Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Reaping dawns across Panem. The Quarter Quell.

Sunshine beats down on the residents of District Ten. Emma and Ruby stand together in front of the stage, Arne and Griffin on the other side, split off for male and female like it’s any other Reap - except that it’s just the four of them. Four of them in a little roped-off area, with the huge crowds of Ten waiting behind.

The Mayor gives his usual speech. Emma feels her mind humming, looking out over the crowd: they’re silent, but it’s a tense silence, angry and violent and only stalled by the Peacekeepers and their machine guns.

Emma knows she’ll die in the Quell, and she knows that Ten will rebel when she does.

It’s so stupid, because really and fucking truly, Emma never actually wanted to die.

“Happy Hunger Games!” Martius bleats over the crowd; Emma’s mildly surprised. She figured they’d have a shiny new Escort this year, not the same one as before - nobody wanted the job, probably. Emma can’t really blame them. “This is a very special year…”

Cameras watch their every move, most of them fixed on her.

The silence is a little bit spooky.

August watches from the crowd. Rosamund, too; the girl Emma Volunteered for, who she can’t bear to speak to - or think about - without seeing Prim and Rue, two different little girls she failed to save.

“As always, ladies first!”

Mockingjays flit in the corners of Emma’s imagination, purged from the District as much as they can, never truly gone - it’s almost funny. The girl in flight can’t fly high enough. There’s nowhere she can go, nothing she can do.

Martius unfolds the piece of paper: “Emma Swan.”

Ruby sucks in a complicated breath, but says nothing. It would be pointless, they both agreed on that - last thing they want is both of them in a Hunger Game, Emma needs Ruby on the outside to Mentor.

Practical things are easier: Emma leaves her behind, stepping forward.

Martius looks at her with a strange expression, conflicted somehow; Emma, for her part, feels fire simmering in her veins as she looks out over Ten - the crowds are shifting, unhappy and angry, pressed back by the Peacekeepers who are just waiting for an excuse.

They want to salute. Emma looks over the crowds with a look that she hopes tells them as much: she knows, she can see it, they don’t have to actually do it. It wouldn’t be worth it - a salute isn’t worth dying for, she isn’t worth dying for.

“Arne Carfrey.”

Griffin doesn’t Volunteer. Arne steps up onto the stage next to her, swaying; he’s already drunk, Emma can smell it on him when they shake hands.

They’re immediately yanked into the Justice Building, leaving Ruby and Griffin to fend off the last. “Straight to the train,” somebody snaps, taking them out the back, off into a waiting car - not fast enough to miss the rattle of machine gun fire, the wordless shouts of the crowd they’re leaving behind.

Emma and Arne sit in silence as they’re taken to the train station, placed on the train.

Ruby and Griffin join them, looking strained. “What happened?” Emma asks edgily, a question Ruby clearly doesn’t dare answer. “Ruby…”

“Tributes and unReaped Victors should be separate,” Martius tells them nervously, “I know it’s, I know Mentoring is…”

“You just try getting rid of me,” Ruby tells him levelly, so dangerous he turns a little pink, making indignantly upset noises Emma doesn’t know how to listen to.

It won’t sink in properly. Arne finds a beautiful glass decanter on one of the side tables, pouring himself a glass; Ruby and Griffin are both suspended, almost numb, as the train pulls away from a District Emma will never go back to, a place she will never see again.

They didn’t get to say goodbye. The few friends Emma has made - August, mostly. Granny Lucas, Ruby’s granny, who cooked a lot and scared the hell out of her most of the time, who loves Ruby so much it hurts; it’s only now, really, that Emma wishes she’d said something. Thanked her, for being kind.

“I’m gonna watch who… who else,” Ruby manages, sounding choked. Martius cuts off whatever he was saying, blinking in a hurt kind of way; must be annoying getting ignored, for somebody who likes being the centre of attention. “Anybody else?”

Arne lets out a quiet, bitter sound. Griffin’s knuckles are white on his hipflask, jaw set; he shakes his head in a jerky way, eyes empty.

Emma trails after Ruby without saying anything. Ruby slides the compartment door shut behind them, turns on the television; Emma curls up in a big comfy chair, accepting a cup of cocoa from a waiting Avox, all of it feeling the exact same as last year in weird ways that are messing with her head because it’s just the same. All the same things, but the rest of the world is different.

Then again, Emma’s not exactly the same person she was a year ago. Past-Emma would’ve smacked now-Emma in the face.

Ruby looks like she’s barely keeping from screaming.

District One comes first, of course.

They stand up in One’s Reaping Square, all the Victors: Mycroft Holmes, who’s exactly as tall as Emma’s nightmares remember, a really tall man who came through a wall while she was still barely awake and told her “it’s not about you”.

Nothing and everything is about Emma Swan, the Saviour; the girl in flight; the mockingjay. She’s a hundred thousand things that will live on past whatever horrible thing finishes her off in another Arena.

“Ladies first!” One’s Escort chirps; Emma wonders if they’re taught to speak like that, taught to stand up in the District and pretend like this is how everybody wants this to go, cheerful and stupid.

Cameras fix on the female Victors. Four of them; Ruby made Emma study the Careers, watch their Games. Merriworth - who’s like, sixty or something - was amazing with a spear, threw them like Emma threw a bag full of rocks which to be honest, was kind of a fluke, but Merriworth’s win definitely wasn’t.

The whole District is bubbling. Emma looks at them - the Capitol’s favourite District, all well fed and Careers and their clothes are neat and clean - and though she swears they look bubbly like Ten, she can’t figure out why they’d even want to rebel. It was the same on the Tour, she just doesn’t get it, they don’t have a reason.

Not like Ten.

“Cashmere Rowland.”

Well. That isn’t exactly a good thing.

Emma can’t help remembering: Cashmere’s a knife-throwing person, like Clove was. Emma still dreams of the knife that smacked into her backpack during the bloodbath last year, that should have gone straight through her spine - Cashmere can do the same thing, throw knives that always find their target.

A Career, like the rest of District One’s Victors. Strong, and trained, and in her twenties and blonde like Emma but way prettier, so she’ll definitely get a load of Sponsors without even trying.

“... and the boys,” the Escort continues, which is a really stupid word for it. They’re all men, not boys. They don’t look even a little bit like boys.

Three men in total, standing side by side: Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, and Gloss Rowland. The Holmes brothers, and Cashmere’s brother. There must be something funky in the water in One, that many sibling-Victors all from the same District.

Emma studies them. Mycroft looks just the same as every picture of him ever, blank-faced, just like Gloss. They must teach their Careers to do it, making it so nobody can see what they’re thinking underneath.

Sherlock does not look like that. He’s the only person on the stage who looks like an actual, real-life person: he’s looking at the Escort and the Reaping balls with total hatred, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s about to pounce.

It’s what Emma hoped. Emma was Reaping-age for Sherlock Holmes’s Games, she remembers them, remembers his Tour. A Victor who was angry and bitchy, who was a lot like her.

Regina thinks the world of him.

“Wait, where the fuck’s Jefferson?” Ruby says suddenly. “Shit. Shit, he…”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

Three things happen, all at once:

“Don’t you dare,” and “I Volunteer as Tribute” and also, “I Volunteer as Tribute.”

The three look at each other in shock - Gloss stares between the two brothers, visibly confused but nowhere close to Mycroft and Sherlock’s confusion, Emma didn’t know the two of them could look confused, it doesn’t sit right on their faces.

Mycroft goes a shade paler. “I’m younger,” he murmurs, barely voiced; Sherlock lets out a horrible, shattered sound. “Gloss…”

“I didn’t think you’d…”

“Such excitement!” the Escort cuts in, so viciously ignorant, “we have two Volunteers, hmm? Now, boys, which of you is the youngest?”

Sherlock suddenly convulses, like he’s been stabbed in the stomach; he lets out another horrible sound, choked-off, cameras trying to shift off of him while Mycroft Holmes murmurs “I am,” with detached emptiness, looking at his brother for a brief moment with a wild, raw kind of agony.

It might be the most emotional Emma’s ever seen Mycroft Holmes look, even though he covers it up quickly; he steps forward without another word, while Sherlock’s voice bounces off the buildings of District One, nothing behind it but pained rage.

“I don’t understand,” Emma manages, as Mycroft steps onto the stage to shake Cashmere’s hand.

Ruby shudders in a breath, voice dead: “They have special rules in Career Districts, where they can get a lot of Volunteers,” she tells Emma dully. “Guess it defaults to the youngest, but it… it didn’t have to be both of them.”

Oh: the second Reaping.

Emma can’t figure out why Gloss would want to go into an Arena when his sister’s just been Reaped, but does get why the Holmes brothers definitely don’t want that to happen, but it’s confusing and she can’t keep up with it and it’s making her heartbeat feel strange.

“Well, isn’t this exciting,” the Escort continues, practically tripping over himself in his excitement while Sherlock Holmes has some kind of fit behind him, the cameras trying not to show him convulsing while the other Victors from One try to go to him, “ladies and gentlemen of District One - your Tributes for the Third Quarter Quell!”

The feed cuts sharply. Too sharply.

Emma wonders what happened. Her Tour is still fresh in her mind: rage burning in crowds across Panem, even District One. The Capitol’s favourite District.

Mycroft Holmes’s expression won’t leave her. The Ice Man, looking at his brother like he was being tortured, too much feeling for a person to hold in one go and it keeps playing and playing at the back of Emma’s eyes, even as the programme goes to District Two.

Regina. Mycroft’s wife.

Emma’s seen her a lot on television, knows her voice. Everybody knows the Evil Queen.

Only, Regina’s not all dressed up like she normally is. The makeup and hair and dresses aren’t there - she’s in normal clothes. Pants and a shirt and a jacket, hair tied up in a practical sort of way. A normal-looking woman in her thirties or so, with a scar Emma’s never noticed before visible on her upper lip; a person. Just a person, not ‘the Evil Queen’ or whatever.

Especially next to the other Victors, she looks surprisingly small: three other women, then six male Victors, and they all look huge and scary and very, very dangerous.

“Regina Holmes.”

Nobody says anything, nobody Volunteers; Emma chokes. They have a husband and wife together in the Games where only one can come out, and it’s so fucking evil it makes Emma’s skin itch.

Regina steps forward as directed, pausing only to nod respectfully to the other three female Victors. Enobaria, Beatrice and Lyme.

True, Emma really didn’t want Regina to get Reaped - but at least the other three aren’t gonna be in the Arena. Enobaria has her famous sharpened teeth for throat-ripping, which she did with normal teeth in her last Game and is right up there with heart-plucking in “recent nightmares Emma’s had”; Beatrice is in her fifties, but has the second highest kill-count of any Victor in the Hunger Games’ history.

Then, there’s Lyme. The single tallest person Emma has ever, ever seen which includes Mycroft Holmes, and one of the people Emma was most scared of because Lyme looks like she could take out practically anybody she wanted to without breaking a sweat.

The silence is eerie, wind whispering around District Two, around the silent crowd.

There’s no sign of discontent. Not here.

“Cassius Re-”

“I Volunteer as Tribute,” a hulking great man interrupts: Brutus, Emma’s brain supplies, stepping in to replace a man who’s got to be in his eighties and can’t stand up straight. They exchange looks, mute respect passing between them.

Ruby’s body crumples in relief. “Alec,” she supplements, before Emma has to ask. “He’s, I was sure they’d take him. He’s, him and Lyme - they’re married. It’s not public, but… he knows the others. The Holmeses, I mean, and if Mycroft’s been Reaped then…”

Emma’s pretty sure Ruby keeps talking, but her ears have started ringing again, drowning all of it out.

District Three only has four Victors. Q hovers at the back, looking unhappily at the other two men: Beetee and Mr Gold, apparently, though Emma’s not sure she’s ever seen Mr Gold anywhere before. Didn’t watch his Games rerun, either, Ruby couldn’t find it anywhere; he’s a lot older, balanced on a cane, hunched but somehow dangerous.

Wiress, then Beetee, get drawn. Mr Gold doesn’t react; Q looks between them like he wants to say something but never actually does.

The crowds simmer.

Emma’s a little sad she’ll never get to meet Q. He seemed nice. A bit like her, except way smarter.

“It’s…”

“Shh,” Ruby interrupts sharply, as they cut to District Four: the last Career District, with loads of Victors and crowds that look just as pissed off as they did on the Tour.

“... ladies first…”

Emma studies the Victors with whole new eyes - because Regina talked about ‘Killian’ and ‘Finnick’ and ‘Annie’ on the phone like they’re actual real-life people, which they obviously are but also aren’t, because Finnick Odair is on television all the time and Killian Jones has a shiny silver hook instead of a hand and and Annie Cresta’s eyes are too wide and too shiny and the exact same colour as the sky.

“Mags Flanagan!”

“Mairead,” Annie Cresta hisses lividly, her eyes unfocused but wild, ranging around the District and up at the sky, tears dribbling down her cheeks. “Mairead. Her name, her name...”

Emma winces as Annie wails, twisting herself to melt into Mags. “No,” Mags rasps, when they try to make her go up on the stage; she holds Annie instead, stroking fingers through her knotty hair as Annie dissolves into sobs, shrieking words inaudibly into Mags’s front.

“Annie never recovered,” Ruby supplies tonelessly, as Annie lets out a muffled, shuddering scream. “Her Games. And Mags… she had a stroke, while back. Can’t walk properly, can’t speak, she’s…”

Ruby breaks off. Emma doesn’t think she’s realised she’s crying.

The Escort is trying real hard to keep things in order, a bit uselessly. Cameras hover on the male Victors, showing glimpses of Peacekeepers coming in towards Annie and Mags. “Such an exciting year!” the Escort chirps, as the wails start to get quieter, “and I think it’s time we find out who our brave…”

Emma tunes out the stupid Capitol shit, kind of like the four male Victors are doing - Finnick and Killian, especially, keep looking over at Annie and are totally distracted from the whole imminent-Reaping thing.

The Escort delves into the big glass bowl, grabbing a slip of paper, grinning bright and wide.

“James Moriarty!”

It doesn’t get the reaction Emma expects. Killian Jones does an actual double-take, looking like he’s been smacked in the face; Finnick snaps his head to Moriarty, eyes enormous, along with Mags; Annie lets out a cry of such incredible relief it melts her into a puddle of person, flat-out curling up at Mags’s feet.

All that, while Ruby’s disbelieving gasp sounds nothing short of tortured. “Oh shit,” she manages, breathing way too fast, “oh shit, thank fuck, thank fuck, they’re okay, oh my fucking…”

“... well, how’s about that,” Jim Moriarty croons as he ambles forward, burring in his weird accent, the single person Emma’s most scared of in all the Victors - he’s terrifying. There’s no question he’d kill her, that’s not the problem. The problem is that he’d really enjoy it.

The relief is too much for Ruby: she empties a glass of posca and then just keeps on going, whispering thanks to absent gods which Emma really does get - the other Victors in Four seem nice - but it had to be James Moriarty. The youngest Victor in history, who won eight years ago but is only three years older than Emma because he won when he was thirteen because he Volunteered for it.

The last thing they can hear in District Four is Annie Cresta’s sobs, while Mags and Jim shake hands, the oldest and youngest side by side.

Well. Youngest in Four, anyway - Emma figures she’ll probably be the youngest Victor in these Games, which will get confirmed in Five: Tully, who won the year before Emma, is Emma’s age. Only a month or two between them, though when the camera shows her standing with other Victors from Five, Emma can’t help but wonder why she looks so old.

It isn’t something she can ask Ruby, not while she’s busy drinking herself away from a nervous breakdown; instead, Emma watches, relieved when it’s not Tully who’s Reaped - it’s Porter, who’s in maybe her early fifties. Joined, eventually, by Ember: a Victor normally known as ‘the Piranha’ because of his Games, but is barely recognisable these days. Emaciated, twitchy.

Emma figures it out in time with the cameras moving to Six. “Addicts, right?” she asks, while Ruby pours herself more posca. “In Five too, I mean…”

“... we call ‘em morphlings,” Ruby supplies, as Luella and Axel are Reaped - like Ember, way too thin, too twitchy. “Morphling’s easier to get, in the Centrals; most of Five and Six are addicts, been that way for decades. They won’t make it, not a chance.”

Emma nods. Her head feels too-light, her limbs floaty; at least, she thinks, that’s four Tributes who aren’t really a threat. Four fewer people she needs to be worried about in an Arena, four who’ll probably die quickly.

It doesn’t help the floatiness.

District Seven has Johanna Mason. “Fuck’s sake, let me do it if you’re gonna screw it up that badly,” she snipes, as the Escort tries and fails to grab out a single slip of paper from the huge Reaping ball, nails clacking against the glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, your female Tribute from District Seven is - who’d have damn well guessed it - Johanna Mason! At your service.”

Johanna’s smile is sickly, dangerously sweet. The Escort is briefly flustered, flushing pink as she repeats Johanna’s name, confirming the obvious. Johanna snorts under her breath, her hatred silent but amazingly visible.

There are only two male Victors from Seven. “... Blight,” Ruby whispers, voice cracking; she bundles herself into a ball on her chair, her glass and quickly-emptying posca bottle clutched in either hand.

Eight takes the only female Victor, again: a woman named Cecelia who has three kids, she has kids, they all come running up to her when she’s Reaped and have to be pried away again, back to a man who must be their father.

The cameras catch the look Cecelia gives her family, her children; the look the man - her husband, probably - gives her, in return.

Emma swallows bile.

“Woof…”

“I Volunteer,” James Bond cuts in smoothly, expression unreadable.

The sound Ruby makes is something Emma won’t ever forget: a keening, high-pitched wail of pain. “No,” she manages, tears running down her face, breathing too fast again, “I don’t, I don’t understand, I don’t understand, he’s…”

“... ladies…”

“Get out,” Ruby screeches, throwing the empty wineglass at Martius; he shuts the door just in time, the glass shattering in a cascade of fragments, catching the light, and Emma’s mind is humming, watching absently as the last trickles of wine trace down the wood.

Ruby crunches into herself, and sobs. Emma leaves her to it.

Nine’s Victors are all older, the atmosphere dense: the Reaping takes a woman named Granger, a guy called Dagan. Both are in their fifties. They look tired and sickly, too thin; like life has been forced on them for a long time, despite their best efforts.

Then, it’s Ten. Emma watches her own face on television, amazed by how calm she looks when they call her name - like she’s totally in control, totally unbothered by being Reaped just so Snow can kill her, exactly the way she’d expected from the second the Quell got announced.

Ruby convulses, wet with pain, shaking like a leaf. “I should’ve…”

“No,” Emma tells her coldly, blankly, and neither says anything else.

It’s Chaff and Seeder, from Eleven. Ruby swears and curses and eventually, when they’re shaking hands, lets out a wordless cry that echoes around the compartment; Emma doesn’t react, absentmindedly realising that the still-wet walls of one of the warehouses still has the shadow of a mockingjay just about visible.

Haymitch Abernathy is already up on stage when they cut to Twelve, next to an Escort wearing a metallic gold wig and a lot of makeup. The only Victor in Twelve, in front of two glass bowls: one with a single slip of paper, one empty.

Huh; it hadn’t really occurred to Emma that this could have been Prim.

For the first time, Emma is glad she was the one who won her Games, a thought that tastes like bile because this might not have even happened if Emma hadn’t won, if she hadn’t started revolts everywhere, all of these people she’s never met who are just like her who are going into an Arena to die along with her.

The Escort eventually snags the slip of paper with Haymitch’s name on it. The man just watches, mouth slanted in a nasty, bitter version of a smile.

That’s it, then. Twenty-three Tributes for the Quarter Quell.

Ruby screams into a cushion.

It takes a long time for her voice to give out.

They cut back to Caesar Flickerman, who immediately set off into talking about all the Tributes. “... what a phenomenal clutch of men and women we have this year,” he tells Panem, delighted, “and what a year this is going to be…”

Emma’s name crops up a lot. Mycroft and Regina - “our favourite pair of lethal lovers”, Flickerman calls them - too; husband and wife, facing an Arena together. James Bond - “well, guess there’s no keeping him from a fight like this!” - who has some of the best early odds, for a non-Career; Johanna Mason - “little firecracker!” - who can throw axes better than Emma’s ever, ever been able to throw a sword. Beetee, one of the most brilliant minds in Panem; Jim Moriarty, one of the most demented.

In a few weeks, all but one of them will be dead.

Ruby just shakes and sobs and sometimes cries out, like she can’t hold it in, like her body’s too small for the amount she’s trying to hold.

On screen, they show her face again; Emma looks away, watching the dribbles of wine along the door instead.

They have one left still to Reap, too. One more person. A final Tribute to round it all out so it’s all ‘fair’, so District Twelve still has a shot, because “well, the odds aren’t exactly in Haymitch Abernathy’s favour, are they folks?” so for all Emma knows, she could still wind up in an Arena with Ruby. They won’t know until everybody’s gotten to the Capitol.

Emma floats to her little room on the train, curls up under the covers, and stays there.

Chapter Text

It’s a seriously weird train ride. Everything’s happening all at once, and not a bit of it openly.

None of them can move for Peacekeepers. The second the Reaping’s done, they descend en masse, separating off Mags and Jim before they can say goodbye or do anything at all while Killian’s busy internalising that he hasn’t actually been Reaped.

As Jim saunters off, he gives Killian a lazy wink that says he definitely fucked with the Reaping ball. A thing that shouldn’t be possible and has never happened before in all of Hunger Games history, to Killian’s knowledge, but seems to have happened anyway which is a level of problem Killian has absolutely no clue how to deal with right now.

Snow probably can’t do shit about it, at least. Not without admitting the Reapings were rigged in the first place, or possibly telling the whole nation that Jim outsmarted the Capitol.

So that’s him, Finnick, Cian and Annie all shuffled onto a train in a general haze of disbelief. Jim and Mags are kept on the other end of the train, while Cian fucks off as soon as he humanly can, off to the dining car to drink himself out of thinking. Killian has never been so jealous of anyone in his bloody life.

He’d do the same - but Finnick and Annie need a grown-up, and Killian’s the only one available. Finnick’s pretty much out of it, lights on but nobody home, while Annie’s latched onto him like a clam and sobbing out the same word over and over and over again: Mairead. Mags’s name, her real name. A name that’s all Four, changed the second she got Reaped - nobody in the Capitol could say it right, called her ‘Mags’ instead, called her that so many times that most people forget she ever had another name.

It’s been a long time since Killian heard her called ‘Mairead’. It’s a name she only uses, these days, when speaking Four. Their language. A place where Mairead Flanagan is allowed to exist the way she was supposed to.

Killian watches the ocean for as long as he can, until it’s gone from view.

“He’ll take you in the second draw,” Finnick manages, airless, once time has passed and he’s figured out how to talk again. “Killian, I can’t watch you…”

“... no point thinking of it now,” Killian interrupts; Finnick nods, returning to his dead-eyed staring, stroking Annie’s hair on autopilot.

Finnick’s right, of course. To be honest, it’s everything they hadn’t dared hope for: it won’t be Killian and Sherlock. Killian will go into the Arena with Mycroft and Regina, leaving Sherlock and Finnick to keep each other halfway sane while they watch. A stroke of luck they hadn’t reckoned on.

Never, not once, had Killian imagined that he wouldn’t have been Reaped in Four. He’d prepared himself for it. Years to prepare, and he’s been completely knocked sideways by it not actually happening.

The worst part is the hope, has to be said. If Killian’s Reaping got fucked, there’s a chance - a tiny, fragile little chance - that Mycroft and Regina’s were, too. A chance he hasn’t been letting himself even dream of, until now.

They’ll find out soon enough. Four’s trains don’t have televisions - too short a journey to bother with - and they don’t have their phones on them, either; too risky. Half of them’ll be Reaped and the other half have no clue what to expect when they arrive in the Capitol, on a year with a bonus-Reap and half the Victors gone.

Until the second Reap’s over and done with, they’re on their own. Anthea will pick up whoever’s left.

Finnick and Annie are safe. It’s enough for now, it has to be - one thing gone to plan, if not in the way they’d expected.

Panem passes around the train, blurring into streaks of green and brown; Killian sighs out a breath, his mind going back and back to District Four.

His home. Battered and angry, but home - a crowd who watched the Reaping, then promptly went ahead and saluted, a gesture all for the Victors. Jim might not be all that popular, nor Finnick, but Four respects their Victors enough; that, and Killian knows that he and Mags are everybody’s favourites. Killian’s not lived in Four in two decades, but they love him anyway, they know he’s Four to his bones.

They didn’t return the salute. Not even Jim’s that stupid - still. Fuck knows it was tempting.

As it was, they were whisked onto a train without even getting the normal goodbyes; wasted on Jim, but Killian’s soul aches for Mags. She deserved to say her last bits and pieces to the people who’ve loved and looked after her in Four, especially since the stroke. Abs sees her every day, they’re close; they took that chance away from her, salt in the wound.

“Killian…”

“Seriously mate, give it a rest,” Killian snaps, before Finnick can say anything more - he obeys, instantly silent, looking lost and unusually small for a second or two. Killian sighs, anger evaporating as quick as it arrived. “Sorry.”

Finnick nods, stroking Annie’s hair on autopilot. “Me too.”

Back to silence they go, broken up by the occasional Peacekeeper, lurking in the corridor; lots of them about this year. Looking through the compartment window, patrolling up and down the train.

It’s a hell of a lot worse at the station. Killian’s never seen so many Peacekeepers in one place, along with IS officers in suits, wearing hilariously obvious earpieces. “It’ll be okay,” Finnick whispers to Annie, coaxing her up to her feet and off to the platform, “I promise, Annie. Marian will be there the second the Reaping’s done, okay? We’ll get you home. You’re going to be okay.”

Annie has nothing in her but tears and morphling.

The Reaped ones are always peeled off out the front, straight into a waiting set of cameras, Mentors in tow; Killian, Finnick, Annie and Cian, meanwhile, head out onto the stretch of platform.

It yanks at something in him: the past few years, Killian got off the train to find Regina and Mycroft waiting for him. A small thing, really, but something he looked forward to; the last seconds they’d have to rally, before stepping out to the media circus.

This year, there’s a dozen or so Victors clustered together, surrounded by Peacekeepers on all sides.

Killian sees Sherlock instantly, hissing at Gloss, chalk white; he notices them approaching, eyes widening dramatically with exactly the same shock they’ve all been sitting with since Jim’s name was called. “You’re both…” he starts. Cuts off again. “Mycroft Volunteered for me. Regina’s been drawn.”

They knew it would happen. They knew.

It feels like drowning, just the same.

Killian hears Finnick take the lead. “Jim,” he explains, though his eyes are fixed on Killian, like a dream he can’t kick. “Jim was drawn. I don’t… I don’t know what that means, for…”

For the agreement Finnick made with Snow: Killian, for Annie. Finnick agreed not to Volunteer for Killian, and Annie wouldn’t get Reaped. Annie’s safety was propped up on the promise that Killian would wind up in the Arena.

None of them had reckoned on Jim rigging the sodding Reaping ball. Snow has to know that, there’s no way they could’ve seen that coming.

“You agreed not to Volunteer,” Sherlock states levelly, while Annie wraps her arms around his middle, Sherlock reflexively cradling her close. Familiar movements, practised. “You did your part; it cannot be held against you, that…”

As though President Snow has ever, even once, been bothered by the idea of ‘fairness’.

If Sherlock says anything after that, Killian doesn’t hear it, busy with a body slamming into him at speed.

Alec. It’s Alec.

“Fuck the rest, thought they’d take you,” he manages, crushing Killian close before pulling away just as quickly, eyes frantic. “This, it’s. Fuck all the rest. For the time we had, Killian. I didn’t… I’m so fucking sorry.”

They can’t afford Alec anywhere near them, a truth that almost steals the relief straight from under Killian’s feet; his oldest friend for years on years, an easy hit for Snow - unless, that is, he didn’t reckon Alec was close enough to the Holmeses for it to matter.

It worked. It was worth it.

“Aye,” Killian manages. “For all we had. Lyme?”

“Back in Two,” Alec blurs out, heady with relief of his own. “Working. If she’s pulled they’ll pick her up, bring her in.”

A thing they can pretty much guarantee won’t happen. Lyme’s too important - meaning her husband is, too. “Thank fuck,” Killian agrees, misty with a wanting sort of grief: he misses her, misses Alec. The days where things weren’t so bloody complicated.

Alec looks over them, lost in his own quiet agony. Him, Finnick, Annie and Sherlock. “May you find safety,” he tells the four of them, grief so vivid Killian can’t breathe. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“And may you find peace,” Sherlock returns, the most composed of them.

Alec goes. Of course he does; Killian’s heart wrenches anyway, losses stacked on losses, watching him walk away.

“Brutus,” Sherlock fills in, watching Alec return to the safe clutch of Two’s many survivors. “Volunteered for Cassius.”

“Q?”

“With the Gamemakers,” Sherlock mutters, his expression half-masked in Annie’s hair; she clings so tightly, her grief fragile. “Fine, as best I could ascertain. Beetee and Wiress were Reaped, unsurprisingly; Mr Gold’s not speaking to anybody, which is par for the course…”

Finnick’s looking through the other Victors, realisation quietly dawning. “One?” he asks quietly, though looking at him, he already knows.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock tells him quietly. “Cashmere.”

Someone Killian’s never known all that well; who Finnick does know. Capitol bookends, upstairs in Heavensbee Hall. “Cash,” Finnick murmurs, holding her name more tenderly than the rest of them can. “Fuck.”

Not much to do but wait.

So, they wait.

It’s been years since any of them were treated like this. Peacekeepers on all sides, nowhere to sit but on the ground, no food or water or anything; caged animals, for the Capitol’s amusement. Reminding them that they are, at the end of the day, still District-born. Victors or not, the Capitol’s kindnesses are borrowed. Pulled away any time they like.

There are no screens. Killian fucking hates the pettiness of it. Trains don’t have televisions until the Outer or Further Districts, train journeys that can last days if they’re not on the fancy hyper-fast ones; they have no clue who’s in or out, can’t prepare. They just have to wait to see who steps off the trains.

Only this morning, Killian woke up with Mycroft and Regina.

It hurts like hell.

“Gloss Volunteered,” Sherlock blurts out suddenly, like he’s only just remembered. Annie mewls faintly against his chest. “For me. He, erm. Him and Cashmere, as Victors, they’re… you know. And they decided… both of them wanted to go in…”

“So only one would come out,” Killian completes, hating that he understands so easily - years of being forced into incest, popular Victors in their own rights. Not all that surprising they’d prefer another Hunger Game to that. “Hang on, if…”

“Mycroft’s younger,” Sherlock manages, hitching with bright colours of pain. “One fucking month younger.”

Five’s train restores Sulien and Mellan - both of them older, won back in the twenties and thirties - and Tully, who is already deliriously high, stumbling into the clutch of Victors in drug-painted terror, irises swallowing the fine dots of her pupils.

“Jefferson?” she whispers, staring at the bundled mess of other Victors. “No, no...”

Finnick steps into her line of sight. “No,” he agrees softly, painted in quiet heartbreak. “They Reaped Mycroft. Jefferson… I’m so sorry, Tully.”

It takes so little; she looks up at the roof far above their heads. Bright shining windows, cascades of shivering light - understanding, almost instantly, without Finnick needing to explain.

Tully looks at the sky, closing her eyes, tears trailing along her cheeks. “Be happy,” she breathes, her words trailing upwards, towards an afterlife Killian hopes against hope that Jefferson’s been allowed to find.

He hopes nobody tells Tully how Jefferson died.

Finnick holds her, when she melts where she stands, a mirror image of Annie; the two of them side by side, drugged and weeping in almost-silent despair. “I’m sorry,” Finnick repeats over and over again, murmuring into her hair. “I’m so, so sorry.”

They stay that way until Six arrives, giving them Gauge and Jett, who pick Tully off Finnick’s front the second they arrive - Finnick lets her go, though it looks like he’s starting to fray around the edges again.

“I’m fine,” he tells Killian and Sherlock shortly. “I’m fine.”

Good for him, Killian’s not; increasingly so when Seven’s train arrives - just Lennox, alone. Poor bastard was sectioned off on his own on the train, long past speaking by the time he joins the rest of them, busy trembling himself senseless.

They all knew Johanna wouldn’t be coming back. Still, Sherlock’s body buckles so much that Annie’s the one holding him up instead, Finnick stepping in closer like he can ward off every demon left lurking while Killian watches Lennox and hates, hates that he wishes it’d been him instead of Blight. Blight’s a decent man, underneath. They were friends.

All the Victors were, in a way. Panem’s Victors, they all knew each other - parties beneath Heavensbee Hall, the flat Killian’d shared with Alec and Bond, rum and vodka and cards, refusing to let the girls join but they’d done it in the end, they grew, they told themselves there was a world beyond the shit they survived as kids and some of them even believed it.

Annie unwinds from Sherlock, curling herself up in Killian instead. “Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine,” she murmurs in his ear, a lull of home, her tears falling endlessly - we live in each other’s shadows. A place to find shelter, to be safe.

It’s without them - Mycroft’s steadiness, Regina’s rage - that Killian knows he’s unguarded: their shadows are his own. He doesn’t know how to be alone.

Alec’s composure shatters when it’s Woof who joins them from Eight.

Sherlock looks at Killian. Looks and looks and looks.

It’ll be one of them. Him or Sherlock - and he needs it to be him, it has to be. He’s bloody ready to go back, two and a half years of preparation later. Killian can’t hack an Arena, of course he can’t, he’s one-handed and traumatised to within an inch of his life but he sure as fuck can’t, can’t hack being made to watch.

Time eats away at them. Hours spent flanked by Peacekeepers, standing and waiting and watching for the trains; they give up eventually, half of them sitting cross-legged on the station floor, most of them in total silence to keep from talking about the bleedingly obvious.

Nine joins eventually: Martha, thank fuck, along with Zea. Two of their oldest Victors, ones who - like Mags - wouldn’t stand a chance.

It’s around then that Annie starts to properly lose her grip. They all knew it’d come - she stares at Martha, then starts to shudder with full-blooded panic, seeing things that definitely aren’t there.

“... Annie,” Finnick interrupts, as the Peacekeepers come in closer, brandishing syringes. “I’m here. They aren’t going to hurt you, I promise - it’s to help you feel better. It won’t be long now, I promise. You’ll be home soon.”

Finnick holds her gaze while they grab her wrist, stabbing the needle in none too gently while she blinks out tears, breathing rough on her pale lips - then promptly dissolves, puddles herself into a loosely-held string of limbs and tears, gone somewhere none of the rest of them can follow.

At least it hurts less for her, when she’s like this.

Sherlock looks at Killian, looks at Annie, at Finnick. “Not long now,” he murmurs, a weight behind his eyes that Killian can’t make sense of. “I imagine they’re running out of ways to amend Jim’s Reaping.”

Killian’s laughter puffs out of him, dissipating like smoke. “Honestly, mate, last thing on my bloody mind,” he replies; barely fucking matters. “Least it’s…”

At least it’s not both of them. The only thing that matters, at this point. It won’t be both of them.

There’s sod-all warning before Ruby collides with them like a comet, crushing Killian into a hug. “I’m so sorry,” she burbles out, looking like a total wreck beneath her perfectly-done makeup. “Hell. I thought you were a goner, Killian, you…”

“Aye,” Killian agrees numbly - Ruby’s alright. Ruby’s in, Alec’s safely surrounded by the others from Two, Lyme’s safe. Even Mr Gold is alright - Q would be wrecked, if anything happened to him - and all they need now is the last ones. The final Victors, who just wanted a quiet death after lives lived so fucking loudly. “She alright, your Swan?”

Ruby’s laughter is high-pitched, sharp. “The hell d’you think?” she returns, voice ruined, swaying with whatever alcohol she found on the train. “You hear? Eleven? I’m sorry - they got Chaff. Seeder, too.”

All the Outer and Further lot stuck together, always did - friendships run deep, for the ones who weren’t ever supposed to survive.

Like James Bond, who’s going into a Quell; who Killian’s not spoken to in-person for over a year.

Chaff joined for poker, a few years back. The days before rebellions and wars, when they were fucked-up survivors who just knew Mycroft Holmes as the asshole who betrayed everybody who trusted him and won in less than two days.

Speaking of betrayal: most of the Victors keep staring at them. The gaggle of muppets who threw their lots in with the Holmeses - who are the reason for Gloss needing to watch his sister in the Games again; for friends or sometime-lovers being yanked into Arenas; for Jefferson, who topped himself to make sure he didn’t have to face this again.

Eleven’s train arrives. Cobbler and Willow join them, eyes hollow, and exactly as drunk as Ruby’s managed to get herself to.

It’s the last train they need to wait for. There’s nobody else coming.

“Moving out,” a Peacekeeper announces sharply. “District order. Now.”

One and Two obey quickest, the rest of them following on. Annie’s barely able to stand on her own, so Killian and Finnick more or less carry her while Sherlock buggers off to join the rest of One’s Victors.

Forty-odd men and women. All ages, all Districts - from Tully at eighteen, all the way up to Cobbler; she’s in her late seventies now, only a few years younger than Mags.

Mags loved - loves - so deeply.

“I’ve got you, Annie, it’s going to be okay,” Finnick promises her. “Just a little bit longer, then it’ll be over.”

Cian looks at Killian. A grumpy old bastard most of the time, but decent enough when he sets his mind to it. “F’it’s you, lad, I’ll look out for ‘em,” he promises, his voice so deeply Four it hurts to hear. “Them two, y’hear? Abs sends her love an’ all.”

“Ta,” Killian manages, a bleak hollowness rising up in his chest.

The cameras are just the same as ever. All the Victors are so bloody rehearsed; they know the deal, the screaming questions, flashing lights. The whole city crowding the streets, hanging out their windows to watch - a sea of colours, a wall of sound that never ebbs, watching a march of perfectly made-up and perfectly behaved Victors they think they know a single fucking thing about.

It’s a fifteen minute walk to the Avenue of the Tributes. Hours stuck in the station, then traipsed through the city with every eye in the nation watching.

“Bastard,” Cian mutters, when they arrive: Snow’s standing up on a podium, next to a final ball filled with slips of paper - doing the final draw himself, seems like. Doesn’t matter whose name he actually pulls out, he can say whatever name he wants.

Him or Sherlock.

The Victors are directed to their places. Left to right, One to Eleven.

Snow watches, expression unreadable. His eyes meet Killian’s; he returns the look without flinching, refusing to give the bastard any fucking satisfaction.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Snow begins, voice amplified out so the whole nation can hear. “A warm welcome to all our esteemed Victors, as we enter the final Reaping for this - the Third Quarter Quell, in honour of…”

Killian can’t be fucked pretending he cares about the bollocks Snow is spewing about unity, about remembering the evils of wars gone by - not when it means this. Annie, losing her mind and her balance; Tully, propped up on Jett; Martha, tears falling in stoic silence; Ruby, trembling violently to keep from screaming; Mr Gold, who can’t bloody walk without a cane but they paraded him through the streets all the same; Finnick, who’s instantly set in to distracting every camera in spitting distance so they won’t focus on the ones who can’t cope.

This is them. Panem’s Victors, so ‘esteemed’ and so, so broken - all to punish a man who refused to let himself be owned by President Snow.

Him or Sherlock.

“Killian, I can’t do this,” Finnick murmurs. His smile doesn’t waver, but his eyes are roving with panic. “I’m strong, I’m young - you know I’m the better bet, I can’t let you…”

“... I swear to fuck I’ll kill you myself,” Killian hisses in just as much of an undertone, shooting Annie a pointed look; Finnick looks so young, so fucking young, terrified beneath a perfect smile. “It’ll be fine - calm down…”

“Hush,” somebody hisses.

Snow’s hand disappears into the ball, making a big production out of sifting through them, like it’ll make a blind bit of difference.

The satisfaction in Snow’s voice is audible: “Killian Jones.”

Annie screams and promptly collapses, a hoarse shattering noise overspilling her balled-up form; Finnick looks up at Killian as he lowers to Annie’s side, looking no different than he had at fourteen, when Killian had tried to explain what it meant that he’d won so young because he was too beautiful not to, Killian swallowing bile at the wide-eyed lostness playing out a decade later, because Killian’s going back.

He’s going back into an Arena.

“I Volunteer as Tribute,” a voice cuts in, soaring over Annie’s screams.

Sherlock isn’t from District Four.

He steps forward anyway, waving insubordinately at Snow. “Well, you never said we couldn’t,” he points out loudly, before Snow can try to make up something to stop him. “I Volunteer. By the rules of the Games Charter, I’m allowed; there are no stipulations on being from the same District, the wording permits ‘any eligible Volunteer’ - which I am, this Reap was cross-District. Yes?”

Yep, even Snow has no clue what to do with that one. The man looks like he’s been whacked in the face with a pole.

“Thank you,” Sherlock continues, with a smug, insincere bow - then outright bloody ignores the Peacekeepers coming in to fetch him, behaving like he’s running the whole show, heading straight to Killian. “Hello. Apologies for the lack of warning.”

“Sherlock, the fuck’re you…”

“He loves you too much,” Sherlock tells him, almost inaudibly, his lips not moving. “Don’t do anything stupid. This is my choice.”

Peacekeepers descend on every side. “Sherlock,” Finnick snaps, raw, “you can’t do this, you can’t...”

Sherlock looks between the three of them. “Take care of them, Killian,” he asks. Commands, really, there’s no questioning the power in him.

“You know I will,” Killian replies, too stunned to make sense of it - a kid who got so thoroughly trashed by his first Games that he went full Morphling on them for a while; who’s Volunteered for him. “Be safe, Sherlock. Please. Tell them…”

“I will,” Sherlock nods, as the Peacekeepers catch up to him.

It’s only for the tiniest heartbeat, but Killian spots it - Sherlock’s mask dropping, enough to glimpse absolute terror.

Around them, the crowd stalls, shrieking out delight; there’s never been anything like it, somebody Volunteering for someone from another District - and the Holmes brothers are in an Arena together. The Holmes brothers and the sister-in-law, the wife. A whole family, going into an Arena.

A family.

His family.

“Killian,” Finnick cuts in; he’s pried Annie upright somehow, the only thing keeping her standing, “Killian, we can go. We have to go. Killian. Concentrate.”

The Parade. The parties. All the trappings of a Hunger Game, every year, same as always, only it isn’t the same because this isn’t just Annie Cresta or Sherlock Holmes or Q or somebody in the Games, somebody they’re all terrified for - this is all of them, all of them at once.

Killian waits until the door shuts, safe in Anthea’s car, before the panic washes him completely away.

Chapter Text

Q is whisked straight into the Control Room before he has a chance to come to terms with anything, which is unquestionably for the best.

At the point of his arrival, they have yet to Reap the final Tribute - meaning Q, for some reason, gets to skip the last Reaping. Him and Lyme, apparently, they get special dispensation to not be at the final Reaping in person.

In a world where the Reaping wasn’t rigged to high heaven, he’d have enough time to settle into work before waiting to see if he got dragged out again as a Tribute. Which would be tedious.

Control is filled with a lot of very stressed people.

“I need you reviewing Four’s Reaping,” Plutarch tells Q immediately, before he can begin to think about anything else, voice pitched low, “Moriarty interfered with the Reaping ball, we have no idea how.”

Q hasn’t even figured out who’s been Reaped yet. “Who…”

“For himself,” Plutarch returns, sounding both unsurprised and annoyed, plus confirming the transparently obvious: it was supposed to be Killian. “Find out. Also, have you seen the full Arena yet?”

Oh yes. That.

Two and a half years since they learned about the Quell; nearly the same amount of time, working for the Gamemakers; a year, making subcomponents, building out the fully-realised, fully-deployed Arena.

In the centre of the room, the non-flickering hologram has risen up - leaving one week for them to finish up the final little tweaks, for teams to see their creations in action, before twenty-four Victors-turned-Tributes are compelled to try and survive it.

“Is that water?” Q asks, from the heart of a vacuum.

Plutarch’s eyes sparkle with enthusiasm. “Slows it down, eh?” he agrees cheerfully, looking over the Arena he’s in charge of, satisfied at his own brilliance.

The Cornucopia is surrounded by a stretch of water. The podiums themselves, rising up in a perfect circle, the twelve segments of the clock - two podiums apiece - in the centre of a large lake-like body of water.

“Nah, only matters if you fall out the bloody thing,” Killian laughs, on the edges of Q’s memory - laughing, when they’d talked about his boat, when Q had pointed out that he didn’t have the first idea how to swim. “Mycroft’s been out, not drowned him yet - you’ll be fine, mate, nobody’s gonna drown on my watch.”

Mycroft and Sherlock can’t swim. District One doesn’t have large bodies of water. Nor does District Ten, actually; Emma Swan is probably going to have some problems.

Q slips into his console chair next to Aloysius, blood rushing loudly in his ears, looking at the sections in turn - at the ones he knew about, his constructions now in situ; at the ones he knew nothing of.

It is psychological warfare. Everything they can think of: jabberjays, nerve gas, Tracker Jackers. Rain that looks and feels and tastes like blood. Mutts - not just the yeti-mutt, which is exactly as bad as Q suspected it would be - but also, hybrid dog-insects with pincers, because why not, they might be the most demented things a human imagination could have spewed out.

There’s even one section that has mutt-zombie things that look like dead Tributes from the Victors’ original Games. A special section, designed based on whichever Tributes get Reaped; last year they made mutts that had Tributes’ eyes, this year they’re making zombie-mutts of long-dead children, which might be one of the most unhinged things Q’s ever heard of in his entire life to date.

They are putting traumatised Victors into an Arena designed to take advantage of that trauma.

Dying would be kinder.

Q doesn’t want to think about that so he doesn’t think about that, at all, not even a little bit - instead, he goes off to look at the Reaping footage from District Four, the half-dozen Victors standing in front of the stage.

It’s too late, really, watching from here. Even Jim Moriarty can’t perform magic.

Back Q goes, bodies flailing in reverse: Jim dances from the stage to the crowd, Annie straightens up from Mags’s arms, the Victors flee from a fate they never worked out how to run from in time.

Q watches, winding back as far as the footage will allow. Not all of it’s visible; he watches the glass balls be brought out from within the Justice Building, lonely folds of paper for the world to see - and the Victors, ferried from the train station to the Reaping Square under heavy Peacekeeper guard.

Heavy guard, yes - but distracted. Mags can barely walk, Annie can barely hold herself together. The cameras are busy drinking in Finnick Odair, the nation’s most popular Victor, every miniscule twitch of his expression.

Jim Moriarty ambles through the cobbled streets, immune to the festering distrust he provokes.

A flicker of white in his sleeve. “Follow the lady,” Q murmurs aloud, patterned in Gold’s voice - living and breathing, now, in Jim Moriarty. A boy who never fit in Four, a man who never fit in the Capitol. A creature of everywhere and nowhere.

The art of misdirection.

Gold’s voice curves around Q’s memory, decade-old echoes, “a trick,” Gold tells him, dismissive - but teaching him, all the same. “A trick so clever, you might even think it magic”.

Jim Moriarty is nothing if not clever.

(the Reaping balls look just the same here as in District Three; Q tries not to think, tries and tries.)

“Found anything?” Plutarch asks tensely, cutting through the hum of softer-woven memory. “Snow’s got the Escort and attendants into interrogation now, nobody can figure out how the hell he managed it - we need answers, Q, and fast.”

If they can prove it, that’s it - Killian goes into the Arena from Four, Sherlock gets taken in the second draw. Snow gets everything he wants.

This is why Q joined the Gamemakers. To be able to say: “no, nothing,” because it might mean some part of this, some infinitesimally small part of this, is better than it might otherwise have been.

Plutarch sighs, but doesn’t look overly surprised. “Well - guess it was a long shot,” he admits. “Anyway, leave that with the rest of the team - we’re running a wide-lens Reaping analysis with the Leads before the final draw, Snow wants you involved.”

Of course he does.

They head into one of the side-rooms. The six or so Leads, and Snow himself, all watching the Reaping footage on a central hologram.

District One. Sherlock, screaming in a sodden haze; Gloss, actually trying to help Sherlock; Mycroft standing by Cashmere’s side in front of their District as the Escort finishes the final closing statements.

They salute. The whole of District One, the Capitol’s most-beloved child, saluting the Victors in perfect unison.

So: Jim’s fucked-up the grand plan to Reap Killian in Four, Bond’s Volunteered over in Eight, Sherlock’s had a seizure on national television, at least three Districts have saluted - Three, Four, and now One - and they’re all of five minutes in.

It’s going to be a tense week.

Speaking of which: Snow fixes Q with an eerie look. “Bond?” he asks shortly, the name sharp as any gunshot. “I take it you did not anticipate him Volunteering? I had rather thought he wouldn’t wish to…”

Gunfire rattles through District One. The hologram captures it all: Mycroft and Cashmere promptly escorted away, Sherlock swarmed with Peacekeepers and tranquillisers, “I didn’t know he’d,” Q tries, voice cutting off beneath him, watching the Holmes brothers, his brothers, “I didn’t… I didn’t know. I expect he couldn’t… he wanted to protect them. He’s not been… I don’t know.”

Hopefully, his fairly transparent collapse can be attributed to Bond’s Reaping, rather than absolutely everything else.

Including, as it so happens, District Three - where Q was escorted by a completely ridiculous number of Peacekeepers and forbidden to even look at the other Victors without gun muzzles peering in nasty directions, still separate as he watched Wiress and Beetee get Reaped as though there was ever a chance of anything else happening, before everything went to absolute hell in a handbasket when Three didn’t salute, oh no, nothing so pedestrian - they went and decided to blow up a couple of buildings.

Q hopes there isn’t too much footage of his reaction. He shrieked like a six-year-old.

The other Victors seemed a lot less surprised. Mr Gold all but smirked, before he and Q were yanked back towards the train station - split up again, all four of Three’s Victors filtered off into different parts of the train while the District descended into rapid anarchy behind them, buildings on fire and Peacekeepers barking orders and sirens wailing.

Belle wasn’t there. Q can’t even let himself touch that set of thoughts, that set of terrors - he’ll go to Silva’s when he can, he will call her, he will call her and she will answer and he will not remember the callously empty statement that “the instigators have been brought to justice”.

Every District, every Reaping: Panem is in barely-suspended collapse.

It is so clearly, so obviously, too late. A Quell might have terrified everybody into submission a couple of years ago, probably would have worked as recently as the last Game - but the Panem they’re watching is past the point that this will achieve anything like what Snow wants it to and in all honesty, Q doesn’t understand why he’s bothering.

All the nation needs is the slightest flicker. The Arena going down is practically overkill.

“These Victors all have their own agendas - she won’t last, she’ll fight back,” Plutarch is telling Snow, quiet but pointedly audible. “And when she does, Panem will see who their ‘Saviour’ really is.”

Snow’s eyes are snakelike, dead. “For your sake,” he murmurs, “I hope so.”

Q grasps for sanity anywhere he can find it.

-

Regina is brought down to Remake.

They’re keeping the Tributes isolated for the time being. Regina watches the Reaping re-runs as the prep team busies themselves around her, cooing happily at how little they have to do to bring her back to Beauty Base Zero - a state Regina’s not needed to be reset to in a long time.

It’s more thorough than she remembers. Every patch of skin is subjected to the prep team’s ministrations - though, they do seem to respect her. Or, at least, respect how well she’s kept herself together, in between vague whispers about her as-yet unidentified Stylist.

No Stylist, nor Mentor as yet. Regina would guess Enobaria - though, a part of her aches for Lyme. The same as before, her first Game. A Mentor she can trust completely, who’ll protect her as she would any of her soldiers.

Regina lays naked on the reclining prep chair, waiting.

“Oh, now that does give me something to work with.”

In her wildest dreams, Regina couldn’t have seen it coming: “Cruella?” she manages, sitting up sharply, staring at one of her dearest friends - a woman she was quite sure she wouldn’t see again any time soon. “The hell...”

“I’m your Stylist, darling,” Cruella fills in, glinting with satisfaction. “Oh, now, you must have known I wasn’t going to let our favourite little Queen go out on parade without looking her absolute best?”

Shock eventually gives way to something like common sense: “Asshole planned it without telling me?” she checks, to which Cruella snorts a confirmation: leave it to Mycroft, to have planned the parts nobody else thought about. “Who else is…?”

“Your dear husband has taken care of everything,” Cruella waves off distractedly, scanning over Regina’s completely naked body - a look that’s purely clinical, a professional assessment. “I didn’t realise how much muscle you have, Regina. All your heaving bosoms…”

“I don’t heave,” Regina mutters, rolling her eyes. “And, you didn’t answer the question.”

“No, I did not,” Cruella hums, “now hush a moment, I’m working…”

There’s something about Cruella like this that reminds her of Mycroft, the way he looks when he’s scanning her for measurements - something that sucks her back beneath, the Reapings she watched just before the prep team descended.

It isn’t just her. In this building, somewhere, her husband is waiting for her - Volunteering for Sherlock as they always knew he would, Gloss stepping in, Bond replacing Woof in Eight, Johanna Reaped in Seven, the chaos in District Four and Sherlock Holmes, the idiot, having a seizure in One but nevertheless Volunteering in Killian’s place as though that’s a perfectly sane thing for him to have decided.

They’re safe. Killian and Finnick and Annie, they won’t be in an Arena. Anthea will take care of them, John will take care of them, the parties will come and they will go and Regina can’t breathe for hatred, so dense she chokes on it, hatred that makes her want to scream or maybe sob or, preferably, beat President Snow into a bloody pulp.

“Darling, do calm down, you get a nasty flush when you’re upset,” Cruella tsks; Regina forces herself to concentrate. “Much better. Now, I have an outfit for you, once I’ve organised some little alterations. You know how these things go, hmm? Military is very in-vogue this year. I’m coordinating with your dear husband, of course.”

That would be pretty much a first. “Are you?”

Cruella smiles, thinly satisfied. “Ever the tone of surprise,” she smirks, languidly delighted. “Well, nobody’s designing for Mycroft Holmes but Mycroft Holmes, of course - we have a proxy, somebody we can churn out for the sake of all those pesky cameras. You remember Pete? Mal’s boy. Can’t design his way out of a paper bag, but more than happy to give us a little bit of help, so that's all been dealt with - you’re going to make quite the splash.”

They figured it all out. Mycroft and Cruella and Mal, quietly organising it for her in the background.

The last person any Tribute sees, before the Games begin, is their Stylist - so of course, Mycroft has found a way to make it somebody she cares about. Even when she’s been separated from the other Victors, Regina won’t have to be alone.

“... thank you,” she manages, more or less steadily. “Tell Mal for me?”

Cruella raises a manicured eyebrow. “I’m sure you’ll be able to tell her yourself, when you win,” she hums, winking in a way that means everything to them - but nothing at all, to the cameras watching. “Now, as for the rest: you have quite the posterior, we’ll have to balance you out - but you’ll do nicely.”

“Please tell me no puppies were involved,” Regina asks acidly, only part-joking: Cruella’s been threatening to get her wearing dog skins for years.

“Nothing of the sort,” Cruella reassures her. Regina wouldn’t believe her, if it weren’t for the very sincere resentment in it. “Oh, and I take it you and your… oh, your other District boy, whatever his name is…”

“... Brutus?”

“That,” she agrees, dismissively. “You shan’t be allying, or anything silly like that?”

Brutus didn’t speak to Regina after the Reaping, didn’t even look at her - so no, they are not going to be allying. District lines are all well and good, but she’s wearing a wedding ring that marks her something as entirely other; Brutus won’t let himself be caught up in the storm they’ve screamed into being.

If Regina were to hazard a guess, he and Cashmere will pair up, grab a few of the stronger spares. A Career pack, of sorts, though it’ll be different: the Holmeses are a Career pack all to themselves. Most of the other Tributes will know that. They’ll form whatever alliances they can in the hopes that they can stand a chance, and screw tradition. They just need strong enough fighters, strong enough loyalties, to form an effective pack.

Anything at all that might stand a chance against the Holmeses.

Cruella cups Regina’s face, gentler than Regina expected, startling her all the same. “Let’s get you ready.”

Regina mutely agrees.

-

“I love you,” Finnick breathes, over and over again, holding Annie close. “I’ll be with you again soon. I promise. I’m only a phone call away.”

It is, effectively, goodbye. They will see one another on an airfield in a week’s time, or they will never see each other again.

Annie’s eyes won’t focus, glassy with drugs she can’t shake off, crying almost habitually; Finnick cups her face with a hand, kissing her forehead, his heart wrenching viciously at his ribs when he pulls away.

Immediately, Marian steps in to help guide Annie into the house: she’ll be with the Locks, away from the parties, surrounded by people who’ll be able to look after her the way she needs.

Robin looks at him and Killian, both in the backseat of Anthea’s car, side by side. “We’ll call, when she’s settled,” he promises, grave. He doesn’t apologise, he doesn’t waste words. “If you need us…”

“... yes,” Finnick completes, soul fleeing from kindnesses he really cannot bear right now, he can’t do it; Robin nods, shutting the door, letting them leave Annie behind.

They go to Finnick’s flat. A decision they made a long while ago; one they made because they didn’t imagine, for a second, that anybody would be left in the Holmes flat. Anthea stripped the place after they left in the morning, moving everything to Finnick’s place, so they wouldn’t have to watch the Games from a flat emptied of the people who made it feel like home.

Instead, Finnick sits in his own living room. Ghosts, everywhere he looks. Annie, who’ll never come back to this flat; Sherlock and Johanna, who’ve slept on the couch more times than he can count; Regina and Mycroft, though they didn’t visit often.

Killian is blank.

The tap on the door is expected: Anthea goes to answer it, letting John in, running through scans with the same scanners that used to live in the Holmes flat - the place is fully secured, every counter-surveillance measure they all know, though there’s always a chance Snow’s patience won’t stretch to yet another secured building.

John can’t look at Killian, nor Killian at him.

“Okay,” Anthea begins, taking command once John’s sat down. “This is - with some adjustments - as expected.”

Killian makes a quiet noise, under his breath. “It,” he starts. “Q? Is he…?”

“Installed with the Gamemakers, as far as we’re aware,” Anthea replies, before he can finish. “Lyme is in District Two. Our priority is the evacuation - most urgently, briefing Ruby, who will be evacuating alongside us.”

Finnick had wondered about that. Emma’s close to Ruby - if they extract Emma from an Arena, Ruby won’t survive being left behind. “I thought… maybe see if she’ll stay here? The flat, I mean,” Finnick suggests, voice dull. “Unless Snow’s…”

“... I expect Snow will have greater concerns to occupy his time,” Anthea interrupts. “If that is viable, certainly; if not, then John, can I leave that in your hands?”

John nods shortly. “Districts?” he asks, the first thing he’s said since he arrived, voice wooden. “Response to the Reapings?”

Anthea rattles it all out in one go: “As best we are aware: District One saluted; Two is unmoved; Three blew up several warehouses, currently in a known state of riot; Four saluted; Five and Six remained contained; Seven attempted to rush the stage; Eight saluted; Nine saluted; Ten remained contained, albeit barely; Eleven is openly rioting, according to Madam Coin’s report; Twelve, we have no idea.”

The sky is streaked red when Finnick closes his eyes, and he swears it’s all he can see.

“Alec,” Killian manages, ground-out. “If we’re taking Ruby…”

“... yes, though the fact that he and Lyme have not been Reaped is suggestive; we need allied agents in District Two,” she textures in carefully. “We certainly ought to contact him, but this is already challenging enough: we cannot afford more unbriefed, unprepared additions to a highly complex evacuation.”

John looks at the ceiling, expression unreadable. “I can speak to him,” he provides. “Simple enough. I expect… I expect it’ll be a busy year.”

“Yes,” Anthea murmurs: there aren’t as many Victors to go around, this year - but exactly the same number of people looking to celebrate a Quarter Quell by renting a body for an hour or two. “Relatedly - Finnick. Your agreement with Snow.”

Ice slides along Finnick’s spine. “What about it?”

Anthea’s voice aches with apology. “It is unutterably petty,” she tells him softly, “but - I believe the agreement was not to have appointments during the Games themselves; Snow has taken you precisely at your word. Your schedule has been emptied during the Games themselves - as well as the Parade and interviews - but not during training.”

There’s no anger, for some reason; all Finnick can muster is a faint exhale, shaped almost like laughter. “I suppose I should have learned my lesson by now when it comes to semantics,” he half-smiles. “It… well, I expect he’s had enough of Victors getting one over on him, I wasn’t exactly well-behaved when we spoke. It’s okay.”

Snow is running out of options; it is what it is. Finnick has survived ten years. He can handle a few more days.

Killian has his head in his hands. John stares at the ceiling.

“In terms of related obligations: Mentors,” Anthea continues, voice hard enough to cover her own tremble. “Cian has asked to take Mags, though I understand he hasn’t mentored in quite some time?”

“Couple of times, it… it was always Mags,” Killian mumbles, wounded more than bitter, “he couldn’t hack it, it… s’fine, he’ll do right by her. I’ll take Jim.”

Finnick looks at him sharply. “You…”

“You’ve got enough to deal with, don’t you reckon?” Killian shoots back, before Finnick can even get close to voicing it, “and at least I’m, I’ve done it for years.”

“... it was supposed to me,” Finnick cuts in, “I’ve been preparing to Mentor for months, I can handle it…”

“... because you reckoned you’d be Mentoring me,” Killian snaps, “and that’s not where we’re at - it’s Jim, for fuck’s sake, the little shit’s a fucking headache enough as it is, you don’t need that on top of…”

“We will not be fighting today,” Anthea cuts in, lethally dangerous. “Not today. I appreciate that we are all struggling. This is not constructive. Do I make myself entirely clear?”

Finnick shuts his mouth, reigning himself in; Killian does the same, fingers clenched into a tight fist.

In the edged silence, John goes for practicality: “Q’s with Silva?” he checks, ignoring how Killian twitches. “I assume he’ll have details about the full Arena by now. If we’ve got Mentors…”

“... yes,” Anthea agrees. “Silva is primarily interfacing with me directly, though Killian, I expect he will speak to you directly for time-sensitive updates; hopefully, something we can keep to a minimum.”

Killian nods, though it’s faint. “Fine,” he murmurs. “It… evac? Now it’s, we’re…”

“With apologies: I will not be disclosing all details at the present moment, not while we still face a profound risk of interrogation from Snow’s agents,” Anthea explains. “I would prefer that we remain adaptive. The broader motions are prepared, the details will be contingent on headcount; Ruby’s confirmed presence, or absence, will be a critical factor. It… given the risks we face, I must remind you all to remain prepared.”

Suicide pills. Just in case.

It was always going to be risky. All of them - the ones not in an Arena - have their own challenges to face.

Finnick straightens up slightly, as much as he can, trying to control his breathing. “The Locks?” he asks, voice straining in the corners.

“Briefed and prepared,” Anthea replies, rounded with apology. “I can’t be more specific than that, I’m sorry. I…”

“... okay,” Finnick agrees, before he can think about it too much: he has to trust that Anthea and Mycroft’s plans are enough, that Robin and Marian know what they’re doing, that this will work the way it’s supposed to.

Trust is a very, very difficult ask.

“Tonight, then,” Anthea tries, bearing all the command she can muster. “The priorities are Ruby and Alec, for immediate contact; besides that, there’s little else to be done, beyond responding to developments as they come.”

Finnick nods, pinching the bridge of his nose, overwhelmed in ways he hasn’t felt since he was sixteen - the first year his schedule started to reflect what the rest of his life would be, every year, for as long as they could keep him looking beautiful. “John…”

“I’ll be upstairs throughout, along with Leo,” he fills in, before Finnick has to ask. “Beatrice is handling downstairs. I’m getting screens in the med room, you won’t miss anything. Either of you.”

Killian doesn’t react. Anthea speaks, all the same: “I’ve reorganised yours too,” she promises him. “Key events…”

“... aye,” Killian mumbles, too much pressure behind it; Anthea doesn’t push.

All their years of experience, year after year of the Games, of parties - but they’ve forgotten how it’s supposed to work, all stranded stupidly. Regina isn’t there to smooth over the rough edges, Mycroft keeping them to-time: at least for Jo and Sherlock, Finnick can pretend they’re Mentoring. Busy with Tributes.

Killian dares to look at John. “Why’d he do it?” he asks. Simple, short. “Sherlock, I mean. He’s…”

“... it’s Sherlock,” John states levelly, expression profoundly dead. “It… I never expected him to come back. We all knew that.”

Sherlock loves John. Finnick won’t comment - can’t comment - on how. Sherlock has never understood why anybody would want sex, in ways that run deeper than his eighteen months with the Queens; he’s never understood romance either, though has been fascinated by it in others.

All that - but he definitely loves John Watson. John loves Sherlock, too, though Finnick understands that even less.

“I didn’t…”

“It’s not your fucking fault, Killian,” John mutters, too wounded to sound anything but tired. “It’s done. He did what he thought he needed to. Nothing’s going to stop Sherlock Holmes with a bright idea. It’s fine.”

It isn’t fine.

The absences press into the raw wounds of all this is. All this is going to be.

A few minutes to gather their things, and they leave for the Hall.

Chapter Text

Cinna arrives once the prep team has finished up, sitting Emma down for lunch in a gently authoritative way she can’t help but find calming.

“Don’t cry,” she warns him firmly. The prep team - even Martius, her Escort - have been weepy, devastated at losing their ticket to fancy events, the person who accidentally made them famous. “I’m done with people crying. Seriously, so done.”

He doesn’t. “You’re safe from that with me,” he smiles, warm as he always is. “I channel my emotions into my work. That way, nobody gets hurt but me.”

Emma’s a bit busy ripping into a pheasant to pay as much attention to him as she probably should; still, Cinna doesn’t mind, just watches her inhale practically everything not nailed down. All the fanciest food in Panem, hers to have - something she couldn’t do last year, even if she wanted to. It made her sick, back when she was half-starved.

“... sorry,” she tells him at one point, through a mouthful. “I guess you want to, like… actually do Styling stuff?”

Cinna shrugs slightly. “No last-minute alterations this year,” he points out. “We have time - though, maybe don’t let Riva see what you’ve done to your nails…”

They chat. It’s nice, almost relaxed; Emma can half-forget that she’s been Reaped, that Arne’s in the next room along with a prep team and Stylist all of his own, that she’s going to be in another Arena in a week.

Eventually, he pries her away from the pheasant long enough to get her into her Parade outfit. “No peeking in the mirror, not until I’m done,” he warns, helping her get the thing over her head - he never looks at her body, Emma’s realised, unless he has to. Like she’s allowed to keep it for herself. “Chin up for me, that’s perfect.”

Emma does as she’s told. Cinna’s fingers trail in her hair, so quickly she almost can’t believe it, recreating the same style she always wears now: the braid Primrose Everdeen taught her, one she knew from her mom, a family Emma doesn’t belong to but will always hold the memory of.

That - and Peeta Mellark’s pin. A golden mockingjay. Peeta and Rue: a boy who wanted to be her friend, a girl who sang to the mockingjays. Melodies that Emma still hears, in her kinder dreams.

“... okay,” Cinna says eventually, stepping back, looking over her. “I think you’re ready, Emma. Take a look.”

Emma looks at the mirror, stretching floor to ceiling: the girl looking back at her is woven through with vines, with flowers. Feathers - real ones, not little downy ones - run along the curves of her waist, along her back, along the train: white, little undercurrents of black, floating.

It’s a homage to her name, the name she chose: he’s made her into a swan.

“Cinna,” she breathes. “It’s…”

Cinna presses a button at her wrist.

A sharp gust of air whips along her body, up her neck, stealing whatever she was going to say: her hair lifts up along with all the ribbons, the almost weightless dress layers sharply rising to reveal blood-red and black, silver streaks catching light in sharp daggers all around her.

Emma has never seen anybody, least of all herself, look so dangerous.

“... wow,” she breathes. Stunned, and maybe even a little bit scared of the woman in the mirror: it’s all fury. Flying, sure, but not innocent and swan-like and Saviour-y: she’s lethal. “Emotions in your work, huh?”

Cinna’s grin is honest and bright, satisfied. “Let’s not run down your power pack,” he says, clicking it off. “Now - when you get out there, wait until the right moment. Let them see you. You’ll know when to transform.”

“Yeah,” Emma agrees, staring at the swan-version of herself again. All white and bright and safe; all the danger lurking underneath, invisible. “It… it’s amazing, Cinna. Really. It’s amazing.”

For a moment or two, he looks at her like he isn’t sure what to say; he nods his gratitude, looking her over with a complicated expression. “Let’s get you downstairs,” he says eventually. “I think they’re letting Mentors up after the Parade - I know Ruby wanted to be here for you.”

It’s the only real difference from last year: Ruby’s not been around. The best anybody’s said is that mentoring is ‘complicated’, which she gets - there aren’t enough Mentors to go around in some Districts.

Emma doesn’t ask, Cinna doesn’t tell - they step out onto the main floor, just the two of them. “Arne should be down in a few minutes,” Cinna explains, keeping up a gentle patter of speech while they get into the lift, “but in the meantime, I think there are a few people who have been looking forward to meeting you.”

The doors open.

Victors. Lots and lots of Victors, lots of Peacekeepers - a whole room, filled with people Emma’s never seen in real life before, all dressed up in costumes and standing together in little groups.

Emma blinks stupidly for a moment, staring out across the room with a sense she should probably be doing something but really, she doesn’t know where to start.

“Well hello, Miss Swan.”

Emma recognises the voice before she recognises the person: Regina. Regina Holmes, Emma’s actually meeting Regina Holmes, who’s standing about three feet in front of her and is so beautiful it makes her mouth go dry.

“Hi?” she manages, startled. “Regina. I’m… hi. I’m sorry, Regina.”

“A pleasure to meet you too,” Regina returns drily, effortlessly relaxed, something Emma borrows for herself: it’s Regina, she knows Regina, it grounds her a bit. “Beautiful work, Cinna.”

Cinna’s smile comes easily in Regina’s presence. “Not looking bad yourself,” he teases. “He messaged - they’re alright. Mentors are expected after the Parade. Guess they want to keep you all apart.”

“Shocking,” Regina huffs. “Thank you. We’re okay too.”

“I’ll tell them - now go give them hell, Mrs Holmes,” Cinna replies; Regina dips her chin, folding her whole body over in an exaggerated bow that makes Cinna laugh, for some reason. “Emma, I’ll see you after - I’ve got some things to take care of. I’m sure Regina will take care of you.”

Regina snorts, “I do have a habit of picking up strays,” which makes Cinna laugh again - he disappears before Emma can find anything to say, caught up in wondering if she should be offended at being called a stray, things moving too fast, “... Emma? Are you alright?”

No. Not really. “I guess?” she says, staring at the other Victors, the ones who’ve already arrived: the scary one from District Two, the knife thrower from District One, Careers who’ll probably be the ones to kill her in a week’s time.

Regina doesn’t say anything to that, just goes ‘hmm’ under her breath, looking her over like she wants to say a whole load of things but never actually does.

Instead, she turns smartly on her heel. “Let me introduce you to a few people,” she directs, striding off, clearly expecting Emma to follow.

They pass by other Tributes, though a lot of them stop chatting when she gets close, looking at her - they’re not split by District, Emma realises. A few of them, maybe, but it’s all mixed together: Haymitch talking to Chaff talking to Blight, names Emma has heard for years, now actual real-life people.

Like Regina, who’s striding like she owns the whole room, in heels so high they make Emma feel kind of dizzy and an outfit that’s insane: tight around her waist, her back completely naked except for a series of horizontal stilettos, which Emma stares at because it’s not that warm down here and the daggers look sharp.

Emma almost walks into her when she stops. “This is my husband,” Regina tells her, voice sharp as the stilettos and bleeding affection. “Emma Swan - meet Mycroft.”

Mycroft Holmes is exactly as tall as Emma remembers, which is really saying something.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Swan,” he nods, looking her over the same way she’s looking at him - his suit is velvet, with bits of silver glinting around his wrists and throat, the same deep sapphire blue of Regina’s dress. “Regina has spoken very highly of you.”

Emma doesn’t even register the last part, busy realising something about the outfits: the silver in his wrists, the blood-red pocket square that’s the exact same shade as Regina’s lipstick, the same as the secret colourfulness of her own dress, the same silver catching light. “I…”

Somehow - impossibly - Mycroft seems to know exactly what she’s thinking. “It’s…” he begins, then cuts off suddenly, eyes sharpening on something behind her. “Oh - Bond. Regina…”

No use, Regina’s already gone, running across the room - in those heels - to practically knock James Bond over in a hug; he somehow manages to stay upright, lots of eyes following them curiously.

Emma blinks. “We have not been able to speak to Bond in quite some time,” Mycroft explains, in hurt relief, which is weird because Emma’s sure Bond was supposed to be one of the Capitol-resident ones Ruby talked about. “The situation has, regrettably, been complex.”

“But you’re… friends, right?” Emma checks, though it’s kind of obvious from the way Regina’s holding onto him. “I mean, I… I guess, anyway?”

“Yes,” Mycroft murmurs, smiling in a quiet, almost invisible way.

James Bond, actual James Bond, walks with Regina back over to them. “Long time,” he winks at Mycroft, but doesn’t try to hug him or anything, not even a handshake. “Looking well, Mycroft.”

“As are you,” Mycroft agrees. His eyes smile, Emma thinks, even if the rest of him doesn’t. “How fares my youngest brother?”

“Well enough, though I’d expect he’s not too happy about this,” Bond replies, lots of looks passing between him and Mycroft that Emma can’t figure out - and stops trying, when he looks at her properly for the first time. “James Bond, District Eight. Pleasure to meet you, Emma Swan.”

James Bond is exactly as attractive in real life as he is on television, which is very unreasonable of him - tall and clearly strong, and in a suit that’s absolutely and definitely related to Emma’s outfit: black and white, glinting silver cufflinks, blue and red like Mycroft’s got on his.

“... hi?” Emma manages, confused beyond belief. “Um. This is... this is kinda weird.”

Bond doesn’t seem all that worried that Emma’s completely forgotten how to be a person. “I’d say you get used to it,” he shrugs, in a way that doesn’t need the second half - this is just, the Holmeses. Apparently. “I’m sorry about Sherlock, both of you.”

Mycroft’s expression shutters and opens, so fast Emma almost misses it. “Thank you,” he nods, completely calm. “Have you seen him?”

“Not yet - looking devastating, Regina.”

Regina tosses her hair back, all of it falling in perfect waves around her face and daggered back. “I try,” she agrees. “I got Cruella as my Stylist. Didn’t see that one coming, idiot here didn’t damn well warn me.”

“I was unconvinced that it would be permitted, I did not wish to get your hopes up unnecessarily,” Mycroft replies, in a tone that says he’s told her that more than once already. “Additionally: you Volunteered, Bond. Was Q made aware beforehand?”

“No,” Bond returns shortly, but doesn’t say anything else.

Emma goes for it, given that nobody else is, and it all seems to be making sense to them without explanations: “... um. Why?”

Bond’s expression gets complicated. Very complicated. “I can’t watch,” he says, almost like it’s simple. “And, I don’t want to be around for the aftermath of whoever comes out; at least I’ll die doing something worthwhile. Call that selfish, if you like - but I’m one of the best fighters here. You need me. ”

The last is mostly to Mycroft, who nods while Regina’s jaw wobbles. “I am hardly going to turn down an offer of alliance,” he replies, like he’s trying to make a joke but his face just doesn’t move. Like, at all. “Though…”

“... I know,” Bond interrupts. His face doesn’t move, either. “It’s my choice.”

Regina straightens slightly, “not much we can do about it now,” she points out, though looks exactly as unhappy as is merited for one of her friends announcing he’s on a suicide mission before they even start. “It’s… anyway. Let’s not talk about that right now.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agrees. “Matters such as alliances can be determined in training.”

Emma looks at their obviously not-matching but not not-matching outfits and figures alliances actually kind of already determined but nobody’s giving her much of a choice in it which is - well, to be honest, kind of a dick move, especially after what Mycroft Holmes did to his allies the last time he was in a Hunger Game. “I…”

“Well,” a voice drawls, “don’t’ch’all look lovely.”

Emma swivels on her heel: James Moriarty, staring at her with his creepy dark eyes, pretty much ignoring everybody else. “Good evening, James,” Mycroft greets wearily. “Miss Swan - James Moriarty, from District Four.”

“Call me Jim,” he trills, head tilted: he’s short, small. Especially when he’s next to Mycroft, he looks tiny. “Betcha didn’t see this one comin’, huh? You owe me. Don’t forget that. Where’s little brother?”

Regina rolls her eyes, mutters “why are you like this,” under her breath - Emma can’t help but agree. She didn’t expect him to be like this in real life. “Your choices are your own - back off. We’re all a little busy.”

“S’not my problem,” Jim shrugs. He has the weirdest accent Emma’s ever heard in her life. “I keep track. All the things y’never asked, comin’ around for you - I told you, Mr Holmes, didn’t I? I told you.”

“Not today, James,” Mycroft tuts.

Jim ignores him, wheeling around to Emma instead. “Wanna team up, girl in flight?” he chirps. “This lot’re boring. I’m a lot more fun, promise. Keep y’out of trouble. Or in it. If that’s what you’re after. Reckon you like a bit of trouble.”

“... no,” she tells him bluntly. Even if she hadn’t basically been handed allies without any say in the matter, there’s no way she’s going near Jim Moriarty. Ever. “You’re creepy as fuck.”

“True,” he agrees, while Regina stifles a snort. “Well. S’nice to meet you, Emma Swan. Girl in flight. The Saviour. All that. Be seein’ you, I’m sure.”

Emma watches him sidle off in disbelief - then startles, as Regina gasps out something Emma doesn’t hear, off and running again with Mycroft following on behind, not running but his legs are really long so he’s practically keeping up anyway, leaving Emma and Bond behind so they can pounce on Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes is here. In real life. “... this is really weird,” Emma mumbles aloud, feeling Bond watching her. “Really, really weird. I… you’re like. Famous, and stuff.”

“Tell me about it,” Bond mutters, almost under his breath. “Come on.”

Bond strides off without another word. Emma debates what she should do, realising she has nowhere to go plus is dressed just like them, which is probably important, but she really wishes somebody somewhere would slow down for a couple of minutes and tell her what the hell’s going on.

They do not.

“A swan,” Sherlock Holmes mutters, looking over Emma’s dress, patting Regina awkwardly on the head while she’s gotten him crushed in a hug. “How pedestrian. Sherlock Holmes.”

“I figured that,” Emma retorts, stung; he smirks. “Nice suit.”

“Mmn, appears we have a full house,” he agrees, dressed up - not too surprisingly - in another suit that’s got little stiletto cufflinks, black and white and dark blue and red. “I’m honorary Twelve, by the way, if I win. Keeping things ‘fair’.”

The air quotes are actually audible. Emma’s never heard anybody so sarcastic they can make air quotes sound dangerous before.

“Asshole,” Regina keeps telling him, over and over again, her voice muffled but damp sounding. “You asshole.”

It takes Sherlock a fair bit of effort to prise Regina off of him; she lets go all at once when she does, eyes burning like she wants to smack him - leaving Sherlock enough room to finally look at his brother.

“Mycroft,” he says carefully, almost nervous. “Please keep your lecture brief and to the point, if you’d be so kind.”

“Volunteering was an incomprehensibly idiotic, self-aggrandising, shortsighted gesture of unendurable sentiment and I shall never forgive you,” Mycroft tells him nastily, before his expression drops into something way softer. “Additionally: thank you. It is a debt I ardently hope to repay at the earliest convenience.”

Sherlock raises an arch eyebrow, but doesn’t speak, complicated gravity swirling through the air between them. “Why’d you do it? Volunteer?” Emma asks. The brothers turn their heads to look at her in slow, creepy unison. “Hey, I don’t know you people. I thought you wouldn’t want your brother in the Games?”

“I do not,” Mycroft replies, which explains absolutely nothing but he doesn’t let her ask, busy turning back to Sherlock: “The others?”

“Present and correct as anticipated,” Sherlock answers. “We had a few hours kettled together at the station. Bond - Alec briefly spoke to us, noting that irrespective of your personal dispute, he would not wish for this for you. Good to see you, by the way, you’re looking well.”

Bond nods shortly. “Thank you. Good to see you, too, though shame about the circumstances.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock half-smiles. “I take it you’ve decided that the Holmeses aren’t quite the anathematic option you believed?”

“Haven’t missed that,” Bond snorts, “‘anathematic’? Look - yes, I wanted to move on, you know it wasn’t my first choice anyway; turns out, not really an option. That’s all there is. The others…?”

“... are exactly as happy as one might expect,” Sherlock fills in, darting a glance to Regina and Mycroft. “They do, at least, have one another. I imagine the notable absence of any Mentors is our fault, again?”

Mycroft’s eyes are distant, sad. “Most things are,” he murmurs, more and more things that don’t make sense and can’t make sense, nobody’s explaining anything and Regina’s holding onto Sherlock who’s sharing looks with Bond and Mycroft’s watching his brother and wife so sadly and Emma knows, on a bone-deep level, that she doesn’t belong.

Emma is the outsider. A spare.

“Hey assholes,” a voice interrupts, loud and brash; they all turn. “You get costumes like that and I get this shit? The hell did I do to piss you off?!”

At once, Sherlock’s eyes brighten. “Long-awaited retribution for your many sins,” he snarks at the newcomer - a woman whose costume is a cross between a tree and a turd, complete with leafy headdress. “Jo - meet Emma Swan, at long last. Swan, this is Johanna Mason. District Seven’s least favourite female Victor.”

Johanna stomps in close, almost managing to cuff Sherlock around the head; he ducks, just in time. “You’re a goddamn asshole,” she hisses at him. “Volunteering? Really? You want to die that bad, I could’ve done it years ago. Hi, Bond.”

“Hi.”

“And I’m serious,” she continues, rounding on a hilariously nonplussed Mycroft, “the hell did I do wrong?”

“Do stop whining, Jo, we simply ran out of friends willing to go along with my brother’s antics,” Sherlock drawls. “Occupational hazard.”

Johanna looks Emma up and down, clearly unimpressed. “A swan,” she mutters, lip curling up. “Bit obvious, isn’t it? Don’t you have Cinna?”

“Screw you,” Emma retorts, jaw dropping in indignation while Sherlock cackles, “I’ve been here five minutes.”

“Behave, both of you,” Regina announces - which somehow, actually works. Sherlock and Johanna stop smirking, give or take the brief look Johanna throws in Emma’s direction, which she thinks is supposed to be friendly. “Idiots. I’m sorry to say this, Emma, but they’re always like this.”

“Victors to the chariots.”

A voice on the tannoy, startling everyone at once. “Alas,” Mycroft sighs, landing on Emma again. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Swan. I have no doubt we shall speak further in the coming days.”

They’re already moving. They know where to go, what to do, without trying. “... okay?” Emma mumbles. “Um…”

Mycroft and Sherlock split up - front and back of the line, District One and District Twelve - while Bond’s near the middle along with Johanna, who pokes Sherlock in the ribs as he passes by.

It leaves Emma with Regina, just for a second or two.

Emma could swear everything slows down. The rest of the room is quieter for a second, just her and Regina - who reaches out, adjusting her dress so the mockingjay pin isn’t covered by any feathers.

“You show them who you are,” Regina says quietly, looking Emma dead in the eye. “Emma Swan.”

Beneath more makeup than Emma realised could fit on a human person’s face, Regina’s eyes are a soft shade of brown. Little spidery lines in the corners, creases the makeup hasn’t washed away.

A real person. Not ‘Regina Holmes’ - or Mills, or Evil Queen - but Regina. The person who called her up in District Ten, her friend. Regina.

All at once, Regina’s turned away, striding off towards the chariots for District Two.

Emma takes a second, trying to let her thoughts catch up.

Chariots wait, one by one by one. Twelve chariots, twelve Districts - and twenty-four Victors, just like her.

The tannoy-voice sounds overhead again; Emma does as she’s told before the Peacekeepers decide to prod her instead, passing by the other chariots, feeling the other Victors watching her too closely - the new one. The odd one out.

And, worse than that: Emma knows she and the Holmeses and Bond all look amazing. Amazing outfits that still fit each of their District themes: Emma’s a swan, for livestock; Regina has knives, for military; Mycroft and Sherlock have velvet, even though Sherlock’s supposed to be Twelve but Emma figures they let him stick with velvet anyway. Bond’s the only not-so-obviously-themed one, though there’s not much anybody can do with ‘cloth’ beyond ‘clothes’ so he’s wound up in a normal suit.

That’s great for them, and her - but they’re all younger, attractive. Even Johanna can get away with her ugly costume, she’s pretty underneath.

Arne, though, is in his sixties. There’s no way he can make it look less awful, that he’s dressed up like a cow; same with the pair from Nine, who are in their fifties but dressed up like ears of corn, like they always do for the grain District.

It’s humiliating. Snow wants to humiliate them,

Emma climbs up into her chariot, seeing Sherlock two behind, next to Haymitch Abernathy - looking strong and young and beautiful, in all the ways Haymitch can’t.

It wasn’t her choice. Emma knows that, she didn’t get to choose Stylists, she didn’t choose to make it even worse for Arne by standing up next to him in an incredible outfit and making it so obvious that he doesn’t stand a chance of winning.

Arne looks at her. Remade, like she was - but they can’t undo a lifetime in one go, they want their Victors recognisable. “Arne…”

“... you look beautiful,” he tells her quietly. It’s the first thing he’s said to her since the Reaping. “I don’t want to ally with you, Emma. You know that.”

“But…”

“You have a shot,” he interrupts. It’s odd, hearing his voice without the slur of alcohol; he has a kinder voice than she realised. Gentler. “Don’t. I don’t want to ally, leave me be - go with them, and be brave. Just, if it gets down to it, finish me quick?”

Emma swallows bile.

There’s no time for a reply: the music starts up, the big doors opening wide to let Mycroft’s chariot out, into the wailing noise of the Capitol’s crowds.

Regina’s parting words echo: show them who you are.

Emma looks something like Regina and Mycroft and Sherlock and James Bond - which okay, she had no choice in, but it makes it a lot easier in some ways, because it only takes a single look at them to figure out that Emma is not the Capitol’s. They have a whole different thing going on.

They don’t get to have her.

Emma Swan is a Victor. A rebel, a Victor - Panem’s mockingjay.

The Capitol can try to kill her, and they will and she knows they will, but alive or dead or in an Arena, Emma Swan is never going to be theirs.

They can’t scare her. Snow couldn’t kill her during the Tour, he won’t kill her before the Games - she’s going to die, but really, there’s nothing else left they can do to her. If she’s going to die anyway, it doesn’t matter any more.

The chariot moves beneath her, horses pulling her and Arne towards the doors.

Emma decides a lot of things, all at once: the Parade is live. It’s always live. They can edit the interviews, like they edit the Reapings - but they show the Parade live, nobody ever does anything weird at the Parade, it’s just the chariots and the cheering and the Tributes being shown off in their stupid costumes.

The whole nation is watching.

Emma has no power, really. None at all. Everywhere she looks, somebody’s using her for something she has no choice in - so, she figures she’s allowed to grab ahold of whatever the fuck she wants. Anything that makes sense to her, in the last pieces of a life that will be over soon anyway.

Outside, the sun is mostly set and the crowds are screaming. Cheering her name - like they did the last time, when she became the girl in flight.

Emma is hit with the full force of the noise outside. The whole Avenue of the Tributes; she can hear her name, shrieked over and over again, she can almost hear the voiceover from Caesar Flickerman.

“There she is, our girl in flight!”

Air travels along her body again, when she taps the button.

Distantly, she hears the shrieking: the crowd seeing her transform, the gasps and horror and awe, her hair in a halo of blonde and all of her screaming for vengeance.

Emma presses three fingers to her lips, raising her hand - looking up, off up into a sky she will never be allowed to touch, a future they won’t let her live to see.

Snow’s watching from his balcony. Asshole.

Emma promises rebellion on the biggest stage Snow could have possibly given her.

Huh.

Guess this is who she is.

Chapter Text

There are only ten Victors left in the main Hall.

Finnick has never felt so terrifyingly alone. Twenty-four Victors Reaped, almost as many again mentoring - most of which haven’t Mentored in years, but are simply borrowing whatever final moments they can with people they care about.

The only exceptions are from Districts with more than enough Victors to go around. District Two’s half-dozen hover around - including Alec - but of course, won’t speak to anybody; District One only has Ivory left; Tully’s been left behind on her own, though she’s upstairs, as far as Finnick knows.

It is a uniquely dangerous experience. Finnick has never been truly alone in the Capitol, far less at the Games parties - he didn’t realise until now how reliant he’s always been on the others, a safety net noticeable only in its absence.

Even Gold’s seat is empty. There are no other options for a District Three Mentor, with Q holed up in the Gamemaker suites.

Thus, Finnick is left alone to weather the attentions of a party filled with excitable, enthusiastic Capitol-born dying to cherish the Victors they can still reach.

The Holmes chairs lie empty.

“So go on,” Cilia purrs at Finnick, hand trailing across his chest, “what do you think, hmm? My bets are on Holmes.”

Finnick’s smile is forced but somehow exists, all the same: “Which one?” he teases. “Three to pick from, these days…”

Cilia grates out a laugh that curdles Finnick’s blood, voice melting briefly out of his grasp. “Ice Man, of course,” she tuts, like he’s absurd for thinking otherwise, “but I suppose, hmm. The Evil Queen’s a little older these days, can’t imagine she’s still got the spirit, but then again…”

“I can tell you they’ll be allied,” Finnick purrs out, in a stage whisper; gossip that is transparent to anybody with a functioning brain cell, but apparently new information for Cilia. “I can tell you all sorts - but, sweet Cilia…”

“... well I’m hardly going to Sponsor either of Four now, dear,” she huffs, like he’s silly for suggesting it.

Finnick smiles vaguely, his soul giving him Mags. Just Mags. “I never said a thing about Four - but you see, there are so few of us this year. I’m just helping out along the way, and never mind the District. Think about it, won’t you? Betting is fun, Cilia, but Sponsoring is where the real power lies.”

Cilia’s eyes sparkle, breathless at the look he gives her; an intimate, intense look that he knows makes his own eyes glitter like waves on the ocean. “But you see,” she whines, “Ice Man will be such a popular choice…”

“... then get in early, I’d say,” Finnick smiles. “Now, I hate to leave you like this, but I have other business to attend to - such a busy time of year.”

“I’ll see you soon,” Cilia promises, in a tone that rings more as a statement than a question: Finnick accepts that at face value. He hasn’t reviewed his appointment roster beyond tonight’s offerings, ensuring he’s not scheduled during any critical events.

He isn’t. Snow has taken him at his word so literally it verges on entertaining: any time the Games are actually playing - the Parade, scoring, interviews - are free of appointments, carefully sectioned out. Finnick won’t miss a moment.

Finnick watches the Parade from within a bubble of Capitol-born. They swallow him up, every second he tries to be alone; it’s almost easier. He doesn’t have the time to think about any of it, fending off roving hands whilst attempting to process Emma Swan embracing death with due melodrama.

Thoughts scatter when Cilia yanks him in for a kiss, tongue pressing into his mouth; he allows it, pulling back when he can, winking before he heads upstairs for a run of appointments that should see him through until Killian gets back, unutterably and treacherously relieved.

At least upstairs, he won’t have space to think about the rest.

-

“Y’had nothin’ useful last time, Captain, don’t see why you’d have any this time,” Jim drawls at him, popping grapes in his mouth, one by one. “I don’t need your help, ‘kay? Other things for you to think ‘bout.”

Killian really hasn’t missed Mentoring Jim, it has to be said. Eight years on, he still can’t stand the little shit.

Then again, it’s not Jim he’s here for, not really: Mags holds onto Killian’s hand, body and speech shaking - then again, she’s knocking back chocolate at an alarming rate and her fish hooks are still bloody terrifying, so it’s not like she’s one to overlook.

They aren’t allowed onto other District floors, obviously. Peacekeepers blocking the stairs, filling the lifts, watching their every move.

Regina and Mycroft are only two bloody floors away and he can’t get there.

“... y’don’t have to do nothin’,” Jim’s continuing, light and airy. “No Sponsors, I don’t want ‘em. Zee’s gone. Better this way.”

Killian shoots him an annoyed look. “Don’t be a tit,” he mutters, “you’ll need Sponsors, you’ll have good odds…”

“Nope,” Jim interrupts, voice dancing lightly. “I don’t want nothin’, you don’t send me nothin’. I’m not playing around, Captain. I live or I don’t, won’t be theirs or yours or anybody’s to decide. Just me. Only me.”

“Jim…”

“Oh piss off, Killian Jones,” he drawls. “We all know you’re not here for little old me, anyways.”

It’s not like he’s going to waste his time bickering; if Jim doesn’t want his help, so much the better. Makes his life simpler. “You do you,” he agrees, turning instead to Mags; she smiles at him, calm as ever. “Mags, love…”

“Go,” she orders him, squeezing his fingers. “Finnick.”

Mags always loved Finnick. Raised him, near enough; Killian wondered, for a while, if his Reaping wasn’t an accident - if Mags did something, pissed off the Capitol in some way, maybe even Snow himself.

If she did, she’s never told.

“I know,” Killian agrees: Finnick’s on his own, stuck in the Hall - he needs Killian more than Mags does. “He wanted to Mentor, you know.”

Mags makes a disparaging, snorting sound under her breath. “Leathcheann,” she manages, coming out crystal-clear; Jim’s smile tilts, almost unnoticeably. “Go. Not his. Not yours - go. Out. Stay out.”

It isn’t unkind, just honest - and, is why Killian wouldn’t have let Finnick Mentor. He’d tear himself to pieces trying to keep Mags safe, no matter what anybody tried to tell him. “Aye, I get you,” he agrees, kissing the top of her hand. “M’going, promise - just, had to see you, right? Cian, you look after this one for us.”

Cian nods, looking at them both with almost unbearable pain: he loves Mags, too. They all do. “Go find us Sponsors, lad - better that way,” he tells Killian, even offering a smile - which might be a first, come to think of it.

He’ll do right by Mags. Anything he can do, for as long as it matters; even with all their plans, Killian knows there’s sod-all chance of her making it out. If she’s alive after thirty-six hours, Thirteen will pick them up. Any Victors still breathing, as many as they can - but Thirteen’s got their priority list, and there aren’t guarantees.

Killian holds onto Mags for a long, long time. “Now don’t you go scaring the rest too much,” he teases, quiet in her ear, just for them. “Know you too well, love.”

Mags pulls back, cupping his face in her spindly hands, kissing him very gently. “Grá agat,” she promises - she loves him. Even here, even now; she murmurs their language for him alone, promising home, all the things he’s always owed Mags Flanagan for. Forgiving him; saying goodbye.

“... I said piss off, Captain,” Jim prompts, now cheerfully decimating a whole roast duck single-handedly. “You’re killing my buzz.”

Yep, that’ll do it: Killian pulls away from Mags to call the lift, leaving her behind for what he knows might wind up being the last time - Snow probably doesn’t want him within spitting distance of the Tribute Centre as it is. If Jim doesn’t want him there, chances are that’s him done for the year. Easiest Mentoring stint he’s ever done in his life.

Killian steps into the lift - which, in a spectacular piece of luck, already holds Ruby. “... alright, love?” he nods, opting to flat-out ignore the Peacekeeper in the corner. “Thought you’d be with the kid?”

“Naw, she’s getting an early night, and I’ve got places to be,” Ruby explains, eyes flashing: poor woman’s got to have a fuck of a lot of questions, though she’s sensible enough not to start on him with an audience. “Saw the Parade, huh?”

Killian snorts, “that bloody dress is gonna give me nightmares,” he grins, only half-joking: he’d helped out Cinna with the design, of course, but seeing Emma Swan all dressed up and signalling rebellion from her chariot was a different level of batshit insane. “How’s she holding up?”

“Have a guess,” Ruby mutters, as the lift doors open; Killian gestures her out first, follows up behind. “I can’t handle it all over again, this…”

“I know,” Killian cuts in, seeing Mags in the back of his mind. “I get you. Look - gonna be a bloody awful year. I guess you’ve got the usual digs, but. Reckoned you might want company. We’re camping out at Finn’s, me and him. I know you’ve probably got, fuck, Griffin or whoever, but…”

Ruby cuts him off with a short, unhappy sound, “you think? Everyone figures I got some kind of sway over the girl,” she explains, “so hell knows they don’t want to be anywhere near me, guess they all figure…”

“... that it’s on you,” Killian completes tiredly. “Aye, I… I get you. Really fucking get you on that one, actually.”

Ruby half-laughs, hollow. “No shit.”

“Then look,” he continues, ignoring the slight note of vitriol in her voice, “when you’re done for the night, come on over with us?”

Ruby huffs out a completely dead laugh. “Yeah, why not,” she shrugs. “Not like it can get much worse.”

It can get better, though. Ruby still reckons there’s only one winner - they can get her somewhere secure, brief her for the evac, fill her in on all the parts they’ve not had the chance to tell her. Reassure her that - despite her best efforts to make Snow want her dead - Emma Swan will survive this bloody thing.

Killian nods to himself, “Finnick’ll be happy you’re about, he’s not… he’s not taking it well,” he explains. “How’s she looking? Swan, I mean?”

“Spent the past few months training her up, but she’s no Career,” Ruby replies, more hopeless than he’s ever heard her; the warm-ish night wraps around them as they step out the Tribute Centre, picking their usual way back to the Hall - though it would be lovely if they could go five steps without more Peacekeepers turning up, watching them. “I… she’ll need allies. I know Regina’s been calling…”

“Fan favourite, daft not to,” Killian shrugs; it’s an easy enough excuse. Even if there wasn’t a plan, Mycroft’d figure out a way to get the Capitol’s favourite shiny new Victor on his side quickly. “Guess it’s on her, though. If she won’t bite…”

“... hell if I know,” Ruby admits. “Guess you’ve all been training, since you heard?”

Ruby is definitely, definitely going to choke him out when she finds out they’ve known for two and a half sodding years. “Aye,” he answers, which isn’t even slightly a lie, “bit of a waste of bloody time, turns out, but what can you do.”

“Don’t,” Ruby cuts in, short and strained. “Just, don’t. Not about that.”

Almost all of Ruby’s closest friends have been Reaped. A woman who’s always been friends with people from any District, every District - but her dearest friends were in Haymitch, Seeder, Blight, Cecelia. Even in the Morphlings, she knew Axel and Luella more than most other Victors can claim.

The Quell has already stolen so many people Ruby loves. They didn’t even get to say goodbye.

“Ready?” she says aloud, as they see the mound of journalists outside the Hall - waiting, as they always do, for any stories they can find. They’ll descend in seconds, the moment they see the two of them. “Can’t let them see us sweat.”

Killian doesn’t bother gracing that with a reply.

Cameras flash bright, a thousand shards of too-bright light.

-

Regina really didn’t expect to get away with it.

The Parade finished up, the Victors heading for the lifts; in the mess of bodies, Regina briefly collared Cashmere. “I won’t keep you,” she had promised, “but: I wanted to ask you something. I know I’ve got a lot of nerve, but please - I don’t want to spend my final nights away from my husband. Would you switch floors with me?”

Cashmere looked so beautiful. A perfect woman of District One, twenty-nine years old with the dignified bearing of somebody much older; she had looked at Regina for a long few moments, calculating in perfect silence.

Emma Swan decided to make rebel salutes while dressed as a damned avenging fury - in an outfit that borrows from Regina’s, from her husband’s, from her brother-in-law.

The Holmeses are an omen of death. Cashmere has seen too much of the Capitol, she knows the score - she knows President Snow, she knows Mycroft. Games played that have never involved her, but might kill her all the same.

Eventually, she’d dipped her head in a quiet nod. “Of course,” she’d murmured. “If we’re allowed. Be with your family.”

In some ways, the easy part: the thing Regina really wasn’t sure about - that continues to confuse her, even now - is that Snow let them.

“Then again,” Mycroft muses, sitting in a chair by their now-shared bed, the other bedroom entirely disregarded, “I suppose there is little to be gained in separation, when we shall be in training tomorrow regardless; thank you, Regina. Though I reserve the right to smother you in your sleep, should you snore.”

It feels odd to laugh, but she does all the same; Mycroft’s eyes dance, an honesty to them that reminds her he’s still there, underneath. All the outfits and costumes, a day spent as their Capitol selves - but her Mycroft will always be there, waiting for her.

“Let’s go see who’s Mentoring?” she suggests; he stands, offering her his hand. “And for the record, asshole, Queens don’t snore.”

Mycroft’s smile is as soft as his touch, the pair of them stepping out - and both of them stalling, bemused, for two wholly different reasons.

For Regina, it’s just the jarring nature of Enobaria sat next to Cruella: Mentor and Stylist, side by side, a clash of worlds she has never needed to see before.

For Mycroft: “Merriworth?” he manages, blinking absurdly. Merriworth Williams, District One’s oldest living Victor, sat politely next to Pete - Mal’s assistant, a large man dressed in an obnoxious shade of purple. “I… I don’t understand.”

Merriworth stands gracefully. Maybe seventy or so, not somebody Regina’s ever spoken to; the older Victors keep themselves to themselves, for the most part. “I requested to Mentor you,” she explains to Mycroft. “I hope you don’t mind. I’m aware it’s been quite some time since I last Mentored; I hope you may feel able to trust me, all the same, to safeguard your interests as you merit.”

In all the time Regina’s known him, Mycroft has never suggested that he’s close to Merriworth - certainly not enough that she’d ask to Mentor him. Mycroft had entirely expected that One would draw lots to try and avoid being anywhere near him.

Evidently, Mycroft hadn’t realised he was close to her, either; he’s got the faint glassiness in his eyes that says he’ll be buffering for a while. “Thank you,” he murmurs to her, managing a One-cultivated nod of respect that she returns in kind.

In the meantime, Regina nods her own greeting to Enobaria. “Wasn’t sure you’d be game,” she broaches; they’ve always had a complicated relationship. Mentoring Enobaria was a painful experience, a girl who joined the ranks of ‘desirable’ Victors almost instantly.

Then, of course, Mycroft Holmes became a serious damn problem.

“You two gonna insist on joint training?” Enobaria asks shortly, direct to business, ignoring the rest.

“Yes,” Regina confirms. “He’s my husband, ‘Baria. I don’t want to be separated. Whatever happens, I… can’t.”

Enobaria looks at her, at Mycroft. “I get that,” she says, “but strategically, you know I have to call you on it. You didn’t want me and Rufus to play that angle - you shouldn’t either. You won’t handle watching him die, he’s a liability you can’t afford.”

“Thank you, Enobaria,” Merriworth hums, gentle but firm. “I think you’ve made your point.”

Enobaria’s expression is riddled with hurt understanding. “I don’t want to see it happen to you,” she points out quietly, as one of very few Victors who truly know what it’s like - Enobaria loved Rufus, her District partner. It destroyed her, to see him die in her Games; she became legendarily brutal, throat-ripping with her teeth included, joining Regina on the shortlist of most-memorable kills.

Maybe it’s something about Two that means they’re closer to insanity than most get close to; something in the water, back home.

“I know,” Regina replies, as mercifully as she can manage. “That’s the thing - I can’t be without him. You understand.”

Mycroft’s addition is unexpected, given that the man is still busy processing Merriworth’s existence: “Thank you for putting her first,” he tells her. “I appreciate that this must be somewhat complex.”

“I’m getting her out,” Enobaria tells him flatly. “Not you.”

Perhaps Enobaria is surprised - perhaps not - when Mycroft simply nods. “I should hope so,” he agrees. “Hence my gratitude: sincerely, I would prefer that you focused energies on her, rather than attempting dual mentoring. Merriworth, it would be an honour to have you mentor me, if you are quite sure that is what you wish.”

“Yes, yes, if you’re all quite finished being charming, we have so very much to discuss,” Cruella drawls, to which Regina shoots her a flat look. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, you little problem children oughtn’t be left to your devices, heaven knows what you’d get up to.”

“True,” Mycroft agrees amiably, slipping into a seat. “I imagine we ought to determine interview outfitting at the earliest juncture possible…”

They talk, as best they can. Pete doesn’t - mostly because Cruella shoots him an eviscerating look every time he tries - but the rest of them do. Merriworth and Enobaria seem to get on remarkably well for two people who have never spoken before to Regina’s knowledge, while Mycroft and Cruella are apparently capable of conversation without killing one another.

It’s when they go to bed that Enobaria stalls Regina. “Swan,” she says simply. “You’re allying?”

“Probably,” Regina admits. “‘Baria…”

“I get it,” Enobaria interrupts, though it’s tight and unhappy - she’s too intelligent not to know that Regina isn’t supposed to make it out of the Arena alive, as Emma isn’t. Intelligent enough to make some guesses on why, alongside. “Regina - can you actually do this? Fight? I have to know.”

Not all of them will be able to. The Capitol has been talking up that they’re all ‘trained killers’, experienced - without really figuring out that there’s something very different in killing a stranger. Most regular child Tributes will struggle to kill their allies, or District partners, even if they’ve only known each other a few days - it’s different, knowing them as people, doubly so for Victors who’ve known each other for years.

District Two trained her well. Regina knows it’ll come back to her, the mindset she’ll need to survive: targets, hostiles. Language that will allow her to kill people she’s known for two decades without blanching.

“Yes,” she admits, hating that she’s certain of it. “I won’t like it - but yes. I’d guess Brutus and Cashmere will team up…”

“... we can talk alliances after training tomorrow,” Enobaria interrupts. “You’ve been training this year, yes? You’re physically up to this?”

“You don’t have to do this,” Regina tells her, instead of answering. Enobaria’s jaw sets slightly. “I know it’s complicated. You don’t owe me anything - hell, if anything, the opposite. I don’t want to make your life harder, I never wanted that for you.”

Enobaria straightens, back in a perfect line. “You needed a mentor, Lyme’s back in Two,” she states. “Somebody had to.”

The words are too obvious not to be deliberate: the same words Emma Swan spoke, when she Volunteered.

All the air leaves Regina’s lungs.

It takes her a second to regroup, as seamlessly as she’s able: “Thank you,” Regina murmurs, instead of all the things she wishes she could say, the questions she wishes she could ask.

Enobaria may not be close to Regina, these days - but she’s a child of District Two, a child just like her. A woman who grew up under Lyme’s tutelage, who she’s seen laugh with Alec; District Two may be beyond their reach, but they keep going. Alec and Lyme, fighting, in all the ways they can.

Regina goes to bed, sleeping by her husband’s side, a wall of pillows between them.

-

“You need to make friends,” Ruby tells her immediately, before Emma’s even woken up properly, clutching hot cocoa like a lifeline. “Allies. I know you don’t like it, but you’re gonna have to figure out how to trust them, then we’re gonna land you with a halfway decent score and you are gonna survive this fucking Game, do you hear me? None of what you pulled last year - you’re not gonna be a lone wolf, you are going to survive.”

Emma really isn’t awake enough for this.

“... okay?” she replies, wondering if Ruby got swapped in the night. “I mean… it… Ruby, allies are great and all, but you know there’s only one winner?”

Ruby shoots her a sharp, angry look. “I know,” she snaps, “but just for once, Emma, maybe try to not be difficult? You can worry about ‘only-one-winner’ when you’re down to the final eight or so - one step at a damn time. Yes?”

President Snow wants Emma dead very, very badly. It feels pretty optimistic to imagine she’ll make it to the final eight.

“... okay,” she agrees, which is enough to get Ruby off and monologuing, while Emma drinks her cocoa and tries not to think too much.

Arne hasn’t come out. Griffin’s not here, either.

They get into the lift just before ten o’clock. “I’ll be back, okay?” Ruby promises, still way too intense. “I’m not allowed down to the training floor - soon as you’re done, we can talk about how it all went, okay? Remember, Emma: you’re gonna make friends. That’s all you need to do today. Make friends.”

That thing Emma’s always been great at. Friends.

Okay.

Emma stays in the lift along with a Peacekeeper so still she thinks he might be a statue, before stepping out onto the training floor.

It’s the same. Exactly the same as last year, so much that her head spins for a second: Peeta and Prim had spent all their time at the survival stations, tying knots and practising camouflage; Rue had worked on the snares, when she wasn’t shadowing Emma around like she wound up doing in the Arena.

“... Miss Swan,” Regina greets from behind her, wrenching Emma away from the ghosts of people she couldn’t save. “Good morning. Mycroft, if you say I told you so, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”

Mycroft smiles faintly. “I’m always right,” he hums, like he’s commenting on the weather. “Regina believed more would attend training; I rather expected a number would decline. It is not obligatory, though somewhat more challenging to manage scoring without attendance - I digress. I shall leave you both be, if you’ll excuse me; I would like to speak with Agate, before the formal start of training…”

Emma isn’t sure how to explain why it’s so weird seeing Mycroft Holmes in training clothes. All her life, she’s seen him in a suit. Every single time. Emma didn’t know he could physically wear something that isn’t a suit.

“Did you sleep alright?” Regina asks, while Mycroft goes over to the plant identification station. “... I’m guessing not?”

Emma ignores the question completely. “You want me an ally,” she says instead, as confused by Regina as by Mycroft: dressed in training clothes and no makeup and spookily normal. “Thing is - he killed all his allies, back in his Game. You ripped the heart out of one of yours.”

“He was not my ally,” Regina snaps instantly, startling Emma, “he - sorry. Sorry, it’s a… it’s a sore subject. My Games - he wasn’t a Career, he sure as hell wasn’t my ally. He wanted to be, that’s all. He sexually assaulted me, it never got aired - when he tracked me down, I had an opportunity. I was… starving, terrified. I had a shot of winning if I did something memorable, Sponsors love that kind of thing, it… I don’t regret it.

Emma has no clue what to do with that - because sure, maybe the other guy was awful, but she carved up his chest and removed a whole organ and Emma’s butchered enough animals in her life to know that’s not an impulse-move, it takes time and planning and commitment and Regina doesn’t regret it.

“Do you regret One’s boy, last year?” Regina asks her, like she can read her damn mind; Emma feels a hot pricking in her throat. Marvel. The boy from One. The boy who killed Rue, the one Emma killed before she even thought about it. “Didn’t think so.”

“It’s different.”

“Because your way was faster?” Regina fills in. “Sure, fine - but thing is, it’s not all that different, when it gets down to it. You did what you had to, I did what I had to. That’s the Games.”

Emma doesn’t know how to explain that it still is different: she doesn’t regret killing Marvel, true, but she didn’t enjoy it. Not like Regina did. Years of interviews where they always ask her about the heart-thing, where she’s never said all the other stuff, where she’s smiled instead like it’s a big joke.

Or: the Evil Queen did, maybe. Emma knows that, rationally, she knows that real-life Regina isn’t like that.

Probably.

“We won’t force you to ally with us,” Regina continues, more gently. “It’s your choice to make - but we’re a good team. It’ll do you better than trying to go it alone. There’s gonna be a lot of alliances this year.”

All the people she met at the Parade; people Regina’s told her about, that Ruby told her about. “Guess you’re a package deal,” Emma teases, or tries to. It comes more like a mumble. “You and Mycroft, I mean.”

Regina huffs out a breath of laughter. “Oh, and the rest,” she drawls, not quite managing to smile. “Cards on the table - it’s me, Mycroft, Sherlock, James, Johanna. We’ll see if anyone else wants in, but it’s basically your average Career pack. We’ve got a lot of skills between us.”

All the rebels lined up together.

In some ways, it’s a stupid conversation to have: Emma always knew, if Regina got Reaped, that they’d be allies. That’s been true from the second Regina called, then kept on calling, because maybe Regina’s been manipulating her from the start but maybe Emma doesn’t care because at least she wasn’t lonely.

“I’m not a Career,” Emma manages, in a place outside of herself, ears ringing again. “I’m not like the rest of you.”

As she speaks, Brutus - Regina’s District partner - hits a training dummy so hard the head flies off; when he sees her looking, he bares his teeth at her, which is kind of unfair and Emma’s almost offended because it’s been all of five minutes and she’s already pissed somebody off; behind him, Cashmere’s waving a spear around, sharp and precise and blonde and tall and just like Emma, only older and grown-up and beautiful and terrifying.

Emma’s pretty sure Regina’s talking, but she can’t hear it any more.

All of a sudden, Sherlock Holmes is in front of her. “Don’t hog the newbie, sister-mine,” he mutters at Regina, ignoring Emma’s startle. “Have you decided to ally with us yet, Swan? I’m not trusted with the sales pitch, apparently…”

“... enough,” Regina huffs, though her smile is so warm Emma’s heart hurts. “Emma’s got a lot to take in. Training’s not formally started yet; I was thinking we focus on survival skills this morning, while the others are busy showing off…”

Cashmere’s hair catches light; Mycroft looks at a leaf like it’s got the answers of the universe inside of it; Brutus stabs a training dummy straight through the throat.

Every ghost stacks up at once: Cato had been like Brutus, Glimmer just like Cashmere. Clove had thrown knives like Regina did in her Games, something she probably practised in this room, however-many years ago; Marvel would’ve talked to people in the same accent at Mycroft is now, before rigging up the snare that caught Rue and Prim, that trapped them so he could kill them.

Emma never talked to them in training. Rue, or Prim, or Peeta - or Hickory, even. Her own District partner and she never really spoke to him because he was screwed right from the start, a birth defect that meant he couldn’t properly but his family in Ten were made to stand and congratulate her for winning, they all had families, ones like the Holmeses, Mycroft and Regina and Sherlock, they’re a family.

A family where only one of them gets to live, because she accidentally-on-purpose tried to start a rebellion that never actually happened and might never happen because she’s the Saviour-mockingjay-thing and she’s going to be dead soon.

“I can’t do this,” Emma whispers, mostly to herself.

Neither Regina nor Sherlock stop her, when she leaves.

Chapter Text

Bond circles the training floor, visiting stations as he passes, refreshing some skills he hasn’t used in a while. Fire-starting and foraging, mostly, though he briefly circles by the snare station.

He also speaks to some of the other Tributes, though it goes almost exactly as well as he imagined it would.

“You’re fucking with me,” Chaff snorts, looking him over, though his smile is kind and sad. “James, I don’t want to die in this fucking thing, I’ve been through too much for that. You and yours are radioactive.”

“I know,” Bond agrees mildly. “I wasn’t going to ask, or offer. I just - Ceecee. If you can.”

Clearly, Chaff didn’t expect that angle. He winces, unguarded. “If I can,” he agrees, flicking a glance towards the others - Regina, Sherlock, Mycroft, Johanna. “You’ve really fucked them off, haven’t you?”

Bond’s known him for years; he can hear something in the tone of it, ebbing under the surface. “Or the odds just weren’t in our favour,” he replies, noncommittally; five of them in the Games, all the obvious candidates bar Finnick and Killian. “I’ll leave you be. For what it’s worth: thanks. Been good knowing you over the years.”

“I’m sorry,” Chaff replies, holding all the weight it needs to. “Truly.”

It confirms, to Bond’s mind at least, something of a theory.

Snow has, as far as they know or can infer, a number of aims: Emma Swan’s death; the deaths of as many Holmeses as possible, including those that don’t share the surname; to see all those deaths - ideally - at the hands of other Victors, not from the Arena itself. Panem’s audiences won’t take well to a suggestion of targeted malice, in the current social climate.

That said, it presents the most interesting problem. All the other Victors have their own personal sets of loyalties and friendships, spanning Districts and decades, complicated with odd trauma-bonds or shared experience. Incentivizing them to kill one another isn’t a simple task, muddied by Emma being allied with the Holmeses.

There is nothing Snow could offer that would make Chaff target Emma Swan. He’s born and bred in District Eleven. A survivor, true, but he’s one of the hundreds of thousands of people hoping Emma Swan spells revolution; he won’t attack her.

Chaff would take out the Holmeses, though. If Snow gave him the right offer.

Bond gets the distinct impression an offer has long-since been made. In all likelihood, as early as the Parade, the moment all the Tributes were in place: there was never going to be a traditional Career pack, with Mycroft and Regina split off. There has to be an alternative set, a group capable of standing up to the Holmeses.

If Bond were in Snow’s position, it’s simple: set up Cashmere and Brutus to target Swan, and get every other serious contender - Chaff, Seeder, Blight, maybe Porter - targeting the Holmeses. A promise of better Gifts in the Arena, a better future if they manage to win, in exchange for forming a Career pack and taking out the right people along the way.

“James?” Regina asks, popping up at his side the instant he’s out of Chaff’s range. She’s following along after him like a shadow, reluctant to let him out of her sight. “Saw you talking - you okay?”

Bond gives her a look, wryly amused: they’re in a room half-filled, half emptied in painfully obvious ways. Ember, Luella and Axel - all Morphlings - haven’t bothered to show, nor have several of the older ones. Haymitch is probably busy upstairs, drinking himself into some state where any of this hurts less, which is both understandable and disappointing. Bond always thought he’d have more fight in him, when it came down to it.

The ones who have shown aren’t much better. Mags is cross-legged in the corner, making endless fishhooks; Jim’s perched up on a little ledge like a psychotic gremlin, which is par for the course; the few halfway-capable Tributes are proving their mettle, with whatever sharp objects they tend towards.

Beetee and Wiress are together. Bond can’t work out how to speak to them, especially Beetee. It reminds him too much of Q.

And finally: the people he loves. Filled with stories from a year that felt painfully long, time he’s missed - stories they can’t share now, but will one day have the chance to tell.

Regina looks at him, at Chaff. “I’m so sorry,” she says simply, knowing - without him needing to say a word - the parts that hurt deepest. “I won’t ask.”

A kindness Bond can’t overstate, pain Regina knows she can’t empathise with: she doesn’t like her District partner. Most of the others don’t. Even Johanna is, at best, ambivalent towards Blight.

Cecelia was never a fighter. Bond’s once-Mentor, a woman he’s always cared about, a mother of three: she’s not joining for training, spending her last days writing letters upon letters to her family. Ones to say goodbye, ones to open in years to come - when her children hit milestones, when they grow, as they grow. All the things she knows she won’t be alive to see.

That, in a floor riddled with half-remembered children Bond has never managed to keep alive. Thirteen Games spent Mentoring, but Bond has never once brought home a Victor.

It’s probably better that way.

“Poisons?” Bond suggests, nodding towards the table.

Regina agrees, a half-step behind him all the way.

-

Emma bites her nails, knees tucked up to her chest, watching the other Victor-Tributes training.

She is so screwed. So, so, so screwed.

At least she’ll probably die fast. Every single person in the room can clearly kill people. Easily. So easily Emma is going to have nightmares about it, at least in the days she has left to have nightmares, looking at people she’ll be trapped in an Arena with who can use weapons in ways that make last year’s Careers look like idiots, even the ones who aren’t even using the weapons but are busy at the survival stations.

Emma knows she should probably do the survival-stuff too, but she’s a little busy with the realisation that she is so screwed.

“... oh, for goodness’ sake,” Mycroft snaps suddenly, rounding on his brother, who’s been bugging him for the last forty-five minutes. “Fine. Fine. This once, then you will desist for the duration of the week, is that entirely understood?”

Sherlock lets out a hiss of triumph. Johanna Mason - who’s been wrestling - looks over in delight. “They’re doing it,” she yells over to Regina and Bond, who’ve been huddled at the poison station for a while; other Tributes pause, confused, while Mycroft and Sherlock set to bickering with several attendants.

“I’m hardly going to allow actual harm,” Mycroft points out to one of the attendants, “however, insofar as this skill set, I imagine myself and my brother exceed the bounds of your experience - kindly allow us to practice? If you wish us to wear protective equipment, I’m quite sure that is a viable compromise.”

Emma watches blankly, in disbelief, as they get dressed in padded stuff, holding thin little swords. Johanna and Bond and Regina all club together to watch, a load of the others also moving closer, curious.

“Regina…”

“Of course I’m refereeing,” she tuts, eyes bright with enthusiasm, before Mycroft can get a word out; he looks very, very martyred. “Stop whining. Now, both of you, standing back - and, when you’re ready…”

They stand, swords at the ready. Sherlock’s grin is all teeth; Mycroft’s got no expression at all, settling his weight back.

The sudden flurry of movement takes Emma by surprise - it’s so fast. Sherlock moves like quicksilver, darting around like he’s given up on having normal limbs that move in normal ways; Mycroft is relaxed everywhere but his eyes, parrying like he’s bored - like he can predict Sherlock’s movements before they happen.

Emma did some of this sort of thing with Ruby, back in Ten. Fighting with swords, attacks and parries and deflections and all those things, fancy words to explain things that Mycroft and Sherlock can clearly do in their sleep, like the swords are just parts of their bodies, effortless.

Yeah. She’s so screwed.

“A hit,” Regina calls, grinning - the pair step back on her order. They’re barely out of breath. “One to Mycroft. Ready?”

Sherlock laughs like he’s having the time of his life, a sound so musical it distracts Mycroft for a half-second as he veers back in, their swords clashing brightly.

“... one all,” Regina calls; Sherlock crows with satisfaction, Johanna egging him on from the sidelines. “Both of you, behave - boys, let’s go again…”

They’re a family. They can fight really well and they’re a family and there’s only one winner.

“Hullo,” a voice murmurs from behind her; Emma tenses. “Relax, darlin’. I’m not one you need to watch out for. Not now, anyway. Maybe not at all. Haven’t decided yet, y’see.”

Emma looks at Jim Moriarty, who watches the Holmes brothers, something hungry in his expression. “I don’t want to ally with you,” she reminds him quickly, before he can get any ideas.

Jim snorts, loud and unpleasant. “Didn’t ask y’to,” he points out, sitting next to her. “Nah. Allies and that, not my scene. I never had many friends, never got the knack of it. I had my Sebby, ‘course, but I’m not… I’m not like them, not really. Never was, never will be. Are you?”

The last, he says with a sharp look at her. “... I don’t think so?” Emma replies, trying to make any of this make sense. “Maybe?”

“I think y’are,” he shrugs, tilting his head to the side, his accent somehow really unnerving; like it can ebb into her bones, steal away her thoughts. “Upstairs, downstairs. I never fit, Emma. You know?”

Regina and Mycroft and the others, they all call her ‘Miss Swan’, and she hates it - right up until this moment, when she really wishes Jim Moriarty wouldn’t say her name, and make it sound like something edible.

“I never fit either,” Emma tells him uncomfortably.

Jim hums something, a snatch of a melody Emma doesn’t recognise. “We all die alone,” he murmurs, watching the Holmes brothers fight, a horrible longing in how his body bends in towards them. “Doesn’t mean we have to die lonely.”

Sherlock and Johanna laugh in layering unison, Regina’s teeth sharp in her smile, Bond’s eyes warm with amusement; Regina catches her looking, lighting up with a smile, like she’s genuinely pleased to see Emma there.

“A hit,” Jim murmurs absently, about a second before Mycroft taps Sherlock’s side. Emma’s eyes widen, looking at him sharply; Jim just gives a lazy smile, which is maybe the creepiest thing Emma’s ever seen in her life. “Be seein’ you, Emma Swan.”

Jim ambles away.

He has a point. He’s creepy as anything, but he has a point: they want her as an ally, Regina’s been calling her for months - they’re friends, and all the rest aside, Ruby told her she had to make friends.

Emma is going to die - but she doesn’t have to die lonely.

“Hi,” she announces, when they stop for lunch. “So, I’m - hi.”

It isn’t fair. Regina looks so happy to see her, for no good reason. Emma’s been ignoring her all damn morning. “Don’t let the idiots scare you,” she comments, probably because Emma can’t stop looking at Mycroft and Sherlock. “They seem scarier than they actually are, I swear.”

Emma spears a piece of chicken. “Um - so if you want to, you know. Ally,” she manages eventually. “How’s that going to, you know. Work?”

Regina looks at her. Emma thinks she’s amused, but it’s hard to tell. “We try to keep you alive, you try to keep us alive,” she replies drily. “The rest, we’ll figure out on the way. Sound like a plan?”

“Not really?”

“Fair enough - Mycroft’s the one you want for plans,” Regina admits, “but if you’re in, we can think about strategy properly. Get a plan in place, decide how we want this to play out; I told you, it’s your call. So: how about it, Miss Swan? Allies?”

Regina’s voice is the only thing in the whole goddamn building that Emma knows how to trust - so she looks at her plate, not at Regina Mills-Holmes-Victor-person, and lets out a breath through her cheeks. “I… you know I’m not, like them? I can’t fight like that, I’m not a fighter-person, or a… strategy person, I don’t…”

“Emma, breathe,” Regina reminds her, just like their phone calls: she tells Emma to breathe, and she can suddenly remember how. “Okay. Look - how about we take some time today, hmm? Get to know each other. I know Mycroft’s hard to get a read on.”

Emma’s giggle is small and unsure. “You think?” she returns, trying to remind herself - again and again - that Mycroft’s a rebel. He isn’t Snow’s. “I… yeah, okay. Okay. Let’s, do that. What you said. Just, promise me your husband won’t kill us all in our sleep?”

“Of course not,” Regina tuts, smiling without looking at her, snipping the tip of a vegetable off with her front teeth. “Mycroft would do it while you were wide awake, if that was what he wanted to do - but he doesn’t.”

Emma snorts, and finally, Regina looks at her properly. Amused and detached and warm and complicated.

“Welcome,” Regina smiles, her voice wrapping around Emma, certain and definite and competent. A single person who might actually know what to do, how to make this make sense.

Emma knows she does better alone, always has, but that doesn’t mean she wants to be.

Allies. “I don’t want to let you down,” Emma manages suddenly, seeing Peeta and Prim and Rue; the last allies she had, people she couldn’t save, even though she tried so hard. “I want to. Ally, I mean, but I - I’m not like you, and I don’t want to let you down…”

Regina takes her hand. Emma’s so startled by it that she stops talking. “I know,” Regina tells her quietly, sincerely. “And we don’t want to let you down, either. Sure, it’s complicated - all we can do is try, okay? Maybe you can’t fence - you can sure as hell hunt, which we all suck at. We’re a good set of fighters, sure, but we need you too.”

Emma stares at her stupidly. Regina’s hand is warm, surprisingly soft. “What’s… what’s fence?” she asks tentatively.

“Fencing,” Regina explains, smiling - but not laughing at her, even though Emma’s already flushing. “Sword fighting, what the two of them were doing. That style, it’s called fencing. Useless damn skill, to be honest, but looks showy. District One all over - they talk big, sure, but…”

Regina tells her all about fencing.

Emma decides to trust the only person in the room who hasn’t scared her yet.

-

The afternoon descends into what is, effectively, an exercise in trying to get the least-trustful and most-emotionally-incoherent teenager Regina has ever encountered in her entire life - a list which very much includes Sherlock, Johanna and Mycroft fucking Holmes himself as excellent comparative examples - into a position where she won’t freak out and do a runner the second the klaxon sounds.

Regina can’t help but be fond. Emma Swan is a girl of two extremes - either she’s giving rebel salutes and angry speeches while wearing a dress that would give most sane people nightmares, or she’s standing around looking overwhelmed by more or less everything, mumbling circular arguments on repeat with no real filter.

It’s frustrating, sure - but it’s honest. Regina has spent enough time with people who hide what they’re feeling or thinking, good or bad: Emma is exactly what she says on the tin. There’s something lovely about it.

“Mycroft - Emma’s considering allying,” Regina explains directly, leading Emma straight up to join him; he skipped lunch - something she intends to yell about later - and is, instead, hovering around the snares. “I suggested it might be best for us to get to know each other, before we go any further.”

It’s only in the reflection of Emma’s eyes that Regina remembers exactly how Mycroft looks, to people who don’t know him - most notably, the fact that his face almost never shifts out of a fixed mask, arrogantly dismissive as a type of default expression.

Regina’s used to seeing beneath, or ignoring it; Emma, on the other hand, is not.

“Entirely reasonable,” Mycroft nods, voice completely detached. “With due awareness of your hesitation, would you be averse to strategising somewhat?”

Emma just stares, unimpressed. “A-what?” she asks bluntly.

“Apologies,” Mycroft sighs immediately, holding all the weary chagrin of somebody who has grown over-reliant on people translating on his behalf. “Let me rephrase: I wondered if you may like to consider strategy. As you have no doubt ascertained - seen - we all have specialisms, insofar as skillsets; yours being, I imagine, both your strength and swordsmanship?”

“I don’t trust you,” Emma tells him. It isn’t even hostile - just direct. “I’m not… I mean. You’re swords too, I guess?”

“I am passable with most Arena weaponry, though specialised in rapier and dagger; I tend towards medium-range combat rather than direct where possible,” he explains, meeting her honesty face-on with his own. Regina smiles to herself. “My notable deficits are in long-range weaponry; I also would not tend towards archery unless pressed.”

Emma’s confusion is visible: Mycroft used a crossbow the last time, it’s one of the most famous images from his Games - Mycroft Holmes, fourteen years old, crossbow in hand and lips stained with blood.

It is also exactly why Mycroft would prefer to avoid archery if he can. The Tribute he’d shot with a crossbow took a long while to die. Regina knows the shape of Mycroft’s nightmares better than most could hope to.

“But…”

“Regina is by far superior with a bow and arrow,” Mycroft interrupts calmly; Emma’s eyes narrow, but she thankfully doesn’t press the point. “I have also seen her wield a mace with alarming precision.”

“One time,” Regina retorts, seeing the dancing humour in Mycroft’s eyes, “don’t listen to him, Emma - I was always small, ranged was my specialism, though they taught us a lot of good tricks back home for hand-to-hand. You know I used a flamethrower, once? Those were the days…”

Maybe that was a step too far; Emma’s looking terrified again, beneath the inch-thick layer of unfiltered suspicion. “I’m a target,” she tells them. “I mean - we all know that, right? I’m, it was always going to be in the Arena, so like… you’ve got people you want to keep alive. If I’m a target…”

Oh bless her heart, she thinks she’s Snow’s biggest target - it takes everything in Regina’s body and soul not to cackle like a hyena.

“Your consideration is appreciated,” Mycroft nods, his own smirk curling faintly in the corners. “That said - both for the avoidance of doubt, and for your awareness - you are most certainly not the only target of significance.”

Regina looks at him, raising an eyebrow. “Should we be saying that out loud?”

“I hardly see that it matters, at this stage,” Mycroft replies lightly, while Emma looks between them, stunned. “Miss Swan is more than intelligent enough to have noted the pointed Reaping of almost everybody I care for; hence my reassurance - you needn’t be concerned that allyship would compromise our life expectancies any more than they have already been compromised.”

“... because you resigned a few years ago,” Emma fills in, though her eyes are tight with suspicion; she’s clever, Regina realises - putting things together, piece by piece.

Mycroft dips his head in a dignified nod. “I think it reasonable to state that President Snow remains unamused by my withdrawal from his government,” he says airily; Regina loses the battle, snorting with laughter. “Regina, dear, behave.”

“Dare I ask?” Sherlock comments, while Regina’s still giggling. “You sound like you’re choking. Stop it.”

“A pleasure to see you as always,” Mycroft sighs, ever so slightly melodramatic. “Sherlock, Miss Swan is considering allying with ourselves - kindly attempt to behave like a grown up, if you would be so kind.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes petulantly, looking over Emma. “Spar?” he offers. “Padded, obviously. We don’t want to kill each other too early.”

“Sherlock.”

“Fine, fine: Emma Swan, would you be so very kind as to not dismember me or my idiot family the moment we enter an Arena - which you won’t, you’re not the type - and whilst we’re all here with some time available waiting for you to inevitably decide you’d prefer to stay around people who are both competent and tiringly good people, for the most part, perhaps you might be interested in learning some skills beyond ‘throwing things and hoping they hit’. Yes?”

Emma only gapes for a half-second. “You’re an asshole,” she states, decisively and accurately.

Sherlock smirks. “They’re the ‘tiringly good people’,” he agrees. “I’m the bitter, vile addition they entertain for dramatic effect. Jo, too. Be grateful we don’t have Finnick available, he’s so ‘good’ it’s nauseating - I suppose you’ll do passably as his replacement. Have you attempted tridents before? Come along.”

It takes a solid second or three for Emma to sift through Sherlock’s customary nonsense enough to figure out she’s just been given a backhanded compliment, at least of a sort, though it’s hard to tell for anybody who isn’t used to Sherlock. “You know what? Fine,” she huffs. “Maybe I’ll surprise you.”

“I doubt it,” Sherlock shrugs loftily, but his smile is one of his gentler variants. “Few things surprise me. Mycroft’s even worse for it. Jo, I’ve picked up the stray - we’re going sparring.”

“I’m busy,” Johanna hollers back, stripped down to her underwear and midway through being thoroughly floored by one of the trainers.

Emma tightens her jaw, looking over at Johanna. “I’m not getting naked.”

“Pity,” Sherlock retorts blandly. “Not obligatory, despite appearances - Jo, kindly put some clothes on, then join us?”

“In a goddamn minute, Holmes.”

Sherlock smiles, sauntering off into the distance - Emma gapes at him, fired up with indignation, but nonetheless stalks off after him.

“Isn’t it marvellous when the children get along so nicely,” Mycroft muses aloud - which kills off the very last bits of Regina’s self-control, laughter overspilling everywhere.

Regina knows she shouldn’t find any of this funny. They’re in the Quarter Quell, going into an Arena designed to kill them, Gamemakers watching from the gallery - including Plutarch, the asshole - and all she can find to do is laugh, like any of this is somehow normal or acceptable.

Mycroft’s smile curls with affection; with love. “Perhaps we might explore foraging in somewhat more detail?” he suggests. “Miss Swan’s skills notwithstanding, I would prefer that we had some ability to survive on our own merits.”

“Hell will freeze over before you willingly cover yourself in mud and wait for a bunny rabbit,” Regina teases, laughter still light on her lips. “Though I’d pay good money to see it, all the same…”

“I think we’ll leave that to Miss Swan,” Mycroft agrees, curling his lip in the slightest hint of distaste, teasing her with it; he raises her hand to his lips, pressing a dry kiss to the back of it. “Excellent work, I might add.”

Regina shrugs, warm in the light of Mycroft’s compliments, rare and precious as they are. “I try,” she agrees, his hand remaining in her own, equal and opposite.

They approach the foraging station side by side, perfectly in-tune, as they always are.

Chapter Text

“Good evening.”

Killian knew it was coming. Pretty much inevitable at this point, when Q’s been stuck in the Gamemaker suites for the past few days without leaving - they’ve even had him in overnight, along with half the Gamemakers, making sure nothing can possibly leak about the Arena-from-hell.

Mostly, anyway.

Silva’s hand loops around his wrist, same as always. Killian’s blood freezes, even though he tells it not to. “Hi,” he returns bluntly, telling himself it’s for show, it’s all for show. “What d’you want?”

“We are alone,” Silva tells him, a hand stroking along Killian’s side, all the familiar motions - they aren’t alone, not even a bloody little bit, of course they’re not. Middle of the Hall, Silva pressing him back against the wall, a room full of people who are a bit too sodding used to seeing exactly this.

Killian’s mind hums a strangled, strange reminder that they are on the same fucking side; that Silva wants out just as much as the rest of them. “Are we?” he returns, a little snarkily. “Sure as fuck doesn’t look it to me.”

“Muddled, sweet thing,” Silva murmurs, mouth by Killian’s ear, a soft string of murmurings, “they will emerge in water. The Cornucopia is surrounded - they will need to swim, from the beginning.”

Bloody brilliant - an Arena made for District Four’s Victors, with neither of him or Finnick there to make the most of it. “I’ll sort it,” Killian agrees: have to be through Ruby, she’ll find a way. They’ll figure it out, somehow. “Anything else?”

“Nothing that he believes will make a difference, nothing they do not already know,” Silva murmurs, swallowing Killian with his body while he tries to keep thoughts in his head: they know what they know. Enough to survive, not enough to risk Snow clocking that they already know. “It is as it is - be careful, sweet thing. You and yours are being watched.”

“Shocking,” Killian grinds out, Silva’s lips pressing into the hollow beneath his ear, all the shit he usually does that Killian really wishes he believes was just for the benefit of whoever the fuck is watching. “Look, d’you have to do all this shit? Let’s just, not. Keep things civil, all that, yes? Enough going on as it is.”

Silva pulls back, his smile shadowed, examining Killian’s face. “You have grown,” he breathes, so fond. “My little Killian, all grown up - I am so… proud. I never dreamed you could be this.”

“M’not doing this,” Killian returns, sharp and short. “The rest, whatever, but m’not… no, we’re not doing the rest. We’ve been through this, right?”

Silva traces his cheek with his fingertips, half-smiling at Killian’s beard - something he grew the second he was off-Contract, allowed to decide for himself. “We have,” he agrees, “but allow me to ask you something - are you happy?”

“You know what? I’ve had better days,” Killian returns instantly, breath shuddering sharply at the bleak flash of annoyance in Silva’s expression. “Fuck, I - yes? I don’t know what you want me to say, mate, you know this is a fuck of a time. All this.”

“I am truly sorry,” Silva agrees, almost a sigh. “Killian - I know it is not as you would wish. But, I am grateful - so grateful - that you were spared this.”

Killian blinks at him stupidly; Silva runs fingers along his scalp, nails grazing the crown of his head. “Do you really reckon now’s the time?” he asks, throat clotting at the press of him, the heat and constancy and endless, endless insistence, pinned against a wall by a man who still thinks, still, that he owns some part of him. “I’m not yours any more. You’ve said your bits, now fuck off, right? All… all this, you don’t need to do this bit, we’re not friends. You know that. You want to fuck me, you buy my time like any other bastard in this place. I’ve got enough to think about without you fucking with my head.”

Silva’s expression sharpens, eyes narrowing slightly, smile fixed with way too many teeth. “I simply wished to speak with you.”

“Yeah, well, you can’t,” Killian returns shortly, holding onto every single fragment of the person he’s learned how to be. “I don’t owe you anything.”

The perfectly silent rush of livid anger briefly - very briefly - chokes him.

Silva replaces it with a smile. A perfect impression of himself. “I am not your enemy, Killian,” he says, playfully lethal. “If this is what you wish…”

“It doesn’t go away just ‘cos you want it to,” Killian points out, a tiny flicker of pleading underneath it, because fuck knows he does not want Silva getting weird ideas of being enemies when they’re about to break out of the sodding Capitol. “I get it - I know you want that to be how this goes, but it can’t. It’s different than it was anyway, right? You and me. S’been alright, you’ve been decent - let’s, let’s keep that, right? Being decent. The rest is, I don’t know. One day, maybe, but I can’t hack this right now and you know I can’t, and the more you try the worse it’s gonna get so - decent? Yes?”

Maybe not the height of articulate, has to be said, but he reckons the important bits got through all the same - enough to placate without promising anything.

Inch by inch, Silva’s smile bleeds into something more relaxed. “Decent,” he echoes, looking over Killian’s face, something behind his eyes that’s hard to read properly. “You need me, Killian; do not forget that.”

Killian looks him in the eye, holding bravery he didn’t know how to find when he was younger. “Thing is, though - you need me too,” he points out, knowing it’s true: Silva might be taking out the cannons, but they’re all involved in the evac, moving pieces shifting all over the board. “So - compromise, right? I don’t want to talk like we’re mates, I can’t do that, not with everything else. It’s gonna have to wait.”

There’s a funny, distanced look in Silva’s eyes. “For a world elsewhere,” he murmurs, tracing fingers along Killian’s jaw. “I wonder.”

Killian doesn’t get to know what he wonders: Silva steps back neatly, giving Killian space - and as always, the suddenness leaves him off-balance, swallowing oxygen as best he can.

“I will see you soon, Killian,” Silva tells him, dipping his head in something like a bow - then, buggers off without another word.

Killian takes a second to reboot his breathing, before he’s swallowed back into the party.

-

Regina sits by Bond’s side.

“You lasted a whole day,” Bond smirks; it was a matter of time before Regina cornered him properly, away from the training stations. “Go on.”

As always, when called out, Regina pretends it was her plan all along: “I missed you,” she tells him shortly. “Are you alright? I know you’re not talking - I’m gonna ask, all the same. For old time’s sake.”

Bond looks at her levelly, smile curving up in the corners, fingers playing through knots upon knots - ones Killian can whip up without thinking, that Finnick will excitedly teach to anybody who’ll sit still long enough, that Annie’s hands mimic the motions of even when there’s no rope to be found.

“Hell of a fucking year,” he says, instead of the rest.

Regina half-laughs, sighing. “True,” she agrees, eyes falling on Emma and Mycroft, both of them at the plant identification station.

It’s for Emma’s sake, not Mycroft’s. Bond knows Mycroft will have spent the past few years reading every book, every study, on plants in different environments; his expertise probably outstrips the trainer’s, as is intermittently true for others - nobody can whittle like Mags, nobody knows axes like Johanna.

Mycroft stays, all the same - teaching Emma. It’s the best option. Much though Mycroft would love to think he’s at his most likeable when giving monologues about grand plans, he’s actually best when he teaches: tentatively enthusiastic, shyly delighted as he relaxes into himself.

In the light of it, Emma’s visibly starting to grow used to him. To all of them.

“So,” he smirks, “you called her?”

Regina flushes slightly, almost invisibly. She’s always had a weakness for being needed. “I didn’t want her to feel alone,” she huffs, elbowing him in the ribs when he snorts. “I wanted to call you. You… are you okay? Really, I mean. Not the answer you’ll give Mycroft to keep him off your back.”

There’s no dissuading Regina when she gets like this. “Mostly,” Bond replies, tiredly aware - as he has been all year - of their resident audience. A building riddled with cameras. “The second Woof was Reaped, I knew it… Q didn’t tell me about the Quell. I never said goodbye to him.”

Or rather: he and Q said the only goodbyes they were allowed to have was the night they spent at Silva’s, months ago - a single night, in over a year, where they were able to be honest.

It’s still more than he’s had with Killian or Finnick - or, even more than that, Alec.

Awful though it is, Bond had half-hoped for Alec to be Reaped. Alec has done his job well back in Two, almost too well - because now, if Bond dies in the Arena, that’s it. He’s spoken his last to Alec Trevelyan.

It feels incomplete. Bond’s entire life feels unendingly incomplete. Too many things he never had the chance to get closure on, facing what may be the last days of his life.

Regina leans a head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, holding so much comprehension, so much grief. Her gaze lingers on the knots he’s made, a memory of people he knows he may never see again.

“Happens,” he shrugs, eventually. “Better than them being here.”

Regina’s breathing shivers incrementally, stories she can’t tell, that one night of calling couldn’t capture - a softer lull to her, accessing tenderness more quickly than Bond remembers. Mycroft and Sherlock, who have never in Bond’s memory interacted so easily; Johanna’s transparent attachment to the others, though she and Sherlock orientate around Finnick’s absence.

Emma Swan, meanwhile, keeps shooting furtive glances at Regina when she thinks the woman isn’t looking. It’s sweet, especially given that she thinks she’s being subtle.

Regina leans against him like she could fall straight into him. “I hate that you’re here, but I’m… so glad you are,” Regina murmurs, almost inaudibly.

They are so young. Sherlock, Johanna and Emma are teenagers, early twenties; even Mycroft. Intellectually mature, without question, but younger in a set of ways that matter when it comes to fighting in a Hunger Game of other adults.

“I missed his thirtieth,” Bond comments absentmindedly.

Regina lets out a quiet, fragile sigh. “Not like we were celebrating much,” she explains sadly, watching her husband; a man unfortunate enough to be born only a few weeks before the annual Reapings. “Still - Annie made cake.”

Briefly, Regina’s breathing hiccups completely; she is too practised to let it show too visibly, just the rhythm of her chest stalling.

Bond puts an arm around her waist, holding her close.

-

They’re really pulling out all the stops, where ‘they’ refers to practically everybody involved in this whole nightmare of a scenario, it just never stops.

Q doesn’t have time to watch the Tributes in training, which frankly, he doesn’t have time to be upset about: he’s working flat-out, running full-team full-day dress rehearsals of a highly engineered Arena that needs to be running seamlessly by the time the klaxon actually sounds.

On the bright side, the ten o’clock wave looks amazing in practice. It’ll absolutely definitely kill anybody anywhere near it, but it’s very cool, and everybody’s impressed with the drain-time and corollary environment reset, which is nice of them.

In a bid to keep some vague handle on his dwindling levels of sanity, Q is trying his best to join the Gamemakers in the usual Tribute-depersonalisation; something that is a lot harder for everybody to obey than the last couple of years. Even the most experienced Gamemakers keep referring to ‘1M’ as Mycroft or ‘3M’ as Beetee or ‘7F’ as Johanna, blurring them back and back into being actual real-life people.

It both helps, and really doesn’t help, that the Gamemakers are a bit stuck on what to do about Sherlock Holmes - Reaped for 12F, but is neither ‘12’ nor ‘F’. Eventually, they decided it was more confusing to go with anything atypical, so Sherlock Holmes is going into the Quell Arena as 12F which is doing strange things to Q’s sense of humour, he can’t stop giggling about it.

“You are more composed than I had expected,” Snow comments, lurking around Q’s desk because of course he is, that’s what life is made of these days. “A word, if you would be so kind.”

‘Composed’ is not the word Q would have gone for. “Of course,” he agrees instead, his voice completely steady as he leaves his desk, following Snow into the observation room, a place he is growing uncomfortably familiar with.

Snow gestures for him to take a seat. “As you are aware, the Tributes are likely to be obstructive in their interviews,” Snow states, straight to business without preamble. “I would appreciate your thoughts on what we may expect; we will need to correct for any behaviour that may disrupt Panem’s stability.”

It takes a reasonable degree of effort to not immediately retort ‘what stability?!’ but, Q isn’t quite that stupid.

“Well - judging by the Parade, at least, they won’t be discreet,” he replies carefully. “I mean, I wouldn’t be, in their situation. It… I mean, anything I could predict, you could predict. I doubt I have much to offer on that front.”

“Humour me,” Snow orders - asks - quietly.

The sincerity is jarring, a flicker of something Q might almost term ‘uncertainty’; it flares and falls, while Q considers his options.

There isn’t much he can do, in all honesty, bar play along: “I’d expect Swan to be egregiously difficult, absent intervention,” he fills in, the obvious problem-candidate. “Even then, I’m not sure there’s any intervention that would work, at this point - she’s a bit past that.”

“We shall see,” Snow murmurs. “Of the rest?”

“Erm - most of them, I think, are probably sensible enough not to do anything too blatantly stupid,” Q continues, “given they have other friends outside the Tributes, families at home. I’d expect emotional plays and plausible deniability across the board. I assume we can’t pull the interviews outright without causing… problems?”

Snow nods incrementally. “Naturally, we will have a brief delay between Capitol and District airing,” he muses, “though I doubt - at least in some cases - that it will do a tremendous amount to dissuade them. That will be managed separately.”

Q does not feel particularly optimistic about that statement. “I understand that the Holmeses have solicited Swan as an ally?”

“Yes,” Snow confirms. “Thoughts?”

“She’s the emotional centre of this,” Q shrugs. “I… well. It’s the most sensible call they can make, but it’s interesting vis a vis the interviews - there isn’t much left to lose, for them. I’d expect they’ll all do whatever they think will cause the greatest degree of distemper, in the hopes of having the Games cancelled.”

Snow sighs slightly, faintly. “It is troubling,” he murmurs, before seeming to correct himself: “The strategy is to our benefit; the alliance will fall apart, as it must. As you can likely imagine, we will have the ability to tell whatever stories we wish.”

“And allow them to prove themselves Victors,” Q agrees, though it aches. “I assume that’s what you’re relying on?”

Snow doesn't answer for a moment; instead, he coughs. Q notices blood, speckling his handkerchief. “Victors have ever been a troublesome breed; I suppose it was inevitable that they grew too great in number to remain manageable.”

The phrasing sends a nasty, cold feeling along the back of Q’s neck.

District Three remembers the purges. Nearly thirty years have passed since the last, but it still affects every atom of life in Three: last time, the Capitol used productivity metrics. The lowest-performing percentage of the District, sliced off. Targeted raids that left dozens dead, adults and children alike, the ‘unpromising’ or ‘useless’ clinically removed in less than a day.

Beetee had only just won his Games when the last purge took place. Belle was fourteen. Both lost friends; both became educators. It scarred the District in ways Q can’t even put words to.

“This isn’t just about the Quell, is it?” Q asks, pulse throbbing in his throat.

Snow doesn’t answer for a horribly long moment. “I am very glad you have chosen to be a useful resource,” he says instead, quiet and still, while Q feels every single drop of blood drain from his face. “I have always abhorred waste.”

It takes everything in him not to pass out. “Then…”

“I cannot dispatch the Victors in their entirety, not without cause,” Snow explains, crisp and detached. “All the same; this Game must take place. Victors hold a unique position within Panem, one they believe affords them power; it does not. They are not immortal. If they cannot be controlled, they will be removed.”

Gold has never, not once, allowed Snow to control him. Punish him, yes; never control him.

Blood whistles in Q’s ears; he’s reasonably sure they continue talking, but Snow gets a phone call, leaving Q to return to the Control Room, to stare blankly at an Arena that is going to kill twenty-three other people because if it doesn’t, there’s a reasonable chance Snow kills everybody else.

It isn’t that Q hadn’t thought about it in those terms. Gold is evacuating along with them, because he’s always been a problem, Snow would relish any chance to remove him, but there’s something about Snow blithely confirming that if this doesn’t work, if the Quell doesn’t work, then that’s it, they’re dead, they are all dead.

Every single childhood terror breaks over his head. The work he did as a child, proving himself again and again, proving he was productive and useful and worthwhile, knowing he could make things work, knowing that if he didn’t, he’d be culled the moment it became necessary.

Q excuses himself to the bathroom. Aloysius looks mildly concerned, which is probably reasonable; Q can’t feel his own fingers, curls himself up against the cubicle door and stares blankly at the toilet cistern, unable to cry or scream because he’ll be seen or heard, there are too many eyes, everywhere he goes.

Blankly, Q bites down on his knee and tells himself that Gold is sensible. Gold will get out in time; they all will, that’s the whole point, they’re all going to get out of this fucking city, they’ll get out of the Arena.

It occurs to him that a lot of the other Victors are not getting out of the city, because it never fucking occurred that Snow would have any particular interest in killing off morphlings or loyalists or whatever lingering survivors exist, why would he, it’s not like they are the ones who’ve set up a rebellion in Snow’s back garden.

Then again, Q thinks, there’s similarly no reason not to.

“... Q?” Aloysius asks, startling him. “You alright in here?”

Q sits up slightly, controlling his breathing as best he can; he grapples for whatever he can find, the shields that can fit neatly over the dissipating mess he’s turning into, enough to make this viable.

In the end, he settles his expression into an absent smile, one he learned from Gold; an implacable oddness, otherness. A way to ward off the unwanted, something he learned how to wield before he was old enough to talk.

Aloysius is waiting, when he steps out of the cubicle. “Can’t last five minutes?” Q asks, teases, as he washes his hands.

His knee hurts, where he bit into it. Aloysius looks quietly concerned. “You looked… off,” he explains, “and then you just, disappeared. Are you okay? I know it’s, they’re your… brothers…”

“Biology isn’t everything,” Q replies, detached, voice dancing eloquently. “I can’t think about that right now. I want to do my job, and it’s - well, insane - but it is what it is. There’s not much I can do about it.”

Aloysius nods slightly. He’s a kind man. Clever. He’d have fitted in well back home, in Three; just a quirk of birth meant he grew up in the Capitol, where the Games are something he never needed to fear. A place where ‘purge’ is something people do when they’ve eaten too much, in the neatly arranged vomitoriums. “It’s fucked-up, that they’re asking you to do this,” he says, looking at his shoes. “I’m sorry.”

Q’s smile tilts into place, smoothly angled. “It’s my choice,” he replies, after a moment. “I could ask to be reassigned - but I’ve worked on this Arena, now. It’s on me. I owe it to them to not be a coward about it. I hated that, in my Games - I didn’t see them. I killed other Tributes, but didn’t give them the dignity of acknowledging what I did… well. I’m sure it sounds ridiculous.”

“It doesn’t sound ridiculous,” Aloysius tells him quietly. “It’s… honourable.”

The mirror reflects them both. Q debates makeup, he has some in his bag; Regina taught him how, when he first won, something Silva encouraged. Making himself look flawless, for all the people looking for cracks.

For Snow’s many, endless eyes.

“It’s not,” Q replies, languid. “I don’t know what it is; but. It’s not honourable.”

Q watches Aloysius in the mirror, the pained edge to his expression. “How do you… how do you handle it?” he asks tentatively. “Knowing… knowing that you’ve killed people. In the Games.”

“I could ask you the same,” Q returns promptly, irritably unsurprised by Aloysius’s eyes widening slightly. “Well - last year’s Game. We organised the supplies for the Cornucopia, figured out who’d get what. Irie, starving to death. Thresh, with the mutts. We killed them, just as much as whoever or whatever finally finished the deed - every single person in this building is just like every Victor. Killers. It’s why it doesn't matter, it can’t matter, that it’s them - I won’t be a hypocrite. I’ve been a killer from the moment my first traps went off. Nothing’s changed.”

Aloysius stares at him in the mirror in abject horror. “But we’re…” he tries; Q gets the entertaining experience of watching a man collide head-on with every single piece of conditioning he’s ever received, in one concerted hit.

He’s too clever not to see it, to understand it. The dissonance has always existed; all Q is doing is pointing it out, dragging it into the light.

Q has no mercy left, not for him. Not for somebody who had a choice.

“So you tell me,” Q continues, his voice borrowing the lilting cruelty that lulls him to sleep on bleaker nights, ones where he can’t breathe for terror, “how do you handle it? Knowing you’ve killed people?”

Aloysius stares at him, eyes wide.

Q’s smile glints gold, twisting away without another word.

Chapter Text

It’s the last training day, private sessions in the afternoon - meaning all the Tributes show up, even if they don’t really want to.

Including, unfortunately, the ones Emma hasn’t actually met properly yet.

“... son of a bitch,” Haymitch Abernathy mutters, stepping off the elevator with Sherlock at his side - he stops, the second he sees Emma. “Oh. Look who it is.”

Haymitch. Peeta and Prim’s mentor.

“Hi,” Emma mumbles uncomfortably.

“Now remember what Gloss told us, we’re going to be good little Tributes today,” Sherlock reminds Haymitch, obviously baiting him; Haymitch glares nastily. “Ah, excellent, good morning Emma. Ready to be flattened again?”

“Asshole,” Emma tells him, for the hundredth time - which he is, he really is, because they’ve been practising fighting and Sherlock’s teaching her, given she lasted maybe five seconds when they first started.

He’s a good teacher, though. Emma wasn’t even allowed to stand without his sarcastic voice telling her all the ways she sucks, but she’s a fast learner and she’s stubborn and she even got him into a headlock yesterday by the end of the day.

Sherlock looks nothing short of pleased at being insulted, which Emma’s starting to realise is normal. “Haymitch Abernathy, Emma Swan.”

“I know who she is,” Haymitch mutters, scanning her over. “Welcome to the madhouse, sweetheart.”

It is mad. Completely mad, completely insane, which is also something she can say of pretty much all the Tributes she’s surrounded with, they’re all on a sliding scale of being completely insane.

Insane - but surprisingly nice people, underneath. “I was going to suggest other weaponry this morning,” Sherlock offers. “Not you, Haymitch, given you remain pathologically incompetent…”

“Forty-seven to twenty-three, kid,” Haymitch shoots back - Emma knows he was the last Quell winner, which surprised her right up until she watched his Games. He was clever; won by using the Arena’s forcefield, something Emma would never have figured out anybody could do.

He’s also got the hand-trembling thing Arne has. The ones who came off of alcohol but spent too long depending on the stuff.

Haymitch Abernathy knows he’s going to die, just like Emma knows she’s going to die, just like most of them are going to die.

“... Swan?” Johanna asks, poking Emma in the ribs. “Earth to Swan? Emma.”

Emma blinks at her. At her, and Sherlock, and Haymitch. “I’m fine,” she tells them, as a determined sort of reflex. “I…”

Haymitch has a type of pity in his dark grey eyes. “Victors, huh,” he comments. “Guess you fit right in around these parts.”

It’s the Tributes - Victors - like him, that hurt the most. Haymitch, Arne, Dagan, Granger; they’ve all clubbed together, all the ones who are older, damaged in ways Emma thinks she understands but knows she doesn’t, not really.

The morphlings don’t even pretend they’re trying. They just get high. Axel and Luella and Ember. “Lennox is so fucked I’m not sure he’s figured out there’s two of us for him to Mentor,” Johanna shrugs, as they go towards Johanna’s favourite place - the rows of axes. “He’s been on-and-off for years. Harder to get hold of the stuff, back in Seven.”

“Ten’s the same,” Emma adds. “Griffin bitches about it.”

“Griff’s from the Jefferson school of thought: any moment sober is a moment wasted,” Sherlock agrees. “I suppose he’s Mentoring?”

Emma half-shrugs. “Sort of?” she tries. “Guess it’s like Lennox - he’s too high to do much. Arne won’t let Ruby help, though.”

“Scans,” Johanna nods, looking at Emma approvingly, grabbing up an axe and tossing it between her hands.

Johanna is, Emma thinks, the easiest Victor to get along with - and maybe it’s silly, but it’s at least a little bit because she’s outlying Districts, too. Somebody who isn’t One or Two or a Career, who doesn’t use stupid words, furious about pretty much everything but funnier than Emma expected, an untrained survivor who’s learned how to keep going.

In some ways, Sherlock’s the same - except that he is trained, he can pick up a spear, and when he throws as hard as he can it shoots across the room before sinking into a training dummy. It rocks back on its perch, before coming back to centre. “Not bad,” Johanna says aloud, “Emma? Give it a go?”

“If you can,” Sherlock adds, challenging her; Emma’s eyes blaze, remembering his mocking voice teasing her about ‘‘throwing things and hoping they hit’ so screw him: Emma grabs up a sword, weighs it up, then throws as hard as she can.

It smacks into the dummy, buried deep in the chest.

Briefly, Emma sees Marvel. District One, like Sherlock; like Mycroft. Their bodies all blur into one training dummy that dies while Prim weeps, while Rue bleeds, while Peeta’s cannon fires with nobody there to see him.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Sherlock asks, while Emma breathes too quickly and her breath comes shallow in her chest. “Yes, fine, you’re traumatised - answer the question.”

The annoyed disdain is weirdly helpful; it jolts Emma back faster than Ruby’s niceness could ever manage. “Huh?”

“Where did you learn?” Sherlock repeats, nodding at the sword she’d thrown.

Emma figures out how to answer: “I don’t really know?” she replies honestly. “I used to mess around with the pitchforks when I was a kid, throwing them and stuff - got kinda good at throwing things.”

Johanna’s grin breaks out. “Pitchfork?” she echoes, turning away rapidly - she comes back with a trident. “Try this. Lighter, but you’re skinny, it’ll suit you. Spears, too. You’ve got good aim. That’s the thing about these assholes - they forget, training’s one thing, different when you’ve grown up with something.”

Like Johanna with her axe, which she throws hard enough to split a dummy’s skull in half.

Like she did in her Games.

Around the room, they’re all doing things they’re good at - even the morphlings are doing stuff, painting themselves up with camouflage in ways that make Peeta look like a hack, Mycroft can remember every single plant on the planet, Regina showed off her archery yesterday and she can hit everything, Brutus and Cashmere and Chaff and Seeder and Blight have all clubbed together which Johanna refuses to say anything about but they all know it’s another alliance.

An alliance of people who want to kill them.

Johanna grabs Emma’s face. “Emma. You’re losing it. Stop panicking,” she tells her firmly, looking her dead in the eye. “You’re gonna be fine. We’re gonna practise some stuff, that’s it. You got this.”

“We won’t let anything happen to you,” Sherlock adds, more sincerely than Emma’s ever heard him sound.

They’re going into an Arena in, like, a couple of days. All of these people in an Arena trying to kill each other, only they keep saying they won’t, but nobody’s explaining anything properly. “I…”

“I think it’s time you spoke to Bond,” Sherlock interrupts, before she can ask. Before she can finish the thought. Sherlock wheels her away from the axes and tridents and swords, walking her over to Bond, who’s busy making knots. “Bond. Talk to her. She’s panicking. You’re good at that sort of thing.”

Bond casts a strange look at him, at Emma. “And you won’t help because…?”

“Reasons,” Sherlock says cheerfully, and fucks off again before Emma can work out what the fuck is going on.

Bond looks at her, sighs.

They haven’t talked much, not yet. Emma’s mostly been hanging around with Sherlock and Johanna, or Regina and Mycroft; Bond is a bit more apart. “Hi?” she asks. Says. “I’m… hi. We’re allies, right?”

“Hope so,” Bond agrees, smiling easily - a smile Emma understands. Bond is guarded, in ways the others aren’t. His smile isn’t honest, but it isn’t dishonest, either. “You’ve been thrown in the deep end, haven’t you?”

Emma nods, shrugs, both at the same time. “I’m not… mad about it,” she explains, “but. I kind of went from being on my own in Ten, then the Games, then back in Ten and all this, Regina calling and stuff but I didn’t… wait, hold on, let me try that again - hi. Thanks. For, you know. Allying.”

“Same to you,” Bond agrees, watching her for a long moment before returning to his knots; he’s been making a lot of knots, Emma realises. Past few days, he hasn’t been training as obviously as the rest of them - he’s been off to one side, making knots. “I’m not a Career - I don’t need to show off.”

It takes a second to realise he’d noticed she noticed the knotting-stuff. “You’re… Eight, right?”

“Yes,” Bond agrees. “Haven’t lived there in a long time, but yes. I’ve been friends with this lot more or less since I won.”

Emma feels something in her relax: finally, somebody who’s talking to her, explaining the things she can’t begin to understand. “You said, at the Parade - Regina said - or Mycroft, I think - that you didn’t, you couldn’t see them? For a while?”

Bond ties off something complicated-looking, nods. “It wasn’t entirely my choice,” he explains. “You know Q? The other Holmes?”

“Sure,” Emma agrees. “He was… he was an orphan, too. I liked him, in his interviews and stuff - he talked about it. You know?”

“Well - we lived together, before all this,” Bond tells her. “He moved in, after his Contract finished. You know about Contracts?”

“Kind of,” Emma agrees; Ruby explained how they work - or more importantly, how they don’t work. Not for Emma, anyway, she’s special. “So he’s - Q, I mean. You’re friends?”

Bond smiles and doesn’t smile, tension in his jaw; he leans back slightly, eyes casting almost-randomly, landing on the Gamemaker gallery - on the people who never stop watching them.

There’s something happening. All of the others - all the other rebel-people Emma’s allied with - there is something they aren’t telling her, can’t tell her, not with the Gamemakers watching. Emma can’t ask, they can’t tell - but there’s something.

Emma feels Bond’s eyes travel back to her, watches him give her a small - approving - smile. Emma has no idea how he knows what she’s thinking, but he does, she’s sure he does. “Want to learn?” he suggests, holding up a length of rope instead of answering the question.

“Sure,” Emma agrees, taking the rope off him. “Knots, huh?”

Bond nods, half-smiling. “Killian taught me,” he nods, which is briefly weird until Emma realises - she’s not actually heard the name much. The others don’t actually say the names if they can avoid it, even though they’re clearly there anyway, hovering in midair: Johanna and Sherlock talk, waiting for Finnick Odair to join in; Regina and Mycroft, waiting for Killian Jones.

“You know them too?” Emma asks, prodding, hoping Bond might actually tell her who these people are, why they matter so much, why nobody wants to say their names even when they’re there.

“I’ve known Killian longest - he won seven years before I did, actually, he was one of the first people I met in the Capitol,” Bond explains, without hesitating. “I lived with him, and Alec Trevelyan, from Two. Had a falling-out with Alec a few years ago; Killian’s my oldest friend. He knew Regina, their wins were only a year apart, she met Mycroft after his win - it all started coming together after that.”

Emma nods, copying Bond’s actions as he ties off a knot. “They don’t talk about… them,” she tries, inexpertly. “You do.”

Bond looks at her again, another odd weight to it. “It’s different for me,” he says, after a moment. “I’m an orphan too, you know - I see it. I think you see it, too - the missing pieces. Yes?”

Hell, James Bond is psychic. “How…”

“I never thought I fit in either,” he explains, eyes falling on Sherlock and Johanna, who are bickering with bright smiles; on Mycroft and Regina, who are talking to Beetee and Wiress from Three. “It takes time. They’re good people. Really good people.”

The question falls out of her before she can think to stop herself, fuelled by the strangest sense that James Bond will tell her the truth, good or bad: “Do you trust them?”

Emma was right; he actually thinks about the answer. “I trust both Mycroft and Regina, but with different things,” he tells her. “Mycroft is always right. Regina’s honest. It’s good enough for me.”

“Should I trust them?”

Bond smiles, like it’s the right question for her to have asked, somehow. “If you give up on the idea of ever knowing what the fuck’s going on? Yes,” he replies, teasing - but still direct. Still honest. “Knots?”

Emma grins, calm settling into her veins. Nods. “Knots.”

-

Finnick settles in next to Killian. “Hey.”

“Bad one?” Killian checks; Finnick doesn’t answer, just sets into a pot of chocolate mousse in a way that he knows attracts at least five different peoples’ attention, aware that he’s far too tense but unable to quite work out how to calm down. “Need anything?”

“No,” Finnick replies, simple and short. “You?”

Killian shakes his head. Last Finnick saw him, he was upstairs as well - they keep gravitating back downstairs though, every Victor, grabbing for any and all surviving company of those not hiding in the Tribute Centre.

In a strange way, Finnick almost wishes Snow would turn up outright; as it is, his presence is felt without ever manifesting. A third of the Victors in the Tribute Centre, another third safely ensconced on the morphling couches - and the rest, churning through appointment after appointment, too busy to cause trouble.

All the same: Ruby has been allowed to stay with them. Not a murmur of protest from Snow, from his agents - Finnick’s barely seen her during the parties so far, except in appointment crossover. He can only assume Snow thinks they’re too exhausted, too worn-down, to cause trouble in the few hours they have alone.

He might have a point.

Above his head, Finnick sees his own face. “Fuck’s sake,” he mutters, looking away - because just to add insult to reasonably extensive injury, it’s Finnick’s ten-year anniversary of winning the Hunger Games.

They’ve shown some of Haymitch’s Games - the last Quell - but unsurprisingly, veer in Finnick’s direction; even if he wasn’t the Capitol’s favourite Victor, Haymitch is in the lucky position of being actively unpopular.

“... such an impressive young man,” Caesar narrates, over Finnick’s teenage face, blood-coated trident in hand. They always call him a ‘young man’, never a ‘boy’ - letting them forget, when his clients fondly recall how beautiful he looked when he won, that he was still very much a child, “and such a wonderful addition to the Capitol - you know, Claudius, I just can’t imagine this city without Finnick Odair.”

Killian wordlessly hands him his hipflask. Finnick takes several swallows of neat rum, a drink he still fucking hates - but does, at least, almost immediately afford a slant to his vision that rounds off the edges, something he absolutely shouldn’t do when he’ll be back upstairs in an hour but can’t bring himself to care.

“Any news?” Finnick asks, knuckles white on the hipflask, ignoring the overhead narration.

Killian shakes his head. “Nah - speculation, nothing exciting,” he explains. Scoring is due in a few hours, though gossip sometimes comes out ahead of it. “Didn’t reckon I’d see you, before.”

The noise Finnick makes might, generously, be recognisable to some people as laughter. “Just the hour,” he returns. “Thought I’d see who’s around, you know?”

Killian does; more than that, he’s more used to Heavensbee Hall with only forty-odd Victors to go around. There were a lot fewer Victors around when Killian won, compared to the sixty or so there were just last year.

Briefly, Finnick sees a future where they never made a rebellion - where the Hall stays this empty for next year, for the year after. A future where Finnick Odair would still be a Capitol favourite, in a world where half the most beautiful Victors die in an Arena, leaving just a handful of them to weather the expectations of a city accustomed to so many more bodies to choose from.

It would just be him and his grief and a hundred thousand hands who want nothing but him.

“Wasn’t just you got asked, by the way,” Killian adds, purely for the sake of talking; to give Finnick something to cling onto, before he unravels. “The interviews, they collared me as well. Looks like they’re doing a load of them - get all the sober ones to talk it up. Glory of the Capitol, all that.”

“Tomorrow morning?” Finnick checks, pushing through a fog of something perilously close to panic.

Killian nods unhappily. “Not one to fuck up, neither,” he mutters - which is probably true, the last thing they need is to give Snow a single reason to think they’re being difficult.

As it is, Finnick is already running out of neat ways to repeat that it’s “such an honour!” for those Reaped, that he’s “sure it will be memorable!”, that “the Quell is so unpredictable, that’s half the fun!” before he steals Jo’s ‘axe murderer’ nickname and decimates half this fucking city.

In the corner of his eye, he sees Beetee - age sixteen or so - electrocute a half-dozen Tributes in one go, “haven’t seen a slaughter like that since, except for the infamous Ice Man, of course,” interviews that remind the nation about the “brilliant, clever minds” they’re going to lose.

“Ruby upstairs?” Finnick asks, voice strained.

Killian keeps looking at him, watching, concerned but not pushing it; Finnick pretends not to notice. “Aye,” he says, fairly promptly. “I’ll be up in a bit. Haven’t missed all this swapping about, has to be said.”

Snow might have agreed to keep Finnick’s schedule clear, during major Game events - he didn’t make any such agreements with Killian and Ruby. “I don’t think Ruby’s ever regretted not buying-out so much,” Finnick agrees; Ruby, who’s thirty-six but barely looks older than her mid-twenties because her Sponsor is a fucked-up nightmare who is making the absolute most of the opportunity to tap as much money as he humanly can from Ruby’s body, her schedule worse than Finnick’s for the first time in years.

In a matter of days, they’ll leave for Thirteen.

They have a plan. Anthea’s briefed them in full, now Ruby is confirmed.

It’ll be mid-party. Three of the most popular Victors, trying to disappear from Heavensbee Hall at the same time.

Ruby’s the easiest. They have her schedule: she has a ten o’clock appointment, easy enough to sneak her out while she’s upstairs; Killian is going for one of the side-rooms, one of the Avox exits popping him out for Anthea to pick up.

Finnick is, unsurprisingly, more complicated. Ironically enough, it would be easier if he did have appointments, he’d just sneak out like Ruby - instead, he’ll be downstairs, surrounded by people who rarely leave him alone at the best of times; he needs a halfway good excuse to leave the main Hall.

So, Tatiana’s going to drug him. Finnick will get carted to the downstairs med room, handed over to Beatrice - another of Med C - who’ll cover the rest, get him on his feet and off out through another Avox passageway, ready for Anthea to pick him up too, all of them going directly to the airfield.

Meanwhile, or so the plan goes: Silva’s virus will deploy, giving a brief window of surveillance disturbance; John and Robin do something to secure the airfield itself, though Finnick’s not allowed to know the details; Q and Silva bring down the Capitol’s air-to-ground missile array; the Arena-bound Victors outright break out of a forcefield-guarded Arena on national television.

Finnick’s mind is spinning, too much to think about. “I hate this,” he mutters blandly, as Cashmere’s smile gleams above them. “It… are you going back over to the Centre, for scoring?”

“Nope,” Killian replies immediately. Finnick looks at him, unsure whether to be relieved or livid. “Finn, ‘course I’m not leaving you on your own. Mags has Cian, Jim’s not bloody interested. S’fine.”

Overhead, Sherlock screams as he tears his Arena apart - eighteen years old, starving; even to this day, Sherlock can’t stand the taste of artificial protein. The stuff that kept him alive, but screwed up his kidneys in the process.

Finnick sucks in a breath, tuning out Sherlock’s screams and Caesar’s constantly, endless voice. “You don’t have to look after me,” he points out quietly, knowing it sounds exactly as pathetic as it is. “Mags…”

“... would smack me, and she’d have a point,” Killian shrugs, his smile sadder than Finnick can begin to handle. “I know you’re not a kid, Finnick - still. Promised her I’d do right by you, I’m not gonna stop now.”

It’s too much, stealing oxygen from Finnick’s lungs: he’s always known it. It’s how Mags works, she’s practical - the oldest surviving Victor, from the first ‘dedicated’ Arena, completely custom-built. A survivor from the days long before forcefields or over-engineered traps, before six decades of Games that tried to get grander and bigger and more memorable, an endless rush to top the last year, the next, the one after.

Mags was eighteen. They let her go home, back to Four - the first District mentor, though it took nine years to see one of her mentees win.

Saoirse died before Finnick won. Died the year of the last Quell, in fact; she wasn’t even fifty, but her lungs were wrecked in her Games, before the medical advances that can and do keep Victors alive at all costs, even if - especially if - the Victor really doesn’t want to be.

Finnick wishes he could stop thinking.

He drinks, instead, as much as he dares.

Chapter Text

Bond is surprised by how much he likes Emma Swan.

As a rule, the teenage Victors have - Q excepted - been an exhausting set. Swan has her moments, of course; she swings wildly between determined suicidality into terrified childishness, occasionally flashing with all the petulant energy of Sherlock at his worst, but she’s drily sarcastic and far cleverer than she likes to let on.

The full set of them club together, waiting to be called for their private sessions, teasing one another about what they’re planning to do; they all know one another’s skills. Bond could probably predict everybody’s scores with reasonable accuracy, even without the formal sessions.

“... nap,” Mags mumbles, winking at Emma. “... best…”

“Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft nods amiably at the ceiling tannoy, standing smoothly. “Go get ‘em, honey,” Regina teases, to a peal of snorts from Emma, Sherlock and Johanna; Mycroft raises an eyebrow, stifling a smile of his own, before stepping out. “Any guesses?”

“Several,” Sherlock replies, a gleam of satisfaction in the back of his eyes that Bond decides - for the sake of his sanity - not to prod into. “Cash, don’t be boring; we’re all in the same boat, aren’t we?”

Cashmere looks at Sherlock, at all of them; the collected Holmeses, on companionable terms with most of the others. “I don’t think so, do you?” she replies quietly, her and Brutus pointedly sitting off to one side, the latter shooting hard looks at Chaff, Seeder and Blight.

The alternative Career pack, as expected. Bond leaves them be.

Johanna rolls her eyes, “guess boring’s where we’re at,” she comments to Sherlock, though it clearly hurts to see Blight among them; her District partner, choosing to join the Careers. “So: Beetee. Electrocuting them, I guess?”

Beetee smiles distantly, holding Wiress’s hand. “I like my surprises,” he replies, his smile flickering, glancing around them; the same waiting area as last time, all of them penned together.

Sherlock’s grin is all teeth, glinting. “I know the feeling,” he replies smugly, feigning something like contrition at Regina’s arched brow. “Relax, sister-mine, I shall behave with all the dignity and maturity I always have.”

“Promises, promises,” Jim murmurs melodically, head resting against the wall, humming discordantly to himself with his eyes closed; he doesn’t see Sherlock’s expression shifting, a harder slant to his expression.

Sherlock didn’t have to Volunteer to enter an Arena with Jim Moriarty. Bond has his suspicions.

“Regina Holmes.”

As she leaves, Bond feels Beetee’s eyes land on him. Resting there. “You don’t need me to say it,” Beetee begins, short, sliced, “but, thank you. Q.”

Wiress smiles. “Q,” she echoes, “a child…”

“... of Three,” Beetee completes, glancing at Wiress, his fondness soft and warm; deeper, Bond thinks, than he realised.

Bond doesn’t ask. It isn’t his to know. “You as well,” he tells them. “Can’t spend time around Q without hearing your names.”

Especially Beetee. Q speaks about him with unquestionable respect, the same protective zeal he has for Gold. The adults who shaped him into the man he has become. “A brilliant mind,” Beetee agrees. “Inspiring, you see? They shine so bright, sometimes.”

Sherlock watches, expression so intense it rings desperate.

Beetee is called away.

Bond continues observing the others, surprised by his own calm. Emma and Johanna chat, utterly at ease with one another, while Sherlock aids and abets in his own fashion. More openly, once Jim’s sauntered his way into scoring.

“... creepy asshole,” Emma mutters, once the door’s closed after him.

Johanna snorts, “you have no idea - he’s just like that,” she explains, shooting the closed door a distrustful look. “Forget him, anyway, he doesn’t matter. You thinking of trying the tridents?”

“Maybe,” Emma murmurs, something burning in her eyes - something eerily similar to Sherlock, come to think of it, which probably doesn’t bode particularly well. “Figure Mags has the right idea.”

Mags breaks out a toothless grin, nodding. “Nap,” she repeats; when they call her name, Emma helps her stand, sending her off out to the waiting Gamemakers.

They talk, time slipping past. Ember heads out - first time Bond’s seen him all week - followed by Porter; Axel is half-asleep, when they call his name; Luella looks like she’s not stopped crying since the moment the Quell was announced, floating to her own scoring in a fog of narcotics.

“... I’ve rarely felt such profound envy,” Sherlock murmurs, though it’s complicated: Ember, Axel and Luella won’t make it long. Three chronic addicts. “Don’t look at me like that, Swan, you have no idea.”

Emma blinks, almost offended. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Ignore him,” Johanna recommends, jabbing Sherlock sharply in the side. “Just trying to get a reaction - we’ve both been clean for… a while? Hell if I know how long, but it’s not the same as those three.”

“Cool,” Emma nods, unperturbed; then again, she’s been in Ten with Arne and Griffin - the former of whom is sat in silence, expression grimly empty.

Blight leaves. He doesn’t look at Johanna. “I’m sorry, Jo,” Sherlock murmurs to her, almost inaudibly; she hisses like she’s been scalded. “Forgive me for attempting, just for variety, to be nice to you.”

“... fuck off,” she mutters, rolling her shoulders back, straightening. “Guess nobody’s coming back, huh?”

Haymitch’s voice joins, languid, “scaring ‘em all off,” he comments; they’re allowed to come back after scoring, keep on training - but nobody is. “Guess we’re all done pretending.”

“Johanna Mason.”

“Good luck,” Emma offers, as Johanna gets to her feet; she grins, all teeth and terror, an expression Jim himself would be proud of as she heads away.

Bond, meanwhile, continues to watch Haymitch. “What are you planning on doing?” he asks directly, startling Emma - who had, quite clearly, forgotten he was still there.

Haymitch looks at Bond for a heartbeat or two longer than necessary. “Stay alive,” he shrugs, correctly guessing Bond doesn’t give a fuck about the scoring - just the Game itself. “Not like I’ve got reason to stick around with you fine people.”

The last, he mostly shoots in Sherlock’s direction. “My brother raised me to be just as spectacularly unlikeable as he is,” he opines languidly, an exaggerated idea of what everybody expects from Sherlock Holmes. “You’re welcome.”

“Stay alive,” Bond echoes, more pointed.

Haymitch’s eyes catch Bond’s, his mind working visibly.

They can’t brief him, can’t tell him the details - but Coin will evacuate anybody she can. Any Victors left alive after thirty-six hours, whether they’re allied in-Arena or not.

Bond knows they can’t take Haymitch along in the Arena itself. They have their priorities. Swan, quickly followed by Mycroft, the rest somewhere behind. To Bond’s mind, Regina, then Sherlock, then Johanna. His own life is irrelevant, though it would be nice to keep hold of as long as possible.

They’ve agreed to ally with Wiress, Beetee and Mags if they can. Or at least, mutually agreed not to kill each other. It’ll depend, realistically, on who they can safely pick up at the bloodbath. At the very least, they’re neutrals rather than active hostiles.

Unlike Chaff and Seeder, who watch them talk with unhappy, guarded expressions.

Haymitch hums tonelessly.

“James Bond.”

(Cecelia kisses his cheek, before he stands. Bond doesn’t look back when he leaves).

The private scoring room is identical to the rest of the floor. All the equipment they could wish for, Gamemakers stood together overhead.

“You have ten minutes to present your chosen skill,” Plutarch announces, from the usual balcony - this year, featuring a protective forcefield of its own. Emma Swan left her mark. “The floor is yours.”

Bond nods his gratitude, turning to one of the waiting trainers, who stay on-hand to assist. “If you don’t mind?” he asks Dax. “Same as before.”

The trainers linger to assist with private scoring. Dax - inarguably the best martial artist in the Capitol - is an old acquaintance, the sort that Bond would never term a ‘friend’ despite having known him for the past decade.

Dax has been privately training Bond since his IS days. Classes were offered and accepted, increasing in frequency since the Quell announcement. Bond has no idea about any aspect of the man’s life, but trusts him completely in hand-to-hand combat.

For scoring, Bond identified his key specialism, the skill he has that outstrips any other Tribute: situational awareness. Dax agreed.

The rest is stagecraft. Bond rigs himself up with a bandolier of daggers, leaving Dax to deploy a set of holograms - then rush him, the pair executing a semi-choreographed display of Bond’s least-useful but most-impressive-looking combat skills. Grappling Dax, flinging daggers off into the nearby holograms before they can reach him.

It’s showy enough for the ones who don’t know what they’re watching, skilled enough for the ones with a brain. The Gamemakers are actually concentrating, which makes a nice change from his last Games.

They nod distanced approval; Bond thanks Dax for his time, glancing back up to the assembled Gamemakers.

Q isn’t there. Bond didn’t expect him to be.

“Thank you, Mr Bond,” Plutarch nods, dismissing him.

Bond heads towards the lifts, waits patiently; Cecelia and Woof will be waiting for him on the eighth floor, to ask him how it went.

The side-door to the stairs is unmanned, on the training floor. Cleared out, while the Tributes are in scoring.

Bond slips through the door without a heartbeat of hesitation, looking up quickly for other Peacekeepers - who have definitely been guarding the stair entrances on the other floors, but from the opposite side. The stairwell itself is empty.

Smirking to himself, Bond takes the stairs two at a time.

They really shouldn’t have put the Victors - especially not this set of Victors - into one building, then expected them not to figure out ways of accessing one another.

One’s floor is protected by a locked door. It is almost insultingly easy to jimmy it open, with a couple of picks he pocketed during training; it’s an old habit by now, picking up useful equipment when he finds it.

“Ah, Bond, I’m so glad you could join us,” Mycroft nods, completely unperturbed by Bond striding unannounced onto One’s floor as though he belongs there. Regina grins up at him from her husband’s side. “Do take a seat. I trust that scoring went well?”

Bond settles in on their spare armchair, a return to a norm he’s missed in every fibre of him; noting, as he sits, that Regina and Mycroft’s hands are laced together. That Regina is close enough to be almost leaning against his side - physical closeness, in ways Bond hasn’t seen them manage so casually before.

“Hand-to-hand, situational awareness, we’ll see,” Bond shrugs, while the television flicks through old Game reruns. “You two?”

“Archery, daggers,” she replies, exactly as expected. “Mycroft, though, he’s the real damn idiot. Go on, tell him what you did.”

Mycroft doesn’t look even faintly remorseful. “I deduced them,” he states simply. Bond waits for the explanation: “Ah; you know my ability to assess visual tells, concentrating into a series of requisite inferences? I elected to demonstrate that ability, entirely unfiltered. In tandem with having known them prior to my resignation… well. I openly inferred a tremendous deal regarding their private lives, with requisite explanations of how I had established as much. I would anticipate that at least two will resign within the week, one may be arrested, and I may have managed to afford Lucretius his long-anticipated divorce. It was inordinately satisfying.”

“So you’ll be unpopular,” Bond grins, to which Regina rolls her eyes, torn between laughter and fond frustration. “Do we know about anybody else?”

“Regrettably not - I had wondered if Johanna may attempt access, but alas,” Mycroft hums. “I imagine Sherlock will do as you have done; neither of you have ever been easily contained…”

Indeed - an hour or so after Bond’s arrival, Sherlock arrives through the same side-door Bond used. “Ah, Bond, excellent,” he nods, vaulting over the back of the sofa - “must you, Sherlock?” - to thump into place by Regina’s side, grinning smugly. “Swan and I aren’t going to be popular.”

Regina lets out an aggrieved-sounding sigh. “What did you do?”

Sherlock props his feet up on the coffee table cockily. “Grabbed a training dummy, painted fat red lips and a rose over the breast - remind you of anyone? - and stabbed it repeatedly. For about… six solid minutes, actually.”

Of course he did.

“Good grief,” Mycroft mutters. “I am simultaneously impressed, repulsed, and unsurprised.”

“I’d hate to disappoint,” Sherlock darts back, enduring Regina’s fond cuff to the back of his head. It’s certainly disruptive, though Bond hadn’t expected much better from Sherlock. “Swan though, what a triumph, I stopped in by Ten’s floor on the way down - she walked in, bowed, told them to fuck themselves, funeral salute, flipped them off, walked out again. What a woman.”

Bond feels himself freeze slightly.

Regina lets out a faint noise of despair; Mycroft shakes his head in stunned disbelief. “It is frankly remarkable that she has survived the past year,” he comments. “It… Sherlock, between the two of you…”

“I didn’t know,” Sherlock points out, shrugging it off as though that sort of shit won’t have consequences. “I’m not going to pretend to those bastards that these Games are anything less than what they are.”

“Please,” Regina interrupts tightly, a tiny flicker of panic blossoming behind her eyes.

“Oh, who cares,” Sherlock snaps, anger igniting. “Snow’s listening, yes, hello Mr President - we all know, we all know this is an elaborate proxy execution, it’s hardly new information that we know, and I am not happy about it. The scoring is private, these rooms are… some definition of ‘private’, at least. I could be dead in a matter of days, I will not die lying.”

Regina’s breathing shudders in on itself, Mycroft’s eyes a little too empty. “You’re not going to die,” Regina states, too brittle to survive Sherlock’s continued pressure. Bond tenses, prepared to intervene if he must. “Do you understand me, Sherlock?”

There’s something both sad and beautiful in that Sherlock doesn’t push any further; that he’s grown up enough to know better. It’s quite the shift from the drug-addled disaster he’d been, barely three years ago.

Instead, he reaches out to take Regina’s hand; she grabs it back, all but crushing his fingers together. “I might need those,” he comments softly, shooting his brother a look that might - generously - be described as apologetic. “Equally, I imagine we ought to return to our floors for scoring before too long. Mentors are due shortly.”

“Still being escorted?” Regina checks, to which Sherlock nods. He casts a brief flicker of a look to Mycroft, too, though his expression doesn’t change.

All the Mentors have been banned from seeing any Tributes they’re not responsible for, a piece of malevolence they all know is purely there to prevent them from saying goodbye to their loved ones.

It also makes information through-line a damn sight more annoying. Snow probably doesn’t even realise how much so; Ruby and Killian are the only mentors who know about the broader plan, both stuck Mentoring Tributes who are either hostile, in Jim’s case, or completely oblivious, in Emma’s.

“Regarding tomorrow,” Mycroft says, cutting through Bond’s thoughts, “I wondered if we may all wish to venture to the Centre rooftop? A more pleasant way to pass the time, given that none of us are in particular need of preparation time prior to the interviews…”

“... Emma might be,” Regina mutters; Sherlock snorts, and even Mycroft cracks a small smile. “Mind telling the others on your way back up?”

“Of course,” Sherlock hums, smoothly standing. “Good luck with scores, et cetera. Mycroft, remember to eat.”

Regina wordlessly extends her arms in expectation of an embrace; Sherlock rolls his eyes, but obeys. Mycroft and Bond pointedly don’t comment on how long they linger, a display of deeper affection than Sherlock Holmes is prepared to afford anybody else.

“See you in the morning,” Bond smirks to the two of them, unsurprised when Regina also borrows a hug from him before letting them go; she returns to the sofa, to Mycroft’s side, to the quiet intimacy they’ve grown into.

The stairwell is eerily quiet. They sneak up, past floors of unsuspecting fellow Tributes; when they get to the seventh floor, Sherlock pulls out an identical set of picks to the ones Bond lifted in training. “Great minds.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock agrees; something in his expression stalls Bond, holding him in place. “Bond. I need you to keep them away. You already know, I assume?”

A truth that would be obvious to Mycroft and Regina, too, if they didn’t love Sherlock enough to blind them. “Jim’s going to be after you?” Bond checks.

“Just me,” Sherlock agrees, “which is tedious, but does mean that he’s not after anybody else. You understand.”

Bond does. “I don’t like it,” he points out, while Sherlock’s expression gleams with the quiet approval he fosters when he hasn’t needed to explain himself; when his stupid, idiotic plans are completely comprehensible to others.

The moment Jim Moriarty rigged the Reaping bowl, he confirmed himself a loose cannon. Rebellion or not, Jim’s motives are known only to him - and mostly, for whatever reason, revolve around Sherlock.

Sherlock Volunteered. A move that protected Killian, but compromised the Holmes alliance: Jim will be going after Sherlock, no question of that, and they will have enough to contend with without Jim Moriarty stalking them.

That is - unless Sherlock keeps Jim busy. Distract him at the bloodbath, lead him well away from the other Holmeses, playing an entirely different game with a psychopath so obsessive it puts Raoul Silva to shame. “Don’t let them follow,” Sherlock adds. “I’ll join, when I can. If I can.”

Mycroft and Regina would throttle him, if they knew what Sherlock was planning. Bond is the only person Sherlock can trust with this level of stupidity. “You know I also think you’re an idiot?”

“Maybe I am,” Sherlock agrees, “but Jim isn’t a threat we can afford. If I can get him out of the way…”

“... I’ll keep them from following,” Bond agrees. It’s idiotic and potentially suicidal, Sherlock putting himself in an Arena to protect his family; then again, it’s precisely what Bond has done too. He doesn’t have a leg to stand on. “Good to see you, Sherlock.”

“Sentiment,” Sherlock mutters, and turns to break into Seven’s floor without any apparent grasp of the hypocrisy.

Bond heads up past his own floor, towards the tenth; Sherlock’s previous lockpicking adventures are apparent, meaning it’s easy to re-open the door.

He doesn’t expect to come face to face with Emma Swan, inexplicably waving a steak knife in his direction.

“... hi?” she manages, blinking in confusion. “I thought… Sherlock said we’re not allowed to go to other floors?”

“We’re not,” Bond agrees. “Meet upstairs on the roof tomorrow morning? We’re Victors, it’s not like we - Cinna.”

Cinna grins, gold eyeliner catching light as he stands from the long dining table. “Been a while, James,” he agrees; Bond is surprised, but doesn’t argue, when the man approaches to give him a hug of welcome.

“Good to see you,” Bond agrees, as Cinna almost-inaudibly murmurs swimming against his ear while Bond’s still talking, “nice work on this one, that dress is going to give me fucking nightmares.”

“Blame Killian, I usually do,” Cinna grins, as he pulls back. “Glad I got to see you. Ruby misses you - I know they’re being strict about Mentors visiting the other floors, but she sends her love. She’s been trying to find some way to see you all.”

Bond doesn’t doubt it. Ruby has hopefully been briefed by now, making her another safe person to pass information to - like, for example, the fact that they need to be able to swim in the Arena.

District One’s children aren’t taught how to swim.

“We send love too,” Bond tells Cinna. “All of us. Emma - roof, yes?”

Emma looks between the two of them with visible confusion, still brandishing a steak knife. “I thought I was supposed to be doing, like… interview stuff?”

Cinna shoots her a look of amusement, “because you’ve always done exactly as planned and don’t just improvise the moment there’s a camera pointed in your direction?” he teases, leaving Emma to blush as he turns attention back to Bond. “Take it you can’t stay?”

“Think we’ve done enough to piss off the Capitol for one day,” Bond points out, winking at Emma. She goes an even more noticeable shade of pink. “See you both. Cinna, take care of yourself.”

“Sure,” Cinna agrees, though there’s an edge to it Bond doesn’t like the taste of.

It isn’t his to hold; he leaves, closing the door behind him, moments before the lift heralds Ruby’s arrival.

-

“You always were unique,” Merriworth comments warmly, while Mycroft stares at the screen in gentle bemusement.

Eleven. Mycroft Holmes, Regina’s husband, has scored an eleven.

It’s a hell of a start. “Well done,” she grins, while he blinks as though this was a complete shock, and not completely predictable from the second he decided to show off exactly how intelligent he truly is. “And there you thought they’d punish you.”

“They have,” Mycroft murmurs, a complicated bleakness shadowing his delight. “Cashmere and Brutus will… ah, speaking of…”

“Cashmere Rowland, with a score of… nine.”

All four of them wince in unison. “She’ll be pissed,” Enobaria points out, carving cheese into her mouth on her pointed teeth; a habit that finally scared off the hovering Escort, who has finally figured out that he’s neither needed nor wanted, and nor are his two District One Tributes planning to coordinate in any way despite his best efforts. “Got a ten the first time around - guess the competition’s pretty stiff this year.”

Brutus, however, does land a ten. “Don’t remember what he got last time,” Regina realises aloud, though she probably should; she definitely watched his Games, he was only two years before hers. “You’re leading the pack, sweetie.”

“Never call me that,” Mycroft tuts at her, somewhere between bemused and horrified. “Ah…”

Regina watches her own picture hovering behind Caesar’s head, the standard Games headshot. “From District Two, Regina Holmes - never stops being wonderful, does it? Another Holmes - with a score of… nine!”

“Not bad,” she shrugs, only a touch disappointed; it would have been nice to hit double-digits this time around.

Mycroft squeezes her fingers. “As Enobaria rightly pointed out, the scores will be adjusted for the field; undoubtedly in a classical year, you would have been ten or eleven,” he tells her. A completely unnecessary kindness, but appreciated all the same.

Beetee lands a seven; Wiress, a five.

“Jim Moriarty from District Four, with a score of… nine!”

“Huh,” Regina comments, barely containing a smirk; he’ll be pissed. “I figured he’d be higher…”

“... name a skill James Moriarty actually possesses, extant murderous intent in spades,” Mycroft points out, a shadow crossing his expression - Jim has been watching Sherlock all through training, his intent obvious. “It’s… oh…”

Regina understands the ‘oh’ too well, her spirit sinking: Mags, who has scored a two.

Mags is a wonderful woman. Regina has honoured Killian and Finnick in spending time with her throughout training, getting to know a woman they both so deeply adore; she’s intensely kind, generous with her affection and her humour, her Four-born accent warm in ways Jim’s never manages to be.

Ember lands a three; Porter, a six; Axel, a three; Luella, a two.

“Much wider distribution than usual,” Merriworth comments, her expression worn; she’s watched almost all of their Games, bar Mags’s. Year after year, welcoming new Victors to the fold. “Good work from Blight.”

Anything eight or above is Career-level; Blight gets himself a seven. Better than Regina had expected, but not exactly ‘good’.

Not this year.

“... and our favourite little pocket rocket, Johanna Mason, might just get the crown for most-improved!” Caesar laughs, teeth shining too white, “here with a score of… eight.”

Regina swears she can hear the hollers of satisfaction from the seventh floor from here: Johanna, who infamously landed herself a two in her first Game four years ago, now pulling a Career-score out of her pocket. “Very well deserved,” Mycroft hums, mirroring Regina’s pride. “A woman of her intelligence, alongside her physical prowess, presents quite the formidable figure.”

“All your allies at Career level, that’s not bad,” Enobaria agrees, as they move to Bond - who, very deservedly, bags a ten; another one with the exact same score as their first Game. “Guess it’ll come down to the last two.”

Neither Regina nor Mycroft have considered it sensible to tell Merriworth and Enobaria about the various antics their final two allies got up to in scoring; apart from anything else, it genuinely terrifies Regina to imagine what the Gamemakers are going to do with the pair of them.

Cecelia gets a four; Granger - to Regina’s mild surprise - manages a five; Dagan, and then Arne, both get threes.

“Here we go,” Regina sighs, as Emma’s photograph appears.

“... oh, ladies and gentlemen,” Caesar whispers, almost in awe, “we’ve never had this before, never - Emma Swan, our girl in flight, the Saviour… making history, with a score of… zero.”

Regina stares numbly at the screen.

“... good heavens,” Merriworth comments softly, which almost teeters Regina over into semi-hysterical laughter.

Zero. Swan refused to engage in scoring, so they’ve given her a zero. “... rendering her a paradox: no technical threat, yet equally, the most significant threat in circulation,” Mycroft muses aloud, while Seeder’s seven goes mostly ignored. “Quite the choice from the Gamemakers…”

“The hell did she do?”

“Nothing,” Regina fills in, her voice distant. “She… refused to engage. I guess they had no choice but to refuse to score her properly.”

Enobaria’s voice is slightly too tight, too tense. “It’ll make her a target,” she points out, looking over to Regina unhappily. “It would be a lot easier to keep you alive if you weren’t making it harder.”

“We’ve gone over this,” Regina replies, as Haymitch lands a regrettably generous three. “Hang on…”

Sherlock.

“... last of all, our honorary final addition to District Twelve,” Caesar tells the nation, “the little brother of Mycroft and Regina Holmes, who so bravely Volunteered to join his family in the Quell - ladies and gentlemen, the one and only Sherlock Holmes, with a score of… oh. Oh, my goodness.”

“Fuck.”

“Ladies and gentlemen: a score of twelve!”

“Oh hell,” Regina breathes. “Oh hell.”

Twelve and zero. Two previously-unattained scores. Seventy-five years of the Games, but never - never - has anybody been given twelve or zero; there’s being a target, then there’s scores that leave the rest of the Tributes with no damn choice but to attack on sight.

At least Enobaria doesn’t try to convince her that allying with Sherlock is a terrible idea; she just leaves, too angry to bear being around either of them - her and Mycroft, who may have a pack full of Career scores, but have also got two angry liabilities to cart around, both of whom have pissed off Snow as outrageously as they could.

“I’ll talk to her,” Merriworth promises, shaking her head slightly at the screen; at Sherlock Holmes, blowing every other Tribute score out of the water. “It… she just wants you to have a chance, Regina.”

It’s a kind thought. The idea that there was ever a world where Snow wanted, or expected, any of the Holmeses to leave the Quarter Quell Arena alive; where Enobaria might be right, in thinking that Mycroft might be the big target, but Regina might still have a shot, if she just jettisoned the liabilities who’ll drag them down with her.

A kind thought, but a wasted one.

Mycroft squeezes her fingers in silent understanding.

Snow wants them dead anyway; at this point, it barely matters what they do. It probably doesn’t make a difference that Sherlock has made things worse; that Emma has reminded the whole world that she will never play along.

It doesn’t change a thing.

“He has always been prone to retaliatory action when wounded,” Mycroft murmurs, on the fringes of a memory; Finnick bleeds into the sheets of a bad appointment, Sherlock chained to a radiator; Killian stares blankly into the middle-distance, body cleansed of injury but mind still in the Citadel.

It doesn’t change a thing.

It doesn’t change a thing.

“... they’ve certainly made themselves unforgettable!” Caesar enthuses on-screen; betting has opened, Regina realises. Back in the Halls, formal betting will be open. “Now Emma Swan, I’m sure we all saw coming - but Sherlock Holmes, beating our beloved Ice Man himself? Now that, ladies and gentlemen, is something to take notice of…”

Regina puts her head in her hands.

Chapter Text

Emma steps out of the lift, onto the roof of the Tribute Centre.

“Ah, Emma, a pleasure to have you joining us,” Mycroft greets, nodding at her from a wicker chair in the far corner. “Do take a seat - we were just discussing Sherlock’s unfortunate propensity for blowing up parts of his flat.”

Sherlock makes an exaggerated face of annoyance. “I hate you,” he snipes at his brother. “Do not listen to him, I did not ‘blow up’ anything.”

“Yeah, I’ve known you for three days, and I know you’ve blown things up,” Emma tells him bluntly - no way he hasn’t, Sherlock Holmes is exactly the type. And Emma didn’t even know there could be a ‘type’ of person who blows things up. “Regina, too.”

Regina gapes at her in visible affront. “I have never once blown anything up,” she replies primly. “Far too messy.”

“... and yet, keeping you in glassware nearly compelled me to remortgage the flat,” Mycroft teases, sparking a crow of satisfaction from Sherlock while Bond smirks, nodding Emma towards a stretch of splayed-out blanket. “Regina developed vandalism as a habit quite some time ago - a tendency to shatter glasses, when irked.”

“And you burned out a car a few years back,” Sherlock adds. “Mal told me.”

“She told you?” Regina gasps, a touch pantomimed. “The bitch. She started it, anyway, you know how Mal is with fire.”

“Vividly,” Sherlock huffs, before lifting a glass in Emma’s direction. “A toast to you, Emma Swan of District Ten - you and I are, officially, the Quarter Quell problem children. We ought to get a badge.”

Emma still can’t quite figure out how to feel about getting a zero. “You’re not all pissed?” she checks, crossing her legs beneath her; Sherlock shoots her a look. “Well, obviously you’re not, but…”

“... nice work, Swan,” Johanna fills in, lounging back with a little bottle of something. “Want one? Avox got us some beers. Posca too, if you’re feeling all fancy.”

“If you can be sensible,” Regina interjects, her and Mycroft the only ones in actual chairs; they preside over the rest of them, even Bond, who’s wearing gold-rimmed sunglasses to guard against the overhead glare. “Which frankly, I’m starting to think you’re not actually capable of.”

Johanna cracks the shiny top of another bottle off with her teeth, handing it to Emma. “Should’ve kept the sensible ones then,” she shrugs. “Least I didn’t go stabbing a dummy of Snow for… how long did you go for?”

“Six minutes or so?” Sherlock shrugs cheerfully, which Emma really thought had to be bullshit until the twelve had popped up on screen. “Gloss despaired.”

“Given that he has now been saddled with your good self for two Hunger Games, I think ‘despair’ is quite appropriate,” Mycroft hums. “Even one would be ample to drive most to distraction.”

Emma thinks of Ruby’s face, when she’d explained what she did. “Yeah, I think Ruby and - Gloss? Right - yeah, they probably both need a drink,” she agrees, making Regina laugh in a way that thrums warmly in Emma’s spine, Johanna snorting as she runs a hand through her spiky hair. “What did… what did you do?”

Mycroft is very smug, Emma thinks, but in a very sweet kind of way. Like he’s not sure if he’s allowed. “Deduced,” he replies, continuing before Emma has to ask: “I am reasonably intelligent. I am quite capable of looking at others, and inferring a great deal about them from certain presentational cues.”

“I can do it too,” Sherlock adds blandly, “though I remain, of course, the idiot younger brother…”

“How?”

Johanna grins again, eyes glittering. “Oh, bad question, newbie,” she crows. “C’mon Holmeses. Do your worst.”

“I am not a performing monkey,” Mycroft reminds them, slightly dry. “No. Emma, suffice it to say that I observed specific tells - such as, say, the drop of hot chocolate on your lapel; the indentations on your knuckle from holding the mug. I can therefore say with some certainty that you have drunk hot cocoa this morning, a deduction admittedly assisted by having seen your fervour over the past few days.”

Emma blushes slightly pink, self-consciously tugging at her lapel - as promised, a little fleck of hot chocolate must’ve dripped onto it earlier. “I’m guessing you noticed more than hot chocolate, huh? In the scoring, I mean.”

Mycroft looks a lot younger, when he smiles. “Quite so,” he nods. “I have spent my entire life conforming to the Capitol’s every whim; it has been very enjoyable, to be disruptive for once.”

“‘Once’?” Johanna snorts. “‘Once’ would be a fine damn thing…”

Even Bond smiles, though Emma’s not sure why. “Bet they’re nervous about our interviews, if you were…”

“We’re not talking Quell today,” Sherlock dismisses, lazily sprawling himself back over the blanket, wind chimes tinkling gently in the background. “A day off; I think we have earned as much. Melon?”

“The hell’s a melon?” Emma asks, looking suspiciously at the green lumps Sherlock’s waving in her direction. “Looks weird.”

Johanna grins, “told you,” she huffs at the rest. “Swan’s got the right idea - melon’s weird. Weird damn fruit.”

“That’s a fruit?”

Sherlock prods the plate of cut-up green stuff towards her pointedly. “It’s good,” he assures her. “Definitely fruit, I checked.”

“Then again, so are tomatoes, so I wouldn’t necessarily use the botanical classification when considering the merits of consuming a given foodstuff.”

“Normal words, Mycroft,” Bond comments, while Emma blinks at him. “Ignore him, Emma, he’s always like this.”

Mycroft sighs, martyred. “Eat the melon,” he sighs. “Not a common commodity in Panem; there are dedicated greenhouses in Eleven, in point of fact…”

“Boring,” Sherlock interrupts, all of them descending into bickering. Teasing each other for their scores until they all round on Bond for wearing sunglasses when it’s not even that bright outside.

They stay up there all day. They get some more blankets as it gets cooler, nobody bothers them - they watch the sunset over the Capitol, the first sunset Emma’s watched since Peeta died where it doesn’t hurt to see the flickering rays of orange.

Emma figures out three things:

First up, that melon is definitely a weird fruit, but it tastes really good.

Second, that beer does not taste good, but Regina makes maybe the best cocktails in the entire world, ever - a few Avox bring up a trolley of stuff she can use, so she makes cocktails for everybody, including Emma.

Thirdly - that she fits. They’re a family, no question, but she actually fits.

Emma goes down to her floor as the nighttime pulls in over the Capitol, the last night before the interview, the second-to-last night before she has to go back into an Arena and figures it might be one of the best days she’s ever had in her whole life.

Only one of them will come out. Maybe none of them.

At least she got to have this, first.

-

“... Finnick. Finnick, look at me…”

John sounds worried. Finnick can’t really blame him.

It takes an unreasonable amount of effort to wrench his eyes open, and the same again to make them focus properly. “Hey,” he rasps, not even attempting to move. “Looks as bad as it feels, then?”

“And then some,” John mutters, expression tight; Finnick tries not to whinge too much as John carefully manipulates his limbs, doing his best to avoid thinking about what’s actually wrong with him - he tuned out fairly quickly, he’s used to how Lucius operates. It’s almost easier when he doesn’t have to really engage with a client, beyond screaming on cue from time to time.

The more annoying part was that this was a last-minute booking, knocking his expected schedule out of whack. Finnick got almost zero time to prepare beforehand, a harried message from Anthea informing him that his schedule was overruled at the eleventh hour.

On the bright side, he has the next hour free. Lucius pays double as standard, given he always leaves rented Victors needing more medical attention than can be done in the usual ten-minute window.

Almost more than the physical pain, Finnick hates seeing John’s expression. Tightness in the corners of his mouth, anger that’s closer to the surface - it’s been getting worse, year on year. In Finnick’s first year of parties, John quickly became one of the few people he could comprehend trusting: quiet, calm, utterly professional.

A decade on, John is fraying. It’s fortunate the Games are nearly done; they aren’t far from a day where even John Watson can’t handle this any more. “I’ll handle the arm first, then I’ll need you on your side,” he tells Finnick, brows furrowed. “Might knock you out for a while to tackle the internal damage, unless you particularly want to be conscious for that.”

“Much obliged,” Finnick half-laughs, slightly strangled; John somehow pulls a tight smile out of his pocket for Finnick’s benefit, as he always does. Allowing Finnick to handle the situation in whatever ways he can.

In something of a daze, Finnick doesn’t notice the noise at the door - but does notice John’s expression abruptly flatten, spine sharpening.

Peacekeepers. Two of them. Finnick blearily blinks them into focus, their white uniforms eerily bright against the dark drapery of the bedroom; they aren’t a common addition to the parties. Nobody wants Peacekeepers at a party.

“Mr Odair,” one of them states shortly, voice tinny behind the usual visor. “Come with us. Doctor Watson, you have been reassigned.”

“Bullshit,” John shoots back, more terse than Finnick would dare with any Peacekeepers; then again, John was one of them, once. “He needs medical assistance. Whatever you need him for can wait.”

The Peacekeepers move in.

Panic shoots, electric, through Finnick’s veins. “Where am I going?” he tries, voice tripping in his throat. “I’m…”

“Is he under arrest?” John asks intensely; Finnick can’t move properly, certainly not fast enough, biting back a sharp sound as he’s pulled upright. “Unless this is an arrest, there is no justification for escorting my bloody patient in this state…”

Finnick is in too much shock to respond the way he wants, barely keeping up beyond the basic truism that he does not want to leave the room, he can’t. “If you want me walking, you’ll be disappointed,” he rasps at them, trying to grab hold of his free-floating panic enough to make something useful out of it. “I can’t stand.”

“Get dressed,” is barked at him instead; Finnick blinks nonsensically, only capable of registering that he doesn’t have any clothes, Lucius shredded his appointment outfit and he didn’t leave a change of clothes in here, John has real clothes back in the medical room, but John’s a little busy arguing loudly with the other Peacekeeper to point that out, “you have one minute, Odair.”

Bemused, Finnick finds a new flavour of urgency: “I can’t,” he repeats, harder, “look, just, hang on. I don’t… am I under arrest?”

The only question that actually matters, terror intense enough to outweigh the rest. “President Snow would like to speak to you,” the Peacekeeper responds shortly, irritably locating one of the dressing gowns on the back of the door, throwing it at him. “Put that on.”

“We will arrest you for obstruction if you continue, Doctor Watson,” the other snaps; John falls silent, looking at Finnick with open tension. “Odair. Now.”

There isn’t much he can do; Finnick stares up at the Peacekeepers and the dressing gown and John in turn, nodding numbly, awkwardly shrugging the gown onto his good arm while trying to figure out the logistics of getting it onto his other arm - an arm he’s about eighty percent certain is broken, seeing as he can’t engage any muscles around it without wanting to throw up.

The nearer Peacekeeper loses patience, grabbing Finnick’s unresponsive arm, threading it into the dressing gown sleeve for him.

Finnick’s vision goes entirely white.

Distantly, he can hear John shouting. Finnick would tell him to stop, but the white is seeping into a nasty grey-black as he staves off unconsciousness by his fingertips, a quiet and horrible part of himself reminded that he has a suicide capsule - but not in a fucking dressing gown. It’s in his underwear, something he’d assumed - not unreasonably - that he’d be allowed to replace before being dragged away by Peacekeepers.

The Peacekeeper pulls him to his feet. As promised, Finnick can’t hold his own weight, immediately collapsing; it doesn’t deter them, they just set to dragging him away, John’s protests fading incomprehensibly.

Things blur after that.

It all comes in smears of images. They call the lift, something Finnick’s never bothered to use in Heavensbee Hall; they yank him inside, immune to the ground-out gasps for air as Finnick tries to arrange his feet underneath him, borrowing the time to find whatever strength he has accessible.

A waste of time, turns out - when the lift arrives, they yank him forward without giving him a chance to reorganise himself, probably not all that impressed when Finnick collapses into dead weight.

They’re in the basement, Finnick realises. They used to pass through here for the Survivor’s afterparties, past the rows upon rows of canned foodstuffs, abandoned but for the Avox nobody notices.

Finnick stares blankly at a can of eels, a primal part of him knowing it’s over. Snow’s patience has expired. They’re taking him out the Halls through the under-passages to keep anybody spotting them. Finnick Odair, arrested wearing nothing but a fucking dressing gown, which is somehow in-keeping though he can’t figure out why, coherent thought giving up for a bit while he stares at canned eels with an irrational flare of jealousy.

Annoyingly, he could probably work out how to handle the pain enough to do what they want, if they didn’t keep grabbing him by his fucking broken arm.

Hopefully, John didn’t get himself arrested too.

There’s a trolley after that. Finnick wonders if he ought to be offended: they dump him into a flat-top trolley and just wheel him.

It feels like a lot of time passes. It’s hard to tell.

Finnick is long past speech when he’s pulled up again, though doesn’t make a sound; he will not allow them that, pulling in air like he’s swimming again, the tricks he’s known since he was a young child - the art of breathing, knowing that the trick is always in breathing, in breathing, in breathing.

The two Peacekeepers are silent while Finnick breathes and breathes, trying to figure out his surroundings - he’s in a lift, again, they’ve put him into another lift, propping him upright between them.

Kicking his knees out from behind is such a fucking petty move.

Finnick dutifully collapses forward, out through the still-opening lift doors, trying to angle well enough not to land on his arm; he more or less manages it, though impact nevertheless invites back the grey-black haze.

“Finnick. Fuck, fuck...”

“Thank you both for your assistance,” a voice states smoothly. “Mr Odair, thank you for joining us.”

Abject confusion punctures the cloud of pain Finnick’s festering in.

It takes some time to make sense of anything, not that Finnick’s convinced ‘making sense’ is the actual state of play when he does.

President Snow is sat with two of his usual entourage and - less commonly - Egeria; and opposite him, Sherlock is staring at Finnick in open horror. As is Haymitch. A collection of them sat around on the comfortable sofas that may be a different colour, but are in the exact same set-up and positions, as the fourth floor of the Tribute Centre.

He’s in the Tribute Centre.

“You see, Sherlock,” President Snow says, clearly halfway through speaking, his voice trickling in and through Finnick’s understanding, “you seem fond of… demonstrative action, shall we say? Let us term this a reminder.”

“You dragged him out of the Hall like this?” Sherlock hisses, vicious with hatred; Haymitch is almost standing, trying to move towards Finnick, stopping sharply at a movement from the Peacekeepers behind him. “Yet you wonder why I…”

“I do not ‘wonder’,” President Snow interrupts placidly. “Your thinking is puerile, and in being so, entirely comprehensible; no doubt you imagine your motives noble - I care very little. You may keep your motives, both of you. My concern is solely for your actions.”

Sherlock snorts out a textured sound, his grin nothing short of insane, voice edged with razors but sugar-sweet. “What a novelty,” he muses, “to have something in common with the President of Panem himself: I used to wonder precisely how many degrees of cognitive dissonance you could bear, before your justifications fell short - I suppose this illustrates that such things have long since stopped troubling you.”

“Sherlock,” Haymitch hisses.

“Unlike yourself, I feel no particular drive to justify decisions that are self-evidently necessary,” Snow informs him, “and I care vanishingly little for the political opinions of two substance abusers. That said, you are both intelligent men; no doubt you have accurately established the mood of the nation. I will not permit either of you to take advantage of Panem’s distemper for personal gain.”

Finnick is bleeding through the dressing gown. It’s sticking to him.

“Personal gain?” Sherlock repeats, livid, “you…”

Haymitch intervenes, cutting through Sherlock’s so easily-provoked temper. “You don’t need to drag Odair into this,” he tries, hands already raised in a type of surrender, “point made, Mr President. It ain’t his problem, if Holmes…”

“As I’m sure you recall, cause and effect is rarely contained exclusively to those ‘at fault’,” Snow interrupts, poisonously. Haymitch flinches like he’s been hit. “This is a regrettably necessary reminder: it is easy, when on a suicide mission, to forget those left behind. Mr Odair has enough to contend with without his supposed ‘friends’ choosing to be deliberately provocative.”

Sherlock shakes his head in open revulsion. “So much for not putting him through appointments this year,” he points out, vitriol on his tongue, “or is petty malice only permissible when one occupies the seat of power?”

President Snow offers Sherlock a crawling, eerie smile. “Petty? Perhaps,” he concedes, placid as still water, “but malice? I assure you, we have quite some distance to bridge before you know what ‘malice’ may look like.”

“I imagine I’ll find out,” Sherlock retorts hotly, “as soon as the fucking klaxon sounds…”

“Yes,” Snow interrupts quietly. “I imagine you shall.”

Even Sherlock isn’t immune to that degree of blatant threat; he cuts off, a sound throttling itself in his throat.

Finnick thinks he’s pieced together something resembling a narrative - one that doesn’t look like arrest or execution, more promisingly, but does look like Sherlock should probably have thought through the consequences of stabbing a dummy-Snow into a makeshift colander.

The irony being, Finnick had laughed for the first time all day, when Ruby told them.

Terror shaped in Killian’s nightmares fuels Finnick towards speech, his voice as level as he can make it: “What’s going on?” he asks, carefully wary, uncomfortably aware of the various eyes that keep looking at him in wide-eyed horror.

Especially Egeria. A woman who stood with the Queens when they murdered Graham Humbert and tortured Sherlock, but somehow seems taken aback by seeing Finnick in the same position; another masterful piece of compartmentalisation, at a guess.

“President Snow wished to illustrate a point,” Sherlock spits, staring at the man with unvarnished loathing. “Which has been made. Abundantly.”

Unlike the others, Snow and Sherlock are both too busy exchanging hatred-fuelled glares to pay Finnick any attention at all; a startling echo of the last time Finnick was employed as a tool to compel Sherlock’s behaviour.

Regrettably, times have changed. They barely knew one another the last time.

Snow smiles, voice silken. “Are you quite sure?” he asks. “I would be more than happy to illustrate the point more viscerally, if required.”

“I will not compromise Panem’s stability during the interviews, nor leverage it,” Sherlock spits out, sucking his teeth unpleasantly; he dares a look at Finnick, impotent rage almost bright enough to obscure the helplessness underneath. “You have my word. Please.”

“Mr Abernathy?”

Haymitch lets out a humourless, grating laugh. “You know the answer to that,” he returns bitterly. “I learned my lesson the last time.”

Snow stands.

Finnick’s breathing stutters, the tension in the room all but unbearable. “My apologies for the disturbance, Mr Odair,” Snow says, walking near, until he’s standing over his head. “A pity you have such poor taste in associates. Thank you for your time, gentlemen.”

Snow leaves, his assistants - and Egeria - trailing behind him; she hesitates for a half-second, nothing more, looking at Finnick.

They have to wait for the lift.

Blood rushes through Finnick’s ears, straight out of him again; he doesn’t bother turning, listens to Snow enter the lift. The gentle mechanical dings, the rasp of the door closing, shutting the President out of sight.

Sherlock’s voice cracks out, hard and frightened. “Finnick, are you alright?”

“Fine,” Finnick rasps back, lifting his head enough to see Sherlock properly, smiling tensely. “I’ll be fine. Sorry about this, I…”

The Peacekeepers grab him by his broken arm again, wrenching him to his feet in a sharp motion that fires every single hurt in one delirious, explosive hit.

Finnick passes out.

Chapter Text

Q has never felt so much a Holmes as he does while watching Sherlock violently stab a training dummy painted to look like President Snow several hundred times over without pausing even once.

He has also never been so terrified in all his life.

The important part is that Finnick hasn’t actually been arrested - and beyond an unpleasant evening, is perfectly fine - and nobody wildly overreacted, though Q can only imagine how close they came, given that Finnick was secretly dragged through several interconnecting buildings in the Citadel complex in a dressing gown while bleeding heavily, something John Watson was fully aware of and non-trivially alarmed about.

Q was able to leave last night. Go back to Silva’s place, meaning he could call Anthea and Finnick and Killian, all of whom were pretty seriously rattled.

They’re fine. They’re alive. Snow went for flat-out terrorisation using Finnick as the method but he’s fine, Sherlock’s fine - overall, it was a pretty unnecessary escalation from a man who’s clearly not especially impressed at the stabbing-thing even though Sherlock did have a point, in his sarcastic jabs at the waiting Training Centre cameras: it’s not like anybody knows outside the Leads. Sherlock didn’t go full-rebel publicly, nobody knows.

Q knows, though, given that he was invited to shadow the meeting where they determined the Tributes’ scoring.

Because Q is an ‘asset’.

All a storm in a teacup and this is all perfectly fine.

“I imagine the news has been duly disseminated,” Snow murmurs to Plutarch, just barely audible. “Flickerman is prepared?”

“As discussed,” Plutarch agrees, his own tension visible.

None of the Tributes discussed their interview strategy yesterday, during the prep day. It is - to Q’s mind - what finally pushed Snow over the edge: they have no fucking idea what is going to happen. Twenty-four angry Victors who they can pretty safely predict are going to do everything in their power to get the Games cancelled in all the ‘acceptable’ ways they can humanly find, but giving absolutely no clues as to how.

Oh, and Emma Swan will probably try to trigger revolution while she’s at it. Just to make things even more entertaining.

(they looked so human, sitting on the Tribute Centre roof. Not rebel leaders or Victors - just humans, having a picnic with their friends).

Q sits at his desk in Control, watching Caesar’s last-minute makeup touches on-set, cameras and their resident audience - there’s always a studio audience, a terrible idea but Snow doesn’t want to give any sense that the Capitol’s running scared - are getting revved-up and ready.

“I will be in the observation room,” Snow informs Plutarch, distracted with reading something off a small handheld, expression flat. “Do not disappoint me.”

Plutarch nods with the right level of sincerity, though grinds his teeth almost unnoticeably as he turns back - cueing the introductory music, the national anthem, just like Sherlock Holmes creepily played on the violin during his exit interview several years ago, before going off on his Victory Tour to make ‘solidarity’ a very, very dangerous word.

(Q still finds it hilarious, that Sherlock wasn’t even aware of Mycroft’s rebellion-efforts at the time; that’s just who he is. Sherlock Holmes, pathologically driven to cause trouble at every possible opportunity).

“Welcome, welcome,” Caesar opens, his smile bright and gleaming, though he must be feeling exactly as nervous as everybody else - he’s been in meetings all day, strategising how to handle this specific set of Tributes.

Mainly because: they know him. They’re used to him - the Victors have played off Caesar Flickerman since he began hosting the Games, all of them equipped with years on years playing the Capitol’s Games.

These Tributes aren’t terrified children. They are experienced socialites and politicians, actors and prostitutes, models and writers and artists and presenters; the brighter ones have been using the media to their own advantage for years, just as much as it has been weaponised against them.

They know the Capitol’s tricks. They know how to weather them.

Vengeance simmers in the promises of Victors who will not die quietly.

“Cueing up 1F in three, two…”

Cashmere looks beautiful. One of the most beautiful Victors they’ve ever had, as Caesar remarks; she walks out settling in place opposite him, a One-cultivated smile perfectly balanced on her prep-team-painted lips.

“... I just, can’t stop crying,” Cashmere explains, through beautiful lines of well-choreographed tears, “thinking of how the Capitol will feel to lose us, all the Victors you’ve known all these years - you’ve always been so kind to me, and to my brother. I know the loss will be so very painful for everybody here…”

It is a fairly immediate, almost jarring reminder that Mycroft et al are not the only people with a vested interest in stopping these Games; in fact, Cashmere probably cares quite a lot more than Mycroft, given that she doesn’t have the vague safety net of a pending evacuation.

Cashmere even mentions Mycroft and Sherlock in passing during her tearful monologue; her fellows from District One, as though they’re friends. As though she’s ever spoken more than a handful of words to either of them.

“As expected,” Tiberius comments, glancing briefly towards Snow’s observation booth; on stage, Cashmere curtseys when Caesar kisses her hand, withdrawing to the row of stools at the back of the stage - affording her a perfect view of the incoming carnage. “Ready for Holmes.”

Quintus smiles faintly, voice languid with irony: “Brace yourselves.”

Mycroft looks precisely as anticipated. A lovely suit - even Q can appreciate the tailoring on it, he’s lived with Bond long enough - and a completely unreadable expression, settling in place opposite Caesar with nary a murmur of discontent.

Caesar Flickerman has managed to handle every Tribute from Sherlock Holmes to Emma Swan to Annie Cresta to Johanna Mason without incident. A roster of the most difficult, most unpredictable, Victors imaginable.

All the same, Q wishes him luck against a vengeful Mycroft Holmes.

“A pleasure to see you again, Caesar,” Mycroft greets, so pleasantly Q winces - this is going to be eviscerating. “Though I would, of course, far prefer a more… shall we say, companionable context?”

Caesar smiles broadly. “You know, Mycroft, you might just be my favourite interviewee I’ve known in my career,” he confesses, conspiratorial; Mycroft smiles, emptily good-natured. “I know I shouldn’t have favourites…”

“... and yet,” Mycroft slips in softly. “I suppose that is at the heart of the matter, as Cashmere so rightly identified; we have known one another for quite some time, Caesar. As I have known many of you - an acquaintance, perhaps an ally. Perhaps - even - a friend. Is it not a remarkable piece of cruelty, to sever such bonds?”

“Now, Mycroft,” Caesar tuts, more than prepared enough to combat this line of argument, “you know as well as I do - the Hunger Games is a legal document. We can’t go around changing every law we don’t like!”

“Whyever not?” Mycroft replies immediately, though is unnervingly gentle with it; so much so that Caesar is thrown off-rhythm, leaving Mycroft ample opportunity to continue undisturbed: “The Games were determined many years ago; we have evolved, as humans are wont to do. The Capitol; the Districts. I have been privileged to witness the world we occupy grow into something quite unlike that which I entered as a child - perhaps it is time, now, to review laws that have, by now, been rendered archaic. Regressive, even.”

Plutarch huffs out an annoyed-sounding sigh. “Not much we can do with it,” one of the media team reports apologetically. “It’s not explicitly subversive.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Plutarch mutters. “Remove the ‘regressive’ comment, though.”

“Speaking of evolving - we have all loved, deeply, seeing you yourself evolve over the years,” Caesar continues, diverting the conversation; Mycroft nods, a delightfully subtle motion that reads like he’s giving the poor man permission. Making it quite apparent, in the process, who’s actually leading this interview. “From the Ice Man of your youth, to a husband - a family man, hmm? And what a family it is, too. The love story of our time, isn’t it, ladies and gentlemen? The Ice Man and the Evil Queen!”

Mycroft looks out over the crowd with dismissive detachment, a small gesture quelling the noise enough for him to speak: “I could not wish for a better companion than Regina to stand by my side, no matter the circumstance,” he tells Panem, the audience sighing audibly in affection. “A love that spanned two different Districts; whoever might have imagined such a thing? In spite of our differences, we achieved the impossible: opposing worlds, united.”

Q barely contains a grin; nice touch, if a bit on-the-nose.

“And, of course, your dear brother,” Caesar adds, either not noticing - or choosing to ignore - the brief flash of danger in Mycroft’s expression. “To think we might lose both of the Holmes minds…”

“A rather fortunate thing, then, that my third brother remains alive and well,” Mycroft returns instantly, a throb of force behind it that leaves Q breathless in its intensity. “I ask you, Caesar: you have a sister, whom you care for as I do my own brothers. Can you imagine, I wonder, being confined to a circumstance where - at best - only one of you may survive? Where in any instance, death will hurt? That your last moments may be spent fighting for her life, knowing you will likely fail; and knowing that the last feelings she or you may know will be terror, will be pain.”

Caesar is completely knocked off-balance, pale beneath his lavender hair, struggling to retrieve his footing - at least in part, because said sister has briefly forgotten how to do her job, sitting on the opposite side of the room to Q and blinking in abject horror at the prospect. “I…”

“It is, of course, a known fate for many District-born,” Mycroft continues, unrelenting. A force of nature. “Our brothers, our sisters. Our children. The Victors are those few who have been graced with a given notion of ‘safety’; we played such games as exist, ones we can never escape, despite wishing only for peace. For family; for stability. My wife and I, my family, we only wished to live out our lives together. Hence, though I may appreciate the need for a Quell, I must return to my previous statement: we have evolved, as a nation. Panem is her people; perhaps it would behove us to explore - as a nation, united - what the future may bring.”

There is a perfect beat of silence.

The buzzer sounds. Timed so impeccably Q can’t help wondering if he had a countdown somewhere in his eyeline.

Mycroft stands, while Caesar is still picking himself up - Q has never seen the man so comprehensively bulldozed.

“Well, that was a car crash,” Plutarch mutters, sounding exactly as unsurprised as is merited - no amount of preparation could have withstood that. They all knew it. “Clean up whatever we can, let’s remove the references to Tullia as a priority - and we have Regina in three, two… oh, for pity’s sake.”

Regina steps out on stage in a devastating dress that makes even Q’s sexuality briefly quiver - a dress that is, naturally, precisely the same shade of midnight blue as Mycroft’s waistcoat; a collar of dark feathers that Q has no doubt will exist in some way on Emma Swan’s eventual outfit.

They’ve somehow managed to get away with coordinating outfits. Again.

“Didn’t we check that?” Taurin asks wearily; Plutarch rolls his eyes, waving pointlessly at the pair of them in a universal gesture of ‘well, I guess they did it anyway’. “Fine - is Caesar ready?”

Tullia manages an almost-composed nod, though she remains rather pale.

“Oh now, Regina,” Caesar greets, as the audience roars in approval. “Our very own Mrs Regina Holmes. I must say though, I think a little part of me will always think of you as Miss Mills…”

“I’m sure you will,” Regina cuts in smoothly, so blatantly dangerous Tiberius audibly whimpers. “But I am a Holmes. Mycroft is more than my husband - he’s my best friend in this world. He taught me what true love really means.”

As has always been the way, Regina props up the Holmes love story more or less single-handedly, glancing back towards her husband with a softness that soothes the ruffled audience and Caesar alike: “True love,” he echoes, grabbing onto what looks like a safer topic. “Tell us then, Regina - what does true love really mean?”

“True love means sacrifice,” Regina replies, instant, almost vicious. “There is nothing I wouldn’t give for that man. Mycroft was my second chance - I thought my story was over, after the Games. I never imagined I would have what he gave me. Mycroft, Sherlock - then Q came along. I got the one thing I didn’t ever expect: a family.”

Caesar melts, along with the entire audience. Even a couple of junior Gamemakers are hooked by that one. “And what a family you all are!” Caesar sighs, taking her hand amidst the sea of soft snuffles. “Just a tremendous collection. You know we all remember - don’t we, ladies and gentlemen? - right back at the beginning, the union to end all unions; tell me, how did all of it begin?”

“Well Mycroft, you recall, worked for the government back then,” Regina adds, something unnervingly saccharine in it. “He devoted all his life to Panem. If anybody’s placed to comment on our laws, you know - it’s him. He’s right; we have evolved. We are a powerful nation - nobody expected us to love each other. Nobody expected the Ice Man and the Evil Queen, you couldn’t have seen that coming; so, how could anybody have guessed how much the nation would grow in the past seventy-five years?”

Q misses her so fiercely it hurts. The woven interplay she and Mycroft can manage so effortlessly, so completely - making it fairly difficult to splice out Mycroft’s interview too much without also then needing to splice out Regina’s, as a nice bonus. The media team looks exactly as stressed as is merited.

“Well, that aside…”

Regina is having precisely none of it, fairly predictably: instead, she borrows Mycroft’s words to propel through an interview that serves as an extended conversation Caesar is effectively a sock-puppet for.

“Not enough prep in the world would’ve helped,” Aloysius murmurs to Q, in an undertone; he’s been different, Q knows, since their conversation in the bathrooms. Not in an earth-shattering way - but different. More aware. “Well. Fingers crossed for Brutus being easier, huh?”

Q demurs, proven correct when Regina’s joined Mycroft at the back of the stage, leaving Brutus to stomp out for his interview: “... proving myself, for the glory of my District,” he explains, “and to preserve the futures of my fellow Victors, in Two.”

“Do any of the Volunteers actually want to be here?” one of the juniors snipes, clearly frustrated and also, not long for this job; the Gamemakers may be masterful at cognitive dissonance, but imagining any given Victor wants to be in a Quell is stretching the bounds of credibility far beyond breakpoint.

This Games has, in fact, the highest number of Volunteers of any Game in history.

Each and every one is an act of mercy.

A thought that sits, toxic, in Q’s throat: Wiress, her eyes bright and smile twitching, speech erratically yanking from Mycroft and Regina, “well they’re, you see,” she mumbles, “we change. We change, we grow, we fight, we live. We never wanted a fight. We never wanted…”

Wiress might be the most intelligent person Q has or will ever meet. There is nothing she can’t fix, no theory she can’t grasp; she and Beetee fit together, Q knows that. For all he’s overlooked her - and he does, he knows that he does and he hates that he does - she’s brilliant.

“No great loss,” somebody jokes, as she weaves to the back of the stage, as they have done and will do. “Not like Latier…”

Q’s heart shudders in his throat, biting his tongue extremely literally.

Beetee is, of course, just as experienced as the rest: “The difficulty being, you see, that the status of our Victors is - hmm - different, then when they were Reaped,” he points out, in his familiarly patterned way. “Mycroft and Regina, they’re Capitol citizens - Emma Swan, Capitol-born by blood. I’m no lawyer, but if I remember, there’s a clause, you see? Tributes must be from the Districts, the Districts they were Reaped for, two from each. Sherlock, then, raises a separate question of legal standing…”

He isn’t a lawyer - he’s just intelligent enough to make the connections. To read the literature and find the right arguments, sparking thought, making Q ache for the workshops of District Three; for a man who taught Q so much, the days and nights and times between of unfettered learning.

Beetee builds from Wiress builds from Regina builds from Mycroft, a seamless tapestry, one Mags tries to add to; she can only get out a handful of coherent words, but the ones she does include ‘family’ and ‘love’ and ‘bonds’ and ‘tragedy’.

Annie is safe. A woman like Wiress - one of the two most damaged Victors, but Annie’s safe, at home with the Lock family. Even in the midst of a sea of Victors, she’s been allowed to remain forgotten.

Then there’s Jim. Of course.

“I’m only here for Sherlock Holmes,” he opens cheerfully. “Come on, boys and girls, y’all knew I’d back. Time of my life, last time, time of my life, m’not missing that for the world - and anyway, yous lot would’ve been a mess if Finnick Odair’d been here, huh? Can you imagine? Boy like that, everybody’s favourite, everybody loves Finnick Odair, there would’ve been riots in the streets.”

The sharp, edged grin is bemusingly pointed; Jim is nominally a rebel, yes, but Q didn’t expect that to play out here and now, not when he’s busy telling the whole of Panem he’s all-set on murdering Sherlock Holmes, telling the world how much he loved his last Arena and couldn’t wait to go back.

Ironically, it’s exactly the kind of thing the Gamemakers really wish the Tributes would all say.

It would be nice, though, if he didn’t sound quite so happy about it.

“Dyin’ doesn’t scare me,” Jim murmurs to the sky, eyes half-lidded in curious bliss. “It’s livin’ scares the life outta me, y’see?”

Caesar does not, as nobody could when it comes to Jim - he is palpably relieved to finish the interview, leaving Jim to scurry to the back of the stage, waving cheerfully at the other Victors as he goes.

If Jim’s in the Arena when it falls, they’ll retrieve him along with the rest, they’re not leaving anybody in the Arena if they can avoid it - but by mutual agreement, nobody’s going to go out of their way to do so. Not for Jim Moriarty.

So that’s that; Five and Six are a lot easier - Porter has a brief go along the lines of ‘just wanted to rebuild’ which is nice but a bit limp - while Ember, Axel and Luella are all palpably terrified and high.

Johanna joins with a midnight-blue choker strung about her neck, her makeup all but identical to Regina’s, nails painted blood red. “Look, something has got to be done, hasn’t it?” she asks, gesturing towards the Victors and audience. “Mycroft’s right - nobody could have seen any of this coming, how deeply we all care for each other. Districts and Capitol; sure, we need to honour the Dark Days, but this is punishing the Capitol...”

They always underestimate Johanna. It’s easily done - she’s borderline feral, in real life - but like Finnick, has mastered the art of being underestimated.

“... the city loves us,” she continues, “and we love them; this isn’t fair on anybody. Times have changed. It’s time we changed with them.”

They cut out the final line, but Johanna’s done as elegant a job as Regina; it’s plausible, it’s quiet - and more than that, it doesn’t risk the safety of the people she loves who are watching outside the Arena.

(Q doesn’t think about Finnick and Killian, back in the Halls, in the parties; there’s only so much he can hold in one go).

Blight reminds Panem of his first years after winning, all the friends he’s made; Cecelia tells the world about her family, back home - how the Capitol looked after her, then sent her home to fall in love. To have children, to raise those children. A future she’d begun to build and knows will live on, if she doesn’t come home.

(she knows she won’t come home. Cecelia isn’t a contender.

Bond couldn’t bear hearing her name spoken, in the final weeks).

Q feels eyes fall on him, when Cecelia moves to the back of the stage. Eager to steal his reaction, maybe more than they care to watch the interview in the first place.

James Bond’s suit is midnight blue, his eyes the colour of the open sky. “You know I’ve lived here since I won,” Bond tells Caesar, warmly friendly; he has a unique ability to make anybody listen. Like he’s safe. “I love this city, this country - all the Victors are tied to the Capitol. I might be District, but we don’t have to be just one thing: we can be District, and Capitol. We’re all family, deep down. We’re all just the same, no matter where we come from - and none of us want to lose our families.”

It’s so earnest, so honest. For all Bond is a fighter, for all he knows how to separate himself from the emotional rushes of the world, he feels so intensely; hurts, just as deeply as the rest of them, his flares of honesty ringing acute and agonising.

Q breathes and lets it flow over him. Bond’s voice, his confident ease. A man who is trained, who can survive, who will survive.

Granger borrows the language, albeit inexpertly; Dagan tells stories of Haymitch and Arne, his friends from other Districts, which is marvellously convenient from a rebel angle though Q has no idea if he means it to be.

The audience is a complete mess by the time Emma Swan steps on stage, feathers in her hair borrowing from Regina’s dress, otherwise another perfect impression of the swan that is her namesake, all the frightening edges she’d borrowed for her Parade.

All the Gamemakers rally in readiness, Q very much included.

“Emma Swan,” Caesar calls, which fires the audience off into a complete frenzy all by itself, as they had hoped; eat into her three-minute window with audience screeching, giving her less time to cause trouble. “Our girl in flight. Isn’t she just beautiful, ladies and gentlemen?”

Another roar of sobbing, screaming hysteria; Emma looks over the crowd, exquisitely beautiful and achingly young. “Hi,” she comments, which sets off another round of shrieking; Emma watches the crowd, something working behind her eyes.

“Now Emma,” Caesar begins, coaxing in some quiet. “This is an emotional night - only a year, only one year since you were sitting here today.”

Emma’s eyes sharpen - but she doesn’t interrupt. Q can see that she wants to, but something holds her back, probably from reminding Caesar that last year also had Prim, Peeta and Rue sitting along with her.

“It’s been a weird year,” Emma agrees, which is an understatement and a half. “Finding out who my parents are, meeting the other Victors…”

“... of course you did,” Caesar sighs, patting her hand in sympathy. “Your parents. Giving you your best chance, out in District Ten - and now look at you! Capitol running in your blood, so brave and so very beautiful.”

Emma’s jaw tightens, relaxes. “Family’s an interesting thing, right?” she replies, carefully, fingers twitching with tension. “I’m District Ten, I’m always gonna be - you know Ruby told me, I’ll always be Ten, no matter what. I am both.”

A phrase David Nolan used in one of the only interviews the Nolans gave about their long-lost daughter; he’s been quite stubbornly trying to hold the line that Emma Swan is Capitol, yes - but she’s always going to be District, just as much. It surprised Q to see it: a Capitol-born man, honouring the upbringing of a daughter he’s never properly met.

Bond, by contrast, didn’t seem that surprised. Q hopes that, eventually, he’ll be able to ask him about it.

“I might never get to know my parents,” Emma continues, with a tiny fracture through it, “but I got to be a part of the Victors’ family. All of them, every District - and the Capitol. You know these people so well, they care about you; you can’t know how deep that goes.”

Mycroft Holmes is risking everything, everything he has and is, to keep as many people alive as he possibly can. Victors, Districts, Capitol - people he has never met, nor may ever meet.

Caesar can taste the edges of danger: “And we will care about you all, right to the end,” he replies, “but Emma. Emma Swan, we are all dying to know - that score! A zero?!”

“Sorry to keep you guessing,” Emma replies sweetly, “but it surely was a first.”

“Wasn’t it just!” Caesar agrees, laughing easily - relaxing, a little, as Emma lets the conversation move away from families or severed bonds or other rebel-adjunct problems; she’s had ample opportunity to be difficult, opportunities she hasn’t taken. “Well, you are quite a different girl from last year, Emma…”

“... I evolved,” Emma agrees, her smile the tiniest bit too sharp. “You mean the outfits, huh? I hope you all like this one, too?”

The audience rumbles while Caesar offers compliments.

Q has a very bad feeling about this.

“You know I chose my name? Swan,” Emma tells Caesar, gesturing towards the dress. “I never had a last name, when I was little - so I picked my own. You all know that story, right? I always liked it, when I was a kid. The ugly duckling, who grows up into a swan?”

Caesar’s teeth twinkle in the stage lights, “of course!” while Plutarch’s expression freezes, everybody simultaneously figuring out that Emma’s prepared this speech, there’s something coming but they can’t fix it until they know what it is.

“... Tullia, get him to deflect, this is…”

“Well,” Emma smiles, so dangerous it bleeds, “did you ever hear what happened next?”

Emma Swan throws up her arms, and bursts into flames.

“Shit,” Plutarch yelps, Gamemakers and audience alike recoiling in horror - Caesar jumps up out of his chair, while flames dance towards the ceiling, billows of smoke rolling off the immolate pyre Emma has made of herself.

After a moment or two, the flames ebb.

Q feels shivers run over every inch of his body.

Emma’s black-and-white dress has charred into layer upon layer of tiny coal-black feathers, arms raised to the sky, billowing sleeves flickering white; or rather, not sleeves, but wings.

Naturally, she has three fingers stubbornly raised on her left hand, chin jutted proudly upright and expression as fierce as the flames.

Emma Swan is a swan no longer.

She is a mockingjay.

Chapter Text

It’s total carnage.

Caesar looks like he’s been hit in the face with a chair. His audience is shrieking, some of them have definitely fainted; same here in the Hall, Killian realises, watching some poor lass get carted out by the med Avox.

Emma Swan played it all polite, then went up in flames. Bloody brilliant.

Behind her, lined up on stage, the others watch her: Mycroft and Regina, side by side, both equally unreadable and almost comic in their blankness; Johanna, who’s barely keeping a lid on her laughter, grinning broadly; Bond, who’s got a tiny little smirk for anybody who knows where to look for it.

Killian misses them so deeply it wrenches parts of him out of place. Only a handful of days, between the Reaping and now; somehow, it feels like a lifetime.

“Reckon they’ll keep going?” Killian asks Finnick, who is - understandably, given the whole ‘fuck up the interviews and we batter Finnick Odair’ spiel from Snow - unnaturally still. “Finn, you alright?”

Finnick watches the screens, still wearing a perfect smile. “It’s not actually me I’m worried about for this one,” he points out softly, as Caesar recovers enough to make Cinna take a bow - Cinna, who never told anybody this was what he planned to do with Emma Swan’s interview dress.

Not even Killian.

The realisation hits like a truck. “Fuck,” Killian murmurs, watching Cinna’s eyeliner glint in the low light; one of his dearest friends, openly telling the world he’s rebel-aligned on the biggest stage in Panem.

They’re all being very careful, the other Victors-turned-Tributes. All of it was planned ages ago, back when they had the time and space and freedom: how to handle the interviews, when they want to get across ideas of unity and solidarity without being so openly rebellious Snow lashes out at the ones he can reach.

Like Finnick. Kid’s doing a fantastic line in pretending he’s ‘fine’ but really, really isn’t - it was way too close a call. They all had a frantic hour of Avox messages, John lividly trying to contact Anthea, everybody trying to figure out if Snow had actually arrested Finnick. If it was all over, before it had even begun.

Instead, Snow was bastard enough to terrify the living shit out of Finnick, dump him with John to be patched up properly - then, was petty enough to block Anthea’s attempts to rearrange his next appointment. Finnick went straight back in with a new client before anybody could talk to him properly.

Finnick’s handled some fucked-up things in his time, but this one got to him. Killian’s never seen him so rattled. Barely able to speak, even when they’d gotten themselves back to the flat, wrapped up in blankets while Annie sang to him wordlessly on the phone.

Emma Swan smokes cheerfully in the background while Caesar tries for Arne’s interview; nobody’s bloody watching, of course, but that was always gonna be true. Half the country forgot he even existed until the Quell got announced.

“They won’t take that angle,” Finnick murmurs aloud, a toneless prayer: Sherlock and Haymitch still to go. “They won’t.”

Finnick keeps mumbling with his spookily blank smile as Seeder joins for hers, “we all know, back home, that the President is all-powerful,” Seeder explains, implying all it needs to. “Look at you all, at us; these Games…”

Pretty much a full house so far, every Victor doing their worst - and topped off with Sherlock Holmes, tacked on at the end like the final Reap was. Twenty-three warm-up acts, all set to finish off with an angry little sod who wouldn’t know ‘sensible’ if it came and bit him on the arse.

They need Sherlock to be sensible. Not too sensible, but sensible enough that they don’t get identified as rebels. Anything else he fancies but not, not doing what Cinna’s done or going back to his ‘solidarity’ shit. Rebellion’s grand, but Killian and Finnick and Anthea will die if Sherlock goes too far.

All plans in the world won’t make a fucking difference if Snow’s got reason to finally know that they’re rebels, rather than pissed-off Victors.

“... maybe Snow didn’t realise how intense these relationships have gotten,” Chaff continues; Killian watches him, aching at the sight of his old friend - who, they all know, has tagged along with the Careers in a bid to avoid the Holmes fallout. “Guess he doesn’t figure it matters as much as it does…”

The anticipation is making him a little bit loopy, while Finnick gets paler and paler. “Drink,” Killian tells him; Finnick obeys instantly. “S’fine, Haymitch isn’t daft.”

“Well,” Finnick murmurs, trailing off: Haymitch Abernathy, who infamously has made the Capitol look stupid more than once. Him and Sherlock off on one floor, two people with a fuck of a lot of anger and too clever for their own good; no wonder Snow talked to them both, he’s not going to send the two most problem-child-y problem-children into an interview without having a word beforehand.

Can’t help but wonder if he tried talking to Swan, too.

If he did, it sure as hell didn’t help anything.

“Haymitch Abernathy of District Twelve!” Caesar calls brightly, summoning Haymitch in; he slopes in, looking more like the kid who won the last Quell than the good old reliable drunk from Twelve - eyes sharp, paunch a bit slimmed-down, skin less sallow.

He chucks himself into a chair, jerks a thumb at Swan. “Well, not beating that, am I?” he opens, to a blossoming bubble of laughter from the audience around him. “Not all of us can turn into damn birds on cue.”

“I’m sure you’d pull it off all the same,” Caesar teases, while Haymitch’s face fixes in a sharply slanted impression of a smile. “Two Quells, Haymitch. I think we can all say the odds aren’t in your favour.”

“Way I see it, decent enough,” he shrugs. “Half the number to outlive, this time ‘round.”

Caesar’s laughter sparks bright, “true enough,” he agrees, “now. Little birdie tells me you’ve been living with Sherlock Holmes - our honorary addition to District Twelve. Tell us, Haymitch - it must be strange, hmm?”

“Strange?” Haymitch snorts, “kid’s an asshole, needs a smack in the mouth - but he’s not the worst, underneath. Might even get a winner from District Twelve this year. Guess they’re right.”

“Who’s right?”

“We’re all the same,” Haymitch returns instantly - a trap he guided Caesar right into, any lightness evaporating. “President sees it too, right? Doesn’t matter where we’re born, where we die. All the same, District and Capitol. Holmes is an asshole, but he’d fit right in, back in Twelve - Swan’s Capitol, by blood. We’re all the same. All of us.”

All the shit the Capitol’s ever tried to pull - telling themselves District-born are so different. A different species, even.

Killian’s never figured out how they make sense of it. The Capitol loves their Victors, but still don’t really see them as people - like ‘Victors’ are different somehow, shiny and bright. Ideas, more than actual full-fledged adults with lives that still keep going when the cameras turn off.

These interviews have set that whole idea ablaze. Fuck alone knows what the Districts are making of it, but if nothing else, it’s done more to mess up the Capitol than anything Killian’s ever seen; the whole Hall’s buzzing with it, eyes falling on the Victors left behind - especially Finnick. The most popular Victor there’s ever been.

One day, Killian hopes the Capitol really figures out the reality of what they’ve done to the Victors. Especially the ‘desirable’ ones; when they start to understand what it means, that they were always people underneath. They were always exactly the same.

Specifically, he hopes they start to realise the sheer fucking gravity of everything they’ve done to Finnick.

“... last but not least, our very final Tribute for the evening - Sherlock Holmes, honorary District Twelve!”

Killian tries to tell himself that there’s only so much Snow can actually do. He’s putting Sherlock into a sodding Arena tomorrow - there’d be no point battering Finnick to punish him when he’s made a whole Arena to do that for him.

Okay, maybe he’s starting to grasp at straws, but seriously.

“Evening,” Sherlock smirks, ambling on stage like he owns the whole sodding thing; he waves at Mycroft and Regina, the latter blowing him a kiss. Johanna smirks at him; Jim practically bounces up out of his seat to get his attention.

Emma Swan, smoking gently, nods at him with fierce determination.

So that’s great, that is already the most inter-District allyship Killian’s ever seen on television in his entire life. “I’m going to die,” Finnick murmurs conversationally, through a Finnick-Odair patent smile. “Fuck.”

“Sherlock,” Caesar smiles, as Sherlock looks out over the sobbing, frantic audience. “Such an emotional night, isn’t it?”

“I wonder why,” Sherlock replies drily, to a damp peal of laughter; there’s something weird about being so wired-up, so tense, the whole room sobbing and fainting and sighing while Killian and Finnick wait to find out if he’s about to sign a sodding long-distance death warrant. “Still - not like you couldn’t see this coming.”

Caesar sighs exaggeratedly. “We all knew how very hard it would be to say goodbye,” he agrees, “but Sherlock - you Volunteered, hmm? Such a brave decision, Volunteering when you knew that your brother, your…”

“... my family,” Sherlock interrupts icily. “Mycroft and Regina are my family.”

“But you…”

“As is Killian Jones; family is bond, not blood,” Sherlock cuts in. “You know we’ve all lived in the Capitol together - Killian is as much family as my biological brothers. I’d Volunteer any time, every time. I’d have Volunteered for Finnick Odair, too, if it were necessary. Killian, Finnick, Annie. Q. I would take a dozen Arenas to keep my family safe - as Regina put it, love is sacrifice.”

It isn’t rebellion, at least.

He’s also named all of them on television, which’ll make it a damn sight harder for Snow to kill them in the next forty-eight hours without somebody noticing; if half the room were staring at them before, there’s a fuck of a lot more of them now.

“Such bravery!” Caesar cuts in, cheerfully trying to keep command of the interview as best he can. “We always knew, right from the very start, how you felt about our beloved Evil Queen…”

“... Regina,” Sherlock corrects. “We’re more than our nicknames, we have names. Regina isn’t ‘evil’. Finnick isn’t a ‘godling’, as far as I’m aware, and Killian frankly wishes he had ever actually captained a ship in his life to date…”

“Git,” Killian snarks, though feels himself laugh anyway, while a part of him sighs at the sheer number of interviews they’re going to have to do. All the usual friends-and-family interviews, response to all this malarkey, and that’s not even counting the propaganda ones they did this morning and will probably keep having to do.

“Nobody could doubt your devotion,” Caesar cuts in, determined to stay in control at all possible costs. “You and your family, well. They’ve inspired us for so many years, haven’t they, ladies and gentlemen?”

The audience shrieks their agreement, a sobbing mass - which Sherlock responds to with a very un-Sherlock-like hitched sob.

Killian blinks, confused, as Sherlock wipes a tear from his eye and pretends he’s trying to cover it all up. “We worked so hard,” he manages, voice catching in a completely audible crack.

“Oh Sherlock,” Caesar sighs, reaching out to take Sherlock’s hand, which he lets happen, Sherlock never lets anybody hold his hand, never lets anybody see him cry. “It’s an emotional night…”

Sherlock pulls himself up and sucks in a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose, but his voice is crystal clear, “and all of it, this,” he continues, “just when I was about to become an uncle…”

He cuts himself off, looks at Regina, suddenly gasping.

Oh bloody fucking buggering hellfire.

Regina’s eyes fly wide with sudden, horrified comprehension; she instantly buries her face in her hands to hide the rest of her response, Mycroft shifting to guard her from the cameras with his own body while Sherlock’s up and out of his seat to get to her side.

Killian has a ridiculous moment of flat-out confusion: Regina can’t have children. It was a whole thing.

(on the other side of the Hall, Killian’s heart breaks to see Alec’s expression - one of the only people who know, who could possibly know, because they did it to his wife too).

A sharp look passes between the Holmes brothers, both of them holding up Regina, who’s visibly shaking; Caesar clearly hasn’t got the first idea what to do, torn between calming down the audience and keeping a weather eye on the Victors and listening to whatever’s being piped into his earpiece.

Speaking of the audience: there’s a moment or two of bafflement, before a surge of noise that rises up with the force of a tornado.

All the buildup. Every whisper of ‘family’ and ‘love’, every promise lined up neatly in a row - a gift, for Sherlock Holmes, an indisputable master of seeing a waiting fuse and going all-guns-blazing to set it alight.

“... they can’t put a pregnant woman in an Arena,” somebody’s shrieking, “this is inhumane, this…”

The Capitol. A place that stigmatises abortion so much that unwanted kids get carted all over the nation, kids like Emma Swan; where they give female Tributes drugs before the Games, so they won’t have periods in an Arena; a world that created the Queens.

Snow can’t say a damn thing about it without admitting what they did to Regina.

In the second or two Regina lets her face be visible, the devastation in her is so absolute Killian’s heart shatters: no way did Sherlock warn her, she’s too raw for that. Regina’s not a good enough actor.

The one thing she’s always wanted, but can never have.

Meanwhile, the noise everywhere is insane. The Halls, the interview audience; noise, keeping on building, layer on layer as the Capitol figures it all out and reacts with all the chaotic fury it merits.

Caesar’s talking, though fuck alone knows what; probably trying to close out the show, distants strains of the national anthem beneath - meaning he doesn’t really notice Johanna and Bond, breaking the line up to go to the bundled-up Holmeses.

Killian almost misses it: while they’re all standing together, Cashmere grabs Sherlock’s free hand. A quiet something passes between them, Sherlock giving her a faint nod, before he takes Johanna’s hand and nudges - it passes down the line in seconds. Cashmere to Sherlock to Johanna to Bond to Brutus to Wiress to Beetee, every Victor, an unbroken line of them.

Emma Swan smokes in the shape of a mockingjay while a muddled-together collection of Victors from four different sodding Districts hold together a woman who the Capitol made sure would never actually be pregnant.

The screen suddenly goes black, replaced with the Capitol’s seal.

Finnick grabs hold of Killian’s arm, nodding towards the exit. “Now,” he says, or tries to; not like there’s anything audible, in the roaring screams the Hall has boiled up into - Killian follows, figuring he’s got some idea or other.

“... you can’t do this...”

“... the Games have to be cancelled, we can’t…”

Mal’s presence is unexpected, though probably shouldn’t be. “Front exit,” she hisses, golden eyes flashing venomously, watching behind them for anyone coming, “now, follow me…”

A throughline straight through the searing riot: photographers, all the media, crowded in the street outside. They’re not allowed in the Hall, all perched at the door for anybody they can harass - the safest place him and Finnick could be. Every second they’re on camera is a second they’re not under arrest.

Damage control. That’s all they can do.

That, and hope to fuck Snow’s got bigger problems to think about.

Mal gets them right to the door, practically shoves them straight into the mess of reporters: “... pregnant,” a voice shrieks instantly, a microphone right under Killian’s nose, “is it true, is Regina…”

“... Regina is a devoted wife, a devoted sister,” Finnick’s already somehow saying, more animated than he’s been in hours, voice honey-warm, “and I just know she’ll make a wonderful mother…”

“Always gonna be hard, when you’ve got older Tributes,” Killian agrees, bouncing off Finnick, “things like this happen, aye? Got Cecelia, she’s a mum, guess it was always gonna be a risk along the way…”

It’s fucking armageddon. Killian’s never seen anything like it, in all his time fending off reporters.

This is all for the Capitol. Five years fucking about getting the Districts sorted - Sherlock’s just single-handedly got the Capitol on board, in the space of maybe a minute and a half. Every single edge-case or sympathiser or rebel in the city will be asking the right questions, prodding in the right places. It’ll probably even turn a few loyalists along the way.

Speaking of, Killian realises: it’ll hit Two. Like a truck.

Only Sherlock fucking Holmes.

“... well that’s Sherlock for you, aye? Daft sod’s never been a tactful one,” Killian laughs, to one of the papers who lasted longest trying to pretend him and Regina have been having a longstanding affair; chances are by morning, they’ll run some bit of bollocks that he’s the real father, “but, he’s right, we’re all family - us lot, all the ones who’ve been in the Capitol, me and Finnick and Annie, we…”

“... I’ll let you know in the morning, think it’s all a bit busy tonight,” Finnick teases, looking another reporter up and down, “give me a call, hmm?”

Killian’s mind echoes with them all. Every Victor, united.

A city screams to the skies, Regina’s name on everybody’s lips, crying out for the Games to be cancelled; a dream so lovely, so unreal - it won’t happen. Snow’s sure as fuck not going to cancel them now.

It starts tomorrow. All this, and the Quell is starting tomorrow.

The two of them talk until their voices give out.

Chapter Text

Daylight creeps in by inches.

Regina sleeps, or attempts to; she mostly half-sleeps, unsure where it began - whether she sought out Mycroft, or he her.

The end is the same: as daylight creeps in at the windows, she wakes in her husband’s arms, safe in the solid certainty Mycroft Holmes inexplicably provides. Head against his shoulder, clinging close.

There is little to say.

Neither Merriworth nor Enobaria were present, when they made it back after the interviews. Peacekeepers yanked them away from one another, wrenching the knotted tangle of bodies apart, dispatching them back to their separate floors.

The first floor of the Tribute Centre was, uncommonly, completely empty. Not even the Avox remained.

“Left with haste,” Mycroft had murmured, looking over the floor; lingering, for a moment, on the living room sofas. “A Peacekeeper escort, if I’m not mistaken.”

In some ways, a kindness. Regina isn’t sure how well it would have gone if Enobaria and Merriworth were there when they returned; it would have been emotional, chaotic, loud.

Instead, they had quiet. The lifts disabled, the floors intermittently patrolled by Peacekeepers - just her and Mycroft on an otherwise-empty floor, allowed to spend their final hours in something resembling peace.

They never got to say goodbye. It’s the only regret: she was pulled away from Sherlock and Johanna and Bond, none of them allowed to say their last before the klaxon sounds.

Mycroft shudders awake from uncertain sleep. They dress in silence; their Arena-issued jumpsuits wait in the Launch Rooms, left to the last minute, so Tributes can’t compare notes on what they think the environment will look like.

For now, Regina dresses plainly, her hair tied back. Mycroft still looks almost unrecognisable, when he isn’t wearing a suit.

A soft surprise waits outside: Cruella, along with a couple of Avox. “Good morning,” she greets, uncharacteristically sombre. “Oh, Regina. Of all the things that awful boy could come up with. I never liked him, you know.”

“Sherlock blew it all up,” Regina replies softly, sitting at the dining table. “It’s who he is.”

None of them expected the Games to be cancelled. Regina hadn’t bothered trying for optimism; Snow wants them all dead. In a few hours’ time, he might have half his problems already handled.

An Avox hands Regina a folded note, Mycroft too. “I assume yours is identical?” Mycroft enquires, once he’s scanned his own.

“Enobaria’s barred from coming up, but wishes us luck,” Regina replies, folding the paper up again; a sparse few words, as expected from Two. A brief ‘thank you’ in lieu of a goodbye. “Merriworth too?”

Mycroft nods incrementally. “I suppose it is to be expected,” he murmurs. “I imagine the response has been suitably dramatic?”

“And then some,” Cruella huffs, an edge to her that promises unrest: the Capitol isn’t made to hold this type of pain, not when it smacks them in the face with all the force and dignity of a bullet.

Regina’s body aches with all she’ll never have - knowing, in her marrow, that she never will.

It occurs that there’s only Cruella; no sign of Pete, Mal’s assistant. “I thought you might rather prefer to work alone,” is the explanation, to which Mycroft simply nods. “Go on. You two have goodbyes to endure, I shall see you on the rooftop - don’t dawdle.”

All the food they can sensibly eat; all the sleep they could manage; all the water they can drink.

Tributes are conveyed to the Arena separately. Individual hovercrafts.

This is it.

Regina looks at Mycroft. Her husband, her best friend - and something so much more complicated than she knows how to explain. Immovable, inextricable; Regina knows all she can be is bound up in him, as he is in her. They can survive without the other, but living would be different in a set of unbearable ways.

“I love you,” she tells him, trying to pull everything together into nothing at all.

Mycroft’s breathing hesitates almost invisibly, looking so much younger than he is; an echo of the boy she met, terrified of women, traumatised in ways his beautiful mind couldn’t begin to understand.

They have grown together. The Holmeses.

“As I love you,” Mycroft replies. In plain words, for one of the few times in their lives. “I will see you again very soon, Regina. Have courage.”

Regina kisses him, very gently; he cradles her face with his long, eloquent fingers.

They part.

-

“Lockdowns in most Districts,” Anthea tells them tightly. “Riots in Capitol D, Killian.”

All the university students Killian knew, friends he’d made in that part of the city; Finnick doesn’t doubt some of them are dead by now, or have been arrested.

They, meanwhile, have not been. Finnick, Killian, Anthea, John - all four of them made it back to the flat as dawn started to break over the city, half-expecting Peacekeepers to knock down the door.

There’s no point in arresting them now. The Games are starting in a matter of hours; the damage is done. Snow might be angry, but he has the most troublesome Victors kettled into an Arena to wreak any and all vengeance he so chooses.

All the Reaped Victors did everything they could to get the Games cancelled.

It wasn’t enough.

They have not heard from Q.

Ruby didn’t make it back to the flat.

“She’s fine, Finnick,” Marian promises over the phone, of Annie; he’s been calling all night. Annie had a breakdown at the interviews, but she’s safe. The further away she and Locks are from them, the better. “She wants to talk to you, if you…?”

“Please,” Finnick asks, strained; he recognises even the shape of her breathing. “Annie.”

“Tá mé anseo,” she murmurs, I’m here, while Finnick tries to breathe and watches the television screens flick through images of the twenty-four Victors who will be fighting for their lives in a matter of hours.

Sherlock’s last recollection of Finnick will be of him bleeding.

Anthea sits on the edge of the sofa, bloodlessly pale; Killian watches the television, even his blinking exhausted; John has barely spoken.

“Tá mé sábháilte,” I’m safe, between strings of melodies that stab into Finnick’s soul and drain him empty: Annie, who Finnick can only keep safe through absence. The less they remind anybody that Annie exists, the safer she will be.

Sherlock named him and Killian on television last night. At least for a while, they’re immortal: the Capitol will be dying to see them today, in the aftermath of the interviews, readying for the most controversial Games in Panem’s history.

Anthea and John were not named. Like Annie, they’re safer forgotten; like Annie, they’re underestimated. Outside of Anthea’s brief interview with Snow a few years ago, the Capitol has ignored her and John; Mycroft thinks Snow underestimates them both. Afterthoughts, in a sea of more obviously dangerous candidates.

It’s nothing short of ironic. Finnick alone wouldn’t have survived the past few years without them.

Like Annie, they’d give anything and everything to keep them safe.

Johanna’s portrait lights up the screen, even her smile sarcastic. “What colour is the sky?” Finnick murmurs on the phone, voice cracking in the corners in ways he’ll have to hide, when they get to the Halls.

“It’s beautiful,” Annie promises. Finnick can almost see her. Settled in the Lock’s living room, her eyes closed, dreaming of dawn on the far horizon of District Four. Home. “Red sky, but…”

“... but that’s to be expected,” Finnick agrees, when her voice drops out, replaced instead with a curve of mournful melody. “Annie, I… damn, I’m getting another call. I’ll call you back soon, okay? I love you.”

Annie’s voice shivers, “I love you,” she whispers, gentle enough to follow him wherever he goes.

A pressed button later, a new voice sounds in his ear: “Finnick?”

“Ruby,” Finnick blurts out - the other three snap their heads towards him. “Are you alright?! What happened, we thought you’d…?”

“They kept us overnight, Victor housing, all the Mentors,” she explains rapidly, “I’m fine, we’re all fine, only just got out - city centre went to hell, figure they wanted eyes on us. You all alive?”

Finnick has never been so happy to hear Ruby’s voice. “We’re fine, got ourselves out of the Hall when the interviews went black,” he explains quickly, signing ‘she’s fine’ one-handed to fill in the others, “but we’ll be back there in a few hours for launch. What about Emma? The others…?”

“... no idea,” Ruby admits, “wouldn’t let us in for goodbyes, assholes - still, hell’s it matter now. Not much can be done, it’s us’ll be handling the fallout - head’s up, Snow talked to me. Says I gotta smooth things over, guessing he’ll do the same with you two - I got interviews lined up all damn day, right up to the wire.”

Finnick winces. “Spoke to you directly?” he confirms; Ruby grunts a confirmation. “Well, that should be fun. We were with the media for a good few hours after the interviews closed for mop-up…”

“... yeah, Snow said,” Ruby interrupts. “Look, I gotta go - I’ll call if I can, don’t use this number. Beetee got it for me, but…”

Finnick’s already nodding, “of course. Ruby - be safe?”

Ruby’s snort of laughter is ever-so-slightly manic. “Do my damnedest,” she agrees, then hangs up without another word.

-

Emma is alone.

Arne avoided her from the second they got upstairs last night, floor emptied of everybody - Ruby, Cinna, even Griffin. Emma had the run of the floor, mostly picking through the half-eaten food on the long dining table, her dress still smoking at the edges.

There’s nobody in the morning, either. An Avox taps on the door to wake her up, or at least, summon her; Emma didn’t sleep much.

By the looks of him, Arne didn’t sleep either. It’s hard to know what to say. “I’m sorry,” she tries, inexpertly. He looks at her blankly. Emma feels an odd prickling of shame at the back of her neck. “I didn’t want this to happen.”

Arne picks out some bread rolls, a pastry. “You did,” he replies quietly, “but I don’t blame you. I just hope to hell it’s worth it.”

It gnaws at her insides. Arne offers her a sad smile before retreating back to his room, all set to hide there for as long as he can.

Emma leaves him be, instead setting down to eat everything she can fit in her stomach. Last year was the total opposite, worried about food slowing her down, feeling sluggish or sick when the klaxon sounded - this time, knowing she’s gonna be dead soon, she eats all the greasy stuff she can find. Bacon and eggs and pancakes and syrup and cocoa.

“... you might want to slow down.”

Cinna.

Emma practically jumps on him, hugging him tight. “Hey, hey - you’re going to be fine,” he promises her, patting her back gently. “Ruby sends her love - she would have been here, President Snow…”

“... I figured,” Emma says, muffled in his shirt until she realises what she’s doing; she steps back again, sheepish. “I, erm. Sorry. Is she okay? I mean, after…”

“She’s fine,” Cinna promises her, a smile glinting like embers; like his eyeliner.

There’s nothing to say that hasn’t been said. They talk a little, though not about the interviews or the Games - Cinna talks about art, Emma talks about puppets. Normal things, until they have to go up to the roof, to the waiting hovercrafts.

They sit side by side, the hovercraft lifts up and away. Cinna types on his little handheld phone thing, Emma drinks more water, wondering distantly if she’ll regret that last pancake and remembering how it felt to be covered in flames.

It was a good way to go out. A fiery mockingjay. Emma’s final moments, the thing she’ll be remembered for: freedom, in the shape of the birds that fill up her dreams, Rue’s melody on her tongue, Prim’s smile. A pin on her jumpsuit, honouring a boy who wanted to be remembered bravely.

If Peeta could do it, Emma can. It’s almost easy.

Almost.

-

Q is exclusively subsisting on tea and terror.

The interviews were a mess. Clean-up has occupied everybody’s time; time that they really wanted to spend on rehearsals and preparation for the actual Game, instead distracted with whatever clean-up they could construct while the streets outside choked on Capitol-born shrieking bloody murder about everything and nothing.

Above their heads, the Arena lights up with daybreak; sunbeams stretch across water, the gleaming curve of the Cornucopia. Filled, this year, exclusively with weaponry.

That, and a coil of wire. Several coils of wire, in fact, which is not helpful; they’re all stacked up at the back, making it just the tiniest bit more annoying for the uninitiated to spot which one is their target.

Snow simply hasn’t been involved. Q has no idea why. As best he knows, the President has been holed-up in the observation booth all night, hidden behind one-way glass; he might not be. Fuck knows how badly the interviews have affected the Districts, there’s a good chance there have been more riots.

None of the Districts saw Swan’s mockingjay transformation.

They probably did figure out, however, that there was something being edited - a brief delay and a host of already-panicking editors made for some messy jumps, especially given that they had to try and cover that Emma Swan’s dress had a) changed colour b) had become a mockingjay and c) was still smoking while stood next to the others.

“Q.”

Plutarch nods towards Snow’s observation room, which is just great. “You’ve been called in,” he explains, eyes tight with tiredness: with a complex Game starting in a handful of hours, they have to rest at some point, but there’s just not been any time. Q managed an hour or two in the early morning, before being yanked straight back into final checks with a lot of people asking him questions as though Q has any fucking answers.

Snow glances up at him when he enters, then looks pointedly towards the spare chair; Q does as directed. “President Snow,” Q greets, dipping his head respectfully, taking a seat. “How can I…”

“Do I need to be concerned?” Snow asks, in a terrifying voice.

Q has less than no idea what to do with that, as a question. “About… what, exactly?”

Snow doesn’t look like he wants to answer, fingers tight around a delicate teacup. “You know precisely what these Games are designed for,” he states, very quietly. “I do not doubt that you have inferred, as you did last year, the current tensions the nation is bearing; thus, I will ask again - do I need to be worried?”

The man’s fingers are white-knuckled on bone china, shadows painted beneath his eyes. “I take it the interviews were disruptive?” Q asks, carefully. Snow nods. “It… you want these Games to undo the damage Emma Swan keeps causing?”

“Yes,” Snow agrees shortly, voice impeccably detached, expression neutral. “Plutarch believes the Games will be sufficient. I remain unconvinced. I would like your honest opinion on the matter.”

Snow’s observation room is sparse, insofar as fripperies: a vase of his favoured white roses; the Snow family’s seal, inset with Panem’s emblem itself, etched into bronze. Screens, holding all manner of footage - mostly, the same as the Control Room holds. The Arena; the Tribute floors; the hovercraft holding twenty-four Victors.

Mycroft sits alone in the maw of a hovercraft, sipping from a large glass of water. Eating whatever he can stomach.

“The interviews were emotive,” Q manages, as Snow’s eyes stray. “I… the Arena needs to kill as few as possible, really, except the ones we don’t care about in either direction - the Victors kill each other, allowing for a reiteration of the usual narratives, the ‘otherness’ of the Victors. That was always the idea.”

Snow glances away, back to Q. “The idea, certainly,” he agrees tonelessly. “If I wished for a regurgitation of known truth, I would not have sought you out.”

Q briefly stalls, recovers. “Exactly what problem are you trying to fix?” he asks, trying to make this into something tangible. “Punishing them? Ensuring they’re…”

“Swan has been dealt with,” Snow interrupts coolly, a statement made all the more alarming in seeing Emma Swan sat in her hovercraft - she’s alive, and looks fine. Pale but composed. “The Arena will only compel so much; avoidance is simple.”

“I take it the Careers have been incentivised?”

Snow doesn’t quite achieve a smile, too flat for it. “‘Family’ is not a notion exclusive to the Holmeses,” he comments - Q expected as much. Cashmere has Gloss on the outside, waiting for her; Brutus has a lover, though never married. Seeder and Chaff both have what attempts at family they’ve cobbled together, homes in a District already tearing itself to pieces. “I am more concerned with those Tributes who will not respond to traditional forms of persuasion. Mycroft…”

“Has too many people to protect,” Q fills in, honestly. “If he lost…”

“... Regina,” Snow completes, nodding to himself; he reaches out, taps a button on his desk. “Plutarch, join me.”

Plutarch does. Q sits in silence, as does Snow; they watch the Tributes in the hovercrafts, an hour-long journey taking them to an Arena that will hold them for thirty-six hours. “... how can I help?”

“Let’s discuss the Cornucopia distributions,” Snow states, almost light. “I rather think we can make some improvements.”

-

It takes a solid half-hour to even get through the Hall doors, through a sea of reporters still frothing at the mouth.

Killian doesn’t know what to make of the Hall, when they make it inside. There’s an eerie tension lurking around every corner, partygoers wearing the scars of a city that’s half-rioting outside, the usual routines carrying stubbornly onwards.

Anybody who’s anybody is here. The opening of the third Quarter Quell.

Killian, Finnick and John have to be in the Hall. They’re all on burner phones, ones with only Anthea’s number programmed in, so they can give her updates - poor woman’s on her own, hovering nearby in a car with blacked-out windows, just in case they wind up needing a quick get-out.

The Hall’s rammed to the rafters. All the same, there are some usual suspects missing: none of the Queens are about, boycotting on Regina-related grounds; several politicians haven’t shown, probably busy dealing with the ‘half-rioting’ problem; the Nolans should probably have turned up, given their Sponsee-slash-daughter is in the Games, but unsurprisingly refused.

They get privacy. The Victors don’t.

Most of them have clubbed together, unusually, and every last one of them high. Outside of more dedicated Mentors or the District Two lot, the remaining Victors have filled the morphling couches, determined not to spend a single fucking microsecond of this sober - something he and Finnick can’t afford, not when things are at pretty high risk of going to hell in a handbasket at a moment’s notice.

Killian looks at the stoned-out Victors, and has never envied a group of people so much in his life.

“... wouldn’t be too sure, Caesar,” Templeman sighs on screen, shaking his head, “you have to remember, he killed all his allies before…”

Betting’s up and running, of course. On odds alone, Mycroft’s the current frontrunner; Sponsor-wise, Swan’s giving them a run for their money, mostly because her odds tanked at the ‘zero’ in scoring. Bookies got spooked, so a good lot of punters came in to Sponsor Swan with stupidly favourable odds, until it sort-of evened itself out again.

Sherlock, Cashmere, Brutus, Regina and Bond are the next rung down. Their Mentors - Gloss, Diamond, Marcus, Enobaria and Woof respectively - are all running ragged, keeping on top of would-be Sponsor candidates when they’re not shooting jealous looks at the morphling’d ones.

It’s a lot, for the older Victors. Woof and Merriworth haven’t been this social in years, suddenly handling dozens of Capitol-born looking to Sponsor; Killian’s reasonably sure Alec’s helping Woof out, based on the flirting he can see from across the room, but isn’t about to go check.

Enobaria and Gloss, meanwhile, are working as hard as they can. Desirable Victors, leveraging what they have. Enobaria, especially, is pretty much drowning in Capitol-born women, spending away their guilt like it’ll make any sodding difference.

Years and years of Games. Killian knows he’s never been all that good at treating them clinically; he still remembers the names of the kids he’s watched die, much though he’d like to forget. He remembers watching Q and Sherlock and Annie, even Swan, people he knows better than he knows himself (except maybe Q, who he’s not seen in such a long time he’d’ve forgotten what the kid looks like if it weren’t for all the reruns).

Killian knows everything that brought Regina to the desperation of a human heart between her fingers; to Mycroft, perched in a tree with his mouth coated in blood. He knows what happened before.

He knows what came after.

“Let’s see what our beloved Victors are up to, shall we?” Caesar says, smile hauntingly bright as they cut to the Launch Rooms.

-

Q watches the last moments.

The Victors dress into their Games outfits. Jumpsuits, each one identical, though fitted to the Tributes’ bodies perfectly. They chat to their Stylists, if they can stand them; in Sherlock’s case, he’s bitchy enough that his Stylist eventually gives up, leaving him be.

“We are T-minus ten,” Plutarch reminds the room at large, “let’s get the last pieces in motion, critical teams primed for immediate response…”

Snow’s eleventh-hour adjustments: Tribute distributions. A plan that originally focused on scattering Tributes as far from their known allies as possible, for the sake of evenness - it’s now been tweaked. Pairing off Tributes with possible murderous counterparts; clumping the Careers together, so they can coordinate more easily.

The three primary targets, to Snow’s mind, are obvious: Emma, Regina and Sherlock. All three need to die, preferably at the hands of a Tribute rather than an Arena mechanic, as early as possible. At a minimum, they want the Holmes pack split as much as possible from the outset, leaving them vulnerable.

Mycroft will not handle losing Regina or Sherlock. Snow wants him unable to handle it.

Q swallows and breathes and watches the Tributes: Beetee, sitting calmly, almost serene - and briefed. Gold handled it back in Three, at Mycroft’s behest.

Beetee knows that there’s a plan to bring down the Arena.

“... and you didn’t think to tell me that?!” Q had screeched at Anthea, who only revealed that little tidbit by accident, when he called a night or two ago. “He knows there’s an escape plan?!”

Anthea had been completely immovable in the face of Q’s fury. “There is plenty you do not know,” she had reminded him. “For all of our safety. I thought Mr Holmes had covered this, else I would have informed you earlier; as you may recall, information passthrough has been challenging.”

Q hates her and misses her and wishes he knew what he doesn’t know, all the things they haven’t told him - like the backup plans. He knows there are backup plans, but not what the backup plans are, and of course it’s for security but all the same.

The Victors - Tributes - look so calm. Q can’t imagine how. Even the Morphlings are placid; above their heads, death waits patiently. Death that was years in the making and then years in the planning and a further year in the execution, all concentrated into a final handful of moments, the last heartbeats they’re allowed to keep.

“... the third Quarter Quell,” Caesar reminds the audience, as though they could ever begin to forget, “which will go down in history as…”

As the final Games. The very final Hunger Games.

Lights blink above his head: the trackers. Twenty-four trackers for twenty-four Tributes.

Portia’s with Bond. Q is glad he doesn’t have to be alone, even though Bond doesn’t know Portia all that well: she’s Cinna’s friend, close in turn to Killian. They talk, though Bond is distant. His mind is already in the Arena.

There is a great deal of power in Mycroft’s quiet stillness. The ownership of his loneliness, a calm that isn’t placid; it’s weighted, instead. Weighed down by certainty and stillness and breathtaking intelligence: it took a single glance of the jumpsuit to ascertain that it is waterproof, that the pouch at his waist is a buoyancy aid.

The hologram pulses in the centre of the room, perfectly circular.

“Tributes to the launch pads.”

Mags places her cane to one side. Beetee straightens his glasses, only there because he refused to let them correct his eyesight, declining them that final power over his body. Wiress shivers. Cecelia closes her eyes, her imagination taking her elsewhere; home, to her family. Cashmere fidgets with a fine chain around her neck, her Arena token.

Sherlock’s fingers play in the fringing of a blue scarf, wrapped around his throat.

They step into their tubes. Emma is last, held up by Cinna - who deftly attaches a small golden pin to her lapel, before she goes. “Shit,” Tiberius mutters aloud. “I thought we searched…”

“... her,” Plutarch completes, jaw set. “We didn’t search him. Not like it matters now. Cue 10F, 12F. I want no visibility, Martius…”

Snow was never going to fight fair. Sherlock didn’t spark rebellion - but he humiliated the Capitol, he humiliated Snow.

A final piece of vengeance.

On the bright side, Q doesn’t have to listen to the piped-in screams: all the people outside the Arena. John, Finnick, Anthea, Annie, Killian. It’s an easy enough trick - voice distortion, Q could whip a version up in his sleep if pushed - but it’s enough to sound remarkably legitimate to anybody already in a high state of tension.

Nobody but the Gamemakers watch Sherlock’s expression bloom into messy, unrestrained panic.

The tubes stay in stasis for a moment, two moments. The Tributes - all bar Sherlock, who’s trying to keep from a flat-out meltdown - are tangibly confused by it; the tubes usually move immediately, once the doors have closed.

It isn’t Sherlock who earned the truest punishment, though.

That is reserved for Emma.

-

“Almost forgot,” Cinna smiles, as he threads Peeta’s mockingjay pin onto her lapel. “There you are.”

Emma has already said all she needs to: the dress was amazing. It was all amazing. Cinna never told her what would happen - she guessed, she figured it would be something and it was.

Instead, she gives him a final hug, pouring everything she can’t say into it - then steps away, into the tube.

“Remember, Emma,” he tells her, as the doors slide shut around her, trapping her into a transparent tube. “It’s not about you.”

Cinna probably can’t hear her. Still: “I know.”

It rings kinder, from Cinna. Honest and sad; he presses a hand against the tube door, almost apologetic - she raises hers to mirror. The promises of two people who will do whatever it takes to start a rebellion Emma hopes is already starting.

The tube isn’t moving. Cinna looks just as perplexed as she is.

Behind him, the doors slam open - Peacekeepers crowd in, going straight for Cinna without even looking at Emma. “No, no,” she shrieks at them, as the ground beneath her feet shifts. “Cinna.”

Emma can only see them start to beat him with metal-plated gloves, battering him over and over until he’s limp, dragging him back towards the doors leaving smears of bright-red blood behind as she goes up, up and up, light blinding her as the lift clicks into position, her screams inaudible as she’s pulled away from him.

Sunlight glances off a golden mockingjay, pinned in place.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Templesmith announces, ringing loud through the Arena, exactly like last time, “let the seventy-fifth annual Hunger Games begin!”

Sixty seconds.

The only thing Emma can see is Cinna. Cinna, who made her a mockingjay, who was a rebel just like her only she never meant to be until she did, he treated her like a person even when she was mostly just an idea of a rebellion.

Snow wanted her to see. To hurt.

Fifty seconds.

Emma’s screams die on her tongue, cutting off as she tries to calm down and tries to figure out what’s happening, what the Arena looks like, facing towards the Cornucopia and the ticking countdown of time to the bloodbath.

Allies. She has allies, this time. She’s not alone.

Emma can’t see properly, the ground swirling beneath her feet, shards of light everywhere she looks, all of it smeared in Cinna’s too-red blood, echoing a hundred thousand times over in the backs of her eyes.

No - it isn’t her vision that’s swirling. The ground is swirling.

Water.

It’s all water.

“... may the odds be ever in your favour…”

Emma is a runner. Emma can run faster than most people, she knows how to run, she can run so fast she can fly - the winged birds of every promise she’s ever been, the name she chose and the promise she’s been gifted, air and earth are hers, as long as she can find them.

Swans may be able to swim.

Emma Swan, however, cannot.

Chapter Text

One minute.

Water surrounds Regina on all sides.

It’s remarkably easy. Simple, almost. Regina assesses the Arena layout clinically, a habit she’s been bringing back to life over the past two and a half years. Every deductive skill she has ever learned from Mycroft and Sherlock, aligned with a childhood spent running situational awareness drills.

The Cornucopia is perfectly centred on a rock-like patch of ground, dead ahead. Twenty-four podiums have been divided into segments. spokes running from the Cornucopia to the shore - two Tributes in each, scattering them in a perfect circle, rather than the usual semi-circle configuration.

Their intel was good. The Arena is shaped like a clock.

Emma is in the same segment as her, conveniently. Blonde hair, bright in the beating sunlight.

All the segments look identical. There’s no way of orientating themselves within the clock; Regina discards that thought, for now. The priority is surviving the bloodbath, the rest can come when they’re clear.

From where she’s stood, Regina can’t see much within the Cornucopia, besides that supplies are all stashed in the heart. Nothing scattered further out, the clear intention to bring every Tribute into arm’s length of one another if they want to get equipment.

That said, the design will slow down most of the obvious candidates. There’s no way of avoiding swimming. No driftwood, ropes, nothing - by extension, to Regina’s mind, negating the risk of waterborne dangers. There would be very little point compelling every Tribute to swim from the outset if the waters are toxic or infested.

It has to be said, Regina can’t help wishing Q’s warning had been a little more specific.

Regina cannot see Mycroft, nor Sherlock. Bond is locatable, a few segments to her left, scanning as she is; Johanna is on her right, two segments across, eyes fixed solely on the Cornucopia.

The rest are hostiles. Regina narrows her focus, thinking rapidly: the original plan relied on solid ground. Regina and Bond were designated fighters, aiming to get in quick and focus on hostiles. Mycroft and Sherlock would then handle sweeping for provisions, Johanna providing backup as and where necessary.

Obviously, that plan is no longer viable - bar that Regina is a strong swimmer. The priority has to be as previously determined: get in fast, get armed, then go back for anybody stranded.

Like, potentially, Emma Swan - who’s staring at the water in utter horror, looking a wreck in ways that’ll have to wait.

Ten seconds.

“Emma,” Regina yells out, hoping her voice will carry; Emma looks over at her, eyes wide and wild. “Can you swim?”

Five seconds.

Emma shakes her head.

“Stay there,” Regina orders her, as forcefully as she can - she doesn’t wait to see the reply, instead preparing herself, the final seconds dribbling away.

The klaxon sounds.

Regina dives, hearing Annie in the corner of her imagination, tutting at her form.

Swimming is not in Regina’s blood, not like Finnick or Killian - but District Two teaches their children to swim. A basic survival skill, as far as they’re concerned, patterned into muscle memory; Regina slices through the water towards the nearest spoke, noticing that it’s easier than expected. Her body made light, her strokes propelling her forward faster than she’d dared hope.

Bond can swim too, she knows. Not because of Eight; he learned in the Capitol, years ago. He’ll be on his way.

As will Brutus. Brutus can definitely swim.

Regina hoists herself up onto solid ground, on her feet and sprinting towards the Cornucopia without stopping to look, without stopping to think, knowing if she thinks then she’ll be lost, surrendering herself to her training.

Twenty years ago exactly, Regina Mills was fifteen years old, running towards a different Cornucopia in an Arena she’d never be allowed to forget, her oversized eighteen-year-old allies already turning back with sharp objects in hand by the time she caught up; they could move faster, so much taller, their strides longer than she could hope to match.

Regina Holmes is thirty-five, small and light - and the first Tribute in these Games to reach the baking hot Cornucopia.

Weapons. No food, no water - just weapons on weapons, everything Regina can think of. Knives in every variety known to man, swords of differing weights and lengths, throwing stars, axes, tridents - and happily, a golden bow Regina immediately grabs, several quivers resting alongside.

The quivers go over her shoulder, bow in hand, a couple of knives shoved into her belt; behind her, around her, she can hear the slap of water against land, the disturbed wash of bodies coming closer.

A mace catches her eye. Regina smirks to herself; Mycroft will find that amusing.

Regina tenses as a body rounds the far side, “it’s me,” Johanna pants out, mostly ignoring Regina in favour of - predictably - a pair of axes. One goes into her belt while she scans the pile, looking for a bandolier. “Nice weather for it, huh?”

Johanna was not one of the people Regina expected to see first. “You can swim?” she asks, eyes scanning the water around them: bodies coming closer, but most still struggling with the twenty-yard stretch of water between them and known ground.

“Odair,” Johanna grunts back. Regina covers her back while Johanna digs out a bandolier from the back - she chucks it haphazardly over herself, straight to lining axes along the length of her body. “Others’re on the way, saw them go - where’s Swan?”

A sound comes from the other side of the Cornucopia; if they’re lucky, Bond. “Need to fetch her - cover me?” Regina returns, not waiting for an answer before she’s heading off down the spoke nearest to Emma.

About halfway down, Ember splashes upwards from the water, trying for Regina’s ankle.

In a clean motion, Regina takes a knife from her belt, punches it into his back, and wrenches it straight out again. Ember’s grip slackens instantly, falling back with a loud splash, blood spiralling out to stain the water around him.

Twenty years since she last killed somebody in an Arena.

Turns out, it’s like riding a bike.

Regina keeps moving, horrified to realise that Emma Swan is a complete damn idiot: she’s tried for swimming.

“I told you to stay there,” Regina screeches at the girl, who’s bobbing irregularly; behind her, Haymitch is soddenly but stubbornly making his way towards land. “Fuck’s sake, Miss Swan, are you a complete idiot?!”

“I saw them doing it,” Emma yells back, furiously gesturing at the other spokes - mostly at Haymitch, who sure as hell can’t swim either, but is doing remarkably well anyway. “What did you expect me to do?! Sit there and wait?!”

“Yes,” Regina shrieks, shrugging off the bow and quivers - they won’t do well in the water - to retrieve the idiot girl.

-

“Hi,” Bond nods as he rounds into the Cornucopia, relaxing the instant he’s armed. Machete in one hand, dagger in the other. “The others?”

Johanna’s the only one here, shaking out her waterlogged hair, scanning around the Arena. “Regina’s gone for Swan - I’ll get Beetee?”

“Go,” Bond agrees, joining her in an assessment: the Tributes are drawing in, now most have figured out that the belts are flotation devices.

That, and seeing other Tributes have entered the water without dying. Bond emerged in the same segment as Cashmere; she was warier than him, a woman too accustomed to Gamemaker tricks not to check.

Any other year, Bond would have been more measured - not here, not now.

Johanna disappears, leaving Bond to finish rigging himself up, scanning what parts of the Arena he can see from this vantage: a perfect circle of water, unbroken jungle beyond. Twelve segments, twenty-four Tributes - Regina is already most of the way back towards Emma Swan’s recognisably blonde form.

Ember bobs nervelessly. First blood to Regina, by the looks of things.

Abruptly, Bond sees a figure barrelling towards him from the far side; he grabs a nearby spear, lying loose on top of the pile, immediately throws it. It impacts with a sharp squelch, puncturing clean through the chest.

Blight stumbles a step or two, then collapses.

“Bond.”

It is a very close call: Bond very nearly stabs Mycroft on reflex, given he could have sworn the man couldn’t swim. “How the fuck…?”

“Later. Where are they?” Mycroft interrupts, finding weaponry of his own. He lands on a similar setup to Bond’s, though favouring a lighter rapier in his dominant hand, swearing in a soft hiss as he scans over the many, many weapons.

“Regina has Swan covered,” Bond returns, “Sherlock?”

“Next to Moriarty, no sign subsequently,” Mycroft returns rapidly, voice empty of anything but practicalities. “Johanna?”

“Went…”

“Bond, left,” Mycroft orders; Bond obeys before he’s consciously comprehended the order, a knife whistling from Mycroft’s hand through the air to sink into Brutus’s belt, which he’s holding up as a shield - purple liquid explodes into his face, so he immediately rolls back into the water before sustaining further injury.

Mycroft curses again, “you were saying?”

“Beetee,” Bond explains, sharp, “other side - move out?”

It isn’t ideal, but Mycroft sees as Bond does: Regina has managed to get Emma back to land, bow and arrow in her grip - but standing in their way, converging as one, are Granger, Dagan, Arne and Haymitch.

Bond doesn’t want to kill his way through them. It’ll also slow them down, their backs unprotected from the likes of Cashmere and Brutus, who will undoubtedly be returning at any moment with Seeder and Chaff close behind.

Regina is armed and competent. They will reconvene when they can.

Together, Bond and Mycroft round the side of the Cornucopia - spotting Johanna, who’s hauling Beetee off out to the farther shore. “Bit of help?!” she yells, gesturing to the next segment along - Wiress and Mags are both floating cheerfully in the water, aimlessly figuring out where they might go next.

Both matter. Neither are priorities.

All the same: “I’ll go,” Bond tells Mycroft, diving into their wedge without waiting for a reply; the knives around his belt distort the buoyancy, making it that slight bit more challenging, but he reaches Wiress in under a minute.

Wiress doesn’t object, letting Bond tug her towards the nearest spoke. Mycroft is maybe a third of the way down said spoke - stalling, abruptly, as Beetee yells something inaudible. Mycroft looks back towards the Cornucopia, by now occupied by a solid mass of Careers-that-aren’t-Careers: Cashmere, Brutus, Chaff and Seeder.

Even a single glance confirms that they’re settling in to stay, at least for now. It’s a normal Career tactic. The Holmeses had considered the same, but they have too many dependent priorities; better to get in and out, then get caught up in a territorial battle.

Bond tries to propel a spluttering Wiress out of the water, “... I appreciate that, but I would like to not die,” he hears Mycroft snap at Beetee, between helping Bond with Wiress, pulling the woman to her feet.

A knife smacks into Wiress’s chest.

Wiress looks at it, mouth opening in an unvoiced ‘oh’ of surprise - then crumples over the far side of the spoke Bond just propped her up on.

“Go,” Mycroft commands Bond, unearthly power ringing through it. “Swim it.”

Bond is already halfway under.

He stays submerged all the way to the beach, salt stinging around the edges of his closed eyelids; he stays until he can feel the sloping bank of sand beneath his body, poking his head up to take a sharp breath, turning back to where he last saw Mycroft.

Surprisingly, Mycroft is already on the shore, breathing sharply. He must have sprinted most of the spoke’s length, catching up to Beetee and Johanna, the three of them getting out of range.

The Careers stick close to the Cornucopia, instead of following. Bond can see them speaking; debating whether to follow, at a guess.

“You can swim too,” Mycroft comments once he’s caught his breath, pushing wet hair out of his eyes. “Capitol, presumably?”

Bond nods. IS training, initially; Killian and Alec, after that. “You?”

Mycroft manages a bladed thing that is trying, and failing, to be a smile. “I cannot swim - that said, armed with a buoyancy aid, I am perfectly capable of urgent paddling,” he replies, scanning back around the open stretch of land - looking for the others. Sherlock; Regina. Emma Swan.

None of them are visible. “Mags, Mags,” Johanna is calling out, right on the edge of the water, “this way, come on...”

Mags is a good swimmer. Old, but capable.

All she does is bob, making no particular effort to join them.

“We have to go,” Bond tells them, watching Mags in the water; Johanna looks at him, streaked with anger. “She knows she’ll slow us down. We have to go, before the Careers come after us.”

Mycroft nods shortly, “agreed. Regina and Emma have likely sought shelter; did anybody see Sherlock?”

Beetee’s eyes are unfocused, all but vacant. “Moriarty - they went into the jungle,” he replies, looking at Wiress’s floating corpse; at Mags, embracing the inevitable. “Mycroft. I need that wire.”

“And as mentioned, I need to not be avoidably dead within the first fifteen minutes,” Mycroft retorts, more irritable than he usually shows. “We will reassess shortly - for now, the jungle. We need water, and quickly; this heat is punishing.”

Bond almost hadn’t noticed - now Mycroft’s said it aloud, he can feel the saltwater drying on his skin, the wet oxygen of a jungle not all that dissimilar to Q’s Games; the trees densely wrapped together, though no sign of the rain that Q sometimes wipes off his skin when he thinks Bond can’t see.

A set of thoughts Bond cannot afford; he dismisses them. “Injuries?”

“None,” Mycroft confirms, checking over the others, already walking towards the treeline. “Beetee, Johanna?”

Beetee pulls in a breath, turning away sharply; Johanna’s still watching Mags, who smiles at her - still smiling, as Cashmere’s throwing star sinks into the older woman’s throat.

Mags dissolves into the water she knows and loves. ‘Of the water’, as Killian described her; made of it and with, like Annie is.

The Careers start moving towards them, past the corpses they have made. Johanna doesn’t protest, when Bond touches her shoulder, startling her back into motion.

Thirty-six hours. The countdown has begun.

They leave, and do not look back.

-

There’s an inhuman cruelty to being made to watch.

It’s always been true, for as long as Finnick can remember. The Games are compulsory viewing for the entire nation. The Victors have always been compelled to watch in public, their reactions as much a part of the experience as the footage played on the large wall overhead.

Cameras cut everywhere, keeping pace. A Cornucopia, stuffed full of weapons; the Tributes, rising on their podiums, granted sixty seconds to prepare.

It happens so fast.

Finnick’s soul collapses: open water. An Arena made for District Four; for him. A strong swimmer, a strong fighter. It should have been him - not Sherlock, who jumps straight into water he can’t navigate, heading for the shore instead of the Cornucopia.

Jim is in the same wedge - and he’s Four. He can swim faster than anyone else in the Arena.

By the time Sherlock reaches shore, Jim is waiting. Sherlock’s fist goes straight into Jim’s jaw, leaving him enough of a window to sprint clear, straight into the jungle - and Finnick swallows a scream as the cameras stop caring, stop focusing, more interested in Regina reaching the Cornucopia.

If Caesar’s talking over the top, Finnick doesn’t hear it.

Johanna pulls herself free, soaking wet and swearing. “Nice weather for it,” and Finnick is dizzy, watching Bond arrive as Regina goes, Mycroft moving with dexterity Finnick didn’t think him capable of, cutting through the water in shapes he’s learned from watching them out on the reservoir.

Regina stabs Ember.

A gasp rises up around the Hall, as though it’s somehow surprising.

It isn’t a reality any of them are equipped to understand. Capitol-born likely imagine they would respond differently. It must be easy to watch from a distance, imagining oneself capable of mercy that would supersede the bone-deep human reflex to live - at all costs, every cost.

Finnick thinks it's why the Capitol is so fond of ‘Careers’, of ‘underdogs’. It makes matters simpler, if the Tributes are categories instead of people.

A spear takes Blight through the chest. Johanna’s District partner; a friend from home, whom she speaks of with loving contempt. A man who joined for poker with Killian and Alec and Bond; who laughed with them, drank with them. 

His body crumples. Bond’s expression doesn’t change.

Mycroft gathers equipment, Regina gathers Emma Swan - the cameras stop bothering with those two either, more concerned with an unexpected clutch of outlying District Victors clubbing together in a bid to get any provisions at all while the Holmeses attempt to retrieve Wiress and Mags.

The Hall gasps, again, as Cashmere takes out Wiress.

Finnick can only see Mags. In the background of every shot. Brutus and Cashmere, distance gauging; Mycroft running down the spoke of land; Bond underwater, invisible.

And Mags, waiting patiently for death to find her.

“Please,” Finnick frames, audible only to him, “Mags, please.”

The ocean of Four glitters in his mind’s eye, almost as tangible as Annie’s hallucinations: Mags Flanagan. Mairead, at home. A home Finnick grew up in, Mags a mother of District Four, fingers laced with the woman she’d loved - Lilian, who died before she had to see what became of the bronze-haired boy capable of charming anyone and anything.

Finnick joined the Careers proper when he was eight. He lived with Mags and Lilian. They loved him best, terror that he was. They loved him. They loved Killian, too; they built a life for themselves in District Four, out of Mags’s house in the Victor’s Village.

It was where Finnick first met Killian. Years ago, long before his Reaping. Finnick had been maybe nine years old, meeting one of Four’s best-loved Victors - a terrifying man with a hook instead of a hand, smelling of rum and eyes too sharp at shadows.

Mags and Lilian were his family. A time he was just Finnick, not ‘Finnick Odair’.

Mags dies in the water. Cashmere’s blade, though it doesn’t feel like a betrayal. Finnick’s not enough of a hypocrite for that.

The cameras only stray long enough to make it clear that she’s dead, returning straight back to the Cornucopia: the outlying Victors clubbed together, Careers fending them off.

Finnick doesn’t see Luella approach, before she’s folding in Brutus’s hands - like Ember, Finnick is certain it was deliberate. Both knew they didn’t stand a chance of winning. They went into the bloodbath to die, quickly and quietly.

The outlying Victors, unexpectedly, give the Cornucopia a go. Arne, Granger, Dagan and Cecelia, led by - incongruously - Haymitch; Finnick understands the logic. Cashmere and Brutus have a Career mindset, but Chaff and Seeder do not: the two of them can’t, won’t, murder their oldest friends.

It helps that both Cashmere and Brutus are occupied debating whether to follow the Holmeses. “Outnumbered,” Brutus points out. “We have time, Cash. They’re not going anywhere.”

Haymitch gets a knife, then promptly scarpers. He can’t swim and doesn’t try to, just belts back down a spoke, Cecelia on his heels, Arne stumbling on behind. Granger goes for the water, as does Dagan - they’re more confident underwater, where it’ll be harder for projectiles to hit cleanly.

Brutus’s spear sails effortlessly towards Arne - who stumbles, in time for it to skate over his head.

It punctures cleanly through Cecelia’s back. Arne recoils, almost tripping over her, before roughly shoving her off the side of the spoke. He chases off after the others, and doesn’t look back.

Cecelia stares at the sky, hair floating around her in a rough halo.

“Shit,” Ruby whispers, voice choked-off; Finnick doesn’t need to look at her to know she’s inches from tears, if not already crying. Like Woof is for Cecelia; like the morphlings do for Luella and Ember. “Shit, shit, this…”

Like Finnick wants and wishes and knows he will do, for Mags. He’ll grieve, when he can. When he dares.

Regina and Bond have both become murderers again.

Finnick shuts himself off where nothing can find him, where nothing can register, where nothing can hurt.

Six cannons fire. One by one by one.

In less than half an hour, six Victors are dead.

Chapter Text

Emma knows she’s really, really screwed this up.

Regina got her to shore while swearing a lot, mostly at her, because she tried to swim but couldn’t swim so Regina had to bail her out - while at the Cornucopia, the Careers and other Tributes all clubbed together and made it impossible for them to go anywhere close.

It only took a single look for Regina to order Emma, voice raw: “Go. We’re going. Get into the jungle, we’ll find them later.”

Emma looks at the dense trees and Regina, who’s got a bow and arrows and knives, who knows what she’s doing. “... sure?” she manages, tries, before Regina’s yanking her under cover by the wrist.

It’s darker. Quieter, almost immediately - the leaves underfoot are so dark they’re practically black, covered in vines and flowers. “Take these,” Regina orders, handing her a pair of knives, barely out of breath even though she’s been running and swimming, hair plastered to her skull. “What did you see?”

“Not much?” Emma replies; mostly, she keeps seeing Cinna. Cinna’s blood, smearing over the floor, which isn’t helpful and it isn’t what Regina’s asking. “Couple of the others, they got into the water - they were floating, paddling, so I figured…”

“Floatation,” Regina interrupts, gesturing towards their belts, still marching forward without pause. “Salt water, too, makes you lighter - I saw Johanna at the Cornucopia, Bond would’ve made it too. Sherlock and Mycroft?”

“I didn’t see,” Emma tries, apologetically, feeling very useless and very, very guilty; she can’t imagine how Regina must be feeling, right now. They’d set up for an alliance, then got separated right from the start. “Regina…”

“No,” Regina interrupts, voice slicing off part-way, eyes darting everywhere. “Only weapons, back there. There has to be water, that’s our first priority. Careers’ll need the same, Cornucopia’s too limited. Keep an eye out.”

Emma does, or tries to.

Regina walks fast. Emma’s covered in sweat, but just about keeps up as they trek uphill, Regina taking the lead in silence.

The cannon fire scares both of them. Regina tenses, Emma goes still.

Six shots.

Emma hesitates, expecting more that never come - there were ten, last year. Ten cannons, ten dead children, after a bloodbath that nearly took Emma out along with them. Clove’s knife had been sticking out from her backpack when she ran, she remembers being surprised it stuck so deep.

At least last year, it was a forest. Emma knows forests.

This - a jungle, this heat, flowers she doesn’t recognise and trees towering overhead - is something completely different.

Regina’s jaw is hard and sharp, listening to the echo of cannon fire. “I got Ember,” she says emptily; it confuses Emma for a second, before she remembers - one of District Five’s pair. A quiet man who was nice to Emma, when they talked; who avoided the Holmeses, but wasn’t nasty about it.

Regina killed him.

Before Emma can say anything, Regina’s moving again. “I…”

“We’ll probably want to get our bearings, then set up for the night,” she tells Emma shortly, looking around them. “If we can fortify, that’d be a good start - food and water, then shelter, though hell if I know whether it’ll cool down any time soon.”

“Should we try getting back?” Emma suggests, uncertain. “I mean, to the Cornucopia?”

Regina swallows, shivers slightly. “Soon,” she nods, glancing up to the sky like it has answers - like it’ll tell them whether any of the six cannons were for Mycroft or James Bond or Johanna or Sherlock. “We’ll find them. Let’s… let’s head this way for now, see if we can loop back when it's calmed down. Still a lot of hostiles out there.”

So, they walk.

It is so damn hot.

Emma couldn’t swim and they’ve lost the others and they’re in an Arena and six people are dead already.

There’s nothing that might pass for water. There aren’t even animals - nothing’s alive but the trees. Branches knotted together, beading damp like they’re sweating too, glossy in the soupy air.

Regina treks in silence.

Time dribbles around them.

“Regina…”

“I said no,” Regina cuts in, still walking forward, marching them onwards with her eyes razor sharp. “I need a minute.”

Emma doesn’t point out that she’s had several minutes, instead redoubling her efforts to find water - anything at all she can do, anything that might be actually useful; the Arena is deathly silent now the cannons are done, just their footsteps, Emma’s heartbeat loud in her throat.

There’s nothing. No water. Nothing.

Regina stops suddenly. Emma nearly walks into her. “See that?”

It takes a second for Emma to make sense of it: Regina stares off in front of them, into the jungle, eyes narrowed. “... the wavy thing?” Emma asks tentatively, seeing a ripple of what looks like heat distortion.

“Forcefield,” Regina explains shortly. “They teach us about them, back home. Don’t touch it, you’ll die.”

Emma doesn’t point out that dying in this Arena is pretty much guaranteed, for her at least, not when Regina’s been pretty insistent that she isn’t going to die - in actual fact, Regina saved her, when she could have stuck with Johanna or whoever else she saw, she didn’t have to come back.

In all her life, Emma has never felt so guilty or so useless. She survived her Games, sure, but the saviour’s needed saving every step so far because Emma knows she would’ve walked into the forcefield-thing if Regina didn’t tell her about it, and that’s only if she’d managed to get to shore without drowning in the first place.

They’re still walking.

Regina still doesn’t talk.

Six cannons fired. Six of the Victors are dead and they don’t know who.

Cinna got dragged off in front of her. Emma guesses he’s probably dead, or will be soon - Cinna, one of Mycroft’s rebel-people, one of the only people who treated her like a real person and was so kind.

“Regina,” Emma tries again, desperate to make the woman maybe even look at her. “Don’t, just let me talk? I’m… Regina, stop a second? Regina, I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn't have tried to swim, I freaked out, I got you separated looking out for me and I’m sorry, I’m not worth…”

Regina stops. Emma doesn’t nearly walk into her this time, but does nearly trip over a tree root, which at least helps prove her whole point.

Emma swallows down her guilt as much as she can, while Regina finally looks at her properly, a complicated expression filled with too many things to make any real sense of.

“I know you think you’re going to die,” Regina tells her quietly, sounding tired, “but you don’t deserve to, so I’m not going to let that happen. Allies, Emma. If I hadn’t gone back for you, somebody would have. I’d guess most of the Tributes can’t swim, you weren’t the only one who would’ve needed help. You’re my friend, and my ally.”

“But…”

“Not like you can stop me doing whatever the hell I want,” Regina points out, adding a faint smile, even if it’s so tiny Emma almost can’t see it. “What I want, Emma, is to keep you alive. Whatever it takes.”

Emma has no idea what she’s supposed to do with that. “You’re my friend, too,” she replies pointlessly, “I… shh.”

Instantly, Regina falls perfectly still, while Emma sees movement in the trees behind her head; something rustling, the noise just barely audible.

Regina is completely silent, movement smooth and slow, steady - she notches an arrow, twisting carefully on her heel at the same time, flowing lines of a single movement as she pulls back the bowstring and releases it the second she can see it clearly.

The animal collapses to the ground, shot through the dead centre.

Emma has no clue how she survived last year’s Games, seeing Regina - another Career - shoot perfectly, move so silently, swimming and running like it’s easier than breathing. It’s amazing to watch, if terrifying.

Impassively, Regina pulls the arrow free of the dead animal-thing with a squelching sort of noise, wiping it clean on its fur before putting it back in the quiver - while Emma examines it, sure she’s not seen anything like it before. Like a rat, but not a real rat; maybe more like a possum. “Mutt, maybe,” she suggests, seeing another dart above their heads. “Huh. Lot more of them now, you see them?”

Regina nods, eyes scanning over the trees above their heads. “I see them,” she agrees, looking back behind them with a tight, lined look. “Birds, too. Sure as hell weren’t there an hour ago.”

“Guess we’re close to water?” Emma suggests, her mouth gummy with congealed saliva; Regina raises an eyebrow. “They’ve gotta drink too, right? Nice shot, by the way. Easier than waiting around like I do. Did.”

Regina half-smiles. “Worked though,” she points out. Funnily enough, Emma realises, thinking about last year’s Arena doesn’t hurt so badly; not here, anyway. It doesn’t feel the same. “You want to pack that up, we’ll cook it later?”

“Sure,” Emma agrees, “though, fire’s gonna be pretty obvious…”

“It’s a small Arena,” Regina agrees, “only took an hour to get to the forcefield… actually, there’s an idea, we can fry it off of that. Electromagnetic. Assuming it’s edible, anyway, if it’s a mutt…”

Emma prods the rat-possum’s corpse. Flat teeth, fuzzy hair all over. Beady eyes. “Flat teeth, probably not poisonous,” she guesses, while Regina mutters venomous like it’s supposed to matter. “It… oh. Oh.”

Regina’s voice sharpens with alarm as Emma scrambles to standing, going towards a tree. “... Emma?”

The thing’s muzzle is damp - with flat teeth, teeth made for gnawing.

“I’ve seen it before,” she explains, grabbing one of her knives to bore into the side of a tree, “back home. Teeth like that, animals, it’s for boring into things - and if it’s got that, and it’s wet - look at the muzzle, you see it? - and if it’s wet and if it’s boring into things, then maybe, you see?”

It takes a second or so.

Emma lets out a small cry of triumph: water starts to dribble out, damp down the side of the tree trunk. “Ha,” she grins, carving in deeper with her knife until more starts to come out, flowing messily into her hands.

It’s dirty - her hands, and the tree - but her tongue darts out to taste and it’s normal, just water. “That’s… okay,” Regina manages, blinking with wide eyes, clearly stunned. “Okay. Didn’t see that one coming.”

“You can do it with sap, too,” Emma explains helpfully, water getting everywhere, filling her cupped hand - washing away the gummy, dense film in her mouth. Regina nudges her out the way, letting out a sharp gasp of relief at the taste.

They have water, they have food, they have weapons - Emma beams with satisfaction at Regina’s respectful nod, the dancing light in her eyes. “Full marks, Miss Swan,” Regina tells her, splashing water into her face.

“Back to that, huh?” Emma teases, “I’ll call you Mrs Holmes, so help me…”

Regina smiles, properly smiles. It’s the most beautiful thing Emma’s seen in forever.

Seeing her like this, Emma can almost believe it, when Regina says they’re gonna survive this thing.

-

Q vibrates with tense panic, nothing he can let show because President Snow is watching from the observation room, meaning he has to stay calm while watching an Arena full of Tributes try not to die.

Everything’s happening all at once.

Regina and Emma are fine, for now. Regina got them trekking along clockwise, they figured out the water problem. Emma even noticed the lack of animal life in their first sector; they entered the jungle at the seven o’clock sector - filled with poisonous trees, primed to start pumping out hallucinogens in a few hours’ time - before heading over into the eight o’clock sector.

Mycroft, Bond, Beetee and Johanna are still moving, though slower. They started in the eleven o’clock sector, then veered clockwise in a bid to shake off the expected Career pack: Cashmere, Brutus, Chaff and Seeder unsurprisingly followed the Holmeses once the bloodbath was done, though in the dense jungle, mercifully went in the wrong direction.

Mycroft et al missed the twelve o’clock lightning storm by a matter of minutes. The sector doesn’t look any different from those either side, by design; Q hopes Mycroft noticed something there anyway, some type of indicator - that they are exactly where they need to be, as long as they can survive the next twenty-four hours.

Mycroft noticed the trees, at least. It took him less than a minute to figure out that they had to contain water, to universal amusement.

The Gamemakers have unofficially nicknamed the various groups: ‘the Careers’, all four of them currently roaming around the ten o’clock sector; ‘the Outliers’, led by a surprisingly sanguine Haymitch Abernathy, over in five o’clock; and ‘the Holmeses’, in twelve o’clock. The fact that the Careers only contain two actual Careers and the Holmeses only have one actual Holmes with them is, apparently, neither here nor there.

Then, there are the stragglers. Axel has struck out alone, currently in three o’clock; Porter, in six o’clock.

Sherlock is the big problem - because he isn’t fighting the Arena, not like the others.

He’s fighting Jim.

Right from the start, they’re on the move. Sherlock takes the lead, long legs giving him a minor advantage - but Jim tracks each step, keeping pace, voice bouncing merrily, “I’m comin’ for you, Sherlock Holmes,” sung through the trees, a perfect echo of Jim’s first Games, his finale, “can’t run forever, little Holmes…”

An Arena so small, yet so large in practice: the first two hours are spent with Sherlock and Jim running through the one and two o’clock sectors. If the Holmeses moved a little faster, they could catch up, but Q’s impossibly grateful that they don’t; they’ll reach the one o’clock sector once the danger has passed, if they continue as they are. Safe.

Sherlock and Jim, in the two o’clock sector, are not.

“... and we’re releasing the fog in three, two…”

Two o’clock to three o’clock: acid rain. Acid so vicious even the leaves shiver, micro-droplets eating through them, rising through concealed grates on the jungle floor.

Aloysius, at Q’s side, raises the transparent containment barriers. He's polite enough to glance in Q's direction, almost nervous. Almost apologetic.

“Well, well,” Jim murmurs, watching the fog roll towards him, “would y’look at that.”

Then, he rightly turns tail and scarpers.

“Q, can we get a tendril in between them, let’s see if 4M follows,” Plutarch orders, fog tumbling through the trees, consuming all it touches in a thick pall of white, “route trajectories in, let’s see where they’re going…”

Sherlock has given up on subtlety. He had tried to move quietly before, creeping slower to keep Jim off his scent; he breaks cover entirely when he sees the fog, sprinting wildly as the fog folds in on all sides - and naturally, Jim gives chase, without any of the whooping fanfare he'd normally go in for. He just runs, a bleak energy behind his smile, dextrously dancing across the foliage while the fog rears up around them both.

That is, until Q whispers a gust of fog across his path, blocking his way; Jim hisses in annoyance, but obeys the swell, tearing away from his target.

All it takes is the wind direction, the speed of release through specific grates. Q and Aloysius have had several days to practise manoeuvring the fog if required; for the most part, they let it move on its own. Watching.

Sherlock and Jim stagger through the sector in divergent directions, already betraying symptoms: not just acid, oh no - a nerve gas, laced in with the acid. The faster a Tribute can move, the fitter they are, the worse it will be; it finds those with strong hearts, strong bodies, and turns those traits against them.

As Q watches, Sherlock’s face begins to droop. Muscles no longer obeying his will.

“... 4M on the three o’clock boundary, intersect pending…”

“Let him out,” Plutarch agrees, directed to Q: it’s his barrier. Well; him and Aloysius and the trapping team - taking an idea from concept to deployment, now the one thing keeping acid nerve fog from sprawling into the neighbouring sectors.

Keeping Jim in, too. A barrier he cannot see, doesn’t know exists; he’s stumbling towards it though, on the cusp of freedom.

It would be so much easier if Jim died now. All Q has to do is leave the barrier up. Trap him inside and let the fog take him.

"Q."

At the press of a button, the barrier blinks out of existence, just in time for Jim to stagger over the border - and with another press, is restored.

The fog presses against the barrier, smoke-like in its density. Jim doesn’t notice for a solid minute or so, too busy trying to escape it; he turns back briefly, betraying a note of outright shock at the forty-foot high wall of white left behind.

“Huh,” he giggles wetly, skin bubbling with blisters and arms jerking nonsensically at his sides, before his legs go from under him.

Q lets out an offtime breath. “Med?” Plutarch asks, eyes flicking rapidly between Sherlock and Jim’s screens.

“Pending,” a med team rep returns promptly.

The room is split, attention either on Jim - laughing inaudibly, through a ruined throat - or on Sherlock: he’s trying to keep his mouth covered as he topples down a ridged bank, the sandy promise of the beach just visible ahead of him.

He is so close.

Mist surrounds him on every side, dense around his ankles.

Q tries to focus on Jim instead, “severe acid burns, pulse and respiratory rate stable - blood pressure spiking,” the med team informs, while Jim stares numbly at a clot of bright orange monkeys who are - for now - uninterested in Jim’s presence.

“12F in three, two…”

Sherlock collapses onto the sand in a throttled heap of acid-burned skin, jumpsuit all but destroyed, limbs flailing. “Let’s clean up and out, we’re done for two o'clock,” Plutarch orders, watching the trailing promise of Mycroft and the others, “before the others intersect - Q?”

“Going now,” Q agrees, Aloysius nodding his agreement - tugging the fog to a stop, pulling it away before any more of it can touch Sherlock.

Their hoover mechanic has been so well rehearsed: they suction the fog up and away, whilst releasing a secondary gas to neutralise the acid, thinning it into little more than water. Harmless.

Sherlock’s body lies discarded in the sand, sunlight sharp and bright over his head.

The Cornucopia is - uncommonly - deserted. Unlike most Games, there aren’t survival resources to hoard or defend; a stroke of luck for Sherlock, who gasps erratically, a dark silhouette against the white-yellow sand.

Sherlock will be visible to anybody, anybody who goes looking.

“Any intersects?” Plutarch asks, glancing over the fine purple trajectory lines on the hologram: each and every Tribute cleanly visible in the tiny dish of the Arena, too small to successfully hide within.

Most of them are a solid ten to fifteen minutes away - but Sherlock’s not moving. Just staring at the sky in glazed, spasming agony. “He’ll have to wash it off quickly, he's hit worse than 4M,” another team reports - the chem team, who’ve handled the various chemical warfare attacks in this Arena. “It’ll hurt.”

“Severe burns to both arms, nerve damage to the legs - doubt he’ll be able to walk,” the med team adds, “though the longer he leaves it…”

As though on cue, Sherlock moves. Turns his head towards the water, tears blinking loosely out of his deflated eyelids. “Good,” Aloysius murmurs, eyes falling on Q; studying him, in a quiet way that's mostly ignorable.

Sherlock is long past standing, or even crawling; he shuffles instead, inching his way across the sand. A stretch that would take less than a minute to walk takes him nearer ten - but he has to wash it off his skin, he must know that.

Q keeps flicking glances at the hologram. Other Tributes, meandering around the Arena.

The tide laps at the edge of the sand. Sherlock gathers enough strength to roll onto his side, letting an eerie, barely-voiced whimper - reaching out, with arms and hands that refuse to obey him properly.

The noise he makes when his fingers touch the water spears Q through the spine.

Instinctively, he tries to pull his hand away again - though even as he does, something shifts in his expression. He tries to focus on his ruined hand, watching tiny puffs of white mist dissipate off the surface of his skin.

“He’s figured it out,” Tiberius says aloud, as Sherlock’s eyes sharpen with resigned, horrified comprehension.

Salt water into acid-burned skin. The only solution the Arena holds: washing off the acid before it can bore in deeper, the salt providing a chemical reaction that will make Sherlock’s body his own again.

Every moment agony, his body useless, sunshine streaming overhead in an Arena filled with hostile Tributes who want him dead - Sherlock looks at the water and looks at the sky, tears trickling down either side of his face, heaving in an unsteady breath.

“Oh fuck,” Q suddenly rasps - Plutarch looks at him sharply. “He’s…”

"Pain is transient," Sherlock tells Q, on the edge of a memory.

All in one motion: Sherlock sets his jaw, smacks a hand over his nose and mouth, and rolls his entire body into the water.

Q chokes on air.

“Cannons ready,” Plutarch orders, chalk white, “pain might kill him.”

Sherlock’s eyes are crazed when he breaks above water, gargling out a sound of incoherent agony, retching blood-streaked vomit; he keens out an awful, fractured noise before submerging again.

Vomit puddles on the water’s surface, Sherlock invisible beneath.

“Vitals everywhere,” the med team reports, audibly horrified, “adrenaline rocketing, pulse and blood pressure significantly elevated, risk of circulatory shock…”

Q can’t breathe, waiting for Sherlock to surface again; waiting for the inevitable report that he’s lost consciousness, blacked out completely while underwater. “I’ve got this, Q,” Aloysius promises, still handling the fog clean-up given that Q is far too occupied watching his brother dying, “it’s okay.”

It isn’t okay.

The water around Sherlock is cloudy-white.

“... movement from 5F…”

Sherlock breaks above water again, teeth clenched so tightly they could shatter. Q has no idea how he’s managed all this without screaming, convulsing in pain so all-consuming Q’s imagination baulks at even the suggestion of it, excoriating and absolute.

“... 4M conscious, no sign of movement - risk of convulsions…”

“Prep the pre-analysis V/O for Caesar,” Plutarch orders; they filmed a set of stock-footage interviews, specialists for the different problems in each sector - like a consultant chemist. Filling time in the moments that grow quiet, or offering their expertise for moments like these, “tight in on the response, I want close-ups on the pair of them…”

Minutes pass.

The clean-up is all but done. Q helps anyway, hands moving on a numb autopilot. Leaves, restoring themselves in front of his eyes.

Sherlock breaks over the water, gasping for air between sharp, high-pitched, barely-audible wails; he’s still in the shallows, gaining coordination each time he surfaces, trembling with exhausted aftershocks.

Time keeps passing and passing and passing. Tributes move, but not to the Cornucopia. The Holmes are setting up in one o’clock with an apparent intention of staying there for a while, a temporary camp. The Careers are deep in the jungle, trying to hunt down wandering Tributes, far away but not even close to far enough.

“How the fuck is he still conscious?” Quintus murmurs, as Sherlock crawls out of the water, breath cracking.

Breathing.

Slowly, he sits upright on the sand. His skin is flecked bloody - but he’s alive. Alive and delirious, pupils blown impossibly wide.

Q watches him wring out his scarf in the water. It’s peppered with tiny, flecked acid burns.

Shaking violently, Sherlock looks back from where he came; where Jim is, for all he knows, rallying for another round. He can stand, barely; Q watches him manage it, feet unsteady beneath him.

Calculation churns behind Sherlock’s eyes, trying to think, trying to make anything make sense.

A nod, mostly to himself, and Sherlock picks his way to the left. “He’ll miss them,” somebody adds, as Sherlock limps along the sand, “looks like he’ll hit twelve o’clock…”

Twelve o’clock.

Q makes an almost audible sound, strangled: even like this, Sherlock is intelligent enough to realise. Only a couple of hours into the Game, he’s stumbled across a trap - meaning he looks at the two o’clock sector, and stumbles directly, deliberately, into twelve o’clock.

It was always the agreement: if they were separated, all the Holmeses planned to convene in the lightning sector. A place they would, in the end, find one another.

Two hours in, badly hurt and almost deranged with pain - but he has this. The promise of a place he’ll find his family. His brother, even now, is less than an hour’s walk away. Settled in the one o’clock sector, completely oblivious.

Sherlock steels himself, and steps back into the jungle.

Chapter Text

The instant Sherlock’s more or less under cover, his body finally wins over his brain - he passes out beneath a curtain of vines, breathing raggedly.

Killian’s run out of anything but numbness.

Next to him, Finnick is watching the screens like he’s under some sort of spell. His expression hasn’t moved since the second they lost Mags, frozen in place all through watching Sherlock outrun Jim and acid fog and very, very nearly dying.

Most of the commentary - Caesar overhead, voices around them - is busy rambling about how impressive it is he stayed conscious. They’ve pretty much run out of words to try and explain to the nation exactly how fucking painful it would have been; the risk of shock, the mental strength needed to somehow push through it.

It isn’t strength. Killian knows it, Finnick knows it. Pain’s pain: it isn’t ‘strength’ that kept Sherlock awake and conscious and concentrating, managing his breathing, teeth pressed together to keep from screaming. ‘Strength’ has nothing to do with it.

It’s fucking practise.

“M’gonna,” Killian mumbles, voice distant even to himself, “John. Gonna. Need to find John, he’ll…”

It breaks something in him, to turn from the screen; he does it anyway.

Ruby meets his eyes, incoherently lost. “I’ll look after him,” she murmurs, nodding at Finnick’s motionless body, her own face rigid too; Finnick doesn’t respond. Killian’s not convinced he can hear anything, see anything, outside the Arena.

The party around them bubbles. Laughter. Gossip.

Across the other side of the room, Gold is keeping his eyes anywhere but the screen; Gloss is busy chatting up somebody or other. Joint mentor for District Twelve, formally, though plenty of the other Tributes are helping recruit for Haymitch - Gloss is focusing on Sherlock, keeping busy so he doesn’t have to think about his sister.

Killian ignores as much as he can, cutting through the crowds out the main room, taking the stairs two at a time.

Other than John, the upstairs med room is empty. He snaps his head up sharply when the door opens, relaxing again once recognition hits. “Killian. Are you…?”

“Fine,” Killian fills in quickly. John’s expression frosts over, almost instantly. “I… well. Figured you’d…”

“Yes,” John interrupts, attention back to the laptop he has open: a live feed of the Games; of Sherlock. Unconscious, acid-ruined curls plastered wetly around his face. “It… look. Do you need something?”

John’s entire world is Sherlock. “Nah,” Killian replies, recognising the tightly-wound grief of someone who can’t handle kindness right now; he grapples, instead, for something useful. Practical. “M’fine. Anything that’d help? I can talk to Gloss…”

“He’ll need a salve,” John states, crisp. “Petroleum-based, given those were caustic chemicals; antibiotics, if you can. Topical painkiller if… if available. I’ve seen the nerve agent before - shouldn’t be a problem, he purged it quickly enough.”

John’s consulted on Gifts before. Any Mentor’s allowed to ask, to get advice; John’s never biased, never lies. Just gives advice as he sees it. “I’ll pass it along,” Killian promises, hovering in the doorway. John doesn’t look at him. “I reckon that’s why he went in. Keep Jim busy.”

Tension is trenched deeply in John’s shoulders. “Probably,” he agrees, still not looking at Killian, almost cold.

It should have been Killian. Sherlock’s half dead only a handful of hours in, just to keep Jim Moriarty away from the others. The guilt is almost too much to bear.

“Want me to leave you be?”

There are medical instruments scattered over the floor, ones John hasn’t tried to pick up. Instead, he stares at the laptop like he could fall straight into it, chasing after a young man he’s watched in pain too many times. The Queens; the drugs; the rest. Every second they’ve known one another, John’s been holding Sherlock together.

John’s voice is completely dead. “Yes.”

“If you need…”

“Yes,” John interrupts, again. A plea.

Killian takes the hint and buggers off, back downstairs.

Nobody bothers him much. A few Sponsors come angling on Jim’s behalf, “... and you know I’ve always been a big fan of District Four,” a fuschia-painted man tells Killian, as he signs on for Jim. “Don’t suppose Odair’s got time? Rumour has it he won’t be available until after the…?”

“No,” Killian interrupts, unable and unwilling to make it anything less than ice-cold. “Go by the proper channels if you’re after that sort of thing - and anyway, if you want Odair to like you, it’s not Jim you should be Sponsoring.”

The man’s eyes brighten. “Of course!” he enthuses, “they’re friends, aren’t they? Holmes, Mason and Odair, such an unusual group - but, don’t you want me Sponsoring Jim? He’s your District, isn’t he?”

“Aye,” Killian agrees, flat, “but he’s not after Gifts. S’Jim, he wants to handle things all by himself. Make of that what you like, not my bloody problem, but Sherlock’s a more useful one to put cash behind - and I need a word with Gloss too, actually, so make up your mind and see who you wanna go for. I’ve got other things to worry about.”

The man’s clearly bemused by how Killian’s speaking to him, not that he gives a fuck; he detaches, trying to pick out Gloss in amongst the little bunches of grief-soaked Victors around the room.

Most of the Capitol-born are trying to pretend they can buy into the excitement more than their misgivings - thing is, they can’t. A set of acclaimed Victors they’ve spent a lifetime idolising, who they think they know; even the Capitol can’t hold that cognitive dissonance in their heads properly, it spills out whether they want it to or not.

Gloss all but recoils when Killian veers in close. “Jones, I’m…”

“Not staying: tip from Watson. Salve, petroleum based,” he says rapidly, “and antibiotics. Painkiller, if you can, though reckoning that’ll be expensive as all hell. Pink-boy over that way’ll be with you a sec, I reckon. Keep him out of Finnick’s way.”

“Understood,” Gloss nods, pointedly looking anywhere but the screens; Killian can see Cashmere there in his peripheral vision, hair the precise same shade as Gloss’s own. “Thanks for the tip. Now, politely: fuck off.”

“Aye,” Killian agrees, getting out the way before Gloss can get any more nervous.

He needs to make his way back to Finnick and Ruby. Neither of them have moved, unsurprisingly. There’s something about their demeanour that even Capitol-born recognise as ‘stay the fuck away’; nobody’s bothering them, mercifully.

Before he goes back, he sends a quick text to Anthea, though hasn’t the first idea what in the flying fuck he can say. He settles on we’re all fine - like John, Anthea’s probably not in the mood for sympathies.

The response comes back in record time. I’m so sorry - A. Nothing else, nothing important. Just messages to promise they’re alive, they’re safe, they’re handling things.

Most of the parties don’t wrap up until long past midnight. There’s still at least eight fucking hours left until they can go home.

“... such a clever idea, isn’t it?” Caesar narrates brightly, as Regina and Emma fry their rat off the side of the forcefield. “Guess we’ve got a bit of quiet, huh? Let’s take another look at the exciting, exciting events so far…”

Ruby nods her greeting when he sits by them again. “Is he…?”

“As best we all are,” Killian murmurs, as the bloodbath replays overhead, the highlights: Regina killing Ember; James killing Blight.

Mags waiting in the water, Johanna begging her to try. “I’m so sorry, both of you,” Ruby murmurs; Killian doesn’t watch a second time, instead letting himself believe she’s gone somewhere better. A place that’s happy; where she can be with her Lilian again.

Back in District Eight, Cecelia’s husband has become a single father to three children; in Two, Lyme is on her own, watching her ex-Mentee relive her worst nightmares.

Killian tries not to watch but there’s nowhere better to look. The Arena, or the Victors, or the oblivious partygoers - or, unwelcomely, Silva. Hovering in a corner but making no effort to come near.

The sound of Mycroft’s voice slits Killian’s skin open: “Johanna, if you’d be so kind?” he asks, nodding at a nearby tree; Johanna blinks at him. “You are our resident climber; it would be valuable to ascertain the size of the Arena, though given the forcefield proximity I imagine it is not overly large…”

It’s tiny, in fact. Barely a couple of miles from the Cornucopia in the middle, out to the forcefield; they keep showing big panning shots of the whole thing, the cage they’re trapped inside.

“I should be there,” Finnick murmurs absently, watching Johanna shimmy up to the sky with a lifetime of ease. “It should have been me.”

“Stop it,” Killian manages. “Please.”

Cameras trace Johanna upwards, until she pokes her head up over the canopy of trees, looking around: the pink-tinged sheen of the forcefield overhead, spanning in a dome on all sides; the Cornucopia dead centre, long since emptied of corpses.

For a moment or two, Johanna hesitates, looking up at the sky. Hard, older than her twenty-one years should have let her access. Beautiful, in a bitterly awful way.

“Perfect circle,” she announces, dropping down to land on the jungle floor without warning, right next to a startled Beetee. “Cornucopia dead centre, dome over the top - it’s small, real small. Couldn’t see anybody in the centre.”

“I’d estimate two miles, correcting for the angle we walked,” Mycroft muses, “which would afford a circumference of approximately twelve miles total; even allowing for terrain variance, less than half a day to traverse the full circumference.”

Johanna rolls her eyes, “in real words?”

Mycroft shoots her a bladed, amused look. “It’s real small,” he tells her, which sounds ridiculous in his accent, but Johanna laughs anyway. Even Bond manages a faintly cracked smile.

“... looks like we’ve got something exciting in here…”

Jim is in three o’clock. Stone-cold unconscious - with monkeys gathering up together, bright orange, crowding in the branches, watching for the slightest bit of movement from Jim’s unconscious body.

Has to be said: he doesn’t look good. Covered head-to-toe in blisters, seeping white fluid. Not twitching any more, at least, but his breathing sounds nasty; Killian grabs his Mentor-issued handheld reluctantly, scanning over the options - Gamemaker-suggested Gifts top of the list, including a couple of salve options.

Killian doesn’t trust the recommendations. None of the Mentors do; Gamemakers suggest things for all sorts of reasons. Plus, Killian’s spent enough time in Med C to know there’s no point until Jim’s washed the stuff off. Salve’s a waste, if he’s just rubbing caustic shit deeper into his skin.

If they’re lucky, Jim’ll just keel over. Or, looking at the waiting monkeys, twitch: they’re all hovering about, waiting for their cue to attack.

Jim’s busy breathing in a liquid sort of way; Axel - who’s in the same sector, all of ten minutes from Jim - is completely still, partway through camouflaging himself when he spotted the angling monkeys of doom and decided to leave the camouflage for a bit.

Both of them are completely motionless.

The orange monkeys wait, and wait, and wait.

“I got an appointment,” Ruby tells them, sounding throttled. “You… I’ve got my beeper, but…”

“We’ll keep an eye,” Killian promises, while Ruby trembles: she didn’t have a choice. All this shit, and she’s got appointments to deal with on top. “I’m sorry, love, I…”

“... I know,” she interrupts, reaching out, squeezing his shoulder before she goes; she does the same for Finnick, though he doesn’t respond.

Finnick has never had a full night off during the Games before. Not once.

This isn’t an improvement.

They watch, silent. “Well, I’m not going off picking fights,” Haymitch mutters, midway through bickering with Dagan, “you want to get yourself killed? Be my guest, I’m not covering your ass.”

Nobody picked up the wire. They missed it, back in the Cornucopia. Too much to handle, what with picking up weapons and fending off Tributes, trying to figure out how to follow Regina and Emma; trying to work out where Sherlock went.

It’s the longest day of Killian’s entire fucking life.

Four o’clock comes and goes, peacefully enough, There’s a brief hiccup around five o’clock, when Haymitch’s lot barely escapes a swarm of pissed-off Tracker Jackers. Arne gets a sting, but they tumble out into - thankfully - four o’clock. They’ll be safe for the next twelve hours or so, if they stick around.

About a half-hour later, Jim foggily pulls himself back to consciousness. He’s hurt enough to not even notice Axel: man’s still busy layering up camouflage, hours of devoted work he’s not even close to completing yet, making Peeta Mellark look like a total bloody amateur in the process.

“... wow,” Jim mumbles to himself, as he tries to move and discovers exactly how fucking painful it is.

Killian watches his pupils outright dilate: he’s moving - crawling his way down to the Cornucopia, to the water - but fuck if he doesn’t look rough. “I should…”

“Fuck him,” Finnick grinds out, harsher than Killian’s heard him in a long time. “Fuck him. He doesn’t want help anyway. Maybe he’ll do us a fucking favour and die.”

Finnick’s voice wrenches out from beneath him. Jim staggers, step after step, through the jungle. The whole room’s hooked on it, morbidly fascinated by the mess of bloodied, blistered person.

“... oh but wait, ladies and gentlemen, let’s take a look at…”

Porter. Time twisting over to six o’clock: she’s on her own, unarmed, trying to track down water in the blazing heat.

Oh.

That’s what a mutt-yeti looks like.

“Oh shit,” Ruby breathes, rasps, keens; it’s fucking enormous, a big lumbering monstrosity with fangs and claws and so much power, so much force, footsteps crashing through the undergrowth, “oh shit, shit.”

Killian didn’t notice her coming back from her appointment. Probably more than one, by now, he’s not sure; time doesn’t make sense any more, the world narrowing to a jungle, to Porter running as fast as she can.

One of Ruby’s good friends. A rare sort, one of the only Victors from Five or Six who didn’t go Morphling; friendly, laughs often. In the life he had before Mycroft Holmes, Killian would see her every year at the Survivor’s parties, share stories. Central District solidarity.

The mutt-yeti catches up.

Tully starts screaming. Killian can see her, just about: a high-pitched cry shaped in her once-Mentor’s name, a sound that almost drowns out the party, or the sound of Porter’s final moments - it fades out as a collection of suited bodies swarm, dragging Tully away so she doesn’t cause more of a scene.

The hovercraft has to retrieve Porter’s body in several individual pieces.

Ruby starts to hyperventilate, almost invisibly.

Regina and Emma are still in eight o’clock. They have no idea what’s in there. Regina got them set up near the sand, so they can escape in a hurry if they have to; none of them know if it’ll be enough.

Nobody but the Gamemakers.

“... a clock,” Caesar gasps, talking to Plutarch Heavensbee; pre-recorded, at a guess, no way he’s not busy running this nightmare, “what a concept, Plutarch, however did you think of something so novel...”

Good; they don’t have to pretend any more. It’s a clock. The Capitol - everybody watching these Games - knows it’s a clock. It isn’t too hard to figure out by now, with sectors lighting up one by one by one in clockwise order.

“... so we’ll get to see how our Evil Queen and Saviour - such an unlikely pair, aren’t they? - handle whatever’s waiting for them in an hour or two…”

“I can’t do this,” Finnick whispers. “I don’t… I can’t do this, Killian.”

Killian ignores him.

Mycroft looks up to the sky, expression unreadable; seven cannons now, he has no idea who they’re for. His wife, his brother, out of his reach.

Upsides: Sherlock’s figured out that there’s water in the trees, albeit slower than Mycroft did - he’s trying to bore into the trees while completely unarmed, ineffectually hacking at the trunks with shards of bark.

Killian watches Mycroft watch the sky.

“It’ll be night soon,” Regina says aloud, when they cut to her, “so the Careers’ll be hunting, if they’ve not started - guess it depends if they got ahold of water. Seeder and Chaff might know that kind of thing, don’t know if Cash or Brutus would…”

They didn’t know; still don’t. Emma’s the only not-Holmes who’s figured it out. “How’re we gonna find the others?” Emma asks - a reasonable question, as they go. “They could be anywhere, right? If…”

“We’ll work it out,” Regina promises, “but there’s no use just yet.”

Regina needs to orientate herself. Once she knows where she is, she can work out where to go next - knowing that at some point, there will be danger. Q’s not been in touch to panickedly send them oysters, so whatever trap they’re up against, it won’t kill them straight off. Escapable, like the fog. Non-lethal.

Non-lethal isn’t all that comforting, as it goes.

“... are we ready?” Caesar croons at the audience. “Let’s find out…”

The noise Finnick makes is quietly shattered, trapped in the back of his throat.

Everything is made of Emma and Regina.

Eight o’clock.

The silence is everywhere and nowhere, all-consuming, the two women side-by-side; Regina armed with her bow and arrow, Emma fidgeting with her knife, while Panem holds its breath and waits for the inevitable.

“Regina,” Emma says, quiet and frightened, “I can’t feel my hands.”

-

Regina realises it in the same heartbeat as Emma.

Her fingers move when she commands, she can see them move - but she can’t feel them. They graze against each other with no sensation, gripping around the frame of her bow, numb.

“I can’t either,” she manages, terror shooting up her throat, spiking in the back of her mouth. “Beach. Now.”

The tips of her fingers into her hands into her forearm - deadened, crawling up into her, impossible to escape.

Invisible. Stealing their bodies from them, unseen, unnoticed.

Regina tries to stand; her feet don’t recognise the ground, floating in an odd suspension that throws off her balance, making her stumble - her hands impact the ground beneath, but it doesn’t hurt, it’s just gone.

“I can’t,” Emma manages, though it’s distant, distorted. “I… Regina…”

The quiver strapped to Regina’s back stops pressing against her; her clothes, no longer tangible on her skin; the sound of Emma’s voice, withering into nothing at all.

A trap, a psychological trap; Regina tries to crawl, tries to move, panic pulsing hot heartbeats in and through her body - as she tries to keep moving, a body that isn’t hers to command properly, no sensation to guide her motion.

Emma stares at her in unfiltered terror.

It concentrates her, the terror: the Arena is clotted with Tributes, each of them committed to killing her and Emma.

Regina promises herself she won’t scream. If she screams, they will find her. They will kill her and Emma, while they’re defenceless in tomb-like bodies; probably the point, she knows. It makes them easy targets.

If Emma’s making sound, Regina can’t hear it. She can’t see properly any more either, a film sliding neatly over her vision, dimming the lights - so, she focuses on her hands, her fingers, clenching spasmodically. Anything she can see, her body actually working, it has to still be working.

Panic clambers higher and higher, overspilling; her bow falls free and her vision continues to softly, lullingly disintegrate.

It doesn’t hurt. There’s nothing at all. A perfect, complete absence.

Snow wants her and Emma dead; what better way, than to slide them out of the running in complete silence.

This might be it, this might actually be it.

Dying.

She’s dying.

Regina’s vision goes completely. Absolute darkness, deeper and richer than any she’s known - blacker than any normal dark, a type of velvety nothingness.

All she has left is her heartbeat. Thumping loudly, panicked - the last vestiges of living, a heartbeat that’s fading, breath rasping in her throat, the hundred thousand tiny micro-sensations of being alive.

It’s all going. All of it.

Inch by inch, she slows. Stops. A thready promise of a heartbeat so quiet it’s almost inaudible.

Panic taints her thoughts into something impossible, her body an unresponsive tangle of limbs, still trying to claw herself forward though there’s nothing to see, nothing to guide her, waiting for the final cessation of thought that promises she’s dead, she is finally dead, Snow finally got everything he wanted.

Emma Swan is dying without a bang, without anything at all. The face of a rebellion Regina will never see, led by a man who might already be dead.

All the cannons of an Arena built to destroy her, to destroy them.

The faint, distant throb of her heartbeat disappears completely.

Regina’s death comes with a sweeping sense of everything she’s regretted: Daniel, who loved her so much, so briefly; Graham, who deserved so much better than he was ever allowed to find.

The Tributes she’s killed, then and now; nightmares she’s harboured for two decades. A boy’s heart, hot in her hand; girls and boys in an Arena nothing like this one, corpses she created.

Jefferson and his hats, dead rather than be made to survive this; Ember, who she killed so easily, so quickly, a man who only ever wanted to live - who Regina killed, because she thought it mattered more that she be allowed to continue breathing.

Blood coating her hands. A person she became, before she knew what she was getting into; a lifetime, trying to pretend she’d ever die as somebody other than this.

Dying is so pitifully quiet.

Regina lets go.

Chapter Text

There is nothing they can do but watch.

Finnick can’t see or hear a thing outside of the Games. Nothing is real, beyond Regina and Emma.

“... a nerve agent,” Caesar narrates, his voice mercifully sombre, “cutting off every sense they have…”

There are no cannons.

Regina’s eyes range wildly, blindly; she had thrashed around, at the start, grasping out desperately for anything in the world she could feel - Finnick flinches at the terrified wail that seeps out of her throat, panic written in every line of her, clamping her jaw shut so her sounds remain trapped where nothing can hear her.

There is nothing Finnick wouldn’t do for Regina.

There is nothing Finnick can do for her, or for Emma - who has fallen completely still, fists clenched so tightly her nails are cutting into her own palm; without pain to warn her, she’s clamped deep enough to draw blood.

Fifteen minutes in, Emma starts crying. Eyes screwed shut, tears running in twin lines down her face.

Killian and Ruby are silent. There’s nothing to say.

The party continues around them.

Regina keeps thrashing, from time to time. She looks like she’s investing every single part of herself into not screaming; unnecessarily, as it turns out. The sector has been locked down, trapping their victims inside. Keeping other Tributes out.

They knew to expect it. Psychological torture. Traps designed to break the Tributes down, weaken them.

In all his life, Finnick has never known time to pass so slowly.

Around the room, Capitol-born are getting bored - watching the two of them on the jungle floor, Emma’s sobbing turning into prolonged whimpers, twisting her body up into a foetal knot that can’t be untied.

Regina starts choking out tiny sounds. Pleas; then, names. Mycroft, James, Emma; whispering apologies again and again that Finnick can read on her lips, a hundred thousand apologies she can’t voice.

His own name frames itself in her mouth. A sound he’s heard a hundred thousand times and ways from the moment he met her; Regina’s impatient need to be needed, playing out in Finnick for the past decade.

Forty minutes.

Regina’s whispered sobs can’t be heard over the party around them. Killian convulses like Sherlock does in the early stages of a seizure, minute contractions emanating from the core of his body.

“... try the soup, darling, it’s divine…”

Capitol-born couldn’t hope to understand how appalling it truly is. Traumatised Victors, trapped in their minds, helpless.

Fifty minutes.

Emma is twitching brokenly. Regina is hyperventilating in perfect silence.

The cameras drink up every second of it, which is how Finnick knows it’s for them - for the Victors left behind. A reminder that no matter how bad they think it can be, there will always be something worse; something that drills into the basest fears every Victor holds, while Capitol-born drunkenly tut that it’s “not so bad, really” and brag about how much better they would handle it, mocking that there’s no need for all this fuss.

“Help me,” Emma breathes, emptied of hope.

There are so many things worse than dying.

-

Emma’s hands hurt.

It is the first clear thought she’s had in a long time: her hands hurt.

It’s muted, though. Distant. Like it belongs to somebody else.

A second or two later, Emma realises that the wild drumbeat in her veins is her own heart; it pulses frantically, faster than she can keep track, nothing’s making sense any more, nothing works the way it’s supposed to.

Light seeps through her eyelids, stained red.

Emma remembers how to open her eyes.

The jungle is dim - but she can see it, she can see the leaves, the filtering light through the branches, a dark orange sky Peeta would have loved the colour of, a ripped-out sound ringing in her ears. A sound Emma didn’t know she could make, along with panicked breathing she can actually hear.

She’s alive. She’s okay.

Leaves twitch in the air over her head.

Regina.

“Regina?” she asks, her voice hoarse; as she shifts, her hands spike annoyed pain up her arms - they’re wet, weirdly. Wet, slick. “Regina.”

Panic starts to rear up - then she sees her. Regina.

Regina is laying on the ground, in a cradle of moss, eyes staring wildly - she looks so lost. A lost little girl, not a grown woman.

Standing is too hard. Emma doesn’t try - her muscles ache, burning with rigid tension, straining like they could shear right from her bones.

Instead, she crawls. Every inch sends stabbing pain along her forearms, but she doesn’t care, she’ll never care about pain ever again because she can feel it, she’s still alive, Regina’s alive.

Regina watches her through huge eyes. “You weren’t supposed to die,” she breathes, looking at Emma like she’s a ghost. “I was going to protect you.”

“I’m not dead,” Emma promises, the only thing she’s sure of now - she’s alive, they are both alive. “Regina - I’m here, this is real. It’s over. Whatever it… whatever that was, it’s over, we’re okay. We’re okay.”

Numb, Regina just stares at her. “I’m sorry, Emma,” she says, after a painfully long time, her eyes dancing around the jungle emptily; tears trickle out of her eyes, unnoticed, something very wrong with it - Regina shouldn’t cry like that. No adult woman should still know how to cry like that.

Emma pulls Regina into a hug.

She realises the wetness on her hands is blood. It’s all up under her fingernails.

Regina doesn’t respond, limp in Emma’s arms. “It’s okay,” Emma promises, over and over again. “We’re gonna be okay now, Regina, we’re okay. It’s over. It’s over, we’re going to be okay…”

Tiny sobs reverberate in Regina’s body, so small it breaks Emma’s heart - inch by inch, reforming, twitching back to reality as the Arena darkens into nighttime.

Emma holds on for dear life.

-

Q places every single thing about himself into a box somewhere, telling himself that in a day or two, he will be able to unpack that box again and when he does, he will have time and space to process literally any of this.

“Spile in for Johanna,” somebody says, from across the room. “In five, four…”

The parachute lazily wends its way towards the ground.

Bond spots it first, eyes tightening in the corners: his internal sense of time must be warning him they’re nearing ten o’clock, a trap they can’t survive - he tenses in expectation of oysters. A warning that they need to move, and quickly.

Johanna plucks up the capsule, pushing the parachute to one side. “Finally,” she tells the sky, tutting under her breath - opening it to reveal the spile. Bond relaxes incrementally. “Ha. Told you he’d get us one - hell of a lot simpler this way. You take it, Mycroft, you’re the clever one - lose you, we’re all screwed.”

“I think Beetee might have opinions on myself being the ‘clever one’,” Mycroft teases, fumbling the spile when she throws it, “... a regrettable point and example proven, it would seem.”

Johanna snorts with laughter; Beetee hums, under his breath. “Clever is one thing,” he points out, “but it’s how you use it that counts.”

“Heard that before,” Johanna smirks, a joke that’s lost on Beetee and ignored by Mycroft - Bond is the only one to respond, visibly fighting off a smile of his own. Cheerfully, Johanna whacks an axe into a tree, carving out space for the spile. “So. Who’s thirsty?”

“Let’s cue up the anthem, portraits ready,” Plutarch orders, “final checks on movement?”

Nighttime means camping. The Careers haven’t run into a single problem thus far, so have unsurprisingly decided to pitch up undercover in the jungle; eleven o’clock won’t be enjoyable for them, but that’s a problem for later - for now, they’re more concerned about water. Optimistic Mentors have tried sending in bottles, but it’s prohibitively expensive.

Emma and Regina are still in eight o’clock, down near the beach. Q thinks it reasonable to state that they responded fairly poorly to an hour of sensory deprivation.

“All static,” the report returns, “though nine o’clock are primed in case of movement.”

Nine o’clock: zombie-mutts of past dead Tributes. A ghastly version of Primrose Everdeen staggers through the undergrowth, Peeta Mellark behind her; a little further back, a boy whose face is probably less recognisable than one of his organs, but would definitely finish off whatever’s left of Regina’s sanity if she got face-to-face with it.

Q hopes to all things unholy that Emma and Regina stay put.

“Anything to note?” Plutarch checks, with the dedicated Tribute-teams; unlike the last couple of years, they have committed teams already set up, rather than waiting for a thinner field of Tributes - meaning a whole team is devoted to watching every line of dialogue, every voiced strategy, every twitch of their expressions.

Mycroft, Beetee, Johanna and Bond should have the wire. They do not have the wire. They need the fucking wire.

That, or their backup plans must be spectacular, but it’s not like Q’s allowed to know though not-knowing is driving him completely insane. “Tea,” Aloysius offers, pushing a mug towards Q. A mug Aloysius bought him, celebrating him joining the active team last year. “I’m… I’ll stay around, overnight. I guess you won’t go home?”

Q can’t imagine trying to sleep, or think, or breathe anywhere that isn’t here; at least here, they’re 1M and 12F and 2F and they’re not people, they aren’t people, they cannot be people, 3M is nothing more than 3M, as Q was and Tick was and Mr Gold once was - if he leaves this room, he’ll implode.

As it is, he texts Silva, who’ll text Anthea, who’ll text the others. Check-ins. Safety.

Aloysius seems to understand without him needing to say it.

“... and we’re live on my count,” Plutarch nods, “Allies and District partner reactions as priority, then we’ll want replays of the kills themselves - Tullia, get Caesar to remind them, we’ve only had one Arena death. These Victors are returning to form.”

Tullia nods, already part-way through conveying as much to Caesar, who’s narrating - ramping up the anticipation, the big reveal, for an Arena of Tributes who don’t yet know who’s alive or dead.

The Capitol seal is bright in the sky, the anthem bouncing around the Arena.

Wiress is first.

Realisation is instant: Mycroft and Bond have almost identical responses, exhaling relief; Johanna makes a voiced sound of relief; Sherlock sags, like his strings have been cut, head flopped back against a tree.

Every Tribute from One and Two are alive. Mycroft and Regina.

Regina lets out a sharp, incoherent sound. Emma holds onto her. “We’ll find him,” she promises. “I swear, Regina, we’ll find them…”

Q stares at Wiress’s portrait.

It was impossible to know Beetee without knowing Wiress. An inspired mind, though never able to present it; the Capitol saw an ashen-skinned woman in Beetee’s shadow, incapable of understanding that Beetee went from brilliant to incandescent when Wiress was at his side. Symbiotic.

Mags comes next.

Naturally, Jim doesn’t seem all that bothered; it’s Sherlock who pulls in a hurt breath, though he doesn’t look shocked.

Johanna looks at Mags’s face, mouth in an unhappy downturn. “I’m sorry, Finnick,” she says aloud, mourning for her and for him; a woman who was loved, in the time she had. “I’m glad I got the chance to know her.”

Ember next, then Porter; District Five are out of the running for the year, which should be awful but Q can’t help feeling it’s kinder.

A thought confirmed by Axel: Luella’s portrait shines out across the Arena, Axel’s District partner - he moves, slow but certain, three fingers to his lips, “cut away,” Plutarch orders sharply, before Panem can see him mourn. “Close on 7F, and…”

Blight. “I know you want to stay - but you have to get some sleep,” Aloysius tells him, as Q watches Johanna’s expression close down: they weren’t close, her and Blight, but it still hurts. “You’ve been on-shift since yesterday, you’re going to burn out. Drink your tea, then take an hour or two?”

The portrait is replaced by Cecelia - enough to fracture Bond’s breathing, if only for a heartbeat.

Q watches them all in an Arena and feels Aloysius’s eyes on him, pressing too deep. “I can’t,” he manages, “I…”

“None of them are in critical sectors,” Aloysius points out. “Just for an hour or two - I’ll beep you, if anything changes. Anything. Any of them move, I’ll get you right away, you won’t miss anything. Okay?”

Q has slept for maybe a handful of hours in the past two days. If he’s eaten, he sure as hell doesn’t remember it. “The wave,” he points out, numb. “You need me for it. I’ll stay for that, then. An hour or two. Yes?”

Aloysius looks softly frustrated, but nods anyway - trying for empathy, under the veil of somebody who still gets to treat this as a job; a job where he can go home, sleep without spending the rest of the night hearing Regina making choked, terrified sounds under her breath.

She’d said his name, too.

“I’m going to run the pre-checks,” Q states, bringing the sector up on his console, refusing to look at Aloysius’s expression. “We’ll need a retrospective on the… the barriers, in the affected sectors, I…”

Aloysius makes some sort of response. Q doesn’t hear it.

Twenty-seven hours to go.

-

The portraits stop after Cecelia, replaced with the Capitol’s seal. Regina, Sherlock and Emma are alive.

Bond does not indulge his grief. It will hold until after the Arena; an Arena that’s been kind so far, probably by sheer luck. That could - and realistically, will - change quickly.

“Sorry for Blight,” Bond tells Johanna, detached; not a condolence, but an acknowledgement - he killed her District partner.

Johanna shrugs incrementally. “He was an asshole, most of the time,” she tells him, meeting his detachment with harsh dispassion of her own. “Made it quick?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” she nods, which is exactly as much as she’ll say on the matter. Bond understands.

Thankfully, nobody comments on Cecelia, and nor does Bond intend on broaching the subject. Beetee turns away the moment he can, pointedly pretending to sleep, forbidding commentary on Wiress’s death either.

Seven in total. It’s remarkably low, for the first day of a Game.

“I’ll take the first watch - the rest of you, sleep,” Bond tells them, aware that he’s too wired to try sleeping himself. It would be a waste of time. “Johanna, objections to taking second?”

“Nah,” she shrugs, before Mycroft can try to volunteer himself: Johanna’s the next-best fighter, younger and faster. They need Mycroft for his mind, primarily, something that will degrade if he doesn’t sleep. “If you need me, shout.”

Mycroft clearly contemplates arguing, but sighs instead. “Quite right,” he agrees, “though I would far prefer to…”

“... sleep, idiot,” Johanna mutters at him, lying back, eyes already half-closed. “You’re not a teenager any more, can’t pull a whole Game without sleeping - go the fuck to sleep, or I’ll knock you out.”

Bond smirks; Johanna winks. There’s no question she’d do it, too, if it came down to it.

Faintly martyred, Mycroft duly lays back, head resting on a pillow of moss. “Noted,” he concedes, closing his eyes.

They attempt to sleep, with variable success. Bond remains standing, occasionally moving silently around the perimeter, scanning the treeline with an ear out for unexpected sounds that may serve as a warning.

It must be an hour or so in when Bond hears, distant but clear, a crashing sound: a roar, somewhere to their right-hand side. Anticlockwise from their current location.

Q’s wave. Ten o’clock.

The dark is everywhere, dense, bar seeping pillars of moonlight through the trees; Johanna gasps herself awake every ten minutes or so, every stray sound igniting her panic; Mycroft descends into frozen nightmares, unearthly still, skin pale white on the black-soaked earth.

Beetee’s eyes are open. Bond does not comment.

The Arena is lit by an overbright moon when a gong sounds.

Mycroft and Johanna both jerk upright, hands clutching their weapons; Beetee freezes, belatedly going for his own knife.

The echoing, steady gong-like sound bounces around the Arena.

Silence. “Twelve,” Mycroft murmurs aloud - and, as though on cue, they’re all startled by a flash of bright lightning.

It’s close, very close. They must be in the one o’clock sector, judging by distance, two at worst - two o’clock would be tedious. Acid rain, according to Q’s intelligence.

If Bond’s worked that out, Mycroft and Johanna certainly will have done the same. The only person without pre-knowledge that the Arena is shaped like a clock is Beetee; a risk they chose not to take, adding another person who knows too much. As it is, the more stressed they become, the more risk of revealing they know more than they should.

That said, Beetee does know that there’s a plan for evacuation; a plan that involves lightning.

“Lightning,” he states quietly, snapping a sudden glance to Mycroft. “My wire. I told you. There’s always a way, it’s what I know, it’s what I do. We all have our tricks, Mycroft. Something of me, something of you.”

All the stories they have to tell, narratives to cover their true intentions.

Mycroft’s eyes narrow. “Conductors?” he asks, which clearly makes sense to Beetee - who grimaces, before breaking into a smile that Mycroft somehow knows how to interpret. “Ah; trenches, then? It would require baiting.”

“Set the trap, leave it be,” Beetee hums, shrugging faintly. “Away from the source.”

Mycroft makes no effort to try explaining to Bond or Johanna. “Then we prioritise locating our errant associates?” he suggests instead, “though we ought to test the viability somewhat more strenuously, particularly in the instance that your favoured method is no longer accessible…”

“Hey, dickheads - for the rest of us?” Johanna snaps, looking between the pair of them. “Explain.”

Mycroft looks at them both, as though he can’t fathom why they’re not keeping up. “Beetee’s specialism is electrocution, as his name suggests,” Mycroft replies; a name he had long before his Games, though very much made good on the promise of, “thus we are contemplating strategy - ideally, something akin to both of our previous Games.”

Johanna’s eyes harden. “Killing them all off in one hit?” she confirms, voice flat - Mycroft and Beetee both rank among the not-many Victors who managed mass kills. A half-dozen each, betrayal and electrocution respectively.

“Yes,” Mycroft agrees, unapologetic, as lightning continues to light up the sky. “Hence Beetee’s preoccupation with wire - you believe you saw it in the Cornucopia? Are you quite sure?”

“I invented it, it’s not something I’d forget,” Beetee agrees, smirking smugly, a smile Bond has seen a hundred times on Q; not now. “I saw it, Mycroft, it was there. It’ll work. It has to work, you know it will.”

“... so the plan?” Johanna prompts, before Beetee and Mycroft can set back into their bickering.

“The wire in question is composed of a highly conductive, atypically stable material,” Mycroft explains, “thus, on the reasonably evident assumption that the lightning will return at some provocation or another…”

“... what?”

“The gongs,” Beetee hums, “heralding the lightning; cause and effect. If we know what triggered the gongs, we know what triggers the lightning; if we have the lightning, we can use it. Timing. Timing is everything.”

Mycroft nods his immediate agreement, “we will need to establish a pattern, though I imagine that will become evident with time,” he continues, in the exact same tone Bond knows from a hundred thousand briefings in the Holmes flat. “Additionally, it would be beneficial to examine the site - though, perhaps, not until it has died down. We will need to locate the wire in due course, assuming it has not been moved; we will also need to retrieve our allies, prior to any mass-electrocution ventures.”

“Too thick for snares, they wouldn’t know how,” Beetee adds, confidently. “It will be there.”

They are, as a group, altogether too good at lying.

It’s a plan. “Works for me,” Bond agrees, privately relieved. A plausible story is enough to keep them going, allowing them to push ahead in the right directions. “Finding the others will be harder.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agrees simply. He does not elaborate.

Twenty-four hours left to survive.

Johanna catches his eye, a level look Bond knows how to parse: they don’t have the right people, they don’t have the wire they’ll need, they have a slower spare - Beetee - and a threat pending once the lightning storm has finished.

They also now have a good reason, any good reason, to return to the Cornucopia. Bond would have pushed to go back sooner, if there’d been a single reasonable excuse that wouldn’t arouse Gamemaker suspicion. There are very few justifications for returning the most visible, most dangerous part of the Arena for nothing more than a coil of wire, less than twelve hours after a half-dozen Victors were murdered there.

Lightning dances across the Arena. The longer Bond looks, the more convinced he is - they must be in one o’clock.

Johanna is, without question, thinking the same as Bond: Mycroft is the priority. They need him out of range.

“We should scope out the Cornucopia,” Bond announces, therefore. “Nighttime, Tributes will be asleep. Only good time for it. Yes?”

Mycroft’s tension is barely discernible. “That seems… potentially suicidal,” he points out drily. “The moonlight renders the Cornucopia highly exposed…”

“Assess the Cornucopia, get the wire back while it’s abandoned, get back here before daybreak,” Bond continues, a story of his own; something, anything, he can use to temporarily prise Mycroft out of the sector until the danger’s passed. “If we want to figure out where the others are…?”

“... I’ll keep watch with Beetee,” Johanna agrees, though her jaw is slightly tight: offering to stay behind, to weather whatever comes at one o’clock, when the storm has passed. “You’ll be faster by yourselves. It’ll only take an hour or two, right? You know Bond’s right - no use in a plan if we don’t have any of the stuff we need. Go.”

Tension curves along Mycroft’s spine, though he’s polite enough not to keep fighting a battle he’s already lost. “Kindly keep yourselves alive, if you would be so kind?” he tells them both, lingering on Johanna.

Naturally, she doesn’t give him an inch. “Hurry back,” she sing-songs, mockingly. “You get me all to yourselves, Volts, how about that?”

Beetee’s laugh trickles off his lips, “hurry back,” he echoes, looking meaningfully at Johanna - she rolls her eyes dramatically, shooing them away, banishing them off into a differing set of dangers.

Mycroft straightens up, blade in hand. “We shall not be long,” he assures the others, then looks to Bond. “Shall we?”

They do.

Chapter Text

Q’s proud of himself: a whole two hours of sleep. Completely free of nightmares, too, though mostly because his body gratefully keeled over the second he gave it permission - Q stayed just awake long enough to handle the wave and corresponding clean-up, before passing out in a side-room.

Consciousness is a very unreasonable state to inflict on sleeping Gamemakers. “Q?” Aloysius asks, voice gravelled with exhaustion of his own, “Mycroft and Bond are on the move, thought you’d want to know - I’m tagging out if you’re okay to go in. Oliver’s covering the rain clean-up, but he’ll need a babysitter.”

“... nngm,” Q manages, which is as eloquent as he’s going to achieve at half past midnight on this little sleep and this volume of stress, “hang on, m’awake, it - anything I, did I miss anything?”

“Nope,” Aloysius replies, clambering up to the top bunk of the bunkbed they’re sharing. “I’ve got my beeper, if you need me.”

Q’s fairly sure the man is already fast asleep by the time he’s stepped out of the room, back into the steady hum of Control - featuring a sleep-deprived Plutarch, an equally sleep-deprived set of still-working day crew who mostly haven’t managed to cleanly hand over to their respective night crews, and a handful of actual night crew who are trying to help cover whatever needs covering on any team coherent enough to get full sentences out.

Plutarch is standing upright through, Q assumes, sheer force of will. “Welcome back,” he nods, as Q slides into his usual chair. “1M and 8M returning to the Cornucopia - do we have the viability analysis yet?”

“Working on it,” somebody snipes back, rather tersely. “Q, can I get your eyes on this, it’s your fucking wave…”

“... calm down,” Plutarch comments, tone an outright warning. The Gamemaker in question nods an apology that Q accepts without bothering to be offended - this’ll be the theme for the coming days, Q knows, and there’s no injury intended from people who are mostly just doing their best to stay sane.

Q hasn’t left the Gamemaker suites in way, way too long.

can’t fucking sleep, he texts Silva, on a phone he knows is monitored by the IS - meaning he doesn’t get nice little updates, like whether the non-Arena Victors are all still alive and accounted for. They didn’t even try for codes, fully aware that Snow’s people will be cheerfully looking out for anything suspicious they can find.

No unnecessary risks. They’re so fucking close, so close to the end.

It doesn’t surprise him that Bond was the one to call it. Mycroft and Beetee thought up a convenient story, then Bond pushed the issue: they’re going back for the wire, under the glare of moonlight almost as bright as the sun, bouncing off the waves in the Cornucopia.

Regina and Emma sit together, just inside the treeline. They can’t sleep, too terrified of the dark. Haunted.

The gongs woke everybody up, it seems: Sherlock’s also awake, every inch of his exposed skin painted green. “... ointment?” Q asks, looking at the goblin-form of his sibling; Plutarch nods, though distractedly, busy looking at the trajectory lines. “Anybody have a direct line of sight?”

Plutarch glances at him, nodding his gratitude for the idea before calling “line of sight checks?” into the room at large; he’s the only Lead still conscious, bar Tiberius. And Q, who isn’t a Lead but keeps getting treated as one for no explicable reason. “Not going home today, then?”

“Maybe this evening, but it’s better this way for now,” Q shrugs; there doesn’t seem any use in lying. “I assume eleven o’clock went smoothly?”

“Tiberius, can you send Q the debrief on eleven o’clock?” Plutarch prompts; it pops up on Q’s console screen barely three seconds later, “though before you look at that - the strategy the Holmeses outlined. I know you’ll need some time for the full analysis, but on face value: what are your thoughts?”

Q takes a second to arrange his thoughts into something resembling a sensible lie, unhealthily conscious of Snow’s presence in the observation room - the windows are dark, the President safely ensconced. Even Snow needs sleep.

“Beetee has always preferred proxy executions,” Q considers aloud, “and the wave will help - damp sand, widening the conductive perimeter. Major concerns would be whether that volume of water actually can act as a suitable conductor - large bodies of water aren’t good conductors, counterintuitively, and Beetee may not know that - and also, that volume of electricity along a single-strand wire will definitely set fire to nearby foliage, if it’s dry enough.”

“Might not be an issue,” Tiberius muses. “The trees are genetically modified in that sector, conductive but less flammable; might be more of a problem right on the treeline, though.”

Plutarch nods his understanding, “let’s get that reviewed in the viability analysis - I want a draft in ten, Paeon, rough-cut will do,” he orders, “and where’s my line of sight? Thank you, Adrik, up in the centre.”

As bidden, Adrik sends the golden-yellow radiuses off into the central hologram. Each Tribute clump, all directions they can see, broken where they’re cut off by trees. “Hard to gauge,” Adrik admits, “there’s a lot of movement.”

“Show me the Outliers…”

Q ignores whatever Plutarch’s gotten interested in, instead reviewing the events of eleven o’clock: the Career pack, beset by a horde of oversized dog-like insects with pincers that have quite the fondness for blood.

Cashmere did not do well out of it, nor Seeder. Alive, but injured. Still no closer to working out the water-problem, so nastily dehydrated along with the rest; they’re effectively out of commission until further notice, which is no bad thing given that Mycroft and Bond are on the move.

“Q, erm,” Oliver - night shift cover for Trapping - starts, “I, erm. The… the rain cleanup. I looked at the… the perimeter models…”

It is Oliver’s first year joining active teams for the Games. Twenty-two years old, his first job out of university - and three whole years older than Q, though Q could swear he feels about forty whenever Oliver speaks to him.

Q solders a smile into place, twisting to look at Oliver. “Yep - what broke?”

“I didn’t, I mean…”

“What happened,” Q corrects, heart clamping, wishing passionately for the workshops of District Three; for things that broke, things he could fix. Things that wouldn’t chase him into nightmares, haunted by people he should have grown up loving. “Show me.”

Oliver does so. Q watches him fumble through basic mechanics, correcting him along the way - while in the corner of his eye, Beetee curls up on a makeshift bed of moss, Johanna standing guard over him.

There isn’t a single memory Q has of working in Three - actual work, not Gold’s shop - that doesn’t feature Beetee. The boy he was and the man he’s becoming, all of it exists with Beetee’s inflections, rhythms of speech, accent. Voice.

“... I’m sorry,” Oliver tells him anxiously; Q isn’t sure who thought it was a sensible idea, giving Oliver an active crew position - he’s terrible under stress. A comment Q actually wrote in his performance review a few months ago, back in a life that feels unimaginably distant. “I thought I had this down, I practised…”

It throws Q back a solid decade and a half: maybe six or seven years old, apologising wildly from inside an inch-thick coating of soot, back in the days Beetee seemed tall. “You’re learning,” Q tells Oliver, borrowing the words of a man who will be pelted in body-temperature blood in less than twenty minutes’ time.

Blood rain. The one o’clock sector: a torrent of rain that looks and tastes and feels exactly like blood.

Oliver smiles nervously. “Do you mind if I shadow you?” he asks, shakily grasping some more confidence. “I mean, when you’re… during the day-shift. I want to improve. You’re one of the best in here, I know that.”

Q is rescued from needing to respond by Plutarch: “Q?” he asks, startling him to attention. “You’ve got a visitor.”

“... a what?”

Plutarch’s mildly aggrieved expression is completely merited. “Raoul,” he tuts, “which I assume means he’s still kept ahold of his entry pass, though I thought Francisco took it off of him the last time…”

“... can’t keep him from places he wants to be,” Tiberius smirks, shaking his head, almost fond; Silva was a Gamemaker, for a time, something Q often forgets. Not a long stint, compared to people like Plutarch and Tiberius, but somebody like Raoul Silva leaves their mark in any workplace.

They liked him. It’s visible, in Plutarch. “True,” he smirks, ruefully amused, “but he’s here for you, Q, so mind seeing what he wants and sending him on his way? If you can get him to give up his entry pass this time, I’d be very obliged.”

Q huffs out a humourless laugh, “yeah, like that’s likely,” he mutters, which Plutarch and Tiberius both chortle at - despite the absurdity, despite Silva being possibly the only person in the whole of Panem who could make their way into the Gamemaker buildings and not get shot on sight.

Silva has been a Capitol staple for years. Q forgets that too, sometimes.

No power can remove Silva beyond Silva’s will; Q stands up - briefly blinking black spots out of his eyes, blood pressure tanking - before wending his way out of the Control Room.

Silva stands, bold as brass, in the corridor outside. “Ah,” he hums, smiling cheerfully, “there you are, dear boy - I was beginning to worry they’d never let you out.”

Q stares at him in abject disbelief. “You know you’re not supposed to be down here?” he informs the idiot; of course, Silva is completely unfazed. “I thought you’d at least be in the foyer, you…”

“... alas, here I am,” Silva hums, kissing Q on either cheek in a fond greeting. “I thought you may wish for something to eat, hmm? I know what you’re like.”

“You’re not my mother,” Q manages, weakly indignant - though, he takes the tupperware anyway. Silva’s a really good cook, it’d be a waste not to. “The fuck are you doing? I’m… working.”

Silva smiles amiably, nodding towards the tupperware. “Bringing snacks.”

“I am in no mood,” Q snaps, “I… I need to go. Have to, I can’t do this right now, didn’t you get my text?”

“Yes, but you didn’t respond after that - I was concerned,” he points out, as though Q was being somehow unreasonable in ignoring Silva’s pointed vagaries, as though any of it could possibly matter right in this moment. “Q. You didn’t come back yesterday, your shift…”

“... I can’t do this right now,” Q repeats, this time with more emphasis, “Raoul…”

Q trails off, standing stupidly in a corridor filled with models of Arenas gone by; his own, Emma’s from last year, Mycroft’s and Bond’s, Arenas that failed to kill people while he watches them all get killed all over again.

Silva looks at him; looks, seeing all the things Q cannot afford to show, he can’t deal with this. “You must sleep,” Raoul says quietly. “What do you need?”

“I don’t know,” Q mumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off any suggestion of tears. “I need… I need to go. They’re going for the Cornucopia, the Holmeses. Wire’s still in there, at least, but I’m on the one o’clock… fuck, fuck, have they said it’s a clock already, is that public? No, yes, they did, sorry - sorry - yes, so, I’m on one o’clock, so I need to go prep it, and you need to not break into secure buildings, you’re making people nervous.”

The building is quiet, at this time of night; passing Avox shoot Silva worried looks, a confused Gamemaker or two passing by with lingering glances in Silva’s direction. “I miss it,” Silva comments, smiling faintly. “I’m sorry, sweet thing - I shall leave, but you must rest. I know this is… hard, hmm? You will work today?”

“Yeah,” Q murmurs; he’ll be in Control for the next few hours, at a minimum. Sleep if he can - when he can - during the daytime. If he can get Oliver’s confidence up on handling the ten o’clock wave, he can leave that in their hands; pretend he’s going home, catching up on sleep for as many hours as he can.

Instead, he’ll be fleeing the fucking city.

Huh. This time tomorrow, he’ll be on a plane with Silva and the Arena will have fallen.

Assuming they haven’t died in the meantime, that is.

“Please rest,” Silva asks again, worry lurking behind his eyes. “You do better work when you’re rested.”

Q knows he’ll need to be at his best, to take down the Capitol’s security. The non-Arena Victors - and Plutarch’s group too, actually - are relying on him and Silva to get them out of the city in one piece. “I’m…”

“All is well,” Silva promises, grave enough that it holds the parts he needs to hear - Finnick and Killian, Annie, Anthea, John. They’re alive. Safe. “Go on, Q. I will be waiting. All you need do is ask.”

Q has to trust him. There isn’t another option.

So he nods, fingers tight on his newly-gained tupperware, slipping back into the Control Room without another word.

-

Killian meanders through the longest night of his entire life in a haze, hoping against hope that it’ll wind up soon - letting them out of the Hall, somewhere private, so they can piece themselves back together enough to survive the rest.

It’s all gotten numb. It had to. After a while, he forgot how to hurt; he watches the Ice Man, the Evil Queen, in an Arena. Strangers, shiny and perfect and distant.

If he tries hard enough, he can almost split it out. Pretend that Regina Holmes’s sobs are something completely different to the sounds the Evil Queen is making; that the Ice Man freezes in his sleep, but not like Mycroft used to.

“... a good evening to you all.”

How about that: he’s so numb that he doesn’t get the normal surge of terror, hearing Raoul Silva’s voice. “Fuck d’you want?” he asks instead, noticing Ruby sharpening with clearly murderous intent.

“Muddled,” Silva states simply, which is the first thing to rouse Finnick in hours; he glances to Silva as fingers trail beneath Killian’s chin, pulling his head around to look up - a touch he knows way too well, enough to make him shudder. “There you are, my sweet thing. Now: Q is safe.”

Ruby’s voice is a sharp hiss. “Back off,” she snaps at him. “Now. Not today, asshole, have a fucking soul.”

“S’alright,” Killian interrupts, before she actually goes ahead and attacks the man - it’s nice, knowing she’d do it. If it came down to it, she’d cheerfully rip his bollocks off and beat him to death with them.

Silva knows it too, a cold smile on his lips. “How sweet,” he murmurs, fingers still tight on Killian’s chin, while Killian tells himself it’s for show. It’s all for show. “A clever little plan, is it not? Quite the piece of fortune that it still waits for them.”

The wire’s still there. It won’t be a wasted trip.

“Q alright?”

“Yes,” Silva agrees, simple and pure. “All is as it ought to be. A new world waits for us, Killian; a new beginning.”

Feathery panic flutters against Killian’s sternum. “You done?” Killian asks, more wobbly than he wants it to sound; Silva quirks an eyebrow, a shrug of sorts. “Then, go away. Leave me be.”

He doesn’t. Of course not. “You care so deeply,” Silva murmurs, intimate, “so much - remember what I told you, Killian. A world elsewhere; but we both know, do we not? Creatures like…”

“... I swear to fuck I’ll rip your throat out,” Ruby interrupts, violent enough that it jolts Silva straight out of his usual philosophical fuckery, fingers tightening so they dig right into Killian’s flesh. “Back off, Silva. Not tonight, you hear me?”

Silva looks her up and down, at Finnick, back to Killian. “Hmm,” he says, the opening of a thought that never completes itself - before disappearing, melting back into the party without another word.

Ruby waits until he’s safely out of the way. “You okay, honey?” she checks; he nods, the ghost of Silva’s fingers the only thing left behind, along with the usual sense that there’s something he’s missing. Like Silva’s trying to tell him something but he can’t, for the life of him, figure out what.

It feels so fucking pointless. Irrelevant, for once - Silva can be his usual fucked-up self, it doesn’t matter.

“... and back to our intrepid duo, making their way back to the Cornucopia,” Caesar narrates, as they cut away from Jim - who mostly, is just dicking about in various segments, trying to track down Sherlock again. “Shall we take a look?”

It’s a beautiful Arena. A crystal clear night, one Killian would give anything to sail beneath - moonlight dancing off the water, off the dull gleam of the Cornucopia, illuminating the two men stepping out from the cover of the treeline.

“Something has disturbed the sand, a water level adjustment,” Mycroft murmurs to Bond, eyes ranging over the sand. “Obliterating most obvious tracks, I regret to say - no indicators of nearby activity.”

Bond simply nods, “let’s move,” he mutters, both of them stepping out of cover, sweat beading on their foreheads; the night has not made it any cooler, looking at the pair of them. They’re fit enough that the sweat on their foreheads isn’t exertion.

Mycroft hates hot weather. Bitches about it, each and every summer, avoiding the sunlight at all possible costs; ice doesn’t do well, in heat.

Twelve, nearly thirteen hours in - they’re still alive. It’ll do, for now.

Even Sherlock, despite the fact that he was in the lightning sector during the electrical storm - he got his rubber-soled shoes grounded, curled up into a tight ball with his hands clamped over his ears, a lonely green-skinned gremlin with lightning cracking around his head on every side.

For the last few hours, they’ve been less than half an hour apart - Mycroft, and Sherlock, close but never close enough. They showed it on the maps for a while, the Capitol all excited by the thought.

“If somebody sees them,” Finnick mumbles, like his mouth is working without permission, “if they…”

Ruby tries to take his hand. Finnick flinches, swallowing speech back down again. Ruby doesn’t try a second time.

Bond and Mycroft step along the nearest spoke, into the Cornucopia. Mycroft goes first, Bond close in behind - they keep a careful watch, trying to catch any suggestion of movement from within the surrounding trees.

“I’ll look, keep watch,” Mycroft commands, already scanning for the wire in the mess of discarded or unwanted weaponry; it got knocked over right back in the bloodbath, rolling towards the back, beneath the table.

Mycroft doesn’t see - or maybe just ignores - the blood spatter, left behind by long-removed corpses.

The rain starts without warning.

Finnick makes a small sound under his breath, as Beetee and Johanna are suddenly hit with a deluge of rain - Mycroft and Bond are yanked off-screen, replaced with rain so dark it’s almost black, making it hard to see Johanna and Beetee within it.

It doesn’t reflect properly, it doesn’t look right; it starts to settle, leaves and trunks and the two of them, the two of them drowning in rain that’s thicker than it should be, viscous.

Red. Crimson red.

“Blood,” Ruby rasps. “That’s blood…”

The screen splits in half: Mycroft and Bond in one half, Johanna and Beetee in the other.

Mycroft and Bond have no idea, of course - Mycroft’s busy attaching the wire to his belt, while Bond assesses the beach. “Anything else?” Bond asks tightly. “While we’re here?”

Johanna and Beetee stumble blindly, choking on blood.

“Movement evident in a handful of sectors, though none in our immediate vicinity,” Mycroft says, scanning the Arena efficiently. “Move out.”

Beetee is blinded, and choking, and it’s getting worse rather than better. It’s not quite drowning; he just can’t breathe, he can’t get a clear breath in without inhaling the stuff - he tries to look down, to suck in lungfuls of oxygen, battered by the force of the blood hammering on his back.

Bond grabs up a back strap, sliding a spare sword along his spine. “You never know,” he shrugs by way of explanation, giving Mycroft a faint smirk, before the pair of them begin back down the Cornucopia’s spoke.

Johanna fights through the thick pall of constant blood, stumbling - until she suddenly topples forward, out into clean air, crumpling in a heap and spitting up crimson, coughing, wheezing in desperate gulps of oxygen, body soaked.

The screen splits into three: Johanna, spitting blood; Beetee, battered by the rain; Mycroft and Bond, still moving out from the Cornucopia.

Mycroft suddenly stalls mid-step, so abruptly Bond nearly loses his balance. “Blood,” he manages, seeing the rain in the sector they vacated. “I know that smell.”

A fourth split: Sherlock, who sits bolt upright, hearing somebody coughing - swearing - not very far away.

“Fuck,” Finnick whispers: his two best friends side by side, if only for this moment. “Fuck.”

Killian can’t even bloody remember the last time they needed to split screen like this during a Game, let alone at one in the sodding morning; there’s so much happening all at once, scattered around Arena, so close but not close enough.

In the rain, Beetee gives up on stumbling around: he curls forward instead, face towards the ground, concentrating on breathing. Balled-up and drenched, right through his clothing, all the way to his marrow.

Sherlock is unarmed. In spite of it, he starts to weave silently through the trees, steps delicate and careful. Killian can almost hear him speak, on the fringes of his imagination: “Balance of probability,” in his arrogant way. “Single Tribute rules out Careers - chances are, then, that they’re a friendly.”

“No cannons,” Bond points out, while Mycroft’s still frozen in place, staring at the rain with too-blank eyes. “They’re fine, they’ll be fine. They’ll get themselves out, you know that. Move, Mycroft.”

Johanna shudders violently, the rain still falling endlessly behind her.

Beetee is completely still.

Killian inhales sharply as two sectors collide, merging into one single frame, briefly pushing the others away - leaving Sherlock, who stares in shock at the blood-soaked creature in front of him.

“Johanna?!” he manages. “What the fuck?!”

Johanna looks up sharply, bending in sudden relief as she recognises him, fingers clamped around the handle of one of her axes in readiness; she looks at Sherlock, mottled green but breathing.

“Hi,” she rasps, then vomits up blood.

-

The rain has definitely unnerved Mycroft. Even now they’re moving, Bond can see him casting it too many glances, more than is merited.

Mycroft is distracted; so, Bond monitors the Arena. The rain is unideal, but not their problem: assuming it’s only rain - rather than rain with something to hide - then it’s simply a case of waiting for it to pass. If they can get into the lightning sector, then that’s twelve hours of security.

They’re almost to the beach when Mycroft sees something on their left side. “Movement,” he hisses; Bond lowers his centre of gravity in immediate readiness, while Mycroft scans closer, eyes sharp. “It… Regina.”

Bond doesn’t have time to say a single word before Mycroft is running.

Fuck the man and his long legs; he darts along the last stretch of the spoke, Bond alongside, trying to keep an eye out for trouble given that fuck knows Mycroft isn’t bothering - too busy staring at Regina, an instinct Bond feels in his bones but is really not ideal from a safety perspective.

Regina disappears briefly into the treeline, emerging holding Emma Swan by the wrist.

Thank fuck.

Subtlety has died a death: Regina runs along the sand with her bow drawn and Emma close behind, all of them sensible enough not to shout, at least.

Mycroft steps off the spoke.

Bond spots movement to his right-hand side.

“Down,” he bellows, past caring.

A throwing star glitters in the moonlight as it soars through the air, slicing through both Mycroft’s sleeve and the arm beneath - he lets out a sharp sound, twisting around on his heel, while Regina grinds to a sudden stop to release an arrow.

It takes Granger through the throat. The cannon fires.

Bond barrels straight off the point of the spoke, towards the remaining three hostiles - Haymitch, Arne and Dagan - with his machete raised; they take one look at them, at Emma, before turning tail in the opposite direction.

Regina’s next arrow flies wide. Bond is reasonably certain it’s deliberate - just as Bond quite deliberately pulls back his running speed, chasing them off into the trees so he has an excuse not to kill them.

They vanish. Emma catches up to his side, immediately going for the sword strapped to Bond’s back. “Allies, right?” she asks, between pants for breath; Bond lets out an odd laugh, one she almost matches.

“In,” Mycroft hisses, at the trees, “we’ll have been heard, go.”

Bond immediately ducks towards the treeline - Mycroft is right, of course, they will definitely have attracted attention, all of them moving as quickly as their legs will allow them, into the dark shadows of the jungle.

“They won’t follow,” Bond says shortly, “Haymitch’s set, they - fuck. Careers - fuck, move, move...”

Chaff emerges from the opposite side of the Cornucopia. He doesn’t see them, just watches the hovercraft as it descends - the teeth of the crane lowering, scooping up Granger’s nerveless body, carrying it away to something resembling safety.

Bond follows the others into the maw of the jungle, out of sight.

Chapter Text

Regina shudders out sharp breaths, unable to think - too wired, too terrified, bow readied as they try to establish whether they’re safe; if the Careers caught sight of them, in the few seconds of crossover.

“No indicators suggesting occupation,” Mycroft comments, looking around them, his voice as calmly detached as ever. “I doubt any would pursue, with the dangers the jungle presents - let’s take a moment, shall we?”

They’re safe, at least for a second.

Regina outright falls into him.

Mycroft understands, somehow understands: his own trauma aside, she needs him, needs the steady safety of him. “Mycroft,” she breathes into him, trembling as his arms fold her inward, “fuck, fuck. Mycroft.”

“What happened?” he asks, made of the calm professionalism Regina has always trusted; it sinks into her, granting Regina the first heartbeat of peace she has known since her body became a coffin.

Emma fills in the gaps while Regina’s still trying to figure out how: “Sensory deprivation,” she explains, equally haunted. “Don’t know how. We were sitting there, then we couldn’t feel anything, or see or hear… it was just, nothing. Like we were dead.”

Mycroft’s hand cradles the back of her head tenderly, promising he understands. “I’m here,” he reassures her, her voice of reason, “I’m here with you, and you will be alright. Have you two eaten? Drank anything?”

“Regina shot down a rat thing, we figured out the water’s in the trees,” Emma explains, hollow - too young, far too young to be made to survive this, but Regina can’t handle it any more. Mycroft has to take over, to be the adult, to tell her there’s a plan and promise it’ll be over soon. “You?”

“We have a spile,” Bond provides, monitoring the trees around them. “I’ll get some in a moment - take the far perimeter, confirm we’re clear.”

Emma does as directed, relaxing now she’s surrounded by competent adults who aren’t Regina. “You seen the others?”

“We were with Johanna and Beetee until an hour or two ago,” Bond tells them, a reassurance that melts Regina’s spine, “but split up to pick up some wire in the Cornucopia - Beetee and Mycroft had a plan, using the lightning. Did you see it?”

Regina nods faintly, face hidden in Mycroft’s front. Both of them were awake when the gongs sounded, her and Emma. The lightning came just afterward, visible from way across the Arena, lighting the way to someplace safe; they’d started to move towards it, in fact, when Mycroft and Bond showed up.

Mycroft’s speech vibrates in his chest, making no move to prise Regina off of him. “Your hands, Miss Swan,” he adds; her bloodied hands, where she dug her nails into her palm - something neither of them were in a good state to clean up, with Regina half-mad and Emma a semi-suicidal teenager. “Do you require assistance?”

“Your arm’s bleeding everywhere, priorities,” Emma snipes, to which Mycroft lets out a vague harrumph of annoyance. “No, seriously…”

“It is far from a mortal wound; I shall see to it in due course,” Mycroft replies, refusing to let Regina go, putting her first, “now, before we make any further plans - I have a theory, insofar as the Arena’s design, that will likely be of relevance.”

Plans. Regina found Mycroft and Bond, there’s a plan. Emma isn’t just her responsibility any more, she has two other people to help figure things out while she shudders out the last of her terror in the safe familiarity of his hold.

It takes her a moment. He waits for her, his hold gentle but sure; she pulls away, looking at him properly. Deducing him, in her own way, as he no doubt has done her.

Unhurt, bar the wound to his arm, bleeding stubbornly. Skin flushed with heat, glossy with sweat, thin lips pale with the early stages of dehydration. Early shadows beneath his eyes, tight with stress.

That, and something Regina knows only she is practised enough to spot: he’s too professional, expression fixed in place, a vacant hardness that isn’t his to control any more - too stressed, overwhelmed by emotions moving too quickly for him to weather.

“Oh Mycroft,” she murmurs gently, moving far enough back that he needn’t try to process touch on top of the rest. “Thank you.”

Somewhere beneath, she can see the tiny flicker of wild apology. “Of course,” he replies, crisp, but twitching the corners of his mouth in an attempt at a smile he can’t truly make real; not here, not now. Panem is watching.

“You said you have a plan?” Emma prompts edgily.

Mycroft dips his head in a detached nod, “of sorts; I believe the Arena is designed to resemble a clock.”

Finally, finally they can let go of that pretence. Regina leaves it to Emma to offer the obvious: “huh?”

“You heard the gongs, prior to the lightning storm; somewhat indicative by itself. The sound rather resembled a grandfather clock; the toll of midnight.”

“Or a cuckoo clock,” Emma adds, though barely audible - her friend in Ten, Regina knows. A woodcarver, who taught her how to make puppets and dreamcatchers; a man she may never see again.

Regina steadies herself, as Mycroft continues his reasoning: “As we know, the Cornucopia is divided into wedges - so too, the jungle itself. When the lightning struck, we were in the adjoining sector. A sector which, at approximately one o’clock, was assaulted with unnatural rainfall, in an Arena that was unusually regimented from the outset; might I ask when your attack took place?”

“Before the pictures,” Emma murmurs, “erm. The anthem, I mean - we got our senses back, then…”

“... perhaps eight or nine o’clock, then - which, I would note, matches where you emerged from,” Mycroft agrees, “which - on the assumption the theory holds - places us at five o’clock; meaning that we have a few hours safe from Arena assaults. The cannon fire will have woken the other Tributes, making it unsafe to attempt a return trip at this time. Thus: I would suggest we allow the next couple of hours to recuperate, then make our way back to Johanna and Beetee. Distemper in the anticlockwise sector ought to provide sufficient warning, not to mention confirm the theory.”

“How d’you know it’s clockwise?” Emma asks, eyes narrow. “Could be random. Shaped like a clock, but random wedges.”

Mycroft graces her with a faintly impressed smile, dipping his head in acknowledgement. “An excellent consideration,” he agrees, to her clear delight, “but equally, there is an artistry here that Gamemakers tend towards; a mystery to be solved. A puzzle. Comprehending the puzzle does not negate the danger - equally, it does not negate the problems presented by other Tributes. Arenas are designed to present challenge; challenges can be overcome, else there is no elegance to be found, no artistry. At least, that would be my supposition. Assuming the theory holds: any objections to the plan as iterated?”

They don’t have to lie any more. “None from me,” Regina agrees exhaustedly, though part of her aches for the others - Johanna, Beetee. Their allies, wherever they’ve landed. “Any sign of Sherlock?”

“No sign,” Bond replies, before Mycroft has to. “Works for me, as plans go. Let’s get some water first - Emma, grab something to hold it in, the denser leaves should be waterproof. Mycroft, spile.”

Bond stabs a knife straight into a nearby tree without preamble, digging it in a few inches, deep enough to hold the spile.

A sudden dance of movement rockets adrenaline back through Regina’s body, a silver flash - a parachute. “Fuck’s sake,” she mutters, snagging it irritably out of midair, seeing the ‘10’ etched into the lid. “Looks like yours, Emma.”

Emma catches it easily when Regina throws it, snapping it open. “Water pouches,” she grins, delighted, “guess it’s so we can carry it around, when we’re all moving - enough for one each…”

All of it is finally, finally coming together. Mycroft’s holding the spool of wire, they have pouches for water, they know it’s a clock and they know where Johanna and Beetee are - it’s just Sherlock left now, then they’ll be together. The last parts of the plan falling into place, with less than a day left to survive.

Outside - a long way away - the others are waiting. Killian, Finnick, Anthea, Annie, John. People she misses with every atom of her being; who she’ll see again, in a day or two, when they’re freed from this nightmare.

Regina can’t close her eyes without seeing Granger, or Ember, both dead at her hands; without terror that promises she’ll never open her eyes again, she’ll never feel, she will die, defenceless, beneath a forcefield-painted sky.

“Rest,” Mycroft tells her. “Inasmuch as you are able; I will protect you, Regina. You have my word. With me, you are safe.”

Moonbeams glint through the trees over their heads.

Regina tries to rest.

-

The party is slowing down, Capitol-born finally dribbling away: it’s nearly over. They can go home soon.

Finnick watches his two best friends reunite; a rerun, technically. The cameras were too busy drinking in Regina killing somebody - again - to bother showing it live.

“You look like shit,” Sherlock tells her bluntly, while Johanna spits up blood, retching it out of her system; he looks behind her, at the almost unbroken sheet of falling rain. “Who’s behind?”

“Beetee - don’t go in there, blood rain,” she rasps, managing to stand enough to look at him properly; his acid-ruined jumpsuit, every millimetre of exposed skin stained green. “The fuck’s… what happened to you?!”

Sherlock looks almost confused, before he remembers how much of a mess he looks: “Acid fog,” he tells her. “I would not recommend the experience. It might hold the honour of being the single most painful experience of my life to date.”

Johanna coughs out a barking laugh, “and that’s a hell of a statement,” she mutters, sloughing blood off her face with the blade of her hand, shuddering at the sensation. “Good to see you alive.”

“And you,” Sherlock agrees, granting her a bladed smile. “Let’s get you cleaned up, you’re a walking horror show.”

“Says the moving vegetable,” Johanna snipes, lacking some of the acid she’d normally shoot out so easily; rattled, deeply rattled, staring down at the thick blood coating her body. “So you worked it out, huh? The trees?”

Sherlock confiscates one of her axes, wheeling around to hack into the side of a tree with alarming force. “I’m a Holmes,” he shrugs arrogantly, smirking as water seeps down the side of the tree; Killian lets out a tiny, fragile bubble of barely-voiced laughter. “Speaking of which - my family?”

The better part of a day, delirious with pain; nearly ten hours not knowing if the seven cannons he had heard were for the people he loves - Finnick’s heart broke in watching him, the relief painted so transparently on a man who has never been capable of hiding himself as well as he wants.

“I was with Mycroft and Bond,” Johanna explains, “until they went off for some sort of wire, back in the Cornucopia - you saw the lightning?”

“I’ve been here for several hours,” Sherlock says, by way of a reply; Johanna raises an eyebrow. “Oh yes. Can confirm, it’s a lightning storm, though what the fuck are they doing with wire, it… oh. Oh, that’s brilliant; no, no it isn’t, conductors?”

Finnick half-smiles, half-laughs: an almost perfect echo of Mycroft’s kneejerk response. “Hell if I know,” Johanna mutters, scooping water into her mouth, gargling it and spitting out dark pink. “I don’t fucking know, Sherlock, they were saying something about electrocution, I… did I miss any? Cannons?”

“While you were…?” Sherlock checks, nodding towards the curtain of blood. Johanna nods. “Nothing. We should get to the beach, see if they’re…”

“... I need a minute,” Johanna interrupts, her control fraying - evident enough that Sherlock can spot it, the tells Jo gets when she’s barely holding herself together. “Don’t touch me. I’m fine. I’ll - Beetee. I couldn’t see him, when it started, just stumbling around gagging on it, damn lucky I didn’t hit the forcefield…”

“Nowhere near deep enough into the sector,” Sherlock tells her, which is likely his attempt to be reassuring; she shoots him a sharp, irritable look. “He’ll be perfectly fine, Jo. Shelter or the beach, most likely - we can retrieve him when…”

The rain continues, an unbroken line.

Sherlock’s eyes widen, a sharp flare. Finnick smiles, in spite of himself. “Oh,” Sherlock gasps, at the unnaturally sharp curtain of blood - running along the edge of the segment, never overspilling. “Oh. It’s a clock.”

“What’s a clock?” Johanna snaps, trying to get blood out of her eyes.

“The Arena,” Sherlock babbles, “the gongs, the lightning - the gongs at midnight, you heard? An hour or so of lightning strikes, then in there - clockwise - the wedges, from the Cornucopia, it’s divided into segments of a clock. You were in there, what, ten minutes? Fifteen? The fog, I thought at the time it was early for a trap, maybe… two, three hours after the Games began? It’s a clock. It’s a clock.”

Everybody underestimates them, always have. Sherlock, invisible in Mycroft’s shadow; Johanna, who everybody dismisses as aggressively obtuse. Finnick himself, either too stupid or too damaged to possibly have a mind of his own - the three of them. Too young, too reckless, too irresponsible, too damaged.

Finnick watches the pair of them impeccably pretend they are learning - determining, for the first time - that the Arena is a clock. Their acting is flawless.

In watching, he knows he should be there. There, by their sides. “We should find the others,” Johanna adds. “They’ve not worked that part out yet, the clock - you get rid of Jim along the way?”

“The fog,” Sherlock explains, “but he’ll be looking for me, without question. The priority was always to distract him during the bloodbath; prescient, given that he doubtless would have been first to the Cornucopia, had he attempted it. As I understand it, very few others could match him for swimming prowess, in or out of an Arena.”

They don’t say Annie’s name. Finnick breathes. “You’re an idiot,” Johanna snipes, “but, thanks. Bloodbath wasn’t pretty, you know? Mags and Wiress didn’t make it out, I think Mags… she knew she’d slow us down.”

“I wondered if she might,” Sherlock admits softly. “Quick?”

Johanna nods, “I know Finnick…”

“... don’t,” Sherlock interrupts, flaring with sharp panic that doesn’t quite make sense, “it, before the bloodbath, it…”

The cannon fire slams into Finnick’s spine - but worse for Sherlock and Jo, both of whom flinch outright, stiff.

(Regina’s arrow flies into Granger’s throat.)

Sherlock and Johanna breathe erratically. “They went out there?” Sherlock confirms, breath fluttering on the edges of his green-stained lips; Johanna nods stiffly, looking into the endless deluge of blood while Sherlock looks down towards the beach. “Fuck.”

The rain falls; they stand in silence.

“If it’s them…”

“... then we’re safer here,” Sherlock interrupts, toneless, eyes slightly glassy. “We can… if it…”

“They were going to head back, after,” Johanna explains, “so, better we hang around. Can’t all be chasing around this damn place, they told us to stay put - we wait it out, find Beetee, they’ll find us here when they can. Yes?”

Sherlock lets out a small, hollow noise. “Yes,” he agree. Winces, when he looks at Johanna again. “And get you looking less… less. A spile would be marvellous, Gloss, if you’re inclined to be passably helpful…”

“I got one, it’s with Mycroft,” Johanna adds, cupping water in her hands, trying to clean off her face. Sherlock twitches at the name, his mind barely under his own command. “Concentrate, asshole, your freak-out can wait. Do you have food?”

Sherlock shrugs incrementally, “I had a large breakfast,” he drawls, provoking a gargling laugh from Johanna, “and you’ve ingested enough blood to keep you occupied, I’m quite sure; a new nickname for you, perhaps? ‘The Vampire’ is certainly an improvement on ‘Axe Murderer’, or Caesar’s habit of calling you ‘pocket rocket’...”

“Asshole,” Johanna repeats, but she’s smirking anyway, getting off what she can while Sherlock stands guard.

They are alive.

“Finn, mate,” Killian prompts, as the Tributes start to calm by inches, wherever they’ve landed around the Arena. “Finnick, we can go - we should head now, before anything else happens.”

“Time?” Finnick asks emptily.

Killian’s voice is distant, soft. “Nearly two - s’all slowing down, alright? We should move now, while they’re… while it’s quiet, right? Ruby, you good to go?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs; it occurs to Finnick that she’s probably mourning Granger. Another dead Victor, another friend, her death overlooked in favour of her killer’s reaction.

Beetee’s still trapped in the one o’clock sector, huddled in the rain.

“... such an exciting day,” Caesar adds, the cameras returning to him now the excitement is passing, has passed, “so let’s review, shall we? Some of our brave Tributes have figured out the big secret of this year’s incredible Arena…”

The gleam of Caesar’s grin returns Finnick to himself, reminding him where he is: another Capitol party, another year, another Game. Finnick Odair, as everybody expects him. “You have it playing?”

“On our phones,” Killian agrees, “Anthea’s right outside. We’re going - up you get. It’ll be alright.”

Finnick moves with habitual grace, his legs watery beneath him. “Okay,” he agrees, his expression matched in Killian and Ruby. Capitol masks, dead behind the eyes - dead enough to ward off interruptions, something bleak in them that even the most ambitious Capitol-born won’t invade.

Cameras flash, blindingly bright.

“... how did it feel, watching…”

It takes herculean effort not to respond. Finnick knows he’s a reasonable way past anything resembling ‘tact’.

Instead: for the first time in his life, Finnick Odair ignores every single camera pointed in his direction, shrugging off attention to slip into the safety of Anthea’s car without a single word offered.

Anthea’s eyes are puffy, bloodshot. The instant the doors have closed, she pulls away, mouth pressed into a thin line. “Secure,” she provides, her voice cracked cleanly through the centre. “Annie’s fine, as are the Locks.”

“Love,” Killian murmurs, “are you alright?”

“No,” she returns, simple and precise. “No, I am not. Please narrate updates whilst I’m driving, I’m -”

Anthea’s voice slices off. Finnick takes over: “no change in status, Caesar’s reviewing the past hour,” he fills in, finding the live footage on his phone: Sherlock and Johanna, awake and sniping at one another; Bond, staring off into the jungle; Mycroft, clearly three-quarters out of the building; Regina and Emma, unable to sleep for terror. “Updates?”

“Plenty, but a majority will hold until we’re back,” Anthea replies, matching his professionalism with her own, enough to get them home. Her knuckles are white on the steering wheel. “Q is alive and well, though has yet to leave the Control Room for any extended degree of time. Silva is providing throughline updates, as I know you’re aware.”

Ruby lets out a nasty, ground-out noise. “Still don’t get why you’re letting that asshole anywhere near…”

“... just leave it, love,” Killian interrupts tiredly. “Just. Leave it.”

The city passes around them. In the back of the car, the three of them watch the Games; Anthea drives, unusually slowly, carefully. For all her speeding, she knows when she isn’t safe to drive at speed.

Finnick provides numb, toneless updates: mostly, the Tributes sit. They talk, they exist, they live.

It isn’t until they reach the flat - until the door closes behind them - that Finnick finally allows himself to cry.

Chapter Text

“... priming for cessation in five, four…”

“Fog ready?” Plutarch checks; Q nods. There’s nobody in the sector at present, but it will be dispatched all the same, in case somebody ambles in the wrong direction - Q’s set up Oliver to handle containment, something even he can handle without supervision, “then we have thirty seconds to live…”

“... one.”

The rain stops, as suddenly as it began.

Sherlock’s head snaps up. “It’s over,” he tells Johanna, who got herself as clean as was viable from leaking trees, then proceeded to shiver for a while. “Jo, it’s over, we can find… oh. Interesting.”

They watch, fascinated: the clean-up. Q’s work in practice. “That’s new,” Johanna agrees aloud, audibly impressed - at him, Q knows. There’s an odd sense of connection in it, cleaning it up in front of their eyes, like he’s presenting it just for them.

It wasn’t all his work, of course. Aloysius was primarily in charge of the invisible grates that drain out the bulk of the ground-level blood; Oliver, in fact, handled the development and placement of absorptive moss - a level of innovation that justifies him having been hired in the first place.

Minute sprinklers, hidden within the trees, were Q’s idea. Clean water, washing blood from the waxy, water-resistant leaves and into the spongy ground-level dark moss, rendering any lingering blood invisible.

Q has spent the better part of the past year on this clean-up, one of the most ambitious restorations: within five minutes, the sector will look precisely identical to how it was before the rain began. Identical, in turn, to every single other sector - as though nothing ever happened.

Curled up, foetal, rests Beetee Latier. Shaking, soaked with blood. The only evidence; a human monument to the Arena’s cruelty.

Sherlock watches the red sink into the dark green, almost black undergrowth. “We should find Beetee,” he states, quiet. “Though, if we can’t…”

“... yeah,” Johanna completes, before he has to say it: the cannon fire they heard could well have been for Beetee, drowned above ground.

Nevertheless, they step into the one o’clock sector.

Q lets Oliver drive the final clean-up stages, attention scattering to the central hologram, filled with markers: the four Holmeses, the paired teenagers, the four Careers, the three grouped from outlying Districts - then Jim and Axel, the only two remaining solo players.

As he watches, a voice sails in: “parachute for 12M,” which is mildly surprising. Haymitch isn’t a popular bet, certainly not in a field like this, though laconic bitchiness is a good way to cultivate some manner of fanbase.

Q watches the screens above their heads absently, Haymitch snapping open the parachute: another spile. It must be the most popular single Gift Q has ever seen; they’re cheap, though, and dehydration is boring to watch - Provisioning must have had a particularly weird year, gauging Gift prices in an almost-empty Cornucopia.

“... fuck’s sake,” Haymitch huffs, looking at the spile, throat parched after a day in scalding heat, “should’ve figured - it’s a damn spile. Hang on…”

They’re in the six o’clock sector. Q is really hoping they move in time; he doesn’t have the stomach to watch anybody else get ripped to shreds by a mutt-yeti.

Aloysius has, rightly, gone to get a couple of hours of sleep. Q and Tiberius are holding the fort in the meantime, both of them acutely aware that it really will only be a ‘couple’ of hours - because Regina, Mycroft, Bond and Emma think they’re in the five o’clock sector.

They are not. Mycroft Holmes has made a mistake, miscalculated: they’re in the four o’clock sector instead, showing no signs of moving, a perfectly laid plan that will fall apart through nothing more than a very human mistake.

Caesar is making a big deal out of it. Humiliating the Ice Man for being imperfect; for miscalculating. Injured, reunited with his wife, fleeing the Careers - he was only a handful of paces out, but it was enough.

Regina is too fragile to handle four o’clock. Of all the sectors to pick, it had to be that one.

Control has calmed, now the mess of the combined Holmeses have all settled down. The room has the uneasy suspension of a night shift, a space that never sleeps, filled with people whose bodies remember they shouldn’t still be awake - that it may be bright in Control, but nighttime waits outside for them.

“Let’s run a few practice drills on the wave, while we have the time,” Q suggests to Oliver; something to keep them busy. “You run the practices, stick around for the morning, then you can take point in the evening with Aloysius. Sound good?”

Oliver is only startled for a moment or two, before he smiles - grateful for the attention, for something like a mentor. Q, a Victor-turned-Gamemaker, who rose up the Gamemaker ranks stratospherically fast, trusted by the Head Gamemaker and Leads alike; he’s aspirational, Q knows. An inspiration to junior Gamemakers, new to the art of murdering children in innovative ways.

(just a day, just one more day)

“... Beetee,” Johanna gasps out, stumbling over him, still curled up tight, “hey, you alive? Talk to me, Volts…”

Beetee’s voice, a low murmur. “Johanna,” he says aloud, lifting his head. “Johanna; ah, Sherlock too. Excellent - oh. Full environmental restoration. Sub-ten, maximum absorbency; hmm. Remarkable.”

Sherlock smacks an axe into the side of a tree again, opening another vein of water. “Let’s clean you up too, while we’re here,” he adds. “Good to see you alive.”

“Yes,” Beetee agrees, picking up a handful of the absorbent moss, rightly using it to sponge off some of the crimson clinging to him; he prods it with a fingernail, testing it, repeating again: “Remarkable.”

It is for him. Q knows it. A forgiveness, an acknowledgement: Q is a part of all this, he’s caused it. Beetee has survived an hour pelted with warm-hot blood, the taste of copper on his tongue, wiping it away with trembling hands.

Beetee Latier calls him ‘remarkable’, and it is all Q can do to keep from screaming.

Instead, he speaks: “I’ll just be a moment,” he tells Oliver. “Keep an eye on the left-hand fog tendril, it’s going wide.”

Q weaves to the bathroom, violently vomits.

-

They run the scans over themselves, over the flat. A handful of bugs, dutifully trashed and lobbed out of the window.

Anthea’s control is visibly brittle. “We’ve made contact with our Avox associates,” she informs them, “and barring some functional…”

“... please, love,” Killian interrupts, knowing he sounds exhausted. “Not now, aye? Just… it’s going to plan, right?”

A bubble of tight, breathless laughter. “Indeed,” she replies, higher-pitched; it’s the plan, yes. It’s going to plan, this was the plan. This was the best they could do.

Ruby turns on the television while Finnick curls his knees up to his chest, pressing into the corner of the sofa. He started crying the second the door closed, though he hasn’t worked out how to change his facial expressions yet.

“Then let’s… let’s not,” Killian manages, too worn to handle the rest: he has to trust that Anthea’s got things covered, there’s fuck-all the rest of them can do. “I can’t hack it right now, alright? Just, in a bit. Please.”

It was always the plan. The Victors left behind aren’t handling the big plans, the evacuations, all the rest - Mycroft insisted, reckoning they’d have enough to handle without adding anything else on top. Parties, appointments.

Watching.

“But it’s gonna happen, right?” Ruby asks, still new to Mycroft-style plans; the insane, overblown, ridiculous ideas he somehow makes come true. “You’re sure of that, they’re getting out…?”

Anthea nods, stiff and faint. “I’m sure,” she promises. “Midnight. Less than a day, and they will be out of there.”

It’s been fifteen hours. Only fifteen fucking hours.

Killian sits on the sofa beside Finnick. Ruby joins. “Drink it,” Anthea orders Finnick, who blinks incoherently at the glass of water she’s holding out to him - a pitcher on the table, ready for their arrival. “Finnick. Drink it. Killian, Ruby, you two as well.”

“Aye,” Killian murmurs, grabbing a glass while he boots up his normal phone, his real phone - any updates he can get from the Districts, pretending he can playact a real person again while knowing he can’t and also, it doesn’t make a blind bit of difference at this point.

Finnick drains the glass, tears trailing down his face. “... yes, I’ll pass you over,” Anthea agrees, somehow on the phone while Killian wasn’t paying attention; she slots the phone into Finnick’s numb fingers, against his ear.

The name gasps off his lips. “Annie...”

“... shock,” Beetee comments on-screen, looking curiously at his own trembling hands, letting Johanna and Sherlock clean him up. “It’ll pass.”

Killian looks at his phone. His texts.

Cinna.

“What happened to him,” Killian asks Anthea, voice dead; he knows, she knows - a single look is enough. Ruby looks at him, confused. “Cinna.”

Finnick’s head snaps up. “Cinna?” he echoes, “Annie, hold on…”

A text message. Intimate, so intimate Killian doesn’t know how to hold it: I’m a better man for having known you. Thank you.

Cinna’s never been one for words. He speaks in his art; in his drawings, in his costumes - in Emma Swan, a fiery mockingjay, a day and an eternity ago. Stories that will never die, can’t be forgotten; time will blur their names away, but art doesn’t die like that, Cinna can’t die as long as there are mockingjays.

He announced to Panem, to Snow, that he’s a rebel.

Anthea wets her lips. “They,” she begins, cuts off. “As I understand it: Cruella spoke to him, prior to leaving the Tribute Centre. Snow allowed him to join Emma in the Launch Room, then had him arrested for treason in front of her. He had a suicide capsule, I’m investigating who provided it, but - he died in transit, before they could interrogate him. I… I’m truly sorry, Killian.”

Cinna’s smile, his warmth. A beautiful man, a beautiful mind; someone who thought in the same ways as Killian, the truest artist he’s ever known. Ideas he’d build in sketches, batting thoughts between each other, creating whole new worlds out of fabric and ink and colour.

Even when it became rebellion, it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t work; they’d talked about Emma’s dresses, about how to make propaganda. Honouring the people who’ll be front and centre when the war starts, honouring them as people, not just ideas. A rebel and a friend and a brilliant, wonderful man.

Killian hates that he can’t even fucking feel anything. It’s too much, he’s too saturated already; Cinna deserves to be grieved, to be mourned.

He can’t. It just sinks into him, crushing him, stacking up with Mags and Ceecee and the others; with Regina’s whimpers and Mycroft’s blankness and Sherlock’s gargling screams, he can’t.

They sit and they wait and time keeps passing, keeps on passing and passing and passing.

“We should, we should move,” Beetee says on-screen, ashen-white beneath the daubed-off blood. “In case it, it, it…”

Finnick makes a tiny noise at the sound of Sherlock’s voice: “no, it won’t be back for another twelve hours,” he states, then proceeds to explain - for Beetee, who hasn’t been filled in yet - that the Arena’s a clock.

“The bell tolls,” Beetee agrees, voice hazy, shock and grief plaguing him; or maybe, just Beetee being Beetee, fuck knows, “hmm. Elegant. A threat, every hour - we were at one. Maybe, maybe not… quite.”

“Still here,” Finnick murmurs, to Annie, tears still running down his face. “I’m still here.”

They’re so fucking young. It’s easy to forget. The rest of them have a good decade or two more experience, Beetee’s twice their ages - Johanna and Sherlock are trying to patch a grown man back together, somehow keeping on going, hell-bent on surviving in any ways they can.

Killian knows Finnick would’ve preferred to be in the Arena. Right from the start, Finnick was way more terrified of being left behind; it’s easier, when surviving is the only thing to think about - the rest can all go to one side, for later.

“Only one cannon,” Johanna says, when Beetee asked what he missed. “If it was them, we won’t know until…”

“... speculating is pointless,” Sherlock interrupts, sharp. “The agreement was to reconvene; we shall do so, in due course.

“They’ll be back,” Beetee agrees, smiling distantly, prodding at a bundle of moss. “You know they will be. They’ll be back. With my wire.”

Johanna twitches, shooting Sherlock a guarded look. “You’re the best Holmes we’ve got - what’s our plan? Make ourselves useful, while we wait?”

“I’m the best Holmes at any given juncture,” Sherlock returns airily; Finnick’s laughter is tiny and wet, slowly relaxing enough that he can bear comfort, seeking Killian out like a magnet, “hmm, a moment. I need to consider, don’t disturb me.”

“Mind palace?” Johanna smirks sarcastically, the pair of them bouncing off one another while Finnick leans tentatively against Killian until he wraps him in close, guarding him from the blood and blistered skin on screen in front of them.

Eight Victors; Cinna. Nine people dead in less than a day.

A knock at the door startles them. “John,” Anthea fills in, before panic has a chance to register; she goes to let him in, now he’s finished up with whichever poor bastards were stuck upstairs in Heavensbee Hall.

Anthea and John talk in the hall, voices pitched low. Killian can just hear Annie’s voice on the phone, melodically constant: she never watches the Games, give or take the bits she can’t avoid.

“... tell me too, tell me about it?” Finnick whispers, voice cracking. “Tell me, anything. Any at all, just…”

Anything that isn’t this.

John joins, looking exactly as haunted as expected. “Evening,” he nods. “Nothing to report from my side. Anything?”

“Cinna’s dead,” Killian says shortly. John sucks in a sharp breath. “Yeah. They’re still in four o’clock, no clue what’s in there.”

The Careers have a spile now, finally, so they’ll be on the hunt soon; Cashmere’s looking ropey, after her run-in with the insect-mutts, but she’s got more than enough Sponsors to keep her on her feet.

Haymitch, Arne and Dagan are bundled together. Sod-all by way of resources, trying to figure out hunting; Arne’s trying an Emma Swan, scent-masking in the hope of grabbing one of the rat-things.

The camera sticks on him. Ruby stands suddenly. “I’m gonna find us something to eat,” she announces, “before it gets, before we. Before…”

“Yes,” John agrees, standing aimlessly like he’s forgotten how movement works. “Where’s Jim?”

“Hell if I care,” Ruby manages, striding out of the room before her tears can finally crack through the mask she’s got plastered to herself.

They sit in silence. They all hear the shattering, sharp wail from the hallway. “I’ll,” John starts, before abandoning any attempt to finish the sentence - he goes after her, determined to stay useful at all costs.

Killian does the same for Finnick, as best he can. Finnick never usually lets himself actually break down, it’s almost nice to see; time was, they’d have a glassy-eyed Finnick with a hundred-watt smile on top of the rest, instead of a worn-down kid who’s reaching out desperately for anything like comfort he can find.

A bit like Anthea, who’s sitting bolt-upright and won’t let herself even look at Finnick. “You don’t have to pretend, love,” Killian tells her quietly. “Not with us.”

It takes her a few seconds to patch together a response, watching Bond rightly taking the opportunity for some sleep. “I need to be prepared for any developments,” she replies, not looking at him. “There are too many moving pieces; once this is done, I will take the time I require. I will not be doing so presently.”

They’re so similar, her and Mycroft: she can’t let anything in, not even a little bit. She won’t find her way back if she does.

“I can’t sleep,” Regina explains to Mycroft, voice almost too soft for the microphones to catch. “I keep… I’m scared it’ll happen again, you know? I didn’t see it coming, nothing, I thought… Emma, she’s…”

Mycroft nods, fingers twined with hers. “You protected her,” he reminds, “which is, ultimately, what matters. We are alive, Regina. That is what matters.”

Regina looks over at Emma, at Bond; they’re both resting, as best they can. “I wouldn’t have known, if,” she picks out, “if the cannons had fired, while we were… the portraits, hell. I didn’t know if it’d… sorry. Sorry, I know you don’t want to talk about it, I just… sorry, so. So - talk to me. Tell me something I don’t know.”

A habit old as their friendship: “Cows will not walk downstairs,” he tells Regina, almost immediately, changing the subject, “they are evolutionarily precluded; it is physically possible, but they will avoid doing so at all costs - that said, they can go up stairs. Thus, it is entirely possible to lead a cow to a rooftop with no reasonable exit barring aerial retrieval.”

For the first time in hours, Regina laughs; a sound so lovely it tugs the edges of Killian’s hurts into somewhere gentle, laughter of the people he loves and loved, closing his eyes for a moment as though they’re home.

“Emma, you’ll like this one,” Regina smiles, summoning their new addition - a girl Killian’s never met, but they’re all willing to die for, “did you know that - cows can’t go downstairs, only up?”

“Why would you need cows on stairs?” Emma asks, reasonably, which even prises a smile out of Bond’s half-asleep form; Regina grins like it’s releasing some valve in her, letting her relax. “No, I didn’t… are you sure?”

Mycroft offers a light, elegant nod. “Moderately; I am not in the business of spreading pointless misinformation, though you are welcome to correct me should I ever be proven incorrect.”

“I’ve known you a decade,” Bond adds, smirking, “not fucking once.”

Anthea’s smile looks like it’s wrenching her open, “if only,” she whispers, breathes, to people who can’t hear.

“... you should sleep,” Finnick tells Annie softly, watching Regina smile. “I’ll call you back. Please don’t watch, okay? Promise me…”

As always, they watch the real-time channel; there are no disruptions for Caesar’s additions, just constant Games footage, whoever’s being interesting - which, coming up to three in the morning, is mostly just the Holmeses.

John and Ruby are gone a while.

“Annie wants to say hi,” Finnick provides, leaning his head back enough to look at Killian, tragically young. “If you… want?”

Killian nods, letting Finnick say goodbye. Reminding Annie again that he loves her, that he’ll be with her soon, that he’s safe. “I’ll call back soon,” he promises. “Sleep well, okay? Tell them I send my love, too.”

The phone is warm with Finnick’s body heat, pressed against his ear. “... dia dhuit, little miss,” Killian manages, met with Annie’s erratic breathing, an unvoiced question in the strain of her voice, “m’fine - promise. Promise.”

He talks a little; he hangs up. Finnick curls into Killian’s side like he’s trying to hide himself there.

Three o’clock comes. Monkeys swirl over Axel’s head, the man camouflaged in the dense trees, perfectly still - the cameras struggle to pick him out, indistinguishable.

John strides back into the room without warning. “Eat,” he orders, holding bread rolls inches from his and Finnick’s faces.

“Mate…”

“Now,” John continues, pushing them into their hands; ones from Four, Killian would know them anywhere, the familiar green of seaweed. Annie left a load of part-baked ones for them to eat through the week, knowing they’d want a taste of home. “Got a fucking evac to handle in less than a day, you need food.”

Killian looks at John, his hard lines; the exchange he has with Regina, sometimes, when panic is staining her useless. “Soldiers,” he murmurs, regretting it the second it comes out of his mouth. John’s jaw tightens. “I…”

“I know,” John completes, heavily, sitting in the vacant armchair.

Mycroft’s arm has bled through the moss they used to bandage it. All the bollocks about ‘just a flesh wound’, but it’s sure as shit bleeding like it’s something serious; Killian can’t stop staring at the bloodstain, hears Anthea make an odd hiccup under his breath.

“Come on, ‘Thea,” Finnick murmurs, shuffling slightly, looking at her - calmer, now he’s had some time, spoken to Annie. “Come sit with us. It’s okay. You won’t handle the rest if you don’t let some of this out - like bleeding a radiator. Remember?”

“I…”

Even Anthea Grimm is putty in the face of Finnick’s insistence. “Come on,” he repeats, coaxing, shifting so there’s an obvious space for her. “Just for a couple of minutes. Trust me, you need this too. Please.”

Finnick holds her gaze. Even tear-soaked and exhausted, something in it tugs at her - she softens, bit by bit, before sighing in defeat. “A few minutes,” she warns, but comes to join them anyway, settling in place.

Predictably, Finnick immediately pulls her in close. It’s almost strange to watch; Anthea doesn’t do that sort of thing, at least not when anybody can see, but there’s a familiarity to how Finnick holds her. “We’ll get them out of there,” he murmurs in Anthea’s ear, almost too quietly for Killian to hear. “Not long now.”

Not long, yet forever; the heavy, sticky pull of time doesn’t want to move onwards. It’s slow, limping.

Eventually, Ruby comes back. Nobody asks and nobody speaks. John hands her a roll, which she rips at with her teeth, vicious.

Killian eats, Finnick picks at his own. John breathes through his nose. Anthea’s stiffness slowly, slowly melts.

None of them speak.

A finger of light begins - just begins - to creep over the horizon; golden, glinting in the dark like Cinna’s eyeliner, like the pin on Emma’s jumpsuit.

Finnick has a clock on his mantlepiece.

They all keep looking at it. Tracking the minutes as they pass by, closer and closer to four o’clock.

Three fifty-nine.

Every camera is fixed on them. Mycroft, Regina, Bond and Emma. Resting and waiting, letting the dawn slowly break around them.

The scream is shattering.

Killian’s body revolts: an agonised scream, a horrific noise no human being should be capable of producing, so terrified the room briefly gets very, very, very white as Killian’s mind lobs him back into the Citadel without any delay.

A shrieking, sobbing cry, “Mycroft,” the voice screams, and oh dear fuck that’s his own voice. That’s his fucking voice, breaking on Mycroft’s name, “please, please Mycroft, help me, Mycroft…”

Ruby makes a choked, retching noise, “fuck, oh fuck…”

They all look at him. Anthea and Finnick and Ruby and John, sharp with horror - reassuring themselves that he’s here, he’s actually here, not in an Arena screaming in pain, screaming for Mycroft to help him.

It all fits together, clicks in place, slower than it should: Killian isn’t in an Arena, no.

Mycroft doesn’t know that.

Chapter Text

The scream ices Emma’s blood - more, a lot more, when she figures out the voice is screaming Mycroft’s name.

Mycroft makes a brief noise like every single bone in his body has been broken at once.

“Fuck,” Bond grinds out, as Mycroft scrambles up faster than anybody could hope to stop him, “wait, Mycroft…”

He’s past listening - Mycroft up and belts into the jungle, trying to find the person making the noise; a voice that suddenly screams out “Regina,” while Bond tries to catch up to Mycroft, and Emma knows this is a trap. It has to be a trap.

Regina’s halfway through trying to scramble forward, “no, Killian, no,” when Emma springs at her, grappling her to the ground - knocking her off-balance, trying to pin her wrists while the older woman fumbles her bow, a horrible noise carving out of her lips, “get off me, Killian, Killian...”

Emma clamps a hand over Regina’s mouth, looking around them frantically, “stop it, they’ll hear us,” which Regina responds to by thrashing about like an eel, then biting Emma’s hand while it’s clamped over her mouth.

If Regina hadn’t been so wrecked by the last trap they fell into, this would have been a very different fight - Regina’s a way better fighter, she’d flatten Emma in seconds on a regular day.

As it is, Emma’s fuelled by fierce instinct and a lot of determination: whatever’s making that sound, it has to be a trap, one she won’t let Regina run straight into like Mycroft has.

The noise shuts off so suddenly Emma startles.

In the moment she’s distracted, Regina’s hand clamps around Emma’s throat, instantly cutting off air - Emma flails, dizzily trying to breathe, when Regina just throws her off to one side in a single heave of motion.

Winded, Emma’s still sucking in oxygen as Regina grabs up her bow, sprinting off after the rest of them; Emma staggers to her feet, stumbling as she tries to follow, through the disturbed leaves that mark the other three’s path.

Deeper into the wedge, the jungle is darker. Sunrise hasn’t found them yet, not in here.

Regina runs fast - Emma’s faster though, catching up in time to see Regina smack face-first into an invisible wall, at speed; she bounces right off it again, ignoring the fact that she’s bloodied her nose in the smacking, “no,” she rasps, hammering against thin air with a fist, “no, no...”

“Regina…”

“Come on,” she shrieks, clawing at the air like she could scrabble her way through it with her bare hands.

Emma reaches out to where she’s smacking: beneath her fingers, a completely invisible barrier, textureless and cool to the touch. “Barrier,” she says aloud, knowing it’s pointless; she pulls a knife out of her belt, tries stabbing it in, not all that surprised when it bounces off. “Regina, you have to calm down…”

No way is Regina going to do anything of the sort. Instead, she’s pressing herself against the barrier like there’ll be a gap somewhere, even though she knows - they both know - that there won’t be a gap. The Gamemakers won’t let anybody in if they don’t want them in there.

“Stop, Regina,” Emma tells her, tries to tell her, “stop, you have to stop. Mycroft said it, right? It’s a clock. Whatever’s in there, it’s the next Arena thing, there’s nothing we can do…”

Regina’s rarely looked or sounded so much like a feral animal. “It’s too early.”

“... so he figured it out wrong, it doesn’t matter,” Emma insists, while Regina convulses with panic, “Regina, listen to me…”

Abruptly, Bond bursts through the trees in front of them like he’s being chased by demons - he’s only about a dozen yards away, but they can’t hear a thing. Nothing, except Regina’s broken breathing, her voice shaping Killian again and again and again.

Oh: Killian Jones. Captain Hook, another Victor - but more importantly, Regina and Mycroft’s friend, the one who lived with them in the Capitol. She talked about him on their phone calls, someone she cares about. Loves.

Bond recoils at the sight of the two of them, his eyes suddenly widening; Mycroft arrives a second or two later, stalling mid-step as he looks at them and understands, understands instantly. “Mycroft,” Regina whispers, raw with horror, “oh fuck, no, no, Mycroft...”

A flourish of black feathers chase them, follow them. “Oh,” Emma realises, seeing Bond choke on his understanding - they can’t get out. “Oh fuck, no…”

“Jabberjays,” Regina snarls, hatred and horror filling her voice, watching black-crested birds start to swarm an in endless mass - birds whose beaks open, pouring out screams Emma can’t hear, “they’re fucking jabberjays.”

Emma understands, even though she wishes she didn’t: the Gamemakers have trapped Mycroft and Bond into a wedge filled up with jabberjays. Dozens and dozens and dozens of them, all of them screaming in agony, begging for help, screaming Mycroft’s name. Probably Bond’s too, at a guess.

There’s nothing they can do.

Bond’s expression glazes over. He sits, almost elegantly, lowering to the ground to sit cross-legged with his eyes closed and fingers pressed into his ears; almost calm, if his teeth weren’t grinding together so hard they could shatter, a muscle jumping wildly along the line of his jaw.

Mycroft Holmes, meanwhile, might have been the Ice Man once.

He sure as hell isn’t any more.

Emma really didn’t see it coming. Mycroft’s not exactly an ‘emotional’ person; any time Emma’s talked to him, he’s been kind of like a robot. Even in the parts when he was holding onto Regina, when he was being ‘emotional’ - really emotional, not acting-in-interview emotional - he’s rigid, distant.

In a million years, she could never have expected him to look so unravelled.

Mycroft reaches out a hand to touch the barrier, a strangely childlike aspect to it; his finger strokes along the place he should be able to feel Regina, to reach her - half an inch and forever. “I’m here, Mycroft, it’s not real,” Regina promises him frantically, again and again, “don’t listen to it, it’s not real. I swear to you Mycroft, it’s not… shit, I’m an idiot...”

The sharp burst of movement is startling; Regina pulls her hands back from the barrier, suddenly moving them in a flurry of gestures - something Mycroft recognises, head dipping in a numb nod before he pulls his owns back in kind, both of them shaking, black feathers clotting the trees behind them with beaks cast wide open.

Mycroft stares at Regina like she’s the only thing keeping him breathing.

Bond isn’t moving. At all.

“Sign language,” Regina snarls, “this. It’s called sign language. A way of talking without using your tongue.”

The last, Regina spits at the sky, vicious.

Emma puts together a lot of things very quickly: Avox don’t have tongues, that’s who needs a language that doesn’t use tongues. Avox don’t have tongues but Regina can talk to Avox, Mycroft can talk to Avox, in an Avox language that nobody’s supposed to know because Avox aren’t allowed to talk, that’s why they don’t have tongues.

The both of them are rebels, keeping her alive even though everybody knows Emma Swan isn’t supposed to survive this Arena, and Emma is sure she’s on the edge of understanding something very important.

“It’s okay,” Regina tells her husband out loud, hands still moving. “I swear to you, Mycroft. It’s going to be okay.”

The only thing that matters in the whole world is Mycroft and Bond, the jabberjays behind; Mycroft’s chest stutters in a sudden tearless shudder, sinking almost in slow motion, numbly collapsing to the ground with Regina lowering herself opposite. Both of them on their knees, Mycroft sagging as she watches, every second it keeps going.

They’re going to be in there for an hour.

Mycroft is bloodlessly pale in the dying darkness of a night that’s nearly over. “Stay with me,” Regina hisses, as Mycroft’s gestures slow down, slowing until they’ve stopped completely, “Mycroft, stay with me, stay with me, please...”

Regina is signing almost violently, vicious in her desperation, between hissing hitching sobs; Mycroft lifts a hand to press against the barrier again, a quietly undirected hope that maybe it’ll be gone, like if he’s gentle enough it’ll make it stop - Regina’s signing constantly, so Emma shuffles in meet him, pressing a hand up to meet where his should be. He looks at it, at her, at Regina. Staring, numb.

“Mycroft, please,” Regina whispers, a frantic muttering string of words, tears running down her face, “you asshole, don’t you dare, don’t you dare, you stay with me, please, Mycroft, Mycroft...”

The birds swirl around their heads in a black cloud of deafening, endless screams.

Mycroft’s eyes are transparent in the semi-darkness, the first sunbeams catching tears as they fall out of him, nerveless - a man so brave, so powerful, somebody who hates anybody seeing him hurt, trapped with the tortured screams of somebody he cares about which is so fucking evil Emma can’t understand it, she cannot think of any time, any Hunger Game, made of this type of cruelty.

Screw this, screw them.

“You assholes,” she cries out at the sky, Regina sobbing with her hands still moving, Mycroft watching them with dead, broken eyes and James Bond so frozen he’s barely breathing, “we will never forgive this.”

Emma can’t get them out, nobody can - but she can make it so they can’t play it, she can scrape back something of their dignity, keep the whole of Panem from watching.

They can’t show a damn thing if she’s screaming revolution all the while.

“How can you even think of this?” she continues, “how broken does a person have to be to even imagine doing this to another living person - these are people. We’re your people, your children. Me, my parents - I’m Capitol, I’m District, we are human beings, we hurt like you do. We suffer like you do. How can you do this to somebody, to anybody? Think of your own families, the people you love.”

Rage bubbles in and over and under Emma’s skin, while Regina begs in broken whispers, pleading over and over for mercy the Gamemakers will never give them.

“You can’t even do this to me,” Emma continues, hand still pressed to the barrier, “I don’t have anybody. You made it that way. The Capitol make it so people grow up alone, or they find people they can use to hurt us, you torture us, put us in the Reapings or Arenas or kill us at home in our Districts, you destroy every single thing about us and we’re still going to come back, no matter what you do to us.”

Mycroft fades as Emma watches, pulling back and back into a shell of himself, “I’m here, Mycroft, it’s gonna be okay,” Regina pleads, whispers, “I’m here…”

Emma looks up at the sky, at the glint of a forcefield miles above her head - like her last Games, Prim’s body bleeding out as the sun rose on an Arena that looked nothing like this but feels just the damn same.

Three fingers on her spare hand, raised to the sky. Just in case they figure they can mute the audio but show it anyway - they don’t get to enjoy this, they don’t get to watch a single damn second of this.

“This isn’t over,” she promises, delirious in her anger. “It’s the beginning. Killing us, the Victors - you go right ahead, but there’s more to take our place. You made the Games, you made us, you make more of us day after day after day - you ask yourselves, you think about that - you made us into this. We are your children and I swear we will never, never forgive you for this.”

The words tumble from her, curses and words she didn’t know she believed, threats and promises, knowing they can’t show the rest of the country but maybe, maybe somebody is hearing her, somewhere - Gamemakers, even. The people who build these Games, somebody who’ll see and know and understand, even if it’s one person, just one person somewhere who might listen.

Emma keeps going, keeps talking. Every second, every minute that passes, while the birds silently scream behind Mycroft and Bond, Regina’s hitching breaths all the encouragement Emma needs.

Her voice starts to crack, giving out.

Light inches, inches brighter around them.

The only sound in the world is Emma. Her voice, monologuing, her throat peeling away from itself but she refuses to stop.

Bond hasn’t moved in a very long time.

Mycroft’s still watching Regina, though Emma doesn’t think he can see anything.

Emma keeps going.

“I’m here,” Regina whispers, promises, wet with pain, “it’ll be over soon, I promise, I’m right here with you.”

Mycroft’s swaying like he’s barely keeping conscious. Flinches faintly, once in a while, tiny twitches of motion; his hand is still up against the barrier. Emma’s mirroring it, like she’s holding him upright.

The barrier whispers itself away without warning.

Emma gasps at the sudden press of Mycroft’s hand, hot and damp against her own, almost pushing her over; the birds are no longer screaming, flying away in a jet-black cloud of feathers, disappearing like ink into water.

“We will never forgive you,” Emma rasps, through a raw throat. A promise she will die to fulfil.

Mycroft collapses into Regina.

-

Regina gasps out a throttled sound, Mycroft’s body limp as it tumbles into her. “I’m here,” she repeats, for the thousandth time. “Mycroft, can you hear me? Look at me, Mycroft, it’s over. You’re with me.”

It has been a long time since Mycroft has dissociated this badly. He’s completely gone, hidden in the depths of his own mind, eerily pale; Regina leaves Bond in Emma’s hands, her world sharpening to Mycroft, completely malleable as she lowers him to the ground, eyes open but unseeing.

“Regina…”

“Deal with James,” Regina tells Emma sharply, pushing sweat-damp hair out of Mycroft’s face; he doesn’t react to her touch, buried so deep he can’t notice it, lost somewhere that might pass for safe. “Mycroft, it’s Regina. They’re gone, it’s over - if you can hear me, Mycroft, squeeze my hand. Come on.”

Nothing, not even a murmur; in her peripheral vision, she sees Emma reaching out to James - he snaps a hand out to grab her wrist, hard enough that she hisses in abrupt pain, the pair of them freezing before the tension drains out of Bond in a single, sharp exhale.

Bond looks over to Regina, Mycroft collapsed nervelessly beside her. “Regina?” he asks sharply. “Is he…?”

“Dissociated,” Regina fills in, grabbing Mycroft’s arm; she presses her fingers against the fragile skin of his inner wrist, feeling his pulse hammer frantically beneath, his expression utterly absent. “Come on, Mycroft. Listen to my voice, follow it. We don’t have time for this right now.”

“Hey,” Emma cuts in, sharply indignant, “don’t talk to him that way.”

“I’ll talk to my husband the hell way I want to, Miss Swan,” Regina shoots back, in too much pain to make it anything less than cruel. “Do not make the mistake of thinking you care for him like I do.”

Emma’s breath wheezes, “I didn’t mean…”

“I know,” Regina interrupts, “not now - James?”

“Fine,” Bond returns shortly. “They had a good range. Not my first time.”

“I don’t…”

“Interrogation training,” Bond fills in, for Emma’s benefit, “I worked for the Capitol after I won. Secret service.”

Oh good; Emma’s been shrieking revolution for the past hour, Bond’s outright telling the world he’s ex-IS, she’s been signing, Mycroft Holmes is so far offline she can’t find the on-button again, this is a disaster.

Regina curbs her panic and keeps her attention on Mycroft, on the fragile motion of his chest, “Mycroft, work with me here,” she insists. “Feel my fingers, I’ve got your pulse. I know you can feel it, asshole, so come on, we have shit to do and your brother’s still hell-knows where, and Swan’s just made it pretty damn certain we’re not getting out of here alive and I could really use you with a plan right about now…”

Mycroft’s fingers twitch faintly, against her own; Regina trips up on a half-formed sob of relief, hearing Emma distantly ask: “What’s… what’s wrong with him?”

“Dissociation - acute stress response,” Bond fills in shortly. “It… bitch to explain, but Mycroft’s prone to it. Shuts down.”

Regina presses harder into his wrist, feeling a murky type of terror that he’s shut down like he can do for hours, or days; time that they can’t afford. “I need you, Mycroft,” she tells him, hating that she sounds exactly as desperate as she is. “Please.”

She can almost pinpoint it - the moment Mycroft’s eyes suddenly start to see again, a shift in his body that promises he’s back; she moves back, pulls her hand away, affording him space before he can panic so badly at touch that it sends him right back again.

Mycroft pulls in a breath that he’s commanding; moves, fingers flexing like he’s testing they can still respond to his command - before, finally, looking around. Tentative and exhausted, bending with relief as he recognises the three of them.

“There are jabberjays in there,” he murmurs, with absurd dignity for a man lying bonelessly with his mind in tatters.

Emma’s hysteria bursts out of her in a sharp cackle of painful-sounding laughter. “Okay,” she breathes, barely voiced, “fuck. You’re… okay. Okay, this is…fuck. I’ll, I’ll get you some water. Are you… okay?”

“No,” Bond replies shortly, rolling his shoulders back. “Water. Mycroft, do you have the spile?”

Mycroft won’t be in a position to answer for a while. “I’m gonna take the spile off of you,” Regina warns, keeping her movements smooth and obvious - all the same, her heart breaks at the incremental flinch, as she carefully plucks it from around his belt. “Thought you’d checked out for good for a second there. No, don’t even try apologising - what do you need?”

“Time,” Mycroft murmurs, unbearably fragile, looking exhausted and - stupid man - apologetic; he flinches again at the dull sound of Emma’s knife into a nearby tree, getting them water. “I… it is a known technique. Almost passé; I had rather imagined myself to be somewhat more robust, to such predictable modalities of psychological torture. Certainly, less… easily tricked, shall we say.”

“Because you’re a model of mental robust-ness,” Regina mutters, hearing Killian’s screams - ones they wouldn’t have needed to falsify, just borrow from when they actually tortured him, “it… it’s over. Okay? He’s fine.”

Mycroft casts her a quiet look, gentle and sad, almost pitying - which is the moment Regina accepts what she knew, deep down, had to be true; where she makes sense of Bond saying they had a ‘good range’. “Everybody imaginable,” Mycroft provides softly, in answer to a question Regina would never have been cruel enough to actually voice.

“Okay,” Regina nods, swallowing down bile, “okay. Guess that’s… okay.”

“Figured as much,” Emma agrees, handing Mycroft a filled water pouch. “I, erm. I don’t know if you… saw. If you were, you know. It - I figured they can’t show us if I’m in the middle of shouting treason, right? So, I. I, well. Did. For most of it. So… I think it’s probably made some people pretty mad.”

Mycroft stares blankly at her. Bond freezes incrementally, voice low, disbelieving: “You did what?”

“... it was quite imaginative, credit where due,” Regina fills in, exchanging a look with Bond that shares every single flicker of her panic. “Every single treasonous thing you could think of, all in one go.”

Emma shoots her a sharp glare, busy refilling another pouch from the spile for Bond, “I had more to pick from if I really wanted,” she retorts stubbornly; Regina rolls her eyes. “I did...”

“I am inclined to believe you, but your survival instincts leave a great deal to be desired,” Mycroft murmurs, swallowing with disjointed panic, before his expression flashes with something Regina recognises as self-loathing. “I… I can’t think.”

“Time,” Regina reminds him, unsurprised by the dim suggestion of desperation behind his eyes; something he can’t figure out how to fix, a problem he needs to solve - Regina abruptly understands. “You remembered how, then? Sign?”

Mycroft sags, “there are few things so profound that you have trusted me with than the secrets of Daniel’s voice,” he replies, shutting his eyes briefly to cover the sheer relief - a cover story invented easily, one problem on the way to being solved. Not that they’re rebels, consorting with Avox; it’s just between them, something they share. Bond can help cover the rest, while Mycroft’s recovering.

“Heard rumour there was an Avox language,” Bond adds, on cue; Regina waves him off, it can wait. “Mycroft - it came early. I thought you said we were in five o’clock?”

“... I’m not an oracle, and was bleeding at the time,” Mycroft snaps, immediately reigning himself back. “... apologies. I am not at my best. I… I can only assume I miscalculated. I am - in spite of my very best efforts - human.”

Regina’s heart spasms in pain, wrenching.

Emma steps in, taking over: “... but it’s still clockwise, right? So we know it’s a clock, we’re good for twelve hours?”

Vaguely, Mycroft nods, “though Johanna and Beetee…”

“... can take care of themselves,” Regina completes. “You need time, we all need time. None of us are in any state to go anywhere, a light breeze could take us out - we get ourselves together, then we’ll go find the others. Deal?”

Mycroft doesn’t argue; Regina’s not convinced he could if he tried. “Reasonable,” he murmurs, instead, exhaustion pulling him down; he glances towards the sky, the forcefield above their heads.

He looks so unbearably fragile.

Amazing, how a transparent barrier felt like he was a thousand miles away.

“I’m taking watch,” Emma tells the three of them, steelier than Regina expected. “You three rest, okay? Try and sleep, or. Something.”

Mycroft looks at her, brow contracting briefly. “You have my thanks,” he tells her quietly; she looks at him quickly, looks away again just as fast. “Kindly do not attempt to run away, Miss Swan. Your actions were certainly imprudent; so, too, was transposing into a mockingjay on national television. ‘Imprudence’ is not a concern, not for us. We are your allies. Please. Stay.”

“You’re thinking of leaving?” Regina echoes, aghast, “Miss Swan…”

“I’m not!” Emma objects hotly, “or - I thought about it. For, like. A second. Which makes this a little bit creepy but okay, I’m not… I won’t go anywhere, okay? And you people have to stop calling me Miss Swan. It’s Emma.”

It soothes another knot, another worry - Mycroft’s right. Emma being a rebel isn’t exactly new information, not to Snow; Bond being IS is easily edited out, a sentence that probably never got through the edit-team back in the Control Room. They’ve made some mistakes, but nothing that can’t be undone.

The focus, now, is surviving. No more mistakes, no more jabberjays - they’ll take some time to recover, they’ll get to the lightning sector.

They will survive this.

Mycroft looks at the sky, breathing too deliberately. Regina can almost ignore the tiny, flinch-like hitches of breath; the sheen of his tears, the afterecho of Killian’s screams, a sound she’ll never be able to forget, something she’ll be able to let go again when they make it to Thirteen. Hold him close. Safe.

They’re alive.

The dawn creeps over the horizon.

Chapter Text

“... on my count,” Plutarch sighs, looking genuinely regretful, “in three, two…”

Killian Jones screams, heralding the beginning of what will undoubtedly be one of the longest hours of Q’s entire life.

It is exactly as bad as he expected.

Q manages one useful thing, just the one: raising the barrier up before Regina and Emma can get trapped in with them. It’s the only mercy he can manage.

It isn’t enough.

Plutarch turns to the mutation team, voice grave. “Taper down to defined targets, 1M and 8M,” he directs, “and please, keep discussion professional and on-topic. Anybody who needs to step out, go ahead, there are a lot of Victors we all recognise in this audio mix.”

Briefly, he glances to Q - a kindness, for him. Acknowledging, in some oblique way, that Q isn’t going to handle this well either.

They have everybody. Killian, of course. Finnick and Annie, the latter of whom is enough to make Q feel very nauseous. Anthea, though it takes Q a moment to recognise it, a voice not made to hold such visceral terror. Alec and Lyme, which is worrying on a fair few levels, but is whacked straight out of Q’s head again when he hears himself screaming along with the rest.

“... please Mycroft, please help me, help...”

“Let’s cut audio from inside the sector, please, unless relevant,” Plutarch directs, grimacing at the keening sobs in Q’s, and then Annie’s, voices. “Initial psych eval reports as soon as possible, med team on vitals…”

Bond is the first to realise the shape of the trap, recognising what it’s doing - he turns on his heel and runs, sprinting back the way he came. Q tries not to watch him realise he’s trapped, that he’ll stay trapped for the full hour.

Only thing is, that leaves Q with no option bar watching the other three: Emma, who’s completely out of her depth; Regina, who’s so angry Q can taste it; or Mycroft, who promptly starts to prove exactly how effective psychological torture can be.

Then, Regina starts signing.

Q feels blood drain from his face, into his feet; around him, the Gamemakers buzz with disbelief, trying to figure out what she’s doing - which of course, she fixes by vitriolically snarling that it’s a language for people who don’t have tongues.

“Cut her out, now,” Plutarch orders, exactly as sharply as is merited, “focus on Swan - do we have any clean angles for Holmes?”

“They’re in the way,” somebody adds, layered with somebody else asking, “do we have a translation?” and another of “she means Avox.”

Regina, who’s rapidly signing with unbearable intimacy, telling Mycroft that he’ll be alright, they’ll figure it out - that it’s only an hour, that Killian is safe, all the possible things she can find to break through the complete mental collapse Mycroft is tangibly teetering on the edges of.

Things then go from bad to worse, as Emma Swan decides to start spewing treason at a frankly inspirational pace.

Q is particularly impressed that she simply doesn’t stop. It is no simple feat, to talk non-stop on a single subject for that length of time - it starts to get repetitive quickly, but the girl just keeps on going, monologuing out a circular diatribe of concentrated vengeance that sends shivers down Q’s spine.

Plutarch’s eyes burn: she is everything any rebel movement could wish for.

That said, it makes for a stressful hour - there’s very little to replace it with. Most of the other Tributes around the Arena are stone-cold unconscious, or on watch; the footage from the jabberjay sector either shows Emma Swan mid-rebel-salute and ragefully monologuing, Regina signing, or has a screaming cacophony for a soundtrack - something that’s supposed to be a torture device for the Tributes, not the audience. It’s too visceral for the Capitol to listen to, not for an hour.

Q can’t look at Bond. He just can’t.

The hour crawls past, unfathomably slowly.

Snow hasn’t responded to Plutarch’s beeps. Q doesn’t know why, nor does he have the energy to care - it’s a problem that will have to wait, though it’s sure as fuck going to be a problem.

On the bright side, most of Panem is probably asleep, it being five in the fucking morning. Nineteen hours to go.

Q swallows back a bite of hysteria-flavoured laughter:

They’re nearly halfway there.

-

It hurts to watch; it hurts not to.

They didn’t see all that much, in the end - give or take a handful of screams, then Regina signing, right up until the Gamemakers realised just how dangerous it is to show her doing that to the whole nation.

After that, the Gamemakers are visibly busy trying to find some way of showing Mycroft and Bond without showing Emma or Regina; in the gaps, they instead play quite a lot of the soundtrack from inside the wedge, which is not something Finnick ever needed to hear.

It really doesn’t matter that it’s fake. Of course it’s fake. Most of them are in the same room as him, he knows it’s fake, he spoke to Annie barely an hour ago - she’s fine, Finnick knows she’s fine, he’s fine.

Everything they’ve been terrified of, playing out in birds known for the fact that they mimic sound. Perfectly replaying what they hear.

Shards of screams; his own voice, begging for help.

They turn off the sound.

Anthea calls Annie. She talks to Finnick, to Killian; Finnick has no memory of what she says, if she speaks.

Finnick doesn’t know where to begin, his mind sluggish, unable to settle; fragments of Mycroft’s devastation, Bond’s dead expression, inkblots of jabberjays, close-ups of Regina’s tear-stained desperation.

Killian watches his lover be tortured on national television.

It ends, eventually. They knew it would.

Mycroft collapses onto Regina.

“Can we get something to them?” Ruby suggests, voice sodden; the first words Finnick has registered in a long time, something that sinks deep enough to impact. “A Gift, or something. So they know, they know it’s all bullshit…”

“Nothing Snow would allow through,” Anthea murmurs, like she’s bleeding; she’s known Mycroft for the past decade. The longest, bar Regina. Met him when he was still only twenty years old, a far younger man with so much still to live through.

Finnick curls up in the blanket John brought with him, the same blanket he usually has upstairs in the Hall. Familiar; safe.

They crawl back to life. Moment by moment.

Eventually, the cameras show other Tributes again: Sherlock, standing guard over Johanna and Beetee, oblivious to the wreckage several segments along; Haymitch on guard while Arne and Dagan rest.

“I have to sleep,” John tells them, grated, once he’s reassured himself that Sherlock is alive and safe. “Do you mind if I stay in here?”

Killian lets out a rough sound that isn’t even close to laughter. “Not our first time, mate,” he provides, from the bottom of the ocean. “We’ll wake you up, if anything… go ahead. Finn, you should too.”

“... you know I can’t,” Finnick murmurs, his voice rusty.

Sherlock, Johanna and Beetee have pitched up on the cusp of twelve and one o’clock; easy enough to switch between either, as the two known threats come and go.

As dawn breaks, Johanna wakes up. Neither she nor Sherlock mention the others, who should have been back hours ago.

Johanna and Beetee are still bloodstained. Sherlock’s still green. He tops it up sometimes, from the pot he got sent.

Breathing, though. Still breathing.

Anthea’s phone buzzes in her pocket; she moves to stand, stalled by Finnick’s hand on her arm - an unconscious action, keeping her somewhere he can see. “I’ll be back,” she promises gently, pulling out of Finnick’s grip to take the call.

Abruptly, Ruby’s breath catches: Arne, Dagan and Haymitch - and, hidden from view, Jim. Skulking in the trees behind, watching with empty eyes. Not smiling, mercifully, but there’s a creepy brightness in his eyes that bodes badly.

They weren’t ever friends, not really. Arne and Dagan kept to themselves; Haymitch was more sociable, for a given definition. Tended towards pity, when it came to Finnick, but he’s a rebel. A good man, too, when sober enough; John thinks highly of him, he’s always been kind. They think - or at least, hope - that he’s whipped District Twelve into shape over the past year, entirely on his own.

Jim will probably kill him. Finnick doesn’t remember how to care.

In less than a day, he’s forgotten how to grieve.

-

The others sleep, or try to.

Sunlight streaks across the sky in long lines. Golden and orange, against the sheen of the pink-tinged dome over their heads.

Bond keeps watch, wishing he had a fucking drink.

The jabberjays might be gone - but the voices remain. Those outside the Arena. Bond has never worn helplessness well: even if it were real, they are far beyond his help. They are on their own, for whatever they face.

Mycroft had made some awful noises, too, while he tried to hold himself together.

Q.

After Bond’s win, the first thing they did was start training him. Interrogation training started early. No Victor is renowned for mental stability. They had to establish if he was mentally strong enough to handle espionage.

He was. He didn’t know how, but he was.

More than that, and perhaps more alarmingly: he still is.

The trick is in acceptance. It always has been, always will be. Accepting whatever comes. It won him his Games. It allowed him to survive everything that followed.

Bond looks up at the sky. Blue, clear. Endless.

They’re doing it today. This ends today.

Panem as they know it ends today.

The dawn warms his skin by degrees.

-

It is coming up to seven in the morning when President Snow summons Plutarch - and, less auspiciously, Q - into his observation room.

Q’s first thought is that the man looks incredibly unwell. The rest of them might be able to get away with very little sleep and high degrees of stress; President Snow can’t. Staving off the complete collapse of a nation in one's eighties is going poorly.

Q’s second thought is that he’s never seen anybody so angry.

Snow speaks, voice so detached it snaps with violence on the recoil: “Why was I not informed?”

“I attempted to reach you four separate times,” Plutarch replies immediately, warily professional and just - just - managing to paper over the faint aura of annoyance. “The aired footage contained very little of the more concerning facets…”

Snow stalls him with nothing more than a look. He doesn’t even need to move. Plutarch falls silent.

The President flicks his eyes to Q. “The Avox language,” he states, unsurprisingly. “You know it?”

“Know of it, certainly,” Q replies, skirting the edge of an actual lie as deftly as he knows how. “I’ve heard rumour.”

“Translation?”

“In progress,” Plutarch fills in quickly. “We - well. Acquired, shall we say, somebody willing to assist.”

Well. That sounds suitably horrifying.

Snow nods, expression fixed, gaze returning to his stacked collection of screens: the Games. Angle after angle of the four o’clock sector, of the four people involved, every one of them in various states of evident collapse - Snow studies them, expression wrought with raw rage.

Only it isn’t rage. Q follows Snow’s eyeline, beginning to understand, dizzy in the realisation: he’s only watching one screen, only interested in one response.

President Snow watches Mycroft dying by degrees. An expression carved with deeper emotionality than Q realised him capable of, and not the fury Q was expecting; not for Mycroft, anyway.

No. It’s agony. The faintest crack of delicately-woven agony.

Once again, Q wonders exactly what their relationship really was: neither are exactly verbose on the subject. Mycroft has spoken, of course, but the truest void is in President Snow himself. A man of logic, whom Mycroft describes as unflinchingly rational; a man of zeal, but entirely incapable of trust.

Q can’t help but agree - but what Mycroft seems to have missed is that Snow is still human. He can still feel.

He can still love.

Plutarch shifts uncomfortably, while Snow stares at Mycroft as though he is the one who’s been tortured.

“The rest is stage management,” Plutarch informs their President, breaking through the unexpectedly awkward silence. “We kept Regina’s… well, we. We have a rough-cut edit prepared. Between Regina and Emma…”

“I have seen it,” Snow interrupts tersely, which comes as a surprise; Q wonders how long he’s been awake, hidden where none can see. Secrets known only to the President himself. “Edits will obliterate Regina’s use of sign. I want close cuts on expressions. Play the jabberjays - invite Caesar to identify the voices used.”

Plutarch stills slightly, tense. “The Capitol…”

“This is not about the Capitol,” Snow cuts in. “Your version will do for that, if you wish - this is for the rest of the nation. An edit that negates any shadow of doubt. Media blackout in the Districts for those featured, throughout the remainder of these Games. Get an analyst; make it quite clear that jabberjays copy.”

A moment of stillness.

Threat has failed, suppression has failed. They’re going for terrorisation.

“I should note that Three will not accept that,” Q points out quietly; Snow looks at him, an odd flicker passing over his expression - as though for a moment, he expects Q to be somebody else, with absolutely no prizes for guessing who. “We work with that type of technology from infancy.”

“A single District in twelve that may doubt it is a worthwhile calculus,” Snow returns. “Otherwise: the aftermath remains the primary focus, I want the bulk of attention there. We portray them as weak.”

On Snow’s screens, Mycroft collapses into Regina. “Might it be worth a psych consult interview with Caesar?” Q suggests. “If we want to convey them as unstable, probably useful to consider the general frailty of the Victors more broadly; Moriarty is a useful touchpoint, in that regard.”

Snow considers for a moment, regaining his command: “Pitch Swan and Mills as unstable,” he directs. “Holmes is self-explanatory, Bond is irrelevant - focus attention on the two women.”

“Easy enough for Swan,” Plutarch agrees, while Q processes the soulless dismissal of Bond, “though Regina’s a harder sell.”

“Humbert,” Snow returns - a name that jars Q for a moment, before he remembers Graham Humbert, dead at Regina’s hands, at the Queens’ hands. “It will require a raid of Adler’s residence for supporting materials; one that is long overdue, I might add. Between that, and the Avox lover, we have ample to work from to adequately paint Regina as unbalanced.”

Q hopes to fuck the Queens are intelligent enough to have seen this one coming.

Plutarch’s nod is faintly smug. Q would guess some type of history; Irene has more than enough experience handling men up and down the Capitol, there’s every possibility Plutarch has been one of them.

“Did she kill Humbert?” he asks directly. “Regina, I mean.”

Snow’s expression barely twitches. “Involved, certainly, though the precise circumstances are tightly held; I did not deem it necessary to determine the degrees of culpability at the time.”

Small mercies, in the midst of a conversation that makes Q - for the first time - grateful Regina is in an Arena, where she won’t be made to see this. All the worst moments of her past, raked up to put on display for the entire nation to witness.

That - and there is nobody bar the three of them who know, who will ever know, that it was Q to suggest it first.

“Do we have footage of the lover anywhere?”

One day, Q will apologise to Regina for this, for betraying her so intimately - but he has seventeen more hours to survive in this city, a confined space with a sleep-deprived President in possession of too much power and too few morals. Q has to be above suspicion, he can’t risk losing Snow’s extremely tentative idea of ‘trust’ now.

Or at least, that is what he knows he will spend the rest of his life telling himself.

“Unlikely,” Snow murmurs, “that said: all Avox are logged on entry to the re-education centre. A photograph ought to exist in the archives.”

Daniel Colter. An Avox, born in District Ten; a runaway, with enough skill in his industry that the Capitol punished him with living, his tongue removed and put to work in the stables. Punished in life and exploited in death; Regina’s love for him, the language he taught her, is all that remains.

“We might want to hold onto the image for now,” Plutarch considers aloud. “It might inflame the Avox, though I doubt most would be daring enough to…”

“... you would be surprised,” Snow interrupts, silencing him once again. “I don’t care; use it, if you must. I do not want a single sympathetic party remaining, not for Mills - I do not care how far you must go to ensure as much. Note that the lover was executed for treason; the Capitol’s mercy left Regina alive, mercy she is now disdaining with her behaviour, et cetera. Yes?”

An egregious lie with nobody alive or available to contradict it. Q knows the truth; Mycroft told him. Beyond a sparse handful of Victors - and Snow - nobody knows that Regina’s mother was the one to murder Daniel Colter.

Snow looks at him, daring Q to speak; to tell the truth, at least to Plutarch. Q holds his tongue. Ironically.

(a very distant part of him is entirely aware that he’s panicking himself senseless, heartbeat so fast it’s practically tripping over itself; he ignores it, as best he can).

“Overall,” Snow continues, “this was handled as well as could be hoped for, given the circumstances.”

It takes a solid few seconds to realise that it’s a compliment. Q and Plutarch alike both stall, unsure how to respond. “I…”

“... that said: enough of the Arena mechanisms. We need the Tributes in combat,” Snow continues, pushing them onto the next problem. “The response to direct murders has been as expected; they undermine their own zealous unity, with every murder committed. That has to be the priority.”

Plutarch hesitates. Snow’s expression shifts incrementally, bleak. “It… herding will be challenging,” he points out. “Regina’s killed two herself already, we can push attention onto…”

“The Careers have not been as motivated as I might have hoped.”

Q steps in: “they’re briefed, presumably? The Careers?” he checks; Snow nods, unconcerned that Q has long-since figured it out. “Send them a parachute, one of your roses. They’ll get the meaning.”

Exactly the sort of thing Plutarch loves: “Excellent,” he agrees, delighted. “A little encouragement. Remind them that they have a job to do. It’s better than trying to herd them, I don’t think our audience will be pleased with visible intervention - we won’t air the parachute, obviously, but that gets them up and moving again.”

Off to track down the Holmeses. A whole Arena to survive, no clue where to find Mycroft and the others; it’s the best-case scenario for all involved.

They can only hope it will be enough.

“Relatedly: no Gifts until further notice for any in the target sets,” Snow commands, fingers dancing on the tabletop. “Curb wildlife, where viable. They fend for themselves. I will be in Control within the hour, I have other matters to attend to in the meantime. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mr President,” Plutarch agrees, bowing his head. “Reports?”

Snow looks between the pair of them - then away, back to his many screens.

To Mycroft.

“Every quarter-hour,” he replies, threat throbbing nastily beneath the toneless dispassion he’s known for. “Go.”

Neither Plutarch nor Q wait to be asked twice.

Chapter Text

“... it seems Regina’s use of sign language has had a profound impact amidst our Avox allies,” Anthea informs them, “indeed, such weight as to provoke a full-scale revolt in several construction camps. Sheer bent of numbers afforded a comprehensive success in most affected camps - more importantly, Avox have scattered in all directions. It’s afforded cover for the groups we’d tasked with disabling the forcefield…”

“... so Snow can’t figure out which direction they’re heading,” John completes. “Good. Coin’s ready?”

“Yes,” Anthea agrees, shooting a tight look at the screen. “You should also be aware that, as far as we can establish, the fragments we heard from Emma seem to have also been aired in some Districts; we are unlikely to know the full details for some time, but the degree of distemper is suggestive, if somewhat overshadowed by the Avox response.”

Regina Holmes, single-handedly whipping Panem’s Avox into rebellion. Killian’s so proud of her it physically fucking hurts.

Sleep’s impossible, though he really should be making more of an effort. He watches, instead; meaning he gets to watch Jim ignore the parachute Killian sent in - trying to do the decent thing, get him some salve for the chemical burns - and instead, sneak into the dozing mess of Haymitch, Arne and Dagan to attack.

Jim has no weapons, covered in head-to-toe blisters that he seems happy to ignore, but goes ahead throttling Arne with his bare hands. Haymitch and Dagan don’t even give it a try, just up and run; probably the sensible call, though even Jim would probably struggle three against one if they actually tried.

Doesn’t matter, anyway. Arne’s barely flailing, accepting that death’s found him. Jim straddles him, choking him to death, humming absentmindedly to himself as he does.

“Goodbye,” he murmurs, when the cannon fires overhead.

At the rate he’s going, Jim’ll just move in when the forcefield goes down. Live out the rest of his life in this Arena. Clearly, he’s a fuck of a lot of happier here than he’s managed to be in the real world.

John jerks awake at the cannon fire, eyes wild. “Arne,” Killian supplies quickly. “S’fine. I mean - shit. Sorry, Ruby, I didn’t mean…”

“... I know,” Ruby mumbles, wrung out; she watches the hovercraft come in to pick up Arne’s body, swallowing a brief hiccup of tears, body rigid - her Mentor, the only other Victor in Ten for the first years after she won. They weren’t close, best Killian knows, but history’s history. “He was never gonna make it. ”

It’s true, so Killian doesn’t bother trying with niceties. They sit in silence, instead. Finnick’s body finally outstrips the whims of his mind, tugging him into troubled sleep; John slips back under without his expression moving, even once; Ruby weeps soundlessly, until her eyes are too heavy to hold open.

Killian and Anthea are the only ones awake.

They really do have to sleep. Both of them know it. They only got a few hours before the Games started, now trying to push through the physical exhaustion until their bodies give way.

Unfortunately, Killian knows himself a little too well. It’s hard enough to keep the room from going Citadel-shaded white as it is; the last thing he can afford is sleep, he’ll be a mess for the rest of the day if his subconscious gets a look-in.

No excuse for Anthea, though. “You’ve got to try,” he murmurs to her, quiet enough not to disturb the other three. “The evac, love, you…”

“... I know,” she breathes, framing promises she won’t keep.

Mycroft’s expression will never fucking leave him.

Seven o’clock moves towards eight. Emma and Bond try to hunt; something to keep them busy, though they struggle to find much. The jabberjays probably scared them off. There aren’t many creatures who like listening to hours of screaming.

(Jim stalks through the empty jungle, eyes nothing short of hungry).

They don’t leave Emma on her own. Even Killian can see that she’s jumpy, certain she’s the big problem; Regina exchanges a look with Bond, a question and answer, a promise that he’ll keep an eye on her.

“... moving out,” Cashmere agrees, the cameras following her and the Careers, packing up their makeshift camp. “We get this done.”

Out of nowhere, Anthea’s phone buzzes; the poor woman startles like she’s been electrocuted, taking a second to remember how to use the bloody thing, eyes suddenly flaring wide as she reads. “Love, what…?”

“Primary channel,” she manages, grabbing for the remote, startling Finnick and John awake. “It’s, they’ve…”

Regina’s face. It confuses Killian for a second; it’s not one of the usual pictures they use. They play the reruns often enough that he’s tragically used to what Regina looked like at fifteen; it’s a few years after, maybe twenty or twenty-one. An in-between of the Regina he usually sees, younger and older at once.

Happy.

It isn’t until he makes sense of Caesar’s words, “... a torrid affair with a traitor...” that Killian understands, a sharp bolt of horror that Anthea echoes in kind, Finnick catching up with a horrified, strangled noise of his own when they show Panem a photograph of a young man.

None of them have ever seen Daniel Colter’s face. Regina has never owned a photograph of him. Fuck, she’s never even described him before; she keeps him in her memories, somewhere safe.

Killian looks at a stranger’s face and knows, knows it’s Daniel. Regina’s Daniel.

Every time he thinks the Capitol can’t sink any fucking lower.

“... grief she took out on our beloved Graham Humbert, I understand?” Caesar asks Templeman, the pair talking and tutting between each other, “then moving straight onto Mycroft Holmes - what do you think, Claudius. A ploy?”

“Well, we all know Mycroft Holmes is more emotional than he likes to let on,” Claudius sighs, both of them humming sympathetically at a close-up of Mycroft behind a transparent barrier, “and Regina is older, don’t forget - five years is a lot when you’re young, he was only fourteen when they met. I hate to say it, Caesar, you know I’d never want to be unfair, but do you think it might be… well. You know, the word is that she was never pregnant at all; our Victors are examined by doctors before the Games start, you see…”

Less than two days ago - fuck, until about five fucking minutes ago - Regina and Mycroft were the greatest power couple in the whole bloody nation.

It just takes the right story. Memories are short, in the Capitol, and the people fickle - they’re used to following trends, swallowing what they’re told. It’s a hell of a lot easier for the Capitol to reckon Regina lied about a pregnancy, than sit with the nastiness of a Quell that’d Reap a pregnant woman - Snow gets the Capitol back on-side, and vent some of his hatred of Regina in the meantime.

Killian is genuinely too stunned to know how in the flying fuck to respond.

Anthea is shaking. “I’ll be back,” she hisses, something unhinged in the force of it, one fist clenched tight around the only piece of Daniel Colter left behind - a ring he gave Regina, which she has never let out of her sight except for these Games; left behind for safekeeping, instead, with one of the people she trusts most.

Fuck, but they’re revelling in it: “... well we all wondered what happened, didn’t we?” Caesar continues, almost disdainful. “Regina was out of control, we all saw it - you remember, Claudius? An infatuation with an Avox.”

“You know, anybody else would have been arrested,” Claudius agrees, in pantomimed dismay. “Can you imagine?”

“A love affair, a broken heart…”

Her heart was not the only thing that broke.

It was a hell of a year or so, afterwards. Regina was a wreckage of herself, wouldn’t speak to anyone - but they saw, they watched. Graham Humbert, paraded out on his Victory Tour with the Queens’ fingers visible all over him; it was pretty much common knowledge that they hadn’t let him out the building. The city was buzzing with it, rumour flying everywhere.

Of course, Caesar and Claudius don’t actually mention the Queens on screen. It would be stupid to try. They’re too powerful to fuck with, plus, people who aren’t in the know might start asking questions about Sponsorship - like, ‘what happened to Sherlock Holmes, if he was Sponsored by them too’ or ‘what about the other Victors’ or ‘why would a one-handed fifteen-year-old prefer to be whored out against his will to half the city than go back to his Sponsor’s place’.

Nope, it’s all about Regina - and there’s a lot of footage they can use. A famous Victor going off the deep end, the images and footage they’d used at the time on all the gossip channels: Regina drinking in bars, her pupils pinprick-small or so huge her irises had vanished, smiling poisonously, her laughter cruel.

“... which I suppose explains her so quickly befriending another fragile, vulnerable Victor like Emma Swan,” Templeman muses, “it’s women, you see? You see, we don’t have nearly as many ladies winning the Games - too fragile for it. Annie Cresta, we all remember that year…”

Finnick’s noise is throttled.

They rarely show Annie’s Games. Or: they play the beheading, but somehow always without really showing Annie, who had to watch it a few feet in front of her - Annie’s one of the ‘forgotten’ Victors. Like Gold, or - until the Quell - Wiress. Everybody likes to forget Annie Cresta is a Victor too.

For the first time in years, Killian watches Annie bobbing in a dead man’s float, in the bowl of a flooded Arena.

In the corridor, Anthea’s talking. Killian absentmindedly listens to her voice, if not her words; it’s almost nice, a running stream in the distance, uninterrupted.

“A girl guided by powers she couldn’t begin to command,” Caesar sighs, looking at a still-image of Emma’s face as her dress caught fire - frozen in a brief moment of terror, one they’ve borrowed and remade for themselves, “she said it herself, didn’t she? You remember, Caesar, let’s take a look…”

“... lost girl,” Emma murmurs at her exit interview, less than a year ago. Unmade with grief, fresh off stabbing herself in the stomach, told to look as fragile as humanly possible - something that worked like a charm, right up to this moment. “Nobody wanted me. I couldn’t let you down.”

They cut it in so neatly: Mycroft, fourteen years old, in his Arena. Still short, back then - shorter than the girl from District Four, one of Killian’s mentees. Ronan, one of the best odds for a girl from Four he’s ever Mentored: gorgeous and blonde, strong, proved herself a fighter in the bloodbath then died along with the rest.

Dead, because she trusted Mycroft Holmes.

Emma tells the world she couldn’t let them down - and Mycroft in his Arena, telling Ronan he Volunteered because he “wanted to be worth something.”

It’s a half-truth, too close for comfort. Killian knows Mycroft so well, too well - even when he’s acting, he has his tells.

“... and if anybody could take advantage of…”

“A full villain edit,” Finnick murmurs tiredly. “Seems late in the day to try that angle.”

“Nobody’ll buy it,” John adds, voice rough. “Even here, they’re not that stupid.”

Ruby manages a small, barking laugh: she’s never forgiven Regina as it is, not really. “Enough of them will,” she mutters. “Only need some of ‘em, the rest’ll fall in with it. Districts can’t hack Careers, Capitol loves a villain. Assholes.”

It’d be harder, if Regina hadn’t done such a good job of villainy.

None of them can get back to sleep after that, nor try - especially given that nine o’clock brings the morning recaps, “... and what a night it’s been!” Caesar grins, “so for anybody who wasn’t there, let’s take another look at what finally got the Ice Man to melt...”

They don’t play the screams, which is nice.

Instead, they just keep showing Mycroft - a man who hates anybody seeing him vulnerable - having the most severe dissociative episode Killian’s seen in his life, over and over for the whole fucking nation to watch.

Anthea steps back into the room, “yes, one moment,” she’s saying on the phone, grabbing for her laptop; she clamps it between shoulder and ear, “yes, just allow me a moment - can we watch live, that would be… ah, looking now…”

Nobody asks. Anthea fucks about on the laptop for a while, while they watch Caesar talk about the ‘Ice Man’ and run the whole villain-spiel for Regina and pretend like Emma Swan’s a wilting flower who’s never said boo to a goose and completely ignore that Bond’s even there.

The screaming is unexpected and really, really not good for Killian’s barely-present sanity. “Yes, I’ve got it,” Anthea announces, white but apparently not all that bothered by the screaming, “I’ll call you back.”

“What…?”

“There are two edits,” Anthea explains rapidly. “The Districts are seeing something completely different, that was Silva - the Capitol are getting the anti-Regina content, and the Districts are…”

“... Killian Jones, I’m sure all know that voice,” Caesar’s saying gravely, though fuck alone knows when he’s had the time to film this in the past few hours, he’s been monologuing on Regina’s evils for the past two, “and Finnick Odair, of course…”

Oh bloody brilliant, pointing out who’s-who of the screaming birds that Killian really wishes weren’t so fucking accurate.

It takes pretty much all of Killian’s self-control to keep the room from going tiled-shaped, “maybe turn off the volume?” John suggests levelly; Anthea startles, abruptly muting midway through one of Annie’s shrieks. “Oh, and, you’ll want to see this - nine o’clock kicking off, by the look of it, the Careers just arrived.”

Zombies. There are fucking child-size zombies ambling around the fucking sector, there are zombies.

Killian wonders, for a wild and weird second, if he’s finally passed over the line into a full-fledged mental breakdown. “Oh, what the actual fuck,” Ruby rasps, strained and vile, “what, what is, fuck...”

“That’s Fergal,” Killian mumbles aloud, before he can stop himself, “oh fuck, I know him. I know that fucking kid, that’s… I know him, I Mentored… yeah, that’s my limit, m’gonna throw up, I…”

Anthea’s already thought of it. Killian retches into a bowl while staring at the zombie version of a kid he Mentored the year before Finnick. A kid Cashmere killed while he was busy defending against an incoming mutt.

Tributes. Dead Tributes. The zombies are dead fucking Tributes.

‘Rock bottom’ has a basement, then a fucking wine cellar underneath, this is psychotic.

Cashmere screams; Chaff outright just, shuts down; Brutus and Seeder both have enough wherewithal to run, sprinting out towards the beach as fast as their legs will carry them, barreling into the sands of the Cornucopia.

The zombie-Tributes attack. Chaff gets a nasty bite from a girl Killian knows, just knows was in the man’s Games, “... amazing, the things we remember,” Caesar narrates, because they’ve not switched channels yet, so they get his demented thoughts on the whole affair, “over the years…”

A fucked-up torture orchestra, zombies, nerve gas. The Gamemakers have gone all-out.

Killian hopes Q is okay.

-

Q wants to scream until his throat gives out, as it happens.

It’s quieter for a while, at least. A few hours of something like peace. The Careers get their white-rose-of-doom, head off to hunt, and Q goes to get an hour or two of sleep before the next run of problems rear up.

The exhaustion is enough to get him a few clear hours of unconsciousness; the remembered screams of people he’s not seen for over a year wake him up again.

Silva texts him. Nothing important, just little things. Reminding him that he’s a real person; that the rest of the world is carrying on as usual, outside the Gamemaker suites.

Naturally, he returns in time for the ten o’clock wave, trying to obliterate the spectres of his siblings asking questions. How the wave works, how it looks. The phone calls they’d had where Q had tried to give them enough information on the few things he actually knew, details that might let them survive a minute, a moment longer.

Sherlock picks at the mottled green lesions on every inch of exposed skin; Mycroft stares into the middle-distance, haunted and hollow.

“I’m going to watch, you’re going to run this one,” Q tells Oliver, who’s one of the least sleep-deprived in the room; he looks terrified for a moment or two, before nodding with abject determination.

He does a damn good job, actually.

“Q?”

The world twists in a dreamlike convulsion of movement, careening off back into the observation booth, to Snow’s side. “President Snow,” Q greets, sitting himself down as directed, as he always does. “How can I help you?”

Snow is wearing makeup, Q can tell: he can spot the signs. He isn’t as good at applying it as the Victors are.

“Tell me who should win these Games,” Snow asks, detached.

Q blinks.

Funnily enough, it isn’t something Q’s spent any real time thinking about. Even if there were only one Victor expected from these Games, it’s not something Q would have worried about unduly. It isn’t his call to make.

Snow, however, is definitely going to care quite a bit.

In lieu of better options, Q vies for honesty: “Does it matter?”

Snow does not respond.

Behind him, his screens are not solely the Games any more: Districts, rioting. Several of them, if the little numbers in the bottom corner are indicative. Buildings on fire. Peacekeeper bodycams, mowing down anything that moves. A nation that is about fourteen hours away from exploding beyond disordered rioting, yanking itself away from the Capitol’s control with every intention of staying that way.

Q really wishes he knew more about the plans. Arena or Panem or anything, he wishes he knew more than he does. It might help the panic.

Instead, he gets Snow fixing him with a very level look, expecting a more defined answer than Q has provided. “I…” he begins, “well. At the rate he’s going, potentially Jim…”

“I didn’t ask who will win,” Snow interrupts. “I asked who should.”

Grief runs deep in President Snow. He’s carved with it, hand in hand with his age; a survivor of the last war Panem endured, limping towards the ending strains of his life and Presidency, legacy dying beneath his fingertips, with nobody who can possibly take up the mantle in his stead.

“Have you arrested Killian Jones et al?” Q asks, as clinically as he can humanly manage. Snow’s expression barely shifts, beyond a note of curiosity. “Well - I think I have my answer, if you haven’t.”

Snow’s exhale sounds, somehow, rueful. “Such intelligence,” he comments sadly, “such… potential. You see it, then?”

Mycroft Holmes should have been President; Mycroft Holmes should have died the moment he resigned. Mycroft Holmes survived his Games with an antidote only affordable to one man, one President; somebody who looked at a fourteen-year-old capable of brilliance nobody else alive could match.

None of them matter, not to Snow. The other Victors, good or bad, are an irrelevance compared to the almost-mythic figure of Mycroft Holmes. Snow’s would-be successor, his surrogate son.

Everything in this world comes back and back and back to Mycroft Holmes.

“You want him to win,” Q says quietly. “Mycroft. Yes?”

A truth Q is convinced of for a single reason: Sherlock was not supposed to be in these Games.

Anybody could have guessed, correctly, that the Holmes brothers would cheerfully Volunteer for one another. Reaping Sherlock in District One guaranteed Mycroft’s inclusion in the Quell - but nobody could have foreseen Sherlock Volunteering for Killian.

Q watched the second draw. He saw Snow’s expression, the unvarnished shock - more vitally, the brief but visible moment of panic. An emotion that piqued Q’s curiosity beyond its bounds.

There is nothing Mycroft Holmes will not give to protect his brother. Including himself, including the rest of his family. If it came down to it, Mycroft would choose Sherlock each and every time.

Snow doesn’t answer, so Q probes the theory: “If Jim hadn’t rigged the Reaping ball in Four…”

“... correct,” Snow concludes, the ending of a thought that neither dares fully voice: even if Killian had been Reaped in District Four as he was supposed to be, Snow had never intended to draw Sherlock. It was never supposed to be him.

Sherlock would have been left outside the Arena.

Q has been sitting with the suspicion long enough to have a grasp of the logic: Mycroft is trapped in a Hunger Game with more or less everybody he loves - meaning he has nothing, whatsoever, to win for. There is no earth on which Mycroft would allow himself to be the sole winner of the Quell.

That is, unless his brother needed him. The one person Mycroft would never leave behind.

Snow wanted to have Mycroft in these Games - but leave behind the one person he would win for.

Adrift, Q tries to piece together the parts that don’t make sense. “You know it wouldn’t work,” Q tries, as carefully as he can; Snow fixes him with a cold, level look. “It… if he wins, he’ll be completely destroyed. There won’t be anything left.”

Snow considers it for a moment or two. “In the ashes of the old world, we built Panem,” he murmurs, a non-sequitur that really isn’t one - but it’s so soulless Q baulks, trying to press Snow’s intention into the shape of his eldest brother. “Hence, of course, Jones and Odair remaining, shall we say, undisturbed. It is not what I had hoped - but it is the only viable course of action. Mycroft has always… needed.”

Any version of Mycroft Holmes who won this Game would certainly ‘need’.

The absurd thing is that Snow really, truly seems to think it would work. Make a complete wreckage out of Mycroft, leaving a token handful of loved ones as a consolation prize, enough to lever him straight back to the place Snow believes - has always believed - that Mycroft belongs.

A preoccupation, an obsession, that has killed nine Victors so far while the country burns in the distance.

Snow looks at him like he’s expecting Q to have something - anything - useful to add; as though seeking some type of confirmation that his deluded desperation could possibly end in the ways he imagines, rather than create a whole host of different problems and, without question, spawn a version of Mycroft Holmes who could and would tear down the stars themselves to wreak vengeance.

“I…” Q begins, trailing off, trying to fathom the madness of it. “It… you realise he’d never forgive it? If he won…”

“... then he certainly would not risk the security of those who remain,” Snow points out coldly, a curl of distaste in his upper lip. “Ideas of revenge would no doubt be attractive; that said, he is too emotional a creature to risk such a thing.”

Q doesn’t even know where to begin, wondering whether the sleep deprivation has left him loopy. “You’ve sent the Careers out searching for him,” he points out, “you’re risking him dying in there, I just… why not… why not Reap everybody you wanted to get rid of, leave Mycroft on the outside to watch…?”

“‘Helplessness’ and ‘failure’ are two very different experiences,” Snow states, perfectly calm in the face of Q’s obvious bemusement. “Mycroft can metabolise helplessness, he is amply intelligent enough to manoeuvre such an experience into a sense of control - but failure? That is the one thing he will never conscience. Insofar as risking his death, I am quite aware. Mycroft will either survive this Game to rebuild a future for Panem, or trouble the nation no longer.”

Either way, Snow thinks that he wins. Almost all of the right ingredients, almost the right logic - but not quite. Like Mycroft, Snow can break down human beings into their motives and weaknesses, muse on their projected behaviours; Gold is prone to the same. Plenty of people try to play fortune-teller with those around them, it’s a normal human habit.

Regrettably for Panem, President Snow is at the epicentre of a perfect storm: a man riddled with regrets, incapable of trust, devoid of any true friendships or family, every superficial whim satisfied instantly. Lonely and blinkered and desperate - and far, far too powerful. Every action Snow takes is on a national scale, violently disproportionate in ways he might not fully realise the scope of.

Such as, perhaps, a nationally televised deathmatch created to force his surrogate son to come home.

Snow coughs into a handkerchief, wet and blood-speckled. It sounds painful; rattles, even, as he draws breath.

Happily, Q is long past sympathy. Snow has constructed his own downfall. A set of bad decisions, compounded again and again - a man who can’t grow, can’t change, too accustomed to his power being enough to mitigate his mistakes.

Q hopes Snow lives long enough to watch his legacy turn to ash.

There is little else to be said. “Go,” Snow commands him; sharp, bleak.

Q does.

-

Emma knows she should go.

There’s only one winner. It’s bad enough already. At least three out of the four of them have to die for this to ever stop, Emma can’t watch that happen, she definitely can’t let any of them put themselves in danger to protect her. It isn’t fair on them, even if they’re convinced they want to be allies, and that’s while knowing there’s going to be even more people, once they catch up to Johanna and Beetee.

They’re going soon. Back out into the Arena. They held back after another cannon fire, but they can’t stick around forever.

It took ages for Mycroft and Bond to look like real people again.

Mycroft was the obvious one, sure, but Emma was really freaked by Bond - who seemed to be mostly okay but obviously wasn’t, silent when they hunted and wouldn’t talk for ages and pretended like everything was normal even though it wasn’t.

“So. Still thinking of splitting?” Regina asks, while Mycroft’s busy getting more water; he keeps insisting everybody drinks as much as they can, even though Emma keeps needing to pee and doesn’t want that to happen when she’s fighting somebody, or when the next horrible Arena thing happens.

Emma realises Regina asked a question, one she’s definitely supposed to answer, and it’s been way too long already. “Um…”

“Yes, of course you are,” Regina sighs, like she’s a kid who’s misbehaved or something rather than trying to do the right thing and not get a whole family killed because she was yelling about revolution. “Fine: Mycroft figured - so. Where do you think you’re gonna go, exactly, when you run off into the jungle?”

“I hadn’t gotten that far,” Emma mutters, which is unfortunately true. “Look, it’s just… there’s only one winner, Regina.”

Regina doesn’t dismiss it. “Walk with me,” she says instead, striding without waiting for an answer, leaving Emma to catch up.

There’s something behind her eyes, Emma thinks. Something Emma isn’t sure how to explain, but reminds her of the things she saw during training: there are secrets the others are holding onto, things they aren’t telling her. Things that the Gamemakers can’t be allowed to hear.

It’d be really great if Emma had the first idea what in the hell any of those things are, but okay.

Regina looks at her for a long time. “You know I’m not gonna survive this Arena either?” she says, eventually. Emma’s chest clamps horribly. “You’re right - there’s only one winner. Only one person gets to leave, and it sure as hell isn’t gonna be me. It probably won’t be James. Might be Mycroft, might be Sherlock, I don’t know - but it won’t be me. So: why’d we ally? You think I want to watch them die? You think I want them to watch me die?”

Emma accidentally lets out a strangled, nervous laugh. “I mean, it - you wanted to protect each other, right? So it’s, so it’s definitely one of you, when…”

“... yes, true, but there’s something more important than that,” Regina cuts in, looking towards Bond and Mycroft. Her smile is so sad and so, so honest. “They Volunteered. Both of them. They don’t think they’ll win, and it wasn’t just to keep other people out of the Arena - we’re going to die, Emma, we all know it. Chances are, you won’t win either. This Arena is the stuff of all our nightmares, a lot of people want you - us - dead. Doesn’t matter. It’s gonna happen and I can’t do a damn thing to stop it - so if all that’s true? If I’m gonna die anyway, if I’m going to watch people I love die anyway? At the very least, I’m going to spend every second I can with them. I want my last hours spent with people I care about, who care about me.”

A sharp, jagged something pierces Emma between the ribs.

It takes a second to figure out words again, “but I don’t even know you, I’m not, I’m not a part of…”

“I care about you,” Regina interrupts, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I didn’t call you up just for the hell of it - okay, so you’re gonna die, so what. They want this Arena to be all about us dying. Make it about living. You said it, Emma, they don’t get to have you - so, don’t let them. Don’t let them take the last moments you might have, don’t let them make it so you die alone, you deserve better than that.”

Emma hiccups on a harsh, painful breath that doesn’t feel like it belongs to her.

Dying scares her. Emma knows that’s normal. Most people are probably scared of dying, especially when it’s coming up fast - coming up to a day in an Arena, which is already longer than Emma figured she’d survive when the Quell got announced.

Regina reaches out. Gently, very gently, taking Emma’s hand.

Nobody really touches Emma all that much. Ruby, maybe, but Ruby’s somewhere in the Capitol; Emma grew up without parents to tuck her in at night, without ever getting used to somebody touching her gently.

Regina’s gentle. A lot gentler than Emma expected.

“I know we’re not…” Regina starts, imperfect. “I know it’s not the same. You deserve so much better - we’re not perfect, but. Maybe we’re enough?”

Emma looks at Regina, looks at the other two. Regina’s family.

“If,” Emma starts, swallows, her eyes falling - lingering - on Mycroft; he’s examining a tree with way too much fascination, like it’s holding secrets only he could ever understand. “If it gets to it, I don’t… he’s everything to you, isn’t he?”

It’s seeing them together like this - outside of training, when they forget to pretend - that Emma can understand how they got married. The two of them are like extensions of each other; the same thought, stretched out across two different people, different and the same all at once.

“Yes,” Regina agrees simply, watching Mycroft along with her.

Dying is scary to think about - but Regina’s right. It would be nice to spend the last parts surrounded by people who are kind, who treat her like she matters; who she doesn’t think would stab her in the back, not unless they really had to.

Secrets lurk beneath the surface. Emma wishes she knew, but doesn’t mind all that much that she doesn’t; some kind of instinct pushes her forward. Curiosity, or maybe just that she’s not got anywhere else to go.

It would be nice, not dying alone.

Emma looks at Regina and looks at their linked hands. At Mycroft with his tree and James Bond with his psychic powers and Regina again. “I’ll stay,” she says, eventually. “It… thank you?”

Regina just squeezes her hand in response.

Chapter Text

They arrive in Heavensbee Hall to a frenzied swarm of media, descending the second they see - in particular - him and Killian.

Finnick does his level best. The jabberjays have been pushed aside, in favour of the ‘Regina is a manipulative mastermind’ angle, a narrative the Capitol’s bought into so vehemently he’s almost impressed - the Capitol loves a villain, the Quell has been missing an antagonist. Regina has a pre-made Games nickname with ‘Evil’ already in it, a complicated past, and has been the emotional epicentre of the Quell so far. The full intensity of the Capitol’s sympathy has spun around to face the other way, fuelled by a well-run media machine; even the diehard sympathetics got pulled in with the “faked a pregnancy” line.

It isn’t seamless. It isn’t supposed to be. Half the point is to divide opinions, to spark discussion and debate and speculation; a welcome distraction from watching beloved media figures get slaughtered in an Arena.

Finnick and Killian have absolutely no interest in playing along - they bridge as few interviews as they can get away with, far more concerned about getting into the Hall, back to the screens. The Capitol’s latest spin-story won’t matter by tomorrow morning.

That said: imminent civil war or not, Anthea - and the Queens - have taken it extremely personally. Finnick is fully aware that the combined powers of that many angry women will do more than he or Killian ever could to restore Regina’s reputation.

They can handle those parts. Finnick and Killian have other priorities.

“... blimey,” Killian mutters in an undertone, as they finally pull free from the media. “Just waiting for the bloody opportunity…”

Finnick Odair smiles a pristine smile, the Hall opening up in front of him, the Games playing out overhead.

A good moment to arrive, it would seem: Jim’s midway through rendering himself a non-issue for a while, after picking a fight with the dog-sized insect-mutts in eleven o’clock. “I know it’s bad form,” Killian mutters, eyes on the screens, “but fuck if I hope something finishes the job soon.”

“We can but hope,” Finnick agrees, watching Jim just about avoid death, now he’s armed with Arne’s weapons; he staggers out of reach instead, now sporting insect bites to add to his blistered skin, bleeding profusely.

“Tick tock,” he hums, as catches his breath, safe in the ten o’clock sector, “this is a clock, huh? Tick, tick, tock. Tick tock. Tick. Tock.”

“... bloody kid,” Killian mutters, mouth tight with distaste.

They pitch up at their chairs. Gold nods at him, from across the room; Finnick isn’t sure what to make of it, beyond an acknowledgement - it ends today. They will be evacuating in a matter of hours.

In that thought, Finnick realises: he’s left his flat for the final time. It didn’t occur to him. A place he made home for himself, seven years spent living there - living with Annie, for most of that time. A home he may never see again.

“I’ve gotta go,” Ruby mumbles. It’s almost a mercy. She can’t stop flinching at the death reruns. “Back in an hour.”

Finnick doesn’t know how to find speech. Killian manages something politely sympathetic. Ruby goes.

Sherlock and Jo caught the ending strains of the ten o’clock wave, on a brief scouting mission; they, with Beetee, watch the lightning storm from a safe distance. They’ve had a peaceful few hours, bar hearing various cannons throughout the day that they can’t identify and do not try to discuss; nor do they discuss that nearly twelve hours have passed, without Mycroft and Bond returning from their trip to the Cornucopia.

“They may or may not have acquired the wire,” Sherlock announces, as the lightning storm continues in the next sector along. “Additionally, we have no certainty of that wire making its way into our possession - shall we consider alternative strategies?”

Johanna looks at the storm over their heads. “You don’t want to go out looking for them?” she ventures. “If they’re…?”

“I have no particular interest in venturing in no specific direction in an Arena filled both with traps and hostile parties, in search of people who already have a destination in mind,” Sherlock dismisses. “You intended to meet in this sector; so we shall. Though not, of course, whilst the rain is ongoing…”

It’s simple, in the end: as the storm blows itself out, they neatly step over the perimeter line between the sectors. The rain begins behind them, almost on cue.

They explore the now-vacant twelve o’clock sector. Finnick drinks when Killian hands him a glass, though he can’t taste it.

“Well,” Johanna huffs, looking over a tree at the far edge of the Arena. A massive tree, twice the height of the others. “That’s new.”

The three of them look up at it. Beetee hums, under his breath. “Not entirely organic, evidently,” Sherlock agrees. “Beetee?”

Beetee tips his head back, moving in closer; he plicks off a piece of bark, weighing it up before throwing it into the forcefield, a few feet away. “Possible,” he murmurs, eyes sharpening as the bark bounces back - glowing, for a moment or two. “Ah; that explains a lot.”

“Quite,” Sherlock agrees, brightening - while Johanna shoots them both flat looks, entirely deserved given that nothing is being explained. “Your wire, on the assumption it arrives; could we modify a transformer?”

Beetee’s eyes sharpen with interest. “Defend, rather than attack?”

“Precisely,” Sherlock agrees, bounding around the tree, carefully avoiding the almost-invisible forcefield as he does so. “Thoughts, Jo-Jo?”

“I don’t know what the fuck you two are saying - I can tell you that sure as shit isn’t wood,” she snipes, looking distrustfully at the tree-that-isn’t-a-tree; Sherlock shoots her a look. “Lumber district, remember? It’s not wood, that’s all I can tell you.”

Sherlock sighs, martyred. “A thrilling observation, however did you guess,” he mocks, ducking out of range of Johanna’s enthusiastic whacking, “make a camp or something, we’ll be here a while - Beetee, can you estimate metre length of the…”

Finnick tunes out a little bit after that. He’s fairly used to tuning out when Sherlock’s got a bright idea, let alone when he’s bouncing off Beetee faster than most could hope to keep pace with.

The other four are on their way over; picking clear of the five o’clock sector, hiking their way back now they’re halfway fed. “... if they’re alive,” Johanna comments, in answer to something Finnick didn’t properly hear; Sherlock throws a rock at her. “Oi! You know what I mean, asshole.”

“Snow’s definitely blocked Gifts,” Ruby reports, sitting heavily beside them; must’ve been on a Sponsor run, post-appointment. The Regina Holmes villain-arc has gained Emma a sympathy vote she didn’t exactly need, not with her existing popularity, but it’s worth weaponising all the same. “Gold told me - he was gonna get Gloss to send some backup wire, Sherlock’s got the funds; no dice.”

Killian wordlessly hands her a glass of posca. Ruby gives him a bottle of moonshine in exchange.

“They’re alive,” Beetee comments, smiling quietly, “and they will come.”

Johanna hacks together a shelter set-up, while the other two gabble around the tree; she ends up needing to go almost all the way back to the one o’clock sector to find real wood, after Sherlock patronisingly informs her that “generally, shelters are better when not capable of murdering the occupants”, which nearly culminates in a murder all by itself.

Which is how Johanna - dragging a long strip of wood through the Arena, loudly - stumbles back in time to see Sherlock holding a rat-mutt by the tail, examining it with an expression of intense curiosity. “... you gonna eat that?” she asks, dropping the wood with a loud thump. “Or just stare at it?”

“Undoubtedly a muttation,” Sherlock mutters, instead of replying; he confiscates one of Johanna’s knives, slicing along the length of its belly while she blinks at him in disbelief. “Genetically engineered to survive the climate, though I doubt the life expectancy is particularly high.”

Johanna drops her wood with a thump. “You’re doing experiments in an Arena?” she snipes, “you’re a fucking nightmare, Holmes.”

“Sticks and stones, Jo-Jo,” he hums, glancing up at Beetee. “Thoughts?”

Beetee looks, for a moment, like he might decline; a shiver of curiosity, though, compels him to look closer. “Never liked the organics,” he explains, before darting a glance at Sherlock. “Transport. All the flesh.”

“Finally, somebody who makes sense,” Sherlock smirks, handing him the partially-extenterated rat-mutt; Beetee’s brows draw inward, fascinated. “The intestinal tract is longer than anticipated, the cavity hollow, lower fat ratio…”

“... I hate both of you,” Johanna mutters. “Leave something useful on it? I like eating, haven’t done much of that so far this damn Game and I haven’t seen many of them around…”

They ignore her, too busy picking apart the corpse with their bare hands, occasionally a knife; Finnick didn’t think he could possibly miss seeing Sherlock with his hands full of organs, talking at ridiculous speeds.

A speed that Beetee, apparently, can keep up with: “the mechanics of the flesh,” he nods, “not all that dissimilar to any mechanical truth, when you dig in deep enough; you know muttations?”

“Passingly well,” Sherlock agrees, “though wouldn’t stoop to guessing at the genetics of this one.”

“Never guess,” Beetee nods, eyes bright. “Nothing more troublesome than guesswork.”

Sherlock gleams in the glow of Beetee’s approval, “a shocking habit,” he nods, plucking a minute rat-heart out from the cavity, holding carefully between forefinger and thumb. “Hmm. Never ceases to amaze me; the similarities. Living things with such commonalities.”

Beetee’s glasses catch the sunlight overhead, “you would have done well in Three,” he comments; Finnick knows he can see Q, unavoidably, in the dark hair and sharp smile of another Holmes.

“Sewing was hardly my forté,” Sherlock smirks, “though I didn’t think Three were all that keen on organics either?”

“Here and there,” Beetee contradicts lightly, while Sherlock holds a heart in his hand; while he thinks of a District pressed inexorably closer to revolution; captured, unavoidably, in dreams of those who are not there with them.

The knife sinks into Beetee’s chest.

Beetee looks at it with faint confusion.

Johanna’s already moving, axe flying through the air as Sherlock shifts, quicksilver motion, “taking left,” he snaps, swivelling on his heel as Seeder peels out of the trees. “Cashmere, don’t fucking hide from me, you arrogant bitch.”

Finnick will never understand why Sherlock is insistent on aggravating every possible situation.

Cashmere is purely professional, as is Brutus; they have better projectile accuracy, and Finnick can appreciate the tactic - send the weaker fighters out front to distract, allowing her and Brutus to pick off their targets from a safer distance with ranged weaponry.

Sherlock and Johanna are too bright to be easily taken out from that: they keep Seeder - and Chaff, as he barrels towards Johanna - between them and the two offending Careers as best they can, backing quickly over the knotty ground.

The years spent training Johanna weren’t wasted: she’s equal to any Career, her axe flying free to smack into Chaff’s shoulder, the man letting out a bellow of agony as he staggers back a few steps.

Cashmere casts out another throwing star, skimming through air Johanna’s throat occupied a moment previously - moving too fast, dividing attention, trying to whittle down their projectiles; if they run out, they’ll need to resort to hand-to-hand. Cashmere’s still nursing mutt-insect injuries and traumatised by zombies, she has to know this isn’t a fight she’ll do well out of.

Meanwhile, Sherlock is trying to fend off Seeder whilst keeping an eye on an irate Cashmere, “behind,” he cries out, which Johanna completely ignores whilst sprinting at Chaff, yanking the axe free before he has the chance to do it himself, his blade whistling through the air in an agonised but mercifully inaccurate arc.

Next to Finnick, Ruby makes a quiet, hurt sound.

An arrow flies over Seeder’s head by inches, almost taking Sherlock with it - from the wrong direction.

Neither Cashmere nor Brutus have a bow and arrows. They’re surrounded.

“Jo,” Sherlock snaps sharply, “go.”

Johanna never speaks when she’s fighting. They practised it, but she never got the knack of translating thoughts into speech mid-spar; she can follow orders if she’s concentrating, but full coordination is beyond her, too accustomed to working alone - as she is now, with Chaff bearing down on her, Brutus rallying to join.

Sherlock half-turns, trying to figure out where the new assailants are coming from. “Sherlock.”

“Oh, now you show up, sister-mine?!” Sherlock screeches; Finnick’s relief shatters out of him, gasping it out like he’s choking.

Cashmere’s eyes snap up to Regina; to Mycroft, who’s scanning the field, scanning Brutus. “Move out,” she orders, overlaying with Bond - who ploughs into Chaff with the force of a storm and a machete, quite literally throwing Johanna out of the way to do so.

Brutus visibly considers his options.

The cannon fires.

Sherlock looks at Cashmere, at Seeder, then abruptly flattens himself to the ground. Opportunity allows a perfect beat of synchronicity: Regina’s arrow into Brutus’s arm; Mycroft’s knife into Seeder’s stomach.

Sherlock retrieves the knife and redistributes it in Seeder’s throat.

Brutus, sensibly, retreats.

The cannon fires.

Mycroft and Regina are side-by-side with identical expressions: controlled, concentrated, assessing with clinical efficiency. “Perimeter,” Regina orders; Mycroft obeys without question, as does Johanna. “Quiet, everybody.”

They all obey, give or take the harsh breathlessness they’re all sporting. The silence seeps for a long moment.

“They will not return whilst outnumbered,” Mycroft states, eyes intense on the empty jungle - on the jumping shadows Cashmere and Brutus occupied, a moment before. “We will need to relocate, all the same. Injuries?”

Sherlock shakes his head, panting. “Ribs,” Johanna fills in, hand coming away from her chest with fresher red than dried flecks, “knifed me, the rest is old.”

“I can see that,” Mycroft agrees, flint-hard as he scans them all over. “Bond?”

Regina, meanwhile, goes directly to Sherlock. “Good shot,” he smirks, startled when she immediately crushes him into a hug. “Calm down, Regina…”

“Fine,” Bond replies, in answer to Mycroft’s query - stepping away from Chaff’s body, as he speaks.

They were friends once. Distant, inexpert friends - but friends, all the same. “Shit,” Killian murmurs aloud, his heartache tangible.

Ruby is motionless.

Mycroft and Sherlock look at one another, expressions perfect mirrors of one another: relief, so intense it snaps something in Finnick to see it, something too vast for the cameras to bear.

“We good?” Emma asks, as she - along with her sword - circles back in to them; they left her guarding their backs, by the looks of things. “Shit, Beetee.”

Beetee, who hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken - just watched the fighting unfold around him while he quietly fell backwards, looking up through the canopy overhead to the traces of pink-tainted sky.

The spell breaks; Johanna moves first, “Volts, Beetee, no,” as she kneels by his side, Mycroft moving in just as rapidly, eyes scanning with analytical precision, “you can’t screw this up now, you’re not allowed to die.”

Finnick always liked Beetee. A good man, if a strange one; he kept them safe, his muddlers that protected the Holmes flat from prying eyes, his innovations whirring as steadily as his mind, a cornerstone of their lives they took too easily for granted.

There is nothing they can do. John Watson himself would struggle; Beetee’s breathing is wet, lungs filling with blood.

“You came,” he whispers, sharp with satisfaction. “I knew it.”

The cannon fires.

Finnick buries his face in his hands.

-

3M’s light goes out.

“... hovercrafts ready when they clear,” Plutarch commands, Control still humming with activity, as though nothing has changed. “Let’s get replays lined up - can we get med assessments on 1F and 2M as a priority…?”

Q knew that Beetee was never likely to make it out. He knew.

A numb, cold feeling creeps along Q’s fingers.

“I’m sorry,” Aloysius murmurs from next to him. Q wipes his face with his sleeve. “Did you…?”

“We were friends,” Q supplies.

It isn’t enough, painfully insufficient: Beetee was a mentor, a teacher, an idol. An adult who understood him and never asked him to ‘be’ anything, other than himself; a man who treated him like an adult - who taught him, because he believed that anybody who wants to learn should be allowed, no matter who they are or where they come from.

“... tight angles, we don’t want that visible,” Plutarch orders, “can I get a replay on the initial entry…”

Emma Swan crosses Beetee’s arms over his chest, pulls the knife free; Q swallows his expression into something glassy, unable to register more than faint surprise when Sherlock joins her.

Sherlock carefully lifts his wire-rimmed glasses, impossibly gentle as he closes Beetee Latier’s eyes for the last time.

The hologram in the centre of the room holds stable. It hasn’t flickered - not once - since Q fixed it; knowledge he wouldn’t have, without Beetee, who rarely laughed but smiled easily, who loved deeply in odd ways Q could never truly predict, whose mind worked faster than his hands could hope to keep up.

Q doesn’t know who he would have been, without Beetee.

A man who only ever wanted to make things work.

“Fuck’s sake,” Quintus hisses, as Emma Swan goes to Seeder; as Johanna goes to Chaff. “They’re…”

“Look, just keep them off-screen,” Plutarch sighs, though there’s a pleased glint Q is growing better at spotting, “let’s do the memorial clips in the meantime.”

It doesn’t matter if Panem sees or not - it isn’t about a gesture for the cameras. That much becomes obvious fairly quickly, as they fail to move out; they arrange the bodies, holding a quiet makeshift funeral for people they would never otherwise be allowed to mourn.

“I’m sorry,” Regina murmurs to Bond, so quietly Q only needs to read it from her lips; Bond doesn’t reply.

Bond looks at Beetee’s body for a long time, then up to the sky.

Q imagines what he’d say: realistically, nothing. Bond has always understood that Q can’t bear verbal kindnesses, not when he’s too raw for it to do anything other than hurt. He’d hold the space in silence, until Q found enough of himself to figure out what happens next - like Bond does, which is why Q wouldn’t say anything about Chaff and Seeder either.

Two kills now, chalked up to James Bond; running even with Brutus and Regina, crowning a leaderboard none of them wanted to exist in the first place, killing themselves over and over again.

Q mourns for those parts of James he knows died with Chaff, with Blight.

In a matter of hours, it will be over. They will go to District Thirteen, where they can speak openly; where they can sit together saying nothing at all, trying to make sense of the people they’ve had to become.

The dream of Bond’s silence settles Q’s pulse.

“... and we’re into the fog in fifteen,” Plutarch orders, because time continues passing, it has to keep passing, “eyeball on 4M - Tullia, let’s focus on 2F attacking the District partner, betrayal angle; interviews with District Two adjunct Victors in progress - Tiberius, can we get an ETA on that?”

“On the way.”

Q ignores it, all of it. Media isn’t his department.

The fog, however, is.

It spans out of vents, dense white; Q’s smile tugs in the corners of his tears - Beetee would be impressed, as he was when Q won. The traps he made, the traps he keeps making; work that isn’t even his specialism, not truly. Q isn’t a trapper, deep down, that’s just what he’s known for.

Q is an inventor. In a few hours’ time, he will leave this building to unravel the Capitol from the inside - more and more that he owes to Beetee Latier, who one day, Q hopes to be even half as fucking good as.

The fog fogs through the two o’clock sector for the very last time, dancing along leaves Q will restore in an hour; a latticework of things he’s learned, eloquently beautiful.

Beetee would find it beautiful, too.

Q promises himself he will make it work.

Chapter Text

Emma has never been so happy to see so much blood.

“... blood rain,” Johanna explains, two words Emma didn’t ever want to hear in the same sentence, “didn’t want to try the beach to wash it all off, not with those assholes around - the hell took you so long?”

“We ran into trouble,” Regina explains shortly.

Emma watches Sherlock kiss three fingers, placing them on Beetee's forehead in a silent goodbye; he meets her gaze. “They didn’t want to be here, either,” he explains oddly, then turns away fluidly. “We ought to let the hovercrafts in, if we’re all finished?”

They do, though it’s uncomfortably heavy with loss. “Why do you look mouldy?” Emma asks Sherlock.

“Acid fog,” he replies - two more words Emma really never wanted to hear in the same sentence - before turning to Mycroft. “What happened?”

Mycroft still isn’t doing a great job of talking. Emma’s gotten used to Regina filling in the gaps, which she promptly does: “We’ll explain everything - let’s get ourselves someplace to camp first,” she tells them, marching off along the slope leading to the lightning tree. “Come on, all of you, don’t just stand there.”

They don’t go very far. Maybe five, ten minutes. Just far enough that the hovercrafts can come in; that the Careers can’t loop back and find them again.

“Sit,” Sherlock tells his brother, forehead crumpled; he almost looks angry, though Emma thinks that’s just how he looks when he’s worried. “Now - what happened? All of you?”

“Given ours is somewhat more complex to relate - your own first, if you would?” Mycroft asks, his voice unexpected enough that Johanna almost trips over a tree root - she and Bond set to guarding the perimeter, which Emma almost joins in on until Sherlock rolls his eyes and yanks her to sit with them.

Sherlock lets Mycroft get away with it. “Well - I assume you’ve long-since inferred that my intention was to - shall we say, occupy? - Jim, inasmuch as that was viable,” he explains. “Acid fog made that somewhat more challenging; we were separated then, I haven’t seen him since.”

“Why?” Emma asks. It’s a question nobody’s ever been able to answer properly; they all talk around it, but mostly just seem to treat it as a fact of life - the sun rises and falls; Jim Moriarty is creepy and wants to kill Sherlock. “I mean, why you? What did you do?”

“Do?” Sherlock echoes, a little indignantly. “I didn’t ‘do’ anything - he originally Volunteered citing Mycroft, I expect he was probably annoyed to realise he’s not at Mycroft’s intellectual level. Thus, he tacked onto me, instead; he has a preoccupation with the idea that we are, somehow, the same.”

Mycroft nods his quiet agreement. “I would imagine he is desperately lonely,” he adds, like he’s troubled by it. “Though I am not quite certain whether he was being honest at the time, he once inferred that he had an older sibling; somebody of greater intelligence than his own, whom he felt abandoned by.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap to Mycroft.

Mycroft doesn’t meet his gaze.

“... so where’d you find the fog?” Regina asks, pulling them both back to the conversation. “Don’t know if you’ve figured it out, but it’s…”

“... a clock,” Sherlock completes. “As far as I can establish, the fog was at two o’clock, loath though I am to admit that I made it less than three hours before sustaining significant injury. Relatedly: it’s one to avoid at all costs. Salt water did seem to purge it effectively, but I cannot recommend the experience.”

Regina takes his mouldy-looking hand in hers without a further word. “So, fog at two o’clock - blood rain at one?” she checks, glancing at Johanna, in her bloodsoaked jumpsuit.

“Yep,” Johanna shrugs shortly, eyes hard and dead. “Got out - Beetee didn’t. Ran straight into Sherlock, went back for Beetee once the rain stopped. So. You four - the hell happened? Scared the hell out of us.”

It’s weird how much they have to tell. Less than a day, but so much has changed.

Sherlock holds Regina for a very long time, after she explains the sensory deprivation thing. Emma doesn’t listen to whatever he says to her, quiet in her ear, something for just the two of them.

Neither Mycroft nor Bond can handle explaining the jabberjays. Regina does it for them. “Jabberjays - we were near the beach, planning on getting ourselves back here, when we heard screaming. Calling for help. Killian, at first. Mycroft…”

“... it seems I am more gullible than anticipated,” Mycroft murmurs, to Emma's surprise. “Bond followed; other… other voices joined. We were unable to leave.”

Sherlock looks sharply at Mycroft; Johanna hisses in horror. “An hour?” Sherlock asks, raw with disbelief and a very encouraging amount of rage. Emma gets the impression he’ll approve of how she reacted. “I’m… I’m so sorry, both of you.”

Bond nods. Mycroft stares into the middle-distance.

Emma isn’t stupid. There’s something about Mycroft and Killian Jones. Mycroft and Killian and Regina lived together. Husband and wife, and Killian Jones - and that’s while knowing that Regina and Mycroft might be married, but they’re not married-married. Or, they definitely are but they also really aren’t, because there’s no way they do the romantic-thing but they’re also married in a way that runs through the very bones of them.

Also, no way in hell is Regina actually pregnant. Or if she is, Mycroft didn’t put it there.

“... with Emma, of course, shrieking rebellion for anybody to hear,” Regina explains to Sherlock and Johanna, her mouth slanted with amusement. “Poor dear still hasn’t gotten her voice back properly.”

“I’m fine,” Emma retorts immediately, though it comes out annoyingly croaky at just the wrong moment. “Look, I didn’t… I just didn't want the whole world watching them during that, you know?”

Exactly as she’d hoped: Sherlock gives her an approving nod, Johanna cackles like a maniac. “Nice work, new girl,” she grins, before letting out a sharp huff of air. “So, we’re all back together again - plan?”

It finally brings Mycroft back to life properly, sitting upright like a switch got flicked: “Indeed: there are six remaining Tributes, besides ourselves,” he states. “We have acquired a specific type of wire, intending to make use of the lightning storm…”

“Beetee,” Sherlock starts. Stops. Tries again: “We discussed some… adjunct possibilities. I assume the original notion involved trailing the wire towards the water around the Cornucopia; I would assume digging some trenches to mitigate the conductivity issues, widening the conductive perimeter?”

“As ever, brother-mine, you are quite correct,” Mycroft smiles; Sherlock pretends to huff, but Emma can tell he’s secretly pleased. “That was indeed the plan, prior to our observation this morning of the ten o’clock sector, so…”

“... what?” Johanna interrupts bluntly.

Mycroft blinks for a moment, before translating properly: “Apologies - the ten o’clock sector contains a tidal flood of some description, which entirely fills the sector before overspilling into the central reservoir,” he tells her, and Sherlock.

"We saw," Johanna fills in. "Don't wanna go near it though, gotta say..."

“Nor would I suggest such a thing," Mycroft interrupts. "It appears remarkably rapid - a matter of minutes, at most - with corresponding water level distortion to compromise most of the beach; it means we wouldn’t need to concern ourselves with trenches, simply run the wire along the length of the sector into the central reservoir.”

“Not bad,” Sherlock agrees. "Though the conductive qualities of sand leave something to be desired. Beetee had a more Q-inspired idea…”

“... traps, then?” Mycroft completes, to Sherlock’s smug delight, “ah; I take it the nearby foliage is atypical?”

“Suitably conductive - Beetee, we,” Sherlock continues, tripping up again, “we discussed creating a transformer, which…”

Emma has no clue what’s going on, and honestly, kind of wants to smack them. “Um, both of you?” she interrupts irritably, “slow down. Con, con-what?”

“Conductors - electricity can either pass through materials, or be dispersed by them,” Mycroft explains, which isn’t fucking helpful; Emma blinks aggressively until Mycroft sighs. “Wire in water equals death of anybody in water; alternatively, wire in special wood equals death of anybody touching said wood. Is that sufficient?”

Emma lifts her chin, crossing her arms over her chest with as much dignity as she can muster. “Works,” she agrees primly. “So… we’re gonna get the electricity and get it to go down the wire, right?”

“Presently, determining parameters,” Mycroft nods - but does seem to figure out that Emma’s about to pounce, translating again quickly: “We need to work out how. And indeed, decide which option is best.”

Regina’s barely keeping herself from laughing, “let’s be adults,” she adds, mostly looking at Sherlock and Johanna, who Emma just knows are mocking her. “And Mycroft, maybe try to explain properly?”

“If you’d be so kind,” Bond agrees, voice dry and calming.

So, Mycroft explains - and even though he’s nice enough to use normal words, Emma understands quite a lot less than absolutely nothing. He keeps talking about electricity storms and currents and transformers, until eventually Emma zones out and daydreams about transforming over and over into a mockingjay, Cinna dying over and over like Seeder and Chaff and Beetee and Prim and Rue and Peeta.

And Emma. Emma’s going to die, she knows she’s definitely going to die - they’re getting low on numbers. Emma is going to die and it isn’t even a question, because even if she thought about trying to survive it’d mean killing people she likes and also, she wouldn’t last five minutes.

“... then I think we’re agreed,” Mycroft tells them, startling Emma back to concentrating - in time to catch Johanna doing exactly the same thing, trying to tune in now they’re actually doing stuff. “Then - shall we?”

“I have no fucking clue what we’re doing, but sure! Why not,” Johanna snorts cheerfully, making Mycroft sigh for what must be the seventeenth time in one conversation. “Where’s Odair when you need him, at least he translated…”

Sherlock lets out a bright cackle of laughter, “alright, in small words, just for you: you and Emma get to chop up the not-trees,” he explains, “while the rest of us do all the complicated parts. We’re making batteries.”

“Shame you people never picked up somebody from Five, it’d make this shit a lot simpler,” Johanna mutters, but starts on up towards the tree with the rest of them; right at the back, Regina exchanges a look with Mycroft, the silent type of check-in that only works when you know somebody way too well to trust them if they say they’re okay. “Swan, don’t just sit there, we’ve got shit to do.”

Off they go, apparently. Johanna hands Emma one of her axes; Bond catches her eye, giving her a small smile - like he did in training, like he can see everything she’s thinking.

They’re a family. Emma fits and they let her in, they’ve let her tag along even though they really didn’t have to.

Emma has no clue what she’s going to do when they’re the only ones left.

-

Time dribbles through Q’s fingers.

The afternoon ticks along, ticks faster and faster: he’s all but done. The parts he’s actually needed for - the wave, the blood rain cleanup, the fog - have been and gone. Q’s leaving the next run of problems to Aloysius and Oliver, he’s been on-shift more than long enough to justify a night outside the Gamemaker suites.

“Cannon ready.”

Q looks up, though isn’t entirely sure why he’s bothering - in time to see a horde of orange monkeys descend on Axel, who was doing nothing more exciting than staying stock-still, camouflaged against the tree he’s been propped against for the past two days.

“Snoring,” Tiberius explains, in answer to something Q’s expression is doing. “That’s all - it attracted their attention.”

Axel dies without waking.

6M’s light goes out; the cannon fires.

Absently, Q recognises that an easy death-by-Arena suggests a shift: the Gamemakers could easily have recalled the mutts, if they wanted to. They didn’t.

Half the Tributes are dead. It’s not a bad kill-rate, but still: the longer they’re all in there, clubbed together, the more damage they can do - like arranging corpses or giving Tributes ad hoc funerals.

Snow hovers in the Control Room like a ghoul, as he has since the big Holmes reunion. Stands by the hologram, speaking to Plutarch and the Leads.

From time to time, his eyes fall on Q. Q tries to ignore it.

Time keeps ticking.

“Viability sketches are looking surprisingly good,” somebody reports, casting a model of Mycroft’s bright idea out from his terminal to Plutarch and Snow - an overengineered plan, in Q’s considered opinion, but it’ll do the job nicely of covering what they’re actually doing with the wire in question. “How well do they know circuitry?”

Q feels a few eyes land on him, including - annoyingly - Plutarch, who should definitely know better than that by now. “How the fuck should I know?” he asks tiredly. “I mean, I wouldn’t bet against a Holmes, far less two of them - but we never exactly sat down and discussed the fundamentals of harvesting static energy in the middle of a lightning storm.”

“... I would run with the operative assumption that Mycroft is more than capable of such a thing,” Snow states coolly. “I assume the lightning can be commanded, to no small degree, from here?”

Plutarch nods immediately, “we can probably weaponise that, if we wanted.”

Snow’s expression shifts incrementally, a burning touch of malice. “How directed?” he asks, a loaded question that chokes Q entirely, that cuts off all the air in the room, blood rotting in his veins.

“Reasonably,” Plutarch replies carefully, sharing a glance with Snow that covers the question beneath: whether it’s possible to take out a load of Holmeses but avoiding frying off Mycroft while they’re at it. “I wouldn’t feel confident in it, though we can certainly review the possibility.”

“I want feasibility sketches,” Snow interrupts, profoundly dead. “Before end of day.”

It isn’t subtle any more: Snow watches Mycroft, more than anybody else. Q is sure it has to be obvious to everybody in the room - or maybe, Q’s just seeing things, frankly anything is possible at this stage, it’s been a long time since he slept for more than hour or two and he can’t even remember if he’s eaten in the past days, weeks, lifetime let alone what.

Q reminds himself that Plutarch is on their side. He won’t let the Holmeses get target-zapped. He’ll find a way. Not every problem is Q’s to fix.

Still.

The half-dozen Holmeses set up shop: Emma and Johanna follow orders, wielding axes and sarcasm in equal measure; Mycroft and Sherlock bounce off one another, Sherlock’s laughter bright in the earliest fingers of nighttime; Regina and Bond keep watch, the truest adults of the lot.

It’s clever. Q has to give them that - it’s so clever, so Beetee, because he wouldn’t have ever come up with that idea without somebody to bounce off; he and Sherlock, firing ideas until inspiration struck. It is - was - always his way.

Creative in a vacuum, but inspired when challenged.

“I’m aware,” Cashmere tells Brutus, in the midst of arguing over the benefits of going back to finish off the Holmeses, “but there’s two of us, at least let’s wait until the evening - see who’s dead, go from there.”

Six cannons in a day.

Brutus’s fingers play in the petals of a genetically engineered white rose, too perfect to survive his bloodstained hands.

“Tea,” Aloysius comments, nodding at the mug. “I… I think I understand.”

Q primes the barriers on the four o’clock sector again, numb. “What do you understand?” he asks, eyes falling back on the hologram.

There’s no answer from Aloysius, not that Q’s listening anyway. “And we’re up,” he reports, raising the transparent barriers up - trapping Jim into the four o’clock segment.

The screaming begins.

Jim was a battle for the mutt and psych team to determine, in meetings Q is glad he was never a part of: unlike the Holmeses, Jim Moriarty doesn’t have emotional ties in the same way. There’s nobody outside the Arena he cares enough for; nobody to protect, nobody to defend.

At a loss, they tried for several different approaches at once: Zelena West, somebody he was - by all accounts - passably fond of, before she fled the Capitol; Sebastian Moran, a boy from District Seven whose zombie-iteration is caged beneath the nine o’clock sector; Sherlock Holmes, an idol he has always been obsessed with.

Jim Moriarty stands in the midst of a sea of jabberjays.

The room watches, fascinated.

Q sees Jim understand, recognising what the Gamemakers are trying to do; he watches the screaming birds with distanced fascination, the sound bouncing off the trees, Jim himself seemingly unmoved by any of them.

Jim sighs out a breath, closing his eyes. Lips parted, fluttering softly in something unspoken, a tiny line etched between his brows.

There’s something heartbreaking about his expression, when he opens his eyes again; Q isn’t sure how to describe it. Resigned acceptance, perhaps. Twenty-one years old, surrounded by a handful of screaming birds composed of the only people in the world anybody could imagine Jim Moriarty capable of caring about.

This is the best they could do. Two dead people - his ex-Sponsor, and a Tribute he betrayed - along with somebody he developed an unhealthy obsession with at a formative age. This is all he has.

Q pities Jim Moriarty.

It is that which convinces Q that he’s finally toppled over the ledge he’s been teetering on the edge of for the last twelve hours; since he watched Mycroft have his sanity completely pulverised while listening to the tortured screams of a man Q used to hate on principle, because Killian Jones is Captain Hook is Neal Gold’s murderer, which connects a series of dots culminating in Q being violently grateful that Killian never got Reaped because fuck knows all hell would have broken loose if Neal Gold was made a mutt-zombie which he absolutely would have been.

Q swallows down tepid tea to keep from vomiting.

In a quiet haze of abject hysteria, Q remembers that he’s helping start a war in seven hours’ time.

His mental breakdown bobs along unimpeded. Q monitors the barriers and watches Haymitch and Dagan, camped out in the six o’clock sector. “Odds’re looking better now, huh?” Haymitch mutters bleakly at some point, a phrase that has completely lost all meaning in the past few days.

On a whim, Q takes a look at said odds: most safe bets are veering in the Holmes direction, though Regina in particular has been vacillating wildly all day, depending on whether punters think being the ‘Evil Queen’ makes her more or less likely to snap and murder all the other Holmeses, a concept so stupid it’s little short of annoying.

In related news: “Most of the city has turned on her by now,” Tiberius comments, as Regina talks to Bond, the two of them on perimeter guard. “We’re prioritising anything we can find that’ll cement that narrative; there’s been some outcry over Humbert, but…”

“... not now,” Snow interrupts, cool and crisp: they don’t talk about politics in the Control Room, that’s a conversation for siderooms and Snow’s observation suite, a place he pointedly hasn’t been in all day, which feels like a bold decision for a country Q’s fairly sure is in crisis.

At some point, Q will get to find out just how badly these Games have gone down in the Districts. He can only assume ‘not well’.

“Release the mutt,” Plutarch orders at six o’clock, though it’s not like anybody cares at this stage - most attention is on the Holmeses, even as Haymitch swears a blue streak, both he and Dagan belting desperately through the jungle.

Quintus ambles over to Q’s desk, oblivious to Q’s invisible mental collapse. “You know,” he says, in an undertone, barely audible over the sounds of Dagan being ripped limb from limb, screaming all the while, “I think - and you didn’t hear this from me - that you might be joining the Leads next year. Formally. It’d be a hell of a coup, but you have my support. We have a vacancy, after all.”

A vacancy left by Seneca Crane, executed for letting Emma Swan live; they never filled the gap left behind, probably for security reasons. This Quell has been challenging enough without a shiny new Lead Gamemaker to worry about.

“Cannons in three, two…”

“I hope so,” Q answers blankly. 9M’s light goes out. The cannon fires. “I’ve worked hard this past year; I know it’s… unusual, to put it mildly, given how long I’ve been here - but if the offer was extended… I wouldn’t say no.”

Quintus winks. The mutt-yeti gnaws on Dagan’s leg. “Your work speaks for itself,” he points out. “From the second you joined us, I knew you were something special - anyway. I’ll let you get on.”

Right on time: Q creates a small gap in the barrier in front of Haymitch, replacing it so the mutt-yeti remains safely trapped behind. Haymitch, quite reasonably, keeps straight on running - happily, in the right direction. Anticlockwise. If he stays put, he might have a chance of being alive when Coin swoops in to evacuate them.

Assuming that the wire works. Assuming that there aren’t any issues flying to rescue them. Assuming the assumed backup plans for if the wire doesn’t work also works. Assuming all these things work the way they’re supposed to.

A lot of assumptions and none of them his to fix. “I should sleep,” Q says abruptly, to his own surprise and definitely to Aloysius’s; the man startles, glancing at him. “I mean - it’s quiet, I was going to ask you to take the evening set anyway. Oliver’s doing well enough, you two can handle the wave, I just. I’ve not been out of this building in… a while?”

Aloysius’s smile is horribly honest. “I’ve been saying that all day,” he teases. “Hey, Plutarch - you gonna let this one sleep sometime this Game?”

Plutarch glances up from his intense study of the pattern of wire Mycroft’s weaving around the central tree in the lightning sector. “Been a long couple of days,” he agrees, glancing up at the screens - at the quiet Arena, now the mutt-yeti is gone. There’s nobody around to notice that the poison tree sector is poison-ing politely, pumping out hallucinogens. “Get some rest - back for the fog?”

“Probably,” Q agrees, “though I’m pretty sure these two can handle it - more important that I’m in good form for tomorrow, based on how all this is playing out. That’s my… well, that was my thinking, anyway.”

At the last, he looks to Snow: the last barrier in the way, somebody who could easily say ‘no’ and pretty much lampoon all of the best-laid plans in the space of a single word, trapping him in, a problem he didn’t even clock as a possible-problem until pretty much exactly this moment.

As it happens: Snow looks at him for a long moment. Complex, heavy in odd places. Q could almost call it sympathetic. “My regards to Raoul,” the President tells him simply. “Good evening.”

That’s that, then. In the end, it’s simple.

Q leaves.

Chapter Text

It’s getting late.

Night tucks in around the Arena, around the six of them: Emma sits with Johanna, both of them taking a break, saving energy.

“I’ll kill for one of those hot cocoa things,” Emma comments, watching Sherlock and Mycroft at work; they’ve been doing something complicated-looking with the wire and the big lightning-tree thing, along with one of the trees Johanna and Emma chopped up. Emma’s given up on the idea that she’ll ever understand what’s happening. “You know the ones I mean?”

Johanna snorts, lounging back on her hands. “Yeah,” she agrees. “Tried it with cinnamon? It’s the best. Whichever of us survives this mess, hot cocoa and cinnamon, you hear?”

Bond rolls his eyes; Mycroft and Sherlock ignore her.

Regina - who’s caught between trying to keep up with the Holmes brothers, and babysitting the rest of them - tuts under her breath. “You’re a disaster,” she tells Johanna. “Go… I don’t know, check the perimeter or something.”

Sherlock won’t miss the opportunity to tease Johanna, of course: “Lot of not-trees for you to go to town on,” he says, and she flicks her middle finger up at him. “They’re not-lumber, she says…”

“You find me a real tree that looks like that inside…”

“A moment of quiet, if you would,” Mycroft asks, staring intensely at a piece of wire like it’s personally offended him. “Sherlock, I remain unconvinced…”

“... and I remain…”

“... an idiot,” Bond completes, in an undertone; Johanna snorts. “Regina’s right - go scout.”

Johanna does; Emma, meanwhile, shuffles closer to Regina. She looks exhausted, flexing her fingers like Emma keeps doing, testing they still work. “You okay?”

For a second, Emma thinks Regina won’t answer. “It’s getting dark,” she says, after a moment - with something underneath it, that constant tugging sense that there’s more to be said than anybody’s saying. Emma’s getting used to it. “You should rest up, Emma.”

“So should you,” she replies; Regina tries for a smile. Twitches her fingers, instead. “Yeah. Me too.”

Regina sighs out a breath, looks at Mycroft. “How’s it going?”

“Near completion,” Mycroft replies, without looking around. “We will need to consider a trail down towards the beach, we can look to that in the coming couple of hours. That said: on the operative assumption that the centre of the storm is here, we are in a reasonable state of readiness for when midnight arrives.”

“Human translation: he’s happy with what we have, but he’ll send us further down towards the beach to finish the rest,” Bond adds, for Emma’s benefit; she thanks him under her breath.

It looks amazing. A whole load of net-like wires, woven up together. A lot wrapped around the big tree, but they’ve also made a big circle-thing of wire-net that’s mostly strung up above their heads; Emma helped with that, giving Regina a boost up to reach properly, tacking along a load of branches.

“Otherwise - we are expecting the wave imminently,” Mycroft explains, “and I would suggest we begin trailing towards the beach, whilst Sherlock and I continue with more specific modifications in…”

Mycroft is interrupted by the anthem, bright and musical, the most recognisable sound in the whole country - along with the seal of Panem, shining in the sky above them.

All the dead. Emma had almost forgotten it was coming.

Beetee is first.

Quietly, Regina sighs out, “I’m sorry, Q.” Emma’s figured out that Q must’ve known him, back in Three. She hopes he’s okay.

The next ones pass in silence. Axel, from Six; Emma’s kind of surprised he lasted so long, to be honest, he was one of the Morphlings. Dagan and Granger, both from Nine; Emma didn’t know either of them all that well.

Arne.

Emma’s breathing trips up: Arne’s dead. Someone she knew from home, who she had dinner with a couple of times this past year - who knew he wouldn’t survive the Games, asked Emma to finish him quickly, if it came down to it.

He only ever wanted to forget. “I’m sorry,” Mycroft tells her gravely, glancing away from the sky briefly.

There’s nothing to say, really. Arne deserved better, sure, but they all did.

They all do.

It keeps on going: Seeder and Chaff, both from District Eleven, the ones they knew about. Seeder was Rue’s mentor. The bread Emma got in the Arena after Rue died came from her.

After that, it’s just the Capitol seal; the anthem plays, quiet flooding in once it’s all done, the seal fading to black.

Sherlock heaves out a hard sigh. “Jim’s alive, then,” he mutters reluctantly.

“Aren’t I just.”

Emma’s blood ices over.

They forgot about him.

Or, not forgot, not really - more, they thought about him as just another Victor, not a crazy, insane person who doesn’t work like normal people and doesn’t follow the same kinds of rules as normal people either.

There’s no forgetting him now.

Jim holds a hand over Johanna’s mouth, a knife held against her throat; she thrashes in his grip, “keep squirming, darlin’, and I’ll make you stop,” he promises, completely flat, “and I don’t think y’want that, hmm?”

“Jo, stop,” Sherlock tells her sharply, as the knife digs in over her vein; Emma knows the angles, the veins and arteries that make up a person, death coming too fast for anybody to stop if he presses it wrong.

Johanna makes a harsh sound, muffled beneath Jim’s fingers; he pulls her head back further, exposing her throat even more. “Let her go,” Regina tries, while Jim looks around them all like he’s just curious. “We will fight if we have to.”

“Mmn, but it won’t be fast enough,” Jim sings - it really is singing, a melody to his words that Emma’s never known speech to have - before glancing sharply to Bond. “Don’t. You know I’ll do it. Easy. Easy as anythin’.”

Sherlock’s breathing is hard, harsh. “Jim…”

“It’s a lovely little set-up y’got here, I’m impressed,” Jim continues, looking up at their criss-crossed wires while Johanna looks at them, between them, terror bubbling up, “so. Let’s chat, hmm? D’you have any idea, any idea, how lovely this all is? In here, I’m never bored. I’m havin’ the time of my life, and I don’t want it to end. I never, ever, ever want it to end.”

“Release her,” Mycroft tries, ignoring the rest of his screwed-up rambling. “This is not what you want.”

Johanna tries to speak, behind his hand, tries to reach for something, “I said stop,” Jim reminds her, like she’s an idiot rather than just terrified; she obeys. “Now: what I want. What I want, oh Mr Holmes. Dear Mr Holmes, don’t insult me. You don’t know what I want, y’never did. Didn’t even think you did, not underneath.”

Jim’s hands are mottled with white pearly fluid, blood in his teeth - fuck knows what he’s been doing, possibly every single section at once by the looks of him, teeth marks on his arms and his jumpsuit shredded.

“Then do, please, explain,” Mycroft continues, staying calm, like he’s in control which is good because Emma has no idea what to do, no idea at all, trying to figure out if she could run fast enough or throw something hard enough or do something, “please, let her go. Johanna is no threat.”

Johanna looks at Mycroft over the top of Jim’s hand, equal parts terrified and furious, watching Mycroft; he looks between her and Jim, a hand raised like he’s trying to calm a spooked horse.

An odd tune spills from Jim’s lips, looking at Johanna like he has no clue how she wound up in his hands. “I never said she was a threat,” Jim points out, “nah. Nice try, but nah - not ‘bout threats, nothing like that. You think y’know what I want, Mr Holmes, hmm? You don’t. You don’t know a thing, but riddle me this: I didn’t take that one.”

Emma’s body throbs with horror, as Jim grins at her. “What do you mean?” she asks sharply. “You want me instead? Go ahead, just…”

“Oh no, no no no, don’t talk, you’re not really the talking type, not the brightest but ain’t she pretty,” Jim replies, so quickly Emma can barely keep track, his accent sliding into shapes she doesn’t recognise, “nah, so - how’s about it, then, Sherlock?”

Mycroft shifts like he’s understood something, which makes exactly one of them - Sherlock speaks instead, while Mycroft’s breathing hitches: “Why?” Sherlock asks, razor sharp. “Why me?”

“You’re me,” Jim breathes, delicate. “I knew it, y’see? Second I saw you. You were my friend, Sherlock.”

“We spoke on the phone a half-dozen times, we were not ‘friends’,” Sherlock hisses, “you do not know me, Jim. You never have. It doesn’t make sense, you’re not delusional - tell me what you want, what you actually want from me. You’re too intelligent not to have a motive.”

Johanna looks at Sherlock, pupils dilated wide with silent panic; he looks back, something horribly like desperation in it, while Jim just nods like it’s a normal conversation: “I do, I want things,” he agrees, “but that’s the thing, Sherlock, the whole thing: I have a motive. You don’t. S’all mine. Mine to keep. You never asked, y’see?”

Regina’s voice is grated, almost desperate, “Jim, please...”

“Oh, you people,” he interrupts, “you people, all of yous lot, you and your complicated stories and motives and ideas and plans - I get it, you know. It’s what you like, it’s what you want, but don’t y’ever get bored? Don’t y’ever just want to see what happens? All my life. Upstairs, downstairs, it’s all plans and motives and clever people doin’ clever, clever things but the walls aren’t there, Mr Holmes, you remember? You remember.”

“I remember,” Mycroft echoes, though it sounds awful. Too soft, too lost.

Sherlock’s panic magnifies, expanding out of him. “Jim…”

“You know,” Jim breathes, on the fringes of a smile. “Dust. S’all we are, in the end. Dust - the stories don’t matter, they’re just that: stories.”

“Jim.”

“You don’t get to have my stories,” he continues, Bond shifting weight, Regina’s breathing breaking over the edges of itself, Johanna looking at Sherlock, looking at Mycroft, “no. You’ve not earned it. Maybe you’ll work it out someday, maybe - but I’m not gonna be around to tell you.”

They all know it, they can hear it, a melody too beautiful not to shatter.

Jim moves.

Johanna thrashes, hitting Jim in the face; Sherlock dives forward; Bond surges inwards.

Jim’s smile sparkles. Blood glitters in a bright arc.

“No,” Sherlock screams, ripped out of him, following Jim - who is already moving, faster than light, faster than breath, Johanna’s body falling away from him and hitting the earth with a soft thump.

“Sherlock.”

Emma is moving before she can think, a roar building and rising and falling in her throat, rage throwing every thought out beyond hate, black and toxic, rage so vicious it twists the world to pieces.

A cannon fires in a place that isn’t here, anywhere that isn’t here, anywhere this isn’t real.

“Stop, Sherlock, no…”

The ground comes up to meet her, crashing, a force on her back flattening her, “Emma, no,” Regina snaps, voice snapping in her throat, “you can’t, Emma, you can’t, you have to…”

“He killed her,” Emma shrieks, or thinks she does, inarticulate screaming that sounds like a hundred thousand jabberjays, Sherlock’s own shouts still echoing back at her, a horrible reverberating cry that hammer nails into every nerve, setting her on fire, pain so vicious she can’t breathe.

Regina pins her to the ground, “I know,” she snaps, sharp and harsh, a horribly grated aspect to it, “Emma, I’m sorry…”

Emma thrashes, a wounded sound wrenching out of her throat that suddenly sharpens into a ridged, jagged, bladed sob.

Johanna’s dead.

She’s dead.

All at once, Emma collapses.

Jim Moriarty has killed Johanna, killed her, he didn’t have to but he did, he didn’t take her, he could have taken her but he didn’t, he took Johanna, he made it so Johanna died instead of her or maybe he didn’t or maybe this is a nightmare, a nightmare that started a year ago and hasn’t let her go since.

Regina’s still pinning her down. Emma can feel her weight pressing on her wrists, shuddering with sobs of her own but still holding her down - swamping her body, making herself a human shield, stopping Emma from running after Jim, from running into danger.

Like Emma’s supposed to survive, even though she isn’t; saving her, every time.

“I don’t understand,” Emma whispers, not just for Johanna, but for something so much deeper and so much worse.

Everything. Everything that’s happened to her, that keeps happening, from the second she was airlifted from an Arena she expected to die in a year ago - Emma keeps knowing she’s dying but never actually dying, the second it wasn’t supposed to be about her any more only it has been.

It should have been about Johanna. About anyone else, anyone else. Prim and Rue and Peeta are dead and nobody remembers them but her, Johanna’s dead and she shouldn’t be.

Regina is still on top of her, even though Emma’s not moving any more, she can’t; she’s forgotten how, there’s nowhere she can run, nowhere she can escape, Cinna made her a mockingjay, Cinna and Johanna, they are dead because she can’t fly.

Emma splints into a thousand pieces, voice sailing in a raw keen, “I don’t understand,” she repeats, sobbing so hard she can’t breathe, “I don’t, I don’t…”

“I know,” Regina whispers, everything and nothing, “I’m so sorry, Emma.”

The weight disappears from on top of her, the heat of a body; the sticky-hot Arena tacks her skin to itself, thoughts gluey.

Emma lays in a bed of spongy moss, motionless.

Distantly, she can still hear Sherlock, hear Jim; off in the distance, swallowed by trees. “He won’t do anything stupid,” Regina says above Emma’s head, though it’s distant and fuzzy, “he’ll be back, you know he will.”

Emma turns over, onto her back; the sky above her head is blurry, fractured, a dim moonlit haze that clears when she blinks, fuzzes again, wet trailing cleanly down either side of her face.

“Mycroft…”

“Anticlockwise,” is all Mycroft can manage, a word that bounces around what remains of Emma’s mind until it starts to patchwork itself into something like reality, dread rising through the ringing in her ears that never, ever stops.

Sherlock went anticlockwise.

Towards the wave. The ten o’clock wave, a wave that Emma watched this morning, watched it rise and fall, crushing everything in its path.

Distantly, she can hear the roar. Water, crashing.

Emma’s breathing shudders.

The cannon fires.

Twice.

-

Jim’s laughter weaves through the trees, Sherlock sprinting after him, creepers tugging at them both, a rush of motion.

Sherlock stops mid-step, screeching to a halt, eyes darting around him wildly - calculating distance, time; how far he has gone, how much time he has left.

He is already halfway up a tree by the time Jim realises the chase has ended, the chase has changed, letting out a feral snarl as he wheels back around - following, chasing Sherlock up and up, anywhere high enough, it has to be high enough.

Sherlock can climb; Jim, of course, of the air. A rigger. Free, carried in the winds.

The branches thin out beneath their feet. One snaps, beneath Sherlock’s hand; he reaches out, keeping himself aloft, close to the trunk while Jim spirits alongside him, up and up and up.

Beneath them, the ground rumbles.

“Can’t run forever,” Jim mocks, as they skate upwards - beyond the canopy, in the canopy, the two of them, “you know that, Sherlock - you understand.”

Sherlock pants for breath, twisted with rage, with incoherent grief, “I understand nothing of you,” he spits, “but I don’t have to. Taking you off the board would be enough. That’s all I need to do.”

The wave rears up, vast.

“Water,” Jim crows, a child of Four, his face filled with stars, “oh, oh Sherlock Holmes, my Sherlock. Come on. Awfully big adventure.”

The wave crests, breaks - smashes, into the tree.

Sherlock springs forward, dagger clenched in his fist.

Jim can’t - or maybe simply doesn’t - hold on.

They plunge into the still-rising water, limbs knotted in one another; it’s impossible to keep track in the frothing mess, nothing but flashes of limbs, shards of light, water flooding over and through and beyond the trees, filling the sector - before the invisible walls collapse outward, water overspilling.

Neither are visible.

Water fills the screen.

The cannon fires.

Twice.

Finnick feels himself convulse, a throttled plea dying in his throat.

The water drains as rapidly as it arrived.

Two bodies rest in the base of the sector, twisted up in each other. Broken edges of chalk-white limbs. Mottled with green streaks, dashes of crimson. Haloed with yellow-black moss, in the dim moonlight.

Jim lies on top of Sherlock as though embracing him, blood dribbling from his body: nobody drowns in District Four, it wasn’t the water that took him - Sherlock’s blade must’ve found a home. Blood pulses over Sherlock, arm drenched red and hair stuck in damp curls over his cheekbones, Jim draped over the top and still smiling, still fucking smiling.

They are motionless.

“Please,” Finnick breathes, a prayer, as the cameras pull close in on their empty bodies. “Please.”

Silence.

Finnick is stranded in emptiness so absolute it echoes.

Johanna and Sherlock.

His vision starts to swim, a hollowness taking root in his chest.

On screen, Mycroft sinks soundlessly to his knees.

None of them speak. They already know. Ten o’clock in an ebbing twilight Jim and Sherlock ran into. There is nothing they can say, nothing they can do, nothing left. Emma blinks a steady stream of tears down either cheek; Bond is too still, eyes hard with a type of resigned disbelief.

Regina looks out where Sherlock went, utterly frozen.

It is her that moves first. Robotically stiff, moving like her body is made of glass, returning to the patterned nets of golden wire without speaking a single word.

It doesn’t feel possible. This shouldn’t be possible.

Emma’s motion is dreamlike, lost. She floats past Mycroft’s nerveless form without looking at him, kneeling by Johanna instead. Gently, she mops the worst of the seeping ichor from Jo’s throat, adjusts her hair with trembling hands. Kisses her forehead very gently, tears dripping onto her face.

His best friends. Sherlock and Johanna. The two best friends Finnick has ever known, that he’s ever had. Two people he loved and who loved him, who accepted him and fought for him and made him smile, who he could spend hours with and it felt like minutes, they should have had so many of them, hours and weeks and days and lifetimes they should have had, they should still have, they aren’t supposed to be dead. This wasn’t supposed to happen, none of this was supposed to happen.

Breathing feels so fucking insulting, so wrong, a reflex he doesn’t know how to contain - he’s breathing, he’s still breathing, he can’t stop it. He has to live.

They made him live.

It was too much to hope for, that they would come out of this with everybody they loved in one piece - too much to hope for, but they came so close. Just another hour, another two hours, another minute.

The room moves around them. Finnick has no concept of how to care.

Sound slowly begins to register. Caesar’s narration. Capitol-born, gasping and gossiping. A party. Another party.

Life. It isn’t theirs to decide. It keeps going, time keeps passing - time that will spit them out of this world, into something entirely new, something entirely other.

Johanna’s blood arcs; Sherlock drowns in refracted light.

Empty, Finnick looks around the Hall. The lights, the bodies; a map of Capitol heartbeats he’s sketched a thousand hundred million times, beating, breathing, breathing, breathing.

In ninety minutes’ time, they will leave the Hall. Finnick will step out of this building, in the certainty that if he ever returns, it will be to burn it to ashes. To tear this city down, grind the dust into atoms. Not even the ghosts will survive.

There are no tears. Nothing. Nothing at all.

Killian’s breathing shudders. Just once. Finnick can almost pretend he didn’t hear it, so he does pretend. It’s better that way.

They’re all very good at pretending, after all.

Bond joins Regina, trailing messy woven mats of wire along the trees towards the beach; Emma remains with Mycroft, beside the lightning tree that will mark the ending.

Ninety minutes.

The silence is crippling.

They wait.

Chapter Text

By mutual agreement, Q and Silva don’t leave the Games running. There’s nothing to gain, and a great deal to lose; they can’t afford to be distracted, and the Games are functionally irrelevant for them. The Arena will either go down when it’s supposed to, or it will not. There is nothing Q or Silva can do to affect it.

Anything in the Arena, good or bad, will wait until they arrive in Thirteen.

Q and Silva set to work the moment he steps through the door. Silva establishes, quickly and correctly, that Q will not be discussing the Games - or his experience in the Control Room - unless he absolutely has to.

In theory, Q is on-call for emergencies; he relaxes when his ten o’clock wave comes and goes without summoning. There’s very little Q would be needed for in either the eleven or twelve o’clock sectors, Aloysius is more than capable of keeping Oliver from causing damage - it’s all done, he can focus on the real work.

He does. Q and Silva working, in perfect tandem. A hundred thousand practice-runs coming to fruition. Everything they practised, in the hope that it will be enough to get them through the Capitol’s firewalls unnoticed, before laying waste to the well-fortified weapons array lurking underneath.

Not for the first time, Q is delighted the Capitol made their entire infrastructure tech-reliant. A regime held together on technology - centralised technology, in fact. The heart of the nation in the palm of Q’s hands, deliciously direct to unpick.

They waltz through code Q tastes in his nightmares.

An hour remaining.

Nothing else in the world matters.

“It is time,” Silva hums, as time ticks onwards; as the pieces slide inexorably closer together, nearing completion. “Nearly there, little one.”

As they planned, as they rehearsed: Silva has to go. Silva has a virus to deploy; the only thing he needs is a terminal, something hardwired into the Capitol’s primary systems - in plentiful supply, over in Heavensbee Hall.

The timings are known, set. Six minutes to the Hall, ten minutes - allowing flexibility - for Silva to enable the currently-passive virus, then six minutes to return. Twenty-two minutes in total, while Q moves their work into the penultimate stages.

It is 23:23. At 23:30, Silva will arrive in the Hall. At 23:40, the virus will bloom into life, disabling swathes of the IS’s relied-upon surveillance systems; at 23:46, Silva will be back to prime the plane for take-off; at 23:55, the final touches will disable most of the Capitol’s air-to-ground missile array, along with some other peripheral annoyances as an occupational hazard of having centralised automations. They really should have thought through prioritising convenience over security.

At 00:00, they will be in the air.

“You’ll be back in time,” Q says. Asks.

Silva will whisper into Heavensbee Hall through an Avox-manned side entrance. A building he can move undisturbed, a place he’s known and expected, where Q would not be. None have stopped him before; they will not try today, either. A final missing piece, a final step.

Simple.

Silva’s voice is as softly grave as is merited. “Yes,” he replies. Promises.

As he must, Silva leaves.

Q is alone. Alone with his work, with the cold light of his monitors.

This part is his to handle.

It all happens so quietly. All the work, years of it - in the end, it’s so unutterably quiet. It all narrows down to Q and a computer and a countdown to midnight, typing as though it's the simplest thing in all the world.

There should be fire, or smoke, or sound. An opening act of war shouldn’t pass this quietly.

For a heartbeat or two, Q hesitates; the silence rushes in too quickly for him to bear.

Q works.

-

Time sticks around them, tacky.

Ruby’s upstairs. Had an appointment, as they’d planned; it got pushed forward fifteen minutes or so, should’ve been at ten, but everybody was watching -

It’s a good thing, the delay. Not the plan they’d first made but in some ways, a better plan. The timings are neat, nobody’ll miss her. Leo will cover her getting out of the Hall, that’s sorted.

They don’t talk. Him or Finnick.

The Quell’s still going. Killian hasn’t got the first fucking idea what’s going on, but the Games are still off and running; he watches and watches and it doesn’t help him make any sense of things, they’re long past ‘sense’.

Finnick’s voice is dull, dead. “I’m getting a drink,” he tells Killian, which confuses the shit out of him for a second until he remembers the plan: Finnick’s getting his drink spiked, then off to the med rooms where Beatrice is waiting.

“Aye,” Killian replies, aware he sounds exactly as hollow as Finnick does; he goes. Killian doesn’t watch.

Killian has an exit all of his own. Off to a sideroom, out the service exit. No faffing about, just leaving, soon as they hit eleven forty.

It’s all scheduled to the minute. Three minutes for Ruby and Finnick to pop out of one entrance, where Anthea’ll be waiting; two minutes after that, a different exit, Killian joins them. Ten minutes driving, five minutes to get on the plane. The Capitol’s not a big city, and there’s fuck-all traffic at this time of the day on a Games night.

Midnight, off they go.

Killian sits alone, watching the screen overhead. Regina and James, stringing wire along trees like it matters, both of them silent, like if they talk they’ll break some sort of spell and the grief will -

Half past hits. Finnick’s carted off to the downstairs med room. All the eyes in the room follow the poor kid.

Killian looks up at the screens overhead, almost blank. The ones of them left in the Arena, counting down as they are.

Mycroft -

Alone, Killian ebbs through the sea of bodies. It’s never quick; a few steps take a lifetime, blocked by smiles, sympathy, pity, bouncing off him like they never did before, an aura lingering inch-deep over his skin that keeps him from giving a single fuck about any of these bastards.

Eleven thirty-nine.

Killian slips into the side-room, dim but for the grey-black light of a terminal monitor; he shuts the door behind him, muting the twittering pulse of the last Games party he’ll know, twisting the bolt across.

A hand grabs his wrist.

Pain explodes on the side of Killian’s head, knocking him off-balance; he lashes out with his hook instinctively before something kicks his knees from under him, grip too tight as it yanks him about and something cold rasps into place, thrashing, trying, pain pulsing wetly as he does.

Silva steps back neatly.

“No,” Killian rasps, surging forward - stalled by his hand, his only fucking hand, cuffed in place behind him, “no, no.”

It’s too fast, moving too fast, “I regret this,” Silva tells him, while a high-pitched noise screeches out the back of Killian’s throat, confusion blasting out along with terror, “I truly do. Please know that.”

“Please, let me go,” Killian manages. “Let me go, Raoul, we don’t have time...”

“I know,” Silva says simply, a confirmation that drains Killian’s soul out through his spine.

Killian wrenches at the handcuff, trying to slide his hook in between flesh and metal so he can prise the fucking thing off, “I don’t understand,” he tries, panic stealing his voice, “Raoul, this…”

“I need a fresh start,” Silva interrupts. Killian chokes on air, a tone he knows too fucking well, pretending everything’s sane and normal and rational when it isn’t, it isn’t, leaving Killian to throttle himself on terrified disbelief, “oh, Killian. You were right, you see; you were always right. You grew. Of all I unmade, you grew into something new - I think it is time I did the same, hm?”

“What?!” he screeches, unhinged.

“I cannot be all I wish, when I see you; oh, my Killian,” Silva sighs, delicate, words that don’t and can’t make any fucking sense, “I am not all I could be; there is a man I could become - and I should like to meet him. He has waited long enough. It is time for a new beginning, dear one. Not chasing after your ghost.”

Bile clogs Killian’s throat. “He won’t want you either,” he hisses, comprehensions settling in as seconds keep passing, seconds on seconds, seconds he can’t afford, “fuck, Raoul, please, I won’t stop you, you want to start again, that’s fine, anything you want, I won’t stop you, please, please.”

Killian’s voice clenches with a horrible scream-like sound, terror so absolute his body breaks, crunches, knowing, knowing before Silva even speaks: “I’m sorry,” Silva tells him, like he means it; Killian keens. “I can never be new if you are there to remind me; this is how it must be.”

It must be. It must be, like there was no option other than this, something he’d clearly figured out and planned and decided, a plan within a plan within a plan, a danger they couldn’t see coming.

Only they should, they really fucking should, but they never understood. Not really, not properly - Q, the others, they never really understood, like they could forget, they could forget all Silva is, because he’s nice. He’s decent, sometimes, they made him into something halfway decent, because he is halfway decent, he is, but Killian’s mind splinters into shards that rip him open in knowing, he’s always known, that Silva is this too.

Silva was always this.

“I won’t stop you, I…” Killian begs, his desperation chokingly dense, vision brightening into white so sharp it burns, Silva turning to leave, leaving him behind, “Raoul, no, no, please, please no, please…”

Incoherent crashing bursts, desperation, “I have to leave,” Silva murmurs, immune as fucking always to Killian’s litany of pleas, “I will keep them safe for you, Killian. You have my word on that.”

“At least kill me,” Killian rasps, “don’t leave me here, Raoul, you can’t fucking leave me, not to this, not, have some fucking mercy, please, please don’t do this, please…”

Silva’s expression crunches incrementally, a heartbeat of hesitation as Killian trips over in sobbing, choked panic. “I can’t,” he whispers, softer than breath, apologies woven in and through it, regrets and grief and wanting, so truthful Killian retches, rasping out pleas when he can pull in enough breath for it, vision twisting to right angles, “I cannot kill you, darling. I am not strong enough for it; and for that, above all, I am truly sorry.”

Killian screams, sobs; Silva steps towards the service entrance Killian should be going through, looking back for a half-second. “Raoul, please, please, please…”

“Farewell, Killian Jones,” he says, and leaves.

It’s too fast; time is sticky, wrong, too fast.

Killian screams, screams after him as though it’ll make the blindest bit of difference. A matter of minutes, seconds, heartbeats, so simple, so quick, everything they ever planned undone in no time at all, it’s too late. It’s done and he’s done, it’s over; they won’t wait, they can’t. They’ll leave.

They’ll leave. The Peacekeepers will find him.

He’s done.

Eleven forty-two.

Killian’s thrashing without thought, trying to get to his suicide capsule because he can’t do it again, he can’t do this again, white-tiled rooms with too-bright lights, he can’t survive it again, he can’t fucking think, wrist hot and wet as he hacks at it and burning hot blood snakes down his forearm, the room fracturing into tiles upon tiles upon tiles.

Everything is so, so white.

-

Emma paces beneath the tree.

Regina and James left to go trail the wire down towards the Cornucopia, leaving her behind with Mycroft, just the two of them. They should be back soon.

Mycroft isn’t speaking. He hasn’t said a single word since the cannons fired. Not one.

It’s been a really long time now.

Instead, he’s working on the trap-thing: wrapping pieces of gold-bronze wire into and through one another, eyes darting over the spaces and edges and twists, a pattern that keeps getting bigger and more complicated.

The clicking noise coming from the next sector along is really, really creepy.

Emma watches the longer run of wire twitch: a line from the big tree, down the slope and into the jungle, collecting electricity. Or so Emma thinks, anyway, it’s not like she really understood to start off with and nobody’s about to explain anything now.

The longer wire goes taught, tugging suddenly. Mycroft’s eyes snap to it, along with Emma’s; it goes slack all at once, bouncing back.

A cannon fires.

-

Brutus’s body falls to the ground.

Bond pulls his machete free with a wet squelch. “That’s that plan screwed,” Regina mutters; the wire is limp, lifeless.

It doesn’t matter, anyway; they only left to distract the Gamemakers’ attention, keeping them from watching what Mycroft’s doing - the work that will actually bring down the forcefield, channelling electricity where they need it to go.

The wire Regina and Bond have been lacing up is irrelevant for the wider plan.

It’s kept them busy, though. Better that, than the alternatives.

“Let’s go back,” Bond agrees, his voice as identically toneless as Regina’s own - they haven’t spoken in a while, not since the cannons fired.

Sherlock has not returned. Regina didn’t expect him to. They don’t need the portraits in the sky to know what happened.

Midnight is approaching quickly. The clicking from the next sector along is starting to fade out.

It won’t be long now.

“Cashmere,” Regina says suddenly.

The other remaining Career, paired up with Brutus. It’s unlikely they split, realistically, not in an Arena like this - meaning it’s far more likely that they came together, at least until they saw a path of wire to follow.

Brutus went after them; Cashmere, most likely, went up to find Mycroft and Emma.

In hindsight, they divided themselves up moronically: leaving the two weakest fighters behind, both of them in no fit state to handle somebody as trained - and no doubt desperate - as Cashmere will be.

They had other things on their minds.

In tandem, Bond and Regina break into a run.

-

Emma lets out a sharp sound.

The thought won’t form properly. It can’t.

Mycroft doesn’t even flinch, expression unmoving. Emma recoils slightly as he moves towards her; he wordlessly takes Emma’s sword from out of her hands before she can ask why - she watches instead, lost, as he begins to wrap wire around the hilt. Along and up, a criss-cross pattern Emma can’t follow.

It’s almost beautiful.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice cracking.

Mycroft looks at her, for the first time since the two cannons fired. In the dark, his eyes are colourless, hollow and empty and dead.

“I need you to trust me.”

-

“Good luck,” Beatrice murmurs to Finnick, as they part ways: she’s not evacuating on the plane with them, but has snuck out into the service passages while she can. She - along with most of Med C - are going into hiding, quite rightly assuming that Snow will probably arrest them for aiding and abetting otherwise.

Finnick nods his thanks, manages an empty rejoiner, waits. As expected, it is a matter of moments before Ruby joins him. “Alright?” she checks, scanning Finnick’s face; her expression contracts. “Finnick, I’m so…”

“Not now,” he interrupts, knowing it sounds cold. Almost cruel.

Ruby stops speaking.

They move quickly through the last stretch of tunnels, by now a halfway reasonable distance from the Hall. A short buzz from his phone marks Anthea’s arrival, precisely on time. “Head down,” Finnick reminds her, before they step out from the covered entryway - one of the many doorways that nobody looks at, plain and uninteresting and unnoticed.

The car idles outside. Nobody interrupts them; they slide into the backseat, Anthea pulling away the moment the door is closed.

“Firearms prepared,” she informs them, so professional it bruises. “Underseat cache. Prime and prepare.”

Ruby is pale, frightened. Finnick is neither. He opens the cache, handing her one of the guns. “John?”

“Last contact indicated success,” Anthea reports, the car vibrating beneath their feet, Finnick so tightly wound he’s inches from snapping. “No alerts from any involved party. We proceed as planned.”

Elsewhere in the city, John and Robin have - with some assistance - been securing entrance to an airbase with two planes. Finnick has no idea how, no notion of what they’ve needed to face; it isn’t his to be concerned with.

John probably doesn’t know about the wave yet.

Anthea stops the car.

They wait.

There’s no sign of Killian.

The service door is innocuous in the half-light, as was the one Finnick and Ruby left through; Finnick watches it, heart throbbing in his throat.

On the dashboard, the clock reads 23:45, the time Killian is supposed to step out.

A cold, eerie certainty whispers along Finnick’s spine.

“Something’s happened,” he says, intuition he can’t explain. “They’ve got Killian.”

Finnick grasps for the car door.

It locks before he can get a hand around the latch; he tugs at it, again and again, until he’s practically ripping it from the door, an awful crawling certainty that consumes everything, a raw noise heaving out of his chest.

The clock reads 23:46.

Finnick starts screaming as the car moves, lashing out viciously at Anthea, formless shrieking as he tries to grab at her, the car suddenly jerking forward fast enough to knock him off balance, Anthea screeching back at him, both of them lashing out violently because they can’t leave him, they cannot leave Killian behind.

“We can’t,” Anthea howls at him as Finnick falls into the footwell with an agonised bellow, Ruby’s hand over her mouth, weeping tears Finnick can’t hear, “I can’t lose any more of you.”

Anthea screams, tears staining her skin, sobbing as she jerks the car through the Capitol’s streets, faster and faster, unhinged cries uncannily like the jabberjays in the Arena had given her.

Their voices layer and weave and rent Panem itself apart, screaming in tandem like it will make the slightest difference to what they have done.

-

Q trembles as the minutes pass, the minutes pass, it passes and he looks at his work, their work, the ending strains.

“Back,” Silva tells him from the doorway; Q folds with relief, letting out tension in shuddered, convulsive breaths. “We are ready.”

“You are late,” Q retorts, rasps - 11:48, two minutes, every second of it counting too headily. “It worked?”

Silva’s motion hesitates for a quarter-breath; he nods. “It is done,” he tells Q, a weighted murmur. “You are too?”

The last shivers, the last lines, the last moments.

“Yes.”

Silva turns to leave, to prime the plane; a shadowy outline in the garden, an escape hatch for a man who never trusted the Capitol, who never trusted Snow - a tiny plane, a pet project. Large enough for the two of them to fly beyond where even the Capitol can find them.

District Thirteen awaits.

These last moments are Q’s. A flourish of Beetee’s smile. He would be so proud of all Q has done tonight; all he achieved. The man he’s become.

Q watches the spidering decay seep through the Capitol, undoing them. They will restore themselves to their former glory, without question, nothing lasts forever; it will take time, though. Enough time.

In the end, he made it work.

Q turns off the lights as he leaves.

-

Emma is pinned beneath Mycroft Holmes’s gaze.

“I need you to trust me,” he states, level and calm. “Can you do that, Emma?”

It almost sounds normal, almost sounds real; like it’s not the first thing he’s said in ages, like they’re not in an Arena, like the cannons don’t keep firing and there’s only six people left, there’s only six of them.

“I don’t know.”

Mycroft Holmes. The Ice Man.

“They do not get to have you,” Mycroft reminds her, ringing like a promise. “I know, Emma, that you see it. You know that there is a great deal, yet, to know; to learn; to understand.”

Mockingjays catch light; Cinna’s blood gleams bright, the same colour as Johanna’s. “It’s not about me,” she whispers, breathes, on the fringes of catching hold of something. An idea, a dream of an idea.

“I must ask for your trust,” Mycroft tells her, “in the knowledge that better people than your good self have done the same, and lived to regret it.”

James Bond didn’t have to Volunteer.

Sherlock Holmes didn’t have to, either.

“You’re really not selling it,” Emma mumbles, laughs, splitting open in it.

“I will not lie to you,” Mycroft tells her, a fact so absolute Emma swears it holds gravity. “We do not have long - I must ask you. Can you trust me?”

They all trust him. Regina and Bond, Sherlock and Johanna - they trust him, trusted him, all the people she trusts, they trust him too.

In the end, it’s easy.

“Yeah.”

Mycroft nods, expression unmoving. “Will you?” he asks, confirms. “Will you trust me?”

“Yes,” she agrees. Quiet and certain. “I trust you.”

Mycroft grabs her arm, and sinks a knife into it.

-

The airfield whistles with the aftermath of a storm none of them were there to see.

Anthea hands Finnick and Ruby passes. They get through the electrified barriers at the front desk without a single hitch, through unmanned corridors, out to the hanger ahead; it’s there that they can see the real impact. Crumpled bodies wearing the colourful skins of Capitol-born, dotted through the facility, attacked so quickly and quietly that the place was overwhelmed without a single alarm sounding along the way.

They run. Ruby behind Finnick behind Anthea, sprinting across the open hanger, “go, go,” somebody snaps sharply, the only thing in Finnick’s sightline the white dart of Anthea’s trainers.

Finnick’s never seen her in trainers before. Or in a tracksuit, come to think of it; she looks different. Younger.

The plane hums, door sealing with a sharp whine.

A body crashes into him with the force of a collapsing star.

“Annie,” Finnick breathes, unravelling, every breath of himself made of hers and hers with his, her pulse hot and constant but here, she’s here, she’s here, safe, “Annie, Annie....”

Finnick feels the plane shifting, Annie crushing him close with a frantic gasping sob of his name, “Killian, where’s…” somebody asks, which is where Finnick loses his grip of the parts of himself he’d bound together, long enough to get onto the plane, the barely-contained grief erupting full-force to drag him beneath the surface.

A whispered no chases Finnick into a space beyond language.

He has to be dead. Killian has to be dead, Finnick can’t let himself believe he’s alive - he’s dead, he can learn how to grieve but he can’t learn how to live with anything else, Killian, his mentor his friend his family, somebody who loves him, loved, his world is made of Sherlock and Johanna and Killian and they’re all gone, the foundations of himself ripped apart.

He failed.

Annie wails into his shoulder and holds him so tightly it hurts, dull and nothing near enough, nothing close to enough.

John Watson’s face swims into view. Finnick can’t look at him, can’t bear it.

A child’s sob cracks: Roland, secure in Marian’s arms. Robin sits beside them, pale and tense.

They made it. The rest of them made it. After so many years, they’re finally fleeing the Capitol, they can’t go back.

The plane rises up, up.

They won’t know about the Arena evacuation for a while, yet.

Finnick’s fingers dig into Annie’s skin, all he has left, and waits to find out if they’ll be shot out of the sky.

-

The air tastes of static.

Cashmere springs out of nowhere at all, downing Bond; Regina sets into her, wrenching her away from Bond who’s cursing, breathing and cursing, scarlet blooming between his ribs, “Regina…”

“Go, James,” she snarls, as she grapples Cashmere; the younger woman’s injured already, making it a simpler fight than expected - Regina manages to ground her, pinning her to the ground. “I don’t want to kill you, Cash, but I will if I have to.”

Minutes left, just minutes; Cashmere doesn’t have to die. They could take her to Thirteen, if she’d just stop fighting, if she’d just listen. If Snow hadn’t made it so they all hate each other; if Cashmere didn’t think Mycroft Holmes and Emma Swan to be the enemies standing in the way of her happy ending.

Victors don’t get happy endings.

Regina holds her knife against Cashmere’s throat; Cashmere finally stills completely, the fight draining out of her.

“Tell Gloss,” Cashmere whispers, blonde hair splaying over the ink-black earth, looking up at the sky, “it wasn’t his fault.”

Cashmere jerks herself upward, throat first.

Regina gives her the kindness of a clean ending, sweeping the blade along the deepening line, a helpless numbness that dulls the cannon fire into something distant.

Above her, the gong starts to toll midnight.

-

It really fucking hurts: Emma’s arm pulses wetly, gaping stupidly at Mycroft as blood pools in her hand - and he throws the tracker off to one side like he didn’t just stab her, twisting to look at the forcefield instead.

Like magic, it blinks away. Emma doesn’t see the change - she feels it, a wash of sweet and unexpectedly cold air rushing in, from the world beyond the edges of a jungle the Gamemakers made.

Around them, the midnight bell starts to toll.

(A cannon fires; or, Emma thinks it does).

One.

“It’s down,” Mycroft states, blinking stupidly. “Oh. Oh.”

Two. Three.

Mycroft looks up at the tree for a moment. “This is going to hurt,” he mutters, before stabbing himself in the arm, and Emma almost cackles because no shit it hurts getting stabbed in the arm, she should know.

Four.

“Insert the sword into the frame where the forcefield was. Now,” he tells her, gouging the tracker out of his flesh with the tip of the knife, flicking it off to one side. “Then get back, as quickly as you can.”

Five. Six.

Emma doesn’t understand. “But, I, I don’t…” she starts, looking at the sword and the lightning tree and the wire - and then she does understand, all at once. The tracker and the forcefield, all the looks and glances and things she knew meant something, she finally understands.

Seven. Eight.

They’re escaping. The forcefield is gone.

“Now, if you would,” Mycroft repeats urgently, looking at the sky, clutching a hand over his bleeding forearm. “Emma.”

The breeze brushes her sweat-tacky skin.

Nine. Ten.

It tastes like the meadows.

Emma slams the sword into the forcefield, assuming all this has some type of significance because fuck knows she’s not caught up yet - but Mycroft told her to trust him and it’s the only thing she has left in the world.

Eleven.

She’s trusting him.

Lightning hits the tree.

Emma’s body is blown backwards. She watches the current pass down the wire; bright, beautiful, and then it shivers into the metal frame of the once-forcefield and the light becomes blinding, white-blue-burning and brilliant and she thinks, absently, that she’s actually become the girl in flight.

Impact doesn’t hurt, though it probably should.

Trees start to catch fire. The lightning storm doesn’t truly begin; it seems, instead, to explode above her head. Ash and tree branches collapse above her as the fire spreads through and over and around, sharp sparks of flame licking around the edges.

Emma doesn’t move. She can’t work out how; her limbs aren’t her own, but not like before. This time, she knows it’ll hurt, and it doesn’t matter - she was in flight, and this is not like anything that’s happened before.

Mycroft knew. He knew the forcefield would come down, he pulled out their trackers. He knew.

The hovercraft comes for her, but she isn’t afraid. Mycroft knew, and he told her to trust him; she has no idea what’s waiting for her at the top, but whatever it is, it isn’t here and now, with blue white lights and flames and deafening noise, the rush of water, the ringing in her ears, just like it was before.

Prim, and Rue, and Peeta.

Sherlock, and Johanna.

The claws sweep under her limp body, and Emma passes out, a small smile playing in the corner of her mouth.

Chapter Text

Emma wakes up in a haze of pain.

Panic sets her thrashing, fierce and immediate, her wrists tied down as she tries to break free until there’s nothing.

-

Emma wakes up, her heartbeat itself hurting.

Two rows of beds, maybe a dozen in total, in a dimly-lit metal-white room. Most of them are empty.

Tubes trail everywhere, everywhere, a battalion of tubes feeding under her skin, into her blood, stealing all she is, pumping her into a person she isn’t supposed to be, reaching to pull them away.

Unconsciousness hits like a truck.

-

Emma wakes up.

Mycroft Holmes lies next to her, unconscious. He has even more tubes than she does, his chest rising and falling, crisp white bandages wrapped in and around and across, tubes on tubes on tubes.

The man she chose to trust.

Emma’s gone.

-

Emma wakes up and is really fucking bored of it.

It’s supposed to make sense. Mycroft was supposed to make this make sense, but his eyes are closed or open or closed, utterly silent, skin deathly pale, beeping machines telling her he’s still going, he’s still breathing.

Voices bubble in the distance, voices on voices. “Emma?” somebody asks, too close; she flinches, terrified.

Everything goes black before she has a chance to be annoyed.

-

Emma wakes up, deciding that this time, she’s going to figure things out.

The machines around her beep, beep and beep but not too fast, not too loud - just beeping, steady and regular.

Mycroft lies on his own bed, next to her. Eyes open, blinking slowly.

Emma’s alive. Mycroft’s alive.

They are out of the Arena.

A memory of stars; of sweet air on her tongue.

“Mycroft?” Emma asks, whispers. Her voice won’t work properly, grates, sticky on the back of her tongue.

Mycroft doesn’t answer. He’s staring at the ceiling, tears running down either side of his face, staring into nowhere at all, wrists tied down like hers were, so white Emma swears humans aren’t supposed to look that way.

“I warned them,” he breathes, almost inaudibly. “I am not a man who can be loved.”

Suddenly, Mycroft is shrieking, inhuman and awful, a shrieking, screaming, hollow, wounded thing, screeching off his broken lips and broken body while the machines hum louder, louder, until the voice trails off and his eyes fall shut.

Emma watches as he goes limp.

It feels like a kindness.

The door to their little medical-bay thing opens with a hiss of air; Emma flinches, scrabbling for anything that might pass for a weapon, her wrists tied down so she can’t move. “It’s okay,” the woman in the doorway tells her, vines tattooed all over her head, “Emma…”

“You’re Capitol,” Emma hisses, rasps, because no normal person has vines on their head, “you, you’re…”

“I’m with the resistance,” the woman tells her, hands raised in surrender, “Emma, listen to me. Please.”

Emma is tied to the bed, it’s not like she’s going anywhere. “You’re…” she starts, then makes sense of ‘resistance’, voice cutting out beneath her. “I don’t…”

“My name’s Cressida, I’ve been with the rebels for years,” the woman - Cressida - tells her. “Emma, I can explain everything, I promise. You’re safe, Emma. Just listen to me okay? Emma…”

“Stop saying my name,” Emma shrieks, then breaks apart on a cracked-open sob.

The Cressida-woman still has her hands up. “Okay,” she replies carefully. “Okay, I hear you. You’re safe, okay? Nothing’s gonna hurt you. I just want to explain what’s happening. I know this is a lot, right now. I want to help.”

Emma’s voice is whip-sharp: “Don’t come closer,” she snaps, as the woman tries; she obeys. “Where am I?”

“We’re in a hovercraft,” the woman - Cressida - replies. “We’re on the way to District Thirteen.”

There is no District Thirteen, everybody knows that.

Emma knows she looks exactly as confused as she feels, when she’s not fending off terror. “... huh?”

Cressida looks at Mycroft, who’s unconscious, tears still drying on his face. “We’d hoped Mycroft would… he can probably explain things better, there’s a lot I don’t know either,” she replies, “but…”

“District Thirteen?”

“Yes,” Cressida nods, lowering her hands slightly. Emma hisses like a feral cat when she looks like she’ll move closer. “Okay. Okay - just, let me explain? Please. I’ll explain everything I can.”

Emma suddenly figures out something very, very important.

A room full of beds, beds upon beds - but it’s only her. Her, and Mycroft Holmes.

“Where’s Regina,” Emma breathes, Mycroft’s screams echoing in the backs of her eyelids, mockingjays, jabberjays, the clicking of a hundred thousand million insects coming to eat her alive, “where… James. Regina…”

Johanna’s body falls from Jim Moriarty’s hands, an arc of bright blood; the Arena explodes above her head in a shower of white-yellow-blue lights.

Emma knows. She already knows.

“We tried,” the Capitol woman tells her, like it matters, it doesn’t matter, “the Capitol moved in too fast, they still had trackers and James was hurt - we tried, they started to pursue and we had to get you out of the way before…”

They tried.

They tried, they tried, they tried.

“Where is she.”

Mycroft’s monitors beep, screech, scream.

Emma is unconscious before she can figure out how to be afraid.

-

Emma wakes up, wakes up, wakes up, wakes up.

It’s the same every time: she wakes up, people tell her stuff, her monitors get loud and beep-y, she’s drugged.

Eventually, she’s awake long enough for Cressida - her name is Cressida, Emma tries to remember that - to tell her stuff.

Sometimes, when Emma wakes up, she even manages to remember.

There was always a plan. The Quell was never going to end up with only one winner. Emma was never going to die in the Quell, even though she thought she was, because there was always a plan.

Emma thinks it was a really, really bad plan. Nobody’s asked her opinion, though.

Panem is at war. Districts and Capitol. A rebellion, a war - but nobody knows anything, nothing, because that was also part of the plan. The Capitol needs phones, needs technology. The Districts broke all of it so nobody can talk to anybody properly. Mostly to stop the Capitol doing stuff, but also, the rebels have no clue what’s happening either. There are other people trying to get to Thirteen, same as them, and they have no clue whether they made it or not.

Emma thinks that was a really, really bad plan too.

“You’re safe,” Cressida reminds her, when Emma wakes up yet again. “Do you remember where you are?”

Emma looks around at the medical bay. At a row of empty beds, except hers and Mycroft’s; at Cressida. “We’re going to District Thirteen,” she replies, or thinks she does. It’s something she can remember, today.

Cressida looks relieved.

District Thirteen exists. The Capitol never destroyed them - they hid, instead. They hid, waiting for the moment they could come back. They have lots of guns and they know how to use them and that’s a good thing, in a war, or so Cressida says.

That’s where they’re going. Emma and Mycroft and a load of Capitol-born are going to District Thirteen, further north in Panem than Emma’s ever gone - only, they had to take a really, really long way around because the whole country’s at war and they don’t want to be followed or found or shot out of the sky.

Oh, and Plutarch Heavensbee is a rebel too, turns out. Cressida explains that he was always a double-agent; that he tried real hard to keep the Victors alive in the Arena, as much as he could.

Beetee and Johanna and Mags and the others, faces in the sky, people Emma didn’t know but everybody else did know and they’re all dead, dead because he made an Arena to kill them. “We didn’t have a choice,” Plutarch explains. “We needed the time to prepare for the war.”

They all figured Mycroft would be awake to explain all this stuff instead, but he isn’t - or, he technically is, but that’s a whole different world of problem right now.

“The important thing is - you’re both safe,” Plutarch tells her, while Emma’s monitors beep, beep louder and faster. “The heart and mind of this revolution - as long as you live, the revolution lives.”

Plutarch’s blood is the same colour as Johanna’s, springing up under her fingernails, lines along his pudgy face that she etches in, screaming at the top of her lungs until the monitors whir, everything going black.

-

Emma wakes up.

Again.

This time, she leaves the rest of everything to one side, someplace where she can’t reach it or touch it, where it can’t touch her.

Instead, she tries to figure out the Mycroft-problem.

The Mycroft-problem is that Mycroft has gone.

It’s like the Arena, after the jabberjays: he’s awake, or asleep, but it doesn’t matter because he isn’t moving or talking or eating or drinking or doing anything, really, except staring blankly at the ceiling whenever he opens his eyes.

Emma’s not sure if she imagined him talking, him screaming; the doctors say he’s not said anything since the second they told him it was just the two of them, that only the two of them made it out of the Arena.

The beeping gets quicker, so Emma stops thinking about that.

Instead, she looks at Mycroft - whose eyes are closed, right now.

Emma and Mycroft got both fried by the lightning. The doctors say they’re ‘disorientated’.

Mycroft broke his arm and his ankle and his elbow and screwed up his spine really badly; Emma only broke her leg. They have matching bandages on their arms, where the trackers used to be, where Mycroft stabbed them both.

They’re both in shock, the doctors say.

Mycroft also had a heart attack. They had to bring him back to life. Emma’s not sure why they bothered; it’s not like he’s happy about living, as far as Emma or anybody else can tell.

“You’re supposed to be explaining,” Emma tells him, out of nowhere. He doesn’t respond, staring at the ceiling, blinking every once in a while. “Mycroft, you have to come back.”

He doesn’t.

Emma hopes that wherever he’s gone, it doesn’t hurt.

-

Emma cries; Emma is unconscious; Emma wakes up.

Cressida looks unhappy, when she’s there and Mycroft’s eyes are open. “He planned all of this,” she tells Emma. Emma thinks she’s said it before; she doesn’t remember. “The whole revolution. Everything he’s done, it was to save lives.”

Johanna and Sherlock and Regina and Bond and Beetee and Cecelia and Mags and those are just the ones she can remember right now, all of them are dead. Mycroft didn’t save their lives.

“Are they dead?” Emma asks, wondering if she’s forgotten. “Regina and, and James. Bond, I mean. Are they…?”

“We don’t know,” Cressida replies. Emma blinks; tears trail down her face. “I’m sorry, Emma. Last we knew, they were going towards the Capitol, but that was before comms went down - we don’t know. Plutarch thinks Snow suspected something, towards the end. So. I wish I knew. It all happened so fast.”

They don’t know very much, Emma thinks.

Cressida looks up at the ceiling, jaw tight, like she's trying not to cry too. She does that, every time Bond gets mentioned.

“You’re the mockingjay,” Plutarch tells her. Later, the same exact second, she doesn’t know. Emma’s strapped to the bed again, so she can’t attack him like she did before. “The face of the revolution.”

It didn’t have to be her.

“Mycroft’s been planning for years,” Cressida explains, another ‘later’, “so when the time came, we’d be ready.”

Panem fights, Panem falls.

“He didn’t just want it to happen,” she continues, when Emma’s awake enough to understand, “he wanted it to happen the right way.”

Emma’s laugh is thin, wet. “This is the right way?” she asks; Cressida doesn’t have an answer to that.

If they’re alive - Regina, James - then it’s worse. A lot worse. Cressida’s said that a couple of times, looking like she’s chewing on glass every time.

Emma hasn't asked why. She could probably guess, if she tried.

She doesn't try.

The monitors beep faster. “You should sleep,” Cressida tells her, looking sad. “It won’t be long now, Emma, we’ll be there soon.”

“I can’t sleep,” Emma whispers, or thinks she does. “I can’t… I can’t close my eyes. I keep, I see them, if I’m asleep I’m there I don’t, I can’t sleep…”

Sleep means darkness, sleep means silence, sleep means never knowing if she’ll see anything ever again, “it’s okay, Emma, just try to relax,” and the drugs yank the world from beneath her before she has time to try sleeping; unconsciousness is different, she can’t dream there.

They think she has nightmares, Emma realises, of the Arena.

It isn’t nightmares, though - because in the Arena, they were together. It was awful and horrible and terrifying but Sherlock smirks and Johanna laughs and Bond watches and Regina smiles and Mycroft talks, when she dreams. When she’s in the Arena.

It’s waking up that’s the problem.

-

Emma wakes up.

The medical area is empty except for Mycroft, the hovercraft buzzing around her.

Doctors come and doctors go. They tell her she’s okay; they tell her to calm down. They give her socks with grippy things on the bottom so she doesn’t slip over. They won’t let her near any shoelaces, they confiscate the syringes, they drug her when she’s upset.

All this time, and they still think she wants to die.

Mycroft stares at the ceiling. They had to put a tube up his nose to feed him, because he won’t do it himself.

“Please,” she whispers to him, “Mycroft. Please, you can’t leave me to deal with this on my own. You made this happen so deal with it, wake up, you have to wake up…”

He’s gone but he’s not-gone so Emma is alone, alone with Capitol people with vines on their skulls or silver flowers on their cheeks, nobody left who she recognises or knows, she’s alone all over again.

“You told me to trust you,” she whispers, terrified of falling asleep, of darkness that takes every feeling away, even the pain in her arm and her ankle, pains that tell her she’s still alive, “Mycroft.”

Mycroft doesn’t notice her screaming.

Emma doesn’t notice until she wakes up.

Anything left of Mycroft Holmes is hiding where nothing can find him, where nothing can hurt, which is kind of fair enough in some ways but also isn’t because screw him for making all of this happen then ducking out when it happens, screw him for leaving her to handle this alone.

“We’re nearly there,” Cressida promises. “The others should be right there waiting for us, okay?”

The other ones who escaped the Capitol, who fled, who ran to District Thirteen. Cressida says it like she’s trying to reassure herself, as much as anyone else.

“Ruby?” Emma checks, a fuzzy memory promising she’ll be there, too.

Cressida swallows, her expression knotted and hurt and worried. "It... as far as we know," she says, which isn't very far at all, not really. Nobody knows anything.

Emma doesn’t know and she doesn’t care and she doesn’t know how to care.

“It’s for pain,” Cressida says, as Emma’s fingers brush a button. A little button that she can reach, even with her wrists tied down. “If it hurts.”

Morphling, like Arne and Griffin like. Liked; Arne is dead. Emma remembers that.

Emma starts to understand why they like, liked, it. Her blood gets thin and her mind goes numb; she can think about Regina’s voice on the phone, about Bond’s psychic powers, without wanting to scream.

Mycroft stares and stares and stares and stares.

In a daydream that isn’t a dream that isn’t a nightmare, Emma imagines District Ten. A home that was never home, not really; her Victors’ house, where she never belonged. Arne and Griffin and Ruby, and Granny Lucas, and August. A place that was the first thing she’s had in a long time that was supposed to be hers, only it wasn’t. Emma knows that now.

Emma belongs with the ghosts of people she knew for maybe a week.

A family that she fit with; that wanted her.

It’s gone.

Mycroft stares.

Emma presses her button again and again and again and again.

When unconsciousness comes, she doesn’t have to be scared of the dark.