending to be believably serious as they announce the big news of the day:
Mycroft Holmes has resigned.
It feels very real, all of a sudden; he’s not with Snow any more. It’s a danger and a relief all at once. Mycroft Holmes is just Mycroft, now, he’s just a man - not the man they all reckoned would be future President, not the rest of it.
Just a Victor. Just like them.
Regina goes to bed without a word; Killian gets to spread out across the entire sofa, for once - he sleeps, and when the nightmares blur him into white-tiled rooms where too many people ask about Mycroft Holmes, it’s not exactly a surprise. Killian lies in the dark, stares into it, curbing terror that pulses hotly through him.
There’s still nothing from Sherlock the next day.
Robin arrives with Annie in tow; Killian has never been so glad to see anybody in all his life. “Dia dhuit, little miss,” he says, holding her close; she holds back, clutches intensely. “Missed you.”
Annie can’t speak properly, not today; she clings on, almost desperately. “Safe,” she breathes by his ear, the only thing she can find - Killian holds her tighter, crushing her with all his apologies. It’s been a while since he saw Annie properly.
Robin looks around the flat. “Nice place,” he says, a bit awkwardly; Killian wonders what he can see, how much he can guess at. “Erm…”
“Stand still,” Anthea tells him, running a scanner over Robin. “Killian?”
Killian gently unpeels Annie’s arms from him. “You stand still for me, aye?” he tells her; she looks confused, but does as directed - Killian grabs the scanner off Anthea, runs it over her. “Need more of these, bloody nightmare…”
“Already organised,” Mycroft hums, waiting until the lights are all green to continue: “Good afternoon, Robin. Security measures; these scanners are calibrated to recognise almost every form of surveillance measure the Capitol has available. I’m sure you have heard the news regarding my resignation; we’re anticipating a marked uptick in attempted covert surveillance.”
Robin nods. “Yeah - why aren’t you dead?” he asks bluntly. Fair enough.
“I exerted some relevant leverage,” Mycroft replies simply. “Tea?”
“No, thank you…”
“Then, to business,” Mycroft continues, without preamble; he gestures to the spare armchair, while Killian and Annie take up residence on the sofa. She offers him a length of rope, something to practise knots on; he grins, and her smile is distant but there all the same. “Robin - you have some illicit contacts, yes? The ‘mutual friend’ you spoke of, when first we met?”
Robin’s eyes widen slightly, as he’s treated to everybody bar Annie looking at him. “Yes,” he replies, very cautiously. “I…”
“We are opting for full transparency at this point in time,” Mycroft informs him. “It is safer, given the complex nature of these matters; given that you have been in close contact with all of us, and are likely to remain thus, it would be unacceptable not to appraise you accordingly and allow you to make an informed decision regarding your future.”
Robin glances around the room; Regina gives him a quick smile, encouraging. “Okay,” he agrees carefully. “And ‘these matters’ are…?”
“We are intending to bring down Snow’s government and install a viable alternative,” Mycroft announces, with a bladed smile. “Not to put too fine a point on it. In the meantime, we also wish to establish Sherlock’s safety, given that his Sponsors are Irene Adler and her collective.”
“The Queens?” Robin echoes; good to know that’s not just a Victor nickname for them. “I’m so sorry.”
Mycroft dips his head in acknowledgement. “My thanks,” he says. “Now - I assume I am correct in my assertion that you have no notional objections?”
“... no,” Robin agrees, his cheeks slightly pink. He takes a second. Nobody speaks. Annie knots. Robin brushes hair out of his eyes. “You’re all sure about this, then?”
“Yes,” Regina replies, more gently than Mycroft would know how to be. “Robin - you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I swear. Soon as Annie’s off of Contract, you won’t have to see any of us again.”
Robin laughs, easy and Capitol. “I doubt that,” he says, but there’s no sting in it; he’s right. The Capitol will know he’s been close to them - even if he opted out, right this second, it wouldn’t make him safe. Not safe enough. “Look - I can’t risk my family. Roland, he’s… I can’t do anything that risks them.”
“And nor would we ask that of you,” Mycroft agrees, without hesitation; Robin’s son is only two years old. Makes it even more impressive that the man agreed to take care of Annie, alongside a toddler. “In any instance, we will afford what security we can to you and yours - all I must ask is that you do not speak of these matters outside these four walls. As you can imagine, it would end poorly.”
Robin laughs, strained; Killian pointedly pretends not to notice him looking. Him and Annie, two wrecks of the Capitol, making knots. “You don’t say,” Robin says, instead. “This is… okay. Alright. Well - you said it yourself, I’m not… against it. I… can you do it, though? Really?”
The last, he directs to Mycroft - and Killian wonders, with quiet disbelief, how the fuck all of this changed so quickly.
Mycroft nods. “Yes,” he says simply. “It will not be a simple venture, nor will it be quick - but in essence? Yes.”
Killian ties off a modified sheepshank knot - bitch to do one-handed - while Robin considers that one for himself.
Nods. “Alright. So: take it you’ve been working with Gold’s market for a while too, then?” Robin asks, with an easy smile.
Looks like Robin’s joined the crew.
Killian and Annie chat, in the way she has, while Mycroft asks Robin a million questions in a flat type of voice that makes Killian’s skin prickle; it’s easier with her. Annie understands when he can’t think for remembering; when his head’s spinning too fast; when things get a little bit too white and language stops making sense.
“I miss you too,” Annie whispers to him, when she and Robin leave again. Her arms wrap around him, hold him to earth.
The flat is so quiet. The Games had so many people, all the time. The television on, all hours, and people spilling from every corner; it’s peaceful, now, and they’re all still too worn out to keep the tension running.
Regina and Mycroft don’t really talk to each other. “Tomorrow,” Mycroft promises Regina. “Anthea will be here in the morning - we have an initial plan arranged for you, with input from salient support. Please, Regina.”
For a moment, it looks like she’ll argue; instead, she sags slightly. Closes her eyes. “I’m gonna take a bath,” she mutters, and leaves without another word.
Mycroft sighs, heavy and tired.
The quiet surrounds them, careful and contained.
Bond brought Killian’s sketchbook over, one day during the Games; Killian follows the impulse, finds it. Mycroft’s silent, anyway - he turns to a clean page, letting himself fall into the familiar steps of sketching. It’s a messy one, he’ll probably bin it later, but it keeps his hands and mind moving.
“You’ve a plan, then?” he asks eventually, as the shape of a room fills the paper; he isn’t sure what it is yet, doesn’t want to break the spell and try to work it out. Mycroft is staring into the middle distance. “Mycroft. The whole revolution-thing.”
Mycroft makes no indication he’s heard. Killian leaves him be, and is surprised when, eventually: “More or less, yes.”
Killian realises the shape is turning toxic; he turns the page, starts again. “So,” he says, unsure why he’s asking. “How?”
“I am still some time away from a full debrief on the matter…”
“No, I mean,” Killian interrupts, sweeping a line upwards, “just, dunno. Broad stuff. Don’t know where you’d start, to be honest. Just. Curious, right?”
Again, there is quiet. An oasis quietly grows beneath Killian’s fingertips.
Mycroft sighs. “Even the concept appears absurd, doesn’t it?” he asks softly, a question Killian knows he isn’t supposed to answer. “There is no single way to achieve such an end, and certainly not quickly; the fundamentals are simple in mechanical terms, but ultimately, such change would require the concerted efforts of hundreds - if not thousands - of others.”
Killian nods absently. “Can’t just kill Snow then?”
“Snow is but one factor; any replacement would be born of this world, and thus, defeat the point,” Mycroft murmurs, which is fair enough. “No; this requires an overhaul of every structural facet of the world we inhabit. By its nature, that takes time. Authoritarian constructs are well-fortified - we must dismantle the very foundations of Panem. Begin again.”
A line cuts too sharply; Killian stabs an eraser onto the tip of his hook, removes it, tries again. “So how?”
Mycroft doesn’t seem annoyed by the question, which is nice. “Establishing a viable alternative must be the initial priority; nothing can happen if we have no options with which to fill the void, when the current system is removed,” he explains, distant even to himself. “Then… a nation to coordinate. Unite - or at least ensure they’re not working counter to our aims - then deploy. Ensure basic life resources for those left behind. Medical support for the inevitable wounded, food, clean water… transport… Panem is intelligently built to preclude precisely this. Any single missing part would collapse the whole initiative. We also need arms, and those who can wield them.”
“So…”
“So, break each component into subcomponents, and continue to do so until the steps are iterable and manageable,” Mycroft explains, as though that sentence makes any bloody sense. Killian stares at him, and Mycroft eventually realises: “Apologies. Let us use the example of resourcing for Districts, on the assumption of broad-spectrum civil war. The Dark Days act as a reasonable example: resourcing nearly allowed the Districts to win, Snow has pointedly destroyed the mechanisms used then, by carving the Districts in such a way as they are interreliant.”
That one, Killian follows: “Need each to survive?” he translates, and Mycroft smiles faintly, nods. “Got you.”
“So,” Mycroft continues, “how would one go about providing sufficient resources for, say, District Twelve? Assuming Panem is at war, as I mentioned.”
Killian considers for a moment. “Get it in from Eleven?”
“How?”
“Trains, right?” Killian asks, sensing a trick-question.
Mycroft dips his head. “So, we’ve established that we cannot provide for Twelve without District Six, who are the only non-Capitol entities with the expertise to manage rail travel,” he agrees, relaxing a little bit, the more he talks. “Similarly, Eleven need to be in a state of maintenance; it cannot afford to lose production output. Corporate espionage is, thus, off-limits. So, how does one effectively revolt in Eleven without decimating the entire rebellion and losing us Twelve?”
Killian blinks. This. This is why it seems so fucking impossible. “Dunno.”
“Alternative modes of resistance,” Mycroft replies, with a tiny spark of enthusiasm. “Of course, that requires figures on the ground who are able to direct attention and effort; Eleven doesn’t have the strength to mount a resistance on their own, and they need a rallying point. All the Districts do, as a point of fact, but let’s continue with a narrowed lens: we now need a viable leadership construction, in Eleven, with sufficient trust to dissuade rebels from activity that compromises the wider initiative.”
“... who?”
“Reasonable question,” Mycroft agrees. “Victors help, but we’d be - at least partially - reliant on local rebel movements; we’ll need contact, trust-building, et cetera. That’s more doable; Gold has those contacts available, Bond and Chaff are on passable terms. They need to trust us, of course, which is the harder ask and rightly so. Security on all levels will need to be established - and there we have Three’s unquestionable relevance in such matters. Speaking of: which Districts, in what order, would you prioritise?”
This is a lot more than Killian was completely ready for. Probably should’ve seen it coming, but not much he can do now; still, at least Mycroft’s thought most of this through. Encouraging. “Alright, um - power, I guess? Not much works without power.”
“Fine - Five. And?”
“Twelve?”
“Good reasoning, but no,” Mycroft corrects, though he isn’t unkind about it; he seems to be taking a quiet, tentative amount of pleasure in teaching, in showing off. It’s like a kid twirling for a parent, he seems so delighted by Killian’s interest. “The majority of power can be maintained via renewables; we needn’t rely on Twelve.”
“So… Eleven, but not Ten or Four?” Killian continues, though it aches to think of his own District as non-critical. “Guess you’d need Two, with all the training…”
“Unlikely, the District is far too indoctrinated,” Mycroft dismisses, “although I’ll grant, it would be substantially easier were we able to turn them - that is a longer-term goal, though, and implausible enough that I would not factor them into calculations for the time being. If I were hoping for trained guns, I’d look to Four for that - another Career District.”
“Not One?”
Mycroft smiles, almost sadly. “Trained, yes, but under-resourced,” he says, and the look in his eyes speaks of a wish for a home. “Four has trained bodies and practical skills: fishing allows a degree of self-sufficiency, at least for a short period.”
“Okay - so that’s Five, obviously Six to get around, Eleven, Four. Three for tech, ‘cos the Capitol’s got a lot?”
“Agreed,” Mycroft says, with a slight smile. “And I think that covers mission-critical, and even then, Four is questionable. An argument could be made to swap out any given foodstuff District for Eleven, but I would still vote in that direction given that meat is non-compulsory in the human diet, and whilst grains are functional, milling them is a complication we cannot afford.”
“What about water?” Killian asks, aware that it identifies him immediately as Four-born; they, more than most, know how important clean water is. The District suffered, a couple of generations back, from the idiot assumption that being on the sea meant they had water to survive on.
“Every District has sewage works - which is a good point, maintenance of such plants would be vital to avoid a health crisis either during or directly after revolutionary activity,” Mycroft says, trailing off towards the end, his mind darting into the future almost visibly. “I hadn’t quite considered that; thank you, Killian, well noted.”
Killian feels a little flutter in his chest, at that; it’s rare, getting a compliment from Mycroft on something halfway clever.
Mycroft has that distant look he gets when he’s thinking. Killian leaves him to it, for a bit. “It’s doable, isn’t it?”
“Doable, yes,” Mycroft replies quietly. “I believe it is. Easy, however? Not in the slightest.”
If only anything could be bloody simple.