Embrace the Fire: The Avenger Games - Chapter 4
**EDIT** WHAT LJ I DID NOT TYPE "Gay, this" AS MY COMMENTARY. WHAT. NO.
Each District Two candidate had the lesson on choosing their weapon. Every tribute would have the choice of selecting a weapon to represent them, to weave that in as part of the package they would sell to the sponsors, to the nation -- or to rely on other skills to make themselves memorable. Odin had chosen a spear for his range weapon, wielding it as though it were an extension of his arm, and a small mace for close encounters. Every kill he made in the Arena that year happened with those weapons or his bare hands. To the contrary, Director Fury used anything and everything, from a sword in the Cornucopia to a broken-off tree branch to the severed hand of another tribute. Both made memories in their own way.
In the beginning, Loki had decided not to choose a weapon; not to limit himself to one image but to be flexible, intractable, unpredictable. He no longer had that choice. Now, he strode across the room to the rack of spears, looking for the largest, modelled after the one Odin had used in his Games. Loki knew they left it on the rack every year, just as he knew that no tribute ever, ever touched it; no one attempted to make that legend his.
Loki reached out, and as he did, he found the closest camera and gave it a sharp-toothed smile. His fingers closed around the smooth handle and he lifted it, steeling himself against the weight.
"Brother, no!" Thor cried out from across the room, the words tearing themselves from him unbidden. As though he had the right to speak, to address Loki with authority, to speak of their kinship here, now.
Loki turned, and for the first time since leaving District Two, faced his brother. "Your turn," he said, and stepped aside with a gracious wave of his arm.
Thor's face tightened, and he marched past Loki to snatch up a large, square hammer. Predictable, but then again, that was part of Thor's appeal; sponsors knew exactly what they would be getting. No surprises, but no shortcomings, either. Thor had chosen the hammer the year after Loki arrived at the Centre, though he hadn't stuck to it with the same determination as some of the tributes in previous years. A hammer was not the most versatile of weapons, and Thor too good a candidate to risk on too narrow a specialisation. Still, iconic, he could do that.
"Subtle," said the Two girl, rolling her eyes and picking up a pair of throwing daggers. Loki had studied her movements some and knew she wouldn't restrict herself to those. He also knew she wouldn't make it out of the Arena alive, as much as she thought she would. She took the knives across the room and threw them with pinpoint accuracy at the dummies against the walls, but that wouldn't thrill anyone. That sort of thing was required from Career children, and she had the strong, corded muscles of someone who joined the Program as young as possible with the intent to win, not just for the prestige and money that came with making it even partway through.
Loki hefted the spear and backed away from the group. The others he didn't care so much about; the younger children avoided the weapons entirely, gravitating toward the other stations. The gigantic thug from District Nine picked up a sword the size of the smallest tribute, and Loki recognized the hunger in the other boy's eyes. This one Loki would have to watch; this was not a child ripped from his District, nor a Career poised to win; these were the eyes of a hunter examining his prey. The boy caught Loki's eye and pulled back his lips; Loki deliberately turned his back. Making a point.
He'd had a few months in Twelve to train on his own, nothing compared with the four years he would have had at the Centre had he stayed, but after the kill test it was mostly how to be a good Two yes-man. Obedience training and grooming and how to look good in front of the cameras, but Loki knew how to fake the first and excelled at the second, so what did it matter? He'd skirted the electric fence in Twelve, gone into the woods and fashioned himself a spear from a tree branch, purposely making it heavier than the one he wielded now.
No guarantee that the sponsors would put a spear in the Cornucopia for him, or that he'd receive one attached to a silver parachute like that District Four golden boy a few years back, but no matter. Time to shine. Loki tracked Thor's movements as he stalked into the middle of ring of dummies, intending on caving their rubber heads in with his hammer. Loki waited until he got into the zone, closing his eyes and practically praying over his weapon, before letting fly with the spear.
"No fighting!" one of the trainers shouted, and Loki gave him a withering look. As if he would. As intended his throw went wide, but barely, hitting the target Thor had aimed at. Thor actually jumped, but by the time he turned around to look, Loki had wandered off to try something else. He caught Director Fury watching him, and forced himself to hide his smile.
"Just what do you think you're going to do with that, Cap?" Tony Stark leaned against the weapons rack and crossed his arms.
Steve bristled, but he forced it down. "Please don't call me that," he said. He knew Bucky had said it live on television and people must have heard it, and trust a Stark to make it a thing, but no. He had so few things the Capitol hadn't taken from him.
Tony spread his hands. "Sorry, didn't mean to step on your toes, there. It's just such a cute nickname. But seriously, a shield? This isn't self-defence 101, this is the Games. You really think you're going to get through this without offence? I mean, you know what they say is the best defence."
It made perfect sense that Tony would make that his maxim, even if Steve didn't know much about him other than the times he made Capitol news for some scandal or other. Impressive, given he wasn't a legal adult yet. Steve pressed his lips together. "I'm still working on it," he said. He kept the shield between him and Tony, but Tony was right -- the weight was too much already, and his arm muscles wouldn't be able to hold it forever. He'd have to train harder if he was going to carry it.
Not like it really mattered. The conflict in his head -- killing is wrong vs he promised Bucky -- roared until he winced and looked away.
Tony tilted his head. "Seriously, put the shield down or those kids over there? The ones looking at you like you're made of their favourite dessert? They're gonna make sure you never get the chance to use it. Try some weapons, will you?"
Steve shook his head. He couldn't. Tony rolled his eyes. "Okay, look, fine, then just come here and show me what you can do." Steve stared at him, not understanding, and Tony managed to look that despite being reaped in his final year and brought into the Games Steve was the biggest thorn in his side. "You're from Six. You had engine grease under your fingernails at your Reaping, which means you lived in the city. You really gonna tell me you've never been in a fight? Even with a dewy-eyed kid you need to protect?"
And the thing was, Steve was not stupid. He knew when someone was trying to get him riled; the guys on the line at the factory did it every day, after finding out he'd been raised in an orphanage and had learned the kind of politeness where he said "yes ma'am" and "no sir" without thinking. Trying to see if they could get him to break. They never did, because fighting at work got you fired and Steve had savings so he could take Bucky out of the orphanage and find them somewhere, if not nice, then at least not on the same street where morphling deals went down.
Tony grinned at Steve, all teeth, and he'd brought his stupid shades into the training room, just, why, why would anyone do that, and Steve had spent all of last night squeezed into a skintight costume, smiling and waving at the people who were lined up to watch him die. Steve whispered an apology to Sister Catherine, then hauled off and punched Tony Stark right in his smug face.
"No fighting!" the aggrieved trainer shouted again. "C'mon, guys, knock it off!"
Satisfying for a second in a shameful kind of way, at least until Tony bounced back up, checking his nose for blood and cackling like a maniac. "I knew it! I knew you were too interesting to be boring!" And Steve had just played into Tony's hands as surely as those jerks down at the factory, and it stuck under his skin and wiggled there. "See, didn't take that long to break through that whole 'good boy' thing you've got going. You'll fit in here just fine."
Steve let out a long breath, glad that the full set of camera crews weren't there for this session. The weapons-choosing times usually weren't broadcast to the public, to keep a few things a surprise for the audience, Steve guessed. Right now they would be showing the Reapings over and over again, as well as footage from the parade and interviews with past Victors who weren't mentoring this year for commentary on their potential favourites so far. He thought of Bucky, sitting in the orphanage with the other kids and looking for footage of Steve every second. Hopefully he'd understand that Steve's ridiculous costume had come from the token Bucky painted.
Back in Six, Steve had almost always managed to solve his conflicts through talking. But this was different. If he was going to win the Games -- a thought that made Steve sick to his stomach -- he couldn't expect everyone else to just, what, step off the platforms immediately? He turned, gave Tony a grim smile. "Thanks for the reminder," he said, and turned his back. He wouldn't be able to do that into the Games, but until then, Steve didn't have to give Tony Stark any more attention than he had to.
Steve found one of the children, a tiny little girl from Eight with her small face scrubbed clean and pink, giving a punching bag a dubious look. Steve's heart cracked, but he shoved the feeling back and knelt down next to her. "Hey you," he said, and the girl jumped but gave him a small, tentative smile. "You're holding your fist all wrong. You put your thumb behind your fingers like that, you're gonna break it as soon as you hit anything. You don't wanna do that, right?"
She shook her head and uncurled her fingers. Steve closed her hand, making sure to tuck her thumb across the front of the fist, between the index and middle finger. "There, see?" he said, and drew her arm back, getting her to mime a slow punch. "You want to hit with your knuckles, not the flats of your fingers, or you might hurt yourself. Keep your arm in close; push, don't swing. Make sure your shoulder and torso support your weight; don't just hit with your fist. Got it? Here, now try with me."
He helped her adjust her stance, went through it a few times with her, and then told her to hit him. She balked, but Steve just grinned. "I promise, I'm big and strong. It's okay. Just try it." She did, and Steve let out an exaggerated 'ooph!' and doubled over. "There, see, just keep practicing that." He ruffled her hair, thinking of Anna back at the orphanage, and swallowed around the rock in his throat. She smiled up at him, the telltale tears in her eyes long blinked away, then hit the punching bag with gusto.
Steve turned away and pressed a hand to his eyes, letting out a long, shuddering breath. He couldn't cry here, not now; the Careers would be watching for anything like that, and they'd only use it against him. He sucked in air, fought down the hysterical sobs, and calmed himself. When he opened his eyes, the big guy from Five -- Brian? Brandon? no wait, Bruce -- stood in front of him, a weird expression on his face.
"You shouldn't do that," Bruce said, his voice quiet, but taut and restrained as opposed to soft.
"Do what?" Steve asked, brushing hair away from his forehead to hide the swipe at the corner of his eyes.
"Care." Bruce looked at the girl, then back to Steve. "You know she's going to die. It's only going to hurt more if you let her get to you."
Steve closed his eyes again. "I know. But I just -- I can't. This is wrong, this is all wrong."
"It is." There's something strange about Bruce's voice, like the careful calm is nothing but a veneer, like a spring coiled tight and held down by a ribbon that might not stay forever. "But the thing is, it's not just about you. They'll kill her quickly, but if they see you care, they might make it slow. Just for you, to hurt you. Because that's the way they are." He looked across the room, where the girl from Two stood staring at them. She gave them a wicked grin and actually licked her knife. Steve was too busy thinking about germs to be much intimidated, but the message was clear enough.
Bruce's district partner, not as small as Eight but still, tugged at his sleeve. "You were going to show me how to use the climbing ropes," she said. Bruce rested a large hand on the back of her head, nearly dwarfing her skull, and nodded.
Steve winced. "So how do you do it, then?"
Bruce hesitated. "I never forget where we are, who we're with, and who put us here," he said. "Get angry, Rogers. Stay that way. Hold it in until there's nothing else, and maybe you'll get out of here alive."
Steve held both hands over his mouth and nose, the tips of his index fingers pressed to the inside corners of his eyes. "Right," he said out loud. He left the weapons area and joined the quiet guy from Eleven at the survival station.
"Look, Hank, look! Look, it's perfect!" Jan bounced up and down, running over to the rack of tiny knives. Slender and shiny, they looked like the ones Daddy used to use to slice the skin off fruits for her, but even just looking at them, Janet could tell they were strong. She picked one up, balanced the handle on the end of her finger and moved her hand around, trying to keep it steady. "It's like they were made for me," she breathed.
Hank didn't look too happy, crossing his arms and jigging his eyes all over the room. "They might be," he said with a shrug. "You never know, they like to play games like that. And you did make an impression last night with your costume." He smiled a little, a private smile just for Jan, and she puffed up, pleased he noticed.
"That's right," Jan said, bouncing on her toes. "I'm the wasp! And these are my stingers. Zoom!" She threw one at the target, but it didn't go anywhere near. One of the big kids snickered at her, but Jan didn't care. That's what practice was for.
Hank covered his mouth, laughing a little bit too, but with him it wasn't mean so it was okay. "You're gonna need to work on that," he said, and ruffled her hair.
Janet pouted at him; the stylists had worked a long time on her hair, making it cute and fluffy and pretty, but there must be something magic in the shampoo they used because when Jan ran a hand over it, everything went back the way it was, smooth and shiny. "Well, we have time, and that's what trainers are for, silly," she scoffed at him, but then something else caught her eye.
A silver tube, hollow and shiny like everything else, and just the perfect size for Janet's hand. She picked it up, turned it over in her hand, and looked up at Hank, puzzled. "What's this?"
Hank took it from her, peered through the centre of it, then blinked. "Oh, it goes with these," he said, and pointed to a handful of small, feathery-tipped needles. "It's a blowgun, I think. You shoot the darts. It might be easier to aim than the knives, though you'd have to be closer."
Janet picked up one of the darts. "Is it poisoned?" She held the pointy end up to her nose and sniffed it, but she still couldn't really tell. It just smelled like metal.
"Probably not yet," Hank said. "If this were in the Cornucopia, probably there would be poison with it for you to dip them in. Or you'd have to make some yourself."
"Hm." Janet slotted the dart into the blowgun, held it up and looked around. The big boy from Two, with the blond hair and the beard, took swings with a hammer the size of Janet's head. She narrowed her eyes, took a deep breath, and blew.
The dart flew across the room, headed toward the boy's leg, but at the last second he swung around and blocked it with the hammer. He picked up the dart and studied it, puzzled. "NO FIGHTING!" screamed the trainer, but Jan ignored him. This wasn't fighting. Hank let out a choked sound as the big boy spun around, but Janet wasn't afraid. She put her hands on her hips and grinned at him.
"Nice shot, little one!" the boy called out, waving his arm, his smile wide and proud. "I like your sting. I shall see you in the Arena!"
Janet waved back, then hopped and grinned at Hank. "It worked! See?"
Hank just stared at her as though she'd turned into a horrible monster. "Jan -- he noticed you. The Career, he noticed you. You don't want them to notice, you want -- oh my god." He swallowed. "We're leaving right now," he said. "No more weapons, I don't care. Put those down. We're going to learn how to tie knots, okay?"
That didn't sound like very much fun, but Janet recognized Hank's angry face when she saw it, and she'd promised Daddy she would listen to him. Already she'd disobeyed him lots of times, so she should probably be good for now. "Okay," she said, only sulking a little bit. Daddy would be so proud.
Wanda just wanted the Games to start, already. Weapons training was supposed to be the fun part for the Careers, but it just meant a lot of play-acting, and while she could do it as well as anyone, that didn't mean she enjoyed it. It felt kind of like sacrilege, showing just enough skill that the other tributes would wet themselves at the sight of it, but not so much that the Gamemakers knew exactly what they'd be getting. No surprises during the scoring meant low scores no matter what.
Not to mention, now and then they'd bring camera crews in to film them for the actual Games broadcast, and while Wanda enjoyed showing off a little more, it was just one more nuisance. Not that they would know; she smiled, twirled her knives, and beheaded dummies with the best of them while the reporters squealed with glee and clapped their hands.
Making alliances didn't take too long. No matter how boring and uninterested in winning the Ones were, it took a lot more than that to dissolve the traditional One-Two combo, and that didn't change this year. They didn't say anything when Wanda asked, just nodded, and that annoyed her, too. Usually the Careers stuck together, providing a united front in the training rooms, laughing at the other tributes and psyching them out. These Ones didn't bother. The girl from District Four asked to join them, and Wanda said yes, because why not? Plus she liked having a higher number of women on the team. Yay feminism, or something.
A few days into training, Wanda caught the traitor watching her. "If you're going to ask for an alliance, you've got another thing coming," she warned him, because honestly.
The boy rolled his eyes. He had the black hair and olive skin of Seam trash, but the bright blue eyes of kids from the merchant quarters. Mixed blood. Wanda didn't care, but she knew the cameras would love those eyes, and anyone the camera would love was worth keeping an eye on. "I know you've been instructed to make sure I don't make it out of here alive," he said. "I'm not an idiot."
"Well, that's good to know." Wanda took a break from training, grabbed a towel and draped it across her neck, rolling her shoulders and stretching her muscles. The kid's eyes didn't even flicker; too young, too gay, or too Career, Wanda couldn't tell. Either way. The idiot from Three certainly would've enjoyed the show; not much of a threat from him. "So what do you want?"
"To give you some advice." The kid tilted his head and studied her; Wanda barked out a laugh. "No, really. You're being too obvious. Everybody knows you want to kill Thor."
Wanda narrowed her eyes at him. "Only one of us gets out alive, kiddo. That's not a crime."
"Killing your district partner is, at least in Two," the kid pointed out, and she ground her teeth a little. "You really think if you kill him, you'll be welcome back in the Village? You'll be knifed to death your first night, when you're out of it and screaming from nightmares. Or maybe they'll do something to your medication. Or maybe you won't even make it back to the Village at all. You can't kill him."
Wanda's nostrils flared, because she knew that was true, at least. The only acceptable time to kill another Two was if neither of you managed to get yourselves knocked off before there were no other options, and that generally was considered poor showing on the part of the lesser favourite. In this case, her.
"I know they want you to die so that Thor can win," the kid continued. "You know it too, and so does Thor. That's probably why he's being so nice to you, because he's grateful for the honour and wants to make sure you're sensible of it. But you can't kill him. Not just because of what the other Victors will do, but because you know as well as I do that this isn't how these Games are meant to be played. Not this year."
And she did, too. Not that she was going to listen to a silver-tongued traitor. Wanda curled her lip and sneered at him. "And you're proposing what, exactly?"
"You know who's supposed to kill Thor," the kid said, and gave Wanda a smile worthy of the cameras. "It's going to be me. I'm offering you an alliance of mutual ignorance. I don't kill you, you don't kill me. We go our separate ways. You let me have Thor. I'll make it worth your while to let me do it, I promise you. He's not just going to get a broken neck two seconds in. Then, when that's done, you come find me, and I'll wait for you. We'll give them a show worth watching. You kill me, you've bagged the traitor instead of the Golden Boy, and you'll come home the greatest Victor Two has had in a decade. I kill you, I promise I'll make it look good. No tricks. No traps. Something worthy of the girl who was too good to be Thor's sacrifice."
The thing was, Wanda knew this kid. She knew the traitor, the one who brought Twelve to its knees. She knew he got his way by talking -- the rumours of his kill test -- but it didn't change the fact that it made sense. "You're dangerous," she said. "I should kill you as soon as we're off the platforms."
"You could." He nodded, his expression thoughtful as though he was really considering the statement. "But you do that, you might as well step off the platforms early, for as good as you're going to survive. The Gamemakers want their brother-brother battle, and if you take that away, they're not going to look kindly to you. There will be a rock slide or a tornado or an avalanche with your name on it. You have to know that."
She did, damn it. Wanda hissed. "Fine. Mutual ignorance is this. But know this, traitor, I'm going to carve your skin from your body before you're done. The hovercraft won't even know it's you they're picking up."
"I look forward to it." He grinned at her. She almost believed him.
Wanda waited for him to leave, but he just stood there, watching her. "What?" she asked finally. He had the kind of look on his face like if she walked away, he'd follow her. "Got some more sage advice for me?"
"Just one, actually," he said. "Change your name."
Wanda raised her eyebrows. "Are you serious?"
"I'm serious. Wanda is a stupid name. It sounds like a middle-aged cleaning lady. It doesn't sound like a Victor, and definitely not one from Two."
Well, that didn't count as advice because Wanda had already considered it, but that wasn't her job. It was Caesar Flickerman's. "Nobody gets to choose their own nickname. It doesn't work that way."
"Oh, I know." He tossed his stupid long hair out of his eyes. "But you're good; you can make him choose the one you want." The kid looked down at Wanda's blood-red training outfit. "I'm sure you'll think of something."
And that, Wanda guessed, was all, because he sauntered off. "I'm going to enjoy killing you," she called after him.
He skipped around, swept a low bow in her direction, and headed back to the camouflage station. Wanda clenched her jaw and imagined holding him up by that hair of his and separating his pretty head from his body.
Tony returned to his room after another day in the training centre and flopped back on the bed. His schedule was clear for the night, other than dinner and some mentor time, which gave him exactly what he needed. He ordered the lights dimmed and grabbed a pillow, letting it rest on his face as though the training had worn him out. Maybe they'd think he was trying to cry in private; Tony didn't care. He'd spotted at least six cameras in the bedroom alone, and that was without making a sweep with anything electronic. Well, if they wanted a show in the bedroom he could give them one, but it probably wouldn't make it on the air. He grinned a bit.
He cleared his throat, then turned his head to the wall and made the series of mouth movements that activated the implant in his throat. The doctor who'd placed the subvocal receptor in his throat and the digital one in his ear was living large on an island off the coast of District Four right now, a happy millionaire thanks to a heaping share of Stark stocks. Nobody at the Capitol would be able to detect Tony's implants or the signals they output, not without equipment better than even Director Fury could come up with. Howard Stark made sure of that. Tony didn't get along with the old man all the time, but he couldn't deny that as a kid he got the best toys.
Subvocalization, the way of the future. Too bad nobody knew it yet, but in a few years Tony would make it public and he'd be even richer. By that point he'd have his nuclear defense system in place and the Capitol would have to buy the technology, instead of sending in their goons to take it.
"Jarvis," Tony said, glad good old dad had had him practice this since he was little, because he'd hate to be learning how to talk without moving his lips or making a sound now. "Jarvis, are you there?"
"Yes, sir, though you could have waited a little longer before making contact. I doubt I would have had a heart attack for at least another day."
Tony bit back a grin. Jarvis had been working for Stark Enterprises since Howard's day, and he'd raised Tony more than Howard had, really. Being able to contact him here made everything a little more solid. Tony liked that. "Sorry about that. I needed to make sure they didn't have anything set up that could detect us, but we're clean. What have you got for me? Any news on the Arena yet?"
"Nothing concrete, but evacuation orders have been given for a city in District Six. All citizens are being moved out to an undisclosed, temporary location beginning yesterday morning. One does not like to draw hasty conclusions, but it does seem probable that this will be the stage."
"A city, huh?" Tony closed his eyes and mimed dozing, keeping his patented thinking scowl from his face. He didn't like it; it made him feel like he didn't really have his brains working at full throttle. "They haven't done that in what, a decade or so? Well, that'll be interesting. You're sure that's where it is?"
"Fairly certain, sir. They've begun moving supplies into Six quite steadily, including mass shipments of your own surveillance equipment, among other things."
"Right, okay. See if any of the bugged ones make it in, do what you can if it looks like they'll miss them. Getting some eyes and ears in there would be really handy, not to mention internet access if I can get it. Something the Capitol can't detect."
"Do you doubt me, sir?" Jarvis asked, managing to sound implacable and wounded at the same time.
"Never, and you just got yourself a two percent raise because you made me feel guilty, so congratulations. Buy yourself a boat. Go sailing. Anything else?"
"Not at the moment, sir. But if you leave your implant on wakeup mode, I'll contact you as soon as I find something."
"You're a good man, Jarvis." Tony let out a breath and clicked his tongue, cutting off the subvocal connection but leaving his earpiece running in standby just in case. Six, huh. Tony wondered what they were doing; usually they didn't bother going for a city, at least not a populated one. The last one had been abandoned. If they wanted something really apocalyptic and weird they could have gone to the ruins of Thirteen; that sure would've made a point, though the nuclear fallout might make life interesting for the Victor later. Well, whatever, Tony didn't need to figure out the Capitols' reasons for doing what they did, just how to work around them.
Tony's task, while Jarvis ran all his voodoo back home, would be to get into Fury's backdoor in the Capitol network. Not too many people knew that Fury had something on the side, and even Tony didn't know what, but lots of electronics and munitions had gotten siphoned off over the years since Howard's time, even, and Tony was going to figure it out. He'd never planned on getting reaped, damn it, and he was going to use everything he had. If it took hacking a federal database in order to hack a secret operative database to bribe said secret operative, well, he'd do it. Tony was walking out of here, and it wouldn't be with the blood of twenty-four other people all over his cost-half-as-much-as-District-Twelve suit.
He couldn't do that yet, not without his equipment, but it had been over twenty-four hours since the Reaping now. Tony figured eating a big dinner, chow down on some roughage and fibre, and he'd have his stuff back in hand soon enough. He grabbed his shades from the bedside table and put them back over his eyes. A stupid-looking token, sure, and if he'd been caught he'd probably be dead, but they'd examined the shades and given them back without detecting the HUD in the right lens, the one networked to the implant in Tony's skull. When Jarvis found him any information, he'd send it directly to Tony, and Tony could page through it on his own.
Oh yeah. It felt good to be a genius.
"All right, it's time. I think it's fairly clear that we have our Mockingjay," Coulson said, looking over the files. He flipped through pictures of the candidates, scrawled over with notes on their temperaments, their past histories, medical records, anything that they'd been able to dig up. "We can contact the others during the last day of training tomorrow."
"You agree with me about Rogers, then." Fury said. He should be happy; he'd spent half the evening of the parade trying to argue Coulson around to his point of view. Now, dissatisfaction gnawed at him as he stared at the files.
"Have you changed your mind, sir?" Coulson flicked one of the images at Fury. "You were absolutely right. Look at him. Look at how the people are responding to him; he hasn't had interviews, training score, anything, and already he has sponsors lined up around the block. Phillips doesn't know what to do with them; the waiting list alone is more than last year's tribute got altogether. Plus, you saw him in training, with the little Eight girl. If that doesn't make him our guy, I don't know what does."
"Compassion is good," Fury acknowledged. He scrolled through to a still from the security camera in the training room, Roger's face frozen in an expression of barely-repressed anguish. He thought of Coulson's words at the parade: He looks scared to death. "Stability is better. We can't have a Mockingjay if we can't rely on him. He's getting too attached to those kids too fast. We can't guarantee we'll save them, and we don't want him to fall apart if we can't."
Coulson tilted his head, and Fury would bet he narrowed his eyes behind the safety of his mirrored sunglasses. "I seem to recall making this same argument to you during the parade, and you reassured me it would be fine. What's going on, sir?"
"Well, maybe I'm having second thoughts. It's not as though this is something we'll get a second chance at."
Coulson shook his head. "With all due respect, sir, I'm not sure what other options we have. Stark seems detached enough for our purposes, but he has an ego the size of District Eleven. I think you were right at the parade; I don't know if we can rein him in, especially not if he discovers how he got here."
"We wouldn't have brought him in at all if we weren't willing to take that risk." Still, Coulson had a point. "Regarding Thor, I think I might have been too hasty. I wouldn't count him out either, not yet. I've been watching him since he was a boy, and I saw some flashes of that boy today."
"You don't think he's in too deep, sir? Before you said --"
"Maybe, maybe not. But we won't know until we see how things play out between him and Loki."
Coulson hesitated, and Fury heard the tension in the silence as the other man chose his words. "After all this, you still haven't ruled out Loki, either. Are you sure that's wise?"
"No." Fury tapped the screen, staring at the image of Loki grinning at the camera, teeth bared and eyes narrowed. "I'm not sure at all. But I still think he's crucial. Since his break from Two he's been on edge, drifting. We could give him a purpose, which is exactly what he needs."
"If you say so, sir," Coulson said diplomatically. "I'm sorry to keep bringing this up, sir, but I still think it's a mistake to involve the others. They might be able to help us, but I'm not sure any of them are sanguine enough to give their lives to Rogers, no matter how convinced we are of him. And I think all this is just bringing us around in circles. Of course no one candidate is going to be perfect, but we have to balance their good and bad qualities with what we want. I think Rogers is our best bet."
Fury paused, then smiled. "Maybe not." He crossed behind Coulson and activated their communications network. Within minutes he was connected with the rest of the rebellion leader base on a secure channel. "I've made my decision," he said, and Coulson looked up in surprise but didn't interrupt, a good soldier to the end.
"You've decided on Rogers?"
Fury stood up straight, clasping his hands behind his back. "No. As of this moment, I'm proposing we shelve Operation Mockingjay."
Coulson straightened, and the channel exploded as everyone began talking at once. Fury let them for a moment, then silenced the microphones of everyone but himself. "Trust me," he said, "and I'll give you something better than a Mockingjay. I'll give you the Avengers."
"What's that supposed to mean?" one of them demanded.
"Trust me, and you'll see."
"That's a tall order, sir, if you don't mind me saying. We're supposed to go along with you on a hunch after you've thrown away years of planning, and for what?"
Fury cleared his throat. "I don't ask you to join me on faith. Tonight I will write up a report and send it out. I want all of you to read it, and tomorrow we will confer again. If we can't reach a consensus then we will choose Rogers as our Mockingjay and I'll say no more. But if I can convince you, then tomorrow we continue with the Avengers Initiative instead."
The others muttered their consent, and Fury cut the connection. "What do you think?" he asked, turning to Coulson.
Coulson rolled his shoulders, giving himself time to think. "You're not going to choose," he said slowly. "You want all of them. And not just to protect Rogers. You want them all out."
"It makes sense, doesn't it? A group of Mockingjays, instead of just one, whose strengths and weaknesses complement each other. It's our best chance."
Coulson sighed. "Except now instead of getting one person out alive, you're talking about half the tributes."
"More like a third," Fury said, and Coulson very carefully did not choke. "Well, not including our helpers, who I'm sure will be glad to survive. It's all right; we have several contingencies in place. We'll just have to switch them around."
Coulson nodded, lips thinned in a way that said he thought Fury was insane but was too polite to say so. Fury appreciated his loyalty, not for the first time; it certainly didn't come about because of Coulson's impressive paycheque. "Whatever you say, sir."
"Trust me," Fury said.
"Believe me, sir, I do, or I wouldn't be here."
Each District Two candidate had the lesson on choosing their weapon. Every tribute would have the choice of selecting a weapon to represent them, to weave that in as part of the package they would sell to the sponsors, to the nation -- or to rely on other skills to make themselves memorable. Odin had chosen a spear for his range weapon, wielding it as though it were an extension of his arm, and a small mace for close encounters. Every kill he made in the Arena that year happened with those weapons or his bare hands. To the contrary, Director Fury used anything and everything, from a sword in the Cornucopia to a broken-off tree branch to the severed hand of another tribute. Both made memories in their own way.
In the beginning, Loki had decided not to choose a weapon; not to limit himself to one image but to be flexible, intractable, unpredictable. He no longer had that choice. Now, he strode across the room to the rack of spears, looking for the largest, modelled after the one Odin had used in his Games. Loki knew they left it on the rack every year, just as he knew that no tribute ever, ever touched it; no one attempted to make that legend his.
Loki reached out, and as he did, he found the closest camera and gave it a sharp-toothed smile. His fingers closed around the smooth handle and he lifted it, steeling himself against the weight.
"Brother, no!" Thor cried out from across the room, the words tearing themselves from him unbidden. As though he had the right to speak, to address Loki with authority, to speak of their kinship here, now.
Loki turned, and for the first time since leaving District Two, faced his brother. "Your turn," he said, and stepped aside with a gracious wave of his arm.
Thor's face tightened, and he marched past Loki to snatch up a large, square hammer. Predictable, but then again, that was part of Thor's appeal; sponsors knew exactly what they would be getting. No surprises, but no shortcomings, either. Thor had chosen the hammer the year after Loki arrived at the Centre, though he hadn't stuck to it with the same determination as some of the tributes in previous years. A hammer was not the most versatile of weapons, and Thor too good a candidate to risk on too narrow a specialisation. Still, iconic, he could do that.
"Subtle," said the Two girl, rolling her eyes and picking up a pair of throwing daggers. Loki had studied her movements some and knew she wouldn't restrict herself to those. He also knew she wouldn't make it out of the Arena alive, as much as she thought she would. She took the knives across the room and threw them with pinpoint accuracy at the dummies against the walls, but that wouldn't thrill anyone. That sort of thing was required from Career children, and she had the strong, corded muscles of someone who joined the Program as young as possible with the intent to win, not just for the prestige and money that came with making it even partway through.
Loki hefted the spear and backed away from the group. The others he didn't care so much about; the younger children avoided the weapons entirely, gravitating toward the other stations. The gigantic thug from District Nine picked up a sword the size of the smallest tribute, and Loki recognized the hunger in the other boy's eyes. This one Loki would have to watch; this was not a child ripped from his District, nor a Career poised to win; these were the eyes of a hunter examining his prey. The boy caught Loki's eye and pulled back his lips; Loki deliberately turned his back. Making a point.
He'd had a few months in Twelve to train on his own, nothing compared with the four years he would have had at the Centre had he stayed, but after the kill test it was mostly how to be a good Two yes-man. Obedience training and grooming and how to look good in front of the cameras, but Loki knew how to fake the first and excelled at the second, so what did it matter? He'd skirted the electric fence in Twelve, gone into the woods and fashioned himself a spear from a tree branch, purposely making it heavier than the one he wielded now.
No guarantee that the sponsors would put a spear in the Cornucopia for him, or that he'd receive one attached to a silver parachute like that District Four golden boy a few years back, but no matter. Time to shine. Loki tracked Thor's movements as he stalked into the middle of ring of dummies, intending on caving their rubber heads in with his hammer. Loki waited until he got into the zone, closing his eyes and practically praying over his weapon, before letting fly with the spear.
"No fighting!" one of the trainers shouted, and Loki gave him a withering look. As if he would. As intended his throw went wide, but barely, hitting the target Thor had aimed at. Thor actually jumped, but by the time he turned around to look, Loki had wandered off to try something else. He caught Director Fury watching him, and forced himself to hide his smile.
"Just what do you think you're going to do with that, Cap?" Tony Stark leaned against the weapons rack and crossed his arms.
Steve bristled, but he forced it down. "Please don't call me that," he said. He knew Bucky had said it live on television and people must have heard it, and trust a Stark to make it a thing, but no. He had so few things the Capitol hadn't taken from him.
Tony spread his hands. "Sorry, didn't mean to step on your toes, there. It's just such a cute nickname. But seriously, a shield? This isn't self-defence 101, this is the Games. You really think you're going to get through this without offence? I mean, you know what they say is the best defence."
It made perfect sense that Tony would make that his maxim, even if Steve didn't know much about him other than the times he made Capitol news for some scandal or other. Impressive, given he wasn't a legal adult yet. Steve pressed his lips together. "I'm still working on it," he said. He kept the shield between him and Tony, but Tony was right -- the weight was too much already, and his arm muscles wouldn't be able to hold it forever. He'd have to train harder if he was going to carry it.
Not like it really mattered. The conflict in his head -- killing is wrong vs he promised Bucky -- roared until he winced and looked away.
Tony tilted his head. "Seriously, put the shield down or those kids over there? The ones looking at you like you're made of their favourite dessert? They're gonna make sure you never get the chance to use it. Try some weapons, will you?"
Steve shook his head. He couldn't. Tony rolled his eyes. "Okay, look, fine, then just come here and show me what you can do." Steve stared at him, not understanding, and Tony managed to look that despite being reaped in his final year and brought into the Games Steve was the biggest thorn in his side. "You're from Six. You had engine grease under your fingernails at your Reaping, which means you lived in the city. You really gonna tell me you've never been in a fight? Even with a dewy-eyed kid you need to protect?"
And the thing was, Steve was not stupid. He knew when someone was trying to get him riled; the guys on the line at the factory did it every day, after finding out he'd been raised in an orphanage and had learned the kind of politeness where he said "yes ma'am" and "no sir" without thinking. Trying to see if they could get him to break. They never did, because fighting at work got you fired and Steve had savings so he could take Bucky out of the orphanage and find them somewhere, if not nice, then at least not on the same street where morphling deals went down.
Tony grinned at Steve, all teeth, and he'd brought his stupid shades into the training room, just, why, why would anyone do that, and Steve had spent all of last night squeezed into a skintight costume, smiling and waving at the people who were lined up to watch him die. Steve whispered an apology to Sister Catherine, then hauled off and punched Tony Stark right in his smug face.
"No fighting!" the aggrieved trainer shouted again. "C'mon, guys, knock it off!"
Satisfying for a second in a shameful kind of way, at least until Tony bounced back up, checking his nose for blood and cackling like a maniac. "I knew it! I knew you were too interesting to be boring!" And Steve had just played into Tony's hands as surely as those jerks down at the factory, and it stuck under his skin and wiggled there. "See, didn't take that long to break through that whole 'good boy' thing you've got going. You'll fit in here just fine."
Steve let out a long breath, glad that the full set of camera crews weren't there for this session. The weapons-choosing times usually weren't broadcast to the public, to keep a few things a surprise for the audience, Steve guessed. Right now they would be showing the Reapings over and over again, as well as footage from the parade and interviews with past Victors who weren't mentoring this year for commentary on their potential favourites so far. He thought of Bucky, sitting in the orphanage with the other kids and looking for footage of Steve every second. Hopefully he'd understand that Steve's ridiculous costume had come from the token Bucky painted.
Back in Six, Steve had almost always managed to solve his conflicts through talking. But this was different. If he was going to win the Games -- a thought that made Steve sick to his stomach -- he couldn't expect everyone else to just, what, step off the platforms immediately? He turned, gave Tony a grim smile. "Thanks for the reminder," he said, and turned his back. He wouldn't be able to do that into the Games, but until then, Steve didn't have to give Tony Stark any more attention than he had to.
Steve found one of the children, a tiny little girl from Eight with her small face scrubbed clean and pink, giving a punching bag a dubious look. Steve's heart cracked, but he shoved the feeling back and knelt down next to her. "Hey you," he said, and the girl jumped but gave him a small, tentative smile. "You're holding your fist all wrong. You put your thumb behind your fingers like that, you're gonna break it as soon as you hit anything. You don't wanna do that, right?"
She shook her head and uncurled her fingers. Steve closed her hand, making sure to tuck her thumb across the front of the fist, between the index and middle finger. "There, see?" he said, and drew her arm back, getting her to mime a slow punch. "You want to hit with your knuckles, not the flats of your fingers, or you might hurt yourself. Keep your arm in close; push, don't swing. Make sure your shoulder and torso support your weight; don't just hit with your fist. Got it? Here, now try with me."
He helped her adjust her stance, went through it a few times with her, and then told her to hit him. She balked, but Steve just grinned. "I promise, I'm big and strong. It's okay. Just try it." She did, and Steve let out an exaggerated 'ooph!' and doubled over. "There, see, just keep practicing that." He ruffled her hair, thinking of Anna back at the orphanage, and swallowed around the rock in his throat. She smiled up at him, the telltale tears in her eyes long blinked away, then hit the punching bag with gusto.
Steve turned away and pressed a hand to his eyes, letting out a long, shuddering breath. He couldn't cry here, not now; the Careers would be watching for anything like that, and they'd only use it against him. He sucked in air, fought down the hysterical sobs, and calmed himself. When he opened his eyes, the big guy from Five -- Brian? Brandon? no wait, Bruce -- stood in front of him, a weird expression on his face.
"You shouldn't do that," Bruce said, his voice quiet, but taut and restrained as opposed to soft.
"Do what?" Steve asked, brushing hair away from his forehead to hide the swipe at the corner of his eyes.
"Care." Bruce looked at the girl, then back to Steve. "You know she's going to die. It's only going to hurt more if you let her get to you."
Steve closed his eyes again. "I know. But I just -- I can't. This is wrong, this is all wrong."
"It is." There's something strange about Bruce's voice, like the careful calm is nothing but a veneer, like a spring coiled tight and held down by a ribbon that might not stay forever. "But the thing is, it's not just about you. They'll kill her quickly, but if they see you care, they might make it slow. Just for you, to hurt you. Because that's the way they are." He looked across the room, where the girl from Two stood staring at them. She gave them a wicked grin and actually licked her knife. Steve was too busy thinking about germs to be much intimidated, but the message was clear enough.
Bruce's district partner, not as small as Eight but still, tugged at his sleeve. "You were going to show me how to use the climbing ropes," she said. Bruce rested a large hand on the back of her head, nearly dwarfing her skull, and nodded.
Steve winced. "So how do you do it, then?"
Bruce hesitated. "I never forget where we are, who we're with, and who put us here," he said. "Get angry, Rogers. Stay that way. Hold it in until there's nothing else, and maybe you'll get out of here alive."
Steve held both hands over his mouth and nose, the tips of his index fingers pressed to the inside corners of his eyes. "Right," he said out loud. He left the weapons area and joined the quiet guy from Eleven at the survival station.
"Look, Hank, look! Look, it's perfect!" Jan bounced up and down, running over to the rack of tiny knives. Slender and shiny, they looked like the ones Daddy used to use to slice the skin off fruits for her, but even just looking at them, Janet could tell they were strong. She picked one up, balanced the handle on the end of her finger and moved her hand around, trying to keep it steady. "It's like they were made for me," she breathed.
Hank didn't look too happy, crossing his arms and jigging his eyes all over the room. "They might be," he said with a shrug. "You never know, they like to play games like that. And you did make an impression last night with your costume." He smiled a little, a private smile just for Jan, and she puffed up, pleased he noticed.
"That's right," Jan said, bouncing on her toes. "I'm the wasp! And these are my stingers. Zoom!" She threw one at the target, but it didn't go anywhere near. One of the big kids snickered at her, but Jan didn't care. That's what practice was for.
Hank covered his mouth, laughing a little bit too, but with him it wasn't mean so it was okay. "You're gonna need to work on that," he said, and ruffled her hair.
Janet pouted at him; the stylists had worked a long time on her hair, making it cute and fluffy and pretty, but there must be something magic in the shampoo they used because when Jan ran a hand over it, everything went back the way it was, smooth and shiny. "Well, we have time, and that's what trainers are for, silly," she scoffed at him, but then something else caught her eye.
A silver tube, hollow and shiny like everything else, and just the perfect size for Janet's hand. She picked it up, turned it over in her hand, and looked up at Hank, puzzled. "What's this?"
Hank took it from her, peered through the centre of it, then blinked. "Oh, it goes with these," he said, and pointed to a handful of small, feathery-tipped needles. "It's a blowgun, I think. You shoot the darts. It might be easier to aim than the knives, though you'd have to be closer."
Janet picked up one of the darts. "Is it poisoned?" She held the pointy end up to her nose and sniffed it, but she still couldn't really tell. It just smelled like metal.
"Probably not yet," Hank said. "If this were in the Cornucopia, probably there would be poison with it for you to dip them in. Or you'd have to make some yourself."
"Hm." Janet slotted the dart into the blowgun, held it up and looked around. The big boy from Two, with the blond hair and the beard, took swings with a hammer the size of Janet's head. She narrowed her eyes, took a deep breath, and blew.
The dart flew across the room, headed toward the boy's leg, but at the last second he swung around and blocked it with the hammer. He picked up the dart and studied it, puzzled. "NO FIGHTING!" screamed the trainer, but Jan ignored him. This wasn't fighting. Hank let out a choked sound as the big boy spun around, but Janet wasn't afraid. She put her hands on her hips and grinned at him.
"Nice shot, little one!" the boy called out, waving his arm, his smile wide and proud. "I like your sting. I shall see you in the Arena!"
Janet waved back, then hopped and grinned at Hank. "It worked! See?"
Hank just stared at her as though she'd turned into a horrible monster. "Jan -- he noticed you. The Career, he noticed you. You don't want them to notice, you want -- oh my god." He swallowed. "We're leaving right now," he said. "No more weapons, I don't care. Put those down. We're going to learn how to tie knots, okay?"
That didn't sound like very much fun, but Janet recognized Hank's angry face when she saw it, and she'd promised Daddy she would listen to him. Already she'd disobeyed him lots of times, so she should probably be good for now. "Okay," she said, only sulking a little bit. Daddy would be so proud.
Wanda just wanted the Games to start, already. Weapons training was supposed to be the fun part for the Careers, but it just meant a lot of play-acting, and while she could do it as well as anyone, that didn't mean she enjoyed it. It felt kind of like sacrilege, showing just enough skill that the other tributes would wet themselves at the sight of it, but not so much that the Gamemakers knew exactly what they'd be getting. No surprises during the scoring meant low scores no matter what.
Not to mention, now and then they'd bring camera crews in to film them for the actual Games broadcast, and while Wanda enjoyed showing off a little more, it was just one more nuisance. Not that they would know; she smiled, twirled her knives, and beheaded dummies with the best of them while the reporters squealed with glee and clapped their hands.
Making alliances didn't take too long. No matter how boring and uninterested in winning the Ones were, it took a lot more than that to dissolve the traditional One-Two combo, and that didn't change this year. They didn't say anything when Wanda asked, just nodded, and that annoyed her, too. Usually the Careers stuck together, providing a united front in the training rooms, laughing at the other tributes and psyching them out. These Ones didn't bother. The girl from District Four asked to join them, and Wanda said yes, because why not? Plus she liked having a higher number of women on the team. Yay feminism, or something.
A few days into training, Wanda caught the traitor watching her. "If you're going to ask for an alliance, you've got another thing coming," she warned him, because honestly.
The boy rolled his eyes. He had the black hair and olive skin of Seam trash, but the bright blue eyes of kids from the merchant quarters. Mixed blood. Wanda didn't care, but she knew the cameras would love those eyes, and anyone the camera would love was worth keeping an eye on. "I know you've been instructed to make sure I don't make it out of here alive," he said. "I'm not an idiot."
"Well, that's good to know." Wanda took a break from training, grabbed a towel and draped it across her neck, rolling her shoulders and stretching her muscles. The kid's eyes didn't even flicker; too young, too gay, or too Career, Wanda couldn't tell. Either way. The idiot from Three certainly would've enjoyed the show; not much of a threat from him. "So what do you want?"
"To give you some advice." The kid tilted his head and studied her; Wanda barked out a laugh. "No, really. You're being too obvious. Everybody knows you want to kill Thor."
Wanda narrowed her eyes at him. "Only one of us gets out alive, kiddo. That's not a crime."
"Killing your district partner is, at least in Two," the kid pointed out, and she ground her teeth a little. "You really think if you kill him, you'll be welcome back in the Village? You'll be knifed to death your first night, when you're out of it and screaming from nightmares. Or maybe they'll do something to your medication. Or maybe you won't even make it back to the Village at all. You can't kill him."
Wanda's nostrils flared, because she knew that was true, at least. The only acceptable time to kill another Two was if neither of you managed to get yourselves knocked off before there were no other options, and that generally was considered poor showing on the part of the lesser favourite. In this case, her.
"I know they want you to die so that Thor can win," the kid continued. "You know it too, and so does Thor. That's probably why he's being so nice to you, because he's grateful for the honour and wants to make sure you're sensible of it. But you can't kill him. Not just because of what the other Victors will do, but because you know as well as I do that this isn't how these Games are meant to be played. Not this year."
And she did, too. Not that she was going to listen to a silver-tongued traitor. Wanda curled her lip and sneered at him. "And you're proposing what, exactly?"
"You know who's supposed to kill Thor," the kid said, and gave Wanda a smile worthy of the cameras. "It's going to be me. I'm offering you an alliance of mutual ignorance. I don't kill you, you don't kill me. We go our separate ways. You let me have Thor. I'll make it worth your while to let me do it, I promise you. He's not just going to get a broken neck two seconds in. Then, when that's done, you come find me, and I'll wait for you. We'll give them a show worth watching. You kill me, you've bagged the traitor instead of the Golden Boy, and you'll come home the greatest Victor Two has had in a decade. I kill you, I promise I'll make it look good. No tricks. No traps. Something worthy of the girl who was too good to be Thor's sacrifice."
The thing was, Wanda knew this kid. She knew the traitor, the one who brought Twelve to its knees. She knew he got his way by talking -- the rumours of his kill test -- but it didn't change the fact that it made sense. "You're dangerous," she said. "I should kill you as soon as we're off the platforms."
"You could." He nodded, his expression thoughtful as though he was really considering the statement. "But you do that, you might as well step off the platforms early, for as good as you're going to survive. The Gamemakers want their brother-brother battle, and if you take that away, they're not going to look kindly to you. There will be a rock slide or a tornado or an avalanche with your name on it. You have to know that."
She did, damn it. Wanda hissed. "Fine. Mutual ignorance is this. But know this, traitor, I'm going to carve your skin from your body before you're done. The hovercraft won't even know it's you they're picking up."
"I look forward to it." He grinned at her. She almost believed him.
Wanda waited for him to leave, but he just stood there, watching her. "What?" she asked finally. He had the kind of look on his face like if she walked away, he'd follow her. "Got some more sage advice for me?"
"Just one, actually," he said. "Change your name."
Wanda raised her eyebrows. "Are you serious?"
"I'm serious. Wanda is a stupid name. It sounds like a middle-aged cleaning lady. It doesn't sound like a Victor, and definitely not one from Two."
Well, that didn't count as advice because Wanda had already considered it, but that wasn't her job. It was Caesar Flickerman's. "Nobody gets to choose their own nickname. It doesn't work that way."
"Oh, I know." He tossed his stupid long hair out of his eyes. "But you're good; you can make him choose the one you want." The kid looked down at Wanda's blood-red training outfit. "I'm sure you'll think of something."
And that, Wanda guessed, was all, because he sauntered off. "I'm going to enjoy killing you," she called after him.
He skipped around, swept a low bow in her direction, and headed back to the camouflage station. Wanda clenched her jaw and imagined holding him up by that hair of his and separating his pretty head from his body.
Tony returned to his room after another day in the training centre and flopped back on the bed. His schedule was clear for the night, other than dinner and some mentor time, which gave him exactly what he needed. He ordered the lights dimmed and grabbed a pillow, letting it rest on his face as though the training had worn him out. Maybe they'd think he was trying to cry in private; Tony didn't care. He'd spotted at least six cameras in the bedroom alone, and that was without making a sweep with anything electronic. Well, if they wanted a show in the bedroom he could give them one, but it probably wouldn't make it on the air. He grinned a bit.
He cleared his throat, then turned his head to the wall and made the series of mouth movements that activated the implant in his throat. The doctor who'd placed the subvocal receptor in his throat and the digital one in his ear was living large on an island off the coast of District Four right now, a happy millionaire thanks to a heaping share of Stark stocks. Nobody at the Capitol would be able to detect Tony's implants or the signals they output, not without equipment better than even Director Fury could come up with. Howard Stark made sure of that. Tony didn't get along with the old man all the time, but he couldn't deny that as a kid he got the best toys.
Subvocalization, the way of the future. Too bad nobody knew it yet, but in a few years Tony would make it public and he'd be even richer. By that point he'd have his nuclear defense system in place and the Capitol would have to buy the technology, instead of sending in their goons to take it.
"Jarvis," Tony said, glad good old dad had had him practice this since he was little, because he'd hate to be learning how to talk without moving his lips or making a sound now. "Jarvis, are you there?"
"Yes, sir, though you could have waited a little longer before making contact. I doubt I would have had a heart attack for at least another day."
Tony bit back a grin. Jarvis had been working for Stark Enterprises since Howard's day, and he'd raised Tony more than Howard had, really. Being able to contact him here made everything a little more solid. Tony liked that. "Sorry about that. I needed to make sure they didn't have anything set up that could detect us, but we're clean. What have you got for me? Any news on the Arena yet?"
"Nothing concrete, but evacuation orders have been given for a city in District Six. All citizens are being moved out to an undisclosed, temporary location beginning yesterday morning. One does not like to draw hasty conclusions, but it does seem probable that this will be the stage."
"A city, huh?" Tony closed his eyes and mimed dozing, keeping his patented thinking scowl from his face. He didn't like it; it made him feel like he didn't really have his brains working at full throttle. "They haven't done that in what, a decade or so? Well, that'll be interesting. You're sure that's where it is?"
"Fairly certain, sir. They've begun moving supplies into Six quite steadily, including mass shipments of your own surveillance equipment, among other things."
"Right, okay. See if any of the bugged ones make it in, do what you can if it looks like they'll miss them. Getting some eyes and ears in there would be really handy, not to mention internet access if I can get it. Something the Capitol can't detect."
"Do you doubt me, sir?" Jarvis asked, managing to sound implacable and wounded at the same time.
"Never, and you just got yourself a two percent raise because you made me feel guilty, so congratulations. Buy yourself a boat. Go sailing. Anything else?"
"Not at the moment, sir. But if you leave your implant on wakeup mode, I'll contact you as soon as I find something."
"You're a good man, Jarvis." Tony let out a breath and clicked his tongue, cutting off the subvocal connection but leaving his earpiece running in standby just in case. Six, huh. Tony wondered what they were doing; usually they didn't bother going for a city, at least not a populated one. The last one had been abandoned. If they wanted something really apocalyptic and weird they could have gone to the ruins of Thirteen; that sure would've made a point, though the nuclear fallout might make life interesting for the Victor later. Well, whatever, Tony didn't need to figure out the Capitols' reasons for doing what they did, just how to work around them.
Tony's task, while Jarvis ran all his voodoo back home, would be to get into Fury's backdoor in the Capitol network. Not too many people knew that Fury had something on the side, and even Tony didn't know what, but lots of electronics and munitions had gotten siphoned off over the years since Howard's time, even, and Tony was going to figure it out. He'd never planned on getting reaped, damn it, and he was going to use everything he had. If it took hacking a federal database in order to hack a secret operative database to bribe said secret operative, well, he'd do it. Tony was walking out of here, and it wouldn't be with the blood of twenty-four other people all over his cost-half-as-much-as-District-Twelve suit.
He couldn't do that yet, not without his equipment, but it had been over twenty-four hours since the Reaping now. Tony figured eating a big dinner, chow down on some roughage and fibre, and he'd have his stuff back in hand soon enough. He grabbed his shades from the bedside table and put them back over his eyes. A stupid-looking token, sure, and if he'd been caught he'd probably be dead, but they'd examined the shades and given them back without detecting the HUD in the right lens, the one networked to the implant in Tony's skull. When Jarvis found him any information, he'd send it directly to Tony, and Tony could page through it on his own.
Oh yeah. It felt good to be a genius.
"All right, it's time. I think it's fairly clear that we have our Mockingjay," Coulson said, looking over the files. He flipped through pictures of the candidates, scrawled over with notes on their temperaments, their past histories, medical records, anything that they'd been able to dig up. "We can contact the others during the last day of training tomorrow."
"You agree with me about Rogers, then." Fury said. He should be happy; he'd spent half the evening of the parade trying to argue Coulson around to his point of view. Now, dissatisfaction gnawed at him as he stared at the files.
"Have you changed your mind, sir?" Coulson flicked one of the images at Fury. "You were absolutely right. Look at him. Look at how the people are responding to him; he hasn't had interviews, training score, anything, and already he has sponsors lined up around the block. Phillips doesn't know what to do with them; the waiting list alone is more than last year's tribute got altogether. Plus, you saw him in training, with the little Eight girl. If that doesn't make him our guy, I don't know what does."
"Compassion is good," Fury acknowledged. He scrolled through to a still from the security camera in the training room, Roger's face frozen in an expression of barely-repressed anguish. He thought of Coulson's words at the parade: He looks scared to death. "Stability is better. We can't have a Mockingjay if we can't rely on him. He's getting too attached to those kids too fast. We can't guarantee we'll save them, and we don't want him to fall apart if we can't."
Coulson tilted his head, and Fury would bet he narrowed his eyes behind the safety of his mirrored sunglasses. "I seem to recall making this same argument to you during the parade, and you reassured me it would be fine. What's going on, sir?"
"Well, maybe I'm having second thoughts. It's not as though this is something we'll get a second chance at."
Coulson shook his head. "With all due respect, sir, I'm not sure what other options we have. Stark seems detached enough for our purposes, but he has an ego the size of District Eleven. I think you were right at the parade; I don't know if we can rein him in, especially not if he discovers how he got here."
"We wouldn't have brought him in at all if we weren't willing to take that risk." Still, Coulson had a point. "Regarding Thor, I think I might have been too hasty. I wouldn't count him out either, not yet. I've been watching him since he was a boy, and I saw some flashes of that boy today."
"You don't think he's in too deep, sir? Before you said --"
"Maybe, maybe not. But we won't know until we see how things play out between him and Loki."
Coulson hesitated, and Fury heard the tension in the silence as the other man chose his words. "After all this, you still haven't ruled out Loki, either. Are you sure that's wise?"
"No." Fury tapped the screen, staring at the image of Loki grinning at the camera, teeth bared and eyes narrowed. "I'm not sure at all. But I still think he's crucial. Since his break from Two he's been on edge, drifting. We could give him a purpose, which is exactly what he needs."
"If you say so, sir," Coulson said diplomatically. "I'm sorry to keep bringing this up, sir, but I still think it's a mistake to involve the others. They might be able to help us, but I'm not sure any of them are sanguine enough to give their lives to Rogers, no matter how convinced we are of him. And I think all this is just bringing us around in circles. Of course no one candidate is going to be perfect, but we have to balance their good and bad qualities with what we want. I think Rogers is our best bet."
Fury paused, then smiled. "Maybe not." He crossed behind Coulson and activated their communications network. Within minutes he was connected with the rest of the rebellion leader base on a secure channel. "I've made my decision," he said, and Coulson looked up in surprise but didn't interrupt, a good soldier to the end.
"You've decided on Rogers?"
Fury stood up straight, clasping his hands behind his back. "No. As of this moment, I'm proposing we shelve Operation Mockingjay."
Coulson straightened, and the channel exploded as everyone began talking at once. Fury let them for a moment, then silenced the microphones of everyone but himself. "Trust me," he said, "and I'll give you something better than a Mockingjay. I'll give you the Avengers."
"What's that supposed to mean?" one of them demanded.
"Trust me, and you'll see."
"That's a tall order, sir, if you don't mind me saying. We're supposed to go along with you on a hunch after you've thrown away years of planning, and for what?"
Fury cleared his throat. "I don't ask you to join me on faith. Tonight I will write up a report and send it out. I want all of you to read it, and tomorrow we will confer again. If we can't reach a consensus then we will choose Rogers as our Mockingjay and I'll say no more. But if I can convince you, then tomorrow we continue with the Avengers Initiative instead."
The others muttered their consent, and Fury cut the connection. "What do you think?" he asked, turning to Coulson.
Coulson rolled his shoulders, giving himself time to think. "You're not going to choose," he said slowly. "You want all of them. And not just to protect Rogers. You want them all out."
"It makes sense, doesn't it? A group of Mockingjays, instead of just one, whose strengths and weaknesses complement each other. It's our best chance."
Coulson sighed. "Except now instead of getting one person out alive, you're talking about half the tributes."
"More like a third," Fury said, and Coulson very carefully did not choke. "Well, not including our helpers, who I'm sure will be glad to survive. It's all right; we have several contingencies in place. We'll just have to switch them around."
Coulson nodded, lips thinned in a way that said he thought Fury was insane but was too polite to say so. Fury appreciated his loyalty, not for the first time; it certainly didn't come about because of Coulson's impressive paycheque. "Whatever you say, sir."
"Trust me," Fury said.
"Believe me, sir, I do, or I wouldn't be here."